The following is my own translation of a short story i like. As a translator i am not that great, and as i have written before it is not that good an idea to translate to a language which is not your own. But i tried my best to salvage the original tone of the story in my re-writing of it.
I hope you will find it interesting. Comments are welcome
Gray walls
It was a noon of the middle of summer, something of importance since the hot Sun gave the opportunity to the staff but also the patients to have a walk at the great yard of the public mental health hospital.I arrived on time so as to meet with one of the doctors, who I knew from days of old. The occasion for my visit was the distinction awarded to one of my stories, which I had promised to read to him personally, as I used to do in the past when we met.
My acquaintance, who worked there, gave me a tour of the spaces of his office but also of the ones open to public in the department in which he is the head since a short time now. “All the walls here are gray” he said.
At some moment, as we were for a while in his spacious office, sat comfortably in our armchairs and having each lit a cigar, my acquaintance, having just recalled something of significance, told me that I have to see one more location.
I accepted, only was saddened a little that I should now rise from such a nice environment, and also to extinguish my cigar, but in a while we were in the corridors and walked, my acquaintance in front of me, and I at the back.
For some time we were walking in corridors which in equal distances were being separated from doors with diaphanous glass in their upper part, whereas other doors to the sides of us, not diaphanous, were leading to unknown for me places. At last we reached the end of the floor. My acquaintance opened the final door, which also was not diaphanous and thus I had guessed that it would be the door to a room and not one behind which there existed the continuation of the corridor, stood in front of it, told me “please, go on”, and as I went inside the empty white room he closed the door abruptly and locked it.
Since that time I am here. From the window I gaze at the yard, below, sometimes I shout but no one seems to listen to me. It has even happened that I would deem that one had heard- something perhaps not so easy thirty meters below, but I yelled with all my power- a group of patients which must have belonged to the persons with mental disability raised their heads and seemed to look at me, something which made me, unwillingly, cry.
I am thinking of the betrayal by my acquaintance. To have locked me here, where there exists nothing. Or rather at first I thought there existed nothing, since at some moment – I thought I was becoming crazy- I noticed a protrusion, white as well, on the floor, and I neared it so as to ensure myself that it was merely a delusion. But it was not- It was a small white piece of chalk!
From that time I am looking at the chalk, and the walls, with a horrible speculation. From that time I have moved away from the walls, I stay at the window, holding the chalk in my hand which I stretch outside, towards the powerful Sun. Should I let it fall?
And a thought devours me. That the walls outside of this cell were all one color. That if I neared perhaps the walls of the cell, if, against all hope, I dared scratch a bit onto them with my hand, the color of the used-up and existent everywhere chalk would diminish, and then I would be forced to walk more carefully, the endless series of letters, and then – how much do I fear it! – to find scribbled between other ones also this story which I am now narrating to myself.
I hope you will find it interesting. Comments are welcome
Gray walls
It was a noon of the middle of summer, something of importance since the hot Sun gave the opportunity to the staff but also the patients to have a walk at the great yard of the public mental health hospital.I arrived on time so as to meet with one of the doctors, who I knew from days of old. The occasion for my visit was the distinction awarded to one of my stories, which I had promised to read to him personally, as I used to do in the past when we met.
My acquaintance, who worked there, gave me a tour of the spaces of his office but also of the ones open to public in the department in which he is the head since a short time now. “All the walls here are gray” he said.
At some moment, as we were for a while in his spacious office, sat comfortably in our armchairs and having each lit a cigar, my acquaintance, having just recalled something of significance, told me that I have to see one more location.
I accepted, only was saddened a little that I should now rise from such a nice environment, and also to extinguish my cigar, but in a while we were in the corridors and walked, my acquaintance in front of me, and I at the back.
For some time we were walking in corridors which in equal distances were being separated from doors with diaphanous glass in their upper part, whereas other doors to the sides of us, not diaphanous, were leading to unknown for me places. At last we reached the end of the floor. My acquaintance opened the final door, which also was not diaphanous and thus I had guessed that it would be the door to a room and not one behind which there existed the continuation of the corridor, stood in front of it, told me “please, go on”, and as I went inside the empty white room he closed the door abruptly and locked it.
Since that time I am here. From the window I gaze at the yard, below, sometimes I shout but no one seems to listen to me. It has even happened that I would deem that one had heard- something perhaps not so easy thirty meters below, but I yelled with all my power- a group of patients which must have belonged to the persons with mental disability raised their heads and seemed to look at me, something which made me, unwillingly, cry.
I am thinking of the betrayal by my acquaintance. To have locked me here, where there exists nothing. Or rather at first I thought there existed nothing, since at some moment – I thought I was becoming crazy- I noticed a protrusion, white as well, on the floor, and I neared it so as to ensure myself that it was merely a delusion. But it was not- It was a small white piece of chalk!
From that time I am looking at the chalk, and the walls, with a horrible speculation. From that time I have moved away from the walls, I stay at the window, holding the chalk in my hand which I stretch outside, towards the powerful Sun. Should I let it fall?
And a thought devours me. That the walls outside of this cell were all one color. That if I neared perhaps the walls of the cell, if, against all hope, I dared scratch a bit onto them with my hand, the color of the used-up and existent everywhere chalk would diminish, and then I would be forced to walk more carefully, the endless series of letters, and then – how much do I fear it! – to find scribbled between other ones also this story which I am now narrating to myself.
