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PUB USER: simonmellule

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First (Given) Name:
Simon
Middle Name:
Last (Family) Name:
Mellule
Date Joined:
07/11/2014
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Profile:
British translator, residing in Barcelona since 2000.

All combinations: Spanish-English-Catalan

Several years experience; finance, reports, yearly reviews, contracts, articles of association, share issues, press releases, amongst others.

Other areas of expertise: marketing (and online), insurance, sports, medical (neurorehabilitation, psychology, osteopathy, quiropraxia), audiovisual (subtitles and transcripts).

Other activities: company language trainer, conference organiser



Article Title: EXTRACT OF TRANSLATION FROM SPANISH TO ENGLISH OF THE BOOK BELTENBROS
Date Created:
07/19/2014
Date Updated:
07/19/2014
Language:
English
Category:
Translation
TranslatorPub.Com Rank:
246
Views:
556
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0
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0, Average Rating: 0 (10 Max)
Text:
Nobody would come to find me, it was essential that nobody knew of my journey, not even the most loyal among the survivors, nor the man who was ordered to deposit a pistol in a left-luggage locker at Atocha train station and then drop the key off at a bar whose name was entrusted to me on a scrap of paper with instructions and times, which I swiftly tore as usual - out of obedience to the fiction that was guiding me, like a forward momentum suspending the laws of gravity and appearance. Ever since I’d agreed to travel to Madrid I’d been a hesitant specter who pretended to be on a mission to kill a man and who was being swept along by the current of a will-conquering lie.
The plane was losing height through sudden catastrophic shudders, whilst the white fog wrapped itself around us then disappeared, revealing a desert-filled ochre landscape far below in the distance. I heard the clinking of seatbelts as the warning lights were switched on, and the right wing of the plane dipped, almost clipping the citrus-covered hilltops. I felt deep down in my stomach that I was going to be facing a merciless scenario - the envisaged rapid death throes of those who perish inside the plane, strained claustrophobia and an ear-splitting pain that, one night many years ago flying over darkened French forests, had left me paralyzed and almost drove me to the edge, when the pilot suddenly took off his helmet, turned round and announced that we had been shelled by anti-aircraft guns.
Gazing at the all-encompassing fog through the oval windows, I recalled the oblique rays from the reflectors, the loud din from the propeller, the imperative feeling of being about to die, in the middle of nowhere, of vanishing without trace amongst the red contrails of a burning plane. However, the plane was already bouncing off the runway, juddering violently at overwhelming speed as open strips of tarmac crisscrossed with blue glints emerged at breakneck pace where the fog had previously been. Short bursts of drizzle and hail battered the horizontal spaces of the airport.


Nadie vendría a encontrarme, era preciso que nadie tuviera noticia de mi viaje, ni siquiera los más leales entre los supervivientes, ni el hombre a quien se le ordenó que guardara una pistola en la consigna de la estación de Atocha y que dejara la llave en un bar cuyo nombre me fue confiado en un papel con instrucciones y horarios que en seguida rompí por costumbre, por obediencia a la ficción que me guiaba como un impulso que suspende las leyes de la gravedad y de la verosimilitud, pues desde que acepté viajar a Madrid yo era un lento fantasma que fingía que iba a matar a un hombre y se internaba en la mentira como en una selva de espejismos.
El avión perdía altura con bruscos espasmos de catástrofe, y la niebla blanca alternativamente nos envolvía y se rasgaba dejando ver en lo más hondo un paisaje ocre de desiertos. Oí el chasquido de los cinturones de seguridad, se encendieron los indicadores de peligro, el ala derecha del avión se inclinaba casi rozando agrios picachos de colinas, y yo sentí en el vacío del estómago que algo irreparable me iba a suceder, la rápida agonía imaginada de los que mueren en el interior de un avión, la claustrofobia de aire enrarecido y dolor de agujas en los tímpanos que una noche de muchos años atrás me había paralizado y casi me había enloquecido cuando volaba sobre la oscuridad de los bosques de Francia y el piloto se quitó los cascos y se vo1vió para decirme que nos había alcanzado la metralla de los antiaéreos.
Mirando la niebla que abolía a1 otro lado de las ventanillas ovales el espacio y el tiempo de los vivos, recordé los haces oblicuos de los reflectores, el estrépito irregular de las hélices, la perentoria sensación de estar a punto de morir, en mitad de la nada, de desvanecerme sin residuos en la estela roja de un avión incendiado. Pero el avión ya rebotaba sobre la pista y se estremecía como arrebatado por una velocidad incontenible, y el lugar de la niebla lo ocupaban vertiginosos descampados de asfalto cruzados por destellos azules. Breves rachas de llovizna y granizo asolaban los espacios horizontales del aeropuerto.
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