On the Train: Martha Tennent - Translator's Note

… no, no, just like I was telling you, I’ve never been able to sleep on the train, I get kind of drowsy, but I can always hear the creaking of wheels and wood and besides, with all the wobbling and jerking, I’m afraid to go to the toilet and it scares me that the train might send me spinning against the wall and knock me cold and if nobody has a need for hours, nobody’s going to hear me even if I holler and at my age they’d find me dead and I don’t want to die without the taking of Our Lord. All of us could be struck down by accident, but it’d be mighty sad to die doomed and me, I don’t like fire, and the one in hell, judging from what they say, must be one of the fiercest.


They thirsty? Poor creatures, sure they’re thirsty. With their half-open beaks, their crests all sad-like—but I can’t help them­ any. The day after tomorrow they’ll be dead and roasted ‘cause it’s Santa Maria and at my gentleman’s house they’re going to have them a big party ‘cause, besides being the senyora’s Saint’s Day, the oldest daughter—she looks like a Virgin on one of them religious cards—well she’s going to make her debut. You going to remember to let me know when we get to Barcelona? I can’t read, not one letter, my son now he knew how to read like he was a gentleman’s son, but he died from something in the chest and he wasn’t even twenty years old. My husband, he told me, “Don’t cry; now he doesn’t have to be a soldier.” ’Cause we used to live right in Barcelona, I don’t remember the name of the street now, but it was near the Estació de França. My husband was a baker and well thought of, and working with flour isn’t something disgusting. I used to always tell him­­—Virgin Mary, and now it has to rain and these poor little creatures are like to be dying on me of thirst, with this sultry weather, look at them nice and fat, that’s how I raise them, no lice, co-coc, co-coc, poor little things, if I could only collect a bit of water for them. You see, they used to run free all day. And I always try to keep their feet all dry and . . .


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En el Tren: Mercé Rodoreda

...no, no, tal com li ho dic, mai no he pogut dormir en el tren, m’ensopeixo una mica però sempre sento aquesta cruixedera de rodes i de fustes i a més a més amb aquest trontoll i tants sotracs tinc por d’anar al wàter i m’espanta pensar que el tren em pot rebotre contra la paret i estabornir-me i si ningú no tingués necessitat durant moltes hores encara que cridés no em sentirien i a la meva edat em trobarien morta i no voldria pas morir sense prendre Nostre Senyor. Tots podem tenir un cop d’accident, però seria molt trist morir condemnat, i a mi el foc no m’agrada i el de l’infern deu ser, pel que diuen, dels més forts.

...que si tenen set? pobres bèsties, i tal. Amb aquests becs badats i aquestes crestes desmaiades... però no les puc ajudar. Ara que hem de pensar que demà passat totes seran mortes i rostides perquè és Santa Maria i a casa dels meus senyors serà festa grossa, perquè, a més que és el sant de la senyora faran la puesta de largu del la nena gran, que sembla una estampa... Oi que m’avisarà quan serem a Barcelona? Jo no sé llegir cap lletra, el meu fill sí que sabia llegir com si fos un fill de senyors, però va morir del pit i encara no tenia vint anys. El meu home va dir-me: "No ploris, així s’ha estalviat de fer el soldat." Perquè vivíem a Barcelona mateix, ara no recordo el nom del carrer, però era prop de estació de França. El meu marit era forner i era molt ben considerat i treballar la farina és una cosa que no fa fàstic. Jo sempre li deia... Valga'm Déu, ara se’ns posa a ploure i aquestes bestioles que se m`estan morint de set... amb aquesta xafogor, miri-se-les, tan grasses com les crio i que no tenen polls... co-coc, co-coc... petites... si els pogués recollir una mica d’aigua... Ja veurà, tot el dia la llibertat. I la sequedat a les potes que procuro que tinguin...