Oscar winner ;)

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore 

Pavel Galitsky

as interviewed by Ekaterina Loushnikova for Open Democracy Russia - full text

“It’s most important to remember that the camp is a negative school from the first day to the last – for everyone.  No one, from the camp commandant down to the convict, should have to see it, but once you have done so, you have to tell the truth, however terrible that may be.”  

Varlaam Shalamov

Kolyma is often compared with Auschwitz, but without the ovens and the gas chambers.  The killer here was something else: cold, hunger and backbreaking labour.  In the Stalin years millions of prisoners did their time in the labour camps of Kolyma. Not many survived to tell the tale; and today there are even fewer of them left. 

Pavel Kalinkovich Galitsky, one of those very few, lives in St Petersburg. A journalist by profession, Galitsky spent 15 years doing hard labour in Kolyma. He recently celebrated his 100th birthday and I went to see him.

Spit it out!

I stood outside the door for a long time. I’d never met a 100-year old before. “He probably doesn’t remember anything,” I thought doubtfully, as I rang the bell. The door opened immediately and before me stood a tall, thin old man with bright, youthful eyes.

Pavel Galitsky has outlived all his tormentors and
almost all his contemporaries

“Just wait while I turn off the computer,” he said. “People keep trying to ring me on Skype.”

I was quite taken aback that a man of this age should know how to use the computer and Skype, as by no means everyone knows how to do this in Russia, and not only the elderly. I was even more surprised when we started with a concert: in honour of my visit, Pavel Kalinkovich began to sing the old Russian romance “The chrysanthemums have long since ceased to bloom” ^↑ . His voice was so deafening that the red needle on my Dictaphone went right over the red line.

“Did you sing in the camp too, Pavel Kalinkovich?”

“I certainly did. For two weeks I was even on the propaganda team, but then I was chucked out because they clocked I was a ‘contra’  - I was sent to prison for ‘Anti-Soviet and counter-revolutionary propaganda and agitation’ (Article 58)”.

“And had you actually been agitating?”

Pavel Kalinkovich bursts out laughing. “I burst out laughing in exactly the same way when the interrogator said this to me. He barked ‘Stand up, you f*****!’  I got up and said ‘Comrade Pozdnyakov, why are you are contravening socialist legality?’ ‘I’m no comrade of yours, you bastard!’  He pressed a button to summon the guard. ‘Search this character!’ 

“Then they threw me in jail. The cell, a former peasant larder 4 metres long and 2 wide, had 32 people in it. People couldn’t even sit down. They had to stand and take turns to sleep. At that time arresting a man was as easy as falling off a log.”

I remember the story I was told by my grandmother, Valentina Nikolaevna. In 1937 she was working as an agronomist on a collective farm attached to an agricultural institute which studied plant selection. During the day.  But at night it was another “selection” — the selection of people. Every night the huge corridor of the communal flat where the specialists lived rang with the sound of footsteps. Every night each person waited for the knock on his door. Before going to bed they put a little suitcase with essentials by the bed.  My grandmother lived in the furthest room. She was lucky – they never came for her.

“Did the arrests only happen at night, Pavel Kalinkovich?”

“Day and night! As if they cared!  I was working at the local newspaper, which was called ‘New Way’. I lived in a big apartment block, where employees of the District Council, City Council and colleagues from the editorial office had their flats.  Everyone was taken. They had their plan and they over-fulfilled it. Quotas were set by the Central Committee of the Party for how many people should be shot, how many sent down for 25 years and how many for 10. The people they took at night were mainly going for interrogation. Stalin worked at night, so the NKVD investigators did too”.

In the years 1920-53, according to official figures, some 10 million people were sent to the Soviet labour camps. Unofficial data put the figure at more than 40 million.  According to the historian V.P. Pavlov, “from 1923 to 1953 1 in 3 active members of Russian society were convicted”. In 1937 Stalin personally gave permission for the use of torture as one of the methods of interrogation.

“I was put on the ‘conveyor belt’. That meant I was interrogated all the time: the investigators were on shifts, but I was on my feet all the time. If I fell, they got me up, beat me and put me back on my feet. I was there for a week at a time! When I started losing consciousness, they poured water over me and chucked me in the cell. Then there was the chair. It was on wheels. My hands were tied; one investigator turned the chair around and the other one stopped it, then it started again. The blood pounds in your head and you no longer understand anything. They stuck a paper under my nose ‘Sing, you bastard! Give us the information we want…on a plate!’ Needles were stuck under my nails, but I didn’t sign anything. I got a 10-year sentence for being a Trotskyist counter-revolutionary. Then they landed another 5 years on me. As Utyosov used to sing, ‘Tout va tres bien, Madame la Marquise!’” ^↑

Pavel Kalinkovich laughs again, as if he telling me some amusing incident from his life, rather than talking about torture.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Should I be crying? All my tears are shed, though actually I don’t remember crying at the time. I used to say to myself ‘Die, you bastards, die!  But I shall live!’”

Auschwitz without the ovens

“Heartlessly I trample the corpses,My heart has turned to stone…It happens in snowy Kolyma,A ghastly and evil planet,Where the snowstorm howlsAnd there’s no good and no happiness”

Pavel Kalinkovich wrote this poem many, many years after he had been released. He was woken at night by his own screams, because he had been dreaming he was back in the frozen camp hut in Kolyma, where shadowy figures, who were no longer real people, huddled around a smouldering stove trying to keep warm.

Historians will never know the exact number of people
who died under Stalin's Soviet experiment

“Kolyma is Auschwitz without the ovens. Prisoners travelled in batches of 1500; within 3 months only 450 people of our batch were left alive.  They died of cold, hunger and the backbreaking labour. We extracted gold in mines and in quarries. The norm was 150 carts and if you didn’t make it, then you stayed on for the second shift to make up your quota.  Then you had to drill two or three drillholes in the permafrost. Then you were sent to the forest to get firewood for the hut and for the kitchen.  We worked 16 hours a day.  Men turned into animals, dumb cattle.  Your only thoughts were of food, of an extra bowl of balanda [thin soup].”

“What is balanda and how is it made?”

“It’s soup made of flounder, which comes straight from the barrel and is boiled up, guts and all, with salt. Then red cabbage is added in and you have your gruel – greasy and delicious!”

“Really?”

“Of course not!  It’s unbelievably bitter. You wouldn’t be able to eat it, but we did, because there was nothing else. Each person got a ladle of this brew. It was dished out by a fellow prisoner: if he liked you, he’d dig down so you got a thicker soup, if he didn’t he’d take it from the surface and it’d be sloppier. The canteen was cold and filthy with icicles on the floor, so you had to pick you way like a mountaineer. By the time you got to the table the soup was cold.  In the morning you got runny slops, tea, a piece of sugar and 600-900 grammes of bread. You mix it all up so your tin is full, then you eat it and feel as though your stomach’s full, though you’re just as hungry as you were.  I used to collect up herring heads and eat them.

“You can’t get to sleep, when you’re so hungry, then you sleep for a hour and have to rush to the toilet. That’s a pit in the ground surrounded by poles and that’s the toilet. The filth was indescribable. There were mounds of shit all round and outside the barrack there were veritable mountains. In the spring the goners had to hack at it.”

The North-East Corrective Camp, or more simply Kolyma, was set up in the Far East in 1932 and was one of the toughest camps in the GULag network. Prisoners mainly worked in the gold and uranium mines. Official figures for the number of prisoners in the Kolyma camps for the years 1932-53 are 740,434. Approximately 10,000 were shot, 120-130,000 died of hunger, cold and disease. Independent researchers consider that there were no less than 2,300,000 prisoners and that the numbers of those who perished are incalculable, as the corpses were simply thrown into a pit.

“But where did the prisoners sleep and did you have a blanket?”

“At first we slept in a tent, then we built a hut. The bunks were in two layers and made of poles. Mattresses were stuffed with straw and the ceiling was covered with peat. If it rained, the peat got soaked through and started to drip. The stoves smoked, it was airless, steamy and the stench was unbearable. We did have blankets, but when it was cold we slept in our clothes.  We were issued with padded clothes: trousers, a jerkin and a short jacket. We even got fur coats, but what good are they when it’s 70° below freezing?  Someone’s ear fell off once, but life goes on without it,” laughed Pavel Kalinkovich. “What you can’t live without is….”

“What?” I interrupted in horror.

 

“Boots. I remember a Jewish man, a railway engineer. He was so polite you couldn’t believe it. One evening we were issued with boots, but when he woke up in the morning – no boots!  They’d been stolen! ‘Comrades, who’s taken my boots? It’s not funny. Give them back!’ Of course no one did and there was much mirth in the hut. He was sent out to work barefoot, got frostbite, lost the will to live and then died.

“What was bad was that educated, cultured people…gave up more quickly and died. The peasants knew how to survive, no matter what. There was one Siberian, a strong lad – he did his shift in the mine, had dinner and then sawed wood for the kitchen. For that he got 3 litres of balanda.  He ate it and went to sleep. When he woke up, he went to heat up the remains. He poured it into the bowl and then….pulled out a mouse! A mangy dead mouse, which he’d cooked with the soup. And what do you think? He fished the mouse out and carried right on eating as if nothing had happened. Would you have been able to do that?”

My hundred-year old looked at me with curiosity.

“I would! A starving man can eat anything”, I assured him.

I remembered a documentary about Auschwitz. Skeletons in striped prison clothes look with inflamed eyes at the camera. In that state one could probably eat anything. But Pavel Kalinkovich doesn't believe me.

“Katya, you'd have been sick! You would, really. But then you'd have got used to it anyway”. The voice of Pavel Kalinkovich, which had hitherto been calm and even cheerful, turned into a shriek, “I saw a man picking grains out of his faeces. He was an engineer, a railway boss and a cultured man. I had come to pee and he was sitting on the john, picking out the grains and eating them. He looked at me and burst into tears ‘Pavlik, I’m not a human being any more…I’m not!’”

 “I saw a man picking grains out of his faeces. He was an engineer, a railway boss and a cultured man. I had come to pee and he was sitting on the john, picking out the grains and eating them. He looked at me and burst into tears ‘Pavlik, I’m not a human being any more…I’m not!’”

“What I don’t understand if why people put up with it. Wouldn’t it have been better to top yourself?”

“There were cases of prisoners walking straight towards the soldier guarding the convoy, who’d been ordered to shoot without warning. There were lots of these ‘self-shootings’.  In the mines we used nitrate explosive. Some people used to find bits of it and blow themselves up.  If a prisoner blew off his arm or leg, he’d be bandaged up, brought before a court and sentenced to death. Which was just what he’d wanted. He no longer wished to live. I myself was close to suicide at one point….”

No chink in the gloom…

"It was in 1941. We’d been brought back to the gates of the camp after work and they were starting to let us in. Suddenly I heard ‘Galitsky, on one side!” I was taken to the investigation block and the next morning I was summoned by the ‘godfather’ (the camp officer responsible for legal matters) and charged with the article ‘Counter-revolutionary agitation in time of war, taking pity on the enemies of the people’. My friend Petya and I had been on the upper bunk, lying under the blanket and talking. I said that the Red Army was losing to the Germans, because Stalin had had all the military commanders shot as enemies of the people. My neighbour overheard and reported us, the bastard. He was probably after an extra food ration. 

"The norm was 150 carts. Those who didn’t make it had
to stay on for the second shift to make up their quota"

“The case against me took a month to prepare and all that time I was in the investigation cell.  It was March, but spring in Kolyma means temperatures of -35°. There was a stove in the cell, but it wouldn’t work, because it smoked – someone had stuffed a sweater in to it.  The cracks in the walls were finger width. You lie on the boards and it’s freezing. In the hot food you get once every 24 hours, one grain chases the other. And you get 300 grammes of bread.

“I reached a state where I could no longer cope. I took off my long johns and my shirt and made a rope to hang myself with. I decided I’d wait till lights out, when it’d be quiet, and then….suddenly the door opened and the warder comes in. ‘Out you come, pal!’  And I spent the last 3 days in the hut. I don’t know if he’d sensed something or was just compassionate, but he saved me. He saved me….”

For the first time in our conversation Pavel Kalinkovich’s voice shook with emotion. Out of the table drawer he took a yellowed list of paper with verses on it.

“I wrote this then…it’s all I have left of Kolyma…”

I took the bit of paper carefully as if it were a holy object.

“My friends, I’m now 30 years old,My youth is over and my hour is nigh,Miseries have passed, nay flown, me byLike minutes, like dreams of bygone days.I long for kindness and tenderness,Like a fairytale told to little children..My heart asks me repeatedly where I will find love.I’m sick of life, I see no break in the clouds..So would it not be better to finish it allWhen the dawn comes?One minute and then forever oblivion….”

The Mine of Desire

Pavel Kalinkovich noticed that I was looking tired and offered me some soup to revive my spirits. I remembered the mouse in the camp soup and it made me feel sick, so I said a very definite no. But I really did need a drink and we had a glass of brandy each.

“There was alcohol in Kolyma too. If we worked well, we were allowed to receive parcels.  I was already a gang leader by that time. Parcels always had spirit in them – and champagne for the gang leader. There wasn’t any wine, because it would have frozen”.

“What about women, Pavel Kalinkovich?”

“The first woman I saw was in 1939.  At the mine face. That was a great event for all the prisoners. Everyone abandoned their carts and ran to see, shouting ‘Look, look!  A woman!’ It was the wife of one of the camp bosses. She had long hair and was very pretty. Can you imagine the situation? Out of 1 million prisoners, 999,000 had probably not seen a woman during the whole time they were in Kolyma, so when they opened up the mine called ‘Zhelanny’ [heart’s desire] with only women working in it, all the convicts gravitated there. They came with money, neat alcohol and loaves of bread. The alcohol was the currency for the guards, so they’d allow you to meet up with a woman.  Some didn’t come back from those dalliances:  there were criminals among the women prisoners, who killed anyone coming courting. When ‘Zhelanny’ was closed down, all the shafts were stuffed with corpses.

Pavel Galitsky accepting greetings for his 100th Birthday

“In Kolyma there were also women who’d skived at work. Stalin had decreed that if you were 15 minutes late for work, you got 15 years in the camps. These women survived by selling their bodies – for a loaf of bread, for instance. I had a friend, a big strapping lad, who told me that he’d been recently to visit ‘Zhelanny’. He’d asked the guard to find him a pretty young girl and the guard had brought along a girl who looked about 15. ‘She and I went into the bushes and she said ‘Got any bread, mister?’ While I did what I wanted, she just ate bread.  It was so funny!’ I didn’t like stories like this, because my own daughter was that age….”

“Did you ever fall in love in the camps?”

“I did. Just once. At that stage I no longer had to go everywhere in convoy. Our section supervisor was called Morozov and he was a drunk. I had an affair with his wife, Klavdia Ivanovna. We used to meet right out in the taiga, but rumours of our affair went round the whole mine. She was called before a party meeting and kicked out of the party. Then she was sacked from the institute for an affair with a prisoner. Soon she and her husband left, but before she went she told me that she had no regrets at all.”

“What about the gold? Could you hide it and then sell it?”

“Grains of gold could be hidden in your cheeks. You could do an exchange with the civilian employees in the camp and get some tobacco. 10 grammes of gold were worth a matchbox of tobacco, which could be used to roll 10 papirosy [Russian cigarette with a mouthpiece] and each of those was worth 300 grammes of bread. So you could get hold of extra food. The head warder had to be given gold too, so he’d write good reports on your work. Everyone who could took the gold, including the camp commandant. Later, when I was already a gang leader, I used to carry up to 4kgs of gold across the taiga from one seam to another. A convict carrying a fortune worth millions – just imagine it!”

“Could you not have escaped with that fortune?”

Even at the age of 100 years Pavel Galitsky can still
dance and blog

“That did happen once. Two convicts collected up 2.5kgs gold and gave it to some pilots, who hid it in the cockpit of their plane and took it to the mainland. They were caught and sentenced, so they became convicts too, but the ones that got away in the plane were never caught.”

“Somewhere I read that during the war the American Vice President visited Kolyma ^↑ .”

“Yes, I was there at the time. The whole camp was locked up in the huts, no one was allowed out and they took the sentries off the control towers. The work was done by the camp civilian staff dressed in boilersuits to look like prisoners. For 3 days before that we had been washing gold and not clearing it away, so as to show the Americans how much of it we had. The Americans picked up nuggets and photographed them. They were delighted. After their visit the camp had white flour and ‘Sun' porridge, which we ate throughout the war”.

“People who are tortured and tormented often revolt and kill their torturers.”

“There was a rebellion at the ‘Serpantinka’ mine. Do you know how it was put down?  The mine was being worked entirely by soldiers, who had been at the front. They killed practically all the guards and took over the mine. They planned to get to the nearest village where there was a radio and announce to the whole world that Kolyma had risen up and was asking the free world for help and political asylum. But they made one mistake:  they didn’t kill all the guards. One of them got away and made it to the camp communications centre. The alarm was given, Kolyma regiment was mobilised and even air reinforcements were called out. The bombed the camp from the air in a military operation. All the rebels were killed”.

“Did you get used to death? Can you get used to it? When it’s not old people dying, but people who in normal times could have had a full and happy life….”

Extreme hunger, torture, work, beatings were the
reality in Kolyma's camps

“When they buried the dead, they just tied nametags to their legs. In 1939 a whole transport group of Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians arrived. They were completely unable to adapt to the cold, hunger and inhuman work quotas and they all died within a month.  I buried them.  It was near the ‘Svetliy [Bright]’ mine. We dug a trench 20m long and about 3m deep with an excavator. During the night the corpses were loaded on to a tractor and thrown into the trench like firewood. The tractor made 2 or 3 trips that night.  Then a bulldozer flattened it. I always think of them when the TV shows a star or a politician being buried with pomp and circumstance”.

“How many people do you think are buried there?”

“Millions, there are millions!”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No, I don’t! My father was a priest, so were my grandfather and great grandfather, but I don’t believe in God. How could God allow such shitty things to happen, if you’ll forgive the expression, in Mother Russia? How could things like this happen? Do you understand?”

“What would it be like to meet your interrogator now?”

“I’d spit in his face, that’s all. I’m sure all those bastards have long since croaked. I’m 100 years old, but they’ve all croaked. Of that I’m absolutely sure.”

Pavel Kalinkovich laughed again. He is living proof of the famous adage that he who laughs last laughs best.  Pavel Kalinkovich was the last. He has outlived all his tormentors and almost all his contemporaries: in age, prison cell or camp hut. He’s outlived two wives and two daughters. Now he lives alone in a small flat in St Petersburg and spends most of his time on the internet.

“What would it be like to meet your interrogator now?”

“I’d spit in his face, that’s all. I’m sure all those bastards have long since croaked. I’m 100 years old, but they’ve all croaked. Of that I’m absolutely sure.”

“I press the button and get the internet. I have my own blog. Yesterday I had a look and saw that I have 190 people wanting me to be their friend. I use Skype to talk to my granddaughters and great-granddaughters. Natasha worked in the Philippines for a year and we talked every evening”.

The former prisoner from Kolyma recently travelled abroad for the first time. He went to Egypt, where he sailed on the Red Sea and had a ride on a camel. When his documents were being checked at the customs, the duty officer called over his superior because he couldn’t believe he was looking at a 100-year old tourist.

“No one believes it. When I was registering my blog on the internet and wrote 1911 in the box for year of birth, the machine told me I’d made a mistake. I had to lie about my age and write a later year, so I put in 1920, which makes me only 80!”

“You don’t look over 70,” I said, and it was absolutely true.

We kissed each other goodbye. I wouldn’t describe it as a kiss from a doddering old man.

What is Poetry?

From McSweeney's

The Muses by ~Callyie-Chan on deviantART

What is poetry?

Poetry is clumps of words that make people feel something.

Was poetry meant to be read silently or aloud?

Yes and yes! Rhyme began circa 367 B.C. or A.D. when somebody, Homer, I think, wanted to tell a famous story about a Greek guy and have people remember it. Later, in the schoolyard, rhyme developed into jump-rope songs before there were phones to look at. Soon rhyme was used to tout a company’s products and services for an ironic effect after natural disasters, i.e.. “Nationwide is on your side." Rhyme is still alive “in the hood,” where rappers use it to urge their fellow “gangstas” to kill policemen. But African-American poets have contributed more than rap; they also wrote many Harlem Renaissances.

Why do people go to poetry readings?

Some go to get signed copies of books that may one day be worth something on eBay. Some go because it makes them look arty and deep. But most use poetry readings as a gentle, non-addictive sleep aid.

What is the difference between a stanza and a verse?

This is one of those oft-asked questions like: What is the difference between a lawyer and an attorney? Or is a pig the same as a hog? All you really need to know is that both stanzas and verses are made up of lines.

What is a line?
This is a line.

But there are many kinds of lines. There is a conga line, a reception line, a pick-up line, a lifeline, and of course a roaring line :) . If you are a poet, you decide which words to put in the line. You decide how many words to use.

How do you decide which words to use and how many?

That is the poetry part.

What is a simile and what is a metaphor?

People often find it difficult to distinguish between simile and metaphor. This is understandable.

If you arrange the words

On a page
Like this
So that everything
hugs
the
left margin
Is that a poem?

Yes, that is an undergraduate poem.

How do you know what a poem means?

You decide what the poem means to you. But you are probably wrong. You are probably missing like seventeen literary allusions, twelve mythological references, and some parable stolen from the Bible. And as if that isn’t enough, poets go out of their way to use fancy, archaic words like “dovecote." Do you know what a dovecote is? I didn’t think so.

Does writing poetry require research?

Don’t be crazy! Haven’t you ever heard of “poetic license?”

Can you make any money writing poetry?

Hell yeah, you can! Just look at T.S. Eliot! How many years didCats run on Broadway?! I wish I got those royalty checks. But most poets make their money explaining poetry to people who don’t “get” poetry. And happily there is no shortage of those people.

How do you get published?

Ideally, your former college roommate works at the New Yorker. If that is not the case, many writing guides recommend that before submitting your poems, you first sample a variety of literary magazines. But this is nonsense. Who wants to read a bunch of literary magazines? Get a copy of The Writers’ Marketand strafe every literary magazine in America.

Projet: traductions de Le Viel homme et la mer / Project: translations for The Old Man and The Sea

Slate.fr:

n proposant sur son site —sous forme numérique— sa propre traduction du roman d’Hemingway Le Vieil Homme et la Mer, l’éditeur et écrivain François Bon posait deux questions: une sur ce qui fait la qualité d’une traduction, une autre sur la propriété des droits d’édition.

Cette dernière question a été largement débattue, sur Slate comme ailleurs, notamment parce que Gallimard, qui revendique les droits du roman, a accusé Bon de contrefaçon. Il ne s’agit pas de revenir ici sur la polémique et de nous repencher sur le labyrinthe du domaine public qui évolue en privilégiant les rentiers et les gestionnaires du patrimoine au détriment des créateurs.

L’autre remarque soulevée par l’éditeur —peut-on proposer une traduction alternative à celle de Jean Dutour («lourdingue», selon les mots de Bon)— n’a en revanche reçu que peu d’échos. Qu’est-ce qui fait la qualité d’une traduction? Comment évolue-t-elle? Le traducteur est-il un auteur?

Plutôt que vous proposer un article classique qui tenterait d’éclairer ces questions, nous avons préféré, sur une idée du blogueur Embruns, demander à certains de nos traducteurs de se prêter au jeu lancé par François Bon. A eux de traduire le passage du Vieil Homme et de redonner vie, avec leurs mots, à ce texte. François Bon écrit : «Traduire c'est reprendre un texte comme du gravier, lentement.»

Voici les petites pierres des traducteurs de Slate. Quatre passages choisis parmi le roman d'Hemingway. A chaque fois, vous pourrez comparer le texte original, la traduction de Jean Dutour, celle d'un(e) traducteur(rice) de Slate et celle de François Bon (*).

Johan Hufnagel

Il rêva de l'Afrique de son enfance...

Iles Canaries. REUTERS/Santiago Ferrero

 Hemingway, en VO

He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and the high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it.
He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.

La traduction de Peggy Sastre, traductrice pour Slate

Il s'endormit rapidement et rêva de l'Afrique, l'Afrique de son enfance avec ses longues plages dorées et ses plages blanches, si blanches qu'elles vous faisaient mal aux yeux, et ses hautes falaises et ses grandes montagnes brunes. C'est au bord de ce rivage qu'il vivait toutes les nuits maintenant et dans ses rêves, il entendait le grondement des flots, il voyait les bateaux indigènes partis les chevaucher.

Dans son sommeil, il sentait le goudron et l'étoupe venus du pont, et le matin il sentait les senteurs de l'Afrique portées par la brise terrestre.

La traduction de François Bon 

Il s’endormit très vite, et rêva d’Afrique, quand il n’était qu’un garçon, avec les longues plages dorées et celles de sable très blanc, si blanc que l’œil en faisait mal, et les falaises des caps et au fond les hautes montagnes sombres. Il revenait se promener sur ces côtes toutes les nuits désormais, et dans ses rêves il entendait le grondement des vagues et voyait les bateaux indigènes les traverser. Il sentait le bitume et l’étoupe du pont quand il dormait, et il sentait cette odeur de l’Afrique que la brise de terre apporte au matin.

Hemingway, en VO

Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake the boy. But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbours and roadsteads of the Canary Islands.

La traduction de Peggy Sastre, traductrice pour Slate

D'habitude, quand il sentait la brise terrestre, il se levait et s'habillait et allait réveiller le garçon. Mais cette nuit, ses odeurs arrivèrent très tôt; il sut dans son rêve qu'il était trop tôt et il continua à rêver pour voir les pointes blanches des Îles se dresser sur la mer, et pour rêver encore des calanques et des ports des Canaries.

La traduction de François Bon

D’habitude, quand il sentait cette brise de terre il se réveillait, s’habillait et partait réveiller le garçon. Mais cette nuit la brise de terre vint très tôt, il sut dans son rêve qu’il était trop tôt, et continua à rêver pour voir les pics blancs des îles s’élever de la mer, puis rêva de tous ces ports et criques des îles Canaries.

Hemingway, en VO

He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on. He urinated outside the shack and then went up the road to wake the boy. He was shivering with the morning cold. But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.

La traduction de Peggy Sastre, traductrice pour Slate

Il ne rêvait plus de tempêtes, ni de filles, ni de grands événements, ni de gros poissons, ni de rixes, ni de concours de force, ni de sa femme. Aujourd'hui, il ne rêvait plus que de lieux et des lions sur la plage. Ils jouaient comme jouent de jeunes chats dans la nuit tombante et ils les aimaient comme il aimait le garçon. Il ne rêvait jamais du garçon. Il se réveilla et, rapidement, s'enquit de la lune à travers la porte ouverte, déplia son pantalon et l'enfila. Il sortit de la cabane, urina et gravit la route pour aller réveiller le garçon. Il frissonnait dans le froid du matin. Mais il savait qu'il se réchaufferait bien vite et que bien vite il serait à la rame.

La traduction de François Bon

Il ne rêvait plus de tempêtes, ni de femmes, ni de grands événements, ni de  grands poissons, ni de combats, de concours, ni de sa femme. Il ne rêvait plus maintenant que des lieux, et de lions sur la plage. Ils jouaient comme de jeunes chats dans la tombée de la nuit, et il les aimait comme il aimait le garçon. Simplement il se réveilla, regarda par la porte ouverte où en était la lune, déroula son pantalon et l’en!la. Il pissa à l’arrière de la cabane puis remonta la route pour aller réveiller le garçon. Il frissonnait, parce que le matin était froid. Mais il savait qu’il se réchaufferait dès qu’il se serait remis à ramer.

Hemingway, en VO

The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and walked in quietly with his bare feet. The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon. He took hold of one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him. The old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and, sitting on the bed, pulled them on.

La traduction de Peggy Sastre, traductrice pour Slate

La porte de la maison où vivait le garçon n'était pas fermée à clé et il l'ouvrit et il entra, sans faire de bruit, les pieds nus. Dans la première pièce, il aperçut le garçon qui dormait sur un lit de camp et le vieil homme pouvait le voir distinctement dans les dernières lueurs de la lune. Il lui tira doucement un pied et le garda dans sa main jusqu'à ce que le garçon se réveille et se tourne vers lui. Le vieil homme hocha la tête et le garçon prit son pantalon posé sur la chaise près du lit et, s'asseyant sur le lit, il l'enfila.

La traduction de François Bon

La porte de la maison où vivait le gamin n’était  pas verrouillée, il l’ouvrit et traversa doucement, sur ses pieds nus. Le garçon dormait sur un lit de garçon dans la première pièce et le vieil homme l’apercevait distinctement dans la lumière de la lune s’évanouissant. Il lui tapota un de ses pieds, gentiment, et continua jusqu’à ce que le garçon se réveille, se retourne et le regarde. Le vieil homme fit un signe de la tête, le garçon prit son pantalon sur la chaise près du lit, et, assis sur le lit, l’enfila.

Hemingway, en VO

The old man went out the door and the boy came after him. He was sleepy and the old man put his arm across his shoulders and said, «I am sorry.»

La porte de la maison où vivait le gamin n’était  pas verrouillée, il l’ouvrit et traversa doucement, sur ses pieds nus. Le garçon dormait sur un lit de garçon dans la première pièce et le vieil homme l’apercevait distinctement dans la lumière de la lune s’évanouissant. Il lui tapota un de ses pieds, gentiment, et continua jusqu’à ce que le garçon se réveille, se retourne et le regarde. Le vieil homme fit un signe de la tête, le garçon prit son pantalon sur la chaise près du lit, et, assis sur le lit, l’enfila. 

La traduction de Peggy Sastre, traductrice pour Slate

Le vieil homme ressortit, le garçon derrière lui. Il était mal réveillé. Le vieil homme passa son bras autour de ses épaules et lui dit: «Je suis désolé.»

La traduction de François Bon 

Le vieil homme l’attendait à la porte, le garçon le rejoignit. Il était endormi, et le vieil homme lui passa le bras sur l’épaule, disant: – Je m’en veux...

Mai, le mois de la pêche

REUTERS/Petr Josek

 Hemingway, en VO

"What do you have to eat?” the boy asked.
 “A pot of yellow rice with fish. Do you want some?”
“No. I will eat at home. Do you want me to make the fire?” “.No. I will make it later on. Or I may eat the rice cold”
“May I take the cast net”
“Of course.”

La traduction de Florence Nguyen, traductrice pour Slate

— Qu'est-ce que t'as à manger? demanda le gamin.

— Une potée de riz au safran avec du poisson. T'en veux?

— Non. Je mangerai à la maison. Tu veux-t-y que je fasse du feu?

— Non. J'en ferai plus tard. Peut-être que je mangerai le riz froid.

— Je peux-t-y prendre le filet à sardines?

— Bien sûr.

La traduction de François Bon

– Tu as quoi, à manger ? demanda le garçon.
– Une casserole de riz jaune avec du poisson. Tu en veux ?
– Non, je mangerai à la maison. Je t’allume ton feu ?
– Non. Dans un moment. Ou je mangerai le riz froid.
– Je peux emporter le filet ? – Bien sûr.

Hemingway, en VO

There was no cast net and the boy remembered when they had sold it. But they went through this fiction every day. There was no pot of yellow rice and fish and the boy knew this too.

La traduction de Florence Nguyen, traductrice pour Slate

Il n’y avait pas de filet, le garçon se rappelait quand ils l’avaient vendu. Mais tous les jours, ils faisaient semblant. Il n’y avait pas de riz jaune au poisson non plus, le garçon le savait.

La traduction de François Bon

Il n’y avait pas de filet, et le garçon se souvenait du jour où ils avaient dû le vendre. Mais c’était leur fiction de chaque jour. Et il n’y avait pas de casserole de riz jaune avec du poisson et le garçon le savait aussi.

Hemingway, en VO

“Eighty-five is a lucky number,” the old man said. “How would you like to see me bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds?”
 “I’ll get the cast net and go for sardines. Will you sit in the sun in the doorway?”
“Yes. I have yesterday’s paper and I will read the baseball.”

La traduction de Florence Nguyen, traductrice pour Slate

«Quatre-vingt cinq, ça porte bonheur, comme numéro, dit le vieil homme. Qu’est-ce que tu dirais si j’en ramenais un avec cinq cents kilos de chair?

— Je prends le filet et je vais chercher les sardines. Tu m’attends au soleil, sur le pas de la porte?

— Oui. J’ai le journal d’hier, je vais lire le base-ball.»

La traduction de François Bon

– Quatre-vingt-cinq, c’est un nombre qui porte chance, dit le vieil homme. Tu dirais quoi de me voir en rapporter un de cinq cents kilos ?
– Je me débrouille pour le filet, et je m’en vais aux sardines. Tu retournes t’asseoir au soleil devant la porte ?
– Oui. J’ai le journal d’hier, je vais lire le base- ball.

Hemingway, en VO

The boy did not know whether yesterday’s paper was a fiction too. But the old man brought it out from under the bed.

La traduction de Florence Nguyen, traductrice pour Slate

Le garçon ne savait pas si le journal d’hier était également une invention. Mais le vieil homme le tira de sous son lit. 

La traduction de François Bon

Le gamin ne savait pas si le journal d’hier était une fiction aussi. Mais le vieil homme le sortit d’en dessous le lit.

Hemingway, en VO

“Perico gave it to me at the bodega,” he explained.
“I’ll be back when I have the” sardines. I’ll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in the morning
“When I come back you can tell me about the baseball.”
“The Yankees cannot lose”
“But I fear the Indians of Cleveland.”
“Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio”
“I fear both the Tigers of Detroit and the Indians of Cleveland.”
“Be careful or you will fear even the Reds of Cincinnati and the White Fox of Chicago.”
“You study it and tell me when I come back.”
“Do you think we should buy a terminal of the lottery with an eighty-five? Tomorrow is the eighty-fifth day.”
 “We can do that,” the boy said. “But what about the eighty-seven of your great record?”
“It could not happen twice. Do you think you can find an eighty-five?”
“1 can order one”
“ One sheet. That’s two dollars and a half. Who can we borrow that from?”
 “That’s easy. I can always borrow two dollars and a half.”
“I think perhaps I can too. But I try not to borrow. First you borrow. Then you beg.”
“Keep warm old man,” the boy said. “Remember we are in September.”
“The month when the great fish come,” the old man said. “Anyone can be a fisherman in May.”

La traduction de Florence Nguyen, traductrice pour Slate

«Perico me l’a donné à la bodega, expliqua-t-il.

— Je reviens dès que j’aurai attrapé les sardines. Je les mettrai avec les miennes sur de la glace, on se les partagera demain matin. À mon retour, tu me raconteras ce que tu as lu sur le base-ball.

— Les Yankees sont invincibles.

— Je me méfie des Indians de Cleveland.

— Aie confiance dans les Yankees, fiston. Pense au grand DiMaggio.

— Je me méfie des Tigers de Détroit comme des Indians de Cleveland.

— Si tu continues, tu vas finir par craindre même les Reds de Cincinnati et les White Sox de Chicago.

— Lis bien tout ça, tu me raconteras à mon retour.

— Tu crois qu’on devrait acheter le billet de tombola numéro quatre-vingt-cinq? Demain, ce sera le quatre-vingt-cinquième jour.

— Pourquoi pas, dit le garçon. Ou alors le quatre-vingt-sept, comme ton grand record?

— Ça n’arrivera pas deux fois. Tu crois que tu peux en dégoter un avec le numéro quatre-vingt-cinq?

— Je le commanderai.

— Une grille. Ça fait deux dollars cinquante. À qui pourrait-t-on les emprunter?

— C’est pas dur. Je peux les emprunter sans problème.

— Moi aussi, j’imagine. Mais j’essaie de ne pas emprunter. On commence par emprunter, et on finit par mendier.

— N’attrape pas froid, vieil homme, dit le garçon. Souviens-toi qu’on est en septembre.

— Le mois des grosses prises. En mai, n’importe qui peut pêcher.

La traduction de François Bon

– Pedrico me l’a donné à la bodega, expliqua-t-il.
– Je reviens quand j’aurai les sardines. Je garderai les tiennes et les miennes ensemble dans la glace et on les partagera demain matin. Quand je serai reve- nu, tu me raconteras le baseball.
– Les Yankees ne peuvent pas perdre.
– Mais j’ai peur quand il y aura les Indians de Cleveland.
– Aie confiance dans les Yankees, fils. Pense qu’ils ont le grand DiMaggio.
– J’ai peur à la fois des Tigers de Detroit et des Indians de Cleveland.
– Méfie-toi, bientôt t’auras peur aussi des Reds de Cincinnati et des White Sox de Chicago.
– Regarde ça de près et tu me diras quand je re- viendrai.
– Tu crois qu’on devrait acheter un billet de lote- rie qui finit par quatre-vingt-cinq. Demain ce sera le quatre-vingt-cinquième jour.
– On devrait le faire, dit le garçon. Mais pourquoi pas le quatre-vingt-sept, comme ton ancien record ?
– Ça ne peut pas arriver deux fois. Tu crois que tu pourrais trouver un quatre-vingt-cinq ?
– Je peux le réserver.
– Juste un ticket. C’est deux dollars et demi. À qui on pourrait les emprunter ?
– C’est pas difficile. Je peux toujours me dé- brouiller pour emprunter deux dollars et demi.
– Je crois que je peux me débrouiller aussi. D’abord tu empruntes, ensuite tu t’excuses.
– Sois tranquille, dit le garçon, souviens-toi qu’on est juste en septembre.
– Le mois où les gros poissons remontent, dit le vieil homme. Tout le monde peut être un pêcheur en mai.

Tu ne peux pas pêcher et ne pas manger

Hemingway en VO

When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down. The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the chair and over the old man’s shoulders. They were strange shoulders, still powerful although very old, and the neck was still strong too and the creases did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward. His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the patches were faded to many different shades by the sun. The old man’s head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in his face. The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it there in the evening breeze. He was barefooted.

La traduction d’Antoine Bourguilleau, traducteur pour Slate

Lorsque le gamin revint, le vieil homme s’était assoupi sur sa chaise et le soleil s’était couché. Le gamin alla tirer la vieille couverture de l’armée du lit et l’étendit sur le dossier de la chaise, en la passant sur les épaules du vieux. Il avait des épaules étranges, toujours puissantes malgré leur grand âge, et si sa nuque était forte, elle aussi, ses plis n’étaient pas tant visibles lorsque le vieil homme dormait et que sa tête penchait en avant. Sa chemise avait été tant de fois reprisée qu’elle ressemblait à une voile, aux pièces chamarrées décolorées par le soleil. Mais le visage du vieil homme était marqué par les ans et, avec ses yeux clos, on ne pouvait y déceler nulle trace de vie. Le journal était posé sur ses genoux et le poids de son bras l’y maintenait dans la brise du soir. Il était pieds nus.

La traduction de François Bon

Quand il remonta, le vieil homme dormait sur sa chaise et le soleil s’était couché.Il prit la vieille cou- verture de l’armée sur le lit et l’étala sur l’arrière de la chaise et sur les épaules du vieil homme. C’étaient d’étranges épaules, encore puissantes malgré son âge, et le cou aussi restait fort, et les rides ne permettaient pas de voir si le vieil homme dormait et si la tête tombait vers l’avant. Sa chemise avait été rapiécée si souvent qu’elle était comme sa voile, et les pièces recousues se mêlaient aux ombres de la nuit. La tête du vieil homme montrait bien son âge et maintenant qu’il avait les yeux fermés, ne restait plus de vie sur le visage. Le journal était tombé sur ses genoux et le poids de ses bras le retenait dans la brise du soir. Il était pieds nus.

Hemingway en VO

The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.
“Wake up old man,” the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man’s knees”

La traduction d’Antoine Bourguilleau, traducteur pour Slate

Le gamin le laissa là et lorsqu’il revint, le vieil homme dormait toujours.

– Réveille-toi, le vieux, dit le gamin et il posa sa main sur un des genoux du vieil homme.

La traduction de François Bon

Le gamin le laissa, et quand il revint le vieil homme dormait encore.
– Réveille-toi, le vieux, dit le garçon, et il lui posa la main sur les genoux.

Hemingway en VO                    

The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away. Then he smiled.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“.Supper,” said the boy. “We’re going to have supper”
“I’m not very hungry”
“Come on and eat. You can’t fish and not eat.”
I have,” the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it. Then he started to fold the blanket.
“Keep the blanket around you,” the boy said. “You’ll not fish without eating while I’m alive.”
Then live a long time and take care of yourself,” the old man said. “What are we”
Eating?”
“Black beans and rice, fried bananas, and some stew”

La traduction d’Antoine Bourguilleau, traducteur pour Slate

Le vieil homme ouvrit les yeux et, pendant un moment, il sembla s’en revenir de très loin. Puis il sourit.

- Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? demanda-t-il.

- Le dîner, dit le gamin. Nous allons dîner. 

- J’ai pas très faim.

- Viens manger. Tu ne peux pas pêcher et ne pas manger.

- Ça m’est déjà arrivé,  dit le vieil homme en se levant, ramassant le journal et le pliant. Il commença alors à replier la couverture.

- Garde la couverture sur toi, dit le gamin. Tu ne pêcheras pas sans manger tant que je serai vivant.

- Alors longue vie et prend soin de toi, dit le vieil homme. Qu’est-ce qu’on mange?

- Des haricots noirs et du riz, des bananes frites et un peu de ragoût.

La traduction de François Bon

Le vieil homme ouvrit les yeux et pendant un moment ce fut comme s’il revenait d’un voyage très lointain. Alors il sourit.
– T’as ramené quoi ? demanda-t-il.
– À souper, dit le garçon, j’ai ramené de quoi souper.
– C’est pas que j’aie très faim.
– Viens manger. Tu ne peux pas pêcher sans rien avoir mangé.
– J’ai mangé, dit le vieil homme en se relevant, ramassant le journal qu’il replia. Puis il commença à replier la couverture.
– Garde la couverture sur toi, dit le garçon. Tu n’iras pas pêcher sans avoir mangé, tant que je vivrai.
– Alors vis longtemps et prends soin de toi, dit le vieil homme. Y a quoi, à manger ?
– Des haricots noirs avec du riz, des bananes frites et un peu de ragout.

Hemingway en VO                    

The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper napkin wrapped around each set.

La traduction d’Antoine Bourguilleau, traducteur pour Slate

Le gamin les avait apportés dans une barquette métallique à deux étages, qui venait de la Terrasse. Les deux jeux de couteaux, fourchettes et cuillères étaient dans sa poche, une serviette en papier enveloppant chacun des deux jeux.

La traduction de François Bon

Le garçon les avait apportés depuis la Terrace dans une gamelle à deux compartiments. Les deux jeux de couteau, fourchette et cuillère étaient dans la poche, avec une serviette en papier enroulée autour de chaque jeu.

Hemingway en VO                    

“Who gave this to you”
“Martin. The owner.”
“.I must thank him”
“.I thanked him already,” the boy said. “You don’t need to thank him.”
“I’ll give him the belly meat of a big fish,” the old man said. “Has he done this for us
more than once?
“.I think so”
“I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us.”
“He sent two beers”
“.I like the beer in cans best”
“.I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles.”
“That’s very kind of you,” the old man said. “Should we eat?”
“I’ve been asking you too,” the boy told him gently. “I have not wished to open the container until you were ready.”
“I’m ready now,” the old man said. “I only needed time to wash.”

La traduction d’Antoine Bourguilleau, traducteur pour Slate

- Qui t’a donné ça?

- Martin. Le patron.

- Il faut que je le remercie.

- Je l’ai déjà fait, dit le gamin. Tu n’as pas besoin de le remercier.

- Je lui donnerai la viande d’un gros poisson, dit le vieil homme. Ce n’est pas la première fois qu’il fait ça pour nous?

- Il me semble.

- Alors, je dois lui donner davantage que la viande d’un poisson. Il nous traite très bien.

- Il nous a fait porter deux bières.

- Je les préfère en boîte.

- Je sais. Mais elles sont en bouteille. De la Hatuey, et il faut que je lui ramène les bouteilles.

- C’est très gentil de ta part, dit le vieil homme. On mange?

- C’est que je t’ai proposé, lui dit gentiment le gamin. Mais je ne voulais pas ouvrir la barquette avant que tu sois prêt.

- Je le suis, dit le vieil homme. Il fallait juste que je me lave.

La traduction de François Bon

– Qui te l’a donné ? – Martin, le patron. – Faudra que je le remercie. – Je lui ai déjà dit merci, dit le garçon. T’as pas
besoin de le faire. – Je lui donnerai du filet, d’un des gros poissons,
dit le vieil homme. Surtout qu’il a fait ça pour nous plus d’une fois.
– Je crois bien.
– Il faudra que je lui donne quelque chose de plus qu’un filet, alors. Il est bien serviable pour nous.
– Il nous a mis deux bières. – C’est les bières en canette que je préfère. – Je sais, mais celles-ci c’est en bouteille, des
Hatuey, il faut que je rapporte les bouteilles. – C’est bien de ta part, dit le vieil homme. Je n’ai pas voulu ouvrir la gamelle tant que tu n’étais pas prêt.
– Je suis prêt maintenant, dit le vieil homme. Je dois juste passer me laver.

Le vieil homme rêvait des lions

Un lion à Prétoria. REUTERS/Enrique Marcarian

 Hemingway en VO

“I will have everything in order,” the boy said. “You get your hands well old man.”
 “I know how to care for them. In the night I spat something strange and felt something in my chest was broken.”
“Get that well too,” the boy said. “Lie down, old man, and I will bring you your clean shirt. And something to eat.”

La traduction de Bérangère Viennot, traductrice pour Slate

«Je m’occupe de tout», dit le garçon. «Soignez vos mains, le vieux.»

 «Je sais quoi y faire. Pendant la nuit j’ai craché un machin bizarre et j’ai senti quelque chose de cassé dans ma poitrine.»

«Ça aussi, soignez-le», dit le garçon. «Couchez-vous, le vieux, je vais vous donner votre chemise propre. Et quelque chose à manger.» 

La traduction de François Bon

– Je m’occuperai de tout, dit le garçon, toi tu dois soigner tes mains.
– Je sais comment m’en occuper. Cette nuit j’ai craché un truc bizarre et senti que quelque chose dans ma poitrine était cassé.
– Soigne ça aussi, dit le gamin. Repose-toi, le vieux, et je t’apporterai ta chemise lavée, avec quelque chose à manger.

Hemingway en VO

“Bring any of the papers of the time that I was gone,” the old man said.
“You must get well fast for there is much that I can learn and you can teach me everything. How much did you suffer?”
“Plenty,” the old man said.
“I’ll bring the food and the papers,” the boy said. “Rest well, old man. I will bring stuff from the drugstore for your hands.”
“Don’t forget to tell Pedrico the head is his.”
“No. I will remember.”

La traduction de Bérangère Viennot, traductrice pour Slate

«Rapporte-moi n’importe lequel des journaux de quand j’étais parti», dit le vieil homme.

«Il faut guérir vite car je peux apprendre encore des tas de choses, et vous pouvez tout me montrer. Vous avez beaucoup souffert?»

«Énormément», répondit le vieil homme.

«Je reviens avec la nourriture et les journaux», dit le garçon. «Reposez-vous bien, le vieux. Je vais rapporter quelque chose du drugstore pour vos mains.»

«N’oublie pas de dire à Pedrico que la tête est pour lui.»

«Non. Je m’en souviendrai.» 

La traduction de François Bon

– Apporte-moi les journaux de tous ces jours où je suis parti, dit le vieux.
– Tu dois te soigner vite parce que j’ai beaucoup à apprendre, tu peux m’apprendre tant de choses. Combien tu as eu mal ?
– Plein, dit le vieil homme.
– Je t’apporterai à manger et les journaux, dit le garçon. Repose-toi, le vieux, je t’apporterai quelque chose du drugstore pour tes mains.
– N’oublie pas de dire à Pedrico que la tête est pour lui.
– Je m’en souviendrai.

Hemingway en VO

As the boy went out the door and down the worn coral rock road he was crying again.
That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbour.

La traduction de Bérangère Viennot, traductrice pour Slate

Le garçon franchit la porte et emprunta la route en corail durci et usé en pleurant de nouveau.

Cette après-midi là, il y avait un groupe de touristes au Terrace. Alors qu’elle regardait dans l’eau, au milieu des canettes de bière vides et des barracudas crevés, une femme vit une grosse et longue arête dorsale blanche, terminée par une énorme queue, soulevée et balancée par la houle tandis que le vent de l’est agitait constamment la mer devant l’entrée du port. 

La traduction de François Bon

Et le garçon n’avait pas passé la porte sur le seuil de corail usé qu’il pleurait de nouveau.
Cet après-midi il y avait un groupe de touristes en ballade à la Terrace, et regardant vers la mer par- mi les bouteilles de bière vide et les barracudas morts, une femme vit une longue arête dorsale blanche avec une immense queue tout au bout qui se balançait avec la marée montante tandis que le vent d’est poussait une lourde houle par l’ouverture du bord.

Hemingway en VO

“What’s that?” she asked a waiter and pointed to the long backbone of the great fish that was now just garbage waiting to go out with the tide.
“Tiburon,” the waiter said. “Eshark.” He was meaning to explain what had happened.
“I didn’t know sharks had such handsome, beautifully formed tails.”
“I didn’t either,” her male companion said.
Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions.
THE END.

La traduction de Bérangère Viennot, traductrice pour Slate

«C’est quoi ça?», demanda-t-elle à un serveur en montrant du doigt la longue arête dorsale du grand poisson qui n’était plus à présent qu’un déchet attendant d’être évacué par la marée.

«Tiburon», répondit le serveur. «Erequin.» Il avait l’intention d’expliquer ce qui était arrivé.

«Je ne savais pas que les requins avaient des queues aussi belles, aussi joliment formées.»

«Moi non plus», dit l’homme qui l’accompagnait.

Au bout de la route, dans sa cabane, le vieux s’était rendormi. Il gisait de nouveau sur le ventre et le garçon, assis à côté de lui, le regardait dormir. Le vieil homme rêvait de lions.

FIN 

La traduction de François Bon

– Qu’est-ce que c’est, ça ? demanda-t-elle au serveur en montrant le squelette du grand poisson, désormais juste une ordure poussée par la marée.
– Tiburon, dit le serveur. Les requins. Il tentait d’expliquer ce qui s’était passé. – Je ne savais pas que les requins avaient d’aussi
belles queues, si bien formées. – Je ne savais pas non plus, dit son mari. Plus haut dans la côte, dans sa cabane, le vieil
homme dormait de nouveau. Et à nouveau il dormait sur le ventre, le garçon assis près de lui pour le veiller.
Le vieil homme rêvait des lions.
FIN

(*) Evidemment, si Gallimard, qui revendique les droits de ce texte, souhaite que nous les retirions, nous le ferions. Avec regret. Nous estimons que nous n’allons pas au delà d’une forme de travail journalistique et l’emprunt du roman d’Hemingway reste dans les clous du «fair use».