Treball Fi de Grau: The Etruscan Smile Francesc - e

Treball Fi de Grau: The Etruscan Smile
Francesc Pérez Muñoz
Treball Fi de Grau: The Etruscan Smile
Francesc Pérez Muñoz
ABSTRACT
José Luis Sampedro was one of the most famous Spanish writers of the latest century
and his works are being translated into many other languages but, despite this fact,
most of his works haven’t been translated into English, which would ease further
translations. This situation is mostly due to the lack of translating tradition in Englishspeaking countries. In this project we present some background data about the author
and his book, La sonrisa etrusca, to point out the main reasons why we should
translate his works. We then offer a translation proposal for some selected chapters of
the book in order to suggest a hypothetical translation job. Consisting of 20 pages, the
text has been analyzed and translated with the help of the German version and
different resources, including dictionaries, thesauri and parallel texts. The result of this
essay would be both a translation suggestion and a proof to check whether it can be
translated or not. The final proposal shows that we should not only translate his
literary works but also the economical and social ones. His style surely differs from
English authors but his thematic universality, his refined style and the appropriateness
of his social and economical works nowadays allow him to be an international author.
Treball Fi de Grau: The Etruscan Smile
Francesc Pérez Muñoz
INDEX
INTRODUCTION
1
THE BOOK AND THE AUTHOR
3
José Luis Sampedro
3
La sonrisa etrusca (The Etruscan smile)
7
TRANSLATING SAMPEDRO
9
THE CHAPTERS
11
TRANSLATION PROPOSAL
12
Chapter 1
12
Chapter 2
18
Chapter 6
22
Chapter 9
27
CONCLUSIONS
32
BIBLIOGRAPHY
35
APPENDIX
37
Different covers
38
Time for Outrage! Prologue
40
Original text: La sonrisa etrusca
43
German version: Das etruskische Lächeln
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Francesc Pérez Muñoz
INTRODUCTION
Sampedro used to say that “life is a difficult, rough crossing without a proper
compass”. With his passing last April 8th, we might have lost a proper compass, a
marvelous writer, a fantastic human being and one of the cleverest minds of the latest
Spanish literature.
There are many reasons for the existence of this essay but I would sum them up in the
following three. First of all, the choice of the topic is based on a rather personal
motive. I really admire Sampedro and I was simply captivated by the book from his
very first page. Besides, I have other personal reasons to do this but that’s a different
kettle of fish. Secondly, I take this essay as a challenge. I haven’t done an inverse
translation as long as this one during the career and now that it’s, hopefully, coming to
an end I feel obliged to test my abilities and prove myself worthy. I need to know that
now I can do it on my own. And last but not least, this essay has an honorary function.
As I have mentioned before, José Luis Sampedro left us some months ago and I
thought it was the time to pay tribute to his long career. These would be the main
grounds for the essay.
Now that I have explained why I do this, I ought to explain how I’m going to do it. The
main part of the essay will be a translation proposal for some chapters from La sonrisa
etrusca. As I take it as a real translation job proposal, I will be also giving some
background from the author and the novel for a hypothetical publisher and I will also
try to point out why we should translate Sampedro’s works. Therefore, I’m going to
divide the essay in three main sections: background from the author and the novel,
reasons to translate his works and the translation proposal. At the end there will also
be an appendix with some extra information. The translating process is going to be
really similar to the one I have always been using. First I’ll read again the whole book,
I’ll choose some chapters that I may find interesting and after I’ll go through the
chosen chapters with a fine-tooth comb. Once I have found out which could be the
major problems, I’m going to check their context again and then and only then I’m
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going to start translating. Besides all the resources I normally use when translating
such as dictionaries, thesauri, parallel texts and so on, this time I’m going to use the
German version of the book too. The book, called Das estrüskische Lächeln, will be
useful when I get stuck to see how the German translator managed with some specific
parts.
One of the main targets of this essay is to create a new commercial opportunity.
Sampedro has a very good reputation in Spain but I really think that his works can go
much further. For example, the fact that this book has been already translated to
Portuguese, French, Russian, Italian and German proves so. I will explain why we
should translate his works in depth in a different part of the essay. Another main
target is to improve my skills. It’s not about showing off, it’s about seeing what I have
achieved and finding out the rest of things I still need to learn ―there’s still huge room
for improvement, no doubt about it.
To sum up, I’d like to thank Professor Olivia for giving me the chance to go ahead with
this proposal and for her invaluable help.
Let this essay be a tribute to one of the greatest.
Francesc Pérez Muñoz
The system is broken and lost, and that’s why you’ll have a future.
José Luis Sampedro
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THE BOOK AND THE AUTHOR
José Luis Sampedro (February 1, 1917, Barcelona ― April 8, 2013, Madrid)
José Luis Sampedro Sáez was born in Barcelona in 1917.
His father was born in Havana, his mother in Algeria, his grandfather in Manila and his
grandmother in Lugano, Italian Switzerland. The varied geographical origin and the
diversity of influences would be essential in his works.
In 1922 his family moved to Tangier, and he would remain in African land until he was
13. His brother Carlos and his sister Carmen were born there.
Sampedro was born in the bosom of a right-wing family which believed that socialism
implied anarchy. When the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, he was mobilized by
the republican army but he later changed sides and joined the National Army ranks. He
spent the war in Melilla, Catalonia, Guadalajara and Cuenca. It was then when he
began to write his first poems.
In 1940 he began working as a customs officer in Melilla, but he asked to be
transferred to Madrid, where he would study Economic Science in 1944. That same
year he got married to Isabel Pellicer. When the war was over, he wrote his first novel,
La estatua de Adolfo Espejo, although it wasn’t first published until 1994. In 1946 his
daughter Isabel was born. In 1947 he finished his degree with honors and wrote La
sombra de los días. In 1948 he wrote La paloma de cartón, his first theater play.
In 1951 he was appointed assistant in the Ministry of Commerce. During that time, he
wrote his two first economic works ―Principios prácticos de localización industrial and
Efectos de la unidad económica europea. In 1955 he became professor of Economic
Structure, a post he would keep until 1969. He combined it with his job as an
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economist in the Banco Exterior, where he was responsible for the creation of a study
service.
In 1961 his novel El río que nos lleva was published. After professors Aranguren and
Tierno Galván were expelled from university, he joined them and together they
created the Centro de Estudios e Investigaciones (CEISA) with other professors,
although it would be closed by the government three years later. In 1968 he was
appointed Ann Howard Shaw Lecturer by the American university Bryn Mawr College.
At the beginning of the 70s he became visiting professor for the universities of Salford
and Liverpool and published the satire El caballo desnudo. In 1971 he came back to the
Ministry of Commerce as an economical assistant for the customs office general
management and gave classes in the Escuela Diplomática, the Instituto de Estudios
Fiscales and the university UAB in Barcelona. During this time, he wrote Conciencia del
subdesarrollo and La inflación en versión completa. In 1977 he was chosen senator by
royal appointment in the first democratic courts and vice-chairman of the Fundación
Banca Exterior.
In 1980 his only grandson Miguel was born. The newborn inspired his grandfather’s
most read novel, La sonrisa etrusca, which was published in 1985 and became his first
outstanding success. In 1981 he published Octubre, octubre, a long novel that took him
20 years of work. But despite these two successes, it was the novel El amante lesbiano,
published in 2000, which commanded the critics’ attention and got excellent reviews.
Sampedro began writing in a magazine called Uno, influenced by the discovery of some
of the writers that he would come to admire, such as Azorín, Miguel de Unamuno, Jane
Austen or Chéjov. In 1984 he came back to the customs office, where he would stay
until he went into retirement. In 1986 his wife Isabel died.
In 1990 he was chosen member of the Real Academia Española and published La vieja
sirena. During a stay in New York in 1995, he suffered a serious heart disease that
nearly took his life. Fortunately he recovered from it and since then he gave speeches
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and wrote many other works, such as La senda del drago, Los mongoles en Bagdad, El
mercado y la globalización, etc.
In 2003 he married the writer, poetess and translator Olga Lucas Torre. In 2008 he was
given the Medalla de la Orden de Carlomagno of Andorra. In 2009 he received an
honorary doctorate by the Universidad de Sevilla. In 2010 he was given the XXIV
Premio Internacional Menéndez Pelayo and the Orden de las Artes y las Letras de
España due to his outstanding career and his commitment to nowadays problems. In
2011 he was awarded with the Premio Nacional de Narrativa.
Sampedro died on the 7th of April, 2013 in Madrid.
Works of Sampedro
We could divide the works of Sampedro into 4 main groups:
Novel
-
Congreso en Estocolmo (Conference in Stockholm), 1951.
-
El río que nos lleva (The river that takes us), 1961.
-
El caballo desnudo (The naked horse), 1970.
-
Octubre, octubre (October, October), 1981.
-
La sonrisa etrusca (The Etruscan smile), 1985.
-
La vieja sirena (The old mermaid), 1990.
-
Real sitio (Royal site), 1993.
-
La estatua de Adolfo Espejo (The statue of Adolfo Espejo), 1994.
-
La sombra de los días (The shadow of the days), 1994.
-
El amante lesbiano (The lesbian lover), 2000.
-
La senda del drago (Drago’s path), 2006.
-
Cuarteto para un solista (Quartet for a soloist), 2011.
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Stories
-
Mar al fondo (Out to sea), 1992.
-
Mientras la tierra gira (While the Earth turns around), 1993.
Economic works
-
Principios prácticos de localización industrial (Practical principles for industrial
location), 1957.
-
Realidad económica y análisis estructural (Economical reality and structural
analysis), 1959.
-
Conciencia del subdesarrollo (Consciousness of underdevelopment), 1973.
-
Las fuerzas económicas de nuestro tiempo (The economical forces of our time),
1967.
-
Inflación: una versión completa (Inflation ―a complete version), 1976.
-
El mercado y la globalización (Market and globalization), 2002.
-
Los mongoles en Bagdad (The Mongols in Baghdad), 2003.
-
Sobre política, mercado y convivencia (About politics, market and coexistence),
2006.
-
Economía humanista. Algo más que cifras (Humanist economy. Something
more than numbers.), 2009.
Others
-
Escribir es vivir (To write is to live), 2005.
-
La ciencia y la vida (Science and life), 2008.
-
Reacciona (Protest), 2011.
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La sonrisa etrusca (The Etruscan smile)
La sonrisa etrusca (The Etruscan smile) is a novel written by the Spanish writer José
Luis Sampedro. It was first published in 1985 by the publishing house Ediciones
Alfaguara in Madrid, Spain. In 2001, the Spanish newspaper El Mundo included the
book in its list of the best 100 Spanish novels of the 20th century.
The title makes a reference to The Spouses, an Etruscan sarcophagus that the main
character visits at the beginning of the story. He is amazed by the smile of the
terracotta couple and takes it as a token of how we can face death when we have
enjoyed our life. This smile will appear again in the course of the novel.
The novel relates the story of Salvatore Roncone, an old partisan from Calabria whose
serious illness makes him move to Milan with his son and his daughter-in-law. Once
there he will meet his grandson Brunettino, who is about one year old. From that
moment on Salvatore ―also called Bruno by his former partisan mates― will become
his guardian angel.
Old Roncone is a countryman, a former partisan who is as stubborn as a mule and
simply can’t get used to the city and its life style. In the course of the novel, we will see
a constant opposition between the rural elements and the city, the past and the
present, youth and experience.
The Etruscan smile gives off love in each of its pages. Two different kinds of love will
move the main character: one for his grandson and the other for a woman who
appears in his life now that the end is so near. He knows there’s not much time left
―his cancer will soon claim his life.
But he isn’t afraid of death. He accepted it long time ago. His disease ―his Rusca, as he
calls it― won’t stop him from taking his last opportunity. He needs to teach little
Brunettino what life is all about and he also needs to love Hortensia in a different way
and with a passion as he never felt before. Because Salvatore will discover a new way
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of loving and learning, not the one he was used to, but a different one, where his
man’s proud gives way to a whole universe of hidden sensations.
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TRANSLATING SAMPEDRO
If we take the importance of Sampedro in the Spanish literature and the current
situation into account, we will find out that there are many reasons for translating his
works.
The figure of Sampedro
He was a writer, professor, humanist and economist, all in one. But among all this, he
was the voice of hundreds, a tenacious fighter for civilian rights and a people’s man.
He was also one of the great intellectuals of our times and the so-called “Spanish
Hessel”. This nickname shouldn’t surprise us, as he was the one who wrote Stéphane
Hessel’s Indignez-vous prologue. With the French writer, they became two referents in
the contemporary social movement. He demanded for a participatory democracy in
Spain and supported fervently the 15-M citizen movement. In his works he reflected
on the manipulation of public opinion, the lack of critical thinking before the elections
and the lack of education and training. Even after his passing, his ideas are still in force
and his message echoes in the voices of those who were encouraged by his steady
figure.
Right place, right time
Besides being a well known author, Sampedro combined his jobs as an economist and
professor all his life. In this context of economical crisis, any opinion coming from an
expert is always welcome, so why not listening to him? If we also take into account
that the writer has remarkable writing skills ―his awards prove so―, our choice
should be clear. I do believe it’s a great moment to translate his works because right
now we are living ―and suffering― a serious economical crisis, and citizens are getting
more and more interested in understanding the economical system and knowing why
everything has fallen through. We should provide the costumers with something that
will tell them what they want to know. But we shouldn’t forget that we are not only
talking about his economical works. What about his literature? He left us more than 10
novels, all of them worth reading. Besides, the translation of part of his works would
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be a great opportunity to pay tribute to his life-long career and to all his awards and
achievements.
Commercial targets
Another point in favor for translating La sonrisa etrusca and, in general, Sampedro’s
works is the great variety of commercial targets. As he was a prolific author, we can
find a book for nearly any kind of public: teenagers, young men, adults, etc. His novels
will simply absorb the reader, who will be able to contemplate the author’s virtuosity
and the unmistakable stroke of his pen. For those who are more interested in
economy, there is also a wide range of books dealing about the subject because, as we
have said earlier, we shouldn’t forget he was a littérateur and an economist at the
same time.
The importance of English
The language plays a key role in the spreading of a book. As I mentioned in the
introduction, La sonrisa etrusca has been already translated to many different
languages, such as French (Le sourire étrusque), German (Das etruskische Lächeln),
Italian (Il sorriso etrusco), Portuguese (O sorriso etrusco), Dutch (De Etruskische
glimlach), Rumanian (Etrusko šypsena), Russian (этрусские улыбки) and Greek
(ετρουσκική χαμόγελο).
English would also promote new translations, as it is nowadays one of the most spoken
languages and an important lingua franca all around the world. The fact that the book
hasn’t been translated to this language yet should not be seen as a mistake, but as a
great commercial chance.
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THE CHAPTERS
I have chosen these chapters because of their content. They allow us to get some idea
of the book’s plot and its main characters in outline. There are some ideas that I would
like to remark because they have been the main reason why I have chosen these
chapters and not any other.
In the first place, I think that it is really interesting to find out how is Salvatore’s profile.
It is an essential part because ―as he is the main character― the potential English
reader should know who is going to be the leading protagonist of the novel. That’s why
I’ve chosen the first and the second chapter because, as in most books, the first two
chapters tell us what is the story about, who are going to be the main characters,
when and where does the story take place and why does everything happen. In this
case, we find out who is Salvatore, his son Renato, his daughter-in-law Andrea and his
grandson Brunettino, who, even he doesn’t appear yet, is going to have a very
important role in the story. We also meet Rusca, the serious illness that consumes
Salvatore gradually and the reason for going back to Milan. Finally, we also see the first
impressions of Salvatore about the city and the contrast with his beloved Calabria.
In the sixth chapter we can appreciate some of Salvatore’s characteristics, such as, for
example, his stubbornness and his pride. He doesn’t take notice of what the doctor
and Renato say and he does everything he wants his own way. In this chapter we also
find an important flashback of his departure from Roccasera. In it, we meet his avowed
enemy, Cantanotte, and some old friends like Ambrosio. We will also get to know his
past as a partisan, a leitmotiv that will be present throughout the whole novel.
In the ninth chapter we see the special connection between Salvatore and his
grandson. We can observe the progression of the old partisan’s attitude towards the
kid. He fell in love with little Brunettino the first he saw him, but now he behaves like a
lovely grandpa and even does what he before thought was “women stuff”. We also
have the figure of Anunziata, who doesn’t understand the old man and represents
today’s society ―an unnatural, gullible and overprotective society.
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TRANSLATION PROPOSAL
Chapter 1
In the Villa Giulia Roman Museum, the Quinta Section security guard keeps on
patrolling. Now that summer has come to an end and, with it, the crowds of tourists
are gone, surveillance is, once again, boring ―but a certain visitor has drawn his
attention and he goes back to The Spouses room with growing curiosity. “Will he still
be there?” he wonders as he walks faster until he puts his head round the door.
He is there. Still sitting in front of the big Etruscan terracotta sarcophagus, placed
in the middle of the vault ―that showpiece of the museum which is on display, as if it
was kept inside a case, in the ochre room imitating the original barrow.
Yes, there he is. Motionless for half an hour, as if he was a statue too, dried out by
fire and time. The brown hat and the weather-beaten face make up a clay bust that
rises up out of the white tieless shirt, the way old men do it down there, in the south
mountains ―Apulia or rather Calabria.
“What does he see in that statue?” the guard wonders. And since he doesn’t
understand what’s going on, he doesn’t dare leave the room, in case something might
happen there, on that morning that started out like all other mornings and ended so
differently. But he doesn’t dare go inside either, held back by unaccountable respect.
He stays at the door watching the old man who, unaware of the guard’s presence,
focuses his attention on the tomb, covered with a lid on which a reclining human
couple lay.
The woman, resting on her elbow, her hair in two plaits falling upon her breasts,
bends gracefully her right hand, as if she wanted to bring it closer to her fleshy lips.
Behind her, a man laying in the same way, pointy goatee under the faun mouth, gets
his right arm round the female figure. In both bodies, clay’s reddish tone wants to
show a latent life energy, invulnerable to the passage of time. And under the orientally
almond-shaped eyes blooms in both faces the same indescribable smile ―wise and
mysterious, cheerful and sensual.
Hidden spotlights light up the figures with dynamic art, giving them a burning
chiaroscuro of life. Compared with it, the motionless old man sitting in the shadows
seems a statue to the guard. “As if by magic”, he can’t help wondering. In order to
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calm himself down, he decides to convince himself that everything is fine. “The old
man is tired and, as he paid the ticket, he sat down there to make good use of it.
Country people are like that.” After a while, as nothing has happened, the guard moves
away.
His absence thickens the crypt’s air round its three inhabitants ―the old man and
the couple. Time goes by...
A young man approaches the old man and breaks the ambience.
«At last, father! Let’s go. I’m so sorry I had you waiting for so long but that
director…»
The old man looks at him. “Poor boy! Always in a hurry, always apologizing … And
to think that he’s my own son!”
«Hold on a minute. What is that?»
«That? The Spouses. An Etruscan sarcophagus.»
«A sarcophagus? A box for the dead?»
«Yes… but let’s go.»
«Did they bury them inside there? In that sort of divan?»
«A triclinium. The Etruscan used to have their meals lying down, as they did in
Rome. And they didn’t actually bury them. They used to place the sarcophagi in a
closed barrow which was painted like a house on the inside.»
«Like the Malfatti marquises vault there, in Roccasera?»
«Just the same… But Andrea will explain it to you better. I’m no archaeologist.»
«Your wife? Well, I’ll ask her.»
The son looks his father in amazement. “Is he so interested?” He checks his watch
once more.
«We’re still a long way from Milan, father… please.»
The old man stands up slowly from the bench, his eyes still set on the couple.
«They buried them while eating!» he mutters, amazed. At last, he reluctantly
follows his son.
As they leave, the old man changes the subject.
«Things didn’t go very well with the museum director, did they?»
The son pulls a face.
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«Well, you know, the usual stuff. They promise and promise, but… Now, he had
nothing but praise for Andrea. He even knew her latest article.»
The old man remembers when, right after the end of the war, he went to Rome
with Ambrosio and that other partisan ―what was his name, the Albanian, that great
shot… damned memory!― to demand the agrarian reform for Little Sila from a party
leader.
«Did he see you out and pat you on the back?»
«Of course! He was very kind!»
The son smiles but the old man frowns. Like then. It took three dead
demonstrators in the peasant demonstration in Melissa, next to Santa Severina, to
scare Rome politicians and get them to decide to do something.
They reach the car in the parking lot and get in it. The old man grumbles while he
fastens his seat belt. “Good deal for some! As if I didn’t have the right to kill myself the
way I wanted!” They start the car and head for Rome’s way out. Shortly after paying
the toll, already on the Autostrada del Sole, the old man returns to his topic as he
slowly rolls a cigarette.
«Did they bury them together?»
«Whom, father?»
«That couple. The Etruscans.»
«I don’t know. Maybe.»
«And how? They would not die at the same time!»
«You’re right… Well, I don’t know… Press there and a lighter will come out.»
«Forget about the lighter. The whole point is in the matches.»
The old man rubs skilfully a match and lights his cigarette making a hollow with his
hands. He throws the match out and smokes leisurely. Silence is only broken by the
engine humming, tire buzz noises and some occasional imperious hoots. The car starts
smelling of black tobacco, making the son recall childhood memories. He
surreptitiously opens the car window a little bit. The old man looks at him ―he has
never been able to get used to this delicate profile, inherited from his mother and
clearer year after year. He drives seriously, paying attention to the road… “Yes, he has
always been a serious lad.”
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«Why were they laughing in such a way as… well, as that? And on his own tomb, no
less!»
«Who?»
«The Etruscans, boy, the ones in the mausoleum! Who else? What were you
thinking about?»
«My God, the Etruscans!... How am I to know? Besides, they were not laughing.»
«You bet! They did laugh! They were laughing at everything! Didn’t you see? In
such a way…! Their lips were together, but they were laughing… And what for a mouth
they had! Specially her, just like»―he interrupts himself to conceal a name (Salvinia)
his mind has suddenly remembered.
The son gets annoyed. “What an obsession! Is the illness already damaging his
brains?”
«They weren’t laughing father. It was just a smile. A beatitude smile.»
«Beatitude? What do you mean?»
«Like the saints in the holy pictures, when beholding God.»
The old man shrieks with a laughter.
«Saints? Beholding God? Them, the Etruscans? No way!»
His conviction admits no reply. A big, fast car driven by a chauffeur in a livery
overtakes them. At the back seat, an elegant woman’s fleeting profile. “This son of
mine…” the old man thinks. “When will he learn about life?”
«The Etruscans were laughing, I’m telling you. Didn’t you realize? They were having
fun on top of their own tomb. What people!»
He takes another drag on his cigarette and keeps on:
«What became of those Etruscans?»
«They were invaded by the Romans.»
«The Romans! Always screwing things up!»
While the car heads for the north, the old man sinks in the old history, in the
memories of the dictatorship and the war, of the politicians that came afterward.
The sun is at its highest point and warms the autumn crops. While up in a hill
they’re still harvesting grapes, there in Roccasera the grape juice already begins to
ferment. Some uneven furrows draw the old man’s attention. “If one of my lads did
such a bad work as this one” he thinks “I’d kick him out of my house”. Though it is a
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really different landscape, each detail has a meaning for him. Greener, softer for these
people from the north.
«All this land belonged to the Etruscans» the son suddenly exclaims, willing to be
pleasing.
The fields look now even juicier to the old man. After a while, he feels obliged to
ask for something:
«Please come to a stop whenever you can, son. I need to lower my pants. You
know, this snake crawling inside me.»
Again, the son worries about his father’s serious illness, the reason why he’s taking
him to the Milanese doctors, and reproaches himself for forgetting it for a while
because of his own business. His wife’s potential move to Rome matters a lot to him,
of course ―but for his father this is the end. He turns to the old man fondly.
«As soon as I can. I’ll take the opportunity to drink some coffee to keep me wide
awake while driving.»
«I can wait, do not rush.»
The son examines his father’s profile. Aquiline still, but the Adam’s apple becomes
already apparent, looking like a swallowed pebble, and the eyes sink into the sockets.
How long will he still be able to contemplate that invulnerable face that always
inspired him with security? Life has caused a rift between them, taken father and son
to worlds apart and yet he’ll miss the old oak’s protecting shadow so much! Anguish
stabs him deep inside ―if he spoke now, grief would become evident. The old man
would not like it.
They stop in a service area. The son takes the car to refuel and, when he comes
into the bar, his father is already sipping from a steaming mug.
«But father! Didn’t the doctor forbid you that?»
«So what? Life must be lived!»
«Well, exactly!»
The old man says nothing and smiles, while he enjoys his coffee. He then rolls
another cigarette.
They keep on driving and after some minutes on the freeway they read the
indication warning of the next exit road to Arezzo, to the right.
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Francesc Pérez Muñoz
«It was a great Etruscan city» explains the son as they pass next to the sign and
leave it behind.
Arezzo ―the old man retains the noun.
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Chapter 2
The car goes back to the freeway from a road inn where the travelers have had a
light dinner. By the Po plain the fog spreads out heralding the night and covering the
rows of poplars with its veil. The old man dozes off gradually ―this monotonous, soft
landscape and its tamed gardens don’t retain his attention.
“Poor him” thinks the son as he looks at his father’s head, leaned against the seat
back. “He’s tired… Does he have hopes of recovering maybe? If not, why does he
come? I never believed he would ever agree to leave his Roccasera. I can’t
understand.”
By the time the old man opens his eyes it’s dead of the night ―the dashboard
clock, dimly lit up in green, says ten past ten. He closes his eyelids again, as refusing to
find out more. Returning to Milan riles him. The last time, recently widowed, he
couldn’t hold even fifteen days, despite his sons had planned for him to stay there for
a couple of months. Everything unbearable: the city, the Milaneses, the tiny flat, his
daughter-in-law… And yet there he was, heading for Milan! “Where could I die feeling
more comfortable than at home? Damned Cantanotte! Why can’t he just burst once
and for all?”
«A nice nap, wasn’t it?» says his son when the old man finally decides to move.
«We’re getting close.»
Yes, they’re getting closer to the trap. For the old man, cities have always been just
an ambush, a place where civil servants, police officers, landowners, dealers and other
kind of parasites lie in wait for the poor. The freeway exit, with its checkpoint, where
you have to stop and show a document, it’s just the trap’s mouth.
They get to the suburbs and the old man looks around suspiciously from one side
to another: the walls, hangars, closed garages, cheap apartments, plots and puddles.
Smoke and mist; dirt and rubble; isolated, sinister street lamps. Everything inhuman,
sordid and hostile. As he opens the car window, he perceives a damp smell that stinks
of garbage and chemical waste. He unfastens his seat belt and is relieved to feel free
and ready to react to any threat.
“Thank goodness Rusca is quite today”, he thinks to console himself. He calls the
illness that wastes him away “Rusca”, because of a female ferret that Ambrosio gave
him as a gift after the war ―there was never a better rabbit hunter in town. “You show
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consideration for me, don’t you, Rusca? You understand coming to Milan is hard
enough. For you too, I know. If it wasn’t because of what it is, I assure you we would
end our days together down there, at home.”
He remembers the tender little muzzle ―but the ferocious fangs too― of that
good rabbit hunter. She got killed by one of Cantanotte’s dogs. The memory makes the
old man smile because he cut off the dog’s tail in revenge and the other swallowed the
insult. Soon after he also deflowered Concetta, a niece of his rival.
Now, the houses squeeze them from both sides. Walls everywhere except in front
of them, to lure the car into the bottom of the trap. The traffic lights insist on
controlling the almost non-existing traffic by that time and the neon signs flicker
mechanically as if mocking him. From time to time there are some disturbing surprises:
the noisy ringing of a bell that doesn’t alarm anyone, the sudden roar of a train as they
cross under the iron bridge, or the inexplicable mooing of cows and the smell of dung
right in the middle of the town center.
«The slaughterhouse» explains the son, pointing to the walls on the right. «We buy
entrails for the factory there.»
“So a trap for animals too.”
They turn into an avenue. “What’s that bonfire, surrounded by women moving
around the flames like witches in the moor?”
A red traffic light makes them stop and one of the women gets closer to the car,
opens her coat and shows her bare breasts.
«Hey, boys, do you feel like it? I’ve got enough for both of you!» rings her painted
mouth.
The traffic light turns green and the car starts.
«Shame on you!» mutters the son, as if it was his fault.
“As for boobs, she had a nice pair” thinks the old man, delighted. «They place
better bait in the trap now.»
The labyrinth keeps enclosing them more and more. After a while, the son stops
the car and parks between the sleeping cars by the sidewalk. They get out. The old
man reads surprised a street sign in the corner ―Viale Piave.
«Is it here?» he asks. «I can’t remember anything.»
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«The other house became too small when the kid was born» explains the son while
he opens the trunk. «This is a better area. If we can afford a flat in it it’s only because
our windows are at the back, overlooking Nino Bixio Street. Andrea is delighted.»
“The kid, of course!” thinks the old man, reproaching himself for having forgotten
about it. But with his wife’s death and then his own illness, his head had been so full…
They cross a vestibule, furnished with a three-seater sofa and a mirror, and wait in
front of the elevator. It doesn’t please the old man but, as soon as he finds out that
they live on the eighth floor, he gives up going up on foot. “Rusca wouldn’t like it at
all!”
Once they’ve come up, the son opens the door gently and switches on a subdued
light, asking his father to be quiet because the kid is sleeping. A silhouette comes out
in the corridor:
«Renato?»
«Yes, darling. We’re here.»
The old man recognizes Andrea ―her serious, narrow mouth between her
prominent cheekbones, under the gray sight. But, didn’t she use to wear glasses?
«Welcome home, dad.»
«Hello, Andrea.»
He hugs her and those lips brush his cheek. It’s her, no doubt. He remembers the
bony shoulders, the flat chest. “And she keeps calling me dad, like picky rich kids do!”
thinks the old man disapprovingly. He doesn’t suspect how hard it was for her to bring
herself to use the sacred greeting formula ―Renato urged her to do it so much―,
because it reminds her of her first two horrible weeks as a newly-wed in the wild
Calabria, where everyone analyzed her as if she was an insect under a magnifier. Some
women even came inside the inner courtyard under the pretext of seeing the
“Milanese” fine underwear hung to dry!
«What took you so long?»
The old man recognizes that incisive tone too. Renato lays the blame on the mist
but Andrea doesn’t listen to him any longer. She crosses the corridor, sure that they
follow her. She turns on a light, shows the old man his room and points Renato the
built-in cupboard where the sheets for the sofa bed are kept.
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«I didn’t have time to make it» she concludes. «It took me a long time to get the
kid asleep... Excuse me, dad, but I must wake up early to teach tomorrow morning.
Good night.»
The old man replies and Andrea goes to bed. While Renato opens the cupboard, his
father’s gaze wanders around the cell. A window hidden by some curtains, a small
table with a lamp, a confused picture with something looking like birds, a chair...
Nothing tells him anything, but it doesn’t surprise him.
He shrugs his shoulders inside ― if it’s not down there, at home, what does it matter?
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Chapter 6
Doing without smoking is a sacrifice, but his clandestine breakfasts are a pleasure.
Especially that one three days after, when he shouldn’t eat anything at all. At nine they
are taking a blood sample from him for the analysis the doctor prescribed the day
before, when Andrea took him to his surgery. Prescribed, in fact, by that assistant or
whatever she was ―as fat as Andrea is thin but talking the same―, because after all
the arranged reception, the wait, corridors and other preliminary rites, they never
reached the doctor’s shrine. The old man laughs as he imagines Andrea’s happiness,
when she gets up and shows up in the kitchen to find out how meekly he refrains from
eating anything.
“This fasting stuff before the analysis” he thinks while he relishes his curd cheese
with onion and olives, “is just another nonsense from the doctors. Theater to pocket
some more money. Analysis, what for? It’s going to be bad anyway, isn’t it, Rusca?
You’ll take good care of it!”
They’re not taking his blood with the famous surgeon, but in the Hospital. Renato
takes him in his car because he has enough time and the hospital is on his way to the
factory, in the industrial area of Bovisa. They park, go in, and he guides his father
through the corridors and windows of the hospital bureaucracy until the waiting room,
where he repeats his instructions once more:
«Remember, father, take a taxi at the exit door to go back home.»
The father listens attentively, but his smile turns disdainful as Renato goes away.
“I’d have liked to see these boys today during the war, running away from the
Germans through an unknown city… Taking a taxi ―I don’t think so! Ten thousand liras
at least!”
Signora Maddalena ―this woman has an answer for everything― told him the day
before that the number 51 bus goes past the Hospital and stops in the Piazzale
Biancamano, and from there he could go through Via Moscova and the gardens and
would get home directly. That’s why he turns a deaf ear to Renato and that’s why later
another patient his age, who has seen and heard everything, gives him a knowing look.
If it was up to him, the old man would leave without having an injection, but the
famous doctor will ask for the analysis to keep on with the routine. “Routine and
comedy, that’s what really bugs me… Do they think I’m a gaga? Do they really think I
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have come here to get cured? Poor devils! Damn it! If it wasn’t because that son of
bitch of Cantanotte still breathes, I would have never agreed to leave the town, where
I would die at peace in my bed, among friends and overlooking my mountain, the
Femminamorta, resting calm under the sun and the clouds.”
Because Cantanotte still breathes, though he can’t stand on his own feet anymore
because the paralysis immobilizes him up to the waist, he still pants, with his classic
fascist dark glasses. The old man had to face this sight the day he left, because that
bastard made his sons carry him in an armchair to the square as soon as it dawned.
There he met his group of bootlickers and they talked while the time to enjoy the great
show came.
The great show, the old man’s farewell, who now relives the moment while he
waits for the nurse to call his name. The square, as if in a yellowish picture, and, in the
middle, Renato’s car, surrounded by kids. The bumpy floor is enclosed by an irregular
square of expectant fronts whose doors and windows, despite seeming to be closed,
are implacable observatories of the local life and today lie in wait for old Salvatore’s
last appearance. Particularly confronted, as it has always been, stand the two long
sides of the square: the one with the church and the Casino, ruled by Cantanotte, and
the one with Beppo’s café and the town hall, territory of the old man and his comrades
with Salvatore’s own house, inherited from his father-in-law, next to the café.
Morning light kept strengthening while the old man tried to save time, with the
crazy hope that his enemy’s paralysis would suddenly rise like fizzy lemonade’s foam
till drowning the hated heart ―but in vain he touched his amulets bag over his shirt,
begging for that miracle. The old man had already taken his blanket and his penknife
and argued now with his daughter about if he should take the lupara, the old carbine,
which was his first firearm, his man’s investiture. Renato started getting worked up
when he remembered Andrea’s errand in Rome, which would delay them. Just before
sunrise he couldn’t hold any longer:
«Father, wouldn’t it be better if I took the car to the farmyard back door and we
finally moved on?»
The shameful proposal decided the old man, who gave his son a withering look. He
left the lupara, kissed Rosetta, addressed a vague movement of the hand to his son-inlaw and decided violently:
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«We’re leaving, but we’ll do it through the main door. And you, Rosetta, if I see you
crying from the balcony, I’ll come up again and I’ll slap you. If you can’t control
yourself, don’t come out.»
Once more, the old master of the house came down the stairs with his loud, bossy
steps and came out the hallway shadows with his head upper than ever.
His friends came flocking out of the café, behaving like the men they were
―everyone laughed and planned what would they do when Salvatore came back
cured.
Renato placed himself in front of the steering wheel and waited impatiently.
At last, the old man said goodbye to his people and headed for the car alone,
getting closer to the Casino. He moved forward staring at the sitting enemy, at his two
sons, standing next to the armchair, at the somber bunch of minions.
«Farewell, Salvatore!» barked mockingly the sunken mouth below the dark glasses.
The old man stood firmly on the floor. Standing tall, his legs slightly separated, his
arms ready.
«Still able to talk, Domenico?» he answered with firm voice «it’s been a long time
without saying a word.»
«You see. Those of us who still live, we still have words.»
«Well, then you were stone-dead the day I cut off your dog Nostero’s tail, because
you didn’t say a word!»
«I talked beforehand when I killed your Rusca. What a nice rabbit hunter, it was!»
replied the paralytic and making his minions laugh.
«And you were dead too the day I dishonored your niece, Concetta! Dead and
rotten, just like now!» spat out the furious old man, already grasping the penknife
inside his pocket. In that moment he wished to end up there, once for all ―to die
while knocking his rival off.
The sudden silence in the square could be pierced in the air. But Cantanotte had
placed his hands on the already nervous forearms of his two sons just in time. And
then he finally said, with a contemptuous gesture of his ringed hand:
«Time restored her honor… Much better than any doctor will restore you… Come
on, go! Have a good trip!»
That was all.
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“Everything’s said” thought the old man in a flash. “Everyone knows everything
here. That Concetta married a war black marketeer for his money and is now a big shot
in Catanzaro. That my journey ends in the graveyard and his will do as well soon. That I
still have time to stick my knife in him and feel him dying beneath me while his sons
stab me to death… What for? Everything’s said.”
Besides, the passiveness of the other side before his defiance gave him the right to
turn around slowly and, with a dignified expression, get in the car, whose start spewed
out a dust cloud on the Cantanottes.
«Well done, Renato» congratulated the old man, pleased «And I liked that you
stepped down just in case, but I could hold my own against that bunch of miserables.»
However, something was wrong and it saddened him ―the inexplicable absence of
Ambrosio among those who said goodbye to him. No one had been able to give any
information about the brotherly partisan who took him out of the Crati waters, where
he nearly bled to death, during the sudden attack against the Germans in Monte
Casiglio.
But Ambrosio was in his place, how else could it have been? At the first bend down
the mountain, next to the hermitage elm, waiting with his everlasting green twig in his
mouth. The old man made the car stop and came down crying out happily:
«Brother...! Ah, Ambrosio! You too come like the others to ask me why I must
leave?»
«When have I been a fool?» Ambrosio replied with fake indignation «It’s clear! You
don’t want Cantanotte coming to your funeral, if you had that bad luck!» he added,
while doing the sign against the evil eye with the left hand.
They both broke out laughing.
«Now» Ambrosio added gravely «you’ve got to hold on to give you the pleasure of
going to his. And after, I’ll even invite you to mine!»
He pulled his usual funny face ―his famous tic in the middle of battle― and
hammered it home:
«You know, hold on like then, Bruno.»
«I’ll do what I can» promised the old man. «Like then.»
Suddenly they hugged each other, and hugged and hugged. Pressing his chest
against the other until their hearts kissed. They felt them beating, let go of each other
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Francesc Pérez Muñoz
and, without another word, the old man got into the car. Both looks hugged still
through the window while Renato started.
Ambrosio rose up his fist and began singing the rousing partisan march for the old
man, while his figure was left behind.
When he finally disappeared after a bend, in the old man’s chest still resound the
victorious words of fight and hope.
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Chapter 9
«Do you see Mr. Roncone? Do you see?»
The old man leaves the kid on the fitted carpet next to the cot and turns towards
Anunziata, who stands triumphant by the door.
«It’s Zío Roncone, remember! And what do I have to see?»
«That the madam is right, that the kid shouldn’t be carried... He wanted to come
down himself, I’ve seen it!»
So it is. The child, from the old man’s arms, pointed insistently to the floor with
that little Roman emperor finger of his and shouted: “A, a, a”, while he struggled to
break free.
«Well, he’s already down, isn’t he?»
« Of course he is! And that means» she hammers it home «that the madam is
right!»
«No, that means what don Nicola always used to say, the only decent priest that
came to Roccasera ―so decent he didn’t last for long!»
«Did they allocate him to a more convenient parish? Because he would have been
better in any other.»
The old man pretends not to hear the dig.
«No. He left the priesthood, fed up with not understanding the Pope and went to
Naples to earn his living working as a teacher.»
The kid, sitting on the fitted carpet, takes pleasure in the contrast between both
voices and pays attention as if he understood the friendly skirmish that is almost an
everyday occurrence.
«I see... And what kind of drivel did that paragon of virtue use to say?»
«A drivel from the Gospel. That one saying “They have eyes to see but do not see
and ears to hear but do not hear”, or something like that... That’s what’s wrong with
my daughter in law and you... And with so many other people like you, doctors or
not!»
Anunziata is taken aback. At last, she answers stressing ironically the form of
address:
«There’s no way of dealing with you, zío Roncone.»
She quits the field as proud as a victor.
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Meanwhile, the kid has knocked over a box within his reach and focuses on the
scattered toys: colorful plastic educational building blocks, little cuddly toys, a rattle
tumbler and a rocking horse, which was bought by the old man and was immediately
successful. Then it sank into the children’s oblivion but now it’s the kid’s favorite toy
again to the old man’s delight, who sits down next to the kid and begins to whisper to
him:
«Of course there’s no way of dealing with me! Who do they think they are?
Anunziata is a good woman, Brunettino, and she loves you in her own spinsterish way,
but she understands nothing, and neither do your parents… They believe you don’t
want my arms and it’s quite the opposite. It’s thanks that I’ve understood you and
cuddled you that you’re beginning to gain confidence. You’re becoming a man by my
side and then, of course, you dare to do more things, my sweet child ―you want to
step on the ground and move.»
It has been so for the last two weeks. Brunettino shows a growing desire to
broaden his experimental area. When he’s sitting in the cot and he’s given toys, some
time or other he throws them out and points to them ―not to get them back, as he
wanted earlier, but to be placed among them. Sometimes he even grasps the cot’s rail
and leans out of it in such a way that we must keep an eye on him to make sure he
won’t swing and fall into the ground.
«Your mother will say» the old continues «that doing so, you’re becoming more
and more independent… Poor thing! It’s not that! As she doesn’t know that I’m
teaching you how to defend yourself, she can’t understand that you’re learning what
life is all about, my boy —you either become strong or they’ll break your neck. That’s
why I always tell you the same when you’re in my arms: take advantage of the world
and don’t let them manipulate you. And then, of course, you start practicing around…
Learn it well: become strong, but enjoy the caresses! As my sweet Lambrino used to
do: bump and feed. Well, except that he was only a lamb and he couldn’t become
strong… but you’re a man!
The kid practices more and more. After many attempts, he now crawls around the
bedroom or the study. Right now he’s starting to move, attracted by the old man’s
trousers when suddenly there’s a persistent mechanical noise and the kid raises his
head with watchful eyes.
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“His hearing is as good as mine!” thinks the old man, who has also recognized
Anunziata’s vacuum cleaner. “What a face you make, my child! You remind me of
Terry’s wrinkled brow, that English military adviser sent to us by parachute, when he
thought about the best way to get near the German position at night. What thick
eyebrows he had!”
Purposefully, the kid crawls to the door and puts his head round the door. He looks
from one side to another ―the corridor must seem an infinite tunnel to him. But he
doesn’t back out and again moves forward, heading for that fascinating noise.
Followed by the old man, who joyfully takes part in the adventure, he goes in the room
where Anunziata, with her back to the door, cleans the carpet.
“That’s right, my boy, that’s the way to move forward! Quietly, like cats, like
partisans! The surprise, always the surprise! ‘Surprised enemy, fucked up enemy!’ the
instructor used to say… Well, he used to say ‘lost enemy’ because he had education,
but it sounded more real our own way… That’s it, and now, attack!”
«Oh!»
The old man bursts out laughing at the same time as the lady screams of fright as
soon as she feels an unexpected touch on her ankle ―the kid’s hand. Startled,
Anunziata has moved over and let the vacuum cleaner’s handle fall, which lies now on
the floor with its incessant racket. After removing the human defensive barrier in this
way, the unwavering kid moves forward until he reaches his target and hugs the
vibrating machine with a happy smile.
«He’ll burn himself, he’ll get hurt!» shouts Anunziata, running to turn off the
motor. The sudden silence makes the old man’s guffaw resound even louder and,
while he hits his highs enthusiastically, Anunziata gets more and more annoyed.
The kid looks at the silent appliance, shows a frustrated expression and hits the
metal with his hand. For a moment it seems as if he’s going to burst into tears, but
instead he decides to climb it until he straddles the shiny machine and then spurs it to
make it move.
The old man grabs the appliance handle and presses the switch. The resumed noise
alarms the kid for a moment and almost makes him fall, but he immediately screams
happily and laughs on his trembling mount, especially when the old man holds him by
the shoulders to keep him from failing.
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«Stop it, Mr. Roncone! You’re mad!» shouts Anunziata and though she asks for the
vacuum cleaner constantly, she has no choice but to resign herself to it for a while. At
last, Brunettino gets tired of the monotonous toy, lets himself slide to the floor and
crawls towards another target. The old man gets down on all fours too and talks to him
face-to-face:
«How great you are, my boy! You’ve defeated the tank, you’ve blocked it! Do(n’t)
you realize your victory? Like Torlonio with his Molotov cocktails and his hand
grenades! How great you are!»
The old man bursts with pride, while Anunziata listens to him speechless. The kid,
who has stopped for a moment in front of this new quadruped, crawls between his
arms and places himself under the old man’s chest, whose thoughts fly away once
more:
«That’s it, now here, still, as the little lamb with his mother. What I said to you
earlier ―bump and feed!»
But the little child keeps moving forward and appears from behind, after going
through the old man’s legs, whose memory goes back to the war, as the kid finally sits
down to rest, satisfied with his feats.
«What a final blow, it was!» Slipping out just like that, as we did it through the
woods! That’s the way to escape from the trap when you’re surrounded! You know
everything now! That’s how we got to defeat tanks and planes! You’re one of us,
you’re a true partisan, attacking and then withdrawing!
He ends up with a shout:
«Long live Brunettino!»
Suddenly, an inspiration:
«You deserve a horse lap of honour!»
He picks the kid up, raises him above his head ―which makes the kid shout of
fright and delight― and sits him astride on his shoulders. The child clings to the curly
hair with his small hands while the old man grabs him by his little legs. Then, while
Anunziata waves her arms about, he leaves the room bending his knees for fear of
hitting the threshold, just like when they carry Santa Chiara in and out of the
hermitage.
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The old man walks back and forth in strides with the kid on his back, singing the
famous triumphal march:
«Brunettino, ritorna vincitor… Brunettino, ritorna vincitor…!»
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CONCLUSIONS
Once the information background is given and the translation proposal is done, the
time has come to draw some conclusions. I need to say that it has been quite difficult
to draw this section up because the approach of this essay was rather different to
many other projects. Anyway, I’ve tried to point out the most important aspects I have
found during the making of it and I intend to present them next.
First of all, I should have a quick look at the resources I have used during the process of
translating the different chapters of La sonrisa etrusca. It’s been a good opportunity to
put all the different techniques I have learned during the career in practice and it’s
been also a good moment to see how many resources such as dictionaries or thesauri I
do know now. Especially, I would also say that it has been a great chance to see how I
managed with all the different devices.
The use of parallel texts was a remarkable help. Though it may sound quite obvious,
the writing of this translation highlighted the fact that translating isn’t simply about
changing one word into another. It implies more, much more. We, the translators,
need to create a text that it would sound natural to a native reader of the target
language. Then is when the parallel texts were really useful, because they allowed you
to check if an English writer would use a specific structure and see which words he
would use to describe something in particular.
Besides using the parallel texts and the many available dictionaries, this time I also
used both the original version of the book, written by José Luis Sampedro, and the
German version, translated by Veronika Schmidt. It was the first time I used a version
written in another language to help me translating and I should say it was indeed a
great help. There were some sentences and especially some oral structures that
became a problem because, despite its natural sense in the Spanish language, they
didn’t exist in the target language or, at least, not with the same exact meaning. The
German version was useful to see how Schmidt had solved these problems and helped
me go through whenever I felt stuck.
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Secondly, and in relation with the last paragraph, it would be interesting to point out
the fact that one of the major problems was the translation of collocations and
idiomatic expressions. Sometimes we dare to say that our knowledge of the other
language is high enough, but it is with this kind of vocabulary that we can really check
our level. I was able to translate most sentences without further problems, but I have
to admit I had to do a lot of research to find some expressions that were appropriate
for each case. This section includes also, for example, the different forms of
onomatopoeias to express different sounds. Besides, I also had to take into account
the different punctuation model and, for example, used dash instead of the. But it’s
not only about the language we’re talking about ―it’s also about the culture. A
previous knowledge of the subject is often required and sometimes is actually conditio
sine qua non. We must be aware that we are dealing with the text of a story that takes
place in a specific country and a specific situation. In this case, we are writing the
English version of a Spanish novel which is set in Italy. Therefore, I had to deal not only
with Spanish, but also with Italian names designating some cultural elements. In fact,
in some other chapters that do not appear in this essay, we can even find some
sentences in the dialect from Calabria. I decided to maintain proper nouns (including
street names too) and also those designating some cultural elements (lupara, for
example). If necessary, I added a brief explanation.
Thirdly, another major problem has been the fact that it was a reverse translation. This
additional problem came up in two different ways. On the one hand, I felt obliged to
understand the whole text perfectly, as this time I was going to read a text that had
been written in one of my mother tongues. This may seem contradictory, because
someone could say that this change of languages could only be an advantage for me,
but I felt I was under bigger pressure instead, as the comprehension of the text
admitted no mistake. I had to get all the meanings and I also had to perceive any kind
of nuance of meaning, and sometimes this can be more difficult than expected.
On the other hand, this time I wasn’t going to translate into Spanish, so I had to change
my mindset. I was working now at the service of a potential English reader and it was
my duty to create a text that would sound as natural as if it had been written by a
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native English writer. Therefore, we didn’t only need to create a text that was
grammatically correct and free of spelling errors, but also one that would be natural
for a native reader. In this respect, I do defend the theory which says that both the
translator and his work should go unnoticed. The potential reader cannot suspect that
the text he or she is reading is a translation. Let me be clear with this ―they may know
it because they know the author doesn’t write in their language, but not because our
product is bad and lacks of naturalness.
Finally, I’d like to say that, after reading the whole novel again and translating it into
English, I have been able to corroborate that Sampedro’s literature could and should
be translated in languages all over the world. His themes are universal and anyone can
feel identified with the characters of his stories. In this case, especially those who have
a special connection with their grandparents or those who have felt the joy of
becoming one of them.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY
BOOKS
Dalzell, Tom; Victor, Terry. The New Partridge Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional
English. London: Taylor & Francis, 2006.
Langenscheidt. Diccionario Moderno Alemán. Berlin: Langenscheidt KG, 2005.
Martín, Francisco. Palabras y memorias de un escritor: José Luis Sampedro. 1st ed. La
Coruña: Netbiblo, S.L., 2007.
Sampedro, José Luis. Das etruskische Lächeln. Roman. 1st ed. Freiburg: Verlag Herder,
1991.
Sampedro, José Luis. La sonrisa etrusca. 1st ed. Narrativa actual. Autores de lengua
española 2. Barcelona: RBA, 1985.
WEBSITES
Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes. Alicante: Fundación Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de
Cervantes. <http://cervantesvirtual.com>
Clubcultura.com. Madrid: Fnac España S.A. <http://clubcultura.com>
Diccionario de la Lengua Española. Madrid: RAE. <http://rae.es>
Escritores.org. 1996. Barcelona: Internet Aplicacions S.L. <http://escritores.org>
Google. 1998. USA: Google. <http://google.es>
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Francesc Pérez Muñoz
LEO Wörterbuch. 2006. Munich: LEO GMBH. <http://leo.org>
Linguee. Diccionario y buscador de traducciones. 2009. Cologne: Linguee GMBH.
<http://linguee.es>
Oxford Dictionaries. The world’s most trusted dictionaries. Oxford: Oxford University
Press. <http://oxforddictionaries.com>
PONS. Das Online Wörterbuch. 2001. Germany: PONS GmbH <http://pons.de>
Sinónimos. Tencin: Blue Painter. <http://sinonimos.com>
Synonym. 2001. Washington: Demand Media, Inc. <http://synonym.com>
Wikipedia. The Free Encyclopedia. 2001. San Francisco: Wikimedia Foundation.
<http://wikipedia.org>
WordReference. 1999. Virginia: WordReference.com LLC. <http://wordreference.com>
YouTube. 2005. California: Google. <http://youtube.com>
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APPENDIX
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Different covers
Spanish edition
French edition
German edition
Italian edition
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Portuguese edition
Rumanian edition
Dutch edition
Greek edition
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Time for Outrage! Prologue ―A quick look at Sampedro’s mind
I was born in 1917 too. I’m still indignant too. I lived a war too. I suffered a dictatorship
too. Just like Stéphane Hessel, I’m shocked by Palestine’s outrageous situation and I
can’t help getting angry about Iraq’s barbaric invasion. I still could add more details but
our age and our era are enough to prove that our experiences have happened in the
same world. We speak on the same wavelength. I share his ideas and it makes me
really happy to introduce in Spain the call of that brilliant hero of the French
Resistance, who was later an active diplomat in many interesting missions ―always in
favor of peace and justice.
RISE UP! A call, a blast of bugle that holds up the street traffic and makes those who
are gathered in the square look up. Like the siren that warned of the proximity of
bombers ―a warning not to drop your guard. At the beginning, it catches you
unaware. What’s going on? What are they warning us about? The world turns around
like every day. We live in a democracy, in the welfare state of our wonderful occidental
civilization. Here there’s no war, there’s no occupation. This is Europe, the cradle of
cultures. Yes, that’s the stage and its set. But do we really live in a democracy? Is it true
that people of many countries rule under that name? Or has it been a long time since
we evolved in a different way?
Nowadays, inside and outside Europe, the financiers, who are indisputably the ones to
blame for the crisis, have already come through the bad patch and keep on their lives
without remarkable losses. But neither of their victims has recovered his job nor his
income levels. The author of this book remembers how, though the first France
economical programs after Second World War included the nationalization of the
banks, they were gradually changed later, in times of prosperity. But now, the guilt of
the financial sector in this terrible crisis hasn’t lead to us to any similar solution and
hasn’t even planned the removal of high risk mechanisms and operations. Tax havens
aren’t removed and important reforms of the system aren’t carried out. Financiers
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have hardly suffered the consequences of their excesses. That is, money and its
owners have more power than governments. As Hessel says, «the power of money had
never been so huge, insolent and selfish to everyone, from its own serfs to the high
spheres of the State. Privatized banks care first for their dividends and the huge
salaries of their managers, but not for the general interest.»
RISE UP! That’s what Hessel says to youngsters, because it is from outrage that our
commitment will with history is born. The Resistance against Nazism was born from
outrage and the resistance against the dictatorship of markets should also be born
from outrage. We cannot let that the race for money dominates our lives. Hessel
admits that it was clearer for a young man of his era to rise up and resist, but not
easier, because the invasion of the country by fascist troops was more obvious than
the dictatorship of the international financial fabric. Nazism was defeated by the
outrage of many, but the totalitarian danger in his numerous variants hasn’t
disappeared. Neither in aspects as clumsy as concentration camps (Guantanamo, Abu
Ghraib), walls, fences, preventive attacks and the “war against terrorism” in strategic
places nor in many other aspects, much more sophisticated and technical such as the
wrongly so-called financial “globalization”.
RISE UP! Hessel repeats it to the youngsters. He reminds them the achievements of the
second half of the 20th century in the fields of human rights, the introduction of Social
Security and the advances in the welfare state and, at the same time, he points out the
current step backwards. The brutal September 11 attacks in New York and the
disastrous answer to it, undertaken by the United States, are leading to the opposite
way. A path that we are going over at alarming speed in the first decade of the 21st
century. And that’s why Hessel warns the youngsters. With his call, he is saying «Boys,
be careful, we have fought to obtain what you have, and now is your turn to defend it,
keep it and make it better. Don’t let them take it from you.»
RISE UP! Fight for the democratic rights, based on ethical values, based on justice and
freedom, those rights we promised after the painful lesson of the Second World War.
Fight for the distinction between public opinion and media opinion, fight against the
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propagandist sham. «The media are up to wealthy people» points out Hessel. And I
add: who are wealthy people? Those who seized what belongs to everyone. And, as it
belongs to everyone, it is our right and our duty to get it back at the service of our
freedom.
It’s not always easy to know who really rules or how can we protect ourselves from the
infringement. Now it’s not about brandishing the arms against the invader or making a
train derail. Terrorism is not the appropriate way against current totalitarianism, more
sophisticated than that one, when Nazi used bombers. Today is about not succumbing
to the destructive hurricane of “always more”, the voracious consumerism and the
media distraction while they apply their cuts.
RISE UP! But with no violence. Hessel incites us to peaceful insurrection evoking figures
as Mandela o Martin Luther King. I would add the example of Gandhi, who was actually
murdered in 1948, the year of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, in whose
creation Hessel took part. As Raimon sang against the dictatorship ―Let’s say no.
Refuse. Act. To start with, RISE UP!
JOSÉ LUIS SAMPEDRO
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Original text: La sonrisa etrusca
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German version: Das etruskische Lächeln
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