Commentary on a Translation from French to EnglishCommentary on a Translation from French to English
It is noon on the square of the Corps-Saints, the sun is plumbing vertically. The tables are in the shade of the plane trees. The Jogar lunch with Phil Nans, the
director of the Minotaur and three other actors.Tourists hang out, stretched out, in an air that is always unbearably hot.Comedians dressed in heavy mantles, gloves and caps, emerge from a door, call the rain, the snow, that something cold is falling from the sky. They take from their
pockets sacks full of confetti that they throw over them.The water of the fountain is covered with confetti. Some leaflets also, plastics that float. Onlookers recognize the Jogar and take a picture. She lets it. A
signature, a few words? What can she write? Friendships? She can not do that. She can write Thank you. Thank you for being here.The onlookers stay. They linger. What do they look for in it? Do they draw their dreams from what she gives them? Men desire it.”When I’m out, I belong to them.”Phil Nans leans in, whispers in his ear, They may think we’re lovers …It remains serious.- But we are, since we play to be!She looks at him. It is beautiful, the mouth sensual. She should spend a night with him, loving him for an evening, lightly. She never knew how to do that.- And the rest ? … asks Phil.- What’s left?- What are we when we do not play?She scratches the shadow on the tablecloth with her fingertips. Its nails are covered with a thickness of pink lacquer. A rag in the wind is what comes to her as an
image to say what she is when she does not play.- When I do not play, I’m nothing.She turns her head away, looks at the fat nape, the crumpled shirts, a kid weeping near the fountain.Festival-goers are impatient in front of the Theater des Corps-Saints. A comedian dressed like a lad comes out through a door, he comes up against the heat. A wave of
anger swells in the crowd.The heat sits the bodies on the sidewalks, it empties the eyes. A man with a soft stomach wanders, the tee-shirt tucked up under the armpits.The Jogar turns away.She gets up, apologizes.- I’m going back to the hotel.A meager parade crosses the square. Strikers with headbands on their mouths. A lugubrious song rises from their muzzled lips.
Jeff found a fish in a jar, a simple label, called Nicky.Abandoned on the steps of the theater.The walls of the jar are opaque.”He does not want to swim,” Jeff said.”All the fish swim,” said Marie.This one floats.Jeff approaches a finger of his mouth, touches the ring in Mary’s lip.- It’s used for ?- To nothing.- It’s like Einstein’s riddle then …He explains to her, draws five houses on his thigh, with his finger, pointing at each of the roofs.”These five houses have not the same color. In each one lives a person of different nationality. Each owner has a favorite beverage, a tobacco brand and a pet. None
have the same animal or smoke the same tobacco or drink the same drink.He takes out a paper from his wallet. A large page of notebook with small tiles.He looks at Mary.- We continue ?She says yes.He reads what is written.”The British live in the red house.” Switzerland has a dog. The Dane drinks tea. The green house is located to the left of the white. The owner of the green house
drinks coffee.He reads it slowly.Julie and the boys arrive and turn around the fish. Odon sits down against the wall, his arms crossed.Jeff passes the paper to Marie.The remainder of the enigma is long. She reads it in her head. […]”You have to find out who owns the fish,” Odon said in his weary voice.Julie shrugs.”He promised us Luculus if we find the answer.Greg sits next to Marie.He says that Luculus is one of the most famous restaurants in Avignon.- He promises because he knows nobody will find …Marie smiles, slips the paper into her pocket.
Mathilde arrived a little over an hour ago. She phoned before coming.Isabelle presses oranges in her glasses. She put some make-up on her eyes, dry rimmel that ends in dust on her cheeks.In the living room, it smells of lost bread, honey, sugar. The slices are placed on small plates with clusters of redcurrants. The seven dwarfs are drawn in the bottom
of the plates. They disappeared under the slices.There are fruits in a cup, peaches, apricots, mirabelles.They speak in a low voice. A slow conversation of looks and patience. Of reunion.Mathilde left her hair free.Here, everything is familiar to her, the smells, the objects, even the aged face of Isabella.- Your house has always been my refuge …Isabelle smiled.”When you left your house, you came here.Then she went to Lyon and came back ten years later … For Odon. She was thirty years old.”It was you who sewed my first stage costume.””When your father knew this, he did not want you to come back to my house.”- But I came back …She talks about years of boarding school.
Isabelle rubs her hands against each other.”Your mother knew you were taking theater classes.Mathilde looks up.- How did she know? Did you tell him?- No. She guessed. I can even tell you that she was proud to see you stand up to your father.Mathilde remains silent for a long time. She sees her mother’s face, her distant gaze, always in agreement with her father. […]She wants to talk about Odo. It is there, in his silences. In his eyes also lowered eyelids. Even in the hesitant way of caressing the walls of his glass.
(Claudie Gallay, L’Amour est