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Lidia Vianu - Director of CTITC (CENTRE FOR THE TRANSLATION AND INTERPRETATION OF THE CONTEMPORARY TEXT), Bucharest University, Professor of Contemporary British Literature at the English Department of Bucharest University, Member of the Writers’ Union, Romania.

 

 
 
 
 
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CTITC

CENTRE FOR THE TRANSLATION AND INTERPRETATION OF THE CONTEMPORARY TEXT
CENTRUL PENTRU TRADUCEREA SI INTERPRETAREA TEXTULUI CONTEMPORAN

 

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 TRANSLATION CAFÉ 


 

MTTLC
MA Programme for the

TRANSLATION OF THE CONTEMPORARY LITERARY TEXT

Review of Contemporary Texts in Translation and E-Learning

 

 

 

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went all for all fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast. But then I do know for a fact they’ve been pleased with my work, and by and large, I have too. My donors have always tended to do much better than expected. Their recovery times have been impressive, and hardly any of them have been classified as ‘agitated’, even before fourth donation. Okay, maybe I am boasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially that bit about my donors staying ‘calm’. I’ve developed a kind of instinct about donors. I know when to hang around and comfort them, when to leave them to themselves; when to listen to everything they have to say, and when just to shrug and tell them to snap out of it.
Anyway, I’m not making any big claims for myself. I know carers, working now, who are just as good and don’t get half the credit. If you’re one of them, I can understand how you might get resentful – about my bedsit, my car, above all, the way I get to pick and choose who I look after. And I’m a Hailsham student – which is enough by itself sometimes to get people’s backs up. Kathy H., they say, she gets to pick and choose , and she always chooses her own kind: people from Hailsham, or one of the other priviledged estates. No wonder she has a great record. I’ve heard it said enough, so I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty more, and maybe there’s something in it. But I’m not the first to be allowed to pick and choose, and I doubt if I’ll be the last. And anyway, I’ve done my share of looking after donors brought up in every kind of place. By the time I finish, remember, I’ll have done twelve years of this, and it’s only for the last six they’ve let me choose.
And why shouldn’t they? Carers aren’t machines. You try and do your best for every donor, but in the end, it wears you down. You don’t have unlimited pacience and energy. So when you get a chance to choose, of course, you choose your own kind. That’s natural. There’s no way I could have gone on for as long as I have if I’d stopped feeling for my donors every step of the way. And anyway, if I’d never started choosing, how would I ever have got close again to Ruth and Tommy after all those years?
But these days, of course, there are fewer and fewer donors left who I remember, and so in practice, I haven’t been choosing that much. As I say, the work gets a lot harder when you don’t have that deeper link with the donor, and though I’ll miss being a carer, it feels just about right to be finishing at last come the end of the year.
Ruth, incidentally, was only the third or fourth donor I got to choose. She already had a carer assigned to her at the time, and I remember it taking a bit of nerve on my part. But in the end I managed it, and the instant I saw her again, at that recovery centre in Dover, all our differences – while they didn’t exactly vanish – seemed not nearly as important as all the other things: like the fact that we’d grown up together at Hailsham, the fact that we knew and remembered things no one else did. It’s ever since then, I suppose, I started seeking out for my donors people from the past, and whenever I could, people from Hailsham.
There have been times over the years when I’ve tried to leave Hailsham behind, when I’ve told myself I shouldn’t look back so much. But then there came a point when I just stopped resisting. I had to do with this particular donor I had once, in my third year as a carer; it was his reaction when I mentioned I was from Hailsham. He’d just come through his third donation, it hadn’t gone well, and he must have known he wasn’t going to make it. He could hardly breathe, but he looked towards me and said: ‘Hailsham. I bet that was a beautiful place.’ Then the next morning, when I was making conversation to keep his mind off it all, and I’d asked where he’d grown up, he mentioned some place in Dorset and his face beneath the blotches went into a completely new kind of grimace. And I realised then how desperately he didn’t want reminded. Instead, he wanted to hear about Hailsham.
So over the next five or six days, I told him whatever he wanted to know, and he’d lie there, all hooked up, a gentle smile breaking through. He’d ask me about the big things and the little things. About our guardians, about how we each had our own collection chests under our beds, the football, the rounders, the little path that took you all round the outside of the main house, round all its nooks and crannies, the duck pond, the food, the view from the Art Room over the fields on a foggy morning. Sometimes he’d make me say things over and over; things I’d told him only the day before, he’d ask about like I’d never told him. ‘Did you have a sports pavilion?’ ‘Which guardian was your special favourite?’ At first I thought this was just the drugs, but then I realised his mind was clear enough. What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that’s what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they’d really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his. That was when I first understood, really understood, just how lucky we’d been – Tommy, Ruth, me, all the rest of us.

Driving around the country now, I still see things that will remind me of Hailsham. I might pass the corner of a misty field, or see part of a large house in the distance as I come down the side of a valley, even a particular arrangement of poplar trees up on a hillside, and I’ll think: “Maybe that’s it! I’ve found it! This actually is Hailsham!” Then I see it’s impossible and I go on driving, my thoughts drifting on elsewhere. In particular, there are those pavilions. I spot them all over the country, standing on the far side of playing fields, little white prefab buildings with a row of windows unnaturally high up, tucked almost under the eaves. I think they built a whole lot like that in the fifties and sixties, which is probably when ours was put up. If I drive past one I keep looking over to it for as long as possible, and one day I’ll crash the car like that, but I keep doing it. Not long ago I was driving through an empty stretch of Worcestershire and saw one beside a cricket ground so like ours at Hailsham I actually turned the car and went back for a second look.

 

 

 

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

Numele meu este Kathy H., am 31 de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de peste 11 ani. Stiu ca pare mult timp, dar, de fapt, vor sa continui inca 8 luni, pana la sfarsitul anului, ceaa ce inseamna aproape 12 ani. Sunt constienta ca, desi practic meseria asta de atata timp, nu inseamna neaparat ca sunt grozava la ceea ce fac. Sunt multi ingrijitori foarte buni carora li s-a spus sa renunte dupa doar 2 sau 3 ani. Si-mi mai vine in minte cel putin un ingrijitor care sa fi facut asta timp de 14 ani cu toate ca facea umbra pamantului degeaba. Asa ca nu incerc sa ma laud. Dar stiu sigur ca sunt multumiti de munca mea, si pot spune ca, in mare, si eu sunt. Donatorii mei s-au descurcat intodeauna mai bine decat ma asteptam. Perioada de recuperare a fost impresionanta , si cu greu l-as putea cataloga pe vreunul din ei ca fiind `agitat`, chiar inainte de a patra donare. Bine, fie, poate acum chiar ma laud. Dar inseamna mult pentru mine ca imi pot face munca bine, mai ales cand reusesc sa-i fac pe donatorii mei sa fie calmi. Am dezvoltat un anumit instinct in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa fiu alaturi de ei sa le alin suferinta, cand sa-i las singuri, cand sa-i ascult, cand sa ridic din umeri si sa le spun sa-si vina in fire.
Oricum, nu-mi asum niciun fel de merite in privinta asta. Cunosc ingrijitori care muncesc in prezent si care sunt la fel de buni ca si mine si nu li se recunosc meritele nici pe jumatate. Daca se intampla sa fii unul din ei, iti inteleg resentimentele legate de garsoniera, masina mea si, mai ales, ca pot sa-i aleg pe spranceana pe cei de care voi avea grija. Si, in plus, am absolvit la Hailsham, suficient incat sa-i calce pe unii pe bataturi. Kathy H., ar spune ei, are voie sa aleaga pe spranceana si ii alege intodeauna pe cei ca ea, persoane de la Hailsham, sau din cine stie ce alte institutii privilegiate. Nu e de mirare ca are performante bune. Am auzit asta de destul de multe ori si probabil ca voi ati auzit vorbindu-se de si mai multe ori, asa ca ceva adevar exista in toata povestea asta. Dar nu sunt nici prima persoana careia i se permite sa aleaga dupa bunul plac, si, cu siguranta, nici ultima. Si oricum, mi-am adus si eu contributia la ingrijirea donatorilor provenind din diverse medii sociale. Cand am sa pun punct, tine minte, voi fi facut asta de 12 ani, si doar in ultimii 6 am fost lasata sa-mi aleg donatorii.
Si la urma urmei de ce sa nu ma lase sa aleg? Noi ingrijitorii nu suntem roboti. Iti dai interesul pentru fiecare donator, dar, pana la urma, oboseala isi spune cuvantul. Nimeni nu poseda o sursa inepuizabila de rabdare si energie. Asa ca, atunci cand ti se da ocazia sa alegi, ii alegi fara indoiala pe cei ca tine. Si e normal sa fie asa. N-as fi putut sa ajung pana aici daca as fi incetat sa-mi pese de donatorii mei in tot acest timp. Si oricum, daca nu mi s-ar fi oferit posibilitatea sa aleg, cum m-as mai fi apropiat din nou de Ruth si Tommy dupa toti acesti ani? In ultima vreme, sunt din ce in ce mai putini donatori de care imi amintesc, asa ca, la urma urmei, n-am ales cine stie ce. Dupa cum spuneam, munca devine din ce in ce mai grea cand nu exista acea legatura profunda cu donatorul, si, cu toate ca-mi va lipsi ceea ce fac, mi se pare potrivit sa pun punct la sfarsitul anului.
In mod intamplator, Ruth a fost abia al 3-lea donator pe care l-am putut alege. Deja avea pe cineva care sa se ocupe de ea, si imi amintesc ca mi-a trebuit ceva tupeu la inceput. Dar, in cele din urma, am scos-o la capat, si in momentul in care am revazut-o in acel centru de recuperare din Dover, toate neintelegerile dintre noi - desi nu au disparut complet - mi s-au parut nesemnificative in comparatie cu toate celelalte lucruri, cum ar fi faptul ca am crescut impreuna la Hailsham, ca stiam si ne aminteam lucruri pe care nimeni altcineva nu le stia. Din acel miment, cred, am inceput sa caut printre donatori persoane din trecutul meu, si de cate ori s-a putut, oameni de la Hailsham.
Au fost momente de-a lungul anilor cand am incercat sa las in urma Hailsham, si in care imi spuneam ca ar trebui sa merg mai departe si sa nu mai privesc in trecut. Dar am ajuns intr-un punct in care pur si simplu am incetat sa ma impotrivesc. Momentul de care va vorbesc a avut legatura cu un anumit donator, pe care l-am ingrijit in al 3-lea an, si cu reactia lui cand am mentionat ca sunt de la Hailsham. Tocmai trecuse prin a 3-a donatie, si probabil ca era constient ca nu va rezista. Abia putea sa respire, dar se uita la mine si-mi spuse: `Hailsham. Pun pariu ca era un loc frumos.` Apoi, dimineata urmatoare, mi-a spus ceva despre un loc de prin Dorset si fata lui patata capata o noua grimasa. Mi-am dat seama atunci ca facea eforturi disperate sa nu-si aminteasca despre asta. Dimpotriva, voia sa auda despre Hailsham.
Asa ca, in urmatoarele 5 sau 6 zile, i-am spus tot ce voia sa stie; si ma asculta conectat la toate acele aparate, dar lasand sa se intrevada un zambet bland. Ma intreba despre lucruri importante si mai putin importante. Despre institutorii nostri, despre colectiile ce le tineam fiecare sub pat intr-un cufar, despre fotbal, despre oina, despre cararuia care ducea pana la iesirea din cladirea principala, despre cotloanele si crapaturile din ea, despre helesteul cu rate, despre mancare, despre privelistea din Atelierul de Arte, in diminetile cu ceata. Cateodata ma facea sa repet la nesfarsit unele lucruri pe care i le povestisem cu o zi in urma, si despre care ma intreba ca si cum nu i le-as mai fi povestit. `Aveati un pavilion pentru sport?` `Care era institutorul tau preferat?` La inceput am crezut ca era din cauza medicamentelor, dar apoi mi-am dat seama ca avea mintea destul de limpede. Nu voia doar sa auda, ci sa-si si aminteasca despre Hailsham, asa cum il stia din copilarie. Stia ca i se apropia sfarsitul, si ma facea sa-i descriu toate aceste lucruri ca sa i se poata sedimenta, si ca, in timpul noptilor fara somn, in care era epuizat de durere si de efectul medicamentelor, granita dintre amintirile mele si ale lui sa se risipeasca. Atunci am inteles pentru prima data cat de norocosi fusesem eu, Tommy, Ruth si resul.
Acum cand conduc, vad in continuare lucruri care imi amintesc de Hailsham. Un camp invaluit in ceata, sau o parte dintr-o caldire mare, zarita de la departare in timp ce cobor o vale, sau plopii raspanditi intr-un anume fel pe coasta unui deal, ma fac sa ma gandesc: `Aici e! L-am gasit! E chiar Hailsham!’ Apoi imi dau seama ca nu e asa, si imi vad de drum gandindu-ma la altceva. Si mai ales pavilioanele acelea. Le descopar peste tot prin tara, asezate dincolo de terenurile de sport. Sunt niste cladiri mici si albe, din prefabricate, cu un rand de ferestre inghesuite nefiresc de sus, sub streasina. S-au construit multe astfel de pavilioane prin anii `50 -`60, cam pe cand a fost construit si al nostru. Daca trec pe langa unul, ma uit inapoi cat pot de mult si cred ca intr-o zi o sa fac accident din cauza asta, si totusi continui sa o fac. Nu cu mult timp in urma, strabateam un tinut pustiu din Worchestershire si am zarit unul nu departe de un teren de cricket, care semana atat de mult cu al nostru, ca am intors si m-am dus sa mai arunc o privire.

 

Gianina Casleanu

       

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went all for all fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast. But then I do know for a fact they’ve been pleased with my work, and by and large, I have too. My donors have always tended to do much better than expected. Their recovery times have been impressive, and hardly any of them have been classified as ‘agitated’, even before fourth donation. Okay, maybe I am boasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially that bit about my donors staying ‘calm’. I’ve developed a kind of instinct about donors. I know when to hang around and comfort them, when to leave them to themselves; when to listen to everything they have to say, and when just to shrug and tell them to snap out of it.
Anyway, I’m not making any big claims for myself. I know carers, working now, who are just as good and don’t get half the credit. If you’re one of them, I can understand how you might get resentful – about my bedsit, my car, above all, the way I get to pick and choose who I look after. And I’m a Hailsham student – which is enough by itself sometimes to get people’s backs up. Kathy H., they say, she gets to pick and choose , and she always chooses her own kind: people from Hailsham, or one of the other priviledged estates. No wonder she has a great record. I’ve heard it said enough, so I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty more, and maybe there’s something in it. But I’m not the first to be allowed to pick and choose, and I doubt if I’ll be the last. And anyway, I’ve done my share of looking after donors brought up in every kind of place. By the time I finish, remember, I’ll have done twelve years of this, and it’s only for the last six they’ve let me choose.
And why shouldn’t they? Carers aren’t machines. You try and do your best for every donor, but in the end, it wears you down. You don’t have unlimited pacience and energy. So when you get a chance to choose, of course, you choose your own kind. That’s natural. There’s no way I could have gone on for as long as I have if I’d stopped feeling for my donors every step of the way. And anyway, if I’d never started choosing, how would I ever have got close again to Ruth and Tommy after all those years?
But these days, of course, there are fewer and fewer donors left who I remember, and so in practice, I haven’t been choosing that much. As I say, the work gets a lot harder when you don’t have that deeper link with the donor, and though I’ll miss being a carer, it feels just about right to be finishing at last come the end of the year.
Ruth, incidentally, was only the third or fourth donor I got to choose. She already had a carer assigned to her at the time, and I remember it taking a bit of nerve on my part. But in the end I managed it, and the instant I saw her again, at that recovery centre in Dover, all our differences – while they didn’t exactly vanish – seemed not nearly as important as all the other things: like the fact that we’d grown up together at Hailsham, the fact that we knew and remembered things no one else did. It’s ever since then, I suppose, I started seeking out for my donors people from the past, and whenever I could, people from Hailsham.
There have been times over the years when I’ve tried to leave Hailsham behind, when I’ve told myself I shouldn’t look back so much. But then there came a point when I just stopped resisting. I had to do with this particular donor I had once, in my third year as a carer; it was his reaction when I mentioned I was from Hailsham. He’d just come through his third donation, it hadn’t gone well, and he must have known he wasn’t going to make it. He could hardly breathe, but he looked towards me and said: ‘Hailsham. I bet that was a beautiful place.’ Then the next morning, when I was making conversation to keep his mind off it all, and I’d asked where he’d grown up, he mentioned some place in Dorset and his face beneath the blotches went into a completely new kind of grimace. And I realised then how desperately he didn’t want reminded. Instead, he wanted to hear about Hailsham.
So over the next five or six days, I told him whatever he wanted to know, and he’d lie there, all hooked up, a gentle smile breaking through. He’d ask me about the big things and the little things. About our guardians, about how we each had our own collection chests under our beds, the football, the rounders, the little path that took you all round the outside of the main house, round all its nooks and crannies, the duck pond, the food, the view from the Art Room over the fields on a foggy morning. Sometimes he’d make me say things over and over; things I’d told him only the day before, he’d ask about like I’d never told him. ‘Did you have a sports pavilion?’ ‘Which guardian was your special favourite?’ At first I thought this was just the drugs, but then I realised his mind was clear enough. What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that’s what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they’d really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his. That was when I first understood, really understood, just how lucky we’d been – Tommy, Ruth, me, all the rest of us.

Driving around the country now, I still see things that will remind me of Hailsham. I might pass the corner of a misty field, or see part of a large house in the distance as I come down the side of a valley, even a particular arrangement of poplar trees up on a hillside, and I’ll think: “Maybe that’s it! I’ve found it! This actually is Hailsham!” Then I see it’s impossible and I go on driving, my thoughts drifting on elsewhere. In particular, there are those pavilions. I spot them all over the country, standing on the far side of playing fields, little white prefab buildings with a row of windows unnaturally high up, tucked almost under the eaves. I think they built a whole lot like that in the fifties and sixties, which is probably when ours was put up. If I drive past one I keep looking over to it for as long as possible, and one day I’ll crash the car like that, but I keep doing it. Not long ago I was driving through an empty stretch of Worcestershire and saw one beside a cricket ground so like ours at Hailsham I actually turned the car and went back for a second look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

Ma numesc Kathy H. Am treizeci si unu de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de peste unsprezece ani. Stiu ca pare destul de mult, dar mi s-a cerut de fapt sa mai continui inca opt luni, pana la sfarsitul acestui an. Asta inseamna exact doisprezece ani. Acum stiu ca faptul ca sunt ingrijitoare de atata timp nu se datoreaza neaparat calitatilor extraordinare pe care ei cred ca le posed. Exista ingrijitori foarte buni la serviciile carora s-a renuntat dupa doar doi sau trei ani. Si cunosc cel putin un ingrijitor care a continuat timp de paisprezece ani, in ciuda faptului ca ocupa locul degeaba. Asa ca nu incerc sa ma laud. Dar stiu sigur ca sunt mutumiti de treaba pe care o fac si, treptat, am inceput sa fiu si eu. Donatorii mei au avut mereu tendinta de a se comporta mai bine decat era de asteptat. Perioadele lor de recuperare au fost extrem de scurte, si aproape nici unul dintre ei nu a fost catalogat drept "agitat", nici macar inainte de a patra donatie. Bine, poate chiar ma laud un pic acum. Dar inseamna foarte mult pentru mine sa imi fac treaba bine, mai ales partea in care trebuie sa-mi ajut donatorii sa ramana "calmi". Mi-am dezvoltat un fel de instinct in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa stau langa ei si sa le ofer alinare si stiu si cand sa-i las singuri: cand sa ascult tot ce au de spus si cand sa ridic din umeri si sa le spun sa nu mai insire atatea prostii.
Oricum, nu ma laud. Cunosc ingrijitori care lucreaza acum si care sunt la fel de buni ca mine si nu se bucura nici pe jumatate de aprecierea de care ma bucur eu. Daca esti unul dintre ei, iti inteleg nemultumirea fata de locul unde stau, fata de masina mea si, mai presus de toate, fata de faptul ca pot sa mi-i aleg pe cei de care sa am grija. Si mai sunt si o fosta studenta la Hailsham, ceea ce este suficient cateodata pentru a starni invidie. Kathy H., spun ei, poate sa aleaga, si-i alege intotdeauna pe-ai ei: persoane de la Hailsham sau unul din alte locuri privilegiate ca acesta. Nu-i de mirare ca se bucura de un succes atat de mare. Am auzit-o de atatea ori, incat sunt sigura ca o s-o mai aud si-n continuare si este posibil sa existe un graunte de adevar in asta. Dar nu sunt prima careia i s-a permis sa aleaga, si ma indoiesc ca voi fi si ultima. Si, in orice caz, am avut si eu partea mea de ingrijit donatori veniti de prin toate partile. Nu uitati ca in momentul in care voi termina, voi fi facut asta de doisprezece ani, si doar in ultimii sase ani m-au lasat sa aleg.
Si de ce n-ar face-o? Ingrijitorii nu sunt roboti. Incerci sa faci tot ce poti pentru fiecare donator, dar, intr-un final, obosesti. Rabdarea si energia ta au si ele limitele lor. Asa ca, desigur, atunci cand ai ocazia sa alegi, ii alegi pe-ai tai. E normal. N-as fi putut sa rezist niciodata atat cat am facut-o, daca ar fi incetat sa-mi pese in orice clipa de donatorii mei. Si oricum, daca n-as fi putut niciodata sa aleg, cum as fi putut sa ma apropii din nou de Ruth si Tommy dupa toti acesti ani? Dar zilele astea, desigur, au ramas din ce in ce mai putini donatori de care imi amintesc, asa ca, practic, nu am avut prea mult de ales. Cum spuneam, munca devine mult mai dificila atunci cand nu exista acea legatura stransa intre tine si donator, si, desi voi simti lipsa meseriei de ingrijitor, mi se pare aproape firesc ca totul sa se termine la sfarsitul acestui an.
In mod cu totul intamplator, Ruth a fost doar al treilea sau al patrulea donator pe care mi s-a dat voie sa-l aleg. In momentul respectiv avea deja un ingrijitor, si-mi aduc aminte ca mi-a trebuit ceva curaj pentru a cere sa o ingrijesc eu. Dar, in cele din urma, m-am descurcat, si, in clipa in care am vazut-o, la acel centru de recuperare din Dover, toate neintelegerile noastre - chiar daca nu au disparut - nu au mai parut nici pe departe la fel de importante ca altele: cum ar fi faptul ca am crescut impreuna la Hailsham si ca stiam si ne aminteam de lucruri de care nimeni altcineva nu stia sau isi amintea. Cred ca de atunci am inceput sa caut printre donatori oameni din trecutul meu, si, de cate ori puteam, persoane de la Hailsham.
Au existat momente de-a lungul timpului, in care am incercat sa nu ma mai gandesc la Hailsham, in care imi spuneam ca n-ar trebui sa privesc atat de mult inspre trecut. Dar, apoi, a venit un moment in care pur si simplu am incetat sa mai opun rezistenta. A fost legat de un anume donator pe care l-am avut odata, in cel de-al treilea an ca ingrijitoare; de reactia lui cand am pomenit ca vin de la Hailsham. Tocmai trecuse de cea de-a treia donatie, care nu decursese foarte bine, si, probabil, stia ca nu va supravietui. Abia mai putea respira, dar s-a uitat spre mine si mi-a spus:
-Hailsham. Pun pariu ca era un loc frumos.
Apoi, in dimineatza urmatoare, cand faceam conversatie ca sa-i distrag atentia de la situatia in care se afla si l-am intrebat unde a crescut, mi-a spus ceva de un loc in Dorset, iar fata sa s-a schimonosit din spatele umflaturilor intr-un fel nou de grimasa. Si atunci mi-am dat seama cu cata disperare nu voia sa-si aminteasca de asta. In schimb, voia sa afle mai multe despre Hailsham.
Asa ca, pe parcursul urmatoarelor cinci sau sase zile, i-am spus tot ce dorea sa stie, iar el statea acolo in pat, conectat la aparate, un zambet delicat razbatand pe fata lui. Ma intreba si despre lucrurile importante si despre cele mai putin importante. Despre paznicii nostri, despre cum avea fiecare dintre noi propriul cufar cu colectii sub pat, despre fotbal, despre rounders, despre mica poteca care imprejmuia cladirea principala, despre toate colturile si sparturile ei, despre elesteul cu rate, despre mancare, despre vederea dinspre Sala de Arta asupra campurilor intr-o dimineata cetoasa. Cateodata ma punea sa repet unele lucruri iar si iar; lucruri pe care i le spusesem cu doar o zi in urma, intreba din nou de ele de parca nu i le-as fi spus niciodata. "Ati avut sala de sport?" "Care era paznicul tau preferat?" La inceput, am crezut ca e din cauza medicamentelor, dar apoi mi-am dat seama ca mintea ii era destul de limpede. Ceea ce isi dorea el era nu numai sa auda despre Hailsham, ci si sa-si aduca aminte de Hailsham, ca si cand acolo si-ar fi trait cu adevarat propria copilarie. Stia ca era atat de aproape de final, asa ca asta facea: ma punea sa-i descriu lucruri pentru a le asimila, si pentru ca, in timpul acelor nopti nedormite, provocate de medicamente, durere si epuizare, granita fina dintre amintirile mele si ale lui sa dispara. Abia atunci am inteles pentru prima data, am inteles cu adevarat, cat de norocosi am fost -- Tommy, Ruth, eu, si noi toti ceilalti.

Si acum, mergand cu masina prin tara, inca mai vad lucruri care imi amintesc de Hailsham. Daca trec pe langa marginea unui camp invaluit in ceata, sau daca vad vreun colt al unei case mari de la distanta in timp ce cobor intr-o vale si chiar o multime anume de plopi pe un deal, ma gandesc: "Poate asta e! L-am gasit! Asta chiar este Hailsham!" Apoi imi dau seama ca asa ceva este imposibil, si continui sa conduc, cu mintea zburandu-mi in alta parte. Si mai este vorba si de pavilioanele acelea. Le vad prin toata tara, stand semete la capatul terenurilor de joaca, mici cladiri albe din prefabricate cu un rand de ferestre nefiresc de inalte, inghesuite sub streasina. Cred ca au construit multe pavilioane ca acestea in anii '50 si '60, probabil cam in aceeasi perioada in care a fost construit si al nostru. Daca trec pe langa vreunul, imi ramane privirea pironita pe el, de intr-o zi o sa intru intr-un pom tot uitandu-ma asa dupa pavilioane, dar nu ma pot abtine sa n-o fac. Nu cu mult timp in urma, conducand pe un drum pustiu prin Worcestershire, am vazut unul langa un teren de cricket care semana atat de mult cu al nostru de la Hailsham, incat am intors masina ca sa ma mai uit o data.

 

Ramona Zamfirescu

 

       

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went all for all fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast. But then I do know for a fact they’ve been pleased with my work, and by and large, I have too. My donors have always tended to do much better than expected. Their recovery times have been impressive, and hardly any of them have been classified as ‘agitated’, even before fourth donation. Okay, maybe I am boasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially that bit about my donors staying ‘calm’. I’ve developed a kind of instinct about donors. I know when to hang around and comfort them, when to leave them to themselves; when to listen to everything they have to say, and when just to shrug and tell them to snap out of it.
Anyway, I’m not making any big claims for myself. I know carers, working now, who are just as good and don’t get half the credit. If you’re one of them, I can understand how you might get resentful – about my bedsit, my car, above all, the way I get to pick and choose who I look after. And I’m a Hailsham student – which is enough by itself sometimes to get people’s backs up. Kathy H., they say, she gets to pick and choose , and she always chooses her own kind: people from Hailsham, or one of the other priviledged estates. No wonder she has a great record. I’ve heard it said enough, so I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty more, and maybe there’s something in it. But I’m not the first to be allowed to pick and choose, and I doubt if I’ll be the last. And anyway, I’ve done my share of looking after donors brought up in every kind of place. By the time I finish, remember, I’ll have done twelve years of this, and it’s only for the last six they’ve let me choose.
And why shouldn’t they? Carers aren’t machines. You try and do your best for every donor, but in the end, it wears you down. You don’t have unlimited pacience and energy. So when you get a chance to choose, of course, you choose your own kind. That’s natural. There’s no way I could have gone on for as long as I have if I’d stopped feeling for my donors every step of the way. And anyway, if I’d never started choosing, how would I ever have got close again to Ruth and Tommy after all those years?
But these days, of course, there are fewer and fewer donors left who I remember, and so in practice, I haven’t been choosing that much. As I say, the work gets a lot harder when you don’t have that deeper link with the donor, and though I’ll miss being a carer, it feels just about right to be finishing at last come the end of the year.
Ruth, incidentally, was only the third or fourth donor I got to choose. She already had a carer assigned to her at the time, and I remember it taking a bit of nerve on my part. But in the end I managed it, and the instant I saw her again, at that recovery centre in Dover, all our differences – while they didn’t exactly vanish – seemed not nearly as important as all the other things: like the fact that we’d grown up together at Hailsham, the fact that we knew and remembered things no one else did. It’s ever since then, I suppose, I started seeking out for my donors people from the past, and whenever I could, people from Hailsham.
There have been times over the years when I’ve tried to leave Hailsham behind, when I’ve told myself I shouldn’t look back so much. But then there came a point when I just stopped resisting. I had to do with this particular donor I had once, in my third year as a carer; it was his reaction when I mentioned I was from Hailsham. He’d just come through his third donation, it hadn’t gone well, and he must have known he wasn’t going to make it. He could hardly breathe, but he looked towards me and said: ‘Hailsham. I bet that was a beautiful place.’ Then the next morning, when I was making conversation to keep his mind off it all, and I’d asked where he’d grown up, he mentioned some place in Dorset and his face beneath the blotches went into a completely new kind of grimace. And I realised then how desperately he didn’t want reminded. Instead, he wanted to hear about Hailsham.
So over the next five or six days, I told him whatever he wanted to know, and he’d lie there, all hooked up, a gentle smile breaking through. He’d ask me about the big things and the little things. About our guardians, about how we each had our own collection chests under our beds, the football, the rounders, the little path that took you all round the outside of the main house, round all its nooks and crannies, the duck pond, the food, the view from the Art Room over the fields on a foggy morning. Sometimes he’d make me say things over and over; things I’d told him only the day before, he’d ask about like I’d never told him. ‘Did you have a sports pavilion?’ ‘Which guardian was your special favourite?’ At first I thought this was just the drugs, but then I realised his mind was clear enough. What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that’s what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they’d really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his. That was when I first understood, really understood, just how lucky we’d been – Tommy, Ruth, me, all the rest of us.

Driving around the country now, I still see things that will remind me of Hailsham. I might pass the corner of a misty field, or see part of a large house in the distance as I come down the side of a valley, even a particular arrangement of poplar trees up on a hillside, and I’ll think: “Maybe that’s it! I’ve found it! This actually is Hailsham!” Then I see it’s impossible and I go on driving, my thoughts drifting on elsewhere. In particular, there are those pavilions. I spot them all over the country, standing on the far side of playing fields, little white prefab buildings with a row of windows unnaturally high up, tucked almost under the eaves. I think they built a whole lot like that in the fifties and sixties, which is probably when ours was put up. If I drive past one I keep looking over to it for as long as possible, and one day I’ll crash the car like that, but I keep doing it. Not long ago I was driving through an empty stretch of Worcestershire and saw one beside a cricket ground so like ours at Hailsham I actually turned the car and went back for a second look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kazuo Ishiguro Never Let Me Go

Fragment two

Numele meu este Kathy H. Am treizeci si unu de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de mai bine de unspezece ani. Suna destul de lung, stiu, dar de fapt ei vor ca eu sa mai continuu timp de inca opt luni, pana la sfarsitul acestui an. Si, astfel, se vor implini aproape doisprezece ani. Acum stiu ca faptul ca eu sunt ingrijitoare de atata timp nu este pentru ca ei ma cred neaparat fantastica in ceea ce fac. Sunt unii ingrijitori foarte buni carora li s-a spus sa se opreasca dupa numai doi sau trei ani. Si imi vine in minte cel putin un ingrijitor care a continuat toti cei paisprezece ani in ciuda faptului ca pur si simplu irosea spatiul. Asa ca nu incerc sa ma dau mare. Dar, pe de alta parte, stiu sigur ca sunt multumiti de munca mea, si, in general vorbind, si eu sunt. Donatorii mei au avut intotdeauna tendinta sa le fie mai bine decat se asteptau. Durata lor de recuperare a fost impresionanta, si rareori a fost vreunul diagnosticat ca „agitat”, chiar si inaintea celei de-a patra donatii. Bine, poate totusi ma laud acum. Dar inseamna mult pentru mine, sa fiu in stare sa-mi fac bine munca, mai ales partea in care donatorii stau „calmi”. Am capatat un fel de instinct in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa le stau alaturi si sa-i consolez, cand sa-i las singuri; cand sa ascult tot ce au de spus si cand doar sa ridic din umeri si sa le spun sa-si revina.
In orice caz, nu-mi asum merite mari. Cunosc ingrijitori, care lucreaza acum, care sunt la fel de buni, si nu primesc recunostinta nici pe jumatate. Daca esti unul dintre ei, inteleg de ce ai putea sa ai resentimente – pentru dormitorul meu, masina mea, si peste toate, pentru felul in care pot sa aleg pe cine sa ingrjesc. Si sunt studenta de Hailsham – fapt ce e suficient uneori sa ridice lumea impotriva ta. Acestia spun cum Kathy H. face sa culeaga si sa aleaga, si cum intotdeauna ii alege pe semenii ei: oamenii din Hailsham, sau din alte proprietati privilegiate. Nu-i de mirare ca detine un mare record. Am auzit spunandu-se destule, asa ca sunt sigura ca tu ai auzit mult mai multe, si poate ca e un sambure de adevar. Dar nu sunt singura care e lasata sa aleaga, si am indoieli ca voi fi si ultima. Si oricum, am avut si eu parte de norma de donatori crescuti in diferite locuri. Pana termin, tine minte, voi fi facut asta de doisprezece ani, si numai in ultimii sase m-au lasat sa aleg.
Si de ce nu m-ar lasa? Ingrijitorii nu sunt masini. Incerci si faci tot ce-ti sta in putere pentru fiecare donator, dar in final, te epuizeaza. Nu ai rabdare si energie nelimitate. Asa ca, atunci cand se iveste sansa sa alegi, desigur ca-i alegi pe cei de felul tau. E firesc. N-as fi fost in stare sa rezist cat timp am reusit daca incetam sa mai simt pentru donatorii mei pas cu pas. Si in orice caz, daca nu incepeam niciodata sa aleg, cum as fi facut sa ma apropii iar de Ruth si de Tommy dupa toti acei ani?
Dar zilele astea, desigur, au ramas din ce in ce mai putini donatori pe care mi-i amintesc, asa ca, practic, nu am ales prea mult. Cum imi place mie sa spun, munca devine mult mai grea cand nu ai acea legatura mai profunda cu donatorul, si desi imi va lipsi munca de ingrijitoare, mi se pare destul de corect sa termin in sfarsit o data cu venirea sfarsitului de an.
Intamplator, Ruth a fost numai al treilea sau al patrulea donator pe care l-am ales. Pe vremea aceea avea deja desemnat un ingrijitor, si tin minte ca mi-a trebuit un pic de curaj. Dar in final am reusit, si, in clipa in care am revazut-o, in centrul de recuperare din Dover, toate diferentele noastre – care desi nu tocmai au disparut – nu pareau atat de importante ca toate celelalte lucruri: ca faptul ca am crescut impreuna la Hailsham, ca eram singurele care stiam si ne aminteam lucruri. Din acel moment, cred, am inceput sa-i caut pe oamenii mei din trecut, donatori, si ori de cate ori puteam, pe cei din Hailsham.
Au fost momente de-a lungul anilor cand am incercat sa las Hailsham-ul in urma, cand mi-am spus ca nu ar trebui sa privesc atat de mult in urma. Dar apoi a venit un timp cand pur si simplu am incetat sa ma mai opun. Avea legatura cu un anume donator pe care l-am avut odata, ca ingrijitoare in anul al treilea; era reactia lui cand am mentionat ca sunt de la Hailsham. Tocmai trecuse prin a treia donatie, nu decursese bine, si trebuie sa fi stiut ca nu avea sa supravietuiasca. Abia putea sa respire, dar se uita catre mine si spuse: „Hailsham, sunt sigur ca era un loc frumos.” Apoi, in dimineata urmatoare, cand faceam conversatie sa-l fac sa nu se mai gandeasca la toate astea, si l-am intrebat unde crescuse el, a mentionat o localitate de prin Dorset si, pe fata acoperita de pete, ii aparu o grimasa noua. Si mi-am dat seama atunci cat de mult nu-si dorea sa-si aminteasca. In schimb, voia sa auda cat mai multe despre Hailsham.
Astfel ca, in urmatoarele cinci sau sase zile, i-am spus tot ce voia sa stie, si obsnuia sa zaca acolo, complet absorbit, un zambet bland facandu-si aparitia pe fata lui. Ma intreba despre lucruri importante si despre lucruri marunte. Despre tutorii nostri, despre cum avea fiecare sub pat propriul cufar pentru colectii, despre fotbal, ture, despre mica poteca ce ducea de jur imprejurul cladirii principale, in toate cotloanele si ungherele, despre iazul cu rate, despre mancare, despre privelistea din Sala de arta peste campuri intr-o dimineata cetoasa. Uneori, ma punea sa-i povestesc aceleasi lucruri iar si iar; lucruri pe care i le spusesem tocmai cu o zi inainte, intreba despre ele ca si cum nu i le povestisem niciodata. „Aveati un pavilion de sport?” „Care tutore era preferatul, favoritul tau?” La inceput am crezut ca era din cauza medicamentelor, dar apoi mi-am dat seama ca mintea lui era destul de clara. Ceea ce voia nu era doar sa auda despre Hailsham, ci sa-si aminteasca de Hailsham, ca si cum ar fi fost propria lui copilarie. Stia ca era aproape de terminare, si asa ca asta facea, ma punea pe mine sa-i descriu lucruri, ca sa i se intipareasca in minte, ca poate in noptile acelea albe, cu medicamentele si durerea si epuizarea, amintirile lui si amintirile mele aveau sa se contopeasca. Atunci a fost prima dat cand am inteles, cand am inteles cu adevarat, cat de norocosi fuseseram – Toomy, Ruth, eu, toti ceilalti.

Cutreierand acum tara, inca mai vad lucruri care imi amintesc de Hailsham. Se intampla sa trec de coltul unui camp cetos, sau sa vad in departare o parte dintr-o casa mare cum cobor in mijlocul unei vai, chiar si un anume aranjament de plopi pe o coasta de deal, si ma gandesc „Poate asta e! L-am gasit! Acesta e de fapt Hailsham!” Apoi vad ca e imposibil, si conduc mai departe, in timp ce gandurile mele aluneca in alte directii. Mai exact, sunt acele pavilioane. Le zaresc in toata tara, inaltandu-se pe partea indepartata a terenurilor de joc, cladiri mici si albe din prefabricate, cu un rand de geamuri asezate nefiresc de sus, ingramadite parca sub stresini. Cred ca au construit o multime din acestea in anii cincizeci si saizeci, cand probabil a fost ridicat si al nostru. Daca trec pe langa unul continuu sa-l privesc cat mai mult posibil, si intr-o zi o sa fac un accident din cauza asta, dar fac in continuare la fel. Nu demult mergeam cu masina pe o banda pustie in Worcestershire si am vazut unul atat de asemanator cu cel din Hailsham, langa un teren de cricket, incat chiar am intors masina si m-am dus sa mai privesc o data.

 

Corina Chelmus

       

 

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