Prespala je potres v Španiji.
Naslednjega dne polno mrtvih stvari. No, ne polno, zgolj nekaj.
Ob vstopu skozi vhodna vrata je čutila hrsk hitinjače
pod svojim stopalom. V kopalnici je velik ščurek
ležal na hrbtu na marmornati oblogi; mrtve tipalke
so napovedovale prihodnost, uperjene v srebrno oko,
ki je kasneje goltalo vodo, s katero si je umila obraz.
Kdo si ne bi bil želel hitrega povratka
sinočnjega spanca? Vedela je, da je ideja ostati buden
in med hojo po sivi megli dneva pretentati vse hlapljivo,
da bi se obnašalo kot nekaj trdnega: denimo puh cigaretnega dima
bi lahko postal za palec visoka zgradba iz lego kock,
uzrta v oknu avtobusa, ki je blokiral cesto.
Ljudje se včasih dojemajo kot sliko, ki ustreza nekemu
namišljenemu hrepenenju: igračasti gozdiček, iznakaženi čriček,
bolj ali manj dragoceni lotos. Večer pred potresom se je z vlakom
odpeljala gledat komično opero z bolj malo verjetno zgodbo. Opazila je
moškega v dežnem plašču s kravato, ki je bil videti kot Kafka.
Naslednjega dne je poklicala prijatelja in se potožila glede mrčesa.
Njegov glas iz daljnega mesta – globok in nekoliko otožen – je rekel:
Kaj nisi v redu? Ti lahko s čim pomagam?
Prevod: Andrej Hočevar
She slept through the earthquake in Spain.
The day after was full of dead things. Well, not full but a few.
Coming in the front door, she felt the crunch of a carapace
under her foot. In the bathroom, a large cockroach
rested on its back at the edge of the marble surround; the dead
antennae announced the future by pointing to the silver eye
that would later gulp the water she washed her face with.
Who wouldn’t have wished for the quick return
of last night’s sleep? The idea, she knew, was to remain awake,
and while walking through the day’s gray fog, trick the vaporous
into acting like something concrete: a wisp of cigarette smoke,
for instance, could become a one-inch Lego building
seen in the window of a bus blocking the street.
People sometimes think of themselves as a picture that matches
an invented longing: a toy forest, a defaced cricket, the more
or less precious lotus. The night before the quake, she took a train
to see a comic opera with an unlikely plot. She noticed a man
in a tan coat and necktie who looked a lot like Kafka.
The day after, she called a friend to complain about the bugs.
From a distant city—his voice low and slightly plaintive—he said,
Aren’t you well? Is there anything you want?
