La noche boca arriba (part 2)

The conclusion to a work ("The night face up") by this Argentine.  You can read the original here.

Then came a cup of gold filled with marvelous broth and scents of leeks, celery, and parsley.  A little piece of bread, more beautiful than an entire banquet, was chewed bit by bit.  His arm no longer hurt any more, and only on his brow, where they had sutured his wound, he felt at times a hot and rapid piercing.  When the large windows opposite swerved back to spots of dark blue he thought that it would be rather easy to fall asleep.  A little uncomfortable there on his back, but when he passed his tongue over his dry, hot lips he felt the taste of the broth, and he took happy and carefree breaths.

 

At first there was some confusion, an attraction for an instant of all the dull and confounded sensations towards him.  He understood that he was running in total darkness, although the sky above, crossed with treetops, was less black than the rest.  “The road,” he thought. “I’ve gone off the road.”  His feet were sinking into a mattress of leaves and mud, and he couldn’t take another step without getting his torso and legs whipped by the shrubbery’s branches.  Panting, he realized that that he was cornered despite the darkness and silence, and he crouched down to listen.  Perhaps the road was nearby; were things different, he would have caught sight of it at daybreak.  But now nothing could help him find it.  The hand which had instinctively clung to the hilt of the dagger now rose like a swamp scorpion up to his neck where it seized his protective amulet.  Hardly moving his lips he mumbled the prayer of the corn which bore the happy moons, and the supplication to the Most High, the dispenser of Moteca goods.  Yet at the same time he sensed that his ankles were sinking slowly into the mud, and the wait in the darkness in the unknown chaparral made it unbearable.  The war of flowers had begun with the moon and had already lasted for three days and three nights.  If he continued to take refuge in the depths of the forest, abandoning the road more in the region of the swamps, perhaps the warriors would not be able to pick up his trail.  He thought about all those prisoners who could have done that.  But it was the sacred time, not quantity that mattered.  The hunt would continue until the priests gave the signal to return.  Everything had its order and its end, and he was in the sacred time on the opposite side of the hunters.

 

He heard the shouts and stood up straight, his dagger in hand.  Just as if the sky were burning on the horizon, he saw torches moving between the branches very close to him.  The smell of war was unbearable, and when the first enemy leapt upon his neck he almost took pleasure in sinking the stone blade into his chest.  Now lights and happy screams had already surrounded him.  He managed to slice through the air once or twice before a rope caught him from behind.

“It’s fever,” said the man from the bed beside him.  “The same thing happened to me when they operated on my duodenum.  Drink some water and you’ll see that you’ll sleep well.

Compared to the night from which he returned, the lukewarm darkness of the room seemed marvelous.  A violet lamp kept vigil at the top of the wall in the back of a room like a protective eye.  He heard coughing, heavy breathing, at times a dialogue in low voices.  Everything was pleasant and safe, without this harassment, but … He didn’t want to keep thinking about his nightmare.  There were so many things to keep himself occupied.  He began to look at the plaster on his arm, the pulleys which so comfortably held it in the air.  At some point during the night they had placed a bottle of mineral water on the table next to him.  He drank gluttonously from the neck of the bottle.  Now he was able to discern the shapes in the room, the thirty beds, the glass display cabinets.  His fever had to be lower now, and his face felt so fresh.  His brow hardly hurt at all, as if it were just a memory.  He pictured himself exiting the hotel and getting his motorbike.  Who could have thought that things would turn out this way?  He tried to concentrate on the time of the accident, and it really annoyed him to notice that it was like a gap that he couldn’t manage to fill.  Between the collision and the time they lifted him off the ground either his fainting or whatever it was didn’t let him see anything.  And at the same time he had the feeling that this gap, this nothing, had taken an eternity.  And not even time, but more like he had passed through something and traveled across great distances. The collision, the brutal hit against the pavement.  In any case, getting out of that cesspool he had almost felt relief while the men got him off the ground.  Considering the pain of his broken arm, the blood from his brow that was split open, the contusion in his knee, considering all of that, it was certainly a relief to return to daylight and feel taken care of and helped.  And it was strange.  He would have asked any time for the office doctor.  Now sleep began to take him over again and slowly pull him down.  The pillow was so soft, as was the freshness of the mineral water in his feverish throat. Perhaps he really could have rested if it hadn’t been for those damned nightmares.  The violet light of the lamp up high was starting to go out little by little.

Since he was sleeping on his back, the position in which he came to didn’t surprise him.  But instead the smell of humidity, of stone oozing with leaks, forced him to close his throat and understand the matter.  It was useless to open his eyes and look all over the place; he was enveloped in total darkness.  He tried to stretch out straight and felt the ropes on his wrists and ankles.  He was tethered to a floor on a cold and humid slab.  The cold had taken over his naked back, his bare legs.  His chin searched awkwardly for contact with his amulet, and then he knew that they had ripped it off him. Now he was lost, no prayer could save him from the end.  From a distance, as if oozing between the stones of the dungeon, he heard the kettle drums of the celebration.  They had brought him to the teocalli.  He was in the dungeons of the temple.  And he was waiting his turn.

He heard screaming.  A hoarse scream that reverberated within the walls.  Another scream ending in a moan.  He was the one screaming in the darkness, screaming because he was alive.  His whole body was defending itself by screaming about what was about to come, the inevitable end.  He thought about his companions who would fill other dungeons, and about those who were already ascending the steps of sacrifice.  Suffocated, he screamed again.  He was almost unable to open his mouth.  His jaws stiffened as if they were made of rubber and opened slowly with incalculable effort.  The squeaking of the bolts shook him like a whip.  Convulsed and writhing, he struggled to free himself from the cords which were sinking into his flesh.  His right arm, the stronger of the two, kept pulling until the pain became intolerable and had to stop.  He saw the double doors open, and the smell of the torches reached him before the light.  With the loincloth of the ceremony barely clinging to their bodies, the acolytes of the priests approached, gazing upon him with disdain.  In their sweaty torsos and black hair full of feathers he saw the lights reflected.  Hot hands, as hard as bronze, replaced the slackened ropes; he felt that he was being lifted, his face still up, and pulled by the four acolytes who carried him through the passage.  The torchbearers were walking ahead, vaguely lighting the corridor of wet walls and a ceiling so low that the acolytes had to bend their heads.  Now they were bringing him, bringing him, it was the end.  His face up, a meter from the ceiling of living rock which at moments was illuminated by the torches.  Once stars emerged instead of the ceiling and he was raised up the burning stairway of screaming and dancing, it would be the end.  The passageway had not ended yet, but was about to end, and suddenly he would smell the free air full of stars; but not yet, they walked carrying him endlessly in the red darkness, pulling on him brutally, but he could not want for the center of life, because they had ripped off the amulet which was his true heart.

 

He exited with a start into the night of the hospital, into the sky, the high and sweet open air, the soft darkness which surrounded him.  He thought he might have screamed, but his neighbors were sleeping in silence.  On his night table the bottle of water contained something bubbly, a translucent image against the bluish darkness of the large windows.  He panted seeking to relieve his lungs and forget those images which continued to stick to his eyelids.  Each time he closed his eyes he saw them form instantaneously, and terrified, he straightened himself while enjoying the fact that he was now awake, that being awake protected him, that it would soon be dawn, as well as the good deep sleep that one has at this hour, without images, without anything … Now it was hard to keep his eyes open, he was no match for his sleepiness. He made one last effort: with his good hand he sketched a gesture towards the bottle of water.  He couldn't reach it, his fingers were trapped again into a black emptiness, and the passageway continued endlessly, rock after rock, with sudden reddish flashes, and face up he moaned lifelessly because the roof was about to end.  It rose, opening like a mouth of darkness, and the acolytes stood up, and at that altitude he was struck by the light of a receding moon which his eyes did not want to see.  He closed and opened them desperately trying to pass to the other side, to rediscover the open protective sky of the room.  And each time that they opened it was night and there was the moon as they lifted him up the stairway.  Now his head went downwards, and at this height there were bonfires, red columns of perfumed smoke, and suddenly he saw the red rock, shining with dripping blood, and the swinging of the feet of the sacrificial victim whom they were dragging in order to hurl him down the stairways of the north.  With one last hope he squeezed his eyelids together, moaning in desperation.  For a second he thought he’d done it because once again he was in his bed, unmoving apart from the swaying of his head downwards.  But he smelled death, and when he opened them again he saw the bloodied figure of the sacrificer who was coming towards him with a stone knife in his hand.  Once more he closed his eyelids, but now he knew that he wouldn’t wake up, that he was awake, that his marvelous dream had been his other state, absurd like all dreams, a dream in which he had ridden through the strange avenues of a darkened city with green and red lights which burned without flame or smoke, on an enormous metal insect that hummed between his legs.  In this dream's infinite lie they had also raised him from the ground, someone had also approached him with a knife in his hand, and he had remained face up, his face up with his eyes shut between the bonfires.

Comments

[deeblog]

Thanks for your kind comments, acoh!

[Jenn]

I had to read this story for my Spanish Lit class (like so many others) and although I got that there were two worlds, the details were still somewhat unclear. Reading the Spanish first, then your translation made it so much better! Thank you so much for doing this! You are an incredible translator and I can only imagine how long it took for you to do this!

[deeblog]

Works that are a pleasure to read hardly seem burdensome to translate, so I think it all went by rather quickly. Thanks for your comments, Jenn, and glad to be of help!

[StudentHELP]

I was wondering since you have such a great understanding of this text if you could further explain the ending of the story. The significance of it all coming together.

[deeblog]

Thanks for your comments, Studenthelp. You can interpret the story as involving a victim of Aztec human sacrifice dreaming or inflicted with a vision of the future Mexico City, or a motorcyclist having a flashback to a past life or a dream of what once took place on the land he now walks. In terms of human logic the second reading makes more sense; but the story suggests the former is more correct.

[Carly]

Thank you so much for your amazing translation & your comment explaining the "war of the flowers" and what is going on in the story! I have to write a 7 pg paper on a Spanish literary work for my Spanish lit class, and thanks to your translation, I've decided to use this story!

[deeblog]

You're very welcome, Carly, and thank you for your kind comments.

[Derek]

Thanks for the translation. The story was a bit hard to understand in spanish. I have to read this for my class. This was extremely helpful and entertaining!

[deeblog]

Thanks for your nice comments, Derek, and I'm always glad to be of help.

[Laurelyn]

FANTASTIC translation, and a lifesaver right before my Spanish midterm--I was out sick and missed all the discussion on this story. Thanks a million!

[deeblog]

You're very welcome, Laurelyn, and thanks for your comments!

[anonymous]

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUU!!!

[deeblog]

You're very welcome!

[Em]

I thought that perhaps the idea was that it is just as likely that one of the lives is the real one over the other, much like it is just as it is only by chance that we are born in any one time and place in a universe that is infinite. As such it doesn't really matter which one is real for this individual. This is why the text supports the Aztec life being real, because our logical belief would be that it is the dream, this provides a kind of balance between the two (making each interpretation equally supported.)

Either way, thanks for this translation.

[deeblog]

Thanks for your insight and comments, Em, you're quite correct.

[Meghan]

Wow... thank you so much for this translation. I have to read this story in Spanish 3, and it was so confusing... but this translation really helped me understand it. Thanks SO much!!! :)

[Keeva]

Thanks so much for posting this; I have twenty minutes to go before lit, and I was moving at snails pace through the Spanish.. great translation!

[deeblog]

Glad to be of help, Keeva, and thanks for your comments!

[Kdub]

Thanks deeblog for the excellent translation!

[deeblog]

You're welcome, Kdub, and thanks for your comments!

[Teresa]

Amazing translation! So helpful!! Thanks :)

[deeblog]

Thanks for your feedback, Teresa! Very happy to help.

[turtlesonafence]

thanks so much!! i just spent the last two hours reading this story attempting to translate and understand it completely. this helped a lot!!!

[deeblog]

Glad to be of help, Turtles, and thanks for your feedback!

[Mona]

Thank you so much for this translation! I have to do a presentation on this story and the full english translation is the best one I found on the web. It really helps me understand the smaller details in the story!

[deeblog]

You got it, Mona, and thanks for your comments!

[Jackelyn]

I love this story and at the same time it creeps me out; it's amazing how one can have nightmares but this guy here was having 2 at the same time, for what I could understand at the end he was dreaming of the hospital and in reality he was about to be sacrificed, it scares me how a person can go through something like this and at the end die anyway. This story is amazingly interesting, very intriguing and scary at the same time.

[deeblog]

Yes, you got it all quite right, Jackelyn. Thanks for your comments!

[Dave]

Good translation. I probably would have translated the title as "The Belly Up Night." The English phrase "belly up" captures well the same idea that "boca arriba" does in Spanish: a description of laying on one's back AND a metaphor for death.

[deeblog]

Dave, note that "boca arriba" has no connotation of death; that expression would be "patas arriba" ("paws up," an almost identical image to the "belly" of our metaphorically felled animal). In Spanish the title suggests staring at the endless night on your back, which could mean a dream, helplessness, or simply stargazing. Thanks again for your comments.

[mina]

This was super helpful! Thank you so much

[EmmaWeezie8]

thank you sooooo much. now that i read it in English, I have to agree that the dream is of Mexico City, which I was initially very confused about! You saved my life with this one! Awesome translation!

[deeblog]

Mina and Emma, you are very welcome, and thanks for your kind feedback!

[SF]

WONDERFUL translation. Your conversion from spanish to english is almost impeccable. Great work!

[deeblog]

Thanks so much for your comments, SF!

[Sarah]

I had to read this for a Spanish lit. class and it was awful. It's so beautifully disturbing in English that I can appreciate it in Spanish, now that I understand the story. Thanks for the awesome translation!

[deeblog]

You're welcome, Sarah, and thanks for your comments!

[Em]

Thank you so much! Again this is for a Spanish lit class. Much appreciated.

[deeblog]

You got it, Em, and thanks for your feedback!

[Max]

Excellent translation! This is a very good short story. One of my favorites. Thank you!

[deeblog]

You got it, Max, and thanks for your comments!

[nono]

THANK YOU VERY MUCH! I have to write an essay on it and this really helped, thank you thank you thank you :)

[deeblog]

Thanks for your feedback, Nono!

[Cruz]

Thank you so much for this translation. It really helped! :)

[deeblog]

You're welcome, Cruz, and thanks for writing in!

[ME]

Thanks Deeblog you are like a life saver... Good luck on your other blogs as well

[deeblog]

You got it, ME, and thanks for your comments!

[Jay650]

Great Job on this translation. It really helped to prepare me for an essay concerning this story. Much appreciation.

[deeblog]

You're welcome, Jay, and thanks for writing in.

[Kg]

Thank you for making this translation available! I had a difficult time understanding this story for my Spanish literature class.