Departure to Siberia - попытка перевода
All these and some additional circumstances literally pushed me out of the familiar spot in Moscow to north-west Siberia, where I was going to be an English-Russian interpreter at oil drilling sites.
It was August. We’ve got a big light room in a 5-storey hostel for the two of us. I would live here for more than 1.5 year. But I didn’t know about that so far. We dropped our things in our room and we were sitting on the uncovered beds, sleepy and tired after a long flight. The sun beams played in the space of our room, flies crept on the table, MB smoked a cigarette.
- So, lo and behold! Let’s look the city over, dear sir! Ah? Don’t you mind? - MB broke the silence, and scattered the slow flow of smoke around his head.
- Why not? Let’s look, let’s look around, - I answered, yawning, but we didn’t move and continued to look at each other, sprawled out on our beds.
- And what do you think about of bottle of beer?
- Why not? It’s a good idea, - I said, yawning again.
We walked down a wide street. On the left and on the right there were 5-storey houses, off-white, greyish-yellow and bright-blue. “Victory Avenue” - we read.
There was a wind of the end of August, warm, light-grey asphalt and almost white fine sand. There were rowans along the avenue and there were orange-coloured berries on these trees. I picked up three berries absent-mindedly and started to chew them.
We watched upcoming people: we didn’t see a single nice-looking face . Alas! Thusly we walked right to the river: it was huge like a lake and it swayed its turbid-brown water.
There, - I pointed my finger to the North direction. - If you go there by boat, you will see the Arctic ocean. Try to imagin how romantic is it! Lapps and Samoeds live there. Imagine: how we could swim in the Arctic ocean! It’s something like a visit to the Moon!
The bank of the river was layed with concrete slabs, pieces of iron wire stuck out from them; all the bank was blocked up with some rusted mechanisms, pipe joints, boats.
We hanged around for some time there and walked back. We bought some food for dinner, some beer and we felt very comfortable and cosy in our room in the midst of hostile gloomy space of this town.
- Well let’s take a word “thermoregulation”! Don’t you mind?
In the evening, after work hours, we played in words.
Me, tipsy and full, I lost every time.
- You, Bolduman, you are so… You win every time because your head is disproportionately, monstrously big. And me, I have such a headache, my head leans to the earth, to be more exact to my bed. No doubt, I’m not so young, all my saps hardened, all the physiological processes became irreversible, and a terrible fissure cuts my brain. It is so difficult for me to catch you up. I’m so upset, Bolduman! In addition, I think, I’m a bad interpreter. What do you think, Bolduman? I don’t understand anything, I don’t hear anything, I don’t have a time to understand a murmuring, roaring, slurred Canadian speech. They are roaring and murmuring a glib and solid murmur, so the further the more I lose myself, I turn into a wooden pole. The less of words, the more of death, Bolduman! Ok! I lost again!