Translated story
Right, so, was typing up a translation for a story. Thought some of you might be interested in seeing it, maybe. It's not done yet and is rather amateurish (also, I started it at around 3:00, so I'm sure that my grammar needs some work here), but it's what I have so far.
The original Russian, for any who may be interested.
A Change of Lifestyle
by Vasily Aksyonov
1 Aviation plays strange tricks with us. When I arrive somewhere by plane, I want to swear at geography. This is because between those places, from where I come and the Caucasus’ Black Sea coast, it turns out there are no Central Russian Uplands, nor forest steppes, nor steppes. It turns out between us there are simply a few hours of flight. Two dirtied issues of “Lights,” four smiling stewardesses, candy at takeoff and candy at landing time. It would be time to get accustomed. Foolish to even think of the subject, thought I, standing on an embankment in Gagra.
There was no wind; a storm was far out at sea and here it only showed itself to be powerful but slightly slow with blows on the beaches.
Vacationers argued about water and atmospheric phenomena. Middle-aged Georgians were excitedly explaining to elderly couples why the water temperature varies in the Black Sea.
“But, Gogi, you forget about the current, Gogi!” said and old lady capriciously, saying with pleasure the name Gogi.
“Current?” for some reason excited, exclaimed the Georgian and talked about the current. He spoke of the current, of the Mediterranean Sea and of the straits of Bosporus and the Dardanelles. He strongly distorted Russian words, every so often passing into his own language. It felt like he was well versed in the substance of the question, just anxiety prevented him from explaining everything as is.
“How, Gogi,” the woman drawled, absent-mindedly; looking somewhere to the side, “is it that the Mediterranean flows here?”
Her husband said weightily:
“Oh no. To here stretches the Black Sea from the Great, or Pacific, Ocean; that’s how it is.”
It was hard to bear it all for Gogi. He almost cried, explained something about the Gulf Stream, about different currents and about the Black Sea. He knew everything well and, maybe, was a specialist in this field, but excitement hindered him.
“From the Great, or Pacific,” repeated the old vacationer under the velour hat, with happiness.
Nervously, but politely saying goodbye, the Georgian left in the dark, the couple made their way arm-in-arm along the waterfront. It felt strange to me because they were completely devoted to each other and they had a one and the same concept of the world in which we live.
I too walked along the waterfront. The lights of Gagra hung over me. Cabins here climb high on the mountain, but now the outline of the mountain could not be seen; the mountain merges with the dark sky, and one might think that the top floors of skyscrapers shine at night. I passed excursion buses, they stood in a row near the waterfront.
In the tunnel under palms floated the lights of cigarettes. I walked towards these lights every now and then forgetting that this is exactly why I go here, under the palms, to think only! I, an old recluse, walk myself under the palms. Essentially, I was still there, from where I had come. There, where in the morning I had breakfast at the milk bar, shined shoes of a fellow shoe-shiner and bought newspapers. There, where, one hour before departure, I dropped by the telephone booth, got a number and in response to a sleepy voice said that I’m leaving and after long and nervous questions even said to where. There, from where I came, smelt of exhaust and gas like a nearby bus terminal; not a luxuriously fragrant bouquet, like this avenue bordered by palm trees.
“A star fell,” said a feminine voice ahead, sounding like a great effort.
“Make a wish,” responded a man.
“You need to make it when it falls, and now is already late,” said the woman without a trace of despair.
“Make it a post facto one,” advised the man with authority, and I saw the heavy velvet contours of a hat ahead.
Along the horizon, cutting off the bay from all the rest of the sea, a search light beam passed. I went to sleep. In the hall of the leisure house an attendant handed me a telegram on which was written: “I leave the train, we will soon be together.” It wasn’t necessary to strain your brain so long - the telegram was from Nika. Rather, from Vera. The fact is that her name is Veronika. All friends called her Nika and she liked this; I persistently call her Vera and this is additional cause for constant bickering.
The fact is that this woman, Nika-Vera-Veronika, not many years ago imagined that I appeared in this world only in order to be her husband. We all then simply were driven insane from the song: “John, I need only you.” She played this every evening 15 times and Veronica hummed along every time: “Genka, I only need you.” I thought then that this was simply a joke, and here you are!
The funny thing is, that it all drags on a couple years already. I hang up the telephone from her studio, spend weeks and months on business trips, meet sometimes with other women and even get in affairs. I kept forgetting about Vera, I just completely forget about her existence, but in some moment she still dials me or comes herself, radiant, rosy-cheeked, obsessed with her idea that she needs only me, and beautiful, oh how beautiful!
“Bored?” she asks.
“And how,” I reply.
“Well, hello,” she says and approaches very closely.
And I put aside that for the moment, I am in the hands of pencil, box, folder with papers. In the morning, not leaving a note, I move to a friend's place in an empty dacha. Hello! I again got away safe and sound.
“In any case,” she says sometimes, “I free you from certain worries, in this way I benefit the state.”
She says this cynically and bitterly, but this is her affectation.
Also here, have some music.
The original Russian, for any who may be interested.
A Change of Lifestyle
by Vasily Aksyonov
1 Aviation plays strange tricks with us. When I arrive somewhere by plane, I want to swear at geography. This is because between those places, from where I come and the Caucasus’ Black Sea coast, it turns out there are no Central Russian Uplands, nor forest steppes, nor steppes. It turns out between us there are simply a few hours of flight. Two dirtied issues of “Lights,” four smiling stewardesses, candy at takeoff and candy at landing time. It would be time to get accustomed. Foolish to even think of the subject, thought I, standing on an embankment in Gagra.
There was no wind; a storm was far out at sea and here it only showed itself to be powerful but slightly slow with blows on the beaches.
Vacationers argued about water and atmospheric phenomena. Middle-aged Georgians were excitedly explaining to elderly couples why the water temperature varies in the Black Sea.
“But, Gogi, you forget about the current, Gogi!” said and old lady capriciously, saying with pleasure the name Gogi.
“Current?” for some reason excited, exclaimed the Georgian and talked about the current. He spoke of the current, of the Mediterranean Sea and of the straits of Bosporus and the Dardanelles. He strongly distorted Russian words, every so often passing into his own language. It felt like he was well versed in the substance of the question, just anxiety prevented him from explaining everything as is.
“How, Gogi,” the woman drawled, absent-mindedly; looking somewhere to the side, “is it that the Mediterranean flows here?”
Her husband said weightily:
“Oh no. To here stretches the Black Sea from the Great, or Pacific, Ocean; that’s how it is.”
It was hard to bear it all for Gogi. He almost cried, explained something about the Gulf Stream, about different currents and about the Black Sea. He knew everything well and, maybe, was a specialist in this field, but excitement hindered him.
“From the Great, or Pacific,” repeated the old vacationer under the velour hat, with happiness.
Nervously, but politely saying goodbye, the Georgian left in the dark, the couple made their way arm-in-arm along the waterfront. It felt strange to me because they were completely devoted to each other and they had a one and the same concept of the world in which we live.
I too walked along the waterfront. The lights of Gagra hung over me. Cabins here climb high on the mountain, but now the outline of the mountain could not be seen; the mountain merges with the dark sky, and one might think that the top floors of skyscrapers shine at night. I passed excursion buses, they stood in a row near the waterfront.
In the tunnel under palms floated the lights of cigarettes. I walked towards these lights every now and then forgetting that this is exactly why I go here, under the palms, to think only! I, an old recluse, walk myself under the palms. Essentially, I was still there, from where I had come. There, where in the morning I had breakfast at the milk bar, shined shoes of a fellow shoe-shiner and bought newspapers. There, where, one hour before departure, I dropped by the telephone booth, got a number and in response to a sleepy voice said that I’m leaving and after long and nervous questions even said to where. There, from where I came, smelt of exhaust and gas like a nearby bus terminal; not a luxuriously fragrant bouquet, like this avenue bordered by palm trees.
“A star fell,” said a feminine voice ahead, sounding like a great effort.
“Make a wish,” responded a man.
“You need to make it when it falls, and now is already late,” said the woman without a trace of despair.
“Make it a post facto one,” advised the man with authority, and I saw the heavy velvet contours of a hat ahead.
Along the horizon, cutting off the bay from all the rest of the sea, a search light beam passed. I went to sleep. In the hall of the leisure house an attendant handed me a telegram on which was written: “I leave the train, we will soon be together.” It wasn’t necessary to strain your brain so long - the telegram was from Nika. Rather, from Vera. The fact is that her name is Veronika. All friends called her Nika and she liked this; I persistently call her Vera and this is additional cause for constant bickering.
The fact is that this woman, Nika-Vera-Veronika, not many years ago imagined that I appeared in this world only in order to be her husband. We all then simply were driven insane from the song: “John, I need only you.” She played this every evening 15 times and Veronica hummed along every time: “Genka, I only need you.” I thought then that this was simply a joke, and here you are!
The funny thing is, that it all drags on a couple years already. I hang up the telephone from her studio, spend weeks and months on business trips, meet sometimes with other women and even get in affairs. I kept forgetting about Vera, I just completely forget about her existence, but in some moment she still dials me or comes herself, radiant, rosy-cheeked, obsessed with her idea that she needs only me, and beautiful, oh how beautiful!
“Bored?” she asks.
“And how,” I reply.
“Well, hello,” she says and approaches very closely.
And I put aside that for the moment, I am in the hands of pencil, box, folder with papers. In the morning, not leaving a note, I move to a friend's place in an empty dacha. Hello! I again got away safe and sound.
“In any case,” she says sometimes, “I free you from certain worries, in this way I benefit the state.”
She says this cynically and bitterly, but this is her affectation.
Also here, have some music.
Click to view