“Two dollars a word…? But…”
“That’s right: two dollars. If you want a Pascal Smithie translation, you’re going to have to pay accordingly!”
“…but we’re a small agency,” the voice fretted through the earpiece, “we just don’t have that kind of money.”
“Well, maybe you’d better look for another translator within your budget then,” Pascal scowled.
“Can we just…?” Pascal dropped the call and picked up another coming in. It was his colleague Bartholomew.
“Hey, Barth, what’s doin’?”
“I’ve got writer’s block. You want to go to the Lonesome Word to get a cup of java?”
“Sounds good, I’m stuck on a phrase myself.”
On the way out of his Upper-Westside brownstone, Pascal reminded the maid to do his laundry. She timidly acceded. She was new to the job and still felt somewhat intimidated working for the internationally acclaimed translator. It was a dream come true. He was friendly to her within the limits of his lofty stature and paid generously for her services.
Pascal had passed his deadline, but he wasn’t letting it get to him. His clients knew not to rush him, since a good translation takes time. He had run up against an idiomatic conundrum and needed to take a break to reflect upon it, to discuss it with his esteemed colleagues. It was time to go to the Lonesome Word and chew the fat. Bartholomew had hit the magic number.
As Pascal absent-mindedly wandered down W. 78th Street, he pondered the Spanish source text: “Para cualquier litigio que surja entre las partes de la interpretación o cumplimiento del presente contrato…” He’d translated the like of it umpteen times, but he was bent on transforming it into something special. After all, that’s what his clients expected of him. “Translation is an art,” he always said, and he had to render the full beauty of the original. But the afternoon rush-hour traffic was crowding out his thoughts.
Bartholomew was seated behind an espresso when Pascal opened the door, but Barth didn’t notice his buddy enter the café. He was peering off towards the sky, contemplating his current project. For you see, translation is always about the beauty of the word. It was these long ruminations, which are part and parcel of this profession, that motivated these two dreamers to enter the trade. And they were handsomely compensated for their efforts. They were the best in the field and could charge their clients—who valued nothing more in life than a good translation—virtually as much as they wanted.
“What’ll it be?” asked the waitress.
“Be careful what you ask, you might just get it,” Pascal snidely replied to the pretty young lady. Her name was Daisy and Pascal knew she was partial to him. But she had been burned by more than one translator in the past. She had since resigned herself to solitude until she found a nice doctor or lawyer to grow old with. “Just a regular coffee, sweetheart,” Pascal finally ordered. “Do your magic with it!”
“Pascal, I need to talk to you,” Barth implored. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve translated one employee survey too many.”
“What’s the matter, Barth? I thought that was your calling. After all, there’s nothing more essential to corporate good conduct. How many times have I heard you say that yourself?” Pascal asked with worry.
“Yes, and I still believe that. But aesthetically I mean. I entered this profession for the love of language. I want to inspire with my translations! To change the way people see the world! Remember when we were in college and we had those endless philosophical discussions about how translations could bring about a different world? How we would reconcile battling nations? But it wasn’t just about the content. It was about…”—the two finished the sentence in unison—“THE BEAUTY OF THE WORD.”
“Yes, Pascal, that was our vow. I don’t care about the money anymore, the girls, the club… it’s just the words that matter.”
“Listen, Barth,” Pascal queried, seeming unimpressed by his buddy’s pleadings, “speaking of the beauty of the word, I’m stuck on a phrase that I need your help with.” As Pascal spoke, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He zeroed in on the phrase in question and ran it by his comrade in arms:
“‘Para cualquier litigio que surja entre las partes de la interpretación o cumplimiento del presente contrato…’ I need to make it into something transcendent. I don’t want it to be just another sales contract.”
Bartholomew stared at Pascal for a long moment, as though fathoming the depths of meaning of the phrase. Pascal gave a long sigh and then spoke: “You know what, Barth, what we really need is just to get away from it all. To just take some time to think this all through. You can’t rush these things. Here, let me call the agency.” Pascal pulled out his smartphone and dialed.
“Yes, Whitney?…Yes, it’s Pascal…Oh, I’m fine. How about you?…Glad to hear. Listen, Whitney, I’m sitting here with my colleague Bartholomew and both of us…yes, sure, I’ll tell him. I was just saying that the two of us are thinking we need to get away from it all for a while. Can you call the travel department and have them book a trip for the two of us to Mallorca for a month? It’s just that we’ve reached an impasse… I know quality is all that matters to you. That’s why I’m asking you… I know he’s not working on anything for you now, but I’d really appreciate it… okay, great. I can guarantee you that I’ll have a masterpiece for you when I get back.”
As Pascal hung up his phone, Harvey Lechuga was just swaggering up with a gorgeous young woman in each arm.
“Hey, Saint Jerome, where are your dictionaries?”
Pascal and Bartholomew were elated to see him. “Hey, Harvey!” exclaimed Pascal.
“Hey, if it isn’t ACS’s star case manager!” emoted Bartholomew. “What’s in the plans?”
“We were just about to head for the club. Let’s go, guys!”
The table was sizable and round. In addition to Harvey, Barth, and Pascal, Joey Paraguas had joined them; six women of supermodel caliber were also seated at the table. A jazz band, led by an elegant chanteuse, was playing, and the abundant wait staff was tending to the every whim of the club’s lavish clientele.
“Tell another story about your job, Harvey!” insisted one of the belles at Harvey’s side. “I’ve never met a social worker before.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bore you,” answered Harvey. Then the young lady at Joey’s side chimed in: “Oh, please do, Harvey! I bet Joey could use it as material for one of his articles.”
Joey sneered, “I only write two articles a year. With what the newspapers pay me for my work, it really isn’t necessary for me to work any more. I’m on vacation till New Year’s.”
Leonard Morin 