Design of the non

by David Odell

  The truth is that the translations are the only fully functioning element in these organizations, which are, in fact, gripped by a veritable translatorial fever, somewhat morbid and unhealthy, for every word pronounced (in session or assembly) and every scrap of paper sent, whatever the subject, whoever it is, in principle, addressed to or whatever its objective (even if it's highly confidential), is immediately translated into several languages, just in case. When we're working, we translators and interpreters do nothing but translate and interpret, indiscriminately and almost without a break, for the most part without anyone knowing why something is being translated or for whom it's being interpreted, more often than not, if it's a written text, it's purely for the files and, if it's a speech, for the few odds and sods who don't understand the second language we're translating into anyway. Some idiot has only to fire off some idiotic remark to one of these organizations for it to be instantly translated into all six official languages, English, French, Spanish, Russian, Chinese and Arabic. Everything gets turned into French and into Arabic, into Chinese and Russian, be it the foolish thoughts of some enthusiast on the sidelines or some other idiot's bright idea. Even if nothing is ever done about them, they get translated. I've often had passed to me for translation invoices that merely needed paying. I'm convinced those invoices will be kept in a file somewhere until the end of time, translated, at the very least, into French and Chinese, Spanish and Arabic, English and Russian. Once I got an urgent phone call in my booth asking me to translate an (unwritten) speech about to be given by a politician who, as I myself knew from the headlines splashed across the front pages of the papers two days before, had been killed in his own country during a coup d'état that had successfully achieved its goal of overthrowing him.

  The greatest sources of tension in these international fora are not the fierce discussions between delegates and representatives on the verge of declaring war, but the occasions when, for some reason, there's no translator available to translate or, and this is not an uncommon occurrence, when the translator collapses in the middle of some report for physical or psychological reasons. You have to have a cool head in this job, not so much because of the difficulties of understanding and transmitting what is said as it is said (which is difficult enough) but because of the pressure we're under from politicians and experts, who get upset and even angry if they think there's a chance that something they say might not be translated into one of those six celebrated languages. They watch us all the time, as do our immediate but remote bosses (civil servants all of them), to make sure that we're always at our posts converting everything, omitting not a single word, into the other languages even though almost no one understands them. The one thing delegates and representatives really care about is being translated and interpreted, not having their speeches and reports approved of and applauded or having their proposals taken seriously or implemented, something which almost never happens (no approval, no applause, no being taken seriously, no implementation). At a meeting of the Commonwealth countries that took place in Edinburgh, at which, therefore, all the conference members spoke English, an Australian speaker called Flaxman was outraged when he saw that the interpreters' booths were empty and that not one of his colleagues was listening to him through the headphones provided, but were, instead, sitting in their plump seats listening to him direct through the microphone. He demanded that his words be translated and when reminded that there was no need, he frowned, uttered a foul oath and began to exaggerate his already thick Australian accent to the point where it became unintelligible to members of other countries and even to certain members of his own, who all started complaining and immediately fell victim to the reflex action of the hardened congress member who reaches for the headphones the moment anyone utters anything he can't understand. On finding that, contrary to custom, nothing issued forth from those headphones (not the slightest sound, clear or confused), they grew even more vociferous in their protests, and Flaxman threatened to go in person to one of the cabins and act as his own interpreter. He was already halfway down the aisle when someone intervened and an Australian interpreter was swiftly found to occupy the cabin and to turn into standard English the words his compatriot, a real "larrikin" to use the term he himself would have employed, was proclaiming from the platform in his incomprehensible accent typical of the inner city areas and docklands of Melbourne, Adelaide or Sydney. When he saw that a translator was now at his post duly mirroring the ideas contained in his speech, representative Flaxman immediately calmed down and, without his colleagues even noticing, since by then they'd all decided to listen to him indirectly through their headphones, through which everything sounds somehow both much more hesitant and much more important, resumed his normal, neutral, more or less correct diction. This was the culmination of the translatorial fever that pervades and dominates international fora, a translation from English into English, not entirely accurate either it would seem, since the rebellious Australian congress member spoke too fast for the inexperienced Australian interpreter to be able to repeat it all at the same speed, omitting nothing.

  It's odd how, deep down, all assembly members have more confidence in what they hear through their headphones, that is, through the interpreters, than in what they hear (the same thing only more coherently expressed) directly from the speaker, even if they're perfectly capable of understanding the speaker's own language. It's odd because, in fact, no one can be sure that what the translator translates from his isolated cabin is correct or true and I need hardly say that, on many occasions, it's neither one nor the other, due to ignorance, laziness, distraction or malice on the part of the interpreter doing the interpreting, or a bad hangover. That's the accusation levelled at them by translators (that is, translators of written texts): whilst every invoice and every scrap of nonsense laboured over by the translators in their gloomy offices is relentlessly exposed to malicious revisions, and every error detected, denounced or even fined, no one bothers to check the words that the interpreters launch unthinkingly into the air from their cabins. Interpreters hate translators and translators hate interpreters (just as simultaneous translators hate consecutive translators and consecutive translators hate simultaneous translators) and, having worked as both translator and interpreter (though now I work solely as an interpreter, the advantages outweigh the fact that it leaves you utterly drained and affects your psyche), I'm familiar with the feelings associated with both jobs. Interpreters think of themselves as being some kind of demigod or demidiva simply because they're on view to politicians and representatives and deputy delegates, who live only for them, or rather for their presence and the work they do. There's no denying that they are on view to the world's leaders, which is why they're always so impeccably turned out, dressed up to the nines, and it's not uncommon to glimpse them through the glass walls of their booths applying lipstick, combing their hair, adjusting the knot of a tie, plucking out hairs with tweezers, brushing off specks of dust from their suit or trimming their sideburns (they always have a vanity mirror to hand). This, of course, creates unease and rancour amongst the translators of written texts, hidden away in their squalid, shared offices, but also a sense of responsibility that makes them feel infinitely more serious and competent than the vain interpreters with their nice little individual booths, transparent, soundproof and even perfumed in some cases (favouritism is not unknown). Everyone despises and detests everyone else, but we all have one thing in common, which is that not one of us knows a thing about any of the fascinating topics I mentioned earlier. Despite the fact that I translated all the speeches and texts I spoke of before, I can barely remember a single word, not that I ever did and not because there's a limit to how much information the memory can retain, but because, even at the moment I was translating I could remember nothing, that is, even then I had no idea what the speaker was saying nor what I said subsequently or, as one imagines happens, simultaneously. He or she said it and I said or repeated it, but in a mechanical way that has nothing whatso
ever to do with intellection (more than that, the two activities are completely at odds), for you can only repeat more or less accurately what you hear if you neither understand nor assimilate any of it (especially if you're receiving and transmitting without pause) and the same thing happens with written texts of this type, which have no literary merit whatsoever and which you never get the chance to correct or ponder over or go back to. So all the valuable information to which people might imagine we translators and interpreters working in international organizations are privy, in fact, escapes us completely, from beginning to end, from top to bottom, we haven't a clue about what's brewing or being plotted and planned in the world, not the slightest glimmer. And even if, sometimes, in our rest periods, we stay behind to listen to the great men without translating them, the identical terminology used by all of them is utterly incomprehensible to anyone in his or her right mind, so that if occasionally, for some inexplicable reason, we do manage to retain a few phrases, the fact is that we then deliberately forget them as quickly as possible, because keeping that inhuman jargon in your head for any longer than the time it takes to translate it into the second language or second jargon is an unnecessary torment, positively harmful to our battered equilibrium.

  What with one thing and another, I often wonder with some alarm if anyone understands anything of what anyone says during those meetings, especially in the strictly rhetorical sessions. For, even if one accepts that the assembly members do understand each other's primitive argot, there's still nothing to stop the interpreters making any changes they like to the content of the speeches and no possibility of any real control or available time for denials or amendments. The only way to control us completely would be to have a second translator there, equipped with headphones and microphone, who would simultaneously translate us back into the original language, in order to check how effectively we were saying what was being said in the room at that moment. But, in that case, you'd need a third translator, similarly equipped, who would, in turn, check the second translator and retranslate their words and perhaps a fourth to watch over the third and thus, I'm afraid, ad infinitum, translators checking interpreters and interpreters checking translators, speakers checking congress members and typists checking orators, translators checking polticians and ushers checking interpreters. Everyone would watch everyone else and no one would listen to or transcribe anything which, in the long run, would lead to the suspension of all sessions and congresses and assemblies and the permanent closure of all international organizations. It's therefore preferable to take a few risks and put up with the incidents (sometimes serious) and the misunderstandings (sometimes enduring) that inevitably arise from interpreters' inaccuracies and even though we rarely add jokes of our own (we'd risk losing our job), it's hard sometimes to resist slipping in the occasional falsehood. The international representatives and our immediate bosses have no option but to trust us, likewise the leading politicians from the different countries where our services are required outside of the international organizations, at the meetings known as "summits", or on the official visits they all make to each other on friendly, enemy or neutral territory. It is, however, true that on such lofty occasions, upon which depend important commercial agreements, non-aggression pacts, plots against third parties and even declarations of war or armistice, some greater control over the interpreter is sometimes attempted by using a second translator who will not, of course, actually re-translate (that would cause tremendous confusion), but will listen intently to the first translator and keep an eye on him and confirm that he is, in fact, translating what he's supposed to be translating. That was how I met Luisa, who, for some reason, was considered more responsible, trustworthy and loyal than I and was chosen as supervisory interpreter (security interpreters they're called, or safety-net interpreters, so that they end up being called the "net", very ugly) to ratify or repudiate my words during the extremely high-level private meetings held in our country about two years ago between our representatives and those of the United Kingdom.

  Such scrupulousness doesn't really make much sense, in fact, since the more high-ranking the politicians, the less important is what they say amongst themselves and the less serious any error or transgression on our part. I suppose they take these precautions just to save face and so that in press photos and in television shots, there are always these stiff individuals perched uncomfortably on a chair between the two leaders, who, on the other hand, usually occupy plump armchairs or wide-screen sofas; and the sight of two individuals sitting, notebook in hand, on those extremely hard chairs only heightens the impression TV viewers and newspaper readers will take away with them of a particularly icy summit. But die fact is that on these visits these high-ranking politicians are always accompanied by a whole team of advisors, experts, scientists and specialists (doubtless the same people who write the speeches which the high-ranking politicians give and we translate), who, whilst almost invisible to the press, hold their own behind-the-scenes meetings with their counterparts in the country they're visiting. They're the ones who discuss and decide and actually know things, they write the bilateral agreements, establish the terms of co-operation, deliver the veiled or overt threats, make public any disputes, indulge in mutual blackmail and try to get the best possible deal for their respective states (they usually speak more than one language and are extremely devious, sometimes they have no need of us at all). The politicians, on the other hand, haven't the faintest idea about what's going on or only find out when it's all over. They simply lend their faces to the photos and the filming, take part in some vast supper or gala ball and put their signature to the documents their advisors hand them at the end of the trip. What they say to each other, therefore, is of minimal importance and, what is even more embarrassing, they often have absolutely nothing to say to each other. All translators and interpreters know this, but we must nonetheless always be present at these private encounters for three main reasons: the highest-ranking politicians generally know no other language but their own; if we weren't there they'd feel that not enough importance was being given to their chatter; and should an argument break out they can always put the blame on us.

  On that occasion the high-ranking Spanish politician was male and the high-ranking British politician was female and it was, presumably, considered appropriate that the first interpreter should in turn be male and the second, the "net", should be female, in order to create an atmosphere of complicity and sexual balance. I sat perched on my purgatorial chair between the two leaders and Luisa sat on her equally penitential chair a little to my right, that is, between the female leader and myself but a little behind me, like some threatening, supervisory figure, watching the back of my neck, and whom I could only just glimpse out of the corner of my left eye (though I did have a perfect view of her long crossed legs and her new shoes from Prada, the brand name being the nearest thing to me). I won't deny that I'd already taken a good look at her (that is, involuntarily) when we first went into the small, intimate room (decorated in the worst possible taste), when she was introduced to me and before we sat down, while the photographers were taking their photos and the two high-ranking politicians were pretending to talk to each other for the benefit of the television cameras. They had to pretend because our high-ranking politician knew not a word of English (well, when he said goodbye he did risk a "Good luck") and the high-ranking British politician knew not a word of Spanish (although she did say "Buen dia" to me as she gave me an iron handshake). So while the former was mumbling gibberish in Spanish, inaudible to cameras and photographers, all the time keeping a broad smile trained on his guest, as if he were regaling her with interesting banter (what he said was not, however, inaudible to me: I seem to remember that he kept repeating "One, two, three, four, five, what a lovely time we're going to have"), the latter was muttering nonsense in her own language, and smiling even more broadly than him ("Cheese," she kept saying, which is what all English people being photographed are told to say, and then various unt
ranslatable onomatopoeic words such as "Tweedle tweedle, biddle diddle, twit and fiddle, tweedle twang").

  I must admit that, for my part, I too involuntarily smiled a lot at Luisa during those early stages when our intervention was as yet unnecessary (she only half-smiled back at me, after all she was there to check up on me); and when it was necessary and we were sitting down, there was no way I could continue to look at her or smile at her, given the position of our two murderously uncomfortable seats. However, just what form our intervention would take was not immediately apparent since, as soon as the journalists had been ushered out ("That's enough now," our high- ranking politician had said, raising one hand, the hand he wore his wedding ring on), and a chamberlain or factotum had gone out closing the door behind him and leaving the four of us alone ready for lofty conversation, I with my notebook and Luisa with hers on her lap, an abrupt silence fell, completely unexpected and extremely awkward. My mission was a delicate one and my ears were extra alert as I waited for the first meaningful words to be uttered, which would give me the tone of the conversation and which I would then have to translate. I looked first at our leader and then at their leader and then back again at ours. She was gazing down at her pale fingers some distance away from her and studying her nails with a look of perplexity on her face. He was feeling the pockets of his jacket and trousers, not like someone who genuinely can't find what he's looking for, but like someone pretending not to find what he's looking for in order to gain time (for example, someone looking for a non-existent train ticket when asked to show it to the conductor). It was like being in a dentist's waiting room and for a moment I was afraid our representative might get up and start handing out magazines. I glanced round at Luisa, raised my eyebrows questioningly and she made a gesture with her hands (not a severe gesture) recommending patience. At last, the high-ranking Spanish politician took a metal cigarette case (rather a vulgar one) out of his pocket, which he'd already felt at least ten times, and asked his colleague: "Listen, do you mind if I smoke?" I hurriedly translated his words: "Do you mind if I smoke, madam?" I said.