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 whatsoever 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 re-translate 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 politicians 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 the 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 día” 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 untranslatable 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.
“Not if you blow the smoke upwards, sir,” replied the British leader, abandoning her study of her nails and smoothing her skirt, and I again translated.
The Spanish leader lit a cheroot (it was the size and shape of a cigarette, but dark brown, what I would call a cheroot), took a couple of puffs and carefully expelled the smoke up towards the ceiling, which, I noticed, was stained. Silence reigned once more and, after a while, he got up from his comfortable armchair, went over to a small table perhaps rather too crammed with bottles, poured himself a whisky on the rocks (I thought it odd that no waiter or butler had poured him one before) and asked:
“You don’t want a drink, I take it?”
And I translated, as I did the reply, although again adding “madam” at the end of the question.
“It’s too early for me so, no, I won’t join you, if you don’t mind.” And the Englishwoman again tugged unnecessarily at her skirt.
These long pauses and that smattering of talk or rather the dull interchange of isolated phrases were beginning to bore me. The other time I’d acted as an interpreter between two leading figures, I’d at least had the feeling that I was pretty much indispensable, given my thorough knowledge of the languages I speak. Not that they were saying anything of great importance (one was Spanish and the other Italian), but I had to reproduce a highly complicated syntax and vocabulary which would have been beyond the grasp of anyone with only an average knowledge of those languages, unlike the present situation: a child could have translated everything that had been said so far.
Our leader sat down again with his whisky in one hand and his cheroot in the other, he took a sip of his drink, sighed wearily, put down the glass, looked at his watch, smoothed the tails of his jacket, which had got caught up beneath him, again felt in his pockets for something, inhaled and exhaled more smoke, smiled – unenthusiastically now (the British leader smiled too, even less enthusiastically, and scratched her forehead with the long nails she’d looked at with such amazement at the start, and the air was filled for a moment with grains of face powder), and I realized then that the thirty to forty-five minutes we were to spend there, as if in the ante-room of a tax inspector or a notary, might well be spent simply waiting for the time to pass and for the office boy or the servant to open the door for us again, like a university porter announcing apathetically: “Time!” or a nurse shouting out in a grating voice: “Next!” I again turned round to Luisa, this time to say something under my breath to her (I think I was planning to mutter something like: “What a drag!”), but I found that she was smiling back at me, her index finger firmly to her lips which she tapped several times, indicating to me that I should remain silent. I know that I’ll never forget those smiling lips crossed by that index finger which, nevertheless, failed to conceal her smile. I think it was at that moment (or more
clearly at that moment) that I first thought it would be a good idea to get to know that woman, younger than me and extremely well shod. I think it was also the conjunction of her lips and her index finger (her open lips and the index finger sealing them, her curved lips and the straight line of the index finger dividing them) that gave me the courage to abandon accuracy altogether when I translated the next question that our extremely high-ranking politician finally asked, once he’d removed from his pocket a heavy keyring loaded with keys, which he started jingling in the most unseemly manner:
A Heart So White Page 7
