La espera

Por muy temprano que me levantase,
y saliendo del cuarto de invitados, me asomara al pasillo,
siempre estaba mi padre allí sentado,
su oscura cabeza hundida entre las orejas
de aquel sillón de orejas. Sentado
e inmóvil, como algo hecho por alguien,
la bata abierta sobre las rodillas,
mirando fijamente la piscina
al amanecer. Para entonces ya él sabía que se moría,
y lidiaba con ello como un trabajo pendiente
que se sabe hacer. Se levantaba temprano
para el turno de noche. Cuando me sentía venir por
el pasillo, no se giraba: tenía
una manera de quedarse quieto y dejarse mirar,
como una escultura que pudiese sentir
la mirada que la envuelve,
esperaba como algo bruñido, hasta que
el borde de mi camisón entraba a escena
y sólo entonces se dignaba mirarme, sin mover
la cabeza, a la espera: el beso
le llegaba, pero él no lo buscaba.
Ahora tendría quien lo acompañase
mientras intentaba tragar una minúscula
cucharilla de té con café: ahí estaría su niña
con la escupidera, su niña para vaciarla.
Yo pasaría las horas mirándolo sestear
y despertar, sentada junto a él
hasta que el día acabara y pudiese volver a la
cama, con su esposa. No volvería a estar solo
hasta la madrugada siguiente: centinela
nocturno de la materia, sentado frente
al agua –la tierra informe y hueca,
su faz entre las sombras, como si
esperase a su hija.

The Waiting

No matter how early I would get up
and come out of the guest room, and look down the hall,
there between the wings of the wing-back chair
my father would be sitting, his head calm
and dark between the wings. He sat
unmoving, like something someone has made,
his robe fallen away from his knees,
he sat and stared at the swimming pool
in the dawn. By then, he knew he was dying,
he seemed to approach it as a job to be done
which he knew how to do. He got up early
for the graveyard shift. When he heard me coming down the
hall, he would not turn–he had
a way of holding still to be looked at,
as if a piece of sculpture could sense
the gaze which was running over it–
he would wait with that burnished, looked-at look until
the hem of my nightgown came into view,
then slew his eyes up at me, without
moving his head, and wait, the kiss
came to him, he did not go to it.
Now he would have some company
as he tried to swallow an eighth of a teaspoon
of co ee, he would have his child to give him
the cup to spit into, his child to empty it–
I would be there all day, watch him nap,
be there when he woke, sit with him
until the day ended, and he could get back into
bed with his wife. Not until the next
dawn would he be alone again, night–
watchman of matter, sitting, facing
the water – the earth without form, and void,
darkness upon the face of it as if
waiting for his daughter.

Ernesto Hernández Busto

CUADERNO DE TRADUCCIONES [ PRIMAVERA ]

LOREM IPSUM

Barcelona, 2015