Assays by an Interpreter

[Mütercim]

COLD FACE OF DEATH


Lung Oncology specialist confirmed the correct pronunciation of the patient`s surname. An overweight woman of 55-60 years of age and a man of about the same age, together with their 10 year old grandson walked in. I greeted them. Explained my duties and we all sat. The man had a confused but confident face. The woman looked worried, she was cuddling the grandson. The doctor first started to ask objective questions about the patient`s history. When the doctor asked whether he smoked the patient proudly said` I gave up 4 years ago`. The woman also smiled `Yes he did, look how young he looks` . The patients hair was unusually black. `He dyed it` I thought... He was clean shaven with a neatly trimmed ` Turk` moustache.
`Hmmmmm` hummed the doctor and reached for the film folder that the man was holding in his hand.
The patient lifted the heavy bag and murmured `here are the results, will you tell me at last` He was scared.
The man had been having pain to left side of chest, back, hot flushes, tiredness etc.
By this time, from the way the doctor look concerned, I felt there was something bad to interpret that day. I don`t like such days.
He fingered through the films and pulled a couple of them, holding them skillfully and determining the most recent one from the stickers placed on the corners.
I looked at the patient and than the wife. Their gazes were fixated to the doctor`s hands.
The doctor carefully placed a film on the wiever.
It was a chest x-ray.
It had a small patch of dark near the center.
`This, was what worried us`
Pulled that down and put a new film on. This was a detailed scan.
He pointed to one of the square cuts ` This is I`m afraid cancer`
The man slumped back on his chair. Eyes gazing directly in my eyes. I averted my eyes towards the woman. Tears were pouring from her eyes.
I had already interpreted. The doctor continued `………we can operate on this and take it . If its not already spread into other areas…..`
`He had stopped smoking years ago, I was so happy, why god` the wife spoke…
the doctor explained that the patient had to continue treatment at another center, which specialized in malignant cancer. The patient and his wife had never heard of this hospital. The child was patting the tears on grandmother`s face with the corner of her headscarf.
The door was knocked. The head of Oncology appeared. Both the Doctor and I got up. The patient and his wife looked in shock. Dazed. The situation must have looked surreal to them. There was a spooky silence for a minute or so. We could hear the humming noises of the hospital but the room was silent. The doctor started mumbling addressing the Professor. Pointing to the film. I could barely hear what they were saying. The patient and his wife were lost in translation. They were looking at me with querying eyes.
I stepped closer to the doctors.
The specialist, covering the vision of the patient, put his left hand over his mouth, scratching his lips and slightly tilted his head towards left and looked at the professor ` This is deadly` he said `..I couldn’t really tell him we can`t operate on this lung.. we should still treat him though…`
Nodded the professor `Hmmmm…`
Looked into my eyes. I stepped back. He left the room.
I didn`t interpret the last sentences between the doctors.
They left.

[Paylaşım]

If an English interpreter wrote this essay, all I got to say is 'Yuh', how can a human being write in such a way, in which they don't (or forget to) include some of the important 'grammatical' structures that play a great role and which is commonly most essential for the conclusion of the prevailing essay?

The layout is also awful too!
What a piece of *goodness*

[EoS]

`Hmmmmm` hummed the doctor...

how a silly sentence..

I like the passage.Thanks.

[Mütercim]

Dear Reader and esspines,

Ummmmm...Thanks for the encouraging comments! Why don't we correct the "essay" together and do a bit of goodness!

[Mütercim]

Dear Reader and essnipes,
I've had a further look at your profiles. Looks like you have an opinion on anything and everything but I'm yet to see an english text written by either of you.
And dear reader, you say " how can a human being write in such a way" ! I didn't know that non-humans could write.
Let's be constructive and learn English together..

[Mütercim]

THE NIGHT MANAGER

At last, he found an advertisement of a cheap hotel in Earls Court in a magazine that is published only for certain travelers. Australian and New Zealanders. Others read it as well. It had different sections to cater for almost any need of a traveler in London. What subjects it had in it was related to his present situation. He had been going in and out of jobs, hostels houses. Sometimes he slept under the staircases of apartment blocks. Just because he wanted to or many times he just had to. Those cold nights long, he prayed he would not be seen by any passers by. He feared to be seen sleeping on the streets...embaressed...like street kids...

Some called it "the low life", a typical aristocratic expression. To him this was not low, this was out and right "the pits”. How was one supposed to survive when one was "down”?

He had been staying at a cheap hotel for the last couple of weeks, sometimes on the couch in the dining room. He had to wake up at a certain time; under the discretion of “night manager”, a tall, slim and fit men of about 25 years of age with fuzzy brown hair. His favorite topic was the law studies he had left back in Scheilles Islands. He was expelled from his country. He described himself as a political prisoner, always pushing his thick glasses up towards the bridge of his shapely nose as he spoke. He would wave his left index finger in the air as if speaking to a crowd. At the end of each sentence, he would let out a questioning “yeah", waiting for you to approve. One of the other favorite topics was the functioning of ones consciousness. He wanted to take control of his subconscious, he said. The way to do it was through complete relaxation of ones body and soul. That is exactly what Mehmet did. Often nodding, already hypnotized by the managers hand movements.

The night manager loved to talk about black magic too.

Mehmet had to listen to the night manager as long as he talked. Those precious times spent listening to the manager just to get cheap and sometimes free accommodation.

The stairways of the hotel were so old that every time you walked they squeaked. Manager was there to warn you to walk slowly...Those warnings just infuriated Mehmet. Who would hear you walking at 3 am? Even so, who cares...? However, the manager accepted whatever you paid him so long as you had left the hotel before 7 am. Just before the boss arrives.

One early morning Mehmet came back to the hotel to get a cup of free coffee. He had not even had a penny in his pocket. He selfishly thought that the manager would let him have a free cup of coffee. There were no one in the office as he walked in. Paperwork from previous night were strewn over the table. He walked downstairs where the kitchen was. There, the manager was busy preparing breakfast for the guests. Filling tiny bowls with jam out of an industrial size tin.
"Hey...what are you doing here man, didnt I tell you not to come in the hotel in the morning the boss will be here in a minute..." he shouted at Mehmet.
Mehmet was stunned " I ...I just came in to have a cup of coffee with you" he just muttered. He had not slept at the hotel that night. He had spent the rainy night under a staircase opposite the theater, dreaming of becoming a rich man as he gazed through the billboards announcing the premier of AIDA opera...

1988

[Mütercim]

WHEN THE TULIPS ARE GROWN 1

She was tall for a European girl.

Her hair was long; black as coal, chic and healthy. They shined like a grain field under the summer sun. Somehow she reminded me of an innocent school girl. She had more to her looks than what one saw. One could feel there was someone else within this shapely body. She did not only look innocent but smart also; she was the kind of woman who knew when to be a woman.

She was from Mostara, a small town in Yugoslavia, which was devastated many times in the history by invaders from other lands and lately, once more by Serbian Chetniks.

Having lived amongst the villagers of my country in the past, I could expect much less from a truly innocent village girl. Though, I didn’t know what little Yugoslavian towns had to offer to its inhabitants.

I felt drawn to her the moment I set my eyes upon her in the cafeteria that I had started to frequent for its coffee and distinctive Mediterranean atmosphere. A cup of black coffee along with a glass of pure water always subdued me whilst I gazed through the window on the passers by, trying to get to their work, on dull London mornings and tried to make sense of my presence in this country. If my coffee was served well, that day would dictate the rest of my day. Everything, every event, every color and everybody around me seemed so unrealistically related, so intertwined, as if all were in cyberspace.

She reminded me of a long lost friend back home in Australia.

She had a round and white face with dark eyes set like rubies on a crown. Thick, bow like eyebrows pierced through ones vision, burning all the ill thoughts immediately. The first time I saw her she wore a knee long black skirt, duly covering her shape. A black jumper loosely hung around her waist. With the white shirt waitresses wore, she looked like a mature mother.. She caught my gaze and gave a small smile back on the sides of her pink lips. Shy, she flicked her long hair towards the back of her head with her long and perfectly shaped fingers. My heart beat increased. I yearned to know what was behind that innocently shy look. I yearned to see what the rags covering her body hid.

It was that crushing smile that had encouraged me to address to her. I wasn’t just a customer who was just about to leave a large tip to the flirty waitress mind you, but an admirer; a courtier; a knight. She agreed to meet me the following evening.

The coffee had tasted better; apparently she had worked on night shifts until that morning.

It was rainy. There slapped you water everywhere, water chattered; water soaked up the suns rays, water gushed through mossy gutters of old town houses, from the curbs water rushed , Good Year brand tire of black London cabs cut through water surging from side streets, water dripped from neon lights hung loosely off the sand stone blocks, splashing colors through the hurrying footsteps of working bodies who had knocked off work barely 15 minutes ago. Water gurgled down heavy iron, 19. Century drainage covers in big whirlpools, water shyly sought refuge in the crevices of ones heavily covered neck, water splashed off Victorian shop awnings, slid off the stone monuments of heroes past and animals blessed with the grace, water made you feel wet. Water became condensed on thick glass of coffee shop windows.

The night was red outside. My toes all crinkled up from being in water for so long. They turned a sickening white like the inside of the guts of a goat. They hid under one another, seeking warmth. My legs trembled of excitement, an unknown joy overwhelmed me. Three steps more and the foggy door window appeared. My hand on the door handle, I looked through; one second, two seconds, three seconds… “She is not in the shop! She is supposed to meet me here” I thought. My left hand is fidgeting within my pocket it’s housed. Say, what if she changed her mind? The door is open now. Another step and I’m inside.

-Is,…

Before I complete my sentence, the Greek owner points up somewhere behind me. A door leading to upstairs.

This must be where she stays. I’m surprised. I meant meet her in the shop but apparently she lived in the small room just above the shop.

Fierce eyed Greek owner is silently moving about, wiping wine glasses, coffee cups, mugs, long glasses, short glasses, thick or thin glasses, saucers, knives and forks; wiping the fog off the window to allow bright red and yellow lights seeping through streaks of water left on the window; he replaces the cups, re-changes the places of cake plates rotating on a revolving cylindrical cut glass, fixated on a rod so as to turn continuously on a circular motion. He cleans them, wipes off fly shit and pieces of strawberry, banana, custard, shepherd pie, choc caramel, honey buns, carrot cake or whatever else cake on exhibit, which one of the cook ladies had fancied to cook for her husband a couple of days before, but because of the poor fuck she received, had not and on the heat of the moment, like a dog on heat would will want to do, brought it in to be sold to unwary customer. His short, frighteningly strong knee length moves and his rich ownership emerge in his exorbitant posture.

I saw the beautiful hand first, looking like polished beaks of long necked flamingoes; Melha's hand released the door handle. Her eyes gleamed, sparkled, shimmered, almond shaped eye surrounded the lights, the water, the cutlery and the Greek owner stopped gazing.

-I am taking my luggage too. She trilled in whisper, loud enough for the boss to hear.

“Good luck” Replied the boss, lost in words.

Her stockings were patched with spots of water caught in between the stretched knots of nylon, stretching more and in a repetitive motion on her calf in each elegant step in to the pools of water on the pedestrian path, changing their shape in each movement. Water released from her skin, stuck on nylon thread. Not having anywhere else to escape, water preferred to stick to the sweaty hot calf.

-The wipers are not working properly. They lost their grab…

[Mütercim]

WHEN THE TULIPS ARE GROWN 2

A distinct sexual odor fills the car. It’s wet and cold outside. Cold inside. There is no heating system. It’s freezing. It’s avoidable, but to do that is expensive! She radiates a ray of cutting, thin, momentary, flipping bubbles of moist, sticky body fragrance. Unwashed, protected, kept, purified, proud fragrance of female. The moist odor clings in the 2 m2 of air space within the run down, uncared for, rotten, puny, cramped, old and deprived car; the mobility on representation. The alloy car key had long ago lost its cutting shape. Anything could fit in the lock. Any key or anything in that shape could have the same effect on the matter of ignition. There, behind my foggy retina I could perceive the key hole. It fits.

- I didn’t know you lived up above the shop.

The sparkling piece of intense energy, within one hundredth of a second, sparked off the still warm pistons of the engine of the valiant in to a roar. The sounds of splitting drops of rain on the front screen froze and soon the rhythm of wet caught the engine’s automated beating, pounding the wheel pistons into motion.

- I have been for the last three weeks and I don’t any more…

Happy as a kid who found a few shiny marbles along the banks of lonely, pine splattered eucalyptus forests of ancient times, I mellowed. Soon the miserable air zone of the Valiant was a warm cave. A womb. She freed her hair of the oppressing protection of the black beret and leant over to her left under my biceps. A street map of London lay under her black suede stilettos. I cannot possibly remove myself of such exhilarating selflessness created by the stimuli of blood rubbing the whole inner layers of my veins, just to reach to the Map of London. I’ll find the way…

Steady. It’s raining out there. Rats wont dare to wander outside in search of scavenge. Street lamps dimly exhibit the vision of rain going through a haze of light, like firebugs screwed in the air; motionless yet continuous. Red lips lightly inject comfort on my unshaven cheek. My jaws become tense, as if a carnivore. The muscle holding the lower side of my chin to the upper side of my skull twitches uncontrollably for a crevice to fit , rest, slide, crawl, creep, lick, rub, enter, stick, fill in.

Third gear and the motion upwards, completing the third run of a five gear engine, shakes the car and now my chin finds the just point up on her skull, just where the hair parts into two rival lots of waves.

We arrive at the hostel I stay.

No need to lock the car. The rain allows us to walk about one hundred meters without the protection of an umbrella. It’s a nice walk. The stones on the path are sucking the water in. Sand stone shaped by the sweat of the slave, straining the water in; purifies the water. Selects the dirt of Kensington streets, doesn’t allow dirt to go into its womb. Clears the cigarette butts, gum packaging, hair pieces, dog shit, snot, gung, piss, vomit, wine, perfumed sweat of whores, impatient semen off men, the dust in the air, broken pieces of memories, cunt juice. A worn piece of thick green colored glass, caught between the tongues of the drainage grill, anything alien to the earth were also interrupted. Water glides through. Relieved off burdens and hugs the earth, claims its self back, leaves the dead up on the surface.

The stairway of a 5 storey building, architected so as to save as much as space as can be from the little block of collateral mortgaged to lord something or other in the 17th century is cold. The Scotts roamed the hills than. The cold terracotta screams and creaks under the leather soles of floresheim shoes. The flat I stay has 3 large bedrooms, each capable of containing 4 bodies; one on top of other in bunker style. The scent of creaking, wet soles, kitchen leftovers and full rubbish bins fill up ones nostrils. Puny enough to even give a tingle in ones nasal fossae

- Is this where you live? She asks, as we walk through the corridor...

- Eugenia Plato sleeps in this one. A Greek traveler...and I live in this room

Bare floors cling to remnants of once grandiose carpet of oriental design, a culprits wonder, image of a fake rose garden shimmers through upward thrusting pieces of wool-nylon, fake smelling, piercing, large red roses. It’s impossible not to feel in a garden of soft, flaky petals. Completely under as much as your sole could claim, the rose garden stretched endlessly over the corridor.

The window in my room is broken. We glide in hand in hand. I can hear the wind whistling through the broken glass. The dirty curtain flaps in the air, slapping the air violently. A couple of tulips I planted in a baked bean tin are just flowering.

She pushed me on to the only chair in the room. Still standing, she took out a green apple from her hand bag.
- I’m so hungry she said.

“Me too” I replied...

She smiled and bit a mouthful from the apple. She bent over and started to kiss me. My heart began to thump violently. I was electrocuted. The scent of fresh apple filled the room. I felt dizzy, sweaty. She wouldn’t let me get up off the chair until she finished her mouth watering kiss. Gently she pulled me on to the bed. She was having me…

She wanted to care, she wanted to love, and she smelled of womanhood, she was safe, clear, loving, encouraging, entertaining, and having me all. At the last moment of wonderful heights of pleasure she grabbed me, she wanted me inside, and she wanted to cover me all. I exploded in a joy of unbelievable proportions. Life, earth, seed, generation, procreation and subjugating womanhood engulfed my cells. My tulips had finally flowered...

Winter-London-1989-Revised November 2007

[Paylaşım]

Sayın Mütercim şöyle demiş:

Dear Reader and essnipes,
I've had a further look at your profiles. Looks like you have an opinion on anything and everything but I'm yet to see an english text written by either of you.
And dear reader, you say " how can a human being write in such a way" ! I didn't know that non-humans could write.
Let's be constructive and learn English together..

If I knew that it'll offend you, I wouldn't even bother criticising the writer for the text.

[Mütercim]

Sayın Individualist Anarchist şöyle demiş:

If I knew that it'll offend you, I wouldn't even bother criticising the writer for the text.

Dear Anarchist
Of course Im offended..After all, English is not my mother tongue and all Im trying to do is express myself in English. So I expect constructive critisizm. But, I am not angry..not at all. Please do continue to read and "point out" the matters you feel to be incomprehensible. That will be much appreciated.