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Portuguese to Dutch English to Frisian Portuguese to Frisian French to Dutch German to Dutch French to Frisian German to Frisian Frisian to English Dutch (monolingual) Frisian (monolingual) English (monolingual) Portuguese (monolingual) French (monolingual) German (monolingual)
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English to Dutch: Mystery A General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Adele stood before the stone steps of the school, eyeing the crowd of children with the greatest of suspicion. She shook her head once, then glanced up at her mother. Her gaze didn’t have to travel far; already, Adele was taller than most of her classmates. She had hit a growth spurt when she still lived in Germany, with the Sergeant, and it hadn’t seemed to stop until this year.
Now fifteen, Adele found the boys in Paris paid more attention to her than the ones in Germany had. Still, as she stood studying the flow of students into the bilingual secondary school, she couldn’t help but feel a jolt of anxiety.
“What is it, my Cara?” her mother asked, smiling sweetly at her daughter.
Adele wrinkled her nose at the nickname, wiping her hands over the front of her school sweater and twisting the buttons on the cotton sleeves. Her mother had grown up in France, and had particular fondness for the Carambar caramels which were still popular in candy shops and gas stations. She often said the jokes written on the outside of the caramel’s wrappers were a lot like Adele: clever on the outside with a soft and sweet middle. The description made Adele gag.
Adele Sharp had her mother’s hair and good looks, but she often thought she had her father’s eyes and outlook.
“They are so noisy,” Adele replied in French, the words slow and clumsy on her tongue. The first twelve years of her life had been spent in Germany; re-acclimating to French was taking some time.
“They are children, my Cara. They are supposed to be noisy; you should try it.”
Adele frowned, shaking her head. The Sergeant had never approved of noisy children. Noise provided only distraction. It was the tool of fools and sluggish thinkers.
“It is the best school in Paris,” said her mother, reaching out a cool hand to cup her daughter’s cheek. “Give it a try, hmm?”
“Why can’t I homeschool like last year?”
“Because it is not good for you to stay trapped in that apartment with me—no, no.” Her mother clicked her tongue, making a tsking sound. “This is not good for you. You enjoyed swimming at your old school, didn’t you? Well, there is an excellent team here. I spoke with my friend Anna, and she says her daughter made tryouts the first year.”
Adele shrugged with a shoulder, smiling with one side of her mouth. She sighed and then dipped her head, trying not to stand out over the other children so much.
Her mother gave her a kiss on the cheek, which Adele returned halfheartedly. She turned to leave, hefting her school bag over one shoulder. As she trudged toward the school, the sound of the bell and milling children faded. The secondary school flashed and the walls turned gray.
Adele shook her head, confused. She turned back toward the curb. “Mother?” she said, her voice shaky. She was now in the park at night.
“Cara,” voices whispered around her from the looming, dark trees.
She stared. Twenty-two years old. It had all ended at twenty-two.
Her mother lay on the side of the bike trail, in the grass, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding…
Always bleeding.
Her dead eyes peered up at her daughter. Adele was no longer twenty-two. Now she was twenty-three, joining the DGSI, working her first case—the death of her mother. Then she was twenty-six, working for the FBI. Then thirty-two.
Tick-tock. Bleeding.
Translation - Dutch Adele stond voor de stenen stoep van de school en keek argwanend naar de drom kinderen. Ze schudde een keer met haar hoofd en keek omhoog naar haar moeder. Ver hoefde ze niet te kijken; ze was al groter dan het gros van haar klasgenoten. Ze had in Duitsland een groeistuip gekregen, toen ze nog bij de Sergeant woonden, en die had zich tot dit jaar doorgezet.
Inmiddels vijftien viel het Adele op dat de jongens in Parijs haar meer aandacht schonken dan die in Duitsland. Desondanks voelde ze een golf van onzekerheid in zich opwellen terwijl ze de schare medeleerlingen stond op te nemen die de tweetalige school binnenstroomde.
“Wat is er, m´n schatje?”, informeerde haar moeder met een lieve glimlach.
Adele maakte een grimas bij het horen van het koosnaampje, terwijl ze haar handen afveegde aan de voorkant van haar schooluniform en zenuwachtig aan de knopen begon te plukken. Haar moeder was in Frankrijk opgegroeid en was toen al dol op de Carambartoffees, die nog steeds zeer gewild waren in snoepwinkels en tankstations. Ze zei dikwijls dat de `bon mots´ die op de toffeewikkels stonden afgedrukt veel van Adele weghadden: scherp van buiten en zacht en zoet van binnen. Adele werd niet goed van die vergelijking.
Adele Sharp had zowel haar moeders haar als haar knappe uiterlijk, maar ze was ervan overtuigd dat ze haar vaders scherpe blik en zienswijze had.
“Ze zijn zo lawaaiig”, antwoordde Adele in het Frans, terwijl ze haar tong bijna brak over de woorden. De eerste twaalf jaren van haar bestaan had ze in Duitsland doorgebracht; opnieuw aan het Frans wennen zou tijd vergen.
“Het zijn kinderen, m´n schatje. Die horen lawaaiig te zijn; zou jij ook ´s moeten proberen.”
Adele schudde fronsend haar hoofd. De Sergeant had nooit wat moeten hebben van lawaaiige kinderen. Lawaai leidde alleen maar af. Het hoorde bij domme, onnadenkende lieden.
“Het is de beste school en tout Paris”, zei haar moeder, terwijl ze met haar koele hand langs haar dochters wang streek. “Geef het een kans, wil je?”
“Waarom kan ik geen thuisschool krijgen, net als vorig jaar?”
“Omdat het niet goed voor je is de hele dag opgesloten te zitten in dat appartement, samen met mij — nee, hoor.” Haar moeder liet met de tong tegen haar verhemelte een afkeurend klakgeluid horen. “Dat is helemaal niet goed voor je. Je hield zo van zwemmen op je oude school, toch? Nou, er zit hier een uitstekend team. Ik sprak mijn vriendin Anna en zij vertelde me dat haar dochter meteen het eerste jaar al aan wedstrijden mocht meedoen.”
Adele haalde haar schouders op, een scheve glimlach op haar gezicht. Ze slaakte een zucht en boog het hoofd, teneinde niet te zeer boven de andere kinderen uit te torenen.
Haar moeder gaf een kus op haar wang, hetgeen Adele halfhartig beantwoordde. Ze wendde zich af om weg te gaan, terwijl ze de schooltas over haar schouder hees. Op het moment dat ze naar de school sjokte, vervaagde het geluid van bel en krijsende kinderen. De middelbare school en haar muren losten in het niets op.
Adele schudde met haar hoofd, verward. Ze draaide zich om, terug naar de stoep. “Moeder?” zei ze met schuchtere stem. Nu was ze in het park en het was nacht.
“Schatje!”, sisten stemmen tussen de duister dreigende dennen door.
Ze staarde versteend, tweeëntwintig lentes jong. Alles was geëindigd met tweeëntwintig.
Haar moeder lag in het bermgras van het fietspad, bloedend, bloedend, bloedend…
Altijd maar bloedend.
Haar dode ogen opgeslagen naar haar dochter. Adele was niet langer tweeëntwintig. Drieëntwintig was ze nu en net bij de Franse DGSI, werkend aan haar eerste zaak – de dood van haar moeder. Toen was ze zesentwintig, werkend voor de Amerikaanse FBI. Toen tweeëndertig.
Tiktak. Bloedend.
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Years of experience: 20. Registered at ProZ.com: May 2019.
Two of the four West-Germanic languages happen to be my native languages, as my native country Frisia is part of the Netherlands. Frisian and Dutch are the two official languages of the Netherlands. My level of command of the other two West-Germanic languages is next to native (English being the sister language to Frisian) and pretty good (German being kin to Dutch). At school I used to consider French la plus belle langue, and I am not exaggerating when I say that the large part of the books I read ever since were French ones. Having a Portuguese wife and having lived in Portugal for almost twenty years (and counting) has made me proficient in Portuguese as well. Having had a classical education (gymnasium alpha) I studied Dutch grammar and syntax at Groningen State University in the Netherlands.
I know that one is rubbing the alpha males sitting on top of the linguistic mountain the wrong way when one claims that one is really good at more than two or three languages. But, hey, that´s the way it is -- call me Mr. Multi if you like.
The funny thing about freelancing, I find, is that in the rare cases that clients include a test they tend to hire me almost immediately afterwards. However, most clients do not include a test. They seem to prefer a cover letter, in which one introduces oneself. I could be mistaken of course, but it´s almost as if clients would rather have one talk the talk than walk the walk.
Whenever work is slow for those who walk the walk I am a prolific writer of blog posts on my site janblogger.eu. My Frisian blogs are being published in the (literary) magazines Nij Frisia and Ensafh. The latter has an online version as well.
The most recent English to Dutch translation job I did was a Blake Pierce mystery novel. The client, Lukeman Literary Management in New York, awarded my work with five stars.
Keywords: Source languages: English, Portuguese, German, French
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