Free A Heart So White by Javier Marías Page A

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