dahkin: переводы

→When Chucho, the houseboy indispensable to any respectable home, stuck his head out and saw the visitor, the man stared straight at him and took a step. Trembling, the houseboy let him in after crossing himself several times and murmuring a few Hail Marys. Without a word, the visitor crossed the hall with giant strides until he reached a marvelous courtyard decorated with artisanal furniture, exotic plants, and pre-Columbian idols. The house was full of contrasts. Objects reminiscent of painful and happy memories, of past dreams and current nightmares, all managed to coexist. Everything spoke of the private world of the owner who waited for the caller in her room.

→The horseman came to a stop at the corner of Londres Street, in front of an indigo house whose all-cobalt façade made it stand out in the neighborhood. The windows looked like giant eyelids on either side of the door. The horse was a bit nervous but calmed down when the man dismounted and tenderly petted its neck. After adjusting his hat and holsters, the stranger swaggered toward the door and pulled the cord to ring the bell. An electric light flicked on and the entire entryway was immediately lit up, revealing an army of moths humming desperately about the spotlight.

→Curious, because Mexico City was already a modern metropolis far removed from its archaic fables and provincial legends, the residents of Coyoacán interrupted their suppers to peek at the mysterious rider who came in on a cool summer breeze more appropriate to the dead or to apparitions. A mad dog barked at the stranger, which didn’t bother the beautiful white steed, much less its driver: a sullen horseman dressed in brown with holsters bearing loaded guns crisscrossing his chest. His large straw hat was like a church dome, completely obscuring his face. The only things visible through the shadows were his startling bright eyes and a thick mustache that extended beyond the sides of his face. As he rode by, the elders double-locked, bolted, and barred their doors; they still had fearful memories of the Revolution, when strangers brought ruin and desolation.

→It was precisely on this quiet summer eve that a constant drumming rolled through every corner of the Coyoacán neighborhood. A horse’s hooves clip-clopped against the cobblestone streets. The echo of its steps rang out on every corner and in front of the tall tile-roofed homes to warn residents of the visiting stranger.

→That night in July wasn’t like any other; the rains had gone, leaving a starry sky free of careless clouds weeping tears on the city’s residents. Occasionally, a slight breeze whistled like a mischievous child playing in the trees surrounding the imposing blue house slumbering in the warm summer night.

→CHAPTER I

→But the day the exhibition opened to the public, it was discovered that the notebook had vanished.

→Among Frida Kahlo’s personal effects, there was a little black book called “The Hierba Santa Book.” It contained a recipe collection for offerings on the Day of the Dead. According to tradition, on November 2 the departed have divine permission to return to Earth, and they must be received with altars filled with Aztec marigolds, sweet pastries, photographs from long ago, religious postcards, mystically scented incense, playful sugar skulls, and votive candles to illuminate their path to the next life. The altars must also be strewn with the departed’s favorite dishes. When the little black book was found in the museum on Londres Street in the beautiful Coyoacán neighborhood, it was instantly a cherished treasure. It was to be exhibited for the first time in a monumental exhibition at the Palacio de Bellas Artes on the anniversary of Frida’s birth. Its mere existence confirmed her passion for building her famous altars to the dead.

→FRIDA’S SECRET BOOK