Two stories

Mientras preparo la última salida a Kings Cross este fin de semana (con nuevo juego, macarronada y sangría - me niego a beber calimocho nunca más), os voy a dejar un par de historias que van a publicar en el anuario 2011 de EF (mi academia)

Ya que no he logrado pasar el First (ni voy a reclamar porque son $200 y me dijo el jefe de estudios que nadie que pide una revisión consigue más nota, en todo caso menos), al menos me queda la honrilla de ver publicados un par de cuentos que escribí para clase. No es mucho, lo sé, pero menos da una piedra, ¿no? Además, así cumplo la promesa de escribir algo en inglés en el blog antes de darlo por terminado.

La primera historia es una versión reducida de un cuento que escribí hace muchos años. Seguro que los que sabéis inglés encontraréis alguna que otra falta, pero sed magnánimos, que al fin y al cabo mi nivel oficial es un B1.

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THE VOICE OF THE TOMB

   It was raining. Actually, it was raining a lot, more than the older people of the town could remember. The storm had begun at four o’clock in the afternoon, at the same time that she entered the niche and darkness embraced her for eternity. Now the sky was dark and cloudy. The rain was still falling and night had come.
   Marcus was in front of the niche, immobile, like an ancient statue waiting for something, but for what exactly? He was totally saturated, his tears couldn’t be seen on his face, but they were there, mixed with the rain. 

   All the people had gone, but Marcus wasn’t able to do the same. He couldn’t. How could he leave her alone on a night like this? How could he leave her alone in the cemetery? It was impossible! Susan was afraid of the dark.
   Why? Why had it happened like that? She’d never driven the car, not alone. It was his fault. Susan was gone and he was the guilty one. He had to drive the car, not her. Damn it! Why was he at that damned appointment? Susan had died alone and now he was alone too. He would have rather died with her. What was the sense of anything now?
   Lightning illuminated the night. The cemetery was filled with shadows. Marcus was crying. He put his head against the niche. The wind whistled between the tombs. The rain bore down against the ground.
   Suddenly he heard something. 

   Knock, knock, knock. 

   What had that been? Marcus listened carefully. Nothing around him was important, only the strange noise he’d been hearing. He waited. The seconds passed and nothing happened. It had probably only been the wind, but once again the sound came back.
   Knock, knock. 

   It was impossible! The sound had come from inside the niche. He was sure about this. It was Susan! She was still alive! 

   "Susan" he yelled, "Susan, wait, I’m coming".
   Marcus hit the niche strongly with his hands, but the gravedigger had put up a wall of bricks to cover up the hole and it was impossible to knock down. Marcus kept trying until his hand bled, his skin torn by the wall. The rain poured his blood onto the ground. No brick had been broken. Marcus, insensitive to pain, again put his head on the wall and listened carefully.
   No noise, only the sound of the storm. Another lightning strike broke across the sky. When the roar of thunder came and the silence (a relative silence) reigned in the cemetery, Marcus heard a little noise from the niche. It was only a whisper, as if from far away. But Marcus recognised the sound.
   Knock. 

   Only one this time. He had no time. He had to do something now. But what? He needed help. It was impossible for to break the wall. And suddenly an idea came to his mind. The gravedigger. This man had to have tools to break the wall. A hammer or shovel, something to tear down that damned wall!
   Marcus ran quickly to the gravedigger’s house. He remembered where the house was, only a few metres across the street, opposite the cemetery. He arrived at the door in less than a minute. He knocked on the door urgently. Barely noticing the pain in his hands, Marcus waited nervously for a minute. That short time to him seemed like a lifetime. A light came on behind the door. Marcus knocked on the door again, furiously this time.
   "Bloody hell!" came an angry man’s voice. "What the hell is happening?" 

   A tall man opened the door. He was muscular, like a rugby player. 

   "Who the bloody hell are you?" he growled.
   "I need your help!" begged Marcus. "It’s my wife. She’s alive!" 

   The undertaker looked at Marcus, confused. He remembered him from that afternoon. He was the husband of the woman who he had buried.
   "One moment. What are you saying?" asked the gravedigger. 

   "My wife!" repeated Marcus. His face was like a crazy man. "You have to help me. We have no time!" 

   The gravedigger observed the man in front his door carefully. It was clear he had lost his mind. He tried to be sympathetic towards him. 

   "Listen to me" he said, trying to be friendly. "You’re tired. It has been a long day. It’s best to go home. Tomorrow you’ll see things in a different way".
   "You’re not listening to me. My wife is alive. I heard her. I really need your help!" and started to cry. 

   The gravedigger knew that it was impossible. He saw the body before he buried her; the accident had been horrible. The woman’s body was full of horrific injuries. It was impossible for her to be alive.
   The man was crying, looking defeated. 

   "Please" he said. "I can’t lose her again".
   "Look. I saw your wife before. She’s not alive. You must believe me" said the gravedigger.
   "I don’t care what you think!" he stopped crying. "I heard her inside the tomb. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll look for another way to open that bloody niche".
   A moment of calm settled upon them. The two men looked at each other in silence. The rain was falling down furiously. At last the gravedigger said "Bloody hell! You’re demented, you know? I’ll help you. But I tell you, it will be disgusting to see".
   Marcus didn’t listen to the last words. He quickly entered the house and they looked for tools to break the wall. Finally the gravedigger found two big hammers.
   They arrived in front of the niche a few minutes later. The storm had intensified, and it was raining like it was the end of the world. The thunder roared in the sky, and the wind was so strong that several trees had been thrown to the ground.
   Marcus put his ear against the wall. He couldn’t hear anything. 

   "It’s too late" he said. "We must hurry!". 

   The undertaker took his hammer and, without any word, hit the wall with all his strength. Four bricks had broken on impact. With the second impact the rest of the wall fell down like a house of cards.
   Another lightning strike illuminated the cemetery. Marcus ran to the hole and grabbed the coffin inside. It was too heavy. 

   "I need help" he commanded. 

   The gravedigger helped him reluctantly. They took the coffin out of the niche and put it on the ground carefully. 

   "Please Susan, please" Marcus implored. The coffin had a lock, but Marcus destroyed it with his hammer. And then, before the gravedigger could say anything, he opened the coffin.
    Susan was inside. And she was definitely dead. Her face was disfigured from the accident.  She was unrecognisable.
    "What?" said Marcus.
    "I told you. It was impossible for her to be alive. I’m sorry".
    "But I heard something. I’m sure about this".
    "It was probably only a rat. I’m really sorry".

    Marcus embraced the coffin, crying, completely destroyed. The undertaker stood still, not knowing quite what to do. And from the niche next to Susan’s it heard a weak sound.
    Knock.

    It was the last one, because the man inside the niche, who had been buried that morning, lost consciousness and finally died.

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Bueno, pues esa es la primera historia. Perdonad por el cambio de letra que hay entre diferentes líneas, pero es que hoy el editor de entradas va a su rollo y por mucho que lo he intentado no he logrado arreglarlo.

El siguiente cuento lo escribí cuando teníamos que hacer un ensayo sobre la importancia del inglés en los negocios internacionales. Como me parecía un coñazo infumable me dio por escribir una pequeña fábula, con animales y todo ese rollo, para explicar mi punto de vista. Pues a la profesora le moló, y me pidió permiso para publicarlo también en el anuario. No, si al final voy a tener que llamara a la SGAE para que protejan mis derechos de autor, ja, ja. Aquí os dejo el segundo cuento (este es un poco más corto)

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THE YOUNG BULL

(A Fable about languages on international business)

   Once upon a time there was a young bull who lived in a beautiful country in the south of Beasteurope, an enormous continent where all the animals were happy. But there was a problem indeed because the animals spoke different languages and it was very complicated to understand each other. There were the bulls from Bullspain, the foxes from Foxgland, the wolves from Wolftaly and so many others. Every country had its own language and that was a problema, especially for international business. But the animals were still happy.

   One day the eagles from United Eagles, across the Easy Ocean, flew from their country to Beasteurope and conquered the paceful land. There was no fighting because the animals from Beasteurope were pacific ones and they surrendered to the power of the eagles.

   The animals from the other side of the ocean spoke a very strange language and only the foxes of Foxgland understood it. Foxes soon became allies with eagles and their power grew in Beasteurope. Then things changed. The Alliance between eagles and foxes meant that all Young animals had to learn Petamerican, their official language.

   Every single young animal was taken from their home and sent to E.F.F (Educational Foreign Fields). The poor bull from Bullspain was taken too and sent out so far away from his family and friends, to one of the fields in Foxgland, under the Frozeback Mountains. There were thousans of young animals in that field, always in darkness, always learning the difficult Petamerican language. It was like this for years.

   Meanwhile the aeagles started to control business in Beasteurope. No one understood Petamerican except the foxes and for that reason they created one law which ordered to have one eagle or fox in every company to supervise that everything was correct. Consequently the animals from Foxgland and United Eagles achieved all the power, and the money too.

   ´Undermountain´the young bull was not young any more. He was ten years old and he was an adult now, but an unhappy one because he had not seen his family in more than five years. Actually he had not gone out in all that time. But at last he knew Petamerican. Now he was prepared to look after his family business: “Black Bull”

   But something unexpected had happened while he was learning the language ´undermountain´. A new creatures arrived in Beasteurope and conquered it with the terrible power of their fireblast. Those legendary animals were dragons and they came from Dragonasia, so far away in the east.

   When the bull came back to Bullspain, the dragons had been governing for two years and now things were different again. The eagles had run away to their country and Petamerican had been prohibited. Now the official language was Mandragon and everyone had to learn it.

   The bull hardly said a work to his family when he was taken by the dragons and sent out to the new fields to learn Mandragon.

   And so far as I know, he is still studying it.

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Y eso es todo. Ya he cumplido con hacer una entrada (casi) en inglés. No os preocupéis que el domingo (bueno, mejor el lunes o el martes) os contaré que tal fue la última noche de juerga en Sydney, aunque tampoco esperéis nada espectacular...