Subject: translation of German Lolita -- page 3 of 4
My first step into the town brought back the
memory of the Walzer brothers and their strange establishment. I know it might
be hindsight or imagination, but it does seem to me that my mule turned very
unwillingly at the Algorfe Palace on our way down to the harbor. In one of the
old streets where mostly sailors live I found theplace I
sought.
Severo Ancosta's inn was a crooked little building with large
balconies, stuck in between other similar establishments. The innkeeper,
friendly and chatty, gave me a room with a wonderful view of the sea, and I
looked forward to enjoying a week of undisturbed beauty.
That is, until
the next day, when I saw Severo's daughter, Lolita.
By our northern
standards she was terribly young, with veiled southern eyes and hair of an
unusual reddish gold. Her body was boyishly slim and supple and her voice was
full and dark.
But there was something more than her beauty that
attracted me -- there was a strange mystery about her that troubled me often on
those moonlit nights.
When she came into my room to tidy up, she would
sometimes pause in her work, her red laughing smile compressed into a narrow
line, and she would stare with fear into the sunlight. She reminded me of
Iphigenia as played by some great tragedienne. Then I would take the child
in my arms and feel an imperative need to protect her from some unknown
danger.
There were days when Lolita's big shy eyes regarded me with an
unspoken question, and there were evenings when I saw her break into sudden
uncontrollable sobs.
I had ceased to think of travelling on.
I was caught by the South -- and Lolita.
Golden hot days and
silvery melancholy nights.
And then, one time, the unforgettable
reality and dreamlike unreality as Lolita sat on my balcony, and sang softly, as
she often did. But this time she came to me with halting steps on the landing,
the guitar discarded precipitously on the floor. And while her eyes sought
out the flickering moon in the water, like a pleading child she flung her
trembling arms around my neck, leaned her head on my chest, and began sobbing.
There were tears in her eyes, but her sweet mouth was laughing.
Then the
miracle happened.
"You are so strong," she whispered.
Days and
nights came and went . . . my beauty kept her secret in unchanging
serenity.*
The days turned into weeks and I realized that it was time to
continue my travels. Not that any duty called me, but Lolita's immense and
dangerous love had begun to frighten me. When I told her this she gave me an
indescribable look and nodded silently. Suddenly she seized my hand and bit me
as hard as she could. Twenty-five years have not erased the marks of love she
left on my hand.
By the time I was able to speak Lolita had disappeared
into the house. I only saw her one more time.
That evening I spoke
seriously with Severo about his daughter.
"Come, sir," he said, "I have
something to show you that will explain everything." He lead me into a room that
was separated from my own by a door. I stood in amazement.
In that narrow
room stood only a small table and three easychairs. But they were the same, or
almost the same as the chairs in the Walzer brothers' tavern. And I realized
instantly that it had been Severo Ancosta's house that I had dreamed of on the
eve of my trip.
There was a drawing of Lolita on the wall, which was so
perfect that I went up to examine it more closely.
"You think that's a
picture of Lolita," laughed Severo, "but that is Lola, the grandmother of
Lolita's great-grandmother. It's more than a hundred years since she was
strangled during a fight between her two lovers."
We sat down and Severo
in his genial manner told this story. He told me of Lola, who was the most
beautiful woman of her time in the town, so beautiful that men died for
love of her. Shortly after giving birth to a daughter, she was murdered by
two of her lovers, whom she had driven to madness.
"And since that time a
curse lies on the family. The women all give birth to a daughter, and winthin
weeks of their child's birth, they always go mad. And they were all beautiful --
as beautiful as Lolita."
"My wife died in that way," he whispered,
serious now, "and my dauhter will die the same way."
I could hardly think
of a word to say, to comfort him, as I myself was overcome with fear for my
little Lolita.
That evening in my room I found a small red flower that I
could not identify on my pillow.
Lolita's farewell present, I thought and
picked it up. Only then did I see that the flower was white, the red was
Lolita's blood.