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Sample translations submitted: 1
English to Indonesian: Deathless General field: Art/Literary
Source text - English In a long, thin house on a long, thin street, a woman in a pale blue dress sat by a long, thin window, waiting for her punishment.
Neither fell nor fiery did it come. For one year, one month, and one day, it did not come. And forgiveness did not, either.
It was late spring when Marya Morevna slid her brass key into the lock of the house on Dzerzhinskaya Street, feeling it slide, too, between her own ribs, and open her like a reliquary full of old, nameless bones. The house stood empty. All the curtains—green-and-gold, cobalt-and-silver, red-and-white—had been yanked from their rods. Spiders’ webs made a palimpsest on the walls, endless generations of spiders weaving spider-tales into silk. The house seemed so much smaller than it had, darker, an old, hunched beast past its use. A hole had opened up in the roof, dripping rain and plum blossoms into the room which had once belonged to Marya and her parents. The downstairs stove stood silent and cold, full of old ash no one had taken out. Vacant room opened up into vacant room.
“The Dyachenkos lived in this room,” she said to no one. To Ivan Nikolayevich, she supposed, his hand proprietary on her back. It was all wrong. She was supposed to have found warmth here, like Ivan’s warmth. Life, and living. “They had four boys, all blond. I don’t remember their names. The father ate this awful pickle soup every night. The place just reeked of dill. And here—oh, the Blodniek girls! Oh, they were so beautiful. Their hair! How I wanted hair like that. Shiny and straight as wood. They used to read.” She turned to Ivan, her eyes hollow. “They used to read this fashion magazine. They each had their hour with it, every day. They memorized hemlines, and color palettes. Little Lebedevas! And oh, there, there the Malashenkos tied bunches of flowers to sell, and Svetlana Tikhonovna brushed her hair. Oh, why is no one living here? This was a good house! I had twelve mothers in this house, twelve fathers. I ate such sweet fish in this house.”
And Marya Morevna fell to her knees before the great brick stove in the empty kitchen. She did not cry, but her face grew redder and redder with the pain of her not crying.
“Zvonok,” she whispered to the floor. “Zvonok, come out.”
Finally, she curled up on the broken tile and went to sleep, like a ragged feral cat who has finally found shelter from the rain.
Translation - Indonesian 20
Dua Suami Datang ke Jalan Dzershinkaya
Di dalam rumah yang panjang dan sempit, yang berada di jalan yang panjang dan sempit, seorang wanita bergaun biru pucat duduk di sisi jendela yang panjang dan sempit, menanti hukuman yang akan jatuh padanya.
Hukuman itu akhirnya datang setelah setahun, sebulan, dan sehari. Hukuman itu tidak datang dengan menghantam maupun membakar. Akan tetapi, tiada maaf yang menghampiri.
Hari itu akhir musim semi ketika Marya Morevna menyelipkan kunci kuningan ke dalam gembok rumah di Jalan Dzershinskaya, merasakan pula kunci itu terselip di antara tulang-tulang rusuknya, dan membukanya bagai sebuah peti relik berisi tulang-belulang yang tua dan tak bernama. Rumah itu masih berdiri dalam kekosongannya. Semua tirai – hijau-emas, kobalt-perak, merah-putih – telah ditarik lepas dari batang tempat mereka tergantung. Sarang laba-laba membuat jejak di dinding, generasi demi generasi dari laba-laba merajut cerita mereka menjadi sutera. Rumah itu rasanya jauh lebih kecil dari yang diingat Marya, gelap dan tua, binatang bungkuk yang sudah lewat masa kerjanya. Sebuah lubang telah terbentuk di atap, meneteskan air hujan dan bunga plum ke dalam ruangan yang pernah ditempati oleh Marya dan orang tuanya. Perapian di lantai bawah dingin dan tidak bersuara, penuh dengan abu yang sudah lama tidak dibersihkan. Ruang kosong membuka ke ruang kosong lainnya.
“Keluarga Dyachenko dulu tinggal di ruangan ini,” kata Marya, tidak kepada siapa-siapa. Mungkin kepada Ivan Nikolayevich, pikir Marya, yang merangkul punggungnya dengan sopan. Segalanya salah. Seharusnya dia menemukan kehangatan di sini, kehangatan bagai kehangatan Ivan. Kehidupan, dan hidup. “Mereka punya empat anak laki-laki yang semuanya berambut pirang. Aku tidak ingat nama mereka. Sang ayah makan sup acar yang tidak enak itu setiap malam. Tempat ini berbau dill. Dan di sini – oh, gadis-gadis Blodniek! Oh, mereka sangat cantik. Rambut mereka! Betapa aku menginginkan rambut seperti yang mereka miliki. Kemilau dan lurus seperti kayu. Mereka dulu biasa membaca.” Marya berpaling kepada Ivan, matanya kosong. “Biasanya mereka membaca majalah mode, bergiliran, setiap hari. Mereka mempelajari tepian rok, dan pemilihan warna. Para Lebedeva1 cilik! Dan di sana, oh, di sana, para Malashenko mengikat bunga-bunga untuk dijual, dan Svetlana Tikhovnona menyikat rambutnya. Oh, mengapa tidak ada yang tinggal di sini sekarang? Ini dulunya rumah yang baik! Dulu aku punya dua belas ibu dan dua belas ayah di sini. Dulu aku makan ikan yang manis di rumah ini.”
Dan Marya Morevna jatuh berlutut di depan tungku bata besar di dapur yang kosong. Dia tidak menangis, namun wajahnya memerah dan semakin merah karena rasa sakit yang asalnya dari menahan air mata.
“Zvonok,” bisiknya ke lantai. “Zvonok, keluarlah.”
Pada akhirnya, dia menggelung di atas lantai yang retak dan tertidur, seperti kucing liar yang lelah yang menemukan tempat berteduh dari hujan.
Greetings! I am a bachelor student currently pursuing my degree in Microbiology.
Reading has fascinated me since I was merely four years old. As time goes, I realize that there are so many great titles exist in this world. It is a pity that they exist in different languages, making some people unable to enjoy them. I seek to remedy that problem using my skill.
I have a wide range of interest. I am okay with nonfictions - my favorites are The Poisoner's Handbook by Deborah Blum, Salt, Sugar, Fat by Michael Moss, and books in Imponderables series by David Feldman. Fictions have always been my golden child, especially crime fictions. For old writers, I particularly admire Christie's, Conan Doyle's, and Sayers' works; while for 21th century writers I especially love Scandinavian (Lackberg and Adler Olsen), Japanese, and American ones.
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