Et yirz bfr h hd sìn hiz frend of at ɖ Norʈ Wōl n wśt him godspīd. Gaḷhr hd got on. Y cd tel ɖt at wns bî hiz travld er, hiz wel-cut twīd sūt, n firlis axnt. Fy feloz hd taḷnts lîc hiz n fywr stl cd rmen unspôld bî sć s’xes. Gaḷhr’z hart wz in ɖ rît ples n h hd dzrvd t win. It wz smʈñ t hv a frend lîc ɖt.
Msz Mūni wz a bćr’z dōtr. Ś wz a wmn hu wz qt ebl t cīp ʈñz t hrslf: a dtrmind wmn. Ś hd marid hr faɖr’z fōrmn n opnd a bćr’z śop nir Sprñ Gardnz. Bt az sn az hiz faɖr-in-lw wz ded, Mr. Mūni bgan t g t ɖ devl. H dranc, plundrd ɖ til, ran hedloñ intu dét. It wz no ys mcñ him tec ɖ plej: h wz śr t brec ǎt agn a fy dez aftr. Bî fîtñ hiz wîf in ɖ prezns v custmrz n bî bayñ bad mìt h ruind hiz biznis. Wn nît h wnt fr hiz wîf wɖ ɖ clīvr n ś hd t slīp in a nebr’z hǎs.
Ɖ gre worm īvnñ v Ōġst hd dsndd upn ɖ siti n a mîld worm er, a meṃri v sumr, srkletd in ɖ strīts. Ɖ strīts, śutrd fr ɖ rpoz v Súnde, swormd wɖ a gêli culrd crǎd. Lîc ilumind prlz, ɖ lamps śon fṛm ɖ sumits v ɖer tōl polz upn ɖ livñ txćr b’lo, ẃć, ćenjñ śep n hy unsīsñli, snt p intu ɖ worm gre īvnñ er an unćenjñ unsīsñ mrmr.
“Boženka,” said the minister of state to his wife as he took another generous helping of salad, “I got a letter this afternoon that I think will interest you. I’ll have to present it to the council of ministers. If people get to know about it, a certain political party will find itself in a pretty pickle. Take a look at it yourself.”
Ɖ carz cem scudñ in twdz Dublin, runñ īvnli lîc pelits in ɖ grūv v ɖ Nās Rod. At ɖ crest v ɖ hil at Inćicor sîtsiyrz hd gaɖrd in clumps t woć ɖ carz c’rirñ homẉd n ʈru ɖs ćanl v poṿti n inax́n ɖ Continnt sped its wlʈ n inḍstri. Nǎ n agn ɖ clumps v ppl rezd ɖ ćir v ɖ gretf̣li oprest. Ɖer simṗʈi, hvr, wz fr ɖ blu carz—ɖ carz v ɖer frendz, ɖ Frenć.
Ś sat at ɖ windo woćñ ɖ īvnñ inved ɖ aṿny. Hr hed wz līnd agnst ɖ windocrtnz n in hr nostṛlz wz ɖ ǒdr v dusti cretón. Ś wz tîrd.
Norʈ Rićmnd Strīt, biyñ blînd, wz a qayt strīt xpt at ɖ aur ẃn ɖ Crisćn Bruɖrz’ Scūl set ɖ bôz fri. An uninhaḅtd hǎs v tū stōriz std at ɖ blînd end, dtaćt fṛm its nebrz in a sqer grǎnd. Ɖ uɖr hǎzz v ɖ strīt, conśs v dīsnt lîvz wɖn ɖm, gezd at wn anɖr wɖ brǎn imṗtrbbl fesz.
It wz Jo Diḷn hu intṛdyst ɖ Wîld Wst t s. H hd a litl lîbrri md p v old numbrz v Ɖ Yńn Jac, Pluc n Ɖ Heṗni Marvl. Evri īvnñ aftr scūl w met in hiz bac gardn n arenjd Indịn batlz. H n hiz fat yuñ bruɖr Lio, ɖ îdlr, hld ɖ loft v ɖ stebl ẃl w traid t cari it bî storm; or w fòt a pićt batl on ɖ gras. Bt, hvr wel w fòt, w nvr wún sīj or batl n ol ǎr bǎts endd wɖ Jo Diḷn’z wordans v vicṭri. Hiz peṛnts wnt t et-o’cloc mas evri mornñ in Gardinr Strīt n ɖ pīsfl ǒdr v Msz Diḷn wz prevḷnt in ɖ hōl v ɖ hǎs. Bt h pleid tù firsli fr s hu wr yungr n mor timid. H lct lîc sm cnd v an Indịn ẃn h ceprd rnd ɖ gardn, an old ti-cozi on hiz hed, bìtñ a tin wɖ hiz fist n yelñ:
r wz no hop fr him ɖs tîm: it wz ɖ ʈrd stroc. Nît aftr nît I hd pást ɖ hǎs (it wz vceśntîm) n studid ɖ lîtd sqer v windo: n nît aftr nît I hd faund it lîtd in ɖ sem we, fentli n īvnli. F h wz ded, I ʈt, I wd si ɖ rflex́n v candlz on ɖ darcnd blînd fr I ń ɖt tū candlz mst b set at ɖ hed v a corps. H hd ofn sd t m: “I am nt loñ fr ɖs wrld,” n I hd ʈt hiz wrdz îdl. Nǎ I ń ɖe wr tru. Evri nît az I gezd p at ɖ windo I sd softli t mslf ɖ wrd p’raḷsis. It hd olwz sǎndd strenjli in mî irz, lîc ɖ wrd nomón in ɖ Yclid n ɖ wrd siṃni in ɖ Caṭcizm. Bt nǎ it sǎndd t m lîc ɖ nem v sm mlefisnt n sinfl biyñ. It fild m wɖ fir, n yt I loñd t b nirr t it n t lc upn its dedli wrc.
(My translation of the short story O único assassinato de Cazuza, which was published in Contos reunidos in 1949. There’s a strong autobiographical element in this story.)
Hildegardo Brandão, known to his friends as Cazuza, had got to the age of fifty and a bit, and was down but not out. After acute crises of despair, bitterness and resentment brought on by the injustice which had thwarted him in all his worthy ambitions, a sort of grave and calm beatitude had descended on him, as if he were preparing himself for death.
(My translation of the short story Despesa filantrópica, which was published in Histórias e sonhos in 1920.)
A farmer is talking to Felício, an old college-friend, about an incident at a farm he used to own in the Brazilian outback.
Farmer: I had no idea who it was when he arrived at the gate of my house, accompanied by an unpleasant-looking individual. After I’d invited them into the living room and they’d sat down, I ordered coffee. While we were waiting, he told me who he was. It was quite a surprise, I can tell you!
(My translation of the short story Boa medida, which was first published in the Careta newspaper in 1921. “Kambalu” = one of Lima’s satirical name’s for Brazil; “Sultan Abbas the First” = Epitácio Pessoa, President of Brazil between 1919 and 1922 – any similarity to the current president of the United States of America is purely coincidental.)
nce upon a time, Sultan Abbas the First of Kambalu, otherwise known as “The Magnificent,” – who was directly descended from Manuel José Fernandes from Trás-os-Montes in the Kingdom of Portugal, and Japira, a native of the Potiguar tribe, which used to inhabit the Empire of Brazil, but is now no more – seeing the misery of his people and the starvation and plague which were wiping them out, decided to convene the bigwigs of his domains, regardless of their religion or their theories, to help him solve the problem. There duly arrived: a bishop, a wise man from the orient, a learned doctor of medicine, a clairvoyant, a jurist, an engineer and a brahmin.
(My translation of the short story of the same name, which was written in 1919 and published in the collection Histórias e sonhos (1920, 1951, 1956))
Joaquim dos Anjos, the postman, wasn’t one for going out serenading in the streets, but he did like the guitar and modinha songs. He himself played the flute, an instrument more highly regarded in those days than it is now. He even considered himself a musician, because he used to compose waltzes, tangos and accompaniments for modinhas.
(My translation of the short story A Nova Califórnia, which was written in 1910 and first published in 1915)
No-one knew where he’d come from. All the postman knew was that the letters were sent to him under the name Raimundo Flamel. And there were a lot of letters! Almost every day the postman had to carry a great bundle of them from all over the world, thick journals in obscure languages, books and packets out to the very edge of the town, where the mystery man lived.
(My translation of the short story Dva párky a detektiv, which was published in Lidové noviny on 12 September 1937 and, in book form, in Soudničky [Little Stories from the Courts] in 1999)
Prague Regional Court
11 September 1937
hey say it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Without friends in the right places you won’t get anywhere. And, in these grim days, you can’t even get two frankfurters with mustard without friends in the right places, as is shown in the following incident.
“The thing is, Tondo,” said investigating magistrate Slavík to his best friend, “it’s a question of experience. I don’t believe any excuses, any alibis or any blah-blah-blah. I don’t believe either the accused or the witnesses. People lie, even when they don’t mean to. Say a witness swears blind he’s got nothing against the accused… it’s quite possible that, deep down, so deep down he’s not even aware of it himself, he hates him for whatever deep-down reason. And everything the accused says has been plannned to the last jot and tittle. And everything the witness says might very well be governed by a conscious or unconscious desire to help or hinder the accused. You can’t believe anyone, that’s what I say.
nyone with half a brain will realise that this incident couldn’t have happened here or in France or Germany. As is well known, here and in those countries judges are required to punish wrong-doers according to the letter of the law rather than according to their ineffable acuity as superior gentlemen. This story involves a judge who made a judgement based not on the relevant sections of law but on his trusty common sense. So, as you will see, it has to do with England or, to be more precise, London, or, to be even more precise, Kensington; or perhaps Brompton or Bayswater – anyway, somewhere thereabouts. The judge was His Honour Judge Kelly and the woman who was the object of his ineffable acuity was Miss Edith Myers.
(My translation of the short story A viúva do Estanislau, which was published in Contos ligeiros in 1974)
after the death of her husband – poor Estanislau who’d been finally defeated by tuberculosis after a long and terrible struggle –, it seemed that Adelaide would die as well. People said she loved her husband so much that she’d done everything possible to catch the same disease and lie near him in her grave. She got visibly thinner and everyone said that sooner or later God would grant her wish; but time, which smooths over and repairs everything, was stronger than the pain and, a year and a half later, Adelaide was rosier-cheeked and more beautiful than she’d ever been. Estanislau had left her destitute. The poor boy had not expected to have to put his things in order so soon or, to put it another way, had no way of preparing for the future. While he lived, nothing was lacking; after he died, everything was lacking and Adelaide, who fortunately didn’t have children, accepted the hospitality offered by her parents. ‘Come and live with us again,’ the old couple said; ‘we’ll pretend you never married.’
hen I met Knight Commander Luiz de Faria, he was waiting for his carriage at the door of the funeral directors. It wasn’t long since he’d closed the eyes of the old Marchioness of São Justino, having sweetened the moment of her death with the auspicious – if untrue – news that her grandson, Guilherme de Araújo, a student, was now a completely reformed character. Still downcast by the emotions of that moment, when he’d had to resort to a falsehood to perfume the last breath of a life of virtue and suffering, the former peer of the Portuguese realm accepted a lift in my vehicle and confided in me along the way:
‘A lie is necessary at times, my friend. The lie I availed myself of half an hour ago, to soothe the death of a saint, of a lady whose main hope was the future of a grandson who’d renounced his home, was just as necessary as the lie the Carthusian prior told to assuage the death throes of the famous monk Bussaco.’
o let me tell you – said old Fulinus – how Klára came into the world. It was that time when I was managing Prince Lichtenberg’s park in Lubenec. And the old prince, he was some connoisseur, Mr Čapek, believe me! He used to get mature trees sent over from Veitsch in England, and when it came to Dutch tulip bulbs – seventeen thousand! But that’s by the by. It was when I was walking down the street in Lubenec one Sunday that I met Klára. She was the village idiot – a deaf-mute and as mad as a hatter, but wherever she went she hee-hawed, but hee-hawed like the happiest person in the world. What is it, Mr Čapek, that makes those village idiots so happy? I was just going to get out of her way, so that she wouldn’t give me a kiss, when I noticed she was carrying a bouquet. Just some dill and some common-or-garden weeds from the meadows but, all of a sudden, I noticed something that made me stop in my tracks. In amongst it all, Mr Čapek, that nutty woman had a big, blousy chrysanthemum, which was blue! And what a blue, Mr Čapek! A bit like Phlox Laphamii, but with a touch of slate-grey and with a deep-pink border. And the inside was a beautiful saturated blue, like Campanula Turbinata. But even that’s not everything. The point is, Mr Čapek, in the case of the Chrysanthemum Indicum, a colour like that was – and to all intents and purposes still is – completely unknown! Some years ago I visited old Veitsch, and Sir James was boasting about how, the year before, they’d had a chrysanthemum – imported from China – that had bloomed with a touch of lilac but unfortunately it had died in the winter. And here was this cackling scarecrow of a woman with a chrysanthemum as blue as the bluest blue you can think of!
(My translation of the short story Případ Dr. Mejzlíka, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.)
A pub in Prague. Mr Mejzlík, a young police constable, is having a drink with his elderly friend Mr Dastych.
M: (Frowning) It’s like this, Mr Dastych. I need your advice. I’ve had a case I can’t make head or tale of.
(My translation of the short story O homem que sabia javanês, which was published in the Gazeta da Tarde in 1911)
was in a coffee shop, telling my mate Castro how I’d conned people in order to earn a living. Once, when I was in Manaus, I’d even had to pretend I hadn’t been to university so that my clients wouldn’t think me unqualified for being a fortune-teller-cum-magician.
(My translation of the short story De cima para baixo)
ne day the minister arrived in his office in a bad mood and immediately sent for the director general of the Secretariat.
The latter, as if propelled by an electric battery, promptly appeared before His Excellency, who received him with clenched fists.
“I’m furious!” the minister shouted. “I’ve just been humiliated in the presence of His Majesty the Emperor. And all because of you!”