Při překládání dialogů je dobré představit si jednající osoby, vědět, kdo jsou, jak se chovají, co je pro ně typické. Vizualizaci může doplnit další dobrá pomůcka: přečíst si hotový překlad nahlas. Pokud se čte špatně, nepřirozeně, je někde chyba :)Dick Francis je autorem řady populárních detektivek. Jeho styl je rychlý, čtivý, sdělný a především velice přirozeně odráží běžnou spisovnou komunikaci v britské společnosti. Předložená ukázka z knihy Hot Money neskrývá prakticky žádné zásadní překladatelské nástrahy. Naším hlavním úkolem tedy bude soustředit se na plynulost dialogu.
Jako obyčejně si nejprve zjistěte pár základních údajů o autorovi, přečtěte si synopsi díla, a pak se pusťte do překládání tučně vyznačeného úryvku.
Dick Francis - Hot Money
Eight
‘Which door did you go out of, with the dogs?’ I asked.
The kitchen door, like I
always do.’
‘The kitchen door is about five steps along that
covered way from the rear door into the garage.’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ Malcolm said testily.
‘You told me that you set off down the garden
with the dogs, and I suppose you told the police the same thing?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’
‘But you can’t really remember actually going.
You remember that you meant to, isn’t that what you told me?’
He frowned. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘So what if you never made it to the garden, but
were knocked out right there by the kitchen door? And what if you weren’t
dragged from there into the garage, but carried?’
His mouth opened. ‘But I’m ...’
‘You’re not too heavy,’ I said. ‘1 could carry you easily in a fireman's
lift.’
He was five foot seven, stocky but not fat. He
weighed ten stone something, I would have guessed.
‘And the fingerprints?’ Norman West asked.
‘In a fireman’s lift,’ I said, ‘you sling the person you want to carry over your
left shoulder, don’t you, with his head hanging down your back. Then you grasp
his knees with your left arm, and hold his right wrist in your own right hand,
to stop him slipping off?’
They both nodded.
‘So if you’re holding someone’s wrist, you can
put his hand easily onto any surface you like, including car door handles...
particularly,’ I said, thinking, ‘if you’ve opened the doors yourself first
with gloves on, so that your victim’s prints will be on top of any smudges you
have made.’ ‘You should have been an assassin,’ Malcolm said. ‘You’d have been good at it.’
‘So now we have Malcolm slumped in the back
seat, half lying, like you said. So next you switch on the engine and leave the
doors open so that all the nice fumes pour into the car quickly.’
‘Doors?’ Malcolm interrupted.
‘The driver’s door and one of the rear doors, at
the least.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And then you have,’ I said, ‘a suicide.’
‘And when I woke up,’ Malcolm said gloomily, ‘I
put my prints all over the place. On the ignition key ... everywhere.’
‘No one could have counted on that.’
‘It just looked bad to the police.’
We contemplated the scenario.
‘If it happened like that,’ West said, ‘as
indeed it could have done, whoever attacked you had to know that you would go
out of the kitchen door at around that time.’
Malcolm said bleakly, ‘If I’m at home, I always
go for a walk with die dogs about then. Take them out,
bring them back, give them their dinners, pour myself
a drink. Routine.’
‘And ... er... is there anyone
in your family who doesn’t know when you walk the dogs?’
‘Done it all my life, at that time,’ Malcolm said.
There was a short silence, then I said, ’I wish I’d known all this when that car
nearly killed us at Newmarket. We really ought to have told the police.’
’I was fed up with them,’ Malcolm said, ’I’ve spent hours and hours with die suspicious buggers since
Moira’s death. I’m allergic to them. They bring me out in a rash.’
‘You can’t blame them, sir. Most murdered wives
are killed by their husbands,’ West said. ‘And frankly, you appeared to have an extremely strong motive.’
‘Rubbish,’ Malcolm said.
‘I don’t see how people can kill people they’ve
loved.’
‘Unfortunately it’s common.’ West paused. ‘Do
you want me to continue with your family, sir, considering how little progress
I’ve been able to make with them?’
‘Yes,’ Malcolm said heavily. ‘Carry on. I’ll get
Joyce to tell them all to answer your questions. She seems to be able to get
them to do what she wants.’
To get them to do what they want, I thought. She couldn’t stir them into
courses they didn’t like.
Norman West put his notebook into his jacket
pocket and shifted his weight forward on his chair.
‘Before you go,’ I said,
‘1 thought you might like to know that I asked the
telephonist of the Cambridge hotel if anyone besides yourself had asked if a Mr Pembroke was staying there last weekend. She
said they’d definitely had at least three calls asking for Mr Pembroke,
two men and a woman, and she remembered because she
thought it odd that no one wanted to talk to him, or would leave a message;
they only wanted to know if he was there.’
'Three!’ Malcolm exclaimed.
‘One would be Mr West,’ I pointed out. To West,
I said, ‘In view of that, could you tell us who asked you to find my father?’
West hesitated, ’I don't positively know which Mrs Pembroke it was.
And… er... even
if I became sure during these investigations, well, no sir, I don’t think I
could.’
‘Professional ethics,’ Malcolm said, nodding.
‘I did warn you, sir,’ West
said to me, ‘about a conflict of interests.’ ‘So you did. Hasn’t she paid you
yet, then? No name on any cheque?’
‘No, sir’ not yet.’
