Not Lost In Translation

A bus drops me by the River Guadalquivir on a sunny morning in Cordoba. As one given to historical fantasies, I stride like the last of the Almohads, surveying the ancient water wheel that lies silent in the wake of the Reconquista. An attractive wall painting on the opposite side of the road returns me to the present. It is a napping young man wearing a blue-and-yellow striped t-shirt and red trousers. His eyes are heavy lidded like the Buddha's. He has lapsed into the world of dreams, and there is an open book lying on his chest. Next to his gigantic head are the words "Me despertaré cuando el arte....se despierte". I scribble it down in my notebook, hoping to look up what it means later. But I already know that when I do find out, I will feel a deep resonance with the words, that they will convey an idea that I have been unreasonably attached to all along.

That afternoon, I am sitting in the Plaza des Tendillas. I am reminded of Buenos Aires, even though I have never set foot there. A young man with a bowtie and dancing eyes points to my notebook, and presumably asks me what I'm writing. He is Coche, originally from Equatorial Guinea, and now an arts student in Cordoba. He doesn't speak much English, and his American friend Christine helps translate. Eric Moussambani!, I shout out, recalling the swimmer from Equatorial Guinea at the Sydney Olympics who gained renown as "Eric the Eel" due to his notoriously slow finish in the 100 metre freestyle. Coche is delirious when he hears the name. For a moment, the limits of language disappear. We make plans to meet later in the evening.

That night, Coche and his girlfriend Laura walk me around Cordoba. My new friends ask me to read out the lines I was writing in the afternoon.

For me - the land redolent with whiff of succulent orange/
Patios the site of tendril embraces/
Dancing azulejos that are the true faith of the mudejar/
For me, the light perspiration of an indoor afternoon of pastel love.

Translation is death. But they say like the sound of it. And that is how we understand each other - by reacting to moral situations created by foreign words with a primal, pre-aesthetic judgment. Later in the night, Coche says he wants to show me something. He leads me to the wall that had me so enraptured in the morning. "Hice este pintura", he says. Laura looks adoringly at her man, and says to me, "The caption says that he will wake up when art awakens." There is no more to be said.