《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者

　　中国文化译研网（www.cctss.org）机构会员——新浪阅读出版部现为项目《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者。

　　字数：15万字

　　完稿时间：180天

　　试译截止日期：2018年11月20日

　　译者要求：

　　1.中文母语译者优先或中外合作。

　　2.中英文俱佳，有文学、文化翻译经验者优先。

　　注：申请时请将试译样本及以往作品发送[email protected]，邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称+国家”，联系人：徐冬皓，电话：010-82300038。

　　试译样章

　　ISLAMABAD， PAKISTAN， AUGUST 2001

　　Each day she remained unmarried， Farida Basra played At Least.

　　She turned to the game as she waited for her bus on a street lined

　　with high， bougainvillea-adorned stucco walls that shielded the homes of

　　Islamabad’s wealthy from the envious and resentful. A woman squatted

　　knees to chin beside her， scraping at the flthy pavement with her broom

　　of twigs. Her skin was nearly black from long hours in the sun. Farida

　　drew forward her dupatta， the flmy shawl-like scarf that covered her chest

　　and shoulders. She reminded herself to be thankful.

　　I may be poor， but at least I’m not a street sweeper.

　　She stepped back as a family approached on a motorbike. A graybeard

　　husband drove while his young wife clung to him from behind with one

　　arm， cradling an infant with the other. An older child sat in front of the

　　husband， a younger behind the wife. Dust boiled in their wake.

　　I may still be unmarried， but at least I’m not bound to a man old enough

　　to be my father.

　　She nodded to a group of schoolgirls in their blue uniforms and white

　　head scarves， and directed the game toward them. No matter what happens

　　to you， at least your education will protect you—that was the mantra herfather had taught her. He was a professor whose own professor father had

　　made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of

　　his life in unwilling atonement， opportunities snatched away， income and

　　status dwindling apace.

　　“But he gave me an education， and I have given you the same，” Latif

　　Basra would tell his daughters. “It is how this family will work its way

　　back to its rightful place. I have done my best. Now it is up to your

　　sons.” At which Farida and her sister， Alia， would study the ？oor， saving

　　their rebellious responses for whispered nighttime conversations in their

　　bedroom.

　　Farida let the dupatta slide back to her shoulders and held her head

　　higher， mentally commanding the schoolgirls to see in her what she saw

　　in herself—a professional woman， heading home from her job as an interpreter in the commercial Blue Zone， her satchel stu？ed with important papers， her brain buzzing with phrases in English， German， French.

　　Men， her own countrymen and even some foreigners， might disparage

　　her skills and regard her work as little more than a front for prostitution.

　　But those were old attitudes， fast being discarded in Pakistan’s cities， if not

　　the countryside. No longer， as she told her parents nightly and to no avail，

　　did a woman need a husband. Not in the year 2001， when so many things

　　were possible for women.

　　Te girls rounded a corner， laughter floating behind them like the

　　trailing ends of their head scarves. Farida tamped down envy. Old enough

　　for some independence， still too young for the pressure of marriage， the

　　girls had one another. Alia had departed the household for her own marriage， one that so far had produced only daughters， leaving Farida alone

　　with her parents’ dwindling expectations.

　　She braced herself for another evening involving a strained conversation over indifferent food prepared by a cook who also doubled as a

　　housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for

　　household expenses and helped maintain a toehold on the fringes of respectability， even if that proximity had yet to result in a marriage for her.

　　Her father and mother were too polite to remind Farida of howquickly she had taken to the unimagined freedoms she’d found when the

　　family lived in England several years earlier. She was still paying for it.

　　Te fact that her work as an interpreter required constant contact with

　　foreigners did not help her case. Despite her beauty， her parents had not

　　been able to arrange a match with an appropriate civil servant， a teacher，

　　or even a shopkeeper. According to her parents， these groups were the

　　only ones who could accept her level of education along with the faint tarnish to her reputation from the time abroad. It clung to her like a cloying

　　perfume， even after all these years. She had faced a dwindling procession

　　of awkward second cousins and middle-aged widowers， men with strands

　　of oily hair combed over shiny pates， men whose bellies strained at the

　　waists of wrinkled shirts， men whose thick fngers were none too clean，

　　men who nonetheless frowned at her with the same suspicion and aversion with which she viewed them.

　　By now， despite her mother’s attempts to persuade her otherwise，

　　Farida knew there was no man she could ever imagine herself loving.

　　Even as her potential suitors drifted away—marrying other girls less

　　beautiful， perhaps， but also less questionable—so did her friends， into

　　arranged marriages of their own， quickly followed by the requisite production of children. Teir paths diverged， and she instead hid behind

　　her work.

　　Farida shouldered her way from the bus and pushed open the gate

　　to the pounded-dirt courtyard. What should she expect from her parents

　　tonight？ Te silence， her parents retreating after dinner into the solace of

　　books and music？ Or more badgering？

　　“Farida！” Her father burst out of the front door， arms spread wide.

　　He folded her into an embrace， an intimacy he’d not permitted himself

　　since she was a child.

　　She extricated herself with relief and suspicion， the latter ascendant as

　　she took in his appearance. “Is that a new suit？”

　　He stepped back and turned in a circle， inviting her admiration for

　　the summer-weight worsted， cut expertly to disguise his sagging stomach

　　and spreading bum. “What do you think of your papa now？”

　　“What happened to the old one？” A rusty black embarrassment， gone

　　threadbare in the elbows and knees.

　　He waved a dismissive hand. “Gone.” Sold， no doubt， to a rag merchant.

　　Farida’s mother appeared in the doorway. She raised her arm in greeting. Wide gold bangles， newly bought， rang against one another， their

　　hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a

　　surprise.”

　　Which was how Farida discovered that for the bride price of some

　　twenty-two-carat jewelry， a knocko？ designer suit， and almost certainly

　　a newly fattened bank account， Latif Basra had betrothed his remaining

　　daughter to the illiterate son of an Afghan strongman.

　　机构介绍

　　新浪阅读旗下出版部门，筹备成立于2018年3月。

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