Lost in Translation E-Book

P.K. Gallagher

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

American Wren Saunders is halfway through a semester studying French language and culture in Paris. Li Hai is a Chinese student finishing up a business degree from La Sorbonne. The only thing they have in common is an imperfect grasp of French, and as their time together draws to a close, Wren discovers that this is not quite enough.

Leseprobe

P. K. Gallagher

Lost in Translation

A Short Story

For the boy from the métro— I wish I remembered your nameBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Foreward

This story explores language barriers. To immerse readers in the protagonist's helpless confusion, parts of the story are written in French. Do not attempt to understand every word or use a translator as this is counterproductive. Thank you and enjoy.

Lost in Translation

Apartment 506 of the Marie Blanche apartment building was flooded with light. It may have been small by American standards, but that only meant that every strategically placed window allowed light into at least two rooms. The apartment's single bedroom was the only dark space in the unit. It was illuminated by a single bar of light that fell through the gap of the drawn curtains. A heater was on in the corner and the air was nearly stifling, thick with the scent of warm bodies. Neither of the room's occupants moved to turn it off, though.

Wren Saunders and Li Hai lay motionless in the room's lone twin bed, seemingly oblivious to the hour. Wren was covered in a light sheen of sweat, her cotton camisole clinging to her skin. Hai, on the hand, was cool to the touch as always, his skin raised by goosebumps. He cradled her in his arms, nose nestled in her damp hair. His breathing was even, but Wren imagined she could feel his heart thundering against her back through the walls of his chest.

"Trop chaud?" he asked quietly. His accented French had been difficult to understand when they'd first met, but after four months of listening to the strange lilt his Chinese upbringing had given his speech, it sounded right.

"Non," she lied softly. When he tried to get up to turn off the heater anyway, she grabbed his hand before he could fully remove it from her waist. He moved back into position and was once again motionless. "Je ne veux pas entendre tu claquer des dents," she explained. "Le son est horrible."

This, too, was a lie. She hated it when Hai was cold on principle—an aversion to the chattering of his teeth had little to do with it. He was like the sun to her: somehow, without her ever realizing it, her life had begun revolving around him, around her cold, distant sun. Suns, she felt, should be as warm as one could possibly make them.