Номинация 2. Перевод художественной прозы. 8-9

Номинация 2. Перевод художественной прозы. 8-9

Love and Olives

By Jenna Evans Welch

There’s that thing about me that I don’t tell anyone.

I haven’t told my boyfriend or my stepdad, or any of my friends, but it’s important to the story, so I think I’d better put it out there right at the beginning.

Two or three nights a week, I drown in my sleep.

Here’s how it goes: I’m in the water, an oxygen tank strapped to my back, and I’m diving, my face pointed toward the ocean floor. The water is warm and a startling blue-green, but I hardly notice it because I’m too busy looking for something. Searching for something. I don’t know what it is that I’m trying to find, only that I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

Finally, I see something down below – a glimmer of light. It’s bright and inviting, and without a second of hesitation, I kick harder, chasing it. The glow is centered around something, a small piece of metal that shines brighter the closer I get to it. But right as I reach my hand out to touch it, the light goes back, plunging me into thick, stunning darkness. And that’s when I realize the worst part. My oxygen has run out. I panic, trying to claw my way to the surface, but it’s so far away, and when I open my mouth to scream, water fills my throat and ears and –

You get it.

In my sleep I don’t know what I’m looking for, but once I’m awake, and my cheeks are salty and my throat feels raw, it’s all so obvious. Painfully obvious. I’m looking for the lost city of Atlantis. My dad’s world. And even though I know I’m safe, that I’m lying in my bed, not at the bottom of the Aegean Sea, I still have to get up and find my dad’s map.

The map is another one of my secrets. I keep it hidden in the top of closet under the tower of sketchbooks I’ve been adding to since grade school, and though I’ve tried to throw it out at least a dozen times, I’ve never been able to. The map is hand drawn and overflowing with arrows and overlapping notes, some in Greek, some in English. There are even a few of my dad’s characteristically quirky drawings, like a sea serpent wearing an eye patch and Poseidon napping in a hammock with his trident.

It’s strange, though. When I open my map, I don’t really see any of that. I see my dad. We’re at our tiny kitchen table, his dark head bent over the map. His eyes are bright, because he’s talking about our shared love of Atlantis. Child Me is hanging on to his every word, because back then I wasn’t just Olive. I was Indiana Olive, the world famous explorer.

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