The Translator by Sarah Carolan
Image by Dropshado for Pexels
Willow went missing days ago, but something remained in the apartment, animating the shadows in my periphery. I tested reality by speaking to her. But the absence always answered: a dull ache, a persistent yearning, a presence that returned in dreams. Only during the latter could I sense her, stroke the soft bulk of her, and she would tell me, over and over again, to get out.
My mother advised me to focus on my career. Emelda, she had said over the phone, it’s a pet bird—why do you care so much? I swallowed the impulse to explain. Nothing—no happy hour, no inflation-observed raise—could fill the void shaped in Willow’s likeness. I ground to a halt and blamed myself.
Every morning since her disappearance I pounded the sidewalks. I paused to question neighbors and attach flyers to telephone poles or business windows. No one had seen Willow.
The bodega owner said his nephew might have a lead and promised to share my information. But he also told me that wild parakeets lived and thrived in the city. Flocks of them populated the cemetery. They weren’t all missing pets, like my Willow, but transported, long ago, from their warmer, native lands. I thanked him and left. He did not make me feel better.
I returned to the lifeless apartment and set my supplies on the kitchen counter. The footsteps of my landlords pounded overhead. Their children had grown from soft carpet sounds to pronounced stomps as they grew bigger. Nothing happened down here. I continued to live under their colorful lives, doomed to listen to the passage of time.
An unknown number glared on my phone. I answered and listened to someone clearing their throat.
“Antin,” the voice said with a twinge of an accent. “I am calling in regards to Willow. My uncle said your bird is missing. He owns the bodega and shared one of your flyers.”
A knot unraveled within my stomach and I paced the living room.
“It is the strangest thing,” he continued. “I saw a parakeet at my birdfeeder two days ago. I presume there is a connection. It is not every day you see a parakeet at your window and are then contacted about a lost bird.”
It truly was an accident. Until recently, I kept the apartment windows closed for fear someone might creep inside. I taught Willow to speak like a feathered watchdog. Get out, get out, she would cry. I bought her an enormous cage that I rarely shut. She hated to be confined. I regret that now.
It happened when I left something in the oven too long and filled the apartment with dark, billowy smoke. I made the mistake of opening the windows, and she flew away. All that time fearing an intruder, but Willow caused the most distress.
“You found Willow?” I asked.
“No, no. I called only to say the parakeet visitor was fortuitous.”
“Fortuitous?” Luck would be that he caught more than a glimpse of her. “Call me back when you capture her—or see a cat with green feathers sticking out of their mouth.” The line fell silent. I wanted to rescind the words from existence with my next breath.
“I hope the latter does not happen,” Antin replied.
“Me neither.” I swallowed a swollen lump at the back of my throat. “Sorry. I miss her, that’s all.”
“Of course. Birds are capable of love and affection like cats and dogs. Some people find that hard to believe.
“Exactly.” The phone call with my mother flitted to mind. She failed to grasp how I could be so distraught.
“But I will let you know either way,” he said. “In the meantime, how would you feel about us getting coffee?”
The line droned from my end. I considered the proposal, rolling it over in my mind and inspecting it for flaws. I recalled all the neighbors I had questioned throughout the day. None had provided any help. Until now.
“I do a bit of bird watching,” he said to fill my silence. “I know the area well. Or I could help distribute flyers.”
I agreed to coffee. Only coffee.
We planned for the following day. He suggested we meet outside his apartment before searching the park. He didn’t live far and sounded pleasant enough on the phone, and gleaning his knowledge of birds couldn't hurt. That’s how I rationalized my decision anyway. I never considered myself a bird expert. However, I had always thought myself an expert on Willow.
Antin’s building loomed proudly, a brownstone of four stories. The owner kept the facade clean and the sidewalks weeded neatly. A great, gnarled oak tree upturned part of the sidewalk and cast a purple, dappled shadow over the building.
A door opened from under the stoop, and a small parade of neighbors trickled into the front yard. A mother and father, other gray-haired relatives, excitedly snapping photos of a boy in a navy suit.
I jogged across the street, pausing on the path that led to the brownstone. The boy approached me.
“Hello,” he asked. “Can I help you?”
“I’m waiting for Antin.”
“Antin?” The boy’s mother leaned into the conversation. She whistled and rolled her eyes. “You’re a friend of Antin? I don’t see many ladies go in and out of here—are you his girlfriend?”
“I don’t even know him. I’m looking for my lost bird, not a date.” I glanced away as heat spread into my cheeks. “You look great—very sharp,” I added quickly.
“Isn’t he handsome?” The mother gazed at her son adoringly.
I slunk to the stoop as the family idled about the yard, snapping a few more photos with the boy in different combinations of relatives. They shifted onto the sidewalk and filed inside a long Lincoln car before driving away.
A door creaked behind me.
“Emelda? Emelda, who is looking for her bird, not a date?”
The heat returned with a blaze as I peered over my shoulder.
Antin wore softened, pale blue jeans and an equally used white t-shirt. He appeared older than me by a decade and stood a few inches taller—though this was difficult to discern until I climbed the stairs. His alert gaze was difficult to hold, but the intensity softened as I gripped his warm hand.
“You have done me a favor,” he said. “You have uncovered the mystery behind the parakeet at my feeder. Like me, the other birds appeared confused by its appearance.”
My words scattered like beads on a broken necklace. “Should we head out?” It sounded childish. I spun away to the uneven sidewalk before he could answer.
Antin joined at my side and pointed to his bird feeder. It clung to one of the large windows of the top floor, an easy distance from the tips of the oak tree. I imagined Willow playing amidst the canopy, staring at Antin through the window. I pushed the thought away as we walked toward the park entrance.
Our conversation soon found an easy rhythm.
Antin asked many of the usual getting-to-know-you questions but offered his flair. ‘Name a movie that is not your favorite, but you have watched the most.’ Or questions that completely caught me off guard, ‘When was the last time you saw a bear?’ I answered with Bridesmaids, somewhat self-consciously, and the only bears I’d seen were in my dreams. Catching his puzzlement, I explained that in dreams, bears symbolize anxiety or something unbearable. He laughed at the wordplay, a single note that erupted from his chest like a triumphant discovery. I hoped to say something clever enough to hear it again.
We purchased coffee from a tiny stand on the park path. He said I was shyer than our phone call led him to believe and better looking too. I’d never been called shy before, but pretty, sometimes. I admitted that losing Willow struck me harder than I could imagine.
“It suits you,” he replied. “You wear melancholy like a tasteful face of makeup.”
The poetics struck me first. But Antin pointed to a bird on a signpost before I could pick apart his meaning. We strolled, with him naming other animals by their common and scientific name. The cedar waxwing, or bombycilla cedrorum, was his favorite. He admitted that he had taken daily walks in the park after a tumultuous time. But nowadays, it was for the pleasure of learning about the wildlife in his backyard.
“What was going on?” I asked. “Sorry—you don’t know me. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”
“I left my Ph.D. program. I realized it was not for me—which is not to say it was a simple decision. I realized I preferred to go about my activities at a different pace rather than the specialization needed in academia. Eventually, I found work as a translator. It suits me. What do you do for money?”
The question tickled me. I appreciated the distance it struck between livelihood and identity. Too many people treated their careers or the city as a personality trait. “I work for an advertising agency.”
“Do you enjoy the work?”
“No.” I licked my lips and frowned. “But I suppose I’m good at it. The pay is decent, and it makes my parents happy.”
“I presume that they are happy with your success? What about you—what about your happiness?”
“I feel like…” A flash of green struck the branches of a distant tree. I watched as a young man ran over to retrieve a frisbee. “My parents need me to be successful more than I need to be happy.”
Antin grew quiet, perhaps to muse the answer. The possibility that I had disappointed him jostled the loneliness within me. He must have found my explanation stupid or immature.
“Does Willow speak?” he asked.
“She can say a few words.” I graciously seized the change of subject. “I take it you didn’t hear the bird at your feeder say anything.”
“Not a thing. I would have remembered if she spoke to me.”
“She needs a bit of prodding.”
Antin seemed assured that a tamed bird had visited him, which heartened me. For all of his knowledge, he must know the difference, more so than me at least. I needed his expertise.
“As a translator, what language do you speak?”
“German and Russian. I’m working on translating a book presently.”
“Very romantic languages.” I searched for laugh lines to form but found his face impassive. I didn’t blame him for sidestepping my sarcasm. “It sounds like you know what you want,” I added.
“Tu sais ce que je veux.”
“French, too?” I didn’t know any French. I took Spanish in high school. But something in the crinkle of his eyes made me glance away. “What’s the difference between a translator and an interpreter?” The more questions I asked, the more opportunities I had to sound better, more mature.
“There are many subtle differences, but for the sake of the laymen, a translator works with the written word, and an interpreter works within spoken communication.”
The use of the word ‘laymen’ itched inside me. It must be a silly question or one he grew tired of answering so frequently.
We moved our discussion to a bench. Visitors thinned to those walking their dogs or packing up picnic blankets to retire home. The sun angled into our eyes. I felt the conversation putter away with a curl of guilt. Willow could be anywhere, and I was far from finding her.
“I should go home,” I said during the lull.
Antin turned to face me. He positioned his head to relieve my eyes with his shadow. “I enjoyed spending the afternoon with you. But I wish we were more successful.”
I nodded, aware of his proximity and gaze. He placed his warm hand over my own, rubbing his thumb along my wrist. Goosebumps spread up my arms. He must have noticed as I heard an amused puff of air.
“Would you like to do this again?” he asked.
#
Antin and I met up several times over the next two weeks. Most days, we walked around the park, him occasionally quizzing me on birds. But other days, he guided us to bookstores or cafes. The smell of espresso and aged paper had me reaching for topics like philosophy and the French New Wave. I found myself digging up an old syllabus from college and skimming the reading list of a class I had taken on Existentialism. I kept specific theories holstered, ready to be recited casually.
During work hours, I kept a steady eye on my phone. My heart skipped to see his name gleam on the screen. Antin. He was no longer an unknown number. I knew how he drank his coffee—black—and how his jaw pulsed while thinking, preparing his next elegant idea. I knew his hands' warmth and fingertips' softness as he stroked my arms.
Antin would lean close while assuring that whether we recovered Willow or not, she could find happiness in the city. I would have savored his touch no matter what he said to me. But I recognized the truth to his words, or at least his sincerity. He was brilliant and had more experience of the world. Perhaps Willow and I needed to find new companions, me with Antin and her with her flock.
Willow’s cage covered a dining table pressed against the wall of my living room. Food and water filled her plastic square bowls. I didn’t have the heart to touch her things yet.
Once, Antin asked about my apartment. I told him to describe what he imagined it to be, and he did with great enthusiasm. The description sounded wholly unlike my reality, an artistic woman, intelligent and productive. That’s the woman he wants, I thought. I wanted to believe that my personality could claim this ideal. But mostly, I didn’t want to dash this perception by letting him inside.
My phone vibrated across the kitchen counter. I peered at the screen, ecstatic to see his name, not my mother or another strange number.
“I’ll be over in five,” I said in place of a greeting.
“I called for another reason,” he replied excitedly. “Fantastic news—Willow is here.”
“You found her.” My voice drifted away. For two weeks, the void had left me alone. But it appeared suddenly as if a fissure threatened to split me in two. Guilt and anxiety flooded the space.
“I could not wait to tell you,” he said.
I thanked him, hung up, and left.
The walk to Antin’s apartment did nothing to alleviate my troubles. Each step weighed heavier than the last. I stumbled on the shattered sidewalk under the oak tree, catching my balance at the last moment. I shook my head and pressed the doorbell. Willow had not done anything wrong except be unlucky to have such a ridiculous owner.
Antin gracefully descended the stairs. He kissed me on the cheek and his eyes roved over my face. My stomach knotted, and he stepped aside as if my fluster were a password. This was the first time I had been invited upstairs.
At the topmost landing, I impatiently added to a line of paired shoes and stepped inside.
“I have her set up in my bedroom. One moment,” Antin said, disappearing into a back room.
I swallowed and peered about his apartment. It was every bit as lovely as his mind. Crown molding decorated the top of the high ceilings, which glided into a sandy, neutral paint color. Tall, filled bookshelves covered the walls and the ornate fireplace mantel.
Antin returned carrying an antique wood and wire cage. A splash of lime green flapped inside, contrasting the aged colors of the cage. He gently set it at the end of a large table.
It was her—or looked precisely like Willow—yet I felt nothing. I leaned closer, as if distance were the problem, and cooed to her. The bird screeched incoherently in return.
“Beautiful girl? Beautiful girl?” I asked.
“I recall you saying she speaks, but I have not heard her say anything.” Antin watched our interaction with interest.
“She’s probably overwhelmed—or maybe upset to be in a cage again. I’ll give her some space to adjust.” I wouldn’t entertain the creeping thought that this wasn’t Willow. Not now, at least, not when it threatened our evening.
Antin uncorked a bottle of red wine in celebration. He caught my eye and gestured with his chin toward the large windows of his living room. A long couch fit against the far corner of the wall. It offered seating on one side of the table, with several wooden chairs on the other. His furniture suited the space perfectly, almost impossibly so. I wondered if he constructed the pieces himself or had them custom-made.
I eased onto the thick fabric of the couch and slid until I could rest an elbow on the windowsill. I felt as if I sat at a diner booth, peering out to the street below. Music began to play, soft jazz, and the clink of a glass connected with the table. Antin appeared across from me.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked, pulling the wine closer.
“Seventeen years, three months.” He curved his arm over the vacant chair beside him.
From my birdseye view, I watched a couple stroll along the sidewalk. I found it a pity the windows were closed. Antin had nothing to worry about from this height.
“Do you partake?” he asked.
“In what? Sports? Community theater? Drugs?”
“The latter. I went to a dinner party last weekend, and a friend tucked a joint behind my ear before we departed. She said it had a mellowing effect.”
“In that case, I’ll partake.” I wondered if his friend’s apartment looked like the one he described as mine. I also wondered why he hadn’t invited me.
Antin strode away and returned a moment later, sniffing the tightly rolled joint. He plucked a caramel-color ashtray from one of the shelves. I requested that the birdcage be moved, and he acknowledged this by relocating Willow to a small end table near the other front window.
The lighter sparked, and soon a billowy plume of smoke danced around us. I pointedly inhaled the tangy cloud before making one of my own. The sensation wafted behind my eyes, and I stretched my arms to the ceiling.
“Have you lived in the city for a long time?” Antin asked.
“Nearly six years. I moved here for college, but I’m not sure what keeps me here. I guess I’ve been searching for a reason to stay.” I peered into his eyes, but he cocked his head.
“Six years. That would make you twenty-three years old?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And yet you seem not to have warmed to the city. You stay here because it makes your parents happy—is that not what you said?”
I shrugged. “It’s easier than moving and finding a new job.”
“I commend you for staying. It is difficult, but the difficulties create character and a thick skin. Everywhere else pales in comparison.”
“Every person that moves here says that.” My worries about saying the wrong thing dissipated with the smoke. “But I bet you, if I got any of them drunk enough, they’d admit that they hate it. Difficulties don’t define a person or make them more interesting.”
An amused glint shot across his eyes. “If that is the case, shall I pour more wine?”
I let my mind wander as Antin seemed to enjoy me in this heady state. I asked, not unkindly, how many of the volumes he had read in the vast library. He confirmed that he had read everything in its entirety. We spoke of books and art. He told me that his family moved here for his father’s career. He had yet to return to his home country but missed the food.
My stomach growled, prompting Antin to rattle about the kitchen. He produced a baguette, shaved meats, cheeses, and fruit, declaring this dinner. After we consumed our fill, he unlatched the birdcage door. We hoped Willow might perch on my shoulder or say a familiar word. But she only flew to one of the bookcases and stared at us begrudgingly. I told him I didn’t know Willow’s age. I bought her from a woman on the street. For all I knew, she could have been wild originally.
We discussed our families, Antin’s successful financier sister who lived in London, and my stint in a punk band that I blamed on being an only child. He found this revelation both hilarious and sexy. But in the next breath, he pointed to the irony of working at an advertising agency and called me a sellout. The discussion turned to capitalism and consumerism. Antin told me a story from his childhood, playing the analogous Monopoly game called Manager, a communist-influenced rebrand, he explained.
“But enough of that.” Antin procured another bottle of wine and refilled my glass. “I want to hear more about this other version of Emelda. What happened to her?”
What happened to that Emelda? Gone, buried by the past. Antin was right, she would hate me now. I came close to saying as much, but instead, I inquired about the bathroom. He held my gaze momentarily and directed me down the hallway, through his bedroom. All the rooms appeared clean and exceptionally curated, like him.
When I returned, Antin stood facing me. He leaned against the kitchen island. I licked my lips and inched closer to him. He gently tugged at my wrists and raised his hand to cup the side of my face. He smelled of floral shampoo. I pressed my body against him. We connected, first softly and then with an intensity that grew like hunger. I slipped my fingers into the top of his jeans and worked to loosen his belt. His warm hands did the same as he walked me backward through the threshold to his bedroom.
#
In the morning, Antin rose before the sun to brew coffee. We assumed the same seating arrangement as the evening. The caffeine brought heat to my cheeks with his every word and glance.
“What?” I asked. My eyes flickered to the bird, still atop her perch, and back to Antin. “Do I have something on my face?”
“May I take a photo of you?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes and gazed out of the window. The sun had barely broken free of the horizon. Orange light slit through the blinds as if the apartment had receded into a cage. A lone trumpet floated from the record player, settling the mood into something less formal, more intimate. A pulse of heat cascaded through me, thrilling and reckless. I agreed.
Antin moved to search the shelves. His fingers grazed against his stubble before wrapping around a purple Christmas cookie tin and a rectangular bag. He brought these to the table and carefully removed equipment—a vintage camera and something that looked like a small dry eraser.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“To apply a chemical to expose the photo,” he answered, fiddling with the metal camera. “Try looking wistful. Your head slightly turned towards the window. You’re lost in thought.”
“Easy,” I said, posing at his direction.
Antin took time to adjust the settings. The camera thunked a heavy, mechanical sound. A low gurgle of mechanisms spat out a gray-looking tongue. He gently slipped this from the side of the camera, opening canisters and rubbing liquids onto the photo. He sat back, pleased, as shapes slowly filtered into focus.
“What’s in the cookie tin?”
Antin clicked his tongue and urged his chair closer to the table. He sipped his coffee while examining my photo, now partially exposed.
“You’re much better looking in person,” he said.
“Thanks? Let me see.”
The photo held no color but revealed an unexpected amount of detail and depth; the gray wood segments of the deep windowsills, the knobs for the encased shutters, and the couch fibers. My face shined white, and my long nose drew a triangular shadow against one cheek. My fingers pensively sat near the glass ashtray.
“I think I look nice,” I said.
Antin said nothing as he slid the tin closer and removed the lid.
“That’s a lot of photos,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were into photography.”
Antin slowly stood from his seat and walked around the table to join me on the couch. His firm bicep brushed my own, inciting a drum in my chest. He leaned close and reached into the open tin.
“They’re my lovers,” he said.
The record ended, and silence descended on the room as if providing his words a microphone. I heard my pulse beating plainly.
“You keep a box with pictures of your lovers?” Sweat slicked my palms.
Antin hummed a confirming noise and removed a pile of the black and white photos.
“This is Simone,” he said, admiring the photo. “She was a philosophy student of mine when I was an assistant professor. We did not see each other until after class ended, but I marveled at her beauty and intelligence. This is Helen.” Antin passed me the photos. “I met her at an independent film premiere. She is an excellent director but could never find the proper backing for projects. And this is—”
“That’s enough.” I dropped the photos. “I’m afraid I’ve given you the impression that I want to know this—can you move?”
Antin’s jaw pulsed as he stared at me. I knew he was thinking of something to smooth my outburst, concocting a sophisticated excuse.
“There’s nothing to be jealous of,” he said softly. He ran his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Stop. If you’re not going to move, then I’ll—”
Antin had me boxed into the corner. I surprised myself by not jumping over the table but reaching for the window. I wrenched the pane and screen open and peered at the street. My stomach dived with the prospect of scaling the stone facade. Or perhaps it dropped because I knew my behavior was idiotic.
Behind me, Antin sighed followed by a scratching of fabric. I turned to see him pull away from the couch. My limbs buzzed with electric adrenaline. I crawled away from the corner and stumbled to my feet. Antin flipped the record and retrieved his coffee. He sipped and peered at me with a level gaze. I didn’t look away.
“We were having a beautiful day,” he said. “I agree that no sparks were ignited. However—” Antin stopped. His eyes circled above my head. “Oh, dear. The bird flew out the window. Why did you not close it?”
The gravity of his words took time to process. I whirled around and scrambled to the windowsill. Early morning cloaked the oak tree's branches, creating numerous hiding spots. A cautious cat crossed the street and a frantic silhouette of a pigeon took to flight. Tears pricked my nose and I bit my lips to keep the curses from flooding out.
“I should go,” I said.
“Yes, I was about to suggest—”
“Shut up.”
I gathered my things and flung the apartment door open. But before retrieving my shoes, I stalked to the table littered with camera equipment and swiped the photo. “This is mine,” I said, presenting the thing as if it were a badge. “I don’t want to be added to this weird pile just so you can brag to some poor girl about meeting Emelda, who lost her pet bird and has no self-respect. Goodbye.”
Antin did not move as I tromped downstairs. The door scraped shut above me. No farewells, condolences, or even a silent escort to the front. I chewed my bottom lip, disgusted that he had tasted it not long ago, and returned to the sidewalk. My nose ran as I swallowed obscenities, adding streets and corners to my journey home. But in my attempt to alleviate the burning of my insides, I found myself in the park rather than on my street.
Leaves rustled and squirrels chittered. Long shadows striped the deserted fields, interrupted only by bobbing joggers and cranky delivery trucks. I considered buying coffee, but the man working the tiny cart had yet to arrive. It was just as well, my hands still shook. I plopped onto a bench and cradled my puffy face. I prepared to escape inside myself, to unleash the torrent of tears clawing at my sinuses, but a sharp grip clutched my shoulder.
“Beautiful girl,” a voice said.
Willow.
A sob burst free. I unleashed the tears, crying for far more than her return. She fluttered to my finger as I kissed the top of her head. The soft plumage pressed against my lips, quelling some of the emptiness that threatened to engulf me. I blubbered my apologies as she settled on my knee, jerking her head piteously.
“Who’s there?” she chirped. “Get out. Get out.”
I bent over to place another kiss atop her head. As I did, the corner of the photo stabbed into my thigh as if vying for attention. I worked it from my pocket, and considered the gray, two-dimensional image—a portrait with my face and body—yet, completely under another’s direction. What had possessed me? I thought. I had walked straight into Antin’s cage, and all for crumbs of his praise.
Willow plucked the photo from my hands and punched several holes along the side. She climbed onto my shoulder, tweeting victoriously, as I ripped up the rest, sprinkling the remnants into a trash can. She preened feathers and loose strands of hair as I strolled from the park.
I acknowledged the steadfast void. It was unfair to expect Willow’s presence might alleviate such a thing. It was mine to fill, the emptiness, with nothing but myself.
Sarah Carolan (she/her) is a writer and artist based out of Chicago, USA. She graduated from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her previous publications include The Raven Review and Ignatian Literary Magazine. She is currently at work on several short stories.
Visit Sarah’s website