Into russian

“Angel Pavement”

Then, the very next day, on Monday of all days, it happened. It happened in the afternoon. Somebody came in, and as Stanley was out, Turgis dashed to the other side of the frosted glass partition to see who it was. There, like a being from another world, stood a girl all in bright green, a girl with large brown eyes, the most impudent little nose, and a smiling scarlet mouth, the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

“Good afternoon. Is my father here, please?” She had a queer, fascinating voice.

“Your father?”

“Yes, Mr. Golspie. This is the place, isn’t it? He told me to call for him here.”

“Oh, yes, he is, Miss – Miss Golspie,” cried Turgis eagerly, his eyes devouring her all the time. “He’s in that room there. But I think there’s somebody with him. Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“You needn’t yet if he’s busy with somebody,” said the glorious creature, smiling at him. “I can wait.”

“I can tell him now, if you like.” He was trembling with eagerness to help, to serve.

“No, it doesn’t matter. I know he hates being interrupted. I’ll wait for him. I don’t suppose he’ll be long, will he?”

“I’m sure he won’t,” he told her fervently. “Will you wait here or in the office? It’s warmer in the office.”

“This will do,” and she made a movement towards the chair.

“Excuse me, Miss Golspie.” He brought it out somehow, and at the same time he dusted the seat of the chair with his handkerchief. “It – it – might be dirty, y’know.”

She looked him full in the eyes, deliciously, drowning him in sweetness, and then smiled. “Thank you. I’d hate to spoil my new coat. Everything looks a bit grimy here, doesn’t it? It’s such a frightfully dark place, too, isn’t it?”

He supposed it was, and tried to imagine her walking up Angel Pavement outside. He still lingered. “Is there anything else,” he began vaguely, hovering, adoring her.

“Quite happy, thanks.”

There was no excuse possible to stay a moment longer. Reluctantly he returned to his desk, with his heart swelling with excitement. The others looked at him inquiringly, but he pretended to be busy with something. He did not even want to explain about a girl like that. He wanted to keep the very thought of her being there to himself. Meanwhile, he was determined to listen hard. The moment that he heard Mr. Golspie’s visitor going, he would rush out, tell Mr. Golspie she was there, and thus see her again.

But he was not able to manage it. Mr. Golspie must have shown his visitor out, for immediately after the door was opened, Turgis heard Mr. Golspie’s voice booming behind the partition. ‘Hello, Lena girl!” he heard him say. “Forgotten about you coming. Won’t keep you a minute.”

Mr. Golspie then came into the office. “I’ve got to go out,” he told Mr. Smeeth, “and I shan’t be coming back to-day. Be in about eleven in the morning though, if anybody wants him. And I say, what’s your name – Turgis –“

“Yes, sir,” replied Turgis smartly.

“Get hold of the Anglo-Baltic – Mr. Borstein, nobody else, mind, Mr. Borstein – and tell him from me that if we’ve any more delays like that with the stuff, there’s going to be heap big trouble. They said they wouldn’t let us down, and they’re letting us down like hell. And you can tell him that from me.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Did you say Mr. Borstein?” And Turgis stared at Miss Lena Golspie’s father, at his massive bald front, at his great moustache, at his big square shoulders. Mr. Golspie had never seemed an ordinary man, but now he had for Turgis the power and fascination of a demi-god. Already his very name spelt sweetness and wonder.

“That’s the chap,” Mr. Golspie grunted. “Afternoon, everybody.” And he departed.

“That was Mr. Golspie’s daughter then who came to the door, was it?” said Mr. Smeeth.

“His daughter, eh?” Miss Matfield raised her eyebrows, the looked at Turgis, and said casually: “What was she like? Pretty?”

“Yes,” Turgis mumbled, “she was.” And he would say no more. He was not going to talk about her. Lena Golspie.

Then, with something like amorous urgency, he went to the telephone, rang up the Anglo-Baltic, and sternly demanded Mr. Borstein. He would tell Mr. Borstein something! He would show him whether he could let them down like hell! Lena Golspie. Lena Golspie. Lena, Lena, Lena. “Hello, is that Mr. Borstein? This is Twigg and Dersingham. Yes, Twigg and Dersingham. Mr. Golspie asked me to ring you up – Mr. Gol-spie…” Lena’s father. Lena, Lena, Lena.

PROSE UNIT 22:

TRANSLATING SINCLAIR LEWIS