Gato bajo la lluvia
Cat in the Rain
There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out of the empty square.
The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.
“I’m. going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said.
“I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed.
“No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table.”
The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.
“Don’t get wet,” he said.
The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.
“Il piove,” the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper.
“Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.”
He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.
Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the door-way an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.
“You must not get wet,” she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.
With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.
“Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?”
“There was a cat,” said the American girl.
“A cat?”
“Si, il gatto.”
“A cat?” the maid laughed. “A cat in the rain?”
“Yes,” she said, “under the table.” Then, “Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.”
When she talked English the maid’s face tightened.
“Come, Signira,” she said. “We must get back inside. You will be wet.”
“I suppose so”, said the American girl.
They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed, reading.
“Did you get the cat?” he asked, putting the book down.
“It was gone.”
“Wonder where it went to,” he said, resting his eyes from reading.
She sat down on the bed.
“I wanted it so much,” she said. “I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.”
George was reading again.
She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.
George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s.
“I like it the way it is.”
“I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”
George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak.
“You look pretty darn nice,” he said.
She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.
“I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,” she said. “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.”
“Yeah?” George said from the bed.
“And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”
“Oh, shut up and get something to read.,” George said. He was reading again.
His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees.
“Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.”
George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Avanti,” George said. He looked up from his book.
In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.
“Excuse me,” she said, “the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.”
En el hotel sólo había dos americanos. No conocían a ninguna de las personas con las que se cruzaban en la escalera cuando iban y venían de su habitación. La habitación estaba en la segunda planta, con vistas al mar. También daba al jardín público y al monumento de los caídos. En el jardín público había grandes palmeras y unos bancos verdes. Cuando hacía buen tiempo siempre había un artista con su caballete. A los artistas les gustaba cómo crecían las palmeras y los vivos colores de los hoteles que daban a los jardines y al mar. Los italianos llegaban desde muy lejos para ver el monumento a los caídos. Era de bronce y relucía bajo la lluvia. Estaba lloviendo. Las palmeras goteaban. El agua formaba charcos en los caminos de grava. El mar rompía en una larga línea bajo la lluvia, retrocedía sobre la playa para volver a coger fuerza y romper otra vez en una larga línea bajo la lluvia. En la plaza donde estaba el monumento a los caídos no quedaba ningún coche. Al otro lado de la plaza, en la entrada de un café, un camarero contemplaba la plaza solitaria.
La esposa americana estaba sentada junto a la ventana, mirando la calle. Fuera, justo debajo de la ventana, una gata se acurrucaba bajo una de las empapadas mesas verdes. La gata intentaba reducir al máximo su tamaño para no mojarse.
–Voy a bajar a recoger a ese gatito –dijo la americana.
–Ya lo haré yo –se ofreció el marido desde la cama.
–No, lo haré yo. El pobrecito está debajo de una mesa procurando no mojarse.
El marido siguió leyendo, incorporado al pie de la cama con la ayuda de dos almohadones.
–No te mojes –le dijo.
La mujer bajó y el propietario del hotel se levantó y la saludó con la cabeza al pasar junto a su despacho. Su escritorio estaba en el fondo del despacho. Era un anciano muy alto.
–Il piove –dijo la mujer. Le caía bien el propietario.
–Sí, sí, signora, brutto tempo. Muy mal tiempo.
Se quedó detrás de su escritorio, en el extremo en penumbra del despacho. Le caía bien a la mujer. Le gustaba la tremenda seriedad con que recibía cualquier queja. Le gustaba su dignidad. Le gustaba la manera en que quería servirla. Le gustaba cómo asumía su papel de propietario del hotel. Le gustaba su cara vieja y tosca y sus manos grandes.
Pensando en cuánto le gustaba, abrió la puerta y miró fuera. Ahora llovía con más fuerza. Un hombre con un impermeable cruzaba la plaza vacía hacia el café. El gato debía de estar más o menos a la derecha. Quizá podría llegar sin tener que dejar la protección de los aleros. Mientras estaba en la puerta, se abrió un paraguas a su espalda. Era la doncella que les limpiaba la habitación.
–No debe mojarse –dijo en italiano, sonriendo. Evidentemente, el propietario la había llamado.
Con la doncella sujetándole el paraguas, recorrió el camino de grava hasta que estuvo bajo su ventana del hotel. Allí estaba la mesa, de un verde abrillantado por la lluvia, pero el gato había desaparecido. La doncella levantó la mirada.
–Ha perduto qualche cosa, signora?
–Había un gato –dijo la americana.
–¿Un gato?
–Sí, il gatto.
–¿Un gato? –La doncella se echó a reír – ¿Un gato bajo la lluvia?
–Sí –dijo la americana–, debajo de la mesa. —Y a continuación—: Vaya, me moría de ganas de tenerlo. Quería un gatito.
Cuando hablaba en inglés, la cara de la doncella se tensaba.
—Venga, signora —dijo—. Volvamos. Se mojará.
—Supongo que tiene razón —dijo la americana.
Regresaron por el camino de grava y entraron en el hotel. La doncella se quedó fuera para cerrar el paraguas. Cuando la americana pasó junto al despacho, el patrón le hizo una inclinación de cabeza desde su escritorio. La americana sintió en su interior algo pequeño y tirante. El patrón la hacía sentir muy pequeña y al mismo tiempo realmente importante. Por un momento tuvo la sensación de ser alguien de una importancia suprema. Subió las escaleras. Abrió la puerta de su habitación. George estaba en la cama, leyendo.
–¿Has encontrado el gato? –preguntó, bajando el libro.
–Se había ido.
–A saber adónde habrá ido –dijo el marido, descansando la vista de la lectura.
Ella se sentó en la cama.
–Me apetecía tanto tener ese gato —dijo ella—. No sé por qué, pero me apetecía muchísimo tenerlo. Quería a ese pobre gatito. No es divertido ser un pobre gatito bajo la lluvia.
George volvía a leer.
La mujer se le acercó, se sentó delante del espejo del tocador y se miró con el espejo de mano. Estudió su perfil, primero un lado y luego el otro. A continuación se estudió la nuca y el cuello.
–¿No crees que sería buena idea dejarme crecer el pelo? –preguntó mirándose de nuevo el perfil.
George levantó la mirada y le vio la nuca, con el pelo tan corto como el de un muchacho.
–Me gusta como lo llevas.
–Pues ya estoy harta —dijo—. Estoy harta de parecer un chico.
George cambió de postura en la cama. No había apartado los ojos de ella desde que comenzaran a hablar.
–Estás guapísima –dijo.
Ella dejó el espejo sobre el tocador, fue hacia la ventana y miró afuera. Estaba oscureciendo.
–Quiero tener el pelo largo y poder echármelo para atrás y sentirlo terso y apretado. Hacerme un gran moño en la nuca que me pese —dijo—. Quiero tener un gatito en el regazo y que ronronee cuando lo acaricie.
–¿Ah, sí? –dijo George desde la cama.
–Y quiero comer en una gran mesa con mis propios cubiertos de plata y quiero velas. Y quiero que sea primavera y quiero cepillarme el pelo delante de un espejo y quiero un gatito y quiero ropa nueva.
–Oh, cállate y búscate algo para leer –dijo George. Ahora volvía a leer.
Su esposa miraba por la ventana. Casi había oscurecido del todo, y seguía lloviendo sobre la palmera.
–De todos modos, quiero un gato –dijo–. Quiero un gato. Quiero un gato ahora. Si no puedo tener el pelo largo ni divertirme, al menos puedo tener un gato.
George no la escuchaba. Estaba leyendo su libro. Su esposa miraba por la ventana, allí donde las luces de la plaza habían comenzado a encenderse.
Alguien llamó a la puerta.
–Avanti –dijo George. Levantó la mirada del libro.
En el vano estaba la doncella. Llevaba un enorme gato pardo apretado contra ella y con el cuerpo colgando.
–Perdone –dijo—, el patrón me ha pedido que traiga esto a la signora.
Ernest Hemingway, Gato bajo la lluvia (Cat in the rain).1925. Traducción de Damián Alou.
Ernest Hemingway
There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out of the empty square.
The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.
“I’m. going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said.
“I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed.
“No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table.”
The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.
“Don’t get wet,” he said.
The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.
“Il piove,” the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper.
“Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.”
He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.
Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the door-way an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.
“You must not get wet,” she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.
With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.
“Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?”
“There was a cat,” said the American girl.
“A cat?”
“Si, il gatto.”
“A cat?” the maid laughed. “A cat in the rain?”
“Yes,” she said, “under the table.” Then, “Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.”
When she talked English the maid’s face tightened.
“Come, Signira,” she said. “We must get back inside. You will be wet.”
“I suppose so”, said the American girl.
They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed, reading.
“Did you get the cat?” he asked, putting the book down.
“It was gone.”
“Wonder where it went to,” he said, resting his eyes from reading.
She sat down on the bed.
“I wanted it so much,” she said. “I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.”
George was reading again.
She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.
George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s.
“I like it the way it is.”
“I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”
George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak.
“You look pretty darn nice,” he said.
She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.
“I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,” she said. “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.”
“Yeah?” George said from the bed.
“And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”
“Oh, shut up and get something to read.,” George said. He was reading again.
His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees.
“Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.”
George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Avanti,” George said. He looked up from his book.
In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.
“Excuse me,” she said, “the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.”
Ernest Hemingway, Cat in the Rain.
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