Night Across the Street

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NIGHT ACROSS THE STREE Inspired by the novel

by Hernn Del Solar

A pale sky above a crumbling world

could dissolve with the clouds.

"The rags of the washed-out purple

of the setting sun

"fade in a river which slumbers

on the horizon

"submerged between brightness and water."

"The setting sun."

"The washed-out purple of the setting sun."

Let's correct this translation.

In French if we say,

"The washed-out purple of the setting sun,"

it is surprising.

In Spanish, to say "setting sun"

is also surprising,

but not in a good way.

And to say...

"The canvas house of

one who shows us the past"

is what we call "a linguistic find."

But to say in Spanish

"the canvas house

of the exhibitor of things past"

doesn't work.

It grates.

But why?

Seor Villegas?

Seor Alba?

Why, Seor Martinez?

Does nobody have the answer?

I think it sounds good.

But it isn't any good, Seor Olave.

Not at all. No, not at all.

In French we say "shadow puppeteer,"

isn't that right?

Seor Martinez?

Close your eyes please.

Yes, sir, I'm sorry.

In Spanish one doesn't say

"exhibitor of shadows."

When someone says

"puppeteer of things past,"

they are referring to the past,

as though that past were

a theater of shadows.

Isn't that so, Monsieur Villegas?

Yes, Monsieur Giono.

Let's play with that idea.

If we say,

"The magician who makes us

see the shadows of things past,"

we're getting closer, aren't we?

Seor Ribera?

Any ideas?

We'll continue on Friday.

Goodbye. See you Friday.

The Horseman on the Roof

has just been published.

So I've heard. Is it a good edition?

Very good.

And a good translation.

So I've heard.

Congratulations.

Why me?

Because you are Jean Giono.

The author of The Horseman on the Roof.

Aren't you?

Sometimes I get the impression

that I am.

Time seems

to stumble along here,

doesn't it, Giono?

Yes, you can almost touch it as it passes.

That's an image which obsesses me.

Time doesn't pass.

The hours don't follow one another.

They're like little balls.

What do you call them?

- Marbles.

- Marbles.

Little balls of time.

But of stone or of crystal?

Strange question,

"Marbles of stone or of crystal?"

Could one make a necklace

out of these marbles of time?

Necklaces of years.

Ages of crystal.

Months of bronze.

Epochs of steel.

Could one play

with these marbles,

made, as you say, of time?

Once again I am out of my depth

with your questions.

But time passes,

and I have to get back to the office.

See you on Friday, at 3:00 on the dot.

You see what I was telling you, boss?

Look.

Look how he's moving his hands.

He never used to do that.

I asked him why he was moving his hands.

"My hands?

"What hands," he said.

You see, boss.

As I was saying,

he had no idea

why he was moving his hands.

I'm talking to you, Don Celso.

What?

What?

I asked you a question.

What do you think of a port without ships?

A port without ships?

Let me see.

A port without ships is like...

Like a whore without a lawyer,

like a lawyer without his Parker 51 pen,

or like a cyclist without nieces.

No. It's no good.

You've been utterly incoherent recently.

I have no more ideas.

I'm like

a port without sea gulls.

The seagulls have left me.

That's no good, Don Celso.

Now that you're about to retire,

what are you going to do?

A retired person needs ideas.

Without ideas

you'll lose your youth.

You'll be all alone.

I don't intend

to retire just yet.

It's Wednesday today.

You're going on Monday.

That's quite soon.

Monday turns into Tuesday,

then Wednesday.

Then it's nearly the end of the week,

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