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tranfree issue 16 - 7th July 2000
Out in the world - Interpreters Beware!by John McCarthy One of the reasons many of us translate is that we like being alone. Some can't stand it. They need the hustle and bustle of the workplace, to see people face to face, interact, gossip. What accounts for this difference between people? Early development, personality, star sign? Who knows, but the fact is there are those who can be alone and those who can't. As a Martin Amis character who has given up the struggle to become a writer confesses, "The study life is all thought and anxiety and I cannot take the study life any more". Not all translators are writers of course. But quite a few of them, I'd guess, occasionally have their doubts about their ability to handle the study life. I know I do. It's not exactly that we want to be out there all the time, among the whoosh of tube trains and the startling reality of other bodies, but we want a taste of it now and again. Just to remind ourselves we belong to the human race. For some time now I've been advertising my services as an interpreter as well as a translator. I've done a bit of it over the years, both socially and in formal work contexts. Through trial and error, I've learned some techniques, but, more importantly, taken on board the high level of concentration required to perform as a consecutive interpreter. (I can barely imagine the superhuman powers of concentration and spontaneity expected of the practitioner working in simultaneous situations.) It was hard, often stressful work, I could see that now. But it had its plusses. It got me out from behind my desk, away from the screen, among people. Until I started interpreting I'd forgotten what it was like to wear a... I'd sent them my details about six months back and this was the first I'd heard from them. It was the sort of call you dream of when you haven't worked for a couple of weeks. You can't think of any new people you can phone or e-mail to introduce yourself. You're finding it hard to stop yourself pestering the contacts you do have; it's not only bad business, but you've got your pride to consider. Suddenly, a stranger is offering you what sounds like a ridiculous amount of money to go and meet with a group of Chileans and help them through some "informal" meetings in London. Something to do with the electricity industry, but don't worry, nothing too technical. Basically, they need a bit of a hand, that's all. Are you going to be free? Oh yes, but (come on, be professional) is there going to be any background information? Naturally, you'll be fully briefed. Just as soon as the agency receives the documents from the client. (Or was it the consultant?) Sounds good. You agree, take the details of the venue, the time, contact name, etc. All you have to do now is sit back and wait for the information to arrive. In the meantime you get the dictionary out. Now what was "pylon" again in Spanish? To tell the truth, you're rather touched. These people who only know you from a piece of paper, trusting you like that to go off and work with clients who've travelled thousands of miles to be here. Why, they didn't even ask you to speak Spanish! For all they know you could be a complete impostor. Some sort of linguistic inadequate with fantasies of polyglotism or simply a mischievous penchant for wreaking havoc in the world of multilingual communications. But if they asked you to do it, it must be because they know you're capable of it. Why would they want chance their own reputation? Stop worrying; haven't you been struggling for years to establish a career and make a bit of a name for yourself? Well, things are starting to happen now. It's payback time at last. Of course, that background information never turned up. There was no briefing. I thought there might be problems along those lines when I realised the three-day job started on the Tuesday after a bank holiday. Now it looked like I was going there with no idea what these people were going to be talking about, except that it was likely to have something to do with electricity. Electricity, I remembered again, though this time with a definite sense of foreboding, is not a subject about which I could honestly say I knew a great deal. Just one day to go now so I thought I'd have another look at that dictionary: national grid, supply box, alternating current - where to start? Was there no end to the vocabulary I didn't know about electricity? Not to worry though; it was all going to be informal, remember? I'll spare you the sorry details of what actually happened in the hotel lobbies and breakfast rooms, in the sweaty boardrooms and frantic taxi rides across town to make yet another meeting before the May sun set. Well, to be honest, I'll spare myself. You see, the memory of the whole humiliating episode is just too fresh, and I'm afraid my... My singular failure to understand, let alone interpret, more than half of what the Chileans were talking about or being told engendered in me a state of self-doubting anxiety it took days to recover from. Needless to say that what the clients had actually required was an expert in the field of electricity generation and supply who was also well practised in simultaneous interpreting. So whose fault was it? The clients'? The agency's? The Chilean consultant's? The English electricity expert who arranged the itinerary of meetings and booked an interpreter? Mine? I've thought about it a lot and think it's hard to lay the blame in any one place. On the other hand, I think it was everyone's fault. It was all done too quickly with too many people involved who didn't understand what it was they were asking for or being asked to do. Maybe there were people there who were too eager to get their hands on what they thought was going to be a bit of easy money. Nothing's wasted though, and as the memory of the horror begins to fade I'm starting to see the funny side of the whole thing. And I've learned something very important: the next time I'm desperate for work and tempted out into the big bad world, I'll think very carefully before leaving the safety and anonymity of my desk.
John McCarthy lives in North London and translates/interprets from Spanish. He has also lectured in Translation at two London universities. He also writes reviews, articles and fiction.
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...suit.
I'd become accustomed to lolling around in any old thing and shaving when I felt
like it. Yes, being well groomed and playing the man about town was a bit of a
novelty. And the work wasn't badly paid, even for someone inexperienced and
unsure of what to demand. I had just started getting the idea that interpreting
was something I could do when I got the call from the agency.
...tears of self-pity are bitter enough to
somehow find a way onto the screen you're reading.