The First Heart Transplant

En espera de los resultados finales de las oposiciones, que ojalá sean satisfactorios para vosotros, mis seguidores y amigos, vuelvo de nuevo al blog con mi programa veraniego.
El verano es tiempo de relax y descanso tras un curso movidito, por lo tanto, mis posts durante los dos siguientes meses incluirán fundamentalmente material más light, como historias, humor, etc, dejando los más académicos, como gramática, fonética y léxico para una nueva etapa que pretendo iniciar a mediados del mes de septiembre. Subiré también todos los martes, empezando el próximo día 8, hasta el 9 de septiembre, una serie de cuentos y fábulas infantiles, que los padres y abuelos puedan poner a sus peques para que vayan haciendo el oído al inglés y aprendiendo algunas palabras. 

Empiezo la temporada de verano compartiendo hoy con vosotros la primera historia que me publicó Sur in English, sobre finales de 1988, creo recordar. Cuando escribí este pequeño relato, el racismo imperaba aún en South Africa, pero en la actualidad, afortunadamente, gracias al inolvidable Mandela, este racismo forma ya parte del pasado....o casi:

THE FIRST HEART TRANSPLANT

           

It had been that very morning, the eve of his 27^th anniversary, at the small cemetery (only for black people) of his native town that he had heard the words “heart transplant” for the first time. He had been looking with vacant eyes at the humble coffin being lowered to the grave, when he had overheard those two men, vague acquaintances of his, mention that the operation had been a great success the day before at the town hospital. He did not understand at first. He felt that odd sensation one has when one suddenly awakes from a bad dream or rather, a frightful nightmare...

            That is why it was such a terrible shock for him to realize that it was his own burial. The body in the hearse was his, and that poor black girl in front of him, concealing her tears behind a frayed veil was his own wife. He had felt a sudden impulse to rush to her, take her in her arms and..., it had all been so sudden, the car accident had left him no time to tell her how much he loved her and how grateful he was for the happy moments she had given him..., but no movement came from his limbs. He was dead.

            Now, in this drowsy summer afternoon, looking through the window of that big, modern hospital (only for white people), he felt a little uneasy. He knew, of course, that men of his race were not welcome in this place, but he had wished to cast a glance on that fat, white man there, lying in his bed, peacefully smiling at a solicitous doctor and a pretty nurse at his side. He was a perfect stranger to him, but it was his heart beating in that chest, of that he was sure...

            He had been taught to distrust white people, to hate them even, and as he stood there gazing at that pale, flabby man, he could not help thinking with bitterness of the ordeal his poor black heart would have to endure. Through that white body he would have to love a white woman, white children perhaps, and live separated from the ones he really cared for. But oddly enough, he felt his anger recede, giving way to a new, unknown emotion, until at last he was happy as a child. He thought his involuntary donation might lead sometime to a greater love and respect for the brothers of his race, and it seemed to him as if he had been born again...

            He knew they were waiting for him above and he had a large account to settle..., but it was full of a new hope that he started off for his last journey.