Конкурсный текст для студентов Высшей школы перевода МГУ

[MrsDee]

We were having breakfast in our rooms at college. Simon was presiding over the table with his accustomed critique on the world as evidenced by the morning's paper. "Oh, splendid," he sniffed, "it looks as if we have been invaded by a pack of free-loading foreign photographers keen on exposing their film—and who knows what else—to the exotic delights of Dear Old Blighty. Lock up your daughters, Bognor Regis! European paparazzi are loose in the land!"
He rambled on awhile, and then announced: "Hold on! Have a gawk at this!" He snapped the paper sharp and sat up straight—an uncommon posture for Simon.
"Gawk at what?" I asked idly. This thing of his—reading the paper aloud to a running commentary of facile contempt, scorn, and sarcasm, well-mixed and peppered with his own unique blend of cynicism—had long since ceased to amuse me. I had learned to grunt agreeably while eating my egg and toast. This saved having to pay attention to his tirades, eloquent though they often were.
"Some bewildered Scotsman has found an aurochs in his patch."
"You don't say." I dipped a comer of toast triangle into the molten center of a soft-boiled egg, and read an item about a disgruntled driver on the London Underground refusing to stop to let off passengers, thereby compelling a trainfull of frantic commuters to ride the Circle Line for over five hours. "That's interesting."
"Apparently the beast wandered out of a nearby wood and collapsed in the middle of a hay field twenty miles or so east of Invemess." Simon lowered the paper and gazed at me over the top. "Did you hear what I just said?"
"Every word. Wandered out of the forest and fell down next to Inverness—probably from boredom," I replied. "I know just how he felt."
Simon stared at me. "Don't you realize what this means?"
"It means that the local branch of the RSPCA gets a phone call. Big deal." I took a sip of coffee and returned to the sports page before me. "I wouldn't call it news exactly."
"You don't know what an aurochs is, do you?" he accused. "You haven't a clue."
"A beast of some sort—you said so yourself just now," I protested. "Really, Simon, the papers you read—" I flicked his upraised tabloid with a disdainful finger. "Look at these so-called headlines: 'Princess Linked to Alien Sex Scheme!' and 'Shock Horror Weekend for Bishop with Massage Parlor Turk!' Honestly, you only read those rags to fuel your pessimism."
He was not moved. "You haven't the slightest notion what an aurochs is. Go on, Lewis, admit it."
I took a wild stab. "It's a breed of pig."
"Nice try!" Simon tossed his head back and laughed. He had a nasty little fox-bark that be used when he wanted to deride someone's ignorance. Simon was extremely adept at derision; a master of disdain, mockery, and ridicule in general.
I refused to be drawn. I returned to my paper and stuffed the toast into my mouth.
"A pig? Is that what you said?" He laughed again.
"Okay, okay! What, pray tell, is an aurochs. Professor Rawnson?"
Simon folded the paper in half and then in quarters. He creased it and held it before me. "An aurochs is a sort of ox."
"Why, think of that," I gasped in feigned astonishment. "An ox, you say? It fell down? Oh my, what won't they think of next?" I yawned. "Give me a break."
"Put like that it doesn't sound like much," Simon allowed. Then he added, "Only it just so happens that this particular ox is an ice-age creature which has been extinct for the last two thousand years."


Подробности конкурса будут сообщены на встрече 9-го апреля.

[MrsDee]

PS. Конкурс только для студентов МГУ. Всем остальным придётся немного потерпеть: на днях начнётся традиционный открытый конкурс.