The Old Man at the Bridge (by Ernest Hemingway)

[O M I D]

The Old Man at the Bridge

An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther
.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.

"Where do you come from?" I asked him.

"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
"I was taking care of animals," he explained. "Oh," I said, not quite understanding. "Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?"
"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them."
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
"What animals were they?" I asked.
"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons."
"And you had to leave them?" I asked.
"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery." "And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others."
"What politics have you?" I asked.
"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further." "This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa."
"I will wait a while," he said, "and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"
"Towards Barcelona," I told him.
"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much."
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share his worry with some one, "The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?"
"Why they'll probably come through it all right." "You think so?"
"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?"
"Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Then they'll fly."
"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.
"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now."
"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals."
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

[O M I D]

يرمردي با عينك فلزي و لباسي سراسر پوشيده از خاك كنار جاده نشسته بود.
پلي موقتي بر روي رودخانه كشيده بودند و گاري ها، ‌چرخ دستي ها، مردها ، زن ها و بچه ها از روي آن مي گذشتند. گاري هايي كه با قاطر كشيده مي شدند به كمك سربازها كه پره هاي چرخ ها را هل مي دادند، تلوتلو خوران از شيب پل بالا مي رفتند. چرخ دستي ها به سختي از پل بالا مي رفتند و با عبور از آن ناپديد مي شدند. روستايي ها در ميان خاكي كه به قوزك شان مي رسيد به سختي قدم بر مي داشتند. اما پيرمرد بي حركت آنجا نشسته بود. خسته تر از آن بود كه قدم از قدم بردارد.
ماموريت داشتم از پل عبور كنم، سمت ديگر پل را بررسي كنم و ببينم دشمن تا چه حد پيش روي كرده است. كارم را تمام كردم و برگشتم تنها چند گاري ديگر و تعدادي آدم پياده باقي مانده بود اما پيرمرد هنوز همان جا بود.
از او پرسيدم« از كجا آمدي؟»
گفت « از سان كارلوس » و لبخند زد.
آنجا زادگاهش بود به همين دليل به ياد آوردنش مايه دلخوشي اش شد و لبخند بر لبانش نشاند.
گفت « از حيوون ها نگهداري مي كردم»
درست متوجه نشده بودم و گفتم « اه»
گفت « آره، مي دوني موندم تا از حيوون ها نگهداري كنم. آخرين نفري بودم كه سان كارلوس رو ترك كردم.»
قيافه اش به چوپان ها و گاودارها نمي برد، به لباس هاي تيره ي خاك آلوده، چهره ي گرفته ي خاكي و عينك فلزي اش چشم دوختم و گفتم « چه حيوون هايي؟»
گفت « حيوون هاي مختلف» و سرش را تكان داد « مجبور شدم ولشون كنم»
داشتم به پل و دلتاي ايبرو كه شبيه افريقا بود نگاه مي كردم و به اين فكر بوم كه چقدر طول مي كشد تا دشمن به ما برسد و گوش به زنگ صدايي بودم كه نشانه ي مبارزه، اين واقعه ي هميشه مرموز باشد و پيرمرد هنوز همان جا نشسته بود.
پرسيدم « چه حيوون هايي داشتي؟»
« همش سه نوع حيوون؛ دو تا بز، يه گربه و چهار جفت كبوتر»
«‌و مجبور شدي همشون رو ول كني؟»
« آره به خاطر بمباران. سروان گفت كه به خاطر بمباران بايد اونجا رو ترك كنم.»
در حالي به پايان پل چشم دوخته بودم و آخرين گاري هايي را كه با عجله از شيب پل پايين مي رفتند نگاه مي كردم پرسيدم « خانواده اي نداري؟»
« نه، فقط همون حيوون هايي كه گفتم. گربه ِ حتما سالم مي مونه. گربه ها مي تونن از خودشون مراقبت كنن اما نمي دونم چه بلايي سر بقيه شون مياد»
« كدوم طرفي هستي؟»
« با سياست كاري ندارم. هفتاد و شش سالمه. تا حالا دوازده كيلومتر راه آمدم ولي فكر نكنم بتونم از اين جلوتر برم.»
« اما اينجا جاي امني نيست. اگه بتوني جلوتر بري توي جاده اي كه به تورتوسا منشعب ميشه كاميون گيرت مياد»
« يه كم استراحت مي كنم بعد مي رم. كاميون ها كجا مي رن؟»
« ميرن به سمت بارسلونا »
« اونجا هيچ كسي رو ندارم. اما خيلي ازت ممنونم. واقعا ازت ممنونم»
با چشماني خسته و بي فروغ به من نگاه كرد و بعد گويي مي خواست نگراني اش را با كسي قسمت كند گفت « گربه ِ‌سالم مي مونه، مطمئنم. براي گربه ِ جاي نگراني نيست اما بقيه شون نه. فكر ميكني چه بلاي سر بقيه شون مياد؟»
« حتما از پسش برميان و سالم ميمونن»
« واقعا؟»
در حالي كه به آن سمت رود كه ديگرگاري نبود نگاه مي كردم گفتم «‌چرا كه نه؟»
« اما وقتي به خاطر بمباران به من گفتن اونجا رو ترك كنم، اونها زير بمباران چي كار مي تونن بكنن؟»
« در قفس كبوترها رو باز گذاشتي؟»
«‌آره»
«‌خب پس حتما پرواز مي كنن»
« بله اونها حتما پرواز مي كنن اما بقيه شون چي. بهتره به بقيه شون فكر نكنم.»
« اگه خستگيت در رفته من برم.» و با اصرار گفتم « حالا ديگه بلندشو راه برو»
گفت « ممنون» و بلند شد روي پاهایش ايستاد، تلوتلو خورد و به پشت توي خاك ها نشست.
با خستگي گفت « از حيوون ها نگهداري مي كردم» اما ديگر روي سخنش با من نبود. « فقط از حيوون ها نگهداري مي كردم»
ديگر نمي شد كاري برايش كرد. يكشنبه ي عيد پاك بود و فاشيست ها داشتند به سمت ايبرو پيشروي مي كردند. آسمان ابري و گرفته بود و سقف پرواز كوتاه اجازه نمي داد كه هواپيماهايشان را به پرواز درآورند. اين موضوع و اينكه گربه ها مي توانستند از خود مراقبت كنند بزرگترين شانسي بود كه پيرمرد مي توانست داشته باشد.
ترجمه یاسمن میرزائی