Zugegeben, ich habe mich von Gesine inspirieren lassen, die heute in ihrem Blog die englische Übersetzung ihres Kurzkrimis „Das Panamahuhn“ vorstellt. Aber wo doch gestern Nacht Vollmond war und mein Kopf heute zu migränebeduselt ist, um großartig neue Texte zu verfassen, gibt es nun eine Kostprobe aus Mary Tannerts wunderbarer Übersetzung meines Kurzkrimis Vollmond – , die als Full Moon zuerst im Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine (2003) und später in der amerikanischen Anthologie „Passport to Crime“ (2007) erschien:
Full Moon
by Mischa Bach
translated by Mary Tannert
August
She moved in the day after the full moon. The apartment next door had been empty for months. All that time, Sally and I were alone on the top floor of the old house and I’d had the rooftops to myself. So when the noise of the moving men woke me that morning, the first thing I did was curse. Sally lifted her head and looked at me, startled. I got out of bed, shuffled to the door – trying not to make any noise – and took a look through the spyhole. A broad back filled up the hallway, followed by a large desk moving across my field of view and then another broad shoulder. At least it wasn’t a piano, I thought. Then Sally’s cold doggy nose on my hand reminded me that it was time for breakfast and sent me into the kitchen.
While I waited for the coffee to drip through the filter – I hate coffee machines as much as I hate electric stoves – and Sally fell on the contents of her dog dish, I went into the bathroom. Last night it had been too late to clean up by the time I got home, and the place was a pigsty. I muttered under my breath. Normally, after the night of the full moon I sleep until noon and have at least two cups of coffee and several cigarettes before going into the bathroom. But what can you do? You never know what new neighbors might need or drop by for.
Later, when the moving van had left, Sally and I went down to the street. I took the bus out of the city, out to an abandoned industrial area. The land there next to the old factories runs down to the river. Nobody bothers you there, nobody asks questions. You see a couple of punks, maybe, barely old enough to call themselves teenagers. Sally lets off steam running around with their dogs, and I sit and smoke. Without having to talk to anyone or take any grief about my fire. But today nobody else was there. Probably they’d gotten a party going somewhere or had gone to the quarry lake. No wonder, in the heat. But that was fine, too; the day after a full moon I’d rather be alone.
Dearest Helen,
You were right – an apartment that’s been empty as long as this one smells like a grave. It took almost a week of airing to get the smell out. Right now I’ve got all the windows wide open, the birds are chirping, and I can hear the noise of children playing and rush hour traffic, far away. It’s all slowly becoming livable, almost pleasant.
You were also right about the sloping eaves being a problem up here under the roof. I underestimated the proportion of roof to wall, and my big wardrobe wouldn’t fit in the bedroom at all! So I had the movers set it up in the hall, which is otherwise just wasted space, and that way my two rooms seem just a little bit larger.
When I read this, I can practically hear you saying that I’m just trying to make everything sound rosy again! Oh Helen, the next time I start to leave a city because of some man, tie me down, put me in chains, don’t let me go! I hate starting over from scratch – a new apartment, new people at work, new stores, new pubs. Nothing’s right, nothing’s the same, I’m alone in the world and don’t even have a familiar home to go home to!
I know I always said I wanted to work for an alternative newspaper. And the rest of the staff is really nice, much nicer than my co-workers in the editor’s office of the daily news. Plus, there’s something to be said for having a monthly deadline instead of a daily one! It’s just that I didn’t expect to have to write about a serial killer. I never dreamed I’d get an assignment like that at a left-wing, basically culture-oriented publication. They call him the werewolf, and he murders right on time for our copy deadline, according to the editor. I find it all gruesome. But never mind, no point in scaring you sleepless….
By the way, you’d really like the local culture factory. Lots of exotic creatures from the dance scene, and I get to write about them too, which really beats the local garden club and the poodle breeders association!
I have to stop now; I’m really tired. Write back soon and let me know how you’re doing and when you’re coming to see me! Lizzy