{"id":35317,"date":"2019-06-19T16:55:30","date_gmt":"2019-06-19T14:55:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/?page_id=35317"},"modified":"2019-07-09T15:19:57","modified_gmt":"2019-07-09T13:19:57","slug":"sample-translation-spark","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/foreignrights\/authors\/anita-terpstra\/anita-terpstra-spark\/sample-translation-spark\/","title":{"rendered":"Sample Translation – Spark<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

Anita Terpstra –\u00a0Spark\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Prologue<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Not all that long ago this was just another expression for me, as it is for most people. Until something happens that suddenly, wham-bam, turns your whole world completely upside-down.<\/p>\n

With me it was the accident.<\/p>\n

But more about that later.<\/p>\n

Hate loves company, I\u2019ve noticed. It comes with so many other negative emotions. Revulsion. Anger. Self-pity. They remind me of those little fish that swim in the wake of sharks, whales or whatever mammal it may be, and get a piece of the pie that way. They owe their existence to the other, far larger creature.<\/p>\n

I reckon I\u2019m high on pain medication. I\u2019m not normally like this.<\/p>\n

Another one of those expressions I now have personal experience of: what doesn\u2019t kill you makes you stronger. Stronger, yes, but not necessarily better. It\u2019s what folk who utter this sort of nonsense always add: I\u2019m glad it happened, because it\u2019s made me a better person.<\/p>\n

Whenever people talk like this I want to throw up. They are the people who refuse to accept that some things happen for no reason at all. What is a thirteen-year-old girl supposed to learn from the loss of her lower leg? What can a young father learn from a stroke that lands him in a wheelchair?<\/p>\n

Or take me. Victim of a fire. Why don\u2019t you tell me how to become a better person with a body that\u2019s been ravaged by flames.<\/p>\n

I have a nose for such people. Or that\u2019s to say, I had a nose. Forgive me. Gallows humour. The plastic surgeon claims he can make me a new one. Maybe I\u2019m supposed to be grateful for that? For finally getting a pretty nose?<\/p>\n

Sometimes I worry that I\u2019m going insane. This place has that effect on you. It\u2019s the silence in here at moments when I\u2019m alone. I always thought that by now I\u2019d experienced pretty much every kind of silence there is \u2013 the hesitant silence between the final dance step on stage and the audience\u2019s applause, the shocked silence after I\u2019ve insulted my loved one to the core, or the other way around \u2013, but now I know better. Take the silence when family or friends see me for the first time.<\/p>\n

Or rather: what\u2019s left of me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

1<\/p>\n

MISCHA<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Ms De Kooning?\u2019 An unfamiliar female voice. Friendly. Calm. Gentle.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d been through this before. A d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu. Water. The children.<\/p>\n

Yes?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2018Ms De Kooning? Mischa?\u2019<\/p>\n

I said yes, didn\u2019t I? <\/em>God, how irritating is she.<\/p>\n

\u2018She\u2019s not reacting.\u2019<\/p>\n

I\u2019m answering, all right?<\/em><\/p>\n

Why was it so dark around me? The sound of rustling and shuffling. My eyelid was lifted and someone shone a small torch into my eye.<\/p>\n

\u2018Ah, good, her pupil reacts. She\u2019s awake.\u2019<\/p>\n

I wish that woman would lift my eyelid again. I tried my hardest to do it myself, but couldn\u2019t. I thought I\u2019d caught a glimpse of something green. I just couldn\u2019t quite place the colour.<\/p>\n

A hand pinched my right shoulder. It hurt like hell.<\/p>\n

\u2018She\u2019s reacting to pain stimuli.\u2019<\/p>\n

No shit. What would you do if I hurt you?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2018Try to open your eyes, Mischa. You\u2019re at the burns unit.\u2019<\/p>\n

Not water. Fire this time.<\/p>\n

\u2018My name is Jantien, I\u2019m one of the nurses here.\u2019 A brief silence followed. I wanted Jantien to continue. She cleared her throat. \u2018There was a fire at your home. You were injured. But don\u2019t worry, you\u2019re in good hands here.\u2019 The words were meant to be reassuring, the equivalent of a pat on the head, but instead they made the hair in the back of my neck stand on end. Fire, yes, I remembered. The smoke that wrapped itself around me like a boa constrictor, the roar of flames coming after me.<\/p>\n

So different from water and yet the same. One cold, the other hot, both deadly. Essential to life, but in large quantities they\u2019d kill you, wasn\u2019t that ironic? And cruel. Yes, ironic and cruel. It didn\u2019t hesitate to take everything. Not because it could or had to, but simply because that was its nature. Neither fire nor water has a conscience. Flashing somewhere in the back of my mind, like a flickering fluorescent tube, was the realisation that someone had exposed me to this destructive force.<\/p>\n

The voice recalled me to the here and now, away from the articulation of a name. I tried to open my mouth, but I didn\u2019t manage that either. I tried to feel my body. Normally I always hurt somewhere. Not a day went by when I didn\u2019t push through the pain during exercises at the barre. Stiffness. Especially in my lower back. Bruises. Not to mention the calluses, corns, cuts, sores or missing toenails.<\/p>\n

Right now I didn\u2019t feel anything. And that came as a shock. No pain wasn\u2019t right.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

2<\/p>\n

NIKOLAI<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Mr Ivanov?\u2019<\/p>\n

I turned my head to the glass sliding door that opened out onto the anteroom, as the adjoining space was called. A nurse, petite, plump and young, covered from head to toe in protective green clothing, including gloves, surgical mask and cap, looked at me questioningly.<\/p>\n

I was in intensive care, in a special room fitted with a humidification system. It served to filter the air. The apparatus on the ceiling was blasting away and was positioned straight over my bed. A doctor \u2013 I couldn\u2019t by God remember which one; an entirely battery had filed past me in recent days, one to look at this, the other at that, and I\u2019d given up keeping track of what exactly they came for \u2013 had explained to me that your skin protects you from infections and regulates body temperature and moisture. Because of the burns my skin had lost these protective functions. That\u2019s why I was in this room. To reduce the risk of infections the staff wore this get-up. It reminded me of movies in which life-threatening viruses had broken out.<\/p>\n

I knew it was to protect me, but it made me feel dirty. I\u2019d never felt the urge to hide, on the contrary, but now I did. I was the focus of attention for all the wrong reasons, and it was all because of Mischa. If I\u2019d still been able to use my hands I\u2019d have placed them around her delicate neck and happily squeezed the life out of her. She should have died. Her death would have solved all of my problems.<\/p>\n

The only thing I knew about her condition was that because of smoke inhalation she was on a ventilator and kept in an induced coma. The heat had singed her lungs, which in turn had caused swelling.<\/p>\n

\u2018When will you start calling me Nikolai?\u2019 I asked the nurse.<\/p>\n

\u2018The police are here\u2026 Nikolai. Detective Hans Waanders. He\u2019d like to ask you a few questions in connection with the fire. The doctor has given his consent.\u2019<\/p>\n

I nodded. I\u2019d heard that the detective had been here before, but that the doctors had turned him away.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll go and get him. It could take a while. He\u2019ll have to go through all the safety procedures.\u2019 Amid a great deal of rustling she left.<\/p>\n

I looked at my bandaged hands lying in front of me on the table. Staying in bed wasn\u2019t an option. I\u2019d been told to sit up and move as much as possible; it boosted my chances of recovery. It was good for my lungs, muscles and joints.<\/p>\n

Behind me it was a jumble of machines and wires, some of which were attached to my body. Everything around me beeped, pumped and sighed.<\/p>\n

Will I be able to dance again?<\/p>\n

It was the first question I\u2019d asked the doctor, after he\u2019d talked me through my injuries. Third-degree burns on my back, right shoulder, both hands and right thigh and second-degree ones dotted around the rest of my body. The third-degree burns would have to be operated on, because they wouldn\u2019t heal by themselves. Some second-degree burns heal without intervention. What didn\u2019t heal within two weeks would be operated on after all. The operations involved the surgeon scraping away the burnt skin to reveal healthy tissue. Because it caused the skin to bleed, only small pieces could be operated on at any one time, approximately ten per cent per surgery. It would probably take several procedures to patch me up again. Where the skin had been removed, the surgeon would perform a skin graft, harvested from intact parts of my thighs.<\/p>\n

The fact that transplanted skin has a tendency to contract and not grow with the body can be troublesome. The skin can tighten so much as to restrict movement, for instance around the joints. Not to mention the scars.<\/p>\n

\u2018My body is my instrument,\u2019 I uttered. I needed my hands and arms to lift my partner, my legs and feet to execute moves including pirouettes, arabesques and grand allegros.<\/p>\n

\u2018You will certainly be able to use your hands to carry out the normal functions.\u2019<\/p>\n

Normal functions? Did she mean getting dressed, shaving, tooth brushing, grocery shopping and other such mind-numbingly boring things? I really couldn\u2019t give a fuck. That\u2019s what I said and my outburst of anger earned me a pair of raised eyebrows from the doctor.<\/p>\n

\u2018I want to be able to dance again and if you guys here can\u2019t accomplish that, then you\u2019d better take me to a burns unit that can. Be it here or abroad!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018They\u2019ll tell you the same as me,\u2019 she replied. Her eyes looked serious, her forehead divided in two by a deep frown.<\/p>\n

\u2018We\u2019ll see about that.\u2019 This woman clearly didn\u2019t have a clue. \u2018What if I told you that you wouldn\u2019t be able to operate anymore? Well?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Of course I\u2019d mind that very much,\u2019 she said in a soothing voice. \u2018But I\u2019d look for other things I could do. Research, teaching\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n

I wouldn\u2019t let her finish. \u2018Not being able to dance is not being alive.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We\u2019re getting ahead of ourselves,\u2019 she said calmly, decisively. \u2018We\u2019ll have to\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n

The rest of her words were drowned out by the beeping of several machines. The doctor had a quick look and seemed reassured by what she saw, because she placed a hand on my shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m causing you distress, and I didn\u2019t mean to. We\u2019re having this conversation far too early. I must urge you to remain calm. Getting worked up isn\u2019t good for the state you\u2019re in.\u2019<\/p>\n

I wanted to challenge her, but the truth was that I felt pretty lousy. I was used to dancing for three hours on end, elite sport, but the exhaustion that now racked my body was new to me. And extremely unpleasant. I was dead beat. A nurse had told me that my recovery was akin to running marathons 24\/7. I was tube-fed, four thousand calories a day. The burns were responsible for raising my metabolism which, if I didn\u2019t receive enough calories, would start eating into my muscle tissue because my body needed the fuel.<\/p>\n

\u2018I understand you\u2019re worried, but it\u2019s still too early to make any meaningful pronouncements on your recovery,\u2019 the doctor resumed. \u2018You\u2019ve just been in a dreadful, traumatic fire. We\u2019ll leave it at this. Try to get some sleep. You need rest.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Can I see Mischa?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018We can\u2019t move either of you. Because of the risk of infection,\u2019 she said.<\/p>\n

\u2018Am I allowed visitors?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018The fewer the better, but you can use the phone of course. Or how about Skype? I understand you have a son. Your face is unscathed, so Skype is no problem.\u2019<\/p>\n

A nurse had made tentative enquiries about family. Was there anyone she could call for me? She\u2019d clearly pitied me when I said that there was no need. My mother-in-law Doroth\u00e9e had asked to visit, but I\u2019d declined.<\/p>\n

How about friends, she\u2019d tried, but I hadn\u2019t known who to call. I had plenty of friends at the ballet, but no close friends. A couple of hours later the nurse had turned up with clothes that had been left at the hospital. \u2018I bet you don\u2019t want to walk around in a hospital gown all day.\u2019 I\u2019d had to overcome a barrier to put on the clothes, but the barrier to call one of the dancers and ask him to buy me underwear was even higher. As soon as I was out of the ICU, I could presumably do it myself. That said, I had no money at my disposal. I didn\u2019t even have a mobile phone anymore.<\/p>\n

I could use the landline, but I hadn\u2019t phoned Gregory yet. What on earth was I supposed to say to the boy?<\/p>\n

I looked outside. Not that there was a lot to see. A wall, windows, and behind them rooms full of sick people. That said, I wasn\u2019t able to take anything in. It was all hazy inside my head and that irritated me. I had to be perfectly clear for what was bound to come.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Anita Terpstra –\u00a0Spark\u00a0     Prologue   THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS   Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Not all that long ago this was just another expression for me, as it is for most people. Until something happens that suddenly, wham-bam, turns your whole world completely upside-down. With me…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1135,"featured_media":0,"parent":35307,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-35317","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/35317","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/users\/1135"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=35317"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/35317\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/35307"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=35317"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}