We are working hard! Работа продолжается!
Дорогие наши замечательные поддержатели!
В то время как Сергей Лойко презентует "Аэропорт" в Литве, Латвии и США (почитайте его Фейсбучную ленту, там много новостей и фото, некоторые из которых мы публикуем здесь ниже), мы представляем Вам новости нашего проекта по переводу книги. Вы можете гордиться тем, что Вы - один из 150 человек, вместе собравших $7438 за 20 дней до окончания проекта. Пожалуйста, продолжайте поддерживать наш проект, делясь ссылкой со всеми, кого Вы знаете, и убеждайте Ваших друзей и коллег поучаствовать в проекте. Хотя минимальная сумма уже собрана, мы всегда можем использовать больше денег на другие переводы и публикацию книги. A в это же время наш удивительный, чрезвычайно работоспособный и преданный проекту Александр Сигал перевел Главы 2-3. Вы, как поддержатели проекта, прочитаете ниже небольшой отрывок из первой главы первыми.
Как всегда, с бесконечной Вам благодарностью,
Our dearest wonderful backers:
While Sergei presents AIRPORT in Lithuania, Latvia, and the US (check out his updates on Facebook for the turnouts and pictures, some of which are posted below), we keep updating you on our Kickstarter translation project. You can be proud to be one of the 150 people who pledged a total of $7,438, with 20 days still to go. Please continue to support the project by sharing the link with everyone you know and encouraging your friends and colleagues to support the project. Even though the target amount has been pledged, we can always use the extra to make other translations and publications happen. Meanwhile, our wonderful, hard-working and committed Alex Cigale has translated Chapters 2-3. We are presenting an excerpt from Chapter 1 here, and as the project backers you are the first ones to read it.
With endless thanks, as always,
CHAPTER I: YURKA THE TRAIN ENGINE
...Alexei returned to the room — the only place in Krasnokamensky Airport (KAP) that was hardened against the large caliber rounds of the small arms fire. Or more precisely, in what had remained of it by the middle of January 2015 of our Christian era.
Indeed the most modern Airport in the Ukraine and one of the best in Europe. Built, by the way, only three years ago, for that same Europe's football championship. Now it reminded Alexei of the carcass of a leviathan gnawed down to a skeleton by the sea’s predators and cast out upon these shores by the merciless fate of an inexorable tempest.
The Airport’s complex of buildings had stretched out for scores of acres before the war – many of its structures and compounds, built during both the flowering and the collapse of the USSR and over the period of the subsequent decomposition of the now untrammeled Ukraine.
All of it, including the pearl of the Airport — the new terminal that is — was now in such ruin from the unrelenting firefights and bombardments that the SCC — the airport’s Security Command Center (as opposed to the Socialist Community Choir) — remained the only place with a floor, ceiling, and walls intact. It was inside the SCC that Alexei’s recursion to the common-day reality of Alexei Molchanov – American photographer and former citizen of Russia – out of the fog of clinical amnesia first began.
The airport’s perimeter, for some few thousand meters, was so creatively disfigured by war that it at times seemed to Alexei that this was not even Stalingrad or Brest Fortress, but some Hollywood backlot set straight out of the latest blockbuster movie about World War II or the Apocalypse. He would not have been surprised had Spielberg himself materialized and, with the magic words: «Cut!», the separatists and the cyborgs would, mingling together, amble off to remove their makeup and throw back a few rounds. But Spielberg did not make the expected appearance.
Surveying the ruins, it was impossible to conceive how all these masticated by battle metallic ribs of landing strips, extending out from the central building, were still capable of standing. Just like the former building itself – bullets and shell rounds now mostly simply penetrated though its ghostly hollows without meeting any resistance, if one of them were, of course, not to worm into human flesh, of those that had by now defended for some two hundred and forty days something that was impossible to defend and which, by any sane calculation, was not worth defending.
Just as it was impossible to understand why those attacking would wish to spray the transparent ruins with lead and fire. And then send into the fray yet another wave of «volunteers», the majority of whom would soon be returning to the country of their birth in numbered wooden boxes, jam packed into the refrigerated containers of a «humanitarian convoy». To meet them, across the uncontrolled border, streamed new Russian “volunteers” and the regular troops of the Russian Army, together with thanks, armor-plated vehicles, pieces of artillery, rocketry systems. Moscow was still denying everything, refusing to acknowledge the obvious… By the tenth month of war, despite the short and shoddy periodic instances of cease fire, the Airport came to represent the vortex in the whirlwind of war, consuming, without thought or feeling, everything that both sides had flung at it — both the hardware and the people.
For their inhuman persistence and obstinacy, the enemies called the doomed men Cyborgs. They fought as though the fate of the war was being decided at this God-forsaken Airport. Moreover, not one of the cyborgs could have, eloquently or ineloquently, put into words why he had stayed here each new day, as though the very last, why he was fighting with such fierceness. If we discard the readymade slogans, the explanation could be reduced to something like this: I am fighting because I am fighting... The officers commanding the Orcs (that is what the Cyborgs called the enemy for their horde-like effacement and the impossibility of comprehending why they were here and what they were seeking to accomplish) believed that the Airport must be taken at any cost in order to «even the frontline» in the event of yet another «armistice».
"Airport" Received Warmly in the Baltics