The Town Inside the River's Arm

Polly follows the river north through dry hills where the summer grass has turned the color of bread crust. The water swings left, then right, cutting a deep green channel through the rock. Then it makes one last, lazy loop, and inside that loop stands a town. Pink houses climb the hillside in rows, stacked against the stone like books leaning on a shelf.

Polly leti na sjever prateći rijeku kroz suhe brežuljke gdje je ljetna trava poprimila boju korice kruha. Voda skreće lijevo, pa desno, usijecajući dubok zelen kanal u stijenu. Zatim napravi posljednju, lijenu petlju, a unutar te petlje stoji grad. Ružičaste kuće penju se uz obronak u redovima, naslagane uz kamen poput knjiga naslonjenih na polici.

This is Albarracín, and about a thousand people live here, fewer than on a single street of a big city. The houses are plastered in soft rose and rust, and their wooden balconies lean out over the lanes as if they were listening. Above the highest rooftops, a stone wall climbs the bare ridge and keeps climbing, far past the point where any sensible wall would stop.

Ovo je Albarracín, i ovdje živi oko tisuću ljudi, manje nego u jednoj jedinoj ulici velikoga grada. Kuće su ožbukane u nježnim tonovima ruže i hrđe, a njihovi drveni balkoni naginju se nad uličice kao da prisluškuju. Iznad najviših krovova kameni zid penje se golim grebenom i nastavlja se penjati, daleko iza točke na kojoj bi svaki razuman zid stao.

Polly glides over the rooftops and drops into the little main square just as the light turns gold. The plaza is barely bigger than a living room. A fountain mutters to itself in one corner. From an open doorway comes the smell of fresh bread, and from somewhere higher up drifts the clonk of a sheep bell, a sound these mountains have known for centuries.

Polly klizi iznad krovova i spušta se na mali glavni trg baš kad svjetlo postane zlatno. Trg je jedva veći od dnevne sobe. Fontana u kutu mrmlja sama sebi. Kroz otvorena vrata dopire miris svježega kruha, a odnekud više gore zveket ovčjeg zvona, zvuk koji ove planine poznaju stoljećima.

She settles on the rim of the fountain and lets the evening arrive. One by one the lamps come on, and the pink walls turn the color of embers. Tomorrow there will be alleys to explore and that impossible wall to question. Tonight there is only the fountain, the bread smell, and a town going gently to sleep inside the river's arm.

Smjesti se na rub fontane i pusti da večer stigne. Jedna po jedna pale se svjetiljke, a ružičasti zidovi poprimaju boju žeravice. Sutra će biti uličica za istraživanje i onaj nemogući zid kojem treba postaviti pitanja. Večeras postoje samo fontana, miris kruha i grad koji polako tone u san u naručju rijeke.