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‘It’s translation,’ said Professor Playfair. ‘Simply, the words for translation itself.’
As he spoke, he engraved a word quickly on one side of the bar, and then showed them what he’d written: Translate.
‘The verb translate has slightly different connotations in each language. The English, Spanish, and French words – translate, traducir, and traduire – come from the Latin translat, which means “to carry across”. But we get something different once we move past Romance languages.’ He began inscribing a new set of letters on the other side. ‘The Chinese fanyì, for example, connotes turning or flipping something over, while the second character yì comes with a connotation of change and exchange. In Arabic, tarjama can refer both to biography and translation. In Sanskrit, the word for translation is anuvad, which also means “to say or repeat after and again”. The difference here is temporal, rather than the spatial metaphor of Latin. In Igbo, the two words for translation – tapia and kowa – both involve narration, deconstruction, and reconstruction, a breaking into pieces that makes possible a change in form. And so on. The differences and their implications are infinite. As such, there are no languages in which translation means exactly the same thing.’
He showed them what he’d written on the other side. Italian – tradurre. He put it on the table.
‘Translate,’ he said. ‘Tradurre.’
The moment he lifted his hand from the bar, it began to shake.
Amazed, they watched as the bar trembled with greater and greater violence. It was awful to witness. The bar seemed to have come alive, as if possessed by some spirit desperately trying to break free, or at least to split itself apart. It made no sound other than a fierce rattling against the table, but Robin heard in his mind a tortured, accompanying scream.
‘The translation match-pair creates a paradox,’ Professor Playfair said calmly as the bar started shaking so hard that it leapt inches off the table in its throes. ‘It attempts to create a purer translation, something that will align to the metaphors associated with each word, but this is of course impossible, because no perfect translations are possible.’
Cracks formed in the bar, thin veins that branched, split, and widened.
‘The manifestation has nowhere to go except the bar itself. So it creates an ongoing cycle until, at last, the bar breaks down. And... this happens.’
The bar leapt high into the air and shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces that scattered across the tables, the chairs, the floor. Robin’s cohort backed away, flinching. Professor Playfair did not bat an eye. ‘Do not try it. Not even out of curiosity. This silver,’ he kicked at one of the fallen shards, ‘cannot be reused. Even if it’s melted down and reforged, any bars made with even an ounce of it will be impotent. Even worse, the effect is contagious. You activate the bar when it’s on a pile of silver, and it spreads to everything it’s in contact with. Easy way to waste a couple dozen pounds if you’re not careful.’ He placed the engraving pen back on the worktable. ‘Is this understood?’
They nodded.
‘Good. Never forget this. The ultimate viability of translation is a fascinating philosophical question – it is, after all, what lies at the heart of the story of Babel. But such theoretical questions are best left for the classroom. Not for experiments that might bring down the building.’
‘Anthony was right,’ said Victoire. ‘Why would anyone bother with the Literature Department when there’s silver-working?’
They sat around their regular table at the Buttery, feeling rather dizzy with power. They’d been repeating the same sentiments about silver-working since class had been let out, but it didn’t matter; it all felt so novel, so incredible. The whole world had seemed different when they stepped out of the tower. They’d entered the wizard’s house, had watched him mix his potions and cast his spells, and now nothing would satisfy them until they’d tried it themselves.
‘Did I hear my name?’ Anthony slid into the seat across Robin. He peered around at their faces, then smiled knowingly. ‘Oh, I remember this look. Did Playfair give you his demonstration today?’
‘Is that what you do all day?’ Victoire asked him excitedly. ‘Tinker with match-pairs?’
‘Close enough,’ said Anthony. ‘It involves a lot more thumbing through etymological dictionaries than tinkering per se, but once you’ve seized upon something that might work, things get really fun. Right now I’m playing with a pair I think might be useful in bakeries. Flour and flower.’
‘Aren’t those just entirely different words?’ asked Letty.
‘You would think,’ said Anthony. ‘But if you go back to the Anglo-French original of the thirteenth century, you’ll find they were originally the same word – flower simply referred to the finest part of grain meal. Over time, flower and flour diverged to represent different objects. But if this bar works right, then I should be able to install it in milling machines to refine flour with more efficiency.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure it will work. But I expect a lifetime of free scones from Vaults if it does.’
‘Do you get royalties?’ asked Victoire. ‘Every time they make a copy of your bars, I mean?’
‘Oh, no. I get a modest sum, but all proceeding profits go to the tower. They do add my name to the ledger of match-pairs, though. I’ve got six in there so far. And there are only about twelve hundred active match-pairs currently in use throughout the Empire, so that’s about the highest academic laurel you can claim. Better than publishing a paper anywhere else.’
‘Hold on,’ said Ramy. ‘Isn’t twelve hundred quite low? I mean, match-pairs have been in use since the Roman Empire, so how—’
‘How is it that we haven’t covered the country in silver expressing every match-pair possible?’
‘Right,’ said Ramy. ‘Or at least, come up with more than twelve hundred.’
‘Well, think about it,’ said Anthony. ‘The problem should be obvious. Languages affect each other; they inject new meaning into each other, and like water rushing out of a dam, the more porous the barriers are, the weaker the force. Most of the silver bars that power London are translations from Latin, French, and German. But those bars are losing their efficacy. As linguistic flow spreads across continents – as words like saute and gratin become a standard part of the English lexicon – the semantic warp loses its potency.’
‘Professor Lovell told me something similar,’ said Robin, remembering. ‘He’s convinced that Romance languages will yield fewer returns as time goes on.’
‘He’s right,’ said Anthony. ‘So much has been translated from other European languages to English and vice versa in this century. We seem unable to kick our addiction to the Germans and their philosophers, or to the Italians and their poets. So, Romance Languages is really the most threatened branch of the faculty, as much as they’d like to pretend they own the building. The Classics are getting less promising as well. Latin and Greek will hang on for a bit, since fluency in either is still the purview of the elites, but Latin, at least, is getting more colloquial than you’d think. Somewhere on the eighth floor there’s a postdoc working on a revival of Manx and Cornish, but no one thinks that’s going to succeed. Same with Gaelic, but don’t tell Cathy. That’s why you three are so valuable.’ Anthony pointed at them all in turn except for Letty. ‘You know languages they haven’t milked to exhaustion yet.’
‘What about me?’ Letty said indignantly.
‘Well, you’re all right for a bit, but only because Britain’s developed its sense of national identity in opposition to the French. The French are superstitious heathens; we are Protestants. The French wear wooden shoes, so we wear leather. We’ll resist French incursion on our language yet. But it’s really the colonies and the semi-colonies – Robin and China, Ramy and India; boys, you’re uncharted territory. You’re the stuff that everyone’s fighting over.’
