7/27/2019 Concurso - Tradutor Juramentado - RJ - 2009 - Gabarito-Versao

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JUCERJA  

Concurso Público 2009

Gabarito da prova de Versão de Inglês 

People 

Suddenly, we choose someone’s life. That was the one we wanted. In that big

white house, on a quiet street, in a small town. Yes, we are switching everything. She wasthe person we wanted to be, that serenity behind the light-colored eyes, that benevolencethat extends itself to animals and things, so simply. And that serene joy of living, thatcheerful vote of confidence in life, that blank promissory note against the future, redeemedeveryday, bit by bit, by planting flowers, burnishing the house, sheltering the animals.

That was the harbor where we would like to furl our sails, to replace the anxiety,the restlessness, the latent, unmitigated anguish, the multiple, cosmic fear, all doubts, withthat peace. To wake up in the morning, after sleeping through the night, thinking that it isworth it, that it pays off, that it is rewarding to set both enthusiastic feet on the ground. Toopen up the shutter panels to let the sunshine in, with the same gesture as one that opens

up one’s heart. What is the hormone, and secreted by what gland, that endows a womanwith a taste for starching, so whitely, her embroidered doily for the coffee tray? There is abattle well-won, daily renewed, against dust, moths and rust, which corrode everything.Within the walls of her citadel, flowers blossom, dust vanishes, nothing defeats theimmaculate whiteness of the curtains, stray dogs find home and master. And this is anartless, most difficult way to have faith. Each ornament has its story, before eachphotograph there is a flower vase, for each animal a caring gesture.

“Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.” — I heard thatall too often in Sunday school, and I look around wondering how many and which Easternrubies will pay for that minute, compassionate tenderness that put flowers in the vasesand wax on the floors and transparency in the glass panes and liquid gold in the tea. Alas,

the lost farm-like peace of this mid-afternoon tea, which the women of my time no longer know, blended with the warm aroma of cake and toast that wafts from the kitchen! We area generation that eats standing up, that has exchanged the sweet rituals that surroundedthe noble act of feeding oneself for a rushed ingestion of calories. We no longer eat; wefuel ourselves up like a vehicle, like an automobile parked next to its pump. We haveexchanged the old dining-rooms for winged tables, improvised, hurriedly, from a tinyconsole standing against a wall. And what does a child know of home, having never beensummoned, in the sweetness of the afternoon, from the far end of the backyard, to stoprunning about, and quickly, sloppily, wash his hands and come sit at the table set for afternoon tea with gentle plump ladies who have come to visit mom? It is time for bakeddelicacies, for the naïve vanities of the pastry makers, for showing off old recipes, copiedout in fine handwriting.

(LESSA, Elsie. Gente. IN: SANTOS, Joaquim Ferreira dos (org.) As cemmelhores crônicas brasileiras. Rio de Janeiro: Objetiva, 2007, p. 157-158.)