1984-bilingue

George Orwell 1 9 8 4
he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.
He got away from Mr Charrington and went down
the stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him
reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the
door. He had already made up his mind that after a
suitable interval—a month, say—he would take the
risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps not
more dangerous than shirking an evening at the
Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to come
back here in the first place, after buying the diary
and without knowing whether the proprietor of the
shop could be trusted. However—!
Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He
would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He
would buy the engraving of St Clement Danes, take
it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under
the jacket of his overalls. He would drag the rest of
that poem out of Mr Charrington's memory. Even
the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs
flashed momentarily through his mind again. For
perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless,
and he stepped out on to the pavement without so
much as a preliminary glance through the window.
He had even started humming to an improvised tune
Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's,
You owe me three farthings, say the—
Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his
bowels to water. A figure in blue overalls was
coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It
was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl
with dark hair. The light was failing, but there was
no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him
straight in the face, then walked quickly on as
though she had not seen him.
For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to
move. Then he turned to the right and walked
heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he
was going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one
question was settled. There was no doubting any
longer that the girl was spying on him. She must
have followed him here, because it was not credible
124
Salió de la tienda del señor Charrington. Se había
adelantado a él desde el piso de arriba. No quería
que lo acompañase hasta la puerta para que no se
diera cuenta de que reconocía la calle por si había
alguien. En efecto, había decidido volver a visitar
la tienda cuando pasara un tiempo prudencial; por
ejemplo, un mes. Después de todo, esto no era más
peligroso que faltar una tarde al Centro. Lo más
arriesgado había sido volver después de comprar el
Diario sin saber si el dueño de la tienda era de fiar.
Sin embargo...
Sí, pensó otra vez, volvería. Compraría más objetos
antiguos y bellos. Compraría el grabado de San
Clemente y se lo llevaría a casa sin el marco
escondiéndolo debajo del «mono». Le haría
recordar al señor Charrington el resto de aquel
poema. Incluso el desatinado proyecto de alquilar
la habitación del primer piso, le tentó de nuevo.
Durante unos cinco segundos, su exaltación le hizo
imprudente y salió a la calle sin asegurarse antes
por el escaparate de que no pasaba nadie. Incluso
empezó a tararear con música improvisada.
Naranjas y limones, dicen las campanas de San
Clemente, me debes tres peniques, dicen las...
De pronto pareció helársele el corazón y
derretírsele las entrañas. Una figura en «mono»
azul avanzaba hacia él a unos diez metros de
distancia. Era la muchacha del Departamento de
Novela, la joven del cabello negro. Anochecía, pero
podía reconocerla fácilmente. Ella lo miró
directamente a la cara y luego apresuró el paso y
pasó junto a él como si no lo hubiera visto.
Durante unos cuantos segundos, Winston quedó
paralizado. Luego torció a la derecha y anduvo sin
notar que iba en dirección equivocada. De todos
modos, era evidente que la joven lo espiaba. Tenía
que haberío seguido hasta allí, pues no podía
creerse que por pura casualidad hubiera estado
paseando en la misma tarde por la misma callejuela