1984-bilingue

George Orwell 1 9 8 4
He was starting up from the plank bed in the halfcertainty
that he had heard O’Brien’s voice. All
through his interrogation, although he had never
seen him, he had had the feeling that O’Brien was
at his elbow, just out of sight. It was O’Brien who
was directing everything. It was he who set the
guards on to Winston and who prevented them
from killing him. It was he who decided when
Winston should scream with pain, when he should
have a respite, when he should be fed, when he
should sleep, when the drugs should be pumped
into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and
suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he
was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the
friend. And once—Winston could not remember
whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep,
or even in a moment of wakefulness—a voice
murmured in his ear: ‘Don’t worry, Winston; you
are in my keeping. For seven years I have watched
over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall
save you, I shall make you perfect.’ He was not
sure whether it was O’Brien’s voice; but it was the
same voice that had said to him, ‘We shall meet in
the place where there is no darkness,’ in that other
dream, seven years ago.
He did not remember any ending to his
interrogation. There was a period of blackness and
then the cell, or room, in which he now was had
gradually materialized round him. He was almost
flat on his back, and unable to move. His body was
held down at every essential point. Even the back
of his head was gripped in some manner. O’Brien
was looking down at him gravely and rather sadly.
His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn,
with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from
nose to chin. He was older than Winston had
thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty.
Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top
and figures running round the face.
‘I told you,’ said O’Brien, ‘that if we met again it
would be here.’
276
Intentó levantarse, incorporarse en la cama donde
lo habían tendido, pues casi tenía la seguridad de
haber oído la voz de O'Brien. Durante todos los
interrogatorios anteriores, a pesar de no haberío
llegado a ver, había tenido la constante sensación
de que O'Brien estaba allí cerca, detrás de él. Era
O'Brien quien lo había dirigido todo. Él había
lanzado a los guardias contra Winston y también él
había evitado que lo mataran. Fue él quién decidió
cuándo tenía Winston que gritar de dolor, cuándo
podía descansar, cuándo lo tenían que alimentar,
cuándo habían de dejarlo dormir y cuándo tenían
que reanimarlo con inyecciones. Era él quien
sugería las preguntas y las respuestas. Era su
atormentador, su protector, su inquisidor y su
amigo. Y una vez — Winston no podía recordar si
esto ocurría mientras dormía bajo el efecto de la
droga, o durante el sueño normal o en un momento
en que estaba despierto — una voz le había
murmurado al oído: «No te preocupes, Winston;
estás bajo mi custodia. Te he vigilado durante siete
años. Ahora ha llegado el momento decisivo. Te
salvaré; te haré perfecto». No estaba seguro si era
la voz de O'Brien; pero desde luego era la misma
voz que le había dicho en aquel otro sueño, siete
años antes: «Nos encontraremos en el sitio donde
no hay oscuridad».
Ahora no podía moverse. Le habían sujetado bien
el cuerpo boca arriba. Incluso la cabeza estaba
sujeta por detrás al lecho. O'Brien lo miraba serio,
casi triste. Su rostro, visto desde abajo, parecía
basto y gastado, y con bolsas bajo los ojos y
arrugas de cansancio de la nariz a la barbilla. Era
mayor de lo que Winston creía. Quizás tuviera
cuarenta y ocho o cincuenta años. Apoyaba la
mano en una palanca que hacía mover la aguja de
la esfera, en la que se veían unos números.
— Te dije — murmuró O'Brien — que, si nos
encontrábamos de nuevo, sería aquí.