the name of the wind

meine erste übersetzung wird der prolog von “the name of the wind” sein. bei dem buch handelt es sich um ein fantasyabenteuer eines jungen lauten spielenden magiers.  “the name of the wind”  ist seit ungefähr einem jahr immer noch mein absolutes lieblingsbuch und hier will ich euch den prolog der geschichte übersetzen.

doch zunächst der englische text:

Prologue

A Silence of Three Parts

IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a
silence of three parts.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that
were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the
trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down
the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful
of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation
and laughter, the clatter and clamour one expects from a drinking house
during the dark hours of night. If there had been music . . . but no, of course
there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.
Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar.They
drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling
news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow
one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.
The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an
hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the
rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black
stone hearth that held the heat of a long-dead fire. It was in the slow back
and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it
was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of
mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.
The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant,
and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many
things.
The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate,
as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself.
It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great riversmooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.