Traducción para "martillo en mano" a ingles
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Ejemplos de traducción
Santo Padre, nos despertaremos y veremos a las mujeres del mundo, lideradas por el Femen, cargando contra los muros del Vaticano, martillos en mano, dispuestas a destruirlos.
Holy Father, we will wake up and find the women of the world, led by the Femen, rushing the walls of the Vatican, hammers in hand, bent on destruction.
Martillo en mano, Perrin salió de la habitación con Saltador a su lado.
Hammer in hand, Perrin strode out of the room with Hopper beside him.
A Piet, martillo en mano, le gustaba sentir el agarre en la fuerza de gravedad.
Piet, hammer in hand, liked to feel the bite taken into gravity.
Imagino a mamá arremangada, martillo en mano y la espalda empapada en sudor, poniendo clavos y lijando tablas de madera.
I picture Mamá with her sleeves rolled high, hammer in hand, sweat staining her back, pounding nails and sanding planks of wood.
Vio a Temple, que, martillo en mano, estaba sentado a horcajadas encima de una traviesa. La sólida estructura cuadrada de la tienda de Majud apenas sobresalía por encima de los edificios medio derruidos que la flanqueaban a ambos lados.
She caught sight of Temple, sitting high up astride a big beam, hammer in hand, the strong square frame of Majud’s shop already higher than the slumping buildings on either side.
Sin solución de continuidad vi una muerte a martillazos o deduje que era una muerte, una mujer empuñaba el arma, de treinta y tantos, llevaba falda y tacones y un collar de perlas colgándole sobre un ajustado jersey de pico, entonadas las tres prendas en verde, parecía salida de los años cincuenta o de los primeros sesenta, una secretaria o una ejecutiva o una empleada de banco, en todo caso una oficinista, derribaba a un hombre bastante más alto de un salvaje martillazo en la frente, era de mi edad o de la de Tupra pero más pesado y ancho que nosotros, en una habitación de hotel seguramente, el hombre fornido caía de espaldas y ella se montaba sobre él a horcajadas y seguía dándole con el martillo, machacándole el cráneo siempre, por eso di por descontada su muerte, cuánto pánico le tenía o cómo debía de odiarlo, el collar le bailaba, se le remangaron las faldas, extrañamente no llevaba medias pese al otoñal atuendo, quizá se las había quitado antes y quizá las bragas para follar vestida o las bragas no hace falta, o él a ella para violarla y habría querido tenerla así encima o debajo con las piernas abiertas, quién sería ella entonces, quién ahora y quién la víctima, continué sin decir palabra, esta grabación terminó abruptamente, la mujer con el martillo en alto como Tupra con su espada, aún no había puesto fin a sus golpes, no pude evitar acordarme de la rara actriz Constance Towers en aquella película antigua, The Naked Kiss era su título y en España Una luz en el hampa, algo ridículo, hacía algo parecido en la primera escena pero no con martillo sino con su zapato afilado o con un teléfono, y se le caía la cabellera en mitad de su crimen, resultaba ser una peluca rubia y se quedaba calva ante los espectadores, quizá era eso lo que más impresionaba, como en el falso caso de Jayne Mansfield, y también me cruzó el pensamiento la temida imagen de Luisa con la que había fantaseado en mis peores momentos o en los más alterados, atacada por aquel que me sustituyera, el hombre torcido que no la dejará respirar a sol ni a sombra y la aislará totalmente, y que acaso una noche de lluvia y encierro cierre sus manos grandes sobre su cuello mientras los niños —mis niños— miran desde una esquina aplastándose contra la pared como si quisieran que cediera ésta y desapareciera, y con ella la mala visión, y el impedido llanto que ansia brotar pero no alcanza, el mal sueño, y el ruido prolongado y raro que su madre hace al morirse, ojalá tenga un martillo a mano para que no sea ella quien muera sino que muera el hombre torcido, el despótico y posesivo que no es así en los primeros pasos y encuentros, sino deferente, respetuoso y aun precavido, el que no se queda a dormir nunca ni aunque se lo imploren, como yo mismo, y se viste de arriba abajo de nuevo pese a la hora y el desmadejamiento y el frío, y al salir a la calle lleva otra vez sus guantes puestos, ese hombre tan parecido a Tupra.
Immediately after this, I saw someone being beaten to death with a hammer, at least I assume he was killed, a woman of about thirty was wielding the weapon, she was wearing a skirt and high heels and a pearl necklace over her tight V-necked sweater—the clothing and shoes in the same matching green, she looked like someone out of the 1950s or the early sixties, a secretary or an executive or a bank clerk, certainly an office worker—she felled a man considerably taller than herself with a savage hammer blow to the forehead, he was my age or Tupra s, but heavier and broader than either of us, this was probably taking place in a hotel room, the burly man fell backwards and she sat astride him hitting him with the hammer, smashing his skull, which is why I assume that he died, she must have feared or hated him intensely, her necklace jiggled up and down, her skirt was all rucked up; strangely enough, despite her autumnal outfit, she wasn’t wearing stockings, perhaps she’d taken them off before and perhaps her panties too, in order to have sex fully clothed, or perhaps she didn’t have to take off her panties, or he took them off so as to rape her and would have liked to have her like that, on top of him, or underneath with her legs spread, what would that have made her then, what was she now and who was the victim, I still said nothing, the recording ended abruptly, the woman poised with her hammer in the air, like Tupra with his sword, she had not yet finished delivering her blows, I couldn’t help remembering that rather odd actress Constance Towers in that old movie, The Naked Kiss, in Spain it was called Una luz en el hampa—A Light in the Underworld—a slightly ridiculous title—in which she did something similar in the first scene, not with a hammer but with the sharp heel of her shoe, or was it a telephone, and while she was committing this crime her hair fell off, it turned out she was wearing a blonde wig and was revealed to the viewers as completely bald, and maybe that’s what was most shocking, like those false stories about Jayne Mansfield; and the image of Luisa also crossed my mind, the dread image I had fantasized about in my darkest or maddest moments, attacked by the man who would replace me, a devious sort who wouldn’t give her so much as a moment’s breathing space and would isolate her totally, and who, one rainy night, when they were stuck at home, would close his large hands around her throat while the children—my children—watched from a corner, pressing themselves into the wall as if wishing the wall would give way and disappear and, with it, that awful sight, and the choked-back tears that longed to burst forth, but could not, the bad dream, and the strange, longdrawn-out noise their mother made as she died, I just hoped she had a hammer at hand so that she wouldn’t be the one to die, but the devious man, the despotic possessive man who wasn’t like that in the early stages, on their first dates, but deferential, respectful, even cautious, who, like me, didn’t stay the night, even if begged to do so, but put all his clothes back on despite the lateness of the hour, the exhaustion and the cold, and when he went out into the street once again put his gloves on, that man so similar to Tupra.
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