《渺小一生》:我不明白他這句話是什么意思

　 And so he did. Saturday afternoons, after he’d finished work or visiting with Lucien and the Irvines, we’d drive to Garrison, either alone or with Richard and India or JB or one of the Henry Youngs and their wives, and on Sunday we’d cook something. My main problem, it emerged, was a lack of patience, my inability to accept tedium. I’d wander away to look for something to read and forget that I was leaving the risotto to glue itself into a sticky glop, or I’d forget to turn the carrots in their puddle of olive oil and come back to find them seared to the bottom of the pan. (So much of cooking, it seemed, was petting and bathing and monitoring and flipping and turning and soothing: demands I associated with human infancy.) My other problem, I was told, was my insistence on innovating, which is apparently a guarantee of failure in baking. “It’s chemistry, Harold, not philosophy,” he kept saying, with that same half smile. “You can’t cheat the specifed amounts and hope it’s going to come out the way it should.”

于是我們開始了。每個星期六下午，他工作完，或是拜訪過呂西安和歐文夫婦，我們就開車到加里森，有時只有我們兩人，有時還有理查德和印蒂亞、杰比或某個亨利·楊和他們的太太，星期天我們就會做菜。在這個過程中，我主要的毛病又暴露出來，那就是缺乏耐性，根本無法接受無聊。煮菜時，我會跑去找別的東西來讀，忘了我的意大利燉飯，結(jié)果燒成一堆爛糊，或者我會忘記把橄欖油里的胡蘿卜翻面，回來就發(fā)現(xiàn)燒焦了（看來烹飪很多部分是要輕拍、要泡、要觀察、輕拋、轉(zhuǎn)動、撫慰，這種種要求總讓我聯(lián)想到人類的嬰兒期）。我的另一個毛病，他告訴我，就是堅持創(chuàng)新，這在烘焙中顯然是失敗的保證。“哈羅德，這是化學，不是哲學，”他總是這么說，同樣是那個半笑的表情，“你不能不遵守特定的分量，還希望做出該有的樣子。”

　 “Maybe it’ll come out better,” I said, mostly to entertain him—I was always happy to play the fool if I thought it might give him some pleasure—and now he smiled, really smiled. “It won’t,” he said.

“說不定烤出來會更好啊。”我說，主要是為了逗他，只要覺得有可能讓他開心一點，我總是樂于扮演傻瓜。于是他笑了，真的笑了。“不會的。”他說。

　 But finally, I actually did learn how to make some things: I learned how to roast a chicken and poach an egg and broil halibut. I learned how to make carrot cake, and a bread with lots of different nuts that I had liked to buy at the bakery he used to work at in Cambridge: his version was uncanny, and for weeks I made loaf after loaf. “Excellent, Harold,” he said one day, after tasting a slice. “See? Now you’ll be able to cook for yourself when you’re a hundred.”

但終于，我真的學會了一些東西：我學會如何烤雞、煮水蒸蛋、炙烤比目魚。我學會做胡蘿卜蛋糕，還有一種加很多不同堅果的面包，就是他以前在劍橋市打工的那家面包店賣的，我常常去買，只是他的版本非常不可思議，有好幾個星期，我烤了一條又一條這種面包。“好極了，哈羅德，”有一天他嘗了一片說，“看到?jīng)]，等到你一百歲，就可以自己做菜了。”

　 “What do you mean, cook for myself?” I asked him. “You’ll have to cook for me,” and he smiled back at me, a sad, strange smile, and didn’t say anything, and I quickly changed the subject before he said something that I would have to pretend he didn’t. I was always trying to allude to the future, to make plans for years away, so that he’d commit to them and I could make him honor his commitment. But he was careful: he never promised.

“什么意思？自己做菜？”我問他，“你得替我做菜才行。”他聽了對我露出微笑，一種哀傷、奇怪的微笑，什么都沒說。我趕緊改變話題，免得他說出一些話，我還得假裝沒聽到。我總是試著影射未來，擬出幾年后的計劃，這樣他一答應(yīng)要做，我就可以逼他守住承諾。但他很小心，從來沒答應(yīng)過。

　 “We should take a music class, you and I,” I told him, not really knowing what I meant by that.

“我們應(yīng)該去上個音樂課，你跟我。”我告訴他，其實只是順口說說，沒有什么具體的想法。

　 He smiled, a little. “Maybe,” he said. “Sure. We’ll discuss it.” But that was the most he’d allow.

他淡淡微笑。“或許吧，”他說，“沒問題，我們再討論吧。”頂多就是這樣。

　 After our cooking lesson, we walked. When we were at the house upstate, we walked the path Malcolm had made: past the spot in the woods where I had once had to leave him propped against a tree, jolting with pain, past the first bench, past the second, past the third. At the second bench we’d always sit and rest. He didn’t need to rest, not like he used to, and we walked so slowly that I didn’t need to, either. But we always made a ceremonial stop, because it was from here that you had the clearest view of the back of the house, do you remember? Malcolm had cut away some of the trees here so that from the bench, you were facing the house straight on, and if you were on the back deck of the house, you were facing the bench straight on. “It’s such a beautiful house,” I said, as I always did, and as I always did, I hoped he was hearing me say that I was proud of him: for the house he built, and for the life he had built within it.

每回上完烹飪課，我們就會散步。去紐約州北部的那棟房子時，我們會沿著馬爾科姆開出來的那條小徑走，經(jīng)過有回他痛得全身抽搐，我不得不把他留在那里靠著一棵樹的那個點，經(jīng)過第一張石凳、第二張、第三張。到了第二張石凳，我們總會坐下來休息。他不需要休息，不像以前那樣，而且我們走得很慢，所以我也不需要休息。但我們總是儀式性地停下來，因為從這里可以最清楚地看到屋子背面，你還記得嗎？馬爾科姆當初砍掉這邊的幾棵樹，于是石凳正好面對著房子，而如果你在屋后的露臺，也正對著那張石凳。“這個房子太美了。”我總是這么說，而且我總是希望他聽得出我以他為榮：因為他打造的這棟房子，還有他在屋里打造的生活。

　 Once, a month or so after we all returned home from Italy, we were sitting on this bench, and he said to me, “Do you think he was happy with me?” He was so quiet I thought I had imagined it, but then he looked at me and I saw I hadn’t.

我們從意大利回來大約一個月后，有回我們坐在這張石凳上，他跟我說：“你想他當初跟我在一起快樂嗎？”他講得好小聲，我還以為是自己想象出來的，但接著他兩眼看著我，于是我知道那句話不是我的幻想。

　 “Of course he was,” I told him. “I know he was.”

“他當然快樂，”我告訴他，“我知道他很快樂。”

　 He shook his head. “There were so many things I didn’t do,” he said at last.

他搖搖頭。“有好多事我都沒做。”最后他說。

　 I didn’t know what he meant by this, but it didn’t change my mind. “Whatever it was, I know it didn’t matter,” I told him. “I know he was happy with you. He told me.” He looked at me, then. “I know it,” I repeated. “I know it.” (You had never said this to me, not explicitly, but I know you will forgive me; I know you will. I know you would have wanted me to say this.)

我不明白他這句話是什么意思，反正我不會改變想法。“無論什么事，我知道那都不重要。”我告訴他，“我知道他跟你在一起很快樂。他告訴過我的。”然后他望著我。“我知道的。”我重復說，“我知道的。”（你其實從來沒有明確告訴過我，但我知道你會原諒我；我知道你會的。我知道你會希望我這么說。）

　 Another time, he said, “Dr. Loehmann thinks I should tell you things.”

又有一回，我們坐在這張石凳上時，他說：“婁曼醫(yī)生認為我該告訴你一些事情。”

　 “What things?” I asked, careful not to look at him.

“什么事情？”我問，很小心不要看他。

　 “Things about what I am,” he said, and then paused. “Who I am,” he corrected himself.

“有關(guān)我是什么，”他說，然后停頓了一下，“我是什么人。”他修正了。

　 “Well,” I said, finally, “I’d like that. I’d like to know more about you.”

“唔，”我終于說，“那很好，我想更了解你。”

　 Then he smiled. “That sounds strange, doesn’t it?” he asked. “ ‘More about you.’ We’ve known each other so long now.”

他微笑了。“聽起來好奇怪，不是嗎？”他問，“‘更了解你。’我們認識到現(xiàn)在這么久了。”

　 I always had the sense, during these exchanges, that although there might not be a single correct answer, there was in fact a single incorrect one, after which he would never say anything again, and I was forever trying to calculate what that answer might be so I would never say it.

在這些對話中，我總有一個感覺，也許沒有一個正確的答案，但其實有一個不正確的答案。他聽了就再也不會說出任何事情了，所以我一直設(shè)法推測不正確的答案可能是什么，然后絕對不要說出來。

　 “That’s true,” I said. “But I always want to know more, where you’re concerned.”

“沒錯，”我說，“但我一直想要更了解你，想知道有關(guān)你的事。”

　 He looked at me quickly, and then back at the house. “Well,” he said. “Maybe I’ll try. Maybe I’ll write something down.”

他很快看了我一眼，目光又轉(zhuǎn)回去看房子。“唔，”他說，“也許我會試試看。也許我會寫下來。”

　 “I’d love that,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“這樣很好。”我說，“看你什么時候準備好。”