◎董繼平譯

丟失的東西

我們搜尋的這些小東西找到我們——我們五六次經(jīng)過廚房餐桌時，難以解釋地注意到，那把放錯了地方的鑰匙，而那只放在衣兜里的手表，數(shù)天之后重新出現(xiàn)，仍在斗篷上或窗臺上嘀嗒作響，假裝著屈服，指針朝著一點零五分而抬起。

即便是我們死去的父母也在睡夢中找到我們，還有那些結(jié)果多么糟糕的風(fēng)流韻事，也在深夜時分的車用收音機(jī)放出的流行音樂曲調(diào)中，或者在昨天并不在那里，但今天早晨卻無法解釋地出現(xiàn)在我們的五斗櫥抽屜里的照片上，搜尋我們。

盡管如此，有些東西如此遙遠(yuǎn)地掉進(jìn)我們內(nèi)心，因此，沒有我們的幫助，它們就無法回來，就像飛機(jī)失事之后留在熱帶雨林中的孩子，必須等待我們進(jìn)行一場探險遠(yuǎn)征，去營救他們。

我們背著笨重的被包，用皮帶捆住氧氣瓶——那用就像19世紀(jì)的船殼上布滿鉚釘?shù)匿摪逯瞥傻难鯕馄?，從隔板的河邊小?zhèn)穩(wěn)步開進(jìn)叢林。

很快，我們的裝備就雜亂地扔在我們身后的小徑上，我們氣喘吁吁，衣衫襤褸，赤著腳蹣跚地前行，仿佛被拖向一個無法抗拒的目的地。

我們?nèi)諠u瘋狂，因為時間在我們面前流逝，我們害怕自己將永遠(yuǎn)趕不上。最后，我們找到了那些孩子，他們眼神茫然，坐在林間空地上或茅草棚屋中，用石頭砸著堅果殼。他們已經(jīng)長得如此高大，如此瘦削，就像我們自己一樣，一臉憔悴的倦容，以至于我們幾乎沒有認(rèn)出他們。

后來，我們站在那座我們在下層林木中發(fā)現(xiàn)的墳?zāi)古赃?。那些墳?zāi)挂讶谌牖囊埃厦骐s草叢生，再也沒有人來拜訪，墳頭散落著一件件幸存者認(rèn)定為宗教手工藝品的東西——鑰匙、手表、梳子和我們發(fā)黃的照片。

LOST THINGS

Those little things we search for，find us—the misplaced key we unexplainably notice as we pass the kitchen table for the fifth or sixth time;the watch left in a pocket that days later reappears still ticking on a mantle or a windowsill，with arms raised in mock surrender at five of one.

Even our dead parents seek us out in sleep，and those love affairs，which ended so badly，search for us in pop tunes on car radios late at night，or in photographs which weren’t there yesterday but this morning unaccountably appear in our bureau drawers.

There are some things，however，that fall so far inside us they cannot return without our help，like children in a tropical rain forest after an airline crash who must wait for us to undertake an expedition to rescue them.

Harnessed in cumbersome backpacks and strapped into oxygen tanks made of steel plates stippled with rivetheads like nineteenth century ship hulls，we forge into the jungle from the clapboard rivertown.

Soon our equipment litters the path behind us and we stagger on，gasping，barefooted，clothes shredded，as if pulled toward a destination we cannot resist.

Each day we are more frantic because time is running ahead of us and we fear that we’ll never catch up.In the end we find the children seated blank-eyed in a clearing or in a thatched hut，pounding husks with stones.They have grown so tall，so thin，their faces as gaunt and weary as our own，that we hardly recognize them.

Later we stand by the graves we have discovered in the underbrush.They are wild and overgrown，no longer visited by anyone and strewn with what the survivors identify as religious artifacts——keys，watches，combs，and yellowing photographs of us.

話語

我們睡覺的時候，內(nèi)心的話語就像文藝復(fù)興時期城市中的竊賊和刺客，從藏身之處悄悄溜了出來。

時過子夜，但所有這些身影都出現(xiàn)了，裹著斗篷，要不然就披著黑色披風(fēng)，從一根柱子悄悄溜到另一根柱子，低語著，爭吵著，或者在黑暗中偶然地不期而遇。

在朦朧的連拱廊上，一個身影刺戳另一個身影，把尸體留在其倒下之處。在一個廣場邊上，四個惡棍咆哮著、詛咒著，把一個酩酊大醉的學(xué)生裝在粗麻袋里面帶走。

排屋的正面一派寂靜而黑暗，盡管嗚咽聲、嘆息聲和刺耳的打鼾聲從那些部分打開的窗戶中撲騰而出，但它們的含義卻被廣場上汩汩作響的噴泉聲模糊。

這些聲音星星點點，洞穿那無處不在的寂靜，仿佛那些建筑物焦躁不安，咕噥著什么。

一聲叫喊。窗前突然亮起燈光?；鹁纥c綴廣場。好像那具尸體被發(fā)現(xiàn)了。然而，那些聲音令人困惑，那些傳言混亂不清。那是戰(zhàn)爭，疾病，王子宮中的一個繼承人的誕生？

大教堂鐘樓上，一口鐘深沉地鳴響。那聲音奔向四面八方，越過一片片鋪著瓦片的屋頂。

沿著那條通往西城門的道路一兩英里，一個農(nóng)民坐在大車上，一邊讓驢子引著他回家，一邊歌唱起愛情、死亡和一種簡樸生活的歡樂。

THE WORDS

When we sleep，the words inside us slide from their hiding places like thieves and assassins in a Renaissance city.

It is after midnight，but there are all these figures，muffled in cloaks or slipping from one pillar to another in black capes，who whisper and bicker，or come upon one another unexpectedly in the dark.

One stabs another in a shadowy arcade，and leaves the body where it falls.At the edge of a piazza，four ruffians，growling and cursing，carry off a drunken student in a burlap sack.

The facades of townhouses are still and dark，although whimpers and sighs and raspy snores flutter from the partially open windows，their meanings blurred by the fountains burbling in the squares.

The quiet everywhere is stippled by these sounds，as if the buildings were restless and muttering.

A shout.Lights flare at windows.Torches dot a piazza.It seems the body has been discovered.But the sounds are confused，the reports garbled.Is it war，disease，the birth of an heir in the prince1s palace?

A bell booms in a cathedral tower.The sound rushes in all directions over the tile rooftops.

A mile or two down the road leading to the city’s west gate，a peasant in a cart lets his donkey guide him home as he sings of love，death and the joys of a simple life.