双语读剧：Call me by ...（一）45:因为没什么好叛逆的啊
Had he told her the nice things I’d been saying about her? She seemed upset. Did she mind my sudden intrusion into their little world? I remembered her tone of voice on the morning when she’d lost it with Mafalda. A smirk hovered on her face; she was about to say something cruel.
奥利弗是否已经告诉她我说过她的好话？她似乎很心烦。她是不是介意我突然闯进他们的小世界？我记得那天早上她对玛法尔达发脾气时的声调。一抹冷笑挂在她脸上；貌似她原本正打算讲几句伤人的话。
“Never a bedtime in their house, no rules, no supervision, nothing. That’s why he’s such a well-behaved boy. Don’t you see? Nothing to rebel against.”
“Is that true?”
“I suppose,” I answered, trying to make light of it before they went any further. “We all have our ways of rebelling.”
“We do?” he asked.
“Name one,” chimed in Chiara.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“He reads Paul Celan,” Oliver broke in, trying to change the subject but also perhaps to come to my rescue and show, without quite seeming to, that he had not forgotten our previous conversation. Was he trying to rehabilitate me after that little jab about my late hours, or was this the beginnings of yet another joke at my expense? A steely, neutral glance sat on his face.
“E chi è?” She’d never heard of Paul Celan.
I shot him a complicit glance. He intercepted it, but there was no hint of mischief in his eyes when he finally returned my glance. Whose side was he on?
“A poet,” he whispered as they started ambling out into the heart of the piazzetta, and he threw me a casual Later!
“他们家从不规定就寝时间，没有规矩，没有监督，什么都没有。所以他才变成这样的好孩子。你还不懂吗？因为没什么好叛逆的啊。”
“真的吗？”
“大概是吧。”我回答，尽量轻描淡写，免得他们继续深究。“每个人都有自己的叛逆方式。”
“是吗？”
“举个例子来听听。”奇亚拉蹦出一句。
“你不会懂的。”
“他读保罗·策兰呢。”奥利弗插嘴说，想改变话题，或许也想救我，同时不着痕迹地表明他并未忘记我们先前的对话。他是拿我深夜在外逗留的事轻轻戳我一下之后又设法为我平反，或者这只是另一个拿我开涮的起点？我在他脸上扫过冷硬而含义不明的中性的一瞥。
“那是谁？”奇亚拉根本没听说过策兰。
我对他投以“我们是一伙儿”的目光。他接收到了，但他终于回看我时，眼里却没有一丝玩笑的意味。他站在哪一边？
“一位诗人。”他们朝小广场中心漫步过去时，他低声说道，然后丢给我一个漫不经心的回头再说！
奥利弗是否已经告诉她我说过她的好话？她似乎很心烦。她是不是介意我突然闯进他们的小世界？我记得那天早上她对玛法尔达发脾气时的声调。一抹冷笑挂在她脸上；貌似她原本正打算讲几句伤人的话。
“Never a bedtime in their house, no rules, no supervision, nothing. That’s why he’s such a well-behaved boy. Don’t you see? Nothing to rebel against.”
“Is that true?”
“I suppose,” I answered, trying to make light of it before they went any further. “We all have our ways of rebelling.”
“We do?” he asked.
“Name one,” chimed in Chiara.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“He reads Paul Celan,” Oliver broke in, trying to change the subject but also perhaps to come to my rescue and show, without quite seeming to, that he had not forgotten our previous conversation. Was he trying to rehabilitate me after that little jab about my late hours, or was this the beginnings of yet another joke at my expense? A steely, neutral glance sat on his face.
“E chi è?” She’d never heard of Paul Celan.
I shot him a complicit glance. He intercepted it, but there was no hint of mischief in his eyes when he finally returned my glance. Whose side was he on?
“A poet,” he whispered as they started ambling out into the heart of the piazzetta, and he threw me a casual Later!
“他们家从不规定就寝时间，没有规矩，没有监督，什么都没有。所以他才变成这样的好孩子。你还不懂吗？因为没什么好叛逆的啊。”
“真的吗？”
“大概是吧。”我回答，尽量轻描淡写，免得他们继续深究。“每个人都有自己的叛逆方式。”
“是吗？”
“举个例子来听听。”奇亚拉蹦出一句。
“你不会懂的。”
“他读保罗·策兰呢。”奥利弗插嘴说，想改变话题，或许也想救我，同时不着痕迹地表明他并未忘记我们先前的对话。他是拿我深夜在外逗留的事轻轻戳我一下之后又设法为我平反，或者这只是另一个拿我开涮的起点？我在他脸上扫过冷硬而含义不明的中性的一瞥。
“那是谁？”奇亚拉根本没听说过策兰。
我对他投以“我们是一伙儿”的目光。他接收到了，但他终于回看我时，眼里却没有一丝玩笑的意味。他站在哪一边？
“一位诗人。”他们朝小广场中心漫步过去时，他低声说道，然后丢给我一个漫不经心的回头再说！
