《渺小一生》:我不明白他这句话是什么意思

　 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.”

于是我们开始了。每个星期六下午，他工作完，或是拜访过吕西安和欧文夫妇，我们就开车到加里森，有时只有我们两人，有时还有理查德和印蒂亚、杰比或某个亨利·杨和他们的太太，星期天我们就会做菜。在这个过程中，我主要的毛病又暴露出来，那就是缺乏耐性，根本无法接受无聊。煮菜时，我会跑去找别的东西来读，忘了我的意大利炖饭，结果烧成一堆烂糊，或者我会忘记把橄榄油里的胡萝卜翻面，回来就发现烧焦了（看来烹饪很多部分是要轻拍、要泡、要观察、轻抛、转动、抚慰，这种种要求总让我联想到人类的婴儿期）。我的另一个毛病，他告诉我，就是坚持创新，这在烘焙中显然是失败的保证。“哈罗德，这是化学，不是哲学，”他总是这么说，同样是那个半笑的表情，“你不能不遵守特定的分量，还希望做出该有的样子。”

　 “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.

“说不定烤出来会更好啊。”我说，主要是为了逗他，只要觉得有可能让他开心一点，我总是乐于扮演傻瓜。于是他笑了，真的笑了。“不会的。”他说。

　 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.”

但终于，我真的学会了一些东西：我学会如何烤鸡、煮水蒸蛋、炙烤比目鱼。我学会做胡萝卜蛋糕，还有一种加很多不同坚果的面包，就是他以前在剑桥市打工的那家面包店卖的，我常常去买，只是他的版本非常不可思议，有好几个星期，我烤了一条又一条这种面包。“好极了，哈罗德，”有一天他尝了一片说，“看到没，等到你一百岁，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？”我问他，“你得替我做菜才行。”他听了对我露出微笑，一种哀伤、奇怪的微笑，什么都没说。我赶紧改变话题，免得他说出一些话，我还得假装没听到。我总是试着影射未来，拟出几年后的计划，这样他一答应要做，我就可以逼他守住承诺。但他很小心，从来没答应过。

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

“我们应该去上个音乐课，你跟我。”我告诉他，其实只是顺口说说，没有什么具体的想法。

　 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。“或许吧，”他说，“没问题，我们再讨论吧。”顶多就是这样。

　 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.

每回上完烹饪课，我们就会散步。去纽约州北部的那栋房子时，我们会沿着马尔科姆开出来的那条小径走，经过有回他痛得全身抽搐，我不得不把他留在那里靠着一棵树的那个点，经过第一张石凳、第二张、第三张。到了第二张石凳，我们总会坐下来休息。他不需要休息，不像以前那样，而且我们走得很慢，所以我也不需要休息。但我们总是仪式性地停下来，因为从这里可以最清楚地看到屋子背面，你还记得吗？马尔科姆当初砍掉这边的几棵树，于是石凳正好面对着房子，而如果你在屋后的露台，也正对着那张石凳。“这个房子太美了。”我总是这么说，而且我总是希望他听得出我以他为荣：因为他打造的这栋房子，还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.

我们从意大利回来大约一个月后，有回我们坐在这张石凳上，他跟我说：“你想他当初跟我在一起快乐吗？”他讲得好小声，我还以为是自己想象出来的，但接着他两眼看着我，于是我知道那句话不是我的幻想。

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

“他当然快乐，”我告诉他，“我知道他很快乐。”

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

他摇摇头。“有好多事我都没做。”最后他说。

　 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.)

我不明白他这句话是什么意思，反正我不会改变想法。“无论什么事，我知道那都不重要。”我告诉他，“我知道他跟你在一起很快乐。他告诉过我的。”然后他望着我。“我知道的。”我重复说，“我知道的。”（你其实从来没有明确告诉过我，但我知道你会原谅我；我知道你会的。我知道你会希望我这么说。）

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

又有一回，我们坐在这张石凳上时，他说：“娄曼医生认为我该告诉你一些事情。”

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

“什么事情？”我问，很小心不要看他。

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

“有关我是什么，”他说，然后停顿了一下，“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，”我终于说，“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。“听起来好奇怪，不是吗？”他问，“‘更了解你。’我们认识到现在这么久了。”

　 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.

在这些对话中，我总有一个感觉，也许没有一个正确的答案，但其实有一个不正确的答案。他听了就再也不会说出任何事情了，所以我一直设法推测不正确的答案可能是什么，然后绝对不要说出来。

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

“没错，”我说，“但我一直想要更了解你，想知道有关你的事。”

　 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，目光又转回去看房子。“唔，”他说，“也许我会试试看。也许我会写下来。”

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

“这样很好。”我说，“看你什么时候准备好。”