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双语·夜色温柔 第一篇 第一章

所属教程:译林版·夜色温柔

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2022年04月20日

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On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed fa?ade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s H?tel des étrangers and Cannes, five miles away.

The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alp that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding road along the low range of the Maures, which separates the littoral from true Proven?al France.

A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an isolated railroad stop, whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse’s H?tel. The mother’s face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way.However, one’s eyes moved on quickly to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood—she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.

As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the mother said:

“Something tells me we’re not going to like this place.”

“I want to go home anyhow,” the girl answered.

They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact—moreover, just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.

“We’ll stay three days and then go home. I’ll wire right away for steamer tickets.”

At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic but rather flat French, like something remembered. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet-dancer, not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated—it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments, moment by moment, to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.

Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties, into sweaters and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.

As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and followed. She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded forward, dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water. When it was about breast high, she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights, his tufted chest thrown out, his brash navel sucked in, was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle, which went into hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest, and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand.

Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four-beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her, pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body. She turned round and round in it, embracing it, wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath, but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her, and Rosemary, suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her own body, turned on her back and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.

“I say—they have sharks out behind the raft.” He was of indeterminate nationality, but spoke English with a slow Oxford drawl. “Yesterday they devoured two British sailors from the flotte at Golfe-Juan.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Rosemary.

“They come in for the refuse from the flotte.”

Glazing his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in order to warn her, he minced off two steps and poured himself another drink.

Not unpleasantly self-conscious, since there had been a slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation, Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth—the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous to intrude. Farther up, where the beach was strewn with pebbles and dead sea-weed, sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous to the place. Between the dark people and the light, Rosemary found room and spread out her peignoir on the sand.

Lying so, she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself. The breath of an inquisitive dog blew warm and nervous on her neck; she could feel her skin broiling a little in the heat and hear the small exhausted wa-waa of the expiring waves. Presently her ear distinguished individual voices and she became aware that some one referred to scornfully as “that North guy” had kidnapped a waiter from a café in Cannes last night in order to saw him in two. The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress, obviously a relic of the previous evening, for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder. Rosemary, forming a vague antipathy to her and her companions, turned away.

Nearest her, on the other side, a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand. Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back, a ruddy, orange brown, set off by a string of creamy pearls, shone in the sun. Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary’s but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft, and who looked back at her, seeing her; then a man with a long face and a golden, leonine head, with blue tights and no hat, talking very seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights, both of them picking at little pieces of sea-weed in the sand. She thought they were mostly Americans, but something made them unlike the Americans she had known of late.

After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with a rake, ostensibly removing gravel and meanwhile developing some esoteric burlesque held in suspension by his grave face. Its faintest ramification had become hilarious, until whatever he said released a burst of laughter. Even those who, like herself, were too far away to hear, sent out antenn? of attention until the only person on the beach not caught up in it was the young woman with the string of pearls. Perhaps from modesty of possession she responded to each salvo of amusement by bending closer over her list.

The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky above Rosemary.

“You are a ripping swimmer.”

She demurred.

“Jolly good. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like to meet you.”

Glancing around with concealed annoyance Rosemary saw the untanned people were waiting. Reluctantly she got up and went over to them.

“Mrs. Abrams—Mrs. McKisco—Mr. McKisco—Mr. Dumphry—”

“We know who you are,” spoke up the woman in evening dress.“You’re Rosemary Hoyt and I recognized you in Sorrento and asked the hotel clerk and we all think you’re perfectly marvellous and we want to know why you’re not back in America making another marvellous moving picture.”

They made a superfluous gesture of moving over for her. The woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess, despite her name. She was one of those elderly “good sports” preserved by an imperviousness to experience and a good digestion into another generation.

“We wanted to warn you about getting burned the first day,” she continued cheerily, “because your skin is important, but there seems to be so darn much formality on this beach that we didn’t know whether you’d mind.”

在风光旖旎的法国里维埃拉海岸上,在大约位于马赛与意大利边境的正中间,有一座高大气派、玫瑰色的旅馆。挺拔的棕榈树为富丽堂皇的旅馆遮出一片阴凉,旅馆门前有一小片沙滩,亮得有点刺眼。近来,这里成了名流显贵的避暑胜地。十年前,英国房客在四月间去了北方,旅馆几乎可以说是人去楼空。如今,旅馆附近冒出了许多平房。不过,本故事开始的时候,周围也只有十几幢旧别墅,它们的圆顶破败得就像高斯外乡人旅馆与五英里开外的戛纳之间那片茂密的松树林中的睡莲。

这家旅馆与它门前那片亮棕色跪毯一般的沙滩浑然一体。清晨,远处戛纳的城市轮廓、粉红与浅黄相间的古老城堡以及法意边界那绛紫色的阿尔卑斯山倒映在水面上,在清澈的浅水里随着海生植物摇曳出的涟漪和细浪微微颤抖着。还不到八点钟,就见一个男子身穿蓝色浴衣跑到了沙滩上,先把清凉的海水撩泼在身上,嘴里哼哼唧唧,大口喘着粗气,随后下水胡乱游了一阵。他离去后,沙滩与海湾又安静了一个小时。在这段时间里,远处的海面上商船缓缓西行;餐厅侍者在旅馆的院子里大声说话;松树上的露水已经消失。又过了一个小时,摩尔人居住过的那片丘陵地带蜿蜒的公路上才有汽车喇叭声传来——那片丘陵从中间将沿海地区与真正的普罗旺斯分开。

离海边一英里远的地方,松树让位给了落满灰尘的杨树,那儿有一个孤零零的铁路小站。一九二五年六月的一个早晨,一辆四轮折篷马车载着一对母女从这个铁路小站向高斯旅馆驶来。母亲虽风韵犹存,但脸上用不了多久便会出现细碎的皱纹。她的神态安详而敏锐,让人觉得舒心。不过,看她的人很快就会将目光转向她的女儿,后者有一双具有魔力的粉色小手,脸上泛着红晕,就像小孩子傍晚洗过冷水浴后那般红扑扑的,煞是可爱。她漂亮的前额缓缓地倾斜至发际线,一头秀发像波浪一样卷着,浅褐色和金色的发卷又似一面带纹章的盾牌挡在额头上。她那双水汪汪的大眼睛清澈明亮,闪烁着光芒,两个脸蛋上的红晕自然天成——那是她强有力的、年轻的心脏酿成的红晕。她的体态微妙地停留在孩提时期的最后阶段——她年近十八岁,已经快成人了,但身上仍带着一股清纯劲儿。

远处海天连成一线出现在她们脚下——那是一条细细的、灼热的线。

只听母亲说道:“不知怎么,我觉得咱们不会喜欢这地方的。”

“我现在就有点想回家了。”女儿说。

母女俩闲聊着,语气轻松,但漫无边际,乏味无聊,似乎她们对任何话题都不感兴趣。她们只想寻求刺激,这倒不是因为精神疲惫需要刺激,而是带着一种得了奖状的学生理应度假,以兹激励的心情。

“咱们住三天就打道回府。我马上拍电报订购船票。”

到了旅馆,女孩用法语订了房间,她的法语不可谓不地道,但缺乏抑扬顿挫,像是在背书。她们被安排在一楼的客房,女孩走到亮堂堂的落地窗前,然后出房间走几步到了与旅馆一般长的石砌游廊上。她走起路来臀部紧绷,腰背挺直,如同一位芭蕾舞演员。游廊外阳光炽热,她的影子也变得很短,光线强得让她几乎睁不开眼,使得她连连后退。五十码开外,地中海似乎也禁不住骄阳的照射,一点点在褪色。游廊的栏杆下方,一辆褪色的别克汽车停在旅馆的车道上,遭受着酷热阳光的炙烤。

说实在的,这个地方只有沙滩上还有点人气。三个英国保姆坐在那儿编织着很费功夫的维多利亚式样的毛衣和毛袜,这种式样曾流行于十九世纪的四十、六十和八十年代。她们一边编织一边张家长李家短地说着咒语般的悄悄话。紧靠海边,有十多个人在条纹遮阳伞下安营扎寨,而他们的孩子或在浅水区追逐那些不怕人的鱼儿,或赤条条地躺在沙滩上,涂满椰子油的身体在阳光下闪闪发亮。

这个叫罗斯玛丽的女孩来到沙滩上,一个十二岁的小男孩从她身边跑过,兴奋地大叫着扑进了海水里。她感觉那些陌生人在用灼人的目光打量她,于是急忙脱下浴衣跳进了水中。她脸朝下游了几码,发现水很浅,便摇晃了几下站住了,然后迈开细细的腿,顶着水的阻力吃力地朝前蹚,腿沉甸甸的,像绑了沙袋一样。走到海水齐胸深的地方,她回头向沙滩上望了一眼,见那儿有个秃头男子在目不转睛地盯着她看——那男子戴着单片眼镜,穿一条紧身裤,挺着毛茸茸的胸脯,丑陋的肚脐朝下凹陷。那男子见罗斯玛丽在回头看他,便摘下眼镜,随手往那团滑稽的胸毛中一塞,然后举起手中的瓶子给自己倒了一杯饮料。

罗斯玛丽把脸贴在水面上,四肢并用,以狗刨式朝救生筏游去。海水涌过来,轻轻地将她往水中拉,让她离开热气。海水浸湿了她的头发,淹没了她的全身。她在水里左右打转,迎着浪花一个劲儿向前游,到救生筏跟前时已累得气喘吁吁。筏子上有个女人,皮肤晒成了古铜色,牙齿雪白,低下头打量着她。罗斯玛丽突然意识到自己的身体是那么白,于是便回过身向岸边游去。她上岸时,那个胸毛浓密的男子拎着饮料瓶走过来搭讪。

“我说,救生筏后边那片水域里有鲨鱼呢。”弄不清他是哪国人,但他讲的英语带着一种慢吞吞的牛津腔,“昨天就有两个英军舰队的水兵在瑞昂湾被鲨鱼吃了。”

“天哪!”罗斯玛丽惊叫了一声。

“都怪军舰上丢进海水里的废弃物把它们引了过来。”

他眼睛无神,让人觉得他只是出于好心提醒一下罗斯玛丽,说完就迈着碎步走开了,没走两步就又给自己倒了一杯饮料。

二人说话间,罗斯玛丽觉得一些人在拿眼偷看她,但心里并不感到讨厌,她想找个地方坐坐。沙滩上每家都有一把遮阳伞,而遮阳伞前边的一小块沙地就是他们的领地,各家之间还相互串门,海阔天空地聊天,呈现出一种社区的气氛,外人随便闯入显然是不明智的。再往前走走,就是一片布满鹅卵石和干枯海藻的海滩了,那儿有一些人皮肤跟她一样白,他们躺在小号的便携式遮阳伞下面,而非沙滩遮阳伞,显然不像是本地人。罗斯玛丽在古铜色皮肤的人群和白皮肤人群之间找了块空地,把她的浴衣铺在沙子上。

她躺在沙滩上,起先听到的是他们的说话声,后来感到他们在她身边走动,他们的影子在阳光下晃动。一条好奇的小狗跑过来,呼出的热气吹到她脖子上,让她感到痒痒的。阳光下,她觉得皮肤有点发烫,还听见涌上沙滩的海浪退回大海时发出低沉、疲倦的哗哗声。此时,她已经能分辨出不同的说话者了,而且听出有人在讲述昨晚发生在戛纳的一桩绑架案,说绑架者劫走了一个咖啡馆侍者,声称要把他锯成两段。讲述人是个白头发的夫人,不屑地将绑架者称为“北方佬”。这位夫人穿一身晚礼服,显然是昨晚穿的,还没有脱下来,仍戴着冠状头饰,肩上还别着一朵枯萎的兰花,蔫了吧唧的。罗斯玛丽对她以及她的同伴们隐约有些反感,便转过了身去。

她的另一边,最靠近她的是一位年轻女子,躺在一把遮阳伞下,正对着沙地上一本摊开的书开列清单。那女子穿着泳衣,袒露出肩膀和背脊,皮肤红润,呈橘红色,脖子上戴一串乳白色珍珠项链,项链在阳光下闪闪发光。她一脸严肃,面容秀丽,让人怜爱。她与罗斯玛丽目光相遇,然而并没有特别注意罗斯玛丽。她身旁是个头戴轻便鸭舌帽、身穿红条紧身衣的英俊男子。再下来就是罗斯玛丽见过的那个救生筏上的女子,那女子回过头来看着罗斯玛丽。再远一些,可以看见一个瘦长脸男子,蓬松着一头金发,身穿蓝色紧身衣,没戴帽子,正神情严肃地同一位穿黑色紧身衣、显然是拉丁裔的小伙子说话,他们边说边捡拾沙滩上一小片一小片的海藻叶。罗斯玛丽觉得他们很可能是美国人,可又与她近来结识的那些美国人有所不同。

过了一会儿,她才意识到那个戴轻便鸭舌帽的男子原来正在为这个小团体悄声静气地表演一个小节目。他煞有其事地在用耙子耙着什么,似乎在清除沙砾,一脸严肃,然而却产生了发人深省的喜剧效果。他的表演令人喷饭,每说一句话都会引来一串笑声。就连像罗斯玛丽这样身在远处的人,虽听不清他在说什么,也把目光转了过去。最后,海滩上除了那个戴珍珠项链的年轻女子,所有的人都在关注他的表演。也许是出于自制和矜持吧,众人越是那般笑闹,该女子越是专注于她的清单。

就在这时,那个戴着单片眼镜、手拎饮料瓶的男子不知从哪儿冒了出来,冷不丁对罗斯玛丽说道:“你游泳游得棒极了!”

罗斯玛丽说他过奖了。

“真的很棒。我叫坎皮恩。这里有一位夫人说她上星期在索伦托见过你,知道你是谁,很想同你见见面。”

罗斯玛丽压下心中的不快,回头看见那群未被晒黑的人正等着她过去,于是便不情愿地站起身朝他们走去。

“这位是艾布拉姆斯夫人。这是米基思科夫人和米基思科先生。这位是邓弗里先生。”

“我们知道你是谁,”那个身穿晚礼服的夫人说道,“你是罗斯玛丽·霍伊特。我在索伦托认出了你,还向旅馆服务生打听过你的情况。我们都认为你的表演美妙绝伦,不知你为何不回到美国去再拍一部好影片。”

那几个人言语夸张,很是夸奖了她一番。那个认出她的夫人尽管不是犹太人,却有一个犹太人的名字。她称得上“老当益壮”,不受阅历的影响,能够不拘一格地同年轻人打成一片。

“我们要给你个忠告,不要刚来就暴晒。”她兴致勃勃地继续说道,“你的皮肤可是很重要的。在这沙滩上晒太阳似乎有许多讲究,不知你是否介意。”

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