《渺小一生》:那顿感恩节晚餐的主要话题是詹姆斯的女儿

　 “This is dynamite trout, Harold,” Willem said, cutting into his second piece of turkey, and everyone laughed.

“哈罗德，这是炸药鳟鱼。”威廉说，手上正切着他的第二片火鸡肉，全场大笑起来。

　 What was the point, he wondered, at which he had stopped feeling so nervous and out of place at Harold’s dinners? Certainly, his friends had helped. Harold liked sparring with them, liked trying to provoke JB into making outrageous and borderline racist statements, liked teasing Willem about when he was going to settle down, liked debating structural and aesthetic trends with Malcolm. He knew Harold enjoyed engaging with them, and that they enjoyed it too, and it gave him the chance to simply listen to them being who they were without feeling the need to participate; they were a fleet of parrots shaking their bright-colored feathers at one another, presenting themselves to their peers without fear or guile.

他很好奇，要到什么时候，他在哈罗德家吃晚餐才能不再觉得这么紧张、这么格格不入？当然，他的朋友帮了他忙。哈罗德喜欢跟他们争论，试着挑衅杰比说出过分又逼近种族歧视的话，问威廉他什么时候要定下来，跟马尔科姆辩论结构和美学趋势。他知道哈罗德喜欢跟他那些朋友互动，他的朋友也乐在其中，这给了他机会，只需聆听他们发挥本色，不必觉得非得参与不可；他们是一群鹦鹉，对彼此摇晃着一身鲜亮的羽毛，把自己展示给同伴看，丝毫没有畏惧或隐瞒。

　 The dinner was dominated by talk of James’s daughter, who was getting married in the summer. “I’m an old man,” James moaned, and Laurence and Gillian, whose daughters were still in college and spending the holiday at their friend’s house in Carmel, made sympathetic noises.

那顿感恩节晚餐的主要话题是詹姆斯的女儿，那年夏天刚结婚。“我老了。”詹姆斯抱怨道，劳伦斯和吉莉安也发出同情的叹息声，因为他们夫妇的两个女儿还在念大学，这个感恩节去了加州卡梅尔的朋友家过节。

　 “This reminds me,” said Harold, looking at him and Willem, “when are you two ever going to settle down?”

“这个让我想到，”哈罗德说，看着他和威廉，“你们两个什么时候才要定下来？”

　 “I think he means you,” he smiled at Willem.

“我想他指的是你。”他说，看着威廉微笑。

　 “Harold, I’m thirty-two!” Willem protested, and everyone laughed again as Harold spluttered: “What is that, Willem? Is that an explanation? Is that a defense? It’s not like you’re sixteen!”

“哈罗德，我今年32岁！”威廉抗议道，每个人又大笑起来。哈罗德一嘴食物，说：“这句话什么意思，威廉？算是解释吗，还是答辩？你又不是16岁！”

　 But as much as he enjoyed the evening, a part of his mind remained abuzz and anxious, worrying about the conversation Harold and Julia wanted to have with him the next day. He had finally mentioned it to Willem on the ride up, and in moments, when the two of them were working together (stuffing the turkey, blanching the potatoes, setting the table), they would try to figure out what Harold might have to say to him. After dinner, they put on their coats and sat in the back garden, puzzling over it again.

他那天晚上过得很开心，但心底有一部分还是很焦虑，担心哈罗德和朱丽娅次日要跟他谈的事情。在搭火车北上的途中，他终于跟威廉提了。之后在两个人一起合作的片刻（填火鸡料、把马铃薯烫了去皮、在餐桌上摆好餐具），他们设法猜想哈罗德可能要跟他谈什么。晚餐后，他们穿上大衣到后院坐着聊天，又开始思索这个问题。

　 At least he knew that nothing was wrong with them—it was the first thing he had asked, and Harold had assured him that he and Julia were both fine. But what, then, could it be?

至少他知道他们没事，他第一时间就确认了。哈罗德跟他保证他和朱丽娅都很好。那会是什么事呢？

　 “Maybe he thinks I’m hanging around them too much,” he suggested to Willem. Maybe Harold was, simply, sick of him.

“或许他觉得我太常跟他们在一起了。”他跟威廉说。也许哈罗德只是厌倦他了。

　 “Not possible,” Willem said, so quickly and declaratively that he was relieved. They were quiet. “Maybe one of them got a job offer somewhere and they’re moving?”

“不可能。”威廉说，快速又肯定，这让他松了口气。他们沉默了一会儿：“或许他们其中一个在别处找到更好的工作，所以要搬家？”

　 “I thought of that, too. But I don’t think Harold would ever leave Boston. Julia, either.”

“这个我也想过。但我觉得哈罗德不会离开波士顿。朱丽娅也是。”

　 There weren’t, in the end, many options, at least many that would make a conversation with him necessary: maybe they were selling the house in Truro (but why would they need to talk to him about that, as much as he loved the house). Maybe Harold and Julia were splitting up (but they seemed the same as they always did around each other). Maybe they were selling the New York apartment and wanted to know if he wanted to buy it from them (unlikely: he was certain they would never sell the apartment). Maybe they were renovating the apartment and needed him to oversee the renovation.

到最后，可能的选项实在不多，至少没那么多需要跟他谈的事情：或许他们要卖掉特鲁罗的房子（他很喜欢那栋房子，但为什么得跟他谈？）。或许哈罗德和朱丽娅要分开了（可是看起来他们的互动还是老样子）。或许他们要卖掉纽约的公寓，想问他有没有意愿买（不大可能，他很确定他们绝不会卖掉那间公寓）。或许他们要整修公寓，需要他帮忙监工。

　 And then their speculations grew more specific and improbable: maybe Julia was coming out (maybe Harold was). Maybe Harold was being born again (maybe Julia was). Maybe they were quitting their jobs, moving to an ashram in upstate New York. Maybe they were becoming ascetics who would live in a remote Kashmiri valley. Maybe they were having his-and-hers plastic surgery. Maybe Harold was becoming a Republican. Maybe Julia had found God. Maybe Harold had been nominated to be the attorney general. Maybe Julia had been identified by the Tibetan government in exile as the next reincarnation of the Panchen Lama and was moving to Dharamsala. Maybe Harold was running for president as a Socialist candidate. Maybe they were opening a restaurant on the square that served only turkey stuffed with other kinds of meat. By this time they were both laughing so hard, as much from the nervous, self-soothing helplessness of not knowing as from the absurdity of their guesses, that they were bent over in their chairs, pressing their coat collars to their mouths to muffle the noise, their tears freezing pinchingly on their cheeks.

之后，他们的猜测变得更具体也更不可能：或许朱丽娅要出柜（或是哈罗德）。或许哈罗德皈依了福音教派（也许是朱丽娅）。或许他们要辞掉工作，搬去纽约州北部的静修处。或许他们要成为苦行者，搬去克什米尔的偏僻小村定居。或许哈罗德成了共和党员。或许朱丽娅发现上帝了。或许哈罗德被提名为检察长，又或许哈罗德要代表社会党竞选总统。或许他们要在剑桥市广场开一家餐厅，只卖塞入肉类馅料的火鸡。此时，他们两个已经笑到不行，既是出于对未知的紧张、无助和自我纾解，也是出于这些猜测的荒谬性。总之，两人笑到坐在椅子上直不起腰，用大衣领子捂住嘴巴好闷住声音，笑出的眼泪把脸颊都冻得发痛了。

　 In bed, though, he returned to the thought that had crept, tendril-like, from some dark space of his mind and had insinuated itself into his consciousness like a thin green vine: maybe one of them had discovered something about the person he once was. Maybe he would be presented with evidence—a doctor’s report, a photograph, a (this was the nightmare scenario) film still. He had already decided he wouldn’t deny it, he wouldn’t argue against it, he wouldn’t defend himself. He would acknowledge its veracity, he would apologize, he would explain that he never meant to deceive them, he would offer not to contact them again, and then he would leave. He would ask them only to keep his secret, to not tell anyone else. He practiced saying the words: I’m so sorry, Harold. I’m so sorry, Julia. I never meant to embarrass you. But of course it was such a useless apology. He might not have meant to, but it wouldn’t make a difference: he would have; he had.

夜里躺在床上，他又开始想这件事。那些思绪有如触须般从他心底的某个黑暗空间悄悄爬出来，像一根细细的绿色藤蔓，缓缓钻进他的意识里。或许他们其中一人发现了他的过去。或许他们会把证据拿出来给他看，一份病历、一张照片，甚至是一段影片（这是他最大的噩梦）。他已经决定不去否认、争论，也不会为自己辩护。他会承认那是真的，他会道歉，解释他不曾故意欺骗他们，并且主动表示再也不会和他们联络，然后他会离开。他只会要求他们帮他保密，不要告诉任何人。他练习说那些话：对不起，哈罗德。真的很对不起，朱丽娅。我从来没有故意要让你们难堪。当然这样的道歉毫无作用。他可能不是故意的，但结果没有区别：他会让他们难堪，他已经害他们难堪了。

　 Willem left the next morning; he had a show that night. “Call me as soon as you know, okay?” he asked, and he nodded. “It’s going to be fine, Jude,” he promised. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry, all right?”

威廉次日早晨离开了，当天晚上他有演出。“你一知道就打电话给我，好吗？”威廉问，他点点头。“裘德，一切都会没事的。”威廉保证，“无论是什么，我们都会想办法解决。别担心，好吗？”

　 “You know I will anyway,” he said, and tried to smile back at Willem.

“你知道我无论如何一定会担心。”他说，试着响应威廉的微笑。

　 “Yeah, I know,” said Willem. “But try. And call me.”

“是，我知道，”威廉说，“但努力看看，还有记得打给我。”

　 The rest of the day he kept himself busy cleaning—there was always plenty to clean at the house, as both Harold and Julia were unenthusiastic tidiers—and by the time they sat down to an early dinner he’d made of turkey stew and a beet salad, he felt almost aloft from nervousness and could only pretend to eat, moving the food around his plate like a compass point, hoping Harold and Julia wouldn’t notice. After, he began stacking the plates to take them to the kitchen, but Harold stopped him. “Leave them, Jude,” he said. “Maybe we should have our talk now?”

剩下来的白天，他一直忙着打扫（屋子里总是有很多要打扫的，因为哈罗德和朱丽娅都不太注重整洁）。等到他们一起坐下来，提早用晚餐，吃着他做的火鸡肉炖菜和甜菜沙拉时，他整个人简直紧张得像浮在半空中，只能假装在吃东西，把食物在盘子里移来移去，像罗盘的指针般乱晃，同时希望哈罗德和朱丽娅不会注意到。吃完后，他把盘子堆起来，准备收到厨房去，但哈罗德阻止了他：“裘德，先搁着吧。”他说，“或许现在我们该谈谈了？”

　 He felt himself go fluttery with panic. “I should really rinse them off, or everything’s going to congeal,” he protested, lamely, hearing how stupid he sounded.

他觉得自己恐慌得手忙脚乱。“我真的应该先把盘子冲一下，不然剩下的汤汁会凝结在上头。”他无助地反抗，觉得自己好愚蠢。

　 “Fuck the plates,” said Harold, and although he knew that Harold genuinely didn’t care what did or didn’t congeal on his plates, for a moment he wondered if his casualness was too casual, a simulacrum of ease rather than the real thing. But finally, he could do nothing but put the dishes down and trudge after Harold into the living room, where Julia was pouring coffee for herself and Harold, and had poured tea for him.

“别管那些盘子。”哈罗德说。他知道哈罗德真的不在意盘子上的汤汁是否凝结，但一时之间他想到自己无所谓的态度是否太随意了。这样轻松的假象太不真实了。但最后，他没办法，只能放下盘子，跟着哈罗德走进客厅。朱丽娅正在给自己和哈罗德倒咖啡，同时给他倒茶。