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Tropic of Cancer[北回归线][En/Cn]

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第2节

沿着圣母街往前走,我碰到佩克奥弗,另一个在报社工作的穷鬼。他抱怨说每夜只能睡三四个钟头觉,因为早上八点就得起来到一家牙医诊所去干活。他干这个活并不是为了钱,他解释道,这只是为了替自己买一副假牙。他说,”困得直打瞌睡时看清样可不容易,可我老婆还以为这差事像吃饭一样容易呢。她说,我若丢了工作她们咋办?”可是佩克奥弗对这个工作根本不感兴趣,这个工作甚至不允许他花钱。他只好存起香烟蒂,把它再填进烟斗里抽。他的外套是用别针别在一起的。他有口臭,手上总出汗,可是一夜只睡三个钟头。他说,”不该这样对待一个人,还有我的那位老板,若是我丢了一个分号他便会把我骂得尿裤子。”说起他老婆,他又补充道,”我的那个女人,我告诉你,她一点儿都不知道感激我。”

Going down the Rue des Dames I bump into Peckover, another poor devil who works on the paper. He complains of getting only three or four hours' sleep a night – has to get up at eight in the morning to work at a dentist's office. It isn't for the money he's doing it, so he explains – it's for to buy himself a set of false teeth. "It's hard to read proof when you're dropping with sleep," he says. "The wife, she thinks I've got a cinch of it. What would we do if you lost your job? she says." But Peckover doesn't give a damn about the job; it doesn't even allow him spending money. He has to save his cigarette butts and use them for pipe tobacco. His coat is held together with pins. He has halitosis and his hands sweat. And only three hours' sleep a night. "It's no way to treat a man," he says. "And that boss of mine, he bawls the piss out of me if I miss a semicolon." Speaking of his wife he adds: "That woman of mine, she's got no fucking gratitude, I tell you!"

 

  分手时我设法从他那儿骗了一个半法郎,我想再榨出五十生丁,可是办不到。不过我弄到手的已足够喝一杯咖啡,吃一块月牙形蛋卷了,圣拉扎尔车站那儿有一家供应降价食品的酒吧。

In parting I manage to worm a franc fifty out of him. I try to squeeze another fifty centimes out of him but it's impossible. Anyway I've got enough for a Coffee and croissants. Near the Gare St. Lazare there's a bar with reduced prices.

 

  碰巧,我在盥洗室里找到一张音乐会票,于是便像一只轻松愉快的鸟一样奔戈韦音乐厅去了。引座员脸色难看极了,因为我竟没有给他一点小费。每次从我身边经过时他都要征询似的看看我,希望我会突然想起这件事来。

As luck would have it I find a ticket in the lavabo for a concert. Light as a feather now I go there to the Salle Gaveau. The usher looks ravaged because I overlook giving him his little tip. Every time he passes me he looks at me inquiringly, as if perhaps I will suddenly remember.

 

  我已很久没有同穿着考究的人物坐在一起了,心里不免有几分忐忑不安,直到现在还闻得到那股甲醛味。或许谢尔盖也往这儿送货,不过谢天谢地,这儿没有人搔痒。有一股淡淡的香水味儿……非常淡。音乐会尚未开始众人脸上便显出百无聊赖的神情,这音乐会真是一种礼貌的自我折磨。指挥短短的指挥棒敲响后大家紧张地全神贯注了一阵,随即便是寂静无声—一种单调沉闷的、被管弦乐队奏出的沉着、不间断的轻微乐声反衬出的寂静。我的头脑出乎意料地清醒,好像脑壳里镶了一千面镜子。我的神经绷得紧紧的,十分激动,音符像玻璃球在一百万股水流上跳跃。以前我从不曾饿着肚子去听音乐会,没有任何声响能逃过我的耳朵,甚至最细小的别针落地的声音也听得见。好像我没有穿衣服,身上的每一个毛孔都是一只窗子,所有的窗子都敞开着,光亮穿透了我的内赃。我可以感觉到这光线就蜡缩在我肋骨的穹窿下,我的肋骨垂在一个空空如也的肚子上,响声使它颤抖,我不知道这种情形持续了多久,我早已失去时间和地点的概念。仿佛过了很久很久以后出现了一阵半自觉的状态,与之相抵的是一种平静感。我感到身体内有一个大湖泊,一个发出彩虹色光辉的湖泊,冷峻得像果冻。这个湖泊上突然形成一个个巨大螺旋,一群群腿细长、羽毛漂亮的候鸟出现了,它们一群群地从清凉的静止湖面上腾空飞起,从我的锁骨下飞过,消逝在一片白茫茫的空间里。然后,缓慢地、异常缓慢地,这些窗子关上了,我的器官也回到原来位置上,犹如一位戴白帽子的老妇在我身体内漫游。突然,剧院里的灯全亮了,我发现白色包厢里的那个男人原来竟是一个头上顶着一个花盆的女人,起初我还以为这是一位土耳其军官呢。

It's so long since I've sat in the company of well dressed people that I feel a bit panic-stricken. I can still smell the formaldehyde. Perhaps Serge makes deliveries here too. But nobody is scratching himself, thank God. A faint odor of perfume … very faint. Even before the music begins there is that bored look on people's faces. A polite form of self-imposed torture, the concert. For a moment, when the conductor raps with his little wand, there is a tense spasm of concentration followed almost immediately by a general slump, a quiet vegetable sort of repose induced by the steady, uninterrupted drizzle from the orchestra. My mind is curiously alert; it's as though my skull had a thousand mirrors inside it. My nerves are taut, vibrant! the notes are like glass balls dancing on a million jets of water. I've never been to a concert before on such an empty belly. Nothing escapes me, not even the tiniest pin falling. It's as though I had no clothes on and every pore of my body was a window and all the windows open and the light flooding my gizzards. I can feel the light curving under the vault of my ribs and my ribs hang there over a hollow nave trembling with reverberations. How long this lasts I have no idea; I have lost all sense of time and place. After what seems like an eternity there follows an interval of semiconsciousness balanced by such a calm that I feel a great lake inside me, a lake of iridescent sheen, cool as jelly; and over this lake, rising in great swooping spirals, there emerge flocks of birds of passage with long slim legs and brilliant plumage. Flock after flock surge up from the cool, still surface of the lake and, passing under my clavicles, lose themselves in the white sea of space. And then slowly, very slowly, as if an old woman in a white cap were going the rounds of my body, slowly the windows are closed and my organs drop back into place. Suddenly the lights flare up and the man in the white box whom I had taken for a Turkish officer turns out to be a woman with a flowerpot on her head.


 

  一阵骚动,所有想咳嗽的人都尽情咳开了,传来脚在地板上蹭踏发出的声响、竖起椅子的声响、人们漫无目标地四处游逛发出的没完没了的嘈杂声,还有人们展开节目单时发出蹊卒声—他们装模作样地看看便又丢下了,把它乱塞在座位底下。最小的变故亦值得谢天谢地,因为它会分散人们的注意力,使他们不再们心自问自己在想什么。若是知道自己什么都不曾想,他们准会发疯。在刺眼的灯光照射下他们呆呆地互相望着,而且他们逼视对方的目光里有一种奇怪的紧张感。一听到指挥又开始了,他们便回到原先的自我强迫状态中—他们不由自主地搔痒,或是猛地记起了一个摆着围巾或帽子的橱窗。他们仍十分清楚地记得那个橱窗里的所有细节,可是回忆不起这个橱窗到底在哪儿了,这使他们大伤脑筋,清醒而又不安。于是他们打起双倍的精神去听音乐,因为他们十分清醒,无论乐曲多么美妙也不能忘怀那个橱窗和挂在那儿的围巾或是帽子。

There is a buzz now and all those who want to cough, cough to their heart's content. There is the noise of feet shuffling and seats slamming, the steady, frittering noise of people moving about aimlessly, of people fluttering their programs and pretending to read and then dropping their programs and scuffling under their seats, thankful for even the slightest accident which will prevent them from asking themselves what they were thinking about because if they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad. In the harsh glare of the lights they look at each other vacuously and there is a strange tenseness with which they stare at one another. And the moment the conductor raps again they fall back into a cataleptic state – they scratch themselves unconsciously or they remember suddenly a show window in which there was displayed a scarf or a hat; they remember every detail of that window with amazing clarity, but where it was exactly, that they can't recall; and that bothers them, keeps them wide awake, restless, and they listen now with redoubled attention because they are wide awake and no matter how wonderful the music is they will not lose consciousness of that show window and that scarf that was hanging there, or the hat.

 

  这种聚精会神的气氛感染了会场本身,连乐队似乎也受到激励,变得格外精力充沛。第二个节目像最好的压轴戏似的结束了—它结束得这么快,音乐嘎然而止,灯打开时有些人像胡萝卜一样戳在座位上,下巴抽搐着。假如你对着他们的耳朵大喊”勃拉姆斯、贝多芬、门捷列夫、黑塞哥维那”,他们会不假思索地回答--4,967,289。

And this fierce attentiveness communicates itself; even the orchestra seems galvanized into an extraordinary alertness. The second number goes off like a top – so fast indeed that when suddenly the music ceases and the lights go up some are stuck in their seats like carrots, their jaws working convulsively, and if you suddenly shouted in their ear Brahms, Beethoven, Mendeleev, Herzegovina, they would answer without thinking – 4, 967, 289.

 

  到演奏德彪西的曲子时场内的气氛已完全被毒化了,我在纳闷,作为一个女人性交时究竟有何感觉—是不是对欢悦更敏感一些,等等。我在想象一件东西穿透两腿间那个地方的情形,不过只有一点隐隐约约的痛感。我企图集中注意力,但是音乐太难把握了,我只能想着一只花瓶慢慢翻转过去,音符散入空中去的情形。最后我只注意到开灯关灯了,我便问自己灯是如何开关的。我旁边的人在呼呼大睡,他像一个掮客,大肚子,蜡黄的小胡子。我就喜欢他这样,我尤其喜欢他的大肚子和所有吃出这样一个大肚子的食物。为什么他不该呼呼大睡?

By the time we get to the Debussy number the atmosphere is completely poisoned. I find myself wondering what it feels like, during intercourse, to be a woman – whether the pleasure is keener, etc. Try to imagine something penetrating my groin, but have only a vague sensation of pain. I try to focus, but the music is too slippery. I can think of nothing but a vase slowly turning and the figures dropping off into space. Finally there is only light turning, and how does light turn, I ask myself. The man next to me is sleeping soundly. He looks like a broker, with his big paunch and his waxed mustache. I like him thus. I like especially that big paunch and all that went into the making of it. Why shouldn't he sleep soundly?

 

  若是想听,他无论何时都可以搞到买一张票子的钱。我注意到那些衣着较好的人睡得更踏实一些,这些有钱人问心无愧。若是一个穷汉打瞌睡,哪怕只是几秒钟,他也会觉得很丢脸,他会以为自己对那位作曲家犯下了罪。

If he wants to listen he can always rustle up the price of a ticket. I notice that the better dressed they are the more soundly they sleep. They have an easy conscience, the rich. If a poor man dozes off, even for a few seconds, he feels mortified; he imagines that he has committed a crime against the composer.

 

演奏那只西班牙曲子时整个音乐厅都轰动了,大家都笔直地坐了起来,他们是被鼓声惊醒的。我以为鼓一旦敲响便会一直响下去,我期望看到人们从包厢里跳下来,或是把帽子扔掉。

In the Spanish number the house was electrified. Everybody sat on the edge of his seat – the drums woke them up. I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away.

 

  这支曲子里蕴含一种英雄气概,拉威尔,他本会迫使我们拼命、发疯的,只要他想这么做,不过这不是拉威尔的曲子。突然一切都静寂下来,仿佛拉威尔在开玩笑时记起他穿了一件剪破的衣服。他抑制住了自己,依我的愚见,这酿成了大错。艺术即意味着有始有终,假如你以鼓点声开始就得用爆炸声或梯恩梯炸药告终。拉威尔为了形式牺牲了一些东西,为的是人们睡觉前必须消化掉的一棵菜。

There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cutaway suit. He arrested himself. A great mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest before going to bed.

 

  我的思绪心猿意马,约束不住,既然鼓声已停,音乐便也离我远去。无论何处,人们生来就是指挥别人的。出口的灯光下坐着一位郁郁寡欢的维特民他双时撑着身子,目光呆滞。门口站着一个西班牙人,裹着一件大斗篷,手里拿着一顶阔边帽,他的架势像是正在摆好姿势叫罗丹塑”巴尔扎克”似的,他的脖子以上部分很像水牛比尔。我对面的顶层楼座前排坐着一个女人,她的两条腿叉得很开,她的脖子向后拗去,错位了,看上去像是得了破伤风。还有那个戴红帽子的女人,她正趴在栏杆上打吨儿—若是来一回脑出血就太妙了!设想她流出一桶血,全倒在楼下那些浆洗得硬硬的衬衫上,设想一下这些微不足道的小人物衬衫上沾着血走出音乐厅回家去!

My thoughts are spreading. The music is slipping away from me, now that the drums have ceased. People everywhere are composed to order. Under the exit light is a Werther sunk in despair; he is leaning on his two elbows, his eyes are glazed. Near the door, huddled in a big cape, stands a Spaniard with a sombrero in his hand. He looks as if he were posing for the "Balzac" of Rodin. From the neck up he suggests Buffalo Bill. In the gallery opposite me, in the front row, sits a woman with her legs spread wide apart; she looks as though she had lockjaw, with her neck thrown back and dislocated. The woman with the red hat who is dozing over the rail – marvelous if she were to have a hemorrhage! if suddenly she spilled a bucketful on those stiff shirts below. Imagine these bloody no accounts going Home from the concert with blood on their dickies!

 

  睡觉是基调。再也没有人在听了,无法再思考、再倾听了,也无法去梦想,即使音乐本身也成了一场梦。一个戴白手套的女人把一只天鹅放在膝上。传说勒达怀孕后生了一对双胞胎。

Sleep is the keynote. No one is listening any more. Impossible to think and listen. Impossible to dream even when the music itself is nothing but a dream. A woman with white gloves holds a swan in her lap. The legend is that when Leda was fecundated she gave birth to twins.

 

  人人都在生某种东西—只除了上面那排座位上那个搞同性恋的女人。她昂着头,大张着嘴,注意力十分集中,这曲交响乐像镭一样放射出一阵阵火花,使她激动不已。朱庇特在穿透她的耳朵。还有加利福尼亚的片言只字、生着大鳍的鲸鱼、桑给巴尔、西班牙式城堡。瓜达尔基维河沿岸有上千座清真寺在闪闪发光。冰山深处的时光尽是淡紫色的。莫尼大街上立着两根拴马的白柱子,滴水嘴……宣传贾沃斯基谬论的男人……河,边的灯光……

Everybody is giving birth to something – everybody but the Lesbian in the upper tier. Her head is uptilted, her throat wide open; she is all alert and tingling with the shower of sparks that burst from the radium symphony. Jupiter is piercing her ears. Little phrases from California, whales with big fins, Zanzibar, the Alcazar. When along the Guadalquivir there were a thousand mosques ashimmer. Deep in the icebergs and the days all lilac. The Money Street with two white hitching posts. The gargoyles … the man with the Jaworski nonsense … the river lights … the…

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