一本蓝色封面的外国小说（中英双语小说连载）

9

Jumpin' 老跳

1953

Sitting in the bow, Kya watched low fingers of fog reaching for their boat. At first, torn-off cloud bits streamed over their heads, then mist engulfed them in grayness, and there was only the tick, tick, tick of the quiet motor. Minutes later, small splotches of unexpected color formed as the weathered shape of the marina gas station eased into view, as though it and not them was moving. Pa motored in, bumping gently against the dock. She'd only been here once. The owner, an old black man, sprang up from his chair to help them—the reason everybody called him Jumpin'. His white sideburns and salt-and-pepper hair framed a wide, generous face and owl eyes. Tall and spare, he seemed to never stop talking, smiling, or throwing his head back, lips shut tight in his own brand of laugh. He didn't dress in overalls, like most workmen around, but wore an ironed blue button-down shirt, too-short dark trousers, and work boots. Not often, but now and then on the meanest summer days, a tattered straw hat.

基娅坐在船头，看着雾气低垂的手指触碰到小船。起初，被撕裂的云朵碎片在头顶涌动；接着，雾气将它们困在一片灰蒙蒙之中，四下静悄悄的，只余发动机轻微的嘀嗒声。几分钟后，出现了几个意想不到的色块，码头加油站饱经风雨侵蚀的轮廓渐渐浮现在视野里，给人一种船不动而它在动的错觉。爸爸把船停靠过去，轻轻地撞上码头。基娅只来过一次。这儿的老板是一个年老的黑人。他从椅子上跳起来帮忙——这就是为什么大家都管他叫老跳。他两鬓如霜，头发斑白，一张大脸看上去很慷慨，眼睛像猫头鹰。老跳又高又瘦，似乎一直在讲话、微笑、仰头，露出招牌笑容时嘴巴抿紧。他不像大部分工人那样穿工装裤，而是穿了熨过的、系领扣的蓝色衬衫，深色短裤和工作靴。夏天最热的那几天，他有时会戴上一顶破烂草帽，但次数不多。

His Gas and Bait teetered on its own wobbly wharf. A cable ran from the closest oak on shore, about forty feet across the backwater, and held on with all its might. Jumpin's great-grandpa had built the wharf and shack of cypress planks way back before anybody could remember, sometime before the Civil War.

他开的“汽油和饵料”店晃晃悠悠地立在他独占的歪斜的码头上。一根电线从岸边最近的一棵橡树上穿过，跨越约四十英尺的死水，勉力支撑。很久很久以前，久到没人记得清，大概是内战前的某个时候，老跳的曾祖父用柏木板建了这个码头和棚屋。

Three generations had nailed bright metal signs—Nehi Grape Soda, Royal Crown Cola, Camel Filters, and twenty years' worth of North Carolina automobile license plates—all over the shack, and that burst of color could be seen from the sea through all but the thickest fog.

三代人在棚屋墙上用钉子钉满了明亮的金属指示牌——葡萄汽水、皇冠可乐、骆驼滤光片，还有有效期二十年的北卡罗来纳汽车牌照。它们绚烂的色彩可以穿透海上最厚的雾。

“Hello, Mister Jake. How ya doin'?”

“你好，杰克先生。过得好吗？”

“Well, Ah woke up on the right side of dirt,” Pa answered.

“我睡醒了还躺在土地上面而不是下面。”爸爸说。

Jumpin' laughed as if he'd never heard the worn-out phrase. “Ya got your li'l daughter with you an' all. That's mighty fine.”

老跳哈哈大笑，好像从没听过这老掉牙的笑话。“你带着你的小女儿。这很好。”

Pa nodded. Then, as an afterthought, “Yep, this here's ma daughter, Miz Kya Clark.”

爸爸点点头，后知后觉说：“这是我的女儿，基娅·克拉克。”

“Well, I'm mighty proud to know ya, Miss Kya.”

“很荣幸认识你，基娅小姐。”

Kya searched her bare toes but found no words.

基娅盯着自己露在外面的脚趾，不知道该说些什么。

Jumpin' wasn't bothered and kept talking about the good fishing lately. Then he asked Pa, “Fill 'er up then, Mister Jake?”

老跳没有在意，聊起了最近捕鱼多么轻松。他问爸爸：“加满吗，杰克先生？”

“Yeah, slam 'er right up to tha top.”

“对，加满。”

The men talked weather, fishing, then more weather till the tank was full.

老跳一直聊天气、捕鱼、天气，直到油箱满了。

“Good day to y'all, now,” he said, as he tossed off the line.

“那么，再见。”他一边说，一边解开绳子。

Pa cruised slowly back onto a bright sea—the sun taking less time to devour the fog than it took Jumpin' to fill a tank. They chugged around a piney peninsula for several miles to Barkley Cove, where Pa tied to the deeply etched beams of the town wharf. Fishermen busied about, packing fish, tying line.

爸爸慢慢把船开回明亮的海上——太阳消灭大雾的速度比老跳加油要快。小船突突地绕着一个长满松树的半岛驶了几英里，最后停在巴克利小湾镇。爸爸把船系在镇码头腐蚀严重的梁上。渔民们行色匆匆，忙着把鱼装箱和系缆绳。

“Ah reckon we can git us some rest'rant vittles,” Pa said, and led her along the pier toward the Barkley Cove Diner. Kya had never eaten restaurant food; had never set foot inside. Her heart thumped as she brushed dried mud from her way-too-short overalls and patted down her tangled hair. As Pa opened the door, every customer paused midbite. A few men nodded faintly at Pa; the women frowned and turned their heads. One snorted, “Well, they prob'ly can't read the shirt and shoes required.”

“我想我们可以去饭馆吃点。”爸爸说，带着基娅沿码头走向巴克利小湾饭馆。基娅从没吃过饭馆的食物，甚至从没进去过。她的心怦怦直跳，使劲刮蹭过短的工装裤上已经干了的泥点，轻拍打结的头发。爸爸推开门时，所有食客都顿了一下。有几个男人对爸爸微微点头。女人们皱起眉，别开头。有一个人轻蔑地哼了一声：“他们大概看不懂‘衣衫不整，不得入内’。”

Pa motioned for her to sit at a small table overlooking the wharf. She couldn't read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. So full, Kya thought she might get sick, but figured it'd be worth it.

爸爸指了指能看见码头的一张小桌子，让基娅坐下。她不会看菜单。爸爸告诉了她其中大部分菜品。她点了炸鸡、土豆泥、肉汁、白豆、松软得像新棉花一样的饼干。爸爸点了炸虾、芝士玉米粉和炸绿番茄。服务员在他们桌上放了一整盘黄油块和冰块，一篮子玉米面包和饼干，还有管够的冰甜茶。他们还要了黑莓馅饼配冰激凌作为甜点。基娅吃得很撑，简直像病了，但还是觉得很值。

As Pa stood at the cash register paying the bill, Kya stepped out onto the sidewalk, where the ripe smell of fishing boats hung over the bay. She held a greasy napkin wrapped around the leftover chicken and biscuits. Her overalls pockets were stuffed with packages of saltines, which the waitress had left right on the table for the taking.

爸爸在柜台买单，基娅出门走到人行道上。这里可以闻到渔船散发的笼罩着海湾的浓郁味道。她手里拿着一张油腻的纸巾，包着剩下的鸡肉和饼干，工装裤口袋里塞满苏打饼干，这是服务员留在桌上让外带的。

“Hi.” Kya heard a tiny voice behind her and turned to see a girl of about four years with blond ringlets looking up at her. She was dressed in a pale blue frock and reached out her hand. Kya stared at the little hand; it was puffy-soft and maybe the cleanest thing Kya had ever seen. Never scrubbed with lye soap, certainly no mussel mud beneath the nails. Then she looked into the girl's eyes, in which she herself was reflected as just another kid.

“你好。”基娅听到身后传来细小的声音，转身看见一个长着金色长鬈发、大概四岁的女孩正抬头看她。小女孩穿着淡蓝色连衣裙，向她伸出手。基娅看着这只小手：柔软而干净——这可能是基娅见过的最干净的东西，从没有用肥皂搓洗过，指甲底下也没有蚌泥。她望着小女孩的眼睛，那里面映着一个完全不同的孩子。

Kya shifted the napkin to her left hand and extended her right slowly toward the girl's.

基娅把纸巾换到左手，慢慢向小女孩伸出右手。

“Hey there, get away!” Suddenly Mrs. Teresa White, wife of the Methodist preacher, rushed from the door of the Buster Brown Shoe Shop.

“你，滚开！”突然，特蕾莎·怀特夫人，卫理公会牧师的妻子，从巴斯特·布朗鞋店里匆忙跑了出来。

Barkley Cove served its religion hard-boiled and deep-fried. Tiny as it was, the village supported four churches, and those were just for the whites; the blacks had three more.

巴克利小湾镇的教派纷争不断。虽然镇子很小，但有四个教堂，这还只是白人教堂，黑人另外有三个。

Of course, the pastors and preachers, and certainly their wives, enjoyed highly respected positions in the village, always dressing and behaving accordingly. Teresa White often wore pastel skirts and white blouses, matching pumps and purse.

当然，牧师、传教士和他们的妻子在镇上很受尊重。他们的穿着和行为举止也总是与这尊重相匹配。特蕾莎·怀特常穿浅色裙子、白衬衫，搭配浅口鞋和手提包。

Now she hurried toward her daughter and lifted her in her arms. Stepping away from Kya, she put the girl back on the sidewalk and squatted next to the child.

她冲到女儿面前，抱起她，从基娅身边走开，再把女儿放回地上，蹲下身来。

“Meryl Lynn, dahlin', don't go near that girl, ya hear me. She's dirty.”

“梅里尔·林恩，亲爱的，不要靠近那个女孩，你听到了吗？她很脏。”

Kya watched the mother run her fingers through the curls; didn't miss how long they held each other's eyes.

基娅看着这位妈妈用手指梳理着女儿的鬈发，也看清了她们长时间的互相凝视。

A woman came out of the Piggly Wiggly and walked quickly up to them. “Ya all right, Teresa? What happened here? Was that girl botherin' Meryl Lynn?”

一个女人从杂货店出来，快步走向她们。“你还好吗，特蕾莎？这儿发生什么了？这个女孩在找梅里尔·林恩的麻烦吗？”

“I saw her in time. Thank you, Jenny. I wish those people wouldn't come to town. Look at her. Filthy. Plumb nasty. There's that stomach flu goin' around and I just know for a fact it came in with them. Last year they brought in that case of measles, and that's serious.” Teresa walked away, clutching the child.

“我及时看见了。谢谢，珍妮。我希望这些人不要到镇上来。看看她，肮脏、恶心。现在有人感染急性肠胃炎，我就知道是从他们那儿来的。去年他们带来了麻疹，当时可严重了。”特蕾莎走开了，手里紧紧抓着自己的孩子。

Just then Pa, carrying some beer in a brown paper bag, called behind her, “Whatcha doin'? C'mon, we gotta git outta here. Tide's goin' out.” Kya turned and followed, and as they steered home to the marsh, she saw the curls and eyes of mother and child.

就在这时，爸爸拿着一个装了啤酒的棕色纸袋在后面喊她：“干吗呢？走吧，我们得走了，涨潮了。”基娅转过身，跟上他。在开船进湿地回家的路上，她眼前又浮现出那头鬈发和那对母女的眼睛。

Pa still disappeared some, not coming back for several days, but not as often as before. And when he did show up, he didn't collapse in a stupor but ate a meal and talked some. One night they played gin rummy, he guffawing when she won, and she giggling with her hands over her mouth like a regular girl.

爸爸还是时不时失踪，几天不回来，但不像以前那么频繁了。在家的时候也不会烂醉如泥，而是和基娅一起吃饭、聊天。一天晚上，他们玩金罗美纸牌游戏，基娅赢了，他哈哈大笑，而基娅也像一个普通女孩那样，捂着嘴咯咯地笑。

EACH TIME KYA STEPPED off the porch, she looked down the lane, thinking that even though the wild wisteria was fading with late spring and her mother had left late the previous summer, she might see Ma walking home through the sand. Still in her fake alligator heels. Now that she and Pa were fishing and talking, maybe they could try again to be a family. Pa had beat all of them, mostly when he was drunk. He'd be all right for a few days at a time—they would eat chicken stew together; once they flew a kite on the beach. Then: drink, shout, hit. Details of some of the bouts were sharp in her mind. Once Pa shoved Ma into the kitchen wall, hitting her until she slumped to the floor. Kya, sobbing for him to quit, touched his arm. He grabbed Kya by the shoulders, shouted for her to pull down her jeans and underpants, and bent her over the kitchen table. In one smooth, practiced motion he slid the belt from his pants and whipped her. Of course, she remembered the hot pain slicing her bare bottom, but curiously, she recalled the jeans pooled around her skinny ankles in more vivid detail. And Ma crumpled into the corner by the cookstove, crying out. Kya didn't know what all the fighting was about.

基娅每次走出门廊，都会看看小径，想着虽然晚春已至，野紫藤将谢，而妈妈自去年夏天就已离开，但她还是有可能走过沙路回家，穿着那双仿鳄鱼皮高跟鞋。现在，她和爸爸一起捕鱼、聊天，或许他们可以试着再次成为一家人。爸爸打过每一个人，大多是在他喝醉的时候。他会正常几天——和大家一起喝鸡肉炖汤，有一次还在沙滩上放风筝。然后又是喝酒，喊叫，殴打。有一些发作时的细节深深地刻在她的脑海里。有一次，爸爸把妈妈推到厨房墙上，一直打到她瘫倒在地上。基娅抓着他的手臂，哭着求他别打了。他抓住基娅的肩膀，吼叫着让她脱掉裤子，然后把她按得半趴在餐桌上，一把解下皮带，开始抽打。当然，她记得光着的屁股上那火辣辣的痛感，但奇怪的是，她更清楚地记得裤子堆在她瘦骨嶙峋的脚踝处的情状。妈妈爬到炉边的角落里尖叫。基娅不知道所有这些毒打是为了什么。

But if Ma came back now, when Pa was acting decent, maybe they could start over. Kya never thought it would be Ma who left and Pa who stayed. But she knew her mother wouldn't leave her forever; if she was out there somewhere in the world, she'd come back. Kya could still see the full, red lips as Ma sang to the radio, and hear her words, “Now listen close to Mr. Orson Welles; he speaks proper like a gentleman. Don't ever say ain't, it isn't even a word.”

不过，如果妈妈现在回来，爸爸表现得体，他们或许可以重新开始。基娅从来没想过会是妈妈离开而爸爸留下来。但她知道妈妈不会永远离开她。如果她还在世界的某个地方，她会回来的。基娅还能看见妈妈跟着收音机唱歌时那饱满红润的双唇，听到她说：“认真听奥森·韦尔斯先生说话。他言语得体，是一位绅士。不要说‘巴四’，那根本就不是个词。”

Ma had painted the estuaries and sunsets in oils and watercolors so rich they seemed peeled from the earth. She had brought some art supplies with her and could buy bits and pieces at Kress's Five and Dime. Sometimes Ma had let Kya paint her own pictures on brown paper bags from the Piggly Wiggly.

妈妈用油彩和水彩画河口，画落日，色彩那么丰富，画上的事物像是从地上剥下来的。她带过来一些美术用品，时不时也在克雷斯五分一角店零碎地买一点东西。有时候妈妈会让基娅在杂货店的棕色纸袋上画她自己的画。

IN EARLY SEPTEMBER of that fishing summer, on one afternoon that paled with heat, Kya walked to the mailbox at the end of the lane. Leafing through the grocery ads, she stopped dead when she saw a blue envelope addressed in Ma's neat hand. A few sycamore leaves were turning the same shade of yellow as when she left. All that time without a trace and now a letter. Kya stared at it, held it to the light, ran her fingers across the slanted, perfect script. Her heart banged against her chest.

在那个一起捕鱼的夏天，九月初，一个热得日光发白的下午，基娅走向小径尽头的邮箱。翻完那些杂货店广告，她僵住了，她看到一个蓝色的信封，上面是妈妈整洁的笔迹。美国梧桐叶正渐渐变成她离开时的黄色。妈妈杳无音信这么长时间，突然来了一封信。基娅盯着它，举到光下，手指滑过那些微斜、完美的笔迹。她的心在胸腔里怦怦跳动。

“Ma's alive. Living somewhere else. Why hasn't she come home?” She thought of tearing the letter open, but the only word she could read for sure was her name, and it was not on the envelope.

“妈妈还活着。在某个地方。她为什么不回来？”她想撕开信封，但她只认识自己的名字，那几个字并不在信封上。

She ran to the shack, but Pa had motored somewhere in the boat. So she propped the letter against the saltshaker on the table where he'd see it. As she boiled black-eyed peas with onions, she kept an eye on the letter lest it disappear.

她跑回棚屋，但爸爸开船出去了。她把信靠在餐桌的盐瓶上，这样他就能看见了。煮黑眼豆和洋葱的时候，基娅密切注视着那封信，怕它消失。

Every few seconds, she ducked to the kitchen window to listen for the boat's whirr. Then suddenly Pa was limp-walking up the steps. All courage left her, and she dashed past him, hollering that she was going to the outhouse; supper would be ready soon. She stood inside the smelly latrine, her heart running races to her stomach. Balancing on the wooden bench, she watched through the quarter-moon slit in the door, not knowing exactly what she expected.

每隔几秒钟，她就冲到厨房窗边去听有没有船声。突然，爸爸跛着脚走上了台阶。基娅所有的勇气都消失了，她跑开了，大声说她要去屋外的厕所，晚饭很快就好。她站在臭气熏天的厕所里，心脏和胃仿佛在比赛谁抽得更厉害。她在长木凳上坐下，从门上月牙形的裂缝向外望去，不知道自己到底在期待什么。

Then the porch door slammed, and she saw Pa walking fast toward the lagoon. He went straight to the boat, a poke in his hand, and motored away. She ran back to the house, into the kitchen, but the letter was gone. She flung open his dresser drawers, rummaged through his closet, searching. “It's mine, too! It's mine as much as yours.” Back in the kitchen, she looked in the trash can and found the letter's ashes, still fringed in blue. With a spoon she dipped them up and laid them on the table, a little pile of black and blue remains. She picked, bit by bit, through the garbage; maybe some words had drifted to the bottom. But there was nothing but traces of cinder clinging to onionskin.

摔廊门的声音传来，爸爸快步走向潟湖。他直接上了船，手里拎着一个小袋，开走了。基娅跑回棚屋，跑到厨房里，但是信已经不见了。她猛地拉开他的抽屉，在衣柜里乱翻。“那也是我的！我和你有一样的权利。”回到厨房，她翻着垃圾桶，看到了信的灰烬，边缘还泛着蓝色。她用勺子把这些舀起来，摊到桌面上，只剩一小堆黑色和蓝色的残留物。她在垃圾里一点一点地挑。可能有些部分落到了底下。但什么都没了，只有粘在洋葱皮上的灰烬。

She sat at the table, the peas still singing in the pot, and stared at the little mound. “Ma touched these. Maybe Pa'll tell me what she wrote. Don't be stupid—that's as likely as snow fallin' in the swamp.”

她坐在桌旁，看着那一小堆灰烬。豆子还在锅里煮着。“妈妈碰过这些。或许爸爸会告诉我她写了什么。别傻了——这就和沼泽地下雪一样不可能。”

Even the postmark was gone. Now she'd never know where Ma was. She put the ashes in a little bottle and kept it in her cigar box next to her bed.

甚至连邮戳也不见了。她永远都不会知道妈妈在哪儿了。她把灰烬装进一个小瓶子，收到床边的雪茄盒里。

PA DIDN'T COME HOME that night or the next day, and when he finally did, it was the old drunk who staggered through the door. When she mounted the courage to ask about the letter, he barked, “It ain't none a' yo' bidness.” And then, “She ain't comin' back, so ya can just forget 'bout that.” Carrying a poke, he shuffled toward the boat.

那天晚上和第二天，爸爸都没有回家。他最后回来的时候，又变回了以前那个走路摇晃的醉汉。当她鼓足勇气问信的事，他咆哮道：“这巴四你该关心的事！”接着又说，“她不会回来了，你赶紧忘了吧。”然后拄着棍子慢吞吞走向小船。

“That isn't true,” Kya hollered at his back, her fists bunched at her sides. She watched him leaving, then shouted at the empty lagoon, “Ain't isn't even a word!”

“这不是真的。”基娅冲着他的背影喊，紧握的拳头垂在身侧。她看着他离开，对着空荡荡的潟湖大喊：“‘巴四’根本就不是个词！”

Later she would wonder if she should have opened the letter on her own, not even shown it to Pa. Then she could have saved the words to read someday, and he'd have been better off not knowing them.

后来她想，她本应该自己打开信，甚至不必告诉爸爸，那样她就可以留下这些文字以后看，而对爸爸来说，不知道信的存在更好。

Pa never took her fishing again. Those warm days were just a thrown-in season. Low clouds parting, the sun splashing her world briefly, then closing up dark and tight-fisted again.

爸爸再也没有带她去捕过鱼。那些温暖的日子只是一个额外的季节。低低的云层分开，阳光短暂地照亮了她的世界，然后云层合拢，阴暗而吝啬。

KYA COULDN'T REMEMBER how to pray. Was it how you held your hands or how hard you squinted your eyes that mattered? “Maybe if I pray, Ma and Jodie will come home. Even with all the shouting and fussing, that life was better than this lumpy-grits.”

基娅不记得该如何祈祷。重要的是手势还是眼睛闭得有多严？“也许，如果我祈祷了，妈妈和乔迪就会回家。即使会被打骂，生活也比这粗玉米粉好。”

She sang mis-snippets of hymns—“and He walks with me when dew is still on the roses”—all she remembered from the little white church where Ma had taken her a few times. Their last visit had been Easter Sunday before Ma left, but all Kya remembered about the holiday was shouting and blood, somebody falling, she and Ma running, so she dropped the memory altogether.

她唱起赞美诗的片段——“露水还在玫瑰上时，他和我走在一起。”妈妈曾带她去过几次小小的白色教堂，这两句是她能记起的所有。她们最后一次去那儿是妈妈离开前的复活节。但关于这个节日，基娅只记得喊叫、流血，有人摔倒，她和妈妈逃开了。后来，她索性全忘了。

Kya looked through the trees at Ma's corn and turnip patch, all weeds now. Certainly there were no roses.

基娅透过树看着妈妈种玉米和芜菁的那块地，现在长满了杂草。当然，并没有玫瑰。

“Just forget it. No god's gonna come to this garden.”

“忘了吧。没有神会来这个园子。”

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