第四章: 流连忘返处 Ghost Spots |《请以你的名字呼唤我》

Anchise was waiting for me at the station. I spotted him as soon as the train made its prolonged curve around the bay, slowing down and almost grazing the tall cypresses that I loved so much and through which I always caught an ever-welcoming preview of the glaring midafternoon sea. I lowered the window and let the wind fan my face, catching a glimpse of our lumbering engine car far, far ahead. Arriving in B. always made me happy. It reminded me of arrivals in early June at the end of every school year. The wind, the heat, the glinting gray platform with the ancient stationmaster’s hut permanently shuttered since the First World War, the dead silence, all spelled my favorite season at this deserted and beloved time of day. Summer was just about to start, it seemed, things hadn’t happened yet, my head was still buzzing with last-minute cramming before exams, this was the first time I was sighting the sea this year. Oliver who?

安喀斯在车站等我，我一眼就认出他来。火车顺着长长的海湾转弯，放慢速度，几乎擦过高大的柏树。我好爱这些柏树，我总是透过它们预见午后三四点永远令人愉快的耀眼海洋。我拉下窗户，让风拍打我的脸，瞥见我们家笨重的汽车就在远远的前方。抵达B城总是令我开心。让我想起每个学年结束、在六月初抵达这里的心情。那风、那热气、那闪亮的灰色月台配上自一战以来就关闭的古旧站长临时宿舍、那死寂，这一切在一天中这段荒凉珍爱的时间里，共同拼凑出我最喜欢的季节。夏天正要开始，仿佛事情还没发生，考前最后一分钟死记的东西仍然在我脑子里嗡嗡作响。这是我今年第一次看见这片海。你说的奥利弗，是谁？

The train stopped for a few seconds, let off about five passengers. There was the usual rumble, followed by the loud hydraulic rattle of the engine. Then, as easily as they had stopped, the cars squeaked out of the station, one by one, and slithered away. Total silence.

火车停了几秒，让五名乘客下车。而后隆隆作响，接着响起液压引擎巨大的嘎嘎声。然后，就像停车一样简单，列车又吱吱嘎嘎驶离车站，一节接一节滑行离开。鸦雀无声。

And as always: blackbirds, pine trees, cicadas.

还有永远不变的乌鸦、松树、蝉。

Summer.

夏天。

I had seldom thought of the approaching school year. Now I was grateful that, with so much heat and so much summer around me, it still seemed months away.

我很少想到即将到来的学年。但此时我感谢炎热的天气带来强烈的夏日气息，让我觉得下学年仿佛仍然是好几个月以后的事。

Within minutes of my arrival, the direttissimo to Rome swished in on the opposite track — always punctual, that train. Three days ago, we had taken the exact same one. I remembered now staring from its windows and thinking: In a few days, you’ll be back, and you’ll be alone, and you’ll hate it, so don’t let anything catch you unprepared. Be warned. I had rehearsed losing him not just to ward off suffering by taking it in small doses beforehand, but, as all superstitious people do, to see if my willingness to accept the very worst might not induce fate to soften its blow. Like soldiers trained to fight by night, I lived in the dark so as not to be blinded when darkness came. Rehearse the pain to dull the pain. Homeopathically.

在我抵达几分钟后，往罗马的快车滑入对向的轨道——那班火车一向准时。三天前，我们搭的正是这同一班车。我想起当时我边向窗外看边想：再过几天你就会回来，你将是一个人，你会恨透了那感觉，所以千万别让任何东西乘虚而入。要警醒。我预演失去他的处境，不只是为了事前一点一点接受，好抵挡痛苦，也像迷信的人，想看看如果我愿意接受最糟的状况，命运会不会减轻打击的力道。我像为打夜战而受训的士兵，生活在黑暗中，以免黑暗骤降，不能视物。预演痛苦来抑制痛苦。依顺势疗法的道理。

I stood for a moment under the dried wooden cantilever. The whole place, including the boarded hut, exuded a strong odor of petrol, tar, chipped paint, and piss.

我在干燥的木制悬臂梁下站了一会儿。这整个地方，包括木板屋，散发一股强烈的气味，混杂着汽油、柏油、剥落油漆，和一股尿骚味。

Sight of the hills in the distance to recall the morning we rode back to B. and came speeding downhill, almost running over a gypsy girl: check.

远方山丘勾起记忆的风景，让人想起骑车回B城，加速下山坡，几乎撞上吉普卜女孩那个早上的风景：确认。

My mother, when I arrived, wanted to know everything about our trip. I told her we had done nothing special, just seen the Capitol and Villa Borghese, San Clemente. Otherwise we’d just walked around a lot. Lots of fountains. Lots of strange places at night. Two dinners. “Dinners?” my mother asked, with an understated triumphant see-I-was-right-wasn’t-I? “And with whom?”

我一到家，母亲就想知道这趟旅行的细节。我告诉她没做什么特别的事，只是参观了卡比托①、波格泽别墅②、圣克雷芒教堂。除此之外就是到处走。看了许多喷泉。晚上去了许多奇怪的场所。吃了两顿晚餐。“晚餐？”母亲以一种轻描淡写、“看我说的没错吧”的得意语气问。“跟谁？”【注：①卡比托（the Capitol）：当地人称Campidoglio，为罗马七座山丘中最小的一个。这里曾经是古罗马的政治与宗教中心，有许多重要景点，包括米开朗琪罗设计的卡比托广场、罗马市政府、朱庇特神庙等。朱庇特神庙曾经是罗马世界的中心，这座山丘和神庙象征罗马为“世界之首”，连“首都”（capital）一词都源于这个地名。②波格泽别墅（Villa Borghese）：1605年为教皇保罗五世的侄子波格泽枢机主教（cardinal s cipione Borghese，1576—1633）设计的别墅和公园。】

Smell of piss, petrol, tar, enamel paint: check, check, check, and check.

尿骚味、汽油、柏油、亮光漆的气味：确认、确认、确认、确认再确认。

“Yes, a bit.”

“是啊，有一点。”

Anchise grabbed my backpack and offered to carry it for me. I told him not to; backpacks were not made to be carried except by their owners. He didn’t understand why exactly and handed it back to me.

安喀斯一把抓住我的背包，说要帮我拿，我请他别这么做；背包的设计，就是专门给包的主人背的。他还搞不清所以然就把背包交还给我。

“Triste,” he remarked.

“真令人难过啊。”他评论道。

Scent of the pine trees: check.

松树的气味：确认。

Yes, this morning.

是的，今天早上。

He asked if the Signor Ulliva had left.

他问我“奥立法”先生是否离开了。

I avoided his eyes. I did not want to encourage him to say anything or even to bring up the subject.

我回避他的眼光。我不想鼓励他说什么，甚或提起这个话题。

“Anche a me duole, I too am saddened.”

“我也感到伤心。”

Once again, then. View of the bay: check.

那么，再来一次。海湾的景观：确认。

Stationmaster’s hut: check.

站长的临时宿舍：确认。

“What people?”

“什么人？”

“Not even eighteen years old, and already he leads la dolce vita,” came Mafalda’s acid satire. My mother agreed.

“还不满十八岁，已经开始过甜美生活③了呢。”玛法尔达酸溜溜地挖苦道。母亲也同意。【注：③甜美生活（la dolce vita）：指奢华自我放纵的生活方式。因费里尼汗（Federico Fellini，1920—1993）的同名电影而广为人知。】

I was instantly saddened and infuriated. Who had given them the right? They’d clearly been prying, together or separately.

我立刻觉得悲愤交集。谁给她们这么做的权力？无论是一起或分别这么做，她们显然为了窥探。

“We’ve fixed up your room the way it was. We thought you’d like finally to have it back.”

“我们帮你把房间恢复原状了。你应该也想回到自己的房间吧。”

“Writers, publishers, friends of Oliver’s. We stayed up every night.”

“作家、出版商、奥利弗的朋友。我们每天晚上都熬通宵。”

“People.”

“一些人。”

I always knew I’d eventually have my room back. But I had hoped for a slower, more extended transition to the way things used to be before Oliver. I’d pictured lying in bed struggling to work up the courage to make it across to his room. What I had failed to anticipate was that Mafalda would have already changed his sheets — our sheets. Luckily I’d asked him again to give me Billowy that morning, after I’d made sure he wore it all through our stay in Rome. I had put it in a plastic laundry bag in our hotel room and would in all likelihood have to hide it from anyone’s prying reach for the rest of my life. On certain nights, I’d remove Billowy from its bag, make sure it hadn’t acquired the scent of plastic or of my clothes, and hold it next to me, flap its long sleeves around me, and breathe out his name in the dark. Ulliva, Ulliva, Ulliva — it was Oliver calling me by his name when he’d imitate its transmogrified sound as spoken by Mafalda and Anchise; but it’d also be me calling him by his name as well, hoping he’d call me back by mine, which I’d speak for him to me, and back to him: Elio, Elio, Elio.

我知道我终究得回到我原来的房间，但我希望有更长的过渡期。我曾经想象躺在床上，挣扎着鼓起勇气走到他房间，却没料到玛法尔达已经换掉他的床单——我们的床单。还好那天早上。确定我们停留罗马期间他一直穿着那件宽衬衫之后，我再度要求他把那件衣服给我。我把衬衫放进旅馆房间的塑胶洗衣袋里，很可能下半辈子都要藏在别人窥探不到的地方。有些个晚上，我把衬衫从袋子里拿出来，确认没沾染到塑胶或我衣服的味道，抱着它，将两只长袖围在身上，在黑暗中低声呼唤他的名字。奥立法、奥立法、奥立法——那是奥利弗模仿玛法尔达和安喀斯的古怪腔调，用他的名字唤我的声音；那也是我用他的名字唤他，希望他也用我的名字唤我的声音，我愿意代替他对我唤我的名字，再回应他：艾里奥、艾里奥、艾里奥。

To avoid entering my bedroom from the balcony and finding him missing, I used the inner stairwell. I opened the door to my room, dropped my backpack on the floor, and threw myself on my warm, sunlit bed. Thank goodness for that. They had not washed the bedspread. Suddenly I was happy to be back. I could have fallen asleep right then and there, forgetting all about Billowy and the smell, and about Oliver himself. Who can resist sleep at two or three in the afternoon in these sunlit parts of the Mediterranean?

为了避免从阳台进入我的卧房，我走室内楼梯上楼。我打开我房间的门，把背包丢在地上，将自己扔到晒得到阳光的温暖床上。谢天谢地，她们没洗床罩。我突然很高兴自己回来了。我说不定转眼间就能睡着，忘记大波浪衬衫和那股气味，以及奥利弗的一切。谁能抗拒在地中海日照地区午后的两三点睡上一觉？

In my exhaustion, I resolved to take out my scorebook later in the afternoon and pick up the Haydn exactly where I’d left off. Either this or I’d head over to the tennis courts and sit in the sun on one of those warm benches that were sure to send a shiver of well-being through my body, and see who was available for a game. There was always someone.

累坏的我，决定下午晚一点要拿出海顿乐谱，从中断的小节继续改编。不然，我要去网球场，坐在一张温暖的板凳上晒太阳（这么做铁定让我幸福到全身打哆嗦），看看谁有空跟我比赛。随时都有人的。

I had never welcomed sleep so serenely in my life. There’d be plenty of time for mourning, I thought. It will come, probably on the sly, as I’ve heard these things always do, and there won’t be any getting off lightly, either. Anticipating sorrow to neutralize sorrow — that’s paltry, cowardly stuff, I told myself, knowing I was an ace practitioner of the craft. And what if it came fiercely? What if it came and didn’t let go, a sorrow that had come to stay, and did to me what longing for him had done on those nights when it seemed there was something so essential missing from my life that it might as well have been missing from my body, so that losing him now would be like losing a hand you could spot in every picture of yourself around the house, but without which you couldn’t possibly be you again. You lose it, as you always knew you would, and were even prepared to; but you can’t bring yourself to live with the loss. And hoping not to think of it, like praying not to dream of it, hurts just the same.

我这辈子从未如此平静地欢迎睡意。要哀悼有的是时间。它会悄悄来到，它一向如此，而且也没有任何从轻发落的可能。预期哀伤，好缓和哀伤——明知我是这门技艺的头号实践者，我仍告诉自己，那是没价值又怯懦的勾当。如果它来势汹汹怎么办？如果它来了又不肯松手怎么办？停驻不去的哀伤，像那些夜晚对他的渴望所带来的影响，似乎有什么根本的东西从我的生命中佚失，从我的身体消失，以致现在失去他，就像失去自己的手。那是屋里每张照片里的自己都有的手，但少了这只手，你就不可能再是你。你失去它，就像你一向知道你会失去，甚至做好了准备；但你无法让自己忍受这个失落。希望别去想它，祈祷不要梦到它，然而伤痛依旧。

What if at night I wouldn’t be able to live with myself unless I had him by me, inside me? What then?

如果在夜里，除非我有他在我身边、在我体内，否则我无法忍受自己时怎么办？届时又如何？

Think of the pain before the pain.

在痛苦前思考痛苦的意义。

I knew what I was doing. Even in my sleep, I knew what I was doing. Trying to immunize yourself, that’s what you’re doing — you’ll end up killing the whole thing this way — sneaky, cunning boy, that’s what you are, sneaky, heartless, cunning boy. I smiled at the voice. The sun was right on me now, and I loved the sun with a near-pagan love for the things of earth. Pagan, that’s what you are. I had never known how much I loved the earth, the sun, the sea — people, things, even art seemed to come second. Or was I fooling myself?

我知道我在做什么。即使在睡梦中，我也知道我在做什么。我一再一再为自己打预防针。你终究会这么毁掉一切。鬼祟又狡猾，那就是你。鬼祟、薄情、狡猾。我对这个声音微笑。太阳照在我身上，我对太阳的爱，有着近乎异教徒对大地万物的爱。异教徒，那就是你。我从来不明了我多爱这片大地、多爱太阳、多爱海——人、事物、甚至艺术似乎都是其次。或者我在自欺？

Then a strange idea got hold of me: What if my body — just my body, my heart — cried out for his? What to do then?

接着，一个奇怪的念头攫住我：如果我的身体（只有我的身体、我的心）喊着要他的身体怎么办？届时该如何是好？

In the middle of the afternoon, I became aware that I was enjoying sleep, and not just seeking refuge in it — sleep within sleep, like dreams within dreams, could anything be better? An access of something as exquisite as pure bliss began to take hold of me. This must be Wednesday, I thought, and indeed it was Wednesday, when the cutlery grinder sets up shop in our courtyard and begins to hone every blade in the household, Mafalda always chatting him up as she stands next to him, holding a glass of lemonade for him while he plies away at the whetstone. The raspy, fricative sound of his wheel crackling and hissing in the midafternoon heat, sending sound waves of bliss up my way to my bedroom. I had never been able to admit to myself how happy Oliver had made me the day he’d swallowed my peach. Of course it had moved me, but it had flattered me as well, as though his gesture had said, I believe with every cell in my body that every cell in yours must not, must never, die, and if it does have to die, let it die inside my body. He’d unlatched the partly opened door to the balcony from the outside, stepped in — we weren’t quite on speaking terms that day; he didn’t ask if he could come in. What was I going to do? Say, You can’t come in? This was when I raised my arm to greet him and tell him I was done pouting, no more pouting, ever, and let him lift the sheets and get into my bed. Now, no sooner had I heard the sound of the whetstone amid the cicadas than I knew I’d either wake up or go on sleeping, and both were good, dreaming or sleeping, one and the same, I’d take either or both.

下午三四点，我意识到我正在享受睡眠，而不只是在睡梦中寻求庇护。睡眠中的睡眠，就像梦中梦，还有什么更好的？一种得以接近与纯粹幸福同样精致的情绪控制住我。这天一定是星期三，想。这天也确实是星期三，因为磨刀机正式开张，开始磨家里每一片刀刃，一旁的玛法尔达总会跟他聊天，在他用磨刀石磨刀时，替他拿着一杯柠檬汁。机械在午后三四点的热气中发出啪啪啪与嘶嘶嘶的刺耳摩擦声，将幸福的声波送进我卧房来。我一直无法对自己承认，奥利弗把我那颗桃子吞下去那天，他让我多么快乐。当然我很感动，但我也觉得受宠若惊，仿佛他的举动已经表明：我身上的每个细胞都相信，你身上的每个细胞都不该，永远不该死。如果非死不可，请让它死在我体内吧。通往阳台的那扇门半开着，他从外面拉开门门走进来（那天我们没什么交谈的意愿）；他没问能不能进来。我该怎么办？难道要说不准他进来？就是此时，我举起双臂迎接他，告诉他我气消了，而且再也不生气，绝对不会，让他掀开被单爬上我的床。这时，我一听到夹杂着磨刀石声的蝉鸣就知道我可以醒来，或继续睡，两者都好。做梦或睡觉，都一样，我会任选一种或两种都做。

When I awoke it was nearing five o’clock. I no longer wanted to play tennis, just as I had absolutely no desire to work on the Haydn. Time for a swim, I thought. I put on my bathing suit and walked down the stairway. Vimini was sitting on the short wall next to her parents’ house.

我醒来时将近五点钟。我不想打网球，也完全没有改编海顿的欲望。该去游泳了，我想。我穿上泳裤走下楼。薇米妮坐在她父母家旁边的矮墙上。

“How come you’re going for a swim?” she asked.

“你为什么要去游泳？”

“Not today. They’re forcing me to wear this ridiculous hat if I want to stay outside. I look like a Mexican bandit.”

“今天不行。他们逼我，如果想待在外面就一定得戴这顶蠢帽子。我看起来好像墨西哥歹徒。”

“Let’s go, then.”

“那我们走吧。”

“I don’t know. I just felt like it. Want to come?”

“不知道。我就是想。要不要一起来？”

“Pancho Vimini. What will you do if I go swimming?”

“薇米妮，如果我去游泳，你要做什么？”

“I’ll watch. Unless you can help me get onto one of those rocks, then I’ll sit there, wet my feet, and keep my hat on.”

“看你游泳。除非你能扶我爬到其中一块石头上，那我就坐在那里，弄湿我的脚，戴着我的帽子。”

You never needed to ask for Vimini’s hand. It was given naturally, the way blind people automatically take your elbow. “Just don’t walk too fast,” she said.

你从来不必请薇米妮伸出手。她总会自动伸出手来，就像盲人自动扶着你的手肘那样。“只是别走太快。”她说。

We went down the stairway and when we reached the rocks I found the one she liked best and sat next to her. This was her favorite spot with Oliver. The rock was warm and I loved the way the sun felt on my skin at this time of the afternoon. “Am I glad I’m back,” I said.

我们走下楼梯。到礁石那里，我找到她最喜欢的那块石头，坐在她身边。这是她和奥利弗最喜欢的地方。这块石头很温暖，我好爱下午的太阳照在皮肤上的感觉。“真高兴我回来了。”我说。

“And?” I asked.

“所以呢？”我问。

“I may never see him again either,” I said.

“我也可能再也见不到他了。”我说。

“Well, you both left without saying goodbye.”

“就是，你们俩是不告而别的。”

“I think so. It wasn’t exactly a lie, you know.”

“我想她相信。那不算谎话。”

There was no point debating the issue.

争论这件事没有意义。

“Oh, with you, I don’t mind. But him I do. Very much.”

“噢，我不在乎你。但是我在乎他。非常在乎。”

“Why?”

“为什么？”

“You’re right, we did. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“你说的没错，我们是不告而别。我们这么做没什么特别的意思。”

“Me. Marzia. She came looking for you the other day.”

“我。玛琪雅。前几天她来找过你。”

“Ah,” I said.

“啊”我说。

“No, you still might. But I don’t know about me.”

“不，你还是可能。我可就不一定了。”

I could feel my throat tightening, so I left her on the rock and began to edge my way into the water. This was exactly what I’d predicted might happen. I’d stare at the water that evening and for a split second forget that he wasn’t here any longer, that there was no point in turning back and looking up to the balcony, where his image hadn’t quite vanished. And yet, scarcely hours ago, his body and my body… Now he had probably already had his second meal on the plane and was preparing to land at JFK. I knew that he was filled with grief when he finally kissed me one last time in one of the bathroom stalls at Fiumicino Airport and that, even if on the plane the drinks and the movie had distracted him, once alone in his room in New York, he too would be sad again, and I hated thinking of him sad, just as I knew he’d hate to see me sad in our bedroom, which had all too soon become my bedroom.

我感觉到喉咙绷紧，只好把她留在岩石上侧身往水里跳去。正如我所料。那天晚上我会盯着水看，会有那么一瞬间忘记他已经不在这里，忘记已经没有理由回头往阳台上看，尽管他的影像还没完全消失。然而，不到几小时前，他的身体和我的身体…现在他可能已经在飞机上吃过第二餐，准备降落在甘乃迪机场。我知道他在费米奇诺机场盥洗室里最后一次吻我时，充满了悲伤。尽管在飞机上，饮料和电影转移他的注意力，可是一旦只身在纽约的房间里，他也会再度感到伤心。我讨厌想到他伤心，我知道他也讨厌看我在我们的卧房里伤心，那个太快变回我房间的卧房。

“And nothing. I just felt sorry for her. I said you’d left in a great rush.”

“没什么。我只是替她感到难过。我说你走得很匆忙。”

Vimini was obviously quite pleased with her guile.

薇米妮对她的机巧显然颇为沾沾自喜。

I could tell the child was scanning my face. “I think she knows you don’t like her very much.”

我感觉到这孩子仔细观察我的脸。“我想，她知道你没有非常喜欢她。”

“Ah,” I repeated.

“啊。”我重复说。

“Did she believe you?”

“她相信你吗？”

“Why, Elio? You must forgive me for saying so, but you’ve never been very intelligent.”

“为什么，艾里奥？你必须原谅我这么说，但你从来就不是很聪明。”

“What do you mean?”

“什么意思？”

It took me a while to see where she was headed with this. Then it hit me.

我花了好一会儿才了解她这句话的意思。我恍然大悟。

“Did you have a good time in Rome?”

“你在罗马玩得开心吗？”

“We who?”

“我们指谁？”

“I told her where you went.”

“我告诉她你去哪里了。”

“We missed you.”

“我们想念你。”

I nodded.

我点头。

It was after dinner when the phone rang. Oliver had arrived safely. Yes, in New York. Yes, same apartment, same people, same noise — unfortunately the same music streaming from outside the window — you could hear it now. He put the receiver out the window and allowed us to get a flavor of the Hispanic rhythms of New York. One Hundred and Fourteenth Street, he said. Going out to a late lunch with friends. My mother and father were both talking to him from separate phones in the living room. I was on the phone in the kitchen. Here? Well, you know. The usual dinner guests. Just left. Yes, very, very hot here too. My father hoped this had been productive.

晚餐后电话铃响。奥利弗平安抵达。对，在纽约。对，同样的公寓，同样的人，同样的噪音——很不幸，同样的音乐从窗外飘进来，你现在听到了。他把听筒伸出窗外，让我们感受一下纽约西班牙韵律的风味。一百一十四街，他说。要跟朋友去吃一顿迟来的午餐。我的父母双双在客厅分别用不同的电话与他通话。我用的是厨房的电话。这里？嗯，你也知道啊。像平常一样的晚餐宾客。刚走。对，这里也非常、非常热。父亲希望这对生产力有帮助。

This? Staying with us, explained my father. Best thing in my life. If I could, I’d hop on the same plane and come with the shirt on my back, an extra bathing suit, a toothbrush. Everyone laughed. With open arms, cam. Jokes were being bandied back and forth. You know our tradition, explained my mother, you must always come back, even for a few days. Even for a few days meant for no more than a few days — but she’d meant what she said, and he knew it. “Allora ciao, Oliver, e a presto,” she said. My father more or less repeated the same words, then added, “Dunque, ti passo Elio — vi lascio.” I heard the clicks of both extension phones signal that no one else was on the line. How tactful of my father. But the all-too-sudden freedom to be alone across what seemed a time barrier froze me. Did he have a good trip? Yes. Did he hate the meal? Yes. Did he think of me? I had run out of questions and should have thought better than to keep pounding him with more. “What do you think?” was his vague answer — as if fearing someone might accidentally pick up the receiver? Vimini sends her love. Very upset. I’ll go out and buy her something tomorrow and send it by express mail. I’ll never forget Rome so long as I live. Me neither. Do you like your room? Sort of. Window facing noisy courtyard, never any sun, hardly any room for anything, didn’t know I owned so many books, bed way too small now. Wish we could start all over in that room, I said. Both leaning out the window in the evening, rubbing shoulders, as we did in Rome — every day of my life, I said. Every day of mine too. Shirt, toothbrush, score, and I’m flying over, so don’t tempt me either. I took something from your room, he said. What? You’ll never guess. What? Find out for yourself. And then I said it, not because it was what I wanted to say to him but because the silence was weighing on us, and this was the easiest thing to smuggle in during a pause — and at least I would have said it: I don’t want to lose you. We would write. I’d call from the post office — more private that way. There was talk of Christmas, of Thanksgiving even. Yes, Christmas. But his world, which until then seemed no more distant from mine than by the thickness of the skin Chiara had once picked from his shoulders, had suddenly drifted light-years away. By Christmas it might not matter. Let me hear the noise from your window one last time. I heard crackle. Let me hear the sound you made when… A faint, timid sound — on account of because there were others in the house, he said. It made us laugh. Besides, they’re waiting for me to go out with them. I wished he had never called. I had wanted to hear him say my name again. I had meant to ask him, now that we were far apart, what ever had happened between him and Chiara. I had also forgotten to ask where he’d put his red bathing suit. Probably he had forgotten and taken it away with him.

“这”指的是？跟我们一起住啊。父亲解释道。我这辈子最棒的事。如果可能，我想套件衬衫，外加一件泳裤和一支牙刷，跳上同一班飞机回去。大家都笑了。我们展开双臂欢迎，亲爱的。笑话一来一往。你知道我们家的传统，母亲解释道，你一定要常常回来，即使只待几天。“即使只待几天”的意思就只是几天——但她是真心的，奥利弗也知道。“那拜拜了，奥利弗，希望很快再见到你。”她说。父亲大致重复了相同的话，然后补上一句：“那么，我让艾里奥跟你聊喽”我听到两支电话分机挂上的咔嚓声，这表示线上没有别人了。父亲多么圆融啊。但跨越似乎是时间的障碍，太过突然地享有独处的自由，令我呆在那里。他旅途还顺利吗？顺利。餐点他讨厌吗？讨厌。他想我吗？我没有问题可问了，而且应该想出比拿更多问题轰炸他更好的方法。“你想呢？”是他含混的答案。他怕不小心有人拿起话筒？薇米妮向你问好。非常沮丧。我明天会出门替她买东西，然后用快递寄给她。只要我活着，就不会忘记罗马。我也是。你喜欢你的房间吗？还算喜欢。窗户面对嘈杂的院子，从来没有一丝阳光，几乎放不了什么东西，以前不知道我有这么多书，现在床太小了。希望我们能在那个房间重新开始，我说。一起在傍晚时探出窗外，摩擦着肩膀，就像我们在罗马时一样——一辈子天天如此，我说。我也是。带着衬衫、牙刷、乐谱，我就能飞过去，所以也别引诱我。我从你房间带走一样东西，他说。是什么？你绝对猜不到。是什么？自己找找看。然后我说了——那并非我想对他说的话，然而沉默重重压迫我们，这是停顿时刻最容易偷渡的东西。至少我说出口了：我不想失去你。我们会通信。我会从邮局打电话给你——那样比较隐秘。我们谈到圣诞节，甚至谈到感恩节。好，圣诞节。在这之前，他的世界和我的世界之间的距离，原本似乎比不上奇亚拉曾经从他肩上撕起的那块皮那么厚，然而此时他的世界却飘到数光年之外那么远，圣诞节前可能没关系。最后一次，再让我听听你窗外的噪音。我听到劈啪声。让我听听你那时发出的声…一阵模糊、胆怯的声音——因为屋里有别人，他说。我们因此笑了。朋友正在等我一起出门。我希望他没打这通电话来。原本我想再听他唤我的名字。既然我们分隔这么远，我原本想问他和奇亚拉之间究竟怎么了。我也忘了问他把红色泳裤放在哪里。或许他忘记要给我，带走了。

Someone was coming toward the rocks. I tried to think of something to dispel my sorrow and fell upon the ironic fact that the distance separating Vimini from me was exactly the same that separated me from Oliver. Seven years. In seven years, I began thinking, and suddenly felt something almost burst in my throat. I dove into the water.

有人往礁石这儿来。我试着想点什么事好驱赶我的悲伤，却想到一个讽刺的事实：我和薇米妮的差距，与我和奥利弗的正好相同。七年。差距七年，我想了又想，感觉喉咙里有东西几乎要爆裂。我潜进水里。

The first thing I did after our telephone conversation was go up to my room and see what he could possibly have taken that would remind him of me. Then I saw the unyellowed blank spot on the wall. Bless him. He had taken a framed, antique postcard of Monet’s berm dating back to 1905 or so. One of our previous American summer residents had fished it out in a flee market in Paris two years ago and had mailed it to me as a souvenir. The faded colored postcard had originally been mailed in 1914– there were a few hasty, sepia-toned scribbles in German script on the back, addressed to a doctor in England, next to which the American student had inscribed his own greetings to me in black ink — Think of me someday. The picture would remind Oliver of the morning when I first spoke out. Or of the day when we rode by the berm pretending not to notice it. Or of that day we’d decided to picnic there and had vowed not to touch each other, the better to enjoy lying in bed together the same afternoon. I wanted him to have the picture before his eyes for all time, his whole life, in front of his desk, of his bed, everywhere. Nail it everywhere you go, I thought.

通过电话之后，我先回房间看看他可能带走什么能让他想起我的东西。我看到墙上有一块未发黄的空白。愿上帝祝福他。他拿走一幅1905年前后印制，裱了框的莫奈崖径古董明信片。那是我们早先一位美国夏季住客两年前在巴黎跳蚤市场找到，当做纪念品寄给我的。褪色的明信片原本在1914年寄出——背面有仓促手写的深褐色潦草德文字迹，收件人是英国的医生，旁边有那位美国学生自己用黑色墨水写给我得问候语：有朝一日请想我。那张照片会让奥利弗想起我第一次大胆说出真心话的早上；或我们骑车经过崖径却假装没注意的那天；或我们决定在那里野餐，发誓不碰彼此，以便能更享受当日下午一起躺在床上的那天。我希望他永远把那张明信片放在他眼前，一辈子，放在他的书桌前，床前，每个地方。钉在你去的每个地方。

I had never thought of him until Oliver had lifted his picture.

直到奥利弗拿走他送的明信片为止，我从未想起他。

A while after supper, I saw my father sitting at his usual place at the breakfast table. His chair was turned out and facing the sea, and on his lap were the proofs of his latest book. He was drinking his usual chamomile tea, enjoying the night. Next to him, three large citronella candles. The mosquitoes were out with a vengeance tonight. I went downstairs to join him. This was our usual time to sit together, and I had neglected him over the past month.

吃过晚餐后一会儿，我看见父亲坐在早餐桌的老位子上。他把椅子向外翻、面海坐着，腿上放着新书的校样。他喝着惯常喝的黄春菊茶，享受夜晚。身旁放了三大根香茅蜡烛。蚊子今晚来势汹汹。我下楼跟他同坐。我们总是在这个时候一起坐坐，但过去这个月我冷落他了。

The mystery was resolved, as such things always are with me, in my sleep that night. It had never struck me until then. And yet it had been staring me in the face for two whole years. His name was Maynard. Early one afternoon, while he must have known everyone was resting, he had knocked at my window to see if I had black ink — he had run out, he said, and only used black ink, as he knew I did. He stepped in. I was wearing only a bathing suit and went to my desk and handed him the bottle. He stared at me, stood there for an awkward moment, and then took the bottle. That same evening he left the flask right outside my balcony door. Any other person would have knocked again and handed it back to me. I was fifteen then. But I wouldn’t have said no. In the course of one of our conversations I had told him about my favorite spot in the hills.

谜题在当晚的睡梦中解开，一如前例。之前我从来没意会到，然而这件事显然已经存在整整两年。那个送我明信片的人叫梅纳德。某天下午一两点，他必定知道大伙儿都去休息了，他来敲我的窗户，问我有没有黑色墨水，说他的用完了，而他只用黑色墨水，他知道我也是。他走进来，只穿一件泳裤的我走到书桌前，把墨水瓶拿给他。他盯着我看，尴尬地站了一会儿，然后接过瓶子。当天傍晚，他把墨水瓶放在我阳台门口正前方。换做其他人，应该会再度敲门，把瓶子交还给我。当时我十五岁。但我不可能拒绝。我曾经在我们某次谈话中，将山丘上最令我心仪的地方告诉他。

“Tell me about Rome,” he said as soon as he saw me ready to sit next to him. This was also the moment when he would allow himself his last smoke of the day. He put away his manuscript with something of a tired toss that suggested an eager now-we-come-to-the-good-part and proceeded to light his cigarette with a roguish gesture, using one of the citronella candles.

“告诉我罗马的事吧。”他一看我打算往他身边坐就开口说。这也是他准许自己抽当天最后一根烟的时刻。他有点厌烦似的把手稿丢到一边，表现出一股“现在咱们要进入精彩部分了”的急切感，然后继续摆出准备使坏的姿势，用其中一根香茅蜡烛点烟。

There was nothing to tell. I repeated what I’d told my mother: the hotel, the Capitol, Villa Borghese, San Clemente, restaurants.

没什么好说的。我重复我告诉母亲的话：旅馆‘卡比托’波格泽别墅、圣克雷芒教堂、餐厅。

“Eat well too?”

“吃得好吗？”

I nodded.

我点头。

“So?”

“怎么样？”

“And drank well too?”

“喝得好吗？”

“Movies? Concerts?”

“看了电影吗？去听音乐会了吗？”

Nodded again.

再点头。

“Done things your grandfather would have approved of?” I laughed. No, not this time. I told him about the incident near the Pasquino. “What an idea, to vomit in front of the talking statue!

“做了你祖父也赞同的事吗？”我笑了。不，这次不一样。我告诉他在帕斯基诺像附近发生的事。“好主意，在会说话的雕像前吐！”

It began to creep over me that he might be leading somewhere, perhaps without quite knowing it himself. I became aware of this because, as he kept asking questions remotely approaching the subject, I began to sense that I was already applying evasive maneuvers well before what was awaiting us around the corner was even visible. I spoke about the perennially dirty, run-down conditions of Rome’s piazzas. The heat, the weather, traffic, too many nuns. Such-and-such a church closed down. Debris everywhere. Seedy renovations. And I complained about the people, and the tourists, and about the minibuses loading and unloading numberless hordes bearing cameras and baseball hats.

我汗毛直竖，怕他可能在或许也不自觉的状况下，把话题导向某处。我意识到这一点，是因为在他不断提出一些旁敲侧击的问题、甚至远早于在角落等着我们的东西进入视线范围之前，我就感觉到我不断回避他的问题。我提到罗马的广场总是那么脏污破败。炎热的天气、混乱的交通、修女四处可见、某某教堂关闭。到处都是破瓦残砾。草率的修缮。我还抱怨人，抱怨旅客，抱怨让无数带照相机、戴棒球帽的人群上上下下的小公交。

We certainly did. Almost vomited there too that night.

当然有。那天晚上差点也在那儿吐了。

Another drag from his cigarette.

他又吸了一口烟。

Tiny pause.

短暂的停顿。

I guess we had failed to visit the inner, private courtyards he had told us about.

我们没能去参观他提到的私人内院。

We laughed.

我们大笑。

“Paid your respects to Giordano Bruno’s statue?” he asked.

“替我向布鲁诺④的雕像致敬了吗？”他问。【注：④乔尔丹诺·布鲁诺（Giordano Bruno，1548—1600）：意大利哲学家、天文学家、数学家、神秘主义者。其最引人瞩目的是无限宇宙与多重世界理论，是现代科学的先驱。最后以宣扬异端邪说的罪名被教皇处死。】

Now.

来了。

“Seen any of the inner, private courtyards I told you about?”

“去看了我跟你提过的私人内院？”

This was far bolder than anything I anticipated.

这比我预期的任何说法都大胆许多。

“You two had a nice friendship.”

“你们俩有美好的友谊。”

“Yes,” I replied, trying to leave my “yes” hanging in midair as though buoyed by the rise of a negative qualifier that was ultimately suppressed. I just hoped he hadn’t caught the mildly hostile, evasive, seemingly fatigued Yes, and so? in my voice.

“对。”我回答，试着让我的“对”悬在空中，仿佛受到暂时窜出头但终究会被制伏的反方预赛优胜者所鼓动似的。我只希望他还没听出我声音里的些微敌意、回避和似乎很疲倦的“对，所以呢？”

I also hoped, though, that he’d seize the opportunity of the unstated Yes, and so? in my answer to chide me, as he so often did, for being harsh or indifferent or way too critical of people who had every reason to consider themselves my friends. He might then add his usual bromide about how rare good friendships were and that, even if people proved difficult to be with after a while, still, most meant well and each had something good to impart. No man is an island, can’t shut yourself away from others, people need people, blah, blah.

但我也希望他能听出我答案里没说出口的“对，所以呢”，抓住这个机会骂我一顿，就像他常常因为我对绝对有理由自认是我的朋友的人，表现出严厉、冷漠或过于挑剔的态度，而训斥我一样。接着他或许还加上一段陈词滥调，说什么友谊多么难得，还有即使经过一段时间证明不好相处的人，多数还是保持善意，而且人人都有优点可以分享。没有人是孤岛，不能自绝于他人之外，人是需要人的，哇啦哇啦。

“Oliver may be very intelligent –,” I began. Once again, the disingenuous rise in intonation announced a damning but hanging invisibly between us. Anything not to let my father lead me any further down this road.

“奥利弗或许非常聪明…”我那不老实地提高了的声调，再度昭告我们之间有一个该死的问题无形地悬在那里。现在什么都好，只求父亲别再引我走这条路。

My father had never spoken of goodness this way before. It disarmed me.

父亲从来没有这样形容过善良。我因此卸除武装。

“I think he was better than me, Papa.”

“我想他人比我善良，爸爸。

I was thinking, instead, of Emily Brontë’s words: because “he’s more myself than I am.”

但我想的却是艾米莉·勃朗特⑦的话：因为“他比我更像我自己”【注：⑦艾米莉·勃朗特（Emily Hront，1818— 1848）：英国小说家、诗人。】

“Intelligent? He was more than intelligent. What you two had had everything and nothing to do with intelligence. He was good, and you were both lucky to have found each other, because you too are good.”

“聪明？他不只是聪明而已。你们俩之间拥有的一切都跟聪明有关，也都无关。他很善良，你们俩都很幸运能找到彼此，因为你也很善良。”

But I had guessed wrong.

但我猜错了。

“Oliver was Oliver,” I said, as if that summed things up.

“奥利弗是奥利弗。”我好像在做结论似地说。

He was about to tap his cigarette and, in leaning toward the ashtray, he reached out and touched my hand.

他往烟灰缸倾身，点了点烟头，伸手碰我的手。

“You’re too smart not to know how rare, how special, what you two had was.”

“你太聪明，不可能不了解你们之间所拥有的情谊，是多么稀有、多么特别。”

“Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi,” my father added, quoting Montaigne’s all-encompassing explanation for his friendship with Etienne de la Boetie.

“因为是他，因为是我。（Parce que c’ é tait lui，parce que c’é tait moi。）”父亲引用的，是蒙田⑤针对他与博埃蒂⑥之间的友谊所下的断语。【注：⑤蒙田{Michel Eyquem de Montaigne，1533—1592}：法国文艺复兴时期作家，以其随笔闻名。⑥博埃蒂（Etienne de Boétie）：法国法官、政治哲学家、作家，为蒙田好友。】

“I am sure he’d say the same about you, which natters the two of you.”

“我想他对你也有同样的评价，这使你们俩相得益彰。”

“What lies ahead is going to be very difficult,” he started to say, altering his voice. His tone said: We don’t have to speak about it, but let’s not pretend we don’t know what I’m saying.

“接下来这段时间很艰难。”他改变声音开始说。他的语气告诉我：我们不必讲出来，不过咱们也别假装听不懂我说什么。

“Look,” he interrupted. “You had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. And I envy you. In my place, most parents would hope the whole thing goes away, or pray that their sons land on their feet soon enough. But I am not such a parent. In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!”

他打断我：“听着，你有一段美好的友谊。或许超越友谊。我羡慕你。就我的立场来说，许多父母会希望整件事就此烟消云散，或祈求儿子很快重新站起来。但我不是这样的父母。就你的立场来说，如果有痛苦，就去照料；如果有火焰，也不要掐熄，不要粗暴地对待它。让我们夜不成眠得退缩可能很糟，但眼见别人在我们愿意被遗忘以前先忘了我们，也好不到哪里去。为了用不合理的快速度治愈问题，我们从自己身上剥夺了太多东西，以致不到三十岁就已经破产。每次重新开始一段感情，能付出的东西就变得更少。为了不要有感觉而不去感觉，多么浪费啊！”

Speaking abstractly was the only way to speak the truth to him.

用抽象的方式说，是对他吐实的唯一方式。

“Fear not. It will come. At least I hope it does. And when you least expect it. Nature has cunning ways of finding our weakest spot. Just remember: I am here. Right now you may not want to feel anything. Perhaps you never wished to feel anything. And perhaps it’s not with me that you’ll want to speak about these things. But feel something you did.”

“别害怕。事情总会来的。至少我希望如此。而且是在你最意想不到的时候，自有它狡诈的办法，找出我们最脆弱的地方。只是要记得：我在这里。现在你可能不想去感受什么。或许你从来不希望去感受什么。或许我也不是你想讲这些事的对象。不过请你要去感受你所感受的。”

I looked at him. This was the moment when I should lie and tell him he was totally off course. I was about to.

我看着他。这时候我应该说谎，告诉他，他完全搞错了。我正打算这么做。

I couldn’t begin to take all this in. I was dumbstruck.

我张口结舌，很难接受这一切。

“Have I spoken out of turn?” he asked.

“我僭越了？”他问。

“Then let me say one more thing. It will clear the air. I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then there are all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”

“那再让我讲一件事。这么做能够扫除我们之间的芥蒂。我或许曾经很接近，却从来没拥有过你所拥有的。总是有什么东西制止或阻挠我。你怎么过日子是你的事。可是切记，我们的心、灵和身体是绝无仅有的。许多人活得好像自己有两个人生可活，一个是模型，另一个是成品，甚至有介于两者之间的各种版本。但你只有一个人生，而在你终于领悟之前，你的心已经疲倦了。至于你的身体，总有一天没有人要再看它，更没有人愿意接近。现在的我觉得很遗憾。我不羡慕痛苦本身。但我羡慕你会痛。”

I shook my head.

我摇摇头。

“We may never speak about this again. But I hope you’ll never hold it against me that we did. I will have been a terrible father if, one day, you’d want to speak to me and felt that the door was shut or not sufficiently open.”

“我们可能再也不会谈这件事，但我希望你不要因为今晚而对我有成见。如果有一天，你想对我说话，却觉得门是关上的，或者不够敞开，那我将是一个糟糕的父亲。”

He took a breath.

他抽了一口气。

Was my father someone else? And if he was someone else, who was I?

我的父亲是另一个人吗？如果他是另一个人，我是谁？

I wanted to ask him how he knew. But then how could he not have known? How could anyone not have known? “Does Mother know?” I asked. I was going to say suspect but corrected myself. “I don’t think she does.” His voice meant, But even if she did, I am sure her attitude would be no different than mine.

我想问他是怎么知道的。但他怎么可能不知道？怎么可能有人不知道？“母亲知道吗？”我问。我本来要用“起疑”这个字眼。“我想她不知道。”他的声音好像在说：即使她知道，我相信她的态度应该与我无异。

We said good night. On my way upstairs I vowed to ask him about his life. We’d all heard about his women when he was young, but I’d never even had an inkling of anything else.

我们互道晚安。上楼时我发誓有一天一定要问有关他人生的事。我们都听过他年轻时交往的几个女人，对其他事情却一无所知。

Oliver kept his promise. He came back just before Christmas and stayed till New Year’s. At first he was totally jet-lagged. He needs time, I thought. But so did I.

奥利弗信守承诺。就在圣诞之前，他回来了，并一直待到新年。起初他因为时差的关系累得不得了。他需要时间，我想。但我也是。

He whiled away the hours with my parents mostly, then with Vimini, who was overjoyed to feel that nothing had changed between them. I was starting to fear we’d slip back to our early days when, but for patio pleasantries, avoidance and indifference were the norm. Why had his phone calls not prepared me for this? Was I the one responsible for the new tenor of our friendship? Had my parents said something? Had he come back for me? Or for them, for the house, to get away? He had come back for his book, which had already been published in England, in France, in Germany, and was finally due to come out in Italy. It was an elegant volume, and we were all very happy for him, including the bookseller in B., who promised a book party the following summer. “Maybe. We’ll see,” said Oliver after we’d stopped there on our bikes. The ice cream vendor was closed for the season. As were the flower shop and the pharmacy where we’d stopped on leaving the berm that very first time when he showed me how badly he’d scraped himself. They all belonged to a lifetime ago. The town felt empty, the sky was gray. One night he had a long talk with my father. In all likelihood they were discussing me, or my plans for college, or last summer, or his new book. When they opened the door, I heard laughter in the hallway downstairs, my mother kissing him. A while later there was a knock at my bedroom door, not the French windows — that entrance was to remain permanently shut, then. “Want to talk?” I was already in bed. He had a sweater on and seemed dressed to go out for a walk. He sat on the edge of my bed, looking as uneasy as I must have seemed the first time when this room used to be his. “I might be getting married this spring,” he said. I was dumbfounded. “But you never said anything.”

他和我父母一起消磨许多时间，然后是薇米妮——她因为觉得两人的关系完全没改变而狂喜不已。我则害怕我们会不知不觉重新陷入早期的状况，除了在院子里讲些客套话之外，回避和冷漠才是常态。他的电话怎么没让我为此做好心理准备？我是那个该为我们友谊转向负责的人吗？我的父母说了什么吗？他是为了我才回来的吗？或者是为了他们？为了这栋房子？为了离开？他是为了他的书回来的。他的书已经在英国、法国、德国出版，现在总算要在意大利推出。那是一本简洁的书，我们都为他高兴，包括B城的书店老板，他答应明年夏天要为奥利弗办一场发表会。“或许吧，再看看。”我们骑脚踏车路过停留时，奥利弗对老板说。这个季节，冰淇淋小贩不营业。我们第一次离开崖径（就是他给我看他的擦伤多么严重那次）那时曾经逗留的花店和药房也一样。那些都属于一辈子以前的事了。这个城市感觉很空洞，太空是灰的。有一晚他和父亲长谈。他们很可能在谈我，或我上大学的前景，或过去这个夏天，或他的新书。他们打开门的时候，我听到楼下过道有笑声传来，母亲吻了他。过了一会儿，有人敲我卧房的门，而不是落地窗——那么，那个入口就要永远封闭了。“想谈谈吗？”我已经在床上。他穿了一件长袖运动衫，像要出门散步的打扮。他坐在我的床缘，看来紧张的程度铁定不下于第一次、在这个房间还属于他时的我。“今年春天我可能会结婚。”他说。我惊讶得说不出话。“可是你从来没提过。”

“Well, it’s been on and off for more than two years.”

“嗯，已经断断续续两年多了。”

“I think it’s wonderful news,” I said. People getting married was always wonderful news, I was happy for them, marriages were good, and the broad smile on my face was genuine enough, even if it occurred to me a while later that such news couldn’t possibly bode well for us. Did I mind? he asked. “You’re being silly,” I said. Long silence. “Will you be getting in bed now?” I asked. He looked at me gingerly. “For a short while. But I don’t want to do anything.” It sounded like an updated and far more polished version of Later, maybe. So we were back to that, were we? I had an impulse to mimic him but held back. He lay beside me on top of the blanket with his sweater on. All he had taken off was his loafers. “How long do you think this will go on?” he asked wryly. “Not long, I hope.” He kissed me on the mouth, but it wasn’t the kiss after the Pasquino, when he’d pressed me hard against the wall on via Santa Maria dell’Anima. I recognized the taste instantly. I’d never realized how much I liked it or how long I’d missed it. One more item to log on that checklist of things I’d miss before losing him for good. I was about to get out from under the blankets. “I can’t do this,” he said, and sprang away. “I can,” I replied. “Yes, but I can’t.” I must have had iced razor blades in my eyes, for he suddenly realized how angry I was. “I’d love nothing better than to take your clothes off and at the very least hold you. But I can’t.” I put my arms around his head and held it. “Then maybe you shouldn’t stay. They know about us.”

“我觉得这是天大的好消息。”我说。有人结婚总是天大的好消息，我为他们高兴，结婚很好，我脸上灿烂的笑容也够真实，即使不久之后我明白，这个消息对我们来说绝不是个好预兆。我介意吗？他问。“别傻了。”我说。漫长的沉默。“你现在要到床上来吗？”我问。他小心翼翼看着我。“一下子。不过我什么都不想做。”这句话听起来像是修饰过的更为有礼的“回头再说，或许吧。”所以我们又回到原来的状态了？我有一种模仿他的冲动，却克制住了。他穿着长袖运动衫，躺在我身边的毛毯上。除了懒人鞋，什么都没脱。“你想这会持续多久？”他挖苦问道。“不久吧，我希望。”他吻我的嘴，但不像在帕斯基诺像后面用力把我压在灵魂圣母教堂路边墙上的那种吻。我立刻认出那种味道。我从来没察觉我多喜欢或想念这个味道多久了。在我永远失去他之前，为我的难忘事物清单再多留下一笔记录。我正要钻出毛毯，他突然说：“我不能这么做。”然后弹开。“我可以。”我回答。“对，但是我不能。”我的眼神必定冰冷如刀，因为他突然明白我多愤怒。“我最想做的是脱掉你的衣服，至少抱抱你。可是我不能。”我伸出手臂环抱他的头。“那你或许不该留下来。他们知道我们的事。”

“I figured,” he said. “How?”

“我猜到了。”他说。“怎么猜到的？”

The exact same thing had occurred almost a year, to the day, before. Pavel, Maynard’s successor, had come to visit that Christmas and on looking over the files had strongly recommended one from Chicago — in fact, he knew him very well. Pavel and everyone else in the room felt quite tepid about a young postdoc teaching at Columbia who specialized in, of all things, the pre-Socratics. I had taken longer than needed to look at his picture and was relieved to notice that I felt nothing.

将近一年前，也发生过一模一样的事。梅纳德的后继者帕维尔在圣诞节来访，看过档案之后，他强烈推荐一位出身芝加哥的学者——事实上，他们很熟。帕维尔和房里其他人都对一位在哥伦比亚大学执教，（什么不好研究）竟然专供先苏学派⑧的年轻博士后研究员感到兴趣缺缺。我花了过久的时间看他的照片，然后因为自己没感觉而松了一口气。【注：⑧先苏格拉底学派（pre—Socratics）：指未受苏格拉底（Socrates，469—399B.C。）影响的早期希腊哲学家。这样的分类方法可以上溯至亚里士多德（Aristotle，384—322B.C。），他认为苏格拉底特别强调人道主义以及伦理问题，可视为哲学史的转折点。相对地，先苏哲学家比较强调自然哲学和宇宙论，而非伦理学。】

“By the way your father spoke. You’re lucky. My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility.” I looked at him: I want one more kiss.

“从你父亲的讲话方式。你很幸运。要是我爸爸，一定送我去管教所。”我看着他：我还想要一个吻。

One small thing did occur that week. We were sitting in the living room after lunch having coffee when my father brought out a large manila folder in which were stacked six applications accompanied with the passport photo of each applicant. Next summer’s candidates. My father wanted Oliver’s opinion, then passed around the folder to my mother, me, and another professor who had stopped by for lunch with his wife, also a university colleague who had come for the same reason the year before. “My successor,” said Oliver, picking one application above the rest and passing it around. My father instinctively darted a glance in my direction, then immediately withdrew it.

但那星期确实发生了一件小事。午餐过后我们坐在客厅里喝咖啡，这时父亲拿出一个牛皮纸大文件夹，里面塞了六份申请书，还有每位申请者的大头照。明年夏天的候选人。父亲想听听奥利弗的意见，接着他把文件夹传给母亲、我和一位偕妻子同来午餐的教授暨大学同僚——他去年也曾为相同的理由来过。“我的后继者。”奥利弗边说边挑出一位优于其他人的申请者传给大家看。父亲本能地朝我这儿飞快瞥了一眼，然后立刻收回他的目光。

By the next morning, things became officially chilly.

次日早上，情况正式变得冷淡。

I should, could, have seized him.

我本来应该、或许可以，抓住他的。

“Is this how I was selected?” he asked with a sort of earnest, awkward candor, which my mother always found disarming.

“我就是这样被选上的吗？”他带着一种诚恳笨拙的率直问道，那种坦率总是能解除母亲的心防。

In thinking back now, I couldn’t be more certain that everything between us had started in this very room during Christmas break.

现在回想起来，我完全确定，我们之间的一切，早在圣诞假期那时，已经在这个房间里开始。

“I wanted it to be you,” I told Oliver later that evening when I helped him load his things in the car minutes before Manfredi drove him to the station. “I made sure they picked you.”

“当时我希望是你。”后来那天傍晚，在曼弗雷迪载他去车站前几分钟，我帮他把东西装上车，告诉他：“是我让他们选你的。”

That night I riffled through my father’s cabinet and found the file containing last year’s applicants. I found his picture. Open shirt collar, Billowy, long hair, the dash of a movie star unwillingly snapped by a paparazzo. No wonder I’d stared at it. I wished I could remember what I’d felt on that afternoon exactly a year ago — that burst of desire followed by its instant antidote, fear. The real Oliver, and each successive Oliver wearing a different-colored bathing suit every day, or the Oliver who lay naked in bed, or who leaned on the window ledge of our hotel in Rome, stood in the way of the troubled and confused image I had drawn of him on first seeing his snapshot.

那晚，我快速浏览父亲的柜子，找出装有去年申请书的档案夹口我找到他的照片。敞开的衣领、大波浪衬衫、长发、带着一点电影明星不情愿被狗仔拍照的架势。怪不得我会盯着这张照片看。但要我记得整整一年前的那个下午我有什么感觉——满溢的欲望旋即带来欲望的解毒剂：恐惧。真正的奥利弗，和一个接一个、每天穿着不同颜色泳裤的奥利弗，或赤裸躺在床上的奥利弗，或斜倚在罗马旅馆窗台前的奥利弗——阻挡在我第一次看见他的快照时，为他描绘的那个烦恼、困惑的形象前。

I wonder now who that someone else is today. Is he happier? Couldn’t I dip into his life for a few hours, a few days, and see for myself — not just to test if this other life is better, or to measure how our lives couldn’t be further apart because of Oliver, but also to consider what I would say to this other me were I to pay him a short visit one day. Would I like him, would he like me, would either of us understand why the other became who he is, would either be surprised to learn that each of us had in fact run into an Oliver of one sort or another, man or woman, and that we were very possibly, regardless of who came to stay with us that summer, one and the same person still?

我想知道那另一个人如今变成谁。他比较快乐吗？我能否沾染他的生活几小时、几天，自己体验看看？测试一下另一种人生是否比较好，衡量我们的人生如何因为奥利弗而分隔得远得不能再远。如果有一天我有机会匆匆见上他一面，我会对这另一个我说什么？我会喜欢他吗？他会喜欢我吗？他或我能了解对方为什么变成现在这个样子吗？他或我会惊讶得知，事实上我们都分别遇见这样、那样、或男、或女的奥利弗吗？而且不管那年夏天谁来跟我们同住，我们非常可能仍然是同一个人？

I looked at the faces of the other applicants. This one wasn’t so bad. I began to wonder what turn my life would have taken had someone else shown up instead. I wouldn’t have gone to Rome. But I might have gone elsewhere. Wouldn’t have known the first thing about San Clemente. But I might have discovered something else which I’d missed out on and might never know about. Wouldn’t have changed, would never be who I am today, would have become someone else.

我看着其他申请者的脸。这个还不坏。我猜想换做其他人来，我的人生会有什么转变。我大概就不去罗马了。但我可能去其他地方。我可能对圣克雷芒一无所知。我可能发现其他我错过并永远不知道的东西。可能不会改变，可能永远不会成为今天的我，可能成为另一个人。

I remembered that conversation. It too was imprinted on the photo of his face. So he’s Jewish too, I thought.

我记得那段对话。那段话也铭刻在他的大头照上。所以他也是犹太人，我想。

It was my mother, who hated Pavel and would have forced my father to turn down anyone Pavel recommended, who finally twisted the arm of fate. We may be Jews of discretion, she’d said, but this Pavel is an anti-Semite and I won’t have another anti-Semite in my house.

是母亲憎恶帕维尔，并可能迫使父亲拒绝帕维尔推荐的任何人选，而改变了命运。我们或许是谨慎的犹太人，她说，但这个帕维尔是反犹太主义者，我不准再有任何反犹太主义者踏进我们家。

And then I did what I’d been meaning to do all along that night in my father’s study. I pretended not to know who this chap Oliver was. This was last Christmas. Pavel was still trying to persuade us to host his friend. Summer hadn’t happened yet. Oliver would probably arrive by cab. I’d carry his luggage, show him to his room, take him to the beach by way of the stairway down to the rocks, and then, time allowing, show him around the property as far back as the old railway stop and say something about the gypsies living in the abandoned train cars bearing the insignia of the royal House of Savoy. Weeks later, if we had time, we might take a bike ride to B. We’d stop for refreshments. I’d show him the bookstore. Then I’d show him Monet’s berm. None of it had happened yet.

接着，我在父亲的书房里做了当晚我一直想做的事。我假装不知道这个叫奥利弗的家伙是谁。这是去年圣诞的事。帕维尔仍在努力说服我们接待他的朋友。夏天尚未到来。奥利弗会搭出租车来。我会帮他拿行李，带他去他的房间，领着他走下通往礁石的阶梯到海边。如果时间够，我会带他四处参观我们家远至火车站的地产，然后说说住在悬挂萨伏伊王室标志的废弃火车里的吉普赛人。几周以后，如果我们有时间，我们可能骑脚踏车到B城。我们会停下来吃点心。我会向他介绍那家书店。接着我会带他去莫奈的崖径。一切都还没发生。

We heard of his wedding the following summer. We sent gifts and I included a little mot. The summer came and went. I was often tempted to tell him about his “successor” and embroider all manner of stories about my new neighbor down the balcony. But I never sent him anything. The only letter I did send the year after was to tell him that Vimini had died. He wrote to all of us saying how sorry he was. He was traveling in Asia, so that by the time his letter reached us, his reaction to Vimini’s death, rather than soothe an open sore, seemed to graze one that had healed on its own. Writing to him about her was like crossing the last footbridge between us, especially after it became clear we weren’t ever going to mention what had once existed between us, or, for that matter, that we weren’t even mentioning it. Writing had also been my way of telling him what college I was attending in the States, in case my father, who kept an active correspondence with all of our previous residents, hadn’t already told him. Ironically, Oliver wrote back to my address in Italy — another reason for the delay.

第二年夏天，我们听说他结婚的消息，寄了礼物过去，我在里面加了一小句警语。夏天来了又去。我常常想告诉他有关他的“后继者”的事，并渲染各种与我共用一个阳台的新邻居的故事。但我什么也没寄给他。我一年后真正寄的唯一一封信，是为了通知他薇米妮的死讯。他写信告诉我们他多么遗憾。当时他在亚洲旅行，所以信寄到的时候，他对薇米妮过世的反应与其说是舒缓了裸露的伤口，更像是轻轻擦破已经愈合的伤口。写信给他谈薇米妮，仿佛通过我们之间最后一座步桥，尤其在我们显然永不再提我们之间的过往以后，或者，因此，我们甚至连提都没提。如果积极跟所有过往住客通信的父亲还没告诉他，我也会写信跟他说我打算上美国的哪一家大学。讽刺的是，奥利弗把回信寄到我在意大利的住址；这是另一个延误的原因。

One summer, nine years after his last letter, I received a phone call in the States from my parents. “You’ll never guess who is staying with us for two days. In your old bedroom. And standing right in front of me now.” I had already guessed, of course, but pretended I couldn’t. “The fact that you refuse to say you’ve already guessed says a great deal,” my father said with a snicker before saying goodbye. There was a tussle between my parents over who was to hand their phone over. Finally his voice came through. “Elio,” he said. I could hear my parents and the voices of children in the background. No one could say my name that way. “Elio,” I repeated, to say it was I speaking but also to spark our old game and show I’d forgotten nothing. “It’s Oliver,” he said. He had forgotten.

有一年夏天收到他最后一封信之后九年，我在美国接到父母来电。“你一定猜不到谁来我们家住两天。就住在你的旧卧房，而且现在就站在我面前。”我当然早就猜到，却假装猜不出来。“你拒绝说你已经猜到，其实已经透露许多事实。”道别前，父亲窃笑着说，接着父母争论谁该把电话交出来。总算传来他的声音。“艾里奥。”他说。我听见父母和背景中有小孩的声音。没有人会这样唤我的名字。“艾里奥。”我重复，意思是我在听，也为了启动我们过去的游戏，证明我什么都没忘。“我是奥利弗。”他说。他已经忘了。

Then came the blank years. If I were to punctuate my life with the people whose bed I shared, and if these could be divided in two categories — those before and those after Oliver — then the greatest gift life could bestow on me was to move this divider forward in time. Many helped me part life into Before X and After X segments, many brought joy and sorrow, many threw my life off course, while others made no difference whatsoever, so that Oliver, who for so long had loomed like a fulcrum on the scale of life, eventually acquired successors who either eclipsed him or reduced him to an early signpost, a minor fork in the road, a small, fiery Mercury on a voyage out to Pluto and beyond. Fancy this, I might say: at the time I knew Oliver, I still hadn’t met so-and-so. Yet life without so-and-so was simply unthinkable.

接着是空白的几年。如果我用床伴来为我的人生加上标点，如果这些人可以分为“奥利弗之前”与“奥利弗之后”两类，那么人生所能赐给我的最大礼物，便是将这个分隔标记的时间往前挪了。许多人帮我把人生区分为某人之前与某人之后的段落，许多人带来欢喜和忧伤，许多人迫使我的人生偏离了原来的轨道，其他人则没有造成任何不同，因此长期如天平支点隐约出现的奥利弗，最后得到许多后继者。这些人或让他失色，或将他降格为早期的一座里程碑，像是一条不重要的岔路，或是前往冥王星等更远的旅程途中一颗火热的小水星。想不到吧！我可能会说：认识奥利弗的时候，我还没跟某某邂逅呢。但人生少了某某，根本无法想象。

Four years later, while passing through his college town, I did the unusual. I decided to show up. I sat in his afternoon lecture hall and, after class, as he was putting away his books and packing loose sheets into a folder, I walked up to him. I wasn’t going to make him guess who I was, but I wasn’t going to make it easy either.

四年后，经过他所在的大学城，我做了不寻常的事。我决定露面。我坐在他下午授课的讲堂里，下课后，趁他收拾书本，把散置的纸张收回档案夹时，我向他走去。我不会要他猜我是谁，却也不打算让他好过。

“They showed me pictures, you haven’t changed,” he said. He spoke about his two boys who were right now playing in the living room with my mother, eight and six, I should meet his wife, I am so happy to be here, you have no idea, no idea. It’s the most beautiful spot in the world, I said, pretending to infer that he was happy because of the place. You can’t understand how happy I am to be here. His words were breaking up, he passed the phone back to my mother, who, before turning to me, was still speaking to him with endearing words. “Ma s’è tutto commosso, he’s all choked up,” she finally said to me. “I wish I could be with you all,” I responded, getting all worked up myself over someone I had almost entirely stopped thinking about. Time makes us sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it is because of time that we suffer.

“他们给我看照片，你没变哪。”他说。他谈起他两个儿子，分别是八岁和六岁，此刻正跟我的母亲在客厅里玩。说我应该见见他的妻子，说他很高兴又回来。你不了解，不会了解。那是世界上最美的地方，我说，假装以为他是因为场所感到快乐。你无法了解我到这里来有多快乐。因为讯号的关系，他的话断断续续。他把电话交还给母亲，母亲跟我讲话之前，仍亲切地对他说话。“他感动得说不出话来了呢。”她总算对我说。“但愿我跟你们大家在一起。”我回答，为了一个几乎不再想起的人激动不已。时间让我们变得多愁善感。或许，到头来，令我们受苦的是时间。

“Look,” he added, “come for a drink, come for dinner, tonight, now, meet my wife, my boys. Please, please, please.”

他又说：“来喝一杯吧。来我家吃晚餐，今晚。见见我太太我儿子。拜托，拜托，拜托。”

“Fifteen it is. Just look at you!

“十五年了。看看你！”

There was a student who wanted to ask him a question. So I waited my turn. The student eventually left. “You probably don’t remember me,” I began, as he squinted somewhat, trying to place me. He was suddenly distant, as if stricken by the fear that we had met in a place he didn’t care to remember. He put on a tentative, ironic, questioning look, an uncomfortable, puckered smile, as if rehearsing something like, I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for somebody else. Then he paused. “Good God — Elio!” It was my beard that had thrown him off, he said. He embraced me, and then patted my furry face several times as if I were younger than I’d even been that summer so long ago. He hugged me the way he couldn’t bring himself to do on the night when he stepped into my room to tell me he was getting married. “How many years has it been?”

有一个学生想问他问题，所以我在旁等候，好不容易那学生总算离开了。“你或许不记得我了。”他略微眯着眼猜想我是谁时，我开口说。他突然变冷淡，仿佛害怕我们是在他不愿想起的地方认识的。他端起踌躇、讥讽、质疑的表情，还有一抹不自在不安的微笑，仿佛预演一场“恐怕你认错人”的戏。接着他停顿了一下。“老天爷—艾里奥！”是我的络腮胡让他困惑，他说。他拥抱我，拍了我毛茸茸的脸几下，仿佛我的年纪甚至比多年前那个夏天还小。他拥抱我的方式，是他走进我的房间，告诉我他快要结婚那一晚所做不出来的。“多少年了？”

“Fifteen. I counted them on my way here.” Then I added: “Actually, that’s not true. I’ve always known.”

“十五年。昨晚我来这儿的路上算的。”接着我补充说：“不是真的啦。我一直都知道。”

I had heard people say this in the movies. They seemed to believe it.

我在电影里听过这种话。那些角色信以为真。

“You don’t understand. I’d love to. But I can’t.”

“你不了解。我很乐意。可是我没办法。”

“You never did forgive me, did you?”

“你一直没有真的原谅我，对不对？”

How was I ever going to explain to him, or to myself, why I couldn’t go to his home and meet his family, though every part of me was dying to? Oliver wife. Oliver sons. Oliver pets. Oliver study, desk, books, world, life. What had I expected? A hug, a handshake, a perfunctory hail-fellow-well-met, and then the unavoidable Later!?

我要如何对他或对自己解释，为什么尽管分分寸寸的我都渴望去他家、拜访他的家人，却做不到？奥利弗的妻。奥利弗的子。奥利弗的宠物。奥利弗的书房、书桌、书、世界、生活。我期待些什么？一个拥抱，一个握手，一个马马虎虎的“欢迎老兄，幸会”，然后是那句无可避免的“回头再说”？

He looked at me as he was still putting away his papers in the leather bag.

他继续把纸张收进皮制袋子里，一边看着我。

“Forgive? There was nothing to forgive. If anything, I’m grateful for everything. I remember good things only.”

“原谅？没什么好原谅的。如果有什么，那就是我对一切都很感恩。我只记得好的部分。”

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“那是为什么？”他问。

The “can’t” did not mean I wasn’t free to visit him but that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“没办法”不是说我没空拜访他，而是我做不到。

“I have to drop something in my office, and off we go. It’s a lovely walk along to the parking lot.”

“我得去办公室放东西，然后我们就走。到停车场这段路很漂亮。”

We were leaving his classroom and stepped into the commons where one of those long, languorous autumnal sunsets on the East Coast threw luminous shades of orange over the adjoining hills.

我们离开教室，走进公共餐厅，从那儿看得见东岸秋季漫长慵懒的日落在临近山丘上投射出一道橘色的光。

“I’d love to –“

“我很乐意…”

Or was it that I was jealous of his family, of the life he’d made for himself, of the things I never shared and couldn’t possibly have known about? Things he had longed for, loved, and lost, and whose loss had crushed him, but whose presence in his life, when he had them, I wasn’t there to witness and wouldn’t know the first thing about. I wasn’t there when he’d acquired them, wasn’t there when he’d given them up. Or was it much, much simpler? I had come to see if I felt something, if something was still alive. The trouble was I didn’t want anything to be alive either.

或者我是嫉妒他的家庭，嫉妒他为自己成就的人生，嫉妒那些我从未分享也不可能了解的事物。他渴望过、爱过、失去过的东西，失去这些东西曾经打垮他，但这些东西出现在他的生命中、当他拥有这些东西的时候，我并未在场见证，也一无所知。他获得这些东西的时候我不在场，他放弃这些东西的时候我也缺席。或者其实更简单？我是来看我对他还有没有感觉，是否仍怀着什么情感？问题是，我也不希望还有任何东西继续存在。

The very possibility of meeting his family suddenly alarmed me — too real, too sudden, too in-my-face, not rehearsed enough. Over the years I’d lodged him in the permanent past, my pluperfect lover, put him on ice, stuffed him with memories and mothballs like a hunted ornament confabulating with the ghost of all my evenings. I’d dust him off from time to time and then put him back on the mantelpiece. He no longer belonged to earth or to life. All I was likely to discover at this point wasn’t just how distant were the paths we’d taken, it was the measure of loss that was going to strike me — a loss I didn’t mind thinking about in abstract terms but which would hurt when stared at in the face, the way nostalgia hurts long after we’ve stopped thinking of things we’ve lost and may never have cared for.

会见他家人的可能性，让我提高警觉。太真实，太突然，太咄咄逼人了，演练还不够。过去几年来，我一直把他放在永恒的过去，视他为我过去完成式的情人、悬在夜晚暗影里的兽首标本，将他冰存，以回忆和樟脑丸填满他。我偶尔把他拿出来掸掸灰尘，再放回壁炉架上。他不再属于尘世或生活。此时我发现，不只是我们选择的路相距多远，还有即将打击我的失落有多大，无非是这些东西而已。我不介意用抽象词语去思考这些失落的东西，但被正眼盯着瞧却令人心痛。在我们停止想念已经失去、或许可能也从不在乎的事物很久很久以后，怀旧之情仍然令人心痛。

All these years, whenever I thought of him, I’d think either of B. or of our last days in Rome, the whole thing leading up to two scenes: the balcony with its attendant agonies and via Santa Maria dell’Anima, where he’d pushed me against the old wall and kissed me and in the end let me put one leg around his. Every time I go back to Rome, I go back to that one spot. It is still alive for me, still resounds with something totally present, as though a heart stolen from a tale by Poe still throbbed under the ancient slate pavement to remind me that, here, I had finally encountered the life that was right for me but had failed to have. I could never think of him in New England. When I lived in New England for a while and was separated from him by no more than fifty miles, I continued to imagine him as stuck in Italy somewhere, unreal and spectral. The places where he’d lived also felt inanimate, and as soon as I tried thinking of them, they too would float and drift away, no less unreal and spectral. Now, it turned out, not only were New England towns very much alive, but so was he. I could easily have thrust myself on him years ago, married or unmarried — unless it was I who, despite all appearances, had all along been unreal and spectral myself.

这些年来，每次想到他，我就想起B城，或我们在罗马的最后几天。一切都导向两个场景：附带痛苦的阳台、灵魂圣母教堂路：那个他用力把我压在古墙上亲吻，让我缠着他的腿的地方。每次回罗马，我都会回到那里。对我来说，过去还活着，仍然回响着完全属于当下的声音，仿佛从爱伦·坡故事里窃取出来的心脏仍在古老的石板路下跳动，提醒我，我在新英格兰住过一段时间，与他距离不过五十里路，却继续想象他困在意大利某处，不真实而有如幽灵一般。他住过的地方也同样令人感到单调乏味。每次我一去想这些地方，这些地方也会立刻浮动、漂离，同样不真实而如梦似幻。然而，结果看起来，不仅新英格兰的城镇生气勃勃，连他也是。多年前，无论他结婚与否，我都能轻易把自己赖给他——除非，抛开表象，其实我自己才是那个不真实而有如幻影的人。

Or had I come with a far more menial purpose? To find him living alone, waiting for me, craving to be taken back to B.? Yes, both our lives on the same artificial respirator, waiting for that time when we’d finally meet and scale our way back to the Piave memorial.

或者我是抱着更为卑鄙的目的而来？为了发现他独居，等着我，渴望我带他回B城？是啊，我们俩装着同一副人工呼吸器的人生正等待我们终于相遇、重登皮亚韦纪念碑的时刻。

And then it came out of me: “The truth is I’m not sure I can feel nothing. And if I am to meet your family, I would prefer not to feel anything.” Followed by a dramatic silence. “Perhaps it never went away.”

接着我这么说：“真相是，我不确定我能够毫无所感。如果我要见你的家人，我宁可不要有任何感觉比较好。”接着是突如其来的沉默。“或许事情一直没有过去。”

“So,” I repeated, as though referring to the capricious aches and sorrows of a fussy third party who happened to be me.

“所以。”我重复道，仿佛谈一个爱小题大做的第三者那反复无常的痛苦和悲哀，只是这个第三者恰巧是我。

Was I speaking the truth? Or was the moment, tense and delicate as it was, making me say things I’d never quite admitted to myself and could still not wager were entirely true? “I don’t think it went away,” I repeated.

我说的是实话吗？或者因为当时紧张棘手的气氛，让我说出我从来不会对自己承认，也仍然无法保证全然是事实的话？“我认为事情还没过去。”我重复道。

“So,” he said. His so was the only word that could sum up my uncertainties. But perhaps he had also meant So? as though to question what could possibly have been so shocking about still wanting him after so many years.

“所以。”他说。他的“所以”，是唯一能为我的不确定下总结的词语。但或许他也有“所以呢”的意思，仿佛质疑经过这么多年仍然想要他，有什么好震惊的。

I had altogether forgotten his word.

我完全忘了他的口头禅。

“So, that’s why I can’t come over for drinks.”

“所以，这是我不能去你家喝一杯的理由。”

“So, that’s why you can’t come over for drinks?”

“所以，这是你不能来我家喝一杯的理由？”

“I want to show you something,” he said. His office had a large leather sofa. Oliver sofa, I thought. So this is where he sits and reads. Papers were strewn about the sofa and on the floor, except for the corner seat, which was under an alabaster lamp. Oliver lamp. I remembered sheets lining the floor in his room in B. “Recognize it?” he asked. On the wall was a framed colored reproduction of a poorly preserved fresco of a bearded Mithraic figure. Each of us had bought one on the morning of our visit to San Clemente. I hadn’t seen mine in ages. Next to it on the wall was a framed postcard of Monet’s berm. I recognized it immediately.

“我想给你看一样东西。”他说。他办公室里有张皮质大沙发。奥利弗的沙发。所以，这里是他坐下来读书的地方。文件散落沙发各处、地板上，只有条纹大理石台灯下角落的座位除外。奥利弗的台灯我记起在B城时，他把床单铺在地板上的样子。“记得吗？”他问。墙上挂着保存不佳的彩色复制裱框画，是留胡须的密特拉像湿壁画。去圣克雷芒教堂的那个早上，我们各自买了一幅。我已经好久没看过我那一幅。旁边的墙上有一张裱框的莫奈崖径。我立刻认出来。

We reached his office. He introduced me to two or three colleagues who happened to be in the department, surprising me with his total familiarity with every aspect of my career. He knew everything, had kept abreast of the most insignificant details. In some cases, he must have dug out information about me that could only be obtained by surfing the Web. It moved me. I’d assumed he’d totally forgotten me.

我们抵达他的办公室。他把我介绍给两三位刚好在系上的同事，他对我了如指掌，令我意外。他什么都知道，对于最近、最微不足道的细节都了解。从某些事情看来，他一定挖掘过一些上网搜寻才找得到的消息。这一点令我感动。我曾经想当然地认为他完全忘记我了。

“What a goose!”

“真是个呆头鹅！”

“It used to be mine, but you’ve owned it far, far longer than I have.” We belonged to each other, but had lived so far apart that we belonged to others now. Squatters, and only squatters, were the true claimants to our lives.

“这本来是我的，但你拥有它的时间远远超过我。”我们曾经彼此相属，但因为距离如此遥远，如今已经属于其他人了。对于我们的生命，唯有擅自占用者才是真正的债权人。

“It has a long history,” I said.

“关于这张明信片，说来话长。”我说。

He looked at me. I knew he was thinking of that night during Christmas break, and he knew I knew it. “So I’m forgiven.”

他看着我。我知道他在想圣诞假期的那一晚，他也知道我明白。“所以你已经原谅我了。”

“Your predecessor,” I said to tease him. “No, nothing like that. Whom will you give it to one day?”

“你的前辈。”我这么取笑他。“不，不是那回事。未来你会把它交给谁？”

“I had hoped one day to let one of my sons bring it in person when he comes for his residency. I’ve already added my inscription — but you can’t see it. Are you staying in town?” he asked to change the subject as he was putting on his raincoat.

“我曾经希望哪天我其中一个儿子来实习的时侯，让他亲自来拿。我加上我的题字了，但你不能看。你会在这里逗留吗？”他边穿雨衣，边改变话题间道。

“I know. When I had it refrained I saw the inscriptions on the back, which is why you can also read the back of the card now. I’ve often thought about this Maynard guy. Think of me someday.”

“我知道。我拿去重新裱框时看过背面的题字，所以现在你也看得到明信片背后的字。我常常想起这个叫梅纳德的家伙。有朝一日请想我。”

“Yes. For one night. I’m seeing some people at the university tomorrow morning, then I’m off.”

“会，停留一晚。我明天早上在大学跟人有约，然后我就离开了。”

He pressed his lips in muted apology.

他抿着嘴无声地道歉。

I felt his discomfort.

我感觉到他的不安。

“Let’s have a drink at my hotel.”

“来我的旅馆喝一杯吧。”

“I said a drink, not a fuck.”

“我是说喝一杯，不是说上个床。”

He looked at me and literally blushed. I was staring at him. He was amazingly handsome still, no loss of hair, no fat, still jogged every morning, he said, skin still as smooth as then. Only a few sunspots on his hands. Sunspots, I thought, and I couldn’t put the thought away. “What are these?” I asked, pointing at his hand and then touching it. “I have them all over.” Sunspots. They broke my heart, and I wanted to kiss each and every one away. “Too much sun in my salad days. Besides, it shouldn’t be so surprising. I’m getting on. In three years, my elder son will be as old as you were then — in fact, he’s closer to the person you were when we were together than you are to the Elio I knew then. Talk about uncanny.”

他看着我，满脸通红。我盯着他看。他仍然帅得不得了，头发没变少，也没有赘肉，每天早上还是会慢跑，他说。皮肤仍像当年一样光滑。只是手上有些雀斑。雀斑，我想着，无法摆脱这个念头。“这是什么？”我指着他的手，碰了一下。“我全身都有这个。”雀斑。雀斑让我心碎，我想吻去每一颗雀斑。“我年轻时晒太多太阳。此外，也没什么好惊讶的。我已经上了年纪。再过三年，我的大儿子就跟你当年一样大了。要说怪的话，老实说，比起现在的你，他更像我们在一起那时我所认识的艾里奥。”

Is that what you call it, when we were together? I thought.

你是这么称呼那段日子的吗？我们在一起那时？

In the bar of the old New England hotel, we found a quiet spot overlooking the river and a large flower garden that was very much in bloom that month. We ordered two martinis — Sapphire gin, he specified — and sat close together in the horseshoe-shaped booth, like two husbands who are forced to sit uncomfortably close while their wives are in the powder room.

我们在老旧的新英格兰旅馆酒吧里找到安静的位置，那儿俯瞰河水，看得见花朵盛开的大花园。我们点了两杯马丁尼（他特别指定蓝宝石琴酒），紧挨着坐在马蹄形雅座上，像两个因为妻子去化妆室而被迫局促地坐在一起的丈夫。

“So what you’re really saying is you’ll come only when you think you’ll be too old to care. When my kids have left. Or when I’m a grandfather. I can just see us — and on that evening, we’ll sit together and drink a strong eau-de-vie, like the grappa your father used to serve at night sometimes.”

“所以你真正的意思是，只有等你老得没办法在乎了才会来。等我的孩子离开。或等我已经当了祖父？我仿佛能够想见未来的那个晚上，我们会坐在一起，喝浓烈的白兰地，就像你父亲在晚上偶尔端出来的格拉巴酒。”

“In another eight years, I’ll be forty-seven and you forty. Five years from then, I’ll be fifty-two and you forty-five. Will you come for dinner then?”

“再过八年，我四十七岁，你四十岁。之后再过五年，我五十二岁，你四十五岁。到时候你会来吃晚餐吗？”

“Yes. I promise.”

“会，我保证。”

“And like the old men who sat around the piazzetta facing the Piave memorial, we’ll speak about two young men who found much happiness for a few weeks and lived the remainder of their lives dipping cotton swabs into that bowl of happiness, fearing they’d use it up, without daring to drink more than a thimbleful on ritual anniversaries.” But this thing that almost never was still beckons, I wanted to tell him. They can never undo it, never unwrite it, never unlive it, or relive it — it’s just stuck there like a vision of fireflies on a summer field toward evening that keeps saying, You could have had this instead. But going back is false. Moving ahead is false. Looking the other way is false. Trying to redress all that is false turns out to be just as false.

“我们会像小广场上那些面对皮亚韦纪念碑而坐的老人，谈起两个年轻人过了几周快乐的日子，然后在往后的人生里，将小棉花棒浸人那一碗快乐，生怕用完；每逢周年纪念也只敢喝像顶针那么大的一小杯。”但这件几乎未曾发生的事仍然召唤我。我想告诉他。未来的那两人永远无法取消、永远无法删除、永远无法抹灭或重新经历这段过去——过去就困在过去，像夏日黄昏将近时原野上的萤火虫，不断在说：“你原本能够拥有这个替代物。”但回头是错。向前是错。看别处是错。努力矫正所有的错，结果同样是错。

Their life is like a garbled echo buried for all time in a sealed Mithraic chamber.

他们的人生像扭曲的回音，永远埋藏在封闭的密特拉神殿里。

“I think we should have another.”

“我觉得我们应该再来一杯。”

Silence.

沉默。

“And on that evening when we grow older still we’ll speak about these two young men as though they were two strangers we met on the train and whom we admire and want to help along. And we’ll want to call it envy, because to call it regret would break our hearts.”

“在我们更老了以后的那个晚上，我们仍然要谈论这两个年轻人，仿佛他们是与我们在火车上邂逅，令我们佩服而想要帮助的陌生人。之所以羡慕，是因为‘遗憾’这字眼令我们心碎。”

“God, the way they envied us from across the dinner table that first night in Rome,” he said. “Staring at us, the young, the old, men, women — every single one of them at that dinner table — gaping at us, because we were so happy.

“天哪，在罗马的第一夜，晚餐时坐我们对面的人是多么羡慕我们啊。晚餐桌上的每个人，无论男、女、老、少，始终目瞪口呆盯着我们瞧，因为我们是那么快乐。”

Silence again.

再度沉默。

“Perhaps I am not yet ready to speak of them as strangers,” I said.

“或许我还没做好把他们说成陌生人的准备。”我说。

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think either of us ever will be.”

“如果这么说会让你觉得好过一点，我想你我永远都不可能准备好的。”

He conceded even before putting up a weak argument about getting back home.

他连要回家的微弱理由都还来不及提出，就让步了。

We got the preliminaries out of the way. His life, my life, what did he do, what did I do, what’s good, what’s bad. Where did he hope to be, where did I. We avoided my parents. I assumed he knew. By not asking he told me that he did.

我们把客套话摆到一边。他的人生，我的人生，他做过什么，我做过什么，好事，坏事。他想去哪里，我想去哪里。我们避谈我的父母。我假定他知道。他没问，暗示我他知道。

“Your best moment?” he finally interrupted.

“你最美好的时光是？”他总算插话道。

An hour.

一个小时。

“The first night is the one I remember best — perhaps because I fumbled so much. But also Rome. There is a spot on via Santa Maria dell’Anima that I revisit every time I’m in Rome. I’ll stare at it for a second, and suddenly it’ll all come back to me. I had just thrown up that night and on the way back to the bar you kissed me. People kept walking by but I didn’t care, nor did you. That kiss is still imprinted there, thank goodness. It’s all I have from you. This and your shirt.”

“第一夜是我最记忆深刻的，或许因为我实在太笨拙了。但罗马也很棒。灵魂圣母教堂路上有个地方，我每次到罗马都会再去。我会凝视那儿片刻，然后一切就回来了。那天晚上我刚吐过，在回酒吧的路上你吻了我。人来人往，但我不在乎，你也是。那个吻仍然在那里，谢天谢地。那个吻和你的衬衫，是我从你那里得到的一切。”

I thought awhile.

我想了一会儿。

“And you,” I asked, “what moment?”

“你呢？是什么时候？”

He remembered.

他回忆着。

“Rome too. Singing together till dawn on Piazza Navona.”

“也是在罗马的时候。在拿佛纳广场唱歌唱到天亮。”

I had totally forgotten. It wasn’t just a Neapolitan song we ended up singing that night. A group of young Dutchmen had taken out their guitars and were singing one Beatles song after the other, and everyone by the main fountain had joined in, and so did we. Even Dante showed up again and he too sang along in his warped English. “Did they serenade us, or am I making it up?”

我完全忘了。结果那晚我们不光是唱了一首那不勒斯歌谣。一群年轻荷兰人拿出吉他，披头士的歌一首接一首唱，主喷泉旁的人一一加入，我们也是。甚至连但丁都再度出现，用他的破英文跟着唱。“他们曾经为我们唱小夜曲吗？或者那是我的幻想？”

“Because. Just answer.”

“因为…你回答就是了。”

He looked at me in bewilderment.

他困惑地看着我。

“Can I ask you a question?”

“我可以问你一个问题吗？”

He smiled. It was obviously my turn to ask the same question, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. This was my favorite Oliver: the one who thought exactly like me.

他微笑。显然轮到我问相同的问题，但我不想让他难堪。这是我最喜欢的奥利弗：想法与我如出一辙的他。

I looked at him. “Why are you asking?”

我看着他。“为什么这么问？”

“Would you start again if you could?”

“如果可以，你愿意重新开始吗？”

“I’m glad I came too.”

“我也很高兴我来了。”

He looked at me. “Am I glad you came.”

他看着我。“你来，我好高兴啊。”

“Would I start again if I could? In a second. But I’ve had two of these, and I’m about to order a third.”

“如果可以，我愿意重新开始吗？立刻。开始我已经喝两杯这个了，我想再点第三杯。”

Why was this suddenly making me nervous? “Shoot.”

为什么这话让我紧张？“说吧。”

“They serenaded you — and you were drunk out of your mind. In the end you borrowed the guitar from one of them and you started playing, and then, out of nowhere, singing. Gaping, they all were. All the druggies of the world listening like sheep to Handel. One of the Dutch girls had lost it. You wanted to bring her to the hotel. She wanted to come too. What a night. We ended up sitting in the emptied terrace of a closed caffè behind the piazza, just you and I and the girl, watching dawn, each of us slumped on a chair.”

“他们是为你唱小夜曲。你那时酩酊大醉，还向其中一个人借了吉他开始弹，接着突然唱起歌来。他们都傻眼了。全世界的赌鬼都像绵羊一样乖乖听亨德尔。其中一个荷兰女孩情绪失控。你想带她去旅馆。她也想来。多么精彩的一夜。最后我们坐在广场后方一家打了烊、空荡荡的咖啡馆平台上看破晓，就只有你、我跟那个女孩，我们通通累瘫在椅子上。”

“Seeing you here is like waking from a twenty-year coma. You look around you and you find that your wife has left you, your children, whose childhood you totally missed out on, are grown men, some are married, your parents have died long ago, you have no friends, and that tiny face staring at you through goggles belongs to none other than your grandson, who’s been brought along to welcome Gramps from his long sleep. Your face in the mirror is as white as Rip Van Winkle’s. But here’s the catch: you’re still twenty years younger than those gathered around you, which is why I can be twenty-four in a second — I am twenty-four. And if you pushed the parable a few years further up, I could wake up and be younger than my elder son.”

“在这儿看见你，就像昏迷二十年后醒来。你看看四周，发现老婆已经离开你，你完全错过孩子的童年，他们已经长大成人，有些已经结婚了。你的父母早已离世，你没有朋友，那些透过眼镜看你的小脸蛋是你如假包换的孙子，他们一起来欢迎爷爷从长眠中苏醒。你镜中的脸像瑞普⑨一样苍白。可是陷阱就在这里：你仍然比聚在你身边的人年轻二十岁，只是我能够立刻变成二十四岁的原因­——我二十四岁。如果你把这个寓言推前个几年，我醒来时可能比我的大儿子还年轻。”【注：⑨瑞普（Rip Van Winkle）：美国文学之父华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving，1783—1859），短篇小说《瑞普·几·温克尔》（Rip Van Winkle）的主角。故事中，瑞普上山遇到背酒桶的怪老头，他趁机偷喝一口酒，结果昏睡二十年，醒来已人事全非。】

“What does this say about the life you’ve lived, then?”

“那么，这赋予你活过的人生什么样的意义？”

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the truth, maybe I didn’t want things to turn abstract, but I felt I should say it, because this was the moment to say it, because it suddenly dawned on me that this was why I had come, to tell him “You are the only person I’d like to say goodbye to when I die, because only then will this thing I call my life make any sense. And if I should hear that you died, my life as I know it, the me who is speaking with you now, will cease to exist. Sometimes I have this awful picture of waking up in our house in B. and, looking out to the sea, hearing the news from the waves themselves, He died last night. We missed out on so much. It was a coma. Tomorrow I go back to my coma, and you to yours. Pardon, I didn’t mean to offend — I am sure yours is no coma.”

或许是酒精，或许是真相，或许我不想把事情变抽象，总之我觉得我必须说出来，因为现在正是说这句话的时候。因为我明白这是我来这儿的原因，为了告诉他：“在我死去的时候，你是我唯一想要道别的人。唯有那时，我称之为‘我的人生’的这个东西才有意义。万一我听到你过世的信息，我所知道的我的人生，还有那个此刻正在跟你说话的我，将不存在。有时候我脑海中会出现这样可怕的画面：我在我们B城的家醒来，朝海的方向看，听到波浪传来你已在前一晚过世的消息。我们错过许多。那都是昏迷状态。明天我回到我的昏迷状态，你也回到你的昏迷状态。对不起，我无意冒犯—我相信你的人生不能说是昏迷状态。”

“Part of it — just part of it — was a coma, but I prefer to call it a parallel life. It sounds better. Problem is that most of us have — live, that is — more than two parallel lives.”

“一部分，只有一部分是昏迷状态，但我宁可称之为平行的人生。听起来好一点。问题是许多人的人生都有多于两个的平行人生。”

“No, a parallel life.”

“对，是平行的人生。”

On a whim, I asked him if he’d ever read a novel by Thomas Hardy called The Well-Beloved. No, he hadn’t. About a man who falls in love with a woman who, years after leaving him, dies. He visits her house and ends up meeting her daughter, with whom he falls in love, and after losing her as well, many years later, runs into her daughter, with whom he falls in love. “Do these things die out on their own or do some things need generations and lifetimes to sort themselves out?”

我一时兴起，问他是否读过哈代⑩名为《至爱》的小说。没有，他没读过。是关于一个男人爱上一个女人，这个女人离开他多年以后，死了。男人造访女人家，邂逅了她的女儿，爱上她。在同样失去她之后，过了许多年，又巧遇她的女儿，爱上她。“这些事会自已消逝，或需要几个世代、几辈子才能理出头绪？”【注：⑩哈代（Thomas Hardy，1840—1928）：英国小说家、诗人。】

Maybe every other sorrow I’d known in life suddenly decided to converge on this very one. I had to fight it off. And if he didn’t see, it’s probably because he himself was not immune to it.

或许我这一生所知道的其他每一份哀伤，突然间都决定与此合而为一。我必须予以击退。如果他没看见，或许是因为他并未免疫。

“I wouldn’t want one of my sons in your bed, any more than I’d like yours, if you were to have one, in my son’s.”

“我可不希望我儿子跟你上床，也同样不乐意见你儿子（如果你有儿子的话）在我儿子床上。”

We chuckled. “I wonder about our fathers, though.”

我们咯咯咯地笑了起来。“我倒是好奇我们的父亲怎么想。”

He thought for a while, then smiled.

他想了一会儿，然后微笑。

“What I don’t want is to receive a letter from your son with the bad news: And by the way, enclosed please find a framed postcard my father asked me to return to you. Nor do I want to answer with something like: You can come whenever you please, I am sure he would have wanted you to stay in his room. Promise me it won’t happen.”

“我不想收到你儿子捎信来报告坏消息：‘对了，随信附上的裱框明信片是家父要我交还给你的’。我也不想回这样的话：‘你随时可以来，我相信他会希望你住在他的房间’。答应我，不要让这种事发生。”

“Suppose I did.”

“就当我去过了吧。”

I thought for a while.

我想了一会儿。

“Let me guess: If not later, when?”

“我猜猜看：回头不做，更待何时？”

“Cor cordium, heart of hearts, I’ve never said anything truer in my life to anyone.” I stared at him.

“Cor cordium，真心。这是我这一生对任何人说过最真实的话。”我凝视他。

“It was going to be a surprise.”

“那是打算给你惊喜用的。”

“Suppose you came for dinner.”

“来吃晚餐吧。”

“What did you write on the back of the postcard?”

“你在明信片后面写了什么？”

I was going to walk him outside the hotel lobby and then stand and watch him go. Any moment now we were going to say goodbye. Suddenly part of my life was going to be taken away from me now and would never be given back.

我打算陪他走到旅馆大厅外，然后站在那里目送他离开。我们随时就要道别。突然间，我生命的一部分就要被带走，再也不会归还。

Outside, the night was settling fast. I liked the peace and the silence of the countryside, with its fading alpenglow and darkling view of the river. Oliver country, I thought. The mottled lights from across the other bank beamed on the water, reminding me of Van Gogh’s Starlight Over the Rhone. Very autumnal, very beginning of school year, very Indian summer, and as always at Indian summer twilight, that lingering mix of unfinished summer business and unfinished homework and always the illusion of summer months ahead, which wears itself out no sooner than the sun has set.

天黑得很快。我喜欢乡间的平和与宁静，逐渐黯淡的晚霞，黑暗笼罩河流的景致。奥利弗的乡间。对岸斑斑点点的灯光照在水面上，让我想起凡·高那幅《罗恩河星光灿烂的夜空》。非常秋天，非常新学年，非常秋老虎，而就像秋老虎的黄昏一向如此，夏天未竟的工作，未完成的作业，夏天永远还剩几个月的幻觉，全混在一起，一脸徘徊，却在太阳一下山就自己消磨殆尽。

“Just two words.”

“只有两个字。”

It was good we were in a public place.

幸好我们在公共场所。

“Suppose I walk you to your car,” I said.

“我送你去开车吧。”我说。

“Promise.”

“我答应你。”

“I’m too old for surprises. Besides, surprises always come with a sharp edge that is meant to hurt. I don’t want to be hurt — not by you. Tell me.”

“我已经，老得不适合惊喜了。况且，惊喜总是伴随着刻意伤人的利刃。我不想被伤害—不想被你伤害。告诉我吧。”

“We should go.” He reached for his raincoat, which was folded next to his seat, and began to make motions of standing up.

“我们该走了。”他伸手拿折好放在座位旁的雨衣，作势要站起来。

“Two words, I said. Besides, that would be cruel.”

“两个字，我说了。况且，那太残忍了。”

“I give up.”

“我放弃。”

Then I thought of the drive back, late at night, along the starlit river to this rickety antique New England hotel on a shoreline that I hoped would remind us both of the bay of B., and of Van Gogh’s starry nights, and of the night I joined him on the rock and kissed him on the neck, and of the last night when we walked together on the coast road, sensing we’d run out of last-minute miracles to put off his leaving. I imagined being in his car asking myself, Who knows, would I want to, would he want to, perhaps a nightcap at the bar would decide, knowing that, all through dinner that evening, he and I would be worrying about the same exact thing, hoping it might happen, praying it might not, perhaps a nightcap would decide — I could just read it on his face as I pictured him looking away while uncorking a bottle of wine or while changing the music, because he too would catch the thought racing through my mind and want me to know he was debating the exact same thing, because, as he’d pour the wine for his wife, for me, for himself, it would finally dawn on us both that he was more me than I had ever been myself, because when he became me and I became him in bed so many years ago, he was and would forever remain, long after every forked road in life had done its work, my brother, my friend, my father, my son, my husband, my lover, myself. In the weeks we’d been thrown together that summer, our lives had scarcely touched, but we had crossed to the other bank, where time stops and heaven reaches down to earth and gives us that ration of what is from birth divinely ours. We looked the other way. We spoke about everything but. But we’ve always known, and not saying anything now confirmed it all the more. We had found the stars, you and I. And this is given once only.

接着我想起深夜开车回程途中，沿着星光照耀的河流，来到这间位于海岸线上摇摇欲坠的古旧新英格兰旅馆。我希望这条海岸线让我们俩都想起B城的海湾，想起凡·高的星夜，想起我到岩石上与他作伴、吻他脖子的那一夜。还有最后一晚，我们一起走在岸边，感觉我们已经用尽在最后关头延迟他离开的魔法。我想象我在他的车里问自己，天晓得，我是否想要、他是否想要；或许在酒吧里喝一杯睡前酒就能决定。明明知道那一晚整顿晚餐吃下来，他和我担心的恰是同一件事：希望事情发生，祈祷事情不发生。或许一杯睡前酒就能决定。我想象他拔去酒瓶瓶塞或换音乐时撇开眼的样子，光凭他的表情我就揣摩得出来，因为他同样也了解飞掠过我心头的想法，并且希望我知道他也为同一件事挣扎。当他为他的妻子、为我、为他自己倒酒，我们俩终究会明白，他比任何时候的我都更像我自己，因为多年前在床上，他成为我、我成为他之后，在每条人生的岔路完成任务许久之后，他是、也将永远是我的兄弟、我的朋友、我的父亲、我的儿子、我的丈夫、我的恋人和我自己。在那年夏天巧遇的几周，我们的人生几乎未受影响，却跨越到时间静止、天堂降临人间的彼岸，得到从降生以来神注定要赐给我们的那一份。我们别开眼。除了这件事，我们无所不谈。但我们始终知道，现在什么都不说更确认了这一点。我们已经找到星星，你和我。而这是绝无仅有的一次恩赐。

I tried to picture his happy family, boys immersed in homework, or lumbering back from late practice, surly, ill-tempered thumping with muddied boots, every cliché racing through my mind. This is the man whose house I stayed in when I lived in Italy, he’d say, followed by grumpy harrumphs from two adolescents who couldn’t be bothered by the man from Italy or the house in Italy, but who’d reel in shock if told, Oh, and by the way, this man who was almost your age back then and who spent most of his days quietly transcribing The Seven Last Words of Christ each morning would sneak into my room at night and we’d fuck our brains out. So shake hands and be nice.

我试着想象他的幸福家庭：两个男孩认真写功课，或在黄昏球队练习之后踏着沉重的步伐回来，当然，还有沾满泥巴的靴子蹬蹬蹬火爆的走路声，一个个陈腔滥调飞速掠过我心头。当年我在意大利，就是住在这个人家里，他会这么说；对意大利人或意大利房子毫无兴趣的两个少年会发出无礼的清喉咙声，但如果这么说肯定让他们傻眼：喔，对了，这个人当时跟你们差不多大，大部分的时间，他白天都静静地改编《邓稣临终七言》，晚上却偷偷溜进我房间，我们操到脑汁都流出来了。所以，跟他握握手，好好招待人家。

“Old room,” he confirmed, even though we’d arranged everything by e-mail already.

“老房间。”他确认，尽管我们已经通过电子邮件安排好一切。

I wasn’t eager to go upstairs with him and was relieved to see Manfredi and Mafalda shuffle out of the kitchen to greet him as soon as they’d heard his taxi. Their giddy hugs and kisses defused some of the uneasiness I knew I’d feel as soon as he’d settled down in our house. I wanted their overexcited welcome to last well into the first hour of his stay. Anything to prevent us from sitting face-to-face over coffee and finally speaking the unavoidable two words: twenty years.

我不急着跟他上楼，看见玛法尔达和曼弗雷迪一听到他搭出租车抵达，就从厨房里拖着脚步走出来欢迎他，我松了一口气。他们轻挑的拥抱和吻，卸除了一些我知道一旦他在我家住下来我会有的不自在。我希望他们过度兴奋的欢迎能持续到他在这里的第一个钟头。什么都好，只求能避免我们面对面坐下来喝咖啡，终于说出无可避免的那四个字：二十年了。

Last summer he finally did come back. It was for an overnight visit, on his way from Rome to Menton. He arrived by cab down the tree-lined driveway, where the car stopped more or less where it had stopped twenty years before. He sprang out with his laptop, a huge athletic duffel bag, and a large gift-wrapped box, obviously a present. “For your mother,” he said when he caught my glance. “Better tell her what’s in it,” I said as soon as I helped put his things down in the foyer. “She suspects everyone.” He understood. It saddened him.

去年夏天他总算真的回来了。他从罗马要去门顿，途中路经来访。他搭出租车顺林荫车道而来，车子停在和二十年前差不多的地方。他带着笔记本电脑、一只运动粗呢大提袋和一个用缎带包装显然是礼物的大盒子跳出来。“这是送你母亲的。”他察觉我的眼光时说道。“最好告诉她里面装了什么。”我帮他把东西放在门厅后立刻说：“她怀疑每个人。”他了解。这事令他感伤。

“Old room it is, then.”

“那么就住老房间吧。”

“Old room?” I asked.

“老房间？”我问。

Instead, we’d leave his things in the foyer and hope Manfredi would bring them upstairs while Oliver and I took a quick walk around the house. “I’m sure you’re dying to see,” I’d say, meaning the garden, the balustrade, and the view of the sea. We’d work our way behind the pool, back into the living room where the old piano stood next to the French windows, and finally we would return to the foyer and find that his things had indeed already been carried upstairs. Part of me might want him to realize that nothing had changed since he’d been here last, that the orle of paradise was still there, and that the tilting gate to the beach still squeaked, that the world was exactly as he’d left it, minus Vimini, Anchise, and my father. This was the welcoming gesture I meant to extend. But another part of me wanted him to sense there was no point trying to catch up now — we’d traveled and been through too much without each other for there to be any common ground between us. Perhaps I wanted him to feel the sting of loss, and grieve. But in the end, and by way of compromise, perhaps, I decided that the easiest way was to show I’d forgotten none of it. I made a motion to take him to the empty lot that remained as scorched and fallow as when I’d shown it to him two decades before. I had barely finished my offer –“Been there, done that,” he replied. It was his way of telling me he hadn’t forgotten either. “Maybe you’d prefer to make a quick stop at the bank.” He burst out laughing. “I’ll bet you they never closed my account.”

我们把他的东西留在门厅，希望曼弗雷迪趁奥利弗和我很快绕屋子一圈时，把东西搬上楼。“我相信你一定急着想看吧。”我会这么说，指的是花园、栏杆、海景。好不容易走到游泳池后面，回到落地窗边放着旧钢琴的客厅，最后回到门厅，发现他的东西真的拿上楼了。我可能希望他明白，自从他上次来过之后，一切都没有改变，天堂的门阶依然在那儿，通往海边那扇歪斜的门依旧吱嘎作响，世界仍和他离开时一模一样，只是少了薇米妮、安喀斯和父亲。这是我想摆出来的欢迎姿势。但我也希望他了解现在没必要叙旧。我们在少了彼此陪伴的状况下走过、也经历太多，彼此没有任何共有的基础。或许我希望他感觉到失去和悲伤的刺痛。但到头来，或许经由妥协，我断定最简单的办法是表示我什么都没忘。我提议带他去那块仍然和二十年前带他去时一样酷热、一样正在休耕的空地。我还没说完，他抢白道：“去过了，已完成。”那是他告诉我他也没忘的方式。“或许你宁可赶快去一趟银行。”他爆笑出来。“我敢跟你打赌，他们一直没关掉我的户头。”

Did he not remember Billowy, or was he too modest, too cautious, to show he knew exactly what I was referring to? He resumed staring into the offing.

他不记得大波浪衬衫了吗？或者他太谦虚、太谨慎，以致不想表现出他完全知道我在说什么？他再度凝视远处的海面。

“I’ve kept yours too,” he immediately added, to reassure me, though vaguely, not knowing whether this was something I wanted to hear.

“我也留着你的。”为了让我安心，他立刻补充说，虽然含混，而且不知道这是不是我想听的话。

It was my turn. “I have all of yours too. And something else as well. Which I may show you. Later.”

轮到我。“我也保留你所有的信。其他东西也是。我可以拿给你看，回头再说。”

“Then one day she stopped writing. And I knew. I just knew. I’ve kept all her letters, you know.”

“然后有一天她不再写，我就知道了。我就是知道。我把她的信全留着。”

He was staring at their spot. I remembered how they’d hold hands and scamper together all the way down to the shore.

他看着他们的地方。我记得他们是怎么一起手牵手一路往下蹦蹦跳跳到岸边。

“I know.”

“我知道。”

“To-die-for?”

“死也要看？”

“She wrote to me every day. Every single day.”

“她每天写信给我。每一天。”

Beneath us was his rock, where he sat at night, where he and Vimini had whiled away entire afternoons together.

属于他的那块岩石在我们脚下，那是他晚上独坐，以及和薇米妮一起消磨整个下午的地方。

“She’d be thirty today,” he said.

“她如果还在，现在已经三十岁了。”他说。

I looked at him wistfully.

我若有所失地看着他。

I smiled back. He remembered our name for it.

我对他报以微笑。他记得我们给钟塔起的名字。

As we toured the patio overlooking the huge expanse of blue before us, I stood by and watched him lean on the balustrade overlooking the bay.

来到俯瞰眼前一大片海的院子，我站在旁边，看他倚着栏杆眺望海湾。

“If we have time, and if you care to, I’ll take you to the belfry. I know you’ve never been up there.”

“如果有时间，而且你愿意的话，我带你去钟塔。我知道你从来没上去过。”

“You know I am. More than I ought to be, perhaps.”

“你知道我很高兴。或许，还有点过了头呢。”

He saw through my question before I did.

他比我早看穿我的问题。

“Me too.” That said it all.

“我也是。”这话表明了一切。

“He died in my grandfather’s bedroom.”

“他是在我祖父的卧房里过世的。”

“Are you happy you’re back?”

“你回来高兴吗？”

Silence again. I was going to say My old room, but I changed my mind.

再度沉默。我本来要说“我的”旧房间，却改变心意。

“Come, I’ll show you where we buried some of my father’s ashes.”

“来，我带你看我们埋葬父亲部分骨灰的地方。”

I let him talk. It was good to see his eyes drift into the offing. Perhaps he too wanted to avoid the face-to-face.

我让他说。看他的眼光飘进遥远的海面真好。或许他也想避免正面相对。

“We lost him to cancer, poor man. I used to think he was so old. He wasn’t even fifty.”

“癌症把他从我们身边夺走，可怜人。过去我以为他很老。结果他连五十岁都不到。”

“He too loved it here — him and his grafts and his orchard.”

“他也很爱这里，我也记得他和他的嫁接法，还有果园。”

“Are you happy I’m back?” he retorted.

“我回来，你高兴了吗？”他回嘴道。

I looked at him, feeling quite disarmed, though not threatened. Like people who blush easily but aren’t ashamed of it, I knew better than to stifle this feeling, and let myself be swayed by it.

我看着他，感觉武装卸除得差不多，却没有被威胁的感觉。就像容易脸红却不引以为耻，我知道我不该压抑这种感觉，让自己受影响。

He had come on the right day. Not a cloud, not a ripple, not a stir in the wind. “I’d forgotten how much I loved this place. But this is exactly how I remember it. At noon it’s paradise.”

他来得正是时候。没有一抹云，没有一圈涟漪，没有一丝风。“我都忘掉我多爱这个地方了。但这里跟我记得的一模一样。中午的这里是天堂。”

“And Anchise?” he finally asked.

“安喀斯呢？”他总算问道。

We walked down the back stairwell into the garden where the old breakfast table used to be. “This was my father’s spot. I call it his ghost spot. My spot used to be over there, if you remember.” I pointed to where my old table used to stand by the pool.

我们从后面的楼梯间下楼，走进花园，到过去摆旧早餐桌的地方。“这是我父亲的地方。我称为父亲的幽魂流连忘返的地方。如果你记得的话，以前那边属于我。我指着泳池边那处摆我旧桌子的位置。”

“You’ll always have a spot.”

“一直都有。”

“Did I have a spot?” he asked with a half grin.

“有属于我的地方吗？”他半咧着嘴笑问。

I wanted to tell him that the pool, the garden, the house, the tennis court, the orle of paradise, the whole place, would always be his ghost spot. Instead, I pointed upstairs to the French windows of his room. Your eyes are forever there, I wanted to say, trapped in the sheer curtains, staring out from my bedroom upstairs where no one sleeps these days. When there’s a breeze and they swell and I look up from down here or stand outside on the balcony, I’ll catch myself thinking that you’re in there, staring out from your world to my world, saying, as you did on that one night when I found you on the rock, I’ve been happy here. You’re thousands of miles away but no sooner do I look at this window than I’ll think of a bathing suit, a shirt thrown on on the fly, arms resting on the banister, and you’re suddenly there, lighting up your first cigarette of the day — twenty years ago today. For as long as the house stands, this will be your ghost spot — and mine too, I wanted to say.

我想告诉他，游泳池、花园、房屋网球场、天堂的门阶、整个家，将永远容许他流连不去。然而，我没这么做，反而指了指楼上他房间的落地窗。我本来想说：你的眼睛永远在那里，困在薄窗帘里，从我楼上那间最近已经没人睡的卧房里望出来。微风吹拂窗帘飘飞的时候，我从这下面看上去，或站在阳台外、我会意识到自己以为你在里面，你正从你的世界望着我的世界，如同我发现你坐在石头上那晚一般地告诉我：我在这里很快乐。你人在数千里外，但我一看到这扇窗，就想起一件泳裤，一件匆忙披上的衬衫，倚在栏杆上的手臂，然后你突然出现，点上当天第一根烟—那是二十年前的今天。只要这幢房子还在，这都将是任你流连不去的处所—也是我的。我本来想这么说。

“I remember the way.”

“我记得路。”

“I’m like you,” he said. “I remember everything.”

“我和你一样，我什么都记得。”

Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light-years away.

二十年就像是昨天，昨天只比今天早上早一点，然而早上却似乎有几光年那么远。

“You remember the way,” I echoed.

“你记得路。”我附和他说。

“Come, I’ll take you to San Giacomo before you change your mind,” I finally said. “There is still time before lunch. Remember the way?”

最后我说：“来，在你改变主意以前，我带你去圣吉亚科莫。午餐前还有点时间。记得路吗？”

“I know he would have wanted something like this to happen, especially on such a gorgeous summer day.”

“我知道他乐见这样的事发生，尤其是在如此绚丽的夏日。”

I stopped for a second. If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.

我停顿了一会儿。我想说：如果你什么都记得，如果你真的和我一样，那么在你明天离开以前，或即将关上出租车门得瞬间，当你已经向其他每个人告别，此生已别无其他话可说，那么，就这一次，请转身面对我，即使用开玩笑的口吻，或当做事后无意间想起。当我们在一起时，这对我来说可能极为重要。就像你过去所做的那样，看着我的脸，与我四目相接，以你的名字呼唤我。

“Oh, all over. In the Hudson, the Aegean, the Dead Sea. But this is where I come to be with him.”

“喔，到处撒。哈德逊河、爱琴海、死海。但这里才是我来与他作伴的地方。”

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

他没说什么。没什么好说的。

He looked at me and smiled. It cheered me. Perhaps because I knew he was taunting me.

他看着我微笑。我感觉受到鼓舞。或许因为我知道他在逗我。

“I am sure he would have. Where did you bury the rest of his ashes?” he asked.

“我相信他会的。你把他其他的骨灰埋在哪里？”他问。

We stood there for a few seconds where my father and I had spoken of Oliver once. Now he and I were speaking of my father. Tomorrow, I’ll think back on this moment and let the ghosts of their absence maunder in the twilit hour of the day.

我们伫立片刻。我和父亲曾经在这里讨论过奥利弗。现在则是他和我谈父亲。明天，我将回想这一刻，让他们缺席的灵魂在薄暮时分游荡。