New Yorker 小说 翻译 村上春树 英文小说 the Year of Spaghetti

1971 was the Year of Spaghetti.

1971年，是意大利面年。

In 1971 I cooked spaghetti to live, and lived to cook spaghetti. Steam rising from the aluminum pot was my pride and joy, tomato sauce bubbling up in the saucepan my one great hope in life.

1971年，我煮意大利面，是为了活下去，活下去，是为了煮意大利面。铝锅中升腾的哈气，是我的骄傲和欣喜。酱锅中沸腾的番茄酱，是我生活中仅存的希望。

I’d gone to a cooking specialty store and bought a kitchen timer and a huge aluminum cooking pot, big enough to bathe a German shepherd in, then went round all the supermarkets that cater to foreigners, gathering an assortment of odd-sounding spices. I picked up a pasta cookbook at the bookstore, and bought tomatoes by the dozen. I purchased every brand of spaghetti I could lay my hands on, simmered every kind of sauce known to man. Fine particles of garlic, onion, and olive oil swirled in the air, forming a harmonious cloud that penetrated every corner of my tiny apartment, permeating the floor and ceiling and walls, my clothes, my books, my records, my tennis racket, my bundles of old letters. It was a fragrance one might have smelled on ancient Roman aqueducts.

我去食材店买了一个厨房定时器，一个巨大的蒸煮用的铝锅，大到可以容下德国牧羊犬在里面洗澡，然后逛了所有对外国人开放的超市，淘了各种稀奇古怪的香料。在商店买了一本意大利面食食谱，又买了一打西红柿。能买到的意大利面牌子，我买个遍，所有听过的酱料，我煮了个遍。空气中缭绕着大蒜，洋葱和橄榄油的混合味，充分混合的浓烟渗入小屋的每个角落，充盈着地板，天花板和墙壁的整个空间，把我的衣服，书，磁带，网球拍，几捆信包的严严实实。像古罗马下水道的芳香一样呛人。

This is a story from the Year ofSpaghetti,1971 A.D.

这就是西元1971年，意大利面年的趣事。

As a rule I cooked spaghetti, and ate it, alone. I was convinced that spaghetti was a dish best enjoyed alone. I can't really explain why I felt that way, but there it is.

我习以为常了一个人煮面，一个人吃。我甚至坚信，分享，会失了意大利面的鲜美。我也不知道为什么会有那样的执念，但，就是非常笃信。

I always drank tea with my spaghetti and ate a simple lettuce-and-cucumber salad. I’d make sure I had plenty of both. I laid everything out neatly on the table, and enjoyed a leisurely meal, glancing at the paper as I ate. From Sunday to Saturday, one Spaghetti Day followed another. And each new Sunday started a brand-new Spaghetti Week.

吃面的生活，我会就着茶，再简单拌点生菜黄瓜。相信我，凉菜和意大利面是绝配。我会把美食整齐得摆放在饭桌上，惬意的享用一餐，当然，吃的时候，也少不了翻着报纸。从周天到周六，雷打不动的，天天意大利面。仅有的新意，是每到周天，会换个牌子，然后就吃这个牌子的意大利面。

Every time I sat down to a plate of spaghetti--especially on a rainy afternoon--I had the distinct feeling that somebody was about to knock on my door. The person who I imagined was about to visit me was different each time. Sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes someone I knew. Once, it was a girl with slim legs whom I‘d dated in high school, and once it was myself, from a few years back, come to pay a visit. Another time, it was none other than William Holden, with Jennifer Jones on his arm.

William Holden?

每次坐在盛满意大利面的盘子前，尤其是飘雨的午后，我都真切的感觉到，门外有人，将要敲门。每回，都能感到，会有不同的人，即将来访。有时，像个陌生人，有时是熟人。一次，竟然想到了一个，和我在高中约会的女生，那可是个双腿修长的女生呢。有时，门外的人，像是自己，从未来穿越回来的自己，就为了来看看现在的我。还有一回，竟然像是William Holden，还有Jennifer Jones挽着他的胳膊。

William Holden?

竟然是William Holden?

Not one of these people, though, actually ventured into my apartment. They hovered just outside the door, without knocking, like fragments of memory, and then slipped away.

事实上，所有这些人，没一个敢进入我的房间。他们在门外徘徊，连门都没敲，然后，像零散的记忆，没影了。

Spring, summer, and fall, I cooked away, as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge. Like a lonely, jilted girl throwing old love letters into the fireplace, I tossed one handful of spaghetti after another into the pot.

我煮走了春，煮走了夏，煮走了秋，煮意大利就像是对时间流逝的报复。像一个孤独的，被抛弃的情人，将曾经的求爱信扔进火炉那样，我将一把把意大利面洒进锅里。

 I’d gather up the trampled-down shadows of time， knead them into the shape of a German shepherd, toss them into the roiling water, and sprinkle them with salt. Then I’d hover over the pot, oversize chopsticks in hand, until the timer dinged its plaintive tone.

若能抓住淌走的时间，我会把它捏的像只德国牧羊犬，扔进咕嘟咕嘟滚烫的沸水，然后再撒上盐。然后，颠几次煮锅，用长拐子来回拨动，直到计时器干巴得叮一声。

Spaghetti strands are a crafty bunch, and Icouldn't let them out of my sight. If I were to turn my back, they might wellslip over the edge of the pot and vanish into the night. Like the tropicaljungle waits to swallow up colorful butterflies into the eternity of time, thenight lay in silence, hoping to waylay the prodigal strands.

一缕缕的意大利面，简直是机灵鬼，得不走眼得盯着。要是转个身，它们就滑向锅沿，消失在夜空。像热带雨林，等着永恒得吞掉彩蝶那样，夜，静悄悄得，伺机带走一缕又一缕得意大利面。

Spaghetti alla parmigiana

Spaghetti alla napoletana

Spaghetti al cartoccio

Spaghetti aglio e olio

Spaghetti alla carbonara

Spaghetti della pina

And then there was the pitiful, nameless left over spaghetti carelessly tossed into the fridge.

当然，也会有些不知怎得，被剩下得意大利面，遗憾得进入了冰箱。

Born in heat, the strands of spaghetti washed down the river of 1971 and vanished.

热乎乎的，一缕缕的意大利面，被1971年的岁月之河冲走，消失了。

And I mourn them all-all the spaghetti of the year 1971.

我为它们哀悼——1971年所有的意大利面。

When the phone rang at three twenty I was sprawled out on the tatami, staring at the ceiling. A pool of winter sunlight had formed in the place where I lay. Like a dead fly I lay there, vacant, in a December 1971 spotlight.

3点20的时候，电话响了，当时，我正瘫躺咋榻榻米上，瞅天花板。我躺着的地方，正好被一片冬季暖阳照耀着。像只死苍蝇一样，我空洞的，躺在1971年12月的那片阳光下。

 At first, I didn't recognize it as the phone ringing. It was more like an unfamiliar memory that had hesitantly slipped in between the layers of air. Finally, though, it began to take shape, and, in the end, a ringing phone was unmistakably what it was. It was one hundred percent a phone ring in one-hundred-percent-real air. Still sprawled out, I reached over and picked up the receiver.

最开始，我压根没注意到电话响了。电话声响是模糊的记忆，就像是游走在外太空梦境里的东西。然后，开始逼真起来，最终，才能确定，这时电话铃声无疑。那百分百的是个电话，是真的电话铃声。我瘫躺着伸手够向电话，接起了话筒。

 On the other end was a girl, a girl so indistinct that, by four thirty, she might very well have disappeared altogether. She was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine. Something had brought them together, this guy and this indistinct girl, and something had led them to break up. I had, I admit, reluctantly played a role in getting them together in the first place.

电话那头是个女孩，印象不深刻的一个人，当时是四点半，心想着她挂了电话该多好。她是我一个朋友的前女友。他们在一起了，然后分手了。起初，我还曾试图让他们和好。

“Sorry to bother you," she said," but do you know where he is now?"

“不好意思打扰您了，”她说，“你知道他在哪吗？”

 I looked at the phone, running my eyes along the length of the cord. The cord was, sure enough, attached to the phone. I managed a vague reply. There was something ominous in the girl's voice, and whatever trouble was brewing I knew I didn't want to get involved.

我盯着电话，眼睛沿着电话线前移。电话线，竟然连着电话。我糊弄得给她一个回复。女孩子的声音有一种不祥的感觉，无论啥情况，我都不想趟这趟混水。

“Nobody will tell me where he is," shesaid in a chilly tone.

“谁也不告诉我他在哪，”她悲凉的说。

"Everybody's pretending they don't know. But there's some-thing important I have to tell him, so please-tell me where he is. I promise I won't drag you into this. Where is he?"

“大家都装作不知道。但是，我有很重要的事情，必须得告诉他，请你，告诉我他在哪。我肯定不会让你惹麻烦。他在哪？

"I honestly don't know," I told her. "I haven't seen him in a long time.” My voice didn't sound like my own. I was telling the truth about not having seen him for a long time, but not about the other part-I did know his address and phone number. Whenever I tell a lie, something weird happens to my voice.

“说实话，我真不知道，“我告诉她，”我很长时间没见过他了。“我的声音好假。我确实很长时间没见他了，但，我知道他的地址电话。每次撒谎，声音挺着都很假。

No comment from her.

她没说话。

The phone was like a pillar of ice.

电话像个冰柱。

Then all the objects around me turned into pillars of ice, as if I were in a J.G. Ballard science fiction story.

然后，周围的一切，都变成的了冰柱，好像我置身于J.G. Ballard的科幻小说。

"I really don't know," I repeated. "He went away a long time ago, without saying a word.”

“我真不知道“，我重复着说，”他走了很久了，走的说话什么也没说。“

 Thegirl laughed. “Give me a break. He's not that clever. We're talking about a guy who has to raise a noise no matter what he does."

女孩笑了。“得了吧。他没那么深沉。他是无论干点啥，恨不得全世界都知道的人。“

She was right. The guy really was a bit of a dim bulb.

她说得很对。他确实是个傻啦吧唧的家伙。

But I wasn't about to tell her where he

was. Do that ，and next I‘d have him on the phone, giving me an earful. I was through with getting caught up in other people's messes. I'd already dug a hole in the backyard and buried everything that needed to be buried in it. Nobody could ever dig it up again.

但，我不会告诉她地址。否则，接下来，我就得给他打电话，听一堆牢骚。我就得管他俩的破烂事。我已经在后院挖了个坑，埋葬一切。（我早就想好了，双耳一闭，对任何事不管不问。）没有人能挖开。（对任何人事全都冷漠）

“I'm sorry," I said.

“对不起“，我说。

"You don't like me, do you?" she suddenly said.

“你不待见我，对吧？“女孩忽然说。

I had no idea what to say. I didn't particularly dislike her. I had no real impression of her at all. And it's hard to have a bad impression of somebody you have no impression of.

我僵着，无话可说。我并不是十分讨厌她。事实是，我对她压根没啥印象。但是，对一个没什么印象的人，说讨厌，还是不太好。

"I'm sorry," I said again. “But I'm cooking spaghetti right now.”

“对不起，” 我又重复了一遍。 “我只是忙着煮意大利面呢。”

 “What?"

“什么？”

“I said I'm cooking spaghetti, "I lied. I had no idea why I said that. But that lie was already a part of me--so much so that, at that moment at least, it didn't feel like a lie at all.

“我说我在煮意大利面，”我撒着谎。我也不清楚为啥撒这个谎。但是，说出来的时候，就像真的似的，至少在那个时候，跟真的似的，我一点没觉得自己在撒谎。

I went ahead and filled an imaginary pot with water, lit an imaginary stove with an imaginary match.

我脑补着，脑中已经出现了一锅水，用火柴点着炉子。

“So?" she asked.

“然后呢？”她问。

I sprinkled imaginary salt into the boiling water, gently lowered a handful of imaginary spaghetti into the imaginary pot, set the imaginary kitchen timer for twelve minutes.

脑中正在往沸水中撒盐，然后，轻轻得把一缕意大利面放进锅里，然后，用定时器定了12分钟。

“So I can't talk. The spaghetti will be ruined.” She didn't say anything.

“不方便说话。面再不盛出来，就妥了。” 她沉默了。

"I’m really sorry, but cooking spaghetti's a delicate operation."

“实在抱歉，煮意大利面实在是个技术活。”

The girl was silent. The phone in my hand began to freeze again.

她依然没出声。我手里的电话，再次冰冷。

“So could you call me back?” I added hurriedly.

“你过会再打行吗？” 我忙补了一句。

“Because you're in the middle of making spaghetti?" she asked.

“就因为你在煮面条？”她问道。

“Yeah.”

“嗯。”

"Are you making it for someone, or are you going to eat alone?"

“你是给别人煮的吗，还是自己吃？”

“I’ll eat it by myself," I said.

“我自己吃，”我说。

She held her breath for a long time, then slowly breathed out. “There's no way you could know this, but I'm really in trouble. I don't know what to do.”

她屏住呼吸好一会，然后慢慢呼出一口气。“没必要让你知道我的事情，但是，我确实急需帮助。真的不知道咋办了。”

“I'm sorry I can't help you," I said.

“对不起，我帮不了你。”我说。

“There's some money involved, too."

“涉及到钱。”

“I see.”

“明白。”

“He owes me money," she said. "I lent him some money. I shouldn't have, but I had to."

“他欠我钱，”她说，“我借给他一些钱，我知道我不该借，但是，没办法。”

 I was quiet for a minute ，my thoughts drifting toward spaghetti. "I'm sorry," I said. "But I've got the spaghetti going, so ..."

我沉默了一分钟，脑子里飘过了意大利面。“对不起，”我说，“但是我必须得去盛面了，所以”

She gave a listless laugh. "Goodbye," she said. "Say hi to your spaghetti for me. I hope it turns out OK.”

她不咸不淡的笑了一声。“再见”，她说。“替我向你的意大利面问好。希望你真的能吃到。”

"Bye," I said.

“再见，” 我说。

When I hung up the phone, the circle oflight on the floor had shifted an inch or two. I lay down again in that pool of light and resumed staring at the ceiling.

当我挂上电话，地板上的光线一句挪了一两寸。我重新躺回那摊阳光里，重新盯着天花板发呆。

Thinking about spaghetti that boils eternally but is never done is a sad, sad thing.

脑补着煮意大利面的场景，但是一直不做，确实是一件很可悲的事情。

Now I regret, a little, that I didn't tell the girl anything. Perhaps I should have. I mean, her ex-boyfriend wasn't much to start with—-an empty shell of a guy with artistic pretensions, a great talker whom nobody trusted. She sounded as if she really were strapped for money, and, no matter what the situation, you've got to pay back what you borrow.

现在，对于那个女孩，我有点懊悔自己的无可奉告。或许应该告诉她。我的意思是，告诉她，那个前男友不值得交往，一个装腔作势的空壳，满嘴豪言壮语，压根没人听。她似乎真的为钱所困，无论什么情况，都是她自己咎由自取。

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the

girl---the thought usually pops into my mind when I‘m facing a steaming-hot plate of spaghetti. After she hung up, did she disappear forever, sucked into the four thirty p.m. shadows? Was I partly to blame?

有时候，我会瞎猜，那个女孩，到底遇到什么事情了----当我面前有一碗热情腾腾的意大利面的时候，这样的猜测会突然在脑中跳出来。她挂掉带电话以后，会不会永远消失，消失在四点半的背光处？我该不该被谴责？

I want you to understand my position, though. At the time, I  didn't want to get involved with anyone. That's why I kept on cooking spaghetti, all by myself. In that huge pot, big enough to hold a German shepherd.

我希望你理解我的境遇。那个情况下，我不想惹任何人的麻烦。那就是为什么，独自一个人，一直煮意大利面。在那个巨大的，能容得下一个德国牧羊犬的锅里。

Durum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields.

浮动在意大利田野上的硬质粗面，黄金小麦。

Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew: that what they were exporting in 1971 was really loneliness?

如果意大利人知道，他们在1971年出口到美国的，全是无尽的孤独，你觉得他们会震惊吗？