Zoë Wicomb
佐伊·威科姆
You Can’t Get Lost in Cape Town
你不会在开普敦迷路
(South Africa)
（南非）
In my right hand resting on the base of my handbag I clutch a brown leather purse. My knuckles ride to and fro, rubbing against the lining…surely cardboard…and I am surprised that the material has not revealed itself to me before. I have worn this bag for months. I would have said with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Felt, that is what the base of this bag is lined with.”
我的右手撑在手提包底部，手里攥着一个棕色的皮包。我的指关节来回滑动，摩擦着包的内衬……肯定是硬纸板……我惊讶地发现，这包的材质我之前竟然没发现。我已经背了好几个月了。我本来会不屑地挥挥手说：“毛毡，这包底部的内衬就是毛毡。”
Then, Michael had said, “It looks cheap, unsightly,” and lowering his voice to my surprise, “Can’t you tell?” But he was speaking of the exterior, the way it looks.
然后，迈克尔说：“它看起来很廉价，很难看。”令我惊讶的是，他压低了声音说：“你看不出来吗？”但他指的是外观，它的样子。
The purse fits neatly into the palm of my hand. A man’s purse. The handbag gapes. With my elbow I press it against my hip but that will not avert suspicion. The bus is moving fast, too fast, surely exceeding the speed limit, so that I bob on my seat and my grip on the purse tightens as the springs suck at my womb, slurping it down through the plush of the red upholstery. I press my buttocks into the seat to ease the discomfort.
钱包恰好放在我的手掌心。一个男人的钱包。包包裂开了。我用胳膊肘把它抵在臀部，但这并不能避免怀疑。公交车开得很快，太快了，肯定超速了，所以我在座位上摇晃着，紧紧地抓住钱包，仿佛弹簧吸着我的子宫，把钱包透过红色座垫的绒毛吸了下去。我把臀部压在座位上，缓解不适。
I should count out the fare for the conductor. Perhaps not; he is still at the front of the bus. We are now travelling through Rondebosch so that he will be fully occupied with white passengers at the front. Women with blue-rinsed heads tilted will go on telling their stories while fishing leisurely for their coins and just lengthen a vowel to tide over the moment of paying their fares.
我应该给售票员算一下车费。或许不用，他还在车头。我们现在正穿过龙德博斯，所以他前面肯定挤满了白人乘客。那些涂着蓝油头的女人们会一边悠闲地摸索着硬币，一边继续讲着她们的故事，只是会拖长一个元音来打发付车费的时间。
“Don’t be anxious,” Michael said. “It will be all right.” I withdrew the hand he tried to pat.
“别着急，”迈克尔说，“一切都会好起来的。”我缩回了他试图拍的手。
I have always been anxious and things are not all right; things may never be all right again. I must not cry. My eyes travel to and fro along the grooves of the floor. I do not look at the faces that surround me but I believe that they are lifted speculatively at me. Is someone constructing a history for this hand resting foolishly in a gaping handbag? Do these faces expect me to whip out an amputated stump dripping with blood? Do they wince at the thought of a hand, cold and waxen, left on the pavement where it was severed? I draw my hand out of the bag and shake my fingers ostentatiously. No point in inviting conjecture, in attracting attention. The bus brakes loudly to conceal the sound of breath drawn in sharply at the exhibited hand.
我一直焦虑不安，事事不如意；也许永远都不会好转了。我不能哭。我的目光沿着地板的凹槽来回扫视。我没有去看周围的面孔，但我相信他们正若有所思地抬起头来看着我。有人在为这只傻乎乎地放在大包里的手编造历史吗？这些人是否指望我掏出一根滴着鲜血的断肢？想到一只冰冷蜡黄的手，被断在人行道上，他们会不会畏缩不已？我从包里抽出手，夸张地挥舞着手指。没有必要引起猜测，也没有必要引起注意。公共汽车猛地刹车，以掩盖伸出的手发出的急促的呼吸声。
Two women pant like dogs as they swing themselves on to the bus. The conductor has already pressed the bell and they propel their bodies expertly along the swaying aisle. They fall into seat opposite me – one fat, the other thin – and simultaneously pull off the starched servants’ caps which they scrunch into their laps. They light cigarettes and I bite my lip. Would I have to vomit into this bag with this cardboard lining? I wish I had brought a plastic bag; this bag is empty save for the purse. I breathe deeply to stem the nausea that rises to meet the curling bands of smoke and fix on the bulging bags they grip between their feet. They make no attempt to get their fares ready; they surely misjudge the intentions of the conductor. He knows that they will get off at Mowbray to catch the Golden Arrow buses to the townships. He will not allow them to avoid paying; not he who presses the button with such promptness.
两个女人气喘吁吁，像狗一样摇摇晃晃地上了公交车。 列车员已经按响了铃，她们熟练地沿着摇晃的过道挪动着身子。她们一屁股坐在我对面的座位上——一个胖，一个瘦——同时脱下浆过的仆人帽，揉成一团，裹在腿上。她们点燃香烟，我咬着嘴唇。我难道要吐到这个衬着硬纸板的袋子里吗？真希望我带了个塑料袋；这袋子里除了钱包什么也没有。我深吸一口气，抑制着随着袅袅烟雾而涌起的恶心感，目光落在她们夹在脚间的鼓鼓囊囊的袋子上。她们没有准备车费；她们肯定误判了列车员的意图。他知道她们会在莫布雷下车，然后乘坐金箭巴士前往镇区。他不会允许她们逃钱的；他可不会允许如此迅速地按下按钮的。
I watch him at the front of the bus. His right thumb strums an impatient jingle on the silver levers, the leather bag is cradled in the hand into which the coins tumble. He chants a barely audible accompaniment to the clatter of the coins, a recitation of the newly decimalized currency. Like times tables at school and I see the fingers grow soft, bending boyish as they strum an ink-stained abacus; the boy learning to count, leaning earnestly with propped elbows over a desk. And I find the image unaccountably sad and tears are about to well up when I hear an impatient empty clatter of thumb-play on the coin dispenser as he demands, “All fares please” from a sleepy white youth. My hand flies into my handbag once again and I take out the purse. A man’s leather purse.
我看着他站在公交车头。他的右手拇指不耐烦地拨弄着银色的拨杆，发出叮当的响声，皮包被他捧在手里，硬币滚落到他的手里。他伴随着硬币的叮当声，低声吟诵着新十进制货币的音符。就像学校里的乘法表，我看到他的手指变得柔软，像个孩子一样弯曲着，拨弄着沾满墨水的算盘；那个正在学习数数的男孩，手肘撑在桌子上，认真地倚着桌子。我感到这画面莫名地悲伤，眼泪就要夺眶而出。这时，我听到他不耐烦地用拇指拨弄着硬币机，发出空空如也的叮当声，同时对着一个睡眼惺忪的白人青年喊道：“请付车费！”我的手再次伸进手提包，掏出了钱包。一个男士的皮包。
Michael is too boyish. His hair falls in a straight blonde fringe into his eyes. When he considers a reply he wipes it away impatiently, as if the hair impedes thought. I cannot imagine this purse ever having belonged to him. It is small, U-shaped and devoid of ornament, therefore a man’s purse. It has an extending tongue that could be tucked into the mouth or be threatened through the narrow band across the base of the U. I take out the smallest note stuffed into this plump purse, a five-rand note. Why had I not thought about the busfare? The conductor will be angry if my note should exhaust his supply of coins although the leather bag would have a concealed pouch for notes. But this thought does not comfort me. I feel angry with Michael. He has probably never travelled by bus. How would he know of the fear of missing the unfamiliar stop, the fear of keeping an impatient conductor waiting, the fear of saying fluently, “Seventeen cents please,” when you are not sure of the fare and produce a five-rand note? But this is my journey and I must not expect Michael to take responsibility for everything. Or rather, I cannot expect Michael to take responsibility for more than half the things. Michael is scrupulous about this division; I am not always sure of how to arrive at half. I was never good at arithmetic, especially this instant mental arithmetic that is sprung on me.
迈克尔太孩子气了。他的头发像直直的金色刘海一样垂到眼前。他琢磨着该怎么回答，就不耐烦地把头发擦掉，仿佛头发妨碍了思考。我无法想象这个钱包曾经属于他。它很小，U 形，没有任何装饰，所以是男士钱包。 它有一个伸出的舌片，可以塞进嘴里，也可以从 U 形底部的窄带里伸进去。我掏出塞在鼓鼓囊囊的钱包里最小的一张五兰特的钞票。我怎么就没想到公交车费呢？如果我的钞票用完了售票员的零钱，售票员肯定会生气的，虽然皮包里应该有个暗藏的纸币袋。但这个想法并不能让我感到安慰。我对迈克尔感到生气。他可能从来没坐过公交车。他怎么会知道错过陌生站点的恐惧，害怕让不耐烦的售票员久等，害怕在不确定票价的情况下流利地说“请付一角七分钱”，又会是什么恐惧呢？但这是我的旅程，我不能指望迈克尔包办所有事情。或者更确切地说，我不能指望迈克尔只负责一半以上的事情。 迈克尔对这种划分非常谨慎；而我并不总是知道该如何得出一半。我从来都不擅长算术，尤其是这种突然冒出来的速算。
How foolish I must look sitting here clutching my five-rand note. I slip it back into the purse and turn to the solidity of the smoking women. They have still made no attempt to find their fares. The bus is going fast and I am surprised that we have not yet reached Mowbray. Perhaps I am mistaken, perhaps we have already passed Mowbray and the women are going to Sea Point to serve a nightshift at the Pavilion.
我坐在这里紧紧攥着那张五兰特的钞票，看起来真是傻透了。我把它塞回钱包，转身看着那几个身材魁梧、抽着烟的女人。她们仍然没有去找车费。公共汽车开得很快，我很惊讶我们还没到莫布雷。也许我弄错了，也许我们已经过了莫布雷，而那些女人正要去海角，在凉亭酒吧值夜班。
Marge, Aunt Trudie’s eldest daughter, works as a waitress at the Pavilion but she is rarely mentioned in our family. “A disgrace,” they say. “She should know better than to go with white men.”
特鲁迪姨妈的大女儿玛吉在帕维利恩酒店当服务员，但我们家很少提起她。“真丢人，”他们说。“她应该知道，不该跟白人混在一起。”
“Poor whites,” Aunt Trudie hisses. “She can’t even find a nice rich man to go steady with. Such a pretty girl too. I won’t have her back in this house. There’s no place in this house for a girl who’s been used by white trash.”
“可怜的白人，”特鲁迪姨妈低声说道。“她甚至找不到一个有钱的帅哥来维持生活。而且她这么漂亮。我不会让她回这房子。这房子里没有容身之地，容不下一个被白人垃圾利用过的女孩。”
Her eyes flash as she spits out a cherished vision of a blond young man sitting on her new vinyl sofa to whom she serves gingerbeer and koeksisters, because it is not against the law to have a respectable drink in a Coloured home. “Mrs. Holman,” he would say, “Mrs. Holman, this is the best gingerbeer I’ve had for years.”
她眼中闪烁着光芒，吐露出一个珍贵的画面：一位金发小伙子坐在她新买的乙烯基沙发上，她给他端来姜汁啤酒和 koeksisters，因为在有色人种家里喝点体面的酒并不违法。“霍尔曼太太，”他会说，“霍尔曼太太，这是我多年来喝过的最好的姜汁啤酒。”
The family do not know of Michael even though he is a steady young man who would sit out such a Sunday afternoon with infinite grace. I wince at the thought of Father creaking in a suit and the unconcealed pleasure in Michael’s successful academic career.
迈克尔是个稳重的年轻人，在周日下午总是优雅地待在外面，但家里人却不认识他。想到父亲穿着西装嘎吱作响的样子，以及迈克尔学术生涯成功时那毫不掩饰的喜悦，我就不禁皱起了眉头。
Perhaps this is Mowbray after all. The building that zooms past on the right seems familiar. I ought to know it but I am lost, hopelessly lost, and as my mind gropes for recognition I feel a feathery flutter in my womb, so slight I cannot be sure, and again, so soft, the brush of a butterfly, and under cover of my handbag I spread my left hand to hold my belly. The shaft of light falling across my shoulder, travelling this route with me, is the eye of God. God will never forgive me.
或许这终究还是莫布雷。右侧飞驰而过的建筑似乎很熟悉。我应该认得它，但我迷失了方向，彻底迷失了方向。就在我思绪万千地试图辨认的时候，我感到子宫里一阵轻柔的颤动，微弱得让我无法确定，但又一次，如此轻柔，如同蝴蝶拂过。我躲在手提包的掩护下，伸出左手捂住肚子。一道光落在我的肩膀上，陪伴着我走过这条路，那是上帝的眼睛。上帝永远不会原谅我。
I must anchor my mind to the words of the women on the long seat opposite me. But they fall silent as if to protect their secrets from me. One of them bends down heavily, holding on to the jaws of her shopping bag as if to relieve pressure on her spine, and I submit to the ache of my own by swaying gently while I protect my belly with both hands. But having eyed the contents of her full bag carefully, her hand becomes the beak of a bird dipping purposefully into the left-hand corner and rises triumphantly with a brown paper bag on which grease has oozed light-sucking patterns. She opens the bag and her friend looks on in silence. Three chunks of cooked chicken lie on a piece of greaseproof paper. She deftly halves a piece and passes it to her thin friend. The women munch in silence, their mouths glossy with pleasure.
我必须把思绪集中在对面长椅上那两位女士的话语上。但她们却沉默不语，仿佛要保护她们的秘密不让我知道。一位女士重重地弯下腰，紧紧抓住购物袋的袋口，仿佛要减轻脊椎的压力。我则忍受着疼痛，轻轻摇晃着身子，双手护住肚子。 但她仔细打量了满满一袋的东西后，手像鸟喙一样，故意探入左上角，然后得意洋洋地举起一个棕色纸袋，纸袋上渗出的油脂形成了吸光的图案。她打开袋子，她的朋友默默地看着。三块煮熟的鸡肉放在一张防油纸上。她熟练地切开一半，递给了她那瘦削的朋友。两位女士默默地咀嚼着，嘴里泛着油光，充满了愉悦。
“These are for the children,” she says, her mouth still full as she wraps the rest up and places it carelessly at the top of the bag.
“这些是给孩子们的，”她说道，嘴里还塞满了食物，她把剩下的食物包起来，随意地放在袋子的顶部。
“It’s the spiced chicken recipe you told me about.” She nudges her friend. “Lekker hey!”
“这就是你跟我说过那个五香鸡的食谱 。”她用肘推了推朋友。“Lekker，嘿！”
The friend frowns and says, “I like to taste a bit more cardamom. It’s nice to find a whole cardamom in the food and crush it between your teeth. A cardamom seed will never give up all its flavor to the pot. You’ll still find it there in the chewing.”
朋友皱着眉头说：“我喜欢多尝一点小豆蔻。在食物里找到一整颗小豆蔻，用牙齿咬碎，那种滋味真好。小豆蔻籽的味道永远不会被锅里吞掉。嚼起来还是有味道的。”
I note the gaps in her teeth and fear for the slipping through of cardamom seeds. The girls at school who had their two top incisors extracted in a fashion that raged through Cape Town said that it was better for kissing. Then I, fat and innocent, nodded. How would I have known the demands of kissing?
我注意到她牙齿间的缝隙，生怕豆蔻籽会从缝隙中溜出来。学校里那些拔掉上门牙的女孩们，她们的拔牙方式在开普敦风靡一时，她们说这样更适合接吻。然后，我，一个肥胖而天真的人，点了点头。我怎么会知道接吻的痛苦呢？
The large woman refuses to be thwarted by criticism of her cooking. The chicken stimulates a story so that she twitches with an irrepressible desire to tell.
这位身材魁梧的女士拒绝接受外界对她厨艺的批评。鸡肉激发了她一个故事，让她忍不住想要讲述。
“To think,” she finally bursts out, “that I cook them this nice surprise and say what you like, spiced chicken can make any mouth water. Just think, it was yesterday when I say to that one as she stands with her hands on her hips against the stove saying, ‘I don’t know what to give them today, I’ve just got too much organizing to do to bother with food.’ And I say, feeling sorry for her, I say, ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Marram, just leave it all in cook’s hands (wouldn’t it be nice to work for really grand people where you cook and do nothing else, no bladdy scrubbing and shopping and all that)…in cook’s hands,’ I said,” and she crows merrily before reciting: “And I’ll dish up a surprise / For Master Georgie’s blue eues.
“想想看 ，”她终于脱口而出，“我为他们做了这个惊喜，随你怎么说，五香鸡就能让人垂涎欲滴。想想看，就在昨天，我对那位双手叉腰靠在炉子上的人说，‘我不知道今天给他们什么，我还有太多事情要做，没空准备食物。’我同情她，说，‘马拉姆，你什么都不用担心，把一切都交给厨师吧（如果能为真正尊贵的人工作，你只需要做饭，什么都不用做，不用洗衣服、购物等等，那该有多好啊）……交给厨师吧，’我说，”她高兴地叫了起来，然后朗诵道：“我会为乔治少爷的蓝色尤斯准备一份惊喜。
“That’s Miss Lucy’s young man. He was coming last night. Engaged, you know. Well there I was on my feet all day starching linen, making roeties and spiced lentils and sweet potato and all the lekker things you must mos have with cardamom chicken. And what do you think she says?”
“那是露西小姐的小伙子。他昨晚要来。你知道，他订婚了。结果我整天站着给亚麻布上浆，做烤肉卷、五香扁豆、红薯，还有所有那些配豆蔻鸡最美味的东西。你猜她会怎么说？”
She pauses and lifts her face as if expecting a reply, but the other stares grimly ahead. Undefeated she continues, “She says to me, ‘Tiena,’ because she can’t keep out of my pots, you know, always opening my lids and sniffing like a brakhond she says, ‘Tiena,’ and waits for me to say, ‘Yes Marram,’ so I know she has a wicked plan up her sleeve and I look her straight in the eye. She smile that one, always smile to put me off the track, and she say looking into the fridge, ‘You can have this nice bean soup for your dinner so I can have the remains of the chicken tomorrow when you’re off.’ So I say to her, ‘That’s what I had for lunch today,’ and she say to me, ‘Yes I know but me and Miss Lucy will be on our own for dinner tomorrow,’ and she pull a face, ‘Ugh, how I hate reheated food.’ Then she draws up her shoulders as if to say, That’s that.
她顿了顿，抬起头，仿佛在等着回答，但对方却阴沉地盯着前方。她继续说道：“她叫我‘蒂娜’，因为她总是躲不开我的锅，你知道，她总是掀开我的锅盖，像个臭小子一样闻来闻去。她总是叫我‘蒂娜’，等我说‘是的，马拉姆’，所以我知道她心里有个坏主意，于是我直视着她的眼睛。她笑了笑，总是笑着打断我，然后她看着冰箱说：‘你晚餐可以吃这道美味的豆汤，这样明天你下班后我就可以吃剩下的鸡肉了。’于是我告诉她：‘这就是我今天午餐吃的。’她回答我说：‘我知道，但明天晚餐我和露西小姐就得自己吃了。’她做了个鬼脸：‘唉，我讨厌重新加热的食物。’”然后她挺起肩膀，好像在说，就是这样。
“Cheek hey! And it was a great big fowl.” She nudges her friend. “You know for yourself how much better food tastes the next day when the spices are drawn right into the meat and anyway you just switch on the electric and there’s no chopping and crying over onions, you just wait for the pot to dance on the stove. Of course she wouldn’t know about that. Anyway, a cheek, that’s what I call it, so before I even dished up the chicken for the table, I took this,” and she points triumphantly to her bag, “and to hell with them.”
“厚脸皮！而且那鸡真大。”她用肘子捅了捅朋友。“你懂的，第二天吃起来味道好多了，香料直接浸入肉里就行了。反正你只要打开电饭煲，不用切洋葱，也不用哭哭啼啼，就等着锅在炉子上烧起来。她当然不会知道。总之，厚脸皮，我就是这么叫的，所以还没把鸡端上桌，我就拿了这东西，”她得意洋洋地指着自己的包，“让他们见鬼去吧。”
The thin one opens her mouth, once, twice, winding herself up to speak.
瘦弱的那个女人张开嘴，一次、两次，准备说话。
“They never notice anyway. There’s so much food in their pantries, in the fridge and on the tables; they don’t know what’s there and what isn’t.” The other looks pityingly at her.
“反正他们从来没注意到过。他们的食品柜、冰箱和桌子上堆满了食物，他们根本不知道哪些有，哪些没。”另一个人怜悯地看着她。
“Don’t you believe that. My marram was as cross as a bear by the time I brought in the pudding, a very nice apricot ice it was, but she didn’t even look at it. She know it was a healthy grown fowl and she count one leg, and she know what’s going on. She know right away. Didn’t even say, ‘Thank you Tiena.’ She won’t speak to me for days but what can she do?” Her voice softens into genuine sympathy for madam’s dilemma.
“你别信。我把布丁端进来的时候，我的马拉姆气得跟熊一样，那是一块非常美味的杏子冰淇淋，但她连看都没看一眼。她知道那是一只健康的成年鸡，她数过一条腿，就知道发生了什么事。她一眼就看出来。甚至都没说一句‘谢谢你，蒂娜’。她好几天都不跟我说话，但她又能怎么办呢？”她的声音变得柔和，对夫人的困境表示真挚的同情。
“She’ll just have to speak to me.” And she mimics, putting on a stern horse face. “’We’ll want dinner by seven tonight,’ then ‘Tiena the curtains need washing,’ then, ‘Please, Tiena, will you fix this zip for me, I’ve got absolutely nothing else to wear today.’ And so on the third day she’ll smile and think she’s smiling forgiveness at me.”
“她只需要跟我说话就行了。”她模仿着，摆出一副严肃的马脸。“‘我们今晚七点前要吃晚饭，’然后说‘蒂娜，窗帘需要洗了，’然后又说，‘蒂娜，求你了，帮我修一下这个拉链，我今天完全没别的衣服穿。’就这样，到了第三天，她就会对我微笑，以为这是在对我表示原谅。”
She straightens her face. “No,” she sighs, “the more you have, the more you have to keep your head and count and check up because you won’t notice or remember. No, if you got a lot you must keep snaps in your mind of the insides of all the cupboards. And every day, click, click, new snaps of the larder. That’s why that one is so tired, always thinking, always reciting to herself the lists of what’s in the cupboards. I never know what’s in my cupboard at home but I know my Sammie’s a thieving bastard, can’t keep his hands in his pockets.”
她挺直了脸。“不，”她叹了口气，“你拥有的越多，就越要保持头脑清醒，数数数，核对核对，因为你不会注意到，也不会记住。不，如果你拥有很多，你就必须在脑子里记下所有橱柜内部的照片。而且每天，咔哒咔哒，食品储藏室的新照片。这就是为什么那个人这么累，总是在思考，总是在心里默默地背诵橱柜里的东西的清单。我从来都不知道我家橱柜里有什么，但我知道我家萨米是个偷东西的混蛋，总是把手插在口袋里。”
The thin woman stares out of the window as if she had heard it all before. She has finished her chicken while the other, with all the talking, still holds a half-eaten drumstick daintily in her right hand. Her eyes rove over the shopping bag and she licks her fingers abstractedly as she stares out of the window.
瘦削的女人凝视着窗外，仿佛早已听闻一切。她已经吃完了鸡肉，而另一个女人虽然一直在说话，但右手依然优雅地握着一根吃了一半的鸡腿。她的目光在购物袋上游移，心不在焉地舔着手指，凝视着窗外。
“Lekker hey!” the large one repeats, “the children will have such a party.”
“Lekker 嘿！”大个子重复道，“孩子们会举办这样的派对的。”
“Did Master George enjoy it?” the other asks.
“乔治少爷喜欢吗？”另一个人问道。
“Oh he’s a gentleman all right. Shouted after me, ‘Well done, Tiena. When we’re married we’ll have to steal you from madam.’ Dressed to kill he was, such a smart young man, you know. Mind you, so’s Miss Lucy. Not a prettier girl in our avenue and the best-dressed too. But then she has mos to be smart to keep her man. Been on the pill for nearly over a year now; I shouldn’t wonder if he don’t feel funny about the white wedding. Ooh, you must see her blush of the pictures of the wedding gowns, so pure and innocent she think I can’t read the packet. ‘Get me my headache pills out of that drawer Tiena,’ she say sometimes when I take her cup of cocoa at night. But she play her cards right with Master George; she have to ‘cause who’d have what another man has pushed to the side of his plate. A bay leaf and a bone!” and she waves it under the nose of the other, who starts. I wonder whether with guilt, fear or a debilitating desire for more chicken.
“哦，他真是个绅士。”有人在我身后喊道：“干得好，蒂娜。等我们结婚了，我们得把你从夫人手里抢过来。”他衣着光鲜，真是个聪明的年轻人，你知道的。不过，露西小姐也是。在我们这条街上，没有哪个女孩比他漂亮，而且穿得最好。不过，她得聪明到能留住她的男人。她吃避孕药已经快一年多了；如果他觉得白色婚礼不奇怪，我一点也不奇怪。哦，你肯定看到她看到婚纱照片脸红了 ，她那么纯洁无邪，以至于我都看不懂包装上写的是什么。“蒂娜，把我的头痛药从抽屉里拿出来，”有时晚上我给她倒可可的时候，她会这么说。但她对乔治少爷很讲究；她必须得这么做，因为谁会想要别人推到盘子边上的东西呢？一片月桂叶和一根骨头！”她把鸡肉在另一人鼻子底下晃了晃，那人吃了一惊。我不知道她是因为内疚、害怕，还是因为想吃更多鸡肉而产生的强烈渴望。
“This bone,” she repeats grimly, “picked bare and only wanted by a dog.”
“这根骨头，”她阴沉地重复道，“被啃光了，只有狗才想要它。”
Her friend recovers and deliberately misunderstands, “Or like yesterday’s bean soup, but we women mos know that food put aside and left to stand till tomorrow always has a better flavor. Men don’t know that hey. They should get down to some cooking and find out a thing or two.”
她的朋友回过神来，故意曲解道：“或者就像昨天的豆汤一样，但我们女人最知道，食物留到明天总是味道更好。男人不懂这个，嘿，他们应该多做饭，多学点东西。”
But the other is not deterred. “A bone,” she insists, waving her visual aid, “a bone.”
但另一个人却没有被吓倒。“一根骨头，”她挥舞着她的辅助工具，坚持说，“一根骨头。”
It is true that her bone is a matt grey that betrays no trace of the meat or fat that only a minute ago adhered to it. Master George’s bone would certainly look nothing like that when he pushes it aside. With his fork he would coax off the fibres ready to fall from the bone. Then he would turn over the whole deftly, using a knife, and frown at the sinewy meat clinging to the joint before pushing it aside towards the discarded bits of skin.
的确 ，她的骨头是暗灰色的，丝毫看不出一分钟前还粘在上面的肉和脂肪。乔治少爷的骨头推到一边时，肯定不会是那样。他会用叉子把骨头上快要掉下来的纤维剔下来。然后，他会熟练地用刀把骨头翻过来，皱着眉头看着粘在关节上的筋肉，再把它推到一边，扔到被剥掉的皮屑旁。
This bone, it is true, will not tempt anyone. A dog might want to bury it only for a silly game of hide and seek.
这根骨头确实不会诱惑任何人。一条狗也许只是为了玩一场愚蠢的捉迷藏游戏才想把它埋起来。
The large woman waves the bone as if it would burst into prophecy. My eyes follow the movement until the bone blurs and emerges as the Cross where the head of Jesus lolls sadly, his lovely feet anointed by sad hands, folded together under the driven nail. Look, Mamma says, look at those eyes molten with love and pain, the body curved with suffering for our sins, and together we weep for the beauty and sadness of Jesus in his white loincloth. The Roman soldiers stand grimly erect in their tunics, their spears gleam in the light, their dark beards and clipped and their lips curl. At midday Judas turns his face to the fading sun and bays, howls like a dog for its return as the darkness grows around him and swallows him whole with the money still jingling in the folds of his saffron robes. In a concealed leather purse, a pouch devoid of ornament.
身材魁梧的女人挥舞着骨头，仿佛它会迸发出预言。我的目光追随着骨头的移动，直到骨头模糊，浮现出十字架，耶稣的头颅悲伤地垂下，他可爱的双脚被悲伤的手涂抹着，在钉子钉入的钉子下交叠在一起。看，妈妈说，看看那双充满爱与痛苦的眼睛，那因我们的罪孽而弯曲的身体，我们一起为耶稣穿着白色缠腰布的美丽与悲伤而哭泣。罗马士兵们身着束腰外衣，阴沉地挺立着，长矛在灯光下闪闪发光，深色的胡须修剪整齐，嘴唇微微上翘。正午时分，犹大转过脸，面对着渐渐消逝的夕阳，像狗一样嗥叫着，等待着夕阳的回归。黑暗在他周围蔓延，将他吞噬，钱币在他藏红花色长袍的褶皱中叮当作响。钱币藏在一个隐藏的皮包里，没有任何装饰。
The buildings on this side of the road grow taller but oh, I do not know where I am and I think of asking the woman, the thin one, but when I look up the stern one’s eyes already rest on me while the bone in her hand points idly at the advertisement just above my head. My hands, still cradling my belly, slide guiltily down my thighs and fall on my knees. But the fetus betrays me with another flutter, a sigh. I have heard of books flying off the laps of gentle mothers-to-be as their fetuses lash out. I will not be bullied. I jump up and press the bell.
路这边的楼越来越高，可是，哦，我不知道自己在哪儿，我想问问那个瘦削的女人，但当我抬头时，那个严厉的女人的目光已经落在我身上，她手上的骨头漫不经心地指着我头顶上的广告。我的双手仍然托着肚子，内疚地滑下大腿，落在膝盖上。但胎儿又一次扑腾，一声叹息，出卖了我。我听说过温柔的准妈妈们肚子里的孩子会反抗，书本会从她们的怀里飞出去。我才不要被欺负呢。我跳起来，按响了门铃。
There are voices behind me. The large woman’s “Oi, I say” thunders over the conductor’s cross “Tickets please.” I will not speak to anyone. Shall I throw myself on the groove floor of this bus and with knees drawn up, hands over my head, wait for my demise? I do not in any case expect to be alive tomorrow. But I must resist; I must harden my heart against the sad, complaining eyes of Jesus.
我身后传来说话声。那个大女人的“喂，我说！”盖过了列车员的“请出示车票”的十字声。我不会和任何人说话。难道我要一头栽进这辆巴士的凹槽里，双膝蜷缩，双手抱头，等着死吗？无论如何，我都不指望明天还能活着。但我必须反抗；我必须硬起心肠，对抗耶稣那悲伤、抱怨的眼神。
“I say, Miss,” she shouts and her tone is familiar. Her voice compels like the insistence of Father’s guttural commands. But the conductor’s hand falls on my shoulder, the barrel of his ticket dispenser digs into my ribs, the buttons of his uniform gleam as I dip into my bag for my purse. Then the large woman spills out of her seat as she leans forward. Her friend, reconciled, holds the bar of an arm across her as she leans forward shouting, “Here, I say, your purse.” I try to look grateful. Her eyes blaze with scorn as she proclaims to the bus, “Stupid these young people. Dressed to kill maybe, but still so stupid.”
“我说，小姐，”她喊道，语气似曾相识。她的声音如同父亲喉咙般急促地发出命令，令人难以抗拒。然而，列车员的手落在了我的肩膀上，售票机的枪管顶着我的肋骨，我伸手从包里掏钱包时，他制服上的纽扣闪闪发光。这时，那个身材魁梧的女人从座位上站了起来，身体前倾。她的朋友心平气和地用一只胳膊搂着她，身体前倾，喊道：“我说，给你钱包。”我努力装出一副感激的样子。她眼里闪烁着轻蔑的光芒，对着车上的乘客喊道：“这些年轻人真蠢。也许穿得光鲜亮丽，但还是那么蠢。”
She is right. Not about my clothes, of course, and I check to see what I am wearing. I have not been alerted to my own stupidity before. No doubt I will sail through my final examinations at the end of this year and still not know how I dared to pluck a fluttering fetus out of my womb. That is if I survive tonight.
她说得对。当然，不是关于我的衣服，我也会检查自己穿了什么。我以前从未意识到自己的愚蠢。毫无疑问，今年年底的期末考试我会顺利通过，但我还是不知道自己怎么敢把一个颤抖的胎儿从子宫里掏出来。前提是我能活到今晚。
I sit on the steps of this large building and squint up at the marble façade. My elbows rest on my knees flung comfortably apart. I ought to know where I am; it is clearly a public building of some importance. For the first time I long for the veld of my childhood. There the red sand rolls for miles, and if you stand on the koppie behind the house the landmarks blaze their permanence: the river points downward, runs its dry course from north to south; the geelbos crowds its banks in near straight lines. On either side of the path winding westward plump little buttocks of cacti squat as if lifting the skirts to pee, and the swollen fingers of vygies burst in clusters out of the stone, pointing the way. In the veld you can always find your way home.
我坐在这栋大楼的台阶上，眯着眼看着大理石的正面。我的手肘撑在膝盖上，舒服地分开着。我应该知道自己在哪儿；这显然是一座颇具意义的公共建筑。我第一次怀念起童年时的那片草原。那里，红色的沙地绵延数英里，如果你站在屋后的山丘上，那些地标便会闪耀着它们永恒的光芒：河流向下流动，干涸的河道从北向南流淌；羚羊几乎笔直地挤满了河岸。蜿蜒向西的小路两旁，仙人掌丰满的小屁股蹲伏着，仿佛要掀起裙子撒尿；而小黄人肿胀的手指则成群地从石头中冒出来，指引着方向。在草原上，你总能找到回家的路。
I am anxious about meeting Michael. We have planned this so carefully for the rush hour when people storming home crossly will not notice us together in the crush.
我很想见到迈克尔。我们精心计划了这一切，因为在交通高峰期，那些怒气冲冲地冲回家的人不会注意到我们俩在拥挤的人群中。
“It’s simple,” Michael said. “The bus carries along the main roads through the suburbs to the City, and as you reach the Post Office you get off and I’ll be there to meet you. At five.”
“很简单，”迈克尔说。“公交车沿着主干道穿过郊区直达市区，你到邮局后下车，我会在那里接你。五点钟。”
A look at my anxious face compelled him to say, “You can’t get lost in Cape Town. There,” and he pointed over his shoulder, “is Table Mountain and there is Devil’s Peak and there is Lion’s Head, so how in heaven’s name could you get lost?” The words shot out unexpectedly, like the fine arc of brown spittle from between the teeth of an old man who no longer savors the tobacco he has been chewing all day. There are, I suppose, things that even a loved one cannot overlook.
看到我焦虑的表情，他忍不住说道：“你在开普敦不会迷路的。那里，”他指着身后，“有桌山，有魔鬼峰，还有狮子头山，你怎么会迷路呢？”这句话脱口而出，就像一位老人嚼了一整天的烟草，再也回味不了，从齿间吐出一道棕色的唾液弧。我想，有些事情，即使是亲人也无法忽视。
Am I a loved one?
我是一个被爱的人吗？
I ought to rise from the steps and walk towards the City. Fortunately I always take the precaution of setting out early, so that I should still be in time to meet Michael who will drive me along de Waal Drive into the slopes of Table Mountain where Mrs. Coetzee waits with her tongs.
我应该起身走下台阶，朝城里走去。幸好我总是早早出发，这样还能及时赶上迈克尔，他会开车带我沿着德瓦尔路，来到桌山的山坡上，库切太太正拿着钳子等着我呢。
Am I a loved one? No. I am dull, ugly and bad-tempered. My hair has grown greasy, I am forgetful and I have no sense of direction. Michael, he has long since stopped loving me. He watched me hugging the lavatory bowl, retching, and recoiled at my first display of bad temper. There is a faraway look in his eyes as he plans his retreat. But he is well brought up, honorable. When the first doubts gripped the corners of his mouth, he grinned madly and said, “We must marry,” showing a row of perfect teeth.
我算得上是被爱的人吗？不。我沉闷、丑陋、脾气暴躁。我的头发油腻腻的，我健忘，而且没有方向感。迈克尔，他早就不爱我了。他看着我抱着马桶干呕，第一次发脾气就吓得魂不守舍。他眼里透着一丝茫然，盘算着如何收场。但他出身高贵，品行端正。当最初的疑虑浮上嘴角时，他咧嘴一笑，露出一排整齐的牙齿，说道：“我们必须结婚。”
“There are laws against that,” I said unnecessarily.
“法律禁止这种行为，”我毫无必要地说道。
But gripped by the idyll of an English landscape of painted greens, he saw my head once more held high, my lettuce-luscious skirts crisp on a chamomile lawn and the willow drooping over the red mouth of a suckling infant.
但是，当他沉浸在英国田园诗般的绿色风景中时，他又一次看到我昂首挺胸，穿着像莴苣一样鲜艳的裙子，站在洋甘菊草坪上，柳树低垂在正在吃奶的婴儿红红的嘴上。
“Come on,” he urged. “Don’t do it. We’ll get to England and marry. It will work out all right,” and betraying the source of his vision, “and we’ll be happy for ever, thousands of miles from all this mess.”
“来吧，”他催促道。“别这样。我们去英国结婚吧。一切都会好起来的，”他这番话暴露了他幻想的来源，“我们会永远幸福快乐，远离这一切纷扰。”
I would have explained if I could. But I could not account for this vision: the slow shower of ashes over yards of diaphanous tulle, the moth wings tucked back with delight as their tongues whisked the froth of white lace. For two years I have loved Michael, have wanted to marry him. Duped by a dream I merely shook my head.
如果可以的话，我本想解释。但我无法解释眼前的景象：灰烬缓缓飘落，落在几码薄薄的薄纱上，飞蛾欣喜地收起翅膀，舌头拂过白色蕾丝的泡沫。两年来，我一直爱着迈克尔，想嫁给他。被梦境欺骗了，我只是摇了摇头。
“But you love babies, you want babies some time or other, so why not accept God’s holy plan? Anyway, you’re a Christian and you believe it’s a sin, don’t you?”
“但你喜欢孩子，你迟早会想要孩子，所以为什么不接受上帝的神圣计划呢？再说，你是基督徒，你认为生孩子是罪，对吧？”
God is not a good listener. Like Father, he expects obedience and withdraws peevishly if his demands are not met. Explanations of my point of view infuriate him so that he quivers with silent rage. For once I do not plead and capitulate; I find it quite easy to ignore these men.
上帝不善于倾听。就像父亲一样，他要求服从，一旦得不到满足，便会乖乖地退缩。我解释我的观点，激怒了他，让他在无声的愤怒中颤抖。这一次，我没有恳求，也没有屈服；我发现，无视这些人其实很容易。
“You’re not even listening,” Michael accused. “I don’t know how you can do it.” There is revulsion in his voice.
“你根本没在听，”迈克尔指责道。“我不知道你怎么能这么做。”他的声音里充满了厌恶。
For two short years I have adored Michael.
短短两年间我一直崇拜迈克尔。
Once, perched perilously on the rocks, we laughed fondly at the thought of a child. At Capt Point where the oceans meet and part. The Indian and the Atlantic, fighting for their separate identities, roared and thrashed fiercely so that we huddled together, his hand on my belly. It is said that if you shut one eye and focus the other carefully, the line separating the two oceans may rear drunkenly but remains ever clear and hair-fine. But I did not look. In the mischievous wind I struggled with the flapping ends of a scarf I tried to wrap around my hair. Later that day on the silver sands of a deserted beach he wrote solemnly: Will you marry me? and my trembling fingers traced a huge heart around the words. Ahead the sun danced on the waves, flecking them with gold.
曾经，我们危在旦夕的岩石上，想起孩子，情不自禁地开怀大笑。那是在卡普特角，两大洋在此交汇分离。印度洋和大西洋，为了各自的身份而争斗，咆哮着，猛烈地拍打着，我们紧紧地挤在一起，他的手放在我的肚子上。据说，如果你闭上一只眼，小心地聚焦另一只眼，两大洋之间的分界线或许会像醉醺醺地升起，却始终清晰如发丝。但我没有去看。在狂风中，我费力地想把围巾裹在头发上，却被围巾的飘动所束缚。那天晚些时候，在一处荒凉的银色沙滩上，他庄严地写道：“你愿意嫁给我吗？”我颤抖的手指在字迹周围画出一个巨大的心形。前方，阳光在海浪上舞动，洒下金色的点点星光。
I wrote a poem about that day and showed Michael. “Surely that was not what Logiesbaii was about,” he frowned, and read the lines about warriors charging out of the sea, assegais gleaming in the sun, the beat of tom-toms riding the waters, the throb in the carious cavities of rocks.
我写了一首关于那一天的诗给迈克尔看。“那肯定不是《洛吉斯湾》的主题，”他皱着眉头，读着诗句：战士们从海里冲出来，长矛在阳光下闪闪发光，手鼓的节奏拍打着水面，岩石的腐朽空洞中传来阵阵悸动。
“It’s good,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, “I like the title, ‘Love at Logiesbaai (Whites Only),’ though I expect much of the subtlety escapes me. Sounds good,” he encouraged, “you should write more often.”
“写得不错，”他若有所思地点点头，“我喜欢这个标题，《 洛吉斯湾之恋（仅限白人）》，虽然我估计很多微妙之处我都看不懂。听起来不错，”他鼓励道，“你应该多写点。”
I flushed. I wrote poems all the time. And he was wrong; it was not a good poem. It was puzzling and I wondered why I had shown him this poem that did not even make sense to me. I tore it into little bits.
我脸红了。我一直在写诗。他错了；这不是一首好诗。这真让我费解，我不明白为什么给他看这首连我自己都看不懂的诗。我把它撕成了碎片。
Love, love, love, I sigh as I shake each ankle in turn and examine the swelling.
爱，爱，爱，我一边叹息，一边依次摇晃每个脚踝并检查肿胀情况。
Michael’s hair falls boyishly over his eyes. His eyes narrow merrily when he smiles and the left corner of his mouth shoots up so that the row of teeth form a queer diagonal line above his chin. He flicks his head so that the fringe of hair lifts from his eyes for a second, then falls, so fast, like the tongue of a lizard retraced at the very moment of exposure.
迈克尔的头发像个孩子般垂在眼前。他笑的时候，眼睛会愉快地眯起来，左嘴角微微上扬，一排牙齿在下巴上方形成一条奇怪的对角线。他轻轻一甩头，一缕头发从眼前扬起一瞬间，又迅速垂下，就像蜥蜴在暴露的瞬间收回舌头一样。
“We’ll find somewhere,” he would say, “a place where we’d be quite alone.” This country is vast and he has an instinctive sense of direction. He discovers the armpits of valleys that invite us into their shadows. Dangerous climbs led by the roar of the sea take us to blue bays into which we drop from impossible cliffs. The sun lowers herself on to us. We do not fear the police with their torches. They come only by night in search of offenders. We have the immunity of love. They cannot find us because they do not know we exist. One day they will find out about lovers who steal whole days, round as gloves.
“我们会找到某个地方，”他会说，“一个让我们独处的地方。”这片土地辽阔，他有一种本能的方向感。他发现了山谷的深处，它们邀请我们进入它们的阴影。咆哮的大海引领我们进行危险的攀登，将我们带到蓝色的海湾，我们从不可思议的悬崖上坠落。太阳缓缓落下，照耀着我们。我们不怕拿着火把的警察。他们只在夜间来搜捕罪犯。我们拥有爱的免疫力。他们找不到我们，因为他们不知道我们的存在。总有一天，他们会发现那些偷走整天时光的情人，他们像手套一样圆润。
There has always been a terrible thrill in that thought.
这个想法总是让我感到一阵可怕的刺激。
I ease my feet back into my shoes and the tears splash on to my dress with such wanton abandon that I cannot believe they are mind. From the punctured globes of stolen days these fragments sag and squint. I hold, hold these pictures I have summoned. I will not recognize them for much longer.
我慢慢地把脚放回鞋子里，泪水肆意地溅到我的裙子上，我简直不敢相信那是我的心。这些碎片从偷来的岁月的破洞中垂落，眯缝着。我紧紧地抓住这些我召唤出来的画面。我很快就会认不出它们了。
With tilted head I watch the shoes and sawn-off legs ascend and descend the marble steps, altering course to avoid me. Perhaps someone will ask the police to remove me.
我歪着头，看着那些鞋子和被锯断的腿沿着大理石台阶缓缓走下，为了躲避我，它们改变了路线。也许有人会叫警察来把我带走。
Love, love, love, I sigh. Another flutter in my womb. I think of moth wings struggling against a window pane and I rise.
爱，爱，爱，我叹息。 子宫里又一阵悸动。我想象着飞蛾的翅膀在窗玻璃上挣扎，于是我站了起来。
The smell of sea unfurls towards me as I approach Adderley Street. There is no wind but the brine hands in an atomized mist, silver over a thwarted sun. In answer to my hunger, Wellingtons looms on my left. The dried-fruit palace which I cannot resist. The artificial light dries my tears, makes me blink, and the trays of fruit, of Cape sunlight twice trapped, shimmer and threaten to burst out of their forms. Rows of pineapple are the infinite divisions of the sun, the cores lost in the amber discs of mebos arranged in arcs. Prunes are the wrinkled backs of aged goggas beside the bloodshot eyes of cherries. Dark green figs sit pertly on their bottoms peeping over trays. And I too am not myself, hoping for refuge in a metaphor that will contain it all. I buy the figs and mebos. Desire is a Tsafendas tapeworm in my belly that cannot be satisfied and as I pop the first fig into my mouth I feel the danger fountain with the jets of saliva. Will I stop at one death?
当我走近阿德利街时，一股海水的气息扑面而来。没有风，只有海水在雾霭中翻腾，在昏暗的太阳上泛着银光。为了回应我的饥饿，威灵顿百货公司耸立在我的左侧。我无法抗拒的干果殿堂。人造光线擦干了我的泪水，让我不禁眨眼，一盘盘水果，在开普敦阳光的双重照射下，闪闪发光，仿佛要从它们的形态中迸发出来。一排排菠萝是太阳无限的分割，是隐藏在琥珀色的梅博果核中，这些果核呈弧形排列。西梅干是老葡萄藤皱巴巴的背脊，旁边是充血的樱桃果核。深绿色的无花果活泼地趴在地上，从托盘上探出头来。而我也不再是我自己，希望在一个能包容一切的隐喻中寻求庇护。我买了无花果和梅博果。欲望就像我腹中一条永不满足的查芬达斯绦虫，当我把第一颗无花果塞进嘴里时，我感觉到危险随着唾液喷涌而出。我会止步于一次死亡吗？
I have walked too far along this road and must turn back to the Post Office. I break into a trot as I see Michael in the distance, drumming with his nails on the side of the car. His sunburned elbow juts out of the window. He taps with anxiety or impatience and I grow cold with fear as I jump into the passenger seat and say merrily, “Let’s go,” as if we are setting off for a picnic.
我在这条路上走了太远，必须折返邮局。我突然小跑起来，远远地看到迈克尔正用指甲敲打着车侧。他晒伤的手肘伸出窗外。他敲打着，带着焦虑或不耐烦，而我吓得浑身发冷，跳进副驾驶座，兴高采烈地说：“走吧”，仿佛我们要去野餐似的。
Michael will wait in the car on the next street. She had said that it would take only ten minutes. He takes my hand and so prevents me from getting out. Perhaps he things that I will bolt, run off into the mountain, revert to savagery. His hand is heavy on my forearm and his eyes are those of a wounded dog, pale with pain.
迈克尔会在下一条街的车里等我。她说只需要十分钟。他抓住我的手，不让我下车。也许他以为我会逃跑，跑进山里，恢复野性。他的手重重地按在我的前臂上，他的眼神像一条受伤的狗，因痛苦而变得苍白。
“It will be all right.” I try to comfort and wonder whether he hears his own voice in mine. My voice is thin, a tinsel thread that springs out of my mouth and flutters straight out of the window.
“没事的。”我努力安慰他，心想他是否从我的声音里听到了自己的声音。我的声音很细，像一根细丝 ，从嘴里蹦出来，飘到了窗外。
“I must go.” I lift the heavy hand off my forearm and it falls inertly across the gearstick.
“我得走了。”我把那只沉重的手从前臂上抬起来，它无力地落在变速杆上。
The room is dark. The curtains are drawn and a lace-shaded electric light casts shadows in the corners of the rectangle. The doorway in which I stand divides the room into sleeping and eating quarters. On the left there is a table against which a servant girl leans, her eyes fixed on the blank wall ahead. On the right a middle-aged white woman rises with a hostess smile from a divan which serves as a sofa, and pats the single pink-flowered cushion to assert homeliness. There is a narrow dark wardrobe in the corner.
房间里很暗。窗帘拉着，蕾丝罩的电灯在长方形的角落里投下阴影。我所在的门口将房间分成了睡眠区和用餐区。左边有一张桌子，一个女仆倚靠着，目光紧盯着前方空白的墙壁。右边，一位中年白人妇女从一张兼作沙发的长沙发上站起身，脸上带着女主人般的微笑，拍了拍唯一的粉色花朵靠垫，以彰显房间的朴素。角落里有一个狭窄昏暗的衣柜。
I say haltingly, “You are expecting me. I spoke to you on the telephone yesterday. Sally Smit.” I can see no telephone in the room. She frowns.
我吞吞吐吐地说：“你在等我。我昨天和你通了电话。莎莉·斯密特。” 我没看到房间里有电话。她皱起了眉头。
“You’re not Colored, are you?” It is an absurd question. I look at my brown arms that I have kept folded across my chest, and watch the gooseflesh sprout. Her eyes are fixed on me. Is she blind? How will she perform the operation with such defective sight? Then I realize: the educated voice, the accent has blinded her. I have drunk deeply of Michael, swallowed his voice as I drank from his tongue. Has he swallowed mine? I do not think so.
“你不是黑人吧？”这问题问得荒唐。我看着一直抱在胸前的棕色胳膊，鸡皮疙瘩都起来了。她目不转睛地盯着我。她瞎了吗？视力这么差，她怎么能做手术？然后我意识到：那受过教育的声音，那口音蒙蔽了她。我深深地吸收了迈克尔，吞下了他的声音，就像我饮下他的舌头一样。他吞下了我的吗？我不这么认为。
I say “No,” and wait for all the cockerels in Cape Town to crow simultaneously. Instead the servant starts from her trance and stares at me with undisguised admiration.
我说“不”，然后等着开普敦所有的公鸡同时打鸣。 结果，女仆突然从恍惚中惊醒，毫不掩饰地用钦佩的目光看着我。
“Good,” the woman smiles, showing yellow teeth. “One must check nowadays. These Colored girls, you know, are very forward, terrible types. What do they think of me, as if I would do every Tom, Dick and Harry. Not me you know; this is a respectable concern and I try to help decent women, educated you know. No, you can trust me. No Colored girl’s ever been on this sofa.”
“很好，”女人笑着，露出一口黄牙。“现在的人得好好检点一下。你知道，这些黑人女孩都很直率，很讨厌那种人。她们怎么看我，好像我会对任何事都上心似的。你知道，我可不是这样；这是一家值得尊敬的机构，我努力帮助正派、受过良好教育的女性。不，你可以相信我。从来没有黑人女孩坐过这张沙发。”
The girl coughs, winks at me and turns to stir a pot simmering on a primus stove on the table. The smell of offal escapes the pot and nausea rises in my throat, feeding the fear. I would like to run but my feet are lashed with fear to the linoleum. Only my eyes move, across the room where she pulls a newspaper from a wad wedged between the wall and the wardrobe. She spreads the paper on the divan and smooths with her hand while the girl shuts the door and turns the key. A cat crawls lazily from under the table and stares at me until the green jewels of its eyes shrink to crystal points.
女孩咳嗽一声，朝我眨眨眼，转身去搅动桌上普里默斯炉上正在煮的锅。锅里飘出一股内脏的气味，恶心感涌上喉咙，加剧了我的恐惧。我想跑，但我的双脚却被恐惧牢牢地踩在油毡上。只有我的目光在房间里移动，她从夹在墙壁和衣柜之间的一叠报纸里抽出一张。她把报纸铺在沙发上，用手抚平，女孩关上门，转动钥匙。一只猫懒洋洋地从桌子底下爬出来，盯着我，直到它那双碧绿的宝石般的眼睛缩小成晶莹的点。
She points me to the sofa. From behind the wardrobe she pulls her instrument and holds it against the baby-pink crimplene of her skirt.
她指着沙发，从衣柜后面拿出乐器，贴在淡粉色的褶皱裙子上。
“Down, shut your eyes now,” she says as I raise my head to look. Their movements are carefully orchestrated, the maneuvers practiced. Their eyes signal and they move. The girl stations herself by my head and her mistress moves to my feet. She pushes my knees apart and whips out her instrument from a pocket. A piece of plastic tubing dangles for a second. My knees jerk and my mouth opens wide but they are in control. A brown hand falls on my mouth and smothers the cry; the white hands wrench the knees apart and she kisses, “Don’t you dare. Do you want the bladdy police here? I’ll kill you if you scream.”
“趴下，现在闭上眼睛，”她说道，我抬起头去看。她们的动作都经过精心设计，动作都经过了练习。她们的眼神示意，她们就动了起来。女孩站在我头边，她的女主人走到我脚边。她分开我的膝盖，从口袋里掏出她的工具。一根塑料管子悬在空中一秒钟。我的膝盖猛地一震，嘴巴张得大大的，但她们控制着我。一只棕色的手捂住我的嘴，堵住了我的哭喊；那只白皙的手猛地掰开我的膝盖，她吻了我一下，“你敢。你想让警察来吗？你要是叫一声，我就杀了你。”
The brown hand over my mouth relaxes. She looks into my face and says, “She won’t.” I am a child who needs reassurance. I am surprised by the softness of her voice. The brown hand moves along the side of my face and pushes back my hair. I long to hold the other hand; I do not care what happens below. A black line of terror separates it from my torso. Blood spurts from between my legs and for a second the two halves of my body make contact through the pain.
捂住我嘴的棕色手放松了。她看着我的脸说：“她不会的。”我是个需要安慰的孩子。她声音的柔和让我吃惊。棕色的手沿着我的脸颊移动，把我的头发往后捋。我渴望握住另一只手；我不在乎下面会发生什么。一道恐惧的黑线将它与我的躯干隔开。鲜血从我的双腿间喷涌而出，一瞬间，我的两半身体在疼痛中接触到了一起。
So it is done. Deflowered by yellow hands wielding a catheter. Fear and hypocrisy, mine, my deserts spread in a dark stain on the newspaper.
就这样了。被挥舞着导管的黄手夺走了贞操。恐惧和虚伪，我的，我的应得，在报纸上留下了一块黑色的污渍。
“OK,” she says, “get yourself decent.” I dress and wait for her to explain. “You go home now and wait for the birth. Do you have a pad?”
“好的，”她说，“你得体点。”我穿好衣服，等她解释。“你现在回家等着分娩吧。你带卫生巾了吗？”
I shake my head uncomprehendingly. Her face tightens for a moment but then she smiles and pulls a sanitary towel out of the wardrobe.
我茫然地摇了摇头。她脸色一紧，但随即笑了笑，从衣柜里掏出一块卫生巾。
“Won’t cost you anything lovey.” She does not try to conceal the glow of her generosity. She holds out her hand and I place the purse in her palm. She counts, satisfied, but I wave away the purse which she reluctantly puts on the table.
“亲爱的，你什么也不用花。”她毫不掩饰自己慷慨的神情。她伸出手，我把钱包放在她手掌心。她满意地数着，但我挥手把钱包拿开，她很不情愿地把钱包放在了桌子上。
“You’re a good girl,” she says and puts both hands on my shoulders. I hold my breath; I will not inhale the fetid air from the mouth of this my grotesque bridegroom with yellow teeth. She plants the kiss of complicity on my cheek and I turn to go, repelled by her touch. But have I the right to be fastidious? I cannot deny feeling grateful, so that I turn back to claim the purse after all. The girl winks at me. The purse fits snugly in my hand; there would be no point in giving it back to Michael.
“你是个好女孩，”她说着，双手搭在我的肩膀上。我屏住呼吸；我才不肯吸入这个长着黄牙、长相怪异的新郎嘴里散发出的恶臭。她默默地吻了我的脸颊，我转身要走，却被她的触碰所击退。但我有权利挑剔吗？我禁不住心存感激，所以最终还是转身去拿钱包。女孩对我眨了眨眼。钱包握在手里很舒服；再也没有必要把它还给迈克尔了。
Michael’s face is drawn with fear. He is as ignorant of the process as I am. I am brisk, efficient and rattle off the plan. “It’ll happen tonight so I’ll go home and wait and call you in the morning. By then it will be all over.” He looks relieved.
迈克尔满脸惊恐。他跟我一样对流程一无所知。我动作轻快，效率极高，一口气把计划说了出来。“今晚就办好了，我先回家等着，明天早上给你打电话。到时候就全搞定了。”他看起来松了一口气。
He drives me right to the door and my landlady waves merrily from the step where she sits with her her embroidery among the potted ferns.
他直接开车送我到门口，我的女房东正坐在台阶上，手里拿着她的刺绣作品，周围是盆栽蕨类植物，她高兴地向我挥手致意 。
“Don’t look,” she says anxiously. “It’s a present for you, for your trousseau,” and smiling slyly, “I can tell when a couple just can’t wait any longer. There’s no catching me out, you know.”
“别看了，”她焦急地说。“这是给你的礼物，给你的嫁妆，”她狡黠地笑着说，“我能看出一对情侣是不是迫不及待了。你知道，我可没被发现。”
Tonight in her room next to mine she will turn in her chaste bed, tracing the tendrils from pink and orange flowers, searching for the needle lost in the endless folds of white linen.
今晚，在我隔壁的房间里，她会在她那张纯洁的床上翻身，沿着粉色和橙色花朵的卷须，寻找迷失在白色亚麻布无尽褶皱中的针头。
Semi-detached houses with red-polished stoeps line the west side of Trevelyan Road. On the east is the Cape Flats line where electric trains rattle reliably according to timetable. Trevelyan Road runs into the elbow of a severely curved Main Road which nevertheless has all the amenities one would expect: butcher, baker, hairdresser, chemist, library, liquor store. There is a fish and chips shop on that corner, on the funny bone of that elbow, and by the side, strictly speaking in Trevelyan Road, a dustbin leans against the trunk of a young palm tree. A newspaper parcel dropped in to this dustbin would absorb the vinegary smell of discarded fish and chips wrappings in no time.
特里维廉路西侧，两旁排列着带有红色抛光门廊的半独立式住宅。东侧是开普平原线，那里的电动火车按时刻表准时可靠地发出嘎吱嘎吱的声音。特里维廉路与一条弯弯曲曲的主干道相接，但主干道上却拥有人们所期望的一切便利设施：肉店、面包店、理发店、药店、图书馆和酒铺。在拐角处，拐弯处的拐角处有一家炸鱼薯条店，而在路边，严格来说，在特里维廉路的路边，一个垃圾桶靠在一棵年轻的棕榈树干上。把一个报纸包扔进这个垃圾桶，很快就会吸收掉丢弃的炸鱼薯条包装纸的酸味。
The wrapped parcel settles in the bin. I do not know what has happened to God. He is fastidious. He fled at the moment that I smoothed the wet black hair before wrapping it up. I do not know when he will come back. It is 6 A.M. Light pricks at the shroud of Table Mountain. The streets are deserted and, relieved, I remember that the next train will pass at precisely 6:22.
包裹被扔进了垃圾桶。我不知道上帝怎么了。他真是一丝不苟。我捋顺湿漉漉的黑发，准备把它包起来的时候，他却跑了。我不知道他什么时候会回来。现在是早上6点，桌山的云雾缭绕，微微刺痛。街道上空无一人，我松了一口气，想起下一班火车会在6点22分准时经过。
Questions
问题
Who is/are the main character(s)? Explain why you think so.
谁是主角？ 解释一下你为什么这么认为。
Who is/are the supporting character(s)? Explain why you think so.
谁是配角？解释一下你这样认为的原因。
Describe the setting(s) and any relevant prop(s)
描述场景和任何相关道具.
Tell the story in no more than two sentences.
用不超过两句话讲述这个故事。
Outline the events of the story in order.
按顺序概述故事中的事件。
Identify and explain the major conflicts in the story.
找出并解释故事中的主要冲突。
Explain the importance of each quotation:
解释每句引言的重要性：
The purse fits neatly into the palm of my hand. A man’s purse. The handbag gapes. With my elbow I press it against my hip but that will not avert suspicion. The bus is moving fast, too fast, surely exceeding the speed limit, so that I bob on my seat and my grip on the purse tightens as the springs suck at my womb, slurping it down through the plush of the red upholstery. I press my buttocks into the seat to ease the discomfort.
钱包恰好放在我的手掌心。一个男人的钱包。包包裂开了。我用胳膊肘把它抵在臀部，但这并不能避免怀疑。公交车开得很快，太快了，肯定超速了，所以我在座位上摇晃着，紧紧地抓住钱包，仿佛弹簧吸着我的子宫，把钱包透过红色座垫的绒毛吸了下去。我把臀部压在座位上，缓解不适。
I feel angry with Michael. He has probably never travelled by bus. How would he know of the fear of missing the unfamiliar stop, the fear of keeping an impatient conductor waiting, the fear of saying fluently, “Seventeen cents please,” when you are not sure of the fare and produce a five-rand note? But this is my journey and I must not expect Michael to take responsibility for everything. Or rather, I cannot expect Michael to take responsibility for more than half the things. Michael is scrupulous about this division; I am not always sure of how to arrive at half. I was never good at arithmetic, especially this instant mental arithmetic that is sprung on me.
我对迈克尔感到生气。他可能从来没坐过公交车。他怎么会知道错过不熟悉的站点的恐惧，害怕让不耐烦的售票员久等，害怕在不确定票价的情况下，拿出一张五兰特的钞票却流利地说“请付一角七分钱”呢？但这是我的旅程，我不能指望迈克尔包办所有事情。或者更确切地说，我不能指望迈克尔只负责一半以上的事情。迈克尔对这种划分非常谨慎；而我并不总是知道该如何得出一半。我从来都不擅长算术，尤其是这种突然冒出来的心算。
The large woman waves the bone as if it would burst into prophesy. My eyes follow the movement until the bone blurs and emerges as the Cross where the head of Jesus lolls sadly, his lovely feet anointed by sad hands, folded together under the driven nail. […] At midday Judas turns his face to the fading sun and bays, howls like a dog for its return as the darkness grows around him and swallows him whole with the money still jingling in the folds of his saffron robes. In a concealed leather purse, a pouch devoid of ornament.
身材魁梧的女人挥舞着骨头，仿佛它即将迸发出预言。我的目光追随着骨头的移动，直到骨头模糊，浮现出十字架，耶稣的头颅悲伤地垂下，他可爱的双脚被悲伤的手涂抹，交叠在钉子下。[…] 正午时分，犹大转过脸，面向渐渐消逝的夕阳，像狗一样嗥叫着，渴望着夕阳的回归。黑暗在他周围蔓延，将他吞噬，钱币在他藏红花色长袍的褶皱中依然叮当作响。钱币藏在一个隐蔽的皮包里，一个毫无装饰的小袋里。
“You’re not Colored, are you?”
“你不是有色人种，对吧？”
What techniques does Wicomb employ to show us the fear felt by the narrator?
威科姆采用了什么技巧来向我们展示叙述者所感受到的恐惧？
Why does the author include the exchange between the two black servants on the bus?
作者为什么要写公交车上两个黑人仆人的交流？
How is Michael described and how to does this, then, affect the reader’s impression of him?
迈克尔是如何被描述的？这又如何影响读者对他的印象？
Describe the abortionist’s “office”. What images are particularly powerful? What significance might they have?
描述一下堕胎医生的“办公室”。哪些图像特别有感染力？它们可能具有什么意义？
What are the last two paragraphs about? Why end the story this way? What does it all mean?
最后两段讲了什么？为什么故事要这样结束？这一切意味着什么？
Presentations
演示文稿
Research Apartheid in South Africa as it relates to – and explains – the story. Find specific examples in the text that show a racially divided society. In particular, look at the social position of Coloreds.
研究南非种族隔离制度与本文的关联，并解释其含义。在文中找出展现种族分裂社会的具体例子。 尤其要关注有色人种的社会地位。
Find all references to God and Christianity (and look for subtle allusions as well – it’s not always crystal clear). What is the significance of the references? What does it tell us about the narrator?
找出所有提及上帝和基督教的经文（也要注意那些微妙的暗示——它们并不总是那么清晰）。这些经文的意义是什么？它能告诉我们关于叙述者的什么信息？
Why does the author include the passage about Capt Point and the poem, ‘Love at Logiesbaai’?
为什么作者要加入有关 Capt Point 的段落和诗歌《Logiesbaai 的爱情》？