本帖最后由 ヮ成熟、羙° 于 2013-7-8 20:11 编辑
一盘豌豆
荷叶/译
外公去世时，我还是个小男孩。此后，外婆就搬到我家来，每年和我们一起住上大约半年时间。她住的房间兼做父亲的办公室，我们称作“内室”。她浑身带着一股浓浓的香水味。我不知道她使用哪种香水，但一定是那种双筒的，纯度百分之九十，令人萎靡不振，呛昏人，呛死驼鹿的廉价品。她把香水装在一个喷瓶里，随时随地往身上喷。进她的房间想正常呼吸，哪怕是一分一秒都几乎是不可能的。当她离开我家，去莉莲姨妈家住上半年时，妈妈和姐姐们会打开所有的窗子，剥光床上的一切，取下窗帘，拿走地毯。她们会一连花上几天把这些东西又洗又晒，疯狂地想把这股刺激性的气味驱走。这正是发生那次让我声名扫地的豌豆事件时的外婆。
这件事发生在巴尔的摩旅馆，那旅馆对于一个八岁的小孩来说，是全天下最华丽的吃饭的地方。我和外婆还有妈妈逛了半天商场后，回旅馆吃午饭。我堂而皇之地点了一份索尔兹伯尼牛排，认为这样奇特的名字，一定是一份好吃的老式肉汁汉堡。端上来时，配菜却是一盘豌豆。 我现在不爱吃豌豆，那时不爱吃豌豆，而且一直讨厌吃豌豆。为什么有人主动要豌豆吃对我一直是个谜。我在家里没吃过豌豆，在饭店里没吃过豌豆，当然那时也不打算吃。 “把你的豌豆吃掉。”外婆说。 “妈，”妈妈用提醒的语气说：“他不喜欢吃豌豆，别管他了。” 外婆没有回答，但她闪烁的目光和冷峻的下巴说明她没有被挫败。她朝着我的方向俯下身躯，定定地看着我的眼睛，说出了那句改变了我一生的话：“如果你吃下这盘豌豆，我给你五美元。”
我完全不知道即将降临的恶运。我只想到五美元是一笔巨大的几乎无法想象的钱，豌豆虽然讨厌，可只有一盘，吃下它，我就会拥有五美元。我开始把这种讨厌的东西送入喉咙。 妈妈铁青着脸。外婆一副洋洋得意的表情，好象打出了一张不可战胜的王牌。“埃伦，我可以做我想做，你阻止不了我。”妈妈怒视着外婆，也怒视着我，没有人会像妈妈那样怒目而视。如果奥运会中有瞪眼睛这一项目的话，毫无疑问妈妈准会拿金牌。 我当然是继续往喉咙里倒着豌豆。妈妈的怒视使我紧张，每一粒豌豆都使我想吐，但那富有魔力的五美元在我眼前晃来晃去。我终于吞下了最后一粒豌豆。外婆用夸张的动作把五美元递给了我。妈妈还在怒目而视，一言不发。这个插曲就此结束，我是这样认为的。 几周后，外婆搬到莉莲姨妈家去住。那天晚餐，妈妈端上两道我一直喜欢的菜，烘肉卷和土豆泥，外加一大碗热气腾腾的豌豆。妈妈递给我一些豌豆，我拒绝了。那是我年幼无知的最后时刻。妈妈冷冷地盯了我一眼，随后把一大堆豌豆放入了我的盘子。接下来说出了那句困扰我多年的话：“你为金钱吃过豌豆，为爱也能吃。” 绝望，极度悲伤，我开始意识到自己已不经意间坠入了无法逃脱的地狱，但为时已晚。 “你为金钱吃过豌豆，为爱也能吃。” 用什么样的论据来反驳这句话？我找不到。我吃了豌豆吗？你一定猜到了，我吃了。那天我吃了，而且此后每一次妈妈端上来，我都吃了。那五美元很快就花完了，几年后外婆去世了。但是豌豆的遗产流传下来了，一直到今天。现在我依然讨厌这种令人恐怖的小东西。可每当妈妈端上来时，只要我的嘴唇一动，妈妈就会重复一遍那句让人恐怖的话：“你为金钱吃过豌豆，为爱也能吃。”
附：原文
A Plate of Peas My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father's office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don't know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away. This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the pea incident. It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fanciest place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas. I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now. "Eat your peas," my grandmother said. "Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn't like peas. Leave him alone." “My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I'll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas." I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat. My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can't stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal. I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought. My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian's a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years. "You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love." Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape. "You ate them for money. You can eat them for love." What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love." | 
发表于 2013-7-8 18:52:25
QQ空间
腾讯微博
腾讯朋友
转播
分享
收藏
