记忆之摇篮 文学之启蒙

鲍海飞2013-10-17

  今年诺贝尔文学家奖授予了加拿大的女作家爱丽丝-门罗Alice Munro。她被称为“当代短篇小说大家（a master of contemporary short story）。在上一篇介绍门罗的小文中，从她的简历中，我发现了她的父亲是一个fox farmer，为了弄清楚这究竟是个什么职业，后来居然在网上顺藤摸瓜无意间找到了她的一篇小说“boys and girls”，而这篇短篇小说里面恰好介绍的是有关“狐狸的故事”。该小说写于1968年，在这一年她发表了她的第一部小说集《快乐影子舞》（dance of happy shades），Boys and Girls 是其中的一篇。当时的社会是男性主宰的社会，也是男主外、女主内。因此，这是一篇关于性别敏感的小说（gender-sensitive short story）。小说中的主人公是一个小女孩，她非常向往要和男人过一样的生活。估计在这部短篇小说里，应该记载了她童年的故事，也记载了那个时代。下面是这部小说中的开始两段，按照我的理解将它翻译出来。 

1，我的父亲是一个从事养殖狐狸的人。就是说，他圈养银狐，而每到秋天和早冬之时，当狐狸的皮毛在最柔美之时，我的父亲便将它们杀掉、剥皮熟毛，最后将皮毛卖到胡德顺弯公司，或者卖给蒙特利尔的皮毛商。这些公司会送给我们大幅的挂历，我们便将这些挂历悬挂在厨房门的两侧。在冷冷的蓝色天空下和黑黑的松树森林以及波涛汹涌的北部大河映衬下的土地上，飘扬着那些头戴有羽毛帽子的冒险家们所插着英格兰或是法国的旗子，还有众多的苦役之人弓着腰弯着背在河边忙碌运输。

My father was a fox farmer. That is, he raised silver foxes, in pens; and in the fall and early winter, when their fur was prime, he killed them and skinned them and sold their pelts to the Hudson's Bay Company or the Montreal Fur Traders. These companies supplied us with heroic calendars to hang, one on each side of the kitchen door. Against a background of cold blue sky and black pine forests and treacherous northern rivers, plumed adventures planted the flags of England and or of France; magnificent savages，bent their backs to the portage.

2，圣诞节前的几个星期，每当晚饭后，我父亲便在我们家的地下室开始忙碌起来。地下室清洗得很干净，有一个专用的桌子，桌子上放悬挂有一个一百度的灯泡在亮着。我的哥哥拉德和我坐在高高的台阶上看着。我父亲把狐狸从里到外将毛皮剥开，去掉那些虚饰的皮毛，那狐狸剩下的身体便显得特别地瘦小，就像个老鼠。那裸露的、滑滑腻腻的狐狸尸体便被装到一个袋子里，掩埋到一个专门的弃物处。一次，我父亲雇佣的一个家伙，亨利-贝利居然用这样的袋子甩到我身上，竟然说“圣诞礼物！”我母亲看了，觉得他相当无趣。实际上，我母亲她一点都不喜欢那给狐狸剥皮的过程—那血腥的杀戮、去皮，整理毛皮之类，并且也十分不喜欢在房子里面来做这样的活儿，因为那气味。在一个长板上，将动物的兽皮剥开展开后，我父亲便小心仔细地刮起来，去掉那些网状纠结的血管、肪的囊泡；随之，狐狸肌体那强烈的血腥和脂肪气味便一下子弥散到整个房子里。感觉就像那非常熟悉的季节来临时，那橘子或者松树针叶发出的味道。

For several weeks before Christmas, my father worked after supper in the cellar of our house. the cellar was white washed , and lit by a hundred-watt bulb over the worktable. My brother Laird and I sat on the top step and watched. My father removed the pelt inside-out from the body of the fox, which looked surprisingly small, mean, and rat-like, deprived of its arrogant weight of fur. The naked, slippery bodies were collected in a sack and buried in the dump. One time the hired man, Henry Bailey, had taken a swipe at me with this sack, saying, "Christmas present!" My mother thought that was not funny. In fact she disliked the whole pelting operation--that was what the killing, skinning, and preparation of the furs was called – and wished it did not have to take place in the house. There was the smell. After the pelt had been stretched inside-out on a long board my father scraped away delicately, removing the little clotted webs of blood vessels, the bubbles of fat; the smell of blood and animal fat, which the strong primitive odor of the fox itself, penetrated all parts of the house. I found it reassuringly seasonal, like the smell of oranges and pine needles.

  也许，就是在那辽阔的土地上，在一个美丽的乡园中，那炊烟，那马儿，那狐狸，那些男孩、女孩的身影，是那难忘的回忆，孕育了一个记录那片土地的作家。 

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