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流动的盛宴|A Moveable Feast

第一章　圣米歇尔广场一家惬意的咖啡馆|A Good Café on the Place St.-Michel

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 海明威] 阅读：[5237]
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天公老是不作美。秋天一过，坏天气便会接踵而至。夜里睡觉得关窗户以防风雨，寒风吹来，使得康特斯卡普广场上的树叶尽数飘落，浸泡在雨水里。风裹着雨扑向汽车终点站，击打在巨大的绿色公共汽车上。“业余爱好者”咖啡馆里人满为患，里面的热气和烟雾弄得窗户玻璃上都结了一层水雾。这家咖啡馆经营方略欠佳，来的都是些当地的酒鬼，对于它，我望而却步，怕闻酒鬼身上的恶臭味以及难闻的呕吐物味。那些男男女女逗留于这家咖啡馆，一醉方休，有钱就块儿八毛地买酒喝，非花个囊空如洗不可。这里陈列有名目繁多的开胃酒，但由于钱囊羞涩，问津者寥寥——有些人即便饮几口，也只是作为开杯的垫底酒，此后还要靠廉价酒为续。至于女酒鬼，人称“Poivrottes”，意思是嗜酒如命的女人。

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“业余爱好者”咖啡馆是个藏垢纳污的场所，地处穆浮塔街——穆浮塔街是一条别开生面的市场街，狭长、热闹，一直通往康特斯卡普广场。街上坐落着许多老式公寓房，每层楼的楼梯旁都有一间蹲式厕所，在蹲坑两边各有一个刻有防滑条的水泥鞋形踏板，以防如厕人滑倒。这些蹲式厕所把粪便排入粪便池，夜间用泵抽进马拉的运粪车里。一到夏天，住户敞开窗户，就会听到抽粪的声音，闻到扑鼻的臭味。运粪车一般都漆成棕色和橘黄色，月夜驶上勒穆瓦纳主教街，那马拉着的车以及车上装粪便的圆筒简直就像一幅布拉克[1]的油画。可是，“业余爱好者”咖啡馆的污秽物却无人清理，墙上贴了张告示，列有禁止在公众场所酗酒的条款和惩罚的措施，已经发黄，沾满蝇屎，没人理睬，就像这里的顾客一样固若金汤，散发出难闻的气味。

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[1]　法国著名画家，曾于1914年同毕加索一道发起立体主义绘画运动。
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第一场寒冷的冬雨过后，巴黎城气氛大变，呈现一片萧瑟的景象，走在街上，观赏那些高大的白房子时，已看不见它们的顶篷，目之所及尽是潮湿又阴暗的街道、关门闭户的小商铺、草药店、文具店和报亭，还有那个接生婆下榻的二流旅馆——魏尔伦[2]就是在这家旅馆离开了人世，而我在这家旅馆的顶层包了个房间在写作时用。

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[2]　法国19世纪象征派诗人。
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到顶层得爬六七段或七八段楼梯。我的房间冷得像冰窖，必须去买一捆细枝条和三捆用铁丝扎好的半支铅笔那么长的短松木劈柴，然后用细枝条引火点着那些劈柴，再添上一捆半干半湿的硬木，这才能叫房间暖和起来。但我知道这笔花销肯定不菲，于是便走到街对面，抬头观望雨中的屋顶，看那些烟囱是否在冒烟以及冒出来的烟是浓还是淡。结果发现那儿不见任何冒出来的烟，于是我不禁心想：烟囱是冷的，不通风；假如在房间里生火，一定会弄得满屋子都是烟，白白浪费燃料，花出的钱还不是打水漂了。想到这里，我就冒雨举步继续前行，走过亨利四世公立中学，走过古老的圣埃德尼杜蒙教堂和狂风呼啸的先贤祠广场，然后向右拐，想找个躲雨的地方，最后来到圣米歇尔林荫大道背风的一侧，沿着大道继续向前经过克吕尼教堂和圣日耳曼林荫大道，一直走到圣米歇尔广场上一家我熟悉的惬意的咖啡馆。这里暖和、干净而且友好，叫人心情愉快。我把我的旧雨衣挂在衣架上晾干，摘下那顶饱经风雨已破旧不堪的毡帽放在座位旁边的帽架上，叫了一杯牛奶咖啡。侍者把咖啡送来后，我从上衣口袋里取出一本笔记簿和一支铅笔，便开始写作。我写的是密歇根州北部的故事。这是一个风雨交加、寒气逼人的日子，与故事里的那个日子颇为相似。我经历了童年、少年和青年时期，看惯了秋去冬来的景象。写故事写自己身处的环境要比写别的环境更有味道，这叫作“身临其境”，我觉得不管面前的是人还是蓬勃发展的事物都是如此。不过，故事里的主人公是些小伙子，他们正在开怀痛饮，这引得我馋虫拱动，于是便叫了杯圣詹姆斯牌朗姆酒。大冷天喝上几口朗姆酒，感觉特别好。我拿起笔继续写作，感到爽极了——那马提尼克[3]产的朗姆酒涌遍了我的全身，使我的身心都暖和了起来。

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[3]　法国的海外大区，位于小安地列斯群岛的向风群岛最北部，岛上自然风光优美，有火山和海滩。
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一个女孩走进咖啡馆，独自在一张靠窗的桌子边坐下。她有一副沉鱼落雁的容貌，脸蛋清新秀丽，像一枚刚刚铸就的硬币（那是用吹弹可破、平展细腻、经雨水洗过的皮肤铸造的硬币），一头黑发如乌云一般，修剪得整整齐齐，斜掠过前额。

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我见了心里一动，不由激动起来，很想把她写进手头的这篇故事里或者别的什么作品里。不过，她坐在那里观望着街上以及咖啡馆的入口处，显然在等人。我见了，便知趣地又继续写我的东西。

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写作归写作，但我心不在焉，思绪难以安定下来。我又叫了一杯圣詹姆斯朗姆酒提神，眼睛直往女孩那边看——我只要抬起头，或者用卷笔刀削铅笔，让削下的螺旋形铅笔屑落入盛酒杯的小碟子中，都会瞟上她两眼。

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我心猿意马，暗自思忖：“美人啊，我看着你呢。不管你在等谁，也不管以后是否还能再见到你，反正此时此刻你非我莫属。你属于我，整个巴黎都属于我，而我听命于这本笔记簿和这支铅笔。”

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后来我又挥笔疾书，一颗心深入故事情节里，写得如痴如醉。现在的我已不再心不在焉，而是全神贯注了，不再抬头张望，忘掉了时间，忘掉了自己身在何处，也不再要圣詹姆斯朗姆酒喝了——对于圣詹姆斯朗姆酒，我已感到厌倦，想都不再想它了。等到故事写完后，我已累得浑身发软，把最后的那段读了一遍，再抬起头时，发现那女孩已经离去。我心里暗暗祝愿：但愿带她走的是个好男人！话虽如此，我还是感到有些伤感。

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我把稿纸叠起放在笔记簿里，然后将笔记簿放进上衣的暗兜，向侍者要了十几只这家咖啡馆里特供的葡萄牙牡蛎和半瓶干白葡萄酒。我每写完一篇小说总感到空落落的，既悲伤又快活，仿佛做了一次爱似的。至于这篇故事，我胸有成竹，断定它是一篇佳作，只不过它究竟好到什么程度还不得而知，这得等到明天通读一遍才好下结论。

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葡萄牙牡蛎带着浓浓的海腥味和一丝淡淡的金属味。我一边吃牡蛎，一边喝冰镇的白葡萄酒，借酒冲走金属味，嘴里只留下了海鲜味和多汁的牡蛎肉。每个牡蛎壳里那凉凉的肉汁，我都会吸个干净，再灌几口甘洌的酒液把肉汁冲下肚子。至此，那种空落落的感觉消失了，心情由阴转晴，我开始运筹帷幄，规划自己的生活。

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既然巴黎天公不作美，那就暂时离开巴黎，到一个没有雨只有雪的地方——那里的松林、道路和高山的山坡银装素裹，夜间走回家去，脚下的白雪发出咔嚓咔嚓的声音。莱萨旺[4]就是这么一个地方，山下有一户农家乐，膳宿条件特佳，我们两口子可以一起住在那里，白天看书，夜里暖暖和和地睡在一张床上，敞开窗户看窗外明亮的星斗。要去就去那种地方——乘列车坐三等车厢，车钱不贵，农家乐的膳宿费也并不比巴黎的开销多到哪里去。

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[4]　瑞士的一个村庄，群山环绕，冰雪覆盖。
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我要把旅馆里那间我写作用的房间退掉，只需付勒穆瓦纳主教街74号的房租即可（那点钱是微不足道的）。我曾为《多伦多日报》写过一篇新闻报道，稿费按说也快到了。那种稿件随时随地都可以写。所以说，这趟旅行的盘缠应该是够用的。

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也许，离开巴黎后，我可以写写巴黎的人和事，这就跟我身在巴黎写的是密歇根的故事一样。我却全然不知要写巴黎还为时过早，因为我对巴黎了解得还不够深入。然而，故事最后还是写了出来。不管怎么说，反正只要我的妻子愿意去，我们就拍屁股走人。想到这里，我吃完牡蛎，将杯中之酒一饮而尽，把咖啡馆的账结清，然后冒着雨赶回圣吉纳维芙山，取近道返回位于山顶的公寓房，心里觉得这阴雨天仅是巴黎一地的鬼天气，不能叫它改变自己的生活质量。

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妻子听后，便对我说道：“我觉得这将是一次美妙的旅行，塔蒂[5]！咱们何时动身？”她有一张模特儿的脸蛋，每逢做决定时两眼熠熠生辉，笑得跟一朵花儿似的，仿佛这就是她赠送给我的贵重礼物。

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[5]　海明威当新闻记者时曾用过的笔名。
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“你说什么时候走就什么时候走。”

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“哦，我巴不得马上就走。这你难道不知道吗？”

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“也许等咱们回来的时候，这里的天气就变好了，天空就晴朗了。一旦天晴了，变冷了，日子是可以过得非常舒坦的。”

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“我想一定会这样的，”妻子说，“你能想到出去旅行，真让人高兴。”

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Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the Café des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time, or all of the time they could afford it, mostly on wine which they bought by the half-liter or liter. Many strangely named apéritifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes which meant female rummies.

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The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with the two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, we would hear the pumping and the odor was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron color and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Café des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill-smelling.

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All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife—second class—and the hotel where Verlaine had died where I had a room on the top floor where I worked.

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It was either six or eight flights up to the top floor and it was very cold and I knew how much it would cost for a bundle of small twigs, three wire-wrapped packets of short, half-pencil length pieces of split pine to catch fire from the twigs, and then the bundle of half-dried lengths of hard wood that I must buy to make a fire that would warm the room. So I went to the far side of the street to look up at the roof in the rain and see if any chimneys were going, and how the smoke blew. There was no smoke and I thought about how the chimney would be cold and might not draw and of the room possibly filling with smoke, and the fuel wasted, and the money gone with it, and I walked on in the rain. I walked down past the Lycée Henri Quatre and the ancient church of St-étienne-du-Mont and the windswept Place du Panthéon and cut in for shelter to the right and finally came out on the lee side of the Boulevard St.-Michel and worked on down it past the Cluny and the Boulevard St.-Germain until I came to a good café that I knew on the Place St.-Michel.

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It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write. I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. But in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St. James. This tasted wonderful on the cold day and I kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.

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A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.

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I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.

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The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.

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I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

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Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.

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I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.

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As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

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Now that the bad weather had come, we could leave Paris for a while for a place where this rain would be snow coming down through the pines and covering the road and the high hillsides and at an altitude where we would hear it creak as we walked home at night. Below Les Avants there was a chalet where the pension was wonderful and where we would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright. That was where we could go. Traveling third class on the train was not expensive. The pension cost very little more than we spent in Paris.

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I would give up the room in the hotel where I wrote and there was only the rent of 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine which was nominal. I had written journalism for Toronto and the checks for that were due. I could write that anywhere under any circumstances and we had money to make the trip.

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Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan. I did not know it was too early for that because I did not know Paris well enough. But that was how it worked out eventually. Anyway we would go if my wife wanted to, and I finished the oysters and the wine and paid my score in the café and made it the shortest way back up the Montagne Ste. Geneviève through the rain, that was now only local weather and not something that changed your life, to the flat at the top of the hill.

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“I think it would be wonderful, Tatie,” my wife said. She had a gently modeled face and her eyes and her smile lighted up at decisions as though they were rich presents. “When should we leave?”

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“Whenever you want.”

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“Oh, I want to right away. Didn’t you know?”

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“Maybe it will be fine and clear when we come back. It can be very fine when it is clear and cold.”

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“I’m sure it will be,” she said. “Weren’t you good to think of going, too.”

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

rummy

[’rʌmi]

n.酒鬼;兰米牌

disregard

[ˌdɪsrɪ’ɡɑːd]

vt.不顾;忽视

midwife

[’mɪdwaɪf]

n.助产士;接生婆

thirsty

[’θɜːsti]

adj.口渴的;渴望的

diagonal

[daɪ’æɡənl]

adj.对角线的;斜的;斜纹的

excite

[ɪk’saɪt]

vt.使兴奋;使激动;刺激;激起

saucer

[’sɔːsə(r)]

n.茶托;碟子

Paris

[’pærɪs]

n.巴黎;重楼(百合科植物);帕里斯(姓氏)

felted

[’feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

crisp

[krisp]

a. 脆的；酥的；松脆的;

Toronto

[tə’rɔntəu]

n.多伦多(加拿大城市)

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