介绍:
（点击右边黑三角下拉有中英配文）
They move towards the house, under the trees.
When they came into the house the English patient was shouting. Hana let go of Caravaggio and he watched her run up the stairs.
The voice filled the halls. Caravaggio walked into the kitchen, tore off a section of bread and followed Hana up the stairs. When he stepped into the bedroom the Englishman was staring at a dog—the dog’s head angled back as if stunned by the screaming. Hana looked over to Caravaggio and grinned.
他们朝屋子走去，走在树下。
他们走进房子，英国病人正在大呼小叫。哈纳放开了卡拉瓦焦，他望着她跑上楼梯，扶着栏杆快步上楼。声音在走廊里回荡。卡拉瓦焦走进厨房，撕下一片面包，然后跟着哈纳上了楼。他朝那个房间走去，叫声越发疯狂。他走进卧室，看见英国人正瞪眼看着一只狗——狗往后扬起了头，仿佛被尖叫声吓着。哈纳望着卡拉瓦焦，咧嘴大笑。
“I haven’t seen a dog for years. All through the war I saw no dog.”
She crouched and hugged the animal, smelling its hair and the odour of hill grasses within it. She steered the dog towards Caravaggio, who was offering it the heel of bread. The Englishman saw Caravaggio then and his jaw dropped. It must have seemed to him that the dog—now blocked by Hana’s back —had turned into a man. Caravaggio collected the dog in his arms and left the room.
“我有好多年没看见狗了。在战争期间，我始终没有见过狗。”
她蹲了下来，抱住那只狗，闻着狗毛。小狗带着一股山间的青草味。她引着狗去找卡拉瓦焦，卡拉瓦焦给了它碎面包。这时，英国人看见了卡拉瓦焦，吃惊得嘴都合不拢。在他看来，一定是那只狗——现在被哈纳挡在身后——变成了一个人。卡拉瓦焦抱起狗，转身离开房间。
He poured some water into a bowl for the dog. An old mongrel, older than the war.
He sat down with the carafe of wine the monks from the monastery had given Hana. It was Hana’s house and he moved carefully, rearranging nothing. He noticed her civilization in the small wildflowers, the small gifts to herself. Even in the overgrown garden he would come across a square foot of grass snipped down with her nurse’s scissors. If he had been a younger man he would have fallen in love with this.
卡拉瓦焦往一个碗里倒了一些水给狗喝。一只生于这场战争之前的杂种老狗。
他拿着那瓶葡萄酒坐了下来，酒是修道院的修道士给哈纳的。这是哈纳的房子，他在里面走动时蹑手蹑脚，避免更动任何摆设。他注意到她重视那些小朵的野花，那些给她自己的小礼物。在这杂草横生的花园，他有时会走过那一英尺见方的草地——那里曾被她修剪过。如果他的年纪轻一些，他会爱上这一切。
He was no longer young. How did she see him? With his wounds, his unbalance, the grey curls at the back of his neck. He had never imagined himself to be a man with a sense of age and wisdom. They had all grown older, but he still did not feel he had wisdom to go with his aging.
He crouched down to watch the dog drinking and he rebalanced himself too late, grabbing the table, upsetting the carafe of wine.
Your name is David Caravaggio, right?
他已不再年轻了。她怎么看他呢?他受了伤，走路摇摇晃晃，颈后长着灰白色的卷发。他从没有想过自己会是一个年高睿智的人，他们全都上了年纪，但他仍然没有感到他的智慧随着年龄增长。
他蹲下身来，望着狗喝水。他没来得及稳住身体，一把抓住桌子，打翻了那瓶葡萄酒。
“你叫大卫•卡拉瓦焦，对吗?”
They had handcuffed him to the thick legs of an oak table. At one point he rose with it in his embrace, blood pouring away from his left hand, and tried to run with it through the thin door and falling. The woman stopped, dropping the knife, refusing to do more. The drawer of the table slid out and fell against his chest, and all its contents, and he thought perhaps there was a gun that he could use. Then Ranuccio Tommasoni picked up the razor and came over to him. Caravaggio, right? He still wasn’t sure.
他们把他铐到橡木桌子的粗桌脚上。他曾抱住桌脚站起来，血从左手汩汩流出。他想带着桌子跑出房门，结果摔倒了。那个女人住了手，扔下刀子，拒绝再干了。桌子的抽屉和里面的东西滑了出来，砸在他的胸前。他以为也许有把枪，这样他就可以派上用场。这时拉努齐奥•托马索尼捡起一把刮胡刀，走到他的跟前：“卡拉瓦焦，对吗?”
As he lay under the table, the blood from his hands fell into his face, and he suddenly thought clearly and slipped the handcuff off the table leg, flinging the chair away to drown out the pain and then leaning to the left to step out of the other cuff. Blood everywhere now. His hands already useless. For months afterwards he found himself looking at only the thumbs of people, as if the incident had changed him just by producing envy. But the event had produced age, as if during the one night when he was locked to that table they had poured a solution into him that slowed him.
他躺在桌下，从手上流出的血落在他的脸上。他突然清醒过来，把手铐从桌脚上褪下，痛得一脚踹开椅子，然后往左一歪，扯下另一只手铐。到处都是血。他的双手已经没用了。几个月后，他发现自己常呆看着别人的大拇指，心中充满妒意。这一事件使他变老了，似乎在他们把他与桌子铐在一起时，同时给他灌了一种药水，使他变得动作迟缓。
He stood up dizzy above the dog, above the red wine-soaked table. Two guards, the woman, Tommasoni, the telephones ringing, ringing, interrupting Tommasoni, who would put down the razor, caustically whisper Excuse me and pick up the phone with his bloody hand and listen. He had, he thought, said nothing of worth to them. But they let him go, so perhaps he was wrong.
他站了起来，感到一阵晕眩。身下是那只狗和洒了红葡萄酒的桌子。两名卫兵，那个女人，托马索尼。电话叮铃作响，打断了托马索尼。他放下刮胡刀，挖苦地说声对不起，用那只沾满鲜血的手拿起话筒。他觉得自己并没对他们说出什么有用的话。但是他们放了他，也许他搞错了。
Then he had walked along the Via di Santo Spirito to the one geographical location he had hidden away in his brain. Walked past Brunelleschi’s church towards the library of the German Institute, where he knew a certain person would look after him. Suddenly he realized this was why they had let him go. Letting him walk freely would fool him into revealing this contact. He arced into a side street, not looking back, never looking back. He wanted a street fire so he could stanch his wounds, hang them over the smoke from a tar cauldron so black smoke would envelop his hands. He was on the Santa Trinita Bridge. There was nothing around, no traffic, which surprised him. He sat on the smooth balustrade of the bridge, then lay back. No sounds. Earlier, when he had walked, his hands in his wet pockets, there had been the manic movement of tanks and jeeps.
随后他沿着圣斯皮里托大道，朝着脑中默记的那个地点走去。经过布鲁内莱斯基的教堂，走向德意志学院的书房。他知道那里会有人照料他。他突然明白他们为什么放了他。就为了让他自由走动，等他迷糊地暴露这个联络点。他拐进一个小巷，没有回头，一直没有回头。他想在街上找一处生火的地方，那样就能治疗伤口了。他可以在焦油锅冒出的烟上熏伤口，让黑烟裹住他的双手。他来到了圣三一桥上。周围什么都没有，没有行人车辆，这让他吃了一惊。他坐在光滑的桥栏杆上，躺下身来。没有声响。起先，在他把双手放在湿漉漉的口袋里，走在路上的时候，还有着战车和吉普车大肆移动的声响。
As he lay there the mined bridge exploded and he was flung upwards and then down as part of the end of the world. He opened his eyes and there was a giant head beside him. He breathed in and his chest filled with water. He was underwater. There was a bearded head beside him in the shallow water of the Arno. He reached towards it but couldn’t even nudge it. Light was pouring into the river. He swam up to the surface, parts of which were on fire.
当他躺在那里时，埋了地雷的桥爆炸了，他被掷到空中，然后又落回地面，似乎世界已不复存在了。他睁开眼睛，身边有一个巨大的脑袋。他吸了一口气，胸中立刻涌进大量的水。
他在水里。在阿尔诺河的浅水区里，他的身边有一个长了胡子的脑袋。他摸了过去，但推不动那个脑袋。亮光照进河里。他游到水面，火势已在部分的水面蔓延开来。
When he told Hana the story later that evening she said, “They stopped torturing you because the Allies were coming. The Germans were getting out of the city, blowing up bridges as they left.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I told them everything. Whose head was it? There were constant phone calls into that room. There would be a hush, and the man would pull back from me, and all of them would watch him on the phone listening to the silence of the other voice, which we could not hear. Whose voice? Whose head?”
“They were leaving, David.”
那天傍晚，他告诉哈纳这个故事。她听了以后，说：“他们不再折磨你，是因为盟军快到了。德军当时正在撤出城去，离开的时候炸毁了桥梁。”
“我不知道。也许我把一切都告诉他们了。那会是谁?老是有人打电话到房间来。那个人在发出嘘的一声后，从我身边走开，而其他的人全都望着他听着那个我们听不见的声音讲话。那是谁的声音?那会是谁?”
“他们当时正在撤离，大卫。”
She opens The Last of the Mohicans to the blank page at the back and begins to write in it.
There is a man named Caravaggio, a friend of my father’s. I have always loved him. He is older than I am, about forty-five, 1 think. He is in a time of darkness, has no confidence. For some reason I am cared for by this friend of my father.
She closes the book and then walks down into the library and conceals it in one of the high shelves.
她打开<大地英豪》，翻到了书后的空白页，拿笔写了一段话：
有个人叫卡拉瓦焦，是我父亲的一个朋友。我一向敬爱他。他比我大，我想大概有四十五岁了。他现在正是失意的时候，丧失了自信。由于某种原因，我得到了我父亲这位朋友的照料。
她合上书，走进书房，把它藏在一排高高的书架上。
----每周一/三/五晚更----
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