介绍:
(点击右边黑三角下拉有中英配文）
At two or three in the morning, after leaving the Englishman, she walks through the garden towards the sapper’s hurricane lamp, Absolute darkness between her and the light, but she knows every shrub and bush in her path, Sometimes she cups a hand over the glass funnel and blows out the flame, and sometimes she leaves it burning and ducks under it and enters through the open flaps, to crawl in against his body, the arm she wants, her tongue instead of a swab, her tooth instead of a needle, her mouth instead of the mask with the codeine drops to make him sleep, She folds her paisley dress and places it on top of her tennis shoes.
早上两三点钟，离开英国人后，她穿过花园，朝着工兵的防风灯走去，他把防风灯挂在圣克里斯托弗毋雕像的手臂上。黑暗横亘在她与灯光之间，但她熟悉小径上的一草一木。她路过烧营火的地方，仍有淡红色的火苗在燃烧。她有时把手拱成杯状，吹着火焰，有时则离开它，让它烧着。她低着头，进了帐篷，爬近基普的身体，那是她渴望的手臂。她用舌头代替棉花，用牙齿代替针，用嘴巴代替可卡因面罩使他人睡，使他慢慢沉睡下来。她把有着印花的衣服对折起来，放在网球鞋上。
The tent and the dark wood surround them. They are only a step past the comfort she has given others in the temporary hospitals in Ortona or Monterchi. Her body for last warmth, her whisper for comfort, her needle for sleep. But the sapper’s body allows nothing to enter him that comes from another world. A boy in love who will not eat the food she gathers, who does not need or want the drug in a needle she could
slide into his arm, as Caravaggio does.
帐篷和黑暗的树林围绕着他们。和奥托纳或蒙特奇临时医院里那些伤员比较起来，这不过是多了一点安慰。她的体温，她安慰的耳语，她催眠的药剂。但是工兵拒绝来自外界的东西进入他的身体。恋爱中的男孩不吃她找来的食物，不需要也不要她往他的手臂里注射药剂，像她为卡拉瓦焦所做的—样。
How much she is in love with him or he with her we don’t know. Or how much it is a game of secrets. As they grow intimate the space between them during the day grows larger. She likes the distance he leaves her, the space he assumes is their right.
我们不知道她或他有多爱对方，也不知道这里面有多少秘密游戏的成分。当他们日渐亲密时，他们在白天的空间却拉开了。她喜欢他与她保持距离，他所假定的空间是他们的权利。
She learns all the varieties of his darkness. The colour of his forearm against the colour of his neck. The colour of his palms, his cheek, the skin under the turban. The darkness of fingers separating red and black wires, or against bread he picks off the gunmetal plate he still uses for food.
她熟悉他身上不同程度的暗淡肤色，他手臂的颜色和脖子的颜色不同。他手掌的颜色，他的脸颊，头下的皮肤。分离着红线和黑线的深色手指。他从青铜盘里取了面包，他的肤色衬着面色的颜色。
She loves most the wet colours of his neck when he bathes. And his chest with its sweat which her fingers grip when he is over her, and the dark, tough arms in the darkness of his tent, or one time in her room when light from the valley’s city, finally free of curfew, rose among them like twilight and lit the colour of his body.
她喜欢他洗澡时湿漉漉的脖子上的肤色。在他的帐篷里，当他俯在她身上时，她的手抵着他汗湿的胸膛。那深色的、坚实的手臂。有一次在她的房间，宵禁解除了，山谷里城市的灯光照进房内，就像夕阳照亮了他的肤色。
Later she will realize he never allowed himself to be beholden to her, or her to him. She will stare at the word in a novel, lift it off the book and carry it to a dictionary. Beholden. To be under obligation. And he, she knows, never allowed that. If she crosses the two hundred yards of dark garden to him it is her choice, and she might find him asleep, not from a lack of love but from necessity, to be clear-minded towards the next day’s treacherous objects.
后来她明白了，他不希望自己感激她，也不愿她感激他。她在小说里看到“感激”这个词，把它抄下来，然后去查字典。那字眼有受人恩惠的意思。而他和她都明白，绝不能允许这种事情发生。如果她愿意穿过二百码黑暗的花园来到他身边，这是她的选择。也许她会发现他已经睡着，不是由于缺乏爱情，而是因为需要睡眠，以便清醒地面对明天的危险。
He thinks her remarkable. He wakes and sees her in the spray of the lamp. He loves most her face’s smart look. Or in the evenings he loves her voice as she argues Caravaggio out of a foolishness. And the way she crawls in against his body like a saint.
他认为她十分出色。他醒着看着她站在灯影里，他最喜欢她脸上那种伶俐的表情。有时他喜欢在晚上听她傻乎乎地和卡拉瓦焦争吵的声音，也喜欢她像个圣徒似的爬进他的帐篷，紧靠在身边。
They talk, the slight singsong of his voice within the canvas smell of their tent, which has been his all through the Italian campaign, which he reaches up to touch with his slight fingers as if it too belonged to his body, a khaki wing he folds over himself during the night. It is his world. She feels displaced out of Canada during these nights. He asks her why she cannot sleep. She lies there irritated at his self-sufficiency, his ability to turn so easily away from the world. She wants a tin roof for the rain, two poplar trees to shiver outside her window, a noise she can sleep against, sleeping trees and sleeping roofs that she grew up with in the east end of Toronto and then for a couple of years with Patrick and Clara along the Skootamatta River and later Georgian Bay. She has not found a sleeping tree, even in the density of this garden.
他们聊着，散发着帆布味的帐篷里充满着他轻柔的声音。这个帐篷已经跟随着他经历了意大利的所有战役。他伸手抚摸着帐篷，仿佛它是他身体的一部分。一只他在夜里可以藏身的卡其布羽翼。这是他的世界。这几夜她觉得像被放逐到加拿大一样。他问她为什么睡不着。她躺在那里，被他的独立所激怒，生气他能如此轻易地远离这个世界。她需要一个能够遮雨的铁皮屋顶，两株在她窗前枝叶婆娑的白杨树，她能在听这种声音的情况下睡去。在多伦多东部，有能使她入睡的树，能使她入睡的屋顶，此后几年她跟着帕特里克和克莱拉顺着斯古特麦特河而下，而后到达乔治湾，她都拥有那样的树和屋顶。但是在这个花木茂盛的花园里，她还没找到一棵能使她入睡的树。
“Kiss me. It’s your mouth I’m most purely in love with. Your teeth.” And later, when his head has fallen to one side, towards the air by the tent’s opening, she has whispered aloud, heard only by herself, “Perhaps we should ask Caravaggio. My father told me once that Caravaggio was a man always in love. Not just in love but always sinking within it. Always confused. Always happy. Kip? Do you hear me? I’m so happy with you. To be with you like this.”
“吻我，我最爱你的嘴和你的牙齿。”当他的头歪向一边，向着从帐篷门口吹进来的风时，她低语，不只是说给自己听：“也许我们该问问卡拉瓦焦。我爸爸曾对我说，卡拉瓦焦是那种经常坠人情网的人，不只是‘坠入’情网，而是经常沉溺其中，永远糊里糊涂的，但永远开心。基普，你听见我说话吗?我和你在一起的时候是那么快乐，就像现在。”
Most of all she wished for a river they could swim in. There was a formality in swimming which she assumed was like being in a ballroom. But he had a different sense of rivers, had entered the Moro in silence and pulled the harness of cables attached to the folding Bailey bridge, the bolted steel panels of it slipping into the water behind him like a creature, and the sky then had lit up with shell fire and someone was sinking beside him in mid-river. Again and again the sappers dove for the lost pulleys, grappling hooks in the water among them, mud and surface and faces lit up by phosphorus flares in the sky around them.
她最希望能有一条河让他们游泳。她猜想在河里游泳应该像在舞厅里跳舞一样。但是他对河流有另一种感觉。他曾悄悄地进入莫罗河，把绳索系在行将倒塌的贝利桥上，那些精选的钢板在他身后像生物般滑入河中，炮火染红了天空。在河中央，有人沉了下去。工兵们一次又一次地潜入水中寻找丢失的滑轮。他们一起努力寻找滑轮，并抓紧钩子，空中的磷火照亮了烂泥、水面和人们的脸孔。
All through the night, weeping and shouting, they had to stop each other going crazy. Their clothes full of winter river, And two days later another river. Every river they came to was bridge-less, as if its name had been erased, as if the sky were starless, homes doorless. The sapper units slid in with ropes, carried cables over their shoulders and spannered the bolts, oil-covered to silence the metals, and then the army marched over. Drove over the prefabricated bridge with the sappers still in the water below.
他们彻夜哭泣和喊叫，最后不得不互相制止，使自己不致于发疯。他们的衣衫被冬天的河水浸透，桥在他们头顶慢慢地连成一条路。他们经过的每一条河流都没有桥，好像河的名字已经消失，好像天空已不再有星星，家里也不再有门一样。工兵部队带着绳索滑入水中，他们用肩膀扛来缆绳，用扳手拧紧螺栓，涂上润滑油，使桥体不发出吱嘎声，而在部队通过之后，建造桥梁的工兵们还泡在水里。
So often they were caught in midstream when the shells came, flaring into mudbanks breaking apart the steel and iron into stones. Nothing would protect them then, the brown river thin as silk against metals that ripped through it. He turned from that. He knew the trick of quick sleep against this one who had her own rivers and was lost from them.
当炮弹飞来的时候，他们经常身处在河流中，毫无掩护。炮弹投向河岸，把钢铁炸得粉碎，没有什么掩体能保护他们，褐色的河像丝带一样薄，被钢铁切断了。他从回忆中回到现实。他知道要快快入睡，不要去管她，她已沉醉在自己想象的河流当中。
Yes, Caravaggio would explain to her how she could sink into love. Even how to sink into cautious love. “I want to take you to the Skootamatta River, Kip,” she said. “I want to show you Smoke Lake. The woman my father loved lives out on the lakes, slips into canoes more easily than into a car. I miss thunder that blinks out electricity. I want you to meet Clara of the canoes, the last one in my family. There are no others now. My father forsook her for a war.”
是的。卡拉瓦焦会向她解释怎样才能坠人情网，甚至怎样才能陷入谨慎的爱。“我想带你到斯古特麦特河去，基普，”她说，“我想带你去看烟波湖。我爸爸曾爱过的女人住在湖边。她坐进独木舟比坐进小汽车里容易。我怀念停电时的雷声和闪电。我希望你去见见坐独木舟的克莱拉。她是我们家的最后一个人。现在没有别人了，我爸爸为了战争抛弃了她。”
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