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花园余影(continuidad de las parques 中文译本)

花园余影 

[阿根廷]胡利奥·科塔萨尔 
刘文荣 译 

几天前,他开始读那本小说。因为有些紧急的事务性会谈,他把书搁下了,在坐火车回自己庄园的途中,他又打开了书;他不由得慢慢对那些情节、人物性格发生了兴趣。那天下午,他给庄园代理人写了一封授权信并和他讨论了庄园的共同所有权问题之后,便坐在静悄悄的、面对着有橡树的花园的书房里,重新回到了书本上。他懒洋洋地倚在舒适的扶手椅里,椅子背朝着房门——只要他一想到这门,想到有可能会受人骚扰就使他恼怒——用左手来回地抚摸着椅子扶手上绿色天鹅绒装饰布,开始读最后的几章。他毫不费力就记起了人名,脑中浮现出人物,小说几乎一下子就迷住了他。他感受到一种简直是不同寻常的欢愉,因为他正在从缠绕心头的各种事务中一一解脱;同时,他又感到自己的头正舒适地靠在绿色天鹅绒的高椅背上,意识到烟卷呆呆地被夹在自己伸出的手里,而越过窗门,那下午的微风正在花园的橡树底下跳舞。一字一行地,他被那男女主人公的困境窘态吸引了,情不自禁地陷入了幻景之中,他变成了那山间小屋里的最后一幕的目击者。那女的先来,神情忧虑不安;接着,她的情人进来了,他脸上被树枝划了一道口子。她万分敬慕,想用亲吻去止住那血,但他却断然拒绝她的爱抚,在周围一片枯枝残叶和条条林中诡秘小路的庇护之中,他没有重演那套隐蔽的、情欲冲动。那把短剑靠在他胸口变得温暖了,在胸膛里,自由的意志愤然涌起而又隐而不露。一段激动的、充满情欲的对话象一条条蛇似地从纸面上一溜而过,使人觉得这一切都象来自永恒的天意。就是那缠住情人身体的爱抚,表面上似乎想挽留他、制止他,它们却令人生厌地勾勒出那另一个人的必须去经受毁灭的身躯。什么也没有忘记:托词借口、意外的机遇、可能的错误。从此时起,每一瞬间都有其精心设计好的妙用。那不通人情的、对细节的再次检查突然中断,致使一只手可以抚摸一张脸颊。这时天色开始暗下来。 

现在,两人没有相对而视,由于一心执意于那等待着他们的艰巨任务,他们在小屋门前分手了。她沿着伸向北面的小径走去。他呢,站在相反方向的小路上,侧身望了好一会儿,望着她远去,她的头发松蓬蓬的,在风里吹拂。随后,他也走了,屈着身体穿过树林和篱笆,在昏黄的尘雾里,他一直走,直到能辨认出那条通向大屋子的林荫道。料想狗是不会叫的,它们果真没有叫。庄园管家在这时分是不会在庄园里的,他果真不在。他走上门廊前的三级台阶,进了屋子。那女人的话音在血的滴答声里还在他耳里响着:先经过一间蓝色的前厅,接着是大厅,再接着便是一条铺着地毯的长长的楼梯。楼梯顶端,两扇门。第一个房间空无一人,第二个房间也空无一人。接着,就是会客室的门,他手握刀子,看到那从大窗户里射出的灯光,那饰着绿色天鹅绒的扶手椅高背上露出的人头,那人正在阅读一本小说。 

HOUSE TAKEN OVER

【我们仍未知道那天占领我们家的生物是什么】

We liked the house because, apart from its being old and spacious (in a day when old houses go down for a profitable auction of their construction materials), it kept the memories of great‐grandparents, our paternal grandfather, our parents and the whole of childhood.


Irene and I got used to staying in the house by ourselves, which was crazy, eight people could have lived in that place and not have gotten in each other’s way. We rose at seven in the morning and got the cleaning done, and about eleven I left Irene to finish off whatever rooms and went to the kitchen. We lunched at noon precisely; then there was nothing left to do but a few dirty plates. It was pleasant to take lunch and commune with the great hollow, silent house, and it was enough for us just to keep it clean. We ended up thinking, at times, that that was what had kept us from marrying. Irene turned down two suitors for no particular reason, and Maria Esther went and died on me before we could manage to get engaged. We were easing into our forties with the unvoiced concept that the quiet, simple marriage of sister and brother was the indispensable end to a line established in this house by our grandparents. We would die here someday, obscure and distant cousins would inherit the place, have it torn down, sell the bricks and get rich on the building plot; or more justly and better yet, we would topple it ourselves before it was too late.


Irene never bothered anyone. Once the morning housework was finished, she spent the rest of the day on the sofa in her bedroom, knitting. I couldn’t tell you why she knitted so much; I think women knit when they discover that it’s a fat excuse to do nothing at all. But Irene was not like that, she always knitted necessities, sweaters for winter, socks for me, handy morning robes and bedjackets for herself. Sometimes she would do a jacket, then unravel it the next moment because there was something that didn’t please her; it was pleasant to see a pile of

tangled wool in her knitting basket fighting a losing battle for a few hours to retain its shape. Saturdays I went downtown to buy wool; Irene had faith in my good taste, was pleased with the colors and never a skein had to be returned. I took advantage of these trips to make the rounds of the bookstores, uselessly asking if they had anything new in French literature. Nothing worthwhile had arrived in Argentina since 1939.

But it’s the house I want to talk about, the house and Irene, I’m not very important. I wonder what Irene would have done without her knitting. One can reread a book, but once a pullover is finished you can’t do it over again, it’s some kind of disgrace. One day I found that the drawer at the bottom of the chiffonier, replete with
mothballs, was filled with shawls, white, green, lilac. Stacked amid a great smell of camphor‐ it was like a shop; I didn’t have the nerve to ask her what she planned to do with them. We didn’t have to earn our living, there was plenty coming in from the farms each month, even piling up. But Irene was only interested in the knitting and showed a wonderful dexterity, and for me the hours slipped away watching her, her hands like silver sea‐urchins, needles flashing, and one or two knitting baskets on the floor, the balls of yarn jumping about. It was lovely.

How not to remember the layout of that house. The dinning room, a living room with tapestries, the library, and three large bedrooms in the section most recessed, the one that faced toward Rodriguez Pena. Only a corridor with its massive oak door separated that part from the front wing, where there was a bath, the kitchen, our bedrooms and the hall. One entered the house through a vestibule with enameled tiles, and a wrought‐iron gated door opened onto the living room. You had to come in through the vestibule and open the gate to go into the living room; the doors to our bedrooms were on either side of this, and opposite was the corridor leading to the back section; going down the passage, one swung open the oak door beyond which was the other part of the
house; or just before the door, one could turn to the left and go down a narrower passageway which led to the kitchen and the bath. When the door was open, you became aware of the size of the house; when it was closed, you had the impression of an apartment, like the ones they build today, with barely enough room to move around in. Irene and I always lived in this part of the house and hardly ever went beyond the oak door except to do the cleaning. Incredible how much dust collected on the furniture. It may be Buenos Aires is a clean city, but she owes it to her population and nothing else. There’s too much dust in the air, the slightest breeze and it’s back on the marble console tops and in the diamond patterns of the tooled‐leather desk set. It’s a lot of work to get it off with a feather duster; the motes rise and hang in the air, and settle again a minute later on the pianos and the furniture.

I’ll always have a clear memory of it because it happened so simply and without fuss. Irene was knitting in her bedroom, it was eight at night, and I suddenly decided to put the water up for mate. I went down the corridor as far as the oak door, which was ajar, then turned into the hall toward the kitchen, when I heard something in the library or the dining room. The sound came through muted and indistinct, a chair being knocked over onto the carpet or the muffled buzzing of a conversation. At the same time, or a second later, I heard it at the end of the passage which led from those two rooms toward the door. I hurled myself against the door before it was too late and shut it, leaned on it with the weight of my body; luckily, the key was on our side; moreover, I ran the great bolt into place, just to be safe.


I went down to the kitchen, heated the kettle, and when I got back with the tray of mate, I told Irene: “I had to shut the door to the passage. They’ve taken over the back part.”


She let her knitting fall and looked at me with her tired, serious eyes. “You’re sure?”


I nodded.


“In that case,” she said, picking up her knitting again, “we’ll have to live on this side.”


I sipped at the mate very carefully, but she took her time starting her work again. I remember it was a gray vest she was knitting. I liked that vest.


The first few days were painful, since we’d both left so many things in the part that had been taken over. My collection of French literature, for example, was still in the library. Irene had left several folios of stationery and a pair of slippers that she used a lot in the winter. I missed my briar pipe, and Irene, I think, regretted the loss of an ancient bottle of Hesperidin’s It happened repeatedly (but only in the first few days) that we would close some drawer or cabinet and look at one another sadly.


“It’s not here.”

One thing more among the many lost on the other side of the house.


But there were advantages, too. The cleaning was so much simplified that, even when we got up late, nine‐thirty for instance, by eleven we were sitting around with our arms folded. Irene got into the habit of coming to the kitchen with me to help get lunch. We thought about it and decided on this: while I prepared the lunch, Irene would cook up dishes that could be eaten cold in the evening. We were happy with the arrangement because it was always such a bother to have to leave our bedrooms in the evening and start to cook. Now we made do with

the table in Irene’s room and platters of cold supper.


Since it left her more time for knitting, Irene was content. I was a little lost without my books, but so as not to inflict myself on my sister, I set about reordering papa’s stamp collection; that killed some time. We amused ourselves sufficiently, each with his own thing, almost always getting together in Irene’s bedroom, which was the more comfortable. Every once in a while, Irene might say: “Look at this pattern I just figured out, doesn’t it look like clover?”


After a bit it was I, pushing a small square of paper in front of her so that she could see the excellence of some stamp or another from Eupen‐et‐Malmedy. We were fine, and little by little we stopped thinking. You can live without thinking.


(Whenever Irene talked in her sleep, I woke up immediately and stayed awake. I never could get used to this voice from a statue or a parrot, a voice that came out of the dreams, not from a throat. Irene said that in my sleep I flailed about erroneously and shook the blankets off. We had the living room between us, but at night you could hear everything in the house. We heard each other breathing, coughing, could even feel each other reaching for the light switch when, as happened frequently, neither of us could fall asleep.

Aside from our nocturnal rumblings, everything was quiet in the house. During the day there were the household sounds, the metallic click of knitting needles, the rustle of stamp‐album pages turning. The oak door was massive, I think I said that. In the kitchen or the bath, which adjoined the part that was taken over, we managed to talk

loudly, or Irene sang lullabies. In a kitchen there’s always too much noise, the plates and glasses, for there to be interruptions from other sounds. We seldom allowed ourselves silence there, but when we went back to our rooms or to the living room, then the house grew quiet, half‐lit, we ended by stepping around more slowly so as not to disturb one another. I think it was because of this that I woke up irremediably and at once when Irene began to talk in her sleep.)


Except for the consequences, it’s nearly a matter of repeating the same scene over again. I was thirsty that night, and before we went to sleep, I told Irene that I was going to the kitchen for a glass of water. From the door of the bedroom (she was knitting) I heard the noise in the kitchen; if not the kitchen, then the bath, the passage off at that angle dulled the sound. Irene noticed how brusquely I had paused, and came up beside me without a word. We stood listening to the noises, growing more and more sure that they were on our side of the oak door, if not the kitchen then the bath, or in the hall itself at the turn, almost next to us.


We didn’t wait to look at one another. I took Irene’s arm and forced her to run with me to the wrought‐iron door, not waiting to look back. You could hear the noises, still muffled but louder, just behind us. I slammed the grating and we stopped in the vestibule. Now there was nothing to be heard.


“They’ve taken over our section,” Irene said. The knitting had reeled off from her hands and the yarn ran back toward the door and disappeared under it. When she saw that the balls of yarn were on the other side, she dropped the knitting without looking at it.


“Did you have time to bring anything?” I asked hopelessly.


“No, Nothing.”


We had what we had on. I remembered fifteen thousand pesos in the wardrobe in my bedroom.


Too late now.


I still had my wristwatch on and saw that it was 11 P.M.. I took Irene around the waist (I think she was crying) and that was how we went into the street. Before we left, I felt terrible; I locked the front door up tight and tossed the key down the sewer. It wouldn’t do to have some poor devil decide to go in and rob the house, at that hour and the difference with the house taken over.


CONTINUIDAD DE LOS PARQUES

【这文 让人看完第一反应不知所指 第二反应毛骨悚然 最后拍大腿喊作者真真是个天才】

(Final del juego, 1956)

HAB A EMPEZADO A leer la novela unos días antes. La abandonó por

negocios urgentes, volvió a abrirla cuando regresaba en tren a la finca; se

dejaba interesar lentamente por la trama, por el dibujo de los personajes. Esa tarde, después de escribir una carta a su apoderado y discutir con el

mayordomo una cuestion de aparcerías, volvió al libro en la tranquilidad

del estudio que miraba hacia el parque de los robles. Arrellanado en su

sillón favorito, de espaldas a la puerta que lo hubiera molestado como

una irritante posibilidad de intrusiones, dejó que su mano izquierda

acariciara una y otra vez el terciopelo verde y se puso a leer los últimos

capítulos. Su memoria retenía sin esfuerzo los nombres y las imágenes

de los protagonistas; la ilusión novelesca lo ganó casi en seguida. Gozaba

del placer casi perverso de irse desgajando línea a línea de lo que lo

rodeaba, y sentir a la vez que su cabeza descansaba cómodamente en el

terciopelo del alto respaldo, que los cigarrillos seguían al alcance de la

mano, que más allá de los ventanales danzaba el aire del atardecer bajo

los robles. Palabra a palabra, absorbido por la sórdida disyuntiva de los

héroes, dejándose ir hacia las imágenes que se concertaban y adquirían

color y movimiento, fue testigo del último encuentro en la cabaña del

monte. Primero entraba la mujer, recelosa; ahora llegaba el amante, lastimada la cara por el chicotazo de una rama. Admirablemente

restallaba ella la sangre con sus besos, pero él rechazaba las caricias, no

había venido para repetir las ceremonias de una pasión secreta, protegida por un mundo de hojas secas y senderos furtivos. El puñal se

entibiaba contra su pecho, y debajo latía la libertad agazapada. Un

diálogo anhelante corría por las páginas como un arroyo de serpientes, y

se sentía que todo estaba decidido desde siempre. Hasta esas caricias

que enredaban el cuerpo del amante como queriendo retenerlo y

disuadirlo, dibujaban abominablemente la figura de otro cuerpo que era

necesario destruir. Nada había sido olvidado: coartadas, azares, posibles

errores. A partir de esa hora cada instante tenía su empleo

minuciosamente atribuido. El doble repaso despiadado se interrumpía

apenas para que una mano acariciara una mejilla. Empezaba a anochecer. Sin mirarse ya, atados rígidamente a la tarea que los esperaba, se

separaron en la puerta de la cabaña. Ella debía seguir por la senda que

iba al norte. Desde la senda opuesta él se volvió un instante para verla

correr con el pelo suelto. Corrió a su vez, parapetándose en los árboles y

los setos, hasta distinguir en la bruma malva del crepúsculo la alameda

que llevaba a la casa. Los perros no debían ladrar, y no ladraron. El

mayordomo no estaría a esa hora, y no estaba. Subio los tres peldaños

del porche y entró. Desde la sangre galopando en sus oidos le llegaban

las palabras de la mujer: primero una sala azul, después una galería, una

escalera alfombrada. En lo alto, dos puertas. Nadie en la primera

habitación, nadie en la segunda. La puerta del salón, y entonces el puñal

en la mano, la luz de los ventanales, el alto respaldo de un sillón de

terciopelo verde, la cabeza del hombre en el sillón leyendo una novela.


Me gustas tú.

Me gustan los aviones, me gustas tú. 

Me gusta viajar, me gustas tú 

Me gusta la manaña.me gustas tu

Me gusta el viento, me gustas tú. 

Me gusta soñar, me gustas tú. 

Me gusta la mar, me gustas tú. 

¿Qué voy a hacer? 

Je ne sais pas