Parents! It’s New Year’s Eve!父母們！跨年夜到了！

伊娃·懷斯曼　馮環(huán)

Heres an idea： a New Years Eve camp for the children of parents who still love a party. Not just drinks， a dinner， but a party party， you know， a thing that starts gently with a plastic glass and chatter about school catchments1 and then joyfully descends.

A New Years Eve camp that starts today， lunchtime， where children collect by the campfire in full excitement and coats， and their parents， vibrating with guilt， cover them with weighted kisses before dashing off to shave their legs and put a record on. The camp could be in Elstree. Somewhere like Elstree. Somewhere suitably green and anonymous， but accessible by motorway. The children would have structured play2 for the first two hours， while parents made their ways home， relaxing a little more at every petrol station. And theyd get home， rushing now， steaming up the bathroom， a spritz of something citric maybe， the door to the kids room slightly ajar， its contents of Stickle Bricks and puddled tights like a conquered landscape. The music is important， the kitchen Sonos pumping out songs that remind them how to be the people they were when they met， with ambition and mopeds3 and all their hair. At some point they close the kids room door.

At camp， the muddied children would sit in a circle and drink hot chocolate， while the parents arrive at their friends house a little too early， too excited， wielding a bottle like a passport. In the hall theyd Facetime the children， who are anxious to get back to their midnight feast， and when they hang up the parents kiss with a passion that at first feels performative， but eases into something real.

Then the party would start to wobble slightly， theyre on a boat thats leaving shore. The kitchen would become a ballroom， someones DJing from their phone， at one point a podcast about the ethics of euthanasia comes on and everyone keeps dancing. A cat sleeps furiously on the pile of coats， a marriage breaks down in the garden， 1，000 intimacies are forged in the smoking area. At camp， the midnight feast would be held in the bunks， as the new year dawns， and sleep would come slowly， under slightly itchy blankets.

The real beauty of the camp， however， would not be in the New Years Eve activities， but the accommodation for up to four days following—climbing， firepits， swimming， song. Each hour following a parents party is crucial. Home at four， ordinarily they would be woken again at seven， and chucked face first into a pit of toast and cartoons. When， of course， at this age， halfway to death， a hangover needs at least three days to bed in， to carry its owner through the tepid shallows of fear and loneliness， through to the depths of agony beyond. The memories of spilling red wine on their hosts carpet， and brilliantly covering it with ground pepper. The inevitable suggestive dance with the person who by day is a clumsy letch4 but by fairy light5 suddenly seemed like the one that got away. Oh God the vomit， the vomit in the plant， and the argument about Uber， and the standing on the table with arms outstretched shouting： “Please Has Anybody Got Any Drugs Please.”

Lets say one day for just lying with their hands over their eyes like theyve seen too much， heaving themselves to standing only to accept a Deliveroo6. Lets say another day to gently phone around， researching the truth， rehydrating7 the relationship. Then two days—full days—to ease back into the reality of their identity， and all the responsibilities and repayments， both emotional and fiscal， owed. To slither8 back into the skin of a person that goes to bed at 10.30， that has a whole thing about9 bin collection times， that goes into her sons school to talk about stranger danger and the environmental impact of plastic bags.

At camp， the children would be protected from the raw reality of their parents as people， from seeing the awful fallout from cocktails made at dawn and shoes that need practice. Returning from Elstree， somewhere like Elstree， ruddy-cheeked and vital on 4 January， the children would smell nothing， see nothing， and theyd have learned how to make flapjacks， and their parents are alive， and thats all theyd need to know.

我有個主意：那些仍然熱愛派對的父母，可以為孩子辦一個跨年夜的露營活動。這里所說的派對，不僅僅是喝幾杯、吃頓飯而已，而是真正的派對，明白吧，通常先由一塑料杯的飲品和關于學區(qū)劃分的閑聊徐徐開啟，然后就熱熱鬧鬧地漸入狂歡了。

跨年夜的露營活動就從今天午餐的時候開始。營地里，孩子們將身穿大衣，興高采烈地圍聚在篝火旁邊，而他們的父母則會因心懷愧疚而顫抖，將一個個深深的吻兜頭蓋臉地給予他們，因為這些父母立馬就要忙著刮腿毛、放唱片了。營地可以選在埃爾斯特里，或某處類似的地方，總之那地方須得青蔥、僻靜，但又是通了高速公路的。孩子們在剛開始的兩個小時，將會做些玩有所得的游戲，于此期間父母便可乘機驅車回家了，一路上還可在各個加油站稍微放松一下。接著，到了家中，父母將立即變得匆忙起來——浴室里水汽騰騰，也許再噴點兒檸檬味兒的東西;孩子房間的門也微微開著，房內散落著斯蒂克爾牌積木和濺了泥點的緊身褲，整個一幅淪陷之地的景象。音樂是重點，廚房里的索諾斯牌音響正涌出一首首歌曲，讓父母回憶起當年兩人初見時的模樣——胸懷壯志，身騎電動自行車，還有濃密的頭發(fā)。然后到了某刻，父母將會關上孩子的房門。

營地那邊，滿身泥土的孩子圍坐成一圈喝著熱巧克力，而此時他們的父母已到了朋友家中——去得有點兒太早，人也有點兒過于興奮，手中揮舞著酒瓶子，仿佛那是聚會的通行證。門廳里，父母會跟孩子視頻聊天，但孩子卻急著回去參加“午夜的盛宴”。在孩子掛斷之際，父母還會熱情地吻別，起初這熱情覺得像是演出來的，但漸漸地也就變得真實可感了。

然后，參加派對的人會開始輕微地搖擺，仿佛是在一艘正離岸駛去的船上。廚房變成了舞廳，有人用手機混音打碟，雖然中間冒出了一個談論安樂死道德問題的播客，但每個人卻依舊在跳著舞。一只貓，氣呼呼地睡在一堆大衣上面;一樁婚姻，在花園里破裂;一千段親密關系，在吸煙區(qū)建立。而營地那邊，“午夜的盛宴”就要在架子床上舉行了。新年就要來臨，躺在略微刺得讓人發(fā)癢的毛毯下，睡意也將慢慢襲來。

然而，露營的真正妙處，卻不在于跨年夜的活動，而在于它把隨后長達四天的時間都安排上了——爬山、地灶野炊、游泳、唱歌。父母派對結束后的每一個小時都至關重要。凌晨四點到家后，父母像往常一樣七點就會醒來，然后一頭埋進吐司和卡通畫冊堆起的坑里。當然，在這個年齡，到了生命的中途，一場宿醉至少要三天的時間才能消緩，才能帶那宿醉者蹚過由恐懼和孤獨構成的溫熱淺灘，越過那痛苦的深淵。只見回憶一幕幕浮現(xiàn)：把紅酒灑在了主人的地毯上，然后機靈地用胡椒粉蓋住;與白天那個笨拙的挑逗者跳起了一支難免帶有挑逗意味的舞，因為在夜晚的彩色小燈下那人竟突然看起來像是曾經(jīng)離去的戀人;哦，上帝啊，還有嘔吐物，在綠植里的嘔吐物，以及關于優(yōu)步的爭論，并且自己還曾站在桌子上伸出雙臂大喊：“喂，誰有‘藥啊，喂。”

或許，第一天他們只能雙手捂眼地躺著，仿佛用眼過度，只在收外賣時才會吃力地起身。第二天他們會柔聲細語地打一圈電話，探一探實情，使朋友關系復歸融洽。接下來的兩天——兩個整天——他們就會慢慢地回到為人父母的現(xiàn)實身份中，承擔起所有的責任，償還感情和金錢上的虧欠。他們將爬著鉆回原先的那副皮囊里，之前的那個自己會在十點半就上床睡覺，會特別留心收垃圾的時間點，會去兒子的學校談論陌生人的危險以及塑料袋對環(huán)境的影響。

而在營地里，孩子們不會受到父母本就有的放縱貪歡那一面的影響，也不會見到黎明時分調的雞尾酒以及多穿才能適應的高跟鞋所招致的可怕副作用。1月4日，孩子們紅光滿面、生氣勃勃地從埃爾斯特里或類似的某個地方回來后，將什么也聞不到，什么也看不到。那時，孩子們應已學會了做煎餅，他們的父母也都活力滿滿——他們需要知道的也就是這些了。

（譯者為“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽獲獎者;單位：中鐵科研院）