杜魯門·卡波特：《一個圣誕節的回憶》

杜魯門·卡波特（ Truman Capote，1924—1984），美國文學史上著名的小說家、編劇、劇作家，很多作品后來都成了經典之作，如短篇小說《蒂凡尼的早餐》（Breakfast at Tiffanys，1958）和紀實罪案小說《冷血》（In Cold Blood，1966）。

卡波特五歲時就自學讀書寫字，十一歲時發現了自己對寫作的熱愛，從十七歲起就經常在《紐約客》《大西洋月刊》等刊物上發表作品，二十一歲時，創作短篇小說《米里亞姆》（ Miriam，1945），獲歐-亨利小說獎，成為美國文壇新秀。后又創作小說《別的聲音，別的房間》（Other Voices，Other Rooms，1948）、《草豎琴》（The Grass Harp，1951）、《蒂凡尼的早餐》（Breakfast at Tiffanys，1958），但真正奠定其文壇地位的作品是他花費四年時間，根據一樁真實罪案創作的非虛構小說《冷血》，該書不但在出版后占踞暢銷書榜首達一年之久，更使卡波特成為新新聞主義流派的開創者。

卡波特原名Truman Persons，卡波特是其繼父的姓氏。由于父母離異，年僅四歲的卡波特曾被送到阿拉巴馬州母親的親戚家寄養，在那里和他母親的遠親Nanny Rumbley Faulk成為忘年交，這一段生活經歷后來出現在他的很多短篇小說中，如下面所選的《一個圣誕節的回憶》（A ChristmasMemory，1956）便是其中之一。

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.

A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly， like a bantam hen; but， due to a long youthful illness， her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable-not unlike Lincolns， craggy like that， and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too， finely boned， and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my，” she exclaims， her breath smoking the windowpane， “its fruitcake weather！”

The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins， very distant ones， and we have lived together-well， as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house， relatives; and though they have power over us， and frequently make us cry， we are not， on the whole， too much aware of them. We are each others best friend. She calls me Buddy， in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 180s， when she was still a child. She is still a child.

“I knew it before I got out of bed，” she says， turning away from the windows with purposeful excitement in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and cleat. And there were no birds singing; theyve gone to warmer country， yes indeed. Oh， Buddy， stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. Weve thirty cakes to bake.”

Its always the same： a morning arrives in November， and my friend， as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart， announces： “Its fruitcake weather！ Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.”

The hat is found， a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded： it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together， we guide our buggy， a dilapidated baby carriage， out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is， it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker， rather unraveled， and the wheels wobble like a drunkards legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes， we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers， herbs， wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer， we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses， too： as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen， as a warm bed for Queenie， our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them： how hard they were to find （the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchards owners， who are not us） among the concealing leaves， the frosted， deceiving grass. Caarackle！ A cheery crunch， scraps of miniature thunder mounts in the milk-glass bowl. Queenie begs to taste， and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite， though insisting we deprive ourselves. “We mustnt， Buddy. If we start， we wont stop. And theres scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes.” The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror： our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last， when the moon is quite high， we toss the final hull into the fire and， with joined sighs， watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty; the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper （cold biscuits， bacon， blackberry jam） and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins： buying. Cherries and citron， ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple， rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh， so much flour， butter， so many eggs， spices， flavorings： why， well need a pony to pull the buggy home.

But before these purchases can be made， there is the question of money. Neither of use has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide （a dime is considered very big money）; or what we earn ourselves from various activities： holding rummage sales， selling buckets of hand-picked blackberries， jars if homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves， rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize， five dollars， in a national football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. Its just that we enter any contest we hear about： at the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee （we suggested “A.M.”; and， after some hesitation， for my friend thought jt perhaps sacrilegious， the slogan “A.M，！ Amen！”）. To tell the truth， our only really profitable enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a back-yard woodshed two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places （she was furious when she discovered why wed borrowed it）; the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy： we charged grownups a nickel， kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction.

But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings， a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friends bed. The purse is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit， or， as happens every Saturday， a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go the picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show， nor does she intend to： “Id rather hear you tell the story， Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides， a person my age shouldnt squander their eyes. When the Lord comes， let me see him clear.”

想象一下11月底的一個早晨。二十多年前冬天來臨的一個早晨。設想邊遠小鎮上一座四散延伸的老房子里的廚房。黑色的大火爐是這個廚房的一大標志，但廚房里還有張大圓桌，壁爐前放著兩把搖椅。今天壁爐發出季節到來的呼叫。

一個白頭發剪得很短的婦人站在廚房的窗前。網球鞋，夏天穿的印花布裙外罩一件不成形的灰毛衣。她個頭很小，精神飽滿，像只矮腳母雞;但由于小時候的一場病，她的肩膀有點佝僂，怪可憐的。她的臉很獨特——和林肯的臉不無相像，一樣因風吹日曬而略顯粗糙，但很精致，骨肉停勻;眼睛像雪利酒一樣的色澤，怯生生的?！芭叮咸欤彼舐曊f，呵出來的氣煙霧般彌漫在窗玻璃上，“這是做水果蛋糕的好天氣。”

她對誰說話呢？我。那時我七歲，她六十多了。我們是表親，很遠的表親。從我記事起，我們倆就住在一起。房子里住著別的人，就是一些親戚。他們有權對我們發號施令，還常常把我們弄哭，但大體上我們倆不太在意他們。我們是彼此最要好的朋友。她叫我“巴迪”，為了紀念她以前最好的朋友。那個巴迪在19世紀80年代死了，當時她還是個孩子呢。她現在也還是個孩子。

“我沒起床就知道。”她從窗邊轉過來，眼中閃動著興奮，意味深長，“教堂的鐘聲又冷冽又清楚。鳥兒也不唱了，它們都飛到暖和的地方去了。肯定是的。哎，巴迪，別吃餅干了，去推我們的小推車。幫我把帽子找出來。我們要烤三十個水果蛋糕呢?！?/p>

一直都是這樣：11月一個早晨到來，我的朋友仿佛代表官方，宣布這年圣誕季的到來。對節日的想象使她精神振奮，心中的火焰因為圣誕季來了而燃燒：“這是做水果蛋糕的好天氣！去推我們的小推車。幫我把帽子找出來?！?/p>

帽子找到了，一頂寬邊草帽，裝飾著天鵝絨做的玫瑰，因為在戶外戴而褪色了：它以前屬于一個挺時髦的親戚。我們一起推那輛小推車，一輛破舊的嬰兒車。我們把它推出花園，推進山核桃樹叢。這推車是我的，就是說，我出生時人家買給我的。它由柳條編織成，不過柳條都松散了，推車的輪子搖搖晃晃像醉鬼的腳。但這輛推車可是個可靠的伙伴：春天，我們推它到樹林里，裝上花啊草啊羊齒植物，回來放進陽臺上那些陶罐里;夏天，我們在推車里堆放野餐用具和甘蔗做的釣魚竿，推到小溪邊去;冬天它也能派上用場：從院子里裝柴火拖到廚房;當奎尼的暖床：奎尼是我們養的橙色白色斑駁的小花獵犬。它得過犬熱病，還被響尾蛇咬過兩次，都挺過去活下來了。現在它就在推車旁邊小跑著呢。

三小時后，我們回到廚房，推回來堆滿一車的風吹落的山核桃。撿這些山核桃可把我們累得腰酸背痛：在落滿冰霜的草叢里，要找出潛藏其中的它們很不容易（大多數果實都被果園主人搖下來賣掉了，我們可不是果園主人）。咔咔嚓嚓！核桃殼敲碎發出輕輕雷擊般的響聲，嘎吱嘎吱聽起來很歡快。象牙光澤的山核桃肉散發出甜美的香氣，油滋滋的，在牛奶玻璃碗里堆成座小山。奎尼求我們給它點嘗嘗，我的朋友就時不時偷偷給它一丁點，但我們倆是絕對不可以吃的?！拔覀兛刹恍?，巴迪。我們要是一吃，就肯定停不了。這些山核桃還不見得夠做三十個水果蛋糕呢?！睆N房漸漸暗了下來。夜色把窗玻璃變成了一面鏡子：我們在爐邊火光中敲碎核桃殼時，窗玻璃上我們的影子和升起的月亮交織在一起。最后，明月高照，我們終于把最后一顆山核桃的殼丟進壁爐，都松了口氣，看著它燒掉。推車空了，碗卻滿滿的。

我們吃了晚飯（冷餅干、火腿、黑莓醬），討論明天的事。明天，我最喜歡的事就開始了：大采購。櫻桃、柑橘、姜、香草、罐裝夏威夷風梨、橘皮、葡萄干、栗子、還有威士忌，對了，還有大量的面粉和黃油，許多雞蛋、香料和調味料：哇，我們得找匹小馬駒來把推車拉回家才行。

但采購前，有個錢的問題。我們倆都沒錢。除了家里人偶爾給點零花錢（給我們一角錢鎳幣他們就認為是給了筆大錢），或者我們自己干各種活兒賺錢：賣捐贈品，賣成桶采來的黑莓、一罐罐自制的果醬、蘋果凍、桃脯，采摘花束供人家葬禮或婚禮。有一次，我們中了五塊錢，是全國橄欖球比賽的79等獎。我們倆對橄欖球可一無所知。只不過我們聽說什么比賽就參加：現在，我們寄希望于給新上市咖啡取名的大賽，要是中了有五千塊獎金呢（我們建議取名為“A.M.”（萬福瑪麗亞）;但猶豫了一下，因為我的朋友覺得有點褻瀆神，所以改為“A.M.！阿門！”）。老實說，我們唯一真正賺過錢的事業是奇趣展覽，兩年前在后院樹蔭下辦的。所謂的趣是放華盛頓和紐約城市風光的幻燈片，那是一個去過這些地方的一個親戚借給我們的（她發現我們借來的用處后大發雷霆）;所謂奇是一只長了三只腳的雞，我們養的一只母雞孵出來的怪物。這附近人人都來看，我們收參觀費，大人一角錢，小孩兩分錢。等那富有感召力的展覽物死去我們的奇趣展覽館被迫關門時，我們已經整整賺了二十塊大洋。

每年我們總能用盡各種方法，籌到這么一筆圣誕存款，作為水果蛋糕基金。我們把這些錢放進一只古舊的珠子錢包，藏在我的朋友床底那只夜壺蓋住的地板中一塊松動的木板下。這只錢包絕少從安全藏身處取出，除非要把錢存放進去，或者每周六取出一點來;因為每周六，我獲準拿出一角錢去看電影。我的朋友從來沒有去過電影院，也沒打算去：“我情愿聽你講故事情節，巴迪。那樣我會想象得更多。還有，我這把年紀的人可不能太揮霍我的視力。蒙主圣恩時，我才能把他看得更清楚?！?/p>

【文章賞讀】

《一個圣誕節的回憶》是卡波特成名之后的憶舊之作，這時作者對文字的把握已日趨嫻熟老練，因此整個故事文筆優美清新，富有詩意。故事中的白發老嫗是作者童年的摯友，一個是垂垂老矣、少人問津的老婦，一個是父母離異、不得不寄養在親戚家的稚子，一老一小，同樣缺乏關愛、同樣孤寂，于是便成了彼此的陪伴和慰藉。雖然如此，故事卻還是充滿溫情的。圣誕將至，兩位心意相通的好友按照慣例，著手做水果蛋糕，他們推著小推車去山上撿被風吹落的山核桃、用攢了一年的錢去買做蛋糕需要的其他配料，做了蛋糕卻都寄給了一些陌生人，自己只能喝到一點做蛋糕剩下的威士忌。他們還去很遠的山里砍圣誕樹，費盡力氣拖回來，可用來裝飾圣誕樹的卻只有別人丟棄不要的東西。盡管如此，他們心中卻總是充滿了節日的歡樂，令讀者不由得心向往之，也不由得想起自己童年那簡單快樂的時光。