Hospice/Honeymoon臨終關(guān)懷/蜜月

“Hospice.”

“臨終關(guān)懷。”

Once the word is uttered aloud， there is a seismic shift. You will feel it.

這詞一旦大聲念出來，天崩地裂般的變化便接踵而至。你自會(huì)察覺。

Like a （very short） thread through the eye of a needle， swiftly in and swiftly out.

就好似一根（極短的）線穿過針眼，倏然而過。

The air itself becomes thin， steely.

空氣本身變得稀薄冷硬。

At the periphery of your vision， an immediate dimming. The penumbra begins to shrink. In time， it will become a tunnel. Ever diminishing. Until the remaining light is small enough to be cupped in two hands. And then it will be extinguished.

剎那間，視野邊緣晦黯模糊。半影漸漸縮小。最終，它會(huì)變?yōu)橐粭l隧道。愈縮愈小。直至余光小到能被雙手?jǐn)n住。之后光就會(huì)消逝殆盡。

For when “hospice” is spoken， the fact is at last acknowledged： There is no hope.

因?yàn)橐徽f“臨終關(guān)懷”，就意味著承認(rèn)這個(gè)事實(shí)：沒有希望了。

No hope. These words are obscene， unspeakable. To be without hope is to be without a future.

沒有希望。這污穢可鄙、難以言說的字眼。沒了希望就沒了未來。

Worse， by acknowledging that you are without a future， you have “given up.”

更糟的是，承認(rèn)沒有未來，無異于就此“放棄”。

And so when the word “hospice” is first spoken—carefully， cautiously， by a （female） palliative-care physician—neither of you hears it. Or， if you hear it， you don’t register that you have heard.

因此，第一次聽到“臨終關(guān)懷”這詞從一位（女）姑息治療醫(yī)師口中小心翼翼講出時(shí)，大家往往都充耳不聞。或者，即便聽見了，也不會(huì)說自己聽見了。

A low-grade buzzing in the ears， a ringing， as of a distant alarm， an alarm in a shuttered room. That is all.

耳中不過是一陣低沉的嗡鳴、一陣鈴聲，像是遠(yuǎn)處的警報(bào)聲、封閉屋內(nèi)的警報(bào)聲。僅此而已。

For if you don’t hear， perhaps it has not （yet） been uttered.

因?yàn)橹灰銢]聽到，或許就沒人說過。

For if neither of you hears， perhaps it will not （ever） be uttered.

因?yàn)橹灰蠹叶紱]聽到，或許就不會(huì)有人提起。

Yet somehow it happens： “hospice” comes to be more frequently spoken as the days pass.

但不知怎的，事情就變成了這樣：隨著日子一天天過去，“臨終關(guān)懷”一詞說得越來越多。

And somehow it happens that your husband， surprising himself， begins to speak of his “final days.” As in， “I think these might be my final days.”

又不知怎的，丈夫開始提及自己“最后的日子”，連他自己也對(duì)此頗感驚奇。比如他會(huì)說：“我想這可能是我最后的日子了。”

As if shyly. On the phone very early one morning， when he calls， as he has been calling， immediately after the oncologist making rounds in the hospital has examined him.

似乎羞于啟齒。是某個(gè)凌晨打電話說的，在查房的腫瘤專家給他檢查后，他馬上打來電話，像平時(shí)那樣。

On the phone， so that he is spared seeing your face. And you， his.

打電話，他就不必直面你。你也不必直面他。

A new shyness like the first， initial shyness. Finding some way to say I love you.

這種少有的羞怯，與戀愛伊始時(shí)的那種羞怯頗為相像。不知如何開口說“我愛你”。

For some， an impossible statement—I love you.

于某些人而言，“我愛你”這話，根本說不出口。

But your husband managed it， and you managed it， somehow： I love you.

但不知怎的，你丈夫說出口了，你也說出口了：“我愛你。”

And now， years later， it is “I think these might be my final days.”

可多年之后，這句話變成了“我想這可能是我最后的日子了”。

These words you hear over the phone distinctly， irrevocably， yet （you would claim） you have not heard them. No！

雖然電話里的一字一句清清楚楚、覆水難收，但（你偏要說）你沒聽見。沒聽見！

But， yes， you’ve heard. Must have heard. For the walls of the room reel giddily around you， blood rushes out of your head， leaving you faint， sinking to your knees like a terrified child， stammering， “What？ What are you saying？ That’s ridiculous. Don’t say such things！ What on earth do you mean— ‘final days’？”

但其實(shí)，你聽見了。肯定聽見了。因?yàn)榉块g里的你自覺天旋地轉(zhuǎn)、血沖顱頂、力松勁泄，像個(gè)驚恐的孩子跪在地上，結(jié)結(jié)巴巴地回道：“什么？你在說什么？這不可能。不準(zhǔn)你這樣講！‘最后的日子’——到底什么意思？”

Your voice rises wildly. You want to fling the cell phone from you.

你歇斯底里地拔高嗓門。你想把手機(jī)扔了。

For you can’t bear it. You don’t think so. Not knowing， at this time， the vast Sahara that lies ahead with all that you cannot bear， that nonetheless will be borne， and by you.

因?yàn)槟愠惺懿蛔　Ｄ阌X得自己承受不住。此刻你還不知道，接下來會(huì)有多少你無法承受但終將親自承受的痛苦。

For always， each step of the way， you resist.

因?yàn)檫@一路上的每一步，你都一如既往地抗拒。

It is a steep uphill. It is natural to resist. Or， if you accept the steep climb， console yourself with the thought that it is only temporary. The plateau， the flatland to which you’ve been accustomed， awaits you， both of you. You will return there. Soon.

這是一條陡峭的上坡路。你自然心生抗拒。或許，你可以接受攀登陡坡，安慰自己，這不過是一時(shí)之苦。那片安穩(wěn)的高地——你們待慣的一馬平川，在等著你、等著你二人。你會(huì)回到那里。很快。

Until a day， an hour—always there is a day， an hour—when you began to speak of hospice yourself.

直到某一天、某一刻——總會(huì)有那一天、那一刻——你自己也開始說起臨終關(guān)懷。

At first， you， too， are shy， faltering. Your throat feels lacerated as if by metal filings.

起先，你也會(huì)羞于啟齒，支支吾吾。喉頭仿佛被金屬屑劃傷。

Gradually， you learn to utter the two syllables clearly， bravely—hos-pice.

漸漸，你學(xué)會(huì)一個(gè)字一個(gè)字清晰、勇敢地說出——“臨—終—關(guān)—懷”。

Soon after that， you begin to say these distinct， deliberate words： “our hospice.”

不久，你就開始字正腔圓、沉著鎮(zhèn)定地說出“我們的臨終關(guān)懷”。

Soon， you draw up your vows. Quaintly state to yourself， as if to God， a formal decree.

很快，你便擬出自己的誓言。離奇古怪地向自己——又像是對(duì)上帝——鄭重其事發(fā)下誓言。

It is my hope： I will make of our hospice a honeymoon.

“我希望：像度蜜月般度過我們的臨終關(guān)懷期。

My vow is to make my husband as comfortable as humanly possible.

我發(fā)誓：讓我丈夫盡可能安度這段時(shí)光。

To make him happy. To make us both happy.

我發(fā)誓：讓他開心。讓我們兩人都開心。

To fulfill whatever he wishes that is within the range of possibility.

我發(fā)誓：盡可能滿足他的一切愿望。

First： a new setting for him. NOT the Cancer Center. Our hospice will be in our home， which he loves.

首先：給他換個(gè)環(huán)境。離開腫瘤醫(yī)院。我們的臨終關(guān)懷期要在家——他深愛的家——度過。

The atrium flooded with morning light.

這里有晨曦漫溢的中庭。

The foreshortened horizon—for the house is surrounded by trees.

有逼仄的地平線——只因房前屋后樹木環(huán)繞。

The flotillas of sculpted clouds.

還有層層疊疊、形狀各異的云朵。

My husband can lie on a sofa， staring at the tree line and at the sky. Comfortable on the sofa with pillows behind him and feet （in warm socks） elevated.

我丈夫可以躺在沙發(fā)上，眺望綠蔭，仰觀蒼穹。身后墊上枕頭，（穿著暖襪的）雙腳墊高——在沙發(fā)上也可以躺得很舒服。

Or， more likely， he can lie on a （rented） hospital bed， positioned in such a way that he can easily gaze out the window. And I can lie beside him， as I have done in the hospital.

但很可能，他會(huì)躺在一張（租來的）醫(yī)院病床上。床放的位置能讓他毫不費(fèi)力地看到窗外之景。而我會(huì)躺在他身側(cè)，就像在醫(yī)院里一樣。

Holding hands. Of course， we will hold hands. His hands are still warm—strong. His fingers， when squeezed， never fail to squeeze in return.

十指相扣。我們肯定會(huì)十指相扣。他的雙手依舊溫暖——有力。每當(dāng)我捏他手指，他總會(huì)回捏。

As his lips， when kissed， never fail to kiss in return.

就像每當(dāng)我吻上他雙唇，他也總會(huì)回吻。

I will sleep beside my husband holding him in my arms， not strong arms， in fact， rather weak arms， which nonetheless can be made to behave as if they were strong.

我會(huì)與丈夫共枕而眠，擁他入懷——用我那并不強(qiáng)壯、其實(shí)還很羸弱的雙臂，雖然羸弱，但它們可以顯得十分強(qiáng)壯。

I will scatter seed on the redwood deck outside the window. Not ordinary seed but the more expensive “wild bird seed2” my husband purchases.

我會(huì)往窗外的紅杉平臺(tái)上撒些鳥食。不是普通鳥食，而是我丈夫買的更貴的“野生鳥食”。

Thrilling to watch the birds. Taking the time， undistracted， really watching， for once...

觀鳥令人興奮。花時(shí)間心無旁騖、真真正正地觀一次鳥……

And my husband loves music！ I will bathe him in the most beautiful music through his waking hours. So long as it is not uncomfortable for him， I will lie on the bed beside him， holding him， listening with him to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy，” Rachmaninoff’s “Vespers3.”

我丈夫還喜歡音樂呢！只要他醒著，我就會(huì)讓他沐浴在美妙絕倫的音樂中。只要他不難受，我便與他同榻而臥、擁他入懷，一起聆聽貝多芬的《歡樂頌》，一起欣賞拉赫瑪尼諾夫的《晚禱》。

Falling asleep with him. Even during the day. Even with wan sunshine slanting through the window onto our faces. Head on the pillow beside his head.

與他同墜夢(mèng)鄉(xiāng)。就算在白天。就算慘淡的陽光透過窗戶斜照在我們臉上，與他共枕而眠。

From the bookcases in the house， I will select art books， his favorite artists， books from his photography shelves—Bruce Davidson， Edward Weston， Diane Arbus， Eliot Porter. I will turn the pages slowly， marvel with him.

我會(huì)從家中書柜選些藝術(shù)書籍——從他的攝影書架里選，都是他最愛的攝影家：布魯斯·戴維森、愛德華·威思頓、黛安·阿勃斯、艾略特·波特。我會(huì)慢慢翻頁，與他一起欣賞贊嘆。

Old albums， family photographs dating back to the early nineteen-hundreds. His family， great-grandparents who emigrated from the Pale. In which he has only recently shown an interest.

還有一本本舊相冊(cè)，家庭照片的歷史可以追溯到20世紀(jì)初。他的家族是自曾祖那一代從帕萊地區(qū)移民至此的。直到最近，他才對(duì)此有些興趣。

His favorite foods… Well， I will try！

至于他最愛的吃食……沒問題，我會(huì)試著做！

When he is at home， possibly his appetite will return. When I am the one to prepare his food， his appetite will return， I am sure.

回了家，他的胃口可能會(huì)恢復(fù)。我敢肯定，只要是我給他做飯，他的胃口就會(huì)恢復(fù)。

Of course， family will come to visit. Adult children， grandchildren. Relatives， friends. Colleagues from the university. Neighbors. Old friends from grammar school he hasn’t seen in fifty years. Some surprises for him—I will negotiate with the imagination of a theatre director.

家人們當(dāng)然都會(huì)來探望。成年子女、孫子孫女。還有親戚朋友、大學(xué)同事、左鄰右舍，乃至他50年沒見的初中老友。給他準(zhǔn)備一些驚喜——我會(huì)發(fā)揮戲劇導(dǎo)演的想象力努力達(dá)成。

Not merely hospice but our hospice. Not sad but joyous， a honeymoon.

這不是一般的臨終關(guān)懷，而是我們自己的臨終關(guān)懷。沒有哀傷，只有喜悅，如蜜月一般。

We will be happy there， in our own home. Both of us.

在自己家中，我們會(huì)怡然自得。我倆都是如此。

For both of us， the “final days” will be a honeymoon. I vow.

對(duì)我倆來說，‘最后的日子’將如蜜月一般。我發(fā)誓。”

In fact， nothing remotely like this will happen. How could you have imagined it would！

其實(shí)，這樣的情形絕不會(huì)出現(xiàn)。你怎能奢望會(huì)如你所愿？

Hospice， yes. Honeymoon， no.

這是臨終關(guān)懷。這不是蜜月。

（譯者為“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽獲獎(jiǎng)?wù)撸?/p>

1（1938— ），美國(guó)小說家、散文家、詩人，被譽(yù)為“女福克納”。奧茨素以揭露美國(guó)社會(huì)的暴力行徑和罪惡現(xiàn)象而聞名，其作品在整體上構(gòu)成了一幅當(dāng)代美國(guó)社會(huì)的全景圖，不僅生動(dòng)反映了美國(guó)社會(huì)各個(gè)階層特別是中下層階級(jí)和勞動(dòng)階層的生活狀態(tài)，而且觸及到美國(guó)社會(huì)生活的多個(gè)領(lǐng)域，如學(xué)術(shù)界、法律界、宗教界、政壇，乃至拳擊、足球等體育運(yùn)動(dòng)。從表現(xiàn)形式上看，美國(guó)文化傳統(tǒng)對(duì)奧茨的影響顯而易見，在繼承馬克·吐溫、德萊塞、斯坦貝克等作家的批判現(xiàn)實(shí)主義傳統(tǒng)的同時(shí)，她尤其擅長(zhǎng)使用心理現(xiàn)實(shí)主義手法，注重用多樣化的藝術(shù)形式刻畫人物內(nèi)心世界。盡管她的某些作品嘗試運(yùn)用了心理分析、內(nèi)心獨(dú)白、意識(shí)流、象征主義、神秘主義等現(xiàn)代主義表現(xiàn)手法，但評(píng)論界普遍認(rèn)為其創(chuàng)作思想根基主要還是現(xiàn)實(shí)主義，因此她慣常被稱為“具有巴爾扎克式雄心”的現(xiàn)實(shí)主義女作家。近幾年一個(gè)比較引人注目的現(xiàn)象是，奧茨將她敏銳的現(xiàn)實(shí)主義觸角伸向了猶太題材。

2在美國(guó)商店中，野生鳥食包裝袋上常標(biāo)有PREMIUM（高級(jí)）字樣，以將其與普通鳥食區(qū)分開。相比于普通鳥食，野生鳥食的質(zhì)量要高很多，據(jù)《華盛頓郵報(bào)》報(bào)道，普通鳥食中滿足鳥類食用標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的種子含量?jī)H27%，而野生鳥食中可食用種子不僅能接近100%，而且更加新鮮，其價(jià)格也因而較高。 3《晚禱》又名《徹夜祈禱曲》（All-Night Vigil），俄羅斯作曲家拉赫瑪尼諾夫創(chuàng)作的一首無伴奏合唱作品，首演于1915年。唱詞由俄羅斯東正教“徹夜祈禱儀式”的一系列文本組成。該作品被譽(yù)為拉赫瑪尼諾夫最杰出的成就、俄羅斯東正教會(huì)最偉大的音樂成就。