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本帖最后由 agent124 于 2023-11-22 10:28 编辑
She followed him to the café, limping heavily.
她完全是一瘸一拐地跟着他进了一家咖啡馆。
In a forced-labour camp, exactly twenty-five years before, she had broken her leg in three places in a coal slip.
整整二十五年前，她在强制劳动营，由于煤层滑落，腿断了三处。
On this August 4th—the date had not escaped her—under the extreme duress of the stranger’s message, the old sensation of being crippled came back to her.
8月4日，这是她忘不了的日子，就在二十五年后的同一天，陌生人说的话象块大石头压在她心上，过去跛足的感觉好像又回来了。
The café was the last in the street, if not in all Paris, to lack both a juke-box and neon lighting—and to remain open in August—though there were bagatelle tables that bumped and flashed from dawn till night.
这家咖啡馆即使不是全巴黎，至少也是这条街上最后一家既没有点唱机，也没有霓虹灯的咖啡馆，而且居然到了八月份还开着。店里的几张台球桌倒是从早到晚都有人在厮杀。
For the rest, there was the usual mid-morning hubbub, of grand politics, and horses, and whatever else Parisians talked; there was the usual trio of prostitutes murmuring among themselves, and a sullen young waiter in a soiled shirt who led them to a table in a corner that was reserved with a grimy Campari sign.
除此之外，中午时分照例有一帮人在哇啦哇啦地谈政治大事啦，谈赛马啦，反正是些巴黎人爱谈的事，还有常去的三个妓女在一起低声说话。一个年轻侍者，穿着脏兮兮的衬衫，绷着脸把他们带到角落里的一张桌子。桌上放了一张满是污垢的印有肯巴利酒（一种苦味的粉红色开胃酒————译注）图案的牌子，表明有人预订了。
A moment of ludicrous banality followed.
接下来的一幕既老套又荒唐可笑。
The stranger ordered two coffees, but the waiter protested that at midday one does not reserve the best table in the house merely in order to drink coffee; the patron had to pay the rent, monsieur!
陌生人要了两杯咖啡，侍者却不高兴地说，哪有人晌午时占了最好的位子却光点咖啡。老板可是要付房租的，先生！
Since the stranger did not follow this flow of patois, Ostrakova had to translate it for him.
陌生人听不懂这一连串土话，奥斯特拉科娃只好给他翻译。
The stranger blushed and ordered two ham omelettes with frites, and two Alsatian beers, all without consulting Ostrakova.
陌生人脸有点红，锐气受挫。他没有征求奥斯特拉科娃的意见，就点了两份火腿煎蛋加薯条，还有两瓶阿尔萨斯啤酒。
Then he took himself to the men’s room to repair his courage—confident, presumably, she would not run away—and when he returned his face was dry and his ginger hair combed, but the stink of him, now they were indoors, reminded Ostrakova of Moscow subways, and Moscow trams, and Moscow interrogation rooms.
然后他去了洗手间重整旗鼓，大概有把握她不会逃跑。回来的时候，他脸也干了，姜黄色的头发也梳好了，但因为在室内，他身上的体臭味更浓了，令奥斯特拉科娃回想起莫斯科的地铁，莫斯科的有轨电车，以及莫斯科的审讯室。
More eloquently than anything he could ever have said to her, that short walk back from the men’s room to their table had convinced her of what she already feared.
他在从洗手间到桌子短短一段路上的一举一动，比他前面说的一切都更有说服力，使她确信先前担心的都是真的。
He was one of them.
他和他们是一伙的。
The suppressed swagger, the deliberate brutalisation of the features, the ponderous style in which he now squared his forearms on the table and with feigned reluctance helped himself to a piece of bread from the basket as if he were dipping a pen in ink—they revived her worst memories of living as a disgraced woman under the weight of Moscow’s malevolent bureaucracy.
他走路的姿态虽然有意克制，还是有耻高气扬的感觉；他的外貌刻意显出残酷没人性的样子；这会他前臂铺在桌上，显得很笨重；他故意装出不情愿拿的样子，伸手撮了块篮子里的面包（西餐以吃面包开场————译注），好像用钢笔蘸下墨水————这一切都唤起了她的痛苦记忆：在莫斯科恶毒的官僚体系压迫下，一个女人家，过着屈辱的生活。
“So,” he said, and started eating the bread at the same time.
“那么，”他一面说，一面开始吃面包。
He selected a crusty end.
他从硬皮的一头开始吃。
With hands like that he could have crushed it in a second, but instead he chose to prise ladylike flakes from it with his fat finger-ends, as if that were the official way of eating.
凭他一双大手，本可以一下子把面包捏个粉碎，他的吃法却像女人一样，用肥大的手指端将面包一小块一小块地撕下来吃，仿佛这就是面包的正式吃法。
While he nibbled, his eyebrows went up and he looked sorry for himself, me a stranger in this foreign land.
他小口小口地吃着，扬起眉毛，看上去有些自怨自艾：我就是一个异域的异客。
“Do they know here that you have lived an immoral life in Russia?” he asked finally. “Maybe in a town full of whores they don’t care.”
“这里的人知道你在苏联的生活很不道德吗？”他终于说道，“也许这里满是野鸡，他们并不在乎。”
Her answer lay ready on the tip of her tongue: My life in Russia was not immoral. It was your system which was immoral.
她的回答已到了嘴边：我在苏联的生活没有不道德。你们的体制才不道德。
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发表于 2023-11-22 07:09:22
