無花果樹下的姥姥

It was a 1）sweltering June night many years ago， with the smell of sea and jasmine thick in the air. I lay on the black-leather couch in the living room with my head on my grandmother’s lap as she stroked my hair with her gentle， calloused hand. I felt 2）encased， cherished， protected， loved.

I remember that my mom and my grandma talked for hours， gossiping， laughing， weaving stories about past and future， suspending us in time and space. They talked about me， about the need to protect me from the evil eye of a jealous aunt. They talked about my brother， about how strongly he resembled my uncle who’d died tragically years before.

As I drifted into sweet sleep， their voices came from further and further away until all I heard was the soft， 3）melodious 4）cadence of their speech： the sound of love， the sound of my childhood.

My grandmother’s name was Johra and she neither knew how to read nor write， but I learned much from her simple wisdom and common sense.

She was a fountain of stories and anecdotes， fascinating stories that run 5）parallel to the history of my country： stories about her childhood， stories about the French-Algerian war， stories about survival during brutal， harsh times.

She had a tough life： She lost her husband early and never remarried， raising her five children on her own. She lost her youngest son under tragic circumstances. She suffered materially and emotionally until much later in her life， when my mother could afford to take care of her.

In many ways， modern life passed my grandma by. She knew nothing of how computers and televisions and telephones and cars worked， but she took all of these developments in her stride and was surprisingly open-minded. By necessity， most of her knowledge of the modern world came to her through her children and grandchildren.

We would sit side by side in front of the television， and I would translate the classical Arabic or French that was on the news into an Algerian dialect that she could understand. I loved to explain things to her： politics， technology， history， space travel. She always trusted that my explanation was the right one. Eventually， she even learned to use the cell phone that my cousin got for her， and it became one of her most prized possessions.

The last time I ever saw my grandmother， she wore a pretty sky-blue dress matched by a scarf of the same colour on her head.

She had always maintained a remarkable form. Her hair was almost 6）jet-black， her back straight， her skin supple. Whether this was due to a diet rich in olive oil or a youth spent in the open air I’ll never know. But on that last visit， she looked thin and frail， the effects of two strokes visible in the slumping of her body， a very 7）perceptible lettinggo.

I had travelled from Paris to 8）Algiers specifically to see her； she had asked for me， sensing， no doubt， that the end of her journey on this side was near.

We met in the garden. She sat in the shade of the old fig tree， singing folk songs as I rocked in the 9）hammock beside her. The water fountain in the corner made splashing noises and attracted chirping birds and butterflies.

My grandmother loved this garden； it reminded her of the vast open fields of her 10）Kabylia childhood. She had never 11）acclimated to city living， finding apartments too narrow and 12）claustrophobic， and every chance she had， she would take a trip back to Kabylia to visit family and harvest olive oil with the women there.

My grandma died of a stroke last year， and I still miss her terribly. I miss her laughter， I miss her gentleness， I miss her warmth. Sometimes， I still can’t believe that she is gone and that I will never see her again， never again share a laugh with her or explain politics to her or buy her a new scarf.

The older I get， the more I realize that love， unconditional love， is rare and hard to come by. Life is tough. Everyone is out for themselves. When you lose a grandparent， you lose one of the few people who love you just as you are. It feels like an essential link to my childhood has been severed.

So much has happened since my childhood days， so much has changed. The Internet came about. CDs and DVDs replaced cassette recorders and videos. There were wars， tsunamis， global warming， near economic meltdowns. Time keeps rushing forward. Sometimes I wish I could make it stop， or at least slow down， but I know it is a cheap， futile thought.

But in the turmoil of these changing times， my grandmother gave me so many memories I can cling to， so many anchors to steady this ship and to steer her to safe harbour. I may not always know where I’m going， but I will always know where I came from. To me， that is a source of great strength.

那是多年前一個悶熱的六月之夜，空氣中蘊含著海水和茉莉花的濃郁氣息。我躺在客廳的黑色皮躺椅上，頭枕在姥姥懷里，她那長滿繭子的溫柔雙手撫摸著我的頭發(fā)。我感到被圍裹，被珍視，被愛護。

我記得媽媽和姥姥會聊上幾個小時，閑話家常，大聲說笑，編織著關(guān)于過去和未來的故事，將我們懸置于時空之中。他們說著關(guān)于我的事，說要保護我，以躲避一位心懷嫉妒的阿姨邪惡的目光。他們說起我的哥哥，說他跟我那位多年前凄慘離世的舅舅長得有多么像。

當(dāng)我飄忽進入甜蜜的夢鄉(xiāng)，她們的聲音離我越來越遠，直到我只能聽到她們說話時那輕柔優(yōu)美的韻律：愛的聲音，童年的聲音。

我的姥姥名叫喬娜，她不會讀書也不會寫字，但我從她簡單的智慧和常識中學(xué)到很多的東西。

她是眾多故事和奇聞軼事的源泉，那些迷人的故事都與我們國家的歷史并駕而行：關(guān)于她童年的故事，關(guān)于法阿戰(zhàn)爭的故事，還有關(guān)于艱難困苦時期的求生掙扎故事。

她的一生過得很艱難：她早早就失去了丈夫，一直沒有再婚，憑一己之力撫養(yǎng)五個孩子。她在很凄慘的境況下失去了最小的兒子。她在物質(zhì)和精神上一直經(jīng)受痛苦，直到人生的晚年，我媽媽有能力照顧她時才得以好轉(zhuǎn)。

在許多方面，現(xiàn)代生活都與姥姥擦肩而過。她完全搞不懂電腦、電視、電話和汽車是怎么一回事，但她對這些新玩意兒都從容處之，并且令人吃驚地虛心。難免地，她對于現(xiàn)代世界的大部分認知都來自她的兒孫。

我們會并排坐在電視機前，我會將新聞里標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的阿拉伯語或法語翻譯成她能聽懂的阿爾及利亞方言。我喜愛向她解釋各種事物：政治、科技、歷史、太空旅行。她總是相信我的解釋就是正確的。后來，她甚至還學(xué)會了使用手機，那是我表親帶給她的，而這也成為了她最珍貴的財產(chǎn)之一。

我最后一次見到姥姥時，她穿著一條漂亮的天藍色裙子，頭上搭配著一條同色的頭巾。

她的形貌體態(tài)一直保持得不錯。頭發(fā)幾乎是烏黑的，腰背直挺，皮膚潤澤。這究竟歸功于其富含橄欖油的飲食還是年輕時的戶外勞作，我不得而知。但在那最后一次見面時，她看上去瘦弱不堪，兩次中風(fēng)的后果顯然令她的身體不斷變壞，撒手的跡象顯而易見。

我專程從巴黎去到阿爾及爾看她，她說要見我，毫無疑問，她已經(jīng)感覺到離自己的人生旅程終點不遠了。

我們在花園里見面。她坐在那棵老無花果樹的樹蔭里，唱著民謠，而我則躺在她身邊那吊床里，左右晃著。角落的噴水池濺水有聲，吸引了啾鳴的鳥兒和蝴蝶。

姥姥很喜歡這個花園，這讓她想起她在卡比利亞童年時開闊廣袤的田野。她一直適應(yīng)不了城市生活，覺得公寓住宅太狹小，而且讓人產(chǎn)生幽閉恐懼，她一有機會就會回到卡比利亞探訪親人，并且跟當(dāng)?shù)氐膵D女一起采收橄欖油。

姥姥去年因中風(fēng)去世了，我依然深深地想念她。我想念她的笑聲，想念她的親切，想念她的溫暖。有時候，我仍然無法相信她已經(jīng)走了，我永遠也不能再見到她了，永遠也無法再和她一起歡笑，或者為她解釋政治，或者為她買一件新的頭巾了。

年紀(jì)越大，我越意識到，愛，無條件的愛，是稀有且難以獲得的。生活很艱難。每個人都為自己在外奔波。當(dāng)你失去了一位（外）祖父母，你就失去了那些少數(shù)能無條件愛你的人中的一員。那就像是緊扣童年的關(guān)鍵鏈接被切斷了一樣。

自我童年以來，發(fā)生了許多事情，也發(fā)生了很多改變?；ヂ?lián)網(wǎng)出現(xiàn)了。CD和DVD替代了磁帶錄音機和錄像。發(fā)生過戰(zhàn)爭、海嘯、全球變暖，以及多次經(jīng)濟衰退。時間不斷向前流走。有時候我希望我可以讓它停下來，或者至少慢下來，但我知道那是一種毫無價值且徒勞的想法。

但是在那些時代變遷的混亂之中，姥姥給了我很多可以依附的回憶，很多用以開穩(wěn)生命之船，駕馭其通往安全港灣的船錨。我或許并非總是知道自己正去往何方，但我總是清楚自己來自何方。對于我而言，那是一種偉大力量的來源。