The Aunt’s Garden Story姨媽的花園

尼古拉斯·周思

The front verandah3 was wrapped in wooden shutters that made a cool antechamber4 to the cave of rooms where Miss J had lived for eighty years. The shutters protected her from the busy street. The first of their kind in the colony， they were a distant precursor5 of the now ubiquitous ‘plantation shutters’ and had earned a place on the heritage list. They were like a curtain across a stage and made Miss J into an actress when she stood out front expostulating6 to passers-by in a knitted cardigan7 and cap and stretchy leggings under a long full skirt—regardless of the season. Being hard of hearing， she spoke too loud， and people stopped to listen. Then she would go inside， disappearing from public knowledge. She was mostly private， always lived alone， never married， worked professionally until retiring age.

She would go through her old stone cottage to the garden at the back that was her haven. The trees had grown their fill： walnut， fig， peach， olive， lemon， some of them planted by her own hands. Flowering shrubs and ground covers and clusters of pots： iris and agapanthus， salvia and geranium. Lawn curved around the beds8 under the trees. A garden shared with cats and birds， lizards， possums， snakes， butterflies. All those years she had tended it， digging， watering， clipping. Sometimes it had the look of a damp climate garden. Other times it acknowledged aridity9 with aloe and cactus.

She weeded， bent double like a penknife10， even in her eighties， to yank at the roots， as stringy11 and fibrous12 herself. With her elbows on her knees， she could rest her palms on the ground leaving no gap between upper body and firmly planted legs. Her garden was a place of mystery， concealed like a temple courtyard. Meanwhile the cars and buses passed out the front， and when she was in the mood she would socialise， mornings with the postman， afternoons with office workers striding back and forth. She gave her opinions forthrightly， excoriating， lamenting， cursing change. She boasted of the history she had seen， insisting any listeners pay heed13.

Then a new townhouse was built next door， its high concrete wall casting an overbearing14 slab of shade over her garden. She had lost the fight against it as we discovered after we moved in. Without knowing it， I had come into her world as a spy， a watcher from above who could freely admire the well-tended greenery of a neighbour’s garden. She hated being observed. Sometimes， remembering the invasion， she would look up and scowl. The perfectly established garden was her life’s work.

I had taken possession of15 it with my gaze.

I found out she had been secretary to the general manager of a large company. She was no pushover16. Then one afternoon in September a storm came with a ferocious wind that blew down the cypress pine at the front of her house， crushing the heritage verandah. Miss J lived frugally， according to her needs and habits. When the council told her that the verandah must be repaired in keeping with the original， largely at her cost， she would not play along17. Instead the old arabesque18 iron roof was tied down with rope and the place made to look derelict.

“It should just be demolished，” one morning walker declared.

In that battering19 of pride， Miss J’s body and spirit must have suffered. She was dead a year later. Through the next summer her nephew and niece kept watch over the place from a distance. They lived interstate and the problem of their aunt’s house was theirs now. People came in to water the garden and keep the grass green. Then the property went on the market. The condition of sale was that any buyer must restore the fallen verandah and heritage shutters. The fa?ade must stay intact. But heritage did not extend to the larger envelop of the house. No value was given to the garden， nor to the memory of the person who had created and maintained it， inseparable from the house in her understanding. And no regard to the benefit a neighbor gets for free from a vision of delight.

The new owners were quick to adapt the site to their own conception. The second summer after Miss J’s demise and the first summer after the sale of the property， the garden was removed. It was hot， hard work， neatly done in a matter of20 weeks. Loyal to Miss J’s memory， the postman intruded at one point to photograph the old peach tree as it lay scattered across the ground in chainsaw chunks. A hundred growth rings ran under my fingers as I felt the cross-sectioned slabs of that rough warm wood. Then everything was taken away and the site was cleared. Let in for the first time in nearly a century， the harsh summer sun lit up the wall behind for all to see.

The earth is level now. The magpies are having a good time finding worms in the rich red soil. As the space is prepared for the next stage of construction， no trace of Miss J’s rare old garden remains. It wasn’t documented in any particular way before she died. Although I have the best view of it， I never took the time to record its details through the changing seasons. Perhaps I idly imagined that my love of it would bring about a stay21 of execution. I suppose I thought that the value I found in what Miss J had done in her long life-time would be recognised and save the garden. Now as the digging starts for the new foundations， it feels as if her grave is being turned. Her legacy floats on the air. If she could see， she would stand out in the street， in front of those heritage shutters， clench her fists and howl for all to hear.

前廊被木質(zhì)百葉窗封了起來，形成一個涼爽的前廳，通往洞穴般的內(nèi)室——由多個房間組成，J小姐已在這里住了80年。百葉窗將她與熙熙攘攘的街道隔離開來。這種木質(zhì)百葉窗是這塊殖民地上最早的發(fā)明，是現(xiàn)在那種隨處可見的“透氣百葉窗”的遠祖，并因此在文化遺產(chǎn)名單上贏得了一席之地。它們就像橫跨舞臺的幕布，每當(dāng)J小姐探出身子告誡路人時，都把她襯托得像演員一樣——無論春夏秋冬，她總是戴一頂針織圓帽，穿一件針織開衫，寬下擺長裙下穿著緊身長襪。因為耳背，她講話的聲音很大，人們也會停下來聆聽。說完，她就會走進屋子，從眾人視線中消失。她比較孤僻，總是獨自一人生活，從未結(jié)過婚，一直工作到退休。

她會穿過她那幢老舊的石頭房子，來到屋后的花園，那兒是她的避風(fēng)港?；▓@里的樹都已成材，有核桃樹、無花果樹、桃樹、橄欖樹和檸檬樹，有些還是她親手種下的。還有各種開花的灌木、地被植物和一簇簇盆花：鳶尾、百子蓮、鼠尾草和天竺葵。草坪曲折蜿蜒地環(huán)繞著樹下的花壇。園子里還棲息著貓、鳥、蜥蜴、負鼠、蛇和蝴蝶。多年來，她一直精心料理這座花園，松土、澆水、修剪。有時，它就像一座氣候潮濕地區(qū)的花園; 另一些時候，蘆薈及仙人掌又顯示了它干旱的一面。

盡管已經(jīng)年逾80，她還能彎腰除草，身子彎成一把小折刀。她揪住野草的根部使勁拉扯，那草根就如同她一樣堅韌。她用胳膊肘抵住膝蓋，手掌及地，上半身與釘在地上的雙腿之間沒有絲毫空隙。她的花園是個神秘去處，如廟宇的院落一般隱蔽。屋子前面的小汽車和公共汽車川流不息，心情好的時候，她會與人閑聊，上午是和郵遞員，下午是和大步來回的辦公室職員們。她直截了當(dāng)?shù)乇磉_自己的意見，指責(zé)、哀嘆和詛咒時代變遷。她會自豪地講述親眼見證的歷史，并一定要聽眾留心聽。

后來，隔壁新建起了一座聯(lián)排別墅，高高的混凝土墻不可一世地在她的花園上投下了一片陰影。我們搬進來后，發(fā)現(xiàn)她已經(jīng)在與這座別墅的維權(quán)斗爭中敗下陣來。不知不覺中，我像一個間諜潛入了她的世界，作為一個居高臨下的觀察者，自由地觀賞鄰居花園精心呵護的綠色植物。她討厭被監(jiān)視。有時，記起自己的隱私被侵犯了，她會抬起頭，怒目而視。這座完美的花園凝結(jié)了她畢生的心血。

我凝視著這座花園，就仿佛占有了它。

后來，我發(fā)現(xiàn)，她從前是一家大公司的總經(jīng)理秘書，不是個容易說服的人。9月的一個下午，一場暴風(fēng)雨不期而至，一陣狂風(fēng)刮倒了她屋前的一棵柏樹，柏樹倒下時把那個文物前廊給壓塌了。J小姐生活簡樸，除生活必需和習(xí)慣所需，沒有半點鋪張。當(dāng)?shù)胤阶h會告訴她，前廊必須原樣修復(fù)，并且大部分費用由她承擔(dān)時，她不會乖乖合作的。結(jié)果，這個古老的阿拉伯式鐵屋頂被她用繩子拴了起來，整座房子顯得破敗不堪。

“這個地方就該被夷為平地?！币粋€晨間散步的人如此宣稱。

自尊嚴重受損，J小姐的身心必然遭受了極大痛苦，一年后，她便去世了。直到第二年夏天，她的侄子侄女都是遠程照看這個地方。他們住在別的州，姨媽房子的問題現(xiàn)在成了他們的問題。有人來給花園澆水，讓草坪常綠。后來，這個房產(chǎn)開始上市出售。出售條件是，買家必須修復(fù)坍塌的前廊和被列為文物的百葉窗，其臨街的正面必須保留原樣。但文物的光環(huán)沒有延伸至房子周邊的事物?；▓@沒有任何價值，那個創(chuàng)建并維護它的人也不值得紀念，在她看來，花園跟房子是密不可分的。至于有個鄰居從賞心悅目的美景中免費獲得好處，就更無人關(guān)心了。

新業(yè)主們迅速根據(jù)自己的構(gòu)想對屋子進行了改造。J小姐去世后的第二個夏天，也是房產(chǎn)出售后的次年夏天，花園被推平了。這是一項緊迫而艱辛的工作，短短幾周之內(nèi)完成得干凈利落。出于對J小姐的深切懷念，郵遞員一度闖進來，拍下那棵被鋸成一段段的老桃樹七零八落躺在地上的畫面。我觸摸那粗糙、溫暖的老樹的橫截面，指尖劃過那百歲年輪。后來，所有東西都被清走，整個地方給收拾得干干凈凈。在近一個世紀的時光里，炫目的夏季陽光首次傾瀉進來，照亮屋后那片墻壁，使之暴露在眾人眼前。

如今，這里已是一塊平整地界。喜鵲在這塊富饒的紅色土壤里歡快地找蟲吃。由于這塊地方即將開始下一階段的建設(shè)，J小姐的珍寶老花園也難覓蹤跡。她死前沒有以任何一種特殊方式將其記載下來。我雖見過它最美好的時光，卻也從未花時間記載下它隨季節(jié)變遷的點滴印跡。也許我是在徒勞地幻想，以為我對它的摯愛或許能拖延施工進度。我一廂情愿地認為，我在J小姐漫長一生的勞作中發(fā)現(xiàn)的價值將會得到認可，從而拯救花園?？涩F(xiàn)在新地基的挖掘工作已經(jīng)開始，仿佛她的墳?zāi)贡痪蛄藗€底朝天。她的遺產(chǎn)飄在空中。如果她能看見這一幕，肯定會站在大街上，站在那些文物百葉窗前，攥緊拳頭，咆哮怒吼，叫所有人都聽見。