Relics of Summer (Excerpt)《夏日遺物》 （節(jié)選）

【導(dǎo)讀】弗朗西絲·梅斯，美國作家、詩人，舊金山州立大學(xué)教授。20世紀(jì)90年代開始旅居意大利托斯卡納。1996年，記錄這段生活的《托斯卡納艷陽下》（Under the Tuscan Sun）出版，迅速登上《紐約時(shí)報(bào)》暢銷書榜第一名，在榜128周之久，被譽(yù)為“現(xiàn)代版《瓦爾登湖》”，并在不經(jīng)意間引領(lǐng)了一場跨越世紀(jì)的“慢活”風(fēng)尚，成為人們心中質(zhì)感生活的理想范本。

長日、閃電、暴風(fēng)雨、被閃電劈中的洗碗機(jī)、被暴雨抽打的葡萄藤、文藝復(fù)興時(shí)期的大教堂、干涸的圣洗池、灰撲撲的賣瓜車、臂上肌肉健碩的賣瓜男孩、夜里肆虐的蚊子、與星星爭輝的螢火蟲、黑蝎子、栗樹林、亞平寧山脈、橄欖林和山谷……這里是托斯卡納，這是托斯卡納的夏天。每天早晨品著咖啡，抬頭便可同時(shí)品味公元前8世紀(jì)伊特魯里亞文明和文化，過去、現(xiàn)在和未來共存，可以慢慢聊天，有的是時(shí)間……。《紐約時(shí)報(bào)》如是評論梅斯：“美麗文字寫就撩人的意大利生活，有如一次誘人心動的狂歡，又似一曲絲絲入心的天籟?！北疚募词谴朔N感覺的完美調(diào)和，節(jié)選自梅斯發(fā)表在1994年秋季刊《犁鏵》（Ploughshares）的散文“夏日遺物”。

The fonts in all the churches are dry. I run my fingers through the dusty scallops of marble： not a drop for my hot forehead. The Tuscan July heat is invasive to the body but not to the stone churches that hold onto the dampness of winter， releasing a gray coolness slowly throughout the summer. I have a feeling， walking into one then another， that I walk into palpable silence. A lid seems to descend on our voices， or a large damp hand. In the vast church of San Biago below Montepulciano1， there is an airy2 quiet as you enter. Right under the dome， you can stand in one spot and speak or clap your hands， and far up against the inner cup of the dome an eerie echo sends the sound rapidly back. The quality of the sound is not like the hello across a lake but a sharp， repeated return. Your voice flattened， otherworldly. It is hard to think a mocking angel isnt hovering against the frescoes， though more likely a pigeon rests there.

Since I have been spending summers in Cortona， the major shock and joy is how at home I feel. But not just at home， returned to that primal first awareness of home. I feel at home because dusty trucks park at intersections and sell watermelons. The same thump to test for ripeness. The boy holds up a rusty iron scale with discs of different sizes to counterweigh the striped Sugar Baby. His arm muscle jumps up like Popeyes and the breeze brings me a whiff of his scent of dry grasses， onions， and dirt. In big storms， lightning drives a jagged stake into the ground and hailstones bounce in the yard， bringing back the smell of ozone to me from Georgia days when Id gather a bowlful the size of Ping-Pong balls and put them in the freezer.

Sweltering nights， the air comes close to body temperature， and shifting constellations of fireflies compete with stars. Mosquito nights， grabbing at air， the mosquito caught in my hair. Long days when I can taste the sun. I move through this foreign house Ive acquired as though my real ancestors left their presences in these rooms. As though this were the place I always came home to.

Living near a small town again certainly is part of it. And living again with nature. （A student of mine from Los Angeles visited. When I walked him out to the end of the point for the wide-angle view of lake， chestnut forests， Apennines， olive groves， and valleys， he was unprepared. He stood silently， the first time Id known he could， and finally said， “Its， uh， like nature.”） Right， nature： clouds swarm in from over the lake and thunder cracks along my back bone， booms like waves boom far out at sea. I write in my note book： “The dishwasher was struck. We heard the sizzle. But isnt it good， the gigantic storm， the flood of terror they felt beside fires in the cave？ The thunder shakes me like a kitten the big cat has picked up by the neck. I ricochet home， heat lightning; Im lying on the ground 4，000 miles from here， letting rain soak through me.”

Rain flays the grapes. Nature： whats ripe， will the driveway wash away， when to dig potatoes， how much water is in the irrigation well？ Early life reconnects. I go out to get wood; a black scorpion scuttles over my hand and suddenly I remember the furry tarantulas in the shower at Lakemont， the shriek when my bare-footed mother stepped on one and felt it crunch then squash up soft as a banana between her toes.

Is it the spill of free days？ I dream my mother rinses my tangle of hair with a bowl of rainwater.

Sweet time， exaggerated days， getting up at dawn because when the midsummer sun tops the crests across the valley， the first rays hit me in the face like they strike some rock at Stonehenge on the solstice. To be fully awake when the sky turns rose-streaked coral and scarves of fog drift across the valley and the wild canaries sing. In Georgia， my father and I used to get up to walk the beach at sunrise. At home in San Francisco what wakes me is the alarm at seven， or the car-pool horn blowing for the child downstairs， or the recycle truck with its crashing cascade of glass. I love the city and never have felt really at home there.

I was drawn to the surface of Italy for its perched towns， the food， language， and art. I was pulled also to its sense of lived life， the coexistence of times that somehow gives an aura of timelessness—I toast the Etruscan wall above us with my coffee every morning—all the big abstracts that act out in everything from the aggression on the autostrada3 to the late afternoon stroll through the piazza. I cast my lot here for a few short months a year because I know my curiosity for the layered culture of the country is inexhaustible.

所有教堂的圣洗池都是干的。我撫摸著大理石圣洗池積塵的扇貝形凹凸：沒有一滴水可以蘸洗我熱燙的前額。托斯卡納的七月暑熱浸肌入骨，但透不過石砌的教堂，那里仍保留著冬日濕氣，在整個夏日慢慢釋放陰涼。走進(jìn)一座座教堂，我有種感覺，覺得自己走進(jìn)了有形的寂靜。似乎有個蓋子，又似乎是只潮濕的大手，蒙在了我們的聲音上。在蒙特普齊亞諾鎮(zhèn)下方宏偉的圣比亞焦教堂，一進(jìn)門就會感到一種涼風(fēng)拂面的清靜。若是站在教堂穹頂正下方某個點(diǎn)說話或拍手，詭異回聲撞到高高在上的穹頂內(nèi)蓋，會立刻把聲音傳回。那回聲的音質(zhì)不似那種隔著湖面打招呼的聲音，而是一種尖利的、反復(fù)的回應(yīng)。原聲變得沒有起伏，仿若來自另一個世界。壁畫處很可能是一只鴿子在休憩，但人們更愿意想象為一個調(diào)皮的天使在盤旋。

自到科爾托納度夏以來，讓我非常驚奇并欣喜的是我感到如此自在。不過不僅僅是自在，還體驗(yàn)到最原初的家的感覺。之所以自在，是因?yàn)檎礉M塵土的卡車停在十字路口賣著西瓜，可以像在家里那樣敲敲拍拍，看看西瓜有幾分熟。賣瓜男孩拿著一桿銹跡斑斑的鐵秤，配有不同大小的秤盤來稱這些條紋“糖心寶貝”。他胳膊肌肉突起，似大力水手;微風(fēng)吹來一陣他的氣息，混合著干草、洋蔥及泥土味。大暴雨時(shí)，閃電把鋸齒狀的樹樁擊入地里，冰雹砸在院子里亂蹦，帶來熟悉的清新空氣的味道，讓我回想起在佐治亞的日子，那時(shí)，我會撿上一碗乒乓球大小的冰雹放進(jìn)冰箱。

夜晚悶熱，氣溫接近體溫。簇簇螢火蟲飛來飛去，與星星爭輝。夜晚，蚊蟲肆虐，憑空亂抓，蚊子竟能掉在頭發(fā)里。白天很長，我可以充分享受陽光。我在買下的這棟異域房子里穿梭，仿若我自己的祖先曾在此生活過，仿若這是我一直的歸宿。

再次住在小鎮(zhèn)附近以及再次與自然為伴，無疑也是有歸家之感的一部分原因。（一個學(xué)生從洛杉磯來看我。我?guī)獬錾⒉剑叩搅寺返谋M頭，那里視野開闊，湖泊、栗樹林、亞平寧山脈、橄欖林和山谷盡收眼中，他大感意外。他靜靜地站在那兒——就我所知那是他第一次能安靜地站著——最后說道：“呵，這才像大自然?！保?，大自然：云朵從湖面奔涌而來，雷聲沿著我的脊骨噼啪作響，轟鳴聲好似遙遠(yuǎn)海上浪濤洶涌。我在筆記本上寫道：“洗碗機(jī)被擊中了。我們聽到了嘶嘶聲?？蛇@不是很精彩嗎，這狂野的暴風(fēng)雨，人們在洞穴的火堆旁感受到滾滾而來的恐懼？雷聲驚呆了我，就像一只小貓被一只大貓叨住脖子提溜起來。我向家飛奔，熱閃不停;我于是躺在距此4000英里的地上，任憑雨水將我打得透濕?！?/p>

大雨抽打著葡萄藤。大自然：什么熟了，車道會被沖毀嗎，什么時(shí)候挖土豆，灌溉井里有多少水？早年生活重回記憶。我出門取木柴，一只黑蝎子爬過我的手背，我突然想起萊克蒙特浴室里毛絨絨的狼蛛，想起母親的那聲尖叫——她當(dāng)時(shí)赤腳踩上一只狼蛛，感到腳下發(fā)出嘎吱響聲，之后那狼蛛如香蕉泥般軟軟地從腳趾間擠出。

是閑暇的日子過得太多了嗎？我夢到母親用一碗雨水清洗我打結(jié)的頭發(fā)。

甜蜜的時(shí)光，夸張的日子，拂曉即起，因?yàn)楫?dāng)仲夏的太陽跨越山谷高懸峰頂，最初的幾縷陽光照到臉上就像至日時(shí)照到巨石陣的某塊巨石。想完全清醒則要等到天空變成玫瑰色條紋的珊瑚、層疊的霧從山谷飄散、野生金絲雀放聲歌唱之時(shí)。在佐治亞，我和父親常日出即起，去海邊散步。在舊金山的家里，叫醒我的是早上7點(diǎn)的鬧鈴，或是樓下催促孩子上學(xué)的拼車?yán)嚷?，又或是回收小貨車傾倒玻璃的聲音。我喜歡城市，但在城里我從未真正覺得自在。

意大利顯現(xiàn)在世人面前的那一面吸引著我，那山崖小鎮(zhèn)、食物、語言和藝術(shù)。同時(shí)意大利的生活感也吸引著我，那種各個時(shí)代共存帶來的某種永恒的氛圍——每天早晨，我都會用咖啡向上方的伊特魯里亞墻致敬——從高速公路上的飆車到傍晚時(shí)分的廣場信步，所有了不起的抽象藝術(shù)作品都得到展示。每年，我都會隨性在此待上短短數(shù)月，因?yàn)槲抑雷约簩@個國家不同層次的文化有無窮無盡的興趣。

（譯者單位：北京化工大學(xué)）