十月的阳光
October Sun
张晓风
Zhang Xiaofeng
那些气球都飘走了，总有好几百个吧？在透明的蓝空里浮泛着成堆的彩色，人们全都欢呼起来，仿佛自己也分沾了那份平步青云的幸运——事情总是这样的，轻的东西总能飘得高一点，而悲哀拽住我，有重量的物体总是注定要下沉的。
Balloons, hundreds of them, float up into the translucent blue sky forming shimmering masses of color. Cheers rise up from the crowd as if the onlookers themselves were ascending to the clouds. It’s always like this: light things float up so high, but heavy things always sink, and sadness drags me down.
体育场很灿烂，闪耀着晚秋的阳光，礼炮沉沉地响了，这是十月，一九六六年的十月，武昌的故事远了。西风里悲壮的往事远了。
The gun salute booms deeply through the late autumn sunlight shining down on the athletic field. On this October day of 1966, the heroism of the Wuchang Revolution seems so distant.
参观证佩在胸上，人坐在看台上，忽然不明白自己被请来，是看一出喜剧，还是悲剧。他们在阳光下看那些发亮的头盔，看那些褐色的胸膛，而晚上呢？还是到成都路去了，那里有漆着黑圈的媚眼，有最现代的A-go-go。而战争呢？战争只在那些流汗的脸上，战争只在遥远的岩石岛上。
Observers sit in the stands, visitor’s badges on their chests. I suddenly begin to wonder whether I have been invited to witness a commemoration of glory or tragedy. They’re looking at the helmets glinting under the sun and the deeply tanned chests. And in the evening? They will go downtown where there are women with painted eyes and go-go dancers. And the war? The war is on the faces of the soldiers sweating in the sun. The war is on the rocky islands of Kinmen.
那些人全立在扬起的灰尘里，在我们的背后，圣火燃烧着，听说那是从金门太武山传来的火种（又听说那是一个很遥远的地方，和我们成都路的距离须要用光年计算），当那位少校英雄持着火把去点燃那一炷圣火的时候，看台上全是掌声，从肥厚多肉的手掌中拍出来，也从柔若无骨的纤手中拍出来，然后他们坐下，很小心的坐在铺了手帕或报纸的看台上。
The soldiers stand before us in the dusty field and behind us burns a great torch. They say the fire was brought all the way from Mount Taiwu on Kinmen. (They say that it’s a faraway place, so distant from our neon signs and night clubs that the distance has to be measured in light-years.) A major carries the fire up to light the torch, and the stands are filled with applause, fat meaty hands striking fat meaty hands, slender delicate hands patting slender delicate hands. Then they all sit down carefully on handkerchiefs and newspapers spread out on the stands.
而那些人却立在灰尘里，他们年轻的脸被灰尘隔得模糊而不真实。忽然那些人影退得很远，草场上只剩下一则一则的故事，从塞北，从江南，那些相同的濡满泪水的故事。十七年以前，十八年以前或者更早，便是那些故事的开场。那些男孩子走在田埂上，回望着庭里的一株桃树，凄迷的红雾便浸湿在泪眼里，故园从此不见了，而故事搁浅在一个多棕榈的岛上。一则则的故事，在十月的阳光里闪躲，想闪开那些可怜的故园中的一抹微红，想闪开孤灯下母亲头上的一茎白发。
The soldiers are lined up on the field, their youthful faces blurred by the dust, which makes them seem unreal. Suddenly they seem to fade into the distance, leaving on the field only ghosts of long past wars, ghosts of boys walking along the narrow paths of the rice paddies, looking back at the peach tree in the courtyard for the last time as their tears mixed with the sun-streaked mists. Haunting memories of seventeen, eighteen, and more years ago flit through the October sun: a red splotched sky over the old home…a solitary light bulb illuminating the white hair of the woman seated underneath, memories stranded on an island of palm trees.
红色大柱子下坐着文武百官，那柱子仍然保留着一些东方的自尊，一些恢弘的气象，这几乎有点像太平盛世了。从小小的观剧镜里望出去，那八十岁的统帅正坐在中央，那张不曾老去的脸依然刻画着黄埔，依然刻画着广州誓师，那样抿着的嘴和沉思的眼睛牵动着一个时代的命运，而他坐在这里，他的心中翻腾着些什么呢？半个世纪过去了，离乱的中国人民苦痛着，中国人并不吉卜赛，我们是一种即使死在火星上也要把骸骨搬回来的民族。天知道当我们放弃田园而浪迹天涯的时候是一出怎样的悲剧。
The government and military leaders are seated in a pavilion under ornately decorate red pillars which preserve a vestige of the dignity and splendor of the Orient. For a moment, it almost seems as if peace has descended on earth. The eighty-year-old leader can be seen seated in the center. His long military career is etched on his face. The fate of an age has been determined by those solemn lips and pensive eyes. What is he thinking as he sits there? Half a century ago has gone by. Scattered by war, the Chinese people suffer. The Chinese are not gypsies. Even if we died on Mars, our bones would have to be returned to their proper resting place. Only heaven knows the tragedy set in motion as we abandoned our homes and began wandering.
只是有一些人已经不悲剧了，他们很满意地说，现在的云南大头菜挺不错，金华火腿也算差强人意了，而水蜜桃儿不是也很像那么回事吗？当他们坐在筵席上的时候，喝的是浙江的绍兴酒，手里握着的是湖南的长筷子，端上来的菜却有镇江的肴肉，广东的白斩鸡，北平的烤鸭，四川的辣子鸡丁，他们舔舔嘴唇说：这里很好。
But for some, the tragedy is already over. They feel very satisfied. The Yunnan-style preserved mustard root isn’t too bad. The Chinhua-style ham is passable and the peaches are just about as good. When they sit at their banquets, they drink Shaohsing rice wine and eat with long chopsticks as in Hunan. They eat dishes like Chinkiang pork, Cantonese white sliced chicken, Peiping roast duck, Szechuan spicy diced chicken. They lick their lips and say, “It’s all right here.”
真的。很好，什么都有了——除了秋日该有归思以外，我们是什么都有了。
Yes, it’s fine. We’ve got everything here, everything but the thoughts of returning home, which should come with autumn.
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