“不般配”的戀人

“Is this your grandson?” people sometimes ask Austin when she’s out with me.

“這是你的孫子嗎？”奧斯汀(Austin)跟我一起出去時，人們有時會這樣問她。

I love watching her vanity prick up, the way she serenely tilts her small white head and refurbishes her Southern accent to correct them. “No, honey. He’s my friend.”

我喜歡看她虛榮心作祟，平靜地偏過鬢髮如霜的小腦袋，操着經過刻意修飾的南方口音糾正他們的樣子。“不，親愛的，他是我的朋友。”

At this point, folks usually smile tightly and turn away, perhaps worried there is more than friendship going on between the old lady and the younger man seated at the bar or strolling through the supermarket, giggling like teenagers.

此時，人們常常擠出一個微笑，轉身走開，也許是擔心在酒吧裏閒坐或在超市裏逛悠、像青少年一樣情不自禁笑出聲的這位老婦人，和這名年輕一些的男子之間存在超越友誼的關係。

Why we’re giggling, I couldn’t tell you. Often our mirth seems fueled by some deep-celled delight at being together. Friendship, like its flashier cousin, love, can be wildly chemical and, like love, can happen in an instant.

至於爲什麼情不自禁笑出聲，我無法說清楚。讓我們歡笑的似乎常常是共處時的某種深層次的喜悅。友誼可以像它那更爲熠熠生輝的表親愛情一樣，是一種難以控制的化學反應，也可以像愛情一樣，在一瞬間發生。

When I met Austin, I was in my early 40s and not looking for a friend. I had come alone to this small Oregon town to finish a book. So when a bony, blue-eyed stranger knocked on my door, introducing herself as the lady from across the way and wondering if I might like to come over and see her garden — maybe have a gin and tonic — I politely declined.

遇到奧斯汀的時候，我40出頭，並沒有在尋覓新朋友。我孤身來到俄勒岡的這個小鎮上，是爲了寫完一本書。因此，當一位瘦骨嶙峋、長着藍色眼睛的女士敲開門，自我介紹說就住在對面，想知道我是否願意過去看看她的花園——或許還可以來一杯加奎寧水的杜松子酒時，我禮貌地拒絕了。

Watching her walk away, though, in her velvet slip-ons and wrinkled blouse, I felt a strange pang, a slow pin of sadness that I suppose could best be described as loneliness. Suddenly I was dashing into the dirt road to say that I was sorry, that she had caught me in the middle of work, but that, yes, I would enjoy seeing her garden.

不過，目送她姍姍離去，我在她的絲絨便鞋和起皺的襯衫中感受到了一種奇怪的心痛，一絲幽幽的悲傷，我覺得最好稱之爲孤獨。我猛地衝到土路上，告訴她我很抱歉，她來之前我正在工作，但我很願意參觀她的花園。

“Not the gin and tonic?” she said.

“不要加奎寧水的杜松子酒？”她說。

“Sure, that too,” I answered, blushing. And before I could suggest a visit the next week, she said: “So I’ll see you in a few hours, then. Shall we say 4:30?”

“當然也要，”我紅着臉回答。接着，還沒等我提議把拜訪時間定在下週，她便說道：“那我們過會兒見，4點30分怎麼樣？”

I had to admire her sense of time. Next week is for someone who can afford to put things off. Austin, in her 80s, surely felt no such luxury.

我必須對她的時間觀念表示稱道。有本錢把事情往後推的人才會跟人約在下週。已至耄耋之年的奧斯汀顯然不會這樣奢侈。

“I liked your face,” she admitted later, telling me she had spotted me at the mailbox.

“我喜歡你的臉，”她後來承認，告訴我她看到過信箱旁的我。

As she poured the gin, I told her I had seen her at the mailbox, as well, and liked her face, too.

當她倒杜松子酒的時候，我告訴她我也看到過信箱旁的她，也喜歡她的臉。

“I wish I had better eyebrows,” she said. “They used to be fabulous.”

“要是我的眉毛再漂亮一點就好了，”她說。“它們從前可是又濃又密。”

Her garden was astounding, like something dreamed rather than planted, a mad-hatter gothic in which a lawless grace prevailed.

她的花園令人驚歎，不像侍弄出來的，倒像夢想出來的，有一種哥特式的狂野，一種不拘定法的優美。

At dusk, the deer arrived, nibbling the crab apple blossoms. We had been talking for hours, slightly tipsy, and then we were in the kitchen cooking dinner. A retired psychologist, Austin had traveled extensively, spoke terrible Spanish and worse French, and was a painter now. She had had two husbands, the second of whom died in this house, in a small bed in the living room.

黃昏時分，來了一隻鹿，吃着酸蘋果樹的花。我們已經聊了幾個小時，有些微醺，隨後走進廚房準備晚餐。奧斯汀是一名退休的心理學家，遊歷過很多地方，能說糟糕的西班牙語和更糟的法語，現在是一名畫家。她有過兩任丈夫，第二任是在這所房子裏離世的，確切地說是在起居室內的一張小牀上。

“That’s what I’ll do,” Austin told me. “This room gets the best light.”

“我將來也要這樣離開，”奧斯汀告訴我。“這個房間的光線最好。”

We turned to the windows, but the light was already gone. That we could be quiet together so soon, and without strain, felt auspicious.

我們轉向窗戶，但陽光已經消逝。我們這麼快就能自然而然、安安靜靜地坐在一起，這種感覺預示着好兆頭。

“So you’ve run away from home?” she said at one point.

“所以你是從家裏逃出來的？”有一刻她說道。

From the beginning, there was something about our interaction that reminded me of friendships from childhood, in which no question was off limits. On religion, she claimed to be an atheist. I admitted to being haunted by the ghosts of a Roman Catholic upbringing. She said her sisters believed in hell and worried about her soul. Austin, though, seemed afraid of nothing, least of all death. I said I was still afraid of the dark.

從一開始，我們的互動所具有的某種特質，就讓我聯想起童年時代那種可以百無禁忌地提問的友誼。談及宗教，她自稱是一名無神論者。我則承認一直被自己天主教家庭成長經歷的幽靈糾纏着。她說她的姐妹相信有地獄，併爲她的靈魂感到擔憂。但奧斯汀似乎無所畏懼，最不怕的就是死亡。我說我仍然害怕黑暗。

“Living alone,” she said. “It can make you funny.”

“獨自居住，”她說，“會讓你變得有點奇怪。”

I laughed but changed the subject, telling her I would like to see her paintings.

我笑了，但轉換了話題，告訴她想看看她的畫作。

Later, crossing the road back to my Craigslist sublet, I wondered what I was doing. I reminded myself of my plan: hiding out, staying in the dream of the book. I wasn’t here to socialize. After years of work on a single project, I was in the final stretch. I could finish a draft in a few months and head back home.

後來，往路對面走、返回那個在Craigslist網站上從別人手中轉租的房子時，我不禁納悶我這是在幹什麼。我提醒自己別忘了原先的計劃：躲起來，沉浸在那本書製造的夢境裏。我來這兒不是爲了與人交際。多年間我一直在忙活同一本書，當時處於最後衝刺階段。我可以在幾個月內寫完草稿，然後打道回府。

Besides, if I wanted a friend during my retreat, I would find someone my age to throw back beers with. Gin and tonics with an old lady in her garden? That wasn’t in the plan.

此外，如果在閉關期間想要有個朋友，我會找跟我年齡相仿的人一塊兒喝啤酒。和一位老婦人在她家花園裏喝加奎寧水的杜松子酒？這可不在計劃之中。

But there I was the next weekend having dinner with her, and then it was every weekend. Sometimes we went out to a restaurant or hiked in the mountains. Austin’s older friends seemed confused.

但下一個週末我跟她共進了晚餐，然後每個週末都是如此。有時候我們會出門下館子或者在山間漫步。奧斯汀的那些上了年紀的朋友似乎很困惑。

“Is he helping you with the computer?” one asked.

“他是在幫你修電腦嗎？”一個朋友問。

When I first started talking about Austin to my own out-of-town friends, they assumed I had found a new boyfriend.

當我第一次跟外地的朋友談起奧斯汀時，他們以爲我交了新男友。

“Austin’s a woman,” I would say. “Besides, she’s in her 80s. She’s just a pal.”

“奧斯汀是女人，”我會告訴他們。“而且她已經80多了。她只是一個朋友。”

Even as they replied, “That’s cool,” I could almost hear them thinking: “Must be slim pickings out in Oregon.”

“真酷。”即便他們這樣如此回答，我還是幾乎能聽到他們內心的聲音：“在俄勒岡那邊肯定是沒什麼選擇的餘地。”

What was perplexing, I suppose, was not that two people of such different ages had become friends, but that we had essentially become best friends. Others regarded our devotion as either strange or quaint, like one of those unlikely animal friendships: a monkey and a pigeon, perhaps.

我想，令人困惑的不是兩個年齡相差如此懸殊的人成了朋友，而是我們倆實際上成了最好的朋友。其他人都認爲我們這段友情有些古怪或者離奇，就像看似不可能成爲朋友的兩種動物之間的友情：也許是一隻猴子和一隻鴿子。

Admittedly, when I would spot us in a mirror, I saw how peculiar we were. This vivacious white-haired imp in her bright colors and chunk-style jewelry sitting with the dark-haired man in his drab earth-tone sweaters and Clark Kent glasses. Maybe I looked like some nerdy gigolo or this elegant woman’s attentive secretary. If we made no sense from the outside, it didn’t matter. We were mostly looking at each other.

的確，當我在鏡中看我們倆時，看到的是非常奇特的一對兒。一位活潑的白髮女郎着裝色彩明豔，戴着碩大的首飾，和一名身穿乏味的大地色調毛衣、戴着克拉克·肯特(Clark Kent)式眼鏡的黑髮男子坐在一起。或許我看上去就像一個書呆子氣十足的小白臉兒，或者這位優雅女士的貼心祕書。如果我們看上去完全不合常理，那沒有關係。我們大多數時間都在注視彼此。

One night, Austin chatted about her life as a middle-aged wife in academia. “I completely missed out on the wildness of the ’60s,” she said.

一天晚上，奧斯汀談及了她還是學術界的一名中年人妻時的生活。“我完全錯失了1960年代的狂野，”她說。

I told her I had missed out, too.

我告訴她我也錯過了。

“You weren’t born yet,” she said. “Or hardly.”

“你那時還沒出生呢，”她說。“或者剛剛出生。”

Often we cooked together, as we had that first night, after which she would show me whatever painting she was working on. At her request, I also started reading to her from my book-in-progress. We gave each other feedback; our work improved.

我們常常一起下廚，就像第一天晚上那樣，隨後奧斯汀會把自己正在畫的畫拿給我看。應她的要求，我也開始把自己正在寫的書讀給她聽。我們相互給出反饋意見；各自的工作都有了改善。

When my six-month lease was up, I renewed it. The novel wasn’t finished. Plus, I couldn’t imagine a better neighbor.

六個月的租約到期時，我續租了。小說尚未寫完。此外，我覺得自己不可能遇到更好的鄰居。

Before I knew it, three years had passed. I was writing seven days a week and spending most evenings with Austin. Sometimes she had spells of vertigo now, and when we walked together she held my arm. Often she couldn’t find the right word for something. When she wanted to keep away visitors so she could paint, she hung a sign on her studio door: “Do not destroy.”

不知不覺間，三年過去了。我一週寫作七天，大多數晚上都與奧斯汀共度。她有時會感到一陣頭暈，和我一起走路時會挽着我的胳膊。她常常詞不達意。當她想要拒絕外人來訪，以便專心作畫時，會在工作室的門上掛了一個牌子：請勿“破壞”。

Soon the headaches came, and more jumbled language. “I need to screw my calls,” she said, meaning she needed to screen them.

很快她開始頭疼，詞不達意的情況變得更爲嚴重。“我需要‘扭曲’來電，”她說，意思是她需要篩選來電（“扭曲”[screw]和“篩選”[screen]音近——編注）。

We laughed, then sobered. Tests were scheduled.

我們大笑，然後變得嚴肅起來。她預約了做檢查的時間。

Now she is eight months into what the doctors say is a quick-ravaging illness deep in her brain. They say there is no stopping it. A year more, if she’s lucky. Even as I refuse to believe this, I prepare for it.

現在，她得上醫生所說的那種在顱內快速肆虐的疾病已有八個月。他們說病情會不斷惡化。如果幸運的話，她還有一年的時間。雖然不願相信這一事實，我還是做着準備。

How? By keeping my promise to her.

怎麼準備？信守我對她的承諾。

A few months before her diagnosis, Austin had attended a wedding. She showed me a copy of the vows, which had been distributed at the ceremony — a detailed list. I read it carefully, at Austin’s bidding. We were sitting in a car, waiting for our favorite Thai restaurant to open.

奧斯汀在病症得到確診的幾個月前參加了一場婚禮。她向我展示了新人在婚禮上分發的結婚誓約，那是一份詳細的清單。我按照奧斯汀的吩咐細細閱讀了一番。我們當時正坐在車裏，等着我們喜愛的泰國餐廳開門營業。

“I never had anything like that with the men in my life,” she said, pointing to the vows. “We loved each other, but we didn’t have that.” She was crying now, something she rarely did.

“我這一生從未和男人有過這樣的東西，”她指的是誓約。“我們彼此相愛，但我們沒有這個，”她哭了起來。她以前很少哭的。

I took her hand and said, “Well, you have it with me. Everything but the sex.”

我握住她的手說，“好吧，你可以和我有這個。除了性，什麼都行。”

At which point, the monkey kissed the pigeon.

此刻，猴子親吻了鴿子。

That night, I had an odd realization: Some of the greatest romances of my life have been friendships. And these friendships have been, in many ways, more mysterious than erotic love: more subtle, less selfish, more attuned to kindness.

那天晚上，我有了一種古怪的認知：我生命中某些最棒的羅曼史其實是一段段友情。它們在很多方面比情慾之愛更不可思議：更細膩，更無私，與友善更契合。

Of course, Austin was going to die long before I did. That’s not what this is about. This, I have come to understand, is a love story.

當然了，奧斯丁會早我很多年離世。但重點不在於此。我意識到這是一個愛情故事。

Austin continued to paint for several months more, fractured, psychedelic self-portraits in scorching colors. Her best work. Lately, though, she is tired and hardly leaves the couch. I sit with her, at the opposite end, our legs intertwined.

奧斯汀又畫了幾個月，用熾烈的色彩畫着些飄忽迷幻的自畫像。那是她最好的作品。不過後來她累了，很少離開沙發。我陪她面對面坐着，我們的腿纏繞在一起。

“Read to me,” she says.

“讀書給我聽，”她說。

When I tell her the book is finished, she tells me to read her something new. But whenever I do, she promptly falls asleep.

當我跟她說那本書已經寫完的時候，她讓我爲她讀些新東西。但每次我這樣做，她很快就會睡着。

I don’t leave, though. I stare out the window. Austin was right. This room does get the best light.

而我不會離開。我凝視着窗外。奧斯汀說的沒錯。這個房間的光線最好。

Recently her hair has thinned, but she has a shock of white up front that a friend’s daughter has dyed with a streak of fuchsia. She looks like some punk girl I might have dated in high school.

最近，她的頭髮變得稀疏了，但前面的白髮被朋友的女兒挑染成了紫紅色，頗具視覺衝擊力。她看上去就像我上高中時也許會約會的某個朋克女孩。

She had a bit more energy the last time I came to visit and said: “Oh, Victor, I had the most wonderful dessert yesterday. Peaches and Connecticut. Have you ever had it?”

我最近一次前去探望時，她變得精神了一些，說道：“哦，維克多，我昨天嚐了最棒的甜點。”桃子和康涅狄格。你嘗過嗎？

“No,” I said, smiling.

“沒有，”我笑着說。

I loved the idea of it. Two things that don’t seem to go together. Monkeys and pigeons. Peaches and Connecticut. Unlikely, yes — but delicious beyond measure.

我喜歡這個創意。兩樣看似不可能在一起的東西。猴子和鴿子。桃子和康涅狄格。沒錯，看似不可能在一起——但那滋味美妙異常。