第七届翻译大赛英文原文

Optics

Manini Nayar

When I was seven, my friend Sol was hit by lightning and died. He was on a rooftop quietly playing marbles when this happened. Burnt to cinders, we were told by the neighbourhood gossips. He'd caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing. I only remember a frenzy of ambulances and long clean sirens cleaving the silence of that damp October night. Later, my father came to sit with me. This happens to one in several millions, he said, as if a knowledge of the bare statistics mitigated the horror. He was trying to help, I think. Or perhaps he believed I thought it would happen to me. Until now, Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate. We would marry at eighteen, we promised each other, and have six children, two cows and a heart-shaped tattoo with 'Eternally Yours' sketched on our behinds. But now Sol was somewhere else, and I was seven years old and under the covers in my bed counting spots before my eyes in the darkness.

After that I cleared out my play-cupboard. Out went my collection of teddy bears and picture books. In its place was an emptiness, the oak panels reflecting their own woodshine. The space I made seemed almost holy, though mother thought my efforts a waste. An empty cupboard is no better than an empty cup, she said in an apocryphal aside. Mother always filled things up - cups, water jugs, vases, boxes, arms - as if colour and weight equalled a superior quality of life. Mother never understood that this was my dreamtime place. Here I could hide, slide the doors shut behind me, scrunch my eyes tight and breathe in another world. When I opened my eyes, the glow from the lone cupboard-bulb seemed to set the polished walls shimmering, and I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness. I was sharing this with him, as always. He would know, wherever he was, that I knew what he knew, saw what he had seen. But to mother I only said that I was tired of teddy bears and picture books. What she thought I couldn't tell, but she stirred the soup-pot vigorously.

One in several millions, I said to myself many times, as if the key, the answer to it all, lay there. The phrase was heavy on my lips, stubbornly resistant to knowledge. Sometimes I said the words out of con- text to see if by deflection, some quirk of physics, the meaning would suddenly come to me. Thanks for the beans, mother, I said to her at lunch, you're one in millions. Mother looked at me oddly, pursed her lips and offered me more rice. At this club, when father served a clean ace to win the Retired-Wallahs Rotating Cup, I pointed out that he was one in a million. Oh, the serve was one in a million, father protested modestly. But he seemed pleased. Still, this wasn't what I was looking for, and in time the phrase slipped away from me, lost its magic urgency, became as bland as 'Pass the salt' or 'Is the bath water hot?' If Sol was one in a million, I was one among far less; a dozen, say. He was chosen. I was ordinary. He had been touched and transformed by forces I didn't understand. I was left cleaning out the cupboard. There was one way to bridge the chasm, to bring Sol

back to life, but I would wait to try it until the most magical of moments. I would wait until the moment was so right and shimmering that Sol would have to come back. This was my weapon that nobody knew of, not even mother, even though she had pursed her lips up at the beans. This was between Sol and me.

The winter had almost guttered into spring when father was ill. One February morning, he sat in his chair, ashen as the cinders in the grate. Then, his fingers splayed out in front of him, his mouth working, he heaved and fell. It all happened suddenly, so cleanly, as if rehearsed and perfected for weeks. Again the sirens, the screech of wheels, the white coats in perpetual motion. Heart seizures weren't one in a million. But they deprived you just the same, darkness but no dazzle, and a long waiting.

Now I knew there was no turning back. This was the moment. I had to do it without delay; there was no time to waste. While they carried father out, I rushed into the cupboard, scrunched my eyes tight, opened them in the shimmer and called out

'Sol! Sol! Sol!' I wanted to keep my mind blank, like death must be, but father and Sol gusted in and out in confusing pictures. Leaves in a storm and I the calm axis. Here was father playing marbles on a roof. Here was Sol serving ace after ace. Here was father with two cows. Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table. The pictures eddied and rushed. The more frantic they grew, the clearer my voice became, tolling like a bell: 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' The cupboard rang with voices, some mine, some echoes, some from what seemed another place - where Sol was, maybe. The cup- board seemed to groan and reverberate, as if shaken by lightning and thunder. Any minute now it would burst open and I would find myself in a green valley fed by limpid brooks and red with hibiscus. I would run through tall grass and wading into the waters, see Sol picking flowers. I would open my eyes and he'd be there,

hibiscus-laden, laughing. Where have you been, he'd say, as if it were I who had burned, falling in ashes. I was filled to bursting with a certainty so strong it seemed a celebration almost. Sobbing, I opened my eyes. The bulb winked at the walls.

I fell asleep, I think, because I awoke to a deeper darkness. It was late, much past my bedtime. Slowly I crawled out of the cupboard, my tongue furred, my feet heavy. My mind felt like lead. Then I heard my name. Mother was in her chair by the window, her body defined by a thin ray of moonlight. Your father Will be well, she said quietly, and he will be home soon. The shaft of light in which she sat so motionless was like the light that would have touched Sol if he'd been lucky; if he had been like one of us, one in a dozen, or less. This light fell in a benediction, caressing mother, slipping gently over my father in his hospital bed six streets away. I reached out and stroked my mother's arm. It was warm like bath water, her skin the texture of hibiscus.

We stayed together for some time, my mother and I, invaded by small night sounds and the raspy whirr of crickets. Then I stood up and turned to return to my room.

Mother looked at me quizzically. Are you all right, she asked. I told her I was fine, that I had some c!eaning up to do. Then I went to my cupboard and stacked it up again with teddy bears and picture books.

Some years later we moved to Rourkela, a small mining town in the north east, near Jamshedpur. The summer I turned sixteen, I got lost in the thick woods there. They weren't that deep - about three miles at the most. All I had to do was cycle for

all I was worth, and in minutes I'd be on the dirt road leading into town. But a stir in the leaves gave me pause.

I dismounted and stood listening. Branches arched like claws overhead. The sky crawled on a white belly of clouds. Shadows fell in tessellated patterns of grey and black. There was a faint thrumming all around, as if the air were being strung and practised for an overture. And yet there was nothing, just a silence of moving shadows, a bulb winking at the walls. I remembered Sol, of whom I hadn't thought in years. And foolishly again I waited, not for answers but simply for an end to the terror the woods were building in me, chord by chord, like dissonant music. When the cacophony grew too much to bear, I remounted and pedalled furiously, banshees screaming past my ears, my feet assuming a clockwork of their own. The pathless ground threw up leaves and stones, swirls of dust rose and settled. The air was cool and steady as I hurled myself into the falling light.

光学

玛尼尼·纳雅尔

谈瀛洲译

在我七岁那年，我的朋友索尔被闪电击中死去了。当时他正在楼顶上安静地打弹子。邻居们传说，他被烧成了焦炭。他们又安慰我们说，尽管他是被烧死的，但毫无痛苦。我只记得救护车乱纷纷地驶来，警报器悠长而尖利的鸣声划破了那个潮湿的十月夜晚的宁静。后来，爸爸过来陪我坐了一会儿。他说，这种事是几百万里才有一个的，似乎知道了这干巴巴的统计数字，就能减轻这件事的可怖。我知道，他只是想安慰我。也许他以为，我担心同样的事也会发生在我的身上。迄今为止，索尔和我分享了一切：我们相互倾吐秘密，有共同的玩伴，分食巧克力，甚至我们的生日也是相同的。我们还相互约定，要在十八岁的时候跟对方结婚，生六个孩子，养两头母牛，并在我们的屁股上纹上一个心形图案，里面刺上“永远爱你”的字样。但现在索尔去了另外一个世界，而我只有七岁，蒙着被子在黑暗中数我眼前的光点。

在这之后我清空了我的玩具柜。我的那些玩具熊和图画书都被扔了出来。玩具柜内空空如也，只剩下橡木板泛着漆光。我腾出的空间近乎神圣，不过妈妈认为我是白费力气。空柜子比空杯子好不了多少，她在边上有深意似地说。妈妈喜欢把所有东西都装得满满的---杯子、水壶、花瓶、盒子，连臂弯里也要抱上点东西---好像色彩与重量就等同于生活的更高品质。

妈妈一直不懂这里是我做梦的地方。我可以躲到里面，拉上滑门，紧闭双眼，然后吸入另外一个世界。在我睁开眼睛的时候，唯一的一盏柜灯照得光滑的橱柜四壁似乎闪烁起来，于是我感觉到了索尔一定感觉过的，那就是眩目与黑暗。和以前一样，我跟他分享着这一切。不管他在哪里，他都会晓得，我知道了他所知道的，看见了他所看见的。但在妈妈面前，我只说自己腻味了玩具熊和图画书。我看不出她是怎么想的，她只是用力地搅拌着锅里的汤。

几百万里才有一个的，我一遍遍地自言自语，似乎一切的谜底、答案，就在这几个字里。它们在我的舌尖上沉甸甸的，顽固地拒绝让我理解。有时我会不分场合地用这句话，看看它的意义是否会通过折射，物理上的一个古怪现象，突然出现在我的脑海中。谢谢你做的豆子，妈妈，午餐时我对她说，你真是几百万中才有一个的。妈妈奇怪地看着我，噘起了嘴，然后给我添了米饭。在俱乐部，在爸爸用一个干净利落的发球赢了“退休人员循环赛杯”之后，我说他是几百万中才有一个的。哦，那记发球才是几百万中才有一个的，爸爸谦虚地纠正说，但他看上去很高兴。但这不是我在寻找的东西。慢慢地这句话从我身边溜走了，失去了它神秘的紧迫性，变得跟“把盐递给我”和“浴缸里的水烫么？”一样淡而无味了。如果索尔是几百万中才有一个的，那么我就常见得多，比如说十几个中就有一个。他是上天选中的。我是普通的。我所不理解的力量点化了他，剩下我孤零零地清空玩具柜。只有一个办法才能跨越这深渊，才能让索尔复活，但我要等到那最神秘的时刻降临，才能尝试。我要拿捏好那灵光闪烁的时机，那样索尔就不得不回来了。这是我的法宝，没人知道，甚至妈妈也不知道，即便她曾对着豆子噘起嘴唇。这是我和索尔之间的秘密。

残冬将尽，新春将至的时候，爸爸病了。一个二月的早晨，他坐在椅子上，脸色就像壁炉里的炭灰。这时，他突然五指箕张，嘴巴噏动，沉重地发出了一声叹息，然后倒下了。这一切都发生得如此突然，如此利索，就像经过了几个星期的排练和提高似的。于是又是警报器声，轮子在急刹车时发出的尖锐摩擦声，穿白大褂的人不停地进进出出。心脏病突发不是几百万中才有一个的。但它同样会夺去你的亲人，它并不眩目，但它同样带来了黑暗，还有漫长的等待。

我知道没有回头路了。这便是关键时刻。我必须毫不犹豫地马上行动；没有时间可浪费了。在他们把爸爸抬出去的时候，我冲到玩具柜里，紧闭双眼，然后在闪烁的灯光中睁开，开始高叫：“索尔！索尔！索尔！”我想让我的头脑保持空白，就跟死后一样，但爸爸和索尔交织在一起的画面不停地在我的头脑中闪现，就像风暴中的树叶，而我是宁静的中心。一会儿是爸爸在楼顶上打弹子。一会儿是索尔一个接一个地发球得分。一会儿是爸爸和两头母牛，一会儿是索尔弓着背倒在早餐桌上。这些画面旋转着，涌动着。他们变得越是纷乱，我的声音就变得越是清楚，有如钟鸣一般：“索尔！索尔！索尔！”玩具柜中鸣响着几种声音：有的是我的呼唤，有的是回声，有的似乎来自另一个世界---也许是索尔所在的世界。玩具柜似乎也在呻吟和振荡着，被闪电和雷声摇撼着。在这关头它随时可能迸裂，而我就会发现自己身处一个绿树成荫的山谷，里面流淌着清澈的小溪，开满了鲜红的木槿花。我会穿过高草，趟过小溪，然后就会看见索尔在采花。我只要睁开眼他就会在那里，臂弯中抱满了木槿花，笑着。你去哪儿了，他会说，好像被烧焦，变成灰烬掉下来的是我。我的心中充满了强烈的信念，几乎要炸开了，似乎已在经历一场庆典。抽泣着，我睁开了眼睛。只有那盏孤灯对橱壁眨着眼。

我想，我是睡着了，因为我醒来的时候周围是更深沉的黑暗。已经晚了，过了我平时上床的时间很久了。我慢慢地爬出了玩具柜，舌头木木的，双脚沉沉的。我的心如铅般沉重。这时我听见有人叫我。妈妈坐在窗边的椅子里，细细的一道月光勾勒出了她身体的轮廓。你爸爸会好的，她轻轻地说，不久他就会回家的。她坐在那束光线中一动不动；如果索尔运气好的话，如果他跟我们一样，是十几个，甚至几个中就能找出一个的，他就会被同样的光线所触摸。这道光线就像一道祝福，拥抱着妈妈，又温柔地滑过躺在六条街外的医院病床上的爸爸。我伸出手去，轻抚妈妈的手臂。它就跟浴缸里的水一样温暖，她的皮肤质地就跟木槿花瓣一样。

我们在一起呆了一会，母亲和我。夜晚的各种轻微的噪音，还有蟋蟀刺耳的“瞿瞿”声，侵扰着我们。然后我站了起来，向我的房间走去。妈妈探询地看着我。你没事吧，她问。我告诉她我没事，我只是需要整理一下东西。然后我走到玩具柜跟前，重新把它堆满了玩具熊和图画书。

几年后我们搬到了洛尔克拉，东北部的一座矿区小城，靠近詹普谢尔（注：印度东北部城市）。我十六岁那年的夏天，我在那里的一片密林中迷路了。林子其实并不深---最多三英里了。我只要奋力骑车，几分钟就会到达通往市区的泥路。但树叶中的一种扰动让我停了下来。

我从自行车上下来，站着倾听。树的枝桠在头顶如脚爪般拱成弧形。天空匍匐在白云的肚皮上。灰色和黑色的斑驳阴影落在地面。四周有一种低沉的嗡嗡声，似乎有人在拨弄空气，练习一首前奏曲。

然而又什么都没有，只有无声移动着的阴影，和对橱壁眨着眼的一盏孤灯。我记起了索尔，我有好几年没想起过他了。于是我又一次开始傻乎乎地等待，不是等待着答案，而是等待着心中恐惧的结束。一个和弦，又一个和弦，树林把这张恐惧营造起来，就像是不和谐的音乐。当我再也不能忍受那刺耳的声音的时候，我重新上了车，拼命地踩着踏板。我仿佛听见女妖的尖叫，在我的耳边呼啸而过。我的脚上了发条似地自动踩踏着。无路的地面扬起了树叶和石子，尘土旋转着飞升起来，又慢慢落定。我向着越来越暗的暮色飞驰，空气清凉而沉静。

译文点评

谈瀛洲

这次翻译比赛的原文，看上去比较容易，很少难的词、长的词。但看上去容易的文字，译起来不一定容易，因为大家如果翻翻词典，就会发现越是常用、越是看上去容易的词，比如“come”、“go”、“give”、“take”等，解释就越多，有的甚至达几十条。

所以，有的时候碰到这样的主要由“常用词”组成的文章，要准确地传达其意义，反而非常难。而那些所谓的“难词”、“长词”，词典里也就那么几条释义，相对来说翻译起来倒是容易的，只要译者肯勤查词典就可以了。而勤查词典，则是对译者的基本要求。连查词典都懒惰，还做什么翻译？！然而今天的译界，却有许多没有达到这样基本要求的译者。

“He’d caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing”这一句中的“never felt a thing”这一部分，它的意思就是死的时候“毫无痛苦”，这样才会是一句“安慰”性质的话，而不是有些参赛者理解成的“不以为意”的意思。

“A heart shaped tattoo with ‘Eternally Y ours’sketched on our behinds”一句中的“behinds”，大家平时只要看过报纸上娱乐版中所写的好莱坞女明星们所玩的花样，就会知道这里指的是“屁股”，而不是“背”了。

“Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate”：英文词汇的搭配能力，和中文不尽相同。这一句中的“share”一词可与“secrets, chocolates, friends, birthdate”四个英语名词搭配，但在中文里面我们可以说“分享”秘密和巧克力，但“分享”朋友和生日就有些说不太通了。在这种情形下，没有必要一定要用一个动词，来“管”上述这四个名词；可以多用几个合适与宾语搭配的动词。所以我就译成了“索尔和我分享了一切：我们相互倾吐秘密，有共同的玩伴，分食巧克力，甚至连我们的生日也是相同的”。

“Counting spots before my eyes in the darkness”：这一句中的“spots”究竟如何译，也是众说纷纭。我认为它应该指的是人（尤其是小孩子）在闭上眼睛之后，在眼皮上看到的移动的光点，有时甚至是色彩鲜艳

的层出不穷的图像，这种现象在有的方言里称之为“眼花”。因为是在黑暗中，所以不可能指的是被子上的什么“污迹”或“斑点”。

“She said in an apocryphal aside”：这一句中的“apocryphal”一词的原义是“次经的”，也即指地位仅次于《圣经》的一些基督教经典文献；“aside”一词的意思是戏剧中的“旁白”。这里无法按字面直译，所以意译为“她在边上有深意似地说”。

“Breath in another world”：这一句可以有两种读法：breathe·in another world，可以译为“在另一个世界里呼吸”；breathe in·another world，可译为“吸入另外一个世界”。前一种译法我觉得也不能算错，但我认为作者的意思是“我”在玩具柜中要进入到一种特殊的意识或精神状态中，所以选择了后一种译法。

“I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness”：因为索尔是被闪电击中而死的，他在死前瞬间，一定看见了耀眼的闪电，所以我把“dazzle and darkness”译为“眩目与黑暗”，而不是“黑暗中一片晕眩”。

“The phrase was heavy on my lips”：直译似不符汉语的表达习惯，故我译为“在舌尖上沉甸甸的”。

“Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table”：前面刚写过“我”的父亲在吃早餐时倒下了，然后又写了一系列“爸爸”与“索尔”交织在一起的画面，所以hunched over是“弓着背倒下”的意思，而不是“弓着背坐在早餐桌前吃早点”。

“Banshees screaming past my ears”：“banshees”原义是爱尔兰和苏格兰民间传说中的女鬼，据说她的哀嚎预示家庭中有人将死亡。可是在这里，作者提到“banshees”的用意显然不是强调“预示死亡”，因为文中早已写到两人已死。所以，这里的“banshees”只要译成“女妖”或“女鬼”即可。

“I hurled myself into the falling light”：如生硬地译为“把自己猛掷到夜色中”，不符中文表达习惯。可译为“我向着越来越深的暮色飞驰”。

题目“Optics”的翻译也颇令人踌躇，但因为作者在文中用了另一个光学名词“折射”（deflection），为与之相呼应，我就选择了一个较为直白与干巴巴的译法：“光学”。

这篇小说的开头是用一个小孩子的口气来写的，所以不必译得太文绉绉的。到最后两段文中的“我”已长大，可以译得文一些。