《HP短篇翻译GGAD》莫奈的睡莲

2、Your Ginger

　　我们老了。老到年轻人不再理解。我们说的和他们听到的似乎总有出入。当我年轻时，我不在意老人们是不是这样，但如今我在意了，因为我老了。你不能从我这儿指望更多了。
　　或者说，我的改变比起我曾预料到的更多。
　　全都是关于烟雾和镜子的事儿。因为恐惧而恐惧。他们给我带来了预言，如你所见。我过去阅读其他文件——我厌倦了英文，渴望看见些更亲切的文字。但我还是读起了预言。
　　说来有趣，你不可能用母语读到什么英国的好消息。
　　你的红发，我的朋友。我们一生的故事在我脑海里循环往复，但是它们总停留在你的红发上。巴希达姑婆家的灯光，它闪耀的模样。当时，你多么乐意啊。一个渺茫的几率里，我跻身一条狭窄的罅隙，却是你盔甲上一生的裂痕。
　　我们老了。年轻人不再理解地老了。
　　我从未因为恐惧而恐惧。更多是为了控制。为了其他和死亡谈论过的事。我再也无法用英语说“好”。我相当明显地喋喋不休，当然，用各种我知道的语言。太多了，我应该想到。你学过很多，在旅行时。有时，你从法语直接切换到人鱼语。有那么一天。
　　那天你的头发还是红色，我的朋友，那时我们都很年轻。
　　这是你的错，你这个残忍的傻瓜，你让我再也不能用英语说我们曾经说过的话。我们钟情的词汇。我在我光裸的脚上看见他们，被弃置一旁。看看我的样子！真高兴他们觉得不必给我拍照。我看见你内在的苍老，我的朋友。我提过我得到了送进来的预言了么？就是那个预言，我觉得他们送进来是以为我会感到嘲讽。啊，看看这些年轻人。他们不理解我们。
　　你的秀发曾鲜红。我记得，而且回忆起来莫名的清楚。我不明白为什么，但是是你把它带来回来。那阳光下的金红色，然后阿不思，你笑了。
　　这多不真实，不是吗？我们也曾年轻过。同样不真实的是我们老了。是不是每个老人都这么说？我们不是每个老人。奇怪的一对，不是么？啊，你被留下来面对这个年轻的世界，这群完全不理解你一点点思想的年轻人，这让我悲伤。你就应该进监狱，和我在一起。这是个走向死亡的好地方。我们不能在酒吧闲逛了，不是么，我的老朋友？我们不能，我们一起在这冰冷的围墙里，更好。
　　真奇怪。曾几何时，你一头红发。

作者有话说

　　We are old men now. Young men, they cannot understand us. Our words seem to mean something different to them than they mean to us. I do not care if this was true for the old men we knew when we were young; I care now, because I am the old one. Do not expect more from me.
That said, I have changed more than I would have predicted.
They’re all about smoke and mirrors; terror for terror’s sake nowadays. They bring me the Prophet, you see. I used to read the other papers – I grow sick of English, and I’d love to see a word in a friendly language. But I still read the Prophet.
Interestingly, it is impossible to get good British news in the mother tongue.
Your ginger hair, my friend. The story of our life runs on a loop through my mind, but it always catches on your ginger hair. The light in Aunt Bathilda’s house, the way it caught. How willing you were, back then. Such a small chance, a tiny opening I could have squirmed into, a chink in your otherwise lifelong armor.
We are old men now. Young men, they cannot understand us.
I was never about terror for terror’s sake. For control’s sake, more likely. For the sake of other things I’ve already talked to death. I cannot say “good” in English anymore. I chatter with myself quite extensively, of course, in all those many languages I know. Too many, I should think. You learned so many you were always tripping up. There was one time you flew straight from French to Mermish – now that was a day.
Your hair was ginger that day, my friend, and we were very young.
It is your fault, you relentless imbecile, that I cannot say our words in English anymore. Our beloved phrase. I can see it at my bare feet, cast away. Oh the state of me! I am glad they don’t feel the need to photograph me here. I can see enough of our age in you, my friend. Did I mention I get the Prophet sent in? Just the Prophet. I think they let it through because I could feel taunted by it. Oh, these young men. They just don’t understand us.
Your hair was ginger. I remember, and it’s with a puzzling clarity that the memory comes, I really don’t understand it, but you threw it back, so red in the sunlight, and Albus, you laughed.
It is unreal that we were young, isn’t it, and at the same time unreal that we are old. Isn’t that what every old man says? We’re hardly every old man. A strange pair, are we not? Ah, it saddens me that you are left out there to face this world of young things that doesn’t understand one iota of your mind. You should have just come to prison with me. It is a good place to go to die. We could hardly hang around the pubs could we, my friend? No, better together in these cold walls.
It’s strange. I remember a time when your hair was ginger.
原文地址：http://archiveofourown.org/works/1475092