《毕业翻译材料》Longley

2、Where Reasons End 1

　　1 Do Not Let Mother Dear Find Us

　　Mother dear, Nikolai said.

　　I was surprised. He used to only call me that when I wasn’t paying attention. But here I was, holding on to my attentiveness because that was all I could do for him now. I’ve never told you how much I loved you calling me that, I said.

　　What did you call Grandma?

　　When I was your age? Mamita, I said.

　　That was endearing, he said.

　　You have to get the name right when you find the person hard to endear, I said. Endear, I thought, what an odd word. Endear. Endure. En-dear. In-dear. Can you out-dear someone?

　　And fancy seeing you here, Nikolai said.

　　One of us made this happen, I said.

　　I blame you.

　　I laughed. Ever so like you, I said. I then explained the liberty I had taken to get myself here. For one thing, I had made time irrelevant.

　　I could be sixteen like you are, I said, or twenty-two, or thirty-seven, or forty-four.

　　I would rather you are not sixteen, he said.

　　Why not?

　　I don’t want to feel the obligation to befriend you.

　　We can still befriends even if I am of another age.

　　I don’t like making friends with older people. Besides, one can’t really befriends with one’smother.

　　Can one not?

　　No. The essence of growing up is to play hide-and- seek with one’smother successfully, Nikolai said.

　　All children win, I said. Mothers are bad at seeking.

　　You did find me.

　　Not as your mother, I said. Don’t you notice the sign there (though I knew he couldn’t have—I had hung it up while talking with him): Do not let mother dear find us.

　　What are you then?

　　Oh, a runaway bunny like you. How else did we end up here?

　　Here, as I watched my neighbor leave, a box of fresh-baked chocolate cookies in my hands, was a place called nowhere. The rule is, somewhere tomorrow and somewhere yesterday—but never somewhere today.

　　I was neither the White Queen, who sets the rule, nor Alice, who declines to live by the rule. I was a generic parent grieving a generic child lost to an inexplicable tragedy. Already there were three clichés. I could wage my personal war against each one of them. Grieve: from Latin gravare, to burden, and gravis, grave, heavy. What kind of mother would consider it a burden to live in the vacancy left behind by a child? Explicate: from Latin ex (out) + plicare (fold), to unfold. But calling Nikolai’s action inexplicable was like calling a migrant bird ending on a new continent lost. Who can say the vagrant doesn’t have a reason to change the course of its flight? Nothing inexplicable for me—only I didn’twant to explain: A mother’s job is to enfold, not to unfold.

　　Tragedy: Now that is an inexplicable word. What was a goat song, after all, which is what tragedy seemed to mean originally?

　　Would you call it a tragedy yourself? I asked Nikolai. In the interim between talking with my neighbor and returning to this page, I realized the world might think I was becoming unhinged.

　　I was not. What I was doing was what I had always been doing: writing stories. In this one the child Nikolai (which was not his real name, but a name he had given himself, among many other names he had used) and his mother dear meet in a world unspecified in time and space. It was not a world of gods or spirits. And it was not a world dreamed up by me; even my dreams were mundane and landlocked in reality. It was a world made up by words, and words only. No images, no sounds.

　　Would you call it a tragedy? he said.

　　I would only say it’s sad. It’s so sad I have no other adjectives left.

　　Adjectives are my guilty pleasure, he said.

　　I know. You may have to supply me some, I said. Which one word, I wondered, would he come up with to describe my nowhere-ness? Then it occurred to me that he wouldn’t give me a word. No matter how much liberty I had taken in this world, I could not change the fact that I had made this meeting take place. It wasn’t his choice so he was limited by my ability. I had no words but sadness.

　　Do you want me to feel sad for myself, too? Nikolai said.

　　I thought about the question. I didn’t know the answer.

　　I’m not as sad as you think, he said. Not anymore.

　　I didn’t need him to tell me that, but wouldn’t it be good, my child, if you could still feelsad as I do, because then you could feel other things as I do, too? But I didn’t say these words to him. Instead, I told him a story about my highschool classmate’smother.

　　The woman grew up on an island in Indonesia. One dayshe climbed a coconut tree to pick a coconut for her little sister, and plunged from the tree. She did not die but lost most of her hearing from the accident. Later she became a pianist and taught in a conservatory. You had to shout into her ear for her to hear you. I’d never seen her play piano or teach. It was a mystery to me how she could do either.

　　Beethoven was deaf, too, Nikolai said.

　　Only later in his life. She was deaf since she was

　　seven.

　　Was her life more of a tragedy than Beethoven’s?

　　No, of course not, I said. The reason I was telling you the story was that I now remember she liked me a lot.

　　As I was talking, more details about the woman and her daughter came to me, the first time I had thought of them in thirty years. My friend was a wild, unruly girl of sixteen, with hair cut by herself, unevenly in the back and front. She failed the college entrance exam and we drifted apart. I had heard she had become a freelance photographer.

　　The friend’s mother liked to keep me next to her, feeding me sugared citrus and tea when a group of us visited their apartment. She and I rarely talked, but we smiled at each other often. She was an odd woman, half a head taller than her daughter, who was among the tallest in my class, and she was helplessly quiet in front of her daughter, who often joked that I was a perfect companion for her mother.

　　Not only this friend’s mother, I said. Back then I happened to be liked by all my friends’ parents.

　　I am not liked by all my friends’ parents, Nikolai said with some pride.

　　I know. I admire you for that, I said. All the same, they still cry for you.

　　It doesn’t matter now, he said.

　　Had it been me at sixteen, many of my friends’ parents would have thought it an inexplicable tragedy. But that knowledge would not have made the world less bleak for me. I hadn’t thought about my friend’s mother for decades. Other than a few facts about her life and her smile, I didn’t know her at all, nor she me.

　　I suppose you’re right, I said. Still, I wish you knew how much you are missed by many people.

　　Mommy, Nikolai said, and the way he said it almost made me weep. Mommy, you know that’s a cliché.

　　What if life could be saved by clichés? What if life must be lived by clichés? Somewhere tomorrow and somewhere yesterday—never somewhere today but cliché-land.

　　You promised that you would understand, Nikolai said.

　　Understanding I had promised him. And other things, too: a house in the woods, a kitchen with sunlight, many new recipes, rights to my books—after you die I want the rights to the books you’ve written, but only the good ones, he had said to me at nine. Yet all these promises were as inadequate as love, promise and love being two anchors of cliché-land.

　　That doesn’t change how sad I am, I said.

　　But you wouldn’t want people to feel sad all the time if you were me.

　　I was almost you once, and that’s why I have allowed myself to make up this world to talk with you. Sadness one can live with, but sadness is a helpless garrison against the blindness of tragedy. A mother and a child cannot be contemporaries at any given age, and for that reason my sixteen-year-old self could not befriend yours. Each refusing to be saved, we could not save each other when young. Older—and you were still young—I was the White Queen who put up the sign. Do not let mother dear find us. You were the one better at hiding.