柠檬
——我来翻译一下雷蒙德·卡佛的诗之七
关于诗歌的一些随笔
有一对年轻的恋人，可能十八、九岁或者二十刚刚出头，他们来到这里，沿山谷漫步。后来两个人在一棵大树下停了下来，他们亲吻了。我一直注视着他们。亲吻之后他们又坐到草坪上，这一次他俩没有靠在一起，显然这是一对初恋的情人。最后他们又一起离开了。在我眼中这里满山青翠，风景秀美，夏天山花烂漫，冬天大雪纷飞。这里就是我。我是一座山谷。但如果从来没有人来到过这里，那么我就并不存在。但当你反驳说一座山谷即便没有人知道也依然是存在的时候，我就存在。因为，你已经想到了我。这里虽然不是风景名胜，但也总偶有人至。有时在节假日甚至会热闹上一阵。曾经有过孤独的游子，一个人背着双肩包，在山谷里游荡，一言不发。也曾在周末来过一家人，到这里烧烤，那个男孩子跑到一棵树下撒尿，后来他的爸爸也跑过去背过身去解手，再后来女主人也想要解手了，她羞涩的跑到较远的一个隐秘的矮树丛里，四下看了看，才解开裤子蹲下去。烧烤后，他们聊天，在草坪上打球，直到快傍晚时才收拾好东西愉快的离去了。从这里回去的人们有时会偶尔想起我，在和别人的谈话中提到我。于是，现在，我就是一座山谷了。当人们谈到山谷时，那就是我。对，it’s me. 山谷。
后来我意识到，一件事情只有被人讲述时才是真实的。真相不是存在于事物的内部，而是存在于对事物的讲述里。而且，只有那些被重述的事情才是有意义的。一件事情如果只发生过一次而从来没有被人重述过，是没有意义的。我们甚至无法证明这样的事物的存在。所以，后来我开始迷恋上了讲述。讲述别人的一部小说，或一首诗，或者一个故事。其实并没有一个作者真正知道他所写故事在被讲述时是什么样子，而更不会知道讲述之后会引发些什么。就像现在。我坐在北京的一家咖啡店里一边喝咖啡一边读卡佛的这本诗集：All of US，想找出几首诗来翻译一下。但随手翻开的那一页上印的却不是一首诗：Some Prose on Poetry。我快速浏览了一遍，是一篇小说或者随笔什么的。就在这时有一个人来到我的对面，问我是否可以坐在这里。当时咖啡店里几乎没有别人到处是空座，但我当时没有意识到这一点，因为在思索着卡佛写的这篇Some Prose on Poetry，关于诗歌的一些随笔，于是就随口说：当然可以了。卡佛讲的故事是这样开始的：
许多年以前——可能是1956或者57年吧——当时我还是一个不到20岁的孩子，却已经结了婚，靠给药房送处方药挣钱养家。在Yakima，我不知道应该怎么对你说这个名字，Yakima是华盛顿州东边的一个小镇，是个很小的小地方，你肯定没有听说过，anyway，我的工作就是开车在小镇上把药送到人们家中。有一次我送药的那家主人把我带进那栋房子最里面的卧房。那个老人显得很警惕。他已经很老了。一个人住在这栋大房子里。进到卧室，他请我在这里等一下，自己缓慢的转身去取支票本。我倒是无所谓。只不过通常人们是绝对不会把我带进他们的卧室里等待的。不过，anyway，等我一个人留在屋子里时，就开始打量起这间房间。我马上就被震惊住了。房子里到处是书：咖啡桌上，沙发上，床上，床头柜上，当然了，还有书柜里，还有地板上。到处都能看见书。我从来没有见过谁家里有这么多的书，像个小图书馆。他的书柜是那种很高都快到屋顶上的那种，里面放满了书。后来，我注意到咖啡桌上有一本杂志。杂志上放着一包糖，可我注意的是那本杂志的名字：Poetry，诗歌。我非常震惊。这毫不夸张。怎么说呢？anyway，我当时就拿起了那本杂志，把那包糖推到桌子边上。这是我第一次看这种严肃杂志，不要说还是一本诗歌杂志。我当时完全被震撼住。然后，我开始贪婪的拿起那些书翻，一本接着一本。我记得有一本叫：The Little Review Anthology。我得说那时光是看到书上写的“edited by”的字样，就让我感到神秘。更不消说那个神秘的“Anthology”。“Anthology”是什么意思？为什么会有这么多的人，写了这么多的书？然后，我又发现一本很厚的诗集。于是我扔下所有其他的书，拿起这本诗集，一页一页的翻，都是一行一行的诗，有那么多，样子看着怪怪的。为什么？这是为什么？为什么会有人要写这样的东西？我从来没有想过会有这样的书里面是这样的一些东西。一行一行排下来，留下许多空白。有些很短，有些非常非常长。一页一页翻过去，仍然没有结束，仍然没有结束。一本诗集，诗集，诗集，……。这时，那个老人突然走了进来。
终极游戏
我刚进入这家网络游戏公司时就听人们说，老大是一个天才。他3岁时就能背下100首唐诗。那时，他的父母要当众炫耀儿子时，就会把他叫来，当老大步履蹒跚的走到客人面前站定时，父母只需随口说出一首诗的名字，就像按下了录音机的开关，那首诗就吱吱呀呀蹒跚着从老大幼稚的喉咙涌出。不过，现在老大在谈话中好像从来没有引用什么唐诗宋词。老大16岁考上重点大学，可能是清华或者浙大什么的，数学系。可是据我在实际中的观察，现在老大一点也看不出有什么天才的迹象。但是，有一次老大在一个例会上说的一段话却给我震惊住了。他当时说：人类一直在发明游戏，围棋，象棋，纸牌，还有体育，舞蹈，杂技，但这些游戏都不成功。但是，未来人类最终将发明一种终极游戏。而我们现在做的就是其中的一部分。 “从这一点来看，老大仍然是一个天才。他心里有着很大的野心。老大毕竟是老大。”我说完，夜店突然像肚子抽筋似的笑了一下，“终极问题。”她又在笑：“老大是一个非常世俗的生意人。我们这里不过是这抄抄那抄抄而已，并没有什么原创的东西。”“终极游戏。” 夜店再次像肚子抽筋似的笑了一下。夜店的话我也承认，简单来说，的确是这样的。老大也常说：关键不在原创，而在市场。他总爱举苹果的例子。当然不是《圣经》里亚当和夏娃吃的苹果。不过，老大的那个终极游戏的概念让我着迷。那将是一款什么样的游戏呢？以游戏终结游戏。我觉得它就像是在一座屋子里建起一个更大的屋子，把外面的屋子包含了进来。解开了一个复杂的结的过程中渐渐系起一个更大的结。它并不是像蛤蟆所说的，是生活的本身，而是对生活的模拟，但模拟的结果是一种否定，就像一个人不停的在各种镜头前拍照，后来渐渐他的存在被一张张照片替代了。一种黑色的模拟。一个终极问题。它将是把所有的人都联系在一起，而最终成为生活的本身。“但是，或许人类早已经发明出了终极游戏，”我说到这里时并没有故弄玄虚的停顿下来，而是继续轻描淡写的说出了答案：“那就是语言。”解释完这些，我伸出了一点点舌头，舔了舔嘴唇。夜店凝视我片刻，然后伸出手用拇指和食指玩弄着我的下巴，轻声说：“你也是一个天才啊！”
夜店的手很小。
我不知道女人抚摸到一块布满胡子茬的下巴时，会是一种什么样的感觉。我每天都要用一把电动剃须刀在脸上不时划来划去，把脸上刮得光溜溜的。因为我天生一张娃娃脸，但胡须却出奇的旺盛，毛发又黑又浓密，长得到处都是，而且每一分钟都在疯长。这使得我的面相，如果不及时刮去胡子，便会呈现出一种相当矛盾而混乱的情景。我曾试着蓄过须，那样子在镜子里看起来相当怪异，像一只人形的猴子，不像是人但又仍然像人。大学时我的女友时常会在亲吻时抱怨我的胡子茬把她的脸扎疼了。她的皮肤非常稚嫩。在我们相爱渐久之后，她首先开始对我的胡子不好了。她不再忍耐我的胡子，有时会在我们热吻时，会突然把脸闪开。于是，我向前伸出的嘴唇就扑了个空，这才睁开眼睛知道，又忘了提前刮刮胡子。我想蓄起胡子让我的女友看一看那种奇异的面相，但被她断然否决。她仿佛只爱某种面相的我。后来她又喜欢上了亲自动手给我刮胡子，先让我坐好，扬起下巴，一动也不许动，然后打开我的电动剃须刀，轰响着在我脸上刮来刮去，我那时就会觉得自己像一只在被剃毛的小绵羊。有时她刮得会非常悉心，让我突然间有一种幸福感。但有时她只是乱刮一气，同时不时的威胁我，要刮掉我的眉毛，我的眉毛也很重，眉心连在一起。虽然很明显她是在嬉笑的说出这样的话，但天晓得她会不会真的在我的眉毛上突然抹上一道，这让我仰着头感觉非常恐惧。有一次我在午睡时被轰响的电动刮胡刀惊醒，发现我的女友正在刮我的胡子，吓得我马上摸了摸我的眉毛。
有时夜店的笑容给我一种似曾相识的感觉。关于夜店。我应该如何评论夜店呢？夜店的真名叫范夜。她告诉我，这是因为她是在子夜十二点整降生的。一分都不差。说这话时没有惯常如罩在一层薄纱后面的笑容，而是表情认真，透出几分神秘。我于是仿佛在眼前看见，墙上挂的一只圆形挂钟。钟表的指针在分分秒秒的接近着子夜，时针的移动隐秘得几乎难以察觉，分针在轻微的抽搐，只有秒针明确无疑在滴滴答答着一刻不停的周而复始的移动。而在这张表盘上我还看见，一间夜晚灯火通明的医院产房里一片忙乱的景象。子夜钟声敲响的一刻，那只表盘上的时针、分针和秒针同时动了一下合拢在一起，范夜就是在这个时刻被生了出来。但这也很难说。谁也说不清她到底是在哪一天出生的。这个躺在助产士手中的婴儿，是属于今天，还是属于昨天？接着范夜哇的一声哭了出来，声音嘹亮，这时产房中所有的人都同时松了一口气，一股喜悦之情弥散开来。
在范夜的身上总有一股妖气，或者说某种神经兮兮的气氛。这可能和她是心理学专业的女研究生有关。我们的公司里面有形形色色的怪人，就像一个动物园。我觉得这里除了一半的人是弱者患儿，其他的都是天才。尽管，我们这个公司只不过是一个抄袭和拼凑的公司，加上一点小打小闹的发明，然后用像鼻屎一样的粘合剂整合在一起。但我们的游戏仍然有足够的吸引力。比如蛤蟆。蛤蟆叫李云辉，是学历史的。但我们都叫他蛤蟆。呱，呱，……。蛤蟆的嘴特别大，当他说到他想要强调的字句时，他就会注视着他的听众，把嘴裂开做出要那个发音的样子，保持不动，然后才用力的、一字一顿的把要说的话说出来，可是在他说出之前你会觉得他要向你的脸上吐什么东西。如果他是连续不断滔滔不绝的议论，那么他的那张大嘴的运动就又像是在大口的咀嚼着空气。他好像想做每一个人的精神导师，除了老大和夜店。夜店说他有心理问题，严重的自卑情结，所以表现出过于的自大。我感觉蛤蟆好像非常害怕夜店。关于夜店。她打扮时尚。她很漂亮，她也很聪明，但和老大不同，范夜仍然属于我们这样的芸芸众生，使她卓尔不群的，应该说既不是她的漂亮，也不是她的聪明，而是比她漂亮的女人都不如她聪明，而比她聪明的女人都不如她漂亮，这是她的优势。然而，关于范夜，最吸引我的是她的嘴唇。她的嘴唇有一种特殊的质感，既丰满，又不过分的丰满，停止在刚刚感觉到丰满的时刻恰巧就停止了，而她的形状迷人，总让我觉得那双嘴唇像是身体的本身，而不只是身体的某一部分。那上面还总是涂着一层更柔软的唇彩。就这样在我和范夜闲聊时，我一次次被她的嘴唇不自觉的吸引，只是专注的看着那对嘴唇，而渐渐听不见那对嘴唇正在说的是些什么了。
范夜说，老大的妻子是一名医生，不仅身材高挑，非常漂亮，而且还喜好文学诗歌和古典音乐。老大的长相自然是没法评论了，他比他的妻子还矮一头。品味更是出奇的差，没有任何爱好，除了喜欢开着一辆越野车跑长途。夜店的观点是，当天才离开了学院，就没有任何优势，如果不能及时的把天才转变为狡诈。所以，爱上天才的人最终得到的不过是追悔莫及。我那时的评论是：这都是些世俗的观点。而夜店说，她就是一个很俗气的小女人。夜店在讲：有一次，老大把大家招到家中聚会，在聚会上，老大的站在高跟鞋上的妻子当众指责我们开发的这些游戏，是用各种方法引诱孩子，让他们沉迷其中不能自拔，像吸毒一样。她居高临下指着老大说，这么做是不道德的。当时老大站在他漂亮的妻子面前，仰着头，满脸通红，张口结舌，竟然说不出话来。而站在他周围的我们这些老大的员工也都灰头土脸的。你知道从心理学的角度，这说明了什么吗？
“嘿，你在听我说话吗？”
“你一定是失恋了。” 我听见夜店的声音，像一只很轻的猫。夜店说：我不会爱上一个女人。我只会让爱上我的女人最终受伤害。我听了不置可否。对于这一点我自己也不敢说是或者不是。但她接着说我有同性恋倾向，我就一下子笑得趴在了桌子上。我说：“姐，我受不了你了。我有女朋友。”接着，我趴在桌子上，用嘴放了二百个大屁。
那时已经到了下班时间，外面的天色变得昏黑，公司里的灯都亮了，人们在纷纷往外走。我听见耳边范夜的声音，她正用两只前爪轻轻按在我的肩头，一只玫瑰色的孟加拉猛虎，蜻蜓般跃上草尖，走进草叶上那滴明亮的露水里，她把嘴唇凑近我的耳边，“你，一定是，失恋了。” “走开，别烦我。”我坐在那里没有动，但心里奇怪自己为什么一下子就承认了。我的一边的耳朵仿佛微微动了一下，似乎感觉到了她的嘴唇上的唇膏的湿气。她的嘴唇离我的耳朵非常近，并且停在了那里。然后我听见我的耳边那嘴唇在说：“你啊，根本不懂得什么是爱情。”我感觉到她的嘴唇聚拢，似乎对着我的耳朵轻轻一吹。我使劲一晃肩膀，像打了一个激灵，那对嘴唇一下离开升向高空，那两只小手也蜷缩着离开了我的肩头。我感觉到范夜在笑，然后听到高跟鞋的有韵律的嗒嗒声，一下一下，渐渐远去，不久消失在办公室的门外。“你一定是失恋了。”我的确失恋了。那天下班后仍然坐在公司里。失恋很痛。我的女友脾气特大。经常会为一些小事大发脾气。我们的爱恋中充满了小事，缺乏重大事件，极度缺乏。我的脾气也很大。但每次争吵之后，总是我，要认错服输，反复劝她不要再生气。她却总是对我说：我没有生气。真的，我没有生气。说时还总要把搭在眼前的一缕头发一甩。她每甩一次，我就是一颤。我觉得这时才是对我们的关系的真正的伤害的开始。我记得小的时候有一位李叔叔。那时我很小，记忆中李叔叔好像经历了许多不幸的事。他经常来我家和我爸喝酒。喝酒时述说往事，那些伤害他的往事，我都一点也不记得了，可能当时也根本没有理解，但我记得我爸劝他忘掉那些事情时，他总是说：哥开心。真的，哥现在每天特开心。一说就是一晚上。并且，他每说一次就叹一口气。而我在一旁心里就是咯噔的一下。但是没有人知道。那时已是下班时间，外面的天色变得昏黑，公司里的灯都亮了，人们在纷纷往外走。我听见耳边范夜的声音，如潮湿的风吹动梅雨，她正用双手轻轻按在我的肩头，像雨滴打落在我肩头的两朵花瓣，在我白色衬衫上染下两片淡红色的印记洗也洗不掉。“你一定是失恋了。”在夜店的脚步声彻底消失之后，在所有的声音消失之后，公司里安静下来，这时我看见旁边的桌子上有一本诗集。
我们所有的人
诗集是英文的，翻开了用一个本子压着。我从毕业之后就再也没有读过英文。而上一次读一首诗是什么时候？可能还是在高中。转眼大学毕业已经许多年，仿佛大学的时光非常非常遥远了。我突然想到一条河，前方远处是黑色的森林，身后是一个小村庄，一群长着弯弯牛角的水牛正在渡河，和应该如果结束一场生活，以及结束一场游戏和结束一场生活的不同和相同的地方。那本书是许芸芸的。许芸芸是大学毕业刚分来的女孩子。平时话不多，总爱埋头看书。和我靠在椅子里拿着书看不同，许芸芸总是爬在桌子上双肘支住身体低着头看皱着眉，仿佛对身外的一切都不管不顾，“埋头”一词说许芸芸看书时的样子是再恰当不过了。第一次看到许芸芸读诗时，我吃了一惊，当时随口做出了一个轻佻的评论。但现在当我探身小心的抽出那本诗集时，我的心中竟有一丝恐惧，我的手竟轻轻的在颤抖。我拿过那本书，我已经很久没有拿过一本书了。那本书很厚，但拿着很轻，比通常的中文书轻许多。我看了看翻开的那一页，是一首叫柠檬什么的诗，Lemonade。我的英语不好，那个单词我也不认识，应该是和柠檬有关。而那首诗读来不像是诗，有些像是一篇小说，或者散文什么的。很长，唠唠叨叨的。那首诗我读的模模糊糊的。应该如何结束一场游戏和生活？那时老大早已经离去，现在正开着他的军绿色的牧马人在回家的路上，一路开开停停；夜店坐在她的那款经典的两门的mini cooper里，发动了车子，她穿着一条时尚的裙子，嘴唇涂着一层鲜红的柔软的口红，正将车开出地下车库，小心的探头看着将车开进主路；我的那辆白色的本田停在空旷的地下停车场幽幽的灯光下。那首印在淡褐色草纸上的诗写的是一个美国的小镇。镇上的有一个叫吉米的中年男人给诗的作者打一只巨大的书柜。是那种通到屋顶的大书柜，环绕所有的墙。那个诗的作者家里有许多的书。而这个故事就在其中的一本里。吉米的儿子不久前在河里淹死了。几天之后，吉米看着人们用机器把儿子打捞上来，淌着水放在岸边的一块石头上。但是吉米好像是一个非常乐观、坚强的男人，在为作者干活时一点也看不出悲伤。可是，后来作者又接触到了吉米的父亲、母亲和他的妻子，才渐渐发现真实的情况并非如此。那个男人的儿子的死，对他的打击非常大。吉米陷入深深的自责。他总是看到人们用机器把儿子从水中打捞上来放在那块平坦的大石头，而且还总是翻来覆去的思考为什么这件事情会发生。他不停的和自己的妻子讨论。首先，和他有关。是他同意让儿子去买一个叫柠檬什么的东西。这个东西其实并不是他们非要不可的。而这个叫柠檬什么的东西又与一系列的生产、加工和运输的人有关，与这个超市有关，与柠檬的种植、采收有关，甚至与最早的人类发现柠檬这种植物有关。这样一来，人类的每一个悲剧就几乎和每一个人都有关，而且和人类整个的历史有关。而每一个人的每一天的生活，所做的每一件事情，也都会与某一件悲剧有关。每一个人每一天都在制造着悲剧。
这时我翻过书看到那个作者的名字叫：雷蒙德·卡佛，那本诗集的名字叫：All of Us。“这些和我翻译卡佛有关系吗？我是否可以说这是在翻译卡佛？我是否可以这样写一部小说或者写这样的一部小说？”我看着坐在我对面的那个男人。而直到那时，直到外面的天已经完全漆黑，公司的大楼里灯火通明，但已空无一人，除了在某一间屋子里的“我”，或许，另一间或两间屋子里还会一个或另一个没有回家的人，街上汽车亮着车灯穿梭不息，无数的行人正匆匆走在回家的路上的时候，是否会有某个人偶然读完了这首诗叫卡佛的人写的Lemonade的诗，而恰恰就是在这时，虽然仍然不知道这个Lemonade是什么意思，但他忽然明白了，这一切所有的一切其实都是关于—个关于柠檬的故事。
立
2018-05-01
附：
网上并找不到卡佛的这两个作品。我输入并放到这里，今后人们就可以从网上找到了。我输入的很认真，但输入后并没有再次核查，因为有可能存在输入错误。如果真是这样，那我也是很高兴的。
Some Prose on Poetry
Years age – it would have been 1956 or 1957 – when I was a teenager, married, earning my living a a delivery boy for a pharmacist in Yakinma, a small town in eastern Washington, I drove with a prescription to a house in the upscale part of town. I was invited inside by an alert but very elderly man wearing a cardigan sweater. He asked me to please wait in his living room while he found his checkbook.
There were a lot of books in that living room. Books were everywhere, in fact, on the coffee table and end tables, on the floor next to the sofa – every available surface had become the resting place for books. There was even a little library over against one wall of the room. (I’d never seen a personal library before; rows and rows of books arranged on built-in shelves in someone’s private residence.) While I waited, eyes moving around, I noticed on his coffee table a magazine with a singular and, for me, startling name on its cover: Poetry. I was astounded, and, I picked it up. It was my first glimpse of a “little magazine,” not to say a poetry magazine, and I was dumbstruck. Maybe I was greedy: I picked up a book, too, something called The Little Review Anthology, edited by Margaret Anderson. (I should add that it was a mystery to me then just what “edited by” meant.) I fanned the pages of the magazine and, taking still more liberty, began to leaf through the pages of the book. There were lots of poems in the book, but also prose pieces and what looked like remarks or even pages of commentary on each of the selections. What on earth was all this? I wondered. I’d never before seen a book like it –not, of course, a magazine like Poetry. I looked from one to the other of these publications, and secretly coveted each of them.
When the old gentleman had finished writing out his check, he said, as if reading my heart, “ Take that book with you, sonny. You might find something in there you’ll like. Are you interested in poetry? Why don’t you take the magazine too? Maybe you’ll write something yourself someday. If you do, you’ll need to know where to send it.”
Where to send it. Something – I didn’t know just what, but I felt something momentous happening. I was eighteen or nineteen years old, obsessed with the need to “write something,” and by then I’d made a few clumsy attempts at poems. But it had never really occurred to me that there might be a place where one actually sent these efforts in hopes they would be read and even just possibly – incredibly, or so it seemed – considered for publication. But right there in my hand was visible proof that there were responsible people somewhere out in the great world who produced, sweet Jesus, a monthly magazine of poetry. I was staggered. I felt, as I’ve said, in the presence of revelation. I thanked the old gentleman several times over, and left his house. I took his check to my boss, the pharmacist, and I took Poetry and The Little Review book home with me. And to began an education.
Of course, I can’t recall the names of any of the contributors to that issue of the magazine. Most likely there were a few distinguished older poets alongside new, “unknown” poets, much the same situation that exists within the magazine today. Naturally, I hadn’t heard of anyone in those days – or read anything either, for that matter, modern, contemporary or otherwise, I do remember I noted the magazine had been founded in 1912 by a woman named Harriet Monroe. I remember the date because that was the year my father had been born. Later that night, bleary from reading, I had the distinct feeling my life was in the process of being altered in some significant and even, forgive me, magnificent way.
In the anthology, as I recall, there was serious talk about “modernism” in literature, and the role played in advancing modernism by a man bearing the strange name of Ezra Pound. Some of his poems, letters and lists of rules – the do’s and don’t’s for writing – had been included in the anthology. I was told that, early in the life of Poetry, this Ezra Pound had served as foreign editor for the magazine – the work of a large number of new poets to Monroe’s magazine, as well as to The Little Review, of course, he was, as everyone knows, a tireless editor and promoter – poets with names like H. D., T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, Richard Aldington, to cite only a handful. There was discussion and analysis of poetry movements; imagism, I remember, was one of these movements. I learned that, in addition to The Little Review, Poetry was one of the magazines hospitable to imagist writing. By then I was reeling. I don’t see how I could have slept much that night.
This was back in 1956 or 1957, as I’ve said. So what excuse is there for the fact that it took me twenty-eight years or more to finally send off some work to Poetry? None. The amazing thing, the crucial factor, is that when I did send something, in 1984, the magazine was still around, still alive and well, and edited, as always, by responsible people whose goal it was to keep this unique enterprise running and in sound order. And one of those people wrote to me in his capacity as editor, praising my poems, and telling me the magazine would publish six of them in due course.
Did I feel proud and good about this? Of course I did. And I believe thanks are due in part to that anonymous and lovely old gentlemen who gave me his copy of the magazine. Who was he? He would have to be long dead now and the contents of his little library dispersed to wherever small, eccentric, but probably not in the end very valuable collections go – the second-hand bookstores. I’d get back to him about what I thought. I didn’t do that, of course. Too many other things intervened; it was a promise easily given and broken the moment the door closed behind me. I never saw him again, and I don’t know his name. I can only say this encounter really happened, and in much the way I’ve described. I was just a pup then, but nothing can explain, or explain away, such a moment; the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life – call it a polestar – was casually, generously given to me. Nothing remotely approaching that moment has happened since.
(By Raymond ·Carver)
Lemonade
When he came to my house months ago to measure
my walls for bookcases, Jim Sears didn’t look like a man
who’d lose his only child to the high waters
of the Elwha River. He was bushy-haired, confident,
cracking his knuckles, alive with energy, as we
discussed tiers, and brackets, and this oak stain
compared to that. But it’s a small town, this town,
a small world here. Six months later, after the bookcases
have been built, delivered and installed, Jim’s
father, a Mr Howard Sears, who is “covering for his son”
comes to paint our house. He tells me – “How’s Jim?” -
that his son lose Jim Jr in the river last spring.
Jim blames himself, “He can’t get over it,
neither,” Mr Sears adds. “ Maybe he’s gone on to lose
his mind a little too,” he adds, pulling on the bill
of his Sherwin – Williams cap.
Jim had to stand and watch as the helicopter
grappled with, then lifted, his son’s body from the river
with tongs. “They used like a big pair of kitchen tongs
for it, if you can imagine. Attached to a cable. But God always
takes the sweetest ones, don’t He?” Mr Sears says. He has
His own mysterious purposes.” “What do you think about it?”
I want to know, “I don’t want to think,” he says. “We
can’t ask or question His ways. It’s not for us to know.
I just know He taken him home now, the little one.”
He goes on to tell me Jim Sr’s wife took him to thirteen foreign
countries in Europe in hopes it’d help him get over it. But
it didn’t. He couldn’t. “Mission unaccomplished,” Howard says.
Jim’s come down with Parkinson’s disease. What next?
He’s home from Europe now, but still blames himself
for sending Jim Jr back to the car that morning to look for
that thermos of lemonade. They didn’t need any lemonade
that day! Lord, lord, what was he thinking of, Jim Sr has said
a hundred – no, a thousand – times now, and to anyone who will
still listen. If only he hadn’t made lemonade in the first
place that morning! What could he have been thinking about?
Further, if they hadn’t shopped the night before at Safeway, and
if that bin of yellowy lemonade hadn’t stood next to where they
kept the oranges, apples, grapefruit and bananas.
That’s what Jim Sr had really wanted to buy, some oranges
and apples, not lemons for lemonade, forget lemonade, he hated
lemons – at least now the did – but Jim Jr, he liked lemonade,
always had. He wanted lemonade.
“Let’s look at it this way,” Jim Sr would say, “those lemons
had to come from someplace, didn’t they? The Imperial Valley,
probably, or else over near Sacramento, they raise lemons
there, right?” They had to be planted and irrigated and
watched over and then pitched into sacks by field workers and
weighted and then dumped into boxes and shipped by rail or
truck to this god-forsaken place where a man can’t do anything
but lose his children! Those boxes would’ve been off-loaded
from the truck by boys not much older than Jim Jr himself
Then they had to be uncrated and poured all yellow and
lemony-smelling out of their crates by those boys, and washed
living and breathing, big as you please. Then they were carried
into the store and placed in that bin under that eye-catching sign
that said Have You Had Fresh Lemonade Lately? As Jim Sr’s
reckoning went, it harks all the way back to first causes, back to
on earth, and there hadn’t been any Safeway store, well, Jim would
still have his son, right? And Howard Sears would still have his
grandson, sure. You see, there were a lot of people involved
in this tragedy. There were the farmers and the pickers of lemons,
the truck drivers, the big Safeway store. . .Jim Sr, too, he was ready
to assume his share of responsibility, of course. He was the most
guilty of all. But he was still in his nosedive, Howard Sears
told me. Still, he had to pull out of this somehow and go on.
Everybody’s heart was broken, right. Even so.
Not long ago Jim Sr’s wife got him started in a little
wood-carving class here in town. Now he’s trying to whittle bears
and seals, owls, eagles, seagulls, anything, but
he can’t stick to any one creature long enough to finish
the job, is Mr Sears’s assessment. The trouble is, Howard Sears
goes on, every time Jim Sr looks up from his lather, or his
carving knife, he sees his son breaking out of the water downriver,
and rising up – being reeled in, so to speak – beginning to turning and swinging
upriver, accompanied by the roar and whap-whap of
the chopper blades. Jim Jr passing now over the searchers who
line the bank of the river. His arms are stretched out from his sides,
and drops of water fly out from him. He passes overhead once more,
closer now, and then returns a minute later to be deposited, ever
so gently laid down, directly at the feet of his father. A man
who, having seen everything now – his dead son rise from the river
in the grip of metal pinchers and turn and turn in circles flying
above the tree line – would like nothing more now than
to just die. But dying is for the sweetest ones. And he remembers
sweetness. When life was sweet, and sweetly
he was given that other lifetime.
(By Raymond ·Carver)
