Persimmons -- 翻译练习 （柿子）

Persimmons by Li-Young Lee	柿子 [美] 李立扬
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision. How to choose persimmons. This is precision. Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant. How to eat: put the knife away, lay down newspaper. Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet, all of it, to the heart. Donna undresses, her stomach is white. In the yard, dewy and shivering with crickets, we lie naked, face-up, face-down. I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten. Naked:   I’ve forgotten. Ni, wo:   you and me. I part her legs, remember to tell her she is beautiful as the moon. Other words that got me into trouble were fight and fright, wren and yarn. Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with. Wrens are soft as yarn. My mother made birds out of yarn. I loved to watch her tie the stuff; a bird, a rabbit, a wee man. Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it up so everyone could taste a Chinese apple. Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat but watched the other faces. My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face. Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe. I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinal sang, The sun, the sun. Finally understanding he was going blind, my father sat up all one night waiting for a song, a ghost. I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness, and sweet as love. This year, in the muddy lighting of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking for something I lost. My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees, hand over hand, gripping the handle. He’s so happy that I’ve come home. I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers. Under some blankets, I find a box. Inside the box I find three scrolls. I sit beside him and untie three paintings by my father: Hibiscus leaf and a white flower. Two cats preening. Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth. He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks, Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tense precision in the wrist. I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.	六年级的时候 被老师沃尔克小姐 敲后脑勺，罚站墙角 因为我分不清 persimmon(柿子)和precision(精准) 怎样挑 柿子。这是精准 熟的柿子柔软，有棕色的斑点 闻一闻底部，透着芳香的 是甜的。吃的时候： 刀收在一边，铺上报纸 轻轻撕开皮，别连着肉 就着皮吮吸 咽下去。现在 吃那些果肉 如此甘甜 整个儿直抵心田 多娜褪去了衣服，她有洁白的腹部 园中露水沾湿，阵阵战栗 蟋蟀的颤音中，我们裸裎而卧 仰、俯 我教她中文 蟋蟀：“啾啾”。露水：我忘了 赤裸：我忘了 “Ni, Wo”：你和我。 我分开她的双腿 记着告诉她 她美得就像月亮 别的词 让我吃过苦头的是 fight(干架)和fright(恐惧)，wren(鹪鹩)和yarn(纱线) 架是我受欺负时干的 恐惧是我干架时的感觉 鹪鹩是小小的样貌平平的鸟 纱线是用来编织的 鹪鹩像纱线一样柔软 母亲把纱线做成鸟儿 我爱看她编那些东西 鸟，兔子，小人儿 沃尔克小姐上课时带了一个柿子 把它切成片 让每个人都可以尝一尝 一个“中国苹果” 知道它没熟或者不甜，我没吃 只是看着其他人的脸 母亲说每个柿子都有一个太阳 里面有金色的东西，闪耀着光 暖暖的，像我的脸 有一次在地窖里，我找到两个，包着报纸 还没熟，被忘在那里 我把它们放到卧室的窗台上 每天早晨，一只红雀在那里唱 “太阳，太阳” 终于明白 他将变成盲人 父亲整晚坐着 等着一支歌，一个灵魂 我把那两个柿子递给他 它们已经膨大，沉重如悲 甘甜如爱 今年，在父母的地下室 浑浊的光线下，我翻箱倒柜 找一些丢失的东西 父亲坐在那已显疲惫的木楼梯上 黑色的手杖搁在膝间 双手交叠，握着杖柄 他很开心我回到家 我问他眼睛怎么样了，一句蠢话 “都没了”，他的回答 在一些毯子底下，我发现一个盒子 在盒子里找到三个卷轴 我挨着他坐下，打开 父亲作的三幅画： 芙蓉叶配一朵白色的花 两只猫，在清理毛和爪 两个柿子，饱满得几乎要从画布上掉下来 他抬起双手摸索着画布 问，“这是什么？” “这是柿子，爸爸。” “哦，狼毫在丝上的触感 力道，张弛 用腕的精准 我画它们画了几百次了 闭着眼睛。这些是瞎了之后画的 有些东西一辈子也丢不了： 你心上人的发香 柿子的纹理 在你的掌心，那成熟的份量”