我的母亲住在非洲的一个农场上（2006 年）Abdulrazak Gurnah 的短篇小说 ...

我的母亲住在非洲的一个农场上（2006 年）Abdulrazak Gurnah 的短篇小说

阿卜杜勒-拉扎克·古尔纳

中英文

“我妈妈住在非洲的一个农场里，”她听到女儿 Khadija 说。她更喜欢被称为卡迪，尤其是在她的朋友面前，穆娜尽力记住。那天下午，她和她的朋友，通常是克莱尔和艾米这两个朋友，一直在观看视频中的《走出非洲》。大多数周日下午，他们都这样做，轮流去彼此家看视频。反正他们家是视频，其他人是DVD。
然后当电影结束时，在故事结束后有时会出现的短暂沉默中，卡迪这么说。这是电影反复挽歌的回声，我在非洲有一个农场，说话像对风景的嘶哑哀叹，让凯伦·布里克森成为悲剧。失去了爱，失去了农场，失去了天堂，秋天。然后卡迪说：我妈妈住在非洲的一个农场里。
Munah 想冲进去告诉他们不是那样的。不是那样的。但就在卡蒂说话的一瞬间，她就听到有人窃笑，这让她犹豫不决，退缩了。是艾米，她想，惊讶或高兴地咯咯笑着。你妈妈真的吗！？或许卡迪的这番话，不过是青春期朋友之间的夸夸其谈罢了。
这是她童年回家的故事之一。孩子还小的时候；他们喜欢听故事。他们有时会提示她告诉一个人，就好像他们从她所说的话中看出了一个暗示。她的长辈贾马尔过去常常详细地记住它们，并像认识他们一样谈论出现在其中的人。哦，阿卜杜拉叔叔在钱上总是这样，不是吗？真正的意义。现在贾马尔已经足够大了，可以回答并整夜待在外面，在朋友家过夜，但谁知道他真的在做什么。他的衣服散发着汗水、烟雾和廉价食物的轻微令人作呕的气味，这与她常去的年轻人去的地方有关，但如果她进入他的房间整理他的衣服要洗，他就会对她大喊大叫并生闷气。他喜欢他们本来的样子。他步履蹒跚地走着，好像他的腿和臀部在他身下慢慢溶解。无论如何，他对她童年的幽灵已经没有兴趣了。或者当他不得不表现出兴趣时，因为她让他想起了他曾经说过的一个熟悉的人，他不断地点头，渴望她说完，担心她不要让故事蔓延开来就像她以前那样。
卡迪没有以同样的保真度记住，并且经常不得不被提醒。是的，你确实知道他是谁，我的奥马尔叔叔，他拥有我十四岁时去住了几个星期的农场。然后没想到，有时她会记得。就像现在，在看了一些帝国的怀旧和激情之后，她想起了农场，并告诉她的朋友，我母亲住在非洲的一个农场。只是它不是那样的，没有清扫车、马匹和水晶玻璃，没有仆人，没有臣民可以自救。她是受制于生活和他人的臣民，被爱她和拥有她的人从这里到那里送来。这就是让卡迪的朋友窃笑的原因。她很清楚，这不可能是他们刚刚在电视上看到的美好生活。她会不假思索地知道，卡迪的母亲不可能住在真正的非洲的农场里，那里有开阔的天空和深深的阴影，有金合欢大道和灯火通明的阳台。更有可能的是，卡迪的母亲的非洲是另一个你在电视上也看到过的地方，街道上挤满了人，尘土飞扬的田野里满是孩子们依偎在母亲身边。
或许卡迪的朋友不知道她是这么想的。或许她没有偷笑。这让穆娜觉得自己很愚蠢，她甚至考虑过冲进去骂他们。她想知道这种感觉留下的苦涩味道。是她的年龄吗？她听到了卡迪所说的恳求。请假装我妈妈在非洲时的样子，而我长得像你。或许这根本就不是恳求，卡蒂只能把非洲想象成她刚刚看到的画面，只能看到她的母亲就这样生活。
他们都十四岁了，如果她进去告诉他们她住的农场一点也不像那种假装的奢华，它小而微不足道人类，它不是在非洲，而是在一个真实的地方，从草叶和树叶的气味到天气的最小变化，一切都有名字。
自从女儿说话后，她就一动不动，被她的怒火吓得瘫痪了。然后愤怒慢慢消退，取而代之的是后悔和蔓延的内疚。有什么好生气的？他们生活在不同的世界。她热心的女儿和她善良的朋友会为一只受伤的乌龟或一只搁浅的海豹的命运哭泣，但会对那些他们已经学会认为应该受到伤害的人的卑鄙痛苦漠不关心。
回忆困扰着她。她无法忘记。她甚至不知道为什么有些事情不会离开她。她想知道她在街上看到的那些远离家园的人是否也是如此。她想知道距离如何让记忆变得不同。

安排在她的耳边，但仿佛她是一个不经意的听众，而不是他们关心的人。她的父亲缺席了，已经离开了几个月，而且预计不会在不久的将来出现。当她还是个孩子的时候，她从来没有想过她父亲的长期缺席。她已经习惯了他们，以至于她并没有真正注意到他们，或者说只有在他们父亲住在家里时才意识到他们。事情发生在他和他们住在一起的时候，就好像他们的母亲要等到他回来再做决定或执行任何重大任务。也许这也是他喜欢的方式，也许他们不得不等待他从长期缺席中带回来的钱，然后他们才能完成任何事情。在后来的几年里，Munah 认为她的母亲在他不在的时候放慢了脚步，她和她姐姐和她一起过的生活被压抑了。
一时间，事情的重量对她来说太重了，她身体不适。她双手抱头坐了很长时间，抱怨头疼，连最简单的事情都做不了。Munah 和她的姐姐 Hawa 踮起脚尖围着她，当她缓慢的呼吸声是他们之间唯一的声音时，她坐在她身边，试图控制他们的争吵。他们对她的眼泪无能为力。当他们开始时，没有什么能阻止他们母亲的眼泪，直到她似乎已经把所有的眼泪都流了下来。有时，她会因为一点小小的过失或一点小伤痛哭一整天，到最后，三个人都因无法理解的痛苦而痛哭流涕。
有一天，他们的阿米娜阿姨来看望，这时候穆娜听到了将她带到乡下的安排。她们妈妈的姐姐阿米娜阿姨说，她们两个太忙了，等她们妈妈感觉不那么累了，她才会带着穆娜一起走。“哈瓦可以照顾她的母亲，让她休息并恢复健康。你来到这个国家，我们会为你找到工作。
后来她不记得有没有人说过错过学校的事情，但这是 Munah 自己首先想到的事情之一。放学几天。不到一个小时，Munah 就收拾好她待几天的随身物品，带着她父亲上次回家时作为礼物带来的一件新的丝质披肩，跟着她的姑姑走到公交车站。她记得，因为这是她第一次戴。农场离城只有 15 英里，她小时候去过几次，她一年会见奥马尔叔叔四五次，因为他有时会在他来城时拜访他们。她不知道她会在那里待上几个星期。
奥马尔叔叔没有多少笑容，但你知道这不是因为他生气或不开心。他只是没有微笑，尽管当他看到 Munah 沿着人行道走向房子时他笑了。他坐在有盖的门廊上，用棕榈叶编织一个篮子。听到他们从路上走来，他抬起头，脸上变成了无言的笑容。
房子坐落在一个斜坡上，斜坡底部有一条小溪。农场在房子后面，在溪流两边占地六英亩。她一直记得她在农场度过的第一个夜晚，以及乡间深深的寂静。这并不是真正的寂静，因为有划痕和沙沙声，以及难以形容的悬停的夜晚听不见的噪音。当她走出外屋时，一阵寂静伴随着无声的咆哮扑面而来。在睡梦中，她听到了睁开眼睛时就消失了的喧闹声，她听到了溪流中青蛙粗重的呼吸声。
他们给了她一个自己的房间。“你会在这里待几周，”阿米娜姨妈说，“所以让自己舒服点。” 房子很小，只有两个房间和一个商店，不是棚屋，而是一个小农家。一年中的不同时期，她睡过的房间也被用作商店，所以水渍和植物汁液已经浸入了粉刷成白色的墙壁，现在无法去除。小窗户被挡住了，视线从溪流上移开，沿着斜坡向着一片香蕉树丛看去。
白天，她被期望留在阿米娜阿姨身边，等待她做家务。她明白这真的是为了监视她，因为她十四岁，还是个女孩。她帮助打扫院子、做饭、洗衣服、清洗水果并将其装在篮子里运往镇上的市场。一开始很累，但她适应了沉闷的日常生活，她发现这令人惊讶地愉快。下午，如果她不是太累，奥马尔叔叔有心情，他会带她看农场的工作，有时还会带她出去到路边，一直走到人们等待的那棵巨大的芒果树上。巴士到镇。那里还有一家小店，店主为他们煮咖啡，奥马尔叔叔停下来和坐在长凳上的人打招呼和打招呼。“去和里面的人打招呼，”他第一次说。从那以后，她总是去和屋里的女人打招呼，和她们坐在一起，直到奥马尔叔叔和坐在树下的男人们说完话。
一天，另一名男子从谈话中站起来，与他们同行。他比奥马尔叔叔年轻许多，也许三十出头，脸上带着微笑，一双明亮而好奇的眼睛。他的名字叫伊萨，奥马尔叔叔告诉她，他是他们最近的邻居。她走在他们身后，从他们的语气中可以看出他们是喜欢对方的。伊萨通常经常拜访他们，她后来发现，但他一直陪伴着妻子和孩子去奔巴探望他们的亲戚。来的时候，他和奥马尔叔叔坐在门廊里，有说有笑，喝着咖啡。有时阿米娜姨妈和他们坐在一起，他真是个好朋友。她问他的妻子和孩子，有时称他为儿子。
他总是要求穆纳来迎接他。穆娜忍不住注意到，在没人看的时候，他看了她一眼。她不禁注意到了他的兴趣。就这样持续了很多天，随着时间的流逝，他的探访变得越来越频繁，她的身体在他的审视和偷偷的目光下变得炙热。他的神色变得不那么匆忙，有一天他偷偷地对她微笑。她回过头笑了笑，很高兴地移开了视线。

不可能弄错发生了什么。当伊萨在场时，奥马尔叔叔出现时，她看起来既紧张又不自在。阿米娜姨妈总是有事要她做。他们两个都没有对她说什么。他的笑容和眼神让她兴奋，也让她害怕，但他什么也没说，叔叔阿姨又那么警惕，她觉得很安全，就像在玩游戏。
一天晚上，他出现在她的窗前。或许这不是第一次，或许他以前也这样做过。窗户在墙上很高，有两个木制百叶窗。当她第一次到达时，她害怕乡村的黑暗，并关闭了两个百叶窗。后来她开始保持开放。醒来的时候，她感觉到有什么事情发生了，她的眼睛直接看向了窗户。夜晚的空气中有足够的光芒让她看到窗边一个人头的轮廓。在她把手放在嘴上之前，她无法阻止惊恐的喘息。只用了一瞬间，她就知道是伊萨。她镇定下来，仿佛还在熟睡，过了一会儿，她听到了他的呼吸声。她意识到一定是其中某种紧张的品质唤醒了她。片刻后头就不见了，但她不敢关窗，以防他在她关门时伸手去接她。大半夜她都没有睡着，打瞌睡，醒来，脸转向窗户。
第二天早上，她去外面看看，看到有一小块硬土，他本来可以站在上面看的，尽管即使那样他也不得不抓住窗户上的栏杆。那天下午，伊萨来拜访时，她呆在院子里，听到她的声音颤抖着喊了声招呼。那天晚上，她关上了百叶窗，醒着，等着他。当他到达时，她听到了他的声音，感觉到他的手放在百叶窗上，推着它。“别躲着我，”他轻声恳求道。她躺在黑暗中，听着他的呼吸。过了一会儿，她听到了他松开窗栏杆时发出的轻柔的砰砰声。她实在受不了了，早上见到阿米娜阿姨就告诉了阿米娜。阿米娜姨妈一时没说话，只是一脸悲伤，好像穆娜告诉了她一个可怕的损失的消息。
她让她准备好她的东西，一个小时之内，他们就在前往芒果树下的巴士站的路上。奥马尔叔叔无法理解这种匆忙。“有什么事吗？” 他问。
“不，”阿米娜姨妈告诉他。“我只是忘记了我答应今天带她回来。她已经在这里好几个星期了，你知道的。

穆纳听到卡迪在呼唤她。“你在哪里？” 她叫道。
她走进厨房，十四岁，面带微笑，像房子一样安全，来到穆娜带着她的记忆坐在桌边的地方。她从背后靠在妈妈身上，长发披散在妈妈的头上。
“你在做什么？” 她问，吻了吻她的头顶，然后退了下去。没有等她回答，她说：‘我们要去艾米家。我会在几个小时后回来。
“它不是那样的，非洲的农场，”穆纳说。
“哦，你听到了，”卡迪说。“我只是想让他们吃醋，想让他们嫉妒。”

My Mother Lived on a Farm in Africa, (2006) a short story by Abdulrazak Gurnah

`My mother lived on a farm in Africa,' she heard her daughter Khadija say. She preferred to be called Kadi, especially in front of her friends, and Munah tried her best to remember. She and her friends, the usual two, Clare and Amy, had been watching Out of Africa on the video that afternoon. They did that most Sunday afternoons, took turns to go to each other's houses to watch videos. It was video in their house anyway, DVD in the others.
Then when the film finished, and in the brief silence that some¬times follows the end of a story, Kadi said that. It was an echo of the film's repeated dirge, I had a farm in Africa, spoken like a hoarse lament over the landscape, to make Karen Blixen into a tragedy. Lost love, lost farm, lost paradise, the Fall. Then Kadi said that: My mother lived on a farm in Africa.
Munah wanted to rush in there and tell them that it wasn't like that. It was nothing like that. But she heard someone snigger just a second after Kadi spoke, and that made her hesitate and retreat. It was Amy, she thought, giggling with surprise or pleasure. Did your mum really!? Perhaps Kadi's remark was nothing more than a boastful exchange between adolescent friends.
It was one of the stories of her childhood back home. When the children were younger; they loved to hear the stories. They would sometimes prompt her to tell one, as if they had recognized a cue in something she had said. Jamal, her elder, used to remember them in detail, and speak about the people who appeared in them as if he knew them. Oh, Uncle Abdalla is always like that with money, isn't he? Really mean. Now Jamal was old enough to answer back and stay out all night, sleeping over at a friend's house but really doing who knows what. His clothes had the slightly nau¬seating smell of sweat and smoke and cheap food that she associated with the places young people went to, but he shouted and sulked at her if she went into his room to sort through his clothes for the wash. He liked them as they were. He walked in a disjointed shuffle, as if his legs and hips were dissolving slowly under him. In any case, he no longer had any interest in her childhood spectres. Or when he had no choice but to show interest, because she had reminded him of someone he once used to speak about with some familiarity, he nodded his head constantly, eager for her to finish, anxious for her not to allow the story to sprawl as she used to.
Kadi did not remember with the same fidelity, and often had to be reminded. Yes, you do know who he is, my Uncle Omar, who owned the farm where I went to live for several weeks when I was fourteen. Then unexpectedly, at times she would remember. Like now, after watching some empire nostalgia and passion, she remembered the farm and told her friends, My mother lived on a farm in Africa. Only it was nothing like that, no sweeping drive and horses and crystal glass, no servants, no subject people to save from themselves. She was the subject people, subject to life and to others, sent from here to there and back by those who loved her and owned her. That was what made Kadi's friend snigger. She knew very well it could not have been anything like the beautiful life they had just seen on the television. She would have known without reflection that Kadi's mother could not have lived on a farm in the real Africa of open skies and deep shadows, and avenues of acacia and lamplit verandas. More likely, Kadi's mother's Africa was the other one that you also caught glimpses of on television, streets crowded with people, and dusty fields full of children clinging to their mothers.
Perhaps Kadi's friend did not know she thought like that. Perhaps she did not snigger. It made Munah feel foolish that she had even considered rushing in there to rail at them. She wondered at the bitter taste the feeling left behind. Was it her age? She had heard a plea in what Kadi said. Please pretend that my mother looked like that when she was in Africa, and that I look like you. Perhaps it was not a plea at all, and Kadi could only think of Africa as the pictures she had just seen and could only see her mother living like that.
They were fourteen years old, and she would have embarrassed them, and Kadi most of all, if she had gone in there and told them that the farm she lived in was nothing like that make-believe luxury, that it was small and paltry and human, that it was not in Africa, but in a real place with names for everything, from the smell of grass and leaves to the smallest change in the weather.
She had not moved since her daughter spoke, paralysed by the rage she felt. Then slowly the rage receded, and was replaced by regret and spreading guilt. What was there to feel such rage about? They lived in different worlds. Her warmhearted daughter and her kind friends would weep over the fate of a wounded turtle or a stranded seal, but would turn away with indifference from the mean suffering of those they had learned to think of as deserving of it.
Memories troubled her. She could not forget. She did not even know why some things would not leave her. She wondered if that was how it was with all those people she saw in the streets who were far away from their homes. She wondered how distance made remembering different.

The arrangements were made in her earshot, but as if she was a casual listener rather than the person whom they concerned. Her father was absent, away for some months already and not expected in the near future. When she was a child, she never won¬dered at these long absences of her father. She became so used to them that she did not really notice, or rather only became aware of them when their father was living at home. Things happened when he was living with them, as if their mother waited until he was back before making any decisions or carrying out any big task. Maybe this was how he liked it too, or maybe they had to wait for the money he brought back from his long absences before they could get anything done. In later years, Munah thought her mother slowed down in his absence, and that the life she and her sister lived with her was subdued.
The weight of things became too heavy for her at this one time, and she became unwell. She sat for lengths of time with her head in her hands, complaining of headaches and unable to do the sim¬plest things. Munah and her elder sister Hawa tiptoed round her, sat with her when her slow breathing was the only sound between them, tried to keep their bickering down. They were helpless with her tears. When they started, nothing could stop their mother's tears until, so it seemed, she had shed all of them. Sometimes she cried all day long over a petty offence or a small hurt, until in the end all three of them were paralysed with weeping over their incomprehensible pain.
One day their Aunt Amina came to visit, and it was then that Munah heard the arrangements that would take her to the country. Aunt Amina, who was their mother's elder sister, said that the two of them were too much work, and that she would take Munah away with her until their mother was feeling less tired. `Hawa can look after her mother and allow her to rest and get her health back. You come to the country and we'll find work for you.'
Later she could not remember if anyone said anything about missing school, but it was one of the first things Munah herself thought. A few days off school. Within the hour Munah had made a bundle of her belongings for a few days' stay and was walking beside her aunt to the bus halt, wearing one of the new silky shawls her father had brought as a gift the last time he came home. She remembered that, because it was the first time she wore it. The farm was only fifteen miles out of town, and she had visited several times as a child, and she saw Uncle Omar four or five times a year because he sometimes called on them when he came to town. She had no idea that she would spend weeks there.
Uncle Omar did not smile much, but you knew it was not because he was annoyed or unhappy. He just did not smile, although he did when he saw Munah walking up the footpath to the house. He was sitting on the covered porch, weaving a basket out of palm leaves. Then he looked up when he heard them walk¬ing from the road, and his face turned into a speechless smile.
The house stood on a slope, at the bottom of which ran a small stream. The farm ran behind the house for six acres on both sides of the stream. She always remembered the first night she spent on the farm, and the deep silence of the country. It was not really silence, because there were scratchings and rustlings and an inde¬scribable suspension of the inaudible noises of night. It was a silence that leaped at her with a muted roar when she went out to the outhouse. In her sleep she heard raucous yells that were gone when she opened her eyes, and she heard the thick breathing of the frogs in the stream.
They gave her a room of her own. `You'll be here for a few weeks,' Aunt Amina said, `so make yourself comfortable.' The house was small, just two rooms and a store, not a shack but a small farmer's dwelling. At various times in the year, the room she slept in was also used as a store, so there were splash marks and plant juices which had soaked into the whitewashed wall and could not now be removed. The small window was barred and looked away from the stream, up the slope towards a grove of banana trees.
In the day, she was expected to stay close to Aunt Amina, and wait for chores to be given to her. She understood it was really to keep an eye on her because she was fourteen and a girl. She helped with sweeping the yard, with cooking, with washing clothes and with cleaning the fruit and packing it in the baskets for transport to the market in town. It was tiring at first, but she settled into a dull routine that she found surprisingly pleasant. In the afternoons, if she was not too tired and Uncle Omar was in the mood, he showed her the work on the farm, and sometimes took her out to the road where they walked as far as the huge mango tree where people waited for the bus to town. There was also a little shop there, and the shopkeeper made coffee for them while Uncle Omar stopped to exchange greetings and news with the people sitting on the bench. `Go and greet the people inside,' he said the first time. After that she always went to greet the women in the house and sat with them until Uncle Omar had finished his conversation with the men sitting under the tree.
One day, another man rose from the conversation and walked with them. He was many years younger than Uncle Omar, perhaps in his early thirties, with a smiling face and bright curious eyes. His name was Issa, Uncle Omar told her, and he was their nearest neighbour. She walked behind them and could hear from the tone of their voices that they liked each other. Issa usually called on them often, she found out later, but he had been away accompa¬nying his wife and children on a visit to their relatives in Pemba. When he came, he sat with Uncle Omar in the porch, chatting and laughing and drinking coffee. Sometimes Aunt Amina sat with them, he was such a good friend. She asked after his wife and chil¬dren and sometimes called him son.
He always asked for Munah to come and greet him. Munah could not help noticing that he glanced at her when no one was looking. She could not help noticing his interest. It went on like that for many days, and as time passed his visits became daily, and her body became heated under his scrutiny and his stolen glances. His looks became less hurried, and one day he gave her a secret smile. She smiled back and looked away, pleased.

It was impossible to mistake what was going on. Uncle Omar looked nervous and uncomfortable when she appeared while Issa was there. Aunt Amina always had something for her to do. Neither of them said anything to her. His smiles and glances thrilled her but also frightened her, but since he said nothing and her uncle and aunt were so vigilant, she felt safe, as if in a game.
One night he appeared at her window. Perhaps it wasn't the first time, perhaps he had done so before. The window was high in the wall, and had two wooden shutters. When she first arrived she was afraid of the country darkness and shut both shutters. Later she took to keeping one open. She woke up with a sense that some¬thing had happened, and her eyes went directly to the window. There was enough glow in the night air for her to see a silhouette of a head at the window. She could not prevent a frightened gasp before she put a hand over her mouth. It took only an instant, and then she knew it was Issa. She steadied herself, as if she was still asleep, and after a moment she heard his breathing. She realized that some straining quality in it must have been what woke her up. The head disappeared after a while, but she dared not shut the window, in case he reached in for her when she went to shut it. She lay awake for most of the night, dozing and waking, her face turned towards the window.
The next morning she went to look outside and saw that there was a small mound of hard earth that he would have stood on to look in, although even then he would have had to hang on by the bars on the window. When Issa came to visit that afternoon, she stayed inside the yard and heard a tremor in her voice as she called out a greeting. That night she shut both shutters and lay awake, waiting for him. She heard him when he arrived, and sensed his hand on the shutter, pushing at it. `Don't hide from me,' he said softly, pleading. She lay in the dark, listening to his breathing. After a moment she heard the soft thud as he let go of the window bars. She could not bear the fear of it, and told Aunt Amina when she saw her in the morning. Aunt Amina said nothing for a moment, just looked sad, as if Munah had given her news of a ter¬rible loss. `Don't say anything to Omar,' she said.
She told her to get her things ready, and within the hour they were on their way to the bus halt under the mango tree. Uncle Omar could not understand the rush. `Has something happened?' he asked.
`No,' Aunt Amina told him. `I just forgot that I'd promised to take her back today. She's been here for weeks, you know.'

Munah heard Kadi calling for her. `Where are you?' she called out.
She came into the kitchen, fourteen and smiling, safe as houses, and came to where Munah was sitting at the table with her mem¬ories. She leaned over her mother from behind, her long hair falling round her mother's head.
`What are you doing?' she asked, kissing the top of her head and then retreating. Without waiting for an answer she said: `We're going round to Amy's. I'll be back in a couple of hours.'
`It wasn't like that, the farm in Africa,' Munah said.
`Oh, you heard,' Kadi said. `I was just winding them up, trying to make them jealous.'