半魅力人生

by Nathan Heller

Once， many moons ago， I spent a month in Iceland with too little money and nothing to slow a march of days that seemed already to be getting much too short. It was September， and each morning and late afternoon a wind would come through 1）Reykjavík to clear the air， 2）sifting and reshaping the clouds. By eight oclock， the sun would start to set， and little yellow lights would trace the 3）contours of the hills. I spent much of the month walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods， trying to imagine what it would be like to make a life in each. This wasnt an unusual pursuit， since at that time I was a stranger to adult life everywhere I went. I had come to Iceland on a small research stipend， after three months of failing to support myself in New York. Each morning， I would walk to a café that had become my office. In the evenings， I would wander to the waterfront or read by the big downtown pond. Weekend nights were different， because that was when the city came alive.

很多年前，我曾怀揣一丁点儿钱在冰岛呆过一个月，对于眼前似乎已经变得太过短暂的日子，我束手无策。当时正值九月，每天的清晨和晡时都会有一阵风掠过雷克雅未克，它清新了空气，筛碎并重塑了云朵。到了八点，太阳开始下山，星星点点的黄色灯光会勾勒出山的轮廓。我将这个月的大半时间都用于穿行陌生的街区，努力想象如若在其中每一处展开生活会是何种景象。这并非什么与众不同的追求，因为在当时，无论我去到哪里，都无法融入成年生活。在纽约呆了三个月，无法为生的我靠一小笔研究津贴来到冰岛。每天清晨，我都会步行去一家被我当作办公室的咖啡馆。到了晚上，我会漫步去到海边，或在市中心的大池塘边阅读。周末的夜晚则不尽相同，因为那时这座城市才活了过来。

Q： I went out last weekend and when I woke up the next morning my shoes were covered with mud. I dont remember visiting a farm while out on the town. Can anyone explain to me what happened？

A： It is still a mystery to many who live in Reykjavík who wake up with the same problem after hitting bars in this town. We cant really explain it but be aware that the bars are really crowded so its a given that a lot of people will step on your feet.

I had seen this item in Reykjavík 4）Mag， an English publication in the tourist office， and for several clean-shoed evenings after that it was a source of 5）poignant disappointment. Finally， I came back to the hostel one Saturday evening to find my room overtaken by three Swedes. The floor was strewn with empty half-litre cans of 6）Carlsberg； when they offered one to me， I asked what brought them to Iceland.

“We 7）slaughter sheep，” one said. “Up the coast.”

They were dressed in jeans and sported 8）closecropped blond hair. One of them had an elongated， toothy face， and went on， “We slaughter two thousand sheep every day， eighty thousand in the season. He cuts out the stomachs， and we put the carcasses in the freezer. Like an 9）assembly line.”

“You kind of need an iPod，” the third said.

Back in Sweden， the guys told me， they were studying computer science at university， and—well， you know how it is： one thing leads to another， and soon you find yourself carving sheep bellies for a little extra cash. Jobs were hard to come by in Sweden， but Iceland welcomed the help.

Slaughterhouse employees got free rooms and six meals a day. There was too much fish on the menu， maybe， but better that than the 10）remaindered meat from the smokehouses. Why was that？ I asked this in a conversation-making spirit， but my new acquaintances stared.

“Youve noticed there are not so many trees in Iceland？” one asked at last. “Yeah，” I said. “Well， what do you think they do all the smoking with？ Its a fifty-fifty mixture of—I dont know what the English word is. You dig it up…”

“Peat？” “Yeah， peat，” he said. “That and shit.”“Yeah—shit，” the long-faced one chimed in， his voice rising with indignation. “And， listen， I am Swedish. I dont eat meat that has been smoked in shit.”

Then the four of us fell silent. At some point， it had been decided， with the eloquent noncommunication of twentysomething males， that we would be going out together， and that this would make us， fleetingly， friends. My life at that time was full of passing relationships： people I only knew for days， or even hours， and who posed for 11）Polaroid-like snapshots in my memory. In the hallway of the hostel， we connected with two Swedish women. It was shortly after midnight. People in the streets swarmed toward one another on the downtown plazas. At a Sólon， we got drinks， and some of us began to dance.

The pulsing， muddy world the Swedes led me into quickly became mine. A week later， I was on my own at another club. It was 4 A.M. I was planning to leave. A woman approached and wondered whether I would dance. She was willowy. Her hair was dark， and her eyes were very blue. She had high cheekbones. You couldnt talk over the throbbing bass， and so we leaned 12）at intervals into each others ears. New York， I said. Originally， California. She smiled 13）wryly. Her hair fell forward and covered her ear； while I swept it back to add something， she kissed my neck. Her coat was trimmed with dark fur， which struck me as maybe the most elegant thing I had ever seen.

My sense of the scale of the world， and its speed， changed that night， and I carry the memory with me today the way some people carry 14）amulets： a reminder that there is always an Iceland to return to， a place where， in an unexplored city 15）in the wee hours just south of the Arctic Circle， strangers are dancing together and the seemingly impossible isnt. I was twenty-two， but I think of this as when my twenties actually began.

One day， finally， it is late， too late， and you are standing on the sidewalk outside somewhere very loud. A wind is blowing. Its the same cool， restless late-night breeze that blew on trampled nineteen-twenties lawns， dazed sixties streets， and anywhere young people gather. Nearby， someone who doesnt smoke is smoking. An attractive stranger with a laugh 16）jaywalks between cars with a friend. Youre far from home. Its quiet. All at once， you have a thrilling sense of nowness， of the sheer potential of a verdant night with all these unmet people in it. For a long time after that， you think youll never lose this life， those dreams. But that was， as we know， then.

问：上周末外出，我隔天清早醒来的时候，鞋子上敷满了泥巴。我不记得到城里来的时候有去过农场啊。有谁能跟我解释下怎么回事吗？

答：对于很多住在雷克雅未克的人来说，这仍是个谜。很多人在城里泡吧醒来之后会有同样的疑问。我们无法完全解释，但你要知道，那里的酒吧相当之拥挤，很多人有可能会踩到你的脚。

我在旅游局的英文出版物——《雷克雅未克杂志》上看到上面这一段儿，而此后好几个夜晚我的鞋却都挺干净，这事儿挺让人由衷失望的。终于，有个星期六的晚上，我回到旅社后发现房间被三个瑞典佬给占了。地板上到处都是嘉士伯半升装的空啤酒罐儿；当他们请我喝一罐时，我问他们怎么会到冰岛来。

“我们是宰羊的。”其中一个说，“北岸那边。”

他们穿着牛仔裤，剪着一头精神的金色短发。他们其中一个长脸、龅牙的接着说道：“我们一天宰两千只羊，一个季度八万只。他去掉内脏，然后我俩把羊身放进冷库。就像条流水线。”

“干这活儿得听着iPod才行。”第三个人说道。

他们告诉我，之前他们在瑞典的大学里读计算机科学，之后——好吧，你知道的，各种事情接踵而来，不久后你就发现自己正切割羊肚来贴补家用。瑞典工作不好找，但冰岛欢迎并帮助他们就业。

屠宰场给员工提供免费住宿，一日六餐。也许菜单上鱼太多了点，但那总比熏制室里的剩肉强多了。那是为什么？为了让谈话继续下去我问了这么一句，但我刚认识的新伙计们瞪大了眼睛。

“你有注意到冰岛上没多少树吧？”终于有人开口问道。“是啊，”我应道。“那么，你觉得他们用什么来生烟熏肉呢？他们用的是一种对半掺杂的混合物——我不知道那个在英文里叫什么。你把它挖出来……”

“泥炭？” “对了，泥炭。”他说道。“泥炭和粪便参半。”“没错——粪便。”那个长脸的家伙操着他那带着火气的声音插话进来。“还有，听着，我是瑞典人，我可不吃用粪便熏过的肉。”

随后我们四人都陷入沉默。不知是在什么时间，我们几个二十来岁的男人在那意味深长的无声交流之后达成共识，我们要一起外出闲逛，我们会就此成为朋友，短暂的朋友。那时我的生活里充斥着倏然即逝的情谊：有的人我只认识几天，有的甚至只有几个小时，他们就像是为我记忆里的宝丽莱快照摆了下姿势。在旅社的大堂里，我们搭上两个瑞典女人。午夜刚过，街上的人群一波接一波地在市中心的广场上交叉着蜂拥而行。我们在一间“沙龙”里喝了酒，我们中的几个人开始跳起舞来。

那几个瑞典人把我带入的那个骚动、混乱的世界很快也成了我的世界。一周后，我独自来到另一间俱乐部。凌晨四点时，我正打算离开，一个女人走上前来问我可否共舞。她身材苗条。一头深色头发，湛蓝湛蓝的眼睛，还有一副很高的颧骨。在悸动的贝斯声中根本无法听清对方说什么，所以我们时不时地凑到对方耳边说话。纽约，我说。祖籍，加州。她报以苦笑。她的头发向前垂下遮住了耳朵；当我将她的头发撩回原位想再说点什么的时候，她吻了我的脖子。她的大衣装点着深色皮草，我惊觉那也许是我见过的最雅致的东西。

我对这个世界的尺度和速度的看法在那一夜改变，如今我带着那段回忆生活，就如同有些人佩戴护身符那般：它提醒我总有一个冰岛可以让我回去，在那里，在北极圈以南一座鲜有人知的城市的深夜，陌生的人们正一起跳舞，而看似不可能的事情也变得可能起来。当时我22岁，而我却将那一夜视为我弱冠之年的真正开始。

终于，有一天，天很晚，太晚了，你正站在某处人行道上，旁边是嚣嚷的店家。一阵风吹起。它同样是那股凉爽的、不安分的午夜晚风，曾轻抚过十九世纪二十年代被践踏的草坪、六十年代迷宫样令人晕眩的街道以及任何年轻人的聚集地。附近，有个不抽烟的人在抽烟。一个面带笑容的靓丽陌生人正和一个朋友在车流中横行。你离乡背井。四周一片寂静。突然，你体验到一股令人毛骨悚然的现时感，因为你想到在这个你仍稚嫩的夜晚里，有那么多素未谋面的人，该有多少可能。此后很久，你以为你将永不会失去这种生活，那些梦想。但，正如我们所知，那已然成为往事。