Cherry Blossoms樱花

2019-09-10菲利普·洛帕特

英语世界 2019年4期

【導读】

菲利普·洛帕特（1943— ），美国人文与科学院院士（Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences）、电影评论家、散文家、小说家、诗人、教师，生于美国纽约州纽约布鲁克林区，作品曾获多项大奖。

五月的樱花繁花似锦，但花期短暂;落英缤纷，免不了被践踏的命运。埃米莉是“我”最好的柏拉图式朋友。她有主见，引“我”保持住一个正常人的常态。她精准细致地安排赏花出游，“我”觉得她也挺招人爱。“为什么我俩不结婚呢？”“我”每年一问，却又折服于埃米莉“我俩之间吸引力不够”的坦诚。“我”有典型的“自杀式单身者”的特点：不喜社交，对各类“仪式”缺乏耐心，出游不久即觉腻烦。而“我”对埃米莉的心动，仿若每年盛开一次的樱花，短暂的惊艳之后便烟消云散。这样的“我”能培养出爱情，能组建上家庭吗？

For two weeks in May （or sometimes the last week in April and the first in May）， the cherry blossoms are in full bloom. They grow in nearby Central Park as well as in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens， but for some reason my friend Emily decides that the ones in Brooklyn are more “representative.” So after much consulting of schedule books， we set out on Saturday afternoon， May 9， to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.

Emily is my best platonic friend.

Emily’s spies in Brooklyn have assured her that the cherry blossoms are at their peak. It seems farfetched to me that one day more or less can matter so much; and yet， as Japanese art classically tells us， cherry blossoms are indeed that short-lived.

I am feeling very Japanese as I walk up the broad garden lane to the aisle of cherry blossoms. We have so few rituals any more—especially around Nature—that it would be nice to do this every year. I am thinking this way because I am already afraid of getting bored. So I tell myself let’s make this an annual excursion.

I am thinking how most rituals are family-bred： repetitions of holidays and habits nurtured in the bosom of domestic life. Single people， like Emily and me， have to be more inventive in our development of rituals. For us there are no tooth fairies， no half-birthdays， no bringing the children to Grandma. Living quite alone， my temptation is to view myself as a bizarre romantic monster outside the human community. Emily， with her surer grasp of custom and propriety， leads me gently by the hand to that most buried of， normality.

The long line of cherry trees on either side sends swirls of petals across the avenue in the wind. The trees are so weighted with cherry blossoms， poor things， that their limbs seem to sag from the burden of pink. Emily is of the opinion that last week they must have been perfect—this week they are a little over-ripe.

On the ground， scattered cherry blossoms pile up thick and wasted and bruised， destined to be trampled underfoot.

It’s too cold to sit for long on the grass. The sky is overcast， threatening rain.

Emily marches us away from this melancholy vista and over to the tulip beds. A woman of decision， she has a constant map in her head of where to go next， what is the best way to come upon any terrain. This time she finds us a spectacular double row of tulips， set almost too self-consciously on display， like a Cézanne exhibition. I like the ones that are pale yellow outside and dark yellow inside. Emily considers the insides of tulips very sexy. She used to be a photographer. We both agree that the black tulips are also wonderful： they’re not really black at all but a deep purplish-brown， thin and wrinkled as antique velvet. “Texas Flames” are white with orange tongues of fire streaking the petals.

I’m getting bored. I want to go home.

We stop in the commissary to buy notepaper with lilac sprigs. As we leave the park I keep seeing beautiful bushes with different-colored flowers， and I ask Emily what they are， and it is always the same answer. “Azaleas.”

On the way home in her Volkswagen， Emily and I are talking as usual about the difficulty of finding anyone with a set of quirks and appetites to match our prickly personalities.

“Why don’t we get married？” I ask.

Emily laughs： “You say that once a year.”

“Well， why don’t we？”

“Because you’re not attracted to me.”

I sit back in the seat， breath taken away1 by her honesty. At the same time I remember how I had kissed her in greeting a few hours before and how adorable she looked. “That’s not true. Sometimes I’ve very attracted to you.”

“But not enough，” she says with good-natured dismissiveness.

We drive on in silence. I think： Keep your mouth shut， she’s right， it’s not enough. She’s saved you from an awful scrape2.

Finally， Emily says： “You’re not the only who thinks that.”

“Thinks what？”

“That we two should get married. My sister Dora says it all the time.”

5月里有两周（有时是4月最后一周加5月第一周）樱花盛开。附近的中央公园和布鲁克林植物园都种了樱花，但出于某种原因，朋友埃米莉坚决认为布鲁克林的更具“代表性”。因此，多次查询日程簿之后，我们于5月9日周六下午出发前往布鲁克林植物园。

埃米莉是我最好的柏拉图式朋友。

埃米莉在布魯克林的眼线向她保证樱花正是灿烂时。对我而言，这么纠结于一两天的时间似乎有点儿过了;然而，日本传统艺术告诉我们，樱花花期确实很短。

沿着园里宽阔的小路走向樱花道时，我感受到浓浓的日本风情。我们的仪式已经很少了——尤其是关于大自然的——要是每年都这么来一次也是不错的。我这么想是因为我已经开始担心自己会觉得无聊。于是我告诉自己，就把这当作每年一次的远足吧。

我想着大多数仪式是如何在家庭里养成的：周而复始的假日、家庭生活怀抱中培养起来的习惯。单身狗，如埃米莉和我，不得不在仪式的培养上更具创造性。对我们而言，没有牙仙，没有准生日，也无须把孩子送奶奶处。独自生活，我几乎将自己视为人类群体之外一个浪漫的异类。埃米莉凭着对习俗和礼仪更确切的把握，温柔地牵着我，领我走向那埋藏最深的常态。

道路两边长排的樱花树，花瓣在风中打着卷，落在林荫道上。繁花压枝，细长的树枝似乎不堪这粉色重荷，真是可怜。埃米莉的看法是：上周，花一定开得最为完美——这周，开得已经有点儿过了。

地上落英缤纷，堆了厚厚一层，蔫了的花瓣就此归为无用的残物，免不了被践踏的命运。

草地上坐得长了很冷。天阴沉沉的，要下雨的样子。

埃米莉领我离开了这忧郁的美景，到了郁金香花圃。埃米莉是个有主见的女人，下个地方该去哪儿，如何以最佳方式抵达，她脑海中一直有张图。这次，她找到了壮观的双排郁金香，展示方式似特意为之，就像塞尚的画展。我喜欢外面淡黄里面深黄的那种。埃米莉认为郁金香的内部非常性感。她曾是个摄影师。我们都认为黑郁金香也很美：其实它们一点儿也不黑，只是一种深紫棕，像薄而起皱的古董天鹅绒。“得克萨斯火焰”是白色的，花瓣上有条纹状橙色火舌。

我有点儿腻烦了，想回家。

我们在小卖部停下来买印有丁香枝的便签簿。离开公园时，我总看到色彩迥异的簇簇鲜花，便问埃米莉是什么花，答案总一样：“杜鹃花。”

回家路上，在她的大众汽车里，埃米莉和我像往常一样聊起找伴侣的难处，找个也有一系列怪癖和嗜好、能合上我们暴脾气的人很难。

“为什么我俩不结婚呢？”我问。

埃米莉笑了：“你每年都这么说一次。”

“那，为什么我们不结婚呢？”

“因为我对你并没有吸引力。”

我向后靠在座位上，惊叹于她的诚实。同时，我想起几小时前，见面时的问候之吻，还有她看起来多么招人爱。“不对，有时我觉得你挺有魅力的。”

“但还不够。”她不屑一顾地说，并无恶意。

我们继续往前，都没说话。我暗想：别再说了，她说得对，还不够;她把你从自己下的套中救了出来。

终于，埃米莉说：“你不是唯一一个这么想的。”

“想什么？”