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0最后一晚
作者： F. 斯科特 · 费兹杰拉德
编译：嘉炜
到如今我仍然能真实感受到那最后的一晚，由粗糙的木板搭成的简易交谊厅，烛光摇曳，供给连的派对结束后，光影恍惚间四处散落着磨损了的装饰纸。忧伤的曼陀林飘荡在整个连队的过道上，那首《我那印第安纳的家乡》，将离愁别绪填满了这个有关告别的夏天。在这个神秘的充满了男性荷尔蒙的城市里，逐渐迷失了的三个姑娘也有某种预感——一种让人迷醉的无常，仿佛她们与来自军营的恋人们的故事，交织出了一张照亮了南方乡村的魔毯，而此刻随时都有一阵风带他们离开这里。我们举杯向迷醉中自己和这充满魅力的南方致敬，然后我们把用过的餐巾、饮罄的酒杯和一些记忆中的往事都留在了餐桌上，我们拉着彼此的手，步入月光之中。熄灯号都早已鸣响了，军营笼罩在万籁俱寂的夜色中，偶尔听到远处传来马的嘶鸣声，还有惹得我们大笑的那阵响亮的鼾声，以及警卫室那站岗的哨兵，将枪斜持扣响扳机的声音。
今天克雷克值班，我们其他人上了一辆在那等候多时的车，随车驶进了塔尔顿，留下了克雷克的女孩。然后艾莉和厄尔，莎莉和我，两两坐在宽阔的后座，转过身低头对着彼此，专注地说着悄悄话，接着，驶进那宽阔平坦的暗夜之中。
我们驱车穿过长满地衣和西班牙苔藓的松林，穿过一片休耕了的棉花地，沿着那条白得像世界边缘的公路行驶。我们把车停在一座磨坊那破碎的阴影下，那里有潺潺的流水声和焦躁不安的鸟鸣声，漫散的一片月光温柔的拥抱着这一切——它试图渗透到那些迷失了的农奴木屋、静止了的汽车和心灵的牢笼里。南方的一切都在为我们低声吟唱——我不知道他们是否还记得，但我从未忘怀——那些平静而苍白的面孔，那些令人迷醉又充满爱恋的眼神和话语:
“你还好吗?”
“还好，你呢?”
“真的还好吗?”
“是的。”
猛然间，我们意识到一切都有点迟了，似乎什么都已经不复存在。我们掉头驱车回往营地。
And I can still feel that last night vividly, the candlelight that flickered over the rough boards of the mess shack, over the frayed paper decorations left from the supply company's party, the sad mandolin down a company street that kept picking My Indiana Home out of the universal nostalgia of the departing summer. The three girls lost in this mysterious men's city felt something, too--a bewitched impermanence as though they were on a magic carpet that had lighted on the Southern countryside, and any moment the wind would lift it and waft it away. We toasted ourselves and the South. Then we left our napkins and empty glasses and a little of the past on the table, and hand in hand went out into the moonlight itself. Taps had been played; there was no sound but the far-away whinny of a horse, and a loud persistent snore at which we laughed, and the leathery snap of a sentry coming to port over by the guardhouse. Craker was on duty; we others got into a waiting car, motored into Tarleton and left Craker's girl.
Then Ailie and Earl, Sally and I, two and two in the wide back seat, each couple turned from the other, absorbed and whispering, drove away into the wide, flat darkness.
We drove through pine woods heavy with lichen and Spanish moss, and between the fallow cotton fields along a road white as the rim of the world. We parked under the broken shadow of a mill where there was the sound of running water and restive squawky birds and over everything a brightness that tried to filter in anywhere--into the lost nigger cabins, the automobile, the fastnesses of the heart. The South sang to us--I wonder if they remember. I remember--the cool pale faces, the somnolent amorous eyes and the voices:
"Are you comfortable?"
"Yes; are you?"
"Are you sure you are?"
"Yes."
音乐作者 ZakharValaha 来自 Pixabay
Suddenly we knew it was late and there was nothing more. We turned home.
