筒仓之巅

【美】肯沃德·埃姆斯利　　陈子弘 译

　　南达州阿伯丁的夏夜，许久以来，最让人期待的莫过于“火箭号”——大北方太平洋快线列车在镇上疾风般掠过。只要五美分钢镚租用一台望远镜，就可站在筒仓之巅酒吧餐厅观景台上看五分钟，观景台顶层，正好在车站斜对角。指着那排亮起的窗户，坐在小蒂咖啡馆前长椅上一群老烟枪会戏弄寻找火车身影的陌生人：“若那是是钻石头或响尾蛇，你们可就白跑一趟了。”

　　筒仓之巅的高度随季节与收成而变。它像个笨重的电梯，由老板泽克·斯平克发明并获专利的电动微驱系统升降。金属筒仓壳可在多处打开作为窗户。晚冬的景色没什么可写的，若作物歉收，夏秋同样不值一提。随着仓内饲料的减少，那排亮窗会下沉到树冠高度。大多数年份，筒仓之巅压在满载的丰收成果之上——黑麦、紫花苜蓿、大麦，如同压榨出的宝藏堆积在内。这种压实方式在当地社区备受推崇，因为它加速了制作美味青贮饲料的过程。产生的热量让筒仓之巅温暖，即便夏日黄昏转凉。当筒仓满载时，酒吧与烧烤店提供理想的瞭望点，俯瞰阿伯丁及周边：铁路场站，轨道向四面八方伸展，穿过草原，那是广阔而平坦的视野，更显小镇细节的可贵之处——即使是阴郁的铸造厂和机械作坊，散发烧焦毛发气味的矮胖肉联厂，以及最引人注目虽已关闭但依然雄伟的歌剧院，其双层银色锡制洋葱形塔楼矗立在一个小公园前。公园里栽有矮小俄国橄榄树，根系从马靴溪流中汲取水分，据老烟枪们口耳相传，这条溪水的水位不够深，连淹湿男人裆部都够不着，当然他们从未真正去验证过这个说法。

　　年轻的狂欢者，自称火箭迷，晚饭消化后会聚集在筒仓之巅，扎克白牛仔帽中抽号码，帽子放在牙签杯旁收银机边。抽得最大号码的赢家需投下五美分入望远镜器内，在干旱年份还要爬上相当长的距离才能抵达观景平台。一听到鸣笛声，五分钱投进去，望远镜转向东，尽其所能，捕捉红色车头咆哮西行的身影，笔直如箭，午夜前穿过莫瓦伊斯恶地，到达巴特、博伊西、西雅图，甚至地狱与天堂，掠过农舍和兄弟筒仓，接近阿伯丁时“火箭号”会短暂消失在哈德森博士那座堡垒状的疗养院后方，后者以其治疗肿瘤病的特殊化学凝固疗法闻名（取代了手术或镭射），而它像魔鬼般咆哮过的火车鼻子会在这些建筑物中再次浮现，被分割成几段，像是政治漫画里的邪恶蛇头，穿过房屋、商店和教堂后，最终消失在火车站背后。“火箭号”丝毫不减速，再次浮现，车头已看不见，向西，向西，飞驰过思想苍白的风景，可依稀数清客车厢和卧铺车厢的数量，餐车在渐暗的紫色平地上投下斜黄光斑，接着是更多卧铺车厢，最后是酒吧车厢，里面乘客排成一行，戴着白色帽子的女士们坐在其中。直至最终抵达观景平台——有条纹遮阳篷，两张躺椅，一对情侣出现，男人起身站到女人身后，调整她的白色披肩使其均匀盖住肩膀，披肩下是一件长袖毛衣，可能是安哥拉羊绒，昂贵而柔软，抵御着夜凉，他的手轻抚她的肩，她伸手放在他手上，引导它滑入毛衣里面。

　　筒仓之巅掀起了一阵热烈讨论。那一家四口在吃什么？穿黄色塔夫绸裙子的小女孩在吃葡萄果冻，其他人埋头吃着冰淇淋杂果派。黑人服务员端来咖啡，小女孩举起杯子，老妇人拍她的手腕，女孩开始哭。餐车的名字叫啥？加利利湖。拥挤吗？满座，每张桌子都坐满了，等位的人排着队。酒吧车厢呢？叫米勒德·菲尔莫尔。星期一、三、五总是这样。白帽子有好多？六顶。昨天只有四顶。去年八月创了十二顶的纪录。卡尔说七月五号有十五顶。他不尊重真相。有品牌时除外。价格标签。他自从跟珍妮特掰了后就在价格标签上糊弄人。他不尊重真相，除非涉及到品牌和价码。争论是夜幕降临的消遣。那对妙人呢？他进去了。她坐了一会儿，织毛衣。然后小女孩和老妇人出来站在栏杆旁。老妇人打开手袋，给小女孩一根口香糖。小女孩剥开糖纸，把锡箔揉成球，扔过栏杆。老妇人拍她的手腕。女孩开始哭。躺椅上的女人收起毛衣，起身进去。你们刚才说那一家四口吃什么？葡萄果冻、冰淇淋杂果派。酒吧车厢呢？米勒德·菲尔莫尔。今天是星期四。没错，有人搞砸了。没了火箭号，这里就只剩下一片空地和荒草，以及下面用来制作猪饲料青贮的苜蓿田，会送往肉联厂。打烊时，一个未被说出口但萦绕心头的大问题悄然浮现：我们究竟活在什么样的人生里？

译注：
1.老烟枪，原文为spit 'n' whittlers，是个口语化的、富有地域色彩的短语，用来描述一群特定类型的老男人，习惯性地吐痰、边聊边雕刻小型木器，通常生活节奏较为悠闲。作者用这个形象代表了亚伯丁小镇上那些对当地历史和火车文化充满经验、且乐于分享的老一辈群体。
2.果冻，原文为Jell-O，原意是美国卡夫食品公司为其旗下的果冻系列产品注册的商标，包括水果果冻、布丁、以及未经过烘培的奶油派。Jell-O由一位糖浆制造商发明于1897年，并在20世纪初期快速普及。现在Jell-O已成为美国著名零食之一。

诗人简介：肯沃德·埃姆斯利（Kenward Elmslie，1929-2022）美国诗人、剧作家和歌剧台本作者，与纽约诗派（New York School）关系密切，深受Frank O’Hara和John Ashbery的影响。《Top O'Silo》以南达科他州阿伯丁小镇为背景，通过对“筒仓之巅”酒吧和飞驰而过的“火箭号”列车的描绘，捕捉了美国中西部乡村生活的琐碎与诗意。诗以不分行的形式，模仿散文叙述，却通过节奏、意象和对话保留了诗歌的音乐性和哲思。

KENWARD ELMSLIE

Top O'Silo

On summer evenings, the main event in Aberdeen, S.D., back a good ways, was the swift passage through town of the crack Great Northern and Pacific streamliner, The Rocket. Five minutes of binocular time could be had for a nickel, on the observation deck above Top O’ Silo, a bar and grill which was on top of a silo, catercorner from the train station. Pointing up to its row of lit windows, spit ’n’ whittlers, on their bench in front of Tiny’s Cafe, would josh strangers looking for its whereabouts, "If it was a diamondhead, rattler, you'd be a goner."

The height of Top O'Silo varied with the seasons and the harvests. It could be raised or lowered, like a cumbersome elevator, by an electric microdrive system invented and patented by its owner-manager, Zeke Spink. The metal hull of the silo could be opened at various points to provide windows. The view was nothing to write home about in late winter, or, if the crops failed, in summer and fall. As the fodder underneath was depleted, the row of lit windows would sink down to tree level. Most years, Top O’ Silo pressed down upon a fulsome cargo, rye and alfalfa and barley, harvested in abundance, the pressure serving a utilitarian purpose highly regarded in the community, hastening the process that creates sweet silage. The resulting heat kept Top O’ Silo snug, in summer too, when dusks turned chill. When the silo was fuil, the bar and grill offered an ideal vantage point from which to survey Aberdeen and environs: the railway yard, tracks fanning out in all directions across prairie, more prairie, still more prairie, the enveloping flatness rendering the details of the town all the more precious—even the glum foundries and machine shops, the squat pork-packing factory with its burning hair aroma, and, dominant though shuttered, the opera house with its twin onion towers of silvery tin, fronting onto a small park graced by a cluster of stunted Russian olive trees, roots fed by Moccasin Creek, not deep enough to wet a man’s privates, so the spit ’n’ whittlers proclaimed, not that they’d ever put this handed-down bit of lore to the test.

Young rowdies, Rocket Racketeers they called themselves, would gather at Top O’ Silo, having given their home-cooked suppers time to settle, and pick a number out of Zeke’s white Stetson planted next to the register, by the toothpick glass. The winner, highest number, got to plunk a nickel into the one binocular viewer, having climbed a considerable distance in drought years, up to the observation deck. At the first sound of a wail, in the nickel would go,and the binocular viewer would be swerved east, as far as it would go, to catch the approach of the red snout ripsnorting its way west, straight as an arrow, crossing Les Mauvaises Terres by midnight, on to Butte, Boise, Seattle, perdition and paradise, past homesteads and sister silos, approaching Aberdeen only to vanish momentarily behind the crenellated sanatorium of Dr. Hudson, eminent specialist in tumor disease, renowned for employing chemical coagulation of his own invention in preference to the knife or radium, more toots, the speed-demon snout would reappear, cut off from its body by Dr. Hudson’s parapets, conjoined again, then, like a serpent representing Evil in a political cartoon, split into bits and pieces by houses and stores and churches, then the disappearance behind the station, not slowing down one iota, emerging again, snout now lost from sight, west, west, hurtling past a landscape with few ideas, coaches and pullman cars to be counted, the dining car casting slanty yellow patches on the darkening mauve of the flatlands, more pullmans, the lounge car bringing up the rear, the backs of heads lined up, ladies with white hats on, indoors, and the last of it, the observation platform, striped awning overhead, two deck chairs,a couple, the man gets up, moves behind the woman, adjusts her white wrap so it hangs evenly over her shoulders, a sweater with long sleeves that dangle limply, angora most likely, expensive and soft to the touch, fending off the chill, his hands caress her shoulders, she reaches up, her hand is on his hand, guiding it, under the angora.

The questions heat up at Top O’ Silo. What were the family of four eating? The little girl in yellow taffeta was having grape Jell-O. The others were digging into pie 4 la mode. When the darky brought them coffee, the little girl held up her cup. The old woman slapped her wrist and the girl began to cry. What was the name of the dining car? Lake of Galilee. Was it crowded? Packed, every seat taken, people waiting in line. And the lounge car. Millard Fillmore.Always is, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. White hats? Six. Yesterday it was only tour. The record stands at twelve, last August.Cal saw fifteen, fifth of July. He’s no respecter of truth. He is when it comes to brand names. Price tags. He fudges on price tags since he stopped seeing Jeanette. He’s no respecter of truth. He is when it comes to what time it is. The argument is a distraction from nightfall. And the couple? He went inside. She sat there awhile,knitting. Then the little girl and the old woman came out and stood at the rail. The old woman opened her handbag and gave the little girl a stick of gum. The little girl unwrapped the stick of gum and wadded the tinfoil into a ball. Then she threw it over the railing.The old woman slapped her wrist. The girl began to cry. The woman in the deck chair folded her knitting away and got up and went inside. What did you say the family of four were eating?Grape Jell-O and pie 4 la mode. And the lounge car. Millard Fillmore. But today’s Thursday. So it is. Somebody screwed up. Without The Rocket, there'd be less to pick over. A sandlot. Patches of grass. The alfalfa underneath, heating up to make sweet silage for the hogs for the pork-packing factory. Is this all there is to life?That’s a big question, unspoken at closing time.

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