《渺小一生》:他听着哈罗德咀嚼，想着该避开还是继续这段谈话。

　 “South Dakota and Montana, mostly,” he said, and he could feel the creature inside of him sit up, aware of danger but unable to escape it.

“大部分是在南达科他州和蒙大拿州。”他说，并且感觉到自己心底的那只活物站起来，意识到危险，但是躲不掉了。

　 “So are your parents ranchers?” asked Harold.

“所以你爸妈是牧场主人了？”哈罗德问。

　 He had learned over the years to anticipate this sequence of questioning, and how to deflect it as well. “No,” he said, “but a lot of people were, obviously. It’s beautiful countryside out there; have you spent any time in the West?”

这些年来，他已经学会预料这一系列问题，也学会如何转移话题。“不是，”他说，“不过看来那里很多人是。那里的乡下很美。你们去过西部吗？”

　 Usually, this was enough, but it wasn’t for Harold. “Ha!” he said. “That’s the silkiest pivot I’ve heard in a long time.” Harold looked at him, closely enough so that he eventually looked down at his plate. “I suppose that’s your way of saying you’re not going to tell us what they do?”

通常，说到这里就够了，但是这对哈罗德没用。“哈！”他说，“我好久没看到转得这么顺的技巧了。”哈罗德盯着他不放，而且近得让他垂下目光看自己的盘子，“我想，你是要用这种方式告诉我们，你不会说出你父母是做哪一行的了？”

　 “Oh, Harold, leave him alone,” said Julia, but he could feel Harold staring at him, and was relieved when dinner ended.

“啊，哈罗德，别烦他了。”朱丽娅说，但他可以感觉到哈罗德还是盯着他看。晚餐结束时，他终于松了一口气。

　 After that first night at Harold’s, their relationship became both deeper and more difficult. He felt he had awakened Harold’s curiosity, which he imagined as a perked, bright-eyed dog—a terrier, something relentless and keen—and wasn’t sure that was such a good thing. He wanted to know Harold better, but over dinner he had been reminded that that process—getting to know someone—was always so much more challenging than he remembered. He always forgot; he was always made to remember. He wished, as he often did, that the entire sequence—the divulging of intimacies, the exploring of pasts—could be sped past, and that he could simply be teleported to the next stage, where the relationship was something soft and pliable and comfortable, where both parties’ limits were understood and respected.

那一晚之后，他们的关系变得更紧密，却也更艰难。他觉得自己唤醒了哈罗德的好奇心，而且他把那好奇心想象成一只活泼、眼睛发亮的狗（一只犬，坚持不懈而敏锐），不确定那是不是好事。他想更了解哈罗德，但是经过那顿晚餐，他又想起要了解一个人的那种过程，其中的挑战性总是比他记忆中大得多。他总是忘记这一点，又总是被逼得想起来。一如过去常常发生的，眼前他真希望这整个过程可以迅速结束，他可以用念力飞到下一阶段，来到彼此关系柔软又有弹性且舒适的状态，双方都了解且尊重彼此的界限。

　 Other people might have made a few more attempts at questioning him and then left him alone—other people had left him alone: his friends, his classmates, his other professors—but Harold was not as easily dissuaded. Even his usual strategies—among them, telling his interlocutors that he wanted to hear about their lives, not talk about his: a tactic that had the benefit of being true as well as effective—didn’t work with Harold. He never knew when Harold would pounce next, but whenever he did, he was unprepared, and he felt himself becoming more self-conscious, not less, the more time they spent with each other.

其他人可能会再试着问他几次，然后就不再烦他了。他以前碰到的人，他的朋友、同学、其他教授，都是如此，但哈罗德可不像其他人那么容易放弃。就连他平时的策略（其中之一就是跟对方说他想听听有关他们的事情，而不是谈他而已。这一招不但是实话，而且很管用）都对哈罗德无效。他从不知道哈罗德什么时候又会突袭，反正每次他都没有准备，而且两人相处越久，他反而越加局促不安，而没有更轻松。

　 They would be in Harold’s office, talking about something—the University of Virginia affirmative action case going before the Supreme Court, say—and Harold would ask, “What’s your ethnic background, Jude?”

他们会在哈罗德的办公室里谈着某件事情（比方弗吉尼亚大学的招生政策有不够保障弱势族群之嫌，整个案子将进入最高法院），然后哈罗德会问：“那裘德，你的种族背景是什么？”

　 “A lot of things,” he would answer, and then would try to change the subject, even if it meant dropping a stack of books to cause a distraction.

“很多。”他会回答，然后试着改变话题，甚至不惜把一叠书弄在地上以转移注意力。

　 But sometimes the questions were contextless and random, and these were impossible to anticipate, as they came without preamble. One night he and Harold were in his office, working late, and Harold ordered them dinner. For dessert, he’d gotten cookies and brownies, and he pushed the paper bags toward him.

但有时那些问题又会没头没脑地随机出现，毫无前奏，根本不可能预料。某天晚上，他和哈罗德在他的办公室工作到很晚，哈罗德点了外卖食物。餐后甜点是幸运签饼和布朗尼蛋糕，哈罗德把装着幸运签饼的纸袋推向他。

　 “No, thanks,” he said.

“谢谢，我不吃。”他说。

　 “Really?” Harold asked, raising his eyebrows. “My son used to love these. We tried to bake them for him at home, but we never got the recipe quite right.” He broke a brownie in half. “Did your parents bake for you a lot when you were a kid?” He would ask these questions with a deliberate casualness that he found almost unbearable.

“真的？”哈罗德问，抬起眉毛，“我儿子以前很爱这个。我们以前试过在家里自己做，可是怎么都做得不像。”他把一块布朗尼蛋糕掰成两半，“你小时候，爸妈会常常为你烤糕饼吗？”他问这些问题时总是故作轻松，简直轻松得让人受不了。

　 “No,” he said, pretending to review the notes he’d been taking.

“没有。”他说，假装在检查之前的笔记。

　 He listened to Harold chewing and, he knew, considering whether to retreat or to continue his line of questioning.

他听着哈罗德咀嚼，想着该避开还是继续这段谈话。

　 “Do you see your parents often?” Harold asked him, abruptly, on a different night.

“你跟你爸妈常常见面吗？”另一晚，哈罗德又忽然问他。

　 “They’re dead,” he said, keeping his eyes on the page.

“他们过世了。”他说，双眼仍看着手上的笔记。

　 “I’m sorry, Jude,” Harold said after a silence, and the sincerity in his voice made him look up. “Mine are, too. Relatively recently. Of course, I’m much older than you.”

“我很遗憾，裘德。”哈罗德沉默了一会儿说，那种真诚的口气让他抬起头，“我父母也过世了，不算太久以前。当然了，我比你老很多。”

　 “I’m sorry, Harold,” he said. And then, guessing, “You were close to them.”

“我很遗憾，哈罗德。”他说。然后猜着说，“你跟他们很亲。”

　 “I was,” said Harold. “Very. Were you close to yours?”

“是啊，”哈罗德说，“非常亲。你跟你父母呢？”

　 He shook his head. “No, not really.”

他摇摇头：“不亲，不算亲。”