呆子

凱特•克里絲譚森, 2011年
顧裕光 譯


1995年五月，瓦哈卡正是雨季，沒有一個遊客。這是個頗有意思的小城，但男友約翰與我只是過客。我們旅館房間的陽台對著一個有花有鳥的庭院。每天下午，我們閒坐在市中心廣場旁邊廊柱下的咖啡座，和季雨耗著，一邊寫明信片，一邊喝著啤酒、吃辛辣的炒花生米。當地人來來往往一如往常過日子。傍晚，大教堂的廣場上音樂悠揚。置身於此，我們是遠地來的觀光客，就像是任何陌生過客。

星期六，我們去露天市集。狹窄的過道兩旁掛滿了木雕動物、羊毛地毯、手工編織的籃子、繡花女衫，昏暗中兩人分不出方向。我們買了木雕的鹿和老虎面具。在小吃攤，我們品嚐鮮綠色的牛尾湯，恍忽不知身在何時何處，彼此像是陌生人般地拘謹。

彷彿老天爺有個時間表，當我們正要結束午餐，祂卻下起大雨來。雨勢奔騰，把市場小販的蓬子打得七歪八倒。大家都停下來看雨。這兩個典型的紐約客，決定不為雨困，繼續上路。才一踏上走道，一個蓬子傾翻了，雨水當頭潑下。我倆呆呆對望，旁邊的瓦哈卡人全看著我們。

下 一瞬間，大家爆笑起來，笑得不可扼止，像是只有這樣的無可理喻的笑，才能搔著癢處。有幾個人幾乎笑得跌下椅子。約漢與我成了今天的免費娛樂，兩個沒耐心的美國佬， 只為了急於購物，等不及雨停， 淋成落湯雞。我們與眾同樂，笑自己真是傻得可以。這是來到瓦哈卡之後最樂味的一樁事。

雨停了，我們一身溼淥淥地繼續購買準備帶回家的禮物，用美國高中學的破碎西班牙話和小販討價還價，還試著說幾個笑話。最後我們來到賣地毯的攤位，婦人和她兩個十幾歲的女兒顯得又累又倦，擠不出一絲笑意，我翻弄毯子，希望找到看得上眼的東西，可以幫幫她們，但實在沒有喜歡的。

就在此時，我瞥見那塊小毯子，她們把一張寫了店名的紙用別針潦草釘在毯子上。這是一小方手織棉毯，淡紫和乳黃顏色、很簡單的圖案。我指著它、問價錢。她隨口説了個價，我記得大約合四十美元，對我而言還算得上合理，但是我知道她是獅子大開口，因為這只是一小塊用來掛店名的布，任誰也不會看上眼。

我勢在必得，這是整個攤位上最漂亮的東西。我轉身問約漢，「我該還價，是吧？不然她們會笑我。」約漢説，「算了吧，天晚了。」

我笑著把錢交給婦人，她們這下可認定了我是個呆子。

婦人盯著錢，回眼望我，又低頭看錢，再轉身對著女兒，讓她們看她手裡的錢，三人轟然大笑。這不是譏諷的笑，而是驚喜有人給了她們一筆意外之財。她們把小毯子用黃色粗紙包好、紮緊、交給我。約漢和我走出市場，步入下午的燦爛陽光，欣喜於我們豐盛的收獲。

那塊毯子成了我最喜愛的桌巾，可現在它存在儲藏室裡。十二年的婚姻之後，約漢與我在2008年分手。那個瓦哈卡的下午，像是掛在手鐲上的喜物，不時在心裡敲盪，提醒我生命是多麼地不可捉摸。生命，如同旅行，充滿了一連串不可預知的機遇。你別無它法，只能在困窘時儘興地、寬容地笑自己：又作了一次呆子。

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附筆:  凱特•克里絲譚森，生於1962年，是美國新生代小說家。她的第四本小說《 偉人》，獲得 2008年國際筆協 / 福克納文學獎。她的散文、書評、小說經常刊載於紐約時報書評，威爾森季刊，華爾街日報，《 她》雜誌和其它刊物。

Playing the Fool in Mexico

By KATE CHRISTENSEN ..... Copyright ©2011 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved

In May 1995, it was the rainy season in Oaxaca; there weren't many tourists around. It's an interesting town, but my boyfriend Jon and I felt like the outsiders we were. Our hotel's balconies overlooked a flowery, bird-filled courtyard and we spent afternoons in a café tucked into a colonnade on the zocalo, waiting out rainstorms, writing postcards, drinking beer and eating spiced peanuts. We watched locals go about their days and listened to live music in the cathedral square at night. Through it all, we felt touristy, distant—as one can when visiting a strange place. On Saturday, we went to the open-air market. We got lost in narrow, dark aisles of stalls hung with carved animals, wool rugs, woven blankets, embroidered shirts. We bought hand-carved masks of a deer and a tiger. Sitting at a table among the food stalls, we ate oxtails in a bright green broth, still gripped by that displaced self-consciousness, a feeling of formality, even with each other.

As we were finishing our lunch, right on schedule, it started pouring. The rain was dense and loud, pooling in the tarps that covered the stalls. All the Mexicans stopped what they were doing and watched the waterfall. New Yorkers that we are, we decided to push on and stepped into the walkway. Just then, one of the tarps overflowed, dumping a load of water directly onto us. We looked at each other, then at all the Oaxacans standing there watching us.

All of us— the entire market, it seemed— burst into laughter, the kind of shared hilarity that's like an infectious itch that only hard laughter can scratch. A few people were almost falling down with mirth. Jon and I were the entertainment of the day, the impatient gringos too bent on their shopping to stay out of the rain. We laughed at ourselves with them for a long time. It was the most fun we'd had in that town so far.

The rain stopped and we continued on, wet-haired, buying presents, bartering in our high-school Spanish, trying to make jokes. We came to a blanket-seller's stall at the end of the day. She and her two teenaged daughters looked bored and sulky; business was terrible this time of year. I looked through their blankets, wanting to help by buying something, but I didn't see anything I liked.

Then I spied the small blanket they had pinned their signs on. It was a piece of hand- woven cotton, a simple pattern in lilac and cream. I pointed and asked the woman how much it was. She named a price; I remember it as the equivalent of $40, fair as far as I was concerned but, I could tell, exorbitant to her. It was just her utility cloth, not anything fancy at all.

I wanted it; it was the most beautiful thing in their stall. I turned to Jon and said, "I have to try to bargain, right? Otherwise they'll laugh at me." Jon said, "Just give it to them. It's the end of the day."

I turned to the woman and handed her the money, smiling, knowing they'd think I was a sucker, and not caring.

The woman stared at the money, stared at me, took the money, turned to her daughters, showed them the money, and all three burst out laughing. It wasn't mocking laughter. It was the dazed, joyful laughter of people who'd been given a windfall. They wrapped the blanket in brown paper and tied it and handed it to me. Jon and I walked out into the sunny afternoon, dazed ourselves with the unexpected windfall.

That blanket became my favorite tablecloth. It's in storage now. After 12 years of marriage, Jon and I separated in the fall of 2008. That afternoon in Oaxaca comes back to me like a charm on a bracelet, a bell maybe, ringing with a now-familiar truth: I can't ever control what happens. Life, like travel, is made up of a series of unexpected moments, in the face of which it's impossible to do anything but laugh at yourself, be as generous as possible, and appreciate the fact that sometimes you're going to look like a fool.