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一个父亲带着儿子去看自己父亲的故事。讲述三代间亲子问题。第一次翻小说，果然很抽搐，额。
He had become used to the way Marc turned questions around. His son was like Superman in that way, catching bullets in his hand and redirecting them. His own father had never answered his questions. He was not sure which was worse, to be mocked or to be ignored.
　　他已经习惯于马克绕开问题的方式了。他的儿子在这方面非常有天赋，就像超人能够抓住子弹并且改变它们的方向。他自己的父亲从没有回答过他的问题。他不知道怎样才算是更糟糕的，被嘲弄，还是被忽视。 He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son, an Instamatic snapshot: the carousel in the Park, wind in the boy’s hair, chocolate ice cream staining his smile, a pair of impossibly tiny blue jeans, striped socks, and a Yale sweatshirt snug across his chest. Jonathan had stood waiting in the grass for Marc to come around. The December day was warm, winter with a fever. Marc smiled, gripped tight the reins of his white plastic horse. This was years ago. Then, the visits were easy. Jonathan took the picture with him in case Marc wanted to see proof, evidence of a time when they had been able to maintain peace. Jonathan was not above superstition. His boy was a teenager now. They were separated by three miles, one river, one bridge, and two train transfers. The distance, he thought often, was far too great. 　　他把他拍的儿子的最后一张照片放进衬衫口袋里，这是一张傻瓜相机拍的：公园里的旋转木马，吹过男孩发间的风，巧克力冰激凌弄脏了他的微笑，一条洗得发白的牛仔裤，条纹袜子，穿着一件舒适的耶鲁大学的运动毛衣。乔纳森在草地上等待着，马克在旋转木马上转圈。12月的天气还是很温暖，对于冬天来说有点太热了。马克微笑着，紧紧抓着白色塑料马的腰部。这是两年前的照片。那时，探视还很容易。乔纳森带上照片以防马克想看证据，他们曾经和平共处的证据。乔纳森还是相信迷信的。他的男孩现在已经成长为一个青年了。他们之间相隔了3英里，一条河，一座桥，两座火车站，这个距离，对于乔纳森来说，实在是太远了。 He stood on the street below the apartment, he tried to find the 18th story, where Marc lived with his mother. Each window looked the same from the ground: the slotted vent of an air conditioner, ivy trained to the brick, small square glass panes in a grid. For nearly 15 years, Julia had lived on this block, with its old gingko trees, its gas lanterns, and its wide sidewalks. Steps away, in Central Park, children skated to Tchaikovsky on Wollman Rink, and through the trees he could hear the violins and the piano and the cymbals. This was, in every way, a better place than where he lived. 　　他站在公寓下的街上，抬头看向天空；试着找到马克和他母亲居住的第18层。从地面上来看，每扇窗户都差不多：都有着空调的通气管道，常春藤爬满砖墙表面，排成网格状的小玻璃窗。近15年来，茱莉亚都住在这个街区，和古老的银杏树，瓦斯灯，还有宽阔的人行道一起。几步之外，在中心公园里，孩子们在柴可夫斯基的曲子的伴奏下在沃尔曼夫溜冰场上溜冰，从树丛的对面还传来小提琴，钢琴，铜钹的声音。在各方面来说，和他住的地方比起来，这里要好得多。 He’d rented a car for the afternoon. Parking had been difficult. He had lived too long in the city. From the sidewalk, he saw in the passenger-side window the reflection of his face and neck, streaked with the harsh winter sun, unflattering and bright. He had turned, at some point, into every man in his family. His mother had hoped that such a thing would not happen. She had said this, touching her hand to him, many years ago. 　下午他租了一辆车，但停车很困难。他在城市里居住的时间太长了。走在人行道上，在冬日惨淡阳光的照耀下，车窗里映照出他的脸和脖子，清楚而又明亮。在某些时刻，他已经拜访了家庭中的每个人。他母亲希望这种事不会发生。很多年前，母亲握着他的手曾这样说过。 When he stepped into the lobby, he was met with a wall of warm air. He nodded at the doorman, and cleared his throat. “Could you let Marc know that I’m here for him?” 　　走进大厅时，温暖的空气迎面而来。他对看门人点头致意，清了清嗓子，说道：“可以麻烦你告诉马克我在这等他吗？” Jonathan waited on a small white banquette, and rested his hands on the tops of his knees. 　　乔纳萨坐在一张小的白色长凳上，等着他的儿子，手搁在膝盖上。 The doorman pushed two buttons. “Mister Morris,” the man said. “Your father is here for you.” 　　看门人安了两下按钮，说道：“莫里斯先生，你的父亲在这等你。”
The name Morris still sounded inaccurate. He’d fought over nothing but the name, and just to hear it here, in an empty lobby, spoken by a stranger, the softness of those last two letters, like something easy off the tongue, caused him to grimace. He’d wanted to leave his boy with some unimpeachable part of him, something concrete. Julia worked so hard to mold their son in her image. When they were married, she had done the same to him. “Few parts of you are truly unimpeachable,” she’d said. 　　莫里斯这个名字听起来仍旧刺耳。他曾为了这个名字而努力过，现在在这听到，在一个空空的大厅里，从一个陌生人口中，那温和的最后两个音节，就像从舌头上脱落下来的什么东西，让他的表情变得痛苦。他离开了他的孩子，还认为这是不可指责的，理所应当的。茱莉亚努力的把他们的儿子培养成像她一样的人。当他们结婚时，她曾对乔纳森做过同样的事。“你的责任是不可推卸的。”她曾经这样说过。 He didn’t know his son well. He blamed this on Marc, who had always been quiet and distant, and on Julia, who did her best to inject their son with a subtle hatred for him. These were the clichéd, well-documented symptoms of divorce, and he’d expected them. What he hadn’t expected, though, was how much they would bother him. Twenty-four times a year they ate pizza in silence and then sat in the back row of a Times Square movie theater. 　　他对儿子的近况一无所知。还把这归咎于马克，认为他太沉默，太疏远了，归咎于茱莉亚，她向马克灌注了对他的一种微妙的敌意。这些都是陈词滥调，很好的离婚理由，他已经期盼这些很久了。但他没有料到的是这些事将会多么的困扰他。一年有24次，他孤零零的吃着披萨，然后坐在时代广场电影院的后排看电影。 The elevator doors opened, and his son walked out into the lobby. “Johnny Cohen,” Marc called out. He never called him Dad. Marc made an overconfident swivel with his hips that to Jonathan looked vaguely sexual. He spoke too loudly, and in short bursts, as if he were screaming across a football field. He had headphones in his ears. “I’m. Like. Hungry. As. A. Horse.” 　　电梯门打开了，他儿子从里面走出来，进到大厅。“约翰尼·科恩,”马克喊道。他从不叫他爸爸。马克用他的臀部做了一个过于自信的旋转，对于乔纳森来说这有些不男不女。他大声而又急速的说话，就像正在足球场上尖叫。头上戴着耳机，说道，“我，饿了，像，一匹，马，一样饿。” He wanted to give his son a hug. They had done this when Marc was younger, but not for years. He wondered whether his son could hear anything or whether his music disallowed, in its volume, any other noise. 　　他想给他儿子一个拥抱。当马克还小时，他们经常这样做，但没有持续很多年。他不知道他儿子是否听得到，或许他的耳机音量太大了，使得他听不到其他的声音。 “You look good,” he said. 　　”你看起来不错，“他说道。
Marc went out onto the street without stopping, pushing through the twin glass doors. When Jonathan followed him, he saw his boy’s handprint as it remained on the glass. Marc had small hands with fat fingers, as if the rest of his body had grown out of infancy and his hands had been left behind. Out on the street, Marc stood shaking his hips to the music in his ears. He wore tight black jeans that clung to the skin of his legs, white canvas sneakers, and a red hooded sweatshirt. Jonathan inspected his son for evidence of change. He was pained by how much about Marc seemed different every time they were together. 　　马克推开两扇玻璃门，停都不停的走到街上。当乔纳森跟上去时，他看到了儿子留在玻璃门上的手印。马克的手很小，手指很粗，就像他身体的其余部分已经脱离婴儿期了，但是手却没有。来到街上，马克还是随着耳机里的音乐晃动着他的臀部。他穿着紧贴着大腿皮肤的紧身黑色牛仔裤，白色帆布运动鞋，一件红色的帽兜运动衫。乔纳森观察着他儿子的改变。每次他们在一起时，乔纳森都发现马克改变了不少，这让他很痛苦。 “Are those new?” he asked, pointing to Marc’s sneakers. “I used to have a pair of those.” 　　”这些是新的吗？“他指着马克的运动鞋问道。”我以前也有一双。“ “Where are we going?” Marc asked, yelling over the clamor of his headphones. “I’m hungry for pizza.” 　　”我们要去哪？“戴着吵闹耳机的马克喊道。”我饿了，想吃披萨。“ “We’re not getting pizza,” Jonathan said, walking to his rented car. He put the key into the door. 　　”我们不是要去吃披萨，“乔纳森说着走向他租的车子，用钥匙打开了门。
“What’s this?” 　　”这是什么？“ “It’s a car, Marc.” 　　”这是一辆车，马克。“ “I know it’s a car.” 　　”我知道这是一辆车。“ “Get in.” 　　”进去吧。“ “Fuck that.” 　　”我日。“ “I’ve told you not to talk to me like that.” 　　”我告诉过你不要和我这样说话。“ “So,” Marc said, tilting his head, putting a hand on the hood of the car. “Did you steal this? Because I thought you didn’t have any money.” 　　"那么，‘马克歪着头，把手放在引擎盖上，说道，”你偷得？我记得你根本没钱。“ “Who says I have no money?” 　　”谁说我没钱？“ “Mom says.” 　　”妈妈说的。“ “Well, I might not have the sort of money your mother has,” he said. “But I have some money. Now get in the fucking car, Marc.” 　　”好吧，我或许没有你妈妈那么多的钱，“他说道。”但我还是有钱的，现在进那辆该死的车，马克。“ Jonathan drove north up the West Side Highway. The river glistened to his left. To his right, the city stretched out clean and blue. He had always loved Manhattan, its constant energies, the first day of spring in Union Square, nighttime below Canal S he only wished that he could afford to live there. His apartment in Brooklyn sat across from a middle school, and twice a day, at seven-thirty in the morning and at three in the afternoon, a rush of noise surrounded his house. 　　乔纳森沿着西侧高速向北行驶。河流在他左边闪耀。在右边，城市向着洁净湛蓝的远方延伸。他一直爱着曼哈顿，爱它持久的活力，爱联合广场春天的第一天，爱唐人街的夜晚；他只希望他有能力可以生活在这。他在布鲁克林的公寓在一所中学的对面，每天两次，早上7点半和下午3点，总有一阵嘈杂的声音环绕在他房子周围。 He tried to listen to the high treble coming from his son’s headphones. Marc shifted in the passenger seat, his weight on one side. He could see only the back of his boy’ he wondered what kind of music his son enjoyed. As they passed 125th Street, he saw, in the reflected glare of the window, that Marc was wearing black eyeliner. 　　他试着听从他儿子耳机中传来的高音。马克在座椅中移动着，把体重压在了一边。他只能看到儿子的后脑勺；他想知道是什么样的音乐使得他儿子如此入迷。当他们 经过125号街时，他从反光镜里看到，马克正在画眼线。 “When I met your mother,” he said, pointing at his son’s eyes, “she used to do that.” 　　“但我刚认识你母亲时,"他指着儿子的眼睛说，”她也这么干。“ “What was that?” Marc said, touching a button, pausing the music. 　　”你说什么？“马克边说着，边按下了一个按钮停止了音乐。 “I said that your mother used to wear her makeup like that.” 　　”我说你母亲以前也这么上妆。“ “Maybe Mom was a homo.” 　　”或许妈妈以前是个同性恋。“ “Are you a homo?” he asked. 　　”你是同性恋吗？“他问道。 “You shouldn’t use that kind of language, Cohen.” 　　”你不能说这种话，科恩。“ He had become used to the way Marc turned questions around. His son was like Superman in that way, catching bullets in his hand and redirecting them. His own father had never answered his questions, had let them dangle in the air and disappear. He was not sure which was worse, to be mocked or to be ignored. 　　他已经习惯马克绕开话题的方式了。他的儿子在这方面很有天赋，就像超人可以徒手抓子弹并使它们改变方向。他自己的父亲从没有回答过他的问题，总是把问题就这么吊着，让它们自己消失。他不确定哪样才是更坏的，被嘲弄还是被无视。 The song in Marc’s ears ended, and for a brief moment the headphones were silent. When the music started again, another burst of noise, Jonathan reached out and grabbed the headphones from Marc’s ears. 　　马克耳中的歌结束了，他的耳机安静了一小会。当音乐再次响起时，又是一阵嘈杂声，乔纳森伸出手抓住了马克耳朵上的耳机。 “How about we give the music a rest?” 　　”让音乐停一会怎么样?" “Fine,” Marc said. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Can I smoke at least?” 　　“好吧，”马克说着从衬衫口袋里拿出一包烟，“至少我可以抽烟吧？” He saw that Marc smoked the same brand of cigarettes he had smoked when he was 15. They were cheap, and terrible, and he wondered whether children could unconsciously sense these things about their parents, a taste for nicotine, a particular way of applying eyeliner. Marc had been an infant the last time Jonathan had owned a pack of cigarettes. 　　他看着马克抽着他15岁时抽的相同牌子的香烟。这种香烟很便宜，也很糟糕，乔纳森此时怀疑孩子是否会无意识中从父母那感受到这些事，像对尼古丁的口味，特定的画眼线的方式。乔纳森上次抽烟时马克还是一个婴儿。 “Of course you can’t smoke.” 　　“你当然不能抽烟。” “You smoke.” 　　“可是你抽烟。” “I do not,” he said. Years ago, he’d coughed strange black junk from his lungs for two weeks. Julia had come up behind him in the bathroom, looked into the sink, and whispered into his ear. “That’s your lung, buddy.” They were living then in the Village, on East 13th Street, above a bakery. They woke to the smell of confectioner’s sugar. Marc slept in a crib at the foot of the bed. 　　”我不抽，“他说道，数年前，他曾有两礼拜从肺里咳出奇怪的黑色东西。茱莉亚跟在他后面进了浴室，看着水槽里的东西，在他耳边低语道。”这是你的肺，伙计。“之后他们就住在13号街道的村子里，在一家面包店的对面。每天，他们闻着糖果店的甜味醒来。马克睡在床边的一张婴儿床里。 “Mom says you smoke.” 　　“妈妈说你抽烟。“ “I used to smoke,” he said. “Just like her. But I quit. I’m glad I did.” 　　”我过去抽。“他说，”就像她一样，但我戒掉了，我很庆幸我这么做了。“ “Whatever.” 　　”随便啦。" His son sank into his seat. Before Marc was born, Jonathan was entirely confident that he possessed a paternal instinct, but after the birth he felt terribly unsure of how to hold his child, how to speak to him, how much food to give him. Child care had never become any easier. When Marc was a toddler, Jonathan had no idea how to quell the boy’s tantrums. Now that Marc was a teenager, Jonathan felt as if he were in the company of a ticking bomb. He was never sure how much time was left on the bomb, but he knew, sooner or later, that it would go off. 　　他儿子重新坐好。在马克出生前，乔纳森完全确信他有着强烈的父性本能，但当马克出生后，他感到很不确定如何抚养孩子，如何和他说话，该给他吃多少食物。照顾孩子从来都不简单。当马克是个小孩子时，乔纳森不知道怎么摆平他乱发的脾气。现在马克是个青年了，乔纳森感到他和一个定时炸弹在一起。他从不确定还有多久炸弹会爆炸，或迟或晚，它总会爆炸。 He turned off the Parkway and headed toward New England. From here, he could see the entirety of Manhattan. The sight was gorgeous from this angle, the city from head to toe, water everywhere. While Jonathan took notice, Marc was staring at his sneakers. 　　他从公园路上下来，驶向新英格兰。从这，他能看到整个曼哈顿区。从这个角度看到的景色十分华丽，城市从头到脚都被水包围。当乔纳森注意到时，马克正盯着他的运动鞋。 “We’re going on a trip,” Jonathan said. 　　“我们要去旅行。”乔纳森说。 “I see that we’re going on a trip,” Marc said. “I’m not, like, blind, Cohen.” 　　“我知道我们要去旅行。”马克说“我不像瞎子，科恩。” “You having fun?” 　　“你开心吗?" Marc shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like cars.” 　　马克耸耸肩，”我不喜欢汽车。“ “That’s because you grew up here. If you grew up anywhere else, you’d love them.” 　　”这是因为你在这长大。如果你长在其他任何地方，你会爱上它们的。“ “Cars are for taxi drivers. Is that how you make your money these days? As a taxi driver?” 　　”车是给出租车司机用的。你这些天是不是就是这样赚钱的？做一个出租车司机？“ They drove the next five miles in silence. Marc fiddled with the tiny black box that produced his music. Jonathan glanced at the thing and remembered the enormous turntable he’d owned at 15. In his backyard, he’d built a solid oak cabinet to house the record player. He’d needed help moving it to his bedroom. It was a piece of furniture. Marc’s music player was smaller than a baseball card. 　　他们在沉默中又行驶了5英里。马克摆弄着那个产生音乐的小黑盒子。乔纳森扫了一眼那东西，想起了他15岁时拥有的大量电唱盘。在后院，他还做了一个坚固的橡木柜来安放唱片。他需要帮助才能把它搬进卧室。它就是一件家具。马克的音乐播放器比棒球卡还小。 When they left the city, driving through the wooded, green stretch between the Bronx and Connecticut, Marc began to chew his fingernails. Jonathan turned the radio on. The Jets were playing the Patriots. The game came across the air. 　　当他们离开城市，穿越森林，绿色在布朗克斯和康奈迪克之间延伸开来，马克开始嚼他的手趾甲。乔纳森打开收音机。喷气机队正在和爱国者队比赛（橄榄球队名）。比赛转播的电波从空中传来。 “Turn it off,” Marc said. 　　”把它关掉 。“马克说。 “You don’t like football?” 　　”你不喜欢橄榄球？“ “Where are we going, Jon?” 　　”我们要去哪，乔？“ “Rhode Island.“ 　　”罗德岛州。： “What the fuck is in Rhode Island?” 　　“罗德岛州是他妈的怎么回事？” “Why do you have to curse like that?” 　　“为什么你一直要这样诅咒一样的说话？” “I’m cursing because you’re driving me out of the state.” 　　“我诅咒是因为你正要带着我出州。” “We’re going to Rhode Island so you can meet someone.” 　　“我们去罗德岛州是为了 让你见些人。” “Meet who?” Marc asked. 　　“见谁？”马克问。 “Your grandfather.” 　　“你祖父。” “Grandpa’s dead. He died last year. You went to the funeral. Remember? Biggest heart attack in medical history? Mom cried for, like, 10 weeks.” 　　“祖父已经死了。他去年就死了。你去葬礼。记得吗？好像是医学史上最严重的心脏病？妈妈为了这哭了10个礼拜。” “Not Grandpa Joe,” he said. “We’re going to see my father.” 　　“不是祖父乔，”他说。“我们要去见的是我父亲。” “I thought he was dead too.” 　　“我以为他也死了." “Well,” he said, squeezing the steering wheel very tight. “He’s not.” 　　"好吧，”他说，紧紧地抓住了方向盘。“他还活着。” Tucked into his jacket was a letter from his father’s lawyer. The old man was dying. After 18 years of silence, Jonathan had received a letter in the mail. He’d always wondered how his father might die. 　　塞在他夹克里的是一封来自他父亲律师的信。那老人马上就要死了。沉默了18年后，乔纳森收到了一封信。他一直想知道他父亲怎么可能会死。 Marc turned in his seat and said, “Look, I have to be back by six. It’s the law. If I’m not, then you’re kidnapping me.” 　　马克缩进椅子里说，“看，我必须在6点前回去。这是规矩。如果我没回去，你就是在绑架我。” Two hours later they were in New Haven, passing by the long blue stretch of Long Island Sound. A slow rain started to fall. Marc pressed his nose to the window, as fat wet drops came down against the glass. Jonathan had done his graduate work in this city but hadn’t been through in years. He felt warm in his body as he drove by the water. 　　2小时后，他们到了纽黑兰，绕过狭长蓝色长海湾。开始下雨了。马克把他的鼻子按到窗户上，看着大雨滴掉下来撞击着玻璃。乔纳森在这城市做他的毕业课题，但已经很多年没来过了。当他在水边驾驶时，他感到身体里面很温暖。 “Is that the East River?” Marc asked, pointing at the water.　　 　　这是东河吗？“马克指着水问。 “No, Marc. That’s not the East River.” 　　”不，马克，这不是东河。“ “Well, what is it?” 　　”好吧，那这是啥？“ “When you get home, why don’t you look it up?” he said, unapologetically cribbing a line from his own father. He knew that Marc would never look it up. 　　”到家后，你可以查查。“他这么说着，一点都不为从他父亲那剽窃了这句话而感到歉意。他知道马克永远都不会查的。 His son sat back and huffed. “We’re far away.” 　　儿子坐回来生气的说。”我们开的太远了。“ “Not really.” 　　”还不算太远。” He wondered whether Julia ever took Marc out of Manhattan. The city had a wa it was a true island. 　　他怀疑茱莉亚从没带马克离开过曼哈顿。那个城市有困住人们的习惯。它是一个真正的岛。 “So,” Marc said. “How is your painting going?” 　　"那，“马克说。”你的画卖的怎么样？“ Jonathan didn’t answer for a while. He watched the wipers clean the glass. The rain came down fast and then it came down slow. Marc had never asked him a genuine question before. As a little boy, Marc had asked none of the confounding questions that children tended to ask. Jonathan hated to feel sentimental about such things. A question was a question. 　　乔纳森停了一会没有回答。他看着雨冲刷着玻璃。雨滴很快的从空中落下再顺着窗户慢慢流下。马克还没有问过他一个实质性的问题。作为一个小孩，马克还没有问过同龄人经常遇到的使他们困惑的事情。乔纳森讨厌因为这种事而感伤。这只是一个问题而已。
“I’m not a painter,” he said, finally. “I’m a sculptor.” 　　“我不是画家，”他最后说。“我是个雕刻家。” “It’s all the same shit, Johnny. How is your sculpting going?” 　　“这都是一样愚蠢的事。那你的雕刻怎么样了。” In profile, his son looked much the same as Jonathan had at 15: terrified, pimpled, and unmistakably Jewish. He wanted to tell him these things. 　　从侧面来看，他儿子看上去和乔纳森15岁时很像：有点受惊吓，长着丘疹，毫无疑问是犹太人。他想把这些告诉他。 “It’s difficult,” he said. “It’s hard because there’s no real market anymore for what I do.” 　　“很艰难。”他说，“因为我干的事几乎没什么市场。” “What is it you do?” 　　“你做的是什么呢？” “Figurative sculpture.” 　　 "写实主义雕刻。“ “Like people?” 　　"人物之类的？” “Exactly.” 　　“没错？” “Do you do naked women?” 　　“你做裸体女人吗？” With his hands, Marc made an approximation of the female form that looked disproportionately top-heavy. 　　马克用他的手比划了一个比例夸张的女人形象。 “Sometimes I do.” 　　“有时候会做。” “And they just come to your place and they take their clothes off and you sculpt them?” 　　“她们到你那，脱光了让你来临摹雕刻？” “Not exactly,” he said. “I take their pictures. Then I sculpt them.” 　　“不确切。”他说，“我拍下照片，然后对着照片来雕刻。” “You know,” Marc said, turning to him, nodding his head, “I think I want to be a sculptor when I grow up.” 　　“你知道吗，”马克点着头转向他，说，“我想我长大后想成为一个雕刻家。” Jonathan felt improper laughing. He wondered whether his son had ever kissed a girl, and if he had, what kind of girl liked kissing the sort of boy who wore eyeliner. Just then, they passed the exit to Yale. “This is where I went to grad school,” he said, pointing to the sign. He had put himself into debt to go to school there, a fact that had caused trouble in his marriage. 　　乔纳森差点笑出来。他想知道他儿子是否曾经吻过女孩，如果他吻过，那什么样的女孩喜欢和画眼线的男孩接吻呢。就在这时，他们经过耶鲁大学的门口。“这就是我毕业的学校，”他说，指着标志。来到学校使他有种罪恶感，这已经在他的婚姻中引起了麻烦。 Marc made a grunting noise that Jonathan took to be a sign of affirmation. Then, clearing his throat, Marc swatted his hair out of his face and said, “If you’re so smart, then how come you have no money?” 　　当乔纳森确信地指着标志时，马克发出呼哧呼哧的声音。之后他清了清嗓子，用手把头发从脸上排开，说，“如果你这么聪明的话，那你为什么会没有钱呢？” “Do you think that one thing has anything to do with the other?” 　　“你觉得这两者有关系吗？” “I’m not sure.” 　　“不确定。” The city passed behind them. In the rearview mirror, the Sound looked cold. Marc had told him once, as a toddler, that he wanted to go to Yale: “Just like you.” Then, hearing that had meant a good deal. 　　城市被他们甩在了身后。在后视镜声音显得很冷。马克还是孩子的时候，曾经跟他说过他想去耶鲁。“就像你一样。”听到这乔纳森感慨良多。 “This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had,” Jonathan said. 　　“这是我们最长的对话。”乔纳森说。 “You think?” Marc asked. 　　“你觉得是这样？”马克 问。 “Yeah.” 　　“没错。“ “I guess.” 　　”我猜是的。“ Jonathan drove into Warwick an hour later. The rain hadn’t stopped. Rhode Island, gray and old. Colonial homes, black shutters, elm trees like skeletons. He took the road by the water. The shell fishermen were out in the bay. His dad had hauled fish for years and had come home stinking of scallops and lobster. The ocean came in and out, swelling, releasing. Above the sea, the white thumbnail of the moon hung in the daylight. Marc rolled the windows down and let some rain in. They drove for a block, past the shuttered boardwalk and a Ferris wheel that hadn’t worked, as far as Jonathan knew, for decades. 　　一小时后乔纳森开到了沃里克。雨还没停。罗得岛看上去又灰又冷。殖民地时期的房子，黑色百叶窗，榆树就像骷髅一样。他开到水边的路上。捞贝壳的渔民到在海湾里捕捞。他父亲捕过几年鱼，总是把散发着臭味的扇贝和龙虾带回家。海面潮起潮落。海面上，惨白而又瘦小的月亮悬挂在夜空中。马克把窗户拉下来，让一些雨落进来。他们驶过一个街区，穿过破碎的木板路，还有一座摩天轮，在乔纳森的印象里，那东西从来没动过，好几十年都是这样。
“I just wanted to smell it,” Marc said, rolling up the window. “It smells better than Coney Island.” 　　”我只是想要闻一闻，“马克说，把窗户重新摇上。”闻起来比科尼岛的雨要好一点。“ Two old men walked the beach, swinging metal detectors over the sand. A flock of dirty gulls swooped over the seacoast road. One bird had a paper soda cup trapped in its talons. In a parking lot beside a liquor store, teenagers stood around in the cold, smoking and begging for drinks. The restaurant at Divinity Place was open for lunch, its neon sign alternately blinking the words Divinity and Lobster. Jonathan had worked there for a summer when he was Marc’s age. He’d lost his virginity in the stockroom with Marie Scarcella. She was 10 years older and smelled like Pert shampoo and Old Bay seasoning. Within a half hour everyone knew that he wasn’t a virgin any longer. 　　两个老人在海滩边走着，在沙子上晃动着金属探测器。一群很脏的海鸥突然落在海滨路上。其中 一只的爪子上绑着一只纸做的苏打水杯子。在卖酒的商店旁的停车场上，一群年轻人在寒风中站着，抽着烟，还讨酒喝。神之馆的餐厅只在午饭时间开放，它的霓虹灯交替的闪耀着神和龙虾的字样。在马克这个年纪，乔纳森在那工作了一整个暑假。在储藏室里，他和玛丽斯卡里拉做爱，失去了处男。她比他大十岁，而且闻起来有坏掉的香波和老海湾调味品的味道。在半小时内，所有人都知道他不是处男了。 “So, what is this place?” Marc asked. 　　”那， 这又是什么地方？“马克问。 “Warwick, Rhode Island.” 　　”罗得岛的沃里克。“ “This is where you’re from, huh?” Marc asked. 　　”你就是从这来的，是吗？“马克问。 Jonathan thought he detected a note of satisfaction in the boy’s voice, as if Marc had finally learned something that he had never considered. He was pleased that Marc would finally know that he hadn’t always existed in a dark, cold apartment in Brooklyn, but that he had lived here, near the ocean. 　　乔纳森想他好像从儿子的声音里感到了一种满足感，马克好像最终学到了一些他从没考虑过的事情。他很高兴马克终于知道他不是一直住在布鲁克林的一幢黑暗阴冷的公寓里，他也在海边住过。 “Do you still know people here?” Marc asked. 　　”你还认识这的人吗？？马克问。 “I used to,” Jonathan said. “But not anymore.” 　　“过去认识，"乔纳森说，”但现在没有了。“ “Besides your dad.” 　　”除了你父亲。” “I don’t know anyone here. Certainly not my father.” 　　“这我谁都不认识，当然除了我父亲。” “Girls, I bet,” Marc said, laughing. “I bet you had lots of girls here.” 　　“还有女孩，我打赌，”马克笑着说起来。“我猜你在这有很多女孩。” “Not really,” Jonathan said, thinking of Marie. He had no idea what had happened to her. “I left and I didn’t come back.” 　　“不是这样的 。”乔纳森说，这是时又想起来玛丽。他不知道她现在怎么样了。“我离开了这，并且一直没回来。” &&He drove inland through the beachside neighborhoods. The sun was dull in his rearview mirror. He pressed his hand to the window, felt how cold the air had become. Strong winds pushed the car from left to right. The smell of the ocean came through the heating vents. Close to the road, each house they passed had a square yard, one tree, a breezeway. 　　“穿过海滩边的民居，他驶进内陆。从后视镜里看，太阳已经快下山了。他把手按到窗户上，感到空气已经变得很冷了。强风把车子从左边吹到右边。海洋的味道透过散热孔传来。靠近路边的每一座房子都有一个方形的庭院，一棵树，一条走廊。 H he still knew the way. His house looked just as it had when he left. A large oak stood in the front yard. When he was young, he’d used its enormous system of bulging roots as the base of a fort. His father had hated this, the imaginary life he created with that tree, had pulled him inside by the ears. The same lace curtains his mother had hung 40 years ago were still in the window. She had been dead since he was a boy. 　　”他走上老路；他还记得路。他的房子看起来和他离开时一个样。一棵很大的橡树立在院子前面。在他小时候，他经常用这棵树错综复杂的根系来当自己的要塞。他父亲很讨厌这样，他和树虚构的生活，重新映入眼帘。他母亲40年前挂的花边窗帘还在窗户上。在他还很小的时候，母亲就去世了。
“What are we doing?” Marc asked. He sat forward in his seat. 　　“我们要干嘛？”马克问。他坐在椅子里向前倾。 “We’re gonna park here,” Jonathan said, turning off the engine. 　　“我们要去公园。”乔纳森说着关掉了引擎。 In his head, he’d imagined that he’d feel very different parking in front of his old home. Now, his palms were sweating. This had always been a problem for him. It made shaking hands difficult. He wiped his hands against his jeans and then through his thin hair. He wondered what his father would look like, whether his shoulders would still be stooped the way they were the last time Jonathan had seen him. He wondered whether his father’s stark white hair had lasted another 30 years, and whether his Polish accent would still be so pronounced. 　　在脑子里，乔纳森想象停在老房子前面会让他有种很不一样的感觉。现在，他手心里都是汗。这对他来说是个问题。这样握手就有困难了。他用牛仔裤擦干了手，又摸了摸稀疏的头发。他想知道现在他父亲怎样了，他的肩膀是不是还像上次他见到的那样弯曲。他想知道是否他父亲稀疏的白头发30年后的现在还在不在，他是否还带着波兰口音。 “He’s not dead,” Marc said, fiddling now with his box of cigarettes. “You said he was dead.” 　　“他还没死，”马克一边空虚的抽着烟，一边说。“你说他死了。” “He’s not dead,” Jonathan said, wondering whether bumming a cigarette from his son would be inappropriate. “Obviously. That’s his car.” 　　“他还没死，”乔纳森说，想着问他儿子讨根烟是不是不合适。“很明显，这是他的车。” He pointed at a blue car. His father took pride in never buying a new car. He’d always claimed the ones others abandoned, put them on blocks, fixed them himself. Anything broken can be fixed. Buying new is a convenience for the lazy. That was his mantra. Their driveway was always stained with oil. This car looked new. A garden rake leaned against the house. He couldn’t imagine his father in the yard. He had done the math in his head for years, keeping track of his father’s age with each passing March. He would be 80. 　　他指着一辆蓝色的车子。他父亲以从没买过新车而自豪。他总是把别人丢掉的捡回来，把他们放在外面，自己修好他们。任何坏掉的车子都能修。买新车是懒惰的表现。这是他的口头禅。他们的车道总是沾满了油渍。这辆车看上去很新。一只靶子斜靠在房子上。他无法想象父亲在院子里的样子。他已经在脑子里年复一年的算过父亲的年纪了，现在他应该80岁了。 “Does Mom know?” Marc asked. 　　“妈妈知道吗？”马克问。 “No.” 　　“不。” “He must be some son of a bitch for you to pretend like he’s been dead this whole time.” 　　“这么多年来你一直当他死了，肯定是因为你很讨厌他。” “Yeah.” 　　“没错。” “What’d he do that was so bad?” 　　"他干了什么坏事。“ Jonathan pulled his sleeve up to show Marc three long scars stretching along the inside of his arm from his wrist to his elbow. 　　乔纳森卷起袖子，给马克展示了他手臂上三条长长的伤疤，伤疤一直从手腕延伸到手肘部。 “Ouch.” 　　”哇。“ “He did it with a fork,” he said. 　　”他用叉子干的，“他说。 He’d told Julia that he’d injured himself while shaving down a slab of marble. By the time he’d met her, he was long in the habit of pretending his father was dead. Marc ran his finger along the scars. 　　他曾经告诉茱莉亚说他是在刮一块大理石板的时候受伤的。当他遇见她时，他已经习惯于假装他父亲已经死了。 “It was a long time ago,” Jonathan said. 　　”已经是很久以前了。“乔纳森说。 “That’s it?” Marc said. “He beat you up and you tell everybody that he’s dead?” 　　”就因为这样？“马克说。”他打你，然后你告诉所有人他已经死了？“ “Once you stop talking to somebody, to start talking to them again gets harder,” Jonathan said. “Momentum.” 　　”一旦你停止对别人说，再次和他们说起就会变得很困难，“乔纳森说。”这是习惯问题。“ For the 10 years after his mother’s death, he and his father had lived alone in this small house. He had long forgotten the circumstances that surrounded their fights. They all blended together in his head. He did, though, remember his father holding his arm against the kitchen counter as he dragged the fork across his skin. His father had spit on the wound. Jonathan was 18; he left the next morning. 　　母亲死了10年后，他和他父亲一起生活在这幢小房子里。他们互相争执的场景他已经遗忘很久了。所有的一切已经在他脑海里混为一团了。然而，他父亲把他的手臂按在厨房柜子上用叉子划过他皮肤的景象还历历在目。父亲朝着伤口吐唾沫。乔纳森一满18岁，就离开了家。& “Are you sure that you don’t smoke?” Marc asked, taking a cigarette out of his pack. “Because this is stressing me out.” 　　”你确定你不抽烟吗？“马克说着，从包里拿出一只烟。”这实在是让我太累了。“ Jonathan looked at the cigarette. “No,” he said. “If I have one then I’ll have another, and then I’ll be fucked forever.” 　　乔纳森看着香烟。”不，“他说，”如果我抽了一根就会抽第二根，然后我就会一直抽下去。“ “Sounds like you’re already kind of fucked,” Marc said, lighting the cigarette. 　　"听起来你一直被这所困扰，”马克说，点燃了香烟。 They sat for a while. Since the divorce, he hadn’t spent a Christmas with Marc, an evening of Hannukah, a Thanksgiving dinner, a Passover seder. He sent a card to Marc on his birthday, and a small gift. His mother had so much, gave their son so much, that he never felt he could compete. 　　他们坐了一会儿。自从离婚后，他就没有和马克一起过过圣诞节，光明节夜，感恩节晚餐，逾越节晚餐，这些都没有。马克生日的时候，他给他寄了一张明信片，一份小礼物。他母亲拥有的太多，给了他这么多，以至于乔纳森觉得自己永远比不上她。 Marc held his cigarette like a woman, between the tips of his fingers. Jonathan reached, took the cigarette, and pushed it between Marc’s knuckles. 　　马克像女人一样拿着烟——把烟夹在手指头之间。乔纳森伸出手，拿过香烟，把它放在了马克的指关节间。 “If you’re gonna do it,” he said, “do it like this.” 　　“如果你要抽烟，”他说，“那就这样抽。” “Look at you,” Marc said. He possessed a perfectly sarcastic sense of humor. “Mr. Expert Smoker.” 　　“看看你，“马克说，他拥有着完美的挖苦幽默感。”老烟枪先生。“ “He’s dying,” Jonathan said. 　　”他快死了，“乔纳森说。 He stared at the oak tree and saw that it looked sick. He’d read years ago about a beetle infestation in Rhode Island. The bugs got inside the bark and devoured its insides. He was always searching for news about home. 　　他看着那棵橡树并肯定它病了。几年前，他读过一个关于罗得岛甲虫感染的报道。这种病在树皮下面蔓延，从里面毁灭树。他总是关心关于家乡的新闻。 “I got a letter from my father’s lawyer saying that he was sick and that I was his beneficiary.” 　　”我从律师那收到一封信说他病了，而且我是他的受益人。“ “What does that mean?” Marc asked. 　　”这意味着什么？“马克问。 He watched his son breathe in the smoke. Marc didn’t look like he enjoyed the taste. “That means I’m going to inherit his money.” 　　他看着儿子抽烟。马克看上去并不喜欢那味道。”这意味着我要来这继承他的钱。” “Can’t be much,” Marc said. “This place isn’t exactly the Waldorf.” 　　“不可能会有很多，”马克说。“这地方可不是华道夫大酒店。” “Hey,” Jonathan said, taking the cigarette out of Marc’s hand. “Watch it. He worked hard to get here.” 　　“嘿，”乔纳森说着，从马克手里拿下香烟。“看看这，他是靠努力工作得到这的。” Defending his father felt strange. Hidden somewhere inside him was a faint trace of loyalty. That’s what had brought him here today, he knew. Death demanded company. He knew that he couldn’t leave the car and walk the short distance to the doorbell. Whatever certainty he’d possessed about this, about the short walk, about the few moments of reunion on the old doorstep, had gone. The cherry of Marc’s cigarette burned between his knuckles, and for a moment he considered putting it in his mouth. Then he tossed it out the window. The lights were off in the front room of the house. He could picture the inside of that room, the table lamp that sat on a tall slab of oak, the fake Persian rug, the framed photograph of the Temple Mount. Nothing would have changed. His father might have finally bought a new car, but he would never have moved the furniture. 　　为他的父亲辩护感觉很奇怪。藏在他心里的是一种对忠诚的莫名留恋。他知道这就是他今天来这的原因。死亡需要陪伴。他知道他没勇气离开车走过那段短短的距离去按响门铃。他已经对这着魔了，对那短短的距离，对那在台阶上片刻的相聚，都是，都不可能了。马克的香烟在指间燃烧着，过了一会儿，他考虑是不是要继续抽，之后就把烟头扔出了窗外。光在房子的前屋熄灭了。他能想象出房间里的样子，那被放置在厚橡木板上的桌灯，假波斯地毯，圣殿山上拍的照片。什么都不会改变。他父亲可能最后会买一辆新车，但他永远不会移动家具。 The way Jonathan imagined the moment, they would sit in the kitchen, three generations of Cohen men, all beneath the hanging fluorescent lamp with their coffee cups, their cigarettes, their brusque dispositions. His father would look at Marc, squint his eyes, and say, “You look like us, kid.” Marc would laugh, touch his nose, and shift nervously in his chair. Jonathan’s father would pour a glass of vodka, light his pipe. For a half hour, Jonathan would feel like he’d done the right thing, bringing his boy to meet his father. Then they would leave, and perhaps, possibly, he’d feel some of the guilt lift off him. 　　乔纳森想象着过会的情景，他们将一起坐在厨房里，三代科恩一起坐在悬挂着的日光灯下喝着咖啡，他们的香烟，他们那无礼的性情。他父亲将会斜着眼看着马克，说，“孩子，你看上去和我们一样。”马克会大笑起来，摸着鼻子，在椅子里紧张的扭动。乔纳森的父亲会倒起一杯伏特加酒，点燃烟管。有那么半个钟头，乔纳森会觉得把孩子带来见他父亲是对的。然后，他们会离开，或许，他会对父亲感到有些愧疚。 “Why don’t we let him know that we’re here,” Marc said, reaching out and pushing down on the horn. 　　“为什么不让他知道我们在这呢，”马克说，伸出手，按下喇叭。 “Don’t,” Jonathan said, trying with his hands to stop Marc. 　　“不要这样，”乔纳森说着，试图用手阻止马克。 The horn was louder than he thought it would be, and sounded to him like one long blow from a trombone. Jonathan shook his head. “Why’d you do that?” 　　喇叭比他想象中还要响，听起来就像长号发出的声音。乔纳森摇着头说。"你为什么这么做？“ “Why’d we come if you were just gonna sit in the car?” Marc said. “That’s stupid.” 　　”如果你一直坐在车里的话那我们来干嘛？“马克说。”这很蠢。” “I thought I’d want to see him,” he said. “That’s why.” 　　“我想我是要见他，”他说，“这就是原因。” He felt foolish having rented this car, having driven Marc all the way to Rhode Island for something that he didn’t have the confidence to go through with. 　　现在他觉得租了这辆车很蠢，带着马克开到罗得岛就为了一些他没自信做的事。 A moment later, the curtains opened, and he saw his father: he didn’t look ill. He’d expected to find his father gaunt, the skin on his face wrapped tight around his skull. His father peered out, his hands over his e he’d always had great eyes. Jonathan felt sick in his stomach. His father shifted his weight from foot to foot. Jonathan hadn’t heard what his father was dying from. The letter hadn’t said so much. 　　过了一会儿，窗帘打开了，他看到了他父亲：他看上去没有病。他还想着父亲非常憔悴，脸上的皮肤紧紧的包着他的骨头。他父亲用手遮着太阳，向外凝视；他视力一直不错。乔纳森感到胃有些不舒服。他父亲一步步走出来。乔纳森不知道父亲得了什么病，那封信没有讲这么多。 “That’s him?” Marc asked. 　　”那是他吗？“马克问。 “Yeah.” 　　”没错。“ “You think he can see us?” 　　”你认为他能看到我们吗？“ “I think he can.” 　　”我想他能。“ “You look terrible, Cohen,” Marc said. 　　”你看上去很不舒服，科恩“马克说。 “I don’t want to do this,” Jonathan said. “This was a mistake.” 　　”我不想这样，“乔纳森说。”这是个失误。” “Well,” Marc said, unbuckling his seat belt, “I’m going to say hello.” 　　“好吧，”马克说着解开安全带，“我要去打个招呼。” “You don’t have to,” Jonathan said, wanting to put his hands on Marc’s legs to hold him in his seat. 　　"你不必这样，“乔纳森说，伸出手想想把马克按回座位。 “Hey,” Marc said. “My grandfather came back to life.” 　　”嘿，“马克说。”我祖父恢复过来了。“ Marc stepped out onto the yard. Jonathan watched him walk to the front door. Children from New York had a confidence that he didn’t understand. The front door opened. His father had on the same work pants he’d always worn, and a long blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On his head, he wore a wool skullcap. He still dressed like a fisherman. Marc stood on the front steps, shaking hands. His father had always tried to crush people’s hands when he shook them. One needed to prepare in advance to shake Isaac Cohen’s hand. He should have warned Marc. 　　马克走向院子。乔纳森看着他走向前门。纽约来的孩子有种他不明白的自信。前门打开了。他父亲穿着以前就一直穿着的工作裤，一件长长的领间有纽扣的蓝色衣服，袖子卷到了肘部。头上戴着一顶毛线无边帽。他仍旧穿得像个渔民。马克站在门前阶那，招着手。他父亲以前握手的时候总是像想要捏碎别人手一样的用力。要想和艾萨克·科恩握手必须要有准备。他本该警告马克的。 He saw his father glaring over Marc’s shoulder and squinting at the rental car. He felt like waving. Then, at nearly the same time, he thought of driving away. The car’s engine was still running. Behind him, a thin stream of exhaust went up into the sky. He could tell that his father was staring at him. He had those bright Polish blue eyes that dug into people. In some ways, those eyes had never stopped looking at him, despite the distance and the silence and the separation. He tried to imagine the conversation that was occurring on the front step. He’d never felt like such a coward. He looked away, out across the street, concentrated on a knot in an oak tree. 　　他看到他父亲扫过马克的肩膀斜眼看着租来的那辆车。他想要招手，几乎同时，他想要开着车逃跑。车子的引擎还没熄。在他后面，稀薄的尾气升向天空他敢说他父亲正盯着他。他明亮的波兰式蓝眼睛总是盯着人们。有时候，这些眼睛从没有停止看着他，无关他们间的距离，沉默和隔离。他试着想象在前门阶发生的对话。他从没感觉自己是一个如此懦弱的人。他向外看去，穿越街道，聚精会神的看着一棵榆树上的疙瘩。
After two minutes, Marc came back to the car, pulled the door shut, and touched him on the forehead. 　　两分钟后，马克回到了车里，把门带上，摸着他的前额。 “You’re sweating.” 　　”你在流汗。“ “Am I?” Jonathan dabbed his fingers to his skin. “I feel freezing.” 　　”是吗？“乔纳森用手指拍着自己的皮肤，”我有点冷。“ “Turn the heat up.” 　　”把暖气打开。“ “Is he still looking?” 　　”他还在看吗？“ “No,” Marc said. “He went inside.” 　　”不。“马克说。”他进去了。“ “Are you sure?” 　　"你确定？“ “I’m hungry,” Marc said, buckling his seat belt. “You never fed me.” 　　”我饿了，“马克说着扣紧了座椅的安全带。”你永远不会给我东西吃。” Inside Divinity Seafood, Jonathan took a seat by the window. He ordered a beer and a whiskey and drank them quickly. He had never been a good drinker, couldn’t stomach the taste of liquor. The drinks warmed him and calmed his nerves for a moment. Out the window, he saw a police cruiser idling in the parking lot. He watched a traffic light swinging high above the street. The cars on the shore road idled. He waited for his father’s car. Marc sat laughing on the opposite side of the table. 　　在神之海鲜馆里，乔纳森要了一个靠窗的位子。他点了一杯啤酒，一杯威士忌，很快就喝完了。他酒量一直不好，没法忍受酒的味道。酒使他的身体暖和起来了，冷静了一会。在窗外，他看到一辆空空的警车停在公园里。他看着高高悬挂在街上的红绿灯，看着海滨路上空空的车子。他在等他父亲的车。马克坐在对面的桌子那大笑。 “I guess I’m driving home,” Marc said. 　　”我想得我开回去了。“马克说。 “I’m fine,” Jonathan said, looking around. “It’s just one drink.” 　　”我很好，“乔纳森说，”这只是一杯。“ “I don’t want to die,” Marc said. “And you’ve had two drinks.” 　　”我不想死。“马克说，”而且你喝了两杯了。“ “You don’t know how to drive.” 　　”你不会开车。“ “I don’t know if you were paying much attention on the way up here,” Marc said, smiling widely, “but neither do you.” 　　”我不知道你是否在来这的路上集中了精神，“马克很开心的说着，”恐怕没有。“ The neon sign flashed behind Marc. His son’s face went red and white and red again. In the light, Jonathan saw that he was wrong: Marc didn’t look anything like him, or his father. Marc was a good-looking kid, or at least he possessed the ingredients that would make him later, in his 20s, a good-looking kid. 　　霓虹灯在马克后面闪烁着。他儿子的脸一会变红一会变白。在灯光中，乔纳森发现他错了：马克一点也不像他，也不像他父亲。马克长的很不错，至少他有变得很帅的潜质，在他20岁的时候吧。 “I’m ordering lobster,” Marc said. 　　“我要点龙虾,"马克说。 “It’s good here,” Jonathan said. “Or at least it was 20 years ago.” 　　”这的龙虾很好，“乔纳森说，”至少20年前是。“ “I’ve never had it before.” 　　”以前我从没吃过。“ “Really?” Jonathan asked. “How is that?” 　　”真的？“乔纳森问。”为什么？“ “Mom says that they’re nothing but big bugs,” Marc said. “Aren’t they?” 　　“妈妈说它们只是一些大黑虫子，”马克说，“是吗？” “Kind of,” Jonathan said. “I’m not really sure. I’m a sculptor, Marc. Not a scientist.” 　　“有点像，”乔纳森说，“我不确定。我是个雕刻家，马克。不是科学家。” The inside of Divinity Seafood was just as he remembered it. On the table there were plastic bibs to tack to your clothing. Marc pinned one onto his red hooded sweatshirt. Lobster traps hung from the ceiling as decoration. 　　神之海鲜馆的里面和他记忆中一样。桌子上有塑料制的的围巾，用来围在衣服上。马克用别针把一个固定在了他的帽兜运动衫上。捕龙虾的陷阱作为被当成装饰品从天花板上悬挂下来。 Marc put his hands on the table and then cleared his throat. “You’re Jewish, right?” 　　马克把手放在桌上，清了清嗓子，说：“你是犹太人，是吗？” Jonathan smiled. “Yes, Marc. So are you, sort of.” 　　乔纳森笑着说。”是的，马克，你也是。“ “Then isn’t lobster against the law?” 　　”吃龙虾不触犯法律吗？“ “Well,” Jonathan said. “Not an actual law.” 　　”好吧，“乔纳森说。”没有法律这么规定。“ “You know what I mean,” Marc said. “That kosher stuff. I got Jews for friends, you know. I do live in Manhattan.” 　　”你知道我指什么,"马克说。“犹太教的教规。你知道，我有犹太朋友。我可是住在曼哈顿。” Jonathan saw that his son didn’t have any evidence of facial hair, not even the faintest trace of the peach fuzz that had invaded his own face during puberty. He thought, watching his son fidget with a lobster-claw cracker, that Marc was a young 15. 　　乔纳森发现他儿子面部没有什么毛发，即使现在是在青春期，他脸上也没有最小的绒毛。看着他摆弄着龙虾爪子，他想起马克才15岁啊。 “Your father—” Marc said. 　　“你父亲——”马克说。 “I don’t want to hear about it,” Jonathan said, waving his hands in the air, as if by doing this he could swat away anything that Marc might say. “I’m sorry we came, really.” 　　"我不想听到这个，“乔纳森挥了挥手说，好像这么做他就能无视马克说的所有话。”我后悔来了，真的。“ “He had the numbers,” Marc said, rolling up his sleeve and running his hand across the skin on the inside of his arm. 　　”他知道桌号，"马克说着卷起了卷起了他的袖子，抚摸着手臂上的皮肤。 “Yeah,” Jonathan said. 　　“没错，”乔纳森说。 “They’re in the same place as the marks on your arm.” 　　“他们和你手上的标记在同一个地方。” Jonathan nodded his head. “That’s true.” 　　“乔纳森点着头说：”没错。“ He reached across the table and took a fresh cigarette from Marc’s pack. Those numbers. Marc furrowed his thin, he looked like Julia when he did this. He rolled the cigarette in his fingers. Flakes of tobacco came off onto the table. 　　他用手穿过桌子从马克那拿了一只新的香烟。那数量。马可皱起了他那又细又黑的眉毛；当他这么做时很像茱莉亚。乔纳森用手指转动着香烟。烟草的碎屑掉到了桌上。 “I went to the door,” Marc said. “And I said that I was his grandson.” 　　”我到了门那，“马克说”告诉他我是他的孙子。“ Jonathan put the cigarette in his mouth. He stared at its tip, hoping not to hear what Marc was saying. Out the window, gulls were diving into the water. He never understood why sometimes you could see the moon in the daytime and sometimes you couldn’t. His father had tried to explain the reason when he was young, but he couldn’t remember what he’d said. His father had left Poland after the war. He knew things about science. Fishing was a way to make money. Their long silence, like radiation on a tumor, might have eradicated the good memories along with the bad. 　　乔纳森把香烟放进嘴里。看着尖端，希望听不到马克说的话。窗外，海鸥潜进了水里。他一直不明白为什么有时候你能在白天看到月亮，有时却不能。在他还小时，父亲曾经给他解释过原因，但是他忘记他说过啥了。他父亲在战后就离开了波兰。他知道些关于科学的事。捕鱼是种赚钱的方式。他们间长时间的冷战，就像对付肿瘤的放射性物质一样，把那些好的记忆和坏的一起消除掉了。 “And he shook my hand and said he was glad to meet me,” Marc went on. 　　”他握了握我的手，说很高兴见到我。“马克继续说着。 Jonathan didn’t want to listen. On the table was a basket of matchbooks. He took a box and struck one. He watched the flame shoot upward. He wondered if his father had crushed Marc’s hand. He saw that Marc was looking directly at him. 　　乔纳森不想听。桌上有一篮纸板火柴。他拿过一盒点燃了一根。看着向上窜的火焰，想着他父亲有没有用力的握马克的手。抬头，发现马克正盯着他。 “You’re not listening.” 　　”你没在听。“ “Marc,” he said, sucking smoke into his mouth and lungs. “Please don’t. This is bothering me.” 　　"马克，”抽了口烟，他说，“请不要这样，这让我很困扰。” “I told him that you were in the car. And that you wanted me to say hello.” 　　“我告诉他你在车里。是你要我去打招呼的。” Jonathan looked over the edge of his cigarette. He felt angry with his son. How could he do this, just sit here so calm, filled with so much confidence, so much strength for so young a person? 　　乔纳森看着香烟的边缘。对他儿子感到很生气。他怎么可以这样，这么冷静的坐着，这么充满自信，作为一个年轻人这么有力量，他是怎么办到的？ “And he told me to tell you that he said hello,” Marc said, reaching out and grabbing the cigarette from Jonathan’s mouth and then snuffing it out in the ashtray. 　　“他让我替他给你打声招呼，“马克说，伸出手从乔纳森手里拿下香烟，按灭在烟灰缸里。 Jonathan watched the front door every time it opened. Three bells were strung along the hinge, a short, slight melody. 　　每次前门打开时，乔纳森都会看看。铰链上系着3个铃铛，每次开门都会发出一阵短促又很轻的声音。 “What are you looking for?” Marc asked. 　　”你在看什么？“马克问。 “Nothing.” 　　”没什么。“ “He’s not going to come in,” Marc said. “You can relax.” 　　”他不会来的，“马克说，”你可以放轻松。“ After a long moment, Jonathan let out a loud sigh. He hadn’t realized that he was holding his breath. 　　经过一段很长的时候后，乔纳森叹了很长的一口气。他没意识到他正屏着呼吸。 White foam from the water sprayed the road. The traffic passed. The neon sign flashed onto the street, casing the road. People walked along the barrier wall. Jonathan had done this with his father when he was young. It was the only way he could be as tall as his father, standing on that wall, trying not to lose his balance, and still, even up there, so high that he could see the tide and the waves and the shells of the hermit crabs left on the sand and even the crown of the old lighthouse out in the bay at Narragansett, he was still not as tall as his father. He never had been. 　　水中的白色泡沫喷到了路面上。路上车来车往。霓虹灯的光照到街道上，把整条路包裹了起来。人们沿着围墙走着。小时候乔纳森和他父亲一起这么做过。他只有这样才能和他父亲一样高。站在墙上，努力保持着平衡，上面那么高，以至于他甚至能看到潮汐和波浪，看到寄居蟹丢在沙滩上的贝壳，看到纳拉甘西特湾老灯塔的顶，但他还是没有父亲高。从来都没有。
相关译文来自无觅插件
好长啊，翻译辛苦了
“他不知道怎样才算是更糟糕的，是被嘲弄，还是被忽视。”
这样合乎汉语习惯。
稍微看了开头，确实是新手，我加了些眉批，希望对你有帮助。
接下来是简单的拜访。Then, the visits were easy.
我还没看下文，猜测是父亲和妻子离婚了，这里是说，那时探视儿子还很容易。
稍微看了开头，确实是新手，我加了些眉批，希望对你有帮助。
非常感谢，果然翻小说还是很困难的，很多东西直译的话读起来就非常别扭，尤其是人称方面，一直他，他，他，到后来自己都晕了，啧，还是翻些短些的吧，以后努力，恩。
稍微看了开头，确实是新手，我加了些眉批，希望对你有帮助。
翻译这么长的，很有毅力呢
一条洗得发白的牛仔裤，原文是a pair of impossibly tiny blue jeans吧？
他已经拜访了家庭中的每个人：He had turned into every man in his family，似乎应该是说他长成了跟家里其他男人一个样吧？
他离开了他的孩子，还认为这是不可指责的，理所应当的。： 原文的意思似乎是“他想要给儿子留下一些他自己身上无可挑剔（？）的东西，实实在在的东西”（He’d wanted to leave his boy with some unimpeachable part of him, something concrete. ）
“你的责任是不可推卸的。”，unimpeachable的意思似乎还要推敲一下。
这些都是陈词滥调，很好的离婚理由，他已经期盼这些很久了： 原文应该是说“这些都是离婚所造成的司空见惯的症状，他对此早有预料。”
他孤零零的吃着披萨：是“他俩默默地吃着披萨”吧？
之后他们就住在13号街道的村子里，：这篇小说讲的是在纽约的生活，因此地名在翻译时最好尽量按照常用的纽约地名来译，比如Central Park译为“中央公园”（不是“中心公园”），the Village译为“格林威治村”），13th street译为“第13街”， 等等。
在一家面包店的对面。：原文是说“在一家面包店的楼上”。
康奈迪克：康涅狄格州
来到学校使他有种罪恶感：“他当初是借了债来念的书。”
当乔纳森确信地指着标志时，马克发出呼哧呼哧的声音。： “马克哼了一声，乔纳森觉得那是他在表示看到了”
。。。爪子上绑着一只。。。：trapped译为“卡着”可能更合理些。
我觉得这句话的意思是说连他父亲也包括在内，都不认识。
had pulled him inside by the ears.漏掉了。
我们要去公园。：我们在这里停车。
乔纳森一满18岁，就离开了家。：原文应该是说“乔纳森当时18岁，第二天就离开了家。”
点燃烟管：pipe是烟斗。
他会对父亲感到有些愧疚。：he’d feel some of the guilt lift off him.应该是说他会感到摆脱了一些负疚感。
他知道桌号，：应该是“他这里刻着数字”。二战期间，德国人在集中营里的犹太人胳膊上刺上囚犯号码用来管理。这就是说他爷爷是犹太人集中营的幸存者。
有几页的排版有些问题。问题出在译文中有的段落少了一个&/p&标签，这样它后面的段落便不能在分页显示中正确显示了。可以到译言编辑器里修改一下，加上所缺的html标签。
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