The Photograph照片

I was ten years old. My grandmother sat on the string bed， under the mango tree. It was late summer and there were sunflowers in the garden and a warm wind in the trees. My grandmother was knitting a woollen scarf for the winter months. She was very old， dressed in a plain white sari; her eyes were not very strong now， but her fingers moved quickly with the needles， and the needles kept clicking all afternoon. Grandmother had white hair， but there were very few wrinkles on her skin.

我当时10岁。奶奶坐在芒果树下的绳床上。时值夏末，花园里开着一朵朵的向日葵，树上吹着暖风。奶奶正在织一条过冬的羊毛围巾。她上了年纪，身穿素白的纱丽；她的眼睛现在不太好使了，但手指依旧灵活，一针针打得飞快，整个下午都能听见织针嗒嗒作响。虽然奶奶满头白发，但她的皮肤上几乎没有多少皱纹。

I had come home after playing cricket on the maidan. I had taken my meal， and now I was rummaging in a box of old books and family heirlooms that had just that day been brought out of the attic by my mother. Nothing in the box interested me very much， except for a book with colourful pictures of birds and butterflies. I was going through the book， looking at the pictures， when I found a small photograph between the pages. It was a faded picture， a little yellow and foggy; it was a picture of a girl standing against a wall， and behind the wall there was nothing but sky; but from the other side a pair of hands reached up， as though someone was going to climb the wall. There were flowers growing near the girl， but I couldn’t tell what they were; there was a creeper too， but it was just a creeper.

在广场上打完板球后，我回到家。吃完饭，我此刻正在一个装满旧书与传家宝的箱子里胡乱翻着，这箱东西是母亲那天刚从阁楼里拿出来的。除了一本配有鸟与蝴蝶彩图的书之外，箱子里的东西我都不大感兴趣。我一边翻着书，一边浏览书中的图片，这时我发现书页之间夹着的一张小照片。那是一张褪色的照片，有点儿发黄，也有点儿模糊。照片中一个女孩靠墙站立，墙后就是一片天空。但是，一双手却从墙外伸过来，好像是有人正要爬上墙。墙边开出了几朵花，就在女孩近旁，但我说不清那是什么花儿；那里还有一丛爬山虎，但也没什么特别的。

I ran out into the garden. “Granny！” I shouted. “Look at this picture！ I found it in the box of old things. Whose picture is it？”

我跑到花园里。“奶奶！”我喊道，“看这张照片！我是从放旧东西的那只箱子里找到的。这是谁的照片？”

I jumped on the bed beside my grandmother， and she walloped me on the bottom and said， “Now I’ve lost count of my stitches， and the next time you do that I’ll make you finish the scarf yourself.”

我跳到奶奶身边的床上。她在我的屁股上拍了一下，说：“你一闹，我都忘了针数了，下次你再这样做，我就让你自己把围巾织完。”

Granny was always threatening to teach me how to knit， which I thought was a disgraceful thing for a boy to do; it was a good deterrent1 for keeping me out of mischief. Once I had torn the drawing room curtains， and Granny had put a needle and thread in my hand and made me stitch the curtain together， even though I make long， two-inch stitches， which had to be taken out by my mother and done again.

奶奶总是扬言要教我编织，我觉得男孩子学那个太丢人；她这么一说，我就不敢胡闹了。有一次，我扯破了客厅的窗帘，奶奶把针线放在我手里，让我把窗帘缝好，但我缝的一个个针脚足有两英寸长，妈妈只好拆了重缝。

She took the photograph from my hand， and we both stared at it for quite a long time. The girl had long， loose hair， and she wore a long dress that nearly covered her ankles， and sleeves that reached her wrists， and there were a lot of bangles on her hands; but， despite all this drapery2， the girl appeared to be full of freedom and movement; she stood there， with a wide， almost devilish smile on her face.

她从我手里接过照片，我们两人盯着照片看了好一会儿。那个女孩一头长发，编着蓬松的发辫，身穿长连衣裙，裙子几乎遮住了脚踝，袖子长及手腕，双手戴着好几个手镯；不过，尽管衣着累赘，这个姑娘还是显得格外自在灵活；她站在那里，咧着大嘴调皮地笑着。

“Whose picture is it？” I asked.

“这是谁的照片？”我问。

“A little girl’s， of course，” said Grandmother. “Can’t you tell？”

“当然是一个小女孩的。”奶奶说，“你看不出来吗？”

“Yes， but did you know the girl？”

“看出来了，可您认识这个女孩吗？”

“Yes， I knew her，” said Granny， “but she was a very wicked girl and I shouldn’t tell you about her. But I’ll tell you about the photograph. It was taken in your grandfather’s house， about sixty years ago and that’s the garden wall， and over the wall there was a road going to town.”

“认识，我认识她，”奶奶说，“但她是个坏坏的女孩，我不应该告诉你她的事儿。不过，我会给你讲讲这张照片是怎么回事。这是大约60年前在你爷爷家里照的，那是花园的墙，墙外是一条通往镇上的路。”

“Whose hands are they，” I asked， “coming up from the other side？”

“从墙外伸过来的是谁的手？”我问。

Grandmother squinted and looked closely at the picture， and shook her head. “It’s the first time I’ve noticed，” she said. “That must have been the sweeper boy’s. Or maybe they were your grandfather’s.”

奶奶眯眼仔细看照片，然后摇了摇头。“这是我第一次注意到还有双手。”她说，“那一定是扫街男孩的手。或许那是你爷爷的手。”

“They don’t look like grandfather’s hands，” I said. “His hands are all bony.”

“看起来不像是爷爷的手。”我说，“他的手都皮包骨了。”

“Yes， but this was sixty years ago.”

“是啊，可这照片是60年前照的了。”

“Didn’t he climb up the wall， after the photo？”

“拍完照片后，他是不是爬上墙了？”

“No， nobody climbed up. At least， I don’t remember.”

“不是，没人爬上去。至少，我不记得了。”

“And you remember well， Granny.”

“可您记性一向挺好啊，奶奶。”

“Yes， I remember...I remember what is not in the photograph. It was a spring day， and there was a cool breeze blowing， nothing like this. Those flowers at the girl’s feet， they were marigolds， and the bougainvillaea creeper， it was a mass of purple. You cannot see these colours in the photo， and even if you could， as nowadays， you wouldn’t be able to smell the flowers or feel the breeze.”

“是啊，我记得……记得很多照片里没有的东西。那是一个春天的日子，凉风习习，很舒服。那女孩脚下的那些花儿，它们是金盏花；还有叶子花那种攀缘植物，是一团紫色。这张照片里看不到颜色，即便今天的彩色照片能看到颜色，你也闻不到花香，感觉不到微风。”