渡十娘| 我怎样翻译周洁茹
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文字｜王芫
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我怎样翻译周洁茹
王芫
1. 诺奖级别的焦虑
周洁茹说：“你能严肃地批评一下我不？我要出新书了。我要做宣传。”
我说：“我怎么有资格批评你呢？”
她说：“这可是我自认识你以来最让我伤痛的一句话。“
为了让她免于伤痛，我跟她打了一个半小时的电话。我解释说：在中国文坛，批评总要由更德高望重，或者说更大牌的人来做。你名声比我大，我没有资格批评你。
“你这是世俗的观点，”她说。
这就是典型的周洁茹的逻辑，或者没逻辑。我真是拿她一点办法没有。
不过仔细想来，周洁茹当年吸引我的也正是这点。
《小故事》
周洁茹 著
北京十月文艺出版社
2020年7月
我知道周洁茹的名字是在2000年左右。有一段时间，几乎打开一本文学期刊就看到她的名字，有一种被轰炸的感觉。
周洁茹的小说给我的第一印象就是语言。我对我自己的语言是很不满意的。我总是摆脱不掉要写个完整句子的执念，并且句子和句子之间还要有联接。我记得周晓枫有一句话（大意）：“我恨我自己的语言，上一句总像是下一句的妈。”我对我自己的语言不满意，也正是这个原因。从周洁茹的小说里，我读出了一种无拘无束的“弑母”的快感。每个句子都是横空出世，没有身世血统，不需要向任何人交代来历。
打开一篇周洁茹的小说，你会被她直接带入一个场境。她特别喜欢写两个女人之间的交往。这两个人各有各的问题，各有各的隐私，但谁也不为自己的存在感到抱歉。她们一起约会，有时一个人会迟到，有时路上会有波折。约上了就逛街、吃饭、一起做各种傻事。她们交往的一大内容，就是随时随地评论路上见到的人与物，或者交换八卦。她们的谈吐平凡琐细，但又机锋迭出，看得你忍俊不禁。你读着笑着，然后突然之间，你顿悟到了这一对人畜无害的闺蜜与更广大的社会、经济、文化之间的联系。你被触动了，就想：她可真是匠心独运啊！但似乎又不是。因为当你回头重读的时候，还是能看出一些草率的痕迹。你会想：如果这儿能再剪裁一些，那儿能更铺陈一些就更好了。但是你对自己的判断也不太有把握，要是照你的建议写，也许就失去了她特有的浑然天成的元气。
总而言之，周洁茹给我的印象是蓬勃的生命与才华。后来我听说她根本不读书，从小到大只读过一本《西游记》，我就对她产生了好奇。我托人打听她的联系方式，结果对方告诉我：她去美国了，找不到了。2006年我去了加拿大。2008年我在《明报》温哥华版找了一份工作。工作不忙，有一天我上班正在写稿子，突然MSN上有人要加我好友，竟然是周洁茹。原来我那个负责任的朋友终于在多年之后把我的联系方式给了她。从那以后，我们只要在MSN上见到对方，就会随便聊两句。断断续续地，我知道她去香港了，带着两个孩子，基本不写作了。我那时候也因为移民而中断了写作，并且为此而苦恼。我们俩之间的感情联系，是建立在同一种身份焦虑之上。2013年加拿大作家爱丽丝*门罗得了诺贝尔奖，当时香港一家报纸要找人写介绍门罗的文章，她立即推荐了我。她认为我肯定懂门罗，因为她自己就很懂门罗。她就是这么以己度人的。我经常和她开玩笑说：别看咱俩没写出诺奖级别的作品，身份的焦虑可是诺奖级别的。
今年年初的时候，我给自己订下一个小目标：每月写20000 words。（英文写作的单位是word。）但是第一个月就没完成。实在不知道写什么，就想找些东西来翻译。有一天我对周洁茹说：你给我一篇文章，我给你翻译成英文吧。她说好。然后就给了我这一篇：《姜葱鸡和素丸子》。
2. 姜葱鸡和素丸子
周洁茹
我不是素食者，但是我不会在家里做有肉的菜。生的肉或者鱼蟹，摸上去的感觉很坏。我妈妈就很会做菜，可以这么说，要是她高兴，她是可以写一本菜谱的，但是她不高兴，她做菜用的感觉和经验，这种东西很难记录下来。
就是在最糟糕的地方，比如新港，与纽约城隔了一条哈得森河的新港，如果我爸爸没有在那个星期坐PATH去城里买东西，我们就得在家门口随便买点什么。我爸爸还找得到中国城边上的墨西哥小店，我可找不到，我连中国城在哪儿都不是很清楚。
那些菜又不比中国店里的差，我爸爸总是这么说，那个黑黑胖胖的墨西哥伙计，每次还会用中文跟我打招呼呢，嘿，您来啦。
如果我父母在美国，我都不用进厨房，我妈妈每天都做好多好吃的，我根本就意识不到我们在美国。
可是我爸妈不是一直住在美国的，我和我的朋友们，很多人都得自己照顾自己。照顾好了自己，才算是做好了结婚的准备，可以去照顾好自己的家庭。
我还住在加州的时候认识了一个北京的女孩杨，我在已经不写了的2002年写过一个创作谈《八月》，提到过这个女孩。
“我无法爱上我在美国的生活。我流了很多眼泪，可是用那么多的眼泪换心的平静，很值得。我曾经对我的神说，我愿意用我写作的才能换取一场真正的爱情，我身无长物，我最珍贵的，只是写作的能力了。然后真正的爱情发生了。这也是值得的，我从来就没有后悔过。我说给杨听，她说她相信，因为她在雍和宫许过一个愿，她说我已经二十五岁了，请给我一个好丈夫吧。现在她已经要做母亲了，她果真找到了一个好丈夫。我不知道她许愿的时候承诺了什么，我看见过很多还愿的人，他们给神像送去香料和油。可是神并不需要人拿什么东西去承诺吧。”
我认识杨的时候，她就已经怀孕了。她和她肚子里的宝宝一起来到美国，这样的事情对于我来说好像神话一样。
我看着她的肚子一天一天地大起来，我总觉得她会有生活上的不便，但是好像没有，除了她不能像我那样，踩着单排轮来来去去，对，我那个时候是用滑轮鞋做交通工具的，那双鞋是一个礼物，我也许在别的文章里写到过。她只是穿着布面的平底鞋，专心地散她的步。
很快就到了她的预产期，可是她的丈夫要出一个差，三两天，可是不得不去。我好怕她在她丈夫出差的期间生产，那就得我们开车送她去医院，听起来好害怕。
这么想着，就走过去看看她。她家和我家很近，走着去就好。
她正在做素丸子，肚子很大了，所以她总要一手叉着她的后腰。她穿着一条直筒裙，粉红色的，上面绣着一只小小的熊。一个小小的油锅，火也开得小小的，丸子放入去炸，还是滋滋地浮上油面。
素丸子是什么啊？我是这么问的。
就是胡罗卜啊，加上面粉，滚成圆子。她是这么答的。
我的朋友们都是这么对待我的，因为我好像是出了名地什么都不会做。如果开派对，每个人都得出一个十人份的菜的那种派对，我就会把Costco买的冷冻鸡翅烤一烤，而且每次都是Buffalo口味的。
我有一天去看一个朋友，她正在捡青菜，我就帮了一把手，然后我发现她把我已经扔掉的菜叶又捡了回去。
黄了哎。我说，怎么还捡回去？
有点点黄的菜叶也是可以吃的。她有点点生气地说，你还是站旁边一下好了，我自己搞定。
然后我看着她开始炒青菜，可是她在油里先放了一点姜。
我就说，你炒青菜为什么要放姜呢？
她说，好吧她就什么都没有说地开始炒她的青菜。那些姜果然混在青菜叶里，都看不见了。
我看了好半天杨炸素丸子，炸好的丸子放在一个大圆碗里，看起来真是太好吃了，杨就请我吃了一颗，果真是太好吃了。
回家以后，我翻了一翻冰箱，除了半袋冷冻鸡翅，还有一只小小的真空包装的生鲜鸡，我不买肉的，这些都是我爸爸妈妈回去中国前买的，Costco的份量，鸡翅都是两磅装的，鸡都是三个一包的。
我妈妈做这种鸡都是用水煮，对，水煮，也许水里会放一些姜和酒什么的，我不知道，我只知道鸡只是在滚水里呆了一会儿就会被捞上来，切成块，似乎还看得到血丝。我说好恶，反正我不吃。我妈妈说白切鸡就是这样的，鸡肯定是熟了的，血也不是血，我说反正我不吃。
我知道这是一种海南鸡的做法，我年轻时候去海南开一个什么会，和一个著名的食评家坐在一桌，我发现他夹什么，别人就跟着他夹什么。可是他几乎不吃什么，只是一碗鸡饭，吃得兴致勃勃。我远远地看着他，就是一碗颜色有点暗的白米饭，真不知道有什么好吃的。我还是尝了一口，海南鸡饭，反正每人都有一碗，反正他们也都不吃。我才发现，果真是太好吃了，看起来什么都没有的饭，其实什么都有。后来有一个人说我的小说也是这样的，看起来什么都没说，实际上什么都说了。我觉得他是不是把我当作了他的海南鸡饭。搭配海南鸡的有三种酱料，三种颜色，但是没有一种是我喜欢的，我妈妈做白切鸡的作料是用蒜茸和葱碎，一点点盐，浇上热油。就好了。
这么想着，我就用这一只鸡，做了一只我妈妈版本的白切鸡，然后又做好了我妈妈版本的酱料。
趁着锅还热着，我就套上烤箱手套，端着锅出了门。
出了门，穿过草地，还跟一个路过的同学打了个招呼，就到了杨的家门口。
杨开了门，很惊讶。
我说我做的白切鸡哦。一定要在冰箱放凉了再切块吃，而且吃的时候一定要沾我做的作料。
鸡汁冻还可以用来煮饭，我又补了一句。
杨说谢谢啊，谢谢。
我说你要生了吗？
她说还没有动静。
我说如果有动静一定要打电话给我，半夜三更都要打。
她说好的，她说她先生明天就回来了。
要不是端着锅，我就要给她一个拥抱了。我说了一句，你好好的。
晚上她没有打来电话，然后她丈夫就出差回来了，然后隔了几天她就生了宝宝了，然后我们都去看了她，她的宝宝真是太可爱了。然后，她把宝宝送回了国，读完了硕士，不到两年，而且是在斯坦福，我可以肯定，这是绝无仅有的。
然后她丈夫也念完了博士，他们就搬走了。她找到了工作，把宝宝接回身边，买了大房子。这是她在电话里告诉我的。我说祝贺你呀，你太强大了。
她说她送宝宝回国的时候还是哭了三天三夜的。我说别哭，一切都好起来了嘛。
她说再接宝宝回来的时候他都不认得爸爸妈妈了呢。我说过去了，我们都好起来。
你知道吗？她停了一下，说，你做的姜葱鸡。
我很快地在脑子里回旋了一下，姜葱鸡？哦，我说，我就做过那么一回。
那是全世界最好吃最好吃的菜。她说，我永远都不会忘记的。
我捧着电话，不知道说什么好。实际上我就要回中国了，我不确定我和我美国的朋友们以后还能再见。尤其这种搬家搬到中部，冬天都会下大雪的那些州的朋友。我也知道，他们离开的时候，我就失去了他们。
已经是我住在香港的第七年，杨在脸书上找到了我。她说她夏天来香港，我们终于可以再见。
去见她的路上，我一直在想，我带什么礼物给她呢？她好像在朋友圈说过，出国二十年都没有吃过好吃的荔枝，中国城的荔枝都像是二十年前的。这么想着，我就在大围下了车，去到街市，买了一扎荔枝。荔枝装在红色的塑胶袋里，拎在手里，看起来真不是特别体面的礼物。
港铁到旺角东，我看见一个光头男人手里也拎着一只装了荔枝的红色塑胶袋，跟我一起出了站，而且他的头上还顶了一本书。我说的都是真的。一个光头的男人，手里拎着荔枝，头上顶着一本书，而且那本书还没有掉下来。
我和杨见了面居然没有拥抱，可能是酒店大堂的人太多，也可能是我们一直都很羞涩。两个中年妇女，隔着十厘米，只是面对着面微笑。
我知道杨又会提那只葱姜鸡，我就先说了，你做的素丸子，真好吃啊。
她笑着说，只是普通的素丸子啦。
我说可是我后来再也没有吃到过。
她说香港不是全世界的美食天堂嘛。
我说是啊香港是美食天堂，可是没有素丸子啊，你做的素丸子。
她就哈哈大笑起来。
杨回去美国后跟我说，荔枝太好吃了，她都没等到回美国就把它们都吃光了。
可是你做的葱姜鸡仍然是我吃过的全世界最好吃的食物。她说，绝无仅有的，永远的。
我想起来我2002年的那个创作谈，最后一句是这样的，我又会开始写的，因为神从来就不会夺走什么，神给了我写作的才能，也给我爱。
3. 我怎样翻译周洁茹
据说翻译的原则是“信、达、雅”，但是这个“信”字我就做不到。
”因为是我在翻译！“我的内心在呐喊。如果我过不了自己这关，这个句子就无法产生。于是，多年来我在读她文章时候感到的一些细小的不满足，都有机会向她表达了。
我说：“我能不能把你那个创作谈调到开头呢？如果开头说，‘我曾经对我的神说，我愿意用我写作的才能换取一场真正的爱情。’然后结尾说：‘原来神不会跟我做交易，它给了我写作的才能，也给了我爱。’这样不是更好吗？”
说完我又后悔了，为什么必须前后照应呢？那些古典主义的羁绊，我自己总想甩也甩不掉的，为什么又要加到周洁茹的文字上呢？我喜欢她，不就是喜欢她的天马行空吗？ “我不是素食者，但是我不会在家里做有肉的菜。生的肉或者鱼蟹，摸上去的感觉很坏。”这句话做开头，不正是我喜欢的那种横空出世，不向任何人做交代的感觉吗？
但是周洁茹说：“可以。”
”真的吗？你不在意我做些调整和修改？“
“你想怎样翻译就怎样翻。”她竟然有些不耐烦，懒得跟我多说似的。
这么大度的作家可真是难得。我知道有些作家一定要翻译忠实原著，哪怕原著并不高明。
仔细一想，其实这就是周洁茹的个性。对她来说，写作是一个表达的过程，表达完了，激情消耗了，你再让她回头去打磨，她是没有那个兴致的。反过来说，如果你总想着前后照应，这一句必须由上一句合法产生，你的节奏必须被拖慢。
翻译周洁茹的过程，像是一个不断追赶流星的过程。我被她的节奏拉着往前跑，慢慢地我也体会到了解放的感觉。等我回到自己的写作中，我开始大胆地抛弃那些but，and, even though。
只是这样一来，实现我的小目标更难了。
至于我翻译的周洁茹的文字，我却没敢给她看。我从翻译中学到了自己想学的，这就够了。
时光飞逝，一晃半年过去了。昨天晚上我们俩进行了此文开头的对话（不好意思，我还是改不了前后照应的习惯。）我要批评她吗？从哪个角度呢？我又不是有名的批评家，也没有她知名度高。（不好意思，我还是从世俗的角度考虑问题）。
正在为难，忽然我想起我翻译过周洁茹的散文。那么就拿出来看看吧，也许能找到灵感。
隔了好几个月，我已经忘记自己当初翻译时把心思花在哪里了。就这么猛地一看：嘿嘿，这分明还是周洁茹。
周洁茹的文字风格太鲜明了。她那飞一样的节奏，即使被我的四平八稳打了折扣，还是散发出周洁茹的特色，unapologetically。
4. 我翻译的周洁茹
Ginger Scallion Chicken and Veggie Balls
by Jieru Zhou
Translated by Anna Wang
When I first came to America, I had a hard time falling in love with American life. I shed many tears. I prayed to my God, saying I’d trade my ability to write for real love. But then love happened. I got married, and suddenly I had a family to take care of. The problem was that I couldn't cook. I especially can’t deal with meat. I'm not a vegetarian, but touching raw meat, fish or crab makes me feel sick.
My mother is a wonderful cook. She could have written an incredible cookbook, had she put her mind to it. But she isn’t like me who always think of books. For her, the dishes themselves are the end result. Thinking of writing when cooking is a betrayal of the food. “I focus on my food,” she would say. “All my feelings and experience are in the food. Things like that are hard to put into words.”
My father is good at shopping. His favorite store is a grocery store near Chinatown run by a Mexican guy. I didn’t understand how he found his way there. I didn’t even know where Chinatown was. “The Mexican guy always says hello to me in Chinese!” my dad told me proudly. When my parents were here, I forgot there was such a thing called survival. But their time in this country was limited. After they were gone, I had to take care of the cooking and logistics. I knew nothing about either.
A new girl named Yang moved into my neighborhood. She was from Beijing and had come to America to be reunited with her husband, who was studying for his Ph.D. at Stanford. She’d come to America with a baby in her belly, which seemed incredible.
Her husband was always in and out, leaving her by herself. I watched her belly get bigger and bigger. She must have had some inconveniences in her life, but she didn’t seem to mind them terribly. On my way to go shopping, I met her by the little garden in the middle of our subdivision.
“Can I grab anything for you at the store?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine, but thanks,” she answered politely. “Come over for lunch sometime,” she added. “I’d love to cook you something.”
“Sure,” I said casually, wondering if she was even capable of cooking. I couldn’t drive, so I used roller skates as a means of transportation. I pushed off against the ground and my body shot forward, making a graceful exit. When I was far enough away, I paused and looked back. She was already hidden in the vegetation.
With her due date approaching, her husband had to go on a business trip. He’d only be gone for a couple of days, but what if she went into labor while he was away? My husband and I were asked to drive her to the hospital, which sounded scary. I decided to take up on her lunch invitation. I was overdue.
When she opened her door, she seemed taller than before. She was making veggie balls. Her belly was so big she kept one hand on her lower back to support herself. She wore a pink nightgown with a little bear embroidered on it. A small pot of oil sat over a shimmering flame. Veggie balls floated on its surface, making a soft sizzling sound.
“What’s a veggie ball made of?” I asked.
“Carrots,” she said. She looked at me and added, “You shred carrots into small bits, add flour and water, then shape it into balls.”
That's how my friends usually treated me. I’d ask a simple question, and they’d answer with a paragraph. I had a reputation for not knowing the basics of cooking. When invited to a potluck, I always brought a tray of grilled chicken wings. Everyone knew they were from Costco, but I would emphasize proudly that I’d bought them raw and I’d cooked them myself.
Not everyone treated me that way. Once I visited a friend and I stood at her side as she cooked lunch. After pouring oil into the pan, she added a piece of ginger.
“Why do you use ginger when you stir fry vegetables?” I asked.
“Because…” she started, then stopped there. She never finished that sentence. I kept wondering what was there in that silence. I forgot about the ginger when we ate. It had become totally invisible, but the dish tasted divine. She’s the same as my mother: putting feelings and experience in her food, and not worrying about words.
I watched Yang scoop the veggie balls out of the oil with a slotted spoon. She rested the golden-brown balls in a big round bowl. They looked delicious.
“Help yourself,” she said.
I took one. It tasted incredible, but I still felt the meal was lacking meat. When I went home, I searched my fridge. I found a whole frozen chicken my father had bought before he went back to China. I stared at it, thinking about how my mother would have cooked it. She’d probably just tell me to cook it however I felt like. I just wanted to know the simplest way. What would that be?
Back when I was still an emerging writer, I went to a writer’s conference in Hainan. One day during lunch, a famous food writer sat at our table. Everyone watched him closely. They wanted to know what he thought the best dish was. He dismissed all of the menu’s fancy dishes. It seemed he liked Hainan chicken rice the best. It was just a bowl of rice with a few pieces of boiled chicken on top. I watched him from a distance wondering how a bowl of white rice and white chicken could be so tasty. I tried a bite. It looked like nothing but seemed to have every flavor in it.
A literary critic had recently said that my stories seemed to say nothing, but it in fact said everything. I wondered if he’d thought of Hainan chicken rice when giving his comments.
I learned that the chicken used in Hainan chicken rice is just boiled with water and served with three sauces. I could boil some chicken. As for the three sauces, none of them impressed me. My mother’s favorite sauce was made of ginger, scallions, and a little salt. I decided to make my mother’s version of the dish.
My mother also had a trick: she’d give the boiled chicken a bath in hot oil. I remembered it all. As soon as it was finished, I put on my oven mitt and headed outside with the sizzling hot pan in my hand. I cut through the community garden on my way to Yang's door. She was certainly shocked to see me.
“I made you some ginger-scallion chicken! Be sure to put it in the fridge before you cut it up, and make sure you dip it in the sauce when you eat it. You can cook rice with the jellied chicken sauce too!” I added.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Is today your due date?” I asked.
She said nothing had happened yet, but I told her to call me if she felt anything, even in the middle of the night. She said she would and that her husband would be back tomorrow. I felt relieved. If I wasn't holding a hot pan, I would have given her a hug. “Be careful,” I said.
My phone didn’t ring that night, and her husband came back the next day. A few days later, she gave birth. She sent her baby to China to be taken care of by her parents while she completed a master’s program at Stanford.
Her husband got his Ph.D. and landed a job somewhere in the Midwest. They moved there, bought a big house and took their baby back. Their American dream had come true.
We kept in touch. On one of our phone calls, she said that she cried for three days when she sent her baby away. She worried that her son wouldn't even recognize his mom and dad when he returned. I told her, “It’s over now. Everything’s okay.”
“Do you remember?” She paused. “That ginger scallion chicken you made for me? That was the best dish in the whole wide world.”
“Ginger scallion chicken?” The words caused a whirlwind in my mind. “Oh, yes,” I remembered, “I only made it once.”
“I’ll never forget it,” she said.
I didn't know what to say. I was moving back to China. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see her again.
During my seventh year of living in Hong Kong, Yang found me on Facebook. She said she'd be in Hong Kong that summer, and that she’d like to see me.
On my way to see her, I kept thinking of what gift I should bring. I had a faint memory of her saying she missed lychee. It snows a lot where she lived. The lychees sold near her tasted old and bland. She said she hadn’t tasted lychee in two decades.
When I got off the bus in Tai Wai, I went to the street market and bought a bunch of lychees. The vendor put them in a red plastic bag. It looked way too casual to be a decent gift. I wondered if I should go to a department store to get the lychees a fancy box.
When the train got to Mong Kok East, I saw a bald man holding a similar bag of lychees in his hand and a book balanced on his head. I stared at him for the rest of my train ride. I was so worried that the book would fall off that I forgot my lychees. I left them on the train. The book stayed firmly on his head.
Yang and I didn’t even hug each other. There were a lot of people in the lobby, or maybe we were both just shy. Two middle-aged women stood smiling at one another after being separated for so many years. I knew she’d mention that ginger scallion chicken, so I beat her to the punch. “Remember those veggie balls you made? They sure were delicious.”
“They were just ordinary veggie balls,” she said.
“I’ve never eaten vegetable balls as delicious as those.”
“Even with all the renowned food here in Hong Kong?”
“There’s a lot of options, but I’ll never find your veggie balls here.”
She laughed.
I thought of my prayer from twenty years ago when I offered up my writing talent for true love. God never traded with me. He gave me real love and I still got to keep my talent.
5. 《陌生人》
2015年的时候，我有机会编一本英文小说集。该书一共收集了九个华裔作家用英文创作的小说（有些是英文原创，有些是翻译）。
在《陌生人》中出场亮相的九篇作品分别是（按作者姓氏字母顺序排列）：
曹瑞麟的《倒记时》（Counting Down the Minutes）
朱立立的《昆虫记》（The Bug）
刘慧琴的《陌生人》（The Stranger）
马兰的《花开花谢》（Flowers Bloom, Flowers Fall）
王瑞的《我们时代的英雄》（A Hero of Our Times）
姚茵的《巴黎假日》（Vacances a Paris）
伊犁的《金色冒险号》（The Golden Venture）
曾晓文的《重返甘德小镇》（Return to Gander）
周洁茹的《后来的房子》（The House in Avenel）。
《陌生人》里收录的周洁茹的《后来的房子》不是我翻译的，但是语言也有鲜明的周洁茹特色。
我想：就她这个语言特色，连两个不同的人翻译都不能将其磨灭，是个值得说一说的角度吧？
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