【易碎品】奎恩情人[Neil Gaiman]
奎恩情人作者：尼尔。盖曼 翻译：Rakshasa
[img]http://www.odyguild.net/bbs/attachment/41_7_28bf63b5bdf21eb.jpg[/img]
[img]http://www.odyguild.net/bbs/attachment/41_7_6431e64caa5342f.jpg[/img]
Author: Neil Gaiman etc
Originally published in/as: US Hardcover
Publisher: Dark Horse Comics
Cover Art: John Bolton
Harlequin（哈利奎恩）：意大利传统戏剧里面的丑角，它穿着黑白菱形格子的衣服，涂得白白的脸上有一个薄而细的笑，眼角挂一颗眼泪。
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尼尔。盖曼短篇集《易碎品》里的文章，讲的是情人节发生的一个诡异故事。本来打算情人节翻完放出来的，可是由于多种原因直到现在才完成。真不好意思。不过现在可以顺便给大家拜个年。由于在下第一次翻译英文作品，很多翻译错误，不妥之处请达人们多指教。
另：由于文中很多涉及意大利即兴喜剧方面的东东，而在下对那些几乎一无所知。所以很多名词直接音译了。还请对这方面比较了解的大人给在下与读者介绍一下，谢谢。
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二月十四日，在上午这个时段里孩子们都被送去上学，而丈夫们都在开车上班的路上，或者在镇郊的火车站大减价排队处被淋湿一身，一边呼出白雾，还穿着厚厚的大衣。就在这时我把我的心钉在蜜西家的前门。
心脏呈深暗趋近褐色的红，猪肝色。
我敲响门，敲门声尖锐，啦—嗒—嗒！
然后我握我起的戏棒，我的魔杖，我的如此锐不可当的长枪，我如一股冷却的蒸汽般消失在早晨寒冷的空气中。
蜜西打开门，她看上去有些疲倦。
“我的小白鸽，”我耳语，但她没听见。她在门口四下张望，视野遍及街道两侧，却不见任何动静。
远处有一辆卡车隆隆驶过。
她回屋走向厨房，我则用舞步静静跟随，如息，如鼠，如梦，跟着她一同走进厨房。
蜜西从厨柜抽屉的纸盒中取出一个装三明治的塑料袋。
她从水池下面拿出一罐喷雾清洁剂。
她又从厨柜上的纸筒中抽出两节卫生纸，然后走回前门口。
接着她拔下插在漆木门上的饰针——那根我帽上的饰针，那个我在……偶然发现的，哪儿？我仔细在脑海中搜寻，加斯科涅，也许吧？还是崔肯南？抑或是在布拉格？
帽饰针末端是一张苍白的皮耶罗脸，她把饰针拔出心脏，然后把心脏放进那个三明治袋中。
她用喷雾剂在门上喷清洁剂并用卫生纸拭干净门上的血迹。又把饰针别上衣领，那张有着端庄的银色双唇的苍白的皮耶罗[1]用它银色的盲眼威严的打量这个寒冷的世界。
那不勒斯，我终于记起来了。
这饰针是我在那不勒斯从一个独眼老妪那买的，当时她在用一个陶土制的烟管吸烟。很久以前的事了。
蜜西把洁具放回厨房的桌上，若有所思的把双手塞进大衣袖里——那以前是她母亲的——她断然把装着心脏的三明治袋放进口袋，扣上扣子——一个，二个，三个——然后走出家门沿街而去。
秘密的，秘密的，我如老鼠般安静的跟随她的脚步，时而蹑手蹑脚，时而连蹦带跳，然而她却不曾看见我，哪怕仅一瞬间。她只是将那身蓝色大衣裹得更紧，徒步穿过小镇，沿着那条通向墓园的老路一路走去。
风使劲的拽我的帽子，我一时为那我失去的帽饰针感到些许遗憾。但是我以坠入爱河，更何况今天是情人节，小小的牺牲是必须的。
穿过公墓高大的铁门时，蜜西的脑海中正在浮现从前她来公墓的那些往事：当她父亲死的时候；当他们还是孩子的时候满怀崇敬的来此瞻仰，公墓里到处都是开派对和到处探索的孩子；还有一次一位秘密情人死于一场州际公路上三车连撞事故，那次她直到葬礼尾声才来，在那一天该做的都做完后，她在夜晚前来，日落前的一刻，在新建的墓碑上留下一朵白色的百合。
哦，我的蜜西，你可否愿意我为你的身体和血液歌唱，为你的唇和眼眸？能作为你的情人即使把一千个心都给你我也在所不辞。
我骄傲的挥舞着我的手杖起舞，当我们一同走在墓园路上安静的为自己的荣耀歌唱。
来到一幢低矮的灰房子前，蜜西推开房门。
她向桌前的女孩问好并询问情况如何，那女孩的回答自然缺乏思考，一看便知那女孩刚从学校毕业，正在一本除了填字还是填字的杂志上玩填字游戏……
如果有人可打电话，这孩子大可在工作时间打私人电话，可是她没有。我还发现，她不美,也从不渴望有朋友。她的脸上布满痤疮脓疱和痤疮留下的疤痕，而她对此非常在乎，在乎到不跟任何人说话。
她的一生如画卷般平铺在我的面前：她将在十五年内死于乳腺癌，未婚，甚至未受过性骚扰。她将被葬在墓园小路边草地上一块刻着她的名字的石头下。第一双摸她乳房的是做尸检的病理医生的双手，那时他一边切下那菜花状的肿瘤一边抱怨，“天那！瞧瞧这东西有多大，她为什么没告诉别人？”这有些跑题。
我温柔的在她布满斑点的面颊上印下一个轻吻，对她耳语说她很漂亮。接着我用我的魔杖顶部轻敲了她三下，用彩带把她团团围住。
她的情绪有些许改变，露出微笑。
也许今晚她会喝得伶仃大醉，整夜跳舞并把她的贞操献上婚姻的殿堂。也许她会遇见一个关心她的胸部胜过她的脸的年青人，总有一天，他会一边抚摸，吮吸，揉捏她的胸部，一边说：“甜心，你见过别人有这么大的么？”从那一刻起，她的痤疮将一去不返，在揉捏，亲吻和抚弄中湮灭不见。
可现在，我居然把蜜西忘在一边……
这个房间里弥漫着一股难以忍受，厚重到另人作呕的恶臭。一个穿脏白大褂的胖子戴着双一次性橡胶手套，他前面的手术台上摆着一个死人。
起先胖子并没有注意到蜜西。他之前在尸体上做了一个切口，现在正剥皮发出一阵类似吮吸的湿润恶心的声音。那皮肤从外面看来如此深褐，而里面却是鲜嫩的粉红色。
一台便携式收音机在大声播放古典乐曲。
蜜西关掉收音机。“你好，弗农。”
“你好，蜜西。你来是为以前的工作吧？”
这就是医生[2]，我思量，因为他看起来太大，太圆，吃得太好，不像皮耶罗，也一点不像潘塔伦那样怕难为情。
见到她他的脸上显出愉悦的皱纹，她也报以微笑，这使我满怀嫉妒：我感到一股钻心的疼痛袭来（在蜜西大衣口袋里的三明治袋里），比我用帽饰针把它钉在姑娘家门上的时候还疼。
这是我的真心话……
蜜西拿出那个塑料袋，“知道这是什么？”
弗农凑近来仔细瞧。“心脏，”他答道，“肾脏没有心室，大脑更大而且更黏糊。这是你从哪弄来的？”
“我还以为你能告诉我。难道不是从你这来的？这是不是你突发奇想的情人节贺卡？一颗钉在我家门口的人心？”
“决不是，你是不是想让我报警？”
蜜西摇摇头，“我想还是不要为好。如果我运气够好，他们会定我是连环杀人凶手把我定罪送上电刑椅。”
弗农：“让我们瞧瞧……成年人，形状完好，保养的不错，被专业手法切割。”
我为此自豪的露出微笑，顺便弯下腰与躺在桌上的黑人尸体交谈，他的前胸都被完全剖开，手指僵硬……
“走开，哈利奎恩，”他抱怨，用不会干扰姑娘和医生的声音。“别在这惹麻烦。”
“你自己安静。我想在哪惹麻烦就在哪惹麻烦，”我告诉他“这是我的职责。不过有时我确实感到空虚，我还有某种渴望，就像皮耶罗，这对哈利奎恩来说真是糟透了。”
噢，蜜西，昨天我在街上遇见你，我跟着你去了超值食品与其它超市，喜庆与愉悦的感觉笼罩着我。在你身上，我发现了能使我狂喜，不顾一切，使我魂不附体的感觉。
在你身上我发现了我的情人。
我的小白鸽。
昨夜我彻夜未眠，我让整个小镇陷入混乱与颠倒中，无论人们酒醉与否。我使三个清醒的银行家穿着左拉夫人剧和巴录书中王后的衣服自娱自乐。
我潜入睡着人们的卧室里，既无可见得又无法想象，悄悄的将写有秘密约会地址的纸条放进口袋里，枕头下，缝隙里，仅为想象接下来的日子里人们从沙发下，垫子下，高档西服的口袋里发现的开衩女式内裤这样的乐事。
但我心不在焉，除了蜜西的脸我什么也看不见。
噢，坠入爱河的哈利奎恩真是个可怜虫。
我不知道她会怎么处理我的礼物。有的女孩只是把我的心一脚踢开，另一些触碰它，亲吻它，爱抚它，在还给我之前用尽一切方式表达爱意。有些女孩甚至根本没看见。
蜜西：“我该不该烧了它？”
“也许吧。你知道焚化炉在哪的。我是说我刚谈到你从前在这的工作，我需要一个实验室助手。”
我想象我的心化成烟与灰烬缓缓飘散到全世界会是个什么场景。我也不清楚自己感觉如何。不过，她没开口，只是摇头与病理学医生告别。
她把我的心塞回口袋，走出房子沿墓园路反回到镇上。
我雀跃般跳超过她，身心交互作用论真是个好东西，我思忖。
适当的说，我化身为一个驼背老妪，在她到商场的路上，用一件破破烂烂的斗篷遮住我戏装上闪闪发亮的红色金属片，用厚重的头巾遮住面具脸，在墓园路的尽头我走出来挡住她的路。
妙，妙，太妙了。我对她说，用一个老到不能再老的女人的声音。“亲爱的，给一个驼背老女人一个铜板，我可以为你预知你的未来保证让你的双眼因喜悦而旋转。”
“给。”
我早已想清楚我应该告诉她她会遇见一个穿着红黄相间的戏装，戴多米诺面罩的神秘男人。他会给她激情，爱她，永远永远不会离她而去（因为对你的小白鸽完全实话实说并不是个好主意），但我发现我自己用一个嘶哑衰老的声音说：“你听说过哈利奎恩没有？”
“有的，”她答道，“即兴喜剧中的角色。穿着有很多红色方块的戏装，戴面具。我想他是一种小丑吧，对不对？”
在我厚重的头巾下，我摇头。“不是小丑，”我告诉她“他是……”
我发现我竟要告知她真相，赶忙装做自己突然咳嗽袭来，把已到舌根的话语压住，这对老年妇女来说是再稀疏平常不过的了。
我不知这是不是所谓爱情的力量。
我细想从前自己爱过的女人中有没有过另我这般困扰过的，我多世纪前遇上的那些早已消逝在尘埃中小白鸽，可是我记不得。
我用一个老妇女的双眼打量蜜西，她正是风华正茂的二十出头，有着如美人鱼般的唇，丰满，轮廓分明，淡淡的灰色眸子，凝视中流露出自然的激动之情。
“你还好吗？”
我不住的咳嗽，直到气喘吁吁，“没事，我亲爱的——家伙，我没事，谢谢你。”
“我想你是要告诉我关于我的未来。”
“哈利奎恩给了你他的心。你应该自己用心感受它的频率。”我听见自己如是说，震怒于我巧舌如簧的舌头居然背叛了自己。
她困惑的盯着我。我无法在她的凝视下变形或消失，我感觉自己被那眼神所冻结。
“看！兔子！”
她顺着我的指向望去，在她视线离开我的一霎那，我消失了——嘭！——就像一只钻进洞的兔子。
等她回过头来，刚才还在谈论关于我的那个算命老太婆已经不见踪影。
蜜西继续前行，我又连蹦带跳的跟着，但已远不如今早那样兴致高昂。
正午，蜜西又去了超价食品与其它超市 ，她在那里买了一块干酪，一罐非浓缩橙汁，两个鳄梨，又去银行取了二百七十九美元二十二美分，那是她的全部存款。我一直蹑手蹑脚的跟在后面，甜如蜜，静如死亡。
“早上好，蜜西……”搅盐器咖啡屋的老板在蜜西进门时道。
如果我的心不是在蜜西口袋的三明治袋里里，它定会颤抖不已，这个人对蜜西的欲望再明显不过，我那传奇般的自信随之迅速凋谢，枯萎。
我是哈利奎恩，我告诉自己，只要身着我的方块戏服，全世界都在我的掌握中 。我是哈利奎恩，从亡者中苏醒，给活人带来恶作剧。我是哈利奎恩，头戴面具，手握魔杖。
我为自己打气，使我的自信再次回归，再次完整而且坚不可摧。
蜜西说：“嗨，哈弗。给我来碟肉末炒土豆泥，一瓶番茄酱。”
“就这些？”
“嗯，这样够了，再来一杯水吧。”
我告诉自己那个叫哈弗的就是潘塔伦[3]，那个我要迷惑，阻挠，给他惹麻烦，让他困扰不已的笨蛋商人。
也许厨房里有串香肠。
我决定再次给世界带来欢乐与混乱，当然还要在午夜之前睡我甜美的蜜西：这是我送给自己的情人节礼物。
我已经在想象亲吻蜜西的朱唇。
店里还有很多别的用膳者。我趁他们不注意时互换他们的盘子自娱自乐，但这实在很没意思。
女服务生假装没注意到蜜西，明显是在考虑哈弗到底不打哪些女人主意的名单。
蜜西找了张桌子坐下，从大衣口袋里拿出三明治袋，放在桌上。
潘塔伦哈弗神气十足的走到蜜西的桌前，端来点的那一杯水，一盘肉末炒土豆泥和一瓶新口味的Heinz57番茄酱。
“再拿把切肉刀来。”蜜西说。
哈弗一转身，我便伸出杖去绊他。
他被绊了一下，低声咒骂，这可让我感觉好多了，这才像以前的我。
服务生走过一个老头时我伸手摸她屁股，那个老头正在读一份今日美国一边摆弄他的沙拉。
她回头给那老头一个猥亵的眼神，我咯咯偷笑，这感觉实在太爽了。
突然间，我跌坐在地板上。
“那是什么？亲爱的。”服务生问。
“绿色食品，查伦，”蜜西答道，“可以补铁。”
我偷偷朝桌上看。
她在盘子上切下小片小片猪肝色的肉，浸在大量的番茄酱中，她的餐叉高高插在肉末土豆泥上。
她使劲的嚼。
我眼睁睁的看着我的心脏一点一点消失在她玫瑰花蕾般的朱唇里。我的情人节玩笑看起来不那么好笑了。
她把另一片质地如生软骨的心塞进嘴里，在咽下之前使劲咀嚼。
那个服务生查伦又端着一壶冒热气的咖啡过来。“吃生肉做什么？你有贫血？”
“不再有了。”
她不再吃我的心脏，蜜西一低头径直看见我四仰八叉的在地上。她朝我点点头：“出去，就现在。”
她站起来，在盘子边的桌上留了十美元。
她坐在人行道旁的一张长凳上等我。天很冷，大街上冷冷清清，几乎空无一人。
“你吃了我的心。”我能听出自己暴躁的语气，这使我更加愤怒。
“对，是不是这样我才能看见你？”
“我想是。”我答道。“以前从没有人这么做过。”
“摘下你的面具，你这样看起来真的很蠢。”
我照做。
“也没好多少，”她说。“现在，给我帽子和棍子。”
“我想这样不太好。”
蜜西伸手扯下我的帽子，又从我手里拿过魔杖。
她把我的帽子放在手里把玩，用颖长的手指摩娑，弯曲我的帽子。她的指甲被涂成深红色。她伸了个懒腰，开朗的露出微笑。我感到灵魂中的诗人气质业已离我而去。我在二月的寒风中颤抖不已。
“真冷。”我说。
“才不会。”蜜西答道：“如此完美，如此华丽，如此奇妙，如此不可思议。今天情人节，不是吗？有谁会在情人节这天冷呢？多么美好又难以置信的一天。”
我衣服上的方块一块块脱落，它们逐渐变成死白，丑陋的颜色。
“我到底是怎么了？”
“我不清楚。褪色吧，也许。或者在找一个新角色……一个害但相思病的痴情人，恐怕，在惨白的月光下思念着并渴望着。你需要的只是一个小白鸽。”
“你就是我的小白鸽。”
“不再是了。那毕竟是哈利奎恩式的快乐，不是吗？现在我们不但换装，也要互换角色。”
此刻她给了我一个哈利奎恩式的微笑。
然后她把我的帽子，我自己的帽子，我的哈利奎恩的帽子，戴在她自己头上。
“那你？”
她举起魔杖向上一抛：它旋转翻腾在空中画出一道弧线，红黄色的彩带在边上华丽的缭绕舞动，悄无声息的，又回到她手里。
杖尖触地，她撑着杖优雅的站起来。
“我有事要做。有票要买，有人要梦。”
她向我转过身来吻我，猛烈的与我接吻。
某处传来一辆汽车发动机逆燃的声音。我吃惊的转过身，等我回过头来，大街上只剩我独自一人。很长时间，我只是孤零零的站在那里。
“嘿，皮特，”查伦在门廊叫我，“你完了没有？”
“完了？完了什么？查伦？”
“过来。哈弗说你的解冻期已过，你应该再被冻起来。回厨房来。”
我傻傻的盯着她。她正拨弄她自己可爱的秀发，一边对我微笑。
我整整我的衣服，这是厨房助手的白色制服，跟着她走进去。
情人节，我想。告诉她你的想法，告诉她真心话。但我什么也没说，我没那胆。我只是跟她走进厨房，一个沉默却渴望着的可怜虫。
到厨房的时候，有一大摞盘子在等着我，我把残羹冷炙檫进垃圾桶里。
其中一个盘子上放着块深色的肉，边上还有一些吃剩一半涂着番茄酱的肉末土豆。
那块肉看起来几乎是生的……但我还是把它整个浸入几乎凝结的番茄酱，等哈弗转过身去的时候，我把它从盘里拿出来吃掉。那东西味道像金属，质地像软骨，但我终究还是把它整个吞了下去，我自己也说不清为什么这么做。
一滴红色的番茄酱从碟子边滴下落在我的白色制服上，形成一个完美的菱形。
我隔着厨房喊道：“嗨，查伦，情人节快乐。”
我自鸣得意的吹起口哨。
【1】即兴喜剧中的角色，每次哈利奎恩搞恶作剧都是他被抓住受罚。他一身白衣，脸也涂成白色。有时以哑巴形象出现，他爱，渴望，欲望强烈。在英国哈利奎恩已逐渐取代皮耶罗成为小丑形象，但是他对小白鸽的爱永远没有回报。
【2】医生是即兴戏剧中的另一个角色。他是一个学识渊博的男人，无所不知无所不晓。但是似乎从没治好过病人。医生，在意大利语中，也指有学问的人。
【3】在即兴戏剧里命中注定被永远愚弄的老吝啬鬼。
________________________________________
条条大道通罗马，这条也许就源于那处。几千年前，那种被称为atellanae fabulae的流行
滑稽剧，也许还可以上溯至在那几百年前的古希腊，甚至更早，那些被历史所遗忘的演员与演出。这些意大利传统戏剧中的角色，之后又成为法国杂耍表演中的角色，再后，成为十八，十九世纪英国滑稽剧的主角。向前追溯，追溯，哈利奎恩能追溯到很古老的年代。
关于这些你还想知道什么？
哈利奎恩是何许人也？
哈利奎恩之前是意大利传统戏剧中的补充角色；最初只是众多补充角色中的一个（虽然他的根源更远，更深而且更加黑暗），但他很快就成为主要角色之一。
哈利奎恩同与他时代的人“潘趣先生”一同来到英国，那是复辟时代之后，十七世纪的后半叶。到十八世纪初，戏剧名上有哈利奎恩的名字已经成为一个票房优势――1723年，哈利奎恩Dr.Faustus在Drury Lane剧院诞生，从此哈利奎恩成为一个明星，英国哑剧和滑稽剧的传统也从此开始。
（E．Cobham Brewer，在他几百年前写的短语与寓言手册上写道：“哈利奎恩，英国哑剧里的精灵。除了他忠实的小白鸽外没人能看得见。他的职责是满世界跳舞与挫败小丑的所有奸计，那家伙据说也爱着小白鸽）
等等，英式哑剧与美式哑剧是否有区别？
当然，美式哑剧是另一种哑剧形式，或者用用英国叫法“无声表演”——无对话的表演。不列颠传统，哑剧是一种圣诞节流行的讲求夸张性和娱乐性的剧种。一般的童话故事被以即兴喜剧的方式表现。其中用上很多补充角色（包括毁灭～一个由男人扮演的怪异女人～还有首要男孩～一般由长腿的年轻女人扮演）。表演时歌曲不断，掷棍被投掷出刺入地上，一般故事本身也会有些许改变。（比如灰姑娘由女厨子变成公主）。
在维多利亚时代，英式哑剧也称滑稽剧。所有台词都以押韵诗句的形式出现。
二十世纪30年代,不列颠以哈利奎恩为基础的传统成严重的衰退趋势;我怀疑在连续十五年的时间里是否有过一场正经的哈利奎恩式的哑剧上演.若有的话那必是奇事.
如今的童话剧都有它们自己的传统,包括选那些电视童星来做戏主角.
哈利奎恩,皮耶罗和小白鸽都被从舞台上搬到海滩上,皮耶罗秀(皮耶罗,白脸小丑)直到二战爆发前都在上演.
即兴喜剧（Commedia dell’arte）又是什么?
要翻译过来,大概应该叫手工艺者与工匠喜剧。是无需剧本，而是由临时创作的剧本固定角色出演固定情节的喜剧。许多角色都有他们自己的个性表演，会在他们演的任何节目里加入。
即兴喜剧演出时要戴面具，至少对男演员如此。开始是用遮全脸的面具，后来随着对话成为重头戏演变为半遮面式的面具，在即兴喜剧演变成滑稽剧后进一步演变，到最后只有哈利奎恩还戴着他的多米诺面具。而皮耶罗，在没戴面具之后脸上被厚厚的粉抹成白色。
哈利奎恩是什么人？还有皮耶罗，小白鸽，以及其他人都是谁？
哈利奎恩：最初，其实是一种小丑～一个活泼，搞笑，狡猾的家伙。贪婪又好色。
英式哑剧时代，哈利奎恩获得了魔力——其中之一是隐身。他的掷棍，本来只会制造噪音，变成了魔杖。
在最初的剧目里，他的面具漆黑如炭。
潘塔伦：一位老绅士，如果结婚。他的妻子必是年轻漂亮，还经常愚弄他；要不他就有女儿要出嫁，但她们会无视他关于求婚者是否合适的建议；或者他爱上一个漂亮的村姑，但最后定会失望。总之他注定永远被愚弄。
医生：一个学识渊博的男人，无所不知无所不晓。但是似乎从没治好过病人。医生，在意大利语中，也指有学问的人。
Pulcinella:弯腰驼背，鹰钩鼻的怪人。残忍又充满暴力。
他在哈利奎恩之后不久来到英格兰，并同样享有很高的声誉。他是一个傀儡，一个只为自己利益的人：在他的故事里，他杀死自己妻子，先是琼，之后是茱蒂，还谋杀她们的婴孩。之后开始冒险，杀死一切敢于招惹他的人，最后他不但杀死来绞死他的刽子手还杀死了恶魔本尊。（想多了解他的生平与罪行可以看一本叫《潘趣先生》的书，这是一部生动有趣的小说，作者Messrs.Gaiman & McKean.）
队长： 吹牛大王，胆小鬼，外强中干的家伙，表面上勇敢而在骨子里是个懦夫。他还有很多名字，虚张声势的胆小鬼只是其中之一。
皮耶罗：源于即兴戏剧中的佩德罗里诺。每次哈利奎恩玩花样，总是皮耶罗被抓受罚。他一身白衣，脸也是白的。有时以哑巴形象出现，他爱，渴望，欲望强烈。在英国哈利奎恩已逐渐取代皮耶罗成为小丑形象，但是他对小白鸽的爱永远没有回报。
科隆比娜（小白鸽）：她还有别的名字，the Inamorata(意大利语情人)：伊莎贝拉，芙拉明尼娅，科隆比那，希尔维娅。最后克隆比娜才找到明显的个性。她是个女仆，一般为伊莎贝拉做事。后者机智，沉着，即使经历最复杂的风流韵事也能照样过活。
科隆比娜的形象在滑稽剧中被进一步简化：一个芭蕾舞演员，或只是一个美女。皮耶罗爱她，毫无希望。哈利奎恩爱她，最后成功。
爱人：帅气，迷人。除了恋爱之外爱人没什么别的特色。在所有马克思兄弟的喜剧中他都是Zeppo。更糟的是，在马克思兄弟的后期喜剧中所有代替Zeppo的人都叫“爱人”。 以下刊出英文原版以对照。顺便问些翻译上的问题，希望高手们指正。过几天在下去修一下奎恩情人的漫画版放出来
Harlequin Valentine
By Neil Gaiman
It is February the Fourteenth, at that hour of the morning when all the children have been takento school, and the husbands have driven themselves to work, or have been dropped,steambreathing and greatcoated , at the rail station at the edge of the town for the Great Commute, when I pin my heart to Missy’s front door.
（missy，直译小姐或姑娘，觉得不对景。因此用了音译）
The heart is a deep dark red that is almost a brown, the colour of liver.
Then I knock on the door, sharply,rat-a-tat-tat!
And I grasp my wand, my stick, my oh-so-thrustable and beribonned lance, and I vanish likecooling steam into the chilly air…
Missy opens the door. She looks tired.
“My Columbine,” I breathe, but she hears not a word. She turns her head, so she takes in the view from one side of the street to the other, but nothing moves.
A truck rumbles in the distance.
She walks back into the kitchen and I dance, silent as a breeze, as a mouse, as a dream, into the kitchen beside her.
Missy takes a plastic sandwich bag from a paper box in the kitchen drawer.
She takes a bottle of cleaning spray from under the sink.
She pulls off two sections of kitchen towel from the roll on the kitchen counter. The she walksback to the front door.
She pulls the pin from the painted wood – it was my hat pin, which I had stumbled across…
where? I turn the matter over in my head; in Gascony, perhaps? OrTwickenham ? OrPrague?
The face on the end of the hat pin is that of a palePierrot[*] . She removes the pin from the heart, and puts the heart into the plastic sandwich bag.
She wipes the blood from the door with a squirt of cleaning spray and a rub of paper towel, and she inserts the pin into her lapel, where the little white-faced August face stares out at the cold world with his blind silver eyes and his grave silver lips.
Naples. Now it comes back to me.
I purchased the hat pin in Naples, from an old woman with one eye. She smoked a clay pipe.
This was a long time ago.
Missy puts the cleaning utensils down on the kitchen table, then she thrusts her arms through the sleeves of her old blue coat – which was once her mother’s – then she places the sandwich bag with the heart in it determinedly into her pocket, does up the buttons - one, two, three – and sets off down the street.
Secret, secret, quiet as a mouse I follow her, sometimes creeping, sometimes dancing, and shenever sees me, not for a moment, just pulls her blue coat more tightly around her, and she walks throughthe town, and down the old road that leads past the cemetery.
The wind tugs at my hat, and I regret, for a moment, the loss of my hat pin. But I am in love, and this is Valentine’s Day. Sacrifices must be made.
Missy is remembering in her head the other times she has walked into the cemetery, through the tall iron cemetery gates: when her father died; and when they came here as kids at All Hallows’, the whole school mob and caboodle of them, partying and searing each other; and when a secret lover was killed in a three-car pile-up on the interstate, and she walked until the end of the funeral, when the day was all over and done with, and she came in the evening, just before sunset, and laid a white lily on the fresh grave.
Oh, Missy, shall I sing the body and the blood of you, the lips and the eyes? A thousand hearts I would give you as your valentine.
Proudly I wave my staff in the air and dance, singing silently into the gloriousness of me, as we skip together down Cemetery road.
A low grey building, and Missy pushes open the door.
She says Hi and How’s it going to the girl at the desk, who makes no intelligible reply, fresh out of school, and filling in a crossword from a periodical filled with nothing but crosswords page after pageof them…
The girl would be making private phone calls on company time if only she had somebody to call,which she doesn’t, and, I see, plain as elephants, she never will. Her face is a mass of blotchy acne pustules and acne scars and she thinks it matters, and talks to nobody.
（plain as elephent,看起来像固定短语，什么意思？）
I see her life spread out before me: She will die, unmarried, and unmolested, of breast cancer in fifteen years’ time, and will be planted under a stone with her name on it in the meadow by Cemetery Road, and the first hands to have touched her breasts will have been those of the pathologist as he cuts out the cauliflower-like stinking growth and mutters, “Jesus, look at thesize of this thing. Why didn’t she tell anyone?” which rather misses the point.
Gently, I kiss her on her spotty cheek, and whisper to her that she is beautiful. Then I tap her once, twice,thrice , on the head with my staff, and wrap her with a ribbon.
She stirs and smiles.
Perhaps tonight she will get drunk and dance and offer up her virginity upon Hymen’s altar, meet a young man who cares more for her breasts than for her face, and will one day, stroking those breasts and sucking and rubbing them, say, “Honey, you seen anybody about that lump?” and by then her spots will be long gone, rubbed and kissed andfrottaged into oblivion.
（you seen anybody about that lump？这是猜的，也许意思差了十万八千里）
But now I have mislaid Missy…
The stench is unbearable, heavy and rancid and wreathed on the air. The fat man in the stained lab coat wears disposable rubber gloves. A dead man is on the table in front of him.
The fat man has not noticed Missy yet. He has made an incision, and now he peels back the skin with a wet, sucking sound, and how dark the brown of it is on the outside, and how pink, pretty the pink of it is on the inside.
Classical music plays from a portable radio, very loudly.
Missy turns the radio off. “Hello,Vernon.”
“Hello, Missy. You come for your old job back?”
This is The Doctor[†], I decide, for he is too big, too round, too magnificently well-fed to be Pierrot , too unselfconscious to be Pantaloon[‡].
His face creases with delight to see Missy, and she smiles to see him, and I am jealous; I feel a stab of pain shoot through my heart (currently in a plastic sandwich bag in Missy’s coat pocket), sharper than when I stabbed it with my hat pin and stuck it to her door.
And speaking of my own heart…
Missy holds out the plastic bag, “Do you know what this is?”
Vernonpeers at it closely. “Heart,” he replied. “Kidneys don’t have the ventricles, and brains are bigger and squishier. Where’d you get it?”
（squishier……不知什么意思）
“I was hoping thatyou could tell me. Doesn’t it come from here? Is it your idea of a valentine’s card,Vernon? A human heart stuck to my front door?”
“Don’t come from here. You want I should call the police?”
Missy shook her head. “I guess not. Withmy luck, they’ll decide I’m a serial killer and send me to the chair.”
Vernon: “Let’s see… adult, in pretty good shape, took care of his heart, cut out by an expert.”
I smile proudly at this, and bend down to talk to the dead black man on the table, with his chest all open and his calloused string-bass-plucking fingers.
（string-bass-plucking ，结合词，请问是什么意思）
“Go ‘way, Harlequin,” he mutters, quietly, not to offend Missy and his doctor.
“Don’t you go causing trouble here.”
“Hush yourself. I will cause trouble wherever I wish,” I tell him. “It is my function. But, for a moment, I feel a void about me; I am wistful, almost Pierrotish , which is a poor thing for a harlequin to be.
Oh, Missy, I saw you yesterday in the street, and followed you into Al’s Super-Valufoods and More, elation and joy rising within me. In you, I recognized someone who could transport me, take mefrom myself.
In you I recognized my valentine.
My Columbine.
I did not sleep last night, and instead I turned the towntopsy andturvy , befuddling theunfuddled .I caused three sober bankers to make fools of themselves with drag queens from MadameZora’s Revue and Bar.
I slid into the bedrooms of the sleeping, unseen and unimagined, slipping the evidence of mysterious and exotic trysts into the pockets and under pillows and into crevices, able only to imagine the fun that would ignite the following days as soiled and spilt-crotch fantasy panties would be found poorly hidden under sofa, cushions and in the inner pockets of respectable suits.
（还有以上两段，也许有严重错误，望指教）
But my heart was not in it, and the only face I could see was Missy’s.
Oh, Harlequin in love is a sorry creature.
I wonder what she will do with my gift. Some girls spurn my heart, others touch it, kiss it, caress it, punish it will all manner of endearments before they return it to my keeping. Some never even see it.
Missy: “Shall I incinerate it?”
“Might as well. You know where the incinerator is, and I meant what I said about your old job. I need a good lab assistant.”
I imagine my heart trickling up to the sky as ashes and smoke, covering the world. I do not know what I think of this, but, her jaw set, Missy shakes her head and she bids goodbye to Vernonthe pathologist.
She has thrust my heart into her pocket and she is walking out of the building and upCemetery Roadand back into town.
I caper ahead of her. Interaction would be a fine thing, I decide.
Fitting word to deed I disguise myself as a bent old woman on her way to the market, covering the red spangles of my costume with a tattered cloak, hiding my masked face with a voluminous hood,and at the top ofCemetery Road I step out and block her way.
Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous me, and I say to her, in the voice of the oldest of women,“Spare a copper for a bent old woman,dearie , and I’ll tell you a fortune that will make your eyes spin with joy.”
（spin with joy，眼睛高兴的打转？）
“Here.”
And I have it in my head to tell her all about the mysterious man she will meet, all dressed in red and yellow, with his domino mask, who will thrill her and love her and never, never leave her (for it is not a good thing to tell your Columbine theentire truth), but instead I find myself saying, in a cracked old voice, “Have you ever heard of Harlequin?”
“Yes,” she answers, “character in the Commediadell’arte . Costume covered in little diamond shapes. Wore a mask. I think he was a clown of some sort, wasn’t he?”
I shake my head, beneath my hood. “No clown,” I tell her. “He was…”
And I find that I am about to tell her the truth, so I choke back the words and pretend that I am having the kind of coughing attack, to which elderly women are particularly susceptible.
I wonder if this could be the power of love.
I do not remember it troubling me with other women I thought I had loved, other Columbines I have encountered over centuries now long gone.
I squint through old woman eyes at Missy; she is in her early twenties, and she has lips like a mermaid’s, full and well-defined and certain, and grey eyes, and a certain intensity to her gaze.
“Are you all right?”
I cough and sputter and cough some more and gasp, “Fine, mydearie -duck. I’m just fine, thank you kindly.”
“So. I thought you were going to tell me my fortune.”
“Harlequin has given you his heart. You must discover its beat yourself.” I hear myself saying these words, angry at my trickster tongue for betraying me.
She stares at me, puzzled. I cannot change or vanish while her eyes are upon me, and I feel frozen.
“Look! A rabbit!”
And she turns, follows my pointing finger, and as she takes her eyes off me I disappear – pop! –like a rabbit down a hole.
When she looks back, there’s not a trace of the old fortune-teller lady, which is to say me.
Missy walks on, and I caper after her, but there is not the spring in my step there was earlier in the morning.
Midday, and Missy has walked to Al’s Super-ValuFoods and More, where she buys a small block of cheese, a carton ofunconcentrated orange juice, two avocados, and on to the County One Bank, where she withdraws two hundred and seventy-nine dollars and twenty-two cents, which is the total amount of money in her savings account, and I creep after her sweet as sugar and quiet as the grave.
（Al’s Super-ValuFoods and More……知道是连锁超市，但中文名……）
“’Morning, Missy…” says the owner of the Salt Shaker Café, when Missy enters.
My heart would have skipped a beat if it were not in the sandwich bag in Missy’s pocket, for this man obviously lusts after her, and my confidence, which is legendary, droops and wilts.
I am Harlequin, I tell myself, in my diamond-covered garments, and the world is my
harlequinade. I am Harlequin, who rose from the dead to play his pranks upon the living. I am Harlequinin my mask, with my wand.
I whistle to myself, and my confidence rises, hard and full once more.
Missy was saying: “Hey,Harve . Give me a plate of hash browns, and a bottle of ketchup.”
“That all?”
“Yes. That’ll be perfect, and a glass of water.”
I tell myself that the manHarve is Pantaloon, the foolish merchant that I must bamboozle, baffle,confusticate , and confuse.
Perhaps there is a string of sausages in the kitchen.
I resolve to bring delightful, disarray to the world, and to bed luscious Missy beforemidnight: my Valentine’s present to myself.
I imagine myself kissing her lips.
There are a handful of other diners. I amuse myself by swapping their plates while they are not looking, but I have difficulty finding the fun in it.
The waitress ignores Missy, whom she obviously considers entirelyHarve’s preserve.
Missy sits at the table, and pulls the sandwich bag from her pocket. She places it on the table in front of her.
Harve-the-pantaloon struts over to Missy’s table, gives her a glass of water, a plate of hash-browned potatoes, and a bottle of Heinz 57 Varieties Tomato Ketchup.
“And a steak knife,” Missy said.
As Harve turned, I stuck out my stick.
He stumbles. He curses, and I feel better, more like the former me.
I goose the waitress as she passes the table of an old man who is reading USA Today while toying with his salad.
She gives the old man a filthy look. I chuckle, and then I find I am feeling most peculiar.
I sit down on the floor, suddenly.
“What’s that, honey?” the waitress asks.
“Health food, Charlene,” Missy replies, “Builds up iron.”
I peep over the tabletop.
She is slicing up small slices of liver-colouredmeat on her plate, liberally doused in tomato sauce,and piling her fork high with hash browns.
Then she chews.
I watch my heart disappearing into her rosebud mouth. My valentine’s jest somehow seems less funny.
She pops another scrap of raw gristle cut small into her mouth, and chews it hard, before swallowing.
Charlene, the waitress, goes past once more, with a pot of steaming coffee. “So what’s with the raw meat? You anemic?”
Missy replies, “Not anymore.”
And as she finishes eating my heart, Missy looks down and sees me sprawled upon the floor.
She nods. “Outside. Now.”
Then she gets up, and leaves ten dollars beside her plate.
She is sitting on a bench on the sidewalk, waiting for me. It is cold, and the street is almost deserted.
I would caper around her, but if feels so foolish now I know someone is watching.
“You ate my heart.” I can hear the petulance in my voice, and it irritates me.
“Yes. Is that why I can see you?”
“I guess.” I answered. “Nobody’s ever done it before.”
“Take off that domino mask. You look stupid.”
I did.
“Not much improvement,” she says. “Now, give me the hat. And the stick.”
“I would prefer not to.”
Missy reaches out and plucks my hat from my head, takes my stick from my hand.
She toys with the hat, her long fingers brushing and bending it. Her nails are painted crimson.
Then she stretches and smiles, expansively. The poetry has gone from my soul, and the cold February wind makes me shiver.
“It’s cold,” I say.
“No.” Missy replied. “It’s perfect, magnificent, marvelous, and magical. It’s Valentine’s Day,isn’t it? Who could be cold upon Valentine’s Day? What a fine and fabulous time of the year.”
The diamonds are fading from my suit, which is turning ghost-white,Pierrot -white.
“What do I do now?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role… a lovelorn swain, perchance,mooning and pining under the pale moon. All you need is a Columbine.”
“You are my Columbine.”
“Not anymore. That’s the joy of the harlequinade, after all, isn’t it? We change our costumes.We change our roles.”
She flashes me such a smile, now.
Then she puts my hat, my own hat, my harlequin-hat, up onto her head.
“And you?” I ask.
She tosses the wand into the air: it tumbles and twists in a high arc, red and yellow ribbons twisting and swirling about it, and then it lands neatly, almost silently, back into her hand.
She pushes the tip down to the sidewalk, pushes herself up from the bench in one smooth movement.
She says to me: “I have things to do. Tickets to take. People to dream.”
Then she leans over, and kisses me, full, and hard upon the lips.
Somewhere, a car backfired. I turned, startled, and when I looked back, I was alone on the street. I sat there for several moments, on my own.
“Hey, Pete,” Charlene calls from the doorway, “Have you finished out there yet?”
“Finished? Finished what, Charlene?”
“C’mon.Harve says yourciggie break is over. And you’ll freeze. Back into the kitchen.”
I stared at her. She tossed her pretty hair, and, momentarily, smiled at me.
I adjusted my white clothes, the uniform of the kitchen help, and followed her inside.
It’s Valentine’s Day, I thought.Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you think . But I said nothing, I dared not. I simply followed her inside, a creature of mute longing.
Back in the kitchen, a pile of plates was waiting for me: I began to scrape the leftovers into the pig-bin.
There was a scrap of dark meat on one of the plates, beside some half-finished ketchup-covered hash browns.
It looked almost raw… but I dipped it into the congealing ketchup and, whenHarve’s back was turned, I picked it off the plate and chewed it down. It tasted metallic and gristly, but I swallowed itanyhow, and could not have told you why.
A blob of red ketchup dripped from the plate onto the sleeve of my white uniform, forming one perfect diamond.
I called across the kitchen. “Hey, Charlene, happy Valentine’s Day.
And then I started to whistle.
[*]Character in the Commediadell’arte who always gets caught and punished every time Harlequin playstricks. He dresses all in white, and his face is white as well. Sometimes he is mute. He loves, and longs,and wants. As the English Harlequinade progressedPierrot became more and more the Clown, but his
love for Columbine remains unrequited.
[†]The Doctor is a character of the Commediadell’arte . His character is a man of vast learning, who knows everything and understands nothing. There is no record of his ever curing anyone of any disease;Doctor, in the Italian, merely indicates a man of learning.
[‡]An elderly miser in the Commediadell’arrte whose fate is forever to be fooled.
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