永远不来的公交车
[日] 小池昌代
田原、刘沐旸 译
早晨，我等公交车
杜鹃花正在绽放
都营公交车老也不来
三个人、四个人，等车的人在越来越多
五月的公交车老也不来
人们都把脖子伸往一个方向
四个人、五个人、八点二十分
可算来了
从大桥对面，一片绿色
渐渐膨胀开来，变成公交车驶来
放松一下因等待而睁累的眼睛
五个人，六个人，来到车站
六个人，七个人，低头上车
上了车我才注意到
等待的事情总会来到，这事儿真是奇妙
等待不来的东西却是我的工作
没赶上车的女人
还一个人在车站等着吧
等着公交车从大桥对面缓缓爬升
那是一种类似希望的东西
──车会来的
沾着泥土的裙子被风吹起
观望间阳光忽明忽暗
城市灰蒙蒙的烟囱
今天早上也伸向天空
我们在那里被拆散
温驯地
被运往，充满希望的下一站
The Bus that May Never Come
Masayo Koike
In the morning, I wait for the bus.
Azaleas are blooming.
The Toei Bus is taking so long to come.
Three, four, and more people begin to wait,
In May the bus takes so long to come.
We crane our necks towards the same far direction,
Four of us, then five, it’s eight twenty.
Then at last we’ll see a little piece
of green over the bridge, growing bigger and bigger
to turn into one whole bus driving towards us.
Eyes tightened from waiting loosen up.
Five, six, gather around the bus-stop,
Six, seven, get on the bus, heads bent.
It’s a wonder something you’ve waited for actually comes to you―
Waiting for something that never comes is my trade.
After getting on the bus, you’ll notice
a woman, who didn’t move and missed the bus,
is still at the bus-stop, waiting.
What might rise from beyond the bridge
had become, some time, like hope.
Her mud-splattered skirt billows in the wind.
It gets cloudy and sunny while busses pass by,
and this morning again in the dusty town
chimneys reaching up the sky:
Torn from the place,
toward the next bright bus-stop
we’ll be
meekly
carried away.
Translated from Japanese by Taeko Kakihara
人就算死的时候
他说，也得收拾得干干净净才行
用剪刀，唰唰唰
忙忙碌碌地
给人剪头发、刮脸
（在中国连耳垂都要刮到）
就这样活了一百零二岁的
胡同里的剃头师傅
耳朵里长森林的人长寿
而且还一直站着干活儿
“我认得他。都给拍成电影了，请哪个演员来演的。
我第一次见到他的时候，他跟我说，今天过生日，一起吃个晚饭吧。
那时候他才九十八。现在人没了呀。我想他。”
山里的小孩儿背着星星
花的时间属于花
我们在远离地面的方舟之丘三十七楼
听无名的吉他手弹奏阿尔贝尼斯
我时常更换理发店
所以不稳定
让人生安稳的秘诀是，总去同一家理发店
“白天上班，到了傍晚就想喝酒。想闻闻人身上的味道，所以跑去市中心。就算没有一个人能陪我喝酒，但是有音乐。就为了这种时候，才需要阿尔贝尼斯。有工作真好。”
她神魂颠倒地说
洗去劳动淤水的音乐
不用赚那么多，差不多维持生活，
零碎的工作就行，就像胡同里的剃头匠。
人赚了大钱就变了性子
中国现在有好多人因此而痛苦呢
两人一脸认真看着窗外
黄昏时分灰褐色的云，一边被染成橘色一边移动
就像是屏幕保护程序，这样想着的我
从坏掉的宇宙飞船里被抛进宇宙的黑暗中
还想着女性宇航员的事
在思考胡同剃头师傅的同时 我
我无论昨天还是今天每天都在淘米
直到淘米水变清澈的这段时间
我把它从电饭锅内胆的底部漏掉，漏掉了
捉萤火虫的夜晚的秘密
草的时间属于草
已经不想
拥有任何东西 包括语言
于放弃回归的无重力世界
想象成为宇宙尘埃的自己
这是我每天晚上的乐趣
与其说是乐趣不如说是练习
漂浮着的自己就是自己的墓标
耐不得寂寞，走出草庵环顾四周，到处都是一样萧瑟的秋日黄昏1
我走出地球，环顾四周
连孤独这一词汇都化成了灰
终会归于微尘，还有我
以前我弄坏了鸟巢
真是对不住
废止的公交车路线
海中央石头的歪曲
以前我往蚂蚁洞里灌过水
以前我把钢琴扔下了断崖，还有人
只是这些还无法触及谷底
虽说宇宙中听不到声音
即使如此，音乐也会在记忆中回荡，还有阿尔贝尼斯
已经不必再回答调查问卷
也不用再提交缺席明信片的世界
这篇黑暗到处都是墨汁的气味
胡同里的剃头师傅
那天
吃了热乎乎的豆腐菜就死了
吃剩的盘子还冒着热气呢
注：
1. 出自《百人一首》，作者为良暹法师。
Starchy Water
Masayo Koike
even when you die
you should keep yourself neat, he would say
snip, snip, go his scissors
busily clipping hair
and shaving faces not his own
(in China they shave people down to their earlobes)
and lived to the age of one hundred and two
the barber in Hutong
those who grow a forest in their ears live long
and his was a standing job to the very end
I knew him, he was in a movie, played by an actor.
When I first met him, he said let’s have dinner together, it’s my birthday.
He was only ninety-eight then. He’s dead now. I miss him.
the babe in the hills carries a star on its back
flower time belongs to the flower
the two of us
were on the thirty-seventh floor in Ark Hills, a far cry from down-to-earthness
listening to an unknown guitarist playing Albéniz
I change my hairdresser from time to time
hence my instability
the secret of leading a stable life is to stick to one hairdresser
In the evening after work I feel like a drink. I miss the smell of human beings and go downtown. When there is no one I can share a drink with, still there is music. Then, Albéniz is the man for you. It’s good to have a job.
so she says in a sing-song voice
music washes away the dregs of labour
I don’t need to make a lot, just enough to live on,
a small job, like the barber in Hutong.
making too much money warps you
today in China many people are suffering because of this
soberly, we look out of the window
the evening clouds, grey-brown, glow orange and change shape
like a screensaver, I say to myself, and
think of the astronaut, a woman
flung into dark space from a broken-down spacecraft
thinking of the barber of Hutong, I
wash rice every day, yesterday and today
and the time it takes for the starchy water to clear
I spill from the edge of the rice-cooker bowl, drip after drip
the secret of the night of the firefly hunt
grass time belongs to the grass
I no longer wish
to own anything, not even words
I imagine myself a speck of dust in space
in a weightless world, having renounced return
this is what I enjoy doing every night
a practising rather than a pleasure
my floating self my gravestone
‘Forlorn, I go outside and gaze around / Everywhere the same loneliness, autumn evening’
leaving Earth, I gaze around and see
the word ‘loneliness’ turn to dust
and then to atoms of dust, same as me
once upon a time I destroyed a bird’s nest
once upon a time I poured water into an ants’ dwelling
once upon a time I dumped a piano off a cliff, and a human being, too
only the last hasn’t struck bottom yet
a discontinued bus route
a distortion in a stone far out at sea
they say you cannot hear music in space
but still music flows through the memory, and Albéniz
a world where you no longer need to answer questionnaires
or respond to RSVP postcards
the darkness, all around, smells of Chinese ink
that day
the barber in Hutong
died after eating a dish of tofu, hot from the pan
I remember the steam still rising from his half-finished plate
Translated from Japanese by Yoko Abe
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