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朋友们的肖像画

朋友们的肖像画

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你走,我不送你。你来,无论多大风多大雨,我要去接你。

——刘蕊

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朋友们的肖像画

作者:Tullio Pericoli

译者:刘蕊

校对:宋一

策划:唐萧 & 刘蕊

Portraits: Umberto Eco, Saul Steinberg, and Aldo Buzzi

肖像画:翁贝托·埃科,索尔·斯坦伯格和阿尔多·布奇

When my love affair with the city of Milan began, Umberto Eco, who was only four years older than me, was already practically editor-­in-­chief of Bompiani publishing company. I sought him out, arranged a meeting, and pitched my drawings to him. Clean-shaven, his fair skin in contrast with his dark hair, he had pleasant features and a voice that occasionally bordered on shrill. He never lost that metallic falsetto.

我爱上米兰这座城市的时候,大我四岁的翁贝托•埃科已经是博皮尼出版公司的主编了。我约他出来见了个面,向他推销我的画。埃科的胡子刮得干干净净,白皙的皮肤和乌黑的头发形成了鲜明的对比,声音时而有些尖锐,那种金属感的假声从未消失过。

Nothing came of the meeting, but what remains of it in my memory is a tone of kindness that Eco didn’t actually display but, rather, thought. Eco thought through every single thing, whether it was something he had to do or something that had to be done to him. I believe he also thought a lot about his death, just as he thought about and planned for what came after.

那天的会面并没有聊出什么结果,我只记得埃科展现出来的友善,或者说他思维中的友善。无论是他必须做的事,还是必须对他做的事,他都方方面面考虑了一遍。我想他也思考过自己的死亡,就像他思考过也计划过自己死后之事一样。

Our real meeting came on the heels of a letter he wrote me in 1977 in which he asked for the original of a drawing I did of him that was published in the Corriere della Sera.

我们真正意义上的见面是在1977年,在那之前他写了封信给我,希望我把发表在《晚邮报》上的那幅以他为主角的原画送给他。

“I certainly can’t return the favor by sending you a typescript of one of my articles with handwritten corrections. In the best-­case scenario, it would only acquire value as a collectible in a couple of centuries, which is to say after the Apocalypse,” he added in his letter.

“我当然不能把带有手写涂改的文稿作为礼物回赠给你。这些文稿就算有价值,也得等几个世纪以后了,那时候都已经世界末日了。”他在信中补充道。

As he confided to Silvia Ballestra, our families became close friends, and that included our children, wives, and grandchildren. We spent time together in Milan, in Monte Cerignone, and at our home in Rosara, near Ascoli. What he loved most about the house in Rosara was the swimming pool: he spent hours floating in it. His body kept him buoyed up naturally. I remember how he’d rest on the water without moving and let the waves from other swimmers gently rock his body. Back then, his house in Monte Cerignone didn’t have a swimming pool. “Talk to Renate about it, tell her it’s no big deal,” he’d say. But Renate, his wife, didn’t want a pool. She had enough to do hosting all their friends and didn’t need to deal with a pool as well. And then one was built for him.

埃科常常和塞尔维亚•巴列斯特拉促膝长谈,我们两家人——包括我们的孩子、妻子和孙辈——也就渐渐成了好朋友。我们一起待在意大利,待在蒙泰切里尼奥内,待在位于阿斯科利附近的罗莎拉家中。他最喜欢罗莎拉家里的游泳池,常常在游泳池里漂上好几个小时。他的身体总是能自然而然地浮起来。我记得他一动不动地浮在水面上,其他游泳的人掀起的水花轻轻地摇晃着他的身体。埃科在蒙泰切里尼奥内的家是没有游泳池的。他会说:“我和蕾娜特谈谈,告诉她装个游泳池也没什么大不了的。” 但他的妻子蕾娜特并不想建游泳池。招待朋友就已经够她忙的了,她也不需要操心游泳池的事,不过最后还是在家里为埃科建了游泳池。

Eco was one of the people I spent the most time with but knew the least. He deserves a lifetime record for never talking about himself, not even in his novels. Not until the very end. Essentially, I think he deprived himself of a pleasure. I mean, who doesn’t like to talk about themselves, and sometimes even whine a little?

埃科是我相处时间最长的朋友之一,但我对他却知之甚少。他这一生——除了最后的时刻——都对自己避而不谈,即使在小说中也是如此。基本上,我认为他剥夺了自己的乐趣。毕竟,谁不喜欢谈论自己,甚至偶尔发个牢骚呢?

By not confiding in others, others were not inclined to confide in him. I would never have talked to him about something that saddened me or about a love story that was causing me heartache. He would’ve tried to cheer me up, of course, but probably by telling me a joke. It was easier to understand his mind than his soul. Eco was interested in the mind; he lived for his mind. For him, souls were stupid. And he was probably right: the soul arouses passion, not reason. The soul devolves into the irrational, the soul blathers.

埃科不喜欢跟别人吐露心扉,别人自然也就不会和他倾诉心事。我呢,也不会和他吐露自己的伤心事,或者那些个让人心碎的爱情故事。当然,如果讲了,他肯定会想办法哄我开心,但是顶多是讲个笑话。了解他的思想比了解他的灵魂要容易得多。埃科对思想很感兴趣,他为思想而生。对他而言,灵魂是愚蠢的。或许他是对的:灵魂唤醒的是激情,而非理性。灵魂会退化为不理智,灵魂会胡言乱语。

Once—we were already old at the time—we were sitting on the lawn in Monte Cerignone and I said, “Umberto, do you ever have someone in mind when you write? I do. I usually have one or two readers in mind, not always the same ones, but friends or people I hold in high esteem. What about you?”

有一次,当时我们已经很老了,我们坐在蒙泰切里尼奥内的草坪上。我问他:“翁贝托,你在写作的时候心里会想着谁吗?我心里通常会有一两个读者,不一定总是同一批人,可能是朋友,也可能是我特别尊敬的人。你呢?

Eco never had anyone in mind. “Maybe the people who’ll read my work in a couple of generations,” he said.

埃科从来没有想过谁。“或许我会想到未来那些读我作品的人。”他说。

“But what about the critics or your millions of readers?” I asked. “Nope.”

“那些评论家们和你的数百万粉丝呢?你不会想到他们吗?”我问他。“不会。

Was that why he chose not to talk about himself? Did he consider us, and rightfully so, unworthy of listening to him?

这就是为什么他不愿意谈论自己?他理所当然地认为我们不值得倾听他的故事?

In his later years he grew kinder and more generous. He went to great lengths to help out his friends. One evening I was touched to see him sitting in the back of the room at an inane launch party for one of my books. How I adored that man. And not just because his presence made me look good, which he knew, and which he knew that I knew, but because he truly wanted to give me the gift of his presence.

埃科在晚年的时候更加慷慨善良了。他竭尽全力帮助朋友。某天晚上是我的新书发布会,整个过程都很无聊,但我看见他坐在会场的后排,我很感动。我如此喜爱这个男人,不仅仅是因为他的出现让我脸上有光——当然,这点他很清楚,他也知道我很清楚,而是因为他是真心想要作为礼物出现在我的发布会上。

Then we, his friends, found out about his illness. Deeply worried about him, we kept each other updated on his health. But Eco himself never disclosed a thing.

之后,我们这群朋友发现了他的病情。我们很担心他,彼此跟进交流他的情况。但埃科自己从来没有说过什么。

One evening in mid-­November, after the launch party for Giulio Camillo’s L’idea del teatro, we all went out to dinner. Eco had been one of the guest speakers, together with editor Lina Bolzoni. Fleur Jaeggy, who published the book with Roberto Calasso, and who was also at the dinner, asked the waiter for some butter. Using butter at the table is a northern European custom, one that has never quite caught on in the restaurants of Milan. Fleur had to insist several times before the waiter brought it. At the sight of the butter, Eco suddenly came to his senses, as if reawakened from one of his reveries that plunged him into secret abysses. We were used to it. He often let his thoughts wander when he was at the table or, in any case, among friends.

十一月中旬的某天晚上,朱利奥•卡米洛的《L’idea del teatro》发布会结束后,我们一起出去吃了晚饭。埃科和编辑丽娜•博尔佐尼是此次发布会的特邀讲者。弗勒尔•贾基和罗伯托•卡拉索负责这本书的出版。弗勒尔也来吃饭了,他向服务员要了些黄油。饭桌上要黄油是北欧的一种习俗,在米兰很少见。弗勒尔不得不强调好几次,服务员才端了上来。看见黄油的那一瞬间,埃科突然回过神,仿佛从神秘深渊的幻想中苏醒过来。我们都习以为常了。吃饭的时候,或者和朋友在一起的时候,他总是任由自己神游太虚。

He picked up a spoon, scooped out an enormous hunk of butter, and spread it onto a tiny piece of bread. Renate wasn’t there that night and I was taking her place.

他拿起勺子,舀了一大勺黄油涂在一小块面包上。那天晚上蕾娜特不在,我替她照顾埃科。

“Umberto, you’re not really going to eat that!” I said. Eco looked at me like a child happily breaking the rules. “It’s bad for you,” I insisted.

“翁贝特,不要吃!”我说。埃科像个叛逆的孩子一样看着我。“这对你的身体没好处。”我坚持说。

“That’s why I’m doing it,” he replied proudly, popping the butter into his mouth. We looked each other deep in the eyes. That was the moment we finally spoke; I told him with my eyes that I understood.

“所以我才要这么做啊。”他骄傲地回道,把黄油塞进了嘴里。我们认真地看着彼此。那一刻,我们才算是真正对话了。我用眼神告诉他,我理解他。

He died that February. Half of Milan came to his funeral; it was mobbed. His knowledge of several languages meant that he had talked to many, many people over the years.

那年二月,埃科走了。半个米兰都参加了他的葬礼,人山人海。他懂得好几门语言,也就是说在过去这些年里,他和好多好多人都交谈过。

The day before the funeral we all gathered at his home in Piazza Castello to be with Renate, their children, and grandchildren. As I wandered around the living room, I found it impossible to detach from him mentally. It was as if he were down the hall, in his study, but I couldn’t get up the courage to go see him.

葬礼的前一天,我们都去了埃科在都灵卡斯特罗广场的家,陪着蕾娜特和孩子们。我在客厅里转来转去,觉得自己精神上始终和他在一起。仿佛他就在楼下的书房里,只是我没有勇气去见他。

“You’re leaving without seeing Nonno?” his grandson, Emanuele, asked me as I was making my way to the door. A serious boy of fifteen, he took me by the arm and led me down a long, book-­lined boulevard of a hallway. Eco had been laid out in his study-­library, surrounded by the amphitheater of his bookshelves. The perfect parallelepiped of his coffin reminded me for an instant of his swimming pool. We stopped a few feet away. Looking at the open coffin from the side, I could see half his face, half his belly, and the tips of his shoes. His face was rosy, as if warmed by the sun.

“你就走了吗?你不见见爷爷吗?”我正朝门口走去,埃科的孙子伊曼纽尔问我。伊曼纽尔是个看上去很严肃的十五岁男孩,他领着我走过一条长长的、两侧都是书的走廊。埃科被安置在他那图书馆式的书房中,四周都是圆形书架。棺材的形状是完美的平行六面体,这让我想起了他的游泳池。我们站在几英尺外,望向棺材,可以看见他半边脸、半边肚子以及他的鞋尖。他的脸红红的,好像被太阳晒暖了一样。

Ah, I thought, Umberto is just pretending to be dead. He’s really just floating on his back.

嘿,我想,翁贝托只是在装死罢了。他只是在仰面躺着罢了。

朋友们的肖像画

ALDO BUZZI (AND SAUL STEINBERG)

阿尔多•布奇(和索尔•斯坦伯格)

朋友们的肖像画

I admit that I tried to get to know Aldo Buzzi so that he would introduce me to Saul Steinberg. He figured it out and never forgave me for it.

我承认,我试着去认识阿尔多•布奇,只是为了让他把我介绍给索尔•斯坦伯格。布奇后来知道了,这件事情上再也没有原谅我。

I can’t remember how we eventually met or who introduced us. It might have been Giorgio Zampa, a mutual friend. I know for certain that I only started to appreciate Buzzi’s writing after we became acquainted: I bought his books, read them, and began to respect him. We sort of became friends, but it wasn’t easy being Buzzi’s friend. Steinberg was his only friend, and Steinberg’s only friend was Buzzi.

我不记得我和布奇最后是怎么认识的了,到底是谁介绍我俩认识的,或许是我们的共同好友乔治•赞帕介绍的。但我可以肯定的是,我是在我俩认识之后才开始欣赏他的作品的。我买了他的书,读完了这些书,然后开始尊敬他。我们算是朋友,但做布奇的朋友并不是件容易的事。斯坦伯格是布奇真正意义上的唯一的朋友,而斯坦伯格真正意义上的朋友也只有布奇。

I had followed Steinberg’s work with careful attention and love ever since I realized that poring over his drawings helped my own hand grow stronger. I moved it more easily across the page, I learned when to rest, how and when to lift it up. The reflection of Steinberg’s hand filtered through the pages of his books, coming and going, giving rise to something that wasn’t merely a sign, but a tiny living being, with its own anxieties and neuroses, its moments of happiness and desperation. For a person who draws, capturing that sign and breathing new life into it is unequivocally a commitment and a responsibility, yet also a great pleasure.

自从发现钻研斯坦伯格的画作能让我学到很多之后,我就一直小心翼翼,全神贯注且满腔热情地关注他的作品。我的绘画水平有了提高,我学会了什么时候停笔,什么时候提笔,以及如何提笔。斯坦伯格的书中满是他的绘画特点,来来往往,画下的不仅仅一种迹象,更是一个小小的生命体,有自己的不安与焦虑,有自己的快乐与绝望。毫无疑问,对于画画的人来说,捕捉这种迹象,赋予它生命,既是一份承若,一份责任,也是一种巨大的快乐。

朋友们的肖像画

Would I ever manage to make the shadow of that hand become real? Would I ever be able to reach out and shake his hand with my own one day? That’s what I sought to attain through Buzzi. We were in contact, now and then, Steinberg and I: we exchanged letters and a few illustrated postcards, the kind he loved to send.

我能让斯坦伯格笔下的画成为现实吗?我是不是有一天能伸出手,和他握手呢?我想通过布奇,实现这些想法。斯坦伯格和我时不时会联系彼此:我们有书信往来,也会寄带插图的明信片,他很喜欢寄这种明信片。

Steinberg was deeply attached to Italy and visited periodically, always staying with Buzzi. Then, from Milan, the two of them would go off to a small country house, somewhere near Varese or thereabouts.

斯坦伯格特别喜欢意大利,会时不时地去意大利玩,他总是和布奇待在一起。他俩会从米兰出发,到瓦雷泽附近的乡村小别墅去。

Buzzi promised to introduce me to Steinberg on numerous occasions but each time, for some good reason, it never happened. Slowly but surely, these empty promises started to resemble one of Steinberg’s drawings. The words, vowels, and consonants of Buzzi’s excuses piled up one on top of another and took the shape of a wall that grew evermore insurmountable. The wall also served to protect the Steinberg originals that Buzzi kept at home, that he wouldn’t let go of, not for any price—this one was a keepsake, that one was tied to a special event, a third to a dear person.

布奇答应过无数次,要把我介绍给斯坦伯格认识,但每次出于某种原因,都没能成功。这些空洞的承诺渐渐开始像斯坦伯格的画一样,布奇借口中的词汇、元音和辅音一个接一个地堆积,形成了一堵越来越难以逾越的墙。这面墙还保护着布奇家中收藏着的斯坦伯格的原画——这幅画是个纪念品,那幅画背后有个特殊的故事,第三幅画与一个亲爱的人有关,这些画布奇是无论如何也不会放手的。

朋友们的肖像画

In the end, I gave up.

最后,我放弃了。

One day, a few years later, I was at the Adelphi offices going over the layout for a book of my portraits, and someone showed me the galleys of a forthcoming publication. It was a book of letters that Steinberg had written to Buzzi, and that Buzzi himself had edited. A big, beautiful edition with lots of drawings, all which he owned. I went back to my studio and around seven that evening I telephoned Buzzi.

几年后的一天,我在阿德尔菲的办公室里审阅一本关于我的肖像的书的排版,当时有人给我看了一本即将出版的书的小样,是斯坦伯格写给布奇的书信集,由布奇亲自编辑。书的版面很大,十分精美,书里有很多画,而这些画的原作都在布奇那儿。我回到了我的工作室,晚上七点左右的时候,我给布奇打了个电话。

“I saw the galleys of the book of letters, with all those beautiful drawings. Please sell me one, Mr. Buzzi. You choose which one.”

“我看到那本书信集的小样了,书里的那些画实在是太美了。请卖给我一幅,布奇先生,你挑一幅卖给我吧。

“If you come to my house tomorrow morning at ten, I’ll give you one.”

“你明早十点来我家,我送你一幅。

“But Mr. Buzzi!” I said, stunned. I hadn’t expected him to say that. “People don’t do that kind of thing anymore—it would be amazing!”

“但是布奇先生!”我惊呆了,根本没想到他会这么说,“现在根本不会有人免费送画了,这简直是太棒了!

“Just come over tomorrow.”

“明天过来吧。

The following morning he welcomed me into his living room on Via Bassini as he had done many times before, then disappeared into another room. Several long minutes went by. He came back with a small Steinberg.

第二天早上,像过去许多次那样,他在贝西尼街的客厅里接待了我,然后去了另一间屋。几分钟过后,他拿着一幅斯坦伯格的小画回来了。

“From now on,” he said. “Call me Aldo.”

“从现在开始,”他说道,“叫我阿尔多吧。

朋友们的肖像画

  • 本文原载于 The New York Review of Books

  • 原文链接:

    https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2019/12/06/portraits-umberto-eco-saul-steinberg-aldo-buzzi/

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朋友们的肖像画

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