现代大学英语精读第二版（第六册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——6 - The Museum（博物馆）

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Unit 6 - The Museum

The Museum

Leila Aboulela

At first Shadia was afraid to ask him for his notes. The earring made her afraid; the straight long hair that he tied up with a rubber band. She had never seen a man with an earring and such long hair. But then she had never known such cold, so much rain. His silver earring was the strangeness of the West, another culture shock. She stared at it during classes, her eyes straying from the white scribbles on the board. Most times she could hardly understand anything. Only the notation was familiar. But how did it all fit together? How did this formula lead to this? Her ignorance and the impending exams were horrors she wanted to escape. His long hair was a dull colour between yellow and brown. It reminded her of a doll she had when she was young. She had spent hours combing that doll's hair, stroking it. She had longed for such straight hair. When she went to Paradise she would have hair like that. When she ran it would fly behind her, if she bent her head down it would fall over her like silk and sweep the flowers on the grass. She pictured her doll, vivid suddenly, and felt sick that she was daydreaming in class, not learning a thing.

The first days of the term, when the classes started for the M.Sc. in Statistics, she was like someone tossed around by monstrous waves-battered, as she lost her way to the different lecture rooms, fumbled with the photocopying machine, could not find anything in the library. She could scarcely hear or eat or see. Her eyes bulged with fright, watered from the cold. The course required certain background, background she didn't have. So she floundered, she and the other African students, the two Turkish girls, and the man from Brunel. Asafa, the short, round-faced Ethiopian, said, in his grave voice—as this collection from the Third World whispered their anxieties in grim Scottish corridors, the girls in nervous giggles—"Last year, last year, a Nigerian on this very same course committed suicide. Cut his wrists."

Us and them, she thought. The ones who would do well, the ones who would crawl and sweat and barely pass. Two predetermined groups. Asafa, generous and wise, leaned over and said to Shadia: That boy Bryan is excellent."

The one with the earring?

Asafa laughed. "The earring doesn't mean anything. He'll get the Distinction. He was an undergraduate here; got First Class Honours. That gives him an advantage. He knows all the lecturers, he knows the system.

So the idea occurred to her of asking Bryan for the notes of his graduate year. If she strengthened her background in stochastic process and time series, she would be better able to cope with the new material they were bombarded with every day. She watched him to judge if he was approachable. He was devoid of manners. He mumbled and slouched and did not speak with respect to the lecturers. He spoke to them as if they were his equals. And he did silly things. When he wanted to throw a piece of paper in the bin, he squashed it into a ball and aimed it at the bin. If he missed, he muttered under his breath. She thought that he was immature. But he was the only one who was sailing through the course.

The glossy handbook for overseas students had explained about the "famous British reserve" and hinted that they should be grateful, things were worse further south, less "hospitable." In the cafeteria, drinking coffee with Asafa and the others, the picture of "hospitable Scotland" was something different. Badr, the Malaysian, blinked and whispered, "Yesterday our windows got smashed; my wife today is afraid to go out."

“Thieves?" asked Shadia, her eyes wide.

Racists, said the Turkish girl.

In the cafeteria, Bryan never sat with them. They never sat with him. He sat alone, sometimes reading the local paper. When Shadia walked in front of him he didn't smile. "These people are strange… One day they greet, the next day they don't…"

One Friday afternoon, as everyone was ready to leave the room after Linear Models, she gathered her courage and spoke to Bryan. He had spots on his chin and forehead, was taller than her, restless, as if he was in hurry to go somewhere else. He put his calculator back in its case, his pen in his pocket. She asked him for his notes, and his blue eyes behind his glasses took on the blankest look she had ever seen in her life. What was all the surprise for? Did he think she was an insect? Was he surprised that she could speak?

A mumble for a reply, words strung together. So taken aback, he was. He pushed his chair back under the table with his foot.

Pardon?

He slowed down, separated each word. “have them for ye on Monday."

Thank you. She spoke English better than he did! How pathetic. The whole of him was pathetic. He wore the same shirt every blessed day. Grey and white stripe.

On the weekends, Shadia never went out of the halls, and, unless someone telephoned long-distance from home, she spoke to no one. There was time to remember Thursday nights in Khartoum: a wedding to go with Fareed, driving in his red Mercedes. Or the club with her sister, sitting by the pool drinking lemonade with ice, the waiters all dressed in white. Here, in this country's weekend of Saturday and Sunday, Shadia washed her clothes and her hair.

On the weekends, she made a list of the money she had spent: the sterling enough to keep a family alive back home. Yet she might fail her exams after all that expense, go back home empty hand-without degree. Guilt was cold like the fog of this city. It came from everywhere. One day she forgot to pray in the morning. She reached the bus stop and then realized that she hadn't prayed. That morning folded out like the nightmare she sometimes had, of discovering that she had gone out into the street without any clothes.

In the evening, when she was staring at multidimensional scaling, the telephone in the hall rang. She ran to answer it. Fareed's cheerful greeting: "Here, Shadia, Mama and the girls want to speak to you." His mother's endearments: "They say it's so cold where you are…"

Shadia was engaged to Fareed. Fareed was a package that came with the 7UP franchise, the paper factory, the big house he was building, his sisters and widowed mother. Shadia was going to marry them all. She was going to be happy and make her mother happy. Her mother deserved happiness after the misfortunes of her life. A husband who left her for another woman. Six girls to bring up. People felt sorry for her mother. Six girls to educate and marry off. But your Lord is generous: Each of the girls, it was often said, was lovelier than the other. They were clever too: dentist, pharmacist, architect, and all with the best of manners.

We are just back from looking at the house. Fareed's turn again to talk. "It's coming along fine, they're putting the tiles down…"

That's good, that's good, "her voice strange from not talking to anyone all day.

The bathroom suites. If I get them all the same colour for us and the girls and Mama, I could get them on a discount. Blue, the girls are in favour of blue, "his voice echoed from one continent to another. Miles and miles.

Blue is nice, yes, better get them all the same colour.

He was building a block of flats, not a house. The ground-floor flat for his mother and the girls until they married, the first floor for him and Shadia. When Shadia had first got engaged to Fareed, he was the son of rich man. A man with the franchise for 7UP and the paper factory which had a monopoly in ladies 'sanitary towels. But Fareed's father died of a heart attack soon after engagement party (five hundred guests at the Hilton). Now Shadia was going to marry the rich man himself.

There was no time to talk about her course on the telephone, no space for her anxieties. Fareed was not interested in her studies. He had said, "I'm very broad-minded to allow you to study abroad. Other men would not have put up with this…" It was her mother who was keen for her to study, to get a postgraduate degree from Britain and then have a career after she got married. "This way, "her mother had said, "you will have your in-laws' respect. They have money but you will have a degree. Don't end up like me. I left my education to marry your father and now…

On Monday, without saying anything, Bryan slid two folders across the table towards her as if he did not want to come near her, did not want to talk to her. She wanted to say, "I won't take them till you hand them to me politely." But smarting, she said, "Thank you very much." She had manners. She was well brought up.

Back in her room, at her desk, the clearest handwriting she had ever seen. Sparse on the pages, clean. Clear and rounded like a child's, the tidiest notes. She cried over them, wept for no reason. She cried until she wetted pages, smudged the ink, blurred one of the formulas. She dabbed at it with a tissue but the paper flaked and became transparent. Should she apologize about the stain, say she was drinking water, say that it was rain? Or should she just keep quiet, hope he wouldn't notice? She chided herself for all that concern. He wasn't concerned about wearing the same shirt every day. She was giving him too much attention thinking about him. He was just an immature and closed-in sort of character. He probably came from a small town, his parents were probably poor, low-class. In Khartoum she never mixed with people like that. Her mother liked her to be friends with people who were higher up. How else were she and her sisters going to marry well? She must study the notes and stop crying over this boy's handwriting. His writing had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with her at all.

Understanding after not understanding is fog lifting, pictures swinging into focus, missing pieces slotting into place. It is fragments gelling, a sound vivid whole, a basis to build on. His notes were the knowledge she needed, the gap filled. She struggled through them, not skimming them with the carelessness of incomprehension, but taking them in, making them a part of her, until in the depth of concentration, in the late hours of the nights, she lost awareness and place, and at last, when she slept she became epsilon and gamma, and she became a variable.

It felt natural to talk to him. As if now that she had spent hours and days with his handwriting, she knew him in some way. She forgot the offence she had taken when he had slid his folders across the table to her, all the times he didn't say hello.

In the computer room, at the end of the Statistical Packages class, she went to him and said: Thanks for the notes. They are really good. I think I might not fail, after all. I might have a chance to pass." Her eyes were dry from all the nights she had stayed up. She was tired and grateful.

He nodded and they spoke little about the Poisson distribution, queuing theory. Everything was clear in his mind; his brain was clear pane of glass where all the concepts were written out boldly and neatly. Today, he seemed more at ease talking to her, though he still shifted about from foot to foot, avoiding her eyes.

He said, "Do ye want to go for coffee?"

She looked up at him. He was tall and she was not used to speaking to people with blue eyes. Then she made a mistake. Perhaps because she had been up late last night, she made that mistake. Perhaps there were other reasons for that mistake. The mistake of shifting from one level to another.

She said, "I don't like your earring."

The expression in his eyes, a focusing, no longer shifting away. he shifted his hand to his ear and tugged the earring off. His earlobe without the silver looked red and scarred.

She giggled because she was afraid because he wasn't smiling, wasn't saying anything. She covered her mouth with her hand, then wiped her forehead and eyes. A mistake had been made and it was too late to go back. She plunged ahead, careless now, reckless. "I don't like your long hair."

He turned and walked away.

Like most of the other students, she sat in the same seat in every class. Brcareus sat a row ahead which was why she could always look at his hair. But he had cut it, there was no ponytail today! Just his neck and the collar of the grey and white striped shirt.

She was made up of layers. Somewhere inside, deep inside, under the crust of vanity, in the untampered-with essence, she would glow and be in awe, and be humble and think, this is just for me, he cut his hair for me. But there were other layers, bolder, more to the surface. Giggling. Wanting to catch hold of a friend. Guess what? You wouldn't believe what this idiot did!

After the class he came over and said very seriously, without a smile, "Ah've cut my hair."

A part of her hollered with laughter, sang: "You stupid boy, you stupid boy, I can see that, can't I?

She said, "It looks nice." She said the wrong thing and her face felt hot and she made herself look away so that she would not know his reaction. It was true though, he did look nice; he looked decent now.

She should have said to Bryan, when they first held their coffee mugs in their hands and were searching for an empty table, "Let's sit with Asafa and the others." Mistakes follow mistakes. Across the cafeteria, the Turkish girl saw them together and raised her perfect eyebrows. Badr met Shadia's eyes and quickly looked away. Shadia looked at Bryan and he was different, different without the earring and the ponytail, transformed in some way. Maybe the boys who smashed Badr's windows looked like Bryan, but with fiercer eyes, no glasses. She must push him away her. She must make him dislike her.

He asked her where she came from and when she replied, he said, "Where's that?"

Africa, with sarcasm. "Do you know where that is?"

His nose and cheeks under the rims of his glasses went red. Good, she thought, good. He will leave me now in peace.

He said, "Ah know Sudan is in Africa I meant where exactly in Africa."

Northeast, south of Egypt Where are you from?

Peterhead. it's north of here. By the sea.

"your father works in Peterhead?"

"Aye, he does."

She had grown up listening to the proper English of the BBC World Service only to come to Britain and find people saying "yes" like it was said back home in Arabic: "aye."

"What does he do, your father?"

He looked surprised. "Ma dad's a joiner."

Fareed hired people like that to work on the house. Ordered them about.

"And your mother?" she asked.

He paused a little, stirred sugar in his coffee with a plastic spoon. "She's a lollipop lady."

Shadia smirked into her coffee, took a sip.

My father, she said proudly, "is doctor, a specialist." Her father was a gynaecologist. The woman who was now his wife had been one of his patients.

"And my mother," she blew the truth out of proportion, "comes from a very big family. A ruling family. If you British hadn't colonized us, my mother would have been princess now."

ye walk like princess, he said.

What a gullible, silly boy! She wiped her forehead with her hand and said, "You mean I am conceited and proud?"

No, Ah didnae mean that, no. The packet of sugar he was tearing open tipped from his hand, its contents scattered over the table. "Ah shit… sorry…" He tried to scoop up the sugar and knocked against his office mug, spilling a little on the table.

She took a tissue from her bag, reached over and mopped up the stain. It was easy to pick up all the bits of sugar with the damp tissue.

"Thanks," he mumbled and they were silent. The cafeteria was busy: full of the humming, buzzing sound of people talking to each other, trays and dishes. In Khartoum, she avoided being alone with Fareed. She preferred it when they were with others: their families, their many mutual friends.

Bryan was speaking to her, saying something about rowing on the River Dee. He went rowing on the weekends, he belonged to a rowing club.

To make herself pleasing to people was a skill Shadia was trained in. It was not difficult to please people. Agree with them, never dominate the conversation, be economical with the truth. Now here was someone to whom all these rules needn't apply.

She said to him, "The Nile is superior to the Dee. I saw your Dee, it is nothing, it is like a stream. There are two Niles, the Blue and the White, named after their colours. They come from the south, from two different places. They travel for miles over countries with different names, never knowing they will meet. I think they get tired of running alone, it is such a long way to the sea. They want to reach the sea so that they can rest, stop running. There is a bridge in Khartoum, and under this bridge the two Niles meet. If you stand on the bridge and look down you can see the two waters mixing together."

Do you get homesick? he asked.

Things I should miss I don't miss. Instead I miss things didn't think I would miss. The azan, the muezzin call to prayer from the mosque. I don't know if you know about it. I miss that. At dawn it used to wake me up.

I would hear 'prayer is better than sleep' and just go back to sleep. I never got up to pray." She looked down at her hands on the table. There was no relief in confessions, only his smile, young, and something like wonder in his eyes.

We did Islam in school, he said. "Ah went on a trip to Mecca." He opened out his palms on the table.

What!

"In a book."

"Oh."

The coffee was finished. They should go now. She should go to the library before the next lecture and photocopy the previous exam paper.

What is your religion? she asked.

Dunno, nothing I suppose.

That's terrible! That's really terrible! Her voice was too loud, concerned.

His face went red again and he tapped his spoon against the empty mug.

Waive all politeness, make him dislike her. Badr had said, even before his windows got smashed, that here in the West they hate Islam. Standing up to go, she said flippantly, "Why don't you become a Muslim then?"

He shrugged. Ah wouldnae mind travelling to Mecca, I was keen on that book."

Her eyes filled with tears. They blurred his face when he stood up. In the West they hate Islam and he… She said, "Thanks for the coffee, "and walked away, but he followed her.

Shadiya, Shadiya, he pronounced her name wrongly, three syllables instead of two, "there's this museum about Africa. I've never been before. If you'd care to go, tomorrow…"

Tomorrow she need not to show up at the Museum, even though she said that she would. She should have told Bryan she was engaged to be married, mentioned it casually. What did he expect from her? Europeans had different rules, reduced, abrupt customs. If Fareed knew about this… her secret thoughts like snakes…

It was strange to leave her desk lock her room and go out on a Saturday. In the hall the telephone rang. It was Fareed. If he knew where she was going now… Guilt was like a hard-boiled egg stuck in her chest. A large cold egg.

"Shadia, I want you to buy some of the fixtures for the bathrooms. Taps and the towel hangers. I'm going to send you a list of money…"

I can't, I can't.

"What do you mean you can't? If you go into any large department store…"

You can get good things, things that aren't available here. Gold would be good. It would match…

Gold. Gold toilet seats!

"Shadia, gold-coloured, not gold. It's smart."

"Allah is going to punish us for this, it's not right…"

"Since when have you become so religious!"

Bryan was waiting for her on the steps of the museum, familiar-looking against the strange grey of the city streets where cars had their headlamps on in the middle of the afternoon. He wore a different shirt, navy-blue jacket. He said, not looking at her, "Ah was beginning to think you wouldnae turn up."

There was no entry fee to the museum, no attendant handing out tickets. The first thing they saw was a Scottish man from Victorian times. He sat on a chair surrounded by possessions from Africa: overflowing trucks, an ancient map strewn on the floor of the glass cabinet. Shadia turned away; there was an ugliness in the lifelike wispiness of his hair, his determined expression, the biway he sat. A hero who had gone away and come back, laden, ready to report.

Bryan began to conscientiously study every display cabinet, to read the poster on the wall. She followed him around and thought that he was studious, careful; that was why he did so well in his degree. She watched the intent expression on his face as he looked at everything. For her the posters were an effort to read, the information difficult to take in.

During the 18th and 19th centuries, northeast Scotland made a portionate impact on the world at large by contributing so many skilled and committed individuals. In serving an empire they gave and received, changed others and were themselves changed and often returned home with tangible reminders of their experiences.

The tangible reminders were there to see, preserved in spite of the years. Her eyes skimmed over the disconnected objects out of place and time. Iron and copper, little statues. Nothing was of her, nothing belonged to her life at home, what she missed. Here was Europe's vision, the cliches about Africa: cold and old.

"He looks like you, don't you think?" she said to Bryan. They stood in front of a portrait of soldier who died in the first year of the twentieth century. It was the colour of his eyes and his hair. But Bryan did not answer her, did not agree with her. He was preoccupied with reading the caption. When she looked at the portrait again, she saw that she was mistaken. The strength in the eyes, the purpose, was something Bryan didn't have. They had strong faith in those days long ago.

Biographies of explorers who were educated in Edinburgh; they knew what to take to Africa: doctors, courage, Christianity, commerce, civilization. They knew what they wanted to bring back: cotton-watered by the Blue Nile, the Zambezi River. She walked after Bryan, felt his concentration, his interest in what was before him and thought, "In photograph we would not look nice together."

She had come to this museum expecting sunlight and photographs of the Nile, something to relieve her homesickness: a comfort, a message. But the messages were not for her, not for anyone like her. A letter from West Africa, 1762, an employee to his employer in Scotland. An employee trading European goods for African curiosities.

It was difficult to make the natives understand my meaning, even by an interpreter, to being a thing so seldom asked of them but they have all undertaken to bring something and laughed heartily at me and said, I was a good man to love their country so much…

Love my country so much. She should not be here, there was nothing for her here. She wanted to see minarets, boats fragile on the Nile, people.

"I know why they went away," said Bryan. "I understand why they travelled." At last he was talking. She had not seen him intense before. He spoke in a low "They had to get away, to leave here…"

To escape from the horrible weather… She was making fun of him. She wanted to put him down. The imperialists who had humiliated her history were heroes in his eyes.

He looked at her. "To escape…" he repeated.

"They went to benefit themselves," she said, "people go away because they benefit in some way.

"I want to get away," he said.

She remembered when he had opened his palms on the table and said, "I went on a trip to Mecca." There had been pride in his voice.

I should have gone somewhere else for the course, he went on. "A new place, somewhere down south."

He was on a plateau, not like her. She was fighting and struggling for a piece of paper that would say she was awarded an M.Sc. from British university. For him, the course was continuation.

Come and see, he said, and he held her arm. No one had touched her before, not since she had hugged her mother goodbye. Months now in this country and no one had touched her.

She pulled her arm away. She walked away. She ran up the stairs to the next floor. Guns, a row of guns aiming at her. They had been waiting to blow her away. Scottish arms of centuries ago, gunfire in service of the empire.

Silver muzzles, dirty grey now. They must have shone prettily once, under a sun far away. She shivered in spite of the wool she was wearing, layers of clothes. Hell is not only blazing fire, a part of it is freezing cold, torturous ice and snow. In Scotland's winter you have a glimpse of this unseen world, feel the breath of it in your bones.

There was a bench and she sat down. There was no one here on this floor. She was alone with sketches of jungle animals, words on the wall. A diplomat away from home, in Ethiopia in 1903:

It is difficult to imagine anything more satisfactory or better worth taking part in than a lion drive. We rode back to camp feeling very well indeed. Archie was quite right when he said that this was the first time since we have started that we have really been in Africa-the real Africa of jungle inhabited only by game, and plains where herds of antelope meet your eye in every direction.

"Shadiya, don't cry." He still pronounced her name wrongly because she had not told him how to say it properly.

He sat next to her on the bench the blur of his navy jacket blocking the guns, the wall-length pattern of antelope herds. She should explain that she cried easily, there was no need for the alarm on his face. His awkward voice: "Why are you crying?"

He didn't know, he didn't understand. He was all wrong, not a substitute…

"They are telling lies in this museum," she said. "Don't believe them. It's all wrong. It's not jungle and antelopes, it's people. We have things like computers and cars. We have 7UP in Africa, and some people, a few people, have bathrooms with golden taps… I shouldn't be here with you. You shouldn't talk to me…"

He said, "Museums change, I can change…"

He didn't know it was a steep path she had no strength for. He didn't understand. Many things, years and landscapes, gulfs. If she had been strong she would have explained, and not tired of explaining. She would have patiently taught him another language, letters curved like the epsilon and gamma he knew from mathematics. She would have shown him that words could be read from right to left. If she had not been small in the museum, if she had been really strong, she would have made his trip to Mecca real, not only in a book.

参考译文——博物馆

博物馆

利拉·阿布拉

起初，莎迪雅害怕向他借笔记。他的耳环、用橡皮筋绑着的长头发，都让她望而却步。莎迪雅从来没有见过带着耳环以及留着这么长头发的男人，正如她从未经历过如此寒冷如此多雨的天气。他的银色耳环是另一种文化冲击，代表着西方的冷漠。莎迪雅上课的时候眼睛一直盯着那副耳环，她的目光逐渐从黑板上白色的潦草字迹上游离。大多数时候，她什么都不明白，只熟悉那些符号。但是这些符号是如何组合在一起的呢？这个公式又是如何推导出另一个的呢？她的无知以及即将到来的考试都是让她想要逃离的恐怖的事情。他的长发是深黄棕色的，这让她想起她小时候玩过的一个玩偶。她曾花几小时的时间去为那个玩偶梳头发，抚摸她。莎迪雅也曾渴望过留这么长的头发。当她离开这个世界去天堂的时候，她就可以拥有那样的长发。当她奔跑的时候，长发会在她的身后飞扬，如果她把扎着的头发放下来，飘逸的长发会像丝绸一样，触碰到草地上的鲜花。她为她的玩偶画出生动的图画，莎迪雅发现她自己在课堂上坐着白日梦，突然间感到非常难受，因为什么都没有学到。

开学头几天，当统计学硕士课程刚开始时，她就像一个被巨浪抛来抛去的受伤的人。她找不到上课的教室，使用复印机时笨手笨脚，在图书馆里晕头转向，找不到自己要找的书和资料。她几乎什么也听不到，什么也吃不下去，看不下去。她的眼中充满了恐惧，仿佛在寒冷中淋着雨。这个课程需要一定的背景知识，而这种背景知识又恰恰是她所缺乏的。所以，她和其他的几个非洲同学、两个土耳其女孩、来自文莱的男同学，一起挣扎着。在苏格兰阴森的走廊里，第三世界的留学生们集体倾诉他们的焦虑，女孩们发出紧张的格格笑声。这时，阿萨法，一个小个头、圆脸盘的埃塞俄比亚人，用低沉的声音对大家说：“去年，就是去年，这门课上一个尼日利亚学生自杀了，割腕自杀的。”

我们和他们，她想，一群人的成绩会很好，另一群人拼尽全力可能才会勉强通过，这两组人的成绩已经决定了，善良又聪明的阿萨法弯下身子，对莎迪雅说：“那个叫布莱恩的男孩特别优秀。”

“那个戴耳环的？”

阿萨法笑了，“戴耳环又能怎么样，他会得到优秀奖。他在这里念的本科，得了一等奖。他有优势，他认识所有的老师，对学校的制度了如指掌。”

因此，她想到了向布莱恩借他本科毕业时的笔记。如果她能够加强自己在随机过程和时间序列这两门课的背景知识，她应该能更好地解决老师每天所提出的新材料。她观察他，看他是否容易接近。他没有礼貌。说话的时候含含糊糊，站着的时候懒懒散散，和老师说话时也毫无尊重可言。他和老师说话的时候，就好像老师是他的同龄人。他还做一些愚蠢的事情。当他想要把纸扔到垃圾箱里时，他把纸挤压成一个球，对准垃圾箱。如果他没投进去他会轻声地嘟囔。她认为他很幼稚。但他又是班级里唯一一个能顺利通过考试的人。

印刷漂亮的海外留学生手册解释了“人人皆知的英国人的拘谨矜持”，并暗示，留学生应该感到庆幸，因为再往南（指英格兰），情况更糟糕，那里还不如这里“热情友好”。莎迪雅、阿萨法还有其他几个非洲留学生一起在咖啡厅喝咖啡聊天，和“热情友好苏格兰”的图片有些不同，巴德尔，一个马来西亚人，眨着眼睛低声说，“昨天我们家的窗户被打碎了，我妻子今天都不敢出门。”

“有贼？”莎迪雅睁大眼睛问。

“种族主义者，”一个土耳其女孩说。

在咖啡厅，布莱恩从不和他们坐在一起。他们也从不和他坐在一起，他独自坐着，有的时候读当地的报纸。当莎迪雅经过他面前的时候他没有微笑。“这些人很奇怪……偶尔某一天打招呼，第二天就视而不见…………”

周五下午，在线性模型课下课后，当所有人都准备下课离开教室时，莎迪雅鼓足勇气对布莱恩说话。他下巴和前额上有一些污点，他比她高很多，显得焦躁不安，好像有急事要去其他地方似的，他把计算器放回包里，钢笔放回口袋中。她问他借笔记时，他的眼镜片后面的一双蓝眼睛露出了极度的茫然，她还从来没有见过如此茫然的表情。为什么如此惊讶？难道他认为他是一只昆虫？难道他诧异于她会说话？

他回答得很含糊，所有的话都黏在了一起。他就是这样。他用脚把椅子推到了桌子下面。

“你说什么？”

他把每句话都分开来，慢慢说道，“我下周一给你带来。”

“谢谢。”她的英语说得比他好！多么的可怜，他整个人都是如此的可怜。他竟然每天都穿同一件衬衫，那件灰白条子的衬衫。

周末的时候，莎迪雅几乎很少出去，除了偶尔接到从家里打来的电话，她几乎和谁都不说话。有时想起在喀土穆的某个周四的晚上，和法瑞德开着他的红色奔驰车一起去参加婚礼。或者和她的妹妹一起去俱乐部，坐在泳池边一起喝加冰的柠檬味汽水，侍者们都穿着白色衣服。而在这里，在这个国家的周末，莎迪雅能做的就只有洗衣服、洗头发。

周末时，她把她的花费列了一张清单，如果在她自己的国家，这些英国货币足够养活一个家庭。但是，在花费了这么多钱后，她很有可能会考试失败，最后两手空空，连个学位都没有地回到家里。罪恶感就像这个城市的雾一样，到处都是。有一天，她早上忘记了祷告。她到公交车站的时候才想起来。那个早上就像她经常会梦到的噩梦一样，在梦里，她什么都没穿地走在街上。

晚上的时候，她凝视着多维尺度分析，走廊里的电话响了。她跑去接电话。电话里传来了法瑞德欢快的问候：“喂，莎迪雅，妈妈和姐姐们想要和你说话。”电话里传来了妈妈亲切的问候：“听他们说，你那里很冷…………”

莎迪雅和法瑞德订婚了。法瑞德拥有七喜饮料的经销权，纸厂，他为他的姐姐和寡妇妈妈建了一所大房子。莎迪雅要和他们所有人结婚。她会很快乐，也要让她妈妈很快乐。她的妈妈在经历了人生的不幸以后，值得拥有幸福。她的丈夫离开了她，和另一个女人在一起了。妈妈让六个女儿受教育，结婚。但是主是慷慨的，人们常说，她的女儿一个赛一个的可爱。她们都很聪明，牙医、药剂师、建筑师，并且都很有礼貌。

“我们刚刚看完房子回来。”法瑞德又接回了电话“房子进展得很顺利，他们正在贴瓷砖。”

“那好，那好。”因为一整天没有和任何人说话，她的声音听起来怪怪的。

我们的卫浴套装。如果我给我们俩，还有妈妈和姐姐们都买相同的颜色，我就能够获得折扣。蓝色的，姐姐们喜欢蓝色的，”他声音的回音从遥远的另一个大陆传了过来。

“蓝色很好，可以的，都买相同的颜色吧。”

他正在建造一座公寓楼，不是一所房子。第一层给他的妈妈，还有那些没结婚的姐妹们准备的，第二层是他和莎迪雅住的。当莎迪雅刚和法瑞德订婚时，他还是一个有钱人的儿子。他的父亲拥有七喜饮料的经销权，纸厂专门生产女性卫生巾。但是法瑞德的父亲在订婚典礼之后，死于突发性心脏病（当时有500多名宾客在希尔顿酒店）。现在，莎迪雅要和自己变成有钱人的男人结婚了。

在电话里，法瑞德没有时间询问她的课程，也没有时间了解她的焦虑。法瑞德对她的学习一点都不感兴趣。他曾经说：“我能够让你去国外读书是非常开明的。其他的男人是不会允许的。”莎迪雅的妈妈对她的学习十分上心，希望她在英国获得研究生学历，并且婚后仍旧拥有她自己的事业。她妈妈说：“这样，你就会得到夫家人的尊重，他们有钱但你有学历。不要像我这样，没有念完书就和你爸爸结婚了，而现在……”

周一，布莱恩什么都没说，就把两个文件夹从桌子上滑给了她，好像他不想要靠近她，不想和她说话一样。她想说：“如果你不礼貌地把它们递到我的手上，我就不接它们。”但她足够聪明，她说：“非常感谢。”她很有礼貌，很有教养。

莎迪雅回到家，在她的桌子上，她看到了迄今为止最为清晰的笔记，字迹清晰，也是最整洁的笔记。她一直在哭，直到她的泪水弄湿了一页纸，墨水变成了污痕，一个方程式因此变得模糊不清。她用纸巾轻轻地擦拭，结果，纸被蹭薄了，变得透明了。应不应该为笔记上的污痕道歉呢？说她在喝水，或者因为下雨？又或者她干脆保持缄默，寄希望于他没有发现？她孩子般地考虑了所有的可能。他从来都没有意识到他每天都穿着同一件衬衫。她总是很关注他。他就是一个幼稚且自我封闭的人。他可能来自于一个小地方，他的父母可能很穷，是下层社会的人。在喀土穆，她从未和这样阶层的人打过交道。她妈妈希望她结交社会地位高的朋友。希望她和她的姐妹们都能嫁得很好。她必须好好研究笔记，停止对着这个男孩的笔记哭泣。他的笔记和她一点关系都没有，对她来说什么都不是。

由不理解变得有点儿理解，犹如云开雾散，图片摇摇摆摆地终于聚焦了，找不到的碎片也都一一归位了。碎片凝聚成一个完整而生动的整体，一个能够建造建筑的地基。他的笔记是她所需要的知识，是她需要填补的空白。她努力地阅读那些笔记，不是粗枝大叶不求甚解地略读，而是完全彻底地吸收，把笔记变成自身的一部分，直到在最深层的精神集中点，在深沉的夜里，她完全失去了时空概念，全然不知身处何时何地，最后，当她睡着了时，她自己变成了统计学中的符号和变量。

现在和他说话感觉自在了一点。正如她已经花费了几天的时间研读他的笔记，她稍微对他有了一些了解。她忘记了他把笔记从桌子上滑给她时的冒犯，以及从来都不对她打招呼。

在机房，统计软件包这门课要下课的时候，她走到他面前，说：“谢谢你的笔记，它们太棒了。我担心最后我可能还是会不及格，但我现在至少有及格的可能了。”她的眼睛因为熬夜而变得干燥。她很累但又很愉快。

他点了点头，他们在聊一些关于于泊松分布、排队论的事情。他脑中的每一件事情都很清晰；他的大脑仿佛是一个清晰的窗格，所有的概念都整洁地写在那里。今天，看起来他和她在一起时更放松了一点，尽管两只脚还在不断地换来换去，避免和她眼神接触。

他说：“你想去喝杯咖啡吗？”

她看着他。他很高，她还不习惯和有着蓝眼睛的人讲话。然后，她犯了一个错误。可能由于她昨晚熬夜了，她才犯了那个错误。可能这个错误的发生毫无其他原因可言。

她说：“我不喜欢你的耳环。”

他的眼神，变得聚焦，不再闪烁。他用手将耳环用力地拉了下来。他的耳垂因为没有了这个银色的东西而变得很红，又显得伤痕累累。

她因为害怕而咯咯地笑了，他从不笑，也不说话。她用手挡住了嘴巴，然后摸了摸她的前额和眼睛。已经犯了一个无法弥补的错误。她又继续向前一步，变得更加的大胆、鲁莽。“我不喜欢你的长头发。”

他什么也没说，转身离开了。

和大多数同学一样，她每节课都坐在相同的座位上。布莱恩坐在他的前一排，所以她总能看到他的头发。但是今天他把头发剪掉了，没有马尾辫了！只能看见他的脖子和灰白条子衬衫的衣领。

她的内心很复杂。在她内心深处，在虚荣的硬壳下面，在她真实的、未被改变的本性里，她会感到兴高采烈，肃然起敬，感到惭愧，心里会想，他做的这些都是为了我，他居然为我剪了头发。但是她的性格还有其他的层面，更接近表面，更加大胆放肆的层面。她想抓住一个朋友，咯咯地笑着对她说，我跟你说！你不会相信这个傻瓜居然会这么做！

下课后，他走了过来，非常严肃地说，“我把头发剪了。”

她内心深处大笑地喊着：“你这个傻子，你这个傻子，难道我看不见吗？”

她说：“这样很好。”她又说错话了，脸上感觉很烫，她把脸转过去，这样就不会看到他的反应。但是他真的看起来很好；他看起来很得体。

当他们拿着咖啡杯找空位子的时候，她本可以对莱恩说，“我们和阿萨法还有其他人坐在一起吧。”一个错误接着一个错误。经过咖啡厅时，那个土耳其女孩看到他们在一起，扬了扬她那漂亮的眉毛。巴德尔与莎迪雅眼神接触，很快就转移了目光。迪雅看着布莱恩，没有了耳环和马尾辫，他变得很不一样。可能那些打碎巴德尔玻璃的男孩就像布莱恩一样，但是他们有凶狠的眼神，不戴眼镜。她必须要把他从她身边赶走，她要让他不喜欢她。

他问她从哪里来，她回答以后，他说，“那又是在哪里？”

“非洲，”她带着讽刺说。“你知道它在哪吗？”

他的鼻子和眼镜下面的面颊变红了。很好，她想，太好了，他很快就会让我清净了。

他说：“我知道苏丹在非洲，我的意思是非洲的具体位置。”

“东北部，在埃及的南部，你来自于哪？”

“彼得黑德，爱丁堡的北部，靠近海边。”

“你爸爸在彼得黑德工作吗？”

“是的。”

她从小是听英国广播公司国际频道的标准英语长大的，不料到了英国却发现人们说“yes”时跟家乡人用阿拉伯语说“aye”的发音很相似。

“你爸爸是做什么的？”

他看起来很惊讶。“我爸爸是一名工匠。”

法瑞德就是雇佣像他爸爸这样的人在家里干活。对他们下命令。

“那你妈妈呢？”她又问。

他停了一会，用塑料勺搅拌咖啡里面的糖。“她是卖棒棒糖的。”

莎迪雅得意地笑了，然后了一口咖啡。

“我父亲，”她骄傲地说，“是一名医生，一名专家。”她爸爸是一名妇科专家。他现在的妻子就曾经是他的病人。

“我妈妈，”她夸大了事实，“她来自于一个大家族，一个统治家族。如果英国不在我们这里建立殖民地的话，我妈妈现在就是一个公主。”

“你走路很像一个公主，”他说。

真是一个容易受骗又愚蠢的男孩！她用手摸了摸额头说，“你的意思是我自负又骄傲？”

“不，我不是那个意思，不是的……”撕开的糖包从他手上掉了下来，里面的糖撒的桌子上到处都是。“哦，糟糕……不好意思……”他试着把糖舀上来，却又碰到了咖啡杯，里面的咖啡又洒到了桌子上一点。

她从包里拿出一张面巾纸，擦干了上面的污迹。用湿巾很容易就能把所有的糖拾起来。

“谢谢，”他含糊地说，他们之间突然变得很安静。咖啡馆里很吵：到处都是嗡嗡声，人们相互之间谈话的嘈杂声，以及托盘的声音。在喀土穆，她避免和法瑞德单独待在一起。她更喜欢他们俩和其他人在一起；和他们的家人，或他们共同的朋友。

布莱恩和她说了一些他在迪伊河上划船的事情。他周末的时候去划船，他是一个划船俱乐部的成员。

莎迪雅很擅长让别人感到愉快。愉悦别人并不难。同意别人说的话，不要控制谈话，也不要完全说实话。但是现在面对的这个人，却是不能使用这个规则的人了。

她对他说，“尼罗河比迪伊河要好太多了，我见过你说的迪伊河，什么都不是，就像一条小溪样。我们有两条尼罗河，青尼罗河和白尼罗河，各自以它们的颜色命名。他们从南面的两个不同的地方而来。他们流经不同的国家，却不知道它们会相汇。我想它们厌倦了独自流淌，因为流向大海还有好长的路要走。但它们想要流向大海，这样就可以休息了，不再流淌。在喀土穆有一座桥，在桥下，这两条尼罗河相汇了。如果你站在桥上向下看，你可以看到两条河交汇在了一起。”

“你是不是想家了？”他问。

“我本应该思念的东西我并没有思念，而我本以为不会思念的东西我却很想念。我想念宣礼者从清真寺发出的唱礼。我不知道你是否了解它。在黎明的时候，它呼唤我起床。

我听到‘唱礼比睡觉要好’，然后就又回去睡觉了。我从不起来祷告。”她看着她在桌子上的手。这样的告解毫无任何的解脱感可言，仅仅有他年轻的微笑，以及他眼中类似于惊讶的东西。

“我们在学校读过伊斯兰教，”他说，“我也曾去过麦加。”说着，他把手掌在桌子上摊开来。

“什么！”

“在书里去过。”

“哦。”

咖啡喝完了。他们要离开了。莎迪雅要赶在下一节课前去图书馆，还要把以前考试的卷子复印出来。

“你信什么宗教？”

没有，我想没有。”

“那太可怕了，真的太可怕了！”她的声音很大，又充满着担忧。

他的脸又变红了，他用勺子轻轻敲着空咖啡杯。

她必须要放弃她的礼貌，让他不喜欢她。在巴德尔的玻璃被砸碎之前，他就曾经说过，在西方，他们仇视伊斯兰教。她站起来，轻率地说，“你成为一个穆斯林怎么样？”

他耸耸肩。“我不介意去麦加旅行，我对那本书很感兴趣。”

她的眼中充满了泪水。当他站起来的时候她看不清他的脸了。在西方，他们仇视伊斯兰教，而他……她说：“谢谢你的咖啡，”说着就要离开，他很快跟上她。

“莎迪雅拉，莎迪雅拉，”他叫错了她的名字，两个音节的名字被他说成了三个音节，“在博物馆有个关于非洲的展览。我从来没有去过。如果你想去，明天……”

明天她不需要在博物馆出现，即使她说她会去。她本应该告诉布莱恩她已经订婚了，在不经意间告诉他。他从她身上还想要得到什么？欧洲人的规则不同，他们的风俗习惯是降了格的，唐突的。如果法瑞德知道这些……她的秘密想法就像蛇一样缠绕着她。

奇怪的是周六的时候，她离开桌子，锁上房门准备出去了。走廊上的电话响了，是法瑞德。如果法瑞德知道她现在要去哪里……她的内疚就像一颗煮透的鸡蛋噎住胸口。

“莎迪雅，我想让你买一些卫生间的设施。水龙头还有毛巾架。我给你发一张我想要买的东西的清单，还有钱……”

“不行，我不行。”

“你说你不行是什么意思？如果你去大商店……”

“你可以买到这里买不到的好东西。金子就很好。它很配……”

金子，金子做得马桶座圈！

“莎迪雅，是金色的，不是金子做的。它看起来很好。”

“真主阿拉会惩罚我们的，这样是不对的……”

“你什么时候变得如此虔诚！”

布莱恩在博物馆的台阶上等她，熟悉的样子，刚到下午，城市街道就呈现一片灰蒙蒙的景象，车都已经打开了前车灯。他穿了一件不同的外衣，一件海军蓝的夹克衫。他说，没有看着她，“一开始我还以为你不会出现了。”

到博物馆参观是免费的，服务人员也没有在门口发票。他们看到的第一件展品是维多利亚时代的一个苏格兰男人。他坐在一张椅子上，周围是他从非洲带回来的财产：装满物品的卡车，一张古老的地图摊在玻璃柜底部。莎迪雅把头扭了过去，他那逼真的一缕一缕的头发，他那坚定的表情以及坐姿都透着一种丑陋。一个刚刚出去的男人又返回来了，准备做讲解。

布莱恩开始认真地研究每一件展品，阅读墙上的海报。她跟在他身后，觉得他很认真、专心；这就是为什么他学习这么好。她看着他看每一件东西时脸上专心的表情。对她来说，墙上的海报勉强可以阅读一下，但是却难以接受里面的信息。

在19世纪和20世纪，苏格兰东北部出了大量具有专业技能、敬业的人士，对整个世界做出了超出它人口比例的重大贡献。在服务于帝国的过程中，他们做出了牺牲，也得到了回报；他们改变了他人，同时也改变了自己；他们回国时经常带回一些纪念他们经历的物品。

这些实物时刻都在那里供人们参观，经过这么多年，依旧保存得十分完好。她的眼睛略去那些与时间、空间毫无关联的物品。铁和铜，小型雕像。没有什么东西是她希望看到的，是属于她在家里的生活的，是她所思念的。这是欧洲人心目中的非洲，都是些冷漠无情的、老掉牙的陈词滥调。

“她看起来很像你，你不觉得吗？”她对布莱恩说。他们站在一个20世纪初期就死于战争的战士的塑像面前。战士眼睛和头发的颜色和布莱恩一样。但是布莱恩没有回应他。他正全神贯注地在阅读一个说明。当她再次看着那个塑像的时候，她觉得她错了。那个战士眼中的力量、目标，都是布莱恩所没有的。他们在过去，有着强大的信仰。

在爱丁堡学习的一个探索家的个人简介，他们知道把什么带到非洲：医生、勇气、基督教精神、商贸、文化。他们知道他们要带回什么：由青尼罗河水和赞比西河水所灌溉的棉花。她走在布莱恩的身后，感到到它的专注以及他对眼前展品的兴趣。她想，“在照片里我们俩看上去不会相配的。”

她来参观博物馆原本期待着能看到阳光和尼罗河的照片，某种能够减轻她思乡之情的东西，一后，感觉到他的专注以及他对眼前展的兴趣。她想片，1762年，一封来自于西部非洲，一名雇佣者写给他苏格兰老板的信。这个雇佣者以苏格兰的物品来换得非洲人的好奇心。

让当地人理解我的意思是很困难的，即使通过翻译，拿出一件东西，他们很少去问，但是他们却都知道带来一些东西交换，并发自内心地对我微笑着说，我是一个好人，我很爱他们的国家……

很爱我的国家。她不应该出现在这里，这里没有什么东西是为她准备的。她想要看宣礼塔、尼罗河上的船只，还有人。

“我知道他们为什么离开了，”布莱恩说。“我知道他们为什么要走。”最后他说道。她从未如此紧张地看着他。他用低沉的声音说话。“他们不得不走，不得不离开这里……”

“去逃离可怕的天气……”她和他开着玩笑。她想要贬低他。那些曾经羞辱过她的国家历史的人，现在在他的眼中是英雄。

他看着她。“去逃离……”他重复着。

“他们想要做对自己有利的事情，”她说，“那些人离开是因为他们想要在某些方面获利。

“我想要去其他地方看看，”他说。

她记得他曾经在桌子上摊开他的手掌说，“我去过麦加旅行。”声音中充满着骄傲。

“我应该为课程去一些其他的地方，”他继续说“一个新的地方，南部的某个地方。”

他情绪很稳定，不像她。她在为一张能证明她获得了英国大学的科学硕士学位的纸而苦苦挣扎。而对他而言，课程仅仅是一个附加的东西。

“到这边来看看，”他说，他挽着她的手臂。自从上次她和妈妈拥抱说再见以后，就再也没有有人碰过她。现在在这个国家，已经有好几个月没有人碰过她了。

她把手臂抽了出来。径直走开了。她上了一层楼。枪，一排的枪对着她。它们曾等待着将她赶走。几百年前苏格兰的武器，为部队服务的军火。

银色的枪口，现在是一种肮脏的灰色。它们曾经在太阳下闪闪发亮。尽管她穿着羊毛衫，好几层的衣服，她依旧忍不住地颤抖。地狱不仅是焰焰烈火，地狱的一部分是彻骨的寒冷，是令人遭罪的冰与雪。苏格兰的冬天，你看一眼这个模糊的世界，就能感觉到它在你骨骼中的呼吸。

她坐在一张长椅上。这层没有其他人。她和丛林中动物的骨骼，还有墙上的那些话单独待在一起。一名远离家乡，在埃塞俄比亚的外交官于1903年写道：

很难想象还有什么事可以比围追阻截狮子群更令人满足和更值得参与的了。我们返回营地的时候感觉确实非常棒。阿奇说得对，这是我们自从开始这个活动以来第一次真正体验到非洲——真正的非洲就是只有野禽栖息的原始丛林以及一望无际的、到处都是羚羊的大平原。

“莎迪雅拉，你不要哭。”他还是叫错她的名字，因为她没有告诉过他如何正确地发音。

他坐在她旁边的长椅上，深蓝色的夹克衫让她面前的枪支以及羚羊群变得模糊。她应该告诉他为什么哭，这样他脸上的表情就不会如此惊恐。他紧张地问她：“你为什么哭？”

他不知道，他不会理解。他完全是个错误，他不能替换她的未婚夫……”

“这个博物馆在撒谎，”她说。“不要相信他们。全都是错的。不是只有丛林和羚羊，我们还有人。我们也有像计算机和汽车一样的东西。在非洲我们有七喜，一些人，少量的一些人，他们的卫生间里有金子做的马桶座圈……我不应该在这里和你在一起。你不应该和我说话……”

他说，“博物馆可以改变，我也可以改变……”

布莱恩不了解克服他们两个人之间存在的文化障碍是一个极其困难艰巨的任务，甚至莎迪雅都没有勇气去触碰。他不理解许多的事情，时代、景色和分歧。假如她足够坚强，她会为他解释，而不是像现在这样懒得解释。假如她足够坚强，她就会耐心地教他一种字母像他数学中遇到的弯弯曲曲的希腊字母一样的新的语言。她应该向他展示如何从左到右地阅读这些文字。假如在博物馆里她不觉得是那么微不足道、无能为力；假如她真的坚强有力，她就会使他的麦加之行成为现实，而不仅在书本上。

Key Words:

earring ['iəriŋ]

n. 耳环，耳饰

immature [.imə'tjuə]

adj. 不成熟的

keen [ki:n]

adj. 锋利的，敏锐的，强烈的，精明的，热衷的

monopoly [mə'nɔpəli]

n. 垄断，专利，独占，控制

engaged [in'geidʒd]

adj. 忙碌的，使用中的，订婚了的

sparse [spɑ:s]