殷晓媛等三人翻译《纬经与背面——中古诗人诗选》在哈瓦那出版
近日，《纬经与背面——中古诗人诗选》由位于哈瓦那的Colección Sur Editores出版社出版，收录六位诗人精选诗歌，译者为赵振江、殷晓媛及亚瑟夫•阿南达•卡尔德隆。其中罗伯特·费尔南德斯·瑞特马尔诗歌部分由殷晓媛翻译。
罗伯特·费尔南德斯·瑞特马尔（Roberto Fernández Retamar）：
诗人、散文家、教授。出生于1930年6月9日，全国文学奖得主，古巴国务院成员、古巴语言学会成员、西班牙皇家语言学会成员、“美洲之家”主席。
1954年取得哈瓦那大学哲学和文学博士学位，曾在索邦大学（1955）和伦敦大学（1956）学习语言学。哈瓦那大学及耶鲁大学教授。1960年担任古巴驻巴黎文化参赞。《起源》杂志撰稿人。1959-1960年《新古巴》杂志负责人，古巴驻法国文化参赞（1960）、古巴作家与艺术家协会秘书（1961-1964）。1981年被授予菲利克斯·瓦雷拉一级勋章，1989年和2009年获得国家文学奖，鲁本·达里拉丁美洲诗歌奖（1980）。他的著作被翻译成不同语言，在德国、巴西、保加利亚、捷克、韩国、古巴、美国、法国、格鲁吉亚、希腊、意大利、牙买加、葡萄牙、波兰、俄罗斯和南斯拉夫出版。
费尔南德斯在哪？
——给另一位卡拉玛佐夫[1]
[古巴]罗伯特·费尔南德斯·瑞特马尔
殷晓媛 译
此时他走进来，出乎我的意料
我是他最钟爱的儿子，我确信几位弟兄
知晓这一点，不会恼恨我的直言不讳
至少，任何情况下他的偏爱总是公平的
当马诺洛还是孩子时，父亲指着我对他说
（洛斯卡斯特拉诺斯咖啡馆的大理石桌面仍历历在目
我们在黑色木椅上坐成一圈
背景中镶着大镜面、摆着大长排酒瓶的酒吧
现在只在老电影里才能看到）
“你弟弟分数是高，但是最聪明的是你。”
后来，很久以后，他又指着我对他说：
“你弟弟爱写诗，但你才是做诗人的料。”
不用说，两件事他都说得没错
但这种表达偏爱的方式多么奇怪
他并非死于肝病（他嗜酒如命，但反而是他的哥哥佩特罗因肝病去世）
但他死于肺癌扩散，医生说是因为烟不离手
事实上印象中任何时候见到他熏黄的手指间都夹着一支烟
如今我的手和他当年一样修长
即使在医院里弥留之际，他还央求我们给他点上一支烟
能再抽一会儿算一会儿
我们给他点了烟，不过并没起到什么作用
他的头号情人和莎剧女主角同名
我们绝不能在家里提起
但（我想）那个名字的历史至少要追溯到游吟诗人时代
但他真正心爱的女人（不是法定配偶，不是他的贤妻）
是我母亲。当她从麻醉中醒来（她终究还是没能挨过那场手术）
陪伴在她身边的不是他，而是我
但她一睁开眼睛，就用沙哑的嗓音问道：“费尔南德斯在哪？”
我不记得自己怎样回答，我找到最近的电话，打给他
这个总是有勇气直面一切的男人，竟然不忍心见她最后一面
或者是想等到手术结束
他回到家里，独自关在房间里来回踱步
我太了解他，因为我也有这习惯
他颤抖的手摸索着，想要点什么酒喝：
他在找一支珍珠枪托的手枪，母亲藏起来了，任何情况下
他都不该用到它
我告诉他母亲走得还算轻松，她问他在哪里，他应该来看她
他不安地赶来，说快也快，但太晚了。他还是我父亲，同时
又变成了需要我关怀的儿子
大娘去世得晚一些，那位勇敢的莎剧女主
然后他如莎剧人物般撒手尘寰
像个怪异、衰老、动荡不安、土里土气的罗密欧
（当然罗密欧本就是个乡巴佬）.
体内的雷火被抽空，人生失去意义。他住在公寓里的女朋友
不复存在，那个身材娇小、深褐头发的女人
1926年大飓风时他顶风走在屋脊上，恐惧到极点
他和那名女子的蜜月是在贝拉斯科爱恩街的小旅馆里度过的
她颤抖着，亲吻他，给他生儿子
一直如初夜般温存：
他们的长子死了——他们永远的“小宝贝”
1934年医生罢工时
他陪他一起复习期末考试，一头黝黑的头发都变成了灰色
她的秀发却仍然乌亮，仿佛燃烧着，反抗着生活的不公
反抗着马查多[2]和拥抱革命的巴蒂斯塔[3]
她的双眼明亮而纯净，现在沉睡在泥土之下了
裹着她任教的赛罗小学的国旗——那是一所小型公立女校
像她兄长阿尔方索任教的男校一样——他是鲁本·马提内斯·魏勒纳[4]的校友
不抽烟、不喝酒，并非魅力四射、也没有电影明星范儿
她才是真正的明星
她在搓衣石上搓洗衣服
撩肥皂沫来，即兴吟诗作曲
孩子们为此充满一种不常见的仰慕、自豪和尴尬的复杂情绪
因为他们认识的别的母亲并不如此
（当然他们认识的母亲也彼此各不相同，正如马蒂所说，
每个母亲都是一个奇迹）
老人生命的雷火如今像风中残烛
他在客厅里枯坐几小时，房子仿佛变得越来越空旷
鸟笼都空了，院落间的植物也枯干了
有时候父亲给我们——他的儿子们讲故事
讲他的小冒险
仿佛我们不是他的儿子，而是他已过世的哥们
他想叫来他们喝酒、商量事情
在早已不复存在的咖啡馆和酒吧里朗诵
在他去世前一晚，我终于在海边读完了《基督山伯爵》
那感觉就像是从他眼神中读到一般
在昏暗天主教学校的食堂里
他度过了孤苦伶仃的童年，唯一的快乐
就是读书，比如他滔滔不绝向我讲起这一本
那是他梦想中的逍遥法外的自己，更加勇敢（而非复仇心切）
而且阔绰（他从未富裕过，因为他比阳光还坦白，
有一次他发现自己干的是以权谋私的差事就毅然辞职，就此远近皆知）
他有过一些绯闻（这也算是他的幸运，虽然结局并不尽如人意）
浑身反骨、衣着考究、舌灿莲花，俨然伯爵本尊，甚至有过之而无不及
也许又像一个火枪手，他过着富有戏剧性之中，正如活在观念和语言里
甚至带有一种碾压一切的真实感
并且他勇敢，勇气十足，与警察或小偷对峙
直面伪君子、骗子和杀手
弥留之时他让我擦去他眉头的汗
我拿手绢擦拭后，才发现其实
擦掉的是他的眼泪。他什么也没说
他痛苦不堪，即将长逝；但这位伯爵
这位体重八九十磅的火枪手，只是让我
擦去他眉头的汗
[1] 《卡拉马佐夫兄弟》是俄国作家陀思妥耶夫斯基创作的长篇小说。该书通过一桩真实的弑父案，描写老卡拉马佐夫同三个儿子即两代人之间的尖锐冲突。老卡拉马佐夫贪婪好色，独占妻子留给儿子们的遗产，并与长子德米特里为一个风流女子争风吃醋。一天黑夜，德米特里疑心自己的情人去跟老头儿幽会，便闯入家园，一怒之下，差点把老头儿砸死。他仓皇逃离后，躲在暗中装病的老卡拉马佐夫的私生子斯麦尔加科夫悄然杀死老爷，造成了一桩震惊全俄的扑朔迷离的血案，从而引发了一连串惊心动魄的事件。作品展示一个错综复杂的社会、家庭、道德和人性的悲剧主题。
[2] 格拉多·马查多（Gerardo Machado）：古巴独立战争（1895—1898）中的英雄，后来成为独裁者和古巴共和国的第5任总统（1925年5月20日～1933年8月24日）。被称为加勒比海地区的墨索里尼，被推翻后流亡美国而死。
[3] 鲁本·富尔亨西奥·巴蒂斯塔·萨尔迪瓦将军（GeneralRubén Fulgencio Batista y Zaldívar，1901年1月16日－1973年8月6日），古巴军事领导人，1933年-1940年为古巴实际的军事领导人，1940年-1944年为民选的古巴总统。1952年，他通过军事政变重新成为古巴的最高领导人，他的独裁统治同时招致了民众的普遍反对。1958年底，巴蒂斯塔在古巴革命胜利在望之时，被迫流亡国外。
[4] 鲁本·马提内斯·魏勒纳（Rubén Martínez Villena）古巴作家、革命家，1899年12月20日生于哈瓦那省阿尔基萨。
WHERE’S FERNÁNDEZ?
To the other Karamazov
Now he comes in, to my surprise.
I was his favorite son and I´m sure my brothers
Know that´s how it was and won´t be put out if I say so.
In any case his preference was at least fair.
When Manolo was still a kid, he said to him, pointing at me
(I can see the marble-topped table in Los Castellanos café
We were sitting around, and the dark wooden chairs,
And the bar in the background with the big mirror and the long rows of bottles
That now and again I only see in old films):
“Your brother gets the best grades, but you´re the brightest.”
Later, much later, he told him, always pointing at me:
“Your brother writes the poetry, but you´re the poet.”
Needless to say, he was right on both counts,
But what a strange way to show preference.
It wasn´t his liver that killed him (he´d been a heavy drinker , but it was his brother Pedro who was hit with liver trouble),
But his lung, where the cancer spread because they said he chain-smoked.
And the truth is I can hardly remember ever seeing him without a cigarette between his yellow-stained fingers.
Those long fingers of his hand that is my hand now.
Even in the hospital, dying, he begged us to light him a cigarette.
Just for a minute. Just for a minute.
And we lit it for him. It didn´t make any difference by then.
His main mistress had a Shakespearean heroine´s name,
That name we couldn´t utter at home.
But (I think) that´s as far as the connection to the Bard went.
However, his real woman (not his spouse and certainly not his good wife)
Was my mother. When she came to from the anesthetic after the operation that eventually killed her,
It wasn´t he, but I who was at her side.
But as soon as she opened her eyes, she asked, thickly, “Where is Fernández ? ”
I no longer remember what I said. I went to the nearest telephone and rang him up.
He, who had always had the courage to face things, couldn´t bring himself to say good-bye to her,
Or wait until that operation was over.
He was at home, alone, surely pacing from one end to another,
I know so well because I do it myself, surely
Reaching out with a shaky hand for something to drink; searching
For the little pistol with the pearl grips that mama had hidden from him and in any case
He would never have used it for that.
I told him mama had come through okay, that she´d asked after him, that should come.
He arrived restless, quick and slow. He was still my father, but at the same time
He had already started being my son.
Mama died a bit later, that brave heroine.
And he began to die like the Shakespearean character he really was.
Like a strange, old, moving, provincial Romeo
(But Romeo was a provincial, too).
The thunder went out of him, life lost its meaning. His girlfriend
From the boarding house no longer existed, that little brunette
He had almost frightened to death walking on the edge of the roof in the hurricane of ´26;
The girl with whom he´d spent a honeymoon in a little hotel on Belascoaín Street,
And she trembled, kissed him and gave him sons
Without losing her modesty of that first night;
With whom he shared the death of their eldest, “the little one” for always,
During the doctors ´strike in ´34;
With whom he had studied for the finals; and whose jet-black hair turned gray,
But not her, that burned against injustice,
Against Machado, against Batista; the one who welcomed the Revolution
With eyes bright and pure, and was lowered into the ground
Wrapped in the Cuban flag of her Cerro school, the little public school for girls,
Like the boys´school where her brother Alfonso was a schoolfriend of Rubén Martínez Villena;
Who didn´t smoke or drink, wasn´t smoke or drink, wasn´t glamorous and didn´t look like a film star,
Because she was a real star;
Who while she washed at the stone wash place,
Worked up the soap suds and improvised poems and songs,
Filing her children with a rare mixture of admiration and pride and embarrassement, too,
Because other mothers they knew weren´t like that
mother is like another, that every mother,
As Martí said, should be called a marvel).
And old man thunder began to go like a candle.
He sat hours in the living room of a house that had become enormous.
The bird cages were empty. The plants in the patio had dried up.
Sometimes he would talk to us, his sons,
And would tell us things about his modest adventures,
As if we weren´t his sons, but those old cronies of his
Who were al dead, who he´d get together with to drink, conspire and recite,
In cafés and bars that no longer existed.
On the eve of his death I finally read The Count of Montecristo, by the sea,
And I felt I was reading it through his eyes,
In the dining room of the somber Catholic school
Where he consumed his orphan´s childhood, with no other happiness
Than reading books like that one, that he talked to me so much about.
That´s what he wanted to be like out of captivity: just (more than vengeful) and gallant.
With some wealth (which he never had, because he was as honest as the sun´s rays,
And he even became famous because he once resigned from a post when he realized he was supposed to steal).
With some love affairs (which he was fortunate enough to have, although they didn´t always turn out so well in the end).
Rebellious, picturesque, rhetorical like the Count, or better yet,
Like a musketeer. I don´t know. He lived literature, the way he lived ideas and words,
With an authenticity that´s overwhewlming.
And he was courageous, very courageous, when confronted with police and thieves,
When confronted with hypocrites, liars and assassins.
Near the end he asked me to wipe the sweat from his brow.
I picked up the towerl and did so, but I realized then
That I was wiping away his tears. He didn´t say anything.
He was in horrible pain and was dying. But the Count,
Gallant, eighty- or ninety-pond musketeer that he was, only asked me
To please wipe the sweat from his brow.
替命之人 (写于1959年1月1日)
[古巴]罗伯特·费尔南德斯·瑞特马尔
殷晓媛 译
于是我们幸存下来——
谁是我们的恩主？
谁为我死于囚牢
谁替我挡掉那一发射向我的子弹，
让它射穿了他的心脏？
我在谁死亡的废墟上重生？
谁的骨骼与我紧紧交缠？
谁迸脱的眼珠
看穿了我的面颜？
那是谁的手，不是他的手
但现在也不像是我的了
它写下这些断断续续的句子
幸存在这亦真亦幻的土地上
哪里没有他的影踪？
THE OTHER (1 January, 1959)
And so we survive−
And owe our survival to whom?
Who was it died for me in his cell,
Took my bullet, the one
Meant for me, in his heart?
I live through whose death?
Whose bones are locked with mine?
Whose ripped-out eyes
Are looking through my face?
What hand, not his hand
But not quite mine now either,
Is writing these broken words
In this unlikely land, survival,
Where he is not be found?
同一双手
[古巴]罗伯特·费尔南德斯·瑞特马尔
殷晓媛 译
我用爱抚你的手修建一所学校
我赶在黎明前到来，穿着自认为的工装
男人和孩子们衣衫褴褛地等待着
他们叫我“先生”
他们在破败不堪的农舍里上课
就地架起儿童床过夜
至少不用再睡在桥下和门廊里
其中一个会识字，他们听说我有一家图书馆就把他找来
（他个子高挑、容光焕发，醒目的欧非混血的脸上挂着络腮胡）
我穿过所谓的校食堂，现在只剩下壁脚板
朋友在上面用手指勾画以前门窗的位置
后院里一群孩子用小车
推着碎石到处跑。我要来一车
学会了基层工人的基本功
我第一次拿起铲子，我和工人们一起从乡下水源饮水
疲惫时，我想起你，那天
你抱了满怀采撷的粮食，直到它们遮住了你的视线
就如我此刻视线模糊
我们离真实的事物已多么遥远,
爱，也多么遥远，仿佛人与人之间的疏离！
对话、午餐
都被充分品味，还有牧师的友谊
那时的一对恋人
连彼此对望都会脸红，他们欢笑
喝过咖啡后一起抽烟
无时无刻
我不在想念你
也许今天更甚于平日
我帮助他们修建学校的
与爱抚你的，是同一双手
WITH THE SAME HANDS
With the same hands with which I caress you I am building a school.
I arrived just before dawn, wearing what I thought were work clothes.
But the men and lads waiting in their tatters
Still called me Mister.
They are in a run-down country house
Where cots are set up: They spend the nights there
Now, instead of sleeping under bridges or in doorways.
One of them can read, and they sent for him when they learned I had a library.
(He is tall, radiant, and his bold mulato face sports a beard.)
I passed through what would be the school dining room, today marked only by baseboards
Over which my friend traces windows and doors in the air with his finger.
In back a group of lads were carrying gravel about
In swift wheelbarrows. I asked for one
And set about learning the elemental work of elemental men.
Later I took up my first shovel and drank the rustic water of the workers,
And, weary, I thought of you, of that time
You kept gathering in the harvest till you sight over clouded,
Like mine now.
How far we were from the true things,
Love, how far―like one from another!
Conversation and lunch
Were richly deserved, as well as the preacher´s friendship.
There were even two lovers
Who blushed when looked their way, laughing,
Smoking, after c offee.
There is no moment
When I am not thinking of you.
And perhaps more than ever today,
While I help to build this school
With the same hands with which I caress you.
殷晓媛：
“百科诗派”创始人、智库型长诗作者、“泛性别主义”写作首倡者、中、日、英、法、德多语言写作者。中国作家协会、中国诗歌学会、中国翻译协会会员。代表作有11000行长诗“前沿三部曲”、六万行结构主义长诗“风能玫瑰”等。出版有第四部个人诗集：《印象之内，物象之外》、《它们曾从卓尔金历中掠过》、《前沿三部曲》、《播云剂》（百科诗派创派10周年年鉴系列）及多部译著，最近一部为2018年8月纽约New Feral出版社出版的《成为一条河流》（Bill Wolak著），著作被美国、英国、德国、法国、俄罗斯、爱尔兰、新西兰等国一百余家国家图书馆、世界顶级名校图书馆和大使馆大规模收藏。主持“2018人工智能纸魔方”（六国语版）视觉设计+行为艺术项目，所发起“百科之友主题跨界创作工坊”创作出各类综合文本、摄影、绘画、装置、音乐、对联、朗诵、书法作品一百二十余件。曾授权其独家翻译诗歌的包括美国、瑞典、爱尔兰、英国、澳大利亚、西班牙、阿根廷、印度、日本、古巴、洪都拉斯、哥伦比亚、玻利维亚、厄瓜多尔等的50余位国际诗人。2018年独自游历全国名山大川，包括全程徒步登顶泰山。俄罗斯国家图书馆采编部部长T.V.彼得鲁先科将百科诗派著作誉为“横贯当代中国诗坛的百科诗学主义之强流”，多米尼加国家图书馆馆藏发展部部长Glennys Reyes Tapia则称之为“博大文化代表、书志编纂研究瑰宝”。
殷晓媛“独家授权译介”系列：
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