Skates

  by Bruce Holland Rogers
I want to tell you the story of the girl with the roller skates, but I can’t. That is, I must instead tell you the story of the young woman with the roller skates because my friend Nicole—who does not, by the way, roller skate—has disallowed the use of the term girl. “Regardless of context,” she says, “it is a violation of a woman’s dignity to call her a girl.”“But what if ‘girl’ is what I mean?” I argue. “What if I want to express a sort of relationship between two people that is different from what ‘young woman’ would suggest? Or what if I mean for ‘girl’ to sound ironic? Or if ‘girl’ is just more economical?”Nicole says, “Listen. If you call a woman a girl then you might as well surrender to your rage and rape her. It comes down to the same thing.”So here is the story of the young woman with the roller skates, and there are no girls in it at all.
I sat at a cafe table, out where I could feel the chill of early spring and watch people pass in the street. It was the second month and sixth day since I had come back to the apartment to find Felice’s bags packed and standing in the center of the hallway. When I walked into the living room, she was disconnecting the stereo wires.
“What’s going on?” I said, and then felt stupid for saying it.
Felice brushed the hair back from her face. She was wearing more makeup than
usual. Her lips looked soft and full and brilliantly red. “I’m moving in with Gregor,”she said.
I said, “I thought we were in love.”
She unplugged the turntable. “The notion of romantic love is illusory.”
“Maybe it is,” I said, “but don’t we all need illusions which allow us to order our lives? And Gregor is an asshole. You’ve said so yourself a million times.”
“Gregor is easily misunderstood. I understand him now.” She was trying to get the stereo receiver into a box, but the flaps kept closing and she didn’t have a hand free to hold them open. I stepped over the rolled-up oriental carpet and held the flaps for her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You know,” I said, “this is my stereo.”
“I thought it was ours.”
“I had it before you moved in.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, I need it.”
“You need it?”
“Oh, come on. I want to do this without a fight.”
“Well you can’t take the carpet,” I told her. “It’s the one really nice thing I own, and it was my grandmother’s.”
“I need that, too. Gregor’s floors are all tile and you know how I can’t stand a cold floor in the morning.”
I held open another box for her. “Don’t go,” I said.
She brushed her hair back and turned toward my speakers. “Do we have a box for these?”
“Don’t go,” I said again. Again, she brushed her hair back. I said, “Felice, why don’t you pin your hair up so that you aren’t always brushing it out of your face?”
She said, “That’s why I’m leaving you. You’re always trying to change people. Gregor noticed that about you.”
She picked up one of the speakers and carried it to the hallway where her bags were stacked. Gregor came. I left. When I returned, I found that they had taken the carpet after all.
I remembered all of this as I sat drinking coffee and noticing how the insects glowed in the hazy light. Insects were a sign of spring. So was the haze that obscured the foothills. Even the occasional, puffy clouds around the sun looked promisingly warm. Because it was early in the season, the chairs of the cafe were still chained to the tables, and the tables were shoved together to one side of the patio. No one else sat outside.
Felice and I used to come here, and sometimes men on the sidewalk would
watch her as they passed. She always kept her fingernails long and crimson, and her dark eyes were always full of light. She laughed a lot. Sometimes, when she laughed, she would brush her hair back out of her face. If other men stared at her, I didn’t mind. I knew she loved me.
I still did not care about the stereo. I didn’t have any records to play on it, anyway.
Felice told me she didn’t have time to sort them, but that she would bring mine back after she picked hers out of the stack.
My coffee was cold. Clouds moved across the face of the sun, shifting the light around. I lit a cigar. I had taken up smoking after Felice had gone because I knew that if she ever happened to walk by as I was puffing away, she would know how miserable I was. However, I hadn’t seen her since she had left. By now I was beginning to like the feel of smoking. By puffing a little cloud of smoke in front of my face, I could feel mysterious. I was practicing just such little puffs when the sunlight dimmed all around me.
Then the light reappeared across the street, between two freshly green trees, and a young woman glided into the light on roller skates. She pirouetted on her wheels, right between the trees, and skated on. The sunlight returned to my side of the street as she skated onto the patio of the cafe.
I smiled. She smiled back. I said, “Hello.”
She was wearing stereo headphones, so she couldn’t hear me when I said, “Nice day,”
but she smiled again. She started skating in the open area of the patio behind me. I watched her a little, and then I didn’t. I decided I liked having her there, and I didn’t want her to feel I was staring and then leave.
I drank my coffee cold and liked it.
A man in a grey three-piece suit and carrying a brief case walked by and watched her as he passed. I frowned. He didn’t notice me, but he kept walking.
Another man passed. He, too, turned his head to watch her and then continued on his way. I swirled the cold coffee in my cup.
A third man, a tall, blond, athletic-looking type, started by, but when he noticed the young woman on roller skates he stopped. He came over to the edge of the patio and watched her. Then he smiled at her. I glanced in her direction. She hadn’t noticed him yet.
I stood up and crossed to the sidewalk. I stood several feet from him and folded my arms. I glared.
He looked at me. He read my eyes. Then he looked at her, at me again, and walked away.
I stood there by the sidewalk for a long time, listening to the sounds of her wheels on the concrete. If any man happened to look her way, I folded my arms and tried to catch his eye. Once, some guy smiled at her, and I think he was trying to catch her eye. I took a couple of purposeful strides his way, and when he saw me he put his hands up in a “Sorry, I didn’t know” kind of gesture. No one stopped to watch her again.
Finally, she skated past me. I didn’t turn in time to say goodbye, but I watched for some time as my young woman made her way down the street. The sun was setting, and the street had an orange cast to it as she disappeared around a corner.
I went inside and ordered a fresh coffee.
I took out a cigar, but I didn’t light it. I sat at my chained table and chair for a long time. The manager didn’t turn on the outside lights, so the patio got a little dark as night came on. I was cold, but I didn’t want to leave. It seemed to me that the last thing I would ever want to do was go home to an apartment that had no music.
The street was quiet. I lit the cigar.

 

女人与溜冰鞋
一叶金枫译

我想对你讲一个穿着溜冰鞋的女孩的故事，可是，我却不能讲。那就是，我必须对你讲一个穿着溜冰鞋的年轻女人的故事，因为我的朋友妮可儿-顺便说一下-她不溜冰，不容许我用女孩这个词。
“不管什么内容，”她说，“称一个女人为女孩有违女人尊严。”
“但是，如果我就是要说‘女孩’这个意思呢？”我争辩道。
“那如果我想表现一种与‘年轻女人’不同的一种两个人的关系呢？或者如果我想用‘女孩’来听起来具有嘲讽的味道呢？又假如‘女孩’只不过是更加简约呢？”
妮可儿说，“听着，如果你叫一个女人是女孩，那你倒不如任着你的性子把她给强奸了。到头来都是一回事。”
所以，这是一个穿溜冰鞋的女人的故事，而且根本没有女孩在这个故事里。
我坐在一个咖啡桌前，在这外边，我能感受到早春的料峭，而且能看街上过往行人。这是我回到公寓的第二个月第六天，那天回来却看到费丽霞的行李都打好了堆在公寓走廊中间。我走进客厅时，她正在拔着音响的电线。
“这是在做什么啊？”我说，然后觉得说这句话很蠢。
费丽霞把头发从脸上往后拢了拢。她的妆化得比平常浓。她的嘴唇柔软丰满，红艳艳的。“我要跟格利戈搬到一块去，”她说。
我说，“我以为我们相爱。”
她拔了转盘的电线。“浪漫爱情的想法是虚幻的。”
“也许是，” 我说，“但是难道我们不都需要幻想来让我们生活着吗？而且格利戈是个混球。你自己这样说过一百万次了。”
“格利戈很容易让人产生误解。可现在我理解他了。”她在把音响的接收器往一个箱子里装，但是箱盖老是弹盖回去而她又没有一只空手去把箱盖撑开着。我跨过已经卷了起来的东方式地毯为她把箱盖撑着。
“谢谢，”她说。
“你知道吗，”我说，“这是我的音响。”
“我以为是我们俩的。”
“我在你没搬进来之前就有了。”
“哦，”她说。“噢，我需要它。”
“你需要它？”
“哎呀，好了吧。我就想不吵吵闹闹地办了这事。”
“那你不能把地毯拿走，”我对她说。“这是我仅有的一件像样的东西，是我祖母传下来的。”
“我也需要它。格利戈的地板都是瓷砖，你知道我多不能忍受早上的凉地板。”
我为他撑着另一个打开的箱子。“别走，”我说。
她把她的头发向后拢去，然后转向我的音响喇叭。“我们有个箱子装这个吗？”
“别走，”我又说一遍。又一次，她把她的头发向后梳拢。我说，“费丽霞，你为什么不把头发用卡子卡起来，省得你老是要去把它从脸上弄开？”
她说，“这就是我为什么要离开你。你总是想要改变别人。格利戈注意到了你的这个问题。”
她捡起一个喇叭把它拎到了走廊上堆放着她行李的地方。格利戈来了。我离开了。当我回来时，我发现他们还是把地毯拿走了。

我坐着边喝咖啡边注意在暮霭的光线中发光的昆虫时想到了这些事。昆虫是夏天的象征。把小山丘弄得模模糊糊的一片朦胧也是。甚至偶尔地，在太阳四周那些浮云也看起来暖烘烘的。因为这个季节还早，咖啡馆的这些椅子仍然栓在桌子上，桌子就被一股脑推到阳台的一边。没有其他人坐在外边。

那时费丽霞和我常来这里，有的时候，在路边过往的男人会注视她。她总是把她的指甲留得长长的，染成深红，她深凹的眼睛总是亮晶晶的。有时，当她大笑起来，就会把她的头发从脸上往后梳拢。其他男人看她，我不介意。 我知道她爱我。

我也还是不在乎我的音响。反正我也没有什么唱片在上面放。费丽霞跟我说她没有时间整理唱片，不过她会在把她的唱片从那堆唱片里挑出来后把我的还回来。

我的咖啡凉了。云彩从太阳的脸前飘过，把光线拨来弄去。我点燃了一枝雪茄。费丽霞走后我就抽上了烟，因为我知道如果哪天她从这儿走过而我正在吞云吐雾，她就会知道我有多难过。实际上，自她走后我就再也没见过她了。到如今，我已开始喜欢上了抽烟的感觉。在脸前喷上一口烟雾，我感到神秘。我就这样练着一小口一小口地喷着烟雾，阳光在我的周围一点点地暗下去了。

这时对面街上两株新绿的树间，阳光又出现了。一个年轻的女子脚着溜冰鞋滑进了那片光线中。她站在轮子上脚尖立地旋转，就在那俩棵树之间，接着又滑开去了。当她滑到了咖啡馆的阳台上时，阳光又回到我的这边街上。
我微笑着。她也微笑着。我说，“你好。”
她头戴着音响耳机，所以我说“天真好，”时，她听不到我说的什么。但是她又笑了。她开始在我身后的阳台空地上滑冰。我看了她一会，然后就不看了。我决意要她在那儿呆下去，我不想让她感到我在盯着她而离开。
我喝着我的凉掉了的咖啡，而且喜欢。

一个穿着灰色三件套行头拎着公文包的男人路过看着她。我皱起了眉头。他没注意到我，不过他走过去了。另外一个男人走过，他也把头转过来看她然后继续走他的路了。我搅着杯里的冷咖啡。第三个男人，一个高个子，金发，运动员模样的，就要走过去了，但是当他看到一个穿溜冰鞋的年轻女人，他停了下来。他走到阳台边来看她。然后朝她微笑。我向她的方向瞟了一眼，她尚未注意到他。

我站起来，走到人行道上。我站在离他几尺远的地方把双手抱着胳臂。我盯着他，他看看我。他审视我的眼神。然后看看她，又看看我，走开了。

我在人行道那儿站了好一会儿，听着她的轮子在水泥地上的声音。如果有任何男人碰巧朝她的方向看，我就端着胳膊尽力去逮住他的目光。有一次，有个家伙朝她笑，我觉得他在想逮住她的目光。我有意往他那边大跨了几步，他一看到我，就用一种“对不起，我不知道”的姿势，举起了双手。再也没有人停下来看她了。

最后，她滑过我身边。我没有及时转身说再见，但是我注视了好一会我的年轻女人一路沿着街道滑走。太阳落山了，街道被涂上一层橘黄，她消失在一个街角。

我进去重新要了杯新煮的咖啡。我掏出一枝雪茄，不过没点上。我坐在我那被链子拴住的咖啡桌椅边好一会儿，经理没有开店外的灯，所以夜晚降临时，阳台有点黑。我好冷，不过仍不想离开。对我来说，此生最不愿意做的事似乎就是回家，回到我那间没有音乐的公寓。街上静悄悄。我点燃了雪茄。

 

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