儿子的影子

文/余华   译/王光谱

        儿子出生以后，我每天都有着实实在在的感觉，他的身体、他的声音时刻存在着，只要我睁开眼睛或者走近他，就会立刻体会到他，有时候会感到比体会自己更加真切。而且这实在的感觉每天都在变化着，随着儿子身体和声音的变化，虽然很微妙，可是十分明显。我感到有一个生命正在追随着我，我能够理解他逐渐成长的思维，就像理解自己的思维一样容易。

　　没多久，这个生命开始下地行走了，他摇摇晃晃地寻找着方向，他的两只手像是走钢丝的艺人那样伸开着，他一下地就学会了平衡自己身体的能力，让我感到人的很多本领都是与生俱有的。

　　当他真正找到行走的乐趣时，也就是说他体会到方向意味着什么时，他的行走不再是胡乱的走动，而是为了看或者为了拿，这时候他已经是一个顽皮的孩子了。

        这一年的冬天，有一天晚上我们一家三口走在回家的路上，当儿子穿著厚厚的衣服在一盏盏路灯下走过去时，我们发现了他的影子，那个属于他和灯光的影子，在冬天夜晚的地上变幻莫测。那时候他还不满两岁，由于行走的十分卖力，他的两条胳膊也是尽情挥舞，再加上厚重的衣服，当他走近灯光时，我们发现他在地上的影子如同企鹅———在冰雪中摇摇摆摆的企鹅。由于灯光下角度和位置的变化，顷刻之间他的影子越来越圆，像是皮球似的滚动了一下，随即他又成为了狗熊，可能是他突然跑动起来的缘故，他的影子像狗熊一样笨拙。就这样，他的影子一会儿拉长，一会儿缩短，有时候似乎只有一条腿在行走，有时候两条胳膊突然消失了。儿子在一盏盏路灯下走过去，他影子的变化没有一次是重复的，丰富无比，似乎没有穷尽之时。

        我感到拥有一个儿子真是快乐无比，他形象的成长和声音的变化给了我无数实实在在的快乐后，在夜晚的灯光下，他的影子又给了我很多虚幻的快乐，而且是无法重现的快乐。不像他的形象，只要我愿意，我就可以一次次地去注视他。而他的影子，那些在路灯下转瞬即逝的影子，那些美妙变幻的影子，我只能去一次次地回想。后来的日子里，我多次再见他在路灯下拖过去的影子，仍然美妙，可是我总觉得今不如昔。

        我想起来一首诗，是很多年以前读到的，我忘记了作者是谁，也忘记了诗的题目是什么，只记得其中的三行：

                  我看见了一个马车夫的影子，

                  手里拿着一把刷子的影子，

                  正在刷一辆马车的影子。

        当初我曾经被诗中奇妙的视角所吸引，如今我更能体会其中的乐趣。

余华1998年2月23日

注：该文选自余华散文集《灵魂饭》。

The Shadow of My Son

        My life had been enriched day by day since my son was born. His body and voice had been around me all the time. Every time I opened my eyes or approached him, I could immediately feel his existence, sometimes even more truly than mine myself. And this kind of feeling was changing every day with the change of his body and voice, although very subtle, yet extremely obvious. I sensed that a life was following me, because I could comprehend his thinking during his gradual growth process as easily as mine.

        Before long, this tiny life started to walk. He was shakily seeking the direction, whose two hands stretched out as if he was a steel wire entertainer. He learnt the ability to balance himself so soon that I felt that many of people's abilities were all born with. 

        When he truly found the pleasure of walking, or, in other words, realized what the direction meant, his walk was no longer aimless but was for seeing or catching something. And now he was really a very naughty child.

        One evening in the winter of this year, my family of three were walking back home. When my son was passing under each street light wearing thick clothes, I found on the ground his shadow changeable and unpredictable, which belonged only to himself and the lights. Because at that time he had not reached two years old and because he walked extremely hard, he brandished his two arms at full tilt. In addition to his thick clothes, we found on the ground his shadow like a penguin waggering in the snow or ice. Because of the change of the angle and position, in a moment his shadow was more and more round like a rolling ball, and then it immediately became a black bear, possibly because he suddenly moved about, leaving his shadow like a clumsy black bear. For a while his shadow was pulled long, and for a while it was cut short. Sometimes it looked as if he had only a leg to walk on, and sometimes it looked as if his two arms suddenly vanished. My son passed through under one street light after another, but the change of his shadow had never been overlapped, which was so profuse that it seemed limitless.

        I felt that it was incomparably joyful to have a son, and his gradual growth and the change of voice really pleased me. Under the night light, his shadow had given me a lot of illusory pleasure, which was transient and unable to reappear. As long as I wanted to, I could gaze at his body. But his shadows were not like his body, because those shadows were wonderful, changeable and transient. I can only recollect them time and time again. In the later days, though I could see many times his shadows under the street light, still as wonderful as before, but I didn't think they were better.

        Many years ago I read a poem. I have forgotten who wrote it or what the title was, but I still remember three lines of it:

                  I saw the shadow of a wagon driver,

                  In his hand he held the shadow of a brush,

                  He was brushing the shadow of the wagon.

        Initially I was attracted by the marvelous angle of view in the poem, but now I can fully comprehend the pleasure in it.

Written by Yu Hua

Translated by Wang Guangpu