Going Home 回家

thcvr

I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few years, to be told a new in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.

　　几年前我在纽约的格林尼治村从一位遇到的姑娘那儿第一次听到这个故事。它也许是那种隔几年就会改头换面地被重新传播一次的神奇的民间传说。然而我仍然愿意想象它是个某地某时真正发生过的事。

　　They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree boys and three girls and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.

　　三个男孩和三个女孩带着纸袋装的三明治与葡萄酒，登车前往佛罗里达的劳德达拉要塞。他们向往着金色的海滩，将灰蒙蒙的寒冷的纽约甩在了身后。

　　As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.

　　当他们穿过新泽西州时，坐在前排的一个叫温格的男人引起他们的注意。他穿着一套不起眼亦很不合身的衣服，一动不动，满脸灰尘掩盖了他的年龄，他不停地咬着下嘴唇，陷入沉思中。

　　Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.

　　夜深了，汽车停在华盛顿郊外的霍华德约翰逊连锁餐馆，除了温格，其他人都下了车，他仍一丝不动地坐在那里。他引起这班年轻人的猜想：也许他是个船长，也许是从家出走的，或者是一个归家的老兵。当他们又回到车上时，他们中的一个女孩坐到温格的身边，并向他作了自我介绍。

　　“We're going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear it's really beautiful.”

　　“我们都是去佛罗里达的，”那个女孩轻快地说。“我听说那里很美。”

　　“It is, ” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.

　　“是的，”他静静地回答道，他似乎记起了过去曾试图忘却的往事。