[重译][TTSS][官配]One Moment Away
标题：One Moment Away / 相距一瞬
作者：米诺
配对：Haydon-Prideaux
译：卡拉
说明：
1） 去年三月译过这一篇，重看发现不忍卒读，暂不放旧译地址，善挖坟者自理（。
2）米诺就是FindingGatsby/找大款儿，善追踪者自理（。
3）重译也不代表会有进步，请先看原文调整情绪（。。。）
*
One Moment Away
You don’t need to turn around from the bench to know he’s here. The soundless footsteps drawing closer on the grassy ground easily give him away. But what does it matter? You’ve always got the ability to single him out, from a noisy crowded cricket pitch, from across a teeming street, or in the dead silence of the night.
They are going to ship you off to Moscow anytime now, and you don’t know where the future leads. They say as one gets older one becomes doubtful of his decisions in life – in your case, it’s not your chosen career, but the murkiness in it mingled with your misplaced romanticism and misguided idealism in politics. But the deepest regret is dragging him, him of all, into this picture you painted for yourself wherein he never fits. And leaving him behind, when the picture irrevocably started turning you into Dorian Gray.
You try not to think of how you deliberately kept his face out of your mind when you said yes to Karla. How the legendary Haydon-Prideaux partnership had faded into a distant myth, how you realised with a belated panic that you were losing him slowly, piece by piece, his face a tarnished image washed out by the adoring crowds you had to command in your brand-new London Station. Not to think of the last time you locked eyes on that Christmas party how the heartbroken smile he left you had burned forever onto your exhausted memory. How you just let him go to goddamn Budapest, risking everything you couldn’t afford, and not recalling much in the aftermath except a lot of screaming at anyone who would listen, to do something, anything, to bring Jim back goddamn it, give the Hungarians whatever they want. You try not to remember when Esterhase returned from the debrief assuring you at least he started walking, how your mind was like a strangely empty mirror room with a hunchbacked Jim limping around in circles, his gaunt reflections flashing everywhere you looked, everywhere, no matter how hard you tried to turn away.
It still haunts you now, even if you never sought him after, never tried to reconnect him into your world that’s always, without your realisation, spinning in someone else’s hands. And eventually his face became faceless, an abstract idea, a vague definition, along with some other bunch of moralities and codes and -isms you used to believe in your life.
At long last it isn’t so difficult to admit defeat. Not to Smiley; you never really desired anything from your supposed rival, not his position, his trust, his pity, certainly not his wife. Nor to Control, who was tied down and disarmed by his own paranoia. Not even to Karla, whom you acquiesced to use you as well as you used him. But to Jim, to yourself, to dreams unaccomplished, so much time wasted and a failed lesson in faith. That’s what it all comes down to, ma patrie et ma bohème, an exile with few longings and many shattered beliefs.
A clean start would be too much to expect. You wonder, for a moment, if they’ll let you pick up the old habit of drawing and become the second-rate artist that you want to be. But there will be no one smoothing out the canvas for you anymore, watching fondly as you carelessly dump the colors on, and snorting when you gloat about your attempt at a Tristan Tzara. No one anymore.
The footsteps halt and you can almost feel his hesitation. You savour his presence, several steps behind, his breathing steadily getting more and more erratic, the stench of alcohol heavy in the air.
Better still, it seems like a quick goodbye after all.
At that very moment his face comes back to you, an exact replica from his Oxford days you’ve long left behind: high-bridged nose and firm jawlines, tiny wrinkles around the corners of his eyes when he smiles; on the lips lingers a faint curve, his soft ginger hair catching sunlight at various angles.
You don’t turn around to shatter that mirage.
Ever so slightly you bow, as if granting him your last permission.
Distantly you hear a sound, like the snap of a twig.
And the rest is eternity.
**
相距一瞬
无需从长椅上转身，你知道他在。无声的脚步曳过草地慢慢靠近，轻易暴露了他的所在。又有什么关系呢？你总有办法让他的身影从人声鼎沸的板球场上、拥堵的街头、夜的死寂里凸显出来。
载你去莫斯科的船随时可能出港，你不清楚未来的走向。听说随着年龄渐长，人会开始动摇，怀疑起自己的种种决定。就你而言，让你起疑的不是你选定的职业，而是弥漫在职业中的晦暗，融混着你用错地方的浪漫思潮、偏离方向的政治理想。你最后悔牵扯到他——所有人当中偏偏是他——扯着他走进你为自己绘的画像，他在里面从来都不合宜；你后悔将他远远抛下，自己在画里无可挽回地化作道连格雷*。
你试着不去回想自己向中心头子点头称是时，是如何谨而慎之将他的脸挡在思绪之外，不去回想传奇的海顿-普莱多同盟如何褪变成一个遥远的神话，不去回想自己是如何伴着迟来的惊恐，发觉自己慢慢失去了他，一片一片，他的脸，一张蒙尘的肖像，让人潮冲刷抹去，你新上任的伦敦站里受你差遣、仰慕你的人潮。不去回想你们在圣诞晚会上最后一次目光交会，他留给你的心碎笑容从此灼蚀着你枯竭的回忆。不去回想你是如何放他去了该死的布达佩斯，赌上一切你承担不起的风险，不去多想布达佩斯事件后续，只记得你向每一个听你讲话的人嘶吼，得做点事情，什么都行，只要能他妈的把吉姆带回来，匈牙利佬要什么就给什么。你试图不去回想伊斯特哈斯从育成所责令归来，宽慰你说他至少能走路了，那时你的思绪多像一间空落的镜屋，伛偻的吉姆绕圈跛行，你看向哪里，哪里都是他憔悴的倒影，哪里都是，不管你花多大力气转开视线。
如今他的身影仍缠附着你，尽管你此后从未将他找寻，从未试图将他重新连入你的世界，你没有意识到你的世界始终在别人手中打转。最终他的脸变得空洞无颜，化作一个抽象的念头，一个含糊的概念，正如你生命中一度笃信的那种种道德典范诸般主义。
认输终究没那么困难。向史迈利认输不难，你从没当真想从你这位假想敌身上索取过什么，无论他的职位，他的信赖，抑或他的同情，更不会是他妻子。向老总认输不难，那个被自己的偏执妄想束缚缴械的家伙。连向卡拉认输都不难，你默许他利用你，正如你利用了他。然而，向吉姆，向你自己，向未竟的梦想，向那么多荒废的时间，向一场失败的信仰教育认输……那便是所说的一切，“我的故里我的浪子”**，一场放逐，归属感殆尽，多少信仰破裂。
洗净一切重新开始，这愿望似乎过于奢侈。有那么一会儿，你琢磨着人家会不会准许你重拾画画的老把戏，准许你如愿做一名二流艺人。然而再不会有人为你徐展画布、用眷恋的目光凝视你率性地泼洒颜料，在你面对自己仿效特里斯坦•查拉***的创作踌躇满志时轻嗤。再没有那样一个人。
脚步停了而你几乎能察觉他的迟疑。你玩味着他的在场，在你身后数步之遥，他平稳的呼吸渐渐乱了节奏，空气里酒气浓郁。
这样蛮好，看来不会是一场拖泥带水的告别。
一瞬间，他的脸重回你面前，一张从你早已遗落的牛津日子里复刻下来的肖像：鼻梁高挺、轮廓坚毅、笑起来眼角微皱，一道浅弧留驻唇上，他柔软的姜黄头发拢来四面八方的日光。
你没有转身拂碎这片蜃景。
轻轻地你俯首，像是给他最后的答允。
远远地你听到一响，似是枝桠一声劈啪。
余下的是永远。
*注：王尔德小说《道连格雷的画像》中，主人公道连的堕落在他的容貌上并没有得到反映，而他的画像记录了他的种种劣迹，画像中的容貌逐渐衰老残败，道连格雷依然年轻英俊。最后道连死去，形貌老朽，而画像则恢复了年轻英俊的原貌。勒卡雷本人曾借彼得•吉勒姆之口说脸颊泛红的海顿 “有些道连格雷的样子”、笑起来依然“出奇地年轻”。此处暗示海顿行迹恶劣，却容颜不改，一如道连格雷。
**注：引自魏尔兰《欢愉漫游的异乡人Laeti et Errabundi》，诗人用此句赞颂怀恋早逝的不羁少年诗人兰波。此处暗示吉姆是海顿不羁灵魂的归宿，也是海顿梦想投寄之处。
***注：罗马尼亚-法国籍先锋诗人，达达运动创始人，其创作反对刻板理性逻辑教条，崇尚无意义与直觉。
作者：米诺
配对：Haydon-Prideaux
译：卡拉
说明：
1） 去年三月译过这一篇，重看发现不忍卒读，暂不放旧译地址，善挖坟者自理（。
2）米诺就是FindingGatsby/找大款儿，善追踪者自理（。
3）重译也不代表会有进步，请先看原文调整情绪（。。。）
*
One Moment Away
You don’t need to turn around from the bench to know he’s here. The soundless footsteps drawing closer on the grassy ground easily give him away. But what does it matter? You’ve always got the ability to single him out, from a noisy crowded cricket pitch, from across a teeming street, or in the dead silence of the night.
They are going to ship you off to Moscow anytime now, and you don’t know where the future leads. They say as one gets older one becomes doubtful of his decisions in life – in your case, it’s not your chosen career, but the murkiness in it mingled with your misplaced romanticism and misguided idealism in politics. But the deepest regret is dragging him, him of all, into this picture you painted for yourself wherein he never fits. And leaving him behind, when the picture irrevocably started turning you into Dorian Gray.
You try not to think of how you deliberately kept his face out of your mind when you said yes to Karla. How the legendary Haydon-Prideaux partnership had faded into a distant myth, how you realised with a belated panic that you were losing him slowly, piece by piece, his face a tarnished image washed out by the adoring crowds you had to command in your brand-new London Station. Not to think of the last time you locked eyes on that Christmas party how the heartbroken smile he left you had burned forever onto your exhausted memory. How you just let him go to goddamn Budapest, risking everything you couldn’t afford, and not recalling much in the aftermath except a lot of screaming at anyone who would listen, to do something, anything, to bring Jim back goddamn it, give the Hungarians whatever they want. You try not to remember when Esterhase returned from the debrief assuring you at least he started walking, how your mind was like a strangely empty mirror room with a hunchbacked Jim limping around in circles, his gaunt reflections flashing everywhere you looked, everywhere, no matter how hard you tried to turn away.
It still haunts you now, even if you never sought him after, never tried to reconnect him into your world that’s always, without your realisation, spinning in someone else’s hands. And eventually his face became faceless, an abstract idea, a vague definition, along with some other bunch of moralities and codes and -isms you used to believe in your life.
At long last it isn’t so difficult to admit defeat. Not to Smiley; you never really desired anything from your supposed rival, not his position, his trust, his pity, certainly not his wife. Nor to Control, who was tied down and disarmed by his own paranoia. Not even to Karla, whom you acquiesced to use you as well as you used him. But to Jim, to yourself, to dreams unaccomplished, so much time wasted and a failed lesson in faith. That’s what it all comes down to, ma patrie et ma bohème, an exile with few longings and many shattered beliefs.
A clean start would be too much to expect. You wonder, for a moment, if they’ll let you pick up the old habit of drawing and become the second-rate artist that you want to be. But there will be no one smoothing out the canvas for you anymore, watching fondly as you carelessly dump the colors on, and snorting when you gloat about your attempt at a Tristan Tzara. No one anymore.
The footsteps halt and you can almost feel his hesitation. You savour his presence, several steps behind, his breathing steadily getting more and more erratic, the stench of alcohol heavy in the air.
Better still, it seems like a quick goodbye after all.
At that very moment his face comes back to you, an exact replica from his Oxford days you’ve long left behind: high-bridged nose and firm jawlines, tiny wrinkles around the corners of his eyes when he smiles; on the lips lingers a faint curve, his soft ginger hair catching sunlight at various angles.
You don’t turn around to shatter that mirage.
Ever so slightly you bow, as if granting him your last permission.
Distantly you hear a sound, like the snap of a twig.
And the rest is eternity.
**
相距一瞬
无需从长椅上转身，你知道他在。无声的脚步曳过草地慢慢靠近，轻易暴露了他的所在。又有什么关系呢？你总有办法让他的身影从人声鼎沸的板球场上、拥堵的街头、夜的死寂里凸显出来。
载你去莫斯科的船随时可能出港，你不清楚未来的走向。听说随着年龄渐长，人会开始动摇，怀疑起自己的种种决定。就你而言，让你起疑的不是你选定的职业，而是弥漫在职业中的晦暗，融混着你用错地方的浪漫思潮、偏离方向的政治理想。你最后悔牵扯到他——所有人当中偏偏是他——扯着他走进你为自己绘的画像，他在里面从来都不合宜；你后悔将他远远抛下，自己在画里无可挽回地化作道连格雷*。
你试着不去回想自己向中心头子点头称是时，是如何谨而慎之将他的脸挡在思绪之外，不去回想传奇的海顿-普莱多同盟如何褪变成一个遥远的神话，不去回想自己是如何伴着迟来的惊恐，发觉自己慢慢失去了他，一片一片，他的脸，一张蒙尘的肖像，让人潮冲刷抹去，你新上任的伦敦站里受你差遣、仰慕你的人潮。不去回想你们在圣诞晚会上最后一次目光交会，他留给你的心碎笑容从此灼蚀着你枯竭的回忆。不去回想你是如何放他去了该死的布达佩斯，赌上一切你承担不起的风险，不去多想布达佩斯事件后续，只记得你向每一个听你讲话的人嘶吼，得做点事情，什么都行，只要能他妈的把吉姆带回来，匈牙利佬要什么就给什么。你试图不去回想伊斯特哈斯从育成所责令归来，宽慰你说他至少能走路了，那时你的思绪多像一间空落的镜屋，伛偻的吉姆绕圈跛行，你看向哪里，哪里都是他憔悴的倒影，哪里都是，不管你花多大力气转开视线。
如今他的身影仍缠附着你，尽管你此后从未将他找寻，从未试图将他重新连入你的世界，你没有意识到你的世界始终在别人手中打转。最终他的脸变得空洞无颜，化作一个抽象的念头，一个含糊的概念，正如你生命中一度笃信的那种种道德典范诸般主义。
认输终究没那么困难。向史迈利认输不难，你从没当真想从你这位假想敌身上索取过什么，无论他的职位，他的信赖，抑或他的同情，更不会是他妻子。向老总认输不难，那个被自己的偏执妄想束缚缴械的家伙。连向卡拉认输都不难，你默许他利用你，正如你利用了他。然而，向吉姆，向你自己，向未竟的梦想，向那么多荒废的时间，向一场失败的信仰教育认输……那便是所说的一切，“我的故里我的浪子”**，一场放逐，归属感殆尽，多少信仰破裂。
洗净一切重新开始，这愿望似乎过于奢侈。有那么一会儿，你琢磨着人家会不会准许你重拾画画的老把戏，准许你如愿做一名二流艺人。然而再不会有人为你徐展画布、用眷恋的目光凝视你率性地泼洒颜料，在你面对自己仿效特里斯坦•查拉***的创作踌躇满志时轻嗤。再没有那样一个人。
脚步停了而你几乎能察觉他的迟疑。你玩味着他的在场，在你身后数步之遥，他平稳的呼吸渐渐乱了节奏，空气里酒气浓郁。
这样蛮好，看来不会是一场拖泥带水的告别。
一瞬间，他的脸重回你面前，一张从你早已遗落的牛津日子里复刻下来的肖像：鼻梁高挺、轮廓坚毅、笑起来眼角微皱，一道浅弧留驻唇上，他柔软的姜黄头发拢来四面八方的日光。
你没有转身拂碎这片蜃景。
轻轻地你俯首，像是给他最后的答允。
远远地你听到一响，似是枝桠一声劈啪。
余下的是永远。
*注：王尔德小说《道连格雷的画像》中，主人公道连的堕落在他的容貌上并没有得到反映，而他的画像记录了他的种种劣迹，画像中的容貌逐渐衰老残败，道连格雷依然年轻英俊。最后道连死去，形貌老朽，而画像则恢复了年轻英俊的原貌。勒卡雷本人曾借彼得•吉勒姆之口说脸颊泛红的海顿 “有些道连格雷的样子”、笑起来依然“出奇地年轻”。此处暗示海顿行迹恶劣，却容颜不改，一如道连格雷。
**注：引自魏尔兰《欢愉漫游的异乡人Laeti et Errabundi》，诗人用此句赞颂怀恋早逝的不羁少年诗人兰波。此处暗示吉姆是海顿不羁灵魂的归宿，也是海顿梦想投寄之处。
***注：罗马尼亚-法国籍先锋诗人，达达运动创始人，其创作反对刻板理性逻辑教条，崇尚无意义与直觉。
