资料：Derek Walcott: The Light of the World

Kaya now, got to have kaya now, Got to have kaya now, For the rain is falling. —Bob Marley Marley was rocking on the transport's stereo and the beauty was humming the choruses quietly. I could see where the lights on the planes of her cheek streaked and defined them; if this were a portrait you'd leave the highlights for last, these lights silkened her black skin; I'd have put in an earring, something simple, in good gold, for contrast, but she wore no jewelry. I imagined a powerful and sweet odour coming from her, as from a still panther, and the head was nothing else but heraldic. When she looked at me, then away from me politely because any staring at strangers is impolite, it was like a statue, like a black Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People , the gently bulging whites of her eyes, the carved ebony mouth, the heft of the torso solid, and a woman's, but gradually even that was going in the dusk, except the line of her profile, and the highlit cheek, and I thought, O Beauty, you are the light of the world! It was not the only time I would think of that phrase in the sixteen-seater transport that hummed between Gros-Islet and the Market, with its grit of charcoal and the litter of vegetables after Saturday's sales, and the roaring rum shops, outside whose bright doors you saw drunk women on pavements, the saddest of all things, winding up their week, winding down their week. The Market, as it closed on this Saturday night, remembered a childhood of wandering gas lanterns hung on poles at street corners, and the old roar of vendors and traffic, when the lamplighter climbed, hooked the lantern on its pole and moved on to another, and the children turned their faces to its moth, their eyes white as their nighties; the Market itself was closed in its involved darkness and the shadows quarrelled for bread in the shops, or quarrelled for the formal custom of quarrelling in the electric rum shops. I remember the shadows. The van was slowly filling in the darkening depot. I sat in the front seat, I had no need for time. I looked at two girls, one in a yellow bodice and yellow shorts, with a flower in her hair, and lusted in peace, the other less interesting. That evening I had walked the streets of the town where I was born and grew up, thinking of my mother with her white hair tinted by the dyeing dusk, and the titling box houses that seemed perverse in their cramp; I had peered into parlours with half-closed jalousies, at the dim furniture, Morris chairs, a centre table with wax flowers, and the lithograph of Christ of the Sacred Heart , vendors still selling to the empty streets— sweets, nuts, sodden chocolates, nut cakes, mints. An old woman with a straw hat over her headkerchief hobbled towards us with a basket; somewhere, some distance off, was a heavier basket that she couldn't carry. She was in a panic. She said to the driver: “Pas quittez moi à terre ,” which is, in her patois: “Don't leave me stranded,” which is, in her history and that of her people: “Don't leave me on earth,” or, by a shift of stress: “Don't leave me the earth” ［for an inheritance］; “Pas quittez moi à terre , Heavenly transport, Don't leave me on earth, I've had enough of it.” The bus filled in the dark with heavy shadows that would not be left on earth; no, that would be left on the earth, and would have to make out. Abandonment was something they had grown used to. And I had abandoned them, I knew that there sitting in the transport, in the sea-quiet dusk, with men hunched in canoes, and the orange lights from the Vigie headland, black boats on the water; I, who could never solidify my shadow to be one of their shadows, had left them their earth, their white rum quarrels, and their coal bags, their hatred of corporals, of all authority. I was deeply in love with the woman by the window. I wanted to be going home with her this evening. I wanted her to have the key to our small house by the beach at Gros-Ilet; I wanted her to change into a smooth white nightie that would pour like water over the black rocks of her breasts, to lie simply beside her by the ring of a brass lamp with a kerosene wick, and tell her in silence that her hair was like a hill forest at night, that a trickle of rivers was in her armpits, that I would buy her Benin if she wanted it, and never leave her on earth. But the others, too. Because I felt a great love that could bring me to tears, and a pity that prickled my eyes like a nettle, I was afraid I might suddenly start sobbing on the public transport with the Marley going, and a small boy peering over the shoulders of the driver and me at the lights coming, at the rush of the road in the country darkness, with lamps in the houses on the small hills, and thickets of stars; I had abandoned them, I had left them on earth, I left them to sing Marley's songs of a sadness as real as the smell of rain on dry earth, or the smell of damp sand, and the bus felt warm with their neighbourliness, their consideration, and the polite partings in the light of its headlamps. In the blare, in the thud-sobbing music, the claiming scent that came from their bodies. I wanted the transport to continue forever, for no one to descend and say a good night in the beams of the lamps and take the crooked path up to the lit door, guided by fireflies; I wanted her beauty to come into the warmth of considerate wood, to the relieved rattling of enamel plates in the kitchen, and the tree in the yard, but I came to my stop. Outside the Halcyon Hotel. The lounge would be full of transients like myself. Then I would walk with the surf up the beach. I got off the van without saying good night. Good night would be full of inexpressible love. They went on in their transport, they left me on earth. Then, a few yards ahead, the van stopped. A man shouted my name from the transport window. I walked up towards him. He held out something. A pack of cigarettes had dropped from the pocket. He gave it to me. I turned, hiding my tears. There was nothing they wanted, nothing I could give them but this thing I have called “The Light of the World.” 沃尔科特：世界之光（黄灿然译） 来点卡亚*，此刻要来点卡亚， 　　　　此刻要来点卡亚， 　　　　因为下雨了。 　　　　 ——鲍勃·马利 当小巴播放马利的摇滚歌曲， 那美人悄悄地哼起叠句。 我可以看见光线在她脸颊上 游移并照出它的轮廓；如果这是一幅肖像 你会让强光部分留在最后，这些光 使她的黑皮肤变得柔滑；我会给她加一个耳环， 简单的，纯金的，以形成对比，但她 没戴任何首饰。我想像一股浓烈而香甜的味道 从她身上散发出来，仿佛散发自一只安静的黑豹， 而那个头就是一个盾徽。 当她望着我，然后又有礼貌地移开视线， 因为凝视陌生人是不礼貌的， 这时她就像一座雕像，像德拉克洛瓦一幅黑色的 《自由领导人民》，她眼睛里 微鼓的眼白，雕刻似的乌木嘴巴， 身体结实的重要部位，一个女人的重要部位， 但就连这个也在黄昏里逐渐消失， 除了她轮廓的线条，和那凸显的脸颊， 而我暗想，美人啊，你是世界之光！ 我不止一次想到这个句子 当我在那辆十六座位的小巴上，它穿梭于 格罗斯岛与市场之间，那市场在星期六买卖结束后 留下木炭似的粗砂和抛弃的蔬菜， 还有喧嚣的酒馆，在酒馆明亮的门外 你看见喝醉的女人在人行道上，结束她们的一周， 忘掉她们的一周，悲哀莫过于此。 市场在星期六晚上停止营业时 还记得煤气灯挂在街角柱子上的 晃荡的童年，以及小贩和人流 熟悉的喧闹，而点灯人爬上去 把灯盏挂在柱子上，接着又去爬另一根， 孩子们则把面孔转向灯盏的飞蛾，他们的眼睛 白如他们的睡衣；市场 在深陷的黑暗里关闭着， 一些影子在酒馆里为生计而争吵， 或为喧腾的酒馆里正式的争吵习惯 而争吵。我记得那些影子。 小巴在渐暗的车站等待乘客慢慢坐满。 我坐在前座，我不赶时间。 我看着两个女孩，一个穿黄色紧身胸衣 和黄色短裤，头发里别着一朵花， 在平静中渴望着，另一个不那么有趣。 那个黄昏我已走过了我生于斯长于斯的 这个镇的各条街道，想起我母亲， 想起她的白发被渐浓的薄暮染淡， 还有那些倾斜的盒形房屋，它们似乎 就靠挤得密密实实而撑住；我细看过那些 半开着百叶窗的客厅和黯淡的家具， 莫里斯安乐椅，摆着千金藤的大桌， 还有一幅平面印刷的《圣心基督》， 小贩仍在向空荡荡的街道兜售—— 糖果、乾果、黏巧克力、炸面圈、薄荷糖。 一个头巾上戴着一顶草帽的老妇 提着一个篓，一瘸一拐向我们走来；在别处， 在一段距离外，还有一个更沉重的篓， 她无法一起拿。她很慌张。 她对司机说：“Pas quittez moi a terre,” 她讲的是土语，意思是“别把我搁在这里”， 用她的历史和她乡亲的历史说，就是： “别把我留在土地上”，或换一下重音，就是： “别把土地留给我”（来继承）； “Pas quittez moi a terre，神圣的公车， 别把我留在土地上，我已经累坏了。” 小巴坐满了不会被留在土地上的 浓重的影子；不，这些影子会被留在 土地上，还会被辨认出来。 被抛弃是他们早就习以为常的事儿。 而我已抛弃了他们，我知道 在海一样无声的黄昏，男人们 佝偻在独木舟里，橙黄色灯光 从维基海岬照来，黑船在水上， 而我坐在小巴里，我的影子 永远不能跟他们其中一个影子 凝固在一起，我已离开了他们的土地， 他们在泛白的酒馆里的争吵，他们的煤袋， 他们对士兵、对一切权威的憎恨。 我深深爱上窗边那个女人， 我多想今晚可以带她回家。 我多想她拥有我们在格罗斯岛海滩 那座小屋的钥匙；我多想见到她换上 一件光滑的白睡衣，它会像水一样倾泻 在她胸脯的黑岩上；多想 就这么躺在她身边，挨着有煤油灯芯的 黄铜灯盏的光圈，在寂静中告诉她 她的头发就像夜里一片山林， 她腋窝里有涓涓河流，告诉她 如果她要贝宁我会买给她， 并且永不会把她留在土地上。还有其他人。 因为我感到一种会使我流泪的强烈的爱， 和一种荨麻般扎我的眼睛的怜悯， 我怕我会突然泣不成声 就在这辆播着马利的公车上； 一个小男孩透过司机和我的肩膀 细看前面的灯光，细看乡村黑暗中 疾驰而来的道路，小山上亮灯的房子， 和密集的星星；我抛弃了他们， 我把他们留在土地上，我把他们留下 唱马利悲伤的歌，这悲伤真实如干燥的 土地上雨水的味道，或湿沙的味道； 他们的友善，他们的体贴，以及 在小巴前灯照射下的礼貌告别 使小巴充满温暖。在喇叭声中， 在音乐的呜咽声中，他们的身体 散发强烈的香味。我多想这小巴 永远继续行驶，多想没人下车， 没人在灯光照耀下道晚安， 在萤火虫的引领下踏上弯曲的小路， 走向有灯的家门；我多想她的美 进入木制家具体贴的温暖里， 走向厨房那惬意的搪瓷盘的 格格响，走向院子里那棵树， 但我要下车了。在翡翠酒店门口。 休息室将挤满像我一样要转车的人。 接着我将走上沙滩，伴着碎浪。 我下了小巴，没有道晚安。 晚安会充满难以表达的爱。 他们坐在小巴里继续赶路，他们把我留在土地上。 接着，小巴走了几米，停下来。一个男人 从窗口呼唤我的名字。 我走向他。他拿出什么东西。 是一包从我口袋里掉出来的香烟。 他递给我。我转身，藏起眼泪。 他们什么也不要，我什么也不能给他们 除了我所称的这“世界之光”。 *注：卡亚（kaya），指优质大麻。