My Father and the Figtree

娜奥米·希哈波·奈 （美国诗人。父亲来自巴勒斯坦。）





我父亲对别的水果都无动于衷。
指着樱桃树，他说：
“樱桃树……为何它们不是无花果。”
向晚时分，父亲坐在我们床前
像编织生动的小围巾，编织着民间故事。
故事里永远有一棵无花果树。
毫不相干，却总是穿插着无花果。
有一天约哈行走在大路上
看见了一株无花果。
把骆驼系在无花果树上，他酣然入梦。
后来他们抓住了他，逮捕了他，
他的口袋里装满了无花果。

六岁时我吃了一只无花果，平淡无奇。
“这不是我说的那种无花果！”父亲说，
“那些无花果啊，径直从地上长出来--
真主的礼物! 沉甸甸地悬在枝头
沉到触摸着大地。
我要采摘世上最大，最肥硕，
最甜的无花果
然后把它放进我的嘴里。”
（此时他突然缄默，闭上他的眼睛）

年复一年，我们住过很多房子，
所有的房子，都不曾种着无花果。
我们种过利马豆，西葫芦，芹菜，甜菜。
“种一株无花果吧！”妈妈说，
爸爸却从来不曾种上。
漫不经心地，他侍弄着花园，忘记浇水，
黄秋葵不停疯长。
“这个梦想家。开始了多少工程
却从来不曾完成。”

他最后一次搬家，我接到他的电话，
我的父亲，用阿拉伯语，吟诵着一首歌谣
一首我从未听过的歌。“那是什么歌？”
他领我走进新的院落。
花园里，在德克萨斯州的达拉斯
一株树上，挂着世界上
最大，最肥硕，最甜的无花果。
他说，“那是无花果的歌！”
他采摘着他的果实，
从那个永远属于他自己的世界
像是采摘着象征，徽记和承诺






For other fruits my father was indifferent.
He’d point at the cherry trees and say,
“See those? I wish they were figs.”
In the evenings he sat by our beds
weaving folktales like vivid little scarves.
They always involved a figtree.
Even when it didn’t fit, he’d stick it in.
Once Joha was walking down the road
and he saw a figtree.
Or, he tied his camel to a figtree and went to sleep.
Or, later when they caught and arrested him,
his pockets were full of figs.

At age six I ate a dried fig and shrugged.
“That’s not what I’m talking about!” he said,
“I’m talking about a fig straight from the earth-
gift of Allah!-on a branch so heavy
it touches the ground.
I’m talking about picking the largest, fattest,
sweetest fig
in the world and putting it in my mouth.”
(Here he’d stop and close his eyes.)

Years passed, we lived in many houses,
none had figtrees.
We had lima beans, zucchini, parsley, beets.
“Plant one!” my mother said,
but my father never did.
He tended garden half-heartedly, forgot to water,
let the okra get too big.
“What a dreamer he is. Look how many
things he starts and doesn’t finish.”

The last time he moved, I had a phone call,
my father, in Arabic, chanting a song
I’d never heard. “What’s that?”
He took me out to the new yard.
There, in the middle of Dallas, Texas,
a tree with the largest, fattest,
sweetest figs in the world.
“It’s a figtree song!” he said,
plucking his fruits like ripe tokens,
emblems, assurance
of a world that was always his own.