Relics of Summer (Excerpt)《夏日遗物》 （节选）

【導读】弗朗西丝·梅斯，美国作家、诗人，旧金山州立大学教授。20世纪90年代开始旅居意大利托斯卡纳。1996年，记录这段生活的《托斯卡纳艳阳下》（Under the Tuscan Sun）出版，迅速登上《纽约时报》畅销书榜第一名，在榜128周之久，被誉为“现代版《瓦尔登湖》”，并在不经意间引领了一场跨越世纪的“慢活”风尚，成为人们心中质感生活的理想范本。

长日、闪电、暴风雨、被闪电劈中的洗碗机、被暴雨抽打的葡萄藤、文艺复兴时期的大教堂、干涸的圣洗池、灰扑扑的卖瓜车、臂上肌肉健硕的卖瓜男孩、夜里肆虐的蚊子、与星星争辉的萤火虫、黑蝎子、栗树林、亚平宁山脉、橄榄林和山谷……这里是托斯卡纳，这是托斯卡纳的夏天。每天早晨品着咖啡，抬头便可同时品味公元前8世纪伊特鲁里亚文明和文化，过去、现在和未来共存，可以慢慢聊天，有的是时间……。《纽约时报》如是评论梅斯：“美丽文字写就撩人的意大利生活，有如一次诱人心动的狂欢，又似一曲丝丝入心的天籁。”本文即是此种感觉的完美调和，节选自梅斯发表在1994年秋季刊《犁铧》（Ploughshares）的散文“夏日遗物”。

The fonts in all the churches are dry. I run my fingers through the dusty scallops of marble： not a drop for my hot forehead. The Tuscan July heat is invasive to the body but not to the stone churches that hold onto the dampness of winter， releasing a gray coolness slowly throughout the summer. I have a feeling， walking into one then another， that I walk into palpable silence. A lid seems to descend on our voices， or a large damp hand. In the vast church of San Biago below Montepulciano1， there is an airy2 quiet as you enter. Right under the dome， you can stand in one spot and speak or clap your hands， and far up against the inner cup of the dome an eerie echo sends the sound rapidly back. The quality of the sound is not like the hello across a lake but a sharp， repeated return. Your voice flattened， otherworldly. It is hard to think a mocking angel isnt hovering against the frescoes， though more likely a pigeon rests there.

Since I have been spending summers in Cortona， the major shock and joy is how at home I feel. But not just at home， returned to that primal first awareness of home. I feel at home because dusty trucks park at intersections and sell watermelons. The same thump to test for ripeness. The boy holds up a rusty iron scale with discs of different sizes to counterweigh the striped Sugar Baby. His arm muscle jumps up like Popeyes and the breeze brings me a whiff of his scent of dry grasses， onions， and dirt. In big storms， lightning drives a jagged stake into the ground and hailstones bounce in the yard， bringing back the smell of ozone to me from Georgia days when Id gather a bowlful the size of Ping-Pong balls and put them in the freezer.

Sweltering nights， the air comes close to body temperature， and shifting constellations of fireflies compete with stars. Mosquito nights， grabbing at air， the mosquito caught in my hair. Long days when I can taste the sun. I move through this foreign house Ive acquired as though my real ancestors left their presences in these rooms. As though this were the place I always came home to.

Living near a small town again certainly is part of it. And living again with nature. （A student of mine from Los Angeles visited. When I walked him out to the end of the point for the wide-angle view of lake， chestnut forests， Apennines， olive groves， and valleys， he was unprepared. He stood silently， the first time Id known he could， and finally said， “Its， uh， like nature.”） Right， nature： clouds swarm in from over the lake and thunder cracks along my back bone， booms like waves boom far out at sea. I write in my note book： “The dishwasher was struck. We heard the sizzle. But isnt it good， the gigantic storm， the flood of terror they felt beside fires in the cave？ The thunder shakes me like a kitten the big cat has picked up by the neck. I ricochet home， heat lightning; Im lying on the ground 4，000 miles from here， letting rain soak through me.”

Rain flays the grapes. Nature： whats ripe， will the driveway wash away， when to dig potatoes， how much water is in the irrigation well？ Early life reconnects. I go out to get wood; a black scorpion scuttles over my hand and suddenly I remember the furry tarantulas in the shower at Lakemont， the shriek when my bare-footed mother stepped on one and felt it crunch then squash up soft as a banana between her toes.

Is it the spill of free days？ I dream my mother rinses my tangle of hair with a bowl of rainwater.

Sweet time， exaggerated days， getting up at dawn because when the midsummer sun tops the crests across the valley， the first rays hit me in the face like they strike some rock at Stonehenge on the solstice. To be fully awake when the sky turns rose-streaked coral and scarves of fog drift across the valley and the wild canaries sing. In Georgia， my father and I used to get up to walk the beach at sunrise. At home in San Francisco what wakes me is the alarm at seven， or the car-pool horn blowing for the child downstairs， or the recycle truck with its crashing cascade of glass. I love the city and never have felt really at home there.

I was drawn to the surface of Italy for its perched towns， the food， language， and art. I was pulled also to its sense of lived life， the coexistence of times that somehow gives an aura of timelessness—I toast the Etruscan wall above us with my coffee every morning—all the big abstracts that act out in everything from the aggression on the autostrada3 to the late afternoon stroll through the piazza. I cast my lot here for a few short months a year because I know my curiosity for the layered culture of the country is inexhaustible.

所有教堂的圣洗池都是干的。我抚摸着大理石圣洗池积尘的扇贝形凹凸：没有一滴水可以蘸洗我热烫的前额。托斯卡纳的七月暑热浸肌入骨，但透不过石砌的教堂，那里仍保留著冬日湿气，在整个夏日慢慢释放阴凉。走进一座座教堂，我有种感觉，觉得自己走进了有形的寂静。似乎有个盖子，又似乎是只潮湿的大手，蒙在了我们的声音上。在蒙特普齐亚诺镇下方宏伟的圣比亚焦教堂，一进门就会感到一种凉风拂面的清静。