英语学习

One of These Days

总有那么一天

By Gabriel Garcia Marquez ■车云峰译申雨平校

Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders. He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.

When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.

After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his eleven-year-old son interrupted his concentration.

"Papa."

"What?"

"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."

"Tell him I'm not here."

He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.

"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."

The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say:

"So much the better."

He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.

"Papa."

"What?"

He still hadn't changed his expression.

"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."

Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."

He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:

"Sit down."

"Good morning," said the Mayor.

"Morning," said the dentist.

While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.

Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.

"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you have an abscess."

The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.

It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:

"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."

The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.

Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.

"Dry your tears," he said.

The Mayor did. He was trembling while the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.

"Send the bill," he said.

"To you or the town?"

The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:

"It's the same damn thing."

星期一清晨，温暖无雨。自学成才的牙医奥利里奥·艾斯科瓦惯于早起，六点钟就就把诊室的门开了。他从玻璃柜子里取出一些还上在石膏模子上的假牙，接着好像进行展览似地把一把器械按大小依次摆到桌上。他穿了一件没有领子的条纹衬衫，领口上别着一颗金色饰扣，裤子用吊带系着。他身材瘦挺，脸上的表情与环境格格不入，就像聋子看东西时常有的那种表情。

东西在桌上摆好之后，艾斯科瓦把牙钻朝治疗椅拉过来，坐下开始打磨那些假牙。他似乎并没有怎么多想手中的活计，只是不停地工作着，双脚踩着给牙钻打气，甚至不需要打气时也空踩着。

八点钟过后，他歇了一会儿，看了看窗外的天空，只见两只忧郁的兀鹰在邻居的房梁上晒太阳。他看完又开始干起来，心里思忖着，午饭前又要下雨啦。这时，十一岁儿子的尖叫声打断了他的沉思。

“爸爸。”

“什么事？”

“市长问你能不能给他拔颗牙。”

“就跟他说我不在。”

他正在磨试一颗金牙。举得远远地，眯缝着眼睛仔细看着。儿子又在狭小的候诊室里喊了起来。

“他说你在，他能听见你说话。”

牙医却只管继续察看着那颗金牙，完了把它放到桌上已经做完的那些假牙一起，方才开口道：

“他知道了更好。”

说着又开动牙钻钻了起来。他从存放待做东西的纸箱里拿出几片齿桥，开始打磨起金牙。

“爸爸。”

“怎么了？”

脸上的表情还和先前一样。

“他说要是不给他拔牙，就崩了你。”

他不慌不忙，极为平静地把牙钻停下，从椅边推开，一下拉开了桌子底层的抽屉，里面有一把左轮手枪。“好啊，”他说道，“叫他来崩我吧。”

他把椅子推到了门的对面，一只手放在抽屉边上。市长出现在门口，左侧的脸刮过了，另一侧因为肿胀疼痛，已经五天没有刮胡子了。牙医从他那无精打采的眼神中看到了他多少个夜晚的疼痛难熬，于是用指尖推上了抽屉，轻声说道：

“坐吧。”

“早上好，”市长问候道。

“早，”牙医说道。

器械在火上煮着，市长把脑袋靠在椅子的头靠上，感觉好了一点。他呼出的气冷冷的。这间诊室很简陋：一把旧木椅，一台脚踏式牙钻，一个装满陶瓷瓶子的玻璃柜子。椅子正对着一扇窗户，上面挂着一块齐肩高的布窗帘。感觉牙医走近时，市长脚跟绷紧，张开了嘴巴。

奥利里奥·艾斯科瓦把市长的头转向灯光。检查完发炎的那颗牙，他小心翼翼地用手指把市长的嘴合上了。

“可是不能用麻药，”他说道。

“为什么？”

“你那儿化脓了。”

市长直视着他的眼睛说，“好吧，”勉强笑一笑，牙医却没有反应。他端来了那个装着已消毒器械的盆子放到工作台上，用冷镊子把器械从水中夹出来，依旧不慌不忙。他用鞋尖往前踢了踢痰盂，然后去脸盆那儿洗手。做这一切的时候并没有看市长一眼，可是市长的眼睛却一刻也没有离开他。

发炎的是下面的一颗智齿。牙医叉开双脚站好，用烫热的镊子把那颗牙紧紧夹住。市长则紧紧地抓住了椅子的扶手，铆足劲紧蹬双脚，只觉得肾脏里一阵空冷，却忍住没有吱声。牙医只是手腕在动，没有憎恨，只是冷冷地轻声说道：

“现在你替我们牺牲的二十个弟兄还债吧。”

市长感觉到下颚里骨头吱嘎被压碎，两眼已是泪水涟涟。但他一直屏着气，直到觉得牙拔出才开始呼吸。然后透过朦胧的泪眼他看到了那颗坏牙。那颗牙看起来似乎跟自己牙疼没有什么关系，这使他搞不清楚此前五个夜晚自己所遭受的折磨所为何来。

他一边俯身对着痰盂，汗水淋漓，气喘吁吁，一边解开了外衣的扣子，伸手去裤兜里摸手绢。牙医递给他一块干净布。

“擦擦泪吧，”他说道。

市长擦了擦眼泪。牙医那边洗着手，市长这里浑身发抖，他看见了破损的天花板，看见了布满灰尘的蜘蛛网，上面粘着一些蜘蛛卵和死虫子。牙医走过来，边擦着手，说道：“上床睡一觉，要用盐水漱口。”市长起身告辞，漫不经心地行了个军礼，迈开双腿向门口走去，外衣的扣子也没有系上。

“把帐单寄过来，”他说道。

“寄给你还是寄给镇上？”

市长看都没看他一眼，关上门在屏风那边说道：

“还不都他妈是一回事儿。”

	One of These Days 总有那么一天 By Gabriel Garcia Marquez ■车云峰译申雨平校
	Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders. He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking. When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it. After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his eleven-year-old son interrupted his concentration. "Papa." "What?" "The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth." "Tell him I'm not here." He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room. "He says you are, too, because he can hear you." The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say: "So much the better." He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold. "Papa." "What?" He still hadn't changed his expression. "He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you." Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me." He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly: "Sit down." "Good morning," said the Mayor. "Morning," said the dentist. While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth. Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers. "It has to be without anesthesia," he said. "Why?" "Because you have an abscess." The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him. It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said: "Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men." The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights. Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth. "Dry your tears," he said. The Mayor did. He was trembling while the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic. "Send the bill," he said. "To you or the town?" The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen: "It's the same damn thing."	星期一清晨，温暖无雨。自学成才的牙医奥利里奥·艾斯科瓦惯于早起，六点钟就就把诊室的门开了。他从玻璃柜子里取出一些还上在石膏模子上的假牙，接着好像进行展览似地把一把器械按大小依次摆到桌上。他穿了一件没有领子的条纹衬衫，领口上别着一颗金色饰扣，裤子用吊带系着。他身材瘦挺，脸上的表情与环境格格不入，就像聋子看东西时常有的那种表情。东西在桌上摆好之后，艾斯科瓦把牙钻朝治疗椅拉过来，坐下开始打磨那些假牙。他似乎并没有怎么多想手中的活计，只是不停地工作着，双脚踩着给牙钻打气，甚至不需要打气时也空踩着。八点钟过后，他歇了一会儿，看了看窗外的天空，只见两只忧郁的兀鹰在邻居的房梁上晒太阳。他看完又开始干起来，心里思忖着，午饭前又要下雨啦。这时，十一岁儿子的尖叫声打断了他的沉思。 “爸爸。” “什么事？” “市长问你能不能给他拔颗牙。” “就跟他说我不在。” 他正在磨试一颗金牙。举得远远地，眯缝着眼睛仔细看着。儿子又在狭小的候诊室里喊了起来。 “他说你在，他能听见你说话。” 牙医却只管继续察看着那颗金牙，完了把它放到桌上已经做完的那些假牙一起，方才开口道： “他知道了更好。” 说着又开动牙钻钻了起来。他从存放待做东西的纸箱里拿出几片齿桥，开始打磨起金牙。 “爸爸。” “怎么了？” 脸上的表情还和先前一样。 “他说要是不给他拔牙，就崩了你。” 他不慌不忙，极为平静地把牙钻停下，从椅边推开，一下拉开了桌子底层的抽屉，里面有一把左轮手枪。“好啊，”他说道，“叫他来崩我吧。” 他把椅子推到了门的对面，一只手放在抽屉边上。市长出现在门口，左侧的脸刮过了，另一侧因为肿胀疼痛，已经五天没有刮胡子了。牙医从他那无精打采的眼神中看到了他多少个夜晚的疼痛难熬，于是用指尖推上了抽屉，轻声说道： “坐吧。” “早上好，”市长问候道。 “早，”牙医说道。器械在火上煮着，市长把脑袋靠在椅子的头靠上，感觉好了一点。他呼出的气冷冷的。这间诊室很简陋：一把旧木椅，一台脚踏式牙钻，一个装满陶瓷瓶子的玻璃柜子。椅子正对着一扇窗户，上面挂着一块齐肩高的布窗帘。感觉牙医走近时，市长脚跟绷紧，张开了嘴巴。奥利里奥·艾斯科瓦把市长的头转向灯光。检查完发炎的那颗牙，他小心翼翼地用手指把市长的嘴合上了。 “可是不能用麻药，”他说道。 “为什么？” “你那儿化脓了。” 市长直视着他的眼睛说，“好吧，”勉强笑一笑，牙医却没有反应。他端来了那个装着已消毒器械的盆子放到工作台上，用冷镊子把器械从水中夹出来，依旧不慌不忙。他用鞋尖往前踢了踢痰盂，然后去脸盆那儿洗手。做这一切的时候并没有看市长一眼，可是市长的眼睛却一刻也没有离开他。发炎的是下面的一颗智齿。牙医叉开双脚站好，用烫热的镊子把那颗牙紧紧夹住。市长则紧紧地抓住了椅子的扶手，铆足劲紧蹬双脚，只觉得肾脏里一阵空冷，却忍住没有吱声。牙医只是手腕在动，没有憎恨，只是冷冷地轻声说道： “现在你替我们牺牲的二十个弟兄还债吧。” 市长感觉到下颚里骨头吱嘎被压碎，两眼已是泪水涟涟。但他一直屏着气，直到觉得牙拔出才开始呼吸。然后透过朦胧的泪眼他看到了那颗坏牙。那颗牙看起来似乎跟自己牙疼没有什么关系，这使他搞不清楚此前五个夜晚自己所遭受的折磨所为何来。他一边俯身对着痰盂，汗水淋漓，气喘吁吁，一边解开了外衣的扣子，伸手去裤兜里摸手绢。牙医递给他一块干净布。 “擦擦泪吧，”他说道。市长擦了擦眼泪。牙医那边洗着手，市长这里浑身发抖，他看见了破损的天花板，看见了布满灰尘的蜘蛛网，上面粘着一些蜘蛛卵和死虫子。牙医走过来，边擦着手，说道：“上床睡一觉，要用盐水漱口。”市长起身告辞，漫不经心地行了个军礼，迈开双腿向门口走去，外衣的扣子也没有系上。 “把帐单寄过来，”他说道。 “寄给你还是寄给镇上？” 市长看都没看他一眼，关上门在屏风那边说道： “还不都他妈是一回事儿。”