Francs
法郎
印着伏尔泰头像的一张法郎；
有关金钱的法国小说；
发生在公园里的一场好戏……
Francs have a rich and disreputable past. I fell permanently under their spell long ago in Paris. Lovely stuff, soft from the touch of many hands, bits of colored paper engraved with famous faces. The ten-franc note was my favorite -Voltaire1, so sly; you could tell he was in trouble with usurers.
We had rented the fussy apartment of a bachelor professor -every wall sateen, every curtain eyelet. It was like living inside a petticoat.
My young husband spent every day at the Bibliotheque. I spent every day wandering. I watched jugglers and listened to fiddlers. In parks, and on the stretches of grass beside the Seine, I read Balzac and Zola and Colette and Flaubert:2 novels about society and the human heart. Really, though, the books were about money -who has it, where to hide it, what a suit of clothing costs, how long you can keep the butcher waiting.
On an August morning I fetched up3 at the riverside park near the Place de l'Alma. A couple stood there -the man short and round, the woman tall and bulky. He wore a suit and tie, she a coral knit dress. As they edged closer I noticed that the woman's outfit was the exact color of the false bloom on her cheeks.
"Parlez-vous Francais?" she inquired in a husky tone.
"Not well," I admitted.
"Deutsch?"
"Nein."
At this the plump man bowed, twirled one hundred and eighty degrees, and bounced away. A cheerful cream puff4 of a fellow…… The woman's dignified stoutness hinted at beer and sausages. "Do you happen to know," she said in guttural English, "of a German restaurant? Or a German guest house?"
Her face was heavily made up -under the rouge she wore a greasy base -and she had an air of suppressed sadness. The man, free as a hoyden, ran to a chestnut tree and scratched his back on its bark.
"I don't know such a place," I said.
The woman emitted a Teutonic sigh. She sat down on a bench and glared at her enormous cracked shoes. I sat down too. The man now hovered behind us, his full lips pursed around a toothpick.
They came from Bavaria, she told me. Their daughter, a photographer, lived in the Marais -oh, a charming place, the mother said, her coarse features animated. The father ("speaks only German," she bitterly confided) smiled too, as if we were discussing pastry.
They had arrived last night, by train. Their daughter welcomed them with joy. But also with sadness, for a sudden assignment demanded her presence for three days in another part of the country, and she couldn't refuse, she wishes to make her mark, you understand, Mademoiselle. She had driven off early that morning in her little Fiat, leaving them with food and tickets to a concert.
I glanced at the father. As if on cue5 he began to play an imaginary violin. Dark curls bounced on his brow.
The woman's large eyes, a weak blue, filled with tears, and her story came in a phlegmy rush. After breakfast they decided to take a walk. So they bathed -entering the tub together, I imagined, in order to conserve water, the small figure soaping his massive consort. Then they dressed and stepped out onto the landing. They shut the door and heard the lock click. Alors. Ach! The handbag, with the key to the flat tucked into its innermost pocket, had been left inside. "I blame only myself," moaned the woman, knuckles pressed to forehead. "We are locked out until Thursday."
"The concierge……"
"We could be imposters. He cannot let us in. His hands are tied." To illustrate she crossed her thick and somewhat hairy wrists.
"Quel dommage!" I exclaimed.
"A German hotel might trust us for a few nights," the woman said. "They might advance us cash to buy a few pieces of underwear."
How crucial money was, exactly as novelists claimed. People married and murdered for it, flattered and threatened, rode bareback, tutored dullards, wore themselves out on the boards.
"I have some cash," I said, looking around for Mein Herr. He was back under the tree, smiling wistfully. "I could……"
Oh, no, said the woman.
Oh, yes, said I.
O no.
O yes.
Nein.
Ja.
Non.
The woman's eyelids were closed. Her mascara was melting.
"Oui," I said, concluding the divertissement6. "I have eighty francs." It was equivalent then to about fifty dollars. (But I was lying; I had ninety francs.)
"If you write down your address," the woman said, briskly opening her eyes, "we will send you the money. The instant our daughter comes home."
So I gave them the address, and the bills; and then I went home myself.
"They do sound like frauds," said my husband mildly.
I didn't tell him that the show he'd missed had been worth twice eighty francs -the come-on, the tale, the pretty business of taking the address. I didn't tell him that the man was probably a woman and the woman surely a man -we had enough drag there among the apartment's ruffles. And anyway, tomorrow, practicing their art in a different part of town, the playful pair might revert to their rightful genders and costumes. I didn't mention that I had withheld a ten-franc note engraved with Voltaire's crafty visage. Quelle joke: my scamming them.
I have that note still. Every time I look at it I think of Balzac's misers and Zola's thieves and Colette's hardworking artistes and Flaubert's Frederic, risking everything on one throw of the dice. Then I imagine my rascal friends after we parted. They are waiting for their lunch in some steamy haus. His hands caress hers, hers his.
1. Voltaire/v=l#ter/: 伏尔泰（1694-1778），法国启蒙思想家、作家、哲学家。著有《哲学书简》、哲理小说《老实人》、悲剧《扎伊尔》及历史著作等。
2. Balzac: 巴尔扎克（1799-1850）法国小说家，他的总标题为《人间喜剧》的巨著包括91部小说，反映了法国社会剧烈变革时期的现实生活； Zola: 左拉（1840-1902），法国作家，自然主义文学的代表，主要作品有系列长篇小说《鲁贡玛卡家族》20部；Colette: 科莱特（1873-1954），法国女作家，作品大都描述爱情的快乐和痛苦，写有小说《流浪的女人》等；Flaubert: 福楼拜（1821-1880），法国作家，代表作为长篇小说《包法利夫人》。
3. fetch up: 突然停止。
4. cream puff: <口>脂粉气十足的男子。
5. as if on cue: 似乎接受了信号一样。
6. divertissement/di:verti:s#m09/: <法>消遣，娱乐。
法郎历史悠久，声名狼藉。很久以前在巴黎时我就已经永远地被它们迷住了。真是可爱的东西，众人的抚摸令这些印着名人肖像的彩色小纸片光滑柔软。十法郎纸币是我的最爱――上面印着伏尔泰的头像；看上去如此狡猾；显然是招惹了高利贷者。
我们从一个单身教授那儿租了间花里胡哨的公寓――每面墙上都贴了棉缎，每幅窗帘上都有饰孔。我们就像住在衬裙里面。
我年轻的丈夫天天泡在图书馆里，而我则终日闲逛。我看街头戏法，听卖艺人拉小提琴。在公园里，在塞纳河边的草地上，我读着巴尔扎克、左拉、科莱特和福楼拜：他们那些描写社会和人性的小说。实际上，这些书与金钱息息相关――谁得到了它，把它藏到哪儿，一身衣服要多少钱，你能在肉贩那儿赊多久的账。
一个八月的清晨，我在离阿尔玛广场不远的河边公园突然停了下来。一对夫妇站在那里――男的又矮又胖，女的又高又壮。他穿西装打领带，她穿橘红色针织裙。他们慢慢走近时，我注意到那女人衣服的颜色和她脸上涂的脂粉颜色一样。
“您说法语吗？”她声音沙哑地问道。
“说得不好，”我如实答道。
“德语？”
“不会。”
听到这里，那个胖胖的男人欠了一下身，转了180度， 颠颠地走了，一个快乐的脂粉气十足的家伙……而那女人矜持的肥胖的样子则暗示着她爱喝啤酒爱吃香肠。“你知不知道，”她说英语带着喉音，“哪儿有德国餐馆？或是德国旅店？”
她脸上的妆很浓――在胭脂下涂了一层厚厚的粉底――她似乎强忍着悲伤。那个男人，像个顽皮的姑娘一样任性，跑到一棵栗子树下，在树皮上蹭着后背。
“我不知道哪儿有这样的地方，”我说。
那个女人发出一声日耳曼人的叹息。她在长椅上坐下，瞪着脚上那双大得出奇的有裂口的鞋子。我也坐了下来。那个男人在我们背后徘徊，噘着厚厚的嘴唇，叼着一根牙签儿。
她告诉我他们来自巴伐利亚州。女儿是一位摄影师，住在巴黎的玛黑区――哦，真是个好地方，母亲说道，粗糙的脸上有了生气。父亲（“只会说德语，”她恨恨地告诉我）也笑了笑，好像我们在讨论油酥点心。
他们是头天晚上坐火车来的，女儿很高兴地迎接了他们。但也带着遗憾，因为她突然接到一项任务，要去别的地方出差三天。她无法拒绝，她希望自己能有成就，你明白，小姐？她那天一早就开着她的小菲亚特车走了，给他们留了食物和音乐会的门票。
我瞥了那位父亲一眼。他好像得到了暗号一样，马上比划着做出拉小提琴的样子。黑色的卷发在他的脑门上跳动。
那女人浅蓝色的大眼睛充满了泪水， 叽里咕噜地讲开了故事。早饭过后，他们想出去散散步。所以他们洗了个澡――一同洗的，我想，是为了节约用水，那个小个子为他健硕的伴侣擦洗。然后他们穿上衣服，走到过道上，带上门，听到门喀哒一声锁上了。天哪，哦！手提包落在了屋里，公寓的钥匙就放在包最里面的口袋里。“我只怪自己，”那女人抱怨道，手支着额头。“星期四之前我们都进不去了。”
“那看门人……”
“我们可能是骗子。他不能让我们进去，他也缚手缚脚。”为了进一步说明，她把胖胖的多毛的手腕交叉在一起。
“太遗憾了！”我叫道。
“德国旅馆也许可以让我们赊住几个晚上，”那女人说道。“他们可能会借给我们点儿钱，让我们先买几件内衣裤。”
钱是多么重要，和小说家说的完全一样。人们为它喜结连理，为它互相残杀，为它阿谀奉承、威胁恫吓，为它甘冒大险、自甘下贱，为它粉墨登场，直到筋疲力尽。
“我身上有些钱，”我说，四处找那位先生。他回到了树下，愁苦地微笑着。“我可以……”
哎哟，不要，女人说。
哎哟，拿着，我说。
哦，不。
哦，拿着。
不要。
拿着。
不要。
女人闭上了眼睛，睫毛油化开了。
“拿着，”我说，结束了这场戏。“我有80法郎。”这在当时相当于50美元。（但我在撒谎；我有90法郎。）
“如果你写下地址，”那女人说，马上睁开了眼睛，“我们会寄还你的钱，我女儿一回来就寄。”
于是我给他们留了地址，还有钞票；然后就回家了。
“听起来他们很像骗子，”我丈夫温和地说。
我没告诉他他错过的这场戏值两个80法郎――那诱饵，那故事，以及记下地址的巧妙手法。我也没有告诉他那个男人可能是个女的，而那个女人肯定是男的――我们这个公寓的那些饰边也已经够女里女气的了。不论怎么说，明天他们在城市的另一个地方表演他们的技艺时，这好玩的一对也许会换回本来面目，穿着自己的衣服了。我没说我还留着那张印着伏尔泰狡诈肖像的十法郎纸币。多好笑呵：我骗了他们。
我现在仍保留着那张纸币。每当我看到它，就会想到巴尔扎克笔下的吝啬鬼，左拉笔下的小偷，科莱特笔下兢兢业业的艺人和福楼拜笔下的弗雷德里克，他们倾其所有，孤注一掷。然后我开始想像我与他们分手后那两个无赖朋友的情形。他们在一间潮湿闷热的房间里等着吃午饭。他抚摸着她的手，她抚摸着他的。
英文 知识 Francs本文地址：http://www.dioenglish.com/writing/essay/42015.html
