English Original
I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few years, to be told anew in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.
They were going to Fort Lauderdale — three boys and three girls — and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," she said brightly. "I hear it's really beautiful."
"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife," he said. "I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me. I'd understand. Get a new guy, I said — she's a wonderful woman, really something — and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me. And she didn't. Not for three and a half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her again. We used to live in Brunswick, just before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town. I told her that if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it — no handkerchief, and I'd go on through."
"Wow," the girl exclaimed. "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. The woman was handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.
Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood, full of the silence of absence and lost years. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment.
Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five. Then, suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs — 20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con rose and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
中文翻译
几年前，我在纽约格林威治村从一个女孩那里第一次听到这个故事。这故事很可能是一个每隔几年就会重新出现、以某种新形式被讲述的神秘民间传说。然而，我仍然愿意相信，它真的在某个地方、某个时间发生过。
他们——三个男孩和三个女孩——正要去劳德代尔堡。上车时，他们带着纸袋装的三明治和葡萄酒，梦想着金色的海滩，而纽约的灰暗与寒冷则被抛在身后。
当巴士穿过新泽西州时，他们开始注意到文戈。他坐在他们前面，穿着一套朴素、不合身的西装，一动不动，满是灰尘的脸掩盖了他的年龄。他不停地咬着嘴唇内侧，仿佛冻结在自己沉默的茧中。
深夜，在华盛顿郊外，巴士驶入一家霍华德·约翰逊餐厅，除了文戈，所有人都下车了。他像生了根一样坐在座位上，年轻人们开始对他感到好奇，猜测着他的身世：也许他是个船长，一个逃离妻子的丈夫，或者一个回家的老兵。当他们回到车上时，其中一个女孩坐到他旁边，介绍了自己。
“我们要去佛罗里达，”她欢快地说，“听说那里很美。”
“是的，”他轻声说，仿佛想起了他曾试图忘记的往事。
“要喝点酒吗？”她说。他笑了笑，喝了一大口。他道了谢，又陷入了沉默。过了一会儿，她回到了同伴那里，文戈则打起盹来。
早上，他们在另一家霍华德·约翰逊餐厅外醒来，这次文戈进去了。女孩坚持让他加入他们。他显得很害羞，点了黑咖啡，紧张地抽着烟，而年轻人们则叽叽喳喳地谈论着在海滩上过夜。回到巴士上后，女孩再次和文戈坐在一起。过了一会儿，他缓慢而痛苦地讲述了他的故事。过去四年他一直在纽约坐牢，现在他要回家了。
“你结婚了吗？”
“我不知道。”
“你不知道？”她说。
“嗯，我在监狱里时给我妻子写了信，”他说，“我告诉她我要离开很长一段时间，如果她受不了，如果孩子们老是问起，如果这让她太痛苦，那她可以忘了我，我会理解的。找个新男人，我说——她是个好女人，真的很了不起——然后忘了我。我告诉她不必给我写信。她确实没写。三年半都没有。”
“所以你现在回家，却不知道结果？”
“是的，”他害羞地说，“嗯，上周，当我确定假释会通过时，我又给她写了信。我们以前住在不伦瑞克，就在杰克逊维尔前面，进城的地方有棵大橡树。我告诉她，如果她愿意让我回去，就在树上系一条黄手帕，我就会下车回家。如果她不想要我，就算了——没有手帕，我就直接坐车过去。”
“哇，”女孩惊叹道，“哇。”
她告诉了其他人，很快所有人都参与进来，随着不伦瑞克的临近而紧张起来，看着文戈给他们看的妻子和三个孩子的照片。那女人有一种朴素的俊美，孩子们在那些被反复摩挲的快照中仍显稚嫩。
现在他们离不伦瑞克还有20英里，年轻人们占据了右侧靠窗的座位，等待着那棵大橡树的出现。巴士上弥漫着一种阴暗、寂静的气氛，充满了离别与逝去岁月的沉默。文戈不再张望，绷紧了脸，露出前囚犯的面具，仿佛在武装自己，准备迎接又一次失望。
接着，不伦瑞克还有十英里，然后五英里。然后，突然间，所有的年轻人都从座位上跳了起来，尖叫着、呼喊着、哭泣着，跳起了小小的欢乐之舞。除了文戈。
文戈目瞪口呆地坐在那里，看着那棵橡树。树上挂满了黄手帕——二十条，三十条，也许有上百条，那棵树像一面欢迎的旗帜在风中飘扬。在年轻人的欢呼声中，这位老囚犯站起身，走向巴士的前方，准备回家。