English Original
My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father's office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don't know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away.
This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous pea incident.
It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fanciest place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas. I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now. "Eat your peas," my grandmother said.
"Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn't like peas. Leave him alone."
My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I'll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas."
I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat.
My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can't stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal.
I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.
My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian's a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.
"You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love."
Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape.
"You ate them for money. You can eat them for love."
What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love."
中文翻译
在我还是个小男孩的时候，我的祖父去世了，我的祖母开始每年和我们一起住大约六个月。她住在一个兼作我父亲办公室的房间里，我们称之为“后屋”。她身上带着一股浓烈的芳香。我不知道她用的是什么香水，但那是一种双管齐下、酒精度九十、足以击倒、让受害者失去知觉、能杀死驼鹿的品种。她把香水装在一个巨大的喷雾器里，频繁且大量地喷洒。几乎不可能进入她的房间并长时间保持呼吸。当她离开家去和我的莉莉安姨妈住六个月时，我的母亲和姐妹们会打开所有的窗户，拆掉床单，取下窗帘和地毯。然后她们会花上好几天清洗和通风，疯狂地试图让那刺鼻的气味散去。
这就是我祖母，在发生那场臭名昭著的豌豆事件时的样子。
事情发生在比尔特莫尔酒店，在我八岁的认知里，那大概是整个普罗维登斯最豪华的用餐地点。购物了一上午后，我的祖母、母亲和我正在吃午餐。我神气地点了一份索尔兹伯里牛排，自信地知道在那个花哨的名字下，不过是一份浇着肉汁的普通汉堡排。当它被端上桌时，旁边还配着一盘豌豆。我现在不喜欢豌豆。我那时也不喜欢豌豆。我一直讨厌豌豆。对我来说，为什么有人会自愿吃豌豆完全是个谜。我在家不吃。我在餐馆也不吃。现在我当然也不打算吃。“把你的豌豆吃了，”我的祖母说。
“妈妈，”我母亲用警告的语气说。“他不喜欢豌豆。别管他。”
我的祖母没有回答，但她眼中闪过一丝光芒，下巴紧绷，表明她不会被阻止。她朝我的方向倾过身，直视着我的眼睛，说出了那句改变我命运的致命话语：“如果你吃掉那些豌豆，我就给你五美元。”
我对即将到来的厄运毫无概念。我只知道五美元是一笔巨大得几乎难以想象的财富，而尽管豌豆如此难吃，我和拥有那五美元之间只隔着一盘豌豆。我开始强迫那些可恶的东西咽下喉咙。
我的母亲气得脸色发青。我的祖母则带着一副打出无敌王牌后自鸣得意的表情。“我想做什么就做什么，埃伦，你阻止不了我。”我母亲怒视着她的母亲。她又怒视着我。没人能像我母亲那样怒视。如果有怒视奥运会，她毫无疑问会赢得金牌。
我，当然，继续把豌豆往喉咙里塞。那些怒视让我紧张，每一颗豌豆都让我想吐，但那五美元的神奇景象在我眼前飘荡，我终于把最后一颗也强咽了下去。我的祖母夸张地把五美元递给了我。我的母亲继续沉默地怒视着。这件事似乎就此结束了。至少我当时是这么想的。
几周后，我的祖母去了莉莉安姨妈家。那天晚上，晚餐时，我母亲做了两道我最喜欢的食物：肉饼和土豆泥。和它们一起上桌的，还有一大碗热气腾腾的豌豆。她给我盛了一些豌豆，而我，在我天真青春的最后时刻，拒绝了。我母亲用冰冷的眼神盯着我，同时在我的盘子里堆了一大堆豌豆。然后，那句将困扰我多年的话来了。
“你为钱吃了它们，”她说。“你也能为爱吃了它们。”
哦，绝望！哦，毁灭！现在，为时已晚，我才恍然意识到，我无意中将自己打入了一个无法逃脱的地狱。
“你为钱吃了它们。你也能为爱吃了它们。”
我还能想出什么可能的理由来反驳呢？一个也没有。我吃豌豆了吗？当然吃了。那天我吃了，此后每次端上桌时我都吃了。那五美元很快就花光了。我的祖母几年后去世了。但豌豆的遗产留存了下来，直到今天依然存在。只要在上豌豆时我哪怕只是撇撇嘴（因为，毕竟，我仍然讨厌那些可怕的小东西），我母亲就会再次重复那句令人畏惧的话：“你为钱吃了它们，”她说。“你也能为爱吃了它们。”