Francs
法郎
印著伏爾泰頭像的一張法郎；
有關金錢的法國小說；
發生在公園里的一場好戲……
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/: 伏爾泰（1694-1778），法國啟蒙思想家、作家、哲學家。著有《哲學書簡》、哲理小說《老實人》、悲劇《扎伊爾》及歷史著作等。
2. Balzac: 巴爾扎克（1799-1850）法國小說家，他的總標題為《人間喜劇》的巨著包括91部小說，反映了法國社會劇烈變革時期的現實生活； Zola: 左拉（1840-1902），法國作家，自然主義文學的代表，主要作品有系列長篇小說《魯貢瑪卡家族》20部；Colette: 科萊特（1873-1954），法國女作家，作品大都描述愛情的快樂和痛苦，寫有小說《流浪的女人》等；Flaubert: 福樓拜（1821-1880），法國作家，代表作為長篇小說《包法利夫人》。
3. fetch up: 突然停止。
4. cream puff: <口>脂粉氣十足的男子。
5. as if on cue: 似乎接受了信號一樣。
6. divertissement/di:verti:s#m09/: <法>消遣，娛樂。
法郎歷史悠久，聲名狼藉。很久以前在巴黎時我就已經永遠地被它們迷住了。真是可愛的東西，眾人的撫摸令這些印著名人肖像的彩色小紙片光滑柔軟。十法郎紙幣是我的最愛――上面印著伏爾泰的頭像；看上去如此狡猾；顯然是招惹了高利貸者。
我們從一個單身教授那兒租了間花里胡哨的公寓――每面墻上都貼了棉緞，每幅窗簾上都有飾孔。我們就像住在襯裙里面。
我年輕的丈夫天天泡在圖書館里，而我則終日閑逛。我看街頭戲法，聽賣藝人拉小提琴。在公園里，在塞納河邊的草地上，我讀著巴爾扎克、左拉、科萊特和福樓拜：他們那些描寫社會和人性的小說。實際上，這些書與金錢息息相關――誰得到了它，把它藏到哪兒，一身衣服要多少錢，你能在肉販那兒賒多久的賬。
一個八月的清晨，我在離阿爾瑪廣場不遠的河邊公園突然停了下來。一對夫婦站在那里――男的又矮又胖，女的又高又壯。他穿西裝打領帶，她穿橘紅色針織裙。他們慢慢走近時，我注意到那女人衣服的顏色和她臉上涂的脂粉顏色一樣。
“您說法語嗎？”她聲音沙啞地問道。
“說得不好，”我如實答道。
“德語？”
“不會?！?/p>
聽到這里，那個胖胖的男人欠了一下身，轉了180度， 顛顛地走了，一個快樂的脂粉氣十足的家伙……而那女人矜持的肥胖的樣子則暗示著她愛喝啤酒愛吃香腸?！澳阒恢?，”她說英語帶著喉音，“哪兒有德國餐館？或是德國旅店？”
她臉上的妝很濃――在胭脂下涂了一層厚厚的粉底――她似乎強忍著悲傷。那個男人，像個頑皮的姑娘一樣任性，跑到一棵栗子樹下，在樹皮上蹭著后背。
“我不知道哪兒有這樣的地方，”我說。
那個女人發出一聲日耳曼人的嘆息。她在長椅上坐下，瞪著腳上那雙大得出奇的有裂口的鞋子。我也坐了下來。那個男人在我們背后徘徊，噘著厚厚的嘴唇，叼著一根牙簽兒。
她告訴我他們來自巴伐利亞州。女兒是一位攝影師，住在巴黎的瑪黑區――哦，真是個好地方，母親說道，粗糙的臉上有了生氣。父親（“只會說德語，”她恨恨地告訴我）也笑了笑，好像我們在討論油酥點心。
他們是頭天晚上坐火車來的，女兒很高興地迎接了他們。但也帶著遺憾，因為她突然接到一項任務，要去別的地方出差三天。她無法拒絕，她希望自己能有成就，你明白，小姐？她那天一早就開著她的小菲亞特車走了，給他們留了食物和音樂會的門票。
我瞥了那位父親一眼。他好像得到了暗號一樣，馬上比劃著做出拉小提琴的樣子。黑色的卷發在他的腦門上跳動。
那女人淺藍色的大眼睛充滿了淚水， 嘰里咕嚕地講開了故事。早飯過后，他們想出去散散步。所以他們洗了個澡――一同洗的，我想，是為了節約用水，那個小個子為他健碩的伴侶擦洗。然后他們穿上衣服，走到過道上，帶上門，聽到門喀噠一聲鎖上了。天哪，哦！手提包落在了屋里，公寓的鑰匙就放在包最里面的口袋里?！拔抑还肿约?，”那女人抱怨道，手支著額頭。“星期四之前我們都進不去了?！?/p>
“那看門人……”
“我們可能是騙子。他不能讓我們進去，他也縛手縛腳。”為了進一步說明，她把胖胖的多毛的手腕交叉在一起。
“太遺憾了！”我叫道。
“德國旅館也許可以讓我們賒住幾個晚上，”那女人說道?！八麄兛赡軙杞o我們點兒錢，讓我們先買幾件內衣褲?！?/p>
錢是多么重要，和小說家說的完全一樣。人們為它喜結連理，為它互相殘殺，為它阿諛奉承、威脅恫嚇，為它甘冒大險、自甘下賤，為它粉墨登場，直到筋疲力盡。
“我身上有些錢，”我說，四處找那位先生。他回到了樹下，愁苦地微笑著。“我可以……”
哎喲，不要，女人說。
哎喲，拿著，我說。
哦，不。
哦，拿著。
不要。
拿著。
不要。
女人閉上了眼睛，睫毛油化開了。
“拿著，”我說，結束了這場戲?！拔矣?0法郎?！边@在當時相當于50美元。（但我在撒謊；我有90法郎。）
“如果你寫下地址，”那女人說，馬上睜開了眼睛，“我們會寄還你的錢，我女兒一回來就寄?！?/p>
于是我給他們留了地址，還有鈔票；然后就回家了。
“聽起來他們很像騙子，”我丈夫溫和地說。
我沒告訴他他錯過的這場戲值兩個80法郎――那誘餌，那故事，以及記下地址的巧妙手法。我也沒有告訴他那個男人可能是個女的，而那個女人肯定是男的――我們這個公寓的那些飾邊也已經夠女里女氣的了。不論怎么說，明天他們在城市的另一個地方表演他們的技藝時，這好玩的一對也許會換回本來面目，穿著自己的衣服了。我沒說我還留著那張印著伏爾泰狡詐肖像的十法郎紙幣。多好笑呵：我騙了他們。
我現在仍保留著那張紙幣。每當我看到它，就會想到巴爾扎克筆下的吝嗇鬼，左拉筆下的小偷，科萊特筆下兢兢業業的藝人和福樓拜筆下的弗雷德里克，他們傾其所有，孤注一擲。然后我開始想像我與他們分手后那兩個無賴朋友的情形。他們在一間潮濕悶熱的房間里等著吃午飯。他撫摸著她的手，她撫摸著他的。
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