《摩卡壺中間奏曲》

《從未兌現》是杯義式咖啡，結識十餘載壓縮至一年，將最美的回憶寫入耶誕夜至元旦前後，用摩卡壺將回憶的咖啡豆，粗細磨出悼念，悲歡煮沸，逆勢沖開歲月，裊裊升起情感的煙。懷念的這杯義式咖啡，既苦澀又甘醇，故人只能細細回想，後勁餘溫中遙記初見。遇見裴先生不止遇見，而是通過裴先生，瞥見義大利。儘管只是縮影，對我而言，意義遠大於親身走訪義大利。

書寫保留回憶，書寫本身就是回憶。我憑回憶塑造裴先生的模樣，從衣衫吊帶到橄欖氣味，甚至說Bene（好）的語氣，試著捕捉故人神情，終究力有未逮。這隻筆，見過先生瀟灑豪邁；這隻筆，也見過落魄潦倒。憐憫不審判，是這隻筆堅守的原則，所以著墨於初見，聖誕夜共享晚餐，摩卡壺共品咖啡，祈禱時共聽鄉村騎士間奏曲。書寫讓印象模糊的往事，漸漸清晰起來，行筆至遺囑部分，審判如何忍心？這隻筆已讓子女弒父，而且是符合法律規範的弒父，血腥至此，是非無須再論。

先生是我義大利文的啟蒙老師，一遍遍陪我複誦動詞字根，不厭其煩陪我練習過去式。過去式啊，當語言回憶過去，動詞竟然繁複多變，惱人著實費解。閒暇之餘，先生便與我翻閱過去照片提及剛果叢林往事，幾回與游擊隊鬥智鬥力，出生入死博得殷實基業，侃侃而談，幾回亦囑我筆下精彩閱歷，但我總是推託。直到《從未兌現》，這才寫了許些，而我能寫的，始終有限。

我陪著他追憶往事，訴說從前，輕唱著義大利老歌，哼唱著鄉村騎士的間奏曲...細說重頭歌劇的故事，茶花女多麼愛阿飛，蝴蝶夫人多麼癡情，咪咪多麼命薄，柳兒多麼深情...弄臣多麼愛女兒...先生聽到弄臣，從不流淚的他，竟也淚了...

Deh, non parlare al misero
del suo perduto bene…

美好曾經失落矣，
老父可憐莫再提...

因為從未兌現，情義得以保存。《從未兌現》向故人辭別，起於這聲bene（好），也終於這聲bene（好）。前者猶記豪敘，後者隱藏詠歎。故人往矣，摩卡壺中間奏曲，重複聽，惆悵飲。來時萬里同為客，今日翻成送故人。

Intermezzo in the Moka Pot

Never Redeemed is a cup of Italian coffee. More than a decade of acquaintance is compressed into a single year, its most beautiful memories written into the days from Christmas Eve to around New Years. With a Moka pot, the coffee beans of memory are ground, coarse and fine, into mourning; joy and sorrow are brought to the boil; against the current, the years are forced open, and the smoke of feeling rises in thin curls. This cup of remembrance is both bitter and mellow. With my old friend gone, I can only recall him slowly, the lingering warmth carrying the distant first meeting. To meet Signore Perrone was not merely to meet him, but through him to catch a glimpse of Italy. Though only a glimpse, its meaning, for me, far exceeded travelling to Italy in person.

Writing preserves memory; writing itself is memory. From memory I sought to shape Signore Perrones likeness—from the suspenders across his shirt to the scent of olives, even the very tone in which he said Bene. I tried to capture the countenance of my old friend, yet in the end my pen fell short. This pen had seen him dashing and expansive; this pen had also seen him fallen and broken. Compassion without judgment is the one principle this pen has held fast to. And so I gave my words mostly to our beginnings: the supper shared on Christmas Eve, the coffee drunk together from the Moka pot, the Cavalleria Rusticana Intermezzo we listened to together at prayer. Writing brought the blurred impressions of the past slowly into focus—yet when the pen reached the matter of the will, how could it bear to judge? This pen had already let the children kill the father, and a killing fully within the bounds of the law. Where blood runs this deep, right and wrong need no further argument.

Signore Perrone was my first teacher of Italian. Again and again he sat with me, going over the roots of verbs and patiently practising the past tense, never tiring of it. The past tense—ah. When language tries to recall what is gone, its verbs turn so intricate, so changeable, so maddeningly hard to grasp. In idle hours he would turn old photographs with me and speak of his years in the Congo jungle: of matching wits and strength with guerrillas, of risking life and limb to build the solid fortune he possessed. He spoke with such ease and vigor, and more than once urged me to write down those remarkable years, but I always demurred. Not until Never Redeemed did I finally write a little of it. And what I could write has always been limited.

I stayed by his side, chasing old memories, telling the stories of former days, softly singing the old Italian songs, humming the Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana... recounting to him, one by one, the great operas: how Violetta loved Alfredo, how Cio-Cio-San was so devoted, how Mimìs fate was so fragile, how Liùs love ran so deep... how Rigoletto loved his daughter... When Signore Perrone heard the story of Rigoletto, he—who never wept—shed tears.

Deh, non parlare al misero
del suo perduto bene…

What once was beautiful is lost;
poor father, speak of it no more...

Because it was never redeemed, this bond could be preserved. Never Redeemed bids farewell to an old friend; it begins with that hearty bene, and ends with that same quiet bene. The former still carries the memory of his grandeur; the latter conceals a lament. The old friend is gone. Within the Moka pot, the Intermezzo plays on. I listen to it again and again, sipping the sorrow.

We came ten thousand miles, fellow strangers in a foreign land; today, the journey has turned into a farewell to an old friend.

河水再流：
 從未兌現