在谷歌地图上,看到我回不去的婚姻_OK阅读网
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在谷歌地图上,看到我回不去的婚姻
Tracking the Demise of My Marriage on Google Maps

来源:纽约时报    2019-01-15 05:32



        My husband moved out about six weeks ago, marking the end of our nearly 19-year relationship, but Google Maps hasn’t noticed yet. That morning I had whisked the children away so he and two friends from law school could load his things into a U-Haul and drive to the house he had rented.        大约六周前,我丈夫搬出去了,我们将近19年的关系就此结束,但谷歌地图(Google Maps)还没有注意到这一点。那天早上,我把孩子们带出去,方便他和两个法学院的朋友把他的东西装上一辆U-Haul货车,送去他租的房子。
        We had agreed that he would be the one to move out, and we agreed on what he would take: the dining room set and painting that had belonged to his late boss; the sideboards we had bought to hold our wedding dishes; and the antique armoire a neighbor in our first apartment complex had left us because it wouldn’t fit in his moving truck.        我们一致同意他搬出去,我们也一致同意了他带走的东西:他已故的老板留下的餐厅家具和绘画;我们买来装结婚碗碟的餐具柜;古董衣柜,那是我们住的第一个公寓的邻居留给我们的,因为他搬家的时候车上装不下。
        I had packed most of my husband’s things because he works long hours. I had sifted through our books and CDs, our Christmas ornaments, our coffee mugs. The blender: his. The food processor: mine. The biscuit cutter: his. The muffin tin: mine. The life we had lived, split between us.        我丈夫大多数要搬走的东西都是我帮忙收拾的,因为他工作太忙。我把我们的书、CD、圣诞饰物、马克杯都筛选了一遍。搅拌机:他的。料理机:我的。饼干模:他的。麦芬罐:我的。我们曾经的生活,就此一分为二。
        I still haven’t seen his house, though it’s only a few blocks away.        虽然他住的地方只有几个街区远,但我还没去过他的房子。
        I’m not sure what possessed me to Google our address a few weeks ago while on a writing residency in Tucson, far from my home in Ohio, but I did, and there it was: my house on Google Maps, my husband still inside. And still, I think, in love with me. The photo is dated January 2016.        几周前我远离在俄亥俄州的家,到图森参加一个写作入驻计划,我不知道我是发什么失心疯,会去谷歌搜我们的地址,总之我搜了,情况是这样:我在谷歌地图上看到了我的家,我丈夫还住在里面,并且,我认为,还爱着我。照片是2016年1月拍的。
        No, it is daylight in the photo, so my husband is at work. The blue recycling bins are at the curb, full, so I know it’s a Monday morning. There is light snow on the ground, and my neighbor’s magnolia trees are bare. They bloom in the spring and are impossibly beautiful for a few days, and then the blossoms drop and make a mess of both our yards.        不,照片上是白天,所以我丈夫当时应该在上班。蓝色垃圾桶摆在路边,是满的,所以我知道那是礼拜一上午。地上有一点积雪,邻居的木兰树光秃秃的。它们在春天开花,有那么几天会美得不像话,然后花儿就凋零了,把两家的院子都弄得乱七八糟。
        I love them anyway.        但我还是爱那些树。
        Even though it’s winter, my son’s tricycle is on the front porch. This is what passes as bike storage when you don’t have a garage. The snow shovel is probably propped nearby, too. I can’t zoom in enough to see the yellow bag of sidewalk salt by the front door, but I know it’s there. I know the orange plastic tumbler is nestled inside it, a makeshift scoop.        虽然是冬天,我儿子的三轮车就丢在门廊。在没有车库的情况下,这就是放自行车的地方了。雪铲可能也放在附近。照片没法再放大了,所以我看不到正门边那个装着融雪盐的黄袋子,但我知道它就在那里。我知道袋子里有个当铲子用的橙色塑料杯。
        I am probably inside, alone; my husband will be home in the evening. I am likely working on my laptop, clacking away with my index fingers because I never learned how to type, not properly. Maybe I’m reheating the cup of coffee I always let go cold.        我可能在里面,独自一人;我丈夫晚上才回来。我可能在笔记本电脑上工作,用两只手的食指一通敲,因为我一直没学会正确的打字。也许,我正在重新加热那杯我一直没顾上喝的咖啡。
        In the afternoon, once the recycling has been picked up, I’ll retrieve the cracked bins from the driveway and haul them back to the side of the house. I’ll walk to pick up my daughter from the elementary school. She and I will drive together to fetch my son from day care.        下午,垃圾一收走,我就会从车道上取回开裂的垃圾桶,把它们拖回房子的一侧。我要步行去小学接女儿。接着,我开车带着她,去托儿所接儿子。
        The scene could not be more different from Tucson, where the landscape is red and rocky, another planet, with more stars in the sky than I have seen anywhere.        那景象跟红色、多石的图森比是天差地别,像是另一个星球,天上的星星比我在其他任何地方见过的都要多。
        On my laptop screen I can see the windows of my house, the door, the periwinkle siding and the poor excuse for a flower bed — really just a moat of mulch. I can see the front walk my husband will come up in his suit and overcoat. It will be around 6 p.m., already dark. The children and I might see him through the storm door, and my son, only 3 in January 2016, might yell “Daddy!” and run to greet him.        透过手提电脑屏幕,我能看到我家房子的窗户、门、长春花蓝的壁板和那片假装是花坛的东西——其实只是一道铺了木屑土的沟。我能看到屋前的走道,我丈夫会穿着他的正装和大衣走过来。那将是晚上6点左右,天已黑。孩子们和我可能会通过挡风门看到他,我儿子——2016年1月时只有3岁——可能会大喊一声“爸爸!”,然后奔过去迎接他。
        That cold winter morning, someone from Google drove by and took this photo. Two-and-a-half years later, my marriage became untenable. Do I need to explain why? Do I need to say here what happened, to whom and by whom? It doesn’t matter.        那个寒冬的上午,谷歌的一个人开车经过,照了这张照片。两年半以后,我的婚姻变得无法维持。我需要解释为什么吗?我需要在这里说说发生了什么,对谁说,由谁来说?这不重要。
        In the version of my house that still exists online, January 2016, I can’t see the pairs of my husband’s shoes piled under the dining room table or his teacups forgotten around the house, brown-ringed, but I know they are there. The books he’s currently reading — so many books at once — are stacked by the old recliner, the one in which we rocked our son countless times.        在仍挂在网上的我的房子2016年1月的那个版本里,我看不到我丈夫堆在餐厅桌子下的一双双鞋,或他遗落在房间四处的带黄渍的茶杯,但我知道它们在那里。他目前在读的书——同时要读那么多本——在旧躺椅上叠起,那把我们曾在上面无数次摇晃着儿子的躺椅。
        My husband’s shampoo is in the shower, his razor and shaving cream by the sink. His toothbrush and pillow are still upstairs; he doesn’t begin sleeping on the couch until two summers later, and that version of our house will never be online — the version where we live together but not together.        我丈夫的洗发水在淋浴间里,他的剃须刀和剃须乳在水槽边。他的牙刷和枕头还在楼上;他直到两个夏天以后才开始睡沙发,而我们房子的那个版本永远不会放到网上——那个我们居住但没有生活在一起的版本。
        People — other people, people like me — have questions for Google Maps: “How do I remove my home image?” “How do I update the picture of my house?” “How do I unblur my house?”        人们——其他人,像我一样的人——对谷歌地图有疑问:“我怎样移除我家的照片?”“我怎样更新我房子的照片?”“我怎样去掉对我的房子的模糊处理?”
        When I look at my house on Google Maps, I am looking at another life. A blurred life I’m trying to bring into focus.        当我在谷歌地图上看我的房子,我是在看另一种生活。一个我设法要对好焦距的模糊了的生活。
        “Most photography is done by car,” I read, “but some is done by trekker, tricycle, walking, boat, snowmobile and underwater apparatus.”        “大部分照片是由汽车拍的,”我读到,“但也有一些是通过背包客、三轮车、步行、船只、摩托雪橇和水下装置拍的。”
        I learn that in 2018, Google Japan began offering the street view from a dog’s perspective. But in January 2016, we didn’t have a dog. We adopted our Boston terrier at the end of April that year. She had been abused, and her hip bones and spine jutted out from under her marbled coat.        我了解到,2018年,谷歌日本开始提供从狗的视角看到的街景。但在2016年1月,我们还没有狗。我们的波士顿㹴是在那年4月底收养的。她被虐待过,髋骨和脊椎从她那身大理石纹毛里凸了出来。
        She bit my husband on the hand the day we brought her home, when he tried to pick her up and put her in the car. But then she settled and fell asleep in my lap. When I look at the photo of my house on that Monday morning, I know I am there alone, no dog curled up, snoring, beside me. No dog with fur, brindle and white, I can bury my face in and cry. I am inside the house. My husband is still coming home. I have no reason yet to cry for him.        我们把她领回家那天,她咬了我丈夫的手,当时他试着把她抱起、放到车里。但之后她就变安生,在我怀里睡着了。看着那个周一早晨的我家房子的照片,我知道我独自一人在那里,没有狗在一旁蜷缩起、打鼾。没有狗那身带斑纹的白毛,让我把脸埋到里面哭泣。我在房子里面。我丈夫还在回家的路上。我还没有理由为他而哭泣。
        I know I shouldn’t torture myself. I should close my laptop, make another cup of tea, watch another impossibly orange sunset. I should write, which is what I came here to do. But I can’t help myself. I click back through the timeline of previous photos, each an iteration of my married life.        我知道我不该折磨自己。我该合上电脑,再泡杯茶,再看一次显出不可思议的橙色的日落。我该写作,这也是我来这里的原因。但我抑制不住自己。我点回到先前照片的时间线,每一张都是我婚姻生活的一个节点。
        I can see November 2015: My car is in the driveway and I am in the house alone or with my 3-year-old son. He is not yet in school, only part-time day care. The Halloween decorations are still up, the ground littered with dry brown leaves. The pine tree by the front door is smothered in a cotton spider web my husband and children stretched across it.        我可以看到2015年11月:我的车在车道上,我独自在房子里,或者和3岁的儿子在一起。他还没上学,只去半天的日托。万圣节的装饰都还在,地面上散落着干枯的棕色树叶。前门旁边的松树上罩着我丈夫和孩子们扯开铺上去的棉花蜘蛛网。
        That tree died a year later, and he crudely cut it down.        那棵树一年后死了,他残忍地把它砍倒。
        I can click again and see August 2014: My car is in the driveway, my son’s stroller is parked on the front walk, and my toddler and I must be in the house. He’s probably napping, or maybe we are stacking his bright wooden blocks on the playroom carpet. My phone is probably charging on the kitchen counter. Maybe it lights up when my husband texts to tell me if he’ll be home for dinner or not to wait.        我可以再点击一次,看到2014年8月:我的车在车道上,儿子的婴儿车停在前侧走道上,我还在学步的小孩和我肯定在房子里。他很可能在打盹儿,或者我们在游戏室的地毯上堆着他的亮色积木。我的手机很可能在厨房操作台上充着电。或许在丈夫短信告诉我他回家吃饭或不用等时它会亮起。
        I can see June 2012: My car is in the driveway, and the yard is dappled in sunlight and shadow. The neighbor’s magnolia trees are full and green, but it’s too late for the blossoms. I am inside, alone or with my daughter, and pregnant, due with a boy in October, after two miscarriages in two years. My husband will come home and empty his pockets on the dining room table, the same table he’ll load into a U-Haul six years later. Every night there is a little pile of him on the table: business cards, loose change, the engraved money clip I gave him for his birthday.When I look at my house on Google Maps — having now forgotten about the sunset entirely — I see our family home. I see the house my children draw in their pictures of home, periwinkle crayon for the siding, brown for the door, black squares with pluses for windows. If I zoom in, I can see the stump of the pine. But I don’t see anything that predicts our marriage ending.        我可以看到2012年6月:我的车在走道上,阳光在院子里洒下斑驳的光影。邻居的玉兰花树绿意盎然,但花期已过。我在屋内,独自一人或和女儿一起,我怀着孕,儿子十月将出生——在两年流产两次之后。我丈夫将回家,掏出口袋里的东西放在餐桌上——六年后将被他装上U-Haul车的那张桌子。每天晚上,桌上都会有一小堆他的东西:名片、零钱、我送给他作生日礼物的刻了名字的钱夹。当我在谷歌地图上看着我的房子——全然忘记了日落——我看到我们一家人的家。我看到我的孩子们画的家,长春花蓝色蜡笔涂的壁板,棕色的门,窗户是黑色方块和加号。如果把照片放大,我能看到松树的树桩。但看不到任何预示着我们的婚姻将终结的迹象。
        How do I update the image of home in my own mind? How do I unblur it?        我怎样在头脑里更新家的图像?怎样去掉它的模糊处理?
        “Street view is updated every one to three years,” I read.        “街景每过一到三年会进行更新,”我读到。
        It has been nearly three years since Google last photographed our street, which means that someday soon a car will drive by with a camera mounted on its roof to tell me what I already know: I am alone, trying to update, to unblur.        距谷歌上次拍摄我们的街道已经快三年了,这意味着不久后的某天,一辆顶上装着摄像头的车将驶过,告诉我我已经知道的:我独自一人,试着更新,试着去掉模糊。
        There will be no men’s shoes under the dining room table, no stained teacups. The children may be here, or at school, or at their father’s house that day.        餐厅桌子下再也不会有男人的鞋,不会有带渍的茶杯。那一天,孩子们可能会在那里,或在学校,或在他们父亲的房子里。
        In my driveway, there will be one car.        在我家的车道上,将只停着一辆车。
                
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