克里斯·加德纳

In my memorys sketch of early childhood， drawn by an artist of the impressionist school， there is one image that stands out above the rest—which when called forth is preceded by the mouth-watering aroma of pancake syrup warming in a skillet and the crackling， bubbling sounds of the syrup transforming magically into homemade pull candy. Then she comes into view， the real， real pretty woman who stands at the stove， making this magic just for me.

Or at least， thats how it feels to a boy of three years old. There is another wonderful smell that accompanies her presence as she turns， smiling right in my direction， as she steps closer to where I stand in the middle of the kitchen—waiting eagerly next to my sister， seven-year-old Ophelia， and two of the other children， Rufus and Pookie， who live in this house. As she slips the cooling candy off the wooden spoon， pulling and breaking it into pieces that she brings and places in my outstretched hand， as she watches me happily gobbling up the tasty sweetness， her wonderful fragrance is there again. Not perfume or anything floral or spicy—its just a clean， warm， good smell that wraps around me like a Superman cape， making me feel strong， special， and loved—even if I dont have words for those concepts yet.

Though I dont know who she is， I sense a familiarity about her， not only because she has come before and made candy in this same fashion， but also because of how she looks at me—like shes talking to me from her eyes， saying， you remember me， dont you？

At this point in childhood， and for most of the first five years of my life， the map of my world was broken strictly into two territories—the familiar and the unknown. The happy， safe zone of the familiar was very small， often a shifting dot on the map， while the unknown was vast， terrifying， and constant.

What I did know by the age of three or four was that Ophelia was my older sister and best friend， and also that we were treated with kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson， the adults whose house we lived in. What I didnt know was that the Robinsons house was a foster home， or what that meant. Our situation—where our real parents were and why we didnt live with them， or why we sometimes did live with uncles and aunts and cousins—was as mysterious as the situations of the other foster children living at the Robinsons.

What mattered most was that I had a sister who looked out for me， and I had Rufus and Pookie and the other boys to follow outside for fun and mischief. All that was familiar， the backyard and the rest of the block， was safe turf where we could run and play games like tag， kick-the-can， and hide-and-seek， even after dark. That is， except， for the house two doors down from the Robinsons.

Every time we passed it I had to almost look the other way， just knowing the old white woman who lived there might suddenly appear and put an evil curse on me—because， according to Ophelia and everyone else in the neighborhood， the old woman was a witch.

When Ophelia and I passed by the house together once and I confessed that I was scared of the witch， my sister said， “I aint scared，” and to prove it she walked right into the front yard and grabbed a handful of cherries off the womans cherry tree.

Ophelia ate those cherries with a smile. But within the week I was in the Robinsons house when here came Ophelia， racing up the steps and stumbling inside， panting and holding her seven-year-old chest， describing how the witch had caught her stealing cherries and grabbed her arm， cackling， “Im gonna get you！”

Scared to death as she was now， Ophelia soon decided that since she had escaped an untimely death once， she might as well go back to stealing cherries. Even so， she made me promise to avoid the strange womans house. “Now， remember，” Ophelia warned， “when you walk by， if you see her on the porch， dont look at her and never say anything to her， even if she calls you by name.”

在我的記忆当中，幼年的岁月只剩下一个大概的轮廓，就像印象派的画作一般，留下的只是一些模糊的影像。但是有幅场景却让我难以忘怀——在铁锅中加热的薄糖浆饼散发出的诱人香味，随后只见糖浆饼噼啪一阵作响，神奇地变成了一个个的糖块。接下来，一个漂亮女人的身影出现了，她就站在炉子前，魔术般地为我变出这些糖块来。

至少对于3岁的我来说，这就是我当时的感受。她转身冲我甜甜一笑，似乎都会散发出一种奇妙的香味。我就傻傻地站在厨房的中间，眼巴巴地坐在7岁的姐姐奥菲丽娅身边，旁边还有两个孩子，鲁法斯和普齐，他俩也住在这里。她把冷却的糖块从木勺上取下来，然后掰成小块，放到我伸出的小手中，看着我开心地大吃特吃，享受着糖果的美味。然后她身上特有的甜美香味再次出现了，那绝不是香水、花香或是香料的味道。那种味道清香四溢、温馨亲切，在我周身上下围绕，仿佛用超人的神奇斗篷将我紧紧包裹住一样，让我感受到一种深切的关爱，而在当时所有这些我根本无法用语言表述出来。

虽然我不知道她究竟是何人，但我却莫名其妙地感受到一种从未有过的熟悉与亲切。这不仅是因为她以前来过，也是这样给我做糖吃，而且还因为她看我的目光，用那双仿佛会说话的眼睛，似乎在说，你认识我的，对吧？

在我童年的这段时日，就是我5岁前的大部分时间里，我的世界一分为二，一部分是我熟悉的，另一部分是不为我所知的。让我感觉熟悉、安全的东西其实屈指可数，甚至少得可以忽略不计，而更多的却是我无法理解的令人生畏的世界。

在我三四岁的时候，我只知道姐姐奥菲丽娅是我最要好的朋友，罗宾森夫妇对我们也非常好，我们住在他们家。只是我不知道罗宾森家其实是个福利院，或是这类机构。我们的具体身世，包括亲生父母在哪里，为什么不和自己的父母生活在一起，怎么有时得和舅舅、舅母及他们的子女住在一起，这些我们都一无所知，与福利院其他孩子的身世一样，都是一个又一个的谜。

最重要的是姐姐会照顾我，而我和鲁法斯、普齐以及其他男孩子可以在外面一起玩耍胡闹。后院以及周围的街区，这些地方都是我非常熟悉的，也是很安全的，在这里我们玩各种游戏，踢盒子、捉迷藏，甚至能一直玩到天黑。但罗宾森家隔门的邻居是绝不能靠近的。

每次路过那家时我都尽量小心翼翼地绕道而行，知道住在那儿的白人老太太可能会突然出现，对我恶言恶语——因为姐姐奥菲丽娅和周围的人都说那老太太是个巫婆。

当我和姐姐经过那所房子时，一想到那个老太太，我就吓得要死。姐姐却说：“我不怕。”为证实她的胆量，她径直走进那家的前院，从老太太的樱桃树上，旁若无人地摘了一把樱桃。

姐姐得意地笑着，嚼着樱桃。但几天后，当我在罗宾森家待着的时候，只见姐姐三步并作两步冲上台阶，磕磕绊绊得几乎摔倒，上气不接下气地说那个巫婆因为她偷了樱桃要抓她，还扯着她的胳膊说：“看我怎么收拾你！”

她几乎吓得半死，刚缓过神来，就决定既然已经死里逃生，何不干脆一不做二不休呢，再去偷些樱桃回来。即便如此，她一再告诫我，要我发誓以后一定要离老太太家远点，“记住了，千万别去她那。就是偶尔路过，看到她在凳子上坐着，也不要搭理她。她就是叫你的名字，也不能吭声。”