来思特 / 译
FIRST NOTEBOOK
手记之一
THE DESCENT INTO HELL
跌落深渊
THE ASSIZES
审判日
It was a knockout blow a punch so overwhelming that I didn’t get back on my feet for fourteen years. And to deliver a blow like that, they went to a lot of trouble.
将我击倒的这一拳，它势不可挡，已经 14 年了我都没能站起来。为了让我遭受这一击，他们谁也没能好过。
It was the twenty-sixth of October, 1931. At eight o’clock in the morning they let me out of the cell I’d been occupying in the Conciergerie for a year. I was freshly shaved and carefully dressed. My suit was from a good tailor and gave me an air of elegance. A white shirt and pale-blue bow tie added the final touches.
那是 1931 年 10 月 26 日。早上八点钟，我刚刮过胡须、衣着得体，他们让我走出了囚禁我一整年的牢房。雅致的西服，量身定制于一位好裁缝；白衬衫和淡蓝色的领结为我锦上添花。
I was twenty-five but looked twenty. The police were a little awed by my gentlemanly appearance and treated me with courtesy. They had even taken off my handcuffs. All six of us, the five policemen and I, were seated on two benches in a bare anteroom of the Palais de Justice de la Seine in Paris. The doors facing us led to the courtroom. Outside the weather was gray.
25 岁的我，看上去只有 20 岁。绅士的气质又令我在警察面前不怒自威，他们会谦恭地待我，甚至为我摘掉了手铐。一共六个人，我和五名警察，都坐在塞纳河畔巴黎司法宫空旷前厅内的两条长凳上。面前的门通向法庭，外面的天色阴沉沉的。
I was about to be tried for murder. My lawyer, Raymond Hubert, came over to greet me. “They have no real proof,” he said. “I’m confident we’ll be acquitted.” I smiled at that we. He wasn’t the defendant. I was. And if anybody went to jail, it wouldn’t be him.
罪名是谋杀。我的律师雷蒙德·休伯特前来问候我，他说：
“他们没有切实的证据，我有信心我们会被判无罪。”
“我们”？笑话。我是被告，他不是被告；如果有人该进监狱，那不会是他。
A guard appeared and motioned us in. The double doors swung wide and, flanked by four policemen and a sergeant, I entered the enormous room. To soften me up for the blow, everything was blood red: the rugs, the draperies over the big windows, even the robes of the judges who would soon sit in judgment over me.
“Gentlemen, the court!”
一名警卫出现了，他示意我们进去。四个警察和一位中士押着我，通过两扇大开的门，我进入了巨大的房间。为了弱化我的意志，每样东西都血淋淋的：地毯，窗户上的大窗帘，甚至那个即将坐在审判席上审判我的法官都穿着红袍子，他喊道：
“先生们，请肃静！”
From a door on the right six men filed in, one after the other: the President, then the five magistrates, their caps on their heads. The President stopped in front of the middle chair, the magistrates took their places on either side.
六个人从右边的一扇门鱼贯而入，一个接一个的：先是庭长，接着是五名地方法官，他们都戴着帽子。庭长在最中间的椅子前留步，地方法官们在两边各占一席。
An impressive silence filled the room. Everyone remained standing, myself included. Then the Bench sat down and the rest of us followed suit.
房间里鸦雀无声。大家个个都站着，包括我。接着，法官坐下来后，我们才跟着坐下来。
The President was a chubby man with pink cheeks and a cold eye. His name was Bevin. He looked at me without a trace of emotion. Later on, he would conduct the proceedings with strict impartiality, and his attitude would lead everyone to understand that, as a career judge, he wasn’t entirely convinced of the sincerity of either the witnesses or the police. No, he would take no responsibility for the blow; he would only announce the verdict.
庭长倒是胖乎乎的，红润的面颊上，有双冷酷的眼。他是贝文，正面无表情地看着我。少顷，他将执行严格的诉讼程序，他的态度会让大家都明白，作为一名职业法官，他不会完全采信证人和警察的说辞。不对，他不必为我遭受的打击负责任，他只需要宣布裁决就好了。
The prosecutor was Magistrate Pradel. He had the grim reputation of being the “number one” supplier to the guillotine and to the domestic and colonial prisons as well.
检察官是普拉德执法官。他有着断头台“头部”供应商的可怕名声，无论是在国内，或是殖民地的监狱，他都那样。
Pradel was the personification of public vengeance: the official accuser, without a shred of humanity. He represented law and justice, and he would do everything in his power to bend them to his will. His vulture’s eyes gazed intently down at me—down because he sat above me, and down also because of his great height. He was at least six foot three—and he carried it with arrogance. He kept on his red cloak but placed his cap in front of him and braced himself with hands as big as paddles. A gold band indicated he was married, and on his little finger he wore a ring made from a highly polished horseshoe nail.
普拉德公敌全民——他是官方毫无人性的控告人。凡他代表法制和公正，会倾尽所能地让一切如他所愿。他秃鹫般的双眼直勾勾地盯着我，他坐得比我高，他身高也很高，这都让他看低了我。他至少有两米多高，他以此为傲。他也穿着红袍子，帽子就在面前搁着，大如桨叶的双手支撑着他。一条金链子表明他已婚，他那小指上戴着一枚如镜面般光亮的马蹄形钉环。
我去终于翻译完两页了。。。要死。。。不过，还是越读越开心~~~ ╮(╯▽╰)╭
Leaning forward a little, the better to dominate me, he seemed to be saying, “Look, my fun-loving friend, if you think you can get away from me, you’re much mistaken. You don’t know it, but my hands are really talons and they’re about to tear you to pieces. And if I’m feared by the lawyers, it’s because I never allow my prey to escape. It’s none of my business whether you’re guilty or innocent; my job is to use everything that’s available against you: your bohemian life in Montmartre, the testimony extorted from the witnesses by the police, the testimony of the police themselves. With the disgusting swill the investigator has collected, I must make you seem so repulsive that the jury will cast you out of the society of men.”
他向前探探身，进一步压迫着我，他似乎在以此表达：
“听好了，滑头儿，你觉得能从我这儿逃脱，你大错特错。你不知道我有多心狠手辣，我会把你碎尸万段。连律师都怕我，从来没有任何猎物能在我手里逃脱。我不关心你有没有罪，我的职责是利用一切手段打击你，这包括：你在蒙马特尔放纵不羁的勾当；警察从目击者那儿搜刮来的证词；警察们自己那一套证据。凭着调查员收集到的恶心玩意儿，我必须让你臭名昭著，陪审团才会把你打入半兽人的牢笼。”
Was I dreaming or was he really speaking to me? Either way I was deeply impressed by this “devourer of men.”
他真在说话，还是我有了幻觉？不管怎样，我都深刻地惊觉到他想“吃人”。
“Don’t try to resist, prisoner. Above all, don’t try to defend yourself. I’m going to send you down the road of the condemned anyway. And I trust you have no faith in the jury. Have no illusions in that quarter. Those twelve know nothing of life. Look at them, there in front of you. Can you see them clearly, those dozen cheeseheads brought to Paris from some distant village? They’re only petits bourgeois, some retired, others small businessmen. Not worth talking about. You can’t expect them to understand your twenty-five years and the life you’ve led in Montmartre. To them, Pigalle and the Place Blanche are hell itself, and anybody who stays up half the night is an enemy of society. They like to serve on this jury, are extremely proud of it, in fact. Moreover, I can assure you, they’re all acutely aware of their own mean little lives.”
“别想抵抗了，囚犯。以上，警告你放弃自我辩护。千方百计，我也要把你送上断头台。我想你也不会对陪审团抱有信心。在这节骨眼儿上就别做梦了。那十二人对残酷一无所知。看看吧，他们就在你眼前。还不明白吗？那一打脑袋里不过是装着些从老远的乡下带进巴黎的浆糊罢了。小商小贩而已，有的都退休了，不值一提。别指望他们理解你 25 岁就能在蒙马特尔吃得开。对他们而言，匹加勒和布兰奇这些地方都见鬼去吧，谁在此地纸醉金迷谁就是人渣。其实，他们喜欢成为陪审团中的一员，并享受这份虚荣。此外，我可以打包票地说，他们都强烈地意识到了自己有多寒酸。”
“And here you are, young and handsome. Surely you realize I’m going to hold nothing back when I describe you as a Don Juan of Montmartre? I’ll make them your enemies straight off. You’re too well dressed. You should have worn more humble garments. Ah, that was a major tactical error. Don’t you see they envy you your clothes? They buy theirs at Samaritaine. Never have they gone to a tailor, even in their dreams.”
“都是因为你，你年轻英俊。你已然认识到了我将一往如既地把你塑造成蒙马特尔的风流鬼——唐璜。对吧？我会借此让他们跟你即刻敌对。你穿得可真够讲究的，你倒是别穿得这么显眼才好。啊，你非得在这儿撒醋不可吗？你没看到他们想把你扒光吗？他们只配买瑟迈勒廷的破烂货，他们压根儿没见过裁缝，想都不敢想。”
It was now ten o’clock, and we were ready to start. Before me were six magistrates, one of whom was an aggressive attorney who was going to use all his Machiavellian power and intelligence to convince these twelve shopkeepers that I was guilty, and that the only proper sentence was prison or the guillotine.
已经十点钟了，我们都觉得该开始了。我面对的是六人集团，那当中有一名好斗的阴谋家，他会不择一切手段地来捏造，并说服那十二名有话语权的小贩——唯一公正的判决是我的罪行该让我下监牢或上断头台。
I was going to be judged for the murder of a pimp and stool pigeon who operated in Montmartre. There was no proof, but the cops—they got a promotion each time they brought in a lawbreaker—were going to insist I was guilty. For lack of proof, they would say they had “confidential” information that put it beyond the shadow of a doubt. They had primed a witness—a walking; tape recorder at Police Headquarters by the name of Polein—and he would be the most effective element in the prosecution. Since I maintained that I didn’t know him, in due course the President would say to me with a fine show of impartiality: “You say this witness lies. All right. But why should he lie?”
我将因谋杀一个在蒙马特尔做线人的皮条客而遭受审判。哪怕没有证据，那些警察也会因为每捏造一名罪犯便能升职，而坚称我有罪。若是缺乏足够的证据，他们会说有“密报”，且足以消除任何怀疑。他们的目击证人名叫“路人甲”；警察总部还有一台叫“泼淋”的“磁带录音机”，他会在诉讼中扮演至关重要的角色。因为我主张我不认识那人，随即法官就表现出一番公正来，他说：
“你认为证人说谎了。那好。但他有必要说谎吗？”
“Your Honor, if I’ve been staying awake nights since my arrest, it wasn’t because I was sorry I killed Roland le Petit—I didn’t kill him. It was because I kept trying to figure out this witness’s motive, why he was determined to harm me as much as possible, and why, each time the prosecution threatened to collapse, he found something new to prop it up with. I’ve reached the conclusion, your Honor, that the police caught him committing a crime and made a deal with him: ‘We’ll look the other way if you testify against Papillon.’”
“法官大人，如果我被捕后彻夜难眠，这并不是因为我悔恨自己杀了罗兰·勒·佩蒂特，我没有杀人。那是因为我一直在试图弄清楚这个证人的动机。为什么他决意要置我于死地？为什么每次控方的指控站不住脚时，他都能拿出新的东西来稳住脚？法官大人，我已经想通了——他跟警察做了交易，他被警察抓了现行：‘如果你指证巴比龙有罪，我们会给你一条生路。’”
I didn’t know then how close to the truth I was. Polein was presented to the court as an honest man with a clean record; a few years later he was arrested and found guilty for trafficking in cocaine.
当时我接近了多少真相啊！一个诚实的人泼淋，一个没有任何污点的证人被传唤到庭。几年后，他因贩运可卡因被判有罪。
又译完两页。我去你妹的吧——英文译者，您能好好说话吗？╮(╯▽╰)╭
Hubert tried to defend me, but he couldn’t compete with the prosecutor. Only one witness, Bouffray, boiling with indignation, gave him even a few moments’ trouble. Pradel’s cleverness won the duel. As if that weren’t enough, he flattered the jury and they swelled with pride at being treated as collaborators and equals by this impressive character.
By eleven that night the game was over. Check and mate. I, who was innocent, was found guilty.
French society in the person of Prosecutor Pradel had succeeded in eliminating for life a young man of twenty-five. And no reduced sentences, if you please! This heaping platter was served to me with the toneless voice of President Bevin.
“Will the prisoner please stand.”
I stood. The room was silent, everyone held his breath, my heart beat a little faster. The jury looked at me or bowed their heads; they seemed ashamed.
“The jury having answered ‘Yes’ to all the questions except one—that of premeditation—you are condemned to hard labor for life. Have you anything to say?”
I didn’t move; I just clutched the railing of the prisoner’s box a little harder. “Your Honor, yes, I want to say I am truly innocent, that I’m a victim of a police frame-up.”
A murmur rose from a group of specially invited ladies sitting behind the Bench.
Without raising my voice, I said to them, “Silence, you women in pearls who come here to indulge your sick emotions. The farce is played out. A murder has been solved by your police and your justice; you should be content.”
“Will a guard please remove the prisoner,” said the President.
Before I was led away, I heard a voice cry out, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll follow you there.” It was my good and true Nénette shouting her love. And those of my underworld friends who were in the courtroom applauded. They knew the truth about this murder and this was their way of showing they were proud of me for not squealing.
We went back to the small room where we had waited before the trial. There the police handcuffed me, and then I was chained to one of them, my right wrist to his left. No one spoke. I asked for a cigarette. The guard gave me one and lit it. Each time I lifted it to my mouth or took it away, the policeman had to raise or lower his arm to follow my motions. I finished about three-quarters of the cigarette. Still not a word. Finally I looked at the guard and said, “Let’s go.”
I went down the stairs escorted by a dozen policemen and came out into the inner courtyard of the Palais. The paddy wagon was waiting for us. We all found places on the benches. The sergeant said: “Conciergerie.”
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