Twilight¹ Time　黄昏时分

　　◎ Anonymous²

　　Reflexively I reached to turn on my car radio, preset to KGBX, the soft-rock station I always listento on my early-morning drives to my job at the post office. Then I glanced at my 14-year-olddaughter in the passenger seat and thought better of it.

　　Liz wore a dress. That in itself?bespoke³ the seriousness of the occasion. We were on our way tothe Springfield, Missouri, district wide music competition, where Liz would be playing a flutesolo, her very first. I knew from my own competition days back in Minnesota that it messed withyour concentration to hear any music besides the piece you were planning to play.

　　“Dad said he might come.” Liz said. Her father hadn’t been a big part of her life since our divorce10 years earlier, and she sounded both excited and scared.

　　Boy, did I know that feeling—wanting to impress your father and at the same time, being terrifiedof letting him down? Suddenly I was 12 years old again, sitting onstage at the Minnesota statemusic competition, fingers poised⁵ on the keyboard of my shiny black Pan Italia accordion⁶. Ilooked out at the audience of proud parents. Then I saw him. My dad. He sat at the end of a row,arms folded, crew cut bristling⁷. His piercing blue eyes narrowed behind his black-rimmed glassesand focused unwaveringly on me.

　　I completely choked. I’d practiced my contest piece for months until I knew it by heart, inside andout. But my fancy accordion might as well have been a cardboard box that afternoon. I forced outsome semblance⁸ of a tune⁹ and fled the stage in tears.

　　No consolationcame from my father, a World War II veteran who epitomized authority. He didn’tsay a thing to me. He just took the wheel of our station wagon¹⁰, his mouth a grim line as we set offon the 150-mile drive back to Duluth. I didn’t say anything either. What could I say, really, afterwhat I’d done? I knew how hard Dad worked to scrape together enough money for my accordionand lessons. But the one time he was able to come to a competition, I let him down.

　　The farther we drove, the more the silence in our station wagon grew until it stood like animpenetrable wall between Dad and me. It seemed an especially cruel punishment consideringmusic had been our deepest connection.

　　By the time I came along, the last of five children, my father was worn out from the demands ofsupporting a large family. My brothers and sisters and I tiptoed around him when he came homefrom his shift at Jeno’s Pizza factory. But on Sunday afternoons, Dad would sit back in his reclinerand ask me to play for him. He loved the music of the Big Band era, and none more than the songTwilight Time. I taught myself the tune from the sheet music, just for him. It didn’t seem to matterthat my rendition was lacking in style. My father would hum along, his eyes closed, tears escapingfrom the corners as if I’d transported him to some magical, heavenly place.

　　Dad never said a word the entire way home, never again attended one of my competitions. I nevergot over the hurt of having disappointed the one person I’d most wanted to make proud. I’d lostmore than my composure that afternoon. I felt as if I’d lost the key to my father’s heart, and hedied before I could find it again.

　　“Why did you let me fail my father?” I’d often wondered to God in the years since, “Couldn’t youat least have given me a chance to make it up to him?” “Mom, this is it.” My daughter’s voicesnapped me back to the present. I parked in the lot at Central High. “Good, I have time to warmup.” Liz said as we walked into the school.

　　In the practice room, Liz took her flute⁴ out of its case, unfolded her music and ran through herpiece flawlessly. Just before we stepped into the recital¹¹ hall, I gave her a hug. “Relax,” I said,“you’re going to do great.”

　　Liz laughed nervously¹². “Maybe you should wait till the competitions over before you decide that.”

　　One after another, the soloists¹³ scheduled before Liz played. The clock clicked ominously¹⁴ close toher 11:05 performance time. “Dad’s here,” Liz whispered to me, “I can hear him in the hallway.”

　　Her father trooped in, carrying a video camera. I felt a flutter of anxiety for Liz. The next thing Iknew she was no longer in the seat next to me but standing¹⁵ stiffly onstage beside the piano. Mr.

　　Hillme, her social-studies teacher and accompanist, winked¹⁶ at her.

　　“Hey, not as bad as one of my tests, is it?” Liz chuckled¹⁷, the tension easing from her face, andlifted the flute to her lips.

　　Lord, please let her play her best.

　　Liz took a deep breath and launched into her solo. Her fingers danced along the silver keys. Themelody floated out of the instrument, sweet and pure and honest. I closed my eyes, letting myselfbe carried away by my daughter’s song.

　　I forgot about the competition. I forgot about Liz’s nervousness at performing in front of herfather.

　　All at once I pictured my own father, patiently enduring my nightly accordion practice sessionsthough he must have yearned¹⁸ for peace and quiet after his long days at the pizza factory. Mypractical dad, adamantly¹⁹ opposed to any kind of debt, conceding to make payments on a top-of-the-line, full-size accordion when I’d outgrown²⁰ my secondhand student model. My stern, seriousdad, cranking up our Lowrey organ, picking out the notes of a swingy Big Band tune and gettingthe whole house jumping. My unsentimental, overworked father? Leaning back in his recliner, hisburdens chased away by tears of joy at hearing his youngest child play his favorite song.

　　My dad, who must have felt so awful knowing his presence prevented me from playing wellonstage that he hadn’t known what to say or do to comfort me—except to stay away and not upsetme at my subsequent competitions. Dad, I’m sorry I thought you were disappointed in me. I knowyou loved me even more than you loved music. I wish you could know how much I love you too. Iwish I could play Twilight Time for you again.

　　Liz put down her flute and took a bow to thunderous applause (well, thunderous to a proudmother, anyway). “Mom, I didn’t even see the music,” Liz exclaimed in the car on the way home,“I mean, I was looking at it, but I didn’t have to read it. I just played and let it take me away.” Iknew what she meant.

　　Monday morning after Liz’s competition, I set out for my 4:30 a.m. shift at the post office. Iclicked on my car radio. Silence. Then instead of KGBX’s soft rock, out of the speakers came theunmistakable brassy sounds of a 1940s-era big band. Where did this station come from?

　　A woman’s smoky contralto crooned words I’d never heard sung, though they were printed on thetattered sheet music in my old accordion case. “Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s twilighttime. /Out of the mist, your voice is calling, it’s twilight time. /when purple-colored curtains markthe end of day, I’ll hear you, my dear, at twilight time.”

　　Tears trickled²¹ out of the corners of my eyes. The music of God’s love had bridged the years andthe silence between my dad and me at last.

　　下意识地，我伸手打开车里的收音机，预先调好的KGBX台是我在清晨开车去邮电局上班的路上经常听的软摇滚音乐台。我看了一眼坐在乘客座位上14岁的女儿，又把收音机关了。

　　莉斯穿着礼服，从着装可以看出，她要去的是一个隆重的场合。我们在去往密苏里州斯普林菲尔德的路上，去参加全区的音乐竞赛，莉斯将要表演长笛独奏，这是她第一次正式独奏。我以前在明尼苏达州参加过竞赛，知道任何别的音乐都会扰乱你的注意力，除了你自己将要演奏的曲子。

　　“爸爸说他可能会来。”莉斯说。自从我们十年前离婚后，她父亲就不再是她生活中的重要组成部分了。她的声音听起来既兴奋，又有些害怕。

　　噢，想给父亲留下深刻印象，又担心他失望——我是否有过这种感觉？突然间，我仿佛又回到了12岁，坐在明尼苏达州音乐比赛的舞台上，手指平稳地放在我那耀眼的黑色PanItalia手风琴的键盘上。我看见观众席上坐着的那些自豪的家长。然后看到了他，我的父亲。他坐在最后一排，双臂交叉放在胸前，平短的头发根根直竖着。他的那双锐利的蓝眼睛在黑框眼镜后面眯缝着，目不转睛地注视着我。

　　我完全窒息了。我已经把我的竞赛曲子练习了好几个月，直到背得滚瓜烂熟。但是那天下午，我别致的手风琴好像变成了纸板盒。我挤出了一小段不伦不类的调子，满眼泪水逃离了舞台。

　　我的父亲，一个重视家长威严的二战老兵，没有给我任何安慰。他什么也没对我说。他只是握着旅行车的方向盘，双唇冷酷地紧闭着，驶在回德卢斯150英里的路途中。我也一言不发。真的，在这样的表现之后，我还能说什么呢？我知道，为了支付我的手风琴和课时费，父亲是多么辛苦工作才勉强凑足钱的。但是，就在他有机会出席的唯一一次比赛中，我却让他失望了。

　　我们开得越远，旅行车里就显得越寂静，直到在我和父亲之间筑起了一堵密不透风的墙。

　　想到音乐曾经是我们内心深处最紧密的连接，这就像是一种极其残酷的惩罚。

　　家中5个孩子，我排行老幺，当我来到这个家时，父亲已经为了养活这个大家庭而累得精疲力竭了。在他从杰诺比萨厂下班回来后，我和哥哥姐姐们总是踮着脚尖围着他。但在星期天下午，父亲会靠在他的躺椅上，让我为他演奏。他喜欢大爵士乐队时代的音乐，尤其喜欢《黄昏时分》这首歌。我从乐谱上自学了这首曲子，就是为了他。他似乎并不在乎我没有什么演奏风格。父亲会跟着哼唱，闭着眼睛，泪水从眼角悄然滑落，仿佛我把他带到了一个魔幻般的世外桃源。

　　回家的路上，父亲没有说过一个字，也再没出席过我的比赛。我最希望能因我而骄傲的那个人就是父亲，而我却让他失望了，我永远也无法从这种痛苦中解脱出来。那天下午，我失去的不仅仅是镇静。我感觉自己仿佛失去了打开父亲心扉的钥匙，而在我重新找回这把钥匙之前，他就去世了。

　　“你为什么要让我辜负我的爸爸？”自那以后多年，我经常质问上帝，“难道你就不能给我一个弥补的机会吗？”“妈妈，到了。”女儿的声音把我拽回了现实。我把车停在了中央高中的停车场。“还好，我还有时间热热身。”莉斯一边说着，一边和我走进了学校。

　　在练习室里，莉斯把长笛从盒子里拿了出来，打开乐谱，完美地吹奏了一遍曲子。进演奏大厅之前，我给了她一个拥抱。“放松点，”我说，“你会吹得很棒的。”

　　莉斯紧张地笑了笑。“也许你应该等到比赛结束了再下判断。”在莉斯之前的独奏选手一个接一个地表演完了。时针不祥地逼近了她的演出时间：11点5分。“爸爸来了，”莉斯低声地告诉我，“我能听见他在走廊里的声音。”她的父亲随着人群走了进来，带着摄像机。我不禁为莉斯感到一阵焦虑。接着我才发现，她已不在我身旁的座位上，而是拘谨地站在舞台上的钢琴旁边。希尔米先生是她的社会课老师兼伴奏，向她眨眼示意。

　　“嘿，总不至于像我的考试那么差劲吧！”莉斯咯咯地笑着，紧张的神情渐渐从她的脸上褪去，她举起长笛放到了唇边。

　　上帝，请让她发挥出最好的水平吧！

　　莉斯深吸了一口气，开始了她的独奏。她的手指在银色的按键上翩翩起舞。乐器飘扬出甜美、纯净而朴实的旋律。我闭上眼睛，任由女儿的音乐充斥着我的整个大脑。

　　我忘记了比赛，忘记了莉斯在她父亲面前表演的紧张情绪。

　　突然，我想起了我的父亲。虽然他在比萨厂待了一整天后一定渴望清静，但还是耐心地忍受着我每晚练习手风琴的那段时间。我务实的父亲坚决反对任何形式的债务，但当我长大用不了二手的学生型手风琴时，他让步了，为我买了一台最好的标准尺寸的手风琴。表情严肃的父亲打开我们的手风琴，弹奏了一小段节奏强劲的大型爵士乐曲，整个屋子欢腾了起来。严肃无情、过度操劳的父亲斜靠在躺椅上，听着他最小的孩子演奏他最喜欢的曲子，喜悦的泪水赶走了他的负担。

　　我的父亲——他知道自己的出现使我无法在台上正常发挥，必定非常难过，他甚至都不知道说什么或做什么来安慰我，唯有不再出席后来的比赛，不再干扰我。爸爸，对不起，我以为您对我失望了。我知道，您爱我更甚于爱音乐。我也希望您能明白，我是多么地爱您。但愿我能再为您演奏一曲《黄昏时分》。

　　莉斯放下长笛，在全场雷鸣般的掌声中鞠躬致谢（无论如何，至少对于一个自豪的母亲来说，这掌声如同雷鸣一般）。“妈妈，我甚至连乐谱都没看！”回家的路上，莉斯在车里喊着，“我是说，我只是看着它，但我没有读。我只是演奏，任由音乐带着我走。”我明白她的意思。

　　在莉斯比赛之后的周一清早，我出发去邮局上四点半的班。我打开了车上的收音机。开始没有声音，接着从扬声器里传来的并不是KGBX的软摇滚音乐，而很明显是20世纪40年代大型爵士乐队的铜管乐。这个电台是从哪里来的呢？

　　一个女低音歌手幽幽地哼唱着我从未听人唱过的歌，虽然我曾在我的旧手风琴盒里破烂的乐谱上见过这些歌词。“天空的夜幕落下，已是黄昏时分。／透过薄雾，传来你的声音，已是黄昏时分。／当紫色天幕预示着一天的结束，我将听到你的声音，亲爱的，在那黄昏时分。”

　　眼泪一滴滴地从我的眼角滑落。上帝的爱之音乐，终于在我和父亲之间架起了一座桥，跨越了那沉默的岁月。

 

点击收听单词发音