Our First Love

A surge of adrenalin, a rush of blood, a thing of innocence and pain that lasts a lifetime

I remember the way the light touched her hair. She turned her head, and our eyes met, a momentary awareness in thatraucous fifth-grade classroom. I felt as though I’d been struck a blow under the heart. Thus began my first love affair.

Her name was Rachel, and I mooned my way through grade and high school, stricken at the mere sight of her, tongue-tied in her presence. Does anyone, anymore, linger in the shadows of evening, drawn by the pale light of a window-her window-like some hapless summer insect? That delirious swooning, asexual but urgent and obsessive, that made me awkward and my voice crack, is like some impossible dream now. I know I was so afflicted, but I cannot actually believe what memory insists I did. Which was to suffer. Exquisitely.

I would catch sight of her, walking down an aisle of trees to or from school, and I’d become paralyzed. She always seemed so poised, so self-possessed. At home, I’d relieve each encounter, writhing at the thought of my inadequacies. Even so, as we entered our teens, I sensed her affectionate tolerance for me.

“Going steady” implied a maturity we still lacked. Her Orthodox Jewish upbringing and my own Catholic scruples imposed a celibate grace that made even kissing a distant prospect, however fervently desired. I managed to hold her once at a dance - chaperoned, of course. Our embrace made her giggle, a sound so trusting that I hated myself for what I’d been thinking.

At any rate, my love for Rachel remained unrequited. We graduated from high school, she went on to college, and I joined the Army. When World War II engulfed us, I was sent overseas. For a time we corresponded, and her letters were the highlight of those grinding, endless years. Once she sent me a snapshot of herself in a bathing suit, which drove me to the wildest of fantasies. I mentioned the possibility of marriage in my next letter, and almost immediately her replies became less frequent, less personal.

The first thing I did when I returned to the States was to call on Rachel. Her mother answered the door. Rachel no longer lived there. She had married a medical student she’d met in college. “I thought she wrote you,” her mother said.

Her “Dear John” letter finally caught up with me while I was awaiting discharge. She gently explained the impossibility of a marriage between us. Looking back on it, I must have recovered rather quickly, although for the first few months I believed I didn’t want to live. Like Rachel, I found someone else, whom I learned to love with a deep and permanent commitment that has lasted to this day.

Then recently, after an interval of more than 40 years, I heard from Rachel again. Her husband had died. She was passing through town and had learned of my whereabouts through a mutual friend. We agreed to meet.

I felt both curious and excited. In the last few years, I hadn’t thought about her, and her sudden call one morning had taken me aback. The actual sight of her was a shock. This white-haired matron at the restaurant table was the Rachel of my dreams and desires, the supple mermaid of that snapshot?

Yet time had given us a common reference and respect. We talked as old friends, and quickly discovered we were both grandparents.

“Do you remember this?” She handed me a slip of worn paper. It was a poem I’d written her while still in school. I examined the crude meter and pallid rhymes. Watching my face, she snatched the poem from me and returned it to her purse, as though fearful I was going to destroy it.

I told her about the snapshot, how I’d carried it all through the war.

“It wouldn’t have worked out, you know,” she said.

“How can you be sure?” I countered. “Ah, Colleen, it might have been grand indeed - my Irish conscience and your Jewish guilt!”

Our laughter startled people at a nearby table. During the time left to us, out glances were furtive, oblique. I think that what we saw in each other repudiated what we’d once been to ourselves, we immortals.

Before I put her into a taxi, she turned to me. “I just wanted to see you once more. To tell you something.” Her eyes met mine. “I wanted to thank you for having loved me as you did.” We kissed, and she left.

From a store window my reflection stared back at me, an aging man with gray hair stirred by an evening breeze. I decided to walk home. Her kiss still burned on my lips. I felt faint, and sat on a park bench. All around me the grass and trees were shining in the surreal glow of sunset. Something was being lifted out of me. Something had been completed, and the scene before me was so beautiful that I wanted to shout and dance and sing for joy.

That soon passed, as everything must, and presently I was able to stand and start for home.

 

初恋 是情感巨浪的汹涌，

初恋 是情感在热血中的奔流，

初恋 是情感纯真的表露，

初恋 是一生中永恒的伤痛。

我还能回想起在喧哗五年级教室的那一刻，柔和的灯光倾泻在她的秀发上，她转过脸来，我们四目相对，久久地凝视着。刹那间，我的心灵深处仿佛遭受重击。这就是我 初恋 时的感觉。

她的名字叫雷切尔，正是这个名字使我虚度了整个中学时光。只要一看到她的身影我就会心慌意乱，在她面前说话也变的结结巴巴。直到现在我还在想，是否还有人在月光下独自徘徊在她的窗前，在透过窗户的昏暗灯光下拉长了影子，就象夏夜里的飞虫一样孤独无助呢？我对她无任何生理上的渴求但却痴狂，着迷地爱着她，那种极度兴奋的情绪使我简直都要神魂颠倒了。我越来越变得行为拙笨，声音发哑，现在想来就象是一场不可思议的梦幻一样。这种情感长期焦灼着我，我简直难以相信记忆怎么会如此长久地痛苦而又美丽地折磨着我。太美妙了！

当我沿着教堂甬道散步或从学校走出来的时候都希望能看到她的身影，我痴迷的已经到了难以自拔的境地。而她看上去总是那样神情自若而又怡然。回到家里，我总是用爱她是不应该的这种理由来安慰自己以减轻痛苦。甚至，当我们都进入青年时代，我还能隐隐地感到她的柔情仍痛苦地煎熬着我。

“成为关系确定的伴侣”，这意味着我们还缺乏成年人的那种沉稳心态。她是在信奉东正教的犹太人家中长大的，而我家则信奉天主教，这就更使我憧憬美好而又遥远的未来。不管怎样我是那样狂热地渴望着。记得在一次舞会上，我以护花使者的身份试着去拥抱她，我们的拥抱是她幸福的笑出了声，这笑声消除了我所有的疑虑。而我也对自己以前的犹豫不决的想法懊悔不已。

无论如何我都没想到我对雷切尔的爱毫无结果。我们中学毕业后，她上了大学，我却应征入伍。当二战席卷而来的时候，我被派遣到国外。在开始的一段时间里，我们彼此鸿雁传情，她的信件成了我那段艰苦而又漫长岁月中生命里最精彩的部分。曾有一次，她给我寄去了一张身着泳装的照片，使得我对她的爱痴狂得简直想入非非了。在接下来的信件中我提出了结婚的请求，但是她的回信却渐渐稀少且缺乏激情。

我回国后第一件事就是要见见我的雷切尔。她母亲打开房门告诉我雷切尔早已不在这住了。她与大学里的一位学医的同学结婚了。她母亲说“我想，我女儿写信告诉你了吧。”

在我退役前我接到了她的那封“绝交信”。信中她娓娓道来我们之间不能结合的原因。回首往事，我又很快找到了当时的感觉。虽然在最初的几个月里我简直不想活在这个世上了。但在以后的生活里，我也象雷切尔那样找到了自己的人生伴侣，我们彼此永久又深深地爱着，同甘共苦直到今天。

直到现在，在中断 40 多年之后，我又收到了她的来信。信中说她的丈夫已经去世。她是在路过我居住的这个小镇时，从昔日的一位共同好友那里得知我的下落的。我们都同意再见一面。

当时的感觉真是又好奇又激动。因为在过去的岁月里我没有想起过她，只是一日清晨，她的一个电话又把我带回尘封的往事。餐桌面前的她令我非常吃惊，驻足在我面前的是一位白发苍苍的家庭主妇。难道这就是我日思夜想，梦寐以求的雷切尔吗？难道这就是相片上身着泳装，令人赏心悦目的美人鱼吗？

时间的流逝使我们共同回首往事，探求往日的生活。我们就象老朋友那样愉快地交谈着。很快我们就发现彼此都是做爷爷奶奶的人了。

“你还记得这个吗？”她递给我一张发黄的纸条，上面是我中学时代为雷切尔做的一首诗，我又重新浏览了那拙劣的韵律和呆板的韵脚。她望着我，又把纸条抽回放到皮包里。好像怕我把它撕掉了一样。

我也告诉她我对那张美人鱼似的照片的感受以及整个战争我是如何把它带在身边的。

“你知道的，那又有什么用呢？”她说。

“你怎么知道呢？”我反驳道。

“啊，柯林，那也许是我一生中的伟大壮举。因为我有爱尔兰人的良知，我不想让你有做犹太人的那种罪恶感的。”

我们的笑声惊动了邻桌的人，接下来我们的目光躲躲闪闪，游离不定。我们以前拥有的彼此凝视的时刻的那种感觉已经消失了，那一刻成了永恒的风景了。

当我把她送入出租车之前，她转过身来，“我想再看你一眼，告诉你一件事。”我们又一次凝视。“谢谢你曾经如此真挚地爱过我。”我们互相吻着，之后，她便消失在我的视野里了。

从商店橱窗的影像里，我看到了自己——一位老者，晚风习习吹拂着他的白发。我决定步行回家。我仍然感到她的吻灼烧着我的唇。我感到身体异常虚弱，便独自坐在公园的长椅上。身边的草木在落日的余晖中泛着绿意。虽然一切都已经过去了，但却有一种无形的力量在鼓舞着我，眼前的景色是那样的美丽以至于兴奋得我想高歌，大喊，狂舞。

万事都有终结，很快这种感觉就过去了。现在，我可以站起身来动身回家了。