The conference room has a long table, a jug of water nobody touches, and a small stenography machine whose operator does not look up when Mateus sits down. He is here as a witness, he was told, to a minor accident eight months ago, in a civil case between two drivers and an insurer he has never heard of. As far as he knows, the facts are hardly in dispute. A silver car turned across a junction; a delivery van did not stop in time; he was on the pavement with a coffee, thirty metres away.
会议室里有一张长桌，一壶没人碰的水，还有一台小小的速记机，马特乌斯坐下时，操作员连头也没抬。他被告知，自己是作为证人来的，为八个月前的一起小事故作证，那是两名司机与一家他从没听说过的保险公司之间的民事案件。据他所知，事实几乎没有争议。一辆银色的车横穿路口；一辆送货面包车没来得及停下；而他当时端着咖啡站在人行道上，离那儿三十米。
The first questions are easy. His name, his address, how far he stood from the corner, whether he wears glasses. He answers cleanly and a little proudly, because, having told the story many times, he has it by heart. He has told it at dinner, to his brother-in-law Valentin, who asked for the details twice. He has told it to a colleague and to his sister on the phone. Once, at a wedding, he told it to a stranger who had made the mistake of asking whether he had ever seen anything interesting.
最初的问题都很简单。他的名字，他的住址，他站得离街角有多远，他是否戴眼镜。他回答得干脆利落，还带着一点自豪，因为这个故事他已经讲过很多遍，早就背得滚瓜烂熟。他在晚饭桌上讲过，讲给姐夫瓦伦丁听，瓦伦丁还两次追问细节。他讲给过一位同事，也在电话里讲给过姐姐。有一次在婚礼上，他讲给了一位陌生人，只因为对方犯了个错误，问他有没有见过什么有趣的事。
Then the attorney for the other side asks about the light. "When the van entered the junction," she says, "what colour was the signal?"
然后，对方律师问起了信号灯。“面包车驶入路口时，”她说，“信号灯是什么颜色？”
"Red," Mateus says, almost before she has finished. It comes out in the tone he has used in all the retellings: sure, rounded, slightly pleased with itself.
“红色。”马特乌斯说，几乎是在她话音未落时就脱口而出。那语气是他在所有复述中一直用的：笃定、圆润，对自己略有几分满意。
"Red," she repeats, and slides a page across the table. It is his own statement to the insurer, written the week after the accident. He reads the line she has underlined. It says, "I think the light was changing." He does not remember writing it, though the signature is unmistakably his, and what disturbs him is that the sentence sounds exactly like someone he would trust.
“红色，”她重复了一遍，把一页纸推过桌面。那是他自己写给保险公司的陈述，写于事故发生后的那一周。他读着她划了线的那一行。上面写着：“我觉得灯当时正在变。”他不记得自己写过这句话，但签名明明白白是他的，而让他不安的是，这句话听上去恰恰像他会相信的那种人说的。
Rarely has he been so aware of his own mind as a place where things are put. He tries, honestly, to go back: the coffee, the pavement, the noise before the sound of the brakes. The van is there, and the silver car, vivid and detailed, but the light, he sees now, is vivid only because he has painted it. What he can find of the original is a thin smear, something orange-ish, perhaps, or the reflection of something orange in a shop window.
他很少这样清楚地意识到，自己的头脑是一个存放东西的地方。他老老实实地试着回溯：咖啡、人行道、刹车声响起之前的那阵噪音。面包车在那里，银色的车也在那里，鲜明而细致，可是那信号灯，他现在看出来了，之所以鲜明，只是因为他自己给它涂了色。他能从原始的记忆里找到的，只是淡淡的一抹，也许是橙色的什么东西，也许是商店橱窗里某样橙色东西的倒影。
Had he known that the colour would matter, he might well have paid closer attention at the time. Instead he paid attention afterwards, at a dining table, where the story improved with each telling because every listener wanted a villain. The attorney waits. The silence in the room, which has the quality of cold water, belongs to him.
要是他当时知道颜色会很重要，也许就会留意得更仔细。可他留意的是事后，在一张餐桌旁，那个故事每讲一遍就改进一点，因为每个听众都想要一个坏人。律师在等着。房间里的沉默，带着冷水一般的质感，是属于他的。
Mateus is aware of a second lawyer shifting in his chair, of the court reporter's hands poised above the machine, and of the very reasonable temptation to say "red" again, more firmly. Changing it now will sound like weakness. What he says instead, slowly, to the machine as much as to anyone, is, "I'm not sure. I remember the van and the silver car. I remember saying 'red' a great many times. I can't tell you that I saw it."
马特乌斯感觉到，另一位律师在椅子上动了动，法庭记录员的双手悬在机器上方，也感觉到了那个很合情合理的诱惑——再说一遍“红色”，说得更坚定些。现在改口，听上去会像软弱。可他说出口的却是这样的话，说得很慢，既是对着那台机器，也是对着在场的每个人：“我不确定。我记得面包车和银色的车。我记得我说过很多遍‘红色’。我不能告诉你们我看见了。”
The machine clatters, then stops. The attorney nods without triumph and turns a page. "Thank you," she says. "Let's go back to what you do remember." Mateus reaches for the water jug at last and finds that his hand is perfectly steady.
机器咔嗒作响，然后停了。律师没有显出得意，点了点头，翻过一页。“谢谢您，”她说，“我们回到您确实记得的内容吧。”马特乌斯终于伸手去拿水壶，发现自己的手稳得很。
