作者： 瑞秋·史威斯基 ?翻譯：瓦力 （2015年雨果獎獲獎短篇）
親愛的，如果你是一頭恐龍，你一定會是一頭霸王龍。你應該不大，只有1米78，和人類的你一樣高。款款而行的步伐，似乎想要證明你脆弱的骨骼能夠支撐起巨大的腳爪。突起眉骨下的雙眼，總是溫柔地凝視著遠方。
如果你是一頭霸王龍，我就是你的飼養員，我愿用我的一生伴你左右。我會用生的雞肉，活的山羊喂養你。我會注視著你齒間的血漬。我會把我的床安放在你潮濕泥濘、鋪滿枯葉的籠子里。當你睡眼蒙朧，我會為你吟唱《搖籃曲》。
當我為你吟唱《搖籃曲》，你會很快跟著應和。你狂野不羈的聲音，讓我們的旋律變得如此的奇異。當你以為我已睡去，你會唱著無盡的情歌直至夜深。
當你唱著無盡的情歌直至夜深，我會帶你遠行。我們會來到百老匯的劇院。當你站在舞臺之上，你的巨爪深深陷入舞臺的地板。觀眾們被你憂郁的歌聲深深打動，潸然淚下。
當觀眾們被你憂郁的歌聲深深打動，潸然淚下，他們會毫不猶豫地為復活滅絕物種的研究傾囊相助。資金會像洪水般涌入科研機構。生物學家會在雞的身上實施逆向工程，直到他們發現賦予它尖牙利齒的方法。古生物學家將挖掘各種古生物化石以尋找膠原蛋白的線索?；驅W家們將深入研究基因序列編碼對生物的影響，從瞳孔的大小到大腦如何構建日暮的印象，直到他們從無到有，創造出一頭恐龍，成為你的伴侶。
如果他們為你創造了一個伴侶，我會在婚禮上和它一爭高下。當你們在婚禮上互訴誓言，我會身著綠色的雪紡裙（伴娘裙）呆呆地看著你們。我會充滿嫉妒，還有悲傷。我是多么想嫁給你。然而，我知道，那個分享著你的血肉和基因模板的同類也許更加適合你。我會緊緊盯著站在教堂圣壇前的你們，我深深知道，此時的我比任何時候都更加深深愛著你。我知道我們的愛如此不同，卻又如此的古老。你給我帶來了無比的幸福，我也要給予你我所有的愛。我們需要的僅僅是一個愛的證明。
如果我們需要的僅僅是一個愛的證明，我會飛奔著穿過教堂，讓鞋跟擊打著大理石的路面，來到教堂前排的花瓶前。我會拔出瓶中的繡球，驅散所有心頭的陰云。再一次，我把它們插入自己的心中，我的心便會像花兒一般綻放。我的快樂幻化成花瓣，我的裙子變成綠葉，我的雙腿纏繞成花莖，我的頭發凝結成花蕊，蜜蜂將從我的喉嚨采擷異域的甘露。我要讓所有在場的人驚得目瞪口呆，我要讓那些自以為生活在科學世界里的古生物學家、生物學家、基因學家和記者從雙螺旋-化石的陷阱中清醒過來，我們生活在一個一切都會發生的魔法世界。
如果我們生活的是一個一切都會發生的魔法世界，親愛的，你將是一頭恐龍，充滿勇氣和力量，但也溫情脈脈。你的利爪尖牙會輕易嚇退你所有的敵人。然而…………你只是一個可愛、脆弱的人類。你能仰仗的也僅僅只是你的智慧和魅力。
一頭霸王龍，哪怕是小小的一頭，都不必畏懼五個喝得爛醉的暴徒。一頭霸王龍，只要微微露出它的利齒，那些惡徒便會逃之夭夭。他們必然不敢掀翻桌子，而是躲在桌底瑟瑟發抖。他們必然不敢抄起桌球桿砸向你，而是先走為上。他們必然不敢口出穢言辱罵你，嘶吼著看著你慢慢倒在血泊之中。
親愛的，如果你是一頭恐龍，我將教你如何辨識他們的氣味。我將悄悄地把你帶到他們身邊，哦，靜悄悄的。他們仍然會看到你，他們會逃跑。你的鼻孔會噴出火焰，就像曾吸入了整個黑夜。你會像獵手一般突然襲擊，把他們的生命，那些閃著光的紅色液體從他們的身體中倒出。我則會站在你的身邊，哈哈地狂笑。
如果我哈哈地狂笑，我最終會感到內疚。我會發誓不再這么做。我會從刊登那些失去丈夫的寡婦和失去父親的孩子的悲慘報道中移開我的視線。就像他們也會在刊登我照片的報道中移開他們的視線一樣。無論那些記者如何喜愛我的這張臉，這都是一張計劃了一半婚禮、訂好了繡球和綠色的雪紡伴娘裙的古生物學家未婚妻的臉。一個陪伴著也許永遠無法醒來的古生物學家的未婚妻。
親愛的，如果你是一頭恐龍，那一定沒有人能夠打敗你，如果沒有人能夠打敗你，就一定沒有人能夠打敗我。我將綻放成一朵最美的鮮花，向著太陽恣意地伸展。你的利爪尖齒將會保護著你/我/我們，直至永遠。不再有桌球桿留下的傷痕，不再有護士經過走廊的踢踏聲，和一顆破碎了的心。
完
If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love
by?Rachel Swirsky?on Mar 5, 2013 in?Short Fiction
If you were a dinosaur, my love, then you would be a T-Rex. You’d be a small one, only five feet, ten inches, the same height as human-you. You’d be fragile-boned and you’d walk with as delicate and polite a gait as you could manage on massive talons. Your eyes would gaze gently from beneath your bony brow-ridge.
If you were a T-Rex, then I would become a zookeeper so that I could spend all my time with you. I’d bring you raw chickens and live goats. I’d watch the gore shining on your teeth. I’d make my bed on the floor of your cage, in the moist dirt, cushioned by leaves. When you couldn’t sleep, I’d sing you lullabies.
If I sang you lullabies, I’d soon notice how quickly you picked up music. You’d harmonize with me, your rough, vibrating voice a strange counterpoint to mine. When you thought I was asleep, you’d cry unrequited love songs into the night.
If you sang unrequited love songs, I’d take you on tour. We’d go to Broadway. You’d stand onstage, talons digging into the floorboards. Audiences would weep at the melancholic beauty of your singing.
If audiences wept at the melancholic beauty of your singing, they’d rally to fund new research into reviving extinct species. Money would flood into scientific institutions. Biologists would reverse engineer chickens until they could discover how to give them jaws with teeth. Paleontologists would mine ancient fossils for traces of collagen. Geneticists would figure out how to build a dinosaur from nothing by discovering exactly what DNA sequences code everything about a creature, from the size of its pupils to what enables a brain to contemplate a sunset. They’d work until they’d built you a mate.
If they built you a mate, I’d stand as the best woman at your wedding. I’d watch awkwardly in green chiffon that made me look sallow, as I listened to your vows. I’d be jealous, of course, and also sad, because I want to marry you. Still, I’d know that it was for the best that you marry another creature like yourself, one that shares your body and bone and genetic template. I’d stare at the two of you standing together by the altar and I’d love you even more than I do now. My soul would feel light because I’d know that you and I had made something new in the world and at the same time revived something very old. I would be borrowed, too, because I’d be borrowing your happiness. All I’d need would be something blue.
If all I needed was something blue, I’d run across the church, heels clicking on the marble, until I reached a vase by the front pew. I’d pull out a hydrangea the shade of the sky and press it against my heart and my heart would beat like a flower. I’d bloom. My happiness would become petals. Green chiffon would turn into leaves. My legs would be pale stems, my hair delicate pistils. From my throat, bees would drink exotic nectars. I would astonish everyone assembled, the biologists and the paleontologists and the geneticists, the reporters and the rubberneckers and the music aficionados, all those people who—deceived by the helix-and-fossil trappings of cloned dinosaurs– believed that they lived in a science fictional world when really they lived in a world of magic where anything was possible.
If we lived in a world of magic where anything was possible, then you would be a dinosaur, my love. You’d be a creature of courage and strength but also gentleness. Your claws and fangs would intimidate your foes effortlessly. Whereas you—fragile, lovely, human you—must rely on wits and charm.
A T-Rex, even a small one, would never have to stand against five blustering men soaked in gin and malice. A T-Rex would bare its fangs and they would cower. They’d hide beneath the tables instead of knocking them over. They’d grasp each other for comfort instead of seizing the pool cues with which they beat you, calling you a fag, a towel-head, a shemale, a sissy, a spic, every epithet they could think of, regardless of whether it had anything to do with you or not, shouting and shouting as you slid to the floor in the slick of your own blood.
If you were a dinosaur, my love, I’d teach you the scents of those men. I’d lead you to them quietly, oh so quietly. Still, they would see you. They’d run. Your nostrils would flare as you inhaled the night and then, with the suddenness of a predator, you’d strike. I’d watch as you decanted their lives—the flood of red; the spill of glistening, coiled things—and I’d laugh, laugh, laugh.
If I laughed, laughed, laughed, I’d eventually feel guilty. I’d promise never to do something like that again. I’d avert my eyes from the newspapers when they showed photographs of the men’s tearful widows and fatherless children, just as they must avert their eyes from the newspapers that show my face. How reporters adore my face, the face of the paleontologist’s fiancée with her half-planned wedding, bouquets of hydrangeas already ordered, green chiffon bridesmaid dresses already picked out. The paleontologist’s fiancée who waits by the bedside of a man who will probably never wake.
If you were a dinosaur, my love, then nothing could break you, and if nothing could break you, then nothing could break me. I would bloom into the most beautiful flower. I would stretch joyfully toward the sun. I’d trust in your teeth and talons to keep you/me/us safe now and forever from the scratch of chalk on pool cues, and the scuff of the nurses’ shoes in the hospital corridor, and the stuttering of my broken heart.
End
