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My maternal aunt told me to sit down； she had some bad news. After 25 years of silence， I’d given up expecting any news from that quarter. But my aunt happened to see a tabloid account of his accidental death in Italy. My father， Brian Manning， was an English civil war historian， a Marxist， a political activist and something of a 1）hell-raiser. He and my mother met sharing a cell after being arrested at a 2）CND protest. But my mother said the real prison sentence began after they had signed the register.
He worked in 3）Manchester during the week， joining my mother and me， their only child， in remote， rural North Wales on weekends and holidays. Even when he was at home， my father was either inaccessible in his study， staring at the walls of his bedroom for weeks in deep depression， or just distant. When that distance was disturbed， it resulted in violent rages—torrents of abuse， showers of crockery. Holidays were miserable.
But with that strange optimism of children， I was relieved when after several attempts to leave him， we had to unpack the car and move all my toys back inside. By 13， my optimism was dwindling and， with my father’s university 4）sabbatical feeling like another prison sentence， I finally agreed that my mother and I should leave. When my father found out， he got drunk and threw bricks through a neighbour’s window. The police were called.
We moved to a nearby village， but when my father got a professorship in Coleraine， it was agreed that I would visit regularly. I reckoned those visits to be a success， so when I received no reply to a letter， I assumed it had gone astray and wrote another. No reply. Telephoned. Nothing. I’ve since wondered if I gave up too easily. But I was 14 years old. In my 30s， my mother now dead， I found a contact number for him on the Internet， but held back. He had made his point once—did I want to risk it being made again？
I would now never know. And here I was ringing the Foreign Office to get news of my father. Except they were rather hoping I could help them. Their inquiries had elicited only a rumour of a son in Wales—somewhere I hadn’t lived since 1982. The Foreign Office appeared not to have heard of Google. Now there was this issue of my father’s 5）mortal remains， which it was my “right” to identify； my “right” to take possession of. It was my right too， presumably， to walk away， but I discovered I couldn’t do to him what he’d already done to me. So what was my duty regarding the body of this man I didn’t know？ Burial？ 6）Cremation？ And where？ I set off to Italy in search of answers. But if I’d had difficulty understanding my father’s feelings in life， I should have known that in death their opacity would only deepen.
Inside the 7）morgue， I had a serious wobble. How could I identify this thing on the 8）gurney as the father I’d known 25 years earlier？ Apart from ageing， he had been battered by his fall. And couldn’t he have found something better to die in than a tatty black T-shirt？ With both my parents now gone， an enormous sense of aloneness crowded in on me. I was the sole survivor； sole witness to my childhood.
Hoping his home would yield the answers I need， it was apt that I had to break in like a thief. With the alarm howling， I expected the car outside to be the police. Instead， it was a face from the past： someone I had met as a child on my second visit. Her name was Rosalind and， predictably， she and my father had fallen out.
She later introduced me to two friends who had refused to let my father fall out with them—Joe and Renate， a lively， thoughtful couple in their 60s.“He had something missing. That element that makes people connect，” Joe reckoned. “But you have to understand， your father was a great man.”
“You have to understand，” I flared up，“he was a pretty useless human being.”Then I felt guilty at the stricken look on Renate’s face. My father had inspired love， not just respect. By now at least one thing was clear： I should arrange a funeral here in Coleraine.
There was such a delay in the body’s arrival that it seemed best to arrange a separate memorial at the university. And， of course， my father’s body arrived the day after the memorial， fittingly robbed of several hundred euros in transit. It seemed only fair that we were a mere three mourners—Rosalind， Joe and I. I read 9）John Donne’s “No Man Is an Island”. At Rosalind’s suggestion， I scattered my father’s ashes on the rosebeds he’d loved.
我的姨妈叫我坐下；她有坏消息要告诉我。25年的沉寂之后，我已对那人的消息没有任何期盼。但是我的姨妈却恰巧看到一份小报上刊登了我父亲在意大利意外身亡的消息。我的父亲——布莱恩·曼宁，是一位英国内战历史学家、马克思主义者、政治活动家，而且多少算得上是个“惹事鬼”。在一次反核武抗议活动中，他和我的母亲被逮捕，并被关押在同一个牢房，他们就此相遇了。但我的母亲说在他们签字结婚后，真正的牢狱之刑才开始。
平日里父亲在曼彻斯特工作，只在周末和假期才回到偏远的北威尔士乡下，与母亲和作为独子的我相聚。即使父亲在家，也是难以接近，因为他要么呆在书房里，在深深的绝望中好几个星期都盯着房间的墙壁，要么就只是冷冰冰的。你要是打破那份距离感，便会招致雷霆大怒——虐待谩骂，餐具横飞。假期是悲惨的。
几次离开他的尝试之后，我们还是不得不从车中卸下细软，把我所有的玩具移回屋内，为此，当时的我满是如释重负，小孩子就是那么奇怪乐观。长到13岁，我的乐观一点点减少，而且，碰上那年父亲在休大学的学术休假，那感觉就像是另一次牢狱生活，于是，我终于赞同母亲的决定，我们应当离开他。当父亲发现的时候，他喝得酩酊大醉并拿砖头砸了一位邻居家的窗户。警察被叫来了。 我们搬到了一个邻近的村庄，但当父亲在科尔雷恩区觅得教授一职时，他们协议我得定期探访他。我觉得那些相聚时刻都还算不错，所以当我收不到父亲的回信时，我猜那信应该是送错地方丢了，然后我再写一封。没有回复。打电话。没反应。我曾一度在想我是不是太容易放弃了。但我已经14岁了。在我三十多岁的时候，我的母亲也去世了，我在网上看到父亲的一个联系电话，却还是退缩了。他曾经摆明自己的立场——难不成我还想要再冒险试试？
如今我将永远无法知晓。那时候我还致电外交部打探父亲的消息。而他们却反倒指望我能给他们提供协助。他们的调查仅仅找出了一个传言，关于父亲有一个儿子在威尔士的传言——那地方我从1982年开始就没再呆了。外交部似乎从未听说过谷歌。当下有一个关于我父亲遗体的问题，我对之有辨认的“权利”，领取的“权利”。或许，撒手不管，也是我的权利，但我发现自己并不能像父亲曾经对待我那样去对待他。那么，对于这具我并不熟识的男人的身体，我的责任是什么？土葬？火葬？
还有葬在哪里？我动身前往意大利寻找答案。但是如果我难以理解父亲此生的感受，那么我早就该知道，父亲往生之后，那些感受只会令人更加难以捉摸。
停尸间内，我的情绪很不稳定。我怎么能确定医院轮床上的此身此物就是我25年前所认识的父亲？撇开变老不说，他也被摔得够呛。还有，难道他就不能穿件比破旧黑色T恤衫好点的衣服再走吗？如今随着我父母的离世，一股巨大的孤独感向我袭来。我是唯一的幸存者；我童年的唯一见证者。
我希望他的家能给予我所需要的答案，当然，我不得不像个贼一样潜入他的家里。伴着长鸣的警报，我猜想外面来的估计是辆警车。然而，出现的却是一张往昔的脸：那是在我孩提第二次拜访父亲时见过的某个人。她的名字叫做罗莎琳德，而且可以预见的是，她和我的父亲闹翻了。
之后她介绍了两位拒绝与父亲闹翻的朋友给我——乔和雷纳特，一对六十多岁、有活力、体贴的夫妇。“他遗失了某些东西。那些让人们相依相连的东西。”乔认为。“但你必须明白，你的父亲是一个伟大的人。”
“你必须明白，”我怒火中烧，“他是一个特别没用的人。”然后看到雷纳特脸上诧异的表情我感到内疚。我的父亲赢得了热爱，并不仅仅是尊重。迄今为止，至少有一件事情是清楚的：我应该在科尔雷恩区操办一场葬礼。
遗体的到达会有一段延期，因而在大学操办一场单独的追悼仪式似乎是最好的。而且，当然，我父亲的遗体会在追悼仪式之后的第二天到达，运费不多不少地花了几百欧元。仅仅只有我们三个哀悼者，这似乎是情理之中的——罗莎琳德、乔，还有我。我朗读了约翰·邓恩的《没有人是一座孤岛》。出于罗莎琳德的建议，我将父亲的骨灰撒在了他应该会喜欢的玫瑰花坛里。
He worked in 3）Manchester during the week， joining my mother and me， their only child， in remote， rural North Wales on weekends and holidays. Even when he was at home， my father was either inaccessible in his study， staring at the walls of his bedroom for weeks in deep depression， or just distant. When that distance was disturbed， it resulted in violent rages—torrents of abuse， showers of crockery. Holidays were miserable.
But with that strange optimism of children， I was relieved when after several attempts to leave him， we had to unpack the car and move all my toys back inside. By 13， my optimism was dwindling and， with my father’s university 4）sabbatical feeling like another prison sentence， I finally agreed that my mother and I should leave. When my father found out， he got drunk and threw bricks through a neighbour’s window. The police were called.
We moved to a nearby village， but when my father got a professorship in Coleraine， it was agreed that I would visit regularly. I reckoned those visits to be a success， so when I received no reply to a letter， I assumed it had gone astray and wrote another. No reply. Telephoned. Nothing. I’ve since wondered if I gave up too easily. But I was 14 years old. In my 30s， my mother now dead， I found a contact number for him on the Internet， but held back. He had made his point once—did I want to risk it being made again？
I would now never know. And here I was ringing the Foreign Office to get news of my father. Except they were rather hoping I could help them. Their inquiries had elicited only a rumour of a son in Wales—somewhere I hadn’t lived since 1982. The Foreign Office appeared not to have heard of Google. Now there was this issue of my father’s 5）mortal remains， which it was my “right” to identify； my “right” to take possession of. It was my right too， presumably， to walk away， but I discovered I couldn’t do to him what he’d already done to me. So what was my duty regarding the body of this man I didn’t know？ Burial？ 6）Cremation？ And where？ I set off to Italy in search of answers. But if I’d had difficulty understanding my father’s feelings in life， I should have known that in death their opacity would only deepen.
Inside the 7）morgue， I had a serious wobble. How could I identify this thing on the 8）gurney as the father I’d known 25 years earlier？ Apart from ageing， he had been battered by his fall. And couldn’t he have found something better to die in than a tatty black T-shirt？ With both my parents now gone， an enormous sense of aloneness crowded in on me. I was the sole survivor； sole witness to my childhood.
Hoping his home would yield the answers I need， it was apt that I had to break in like a thief. With the alarm howling， I expected the car outside to be the police. Instead， it was a face from the past： someone I had met as a child on my second visit. Her name was Rosalind and， predictably， she and my father had fallen out.
She later introduced me to two friends who had refused to let my father fall out with them—Joe and Renate， a lively， thoughtful couple in their 60s.“He had something missing. That element that makes people connect，” Joe reckoned. “But you have to understand， your father was a great man.”
“You have to understand，” I flared up，“he was a pretty useless human being.”Then I felt guilty at the stricken look on Renate’s face. My father had inspired love， not just respect. By now at least one thing was clear： I should arrange a funeral here in Coleraine.
There was such a delay in the body’s arrival that it seemed best to arrange a separate memorial at the university. And， of course， my father’s body arrived the day after the memorial， fittingly robbed of several hundred euros in transit. It seemed only fair that we were a mere three mourners—Rosalind， Joe and I. I read 9）John Donne’s “No Man Is an Island”. At Rosalind’s suggestion， I scattered my father’s ashes on the rosebeds he’d loved.
我的姨妈叫我坐下；她有坏消息要告诉我。25年的沉寂之后，我已对那人的消息没有任何期盼。但是我的姨妈却恰巧看到一份小报上刊登了我父亲在意大利意外身亡的消息。我的父亲——布莱恩·曼宁，是一位英国内战历史学家、马克思主义者、政治活动家，而且多少算得上是个“惹事鬼”。在一次反核武抗议活动中，他和我的母亲被逮捕，并被关押在同一个牢房，他们就此相遇了。但我的母亲说在他们签字结婚后，真正的牢狱之刑才开始。
平日里父亲在曼彻斯特工作，只在周末和假期才回到偏远的北威尔士乡下，与母亲和作为独子的我相聚。即使父亲在家，也是难以接近，因为他要么呆在书房里，在深深的绝望中好几个星期都盯着房间的墙壁，要么就只是冷冰冰的。你要是打破那份距离感，便会招致雷霆大怒——虐待谩骂，餐具横飞。假期是悲惨的。
几次离开他的尝试之后，我们还是不得不从车中卸下细软，把我所有的玩具移回屋内，为此，当时的我满是如释重负，小孩子就是那么奇怪乐观。长到13岁，我的乐观一点点减少，而且，碰上那年父亲在休大学的学术休假，那感觉就像是另一次牢狱生活，于是，我终于赞同母亲的决定，我们应当离开他。当父亲发现的时候，他喝得酩酊大醉并拿砖头砸了一位邻居家的窗户。警察被叫来了。 我们搬到了一个邻近的村庄，但当父亲在科尔雷恩区觅得教授一职时，他们协议我得定期探访他。我觉得那些相聚时刻都还算不错，所以当我收不到父亲的回信时，我猜那信应该是送错地方丢了，然后我再写一封。没有回复。打电话。没反应。我曾一度在想我是不是太容易放弃了。但我已经14岁了。在我三十多岁的时候，我的母亲也去世了，我在网上看到父亲的一个联系电话，却还是退缩了。他曾经摆明自己的立场——难不成我还想要再冒险试试？
如今我将永远无法知晓。那时候我还致电外交部打探父亲的消息。而他们却反倒指望我能给他们提供协助。他们的调查仅仅找出了一个传言，关于父亲有一个儿子在威尔士的传言——那地方我从1982年开始就没再呆了。外交部似乎从未听说过谷歌。当下有一个关于我父亲遗体的问题，我对之有辨认的“权利”，领取的“权利”。或许，撒手不管，也是我的权利，但我发现自己并不能像父亲曾经对待我那样去对待他。那么，对于这具我并不熟识的男人的身体，我的责任是什么？土葬？火葬？
还有葬在哪里？我动身前往意大利寻找答案。但是如果我难以理解父亲此生的感受，那么我早就该知道，父亲往生之后，那些感受只会令人更加难以捉摸。
停尸间内，我的情绪很不稳定。我怎么能确定医院轮床上的此身此物就是我25年前所认识的父亲？撇开变老不说，他也被摔得够呛。还有，难道他就不能穿件比破旧黑色T恤衫好点的衣服再走吗？如今随着我父母的离世，一股巨大的孤独感向我袭来。我是唯一的幸存者；我童年的唯一见证者。
我希望他的家能给予我所需要的答案，当然，我不得不像个贼一样潜入他的家里。伴着长鸣的警报，我猜想外面来的估计是辆警车。然而，出现的却是一张往昔的脸：那是在我孩提第二次拜访父亲时见过的某个人。她的名字叫做罗莎琳德，而且可以预见的是，她和我的父亲闹翻了。
之后她介绍了两位拒绝与父亲闹翻的朋友给我——乔和雷纳特，一对六十多岁、有活力、体贴的夫妇。“他遗失了某些东西。那些让人们相依相连的东西。”乔认为。“但你必须明白，你的父亲是一个伟大的人。”
“你必须明白，”我怒火中烧，“他是一个特别没用的人。”然后看到雷纳特脸上诧异的表情我感到内疚。我的父亲赢得了热爱，并不仅仅是尊重。迄今为止，至少有一件事情是清楚的：我应该在科尔雷恩区操办一场葬礼。
遗体的到达会有一段延期，因而在大学操办一场单独的追悼仪式似乎是最好的。而且，当然，我父亲的遗体会在追悼仪式之后的第二天到达，运费不多不少地花了几百欧元。仅仅只有我们三个哀悼者，这似乎是情理之中的——罗莎琳德、乔，还有我。我朗读了约翰·邓恩的《没有人是一座孤岛》。出于罗莎琳德的建议，我将父亲的骨灰撒在了他应该会喜欢的玫瑰花坛里。