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雙語·心是孤獨(dú)的獵手 第一部分 3

所屬教程:譯林版·心是孤獨(dú)的獵手

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2022年04月22日

手機(jī)版
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The sun woke Mick early, although she had stayed out mighty late the night before. It was too hot even to drink coffee for breakfast, so she had ice water with syrup in it and cold biscuits.She messed around the kitchen for a while and then went out on the front porch to read the funnies.She had thought maybe Mister Singer would be reading the paper on the porch like he did most Sunday mornings.But Mister Singer was not there, and later on her Dad said he came in very late the night before and had company in his room.She waited for Mister Singer a long time.All the other boarders came down except him.Finally she went back in the kitchen and took Ralph out of his high chair and put a clean dress on him and wiped off his face.Then when Bubber got home from Sunday School she was ready to take the kids out.She let Bubber ride in the wagon with Ralph because he was barefooted and the hot sidewalk burned his feet.She pulled the wagon for about eight blocks until they came to the big, new house that was being built.The ladder was still propped against the edge of the roof, and she screwed up nerve and began to climb.

“You mind Ralph,”she called back to Bubber.“Mind the gnats don't sit on his eyelids.”

Five minutes later Mick stood up and held herself very straight. She spread out her arms like wings.This was the place where everybody wanted to stand.The very top.But not many kids could do it.Most of them were scared, for if you lost your grip and rolled off the edge it would kill you.All around were the roofs of other houses and the green tops of trees.On the other side of town were the church steeples and the smokestacks from the mills.The sky was bright blue and hot as fire.The sun made everything on the ground either dizzy white or black.

She wanted to sing. All the songs she knew pushed up toward her throat, but there was no sound.One big boy who had got to the highest part of the roof last week let out a yell and then started hollering out a speech he had learned at High School—“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend me your ears!”There was something about getting to the very top that gave you a wild feeling and made you want to yell or sing or raise up your arms and fly.

She felt the soles of her tennis shoes slipping, and eased herself down so that she straddled the peak of the roof. The house was almost finished.It would be one of the largest buildings in the neighborhood—two stories, with very high ceilings and the steepest roof of any house she had ever seen.But soon the work would all be finished.The carpenters would leave and the kids would have to find another place to play.

She was by herself. No one was around and it was quiet and she could think for a while.She took from the pocket of her shorts the package of cigarettes she had bought the night before.She breathed in the smoke slowly.The cigarette gave her a drunk feeling so that her head seemed heavy and loose on her shoulders, but she had to finish it.

M. K.—That was what she would have written on everything when she was seventeen years old and very famous.She would ride back home in a red-and-white Packard automobile with her initials on the doors.She would have M.K.written in red on her handkerchiefs and underclothes.Maybe she would be a great inventor.She would invent little tiny radios the size of a green pea that people could carry around and stick in their ears.Also flying machines people could fasten on their backs like knapsacks and go zipping all over the world.After that she would be the first one to make a large tunnel through the world to China, and people could go down in big balloons.Those were the first tilings she would invent.They were already planned.

When Mick had finished half of the cigarette she smashed it dead and flipped the butt down the slant of the roof. Then she leaned forward so that her head rested on her arms and began to hum to herself.

It was a funny thing—but nearly all the time there was some kind of piano piece or other music going on in the back of her mind. No matter what she was doing or thinking it was nearly always there.Miss Brown, who boarded with them, had a radio in her room, and all last winter she would sit on the steps every Sunday afternoon and listen in on the programs.Those were probably classical pieces, but they were the ones she remembered best.There was one special fellow's music that made her heart shrink up every time she heard it.Sometimes this fellow's music was like little colored pieces of crystal candy, and other times it was the softest, saddest thing she had ever imagined about.

There was the sudden sound of crying. Mick sat up straight and listened.The wind ruffled the fringe of hair on her forehead and the bright sun made her face white and damp.The whimpering continued, and Mick moved slowly along the sharp-pointed roof on her hands and knees.When she reached the end she leaned forward and lay on her stomach so that her head jutted over the edge and she could see the ground below.

The kids were where she had left them. Bubber was squatting over something on the ground and beside him was a little black, dwarf shadow.Ralph was still tied in the wagon.He was just old enough to sit up, and he held on to the sides of the wagon, with his cap crooked on his head, crying.

“Bubber!”Mick called down.“Find out what that Ralph wants and give it to him.”

Bubber stood up and looked hard into the baby's face.“He don't want nothing.”

“Well, give him a good shake, then.”

Mick climbed back to the place where she had been sitting before. She wanted to think for a long time about two or three certain people, to sing to herself, and to make plans.But that Ralph was still hollering and there wouldn't be any peace for her at all.

Boldly she began to climb down toward the ladder propped against the edge of the roof. The slant was very steep and there were only a few blocks of wood nailed down, very far apart from each other, that the workmen used for footholds.She was dizzy, and her heart beat so hard it made her tremble.Commandingly she talked out loud to herself:“Hold on here with your hands tight and then slide down until your right toe gets a grip there and then stay close and wiggle over to the left.Nerve, Mick, you've got to keep nerve.”

Coming down was the hardest part of any climbing. It took her a long time to reach the ladder and to feel safe again.When she stood on the ground at last she seemed much shorter and smaller and her legs felt for a minute like they would crumple up with her.She hitched her shorts and jerked the belt a notch tighter.Ralph was still crying, but she paid the sound no attention and went into the new, empty house.

Last month they had put a sign out in front saying that no children were allowed on the lot. A gang of kids had been scuffling around inside the rooms one night, and a girl who couldn't see in the dark had run into a room that hadn't been floored and fallen through and broken her leg.She was still at the hospital in a plaster parish cast.Also, another time some tough boys wee-weed all over one of the walls and wrote some pretty bad words.But no matter how many Keep Out signs were put up, they couldn't run kids away until the house had been painted and finished and people had moved in.

The rooms smelled of new wood, and when she walked the soles of her tennis shoes made a flopping sound that echoed through all the house. The air was hot and quiet.She stood still in the middle of the front room for a while, and then she suddenly thought of something.She fished in her pocket and brought out two stubs of chalk—one green and the other red.

Mick drew the big block letters very slowly. At the top she wrote EDISON, and under that she drew the names of DICK TRACY and MUSSOLINI.Then in each corner with the largest letters of all, made with green and outlined in red, she wrote her initials—M.K.When that was done she crossed over to the opposite wall and wrote a very bad word—PUSSY—and beneath that she put her initials, too.

She stood in the middle of the empty room and stared at what she had done. The chalk was still in her hands and she did not feel really satisfied.She was trying to think of the name of this fellow who had written this music she heard over the radio last winter.She had asked a girl at school who owned a piano and took music lessons about him, and the girl asked her teacher.It seemed this fellow was just a kid who had lived in some country in Europe a good while ago.But even if he was just a young kid he had made up all these beautiful pieces for the piano and for the violin and for a band or orchestra too.In her mind she could remember about six different tunes from the pieces of his she had heard.A few of them were kind of quick and tinkling, and another was like that smell in the springtime after a rain.But they all made her somehow sad and excited at the same time.

She hummed one of the tunes, and after a while in the hot, empty house by herself she felt the tears come in her eyes. Her throat got tight and rough and she couldn't sing any more.Quickly she wrote the fellow's name at the very top of the list—MOTSART.

Ralph was tied in the wagon just as she had left him. He sat up quiet and still and his fat little hands held on to the sides.Ralph looked like a little Chinese baby with his square black bangs and his black eyes.The sun was in his face, and that was why he had been hollering.Bubber was nowhere around.When Ralph saw her coming he began tuning up to cry again.She pulled the wagon into the shade by the side of the new house and took from her shirt pocket a blue-colored jelly bean.She stuck the candy in the baby's warm, soft mouth.

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it,”she said to him. In a way it was a waste, because Ralph was still too little to get the real good flavor out of candy.A clean rock would be about the same to him, only the little fool would swallow it.He didn't understand any more about taste than he did about talking.When you said you were so sick and tired of dragging him around you had a good mind to throw him in the river, it was the same to him as if you had been loving him.Nothing much made any difference to him.That was why it was such an awful bore to haul him around.

Mick cupped her hands, clamped them tight together, and blew through the crack between her thumbs. Her cheeks puffed out and at first there was only the sound of air rushing through her fists.Then a high, shrill whistle sounded, and after a few seconds Bubber came out from around the corner of the house.

She rumpled the sawdust out of Bubber's hair and straightened Ralph's cap. This cap was the finest thing Ralph had.It was made out of lace and all embroidered.The ribbon under his chin was blue on one side and white on the other, and over each ear there were big rosettes.His head had got too big for the cap and the embroidery scratched, but she always put it on him when she took him out.Ralph didn't have any real baby carriage like most folks'babies did, or any summer bootees.He had to be dragged around in a tacky old wagon she had got for Christmas three years before.But the fine cap gave him face.

There was nobody on the street, for it was late Sunday morning and very hot. The wagon screeched and rattled.Bubber was barefooted and the sidewalk was so hot it burned his feet.The green oak trees made cool-looking black shadows on the ground, but that was not shade enough.

“Get up in the wagon,”she told Bubber.“And let Ralph sit on your lap.”

“I can walk all right.”

The long summer-time always gave Bubber the colic. He didn't have on a shirt and his ribs were sharp and white.The sun made him pale instead of brown, and his little titties were like blue raisins on his chest.

“I don't mind pulling you,”Mick said.“Get on in.”

“O. K.”

Mick dragged the wagon slowly because she was not in any hurry to get home. She began talking to the kids.But it was really more like saying things to herself than words said to them.

“This is a funny thing—the dreams I've been having lately. It's like I'm swimming.But instead of water I'm pushing out my arms and swimming through great big crowds of people.The crowd is a hundred times bigger than in Kresses store on Saturday afternoon.The biggest crowd in the world.And sometimes I'm yelling and swimming through people, knocking them all down wherever I go—and other times I’m on the ground and people are trompling all over me and my insides are oozing out on the sidewalk.I guess it’s more like a nightmare than a plain dream—”

On Sunday the house was always full of folks because the boarders had visitors. Newspapers rustled and there was cigar smoke, and footsteps always on the stairs.

“Some things you just naturally want to keep private. Not because they are bad, but because you just want them secret.There are two or three things I wouldn't want even you to know about.”

Bubber got out when they came to the corner and helped her lift the wagon down the curb and get it up on the next sidewalk.

“But there's one thing I would give anything for. And that's a piano.If we had a piano I'd practice every single night and learn every piece in the world.That's the thing I want more than anything else.”

They had come to their own home block now. Their house was only a few doors away.It was one of the biggest houses on the whole north side of town—three stories high.But then there were fourteen people in the family.There weren't that many in the real, blood Kelly family—but they ate there and slept there at five dollars a head and you might as well count them on in.Mr.Singer wasn't counted in that because he only rented a room and kept it straightened up himself.

The house was narrow and had not been painted for many years. It did not seem to be built strong enough for its three stories of height.It sagged on one side.

Mick untied Ralph and lifted him from the wagon. She darted quickly through the hall, and from the corner of her eye she saw that the living-room was full of boarders.Her Dad was in there, too.Her Mama would be in the kitchen.They were all hanging around waiting for dinner-time.

She went into the first of the three rooms that the family kept for themselves. She put Ralph down on the bed where her Dad and Mama slept and gave him a string of beads to play with.From behind the closed door of the next room she could hear the sound of voices, and she decided to go inside.

Hazel and Etta stopped talking when they saw her. Etta was sitting in the chair by the window, painting her toenails with the red polish.Her hair was done up in steel rollers and there was a white dab of face cream on a little place under her chin where a pimple had come out.Hazel was flopped out lazy on the bed as usual.

“What were you all jawing about?”

“It's none of your nosy business,”Etta said.“Just you hush up and leave us alone.”

“It's my room just as much as it is either one of yours. I have as good a right in here as you do.”Mick strutted from one corner to the other until she had covered all the floor space.“But then I don't care anything about picking any fight.All I want are my own rights.”

Mick brushed back her shaggy bangs with the palm of her hand. She had done this so often that there was a little row of cowlicks above her forehead.She quivered her nose and made faces at herself in the mirror.Then she began walking around the room again.

Hazel and Etta were O. K.as far as sisters went.But Etta was like she was full of worms.All she thought about was movie stars and getting in the movies.Once she had written to Jeanette MacDonald and had got a typewritten letter back saying that if ever she came out to Hollywood she could come by and swim in her swimming pool.And ever since that swimming pool had been preying on Etta's mind.All she thought about was going to Hollywood when she could scrape up the bus fare and getting a job as a secretary and being buddies with Jeanette MacDonald and getting in the movies herself.

She primped all the day long. And that was the bad part.Etta wasn't naturally pretty like Hazel.The main thing was she didn't have any chin.She would pull at her jaw and go through a lot of chin exercises she had read in a movie book.She was always looking at her side profile in the mirror and trying to keep her mouth set in a certain way.But it didn't do any good.Sometimes Etta would hold her face with her hands and cry in the night about it.

Hazel was plain lazy. She was good-looking but thick in the head.She was eighteen years old, and next to Bill she was the oldest of all the kids in the family.Maybe that was the trouble.She got the first and biggest share of everything—the first whack at the new clothes and the biggest part of any special treat.Hazel never had to grab for anything and she was soft.

“Are you just going to tramp around the room all day?It makes me sick to see you in those silly boy's clothes. Somebody ought to clamp down on you, Mick Kelly, and make you behave,”Etta said.

“Shut up,”said Mick.“I wear shorts because I don't want to wear your old hand-me-downs. I don't want to be like either of you and I don't want to look like either of you.And I won't.That's why I wear shorts.I’d rather be a boy any day, and I wish I could move in with Bill.”

Mick scrambled under the bed and brought out a large hatbox. As she carried it to the door both of them called after her,“Good riddance!”

Bill had the nicest room of anybody in the family. Like a den—and he had it all to himself—except for Bubber.Bill had pictures cut out from magazines tacked on the walls, mostly faces of beautiful ladies, and in another corner were some pictures Mick had painted last year herself at the free art class.There was only a bed and a desk in the room.

Bill was sitting hunched over the desk, reading Popular Mechanics. She went up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders.“Hey, you old son-of-a-gun.”

He did not begin tussling with her like he used to do.“Hey,”he said, and shook his shoulders a little.

“Will it bother you if I stay in here a little while?”

“Sure—I don't mind if you want to stay.”

Mick knelt on the floor and untied the string on the big hatbox. Her hands hovered over the edge of the lid, but for some reason she could not make up her mind to open it.

“I been thinking about what I've done on this already,”she said.“And it may work and it may not.”

Bill went on reading. She still knelt over the box, but did not open it.Her eyes wandered over to Bill as he sat with his back to her.One of his big feet kept stepping on the other as he read.His shoes were scuffed.Once their Dad had said that all Bill's dinners went to his feet and his breakfast to one ear and his supper to the other ear.That was a sort of mean thing to say and Bill had been sour over it for a month, but it was funny.His ears flared out and were very red, and though he was just out of high school he wore a size thirteen shoe.He tried to hide his feet by scraping one foot behind the other when he stood up, but that only made it worse.

Mick opened the box a few inches and then shut it again. She felt too excited to look into it now.She got up and walked around the room until she could calm down a little.After a few minutes she stopped before the picture she had painted at the free government art class for school kids last winter.There was a picture of a storm on the ocean and a seagull being dashed through the air by the wind.It was called“Sea Gull with Back Broken in Storm.”The teacher had described the ocean during the first two or three lessons, and that was what nearly everybody started with.Most of the kids were like her, though, and they had never really seen the ocean with their own eyes.

That was the first picture she had done and Bill had tacked it on his wall. All the rest of her pictures were full of people.She had done some more ocean storms at first—one with an airplane crashing down and people jumping out to save themselves, and another with a trans-atlantic liner going down and all the people trying to push and crowd into one little lifeboat.

Mick went into the closet of Bill's room and brought out some other pictures she had done in the class—some pencil drawings, some water-colors, and one canvas with oils. They were all full of people.She had imagined a big fire on Broad Street and painted how she thought it would be.The flames were bright green and orange and Mr.Brannon's restaurant and the First National Bank were about the only buildings left.People were lying dead in the streets and others were running for their lives.One man was in his nightshirt and a lady was trying to carry a bunch of bananas with her.Another picture was called“Boiler Busts in Factory,”and men were jumping out of windows and running while a knot of kids in overalls stood scrouged together, holding the buckets of dinner they had brought to their Daddies.The oil painting was a picture of the whole town fighting on Broad Street.She never knew why she had painted this one and she couldn't think of the right name for it.There wasn't any fire or storm or reason you could see in the picture why all this battle was happening.But there were more people and more moving around than in any other picture.This was the best one, and it was too bad that she couldn't think up the real name.In the back of her mind somewhere she knew what it was.

Mick put the picture back on the closet shelf. None of them were any good much.The people didn't have fingers and some of the arms were longer than the legs.The class had been fun, though.But she had just drawn whatever came into her head without reason—and in her heart it didn't give her near the same feeling that music did.Nothing was really as good as music.

Mick knelt down on the floor and quickly lifted the top of the big hatbox. Inside was a cracked ukulele strung with two violin strings, a guitar string and a banjo string.The crack on the back of the ukulele had been neatly mended with sticking plaster and the round hole in the middle was covered by a piece of wood.The bridge of a violin held up the strings at the end and some sound-holes had been carved on either side.Mick was making herself a violin.She held the violin in her lap.She had the feeling she had never really looked at it before.Some time ago she made Bubber a little play mandolin out of a cigar box with rubber bands, and that put the idea into her head.Since that she had hunted all over everywhere for the different parts and added a little to the job every day.It seemed to her she had done everything except use her head.

“Bill, this don't look like any real violin I ever saw.”

He was still reading—“Yeah—?”

“It just don't look right. It just don't—”

She had planned to tune the fiddle that day by screwing the pegs. But since she had suddenly realized how all the work had turned out she didn't want to look at it.Slowly she plucked one string after another.They all made the same little hollow-sounding ping.

“How anyway will I ever get a bow?Are you sure they have to be made out of just horses'hair?”

“Yeah,”said Bill impatiently.

“Nothing like thin wire or human hair strung on a limber stick would do?”

Bill rubbed his feet against each other and didn't answer.

Anger made beads of sweat come out on her forehead. Her voice was hoarse.“It's not even a bad violin.It's only a cross between a mandolin and a ukulele.And I hate them.I hate them—”

Bill turned around.

“It's all turned out wrong. It won't do.It's no good.”

“Pipe down,”said Bill.“Are you just carrying on about that old broken ukulele you've been fooling with?I could have told you at first it was crazy to think you could make any violin. That's one thing you don't sit down and make—you got to buy them.I thought anybody would know a thing like that.But I figured it wouldn't hurt yon if you found out for yourself.”

Sometimes she hated Bill more than anyone else in the world. He was different entirely from what he used to be.She started to slam the violin down on the floor and stomp on it, but instead she put it back roughly into the hatbox.The tears were hot in her eyes as fire.She gave the box a kick and ran from the room without looking at Bill.

As she was dodging through the hall to get to the back yard she ran into her Mama.

“What's the matter with you?What have you been into now?”

Mick tried to jerk loose, but her Mama held on to her arm. Sullenly she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand.Her Mama had been in the kitchen and she wore her apron and house-shoes.As usual she looked as though she had a lot on her mind and didn't have time to ask her any more questions.

“Mr. Jackson has brought his two sisters to dinner and there won't be but just enough chairs, so today you're to eat in the kitchen with Bubber.”

“That's hunky-dory with me,”Mick said.

Her Mama let her go and went to take off her apron. From the dining-room there came the sound of the dinner bell and a sudden glad outbreak of talking.She could hear her Dad saying how much he had lost by not keeping up his accident insurance until the time he broke his hip.That was one thing her Dad could never get off his mind—ways he could have made money and didn't.There was a clatter of dishes, and after a while the talking stopped.

Mick leaned on the banisters of the stairs. The sudden crying had started her with the hiccups.It seemed to her as she thought back over the last month that she had never really believed in her mind that the violin would work.But in her heart she had kept making herself believe.And even now it was hard not to believe a little.She was tired out.Bill wasn't ever a help with anything now.She used to think Bill was the grandest person in the world.She used to follow after him every place he went—out fishing in the woods, to the clubhouses he built with other boys, to the slot machine in the back of Mr.Brannon's restaurant—everywhere.Maybe he hadn't meant to let her down like this.But anyway they could never be good buddies again.

In the hall there was the smell of cigarettes and Sunday dinner. Mick took a deep breath and walked back toward the kitchen.The dinner began to smell good and she was hungry.She could hear Portia's voice as she talked to Bubber, and it was like she was half-singing something or telling him a story.

“And that is the various reason why I'm a whole lot more fortunate than most colored girls,”Portia said as she opened the door.“Why?”asked Mick.

Portia and Bubber were sitting at the kitchen table eating their dinner. Portia's green print dress was cool-looking against her dark brown skin.She had on green earrings and her hair was combed very tight and neat.

“You all time pounce in on the very tail of what somebody say and then want to know all about it,”Portia said. She got up and stood over the hot stove, putting dinner on Mick's plate.“Bubber and me was just talking about my Grandpapa's home out on the Old Sardis Road.I was telling Bubber how he and my uncles owns the whole place themself.Fifteen and a half acre.They always plants four of them in cotton, some years swapping back to peas to keep the dirt rich, and one acre on a hill is just for peaches.They haves a mule and a breed sow and all the time from twenty to twenty-five laying hens and fryers.They haves a vegetable patch and two pecan trees and plenty figs and plums and berries.This here is the truth.Not many white farms has done with their land good as my Grandpapa.”

Mick put her elbows on the table and leaned over her plate. Portia had always rather talk about the farm than anything else, except about her husband and brother.To hear her tell it you would think that colored farm was the very White House itself.

“The home started with just one little room. And through the years they done built on until there's space for my Grandpapa, his four sons and their wives and childrens, and my brother Hamilton.In the parlor they haves a real organ and a gramophone.And on the wall they haves a large picture of my Grandpapa taken in his lodge uniform.They cans all the fruit and vegetables and no matter how cold and rainy the winter turns they pretty near always haves plenty to eat.”

“How come you don't go live with them, then?”Mick asked.

Portia stopped peeling her potatoes and her long, brown fingers tapped on the table in time to her words.“This here the way it is. See—each person done built on his room for his fambly.They all done worked hard during all these years.And of course times is hard for ever body now.But see—I lived with my Grandpapa when I were a little girl.But I haven't never done any work out there since.Any time, though, if me and Willie and Highboy gets in bad trouble us can always go back.”

“Didn't your Father build on a room?”

Portia stopped chewing.“Whose Father?You mean my Father?”

“Sure,”said Mick.

“You know good and well my Father is a colored doctor right here in town.”

Mick had heard Portia say that before, but she had thought it was a tale. How could a colored man be a doctor?

“This here the way it is. Before the tune my Mama married my Father she had never known anything but real kindness.My Grandpa is Mister Kind hisself.But my Father is different from him as day is from night.”

“Mean?”asked Mick.

“No, he not a mean man,”Portia said slowly.“It just that something is the matter. My Father not like other colored mens.This here is hard to explain.My Father all the time studying by hisself.And a long time ago he taken up all these notions about how a fambly ought to be.He bossed over ever little thing in the house and at night he tried to teach us children lessons.”

“That don't sound so bad to me,”said Mick.

“Listen here. You see most of the time he were very quiet.But then some nights he would break out in a kind of fit.He could get madder than any man I ever seen.Everybody who know my Father say that he was a sure enough crazy man.He done wild, crazy things and our Mama quit him.I were ten years old at the time.Our Mama taken us children with her to Grandpapa's farm and us were raised out there.Our Father all the time wanted us to come back.But even when our Mama died us children never did go home to live.And now my Father stay all by hisself.”

Mick went to the stove and filled her plate a second time. Portia's voice was going up and down like a song, and nothing could stop her now.

“I doesn't see my Father much—maybe once a week—but I done a lot of thinking about him. I feels sorrier for him than anybody I knows.I expect he done read more books than any white man in this town.He done read more books and he done worried about more things.He full of books and worrying.He done lost God and turned his back to religion.All his troubles come down just to that.”

Portia was excited. Whenever she got to talking about God—or Willie, her brother, or Highboy, her husband—she got excited.

“Now, I not a big shouter. I belongs to the Presbyterian Church and us don't hold with all this rolling on the floor and talking in tongues.Us don't get sanctified ever week and wallow around together.In our church we sings and lets the preacher do the preaching.And tell you the truth I don't think a little singing and a little preaching would hurt you, Mick.You ought to take your little brother to the Sunday School and also you plenty big enough to sit in church.From the biggity way you been acting lately it seem to me like you already got one toe in the pit.”

“Nuts,”Mick said.

“Now Highboy he were Holiness boy before us were married. He loved to get the spirit ever Sunday and shout and sanctify hisself.But after us were married I got him to join with me, and although it kind of hard to keep him quiet sometime I think he doing right well.”

“I don't believe in God any more than I do Santa Claus,”Mick said.

“You wait a minute!That's why it sometime seem to me you favor my Father more than any person I ever knowed.”

“Me?You say I favor him?”

“I don't mean in the face or in any kind of looks. I was speaking about the shape and color of your souls.”

Bubber sat looking from one to the other. His napkin was tied around his neck and in his hand he still held his empty spoon.“What all does God eat?”he asked.

Mick got up from the table and stood in the doorway, ready to leave. Sometimes it was fun to devil Portia.She started on the same tune and said the same thing over and over—like that was all she knew.

“Folks like you and my Father who don't attend the church can't never have nair peace at all. Now take me here—I believe and I haves peace.And Bubber, he haves his peace too.And my Highboy and my Willie likewise.And it seem to me just from looking at him this here Mr.Singer haves peace too.I done felt that the first time I seen him.”

“Have it your own way,”Mick said.“You're crazier than any father of yours could ever be.”

“But you haven't never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide.But just the same I knows you.This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied.You going to traipse all around like you haves to find something lost.You going to work yourself up with excitement Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don't love and don't have peace.And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined.Won't nothing help you then.”

“What, Portia?”Bubber asked.“What kind of things does He eat?”

Mick laughed and stamped out of the room.

She did roam around the house during the afternoon because she could not get settled. Some days were just like that.For one thing the thought of the violin kept worrying her.She could never have made it like a real one—and after all those weeks of planning the very thought of it made her sick.But how could she have been so sure the idea would work?So dumb?Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them.

Mick did not want to go back into the rooms where the family stayed. And she did not want to have to talk to any of the boarders.No place was left but the street—and there the sun was too burning hot.She wandered aimlessly up and down the hall and kept pushing back her rumpled hair with the palm of her hand.“Hell,”she said aloud to herself.“Next to a real piano I sure would rather have some place to myself than anything I know.”

That Portia had a certain kind of niggery craziness, but she was O. K.She never would do anything mean to Bubber or Ralph on the sly like some colored girls.But Portia had said that she never loved anybody.Mick stopped walking and stood very still, rubbing her fist on the top of her head.What would Portia think if she really knew?Just what would she think?

She had always kept things to herself. That was one sure truth.

Mick went slowly up the stairs. She passed the first landing and went on to the second.Some of the doors were open to make a draught and there were many sounds in the house.Mick stopped on the last flight of stairs and sat down.If Miss Brown turned on her radio she could hear the music.Maybe some good program would come on.

She put her head on her knees and tied knots in the strings of her tennis shoes. What would Portia say if she knew that always there had been one person after another?And every time it was like some part of her would bust in a hundred pieces.

But she had always kept it to herself and no person had ever known.

Mick sat on the steps a long time. Miss Brown did not turn on her radio and there was nothing but the noises that people made.She thought a long time and kept hitting her thighs with her fists.Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight.The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that.I want—I want—I want—was all that she could think about—but just what this real want was she did not know.

After about an hour there was the sound of a doorknob being turned on the landing above. Mick looked up quickly and it was Mister Singer.He stood in the hall for a few minutes and his face was sad and calm.Then he went across to the bathroom.His company did not come out with him.From where she was sitting she could see part of the room, and the company was asleep on the bed with a sheet pulled over him.She waited for Mister Singer to come out of the bathroom.Her cheeks were very hot and she felt them with her hands.Maybe it was true that she came up on these top steps sometimes so she could see Mister Singer while she was listening to Miss Brown's radio on the floor below.She wondered what kind of music he heard in his mind that his ears couldn't hear.Nobody knew.And what kind of things he would say if he could talk.Nobody knew that either.

Mick waited, and after a while he came out into the hall again. She hoped he would look down and smile at her.And then when he got to his door he did glance down and nod his head.Mick's grin was wide and trembling.He went into his room and shut the door.It might have been he meant to invite her in to see him.Mick wanted suddenly to go into his room.Sometime soon when he didn't have company she would really go in and see Mister Singer.She really would do that.

The hot afternoon passed slowly and Mick still sat on the steps by herself. The fellow Motsart's music was in her mind again.It was funny, but Mister Singer reminded her of this music.She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud.Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram full of people.It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house.Mick tried to think of some good private place where she could go and be by herself and study about this music.But though she thought about this a long time she knew in the beginning that there was no good place.

盡管前一晚米克在外面混到很晚才回家,但還是早早被太陽叫醒了。天氣太熱了,早餐時連咖啡都不想喝,她往冰水里加了糖漿,又吃了些涼餅干。她在廚房瞎轉(zhuǎn)悠了一會兒,然后走到前面的門廊,去看報紙上的幽默漫畫。她本以為辛格先生會像以往的周日早晨那樣,也在門廊上看報紙,但他并不在那里。后來,她爸爸說,辛格先生昨晚回來得非常晚,他的房間里有客人。她等了辛格先生好一會兒。所有房客都下來了,唯獨(dú)不見他。最后,她回到廚房,把拉爾夫從他的高腳椅中抱出來,給他換上干凈衣服,擦凈他的臉。等巴伯從主日學(xué)?;貋頃r,她已經(jīng)準(zhǔn)備停當(dāng),要帶孩子們出門了。她讓巴伯跟拉爾夫一起坐進(jìn)手推車,因?yàn)榘筒庵_,外面熾熱的人行道會燙傷他的腳。她拖著手推車走了大約八個街區(qū),終于來到一幢正在建的高大新房子前面。梯子仍舊搭靠在屋檐的一邊,她鼓足勇氣,開始向上爬去。

“你看著拉爾夫。”她回頭朝巴伯喊道,“別讓蟲子落在他的眼皮上。”

五分鐘后,米克站起來,挺直身子。她展開雙臂,像翅膀一樣。這個地方,人人都想站上來。站在最頂端。然而,并沒有多少孩子可以做得到。大多數(shù)孩子會害怕,萬一失手,滾落下去,就摔慘了。周圍有各種房頂,還有郁郁蔥蔥的樹冠。小鎮(zhèn)的另一邊,有教堂的尖頂,還有工廠的大煙囪。天空蔚藍(lán),天氣火燒火燎般熱。陽光下,地上的一切要么白得晃眼,要么漆黑一片。

她想唱歌。她會唱的那些歌都一股腦兒涌到她的喉嚨處,卻沒發(fā)出聲。上個星期,有個大男孩爬到了屋頂最高的地方,大喊一聲,便開始大聲發(fā)表在高中學(xué)過的一篇演說——“各位朋友,各位羅馬人,各位同胞,請你們聽我說!”[4]爬到最高處,會讓你有一種狂野的感覺,讓你想要大喊、唱歌,或者抬起胳膊飛起來。

她覺得網(wǎng)球鞋的鞋底有點(diǎn)打滑,便小心翼翼地蹲下來,跨坐在屋頂上。這幢房子基本完工了,它將是附近最大的建筑物之一——兩層樓,天花板很高,屋頂則是她見過最陡峭的。這幢房子很快就會建完,到時候木匠們就會離開,孩子們只能去別的地方玩耍了。

她獨(dú)自一人。周圍空無一人,很安靜,她可以好好思考一會兒。她從短褲口袋里掏出昨晚買的那包煙。她緩緩吸著煙。香煙讓她有種醉醺醺的感覺,以至于她的腦袋沉甸甸地耷拉在肩膀上,但她必須得把煙抽完。

M. K.[5]——等到十七歲出名時,她會把這兩個字母寫在所有東西上面。到時候,她會開一輛紅白相間的帕卡德汽車回家,她家的門上都要刻上她名字的首字母。她的手絹和內(nèi)衣上也要用紅色字體寫上M.K.。也許,她會成為一名偉大的發(fā)明家,她要發(fā)明一種很小的收音機(jī),像一枚綠豆那么大,人們可以隨身攜帶,塞到耳朵里聽。她還要發(fā)明飛行器,人們可以像背背包那樣把這種飛行器背在身后,然后嗖的一下就可以去往世界各地了。之后,她還將領(lǐng)先世界,挖一條巨大的隧道,穿過地球,一直通到中國去,人們可以乘坐巨大的氣球順著隧道下去。這些都是她首先要發(fā)明的東西,都已經(jīng)計劃好了。

米克香煙抽到一半時就捻滅了,并把煙蒂順著屋頂斜坡彈了下去。然后,她向前俯下身子,頭放在兩只胳膊上,自顧自地哼起歌來。

這真是一件很有意思的事情——但自始至終,她的腦海深處都會回蕩著某支鋼琴曲或別的音樂。無論她做什么,想什么,音樂一直都在那里。寄宿在他們家的布朗小姐,房間里有臺收音機(jī)。去年冬天,每個周日下午,她都會坐在臺階上聽著收音機(jī)里的節(jié)目。那些曲子也許都是古典音樂,她卻記得最清楚。特別是某個人的音樂,她每次聽見,心都會揪成一團(tuán)。有時候,這個人的音樂就像一塊塊彩色的小水晶糖;有時候,則是她能想象得到的最柔軟、最悲傷的東西。

突然傳來哭聲。米克坐直身子,仔細(xì)聽著。風(fēng)拂過她前額的劉海兒,明晃晃的太陽讓她臉色發(fā)白,臉上濕乎乎的??蘼曔€在繼續(xù),米克手腳并用,慢慢沿著屋脊向前挪動。當(dāng)她挪到屋頂?shù)谋M頭時,便俯身向前,趴在屋脊上,把頭探出邊緣,這樣就可以看見地面了。

孩子們還在原地。巴伯正蹲在地上看什么東西,旁邊投下一個矮小的黑影。拉爾夫依舊被系在手推車上,他還太小,只能勉強(qiáng)坐起身來。他抓著車子兩邊,帽子歪戴在頭上,正在大哭。

“巴伯!”米克朝下面大喊,“看看拉爾夫想要什么,趕緊給他。”

巴伯站起來,認(rèn)真看了看嬰兒的臉。“他什么也不要。”

“好吧,那就好好搖搖他。”

米克又爬回剛才坐著的地方。她想認(rèn)真思考一下兩三個人的事,想一個人唱會兒歌,想制訂計劃。然而,拉爾夫一直在大聲號哭,使她片刻不得安寧。

她大著膽子朝架在屋檐邊緣的梯子爬過去。斜坡非常陡峭,只釘了幾塊木板,中間縫隙很大,是工人們當(dāng)腳手架用的。她有點(diǎn)眩暈,心跳得厲害,身子有些哆嗦了。她命令式地大聲自言自語:“用手緊緊抓住這里,慢慢向下滑動,等右腳踩住了,使勁踩穩(wěn),再往左擺過去。鼓起勇氣,米克,你得勇敢點(diǎn)。”

無論任何攀爬,下來總是最難。她花了很長時間才踩到梯子,又感到安全了。等終于踩到地面,她感覺自己變得矮小了,有那么一會兒兩條腿似乎就要癱軟下去。她提提短褲,把腰帶緊了一個扣。拉爾夫還在哭,她卻沒在意這哭聲,走進(jìn)了這幢空蕩蕩的新房子。

上個月,他們在房子前面掛了個牌子,禁止孩子們到這個地方來。有天晚上,一群孩子在房子里扭打,有個女孩晚上看不清,跑進(jìn)一個房間里。沒想到,里面的地板還沒有修好,女孩掉了下去,摔斷了腿,現(xiàn)在還打著石膏躺在醫(yī)院里。還有一次,幾個粗野的男孩在一面墻上撒滿了尿,還寫了一些非常難聽的下流話。然而,無論掛多少塊“禁止入內(nèi)”的牌子,他們都沒辦法把孩子們趕走,除非等到房子粉刷完畢,有人住進(jìn)來為止。

屋子里散發(fā)著新鮮木頭的味道,她走動的時候,網(wǎng)球鞋的鞋跟發(fā)出“撲通撲通”的聲音,回蕩在整個房子里。空氣又熱又安靜。她在前廳中央靜靜地站了一會兒,然后,突然想到了什么。她把手伸進(jìn)口袋去摸,掏出兩支粉筆頭——一支綠色,一支紅色。

米克慢慢地畫著大寫字母。最上面,她寫下“愛迪生”,下面又寫下兩個名字:“迪克·特雷西”[6]和“墨索里尼”。然后,在四個角落,她把字母寫到最大,寫下了自己姓名的首字母——M.K.,用綠色粉筆寫的字,用紅色粉筆勾邊。寫完后,她走到對面墻壁跟前,寫下一個特別不雅的詞——“陰部”,下面也寫上了自己姓名的首字母。

她站在空蕩蕩的屋子中央,凝視著自己的大作。她的手里依然握著粉筆,覺得不太滿意。她努力去想那個家伙叫什么名字,去年冬天,她從收音機(jī)里聽到了他的音樂。關(guān)于這個人,她向?qū)W校里的一個女孩打聽過,這個女孩家里有鋼琴,而且上過關(guān)于他的音樂課。后來,這個女孩又去問自己的老師。這個人似乎只是個孩子而已,很久以前生活在歐洲的某個國家。但他即便只是個孩子,卻為鋼琴、小提琴、樂隊(duì)或交響樂團(tuán)寫出了這些如此美妙的音樂作品。在她的印象里,她記得他寫的六首不同的曲子。有幾首快而清脆,另一首則像春天雨后的那種味道。但是,所有這些曲子都讓她感到既悲傷又興奮。

她哼起其中一支曲子,過了一會兒,獨(dú)自站在這幢空蕩蕩、熱乎乎的房子里,她感到眼淚流了下來。她的喉嚨發(fā)緊,聲音沙啞,再也唱不下去了。她飛快地把這個人的名字寫在那些名字的最上方——“莫扎特”。

拉爾夫依然被系在手推車?yán)铮x開時一模一樣。他安靜地坐起身子,一動不動,胖胖的小手緊緊抓著車子兩邊。拉爾夫留著方正的黑色劉海兒,眼睛也是黑色的,簡直像個中國娃娃。陽光照在他的臉上,這就是他剛才一直大哭的原因。巴伯不見了蹤影。拉爾夫見米克來了,又扯著嗓子大哭起來。她把車子推到新房旁邊的陰涼處,又從襯衫口袋里掏出一顆藍(lán)色的軟心糖豆,塞進(jìn)嬰兒溫暖、柔軟的嘴巴里。

“消停一會兒吧。”她對拉爾夫說。其實(shí)這有點(diǎn)浪費(fèi),拉爾夫太小了,根本嘗不出糖果的真正美味。給他一塊干凈的石頭,效果是一樣的,只不過這個小傻瓜會吞掉它。他不懂得品嘗味道,也不懂得說話。如果你跟他說,你受夠了,不想再拖著他到處走,很想把他扔到河里,對他來說,這話跟“你一直很愛他”沒什么區(qū)別。沒有什么東西會影響到他。正是因?yàn)檫@個原因,拖著他到處走真的很無聊。

米克把兩只手捧在一起,緊緊合攏,使勁從大拇指的縫隙里吹氣。她的兩腮鼓起來,開始時只有氣息穿過拳頭的聲音,接著響起了高亢尖厲的口哨聲。過了一會兒,巴伯從房子的一角走了出來。

她撥拉掉巴伯頭發(fā)上的鋸末,又把拉爾夫的帽子戴正。這頂帽子是拉爾夫身上最好的東西了。帽子是蕾絲做的,繡滿了花,拉爾夫下巴底下的緞帶,一邊是藍(lán)色,一邊是白色,耳朵兩邊有大大的玫瑰花結(jié)。這頂帽子戴在拉爾夫的腦袋上已經(jīng)有點(diǎn)小了,刺繡的部分也扯破了,但她帶拉爾夫出來時,總會給他戴這頂帽子。拉爾夫不像別人家的孩子那樣,他沒有真正的童車,也沒有夏天穿的毛線鞋,她只能用在三年前的圣誕節(jié)得到的一輛做工粗糙的舊手推車,帶著拉爾夫到處轉(zhuǎn)。但這頂上好的帽子,給他長了臉。

由于是星期天,臨近正午,天氣又炎熱,街上空無一人。手推車吱吱嘎嘎,發(fā)出刺耳的聲音。巴伯光著腳,人行道很熱,燙得他腳疼。郁郁蔥蔥的橡樹在地上投下陰影,看著就涼爽,但樹蔭實(shí)在太少了。

“坐到車?yán)飦戆伞?rdquo;她跟巴伯說,“讓拉爾夫坐在你腿上。”

“我可以走。”

漫長的夏季總是讓巴伯犯腹絞痛。他打著赤膊,肋骨突出,身上很白。陽光照得他臉色蒼白,不再是棕褐色,小奶頭就像胸脯上的兩粒葡萄干一樣。

“我拖著你,沒關(guān)系。”米克說,“快,上來吧。”

“好吧。”

米克拖著車子慢悠悠地走著,并不急著回家。她開始跟孩子們說話,但那些話不像是說給他們聽的,更像是自言自語。

“這真是件很有趣的事——最近我老做那些夢。好像我在游泳,但不是在水里游,我伸出胳膊去,在一群人里游泳。那群人比星期六下午克雷斯家商店里的人還要多上一百倍,是世界上人數(shù)最多的人群。有時候,我一邊大喊,一邊在人群里游,不管游到哪兒,都會把他們撞倒在地——還有時候,我躺在地上,人們紛紛從我身上踩踏過去,我的內(nèi)臟流出來,淌到人行道上。我覺得這不是一個普通的夢,更像是個噩夢。”

一到星期天,家里就到處都是人,因?yàn)榉靠蛡兌加性L客。有翻報紙的,有抽煙的,樓梯上總有人來來往往。

“有些事情你很自然地想要保密,倒不是因?yàn)檫@些事情不好,而是因?yàn)槟憔拖氡C?。有兩三件事,連你們我都不會告訴。”

到了街角,巴伯從手推車上下來,幫著米克把車子抬下馬路,然后又抬上另一條人行道。

“有一樣?xùn)|西,為它我愿意放棄一切。那就是一架鋼琴。如果我們有架鋼琴,我會每天晚上都彈,然后學(xué)會世界上所有的曲子。這是我最想要的東西。”

他們走到自己家所在的街區(qū),再過幾戶人家,就到家了。他們家的房子是整個小鎮(zhèn)北部最大的房子之一,有三層,但家里住了十四口人。真正有血緣關(guān)系的凱利家族并沒有那么多人——但這些人吃在這里,睡在這里,每人交五塊錢,完全可以把他們計算在內(nèi)。辛格先生不算在內(nèi),因?yàn)樗皇亲饬艘粋€房間,自己收拾得干干凈凈。

房子很狹窄,好多年沒有粉刷,似乎不太結(jié)實(shí),難以承受三層樓的高度,屋子的一側(cè)已經(jīng)有些下沉了。

米克解開拉爾夫,把他從手推車?yán)锉Я顺鰜?。她飛速穿過走廊,用余光看見起居室里擠滿了房客。她爸爸也在那里。她媽媽應(yīng)該在廚房。這些人在這里閑蕩,等著開飯。

他們一家住了三個房間,她走進(jìn)第一個房間,把拉爾夫放在爸爸媽媽睡覺的床上,給了他一串珠子玩耍。隔壁房間關(guān)著的門后傳來說話聲,她決定進(jìn)去看看。

黑茲爾和埃特看見她,立刻住了嘴。埃特正坐在窗前的椅子上,用紅色指甲油染腳指甲。她的頭發(fā)用鐵發(fā)卷卷了起來,下巴上有一小塊地方涂著一點(diǎn)白色的面霜,那里冒出來一個粉刺。黑茲爾像往常一樣,懶洋洋地癱在床上。

“你們一直在聊什么?”

“關(guān)你什么事。”埃特說,“閉上嘴,趕緊走開。”

“這是你們的房間,也是我的房間。我跟你們一樣,有權(quán)待在這里。”米克趾高氣揚(yáng)地從一個角落走到另一個角落,在房間里走了個遍,“但是我不想找碴打架,我只想要求自己的權(quán)利。”

米克用手掌把蓬亂的劉海兒攏到后面。她經(jīng)常這樣干,以至于額頭上蓬亂的鬈發(fā)都一綹綹地翹了起來。她動動鼻子,沖著鏡子做了個鬼臉,然后又開始繞著屋子轉(zhuǎn)悠。

黑茲爾和埃特作為姐姐,倒還說得過去。但埃特是個很不安分的女孩。她滿腦子想的都是電影明星,或者演電影。有一次,她給珍妮特·麥克唐納寫信,還收到了一封打字機(jī)打的回信,信上說,如果她去好萊塢,可以順便到她家游泳池去游泳。從此以后,游泳池便一直折磨著埃特的心。她一心想著,等她攢夠車票錢就去好萊塢,找份秘書的工作,跟珍妮特·麥克唐納成為閨密,然后自己也去演電影。

她整天對著鏡子精心打扮,而這是最糟糕的地方。埃特并不像黑茲爾那樣天生麗質(zhì)。關(guān)鍵是,她的下巴很短。她經(jīng)常用手拽下巴,做很多鍛煉下巴的練習(xí),這些都是她在一本電影手冊里學(xué)到的。她經(jīng)常對著鏡子看自己的側(cè)臉,努力用嘴巴擺出一個特定姿勢。然而,這一切都毫無用處。有時,埃特會為此在晚上雙手捂著臉大哭。

黑茲爾則太懶。她長得很好看,但腦子不開竅。她十八歲了,除了比爾,她是家里最大的孩子。也許,這就是問題所在。無論什么東西,她總是最先得到,而且是最大份——新衣服是頭份的,任何好東西她拿的也最多。黑茲爾從來無須爭搶,她很溫柔。

“你準(zhǔn)備在這里走一整天嗎?看你穿的這身男生衣服,傻乎乎的,就讓我惡心。得有人管管你了,米克·凱利,教你點(diǎn)規(guī)矩。”埃特說。

“閉嘴。”米克說,“我穿短褲,是因?yàn)槲也幌氪┠闶O碌哪切┡f衣服。我不想跟你倆一樣,也不想穿得跟你倆一樣,我就是不愿意,所以我穿短褲。我隨時都想當(dāng)個男孩,真希望可以搬去跟比爾一起住。”

米克爬進(jìn)床底下,拿出一個大帽盒。她抱著盒子向門口走去,那兩人在她背后大喊:“終于擺脫了!”

比爾的房間是家里最好的。他的房間像個小窩一樣——他一個人獨(dú)享——巴伯除外。比爾在墻上釘滿了從雜志上剪下來的照片,大都是美女的臉部特寫。在另外一角,掛著米克去年上免費(fèi)美術(shù)班時畫的一些畫。房間里只有一張床和一張書桌。

比爾正躬身趴在桌子上,看《大眾機(jī)械》雜志。她走到他身后,摟住他的肩膀。“嗨,你這個王八蛋。”

他沒有像往常那樣跟她扭成一團(tuán)。“嗨。”他說,微微晃了晃肩膀。

“我在這里待一會兒,會打擾你嗎?”

“當(dāng)然可以——你想待就待,沒關(guān)系。”

米克跪在地上,解開大帽盒上的繩子。她的雙手停在盒蓋邊上,不知道為什么,拿不準(zhǔn)是否要打開蓋子。

“我一直在想自己在這件事上所做的一切,”她說,“可能行,也可能不行。”

比爾繼續(xù)看雜志。她仍舊跪在盒子旁邊,卻沒有打開它。她的眼睛游移到比爾身上,他背對她坐著。他看書時,一只大腳總踩在另一只腳上,鞋子都磨壞了。有一次,他們的爸爸說,比爾吃的所有午飯都長到了腳上,早飯長到了一只耳朵上,晚飯長到了另一只耳朵上。這么說有點(diǎn)刻薄,整整一個月,比爾心里都不痛快,但這話說得又很有意思。比爾的耳朵向外支棱著,非常紅。雖然他才剛剛高中畢業(yè),卻已經(jīng)穿十三碼的鞋子了。他站起來時,一只腳總是躲到后面蹭另一只腳,想以此藏起自己的腳,卻往往欲蓋彌彰。

米克把盒子打開幾英寸的縫,立刻又蓋上了。她實(shí)在太興奮了,沒法當(dāng)下就查看里面的東西。她站起來繞著屋子走來走去,最后才稍微平靜一些。過了一會兒,她站在她在免費(fèi)美術(shù)班上畫的那幅畫前面,這個課程是去年冬天,政府為學(xué)校孩子們開設(shè)的。這幅畫里畫的是海上的風(fēng)暴,還有一只在狂風(fēng)中猛沖的海鷗,畫的名字叫作“暴風(fēng)雨中斷背的海鷗”。在頭兩三次課上,老師講的是大海,因此,一開始大家畫的幾乎都是大海。然而,大部分孩子和她一樣,從未親眼見過真正的大海。

這是她畫的第一幅畫,比爾把它釘在了墻上。她畫的其他畫,里面滿滿的都是人。起初,她還畫過一些海上風(fēng)暴的畫——有一張畫的是一架正在墜落的飛機(jī),人們紛紛跳機(jī)逃命;另一張畫的是一艘橫渡大西洋的輪船正在沉沒,所有人都爭搶著往一條小救生船上擠。

米克走到比爾房間的壁櫥跟前,拿出她在美術(shù)班上畫的另外一些畫——有些是鉛筆畫,有些是水彩畫,還有一張油畫,這些畫里都畫滿了人。她想象著百老匯大街發(fā)生了嚴(yán)重火災(zāi),然后就按照想象的樣子畫了出來?;鹧媸敲髁恋木G色和橙色,大火燒得大街上只剩下布蘭農(nóng)先生的餐館,還有第一國家銀行。街上躺滿了死尸,還有些人在奔跑著逃命。有個男人穿著睡衣,有個女人拼命想扛走一串香蕉。另一幅畫叫作“工廠鍋爐爆炸”,里面的人紛紛跳出窗戶逃命,而一群身穿工裝的孩子則擠在一起站在那里,手里端著飯盒,他們是來給爸爸送飯的。有幅油畫畫的是全鎮(zhèn)的人都在百老匯大街打架。她也不知道為什么要畫這幅畫,也想不出該給它取個什么名字才合適。這幅畫里沒有大火,沒有暴風(fēng)雨,也看不出這群人為什么要打架。但比起其他的畫,這幅畫里的人更多,人們的動作也更多。這是她畫得最好的一幅畫,很可惜她沒能想出一個好名字。但在她的內(nèi)心深處,她知道該叫什么名字。

米克把畫放回壁櫥架子上。這些畫現(xiàn)在看來都不怎么樣。畫里的人沒有手指頭,有些人的胳膊畫得比腿還長。但美術(shù)課很有意思。她只不過把腦海里的畫下來而已,沒有任何緣由——在她心里,畫畫帶給她的感受根本無法與音樂帶給她的相提并論。什么都比不上音樂那么美好。

米克跪在地上,快速掀開大帽盒的蓋子。里面是一把裂了的尤克里里琴,安著兩根小提琴琴弦、一根吉他琴弦、一根班卓琴弦。琴背面的裂縫已經(jīng)用膠布小心粘好,琴中間的圓孔蓋上了一片木頭,一端的小提琴琴馬撐起琴弦,兩側(cè)刻著幾個音孔。米克正在為自己做一把小提琴。她把琴放在腿上,覺得之前從來沒有好好看過它。前一陣子,她用煙盒和皮筋給巴伯做了一把玩具曼陀林,這讓她有了做琴這個想法。從那之后,她就四處搜尋不同的部件,每天都做一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)。在她看來,她已經(jīng)傾盡全力,就差把自己的腦袋也用上了。

“比爾,這跟我見過的真正的小提琴不一樣。”

他還在看雜志。“是嗎?”

“看上去就是不對頭,就是不——”

那天,她原打算緊緊琴栓,調(diào)調(diào)音,但她突然意識到,自己這把琴做得不怎么樣,連看都懶得看。她一根根地?fù)芘傧遥傧野l(fā)出空洞微弱的砰砰聲。

“我怎樣才能搞到一把琴弓呢?你肯定琴弓只能用馬尾巴毛來做嗎?”

“是的。”比爾有些不耐煩地說。

“用細(xì)鐵絲或者人的頭發(fā)拴在軟棍上不行嗎?”

比爾搓著兩只腳,沒答話。

憤怒讓她的額頭冒出豆大的汗珠,她的聲音都嘶啞了。“這連一把糟糕的小提琴都算不上,只是曼陀林和尤克里里琴的雜交品,我恨它們,我恨它們——”

比爾轉(zhuǎn)過身來。

“一切都不對頭,根本不行,根本沒用——”

“冷靜點(diǎn),”比爾說,“你還要繼續(xù)做手里的這把破尤克里里琴嗎?我一開始就該告訴你,你覺得自己能夠做出一把小提琴,簡直是瘋了。這種東西不是你坐著就能做出來的——你得買才行。我覺得所有人都明白這個道理,但我想,讓你自己明白這個道理也無妨。”

有時候,比爾比這個世界上的任何人都可惡,他跟以前完全不一樣了。她猛地把小提琴摔到地上,一通猛踩,但接著,又把琴草草收進(jìn)帽盒里。她眼里的淚水滾燙。她踢了一腳帽盒,看都沒看比爾,便跑出了房間。

她躲閃著穿過走廊到后院去,這時撞上了媽媽。

“你怎么了?碰上了什么事了?”

米克想要掙脫開,但媽媽抓住她的胳膊不放。她難過地用手背抹掉臉上的淚。媽媽一直在廚房里待著,這會兒戴著圍裙,腳上是一雙便鞋。她跟平時一樣,似乎心事重重,沒有時間再問米克問題。

“杰克遜先生今天和他的兩個姐姐來吃飯,椅子不夠了,你和巴伯到廚房吃吧。”

“這對我來說再好不過了。”米克說。

媽媽松開她,去脫圍裙。餐廳里傳來開飯的鈴聲,并猛然響起愉快的談話聲。她聽見爸爸說,由于沒有續(xù)交意外保險,他損失了很多錢,最后還把髖骨摔壞了。這件事總讓她爸爸無法放下——他本來可以賺到錢的,卻沒有。碗碟碰撞發(fā)出叮當(dāng)聲,過了一會兒,談話聲停止了。

米克靠在樓梯的欄桿上。她先是打嗝,然后突然哭出聲來。她回顧過去的一個月,覺得在心里似乎從未真正相信過那把小提琴能用。但在她心里,她一直讓自己相信這一點(diǎn),即便現(xiàn)在,也很難有一絲懷疑。她累壞了。比爾現(xiàn)在無論在什么事上,都不會幫她了。以前,她認(rèn)為比爾是世界上最偉大的人。以前,無論他去哪里,她總是跟在后頭——到樹林里釣魚,到他和別的男孩一塊建起來的俱樂部,到布蘭農(nóng)先生餐館后面的老虎機(jī)那里——無論哪里。也許,他不是故意這樣讓她失望的,但無論如何,他們再也做不成朋友了。

走廊里彌漫著香煙和周日午餐的味道。米克深吸一口氣,走回廚房。午飯的味道很香,她餓了。她聽到波西婭跟巴伯說話的聲音,她好像在哼著歌或者在給他講故事。

“這就是為什么我要比大多數(shù)黑人女孩幸運(yùn)的原因。”當(dāng)她打開門時,聽見波西婭這樣說道。

“為什么?”米克問。

波西婭和巴伯正坐在廚房餐桌旁吃飯。波西婭穿著一條綠色印花裙,在深棕膚色的映襯下顯得非常清涼。她戴著綠色耳環(huán),頭發(fā)梳得緊致光滑。

“你總是在別人說到最后的時候才闖進(jìn)來,又想知道來龍去脈。”波西婭說。她站起來,走到火熱的爐子邊,把飯菜盛到米克的盤子里。

“我和巴伯正在說我外公在老薩迪斯路上的房子。我告訴巴伯,我外公和舅舅們擁有整個那片地方,足足有十五英畝半。他們總是用四英畝種棉花,有些年份又種豌豆,這樣才能使土壤保持肥沃。山上有一英畝地,專門種桃子。他們有頭騾子,一頭育種母豬,還一直養(yǎng)著二十到二十五只蛋雞和小雞崽。他們有塊菜地、兩棵山核桃樹,很多無花果樹、李子樹和漿果樹。這都是真的。沒有多少白人建的農(nóng)場能像我外公這樣,把土地收拾得那么好。”

米克把胳膊肘支在桌上,向盤子傾過身去。除了談?wù)撍恼煞蚝偷艿?,波西婭經(jīng)常談?wù)摰木褪寝r(nóng)場了。聽她講農(nóng)場的事情,會讓你覺得黑人的農(nóng)場簡直就是“白宮”。

“外公家一開始只有一間小房子。那么多年來,他們一直在建房子,最后,房子大得足夠我外公、他的四個兒子和他們的老婆孩子住,還能裝下我弟弟漢密爾頓。他們的客廳里有一架真正的管風(fēng)琴,還有一臺留聲機(jī)。墻上掛著外公的大照片,是他穿著社團(tuán)制服照的。他們把所有水果和蔬菜都做成罐頭,到了冬天,不管多冷,也不管下多少雨,他們都有充足的東西吃。”

“那你為什么不跟他們一起住???”米克問道。

波西婭停下手里正在削土豆的活兒,邊用修長的棕色手指敲著桌子邊說:“是這樣的,你瞧——每個人都為自己的家人建了房子。這些年,他們干得很辛苦。當(dāng)然了,所有人都不容易。但你瞧——我小時候跟外公一起生活,但從那以后我在那兒就沒干過活兒。不過無論什么時候,如果我和威利、海博埃碰到了麻煩,我們隨時都可以回去。”

“你父親難道沒建房子嗎?”

波西婭停止了咀嚼。“誰父親?你是說我父親?”

“當(dāng)然了。”米克說。

“你很清楚,我父親是個黑人醫(yī)生,就在這個鎮(zhèn)上。”

米克以前聽波西婭說過,但她以為這只是個故事而已。一個黑人怎么能當(dāng)醫(yī)生呢?

“事情是這樣的。在我媽媽嫁給我爸爸之前,她除了真正的善良之外,一無所知。我外公自己也是個‘善良先生’。但我爸爸跟他全然不一樣,兩者之間的差距就像白天和黑夜一樣。”

“殘酷?”米克問道。

“不,他不是個殘酷的人,”波西婭緩緩說道,“只是出了些問題。我父親不喜歡其他黑人,這個很難解釋清楚。我父親總是一個人學(xué)習(xí)。很久以前,他就建立了關(guān)于一個家庭應(yīng)該是怎樣的想法。家里的事情,事無巨細(xì),都由他一個人說了算。晚上,他還要給孩子們上課。”

“我覺得,這不算糟糕。”米克說。

“聽著。大多數(shù)時候他很安靜,但有些晚上他會大發(fā)脾氣,他生氣的樣子比我見過的任何人都兇。認(rèn)識我父親的人都說,他簡直瘋了。他做過很多粗魯、瘋狂的事情,我媽媽離開了他。那時我才十歲。我媽媽把我們這些孩子都帶到了外公的農(nóng)場,我們是在那里長大的。我爸爸一直想讓我們回來,但即便我媽媽死了,我們都沒回家住?,F(xiàn)在,我父親一個人過。”

米克走到火爐邊,又盛了一盤飯菜。波西婭的聲音起起伏伏,像唱歌似的,現(xiàn)在什么也擋不住她說話了。

“我很少去見父親——也許每周見一次——但我一直想著他。他最讓我難過。我覺得他比鎮(zhèn)上任何一個白人讀的書都多。他讀了很多書,對很多事情都很操心。他滿腦子都是書,都是憂慮。他失去了上帝,背棄了信仰,因此才有了這么多煩惱。”

波西婭很興奮。無論什么時候,只要說到上帝——或者她弟弟威利、她丈夫海博埃——她都變得很興奮。

“喏,我可不是什么呼喊派,我是基督教長老會教徒,我們不喜歡集會時在地上打滾,或者胡言亂語。我們不用每個星期都去接受凈化或者一起四處游蕩。在教堂里,我們一起唱歌,聽牧師布道。跟你說實(shí)話,米克,我覺得唱唱歌、聽聽布道沒有壞處。你該帶你的小弟弟去主日學(xué)校,而且你也大了,可以去教堂。你最近趾高氣揚(yáng)的樣子,讓我覺得你好像有一只腳已經(jīng)邁進(jìn)火坑里了。”

“胡說。”米克說。

“我們結(jié)婚前,海博埃就是個虔誠的孩子。每個周日,他都喜歡去接近圣靈,喊一喊,凈化自己。結(jié)婚后,我讓他跟我一起,盡管有時候很難讓他安靜下來,但我覺得他已經(jīng)做得很好了。”

“我既不信圣誕老人,也不信上帝。”米克說。

“等等!這就是為什么有時候我覺得,你比我認(rèn)識的任何一個人更像我父親。”

“我?你說我像你父親?”

“我不是說臉或者長相,我是說你們心靈的樣子和顏色。”

巴伯坐在那里,看看這個,又看看那個。他的脖子上系著餐巾,手里仍然拿著空勺子。“上帝都吃什么呀?”他問。

米克從桌前起身,站到門口,準(zhǔn)備離開。有時候,折磨波西婭很有意思。她總是用同樣的語調(diào)開始說,說的又總是同樣的話——好像她只知道這些似的。

“像你和我父親這樣的人,不去教堂,就永遠(yuǎn)不會得到安寧。就拿我來說吧——我相信上帝,得到了安寧。還有巴伯,他也得到了安寧。我的海博埃,我的威利,他們也是一樣。單從表面上看,我覺得辛格先生也得到了安寧。第一次見他,我就有這種感覺。”

“隨你怎么說,”米克說,“你比你的父親還要瘋狂。”

“但你從來沒有愛過上帝,或者愛過什么人。你像牛皮般強(qiáng)硬又粗糙。從我認(rèn)識你,你就是這個樣子。今天下午,你還要四處亂轉(zhuǎn),永遠(yuǎn)也得不到滿足。你還要四處轉(zhuǎn)悠,就像在找什么丟掉的東西一樣。你會越來越激動,你的心跳會越來越快,讓你承受不了,因?yàn)槟銢]有去愛,也得不到安寧??傆幸惶炷銜幌伦颖罎?,就毀了。到那個時候,什么都幫不了你。”

“什么,波西婭?”巴伯問,“上帝吃什么東西?。?rdquo;

米克大笑起來,噔噔跑出了房間。

下午,她的確在房子周圍亂轉(zhuǎn),因?yàn)樗龥]法安靜下來。有時候她就是這樣。首先,一想到小提琴,就讓她很焦慮,她永遠(yuǎn)沒辦法把它做成一把真正的小提琴了——她苦苦計劃了那么多個星期,一想到這里,她就覺得很難受。但她當(dāng)初為什么那么肯定這個想法會奏效呢?太愚蠢?也許,當(dāng)人們極度渴望一樣?xùn)|西時,但凡有什么事情有可能讓他們實(shí)現(xiàn)這個想法,他們都會深信不疑。

米克不想回到家人住的房間去,也不想跟任何一個房客說話。她無處可去,只能去街上——但街上驕陽似火。她在走廊里漫無目的地來回走著,不斷用手掌把凌亂的頭發(fā)攏到后面。“見鬼,”她大聲地自言自語,“除了一架真正的鋼琴,我最想要的就是一個可以獨(dú)自待著的地方。”

那個波西婭身上有著某種黑人的瘋狂勁兒,但她人還不錯,她不會像有些黑人女孩那樣,背地里對巴伯或拉爾夫做出卑鄙的事情來。但波西婭說,米克從未愛過任何人。米克停下腳步,一動不動地站在那里,用拳頭搓著頭頂。如果波西婭真的知道了,她會怎么想?她究竟會怎么想?

很多事情,她從來不對別人講。這一點(diǎn),毋庸置疑。

米克緩緩爬上樓梯,經(jīng)過第一個平臺,繼續(xù)爬第二截樓梯。有些門為了通風(fēng)而開著,房子里響著各種各樣的聲音。米克停在最后一截樓梯上,坐了下來。布朗小姐如果開了收音機(jī),她就能聽見音樂,也許還會有些好節(jié)目。

她把頭伏在膝蓋上,把網(wǎng)球鞋的鞋帶打了一個結(jié)。如果波西婭知道,她愛過的人一個又一個,她會怎么說?每一次,她身體的一部分都好像要碎裂成千萬片。

但她從來沒告訴過別人,沒有人知道。

米克在臺階上坐了很久。布朗小姐并沒有打開收音機(jī),除了人們的嘈雜聲,再沒有別的聲音了。她思考了很久,不斷用拳頭捶打著大腿,她的臉感覺像裂成了碎片,沒法保持完整了。這種感覺比饑腸轆轆還糟糕,卻又很像是那樣。我想要——我想要——我想要——是她全部的想法——但這種迫切的需求是什么,她卻并不清楚。

大約過了一個小時,上面的平臺傳來轉(zhuǎn)動門把手的聲音。米克迅速抬起頭,是辛格先生。他在走廊里站了一會兒,臉上是一副傷心、平靜的表情。然后,他走過去,進(jìn)了浴室。他的同伴沒有跟他一起出來。從她坐的地方可以看見辛格先生的部分房間,他的同伴還在睡著,身上蓋了一條床單。她等著辛格先生從浴室里出來。她的兩頰非常熱,用手摸著面頰。也許,她有時候到最上面的樓梯來,的確是為了一邊聽樓下布朗小姐的收音機(jī),一邊還可以看見辛格先生。她不知道,他的耳朵聽不見但在心里能聽到什么樣的音樂。沒有人知道。如果他會說話,會說些什么呢?也沒有人知道。

米克等待著,過了一會兒,辛格先生又回到走廊里。她希望他能向下看一眼,沖她笑一笑。他走到門口時,的確朝下掃了一眼,點(diǎn)了點(diǎn)頭。米克咧開嘴笑了,顫抖著。他走進(jìn)屋子,關(guān)上了門。也許,他是想請她進(jìn)屋看看他的。米克突然想走進(jìn)他的房間。等他的同伴走了以后,她真的會很快找個時間到辛格先生的房間里去看看他。她真的會這樣做。

炎熱的下午過得非常緩慢,米克一直獨(dú)自坐在臺階上。莫扎特的音樂又回響在她的腦子里。這很有意思,但正是辛格先生讓她想起了這首曲子。她真的希望能有一個地方,讓她可以大聲地把這首曲子哼出來。有些音樂只能獨(dú)自享受,沒法在擠滿人的房子里唱出來。一個人在一幢人滿為患的房子里,居然可以如此孤獨(dú),這也很有意思。米克努力去想有什么私密的好地方,她可以獨(dú)自待著,好好研究下這首曲子。盡管她想了好久,但從一開始她便知道,根本沒有這樣的好地方。

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