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雙語·心是孤獨(dú)的獵手 第二部分 4

所屬教程:譯林版·心是孤獨(dú)的獵手

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2022年04月29日

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“Who was that?”Jake Blount asked.“Who was the tall, thin colored man that just come out of here?”

The small room was very neat. The sun lighted a bowl of purple grapes on the table.Singer sat with his chair tilted back and his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window.

“I bumped into him on the steps and he gave me this look—why, I never had anybody to look at me so dirty.”

Jake put the sack of ales down on the table. He realized with a shock that Singer did not know he was in the room.He walked over to the window and touched Singer on the shoulder.

“I didn't mean to bump into him. He had no cause to act like that.”

Jake shivered. Although the sun was bright there was a chill in the room.Singer held up his forefinger and went into the hall.When he returned he brought with him a scuttle of coal and some kindling.Jake watched him kneel before the hearth.Neatly he broke the sticks of kindling over his knee and arranged them on the foundation of paper.He put the coal on according to a system.At first the fire would not draw.The flames quivered weakly and were smothered by a black roll of smoke.Singer covered the grate with a double sheet of newspapers.The draught gave the fire new life.In the room there was a roaring sound.The paper glowed and was sucked inward.A crackling orange sheet of flame filled the grate.

The first morning ale had a fine mellow taste. Jake gulped his share down quickly and wiped his mouth with file back of his hand.

“There was this lady I knew a long time ago,”he said.“You sort of remind me of her, Miss Clara. She had a little farm in Texas.And made pralines to sell in the cities.She was a tall, big, fine-looking lady.Wore those long, baggy sweaters and clodhopper shoes and a man's hat.Her husband was dead when I knew her.But what I'm getting at is this:If it hadn't been for her I might never have known.I might have gone on through life like the millions of others who don't know.I would have just been a preacher or a linthead or a salesman.My whole life might have been wasted.”

Jake shook his head wonderingly.

“To understand you got to know what went before. You see, I lived in Gastonia when I was a youngun.I was a knock-kneed little runt, too small to put in the mill.I worked as pin boy in a bowling joint and got meals for pay.Then I heard a smart, quick boy could make thirty cents a day stringing tobacco not very far from there.So I went and made that thirty cents a day.That was when I was ten years old.I just left my folks.I didn't write.They were glad I was gone.You understand how those things are.And besides, nobody could read a letter but my sister.”

He waved his hand in the air as though brushing something from his face.“But I mean this. My first belief was Jesus.There was this fellow working in the same shed with me.He had a tabernacle and preached every night.I went and listened and I got this faith.My mind was on Jesus all day long.In my spare time I studied the Bible and prayed.Then one night I took a hammer and laid my hand on the table.I was angry and I drove the nail all the way through.My hand was nailed to the table and I looked at it and the fingers fluttered and turned blue.”

Jake held out his palm and pointed to the ragged, dead-white scar in the center.

“I wanted to be an evangelist. I meant to travel around the country preaching and holding revivals.In the meantime I moved around from one place to another, and when I was nearly twenty I got to Texas.I worked in a pecan grove near where Miss Clara lived.I got to know her and at night sometimes I would go to her house.She talked to me.Understand, I didn't begin to know all at once.That's not the way it happens to any of us.It was gradual.I began to read.I would work just so I could put aside enough money to knock off for a while and study.It was like being born a second time.Just us who know can understand what it means.We have opened our eyes and have seen.We're like people from way off yonder somewhere.”

Singer agreed with him. The room was comfortable in a homey way.Singer brought out from the closet the tin box in which he kept crackers and fruit and cheese.He selected an orange and peeled it slowly.He pulled off shreds of pith until the fruit was transparent in the sun.He secitioned the orange and divided the plugs between them.Jake ate two sections at a time and with a loud whoosh spat the seeds into the fire.Singer ate his share slowly and deposited his seeds neatly in the palm of one hand.They opened two more ales.

“And how many of us are there in this country?Maybe ten thousand. Maybe twenty thousand.Maybe a lot more.I been to a lot of places but I never met but a few of us.But say a man does know.He sees the world as it is and he looks back thousands of years to see how it all come about.He watches the slow agglutination of capital and power and he sees its pinnacle today.He sees America as a crazy house.He sees how men have to rob their brothers in order to live.He sees children starving and women working sixty hours a week to get to eat.He sees a whole damn army of unemployed and billions of dollars and thousands of miles of land wasted.He sees war coming.He sees how when people suffer just so much they get mean and ugly and something dies in them.But the main thing he sees is that the whole system of the world is built on a lie.And although it's as plain as the shining sun—the don't-knows have lived with that lie so long they just can't see it.”

The red corded vein in Jake's forehead swelled angrily. He grasped the scuttle on the hearth and rattled an avalanche of coal on the fire.His foot had gone to sleep, and he stamped it so hard that the floor shook.

“I been all over this place. I walk around.I talk.I try to explain to them.But what good does it do?Lord God!”

He gazed into the fire, and a flush from the ale and heat deepened the color of his face. The sleepy tingling in his foot spread up his leg.He drowsed and saw the colors of the fire, the tints of green and blue and burning yellow.“You're the only one,”he said dreamily.“The only one.”

He was a stranger no longer. By now he knew every street, every alley, every fence in all the sprawling slums of the town.He still worked at the Sunny Dixie.During the fall the show moved from one vacant lot to another, staying always within the fringes of the city limit, until at last it had encircled the town.The locations were changed but the settings were alike—a strip of wasteland bordered by rows of rotted shacks, and somewhere near a mill, a cotton gin, or a bottling plant.The crowd was the same, for the most part factory workers and Negroes.The show was gaudy with colored lights in the evening.The wooden horses of the flying-jinny revolved in the circle to the mechanical music.The swings whirled, the rail around the penny throwing game was always crowded.From the two booths were sold drinks and bloody brown hamburgers and cotton candy.

He had been hired as a machinist, but gradually the range of his duties widened. His coarse, bawling voice called out through the noise, and continually he was lounging from one place on the show grounds to another.Sweat stood out on his forehead and often his mustache was soaked with beer.On Saturday his job was to keep the people in order.His squat, hard body pushed through the crowd with savage energy.Only his eyes did not share the violence of the rest of him.Wide gazing beneath his massive scowling forehead, they had a withdrawn and distracted appearance.

He reached home between twelve and one in the morning. The house where he lived was squared into four rooms and the rent was a dollar fifty per person.There was a privy in the back and a hydrant on the stoop.In his room the walls and floor had a wet, sour smell.Sooty, cheap lace curtains hung at the window.He kept his good suit in his bag and hung his overalls on a nail.The room had no heat and no electricity.However, a street light shone outside the window and made a pale greenish reflection inside.He never lighted the oil lamp by his bed unless he wanted to read.The acrid smell of burning oil in the cold room nauseated him.

If he stayed at home he restlessly walked the floor. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed and gnawed savagely at the broken, dirty ends of his fingernails.The sharp taste of grime lingered in his mouth.The loneliness in him was so keen that he was filled with terror.Usually he had a pint of bootleg white lightning.He drank the raw liquor and by daylight he was warm and relaxed.At five o'clock the whistles from the mills blew for the first shift.The whistles made lost, eerie echoes, and he could never sleep until after they had sounded.

But usually he did not stay at home. He went out into the narrow, empty streets.In the first dark hours of the morning the sky was black and the stars hard and bright.Sometimes the mills were running.From the yellow-lighted buildings came the racket of the machines.He waited at the gates for the early shift.Young girls in sweaters and print dresses came out into the dark street.The men came out carrying their dinner pails.Some of them always went to a streetcar café for Coca-Cola or coffee before going home, and Jake went with them.Inside the noisy mill the men could hear plainly every word that was spoken, but for the first hour outside they were deaf.

In the streetcar Jake drank Coca-Cola with whiskey added. He talked.The winter dawn was white and smoky and cold.He looked with drunken urgency into the drawn, yellow faces of the men.Often he was laughed at, and when this happened he held his stunted body very straight and spoke scornfully in words of many syllables.He stuck his little finger out from his glass and haughtily twisted his mustache.And if he was still laughed at he sometimes fought.He swung his big brown fists with crazed violence and sobbed aloud.

After such mornings he returned to the show with relief. It eased him to push through the crowds of people.The noise, the rank stinks, the shouldering contact of human flesh soothed his jangled nerves.

Because of the blue laws in the town the show closed for the Sabbath. On Sunday he got up early in the morning and took from the suitcase his serge suit.He went to the main street.First he dropped into the New York Café and bought a sack of ales.Then he went to Singer’s room.Although he knew many people in the town by name or face, the mute was his only friend.They would idle in the quiet room and drink the ales.He would talk, and the words created themselves from the dark mornings spent in the streets or in his room alone.The words were formed and spoken with relief.

The fire had died down. Singer was playing a game of fools with himself at the table.Jake had been asleep.He awoke with a nervous quiver.He raised his head and turned to Singer.“Yeah,”he said as though in answer to a sudden question.“Some of us are Communists.But not all of us—Myself, I'm not a member of the Communist Party.Because in the first place I never knew but one of them.You can bum around for years and not meet Communists.Around here there's no office where you can go up and say you want to join—and if there is I never heard of it.And you just don't take off for New York and join.As I say I never knew but one—and he was a seedy little teetotaler whose breath stunk.We had a fight.Not that I hold that against the Communists.The main fact is I don't think so much of Stalin and Russia.I hate every damn country and government there is.But even so maybe I ought to joined up with the Communists first place.I'm not certain one way or the other.What do you think?”

Singer wrinkled his forehead and considered. He reached for his silver pencil and wrote on his pad of paper that he didn't know.

“But there's this. You see, we just can't settle down after knowing, but we got to act.And some of us go nuts.There's too much to do and you don't know where to start It makes you crazy.Even me—I've done things that when I look back at them they don’t seem rational.Once I started an organization myself.I picked out twenty lintheads and talked to them until I thought they knew.Our motto was one word:Action.Huh!We meant to start riots—stir up all the big trouble we could.Our ultimate goal was freedom—but a real freedom, a great freedom made possible only by the sense of justice of the human soul.Our motto,‘Action,’signified the razing of capitalism.In the constitution(drawn up by myself)certain statutes dealt with the swapping of our motto from‘Action’to‘Freedom’as soon as our work was through.”

Jake sharpened the end of a match and picked a troublesome cavity in a tooth. After a moment he continued:

“Then when the constitution was all written down and the first followers well organized—then I went out on a hitch-hiking tour to organize component units of the society. Within three months I came back, and what do you reckon I found?What was the first heroic action?Had their righteous fury overcome planned action so that they had gone ahead without me?Was it destruction, murder, revolution?”

Jake leaned forward in his chair. After a pause he said somberly:

“My friend, they had stole the fifty-seven dollars and thirty cents from the treasury to buy uniform caps and free Saturday suppers. I caught them sitting around the conference table, rolling the bones, their caps on their heads, and a ham and a gallon of gin in easy reach.”

A timid smile from Singer followed Jake's outburst of laughter. After a while the smile on Singer's face grew strained and faded.Jake still laughed.The vein in his forehead swelled, his face was dusky red.He laughed too long.

Singer looked up at the clock and indicated the time—half past twelve. He took his watch, his silver pencil and pad, his cigarettes and matches from the mantel and distributed them among his pockets.It was dinner-time.

But Jake still laughed. There was something maniacal in the sound of his laughter.He walked about the room, jingling the change in his pockets.His long, powerful arms swung tense and awkward.He began to name over parts of his coming meal.When he spoke of food his face was fierce with gusto.With each word he raised his upper lip like a ravenous animal.

“Roast beef with gravy. Rice.And cabbage and light bread.And a big hunk of apple pie.I'm famished.Oh, Johnny, I can hear the Yankees coming.And speaking of meals, my friend, did I ever tell you about Mr.Clark Patterson, the gentleman who owns the Sunny Dixie Show?He's so fat he hasn't seen his privates for twenty years, and all day he sits in his trailer playing solitaire and smoking reefers.He orders his meals from a short-order joint nearby and every day he breaks his fast with—”

Jake stepped back so that Singer could leave the room. He always hung back at doorways when he was with the mute.He always followed and expected Singer to lead.As they descended the stairs he continued to talk with nervous volubility.He kept his brown, wide eyes on Singer's face.

The afternoon was soft and mild. They stayed indoors.Jake had brought back with them a quart of whiskey.He sat brooding and silent on the foot of the bed, leaning now and then to fill his glass from the bottle on the floor.Singer was at his table by the window playing a game of chess.Jake had relaxed somewhat.He watched the game of his friend and felt the mild, quiet afternoon merge with the darkness of evening.The firelight made dark, silent waves on the walls of the room.

But at night the tension came in him again. Singer had put away his chess-men and they sat facing each other.Nervousness made Jake's lips twitch raggedly and he drank to soothe himself.A backwash of restlessness and desire overcame him.He drank down the whiskey and began to talk again to Singer.The words swelled with him and gushed from his mouth.He walked from the window to the bed and back again—again and again.And at last the deluge of swollen words took shape and he delivered them to the mute with drunken emphasis:

“The things they have done to us!The truths they have turned into lies. The ideals they have fouled and made vile.Take Jesus.He was one of us.He knew.When He said that it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God—he damn well meant just what he said.But look what the Church has done to Jesus during the last two thousand years.What they have made of him.How they have turned every word he spoke for their own vile ends.Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.Jesus would be one who really knows.Me and Jesus would sit across the table and I would look at him and he would look at me and we would both know that the other knew.Me and Jesus and Karl Marx could all sit at a table and—

“And look what has happened to our freedom. The men who fought the American Revolution were no more like these D.A.R.dames than I'm a pot-bellied, perfumed Pekingese dog.They meant what they said about freedom.They fought a real revolution.They fought so that this could be a country where every man would be free and equal.Huh!And that meant every man was equal in the sight of Nature—with an equal chance.This didn't mean that twenty per cent of the people were free to rob the other eighty per cent of the means to live.This didn't mean for one rich man to sweat the piss out of ten thousand poor men so that he can get richer.This didn't mean the tyrants were free to get this country in such a fix that millions of people are ready to do anything—cheat, lie, or whack off their right arm—just to work for three squares and a flop.They have made the word freedom a blasphemy.You hear me?They have made the word freedom stink like a skunk to all who know.”

The vein in Jake's forehead throbbed wildly. His mouth worked convulsively.Singer sat up, alarmed, Jake tried to speak again and the words choked in his mouth.A shudder passed through his body.He sat down in the chair and pressed his trembling lips with his fingers.Then he said huskily:

“It's this way, Singer. Being mad is no good.Nothing we can do is any good.That's the way it seems to me.All we can do is go around telling the truth.And as soon as enough of the don't knows have learned the truth then there won't be any use for fighting.The only thing for us to do is let them know.All that's needed.But how?Huh?”

The fire shadows lapped against the walls. The dark, shadowy waves rose higher and the room took on motion.The room rose and fell and all balance was gone.Alone Jake felt himself sink downward, slowly in wavelike motions downward into a shadowed ocean.In helplessness and terror he strained his eyes, but he could see nothing except the dark and scarlet waves that roared hungrily over him.Then at last he made out the thing which he sought.The mute's face was faint and very far away.Jake closed his eyes.

The next morning he awoke very late. Singer had been gone for hours.There was bread, cheese, an orange, and a pot of coffee on the table.When he had finished his breakfast it was time for work.He walked somberly, his head bent, across the town toward his room.When he reached the neighborhood where he lived he passed through a certain narrow street that was flanked on one side by a smoke-blackened brick warehouse.On the wall of this building there was something that vaguely distracted him.He started to walk on, and then his attention was suddenly held.On the wall a message was written in bright red chalk, the letters drawn thickly and curiously formed:

Ye shall eat the flesh of the mighty, and drink the blood of the princes of the earth.

He read the message twice and looked anxiously up and down the street. No one was in sight.After a few minutes of puzzled deliberation he took from his pocket a thick red pencil and wrote carefully beneath the inscription:

Whoever wrote the above meet me here tomorrow at noon, Wednesday, November 29.Or the next day.

At twelve o'clock the next day he waited before the wall. Now and then he walked impatiently to the corner to look up and down the streets.No one came.After an hour he had to leave for the show.

The next day he waited, also.

Then on Friday there was a long, slow winter rain. The wall was sodden and the messages streaked so that no word could be read.The rain continued, gray and bitter and cold.

“那人是誰???”杰克·布朗特問道,“剛從這里出去的那個(gè)瘦高個(gè)兒的黑人是誰?。俊?/p>

小房間里非常整潔。太陽照亮了桌上放的一碗紫色葡萄,辛格坐在那里,椅子稍微后傾,雙手插在口袋里,望著窗外。

“我在樓梯上跟他撞在一起,他用那副眼神看著我——哎呀,從來沒有人那么惡狠狠地看著我?!?/p>

杰克把那袋麥芽啤酒放在桌上。他驚奇地意識(shí)到,辛格并不知道他進(jìn)屋了。他走到窗前,碰了碰辛格的肩膀。

“我不是故意撞到他的,他沒有理由那么對(duì)我?!?/p>

杰克打了個(gè)哆嗦。盡管陽光燦爛,但屋里仍有種寒意。辛格舉起食指,走到走廊里?;貋頃r(shí),他拿來一筐煤,還有一些引火柴。杰克望著他跪在爐膛前,熟練地把引火柴在膝蓋上折斷,擺放在鋪好的紙上,又把煤塊仔細(xì)地在上面排好。起初,火就是著不起來,火焰無力地?fù)u晃著,然后熄滅了,冒出一陣黑煙。辛格在爐箅上鋪上兩層報(bào)紙。風(fēng)讓火重新活了起來,房間里響起呼呼的聲音,報(bào)紙冒出火光,被火焰吞噬了,爐箅上滿是噼啪作響的橘黃色火焰。

早晨的第一杯麥芽啤酒有一種上好的醇香味道。杰克很快將自己的酒大口喝完,然后用銼刀一樣的手背抹了抹嘴巴。

“很久以前,我認(rèn)識(shí)一位女士,”他說,“你有點(diǎn)讓我想到她,克拉拉小姐。她在得克薩斯有個(gè)小農(nóng)場(chǎng),也做果仁糖到城里去賣。她又高又壯,長得很好看,穿著肥肥大大的長毛衣、土包子鞋,戴頂男人帽子。我認(rèn)識(shí)她的時(shí)候,她丈夫已經(jīng)死了,但我想說的意思是,如果不是因?yàn)樗铱赡苡肋h(yuǎn)不會(huì)知道。我也許會(huì)跟數(shù)以百萬計(jì)的不知道的那些人一樣,繼續(xù)過著生活。也許只能是個(gè)牧師,或者紡織工,或者推銷員,也許我的一輩子就那么浪費(fèi)掉了?!?/p>

杰克驚奇地?fù)u搖頭。

“要想聽明白,你就必須得知道我以前的事情。你瞧,年輕時(shí)我住在加斯托尼亞。那時(shí)候我是個(gè)八字腳的小矮子,太小了,沒法進(jìn)工廠,只能去一家保齡球館當(dāng)球童,只管飯,沒有工資。后來,我聽說,離那兒不遠(yuǎn)有個(gè)反應(yīng)靈敏的聰明男孩串煙葉,一天可以賺三毛錢。于是我就去了,去賺每天三毛錢的工錢,那時(shí)候我十歲。我就那么離開了家人,連封信都不寫。我走了,他們其實(shí)很高興,你明白那是怎么回事。再說,除了我姐姐,家里沒人會(huì)看信?!?/p>

他在空中揮舞著一只手,仿佛要從臉上抹走什么東西?!暗业囊馑际?,我最初信仰耶穌。有個(gè)家伙跟我在一個(gè)地方干活兒,他有個(gè)禮拜堂,每天晚上都去禱告。我也去了,聽著聽著便也有了這個(gè)信仰。我的心思一整天都放在耶穌身上,有空的時(shí)候我便研究《圣經(jīng)》,祈禱。后來,有天晚上,我拿了把錘子,然后把手放在桌子上。我很憤怒,把釘子一直砸進(jìn)手掌。我的手被釘在了桌子上,我望著它,手指顫動(dòng)著,變成了青色。”

杰克伸出手掌,指著手心那個(gè)粗糙蒼白的傷疤。

“我想當(dāng)個(gè)福音傳教士,想在這個(gè)國家四處周游,一邊布道一邊組織復(fù)興會(huì)。同時(shí),我從一個(gè)地方搬到另一個(gè)地方,快二十歲那年,我去了得克薩斯。我在一個(gè)山核桃果園干活兒,離克拉拉小姐住的地方非常近。我慢慢認(rèn)識(shí)了她,有時(shí)候晚上會(huì)去她家,她跟我聊天。一定要明白,我不是一開始就什么都知道的,我們所有人都是這樣,這個(gè)過程是逐漸發(fā)生的。我開始讀書。我繼續(xù)干活兒,這樣就可以攢下錢,休息一陣子,可以學(xué)習(xí),這就像重生一樣。只有我們這些知道的人才能夠理解這是什么意思。我們已經(jīng)睜開了眼睛,可以看見了。我們這些人,就像來自遙遠(yuǎn)的地方一樣?!?/p>

辛格同意他的說法。房間里很舒服,像家一樣。辛格從壁櫥里拿出一個(gè)鐵盒子,里面放著餅干、水果和奶酪。他挑了一只橘子,慢慢剝開皮,又扯掉一縷縷的橘絡(luò),最后這只橘子在陽光下變成了透明的。他把橘子掰開,兩人分著吃。杰克一口吃掉了兩瓣橘子,噗的一下把果核吐進(jìn)爐火中。辛格慢慢吃著自己的那一份,把種子整整齊齊地?cái)[放在一只手的手心。他們又開了兩瓶麥芽啤酒。

“在這個(gè)國家,像我們這樣的人有多少?也許一萬,也許兩萬,也許還要多。我去過很多地方,但像我們這樣的人,我只遇到過幾個(gè)。但是,比如說,一個(gè)人的確知道。他看到了這個(gè)世界的本質(zhì),回顧幾千年前,明白這一切是怎么發(fā)生的。他觀察著資本和權(quán)力緩慢積累,看到這種積累在今天達(dá)到頂點(diǎn)。他把美國看成一座瘋?cè)嗽?。他看到人們?yōu)榱嘶钕氯ナ侨绾伪黄葎兿髯约旱男值?。他看到孩子幾乎要餓死,看到女人每周要干六十個(gè)小時(shí)的活兒才能有口飯吃。他看到很多人失業(yè),看到幾十億美元、幾千英里土地被浪費(fèi)掉。他看到戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)來臨。他看到人們?cè)馐艿狡D苦磨難時(shí)會(huì)怎樣變得刻薄丑陋,看到他們身上的一種東西是怎樣死去的。然而,他看到的最重要的事情是,整個(gè)世界的體制是建立在一個(gè)謊言之上的。盡管這個(gè)謊言如同耀眼的太陽一樣顯而易見,但那些不知道的人已經(jīng)在這個(gè)謊言里生活得太久了,他們就是看不見?!?/p>

杰克額頭上的紅色血管因?yàn)閼嵟涣似饋?。他抓起爐膛上的煤筐,把煤塊嘩啦啦全部倒進(jìn)爐子里。他的腳已經(jīng)麻木了,他使勁跺著腳,地板都顫動(dòng)起來。

“這個(gè)地方,我都走遍了。我四處走,跟人說話,拼命跟他們解釋。但這么做有什么用呢?上帝!”

他盯著爐火,麥芽啤酒讓他臉色發(fā)紅,加上屋里的熱氣,他的臉更紅了。腳上發(fā)麻的刺痛感順著他的腿傳上來,他昏昏欲睡,望著爐火的顏色,綠色、藍(lán)色和燃燒的黃色?!澳闶俏ㄒ恢赖娜耍彼窕秀钡卣f,“唯一知道的人。”

他不再是個(gè)陌生人了?,F(xiàn)在,他熟悉鎮(zhèn)上大片貧民窟里的每條街道、每條小巷和每處柵欄。他還在迪克西陽光游樂場(chǎng)工作。秋天,游樂場(chǎng)從一塊空地搬到另一塊空地,但總是在城市的邊緣。最后,游樂場(chǎng)轉(zhuǎn)遍了小鎮(zhèn)的每一個(gè)地方。地方變了,但背景都很相似——一片空地,周圍是一排排破爛棚屋,緊靠工廠、軋棉機(jī)廠或者裝瓶廠。顧客也都一樣,大多是工廠的工人和黑人。一到晚上,游樂場(chǎng)的燈五顏六色,很花哨。旋轉(zhuǎn)木馬伴著機(jī)械音樂轉(zhuǎn)個(gè)不停。秋千來回蕩著,投硬幣游戲周圍的欄桿邊總是擠滿了人。有兩個(gè)貨亭出售飲料、血棕色漢堡和棉花糖。

在這里,他是個(gè)機(jī)修工,但慢慢地他的職責(zé)范圍擴(kuò)大了。他粗聲大氣的嗓門透過各種噪音大聲喊叫著,他不停地在游樂場(chǎng)里到處轉(zhuǎn)悠,額頭上冒著汗珠,胡子上沾滿啤酒。星期六,他得負(fù)責(zé)維持秩序。他矮胖結(jié)實(shí)的身體野蠻地大力擠過人群,只有一雙眼睛沒有沾染他身上的那種粗魯暴力,深皺的眉頭下面,這雙眼睛睜得很大,透出一副孤僻沉默而又心煩意亂的神色。

凌晨十二點(diǎn)到一點(diǎn)之間,他回到家中。他住的房子被隔成了四個(gè)房間,每個(gè)人的租金是一塊五毛錢。后面有間廁所,門廊里有個(gè)水龍頭。他的房間里,墻壁和地板發(fā)出一股潮濕的酸臭味,窗子上掛著烏黑的廉價(jià)蕾絲窗簾。他把那身好西裝裝在袋子里,工裝掛在釘子上。房間里沒有暖氣,也沒有電。然而,窗外有一盞街燈亮著,使屋子里呈現(xiàn)一種淡綠色。床邊的油燈他從來沒點(diǎn)過,除非有時(shí)候他想看書。冰冷的房間里,燃燒的油散發(fā)出的那種刺鼻味道每每令他覺得惡心。

如果待在家里,他會(huì)坐立不安,走來走去。他坐在凌亂的床邊,狠命啃著殘破骯臟的手指甲,污垢的刺激味道在嘴巴里久留不去。他的孤獨(dú)感如此強(qiáng)烈,讓他滿心恐懼。他經(jīng)常會(huì)喝一品脫私釀威士忌,喝完這種原漿酒,他在白天便會(huì)覺得溫暖而松弛。五點(diǎn)鐘,工廠的哨聲吹響,是第一班工人上班的時(shí)間。哨聲制造出迷茫而怪異的回聲,在哨聲吹完之前,他無論如何都無法入睡。

然而,他通常并不待在家里。他出門,走到狹窄而空蕩蕩的大街上。在凌晨最初的幾個(gè)小時(shí)里,天空一片漆黑,星星清晰而明亮。有時(shí)候,有些工廠還在開工,透著昏黃燈光的建筑物里傳出機(jī)器的轟鳴聲。他在工廠大門口,等待著換早班。穿著毛衣和印花裙的年輕姑娘們從家里出來,走到漆黑的大街上。男人們也出來了,提著飯盒。有些人總是先到一個(gè)街車咖啡館喝杯可樂或咖啡,然后才回家,而杰克會(huì)跟他們一起去。在嘈雜的工廠里,人們能清楚地聽見別人說的每句話,但從工廠出來的頭幾小時(shí)里,他們的耳朵幾乎什么都聽不到。

在街車咖啡館,杰克喝著加了威士忌的可口可樂,跟別人聊天。冬天的清晨很冷,白茫茫一片,煙霧繚繞。他帶著醉意的目光,急切地盯著男人們一張張憔悴蠟黃的臉。人們經(jīng)常會(huì)嘲笑他,這時(shí)候他總是挺直自己矮小的身體,帶著輕蔑的語氣說些長而生僻的詞。他從酒杯上翹起小拇指,傲慢地繞著自己的胡子。如果人們繼續(xù)嘲笑他,他有時(shí)候會(huì)還擊。他掄起碩大的褐色拳頭,極其狂暴,還會(huì)大聲地抽泣。

這樣的早晨過后,他放松地回到游樂場(chǎng)。在擁擠的人群中擠來擠去,讓他覺得很輕松。那些噪音、惡臭的味道,還有跟別人的摩肩接踵,都撫慰著他緊張的神經(jīng)。

由于鎮(zhèn)上實(shí)施“藍(lán)法”,游樂場(chǎng)在安息日不營業(yè)。星期天,他早晨起床后,從手提箱里拿出那套毛嗶嘰西裝,然后走到主街上。他先是走進(jìn)紐約咖啡館,買一袋麥芽啤酒,接著去辛格的房間。鎮(zhèn)上的很多人,他盡管都知道名字或覺得臉熟,但只有啞巴是他唯一的朋友。他們會(huì)在安靜的房間里打發(fā)時(shí)間,喝喝麥芽啤酒。他總是一直說話,在大街上或房間里獨(dú)自度過的那些陰沉沉的清晨,他總有很多話要說。想起這些話并且說出來,是一件令人寬慰的事情。

爐火漸漸熄滅了。辛格正在桌前自己跟自己下棋。杰克已經(jīng)睡著了,突然神經(jīng)質(zhì)地抖動(dòng)一下,醒了過來。他抬起頭,轉(zhuǎn)身對(duì)著辛格?!笆堑模彼孟袷窃诨卮鹨粋€(gè)突如其來的問題,“我們有些人是共產(chǎn)主義分子,但并非我們所有人都是——我自己,我不是共產(chǎn)黨員。因?yàn)?,首先我只認(rèn)識(shí)一名共產(chǎn)黨員,你到處流浪那么多年,卻碰不上共產(chǎn)主義分子。這周圍也沒有他們的辦公室,你也沒法過去說你要加入——如果有,我也從來沒聽說過。而且你也不能突然離開這里去紐約,去加入他們。剛才說過,我只認(rèn)識(shí)一名共產(chǎn)黨員——他是個(gè)邋遢的小個(gè)子禁酒主義者,嘴巴很臭,我們打過架。我倒不是因?yàn)檫@個(gè)就反對(duì)共產(chǎn)黨,主要原因是,我不大看好斯大林和俄國,我痛恨所有的國家和政府。但即便如此,也許我應(yīng)該首先加入共產(chǎn)黨。我也拿不準(zhǔn)哪條路是對(duì)的。你覺得呢?”

辛格皺起眉頭,思考著。他伸手拿過銀色鉛筆,在便箋本上寫道:我不知道。

“但就是這么回事。你瞧,我們一旦知道以后,便會(huì)坐臥不安,但我們得行動(dòng)起來,然后我們當(dāng)中有些人就瘋掉了。要做的事情很多,你根本不知道從哪兒入手,簡(jiǎn)直讓人發(fā)瘋。即便是我——我做了很多事,再回過頭去看時(shí),這些事似乎都很不理性。我自己曾經(jīng)建立過一個(gè)組織。我挑了二十個(gè)紡織工,跟他們交談,最后我以為他們知道了。我們的座右銘只有兩個(gè)字:行動(dòng)。哈!我們就是要引發(fā)騷亂——盡最大力量攪起大麻煩。我們的最終目標(biāo)是自由——真正的自由,只有人類從心靈深處感覺到公正,那么才有可能實(shí)現(xiàn)這種偉大的自由。我們的座右銘‘行動(dòng)’意為徹底摧毀資本主義。在憲法(由我自己起草)中,有些條款規(guī)定,我們的工作一旦完成,我們的座右銘便從‘行動(dòng)’改為‘自由’。”

杰克把火柴的末端弄尖,剔著一個(gè)討厭的牙洞。過了一會(huì)兒,他繼續(xù)說道:

“然后,等憲法都寫完了,第一批追隨者也組織起來了——我搭便車出去組織更多單位參加這個(gè)社團(tuán)。三個(gè)月后我回到家,你猜我發(fā)現(xiàn)了什么?第一次英勇的行動(dòng)是什么?是他們正義的憤怒壓倒了精心策劃的行動(dòng),然后他們丟下我先動(dòng)手了嗎?它是毀滅、謀殺或革命嗎?”

杰克在椅子里向前傾著身體,停了一下,憂郁地說:

“我的朋友,他們從基金里偷走了五十七塊三毛錢,去買了軍帽,還享用了免費(fèi)星期六晚餐。他們圍坐在會(huì)議桌旁夸夸其談,頭上戴著帽子,手邊放著火腿和一加侖杜松子酒,被我抓了現(xiàn)行?!?/p>

杰克放聲大笑,辛格緊跟著露出一絲怯懦的微笑。過了一會(huì)兒,辛格臉上的笑容變得很緊張,然后消失了。杰克還在大笑,額頭上青筋暴突,臉變成了暗紅色。他笑了很久。

辛格抬頭看看表,指了下時(shí)間——十二點(diǎn)三十分。他拿起手表、銀色鉛筆和紙,又從爐臺(tái)上拿下煙和火柴,把這些東西分別裝進(jìn)口袋里。午飯時(shí)間到了。

但杰克還在大笑著,笑聲里帶著一種癲狂的味道。他在房間里踱來踱去,把口袋里的零錢晃得叮當(dāng)作響,修長有力的胳膊僵硬而笨拙地?fù)]動(dòng)著,一一說著他要吃的食物。說到食物,他臉上現(xiàn)出熱烈的激情,每說一個(gè)詞都要抬起上唇,像一頭饑餓的動(dòng)物。

“烤牛肉加醬汁,米飯,卷心菜,白面包,一大塊蘋果派。我快餓死了。哦,強(qiáng)尼,我聽說北方佬來了。說到吃飯,我的朋友,我有沒有跟你說過克拉克·帕特森先生的事情?就是那個(gè)迪克西陽光游樂場(chǎng)的主人。他非常胖,都已經(jīng)二十年沒看見過自己的私處了。他一整天都坐在拖車?yán)铮婕埮?,抽大麻卷煙。一日三餐,他從附近快餐店點(diǎn)外賣,他每天都會(huì)打破齋戒吃——”

杰克后退一步,讓辛格離開房間。他跟啞巴在一起的時(shí)候,總是在門口磨磨蹭蹭,他總是跟在辛格后面,希望辛格領(lǐng)路。他們下樓梯時(shí),他繼續(xù)滔滔不絕地說著,帶著一絲緊張感。他睜大棕色的眼睛,一直盯著辛格的面孔。

午后的天氣柔和而又溫暖,他們一直待在室內(nèi)。回來時(shí),杰克順便買回一夸脫威士忌。他坐在床頭苦思冥想,一言不發(fā),不時(shí)斜一下身子拿起地下的酒瓶,給自己的杯子里倒?jié)M酒。辛格坐在窗前的桌子邊,下著象棋。杰克有些放松了,他望著朋友的象棋,感覺到溫暖安靜的午后慢慢進(jìn)入夜晚的黑暗。爐火在房間的墻壁上映出無聲的黑色波浪。然而,到了晚上,他身上又恢復(fù)了那種緊張感。辛格已經(jīng)把棋子收了起來,跟杰克面對(duì)面坐著。緊張令杰克的嘴唇劇烈抽搐著,他一個(gè)勁地喝酒,好讓自己平靜下來。坐立不安和欲望的余波襲遍他的全身。他喝完威士忌,又開始跟辛格說話。他心頭有千言萬語,從嘴里傾瀉而出。他從窗戶走到床,又從床走到窗戶——一遍又一遍。終于,那些千言萬語匯成洪流,他帶著醉醺醺的強(qiáng)調(diào)語氣一并將它們傾吐給啞巴:

“他們對(duì)我們干的那些好事!他們把真理變成謊言,他們玷污理想,敗壞理想。就說耶穌吧,他是我們中的一員,他知道。耶穌說,駱駝要想穿過針眼,比富人要想進(jìn)入上帝的王國還要難——他說的是真的。然而,看看過去兩千年里,教會(huì)是怎么對(duì)待耶穌的,他們對(duì)耶穌干了什么。他們歪曲耶穌說的每一個(gè)字,以達(dá)到自己卑鄙的目的。今天,如果耶穌還活著,一定會(huì)遭到陷害,然后鋃鐺入獄。耶穌會(huì)是真正知道的那個(gè)人。我和耶穌會(huì)面對(duì)面坐在桌前,我看著他,他也看著我,我們都會(huì)明白對(duì)方是知道的。我,耶穌,還有卡爾·馬克思,我們都會(huì)坐在一張桌子前面,然后——

“看看我們的自由變成了什么樣子。那些為美國革命而戰(zhàn)的男人不是‘美國革命女兒會(huì)’的太太們,就像我絕不是個(gè)大腹便便、渾身香氣的哈巴狗一樣。關(guān)于自由,他們說的都是真心話,他們?yōu)橐粓?chǎng)真正的革命而戰(zhàn)斗。只有通過斗爭(zhēng),才能換來一個(gè)人人自由平等的國家。哈!這意味著在自然面前人人平等——人人機(jī)會(huì)均等。這并不意味著百分之二十的人可以肆意剝奪百分之八十的人的生計(jì);這也不意味著一個(gè)富人可以通過壓榨一萬個(gè)窮人讓自己富起來;這也不意味著暴君們可以任意讓這個(gè)國家陷入困境當(dāng)中,讓數(shù)以百萬計(jì)的人們可以為了混口飯吃、有個(gè)地方睡覺便為所欲為——欺詐、撒謊、打掉自己的右臂。他們褻瀆了自由這個(gè)詞。你聽見我的話了嗎?對(duì)于所有知道的人來說,他們讓自由這個(gè)詞散發(fā)出臭鼬一樣的惡臭。”

杰克額頭上的青筋劇烈跳動(dòng)著,嘴巴抽搐起來。辛格坐直身體,有些驚慌,杰克還想繼續(xù)說話,但那些話卡在了喉嚨里,他的身體一陣發(fā)抖。他坐在椅子上,用手指壓住哆嗦的嘴唇,然后啞聲說道:

“就是這樣,辛格,生氣沒有用。我們做的都沒有用。在我看來,就是這樣,我們所能做的就是四處傳播真理。如果哪一天,有足夠多的不知道的人明白了這個(gè)真理,便用不著斗爭(zhēng)了。我們唯一能做的事情,就是讓他們知道,只需要這樣。但怎么才能做到呢,嗯?”

爐火的影子舔著墻面,黑色的波浪形影子越來越高,屋子似乎都動(dòng)了起來。屋子升上去,又降下來,失去了平衡。杰克覺得自己一個(gè)人正在下沉,像波浪一樣慢慢沉進(jìn)陰影幢幢的大海里。他感到無助和恐懼,使勁睜著眼睛,但除了朝他拼命怒號(hào)的暗紅色波浪,他什么都看不見。終于,他弄清了自己一直在尋找的東西。啞巴的臉依稀可辨,顯得非常遙遠(yuǎn)。杰克閉上了眼睛。

第二天早晨,他很晚才醒過來。辛格已經(jīng)走了好幾個(gè)小時(shí),桌上有面包、奶酪、一個(gè)橘子,還有一壺咖啡。他吃完早餐,已經(jīng)到了上班時(shí)間。他抑郁地走在路上,低垂著腦袋,穿過鎮(zhèn)子朝自己家走去。走到家附近,他穿過一條狹窄的街道,街道一側(cè)有一幢磚房倉庫,被煙熏得很黑。倉庫的墻上有什么東西分散了他的注意力。他繼續(xù)向前走,然后注意力被完全吸引住了。墻上用大紅色粉筆寫了一句話,字體很粗,樣子很奇怪:

你必吃勇士的肉,喝地上首領(lǐng)的血。[15]

他把這兩行字念了兩遍,急切地往街道兩端來回看,卻并沒有人。他困惑不已地認(rèn)真考慮了幾分鐘,然后從口袋里掏出一支很粗的紅色鉛筆,在那行字下面認(rèn)認(rèn)真真地寫道:

寫上面這些字的人,不管你是誰,請(qǐng)明天中午在這里等我,十一月二十九日,星期三,或者后天。

第二天中午十二點(diǎn),他來到墻跟前等待著。他心緒不寧,不時(shí)走到拐角處朝街道上四處張望。沒有人來。一個(gè)小時(shí)之后,他必須趕往游樂場(chǎng)了。

第三天,他又來到這里,等待著。

到了星期五,開始下起一場(chǎng)冬雨,淅淅瀝瀝,下個(gè)不停。墻壁濕透了,上面的字花了,都分辨不出來了。雨一直下,灰暗,凄清,冰冷。

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