精华 诺奖得主门罗代表作《逃离》(中、英文本)

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诺奖得主门罗代表作《逃离》全文

  据新华社消息,2013年诺贝尔文学奖于瑞典当地时间10月10日下午1时(北京时间10月10日晚7时)揭晓,加拿大作家艾丽丝·门罗(Alice Munro)获此殊荣,新书《亲爱的生活》 dear life也将于近日由新经典文化推出。
  艾丽丝·门罗最新作品《亲爱的生活》(2012年11月发行英文版)依然是讲平凡人的生活。通 过短暂的瞬间讲人的一生。错过的机会、命运的捉弄,使人偏离原先的轨迹,改变一个人的想法。一个富有的年轻女孩和处理父亲遗产的已婚律师相恋,结果陷入绑 架事件。一个年轻的士兵离开战场,回家去找未婚妻,却在路上碰到另一个女人,和她坠入爱河……
  故事仍然发生在加拿大小镇,门罗的家乡,休伦湖附近。门罗曾说:“书里所描写的那些感觉很大一部分都是自传性的。”人物形象鲜明、生动,文笔令人赞叹。

  在门罗最为内地读者熟知的作品《逃离》中,门罗用珍珠一般语言则集中关注无数女人一生都不曾留意的细节与情绪,该书一举获得2009布克国际奖。《逃 离》(RUNAWAY)是爱丽丝·门罗2004年的作品,全书由8个短篇小说组成,其中的3篇互有关联。“故事令人难忘,语言精确而有独到之处,朴实而优 美,读后令人回味无穷。”逃离,或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间,就像看戏路上放松的脚步,就像午后窗边怅然的向往。一次次 逃离的闪念,就是这样无法预知,无从招架,或许你早已被它们悄然逆转,或许你早已将它们轻轻遗忘。无论是十八岁从父母家出走如今又打算逃脱丈夫和婚姻的卡 拉;放弃学术生涯,毅然投奔在火车上偶遇的乡间男子朱丽叶;从小与母亲相依为命,某一天忽然消失得再无踪影佩内洛普; 已然谈婚论嫁,却在一念之间与未婚夫的哥哥出逃了一个下午格雷斯……

  艾丽丝•门罗:专着短篇小说 聚焦平凡女性生活

  艾丽丝•门罗(AliceMunro)加拿大着名女作家。以短篇小说闻名全球,入选美国《时代周刊》“世界100名最有影响力的人物”。1931年生 于安大略省温格姆镇,少女时代即开始写小说。她总是将目光流连于平凡女性的生活,从自己和母亲身上寻找灵感,精确地记录她们从少女到人妻与人母,再度过中 年与老年的历程,尤擅贴近女性之性心理的波折与隐情,以及由此而来的身心重负,细致入微,又复杂难解,看似脆弱,却又坚忍顽强。我国的《世界文学》等刊物 也多次对她的作品有过翻译与评介。可以说,门罗在英语小说界的地位已经得到确立,在英语短篇小说创作方面可称得上“力拔头筹”,已经有人在称呼她是“我们 的契诃夫”(美国女作家辛西娅·奥齐克语)。英国女作家A.S。拜厄特亦赞誉她为“在世的最伟大的短篇小说作家”。

  写作特点及作品获奖情况

  美国女作家、普利策奖得主简•斯迈利(JaneSmiley)曾这样称赞门罗的作品“既精妙又准确,几近完美”。 长期居住于荒僻宁静之地,逐渐形成以城郊小镇平凡女子的平凡生活为主题的写作风格。故事背景大多为乡间小镇及其邻里,故事人物和现实中人并无二致,亦经历 出生与死亡、结婚与离异。但泥土芳香的文字背后,却是对成长疼痛与生老病死等严肃话题浓墨重彩的描写。细腻优雅、不施铅华的文字和简洁精致、宽广厚重的情 节,常常给人“于无声处听惊雷”的莫大震撼。艾丽丝•门罗始终以严谨的态度对待文学,努力去写伟大的小说。她写30页短篇所用的心力,如斯迈利女士所言, 足可抵得上某些作家写出整本长篇。她在文坛的地位,被比作当代契诃娃——契诃夫的女传人。在40余年的文学生涯中,门罗女士始终执着地写作短篇小说,锤炼 技艺,并以此屡获大奖,其中包括三次加拿大总督奖,两次吉勒奖,以及英联邦作家奖、欧亨利奖、笔会/马拉穆德奖和美国全国书评人奖等。每年秋天的诺贝尔文 学奖猜谜大赛中,她的大名必在候选人之列。

*******

  逃离,或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间,就像看戏路上放松的脚步,就像午后窗边怅然的向往。

  卡拉,十八岁从父母家出走,如今又打算逃脱丈夫和婚姻;

  朱丽叶,放弃学术生涯,毅然投奔在火车上偶遇的乡间男子;

  佩内洛普,从小与母亲相依为命,某一天忽然消失得再无踪影;

  格雷斯,已然谈婚论嫁,却在一念之间与未婚夫的哥哥出逃了一个下午……

  逃离

  在汽车还没有翻过小山——附近的人都把这稍稍隆起的土堆称为小山——的顶部时,卡拉就已经听到声音了。那是她呀,她想。是贾米森太太——西尔维亚—— 从希腊度假回来了。她站在马厩房门的后面——只是在更靠内里一些的地方,这样就不至于一下子让人瞥见——朝贾米森太太驾车必定会经过的那条路望过去,贾米 森太太就住在这条路上她和克拉克的家再进去半英里路的地方。

  倘若开车的人是准备拐向他们家大门的,车子现在应当减速了。可是卡拉仍然在抱着希望。但愿那不是她呀。

  那就是她。贾米森太太的头扭过来了一次,速度很快——她得集中精力才能对付这条让雨水弄得满处是车辙和水坑的砾石路呢——可是她并没有从方向盘上举起 一只手来打招呼,她并没有看见卡拉。卡拉瞥见了一只裸到肩部的晒成棕褐色的胳膊,比先前颜色更淡一些的头发——白的多了一些而不是以前的那种银褐色了,还 有那副表情,很决断和下了狠劲的样子,却又为自己这么认真而暗自好笑——贾米森太太在跟这样的路况死死纠缠的时候表情总是这样的。在她扭过头来的时候脸上 似乎有一瞬间闪了一下亮——是在询问,也是在希望——这使卡拉的身子不禁往后缩了缩。

  情况就是这样。

  也许克拉克还不知道呢。如果他是在摆弄电脑,那就一定是背对着窗户和这条路的。

  不过贾米森太太很可能还会开车出去的。她从飞机场开车回家,也许并没有停下来去买食物——她应该径直回到家里,想好需要买些什么,然后再出去一趟。那 时候克拉克可能会见到她。而且天黑之后,她家里的灯也会亮起来的。不过此刻是七月,天要很晚才会黑。她也许太累了,灯不开就早早儿上床了。

  再说了,她还会打电话的。从现在起,什么时候都可能会打的。

  这是个雨下得没完没了的夏天。早上醒来,你听到的第一个声音就是雨声,很响地打在活动房子屋顶上的声音。小路上泥泞很深,长长的草吸饱了水,头上的树 叶也会浇下来一片小阵雨,即使此时天上并没有真的在下雨,阴云也仿佛正在飘散。卡拉每次出门,都要戴一顶高高的澳大利亚宽边旧毡帽,并且把她那条又粗又长 的辫子和衬衫一起掖在腰后。

  来练习骑马的客人连一个都没有,虽然克拉克和卡拉没少走路,在他们能想起来的所有野营地、咖啡屋里都树起了广告牌,在旅行社的海报栏里也都贴上了广 告。只有很少几个学生来上骑马课,那都是长期班的老学员,而不是来休假的成群结队的小学生,那一客车又一客车来夏令营的小家伙呀,去年一整个夏天两人的生 计就是靠他们才得以维持的。即令是两人视为命根子的长期班老学员现在也大都出外度假去了,或是因为天气太差而退班了。如果他们电话来得迟了些,克拉克还要 跟他们把账算清楚,该收的钱一个都不能少。有几个学员嘀嘀咕咕表示不满,以后就再也不露面了。

  从寄养在他们这儿的三匹马身上,他们还能得些收益。这三匹马,连同他们自己的那四匹,此刻正放养在外面的田野里,在树底下四处啃草觅食。它们的神情似 乎都懒得去管雨暂时歇住了,这种情况在下午是会出现片刻的,也就是刚能勾起你的希望罢了——云变得白了一些,薄了一些,透过来一些散漫的亮光,它们却永远 也不会凝聚成真正的阳光,而且一般总是在晚饭之前就收敛了。

  卡拉已经清完了马厩里的粪便。她做得不慌不忙的——她喜欢干日常杂活时的那种节奏,喜欢畜棚屋顶底下那宽阔的空间,以及这里的气味。现在她又走到环形训练跑道那里去看看地上够不够干,说不定五点钟一班的学员还会来呢。

  通常,一般的阵雨都不会下得特别大,或是随着带来什么风,可是上星期突然出现异象,树顶上刮过一阵大风,接着一阵让人睁不开眼睛的大雨几乎从横斜里扫 过来。一刻钟以内,暴风雨就过去了。可是路上落满了树枝,高压电线断了,环形跑道顶上有一大片塑料屋顶给扯松脱落了。跑道的一头积起了一片像湖那么大的水 潭,克拉克只得天黑之后加班干活,以便挖出一条沟来把水排走。

  屋顶至今未能修复,克拉克只能用绳子编起一张网,不让马匹走到泥潭里去,卡拉则用标志拦出一条缩短些的跑道。

  就在此刻,克拉克在网上寻找有什么地方能买到做屋顶的材料。可有某个清仓处理尾货的铺子,开的价是他们能够承受的,或是有没有什么人要处理这一类的二 手货。他再也不去镇上的那家海—罗伯特·伯克利建材商店了,他已经把那店改称为海—鸡奸犯·捞大利商店,因为他欠了他们不少钱,而且还跟他们打过一架。

  克拉克不单单跟他欠了钱的人打架。他上一分钟跟你还显得挺友好的——那原本也是装出来的——下一分钟说翻脸就翻脸。有些地方他现在不愿进去了,他总是 让卡拉去,就是因为他跟那儿的人吵过架。药房就是这样的一个地方。有位老太太在他站的队前面加塞——其实她是去取她忘了要买的一样什么东西,回来时站回到 他的前面而没有站到队尾去,他便嘀嘀咕咕抱怨起来了,那收银员对他说,“她有肺气肿呢。”克拉克就接茬说,“是吗,我还一身都有毛病呢。”后来经理也让他 给叫出来了,他硬要经理承认对自己不公平。还有,公路边上的一家咖啡店没给他打广告上承诺的早餐折扣,因为时间已经过了十一点,克拉克便跟他们吵了起来, 还把外带的一杯咖啡摔到地上——就差那么一点点,店里的人说,就会泼到推车里一个小娃娃的身上了。他则说那孩子离自己足足有半英里远呢,而且他没拿住杯子 是因为没给他杯套。店里说他自己没说要杯套。他说这种事本来就是不需要特地关照的。

  “你脾气也太火爆了。”卡拉说。

  “脾气不火爆还算得上是男子汉吗?”

  她还没提他跟乔依·塔克吵架的事呢。乔依·塔克是镇上的女图书馆员,把自己的马寄养在他们这里。那是一匹脾气很躁的栗色小母马,名叫丽姬——乔依·塔 克爱逗乐的时候就管它叫丽姬·博登。昨天她来骑过马了,当时正碰到她脾气不顺,便抱怨说棚顶怎么还没修好,还说丽姬看上去状态不佳,是不是着凉了呀。

  其实丽姬并没有什么问题。克拉克倒是——对他来说已经是很不容易了——想要息事宁人的。可是接下来发火的反而是乔依·塔克,她指责说这块地方简直就是 片垃圾场,出了这么多钱丽姬不该受到这样的待遇,于是克拉克说,“那就悉听尊便吧。”乔依倒没有——或者是还没有——当即就把丽姬领回去,卡拉本来料想会 这样。可是原来总把这匹小母马当作自己小宠物的克拉克却坚决不想再跟它有任何牵扯了。自然,丽姬在感情上也受到了伤害。在练习的时候总是跟你闹别扭,你要 清理它的蹄子时它便乱踢乱蹬。马蹄是每天都必须清的,否则里面会长霉菌。卡拉得提防着被它瞅冷子咬上一口。

  不过让卡拉最不开心的一件事还得说是弗洛拉的丢失了,那是只小小的白山羊,老是在畜棚和田野里跟几匹马做伴。有两天都没见到它的踪影了。卡拉担心它会不会是被野狗、土狼叼走了,没准还是撞上熊了呢。

  昨天晚上还有前天晚上她都梦见弗洛拉了。在第一个梦里,弗洛拉径直走到床前,嘴里叼着一只红苹果,而在第二个梦里——也就是在昨天晚上——它看到卡拉 过来,就跑了开去。它一条腿似乎受了伤,但它还是跑开去了。它引导卡拉来到一道铁丝网栅栏的跟前,也就是某些战场上用的那一种,接下去它——也就是弗洛拉 ——从那底下钻过去了,受伤的脚以及整个身子,就像一条白鳗鱼似的扭着身子钻了过去,然后就不见了。

  那些马匹看到卡拉穿过去上了环形马道,便全都簇拥着来到栏杆边上——显得又湿又脏,尽管它们身上披有新西兰毛毯——好让她走回来的时候能注意到它们。 她轻轻地跟它们说话,对于手里没带吃的表示抱歉。她抚摩它们的脖颈,蹭蹭它们的鼻子,还问它们可知道弗洛拉有什么消息。

  格雷斯和朱尼珀喷了喷气,又伸过鼻子来顶她,好像它们认出了这个名字并想为她分忧似的,可是这时丽姬从它们之间插了进来,把格雷斯的脑袋从卡拉的手边顶了开去。它还进而把她的手轻轻咬了一下,卡拉只得又花了些时间来指责它。

  匆匆(1)

  两个侧面彼此相对。其中之一是一头纯白色小母牛脸的一侧,有着特别温柔安详的表情,另外的那个则是一个绿面人的侧面,这人既不年轻也不年老,看来像是 个小公务员,也许是个邮差——他戴的是那样的制帽。他嘴唇颜色很淡,眼白部分却闪闪发亮。一只手,也许就是他的手,从画的下端献上一棵小树或是一根茂密的 枝子,上面结的果子则是一颗颗的宝石。

  画的上端是一片乌云,底下是坐落在一片凹凸不平的土坡上的几所歪歪斜斜的小房子和一座玩具教堂,教堂上还插着个玩具十字架。土坡上有个小小的人儿(所 用的比例要比房子的大上一些)目的很明确地往前走着,肩膀上扛着一把长镰刀,一个大小跟他差不多的妇人似乎在等候他,不过她却是头足颠倒的。

  画里还有别的东西。比方说,一个姑娘在给一头奶牛挤奶,但那是画在小母牛面颊上的。

  朱丽叶立刻决定要买这张印刷的图片,作为圣诞节送给她父母亲的礼物。

  “因为它使我想起了他们。”她对克里斯塔说,那是陪她从鲸鱼湾来到这儿买东西的一个朋友。她们此刻是在温哥华画廊的礼品商店里。

  克里斯塔笑了。“那个绿颜色的人和那头母牛吗?他们会感到不胜荣幸的。”

  克里斯塔对任何事情一开头总是不肯一本正经,非得对它调侃上几句才肯放过。朱丽叶倒一点儿也不在乎。她怀着三个月的身孕——肚子里那个胎儿就是日后的 佩内洛普了,忽然之间,让她不舒服的反应一下子全都没有了,为了这一点以及别的原因,她每隔上一阵子就不由自主地感到高兴。每时每刻,她脑子里在想的都是 吃的东西,她本来都不想进礼品店了,因为她眼角里扫到旁边的什么地方还有一个小吃部。

  她看了看画的标题。我和村庄。

  这就使这幅画意味更加深长了。

  “夏加尔1。我喜欢夏加尔,”克里斯塔说,“毕加索算是什么东西。”

  朱丽叶因为自己的发现而欣喜不已,她发现自己注意力几乎都无法集中了。

  “你知道据传他说过什么话吗?夏加尔的画让女售货员看最合适,”克里斯塔告诉她,“女售货员有什么不好?夏加尔应该回敬一句,毕加索的画让脸长得奇形怪状的人看最合适不过了。”

  “我的意思是,它让我想起了我父母亲的生活,”朱丽叶说,“我不知道为什么,不过事实就是这样。”

  她已经跟克里斯塔谈过一些她父母亲的情况了——他们如何生活在一种有点古怪却并非不快乐的孤立状态中,虽然她的父亲是一位口碑不错的老师。大家不太跟 他们来往的主要原因是萨拉心脏有毛病,但也因为他们订的杂志是周围的人全都不看的,他们听的是国家电台的广播节目,周围再没有其他人听。再加上萨拉不从巴 特里克公司的目录上挑选衣服,却总是根据《时尚》杂志上的样子自己缝制——有时候简直是不伦不类。他们身上多少残留着一些年轻人的气质,而不像朱丽叶同学 的双亲那样,越来越胖,越来越懒散。这也是他们不合群的原因之一。朱丽叶形容过她爸爸山姆模样跟她自己差不多——长脖颈,下巴颏有点儿往上翘,浅棕色的松 垂头发——而萨拉则是个纤细、苍白的金发美人,头发总有点乱,不修边幅。

  佩内洛普十三个月大的时候,朱丽叶带着她坐飞机去到多伦多,然后换乘火车。那是1969年。她在一个小镇下了车,这儿离她长大、山姆和萨拉仍旧住着的那个小镇还有二十来英里。显然,火车已不再在那里设站了。

  匆匆(2)

  她感到很失望,因为是在这个不熟悉的小站下车,而没有一下子重新又见到自己记忆中的树木、人行道和房屋——然后,很快很快,就能见到坐落在一棵硕大无朋的枫树后面的她自己的房子——山姆和萨拉的房子,很宽敞但是也很普通,肯定仍然是刷着那种起泡的、脏兮兮的白漆。

  看到山姆和萨拉了,就在这里,在这个她从未见到他们来过的小镇里,正在微笑呢,但也很着急,他们的身影在一点点地变小。

  萨拉发出了一声古怪的小尖叫,仿佛是被什么啄了一下似的。月台上有几个人回过头来看看。

  显然,只不过是激动罢了。

  “我们一长一短,不过仍然很般配。”她说。

  起初,朱丽叶不明白是什么意思。紧接着她猜出来了——萨拉穿着一条长及小腿肚子的黑亚麻长裙和一件配套的黑夹克。夹克的领子和衣袖用的是一种光闪闪的 酸橙绿色的布料子,上面还有一个个黑色的大圆点。她头上也缠着用同样的绿料子做的头巾。这套服装必定是她自己缝制的,或是请某个裁缝按照她的设计做的。这 样的颜色对她的皮肤可不太厚道,因为看着像是皮肤上洒满了细细的粉笔灰。

  朱丽叶穿的是一条黑色的超短连衣裙。

  “我方才还寻思你对我会怎么想,大夏天穿一身黑,仿佛是为什么人穿丧服似的,”萨拉说,“可是你穿得正好跟我很般配。你看上去真漂亮,我是完全赞成这种短衣服的。”

  “再加上一头长披发,”山姆说,“简直就是个彻头彻尾的嬉皮士了。”他弯下身子去细看婴儿的脸,“你好,佩内洛普。”

  萨拉说:“多么漂亮的玩具娃娃呀。”

  她伸出手想去抱佩内洛普——虽然从她袖管里滑出来的手臂仿佛是两根细棍子,根本不可能支撑住这样的重量。其实也用不着这两只手来做这件事了,因为佩内洛普刚听到外婆发出的第一个声音便已经很紧张,这会儿更是哭喊着把身子往外扭,把小脸藏到朱丽叶的脖颈窝里去了。

  萨拉笑了。“我就那么可怕吗,像个稻草人?”她的声音再次失去控制,升高时仿佛是在尖叫,下降时又一下子没了声音,引来了周围人的瞪视。这可是个新情 况呢——虽然没准并不完全是这样。朱丽叶有这样的印象,只要她母亲大笑或是开始说话,人们总会朝她的方向看过来,但是早年间他们所注意到的总是很有爆发力 的一阵欢笑声——那是很有少女风采和吸引力的(虽然并不是谁都喜欢,有人会说她总想卖弄风情、惹人注意)。

  朱丽叶说:“宝宝太累了。”

  山姆把站在他们身后的一个年轻女子介绍给她,那人站得稍开一些,似乎是有意不让人认为她跟他们是一伙的。事实上朱丽叶也完全没想到她是跟她父母一起来的。

  “朱丽叶,这是艾琳·艾弗里。”

  朱丽叶抱着佩内洛普又拿着放尿片的包包,她尽可能地把手往外伸,可是发现艾琳显然没打算握手——或许是没有注意到她的意图——她便微笑了一下。艾琳并没有笑上一笑作为回应,只是一动不动地站着,给人的印象却是恨不得立时拔腿跑开去。

  “你好。”朱丽叶说。

  艾琳说:“见到你很高兴。”声音轻得勉强能听见,但是一丁点儿表情都没有。

  “艾琳可是我们的好仙女呀。”萨拉说,这时,艾琳的面色起了些变化。她显现出有些不悦,也带着些理应会有的尴尬。

  匆匆(3)

  她个子没有朱丽叶高——朱丽叶可是个高个儿——但是肩膀与臀部都要比朱丽叶宽阔,胳臂很结实,下巴显得很有毅力。她有厚厚的、富于弹性的黑发,从脸那 儿直着往后梳,扎成一个短而粗的马尾巴,她的黑眉毛浓浓的有点凶相,皮肤是一晒就黑的那种。她眼睛是绿色或是蓝色的,让肤色一衬颜色浅得令人感到意外,也 很难让人看透。因为眼眶陷得很深。还因为她脑袋稍稍有点往下耷拉,脸总是扭开去的,这种敌意便像是有意装出来并故意加强的了。

  “咱们的这位仙女干的活儿真是不少呀,”山姆说,脸上露出了他惯常的那种似乎很有雄才大略的开阔笑容,“我会向全世界宣告她的劳绩的。”

  到此时,朱丽叶自然记起了家中来信里提到过,由于萨拉体力急遽大幅度衰退,家中请了一个女的来帮忙。不过她以为那准是个年纪更大些的老太太。艾琳显然不见得比自己的年纪大。

  汽车倒还是山姆大约十年前买来的二手货庞狄克。原来的蓝漆还在这里那里剩下了一道道痕迹,但大多都已经褪成灰颜色了,冬天路上撒的盐使得低处那层衬漆上现出了一摊摊锈迹。

  “看咱们家的老灰母马呀。”萨拉说,从车站月台走下来的这几步路已经使她气儿都快喘不过来了。

  “她还坚持着不下岗哪。”朱丽叶说。她很钦佩地说,家里人八成也是希望她这么说的。她已经忘掉家里是怎么称呼这辆车子的了,其实那名字当初还是她起的呢。

  “哦,她是任何时候都不会放弃的,”萨拉说,这时候她已经由艾琳扶着在后座上坐了下来,“而我们也从来没有对她放弃过希望。”

  朱丽叶摆弄着佩内洛普,好不容易才坐进了前面的座位,娃娃这时候又开始呜咽起来了。车子里热得惊人,虽然车是停在车站外白杨树的稀疏阴影里,车窗还是开着的。

  “其实我倒是在考虑——”山姆一边把车倒出来一边说,“我考虑要将它换成一辆卡车呢。”

  “他不是当真的。”萨拉尖叫道。

  “对于做买卖,”山姆接着往下说,“那样会更方便些。你每回开车走在街上,光是车门上画的广告就能起到不少作用。”

  “他是在开玩笑,”萨拉说,“我怎么能坐在一辆漆着新鲜蔬菜字样的车子里招摇过市呢?莫非是自己成了西葫芦或是大白菜了吗?”

  “你就省点劲儿吧,太太,”山姆说,“要不然等我们回到家里你会连一句话都不想说了。”

  在本县各处的公立学校执教了将近三十年之后——在最后的那所就一口气教了十年——山姆突然辞职不干了,并且决定改行,做蔬菜销售,而且还是全职的。他 一直在家屋旁边的一片空地上种着一片不算小的菜园,也侍弄蓝莓树,把自己吃不了的产品卖给镇子内外的一些人家。可是现在,显然,这样的业余活动要变成一种 谋生之道了,要把产品卖给食品杂货铺,说不定以后还会在大门口搭一个卖果蔬的摊子出来呢。

  “你是认真打算这么干的吗?”朱丽叶轻声问道。

  “那是自然啦。”

  “放弃教学你就那么舍得?”

  “绝对舍得。我可是倒足胃口了。我反胃反得连酸水都要溢出来了。”

  的确,教书教了那么多年,他却始终未能在任何一所学校里当上校长。她猜想这就是使他倒胃口的原因。他是个出色的教师,他的特立独行和充沛的精力都是有 口皆碑的,他教的六年级也是受业的每一个学生一辈子都难以忘怀的一年。可是年复一年,他总是被忽略过去,原因或许也正在于此。他的方法可以理解为对上级领 导的鄙视。因此你可以想象,有关领导自然会认为他不是当校长的料儿,还是让他做原来的工作危害相对来说会轻上一些。

  匆匆(4)

  他喜爱户外的工作,也善于跟普通人交谈,没准他是能做好销售蔬菜的事业的。

  可是萨拉对他这样的打算很不以为然。

  朱丽叶同样也是不喜欢。不过,如果真的要她作一个选择的话,她还是会赞同父亲的做法的。她可不想把自己归到势利小人的行列里去。

  实际的情况是,她看自己——她认为自己以及山姆与萨拉,特别是她自己和山姆——因为有自己独特的想法,所以比周围的每一个人,都要高出一头。因此,即使他去卖菜,那又有什么关系呢?

  山姆此刻用一种更低沉、带点搞阴谋意味的声音问她。

  “她叫什么名字?”

  他指的是婴儿的名字。

  “佩内洛普。我们绝对不会简称她为佩内1的。就是佩内洛普。”

  “不,我是问——问她的姓。”

  “哦。应该是叫亨德森—波蒂厄斯,或者波蒂厄斯—亨德森。不过念起来有点儿啰嗦,后边的佩内洛普这名字已经够长的了。我们知道会这样,但还是想叫她佩内洛普。我们总是要定下来的嘛。”

  “是这样啊。他让宝宝姓他的姓,”山姆说,“那么,那还是说明问题的。我的意思是,这样就好。”

  朱丽叶惊愕了好一会儿,后来才想明白了。

  “他当然要这样做的,”她说,假装被弄煳涂了并觉得好笑,“本来就是他的孩子嘛。”

  “啊,是的。是的。不过,考虑到具体的情况……”

  “我想不起来有什么具体情况嘛,”她说,“如果你指的是我们没有结婚,那根本不是什么值得一提的事儿。在我们住的那地方,在我们认识的人当中,是没有人会在乎这样的形式的。”

  “也许是吧,”山姆说,“可他不是结过一次婚的吗?”

  朱丽叶告诉过他们埃里克妻子的事,说她出了车祸躺在病床上的八年里他一直都在照顾她。

  “你指安吗?是的。呃,我不是太清楚。不过是的,我想是办了结婚手续的。是的。”

  萨拉朝前座喊叫道:“停下来吃点冰激淋好不好呀?”

  “家中冰箱里有冰激淋,”山姆朝后面喊道,但接下去又轻轻地对朱丽叶、也是让朱丽叶大吃一惊地说了句,“带她随便上哪儿去请她吃点儿什么,她就要人来疯了。”

  车窗仍然是开着的,热烘烘的风穿透了整个车厢。现在正是盛夏——这样的季节,就朱丽叶所感觉到的,是在西海岸从来也没有出现过的。硬木树高耸,围护在 田野的边缘,投下了蓝黑色山洞般的阴影,在它们的前面,庄稼和牧场在太阳强光的直晒下,呈现出一片金色和绿色。小麦、大麦、玉米和豆科作物生机勃勃——刺 得你的眼睛生疼生疼的。

  萨拉说:“会议又作出决议要帮助谁啦,你们在前面座位上的?风这么刮着,我们在后排的根本听不见。”

  山姆说:“没什么了不起的事儿。光是问问朱丽叶她的男人是不是还在干打鱼的营生。”

  埃里克靠捕大虾维持生活,这么干已有很长时间了。他一度曾是医学院的学生,后来因为给一个朋友(不是他的女朋友)堕胎,没有能学下去。(本来一切都很 顺利,但是不知怎的消息传了出去。)朱丽叶曾经打算告诉她那两位思想开放的双亲。也许是想让他们知道,他也是个受过教育的人,不是什么普普通通的打鱼人。 不过说了又怎么样呢,特别是山姆现在都已经是个菜农了?而且,他们思想开放的程度恐怕也没有她当初设想的那么牢靠。

  匆匆(5)

  可以出售的不仅仅是新鲜蔬菜和浆果。厨房里生产出了不少果酱、瓶装压榨汁和酸黄瓜之类的东西。就在朱丽叶来到的那个上午,他们就在做蓝莓酱。艾琳主持 这事儿,她的衬衣给水汽或是汗水打湿了,两片肩胛骨之间的衣服都粘在了身上。时不时地她还会朝电视机扫上一眼,机子被推到后厅通向厨房门口的地方,因此你 想回房间还得侧着身子挤过去才行。屏幕上在放的是儿童晨间节目,动画片《波波鹿与飞天鼠》。艾琳过上一阵就会为里面的趣事哈哈大笑,而朱丽叶为了不扫她的 兴,也只得哼哼地笑上一两声。但艾琳根本没有注意到这事。

  洗菜台上必须得腾出块空地来,好让朱丽叶给佩内洛普煮个鸡蛋再把它碾碎,以充当她的早餐,另外也要为自己煮杯咖啡,烤片面包。“地儿够大了吗?”艾琳问她,那语气有点游移不决,仿佛朱丽叶是个外来者,对她的要求是预先无法知道的。

  挨近了之后,你便可以看清艾琳前臂上长了多少细细的黑毛了。连脸颊上都有,就在耳朵的前面。

  她从眼角斜斜地扫看朱丽叶在干着的每一件事情,看着她如何摆弄炉台上的那些开关(一开始朱丽叶都记不得哪个是管哪个灶火的了),看着她如何把鸡蛋从平 底锅里取出来,剥壳(这个蛋有点粘壳,壳只能一点点地而不是一大片很容易地剥下来),接着又看她如何找了只小茶碟来碾碎鸡蛋。

  “你不想让它掉到地上去吧。”她指的不是鸡蛋而是那只瓷碟,“你就没有给孩子用的塑料碟子吗?”

  “我会留神的。”朱丽叶说。

  后来才知道,艾琳也是个当妈妈的。她有一个三岁的男孩和一个快满两岁的女孩。他们的名字是特雷弗和特蕾西。他们的父亲去年夏天在他干活的养鸡场的一次 事故中丧了生。她比朱丽叶小三岁——今年二十二。孩子与丈夫的情况是回答朱丽叶的讯问时说的,她的年龄则是从接下去她说的话里推算出来的。

  当时朱丽叶说:“哦,我真是难过。”谈到那次事故时,朱丽叶觉得自己太没礼貌了,真不该瞎打听的,现在再表示同情也显得有点伪善了。艾琳说:“是啊。就在我过二十一岁生日的那一天。”仿佛厄运也是件能一点点积累而成的东西似的,就跟手镯上那些护身的小饰物一样。

  在佩内洛普勉强把一只鸡蛋都吃下去以后,朱丽叶把她夹在一边的腰胯上,带她上楼。

  往上走到一半,她想起了那只茶碟还没有洗。

  但是孩子无处可放,她还不会走路,可是爬动起来却是异常的迅速。显然,让她独自待在厨房里连五分钟都是不行的,消毒器里的水是沸腾的,还有滚烫的果酱 和好些剁东西的刀子——让艾琳帮着照顾一会儿这样要求也未免太过分。而婴儿今儿早上的第一个表现就是仍然不想跟姥姥要好。因此,朱丽叶只好把她抱到通往阁 楼的有围栏的楼梯上去——朱丽叶先把身后的门关上——让她在这几级楼梯上玩儿,自己则去寻找小时候用过的游戏围栏。幸运的是,佩内洛普是个在台阶上玩惯的 行家。

  这是一座正正经经两层楼高的房屋,房间的天花板很高,但是房间方方正正的像个盒子——这也许只是朱丽叶此刻的感觉。屋顶是斜的,因此只能在阁楼的中央 部分站直了走。朱丽叶以前就常常这样走,那时她还小呢。她一边走,一边把读到的什么故事讲给自己听,免不了有些添油加醋或是作了一些改动。还跳舞呢——这 儿居然还能跳舞——面对着一些想象出来的观众。其实真正的观众只是一些破损、废弃的家具,几只旧箱子,一件重得不得了的野牛皮外套,一所让紫燕做窝的小房 子(是山姆旧日学生们送的礼物,其实从来没能吸引到过一只紫燕),一顶德国军盔——据说是山姆的父亲参加第一次世界大战时带回来的,一幅无心作成的滑稽画 ——完全是业余水平,画的是“爱尔兰女王号”在圣劳伦斯湾沉没的景象,船上的一些火柴梗似的人儿在往四面八方飞出去。

  匆匆(6)

  瞧呀,在那边墙上斜靠着的,不正是那幅《我和村庄》吗?画面朝外——没有任何想好好藏起来的意图。上面也没有积上多少灰尘,说明放在那里的时间不会太久。

  在搜索了片刻之后她找到了那个游戏围栏。那是一件挺讲究、分量挺沉的东西,有木地板和轴柱能转动的围壁。还找到了那辆婴儿车。她父母什么东西都留着, 他们曾想过再要一个孩子。至少是曾经有过一次流产的。星期天早上从他们床上传来的嬉笑声曾使朱丽叶觉得这所房子正为一种偷偷进入的、甚至是不怎么体面的干 扰所入侵,而这种干扰对她来说是不怎么有利的。

  婴儿车是折叠起来便可以推走的那种。这一点朱丽叶已经忘掉了,或者是从来就没有意识到过。此刻她已经出汗了,灰头土脸的。她在试着让它折叠起来。对她 来说,这类活儿从来都不轻松,她永远都不能一下子就掌握好装卸这样的事儿,当然,如果不是因为考虑到艾琳,她本来可以把整件东西拖到下面园子里去让山姆帮 忙干的。艾琳那双闪烁不定的浅色眼睛,不直接看过来却很有心机的眼光,还有那双能干的手。她的警惕,那里面有一种不完全能称之为轻蔑的神情。朱丽叶真不知 道那应该叫什么。反正那是猫身上常会有的一种满不在乎但也不跟你亲热的态度。

  好不容易,她终于把那辆童车装配好了。它很笨重,比她用惯的那种要大上一半。而且很脏,这是不消说的。现在她总算是恢复正常了,在台阶上的佩内洛普甚 至比平时还更加欢实。可是就在婴儿的手边却有一样东西,那是朱丽叶方才连看都没有看见的。一颗钉子。这样的东西你本来是根本不会注意到的,直到你有了一个 会把什么都往嘴里放的宝宝,从这时起你的注意力就一刻都不能松懈了。

  可是她偏偏就是做不到呀。什么东西都在分散她的注意力。炎热、艾琳、过去熟知的事情以及过去没能认识的那些事情。

  我和村庄。

  “哦,”萨拉说,“我原来是希望你不会注意到的。你可别把它放在心上。”

  阳光起居室现在充当了萨拉的卧室。所有的窗子上都挂有竹帘,使得这个小房间——原来是回廊的一部分——充满了一种棕黄色的光线和固定的燠热。可是萨拉 却穿着粉红色的绒布睡裤。昨天在火车站,她描了眉,抹了蓝莓色的唇膏,缠着头巾,穿着套装,在朱丽叶看来颇像一位上了年纪的法国女人(其实朱丽叶并未见到 过多少法国老太太),可是现在,白发一绺绺地披垂着,亮亮的眼睛在几乎没有的眼眉毛下焦急地瞪视着,她看上去更像是一个古怪地变老了的小孩。她倚着枕头坐 得直直的,被子拉到腰部。方才朱丽叶扶着她上卫生间的时候,发现她竟然是穿着袜子和便鞋上床的,虽然天气炎热。

  她床边放着一把直靠背的椅子,座位低,这比桌子更易于她取放东西。上面放着药片、药水、爽身粉、润肤露和一杯喝了一半的奶茶,还有一只玻璃杯,里面有褐色的痕迹——也许是补铁的药水。床头上有一些杂志——过期的《时尚》和《妇女家庭杂志》。

  “我可没有在意。”朱丽叶说。

  “我们是挂过的。在餐厅门旁边的后厅里。后来你爹把它摘了下来。”

  “为什么呢?”

  “这事他一点儿也没跟我说过。他没说打算取下来。后来有一天它就是不在那儿了。”

  匆匆(7)

  “他干吗要把它取下来呢?”

  “哦。准是他有了个什么想法吧,你知道的。”

  “什么方面的想法?”

  “哦。我想——你知道吧,我想那说不定是和艾琳有关。那幅画会让艾琳瞧着不舒服。”

  “里面又没有人光屁股。不像波提切利的那幅。”

  因为,的确是有一幅《维纳斯的诞生》的复制品挂在山姆和萨拉的起居室里的。多年前,在他们请一些别的老师来吃晚饭时,这幅画往往是被大家当作有点敏感的笑话来说的。

  “是没有。不过它挺现代。我想这让你爹感到不安。也可能是当艾琳看到它的时候自己也看着它——这使他感到不安。他可能是怕她会觉得——呃,会有点儿瞧不起我们。你知道吧——认为我们有点儿古怪。他不喜欢让艾琳觉得我们是那种人。”

  朱丽叶说:“是会挂那样的画的那种人?你是说他会这么在乎她对我们挂的画有什么想法?”

  “你是了解你爹爹的。”

  “他并不害怕跟别人意见不一样呀。那岂不正是他工作上不顺利的原因吗?”

  “什么?”萨拉说,“啊。是的。他可以跟人家意见不一致。但是有时候他也是小心翼翼的。而且艾琳,艾琳是——他对艾琳是小心翼翼的。艾琳对我们来说是非常可贵的,这个艾琳。”

  “莫非爸爸以为,就因为我们有一幅有点儿怪的图画,艾琳就会辞职不干吗?”

  “这就不好说了,亲爱的。我是很珍惜你送的任何一件东西的。可是你爹……”

  朱丽叶什么都不说了。从她九岁十岁开始一直到大约十四岁,她和萨拉对山姆达成了一个共识:你是知道你爹的。

  那是她们俩作为女人一起共处的那段时间。在家里自己试着烫朱丽叶那头桀骜不驯的细发呀,上过制衣研习班后做出跟任何人全都不一样的服装呀,山姆学校开 会晚回来时照例是拿花生酱—黄油—西红柿加蛋黄酱的三明治作晚餐呀。她们把那些老故事翻来覆去地说个没完,那是关于萨拉过去的男朋友和女朋友的,他们开的 玩笑啦,他们做的游戏啦,那时萨拉也做小学教员,心脏病还不算太严重。还讲比这更早时候的事,那时萨拉因为风湿病发烧躺在床上,自己想象出来一对朋友罗洛 和马克辛,他们能像某些儿童读物里的人物一样破案,甚至能破谋杀案呢。有时又回想起山姆那一次次疯狂的追求,他用借来的汽年闯下什么祸啦,他又如何化装成 流浪汉出现在萨拉的门前啦。

  萨拉和朱丽叶,自己做奶油软糖,在衬裙花边的小孔里扎上一个个蝴蝶结,两个人简直合成了一个人。可是突然有一天,朱丽叶再也不想这样做了,反倒会在深 夜里到厨房去跟山姆聊天,问他一些关于黑洞、冰期和上帝的问题。她讨厌萨拉睁大眼睛用一些自以为很机巧的问题来破坏他们的谈话,她那些打岔总是试图要把话 题扯回到她自己的身上去。这就是谈话非得要在深夜进行的原因,父女俩都有一个共识但是谁都没有捅破过,那就是等我们摆脱开萨拉再说。当然是暂时的。

  而与此相伴还有另外的一个提醒。要好好对待萨拉呀。她是冒了生命的危险才怀上你的,这是值得记住的呀。

  “你爹爹对于地位比他高的人是不怕得罪的,”萨拉说,深深地吸了口气,“不过你知道他是怎么对待比他低的人的。他会做出各种各样的努力使他们觉得他跟他们没有任何区别,他一定要让自己降低到他们的层次——”

  匆匆(8)

  朱丽叶自然是知道的。她知道山姆跟加油站的小伙子是怎么说话的,他在五金店里又是怎样跟人家开玩笑的。不过她什么都没有说。

  “他对他们简直是低声下气地讨好呀。”萨拉突然改变了声调,几乎都有点恶狠狠了,而且还低低咕噜地笑了一声。

  匆匆10

  朱丽叶把推车、佩内洛普以及她自己都好好地清洗了一遍,接着便朝着小镇中心处走去了。她表面上的理由是要买某种牌子的药皂,好用它来洗尿片——如果她用普通肥皂宝宝会起皮疹的。可是她还有别的原因,不可抗拒却有点难以启齿的原因。

  这正是她一生中好几年都走着去上学的那条路。即使她已经上了大学,是回来探亲的,她仍然还是——同样的一个去上学的女孩。她难道就永远都不停止上学了 吗?在她刚获得大学校际拉丁语翻译奖的时候,有人向山姆提了这样的问题,山姆回答说:“恐怕是的吧。”他自己还翻来覆去地讲这个故事。老天爷在上,他可不 会去提奖金什么的事。要提就让萨拉来提好了——虽然萨拉没准都记不起来那是个什么奖了。

  哦,她终于来到这里,在做补偿的工作了。像任何别的年轻女子那样,推着她的娃娃,为洗尿片的肥皂而操心。而且这不仅仅是她的娃娃。这是她的爱女。她有 时候是会这样称呼佩内洛普的,不过只当着埃里克一个人这么说过。他是当笑话听的,她说的时候也像是在说笑话,因为自然,他们生活在一起而且已经有些时候 了,他们是打算一直这样过下去的。就她所知,没有结婚这件事对他们来说并不说明什么问题,而且她自己是经常把这件事忘掉了的。可是有时候——特别是现在, 回到了家里,她没有结婚这件事给了她一种成就感,一种傻乎乎的幸福感。

  “这么说——你今天到街那头去了呀,”山姆说,(他是一直说街那头的吗?萨拉和朱丽叶总是说镇中心的。)“遇见哪个认识的人了吗?”

  “我必须要走一趟药房,”朱丽叶说,“因此我和查理·利特尔聊了几句。”

  谈话是在厨房里进行的,时间已经过了晚上十一点。朱丽叶心想,现在应该把佩内洛普明天要用的奶瓶准备好了。

  “查理小子1吗?”山姆说——朱丽叶忘了,他仍旧保留着他另外的一个习惯,那就是爱用学校里的绰号称呼人,“他夸奖你的孩子了吗?”

  “那当然。”

  “他自然是应该喜欢的。”

  山姆正坐在桌子旁边,喝着一杯黑麦酒,抽着香烟。他喝上威士忌了,这倒是以前没有的事。因为萨拉的父亲过去就是个酒鬼——倒不是个落魄的酒鬼,他一直 在做着兽医的营生,可是因为嗜酒,已经在家中形成了一个恐怖的氛围,足以使女儿对酒精深恶痛绝了——山姆过去顶多在家里喝上一杯啤酒,至少就朱丽叶所知而 言。

  朱丽叶之所以去药房,是因为只有那里才有药皂卖。她没料到会见到查理,虽然这铺子是他家开的。她最后听到的有关他的消息是,他准备当一名工程师。她今 天也跟他提到这件事了,也许有些不太策略吧,可是他倒是很轻松很愉快地告诉她,这个打算最终并没能实现。他肚子都鼓出来了,头发变稀了,也不像以前那样有 波纹和有光泽了。他很热情地和朱丽叶打招呼,把她和婴儿都大大地夸奖了一通,这倒使她有点不好意思,以致在跟他谈话时脸皮和脖颈都有点发热,甚至都冒汗 了。在高中时,他可顾不上搭理她——见面仅仅是一本正经地打个招呼,因为在礼貌上,他倒一直是挺随和的,而且是不因人而异的。他约会时带出去的总是学校里 最招人注意的女孩,他告诉她,现在娶的正是其中的一位,珍尼·皮尔。他们有了两个孩子,一个跟佩内洛普差不多大,另一个稍稍大一些。正因为如此,他坦率地 说——他之所以这么坦率似乎跟她目前的状态不无关联——才终于没有能当上一名工程师。

  匆匆(9)

  怪不得他有能耐逗得佩内洛普对他露出笑脸并发出咯咯的笑声了,他像一位同是当父母的人那样跟朱丽叶聊天,好像他们彼此彼此,都是同一个档次的人。她还 像个白痴似的觉得很受用也很高兴。可是他还注意到了别的一些事——他朝她没带戒指的左手瞟了一眼,对他自己的婚姻作了些打趣,还有其他的一些事情。他心下 里暗自地赞赏她,也许是因为他看到的是一个展现大胆性生活成果的女子。况且这还不是别人,而是朱丽叶,那个书呆子,那位女学究。

  “她像你吧?”他蹲下来细看佩内洛普时问道。

  “像她爸爸的地方更多一些。”朱丽叶随便地说了一句,只觉得心中充满了骄傲,连上唇那儿都冒出汗珠子来了。

  “真是这样的吗?”查理站直了身子,一边很机密似的说,“不过,我得告诉你一件事儿。我认为这不太像话……”

  朱丽叶对山姆说:“他告诉我,他认为不太像话,是跟你有关的什么事儿。”

  “他这么说的?那你又是怎么对他说的?”

  “我不知道该说些什么。我不明白他所指的是什么事。但我又不想让他知道我不明白。”

  “是啊。”

  她在桌子边上坐了下来。“我想喝一杯,但是我不喜欢威士忌。”

  “你现在也喝上了?”

  “就喝葡萄酒。我们自己酿葡萄酒。在海湾那儿每户人家都自己酿做。”

  然后他跟她说了一个笑话,要是在以前,他是绝对不会跟她说这类笑话的。它讲的是一对夫妇住进一家汽车旅馆,故事的最后一句是:“因此,就像我在主日学校里跟女孩子讲的那样——你是无需既喝酒又抽烟才能享受到美好时光的。”

  她大声笑了,可是觉得自己的脸皮发烫了,就像跟查理在一起时一样。

  “你干吗要辞职呢?”她说,“是因为我才泄气的吗?”

  “唉,得了吧。”山姆笑着说,“别把自己估计得那么高。我没有泄气。我不是被开除的。”

  “那好吧。你是自己辞职的。”

  “我自己辞掉的。”

  “那样做就跟我一点儿关系都没有?”

  “我辞职,是因为我厌烦了老把自己的脖子伸在那个套索里。我想辞职已经不止一年两年了。”

  “就跟我没有一点关系吗?”

  “好吧,”山姆说,“我跟别人争吵了一场。老是有人乱说别人的坏话。”

  “说什么?”

  “你没有必要知道。”

  过了片刻,他又接着说:“你不用担心,他们没有开除我。他们也没法开除我。是有条例规定的。就像我跟你说的那样——反正我早就不想干了。”

  “可是你不明白,”朱丽叶说,“你不明白。你不明白这样做是多么的愚蠢,住在这样的一个地方又是多么的让人生气,这儿的人总是那样地议论人,可如果我告诉他们我知道这一点的话,他们又是绝对不肯相信。仿佛这是一个笑话似的。”

  “可是,不幸的是你母亲和我不是住在你的那个地方。我们是生活在这里。你的那个男人也会认为这是一个笑话吗?今天晚上我不想再谈这件事了,我要上床睡了。我先去看看你母亲,然后我也要睡了。”

  “旅客列车——”朱丽叶说,精力仍然很旺盛,肚子里的气也还没发泄完,“在这儿仍然是有一站的。不是这样吗?你不想让我们在这儿下车。对不对?”

  对她的这个问题,正走出房间的父亲没有回答。

  匆匆(10)

  小镇最边缘处的一盏街灯的光此刻正落在朱丽叶的床上。那棵大大的软木枫树早给砍了,现在顶替它的是山姆种了大黄的药田。昨天晚上她是把窗帘拉紧免得灯 光照在床上的,可是今天晚上,她觉得自己需要室外的空气。因此她把枕头移到床脚那边,挨着佩内洛普——尽管灯光直直地打在脸上,孩子已经睡得像个天使那样 了。

  她真希望方才是喝了点儿威士忌的。她僵僵地躺着,既沮丧又气愤,肚子里在打着一封写给埃里克的信的腹稿。我不明白自己来这里是干什么的,我根本就不应该来,我现在迫不及待地想要回家。

  回家。

  匆匆13

  早晨,天还没有怎么亮,她就听到了真空吸尘器的声音。接着她听到了一个声音——山姆的声音——打断了吸尘器的声音,再后来她一定是又睡着了。等她再一次醒来,她想方才一定是在做梦。否则的话佩内洛普应该会被吵醒的,可是孩子并没有醒。

  今天早上厨房里凉快了一些,不再是一屋子都是炖水果的气味了。艾琳在给果酱瓶准备方格布的罩子和预备贴到瓶子上去的标签。

  “我好像是听到了你在用吸尘器的声音,”朱丽叶说,想让气氛变得轻松一些,“我肯定是做梦了吧。那会儿才清晨五点来钟。”

  艾琳没有立即回答。她正在写一个标签。她写的时候精神高度集中,牙齿紧紧地咬着嘴唇。

  “是她,”她写完后说道,“她把你爹吵醒了,你爹只好起来去阻止她。”

  这好像不大可能嘛。昨天,萨拉只有在要上厕所的时候才会起床的呀。

  “他告诉我的,”艾琳说,“她半夜醒来,认为自己该干点什么活儿,于是你爹不得不起床去拉住她。”

  “那么她精力还是很充沛的啰。”朱丽叶说。

  “可不是吗。”艾琳又在写另一张标签了。这张写好后,她把脸转向朱丽叶。

  “她是想吵醒你爹,引起注意,就是这么回事。他都累得要死了,可是不得不起来照顾她。”

  朱丽叶把身子转开去。她不想把佩内洛普放下来——好像孩子在这里不安全似的——所以把孩子搁在一边的腿上,同时用只汤勺去把鸡蛋捞出来,就用一只手去磕开它,剥了皮,再把它碾碎。

  她喂佩内洛普时不敢说话,生怕自己的声音会惊吓了孩子,使她哭起来。这样做感染了艾琳。她也压低了自己的声音——不过仍然是气鼓鼓的,“他们就是这样。他们发病的时候连自己也控制不住。他们光是想到自己,也不为别人考虑考虑。”

  萨拉的眼睛是闭着的,可是很快就睁开来了。“哦,我的好宝贝儿,”她说,仿佛是在自嘲似的,“我的朱丽叶。我的佩内洛普。”

  佩内洛普似乎对她一点点习惯了。至少今天早上没有哭,也没有把小脸扭开。

  “哪,”萨拉说,伸手去取一本她的杂志,“把她放下,让她来干这个活儿。”

  佩内洛普起先像是有点犹豫不决,但紧接着就揪住一页纸,使劲地撕扯起来。

  “干得不错呀,”萨拉说,“小娃娃没有不喜欢撕扯杂志的。我记得的。”

  床头那张椅子上放着一碗麦乳精,几乎没怎么动过。

  “你早饭都还没有吃吗?”朱丽叶说,“你是不是不想吃这个?”

  萨拉看着那只碗,仿佛是有个严重的问题待她解决,不过她还没有想好。

  “我不记得了。是的,我琢磨着我是不想吃这个。”她轻声咯咯地笑着,仿佛有点诧异似的,“谁知道呢?我忽然觉得,她没准想毒死我呢。”

  匆匆(11)

  “我只不过是在说笑话,”平静下来之后,她又说道,“不过她真的是很凶狠的呀。这个艾琳。我们绝对不应该低估——这个艾琳。你看到她胳膊上的那些毛了吗?”

  “就跟猫的毛似的。”朱丽叶说。

  “也像是臭鼬的。”

  “我们只能希望这样的毛一根也别掉到果酱里去。”

  “别让我——别让我再笑了——”

  佩内洛普撕杂志撕得很专心,因此朱丽叶放心让她留在萨拉的房间里,自己将麦乳精端到厨房里去。她一句话没说,便做起一份蛋奶酒来。艾琳出出进进,把一 箱箱果酱瓶放到汽车里去。在后台阶上,山姆正在用水管将新挖出来的土豆上粘着的泥土冲刷掉。他唱起歌来了——一开始声音太轻,没有人能听清他的歌词;接 着,当艾琳走上台阶时,他的声音变得响了一些。

  艾琳,晚——安——安,

  艾琳,晚安,

  晚安,艾琳,晚安,艾琳,

  我会在梦中见到你。

  艾琳此时正在厨房里,她呼地转过身,大声喝道:“别唱说我的事儿的这首歌子。”

  “哪首歌说你的事儿啦?”山姆说,装出很吃惊的样子,“谁在唱说你事儿的歌啦?”

  “就是你。你方才唱了。”

  “哦——那首歌呀。那支说艾琳的歌吗?歌里的那个女孩?天哪——我忘了那也是你的名字了。”

  他又唱起来了,不过是在偷偷地哼唱。艾琳站着在听,脸涨得通红,胸脯一起一伏,单等听到歌词里的一个字她就要马上扑过来了。

  “不许你唱跟我有关系的歌。如果里面有我的名字,那就是跟我有关。”

  突然间,山姆放大嗓音唱起来了。

  上周六夜晚我举行婚礼,

  我跟我太太安顿下来——

  “停住。你给我停住!”艾琳喊着,双目圆睁,满脸通红,“你要是再不停下,我可要出来用水管来冲你了。”

  山姆这天下午要给下了订单的几家食品杂货铺和一两家礼品商店去送货。他邀请朱丽叶跟他一块去。之前他已经去过五金店,为佩内洛普买了一把崭新的婴儿坐椅。

  “这件东西咱们家阁楼里是不会有的,”他说,“你小的时候,我还不知道有这样的设备呢。而且,买来也没法用。我们当时没有车。”

  “这坐椅挺时尚的,”朱丽叶说,“我希望不至于太贵吧。”

  “值不了几个钱。”山姆说,弯了弯身子请她上车。

  艾琳正在地里接着采集蓝莓。那是准备做馅饼用的。山姆把喇叭按响了两下,在车子开动时又挥了挥手,艾琳决定给予回应,她举起了一只胳膊,那动作似乎是在轰赶一只苍蝇。

  “那可是个好姑娘呀,”山姆说,“我不知道没有了她我们怎么能活下去。不过我猜她对待你挺粗暴。”

  “我跟她才刚刚认得呢。”

  “可不。她吓着你了吧。”

  “哪能够呢。”朱丽叶尽量想找出句夸奖的、至少是不带贬损的话来评论艾琳,于是问起艾琳的丈夫是怎么在养鸡场出事丧生的。

  “我不知道他是那种罪犯型的人呢,还是仅仅就是很不成熟。总之,他跟几个小混混搅到一起,他们打算顺手偷一些鸡,捞点外快,自然,他们触动了警报系统,鸡场主人拿了把枪出来,不管那人是不是有意要开枪打他,反正——”

  “我的上帝呀。”

  “艾琳和她的公公婆婆告到法院,可是那位农民被判无罪。自然会这样判的。不过对于艾琳来说,必定是打击很大。即使那个丈夫不像是什么好东西。”

  匆匆(12)

  朱丽叶说,显然是这样的,接着又问,艾琳是不是他在学校里教过的学生。

  “不,不,不。她几乎没怎么上过学,就我所知。”

  他说艾琳自己的家庭原来是在北方,在亨茨维尔附近。是的。是那儿附近的一个什么地方。有一天全家进城。父亲、母亲,还有孩子们。那位父亲告诉他们他有 些事情要做,一会儿之后再跟他们会合。他还告诉他们会合的地点和时间。于是大家走开去逛了——也没有钱可花——一直等到约定的时间。可是他就是没有露面。

  “是根本没想露面。把他们遗弃了。因此他们只好依靠福利救济度日了。住在穷乡僻壤的一个棚屋里——那儿过日子花费少些。艾琳的大姐,据我了解,那可是 一家的顶梁柱,起的作用比母亲还大——却因为阑尾炎急性发作死了。当时根本无法送她进城,因为遇到了暴风雪,他们又没有电话。之后艾琳就不想再回到学校 了,因为过去都是大姐保护着她,不让别的孩子欺侮她们。现在,她好像什么都不在乎的吧,可是我想她一开始并不就是这样的。没准即使现在,在更多情况下这也 只是一种假象。”

  现在,山姆说,是由艾琳的母亲帮着带艾琳的小男孩和小女孩,可是你猜怎么着,过了那么多年之后那位父亲居然又出现了,而且还想让母亲回到自己身边去,如果真的会这样,艾琳就不知道怎样办才好了,因为她不想让自己的孩子受他的影响。

  “他们是挺聪明的孩子。那个小姑娘有上颚开裂的毛病,已经动过一次手术,不过以后还得再动一次。她会完全治好的。不过还有一件事情。”

  还有一件事情。

  朱丽叶倒是怎么的啦?她丝毫都没有产生真正的同情心。她感到自己,在心底深处,是在抵制这个可怕的长篇悲情故事。当故事里提到开裂的上颚时,她真心想做的是,哀叹一声,行了,别再往下说了。

  她知道自己是不对的,可是这种感觉就是不肯退去。她害怕再说上一句,她的嘴就会将她那颗冷酷的心如实暴露了。她担心自己会对山姆说:“这整件不幸的事 又有什么了不得的呢,莫非能使她成为一位圣徒?”或者她会说出那句最最不可原谅的话:“我希望你不是想让我们卷入到那种人的是非堆里去吧。”

  “我想让你知道的是,”山姆说,“她来我们家帮忙的时候也正是我一筹莫展的当口。去年秋天,你母亲的情况简直是糟糕透了。倒并不是她什么都不想干了。 不是的。如果真是那样倒会好一些。她什么都不干那样只会更好。她的情况是,她开始干一件事,接着又干不下去了。老是这样,一遍遍地这样重复。这倒不完全是 新出现的情况。我是说,我一向是老得跟在后面帮她收尾的,既要照顾她还得打理她没能干完的家务活。我和你都得这样——记得吧?她永远都是这么一位心脏有毛 病的漂亮娇小姐,老得让人伺候着。这么多年来,我有时也想过,她本来是应该更加努力一些的。”

  “可是情况变得那么糟糕,”他说,“糟糕得我下班回家时只见洗衣机给拖到厨房的当中,湿衣服掉得一地都是。或者是她在烤什么东西,烤到一半又不管了, 东西在烤箱里都结成了煳嘎巴。我真害怕她会让火烧到自己,会把房子烧着。我一遍一遍地对她说,你就躺在床上得了。可是她不肯,接下去又是把?情弄得一团 糟,然后大哭一场。我试着请了一个又一个的小姑娘来帮忙,可是她们就是对付不了她。最后,总算是请到了这一位——艾琳。”

  匆匆(13)

  “艾琳,”他说,粗粗地出了一口气,“我为那一天而感恩。我告诉你,我为那个日子而感恩呀。”

  可是就像天底下所有的好事一样,他说,这样的好事也必定会有一个终结的。艾琳打算结婚了。要嫁给一个四五十岁的鳏夫。是个农民。据说还有几个钱,为了艾琳着想,山姆希望这是真的。因为这个男人身上是再找不出什么值得一提的好处来了。

  “凭良心说,他根本没有什么好处。就我所见到的,他满嘴上上下下就只剩下一颗牙齿了。不是什么好征兆呀,依我看。不是太傲慢了就是太吝啬了,所以不愿意安假牙。想想看——像她那么好看的一个姑娘。”

  “打算在什么时候?”

  “秋天的什么日子吧。反正是在秋天。”

  佩内洛普一直都在睡——几乎在他们刚开动汽车以后她就在她的幼儿坐椅里睡着了。前面的车窗是开着的,朱丽叶能闻到新收割和打捆的干草的香味——现如今,再没人打干草套了。田野里还孤零零地矗立着几棵榆树,它们现在也算是难得见到的好景色了。

  他们在由沿着狭谷里的一条街所形成的一个村子里停了下来。山岩从狭谷的壁上露了出来——这儿是方圆好些英里内唯一能见到这样的大块岩石的地方。朱丽叶 记得以前来过,当时这儿还有个买票才能进入的特殊公园呢。公园里有一个饮水喷泉、一间茶室,茶室里供应草莓奶油酥饼和冰激淋——当然还会有别的东西,不过 她记不得了。岩石上的山洞用的便是《白雪公主》中七个小矮人的名字。当时山姆和萨拉坐在喷泉旁边的草地上吃冰激淋,而她却急着奔到前面去察看一个又一个山 洞。(其实真的没什么看头——洞都很浅。)她要他们和自己一起去,当时山姆说:“你知道你母亲是爬不了山的。”

  “你自己跑过去吧,”萨拉当时这么说道,“回来后把见到的一切都告诉我们。”她是盛装出行的。一条黑色的塔夫绸裙子围绕着她在草地上铺开,形成一个圆圈。那时候是管这种裙子叫作芭蕾女演员舞裙的。

  那肯定是一个具有特殊意义的日子。

  等山姆从商店里出来后朱丽叶便问他这件事。他起先记不得了。可是后来又想起来了。裙子是从一家专门敲竹杠的商店买的,他说。他不知道从什么时候起那家店就不见了。

  朱丽叶沿街一路都找不到有喷泉或茶室的痕迹。

  “是给我们带来安宁与秩序的人哪。”山姆说,朱丽叶过了片刻才明白他仍然是在讲艾琳的事。“她什么活儿都愿意干。给园子割草啦、锄地啦。而且不管干什么都是尽量干好,好像干这活是得到了一个特权似的。这正是永远使我惊讶的地方。”

  使他感到轻松的能是一个什么日子呢?是谁的生日吗?或是结婚纪念日?

  山姆持续不断地,甚至是很庄严地往下说,他的声音甚至都压过了汽车上坡时的挣扎声。

  “是她,恢复了我对女性的信心呀。”

  山姆每冲进一家店铺之前都对朱丽叶说他用不了一分钟就会出来,可是却总是过了好一阵子才回来,并且解释说他脱不开身。大伙儿都要跟他聊天,他们积了一肚子的笑话要说给他听。还有几个人跟着他出来,要看看他的女儿和小宝贝。

  “那么说,这就是那位会说拉丁语的姑娘了。”一位太太说。

  “这一阵已经有些丢生了,”山姆说,“她现在正忙着别的事情呢。”

  “那肯定是的,”那位太太说,同时弯下了脖子去看佩内洛普,“可孩子们岂不是上帝赐予的好宝贝吗?哎唷,多么可爱呀。”

  朱丽叶曾经想过,她是不是该跟山姆谈一谈她打算继续做下去的那篇论文——虽然目前对她来说这仅仅是一个梦。过去,她和父亲之间总是能很自然地谈到这些 问题。但是跟萨拉却不行。萨拉会说:“好,现在,你该跟我讲讲你学习方面进展得怎么样了。”可是当朱丽叶概括地向她介绍时,萨拉却会问朱丽叶,她是怎么能 记清楚所有这些希腊名字的。不过山姆能理解她所讲的是怎么一回事。在学院念书时她告诉别人,她父亲曾给她解释过thaumaturgy1这个词的

  意思,当时她只有十二三岁,初次读到这个词。别人问,她父亲是不是一位学者。

  “当然,”她说,“他教六年级呢。”

  现在她有一种感觉,他隐隐中有意想贬低她的水平。这意图没准还不太隐晦呢。他可能会运用airy-fairy2这样的文词儿。或是说他

  忘记某件事是怎么回事了,要她告诉他。然而她相信他不可能忘记。

  不过也许他真的是忘记了。他意识中的某些房间的门关上了,窗户被遮住了——那里面的东西被他认为是太无用、太不光彩,因此也无需重见天日了。

  朱丽叶的口气说出来时比她原先设想的更为生硬。

  “她想结婚吗?那个艾琳?”

  这个问题着实让山姆吓了一跳,她用的是那样的口气,又是在沉默了挺长时间之后。

  “我不知道。”他说。

  可是过了一会儿,他又说:“我看不出来她怎么能做得到。”

  “你问她去呀,”朱丽叶说,“你必定是想问的,既然对她那么有意思。”

  他们驱车走了一两英里之后他才再次开口说话。很明显她是伤着他了。

  “我不知道你在说些什么。”他说。

  ……

  译后记

  《逃离》(RUNAWAY)一书出版于2004年,全书由八个短篇小说组成,其中的三篇互有关联。作者艾丽丝·门罗(Alice Munro,1931—),是加拿大当代有名的女作家,以擅写短篇小说而闻名。近年来,在美国的重要文学刊物如《纽约客》、《大西洋月刊》、《巴黎评论》 上,都可以经常读到她的作品。美国一年一度出版的《××××年最佳短篇小说集》中,也多次收入她的作品。她几乎每隔两三年便有新的小说集出版,曾三次获得 加拿大最重要的总督奖,两次获得吉勒奖。2004年第二次获吉勒奖即是因为这本《逃离》,评委们对此书的赞语是:“故事令人难忘,语言精确而有独到之处, 朴实而优美,读后令人回味无穷。”奖金为二万五千加元。门罗还得到过别的一些奖项。另据报道,法国《读书》杂志一年一度所推荐的最佳图书中,2008年所 推荐的“外国短篇小说集”,即是门罗的这本《逃离》。我国的《世界文学》等刊物也多次对她的作品有过翻译与评介。可以说,门罗在英语小说界的地位已经得到 确立,在英语短篇小说创作方面更可称得上“力拔头筹”,已经有人在称呼她是“我们的契诃夫,而且文学生命将延续得比她大多数的同时代人都长”(美国着名女 作家辛西娅·奥齐克语)。英国很有影响的女作家A.S.拜雅特亦赞誉她为“在世的最伟大的短篇小说作家”,从拜雅特的口气看,她所指的范围应当已经远远超 出单纯的英语文学世界。

  门罗出生于安大略省西南部的一个小镇——这类地方也往往成为她作品中故事发生的地理背景。她1951年离开西安大略大学,后随丈夫来到不列颠哥伦比亚 省,先在温哥华居住,后又在省会维多利亚开过一家“门罗书店”。1972年门罗回到安大略省,与第二任丈夫一起生活。门罗是她第一任丈夫的姓,但仍为她发 表作品时沿用。

  门罗最早出版的一部短篇小说集叫《快乐影子之舞》(1968),即得到了加拿大重要的文学奖总督奖。她的短篇小说集有《我青年时期的朋友》 (1973)、《你以为你是谁?》(1978,亦得总督奖)、《爱的进程》(1986,第三次得总督奖)、《公开的秘密》(1994)、《一个善良女子的 爱》(1996)、《憎恨、友谊、求爱、爱恋、婚姻》(2001)、《逃离》(2004)等,2006年出版的《石城远望》是她最新的一部作品集。她亦曾 出版过一部叫《少女们和妇人们的生活》(1973)的长篇小说,似乎倒不大被提起。看来,她还是比较擅写短篇小说,特别是篇幅稍长,几乎接近中篇的作品。 所反映的内容则是小地方普通人特别是女性的隐含悲剧命运的平凡生活。她自己也说:“我想让读者感受到的惊人之处,不是‘发生了什么’,而是发生的方式。稍 长的短篇小说对我最为合适。”

  我们在多读了一些门罗的短篇小说之后,会感觉到,她的作品除了故事吸引人,人物形象鲜明,也常有“含泪的笑”这类已往大师笔下的重要因素之外,还另有 一些新的素质。英国的《新政治家》周刊曾在评论中指出:“门罗的分析、感觉与思想的能力,在准确性上几乎达到了普鲁斯特的高度。”这自然是一个重要方面。 别的批评家还指出她在探究人类灵魂上的深度与灵敏性。她的作品都有很强的“浓缩性”,每一篇四五十页的短篇,让别的作家来写,也许能敷陈成一部几十万字的 长篇小说。另外,也有人指出,在她的小说的表面之下,往往潜伏着一种阴森朦胧的悬念。这恐怕就与她对人的命运、对现代世界中存在着一些神秘莫测之处的看法 不无关系了。当然,作为一位女作家,她对女性观察的细致与深刻也是值得称道的。门罗的另一特点是,随着年龄的增长,她的作品倒似乎越来越醇厚有味了,反正 到目前为止,仍然未显露出一些衰颓的迹象。

  我国的《世界文学》2007年1期对《逃离》一书作了介绍,并发表了对门罗的一篇访谈录,此文对了解作家与《逃离》一书都很有帮助,值得参考。

  据悉,1980年代,门罗曾访问过中国。

  因为工作的关系,译者曾稍多接触加拿大文学,并编译过一本现代加拿大诗选(与人合作)。上世纪八十年代初(?)时,曾参加创建我国的加拿大研究会,也 算是该组织的一个“founding member”了,而且还曾忝为“副会长”之一。承加拿大方面的友好邀请,我曾经三次赴加拿大进行学术访问,除到过多伦多、渥太华、温哥华、魁北克、蒙特 利尔等地外,还一路东行直到大西洋边上的哈利法克斯乃至海中的爱德华王子岛。过去自己虽译介过不少加拿大诗歌(现在怕都很难找到了),但细细想来,翻译小 说似乎还真是头一遭。倘若读者透过我的迻译,能多多少少感受到加拿大独特的自然社会风貌,体验到那里普通男男女女的思想感情并引起共鸣,那么对我个人来 说,乘此机会,对加拿大人民友好情谊作出一些微薄回报的夙愿,也就算是没有落空了。
 
诺奖得主门罗代表作《逃离》全文

  据新华社消息,2013年诺贝尔文学奖于瑞典当地时间10月10日下午1时(北京时间10月10日晚7时)揭晓,加拿大作家艾丽丝·门罗(Alice Munro)获此殊荣,新书《亲爱的生活》 dear life也将于近日由新经典文化推出。
  艾丽丝·门罗最新作品《亲爱的生活》(2012年11月发行英文版)依然是讲平凡人的生活。通 过短暂的瞬间讲人的一生。错过的机会、命运的捉弄,使人偏离原先的轨迹,改变一个人的想法。一个富有的年轻女孩和处理父亲遗产的已婚律师相恋,结果陷入绑 架事件。一个年轻的士兵离开战场,回家去找未婚妻,却在路上碰到另一个女人,和她坠入爱河……
  故事仍然发生在加拿大小镇,门罗的家乡,休伦湖附近。门罗曾说:“书里所描写的那些感觉很大一部分都是自传性的。”人物形象鲜明、生动,文笔令人赞叹。

  在门罗最为内地读者熟知的作品《逃离》中,门罗用珍珠一般语言则集中关注无数女人一生都不曾留意的细节与情绪,该书一举获得2009布克国际奖。《逃 离》(RUNAWAY)是爱丽丝·门罗2004年的作品,全书由8个短篇小说组成,其中的3篇互有关联。“故事令人难忘,语言精确而有独到之处,朴实而优 美,读后令人回味无穷。”逃离,或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间,就像看戏路上放松的脚步,就像午后窗边怅然的向往。一次次 逃离的闪念,就是这样无法预知,无从招架,或许你早已被它们悄然逆转,或许你早已将它们轻轻遗忘。无论是十八岁从父母家出走如今又打算逃脱丈夫和婚姻的卡 拉;放弃学术生涯,毅然投奔在火车上偶遇的乡间男子朱丽叶;从小与母亲相依为命,某一天忽然消失得再无踪影佩内洛普; 已然谈婚论嫁,却在一念之间与未婚夫的哥哥出逃了一个下午格雷斯……

  艾丽丝•门罗:专着短篇小说 聚焦平凡女性生活

  艾丽丝•门罗(AliceMunro)加拿大着名女作家。以短篇小说闻名全球,入选美国《时代周刊》“世界100名最有影响力的人物”。1931年生 于安大略省温格姆镇,少女时代即开始写小说。她总是将目光流连于平凡女性的生活,从自己和母亲身上寻找灵感,精确地记录她们从少女到人妻与人母,再度过中 年与老年的历程,尤擅贴近女性之性心理的波折与隐情,以及由此而来的身心重负,细致入微,又复杂难解,看似脆弱,却又坚忍顽强。我国的《世界文学》等刊物 也多次对她的作品有过翻译与评介。可以说,门罗在英语小说界的地位已经得到确立,在英语短篇小说创作方面可称得上“力拔头筹”,已经有人在称呼她是“我们 的契诃夫”(美国女作家辛西娅·奥齐克语)。英国女作家A.S。拜厄特亦赞誉她为“在世的最伟大的短篇小说作家”。

  写作特点及作品获奖情况

  美国女作家、普利策奖得主简•斯迈利(JaneSmiley)曾这样称赞门罗的作品“既精妙又准确,几近完美”。 长期居住于荒僻宁静之地,逐渐形成以城郊小镇平凡女子的平凡生活为主题的写作风格。故事背景大多为乡间小镇及其邻里,故事人物和现实中人并无二致,亦经历 出生与死亡、结婚与离异。但泥土芳香的文字背后,却是对成长疼痛与生老病死等严肃话题浓墨重彩的描写。细腻优雅、不施铅华的文字和简洁精致、宽广厚重的情 节,常常给人“于无声处听惊雷”的莫大震撼。艾丽丝•门罗始终以严谨的态度对待文学,努力去写伟大的小说。她写30页短篇所用的心力,如斯迈利女士所言, 足可抵得上某些作家写出整本长篇。她在文坛的地位,被比作当代契诃娃——契诃夫的女传人。在40余年的文学生涯中,门罗女士始终执着地写作短篇小说,锤炼 技艺,并以此屡获大奖,其中包括三次加拿大总督奖,两次吉勒奖,以及英联邦作家奖、欧亨利奖、笔会/马拉穆德奖和美国全国书评人奖等。每年秋天的诺贝尔文 学奖猜谜大赛中,她的大名必在候选人之列。

*******

  逃离,或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间,就像看戏路上放松的脚步,就像午后窗边怅然的向往。

  卡拉,十八岁从父母家出走,如今又打算逃脱丈夫和婚姻;

  朱丽叶,放弃学术生涯,毅然投奔在火车上偶遇的乡间男子;

  佩内洛普,从小与母亲相依为命,某一天忽然消失得再无踪影;

  格雷斯,已然谈婚论嫁,却在一念之间与未婚夫的哥哥出逃了一个下午……

  逃离

  在汽车还没有翻过小山——附近的人都把这稍稍隆起的土堆称为小山——的顶部时,卡拉就已经听到声音了。那是她呀,她想。是贾米森太太——西尔维亚—— 从希腊度假回来了。她站在马厩房门的后面——只是在更靠内里一些的地方,这样就不至于一下子让人瞥见——朝贾米森太太驾车必定会经过的那条路望过去,贾米 森太太就住在这条路上她和克拉克的家再进去半英里路的地方。

  倘若开车的人是准备拐向他们家大门的,车子现在应当减速了。可是卡拉仍然在抱着希望。但愿那不是她呀。

  那就是她。贾米森太太的头扭过来了一次,速度很快——她得集中精力才能对付这条让雨水弄得满处是车辙和水坑的砾石路呢——可是她并没有从方向盘上举起 一只手来打招呼,她并没有看见卡拉。卡拉瞥见了一只裸到肩部的晒成棕褐色的胳膊,比先前颜色更淡一些的头发——白的多了一些而不是以前的那种银褐色了,还 有那副表情,很决断和下了狠劲的样子,却又为自己这么认真而暗自好笑——贾米森太太在跟这样的路况死死纠缠的时候表情总是这样的。在她扭过头来的时候脸上 似乎有一瞬间闪了一下亮——是在询问,也是在希望——这使卡拉的身子不禁往后缩了缩。

  情况就是这样。

  也许克拉克还不知道呢。如果他是在摆弄电脑,那就一定是背对着窗户和这条路的。

  不过贾米森太太很可能还会开车出去的。她从飞机场开车回家,也许并没有停下来去买食物——她应该径直回到家里,想好需要买些什么,然后再出去一趟。那 时候克拉克可能会见到她。而且天黑之后,她家里的灯也会亮起来的。不过此刻是七月,天要很晚才会黑。她也许太累了,灯不开就早早儿上床了。

  再说了,她还会打电话的。从现在起,什么时候都可能会打的。

  这是个雨下得没完没了的夏天。早上醒来,你听到的第一个声音就是雨声,很响地打在活动房子屋顶上的声音。小路上泥泞很深,长长的草吸饱了水,头上的树 叶也会浇下来一片小阵雨,即使此时天上并没有真的在下雨,阴云也仿佛正在飘散。卡拉每次出门,都要戴一顶高高的澳大利亚宽边旧毡帽,并且把她那条又粗又长 的辫子和衬衫一起掖在腰后。

  来练习骑马的客人连一个都没有,虽然克拉克和卡拉没少走路,在他们能想起来的所有野营地、咖啡屋里都树起了广告牌,在旅行社的海报栏里也都贴上了广 告。只有很少几个学生来上骑马课,那都是长期班的老学员,而不是来休假的成群结队的小学生,那一客车又一客车来夏令营的小家伙呀,去年一整个夏天两人的生 计就是靠他们才得以维持的。即令是两人视为命根子的长期班老学员现在也大都出外度假去了,或是因为天气太差而退班了。如果他们电话来得迟了些,克拉克还要 跟他们把账算清楚,该收的钱一个都不能少。有几个学员嘀嘀咕咕表示不满,以后就再也不露面了。

  从寄养在他们这儿的三匹马身上,他们还能得些收益。这三匹马,连同他们自己的那四匹,此刻正放养在外面的田野里,在树底下四处啃草觅食。它们的神情似 乎都懒得去管雨暂时歇住了,这种情况在下午是会出现片刻的,也就是刚能勾起你的希望罢了——云变得白了一些,薄了一些,透过来一些散漫的亮光,它们却永远 也不会凝聚成真正的阳光,而且一般总是在晚饭之前就收敛了。

  卡拉已经清完了马厩里的粪便。她做得不慌不忙的——她喜欢干日常杂活时的那种节奏,喜欢畜棚屋顶底下那宽阔的空间,以及这里的气味。现在她又走到环形训练跑道那里去看看地上够不够干,说不定五点钟一班的学员还会来呢。

  通常,一般的阵雨都不会下得特别大,或是随着带来什么风,可是上星期突然出现异象,树顶上刮过一阵大风,接着一阵让人睁不开眼睛的大雨几乎从横斜里扫 过来。一刻钟以内,暴风雨就过去了。可是路上落满了树枝,高压电线断了,环形跑道顶上有一大片塑料屋顶给扯松脱落了。跑道的一头积起了一片像湖那么大的水 潭,克拉克只得天黑之后加班干活,以便挖出一条沟来把水排走。

  屋顶至今未能修复,克拉克只能用绳子编起一张网,不让马匹走到泥潭里去,卡拉则用标志拦出一条缩短些的跑道。

  就在此刻,克拉克在网上寻找有什么地方能买到做屋顶的材料。可有某个清仓处理尾货的铺子,开的价是他们能够承受的,或是有没有什么人要处理这一类的二 手货。他再也不去镇上的那家海—罗伯特·伯克利建材商店了,他已经把那店改称为海—鸡奸犯·捞大利商店,因为他欠了他们不少钱,而且还跟他们打过一架。

  克拉克不单单跟他欠了钱的人打架。他上一分钟跟你还显得挺友好的——那原本也是装出来的——下一分钟说翻脸就翻脸。有些地方他现在不愿进去了,他总是 让卡拉去,就是因为他跟那儿的人吵过架。药房就是这样的一个地方。有位老太太在他站的队前面加塞——其实她是去取她忘了要买的一样什么东西,回来时站回到 他的前面而没有站到队尾去,他便嘀嘀咕咕抱怨起来了,那收银员对他说,“她有肺气肿呢。”克拉克就接茬说,“是吗,我还一身都有毛病呢。”后来经理也让他 给叫出来了,他硬要经理承认对自己不公平。还有,公路边上的一家咖啡店没给他打广告上承诺的早餐折扣,因为时间已经过了十一点,克拉克便跟他们吵了起来, 还把外带的一杯咖啡摔到地上——就差那么一点点,店里的人说,就会泼到推车里一个小娃娃的身上了。他则说那孩子离自己足足有半英里远呢,而且他没拿住杯子 是因为没给他杯套。店里说他自己没说要杯套。他说这种事本来就是不需要特地关照的。

  “你脾气也太火爆了。”卡拉说。

  “脾气不火爆还算得上是男子汉吗?”

  她还没提他跟乔依·塔克吵架的事呢。乔依·塔克是镇上的女图书馆员,把自己的马寄养在他们这里。那是一匹脾气很躁的栗色小母马,名叫丽姬——乔依·塔 克爱逗乐的时候就管它叫丽姬·博登。昨天她来骑过马了,当时正碰到她脾气不顺,便抱怨说棚顶怎么还没修好,还说丽姬看上去状态不佳,是不是着凉了呀。

  其实丽姬并没有什么问题。克拉克倒是——对他来说已经是很不容易了——想要息事宁人的。可是接下来发火的反而是乔依·塔克,她指责说这块地方简直就是 片垃圾场,出了这么多钱丽姬不该受到这样的待遇,于是克拉克说,“那就悉听尊便吧。”乔依倒没有——或者是还没有——当即就把丽姬领回去,卡拉本来料想会 这样。可是原来总把这匹小母马当作自己小宠物的克拉克却坚决不想再跟它有任何牵扯了。自然,丽姬在感情上也受到了伤害。在练习的时候总是跟你闹别扭,你要 清理它的蹄子时它便乱踢乱蹬。马蹄是每天都必须清的,否则里面会长霉菌。卡拉得提防着被它瞅冷子咬上一口。

  不过让卡拉最不开心的一件事还得说是弗洛拉的丢失了,那是只小小的白山羊,老是在畜棚和田野里跟几匹马做伴。有两天都没见到它的踪影了。卡拉担心它会不会是被野狗、土狼叼走了,没准还是撞上熊了呢。

  昨天晚上还有前天晚上她都梦见弗洛拉了。在第一个梦里,弗洛拉径直走到床前,嘴里叼着一只红苹果,而在第二个梦里——也就是在昨天晚上——它看到卡拉 过来,就跑了开去。它一条腿似乎受了伤,但它还是跑开去了。它引导卡拉来到一道铁丝网栅栏的跟前,也就是某些战场上用的那一种,接下去它——也就是弗洛拉 ——从那底下钻过去了,受伤的脚以及整个身子,就像一条白鳗鱼似的扭着身子钻了过去,然后就不见了。

  那些马匹看到卡拉穿过去上了环形马道,便全都簇拥着来到栏杆边上——显得又湿又脏,尽管它们身上披有新西兰毛毯——好让她走回来的时候能注意到它们。 她轻轻地跟它们说话,对于手里没带吃的表示抱歉。她抚摩它们的脖颈,蹭蹭它们的鼻子,还问它们可知道弗洛拉有什么消息。

  格雷斯和朱尼珀喷了喷气,又伸过鼻子来顶她,好像它们认出了这个名字并想为她分忧似的,可是这时丽姬从它们之间插了进来,把格雷斯的脑袋从卡拉的手边顶了开去。它还进而把她的手轻轻咬了一下,卡拉只得又花了些时间来指责它。

  匆匆(1)

  两个侧面彼此相对。其中之一是一头纯白色小母牛脸的一侧,有着特别温柔安详的表情,另外的那个则是一个绿面人的侧面,这人既不年轻也不年老,看来像是 个小公务员,也许是个邮差——他戴的是那样的制帽。他嘴唇颜色很淡,眼白部分却闪闪发亮。一只手,也许就是他的手,从画的下端献上一棵小树或是一根茂密的 枝子,上面结的果子则是一颗颗的宝石。

  画的上端是一片乌云,底下是坐落在一片凹凸不平的土坡上的几所歪歪斜斜的小房子和一座玩具教堂,教堂上还插着个玩具十字架。土坡上有个小小的人儿(所 用的比例要比房子的大上一些)目的很明确地往前走着,肩膀上扛着一把长镰刀,一个大小跟他差不多的妇人似乎在等候他,不过她却是头足颠倒的。

  画里还有别的东西。比方说,一个姑娘在给一头奶牛挤奶,但那是画在小母牛面颊上的。

  朱丽叶立刻决定要买这张印刷的图片,作为圣诞节送给她父母亲的礼物。

  “因为它使我想起了他们。”她对克里斯塔说,那是陪她从鲸鱼湾来到这儿买东西的一个朋友。她们此刻是在温哥华画廊的礼品商店里。

  克里斯塔笑了。“那个绿颜色的人和那头母牛吗?他们会感到不胜荣幸的。”

  克里斯塔对任何事情一开头总是不肯一本正经,非得对它调侃上几句才肯放过。朱丽叶倒一点儿也不在乎。她怀着三个月的身孕——肚子里那个胎儿就是日后的 佩内洛普了,忽然之间,让她不舒服的反应一下子全都没有了,为了这一点以及别的原因,她每隔上一阵子就不由自主地感到高兴。每时每刻,她脑子里在想的都是 吃的东西,她本来都不想进礼品店了,因为她眼角里扫到旁边的什么地方还有一个小吃部。

  她看了看画的标题。我和村庄。

  这就使这幅画意味更加深长了。

  “夏加尔1。我喜欢夏加尔,”克里斯塔说,“毕加索算是什么东西。”

  朱丽叶因为自己的发现而欣喜不已,她发现自己注意力几乎都无法集中了。

  “你知道据传他说过什么话吗?夏加尔的画让女售货员看最合适,”克里斯塔告诉她,“女售货员有什么不好?夏加尔应该回敬一句,毕加索的画让脸长得奇形怪状的人看最合适不过了。”

  “我的意思是,它让我想起了我父母亲的生活,”朱丽叶说,“我不知道为什么,不过事实就是这样。”

  她已经跟克里斯塔谈过一些她父母亲的情况了——他们如何生活在一种有点古怪却并非不快乐的孤立状态中,虽然她的父亲是一位口碑不错的老师。大家不太跟 他们来往的主要原因是萨拉心脏有毛病,但也因为他们订的杂志是周围的人全都不看的,他们听的是国家电台的广播节目,周围再没有其他人听。再加上萨拉不从巴 特里克公司的目录上挑选衣服,却总是根据《时尚》杂志上的样子自己缝制——有时候简直是不伦不类。他们身上多少残留着一些年轻人的气质,而不像朱丽叶同学 的双亲那样,越来越胖,越来越懒散。这也是他们不合群的原因之一。朱丽叶形容过她爸爸山姆模样跟她自己差不多——长脖颈,下巴颏有点儿往上翘,浅棕色的松 垂头发——而萨拉则是个纤细、苍白的金发美人,头发总有点乱,不修边幅。

  佩内洛普十三个月大的时候,朱丽叶带着她坐飞机去到多伦多,然后换乘火车。那是1969年。她在一个小镇下了车,这儿离她长大、山姆和萨拉仍旧住着的那个小镇还有二十来英里。显然,火车已不再在那里设站了。

  匆匆(2)

  她感到很失望,因为是在这个不熟悉的小站下车,而没有一下子重新又见到自己记忆中的树木、人行道和房屋——然后,很快很快,就能见到坐落在一棵硕大无朋的枫树后面的她自己的房子——山姆和萨拉的房子,很宽敞但是也很普通,肯定仍然是刷着那种起泡的、脏兮兮的白漆。

  看到山姆和萨拉了,就在这里,在这个她从未见到他们来过的小镇里,正在微笑呢,但也很着急,他们的身影在一点点地变小。

  萨拉发出了一声古怪的小尖叫,仿佛是被什么啄了一下似的。月台上有几个人回过头来看看。

  显然,只不过是激动罢了。

  “我们一长一短,不过仍然很般配。”她说。

  起初,朱丽叶不明白是什么意思。紧接着她猜出来了——萨拉穿着一条长及小腿肚子的黑亚麻长裙和一件配套的黑夹克。夹克的领子和衣袖用的是一种光闪闪的 酸橙绿色的布料子,上面还有一个个黑色的大圆点。她头上也缠着用同样的绿料子做的头巾。这套服装必定是她自己缝制的,或是请某个裁缝按照她的设计做的。这 样的颜色对她的皮肤可不太厚道,因为看着像是皮肤上洒满了细细的粉笔灰。

  朱丽叶穿的是一条黑色的超短连衣裙。

  “我方才还寻思你对我会怎么想,大夏天穿一身黑,仿佛是为什么人穿丧服似的,”萨拉说,“可是你穿得正好跟我很般配。你看上去真漂亮,我是完全赞成这种短衣服的。”

  “再加上一头长披发,”山姆说,“简直就是个彻头彻尾的嬉皮士了。”他弯下身子去细看婴儿的脸,“你好,佩内洛普。”

  萨拉说:“多么漂亮的玩具娃娃呀。”

  她伸出手想去抱佩内洛普——虽然从她袖管里滑出来的手臂仿佛是两根细棍子,根本不可能支撑住这样的重量。其实也用不着这两只手来做这件事了,因为佩内洛普刚听到外婆发出的第一个声音便已经很紧张,这会儿更是哭喊着把身子往外扭,把小脸藏到朱丽叶的脖颈窝里去了。

  萨拉笑了。“我就那么可怕吗,像个稻草人?”她的声音再次失去控制,升高时仿佛是在尖叫,下降时又一下子没了声音,引来了周围人的瞪视。这可是个新情 况呢——虽然没准并不完全是这样。朱丽叶有这样的印象,只要她母亲大笑或是开始说话,人们总会朝她的方向看过来,但是早年间他们所注意到的总是很有爆发力 的一阵欢笑声——那是很有少女风采和吸引力的(虽然并不是谁都喜欢,有人会说她总想卖弄风情、惹人注意)。

  朱丽叶说:“宝宝太累了。”

  山姆把站在他们身后的一个年轻女子介绍给她,那人站得稍开一些,似乎是有意不让人认为她跟他们是一伙的。事实上朱丽叶也完全没想到她是跟她父母一起来的。

  “朱丽叶,这是艾琳·艾弗里。”

  朱丽叶抱着佩内洛普又拿着放尿片的包包,她尽可能地把手往外伸,可是发现艾琳显然没打算握手——或许是没有注意到她的意图——她便微笑了一下。艾琳并没有笑上一笑作为回应,只是一动不动地站着,给人的印象却是恨不得立时拔腿跑开去。

  “你好。”朱丽叶说。

  艾琳说:“见到你很高兴。”声音轻得勉强能听见,但是一丁点儿表情都没有。

  “艾琳可是我们的好仙女呀。”萨拉说,这时,艾琳的面色起了些变化。她显现出有些不悦,也带着些理应会有的尴尬。

  匆匆(3)

  她个子没有朱丽叶高——朱丽叶可是个高个儿——但是肩膀与臀部都要比朱丽叶宽阔,胳臂很结实,下巴显得很有毅力。她有厚厚的、富于弹性的黑发,从脸那 儿直着往后梳,扎成一个短而粗的马尾巴,她的黑眉毛浓浓的有点凶相,皮肤是一晒就黑的那种。她眼睛是绿色或是蓝色的,让肤色一衬颜色浅得令人感到意外,也 很难让人看透。因为眼眶陷得很深。还因为她脑袋稍稍有点往下耷拉,脸总是扭开去的,这种敌意便像是有意装出来并故意加强的了。

  “咱们的这位仙女干的活儿真是不少呀,”山姆说,脸上露出了他惯常的那种似乎很有雄才大略的开阔笑容,“我会向全世界宣告她的劳绩的。”

  到此时,朱丽叶自然记起了家中来信里提到过,由于萨拉体力急遽大幅度衰退,家中请了一个女的来帮忙。不过她以为那准是个年纪更大些的老太太。艾琳显然不见得比自己的年纪大。

  汽车倒还是山姆大约十年前买来的二手货庞狄克。原来的蓝漆还在这里那里剩下了一道道痕迹,但大多都已经褪成灰颜色了,冬天路上撒的盐使得低处那层衬漆上现出了一摊摊锈迹。

  “看咱们家的老灰母马呀。”萨拉说,从车站月台走下来的这几步路已经使她气儿都快喘不过来了。

  “她还坚持着不下岗哪。”朱丽叶说。她很钦佩地说,家里人八成也是希望她这么说的。她已经忘掉家里是怎么称呼这辆车子的了,其实那名字当初还是她起的呢。

  “哦,她是任何时候都不会放弃的,”萨拉说,这时候她已经由艾琳扶着在后座上坐了下来,“而我们也从来没有对她放弃过希望。”

  朱丽叶摆弄着佩内洛普,好不容易才坐进了前面的座位,娃娃这时候又开始呜咽起来了。车子里热得惊人,虽然车是停在车站外白杨树的稀疏阴影里,车窗还是开着的。

  “其实我倒是在考虑——”山姆一边把车倒出来一边说,“我考虑要将它换成一辆卡车呢。”

  “他不是当真的。”萨拉尖叫道。

  “对于做买卖,”山姆接着往下说,“那样会更方便些。你每回开车走在街上,光是车门上画的广告就能起到不少作用。”

  “他是在开玩笑,”萨拉说,“我怎么能坐在一辆漆着新鲜蔬菜字样的车子里招摇过市呢?莫非是自己成了西葫芦或是大白菜了吗?”

  “你就省点劲儿吧,太太,”山姆说,“要不然等我们回到家里你会连一句话都不想说了。”

  在本县各处的公立学校执教了将近三十年之后——在最后的那所就一口气教了十年——山姆突然辞职不干了,并且决定改行,做蔬菜销售,而且还是全职的。他 一直在家屋旁边的一片空地上种着一片不算小的菜园,也侍弄蓝莓树,把自己吃不了的产品卖给镇子内外的一些人家。可是现在,显然,这样的业余活动要变成一种 谋生之道了,要把产品卖给食品杂货铺,说不定以后还会在大门口搭一个卖果蔬的摊子出来呢。

  “你是认真打算这么干的吗?”朱丽叶轻声问道。

  “那是自然啦。”

  “放弃教学你就那么舍得?”

  “绝对舍得。我可是倒足胃口了。我反胃反得连酸水都要溢出来了。”

  的确,教书教了那么多年,他却始终未能在任何一所学校里当上校长。她猜想这就是使他倒胃口的原因。他是个出色的教师,他的特立独行和充沛的精力都是有 口皆碑的,他教的六年级也是受业的每一个学生一辈子都难以忘怀的一年。可是年复一年,他总是被忽略过去,原因或许也正在于此。他的方法可以理解为对上级领 导的鄙视。因此你可以想象,有关领导自然会认为他不是当校长的料儿,还是让他做原来的工作危害相对来说会轻上一些。

  匆匆(4)

  他喜爱户外的工作,也善于跟普通人交谈,没准他是能做好销售蔬菜的事业的。

  可是萨拉对他这样的打算很不以为然。

  朱丽叶同样也是不喜欢。不过,如果真的要她作一个选择的话,她还是会赞同父亲的做法的。她可不想把自己归到势利小人的行列里去。

  实际的情况是,她看自己——她认为自己以及山姆与萨拉,特别是她自己和山姆——因为有自己独特的想法,所以比周围的每一个人,都要高出一头。因此,即使他去卖菜,那又有什么关系呢?

  山姆此刻用一种更低沉、带点搞阴谋意味的声音问她。

  “她叫什么名字?”

  他指的是婴儿的名字。

  “佩内洛普。我们绝对不会简称她为佩内1的。就是佩内洛普。”

  “不,我是问——问她的姓。”

  “哦。应该是叫亨德森—波蒂厄斯,或者波蒂厄斯—亨德森。不过念起来有点儿啰嗦,后边的佩内洛普这名字已经够长的了。我们知道会这样,但还是想叫她佩内洛普。我们总是要定下来的嘛。”

  “是这样啊。他让宝宝姓他的姓,”山姆说,“那么,那还是说明问题的。我的意思是,这样就好。”

  朱丽叶惊愕了好一会儿,后来才想明白了。

  “他当然要这样做的,”她说,假装被弄煳涂了并觉得好笑,“本来就是他的孩子嘛。”

  “啊,是的。是的。不过,考虑到具体的情况……”

  “我想不起来有什么具体情况嘛,”她说,“如果你指的是我们没有结婚,那根本不是什么值得一提的事儿。在我们住的那地方,在我们认识的人当中,是没有人会在乎这样的形式的。”

  “也许是吧,”山姆说,“可他不是结过一次婚的吗?”

  朱丽叶告诉过他们埃里克妻子的事,说她出了车祸躺在病床上的八年里他一直都在照顾她。

  “你指安吗?是的。呃,我不是太清楚。不过是的,我想是办了结婚手续的。是的。”

  萨拉朝前座喊叫道:“停下来吃点冰激淋好不好呀?”

  “家中冰箱里有冰激淋,”山姆朝后面喊道,但接下去又轻轻地对朱丽叶、也是让朱丽叶大吃一惊地说了句,“带她随便上哪儿去请她吃点儿什么,她就要人来疯了。”

  车窗仍然是开着的,热烘烘的风穿透了整个车厢。现在正是盛夏——这样的季节,就朱丽叶所感觉到的,是在西海岸从来也没有出现过的。硬木树高耸,围护在 田野的边缘,投下了蓝黑色山洞般的阴影,在它们的前面,庄稼和牧场在太阳强光的直晒下,呈现出一片金色和绿色。小麦、大麦、玉米和豆科作物生机勃勃——刺 得你的眼睛生疼生疼的。

  萨拉说:“会议又作出决议要帮助谁啦,你们在前面座位上的?风这么刮着,我们在后排的根本听不见。”

  山姆说:“没什么了不起的事儿。光是问问朱丽叶她的男人是不是还在干打鱼的营生。”

  埃里克靠捕大虾维持生活,这么干已有很长时间了。他一度曾是医学院的学生,后来因为给一个朋友(不是他的女朋友)堕胎,没有能学下去。(本来一切都很 顺利,但是不知怎的消息传了出去。)朱丽叶曾经打算告诉她那两位思想开放的双亲。也许是想让他们知道,他也是个受过教育的人,不是什么普普通通的打鱼人。 不过说了又怎么样呢,特别是山姆现在都已经是个菜农了?而且,他们思想开放的程度恐怕也没有她当初设想的那么牢靠。

  匆匆(5)

  可以出售的不仅仅是新鲜蔬菜和浆果。厨房里生产出了不少果酱、瓶装压榨汁和酸黄瓜之类的东西。就在朱丽叶来到的那个上午,他们就在做蓝莓酱。艾琳主持 这事儿,她的衬衣给水汽或是汗水打湿了,两片肩胛骨之间的衣服都粘在了身上。时不时地她还会朝电视机扫上一眼,机子被推到后厅通向厨房门口的地方,因此你 想回房间还得侧着身子挤过去才行。屏幕上在放的是儿童晨间节目,动画片《波波鹿与飞天鼠》。艾琳过上一阵就会为里面的趣事哈哈大笑,而朱丽叶为了不扫她的 兴,也只得哼哼地笑上一两声。但艾琳根本没有注意到这事。

  洗菜台上必须得腾出块空地来,好让朱丽叶给佩内洛普煮个鸡蛋再把它碾碎,以充当她的早餐,另外也要为自己煮杯咖啡,烤片面包。“地儿够大了吗?”艾琳问她,那语气有点游移不决,仿佛朱丽叶是个外来者,对她的要求是预先无法知道的。

  挨近了之后,你便可以看清艾琳前臂上长了多少细细的黑毛了。连脸颊上都有,就在耳朵的前面。

  她从眼角斜斜地扫看朱丽叶在干着的每一件事情,看着她如何摆弄炉台上的那些开关(一开始朱丽叶都记不得哪个是管哪个灶火的了),看着她如何把鸡蛋从平 底锅里取出来,剥壳(这个蛋有点粘壳,壳只能一点点地而不是一大片很容易地剥下来),接着又看她如何找了只小茶碟来碾碎鸡蛋。

  “你不想让它掉到地上去吧。”她指的不是鸡蛋而是那只瓷碟,“你就没有给孩子用的塑料碟子吗?”

  “我会留神的。”朱丽叶说。

  后来才知道,艾琳也是个当妈妈的。她有一个三岁的男孩和一个快满两岁的女孩。他们的名字是特雷弗和特蕾西。他们的父亲去年夏天在他干活的养鸡场的一次 事故中丧了生。她比朱丽叶小三岁——今年二十二。孩子与丈夫的情况是回答朱丽叶的讯问时说的,她的年龄则是从接下去她说的话里推算出来的。

  当时朱丽叶说:“哦,我真是难过。”谈到那次事故时,朱丽叶觉得自己太没礼貌了,真不该瞎打听的,现在再表示同情也显得有点伪善了。艾琳说:“是啊。就在我过二十一岁生日的那一天。”仿佛厄运也是件能一点点积累而成的东西似的,就跟手镯上那些护身的小饰物一样。

  在佩内洛普勉强把一只鸡蛋都吃下去以后,朱丽叶把她夹在一边的腰胯上,带她上楼。

  往上走到一半,她想起了那只茶碟还没有洗。

  但是孩子无处可放,她还不会走路,可是爬动起来却是异常的迅速。显然,让她独自待在厨房里连五分钟都是不行的,消毒器里的水是沸腾的,还有滚烫的果酱 和好些剁东西的刀子——让艾琳帮着照顾一会儿这样要求也未免太过分。而婴儿今儿早上的第一个表现就是仍然不想跟姥姥要好。因此,朱丽叶只好把她抱到通往阁 楼的有围栏的楼梯上去——朱丽叶先把身后的门关上——让她在这几级楼梯上玩儿,自己则去寻找小时候用过的游戏围栏。幸运的是,佩内洛普是个在台阶上玩惯的 行家。

  这是一座正正经经两层楼高的房屋,房间的天花板很高,但是房间方方正正的像个盒子——这也许只是朱丽叶此刻的感觉。屋顶是斜的,因此只能在阁楼的中央 部分站直了走。朱丽叶以前就常常这样走,那时她还小呢。她一边走,一边把读到的什么故事讲给自己听,免不了有些添油加醋或是作了一些改动。还跳舞呢——这 儿居然还能跳舞——面对着一些想象出来的观众。其实真正的观众只是一些破损、废弃的家具,几只旧箱子,一件重得不得了的野牛皮外套,一所让紫燕做窝的小房 子(是山姆旧日学生们送的礼物,其实从来没能吸引到过一只紫燕),一顶德国军盔——据说是山姆的父亲参加第一次世界大战时带回来的,一幅无心作成的滑稽画 ——完全是业余水平,画的是“爱尔兰女王号”在圣劳伦斯湾沉没的景象,船上的一些火柴梗似的人儿在往四面八方飞出去。

  匆匆(6)

  瞧呀,在那边墙上斜靠着的,不正是那幅《我和村庄》吗?画面朝外——没有任何想好好藏起来的意图。上面也没有积上多少灰尘,说明放在那里的时间不会太久。

  在搜索了片刻之后她找到了那个游戏围栏。那是一件挺讲究、分量挺沉的东西,有木地板和轴柱能转动的围壁。还找到了那辆婴儿车。她父母什么东西都留着, 他们曾想过再要一个孩子。至少是曾经有过一次流产的。星期天早上从他们床上传来的嬉笑声曾使朱丽叶觉得这所房子正为一种偷偷进入的、甚至是不怎么体面的干 扰所入侵,而这种干扰对她来说是不怎么有利的。

  婴儿车是折叠起来便可以推走的那种。这一点朱丽叶已经忘掉了,或者是从来就没有意识到过。此刻她已经出汗了,灰头土脸的。她在试着让它折叠起来。对她 来说,这类活儿从来都不轻松,她永远都不能一下子就掌握好装卸这样的事儿,当然,如果不是因为考虑到艾琳,她本来可以把整件东西拖到下面园子里去让山姆帮 忙干的。艾琳那双闪烁不定的浅色眼睛,不直接看过来却很有心机的眼光,还有那双能干的手。她的警惕,那里面有一种不完全能称之为轻蔑的神情。朱丽叶真不知 道那应该叫什么。反正那是猫身上常会有的一种满不在乎但也不跟你亲热的态度。

  好不容易,她终于把那辆童车装配好了。它很笨重,比她用惯的那种要大上一半。而且很脏,这是不消说的。现在她总算是恢复正常了,在台阶上的佩内洛普甚 至比平时还更加欢实。可是就在婴儿的手边却有一样东西,那是朱丽叶方才连看都没有看见的。一颗钉子。这样的东西你本来是根本不会注意到的,直到你有了一个 会把什么都往嘴里放的宝宝,从这时起你的注意力就一刻都不能松懈了。

  可是她偏偏就是做不到呀。什么东西都在分散她的注意力。炎热、艾琳、过去熟知的事情以及过去没能认识的那些事情。

  我和村庄。

  “哦,”萨拉说,“我原来是希望你不会注意到的。你可别把它放在心上。”

  阳光起居室现在充当了萨拉的卧室。所有的窗子上都挂有竹帘,使得这个小房间——原来是回廊的一部分——充满了一种棕黄色的光线和固定的燠热。可是萨拉 却穿着粉红色的绒布睡裤。昨天在火车站,她描了眉,抹了蓝莓色的唇膏,缠着头巾,穿着套装,在朱丽叶看来颇像一位上了年纪的法国女人(其实朱丽叶并未见到 过多少法国老太太),可是现在,白发一绺绺地披垂着,亮亮的眼睛在几乎没有的眼眉毛下焦急地瞪视着,她看上去更像是一个古怪地变老了的小孩。她倚着枕头坐 得直直的,被子拉到腰部。方才朱丽叶扶着她上卫生间的时候,发现她竟然是穿着袜子和便鞋上床的,虽然天气炎热。

  她床边放着一把直靠背的椅子,座位低,这比桌子更易于她取放东西。上面放着药片、药水、爽身粉、润肤露和一杯喝了一半的奶茶,还有一只玻璃杯,里面有褐色的痕迹——也许是补铁的药水。床头上有一些杂志——过期的《时尚》和《妇女家庭杂志》。

  “我可没有在意。”朱丽叶说。

  “我们是挂过的。在餐厅门旁边的后厅里。后来你爹把它摘了下来。”

  “为什么呢?”

  “这事他一点儿也没跟我说过。他没说打算取下来。后来有一天它就是不在那儿了。”

  匆匆(7)

  “他干吗要把它取下来呢?”

  “哦。准是他有了个什么想法吧,你知道的。”

  “什么方面的想法?”

  “哦。我想——你知道吧,我想那说不定是和艾琳有关。那幅画会让艾琳瞧着不舒服。”

  “里面又没有人光屁股。不像波提切利的那幅。”

  因为,的确是有一幅《维纳斯的诞生》的复制品挂在山姆和萨拉的起居室里的。多年前,在他们请一些别的老师来吃晚饭时,这幅画往往是被大家当作有点敏感的笑话来说的。

  “是没有。不过它挺现代。我想这让你爹感到不安。也可能是当艾琳看到它的时候自己也看着它——这使他感到不安。他可能是怕她会觉得——呃,会有点儿瞧不起我们。你知道吧——认为我们有点儿古怪。他不喜欢让艾琳觉得我们是那种人。”

  朱丽叶说:“是会挂那样的画的那种人?你是说他会这么在乎她对我们挂的画有什么想法?”

  “你是了解你爹爹的。”

  “他并不害怕跟别人意见不一样呀。那岂不正是他工作上不顺利的原因吗?”

  “什么?”萨拉说,“啊。是的。他可以跟人家意见不一致。但是有时候他也是小心翼翼的。而且艾琳,艾琳是——他对艾琳是小心翼翼的。艾琳对我们来说是非常可贵的,这个艾琳。”

  “莫非爸爸以为,就因为我们有一幅有点儿怪的图画,艾琳就会辞职不干吗?”

  “这就不好说了,亲爱的。我是很珍惜你送的任何一件东西的。可是你爹……”

  朱丽叶什么都不说了。从她九岁十岁开始一直到大约十四岁,她和萨拉对山姆达成了一个共识:你是知道你爹的。

  那是她们俩作为女人一起共处的那段时间。在家里自己试着烫朱丽叶那头桀骜不驯的细发呀,上过制衣研习班后做出跟任何人全都不一样的服装呀,山姆学校开 会晚回来时照例是拿花生酱—黄油—西红柿加蛋黄酱的三明治作晚餐呀。她们把那些老故事翻来覆去地说个没完,那是关于萨拉过去的男朋友和女朋友的,他们开的 玩笑啦,他们做的游戏啦,那时萨拉也做小学教员,心脏病还不算太严重。还讲比这更早时候的事,那时萨拉因为风湿病发烧躺在床上,自己想象出来一对朋友罗洛 和马克辛,他们能像某些儿童读物里的人物一样破案,甚至能破谋杀案呢。有时又回想起山姆那一次次疯狂的追求,他用借来的汽年闯下什么祸啦,他又如何化装成 流浪汉出现在萨拉的门前啦。

  萨拉和朱丽叶,自己做奶油软糖,在衬裙花边的小孔里扎上一个个蝴蝶结,两个人简直合成了一个人。可是突然有一天,朱丽叶再也不想这样做了,反倒会在深 夜里到厨房去跟山姆聊天,问他一些关于黑洞、冰期和上帝的问题。她讨厌萨拉睁大眼睛用一些自以为很机巧的问题来破坏他们的谈话,她那些打岔总是试图要把话 题扯回到她自己的身上去。这就是谈话非得要在深夜进行的原因,父女俩都有一个共识但是谁都没有捅破过,那就是等我们摆脱开萨拉再说。当然是暂时的。

  而与此相伴还有另外的一个提醒。要好好对待萨拉呀。她是冒了生命的危险才怀上你的,这是值得记住的呀。

  “你爹爹对于地位比他高的人是不怕得罪的,”萨拉说,深深地吸了口气,“不过你知道他是怎么对待比他低的人的。他会做出各种各样的努力使他们觉得他跟他们没有任何区别,他一定要让自己降低到他们的层次——”

  匆匆(8)

  朱丽叶自然是知道的。她知道山姆跟加油站的小伙子是怎么说话的,他在五金店里又是怎样跟人家开玩笑的。不过她什么都没有说。

  “他对他们简直是低声下气地讨好呀。”萨拉突然改变了声调,几乎都有点恶狠狠了,而且还低低咕噜地笑了一声。

  匆匆10

  朱丽叶把推车、佩内洛普以及她自己都好好地清洗了一遍,接着便朝着小镇中心处走去了。她表面上的理由是要买某种牌子的药皂,好用它来洗尿片——如果她用普通肥皂宝宝会起皮疹的。可是她还有别的原因,不可抗拒却有点难以启齿的原因。

  这正是她一生中好几年都走着去上学的那条路。即使她已经上了大学,是回来探亲的,她仍然还是——同样的一个去上学的女孩。她难道就永远都不停止上学了 吗?在她刚获得大学校际拉丁语翻译奖的时候,有人向山姆提了这样的问题,山姆回答说:“恐怕是的吧。”他自己还翻来覆去地讲这个故事。老天爷在上,他可不 会去提奖金什么的事。要提就让萨拉来提好了——虽然萨拉没准都记不起来那是个什么奖了。

  哦,她终于来到这里,在做补偿的工作了。像任何别的年轻女子那样,推着她的娃娃,为洗尿片的肥皂而操心。而且这不仅仅是她的娃娃。这是她的爱女。她有 时候是会这样称呼佩内洛普的,不过只当着埃里克一个人这么说过。他是当笑话听的,她说的时候也像是在说笑话,因为自然,他们生活在一起而且已经有些时候 了,他们是打算一直这样过下去的。就她所知,没有结婚这件事对他们来说并不说明什么问题,而且她自己是经常把这件事忘掉了的。可是有时候——特别是现在, 回到了家里,她没有结婚这件事给了她一种成就感,一种傻乎乎的幸福感。

  “这么说——你今天到街那头去了呀,”山姆说,(他是一直说街那头的吗?萨拉和朱丽叶总是说镇中心的。)“遇见哪个认识的人了吗?”

  “我必须要走一趟药房,”朱丽叶说,“因此我和查理·利特尔聊了几句。”

  谈话是在厨房里进行的,时间已经过了晚上十一点。朱丽叶心想,现在应该把佩内洛普明天要用的奶瓶准备好了。

  “查理小子1吗?”山姆说——朱丽叶忘了,他仍旧保留着他另外的一个习惯,那就是爱用学校里的绰号称呼人,“他夸奖你的孩子了吗?”

  “那当然。”

  “他自然是应该喜欢的。”

  山姆正坐在桌子旁边,喝着一杯黑麦酒,抽着香烟。他喝上威士忌了,这倒是以前没有的事。因为萨拉的父亲过去就是个酒鬼——倒不是个落魄的酒鬼,他一直 在做着兽医的营生,可是因为嗜酒,已经在家中形成了一个恐怖的氛围,足以使女儿对酒精深恶痛绝了——山姆过去顶多在家里喝上一杯啤酒,至少就朱丽叶所知而 言。

  朱丽叶之所以去药房,是因为只有那里才有药皂卖。她没料到会见到查理,虽然这铺子是他家开的。她最后听到的有关他的消息是,他准备当一名工程师。她今 天也跟他提到这件事了,也许有些不太策略吧,可是他倒是很轻松很愉快地告诉她,这个打算最终并没能实现。他肚子都鼓出来了,头发变稀了,也不像以前那样有 波纹和有光泽了。他很热情地和朱丽叶打招呼,把她和婴儿都大大地夸奖了一通,这倒使她有点不好意思,以致在跟他谈话时脸皮和脖颈都有点发热,甚至都冒汗 了。在高中时,他可顾不上搭理她——见面仅仅是一本正经地打个招呼,因为在礼貌上,他倒一直是挺随和的,而且是不因人而异的。他约会时带出去的总是学校里 最招人注意的女孩,他告诉她,现在娶的正是其中的一位,珍尼·皮尔。他们有了两个孩子,一个跟佩内洛普差不多大,另一个稍稍大一些。正因为如此,他坦率地 说——他之所以这么坦率似乎跟她目前的状态不无关联——才终于没有能当上一名工程师。

  匆匆(9)

  怪不得他有能耐逗得佩内洛普对他露出笑脸并发出咯咯的笑声了,他像一位同是当父母的人那样跟朱丽叶聊天,好像他们彼此彼此,都是同一个档次的人。她还 像个白痴似的觉得很受用也很高兴。可是他还注意到了别的一些事——他朝她没带戒指的左手瞟了一眼,对他自己的婚姻作了些打趣,还有其他的一些事情。他心下 里暗自地赞赏她,也许是因为他看到的是一个展现大胆性生活成果的女子。况且这还不是别人,而是朱丽叶,那个书呆子,那位女学究。

  “她像你吧?”他蹲下来细看佩内洛普时问道。

  “像她爸爸的地方更多一些。”朱丽叶随便地说了一句,只觉得心中充满了骄傲,连上唇那儿都冒出汗珠子来了。

  “真是这样的吗?”查理站直了身子,一边很机密似的说,“不过,我得告诉你一件事儿。我认为这不太像话……”

  朱丽叶对山姆说:“他告诉我,他认为不太像话,是跟你有关的什么事儿。”

  “他这么说的?那你又是怎么对他说的?”

  “我不知道该说些什么。我不明白他所指的是什么事。但我又不想让他知道我不明白。”

  “是啊。”

  她在桌子边上坐了下来。“我想喝一杯,但是我不喜欢威士忌。”

  “你现在也喝上了?”

  “就喝葡萄酒。我们自己酿葡萄酒。在海湾那儿每户人家都自己酿做。”

  然后他跟她说了一个笑话,要是在以前,他是绝对不会跟她说这类笑话的。它讲的是一对夫妇住进一家汽车旅馆,故事的最后一句是:“因此,就像我在主日学校里跟女孩子讲的那样——你是无需既喝酒又抽烟才能享受到美好时光的。”

  她大声笑了,可是觉得自己的脸皮发烫了,就像跟查理在一起时一样。

  “你干吗要辞职呢?”她说,“是因为我才泄气的吗?”

  “唉,得了吧。”山姆笑着说,“别把自己估计得那么高。我没有泄气。我不是被开除的。”

  “那好吧。你是自己辞职的。”

  “我自己辞掉的。”

  “那样做就跟我一点儿关系都没有?”

  “我辞职,是因为我厌烦了老把自己的脖子伸在那个套索里。我想辞职已经不止一年两年了。”

  “就跟我没有一点关系吗?”

  “好吧,”山姆说,“我跟别人争吵了一场。老是有人乱说别人的坏话。”

  “说什么?”

  “你没有必要知道。”

  过了片刻,他又接着说:“你不用担心,他们没有开除我。他们也没法开除我。是有条例规定的。就像我跟你说的那样——反正我早就不想干了。”

  “可是你不明白,”朱丽叶说,“你不明白。你不明白这样做是多么的愚蠢,住在这样的一个地方又是多么的让人生气,这儿的人总是那样地议论人,可如果我告诉他们我知道这一点的话,他们又是绝对不肯相信。仿佛这是一个笑话似的。”

  “可是,不幸的是你母亲和我不是住在你的那个地方。我们是生活在这里。你的那个男人也会认为这是一个笑话吗?今天晚上我不想再谈这件事了,我要上床睡了。我先去看看你母亲,然后我也要睡了。”

  “旅客列车——”朱丽叶说,精力仍然很旺盛,肚子里的气也还没发泄完,“在这儿仍然是有一站的。不是这样吗?你不想让我们在这儿下车。对不对?”

  对她的这个问题,正走出房间的父亲没有回答。

  匆匆(10)

  小镇最边缘处的一盏街灯的光此刻正落在朱丽叶的床上。那棵大大的软木枫树早给砍了,现在顶替它的是山姆种了大黄的药田。昨天晚上她是把窗帘拉紧免得灯 光照在床上的,可是今天晚上,她觉得自己需要室外的空气。因此她把枕头移到床脚那边,挨着佩内洛普——尽管灯光直直地打在脸上,孩子已经睡得像个天使那样 了。

  她真希望方才是喝了点儿威士忌的。她僵僵地躺着,既沮丧又气愤,肚子里在打着一封写给埃里克的信的腹稿。我不明白自己来这里是干什么的,我根本就不应该来,我现在迫不及待地想要回家。

  回家。

  匆匆13

  早晨,天还没有怎么亮,她就听到了真空吸尘器的声音。接着她听到了一个声音——山姆的声音——打断了吸尘器的声音,再后来她一定是又睡着了。等她再一次醒来,她想方才一定是在做梦。否则的话佩内洛普应该会被吵醒的,可是孩子并没有醒。

  今天早上厨房里凉快了一些,不再是一屋子都是炖水果的气味了。艾琳在给果酱瓶准备方格布的罩子和预备贴到瓶子上去的标签。

  “我好像是听到了你在用吸尘器的声音,”朱丽叶说,想让气氛变得轻松一些,“我肯定是做梦了吧。那会儿才清晨五点来钟。”

  艾琳没有立即回答。她正在写一个标签。她写的时候精神高度集中,牙齿紧紧地咬着嘴唇。

  “是她,”她写完后说道,“她把你爹吵醒了,你爹只好起来去阻止她。”

  这好像不大可能嘛。昨天,萨拉只有在要上厕所的时候才会起床的呀。

  “他告诉我的,”艾琳说,“她半夜醒来,认为自己该干点什么活儿,于是你爹不得不起床去拉住她。”

  “那么她精力还是很充沛的啰。”朱丽叶说。

  “可不是吗。”艾琳又在写另一张标签了。这张写好后,她把脸转向朱丽叶。

  “她是想吵醒你爹,引起注意,就是这么回事。他都累得要死了,可是不得不起来照顾她。”

  朱丽叶把身子转开去。她不想把佩内洛普放下来——好像孩子在这里不安全似的——所以把孩子搁在一边的腿上,同时用只汤勺去把鸡蛋捞出来,就用一只手去磕开它,剥了皮,再把它碾碎。

  她喂佩内洛普时不敢说话,生怕自己的声音会惊吓了孩子,使她哭起来。这样做感染了艾琳。她也压低了自己的声音——不过仍然是气鼓鼓的,“他们就是这样。他们发病的时候连自己也控制不住。他们光是想到自己,也不为别人考虑考虑。”

  萨拉的眼睛是闭着的,可是很快就睁开来了。“哦,我的好宝贝儿,”她说,仿佛是在自嘲似的,“我的朱丽叶。我的佩内洛普。”

  佩内洛普似乎对她一点点习惯了。至少今天早上没有哭,也没有把小脸扭开。

  “哪,”萨拉说,伸手去取一本她的杂志,“把她放下,让她来干这个活儿。”

  佩内洛普起先像是有点犹豫不决,但紧接着就揪住一页纸,使劲地撕扯起来。

  “干得不错呀,”萨拉说,“小娃娃没有不喜欢撕扯杂志的。我记得的。”

  床头那张椅子上放着一碗麦乳精,几乎没怎么动过。

  “你早饭都还没有吃吗?”朱丽叶说,“你是不是不想吃这个?”

  萨拉看着那只碗,仿佛是有个严重的问题待她解决,不过她还没有想好。

  “我不记得了。是的,我琢磨着我是不想吃这个。”她轻声咯咯地笑着,仿佛有点诧异似的,“谁知道呢?我忽然觉得,她没准想毒死我呢。”

  匆匆(11)

  “我只不过是在说笑话,”平静下来之后,她又说道,“不过她真的是很凶狠的呀。这个艾琳。我们绝对不应该低估——这个艾琳。你看到她胳膊上的那些毛了吗?”

  “就跟猫的毛似的。”朱丽叶说。

  “也像是臭鼬的。”

  “我们只能希望这样的毛一根也别掉到果酱里去。”

  “别让我——别让我再笑了——”

  佩内洛普撕杂志撕得很专心,因此朱丽叶放心让她留在萨拉的房间里,自己将麦乳精端到厨房里去。她一句话没说,便做起一份蛋奶酒来。艾琳出出进进,把一 箱箱果酱瓶放到汽车里去。在后台阶上,山姆正在用水管将新挖出来的土豆上粘着的泥土冲刷掉。他唱起歌来了——一开始声音太轻,没有人能听清他的歌词;接 着,当艾琳走上台阶时,他的声音变得响了一些。

  艾琳,晚——安——安,

  艾琳,晚安,

  晚安,艾琳,晚安,艾琳,

  我会在梦中见到你。

  艾琳此时正在厨房里,她呼地转过身,大声喝道:“别唱说我的事儿的这首歌子。”

  “哪首歌说你的事儿啦?”山姆说,装出很吃惊的样子,“谁在唱说你事儿的歌啦?”

  “就是你。你方才唱了。”

  “哦——那首歌呀。那支说艾琳的歌吗?歌里的那个女孩?天哪——我忘了那也是你的名字了。”

  他又唱起来了,不过是在偷偷地哼唱。艾琳站着在听,脸涨得通红,胸脯一起一伏,单等听到歌词里的一个字她就要马上扑过来了。

  “不许你唱跟我有关系的歌。如果里面有我的名字,那就是跟我有关。”

  突然间,山姆放大嗓音唱起来了。

  上周六夜晚我举行婚礼,

  我跟我太太安顿下来——

  “停住。你给我停住!”艾琳喊着,双目圆睁,满脸通红,“你要是再不停下,我可要出来用水管来冲你了。”

  山姆这天下午要给下了订单的几家食品杂货铺和一两家礼品商店去送货。他邀请朱丽叶跟他一块去。之前他已经去过五金店,为佩内洛普买了一把崭新的婴儿坐椅。

  “这件东西咱们家阁楼里是不会有的,”他说,“你小的时候,我还不知道有这样的设备呢。而且,买来也没法用。我们当时没有车。”

  “这坐椅挺时尚的,”朱丽叶说,“我希望不至于太贵吧。”

  “值不了几个钱。”山姆说,弯了弯身子请她上车。

  艾琳正在地里接着采集蓝莓。那是准备做馅饼用的。山姆把喇叭按响了两下,在车子开动时又挥了挥手,艾琳决定给予回应,她举起了一只胳膊,那动作似乎是在轰赶一只苍蝇。

  “那可是个好姑娘呀,”山姆说,“我不知道没有了她我们怎么能活下去。不过我猜她对待你挺粗暴。”

  “我跟她才刚刚认得呢。”

  “可不。她吓着你了吧。”

  “哪能够呢。”朱丽叶尽量想找出句夸奖的、至少是不带贬损的话来评论艾琳,于是问起艾琳的丈夫是怎么在养鸡场出事丧生的。

  “我不知道他是那种罪犯型的人呢,还是仅仅就是很不成熟。总之,他跟几个小混混搅到一起,他们打算顺手偷一些鸡,捞点外快,自然,他们触动了警报系统,鸡场主人拿了把枪出来,不管那人是不是有意要开枪打他,反正——”

  “我的上帝呀。”

  “艾琳和她的公公婆婆告到法院,可是那位农民被判无罪。自然会这样判的。不过对于艾琳来说,必定是打击很大。即使那个丈夫不像是什么好东西。”

  匆匆(12)

  朱丽叶说,显然是这样的,接着又问,艾琳是不是他在学校里教过的学生。

  “不,不,不。她几乎没怎么上过学,就我所知。”

  他说艾琳自己的家庭原来是在北方,在亨茨维尔附近。是的。是那儿附近的一个什么地方。有一天全家进城。父亲、母亲,还有孩子们。那位父亲告诉他们他有 些事情要做,一会儿之后再跟他们会合。他还告诉他们会合的地点和时间。于是大家走开去逛了——也没有钱可花——一直等到约定的时间。可是他就是没有露面。

  “是根本没想露面。把他们遗弃了。因此他们只好依靠福利救济度日了。住在穷乡僻壤的一个棚屋里——那儿过日子花费少些。艾琳的大姐,据我了解,那可是 一家的顶梁柱,起的作用比母亲还大——却因为阑尾炎急性发作死了。当时根本无法送她进城,因为遇到了暴风雪,他们又没有电话。之后艾琳就不想再回到学校 了,因为过去都是大姐保护着她,不让别的孩子欺侮她们。现在,她好像什么都不在乎的吧,可是我想她一开始并不就是这样的。没准即使现在,在更多情况下这也 只是一种假象。”

  现在,山姆说,是由艾琳的母亲帮着带艾琳的小男孩和小女孩,可是你猜怎么着,过了那么多年之后那位父亲居然又出现了,而且还想让母亲回到自己身边去,如果真的会这样,艾琳就不知道怎样办才好了,因为她不想让自己的孩子受他的影响。

  “他们是挺聪明的孩子。那个小姑娘有上颚开裂的毛病,已经动过一次手术,不过以后还得再动一次。她会完全治好的。不过还有一件事情。”

  还有一件事情。

  朱丽叶倒是怎么的啦?她丝毫都没有产生真正的同情心。她感到自己,在心底深处,是在抵制这个可怕的长篇悲情故事。当故事里提到开裂的上颚时,她真心想做的是,哀叹一声,行了,别再往下说了。

  她知道自己是不对的,可是这种感觉就是不肯退去。她害怕再说上一句,她的嘴就会将她那颗冷酷的心如实暴露了。她担心自己会对山姆说:“这整件不幸的事 又有什么了不得的呢,莫非能使她成为一位圣徒?”或者她会说出那句最最不可原谅的话:“我希望你不是想让我们卷入到那种人的是非堆里去吧。”

  “我想让你知道的是,”山姆说,“她来我们家帮忙的时候也正是我一筹莫展的当口。去年秋天,你母亲的情况简直是糟糕透了。倒并不是她什么都不想干了。 不是的。如果真是那样倒会好一些。她什么都不干那样只会更好。她的情况是,她开始干一件事,接着又干不下去了。老是这样,一遍遍地这样重复。这倒不完全是 新出现的情况。我是说,我一向是老得跟在后面帮她收尾的,既要照顾她还得打理她没能干完的家务活。我和你都得这样——记得吧?她永远都是这么一位心脏有毛 病的漂亮娇小姐,老得让人伺候着。这么多年来,我有时也想过,她本来是应该更加努力一些的。”

  “可是情况变得那么糟糕,”他说,“糟糕得我下班回家时只见洗衣机给拖到厨房的当中,湿衣服掉得一地都是。或者是她在烤什么东西,烤到一半又不管了, 东西在烤箱里都结成了煳嘎巴。我真害怕她会让火烧到自己,会把房子烧着。我一遍一遍地对她说,你就躺在床上得了。可是她不肯,接下去又是把?情弄得一团 糟,然后大哭一场。我试着请了一个又一个的小姑娘来帮忙,可是她们就是对付不了她。最后,总算是请到了这一位——艾琳。”

  匆匆(13)

  “艾琳,”他说,粗粗地出了一口气,“我为那一天而感恩。我告诉你,我为那个日子而感恩呀。”

  可是就像天底下所有的好事一样,他说,这样的好事也必定会有一个终结的。艾琳打算结婚了。要嫁给一个四五十岁的鳏夫。是个农民。据说还有几个钱,为了艾琳着想,山姆希望这是真的。因为这个男人身上是再找不出什么值得一提的好处来了。

  “凭良心说,他根本没有什么好处。就我所见到的,他满嘴上上下下就只剩下一颗牙齿了。不是什么好征兆呀,依我看。不是太傲慢了就是太吝啬了,所以不愿意安假牙。想想看——像她那么好看的一个姑娘。”

  “打算在什么时候?”

  “秋天的什么日子吧。反正是在秋天。”

  佩内洛普一直都在睡——几乎在他们刚开动汽车以后她就在她的幼儿坐椅里睡着了。前面的车窗是开着的,朱丽叶能闻到新收割和打捆的干草的香味——现如今,再没人打干草套了。田野里还孤零零地矗立着几棵榆树,它们现在也算是难得见到的好景色了。

  他们在由沿着狭谷里的一条街所形成的一个村子里停了下来。山岩从狭谷的壁上露了出来——这儿是方圆好些英里内唯一能见到这样的大块岩石的地方。朱丽叶 记得以前来过,当时这儿还有个买票才能进入的特殊公园呢。公园里有一个饮水喷泉、一间茶室,茶室里供应草莓奶油酥饼和冰激淋——当然还会有别的东西,不过 她记不得了。岩石上的山洞用的便是《白雪公主》中七个小矮人的名字。当时山姆和萨拉坐在喷泉旁边的草地上吃冰激淋,而她却急着奔到前面去察看一个又一个山 洞。(其实真的没什么看头——洞都很浅。)她要他们和自己一起去,当时山姆说:“你知道你母亲是爬不了山的。”

  “你自己跑过去吧,”萨拉当时这么说道,“回来后把见到的一切都告诉我们。”她是盛装出行的。一条黑色的塔夫绸裙子围绕着她在草地上铺开,形成一个圆圈。那时候是管这种裙子叫作芭蕾女演员舞裙的。

  那肯定是一个具有特殊意义的日子。

  等山姆从商店里出来后朱丽叶便问他这件事。他起先记不得了。可是后来又想起来了。裙子是从一家专门敲竹杠的商店买的,他说。他不知道从什么时候起那家店就不见了。

  朱丽叶沿街一路都找不到有喷泉或茶室的痕迹。

  “是给我们带来安宁与秩序的人哪。”山姆说,朱丽叶过了片刻才明白他仍然是在讲艾琳的事。“她什么活儿都愿意干。给园子割草啦、锄地啦。而且不管干什么都是尽量干好,好像干这活是得到了一个特权似的。这正是永远使我惊讶的地方。”

  使他感到轻松的能是一个什么日子呢?是谁的生日吗?或是结婚纪念日?

  山姆持续不断地,甚至是很庄严地往下说,他的声音甚至都压过了汽车上坡时的挣扎声。

  “是她,恢复了我对女性的信心呀。”

  山姆每冲进一家店铺之前都对朱丽叶说他用不了一分钟就会出来,可是却总是过了好一阵子才回来,并且解释说他脱不开身。大伙儿都要跟他聊天,他们积了一肚子的笑话要说给他听。还有几个人跟着他出来,要看看他的女儿和小宝贝。

  “那么说,这就是那位会说拉丁语的姑娘了。”一位太太说。

  “这一阵已经有些丢生了,”山姆说,“她现在正忙着别的事情呢。”

  “那肯定是的,”那位太太说,同时弯下了脖子去看佩内洛普,“可孩子们岂不是上帝赐予的好宝贝吗?哎唷,多么可爱呀。”

  朱丽叶曾经想过,她是不是该跟山姆谈一谈她打算继续做下去的那篇论文——虽然目前对她来说这仅仅是一个梦。过去,她和父亲之间总是能很自然地谈到这些 问题。但是跟萨拉却不行。萨拉会说:“好,现在,你该跟我讲讲你学习方面进展得怎么样了。”可是当朱丽叶概括地向她介绍时,萨拉却会问朱丽叶,她是怎么能 记清楚所有这些希腊名字的。不过山姆能理解她所讲的是怎么一回事。在学院念书时她告诉别人,她父亲曾给她解释过thaumaturgy1这个词的

  意思,当时她只有十二三岁,初次读到这个词。别人问,她父亲是不是一位学者。

  “当然,”她说,“他教六年级呢。”

  现在她有一种感觉,他隐隐中有意想贬低她的水平。这意图没准还不太隐晦呢。他可能会运用airy-fairy2这样的文词儿。或是说他

  忘记某件事是怎么回事了,要她告诉他。然而她相信他不可能忘记。

  不过也许他真的是忘记了。他意识中的某些房间的门关上了,窗户被遮住了——那里面的东西被他认为是太无用、太不光彩,因此也无需重见天日了。

  朱丽叶的口气说出来时比她原先设想的更为生硬。

  “她想结婚吗?那个艾琳?”

  这个问题着实让山姆吓了一跳,她用的是那样的口气,又是在沉默了挺长时间之后。

  “我不知道。”他说。

  可是过了一会儿,他又说:“我看不出来她怎么能做得到。”

  “你问她去呀,”朱丽叶说,“你必定是想问的,既然对她那么有意思。”

  他们驱车走了一两英里之后他才再次开口说话。很明显她是伤着他了。

  “我不知道你在说些什么。”他说。

  ……

  译后记

  《逃离》(RUNAWAY)一书出版于2004年,全书由八个短篇小说组成,其中的三篇互有关联。作者艾丽丝·门罗(Alice Munro,1931—),是加拿大当代有名的女作家,以擅写短篇小说而闻名。近年来,在美国的重要文学刊物如《纽约客》、《大西洋月刊》、《巴黎评论》 上,都可以经常读到她的作品。美国一年一度出版的《××××年最佳短篇小说集》中,也多次收入她的作品。她几乎每隔两三年便有新的小说集出版,曾三次获得 加拿大最重要的总督奖,两次获得吉勒奖。2004年第二次获吉勒奖即是因为这本《逃离》,评委们对此书的赞语是:“故事令人难忘,语言精确而有独到之处, 朴实而优美,读后令人回味无穷。”奖金为二万五千加元。门罗还得到过别的一些奖项。另据报道,法国《读书》杂志一年一度所推荐的最佳图书中,2008年所 推荐的“外国短篇小说集”,即是门罗的这本《逃离》。我国的《世界文学》等刊物也多次对她的作品有过翻译与评介。可以说,门罗在英语小说界的地位已经得到 确立,在英语短篇小说创作方面更可称得上“力拔头筹”,已经有人在称呼她是“我们的契诃夫,而且文学生命将延续得比她大多数的同时代人都长”(美国着名女 作家辛西娅·奥齐克语)。英国很有影响的女作家A.S.拜雅特亦赞誉她为“在世的最伟大的短篇小说作家”,从拜雅特的口气看,她所指的范围应当已经远远超 出单纯的英语文学世界。

  门罗出生于安大略省西南部的一个小镇——这类地方也往往成为她作品中故事发生的地理背景。她1951年离开西安大略大学,后随丈夫来到不列颠哥伦比亚 省,先在温哥华居住,后又在省会维多利亚开过一家“门罗书店”。1972年门罗回到安大略省,与第二任丈夫一起生活。门罗是她第一任丈夫的姓,但仍为她发 表作品时沿用。

  门罗最早出版的一部短篇小说集叫《快乐影子之舞》(1968),即得到了加拿大重要的文学奖总督奖。她的短篇小说集有《我青年时期的朋友》 (1973)、《你以为你是谁?》(1978,亦得总督奖)、《爱的进程》(1986,第三次得总督奖)、《公开的秘密》(1994)、《一个善良女子的 爱》(1996)、《憎恨、友谊、求爱、爱恋、婚姻》(2001)、《逃离》(2004)等,2006年出版的《石城远望》是她最新的一部作品集。她亦曾 出版过一部叫《少女们和妇人们的生活》(1973)的长篇小说,似乎倒不大被提起。看来,她还是比较擅写短篇小说,特别是篇幅稍长,几乎接近中篇的作品。 所反映的内容则是小地方普通人特别是女性的隐含悲剧命运的平凡生活。她自己也说:“我想让读者感受到的惊人之处,不是‘发生了什么’,而是发生的方式。稍 长的短篇小说对我最为合适。”

  我们在多读了一些门罗的短篇小说之后,会感觉到,她的作品除了故事吸引人,人物形象鲜明,也常有“含泪的笑”这类已往大师笔下的重要因素之外,还另有 一些新的素质。英国的《新政治家》周刊曾在评论中指出:“门罗的分析、感觉与思想的能力,在准确性上几乎达到了普鲁斯特的高度。”这自然是一个重要方面。 别的批评家还指出她在探究人类灵魂上的深度与灵敏性。她的作品都有很强的“浓缩性”,每一篇四五十页的短篇,让别的作家来写,也许能敷陈成一部几十万字的 长篇小说。另外,也有人指出,在她的小说的表面之下,往往潜伏着一种阴森朦胧的悬念。这恐怕就与她对人的命运、对现代世界中存在着一些神秘莫测之处的看法 不无关系了。当然,作为一位女作家,她对女性观察的细致与深刻也是值得称道的。门罗的另一特点是,随着年龄的增长,她的作品倒似乎越来越醇厚有味了,反正 到目前为止,仍然未显露出一些衰颓的迹象。

  我国的《世界文学》2007年1期对《逃离》一书作了介绍,并发表了对门罗的一篇访谈录,此文对了解作家与《逃离》一书都很有帮助,值得参考。

  据悉,1980年代,门罗曾访问过中国。

  因为工作的关系,译者曾稍多接触加拿大文学,并编译过一本现代加拿大诗选(与人合作)。上世纪八十年代初(?)时,曾参加创建我国的加拿大研究会,也 算是该组织的一个“founding member”了,而且还曾忝为“副会长”之一。承加拿大方面的友好邀请,我曾经三次赴加拿大进行学术访问,除到过多伦多、渥太华、温哥华、魁北克、蒙特 利尔等地外,还一路东行直到大西洋边上的哈利法克斯乃至海中的爱德华王子岛。过去自己虽译介过不少加拿大诗歌(现在怕都很难找到了),但细细想来,翻译小 说似乎还真是头一遭。倘若读者透过我的迻译,能多多少少感受到加拿大独特的自然社会风貌,体验到那里普通男男女女的思想感情并引起共鸣,那么对我个人来 说,乘此机会,对加拿大人民友好情谊作出一些微薄回报的夙愿,也就算是没有落空了。
伊妹儿收藏了。以防涉及版权被删。
 
一好百好了
 
先顶上来, 已经沉得好深了
 
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这才是纯天然美。
 
村长,英文原版也弄来给俺们学英文好不拉:p:D
 
哼哼,缺乏物质也不行
 
村长,英文原版也弄来给俺们学英文好不拉:p:D
Here you go.... (拷贝过来,段落都乱了。凑合读吧。)

Fiction
Runaway
by Alice Munro August 11, 2003

Carla heard the car coming before it topped the little rise in the road that around here they called a hill. It’s her, she thought. Mrs. Jamieson—Sylvia—home from her holiday in Greece. From the barn door—but far enough inside that she could not easily be seen—she watched the road where Mrs. Jamieson would have to drive by, her place being half a mile farther along than Clark and Carla’s.
If it was somebody coming to see them, the car would be slowing down by now. But still Carla hoped. Let it not be her.
It was. Mrs. Jamieson turned her head once, quickly—she had all she could do to maneuver her car through the ruts and puddles the rain had made in the gravel—but she didn’t lift a hand off the wheel to wave, she didn’t spot Carla. Carla got a glimpse of a tanned arm bare to the shoulder, hair bleached a lighter color than it had been before, more white now than silver-blond, and an expression that was both exasperated and amused at her own exasperation—just the way Mrs. Jamieson would look negotiating this road. When she turned her head there was something like a bright flash—of inquiry, of hopefulness—that made Carla shrink back.
So.
Maybe Clark didn’t know yet. If he was sitting at the computer, he would have his back to the window and the road.
But he would have to know before long. Mrs. Jamieson might have to make another trip—for groceries, perhaps. He might see her then. And after dark the lights of her house would show. But this was July and it didn’t get dark till late. She might be so tired that she wouldn’t bother with the lights; she might go to bed early.
On the other hand, she might telephone. Anytime now.
This was the summer of rain and more rain. They heard it first thing in the morning, loud on the roof of the mobile home. The trails were deep in mud, the long grass soaking, leaves overhead sending down random showers even in those moments when there was no actual downpour from the sky. Carla wore a wide-brimmed old Australian felt hat every time she went outside, and tucked her long thick braid down her shirt.
Nobody showed up for trail rides—even though Clark and Carla had gone around posting signs at all the campsites, in the cafés, and on the tourist-office bulletin board, and anywhere else they could think of. Only a few pupils were coming for lessons, and those were regulars, not the batches of schoolchildren on vacation or the busloads from summer camps that had kept them going the summer before. And even the regulars took time off for holiday trips, or simply cancelled their lessons because of the weather. If they called too late, Clark charged them anyway. A couple of them had argued, and quit for good.

There was still some income from the three horses that were boarded. Those three, and the four of their own, were out in the field now, poking disconsolately in the grass under the trees. Carla had finished mucking out in the barn. She had taken her time—she liked the rhythm of her regular chores, the high space under the barn roof, the smells. Now she went over to the exercise ring to see how dry the ground was, in case the five-o’clock pupil did show up.
Most of the steady showers had not been particularly heavy, but last week there had come a sudden stirring and then a blast through the treetops and a nearly horizontal blinding rain. The storm had lasted only a quarter of an hour, but branches still lay across the road, hydro lines were down, and a large chunk of the plastic roofing over the ring had been torn loose. There was a puddle like a lake at that end of the track, and Clark had worked until after dark digging a channel to drain it away.
On the Web, right now, he was hunting for a place to buy roofing. Some salvage outlet, with prices that they could afford, or somebody trying to get rid of such material, secondhand. He would not go to Hy and Robert Buckley’s Building Supply in town, which he called Highway Robbers Buggery Supply, because he owed them money and had had a fight with them.
Clark often had fights, and not just with the people he owed money to. His friendliness, compelling at first, could suddenly turn sour. There were places in town that he would not go into, because of some row. The drugstore was one such place. An old woman had pushed in front of him—that is, she had gone to get something she’d forgotten and come back and pushed in front, rather than going to the end of the line, and he had complained, and the cashier had said to him, “She has emphysema.” Clark had said, “Is that so? I have piles myself,” and the manager had been summoned to tell him that that remark was uncalled for. And in the coffee shop out on the highway the advertised breakfast discount had not been allowed, because it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, and Clark had argued and then dropped his takeout cup of coffee on the floor—just missing, so they said, a child in its stroller. He claimed that the child was half a mile away and he’d dropped the cup because no sleeve had been provided. They said that he hadn’t asked for a sleeve. He said that he shouldn’t have had to ask.

Et cetera.
“You flare up,” Carla said.
“That’s what men do.”
She had not dared say anything about his row with Joy Tucker, whom he now referred to as Joy-Fucker. Joy was the librarian from town who boarded her horse with them, a quick-tempered little chestnut mare named Lizzie. Joy Tucker, when she was in a jokey mood, called her Lizzie Borden. Yesterday, she had driven out, not in a jokey mood at all, and complained about the roof’s not being fixed and Lizzie looking so miserable, as if she might have caught a chill. There was nothing the matter with Lizzie, actually. Clark had even tried—for him—to be placating. But then it was Joy Tucker who flared up and said that their place was a dump, and Lizzie deserved better, and Clark said, “Suit yourself.” Joy had not—or not yet—removed Lizzie, but Clark, who had formerly made the mare his pet, refused to have anything more to do with her.
The worst thing, as far as Carla was concerned, was the absence of Flora, the little white goat who kept the horses company in the barn and in the fields. There had been no sign of her for two days, and Carla was afraid that wild dogs or coyotes had got her, or even a bear.
She had dreamed of Flora last night and the night before. In the first dream, Flora had walked right up to the bed with a red apple in her mouth, but in the second dream—last night—she had run away when she saw Carla coming. Her leg seemed to be hurt, but she ran anyway. She led Carla to a barbed-wire barricade of the kind that might belong on some battlefield, and then she—Flora—slipped through it, hurt leg and all, just slithered through like a white eel and disappeared.
Up until three years ago, Carla had never really looked at mobile homes. She hadn’t called them that, either. Like her parents, she would have thought the term “mobile home” pretentious. Some people lived in trailers, and that was all there was to it. One trailer was no different from another. When she moved in here, when she chose this life with Clark, she began to see things in a new way. After that, it was only the mobile homes that she really looked at, to see how people had fixed them up—the kind of curtains they had hung, the way they had painted the trim, the ambitious decks or patios or extra rooms they had built on. She could hardly wait to get to such improvements herself.
Clark had gone along with her ideas for a while. He had built new steps, and spent a lot of time looking for an old wrought-iron railing for them. He hadn’t complained about the money spent on paint for the kitchen and bathroom or the material for curtains.
What he did balk at was tearing up the carpet, which was the same in every room and the thing that she had most counted on replacing. It was divided into small brown squares, each with a pattern of darker brown, rust, and tan squiggles and shapes. For a long time, she had thought that the same squiggles and shapes were arranged the same way in each square. Then, when she had had more time, a lot of time, to examine them, she decided that there were four patterns joined together to make identical larger squares. Sometimes she could pick out the arrangement easily and sometimes she had to work to see it.

She did this at times when Clark’s mood had weighted down all their indoor space. The best thing then was to invent or remember some job to do in the barn. The horses would not look at her when she was unhappy, but Flora, who was never tied up, would come and rub against her, and look up with an expression that was not quite sympathy; it was more like comradely mockery in her shimmering yellow-green eyes.
Flora had been a half-grown kid when Clark brought her home from a farm where he’d gone to bargain for some horse tackle. He had heard that a goat was able to put horses at ease and he wanted to try it. At first she had been Clark’s pet entirely, following him everywhere, dancing for his attention. She was as quick and graceful and provocative as a kitten, and her resemblance to a guileless girl in love had made them both laugh. But as she grew older she seemed to attach herself to Carla, and in this attachment she was suddenly much wiser, less skittish—she seemed capable, instead, of a subdued and ironic sort of humor. Carla’s behavior with the horses was tender and strict and rather maternal, but the comradeship with Flora was quite different. Flora allowed her no sense of superiority.
“Still no sign of Flora?” she said as she pulled off her barn boots. Clark had posted a “lost goat” notice on the Web.
“Not so far,” he said, in a preoccupied but not unfriendly voice. He suggested, not for the first time, that Flora might have just gone off to find herself a billy.
No word about Mrs. Jamieson.
Carla put the kettle on. Clark was humming to himself as he often did when he sat in front of the computer. Sometimes he talked back to it. “Bullshit,” he might say, replying to some challenge. He laughed occasionally, but rarely remembered what the joke was when she asked him afterward.
Carla called, “Do you want tea?” And to her surprise he got up and came into the kitchen.

“So,” he said. “So, Carla.”
“What?”
“So she phoned.”
“Who?”
“Her majesty. Queen Sylvia. She just got back.”
“I didn’t hear the car.”
“I didn’t ask you if you did.”
“So what did she phone for?”
“She wants you to go and help her straighten up the house. That’s what she said. Tomorrow.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her sure. But you’d better phone up and confirm.”
Carla said, “Why do I have to, if you told her?” She poured their mugs of tea. “I cleaned up her house before she left. I don’t see what there could be to do so soon.”
“Maybe some coons got in and made a mess of it while she was gone. You never know.”
“I don’t have to phone her right this minute. I want to drink my tea and I want to take a shower.”
“The sooner the better.”
Carla took her tea into the bathroom.
“We have to go to the laundromat. When the towels dry out, they still smell moldy.”
“We’re not changing the subject, Carla.”
Even after she’d got in the shower, he stood outside the door and called to her.
“I am not going to let you off the hook, Carla.”
She thought he might still be standing there when she came out, but he was back at the computer. She dressed as if she were going to town—she hoped that if they could get out of there, go to the laundromat, get a takeout at the cappuccino place, they might be able to talk in a different way, some release might be possible. She went into the living room with a brisk step and put her arms around him from behind. But as soon as she did that a wave of grief swallowed her up—it must have been the heat of the shower, loosening her tears—and she bent over him, crumbling and crying.
He took his hands off the keyboard but sat still.
“Just don’t be mad at me,” she said.
“I’m not mad. I hate when you’re like this, that’s all.”
“I’m like this because you’re mad.”
“Don’t tell me what I am. You’re choking me. Go and get control of yourself. Start supper.”
That was what she did. It was obvious by now that the five-o’clock person wasn’t coming. She got out the potatoes and started to peel them, but her tears would not stop. She wiped her face with a paper towel and tore off a fresh one to take with her and went out into the rain. She didn’t go into the barn because it was too miserable in there without Flora. She walked along the lane back to the woods. The horses were in the other field. They came over to the fence to watch her, but all except Lizzie, who capered and snorted a bit, had the sense to understand that her attention was elsewhere.

It had started when they read the obituary, Mr. Jamieson’s obituary, in the city paper. Until the year before, they had known the Jamiesons only as neighbors who kept to themselves. She taught botany at the college forty miles away, so she had to spend a good deal of her time on the road. He was a poet. But for a poet, and for an old man—perhaps twenty years older than Mrs. Jamieson—he was rugged and active. He improved the drainage system on his place, cleaning out the culvert and lining it with rocks. He dug and planted and fenced a vegetable garden, cut paths through the woods, looked after repairs on the house—not just the sort of repairs that almost any house owner could manage after a while but those that involved plumbing, wiring, roofing, too.
When they read the obituary, Carla and Clark learned for the first time that Leon Jamieson had been the recipient of a large prize five years before his death. A prize for poetry.
Shortly afterward, Clark said, “We could’ve made him pay.”
Carla knew at once what he was talking about, but she took it as a joke.
“Too late now,” she said. “You can’t pay once you’re dead.”
“He can’t. She could.”
“She’s gone to Greece.”
“She’s not going to stay in Greece.”
“She didn’t know,” Carla said more soberly. “She didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“She doesn’t have a clue about it.”
“We could fix that.”
Carla said, “No. No.”
Clark went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
“We could say we’re going to sue. People get money for stuff like that all the time.”
“How could you do that? You can’t sue a dead person.”
“Threaten to go to the papers. Big-time poet. The papers would eat it up. All we have to do is threaten and she’d cave in. How much are we going to ask for?”
“You’re just fantasizing,” Carla said. “You’re joking.”
“No. Actually, I’m not.”
Carla said that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and he said O.K. But they talked about it the next day, and the next, and the next. He sometimes got notions like this, which were not practicable, which might even be illegal. He talked about them with growing excitement and then—she wasn’t sure why—he dropped them. If the rain had stopped, if this had turned into a normal summer, he might have let this idea go the way of the others. But that had not happened, and during the last month he had harped on about the scheme as if it were perfectly feasible. The question was how much money to ask for. Too little and the woman might not take them seriously; she might think they were bluffing. Too much might get her back up and she might become stubborn.

Carla had stopped pretending she thought he was joking. Instead, she told him that it wouldn’t work. She said that, for one thing, people expected poets to behave that way. So it wouldn’t be worth paying out money to cover it up.
“How do you know?” Clark said.
He said that it would work if it was done right. Carla was to break down and tell Mrs. Jamieson the whole story. Then Clark would move in, as if it had all been a surprise to him, he had just found out. He would be outraged; he would talk about telling the world. He would let Mrs. Jamieson be the one who first mentioned money.
“You were injured. You were molested and humiliated and I was injured and humiliated because you are my wife. It’s a question of respect.”
Over and over again he talked to her in this way. She tried to deflect him, but he insisted.
“Promise,” he said. “Promise.”
All this was because of what she had told him—things she could not now retract or deny.
Sometimes he gets interested in me?
The old guy?
Sometimes he calls me into the room when she’s not there?
When she has to go out shopping and the nurse isn’t there, either?
A lucky inspiration of hers, one that instantly pleased him.
So what do you do then? Do you go in?
She played shy.
Sometimes.
He calls you into his room. So
? Carla? So, then?
I go in to see what he wants.
So what does he want
?
This was asked and told in whispers, even when there was nobody to hear, even when they were in the neverland of their bed. A bedtime story, in which the details were important and had to be added to each time, with convincing reluctance, shyness, giggles. (Dirty, dirty.) And it was not only he who was eager and grateful. She was, too. Eager to please and excite him, to excite herself. Grateful every time that it still worked.
And in one part of her mind it was true: she saw the randy old man, the bump he made in the sheet, bedridden, almost beyond speech but proficient in sign language, indicating his desire, trying to nudge and finger her into complicity, into obliging stunts and intimacies. (Her refusal a necessity, but also, perhaps, strangely, slightly disappointing to Clark.)
Now and then came an image that she had to hammer down lest it spoil everything. She would think of the real dim and sheeted body, drugged and shrinking every day in its hospital bed, glimpsed only a few times, when Mrs. Jamieson or the visiting nurse had neglected to close the door. She herself never actually coming closer to him than that.
In fact, she had dreaded going to the Jamiesons’, but she needed the money, and she felt sorry for Mrs. Jamieson, who seemed so haunted and bewildered, as if she were walking in her sleep. Once or twice, Carla had burst out and done something really silly just to loosen up the atmosphere. The kind of thing she did when clumsy and terrified riders were feeling humiliated. She used to try it, too, when Clark was stuck in his moods. It didn’t work with him anymore. But the story about Mr. Jamieson had worked, decisively.


At the house there was nothing for Sylvia to do except open the windows. And think—with an eagerness that dismayed without really surprising her—of how soon she could see Carla.
All the paraphernalia of illness had been removed. The room that had been Sylvia and her husband’s bedroom and then his death chamber had been cleaned out and tidied up to look as if nothing had ever happened in it. Carla had helped with all that, during the few frenzied days between the crematorium and the departure for Greece. Every piece of clothing Leon had ever worn and some things he hadn’t, some gifts from his sisters that had never been taken out of their packages, had been piled in the back seat of the car and taken to the thrift shop. His pills, his shaving things, unopened cans of the fortified drink that had sustained him as long as anything could, cartons of the sesame-seed snaps that had at one time been his favorite snack, the plastic bottles full of the lotion that had eased his back, the sheepskins on which he had lain—all of that was dumped into plastic bags to be hauled away as garbage, and Carla didn’t question a thing. She never said, “Maybe somebody could use that,” or pointed out that whole cartons of cans were unopened. When Sylvia said, “I wish I hadn’t taken the clothes to town. I wish I’d burned them all up in the incinerator,” Carla showed no surprise.
They cleaned the oven, scrubbed out the cupboards, wiped down the walls and the windows. One day Sylvia sat in the living room going through all the condolence letters she had received. (There was no accumulation of papers and notebooks to be attended to, as you might have expected with a writer, no unfinished work or scribbled drafts. He had told her, months before, that he had pitched everything. And no regrets.) The sloping south wall of the house was mostly big windows. Sylvia looked up, surprised by the watery sunlight that had come out—or possibly by the shadow of Carla on top of a ladder, bare-legged, bare-armed, her resolute face crowned with a frizz of dandelion hair that was too short for her braid. She was vigorously spraying and scrubbing the glass. When she saw Sylvia looking at her, she stopped and flung out her arms as if she were splayed there, making a preposterous gargoyle-like face. They both began to laugh. Sylvia felt this laughter running through her like a sweet stream. She turned back to her letters and soon decided that all these kind, genuine, or perfunctory words, the tributes and the regrets, could go the way of the sheepskins and the crackers.

When she heard Carla taking the ladder down, heard boots on the deck, she was suddenly shy. She sat where she was with her head bowed as Carla came into the room and passed behind her, on her way to the kitchen to put the pail and the paper towels back under the sink. She hardly halted—she was quick as a bird—but she managed to drop a kiss on Sylvia’s bent head. Then she went on. She was whistling something to herself, perhaps had been whistling the whole time.
That kiss had been in Sylvia’s mind ever since. It meant nothing in particular. It meant Cheer up. Or Almost done. It meant that they were good friends who had got through a lot of depressing work together. Or maybe just that the sun had come out. That Carla was thinking of getting home to her horses. Nevertheless, Sylvia saw it as a bright blossom, its petals spreading inside her with a tumultuous heat, like a menopausal flash.
Every so often there had been a special girl student in one of her classes—one whose cleverness and dedication and awkward egotism, or even genuine passion for the natural world, reminded her of her young self. Such girls hung around her worshipfully, hoped for some sort of intimacy they could not—in most cases—imagine, and soon got on her nerves.
Carla was nothing like them. If she resembled anybody in Sylvia’s life, it would have to be certain girls she had known in high school—those who were bright but not too bright, easy athletes but not competitive, buoyant but not rambunctious. Naturally happy.
The day after Sylvia’s return, she was speaking to Carla about Greece.
“Where I was, this little tiny village with my two old friends, well, it was the sort of place where the very occasional tourist bus would stop, as if it had got lost, and the tourists would get off and look around and they were absolutely bewildered because they weren’t anywhere. There was nothing to buy.”
The large-limbed, uncomfortable, dazzling girl was sitting there at last, in the room that had been filled with thoughts of her. She was faintly smiling, belatedly nodding.
“And at first I was bewildered, too. It was so hot. But it’s true about the light. It’s wonderful. And then I figured out what there was to do. There were just these few simple things, but they could fill the day. You walk half a mile down the road to buy some oil, and half a mile in the other direction to buy your bread or your wine, and that’s the morning. Then you eat some lunch under the trees, and after lunch it’s too hot to do anything but close the shutters and lie on your bed and maybe read. Later on, you notice that the shadows are longer and you get up and go for a swim. Oh,” she interrupted herself. “Oh, I forgot.”

She jumped up and went to get the present she had brought, which in fact she had not forgotten about at all. She had not wanted to hand it to Carla right away—she had wanted the moment to come more naturally, and while she was speaking she had thought ahead to the moment when she could mention the sea, going swimming. And then say, as she now said, “Swimming reminded me of this because it’s a little replica, you know, it’s a little replica of the horse they found under the sea. Cast in bronze. They dredged it up, after all this time. It’s supposed to be from the second century B.C.”
When Carla had come in and looked around for work to do, Sylvia had said, “Oh, just sit down a minute. I haven’t had anybody to talk to since I got back. Please.” Carla had sat down on the edge of a chair, legs apart, hands between her knees, looking somehow desolate. As if reaching for some distant politeness, she had said, “How was Greece?”
Now she was standing, with the tissue paper crumpled around the horse, which she had not fully unwrapped.
“It’s said to represent a racehorse,” Sylvia said. “Making that final spurt, the last effort in a race. The rider, too—the boy—you can see that he’s urging the horse on to the limit of its strength.”
She did not mention that the boy had made her think of Carla, and she could not now have said why. He was only ten or eleven years old. Maybe the strength and grace of the arm that must have held the reins, or the wrinkles in his childish forehead, the absorption and the pure effort there. It was, in some way, like Carla cleaning the windows last spring. Her strong legs in her shorts, her broad shoulders, her big dedicated swipes at the glass, and then the way she had splayed herself out as a joke, inviting or even commanding Sylvia to laugh.
“You can see that,” Carla said, conscientiously now examining the little bronzy-green statue. “Thank you very much.”
“You are welcome. Let’s have coffee, shall we? I’ve just made some. The coffee in Greece was strong, a little stronger than I liked, but the bread was heavenly. Sit down another moment, please do. You should stop me going on and on this way. What about here? How has life been here?”
“It’s been raining most of the time.”
“I can see that. I can see it has,” Sylvia called from the kitchen end of the big room. Pouring the coffee, she decided that she would keep quiet about the other gift she had brought. It hadn’t cost her anything (the horse had cost more than the girl could probably guess); it was only a beautiful small pinkish-white stone that she had picked up on the road.

“This is for Carla,” she had said to her friend Maggie, who was walking beside her. “I know it’s silly. I just want her to have a tiny piece of this land.”
Sylvia had already mentioned Carla to Maggie, and to Soraya, her other friend there—telling them how the girl’s presence had come to mean more and more to her, how an indescribable bond had seemed to grow up between them, and had consoled her in the awful months of last spring.
“It was just to see somebody—somebody so fresh and full of health coming into the house.”
Maggie and Soraya had laughed in a kindly but annoying way.
“There’s always a girl,” Soraya said, with an indolent stretch of her heavy brown arms, and Maggie said, “We all come to it sometime. A crush on a girl.”
Sylvia was obscurely angered by that dated word—“crush.”
“Maybe it’s because Leon and I never had children,” she said. “It’s stupid. Displaced maternal love.”
But the girl was not, today, anything like the Carla that Sylvia had been remembering, not at all the calm, bright spirit, the carefree and generous creature who had kept her company in Greece.
She had been almost sullen about her gift. Almost sullen as she reached out for her mug of coffee.
“There was one thing I thought you would have liked a lot,” Sylvia said energetically. “The goats. They were quite small even when they were full grown. Some spotty and some white, and they were leaping around on the rocks just like—really like the spirits of the place.” She laughed, in an artificial way; she couldn’t stop herself. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d had wreaths on their horns. How is your little goat? I forget her name.”
Carla said, “Flora.”
“Flora.”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone? Did you sell her?”
“She disappeared. We don’t know where.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But isn’t there a chance she’ll turn up again?”
No answer. Sylvia looked directly at the girl—something that up to now she had not quite been able to do. She saw that her eyes were full of tears, her face blotchy—in fact, it seemed grubby—and that she was bloated with distress.
Carla didn’t do anything to avoid Sylvia’s look. She drew her lips tight over her teeth and shut her eyes and rocked back and forth as if in a soundless howl and then, shockingly, she did howl. She howled and wept and gulped for air, and tears ran down her cheeks and snot out of her nostrils, and she began to look around wildly for something to wipe with. Sylvia ran and got handfuls of Kleenex.
“Don’t worry, here you are, here, you’re all right,” she said, thinking that maybe she should take the girl in her arms. But she had not the least wish to do that, and it might make things worse. The girl might feel how little Sylvia wanted to do that, how appalled she was, in fact, by this fit.


Carla said something, said the same thing again.
“Awful,” she said. “Awful.”
“No, it’s not. We all have to cry sometimes. It’s all right, don’t worry.”
“It’s awful.”
And Sylvia could not help feeling that, with every moment of this show of misery, the girl made herself more ordinary, more like one of those soggy students in her—Sylvia’s—office. Some of them cried about their marks—but that was often tactical, a brief, unconvincing bit of whimpering. The less frequent, real waterworks always turned out to have something to do with a love affair, or their parents, or a pregnancy.
“It’s not about your goat, is it?”
No. No.
“Then what is it?”
Carla said, “I can’t stand it anymore.”
What could she not stand?
It turned out to be the husband.
He was mad at her all the time. He acted as if he hated her. There was nothing she could do right; there was nothing she could say. Living with him was driving her crazy. Sometimes she thought she already was crazy.
“Has he hurt you, Carla?”
No. He hadn’t hurt her physically. But he hated her. He despised her. He could not stand it when she cried and she could not help crying because he was so mad. She did not know what to do.
“Perhaps you do know what to do,” Sylvia said.
“Get away? I would if I could,” Carla began to wail again. “I’d give anything to get away. I can’t. I haven’t any money. I haven’t anywhere in this world to go.”
“Well. Think. Is that altogether true?” Sylvia said in her best counselling manner. “Don’t you have parents? Didn’t you tell me you grew up in Kingston? Don’t you have a family there?”
Her parents had moved to British Columbia. They hated Clark. When she ran away and got married, they didn’t care if she lived or died.
Brothers or sisters?
One brother, nine years older. He was married and in Toronto. He didn’t care, either. He didn’t like Clark. His wife was a sickening snob.
“Have you ever thought of the women’s shelter?”

“They don’t want you there unless you’ve been beaten up. And everybody would find out and it would be bad for our business.”
Sylvia smiled gently. “Is this a time to think about that?”
Then Carla actually laughed. “I know,” she said. “I’m insane.”
“Listen,” Sylvia said. “Listen to me. If you had the money to go, where would you go? What would you do?”
“I would go to Toronto,” Carla said, readily enough. “But I wouldn’t go near my brother. I’d stay in a motel or something and I’d get a job at a riding stable.”
“You think you could do that?”
“I was working at a riding stable the summer I met Clark. I’m more experienced now than I was then. A lot more.”
“And all that’s stopping you is lack of money?”
Carla took a deep breath. “All that’s stopping me,” she said.
“All right,” Sylvia said. “Now, listen to what I propose. I don’t think you should go to a motel. I think you should take the bus to Toronto and go to stay with a friend of mine. Her name is Ruth Stiles. She has a big house and she lives alone and she won’t mind having somebody to stay. You can stay there till you find a job. I’ll help you with some money. There must be lots of riding stables around Toronto.”
“There are.”
“So what do you think? Do you want me to phone and find out what time the bus goes?”
Carla said yes. She was shivering. She ran her hands up and down her thighs and shook her head roughly from side to side.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I’ll pay you back. I mean, thank you. I’ll pay you back. I don’t know what to say.”
Sylvia was already at the phone, dialling the bus depot.
“Sh-h-h, I’m getting the times,” she said. She listened and hung up. “I know you will. You agree about Ruth’s? I’ll let her know. There’s one problem, though.” She looked critically at Carla’s shorts and T-shirt. “You can’t very well go in those clothes.”
“I can’t go home to get anything,” Carla said in a panic. “I’ll be all right.”
“The bus will be air-conditioned. You’ll freeze. There must be something of mine you could wear. Aren’t we about the same height?”
“You’re ten times skinnier,” Carla said.
“I didn’t use to be.”
In the end, they decided on a brown linen jacket, hardly worn—Sylvia had considered it to be a mistake for herself, the style too brusque—and a pair of tailored tan pants and a cream-colored silk shirt. Carla’s sneakers would have to do, because her feet were two sizes larger then Sylvia’s.
Carla went to take a shower—something she had not bothered with, in her state of mind that morning—and Sylvia phoned Ruth. Ruth was going to be out at a meeting that evening, but she would leave the key with her upstairs tenants and all Carla would have to do was ring their bell.


“She’ll have to take a cab from the bus depot, though. I assume she’s O.K. to manage that?” Ruth said.
Sylvia laughed. “She’s not a lame duck, don’t worry. She is just a person in a bad situation, the way it happens.”
“Well, good. I mean, good she’s getting out.”
“Not a lame duck at all,” Sylvia said, thinking of Carla trying on the tailored pants and linen jacket. How quickly the young recover from a fit of despair and how handsome the girl had looked in the fresh clothes.
The bus would stop in town at twenty past two. Sylvia decided to make omelettes for lunch, to set the table with the dark-blue cloth, and to get down the crystal glasses and open a bottle of wine.
“I hope you can eat something,” she said, when Carla came out clean and shining in her borrowed clothes. Her softly freckled skin was flushed from the shower and her hair was damp and darkened, out of its braid, the sweet frizz now flat against her head. She said that she was hungry, but when she tried to get a forkful of the omelette to her mouth her trembling hands made it impossible.
“I don’t know why I’m shaking like this,” she said. “I must be excited. I never knew it would be this easy.”
“It’s very sudden,” Sylvia said judiciously. “Probably it doesn’t seem quite real.”
“It does, though. Everything now seems really real. It’s like the time before—that’s when I was in a daze.”
“Maybe when you make up your mind to something, when you really make up your mind, that’s how it is. Or that’s how it should be. Easy.”
“If you’ve got a friend,” Carla said with a self-conscious smile and a flush spreading over her forehead. “If you’ve got a true friend. I mean, like you.” She laid down the knife and fork and raised her wineglass with both hands. “Drinking to a true friend,” she said, uncomfortably. “I probably shouldn’t even take a sip, but I will.”

“Me, too,” Sylvia said with a pretense of gaiety, but she spoiled the moment by saying, “Are you going to phone him? Or what? He’ll have to know. At least he’ll have to know where you are by the time he’d be expecting you home.”
“Not the phone,” Carla said, alarmed. “I can’t do it. Maybe if you—”
“No,” Sylvia said. “No.”
“No, that’s stupid of me. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just hard to think straight. What I maybe should do is put a note in the mailbox. But I don’t want him to get it too soon. I don’t want us to even drive past there when we’re going into town. I want to go the back way. So if I write it—if I write it, could you, could you maybe slip it in the box when you come back?”
Sylvia agreed to this, seeing no good alternative. She brought pen and paper and poured a little more wine. Carla sat thinking, then wrote a few words.
I have gone away. I will be all write. These were the words that Sylvia read when she unfolded the paper on her way back from the bus station. She was sure that Carla knew “right” from “write.” It was just that she had been talking about writing a note and she was in a state of exalted confusion. More confusion perhaps than Sylvia had realized. The wine had brought out a stream of talk, but it had not seemed to be accompanied by any particular grief or upset. She had talked about the horse barn where she had worked when she was eighteen and just out of high school—that was where she’d met Clark. Her parents had wanted her to go to college, and she had agreed, as long as she could choose to be a veterinarian. She had been one of those dorky girls in high school, one of those girls they made rotten jokes about, but she didn’t care. All she really wanted, and had wanted all her life, was to work with animals and live in the country.
Clark was the best riding teacher they had—and good-looking, too. Scads of women were after him—they would take up riding just to get him as their teacher. She had teased him about this, and at first he seemed to like it, but then he got annoyed. She tried to make up for it by getting him talking about his dream—his plan, really—to have a riding school, a horse stable, someplace out in the country. One day, she came in to work and saw him hanging up his saddle and realized that she had fallen in love with him.
Maybe it was just sex. It was probably just sex.
When fall came and she was supposed to leave for college, she refused to go. She said she needed a year off.

Clark was very smart, but he hadn’t waited even to finish high school, and he had altogether lost touch with his family. He thought families were like a poison in your blood. He had been an attendant in a mental hospital, a disk jockey on a radio station in Lethbridge, Alberta, a member of a road crew near Thunder Bay, an apprentice barber, a salesman in an Army-surplus store. And those were only the jobs he had told her about.
She had nicknamed him Gypsy Rover, because of the song, an old song her mother used to sing. And she took to singing it around the house all the time, till her mother knew something was up.
Last night she slept on a goose-feather bedWith silken sheets for cover.Tonight she’ll sleep on the cold cold ground—Beside her gypsy lo-ov-ver.
Her mother had said, “He’ll break your heart, that’s a sure thing.” Her stepfather, who was an engineer, did not even grant Clark that much power. “A loser,” he called him. “A drifter.” He said this as if Clark were a bug he could just whisk off his clothes.
Carla said, “Does a drifter save up enough money to buy a farm, which, by the way, he has done?” He said, “I’m not about to argue with you.” She was not his daughter, anyway, he added, as if that were the clincher.
So, naturally, Carla had had to run away with him. The way her parents behaved, they were practically guaranteeing it.
“Will you get in touch with your parents after you’re settled?” Sylvia asked. “In Toronto?”
Carla raised her eyebrows, pulled in her cheeks, and made a saucy O of her mouth. She said, “Nope.”
Definitely a little bit drunk.
Back home, having left the note in the mailbox, Sylvia cleaned up the dishes that were still on the table, washed and polished the omelette pan, threw the blue napkins and tablecloth in the laundry basket, and opened the windows. She did this with a confusing sense of regret and irritation. She had put out a fresh cake of apple-scented soap for the girl’s shower and the smell of it lingered in the house, as it had in the air of the car.
Sometime in the last hour or so the rain had stopped. She could not stay still, so she went for a walk along the path that Leon had cleared. The gravel he had dumped in the boggy places had mostly washed away. They used to go walking every spring to hunt for wild orchids. She taught him the name of every wildflower—all of which, except for trillium, he forgot. He called her his Dorothy Wordsworth.

Last spring, she had gone out once, and picked him a bunch of dogtooth violets, but he had looked at them—as he sometimes looked at her—with mere exhaustion, disavowal.
She kept seeing Carla, Carla stepping onto the bus. Her thanks had been sincere but already almost casual, her wave jaunty. She had got used to her salvation.
Around six o’clock, Sylvia put in a call to Toronto, to Ruth, knowing that Carla probably wouldn’t have arrived yet. She got the answering machine.
“Ruth,” Sylvia said. “Sylvia. It’s about this girl I sent you. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be a bother to you. I hope it’ll be all right. You may find her a little full of herself. Maybe it’s just youth. Let me know. O.K.? O.K. Bye-bye.”
She phoned again before she went to bed but got the machine, so she said, “Sylvia again. Just checking,” and hung up. It was between nine and ten o’clock, not even really dark. Ruth would still be out, and the girl would not want to pick up the phone in a strange house. She tried to think of the name of Ruth’s upstairs tenants. They surely wouldn’t have gone to bed yet. But she could not remember it. And just as well. Phoning them would have been going too far.
She got into bed, but it was impossible, so she took a light quilt and went out to the living room and lay down on the sofa, where she had slept for the last three months of Leon’s life. She did not think it likely that she would get to sleep there, either—there were no curtains on the huge south windows and she could tell by the sky that the moon had risen, though she could not see it.
The next thing she knew she was on a bus somewhere—in Greece?—with a lot of people she did not know, and the engine of the bus was making an alarming knocking sound. She woke to find that the knocking was at her front door.
Carla?
Carla had kept her head down until the bus was clear of town. The windows were tinted, nobody could see in, but she had to guard herself against seeing out. Lest Clark appear. Coming out of a store or waiting to cross the street, ignorant of her abandonment, thinking this an ordinary afternoon. No: thinking it the afternoon when their scheme—his scheme—had been put in motion, eager to know how far she had got with it.
Once they were out in the country, she looked up, breathed deeply, took account of the violet-tinted fields. Mrs. Jamieson’s presence had surrounded her with a kind of remarkable safety and sanity, had made her escape seem the most rational thing you could imagine—in fact, the only self-respecting thing that a person in Carla’s shoes could do. Carla had felt herself capable of an unaccustomed confidence, even a mature sense of humor. She had revealed her life to Mrs. Jamieson in a way that seemed bound to gain sympathy and yet to be ironic and truthful. And adapted to live up to what, as far as she could see, were Mrs. Jamieson’s—Sylvia’s—expectations.

The sun was shining, as it had been for some time. At lunch, it had made the wineglasses sparkle. And there was enough of a wind blowing to lift the roadside grass, the flowering weeds, out of their drenched clumps. Summer clouds, not rain clouds, were scudding across the sky. The whole countryside was changing, shaking itself loose, into the true brightness of a July day. And as they sped along she didn’t see much trace of the recent past—no big puddles in the fields, showing where the seed had washed out, no miserable spindly cornstalks or lodged grain.
It occurred to her that she should tell Clark about this—that perhaps they had chosen what was, for some freakish reason, a very wet and dreary corner of the country, and there were other places where they could have been successful.
Or could be yet?
Then it came to her, of course, that she would not be telling Clark anything. Never again. She would not be concerned about what happened to him, or to the horses. If, by any chance, Flora came back she would not hear about it.
This was her second time, leaving everything behind. The first time had been just like the old Beatles song: she had put a note on the table and slipped out of the house at five o’clock in the morning to meet Clark in the church parking lot down the street. She was even humming that song as they rattled away. She’s leaving home, bye-bye. She recalled now how the sun had come up behind them, how she had looked at Clark’s hands on the wheel, at the dark hairs on his competent forearms, and breathed in the smell of the truck, a smell of oil and metal tools and horse barns. The cold air of the fall morning had blown in through the rusted seams of the sort of vehicle that nobody in her family ever rode in, that scarcely ever appeared on the streets where she lived. Clark’s preoccupation with the traffic, his curt answers, his narrowed eyes, everything about him that ignored her, even his slight irritation at her giddy delight—all of that had thrilled her. As did the disorder of his past life, his avowed loneliness, the unexpectedly tender way he could have with a horse, and with her. She saw him as the sturdy architect of the life ahead of them, herself as a captive, her submission both proper and exquisite.

“You don’t know what you’re leaving behind,” her mother wrote to her, in the one letter she received and never answered. But in those shivering moments of early-morning flight she certainly had known what she was leaving behind, even if she had rather a hazy idea of what she was going to. She despised their house, their back yard, their photo albums, their vacations, their Cuisinart, their powder room, their walk-in closets, their underground lawn-sprinkling system. In the brief note she left, she had used the word “authentic.”
I have always felt the need of a more authentic kind of life. I know I cannot expect you to understand this.
The bus had stopped now at a gas station in the first town on the way. It was the very station that she and Clark used to drive to, in their early days, to buy cheap gas. In those days, their world had included several towns in the surrounding countryside, and they had sometimes behaved like tourists, sampling the specialties in grimy hotel bars. Pigs’ feet, sauerkraut, potato pancakes, beer. They would sing all the way home like crazy hillbillies.
But after a while all outings came to be seen as a waste of time and money. They were what people did before they understood the realities of their lives.
She was crying now—her eyes had filled up without her realizing it. She tried to think about Toronto, the first steps ahead. The taxi, the house she had never seen, the strange bed she would sleep in alone. Looking in the phone book tomorrow for the addresses of riding stables, then getting to wherever they were, asking for a job.
She could not picture it. Herself riding on the subway or a streetcar, caring for new horses, talking to new people, living among hordes of people every day who were not Clark. A life, a place, chosen for that specific reason: that it would not contain Clark.
The strange and terrible thing about that world of the future, as she now pictured it, was that she would not exist in it. She would only walk around, and open her mouth and speak, and do this and do that. She would not really be there. And what was strange about it was that she was doing all this, she was riding on this bus, in the hope of recovering herself. As Mrs. Jamieson might say—and as she herself might have said with satisfaction—taking charge of her own life. With nobody glowering over her, nobody’s mood infecting her with misery, no implacable mysterious silence surrounding her.
But what would she care about? How would she know that she was alive?
While she was running away from him—now—Clark still kept his place in her life. But when she was finished running away, when she just went on, what would she put in his place? What else—who else—could ever be so vivid a challenge?


She managed to stop crying but she had started to shake. She was in a bad way and would have to take hold, get a grip on herself. “Get a grip on yourself,” Clark had sometimes told her, passing through a room where she was scrunched up, trying not to weep, and that indeed was what she must do now.
They had stopped in another town. This was the third town away from the one where she had got on the bus, which meant that they had passed through the second town without her even noticing. The bus must have stopped, the driver must have called out the name, and she had not heard or seen anything, in her fog of fright. Soon enough, they would reach the highway, they would be tearing along toward Toronto.
And she would be lost.
She would be lost. What would be the point of getting into a taxi and giving the new address, of getting up in the morning and brushing her teeth and going into the world?
Her feet seemed now to be at some enormous distance from her body. Her knees in the unfamiliar crisp pants were weighted with irons. She was sinking to the ground like a stricken horse.
Already the bus had loaded on the few passengers and parcels that had been waiting in this town. A woman and a baby in its stroller were waving goodbye to somebody. The building behind them, the café that served as a bus stop, was also in motion; a liquefying wave passed through the bricks and windows as if they were about to dissolve. In peril, Carla pulled her huge body, her iron limbs, forward. She stumbled. She cried out, “Let me off.”
The driver braked. He called back irritably, “I thought you were going to Toronto.” People gave her casually curious looks. No one seemed to understand that she was in anguish.
“I have to get off here.”
‘‘There’s a washroom in the back.”
“No. No. I have to get off.”
“I’m not waiting. You understand that? You got luggage underneath?”
“No. Yes. No.”
“No luggage?”
A voice in the bus said, “Claustrophobia. That’s what’s the matter with her.”
“You sick?” the driver said.
“No. No. I just want off.”
“O.K. O.K. Fine by me.”
Come and get me. Please. Come and get me.
I will.

The door was not locked. And it occurred to Sylvia that she should be locking it now, not opening it, but it was too late, she had it open.
And nobody there.
Yet she was sure, sure, that the knocking had been real.
She closed the door and this time she locked it.

There was a playful sound, a tinkling tapping sound, coming from the wall of windows. She switched the light on, but saw nothing there, and switched it off again. Some animal—maybe a squirrel? The French doors leading to the patio had not been locked, either. Not even really closed, since she had left them open an inch or so to air the house. She started to close them, and then somebody laughed, close by, close enough to be in the room with her.
“It’s me,” a man said. “Did I scare you?”
He was pressed against the glass of the door; he was right beside her.
“It’s Clark,” he said. “Clark from down the road.”
She was not going to ask him in, but she was afraid to shut the door in his face. He might grab it before she could get it closed. She didn’t want to turn on the light, either. She slept in a T-shirt. She should have pulled the quilt from the sofa and wrapped it around herself, but it was too late now.
“Did you want to get dressed?” he said. “What I got in here could be the very things you need.”
He had a shopping bag in his hand. He thrust it at her, but did not try to move forward with it.
“What?” she said in a choppy voice.
“Look and see. It’s not a bomb. There, take it.”
She felt inside the bag, not looking. Something soft. And then she recognized the buttons of the jacket, the silk of the shirt, the belt on the pants.
“Just thought you’d better have them back,” he said. “They’re yours, aren’t they?”
She tightened her jaw so that her teeth wouldn’t chatter. A fearful dryness had attacked her mouth and throat.
“I understood they were yours,” he said.
Her tongue moved like a wad of wool. She forced herself to say, “Where’s Carla?”
“You mean my wife Carla?”
Now she could see his face more clearly. She could see how he was enjoying himself.
“My wife Carla is at home in bed. Where she belongs.”
He was both handsome and silly-looking. Tall, lean, well built, but with a slouch that seemed artificial. A contrived, self-conscious air of menace. A lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, a vain little mustache, eyes that appeared both hopeful and mocking, a boyish smile perpetually on the verge of a sulk.
She had always disliked the sight of him—she had mentioned her dislike to Leon, who said that the man was just unsure of himself, just a bit too friendly. The fact that he was unsure of himself would not make her any safer.
“Pretty worn out,” he said. “After her little adventure. You should have seen your face—you should have seen the look on you when you recognized those clothes. What did you think? Did you think I’d murdered her?”

“I was surprised,” Sylvia said.
“I bet you were. After you were such a big help to her running away.”
“I helped her—” Sylvia said with considerable effort. “I helped her because she seemed to be in distress.”
“Distress,” he said, as if examining the word. ‘‘I guess she was. She was in very big distress when she jumped off that bus and got on the phone to me to come and get her. She was crying so hard I could hardly make out what it was she was saying.”
“She wanted to come back?”
“Oh, yeah. You bet she wanted to come back. She was in real hysterics to come back. She is a girl who is very up and down in her emotions. But I guess you don’t know her as well as I do.”
“She seemed quite happy to be going.”
“Did she really? Well, I have to take your word for it. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
Sylvia said nothing.
“Actually, I came here not just to return those clothes. I came here to tell you that I don’t appreciate you interfering in my life with my wife.”
“She is a human being,” Sylvia said, though she knew that it would be better if she could keep quiet. “Besides being your wife.”
“My goodness, is that so? My wife is a human being? Really? Thank you for the information. But don’t try getting smart with me. Sylvia.”
“I wasn’t trying to get smart.”
“Good. I’m glad you weren’t. I don’t want to get mad. I just have a couple of important things to say to you. One thing—that I don’t want you sticking your nose in anywhere, anytime, in my life. Another—that I’m not going to want her coming around here anymore. Not that she is going to want to come, I’m pretty sure of that. She doesn’t have too good an opinion of you at the moment. And it’s time you learned how to clean your own house. Now—” he said. “Now. Has that sunk in?”
“Quite sufficiently.”
“Oh, I really hope it has. I hope so.”
Sylvia said, “Yes.”
“And you know what else I think?”
“What?”
“I think you owe me something.”
“What?”
“I think you owe me—you owe me an apology.”

Sylvia said, “All right. If you think so. I’m sorry.”
He shifted, perhaps just to put out his hand, and with the movement of his body she shrieked.
He laughed. He put his hand on the doorframe to make sure she didn’t close it.
What’s that?”
“What’s what?” he said, as if she were trying out a trick and it would not work. But then he caught sight of something reflected in the window, and he snapped around to look.
Not far from the house was a wide shallow patch of land that often filled up with night fog at this time of year. The fog was there tonight, had been there all this while. But now the fog had changed. It had thickened, taken on a separate shape, transformed itself into something spiky and radiant. First, a live dandelion ball, tumbling forward, then it condensed itself into an unearthly sort of animal, pure white, hellbent, something like a giant unicorn rushing at them.
“Jesus Christ,” Clark said softly. He grabbed hold of Sylvia’s shoulder. This touch did not alarm her at all—she accepted it with the knowledge that he did it either to protect her or to reassure himself.
Then the vision exploded. Out of the fog, and out of the magnifying light—now revealed to be that of a car travelling along this back road, probably in search of a place to park—out of this appeared a white goat. A little dancing white goat, hardly bigger than a sheepdog.
Clark let go. He said, “Where the Christ did you come from?”
“It’s your goat,” Sylvia said. “Isn’t it your goat?”
“Flora,” he said. “Flora.”
The goat had stopped a yard or so away from them, had turned shy, and hung her head.
“Flora,” Clark said. “Where the hell did you come from? You scared the shit out of us.”
Us.
Flora came closer but still did not look up. She butted against Clark’s legs.
“Goddam stupid animal,” he said shakily.
“She was lost,” Sylvia said.
“Yeah. She was. Never thought we’d see her again, actually.”
Flora looked up. The moonlight caught a glitter in her eyes.
“Scared the shit out of us,” Clark said to her. “We thought you were a ghost.”
“It was the effect of the fog,” Sylvia said. She stepped out of the door now, onto the patio. Quite safe.
“Yeah.”
“Then the lights of that car.”
“Like an apparition,” he said, recovering. And pleased that he had thought of this description.
“Yes.”
“The goat from outer space. That’s what you are. You are a goddam goat from outer space,” he said, patting Flora. But when Sylvia put out her hand to do the same Flora immediately lowered her head as if preparing to butt.
“Goats are unpredictable,” Clark said. “They can seem tame but they’re not really. Not after they grow up.”
“Is she grown up? She looks so small.”
“She’s as big as she’s ever going to get.”


They stood looking down at the goat, as if hoping that she would provide them with more conversation. But she apparently was not going to. From this moment, they could go neither forward nor back. Sylvia believed that she might have seen a shadow of regret in his eyes that this was so.
But he acknowledged it. He said, “It’s late.”
“I guess it is,” Sylvia said, just as if this had been an ordinary visit.
“O.K., Flora. Time for us to go home.”
“I’ll make other arrangements for help if I need it,” she said. “I probably won’t need it now, anyway.” She added lightly, “I’ll stay out of your hair.”
“Sure,” he said. “You’d better get inside. You’ll get cold.”
“Good night,” she said. “Good night, Flora.”
The phone rang then.
“Excuse me.”
“Good night.”
It was Ruth.
“Ah,” Sylvia said. “A change in plans.”
She did not sleep, thinking of the little goat, whose appearance out of the fog seemed to her more and more magical. She even wondered if, possibly, Leon could have had something to do with it. If she were a poet, she would write a poem about something like this. But in her experience the subjects that she thought a poet would write about had not appealed to Leon, who was—who had been—the real thing.
Carla had not heard Clark go out, but she woke when he came in.
He told her that he had just been checking around the barn.
“A car went along the road a while ago, and I wondered what it was doing here. I couldn’t get back to sleep till I went out and checked whether everything was O.K.”
“So, was it?”
“Far as I could see. And then while I was up,” he said, “I thought I might as well pay a visit up the road. I took the clothes back.”
Carla sat up in bed.
“You didn’t wake her up?”
“She woke up. It was O.K. We had a little talk.”
“Oh.”
‘‘It was O.K.”
“You didn’t mention any of that stuff, did you?”
“I didn’t mention it.”

“It really was all made up. It really was. You have to believe me. It was all a lie.”
“O.K.”
“You have to believe me.”
“Then I believe you.”
“I made it all up.”
“O.K.”
He got into bed.
“Did you get your feet wet?” she said.
“Heavy dew.”
He turned to her.
“Come here,” he said. “When I read your note, it was just like I went hollow inside. It’s true. I felt like I didn’t have anything left in me.”
The bright weather had continued. On the streets, in the stores, in the post office, people greeted each other by saying that summer had finally arrived. The pasture grass and even the poor beaten crops lifted up their heads. The puddles dried up, the mud turned to dust. A light warm wind blew and everybody felt like doing things again. The phone rang. Inquiries about trail rides, about riding lessons. Summer camps cancelled their trips to museums, and minivans drew up, loaded with restless children. The horses pranced along the fences, freed from their blankets.
Clark had managed to get hold of a piece of roofing at a good price. He had spent the whole first day after Runaway Day (that was how they referred to Carla’s bus trip) fixing the roof of the exercise ring.
For a couple of days, as they went about their chores, he and Carla would wave at each other. If she happened to pass close to him and there was nobody else around, Carla might kiss his shoulder through the light material of his summer shirt.
“If you ever try to run away on me again I’ll tan your hide,” he said to her, and she said, “Who are you now—Clint Eastwood?”
Then she said, “Would you?”
“What?”
“Tan my hide?”
“Damn right.”
Birds were everywhere. Red-winged blackbirds, robins, a pair of doves that sang at daybreak. Lots of crows, and gulls on reconnoitering missions from the lake, and big turkey buzzards that sat in the branches of a dead oak about half a mile away, at the edge of the woods. At first they just sat there, drying out their voluminous wings, lifting themselves occasionally for a trial flight, flapping around a bit, then composing themselves, to let the sun and the warm air do their work. In a day or so, they were restored, flying high, circling and dropping to earth, disappearing over the woods, coming back to rest in the familiar bare tree.
Lizzie Borden’s owner—Joy Tucker—showed up again, tanned and friendly. She had got sick of the rain, and gone off on her holidays to hike in the Rocky Mountains. Now she was back. Perfect timing.
She and Clark treated each other warily at first, but they were soon joking as if nothing had happened.
“Lizzie looks to be in good shape,” she said. “But where’s her little friend?”
“Gone,” Clark said. “Maybe she took off to the Rocky Mountains.”

“Lots of wild goats out there. With fantastic horns.”
“So I hear.”
For three or four days they had been too busy to go down and look in the mailbox. When Carla opened it, she found the phone bill, a promise that if they subscribed to a certain magazine they could win a million dollars, and Mrs. Jamieson’s letter.
My Dear Carla,I have been thinking about the (rather dramatic) events of the last few days and I find myself talking to myself, but really to you, so often that I thought I must speak to you, even if—the best way I can do now—only in a letter. And don’t worry—you do not have to answer me.
Mrs. Jamieson went on to say that she was afraid she had involved herself too closely in Carla’s life and had made the mistake of thinking somehow that Carla’s freedom and happiness were the same thing. All she cared for was Carla’s happiness, and she saw now that she—Carla—had found that in her marriage. All she could hope was that perhaps Carla’s flight and turbulent emotions had brought her true feelings to the surface, and perhaps a recognition in her husband of his true feelings as well.
She said that she would perfectly understand if Carla wished to avoid her in the future and that she would always be grateful for Carla’s presence in her life during such a difficult time.
The strangest and most wonderful thing in this whole string of events seems to me the reappearance of Flora. In fact, it seems rather like a miracle. Where had she been all that time and why did she choose just that moment to reappear? I am sure your husband has described it to you. We were talking at the patio door, and I—facing out—was the first to see this white something, descending on us out of the night. Of course it was the effect of the ground fog. But truly terrifying. I think I shrieked out loud. I had never in my life felt such bewitchment, in the true sense. I suppose I should be honest and say fear. There we were, two adults, frozen, and then out of the fog comes little lost Flora.There has to be something special about this. I know, of course, that Flora is an ordinary little animal and that she probably spent her time away getting herself pregnant. In a sense, her return has no connection at all with our human lives. Yet her appearance at that moment did have a profound effect on your husband and me. When two human beings divided by hostility are both, at the same time, mystified by the same apparition, there is a bond that springs up between them, and they find themselves united in the most unexpected way. United in their humanity—that is the only way I can describe it. We parted almost as friends. So Flora has her place as a good angel in my life and perhaps also in your husband’s life and yours. With all my good wishes, Sylvia Jamieson

As soon as Carla had read this letter she crumpled it up. Then she burned it in the sink. The flames leaped up alarmingly and she turned on the tap, then scooped up the soft disgusting black stuff and put it down the toilet, as she should have done in the first place.
She was busy for the rest of that day, and the next, and the next. During that time, she had to take two parties out on the trails, she had to give lessons to children, individually and in groups. At night when Clark put his arms around her—he was generally in good spirits now—she did not find it hard to be coöperative. She dreamed of things that were of no importance, that made no sense.
It was as if she had a murderous needle somewhere in her lungs, and by breathing carefully she could avoid feeling it. But every once in a while she had to take a deep breath, and it was still there.
Sylvia Jamieson had taken an apartment in the college town where she taught. The house was not up for sale—or at least there wasn’t a sign out in front of it. Leon Jamieson had got some kind of posthumous award—news of this was in the papers. There was no mention of any money.
As the dry golden days of fall came on—an encouraging and profitable season—Carla found that she had got used to the sharp thought that had lodged inside her. It wasn’t so sharp anymore; in fact, it no longer surprised her. She was inhabited now by an almost seductive notion, a constant low-lying temptation.
She had only to raise her eyes, she had only to look in one direction, to know where she might go. An evening walk, once her chores for the day were finished. To the edge of the woods, and the bare tree where she had seen the buzzards.
Where she might find the little dirty bones in the grass. The skull, with shreds of bloodied skin still clinging to it, that she could settle in one hand. Knowledge in one hand.
Or perhaps not.
Suppose something else had happened. Suppose he had chased Flora away, or tied her in the back of the truck and driven some distance and let her loose. Taken her back to the place they’d got her from. Not to have her around, reminding them of this bad time.
The days passed and she didn’t go. She held out against the temptation. ♦
 
村长未经作者同意, 便这样, 这样。。。小心Alice 告你:eek:;)
 
村长未经作者同意, 便这样, 这样。。。小心Alice 告你:eek:;)
免费宣传,Alice偷着乐吧。
 
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