《渺小一生》:“他是想自杀吗？”

　 “You can take him home,” Andy said. He was angry. With a snap, he peeled off his gloves, which were crusty with blood, and pushed back his stool. On the floor was a long, messy paint-swipe streak of red, as if someone had tried to clean up something sloshed and had given up in exasperation. The walls had red on them as well, and Andy’s sweater was stiff with it. Jude sat on the table, looking slumped and miserable and holding a glass bottle of orange juice. His hair was glued together in clumps, and his shirt appeared hard and shellacked, as if it was made not from cloth but from metal. “Jude, go to the waiting room,” Andy instructed, and Jude did, meekly.

“你可以带他回家了。”安迪说。他在生气，啪的一声脱掉手套，上头沾的鲜血已经干了，然后把坐着的椅子往后一推。地板上有一道长长的、像是颜料刷过的肮脏红色，似乎有人想擦掉泼溅出来的血，然后又火大地放弃。墙上也有血，安迪的针织衫也沾了血，已经干硬。裘德坐在诊疗台上，看起来垂头丧气又凄惨，手里拿着一瓶柳橙汁。他的头发一绺绺黏在一起，衬衫像涂了一层漆般干硬，仿佛不是布做的，而是金属材质。“裘德，你去等候室。”安迪说，裘德乖乖照做了。

　 Once he was gone, Andy shut the door and looked at Willem. “Has he seemed suicidal to you?”

一等裘德离开，安迪就关上门，看着威廉：“你觉得他有自杀倾向吗？”

　 “What? No.” He felt himself grow very still. “Is that what he was trying to do?”

“什么？没有啊。”他觉得自己全身僵硬，无法动弹，“他是想自杀吗？”

　 Andy sighed. “He says he wasn’t. But—I don’t know. No. I don’t know; I can’t tell.” He went over to the sink and began to scrub violently at his hands. “On the other hand, if he had gone to the ER—which you guys really should’ve fucking done, you know—they most likely would’ve hospitalized him. Which is why he probably didn’t.” Now he was speaking aloud to himself. He pumped a small lake of soap onto his hands and washed them again. “You know he cuts himself, don’t you?”

安迪叹了口气。“他说没有。但是我不知道。不，我不知道，我无法判断。”他走到水槽，开始狠狠刷洗双手，“另一方面，如果他被送去急诊室——你知道，你们真他妈该这么做——他们很可能会要他住院治疗。他大概就是因为这样才不去医院。”安迪自言自语起来，挤了一小撮洗手液在手上，又洗了起来，“你知道他总是割伤自己吧？”

　 For a while, he couldn’t answer. “No,” he said.

一时之间，他无法回答。“不知道。”他说。

　 Andy turned back around and stared at Willem, wiping each finger dry slowly. “He hasn’t seemed depressed?” he asked. “Is he eating regularly, sleeping? Does he seem listless, out of sorts?”

安迪转身看着威廉，缓缓擦干每一根指头：“你不觉得他最近很沮丧？”他问，“他的饮食和睡眠都正常吗？会不会没精神？或者有点反常？”

　 “He’s seemed fine,” Willem said, although the truth was that he didn’t know. Had Jude been eating? Had he been sleeping? Should he have noticed? Should he have been paying more attention? “I mean, he’s seemed the same as he always is.”

“他好像还好啊。”威廉说，虽然他并不清楚。裘德都有吃饭吗？都有睡觉吗？他该注意到吗？他该更留心吗？“我的意思是，他好像就是老样子啊。”

　 “Well,” said Andy. He looked deflated for a moment, and the two of them stood quietly, facing but not looking at each other. “I’m going to take his word for it this time,” he said. “I just saw him a week ago, and I agree, nothing seemed unusual. But if he starts behaving strangely at all—I mean it, Willem—you call me right away.”

“唔。”安迪说。他一时之间似乎泄了气，然后两个人沉默地站在那里，面对彼此却不看对方。“这回我姑且相信他的说法。”他说，“我一个星期前才看过他，所以我同意他没有什么异常。但如果他又开始有什么怪异的举动——我是认真的，威廉——你就马上打电话给我。”

　 “I promise,” he said. He had seen Andy a few times over the years, and had always sensed his frustration, which often seemed directed toward many people at once: at himself, at Jude, and especially at Jude’s friends, none of whom, Andy always managed to suggest (without ever saying it aloud), were doing a good enough job taking care of him. He liked this about Andy, his sense of outrage over Jude, even as he feared his disapproval and also thought it somewhat unfair.

“我会的，我保证。”他说。他这些年只见过安迪几次，但总是感觉到他的懊恼。那种懊恼似乎往往一口气针对许多人：对他自己，对裘德，尤其是对裘德的三个好友，安迪总是设法暗示（但从来没说出口）他们没有一个尽到照顾好他的责任。威廉喜欢安迪这一点，他会为了裘德愤慨，即使他的不满让威廉害怕，也觉得不太公平。

　 And then, as it often did once he had finished rebuking them, Andy’s voice changed and became almost tender. “I know you will,” he said. “It’s late. Go home. Make sure you give him something to eat when he wakes up. Happy New Year.”

然后一如往常，安迪指责过他们之后，声音就变得近乎温柔起来。“我知道你会的。”他说，“时候晚了，回家吧。等他醒了之后，一定要让他吃点东西。新年快乐。”

　 They rode home in silence. The driver had taken a single, long look at Jude and said, “I need an extra twenty dollars on the fare.”

他们沉默地乘车回家。上车时，那司机只是慢吞吞打量裘德一眼，然后说：“车钱要加收二十元。”

　 “Fine,” Willem had said.

“行吧。”威廉说。

　 The sky was almost light, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. In the taxi, Jude had turned away from Willem and looked out of the window, and back at the apartment, he stumbled at the doorway and walked slowly toward the bathroom, where Willem knew he would start trying to clean up.

天快亮了，但他知道自己不可能睡得着。在出租车上，裘德转过身子去看车窗外，不肯面对一旁的威廉。回到公寓时，他在门口绊了一下，然后缓缓走向浴室。威廉知道他想去把身上清理干净。

　 “Don’t,” he told him. “Go to bed,” and Jude, obedient for once, changed direction and shuffled into the bedroom, where he fell asleep almost immediately.

“别去了。”他告诉他，“去睡觉吧。”裘德难得顺从了一次，改变方向，拖着脚步进了卧室，几乎一沾床就睡着了。

　 Willem sat on his own bed and watched him. He was aware, suddenly, of his every joint and muscle and bone, and this made him feel very, very old, and for several minutes he simply sat staring.

威廉坐在自己的床上看着他，忽然感受到他的每个关节、肌肉和骨头。这让他觉得自己好老好老，有好几分钟，他只是坐在那里看着。

　 “Jude,” he called, and then again more insistently, and when Jude didn’t answer, he went over to his bed and nudged him onto his back and, after a moment’s hesitation, pushed up the right sleeve of his shirt. Under his hands, the fabric didn’t so much yield as it did bend and crease, like cardboard, and although he was only able to fold it to the inside of Jude’s elbow, it was enough to see the three columns of neat white scars, each about an inch wide and slightly raised, laddering up his arm. He tucked his finger under the sleeve, and felt the tracks continuing onto the upper arm, but stopped when he reached the bicep, unwilling to explore more, and withdrew his hand. He wasn’t able to examine the left arm—Andy had cut back the sleeve on that one, and Jude’s entire forearm and hand were wrapped with white gauze—but he knew he would find the same thing there.

“裘德。”他喊，然后更坚定地喊了一次。看裘德没反应，他就去他床边，轻推他的背部，犹豫了一会儿后，把他衬衫右边的袖子往上推。那袖子不像平常那么柔软，而是像块硬纸板。尽管他只把袖子推到裘德肘弯处，已经可以看见三道整齐的白疤，每道宽约一英寸，微微隆起，平行排列在他的手臂上。他用一根手指探入袖子，感觉那些疤痕一道一道往上增加，直到上臂。他摸到二头肌就放弃了，不想再继续探索，于是抽回自己的手。他没办法检查左手臂——安迪剪掉了那边的袖子，而且裘德整个前臂和左手都包着纱布——但是他知道那上头也有同样的疤痕。

　 He had been lying when he told Andy he hadn’t known Jude cut himself. Or rather, he hadn’t known for certain, but that was only a technicality: he knew, and he had known for a long time. When they were at Malcolm’s house the summer after Hemming died, he and Malcolm had gotten drunk one afternoon, and as they sat and watched JB and Jude, back from their walk to the dunes, fling sand at each other, Malcolm had asked, “Have you ever noticed how Jude always wears long sleeves?”

他之前跟安迪说他不知道裘德会割伤自己，其实是撒谎。或者严格说来，他并不确定，但他知道，而且知道很久了。那是亨明死后的那个夏天。他们在马尔科姆家位于马撒葡萄园的海滨别墅，有天下午他们走去沙丘区，他和马尔科姆喝醉了，两人坐着看杰比和裘德互丢沙子。马尔科姆当时问：“你有没有注意到，裘德总是穿长袖衣服？”

　 He’d grunted in response. He had, of course—it was difficult not to, especially on hot days—but he had never let himself wonder why. Much of his friendship with Jude, it often seemed, was not letting himself ask the questions he knew he ought to, because he was afraid of the answers.

他只是嗯了一声。当然，他注意到了——不注意到也难，尤其是天热的时候——但他从来不让自己去想为什么。他常常觉得，他和裘德的友谊，有很大一部分就建立在他不让自己去问一些明知该问的问题，因为他害怕那些答案。

　 There had been a silence then, and the two of them had watched as JB, drunk himself, fell backward into the sand and Jude limped over and begun burying him.

当时他和马尔科姆沉默了一阵子，看着同样喝醉的杰比往后倒在沙丘上，而裘德一拐一拐走过去，开始用沙子把他埋起来。

　 “Flora had a friend who always wore long sleeves,” Malcolm continued. “Her name was Maryam. She used to cut herself.”

“弗洛拉以前有个朋友总是穿长袖。”马尔科姆接着说，“她的名字是玛丽安。她以前习惯用刀子割自己。”