《渺小一生》:“裘德，生日快乐。”

　 “Okay,” he says at last. “Okay.”

“好吧，”最后他终于说，“好吧。”

　 “Okay,” Richard says, standing. “I’ll see you downstairs in half an hour.”

“好吧，”理查德说着站起来，“那就半个小时后楼下见了。”

　 He showers, and then down he goes, with a bottle of Tempranillo he remembers that Richard likes. In the apartment he is waved away from the kitchen, and so he sits at the long table that dominates the space, which can and has sat twenty-four, and strokes Richard’s cat, Mustache, which has jumped into his lap. He remembers the first time he saw this apartment with its dangling chandeliers and its large beeswax sculptures; over the years it has become more domesticated, but it is still, indisputably, Richard’s, with its palette of bone-white and wax-yellow, although now India’s paintings, bright, violent abstractions of female nudes, hang on the walls, and there are carpets on the floor. It has been months since he’s been inside this apartment, where he used to visit at least once a week. He still sees Richard, of course, but only in passing; mostly, he tries to avoid him, and when Richard calls him to have dinner or asks to stop by, he always says he is too busy, too tired.

他冲了澡之后下楼，带了一瓶理查德很喜欢的丹魄红葡萄酒。到了理查德的工作室，他想进厨房帮忙，却被理查德赶了出来，于是就坐在最显眼的长桌旁（这张桌子可以、也实际坐满过二十四个人），理查德那只名叫“小胡子”的猫跳到他膝上，他抚摸着它。他回想起第一次看到这间公寓时，里头有悬垂的枝状吊灯和大型蜂蜡雕塑；多年来，这里变得越来越有家的感觉，但是依然有明显的理查德风格：一片骨白和蜡黄的色调，不过现在墙上挂着印蒂亚鲜艳、极端抽象的女性裸体画作，地上也出现了地毯。以前他每周至少进来一次，但最近他已经好几个月没来了。当然他还是会看到理查德，但只有进出公寓时碰到；大部分时候他都设法躲开。理查德打电话邀他吃晚餐，或是要他有空过去坐一下，他总说他太忙或太累了。

　 “I couldn’t remember how you felt about my famous seitan stir-fry, so I actually got scallops,” Richard says, and places a dish before him.

“我不记得你觉得我出名的炒面筋怎么样，所以我做了干贝。”理查德说，把一盘菜放在他面前。

　 “I like your famous stir-fry,” he says, although he can’t remember what it is, and if he likes it or not. “Thank you, Richard.”

“我喜欢你的炒面筋，”他说，其实他不记得那是什么，也不记得自己喜不喜欢，“理查德，谢谢你。”

　 Richard pours them both a glass of wine, and then holds his up. “Happy birthday, Jude,” he says, solemnly, and he realizes that Richard is right: today is his birthday. Harold has been calling and e-mailing him all this week with a frequency that is unusual even for him, and except for the most cursory of replies, he has not spoken to him at all. He knows Harold will be worried about him. There have been more texts from Andy as well, and from some other people, and now he knows why, and he begins to cry: from everyone’s kindness, which he has repaid so poorly, from his loneliness, from the proof that life has, despite his efforts to let it, gone on after all. He is fifty-one, and Willem has been dead for eight months.

理查德帮两个人倒了葡萄酒，然后举起杯子。“裘德，生日快乐。”他郑重地说。他才想到理查德说得没错：今天是他的生日。这一整个星期，哈罗德一直既打电话又写电子邮件给他，频率高得有点离谱。除了匆忙回复一下，他没跟他多谈。他知道哈罗德会担心他。安迪发来的短信增多了，其他人也是。现在他知道为什么了，开始哭起来：因为每个人是这么好心，他却没什么可回报，因为他的孤单，因为他虽然努力停留在过去，事实却证明人生还是继续往前。他51岁了，威廉也死去八个月了。

　 Richard doesn’t say anything, just sits next to him on the bench and holds him. “I know this isn’t going to help,” he says at last, “but I love you too, Jude.”

理查德什么都没说，只是坐在他旁边的凳子上拥住他。“我知道说这个也没有帮助，”最后他终于说，“但我也爱你，裘德。”

　 He shakes his head, unable to speak. In recent years he has gone from being embarrassed about crying at all to crying constantly to himself to crying around Willem to now, in the final falling away of his dignity, crying in front of anyone, at any time, over anything.

他摇摇头，说不出话来。最近几年，他已经从完全不好意思哭，变成会自己偷哭，又变成会在威廉面前哭，然而现在，他终于完全不顾自尊，会在任何时间、任何人面前、为了任何事而哭。

　 He leans against Richard’s chest and sobs into his shirt. Richard is another person whose unstinting, unwavering friendship and compassion for him has always perplexed him. He knows that some of Richard’s feelings for him are twined with his feelings for Willem, and this he understands: he had made Willem a promise, and Richard is serious about his obligations. But there is something about Richard’s steadiness, his complete reliability, that—coupled with his height, his very size—makes him think of him as some sort of massive tree-god, an oak come into human form, something solid and ancient and indestructible. Theirs is not a chatty relationship, but it is Richard who has become the friend of his adulthood, who has become, in a way, not just a friend but a parent, although he is only four years older. A brother, then: someone whose dependability and sense of decency are inviolable.

他靠在理查德的胸膛，对着他的衬衫啜泣。理查德是另一个对他付出慷慨、坚定的友谊与同理心的朋友，而他总是困惑不解。他知道理查德对他的感情，有一部分跟他对威廉的感情分不开，这点他明白：理查德答应过威廉会照看他，而理查德很认真地看待自己的责任。但是理查德还有一种沉稳、可靠的特质，加上个子高大，他总是把他想成某种巨大的树神，像一棵栎树化为人身，结实、古老又坚不可摧。他们的交情不是通过一起闲聊八卦建立的，然而理查德，这位成年期认识的朋友，就某方面而言，不光是他的朋友，也像父母一样，但其实理查德只比他大四岁。那么，就是哥哥了：一个永远可靠、有礼貌的人。

　 Finally, he is able to stop, and apologize, and after he cleans himself up in the bathroom, they eat, slowly, drinking the wine, talking about Richard’s work. At the end of the meal, Richard returns from the kitchen with a lumpy little cake, into which he has thrust six candles. “Five plus one,” Richard explains. He makes himself smile, then; he blows out the candles; Richard cuts them both slices. The cake is crumbly and figgy, more scone than cake, and they both eat their pieces in silence.

最后，他终于停下不哭，跟理查德道歉，去洗手间整理自己。他们坐下来慢条斯理地吃晚餐，一边喝葡萄酒，闲聊理查德的作品。快吃完时，理查德去厨房，拿了一个凹凸不平的小蛋糕出来，上头插着六根蜡烛。“五加一。”理查德解释。他逼自己露出微笑，吹熄那些蜡烛，理查德给两人各切了几片。那蛋糕易碎，且有无花果的口感，比较像司康而非蛋糕，但他们两个还是默默地吃掉。

　 He stands to help Richard with the dishes, but when Richard tells him to go upstairs, he is relieved, because he’s exhausted; this is the most socializing he has done since Thanksgiving. At the door, Richard hands him something, a package wrapped in brown paper, and then hugs him. “He wouldn’t want you to be unhappy, Judy,” he says, and he nods against Richard’s cheek. “He would hate seeing you like this.”

他站起来要帮理查德收拾碗盘，但理查德叫他上楼别管了。他松了一口气，因为他实在筋疲力尽，这是感恩节后他做过最社交化的活动。理查德送他到门口，递给他一个用褐色纸包起来的东西，还拥抱他。“小裘，他不会希望你不快乐的。”理查德说，他贴着理查德的脸颊点点头。“他看到你这样会很难过。”

　 “I know,” he says.

“我知道。”他说。

　 “And do me a favor,” Richard says, still holding him. “Call JB, okay? I know it’s difficult for you, but—he loved Willem too, you know. Not like you, I know, but still. And Malcolm. He misses him.”

“另外帮我一个忙，”理查德说，还是抱着他，“打电话给杰比，好吗？我知道对你来说很难，但是他也爱威廉，你知道。不像你这么爱，我知道，但他还是很爱。还有马尔科姆。他想念他。”

　 “I know,” he repeats, tears coming to his eyes once more. “I know.”

“我知道，”他又说了一次，眼睛又涌出泪水，“我知道。”

　 “Come back next Sunday,” Richard says, and kisses him. “Or any day, really. I miss seeing you.”

“下个星期天再过来吧，”理查德说，然后吻了他，“或者随便哪一天，真的。我想念常常看到你的日子。”

　 “I will,” he says. “Richard—thank you.”

“我会的，”他说，“理查德——谢谢你。”

　 “Happy birthday, Jude.”

“裘德，生日快乐。”

　 He takes the elevator upstairs. It’s suddenly grown late. Back in his apartment, he goes to his study, sits on the sofa. There is a box that he hasn’t opened that was messengered over to him from Flora weeks ago; inside it are Malcolm’s bequests to him, and to Willem—which are now also his. The only thing Willem’s death has helped with is blunting the shock, the horror of Malcolm’s, and still, he has been unable to open the box.

他坐电梯上楼，忽然觉得时间很晚了。回到自己家里，他往书房去，坐在沙发上。里头有个没拆的箱子，是弗洛拉几周前请人送来的：里头是马尔科姆遗赠给他的东西，还有给威廉的，现在都是他的了。威廉的死唯一有帮助的，就是减弱马尔科姆之死带来的震撼与惊恐。然而，他一直没有勇气打开那个箱子。

　 But now he will. First, though, he unwraps Richard’s present and sees that it is a small bust, carved from wood and mounted on a heavy black-iron cube, of Willem, and he gasps as if slugged. Richard has always claimed that he’s terrible with figurative sculpture, but he knows he’s not, and this piece is proof of it. He glides his fingers over Willem’s sightless eyes, across Willem’s crest of hair, and after doing so, lifts them to his nose and smells sandalwood. On the bottom of the base is etched “To J on his 51st. With love. R.”

但现在他要打开了。不过他先拆开理查德的礼物，发现里头是一个小小的木雕半身像，固定在一个方形的黑铁底座上。他一看到那是威廉，猛吸了一口气，像是被揍了一拳般。理查德总说自己很不会做人像雕塑，但他知道并非如此，这件作品就是个证明。他手指抚过威廉再也看不见了的眼睛，抚过威廉起伏的头发，然后把雕像凑到鼻子前，嗅到了檀香气味。在底座下方刻着“献给裘德的51岁生日。致上爱。理查德”。

　 He starts to cry again; stops. He places the bust on the cushion next to him and opens the box. At first he sees nothing but wads of newspaper, and he gropes carefully inside until his hands close on something solid, which he lifts out: it is the scale model of Lantern House, its walls rendered from boxwood, that had once sat in Bellcast’s offices, alongside the scale models of every other project the firm had ever built, in form or in reality. The model is about two feet square, and he settles it on his lap before holding it to his face, looking through its thin Plexiglas windows, hoisting the roof up and walking his fingers through its rooms.

他又开始哭；然后才停下来。他把那胸像放在身边的抱枕上，再打开书房里的那只箱子。一开始，他只看到一团团报纸，于是他把手伸进去，小心翼翼地摸索，直到他摸到一个结实的东西，再抓出来：是灯笼屋的缩小模型，墙壁是黄杨木板做的。这个模型本来放在钟模建筑师事务所的办公室里，跟事务所做过的所有案子的模型放在一起，无论是实际建造或只是单纯规划的。这个模型大约两英尺见方，他放在膝上，脸凑上去，看着里头的树脂玻璃窗，拿起屋顶，手指抚摸里头的房间。