《渺小一生》:“对，那是下一步。”

　 He wipes his eyes and reaches into the box again. The next thing he retrieves is an envelope fat with pictures of them, the four of them, or just of him and Willem: from college, from New York, from Truro, from Cambridge, from Garrison, from India, from France, from Iceland, from Ethiopia—places they’d lived, trips they’d taken.

他擦掉眼泪，又伸手到那个箱子里。这次他拿出来的是一个信封，里头装满他们的照片，他们四个，或者只有他和威廉：有大学时代的照片，还有他们在住过、旅游过的地方的留影，包括纽约、特鲁罗、剑桥市、加里森、印度、法国、冰岛、埃塞俄比亚。

　 The box isn’t very large, and still he removes things: two delicate, rare books of drawings of Japanese houses by a French illustrator; a small abstract painting by a young British artist he’d always admired; a larger drawing of a man’s face by a well-known American painter that Willem had always liked; two of Malcolm’s earliest sketchbooks, filled with page after page of his imaginary structures. And finally, he lifts the last thing from the box, something wrapped in layers of newspaper, which he removes, slowly.

那个箱子非常大，他又从里面拿出一些东西：两本精致的珍本书，里面是一个法国画家画的日本房屋；一幅小小的抽象画，是他一直很欣赏的一位年轻英国画家的作品；一幅较大的男性脸部素描，是威廉一直很欣赏的知名美国画家的作品；两本马尔科姆早年的速写本，里头画了种种想象中的建筑物。末了，他拿出最后一件用层层报纸包着的东西，缓缓拆开来。

　 Here, in his hands, is Lispenard Street: their apartment, with its odd proportions and slapdash second bedroom; its narrow hallways and miniature kitchen. He can tell that this is an early piece of Malcolm’s because the windows are made of glassine, not vellum or Plexiglas, and the walls are made of cardboard, not wood. And in this apartment Malcolm has placed furniture, cut and folded from stiff paper: his lumpy twin futon bed on its cinder-block base; the broken-springed couch they had found on the street; the squeaking wheeled easy chair given them by JB’s aunts. All that is missing is a paper him, a paper Willem.

在他手里的，是利斯本纳街的模型：他们的公寓，有将就地隔出来、比例怪异的第二间卧室；有狭窄的走廊和袖珍厨房。他看得出这是马尔科姆早年做的模型，因为窗子是用半透明的玻璃纸，而不是仿羊皮纸或树脂玻璃做成，而且墙壁是用厚纸板，而不是木板做的。在这间公寓里，马尔科姆还放了家具，是用硬纸切割折叠而成的：他那张凹凸不平、铺着日式薄床垫的床，放在煤渣砖底座上；他们在街上捡来那张弹簧断掉的沙发；杰比的阿姨们给他们、会发出吱呀声、附着滚轮的休闲椅。唯一缺的就是纸做的他，还有纸做的威廉。

　 He puts Lispenard Street on the floor by his feet. For a long time he sits very still, his eyes closed, allowing his mind to reach back and wander: there is much he doesn’t romanticize about those years, not now, but at the time, when he hadn’t known what to hope for, he hadn’t known that life could be better than Lispenard Street.

他把利斯本纳街放在脚边的地上，静坐不动良久，闭着眼睛，让脑子回到过去，在其中漫游：那些年发生的许多事，他现在回想起来，不会将它浪漫化，但当时，在他根本不知道该期望什么时，他并不知道人生有可能比利斯本纳街更美好。

　 “What if we’d never left?” Willem would occasionally ask him. “What if I had never made it? What if you’d stayed at the U.S. Attorney’s Office? What if I was still working at Ortolan? What would our lives be like now?”

“如果我们永远没离开那里呢？”威廉偶尔会问他，“如果我始终没成功呢？如果你一直待在联邦检察官办公室呢？如果我一直在奥托兰端盘子呢？我们现在的人生会是什么样？”

　 “How theoretical do you want to get here, Willem?” he’d ask him, smiling. “Would we be together?”

“威廉，你希望推论的范围有多大？”他当时微笑着问他，“我们还会在一起吗？”

　 “Of course we’d be together,” Willem would say. “That part would be the same.”

“当然会在一起，”威廉会说，“这个部分不变。”

　 “Well,” he’d say, “then the first thing we’d do is tear down that wall and reclaim the living room. And the second thing we’d do is get a decent bed.”

“好吧，”他说，“那首先我们要做的，就是拆掉那面墙，把客厅恢复原状。第二件事，就是弄张像样的床来。”

　 Willem would laugh. “And we’d sue the landlord to get a working elevator, once and for all.”

威廉大笑。“然后我们要控告房东，让他换个能用的电梯，一劳永逸。”

　 “Right, that’d be the next step.”

“对，那是下一步。”

　 He sits, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. Then he turns on his phone, checks his missed calls: Andy, JB, Richard, Harold and Julia, Black Henry Young, Rhodes, Citizen, Andy again, Richard again, Lucien, Asian Henry Young, Phaedra, Elijah, Harold again, Julia again, Harold, Richard, JB, JB, JB.

他坐着，等自己的呼吸恢复正常。然后他打开手机，检查未接来电，先是安迪、杰比、理查德、哈罗德和朱丽娅、黑亨利·杨、罗兹、西提任，又是安迪、理查德，接着是吕西安、亚裔亨利·杨、菲德拉、伊利亚，哈罗德、朱丽娅又分别打来，然后是哈罗德、理查德、杰比、杰比、杰比。

　 He calls JB. It’s late, but JB stays up late. “Hi,” he says, when JB picks up, hears the surprise in his voice. “It’s me. Is this a good time to talk?”

他打给杰比。现在很晚了，但杰比向来晚睡。“嗨，”他说，听到杰比接起来惊讶的口气，“是我。现在方便讲话吗？”

　 2

2

　 AT LEAST ONE Saturday a month now he takes half a day off from work and goes to the Upper East Side. When he leaves Greene Street, the neighborhood’s boutiques and stores haven’t yet opened for the day; when he returns, they are closed for the night. On these days, he can imagine the SoHo Harold knew as a child: a place shuttered and unpeopled, a place without life.

现在每个月至少有一个星期六，他会腾出半天不工作，到上东城去。他上午离开格林街时，附近的精品店和商店还没开始营业；等他回来时，那些店都打烊了。在这些日子里，他可以想象哈罗德童年时代的苏荷区：一个门窗紧闭、无人居住的区域，一个没有生气的地方。

　 His first stop is the building on Park and Seventy-eighth, where he takes the elevator to the sixth floor. The maid lets him into the apartment and he follows her to the back study, which is sunny and large, and where Lucien is waiting—not waiting for him, necessarily, but waiting.

他的第一站是在公园大道和78街交叉口的一栋大楼，他会坐电梯到六楼。女佣会帮他开门，然后他跟着她到后面采光明亮的大书房，吕西安在里头等着——不见得是等他，但总之在等着。

　 There is always a late breakfast laid out for him: thin wedges of smoked salmon and tiny buckwheat pancakes one time; a cake glazed white with lemon icing the next. He can never bring himself to eat anything, although sometimes when he is feeling especially helpless he accepts a slice of cake from the maid and holds the plate in his lap for the entire visit. But although he doesn’t eat anything, he does drink cup after cup of tea, which is always steeped exactly how he likes it. Lucien eats nothing either—he has been fed earlier—nor does he drink.

书房里的桌上总是摆着给他的早餐：这回是烟熏鲑鱼薄片和小小的荞麦煎饼；下回是一片裹着柠檬糖衣的蛋糕。他始终没办法勉强自己吃，不过有时他觉得格外无助时，就会接过女佣端给他的蛋糕，从头到尾都把碟子放在膝上。虽然他什么都不吃，倒是会一直喝茶，女佣总是把茶泡得恰到好处，正好是他喜欢的浓度。吕西安则什么都不吃（他稍早已经吃过了），也什么都不喝。

　 Now he goes to Lucien and takes his hand. “Hi, Lucien,” he tells him.

这会儿他走向吕西安，握住他一只手。“嗨，吕西安。”他说。

　 He had been in London when Lucien’s wife, Meredith, called him: it was the week of Bergesson’s retrospective at MoMA, and he had arranged to be out of the city on business. Lucien had had a massive stroke, Meredith said; he would live, but the doctors didn’t yet know how great the damage would be.

之前吕西安的太太梅瑞迪丝打电话给他时，他人正在伦敦，就是纽约现代艺术博物馆帮博格森举行回顾电影节的那一周，他安排了去出差。吕西安中风了，很严重，梅瑞迪丝说；命是保住了，但医生还不知道损害会有多大。

　 Lucien was in the hospital for two weeks, and when he was released, it was clear that his impairment was severe. And although it is not yet five months later, it has remained so: the features on the left side of his face seem to be melting off of him, and he cannot use his left arm or leg, either. He can still speak, remarkably well, but his memory has vanished, the past twenty years deserting him completely. In early July, he fell and hit his head and was in a coma; now, he is too unsteady to even walk, and Meredith has moved them back from their house in Connecticut to their apartment in the city, where they can be closer to the hospital and their daughters.

吕西安在医院里住了两个星期，出院时状况已经很明朗：他的损伤很严重。出院到现在快五个月了，他的状况还是没有好转：他左半边的脸像是融化般下垂，左手和左腿也瘫了。他还可以讲话，讲得非常好，但他的记忆消失了，过去二十年完全不见了。七月初，他摔跤撞到头部昏迷；现在整个人摇晃得太厉害，连走路都没办法。梅瑞迪丝决定从康涅狄格的房子搬回纽约市区的公寓，离医院和两个女儿都比较近。

　 He thinks Lucien likes, or at least doesn’t mind, his visits, but he doesn’t know this for sure. Certainly Lucien doesn’t know who he is: he is someone who appears in his life and then disappears, and every time he must reintroduce himself.

他觉得吕西安喜欢他来探望，或者至少不讨厌，但他其实从来都不确定。吕西安当然不知道他是谁，他是在吕西安人生中出现过又消失的人，于是每一次去探望他，都得重新自我介绍一遍。