《渺小一生》:总之，那趟出差他撑过去了

　 After these visits he is always exhausted, but still he walks, seven blocks south and a quarter of a block east, to the Irvines’. For months he had avoided the Irvines, and then last month, on the one-year anniversary, they had asked him and Richard and JB to dinner at their house, and he knew he would have to go.

去看过吕西安之后，他总是筋疲力尽，但他还是继续往南走七个街区，再往东走四分之一个街区，到欧文家去。有好几个月，他都躲着欧文夫妇。上个月，马尔科姆过世一周年的忌日，欧文夫妇邀请他、理查德和杰比去他们家吃晚饭，他知道自己非去不可。

　 It was the weekend after Labor Day. The previous four weeks—four weeks that had included the day Willem would have turned fifty-three; the day that Willem had died—had been some of the worst he had ever experienced. He had known they would be bad; he had tried to plan accordingly. The firm had needed someone to go to Beijing, and although he knew he should have stayed in New York—he was working on a case that needed him more than the business in Beijing did—he volunteered anyway, and off he went. At first he had hoped he might be safe: the woolly numbness of jet lag was sometimes indistinguishable from the woolly numbness of his grief, and there were other things that were so physically uncomfortable—including the heat, which was woolly itself, woolly and sodden—that he had thought he would be able to distract himself. But then one night near the end of the trip he was being driven back to the hotel from a long day of meetings, and he had looked out of the car window and had seen, glittering over the road, a massive billboard of Willem’s face. It was a beer ad that Willem had shot two years ago, one that was only displayed throughout east Asia. But hanging from the top of the billboard were people on pulleys, and he realized that they were painting over the ad, that they were erasing Willem’s face. Suddenly, his breath left him, and he had almost asked the driver to stop, but he wouldn’t have been able to—they were on a loop of a road, one with no exits or places to pull over, and so he’d had to sit very still, his heart erupting within him, counting the beats it took to reach the hotel, thank the driver, get out, walk through the lobby, ride the elevator, walk down the hallway, and enter his room, where before he could think, he was throwing himself against the cold marble wall of the shower, his mouth open and his eyes shut, tossing and tossing himself until he was in so much pain that his every vertebrae felt as if it had been jolted out of its sockets.

那是九月初劳动节后的那个周末。之前四个星期包括了威廉53岁冥诞，以及威廉的忌日，是他毕生最糟糕的时期之一。他早早就知道这段日子会很难捱，也设法规划。事务所里需要有个人去北京，他知道自己应该留在纽约；他正在办的那个案子比北京的案子更需要他，却还是自告奋勇去了。一开始，他希望自己可以安全度过，时差带来的糊涂麻木感有时跟悲恸带来的糊涂麻木感差不多。还有其他状况让他身体很不舒服，包括当地那种热，本身就让人不舒服了，又加上下雨。他以为能因此分心，但旅程尾声有天晚上，开了一整天会之后他乘车回旅馆，途中他望着车窗外，看到路旁大楼上有一个巨大的广告牌，上头是威廉的脸。那是两年前威廉拍的一个啤酒广告，只限东亚地区使用。广告牌顶端有几个人从滑轮上悬吊下来，他恍然大悟，他们要画上新的广告，抹掉威廉的脸。忽然间，他觉得无法呼吸，差点要求司机停车，但当时也办不到，他们在环线高架上，没有出口也没有办法靠边停车。于是他坐着完全不动，心脏猛跳，数着拍子抵达旅馆，谢过司机，下车，走进大厅，坐电梯上楼，进入走道，回到房间，还来不及思考，他就朝淋浴间冰冷的大理石墙撞过去，他张着嘴巴，紧闭眼睛，一直撞一直撞，撞到他全身痛得好像每根骨头都要散了。

　 That night he cut himself wildly, uncontrollably, and when he was shaking too badly to continue, he waited, and cleaned the floor, and drank some juice to give himself energy, and then started again. After three rounds of this he crept to the corner of the shower stall and wept, folding his arms over his head, making his hair tacky with blood, and that night he slept there, covered with a towel instead of a blanket. He had done this sometimes when he was a child and had felt like he was exploding, separating from himself like a dying star, and would feel the need to tuck himself into the smallest space he could find so his very bones would stay knit together. Then, he would carefully work himself out from beneath Brother Luke and ball himself on the filthy motel carpet under the bed, which was prickly with burrs and dropped thumbtacks and slimy with used condoms and strange damp spots, or he would sleep in the bathtub or in the closet, beetled up as tight as he was able. “My poor potato bug,” Brother Luke would say when he found him like this. “Why are you doing this, Jude?” He had been gentle, and worried, but he had never been able to explain it.

那天夜里他无法控制地疯狂割自己，直到他抖得没法再割下去，他就等着，清理地板，喝点果汁补充体力，然后再割。割了三回合之后，他爬到淋浴间的角落坐着哭，手臂抱着头，头发都沾上了血。那一夜他就睡在那里，身上盖了毛巾而不是毯子。他小时候有时会这样，觉得自己快爆炸了、像垂死的星球般要炸开来的时候，就必须找个最小的空间把自己塞进去，这样全身的骨头才不会散开来。于是，他小心翼翼从卢克修士身子底下爬出来，蜷缩在汽车旅馆房间的床底下，那肮脏的地毯被草刺和掉下的图钉弄得刺刺的，还有用过的黏答答的保险套和奇怪的潮湿斑点；或者他会睡在浴缸里或衣柜里，尽可能紧缩成一团。“我可怜的小蟋蟀，”卢克修士发现他这样后会说，“你为什么要这样，裘德？”卢克修士担心地柔声说，但他从来无法解释。

　 Somehow he made it through that trip; somehow he had made it through a year. The night of Willem’s death he dreamed of glass vases imploding, of Willem’s body being projected through the air, of his face shattering against the tree. He woke missing Willem so profoundly that he felt he was going blind. The day after he returned home, he saw the first of the posters for The Happy Years, which had reverted to its original title: The Dancer and the Stage. Some of these posters were of Willem’s face, his hair longish like Nureyev’s and his top scooped low on his chest, his neck long and powerful. And some were of just monumental images of a foot—Willem’s actual foot, he happened to know—in a toe shoe, en pointe, shot so close you could see its veins and hairs, its thin straining muscles and fat bulging tendons. Opening Thanksgiving Day, the posters read. Oh god, he thought, and had gone back inside, oh god. He wanted the reminders to stop; he dreaded the day when they would. In recent weeks he’d had the sense that Willem was receding from him, even as his grief refused to diminish in intensity.

总之，那趟出差他撑过去了；总之，他撑过了一年。威廉忌日那天晚上，他梦到一堆玻璃瓶内爆，梦到威廉的身体飞过空中，梦到他的脸在树上撞碎了。他醒来时好想念威廉，想念到他觉得自己快瞎了。回到纽约次日，他出门时看到《快乐年代》的第一批海报，这部电影又改回原来的片名《舞台上的舞者》。有些海报是威廉的脸，头发比较长，像努里耶夫一样，他的头往前弯下，脖子长而有力。有的海报只有一只巨大的脚（他正好知道，那是威廉的脚），穿舞鞋踮脚而立的姿势，那特写画面可以让人看到上头的血管和毛，还有绷紧的肌肉和鼓起的肌腱。感恩节上映，那海报上印着。啊，老天，他心想，赶紧转身回到公寓里，天啊。他希望不要有这些提醒的东西，让他满心惧怕。最近几个星期，他有个感觉，觉得威廉从他身边越退越远，即使他的悲恸仍不肯减少强度。

　 The next week they went to the Irvines’. They had decided, in some unspoken way, that they should go up together, and they met at Richard’s apartment and he gave Richard the keys to the car and Richard drove them. They were all silent, even JB, and he was very nervous. He had the sense that the Irvines were angry at him; he had the sense he deserved their anger.

隔周他们去欧文家。在一种无言的默契之下，他们决定大家应该一起去，于是三个人在楼下理查德的公寓集合，他把车钥匙交给理查德，由理查德开车。他们一路沉默，连杰比也不例外。他心里非常紧张，因为他隐隐觉得欧文夫妇在生他的气，而他觉得自己活该。

　 Dinner was all of Malcolm’s favorite foods, and as they ate, he could feel Mr. Irvine staring at him and wondered whether he was thinking what he himself always thought: Why Malcolm? Why not him?

晚餐全是马尔科姆最喜欢的菜。他们吃的时候，他可以感觉到欧文先生盯着他看，很好奇他在想的是不是自己常想的：为什么是马尔科姆？为什么不是他？

　 Mrs. Irvine had suggested that they all go around the table and share a memory of Malcolm, and he had sat, listening to the others—Mrs. Irvine, who had told a story about how they had been visiting the Pantheon when Malcolm was six and how, five minutes after they had left, they had realized that Malcolm was missing and had rushed back to find him sitting on the ground, gazing and gazing at the oculus; Flora, who told a story about how as a second-grader Malcolm had appropriated her dollhouse from the attic, removed all the dolls, and filled it with little objects, dozens of chairs and tables and sofas and even pieces of furniture that had no name, that he had made with clay; JB, the story of how they had all returned to Hood one Thanksgiving a day early and had broken into the dormitory so they could have it to themselves, and how Malcolm had built a fire in the living room’s fireplace so they could roast sausages for dinner—and when it was his turn, he told the story of how back at Lispenard Street, Malcolm had built them a set of bookcases, which had partitioned their squish of a living room into such a meager sliver that when you were sitting on the sofa and stretched your legs out, you stretched them into the bookcase itself. But he had wanted the shelves, and Willem had said he could. And so over Malcolm had come with the cheapest wood possible, leftovers from the lumberyard, and he and Willem had taken the wood to the roof and assembled the bookcase there, so the neighbors wouldn’t complain about the banging, and then they had brought it back down and installed it.

欧文太太提议让所有人轮流分享一段关于马尔科姆的回忆。他坐在那听着其他人说。欧文太太说起马尔科姆6岁那年，他们去参观罗马万神殿，离开五分钟后，发现马尔科姆不见了，于是赶紧回头找。这才发现马尔科姆坐在地上，目不转睛望着屋顶中央的窗洞；弗洛拉说了马尔科姆小学二年级那年，去阁楼里偷走她的娃娃屋，把里头所有的玩偶拿出来，改放进几十个小东西，包括桌椅和沙发，还有一些讲不出名字的家具，都是他用黏土做的；杰比讲起大学有一年，他们感恩节假期后都提早一天回到虎德馆，设法闯进关闭的宿舍，马尔科姆还在客厅的壁炉生火，让大家烤香肠当晚餐。轮到他时，他说起住在利斯本纳街时，马尔科姆帮他们做了一个书架，把本来就很小的客厅挤得更小，如果坐在沙发上伸直两脚，就会伸到书架里。但他想要这个书架，威廉也答应了。所以马尔科姆就去锯木厂找来最便宜的剩余木板，和威廉一起搬到屋顶上，在那里钉成书架，免得邻居抱怨他们太吵。组好之后，再把书架搬下楼放好。

　 But when they did, Malcolm had realized that he’d mismeasured, and the bookcases were three inches too wide, which caused the edge of the unit to jut into the hallway. He hadn’t minded, and neither had Willem, but Malcolm had wanted to fix it.

但是搬进屋子之后，马尔科姆才发现他量错了，那个书架宽度多出了三英寸，边缘伸到走廊上。他不在意，威廉也无所谓，但马尔科姆想修改好。

　 “Don’t, Mal,” they had both told him. “It’s great, it’s fine.”

“不要了，马尔。”他们两个都跟他说，“这样很棒，很好的。”

　 “It’s not great,” Malcolm had said, mopily. “It’s not fine.”

“才不棒，”马尔科姆闷闷不乐地说，“才不好。”

　 Finally they had managed to convince him, and Malcolm had left. He and Willem painted the case a bright vermilion and loaded it with their books. And then early the next Sunday, Malcolm appeared again, looking determined. “I can’t stop thinking about this,” he said. And he’d set his bag down on the floor and drawn out a hacksaw and had started gnawing away at the structure, the two of them shouting at him until they realized that he was going to alter it whether they helped him or not. So back up to the roof went the bookcase; back down, once again, it came, and this time, it was perfect.

最后他们设法说服了他，马尔科姆就离开了。他和威廉把书架漆成亮红色，把他们的书放进去。下个星期天一早，马尔科姆又跑来了，一脸坚定。“我一直在想这件事。”他说，然后把包包放在地上，拿出一把弓锯，开始锯那个书架。他们两个人一直朝他大叫，最后他们明白无论帮不帮忙，马尔科姆都非改不可。于是书架又被搬到屋顶上，弄好后才被搬下楼，这回很完美了。

　 “I always think of that incident,” he said, as the others listened. “Because it says so much about how seriously Malcolm took his work, and how he always strove to be perfect in it, to respect the material, whether it was marble or plywood. But I also think it says so much about how much he respected space, any space, even a horrible, unfixable, depressing apartment in Chinatown: even that space deserved respect.

“我常常想到这件事，”他说，其他人认真听着，“因为这充分说明了马尔科姆对他的作品有多么认真，而且他是多么力求完美，多么尊重材料，无论那是大理石或三夹板。但我觉得，这件事也充分说明他有多尊重空间，任何空间，即使是唐人街一户糟糕透顶、无药可救、令人丧气的公寓，即使是这样的空间，都应该受到尊重。

　 “And it says so much about how much he respected his friends, how much he wanted us all to live somewhere he imagined for us: someplace as beautiful and vivid as his imaginary houses were to him.”

“这也充分说明他是多么尊重他的朋友，他多想让我们所有人住在他为我们设想的空间里：就跟他心中想象的宅邸一样美观、生气勃勃。”

　 He stopped. What he wanted to say—but what he didn’t think he could get through—was what he had overheard Malcolm say as Willem was complaining about hefting the bookcase back into place and he was in the bathroom gathering the brushes and paint from beneath the sink. “If I had left it like it was, he could’ve tripped against it and fallen, Willem,” Malcolm had whispered. “Would you want that?”

他暂停下来。他想说的是（但不认为有办法说出来），那天他们两个把书架从楼顶搬下来时，他正好在浴室里，要把油漆和刷子从水槽底下拿出来，无意间听到威廉在抱怨很麻烦，马尔科姆回答道：“威廉，如果我让这书架就这样凸出一块，他有可能因为绊到而摔倒，”马尔科姆那时低声说，“你希望这样吗？”

　 “No,” Willem had said, after a pause, sounding ashamed. “No, of course not. You’re right, Mal.” Malcolm, he realized, had been the first among them to recognize that he was disabled; Malcolm had known this even before he did. He had always been conscious of it, but he had never made him feel self-conscious. Malcolm had sought, only, to make his life easier, and he had once resented him for this.

“不，”威廉暂停了一下说，口气很羞愧，“不，当然不希望。你是对的，马尔。”于是他明白，马尔科姆是他们之中第一个认清他是残障者的人；甚至比他自己还早。马尔科姆一直意识到这一点，但从来没有害他不自在过。马尔科姆只是想让他的人生轻松点，他却因为这一点而怨过他。

　 As they were leaving for the night, Mr. Irvine put his hand on his shoulder. “Jude, will you stay behind for a bit?” he asked. “I’ll have Monroe drive you home.”

他们那天晚上离开时，欧文先生把一只手放在他肩膀上。“裘德，你能不能多留一会儿？”他问，“我晚点会请门罗开车送你回去。”

　 He had to agree and so he did, telling Richard he could take the car back to Greene Street. For a while they sat in the living room, just he and Mr. Irvine—Malcolm’s mother remained in the dining room with Flora and her husband and children—talking about his health, and Mr. Irvine’s health, and Harold, and his work, when Mr. Irvine began to cry. He had stood then, and had sat down again next to Mr. Irvine, and placed his hand hesitantly on his back, feeling awkward and shy, feeling the decades slip away from beneath him.

他非答应不可，于是叫理查德自己开车回格林街。有一会儿，他坐在客厅里，只有他和欧文先生，马尔科姆的母亲、弗洛拉和她的先生、小孩都还在餐厅里。他们聊着他的健康状况、欧文先生的健康状况，聊哈罗德，还有他的工作。接着欧文先生开始哭了。他站起来，到欧文先生旁边坐下，一手犹豫地放在老人的背部，觉得尴尬又难为情，感觉几十年的时光就在他手底下溜走了。

　 Mr. Irvine had always been such an intimidating figure to all of them throughout their adulthoods. His height, his self-possession, his large, hard features—he looked like something from an Edward Curtis photograph, and that was what they all called him: “The Chief.” “What’s the Chief gonna say about this, Mal?” JB had asked when Malcolm told them he was going to quit Ratstar, and they were all trying to urge temperance. Or (JB again): “Mal, can you ask the Chief if I can use the apartment when I’m passing through Paris next month?”

在他们的成年时期，欧文先生一直是个令人望而生畏的人物。他的高个子、他的沉着、他大脸上坚定的五官——看起来就像是摄影家爱德华·柯蒂斯[1]照片里那些美洲原住民，他们四个私底下都喊他“酋长”。“马尔，这件事酋长会怎么说？”杰比这样问过马尔科姆。那是在马尔科姆打算从瑞司塔建筑师事务所辞职时，他们都设法适度地鼓励他。或者（又是杰比）：“马尔，我下个月会经过巴黎，你可以帮忙问酋长一声，看我能不能住那边的公寓吗？”

　 But Mr. Irvine was no longer the Chief: although he was still logical and upright, he was eighty-nine, and his dark eyes had turned that same unnamable gray that only the very young or the very old possess: the color of the sea from which one comes, the color of the sea to which one returns.

但欧文先生如今再也不是酋长了。虽然他头脑清楚、身体硬朗，但他89岁了，黑色的眼珠已经转为一种难以名状的灰色，只有非常小或非常老的人才会有：我们从这片海水的颜色而来，也将归于这片海水的颜色。

　 “I loved him,” Mr. Irvine told him. “You know that, Jude, right? You know I did.”

“我爱他，”欧文先生告诉他，“裘德，你知道吧？你知道我爱他。”