《渺小一生》:安迪喜欢甜食

　 “What’d you think?” Andy finally asks.

“你觉得怎么样？”安迪最后终于问了。

　 “He kind of looks like Willem,” he says.

“他长得有点像威廉。”他说。

　 “Does he?” Andy says, and he shrugs.

“是吗？”安迪说，耸耸肩。

　 “A little,” he says. “The smile.”

“有一点。”他说，“他的微笑。”

　 “Ah,” Andy says. “I guess. I can see that.” There’s another silence. “But what did you think? I know it’s sometimes hard to tell from one meeting, but does he seem like someone you might be able to get along with?”

“啊，”安迪说，“我想是吧，是有点像。”两人又沉默了一会儿。“可是你觉得怎么样呢？我知道有时见一次面很难说，但你觉得你跟他会合得来吗？”

　 “I don’t think so, Andy,” he says at last, and can feel Andy’s disappointment.

“安迪，我不认为。”他最后说，感觉到安迪的失望。

　 “Really, Jude? What didn’t you like about him?” But he doesn’t answer, and finally Andy sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I hoped you might feel comfortable enough around him to at least consider it. Will you think about it anyway? Maybe you’ll give him another chance? And in the meantime, there’s this other guy, Stephan Wu, who I think you should maybe meet. He’s not an orthopod, but I actually think that might be better; he’s certainly the best internist I’ve ever worked with. Or there’s this guy named—”

“真的，裘德？你不喜欢他哪一点？”但他没回答，最后安迪叹气了。“对不起，”他说，“我本来希望你跟他相处得够自在，至少愿意考虑一下。你能不能想一想？或许再给他一次机会？还有另一个人，叫史蒂芬·吴，我觉得你们或许应该认识一下。他不是整形外科医生，不过我认为这样可能更好；他绝对是我共事过最好的内科医生。还有一个叫……”

　 “Jesus, Andy, stop,” he says, and he can hear the anger in his voice, anger he hasn’t known he had. “Stop.” He looks up, sees Andy’s stricken face. “Are you so eager to get rid of me? Can’t you give me a break? Can’t you let me take this in for a while? Don’t you understand how hard this is for me?” He knows how selfish, how unreasonable, how self-absorbed he is being, and he is miserable but unable to stop himself, and he stands, bumping against the table. “Leave me alone,” he tells Andy. “If you’re not going to be here for me, then leave me alone.”

“天啊，安迪，别再说了。”他说，听得出自己声音中的愤怒，他原先不知道自己有这股怒气。“别说了。”他抬头，看到安迪苦闷的脸，“你就这么急着要摆脱我吗？你不能让我先消化一下吗？你难道不明白这对我来说有多辛苦？”他知道自己这样有多自私、多不理性、只顾自己，而且很可悲，但他就是忍不住。他站了起来，撞到桌子。“别烦我了。”他告诉安迪，“如果你不想照顾我，就别烦我吧。”

　 “Jude,” Andy says, but he has already pushed past the table, and as he does, the waitress arrives with the food, and he can hear Andy curse and see him reach for his wallet, and he stumbles out of the restaurant. Mr. Ahmed doesn’t work on Fridays because he drives himself to Andy’s, but now instead of returning to the car, which is parked in front of Andy’s office, he hails a taxi and gets in quickly and leaves before Andy can catch him.

“裘德。”安迪说，但他已经挤出座位。此时，侍者刚好端着菜过来，他听到安迪诅咒，连忙掏出皮夹，同时踉跄着走出餐厅。艾哈迈德先生周五休假，因为他都是自己开车去安迪的诊所，但现在他没去安迪的诊所前取车，而是招了一辆出租车，赶紧钻进去，趁安迪追上来之前就离开了。

　 That night he turns off his phones, drugs himself, crawls into bed. He wakes the next day, texts both JB and Richard that he’s not feeling well and has to cancel his dinners with them, and then re-drugs himself until it is Monday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. He has ignored all of Andy’s calls and texts and e-mails, all of his messages, but although he is no longer angry, only ashamed, he cannot bear to make one more apology, cannot bear his own meanness, his own weakness. “I’m frightened, Andy,” he wants to say. “What will I do without you?”

那天晚上他关掉电话，吃了安眠药爬上床。次日醒来，他发短信给杰比和理查德说他不舒服，要取消跟他们的晚餐，然后又吃了安眠药，一路睡到星期一。星期一，星期二，星期三，星期四。他都没理会安迪的电话、短信和电子邮件，还有所有的留言。他不再愤怒，只是羞愧，但他也受不了再一次道歉，受不了自己的刻薄、自己的软弱。“我好害怕，安迪，”他很想说，“没有你，我会怎么样？”

　 Andy loves sweets, and on Thursday afternoon he has one of his secretaries place an order for an absurd, a stupid amount of chocolates from Andy’s favorite candy shop. “Any note?” his secretary asks, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “just my name.” She nods and starts to leave and he calls her back, grabs a piece of notepaper from his desk, and scribbles Andy—I’m so embarrassed. Please forgive me. Jude, and hands it to her.

安迪喜欢甜食。于是星期四下午，他找了一个秘书，替他去安迪最喜欢的糖果店订了一大批多到荒谬的巧克力。“要附字条吗？”秘书问。他摇摇头。“不用了，”他说，“写我的名字就好。”秘书点点头正要离开，他又叫她回来，抓了办公桌上的一张便条纸，匆匆写下安迪——我太羞愧了。请原谅我。裘德。然后递给她。

　 But the next night he doesn’t go to see Andy; he goes home to make dinner for Harold, who is in town on one of his unannounced visits. The previous spring had been Harold’s final semester, which he had failed to register until it was September. He and Willem had always spoken of throwing Harold a party when he finally retired, the way they had done for Julia when she had retired. But he had forgotten, and he had done nothing. And then he remembered and he still did nothing.

但次日晚上他没去找安迪，而是回家帮突然跑来纽约的哈罗德做晚餐。哈罗德今年春季学期结束后就退休了，但他直到九月才想起。以前他和威廉老在说，等哈罗德终于退休时，要帮他办个派对，就像之前帮朱丽娅办的退休派对。但他忘了，结果什么都没做。之后他想起来了，但还是什么都没做。

　 He is tired. He doesn’t want to see Harold. But he makes dinner anyway, a dinner he knows he will not eat, and serves it to Harold and then sits down himself.

他很累。他不想见哈罗德。但他还是做了晚餐，知道自己不会吃，只是端给哈罗德，然后自己坐下来。

　 “Aren’t you hungry?” Harold asks him, and he shakes his head. “I ate lunch at five today,” he lies. “I’ll eat later.”

“你饿吗？”哈罗德问他，他摇摇头。“我今天5点才吃午餐的，”他撒谎，“我晚一点再吃。”

　 He watches Harold eat, and sees that he is old, that the skin on his hands has become as soft and satiny as a baby’s. He is ever-more aware that he is one year older, two years older, and now, six years older than Harold was when they met. And yet for all these years, Harold has remained in his perceptions stubbornly forty-five; the only thing that has changed is his perception of how old, exactly, forty-five is. It is embarrassing to admit this to himself, but it is only recently that he has begun considering that there is a possibility, even a probability, that he will outlive Harold. He has already lived beyond his imaginings; isn’t it likely he will live longer still?

他看着哈罗德吃饭，看到他老了，手上的皮肤变得像婴儿般柔软而光滑。最近几年他越来越意识到，自己比当年认识的哈罗德要老一岁、老两岁，现在是老六岁了。然而这些年过去，在他顽固的认知里，哈罗德始终只有45岁。唯一改变的是对他而言，45岁有多老。他很不好意思向自己承认这一点，但直到最近，他才开始想着他有可能，甚至非常可能，活得比哈罗德更久。他已经活得超过他原先的种种想象，不也有可能活得更久？

　 He remembers a conversation they’d had when he turned thirty-five. “I’m middle-aged,” he’d said, and Harold had laughed.

他想起自己满35岁时和哈罗德的一段谈话。“我中年了。”他说，哈罗德大笑。

　 “You’re young,” he’d said. “You’re so young, Jude. You’re only middle-aged if you plan on dying at seventy. And you’d better not. I’m really not going to be in the mood to attend your funeral.”

“你还年轻，”哈罗德说，“太年轻了，裘德。如果你打算70岁死掉的话，你现在才算中年。不过你最好不要只活到70岁，我届时可没心情参加你的葬礼。”

　 “You’re going to be ninety-five,” he said. “Are you really planning on still being alive then?”

“到时候你就95岁了。”他说，“你真认为你会活到那个时候？”

　 “Alive, and frisky, and being attended to by an assortment of buxom young nurses, and not in any mood to go to some long-winded service.”

“不但活着，而且活蹦乱跳，还有各种丰满的年轻护士照顾我。我才不想去参加那种又臭又长的告别式。”

　 He had finally smiled. “And who’s paying for this fleet of buxom young nurses?”

他终于露出微笑：“那谁要帮你出钱雇这些丰满的年轻护士？”