《渺小一生》:他后退，双眼仍盯着那幅画

　 The piece isn’t large—just four feet by three feet—and is horizonally oriented. It is by far the most sharply photorealistic painting JB has produced in years, the colors rich and dense, the brushstrokes that made Willem’s hair feathery-fine. The Willem in this painting looks like Willem did shortly before he died: he thinks he is seeing Willem in the months before or after shooting The Dancer and the Stage, for which his hair was longer and darker than it was in life. After Dancer, he decides, because the sweater he is wearing, a black-green the color of magnolia leaves, is one he remembers buying for Willem in Paris when he went to visit him there.

作品本身并不大，是横向的四英尺乘三英尺。这是杰比至今为止画过最清晰的照相写实作品，画中的颜色丰富而浓密，威廉头发的笔触像羽毛般精细。画中的威廉看起来是过世前不久的那个样子，他记得威廉在拍《舞台上的舞者》的前后几个月就是这个模样，因为他在戏中的头发留得比较长、颜色也比较深。他判定，应该是拍完这部电影之后，因为他穿的那件毛衣是木兰花叶的墨绿色，他记得是他去巴黎探班时，在那买给威廉的。

　 He steps back, still looking. In the painting, Willem’s torso is directed toward the viewer, but his face is turned to the right so that he is almost in profile, and he is leaning toward something or someone and smiling. And because he knows Willem’s smiles, he knows Willem has been captured looking at something he loves, he knows Willem in that instant was happy. Willem’s face and neck dominate the canvas, and although the background is suggested rather than shown, he knows that Willem is at their table; he knows it from the way JB has drawn the light and shadows on Willem’s face. He has the sense that if he says Willem’s name, then the face in the painting will turn toward him and answer; he has the sense that if he stretches his hand out and strokes the canvas, he will feel beneath his fingertips Willem’s hair, his fringe of eyelashes.

他后退，双眼仍盯着那幅画。画中，威廉的躯干面向观者，但他的脸转向右边，几乎是侧面，他的身体则靠向某个东西或某个人，露出微笑。因为他了解威廉的微笑，所以他知道威廉被拍到时，正看着他所爱的东西，他知道威廉那一刻很快乐。威廉的脸和脖子占据了画布的大部分，背景不太清楚，但他从杰比在威廉脸上画的光和影，知道威廉坐在他们公寓的餐桌前。他有种感觉，如果他喊威廉的名字，画中那张脸就会转向他回应；他感觉如果他伸出手抚摸画布，他的手指就可以摸到威廉的头发、威廉的睫毛。

　 But he doesn’t do this, of course, just looks up at last and sees JB smiling at him, sadly. “The title card’s been mounted already,” JB says, and he goes slowly to the wall behind the painting and sees its title—Willem Listening to Jude Tell a Story, Greene Street—and he feels his breath abandon him; it feels as if his heart is made of something oozing and cold, like ground meat, and it is being squeezed inside a fist so that chunks of it are falling, plopping to the ground near his feet.

当然，这些他都没做，最后只是往旁边抬头，看到杰比朝他忧伤地微笑。“画名的卡片已经贴好了。”杰比说。于是他缓缓走到画作后方的墙上，看到了标题——《威廉听裘德说故事，格林街》。他觉得无法呼吸；感觉他的心脏仿佛是某种湿黏而冰冷的东西做的，像绞肉，而且被握在拳头里，大块大块地掉下来，落在他脚边的地上。

　 He is abruptly dizzy. “I need to sit,” he finally says, and JB takes him around the corner, to the other side of the wall where Willem will hang, where there’s a small cul-de-sac. He half sits atop one of the crates that’s been left here and hangs his head, resting his hands on his thighs. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say. “I’m sorry, JB.”

他忽然觉得晕眩。“我得坐下来。”他最后说。杰比带他走过转角，来到挂着威廉那幅画的墙壁后方，那是个小小的死巷。他半坐在堆在那里的条板箱上，垂着头，双手放在大腿上。“对不起，”他设法开口，“对不起，杰比。”

　 “It’s for you,” JB says, quietly. “When the show comes down, Jude. It’s yours.”

“那是给你的。”杰比轻声说，“裘德，等展览结束，那幅画就是你的了。”

　 “Thank you, JB,” he says. He makes himself stand upright, feels everything within him shift. I need to eat something, he thinks. When was the last time he ate? Breakfast, he thinks, but yesterday. He reaches his hand out toward the crate to center himself, to stop the rocking he feels within his head and spine; he feels this sensation more and more frequently, a floating away, a state close to ecstasy. Take me somewhere, he hears a voice inside him say, but he doesn’t know to whom he is saying this, or where he wants to go. Take me, take me. He is thinking this, crossing his arms over himself, when JB suddenly grabs him by his shoulders and kisses him on the mouth.

“谢谢你，杰比。”他说。他逼自己站起来，觉得体内的一切都移位了。我得吃点东西，他心想。他上次吃东西是什么时候？早餐，他心想，不过是昨天的早餐。他伸手摸着条板箱想稳住自己，想停止脑袋和脊椎的摇晃；他越来越常有这种感觉，像是要飘走、接近出神的状态。带我走，他听到脑袋里有个声音说，但他不知道他是对谁说，也不知道自己想去哪里。带我走，带我走。他想着这个，双手交抱在胸前，此时杰比忽然抓住他肩膀，吻在他嘴上。

　 He wrenches away. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and he fumbles backward, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

他挣脱了。“你他妈的在搞什么？”他问，一边踉跄后退，用手背抹着嘴巴。

　 “Jude, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything,” JB says. “You just look so—so sad.”

“裘德，对不起，我没有任何意思。”杰比说，“只是你看起来好……好悲伤。”

　 “So this is what you do?” he spits at JB, who steps toward him. “Don’t you dare touch me, JB.” In the background, he can hear the chatter of the installers, JB’s gallerist, the curators. He takes another step, this time toward the edge of the wall. I’m going to faint, he thinks, but he doesn’t.

“所以你就这样？”他朝走向他的杰比啐道，“杰比，你敢再碰我试试看。”背景声中，他听得到那些布展人员、代理杰比的画廊经理、策展人的说话声。他又朝墙角走了一步。我要昏倒了，他心想，但结果没有。

　 “Jude,” JB says, and then, his face changing, “Jude?”

“裘德，”杰比说，然后他的脸色变了，“裘德？”

　 But he is moving away from him. “Get away from me,” he says. “Don’t touch me. Leave me alone.”

他设法离开杰比。“离我远一点，”他说，“别碰我。别来烦我。”

　 “Jude,” JB says in a low voice, following him, “you don’t look good. Let me help you.” But he keeps walking, trying to get away from JB. “I’m sorry, Jude,” JB continues. “I’m sorry.” He is aware of the pack of people moving as a clump to the other side of the floor, hardly noticing him leaving, JB next to him; it is as if they don’t exist.

“裘德，”杰比低声说，跟着他，“你看起来气色很差。让我帮你吧。”但他继续走，设法摆脱杰比。“裘德，对不起。”杰比继续说，“对不起。”他意识到那些人成群走向这层楼的另一头，根本没发现他要离开，而杰比跟在他旁边；好像他们并不存在。

　 Twenty more steps to the elevators, he estimates; eighteen more steps; sixteen; fifteen; fourteen. Beneath him, the floor has become a loosely spinning top, wobbling on its axis. Ten; nine; eight. “Jude,” says JB, who won’t stop talking, “let me help you. Why won’t you talk to me anymore?” He is at the elevator; he smacks the button with his palm; he leans against the wall, praying he’ll be able to stay upright.

离电梯只剩二十步了，他估计，再十八步，十六，十五，十四。他脚下的地板变成一个快转不动的陀螺，轴心摇晃着。十，九，八。“裘德，”杰比说，他就是不肯闭嘴，“让我帮你。你现在为什么不再跟我讲话了？”他来到电梯口，狠狠用手掌拍了电梯钮，然后靠在墙壁上，祈祷自己不要倒下。

　 “Get away from me,” he hisses at JB. “Leave me alone.”

“离我远一点，”他咬牙低声对杰比说，“别来烦我。”

　 The elevator arrives; the doors open. He steps toward them. His walk now is different: he still leads with his left leg, always, and he still lifts it unnaturally high—that hasn’t changed, that has been dictated by his injury. But he no longer drags his right leg, and because his prosthetic feet are so well-articulated—much more so than his own feet had been—he is able to feel the roll of his foot as it leaves the floor, the complicated, beautiful pat of it laying itself down on the ground again, section by section.

电梯来了；门打开。他走进去。现在他走路的方式不一样了：一如往常，他还是左腿先跨，而且脚抬起时仍然很高、很不自然。这点并没有改变，从他当年车祸受伤以来就必须这样。但现在他不会再拖着右脚走路，因为他的义肢做得太好了，比原来的脚还好。他现在可以感觉到他的脚离开地板的转动，感觉到它落回地板那种复杂、优美的轻拍，每个局部动作都清楚分明。

　 But when he is tired, when he is desperate, he finds himself unconsciously reverting to his old gait, with each foot landing flatly, slabbily, on the floor, with his right leg listing behind him. And as he steps into the elevator he forgets that his steel-and-fiberglass legs are made for more nuance than he is allowing them, and he trips and falls. “Jude!” he hears JB call out, and because he is so weak, for a moment everything is dark and empty, and when he regains his vision, he sees that the flock of people have heard JB cry out, that they are now walking in his direction. He sees as well JB’s face above him, but he is too tired to interpret his expression. Willem Listening to Jude Tell a Story, he thinks, and before him appears the painting: Willem’s face, Willem’s smile, but Willem isn’t looking at him, he is looking somewhere else. What if, he thinks, the Willem of the painting is in fact looking for him? He has a sudden urge to stand to the painting’s right, to sit in a chair in what would be Willem’s sightline, to never leave that painting by itself. There is Willem, imprisoned forever in a one-sided conversation. Here he is, in life, imprisoned as well. He thinks of Willem, alone in his painting, night after night in the empty museum, waiting and waiting for him to tell him a story.

但是当他疲倦的时候、绝望的时候，他发现自己会不自觉地回到以前习惯的步态，每一步都是左脚直直落地，后面的右脚拖着往前。此刻当他走进电梯时，他忘了他现在钢质加玻璃纤维的双腿比以前轻巧细致多了，于是绊了一下，摔倒了。“裘德！”他听到杰比喊。由于他太虚弱了，一时间周围的一切黑暗又空荡，等到视觉恢复，他看见一群人听到杰比的喊叫，正朝他走过来。他也看到杰比的脸在他上方，但他累得无法解读他的表情。《威廉听裘德说故事，格林街》，他心想，眼前出现了那张画：威廉的脸、威廉的微笑，但威廉没在看他，而是看着别的地方。如果画中的威廉其实是在找他呢？他忽然好想站在那幅画的右侧，坐在一张威廉目光可及的椅子上，永远不要离开那幅画。威廉在那里，永远囚禁在一个单方对话中。他在这里，活着，同样被囚禁着。他想着威廉，孤单地在他的画中，夜复一夜待在空荡的美术馆里，苦苦等着他去说故事。

　 Forgive me, Willem, he tells Willem in his head. Forgive me, but I have to leave you now. Forgive me, but I have to go.

原谅我，威廉，他告诉脑袋里的威廉。原谅我，但是我现在得离开你了。原谅我，但是我得走了。

　 “Jude,” JB says. The elevator doors are closing, but JB reaches his arm out to him.

“裘德。”杰比说。电梯门要关上了，但杰比朝他伸出手臂。

　 But he ignores it, works himself to his feet, leans into the corner of the elevator car. The people are very close now. Everyone moves so much faster than he does. “Stay away from me,” he says to JB, but he is quiet. “Leave me alone. Please leave me alone.”

他没理会，只是设法站起身，靠在电梯里的角落。那些人现在很接近了。每个人动作都比他快得多。“离我远一点，”他对杰比说，但是很小声。“别来烦我。拜托别来烦我。”

　 “Jude,” JB says again. “I’m sorry.”

“裘德，”杰比又说，“对不起。”