《渺小一生》:他们从来没有指责他
He sees Dr. Loehmann every Monday and Thursday. On Monday nights, he returns to work after his appointment. But on Thursdays he is made to see Harold and Julia, and with them he is horrifically rude as well: and not just rude but nasty, spiteful. He behaves in ways that astonish him, in ways he has never dared before in his life, not even when he was a child, in ways that he would have been beaten for by anyone else. But not by Harold and Julia. They never rebuke him, they never discipline him.
他每个星期一和星期四去娄曼医生那里。星期一晚上，他做完心理咨询会回办公室继续工作。但是星期四结束后，他就得去看哈罗德和朱丽娅，他对他们也极不礼貌；不光是不礼貌，态度还非常恶劣、充满怨恨。他的种种行为把自己都吓到了，很多是他这辈子从来不敢对别人做的，就连小时候也不敢，否则一定会挨揍。但哈罗德和朱丽娅不会揍他。他们从来没有指责他，也从来没有惩罚他。
“This is disgusting,” he says that night, pushing away the chicken stew Harold has made. “I won’t eat this.”
“这太恶心了，”那天晚上他说，把哈罗德做的炖鸡推开，“我不要吃。”
“I’ll get you something else,” Julia says quickly, getting up. “What do you want, Jude? Do you want a sandwich? Some eggs?”
“那我帮你弄别的，”朱丽娅很快地站起来说，“裘德，你想吃什么？要三明治吗？还是蛋？”
“Anything else,” he says. “This tastes like dog food.” But he is speaking to Harold, staring at him, daring him to flinch, to break. His pulse leaps in his throat with anticipation: He can see Harold springing from his chair and hitting him in the face. He can see Harold crumpling with tears. He can see Harold ordering him out of his house. “Get the fuck out of here, Jude,” Harold will say. “Get out of our lives and never come back.”
“其他什么都好，”他说，“这个吃起来像狗食。”他对着哈罗德说，眼睛瞪着他，想把他激到受不了而崩溃。他期待得心脏都跳到喉咙口了，他可以想象哈罗德从椅子上跳起来，打他的脸；他可以想象哈罗德皱着脸哭泣；他可以想象哈罗德命令他离开。“他妈的给我滚出去，裘德，”哈罗德会说，“滚出我的人生，永远不要再回来。”
“Fine,” he’ll say. “Fine, fine. I don’t need you anyway, Harold. I don’t need any of you.” What a relief it will be to learn that Harold had never really wanted him after all, that his adoption was a whim, a folly whose novelty tarnished long ago.
“很好，”他会说，“很好，很好。反正我也不需要你，哈罗德。我不需要你们任何一个人。”那会是多么大的解脱，这么一来，他就会知道哈罗德原来根本不是真的想要他，收养他只是一时兴起做的傻事，那种新鲜感早就没了。
But Harold does none of those things, just looks at him. “Jude,” he says at last, very quietly.
但哈罗德什么都没做，只是看着他。“裘德。”最后他终于说，很小声。
“Jude, Jude,” he mocks him, squawking his own name back to Harold like a jay. “Jude, Jude.” He is so angry, so furious: there is no word for what he is. Hatred sizzles through his veins. Harold wants him to live, and now Harold is getting his wish. Now Harold is seeing him as he is.
“裘德，裘德。”他嘲弄着，像只蓝冠鸦粗声地学着哈罗德讲他自己的名字。“裘德，裘德。”他太生气、太愤怒了，没有字眼可以形容现在的他。热腾腾的恨意在他的血管内嘶嘶作响。哈罗德要他活着，现在哈罗德如愿以偿了，现在哈罗德看到他真正的一面了。
Do you know how badly I could hurt you? he wants to ask Harold. Do you know I could say things that you would never forget, that you would never forgive me for? Do you know I have that power? Do you know that every day I have known you I have been lying to you? Do you know what I really am? Do you know how many men I have been with, what I have let them do to me, the things that have been inside me, the noises I have made? His life, the only thing that is his, is being possessed: By Harold, who wants to keep him alive, by the demons who scrabble through his body, dangling off his ribs, puncturing his lungs with their talons. By Brother Luke, by Dr. Traylor. What is life for? he asks himself. What is my life for?
你知道我可以把你伤得多重吗？他想问哈罗德。你知道我可以说出一些你永远不会忘记、永远不会原谅我的话吗？你知道我有那样的力量吗？你知道从认识你的第一天起，我就在跟你撒谎吗？你知道真正的我是什么样子吗？你知道我跟多少男人在一起过，我让他们对我做了什么，让什么进入我的身体，我又发出过什么声音吗？他唯一拥有的，就是自己这条命，但他这条命却一直被人控制，包括希望他活着的哈罗德，那些在他身上乱扒、抓着他的肋骨荡来荡去、用爪子戳他肺的恶魔。还有卢克修士、特雷勒医生。活着是为了什么？他问自己。我的一生是为了什么？
Oh, he thinks, will I never forget? Is this who I am after all, after all these years?
啊，他心想，我永远不会忘记吗？即使过了这么多年，我就是这样的人吗？
He can feel his nose start to bleed, and he pushes back from the table. “I’m leaving,” he tells them, as Julia enters the room with a sandwich. He sees that she has cut off its crusts and sliced it into triangles, the way you would for a child, and for a second he wavers and almost begins to bawl, but then he recalls himself and glares again at Harold.
他可以感觉到鼻子开始流血，于是他从桌旁退开。“我要走了。”他告诉他们，此时朱丽娅拿着三明治走进来。他看到她切掉了面包边，把三明治对半切成三角形，就像做给小孩吃的那样。一时间他动摇了，差点要放声痛哭，但他回过神来，再度瞪着哈罗德。
“No, you’re not,” Harold says, not angrily, but decisively. He stands up from his chair, points his finger at him. “You’re staying and you’re finishing.”
“不，你不能走，”哈罗德说，口气并不愤怒，而是坚定。他从椅子上站起来，一根指头指着他，“你要留下来吃完。”
“No, I’m not,” he announces. “Call Andy, I don’t care. I’m going to kill myself, Harold, I’m going to kill myself no matter what you do, and you’re not going to be able to stop me.”
“不，我不要，”他宣布，“打电话给安迪啊，我不在乎。我会自杀的，哈罗德。无论你做什么，我都会自杀的，你没有办法阻止我。”
“Jude,” he hears Julia whisper. “Jude, please.”
“裘德，”他听到朱丽娅低声说，“裘德，拜托。”
Harold walks over to him, taking the plate from Julia as he does, and he thinks: This is it. He raises his chin, he waits for Harold to hit him in the face with it, but he doesn’t, just puts the plate before him. “Eat,” Harold says, his voice tight. “You’re going to eat this now.”
哈罗德走向他，半路接过朱丽娅手中的盘子。他心想：来了。他昂起下巴，等着哈罗德用那盘子砸他的脸，但结果没有，哈罗德只是把盘子放在他面前。“快吃，”哈罗德说，声音紧绷，“吃完才可以。”
He thinks, unexpectedly, of the day he had his first episode at Harold and Julia’s. Julia was at the grocery store, and Harold was upstairs printing out a worrisomely complicated recipe for a soufflé he claimed he was going to make. There he had lain in the pantry, trying to keep himself from kicking his legs out in agony, listening to Harold clatter down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Jude?” he’d called, not seeing him, and as quiet as he had tried to be, he had made a noise anyway, and Harold had opened the door and found him. He had known Harold for six years by that point, but he was always careful around him, dreading but expecting the day when he would be revealed to him as he really was. “I’m sorry,” he’d tried to tell Harold, but he was only able to croak.
他出乎意料地想到了他第一次在哈罗德家背痛发作的那一天。当时朱丽娅去杂货店了，哈罗德在楼上打印一个非常复杂的舒芙蕾食谱，宣称他要做这道甜点。他躺在食品贮藏室，设法忍着不要痛苦得蹬腿，接着他听到哈罗德走下楼梯，进入厨房。“裘德？”哈罗德没看到他，于是喊他的名字。他努力保持安静，但还是发出了声音，哈罗德打开食品贮藏室的门，发现了他。当时他认识哈罗德六年了，但他一直很谨慎，担心却又预料到有一天他会在哈罗德面前暴露真正的样子。“对不起。”他试图告诉哈罗德，却只勉强发出沙哑的声音。
“Jude,” Harold had said, frightened, “can you hear me?,” and he’d nodded, and Harold had entered the pantry himself, picking his way around the stacks of paper towels and jugs of dishwasher detergent, lowering himself to the floor and gently pulling his head into his lap, and for a second he had thought that this was the moment he had always half anticipated, the one in which Harold would unzip his pants and he would have to do what he had always done. But he hadn’t, had just stroked his head, and after a while, as he twitched and grunted, his body tensing itself with pain, its heat filling his joints, he realized that Harold was singing to him. It was a song he had never heard before but that he recognized instinctually was a child’s song, a lullaby, and he juddered and chattered and hissed through his teeth, opening and closing his left hand, gripping the throat of a nearby bottle of olive oil with his right, as on and on Harold sang. As he lay there, so desperately humiliated, he knew that after this incident Harold would either become distant from him or would draw closer still. And because he didn’t know which would happen, he found himself hoping—as he never had before and never would again—that this episode would never end, that Harold’s song would never finish, that he would never have to learn what followed it.
“裘德，”哈罗德说，吓坏了，“你听得到我说话吗？”他点点头。哈罗德走进食品贮藏室，绕过一堆堆厨房纸巾和一瓶瓶洗碗精，坐到地上，轻轻把他的头拉过来放在膝上。有一秒钟，他想这就是他一直半期待的那一刻，哈罗德会拉开裤子拉链，他就得做他以前常做的那件事。但哈罗德没有，只是抚摸他的头，过一会儿，当他抽搐又呻吟，身体痛得紧绷，关节发热时，他才发现哈罗德在对他唱歌。那首歌他从来没听过，但一听就知道是一首童谣，一首摇篮曲，而他身体晃动、牙齿打战、嘶嘶吸着气，他左手张开又握紧，右手抓着旁边的一瓶橄榄油，同时哈罗德继续唱着。他躺在那里，觉得丢脸极了，他知道这起事件过后，哈罗德若不是跟他疏远，就是更亲近。因为他不知道哪个会发生，所以不自觉地期望（他从来没有这样，以后也不会这样）这次发作永远不要结束，希望哈罗德的歌永远不要唱完，希望他永远不必知道结束后会怎么样。
And now he is so much older, Harold is so much older, Julia is so much older, they are three old people and he is being given a sandwich meant for a child, and a directive—Eat—meant for a child as well. We are so old, we have become young again, he thinks, and he picks up the plate and throws it against the far wall, where it shatters, spectacularly. He sees the sandwich had been grilled cheese, sees one of the triangular slabs slap itself against the wall and then ooze down it, the white cheese dripping off in gluey clumps.
而现在，他老了这么多，哈罗德老了这么多，朱丽娅老了这么多，他们是三个老人，他们却给了他一个该给小孩吃的三明治，还有指令——快吃——也是对小孩说的。我们很老，却又变年轻了，他心想。然后他拿起那个盘子，丢向另一头的墙壁，盘子轰然砸碎了。他看到那是个烤奶酪三明治，其中一片三角形摔在墙上，随即往下流淌，白色黏稠的奶酪成团流了出来。
Now, he thinks, almost giddily, as Harold comes close to him once more, now, now, now. And Harold raises his hand and he waits to be hit so hard that this night will end and he will wake in his own bed and for a while be able to forget this moment, will be able to forget what he has done.
现在，他心想，简直要晕眩起来，看着哈罗德再度逼近他，现在，现在，就是现在。哈罗德举起一手，他等着那只手重重打下来，重得将这一晚结束，他醒来时会躺在自己的床上，忘记这一刻，忘记自己做过什么。
But instead he finds Harold wrapping him in his arms, and he tries to push him away, but Julia is holding him too, leaning over the carapace of his wheelchair, and he is trapped between them. “Leave me alone,” he roars at them, but his energy is dissipating and he is weak and hungry. “Leave me alone,” he tries again, but his words are shapeless and useless, as useless as his arms, as his legs, and he soon stops trying.
但结果他发现哈罗德没打他，而是用双臂把他拥进怀里。他想推开，但朱丽娅也凑向他的轮椅背板，抱住了他，他被困在两人之间。“不要烦我，”他朝他们大吼，但他的精力消失了，整个人变得虚弱又饥饿，“不要烦我。”他又试了一次，但是他的话既不成形又不管用，无用得像他的双臂，像他的双腿，于是他很快就放弃尝试了。
“Jude,” Harold says to him, quietly. “My poor Jude. My poor sweetheart.” And with that, he starts to cry, for no one has ever called him sweetheart, not since Brother Luke. Sometimes Willem would try—sweetheart, Willem would try to call him, honey—and he would make him stop; the endearment was filthy to him, a word of debasement and depravity. “My sweetheart,” Harold says again, and he wants him to stop; he wants him to never stop. “My baby.” And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.
“裘德，”哈罗德轻声说，“我可怜的裘德。我可怜的甜心。”听到这些话，他哭了起来，因为自从卢克修士以来，没有人喊过他甜心。有时威廉试着喊他甜心或是蜜糖，他会要他别喊；那种亲热对他来说很肮脏，那些称呼是贬损而堕落的字眼。“我的甜心。”哈罗德又说。他希望他停止，又希望他永远不要停止。“我的宝贝。”他哭了又哭，为了他过去的一切；为了可能的一切、所有旧日的伤痛、旧日的快乐；为了他终于能当一个小孩的羞愧和喜悦、怀着小孩可能的奇想、渴望和不安全感而哭；为了可以不乖却能被原谅的特权，为了能享受温柔、钟爱、端上食物被逼着吃的奢侈；为了他终于、终于有办法相信父母的保证；为了他终于相信他对某个人来说是特别的，尽管他犯过那么多错又那么可恨，而且就是因为他犯过那么多错又那么可恨。
