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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Classroom|The Orientation

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[16167]
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阳光从餐厅的窗户射进来，照亮了房间里的硬木地板。我们在那儿已经谈了近两个小时了。常有电话打来，莫里让他的助手康尼去接。她把所有打电话来的人的名字记录在莫里那本黑封面的小登记簿上：朋友，默念师，讨论小组，想为某本杂志给他拍照的摄影师。显然，我不是唯一有兴趣访问他的人——“夜线”节目使他成了名人——但我还是对他有那么多的朋友而感到惊讶，甚至还有些忌妒。我回想起大学时那些围着我转的“哥们”，他们如今在哪里呢？

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“你知道，米奇，因为我是个快死的人，所以人们才对我感兴趣。”

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你一直是个有趣的人。

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"啊，”莫里笑了。“你真好。”

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不，我并不好，我心里在想。

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"原因在于，”他说，“人们把我视为一座桥梁。我不像以前那样活着，但我又没有死……我类似于……介于两者之间。”

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他咳嗽起来，随后又恢复了笑容，“我已经踏上了最后的旅程——人们要我告诉他们该怎样打点行装。”

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电话铃又响了。

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"莫里，你能接吗？”康尼问。

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"我正在接待我的老朋友，”他说，“请他们待会儿再打来。”

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我不知道他为什么待我这么热情。我几乎已经与十六年前离开了他的那个有出息的学生判若两人。如果没有“夜线”节目，莫里也许到死也不会再见到我。对此我没有任何正儿八经的理由，除了人人现在都会找的借口。我一心一意关心着自己的生活。我很忙。

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我怎么啦？我问自己。莫里尖细、嘶哑的嗓音又把我带回到了大学时代。我那时视有钱为罪恶，衬衫加领带在我眼里简直如同枷锁，没有自由、貌似充实的生活——骑着摩托。沐着清风，游逛巴黎的街市或西藏的山峦——并不是有意义的生活。可我现在怎么啦？

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八十年代开始了。九十年代开始了。死亡、疾病、肥胖、秃顶接踵而来。我是用许多梦想在换取数额更大的支票，只是我没有意识到而已。

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莫里却又在谈美妙的大学生活了，仿佛我只是过了一个长长的假期。

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"你有没有知心的朋友？”

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"你为社区贡献过什么吗？”

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"你对自己心安理得吗？”

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"你想不想做一个富有人情味的人？”

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我坐立不安起来，我的心绪被这些问题彻底搅乱了。我怎么会变得这样？我曾经发过誓，永远不为钱而工作，我会参加和平队①，去美丽的理想乐园生活。

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①由志愿人员组成的美国政府代表机构，成立于1961年，去发展中国家提供技术服务。

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然而，我在底特律一呆就是十年，受雇同一个报社，进出同一家银行，光顾同一家理发店。我已经三十有七，比做学生那会更有能耐，整天泡在电脑，调制解调器和手机里。我专门写有关富有的运动员的文章，他们一般对我这样的人也是很在意的。我在同龄人中已不再显得稚嫩，不用再穿灰色的无领长袖衫或叼着没有点燃的烟来作修饰。但我也不再有边吃鸡蛋色拉边长谈人生的机会。

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我的每一天都很充实，然而，我在大部分时间里仍感到不满足。

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我怎么啦？

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"教练，”我突然记起了这个绰号。

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莫里面露喜色，“是我。我还是你的教练。”

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他大笑着继续吃他的东西，这顿饭他已经吃了四十分钟。我在观察他，他手的动作显得有点笨拙，好像刚刚在开始学用手。他不能用力地使用刀。他的手指在颤抖。每咬一口食物都得费很大的劲，然后再咀嚼好一阵子才咽下去，有时食物还会从嘴角漏出来，于是他得放下手里的东西，用餐巾纸擦一擦。他手腕到肘部的皮肤上布满了老人斑，而且松弛得像一根熬汤的鸡骨头上悬着的鸡皮。

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有一阵子，我们俩就这么吃着东西。一个是患病的老者，一个是健康的年轻人，两人一起承受着房间里的寂静。我觉得这是一种令人难堪的寂静，然而感到难堪的似乎只有我。

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"死亡，”莫里突然开口说，“是一件令人悲哀的事，米奇。可不幸地活着也同样令人悲哀。所以许多来探访我的人并不幸福。”

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为什么？

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"唔，首先，我们的文化并不让人觉得心安理得。我们在教授一些错误的东西。你需要十分的坚强才能说，如果这种文化没有用，就别去接受它。建立你自己的文化。但大多数人都做不到。他们要比我——即使在这样的处境里——更不幸。

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"我也许就要死去，但我周围有爱我，关心我的人们。有多少人能有这个福份？”

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他毫不自怜自哀的态度使我感到惊讶。莫里，一个不能再跳舞。游泳。洗澡和行走的人，一个再也不能去开门，不会自己擦干身子，甚至不能在床上翻身的人，怎么会对命运表现出如此的乐于接受？我望着他费劲地使用着叉子，好几次都没能叉起一块番茄——那情景真令人悲哀。然而我无法否认，坐在他面前能感受到一种神奇的宁静，就像当年校园里的清风拂去我心中的浮躁一般。

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我瞄了一眼手表——习惯的驱使——时间已经不早了，我在想换一班飞机回去。这时莫里做了一件至今都令我挥之不去的事情。

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"你知道我会怎么死吗？”他问。

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我扬起了眉毛。

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"我会窒息而死。是的，由于我有哮喘，我的肺将无法抵御疾病的侵入。它慢慢地往上跑。现在它已经侵蚀了我的腿。用不了多久它会侵蚀到我的手臂和手。当它侵蚀到我的肺部时………

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他耸了耸肩膀。

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"厖我就完蛋了。”

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我不知道该说些什么，于是嗫嚅道，“嗯，你知道，我是说……你不会知道……”

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莫里闭上了眼睛。“我知道，米奇。你不必害怕我的死。我有过美好的生活。我们都知道这只是迟早的事。我或许还有四五个月的时间。”

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别这么说，我紧张地打断了他。没人能预料——

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"我能预料，”他轻声说。“甚至还有一种测试的方法。是一位医生教我的。”

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测试方法？

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"吸几口气。”

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我照他说的做了。

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"现在再吸一次，但这次当你呼气时，看看你能数到几。”

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我快速地边呼气边数数。“一、二、三、四、五、六、七、八……”吐完这口气时我数到了七十。

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"很好，”莫里说，“你有一个健康的肺。现在看我做。”

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他吸了口气，然后轻声、颤抖地开始数数。“一、二、三、四、五、六、七、八、九、十、十一、十二、十三、十四、十五、十六、十七、十八——”

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他停住了，气喘吁吁。

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"当医生第一次让我这么做的时候，我能数到二十三。现在是十八。”

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他闭上了眼睛，摇摇头。“我的油箱已经空了。”

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我有些紧张地做了个拍大腿的动作。该结束这个下午了。

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"再回来看看你的老教授，”当我拥抱着和他道别时莫里说。我答应我会来的，这时我尽量不去想上一次我作一允诺的时刻。

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我在学校的书店买了莫里为我们开出的书，比如《青春》、《个性和危机》、《我与你》、《分离的自我》等。这些书我以前从未听说过。

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进大学前我不知道人际关系的学习也可以成为一门学术性课程。在我遇到莫里之前，我不相信这是真的。

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他对书本的感情是那么真实且富有感染力。有时放学后，当教室里空无一人时，我们开始作认真的交谈。他问及我的生活，然后引用艾里奇•弗罗姆、马丁•布贝尔和埃立克•埃里克森的一些论述。他经常照搬他们的语录，然后再用自己的见解作注脚。只有在这种时候，我才意识到他是个真正的教授，而不是长辈。有一天下午，我在抱怨我这一代人的困惑：我分不清什么是我自己想做的，什么是别人期望你做的。

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"我有没有对你说起过反向力？”他问。

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反向力？

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"生活是持续不断的前进和后退。你想做某一件事，可你叉注定要去做另一件事。你受到了伤害，可你知道你不该受伤害。你把某些事情视作理所当然，尽管你知道不该这么做。

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"反向力，就像是橡皮筋上的移动。我们大多数人生活在它的中间。”

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听上去像是摔跤比赛，我说。

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"摔跤比赛。”莫里大芙起来。“是的，你可以对生活作类似的诠释。”

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那么哪一方会赢？我问。

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"哪一方会赢？”

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他对我笑笑：眯缝的眼睛，不平整的牙齿。

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"爱会赢。爱永远是胜者。”

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As I turned the rental car onto Morrie’s street in West Newton, a quiet suburb of Boston, I had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cellular phone between my ear and shoulder. I was talking to a TV producer about a piece we were doing. My eyes jumped from the digital clock-my return flight was in a few hours-to the mailbox numbers on the tree-lined suburban street. The car radio was on, the all-news station. This was how I operated, five things at once.

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"Roll back the tape," I said to the producer. "Let me hear that part again."

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"Okay," he said. "It’s gonna take a second." Suddenly, I was upon the house. I pushed the brakes, spilling coffee in my lap. As the car stopped, I caught a glimpse of a large Japanese maple tree and three figures sitting near it in the driveway, a young man and a middleaged woman flanking a small old man in a wheelchair. Morrie.

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At the sight of my old professor, I froze.

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"Hello?" the producer said in my ear. "Did I lose you?... "

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I had not seen him in sixteen years. His hair was thinner, nearly white, and his face was gaunt. I suddenly felt unprepared for this reunion-for one thing, I was stuck on the phone-and I hoped that he hadn’t noticed my arrival, so that I could drive around the block a few more times, finish my business, get mentally ready. But Morrie, this new, withered version of a man I had once known so well, was smiling at the car, hands folded in his lap, waiting for me to emerge.

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"Hey?" the producer said again. "Are you there?" For all the time we’d spent together, for all the kindness and patience Morrie had shown me when I was young, I should have dropped the phone and jumped from the car, run and held him and kissed him hello. Instead, I killed the engine and sunk down off the seat, as if I were looking for something.

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"Yeah, yeah, I’m here," I whispered, and continued my conversation with the TV producer until we were finished.

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I did what I had become best at doing: I tended to my work, even while my dying professor waited on his front lawn. I am not proud of this, but that is what I did.

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Now, five minutes later, Morrie was hugging me, his thinning hair rubbing against my cheek. I had told him I was searching for my keys, that’s what had taken me so long in the car, and I squeezed him tighter, as if I could crush my little lie. Although the spring sunshine was warm, he wore a windbreaker and his legs were covered by a blanket. He smelled faintly sour, the way people on medication sometimes do. With his face pressed close to mine, I could hear his labored breathing in my ear.

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"My old friend," he whispered, "you’ve come back at last."

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He rocked against me, not letting go, his hands reaching up for my elbows as I bent over him. I was surprised at such affection after all these years, but then, in the stone walls I had built between my present and my past, I had forgotten how close we once were. I remembered graduation day, the briefcase, his tears at my departure, and I swallowed because I knew, deep down, that I was no longer the good, gift-bearing student he remembered.

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I only hoped that, for the next few hours, I could fool him.

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Inside the house, we sat at a walnut dining room table, near a window that looked out on the neighbor’s house. Morrie fussed with his wheelchair, trying to get comfortable. As was his custom, he wanted to feed me, and I said all right. One of the helpers, a stout Italian woman named Connie, cut up bread and tomatoes and brought containers of chicken salad, hummus, and tabouli.

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She also brought some pills. Morrie looked at them and sighed. His eyes were more sunken than I remembered them, and his cheekbones more pronounced. This gave him a harsher, older look-until he smiled, of course, and the sagging cheeks gathered up like curtains.

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"Mitch," he said softly, "you know that I’m dying."

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I knew.

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"All right, then." Morrie swallowed the pills, put down the paper cup, inhaled deeply, then let it out. "Shall I tell you what it’s like?"

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What it’s like? To die?

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"Yes," he said.

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Although I was unaware of it, our last class had just begun.

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It is my freshman year. Morrie is older than most of the teachers, and I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year early. To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray sweatshirts and box in a local gym and walk around with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke. I drive a beat-up Mercury Cougar, with the windows down and the music up. I seek my identity in toughness-but it is Morrie’s softness that draws me, and because he does not look at me as a kid trying to be something more than I am, I relax.

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I finish that first course with him and enroll for another. He is an easy marker; he does not much care for grades. One year, they say, during the Vietnam War, Morrie gave all his male students A’s to help them keep their student deferments.

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I begin to call Morrie "Coach," the way I used to address my high school track coach. Morrie likes the nickname.

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"Coach, " he says. "All right, I’ll be your coach. And you can be my player. You can play all the lovely parts of life that I’m too old for now."

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Sometimes we eat together in the cafeteria. Morrie, to my delight, is even more of a slob than I am. He talks instead of chewing, laughs with his mouth open, delivers a passionate thought through a mouthful of egg salad, the little yellow pieces spewing from his teeth.

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It cracks me up. The whole time I know him, I have two overwhelming desires: to hug him and to give him a napkin.

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