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属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 西尔维娅-普拉斯] 阅读:[23558]
这本小说以作者早年生活经历为蓝本,叙述了19岁的大二女生埃斯特· 格林伍德经历了充当某知名杂志社的客座编辑、参加写作班被拒、自杀未遂、接受心理治疗、重树自信期待返回社会,展开新生活的一系列过程。本文从“榜样缺失”的角度出发,结合当时美国的实际,探讨埃斯特作为女性,在其成长过程中男性社会压抑下所产生的孤独、绝望与挣扎的心灵历程以及反抗的必然性。
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这是个诡异、酷热的夏天。间谍罗森伯格夫妇在这个夏天坐上了电椅。而我不知道自己在纽约做什么。我对于处决这种事情懵懵懂懂,但一想到全身通电而死就感到反胃,偏偏报纸上全是这事儿。在每个街角,每个散发着霉臭、花生味的地铁出入口,这些标题都瞪大眼睛盯着我。按说这本和我无关,但我就是忍不住地想,被电流窜遍神经活活烧死会是种什么感觉。

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我想世上最恐怖的事情,莫过于此吧。

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纽约真是够糟的。那随风潜入夜的隐约带有乡间湿气的清新气味,才刚早上九点,就已宛如美梦余韵般蒸腾得无影无踪。高楼构筑的花岗岩峡谷底下是海市蜃楼般的灰蒙一片,暑气逼人的街道在烈日下泛着热浪。车顶被晒得嘶嘶作响,晃得人眼花。干燥的、煤灰般的尘土吹入我的眼中,直下我的喉咙。

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收音机和办公室里总在说罗森伯格夫妇的事,弄得我想忘也忘不掉。那感觉就像第一次看见尸体,过了好几个礼拜,那尸体的头——或者该说留在尸身上的残余物——仍不时浮现在我眼前,从我早餐的鸡蛋和培根后面冒出来,从巴迪·威拉德的脸后面冒出来,这家伙正是害我见到那具尸体的罪魁祸首。之后没多久,我就觉得自己走到哪里都带着一颗用绳子拴着的死人头颅,像带着一个黑乎乎的、没有鼻子的、酸臭的气球。

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我知道那个夏天自己有些不对劲,因为我满脑子都是罗森伯格夫妇的事;要不就是成天想着自己怎么那么蠢,买了那些穿着不舒服又很昂贵的衣服,只好让它们像死鱼一样无精打采地挂在衣橱里;我也搞不明白,麦迪逊大道上的光滑大理石和玻璃橱窗,是怎么把我在大学期间兴高采列地积累的小小成就消弭于无形的。

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我本该享受着人生的大好时光才对啊。

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我本该是全美成千上万大学女生羡慕的对象,她们一心向往的就是穿着和我一样的七号漆面皮鞋四处游走。这双鞋是我趁午餐的时候跑到布鲁明戴尔百货商店买的,当时还买了一条黑色的漆面皮带和一个黑色的漆面手袋来配它。当我的照片登上了我们十二人所任职的杂志社的杂志时,人人都以为我一定乐得晕头转向。照片中的我穿着仿银丝质料的紧身胸衣,下半身是一条云朵般的白纱大蓬裙,在某个名为“星光屋顶”的地方喝着马丁尼,身旁环绕着数位年轻男子。他们虽然没什么名气,却有着美国人那种十足的好身材,都是专为这次拍摄雇来或者借调来的。

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人们会说,瞧瞧,美国真是无奇不有。一个在穷乡僻壤住了十九年,穷到连本杂志都买不起的乡下姑娘,居然拿了奖学金念大学,还一会儿得这个奖,一会儿得那个奖,最后竟把纽约当作私家车一样,驾驭起来得心应手。

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其实,我什么都驾驭不了,甚至连自己都掌控不好。我就像一辆麻木的无轨电车,一路从所住的旅馆颠簸到办公室再到派对,然后又从派对颠簸回旅馆再到办公室。我想我本该像大多数其他女孩那样兴奋,但我自己就是没这种感觉。我只感到一种极度的静与空,如同处于暴风眼中一般,在周遭的纷扰喧闹中,迟钝地前进。

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我们总共十二个人住在这家旅馆。

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我们全都赢得了一个时尚杂志举办的竞赛,有的写了散文,有的写了小说,有的写了诗歌,还有的写了时尚广告文案,奖品就是在纽约市见习一个月。开销全由杂志社支付,此外还有各种免费福利,比如芭蕾舞的门票,时装秀和顶级发型沙龙的招待券,有机会依照个人喜好和该领域的成功人士见面,还有针对个人肤质的化妆建议,等等。

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我手头还有一套他们送的化妆品,适合棕眼褐发的女孩:内有一支带小刷子的长方形褐色睫毛膏,一小盘只容指尖放入的蓝色眼影,三支唇膏,颜色从大红到粉色渐变。这些全装在一个内盖镶了面镜子的镀金小盒里。我还有一个白色塑料墨镜盒,上面缀着彩色贝壳、金属圆片和绿色的塑料海星。

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我明白之所以有源源不断的礼物,是因为这形同给赞助商免费打广告,即使如此,我也无法愤世嫉俗。这些天上掉下来的礼物,我可是收得心花怒放。虽然我把礼物收起来了好一阵子,但一等我恢复正常,又将它们一一拿出来摆在屋子各处。现在我仍时不时地抹抹那几支唇膏,上周我还把墨镜盒上的塑料海星割下来给小宝宝玩。

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就这样,我们十二人住在同一家旅馆同一个侧翼的同一个楼层的单人房里,一间紧挨着一间,这让我想起大学宿舍。这不是一家普通意义上的旅馆——我指的是那种男女混住在同一楼层的旅馆。

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这家叫“亚马逊”的旅馆只接待女客。她们多和我年纪相仿,家境殷实,她们的父母希望自己的宝贝女儿住在不会被男人勾引和欺骗的地方。她们读的全是像凯蒂·吉布斯这类的高级秘书学校,得戴着帽子、穿着长筒袜、戴着手套去上课;要不,她们就是刚从这类学校毕业,担任着各级主管的秘书,留在纽约只是为了等待嫁给事业有成的男人的机会。

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在我看来,这些女孩实在无聊。我看见她们在楼顶天台,打着呵欠涂着指甲,晒着日光浴保养在百慕大群岛晒出的小麦色肌肤,看起来真的无聊透顶。我和其中一个聊过,她说她厌倦了游艇,厌倦了搭飞机飞来飞去,厌倦了在圣诞节到瑞士滑雪,厌倦了巴西男人。

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我受够了那样的女孩。我已嫉妒到说不出话来。十九年来,除了这趟纽约之行,我不曾踏出过新英格兰地区。这是我的第一个大好机会,但我却只是坐看机会像流水般从我指间哗哗流逝。

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我想,我的麻烦之一是朵琳。

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我以前不曾认识像朵琳这样的女孩。她来自南方一所上流女校,一头闪亮的白发,像是棉花糖一样蓬松醒目,圈住她的整张脸;一对蓝眸澄澈如玛瑙珠子,又硬又亮,坚不可摧;嘴边永远带着一抹嘲讽的微笑。我说的不是那种惹人讨厌的冷笑,而是一种顽皮而神秘的嘲笑,仿佛她身边尽是蠢蛋,只要她愿意,她随时都能嘲弄他们一番。

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朵琳第一眼就注意上了我,让我觉得我比其他人机灵得多,而她这个人也确实有趣得很。开会时,她总是挨着我坐,来访的名流说话时,她会压低声音和我耳语些诙谐的嘲讽。

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她说她的学校很注重时尚。所有女孩都有和服装相同材质面料的手包,所以她们每换一套衣服都有与之相配的手包。这种对细节的讲究让我印象深刻。它展现出一种神奇炫目的生活方式,带着刻意而精致的颓废气息,像磁铁般深深吸引着我。

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朵琳只会因为一件事情对着我吼,那就是我总是努力如期完成工作。

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“你那么拼命干吗呀?”朵琳穿着一件蜜桃色的丝绸晨袍,懒洋洋地窝在我的床上,手里拿着锉刀打磨着被尼古丁熏得微黄的长指甲,而我则忙着在打字机上敲出一位畅销小说家的采访稿。

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这是朵琳的又一个与众不同之处——我们穿的是上过浆的夏季棉质睡衣和夹棉家居服,或者是可以充当海滩浴袍的毛巾布长袍,可朵琳穿的要么是半透明的尼龙长衫或是蕾丝长衫,要么是会因静电而贴在身上的肉色晨袍。她身上有一股好闻的轻微的汗味,让人想到香蕨木的扇形叶片,这种叶子摘下一些在指间揉碎,就会散发一股麝香味。

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“你知道的,老杰·茜根本不在意你的稿子是明天交还是周一交。”朵琳点了根烟,袅袅烟雾从鼻孔逐渐散开,遮住了她的眼睛。“杰·茜长得丑死了。”她冷冷地说,“我打赌她那老伴在亲近她之前得把灯全关了,免得吐出来。”

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杰·茜是我的上司,不管朵琳怎么说,我还是很喜欢她。她不是时尚杂志圈里那种扑闪着假睫毛、珠光宝气、虚情假意的人。杰·茜有脑子,所以相貌丑点也不打紧。她会几种语言,而且对这一行里的优秀作家了如指掌。

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我试着想象杰·茜脱下严谨的办公室套装,摘下午宴帽子,和她的肥老公上床的模样,可我就是做不到。对我来说,想象别人上床难如登天。

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杰·茜想教我些东西,所有我认识的老太太都想教我点东西,但是我突然觉得她们根本没什么好教给我的。我罩上打字机的盖子,咔一声合上。

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朵琳咧嘴一笑。“聪明。”

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有人敲门。

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“谁啊?”我懒得起身。

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“是我,贝琪。你要去舞会吗?”

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“大概会吧。”我还是没有起身开门。

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从堪萨斯被请来纽约的贝琪梳着轻盈弹跳的金色马尾辫,脸上带着电影《赌徒甜心》里女主人公的甜美笑容。记得有一次,我们俩被某电视剧制作人叫进办公室,这个下颏泛着青色胡楂、穿着细条纹西装的制作人问我们有没有什么点子可以拿出来做节目。然后贝琪就开始大谈堪萨斯的雌雄株玉米,她说起那该死的玉米真是情绪激昂,听得制作人眼泛泪光,不过他说,真是可惜,这些都用不上。

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后来,美容部编辑说服贝琪剪了短发,让她做了封面模特。现在我仍不时看见她在“魁北克的太太穿B.H.Wragge(1)”的广告中展露迷人的笑脸。

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(1) 美国一服装品牌。
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贝琪总爱邀我陪她和她的女伴一起做这做那,好像这样是在以某种方式拯救我。但她从来不找朵琳。朵琳私底下都叫她“牛仔傻大妞”。

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“你要跟我们一起搭出租车吗?”贝琪在门外问。

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朵琳摇了摇头。

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“没关系,贝琪。”我说,“我和朵琳一起去。”

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“好吧。”我听见贝琪脚步轻快地走向长廊另一头。

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“我们去看看吧,受够了就走。”朵琳说着把烟蒂按熄在我床头阅读灯的灯座上。“然后我们进城去玩。这里办的派对让我想起那些在学校体育馆办的老式舞会。他们为什么总爱围着耶鲁的学生转?耶鲁的都很蠢哎!”

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巴迪·威拉德就是上的耶鲁,我现在一想,发现他的毛病就是蠢。对,他是拼命学出了好成绩,还曾经和科德角一个叫格拉迪斯的可怕的女招待交往过,但他没有哪怕一丁点儿直觉。而朵琳有直觉。她说的每一件事,好像都说出了我偷偷藏在骨头里的每一个想法。

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戏剧开演前的交通高峰把我们困住了。我们的出租车前面是贝琪的车,后面是另外四个女孩的车。每辆车都寸步难行。

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朵琳看起来真美。她穿着一件无肩带的白色蕾丝晚装,拉链底下的紧身胸衣勾勒出纤细的腰身,玲珑有致,甚是惹眼。脸上淡白色的蜜粉衬得肌肤泛出古铜色的光泽,身上的香味浓得好像混合了一整间香水店的芬芳。

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我穿着一件花了四十美元买的黑色山东绸紧身小礼服。一知道自己成为纽约之行的幸运儿之一,我就动用了部分奖学金疯狂采购,这件小礼服就是其中的战利品。它的剪裁怪得很,里面完全穿不下任何款式的文胸,不过无所谓,反正我瘦得跟个小男孩一样,身材几乎没有曲线。而且,在这炎炎夏夜,我喜欢这种几近赤裸的感觉。

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可是,这城市让我小麦色的皮肤褪了色,使我看起来黄得像个中国人。照理说我应该为穿着和奇怪的肤色感到紧张不安,但和朵琳在一起让我忘掉了这些担忧。我觉得自己无比睿智,无所畏惧。有个男人向我们走来,他穿着蓝色格纹衫、黑色斜纹棉布裤,脚上是一双雕有图案的牛仔皮靴。先前他就站在路边一间酒吧外的条纹遮阳篷下,瞧着我们的出租车。我没有产生一丝绮想,因为我清楚地知道他是为朵琳而来。他穿过拥堵的车阵,往我们敞开的车窗上一靠,魅力十足。

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“冒昧相问,值此良宵,两位漂亮姑娘为何独自搭车?”

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他咧着一口大白牙,露出牙膏广告般的笑容。

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“我们正要去参加派对。”我脱口而出,因为身旁的朵琳突然沉默得像根柱子,恹恹地拨弄着白色蕾丝的皮包罩套。

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“听起来挺没劲的。”男人说,“何不跟我到那边的酒吧喝两杯?我还有几个朋友在那儿等着呢。”

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他朝遮阳篷底下那几个衣着随意、姿态慵懒的男人点点头。一见他回头瞧了一眼,一直看着他的几个人轰地笑了。

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那笑声本该让我警觉,那是一种低沉的、自以为是的窃笑。偏偏此时车阵出现移动的迹象,我知道如果继续坐在车里,不出两秒我就会后悔没有把握良机看看纽约的另一面,这可是杂志社悉心安排的行程里见不到的。

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“怎么样,朵琳?”我问。

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“怎么样,朵琳?”那男人也说,维持着他那大大的笑容。直到今天我也想不起他不笑的时候是个什么模样。我想他一定无时无刻不在笑。对他来说,那样的笑容必定是再自然不过的吧。

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“那,好吧。”朵琳对我说。我打开车门,就在我俩下车时,出租车刚好徐徐开动。我们迈步走向酒吧。

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突然传来一阵刺耳的刹车声,紧跟着是沉闷的砰砰的撞击声。

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“喂!”我们那辆车的司机怒气冲冲地从窗口探出头,脸色铁青,“搞什么鬼啊!”

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他的车停得太突然,后面那辆出租车猛地撞了上来,里面的四个姑娘被震得东倒西歪,正挣扎着爬起来。

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四周喇叭声和喊叫声不绝于耳,和我们搭讪的那个男人哈哈大笑。他把我和朵琳留在路边,折返回去给司机塞了张钞票。然后,我们看见载着杂志社女孩的车鱼贯驶离,就像载满伴娘的婚礼车队。

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“来吧,弗兰基。”那男人对着他的一个朋友说道。一个侏儒一样的矮个儿立刻迈步出列,跟着我们走进酒吧。

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我真受不了弗兰基这类的男人。我只穿袜子都有五英尺十英寸高,所以和小个子男人在一起时,为了让自己看起来矮一些,我要稍稍弯腰驼背,把屁股往下撅,搞得一边高一边低,就像个又笨又残的跑龙套的。

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有那么一会儿,我奢望会按照身高来配对,这样我就能跟最初前来搭讪的那个男人凑对,因为他起码有六英尺高。但是他看也不看我一眼,就与朵琳走在一起。我只好假装没瞧见贴在我肘边的那个弗兰基,紧挨着朵琳坐下。

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酒吧里灯光昏暗,除了朵琳,我几乎什么也看不清。她的白发白衣衬得她整个人也是白的,看起来银光闪闪。我想她肯定是反射了酒吧里霓虹灯的光。我觉得自己融入了重重阴影中,变成了一张底片,而底片中的人我此生从未见过。

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“那么,喝点什么呢?”那个男人带着大大的笑容问道。

64
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“我想来杯老式的鸡尾酒。”朵琳对我说。

65
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点酒我不在行。我连威士忌和杜松子酒都分不清,没一次点到自己真正喜欢的口味。巴迪·威拉德和我认识的其他大学生要么穷到买不起烈酒,要么根本不屑于喝酒。真想不到有那么多大学生不抽烟不喝酒,而这种人全让我给遇上了。巴迪·威拉德买的最烈的东西,就是一瓶杜本内葡萄酒,而此举不过是为了证明学医的他也有审美品位罢了。

66
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“我来杯伏特加吧。”我说。

67
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那男人深深地望了我一眼,问:“加点什么吗?”

68
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“纯的就好。”我说,“我都喝纯的。”

69
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我怕如果我说要加冰块、杜松子酒或其他什么,听起来会很蠢。我曾经看过一个伏特加广告,满满一杯伏特加置于随风飘舞的雪花中,在蓝色的灯光下澄净如水,所以我觉得来点纯的准没错。我的梦想就是有一天能点到一杯甘醇的美酒。

70
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侍者走上前来,那个男人为我们四人点了酒水。他一身牧场上的打扮,却于这间充满都市感的酒吧中怡然自得,我猜他很有可能是个名人。

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朵琳一言不发,只玩着她的软木杯垫,最后点了根烟。那男人似乎并不介意,只盯着她看,那样子就像动物园里的游客盯着白色的巨型金刚鹦鹉,等着它开口说人话。

72
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酒送来了。我的伏特加果然像广告里那样澄澈纯净。

73
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“你是做什么的?”我问那个男人,试图打破从四面八方涌来的浓密如丛林野草的沉默,“我是说,你在纽约做什么?”

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他好像颇费了番力气才慢慢地将目光从朵琳的肩膀移开。“我是个DJ。”他说,“你可能听说过我。我叫伦尼·谢泼德。”

75
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“我知道你。”朵琳突然开口。

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“我很高兴你知道,甜心!”那男人说着突然大笑起来,“这样就方便多了。我的名气还真是大。”

77
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接着伦尼·谢泼德意味深长地看了弗兰基一眼。

78
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“那个,你们从哪儿来?”弗兰基猛地坐直了,问我,“叫什么名字?”

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“这位是朵琳。”伦尼的手滑向朵琳裸露的胳膊,揽往了她。

80
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我很惊讶,朵琳明知他的一举一动,却没有半点反应。她依然坐在那里,朦胧得好像一个身穿白裳、头顶漂白金发的黑人女子,在一片昏暗之中优雅地啜饮着。

81
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“我叫艾莉·希金巴腾,”我说,“来自芝加哥。”瞎掰完这句我觉得安全多了。我可不希望今晚我所说或所做的一切会跟来自波士顿的我、真名实姓的我,扯上任何关系。

82
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“好吧,艾莉,我们跳支舞如何?”

83
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一想到要和这个脚蹬橘色小羊皮矮子乐增高鞋,上穿廉价T恤,外搭松垮蓝色运动外套的矮冬瓜跳舞,我就觉得可笑。要说有什么是我瞧不起的,那就是穿蓝衣服的男人。黑色或灰色,哪怕棕色都行,可蓝色只会让我发笑。

84
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“我没心情。”我冷冷地转过身,猛地把椅子拉近朵琳和伦尼。

85
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这两人看起来好像彼此已相识多年。每当朵琳用细长的银勺舀起杯底的大块水果凑近唇边,伦尼就呼呼地作势欲咬,像是条狗似的,要抢勺子上的水果。朵琳咯咯直笑,不停地舀起水果来吃。

86
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我想,最终,伏特加是我要找的那款酒。它的滋味难以名状,跟任何东西的味道都不一样。喝下一口,直冲胃部,就像卖艺的人吞下了一柄剑,令我全身力量倍增,感觉自己像神一样。

87
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“我还是走吧。”弗兰基说着,站起身。

88
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我看不太清他的模样,这里太昏暗了,但我第一次听清了他那又尖又蠢的嗓音。没人理会他。

89
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“喂,伦尼,你欠我东西。记住,伦尼,你欠我东西,能记住吗,伦尼?”

90
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我觉得这很奇怪,弗兰基在我们两个完全陌生的人跟前提醒伦尼欠他东西。但他就是杵在那儿翻来覆去地说,直到伦尼伸手从口袋里抽出一大卷绿色的钞票,抽了一张递给他。我觉得那应该是十美元。

91
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“闭嘴,滚吧。”

92
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一时之间,我觉得伦尼这话也是对我说的。然后我听见朵琳来了句:“艾莉不去的话,我也不去。”我不得不佩服朵琳,把我的假名叫得那么顺口。

93
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“噢,艾莉会去的。对吗,艾莉?”伦尼边说边对我使眼色。

94
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“我当然会去。”我答道。弗兰基已经消失在夜色中,我只能跟朵琳牢牢拴在一起。我还想借此机会大开眼界呢。

95
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我喜欢观察别人身处紧要关头时的反应。如果遇上车祸或街头打架,甚至是泡在实验室玻璃罐里的婴儿标本,我都会停下来看个仔细,把一切铭记于心。

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要不是用这种办法,我不可能学到那么多东西。所以就算因此受到惊吓,或者恶心作呕,我也不动声色,反而假装自己一贯见多识广。

97
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It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York. I’m stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that’s all there was to read about in the papers—goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.

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I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.

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New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat.

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I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over the radio and at the office till I couldn’t get them out of my mind. It was like the first time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward, the cadaver’s head-or what there was left of it-floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadaver’s head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.

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I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I’d been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet, and how all the little successes I’d totted up so happily at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate-glass fronts along Madison Avenue.

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I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

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I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping about in those same size-seven patent leather shoes I’d bought in Bloomingdale’s one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocketbook to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on-drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion-everybody would think I must be having a real whirl.

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Look what can happen in this country, they’d say. A girl lives in some out-of-the-way town for nineteen years, so poor she can’t afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York like her own private car.

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Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolleybus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

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There were twelve of us at the hotel.

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We had all won a fashion magazine contest, by writing essays and stories and poems and fashion blurbs, and as prizes they gave us jobs in New York for a month, expenses paid, and piles and piles of free bonuses, like ballet tickets and passes to fashion shows and hair stylings at a famous expensive salon and chances to meet successful people in the field of our desire and advice about what to do with our particular complexions.

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I still have the make-up kit they gave me, fitted out for a person with brown eyes and brown hair: an oblong of brown mascara with a tiny brush, and a round basin of blue eye shadow just big enough to dab the tip of your finger in, and three lipsticks ranging from red to pink, all cased in the same little gilt box with a mirror on one side. I also have a white plastic sunglasses case with colored shells and sequins and a green plastic starfish sewed onto it.

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I realized we kept piling up these presents because it was as good as free advertising for the firms involved, but I couldn’t be cynical. I got such a kick out of all those free gifts showering on to us. For a long time afterward I hid them away, but later, when I was all right again, I brought them out, and I still have them around the house. I use the lipsticks now and then, and last week I cut the plastic starfish off the sunglasses case for the baby to play with.

13

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So there were twelve of us at the hotel, in the same wing on the same floor in single rooms, one after the other, and it reminded me of my dormitory at college. It wasn’t a proper hotel-I mean a hotel where there are both men and women mixed about here and there on the same floor.

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This hotel—the Amazon—was for women only, and they were mostly girls my age with wealthy parents who wanted to be sure their daughters would be living where men couldn’t get at them and deceive them; and they were all going to posh secretarial schools like Katy Gibbs, where they had to wear hats and stockings and gloves to class, or they had just graduated from places like Katy Gibbs and were secretaries to executives and junior executives and simply hanging around in New York waiting to get married to some career man or other.

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These girls looked awfully bored to me. I saw them on the sunroof, yawning and painting their nails and trying to keep up their Bermuda tans, and they seemed bored as hell. I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in airplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil.

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Girls like that make me sick. I’m so jealous I can’t speak. Nineteen years, and I hadn’t been out of New England except for this trip to New York. It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water.

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I guess one of my troubles was Doreen.

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I’d never known a girl like Doreen before. Doreen came from a society girls’ college down South and had bright white hair standing out in a cotton candy fluff round her head and blue eyes like transparent agate marbles, hard and polished and just about indestructible, and a mouth set in a sort of perpetual sneer. I don’t mean a nasty sneer, but an amused, mysterious sneer, as if all the people around her were pretty silly and she could tell some good jokes on them if she wanted to.

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Doreen singled me out right away. She made me feel I was that much sharper than the others, and she really was wonderfully funny. She used to sit next to me at the conference table, and when the visiting celebrities were talking she’d whisper witty sarcastic remarks to me under her breath.

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Her college was so fashion conscious, she said, that all the girls had pocketbook covers made out of the same material as their dresses, so each time they changed their clothes they had a matching pocketbook. This kind of detail impressed me. It suggested a whole life of marvelous, elaborate decadence that attracted me like a magnet.

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The only thing Doreen ever bawled me out about was bothering to get my assignments in by a deadline.

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“What are you sweating over that for?” Doreen lounged on my bed in a peach silk dressing gown, filing her long, nicotine-yellow nails with an emery board, while I typed up the draft of an interview with a best-selling novelist.

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That was another thing—the rest of us had starched cotton summer nighties and quilted housecoats, or maybe terry-cloth robes that doubled as beach coats, but Doreen wore these full-length nylon and lace jobs you could half see through, and dressing gowns the color of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of electricity. She had an interesting, slightly sweaty smell that reminded me of those scallopy leaves of sweet fern you break off and crush between your fingers for the musk of them.

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“You know old Jay Cee won’t give a damn if that story’s in tomorrow or Monday.” Doreen lit a cigarette and let the smoke flare slowly from her nostrils so her eyes were veiled. “Jay Cee’s ugly as sin,” Doreen went on coolly. “I bet that old husband of hers turns out all the lights before he gets near her or he’d puke otherwise.”

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Jay Cee was my boss, and I liked her a lot, in spite of what Doreen said. She wasn’t one of the fashion magazine gushers with fake eyelashes and giddy jewelry. Jay Cee had brains, so her plug-ugly looks didn’t seem to matter. She read a couple of languages and knew all the quality writers in the business.

26

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I tried to imagine Jay Cee out of her strict office suit and luncheon-duty hat and in bed with her fat husband, but I just couldn’t do it. I always had a terribly hard time trying to imagine people in bed together.

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Jay Cee wanted to teach me something, all the old ladies I ever knew wanted to teach me something, but I suddenly didn’t think they had anything to teach me. I fitted the lid on my typewriter and clicked it shut.

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Doreen grinned. “Smart girl.”

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Somebody tapped at the door.

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“Who is it?” I didn’t bother to get up.

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“It’s me, Betsy. Are you coming to the party?”

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“I guess so.” I still didn’t go to the door.

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They imported Betsy straight from Kansas with her bouncing blonde ponytail and Sweetheart-of-Sigma-Chi smile. I remember once the two of us were called over to the office of some blue-chinned TV producer in a pinstripe suit to see if we had any angles he could build up for a program, and Betsy started to tell about the male and female corn in Kansas. She got so excited about that damn corn even the producer had tears in his eyes, only he couldn’t use any of it, unfortunately, he said.

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Later on, the Beauty Editor persuaded Betsy to cut her hair and made a cover girl out of her, and I still see her fare now and then, smiling out of those “P.Q.’s wife wears B.H. Wragge” ads.

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Betsy was always asking me to do things with her and the other girls as if she were trying to save me in some way. She never asked Doreen. In private, Doreen called her Pollyanna Cowgirl.

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“Do you want to come in our cab?” Betsy said through the door.

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Doreen shook her head.

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“That’s all right, Betsy,” I said. “I’m going with Doreen.”

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“Okay.” I could hear Betsy padding off down the hall.

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“We’ll just go till we get sick of it,” Doreen told me, stubbing out her cigarette in the base of my bedside reading lamp, “then we’ll go out on the town. Those parties they stage here remind me of the old dances in the school gym. Why do they always round up Yalies? They’re so stoo pit!”

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Buddy Willard went to Yale, but now I thought of it, what was wrong with him was that he was stupid. Oh, he’d managed to get good marks all right, and to have an affair with some awful waitress on the Cape by the name of Gladys, but he didn’t have one speck of intuition. Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

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We were stuck in the theater-hour rush. Our cab sat wedged in back of Betsy’s cab and in front of a cab with four of the other girls, and nothing moved.

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Doreen looked terrific. She was wearing a strapless white lace dress zipped up over a snug corset affair that curved her in at the middle and bulged her out again spectacularly above and below, and her skin had a bronzy polish under the pale dusting powder. She smelled strong as a whole perfume store.

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I wore a black shantung sheath that cost me forty dollars. It was part of a buying spree I had with some of my scholarship money when I heard I was one of the lucky ones going to New York. This dress was cut so queerly I couldn’t wear any sort of a bra under it, but that didn’t matter much as I was skinny as a boy and barely rippled, and I liked feeling almost naked on the hot summer nights.

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The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my odd color, but being with Doreen made me forget my worries. I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

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When the man in the blue lumber shirt and black chinos and tooled leather cowboy boots started to stroll over to us from under the striped awning of the bar where he’d been eyeing our cab, I couldn’t have any illusions. I knew perfectly well he’d come for Doreen. He threaded his way out between the stopped cars and leaned engagingly on the sill of our open window.

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“And what, may I ask, are two nice girls like you doing all alone in a cab on a nice night like this?”

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He had a big, wide, white toothpaste-ad smile.

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“We’re on our way to a party,” I blurted, since Doreen had gone suddenly dumb as a post and was fiddling in a blasé way with her white lace pocketbook cover.

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“That sounds boring,” the man said. “Whyn’t you both join me for a couple of drinks in that bar over there? I’ve some friends waiting as well.”

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He nodded in the direction of several informally dressed men slouching around under the awning. They had been following him with their eyes, and when he glanced back at them, they burst out laughing.

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The laughter should have warned me. It was a kind of low, know-it-all snicker, but the traffic showed signs of moving again, and I knew that if I sat tight, in two seconds I’d be wishing I’d taken this gift of a chance to see something of New York besides what the people on the magazine had planned out for us so carefully.

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“How about it, Doreen?” I said.

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“How about it, Doreen?” the man said, smiling his big smile. To this day I can’t remember what he looked like when he wasn’t smiling. I think he must have been smiling the whole time. It must have been natural for him, smiling like that.

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“Well, all right,” Doreen said to me. I opened the door, and we stepped out of the cab just as it was edging ahead again and started to walk over to the bar.

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There was a terrible shriek of brakes followed by a dull thump-thump.

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“Hey you!” Our cabby was craning out of his window with a furious, purple expression. “Waddaya think you’re doin’?”

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He had stopped the cab so abruptly that the cab behind bumped smack into him, and we could see the four girls inside waving and struggling and scrambling up off the floor.

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The man laughed and left us on the curb and went back and handed a bill to the driver in the middle of a great honking and some yelling, and then we saw the girls from the magazine moving off in a row, one cab after another, like a wedding party with nothing but bridesmaids.

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“Come on, Frankie,” the man said to one of his friends in the group, and a short, scrunty fellow detached himself and came into the bar with us.

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He was the type of fellow I can’t stand. I’m five feet ten in my stocking feet, and when I am with little men I stoop over a bit and slouch my hips, one up and one down, so I’ll look shorter, and I feel gawky and morbid as somebody in a sideshow.

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For a minute I had a wild hope we might pair off according to size, which would line me up with the man who had spoken to us in the first place, and he cleared a good six feet, but he went ahead with Doreen and didn’t give me a second look. I tried to pretend I didn’t see Frankie dogging along at my elbow and sat close by Doreen at the table.

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It was so dark in the bar I could hardly make out anything except Doreen. With her white hair and white dress she was so white she looked silver. I think she must have reflected the neons over the bar. I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I’d never seen before in my life.

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“Well, what’ll we have?” the man asked with a large smile.

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“I think I’ll have an old-fashioned,” Doreen said to me.

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Ordering drinks always floored me. I didn’t know whisky from gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of. Buddy Willard and the other college boys I knew were usually too poor to buy hard liquor or they scorned drinking altogether. It’s amazing how many college boys don’t drink or smoke. I seemed to know them all. The farthest Buddy Willard ever went was buying us a bottle of Dubonnet, which he only did because he was trying to prove he could be aesthetic in spite of being a medical student.

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“I’ll have a vodka,” I said.

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The man looked at me more closely. “With anything?”

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“Just plain,” I said. “I always have it plain.”

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I thought I might make a fool of myself by saying I’d have it with ice or soda or gin or anything. I’d seen a vodka ad once, just a glass full of vodka standing in the middle of a snowdrift in a blue light, and the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka plain must be all right. My dream was someday ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful.

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The waiter came up then, and the man ordered drinks for the four of us. He looked so at home in that citified bar in his ranch outfit I thought he might well be somebody famous.

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Doreen wasn’t saying a word, she only toyed with her cork placemat and eventually lit a cigarette, but the man didn’t seem to mind. He kept staring at her the way people stare at the great white macaw in the zoo, waiting for it to say something human.

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The drinks arrived, and mine looked clear and pure, just like the vodka ad.

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“What do you do?” I asked the man, to break the silence shooting up around me on all sides, thick as jungle grass. “I mean what do you do here in New York?”

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Slowly and with what seemed a great effort, the man dragged his eyes away from Doreen’s shoulder. “I’m a disc jockey,” he said. “You prob’ly must have heard of me. The name’s Lenny Shepherd.”

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“I know you,” Doreen said suddenly.

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“I’m glad about that, honey,” the man said, and burst out laughing. “That’ll come in handy. I’m famous as hell.”

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Then Lenny Shepherd gave Frankie a long look.

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“Say, where do you come from?” Frankie asked, sitting up with a jerk. “What’s your name?”

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“This here’s Doreen.” Lenny slid his hand around Doreen’s bare arm and gave her a squeeze.

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What surprised me was that Doreen didn’t let on she noticed what he was doing. She just sat there, dusky as a bleached-blonde Negress in her white dress, and sipped daintily at her drink.

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“My name’s Elly Higginbottom,” I said. “I come from Chicago.” After that I felt safer. I didn’t want anything I said or did that night to be associated with me and my real name and coming from Boston.

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“Well, Elly, what do you say we dance some?”

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The thought of dancing with that little runt in his orange suede elevator shoes and mingy T-shirt and droopy blue sports coat made me laugh. If there’s anything I look down on, it’s a man in a blue outfit. Black or gray, or brown, even. Blue just makes me laugh.

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“I’m not in the mood,” I said coldly, turning my back on him and hitching my chair over nearer to Doreen and Lenny.

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Those two looked as if they’d known each other for years by now. Doreen was spooning up the hunks of fruit at the bottom of her glass with a spindly silver spoon, and Lenny was grunting each time she lifted the spoon to her mouth, and snapping and pretending to be a dog or something, and trying to get the fruit off the spoon. Doreen giggled and kept spooning up the fruit.

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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallower’s sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.

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“I better go now,” Frankie said, standing up.

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I couldn’t see him very clearly, the place was so dim, but for the first time I heard what a high, silly voice he had. Nobody paid him any notice.

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“Hey, Lenny, you owe me something. Remember, Lenny, you owe me something, don’t you, Lenny?”

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I thought it odd Frankie should be reminding Lenny he owed him something in front of us, and we being perfect strangers, but Frankie stood there saying the same thing over and over until Lenny dug into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of green bills and peeled one off and handed it to Frankie. I think it was ten dollars.

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“Shut up and scram.”

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For a minute I thought Lenny was talking to me as well, but then I heard Doreen say, “I won’t come unless Elly comes.” I had to hand it to her the way she picked up my fake name.

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“Oh, Elly’ll come, won’t you, Elly?” Lenny said, giving me a wink.

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“Sure I’ll come,” I said. Frankie had wilted away into the night, so I thought I’d string along with Doreen. I wanted to see as much as I could.

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I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I’d stop and look so hard I never forgot it.

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I certainly learned a lot of things I never would have learned otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me sick I never let on, but pretended that’s the way I knew things were all the time.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的,奇怪的;

York

[jɔːk]

约克郡;〈板球〉使击球员出局

fake

[feɪk]

adj.假的

freshness

[freʃnəs]

n.新鲜;精神饱满

seep

[siːp]

v.渗出;渗漏

canyon

[’kænjən]

n.峡谷

waver

[’weɪvə(r)]

v.动摇;摇曳;犹豫;颤抖

glitter

[’ɡlɪtə(r)]

n.灿烂;闪烁;辉耀;亮片

cindery

[’sɪndərɪ]

adj.灰烬的

bacon

[’beɪkən]

n.培根;咸肉;熏肉

felted

[’feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

stink

[stɪŋk]

n.臭味;臭气

vinegar

[’vɪnɪɡə(r)]

n.醋

tot

[tɒt]

n.小孩;(酒等)一杯;一口

martini

[mɑː’tiːni]

n.马提尼酒

imitation

[ˌɪmɪ’teɪʃn]

n.模仿;效法

whirl

[wɜːl]

vt. 使旋转;

nineteen

[ˌnaɪn’tiːn]

十九

excite

[ɪk’saɪt]

vt.使兴奋;使激动;刺激;激起

dully

[’dʌlli]

adv.模糊地;迟钝地;阴郁地

ballet

[’bæleɪ]

n.芭蕾舞

complexion

[kəm’plekʃn]

n.肤色;面色;体质;特性;局面

make-up

[meɪkʌp]

n.化妆品;性格;补考

basin

[’beɪsn]

n.脸盆;水池

gilt

[ɡɪlt]

n.镀金;表面的装饰;小母猪

sunglass

[’sʌnglɑːs]

n.太阳眼镜;聚集日光引火的凸透镜

dormitory

[’dɔːmətri]

n.集体宿舍

bore

[bɔː(r)]

【1】 v.使厌烦 【2】 vt. 钻(孔);镗(孔);开凿

yacht

[jÉ’t]

n.快艇,游艇;

Switzerland

[’swɪtsələnd]

n.瑞士

Nineteen

[ˌnaɪn’tiːn]

十九

transparent

[træns’pærənt]

adj.透明的;明显的;清晰的

perpetual

[pə’petʃuəl]

adj.永久的;永恒的;一再往复的

nasty

[’nɑːsti]

adj.下流的;严重的;令人不快的;难懂的;危害的

sarcastic

[sɑː’kæstɪk]

adj.讽刺的

magnet

[’mæɡnət]

n.磁铁

bawl

[bɔːl]

v.大叫;大哭;大声训斥

gown

[ɡaʊn]

n.长袍;长外衣

emery

[’eməri]

n.金刚砂

novelist

[’nɒvəlɪst]

n.小说家

starch

[stɑːtʃ]

n.淀粉

nighty

[’naɪtɪ]

n.睡衣(女人和小孩穿的).

robe

[rəʊb]

n.长袍

nylon

[’naɪlɒn]

n.【U】尼龙(复数)

lace

[leɪs]

n.鞋带;饰带;花边;缎带

fern

[fɜːn]

n.羊齿植物;蕨

flare

[fleə(r)]

n.闪光;闪光信号;【天】耀斑;(衣裙等)张开

nostril

[’nɒstrəl]

n.鼻孔

veil

[veɪl]

n.面纱;面罩;掩饰物

gusher

[’ɡʌʃə(r)]

n.自喷井;迸发出的东西

eyelash

[’aɪlæʃ]

n.睫毛

Betsy

[ˈbetsɪ]

n.贝琪(女子名;Elizabeth的昵称)

Cowgirl

[’kaʊɡɜːl]

n.女牛仔

bedside

[’bedsaɪd]

adj.床边的;病床边的

Cape

[keɪp]

n.岬;海角

wedge

[wedʒ]

n.楔子;楔形物

zip

[zɪp]

n.拉链

bulge

[bʌldʒ]

n.膨胀;暴增

bronzy

[’brɑnzɪ]

adj.青铜一样的;似青铜的;青铜色的

perfume

[’pɜːfjuːm]

n.香水;香气

sheath

[ʃiːθ]

n.鞘;护套

ripple

[’rɪpl]

n. 潺潺声;起伏声;

awning

[’ɔːnɪŋ]

n.雨篷;遮阳篷;甲板上的天蓬

sill

[sɪl]

n.基石(岩床底面)

fiddle

[’fɪdl]

n.小提琴;骗局

slouch

[slaʊtʃ]

n.没精打采的样子;耷拉;笨人

shriek

[ʃriːk]

v.尖叫;叫喊

furious

[’fjʊəriəs]

adj.狂怒的;猛烈的

smack

[smæk]

n. 风味;滋味;

bill

[bɪl]

①帐单;清单;

detach

[dɪ’tætʃ]

vt.使分离;拆卸;派遣【计算机】 脱离.

stoop

[stuːp]

n.佝偻;弯腰;屈尊;俯冲 vi. 屈身,弯腰;

whiskey

[’wɪskɪ]

n.威士忌酒.

liquor

[’lɪkə(r)]

n.酒

scorn

[skɔːn]

n.轻蔑;奚落;笑柄

amaze

[ə’meɪz]

vt.使吃惊;使惊异

vodka

[’vɒdkə]

n.伏特加酒

soda

[’səʊdə]

n.汽水;苏打

citify

[’sɪtɪfaɪ]

vt. 使 ... 城市化

macaw

[mə’kɔː]

n.金刚鹦鹉

Shepherd

[’ʃepəd]

n.牧羊者;牧师;指导者

jerk

[dʒɜːk]

v.急动;猛拉

sip

[sɪp]

n.啜饮

Chicago

[ʃɪ’kɑːgəʊ,-’kɔː-]

n.芝加哥

droopy

[ˈdruːpɪ]

adj.下垂的;无精打采的

grunt

[ɡrʌnt]

v.咕哝;(猪等)打呼噜

liftable

[lɪftəbl]

a.1. 可以举起的

godlike

[’ɡɒdlaɪk]

adj.神似的;神圣的

scram

[skræm]

n.急停;急离;紧急刹车

pick

[pɪkt]

采摘,挑选;

wink

[wɪŋk]

n.眨眼;使眼色;瞬间

wilt

[wɪlt]

v.(使)枯萎;(使)萎靡

pickle

[’pɪkl]

n.腌汁;泡菜;淘气鬼;困境

简典