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宠儿|Beloved

第2章|Chapter 2

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 托妮-莫里森] 阅读：[3956]
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除了多出一大堆头发和眼睛里的期待，他看上去还是在肯塔基的那副模样。核桃色的皮肤；腰板笔直。一个面部僵硬的男人，这么愿意微笑、激动，这么愿意和你一道悲伤，真是令人惊奇。好像你只消引起他的注意，他就立即产生和你一样的情感。一眨眼的工夫，他的脸似乎就变了———里面蕴藏着活力。

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“我不是非打听他不可，对吧？假如有的说，你会告诉我的，是不是？

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”塞丝盯着自己的脚，又看见了梧桐树。

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“我会告诉你。我当然会告诉你。我现在知道的不比当时多一丁点儿。

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”搅乳机的事除外，他想，而你又并不需要知道那个。

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“你必须认为他还活着。

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“不，我想他死了。一厢情愿又不能让他活命。

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“贝比·萨格斯怎么想的？

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“一样。可要是听她的话，她所有的孩子还都死了呢。口口声声说什么她感觉到每一个都在某一天某一时辰走了。

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“她说黑尔什么时候走的？

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“1855年。我孩子出生的那天。

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“你生下了那个孩子，是吧？从来没想过你能成功。

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”他格格地笑了，“怀着孩子逃跑。

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“没办法。等不下去了。

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”她低下头，像他一样想，她的成功是多么不可思议呀。还有，如果没有那个找天鹅绒的姑娘，她绝对做不到。

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“而且全靠你自己。

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”他为她感到骄傲，也有些不快。骄傲的是她挺下来了；不快的是她始终没有需要黑尔，也没有需要他。

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“差不多全靠我自己。并不全靠我自己。一个白人姑娘帮了我的忙。

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“那么她也帮了她自己，上帝保佑她。

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“你可以在这儿过夜，保罗·D。”

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“你发邀请的声音听起来可不够坚决啊。

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塞丝越过他的肩膀瞥了一眼关着的门。

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“噢，我可是诚心诚意的。只是希望你别介意我的房子。进来吧。跟丹芙说说话，我去给你做点吃的。

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保罗·D把两只鞋子拴在一起搭到肩膀上，跟着她进了门。他径直走进一片颤动的红光，立时被那红光当场罩住。

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“你有伴儿？

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”他皱着眉头，悄声问。

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“时有时无吧。

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”塞丝说。

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“我的上帝啊。

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”他退出门，直退到门廊，“你这儿的邪恶是哪一种？

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“它不邪恶，只是悲伤。来吧。走过来。

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这时，他开始仔细地端详她。比刚才她一手提着鞋袜、一手提着裙子，两腿湿淋淋亮晶晶地从房后绕出来的时候端详得更仔细。黑尔的姑娘———铁的眼睛，铁的脊梁。在肯塔基他从来没见过她的头发。她的脸尽管比上次见时多经了十八年风雨，现在却更柔和了。是因为头发。一张平静得毋须抚慰的脸；那张平静的脸上与她皮肤同色的虹膜，让他不时想起一副仁慈的挖空了眼睛的面具。黑尔的女人。年年怀孕，包括她坐在炉火旁告诉他她要逃走的那一年。她的三个孩子已经被她塞进别人的大车，随着一车队的黑人过了河。他们将留在辛辛那提附近黑尔的母亲那里。在那间小木屋里，尽管靠火这样近，你甚至能闻到她裙子里的热气，她的眼里还是没有映出一丝光芒。它们就像两口深井，让他不敢凝视。即使毁掉了，它们仍需要盖上，遮住，标上记号，警告人们提防那空虚所包含的一切。所以她开口的时候他就把目光投向火，因为她的丈夫不在那里听她诉说。加纳先生死了，他的太太脖子上又长了一个甘薯那么大的包，不能讲话。她挺着大肚子，尽量靠近火堆，倾诉给他，保罗·D，最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人。

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农庄上的奴隶一共有六个，塞丝是他们中唯一的女性。加纳太太哭得像个孩子似的卖掉了保罗·D的哥哥，以偿还刚一守寡就欠下的债务。然后“学校老师”来到，收拾这副烂摊子。但是他的所作所为就是再毁掉三个“甜蜜之家”的男人，抠掉塞丝眼中的闪亮的铁，只留下两口不反射火光的深井。

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现在铁又回来了，可是有了那张因头发而柔和的脸，他就能够信任她，迈进她的门，跌入一片颤动的红光。

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她说得对。是悲伤。走过红光的时候，一道悲伤的浪头如此彻底地浸透了他，让他想失声痛哭。桌子周围平常的光亮显得那么遥远；然而，他走过去了———没有流泪，很幸运。

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“你说她死得很轻柔。轻柔得像奶油似的。

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”他提醒她。

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“那不是贝比·萨格斯。

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”她说。

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“那是谁呢？

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“我的女儿。跟两个男孩一起先送走的那个。

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“她没活下来？

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“没有。我现在就剩下逃跑时怀的那个了。儿子也都走了。他们俩正好是在贝比·萨格斯去世之前出走的。

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保罗·D看着那个用悲伤浸透他的地方。红光消散了，可是一种啜泣的声音还滞留在空气里。

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也许这样最好，他想。一个黑人长了两条腿就该用。坐下来的时间太长了，就会有人想方设法拴住它们。不过……如果她的儿子们走了……“没有男人？就你自己在这儿？

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“我和丹芙。

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”她说。

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“你这样挺好么？

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“我这样挺好。

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她觉察到他的疑惑，继续道：

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“我在城里一家餐馆做饭。还偷着给人做点针线活儿。

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这时保罗·D想起了那条睡裙，不禁哑然失笑。塞丝来“甜蜜之家”时只有十三岁，已经有铁的眼睛了。她是送给加纳太太的一件及时的礼物，因为加纳先生的崇高原则使太太失去了贝比·萨格斯。那五个“甜蜜之家”的男人看着这个新来的姑娘，决定不去碰她。他们血气方刚，苦于没有女人，只好去找小母牛出火。然而，尽管事实上每个人为了夺到她完全可以把其他几个打倒，他们还是不去碰那个眼睛像铁的姑娘，所以她能够自己挑选。她挑了整整一年———漫长、难熬的一年，他们在草荐上翻来覆去，被有关她的梦苦苦纠缠。渴望的一年，强奸似乎成了生活唯一的馈赠。他们使克制成为可能，仅仅因为他们是“甜蜜之家”的男人———当其他农庄主对这个说法警觉地摇头时，加纳先生吹嘘的那几个人。

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“你们都有奴隶，”他对他们说，“年纪轻的，上了岁数的，起刺儿的，磨洋工的。如今在‘甜蜜之家’，我的黑鬼个个都是男子汉。那么买的，也是那么培养的。个个都是男子汉。

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“抱歉，加纳，不敢苟同。根本没有黑鬼男子汉。

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“要是你自己胆小，他们就不是了。

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”加纳咧开嘴笑了，“可如果你自己是个男子汉，你就希望你的黑鬼也是男子汉。

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“我可不乐意我的老婆周围尽是些黑鬼男子汉。

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这正是加纳酷爱和期待的反应。

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“我也不乐意，”他说道，“我也不乐意。

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”无论什么人，邻居、陌生人、小贩或是内兄弟，都得等一会儿才能领会这个意思。然后是一场激烈的争论，有时还要打上一架，但每次加纳遍体鳞伤、洋洋得意地回家时，他已再一次向人们表明了什么是真正的肯塔基人：勇敢和聪明得足以塑造和称呼他的黑鬼们为男子汉。

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于是这就是他们：保罗·D.加纳，保罗·F.加纳，保罗·A.加纳，黑尔·萨格斯，还有狂人西克索。都是二十来岁，没沾过女人，操母牛，梦想强奸，在草荐上辗转反侧、摩擦大腿等待着新来的姑娘———黑尔用五年的礼拜天赎出贝比·萨格斯之后顶替她位置的那个姑娘。也许那就是为什么她选中了他。一个二十岁的男人这样爱他的母亲，放弃了五年的安息日，只为了看到她坐下来有个变化，这绝对是个真正的可取之处。

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她等了一年。

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“甜蜜之家”的男人在与她一起等待的时候虐待母牛。她选中了黑尔。为了第一次结合，她偷偷地为自己缝了条裙子。

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“你不多待一阵子吗？谁也不能在一天里捋清十八年。

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在他们坐着的房间的昏暗之外，白色的楼梯爬向二楼蓝白相间的墙纸。保罗·D刚好能看到墙纸的开头：蓝色的背景上，黄色斑点独具匠心地洒在暴风雪的雪花中间。明亮的白栏杆和白楼梯吸引了他的目光。他的所有感觉都告诉他，楼梯井上面的空气既迷人又异常稀薄。但从那空气中走下来的棕色皮肤的女孩却是圆乎乎的，一张脸长得好像警觉的娃娃。

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保罗·D看看女孩，又看看塞丝。塞丝笑吟吟地说：

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“瞧，这就是我的丹芙。这是‘甜蜜之家’的保罗·D，亲爱的。

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“早安，D先生。

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“加纳，宝贝儿。保罗·D.加纳。

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“是，先生。

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“很高兴见到你。我上次见你妈妈的时候，你正从她裙子里面往外拱呢。

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“如今也一样，”塞丝笑道，“要是她还能钻回去的话。

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丹芙站在最低一磴楼梯上，突然间又烫又羞。好久没有什么人（好心的白女人、牧师、演说家或是报社记者———他们眼中的反感证明他们同情的声音不过是谎言）来坐在她们家的桌子旁边了。远在贝比奶奶去世以前，整整十二年时间里，从没有过任何一种来访者，当然也就没有朋友。

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没有黑人。当然更没有头发这么长的榛色男人，更没有笔记本，没有炭煤，没有橙子，没有一大堆问题。没有妈妈愿意与之交谈的人，甚至光着脚也居然情愿与之交谈的人。妈妈看起来好像———实际上装成———个小姑娘，而不是丹芙一直熟识的那个安静的、王后般的女人。那个从不旁视的女人，看到一个人就在索亚餐馆门前被母马踢死也不把脸扭开的女人；看到一只母猪开始吃自己的幼崽时也不把脸扭开的女人。就是那一次，“来，小鬼”被婴儿的鬼魂提起来狠狠地扔到墙上，摔得它断了两条腿，眼睛错位，浑身抽搐，嚼碎了自己的舌头，她的妈妈也仍然没有把脸扭开。她抄起一把榔头把狗打昏，擦去血迹和唾沫，把眼睛按回脑袋，接好腿骨。后来它痊愈了，成了哑巴，走路摇摇摆摆的，不仅因为弯曲的腿，更因为不中用的眼睛。无论冬夏，不分晴雨，什么也不能说服它再走进这房子一次。

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Except for a heap more hair and some waiting in his eyes, he looked the way he had in Kentucky.

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Peachstone skin; straight- backed.

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For a man with an immobile face it was amazing how ready it was to smile, or blaze or be sorrywith you. As though all you had to do was get his attention and right away he produced the feelingyouwere feeling. With less than a blink, his face seemed to change — underneath it lay the activity.

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"I wouldn’t have to ask about him, would I? You’d tell me if there was anything to tell, wouldn’tyou?" Sethe looked down at her feet and saw again the sycamores.

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"I’d tell you. Sure I’d tell you. I don’t know any more now than I did then." Except for the churn, hethought, and you don’t need to know that. "You must think he’s still alive.""No. I think he’s dead. It’s not being sure that keeps him alive.""What did Baby Suggs think?""Same, but to listen to her, all her children is dead. Claimed she felt each one go the very day andhour.""When she say Halle went?""Eighteen fifty-five. The day my baby was born.""You had that baby, did you? Never thought you’d make it."He chuckled. "Running off pregnant.""Had to. Couldn’t be no waiting." She lowered her head andthought, as he did, how unlikely it was that she had made it. And if it hadn’t been for that girllooking for velvet, she never would have. "All by yourself too." He was proud of her and annoyedby her.

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Proud she had done it; annoyed that she had not needed Halle or him in the doing.

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"Almost by myself. Not all by myself. A whitegirl helped me.""Then she helped herself too, God bless her.""You could stay the night, Paul D.""You don’t sound too steady in the offer."Sethe glanced beyond his shoulder toward the closed door. "Oh it’s truly meant. I just hope you’llpardon my house. Come on in. Talk to Denver while I cook you something."Paul D tied his shoes together, hung them over his shoulder and followed her through the doorstraight into a pool of red and undulating light that locked him where he stood.

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"You got company?" he whispered, frowning.

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"Off and on," said Sethe.

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"Good God." He backed out the door onto the porch. "What kind of evil you got in here?""It’s not evil, just sad. Come on. Just step through."He looked at her then, closely. Closer than he had when she first rounded the house on wet andshining legs, holding her shoes and stockings up in one hand, her skirts in the other. Halle’s girl —the one with iron eyes and backbone to match. He had never seen her hair in Kentucky. Andthough her face was eighteen years older than when last he saw her, it was softer now. Because ofthe hair. A face too still for comfort; irises the same color as her skin, which, in that still face, usedto make him think of a mask with mercifully punched out eyes. Halle’s woman. Pregnant everyyear including the year she sat by the fire telling him she was going to run. Her three children shehad already packed into a wagonload of others in a caravan of Negroes crossing the river. Theywere to be left with Halle’s mother near Cincinnati. Even in that tiny shack, leaning so close to thefire you could smell the heat in her dress, her eyes did not pick up a flicker of light. They were liketwo wells into which he had trouble gazing. Even punched out they needed to be covered, lidded,marked with some sign to warn folks of what that emptiness held. So he looked instead at the firewhile she told him, because her husband was not there for the telling. Mr. Garner was dead and hiswife had a lump in her neck the size of a sweet potato and unable to speak to anyone. She leanedas close to the fire as her pregnant belly allowed and told him, Paul D, the last of the Sweet Homemen. There had been six of them who belonged to the farm, Sethe the only female. Mrs. Garner,crying like a baby, had sold his brother to pay off the debts that surfaced the minute she waswidowed. Then schoolteacher arrived to put things in order. But what he did broke three moreSweet Home men and punched the glittering iron out of Sethe’s eyes, leaving two open wells thatdid not reflect firelight.

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Now the iron was back but the face, softened by hair, made him trust her enough to step inside herdoor smack into a pool of pulsing red light.

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She was right. It was sad. Walking through it, a wave of grief soaked him so thoroughly he wantedto cry. It seemed a long way to the normal light surrounding the table, but he made it — dry-eyed and lucky.

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"You said she died soft. Soft as cream," he reminded her.

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"That’s not Baby Suggs," she said.

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"Who then?""My daughter. The one I sent ahead with the boys.""She didn’t live?""No. The one I was carrying when I run away is all I got left.

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Boys gone too. Both of em walked off just before Baby Suggs died."Paul D looked at the spot where the grief had soaked him. The red was gone but a kind of weepingclung to the air where it had been.

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Probably best, he thought. If a Negro got legs he ought to use them. Sit down too long, somebodywill figure out a way to tie them up. Still ... if her boys were gone ...

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"No man? You here by yourself?""Me and Denver," she said.

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"That all right by you?""That’s all right by me."She saw his skepticism and went on. "I cook at a restaurant in town. And I sew a little on the sly."Paul D smiled then, remembering the bedding dress. Sethe was thirteen when she came to SweetHome and already iron-eyed. She was a timely present for Mrs. Garner who had lost Baby Suggsto her husband’s high principles. The five Sweet Home men looked at the new girl and decided tolet her be. They were young and so sick with the absence of women they had taken to calves. Yetthey let the iron-eyed girl be, so she could choose in spite of the fact that each one would havebeaten the others to mush to have her. It took her a year to choose — a long, tough year ofthrashing on pallets eaten up with dreams of her. A year of yearning, when rape seemed thesolitary gift of life. The restraint they had exercised possible only because they were Sweet Homemen — the ones Mr. Garner bragged about while other farmers shook their heads in warning at thephrase.

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"Y’all got boys," he told them. "Young boys, old boys, picky boys, stroppin boys. Now at SweetHome, my niggers is men every one of em. Bought em thataway, raised em thataway. Men everyone.""Beg to differ, Garner. Ain’t no nigger men.""Not if you scared, they ain’t." Garner’s smile was wide. "But if you a man yourself, you’ll wantyour niggers to be men too.""I wouldn’t have no nigger men round my wife."It was the reaction Garner loved and waited for. "Neither would I," he said. "Neither would I," andthere was always a pause before the neighbor, or stranger, or peddler, or brother-in-law or whoeverit was got the meaning. Then a fierce argument, sometimes a fight, and Garner came home bruisedand pleased, having demonstrated one more time what a real Kentuckian was: one tough enoughand smart enough to make and call his own niggers men.

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And so they were: Paul D Garner, Paul F Garner, Paul A Garner, Halle Suggs and Sixo, the wildman. All in their twenties, minus women, fucking cows, dreaming of rape, thrashing on pallets,rubbing their thighs and waiting for the new girl — the one who took Baby Suggs’ place afterHalle bought her with five years of Sundays.

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Maybe that was why she chose him. A twenty-year-old man so in love with his mother he gave upfive years of Sabbaths just to see her sit down for a change was a serious recommendation.

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She waited a year. And the Sweet Home men abused cows while they waited with her. She choseHalle and for their first bedding she sewed herself a dress on the sly.

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"Won’t you stay on awhile? Can’t nobody catch up on eighteen years in a day."Out of the dimness of the room in which they sat, a white staircase climbed toward the blue-andwhitewallpaper of the second floor.

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Paul D could see just the beginning of the paper; discreet flecks of yellow sprinkled among ablizzard of snowdrops all backed by blue.

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The luminous white of the railing and steps kept him glancing toward it. Every sense he had toldhim the air above the stairwell was charmed and very thin. But the girl who walked down out ofthat air was round and brown with the face of an alert doll.

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Paul D looked at the girl and then at Sethe who smiled saying, "Here she is my Denver. This isPaul D, honey, from Sweet Home.""Good morning, Mr. D.""Garner, baby. Paul D Garner.""Yes sir.""Glad to get a look at you. Last time I saw your mama, you were pushing out the front of herdress.""Still is," Sethe smiled, "provided she can get in it."Denver stood on the bottom step and was suddenly hot and shy. It had been a long time sinceanybody (good-willed whitewoman, preacher, speaker or newspaperman) sat at their table, theirsympathetic voices called liar by the revulsion in their eyes. For twelve years, long beforeGrandma Baby died, there had been visitors of any sort and certainly no friends. Nocoloredpeople.Certainlynohazelnutman(no) with too long hair and no notebook, no charcoal, nooranges, no questions. Someone her mother wanted to talk to and would even consider talking towhile barefoot. Looking, in fact acting, like a girl instead of the quiet, queenly woman Denver hadknown all her life. The one who never looked away, who when a man got stomped to death by amare right in front of Sawyer’s restaurant did not look away; and when a sow began eating her ownlitter did not look away then either. And when the baby’s spirit picked up Here Boy and slammedhim into the wall hard enough to break two of his legs and dislocate his eye, so hard he went intoconvulsions and chewed up his tongue, still her mother had not looked away. She had taken ahammer, knocked the dog unconscious, wiped away the blood and saliva, pushed his eye back inhis head and set his leg bones. He recovered, mute and off-balance, more because of hisuntrustworthy eye than his bent legs, and winter, summer, drizzle or dry, nothing could persuadehim to enter the house again.

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