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宠儿|Beloved

第6章|Chapter 6

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 托妮-莫里森] 阅读：[3947]
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塞丝本想翻个身趴着，临了又改变了主意。她不想再引起保罗·D的注意，所以只把双脚叠了起来。

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但保罗·D注意到了这个动作，还有她呼吸的变化。他觉得有责任再试一遍，这回慢一点，然而欲望消失了。实际上这是一种很好的感觉———不想要她。二十五年咔嚓一下!西克索才干得出那种事———就像那回，他安排了同“三十英里女子”帕特茜的会面。他花了整整三个月时间和两次三十四英里路来回，去说服她朝他这边走三分之一的路程，到一个他知道的地方。那是一座被遗弃的石头建筑，很久以前红种人认为这块土地属于他们时使用过它。西克索在他的一次夜半溜号中间发现了它，并请求它允许他进入。在里面，他与红种人的精灵灵犀相通，向它请示能否把他的女人带来。它说可以。西克索就费了牛劲指导她怎么到那儿，究竟什么时刻出发，如何分辨他表示迎接和警告的口哨声。由于谁都不许跑出去干自己的事，再加上“三十英里女子”已经十四岁并且许配了人，所以危险可是真格的。他到的时候，她还没到。他吹了口哨，却没有得到回应。他走进红种人遗弃的旧屋。她不在那儿。他回到相会的地点。她不在那儿。他又等了一会儿。她还是没来。他越来越毛骨悚然，就沿着大路朝她该来的方向走下去。走了有三四英里路，他停下脚步。再走下去没有什么希望，于是他站在风中向天求助。他仔细地捕捉着信号，听到了一声呜咽。他转向它，等了一会儿，又听见了。他不再警惕了，大叫她的名字。她回答的声音在他听来仿佛生命———而非死亡。

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“别动!”他嚷道。

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“使劲喘气，我能找着你。

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”他找到了。她以为自己已经到了那个相会的地点，正在为他的失信而哭泣呢。这时候再去红种人的房子里幽会已经来不及了，于是他们就地倒下。事后，他刺伤她的小腿以冒充蛇咬，这样她没有准时去给烟叶打虫子就有了借口。他详细地指导她沿小溪抄近路回去，并目送她消失。上路的时候天已大亮，他把衣服拿在手里。突然，一辆大车从转弯处向他隆隆驶来。赶车的怒目圆睁，举起鞭子；坐在他身旁的女人一下子捂住了脸。可是鞭梢还没抽上西克索靛青的屁股，他早已溶进了树林。

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他以独特的方式把故事讲给保罗·F、黑尔、保罗·A和保罗·D，让他们笑出了眼泪。夜里西克索漫步林间。是去跳舞，他说，为了让他的血统后继有人，他说。他这么做了，秘密地，就他自个儿。他们其他几个谁都没有见过，但是想象得出来，他们在心中描摹的图景使他们急于去笑话他———在白天，也就是安全的时候。

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但那是在他因为没有前途而停止说英语之前。因为有“三十英里女子”，西克索是唯一不因渴望塞丝而瘫痪的人。二十五年来，保罗·D始终想象不出有比跟她性交更好的事情。他自己的愚蠢引他发笑，当他转过身去面对她时，他觉得自己可真是冒傻气。塞丝闭着眼睛，头发乱作一团。从这个角度看，缺少了闪亮的眼睛，她的脸并不那么动人。所以肯定是她的眼睛让他一直既不敢造次又欲火中烧。没有它们，她的脸是驯顺的———是一张他能控制的脸。也许，假如她一直那样合上眼睛……可是不，还有她的嘴呢。很美。黑尔从不知道他拥有的是什么。

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即使闭着眼睛，塞丝也知道他在凝视自己的脸。她的脑海里浮现出一幅图画：她看起来该有多么难看。可他的凝视里依然没有讥讽，很温柔，好像一种期待般的温柔。他没在品评她———或者说品评了，但没有拿她去作比较。除了黑尔以外，还没有哪个男人这样看过她：不是爱慕，也不是情炽如火，而是感兴趣，仿佛在检验一穗玉米的质量。黑尔与其说是个丈夫，不如说更像个兄长。

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比起一个男人的基本要求，他的关怀更接近家庭的亲情。有好几年，只有星期天他们才能在阳光下看见对方。其余时间里，他们在黑暗中说话、抚摸或者吃饭。黎明前的黑暗和日落后的昏暝。所以彼此凝视成了周日早间的一大乐事。黑尔仔细地端详她，似乎要将阳光中所见的一切都贮存起来，留给他在这个星期其余部分看到的模糊的影子。而他拥有的时间是这么少。干完了“甜蜜之家”的工作，星期天下午还要去还为母亲欠下的债。当他请求塞丝做他的妻子时，她欣然答允，然后就不知道下一步该怎么办了。得有个仪式，不是吗？来个牧师，跳跳舞，一次派对，总得有点什么。她和加纳太太是那儿仅有的女人，所以她决定去问她。

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“黑尔和我想结婚，加纳太太。

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“我听说了。

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”她微笑道，“他跟加纳先生说了这事儿。你是不是已经怀上了？

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“没有，太太。

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“嗯，你会的。你知道的，对吗？

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“是，太太。

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“黑尔不错，塞丝。他会好好待你的。

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“可我的意思是我们想结婚。

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“你刚刚说了。我说可以。

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“能有婚礼吗？

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加纳太太放下勺子。她大笑了一会儿，摸着塞丝的头，说：

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“你这孩子真可爱。

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”就没再说什么。

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塞丝偷偷缝了件裙衣；黑尔把套马索挂在她小屋的墙壁上。在小屋泥地面的草荐上，他们第三次结合。前两次是在那一小块玉米地里，加纳先生之所以保留它，是因为这种庄稼牲口和人都能食用。黑尔和塞丝都以为自己很隐蔽。他们伏在玉米秆中间，什么也看不见，包括谁都看得见的、在他们头顶波动的玉米穗。

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塞丝笑自己和黑尔有多笨。连乌鸦都知道了，还飞过来看。她把叠着的脚放下，忍着不笑出声来。

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从一只小牛到一个小妞的飞跃，保罗·D心想，并没有那么巨大。不像黑尔相信的那么巨大。不在她屋里，而把她带到玉米地，离开竞争失败者们的小屋一码远，这是温存的表示。黑尔本想给塞丝保密，不料弄成了公共展览。谁愿意在宁静无云的一天错过玉米地里的一场好戏呢？

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他、西克索和另外两个保罗坐在“兄弟”下面，用瓢往脑袋上浇水，眼睛透过流淌下来的井水，观看下边田里遭殃的玉米穗。大晌午观看玉米秆跳舞，坐在那儿像狗一样勃起，是那么那么那么地难受。从头顶流下的水让情况更糟。

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保罗·D叹了口气，转过身去。塞丝也趁他挪动的当儿换了个姿势。看着保罗·D的后背，她想起了那些被碰坏的玉米秆，它们折倒在黑尔的背上，而她满手抓的都是玉米包皮和花丝须子。

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花丝多么松散。汁水多么饱满。

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这些观众的嫉妒和羡慕在当晚他们招待自己的嫩玉米会餐上化为乌有。玉米都是从折断的玉米秆上摘下来的，加纳先生还想当然地以为是浣熊弄断的呢。保罗·F要烤的；保罗·A要煮的；现在保罗·D已经想不起来他们最后是怎么做的那些还太嫩的玉米。他只记得，要扒开须子找到顶尖，得用指甲抵在下面，才不至于碰破一粒。

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扒下紧裹的叶鞘，撕扯的声音总让她觉得它很疼。

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第一层包皮一扒下来，其余的就屈服了，玉米穗向他横陈羞涩的排排苞粒，终于一览无余。花丝多么松散。禁锢的香味多么飞快地四散奔逃。

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尽管你用上了所有的牙齿，还有湿乎乎的手指头，你还是说不清，那点简单的乐趣如何令你心旌摇荡。

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花丝多么松散。多么美妙、松散、自由。

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丹芙的秘密是香甜的。以前每次都伴随着野生的婆婆纳，直到后来她发现了科隆香水。第一瓶是件礼物，第二瓶是从她妈妈那里偷的，被她藏在黄杨树丛里，结果结冻、胀裂了。那年的冬天在晚饭时匆匆来临，一待就是八个月。那是战争期间的一年，鲍德温小姐，那个白女人，给她妈妈和她带来了科隆香水，给两个男孩带来了橙子，还送了贝比·萨格斯一条上好的羊毛披肩，作为圣诞礼物。说起那场尸横遍野的战争，她似乎非常快乐———红光满面的；尽管声音低沉得像个男人，可她闻起来就好像一屋子的鲜花———那种激动，丹芙只有在黄杨丛里才能独自享有。

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124号后面是一片狭窄的田野，到树林就结束了。树林的另一边是一条小溪。在田野和小溪之间的这片树林里，被橡树遮挡着，五丛黄杨灌木栽成一圈，在离开地面四英尺高的地方交错在一起，形成一个七英尺高的、圆而空的房间，墙壁是五十英寸厚的低语的树叶。

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得哈下腰去，丹芙才能爬进这间屋子，而一钻进去，她就能完全立起身来，沐浴在祖母绿的光芒中。

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开头只是一个小女孩的过家家，然而随着她欲望的改变，游戏也变了样。又安静、又幽僻，如果不是刺鼻的香水气味先吸引、继而又熏晕了那些兔子，那里也是完全隐秘的。它先是一间游戏室（那儿的寂静比别处更柔和），然后是个避难所（为了躲开哥哥们的恐惧），再过不久，那个地方 本身成了目的地。在那间凉亭里，与受伤的世界的伤害彻底隔绝，丹芙的想象造出了它自己的饥饿和它自己的食物，她迫切地需要它们，因为她被孤独苦苦纠缠。苦苦纠缠。在生机勃勃的绿墙的遮蔽和保护下，她感到成熟、清醒，而拯救就如同愿望一样唾手可得。

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保罗·D搬进来和妈妈同住了；在此之前很久的一个秋天，有一次，她正待在黄杨丛中间，突然，风和皮肤上的香水一齐使她感到冰冷。她穿上衣服，弯下身出去，再站起来时，已经下雪了：薄薄的雪花漫天飞舞，真像她妈妈说起她在独木舟里降生时描绘的那幅图画，丹芙就是因那个叉腿站在船上的白人姑娘而得名的。

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丹芙战栗着走近房子，像往常一样把它当做一个人，而不是一座建筑。一个哭泣、叹息、颤抖，时常发作的人。她的步履和凝视都分外谨慎，样子好像一个孩子在接近一个神经过敏、游手好闲的亲戚（寄人篱下却又自尊自大）。黑夜的胸甲遮住了所有窗户，只有一扇剩下。它昏暗的光来自贝比·萨格斯的房间。丹芙望进去，看见她妈妈正在跪着祈祷。这很寻常。然而不寻常的是（甚至对于一个一直在鬼魂活动频繁的房子里居住的女孩来说），有一条白裙子跪在她妈妈身旁，一只袖子拥着妈妈的腰。正是这只裙袖的温柔拥抱，使丹芙想起她出生的细节———想起了拥抱，还有她现在正立身其中的薄薄的、飘舞的雪花，它们就像寻常花朵结下的果实。那条裙子和她妈妈在一起，好像两个友好的成年女子———一个（裙子）扶着另一个。还有她降生的传奇，实际上是个奇迹，和她自己的名字一样，是那次友爱的见证。

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Sethe started to turn over on her stomach but changed her mind. She did not want to call Paul D’sattention back to her, so she settled for crossing her ankles.

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But Paul D noticed the movement as well as the change in her breathing. He felt obliged to tryagain, slower this time, but the appetite was gone. Actually it was a good feeling — not wantingher. Twenty-five years and blip! The kind of thing Sixo would do — like the time he arranged ameeting with Patsy the Thirty-Mile Woman. It took three months and two thirty-four-mile roundtrips to do it. To persuade her to walk one-third of the way toward him, to a place he knew. Adeserted stone structure that Redmen used way back when they thought the land was theirs. Sixodiscovered it on one of his night creeps, and asked its permission to enter. Inside, having felt whatit felt like, he asked the Redmen’s Presence if he could bring his woman there. It said yes and Sixopainstakingly instructed her how to get there, exactly when to start out, how his welcoming orwarning whistles would sound. Since neither could go anywhere on business of their own, andsince the Thirty-Mile Woman was already fourteen and scheduled for somebody’s arms, the dangerwas real. When he arrived, she had not. He whistled and got no answer. He went into the Redmen’s deserted lodge. She was not there. He returned to the meeting spot. She was not there. He waitedlonger. She still did not come. He grew frightened for her and walked down the road in thedirection she should be coming from. Three or four miles, and he stopped. It was hopeless to go onthat way, so he stood in the wind and asked for help. Listening close for some sign, he heard awhimper. He turned toward it, waited and heard it again. Uncautious now, he hollered her name.

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She answered in a voice that sounded like life to him — not death. "Not move!" he shouted.

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"Breathe hard I can find you." He did. She believed she was already at the meeting place and wascrying because she thought he had not kept his promise. Now it was too late for the rendezvous tohappen at the Redmen’s house, so they dropped where they were. Later he punctured her calf tosimulate snakebite so she could use it in some way as an excuse for not being on time to shakeworms from tobacco leaves. He gave her detailed directions about following the stream as ashortcut back, and saw her off. When he got to the road it was very light and he had his clothes inhis hands. Suddenly from around a bend a wagon trundled toward him. Its driver, wide-eyed,raised a whip while the woman seated beside him covered her face. But Sixo had already meltedinto the woods before the lash could unfurl itself on his indigo behind.

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He told the story to Paul F, Halle, Paul A and Paul D in the peculiar way that made them cry-laugh. Sixo went among trees at night. For dancing, he said, to keep his bloodlines open, he said.

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Privately, alone, he did it. None of the rest of them had seen him at it, but they could imagine it,and the picture they pictured made them eager to laugh at him — in daylight, that is, when it wassafe. But that was before he stopped speaking English because there was no future in it. Because ofthe Thirty-Mile Woman Sixo was the only one not paralyzed by yearning for Sethe. Nothing couldbe as good as the sex with her Paul D had been imagining off and on for twenty-five years. Hisfoolishness made him smile and think fondly of himself as he turned over on his side, facing her.

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Sethe’s eyes were closed, her hair a mess. Looked at this way, minus the polished eyes, her facewas not so attractive. So it must have been her eyes that kept him both guarded and stirred up.

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Without them her face was manageable — a face he could handle. Maybe if she would keep themclosed like that... But no, there was her mouth. Nice. Halle never knew what he had.

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Although her eyes were closed, Sethe knew his gaze was on her face, and a paper picture of justhow bad she must look raised itself up before her mind’s eye. Still, there was no mockery comingfrom his gaze. Soft. It felt soft in a waiting kind of way. He was not judging her — or rather hewas judging but not comparing her. Not since Halle had a man looked at her that way: not lovingor passionate, but interested, as though he were examining an ear of corn for quality. Halle wasmore like a brother than a husband. His care suggested a family relationship rather than a man’slaying claim. For years they saw each other in full daylight only on Sundays. The rest of the timethey spoke or touched or ate in darkness. Predawn darkness and the afterlight of sunset. So lookingat each other intently was a Sunday morning pleasure and Halle examined her as though storing upwhat he saw in sunlight for the shadow he saw the rest of the week. And he had so little time. Afterhis Sweet Home work and on Sunday afternoons was the debt work he owed for his mother. Whenhe asked her to be his wife, Sethe happily agreed and then was stuck not knowing the next step.

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There should be a ceremony, shouldn’t there? A preacher, some dancing, a party, a something. Sheand Mrs. Garner were the only women there, so she decided to ask her. "Halle and me want to bemarried, Mrs. Garner.""So I heard." She smiled. "He talked to Mr. Garner about it. Are you already expecting?""No, ma’am.""Well, you will be. You know that, don’t you?""Yes, ma’am.""Halle’s nice, Sethe. He’ll be good to you.""But I mean we want to get married.""You just said so. And I said all right.""Is there a wedding?"Mrs. Garner put down her cooking spoon. Laughing a little, she touched Sethe on the head, saying,"You are one sweet child." And then no more.

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Sethe made a dress on the sly and Halle hung his hitching rope from a nail on the wall of her cabin.

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And there on top of a mattress on top of the dirt floor of the cabin they coupled for the third time,the first two having been in the tiny cornfield Mr. Garner kept because it was a crop animals coulduse as well as humans. Both Halle and Sethe were under the impression that they were hidden.

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Scrunched down among the stalks they couldn’t see anything, including the corn tops waving overtheir heads and visible to everyone else. Sethe smiled at her and Halle’s stupidity. Even the crowsknew and came to look. Uncrossing her ankles, she managed not to laugh aloud.

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The jump, thought Paul D, from a calf to a girl wasn’t all that mighty. Not the leap Halle believedit would be. And taking her in the corn rather than her quarters, a yard away from the cabins of theothers who had lost out, was a gesture of tenderness. Halle wanted privacy for her and got publicdisplay. Who could miss a ripple in a cornfield on a quiet cloudless day? He, Sixo and both of thePauls sat under Brother pouring water from a gourd over their heads, and through eyes streamingwith well water, they watched the confusion of tassels in the field below. It had been hard, hard,hard sitting there erect as dogs, watching corn stalks dance at noon. The water running over theirheads made it worse.

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Paul D sighed and turned over. Sethe took the opportunity afforded by his movement to shift aswell. Looking at Paul D’s back, she remembered that some of the corn stalks broke, folded downover Halle’s back, and among the things her fingers clutched were husk and cornsilk hair.

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How loose the silk. How jailed down the juice.

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The jealous admiration of the watching men melted with the feast of new corn they allowed themselves that night. Plucked from the broken stalks that Mr. Garner could not doubt was thefault of the raccoon. Paul F wanted his roasted; Paul A wanted his boiled and now Paul D couldn’tremember how finally they’d cooked those ears too young to eat. What he did remember wasparting the hair to get to the tip, the edge of his fingernail just under, so as not to graze a singlekernel.

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The pulling down of the tight sheath, the ripping sound always convinced her it hurt.

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As soon as one strip of husk was down, the rest obeyed and the ear yielded up to him its shy rows,exposed at last. How loose the silk. How quick the jailed-up flavor ran free.

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No matter what all your teeth and wet fingers anticipated, there was no accounting for the way thatsimple joy could shake you. How loose the silk. How fine and loose and free.

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DENVER’S SECRETS were sweet. Accompanied every time by wild veronica until shediscovered cologne. The first bottle was a gift, the next she stole from her mother and hid amongboxwood until it froze and cracked. That was the year winter came in a hurry at suppertime andstayed eight months. One of the War years when Miss Bodwin, the whitewoman, broughtChristmas cologne for her mother and herself, oranges for the boys and another good wool shawlfor Baby Suggs. Talking of a war full of dead people, she looked happy — flush-faced, andalthough her voice was heavy as a man’s, she smelled like a roomful of flowers — excitement thatDenver could have all for herself in the boxwood. Back beyond 1x4 was a narrow field thatstopped itself at a wood. On the yonder side of these woods, a stream. In these woods, between thefield and the stream, hidden by post oaks, five boxwood bushes, planted in a ring, had startedstretching toward each other four feet off the ground to form a round, empty room seven feet high,its walls fifty inches of murmuring leaves. Bent low, Denver could crawl into this room, and oncethere she could stand all the way up in emerald light.

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It began as a little girl’s houseplay, but as her desires changed, so did the play. Quiet, primate andcompletely secret except for the noisome cologne signal that thrilled the rabbits before it confusedthem. First a playroom (where the silence was softer), then a refuge (from her brothers’ fright),soon the place became the point. In that bower, closed off from the hurt of the hurt world, Denver’simagination produced its own hunger and its own food, which she badly needed because lonelinesswore her out. Wore her out. Veiled and protected by the live green walls, she felt ripe and clear,and salvation was as easy as a wish.

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Once when she was in the boxwood, an autumn long before Paul D moved into the house with hermother, she was made suddenly cold by a combination of wind and the perfume on her skin. Shedressed herself, bent down to leave and stood up in snowfall: a thin and whipping snow very likethe picture her mother had painted as she described the circumstances of Denver’s birth in a canoestraddled by a whitegirl for whom she was named.

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Shivering, Denver approached the house, regarding it, as she always did, as a person rather than astructure. A person that wept, sighed, trembled and fell into fits. Her steps and her gaze were the cautious ones of a child approaching a nervous, idle relative (someone dependent but proud). Abreastplate of darkness hid all the windows except one. Its dim glow came from Baby Suggs’

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room. When Denver looked in, she saw her mother on her knees in prayer, which was not unusual.

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What was unusual (even for a girl who had lived all her life in a house peopled by the livingactivity of the dead) was that a white dress knelt down next to her mother and had its sleeve aroundher mother’s waist. And it was the tender embrace of the dress sleeve that made Denver rememberthe details of her birth — that and the thin, whipping snow she was standing in, like the fruit ofcommon flowers. The dress and her mother together looked like two friendly grown-up women —one (the dress) helping out the other. And the magic of her birth, its miracle in fact, testified to thatfriendliness as did her own name.

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