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双语小说
【分类】双语小说
-[作者: 托妮-莫里森]
阅读：[4157]
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丹芙知道妈妈讲完了———至少目前如此。塞丝的眼睛缓缓地眨了一下，下嘴唇慢慢抿上来盖住上嘴唇；然后是鼻孔里的一声叹息，就像一点烛火的熄灭———标志着她的讲述到此为止。
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“嗯，我想那个娃娃有计划。
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”丹芙说。
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“什么计划？
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“我不知道，可是那件搂着你的裙子肯定有说道。
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“也许吧，”塞丝道，“也许它真的有计划。
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无论她们曾经如何，或者本该如何，保罗·D都不可挽回地搅乱了她们的生活。他用一张桌子和雄性的怒吼，使124号失去了在当地享有恶名的资格。丹芙早已学会了将黑人们压在她们身上的谴责引以为荣；他们把闹鬼者想当然地说成一个不知餍足的恶鬼，她也感到满意。他们谁都不知道闹鬼的真正乐趣，不是怀疑，而是洞悉事物背后有事物的乐趣。她的哥哥们知道，可他们给吓着了；贝比奶奶知道，可她因此悲伤起来。谁都不会品味鬼魂相伴的安全感。甚至塞丝也不喜欢。她只不过是逆来顺受———权当面对天气的突然变化。
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可是现在它走了。在榛色男人的那阵吼叫的狂风中飞走了。丹芙的世界骤然萧索，只剩下林中一间七英尺高的祖母绿密室。她的妈妈有秘密———她不愿讲的事情，讲了一半的事情。瞧，丹芙也有。而且她的是香甜的———好像铃兰花香水一般香甜。
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保罗·D到来之前，塞丝很少去想那条白裙子，他来了以后，她又想起了丹芙的解释：
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计划。与保罗·D初夜之后的第二天早晨，塞丝刚想到这个词可能意味着什么就笑了。那是她整整十八年没再享受过的奢侈，而且这辈子也只有那么一次。在那之前、之后，她的全部努力都用于尽快挨过痛苦，而不是逃避痛苦。她作出的一整套计划———逃离“甜蜜之家”———如此彻底地失败了，所以她再也不会舍命另作图谋了。
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然而那个早晨，她在保罗·D身边醒来，女儿几年前用过的那个词又闯进了她的脑海；她想起丹芙看见的那个跪在她身边的东西，也想起了被他拥在火炉前的时候牢牢抓住她的那种信任和记忆的诱惑。到底可不可以呢？可不可以去感觉？可不可以去依赖点什么呢？
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躺在他身边听着他的呼吸，她想不清楚，所以她小心翼翼地、小心翼翼地下了床。
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跪在她常去说话和思考的起居室里，塞丝豁然开朗，明白了为什么贝比·萨格斯那样迫切地渴求色彩。屋里没有任何颜色，只有被子上的两块橙色补丁，使得颜色的匮乏更为怵目惊心。
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房间的墙壁是石板色的，地板是土黄色的，木头碗柜就是它本来的颜色，窗帘是白色的，而主要角色，铁床上铺的被子，是由蓝色的哔叽碎块和黑色、棕色、灰色的呢绒碎块拼成的———节俭与朴素所能允许的所有晦暗和柔和的色调。在这素净的背景上，两块橙色的补丁显得野性十足———好像伤口里的勃勃生气。
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塞丝看看自己的手，又看看两只深绿色的袖子，心想，房子里的颜色少得多么可怜，而她并未像贝比那样惦念它们，又是多么不可思议。故意的，她暗道，肯定是故意的，因为她女儿墓石上的粉红颗粒是她记得的最后一样颜色。从那以后，她就变得像母鸡一样色盲了。每天清晨她负责做水果排、土豆和蔬菜，厨子做汤、肉和所有别的。她却没有任何印象，告诉她自己记住过一只嫩苹果或者一个黄南瓜。每个黎明她都看到曙光，却从未辨认或留心过它的色彩。这不大对头。仿佛有一天她看见了红色的婴儿的血，另一天看见了粉红色的墓石的颗粒，色彩就到此为止了。
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时时刻刻有强烈的感情占据着124号，也许她对任何一种丧失都无动于衷了。有一个时期，她每天早晚都要眺望田野，找自己的儿子。她站在敞开的窗前，不理会苍蝇，头偏向左肩，眼睛却往右搜寻他们。路上的云影，一个老妇，一只没拴绳子、啃食荆棘的迷途山羊———每一个乍看上去都像霍华德———不，像巴格勒。渐渐地她不再找了，他们十三岁的脸完全模糊成儿时的模样，只在她的睡梦中出现。她的梦在124号外面随心所欲地漫游。她有时在美丽的树上看见他们，他们的小腿儿在叶子中间隐约可见。有时他们嘻嘻哈哈地沿着铁轨奔跑，显然是笑得太响了才听不见她的叫声，所以他们从不回头。等她醒来，房子又扑面而至：苏打饼干碎末曾经在旁边排成一行的那扇门；她的小女儿喜欢爬的白楼梯；过去贝比·萨格斯补鞋的那个角落———现在冷藏室里还有一堆鞋呢；炉子上烫伤了丹芙手指的那个位置。当然，还有房子本身的怨毒。再容不下别的什么东西、别的什么人了，直到保罗·D到来，打乱这个地方，腾出空间，撵走它，把它赶到别处，然后他自己占据了腾出来的空间。
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因此，保罗·D到来的第二天早晨，她跪在起居室里，被那标志着124号实为颜色匮乏的不毛之地的两方橙色搞得心烦意乱。
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这都怪他。在他陪伴下，情感纷纷浮出水面。一切都恢复了本来面目：单调看着单调了；热的热起来。窗户里忽然有了风景。还有，你想不到吧，他还是个爱唱歌的男人呢。
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Denver knew that her mother was through with it — for now anyway. The single slow blink of hereyes; the bottom lip sliding up slowly to cover the top; and then a nostril sigh, like the snuff of acandle flame — signs that Sethe had reached the point beyond which she would not go.
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"Well, I think the baby got plans," said Denver. "What plans?""I don’t know, but the dress holding on to you got to mean something.""Maybe," said Sethe. "Maybe it does have plans."Whatever they were or might have been, Paul D messed them up for good. With a table and a loudmale voice he had rid 124 of its claim to local fame. Denver had taught herself to take pride in thecondemnation Negroes heaped on them; the assumption that the haunting was done by an evilthing looking for more. None of them knew the downright pleasure of enchantment, of not suspecting but knowing the things behind things. Her brothers had known, but it scared them;Grandma Baby knew, but it saddened her. None could appreciate the safety of ghost company.
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Even Sethe didn’t love it.
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She just took it for granted — like a sudden change in the weather.
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But it was gone now. Whooshed away in the blast of a hazelnut man’s shout, leaving Denver’sworld flat, mostly, with the exception of an emerald closet standing seven feet high in the woods.
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Her mother had secrets — things she wouldn’t tell; things she halfway told. Well, Denver had themtoo. And hers were sweet — sweet as lily-of-the-valley cologne.
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Sethe had given little thought to the white dress until Paul D came, and then she rememberedDenver’s interpretation: plans. The morning after the first night with Paul D, Sethe smiled justthinking about what the word could mean. It was a luxury she had not had in eighteen years andonly that once. Before and since, all her effort was directed not on avoiding pain but on gettingthrough it as quickly as possible. The one set of plans she had made — getting away from SweetHome — went awry so completely she never dared life by making more.
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Yet the morning she woke up next to Paul D, the word her daughter had used a few years ago didcross her mind and she thought about what Denver had seen kneeling next to her, and thought alsoof the temptation to trust and remember that gripped her as she stood before the cooking stove inhis arms. Would it be all right? Would it be all right to go ahead and feel? Go ahead and count onsomething? She couldn’t think clearly, lying next to him listening to his breathing, so carefully,carefully, she had left the bed.
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Kneeling in the keeping room where she usually went to talk-think it was clear why Baby Suggswas so starved for color. There wasn’t any except for two orange squares in a quilt that made theabsence shout. The walls of the room were slate-colored, the floor earth-brown, the woodendresser the color of itself, curtains white, and the dominating feature, the quilt over an iron cot, wasmade up of scraps of blue serge, black, brown and gray wool — the full range of the dark and themuted that thrift and modesty allowed. In that sober field, two patches of orange looked wild —like life in the raw. Sethe looked at her hands, her bottle-green sleeves, and thought how little colorthere was in the house and how strange that she had not missed it the way Baby did. Deliberate,she thought, it must be deliberate, because the last color she remembered was the pink chips in theheadstone of her baby girl. After that she became as color conscious as a hen. Every dawn sheworked at fruit pies, potato dishes and vegetables while the cook did the soup, meat and all therest. And she could not remember remembering a molly apple or a yellow squash. Every dawn shesaw the dawn, but never acknowledged or remarked its color. There was something wrong withthat. It was as though one day she saw red baby blood, another day the pink gravestone chips, andthat was the last of it.
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124 was so full of strong feeling perhaps she was oblivious to the loss of anything at all. There wasa time when she scanned the fields every morning and every evening for her boys. When she stoodat the open window, unmindful of flies, her head cocked to her left shoulder, her eyes searching to the right for them. Cloud shadow on the road, an old woman, a wandering goat untethered andgnawing bramble — each one looked at first like Howard — no, Buglar. Little by little she stoppedand their thirteen-year-old faces faded completely into their baby ones, which came to her only insleep. When her dreams roamed outside 124, anywhere they wished, she saw them sometimes inbeautiful trees, their little legs barely visible in the leaves.
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Sometimes they ran along the railroad track laughing, too loud, apparently, to hear her becausethey never did turn around. When she woke the house crowded in on her: there was the door wherethe soda crackers were lined up in a row; the white stairs her baby girl loved to climb; the cornerwhere Baby Suggs mended shoes, a pile of which were still in the cold room; the exact place onthe stove where Denver burned her fingers. And of course the spite of the house itself. There wasno room for any other thing or body until Paul D arrived and broke up the place, making room,shifting it, moving it over to someplace else, then standing in the place he had made.
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So, kneeling in the keeping room the morning after Paul D came, she was distracted by the twoorange squares that signaled how barren 124 really was.
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He was responsible for that. Emotions sped to the surface in his company. Things became whatthey were: drabness looked drab; heat was hot. Windows suddenly had view. And wouldn’t youknow he’d be a singing man.
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