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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Fifth Tuesday We Talk About Family

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[11578]
The Fourth Tuesday We Talk About Death
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九月的第一个星期，返校开学周。连续三十五个暑期后的今天，布兰代斯大学第一次没有等我的老教授去上课。波士顿的街上到处是学生，小街上出现了双行停①的现象，到处在搬行李。而莫里这会却在他的书房里。这显得有悖情理，就像那些橄榄球队员离开后第一个星期天不得不呆在家里望着电视，心里想，我还能上场。我常跟他们打交道，已经学会了该怎么做。当赛季到来时，你最好别去招惹他们，什么也不用说。对莫里，我更不用去提醒他时间的弥足珍贵了。

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①指两辆车并排停靠在人行道的一边，常属违章停车。

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我们录音谈话的工具已经由手提话筒--现在要莫里长时间地握一件东西是很困难的--换成了在电视记者中很流行的颈挂式话筒。你可以把这种话筒别在衣领或西服的翻领上。当然，由于莫里只穿柔软的全棉衬衫，而且衣服总是无棱无角地垂挂在他日趋萎谢的身体上，所以话筒会不时地滑落下来，我只得探过身去重新把它别住。莫里似乎很希望我这么做，因为我可以凑近他，和他保持在能互相拥抱的距离内。他现在对身体接触的需求比以往任何时候都强烈，当我凑近他时，我能听见他呼哧呼哧的喘气声和不易察觉的咳嗽声，他吞咽口水前先要轻轻地咂一下嘴。

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"好吧，我的朋友，"他说，"今天我们谈什么？"

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谈家庭怎么样？

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"家庭，"他思考了一会儿。"嗯，你已经看见了我的家庭，都在我的周围。"

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他点头示意我看书架上的那些照片，有莫里小时候同他祖母的合影，有莫里年轻时同他弟弟大卫的合影，还有他和妻子夏洛特以及两个儿子的合影。大儿子罗布在东京当记者，小儿子乔恩是波士顿的电脑专家。

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"我觉得，鉴于我们在这几个星期里所谈的内容，家庭问题变得尤为重要了，"他说。

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"事实上，如果没有家庭，人们便失去了可以支撑的根基。我得病后对这一点更有体会。如果你得不到来自家庭的支持。爱抚。照顾和关心，你拥有的东西便少得可怜，爱是至高无上的，正如我们的大诗人奥登说的那样，’相爱或者死亡。’"

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"相爱或者死亡，"我把它写了下来。奥登说过这话？

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"相爱或者死亡，"莫里说，"说得真好，说得太对了。没有了爱，我们便成了折断翅膀的小鸟。

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"假设我离了婚，或一个人生活，或没有孩子。这疾病--我所经受的这种疾病--就会更加难以忍受。我不敢肯定我是否应付得了它。当然，会有人来探望的，朋友，同事。但他们和不会离去的家人是不一样的。这跟有一个始终关心着你、和你形影不离的人不是一回事。

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"这就是家庭的部分涵义，不仅仅是爱，而且还告诉别人有人守护着你。这是我母亲去世时我最想得到的--我称它为’心理安全’--知道有一个家在守护着你。只有。家庭能给予你这种感觉。金钱办不到。名望办不到。"

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他看了我一眼。

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"工作也办不到，"他又加了一句。

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生育后代是列在我目录上的问题之一--一个在生活中必须尽早予以考虑的问题。我对莫里谈了我们这一代人在生育孩子上的矛盾心理，我们视孩子为自己事业上的绊脚石，觉得他们在迫使我们干那些本不愿干的"家长"活儿，我承认我也有这样的情绪。

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然而，当我望着莫里时，我不禁在想，如果我处于他的境遇，将不久于人世，但我没有家庭，没有孩子，我能承受得了那种空虚感吗？莫里培养了两个富有爱心的儿子。他们像父亲一样勇于表露感情。要是莫里有这个愿望的话，他们会放下工作，分分秒秒地陪在父亲的身边，伴他走完最后几个月的旅程。但这不是莫里的意愿。

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"别停止你们的生活，"他对他们说。"不然的话，被病魔毁掉的不是我一个，而是三个。"

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因此，尽管他将不久于人世，他对孩子们的世界仍表示出极大的尊敬和自豪。当他们父子三个坐在一起时，常常会有瀑布般的感情宣泄，亲吻，打趣，相拥在床边，几只手握在一块。

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"每当有人问我要不要生孩子时，我从不告诉他们该怎么做，"莫里望着大儿子的照片说。"我只说，’在生孩子这件事上是没有经验可循的。’就是这么回事。也没有任何东西能替代它。你和朋友无法做这事，你和情人也无法做这事。如果你想体验怎样对另一个人承担责任，想学会如何全身心地去爱的话，那么你就应该有孩子。"

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那么你想不想再有孩子？我问。

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我扫了一眼那张照片。罗布亲吻着莫里的前额，莫里闭着眼睛在笑。

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"想不想再有孩子？"他显得有些惊讶他说。"米奇，我是决不会错过这份经历的，即使……"

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他喉咙哽咽了一下，他把照片放在大腿上。

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"即使要付出沉痛的代价，"他说。

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因为你将要离开他们。

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"因为我不久就要离他们而去了。"

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他合上嘴，闭上了眼睛，我看见他的第一颗泪珠顺着脸颊淌了下来。

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"现在，"他低声说，"听你说了。"

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"你的家庭。我认识你的父母。几年前在毕业典礼上我见过他们。你还有个姐妹，是吗？"

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是的，我说。

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"比你大？"

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比我大。

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"还有个兄弟，是吗？"

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我点点头。

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"比你小？"

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比我小。

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"和我一样，"莫里说，"我也有个弟弟。"

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和你一样，我说。

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"他也来参加了你的毕业典礼，不是吗？"

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我眨了眨眼睛，想象着十六年前我们聚在一起的情形：火辣辣的太阳，蓝色的毕业礼服，互相搂着对着傻瓜机镜头，有人在喊，"一、二、三--"

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"怎么啦？"莫里注意到我突然不作声了。"心里在想什么？"

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没什么，我说。我把话题扯开了。

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我确实有个弟弟，一个金发褐眼，小我两岁的弟弟。他长得既不像我，也不像我那个一头黑发的姐姐。所以我常常取笑他，说他是陌生人放在我们家门口的。"总有一天，"我们说，"他们会来抱你回去的。"他听了就哭，但我们还是这么取笑他。

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他像许多家庭里最小的孩子一样，受到宠爱，受到照顾，但内心却受着折磨。他想成为一个演员，或一个歌手；他在餐桌前表演电视里的人物，扮演各种角色，整天笑声朗朗。我在学校是个好学生，他是调皮捣蛋鬼；我唯命是从，他常常违犯校规；我远离毒品和酒精，他却样样染指，高中毕业后不久他就去了欧洲，他向往那里更加放荡不羁的生活方式。但他仍是家里最受宠爱的。当他一身玩世不恭，怪诞不经的打扮回到家里时，我总觉得自己太土，太保守。

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由于有如此大的差异，我相信我们一到成年就会有不同的命运安排。我一切都很顺当，只有一件事是个心病。自从舅舅死后，我相信我也会像他一样死去，会有一种突如其来的凶疾把我带离这个世界。于是我发疯似地工作，我作好了患癌症的心理准备。我能闻到它的气息。我知道它正悄然而至。我像死囚等待刽子手那样等待着它的到来。

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我是对的。它果然来了。

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但它没有找我。

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它找上了我的弟弟。

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和我舅舅相同类型的癌：胰腺癌，很罕见的种类。于是，我们家里这位金发褐眼。最小的男孩不得不接受化疗和放疗。他的头发脱落了，脸瘦削得像具骷髅，原本该是我，我心里想。但我弟弟并不是我，也不是舅舅。他是个斗士。孩提时候的他就从不服输，我们在地下室里扭打时，他会隔着鞋子咬我的脚，直到我痛得哇哇直叫。

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于是他反击了。他在西班牙--他生活的地方--同疾病作斗争，那儿有一种还处于试验阶段的药，这种药当时在美国买不到--现在也没有。他为治疗飞遍了整个欧洲。经过五年的治疗，他的病情得到了很大的缓解。

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这是好的消息。坏的消息是，我弟弟不让我接近他--不光是我，他不要任何家庭成员呆在他的身边。我们想方设法和他通电话，准备去看望他，可他却拒我们于千里之外。他坚持说这种与疾病的抗争只能由他独自去进行。他会好几个月不递信息。我们给录音电话留的言常常是没有回复的。我既为没能帮他而感到内疚，又对他剥夺了我们这一权力而感到怨恨。

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于是，我重又沉溺到工作中去。我工作是因为我能支配自己；我工作是因为它是理智的，是有回报的。每次在我给弟弟西班牙的公寓打去电话，听到请留言的录音时--他说的是西班牙语，另一个表明我们相距遥远的显证--我便挂上电话，更长时间地埋头于工作。

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也许这是莫里为何能吸引我的一个原因。他能给予我弟弟所不愿给予的东西。

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现在回想起来，莫里好像早就知道了这一切。

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那是我小时候的一个冬天，在郊外一个覆盖着积雪的山坡上。我弟弟和我坐着雪橇。他在上面，我在下面。他的下巴抵着我的肩膀，他的脚搁在我的腿上。

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雪橇在冰块上滑动。下山时我们加快了速度。

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"汽车！"有人喊了一声。

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我们看见了那辆从左边驶来的车。我们尖叫着想转个方向，但滑板却不听使唤。司机按响了喇叭并踩了刹车。我们作出了孩子才有的举动：从雪橇上跳了下来。穿着连帽滑雪衫的我们像两根圆木一样从冰冷、潮湿的雪地里滚下去，心想我们就要撞上轮胎了。我们尖叫着"啊--"不停地翻滚，只觉得天地都在旋转，脸吓得通红通红。

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接着，什么也没发生。我们停止了滚落，换了口气，从脸上抹去湿漉漉的雪泥。车子已经驶远了，司机对着我们在摇手指。我们平安了。雪橇一头扎进了雪堆。伙伴们跑过来拍打着我们说，"直够玄的，""你们差点就没命了。"

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我对弟弟咧嘴笑了，那份幼稚的自豪感使我们格外地亲热起来，这并不可怕，我们想，我们准备再次接受死亡的挑战。

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"Let’s begin with this idea," Morrie said. "Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it." He was in a businesslike mood this Tuesday. The subject was death, the first item on my list. Before I arrived, Morrie had scribbled a few notes on small white pieces of paper so that he wouldn’t forget. His shaky handwriting was now indecipherable to everyone but him. It was almost Labor Day, and through the office window I could see the spinach-colored hedges of the backyard and hear the yells of children playing down the street, their last week of freedom before school began.

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Back in Detroit, the newspaper strikers were gearing up for a huge holiday demonstration, to show the solidarity of unions against management. On the plane ride in, I had read about a woman who had shot her husband and two daughters as they lay sleeping, claiming she was protecting them from "the bad people." In California, the lawyers in the O. J. Simpson trial were becoming huge celebrities.

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Here in Morrie’s office, life went on one precious day at a time. Now we sat together, a few feet from the newest addition to the house: an oxygen machine. It was small and portable, about knee-high. On some nights, when he couldn’t get enough air to swallow, Morrie attached the long plastic tubing to his nose, clamping on his nostrils like a leech. I hated the idea of Morrie connected to a machine of any kind, and I tried not to look at it as Morrie spoke.

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"Everyone knows they’re going to die," he said again, "but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently."

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So we kid ourselves about death, I said.

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"Yes. But there’s a better approach. To know you’re going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That’s better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you’re living."

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How can you ever be prepared to die?

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"Do what the Buddhists do. Every day, have a little bird on your shoulder that asks, `Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?’ "

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He turned his head to his shoulder as if the bird were there now.

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"Is today the day I die?" he said.

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Morrie borrowed freely from all religions. He was born Jewish, but became an agnostic when he was a teenager, partly because of all that had happened to him as a child. He enjoyed some of the philosophies of Buddhism and Christianity, and he still felt at home, culturally, in Judaism. He was a religious mutt, which made him even more open to the students he taught over the years. And the things he was saying in his final months on earth seemed to transcend all religious differences. Death has a way of doing that.

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"The truth is, Mitch," he said, "once you learn how to die, you learn how to live."

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I nodded.

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"I’m going to say it again," he said. "Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live." He smiled, and I realized what he was doing. He was making sure I absorbed this point, without embarrassing me by asking. It was part of what made him a good teacher.

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Did you think much about death before you got sick, I asked.

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"No." Morrie smiled. "I was like everyone else. I once told a friend of mine, in a moment of exuberance, `I’m gonna be the healthiest old man you ever met!’ " How old were you?

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"In my sixties."

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So you were optimistic.

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"Why not? Like I said, no one really believes they’re going to die."

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But everyone knows someone who has died, I said. Why is it so hard to think about dying?

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"Because," Morrie continued, "most of us all walk around as if we’re sleepwalking. We really don’t experience the world fully, because we’re half-asleep, doing things we automatically think we have to do."

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And facing death changes all that?

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"Oh, yes. You strip away all that stuff and you focus on the essentials. When you realize you are going to die, you see everything much differently.

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He sighed. "Learn how to die, and you learn how to live."

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I noticed that he quivered now when he moved his hands. His glasses hung around his neck, and when he lifted them to his eyes, they slid around his temples, as if he were trying to put them on someone else in the dark. I reached over to help guide them onto his ears.

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"Thank you," Morrie whispered. He smiled when my hand brushed up against his head. The slightest human contact was immediate joy.

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"Mitch. Can I tell you something?" Of course, I said.

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"You might not like it." Why not?

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"Well, the truth is, if you really listen to that bird on your shoulder, if you accept that you can die at any timethen you might not be as ambitious as you are."

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I forced a small grin.

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"The things you spend so much time on-all this work you do-might not seem as important. You might have to make room for some more spiritual things."

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Spiritual things?

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"You hate that word, don’t you? `Spiritual.’ You think it’s touchy-feely stuff."

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Well, I said.

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He tried to wink, a bad try, and I broke down and laughed.

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"Mitch," he said, laughing along, "even I don’t know what `spiritual development’ really means. But I do know we’re deficient in some way. We are too involved in materialistic things, and they don’t satisfy us. The loving relationships we have, the universe around us, we take these things for granted."

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He nodded toward the window with the sunshine streaming in. "You see that? You can go out there, outside, anytime. You can run up and down the block and go crazy. I can’t do that. I can’t go out. I can’t run. I can’t be out there without fear of getting sick. But you know what? I appreciate that window more than you do." Appreciate it?

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"Yes. I look out that window every day. I notice the change in the trees, how strong the wind is blowing. It’s as if I can see time actually passing through that windowpane. Because I know my time is almost done, I am drawn to nature like I’m seeing it for the first time."

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He stopped, and for a moment we both just looked out the window. I tried to see what he saw. I tried to see time and seasons, my life passing in slow motion. Morrie dropped his head slightly and curled it toward his shoulder.

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"Is it today, little bird?" he asked. "Is it today?"

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Letters from around the world kept coming to Morrie, thanks to the "Nightline" appearances. He would sit, when he was up to it, and dictate the responses to friends and family who gathered for their letter-writing sessions.

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One Sunday when his sons, Rob and Jon, were home, they all gathered in the living room. Morrie sat in his wheelchair, his skinny legs under a blanket. When he got cold, one of his helpers draped a nylon jacket over his shoulders.

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"What’s the first letter?" Morrie said.

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A colleague read a note from a woman named Nancy, who had lost her mother to ALS. She wrote to say how much she had suffered through the loss and how she knew that Morrie must be suffering, too.

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"All right," Morrie said when the reading was complete. He shut his eyes. "Let’s start by saying, `Dear Nancy, you touched me very much with your story about your mother. And I understand what you went through. There is sadness and suffering on both parts. DRAWDEGrieving has been good for me, and I hope it has been good for you also.’ "

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"You might want to change that last line," Rob said.

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Morrie thought for a second, then said, "You’re right. How about `I hope you can find the healing power in grieving.’ Is that better?"

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Rob nodded.

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"Add `thank you, Morrie,’ " Morrie said.

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Another letter was read from a woman named Jane, who was thanking him for his inspiration on the "Nightline" program. She referred to him as a prophet.

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"That’s a very high compliment," said a colleague. "A prophet."

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Morrie made a face. He obviously didn’t agree with the assessment. "Let’s thank her for her high praise. And tell her I’m glad my words meant something to her.

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"And don’t forget to sign `Thank you, Morrie.’ "

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There was a letter from a man in England who had lost his mother and asked Morrie to help him contact her through the spiritual world. There was a letter from a couple who wanted to drive to Boston to meet him. There was a long letter from a former graduate student who wrote about her life after the university. It told of a murder-suicide and three stillborn births. It told of a mother who died from ALS. It expressed fear that she, the daughter, would also contract the disease. It went on and on. Two pages. Three pages. Four pages.

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Morrie sat through the long, grim tale. When it was finally finished, he said softly, "Well, what do we answer?"

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The group was quiet. Finally, Rob said, "How about, `Thanks for your long letter?’ "

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Everyone laughed. Morrie looked at his son and beamed.

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The newspaper near his chair has a photo of a Boston baseball player who is smiling after pitching a shutout. Of all the diseases, I think to myself, Morrie gets one named after an athlete.

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You remember Lou Gehrig, I ask?

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"I remember him in the stadium, saying good-bye." So you remember the famous line.

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"Which one?"

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Come on. Lou Gehrig. "Pride of the Yankees"? The speech that echoes over the loudspeakers?

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"Remind me," Morrie says. "Do the speech."

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Through the open window I hear the sound of a garbage truck. Although it is hot, Morrie is wearing long sleeves, with a blanket over his legs, his skin pale. The disease owns him.

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I raise my voice and do the Gehrig imitation, where the words bounce off the stadium walls: "Too-dayyy . . . I feeel like . . . the luckiest maaaan . . . on the face of the earth . . . "

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Morrie closes his eyes and nods slowly.

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"Yeah. Well. I didn’t say that."

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