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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Audiovisual, Part Three

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[11586]
The Eleventh Tuesday We Talk About Our Culture
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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"夜线"节目组的摄制人员回来进行他们第三次、也是最后一次的采访。这次的氛围和以前的不一样。这次与其说是采访，还不如说是作伤心的话别。特德•科佩尔打了好几个电话后才上场，他问莫里，"你觉得行吗？"

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莫里自己心中也没谱。"我现在整天都感到很累，特德。我还常常喘不过气来。如果我一时说不上来，你能替我说吗？"

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科佩尔说行。接着这位处事一向冷峻的主持人再次说，"如果你不想进行这次采访，莫里，没关系，我可以对着镜头跟观众说再见。"

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后来，莫里颇感得意地说，"他被我感化了。"的确如此。科佩尔如今称莫里为"朋友"。我的老教授竟然激发出了电视业的同情心。

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莫里在这个星期五下午的采访中仍穿着昨天穿的那件衬衫。他现在隔天换一次衣服。今天他也不想破这个例。

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和前两次的科佩尔－施瓦茨会晤不同，这一次自始至终是在莫里的书房里进行的，莫里已经成了那张躺椅的囚徒。科佩尔一见到莫里先吻了他，然后侧身从书橱前挤到了镜头里。

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正式采访开始前，科佩尔询问了疾病的进展情况。"变得有多糟，莫里？"

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莫里无力地抬抬手，连腹部也没超过。他只能抬到这儿。

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科佩尔有了答案。

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摄像机转动起来，第三次。也是最后一次的采访开始了。科佩尔问莫里他对死神的临近是不是感到更害怕了。莫里说没有。事实上，他反而不怎么怕了。他说他正在远离外面的世界，不再像以前那么多地听人读报，也不太关心来往的信件，更多时候是听听音乐，看窗外的树叶渐渐地变换颜色。

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莫里知道还有其他的人也遭受着ALS的折磨，有些还是名人，比如说斯蒂芬•霍金，这位才华横溢的物理学家和《时间简史》的作者。他的喉咙开了个洞，说话要靠一只电脑合成器的帮助，笔录靠一台传感器根据他眨眼睛的变化来作出判断。

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这是十分令人钦佩的，但这并不是莫里选择的活法。他对科佩尔说他知道该什么时候说再见。

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"对我来说，特德，活着就意味着能和别人交流。就是说我必须能表达自己的感情和感受。能同他人交谈，去感受他们的思想……"

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他呼了口气。"当这种能力消失时，莫里也消失了。"

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他们像老朋友一样交谈着。因为前两次采访中都提起过，科佩尔这次又提了"擦洗屁股"的老话题--也许想得到对方一个诙谐幽默的反应。但莫里累得连笑都很困难。他摇摇头。"当我坐在便桶上时，我怎么也坐不直身子。我老是往前倾，所以他们得扶住我，完事后他们还得替我擦洗，眼下已经到了这个地步了。"

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他对科佩尔说他想安宁地死去。他当众发表了他最新的格言："别走得太快，但也别拖得太久。"

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科佩尔心酸地点点头。第一次"夜线"节目播出至今才过去了六个月，但莫里•施瓦茨显然已经垮了。他当着全国电视观众的面在衰竭，如同一部死亡的连续短片。然而，尽管他的躯体在腐朽，他的人格精神却更加光彩夺目。

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在采访即将结束时，摄像机的镜头拉出了莫里的特写--甚至连科佩尔也不在镜头内，只传出他的画外音--主持人问我的老教授还有没有话要对成千上万被他感动的观众说。我不禁想到了死囚临刑前人们也会这么问，当然，科佩尔并没有联想到这个。

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"要有同情心，"莫里声音微弱他说。"要有责任感。只要我们学会了这两点，这个世界就会美好得多。"

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他吸了口气，然后加上了他的祷文："相爱或者死亡。"

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采访结束了。但不知是什么缘故，摄影师仍让机器转动着。于是，最后的场面也留在了像带上。

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"你干得不错，"科佩尔说。

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莫里无力地笑笑。

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"我把所有的都给你了，"他低声说。

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"你总是这样。"

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"特德，这疾病一直在敲打我的灵魂，但它夺不走它。病魔可以夺去我的躯体，但无法夺去我的灵魂。"

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科佩尔的眼眶里已经盈满了泪水。"你做得很好。"

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"你这么认为？"莫里翻着眼睛望着天花板。"我在和上帝谈判。我问上帝，’我能成为天使吗？’"

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这是莫里第一次说他在同上帝交谈。

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"Hit him harder."

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I slapped Morrie’s back.

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"Harder."

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I slapped him again.

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"Near his shoulders . . . now down lower."

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Morrie, dressed in pajama bottoms, lay in bed on his side, his head flush against the pillow, his mouth open. The physical therapist was showing me how to bang loose the poison in his lungs-which he needed done regularly now, to keep it from solidifying, to keep him breathing.

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"I . . . always knew . . . you wanted . . . to hit me . . ." Morrie gasped.

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Yeah, I joked as I rapped my fist against the alabaster skin of his back. This is for that B you gave me sophomore year! Whack!

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We all laughed, a nervous laughter that comes when the devil is within earshot. It would have been cute, this little scene, were it not what we all knew it was, the final calisthenics before death. Morrie’s disease was now dangerously close to his surrender spot, his lungs. He had been predicting he would die from choking, and I could not imagine a more terrible way to go. Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to draw the air up into his mouth and nostrils, and it seemed as if he were trying to lift an anchor.

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Outside, it was jacket weather, early October, the leaves clumped in piles on the lawns around West Newton. Morrie’s physical therapist had come earlier in the day, and I usually excused myself when nurses or specialists had business with him. But as the weeks passed and our time ran down, I was increasingly less self-conscious about the physical embarrassment. I wanted to be there. I wanted to observe everything. This was not like me, but then, neither were a lot of things that had happened these last few months in Morrie’s house.

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So I watched the therapist work on Morrie in the bed, pounding the back of his ribs, asking if he could feel the congestion loosening within him. And when she took a break, she asked if I wanted to try it. I said yes. Morrie, his face on the pillow, gave a little smile.

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"Not too hard," he said. "I’m an old man."

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I drummed on his back and sides, moving around, as she instructed. I hated the idea of Morrie’s lying in bed under any circumstances (his last aphorism, "When you’re in bed, you’re dead," rang in my ears), and curled on his side, he was so small, so withered, it was more a boy’s body than a man’s. I saw the paleness of his skin, the stray white hairs, the way his arms hung limp and helpless. I thought about how much time we spend trying to shape our bodies, lifting weights, crunching sit-ups, and in the end, nature takes it away from us anyhow. Beneath my fingers, I felt the loose flesh around Morrie’s bones, and I thumped him hard, as instructed. The truth is, I was pounding on his back when I wanted to be hitting the walls.

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"Mitch?" Morrie gasped, his voice jumpy as a jackhammer as I pounded on him.

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Uh-huh?

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"When did . . . I . . . give you . . . a B?"

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Morrie believed in the inherent good of people. But he also saw what they could become.

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"People are only mean when they’re threatened," he said later that day, "and that’s what our culture does. That’s what our economy does. Even people who have jobs in our economy are threatened, because they worry about losing them. And when you get threatened, you start looking out only for yourself. You start making money a god. It is all part of this culture."

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He exhaled. "Which is why I don’t buy into it."

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I nodded at him and squeezed his hand. We held hands regularly now. This was another change for me. Things that before would have made me embarrassed or squeamish were now routinely handled. The catheter bag, connected to the tube inside him and filled with greenish waste fluid, lay by my foot near the leg of his chair. A few months earlier, it might have disgusted me; it was inconsequential now. So was the smell of the room after Morrie had used the commode. He did not have the luxury of moving from place to place, of closing a bathroom door behind him, spraying some air freshener when he left. There was his bed, there was his chair, and that was his life. If my life were squeezed into such a thimble, I doubt I could make it smell any better.

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"Here’s what I mean by building your own little subculture," Morrie said. "I don’t mean you disregard every rule of your community. I don’t go around naked, for example. I don’t run through red lights. The little things, I can obey. But the big things-how we think, what we value-those you must choose yourself. You can’t let anyone-or any society determine those for you.

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"Take my condition. The things I am supposed to be embarrassed about now-not being able to walk, not being able to wipe my ass, waking up some mornings wanting to cry-there is nothing innately embarrassing or shaming about them.

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"It’s the same for women not being thin enough, or men not being rich enough. It’s just what our culture would have you believe. Don’t believe it."

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I asked Morrie why he hadn’t moved somewhere else when he was younger.

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"Where?"

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I don’t know. South America. New Guinea. Someplace not as selfish as America.

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"Every society has its own problems," Morrie said, lifting his eyebrows, the closest he could come to a shrug. "The way to do it, I think, isn’t to run away. You have to work at creating your own culture.

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"Look, no matter where you live, the biggest defect we human beings have is our shortsightedness. We don’t see what we could be. We should be looking at our potential, stretching ourselves into everything we can become. But if you’re surrounded by people who say `I want mine now,’ you end up with a few people with everything and a military to keep the poor ones from rising up and stealing it."

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Morrie looked over my shoulder to the far window. Sometimes you could hear a passing truck or a whip of the wind. He gazed for a moment at his neighbors’ houses, then continued.

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"The problem, Mitch, is that we don’t believe we are as much alike as we are. Whites and blacks, Catholics and Protestants, men and women. If we saw each other as more alike, we might be very eager to join in one big human family in this world, and to care about that family the way we care about our own.

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"But believe me, when you are dying, you see it is true. We all have the same beginning-birth-and we all have the same end-death. So how different can we be?

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"Invest in the human family. Invest in people. Build a little community of those you love and who love you."

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He squeezed my hand gently. I squeezed back harder. And like that carnival contest where you bang a hammer and watch the disk rise up the pole, I could almost see my body heat rise up Morrie’s chest and neck into his cheeks and eyes. He smiled.

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"In the beginning of life, when we are infants, we need others to survive, right? And at the end of life, when you get like me, you need others to survive, right?"

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His voice dropped to a whisper. "But here’s the secret: in between, we need others as well."

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Later that afternoon, Connie and I went into the bedroom to watch the O. J. Simpson verdict. It was a tense scene as the principals all turned to face the jury, Simpson, in his blue suit, surrounded by his small army of lawyers, the prosecutors who wanted him behind bars just a few feet away. When the foreman read the verdict"Not guilty"-Connie shrieked.

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"Oh my God!"

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We watched as Simpson hugged his lawyers. We listened as the commentators tried to explain what it all meant. We saw crowds of blacks celebrating in the streets outside the courthouse, and crowds of whites sitting stunned inside restaurants. The decision was being hailed as momentous, even though murders take place every day. Connie went out in the hall. She had seen enough.

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I heard the door to Morrie’s study close. I stared at the TV set. Everyone in the world is watching this thing, I told myself. Then, from the other room, I heard the ruffling of Morrie’s being lifted from his chair and I smiled. As "The Trial of the Century" reached its dramatic conclusion, my old professor was sitting on the toilet.

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It is 1979, a basketball game in the Brandeis gym. The team is doing well, and the student section begins a chant, "We’re number one! We’re number one!" Morrie is sitting nearby. He is puzzled by the cheer. At one point, in the midst of "We’re number one!" he rises and yells, "What’s wrong with being number two?"

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