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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Orientation|The Audiovisual

属类: 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读:[11616]
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当我那辆租来的车子拐上莫里在波士顿一个僻静的郊区西纽顿的那条街时,我手里握着一杯咖啡,肩膀和耳朵间夹着一只手机。我正在跟一个电视制片人谈一个节目。我的眼睛在数字钟一离我返回的班机时间还有几个小时——和树木成行的街道上那些邮箱号码之间跳来跳去。车上的收音机打开着,那是新闻台。这就是我的生活节奏,一心可以五用。

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“把带子倒回去,”我对制片人说,“让我把那部分再听一遍。”

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“好的,”他说,“稍等片刻。”

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突然,那幢房子跃入了我的眼帘。我踩下刹车,咖啡晃出了杯子。车停下后,我瞥见了车道上的那棵日本大槭树和它旁边坐着的三个人。坐在两边的是一个年轻人和一个中年妇女,中间是一个坐在轮椅上的老人。

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莫里-----看见我的老教授,我惊呆了。

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"喂"广制片人的声音在我耳边响了起来。“你还在听吗?……”

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我有十六年没有见到他。他的头发更稀了,几近花白,形容枯槁。我突然感到我还没有准备好重逢——至少,我眼下还得先应付完这个电话——我希望他并没有注意到我的到来,这样,我就可以再驶过几个街区,办完我的公事,做好心理准备。但莫里,这位我曾经是那么熟悉但现在又是那么陌生、那么憔悴的老人,此时正对着车子在微笑。他两手交叉着放在腿上,等待着我从车子里出现。

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“喂,”制片人又在喊。“你在听吗?”

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为了我们多年的相处,为了莫里曾经给予我的那份体贴和耐心,我应该丢掉电话,跳出车子去拥抱他,去吻他。

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但我没那么做。我关掉了引擎,蹲伏下身子似乎在找东西。

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“是的,我在听,”我压低嗓门继续同制片人在交谈,直到把事情谈妥。

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我做了我最擅长的事情。我仍在关心我的工作,尽管来日无多的老教授在他门前草坪等着我。我并不引以为自豪,但这正是我所做的。

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五分钟后,莫里拥抱了我,他稀松的头发擦过我的脸颊。我告诉他刚才我在找钥匙,所以在车里呆了那么久。我更用力地抱住他,似乎想挤碎我的小谎言。虽然春天的阳光暖融融的,他却穿着一件风衣,腿上还盖着毯子。他嘴里发出一股淡淡的酸味,那是正在服药的人常有的一种气味。由于他的脸凑得离我很近,我能听见他吃力的呼吸声。

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“我的老朋友,”他轻声说,“你终于回来了。”

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他倚着我摇晃着身子,始终没和我分开。当我俯下身去时,他的手抓住了我的肘部。相隔了这么多年他居然能保持着这份感情,我感到十分惊讶。但再一想。正由于我在我的过去和现在之间建立起了一堵石墙,所以我会忘记我们曾有过的亲密,我记起了毕业的那天,记起了那只皮包和我离开时他的泪花。但我没有流露出来,因为我在内心深处已经意识到,我不再是那个他记忆中的赠送他礼物的好学生了。

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我所希望的是,我能在接下来的几个小时里蒙住他的眼睛。

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进屋后,我们坐在一张胡桃木的餐桌旁,靠近一扇能望见邻居宅院的窗户。莫里在轮椅上不停地动,想使自己坐舒服些。他想请我吃点什么,这是他的习惯,我说好的。助手中有一位名叫康尼、长得很结实的意大利女人端上了切好的面包。土豆,以及放有鸡肉色拉。鹰嘴豆泥和小麦色拉的盘子。

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她还拿来了药片。莫里朝它们看看,叹了口气。他的眼睛凹陷得比我想象中的还要深,颧骨也突得更出了。这使他显得更苍老——只有他笑的时候,那松垂的脸颊才像帷幕一样收拢起来。

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“米奇,”他轻声说,“你知道我离死期不远了。”

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“我知道。"

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“那好,”莫里吞下了药片,放下纸杯,深深地吸了口气,再慢慢地呼出来。“要我告诉你是怎么回事吗?”

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“怎么回事?死亡是怎么回事?"

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“是的,”他说。

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虽然我还没有意识到,但我们的最后一堂课开始了。

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那是我大学的第一年。莫里的年龄比大部分教师大,而我却比大多数学生小,因为我提前一年就高中毕业了。为了在校园里不显得稚嫩,我身着旧的灰色无领长袖衫,常去当地的体育馆打拳,走路时还叼上一支没有点燃的烟,尽管我不会吸烟。我开的是一辆水星牌的破车,震耳的音乐声从没有摇上的车窗里传出来。我竭力表现出粗野的个性——然而,莫里的和蔼吸引了我,而且,也正因为他没有把我看成是一个未经世故的孩子,于是我释然了。

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我上完了他的第一门课,又选了他的另一门课程。他是个打分很宽松的教授,不太注重分数。据说有一年,那是在越战期间,莫里给所有的男学生都打了A,使他们能获得缓役的机会。

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我开始称呼他“教练”,就像我称呼高中的田径教练那样。莫里很喜欢这个绰号。

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“教练,”他说。“好吧,我会成为你的教练,你可以做我的上场队员。凡是生活中美好但我又老得无法享受的东西,你都可以替我上场。”

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有时我们一起在餐厅用餐。令我高兴的是,他比我还要不修边幅。他吃东西时爱说话,还张大嘴笑,从他满嘴的鸡蛋色拉和沾着蛋黄的牙缝里传出富有激情的思想。

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他让我捧腹大笑。在我认识他的那段时间里,我最强烈的两个愿望是:拥抱他和给他一张餐巾纸。

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In March of 1995, a limousine carrying Ted Koppel, the host of ABC-TV’s "Nightline" pulled up to the snow-covered curb outside Morrie’s house in West Newton, Massachusetts.

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Morrie was in a wheelchair full-time now, getting used to helpers lifting him like a heavy sack from the chair to the bed and the bed to the chair. He had begun to cough while eating, and chewing was a chore. His legs were dead; he would never walk again.

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Yet he refused to be depressed. Instead, Morrie had become a lightning rod of ideas. He jotted down his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders, scrap paper. He wrote bite-sized philosophies about living with death’s shadow: "Accept what you are able to do and what you are not able to do"; "Accept the past as past, without denying it or discarding it"; "Learn to forgive yourself and to forgive others"; "Don’t assume that it’s too late to get involved."

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After a while, he had more than fifty of these "aphorisms," which he shared with his friends. One friend, a fellow Brandeis professor named Maurie Stein, was so taken with the words that he sent them to a Boston Globe reporter, who came out and wrote a long feature story on Morrie. The headline read: A PROFESSOR’S FINAL COURSE: HIS OWN DEATH The article caught the eye of a producer from the "Nightline" show, who brought it to Koppel in Washington, D. C.

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"Take a look at this," the producer said.

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Next thing you knew, there were cameramen in Morrie’s living room and Koppel’s limousine was in front of the house.

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Several of Morrie’s friends and family members had gathered to meet Koppel, and when the famous man entered the house, they buzzed with excitement-all except Morrie, who wheeled himself forward, raised his eyebrows, and interrupted the clamor with his high, singsong voice.

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"Ted, I need to check you out before I agree to do this interview."

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There was an awkward moment of silence, then the two men were ushered into the study. The door was shut. "Man," one friend whispered outside the door, "I hope Ted goes easy on Morrie."

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"I hope Morrie goes easy on Ted," said the other.

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Inside the office, Morrie motioned for Koppel to sit down. He crossed his hands in his lap and smiled.

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"Tell me something close to your heart," Morrie began.

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"My heart?"

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Koppel studied the old man. "All right," he said cautiously, and he spoke about his children. They were close to his heart, weren’t they?

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"Good," Morrie said. "Now tell me something, about your faith."

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Koppel was uncomfortable. "I usually don’t talk about such things with people I’ve only known a few minutes."

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"Ted, I’m dying," Morrie said, peering over his glasses. "I don’t have a lot of time here."

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Koppel laughed. All right. Faith. He quoted a passage from Marcus Aurelius, something he felt strongly about. Morrie nodded.

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"Now let me ask you something," Koppel said. "Have you ever seen my program?"

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Morrie shrugged. "Twice, I think." "Twice? That’s all?"

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"Don’t feel bad. I’ve only seen `Oprah’ once." "Well, the two times you saw my show, what did you think?"

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Morrie paused. "To be honest?"

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"Yes?"

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"I thought you were a narcissist." Koppel burst into laughter.

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"I’m too ugly to be a narcissist," he said.

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Soon the cameras were rolling in front of the living room fireplace, with Koppel in his crisp blue suit and Morrie in his shaggy gray sweater. He had refused fancy clothes or makeup for this interview. His philosophy was that death should not be embarrassing; he was not about to powder its nose.

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Because Morrie sat in the wheelchair, the camera never caught his withered legs. And because he was still able to move his hands-Morrie always spoke with both hands waving-he showed great passion when explaining how you face the end of life.

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"Ted," he said, "when all this started, I asked myself, `Am I going to withdraw from the world, like most people do, or am I going to live?’ I decided I’m going to live-or at least try to live-the way I want, with dignity, with courage, with humor, with composure.

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"There are some mornings when I cry and cry and mourn for myself. Some mornings, I’m so angry and bitter. But it doesn’t last too long. Then I get up and say, `I want to live . . .’

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"So far, I’ve been able to do it. Will I be able to continue? I don’t know. But I’m betting on myself that I will."

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Koppel seemed extremely taken with Morrie. He asked about the humility that death induced.

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"Well, Fred," Morrie said accidentally, then he quickly corrected himself. "I mean Ted . . . "

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"Now that’s inducing humility," Koppel said, laughing.

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The two men spoke about the afterlife. They spoke about Morrie’s increasing dependency on other people. He already needed help eating and sitting and moving from place to place. What, Koppel asked, did Morrie dread the most about his slow, insidious decay?

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Morrie paused. He asked if he could say this certain thing on television.

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Koppel said go ahead.

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Morrie looked straight into the eyes of the most famous interviewer in America. "Well, Ted, one day soon, someone’s gonna have to wipe my ass."

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The program aired on a Friday night. It began with Ted Koppel from behind the desk in Washington, his voice booming with authority.

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"Who is Morrie Schwartz," he said, "and why, by the end of the night, are so many of you going to care about him?"

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A thousand miles away, in my house on the hill, I was casually flipping channels. I heard these words from the TV set "Who is Morrie Schwartz?"-and went numb.

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It is our first class together, in the spring of 1976. I enter Morrie’s large office and notice the seemingly countless books that line the wall, shelf after shelf. Books on sociology, philosophy, religion, psychology. There is a large rug on the hardwood floor and a window that looks out on the campus walk. Only a dozen or so students are there, fumbling with notebooks and syllabi. Most of them wear jeans and earth shoes and plaid flannel shirts. I tell myself it will not be easy to cut a class this small. Maybe I shouldn’t take it.

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"Mitchell?" Morrie says, reading from the attendance list. I raise a hand.

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"Do you prefer Mitch? Or is Mitchell better?"

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I have never been asked this by a teacher. I do a double take at this guy in his yellow turtleneck and green corduroy pants, the silver hair that falls on his forehead. He is smiling.

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Mitch, I say. Mitch is what my friends called me.

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"Well, Mitch it is then," Morrie says, as if closing a deal. "And, Mitch?"

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Yes?

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"I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend."

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※※※

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