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相约星期二|Tuesdays with Morrie

The Second Tuesday We Talk About Feeling Sorry for Yourself

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 米奇-艾尔邦] 阅读：[11598]
The First Tuesday We Talk About the World
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我下个星期二又去了莫里家。以后几个星期都是如此。我盼着去看他，这种欲望已经超过了一般的程度，因为我坐飞机跨越七百英里去看望的是一个垂死的人。可每当我与莫里在一起的时候，我就似乎处在一种时间的异常状态，我的心情会格外的舒畅。从机场到他家的路上我不再租打手机。让他们去等，我仿效莫里的话对自己说。

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底特律的报业形势仍不见好转。事实上，由于发生了纠察队员和替补员工的激烈冲突，发生人们遭到逮捕、遭到殴打、躺在街上阻拦运报车的事件，整个事件正变得越来越疯狂。

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在这种情形下，我和莫里的会面就像是一帖还人类之善良的清洁剂。我们谈人生，谈爱，谈莫里最喜欢的一个话题--同情，为什么我们这个社会如此缺乏同情心。前几次来的路上，我在一个叫"面包马戏团"的市场停了下来--他们那儿的食品袋我在莫里家也曾看到过，我猜想他一定喜欢这里的食品--我在熟食外卖处买了好几袋的东西，有蔬菜面条，胡萝卜汤和蜜糖果仁千层酥。

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一走进莫里的书房，我提起袋子好像刚抢了银行似地大叫道。

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"美食家！"

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莫里转动着眼睛笑了。

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我同时在观察他的病情有没有加重的症状。他的手指还能使用铅笔或拿起眼镜，但手已经抬不过胸口了。他呆在厨房和客厅的时间越来越少，更多的是呆在书房，那里有一张很大的躺椅，上面堆放着枕头。毯子以及一些用来固定他日见萎缩的腿和脚的海绵橡胶。他身边还放了一个铃，当他的头需要挪动或要"上马桶"（这是他的提法）时，他会摇一下铃，然后康尼，托尼。伯莎或艾美--他的家庭助手服务队--就会进来。摇铃也不是一件轻而易举的事，当他没能把铃摇响的时候他会感到沮丧。

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我问莫里他是否自哀自怜。

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"有时候会的，在早上，"他说。"那是我悲哀的时刻。我触摸自己的身体，移动手和手指--一切还能动弹的部位--然后为自己失去的感到悲哀。我悲哀这种缓慢、不知不觉的死法，但随后我便停止了哀叹，"

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这么快？

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"需要的时候我就大哭一场。但随后我就去想生活中仍很美好的东西，想那些要来看我的人，想就要听到的趣事，还想你--如果是星期二的话。因为我们是星期二人。"

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我笑了。星期二人。

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"米奇，我不让自己有更多的自哀自怜。每天早上就一小会儿，掉几滴眼泪，就完了。"

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我想到有许多人早上醒来后会花上很多的时间自怨自艾。要是稍加限制的话会有好处的。就几分钟的伤心，然后开始一天的生活。如果莫里这种身患绝症的人能够做到的话，那么……

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"只有当你觉得它可怕时，它才可怕，"莫里说。"看着自己的躯体慢慢地萎谢的确很可怕，但它也有幸运的一面，因为我可以有时间跟人说再见。"

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他笑笑说，"不是每个人都这么幸运的。"

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我审视着轮椅上的莫里：不能站立，不能洗澡，不能穿裤。幸运？他真是在说幸运？

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趁莫里上厕所的空档，我随手翻开了放在轮椅旁边的《波士顿时报》。有一则报道说，在一个森林小镇，两个十几岁的女孩折磨死了一个把她们当作朋友的七十三岁的男子，然后在他的活动房里举行了聚会并向众人展示了尸体，另一条新闻是关于即将要开庭审理的一个案子：一个演员杀死了一个同性恋者，原因是后者在电视上说他非常喜欢他。

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我放下了报纸。莫里被推了回来--脸上仍堆着笑容--康尼准备把他从轮椅扶到躺椅上去。

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要我来吗？我问。

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一时谁都没言语，我也不知道自己怎么会自告奋勇的。莫里看了看康尼说，"你能教他怎么做吗？"

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"行，"康尼说。

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照着她的话，我探过身去将前臂插进莫里的腋下，用力往自己这边拖，就像拖一根圆木那样。然后我站直身子，把他也提了起来。通常，当你把一个人提起来时，对方会紧紧抓住你，但莫里却做不到。他几乎是死沉死沉的。我感觉到他的头耷在我的肩膀上一颠一颠的，他的身体犹如一个湿面团紧贴在我的身上。

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"哼--"他轻轻地呻吟起来。

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我抱着你，我抱着你，我说。

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就这么托着他的时候，我产生了一种无法描述的感情，我感觉到了他日趋枯竭的躯体内的死亡种子，在我把他抱上躺椅。把头放上枕头的一瞬间，我十分清醒地意识到我们的时间不多了。

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我必须做些什么。

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1978年我在上大学三年级，那时迪斯科舞和洛奇系列电影成了风靡一时的文化时尚。我们在布兰代斯开设了一门很特别的社会问题研究课，莫里称它为"小组疗程"。我们每星期都要讨论小组成员互相接触的方式，观察他们对愤怒、妒忌或关心等心理行为的反应。我们都成了人类实验鼠。常常有人在最后流下了泪。我把它称作是"多愁善感"课。莫里说我的感情应该更开放些。

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那天，莫里让我们作了一次实验。我们站成前后两排，前排的人背对着后排的人。随后，他让前排的人向后倒去，由后排的同学将他们扶住。许多人都觉得不自在，稍稍往后倒几英寸便收住了身子。大家都窘迫地笑了。

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最后，有一个同学，一个老是穿一件宽大的白色运动衫。长得瘦小文静的女孩把双手合在胸前，闭上眼睛，直挺挺地向后倒去，那架势真像立顿红茶广告里的那位掉进水池的模特。

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那一瞬间，我肯定她会重重地摔倒在地。但情急之中，和她搭档的那位同学一把抓住了她的头和肩膀，毛手毛脚地把她扶了起来。

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"哇！"好几个同学喊道，有的还鼓了掌。

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莫里笑了。

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"你瞧，"他对那个女孩说，"你闭上了眼睛，那就是区别。有时候你不能只相信你所看见的，你还得相信你所感觉的。如果你想让别人信任你，你首先应该感到你也能信任他--即使你是在黑暗中，即使你是在向后倒去。"

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Connie opened the door and let me in. Morrie was in his wheelchair by the kitchen table, wearing a loose cotton shirt and even looser black sweatpants. They were loose because his legs had atrophied beyond normal clothing size-you could get two hands around his thighs and have your fingers touch. Had he been able to stand, he’d have been no more than five feet tall, and he’d probably have fit into a sixth grader’s jeans.

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"I got you something," I announced, holding up a brown paper bag. I had stopped on my way from the airport at a nearby supermarket and purchased some turkey, potato salad, macaroni salad, and bagels. I knew there was plenty of food at the house, but I wanted to contribute something. I was so powerless to help Morrie otherwise. And I remembered his fondness for eating.

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"Ah, so much food!" he sang. "Well. Now you have to eat it with me."

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We sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by wicker chairs. This time, without the need to make up sixteen years of information, we slid quickly into the familiar waters of our old college dialogue, Morrie asking questions, listening to my replies, stopping like a chef to sprinkle in something I’d forgotten or hadn’t realized. He asked about the newspaper strike, and true to form, he couldn’t understand why both sides didn’t simply communicate with each other and solve their problems. I told him not everyone was as smart as he was.

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Occasionally, he had to stop to use the bathroom, a process that took some time. Connie would wheel him to the toilet, then lift him from the chair and support him as he urinated into the beaker. Each time he came back, he looked tired.

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"Do you remember when I told Ted Koppel that pretty soon someone was gonna have to wipe my ass?" he said.

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I laughed. You don’t forget a moment like that. "Well, I think that day is coming. That one bothers me."

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Why?

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"Because it’s the ultimate sign of dependency. Someone wiping your bottom. But I’m working on it. I’m trying to enjoy the process."

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Enjoy it?

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"Yes. After all, I get to be a baby one more time." That’s a unique way of looking at it.

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"Well, I have to look at life uniquely now. Let’s face it. I can’t go shopping, I can’t take care of the bank accounts, I can’t take out the garbage. But I can sit here with my dwindling days and look at what I think is important in life. I have both the time-and the reason-to do that."

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So, I said, in a reflexively cynical response, I guess the key to finding the meaning of life is to stop taking out the garbage?

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He laughed, and I was relieved that he did.

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As Connie took the plates away, I noticed a stack of newspapers that had obviously been read before I got there.

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You bother keeping up with the news, I asked? "Yes," Morrie said. "Do you think that’s strange? Do you think because I’m dying, I shouldn’t care what happens in this world?"

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Maybe.

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He sighed. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t care. After all, I won’t be around to see how it all turns out.

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"But it’s hard to explain, Mitch. Now that I’m suffering, I feel closer to people who suffer than I ever did before. The other night, on TV, I saw people in Bosnia running across the street, getting fired upon, killed, innocent victims . . . and I just started to cry. I feel their anguish as if it were my own. I don’t know any of these people. But-how can I put this?-I’m almost . . . drawn to them."

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His eyes got moist, and I tried to change the subject, but he dabbed his face and waved me off.

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"I cry all the time now," he said. "Never mind."

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Amazing, I thought. I worked in the news business. I covered stories where people died. I interviewed grieving family members. I even attended the funerals. I never cried. Morrie, for the suffering of people half a world away, was weeping. Is this what comes at the end, I wondered? Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make strangers shed a tear for one another.

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Morrie honked loudly into the tissue. "This is okay with you, isn’t it? Men crying?"

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Sure, I said, too quickly.

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He grinned. "Ah, Mitch, I’m gonna loosen you up. One day, I’m gonna show you it’s okay to cry."

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Yeah, yeah, I said. "Yeah, yeah," he said.

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We laughed because he used to say the same thing nearly twenty years earlier. Mostly on Tuesdays. In fact, Tuesday had always been our day together. Most of my courses with Morrie were on Tuesdays, he had office hours on Tuesdays, and when I wrote my senior thesiswhich was pretty much Morrie’s suggestion, right from the start-it was on Tuesdays that we sat together, by his desk, or in the cafeteria, or on the steps of Pearlman Hall, going over the work.

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So it seemed only fitting that we were back together on a Tuesday, here in the house with the Japanese maple out front. As I readied to go, I mentioned this to Morrie.

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"We’re Tuesday people," he said. Tuesday people, I repeated.

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Morrie smiled.

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"Mitch, you asked about caring for people I don’t even know. But can I tell you the thing I’m learning most with this disease?"

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What’s that?

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"The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in."

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His voice dropped to a whisper. "Let it come in. We think we don’t deserve love, we think if we let it in we’ll become too soft. But a wise man named Levine said it right. He said, `Love is the only rational act.’ "

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He repeated it carefully, pausing for effect. " `Love is the only rational act.’ "

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I nodded, like a good student, and he exhaled weakly. I leaned over to give him a hug. And then, although it is not really like me, I kissed him on the cheek. I felt his weakened hands on my arms, the thin stubble of his whiskers brushing my face.

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"So you’ll come back next Tuesday?" he whispered.

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He enters the classroom, sits down, doesn’t say anything. He looks at its, we look at him. At first, there are a few giggles, but Morrie only shrugs, and eventually a deep silence falls and we begin to notice the smallest sounds, the radiator humming in the corner of the room, the nasal breathing of one of the fat students.

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Some of us are agitated. When is lie going to say something? We squirm, check our watches. A few students look out the window, trying to be above it all. This goes on a good fifteen minutes, before Morrie finally breaks in with a whisper.

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"What’s happening here?" he asks.

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And slowly a discussion begins as Morrie has wanted all along-about the effect of silence on human relations. My are we embarrassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?

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I am not bothered by the silence. For all the noise I make with my friends, I am still not comfortable talking about my feelings in front of others-especially not classmates. I could sit in the quiet for hours if that is what the class demanded.

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On my way out, Morrie stops me. "You didn’t say much today," he remarks.

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I don’t know. I just didn’t have anything to add.

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"I think you have a lot to add. In fact, Mitch, you remind me of someone I knew who also liked to keep things to himself when he was younger."

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"Me."

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