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北回归线|Tropic Of Cancer

Part 5 第2章|Part 5 Chapter 2

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 亨利-米勒] 阅读：[14210]
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亲爱的，我看你应当更频繁地把脚从钢琴踏板上抬起来。对了，这一段很好听……非常好听。你说呢？是的，剧中人物把麦克风藏在裤子里来回走动。剧情发生在亚洲，因为这种气氛更有益。来一点安如葡萄酒怎么样？这是我们特意为你买的呢……

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吃饭过程中他一直这样蝶蝶不休地胡扯，他这番话使人切实感到他已掏出自己割过包皮的鸡巴在朝我们身上撒尿。塔尼亚听得厌烦死了，自从满怀柔情蜜意回来后他一直不停地自言自语。塔尼亚告诉我，他边脱裤子边唠叨，一泡热呼呼的尿便源源不断地撒出来，像有人刺穿了他的膀胱。一想到塔尼亚同这个破了膀胱的家伙一起爬上床我就来气。想想看，一个又穷又憔悴的狗杂种，被子里塞着几部下作的百老汇剧本，居然朝我心爱的女人身上撒尿，居然叫红酒、要旋转灯具、要在豌豆汤里放油炸面包块。他脸皮真厚！再想想看，他居然躺在我替他弄好的炉火边，什么都不干，只是撒尿！老天，你这家伙，你该跪在地下好好谢我才是。难道你没有看见你屋里有了一个女人？难道你看不出她已厌烦了？你竟然还沙哑着嗓子告诉我—“好了，我告诉你……有两种方法看待……”去你妈的两种看待事物的方法！去你妈的多元世界和你的亚洲人的音响效果！别把你的红酒或安如葡萄酒递给我……把她让给我……她是属于我的。你去坐在喷泉边上好了，让我来嗅紫丁香！弄出你眼睛里的头皮屑……把那个见鬼的慢板裹在一条法兰绒裤子里！还有别的小乐章……你那衰弱的膀胱造出来的所有小乐章。你那么自信、那么有心计地朝我微笑。我把你奉承得忘乎所以了，知道吗？就在我听你说蠢话的问时她正在抚摸我—只是你没有看见罢了。你以为我乐意受磨难，你说那是我该扮演的角色。好吧。问问她，她会告诉你我是怎样受磨难的。”你是个癌病人、狂人。”那天她在电话上这么说。她现在得到这个癌病人和狂人了，不用多久你也会在身上找到疥癣的。她的血管快炸了，我告诉你，你的话一点意思也没有。无论你唠唠叨叨地说多少也堵不住漏洞。雷恩先生是怎么说的？”言语即意味着孤独。”昨晚我在桌布上给你留了几个字，可你却用胳膊盖住了。

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他把她用栅栏围起来，好像她是一位圣人身上一块又脏又臭的骨头。若是他有胆量说一声”占有她”，也许会发生一个奇迹。只要说声”占有她”，我发誓一切都会圆满解决的，何况我或许不想要她呢。不知他曾想到这一层了没有？或许我会暂时占有她一会儿，过后再把她还给他，她会变得更好。可是把她用栅栏围起来总不是办法，你无法把一个人围住，没有人再这样干了……你这可怜的、干瘪的杂种，你以为我配不上她，以为我会玷污她、亵读她，可你不懂一个被人玷污过的女人是多么妙不可言，不懂接受别人的精液之后一个女人会更光彩照人！

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你以为有一颗充满柔情蜜意的心就足够了。也许对某一个女人是这样的，可你连心都没有了……你什么都不是，只是一个大空尿脖。你在磨利牙齿，扯着嗓门大叫大嚷，你像条看家狗一样跟在她屁股后面跑，到处撒尿，她不把你当作一条看家狗……却把你看成一位诗人。她说，你曾一度是位诗人。现在你又是什么？勇气，西尔维斯特，勇气！把那个麦克风从裤裆里拿出来，放下后腿，别再四处撒尿。我说，拿出勇气来，她已经从你身边逃开了。告诉你，她早已被砧污了，所以你还是把栅栏拆了为好。彬彬有礼地问我咖啡的味儿是否比石灰酸好点儿也没有用，我不会给吓跑的。把老鼠药放进咖啡里好了，再来点玻璃粉。尿一泡热气腾腾的尿，再扔几颗豆蔻进去……You think a heart full of love is enough, and perhaps it is, for the right woman, but you haven’t got a heart any more … you are nothing but a big, empty bladder. You are sharpening your teeth and cultivating your growl. You run at her heels like a watchdog and you piddle everywhere. She didn’t take you for a watchdog … she took you for a poet. You were a poet once, she said. And now what are you? Courage, Sylvester, courage! Take the microphone out of your pants. Put your hind leg down and stop making water everywhere. Courage I say, because she’s ditched you already. She’s contaminated, I tell you, and you might as well take down the fence. No use asking me politely if the coffee doesn’t taste like carbolic acid: that won’t scare me away. Put rat poison in the coffee, and a little ground glass. Make some boiling hot urine and drop a few nutmegs in it…

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几个星期以来我一直过着一种群体生活，我不得不同其他人一道过日子，主要是几个疯疯癫癫的俄国人、一个醉醺醺的荷兰人和一个叫奥尔加的大块头保加利亚女人。俄国人则主要是指尤金和阿纳托里。

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奥尔加几天前才刚刚出院，她在医院里割掉了身上的几根管子，掉了一点儿赘肉，不过看上去并不像是受了多大的罪，体重仍同一部有驼峰似曲线的火车头差不多。她大汗淋漓，口中奇臭，仍旧戴着刨花状的切尔克斯假发。她的下巴上生着两个大疣子，疣子上长出一撮毛来，于是她便干脆留起了小胡子。

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奥尔加从医院回家后的第二天便又重操做鞋旧业，早晨六点便在长凳上干开了，每天做好两双鞋。尤金总抱怨说奥尔加是个负担，实际上却是奥尔加用她每天做的两双鞋养活尤金和他老婆，奥尔加若是不干活便没有吃的。于是人人都争先恐后及时把奥尔加拖上床，都争着给她足够的食物来维持下去……

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每顿饭都是以喝汤开始的，不论是葱头汤、西红柿汤、菜汤还是别的，这类汤都是一个味道。那味道总像是洗碟子的抹布扔在里面煮过一样—有点儿酸味、霉味，上面漂着渣子。每顿饭后我便看到尤金把它藏在柜子里，它就在那儿继续霉变下去，直到下顿饭再端出来。奶油也藏在柜子里，放了三天以后那味道就像一具尸首上的大脚趾。

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煎放坏了的奶油时散发出的气味并不是很开胃的，更何况做饭的房间里根本没有任何通风设备。我一打开门就觉得恶心，可是尤金一听到我来了便总要打开百叶窗，扯开像鱼网一样结在一起遮阳光的床单。可怜的尤金！他四下里望望屋里几件粗笨的家具、肮脏的床单和还盛着脏水的洗脸盆，然后说，”我是一个奴隶！”他每天都这么说，还不只说一遍，要说十来遍，说完便从墙上摘下吉他唱起歌来。

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坏掉的奶油……这也使我产生了许多联想。一想起这变质的奶油我就感觉到自己正站在一个小小的老式院子里，这是一个气味很难闻、很凄凉的院子。稀奇古怪的人物透过百叶窗上的裂缝偷偷地窥视我……其中有围着披中的老妇人、小矮人、生着一张老鼠脸拉皮条的弯腰询背的犹太人、轻桃的小妞和留胡子的傻瓜。他们瞒珊走进院子来汲水、洗刷污水桶。一天尤金问我肯不肯替他倒污水，我就提着桶到那个角落里去了。地上有一个孔，孔周围乱扔着一些脏纸。那一小口井也被排泄物弄得很脏，在英语里排泄物即是屎尿。我将桶一斜，一摊摊又脏又臭、叫人意料不到的东西便噗噗溅出来。待我回去，汤已盛好了，吃饭时我始终想着我的牙刷—牙刷旧了，毛常嵌入牙缝中。

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坐下吃饭时我总是拣靠窗的座位，我怕坐在桌子另一端，那儿离床太近。那张床叫人心里发怵，一扭过头去我便可以看到灰色床单上的血污，可我尽量不看那边而去看窗外院子里的人刷洗污水桶。

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每逢吃饭总要有音乐助兴。大家都取过奶酪后尤金便跳起来摘下挂在床上方的吉他。曲子总是那一支，他说他能弹十五六支曲子，可是我听到的从来没有超过三支。他最喜欢弹的是”迷人的爱情诗”，这支曲子充满苦恼和悲哀的情调。

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下午我们到电影院去，那儿凉快、黑暗。尤金坐在乐池里的钢琴前，我坐在前排的一只长椅上。影院里空无一人，尤金仍唱得十分卖力，似乎欧洲所有的帝王都在听他演唱。花园门打开了，湿树叶的气味飘进来，潇潇雨声同尤金悲凉凄苦的歌声交织在一起。午夜过后，来看热闹的人身上发出的汗臭和难闻的口臭弥漫了大厅，我便回去找一只长椅睡觉了。影院出口处的灯光在烟气中摇曳，在石棉幕布下方一角上投下一缕微光。

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我每夜在这只人工眼的逼视下闭上自己的眼睛……戴着一只假眼站在院子里，仅有半个世界是清晰可见的。石头是湿的，上面生着青苔，石头缝里有黑色的蛤螟。通往地下室的入口处由一扇大门挡着，阶梯很滑，上面尽是蝙蝠屎，很脏。门膨胀了，眼看就要倒下来，门的合页也快脱落了，然而门上却赫然用彩笔写着几个堂皇的字：”切记随手关门。”为什么要关门？我搞不明白。我又瞧瞧这几个字，它们不见了，在原来的地方嵌着一块彩色玻璃。我取下假眼，朝上面啐口唾沫，用手帕擦拭了一番。一个女人正坐在一个高台子上，这个台子比一张巨大的雕木写字台还高。女人脖子上还盘绕着一条蛇。整个房间里摆满了书，稀奇古怪的鱼在彩球状鱼缸里邀游，墙上挂着几幅地图和图表—大瘟疫前的巴黎地图、古代世界地图、克诺索斯和迎太基地图、迪太基被攻占前后的地图。我在房间一角看到一只铁架床、床上放着一具尸体。那女人无精打彩地站起来从床上搬下尸体，心不在焉地把它从窗口扔出去。她回到大雕木写字台旁，从鱼缸里抓出一条金鱼吞下肚去。接着房间慢慢旋转起来，几块大陆—滑进大海里，只有那女人尚在，不过她的躯体也成为一大块土地。我把头探出窗外，埃菲尔铁塔正在注外喷香槟酒，它完全由数字建成，遮盖在黑色花边之下。阴沟汩汩地急速流淌。到处都是屋顶，铺得很整齐、很叫人讨厌的屋顶，除此之外一无所有。

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I think, dear, you should lift your foot from the pedal more frequently. Yes, that part is very nice … very nice, don’t you think? Yes, the characters go around with microphones in their trousers. The locale is in Asia, because the atmospheric conditions are more conducive. Would you like to try a little Anjou? We bought it especially for you…

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All through the meal this patter continues. It feels exactly as if he had taken out that circumcised dick of his and was peeing on us. Tania is bursting with the strain. Ever since he came back with a heart full of love this monologue has been going on. He talks while he’s undressing, she tells me – a steady stream of warm piss, as though his bladder had been punctured. When I think of Tania crawling into bed with this busted bladder I get enraged. To think that a poor, withered bastard with those cheap Broadway plays up his sleeve should be pissing on the woman I love. Calling for red wine and revolving drums and croutons in his pea soup. The cheek of him! To think that he can lie beside that furnace I stoked for him and do nothing but make water! My God, man, you ought to get down on your knees and thank me. Don’t you see that you have a woman in your house now? Can’t you see she’s bursting? You telling me with those strangulated adenoids of yours – "well now, I’ll tell you … there’s two ways of looking at that…" Fuck your two ways of looking at things! Fuck your pluralistic universe and your Asiatic acoustics! Don’t hand me your red wine or your Anjou … hand her over … she belongs to me! You go sit by the fountain, and let me smell the lilacs! Pick the dandruff out of your eyes … and take that damned adagio and wrap it in a pair of flannel pants! And the other little movement too … all the little movements that you make with your weak bladder. You smile at me so confidently, so calculatingly. I’m flattering the ass off you, can’t you tell? While I listen to your crap she’s got her hand on me – but you don’t see that. You think I like to suffer – that’s my role, you say. O.K. Ask her about it! She’ll tell you how I suffer. "You’re cancer and delirium," she said over the phone the other day. She’s got it now, the cancer and delirium, and soon you’ll have to pick the scabs. Her veins are bursting, I tell you, and your talk is all sawdust. No matter how much you piss away you’ll never plug up the holes. What did Mr. Wren say? Words are loneliness. I left a couple of words for you on the tablecloth last night – you covered them with your elbows.

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He’s put a fence around her as if she were a dirty, stinking bone of a saint. If he only had the courage to say "Take her!" perhaps a miracle would occur. Just that. Take her! and I swear everything would come out all right. Besides, maybe I wouldn’t take her – did that ever occur to him, I wonder? Or I might take her for a while and hand her back, improved. But putting up a fence around her, that won’t work. You can’t put a fence around a human being. It ain’t done any more… You think, you poor, withered bastard, that I’m no good for her, that I might pollute her, desecrate her. You don’t know how palatable is a polluted woman, how a change of semen can make a woman bloom!

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It is a communal life I have been living for the last few weeks. I have had to share myself with others, principally with some crazy Russians, a drunken Dutchman, and a big Bulgarian woman named Olga. Of the Russians there are chiefly Eugene and Anatole.

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It was just a few days ago that Olga got out of the hospital where she had her tubes burned out and lost a little excess weight. However she doesn’t look as if she had gone through much suffering. She weighs almost as much as a camel-backed locomotive; she drips with perspiration, has halitosis, and still wears her Circassian wig that looks like excelsior. She has two big warts on her chin from which there sprouts a clump of little hairs; she is growing a mustache.

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The day after Olga was released from the hospital she commenced making shoes again. At six in the morning she is at her bench; she knocks out two pairs of shoes a day. Eugene complains that Olga is a burden, but the truth is that Olga is supporting Eugene and his wife with her two pairs of shoes a day. If Olga doesn’t work there is no food. So everyone endeavors to pull Olga to bed on time, to give her enough food to keep her going, etc.

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Every meal starts off with soup. Whether it be onion soup, tomato soup, vegetable soup, or what not, the soup always tastes the same. Mostly it tastes as if a dish rag had been stewed in it – slightly sour, mildewed, scummy. I see Eugene hiding it away in the commode after the meal. It stays there, rotting away, until the next meal. The butter, too, is hidden away in the commode; after three days it tastes like the big toe of a cadaver.

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The smell of rancid butter frying is not particularly appetizing, especially when the cooking is done in a room in which there is not the slightest form of ventilation. No sooner than I open the door I feel ill. But Eugene, as soon as he hears me coming, usually opens the shutters and pulls back the bedsheet which is strung up like a fishnet to keep out the sunlight. Poor Eugene! He looks about the room at the few sticks of furniture, at the dirty bedsheets and the wash basin with the dirty water still in it, and he says: "I am a slave!" Every day he says it, not once, but a dozen times. And then he takes his guitar from the wall and sings.

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But about the smell of rancid butter… There are good associations too. When I think of this rancid butter I see myself standing in a little, old world courtyard, a very smelly. very dreary courtyard. Through the cracks in the shutters strange figures peer out at me … old women with shawls, dwarfs, rat faced pimps, bent Jews, midinettes, bearded idiots. They totter out into the courtyard to draw water or to rinse the slop pails. One day Eugene asked me if I would empty the pail for him. I took it to the corner of the yard. There was a hole in the ground and some dirty paper lying around the hole. The little well was slimy with excrement, which in English is shit. I tipped the pail and there was a foul, gurgling splash followed by another and unexpected splash. When I returned the soup was dished out. All through the meal I thought of my toothbrush – it is getting old and the bristles get caught in my teeth.

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When I sit down to eat I always sit near the window. I am afraid to sit on the other side of the table – it is too close to the bed and the bed is crawling. I can see bloodstains on the gray sheets if I look that way, but I try not to look that way. I look out on the courtyard where they are rinsing the slop pails.

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The meal is never complete without music. As soon as the cheese is passed around Eugene jumps up and reaches for the guitar which hangs over the bed. It is always the same song. He says he has fifteen or sixteen songs in his repertoire, but I have never heard more than three. His favorite is Charmant poème d’amour. It is full of angoisse and tristesse.

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In the afternoon we go to the cinema which is cool and dark. Eugene sits at the piano in the big pit and I sit on a bench up front. The house is empty, but Eugene sings as if he had for audience all the crowned heads of Europe. The garden door is open and the odor of wet leaves sops in and the rain blends with Eugene’s angoisse and tristesse. At midnight, after the spectators have saturated the hall with perspiration and foul breaths, I return to sleep on a bench. The exit light, swimming in a halo of tobacco smoke, sheds a faint light on the lower corner of the asbestos curtain; I close my eyes every night on an artificial eye…

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Standing in the courtyard with a glass eye; only half the world is intelligible. The stones are wet and mossy and in the crevices are black toads. A big door bars the entrance to the cellar; the steps are slippery and soiled with bat dung. The door bulges and sags, the hinges are falling off, but there is an enameled sign on it, in perfect condition, which says: "Be sure to close the door." Why close the door? I can’t make it out. I look again at the sign but it is removed; in its place there is a pane of colored glass. I take out my artificial eye, spit on it and polish it with my handkerchief. A woman is sitting on a dais above an immense careen desk; she has a snake around her neck. The entire room is lined with books and strange fish swimming in colored globes; there are maps and charts on the wall, maps of Paris before the plague, maps of the antique world, of Knossos and Carthage, of Carthage before and after the salting. In the corner of the room I see an iron bedstead and on it a corpse is lying; the woman gets up wearily, removes the corpse from the bed and absent mindedly throws it out the window. She returns to the huge carven desk, takes a goldfish from the bowl and swallows it. Slowly the room begins to revolve and one by one the continents slide into the sea; only the woman is left, but her body is a mass of geography. I lean out the window and the Eiffel Tower is fizzing champagne; it is built entirely of numbers and shrouded in black lace. The sewers are gurgling furiously. There are nothing but roofs everywhere, laid out with execrable geometric cunning.

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