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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第13章|Chapter 13

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13500]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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电话铃声大作，像是唱着激动的歌，终于有人大发慈悲去接了。

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门厅靠里是我的寝室，那晚我和一个女大学生在一起，我正要全心全意地关注她一丝不挂的身子。过了一会儿，敲门声响起，奇怪地顿了顿，接着猛擂起来，可怜的女孩吓得差点从我身上摔下去。

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“什么事? 我正忙着。没看到门把手上挂的领带吗? ”

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“是亨利·戴吗? ”门的另一侧，一个沙哑的声音颤抖着，“你母亲的电话。”

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“告诉她我出去了。”

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声音降低了八度，“非常抱歉，亨利，但你一定要接这个电话。”

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我穿上短裤和套衫，打开门，从这男孩身边冲过去，他垂目看着地板，“你有亲人死了。”

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死的是我父亲。母亲提到了汽车，理所当然地，我在万分震惊中猜测是发生了事故。回家后，我从东一言西一语、别人耸起的眉毛，还有含沙射影中得知事情真相。他坐在汽车里，在自己的脑袋上开了一枪，地点是距离大学不到四个街区的停车标志下。没有遗言，没有任何解释。只有一张名片背后写着我的名字和寝室房间号，塞在只剩下一支骆驼香烟的烟盒里。

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葬礼前的日子，我都在试图弄清他自杀的原因。自从那个可怕的早晨他看到院子里的什么东西后，他就变本加厉地酗起酒来，虽然他一向是个酒鬼，但在我印象中，他喜欢浅斟慢酌，而不是大口猛灌。

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他的死因不在喝酒，而在其他。他可能对我产生了疑心，但又找不出真相。我的骗术既谨慎又精明，但在我读大学之后和这个男人少有的几次接触中，他表现冷淡，保持距离，而且态度强硬。他内心有鬼怪折磨着他，但我毫不同情。用一颗子弹，他就抛下了我的母亲和妹妹们，我永远没法原谅他。葬礼前的那几天以及葬礼仪式让我更加坚定信念，是他的自私彻底毁了我们的家。

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我母亲倒不怎么伤心，只是困惑不已，她以很好的风度，顶住压力操办各种安排。虽然父亲是自杀的，她还是说服牧师允许把他埋葬在教堂的墓地里，牧师显然是看在她多年如一、每周捐献的分上。

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当然，不能做弥撒了，为此她有所怨愤，但是怒意也使她感受不到其他情绪了。

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那对双胞胎已经十四岁了，她们动辄下泪，在殡仪馆里像两只女妖精一样跪趴在封盖的棺材上。我没为他哭。毕竟他不是我父亲，而且那时正是我两年级的春季学期，他死得太不是时候了。我咒骂着他下葬那天的好天气，而且我吃惊的是，居然有一大帮人从几公里外赶来致敬。

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根据镇上的习俗，我们要走过整条大街，从太平间一直走到教堂。一辆光鲜的灵车缓缓开在前头，后面跟着上百号人。母亲、妹妹和我走在送葬队伍的最前面。

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“这些人都是谁? ”我小声问母亲。

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她两眼直视前方，声音响亮清晰，“你父亲有很多朋友。军队里的，工作上的，他帮过忙的。你只知道一部分。大马哈鱼可不止只有鱼翅。”

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在新叶的树阴下，我们把他放到地下，盖上土。知更鸟和画眉在灌木丛中歌唱。

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黑色的面纱后，母亲没有流泪，只是站在太阳下，坚强得像个士兵。看到她这样，我没法不恨他，恨他对她、对女孩们、对我们的朋友和家人，也对我做出这种事来。

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我开车载着母亲和妹妹回家接受吊唁，一路上我们谁也没有提起他。

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教堂里的女人们用平静的语调迎接我们。屋子里比深夜更显得幽凉、宁静。餐厅的桌子上放着象征团体精神的东西——砂锅面条、大块猪肉、冷炸鸡肉、鸡蛋沙拉、土豆沙拉、掺胡萝卜屑的吉露果子冻沙拉，还有六块馅饼。餐具柜里有新的搅拌器和几瓶汽水，边上是杜松子酒、苏格兰酒、朗姆酒，还有一盆冰。殡仪馆里的鲜花散发着香味，过滤器在疯狂地吐泡沫。母亲在和邻居聊天，问着每道菜分别是谁做的，对每个做菜的人表示谢意和赞扬。玛丽坐在沙发一头，指尖拉拨着裙子上的链子，伊丽莎白坐在另一头，望着前门等客人来。我们到家后一个小时，第一批客人来了——和我父亲一起工作过的人，穿着笔挺、正式的礼服。他们一个接一个，把装着钱的信封递到母亲手上，并笨拙地拥抱她。母亲的朋友查理从费城飞来，但他错过了葬礼。当我取走他的帽子时，他斜觑着我，仿佛我是个陌生人。几个老兵来了，没有人认识这些旧日的恶兆。他们挤在角落里，悼念好伙计比利。

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我很快就厌烦他们了，因为这个招待会让我想起独奏会后的那帮人，只不过气氛更阴沉、更无意义罢了。我走到门廊上，脱下黑夹克，拉松领带，调了杯朗姆酒加可乐。葱郁的树在不时吹来的微风中沙沙地响，柔和的阳光温暖着散漫的下午。

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从屋子里传来客人们的喃喃低语，如波涛一般不停地起伏，不时发出的响亮短促的笑声，则提醒我们没有人是不可被取代的。我点了支骆驼香烟，凝视着鲜嫩的草坪。

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她出现在我身边，茉莉花香水味让她无所遁形。我们飞快地彼此瞟了一眼，微微露出一个笑容，就继续审视草地和远处深色的树林。她的黑裙在领口和袖口镶了道白边，这是最新流行的样式，已经和肯尼迪夫人的时装大不相同。但泰思·伍德郝斯袭用了这种款式却又不显得愚蠢，或许是因为我们凭栏而立时，她的姿态如此娴静。

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在我这个年龄的任何一个别的姑娘都会觉得有说话的必要，但她把何时开始交谈的决定权让给我。

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“谢谢你能来。上次见到你是什么时候? 小学? ”  ，“我很难过，亨利。”

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我把烟灰弹到院子里，抿了一口饮料。

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“有一次我在城里听过你的独奏会，”她说，“四五年前了。后来因为一个穿红衣服的泼妇发生了很多事。还记得你父亲对她是多么的温和? 好像她一点也没有发疯，只是记忆出了毛病。我想换了我爸，就会叫她快滚，我妈大概会打她鼻子了。

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那晚我可崇拜你父亲了。”

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我想起了那个红衣女子，但没想起那晚的泰思，我已经多年没有看到她或想到她了。在我的心目中，她仍然还是一个矮小的顽皮姑娘。我放下自己的玻璃杯，做了个大幅度的手势邀请她去旁边的椅子上坐坐。她端庄优雅地坐到我身边，我们的膝盖几乎碰在一起，我恍恍惚惚地盯着她看。她就是那个小学二年级尿湿裤子的女孩，六年级以五十码的冲刺来追打我的女孩。我去上镇上的国立高中时，她坐着巴士去了另一个方向的天主教女校，其间的岁月将她塑造成了一个美丽的年轻女子。

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“你还弹钢琴吗? ”她问，“我听说你在市里读大学。你学的是音乐吗? ”

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“作曲，”我告诉她，“学管弦乐和室内乐。我放弃弹钢琴了。在众人面前我总是不自在。你呢? ”

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“我快读完LPN 了，就是注册临床护士。但我想拿一个公益事业的硕士学位。

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看情况吧。”

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“看什么情况? ”

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她把视线转向门口。“看我是不是结婚，看我的男朋友怎么样，我想。”

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“听起来你的兴致不是很高。”

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她朝我凑过来，脸蛋和我只有一拳之隔，吐出这句话：“是的。”

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“为什么呢? ”我也悄声问。

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仿佛眼睛后面点起一盏灯，她满脸放光，“我有太多的事情想做。

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帮助那些需要的人。环游世界。谈恋爱。”

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男朋友来找她了，纱门在他身后刷的一声碰在门框上。看到她，他露齿一笑。

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他让我产生一种古怪的感觉，仿佛很久以前我曾在何处见过他，但我想不起在哪见过。我没法甩开我们彼此认识的感觉，但他住在镇子的另一头。他的出现让我像白日撞鬼，好似见到了来自另一个世纪的鬼魂或陌生人。泰思匆忙站起，依偎到他身边。他伸出一只手等我来握。

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“我是布瑞恩·安格兰德，”他说，“很遗憾你失去了亲人。”

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我咕哝了一句谢谢，继续观察那不变的草坪。泰思的声音让我回过神来。“亨利，祝你作曲走运。”她说，“我会去唱片店找你的作品的。”她带着布瑞恩朝门口走，“真不好意思，我们在这种场合下重叙友谊。”

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他们出去时，我叫道：“泰思，我希望你得到你想要的，不会得到你不要的。”

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她回头朝我一笑。

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所有的访客都走后，母亲也来到门廊上。厨房里，玛丽和伊丽莎自在为罩子里的餐碟和水池里的空杯吵闹不休。葬礼那天的最后时光，我和母亲望着夜幕降临前聚集在树顶上的乌鸦。它们从几公里外飞来，像穿着法衣的牧师一样在草地上昂首阔步，然后飞入树枝间消失了。

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“我不知道该怎么过下去，亨利。”她坐在摇椅上，没有看我。

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我又抿了口朗姆可乐酒。我想像的背景中放着一曲挽歌。

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我没回答，她叹了口气，“要混也混得过去。房子基本上是我们的，你父亲的存款也能维持一段时间。我得去找份工作，但只有上帝知道该怎么找。”

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“双胞胎能帮忙。”

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“姑娘们? 要是我能指望着那两位帮我倒杯水，我就要渴死了。

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亨利，她们现在除了麻烦什么都不是。”她像是才有这个念头，加快了摇椅说：“只要她们不败坏名声，那就够了。那两位。”

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我喝完饮料，从口袋里摸出一支皱巴巴的香烟。

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她的目光移开了，“你可能要在家待上一阵，到我能自力更生为止。你觉得你能留下吗? ”

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“我想我能再请一周的假。”

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她走到我身边，抓住我的胳膊。“亨利，我需要你在这里。待上几个月，我们把钱存起来。接着你能回去把书念完。你还年轻。这段时间看起来长，过起来快。”

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“妈，现在是期中。”

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“我知道，我知道。但你会留下来陪你妈吗? ”她注视着我，直到我点头，“好孩子。”

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结果我远不止待了几个月。我一回家就是几年，学业的中断改变了我的生活。

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父亲没有留下足够的钱让我完成学业，母亲和姑娘们一起挣扎度日，她们还在念高中。因此我找了个工作。我的朋友奥斯卡·拉甫服完海军兵役归来，用他的积蓄和农商银行的贷款盘下了利尼街上的一家关门的店。在他父兄的帮助下，他把店面改成了酒吧，里面的舞台足够一支四人爵士乐队演出。我们把钢琴从我母亲家里搬了过去。本地有两个家伙的水平能够组建乐队。吉米‘卡明斯击鼓，乔治·克诺尔弹低音提琴或吉他。我们把自己叫做“封面男孩”，因为我们表演的就是这个。每周有几个晚上，当我不做吉尼·皮特尼或佛兰凯·瓦利时，我会去泡吧。奥斯卡酒吧里的特约演奏让我走出家门，而且额外的几个美元也能让我帮助家里。我的老朋友会过来坐坐，赞同我重弹钢琴，但我只是勉为其难。第一年年末，泰思来了几次，有时候带着布瑞恩，有时候带着女友。看到她，我就想起我延迟了的梦想。

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“你是个神秘的男人，”一晚，乐曲间隙，泰思对我说道，“或者说，在小学里是个神秘的男孩。好像你是从一个与我们完全不同的地方来的。”    ，我耸了耸肩，弹起《夜中陌生人》的开头几段。她笑起来，眼波流转。“说正经的，亨利，你以前就是个陌生人，孤僻，离群。”

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“是吗? 那时候我应该对你更好些。”

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“哦，算了吧。”她喝醉了，粲然微笑，“你总是活在另一个世界早。”

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她的男友向她招手，她离开了。我想着她。在我被迫返家、勉强又回来弹琴的所有结果中，她是惟一一处好的。那天深夜，我回家想着她，想知道她的恋爱关系有多认真，考虑该怎么把她从那个面目似曾相识的家伙手里偷过来。

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我因泡吧和弹琴回家很晚。母亲和妹妹们早已睡下，我独自在凌晨三点吃冷冰冰的晚饭。那晚，厨房窗户外面的院子里有些动静。

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玻璃窗上有亮光一闪而逝，看起来像是头发。我端着碟子去起居室，打开电视机看凌晨档的《第三人》。放到霍莉·马汀斯第一次在门口盯梢哈瑞‘赖思时，我在父亲的椅子上睡着了，后在黎明前醒来，流着汗，浑身发冷、僵硬，仿佛又回到了树林里，和那些魔鬼在一起。

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The ringing phone began to sound like a mad song before someone mercifully answered. Far down the hall, I was in my dorm room that night with a coed, trying to stay focused on her bare skin. Moments later, a rap on my door, a curious pause, and then the knock intensified to a thundering, which scared the poor girl so that she nearly fell off of me.

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"What is it? I’m busy. Can’t you see the necktie on the doorknob?"

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"Henry Day?" On the other side of the door, a voice cracked and trembled. "It’s your mother on the telephone."

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"Tell her I’m out."

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The voice lowered an octave. "I’m really sorry, Henry, but you need to take this call."

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I pulled on pants and a sweater, opened the door, and brushed past the boy, who was staring at the floor. "Someone better’ve died."

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It was my father. My mother mentioned the car, so naturally, in my shock, I assumed there had been an accident. Upon returning home, I learned the real story through a word here, raised eyebrows, and innuendo. He had shot himself in the head, sitting in the car at a stoplight not four blocks away from the college. There was no note, nothing explained. Only my name and dorm room number on the back of a business card tucked in a cigarette pack with one remaining Camel.

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I spent the days before the funeral trying to make sense of the suicide. Since that awful morning when he saw something in the yard, he drank more heavily, though alcoholics, in my experience, prefer the long and slow pour rather than the quick and irreversible bang. It wasn’t the drink that killed him, but something else. While he may have had suspicions, he could not have figured out the truth about me. My deceptions were too careful and clever, yet in my infrequent encounters with the man since leaving for college, he had acted cold, distant, and unyielding. Some private demons plagued him, but I felt no compassion. With one bullet, he had abandoned my mother and sisters, and I could never forgive him. Those few days leading up to the funeral, and the service itself, hardened my opinion that his selfishness had rotted our family to the roots.

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With good grace, my mother, more confused than distraught, bore the brunt of making arrangements. She convinced the local priest, no doubt abetted by her weekly contributions over many years, to allow my father to be buried in the church’s graveyard despite the suicide. There could be no Mass, of course, and for this she bore some resentment, but her anger shielded her from other emotions. The twins, now fourteen, were more prone to tears, and at the funeral home they keened like two banshees over the closed coffin. I would not cry for him. He was not my father, after all, and coming as it did in the spring semester of my sophomore year, his death was supremely ill-timed. I cursed the fair weather of the day we buried him, and a throng of people who came from miles around to pay their respects astonished me.

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As was the custom in our town, we walked from the mortuary to the church along the length of Main Street. A bright new hearse crawled ahead of us, and a cortege of more than a hundred people trailed behind. My mother and sisters and I led the grim parade.

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"Who are all these people?" I whispered to my mother.

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She looked straight ahead and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Your father had many friends. From the army, from his job, people he helped along the way. You only knew part of the story. There’s more to a salmon than the fin."

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In the shade of new leaves, we put him in the ground and covered him with dirt. Robins and thrushes sang in the bushes. Behind her black veil, my mother did not weep, but stood in the sunshine, stoic as a soldier. Seeing her there, I could not help but hate him for doing this to her, to the girls, to our friends and family, and to me. We did not speak of him as I drove my mother and sisters back to the house to receive condolences.

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Women from church welcomed us in hushed tones. The house felt more cool and quiet than it did in the dead of night. On the dining room table lay tokens of community spirit—the noodle casseroles, pigs in blankets, cold fried chicken, egg salad, potato salad, Jell-O salad with shaved carrots, and a half-dozen pies. On the sideboard, new mixers and bottles of soda stood next to gin and scotch and rum and a tub of ice. Flowers from the funeral home perfumed the air, and the percolator bubbled madly. My mother chatted with her neighbors, asking about each dish and making gracious compliments to the particular cooks. Mary sat at one end of the sofa, picking at the lint on her skirt, and Elizabeth perched on the opposite end, watching the front door for visitors. An hour after we arrived, the first guests showed up—men who had worked with my father, stiff and formal in their good suits. One by one, they pressed envelopes filled with money into my mother’s palm and gave her awkward hugs. My mother’s friend Charlie flew in from Philadelphia, but he had missed the interment. He looked askance at me when I took his hat, as if I were a stranger. A couple of old soldiers dropped by, specters from a past that no one else knew. They huddled in the corner, lamenting good ole Billy.

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I soon tired of them all, for the reception reminded me of those post-recital gatherings, only more somber and pointless. Out on the porch, I took off my black jacket, loosened my necktie, and nursed a rum and Coke. The greened trees rustled in the intermittent breeze, and the sunshine gently warmed the meandering afternoon. From the house, the guests produced a murmur that rose and fell consistent as the ocean, and every so often, a quick peal of laughter rose to remind us that no one is irreplaceable. I lit a Camel and stared at the new grass.

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She appeared at my side, redolent of jasmine, her scent betraying her stealth. A quick sideways glance and an even briefer smile, then we both resumed our inspection of the lawn and the dark woods beyond. Her black dress was trimmed at the collar and cutis in white, for she followed the smart fashion, twice removed from the haute couture of Mrs. Kennedy. But Tess Wodehouse managed to copy the style without looking foolish. Perhaps it was her quiet poise as we stood at the rail. Any other girl my age would have felt the necessity to speak, but she left it to me to decide the moment for conversation.

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"It was nice of you to come. I haven’t seen you since when? Grade school?"

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"I’m so sorry, Henry."

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I flicked my cigarette into the yard and took a sip from my drink.

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"I heard you once at a recital downtown," she said, "four or five years ago. There was a big to-do afterward with a ranting lady in a red coat. Remember how gently your father treated her? As if she weren’t crazy at all, but a person whose memory had come undone. I think my daddy would have told her to buzz off, and my mother probably’d have punched her on the nose. I admired your father that night."

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While I remembered the woman in red, I had not remembered Tess from that night, had not seen or thought of her in ages. In my mind, she was still a little tomboy. I set down my glass and invited her, with a sweeping gesture, to a nearby chair. With a demure and becoming grace, she took the seat next to me, our knees nearly touching, and I stared at her as if in a trance. She was the girl who had wet her pants in second grade, the girl who had beaten me at the fifty-yard dash in sixth grade. When I went off to the public high school in town, she took the bus to the Catholic girls’ school in the other direction. Vanished. Those intervening years had shaped her into a beautiful young woman.

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"Do you still play piano?" she asked. "I hear you’re up in the city at college. Are you studying music?"

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"Composition," I told her. "For orchestra and chamber music. I gave up performing the piano. Couldn’t ever get comfortable in front of people. You?"

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"I’m nearly finished for my LPN—licensed practical nurse. But I’d like to get a master’s in social work, too. All depends."

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"Depends on what?"

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She looked away, toward the door. "On whether I get married or not. Depends on my boyfriend, I guess."

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"You don’t sound too enthusiastic."

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She leaned to me, her face inches from mine, and mouthed the words: I’m not.

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"Why is that?" I whispered back.

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As if a light clicked on behind her eyes, she brightened. "There’s so much I want to do. Help those in need. See the world. Fall in love."

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The boyfriend came looking for her, the screen door slapping the frame behind him. Grinning at having found her, he had an uncanny effect upon me, as if I had met him somewhere long ago, but I could not place his face. I could not shake the feeling that we knew each other, but he was from the opposite side of town. His appearance spooked me, as if I were seeing a ghost or a stranger drawn from another century. Tess scrambled to her feet and nestled into his side. He stuck out a paw and waited a beat for my handshake.

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"Brian Ungerland," he said. "Sorry for your loss."

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I muttered my thanks and resumed my observation of the unchanging lawn. Only Tess’s voice brought me back to the world. "Good luck with your compositions, Henry," she said. "I’ll look in the record store for you." She steered Brian toward the door. "Sorry we had to renew our friendship under these circumstances."

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As they left, I called out, "I hope you get what you want, Tess, and don’t get what you don’t." She smiled at me over her shoulder.

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After all the visitors had departed, my mother joined me on the porch. In the kitchen, Mary and Elizabeth fussed over the covered dishes and the empty glasses in the sink. The final moments of the funeral day, we watched crows gather in the treetops before evening fell. They flew in from miles away, strutted like cassocked priests on the lawn before leaping into the branches to become invisible.

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"I don’t know how I’ll manage, Henry." She sat in the rocker, not looking at me.

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I sipped another rum and Coke. A dirge played in the background of my imagination.

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She sighed when I did not reply. "We’ve enough to get by. The house is nearly ours, and your father’s savings will last awhile. I’ll have to find work, though the Lord knows how."

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"The twins could help."

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"The girls? If I had to count on those two to help with so much as a glass of water, I would be dead of thirst. They are nothing but trouble now, Henry." As if the notion had just occurred to her, she quickened her rocking. "It will be enough to keep them out of ruining their reputations. Those two."

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I drained the glass and fished a wrinkled cigarette from my pocket.

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She looked away. "You might have to stay home for a while. Just until I can get on my feet. Do you think you could stay?"

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"I guess I could miss another week."

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She walked over to me and grabbed my arms. "Henry, I need you here. Stay for a few months, and we’ll save up the money. Then you can go back and finish up. You’re young. It will seem long, but it won’t be."

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"Mom, it’s the middle of the semester."

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"I know, I know. But you’ll stay with your mother?" She stared till I nodded. "That’s a good boy."

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I ended up staying much longer than a few months. My return home lasted for a few years, and the interruption of my studies changed my life. My father hadn’t left enough money for me to finish college, and my mother floundered with the girls, who were still in high school. So I got a job. My friend Oscar Love, back from a tour of duty with the navy, bought an abandoned store off Linnean Street with his savings and a loan from the Farmers & Merchants. With help from his father and brother, he converted the place into a bar with a stage barely big enough for a four-piece combo, and we moved the piano from my mother’s house. A couple of guys from the area were good enough to round out a band. Jimmy Cummings played the drums, with George Knoll on bass or guitar. We called ourselves The Coverboys, because that’s all we played, and when I wasn’t pretending to be Gene Pitney or Frankie Valli, I would tend bar a few other nights of the week. The gig at Oscar’s Bar got me out of the house; plus, the few extra dollars enabled me to help out the family. My old friends would drop in, applaud my return to playing piano, but I loathed performing. That first year back. Tess showed up with Brian or a girl-friend a couple of times. Seeing her there reminded me of the dreams I had deferred.

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"You were a mystery man," Tess told me one night between sets. "Or mystery boy, I should say, back in grade school. As if you were somewhere totally different from the rest of us."

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I shrugged my shoulders and played the first measures from "Strangers in the Night." She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, though, Henry, you were a stranger. Aloof. Above it all."

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"Is that right? I certainly should have been nicer to you."

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"Oh, go on." She was tipsy and grinning. "You were always in another world."

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Her boyfriend beckoned, and she was gone. I missed her. She was about the only good thing that happened as the result of my forced homecoming, my reluctant return to the piano. Late that night, I went home thinking about her, wondering how serious her relationship was and how to steal her away from the guy with the deja vu face.

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Tending bar and playing piano kept me out late at night. My mother and sisters were long asleep, and I ate a cold dinner alone at three in the morning. That night, something stirred in the yard outside the kitchen window. A flash through the glass, visible for an instant, that looked sort of like a head of hair. I took my plate into the living room and turned on the television to The Third Man on the late, late movie. After the scene where Holly Martins first spies Harry Lime in the doorway, I fell asleep in my father’s chair, only to wake up in the depths before dawn, sweating and cold, petrified that I was back in the forest again amid those devils.

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