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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第23章|Chapter 23

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13510]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我一开始就应该对泰思坦白，但谁又知道爱从何时开始? 两股反作用力牵引着我。我不愿她被我的换生灵故事吓跑，但又渴望把我所有的秘密都告诉她。然而就像有只魔鬼到处尾随着我，钳紧我的嘴，不让我把真相说出来。她给了我很多机会打开心扉，向她倾诉，而且也有那么_ 两次我差点说出来了，但每次还是犹豫不决地住口了。

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劳动节，我们去城里的棒球场观看家乡队对芝加哥队的比赛。

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对方二垒的跑垒员分散了我的注意力。

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“那么，‘封面男孩’有什么计划呢? ”

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“计划? 什么计划? ”

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“你们真应该出专辑。你们够那个资格。”她吃了一口涂满调料的热狗。我们的投手让他们的击球手出局了，她欢呼一声。泰思喜欢这种运动，我为了她，只好忍着。

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“什么样的专辑? 封面上是其他人的歌? 你觉得能买到原版的人还会来买复制品吗? ”

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“说得对，”她边吃边说，“或许你们可以弄些与众不同的新歌。

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写你自己的歌曲。”

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“泰思，我们唱的歌不是我会写的那种。”

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“好吧，如果你能写这世上的曲子，你会写哪种呢? ”

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我朝她转过身。她嘴角上沾着一点调料，我想把它啃走。“我会为你写一支交响曲，如果我办得到的话。”

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她伸出舌头来舔嘴唇，“那为什么不写呢，亨利? 我喜欢有自己的交响曲。”

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“假如我对钢琴认真一点就好了，假如我在学校里读完音乐就好了。”

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“你为什么不回学校去呢? ”

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没有为什么。双胞胎已经高中毕业参加工作。母亲当然也不需要我挣回来的几个美元，而且费城的查理叔叔几乎每天都给她打电话，说他想退休后到这里来生活。

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“封面男孩”作为一个乐队没有前途可言。我寻找着一个说得过去的理由，“我年纪太大了，回去不合适。到四月份，我就二十六了，别的学生都才十八岁，他们看上去完全不一样。”

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“你只是觉得自己老而已。”

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那一刻，我觉得自己有125 岁了。她往后靠着椅背，观看剩下的球赛，再也不提这事了。那天下午回家时，她把汽车收音机的频道从摇滚乐调到古典音乐，乐队正在演奏马勒，她把头靠在我肩上，闭眼静听。

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泰思和我走出门廊，坐在秋千上，静静地过了很长时间，一起喝着一瓶桃果酒。

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她喜欢听我唱歌，我就唱给她听，然后我们就无话可说了。她的呼吸声咫尺相闻，有月有星，蟋蟀唧唧而鸣，飞蛾在门廊灯光下徘徊不去，微风穿过潮湿的空气二这一刻在我有种奇怪的感觉，仿佛唤起了遥远的梦，不是今生，不在林中，而是那换生前的生命。仿佛被忽视了的命运和欲望威胁着我一直想要创造的幻觉。要完全成为人类，我必须屈服于真正的本性，屈服于最初的冲动。

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“你觉得我疯了吗? ”我问，“这种年头去当作曲家? 我是说，有谁真会来听你的交响乐呢? ”

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“是梦想，亨利，你没法让梦想招之即来，挥之即去。你得做出选择，是要付诸实践还是使之破灭。”

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“我想如果不成功，我可以回家。找个工作，买幢房子，过种日子。”

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她握着我的双手：“如果你不和我一起来，我会每天想见你的。”

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“你什么意思，和你一起来? ”

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“我在等待合适的机会告诉你，我被录取了。两周后开学，我决定要去读硕士学位，在还不算太晚之前。我不想变成一个没有追求的老妇人。”

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我想告诉她，年龄并不重要，我这时候爱她，两年后爱她，二十年、两百年后依旧爱她，但我什么都没说。她拍了拍我的膝盖，依偎过来，我嗅着她头发的味道。

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我们让夜晚过去了。一架飞机在我们和月亮之间的视野中飞过，那片刻的幻觉仿佛虚贴在月球表面。她在我怀中睡着了，过了十一点，突然惊醒。

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‘“我得走了。”泰思说。她吻了我额头，我们一起踱向汽车。散步使她从酒醉中清醒过来。

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“嗨，你什么时候上课呢? 如果是白天，我有时候能开车送你去。”

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“好主意。说不定你自己也会想回校的。”

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她给了我一个飞吻，然后消失在方向盘后，车开走了。老房子瞪着我瞧，院子里的树木朝黄色的月亮舒展枝丫。我走上楼，沉浸在脑海中的音乐里，去亨利的房间，在亨利的床上睡觉。

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泰思为何选择了杀婴行为这个课题，我百思不得其解。还有其他的选题：手足间的竞争，长子的负担，有恋母情结的儿子，失踪的父亲等等。但她就是选择了杀婴行为作为她在“家庭社会学”研讨班上的论文题目。当然了，因为我整天无所事事，她上课时，我只是在校园里转悠，或者开车在市里兜风，我就主动提出帮她找材料。她下了最后一节课，就和我出去喝咖啡喝酒，起先是为了探讨如何着手杀婴这个题目，但到了后来，话题也就转到回校和我尚未开始的交响曲上。

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“你知道你的问题在哪里吗? ”泰思问道，“不能律己。你想当大作曲家，但又从不写曲子。亨利，真正的艺术不是多说想当什么，而是多加练习。多练练音乐吧，宝贝。”

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我拨弄着咖啡杯的瓷耳。

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“是开始的时候了，肖邦，别再和自己开玩笑，长大成人吧。从吧台后面出来，和我一起回校吧。”

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我尽力不把自己的焦躁和厌恨表现出来，但她说得一针见血，就像从一群牲畜中剔除一头跛脚的。她给我来了个措手不及。

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“你的事我都知道。你母亲对真正的亨利·戴很有眼力。”

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“你和我母亲谈论我了? ”

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“她说你一夜之间从一个无忧无虑的小男孩长成了一个认真的大男人。亲爱的，你不该再继续生活在你的头脑中了，要生活在这个世界上。”

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我从椅子里站起来，俯过桌子去吻她：“好了，对我说说你的看法，为什么父母会杀自己的孩子。”

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她的题目我们研究了几个星期，在图书馆见面，或者出去跳舞、看电影、吃饭时讨论这个话题。不止一次，我们关于杀死孩子的争论，引起周围陌生人的侧目。

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泰思想了解这个题目的历史架构，便一头扎入现有的材料中去。我想要挖掘出一个可行的理论来帮她的忙。在某些社会中，男孩比女孩受宠，他们在农场工作或者继承财产，顺理成章的是，许多女婴因为不需要而被谋杀。但是在等级制不那么严格的文化中，家中人口多，资源少，杀婴行为是因为家庭无力多抚养一个孩子，是一种控制人口的残酷方式。好几周，泰思和我想不明白父母是如何决定哪个孩子该养，哪个孩子该丢的。指导研讨班的劳瑞博士认为神话和民间故事也许能提供有趣的答案，这样我才碰到了那篇文章。

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一天傍晚，我在书架间查找时，发现我们图书馆惟一的一份《神话和社会》学术杂志，出版日期相当近，共有三期。我翻着杂志，漫不经心地独自站在那里，这时一个名字从页面上跃出来抓住了我的喉咙。托马斯·麦克伊内斯。接着，他那篇文章的题目像刀子一样戳进我心口：《失窃的孩子》。

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狗娘养的。

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麦克伊内斯的理论认为，在中世纪的欧洲，如果父母生出一个患有疾病的孩子，他们会刻意把孩子当做其他种类的生物。他们会说，魔鬼或“精灵”半夜里来偷走了他们的亲生孩子，留下一个有病、畸形或残疾的小魔鬼，父母要么丢弃它们，要么抚养长大。英国把它们叫做“仙灵孩子”或“换生灵”，法国叫做enrants chang6s，德国叫做Wech—selbalgen （这两个词分别是法语和德语，都是换生灵”的意思。）如果一个小孩没能茁壮成长，或者有某种身体或精神上的缺陷，人们就认为是这些魔鬼的孩子造成的。如果家里有了换生灵，那家人不会把它留下来当做自家的孩子养。父母有权遗弃畸形儿，他们能把孩子丢在森林里过夜，如果精灵不把它领回去，那么这个可怜不幸的东西就会冻馁而死，或被野兽叼走。

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论文记叙了几个版本的传说，包括十二世纪法国的圣灰犬崇拜。

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一天，男主人回家发现看护孩子的猎犬嘴上淌着血。男人暴怒之下，把狗打死了，后来却发现孩子没事，婴儿床边的地上死了一条毒蛇。

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男主人知道自己犯了错，就为这头“圣灰犬”建了一座圣祠，以纪念它与毒蛇搏斗保护了他的儿子。和这个故事有关的还有这样的传说，母亲会把患有“小儿病”

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的婴儿带到林中的这种圣祠里，写个条子，把他们留给主保圣人和儿科医生：“Asaint Guinefort ，pour la vie onpour’h mott．”（法文：“圣居文福，生死悉听尊命。”( 居文福就是那只狗的名字。) ）“出于孩子存活几率不大而故意将之杀害，这种形式的杀婴行为，”麦克伊内斯写道：成为神话和民间故事，一直流传到十九世纪的德国、大不列颠爱尔兰，以及其他欧洲国家，这种迷信还随着移民传播到新世界。十九世纪五十年代，宾夕法尼亚州西部的一个小矿队报告了一起失踪事件，不同家庭的十二个孩子消失在周圉的群山里。

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在阿巴拉契亚矿穴中，从纽约到田纳西，当地的传说产生了一种民间信仰：这些孩子仍然在森林中游荡。

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一则与一位年轻人有关的当代案例，反映了传说的心理学根源。“安德鲁”在催眠下说出自己曾被“妖怪”诱拐。最近发现的一个身份不明的弦子，其事因至今未得解释，他被发现溺死在附近的一条河中，据信是这些盗尸者所为。他说这地区许多失踪的孩子都是被精灵所偷，毫发无损地生活在附近的森林里，而换生灵取代了孩子的地位，在社区中过着孩子的生活。这类幻想，正如换生灵神话的缘起，显然都是为了孩子走失或被盗引发的伤感问题而施加的社会保护措施。

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他不仅把事情给弄错了，还用我的话来攻击我。“安德鲁”的上标指引读者去看印制精良的脚注：安德鲁( 非真名) 揭开了妖怪亚文化模式的一个复杂故事。

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他说，妖怪生活在附近的林区，一个多世纪来在镇上捕捉孩童。

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他也强调说，他曾经是一个叫古斯塔夫·安格兰德的人类孩子，十九世纪中期随家人从德国移民至此。更不可思议的是，安德鲁说他在前生是个音乐神童，而当他在四十年代晚期变回人类后，又重新得到了这种音乐天赋。令人遗憾的是，他这个复杂精妙的故事揭示的是深层次的病态发展问题，或许掩盖了幼年的某些受虐、心理创伤或者被忽视的经历。

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最后一句我读了好几遍才看清楚。我想嚎叫，想找到他把这些字塞进他的嘴里去。我把纸页从杂志上撕下来，把损毁了的杂志扔进垃圾桶。“骗子，冒牌货，小偷。”我一遍遍喃喃地说着，在书架间踱来踱去。好在我一个人也没碰到，否则谁知道我会怎么发泄怒气呢。

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发育不健康。病态问题。被遗弃的孩子。他根本不相信有我们换生灵，而且把整个事情弄拧了。我们把他们从床上抓走。我们就像噩梦一样真实。

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电梯“砰”的一响，像一声枪击，敞开的门口走来了图书管理员，她身材矮小，戴着一副猫眼眼镜，头发朝后梳成一个髻。她看到我蓬头散发的样子就怔了一怔，但她一开口，我就冷静了下来。“我们要关门了，”她大声说，“你该走了。”

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我躲在一排书后，把麦克伊内斯的书页折成四折，塞进我粗斜纹棉布的夹克衫里。她朝我走过来，鞋跟敲在油毯上，我试图改变自己的面容，但古老的魔力已消失。我所能做的就是用手指在头发里耙了一通，站起来，抚平衣服上的皱褶。

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“你没听见我说话吗? ”她站在我对面，像棵笔直的芦苇。“你得走了。”她看着我离开。我在电梯口挥手道别，她靠在一排书架上，瞪着眼睛，好似知道我所有的事。

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天下着冷雨，我和泰思的约会迟到了。她的课几个小时前就结束了，这时候我们应该在回家路上。我奔下楼梯时，想她会不会生我的气，但这种担心远远不及我对麦克伊内斯的愤怒。街角的灯光下站着泰思，在雨里撑着伞。她走过来，把我遮到伞下，手插进我的臂弯。

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“亨利，你没事吧? 你在发抖，宝贝。冷吗? 亨利，亨利? ”

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她把我拉拢来，两个人互相取暖，还不会被雨淋湿。她用温暖的手抚着我的脸，我知道这个又冷又湿的夜晚是我告白的最好时机。

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在伞下，我告诉她我爱她。我只能说这些了。

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I should have confessed to Tess at the start, but who knows when love begins? Two contrary impulses pulled at me. I did not want to scare her away with the changeling story, yet I longed to entrust all my secrets to her. But it was as if a demon shadowed me everywhere and clamped shut my mouth to hold in the truth. She gave me many opportunities to open my heart and tell her, and I came close once or twice, but each time I hesitated and stopped.

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On Labor Day we were at the baseball stadium in the city, watching the home team take on Chicago. I was distracted by the enemy runner at second base.

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"So, what’s the plan for The Coverboys?"

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"Plan? What plan?"

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"You really should record an album. You’re that good." She attacked a hot dog thick with relish. Our pitcher struck out their batter, and she let out a whoop. Tess loved the game, and I endured it for her sake.

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"What kind of album? Covers of other people’s songs? Do you really think anybody would buy a copy when they can have the original?"

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"You’re right," she said between bites. "Maybe you could do something new and different. Write your own songs."

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"Tess, the songs we sing are not the kind of songs I would write."

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"Okay, if you could write any music in the world, what kind would you write?"

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I turned to her. She had a speck of relish at the corner of her mouth that I wished to nibble away. "I’d write you a symphony, if I could."

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Out flicked her tongue to clean her lips. "What’s stopping you, Henry?

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I’d love a symphony of my own."

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"Maybe if I had stayed serious about piano, or if I had finished music school."

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"What’s stopping you from going back to college?"

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Nothing at all. The twins had finished high school and were working. My mother certainly did not need the few dollars I brought in, and Uncle Charlie from Philadelphia had begun to call her nearly every day, expressing an interest in retiring here. The Coverboys were going nowhere as a band. I searched for a plausible excuse. "I’m too old to go back now. I’ll be twenty-six next April, and the rest of the students are a bunch of eighteen-year-olds. They’re into a totally different scene."

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"You’re only as old as you feel."

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At the moment, I felt 125 years old. She settled back into her seat and watched the rest of the ballgame without another word on the subject. On the way home that afternoon, she switched the car radio over from the rock station to classical, and as the orchestra played Mahler, she laid her head against my shoulder and closed her eyes, listening.

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Tess and I went out to the porch and sat on the swing, quiet for a long time, sharing a bottle of peach wine. She liked to hear me sing, so I sang for her, and then we could find nothing else to say. Her breathing presence beside me, the moon and the stars, the singing crickets, the moths clinging to the porch light, the breeze cutting through the humid air—the moment had a curious pull on me, as if recalling distant dreams, not of this life, nor of the forest, but of life before the change. As if neglected destiny or desire threatened the illusion I had struggled to create. To be fully human, I had to give in to my true nature, the first impulse.

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"Do you think I’m crazy," I asked, "to want to be a composer in this day and age? I mean, who would actually listen to your symphony?"

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"Dreams are, Henry, and you cannot will them away, any more than you can call them into being. You have to decide whether to act upon them or let them vanish."

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"I suppose if I don’t make it, I could come back home. Find a job. Buy a house. Live a life."

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She held my hand in hers. "If you don’t come with me, I’ll miss seeing you every day."

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"What do you mean, come with you?"

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"I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I’ve enrolled. Classes start in two weeks, and I’ve decided to get my master’s degree. Before it’s too late. I don’t want to end up an old maid who never went after what she wanted."

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I wanted to tell her age didn’t matter, that I loved her then and would love her in two or twenty or two hundred years, but I did not say a word. She patted me on the knee and nestled close, and I breathed in the scent of her hair. We let the night pass. An airplane crossed the visual field between us and the moon, creating the momentary illusion that it was pasted on the lunar surface. She dozed in my arms and awoke with a start past eleven.

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"I’ve got to go," Tess said. She kissed me on the forehead, and we strolled down to the car. The walk seemed to snap her out of the wine-induced stupor.

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"Hey, when are your classes? I could drive you in sometimes if it’s during the day."

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"That’s a good idea. Maybe you’ll get inspired to go back yourself."

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She blew me a kiss, then vanished behind the steering wheel and drove away. The old house stared at me, and in the yard the trees reached out to the yellow moon. I walked upstairs, wrapped up in the music in my head, and went to sleep in Henry’s bed, in Henry’s room.

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What　 possessed　 Tess to choose infanticide were a mystery to me. There were other options: sibling rivalry, the burden of the firstborn, the oedipal son, the disappearing father, and so on. But she picked infanticide as her thesis topic for her seminar in Sociology of the Family. And, of course, since I had nothing to do most days but wait around campus or drive around the city while she was in classes, I volunteered to help with the research. After her last class, she and I went out for coffee or drinks, at first to plot out how to tackle the project on infanticide, but as the meetings went on, the conversations swung around to returning to school and my unstarted symphony.

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"You know what your problem is?" Tess asked. "No discipline. You want to be a great composer, but you never write a song. Henry, true art is less about all the wanting-to-be bullshit, and more about practice. Just play the music, baby."

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I fiddled with the porcelain ear of my coffee cup.

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"It’s time to get started, Chopin, or to stop kidding yourself and grow up. Get out from behind the bar and come back to school with me."

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I attempted not to let my frustration and resentment show, but she had me culled like a lame animal from the main herd. She pounced.

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"I know all about you. Your mother is very insightful about the real Henry Day."

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"You talked to my mother about me?"

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"She said you went from being a carefree little boy to a serious old man overnight. Sweetheart, you need to stop living in your head and live in the world as it is."

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I lifted myself out of my chair and leaned across the table to kiss her. "Now, tell me your theory on why parents kill their children."

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We worked for weeks on her project, meeting in the library or carrying on about the subject when we went out dancing or to the movies or dinner. More than once, we drew a startled stare from nearby strangers when we argued about killing children. Tess took care of the historical framework of the problem and delved into the available statistics. I tried to help by digging up a plausible theory. In certain societies, boys were favored over girls, to work on the farm or to pass on wealth, and as a matter of course, many females were murdered because they were unwanted. But in less patriarchal cultures, infanticide stemmed from a family’s inability to care for another child in an age of large families and few resources—a brutal method of population control. For weeks, Tess and I puzzled over how parents decided which child to spare and which to abandon. Dr. Laurel, who taught the seminar, suggested that myth and folklore might provide interesting answers, and that’s how I stumbled across the article.

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Prowling the stacks late one evening, I found our library’s sole copy of the Journal of Myth and Society, a fairly recent publication which had lasted a grand total of three issues. I flipped through the pages of this journal, rather casually standing there by my lonesome, when the name sprang from the page and grabbed me by the throat. Thomas McInnes. And then the title of his article was like a knife to the heart: "The Stolen Child."

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"This form of infanticide, the deliberate killing of a child based on its slim probability of survival," wrote McInnes,

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became part of the myth and folklore that endured well into the nineteenth century in Germany, the British Isles, and other European countries, and the superstition traveled with emigrants to the New World. In the 1850s, a small mining community in western Pennsylvania reported the disappearance of one dozen children from different families into the surrounding hills. And in pockets of Appalachia, from New York to Tennessee, local legend fostered a folk belief that these children still roam the forests.

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