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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第28章|Chapter 28

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13498]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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世上最无情的就是爱。当爱逃离，剩下的惟有回忆来补偿。我们的朋友有的走了，有的正在走，我们可怜的心灵只能幻想他们的灵魂来填补爱的空缺。至今，那些离开的人仍然萦绕在我心头。失去了齐维、布鲁玛、劳格诺和赞扎拉也让斯帕克伤心欲绝。她干起活来神态严峻，满腔决意，好像只要忙个不停，就能远离憧憧幻影。

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矿井中的灾难过后，我们让贝卡下台，他也同意了。人数缩减的团体选举了斯茂拉赫作为我们的新首领。这些年来，我们第一次到地面上生活了，由于卡维素芮行动不便，我们只能困守在林中的一小片空地上。回家的想法啃噬着每个人的心。

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我们离开营寨已有五年，这时候回去大概无妨了。最后一次看到老家时，那里被掘地三尺，但新的植被必然也长出来了，黑色的灰烬覆盖的地方，小树苗应该在寸寸拔高，野花和嫩草郁郁葱葱。大自然复苏了损毁之处，而人类也应当已忘怀丢失在河中的男孩和超市里找到的那两个仙灵。他们希望生活能保持他们心目中的本来模样。

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如今能够安全出行，鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和我就出发了，另两位留在临时的营寨里照顾卡维素芮。虽然那天寒风飕飕，但我们一想到能回老家看看，一个个都精神百倍的。我们像小鹿一样在路上蹦蹦跳跳，你追我赶，嘻嘻哈哈。老营寨在我们的记忆中莹莹闪光．许下一切恢复如初的美妙诺言。

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爬上西边的山岭时，我听到远处的笑声。快到山崖边，我们放慢脚步，下面传来的声音逗起了我们的好奇心。透过枝叶间的空隙，山谷一览无余。成排的房屋和敞开的绿地周围蜿蜒缠绕着一条条整洁的马路。我们老营寨的原址上如今建起了五幢新房子，围成一个圈子。另有六幢房子建在宽阔马路的对面，掩映在树木之中。

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这条马路不断分岔，各条支路沿着山坡汇成一条通往镇上的大道，路边的房屋更多。

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“它从前是那么简陋。”鲁契克说。

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我把目光投向远处，看到热火朝天的活动。一个女人从一辆客货两用轿车后面卸下蝴蝶结扎好的包裹。两个男孩在扔橄榄球。一辆外形像甲虫的黄色轿车轧轧地驶上弯曲的道路。我们听见收音机播放着陆军对海军队的比赛，还有一个男人低声咒骂着把一串灯钉到他的屋檐下。我被眼前的景象迷住了，没有发觉天色已晚。屋子里的灯亮了，好似突然点起的信号。

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“我们要去看看是谁住在那块空地上吗? ”鲁契克问道。

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我们偷偷接近那个铺着柏油的圈子。两幢屋子看来没人。另三幢显示出生活的迹象：汽车停在车道上，窗口闪过灯光映照下的人影，好像正匆忙赶去做要紧的事情。我们朝每扇窗子里张望，看到的是同一件事。一个女人在厨房里搅着锅里的东西，另一个从烤箱里端出一只大鸟，隔壁房间里，一个男人盯着一只发光盒子上运动着的微小人形，脸色时而兴奋，时而愤怒。他的隔壁邻居睡在一张安乐椅上，无论对声音还是闪动的画面都一无所觉。

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“他看起来面熟。”我小声说。

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房间的角落里，一个小孩坐在小笼子里，蓝色的厚绒布衣服一直穿到脚上，正心无旁鹜地玩着色彩鲜艳的塑料玩具。我一时觉得那个睡着的男人像我父亲，但我不明白他怎么还会有一个儿子。一个女人从一间屋子走到另一间，她的金色长发像尾巴一样垂在后面。

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她撅起嘴，弯腰和那个男人轻声说了什么，大概是个名字，他一怔，因为自己打盹时被发现而稍觉不好意思。他睁开眼睛时，就更像我父亲了，但她肯定不是我母亲。她扬起嘴角，从围栏里抱起孩子，孩子呢喃着，笑着，抱住母亲的脖子。我以前听过那种声音。男人关了遥控器，走到窗前，用两只手在窗玻璃的水汽上抹出一个圆圈，看了看黑暗的室外，就回到妻儿身边去了。我觉得他没有看到我们，但我肯定曾经见过他。

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我们绕回森林，等到明月高悬，家家户户的灯都亮了。圈子里的房屋又暗又静。

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“我不喜欢这样。”我说，呼气在深紫色的暗夜中清晰可见。

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“你老是为自己的生活犯愁，就像小猫为一根绳子犯愁一样。”斯茂拉赫说。

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他招呼一声，我们就跟随他走上车道。斯茂拉赫选了一幢车道上没有停车的房子，这样我们就不大可能会碰到人。我们轻而易举地从没有上锁的前门溜了进去，没有惊醒任何人。大厅的一侧，一排鞋子摆得整整齐齐，斯茂拉赫立刻试了起来，直到他找到合脚的。到了早上，这家的男孩就会慌里慌张了。从大厅能看到厨房，中间夹着一个小小的餐厅。我们每个人都装了一袋子的罐头水果和蔬菜、面粉、盐、糖。鲁契克抓了满把的袋装茶叶塞进裤子口袋，出去时，又从餐具柜里抄了一包香烟和一盒火柴。我们倏忽来去，没有惊扰任何人。

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第二家——就是蓝衣小孩住的那家——就难以对付了。所有的房门和底楼的窗子都锁了，我们只能从管道口挤进去，进入一间布满铅管的壁橱似的房间。我们跟着管道走，终于到了屋子里面，找到了地窖。为了不发出声音，我们都脱下了鞋子，绑起来挂在脖子上，然后蹑手蹑脚地上楼梯，打开厨房门。房间里有股熟悉的面包香味。

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斯茂拉赫和鲁契克抢劫食品间，我就踮着脚在各个房间里寻找前门在哪，想找个方便的出口。起居室的墙壁上挂着很多相片，看起来大多是毫无意义的影子，但当我走过一幅被月光照亮的相片时，我愣住了。两个人，年轻的母亲把婴儿举到肩上面对镜头。这个孩子和其他孩子也没什么两样，又圆又滑，像颗纽扣似的。母亲没有直视镜头，而是用眼角的余光看着她的儿子。她的发型和衣着都是另一个年代的，而她边哄边笑，顾盼间流露出希望的样子，看起来也无非是一个带着小孩的孩子罢了。她抬起下颌，仿佛因为怀抱婴儿而开心得快要大笑起来。这张照片让我头脑中的化学物质竞相奔流，我头晕目眩，不知所措，虽然心里明白，但却辨不清他们的面目。还有别的照片——女人一袭白色长裙站在树阴旁，男人戴着高顶礼帽——但我不时走回去看那张母与子的照片，手指在玻璃框上摸索着这两个人的轮廓。

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我想要记住。我犯了傻，走到墙边开了灯。

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某人在厨房里喘了口气，这时墙上的照片突然清晰起来。两个戴着古板眼镜的上年纪的人。一个胖胖的婴孩。我把那张迷住我的照片看得一清二楚，在它旁边还有一张使我更受震动。那是一个两眼望天的男孩，抬头想要看到什么东西。拍照时他不会超过七岁，要不是照片是黑白的，我早就认出他的脸了。因为这是我的脸，这就是我，穿着夹克衫，戴着帽子，目光若有所待——等待什么? 落下来的雪花?

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扔过来的橄榄球?V字行的雁队? 还是上面的一双手? 多么奇怪啊，一个小男孩就这么停止在了这幢陌生房子的墙壁上。那张男人和女人的结婚照片上没有任何线索。

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那是我父亲和另一个新娘结了婚。

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“安尼戴，你在干吗? ”鲁契克用气声说道，“把灯关了。”

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头顶上的床垫“吱呀”一响，有人起床了。我熄了灯，赶紧离开。

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地板“咯吱咯吱”的，一个响亮的女人声音模糊传来，口气透着不耐烦。

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“好吧，”男人回答说，“我去看看，但我什么都没听到。”他走向楼梯，一步一步小心地下楼。我们想从厨房后门出去，但弄不开锁。

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“这该死的东西打不开。”斯茂拉赫说。

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那个人已经走到了楼梯底，打开了灯。他走进起居室，我刚刚从那里出来。鲁契克手忙脚乱地转动铁条，随着“咔哒”一声轻响，他撬开了门锁。我们听到声音，都为之一惊。

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“喂，谁在那里? ”男人在另一间屋子里说。他光着脚“啪嗒啪嗒”

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地冲我们这里跑来。

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“他妈的。”斯茂拉赫说着转开把手推开门。门只开了六寸就被上面的一根小铁链拉住了。“我们走。”他说，我们一个接一个变形挤出那道缝隙，糖和面粉撒了一地。我肯定他看到了一眼，因为他又“喂”了一声，但我们已经跑走了，飞奔过结霜的草坪。泛光灯像闪光泡似的煌煌照着，不过我们已经跑出了照明区。我们站在山岭顶上，看着他的房间接二连三地亮起来，窗户映得像一排灯笼。村子中央，一条狗狂吠起来，我们视之为撤退回家的信号。光脚踩在地上很冷，但我们带着宝贝逃走了。我们就像小顽童一样欢呼雀跃，在寒星下哈哈大笑。

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走在山岭上时，鲁契克停下来摸出一支偷来的香烟，我最后一次回头看了看俨整的村落，那本是我们的家。所有的事都发生在那儿——爬到高高的树上去采野蜂蜜，汽车在公路上撞了一头鹿，我在空地上第一次睁开眼睛，看到十一个黑不溜秋的孩子。但有人把这些都擦去了，就像擦去一个单词或一行字，随后在原处写上了另一句句子。这些鳞次栉比的房屋看起来就像长久以来都矗立在那里似的，让人不禁怀疑起自己的过去是否实在。

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“那里的那个人，”我说，“睡觉的那个。让我想起一个人来。”

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“对我来说，他们都差不多。”鲁契克说。

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“是我认识的某人，或者说，是以前认识的人。”

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“会不会是你很久以前失散的兄弟? ”

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“我没有兄弟。”

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“说不定是你在图书馆里看到的某本书的作者? ”

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“我不知道他们长什么样。”

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“难道是那本你带来带去的本子的作者? ”

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“不，不是麦克伊内斯。我不认识麦克伊内斯。”

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“杂志上的人? 报纸上的照片? ”

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“是我认识的某个人。”

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“会是消防队员吗? 还是你在溪边看到的那个人? ”他吸了口烟，像一台老蒸汽机似的吞云吐雾。

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“我想那大概是我父亲，但也不对头。那里还有一个奇怪的女人，带着穿蓝衣服的小孩。”

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“今年是几几年了，小宝贝? ”鲁契克问。

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应当是1972年吧，虽然其实我也不能肯定。

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“要是现在，你已经是个快四十岁的男青年了，而落地窗里的那个男人有多大?”

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“我猜想也差不多。”

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“那么他的父亲会有多大? ”

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“两倍年纪。”我说着，傻乎乎地笑起来。

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“现在你父亲可是个老人了，差不多和我一样老。”

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我们坐在冷冰冰的地上。自从我最后一次见到父母，已经过去了那么久，他们的真实年龄就像一个浮起的谜团。

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鲁契克坐到我身边，“过了一段时间，大家都忘记了。我没法画给你看我小时候的样子。以前的记忆是不真实的——只不过是童话中的人物。我的妈妈这会儿走到我身边说：‘乖宝贝。’我会说：‘抱歉，我不认识您，夫人。’我父亲也是个谜。所以，你看，在某种程度上，你无父无母，就算你有，你也不认识他们了，他们也不认识你，这样更凄惨。”

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“但那个睡在安乐椅里的家伙是谁呢? 如果我用力想，是能想起我父亲的样子的。”

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“可能是其他人，或者谁都不是。”

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“那个婴儿呢? ”

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“他们对我来说都一样。没有牙齿却一直觉得饿的麻烦东西，不能走路，不能说话，不能一起吸烟。你能去弄一个来。有人说换生灵的最佳选择是婴儿——用不着学很多东西——但那就是活倒回去了。你不应该倒着活。再说，如果我们弄来个婴儿，要照顾他一个世纪，那只能靠老天帮忙了。”

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“我不想偷任何一个孩子。我只是想知道那是谁的孩子。我父亲怎么样了? 我母亲又在哪里? ”

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为了熬过严寒的季节，我们从救世军节俭商店（一个慈善组织办的特价商店，常卖二手货。）里偷了十条毯子和六件儿童外套。我们还减少食量，主要靠喝树皮和树枝酿制的茶来过活。一月和二月天光惨淡的时候，我们常常毫不动弹，或者独自坐着，或者三两成堆，身上滴着露水，冷得要命，只能等待太阳出来，好让我们重焕生机。卡维素芮身体渐渐强壮起来，当野洋葱长出来，水仙花刚刚露脸时，她已经能够在搀扶下走几步了。斯帕克每天都让她多走一步，虽然那够痛苦。后来她好得足以让我们行动了，我们立马逃离了那个装满悲惨回忆的废墟。我们冒着危险在水边找了个更合适的藏身之处，大约向南一公里外就是那些新建的房屋。刮风的夜晚，家家户户的声音传到我们的新营寨来。虽然没有以前隐蔽了，它却把我们保护得更周全。我们第一天挖洞的时候，我浑身充满了干劲。斯茂拉赫坐到我身边，一条胳膊环着我的肩膀。太阳正从天空落下。

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“事物并不总是如其表面所示。”他说。

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“斯茂拉赫，除非我活了一千年，才能听懂你的古语。跟我讲英语。”

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“你在想我们过世了的朋友吗? 他们待的地方可好了，而且不用忍受没有尽头的等待。还是你在想别的呢，小宝贝? ”

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“你爱过吗，斯茂拉赫? ”

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“有一次，谢天谢地还好只有一次。我们很亲密，就跟任何一对母子一样。”

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“鲁契克说我的父母已经没了。”

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“我记不大得她了。羊毛的味道，也许吧，还有刺鼻的肥皂味，口气里的薄荷味。胸脯很大，我在上面放我的……不，这不对。她是个瘦女人，皮包骨头。我想不起来了。”

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“我们每离开一个地方，我就消失一部分。”

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“嗯……说到我的父亲，是个身材魁梧的家伙，有一大把末梢鬈曲的黑胡子，但说不定那是我祖父，要这么想的话。那是很久以前了，我说不准时间和地点。”

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天完全黑了。

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“这就是生活。所有的东西都会离开，把位置让给新的东西。聪明的就别对任何环境和任何人用情太深。”

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我被斯茂拉赫的哲理搞迷糊了，摇摇晃晃地回到我的新床上躺下，把事实翻过来，看看是什么在下面蠕动着。我想要勾勒出父母的样子，却又想不起他们的脸庞和声音。要知道，生活对我而言，就和我的姓名一样虚假。这些影子依稀可见：睡觉的男人，美丽的女人，哭着笑着的孩子。但是很多真实生活并不只是书本上写的那样，我仍然不知其为何物。母亲哼唱着摇篮曲哄孩子入睡。男人洗着一盒牌，玩着单人跳棋。一对情侣互相解开扣子，滚倒在床上。如同梦境般不真实。

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我没有告诉斯茂拉赫我心烦意乱的缘故。斯帕克丢下了我们的友情，退缩进坚硬而孤独的壳里。在我们搬离之后，她将全副精力投注在装扮我们的新营寨上，使它更像一个家，出太阳的时候，她就教卡维素芮走路。精疲力竭的斯帕克每晚都早早地沉入梦乡。湿寒的三月天里，她待在自己的洞里，摹画着一张羊皮纸上的精细的图案，我问她画的是什么，她默然回避。许多个清晨，我看到她站在营寨的西头，裹着她最暖和的外套，穿着结实的鞋子，眺望着地平线。我记得有一次我走到她身后，把手放到她肩上。她头一次在我的触碰下闪躲了，她回过头来看到是我，就颤抖了一下，好似强忍着大叫出声的冲动。

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“怎么了，斯帕克? 你还好吧? ”

75
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“我干得太累了。最后一场雪就快下了。”她微笑着牵起我的手，“风雪一来，我们就溜出去。”

76
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几天后，终于下雪了。我躺在一堆毯子下睡着了，她叫醒我，白色的雪花落在她黑色的头发上。“是时候了。”她低声说，犹如松林间的喃喃细语。斯帕克和我穿过熟悉的小径，不时小心地躲起来，然后在图书馆附近的森林边缘等待黄昏来临。

77
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下雪的缘故，落日也看不清楚，路上的车灯很少，引诱着我们早些进去。我们刚刚挤进那地方，就听见头顶上图书管理员去关门的脚步声。我们在毯子下拥在一起，又暖和又安静，她很快靠着我睡着了。她心跳和呼吸的节奏，还有皮肤的温度，弄得我也很快就睡着了，我们在一片漆黑中同时醒过来。她点亮灯，我们各自拿书。

78
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斯帕克一直在读弗兰纳里·奥康那，我则和华莱士·史蒂文斯起跋涉在深水中。

79
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但我没法专心到故事上，而是读几句就看看她。我要告诉她，但语言却不能尽意，不够完整，或许还不能达意——而且毫无其他办法。她是我这世上最亲密的伙伴，但这些年来，仅仅如此渐渐无法满足我的想望。我无法保持理智，也不能拖到日后再讲。斯帕克聚精会神地读着《暴力将它带走》。她曲起一条手臂撑着头，躺在地上，头发遮住了脸。

80
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“斯帕克，我有话跟你说。”

81
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“过一会。让我再看一句。”

82
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“斯帕克，你能不能把书放一放? ”

83
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“就到这里吧。”她把手指夹在书页里，合上了书。

84
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她看着我，一瞬间，兴奋的我害怕起来。“我已经想了很长很长时间，斯帕克，关于你。我想告诉你我的感觉。”

85
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她的微笑分崩离析，目光探索着我毫不动摇的凝视，“安尼戴，”

86
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她用力说道。

87
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“我得告诉你我多么……”

88
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“别说。”

89
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“告诉你，斯帕克，我多么……”

90
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“求你了，别说，亨利。”

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我一下子住了口，张开嘴发出这个词，又顿了一下，“你说什么? ”

92
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“我不知道我现在能否听到那个。”

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“你叫我什么? ”

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她掩着嘴，好似要再次抓住逃离的名字。

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“你叫我亨利。”整个故事倏然展现，“那是我，我是亨利。这是你说的，不是吗? ”

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“对不起，安尼戴。”

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“亨利。不是安尼戴。亨利·戴。”

98
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“亨利·戴。你不该知道的。”

99
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听到名字的震惊使我忘记了本要告诉她的话。无数的念头和情绪在我头脑中交战。各种印象、难题和谜语的答案，没有结论的问题。她放下书，走过房间，抱住了我。她从未这么长久地抱着我，用最轻柔的抚摸摇晃，安抚我疯狂的思绪，把混乱平息下来。

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随后她把我的故事说给我听。这些纸上写的都是她所能记住的事。她把知道的都告诉了我，而我的梦境、幻觉和遭遇则填补了空缺。她告诉我，他们为何要将秘密保守如此之久。为何不知道自己是谁要比知道好得多。忘记过去，擦去姓名。所有的一切都显现在一个耐心而神圣的声音里，直到所有能解答的问题都被解答，所有的想往都被满足。蜡烛燃尽了，我们说了太久，谈话在黑暗中继续，我记得的最后一件事是在她怀抱中睡着了。

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我做了个梦，梦见我们当晚逃走了，找到了一个一块成长的地方，变成我们应该成为的女人和男人。在梦中，她吻了我的唇，她的肌肤在我的指尖下滑动。一只画眉唱起歌来。但到了早晨，她却不在我以为她会在的地方。我们做朋友那么久，她从未给我写过只言片语，但在我身边，她应该躺着的地方，却有一张她手写的留言。每个词都烙在我心上，虽然我绝不会把它丢掉，最后她写道：“再见，亨利·戴。”

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这是她离开的时候了。斯帕克走了。

103
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The most merciless thing in the world is love. When love flees, all that remains is memory to compensate. Our friends were either going or gone, their ghosts the best our poor minds could conjure to fill love’s absence. I am haunted to this day by all those who are missing. Losing Kivi, Blomma, Ragno, and Zanzara proved heartbreaking for Speck, too. She went about her tasks grim and determined, as if by staying busy she could keep phantoms at bay.

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After the disaster in the mine, we deposed Béka with his consent, and the diminished clan elected Smaolach our new leader. We lived above ground for the first time in years, bound to one small clearing in the forest by Chavisory’s immobility. The impulse to go back home ate at us all. Five years had passed since we had left our camp, and we thought it might be safe to return. The last time anyone had seen our former home, the grounds had been denuded, but surely new growth had begun—where black ash had been, saplings should be inching up amid the wildflowers and fresh grass. Just as nature reclaims its ruins, the people, too, would have forgotten about that boy lost in the river and the two faeries found in the market. They’d want life to remain as they thought it had been.

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With it safe to travel again, Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set out, leaving the other three behind at our makeshift camp to watch over Chavisory. Although the wind blew cold that day, our spirits quickened at the prospect of seeing our old haunts again. We raced like deer along the trails, laughing as one passed the other. The old camp shimmered in our　imaginations as a promise of bright redemption.

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Climbing the western ridge, I heard distant laughter. We slowed our puce, and as we reached the lip, the sounds below piqued our curiosity. The valley came into view through the broken veil of tree limbs and branches Rows of houses and open lawns snaked and curled along ribbons of neat roadways. On the exact spot where our camp had been, five new houses faced an open circle. Another six sat on either side of a wide road cut through the trees. Branching off from that trail, more streets and houses flowed down the sloping hill to the main road into town.

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"Be it ever so humble," Luchóg said.

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I looked far ahead and saw bustling activity. From the back of a station wagon, a woman unloaded packages tied up with bows. Two boys tossed a football. A yellow car, shaped like a bug, chugged up a winding road. We could hear a radio talking about the Army-Navy game, and a man muttering curses as he nailed a string of lights beneath the eaves of his roof. Mesmerized by all I saw, I failed to notice as day gave way to night. Lights went on in the homes, as if on sudden signal.

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"Shall we see who lives on the ring?" Luchóg asked.

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We crept down to the circle of asphalt. Two of the homes appeared empty. The other three showed signs of life: cars in the driveways, lamplit figures crossing behind the windows as if rushing off on vital tasks. Glancing in each window, we saw the same story unfolding. A woman in a kitchen stirred something in a pot. Another lifted a huge bird from the oven, while in an adjoining room a man stared at minuscule figures playing games in a glowing box, his face flushed in excitement or anger. His next-door neighbor slept in an easy chair, oblivious to the noise and flickering images.

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"He looks familiar," I whispered.

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Covered to his toes in blue terrycloth, a young child sat in a small cage in the corner of the room. He played distractedly with brightly colored plastic toys. For a moment, I thought the sleeping man resembled my father, but I could not understand how he could have another son. A woman walked from one room into the other, and her long blonde hair trailed behind like a tail. She scrunched up her mouth into a bow before bending down and whispering something to the man, a name perhaps, and he looked startled and slightly embarrassed to be caught sleeping. When his eyes popped open, he looked even more like my father, but she was definitely not my mother. She flashed a crooked smile and lifted her baby over the bars, and the child cooed and laughed and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. I had heard that sound before. The man switched off the console, but before joining the others, he came to the window, cleared a circle with his two hands against the damp panes, and peered out into the darkness. I do not think he saw us, but I surely had seen him before.

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We circled back into the woods and waited until the moon was high in the night sky and most of the lights popped off goodnight. The houses in the ring were dark and quiet.

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"I don’t like this," I said, my breath visible in the violet light.

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"You worry your own life away like a kitten worries a string," Smaolach said.

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He barked, and we followed him down to the cul-de-sac. Smaolach chose a house with no car in the driveway, where we were not likely to encounter any humans. Careful not to wake anyone, we slipped inside easily through the unlocked front door. A neat row of shoes stood off to the side of the foyer, and Luchóg immediately tried on pairs until he found a fit. Their boy would be dismayed in the morning. The kitchen lay in sight of the foyer, through a smallish dining room. Each of us loaded a rucksack with canned fruits and vegetables, flour, salt, and sugar. Luchóg jammed fistfuls of tea bags into his trouser pockets and on the way out copped a package of cigarettes and a box of matches from the sideboard. In and out in minutes, disturbing no one.

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The second house—where the baby in blue lived—proved stubborn. All of the doors and downstairs windows were locked, so we had to shimmy under the crawlspace and into a closetlike room that sheltered a maze of plumbing. By following the pipes, we eventually made our way into the interior of the house, ending up in the cellar. To make ourselves quieter, we look off our shoes and tied them around our necks before sneaking up the steps and slowly opening the door to the kitchen. The room smelled of remembered bread.

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While Smaolach and Luchóg raided the pantry, I tiptoed through the rooms to locate the front door and an easy exit. On the walls of the living room hung a gallery of photographic portraits that read mainly as uninteresting shadows, but as I passed by one, illuminated by a white shaft of moonlight, I froze. Two figures, a young mother and her infant child, lifted to her shoulder to face the camera. The baby looked like every other baby, round and smooth as a button. The mother did not stare directly into the lens but watched her son from the corners of her eyes. Her hairstyle and clothing suggested another era, and she, with her beguiling smile and hopeful gaze, appeared hardly more than a child with a child. She lifted her chin, as if preparing to burst out laughing with joy at the babe in arms. The photograph triggered a rush of chemicals to my brain. Dizzy and disoriented, I knew, but could not place, their faces. There were other photographs—a long white dress standing next to a shadow, a man in a peaked cap—but I kept coming back to the mother and child, put my fingers on the glass, traced the contours of those figures. I wanted to remember. Foolishly, I went to the wall and turned on the lamp.

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Someone gasped in the kitchen just as the pictures on the wall jumped into clarity. Two older people with severe eyeglasses. A fat baby. But I could see clearly the photograph that had so entranced me, and beside it another which disturbed me more. There was a boy, eyes skyward, looking up in expectation of something unseen. He could not have been more than seven at the time the picture was taken, and had the snapshot not been in black) and white, I would have sooner recognized his face. For it was mine, and me, in a jacket and cap, eyes awaiting—what? a snowfall, a tossed football, a V of geese, hands from above? What a strange thing to happen to a little boy, to end up on the wall of this unfamiliar house. The man and woman in the wedding picture offered no clues. It was my father with a different bride.

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"Aniday, what are you doing?" Luchóg hissed. "Hush those lights."

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A mattress creaked overhead as someone got out of bed. I snapped off the lights and scrammed. The floorboards moaned. A woman’s voice muttered in a high, impatient tone.

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"All right," the man replied. "I’ll go check, but I didn’t hear a thing." He headed for the upper stairway, took the steps slowly one by one. We tried the back door out of the kitchen but could not figure out the lock.

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"The damned thing won’t budge," Smaolach said.

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The approaching figure reached the bottom landing, switched on the light. He went into the living room, which I had departed seconds earlier. Luchóg fussed with a rotating bar and unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click. We froze at the sound.

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"Hey, who’s there?" the man said from the other room. He padded our way in his bare feet.

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"Fuck all," said Smaolach, and he turned the knob and pushed. The door opened six inches but hung fast by a small metal chain above our heads. "Let’s go," he said, and we changed to squeeze through the gap one by one, scattering sugar and flour behind us. I am sure he saw the last of us, for the man called out "Hey" again, but we were gone, racing across the frosty lawn. The floodlight popped on like a flashbulb, but we had passed its circle of illumination. From the top of the ridge, we watched all his rooms light up in sequence, till the windows glowed like rows of jack-o’-lanterns. A dog began to yowl madly in the middle of the village, and we took that as a sign to retreat home. The ground chilled our bare feet, but, exhilarated as imps, we escaped our treasures, laughing under the cold stars.

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At the top of the ridgeline, Luchóg stopped to smoke one of his purloined cigarettes, and I looked back one last time at the ordered village where our home used to be. This is the place where it had all happened—a reach for wild honey high in a tree, a stretch of roadway where the car struck a deer, a clearing where I first opened my eyes and saw eleven dark children. But someone had erased all that, like a word or a line, and in that space wrote another sentence. The neighborhood of houses appeared to have existed in this space for ages. It made one doubt one’s own story.

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"That man back there," I said, "the sleeping one. He reminded me of someone."

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"They all look alike to me," Luchóg said. "Someone I know. Or knew."

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"Could it be your long-lost brother?"

28

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"I haven’t one."

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"Perhaps a man who wrote a book you read in the library?"

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"I do not know what they look like."

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"Perhaps the man who wrote that book you carry from place to place?"

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"No, not McInnes. I do not know McInnes."

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"A man from a magazine? A photograph in the newspaper?"

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"Someone I knew."

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"Could it be the fireman? The man you saw at the creek?" He puffed on his cigarette and blew smoke like an old steam engine.

36

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"I thought it might be my father, but that can’t be right. There was that strange woman and her child in the blue suit."

37

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"What year is it, little treasure?" Luchóg asked.

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It could have been 1972, although in truth, I was no longer sure.

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"By now, you must be a young man near the end of thirty years. And how old was the man in the picture window?"

40

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41

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42

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43

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"Your father would be an old man by now, almost as old as I am."

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I sat down on the cold ground. So much time had passed since I had last seen my parents; their real age was a revealed mystery.

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