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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第29章|Chapter 29

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13480]
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我一眼看到他，害怕得说不出话，敬畏交集，连碰都不敢碰他。

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他不是畸形儿，也不是魔鬼，而是从头到脚都完美无瑕的漂亮男孩。

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在为他等待这么长时间之后，我心中生出一番突如其来的变化，这变化不是因为他的样子，也不是因为他的姗姗来迟，而是因为我变得更为高贵，更富人性。我抱着他的时候，目光困惑，泰思看着我笑了。

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“你不会弄断他的。”她说。

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我的儿子。我们的孩子。十个手指，十个脚趾。肤色健康，肺活量大，吃起奶来相当自如。我把他抱在怀里，想起了穿着相同的黄色套衫的双胞胎，想起我母亲边唱着歌边在浴缸里给我擦背，想起父亲牵着我的手，登上露天看台去观看秋季橄榄球赛。接着我又想到了我的第一个母亲克拉拉，我多么喜欢钻到她裙子的滚边下啊，还有我父亲艾布拉姆的脸颊上有股金缕梅刮胡水的味道，他亲我时，胡子像羽毛般柔软。我吻着我们的孩子，想到出生真是个普通的奇迹，是我生命中的意外之喜，我对这个人类的孩子充满感激之情。

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我们为他取名爱德华，他茁壮成长着。他出生于1970年圣诞节前两周，成为我们挚爱的孩儿，才过了几个月，我们一家三口就搬入了森林中的新发展区，那里的房子是妈妈和查理买给我们的。起初，我压根没有打算要住到那里，但在我们结婚两周年时，他们给了我们这样一个惊喜，而且因为泰思怀孕，开支激增，我也没法再说不了。

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房子比我们需要的更大，尤其在孩子降生之前，于是我辟出了一个小乐室，把老钢琴搬了进去。我给七年级的学生上音乐课，还在马克．吐温中学指导学生管弦乐队，傍晚和周末，我无需为孩子操心，就搞我自己的音乐，梦想着创作一支交响曲，唤起一个生命流向另一个生命的故事。

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为了寻找灵感，我有时会打开乘客表的影印件，研究那些名字。

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艾布拉姆和克拉拉，他们的儿子弗列德雷希、约瑟夫和古斯塔夫，带有传奇色彩的安娜。他们的灵魂支离破碎地出现了。一个医生听诊我的心跳，母亲靠在他肩上发愁。面孔都朝向我，小心翼翼地说着一种我听不懂的话。她穿着墨绿色的裙子跳起华尔兹。浓浓的苹果酒味，烤炉里有糖醋烤牛肉。在一个冬日里，透过结霜的窗户，我看到哥哥们走近家门，他们正私底下说着笑话，呼出来的气白乎乎的，像云一样。客厅里放着钢琴，我又开始弹了。

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弹琴是来自前生的鲜明回忆。我不仅想起了黄色的琴键、蔓叶花饰的乐谱架上精致的卷藤、红木家具上光滑的涂漆，我还能再次听到那些旋律，感受他弹琴时的起伏心潮——敲击着琴键，倾听从机器深处回响的音符。音符聚集成乐调，曲调在相应的琴键上化为意象，脚下和着拍子，曲子应节而起。将梦想中的音符携入生活，这种激情就是我和我的第一度童年的一处真实的联系。在我心中回响的歌谣在空气中震荡。孩提时代，这是我任由思维驰骋的方式，而在一个多世纪之后，我尝试着通过作曲来做出同样天衣无缝的表达，但我似乎找到了钥匙，却丢失了锁孔。我就像爱德华牙牙学语时一般无助，学习如何将我的想望再次传达出来。

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和我们那还不会说话的小小孩儿在一起，我就想起失去的生活，因而倍加珍惜爱德华日日夜夜留下来的记忆。他爬行、站立、长牙齿、长头发、爱上我们。他走路、说话，偷偷摸摸地呼啦一下长高。那时候，我们是无比幸福的一家子。

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我的妹妹们破坏了这个理想的画面。生了一个女儿的玛丽和怀上头胎的伊丽莎白最初注意到异样。有一次，我们这个大家庭在母亲的家中共进晚餐。爱德华已经十八个月了，我记得自己一直留神看着他摇摇晃晃地上下门廊阶梯。吃饭前，查理和双胞胎的两个丈夫在看最后几分钟的比赛，母亲和泰思守在煮锅旁边，我和姑娘们在一起，多少年来，这还是第一次。这时不知是哪位不请自言。

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“喂，他跟你一点都不像。”

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“和她也不像。”

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我看了看爱德华，他正抓起一把草叶，扬到沉闷的空气中。

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“看他的下巴，”莉兹（莉兹是伊丽莎白的昵称。）评价说，“你们两个都没有这样的裂沟。”

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“他的眸色也不是你们的那两种颜色，”玛丽说，“和猫眼一样绿。

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他的眼睫毛不是从我们家族这边遗传来的。你有这样叫人羡慕的长睫毛，是啊，就是这样。真可惜他不是个女孩。”

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“嗯，也不是伍德郝斯家的那种睫毛。好好看看泰思吧。”

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“像是涂了睫毛膏。”

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“还有鼻子。现在还看不大出来，不过以后你会发现的，他的鼻子有点鹰钩，可怜的小家伙，希望我的孩子不会有这样的鼻子。”

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“戴家人从来没有过这样的鼻子。”

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“你们两个在说什么? ”我把话说得太响了，我儿子一愣。

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“没什么。”

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“有点儿奇怪，你不觉得他不像他的爸妈吗? ”

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傍晚，母亲、查理和我坐在门廊上看着蛾子飞舞，爱德华的相貌问题又被提了起来。

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“别听那两个说的话，”母亲说，“他和你一模一样，眼睛周围可能和泰思有点像。”

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查理叔叔吮着一瓶汽水，轻声打嗝，“这孩子和我很像。我的孙辈都和我很像。”

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艾迪蹒跚着脚步走过地板，扑到查理的大腿上站稳了身子，像一头老虎似的吼叫起来。

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爱德华日渐长大，越来越像安格兰德家的人而不像戴家的人，我竭尽全力隐瞒真相。或许我应该对泰思坦白一切，那大概就会结束我的痛苦。然而她却大度地忍受着冲着她儿子的挖苦话。他过了两周岁生日后，我们邀请奥斯卡·拉甫和吉米·卡明斯过来吃饭。饭后，我们胡闹了一支改编曲，那本来是我写了想要吸引市内的四重奏室内乐队的注意。当然，我们还少了一个乐手，乔治很早就去了加州。但数年之后再次与他们同奏一曲，让我感到轻松愉快。泰思去厨房弄柠檬酥皮馅饼，爱德华发觉她走开了，就在婴儿围栏里扭动身子，拳头砸得板条“砰砰”响。

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“你不觉得他在那里太挤了吗? ”奥斯卡问。

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“他吃好饭后就有点烦人。而且他喜欢待在那里，觉得安全。”

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奥斯卡摇摇头，在围栏外逗引爱德华，跪在地上朝他跳过去，还让他按单簧管上的键。看到我的单身汉朋友对我儿子如此这般，我不禁想到他们是在个人自由和成家的诱惑之间权衡利弊。他们喜欢这个孩子，但对他和他的种种表现也有点害怕。

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“去拿球棍哕，”奥斯卡说，“真是个酷小孩。你想离钢琴远远的啊。太重了，拖不动。”

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“你肯定他是你的吗? ”卡明斯问，“他和你半点都不像，也不像泰思，从长相来看。”

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奥斯卡也开起玩笑来，“既然你这么说了……瞧瞧那分岔的下巴和大眼睛。”

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“好了伙计们，别说了。”

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“噤声，”奥斯卡小声说，“老夫人来啦。”

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泰思端来甜点，显然注意到了我们话题的转换。我应该提起让我心烦的疑虑，开个玩笑，当她面说些什么，但我什么都没说。

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“啊，泰思，”吉米说着，把他的馅饼碟子在膝盖上放稳，“你觉得艾迪像谁呢? ”

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“你的嘴边挂着一小片酥皮。”她把我们的儿子抱到大腿上，抚弄着他的头发，把他的头按在胸前，“我的小家伙怎么样? ”

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爱德华朝馅饼伸过手去，捏了一块黄黄的馅饼，塞进嘴里。

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她笑了，“就和他爸爸一样。”

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谢谢你，亲爱的。她向我报之一笑。

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伙计们道了晚安，爱德华在婴儿床里睡着了，泰思和我一起洗餐碟，看着厨房窗外。星星在冷冷的黑色夜空上发出针尖般的光芒，水槽里的热水和炉子里的轰隆声使得屋子有种蒸汽腾腾的慵懒感。我放下茶巾，从后面抱住了她，吻着她温湿的后颈，她颤抖了一下。

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“吉米说艾迪不像我们，我希望你不要太生气。”

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“我知道，”她说，“这是很奇怪的。”

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一瞬间，我觉得她怀疑什么地方出了错，但她转过身来，用戴着橡胶手套的手捧着我的脸。“你老想着稀奇古怪的事。”她吻了我，话题转开了。

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几天之后，泰思和我躺在床上，爱德华睡在另一头的房间里。她摇着我的肩膀把我叫醒，压低声音急促说道：“亨利，亨利，醒醒，我听见楼下有声音。”

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“什么声音? ”

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“你没听见吗? 下面有人。”

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我咕哝着说什么声音都没有。

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“我跟你说，有人在我们家里。你不去看看吗? ”

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我翻身下床，站了片刻让自己清醒一下，然后经过关着房门的爱德华房间，走到楼梯口。我没看见，但感觉到楼下有盏灯灭了，有什么东西隐隐约约地从一个房间走到另一个房间。我焦急起来，恍恍惚惚地一步步走下楼梯，环境越来越暗，我整理着自己游移不定的情绪。到了楼下，我走进起居室，打开电灯。屋内看来一切正常，但墙上有几幅照片有点歪斜。我们挂了一系列的家庭照，我们父母的照片、泰思和我小时候的照片、结婚照，还有一排爱德华的照片。我把镜框推回原位，同时听到了厨房门的铰链发出的声响。

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“喂，谁在那里? ”我吆喝一声冲过去，刚好看见一个小鬼的背影正在从门和门框之间的缝隙里挤出去。外面寒冷漆黑的夜里，三个身影飞快地奔过结霜的草坪，在泛光灯下飘然而去。我叫他们站住，但他们已经跑得无影无踪。厨房里一团糟，食品柜里丢了罐头、谷类和糖，还有一口小铜炖锅，但别的都没少。他们挤出门的时候，一袋面粉弄破了，留下了一条肮脏的痕迹，上面还有脚印。真是古怪，一伙饥饿的小偷入室抢劫。泰思也下来了，被这情形吓了一跳，但她把我赶出厨房，自己把它打扫干净。我回到起居室，又检查了一下我f 『：的东西，什么都没少——电视机，立体声音响，值钱的都在。

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我又仔细查看了照片。泰思几乎还是我们结婚那天的模样。威廉·戴军±瞪着眼睛，穿着军装停留在过去。露丝·戴用眼角的余光打量着她的儿子，简直就像一个带着小孩的孩子，但却满怀爱意j}[ 骄傲。第二张照片是我，还是一个小男孩，两眼望天，流露期盼。然而，这当然不是我。这孩子还太小。猛然间，我意识到是谁来过了，为何而来。

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泰思进来，把手贴在我背上。“我们要叫警察吗? 少了什么东西吗? ”

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我无言以对，心脏急剧跳动，压倒性的恐惧使我无法动弹。我们还没有去看我们的儿子。我飞快地奔上楼梯跑进他的房间。他睡着，膝盖蜷到胸口，好像什么事情都没发生似的做着梦。看着他无邪的睡颜，我顿时领悟到他是我的骨肉。他几乎就像我依然会在噩梦中见到的那个男孩，那个弹钢琴的男孩。

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The first time I saw him, I was too frightened to say anything and too awestruck to touch him. He was not a freak or a devil, but perfect in every way, a beautiful boy. After the long wait to meet him, I found myself overcome by the sudden change, not so much his physical presence, his arrival after being hidden away, but the change in me to something more sublimely human. Tess smiled at my confusion and the look in my eyes as I beheld him.

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"You won’t break him," she said.

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My son. Our child. Ten fingers, ten toes. Good color, great lungs, a natural at the breast. I held him in my arms and remembered the twins in their matching yellow jumpers, my mother singing to me as she scrubbed my back in the bathtub, my father holding my hand when we climbed the bleachers at an autumn football game. Then I remembered Clara, my first mother, how I loved to crawl under the billows of her skirts, and the scent of witch hazel on my father Abram’s cheek, his feathery moustache as he pressed his lips against my skin. I kissed our boy and considered the ordinary miracle of birth, the wonder of my wife, and was grateful for the human child.

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We named him Edward, and he thrived. Born two weeks before Christmas 1970, he became our darling boy, and over those first few months, the three of us settled into the house that Mom and Charlie had bought for us in the new development up in the woods. At first, I could not bear the thought of living there, but they surprised us on our second anniversary, and with Tess pregnant and the bills mounting, I could not say no. The house was larger than we needed, especially before the baby came, and I built a small studio, moving in the old piano. I taught music to seventh graders and ran the student orchestra at Mark Twain Middle School, and in the evenings and on weekends, when I didn’t have to mind the baby, I worked on my music, dreaming of a composition that evoked the flow of one life into another.

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For inspiration, I would sometimes unfold the photocopy of the passenger list and study the names. Abram and Clara, their sons Friedrich, Josef, and Gustav. The legendary Anna. Their ghosts appeared in fragments. A doctor listens to my heartbeat while Mother frets over his shoulder. Faces bend to me, speaking carefully in a language I cannot understand. Her dark green skirt as she waltzes. Tang of apple wine, sauerbraten in the oven. Through a frosted window, I could see my brothers approach the house on a winter’s day, their breath exploding in clouds as they share a private joke. In the parlor stands the piano, which I touch again.

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Playing music is the one vivid memory from the other life. Not only do I recall the yellowing keys, the elaborate twisting vines of the scrollwork music stand, the smoothness of the rosewood finish, but I can hear those tunes again, and feel the sensations he felt while playing—strike these keys, hear these notes resound from the depths of the machine. The combination of notes makes up the melody. Translate the symbols from the score to the corresponding keys, and keep the right time, to make this song. My one true link to my first childhood is that sensation of bringing the dream of notes to life. The song echoing in my head becomes the song resounding in the air. As a child, this was my way of unlocking my thoughts, and now, a century or more later, I attempted to create the same seamless expression through my composition, but it was as if I had found the key and lost the keyhole. I was as helpless as Edward in his preverbal life, learning to communicate my desires all over again.

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Being around our tiny speechless boy reminded me of that lost life and made me cherish the memories Edward created every passing day. He crawled, stood, grew teeth, grew hair, fell in love with us. He walked, he talked, he grew up in a moment behind our backs. We were, for a time, the perfect happy family.

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My sisters marred that ideal picture. Mary, who had a baby girl, and Elizabeth, who was expecting her first, were the initial ones to point out the curiosity. The extended family had gathered at my mother’s house for dinner. Edward was about eighteen months old, for I remember watching him carefully as he waddled up and down the porch steps over and over again. Charlie and the twins’ husbands watched the last few minutes of the game before dinner, and my mother and Tess guarded the hot skillets, so I was alone with the girls for the first time in ages, when one or the other led off with her unsolicited opinion.

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"You know, he looks nothing like you."

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"And hardly a thing like her."

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I looked at Edward as he pulled up leaves of grass and tossed them into the still air.

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"Look at his chin," Liz observed. "Neither one of you has that cleft."

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"And his eyes aren’t either of your two colors," said Mary. "Green as a cat’s. He didn’t get those eyelashes from our side of the family. You have such adorable long eyelashes, yes, you do. Too bad he’s not a girl."

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"Well, they’re not Wodehouse eyelashes either. Take a good look at Tess."

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"All mascara."

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"And the nose. No so much now, but later, you’ll see. That’s a beak on him, poor little man. Hope my child doesn’t get that nose."

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"No Day ever had a nose like that."

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"What are you two saying?" My voice was so loud, I startled my son.

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"Nothing."

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"Kinda odd, don’t you think, that he doesn’t look like his parents?"

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At sunset my mother, Charlie, and I sat on the porch watching the moths dance, and the matter of Edward’s appearance arose again.

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"Don’t listen to those two," my mother said. "He’s the spit and image of you, with maybe a little Tess around the eyes."

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Uncle Charlie sucked on a pop bottle, burped softly. "The boy looks exactly like me. All my grandchildren do." Eddie tottered across the floorboards and threw himself at Charlie’s legs, and finding his balance, he roared like a tiger.

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As he grew older, Edward looked more like an Ungerland than a Day, but I did my best to hide the truth. Maybe I should have explained all to Tess, and perhaps that would have been the end of my torment. But she bore the snide remarks about her son with grace. Days after his second birthday, we had Oscar Love and Jimmy Cummings over for dinner. After the meal, we fooled around with an arrangement that I had written hoping to interest a chamber-music quartet in the city. Of course, we were one player short, with George long gone in California. But playing with them again after a few years was easy and comfortable. Tess excused herself to go to the kitchen to check on a lemon meringue pie. When Edward noticed she was gone, he wailed from his playpen, banging his fists against the slats.

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"Don’t you think he’s getting a bit too big for that?" Oscar asked.

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"He can be a bit of trouble after dinner. Besides, he likes it there. Makes him feel safe."

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Oscar shook his head and fished Edward from behind the bars, bounced him on his knees, and let him finger the keys of the clarinet. Seeing my single friends react to my son, I couldn’t help but feel that they were weighing their freedom against the allure of family. They loved the boy but were slightly frightened of him and all he represented.

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"Drawn to the stick," Oscar said. "That’s one cool kid. You’ll want to stay away from the piano. Too heavy to carry around."

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"Sure he’s yours?" Cummings asked. "He looks nothing like you, or Tess, for that matter."

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Oscar joined the fun. "Now that you mention it... look at that split chin and those big eyes."

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"C’mon guys, cut it out."

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"Chill out," Oscar whispered. "Here comes the old lady."

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Tess delivered the dessert, oblivious to the turns of our conversation. I should have brought up my festering doubt, made a joke of it, said something in front of her, but I didn’t.

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"So, Tess," Jimmy said, balancing his pie plate on his knee, "who do you think Eddie takes after?"

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"You have a speck of meringue at the corner of your mouth." She picked up our son and held him in her lap, stroked his hair, and pressed his head against her breast. "How’s my little man?"

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Edward stuck his hand straight into the pie, pulled up a clump of yellow goo, and crammed it in his mouth.

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She laughed. "Just like his daddy."

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Thank you, my love. She returned my smile.

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After the boys said good night and Edward lay sleeping in his crib, Tess and I washed the dishes together, staring out the kitchen window. The stars shone like pinpricks in the cold black sky, and the hot water in the sink, along with the roaring furnace, gave the room a steamy languor. I put down the tea towel and, from behind, wrapped my arms around her, kissed her damp warm nape, and she shivered.

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"I hope you didn’t get too mad about Jimmy going on about how Eddie doesn’t look so much like either one of us."

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"What is it?"

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"Would you listen? Someone’s down there." I grumbled that it was nothing.

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