通译双语文库:失窃的孩子第5章

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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第5章|Chapter 5

属类：双语小说【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13502] 登录会员即可添加到文库收藏夹，方便以后查看

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[p2]">Prom any room in the house, I could eavesdrop on my parents during their unguarded conversations, and overheard Dad’s suspicions during one such pillow talk.

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"Have you noticed anything odd about the boy lately?"

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She slips into bed beside him. "Odd?"

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"There’s the singing around the house."

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"He’s a lovely voice."

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"And those fingers."

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I looked at my hands, and in comparison with other children’s, my fingers were exceedingly long and out of proportion.

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"I think he’ll be a pianist. Billy, we ought to have him at lessons."

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"And toes."

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I curled up my toes in my bed upstairs.

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"And he seems to have grown not an inch or put on not a pound all winter long."

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"He needs some sun is all."

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The old man rolls over toward her. "He’s a queer lad, is all I know."

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"Billy ... stop."

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I resolved that night to become a true boy and begin paying closer attention to how I might be considered normal. Once such a mistake had been made, nothing could be done. I couldn’t very well shorten my fingers and toes and invite further skepticism, but I could stretch the rest of me a bit each night and keep up with all the other children. I also made it a point to avoid Dad as much as possible.

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The idea of the piano intrigued me as a way to ingratiate myself with my mother. When she wasn’t listening to crooners on the radio, she might dial in the classics, particularly on a Sunday. Bach sent my head spinning with buried reveries, conjuring an echo from the distant past. But I had to figure away to mention my interest without Mom realizing that her private conversations could be heard no matter how quiet or intimate. Fortunately, the twins supplied the answer. At Christmas, my distant grandparents sent them a toy piano. No bigger than a bread basket, it produced but a tinny octave of notes, and from New Year’s Day the keys gathered a dusty coat. I rescued the toy and sat in the nursery, playing nearly recognizable tunes from distant memory. My sisters, as usual, were enchanted, and they sat like two entranced yogis as I tested my memory on the piano’s limited range. Dust rag in hand, my mother wandered by and stood in the doorway, listening intently. From the corner of my eye, I watched her watching me, and when I ended with a flourish, her applause was not completely unexpected.

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In the fleeting time between homework and dinner, I picked out a tune of sorts, and gradually revealed my native talent, but she needed more encouragement than that. My scheme was casual and simple. I let drop the fact that a half-dozen of the kids in school took music lessons, when, in truth, there may have been one or two. On car trips, I pretended that the panel below my window was a keyboard and fingered measures until my father ordered me to cut that out. I made a point of whistling the first few bars of something familiar, like Beethoven’s Ninth, when helping Mom dry the dishes. I did not beg, but bided my time, until she came to believe the idea as her own. My gambit played out when, on the Saturday before Henry’s eighth birthday, my parents drove me into the city to see a man about piano lessons.

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We left the twin toddlers with the neighbors, and the three of us sat up front in my father’s coupe, embarking early that spring morning in our Sunday clothes. We drove past the town where I went to school, where we shopped and went to Mass, and onto the highway into the city. Shiny cars zipped along the asphalt as we picked up speed, joining a ribbon of pure energy flowing in both directions. We went faster than I’d ever gone in my life, and I had not been to the city in nearly one hundred years. Billy drove the ’49 De Soto like an old friend, one hand on the wheel, his free arm thrown across the seat behind my mother and me. The old conquistador stared at us from the steering wheel’s hub, and as Dad made a turn, the explorer’s eyes seemed to follow us.

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On our approach to the city, the factories on the outskirts appeared first, great smokestacks exhaling streams of dark clouds, furnaces within glowing with hearts of fire. A bend in the road—then all at once, a view of buildings stretched to heaven. The downtown’s sheer size left me breathless, and the closer we came, the greater it loomed, until suddenly we were in the car-choked streets. The shadows deepened and darkened. At a cross street, a trolley scraped along, its pole shooting sparks to the wires above. Its doors opened like a bellows, and out poured a crowd of people in their spring coats and hats; they stood on a concrete island in the street, waiting for the light to change. In the department store windows, reflections of shoppers and traffic cops mingled with displays of new goods: women’s dresses and men’s suits on mannequins, which fooled me initially, appearing alive and posing perfectly still.

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"I don’t know why you feel the need to come all the way downtown for this. You know I don’t like coming into the city. I’ll never find parking."

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Mom’s right arm shot out. "There’s a space, aren’t we lucky?"

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Riding up in the elevator, my father reached inside his coat pocket for a Camel, and as the doors opened on the fifth floor, he lit up. We were a few minutes early, and while they debated over whether or not to go in, I walked to the door and entered. Mr. Martin may not have been a fairy, but he was very fey. Tall and thin, his white hair long in a shaggy boy’s cut, he wore a worn plum-colored suit. Christopher Robin all grown up and gone to genteel seed. Behind him stood the most beautiful machine I had ever seen. Lacquered to a high black finish, the grand piano drew all of the vitality of the room toward its propped-open lid. Those keys held in their serenity the possibility of every beautiful sound. I was too dumbstruck to answer his inquiry the first time.

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"May I help you, young man?"

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"I’m Henry Day, and I’m here to learn everything you know."

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"My dear young man," he replied, sighing, "I’m afraid that’s impossible."

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I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys unlocked a distant memory of a stern German instructor ordering me to increase the tempo. I stretched my fingers as far apart as possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. "Have you played before?"

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"Once upon a time ..."

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"Find me middle C, Mr. Day."

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And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.

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My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite ahem. Mr. Martin wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses, resurrecting scores that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded heissblütig, heissblütig—more passion, more feeling.

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"You said he was a beginner."

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"He is," my mother replied. "I don’t think he’s ever even seen a real piano."

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"This boy is a natural."

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For fun, I plinked out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the way I would play it for my sisters. I was careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.

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"He taught himself that," Mom said. "On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he can sing, too, sing like a bird."

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Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice the wordless exchange. My mother rattled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not discover the melody.

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"Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum requirement, however, is for eight weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy." Then he mentioned, in a voice barely above a whisper, his fee. My father lit another Camel and walked toward the window.

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"But for your son"—he addressed my mother now—"for Henry, a born musician if I ever heard one, for him, I will require only half the tuition, but you must commit to sixteen weeks. Four months. We will know how far we can go."

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I picked out a rudimentary "Happy Birthday." My father finished his smoke and tapped me on the shoulder, indicating we were to leave. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her lightly by the fleshy part of her arm above the elbow.

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"I’ll call you Monday," he said, "at three-thirty. We’ll think it over."

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Mr. Martin bowed slightly and looked me straight in the eye. "You have a gift, young man."

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As we drove home, I watched the city recede in the mirror and disappear. Mom chattered incessantly, dreaming the future, planning our lives. Billy, hands locked on the wheel, concentrated on the road and said nothing.

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"I’ll buy some laying hens, that’s what I’ll do. Remember when you used to say you wanted to turn our place back into a real farm? I’ll start a brood of chickens, and we’ll sell the eggs, and that will pay the bill, surely. And imagine, we’ll have fresh eggs ourselves every morning, too. And Henry can take the school bus to the streetcar, and the streetcar into town. You could drive him to the streetcar Saturdays?"

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"I could do chores to earn the fare."

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"You see, Billy, how much he wants to learn? He has a gift, that Mr. Martin said. And he’s so refined. Did you ever see such a thing in your life as that piano? He must shine it every day."

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My father rolled down his window about an inch to let in a roar of fresh air.

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"Did you hear him play ’Happy Birthday to You,’ like he’s been at it forever? It’s what he wants; it’s what I want. Sweetheart."

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"When would he practice, Ruth? Even I know you have to play every day, and I might be able to afford piano lessons, but I certainly can’t afford a piano in the house."

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"There’s a piano at school," I said. "Nobody uses it. I’m sure if I asked, they’d let me stay after...."

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"What about your homework and those chores you said you would do? I don’t want to see your grades slipping."

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"Nine times nine is eighty-one. Separate is spelled S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E. Oppenheimer gave us the bomb, which took care of the Japs. The Holy Trinity is the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, and it is a holy mystery that no one can figure out."

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"All right, Einstein. You can try it, but for eight weeks. Just to be sure. And your mother will have to raise the egg money, and you have to help care for the chickens. They teach you that in that school of yours?"

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Ruth studied his face, a rare look of love and wonder in her gaze. Both grinned a private, sheepish half-smile, the meaning of which eluded me. Sitting between them, I basked in the warmth of the moment, lacking any guilt over the fact that I was not their child. We drove on, the happiest of happy little families.

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As we crossed a high bridge over the river not far from our house, a commotion flashed along the riverbank far below. To my horror, I saw a line of changelings walking through a clearing in single file, blending in with the budding trees and bushes, then vanishing in a blink. Those strange children moved like deer. My parents were oblivious, but at the thought of those creatures down there, I flushed and broke into a sweat, which as quickly turned to a chill. That they still existed alarmed me, for I had nearly forgotten them. That they could expose my past made me ill, and I was about to beg my father to pull off the road. But he lit up another cigarette and opened his window wider, and the fresh air alleviated my nausea, if not my fear.

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Mom broke the spell. "Didn’t Mr. Martin ask us to commit to four months?"

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"I’ll call him Monday and work out a deal. Let’s try two months, actually, at first. See if the boy likes it."

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For the next eight years, I took piano lessons, and it was the happiest time of all my lives. If I came in early to school, the nuns were glad to let me practice at the upright in the lunchroom. Later on, they let me into the church to learn the organ, and I was the youngest substitute organist the parish ever had. Life became orderly, and the discipline a joy. Each morning, my hand went under the warm bellies of the chickens, collecting eggs, and each afternoon, my fingers upon the keyboard, perfecting my technique. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the trip into the city proved a tonic, away from farm and family and into civilization. No longer something wild, but a creature of culture, on my way to becoming a virtuoso once again.

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上页 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 下页

第5章|Chapter 5

“亨利·戴，”他说，“我可不会忘了你。”

我怔在门口，在记忆中搜寻这人身份的一切线索。他鞋后跟“咔嚓”一声，微一弯腰，从我身边跨过，走进大厅，鬼鬼祟祟地朝楼上瞟了一眼，“你母亲在吗?

她好吗? ”

中午的这个时候几乎没有人会来拜访，除了偶尔有住在附近的农妇或是我同学的母亲们会来，驾车从镇上送来新鲜的蛋糕和新鲜的闲话。我们对亨利展开侦察时，除了他父亲和送奶工，没有其他男人来过这屋子。

那男人把帽子扔在餐具柜上，又转过身对着我：“亨利，有多久没见了? 可能上次还是你妈妈的生日吧? 你看上去连胡子都没长。你爸爸没喂好你吗? ”

我盯着这个陌生人，不知该说什么。

“快上楼告诉你妈妈我来了。去吧，孩子。”

“我该说谁来了? ”

“啊，当然是你查理叔叔了。”

“但我没有叔叔。”

这人哈哈大笑，接着皱起眉头，嘴唇紧紧抿成一条线。“你没事吧，亨利宝贝?”他弯下腰看着我的眼睛，“嗯，我不是你的亲叔叔，孩子，而是你妈妈的最老的老朋友。可以这么说，我是你们家的朋友。”

我母亲不请自来地从楼梯上下来，这可把我救了。她一看到这个陌生人，就张开双臂奔过去拥抱他。趁他们团聚之时，我溜走了。

这次亲密访问和几周后的惊吓相比，还不算怎么糟。在最初几年，我还有换生灵的所有本领，听觉和狐狸一般灵敏。无论在屋子里的哪个房间，我都能窃听到父母毫不设防的对话。一天晚上，我听到爸爸在枕边说着他的怀疑。

“最近你有没有注意到这个孩子有点古怪? ”

她钻进被子，躺在他身边，“古怪? ”

“他在家里到处唱歌。”

“他有副好嗓子。”

“还有那些手指。”

我看了看我的双手，与其他孩子相比，我的手指长得出奇，不成比例。

“我觉得他能成为一个钢琴家。比利，我们应该让他去上课。”

“还有脚趾。”

我在楼上的床上蜷起脚趾。

“还有，整个冬天他好像一点也没长高，也没长胖。”

“他要多晒晒太阳。”

老家伙翻过身来对她说：“我就是觉得，他是个奇怪的孩子。”

“比利……别说了。”

圣诞节时，远方的祖父母送给她们一台玩具钢琴。它和面包篮差不多大，只能弹出一个八度音阶。从大年初一开始，琴键上就蒙了一层灰。

十字路口，一辆电车嘎嘎开过，它的天线在上面的电线上爆出火花。

“我不知道你为什么觉得有必要大老远为了这事来城里。你知道我不喜欢进城。

从来都找不到停车位。”

妈妈伸出右臂。“那边有个位置，我们运气好吧? ”

“有何贵干，小伙子? ”

“我叫亨利·戴，我到这儿来学习你会的所有东西。”

“亲爱的小伙子，”他叹道，“恐怕这是不可能的。”

“很久以前……”

“给我弹一个中央c ，戴先生。”

我不假思索地用右手拇指侧面按下了一个键。

我的父母走进房间，礼貌地清了清嗓子以示到来。马丁先生转过身，大步过去与他们见礼。他们握手和介绍时，我从音阶的中间往两边弹。钢琴的音调抖擞起强有力的神经，唤醒我记忆中的曲谱。

我头脑中有一个声音要求我heissblintig，heiblintig更富激情，更有感觉。

“你们说他是个初学者。”

“他是，”我母亲回答说，“我想他以前连真正的钢琴都没见过。”

“这孩子是天才。”

为了好玩，我用给妹妹们演奏的方法弹起《小星星，亮晶晶》。我谨慎地只用了一根手指，好似这架大钢琴只是个玩具。

“他自学的，”妈妈说，“在一架小钢琴上弹，就是您在玩具管弦乐器店看到的那种。他还会唱歌，唱得跟鸟儿似的。”

爸爸飞快地瞥了我一眼。马丁先生忙于评价我母亲，没有注意到这无言的交流。

母亲滔滔不绝地历数我的才能，但没人在听。我缓慢地、断断续续地练习我的肖邦，伪装得如此巧妙，甚至老资格的马丁都没有听出这个曲调来。

“戴先生，戴夫人，我同意收下你们的儿子。但我最低的要求是，_ 次要学八周，每周是周三下午和周六，我来教这个孩子。”接着他用比耳语高不了多少的声音提出了费用。父亲又点了一支骆驼烟，走到窗前。

“但是对于您的儿子——”现在他跟我妈妈说话了——“亨利是我闻所未闻的天才音乐家，对于他，我只收一半学费，但必须来上十六周的课。四个月。我们会知道他能学到什么程度。”

我弹起基础性的< 生日快乐》。父亲吸完烟，拍了拍我肩膀，示意我们要走了。

他走到妈妈身边，轻轻握住她的膀子。

“星期一我会给您打电话，”他说，“三点半。我们会考虑考虑。”

马丁先生微微鞠躬，看定我的眼睛，“小伙子，你有天赋。”

回家路上，我看着城市在后视镜中倒退、消失。妈妈喋喋不休地梦想着未来，计划着我们的生活。比利两只手锁定在方向盘上，注意力集中在路上，什么话也没说。

“我要做杂活赚钱。”

“你看，比利，他多想学啊? 他是个天才，马丁先生说的。他是个多么有教养的人。你这辈子见过这样的钢琴吗? 他一定每天都擦它。”

父亲把车窗摇下一寸，一股新鲜空气呼啸而入。

“你没听见他弹《生日快乐》就像他一直在弹似的? 这是他想要的，这是我想要的。甜心。”

“他什么时候练习呢，露丝? 就连我也知道他得每天弹，我也许付得起钢琴课的学费，但我肯定买不起一架钢琴放在家里。”

“学校里有钢琴，”我说，“没人用它。我肯定我开口的话，他们会让我放学后……”

“那你的家庭作业和你说过你来做的家务怎么办? 我不想看到你成绩下滑。”

“9 乘9 等于81。separate拼作S －E －P-A_R-A-T-E 。奥本海默发明了原子弹，它照顾了日本人。圣三位一体是圣父、圣子和圣灵，这个神圣之谜无人能解。”

“好吧，爱因斯坦。你去学学看，但只能八周。去求个心安。你母亲来卖鸡蛋赚钱，你帮忙养小鸡。他们在你学校里教过你那个吗? ”

露丝注视着他的面容，目光中有种难得的爱意和惊讶。两人都露出一种会意的、羞涩的淡淡笑容，我不解其中之意。我坐在他们中间，沐浴在此刻的温暖中，丝毫不为我不是他们的孩子而感到内疚。

我们开车向前，这是一个快乐小家庭最为幸福的一刻。

当我们穿过一条离家不远的高架桥时，下方的河岸闪过一丝悸动。我恐惧地看到一队换生灵排队走过一块空地，走进发芽的树木和灌木丛，转眼间就消失了。这些奇怪的孩子行动像鹿一样敏捷。

妈妈打破了沉默，“马丁先生不是让我们学四个月吗? ”

“我星期一会给他打电话，达成协议。让我们先试两个月，其实，就是开个头。

看看这孩子是否喜欢。”

"Henry Day," he said. "As I live and breathe."

I stood fixed to the threshold, searching my memory for an errant clue as to who this man might be. He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly at the waist, then strode past me into the foyer, glancing furtively up the stairs. "Is your mother in? Is she decent?"

Hardly anyone came to visit in the middle of the day, except occasionally the farmers’ wives nearby or mothers of my schoolmates, driving out from town with a fresh cake and new gossip. When we had spied on Henry, there was no man other than his father or the milkman who came to the house.

He tossed his hat on the sideboard and turned to face me again. "How long’s it been, Henry? Your mama’s birthday, maybe? You don’t look like you’ve grown a whisker. Your daddy not feeding you?"

I stared at the stranger and did not know what to say.

"Run up the stairs and tell your mama I’m here for a visit. Go on now, son."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Why, your Uncle Charlie, a-course."

"But I don’t have any uncles."

The man laughed; then his brow furrowed and his mouth became a severe line. "Are you okay, Henry boy?" He bent down to look me in the eye. "Now, I’m not actually your uncle, son, but your mama’s oldest friend. A friend of the family, you might say."

My mother saved me by coming down the stairway unbidden, and the moment she saw the stranger, she threw her arms into the air and rushed to embrace him. I took advantage of their reunion to slip away.