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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第7章|Chapter 7

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[20162]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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十岁那年，我开始当众表演。为了感谢修女们让我使用学校的钢琴，我答应在每年的圣诞节汇演上弹奏开幕音乐。我的音乐促使父母们就座，孩子们则脱下大衣和围巾，露出里面或淘气或正经的装扮。我的老师马丁先生和我同演一个节目，其中包括巴赫、施特劳斯和贝多芬的曲子，压轴曲是向阿诺德·勋伯格（奥地利作曲家）致敬的《六首钢琴小品》，他去年过世了。我们觉得最后一支“现代”曲虽然对我们的听众而言并不耳熟，但却不怎么卖弄地展示了我的演奏曲目之广。圣诞节汇演的前一天，放学后，我为修女们表演完这三十分钟的节目，但这个曲目只换来她们头巾底下的横眉竖目。

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“很精彩，亨利，真的非常出色，”院长说。她是由一群乱纷纷的乌鸦组成的修道院的院长，“除了最后一首。”

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“勋伯格的? ”

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“是的，很有意思。”她站起来走到姐妹们前面，来回踱步，在空气中寻找措辞，“你会别的什么吗? ”

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“别的，院长? ”

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“一些更加应时的，也许? ”

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“应时，院长? ”

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“一些大家可能知道的? ”

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“我不确定我是否明白您的意思。”

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她转身直接对我说：“你会什么圣诞节歌曲吗? 赞美诗? 《平安夜》或许会吧?或者《听啊，天使唱高声》——我想这是门德尔松的。

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如果你会弹贝多芬，你就会弹门德尔松。”

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“您要圣诞颂歌? ”

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“不止是赞美诗，”她继续迈步，往下拉了拉修道服，“你可以弹《铃儿响叮当》或《白色圣诞节》。”

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“那是《假日酒店》里的曲子，”另一个修女插话说，“宾·克罗斯比，弗雷德·阿斯泰尔，还有马乔里·雷诺兹。哦，但你太小了。”

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“你们有没有看过《圣母玛利亚的钟声》”这位三年级教师问她的姐妹，“他弹那个不是很好吗? ”

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“我真喜欢《孤儿乐园》——你们知道，是米基·鲁尼演的那个。”

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院长捻着念珠，打断了她们，“你当然会几首圣诞歌吧? ”

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那晚我垂头丧气地回家，在父亲发明的纸制键盘上练习这些无足轻重的东西。

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第二天傍晚的表演，我修改了原定节目的一半，在末尾补上了几首颂歌。我保留了勋伯格，不用说，它当然是一败涂地。

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我把圣诞音乐演奏得异常出色，下面掌声雷动。我听着他们的捧场，暗道：

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“白痴。”我一次次地鞠躬，心中的厌恶感在他们响亮的掌声和口哨声中膨胀开来。

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后来我在人海中张望，认出了我的父母和邻居，他们都兴高采烈，向我致以真诚的赞赏之情，因为他们多少预料到会听到喜爱的老歌，节日的暖意油然而生。没有一种礼物能比想要的礼物更受欢迎。掌声持续不断，我开始头晕。我的父亲站起来了，脸上挂着真正的微笑。我快要晕倒了。我想要更多。

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这次的辉煌经历建立在一个简单的事实上：我的音乐天赋是人类的天赋，森林里没有钢琴。随着魔力慢慢减弱，我的艺术才能却在增长。我对那些将我掠走百年的人日渐隔膜，而我惟一的盼望和祈祷是要他们离开我。自从首场演出那晚开始，我好似被一分为二：半个我继续跟马丁先生学艺——他注重古典中的经典，要么狂弹古代作曲家的曲子，直到我能像雷神一样锤打，要么用最轻柔的按触让琴键低吟细语；另半个我扩展了我的保留节目，考虑听众们大概喜欢听什么，比如我母亲就欣赏收录机里的民谣。我喜欢《十二平均律曲集》中的赋格曲和《全心全意》，它们天衣无缝，但我搞起流行音乐后，就开始接到奇怪的活儿，去学校舞会和生日宴会上弹琴。马丁先生起初反对我把天分用在副业上，但我哭着告诉他我要赚钱付学费，他当场就将自己的课酬缩减了四分之一。有了存下来的钱、我赚到的外快、母亲日渐发达的鸡蛋和小鸡生意，在我十二岁生日时，我们终于把一架二手的竖式钢琴买回了家。

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‘‘这是什么? ”父亲回家后问道，那天钢琴到家了，它漂亮的机械装在一个红木箱里。

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“是钢琴。”母亲回答说。

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“这我知道。它怎么会在这儿? ”

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“搬钢琴的人。”

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他从烟盒里抽出一支香烟，一晃点着，“露丝，我知道有人把它搬来。但它到底是怎么来的? ”

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“为亨利买的。这样他可以练琴。”

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“我们买不起钢琴。”

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“我们买了。我和亨利。”

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“有我弹琴赚来的钱。”我补充说。

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“还有卖鸡和鸡蛋的钱。”

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“你们买的? ”

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“马丁先生的建议。亨利的生日礼物。”

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“好吧，那么，生日快乐。”他边说边走出屋子。

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一有机会我就弹琴。在此后的数年中，我每天都在琴键上花几个小时，被音符俘虏了。音乐将我擒住，犹如滚滚波涛把我的自我意识推向内心深处，仿佛除了这一个，世上再无其他声音。第一个夏天，我让双腿额外多长了一寸，为的是能够踏实地踩在钢琴的踏板上。在家里、学校和镇上，我到处练琴，尽我所能地舒展手指。

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指尖的指肉变得光滑，如羽毛般敏感。我的双肩佝偻着，我的梦中尽是一波又一波的音阶。随着我技术的熟练和理解力的增长，我越加认识到音乐的力量处处显现在日常生活之中。关键是要让人们听到弱拍和音符之间看似无足轻重的休止，还有曲调之间的空白。若用这种一丝不苟的逻辑学来表情达意，人就能弹奏一切，或者诉说一切。音乐教给我很强的自控能力。

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父亲受不了我练琴，也许这正是因为他意识到我已经达到了什么水平。他会离开屋子，退缩到房子里最远的角落，或者随便找个借口出门。在妈妈和我买来钢琴的几周后，他也把我们的第一台电视机带回了家，又过了一周，来了个人在屋顶上装天线。晚上，父亲会看《理所当然》或《杰奎·格里森表演》，命我降低音量。

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但是他越来越多的做法是直接离开。

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“我出去开个车。”他已经戴上了帽子。

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“你不是出去喝酒吧，我希望。”

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“我可能会和朋友们去喝一点。”

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“别弄太晚了。”

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半夜过后，他才摇摇晃晃地进来，唱着歌或自言自语，踩到女孩们的玩具或走过钢琴时小腿撞上琴凳，就骂骂咧咧的。只要天气允许，每个周末他都在户外劳作，更换百叶窗、粉刷房子、重修鸡舍。他不待在壁炉边了，因为不想听音乐。对于玛丽和伊丽莎白，他是个尽心的父亲，仍然把她们抱在膝上逗弄，为她们的鬈发和裙子瞎操心，对刚画出来的粗糙作品或用棒棒积木搭起来的小屋大加赞美，还会坐到桌边玩过家家什么的。但他对我很是冷漠，在我没法理解他心思时，我疑心他对我的音乐热情觉得别扭，也许他觉得艺术腐蚀了我，把我弄得不像个男孩。我们谈话的时候，他会因为我忘做家务而责备我，要么就是斥骂我考试和写作的成绩不够优秀。

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某个周六他开车到电车站接我回家，他作了番努力来和我交流、来理解我。收音机中，爱尔兰圣母队和海军队对决的橄榄球赛拉开了序幕，其中一个队非常精彩地触地得分。

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“这个怎么样? 你听到了吗? ”

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我望着窗外，右手在靠手上轻扣着一个曲子。

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“你喜欢橄榄球吗? ”他问。

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“不晓得。它还行吧。”

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“你到底喜欢什么运动? 棒球? 篮球? 哪天想出去打猎吗? ”

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我什么都没说。想到要和比利·戴还有一杆猎枪在一起，我就觉得害怕。森林中有魔鬼出没。车子开了几公里，我们沉默着。

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“你怎么会从早到晚除了弹钢琴别的什么也不干? ”

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“我喜欢音乐。我弹得棒。”

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“这倒没错，但老实说，你有没有停下来想过，你能试点别的什么换换口味?

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你知不知道生活中除了音乐还有很多别的? ”

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假如他是我的亲生父亲，我会对他无比失望。这人没有眼力，没有生活激情，而我庆幸我们实际上并无关系。汽车从树阴下驶过，窗玻璃暗下来，我在自己的影像中看到了亨利父亲映在玻璃上的形象，而我看起来就是他的后代。曾几何时，我有真正的父亲。我能听见他的声音：“lch erkenne dich!Du willst nur meinenSohn! ”（德文：我认得你} 你只能是我的儿子）她的目光在猫头鹰似的眼镜后面狂野地跳动，记忆的幻像随即消失了。我感觉比利·戴用眼角余光打量着我，寻思到底发生了什么? 我怎么会有这样一个儿子? “我正在想，我开始喜欢女孩子了。”

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我主动说。他笑了，抓了抓我的头发，又点了一支骆驼香烟，这是个确定的信号，他对我的回答感到满意。关于我男子气概的话题再也没有提起。

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一个基本事实就这样擦肩而过。到处都有姑娘兜来兜去。我在学校里对她们上心，在教堂里和她们挤眉弄眼，每次音乐表演都给她们弹曲子。姑娘们仿佛从虚空中一跃而出，她们来了，一切都不复从前。我一天十次坠入爱河：一个大约二十五、六的年长女子，穿着灰大衣出现在灰色街角，乌黑头发的图书管理员每周二早晨来买一打鸡蛋，还有扎着马尾辫的跳绳女孩，有嗓音甜美的女孩和穿短袜和喇叭裙的女孩。到了六年级，泰思·伍德郝斯试图用微笑掩藏她的胸罩吊带。趣味书页上的金发姑娘，赛德·查里斯，保利特·戈达德，玛丽莲梦露。每个曲线玲珑的人。诱惑不仅在于外表，她们还让世界熠熠生辉。有些女人用内心的陀螺仪来督促自己，还有些好比穿着冰鞋在生活表面滑过。有些女人透过双眼表达她们的苦难生活，还有些用音乐般的笑声围绕着你。她们着衣的风格。红发，金发，黑肤。我喜欢她们每一个人。女人们和你调情：你从哪里得来这么长的眼睫毛? 从送奶工那里。女孩则脉脉含羞，一个字也不说。

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然而最好的姑娘是喜欢音乐的。每次演出，我都能从一群时不时地感到厌倦或压根不感兴趣的听众中寻出听音乐的她们来。这些女孩的回视让我不安，但至少她们在听，还有就是那些闭着双眼、抬着下巴、专注于我演奏的人。其他听众就会用指甲抠牙齿，用小指挖耳朵，指节扳得咯咯响，不掩住嘴就大呼小叫，张望其他女孩( 或男孩) ，或者看他们的表。表演结束后，总有许多听众会上前来说几句话，和我握手，或站在我身边。这种演出后的会面最有价值，我很高兴听到赞誉，回答问题，只要与此同时，我能揭下这些女人和女孩的热情面具。

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不幸的是，这些音乐会和独奏会次数极少，而且间隔很长，当我快进入青春期时，邀请我去聚会和展览上表演古典音乐的人就少了。

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许多追捧者都对一个十龄神童感兴趣，但当我长到十几岁，四肢长大，粉刺点点时，新奇感就丧失了。而且说实话，我厌倦了哈农和车尔尼的练习曲①，还有我老师年复一年小题大做的肖邦练习曲也总是淡而无味。我又在变化了，我发现我古老的力量正随着荷尔蒙的增长而起伏。我本想只当一个男孩，但似乎一夜之间，我变得想长大成人了。在我高中一年级的期中，在经过几个月的寻思和与母亲沉闷的对抗后，我灵机一动，有个办法可以将我对音乐的热情和对女孩的兴趣合而为一：

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我要组建自己的乐队。

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At age ten, I began to perform in front of ordinary people. In appreciation of the nuns who allowed me use of the school piano, I agreed to play as prelude to the annual Christmas show. My music would usher the parents to their seats while their children shed coats and scarves for their elf and wise-man costumes. My teacher, Mr. Martin, and I put together a program of Bach, Strauss, and Beethoven, ending with part of "Six Little Piano Pieces" in honor of Arnold Schoenberg, who had passed away the year before. We felt this last "modern" piece, while not overly familiar to our audience, displayed my range without being overly ostentatious. The day before the Christmas show, I went through the thirty-minute program for the nuns after school, and the choices brought nothing but frowns and scowls from beneath their wimples.

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"That’s wonderful, Henry, truly extraordinary," the principal said. She was the Mother Superior of the gang of crows that ran the joint. "But that last song."

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"Schoenberg’s?"

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"Yes, very interesting." She stood up in front of the sisters and paced to and fro, searching the air for tact. "Do you know anything else?"

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"Else, Mother?"

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"Something more seasonal perhaps?"

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"Seasonal, Mother?"

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"Something people might know?"

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"I’m not sure I understand."

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She turned and addressed me directly. "Do you know any Christmas songs? A hymn? ’Silent Night’ perhaps? Or ’Hark! The Herald Angels’—I think that’s Mendelssohn. If you can play Beethoven, you can play Mendelssohn."

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"You want carols?"

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"Not only hymns." She walked on, hitching down her habit. "You could do ’Jingle Bells’ or ’White Christmas.’ "

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"That’s from Holiday Inn," one of the other nuns volunteered. "Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and Marjorie Reynolds. Oh, but you’re too young."

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"Did you see Bells of St. Mary’s?" the third-grade teacher asked her fellow sisters. "Wasn’t he good in that?"

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"I really liked that Boys Town—you know, the one with Mickey Rooney."

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Rattling the beads on her rosary, Mother Superior cut them off. "Surely you know a few Christmas songs?"

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Crestfallen, I went home that night and learned the fluff, practicing on a paper-cutout keyboard fashioned by my father. At the show the next evening, I trimmed half my original program and added a few carols at the end. I kept the Schoenberg, which, needless to say, bombed. I played the Christmas stuff brilliantly and to a thunderous ovation. "Cretins," I said under my breath as I accepted their adulation. During my repeated bows, loathing swelled over their loud clapping and whistling. But then, looking out at the sea of faces, I began to recognize my parents and neighbors, all happy and cheerful, sending me their sincere appreciation for the holiday warmth generated by the vaguely predictable strains of their old favorites. No gift as welcome as the expected gift. And I grew light-headed and dizzy the longer the applause went on. My father rose to his feet, a real smile plastered on his mug. I nearly fainted. I wanted more.

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The glory of the experience rested in the simple fact that my musical talent was a human one. There were no pianos in the woods. And as my magic slowly diminished, my artistry increased. I felt more and more removed from those who had taken me for a hundred years, and my sole hope and prayer was that they would leave me alone. From the night of the first performance, it was as if I were split in two: half of me continuing on with Mr. Martin and his emphasis on the canon of classics, pounding out the old composers until I could hammer like Thor or make the keys whisper under the gentlest pressure. The other half expanded my repertoire, thinking about what audiences might like to hear, like the ballads crooned on the radio adored by my mother. I loved both the fugues from The Well-Tempered Clavier and "Heart and Soul," and they flowed seamlessly, but being adept at popular song allowed me to accept odd jobs when offered, playing at school dances and birthday parties. Mr. Martin objected at first to the bastardization of my talent, but I gave him a sob story about needing money for lessons. He cut his fee by a quarter on the spot. With the money we saved, the cash I earned, and my mother’s increasingly lucrative egg and chicken business, we were able to buy a used upright piano for the house in time for my twelfth birthday.

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"What’s this?" my father asked when he came home the day the piano arrived, its beautiful machinery housed in a rosewood case.

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"It’s a piano," my mother replied.

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"I can see that. How did it get here?"

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"Piano movers."

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He slid a cigarette from the packet and lit it in one swift move. "Ruthie, I know someone brought it here. How come it is here?"

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"For Henry. So he can practice."

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"We can’t afford a piano."

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"We bought it. Me and Henry."

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"With the money from my playing," I added.

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"And the chickens and eggs."

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"You bought it?"

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"On Mr. Martin’s advice. For Henry’s birthday."

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"Well, then. Happy birthday," he said on his way out of the room.

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I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys, enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great self-control.

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My father could not stand to hear me practice, perhaps because he realized the mastery I had attained. He would leave the room, retreat into the farthest corners of the house, or find any excuse to go outside. A few weeks after Mom and I bought the piano, he came home with our first television set, and a week later a man came out and installed an antenna on the roof. In the evenings, my father would watch You Bet Your Life or The Jackie Gleason Show, ordering me to keep it down. More and more, however, he simply left altogether.

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"I’m going for a drive." He already had his hat on.

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"You’re not going drinking, I hope."

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"I may stop in for one with the boys."

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"Don’t be too late."

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Well after midnight, he’d stagger in, singing or muttering to himself, swearing when he stepped on one of the girls’ toys or barked his shin on the piano bench as he passed. Weather permitting, he worked outdoors every weekend, replacing shutters, painting the house, rewiring the chicken coop. He was absent from the hearth, unwilling to listen. With Mary and Elizabeth, he played the doting father, still dandling them on his knees, fussing over their curls and dresses, fawning at the latest primitive drawing or Popsicle-stick hut, sitting down at the table for tea parties and the like. But he regarded me coldly, and while I cannot read minds, I suspect he felt at odds with my passion for music. Maybe he felt art corrupted me, made me less a boy. When we spoke, he would chastise me for a neglected chore or chide me for a less than perfect grade on a test or essay.

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As he drove me home from the trolley station one Saturday, he made an effort to engage and understand. On the radio, a football game between the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame and Navy unfolded. One of the teams scored a touchdown in a spectacular fashion.

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"How about that? Did you hear that?"

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I looked out the window, tapping out with my right hand a melody on the armrest.

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"Do you even like football?" he asked.

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"I dunno. It’s okay."

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"Do you like any sport at all? Baseball? Basketball? Would you like to go hunting someday?"

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I said nothing. The very thought of being alone with Billy Day and a shotgun frightened me. There are devils out in the woods. We let a few silent miles pass beneath us.

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"How’s come it’s nothing but the piano night and day?"

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"I like music. And I’m good."

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"You are that, but honestly, did you ever stop to think you could try something else for a change? Don’t you know there’s more to life than music?"

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If he had been my true father, I would have been eternally disappointed in him. The man had no vision, no passion for life, and I was grateful that we were not actually related. The car passed through the shadows of trees, and the glass in the window darkened. I saw in my own reflection the mirrored image of Henry’s father, but I only appeared to be his offspring. Once upon a time, I had a real father. I could hear his voice: "Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!" His eyes danced wildly behind his owlish spectacles, and then the phantom memory disappeared. I sensed Billy Day was watching me from the corner of his eye, wondering what on earth happened? How did I get this for a son?

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"I’m thinking that I’m starting to like girls," I volunteered. He smiled and tousled my hair. He lit another Camel, a sure sign he was content with my answer. The subject of my masculinity never came up again.

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A basic truth had escaped by accident. Girls hovered on the surface of every situation. I noticed them in school, ogled them in church, played to them at every concert performance. As if they jumped from the shadows, girls arrived, and nothing was ever the same. I fell in love ten times a day: an older woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties in a gray coat on a gray street corner; the raven-haired librarian who came every Tuesday morning to buy a dozen eggs. Ponytailed girls jumping rope. Girls with charming accents. Girls in bobby socks and poodle skirts. In the sixth grade, Tess Wodehouse trying to hide her braces behind her smiles. Blondie in the funny pages; Cyd Charisse; Paulette Goddard; Marilyn Monroe. Anyone curved. Allure goes beyond appearances to the way they grace the world. Some women propel themselves by means of an internal gyroscope. Others glide through life as if on ice skates. Some women convey their tortured lives through their eyes; others encircle you in the music of their laughter. The way they become their clothes. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. I loved them all. Women who flirt with you: where’d you get such long eyelashes? From the milkman. Girls too shy to say a word.

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The best girls, however, were those who liked music. At virtually every performance, I could pick out from the crowd those who were listening, as opposed to the terminally bored or merely disinterested. The girls who stared back unnerved me, but at least they were listening, as were the ones with their eyes closed, chins cocked, intent on my playing. Others in the audience would be cleaning their teeth with their nails, digging in their ears with their pinkies, cracking their knuckles, yawning without covering their mouths, checking out the other girls (or boys), or checking their watches. After the performances, many in the audience invariably came up to have a few words, shake my hand, or stand near me. These post-performance encounters were most rewarding and I was delighted to receive compliments and answer questions for as long as I could while unmasking the enthusiasms of the women and girls.

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Unfortunately, the concerts and recitals were few and far between, and the public demand for my performances of classical music at parties and shows diminished as I neared puberty. Many aficionados had been interested in a ten-year-old prodigy, but the novelty died when I was all elbows and acne as a teenager. And to be honest, I was sick of the Hanon and Czerny exercises and the same insipid Chopin etude that my teacher fussed over year after year. Changing yet again, I found my old powers ebbed as my hormones raged. As if overnight, I had gone from wanting to be just a boy to wanting to be a grown man. Midway through my freshman year in high school, following months of soul-searching and sullen fighting with my mother, it hit me that there was a way to combine my passion for music and my interest in girls: I would form my own band.

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