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钟形罩|The Bell Jar

第9章|Nine

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 西尔维娅-普拉斯] 阅读：[39586]
这本小说以作者早年生活经历为蓝本，叙述了19岁的大二女生埃斯特· 格林伍德经历了充当某知名杂志社的客座编辑、参加写作班被拒、自杀未遂、接受心理治疗、重树自信期待返回社会，展开新生活的一系列过程。本文从“榜样缺失”的角度出发，结合当时美国的实际，探讨埃斯特作为女性，在其成长过程中男性社会压抑下所产生的孤独、绝望与挣扎的心灵历程以及反抗的必然性。
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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“我真高兴他们快死了。”

1
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希尔达像猫儿一样拱起四肢打了个哈欠，把头埋入臂弯，继续趴在会议桌上睡觉。一缕胆汁绿的稻草装饰在她的眉毛上，有如一只热带鸟。

2
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胆汁绿，这是他们秋天主推的颜色，希尔达一如往常，领先流行风潮半年。胆汁绿配黑色，胆汁绿配白色，胆汁绿配它的近亲尼罗绿。

3
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时尚文案，徒有其表，在我的脑中有如鱼儿吐出的泡泡，升上水面，噗一声幻灭。

4
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我真高兴他们快死了。

5
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我暗道倒霉，走到旅馆自助餐厅时正好碰上希尔达。昨夜睡得晚，我脑袋发木，想不出个借口回房间，比如忘了戴手套、手帕、伞或笔记本之类的，给我的惩罚就是一路漫长死寂的同行，从亚马逊宾馆的毛玻璃大门到位于麦迪逊大道的铺着草莓色大理石的公司入口。

6
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希尔达一路上都迈着模特步。

7
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“帽子不错，你自己做的吗？”

8
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我有点希望希尔达转过身来对我说：“听你的声音像是生病了。”但她只是伸了伸天鹅般的脖子，又缩了回去。

9
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“是啊。”

10
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头天晚上我看了一出女主人公被阴魂附体的戏，每次阴魂借女主人公之口说话时，声音听起来都深邃空洞，不辨男女。嗯，希尔达的声音就像那个阴魂。

11
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她注视着自己在商店闪亮橱窗中的影像，似乎时时刻刻都要确定自己仍存在着。我们之间的沉默如此滞重，我想我也有部分责任。

12
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所以我就说：“罗森伯格夫妇的事真可怕，对吧？”今天深夜，这对间谍夫妻就要坐上电椅。

13
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“是啊！”希尔达说。听闻此言，我终于觉得在她纷乱如翻绳游戏的心思中，探触到一道人性的光辉。直到我们坐在一早就阴暗如坟墓的会议室，等候其他人的到来时，她才说完了她那句“是啊”的意思。

14
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“世上竟有这种人，太可怕了！”

15
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她打了个哈欠，浅橘色的嘴张成了一个巨大的黑洞。我呆呆地望着她面孔后面的大黑洞，直到她的两片嘴唇一碰一开，附体的阴魂从藏身之处开口说话：“我真高兴他们快死了。”

16
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“来，笑一个。”

17
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我坐在杰·茜办公室那张粉红天鹅绒的双人座椅上，拿着一朵纸玫瑰，面向杂志社的摄影师。我是见习的十二人中最后一个拍照的。我试着躲在厕所里，可惜没用，贝琪从门下缝隙窥见了我的脚。

18
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我不想拍照，因为我快哭了。我不知道自己为何想哭，只知道如果有人跟我说话，或者靠我太近盯着我看，我的眼泪就会夺眶而出，哽咽之声也会忍不住飘出喉咙，而且一旦开始，我就会哭上一个礼拜。我能感觉到泪水在体内充盈，随时要泼溅出来，就像一杯盛得太满又摇摇晃晃的水。

19
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这是最后一批照片，然后杂志就要送去印刷，而我们也将踏上归途，各自返回塔尔萨、比洛克西、提涅克、库斯湾等任何所来之处。照相时我们要拿个小道具，暗示将来想做什么。

20
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贝琪拿的是一根玉米，代表她想嫁给农夫；希尔达拿的是一个光秃秃的、没有五官的制帽用的假人头，说明她想设计帽子；朵琳拿的是一件绣金纱丽，意思是她想去印度当社工（她私下告诉我，其实她根本不想当社工，只是想摸摸纱丽）。

21
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他们问我以后想做什么，我说我不知道。

22
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“哦，你心里肯定有数。”摄影师说。

23
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“她啊——”杰·茜幽默了一把，“她什么都想做。”

24
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我说，我想当诗人。

25
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于是大家到处找寻适合我拿的道具。

26
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杰·茜建议拿本诗集，遭到了摄影师的反对，说这样太直白了，最好是能激发诗性的东西。最后，杰·茜从她最新款的帽子上取下了一株长茎纸玫瑰。

27
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摄影师鼓捣着他的白热聚光灯，说：“让大家看看写诗让你有多快乐。”

28
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我的视线穿过杰·茜办公室里雕着橡胶树叶的窗楣，望向远方的蓝天。几朵大到夸张的云彩从右飘到左，我紧盯着最大的云朵，恍惚觉得当它飘逝无踪时，我也能幸运地随之而去。

29
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我觉得让我的嘴唇保持在水平位置很有必要。

30
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“笑一笑嘛。”

31
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终于，我乖乖地扬起嘴角，像腹语师手中操纵的木偶。

32
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“喂。”摄影师抗议道，突然有了预感一般，“你怎么好像要哭似的？”

33
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我忍不住了。

34
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把脸埋在杰·茜粉红天鹅绒双人座的椅背上，如释重负般，我将整个早上潜藏于胸臆间的情绪都发泄了出来，泪水苦咸，泣声凄怆。

35
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我抬起头时，摄影师已经不见了。杰·茜也无影无踪。我四肢无力，有种被人抛弃的感觉，仿佛自己是某种可怕动物蜕下的皮。摆脱这可怕的东西是一种解脱，可它离开时似乎也带走了我的灵魂，以及一切它可以掠夺的东西。

36
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我在皮包里翻找那个镀金小盒子——里头有睫毛膏、睫毛刷、眼影、三支口红和一面小镜子。镜子里回望着我的那张花脸像是被人痛打了一顿，隔着囚牢的铁栅望出来一般，肿胀不堪。这张脸很需要肥皂、清水和基督徒的宽容。

37
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我开始小心翼翼地往脸上涂涂抹抹。

38
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杰·茜如一阵微风，时机恰好、步履轻盈地飘回我的身边，手里抱着一沓稿纸。

39
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“这些东西会让你开心起来。”她说，“祝你阅读愉快。”

40
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每天早上，稿件如雪片般涌进小说编辑室，让原本就落满灰尘的积稿雪上加霜。在全美各地，人们在书房、阁楼和教室里偷偷写作。假设每分钟就有人完成一篇作品，那五分钟就有五篇稿子堆在小说编辑的桌面上。一小时就有六十篇，在地上堆成一片。一年下来……

41
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我的嘴角泛起微笑，想象着有一篇新鲜出炉的稿件浮现于半空，右上角署着埃斯特·格林伍德的大名。我已经申请了一个知名作家开设的夏季写作班，希望这个月在杂志社的见习结束后就能去上课。申请时要先寄一篇小说稿过去，这位名家看过之后再通知你是否够资格参加他的课程。

42
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当然，课程的规模很小，能够获得资格的人不多。我很早就把稿子寄去了，还没收到回音，但我有信心，回到家就会看到桌上躺着录取信。

43
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我决定到时要把在这个班上写的小说寄几篇给杰·茜，用上笔名，让她大吃一惊。我想着有一天，小说编辑会亲自到杰·茜的办公室，把这几篇小说拍在她的桌上，说：“这些是上乘之作。”杰·茜深有同感，全部采用，并邀请作者共进午餐，她将会发现作者就是我。

44
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“说真的。”朵琳说，“这个不一样。”

45
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“说说看他长什么样。”我冷冷地说。

46
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“他是秘鲁人。”

47
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“秘鲁人又矮又壮。”我说，“像阿兹特克人一样丑。”

48
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“不，不，不，亲爱的。我已经见过他了。”

49
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我们一起坐在床上，身边是一堆乱七八糟的棉质裙子、抽了丝的尼龙长袜和灰突突的内衣。朵琳已经劝了我十分钟，要我跟伦尼朋友的朋友去乡村俱乐部跳舞。她一个劲儿地保证，这个男的和伦尼上次的那个朋友不一样。可我明天早上要搭八点的火车回家，现在该整理行李了。

50
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况且，我还有点想在纽约的街头独自逛上整晚，这个城市的神秘和华美也许终将感染我。

51
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但我还是放弃了这个念头。

52
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最后这几天，我越来越拿不定主意该做些什么。好不容易下定决心做一件事，比如打包装箱，我只会把那些昂贵但肮脏的衣服从柜子和壁橱里拖出来，摊得椅子、床铺、地板哪哪儿都是，然后坐在那里干瞪眼，完全不知所措。它们似乎都有独立而执拗的个性，拒绝被清洗、折叠、收纳。

53
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“都是这些衣服害的。”我告诉朵琳，“我受不了回来之后还得面对这堆东西。”

54
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“这简单。”

55
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朵琳开始优雅地抓起衣服，一次一件，衬裙，长筒袜，以及那件精致的、内部塞满弹簧的无肩带文胸——这是我始终没勇气穿上的报春花内衣公司的赠品——就这样，一件接着一件，这些剪裁奇怪、可每件价格都高达四十美元的衣服……

56
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“哎，那件留下，我要穿。”

57
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朵琳从她手头那堆衣服里抽出一件黑色的，扔到我腿上，然后把剩下的衣服揉滚成软沓沓的一大团，塞进床下，眼不见心不烦。

58
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朵琳敲了敲绿色大门上的金色门环。

59
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门内传来拖行的脚步声，一个男人的笑声戛然而止。一个穿着衬衫、留着平头的金发高个男孩缓缓地开了条门缝，探头一望。

60
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“宝贝！”他喊道。

61
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朵琳整个人被他拢入臂弯，我想这一定是伦尼的朋友。

62
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我穿着黑色紧身小礼服，披着带流苏的黑色披肩，安静地站在门口。心中虽然比以往更为忐忑，却也没抱什么希望。“我就是个看客。”我对自己说道。我眼看着朵琳从金发男孩的怀中转移到另一个男人的手上，后者同样是高个儿，但肤色黝黑，头发稍长，穿着一身完美的洁白西装，配着浅蓝色的衬衫，黄色缎面领带上别着一个闪亮的领带夹。

63
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我目不转睛地盯着那个领带夹。

64
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它似乎闪耀出一道炫丽的白光，令整个房间都熠熠生辉。但那道白光又迅速隐藏了去，只剩下金色底托上的一滴露珠。

65
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我向前迈出一步。

66
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“那是钻石。”有人开口，众人哄堂大笑。

67
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我用指甲轻敲钻石光滑的表面。

68
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“她第一次见到钻石吧。”

69
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“送给她吧，马可。”

70
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马可弯腰将领带夹放在我的掌心。

71
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上面的钻石璀璨夺目，随光影起舞，宛如天堂冰晶。我迅速将它放进我那只镶有假黑玉珠的晚宴包里，然后抬头看看四周，众人的脸庞空洞如餐盘，似乎连呼吸都没有。

72
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“幸好，”一只干硬的手攥住我的上臂，“我今晚就是这位小姐的护花使者。”马可眼里的火花尽熄，转为幽黑，“或许，我应该提供一些小小的服务……”

73
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有人笑起来。

74
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“……相当于一颗钻石的服务。”

75
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圈住我上臂的那只手一紧。

76
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“啊！”

77
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马可松开手。我低头一看手臂，上面赫然一个紫色的大拇指印。马可望着我，指指我的手臂内侧：“看那儿。”

78
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四个隐约可见的掐痕。

79
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“明白我有多当真了吧。”

80
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马可若有似无的浅笑让我想起在纽约布隆克斯动物园逗弄过的一条蛇。当我用手指轻敲牢固的玻璃笼舍，那蛇就张开它那有如机械装置的大嘴，看起来好像在笑。然后，它开始不停地攻击那扇透明的玻璃窗，攻击再攻击，直到我离开方休。

81
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我从没见过憎恶女人的人。

82
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但我看得出来，马可恨女人。那晚，满俱乐部里都是模特和小电视明星，他却只盯着我，既非出于善意，也不是因为好奇，而是因为凑巧我被分配给了他。就像一副每张都一样的纸牌中的一张，被发给了他而已。

83
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俱乐部里有个男人走向麦克风，开始摇晃代表南美洲音乐的豆荚状的拨浪鼓。

84
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马可要来拉我的手，但我紧握手中的第四杯代基里鸡尾酒，硬是不动。我以前没喝过代基里，之所以喝它，只是因为马可为我买了这种酒。我很感激他没问我要喝什么，所以酒端上来之后，我二话没说，拿起来猛喝。

85
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马可看着我。

86
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“不要。”我说。

87
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“不要，什么意思？”

88
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“这种音乐我不会跳。”

89
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“别傻了。”

90
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“我要坐在这里把酒喝完。”

91
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马可对着我弯下身子，皮笑肉不笑地伸手一扫，我的酒杯就飞落到了盆栽棕榈树上。然后，他一把抓起我的手，力道之大让我别无选择，不随着他下舞池，就等着被他扯断手臂吧。

92
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“这是探戈。”马可拉着我走进跳舞的人群中，“我就爱探戈。”

93
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“我不会跳。”

94
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“你不必跳，我带着你就行了。”

95
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马可环住我的腰，猛地朝他怀里一拽，我整个人便贴在他白亮的西装上，然后他说：“想象溺水的感觉。”

96
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我闭上眼睛，音乐像暴雨般袭来。马可的脚往前一伸，抵住我的脚，我自然往后一退。整个人像是牢牢贴在他身上，四肢相随，亦步亦趋，完全没有自己的意志和知觉。跳了一会儿，我想：“原来跳舞用不着两个人都会，一个人会跳就够了。”我任自己如风中之树一样摇曳俯仰。

97
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“我说什么来着？”马可的气息让我的耳朵发烫，“你跳得像一个完美的舞者。”

98
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我开始明白为什么憎恶女人的人能将女人玩弄于股掌之间。这种男人就像神：刀枪不入，力大无穷。他们下到凡间，然后又消失，永远不可捉摸。

99
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南美乐曲结束后，音乐暂歇。

100
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马可带着我穿过落地窗走入花园，舞池的窗口溢出灯光和人声，但几码之外，光影被一片漆黑天地所阻隔，再难传远。在星星的微光下，树木和花草散发出冷香。没有月亮的踪影。

101
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黄杨树篱的门在我们身后合上，一片空寂无人的高尔夫球场向着几簇高低起伏的树丛延伸，一切都给我熟悉的荒凉之感——乡村俱乐部，舞会，和只有一只蟋蟀的草坪。

102
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我不知自己身在何处，但肯定是纽约郊区的某个富人区。

103
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马可拿出一根细长的雪茄和一个子弹形状的银质打火机。他用嘴叼住雪茄，低头凑近打火机的小小火焰。火光下，他的脸呈现强烈的明暗光景，看起来疏离陌生，满是苦怨，像个难民。

104
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我看着他。

105
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“你爱着谁？”我问。

106
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马可沉默了有一分钟之久，只是张口吐出氤氲的蓝色烟圈。

107
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“太棒了！”他大笑起来。

108
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烟圈扩散，渐至模糊，在夜色中苍白如幽灵。

109
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他接着说：“我爱上了我表妹。”

110
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我毫不意外。

111
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“那你怎么不娶她？”

112
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“不可能。”

113
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“为什么？”

114
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马可耸耸肩。“她是我亲表妹，她要当修女。”

115
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“她好看吗？”

116
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“没人比得上她。”

117
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“她知道你爱她吗？”

118
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“当然。”

119
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我打住了。在我看来，他们之间的障碍非常不真实。

120
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“既然你爱她，”我说，“将来你也会爱上别人。”

121
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马可把雪茄往地上一掷。

122
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我突然被轻轻撞了一下，跌在地上。泥土陷入我的指间。等我起身到一半，马可伸出双手抓住我的肩头，又把我摔回地上。

123
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“我的衣服……”

124
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“你的衣服！”泥浆顺着我的肩胛骨渗流。“你的衣服！”马可逼近我，满脸阴沉，几颗唾沫星子喷在我的嘴上。“你的衣服是黑的，烂泥也是黑的。”

125
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说完，他猛扑向我，仿佛要用他的身体把我碾碎，一起埋入烂泥。

126
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“发生了。”我心想，“发生了。如果我躺在这儿一动不动，就会发生的。”

127
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马可咬住我的肩带，把我的紧身衣扯到腰际。我看见我赤裸的肌肤微微发光，宛如一方苍白的薄纱，阻隔着两个死对头。

128
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“贱人！”

129
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他在我耳边喘着粗气说出这两个字。

130
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“贱人！”

131
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尘埃落定，让我把这场战役看个清楚。

132
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我开始扭动身体，又踢又咬。

133
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马可把我压在地上。

134
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“贱人！”

135
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我用尖锐的鞋跟狠戳他的腿。他转头摸索伤口。

136
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我攥紧拳头，朝他的鼻子猛地一击，感觉像打在了战舰的钢板上。马可坐起身。我开始哭泣。

137
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马可抽出一条白手帕捂住鼻子，血像墨汁一样在白布上扩散开来。

138
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我吮吸着自己的指关节，尝到了咸咸的味道。

139
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“我要去找朵琳。”

140
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马可望向高尔夫球场的那一头。

141
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“我要找朵琳。我要回家。”

142
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“贱人。全都是贱人。”马可像是自言自语，“听话的，不听话的，都一样贱。”

143
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我捅捅马可的肩膀。

144
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“朵琳人呢？”

145
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马可哼了一声，说：“去停车场找啊。每辆车的后座都别放过。”

146
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说完，他转过身来。

147
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“还我钻石。”

148
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我爬起来，摸黑找回披肩，准备离开。马可跳起来，拦住我，然后有意用手揩了揩鼻下的血渍，在我的脸上来回蹭出两道血痕。“这血足以赎回我的钻石了。还给我。”

149
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“我不知道它丢哪儿去了。”

150
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其实我一清二楚，钻石就在我的晚宴包里。马可扑倒我时，晚宴包像夜鸟投林，被抛入了无尽的黑暗中。我开始盘算，或许应该先引开他，再独自回来寻找。

151
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我不知道那样大小的钻石值多少钱，无论多少，一定很值钱。

152
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马可双手抓住我的肩膀。

153
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“告诉我。”他咬牙切齿地说出每一个字，“告诉我，否则我拧断你的脖子。”

154
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忽然之间，我什么都不在意了。

155
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“就在我那个镶有假黑玉珠的晚宴包里。”我说，“在烂泥里面。”

156
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我走了，听任马可手脚并用，在黑暗中寻找另一个更小的黑暗，这微小的黑暗将钻石的光芒隐藏，令他那愤怒的双眼看不到钻石。

157
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朵琳不在舞池，也不在停车场。一路上我始终躲在阴暗里，免得被人发现我的衣服和高跟鞋上沾满了杂草，我还用黑披肩遮住肩膀和裸露的胸部。

158
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幸好，舞会已接近尾声，宾客成群离去，走向停车场。我一辆接着一辆问，终于问到有辆车仍有空位，愿意捎上我到曼哈顿区的中心。

159
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在暗夜与黎明交错的暧昧时刻，亚马逊宾馆的露天屋顶空无一人。

160
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我穿着有矢车菊枝蔓图案的浴袍，像个小偷似的，悄无声息地走到屋顶短墙边。墙高及肩，所以我从靠墙倚放的一堆折叠椅中抽出一把，打开，爬上摇摇晃晃的椅子。

161
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一阵强风吹起我的头发。脚下的城市，灯火已入眠，黑乎乎的建筑，仿佛在开追悼会。

162
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这是我的最后一晚。

163
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我抓起带来的那捆衣服，揪住一截白色的布料，一件无肩带的弹性衬裙——其实它早已被穿得弹性全无——猛地被我扯出。我挥舞着衬裙，犹如挥舞着求和的白旗，一下，两下……顺着风，我松开了手。

164
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白色的薄裳没入夜色，缓缓下落，不知最后会飘落到哪条街上或哪个屋顶。

165
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我继续从那捆衣服里扯出其他东西。

166
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这次风力不够，一袭状似蝙蝠的黑影落到了对面公寓楼顶的露天花园。

167
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我将衣服一件一件尽付于夜风。灰暗的布片颤颤悠悠，宛如爱人的骨灰随风飘逝，落在此处、彼处，落在纽约市的黑暗的中心，具体落在哪里我真的不得而知。

168
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“I’m so glad they’re going to die.”

1

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Hilda arched her cat-limbs in a yawn, buried her head in her arms on the conference table and went back to sleep. A wisp of bilious green straw perched on her brow like a tropical bird.

2

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Bile green. They were promoting it for fall, only Hilda, as usual, was half a year ahead of time. Bile green with black, bile green with white, bile green with nile green, its kissing cousin.

3

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Fashion blurbs, silver and full of nothing, sent up their fishy bubbles in my brain. They surfaced with a hollow pop.

4

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I’m so glad they’re going to die.

5

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I cursed the luck that had timed my arrival in the hotel cafeteria to coincide with Hilda’s. After a late night I felt too dull to think up the excuse that would take me back to my room for the glove, the handkerchief, the umbrella, the notebook I forgot. My penalty was the long, dead walk from the frosted glass doors of the Amazon to the strawberry-marble slab of our entry on Madison Avenue.

6

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Hilda moved like a mannequin the whole way.

7

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“That’s a lovely hat, did you make it?”

8

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I half expected Hilda to turn on me and say, “You sound sick,” but she only extended and then retracted her swanny neck.

9

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“Yes.”

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The night before I’d seen a play where the heroine was possessed by a dybbuk, and when the dybbuk spoke from her mouth its voice sounded so cavernous and deep you couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. Well, Hilda’s voice sounded just like the voice of that dybbuk.

11

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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she contained to exist. The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

12

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So I said, “Isn’t it awful about the Rosenbergs?” The Rosenbergs were to be electrocuted late that night.

13

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“Yes!” Hilda said, and at last I felt I had touched a human string in the cat’s cradle of her heart. It was only as the two of us waited for the others in the tomblike morning gloom of the conference room that Hilda amplified that Yes of hers.

14

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“It’s awful such people should be alive.”

15

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She yawned then, and her pale orange mouth opened on a large darkness. Fascinated, I stared at the blind cave behind her face until the two lips met and moved and the dybbuk spoke out of its hiding place, “I’m so glad they’re going to die.”

16

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“Come on, give us a smile.”

17

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I sat on the pink velvet loveseat in Jay Cee’s office, holding a paper rose and facing the magazine photographer. I was the last of the twelve to have my picture taken. I had tried concealing myself in the powder room, but it didn’t work. Betsy had spied my feet under the doors.

18

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I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

19

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This was the last round of photographs before the magazine went to press and were turned to Tulsa or Biloxi or Teaneck or Coos Bay or wherever we’d come from, and we were supposed to be photographed with props to show what we wanted to be.

20

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Betsy held an ear of corn to show she wanted to be a farmer’s wife, and Hilda held the bald, faceless head of a hatmaker’s dummy to show she wanted to design hats, and Doreen held a gold-embroidered sari to show she wanted to be a social worker in India (she didn’t really, she told me, she only wanted to get her hands on a sari) .

21

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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.

22

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“Oh, sure you know,” the photographer said.

23

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“She wants,” said Jay Cee wittily, “to be everything.”

24

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I said I wanted to be a poet.

25

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Then they scouted about for something for me to hold.

26

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Jay Cee suggested a book of poems, but the photographer said no, that was too obvious. It should be something that showed what inspired the poems. Finally Jay Cee undipped the single, long-stemmed paper rose from her latest hat.

27

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The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. “Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.”

28

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I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee’s window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level.

29

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“Give us a smile.”

30

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At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy, my own mouth started to quirk up.

31

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“Hey,” the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, “you look like you’re going to cry.”

32

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I couldn’t stop.

33

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I buried my face in the pink velvet facade of Jay Cee’s loveseat and with immense relief the salt tears and miserable noises that had been prowling around in me all morning burst out into the room.

34

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When I lifted my head, the photographer had vanished. Jay Cee had vanished as well. I felt limp and betrayed, like the skin shed by a terrible animal. It was a relief to be free of the animal, but it seemed to have taken my spirit with it, and everything else it could lay its paws on.

35

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I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gilt compact with the mascara and the mascara brush and the eyeshadow and the three lipsticks and the side mirror. The face that peered back at me seemed to be peering from the grating of a prison cell after a prolonged beating. It looked bruised and puffy and all the wrong colors. It was a face that needed soap and water and Christian tolerance.

36

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I started to paint it with small heart.

37

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Jay Cee breezed back after a decent interval with an armful of manuscripts.

38

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“These’ll amuse you,” she said. “Have a good read.”

39

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Every morning a snowy avalanche of manuscripts swelled the dust-gray piles in the office of the Fiction Editor. Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing. Say someone or other finished a manuscript every minute; in five minutes that would be five manuscripts stacked on the Fiction Editor’s desk. Within the hour there would be sixty, crowding each other onto the floor. And in a year…

40

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I smiled, seeing a pristine, imaginary manuscript floating in mid-air, with Esther Greenwood typed in the upper-right-hand corner. After my month on the magazine I’d applied for a summer school course with a famous writer where you sent in the manuscript of a story and he read it and said whether you were good enough to be admitted into his class.

41

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Of course, it was a very small class, and I had sent in my story a long time ago and hadn’t heard from the writer yet, but I was sure I’d find the letter of acceptance waiting on the mail table at home.

42

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I decided I’d surprise Jay Cee and send in a couple of the stories I wrote in this class under a pseudonym. Then one day the Fiction Editor would come in to Jay Cee personally and plop the stories down on her desk and say, “Here’s something a cut above the usual,” and Jay Cee would agree and accept them and ask the author to lunch and it would be me.

43

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“Honestly,” Doreen said, “this one’ll be different.”

44

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“Tell me about him,” I said stonily.

45

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“He’s from Peru.”

46

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“They’re squat,” I said. “They’re ugly as Aztecs.”

47

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“No, no, no, sweetie, I’ve already met him.”

48

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We were sitting on my bed in a mess of dirty cotton dresses and laddered nylons and gray underwear, and for ten minutes Doreen had been trying to persuade me to go to a country club dance with a friend of somebody Lenny knew which, she insisted, was a very different thing from a friend of Lenny’s, but as I was catching the eight o’clock train home the next morning I felt I should make some attempt to pack.

49

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I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by myself all night something of the city’s mystery and magnificence might rub off on to me at last.

50

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But I gave it up.

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It was becoming more and more difficult for me to decide to do anything in those last days. And when I eventually did decide to do something, such as packing a suitcase, I only dragged all my grubby, expensive clothes out of the bureau and the closet and spread them on the chairs and the bed and the floor and then sat and stared at them, utterly perplexed. They seemed to have a separate, mulish identity of their own that refused to be washed and folded and stowed.

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“It’s these clothes,” I told Doreen. “I just can’t face these clothes when I come back.”

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“That’s easy.”

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And in her beautiful, one-track way, Doreen started to snatch up slips and stockings and the elaborate strapless bra, full of steel springs—a free gift from the Primrose Corset Company, which I’d never had the courage to wear—and finally, one by one, the sad array of queerly cut forty-dollar dresses…

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“Hey, leave that one out. I’m wearing it.”

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Doreen extricated a black scrap from her bundle and dropped it in my lap. Then, snowballing the rest of the clothes into one soft, conglomerate mass, she stuffed them out of sight under the bed.

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Doreen knocked on the green door with the gold knob.

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Scuffing and a man’s laugh, cut short, sounded from inside. Then a tall boy in shirtsleeves and a blond crewcut inched the door open and peered out.

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“Baby!” he roared.

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Doreen disappeared in his arms. I thought it must be the person Lenny knew.

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I stood quietly in the doorway in my black sheath and my black stole with the fringe, yellower than ever, but expecting less. “I am an observer,” I told myself, as I watched Doreen being handed into the room by the blond boy to another man, who was also tall, but dark, with slightly longer hair. This man was wearing an immaculate white suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin.

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I couldn’t take my eyes off that stickpin.

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A great white light seemed to shoot out of it, illuminating the room. Then the light withdrew into itself, leaving a dewdrop on a field of gold.

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I put one foot in front of the other.

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“That’s a diamond,” somebody said, and a lot of people burst out laughing.

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My nail tapped a glassy facet

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“Her first diamond.”

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“Give it to her,Marco.”

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Marco bowed and deposited the stickpin in my palm.

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It dazzled and danced with light like a heavenly ice cube. I slipped it quickly into my imitation jet bead evening bag and looked around. The faces were empty as plates, and nobody seemed to be breathing.

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“Fortunately,” a dry, hard hand encircled my upper arm, “I am escorting the lady for the rest of the evening. Perhaps,” the spark in Marco’s eyes extinguished, and they went black, “I shall perform some small service…”

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Somebody laughed.

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“…worthy of a diamond.”

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The hand round my arm tightened.

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“Ouch!”

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Marco removed his hand. I looked down at my arm. A thumbprint purpled into view. Marco watched me. Then he pointed to the underside of my arm. “Look there.”

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I looked, and saw four, faint matching prints.

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“You see, I am quite serious.”

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Marco’s small, flickering smile reminded me of a snake I’d teased in the Bronx Zoo. When I tapped my finger on the stout cage glass the snake had opened its clockwork jaws and seemed to smile. Then it struck and struck and struck at the invisible pane till I moved off.

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I had never met a woman-hater before.

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I could tell Marco was a woman-hater, because in spite of all the models and TV starlets in the room that night he paid attention to nobody but me. Not out of kindness or even curiosity, but because I’d happened to be dealt to him, like a playing card in a pack of identical cards.

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A man in the country club band stepped up to the mike and started shaking those seedpod rattles that mean South American music.

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Marco reached for my hand, but I hung on to my fourth daiquiri and stayed put. I’d never had a daiquiri before. The reason I had a daiquiri was because Marco ordered it for me, and I felt so grateful he hadn’t asked what sort of drink I wanted that I didn’t say a word, I just drank one daiquiri after another.

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Marco looked at me.

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“No,” I said.

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“What do you mean, no?”

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“I can’t dance to that kind of music.”

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“Don’t be stupid.”

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“I want to sit here and finish my drink.”

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Marco bent toward me with a tight smile, and in one scoop my drink took wing and landed in a potted palm. Then Marco gripped my hand in such a way I had to choose between following him on to the floor or having my arm torn off.

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“It’s a tango.” Marco maneuvered me out among the dancers. “I love tangos.”

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“I can’t dance.”

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“You don’t have to dance. I’ll do the dancing.”

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Marco hooked an arm around my waist and jerked me up against his dazzling white suit. Then he said, “Pretend you are drowning.”

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I shut my eyes, and the music broke over me like a rainstorm. Marco’s leg slid forwardag ainst mine and my leg slid back and I seemed to be riveted to him, limb for limb, moving as he moved, without any will or knowledge of my own, and after a while I thought, “It doesn’t take two to dance, it only takes one,” and I let myself blow and bend like a tree in the wind.

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“What did I tell you?” Marco’s breath scorched my ear. “You’re a perfectly respectable dancer.”

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I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock-full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one.

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After the South American music there was an interval.

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Marco led me through the French doors into the garden. Lights and voices spilled from the ballroom window, but a few yards beyond the darkness drew up its barricade and sealed them off. In the infinitesimal glow of the stars, the trees and flowers were strewing their cool odors. There was no moon.

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The box hedges shut behind us. A deserted golf course stretched away toward a few hilly clumps of trees, and I felt the whole desolate familiarity of the scene—the country club and the dance and the lawn with its single cricket.

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I didn’t know where I was, but it was somewhere in the wealthy suburbs of New York.

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Marco produced a slim cigar and a silver lighter in the shape of a bullet. He set the cigar between his lips and bent over the small flare. His face, with its exaggerated shadows and planes of light, looked alien and pained, like a refugee’s.

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I watched him.

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“Who are you in love with?” I said then.

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For a minute Marco didn’t say anything, he simply opened his mouth and breathed out ablue, vaporous ring.

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“Perfect!” he laughed.

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The ring widened and blurred, ghost-pale on the dark air.

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Then he said, “I am in love with my cousin.”

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I felt no surprise.

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“Why don’t you marry her?”

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“Impossible.”

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“Why?”

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Marco shrugged. “She’s my first cousin. She’s going to be a nun.”

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“Is she beautiful?”

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“There’s no one to touch her.”

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“Does she know you love her?”

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“Of course.”

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I paused. The obstacle seemed unreal to me.

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“If you love her,” I said, “you’ll love somebody else someday.”

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Marco dashed his cigar underfoot.

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The ground soared and struck me with a soft shock. Mud squirmed through my fingers. Marco waited until I half rose. Then he put both hands on my shoulders and flung me back.

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“My dress…”

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“Your dress!” The mud oozed and adjusted itself to my shoulder blades. “Your dress!” Marco’s face lowered cloudily over mine. A few drops of spit struck my lips. “Your dress is black and the dirt is black as well.”

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Then he threw himself face down as if he would grind his body through me and into the mud.

125

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“It’s happening,” I thought. “It’s happening. If I just lie here and do nothing it will happen.”

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Marco set his teeth to the strap at my shoulder and tore my sheath to the waist. I saw the glimmer of bare skin, like a pale veil separating two bloody-minded adversaries.

127

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“Slut!”

128

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The words hissed by my ear.

129

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“Slut!”

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The dust cleared, and I had a full view of the battle.

131

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I began to writhe and bite.

132

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Marco weighed me to the earth.

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“Slut!”

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I gouged at his leg with the sharp heel of my shoe. He turned, fumbling for the hurt.

135

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Then I fisted my fingers together and smashed them at his nose. It was like hitting the steel plate of a battleship. Marco sat up. I began to cry.

136

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Marco pulled out a white handkerchief and dabbed his nose. Blackness, like ink, spread over the pale cloth.

137

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I sucked at my salty knuckles.

138

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“I want Doreen.”

139

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Marco stared off across the golf links.

140

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“I want Doreen. I want to go home.”

141

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“Sluts, all sluts.” Marco seemed to be talking to himself. “Yes or no, it is all the same.”

142

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I poked Marco’s shoulder. “Where’s Doreen?”

143

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Marco snorted. “Go to the parking lot. Look in the backs of all the cars.”

144

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Then he spun around.

145

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“My diamond.”

146

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I got up and retrieved my stole from the darkness. I started to walk off. Marco sprang to his feet and blocked my path. Then, deliberately, he wiped his finger under his bloody nose and with two strokes stained my cheeks. “I have earned my diamond with this blood. Give it to me.”

147

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“I don’t know where it is.”

148

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Now I knew perfectly well that the diamond was in my evening bag and that when Marco knocked me down my evening bag had soared, like a night bird, into the enveloping darkness. I began to think I would lead him away and then return on my own and hunt for it.I had no idea what a diamond that size would buy, but whatever it was, I knew it would be a lot.

149

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Marco took my shoulders in both hands.

150

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“Tell me,” he said, giving each word equal emphasis. “Tell me, or I’ll break your neck.”

151

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Suddenly I didn’t care.

152

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“It’s in my imitation jet bead evening bag,” I said. “Somewhere in the muck.”

153

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I left Marco on his hands and knees, scrabbling in the darkness for another, smaller darkness that hid the light of his diamond from his furious eyes.

154

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Doreen was not in the ballroom nor in the parking lot. I kept to the fringe of the shadows so nobody would notice the grass plastered to my dress and shoes, and with my black stole I covered my shoulders and bare breasts.

155

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Luckily for me, the dance was nearly over, and groups of people were leaving and coming out to the parked cars. I asked at one car after another until finally I found a car that had room and would drop me in the middle of Manhattan.

156

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At that vague hour between dark and dawn, the sunroof of the Amazon was deserted.

157

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Quiet as a burglar in my cornflower-sprigged bathrobe, I crept to the edge of the parapet. The parapet reached almost to my shoulders, so I dragged a folding chair from the stack against the wall, opened it, and climbed onto the precarious seat.

158

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A stiff breeze lifted the hair from my head. At my feet, the city doused its lights in sleep, its buildings blackened, as if for a funeral.

159

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It was my last night.

160

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I grasped the bundle I carried and pulled at a pale tail. A strapless elasticized slip which, in the course of wear, had lost its elasticity, slumped into my hand. I waved it, like a flag of truce, once, twice…The breeze caught it, and I let go.

161

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A white flake floated out into the night, and began its slow descent. I wondered on what street or rooftop it would come to rest.

162

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I tugged at the bundle again.

163

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The wind made an effort, but failed, and a batlike shadow sank toward the roof garden of the penthouse opposite.

164

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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

165

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

brow

[braʊ]

n.前额;眉毛;山脊;表情

nile

[naɪl]

n.尼罗河(非洲)

fishy

['fɪʃi]

adj.(味道或气味)象鱼的;可疑的

Madison

['mædɪsən]

n.麦迪逊(姓);麦迪逊(美国城市)

mannequin

['mænɪkɪn]

n.时装模特儿;人体模型

retract

[rɪ'trækt]

v.缩回;收回;撤销

dybbuk

['dɪbʊk]

n.( 犹太民间传说中的)恶灵;附在活人身上的罪人死后的灵魂

gloss

[ɡlɒs]

n.光彩;光泽;虚饰

amplify

['æmplɪfaɪ]

v.扩大;详述;增强

Betsy

[ˈbetsɪ]

n.贝琪(女子名;Elizabeth的昵称)

unsteady

[ʌn'stedi]

adj.不稳定的;易变的;颤动的;不规则的;不一致的

prop

[prɒp]

n.支柱;支持者;倚靠人

sari

['sɑːri]

n.(印度妇女的)莎丽服

scout

[skaʊt]

n.童子军;侦察员;守卫

latest

['leɪtɪst]

adj.最近的;最新的

fiddle

['fɪdl]

n.小提琴;骗局

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

quirk

[kwɜːk]

n.怪癖;急转

prowl

[praʊl]

v.潜行以觅食;窥伺;逡巡于

paw

[pɔː]

n.脚爪;爪子;手

puffy

['pʌfi]

adj.浮肿的;膨胀的;肥满的

manuscript

['mænjuskrɪpt]

n.手稿;原稿

plop

[plɒp]

n.扑通声

stonily

['stəʊnɪli]

adv.石头地;冷酷地

Peru

[pə'ru]

n.秘鲁

Aztec

[ˈæztek]

n.阿芝特克人;阿芝特克语

sweetie

['swiːti]

n.情人;爱人;好心人;甜的糕饼类

magnificence

[mæɡ'nɪfɪsns]

n.豪华;宏伟;壮丽;庄严

stow

[stəʊ]

v.装载;装填;储藏

queer

[kwɪə(r)]

a. 古怪的，奇怪的;

conglomerate

[kən'ɡlɒmərət]

n. (房子等)密集物;

knob

[nɒb]

n.旋钮;把手;瘤;节;圆丘

crewcut

['kruːˌkʌt]

平头,海军发式

roar

[rɔː(r)]

v.吼叫;咆哮

stickpin

['stɪkpɪn]

n.领带夹

dewdrop

['djuːdrɒp]

n.露珠;水珠

facet

['fæsɪt]

n.小平面;方面;刻面

bead

[biːd]

n.珠子

extinguish

[ɪk'stɪŋɡwɪʃ]

vt.熄灭;扑灭;消灭;使破灭;偿清

Ouch

[aʊtʃ]

int.哎唷

underside

['ʌndəsaɪd]

n.下面;阴暗面

pane

[peɪn]

n.窗玻璃;方框;方格

rattle

['rætl]

vi. 发出格吱声；呱哒响;

daiquiri

['daɪkɪri]

n.台克利酒

scoop

[skuːp]

n.铲子;勺;舀取;穴;独家新闻

tango

['tæŋɡəʊ]

n.探戈舞;探戈舞曲

dazzle

['dæzl]

v.使眼花;使赞许

rivet

['rɪvɪt]

n.铆钉 vt. 集中注意力(目光)；吸引;

scorch

[skɔːtʃ]

v.(使)烧焦;变焦;(使)枯萎

chock-full

[ˌtʃɒk'fʊl]

adj.塞满了的

strew

[struː]

vt.散播;撒满;点缀

familiarity

[fəˌmɪli'ærəti]

n.亲密;熟悉;精通;不拘礼节

York

[jɔːk]

约克郡;〈板球〉使击球员出局

flare

[fleə(r)]

n.闪光;闪光信号;【天】耀斑;(衣裙等)张开

vaporous

['veɪpərəs]

adj.空想的;蒸汽的;雾状的;易挥发的

blur

[blɜː(r)]

v.弄脏;使 ... 模糊

unreal

[ˌʌn'rɪəl]

adj.不真实的;虚幻的;不实在的;虚构的;空想的

underfoot

[ˌʌndə'fʊt]

adv.在脚下面;踩着地;碍手碍脚地

fling

[flɪŋ]

vt. 投，抛，扔，掷;

cloudily

[k'laʊdɪlɪ]

adv.云雾迷漫;黯然;朦胧

grind

[ɡraɪnd]

v.磨;压迫;碾碎;磨得吱吱响;逐渐停顿

adversary

['ædvəsəri]

n.敌手;对手

Slut

[slʌt]

n.荡妇;懒妇;母狗

hiss

[hɪs]

n.嘘声;嘶嘶声

fumble

['fʌmbl]

vi.摸索;笨手笨脚地做

battleship

['bætlʃɪp]

n.战舰

Blackness

['blæknəs]

n.黑色;阴险

knuckle

['nʌkl]

n.指关节;膝关节;肘形接头;铰链连接

snort

[snɔːt]

vi. 喷鼻息；鼓鼻;

stain

[steɪn]

n.污点;瑕疵;着色剂;染料

envelop

[ɪn'veləp]

vt.包封;遮盖;包围

muck

[mʌk]

n.垃圾;粪肥;污物;淤泥

furious

['fjʊəriəs]

adj.狂怒的;猛烈的

plaster

['plɑːstə(r)]

n.石膏;灰泥;膏药

Manhattan

[mæn'hætn]

n.曼哈顿区(美国纽约市区名);曼哈顿(岛)

Amazon

['æməzən]

n.亚马逊河

precarious

[prɪ'keəriəs]

adj.不稳定的;不安全的

blacken

['blækən]

v.(使)变黑;诽谤

truce

[truːs]

n.休战;(争执;烦恼等的)缓和

rooftop

['ruːftɒp]

n.屋顶

bundle

['bʌndl]

n.捆;束

penthouse

['penthaʊs]

n.楼顶阁楼

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