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心是孤独的猎手|The heart is a lonely hunter

第二部分 4

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 卡森-麦卡勒斯] 阅读：[76872]
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“那人是谁啊？”杰克·布朗特问道，“刚从这里出去的那个瘦高个儿的黑人是谁啊？”

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小房间里非常整洁。太阳照亮了桌上放的一碗紫色葡萄，辛格坐在那里，椅子稍微后倾，双手插在口袋里，望着窗外。

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“我在楼梯上跟他撞在一起，他用那副眼神看着我——哎呀，从来没有人那么恶狠狠地看着我。”

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杰克把那袋麦芽啤酒放在桌上。他惊奇地意识到，辛格并不知道他进屋了。他走到窗前，碰了碰辛格的肩膀。

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“我不是故意撞到他的，他没有理由那么对我。”

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杰克打了个哆嗦。尽管阳光灿烂，但屋里仍有种寒意。辛格举起食指，走到走廊里。回来时，他拿来一筐煤，还有一些引火柴。杰克望着他跪在炉膛前，熟练地把引火柴在膝盖上折断，摆放在铺好的纸上，又把煤块仔细地在上面排好。起初，火就是着不起来，火焰无力地摇晃着，然后熄灭了，冒出一阵黑烟。辛格在炉箅上铺上两层报纸。风让火重新活了起来，房间里响起呼呼的声音，报纸冒出火光，被火焰吞噬了，炉箅上满是噼啪作响的橘黄色火焰。

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早晨的第一杯麦芽啤酒有一种上好的醇香味道。杰克很快将自己的酒大口喝完，然后用锉刀一样的手背抹了抹嘴巴。

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“很久以前，我认识一位女士，”他说，“你有点让我想到她，克拉拉小姐。她在得克萨斯有个小农场，也做果仁糖到城里去卖。她又高又壮，长得很好看，穿着肥肥大大的长毛衣、土包子鞋，戴顶男人帽子。我认识她的时候，她丈夫已经死了，但我想说的意思是，如果不是因为她，我可能永远不会知道。我也许会跟数以百万计的不知道的那些人一样，继续过着生活。也许只能是个牧师，或者纺织工，或者推销员，也许我的一辈子就那么浪费掉了。”

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杰克惊奇地摇摇头。

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“要想听明白，你就必须得知道我以前的事情。你瞧，年轻时我住在加斯托尼亚。那时候我是个八字脚的小矮子，太小了，没法进工厂，只能去一家保龄球馆当球童，只管饭，没有工资。后来，我听说，离那儿不远有个反应灵敏的聪明男孩串烟叶，一天可以赚三毛钱。于是我就去了，去赚每天三毛钱的工钱，那时候我十岁。我就那么离开了家人，连封信都不写。我走了，他们其实很高兴，你明白那是怎么回事。再说，除了我姐姐，家里没人会看信。”

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他在空中挥舞着一只手，仿佛要从脸上抹走什么东西。“但我的意思是，我最初信仰耶稣。有个家伙跟我在一个地方干活儿，他有个礼拜堂，每天晚上都去祷告。我也去了，听着听着便也有了这个信仰。我的心思一整天都放在耶稣身上，有空的时候我便研究《圣经》，祈祷。后来，有天晚上，我拿了把锤子，然后把手放在桌子上。我很愤怒，把钉子一直砸进手掌。我的手被钉在了桌子上，我望着它，手指颤动着，变成了青色。”

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杰克伸出手掌，指着手心那个粗糙苍白的伤疤。

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“我想当个福音传教士，想在这个国家四处周游，一边布道一边组织复兴会。同时，我从一个地方搬到另一个地方，快二十岁那年，我去了得克萨斯。我在一个山核桃果园干活儿，离克拉拉小姐住的地方非常近。我慢慢认识了她，有时候晚上会去她家，她跟我聊天。一定要明白，我不是一开始就什么都知道的，我们所有人都是这样，这个过程是逐渐发生的。我开始读书。我继续干活儿，这样就可以攒下钱，休息一阵子，可以学习，这就像重生一样。只有我们这些知道的人才能够理解这是什么意思。我们已经睁开了眼睛，可以看见了。我们这些人，就像来自遥远的地方一样。”

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辛格同意他的说法。房间里很舒服，像家一样。辛格从壁橱里拿出一个铁盒子，里面放着饼干、水果和奶酪。他挑了一只橘子，慢慢剥开皮，又扯掉一缕缕的橘络，最后这只橘子在阳光下变成了透明的。他把橘子掰开，两人分着吃。杰克一口吃掉了两瓣橘子，噗的一下把果核吐进炉火中。辛格慢慢吃着自己的那一份，把种子整整齐齐地摆放在一只手的手心。他们又开了两瓶麦芽啤酒。

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“在这个国家，像我们这样的人有多少？也许一万，也许两万，也许还要多。我去过很多地方，但像我们这样的人，我只遇到过几个。但是，比如说，一个人的确知道。他看到了这个世界的本质，回顾几千年前，明白这一切是怎么发生的。他观察着资本和权力缓慢积累，看到这种积累在今天达到顶点。他把美国看成一座疯人院。他看到人们为了活下去是如何被迫剥削自己的兄弟。他看到孩子几乎要饿死，看到女人每周要干六十个小时的活儿才能有口饭吃。他看到很多人失业，看到几十亿美元、几千英里土地被浪费掉。他看到战争来临。他看到人们遭受到艰苦磨难时会怎样变得刻薄丑陋，看到他们身上的一种东西是怎样死去的。然而，他看到的最重要的事情是，整个世界的体制是建立在一个谎言之上的。尽管这个谎言如同耀眼的太阳一样显而易见，但那些不知道的人已经在这个谎言里生活得太久了，他们就是看不见。”

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杰克额头上的红色血管因为愤怒突了起来。他抓起炉膛上的煤筐，把煤块哗啦啦全部倒进炉子里。他的脚已经麻木了，他使劲跺着脚，地板都颤动起来。

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“这个地方，我都走遍了。我四处走，跟人说话，拼命跟他们解释。但这么做有什么用呢？上帝！”

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他盯着炉火，麦芽啤酒让他脸色发红，加上屋里的热气，他的脸更红了。脚上发麻的刺痛感顺着他的腿传上来，他昏昏欲睡，望着炉火的颜色，绿色、蓝色和燃烧的黄色。“你是唯一知道的人，”他精神恍惚地说，“唯一知道的人。”

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他不再是个陌生人了。现在，他熟悉镇上大片贫民窟里的每条街道、每条小巷和每处栅栏。他还在迪克西阳光游乐场工作。秋天，游乐场从一块空地搬到另一块空地，但总是在城市的边缘。最后，游乐场转遍了小镇的每一个地方。地方变了，但背景都很相似——一片空地，周围是一排排破烂棚屋，紧靠工厂、轧棉机厂或者装瓶厂。顾客也都一样，大多是工厂的工人和黑人。一到晚上，游乐场的灯五颜六色，很花哨。旋转木马伴着机械音乐转个不停。秋千来回荡着，投硬币游戏周围的栏杆边总是挤满了人。有两个货亭出售饮料、血棕色汉堡和棉花糖。

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在这里，他是个机修工，但慢慢地他的职责范围扩大了。他粗声大气的嗓门透过各种噪音大声喊叫着，他不停地在游乐场里到处转悠，额头上冒着汗珠，胡子上沾满啤酒。星期六，他得负责维持秩序。他矮胖结实的身体野蛮地大力挤过人群，只有一双眼睛没有沾染他身上的那种粗鲁暴力，深皱的眉头下面，这双眼睛睁得很大，透出一副孤僻沉默而又心烦意乱的神色。

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凌晨十二点到一点之间，他回到家中。他住的房子被隔成了四个房间，每个人的租金是一块五毛钱。后面有间厕所，门廊里有个水龙头。他的房间里，墙壁和地板发出一股潮湿的酸臭味，窗子上挂着乌黑的廉价蕾丝窗帘。他把那身好西装装在袋子里，工装挂在钉子上。房间里没有暖气，也没有电。然而，窗外有一盏街灯亮着，使屋子里呈现一种淡绿色。床边的油灯他从来没点过，除非有时候他想看书。冰冷的房间里，燃烧的油散发出的那种刺鼻味道每每令他觉得恶心。

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如果待在家里，他会坐立不安，走来走去。他坐在凌乱的床边，狠命啃着残破肮脏的手指甲，污垢的刺激味道在嘴巴里久留不去。他的孤独感如此强烈，让他满心恐惧。他经常会喝一品脱私酿威士忌，喝完这种原浆酒，他在白天便会觉得温暖而松弛。五点钟，工厂的哨声吹响，是第一班工人上班的时间。哨声制造出迷茫而怪异的回声，在哨声吹完之前，他无论如何都无法入睡。

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然而，他通常并不待在家里。他出门，走到狭窄而空荡荡的大街上。在凌晨最初的几个小时里，天空一片漆黑，星星清晰而明亮。有时候，有些工厂还在开工，透着昏黄灯光的建筑物里传出机器的轰鸣声。他在工厂大门口，等待着换早班。穿着毛衣和印花裙的年轻姑娘们从家里出来，走到漆黑的大街上。男人们也出来了，提着饭盒。有些人总是先到一个街车咖啡馆喝杯可乐或咖啡，然后才回家，而杰克会跟他们一起去。在嘈杂的工厂里，人们能清楚地听见别人说的每句话，但从工厂出来的头几小时里，他们的耳朵几乎什么都听不到。

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在街车咖啡馆，杰克喝着加了威士忌的可口可乐，跟别人聊天。冬天的清晨很冷，白茫茫一片，烟雾缭绕。他带着醉意的目光，急切地盯着男人们一张张憔悴蜡黄的脸。人们经常会嘲笑他，这时候他总是挺直自己矮小的身体，带着轻蔑的语气说些长而生僻的词。他从酒杯上翘起小拇指，傲慢地绕着自己的胡子。如果人们继续嘲笑他，他有时候会还击。他抡起硕大的褐色拳头，极其狂暴，还会大声地抽泣。

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这样的早晨过后，他放松地回到游乐场。在拥挤的人群中挤来挤去，让他觉得很轻松。那些噪音、恶臭的味道，还有跟别人的摩肩接踵，都抚慰着他紧张的神经。

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由于镇上实施“蓝法”，游乐场在安息日不营业。星期天，他早晨起床后，从手提箱里拿出那套毛哔叽西装，然后走到主街上。他先是走进纽约咖啡馆，买一袋麦芽啤酒，接着去辛格的房间。镇上的很多人，他尽管都知道名字或觉得脸熟，但只有哑巴是他唯一的朋友。他们会在安静的房间里打发时间，喝喝麦芽啤酒。他总是一直说话，在大街上或房间里独自度过的那些阴沉沉的清晨，他总有很多话要说。想起这些话并且说出来，是一件令人宽慰的事情。

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炉火渐渐熄灭了。辛格正在桌前自己跟自己下棋。杰克已经睡着了，突然神经质地抖动一下，醒了过来。他抬起头，转身对着辛格。“是的，”他好像是在回答一个突如其来的问题，“我们有些人是共产主义分子，但并非我们所有人都是——我自己，我不是共产党员。因为，首先我只认识一名共产党员，你到处流浪那么多年，却碰不上共产主义分子。这周围也没有他们的办公室，你也没法过去说你要加入——如果有，我也从来没听说过。而且你也不能突然离开这里去纽约，去加入他们。刚才说过，我只认识一名共产党员——他是个邋遢的小个子禁酒主义者，嘴巴很臭，我们打过架。我倒不是因为这个就反对共产党，主要原因是，我不大看好斯大林和俄国，我痛恨所有的国家和政府。但即便如此，也许我应该首先加入共产党。我也拿不准哪条路是对的。你觉得呢？”

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辛格皱起眉头，思考着。他伸手拿过银色铅笔，在便笺本上写道：我不知道。

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“但就是这么回事。你瞧，我们一旦知道以后，便会坐卧不安，但我们得行动起来，然后我们当中有些人就疯掉了。要做的事情很多，你根本不知道从哪儿入手，简直让人发疯。即便是我——我做了很多事，再回过头去看时，这些事似乎都很不理性。我自己曾经建立过一个组织。我挑了二十个纺织工，跟他们交谈，最后我以为他们知道了。我们的座右铭只有两个字：行动。哈！我们就是要引发骚乱——尽最大力量搅起大麻烦。我们的最终目标是自由——真正的自由，只有人类从心灵深处感觉到公正，那么才有可能实现这种伟大的自由。我们的座右铭‘行动’意为彻底摧毁资本主义。在宪法（由我自己起草）中，有些条款规定，我们的工作一旦完成，我们的座右铭便从‘行动’改为‘自由’。”

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杰克把火柴的末端弄尖，剔着一个讨厌的牙洞。过了一会儿，他继续说道：

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“然后，等宪法都写完了，第一批追随者也组织起来了——我搭便车出去组织更多单位参加这个社团。三个月后我回到家，你猜我发现了什么？第一次英勇的行动是什么？是他们正义的愤怒压倒了精心策划的行动，然后他们丢下我先动手了吗？它是毁灭、谋杀或革命吗？”

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杰克在椅子里向前倾着身体，停了一下，忧郁地说：

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“我的朋友，他们从基金里偷走了五十七块三毛钱，去买了军帽，还享用了免费星期六晚餐。他们围坐在会议桌旁夸夸其谈，头上戴着帽子，手边放着火腿和一加仑杜松子酒，被我抓了现行。”

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杰克放声大笑，辛格紧跟着露出一丝怯懦的微笑。过了一会儿，辛格脸上的笑容变得很紧张，然后消失了。杰克还在大笑，额头上青筋暴突，脸变成了暗红色。他笑了很久。

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辛格抬头看看表，指了下时间——十二点三十分。他拿起手表、银色铅笔和纸，又从炉台上拿下烟和火柴，把这些东西分别装进口袋里。午饭时间到了。

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但杰克还在大笑着，笑声里带着一种癫狂的味道。他在房间里踱来踱去，把口袋里的零钱晃得叮当作响，修长有力的胳膊僵硬而笨拙地挥动着，一一说着他要吃的食物。说到食物，他脸上现出热烈的激情，每说一个词都要抬起上唇，像一头饥饿的动物。

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“烤牛肉加酱汁，米饭，卷心菜，白面包，一大块苹果派。我快饿死了。哦，强尼，我听说北方佬来了。说到吃饭，我的朋友，我有没有跟你说过克拉克·帕特森先生的事情？就是那个迪克西阳光游乐场的主人。他非常胖，都已经二十年没看见过自己的私处了。他一整天都坐在拖车里，玩纸牌，抽大麻卷烟。一日三餐，他从附近快餐店点外卖，他每天都会打破斋戒吃——”

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杰克后退一步，让辛格离开房间。他跟哑巴在一起的时候，总是在门口磨磨蹭蹭，他总是跟在辛格后面，希望辛格领路。他们下楼梯时，他继续滔滔不绝地说着，带着一丝紧张感。他睁大棕色的眼睛，一直盯着辛格的面孔。

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午后的天气柔和而又温暖，他们一直待在室内。回来时，杰克顺便买回一夸脱威士忌。他坐在床头苦思冥想，一言不发，不时斜一下身子拿起地下的酒瓶，给自己的杯子里倒满酒。辛格坐在窗前的桌子边，下着象棋。杰克有些放松了，他望着朋友的象棋，感觉到温暖安静的午后慢慢进入夜晚的黑暗。炉火在房间的墙壁上映出无声的黑色波浪。然而，到了晚上，他身上又恢复了那种紧张感。辛格已经把棋子收了起来，跟杰克面对面坐着。紧张令杰克的嘴唇剧烈抽搐着，他一个劲地喝酒，好让自己平静下来。坐立不安和欲望的余波袭遍他的全身。他喝完威士忌，又开始跟辛格说话。他心头有千言万语，从嘴里倾泻而出。他从窗户走到床，又从床走到窗户——一遍又一遍。终于，那些千言万语汇成洪流，他带着醉醺醺的强调语气一并将它们倾吐给哑巴：

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“他们对我们干的那些好事！他们把真理变成谎言，他们玷污理想，败坏理想。就说耶稣吧，他是我们中的一员，他知道。耶稣说，骆驼要想穿过针眼，比富人要想进入上帝的王国还要难——他说的是真的。然而，看看过去两千年里，教会是怎么对待耶稣的，他们对耶稣干了什么。他们歪曲耶稣说的每一个字，以达到自己卑鄙的目的。今天，如果耶稣还活着，一定会遭到陷害，然后锒铛入狱。耶稣会是真正知道的那个人。我和耶稣会面对面坐在桌前，我看着他，他也看着我，我们都会明白对方是知道的。我，耶稣，还有卡尔·马克思，我们都会坐在一张桌子前面，然后——

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“看看我们的自由变成了什么样子。那些为美国革命而战的男人不是‘美国革命女儿会’的太太们，就像我绝不是个大腹便便、浑身香气的哈巴狗一样。关于自由，他们说的都是真心话，他们为一场真正的革命而战斗。只有通过斗争，才能换来一个人人自由平等的国家。哈！这意味着在自然面前人人平等——人人机会均等。这并不意味着百分之二十的人可以肆意剥夺百分之八十的人的生计；这也不意味着一个富人可以通过压榨一万个穷人让自己富起来；这也不意味着暴君们可以任意让这个国家陷入困境当中，让数以百万计的人们可以为了混口饭吃、有个地方睡觉便为所欲为——欺诈、撒谎、打掉自己的右臂。他们亵渎了自由这个词。你听见我的话了吗？对于所有知道的人来说，他们让自由这个词散发出臭鼬一样的恶臭。”

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杰克额头上的青筋剧烈跳动着，嘴巴抽搐起来。辛格坐直身体，有些惊慌，杰克还想继续说话，但那些话卡在了喉咙里，他的身体一阵发抖。他坐在椅子上，用手指压住哆嗦的嘴唇，然后哑声说道：

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“就是这样，辛格，生气没有用。我们做的都没有用。在我看来，就是这样，我们所能做的就是四处传播真理。如果哪一天，有足够多的不知道的人明白了这个真理，便用不着斗争了。我们唯一能做的事情，就是让他们知道，只需要这样。但怎么才能做到呢，嗯？”

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炉火的影子舔着墙面，黑色的波浪形影子越来越高，屋子似乎都动了起来。屋子升上去，又降下来，失去了平衡。杰克觉得自己一个人正在下沉，像波浪一样慢慢沉进阴影幢幢的大海里。他感到无助和恐惧，使劲睁着眼睛，但除了朝他拼命怒号的暗红色波浪，他什么都看不见。终于，他弄清了自己一直在寻找的东西。哑巴的脸依稀可辨，显得非常遥远。杰克闭上了眼睛。

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第二天早晨，他很晚才醒过来。辛格已经走了好几个小时，桌上有面包、奶酪、一个橘子，还有一壶咖啡。他吃完早餐，已经到了上班时间。他抑郁地走在路上，低垂着脑袋，穿过镇子朝自己家走去。走到家附近，他穿过一条狭窄的街道，街道一侧有一幢砖房仓库，被烟熏得很黑。仓库的墙上有什么东西分散了他的注意力。他继续向前走，然后注意力被完全吸引住了。墙上用大红色粉笔写了一句话，字体很粗，样子很奇怪：

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你必吃勇士的肉，喝地上首领的血。[15]

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他把这两行字念了两遍，急切地往街道两端来回看，却并没有人。他困惑不已地认真考虑了几分钟，然后从口袋里掏出一支很粗的红色铅笔，在那行字下面认认真真地写道：

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写上面这些字的人，不管你是谁，请明天中午在这里等我，十一月二十九日，星期三，或者后天。

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第二天中午十二点，他来到墙跟前等待着。他心绪不宁，不时走到拐角处朝街道上四处张望。没有人来。一个小时之后，他必须赶往游乐场了。

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第三天，他又来到这里，等待着。

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到了星期五，开始下起一场冬雨，淅淅沥沥，下个不停。墙壁湿透了，上面的字花了，都分辨不出来了。雨一直下，灰暗，凄清，冰冷。

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“Who was that?”Jake Blount asked.“Who was the tall, thin colored man that just come out of here?”

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The small room was very neat. The sun lighted a bowl of purple grapes on the table.Singer sat with his chair tilted back and his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window.

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“I bumped into him on the steps and he gave me this look—why, I never had anybody to look at me so dirty.”

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Jake put the sack of ales down on the table. He realized with a shock that Singer did not know he was in the room.He walked over to the window and touched Singer on the shoulder.

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“I didn’t mean to bump into him. He had no cause to act like that.”

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Jake shivered. Although the sun was bright there was a chill in the room.Singer held up his forefinger and went into the hall.When he returned he brought with him a scuttle of coal and some kindling.Jake watched him kneel before the hearth.Neatly he broke the sticks of kindling over his knee and arranged them on the foundation of paper.He put the coal on according to a system.At first the fire would not draw.The flames quivered weakly and were smothered by a black roll of smoke.Singer covered the grate with a double sheet of newspapers.The draught gave the fire new life.In the room there was a roaring sound.The paper glowed and was sucked inward.A crackling orange sheet of flame filled the grate.

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The first morning ale had a fine mellow taste. Jake gulped his share down quickly and wiped his mouth with file back of his hand.

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“There was this lady I knew a long time ago，”he said.“You sort of remind me of her, Miss Clara. She had a little farm in Texas.And made pralines to sell in the cities.She was a tall, big, fine-looking lady.Wore those long, baggy sweaters and clodhopper shoes and a man’s hat.Her husband was dead when I knew her.But what I’m getting at is this：If it hadn’t been for her I might never have known.I might have gone on through life like the millions of others who don’t know.I would have just been a preacher or a linthead or a salesman.My whole life might have been wasted.”

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Jake shook his head wonderingly.

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“To understand you got to know what went before. You see, I lived in Gastonia when I was a youngun.I was a knock-kneed little runt, too small to put in the mill.I worked as pin boy in a bowling joint and got meals for pay.Then I heard a smart, quick boy could make thirty cents a day stringing tobacco not very far from there.So I went and made that thirty cents a day.That was when I was ten years old.I just left my folks.I didn’t write.They were glad I was gone.You understand how those things are.And besides, nobody could read a letter but my sister.”

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He waved his hand in the air as though brushing something from his face.“But I mean this. My first belief was Jesus.There was this fellow working in the same shed with me.He had a tabernacle and preached every night.I went and listened and I got this faith.My mind was on Jesus all day long.In my spare time I studied the Bible and prayed.Then one night I took a hammer and laid my hand on the table.I was angry and I drove the nail all the way through.My hand was nailed to the table and I looked at it and the fingers fluttered and turned blue.”

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Jake held out his palm and pointed to the ragged, dead-white scar in the center.

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“I wanted to be an evangelist. I meant to travel around the country preaching and holding revivals.In the meantime I moved around from one place to another, and when I was nearly twenty I got to Texas.I worked in a pecan grove near where Miss Clara lived.I got to know her and at night sometimes I would go to her house.She talked to me.Understand, I didn’t begin to know all at once.That’s not the way it happens to any of us.It was gradual.I began to read.I would work just so I could put aside enough money to knock off for a while and study.It was like being born a second time.Just us who know can understand what it means.We have opened our eyes and have seen.We’re like people from way off yonder somewhere.”

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Singer agreed with him. The room was comfortable in a homey way.Singer brought out from the closet the tin box in which he kept crackers and fruit and cheese.He selected an orange and peeled it slowly.He pulled off shreds of pith until the fruit was transparent in the sun.He secitioned the orange and divided the plugs between them.Jake ate two sections at a time and with a loud whoosh spat the seeds into the fire.Singer ate his share slowly and deposited his seeds neatly in the palm of one hand.They opened two more ales.

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“And how many of us are there in this country?Maybe ten thousand. Maybe twenty thousand.Maybe a lot more.I been to a lot of places but I never met but a few of us.But say a man does know.He sees the world as it is and he looks back thousands of years to see how it all come about.He watches the slow agglutination of capital and power and he sees its pinnacle today.He sees America as a crazy house.He sees how men have to rob their brothers in order to live.He sees children starving and women working sixty hours a week to get to eat.He sees a whole damn army of unemployed and billions of dollars and thousands of miles of land wasted.He sees war coming.He sees how when people suffer just so much they get mean and ugly and something dies in them.But the main thing he sees is that the whole system of the world is built on a lie.And although it’s as plain as the shining sun—the don’t-knows have lived with that lie so long they just can’t see it.”

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The red corded vein in Jake’s forehead swelled angrily. He grasped the scuttle on the hearth and rattled an avalanche of coal on the fire.His foot had gone to sleep, and he stamped it so hard that the floor shook.

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“I been all over this place. I walk around.I talk.I try to explain to them.But what good does it do?Lord God！”

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He gazed into the fire, and a flush from the ale and heat deepened the color of his face. The sleepy tingling in his foot spread up his leg.He drowsed and saw the colors of the fire, the tints of green and blue and burning yellow.“You’re the only one，”he said dreamily.“The only one.”

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He was a stranger no longer. By now he knew every street, every alley, every fence in all the sprawling slums of the town.He still worked at the Sunny Dixie.During the fall the show moved from one vacant lot to another, staying always within the fringes of the city limit, until at last it had encircled the town.The locations were changed but the settings were alike—a strip of wasteland bordered by rows of rotted shacks, and somewhere near a mill, a cotton gin, or a bottling plant.The crowd was the same, for the most part factory workers and Negroes.The show was gaudy with colored lights in the evening.The wooden horses of the flying-jinny revolved in the circle to the mechanical music.The swings whirled, the rail around the penny throwing game was always crowded.From the two booths were sold drinks and bloody brown hamburgers and cotton candy.

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He had been hired as a machinist, but gradually the range of his duties widened. His coarse, bawling voice called out through the noise, and continually he was lounging from one place on the show grounds to another.Sweat stood out on his forehead and often his mustache was soaked with beer.On Saturday his job was to keep the people in order.His squat, hard body pushed through the crowd with savage energy.Only his eyes did not share the violence of the rest of him.Wide gazing beneath his massive scowling forehead, they had a withdrawn and distracted appearance.

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He reached home between twelve and one in the morning. The house where he lived was squared into four rooms and the rent was a dollar fifty per person.There was a privy in the back and a hydrant on the stoop.In his room the walls and floor had a wet, sour smell.Sooty, cheap lace curtains hung at the window.He kept his good suit in his bag and hung his overalls on a nail.The room had no heat and no electricity.However, a street light shone outside the window and made a pale greenish reflection inside.He never lighted the oil lamp by his bed unless he wanted to read.The acrid smell of burning oil in the cold room nauseated him.

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If he stayed at home he restlessly walked the floor. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed and gnawed savagely at the broken, dirty ends of his fingernails.The sharp taste of grime lingered in his mouth.The loneliness in him was so keen that he was filled with terror.Usually he had a pint of bootleg white lightning.He drank the raw liquor and by daylight he was warm and relaxed.At five o’clock the whistles from the mills blew for the first shift.The whistles made lost, eerie echoes, and he could never sleep until after they had sounded.

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But usually he did not stay at home. He went out into the narrow, empty streets.In the first dark hours of the morning the sky was black and the stars hard and bright.Sometimes the mills were running.From the yellow-lighted buildings came the racket of the machines.He waited at the gates for the early shift.Young girls in sweaters and print dresses came out into the dark street.The men came out carrying their dinner pails.Some of them always went to a streetcar café　for Coca-Cola or coffee before going home, and Jake went with them.Inside the noisy mill the men could hear plainly every word that was spoken, but for the first hour outside they were deaf.

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In the streetcar Jake drank Coca-Cola with whiskey added. He talked.The winter dawn was white and smoky and cold.He looked with drunken urgency into the drawn, yellow faces of the men.Often he was laughed at, and when this happened he held his stunted body very straight and spoke scornfully in words of many syllables.He stuck his little finger out from his glass and haughtily twisted his mustache.And if he was still laughed at he sometimes fought.He swung his big brown fists with crazed violence and sobbed aloud.

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After such mornings he returned to the show with relief. It eased him to push through the crowds of people.The noise, the rank stinks, the shouldering contact of human flesh soothed his jangled nerves.

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Because of the blue laws in the town the show closed for the Sabbath. On Sunday he got up early in the morning and took from the suitcase his serge suit.He went to the main street.First he dropped into the New York Café　and bought a sack of ales.Then he went to Singer’s room.Although he knew many people in the town by name or face, the mute was his only friend.They would idle in the quiet room and drink the ales.He would talk, and the words created themselves from the dark mornings spent in the streets or in his room alone.The words were formed and spoken with relief.

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The fire had died down. Singer was playing a game of fools with himself at the table.Jake had been asleep.He awoke with a nervous quiver.He raised his head and turned to Singer.“Yeah，”he said as though in answer to a sudden question.“Some of us are Communists.But not all of us—Myself, I’m not a member of the communist Party.Because in the first place I never knew but one of them.You can bum around for years and not meet Communists.Around here there’s no office where you can go up and say you want to join—and if there is I never heard of it.And you just don’t take off for New York and join.As I say I never knew but one—and he was a seedy little teetotaler whose breath stunk.We had a fight.Not that I hold that against the Communists.The main fact is I don’t think so much of Stalin and Russia.I hate every damn country and government there is.But even so maybe I ought to joined up with the Communists first place.I’m not certain one way or the other.What do you think?”

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Singer wrinkled his forehead and considered. He reached for his silver pencil and wrote on his pad of paper that he didn’t know.

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“But there’s this. You see, we just can’t settle down after knowing, but we got to act.And some of us go nuts.There’s too much to do and you don’t know where to start It makes you crazy.Even me—I’ve done things that when I look back at them they don’t seem rational.Once I started an organization myself.I picked out twenty lintheads and talked to them until I thought they knew.Our motto was one word：Action.Huh！We meant to start riots—stir up all the big trouble we could.Our ultimate goal was freedom—but a real freedom, a great freedom made possible only by the sense of justice of the human soul.Our motto，‘Action，’signified the razing of capitalism.In the constitution（drawn up by myself）certain statutes dealt with the swapping of our motto from‘Action’to‘Freedom’as soon as our work was through.”

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Jake sharpened the end of a match and picked a troublesome cavity in a tooth. After a moment he continued：

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“Then when the constitution was all written down and the first followers well organized—then I went out on a hitch-hiking tour to organize component units of the society. Within three months I came back, and what do you reckon I found?What was the first heroic action?Had their righteous fury overcome planned action so that they had gone ahead without me?Was it destruction, murder, revolution?”

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Jake leaned forward in his chair. After a pause he said somberly：

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“My friend, they had stole the fifty-seven dollars and thirty cents from the treasury to buy uniform caps and free Saturday suppers. I caught them sitting around the conference table, rolling the bones, their caps on their heads, and a ham and a gallon of gin in easy reach.”

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A timid smile from Singer followed Jake’s outburst of laughter. After a while the smile on Singer’s face grew strained and faded.Jake still laughed.The vein in his forehead swelled, his face was dusky red.He laughed too long.

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Singer looked up at the clock and indicated the time—half past twelve. He took his watch, his silver pencil and pad, his cigarettes and matches from the mantel and distributed them among his pockets.It was dinner-time.

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But Jake still laughed. There was something maniacal in the sound of his laughter.He walked about the room, jingling the change in his pockets.His long, powerful arms swung tense and awkward.He began to name over parts of his coming meal.When he spoke of food his face was fierce with gusto.With each word he raised his upper lip like a ravenous animal.

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“Roast beef with gravy. Rice.And cabbage and light bread.And a big hunk of apple pie.I’m famished.Oh, Johnny, I can hear the Yankees coming.And speaking of meals, my friend, did I ever tell you about Mr.Clark Patterson, the gentleman who owns the Sunny Dixie Show?He’s so fat he hasn’t seen his privates for twenty years, and all day he sits in his trailer playing solitaire and smoking reefers.He orders his meals from a short-order joint nearby and every day he breaks his fast with—”

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Jake stepped back so that Singer could leave the room. He always hung back at doorways when he was with the mute.He always followed and expected Singer to lead.As they descended the stairs he continued to talk with nervous volubility.He kept his brown, wide eyes on Singer’s face.

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The afternoon was soft and mild. They stayed indoors.Jake had brought back with them a quart of whiskey.He sat brooding and silent on the foot of the bed, leaning now and then to fill his glass from the bottle on the floor.Singer was at his table by the window playing a game of chess.Jake had relaxed somewhat.He watched the game of his friend and felt the mild, quiet afternoon merge with the darkness of evening.The firelight made dark, silent waves on the walls of the room.

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But at night the tension came in him again. Singer had put away his chess-men and they sat facing each other.Nervousness made Jake’s lips twitch raggedly and he drank to soothe himself.A backwash of restlessness and desire overcame him.He drank down the whiskey and began to talk again to Singer.The words swelled with him and gushed from his mouth.He walked from the window to the bed and back again—again and again.And at last the deluge of swollen words took shape and he delivered them to the mute with drunken emphasis：

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“The things they have done to us！The truths they have turned into lies. The ideals they have fouled and made vile.Take Jesus.He was one of us.He knew.When He said that it is harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God—he damn well meant just what he said.But look what the Church has done to Jesus during the last two thousand years.What they have made of him.How they have turned every word he spoke for their own vile ends.Jesus would be framed and in jail if he was living today.Jesus would be one who really knows.Me and Jesus would sit across the table and I would look at him and he would look at me and we would both know that the other knew.Me and Jesus and Karl Marx could all sit at a table and—

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“And look what has happened to our freedom. The men who fought the American Revolution were no more like these D.A.R.dames than I’m a pot-bellied, perfumed Pekingese dog.They meant what they said about freedom.They fought a real revolution.They fought so that this could be a country where every man would be free and equal.Huh！And that meant every man was equal in the sight of Nature—with an equal chance.This didn’t mean that twenty per cent of the people were free to rob the other eighty per cent of the means to live.This didn’t mean for one rich man to sweat the piss out of ten thousand poor men so that he can get richer.This didn’t mean the tyrants were free to get this country in such a fix that millions of people are ready to do anything—cheat, lie, or whack off their right arm—just to work for three squares and a flop.They have made the word freedom a blasphemy.You hear me?They have made the word freedom stink like a skunk to all who know.”

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The vein in Jake’s forehead throbbed wildly. His mouth worked convulsively.Singer sat up, alarmed, Jake tried to speak again and the words choked in his mouth.A shudder passed through his body.He sat down in the chair and pressed his trembling lips with his fingers.Then he said huskily：

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“It’s this way, Singer. Being mad is no good.Nothing we can do is any good.That’s the way it seems to me.All we can do is go around telling the truth.And as soon as enough of the don’t knows have learned the truth then there won’t be any use for fighting.The only thing for us to do is let them know.All that’s needed.But how?Huh?”

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The fire shadows lapped against the walls. The dark, shadowy waves rose higher and the room took on motion.The room rose and fell and all balance was gone.Alone Jake felt himself sink downward, slowly in wavelike motions downward into a shadowed ocean.In helplessness and terror he strained his eyes, but he could see nothing except the dark and scarlet waves that roared hungrily over him.Then at last he made out the thing which he sought.The mute’s face was faint and very far away.Jake closed his eyes.

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The next morning he awoke very late. Singer had been gone for hours.There was bread, cheese, an orange, and a pot of coffee on the table.When he had finished his breakfast it was time for work.He walked somberly, his head bent, across the town toward his room.When he reached the neighborhood where he lived he passed through a certain narrow street that was flanked on one side by a smoke-blackened brick warehouse.On the wall of this building there was something that vaguely distracted him.He started to walk on, and then his attention was suddenly held.On the wall a message was written in bright red chalk, the letters drawn thickly and curiously formed：

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Ye shall eat the flesh of the mighty, and drink the blood of the princes of the earth.

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He read the message twice and looked anxiously up and down the street. No one was in sight.After a few minutes of puzzled deliberation he took from his pocket a thick red pencil and wrote carefully beneath the inscription：

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Whoever wrote the above meet me here tomorrow at noon, Wednesday, November　29.Or the next day.

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At twelve o’clock the next day he waited before the wall. Now and then he walked impatiently to the corner to look up and down the streets.No one came.After an hour he had to leave for the show.

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The next day he waited, also.

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Then on Friday there was a long, slow winter rain. The wall was sodden and the messages streaked so that no word could be read.The rain continued, gray and bitter and cold.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

Jake

[dʒeɪk]

adj.令人满意的;上等的

tilt

[tɪlt]

vt. & vi. (使)倾侧，(使)倾斜;

grate

[ɡreɪt]

n.栅;壁炉

gulp

[ɡʌlp]

v.吞咽;喘气;抑制

salesman

['seɪlzmən]

n.销售人员;推销员

cent

[sent]

n.分

hammer

['hæmə(r)]

n.锤子;榔头

rag

[ræɡ]

n.破布;碎布;破衣服;(低劣的)报纸

whoosh

[wʊʃ]

v.飞快地移动

starve

[stɑːv]

vi.挨饿;受饿;极度匮乏

stamp

[stæmp]

【1】 n.邮票; 图章【2】v.盖邮戳,盖印章

dreaminess

['driːmi]

adj.梦幻般的;心不在焉的;不切实际的;轻柔的

penny

['peni]

n.便士;【美】分

scowl

[skaʊl]

n.愁容;皱眉

acrid

['ækrɪd]

adj.苦味的;辛辣的;尖刻的

echo

['ekəʊ]

①[C][U]回声；反响；共鸣;

deaf

[def]

adj.聋的;充耳不闻的

sob

[sɒb]

v.抽泣;呜咽

soothe

[suːð]

v.缓和;使安静;安慰

idle

['aɪdl]

①闲，闲散;

communist

['kɒmjənɪst]

adj.共产主义的

motto

['mɒtəʊ]

n.座右铭;箴言

cavity

['kævəti]

n.洞;空穴

fury

['fjʊəri]

n.愤怒;狂暴;狂怒的人;泼妇

somber

['sɒmbə]

adj.微暗的;阴暗的;忧郁的;严肃的;严峻的

gallon

['ɡælən]

n.加仑(容量单位)

dusky

['dʌski]

adj.微黑的;带黑的;昏暗的

mantel

['mæntl]

n.壁炉架

ravenous

['rævənəs]

adj.贪婪的;极饿的

short-order

['ʃɔːt'ɔːdə]

adj.快餐的

volubility

[vɒljʊ'bɪlɪtɪ]

n.健谈;流畅

firelight

['faɪəlaɪt]

n.火光

drunken

['drʌŋkən]

adj.常醉的;喝醉的

skunk

[skʌŋk]

n.臭鼬;臭鼬皮;讨厌鬼

huskily

[ˈhʌskɪlɪ]

adv.嘎声地

flank

[flæŋk]

n.侧面;侧腹;腰窝肉

inscription

[ɪn'skrɪpʃn]

n.题字;碑铭;铭文(复数)i

impatient

[ɪm'peɪʃnt]

adj.不耐烦的;急躁的

bitter

['bɪtə(r)]

①苦的；有苦味的;

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