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心是孤独的猎手|The heart is a lonely hunter

第一部分 2

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 卡森-麦卡勒斯] 阅读：[76862]
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初夏，一个湿热难耐的漆黑夜晚，比夫·布兰农站在纽约咖啡馆的收银机后面。已经十二点了。外面，街灯早已熄灭，咖啡馆透出的灯光在人行道上投下一个鲜明的黄色长方形。街上空无一人，但咖啡馆里面，还有六七个顾客在喝啤酒、圣露西亚葡萄酒或者威士忌。比夫面无表情地等待着，胳膊肘支在柜台上，大拇指使劲按着长长的鼻尖。他的眼神很专注，正盯着一个穿工装的矮胖男人，这个男人喝得烂醉，吵嚷个不停。比夫的目光又不时挪到那个哑巴身上，哑巴独自坐在中间的一张桌子前。他的目光也会落到柜台前其他顾客身上，但最后总会把目光转回到穿工装的醉鬼身上。时间已经很晚了，比夫继续在柜台后面默默等待着。终于，他最后扫视了一遍餐馆，走向店后的那扇门。那里通往二楼。

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他静静地走上楼梯，进了房间。里面漆黑一片，他走得小心翼翼。走了几步，他的脚趾碰上一件硬邦邦的东西。他弯下腰，在地上摸索着找到这只手提箱的把手。他在房间里只待了几秒钟，刚要离开，突然，灯亮了。

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爱丽丝从凌乱的床上坐起来，望着他。“你弄那只箱子干什么？”她问道，“你难道不能赶紧把那个疯子打发掉吗？干吗还要把他已经喝光了的东西还给他？”

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“起来，你自己下去吧。叫警察来，把他用铁链锁了去当苦力，到那儿就着玉米面包和豆子再去喝。去啊，布兰农太太。”

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“如果他明天还来，我会这样做的。但你不许动那只箱子，它不再是那个寄生虫的了。”

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“我了解寄生虫，但布朗特绝不是寄生虫。”比夫说，“我自己——我说不清，但我不是小偷。”

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比夫平静地把箱子放到门外的楼梯上。房间里的空气不像楼下那么污浊湿热，他决定待一会儿，用凉水洗把脸再下楼。

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“我早就告诉过你，如果你今晚不把那个家伙彻底解决掉，看我怎么治他。白天，他在后面打瞌睡；晚上，你又好吃好喝地伺候他。现在都一个星期了，他一分钱没交过。他的胡言乱语，还有随身带的这些东西，会搅了我们的好买卖。”

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“你不了解人，也不懂什么叫真正的买卖。”比夫说，“十二天以前，这个可疑的家伙第一次到这里来，他是镇上的陌生人。第一个星期，他就给我们带来了二十块钱的买卖，至少二十块钱。”

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“从那以后，他就一直赊账。”爱丽丝说，“赊了五天账，还喝得烂醉，这对我们的买卖不好。而且，他不过是个流浪汉加怪物。”

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“我喜欢怪物。”比夫说。

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“我觉得也是这样！我就是觉得，你肯定是这样，布兰农先生——因为你自己就是个怪物。”

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他摩挲着青乎乎的下巴，不理她。在婚后的头十五年中，他们只是称呼彼此比夫和爱丽丝。然后，在一次吵架时，他们开始称呼对方为先生或太太，从那之后，便再也没能改回去。

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“我警告你，我明天下楼的时候，最好不要让我看见他。”

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比夫走进浴室，洗完脸，决定花点时间刮刮胡子。他的胡子又黑又密，好像已经三天没刮似的。他站在镜子前面，若有所思地摩挲着下巴。他很后悔跟爱丽丝说话。跟她在一起，最好保持沉默。跟这个女人在一起，总会让他变得自己都不认识自己了，会让他变得跟她一样强硬、渺小和普通。比夫眼神冰冷，直愣愣的，眼皮玩世不恭地耷拉着，把眼睛遮住了一半。他那只粗糙的小拇指上，戴了一枚女人的婚戒。身后的门开着，他从镜子里看见爱丽丝躺在了床上。

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“听着。”他说，“你的问题是，你没有一点真正的善心。我认识的女人当中，只有一个人有我说的这种善心。”

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“嗯，在我眼里，你干的那些事，换了这个世界上任何男人，都不会觉得光荣。在我眼里，你——”

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“或者，我说的也许是好奇心。周围有什么重要的事情，你根本不看，也不关心。你从来不观察，不思考，也不想弄明白任何事情。也许，这就是我和你之间最大的差别。”

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爱丽丝几乎又睡着了。他冷漠地从镜子里望着她。她身上没有什么特别的地方能够牢牢吸引住他的注意力。他的目光从她淡褐色的头发滑到被子下面那双脚的粗短轮廓，从她柔和的面部曲线滑到她浑圆的屁股和大腿。她不在面前时，他想不起她身上有什么特点，在他脑子里，她只是个完整的人而已。

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“你从来就不知道欣赏一幕奇景是怎么回事。”他说。

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她的声音很疲惫：“楼下的那个家伙就是一幕奇景，好吧，还是个马戏团。但是，我已经受够他了。”

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“见鬼，那个男人对我来说什么也不是，他既不是我的亲戚，也不是我的老伙计。但是，一个人留意了许多细节，然后突然真相大白，你根本就不懂这是种什么感觉。”他打开热水，立刻开始刮胡子。

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五月十五日的早晨，是的，就在那天早晨，杰克·布朗特走了进来。比夫立刻就注意到了他，密切地注视着他。这个男人个头不高，肩膀宽厚，像房梁一样，有撇小胡子，参差不齐，下嘴唇看上去像被黄蜂蜇了一样。这个家伙，身上有很多地方似乎都不太协调。他的脑袋很大，形状也好看，脖子却又软又细，像个小男孩。胡子看上去很假，好像是为了化装舞会临时粘上去的，如果说话太快，那胡子像是随时都要掉下来。这让他看上去像是已近中年。但他的面容却非常年轻，额头饱满平滑，眼睛瞪得很大。他的一双手硕大无比，沾满污渍，满是老茧，穿着一身廉价的白色亚麻布西装。这个男人身上有一种特别滑稽的味道，但同时，还有一种让你笑不出来的感觉。

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他点了一品脱酒，半小时便喝了个精光，然后坐在一个雅座里，吃着大份的鸡肉晚餐。后来，他看书，喝啤酒。这只是开头。尽管比夫非常密切地关注着布朗特，但他怎么也没想到后面会发生疯狂的事情。他从来没见过哪个男人能够在十二天里变化那么大，从来没见过哪个男人能喝这么多酒，烂醉那么长时间。

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比夫用大拇指把鼻尖往上推，用剃须刀刮着上唇的胡须。刮完后，他的脸看上去清爽了一些。爱丽丝睡着了，他穿过卧室，向楼下走去。

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手提箱很沉。他把箱子提到餐馆前面，放到收银机后面，就是每天晚上他站着的地方。他有条不紊地扫视了一下四周。有几个顾客已经走了，房间里宽松了很多，但布局还是老样子。那个聋哑人依然在中间那张桌子前独自喝咖啡，那个酒鬼还在继续说话，说话的对象并不是周围哪个人，实际上也没人在听他说话。那天晚上，他来到餐馆时，穿着一套蓝色工装，并没有穿先前那十二天里一直穿着的那件脏兮兮的亚麻布西装。他的袜子不见踪影，脚踝布满抓痕，还粘着一块块已经干掉的泥巴。

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比夫很警觉地听着他独白的只言片语。这个家伙似乎又在谈论某种奇怪的政治了。昨天晚上，他一直在谈论自己去过的地方，比如得克萨斯州、俄克拉荷马州，还有北卡罗来纳州和南卡罗来纳州。有一次，他还谈到妓院，后来，他的笑话实在太露骨，别人便用啤酒堵上了他的嘴。然而，大多数时候，没有人听得懂他到底在说什么。他只是一直说，一直说，一直说。那些词就像瀑布一样，从他的喉咙里倾泻而出。关键是，他说话的口音变来变去，用词种类也经常变。有时候，他说话像个棉纺工；有时候，又像个教授。他会用特别长的词，又会在语法上犯错误。很难判断他的家人是什么样子，或者他是哪个地方的人。他总是在变。比夫若有所思地抚弄着鼻尖，毫无头绪。但只要动动脑子，就一定会找到关联。的确，这个男人的脑子非常好用，但他会从一件事跳到另一件事，背后毫无逻辑可言。

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他像一个被某种东西弄得偏离轨道的人。

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比夫靠在柜台上，开始仔细地看晚报。大标题说，市议员委员会经过历时四个月的深思熟虑，终于做出决议：地方预算无法支付在镇上某个危险路口安装红绿灯的费用。左边一栏报道的是东方的战争。这两条新闻，比夫都看得非常仔细。他的眼睛读着报纸，其他的感官则随时警惕着周围各种各样的动静。看完这些文章，他仍然低头盯着报纸，半闭着眼睛。他感到紧张。这个家伙是个问题，天亮之前，必须得想办法把他打发掉。而且，他莫名感觉到今晚要发生一件大事。这个家伙不会永远这样继续下去。

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比夫感觉有人正站在门口，他立刻抬起眼皮。一个十二岁上下、瘦高个、头发淡黄的女孩，正站在门口朝里张望。她穿着卡其布短裤、蓝衬衫、网球鞋，一眼看去像个男孩。比夫看见她，把报纸推到一边，微笑地望着她走上前来。

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“你好，米克，去女童子军团了吗？”

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“没有，”她说，“我不是她们一伙的。”

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他用眼角的余光注意到，那个醉鬼正在用拳头砸桌子，并且转身背对着刚才的那些谈话对象。比夫开口跟眼前的孩子说话时，声音有点粗暴。

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“你家里人知道你后半夜还出来吗？”

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“不要紧，今晚我们那个地方的一帮孩子会在外面玩到很晚。”

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他从来没见她跟同龄人来过这儿。几年前，她总是跟在她哥哥身后。凯利家人口很多。后来，她用小推车推着两个淌着鼻涕的娃娃到这儿来。但如果她不用照顾孩子，或不想跟在哥哥姐姐们后面，她就会自己来。现在，这个孩子站在那里，似乎拿不定主意到底想要什么。她不停地用手掌把湿乎乎且有点发白的头发向后拢。

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“我想要一包香烟，请给我最便宜的那种。”

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比夫想说话，犹豫了一下，把手伸进柜台。米克拿出一块手绢，开始解角上打的结，她的钱装在里面。她猛地拽了一下结扣，里面的零钱哗啦掉到了地上，滚到布朗特旁边。布朗特正站在那里自言自语，他迷迷糊糊地盯着那几枚硬币看了一会儿，还没等那个孩子追过来，他便专注地蹲下身子，把钱捡了起来。他步履沉重地走到柜台前，站住，在手心里晃动着那两枚一分、一枚五分和一枚一角的硬币。

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“现在的香烟卖一毛七了吗？”

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比夫等待着。米克看看这个，又看看那个。醉鬼把几枚硬币摞在柜台上，还用两只脏兮兮的大手挡着这一小堆钱。他又慢慢拿起一枚一分的硬币，一下把它弹到地上。

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“五厘给那些种烟草的穷白人，五厘给那些卷烟的傻瓜们。”他说，“一分给你，比夫。”然后，他努力集中视线，好看清五分和一角硬币上的铭文。他用手指按住这两枚硬币，画着圆圈，最后又把硬币推开。“这算是向自由略表敬意，向民主和专政表示敬意，向自由和劫掠表示敬意。”

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比夫不动声色地捡起钱，当啷扔进收银机。米克看着这一切，好像并不急着要走的样子。她久久地望着醉鬼，然后又将目光挪到屋子中间，看到哑巴一个人坐在桌前。过了一会儿，布朗特也不时朝同一个方向瞥一眼。哑巴默默地坐在那里，喝着一杯啤酒，用一根用过的火柴棒在桌子上无所事事地画着什么。

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杰克·布朗特首先开了腔：“这很滑稽，但在过去的三四天夜里，我做梦时都看见了那个家伙，他就是不肯放过我。如果你注意一下的话，他好像从来没有说过话。”

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比夫很少跟顾客谈论别的顾客。“是的，没有。”他含糊作答。

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“很滑稽。”

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米克把重心从一只脚挪到另一只脚，然后把那包香烟塞进短裤口袋。“如果你了解他，就不会觉得滑稽了。”她说，“辛格先生跟我们住在一起，他的房间就在我们家里。”

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“是吗？”比夫问道，“我敢说，这个我不知道。”

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米克朝门口走去，头也不回地答道：“当然。他跟我们已经住了三个月啦。”

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比夫放下衬衫袖子，又仔细地把袖子挽起来。他的目光一直盯着米克，看着她走出餐馆。即便米克已经离开了好几分钟，他仍然摸索着衬衫袖子，盯着空荡荡的门口。然后，他把双臂抱在胸前，又转头看着醉鬼。

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布朗特重重地靠在柜台上，棕色的眼睛看上去湿乎乎的，睁得很大，带着一种茫然的神色。他很久没洗过澡了，身上有股山羊的臭味，汗乎乎的脖子上有泥点，脸上有油渍。他的嘴唇又厚又红，棕色头发盖在额头上。他的工装裤太短了，他总是不停地把裤裆往下拽。

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“老兄，你该明白，”比夫终于说道，“你不能这个样子到处晃。唉，你居然没有因为流浪被逮起来，真让人吃惊。你该醒醒了，你需要洗个澡，头发也得理理。老天！你根本不应该待在人类中间。”

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布朗特满面怒容，咬着下嘴唇。

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“好吧，别生气，别发火。按我说的做。到后面厨房，让那个黑人男孩给你烧一大锅热水，再让威利[1]给你条毛巾，多给你点肥皂，好好洗洗。然后，吃点牛奶吐司，打开你的手提箱，换上件干净衬衫，再找条合适的裤子。明天，你就可以开始做想做的事，干想干的活儿，重新回到正轨上。”

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“你知道你能做点什么，”布朗特醉醺醺地说，“你可以只——”

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“好吧，”比夫平静地说，“不，不行。现在，你要规矩一点。”

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比夫走到柜台后边，接了两杯鲜啤酒回来。醉鬼笨拙地接过一杯，啤酒顺着他的两只手洒下来，弄脏了柜台。比夫啜着自己那杯啤酒，细细品味。他半闭着眼睛，目不转睛地盯着布朗特。尽管第一眼看到布朗特时，你会觉得他是个怪物，但他并非怪物。他身上似乎有什么地方是畸形的，但当你靠近了细看，他身上的每个部位都很正常，没有什么异样。因此，他之所以与众不同，如果不是身体上的原因，那也许就是脑子的原因。他这个人，像是曾经蹲过监狱，或者上过哈佛，或者在南美跟外国人混了很长时间。他好像去过别人不可能去的地方，或者做过别人不可能做的事情。

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比夫歪了一下头，说：“你是哪儿的人？”

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“哪儿的人也不是。”

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“好吧，你总得有个出生的地方吧。北卡罗来纳、田纳西、阿拉巴马，总得有个地方。”

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布朗特眼神恍惚，飘忽不定。“卡罗来纳州。”他说。

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“看得出来，你去过不少地方。”比夫小心翼翼地暗示道。

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但醉鬼并没有听见。他从柜台转过身，盯着外面漆黑空荡的大街。过了一会儿，他拖拖拉拉、摇摇晃晃地朝门口走去。

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“再会。”[2]他回头喊道。

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又剩下比夫一个人，他快速而仔细地查看了一遍餐馆。已经过了子夜一点，店里只剩下四五个顾客。哑巴依然独自坐在中间的桌子前。比夫悠闲地盯着他，晃着杯底残留的几滴啤酒。然后，他慢慢地咽下最后一口酒，走回柜台上摊开的报纸前。

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这次，他无法集中注意力去看面前的那些文字。他想起米克。他不知道自己该不该把烟卖给她，也不知道吸烟是不是真的对孩子有害。他想起米克眯着眼睛用手掌把刘海儿往后拢的样子，想起她像男孩一样沙哑的声音，想起她总是把卡其布短裤向上提的习惯。还有，她大摇大摆的样子就像电影里的牛仔一样。他的心头涌上一股温柔的感觉，让他觉得很不安。

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比夫心神不宁，转头去看辛格。哑巴坐在那里，双手插在口袋里，面前那杯喝了一半的啤酒早已温热浑浊了。他想在辛格离开之前请他喝点威士忌。他跟爱丽丝说的话没错——他的确很喜欢怪物。对于病人和残疾人，他有种特别友善的感觉。无论什么时候，如果有兔唇或患肺结核的人走进餐馆，他都会请他们喝杯啤酒。如果顾客是个驼背，或者是个重度残疾人，他便会请他们喝威士忌。曾经有个家伙在一次锅炉爆炸中炸飞了下体和左腿，无论他什么时候来镇上，都有一品脱免费威士忌在这里等着他。如果辛格喜欢喝酒，那么无论什么时候，都可以用半价买到酒。比夫暗中点点头。然后，他把报纸整齐地叠好，和其他几样杂物一起塞到柜台下面。等到周末，他就会把这些东西统统搬到厨房后面的储藏室去。过去二十一年的晚报都非常完整地收藏在那里，一张都不缺。

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两点钟，布朗特又回到餐馆。这次，他带了一个高个子黑人进来，黑人手里拎着一个黑包。这个醉鬼想让黑人到柜台前喝一杯，但黑人一弄明白自己被领进餐馆的原因，就立马离开了。比夫认出来，这人是镇上的黑人医生，自他记事起，这个黑人便在镇上行医了。他跟后厨的年轻人威利还有点什么关系。比夫看见，黑人在离开之前，用一种颤抖着仇恨的目光狠狠瞪了布朗特一眼。

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酒鬼只是站着不动。

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“你难道不知道，白人喝酒的地方，不能带黑鬼进来吗？”有人问他。

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比夫在远处望着这一切。布朗特勃然大怒，现在更能看出他醉得有多厉害了。

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“我自己也有黑人血统。”他挑衅似的大叫起来。

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比夫警觉地望着他，屋子里一片寂静。他的大鼻孔张开着，翻着白眼珠，看上去好像说的是实话。

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“我有黑人、意大利人、东欧人还有中国人的血统，都有。”

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有人大笑起来。

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“我还有荷兰人、土耳其人、日本人、美国人的血统。”他绕着哑巴喝咖啡的桌子歪歪斜斜地转着，声音高昂但嘶哑，“我是知道的那个人，我是陌生土地上的陌生人。”[3]

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“安静。”比夫对他说道。

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布朗特对店里所有人都不在意，唯有哑巴除外。两人彼此对视着，哑巴的眼神冷淡、柔和，像猫的眼睛，似乎他的整个身体都在倾听。醉鬼正处于一种癫狂状态。

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“这个镇上，你是唯一能听懂我说话的人。”布朗特说，“两天以来，我一直在心里跟你说话，因为我知道，你能明白我想说什么。”

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有个雅座里的人大笑起来，因为这个不知情的醉鬼居然挑了个聋哑人，想跟人家聊天。比夫不时飞快地扫一眼两人，专心听着。

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布朗特在桌前坐下，朝辛格倾过身去：“有知道的人，也有不知道的人。每一万个人当中，只有一个知道的人。所有的时代，都有这样的奇迹——数百万人知道得那么多，却唯独不知道这一点。正如十五世纪，人人都觉得地球是平的，只有哥伦布和其他几个人知道真理。但这又不一样，因为发现地球是圆的，这需要天赋。尽管这个真理显而易见，但纵观历史，人们偏偏不知道，这真是个奇迹。你懂的。”

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比夫将胳膊肘支在柜台上，好奇地望着布朗特。“知道什么？”他问道。

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“别听他的。”布朗特说，“别管那个扁平足、青下巴、爱打听事儿的杂种。你瞧，我们这些知道的人碰到一起，是件大事，这种概率非常小。有时候，我们碰见了，却都不会认为对方就是知道的那个人，这很糟糕。我多次经历过这样的事情。但是，你瞧，我们这样的人少之又少。”

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“共济会的人？”比夫问道。

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“你闭嘴！不然我会把你的胳膊拧下来，再用它把你狠揍一顿。”布朗特大声嚷嚷着。他弓起身子，靠得离哑巴更近些，压低声音，醉醺醺地窃窃私语：“为什么？为什么这种无知的奇迹一直持续着？原因只有一个：这是个阴谋，一个狡诈的、巨大的阴谋，愚民政策。”

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这个酒鬼想要跟一个哑巴谈话，雅座里的那几个男人一直在嘲笑他，只有比夫一副认真的模样。他想搞清楚，这个哑巴是否真听懂了酒鬼的话。这个家伙不断地点头，脸上一副沉思的样子。他只是反应迟缓，仅此而已。布朗特一边说着知道不知道的话题，一边开了几个玩笑。等玩笑说完好几秒钟之后，哑巴这才绽开笑容。等谈话重归沉闷的时候，他的脸上却依然挂着笑容，迟迟没有消失。这个家伙实在神秘莫测。人们觉得，自己甚至还没等意识到他身上到底有什么地方与众不同时，就已经在盯着他看了。他的眼神让人觉得，他听到的东西是别人都未曾听说过的，他知道的事情也是别人都未曾想到过的。他似乎不像凡人。

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杰克·布朗特几乎趴在了桌子上，话语滔滔不绝，犹如内心的堤坝决堤了一样。比夫什么也听不懂了。因为醉酒，布朗特的舌头发沉，语速极快，声音都搅在了一起。比夫忍不住想，如果爱丽丝把他赶出去，他能去哪儿。早晨，爱丽丝就会把他赶出去的，她是这样说的。

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比夫疲惫地打了个哈欠，用手指拍着张开的嘴巴，一直拍到下巴松弛下来。马上就三点钟了，无论白天还是夜里，这都是最让人倦怠的时候。

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哑巴非常耐心，他一直听着布朗特说话，听了将近一个小时。这会儿，他开始偶尔看看表。布朗特并没有注意到这一点，继续高谈阔论。最后他停了下来，卷了一支烟。哑巴则朝钟表的方向点点头，以特有的含蓄方式笑了笑，从桌前站了起来，两只手照旧插在口袋里，快步走了出去。

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布朗特醉得厉害，根本不明白发生了什么事，他甚至没有注意到这个事实：哑巴没有做出任何回答。他张着大嘴，开始环顾屋子，眼睛骨碌碌地转着，整个人昏昏沉沉。一条红色血管在他的额头上突起来，他开始用拳头愤怒地猛砸桌子。现在，不能再任他撒酒疯了。

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“过来。”比夫和善地说，“你朋友已经走了。”

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这个家伙还在寻找着辛格。以前，他似乎从来没有这么烂醉如泥过。他的样子很难看。

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“我这里有东西给你，还想跟你说几句话。”比夫连哄带骗。

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布朗特从桌前站起身，摇摇晃晃地大步朝街上走去。

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比夫靠在墙上。进来，出去——进来，出去。毕竟，这不关他的事。屋子里空了，非常安静。这几分钟，时间都停滞了。他疲惫地任由自己的脑袋向前垂下。屋子似乎慢慢凝固起来。柜台、人脸、雅座、桌子、角落里的收音机、天花板上旋转的吊扇，一切似乎都变得非常模糊，静止不动了。

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他一定打瞌睡了。一只手晃动着他的胳膊肘，他慢慢恢复了神志，抬起头来，看看这人想干什么。站在他面前的，是厨房里干活儿的黑人男孩威利，他戴着帽子，穿着长长的白围裙。威利结结巴巴，因为要说的话让他太兴奋了。

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“他用拳头砸——砸——砸这里的砖——砖——砖墙。”

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“怎么回事？”

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“就在那边小胡同里，离这里有两户——户——户人家。”

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比夫挺起缩着的肩膀，整了整领带。“什么？”

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“他们要把他带到这里来，现在随时都可能闯进来——”

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“威利，”比夫耐心地说，“从头说，不然我搞不明白。”

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“就是在这里的那个矮个子白人，长着胡——胡——胡子的。”

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“布朗特先生，是的。”

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“嗯，怎么开始的，我没见着。我当时正站在后门那里，突然听见一阵骚动，听上去好像有人在胡同里打架打得厉害。所以，我跑——跑——跑过去看。在这里的那个白人完全疯了，他用头撞这面砖墙，还用拳头打，一边骂一边打。我以前从来没见过这样打架的白人，打的就是这面墙。这样下去，他很快就会把头撞破的。两个白人男人听见吵闹声，就走过去，在一边看——”

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“然后呢？”

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“嗯，你知道这里的那个哑巴先生——手总是插在口袋里的——这里那个——”

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“辛格先生。”

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“他走过来，就那么站在那里，看着四周，想知道到底是怎么回事。布——布——布朗特先生一看见他，就开始又说又喊，然后突然倒在了地上。也许，他真的把头撞破了。一个警——警——警察过来了，有人报了警，说布朗特先生在这里。”

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比夫低下头，琢磨着刚才听到的内容，总算理出一个清晰的思路。他搓了搓鼻子，想了一会儿。

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“他们随时都会闯进来。”威利走到门口，朝街上张望着，“瞧，他们来了，他们拖着他。”

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十几个围观者，还有一个警察，他们都想挤进餐馆里。外面，还有好几个妓女站在那里，从前窗向里张望。每当有意外发生时，也不知道从哪里冒出这么多人，都争着往里挤，这真是滑稽。

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“别再制造不必要的麻烦了，没什么好处。”比夫说着，看了一眼正架着醉鬼的那个警察，“其他人还是出去吧。”

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警察把酒鬼放到椅子上，把众人推搡回大街上，然后转过头，对比夫说：“有人说，他在这里跟你住。”

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“不是，但他不妨就待在这里吧。”比夫说。

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“需要我把他带走吗？”

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比夫考虑了一下。“今晚他不会再惹麻烦了。当然，我也负不起这个责任，但是，我觉得待在这里可以让他安静下来。”

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“下班前我会再来看看。”

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店里只剩下比夫、辛格和杰克·布朗特三个人了。从醉鬼被带进来后，比夫这才得空好好看看他。布朗特的下巴似乎伤得非常严重，他瘫倒在桌子上，一只大手捂着嘴巴，前后摇晃着，头上有道深长的伤口，鲜血从太阳穴处流下来。他的指关节皮开肉绽，浑身肮脏不堪，像是刚从下水道里被人抓着后脖颈拖出来似的。他大口大口地呕吐着，已经彻底崩溃了。哑巴坐在桌子对面，用灰色眼睛望着这一切。

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后来，比夫看到布朗特并没有伤到下巴，他用手捂住嘴巴，是因为他的嘴唇在哆嗦。泪珠从他满是污垢的脸上滚落下来，他不时瞥一眼比夫和辛格，居然被他们瞧见了自己在哭，这让他非常生气。这个场景令人难堪。比夫冲哑巴耸了耸肩膀，抬起眉毛，做了个“该怎么办”的表情。辛格歪了一下脑袋。

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比夫不知所措。他若有所思，不知道该如何应对眼前的状况。他正努力想着对策，哑巴突然翻过菜单，开始在上面写字：

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如果你没有地方让他去，他可以跟我回家。先给他喝点汤和咖啡，对他有好处。

121
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比夫松了口气，使劲点点头。

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他把前一晚的三盘特价饭菜、两碗汤，还有咖啡和甜点摆在桌上。然而，布朗特不肯吃，也不肯把手从嘴上拿开，好像嘴唇是他身上的什么秘密部位绝不能暴露一样。他的呼吸中带着断断续续的抽泣，宽大的肩膀紧张地抖动着。辛格挨个指了指桌上的饭菜，但布朗特只是坐在那里，手捂着嘴巴，摇摇头。

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比夫说得清晰而又缓慢，好让哑巴看清口形。“太紧张了——”他以聊天的口吻说道。

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汤里的热气不断飘到布朗特的脸上，过了一会儿，他颤抖着伸手去拿勺子。他喝了汤，吃了些甜点，厚嘴唇还在哆嗦着，头低低地垂到盘子上。

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比夫注意到了这一点。他想，几乎每个人身上都有一个一直精心守护的特殊部位。在哑巴身上，是他的双手。那个叫米克的孩子用手拉扯上衣的前襟，是为了不让衣服摩擦到胸前刚刚开始发育的柔嫩乳头。在爱丽丝那里，是她的头发，如果他头上抹了油，她绝对不允许他和自己同床。那么，他自己呢？

126
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比夫缓缓转动着小指上的戒指。无论如何，他知道什么东西是自己不再精心守护的了。不了，再也不了。他眉头紧蹙，插在口袋里的一只手神经质地去摸生殖器。他开始用口哨吹起一支歌，然后从桌前站了起来。然而，能在别人身上发现这一点，很有意思。

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他们把布朗特扶起来。他很虚弱，东倒西歪。他不再哭了，但似乎还在思考着某些令他感到羞愧和不快的事情，他任由别人领着自己向前走。比夫从柜台后面拿出那只手提箱，跟哑巴解释了一下。对辛格而言，似乎对什么都已经见怪不怪了。

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比夫跟他们一起走到门口。“振作起来，别干犯法的事。”他对布朗特说。

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漆黑的夜空开始发亮，随着新的清晨的到来，天空变成了深蓝色。天上只剩下几颗闪着微光的银白色星星。大街上空空荡荡，一片寂静，凉意袭人。辛格左手提着箱子，空出右手，扶着布朗特。他点头向比夫道别，跟布朗特一起，沿着人行道离开了。比夫站在那里望着他俩。他俩走出了半个街区，只有背影还在蓝色夜幕中依稀可辨——哑巴身板笔直、结实，布朗特肩膀宽厚，靠在哑巴身上，走得跌跌撞撞。他俩终于消失在视野中。比夫又等了一会儿，仔细看了看天空。天空的浩瀚深邃令他着迷和压抑。他搓了搓额头，回到灯火通明的餐馆。

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他站在收银机后面，努力回想着夜里发生的一切，脸上一紧，变得冷酷起来。他觉得要向自己解释一些事情。他回顾了整个事件的烦琐细节，却仍然迷惑不解。

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门开开合合好几次，有客人陆续走进来了。夜晚结束了。威利把一些椅子堆在桌子上，在拖地板。他马上要下班回家了，一直哼着歌。威利很懒，在厨房里，他总是会停下手头的活儿，拿出随身携带的口琴，吹上一会儿。这会儿，他正昏昏欲睡地一下下地拖着地，一直哼着那首孤独的黑人歌曲。

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店里并没有多少客人——这个时候，熬夜的男人们和刚睡醒准备投入新一天工作的男人们碰到了一起。睡眼蒙眬的女招待端上来的既有啤酒，又有咖啡。没有嘈杂的声音，也没人聊天，因为每个人似乎都很孤单。刚醒过来的人和正准备结束漫长一夜的人，他们之间互不信任，让大家都有一种疏离感。

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黎明时分，大街对面的银行大楼显得非常苍白。慢慢地，白色砖墙逐渐清晰起来。旭日开始照亮大街。比夫最后检查了一遍屋子，上楼去了。

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他转动门把手进门的时候，弄出了很大动静，这样就可以把爱丽丝吵醒了。“老天，”他说，“这一夜真够受的！”

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爱丽丝慢慢醒过来，躺在凌乱的床上，像只闷闷不乐的猫咪，伸着懒腰。在清新、炎热的晨光照耀下的房间里死气沉沉，一双皱巴巴的丝袜松松垮垮地挂在百叶窗的绳子上。

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“那个傻瓜酒鬼还在楼下待着吗？”她质问道。

137
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比夫脱下衬衫，仔细瞧了瞧领子，看看是不是干净，明天能不能接着穿。“自己下去看看吧。早跟你说过，你要把他踢出去，没人能拦着。”

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爱丽丝睡眼蒙眬，伸手下去，从床边的地板上拿起一本《圣经》、一份单面空白的菜单，还有一本主日学校的书。她哗哗地翻动《圣经》，找到一篇开始念起来，声音很大，十分专注。今天是周日，她正在准备每周一次的课程，学生是教堂初中部的那些男孩子。“耶稣行走在加利利海边，看见西门和兄弟安德鲁，他们正在海里撒网，因为他们是渔民。耶稣对他们说：‘来跟从我，我要叫你们得人如得鱼一样。’他们立刻舍了网，跟从他。”

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比夫走进浴室洗澡。爱丽丝大声读着，在浴室中听来成了持续柔和的低语。他侧耳倾听。“……次日早晨，天未亮的时候，耶稣起来，到旷野地方去，在那里祷告。西门和其他信众出去找他。他们找到耶稣时，对他说：‘众人都在找你。’”

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她读完了。比夫让这些话在他脑海里温柔地旋绕着。他极力把爱丽丝在读的这些真实字词的声音与对他说话时的声音区分开。他想记起当自己还是孩子时，母亲经常读的那篇经文。他生出怀旧之情，他低头望着小指上的婚戒，这戒指原本是母亲的。他又一次忍不住想，如果母亲知道他放弃了教堂和宗教，会怎么想？

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“今天的课讲的是收徒的故事。”爱丽丝在备课过程中自言自语，“经文是‘众人都在找你’。”

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比夫猛地一下从思绪中清醒了，将水龙头拧到最大。他脱下内衣，开始洗澡。一直以来，他的上半身总是洗得一丝不苟。每天早晨，他在胸脯、胳膊、脖子、脚上都抹上肥皂——在这个季节，他每天进到浴缸里洗两次澡，清洗全身。

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比夫站在床边，不耐烦地等着爱丽丝起床。他从窗户里看到，今天将是个风平浪静、酷热难耐的日子。爱丽丝已经读完了那一课，尽管知道他在等着，她还是懒洋洋地横躺在床上。比夫心头悄然升起一股怒火。他嘲讽地轻笑了一声，然后挖苦道：“如果你喜欢，我可以坐下看会儿报纸，但我希望你能让我现在睡一觉。”

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爱丽丝开始穿衣服，比夫整理床铺。他娴熟地来回颠倒着床单，把上面一层放到下面，把它们翻过来，又首尾调了顺序。床铺整理完毕，他一直等到爱丽丝离开了房间，这才脱掉裤子，钻进被窝。他的脚从被子底下凸出来，胸膛上的粗硬胸毛在枕头的衬托之下，显得更黑了。他很高兴没有跟爱丽丝说醉鬼身上发生的事。他很想找个人说说这件事，如果能大声地把这些事情说出来，他或许就可以发现让他感到困惑的原因。那个可怜的杂种说啊说啊，却没人明白他说的是什么，很可能他自己也不明白。他就那样一直围着那个聋哑人转，单单选中他，而且拼命向他倾诉一切。

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为什么？

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因为对有些人而言，他们会在某个时刻放弃一切个人的东西，趁这东西发酵、放毒之前——把它扔给某个人或某种想法。他们必须得这样做。对某些人而言，这就是他们内心的想法——经文是“所有人都在找你”。也许，这就是为什么——也许——他是个中国人，那个家伙曾经说过，他还是黑人、意大利人、犹太人。如果他对此坚信不疑，那也许的确如此。他所说的自己是什么人、什么事——

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比夫伸出两条胳膊，把两只光脚交叉起来。在晨光中，他的脸更显苍老了，干瘪的眼皮紧闭着，两颊和下巴上的胡须浓密而坚硬。慢慢地，他的嘴巴放松下来。刺眼的黄色阳光从窗户里照进来，房间里闷热而明亮。比夫疲倦地翻过身，用手遮住眼睛。他不是什么大人物，不过是巴塞洛缪，是老比夫，有两只拳头、一张快嘴，是布兰农先生，孤零零一个人。

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On a black, sultry night in early summer Biff Brannon stood behind the cash register of the New York Café.It was twelve o’clock.Outside the street lights had already been turned off, so that the light from the café　made a sharp, yellow rectangle on the sidewalk.The street was deserted, but inside the café　there were half a dozen customers drinking beer or Santa Lucia wine or whiskey.Biff waited stolidly, his elbow resting on the counter and his thumb mashing the tip of his long nose.His eyes were intent.He watched especially a short, squat man in overalls who had become drunk and boisterous.Now and then his gaze passed on to the mute who sat by himself at one of the middle tables, or to others of the customers before the counter.But he always turned back to the drunk in overalls.The hour grew later and Biff continued to wait silently behind the counter.Then at last he gave the restaurant a final survey and went toward the door at the back which led upstairs.

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Quietly he entered the room at the top of the stairs. It was dark inside and he walked with caution.After he had gone a few paces his toe struck something hard and he reached down and felt for the handle of a suitcase on the floor.He had only been in the room a few seconds and was about to leave when the light was turned on.

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Alice sat up in the rumpled bed and looked at him.“What you doing with that suitcase?”she asked.“Can’t you get rid of that lunatic without giving him back what he’s already drunk up?”

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“Wake up and go down yourself. Call the cop and let him get soused on the chain gang with cornbread and peas.Go to it, Misses Brannon.”

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“I will all right if he’s down there tomorrow. But you leave that bag alone.It don’t belong to that sponger any more.”

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“I know spongers, and Blount’s not one，”Biff said.“Myself—I don’t know so well. But I’m not that kind of a thief.”

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Calmly Biff put down the suitcase on the steps outside. The air was not so stale and sultry in the room as it was downstairs.He decided to stay for a short while and douse his face with cold water before going back.

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“I told you already what I’ll do if you don’t get rid of that fellow for good tonight. In the daytime he takes them naps at the back, and then at night you feed him dinners and beer.For a week now he hasn’t paid one cent.And all his wild talking and carrying-on will ruin any decent trade.”

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“You don’t know people and you don’t know real business，”Biff said.“The fellow in question first came in here twelve days ago and he was a stranger in the town. The first week he gave us twenty dollars’worth of trade.Twenty at the minimum.”

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“And since then on credit，”Alice said. Five days on credit, and so drunk it’s a disgrace to the business.And besides, he’s nothing but a bum and a freak.”

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“I like freaks，”Biff said.

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“I reckon you do！I just reckon you certainly ought to, Mister Brannon—being as you’re one yourself.”

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He rubbed his bluish chin and paid her no attention. For the first fifteen years of their married life they had called each other just plain Biff and Alice.Then in one of their quarrels they had begun calling each other Mister and Misses, and since then they had never made it up enough to change it.

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“I’m just warning you he’d better not be there when I come down tomorrow.”

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Biff went into the bathroom, and after he had bathed his face he decided that he would have time for a shave. His beard was black and heavy as though it had grown for three days.He stood before the mirror and rubbed his cheek meditatively.He was sorry he had talked to Alice.With her, silence was better.Being around that woman always made him different from his real self.It made him tough and small and common as she was.Biff’s eyes were cold and staring, half-concealed by the cynical droop of his eyelids.On the fifth finger of his calloused hand there was a woman’s wedding ring.The door was open behind him, and in the mirror he could see Alice lying in the bed.

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“Listen，”he said.“The trouble with you is that you don’t have any real kindness. Not but one woman I’ve ever known had this real kindness I’m talking about.”

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“Well, I’ve known you to do things no man in this world would be proud of. I’ve known you to—”

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“Or maybe it’s curiosity I mean. You don’t ever see or notice anything important that goes on.You never watch and think and try to figure anything out.Maybe that’s the biggest difference between you and me, after all.”

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Alice was almost asleep again, and through the mirror he watched her with detachment. There was no distinctive point about her on which he could fasten his attention, and his gaze glided from her pale brown hair to the stumpy outline of her feet beneath the cover.The soft curves of her face led to the roundness of her hips and thighs.When he was away from her there was no one feature that stood out in his mind and he remembered her as a complete, unbroken figure.

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“The enjoyment of a spectacle is something you have never known，”he said.

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Her voice was tired.“That fellow downstairs is a spectacle, all right, and a circus too. But I’m through putting up with him.”

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“Hell, the man don’t mean anything to me. He’s no relative or buddy of mine.But you don’t know what it is to store up a whole lot of details and then come upon something real.”He turned on the hot water and quickly began to shave.

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It was the morning of May　15，yes, that Jake Blount had come in. He had noticed him immediately and watched.The man was short, with heavy shoulders like beams.He had a small ragged mustache, and beneath this his lower lip looked as though it had been stung by a wasp.There were many things about the fellow that seemed contrary.His head was very large and well-shaped, but his neck was soft and slender as a boy’s.The mustache looked false, as if it had been stuck on for a costume party and would fall off if he talked too fast.It made him seem almost middle-aged, although his face with its high, smooth forehead and wide-open eyes was young.His hands were huge, stained, and calloused, and he was dressed in a cheap white-linen suit.There was something very funny about the man, yet at the same time another feeling would not let you laugh.

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He ordered a pint of liquor and drank it straight in half an hour. Then he sat at one of the booths and ate a big chicken dinner.Later he read a book and drank beer.That was the beginning.And although Biff had noticed Blount very carefully he would never have guessed about the crazy things that happened later.Never had he seen a man change so many times in twelve days.Never had he seen a fellow drink so much, stay drunk so long.

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Biff pushed up the end of his nose with his thumb and shaved his upper lip. He was finished and his face seemed cooler.Alice was asleep when he went through the bedroom on the way downstairs.

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The suitcase was heavy. He carried it to the front of the restaurant, behind the cash register, where he usually stood each evening.Methodically he glanced around the place.A few customers had left and the room was not so crowded, but the set-up was the same.The deaf-mute still drank coffee by himself at one of the middle tables.The drunk had not stopped talking.He was not addressing anyone around him in particular, nor was anyone listening.When he had come into the place that evening he wore those blue overalls instead of the filthy linen suit he had been wearing the twelve days.His socks were gone and his ankles were scratched and caked with mud.

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Alertly Biff picked up fragments of his monologue. The fellow seemed to be talking some queer kind of politics again.Last night he had been talking about places he had been—about Texas and Oklahoma and the Carolinas.Once he had got on the subject of cat-houses, and afterward his jokes got so raw he had to be hushed up with beer.But most of the time nobody was sure just what he was saying.Talk—talk—talk.The words came out of his throat like a cataract.And the thing was that the accent he used was always changing, the kinds of words he used.Sometimes he talked like a linthead and sometimes like a professor.He would use words a foot long and then slip up on his grammar.It was hard to tell what kind of folks he had or what part of the country he was from.He was always changing.Thoughtfully Biff fondled the tip of his nose.There was no connection.Yet connection usually went with brains.This man had a good mind, all right, but he went from one thing to another without any reason behind it at all.He was like a man thrown off his track by something.

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Biff leaned his weight on the counter and began to peruse the evening newspaper. The headlines told of a decision by the Board of Aldermen, after four months’deliberation, that the local budget could not afford traffic lights at certain dangerous intersections of the town.The left column reported on the war in the Orient.Biff read them both with equal attention.As his eyes followed the print the rest of his senses were on the alert to the various commotions that went on around him.When he had finished the articles he still stared down at the newspaper with his eyes half-closed.He felt nervous.The fellow was a problem, and before morning he would have to make some sort of settlement with him.Also, he felt without knowing why that something of importance would happen tonight.The fellow could not keep on forever.

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Biff sensed that someone was standing in the entrance and he raised his eyes quickly. A gangling, towheaded youngster, a girl of about twelve, stood looking in the doorway.She was dressed in khaki shorts, a blue shirt, and tennis shoes—so that at first glance she was like a very young boy.Biff pushed aside the paper when he saw her, and smiled when she came up to him.

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“Hello, Mick. Been to the Girl Scouts?”

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“No，”she said.“I don’t belong to them.”

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From the corner of his eye he noticed that the drunk slammed his fist down on a table and turned away from the men to whom he had been talking. Biff’s voice roughened as he spoke to the youngster before him.

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“Your folks know you’re out after midnight?”

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“It’s O. K.There’s a gang of kids playing out late on our block tonight.”

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He had never seen her come into the place with anyone her own age. Several years ago she had always tagged behind her older brother.The Kellys were a good-sized family in numbers.Later she would come in pulling a couple of snotty babies in a wagon.But if she wasn’t nursing or trying to keep up with the bigger ones, she was by herself.Now the kid stood there seeming not to be able to make up her mind what she wanted.She kept pushing back her damp, whitish hair with the palm of her hand.

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“I’d like a pack of cigarettes, please. The cheapest kind.”

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Biff started to speak, hesitated, and then reached his hand inside the counter. Mick brought out a handkerchief and began untying the knot in the corner where she kept her money.As she gave the knot a jerk the change clattered to the floor and rolled toward Blount, who stood muttering to himself.For a moment he stared in a daze at the coins, but before the kid could go after them he squatted down with concentration and picked up the money.He walked heavily to the counter and stood jiggling the two pennies, the nickel, and the dime in his palm.

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“Seventeen cents for cigarettes now?”

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Biff waited, and Mick looked from one of them to the other. The drunk stacked the money into a little pile on the counter, still protecting it with his big, dirty hand.Slowly he picked up one penny and flipped it down.

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“Five mills for the crackers who grew the weed and five for the dupes who rolled it，”he said.“A cent for you, Biff.”Then he tried to focus his eyes so that he could read the mottoes on the nickel and dime. He kept fingering the two coins and moving them around in a circle.At last he pushed them away.“And that’s a humble homage to liberty.To democracy and tyranny.To freedom and piracy.”

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Calmly Biff picked up the money and rang it into the till. Mick looked as though she wanted to hang around awhile.She took in the drunk with one long gaze, and then she turned her eyes to the middle of the room where the mute sat at his table alone.After a moment Blount also glanced now and then in the same direction.The mute sat silently over his glass of beer, idly drawing on the table with the end of a burnt matchstick.

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Jake Blount was the first to speak.“It’s funny, but I been seeing that fellow in my sleep for the past three or four nights. He won’t leave me alone.If you ever noticed, he never seems to say anything.”

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It was seldom that Biff ever discussed one customer with another.“No, he don’t，”he answered noncommittally.

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“It’s funny.”

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Mick shifted her weight from one foot to the other and fitted the package of cigarettes into the pocket of her shorts.“It’s not funny if you know anything about him，”she said.“Mister Singer lives with us. He rooms in our house.”

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“Is that so?”Biff asked.“I declare—I didn’t know that.”

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Mick walked toward the door and answered him without looking around.“Sure. He’s been with us three months now.”

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Biff unrolled his shirt-sleeves and then folded them up carefully again. He did not take his eyes away from Mick as she left the restaurant.And even after she had been gone several minutes he still fumbled with his shirt-sleeves and stared at the empty doorway.Then he locked his arms across his chest and turned back to the drunk again.

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Blount leaned heavily on the counter. His brown eyes were wet-looking and wide open with a dazed expression.He needed a bath so badly that he stank like a goat.There were dirty beads on his sweaty neck and an oil stain on his face.His lips were thick and red and his brown hair was matted on his forehead.His overalls were too short in the body and he kept pulling at the crotch of them.

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“Man, you ought to know better，”Biff said finally.“You can’t go around like this. Why, I’m surprised you haven’t been picked up for vagrancy.You ought to sober up.You need washing and your hair needs cutting.Motherogod！You’re not fit to walk around amongst people.”

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Blount scowled and bit his lower lip.

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“Now, don’t take offense and get your dander up. Do what I tell you.Go back in the kitchen and tell the colored boy to give you a big pan of hot water.Tell Willie to give you a towel and plenty of soap and wash yourself good.Then eat you some milk toast and open up your suitcase and put you on a clean shirt and a pair of britches that fit you.Then tomorrow you can start doing whatever you’re going to do and working wherever you mean to work and get straightened out.”

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“You know what you can do，”Blount said drunkenly. You can just—”

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“All right，”Biff said very quietly.“No, I can’t. Now you just behave yourself.”

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Biff went to the end of the counter and returned with two glasses of draught beer. The drunk picked up his glass so clumsily that beer slopped down on his hands and messed the counter.Biff sipped his portion with careful relish.He regarded Blount steadily with half-closed eyes.Blount was not a freak, although when you first saw him he gave you that impression.It was like something was deformed about him—but when you looked at him closely each part of him was normal and as it ought to be.Therefore if this difference was not in the body it was probably in the mind.He was like a man who had served a term in prison or had been to Harvard College or had lived for a long time with foreigners in South America.He was like a person who had been somewhere that other people are not likely to go or had done something that others are not apt to do.

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Biff cocked his head to one side and said，“Where are you from?”

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“Nowhere.”

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“Now, you have to be born somewhere. North Carolina—Tennessee—Alabama—some place.”

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Blount’s eyes were dreamy and unfocused.“Carolina，”he said.

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“I can tell you’ve been around，”Biff hinted delicately.

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But the drunk was not listening. He had turned from the counter and was staring out at the dark, empty street.After a moment he walked to the door with loose, uncertain steps.

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“Adios，”he called back.

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Biff was alone again and he gave the restaurant one of his quick, thorough surveys. It was past one in the morning, and there were only four or five customers in the room.The mute still sat by himself at the middle table.Biff stared at him idly and shook the few remaining drops of beer around in the bottom of his glass.Then he finished his drink in one slow swallow and went back to the newspaper spread out on the counter.

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This time he could not keep his mind on the words before him. He remembered Mick.He wondered if he should have sold her the pack of cigarettes and if it were really harmful for kids to smoke.He thought of the way Mick narrowed her eyes and pushed back the bangs of her hair with the palm of her hand.He thought of her hoarse, boyish voice and of her habit of hitching up her khaki shorts and swaggering like a cowboy in the picture show.A feeling of tenderness came in him.He was uneasy.

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Restlessly Biff turned his attention to Singer. The mute sat with his hands in his pockets and the half-finished glass of beer before him had become warm and stagnant.He would offer to treat Singer to a slug of whiskey before he left.What he had said to Alice was true—he did like freaks.He had a special friendly feeling for sick people and cripples.Whenever somebody with a harelip or T.B.came into the place he would set him up to beer.Or if the customer were a hunchback or a bad cripple, then it would be whiskey on the house.There was one fellow who had had his peter and his left leg blown off in a boiler explosion, and whenever he came to town there was a free pint waiting for him.And if Singer were a drinking kind of man he could get liquor at half price any time he wanted it.Biff nodded to himself.Then neatly he folded his newspaper and put it under the counter along with several others.At the end of the week he would take them all back to the storeroom behind the kitchen, where he kept a complete file of the evening newspapers that dated back without a break for twenty-one years.

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At two o’clock Blount entered the restaurant again. He brought in with him a tall Negro man carrying a black bag.The drunk tried to bring him up to the counter for a drink, but the Negro left as soon as he realized why he had been led inside.Biff recognized him as a Negro doctor who had practiced in the town ever since he could remember.He was related in some way to young Willie back in the kitchen.Before he left Biff saw him turn on Blount with a look of quivering hatred.

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The drunk just stood there.

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“Don’t you know you can’t bring no nigger in a place where white men drink?”someone asked him.

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Biff watched this happening from a distance. Blount was very angry, and now it could easily be seen how drunk he was.

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“I’m part nigger myself，”he called out as a challenge.

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Biff watched him alertly and the place was quiet. With his thick nostrils and the rolling whites of his eyes it looked a little as though he might be telling the truth.

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“I’m part nigger and wop and bohunk and chink. All of those.”

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There was laughter.

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“And I’m Dutch and Turkish and Japanese and American.”He walked in zigzags around the table where the mute drank his coffee. His voice was loud and cracked.“I’m one who knows.I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

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“Quiet down，”Biff said to him.

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Blount paid no attention to anyone in the place except the mute. They were both looking at each other.The mute’s eyes were cold and gentle as a cat’s and all his body seemed to listen.The drunk man was in a frenzy.

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“You’re the only one in this town who catches what I mean，”Blount said.“For two days now　1　been talking to you in my mind because I know you understand the things I want to mean.”

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Some people in a booth were laughing because without knowing it the drunk had picked out a deaf-mute to try to talk with. Biff watched the two men with little darting glances and listened attentively.

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Blount sat down to the table and leaned over close to Singer.“There are those who know and those who don’t know. And for every ten thousand who don’t know there’s only one who knows.That’s the miracle of all time—the fact that these millions know so much but don’t know this.It’s like in the fifteenth century when everybody believed the world was flat and only Columbus and a few other fellows knew the truth.But it’s different in that it took talent to figure that the earth is round.While this truth is so obvious it’s a miracle of all history that people don’t know.You savvy.”

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Biff rested his elbows on the counter and looked at Blount with curiosity.“Know what?”he asked.

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“Don’t listen to him，”Blount said.“Don’t mind that flat-footed, blue-jawed, nosy bastard. For you see, when us people who know run into each other that’s an event.It almost never happens.Sometimes we meet each other and neither guesses that the other is one who knows.That’s a bad thing.It’s happened to me a lot of times.But you see there are so few of us.”

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“Masons?”Biff asked.

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“Shut up, you！Else I’ll snatch your arm off and beat you black with it，”Blount bawled. He hunched over close to the mute and his voice dropped to a drunken whisper.“And how come?Why has this miracle of ignorance endured?Because of one thing.A conspiracy.A vast and insidious conspiracy.Obscurantism.”

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The men in the booth were still laughing at the drunk who was trying to hold a conversation with the mute. Only Biff was serious.He wanted to ascertain if the mute really understood what was said to him.The fellow nodded frequently and his face seemed contemplative.He was only slow—that was all.Blount began to crack a few jokes along with this talk about knowing.The mute never smiled until several seconds after the funny remark had been made；then when the talk was gloomy again the smile still hung on his face a little too long.The fellow was downright uncanny.People felt themselves watching him even before they knew that there was anything different about him.His eyes made a person think that he heard things nobody else had ever heard, that he knew things no one had ever guessed before.He did not seem quite human.

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Jake Blount leaned across the table and the words came out as though a dam inside him had broken. Biff could not understand him any more.Blount’s tongue was so heavy with drink and he talked at such a violent pace that the sounds were all shaken up together.Biff wondered where he would go when Alice turned him out of the place.And in the morning she would do it, too—like she said.

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Biff yawned wanly, patting his open mouth with his fingertips until his jaw had relaxed. It was almost three o’clock, the most stagnant hour in the day or night.

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The mute was patient. He had been listening to Blount for almost an hour.Now he began to look at the clock occasionally.Blount did not notice this and went on without a pause.At last he stopped to roll a cigarette, and then the mute nodded his head in the direction of the clock, smiled in that hidden way of his, and got up from the table.His hands stayed stuffed in his pockets as always.He went out quickly.

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Blount was so drunk that he did not know what had happened. He had never even caught on to the fact that the mute made no answers.He began to look around the place with his mouth open and his eyes rolling and fuddled.A red vein stood out on his forehead and he began to hit the table angrily with his fists.His bout could not last much longer now.

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“Come on over，”Biff said kindly.“Your friend has gone.”

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The fellow was still hunting for Singer. He had never seemed really drunk like that before.He had an ugly look.

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“I have something for you over here and I want to speak with you a minute，”Biff coaxed.

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Blount pulled himself up from the table and walked with big, loose steps toward the street again.

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Biff leaned against the wall. In and out—in and out.After all, it was none of his business.The room was very empty and quiet.The minutes lingered.Wearily he let his head sag forward.All motion seemed slowly to be leaving the room.The counter, faces, the booths and tables, the radio in the corner, whirring fans on the ceiling—all seemed to become very faint and still.

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He must have dozed. A hand was shaking his elbow.His wits came back to him slowly and he looked up to see what was wanted.Willie, the colored boy in the kitchen, stood before him dressed in his cap and his long white apron.Willie stammered because he was excited about whatever he was trying to say.

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“And so he were　1-1-lamming his fist against this here brick w-w-wall.”

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“What’s that?”

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“Right down one of them alleys two d-d-doors away.”

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Biff straightened his slumped shoulders and arranged his tie.“What?”

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“And they means to bring him in here and they liable to pile in any minute—”

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“Willie，”Biff said patiently.“Start at the beginning and let me get this straight.”

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“It this here short white man with the m-m-mustache.”

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“Mr. Blount.Yes”

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“Well—I didn’t see how it commenced. I were standing in the back door when I heard this here commotion.Sound like a big fight in the alley.So I r-r-run to see.And this here white man had just gone hog wild.He were butting his head against the side of this brick wall and hitting with his fists.He were cussing and fighting like I never seen a white man fight before.With just this here wall.He liable to broken his own head the way he were carrying on.Then two white mens who had heard the commotion come up and stand around and look—”

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“So what happened?”

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“Well—you know this here dumb gentleman—hands in pockets—this here—”

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“Mr. Singer.”

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And he come along and just stood looking around to see what it were all about. And Mr.B-B-Blount seen him and commenced to talk and holler.And then all of a sudden he fallen down on the ground.Maybe he done really busted his head open.A p-p-p-police come up and somebody done told him Mr.Blount been staying here.”

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Biff bowed his head and organized the story he had just heard into a neat pattern. He rubbed his nose and thought for a minute.

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“They liable to pile in here any minute.”Willie went to the door and looked down the street.“Here they all come now. They having to drag him.”

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A dozen onlookers and a policeman all tried to crowd into the restaurant. Outside a couple of whores stood looking in through the front window.It was always funny how many people could crowd in from nowhere when anything out of the ordinary happened.

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“No use creating any more disturbance than necessary，”Biff said. He looked at the policeman who supported the drunk.“The rest of them might as well clear out.”

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The policeman put the drunk in a chair and hustled the little crowd into the street again. Then he turned to Biff：“Somebody said he was staying here with you.”

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“No. But he might as well be，”Biff said.

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“Want me to take him with me?”

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Biff considered.“He won’t get into any more trouble tonight. Of course I can’t be responsible—but I think this will calm him down.”

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“O. K.I’ll drop back in again before I knock off.”

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Biff, Singer, and Jake Blount were left alone. For the first time since he had been brought in, Biff turned his attention to the drunk man.It seemed that Blount had hurt his jaw very badly.He was slumped down on the table with his big hand over his mouth, swaying backward and forward.There was a gash in his head and the blood ran from his temple.His knuckles were skinned raw, and he was so filthy that he looked as if he had been pulled by the scruff of the neck from a sewer.All the juice had spurted out of him and he was completely collapsed.The mute sat at the table across from him, taking it all in with his gray eyes.

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Then Biff saw that Blount had not hurt his jaw, but he was holding his hand over his mouth because his lips were trembling. The tears began to roll down his grimy face.Now and then he glanced sideways at Biff and Singer, angry that they should see him cry.It was embarrassing.Biff shrugged his shoulders at the mute and raised his eyebrows with a what-to-do?expression.Singer cocked his head on one side.

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Biff was in a quandary. Musingly he wondered just how he should manage the situation.He was still trying to decide when the mute turned over the menu and began to write.

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If you cannot think of any place for him to go he can go home with me.First some soup and coffee would be good for him.

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With relief Biff nodded vigorously.

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On the table he placed three special plates of the last evening meal, two bowls of soup, coffee, and dessert. But Blount would not eat.He would not take his hand away from his mouth, and it was as though his lips were some very secret part of himself which was being exposed.His breath came in ragged sobs and his big shoulders jerked nervously.Singer pointed to one dish after the other, but Blount just sat with his hand over his mouth and shook his head.

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Biff enunciated slowly so that the mute could see.“The jitters—”he said conversationally.

123

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The steam from the soup kept floating up into Blount’s face, and after a little while he reached shakily for his spoon. He drank the soup and ate part of his dessert.His thick, heavy lips still trembled and he bowed his head far down over his plate.

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Biff noted this. He was thinking that in nearly every person there was some special physical part kept always guarded.With the mute his hands.The kid Mick picked at the front of her blouse to keep the cloth from rubbing the new, tender nipples beginning to come out on her breast.With Alice it was her hair；she used never to let him sleep with her when he rubbed oil in his scalp.And with himself?

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Lingeringly Biff turned the ring on his little finger. Anyway he knew what it was not.Not.Any more.A sharp line cut into his forehead.His hand in his pocket moved nervously toward his genitals.He began whistling a song and got up from the table.Funny to spot it in other people, though.

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They helped Blount to his feet. He teetered weakly.He was not crying any more, but he seemed to be brooding on something shameful and sullen.He walked in the direction he was led.Biff brought out the suitcase from behind the counter and explained to the mute about it.Singer looked as though he could not be surprised at anything.

127

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Biff went with them to the entrance.“Buck up and keep your nose clean，”he said to Blount.

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The black night sky was beginning to lighten and turn a deep blue with the new morning. There were but a few weak, silvery stars.The street was empty, silent, almost cool.Singer carried the suitcase with his left hand, and with his free hand he supported Blount.He nodded good-bye to Biff and they started off together down the sidewalk.Biff stood watching them.After they had gone half a block away only their black forms showed in the blue darkness—the mute straight and firm and the broad-shouldered, stumbling Blount holding on to him.When he could see them no longer, Biff waited for a moment and examined the sky.The vast depth of it fascinated and oppressed him.He rubbed his forehead and went back into the sharply lighted restaurant.

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He stood behind the cash register, and his face contracted and hardened as he tried to recall the things that had happened during the night. He had the feeling that he wanted to explain something to himself.He recalled the incidents in tedious detail and was still puzzled.

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The door opened and closed several times as a sudden spurt of customers began to come in. The night was over.Willie stacked some of the chairs up on the tables and mopped at the floor.He was ready to go home and was singing.Willie was lazy.In the kitchen he was always stopping to play for a while on the harmonica he carried around with him.Now he mopped the floor with sleepy strokes and hummed his lonesome Negro music steadily.

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The place was still not crowded—it was the hour when men who have been up all night meet those who are freshly wakened and ready to start a new day. The sleepy waitress was serving both beer and coffee.There was no noise or conversation, for each person seemed to be alone.The mutual distrust between the men who were just awakened and those who were ending a long night gave everyone a feeling of estrangement.

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The bank building across the street was very pale in the dawn. Then gradually its white brick walls grew more distinct.When at last the first shafts of the rising sun began to brighten the street, Biff gave the place one last survey and went upstairs.

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Noisily he rattled the doorknob as he entered so that Alice would be disturbed.“Motherogod！”he said.“What a night！”

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Alice awoke with caution. She lay on the rumpled bed like a sulky cat and stretched herself.The room was drab in the fresh, hot morning sun, and a pair of silk stockings hung limp and withered from the cord of the window-shade.

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“Is that drunk fool still hanging around downstairs?”she demanded.

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Biff took off his shirt and examined the collar to see if it were clean enough to be worn again.“Go down and see for yourself. I told you nobody will hinder you from kicking him out.”

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Sleepily Alice reached down and picked up a Bible, the blank side of a menu, and a Sunday-School book from the floor beside the bed. She rustled through the tissue pages of the Bible until she reached a certain passage and began reading, pronouncing the words aloud with painful concentration.It was Sunday, and she was preparing the weekly lesson for her class of boys in the Junior Department of her church.“Now as he walked by the sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and Andrew his brother casting a net into the sea：for they were fishers.And Jesus said unto them，‘Come ye after me, and I will make you to become fishers of men.’And straightway they forsook their nets, and followed him.”

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Biff went into the bathroom to wash himself. The silky murmuring continued as Alice studied aloud.He listened.“……and in the morning, rising up a great while before day, He went out, and departed into a solitary place, and there prayed.And Simon and they that were with Him followed after Him.And when they had found Him, they said unto Him，‘All men seek for Thee.’”

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She had finished. Biff let the words revolve again gently inside him.He tried to separate the actual words from the sound of Alice’s voice as she had spoken them.He wanted to remember the passage as his mother used to read it when he was a boy.With nostalgia he glanced down at the wedding ring on his fifth finger that had once been hers.He wondered again how she would have felt about his giving up church and religion.

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“The lesson for today is about the gathering of the disciples，”Alice said to herself in preparation.“And the text is，‘All men seek for Thee.’”

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Abruptly Biff roused himself from meditation and turned on the water spigot at full force. He stripped off his undervest and began to wash himself.Always he was scrupulously clean from the belt upward.Every morning he soaped his chest and arms and neck and feet—and about twice during the season he got into the bathtub and cleaned all of his parts.

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Biff stood by the bed, waiting impatiently for Alice to get up. From the window he saw that the day would be windless and burning hot.Alice had finished reading the lesson.She still lay lazily across the bed, although she knew that he was waiting.A calm, sullen anger rose in him.He chuckled ironically.Then he said with bitterness：“If you like I can sit and read the paper awhile.But I wish you would let me sleep now.”

143

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Alice began dressing herself and Biff made up the bed. Deftly he reversed the sheets in all possible ways, putting the top one on the bottom, and turning them over and upside down.When the bed was smoothly made he waited until Alice had left the room before he slipped off his trousers and crawled inside.His feet jutted out from beneath the cover and his wiry-haired chest was very dark against the pillow.He was glad he had not told Alice about what had happened to the drunk.He had wanted to talk to somebody about it, because maybe if he told all the facts out loud he could put his finger on the thing that puzzled him.The poor son-of-a-bitch talking and talking and not ever getting anybody to understand what he meant.Not knowing himself, most likely.And the way he gravitated around the deaf-mute and picked him out and tried to make him a free present of everything in him.

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Why?

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Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons—throw it to some human being or some human idea. They have to.In some men it is in them—The text is“All men seek for Thee.”Maybe that was why—maybe—He was a Chinaman, the fellow had said.And a nigger and a wop and a Jew.And if he believed it hard enough maybe it was so.Every person and everything he said he was—

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Biff stretched both of his arms outward and crossed his naked feet. His face was older in the morning light, with the closed, shrunken eyelids and the heavy, iron-like beard on his cheeks and jaw.Gradually his mouth softened and relaxed.The hard, yellow rays of the sun came in through the window so that the room was hot and bright.Biff turned wearily and covered his eyes with his hands.And he was nobody but—Bartholomew—old Biff with two fists and a quick tongue—Mister Brannon—by himself.

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序号 英文/音标 中文解释 更多操作

Biff

[bɪf]

n.击打;棍刺

suitcase

['suːtkeɪs]

n.手提箱

lunatic

['luːnətɪk]

n.疯子

sponger

['spʌndʒə(r)]

n.使用海棉擦拭的人;海棉采集者;食客;依赖他人生活者

douse

[daʊs]

v.浸入;浇灭;泼水;熄灭

cent

[sent]

n.分

freak

[friːk]

n. 奇想，异想；荒唐的行为；反常的现象;

Mister

['mɪstə(r)]

n.先生(=Mr.)

eyelid

['aɪlɪd]

n.眼皮;眼睑

unbroken

[ʌn'brəʊkən]

adj.不间断的;未破的;未驯服的;未被打扰的

spectacle

['spektəkl]

n.景象;场面;奇观;壮观;公开展示;表相，假相

circus

['sɜːkəs]

n.马戏团;马戏表演;竞技场;广场

shave

[ʃeɪv]

v.刮;剃;修剪;掠过;削减

stain

[steɪn]

n.污点;瑕疵;着色剂;染料

downstairs

[ˌdaʊn'steəz]

adj.楼下的

linen

['lɪnɪn]

n.亚麻布;亚麻线;亚麻制品

fondle

['fɒndl]

v.爱;爱抚;溺爱;抚弄

felted

['feltɪd]

v. 把 ... 制成毡(使 ... 粘结)

scout

[skaʊt]

n.童子军;侦察员;守卫

youngster

[ˈjʌŋstə]

n.青年 ,少年, 儿童

whitish

['waɪtɪʃ]

adj.发白的;带白色的

dime

[daɪm]

n.一角硬币

penny

['peni]

n.便士;【美】分

piracy

['paɪrəsi]

n.盗版;剽窃;著作权侵害;海盗行为

matchstick

['mætʃstɪk]

n.火柴杆

past

[pɑːst]

a. 过去的;

Mick

[mɪk]

n. 爱尔兰佬

fumble

['fʌmbl]

vi.摸索;笨手笨脚地做

crotch

[krɒtʃ]

n.裆部;叉柱

sober

['səʊbə(r)]

a. 清醒的；未醉的;

scowl

[skaʊl]

n.愁容;皱眉

britches

['brɪtʃɪz]

n.马裤;裤子

drunkenly

['drʌŋkən]

adj.常醉的;喝醉的

Harvard

['hɑːvəd]

n.哈佛大学(美国)

cock

[kɒk]

n.公鸡

Alabama

[ˌælə'bæmə]

n.亚拉巴马州;亚拉巴马人;亚拉巴马语

Carolina

[ˌkærə'lainə]

n.北或南卡罗莱纳州 (美国地名)

uneasy

[ʌn'iːzi]

adj.不自在的 ；心神不安的 ；不稳定的;不舒服的

twenty-one

['twentɪˌwʌn]

num.二十一

hatred

['heɪtrɪd]

n.仇恨;憎恨;敌意;怨恨

nigger

['nɪɡə(r)]

n.黑鬼(对黑人的蔑称)

nostril

['nɒstrəl]

n.鼻孔

chink

[tʃɪŋk]

n.裂缝;漏洞;硬币;叮当声;(贬)中国人

mute

[mjuːt]

a. 【语】无音的;

frenzy

['frenzi]

n.狂乱;狂暴;狂怒

attentive

[ə'tentɪv]

adj.注意的;留意的

savvy

['sævi]

v.理解

bastard

['bɑːstəd]

adj.私生的;错误的;混蛋的

Obscurantism

[ˌɒbskju'ræntɪzəm]

n.反启蒙主义;反开化论;文盲政策

stagnant

['stæɡnənt]

adj.不流动的;停滞的;不景气的

bout

[baʊt]

n.回合;一场;一阵;发作;(摔跤等)比赛

kindly

['kaɪndli]

adj.和蔼的;温和的;爽快的

hunting

['hʌntɪŋ]

n.打猎;搜寻【电子学】速度偏差.

coax

[kəʊks]

v.哄;诱骗;灵巧慢慢地做

whir

[wɜː]

v.作呼呼声;发飕飕声的飞或转

excite

[ɪk'saɪt]

vt.使兴奋;使激动;刺激;激起

lam

[læm]

v.打;鞭笞;脱逃

slump

[slʌmp]

v.大幅度下跌;猛然瘫坐;使倒下

liable

['laɪəbl]

a. 有(法律)责任的；有义务的;

commotion

[kə'məʊʃn]

n.骚动;混乱;喧闹

bust

[bʌst]

n.半身像;胸部;搜查;失败

whore

[hɔː(r)]

n.妓女;不道德的人

jerk

[dʒɜːk]

v.急动;猛拉

jitter

['dʒɪtə]

n.振动;紧张

shakily

['ʃeɪkɪli]

adv.颤抖著;摇动著;虚弱不堪地

scalp

[skælp]

n.头皮;胜利品

genitals

['dʒenɪtlz]

n.生殖器;外阴部

Negro

['niːɡrəʊ]

adj.黑人的

estrangement

[ɪ'streɪndʒmənt]

n.疏远

doorknob

['dɔːnɒb]

n.球形门把手

wither

['wɪðə(r)]

vi.枯萎，干枯;凋谢

hinder

['hɪndə(r)]

v.阻碍;打扰

forsake

[fə'seɪk]

v.放弃;断念;抛弃

Thee

[ðiː]

pron.【古】你;汝;你自己

bathtub

['bɑːθtʌb]

n.浴缸

awhile

[ə'waɪl]

adv.片刻;一会儿

pick

[pɪkt]

采摘，挑选；

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