《渺小一生》:尽管这栋房子毫无特色

　 After they were done, the doctor escorted him once again to the door, and gave him the same little shove inside. “Wait,” he said to the man, as he was closing the door. “My name’s Joey,” and when the man said nothing, only stared at him, “what’s yours?”

两人吃完后，那医生又带他走到地下室门边，同样轻轻推他一把。“等一下，”他对着正要关上门的医生说，“我叫乔伊。”那男人什么都没说，只是看着他，他又问：“你呢？”

　 The man kept looking at him, but now he was, he thought, almost smiling, or at least he was about to make some sort of expression. But then he didn’t. “Dr. Traylor,” the man said, and then pulled the door quickly shut behind him, as if that very information was a bird that might fly away if it too were not trapped inside with him.

那男人还是看着他，他觉得他几乎要露出微笑，或至少打算挤出什么表情。但接着那男人又板起脸：“特雷勒医生。”那男人说，然后赶紧出去关上门，仿佛这个信息就像一只鸟，如果不赶紧关门，就会飞出去。

　 The next day he felt less sore, less febrile. When he stood, though, he realized he was still weak, and he swayed and grabbed at the air and in the end, he didn’t fall. He moved toward the bookshelves, examining the books, which were paperbacks, swollen and buckling from heat and moisture and smelling sweetly of mildew. He found a copy of Emma, which he had been reading in class at the college before he ran away, and carried the book slowly up the stairs with him, where he found the place he’d left off and read as he ate his breakfast and took his pill. This time there was a sandwich as well, wrapped in a paper towel, with the word “Lunch” written on the towel in small letters. After he had eaten, he went downstairs with the book and sandwich and lay in bed, and he was reminded of how much he had missed reading, of how grateful he was for this opportunity to leave behind his life.

次日他觉得不那么酸痛，烧也退了一些。但他站起来时，才发现自己还是很虚弱，摇摇晃晃地用两手乱抓着空气，总算没倒下去。他走向书架，检视上头的书，都是平装本，因为湿热而肿胀鼓起，发出了一股浓浓的霉味。他找到一本简·奥斯汀的《爱玛》，他逃跑前在社区大学的课堂上正在读这本，于是他拿着书缓缓爬上楼梯，查到自己之前读到哪里，然后边读边吃早餐、吞下药丸。这回托盘里还有个三明治，外头包着一张厨房纸巾，上头写着“午餐”。他吃完早餐后，就拿着书和三明治下楼躺在床上，这才发现自己多么怀念阅读，又多么庆幸能有机会沉湎在阅读中，忘掉眼前的生活。

　 He slept again; woke again. By evening, he was very tired, and some of the pain had returned, and when Dr. Traylor held open the door for him, it took him a long time to mount the stairs. At dinner, he didn’t say anything, and neither did Dr. Traylor, but when he offered to help Dr. Traylor with the dishes or the cooking, Dr. Traylor had looked at him. “You’re sick,” he said.

他睡了，又醒来。傍晚时他非常疲倦，身上又痛了起来。当特雷勒医生帮他开门时，他花了好久才爬上楼梯。晚餐时，他什么话都没说，特雷勒医生也不吭声，但吃完之后，他主动表示要帮特雷勒医生洗碗或做饭，特雷勒医生看着他，“你生病了。”他说。

　 “I’m better,” he said. “I can help you in the kitchen if you want.”

“我好多了。”他说，“如果你希望，我在厨房可以帮忙。”

　 “No, I mean—you’re sick,” Dr. Traylor said. “You’re diseased. I can’t have a diseased person touching my food,” and he had looked down, humiliated.

“不，我的意思是——你生病了。”特雷勒特雷勒医生说，“你身上有病。我不能让生病的人碰我的食物。”他低下头，觉得很难堪。

　 There was a silence. “Where are your parents?” Dr. Traylor asked, and he shook his head again. “Speak,” Dr. Traylor said, and this time he was impatient, although he still hadn’t raised his voice.

接下来是一段沉默。“你的父母在哪里？”特雷勒医生问。他又摇摇头。“说话。”特雷勒医生说，这回他很不耐烦，虽然嗓门没提高。

　 “I don’t know,” he stammered, “I never had any.”

“我不知道。”他结巴着说，“我从来没有父母。”

　 “How did you become a prostitute?” Dr. Traylor asked. “Did you start yourself, or did someone help you do it?”

“那你是怎么变成男妓的？”特雷勒医生问，“你是自己开始的，还是有人帮你的？”

　 He swallowed, feeling the food in his stomach turning to paste. “Someone helped me,” he whispered.

他吞下口水，觉得肚子里的食物成了糨糊。“有人帮我的。”他低声说。

　 There was a silence. “You don’t like it when I call you a prostitute,” the man said, and he managed, this time, to raise his head and look at him. “No,” he said. “I understand,” the man said. “But that is what you are, isn’t it? Although I could call you something else, if you like: a whore, maybe.” He was quiet again. “Is that better?”

又是一阵沉默。“你不喜欢我叫你男妓。”那男人说。这回他设法抬头看他。“对。”他说。“我了解，”那男人说，“不过你本来就是，不是吗？如果你想要的话，我可以叫你别的，或许流莺吧。”他又沉默了。“这样有比较好吗？”

　 “No,” he whispered again.

“没有。”他又低声说。

　 “So,” the man said, “a prostitute it is, then, right?” and looked at him, and finally, he nodded.

“那么，”那男子说，“就是男妓了，好吗？”并且看着他。他总算点了头。

　 That night in the bedroom, he looked for something to cut himself with, but there was nothing sharp in the room, nothing at all; even the books had only soft bloated pages. So he pressed his fingernails into his calves as hard as he could, bent over and wincing from the effort and discomfort, and finally he was able to puncture the skin, and then work his nail back and forth in the cut to make it wider. He was only able to make three incisions in his right leg, and then he was too tired, and he fell asleep again.

那一夜在卧室里，他想找东西割自己，但房间里没有任何锋利的东西，完全没有；就连那些书也只有膨胀发软的纸页。于是他把指甲用力按进小腿里，弯下腰，吃力得皱起脸来，最后终于刺穿皮肤，然后他用指甲来回割扯，好把那开口割得大一点。他只在右腿上割了三道，就累得睡着了。

　 The third morning he felt demonstrably better: stronger, more alert. He ate his breakfast and read his book, and then he moved the tray aside and stuck his head through the flapped cutout and tried and tried to fit his shoulders through it. But no matter what angle he tried, he was simply too large and the opening too small and at last he had to stop.

第三天早上他确实好多了，更强壮，也更警觉。他吃了早餐，读了书，然后挪开托盘，头探出门下方有遮帘的开口，试了又试，但无论用什么角度，肩膀就是钻不过去，他的块头太大，那个洞又太小，最后他只好放弃。

　 After he had rested, he poked his head through the hole again. He had a direct view of the living room to his left, and the kitchen area to his right, and he looked and looked as if for clues. The house was very tidy; he could tell from how tidy it was that Dr. Traylor lived alone. If he craned his neck, he could see, on the far left, a staircase leading to a second story, and just beyond that, the front door, but he couldn’t see how many locks it had. Mainly, though, the house was defined by its silence: there was no ticking of clocks, no sound of cars or people outside. It could have been a house zooming through space, so quiet was it. The only noise was the refrigerator, purring its intermittent whir, but when it stopped, the silence was absolute.

他休息了一会儿，又把头探出洞。往左可以看到客厅，往右是厨房，他四处看了又看，像在寻找线索。整栋屋子非常整洁，从那整洁的程度看得出特雷勒大夫是一个人独居。如果他伸长脖子，可以看到右边远处有一道阶梯通向二楼，再过去是前门，但他看不清上头有几道锁。不过整栋屋子最显著的就是安静：没有滴答的钟响，没有外头传来的汽车或人声。感觉上这可能是一栋在太空里飘浮的房子，就是安静到那种程度。唯一的声音是冰箱，间歇地发出呼噜声，但是一停止运转，就完全寂静无声。

　 But as featureless as the house was, he was also fascinated by it: it was only the third house he had ever been in. The second had been the Learys’. The first house had been a client’s, a very important client, Brother Luke had told him, outside Salt Lake City, who had paid extra because he didn’t want to come to the motel room. That house had been enormous, all sandstone and glass, and Brother Luke had come with him, and had secreted himself in the bathroom—a bathroom as big as one of their motel rooms—off the bedroom where he and the client had had sex. Later, as an adult, he would fetishize houses, especially his own house, although even before he had Greene Street, or Lantern House, or the flat in London, he would treat himself every few months to a magazine about homes, about people who spent their lives making pretty places even prettier, and he would turn the pages slowly, studying every picture. His friends laughed at him for this, but he didn’t care: he dreamed of the day he’d have someplace of his own, with things that were absolutely his.

尽管这栋房子毫无特色，他却对它非常感兴趣：这是他这辈子进过的第三栋房子。第二栋是黎瑞家。第一栋是一个顾客家，就在盐湖城外。卢克修士跟他说那是一个非常重要的顾客，因为不想去汽车旅馆的房间，就额外多付钱请他们过去。那个房子很大，全是砂岩和玻璃，卢克修士跟他一起进去，偷偷躲在他和顾客性交那个卧室旁的浴室里（那浴室大得就像他们汽车旅馆的房间）。后来他长大成人后有了恋房癖，尤其是他自己的房子，不过早在他拥有格林街、灯笼屋或伦敦那层公寓之前，他每隔几个月就会买一本家居杂志欣赏，看着里头报道人们花很多工夫让漂亮的地方更漂亮，他会缓缓翻着纸页，审视每一张照片。他的朋友因此取笑他，但他不在乎。他梦想有一天他会拥有自己的地方，里面的东西完全属于他。

　 That night Dr. Traylor let him out again, and again it was the kitchen, and the meal, and the two of them eating in silence. “I feel better now,” he ventured, and then, when Dr. Traylor didn’t say anything, “if you want to do something.” He was realistic enough to know that he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave without repaying Dr. Traylor in some way; he was hopeful enough to think that he might be allowed to leave at all.

那一晚特雷勒医生又让他出来，还是到厨房，两人沉默地吃着晚餐。“我觉得好一些了。”吃完后他又试探一下，但特雷勒医生什么都没说，“如果你想做什么的话。”他很实际，知道如果不用某种方式偿还特雷勒医生，休想离开；他当时还抱着足够的希望，觉得自己应该可以获准离开。

　 But Dr. Traylor shook his head. “You may feel better, but you’re still diseased,” he said. “The antibiotics take ten days to eliminate the infection.” He took a fish bone, so fine it was transluscent, out of his mouth, placed it on the edge of his plate. “Don’t tell me this is the first venereal disease you’ve ever had,” he said, looking up at him, and he flushed again.

但特雷勒医生摇摇头。“你或许觉得好一点了，但你还是有病。”他说，“抗生素要十天才能消除感染。”他从嘴里拿出一根半透明的细鱼刺，放在盘子边缘。“可别跟我说这是你第一次得性病。”他说，抬头看着他。他又脸红了。

　 That night he thought about what to do. He was almost strong enough to run, he thought. At the next dinner, he would follow Dr. Traylor, and then when his back was turned, he would run to the door and outside and look for help. There were some problems with this plan—he still didn’t have his clothes; he didn’t have any shoes—but he knew that there was something wrong with this house, that there was something wrong with Dr. Traylor, that he had to get out.

那一夜他想着该怎么做。他强壮得几乎可以跑了，他心想。下回晚餐，他会跟着特雷勒医生，等到他转身，他就跑出门求救。这个计划有一些问题，特雷勒医生还是没把他的衣服还给他，他也没有任何鞋子。但他知道这栋屋子不对劲，特雷勒医生不对劲，他得离开才行。