英语听力 学英语,练听力,上听力课堂! 注册 登录
> 在线听力 > 有声读物 > 世界名著 > 译林版·美丽新世界 >  第8篇

双语·美丽新世界 第八章

所属教程:译林版·美丽新世界

浏览:

2022年04月22日

手机版
扫描二维码方便学习和分享

Outside, in the dust and among the garbage (there were four dogs now), Bernard and John were walking slowly up and down.

“So hard for me to realize,” Bernard was saying, “to reconstruct. As though we were living on different planets, in different centuries. A mother, and all this dirt, and gods, and old age, and disease…” He shook his head. “It's almost inconceivable. I shall never understand, unless you explain.”

“Explain what?”

“This.” He indicated the pueblo. “That.” And it was the little house outside the village. “Everything. All your life.”

“But what is there to say?”

“From the beginning. As far back as you can remember.”

“As far back as I can remember.” John frowned. There was a long silence.

It was very hot. They had eaten a lot of tortillas and sweet corn. Linda said, “Come and lie down, Baby.” They lay down together in the big bed. “Sing,” and Linda sang. Sang “Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T” and “Bye Baby Banting, soon you'll need decanting.” Her voice got fainter and fainter…

There was a loud noise, and he woke with a start. A man was standing by the bed, enormous, frightening. He was saying something to Linda, and Linda was laughing. She had pulled the blanket up to her chin, but the man pulled it down again. His hair was like two black ropes, and round his arm was a lovely silver bracelet with blue stones in it. He liked the bracelet; but all the same, he was frightened; he hid his face against Linda's body. Linda put her hand on him and he felt safer. In those other words he did not understand so well, she said to the man, “Not with John here.” The man looked at him, then again at Linda, and said a few words in a soft voice. Linda said, “No.” But the man bent over the bed towards him and his face was huge, terrible; the black ropes of hair touched the blanket. “No,” Linda said again, and he felt her hand squeezing him more tightly. “No, no!” But the man took hold of one of his arms, and it hurt. He screamed. The man put up his other hand and lifted him up. Linda was still holding him, still saying, “No, no.” The man said something short and angry, and suddenly her hands were gone. “Linda, Linda.” He kicked and wriggled; but the man carried him across to the door, opened it, put him down on the floor in the middle of the other room, and went away, shutting the door behind him. He got up, he ran to the door. Standing on tiptoe he could just reach the big wooden latch. He lifted it and pushed; but the door wouldn't open. “Linda,” he shouted. She didn't answer.

He remembered a huge room, rather dark; and there were big wooden things with strings fastened to them, and lots of women standing round them—making blankets, Linda said. Linda told him to sit in the corner with the other children, while she went and helped the women. He played with the little boys for a long time. Suddenly people started talking very loud, and there were the women pushing Linda away, and Linda was crying. She went to the door and he ran after her. He asked her why they were angry. “Because I broke something,” she said. And then she got angry too. “How should I know how to do their beastly weaving?” she said. “Beastly savages.” He asked her what savages were. When they got back to their house, Popé was waiting at the door, and he came in with them. He had a big gourd full of stuff that looked like water; only it wasn't water, but something with a bad smell that burnt your mouth and made you cough. Linda drank some and Popé drank some, and then Linda laughed a lot and talked very loud; and then she and Popé went into the other room. When Popé went away, he went into the room. Linda was in bed and so fast asleep that he couldn't wake her.

Popé used to come often. He said the stuff in the gourd was called mescal; but Linda said it ought to be called soma; only it made you feel ill afterwards. He hated Popé. He hated them all—all the men who came to see Linda. One afternoon, when he had been playing with the other children—it was cold, he remembered, and there was snow on the mountains—he came back to the house and heard angry voices in the bedroom. They were women's voices, and they said words he didn't understand, but he knew they were dreadful words. Then suddenly, crash! something was upset; he heard people moving about quickly, and there was another crash and then a noise like hitting a mule, only not so bony; then Linda screamed. “Oh, don't, don't, don't!” she said. He ran in. There were three women in dark blankets. Linda was on the bed. One of the women was holding her wrists. Another was lying across her legs, so that she couldn't kick. The third was hitting her with a whip. Once, twice, three times; and each time Linda screamed. Crying, he tugged at the fringe of the woman's blanket. “Please, please.” With her free hand she held him away. The whip came down again, and again Linda screamed. He caught hold of the woman's enormous brown hand between his own and bit it with all his might. She cried out, wrenched her hand free, and gave him such a push that he fell down. While he was lying on the ground she hit him three times with the whip. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt—like fire. The whip whistled again, fell. But this time it was Linda who screamed.

“But why did they want to hurt you, Linda?” he asked that night. He was crying, because the red marks of the whip on his back still hurt so terribly. But he was also crying because people were so beastly and unfair, and because he was only a little boy and couldn't do anything against them. Linda was crying too. She was grown up, but she wasn't big enough to fight against three of them. It wasn't fair for her either. “Why did they want to hurt you, Linda?”

“I don't know. How should I know?” It was difficult to hear what she said, because she was lying on her stomach and her face was in the pillow. “They say those men are their men,” she went on; and she did not seem to be talking to him at all; she seemed to be talking with some one inside herself. A long talk which he didn't understand; and in the end she started crying louder than ever.

“Oh, don't cry, Linda. Don't cry.”

He pressed himself against her. He put his arm round her neck. Linda cried out. “Oh, be careful. My shoulder! Oh!” and she pushed him away, hard. His head banged against the wall. “Little idiot!” she shouted; and then, suddenly, she began to slap him. Slap, slap…

“Linda,” he cried out. “Oh, mother, don't!”

“I'm not your mother. I won't be your mother.”

“But, Linda…Oh!” She slapped him on the cheek.

“Turned into a savage,” she shouted. “Having young ones like an animal…If it hadn't been for you, I might have gone to the Inspector, I might have got away. But not with a baby. That would have been too shameful.”

He saw that she was going to hit him again, and lifted his arm to guard his face. “Oh, don't, Linda, please don't.”

“Little beast!” She pulled down his arm; his face was uncovered.

“Don't, Linda.” He shut his eyes, expecting the blow.

But she didn't hit him. After a little time, he opened his eyes again and saw that she was looking at him. He tried to smile at her. Suddenly she put her arms round him and kissed him again and again.

Sometimes, for several days, Linda didn't get up at all. She lay in bed and was sad. Or else she drank the stuff that Popé brought and laughed a great deal and went to sleep. Sometimes she was sick. Often she forgot to wash him, and there was nothing to eat except cold tortillas. He remembered the first time she found those little animals in his hair, how she screamed and screamed.

The happiest times were when she told him about the Other Place. “And you really can go flying, whenever you like?”

“Whenever you like.” And she would tell him about the lovely music that came out of a box, and all the nice games you could play, and the delicious things to eat and drink, and the light that came when you pressed a little thing in the wall, and the pictures that you could hear and feel and smell, as well as see, and another box for making nice smells, and the pink and green and blue and silver houses as high as mountains, and everybody happy and no one ever sad or angry, and every one belonging to every one else, and the boxes where you could see and hear what was happening at the other side of the world, and babies in lovely clean bottles—everything so clean, and no nasty smells, no dirt at all—and people never lonely, but living together and being so jolly and happy, like the summer dances here in Malpais, but much happier, and the happiness being there every day, every day….He listened by the hour. And sometimes, when he and the other children were tired with too much playing, one of the old men of the pueblo would talk to them, in those other words, of the great Transformer of the World, and of the long fight between Right Hand and Left Hand, between Wet and Dry; of Awonawilona, who made a great fog by thinking in the night, and then made the whole world out of the fog; of Earth Mother and Sky Father; of Ahaiyuta and Marsailema, the twins of War and Chance; of Jesus and Pookong; of Mary and Etsanatlehi, the woman who makes herself young again; of the Black Stone at Laguna and the Great Eagle and Our Lady of Acoma. Strange stories, all the more wonderful to him for being told in the other words and so not fully understood. Lying in bed, he would think of Heaven and London and Our Lady of Acoma and the rows and rows of babies in clean bottles and Jesus flying up and Linda flying up and the great Director of World Hatcheries and Awonawilona.

Lots of men came to see Linda. The boys began to point their fingers at him. In the strange other words they said that Linda was bad; they called her names he did not understand, but that he knew were bad names. One day they sang a song about her, again and again. He threw stones at them. They threw back; a sharp stone cut his cheek. The blood wouldn't stop; he was covered with blood.

Linda taught him to read. With a piece of charcoal she drew pictures on the wall—an animal sitting down, a baby inside a bottle; then she wrote letters. THE CAT IS ON THE MAT. THE TOT IS IN THE POT. He learned quickly and easily. When he knew how to read all the words she wrote on the wall, Linda opened her big wooden box and pulled out from under those funny little red trousers she never wore a thin little book. He had often seen it before. “When you're bigger,” she had said, “you can read it.” Well, now he was big enough. He was proud. “I'm afraid you won't find it very exciting,” she said. “But it's the only thing I have.” She sighed. “If only you could see the lovely reading-machines we used to have in London!” He began reading. The Chemical and Bacteriological Conditioning of the Embryo. Practical Instructions for Beta Embryo-Store Workers. It took him a quarter of an hour to read the title alone. He threw the book on the floor. “Beastly, beastly book!” he said, and began to cry.

The boys still sang their horrible song about Linda. Sometimes, too, they laughed at him for being so ragged. When he tore his clothes, Linda did not know how to mend them. In the Other Place, she told him, people threw away clothes with holes in them and got new ones. “Rags, rags!” the boys used to shout at him. “But I can read,” he said to himself, “and they can't. They don't even know what reading is.” It was fairly easy, if he thought hard enough about the reading, to pretend that he didn't mind when they made fun of him. He asked Linda to give him the book again.

The more the boys pointed and sang, the harder he read. Soon he could read all the words quite well. Even the longest. But what did they mean? He asked Linda; but even when she could answer it didn't seem to make it very clear, And generally she couldn't answer at all.

“What are chemicals?” he would ask.

“Oh, stuff like magnesium salts, and alcohol for keeping the Deltas and Epsilons small and backward, and calcium carbonate for bones, and all that sort of thing.”

“But how do you make chemicals, Linda? Where do they come from?”

“Well, I don't know. You get them out of bottles. And when the bottles are empty, you send up to the Chemical Store for more. It's the Chemical Store people who make them, I suppose. Or else they send to the factory for them. I don't know. I never did any chemistry. My job was always with the embryos.”

It was the same with everything else he asked about. Linda never seemed to know. The old men of the pueblo had much more definite answers.

“The seed of men and all creatures, the seed of the sun and the seed of earth and the seed of the sky—Awonawilona made them all out of the Fog of Increase. Now the world has four wombs; and he laid the seeds in the lowest of the four wombs. And gradually the seeds began to grow…”

One day (John calculated later that it must have been soon after his twelfth birthday) he came home and found a book that he had never seen before lying on the floor in the bedroom. It was a thick book and looked very old. The binding had been eaten by mice; some of its pages were loose and crumpled. He picked it up, looked at the title-page: the book was called The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

Linda was lying on the bed, sipping that horrible stinking mescal out of a cup. “Popé brought it,” she said. Her voice was thick and hoarse like somebody else's voice. “It was lying in one of the chests of the Antelope Kiva. It's supposed to have been there for hundreds of years. I expect it's true, because I looked at it, and it seemed to be full of nonsense. Uncivilized. Still, it'll be good enough for you to practice your reading on.” She took a last sip, set the cup down on the floor beside the bed, turned over on her side, hiccoughed once or twice and went to sleep.

He opened the book at random.

Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty…

The strange words rolled through his mind; rumbled, like talking thunder; like the drums at the summer dances, if the drums could have spoken; like the men singing the Corn Song, beautiful, beautiful, so that you cried; like old Mitsima saying magic over his feathers and his carved sticks and his bits of bone and stone—kiathla tsilu silokwe silokwe. Kiai silu silu, tsith!—but better than Mitsima's magic, because it meant more, because it talked to him, talked wonderfully and only half-understandably, a terrible beautiful magic, about Linda; about Linda lying there snoring, with the empty cup on the floor beside the bed; about Linda and Popé, Linda and Popé.

He hated Popé more and more. A man can smile and smile and be a villain. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. What did the words exactly mean? He only half knew. But their magic was strong and went on rumbling in his head, and somehow it was as though he had never really hated Popé before; never really hated him because he had never been able to say how much he hated him. But now he had these words, these words like drums and singing and magic. These words and the strange, strange story out of which they were taken (he couldn't make head or tail of it, but it was wonderful, wonderful all the same)—they gave him a reason for hating Popé; and they made his hatred more real; they even made Popé himself more real.

One day, when he came in from playing, the door of the inner room was open, and he saw them lying together on the bed, asleep—white Linda and Popé almost black beside her, with one arm under her shoulders and the other dark hand on her breast, and one of the plaits of his long hair lying across her throat, like a black snake trying to strangle her. Popé's gourd and a cup were standing on the floor near the bed. Linda was snoring.

His heart seemed to have disappeared and left a hole. He was empty. Empty, and cold, and rather sick, and giddy. He leaned against the wall to steady himself. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous…Like drums, like the men singing for the corn, like magic, the words repeated and repeated themselves in his head. From being cold he was suddenly hot. His cheeks burnt with the rush of blood, the room swam and darkened before his eyes. He ground his teeth. “I'll kill him, I'll kill him, I'll kill him,” he kept saying. And suddenly there were more words.

When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage

Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed…

The magic was on his side, the magic explained and gave orders. He stepped back in the outer room. “When he is drunk asleep…” The knife for the meat was lying on the floor near the fireplace. He picked it up and tiptoed to the door again. “When he is drunk asleep, drunk asleep…” He ran across the room and stabbed—oh, the blood!—stabbed again, as Popé heaved out of his sleep, lifted his hand to stab once more, but found his wrist caught, held and—oh, oh!—twisted. He couldn't move, he was trapped, and there were Popé's small black eyes, very close, staring into his own. He looked away. There were two cuts on Popé's left shoulder. “Oh, look at the blood!” Linda was crying. “Look at the blood!” She had never been able to bear the sight of blood. Popé lifted his other hand—to strike him, he thought. He stiffened to receive the blow. But the hand only took him under the chin and turned his face, so that he had to look again into Popé's eyes. For a long time, for hours and hours. And suddenly—he couldn't help it—he began to cry. Popé burst out laughing. “Go,” he said, in the other Indian words. “Go, my brave Ahaiyuta.” He ran out into the other room to hide his tears.

“You are fifteen,” said old Mitsima, in the Indian words. “Now I may teach you to work the clay.”

Squatting by the river, they worked together.

“First of all,” said Mitsima, taking a lump of the wetted clay between his hands, “we make a little moon.” The old man squeezed the lump into a disk, then bent up the edges, the moon became a shallow cup.

Slowly and unskilfully he imitated the old man's delicate gestures.

“A moon, a cup, and now a snake.” Mitsima rolled out another piece of clay into a long flexible cylinder, trooped it into a circle and pressed it on to the rim of the cup. “Then another snake. And another. And another.” Round by round, Mitsima built up the sides of the pot; it was narrow, it bulged, it narrowed again towards the neck. Mitsima squeezed and patted, stroked and scraped; and there at last it stood, in shape the familiar water pot of Malpais, but creamy white instead of black, and still soft to the touch. The crooked parody of Mitsima's, his own stood beside it. Looking at the two pots, he had to laugh.

“But the next one will be better,” he said, and began to moisten another piece of clay.

To fashion, to give form, to feel his fingers gaining in skill and power—this gave him an extraordinary pleasure. “A, B, C, Vitamin D,” he sang to himself as he worked. “The fat's in the liver, the cod's in the sea.” And Mitsima also sang—a song about killing a bear. They worked all day, and all day he was filled with an intense, absorbing happiness.

“Next winter,” said old Mitsima, “I will teach you to make the bow.”

He stood for a long time outside the house, and at last the ceremonies within were finished. The door opened; they came out. Kothlu came first, his right hand outstretched and tightly closed, as though over some precious jewel. Her clenched hand similarly outstretched, Kiakimé followed. They walked in silence, and in silence, behind them, came the brothers and sisters and cousins and all the troop of old people.

They walked out of the pueblo, across the mesa. At the edge of the cliff they halted, facing the early morning sun. Kothlu opened his hand. A pinch of corn meal lay white on the palm; he breathed on it, murmured a few words, then threw it, a handful of white dust, towards the sun. Kiakimé did the same. Then Kiakimé's father stepped forward, and holding up a feathered prayer stick, made a long prayer, then threw the stick after the corn meal.

“It is finished,” said old Mitsima in a loud voice. “They are married.”

“Well,” said Linda, as they turned away, “all I can say is, it does seem a lot of fuss to make about so little. In civilized countries, when a boy wants to have a girl, he just…But where are you going, John?”

He paid no attention to her calling, but ran on, away, away, anywhere to be by himself.

It is finished. Old Mitsima's words repeated themselves in his mind. Finished, finished…In silence and from a long way off, but violently, desperately, hopelessly, he had loved Kiakimé. And now it was finished. He was sixteen.

At the full moon, in the Antelope Kiva, secrets would be told, secrets would be done and borne. They would go down, boys, into the kiva and come out again, men. The boys were all afraid and at the same time impatient. And at last it was the day. The sun went down, the moon rose. He went with the others. Men were standing, dark, at the entrance to the kiva; the ladder went down into the red lighted depths. Already the leading boys had begun to climb down. Suddenly, one of the men stepped forward, caught him by the arm, and pulled him out of the ranks. He broke free and dodged back into his place among the others. This time the man struck him, pulled his hair. “Not for you, white-hair!” “Not for the son of the she-dog,” said one of the other men. The boys laughed. “Go!” And as he still hovered on the fringes of the group, “Go!” the men shouted again. One of them bent down, took a stone, threw it. “Go, go, go!” There was a shower of stones. Bleeding, he ran away into the darkness. From the red-lit kiva came the noise of singing. The last of the boys had climbed down the ladder. He was all alone.

All alone, outside the pueblo, on the bare plain of the mesa. The rock was like bleached bones in the moonlight. Down in the valley, the coyotes were howling at the moon. The bruises hurt him, the cuts were still bleeding; but it was not for pain that he sobbed; it was because he was all alone, because he had been driven out, alone, into this skeleton world of rocks and moonlight. At the edge of the precipice he sat down. The moon was behind him; he looked down into the black shadow of the mesa, into the black shadow of death. He had only to take one step, one little jump….He held out his right hand in the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. Every few seconds a drop fell, dark, almost colourless in the dead light. Drop, drop, drop. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow…

He had discovered Time and Death and God.

“Alone, always alone,” the young man was saying.

The words awoke a plaintive echo in Bernard's mind. Alone, alone…“So am I,” he said, on a gush of confidingness. “Terribly alone.”

“Are you?” John looked surprised. “I thought that in the Other Place…I mean, Linda always said that nobody was ever alone there.”

Bernard blushed uncomfortably. “You see,” he said, mumbling and with averted eyes, “I'm rather different from most people, I suppose. If one happens to be decanted different…”

“Yes, that's just it.” The young man nodded. “If one's different, one's bound to be lonely. They're beastly to one. Do you know, they shut me out of absolutely everything? When the other boys were sent out to spend the night on the mountains—you know, when you have to dream which your sacred animal is—they wouldn't let me go with the others; they wouldn't tell me any of the secrets. I did it by myself, though,” he added. “Didn't eat anything for five days and then went out one night alone into those mountains there.” He pointed.

Patronizingly, Bernard smiled. “And did you dream of anything?” he asked.

The other nodded. “But I mustn't tell you what.” He was silent for a little; then, in a low voice, “Once,” he went on, “I did something that none of the others did: I stood against a rock in the middle of the day, in summer, with my arms out, like Jesus on the Cross.”

“What on earth for?”

“I wanted to know what it was like being crucified. Hanging there in the sun…”

“But why?”

“Why? Well…” He hesitated. “Because I felt I ought to. If Jesus could stand it. And then, if one has done something wrong…Besides, I was unhappy; that was another reason.”

“It seems a funny way of curing your unhappiness,” said Bernard. But on second thoughts he decided that there was, after all, some sense in it. Better than taking soma…

“I fainted after a time,” said the young man. “Fell down on my face. Do you see the mark where I cut myself?” He lifted the thick yellow hair from his forehead. The scar showed, pale and puckered, on his right temple.

Bernard looked, and then quickly, with a little shudder, averted his eyes. His conditioning had made him not so much pitiful as profoundly squeamish. The mere suggestion of illness or wounds was to him not only horrifying, but even repulsive and rather disgusting. Like dirt, or deformity, or old age. Hastily he changed the subject.

“I wonder if you'd like to come back to London with us?” he asked, making the first move in a campaign whose strategy he had been secretly elaborating ever since, in the little house, he had realized who the “father” of this young savage must be. “Would you like that?”

The young man's face lit up. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course; if I can get permission, that is.”

“Linda too?”

“Well…” He hesitated doubtfully. That revolting creature! No, it was impossible. Unless, unless…It suddenly occurred to Bernard that her very revoltingness might prove an enormous asset. “But of course!” he cried, making up for his first hesitations with an excess of noisy cordiality.

The young man drew a deep breath. “To think it should be coming true—what I've dreamt of all my life. Do you remember what Miranda says?”

“Who's Miranda?”

But the young man had evidently not heard the question. “O wonder!” he was saying; and his eyes shone, his face was brightly flushed. “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!” The flush suddenly deepened; he was thinking of Lenina, of an angel in bottle-green viscose, lustrous with youth and skin food, plump, benevolently smiling. His voice faltered. “O brave new world,” he began, then suddenly interrupted himself; the blood had left his cheeks; he was as pale as paper. “Are you married to her?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“Married. You know—for ever. They say ‘for ever’ in the Indian words; it can't be broken.”

“Ford, no!” Bernard couldn't help laughing.

John also laughed, but for another reason—laughed for pure joy.

“O brave new world,” he repeated. “O brave new world that has such people in it. Let's start at once.”

“You have a most peculiar way of talking sometimes,” said Bernard, staring at the young man in perplexed astonishment. “And, anyhow, hadn't you better wait till you actually see the new world?”

外面,在弥漫的灰尘和垃圾当中(现在已经有四条狗了),伯纳德和约翰来来回回地慢慢走着。

“我很难明白,”伯纳德正在说,“很难想象你的生活。好像我们生活在不同的星球上,生活在不同的时代。一个妈妈,这些灰尘,神祇,老年,以及疾病……”他摇摇头,“几乎难以想象。我永远也不会明白,除非你给我解释解释。”

“解释什么呢?”

“这个,”伯纳德指指村庄,“那个,”指指村庄外的小房子,“一切,你的全部生活。”

“可是,要说些什么呢?”

“从一开始。从你开始记事说起。”

“从我开始记事说起。”约翰的眉头皱到了一起。一阵长长的沉默。

天气很热。他们都吃了不少玉米饼和甜玉米。琳达说:“来,宝贝,躺下。”他们一起躺在大床上。“唱个歌吧,”琳达开始唱,“链球菌马儿转转,到班伯里T去看看”,还有“再见宝贝班廷,很快你就要换瓶”。她的声音越来越弱……

一阵很大的声响,把他惊醒了。一个男人站在床边,显得巨大而又吓人,正在对琳达说些什么,琳达在笑。她把毯子拉到了下巴处,可那个男人又给拽下去了。他的头发像两根粗黑的绳子,胳膊上戴着一个好看的银手镯,上面镶着蓝色的石头。他很喜欢这个手镯,可是,他仍然很害怕,他的脸紧紧靠着琳达的身体。琳达用手揽着他,他感到安全多了。她用他听不太懂的那种话对那个男人说:“不行,约翰在这儿呢。”那个男人看看他,又看看琳达,对琳达温柔地说了点什么。琳达说:“不行。”那个男人却朝着床俯下身,脸对着他,那男人的脸看起来那么大、那么可怕,粗黑的辫子碰到了毯子。“不行。”琳达又说了一遍,他感觉到琳达把他抓得更紧了,“不行,不行!”可是,那个男人抓住了他的一只胳膊,抓得很疼。他大叫起来。男人伸出另一只手,把他抱起来。琳达还在抓着他,还在说“不行,不行”。男人说了句什么,很短促,很生气,她的手突然松开了。“琳达,琳达。”他叫喊着,踢着脚,挣扎着,那个男人却把他抱到门口,打开门,把他放在另一个房间地板上的正中间,然后走了,随后把门关上了。他站起来,跑到门口。他踮起脚尖站着,刚好能够到那个大门栓。他拉开门栓,推了推门,可是打不开。“琳达。”他喊道。她没有回答。

他还记得一个很大的房间,很暗,里面放了一些巨大的木头制品,拴着线,周围站着很多女人——琳达说,在织毯子。琳达让他和其他孩子一起坐到角落里,她去帮那些女人。他和那些小男孩玩了很长时间。突然,人们说话的声音变大了,那些女人正在往外推搡琳达,琳达哭了。她走到门口,他跑过去找她。他问她,为什么那些人生气了。“因为我弄断了东西。”她说,她也突然生气了,“我怎么可能会织这些可恶的东西呢?”她说,“可恶的野蛮人。”他问她,什么是野蛮人。他们回到自己的房子后,波培正等在门口,就和他们一起进来了。他拿来了一个大葫芦,里面装满了水一样的东西,可是,那不是水,而是有怪味的东西,喝了之后呛嗓子,让人咳嗽。琳达喝了一些,波培也喝了一些,然后,琳达就开始不断地傻笑,大声讲话,之后,她和波培一起去了另外一个房间。波培离开后,他走进房间。琳达正躺在床上熟睡,他怎么都叫不醒她。

那时候,波培经常来。他说葫芦里的东西叫作麦斯卡尔酒,但琳达说那应该叫作唆麻,只是,事后这东西让你感到不舒服。他恨波培。他恨所有那些人,恨那些来看琳达的男人。有天下午,他正在和其他孩子一起玩耍,他记得那天很冷,山上还有积雪。他回到房里,听到卧室里传出愤怒的声音。是一些女人的声音,她们说的话他听不懂,但他知道肯定是很难听的话。突然,叭的一声,好像什么东西倒了,他听到人们在跑来跑去,又是叭的一声,之后就是鞭打驴子那种声音,只是挨打的不像驴子那么瘦。琳达尖叫起来。“哦,不要,不要,不要!”她说。他跑进去。是三个披着黑毛毡的女人。琳达在床上。一个女人按住她的手腕,另一个横躺在她的腿上,这样她就不会乱踢了。第三个正在用鞭子抽打她。一下,两下,三下,每一下抽打,琳达都疼得大叫。他哭了,使劲拽那个女人身上的毡子边:“求你了,求你了。”女人用空着的那只手把他推开。鞭子又一次落下来,琳达又叫了一声。他抓住女人棕色的大手,用尽全力咬了下去。她疼得大叫一声,把手挣脱,狠狠地推了他一把,他摔倒在地。他躺在地上的时候,她用鞭子抽了他三下,那疼得比什么都厉害,火烧火燎的。鞭子再次呼啸而下,可是,这次是琳达大叫了一声。

“可是,她们为什么要伤害你呢,琳达?”那天晚上,他问道。他在哭泣,鞭子打在他后背留下的红印还是疼得要命,可是,他之所以哭,是因为人们都太坏、太不公平,他自己还是个孩子,没法还击。琳达也在哭,她是成年人,可是她一个人抵挡不了她们三个。对她来说也不公平。“为什么她们要伤害你,琳达?”

“我不知道,我怎么会知道呢?”很难听清楚她的话,她肚子朝下躺着,脸埋在枕头里,“她们说那些男人是她们的。”她接着说,她根本不像在对他讲话,而是在对自己脑子里的某个人讲话,很长的话,他听不懂的话。最后,她哭的声音更大了。

“哦,琳达,别哭,别哭。”

他把身体靠过去,抱住她的脖子。琳达大叫一声,“啊,小心,我的肩膀!啊!”她把他推开,狠狠地推开。砰,他的头碰到了墙上。“你这个小白痴!”她大喊,突然,她开始扇他的耳光,扇啊,扇……

“琳达,”他喊道,“哦,妈妈,不要!”

“我不是你妈妈,我不想做你妈妈。”

“可是,琳达……啊!”她狠狠地抽在他的脸上。

“变成了个野蛮人,”她大喊道,“像动物一样生孩子……要不是你的话,我可能去找视察官了,可能都离开这里了。可是,带着个孩子。太丢人了!”

他看到她又要打他了,赶紧举起手护着自己的脸。

“哦,琳达,不要,求你了,不要。”

“小畜生!”她把他的胳膊拽下来,他的脸露出来了。

“不要,琳达。”他闭上眼睛,等着挨打。

可是,她没有再打他。过了一会儿,他睁开眼睛,她正在看着他。他试着对她笑。突然,她抱住他,亲他,一次又一次。

有时候,接连几天,琳达都不起床。她躺在床上伤心。或者,她喝波培带给她的那种东西,喝完后一个劲地笑,然后去睡觉。有时,她会生病。她经常忘记给他洗澡,除了冷玉米饼之外,也没有什么吃的。他还记得,她第一次在他头发里面发现那种小虫子的时候,她一阵大呼小叫,好一会儿都停不下来。

*

最快乐的时光就是当她给他讲“那个地方”的时候。“你们真的会飞吗?想飞就飞?”

“想飞就飞。”她会给他讲从盒子里传出来的美妙音乐,所有那些好玩的游戏,美味的食物和饮料,墙上那个按一下就立刻会出现亮光的小东西,还有能够看到、闻到和摸到的图画,制造好闻气味的盒子,像高山一样的粉房子、绿房子、蓝房子和银房子,每个人都快乐幸福,没有人会伤心或生气,人人彼此相属,能让你看到和听到外面世界的匣子,漂亮而干净的瓶子里的婴儿。一切都那么干净,没有难闻的气味,没有一粒灰尘。人们从来不会孤独,而是快活幸福地生活在一起,就像玛尔帕斯夏天的舞会,只是比那舞会还快活,每天都快活,每天……他常常一听就是一小时。有时候,他和其他孩子们玩累了的时候,村庄里的一个老头儿会用他们的那种语言,给他们讲故事,讲世界上的那个伟大的改革者,讲右手与左手的长期战争,讲干燥和湿润之间的战争,讲阿沃纳威娄纳(1)的故事,他仅靠在深夜里思考就创造了大雾,又从大雾中创造了整个世界;讲地母和天父;讲阿海育塔和玛赛莱玛,这对战争和机遇的双胞胎;讲耶稣和菩公,讲玛丽和埃特桑纳托,那个能让自己恢复青春的女人;讲拉古那的黑石头,阿科马的大鹰和圣母。都是奇怪的故事,而且由于是用那种语言讲的,他听不太懂,所以益发显得神奇了。躺在床上的时候,他会想起天堂、伦敦和阿科马圣母,想起一排一排干净瓶子里的婴儿,想起升天的耶稣,想起琳达飞起来的情景,想起高不可攀的世界孵化中心主任,也想起阿沃纳威娄纳。

*

很多男人来看琳达。那些男孩子开始对他指指点点。他们用那种奇怪的语言说琳达是个坏女人,他们用他听不懂的语言骂她,但他知道那是骂人话。有一天,他们编了一首歌来唱她,唱了一遍又一遍。于是,他向他们扔石头,他们也反过来扔他。一块尖利的石头砸破了他的脸颊,血一直流个不停,他满身都是血。

琳达教他认字。她用一个炭块在墙上画图画,一只坐着的动物,瓶子里的一个婴儿,然后,她写上字母:“猫在垫子上,婴儿在瓶子里”。他学得很快,很容易。等他认识了她写在墙上的所有字之后,琳达打开她的大木箱,从那些可笑的、她从没有穿过的红色短裤子下面,拽出一本薄薄的小书。他以前看到过这本书。“等你长大点,”她那时说,“你就会读了。”现在,他已经够大了。他很得意。“恐怕你会觉得这本书很没有意思,”她说,“可是,我只有这一本。”她叹叹气,“要是你能够看到我们伦敦那些可爱的阅读机器就好了!”他开始阅读。《胚胎的化学和细菌学条件设置》,《胚胎库贝塔工作人员实用指南》。他光是读书名,就花了一刻钟。他把书扔到地上。“讨厌,讨厌的书!”他说,然后哭开了。

男孩子们还是唱他们编的那首可怕的琳达之歌。有时,他们也因为他穿得破破烂烂而笑话他。他把衣服弄破以后,琳达不知道怎么补。在“那个地方”,琳达告诉他,衣服有了破洞,人们就会扔掉,买新的。“破烂,破烂!”那些男孩子总是冲着他喊。“可我会读书,”他对自己说,“他们不会,他们连什么是读书都不知道。”每次他们嘲笑他时,如果他努力想着读书的事,假装他并不在乎就容易得多了。他让琳达再把那本书拿给他。

男孩子们越是指指点点,越是嘲笑他,他越是努力读书。很快,他就认识书里所有的词了,连最长的词都会读了。可是,那些是什么意思呢?他问琳达,即使琳达知道,也说不太清楚,而通常情况下,她根本都说不上来。

“什么是化学药品?”他会问。

“哦,就像镁盐啊,让德尔塔和艾普西隆们长得又矮又笨的酒精啊,用于骨头健康的碳酸钙啊,就是那类东西。”

“怎么制造化学药品呢,琳达?化学药品是从哪里来的呢?”

“我也不知道。就是从瓶子里拿出来的。瓶子空了的时候,你就向化学药品库要。我想,是化学药品库的人们制造的吧。或者,是他们向工厂里要的。我不知道。我从来没有做过化学这一行。我的工作是在胚胎库。”

他问的其他问题也是这样,琳达好像总是不知道。村里的老人就有更明确的答案。

“人和各种生物的种子,太阳的种子,大地的种子,天空的种子。都是阿沃纳威娄纳从繁衍之雾里创造出来的。这个世界有四个子宫,他将种子放在最低的子宫里。然后,种子开始慢慢地生长……”

有一天(约翰后来计算,应该是他过了十二岁生日没几天),他回家后发现卧室地上放着一本他从来没有见过的书。这是一本很厚的书,看起来很旧了。书脊被老鼠啃坏了,有些书页已经松了,皱皱巴巴的。他把书捡起来,看了看书名,是《威廉·莎士比亚全集》。

琳达正躺在床上,从杯子里啜饮那种味道难闻的麦斯卡尔酒。“波培拿来的。”她说。她的声音又粗又哑,好像是别人的声音,“放在羚羊穴的一个大箱子里,据说已经放了几百年了。有可能是真的,我看了看,里面全都是些废话。一点也不文明。可是,你用它练习阅读还是挺好的。”她又喝了最后一口,把杯子放在床边的地上,侧过身去,打了一两个嗝,睡着了。

他随便翻开了一页。

哼,生活在一张汗臭冲鼻、

充满油垢的温床里;

只知道在腐堕里翻腾,

在龌龊的猪窝里寻欢做爱。(2)

这些奇怪的字句在他的头脑里翻滚着,轰鸣着,犹如滚滚的雷声,又像夏令舞会的鼓声——如果那些鼓声也会说话;既像那些唱玉米丰收歌的人,歌声那么美,那么美,都把人唱哭了;也像老米斯玛在念咒语,对着他的那些羽毛、雕花的手杖和零零碎碎的骨头啊石头啊什么的念个不停,叽里呱啦,哼哼哈哈,西库瓦,西库瓦,但是又比这个魔咒好听多了,因为这些词句更有意义,它们在对他说话,那么美妙,可惜只能听懂一半。这是既可怕又神秘的魔咒,是关于琳达的,关于琳达躺在那里打着呼噜,床边的地上放着空酒杯,关于琳达和波培的事,琳达和波培。

他越来越恨波培。一个人也许总是满脸堆笑,可他照样是个坏蛋。凶残、无情、狡诈、淫荡的坏蛋。(3)这些词语都是什么意思?他似懂非懂。但是,这些词的魔法很厉害,他的头脑里总是轰隆隆地响着这些词语,并且,现在看来,他好像从来没有真正憎恨过波培,没有真正憎恨过,因为他从来说不清他是如何憎恨波培的。现在,他知道了这些词语,这些像鼓声、像歌声又像咒语的词语。这些词语,以及他从中学会了这些词语的那个奇怪的故事(他根本看不懂,但是,这个故事还是非常棒,非常棒),它们给了他憎恨波培的理由,它们让他的仇恨更真实,它们甚至让波培变得更加真实。

有一天,他从外面玩耍回来,里屋的门开着,他看见他们两个人躺在床上,睡着了,肤色白皙的琳达和她身边黑乎乎的波培。他的一只胳膊伸在琳达的肩膀下面,另一只黑手放在她的乳房上,他的一条长辫子横在她的喉咙上,就像一条正要缠死她的蛇。波培的葫芦和杯子放在床边的地上。琳达在打呼噜。

他的心似乎消失了,留下了一个洞。他感到自己空了,空了,浑身发冷,恶心,头晕。他靠在墙上,让自己站稳。无情、狡诈、淫荡……像鼓点,像玉米丰收时的歌声,像咒语,这些词语在他头脑里一遍又一遍地重复。他从全身冰冷,突然变得浑身燥热。他感到血液上涌,脸颊如同发烧,在他的眼前,房间开始旋转,变暗。他咬着牙。“我要杀了他,我要杀了他,我要杀了他。”他不断地说。突然,他想起了更多的词语:

“当他烂醉如泥、大发雷霆、淫榻寻欢……”(4)

咒语是站在他这一边的,咒语解释了命令,发出了命令。他退回到外屋。“当他烂醉如泥……”切肉的刀放在壁炉旁边的地板上,他把刀捡起来,踮着脚尖,再次走到门口。“当他烂醉如泥,烂醉如泥……”他跑进房间,扎了下去,哦,出血了!再扎一下。看到波培醒了,他举起手准备再扎,却发现自己的手腕被抓住了,攥得紧紧的,哦!手腕给掰过去了。他一动也不能动,他给困住了。波培那双小小的黑眼睛,离得那么近,盯着自己的眼睛。他眼睛望向别处。波培的左肩上有两个伤口。“哦!看看流的这血!”琳达在哭,“看看这血!”她从来都看不得流血。波培举起另外一只手,他以为要打他。他身子挺着,准备迎接这一击。可是,波培的手仅仅攥住他的下巴,把他的脸扭过来,让他不得不看着波培的眼睛。过了好一会儿,好像有好几个小时那么长,突然,他再也受不了,开始大哭起来。波培哈哈大笑,“走开,”他说,说的是印第安语,“走开,我勇敢的阿海育塔。”他跑到另外的房间,把眼泪藏起来。

“你十五岁了。”老米斯玛用印第安语说,“现在,我可以教你做泥塑了。”

他俩蹲在河边,一起做起来。

“首先,”米斯玛说,两手捧起一团湿泥巴,“我们做个小月亮。”老人把泥巴团挤成了一个圆盘,然后把边缘卷上去,月亮变成了一个空杯子。

缓慢地,笨拙地,他开始模仿老人那灵巧的动作。

“月亮,杯子,现在做条蛇。”米斯玛将另一团泥巴搓成了一条柔软的长柱形,盘成一个圈,按压到杯子沿上。“然后,再做一条蛇,再来一条,又一条。”一圈接一圈,米斯玛做出了罐子的边,最初很窄小,然后慢慢鼓出来,到了罐子颈部又变窄了。米斯玛又是挤,又是拍,又是抹,又是刮的。最后,罐子做好了,立在那里,形状和玛尔帕斯常见的水罐一样,但不是黑色的,而是乳白色的,摸起来软软的。立在它旁边歪歪扭扭的那个,是他模仿米斯玛做的罐子。看着两个罐子,他忍不住笑了。

“下一个就会好得多的。”他说,开始弄湿另一团泥巴。

塑造,成形,他感到自己的手指越来越灵巧、越来越有力,这令他很快乐。“A,B,C,维他命D,”他一边工作一边唱着,“脂肪在肝里,鳕鱼在海里。”米斯玛也在唱歌,一首关于猎熊的歌。他们一整天都在工作,一整天,他都忘我地沉浸在极度的快乐之中。

“明年冬天,”老米斯玛说,“我教你做弓箭。”

他在房子外面站了很长时间,里面的仪式终于结束了。门开了,人们走了出来。科斯鲁是第一个出来的,他的右胳膊向前伸着,紧握拳头,好像攥着什么珍贵的珠宝。琪雅吉美跟在后面出来了,攥紧的手也向前伸着。他们默默地走着,后面跟着他们的兄弟姐妹和表兄妹们,还有一大群老年人,他们也都一声不吭。

他们走出了村庄,穿过平顶的山。在悬崖边上,他们停住了,面对着初升的太阳。科斯鲁张开手,手掌上有一小撮玉米面,白白的,他对着玉米面吹口气,念叨了几句,冲着太阳撒掉了,一小把白色的粉尘。琪雅吉美重复了同样的动作。之后,琪雅吉美的父亲走上前来,举起一根带羽毛的祈祷杖,做了一个很长的祈祷,然后把手杖随着那些玉米面扔了下去。

“仪式完成了,”老米斯玛大声说,“他们结婚了。”

“哎呀,”琳达说,他们转身要离开了,“我只想说,这些都有点大题小做。在文明的国家,一个男孩想要一个女孩时,他只要……约翰,你去哪里?”

他没有理会她的招呼,跑开了,跑得很远,想一个人静一静。

完成了。老米斯玛的话依然萦绕在他的脑海里,完成了,完成了……他曾经默默地,离得远远地,爱着琪雅吉美,他爱得那么强烈、那么绝望、那么无助。现在,他们的仪式完成了。他那时十六岁。

月圆的时候,在羚羊穴里,会有人倾诉秘密,那里会产生秘密,也保守秘密。下到里面,进到地穴里的时候,他们是男孩子,出来的时候,变成了男人。男孩们都有点恐惧,但同时也都很渴望这一刻。终于,这一天到了。太阳下山,月亮升上来。他和其他男孩子一起下去了。一些男人站在地穴的入口,黑洞洞的人影。有梯子通向下面红光照亮的深处。领头的男孩子已经开始顺着梯子往下爬。突然,一个男人走上前来,抓住他的胳膊,把他拽出了队伍。他挣脱了,躲藏着,回到队伍中,和其他人站在一起。这次,这个男人打了他,揪住他的头发。“不要你,白毛!”“不要那个母狗下的崽!”另一个男人说。男孩们哄堂大笑。“滚开!”看到他还在人群的边上晃悠,“滚开!”男人们喊道。有一个人猫下腰,捡起一块石头,扔过来。“滚,滚,滚!”石头像雨点一样砸过来。他流着血,跑向黑暗处。从红光照耀的地穴深处传来一阵歌声。最后的男孩子已经爬下梯子。他完全孤独了。

孤孤单单一个人,在村庄的外面,在平顶高山光秃秃的台地上。在月色中,岩石像是漂白过的骨头。下面山谷中,郊狼在对着月亮哀嚎。那些石头擦破的地方非常疼,伤口还在流血,但是,他不是因为疼痛而哭泣,而是因为他的孤独,因为他被赶了出来,孤零零地,被赶到了这个岩石与月亮构成的骷髅世界。在悬崖边,他坐了下来。月亮在他的身后,他向下望着平顶山黑黑的阴影,望着死亡的暗影。他只要往前跨一步,轻轻一跳……在月色中,他伸出右手。从他手腕的伤口中,鲜血依然不停地渗出来。每过一会儿,就有一滴血落下来,很深的颜色,但在死亡般的光线下却近乎无色。一滴,两滴,三滴。明天,明天,明天(5)……

他发现了时间、死亡和上帝。

“独自一人,总是独自一人。”这个年轻人说。

这些话在伯纳德的头脑中唤起了悲凉的回响。独自一人,独自一人……“我也一样,”他说,一股倾诉的冲动涌上来,“孤独得要命。”

“你也是吗?”约翰看起来很吃惊,“我以为在‘那个地方’……我的意思是,琳达总是说在那个地方,从没有人感到孤独。”

伯纳德脸红了,感到很不自在。“你看啊,”他咕哝着说,眼睛望着别处,“我想,我和大多数人不太一样,如果一个人换瓶时就不同……”

“是的,就是那么回事,”年轻人点点头,“如果你和别人不同,你注定要孤独。他们对你很坏。你知道吗?他们不让我参与任何事?当其他男孩子都去山上过夜,你知道,要去那里做梦,去梦见自己的神兽到底是什么,他们不让我一块儿去,他们也不告诉我任何秘密。虽然我自己去过那里了。”他补充了一句,“连着五天什么都不吃,然后晚上独自一人上了那座山。”他指了指那座山。

伯纳德颇为居高临下地笑了笑。“你梦到什么了没有?”他问。

年轻人点点头。“我不能告诉你是什么。”他沉默了片刻,然后压低声音说,“有一次,”他接着说,“我做了一件其他人都没有做过的事。夏天,在中午时分,我靠着一块大岩石站着,伸出我的胳膊,就像十字架上的基督。”

“做那个干什么?”

“我想知道被钉在十字架上是什么感觉,在大太阳下,吊在那里……”

“可为什么呀?”

“为什么?嗯……”他犹豫起来,“因为我觉得应该这么做。如果基督能够忍受。还有,如果你做了错事……还有,我当时很不开心,这是另外一个原因。”

“用这个方法治疗你的不开心,够可笑的。”伯纳德说。但是再想了想之后,他又觉得这么做还是有点道理的,总比吃唆麻好……

“过了一会儿,我晕过去了,”年轻人说,“脸朝下躺倒在地。你看见我当时受伤留的疤了吗?”他把前额上浓密的黄头发撩起来。那个疤痕在他的右太阳穴部位,白白的,有点皱。

伯纳德看了一眼,然后哆嗦了一下,赶紧把眼睛移开了。他所受的训练没有让他变得充满同情心,而是变得过度娇气。任何疾病或伤口对他来讲都不仅仅是恐怖的,而且还让人抵触,令人恶心,就像灰尘、畸形或者老年什么的。他匆忙换了个话题。

“我在想,你愿不愿意和我们一起回伦敦?”他问道。自从在小房子里时意识到这个年轻野蛮人的“爸爸”是谁之后,他就在悄悄地谋划着一个战略,现在他迈出了这个战役的第一步,“你愿意去吗?”

年轻人的脸顿时露出喜色。“你是认真的吗?”

“当然了,如果我能得到许可证的话。”

“琳达也去吗?”

“嗯……”他不太肯定,犹豫着。那个令人恶心的家伙!不,那不可能,除非,除非……突然,伯纳德想到,她的恶心说不定会成为一笔巨大的财富。“当然!”他喊道,用这种过分的热情来弥补刚才的犹豫。

年轻人深深吸了一口气。“想想居然要实现了,我一直做梦都在盼望着的事。你还记得米兰达(6)是怎么说的吗?”

“谁是米兰达?”

很显然,年轻人没有听到这个问题。“哦,奇迹啊!(7)”他说,他的眼睛闪闪发亮,他的脸泛着红光,“这里有多少美好的人!人类是多么美丽!”他脸上的红晕突然加深了,他想起了列宁娜,一个穿着瓶子绿色黏胶衣服的天使,光彩照人,年轻,绸缎般的肌肤,丰满,善良地微笑着。他的声音颤抖了。“哦,美丽的新世界。”他说,突然又停住了,脸上血色全无,苍白得如同一张纸。“你和她结婚了吗?”他问。

“我什么?”

“结婚。你知道的,永远在一起。他们用印第安话说就是‘永远在一起’,你不能毁约的。”

“福帝,没有!”伯纳德忍不住笑了。

约翰也笑了,但原因不同,他是因为高兴而笑。

“哦,美丽的新世界,”他重复道,“哦,美丽的新世界,有这么出色的人物!我们马上出发吧。”

“有时候,你说话的方式真特别。”伯纳德说,吃惊且不解地看着这个年轻人,“还有,是不是等你真的见到这个新世界了,你再这么说?”

————————————————————

(1) 北美祖尼族印第安人神话中的创世神。

(2) 引自《哈姆雷特》,哈姆雷特对他的母亲说的话,谴责她同叔叔乱伦。

(3) 出处同上,哈姆雷特在描述他的叔叔兼继父,现任国王克劳迪乌斯。

(4) 引自《哈姆雷特》,哈姆雷特在考虑杀死他叔叔的最佳地点和方式。

(5) 引自《麦克白》,在妻子死后、自己死前不久,麦克白得出结论:时间缓慢溜走,人生毫无意义。这里指约翰孤独时经常会思考的问题。

(6) 《暴风雨》女主人公。

(7) 此句和下面几句均引自《暴风雨》,尤其是“美丽的新世界”这一句,约翰还将多次引用,每次含义略有不同,这体现了约翰在世界国的心路历程以及他对这个文明世界的看法的转变。

用户搜索

疯狂英语 英语语法 新概念英语 走遍美国 四级听力 英语音标 英语入门 发音 美语 四级 新东方 七年级 赖世雄 zero是什么意思泸州市书香家园(学院中路9)英语学习交流群

  • 频道推荐
  • |
  • 全站推荐
  • 推荐下载
  • 网站推荐