《渺小一生》:六年前他有回要去过感恩节，

　 He didn’t know what it was—maybe it was just the calmness of Andy’s voice, the steadiness with which he made his promise that made him realize that he was serious this time in a way he hadn’t been before; or maybe it was just the realization that yes, he was tired, so tired that he was willing, finally, to accept someone else’s orders—but over the next week, he did as he was told. He ate his meals, even as the food transformed itself by some strange alchemy to mud, to offal: he made himself chew and swallow, chew and swallow. They weren’t big meals, but they were meals. Andy called every night at midnight, and Willem called every morning at six (he couldn’t bring himself to ask, and Willem never volunteered, whether Andy had contacted him). The hours in between were the most difficult, and although he couldn’t cease cutting himself entirely, he did limit it: two cuts, and he stopped. In the absence of cutting, he felt himself being tugged toward earlier punishments—before he had been taught to cut himself, there was a period in which he would toss himself against the wall outside the motel room he shared with Brother Luke again and again until he sagged, exhausted, to the ground, and his left side was permanently stained blue and purple and brown with bruises. He didn’t do that now, but he remembered the sensation, the satisfying slam of his body against the wall, the awful pleasure of hurling himself against something so immovable.

他不知道原因是什么——或许只是安迪声音里的冷静，那平稳的口气让他明白这回安迪是前所未有的认真；或许他只是发现，没错，他累了，累得终于愿意接受他人的命令——下一个星期，他乖乖遵照安迪的话。他每顿饭都吃，尽管那些食物被某些奇怪的魔法变成了泥巴和被丢弃的动物内脏，他仍逼自己咀嚼后吞下去，咀嚼后吞下去。他吃得并不多，但好歹都吃了。安迪每天晚上12点会打电话来，威廉则是每天早上6点打来（他无法鼓起勇气问是不是安迪联络过他，威廉也从没主动说）。12点到6点之间是最难熬的。他无法完全不去割自己，但他设下了限制：割两道，就停下。不割自己的时候，他觉得有一股力量把他拖向更早的惩罚——在他被教导割自己之前，有一段时期他会站在他和卢克修士住的汽车旅馆房间外，一次又一次朝墙壁撞，直到他最后垮在地上，筋疲力尽，身体左侧永远是一块块蓝色、紫色、褐色的瘀伤。他现在不会去撞了，但他记得那个感觉，那种身体撞在墙上的满足感，把自己摔向一个固定不动的物体时所产生的可怕愉悦感。

　 On Friday he saw Andy, who wasn’t approving (he hadn’t gained any weight), but also didn’t lecture him (nor had he lost any), and the next day he flew to Boston. He didn’t tell anyone he was going, not even Harold. Julia, he knew, was at a conference in Costa Rica; but Harold, he knew, would be home.

星期五他去看安迪，他并不满意（他的体重完全没增加），但也没跟他说教（也完全没减轻），次日他飞到波士顿。他事先没告诉任何人他要过去，连哈罗德都没说。他知道朱丽娅正在哥斯达黎加参加学术会议，但哈罗德会在家。

　 Julia had given him a set of keys six years ago, when he was arriving for Thanksgiving at a time when both she and Harold happened to have department meetings, so he let himself into the house and poured a glass of water, looking out at the back garden as he drank. It was just before noon, and Harold would still be at his tennis game, so he went to the living room to wait for him. But he fell asleep, and when he woke, it was to Harold shaking his shoulder and urgently repeating his name.

六年前他有回要去过感恩节，因为抵达时他们夫妇碰巧都在各自的部门开会，于是朱丽娅事先配了一副钥匙给他。这回他自己用钥匙开门进去，倒了一杯水，边喝边看着后院。此时不到中午，哈罗德还在打网球，所以他走到客厅等候。但他睡着了，醒来时，哈罗德正摇着他的肩膀，着急地猛喊他的名字。

　 “Harold,” he said, sitting up, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I should’ve called.”

“哈罗德。”他说，坐了起来，“对不起，对不起，我应该先打电话的。”

　 “Jesus,” Harold said, panting; he smelled cold and sharp. “Are you all right, Jude? What’s wrong?”

“天啊。”哈罗德喘着气说，身上一股冰冷、辛辣的气味，“你还好吧，裘德？出了什么事？”

　 “Nothing, nothing,” he said, hearing before he said it how absurd his explanation was, “I just thought I’d stop by.”

“没事，没事。”他说，还没说出口就觉得自己的解释很荒谬，“我只是想过来看看。”

　 “Well,” said Harold, momentarily silent. “It’s good to see you.” He sat in his chair and looked at him. “You’ve been something of a stranger these past few weeks.”

“唔。”哈罗德说，顿了一下，“看到你，我很高兴。”他坐下来看着他，“过去几个星期，你有点像陌生人。”

　 “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“我知道。”他说，“对不起。”

　 Harold shrugged. “No apologies necessary. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

哈罗德耸耸肩：“不需要道歉。我只是很高兴你没事。”

　 “Yes,” he said. “I’m okay.”

“是啊。”他说，“我没事。”

　 Harold tilted his head. “You don’t look too good.”

哈罗德歪着头：“你看起来不太好。”

　 He smiled. “I’ve had the flu.” He gazed up at the ceiling, as if his lines might be written there. “The forsythia’s falling down, you know.”

他微笑：“我之前得了流行性感冒。”他往上看着天花板，好像他的台词就写在上头，“外头的那些连翘树篱都快垮了，你知道。”

　 “I know. It’s been a windy winter.”

“我知道，今年冬天风很大。”

　 “I’ll help you stake it, if you want.”

“我可以帮你把那些木桩撑好，如果你想的话。”

　 Harold looked at him for a long moment then, his mouth slightly moving, as if he was both trying and not trying to speak. Finally he said, “Yeah. Let’s go do that.”

哈罗德看了他半天，嘴巴稍微动了一下，好像同时想说话又不想说话。最后他说：“好啊，我们去弄吧。”

　 Outside it was abruptly, insultingly cold, and both of them began sniffling. He positioned the stake and Harold hammered it into the ground, although the earth was frozen and chipped up into pottery-like shards as he did. After they’d gotten it deep enough, Harold handed him lengths of twine, and he tied the center stalks of the bush to the stake, snugly enough so they’d be secure, but not so snug that they’d be constricted. He worked slowly, making sure the knots were tight, snapping off a few branches that were too bent to recover.

外头的寒冷简直是折磨，他们两个人都开始吸鼻子。他把木桩摆好，哈罗德用槌子把它敲进土里，冰冻的泥土像碎陶片般往上裂开。等到木桩敲得够深，哈罗德就把一段段绳子递给他，他再把灌木树篱中央的树干绑在木桩上，必须绑得够紧才好固定位置，但也不能紧到限制树的生长。他慢慢绑好，确定那些结打得很紧，又折掉几根太弯、无法挽救的树枝。

　 “Harold,” he said, when he was halfway down the bush, “I wanted to talk to you about something, but—I don’t know where to begin.” Stupid, he told himself. This is such a stupid idea. You were so stupid to think any of this could ever happen. He opened his mouth to continue and then shut it, and then opened it again: he was a fish, dumbly blowing bubbles, and he wished he had never come, had never begun speaking.

“哈罗德。”他说，此时他们已经处理完一半的灌木树篱，“我想跟你谈一件事，但是……我不知道该从何说起。”真蠢，他告诉自己。这个主意真蠢。你太蠢了，居然以为这种事情可能发生。他张开嘴想继续说，随即又闭上，然后又打开：他是一只鱼，傻乎乎地吐着泡泡。他真希望自己根本没来，根本没有开口谈。

　 “Jude,” said Harold, “tell me. Whatever it is.” He stopped. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“裘德，”哈罗德说，“告诉我吧，不管是什么事。”他暂停一下，“你改变心意了吗？”

　 “No,” he said. “No, nothing like that.” They were silent. “Are you?”

“没有。”他说，“不，不是那样的。”他们又沉默了一会儿，“那你呢？”

　 “No, of course not.”

“没有，当然没有。”