《渺小一生》:我已经打过了，试了又试，电

　 But I had been. I called and called and the phone rang and rang.

我已经打过了，试了又试，电话响了又响，就是没人接。

　 That night I lay awake alternately worrying and having the kinds of fantasies men have: guns, hit men, vengeance. I had waking dreams in which I called Gillian’s cousin, who was a detective in New York, and had Caleb Porter arrested. I had dreams in which I called you, and you and Andy and I staked out his apartment and killed him.

那天夜里我躺在床上睡不着，一下子担心，一下子又有那种男人会冒出来的幻想：枪、杀手、复仇。我还幻想要打电话给吉莉安那位在纽约当警探的表亲，要他去逮捕凯莱布·波特。我幻想要打电话给你，然后你、安迪和我埋伏在他家公寓外头，杀了他。

　 The next morning I left early, before eight, and bought bagels and orange juice and went down to Greene Street. It was a gray day, soggy and humid, and I rang the buzzer three times, each for several seconds, before stepping back toward the curb, squinting up at the sixth floor.

次日早晨我很早就出门，不到8点就买了贝果和橙汁去格林街。那是灰蒙蒙的一天，泥泞而潮湿，我按了三次他家门铃，每次持续好几秒钟，然后又退到人行道边缘，眯起眼睛往上看着六楼。

　 I was about to buzz again when I heard his voice coming over the speaker: “Hello?”

我正打算再按，便听到他的声音从对讲机传来：“哈喽？”

　 “It’s me,” I said. “Can I come up?” There was no response. “I want to apologize,” I said. “I need to see you. I brought bagels.”

“是我。”我说，“我可以上去吗？”他没回应。“我想道歉。”我说，“我得见你，我带了贝果来。”

　 There was another silence. “Hello?” I asked.

他又沉默了一会儿。“哈喽？”我问。

　 “Harold,” he said, and I noticed his voice sounded funny. Muffled, as if his mouth had grown an extra set of teeth and he was speaking around them. “If I let you up, do you promise you won’t get angry and start yelling?”

“哈罗德。”他说，我注意到他的声音怪怪的，像被闷住了，好像他嘴里多长出两排牙齿，而他正隔着那些牙齿讲话，“如果我让你上来，你能答应我你不会生气吼我吗？”

　 I was quiet then, myself. I didn’t know what this meant. “Yes,” I said, and after a second or two, the door clicked open.

轮到我没回应了，我不明白这话是什么意思。“好吧。”我说。过了一两秒钟，门开了。

　 I stepped off the elevator, and for a minute, I saw nothing, just that lovely apartment with its walls of light. And then I heard my name and looked down and saw him.

我出了电梯，有一分钟，我什么都没看到，只看到那间漂亮的公寓和满屋子的光线。然后我听到有人喊我的名字，往下看到了他。

　 I nearly dropped the bagels. I felt my limbs turn to stone. He was sitting on the ground, but leaning on his right hand for support, and as I knelt beside him, he turned his head away and held his left hand before his face as if to shield himself.

我手上的贝果差点落地，我觉得自己的四肢变成了石头。他坐在地上，但用右手撑着地。我跪在他旁边时，他别开头举起左手遮脸，好像要挡住自己。

　 “He took the spare set of keys,” he said, and his face was so swollen that his lips barely had room to move. “I came home last night and he was here.” He turned toward me then, and his face was an animal skinned and turned inside out and left in the heat, its organs melting together into a pudding of flesh: all I could see of his eyes were their long line of lashes, a smudge of black against his cheeks, which were a horrible blue, the blue of decay, of mold. I thought he might have been crying then, but he didn’t cry. “I’m sorry, Harold, I’m so sorry.”

“他拿了备用钥匙。”他说，整张脸肿得几乎连嘴唇都没办法动了，“我昨天晚上回家，他就已经等在这里。”他转向我，整张脸就像一只动物被剥了皮、体腔往外翻，留在热气中腐烂，各种器官软糊成一摊烂肉：眼睛只剩两排黑睫毛，脸颊是可怕的蓝色，腐烂的蓝，发霉的蓝。我以为他在哭，但结果没有。“对不起，哈罗德，对不起。”

　 I made sure I wasn’t going to start shouting—not at him, just shouting to express something I couldn’t say—before I spoke to him. “We’re going to get you better,” I said. “We’re going to call the police, and then—”

我先确定我不会开始大吼——不是对他，而是要表达某种我说不出的东西——然后才开口。“我会照顾你的。”我说，“我会打电话报警，然后……”

　 “No,” he said. “Not the police.”

“不行，”他说，“不要报警。”

　 “We have to,” I said. “Jude. You have to.”

“一定要。”我说，“裘德，你一定要报警啊。”

　 “No,” he said. “I won’t report it. I can’t”—he took a breath—“I can’t take the humiliation. I can’t.”

“不行。”他说，“我不会报案的。我不能……”他吸了口气，“我不能承受那种羞辱。我没办法。”

　 “All right,” I said, thinking that I would discuss this with him later. “But what if he comes back?”

“好吧。”我说，心想这个稍后再来讨论，“如果他再回来呢？”

　 He shook his head, just slightly. “He won’t,” he said, in his new mumbly voice.

他轻轻摇了一下头：“不会的。”他说，用那种含糊的声音。

　 I was beginning to feel light-headed from the effort of suppressing the need to run out and find Caleb and kill him, from the effort of accepting that someone had done this to him, from seeing him, someone who was so dignified, who made certain to always be composed and neat, so beaten, so helpless. “Where’s your chair?” I asked him.

我开始觉得脑袋发晕，因为得一直努力忍住跑出去找到凯莱布、把他杀掉的冲动，努力接受居然有人这样对待他，看着像他这么有尊严、向来镇静而整洁的人，居然被打得这么惨、这么无助。“你的轮椅在哪里？”我问他。

　 He made a sound like a bleat, and said something so quietly I had to ask him to repeat it, though I could see how much pain it caused him to speak. “Down the stairs,” he finally said, and this time, I was certain he was crying, although he couldn’t even open his eyes enough for tears. He began to shake.

他发出一个羊叫般的咩咩声，说了句话，但声音小到我只好请他再说一次，我看得出来他讲话有多痛。“在楼梯下头。”他终于说。这回我很确定他在哭，虽然他根本睁不开眼睛让泪水流出来。他开始发抖。

　 I was shaking myself by this point. I left him there, sitting on the floor, and went to retrieve his wheelchair, which had been thrown down the stairs so hard that it had bounced off the far wall and was halfway down to the fourth floor. On the way back to him, I noticed the floor was tacky with something, and saw too a large bright splash of vomit near the dining-room table, congealed into paste.

这时我自己也在发抖。我把他留在那里，坐在地上，然后自己走下楼去拿他的轮椅。那轮椅之前被丢下楼梯，砸到对面的墙，往下落到通往四楼的半途。我拿着轮椅回来时，注意到地板上黏着东西，然后看到餐桌附近一大片发亮的呕吐物，凝结成糊。