《渺小一生》:所以我还能告诉你什么呢？

　 I stroked his hair, then, and he let me. “You don’t have to be,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I wanted to cry, but I thought he might, and if he wanted to, I would try not to. “You know that, right?” I asked him. “You know this wasn’t your fault, you know you didn’t deserve this?” He said nothing, so I kept asking, and asking, until finally he gave a small nod. “You know that guy is a fucking asshole, right?” I asked him, and he turned his face away. “You know you’re not to blame, right?” I asked him. “You know that this says nothing about you and what you’re worth?”

我抚着他的头发，他没有反抗。“你不必羞愧。”我说，“你没做错什么。”我想哭，但我觉得他可能也想哭。如果他想哭，我就要设法别哭。“你知道吧？”我问他，“你知道这不是你的错，你知道你不该受这种罪？”他什么都没说，于是我一直问、一直问，直到最后他轻轻点了个头。“你知道那家伙是个他妈的混蛋吧？”我问他，他别开脸，“你知道这一切都不该怪你吧？”我问他，“你知道这不代表你是什么样的人，也不代表你的价值？”

　 “Harold,” he said. “Please.” And I stopped, although really, I should have kept going.

“哈罗德，”他说，“拜托。”然后我停下，其实我真该继续问下去的。

　 For a while we said nothing. “Can I ask you a question?” I said, and after a second or two, he nodded again. I didn’t even know what I was going to say until I was saying it, and as I was saying it, I didn’t know where it had come from, other than I suppose it was something I had always known and had never wanted to ask, because I dreaded his answer: I knew what it would be, and I didn’t want to hear it. “Were you sexually abused as a child?”

有一会儿，我们都没说话。“我可以问你一个问题吗？”我说。过了一两秒钟，他才点头。我开口前都还不知道要说什么，而且我说出来的时候，也不知道那个问题是哪里来的，只不过我想那是我一直知道、却始终不想问的，因为我害怕他的回答，我知道他会怎么说，而我不想听。“你小时候受到过性侵害吗？”

　 I could sense, rather than see, him stiffen, and under my hand, I could feel him shudder. He still hadn’t looked at me, and now he rolled to his left side, moving his bandaged arm to the pillow next to him. “Jesus, Harold,” he said, finally.

我可以感觉到（而非看到）他全身变得僵硬，而且在我的手底下，我发现他开始颤抖。他还是没看我，而且这会儿把头转向了左边，贴了绷带的手臂放在脸旁边的枕头上。“天啊，哈罗德。”最后他终于说。

　 I withdrew my hand. “How old were you when it happened?” I asked.

我抽回手，“当时你几岁？”我问。

　 There was a pause, and then he pushed his face into the pillow. “Harold,” he said, “I’m really tired. I need to sleep.”

他有一会儿没回答，然后把脸埋进枕头里。“哈罗德，”他说，“我真的很累，我要睡了。”

　 I put my hand on his shoulder, which jumped, but I held on. Beneath my palm I could feel his muscles tense, could feel that shiver running through him. “It’s okay,” I told him. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” I said. “It’s not your fault, Jude, do you understand me?” But he was pretending to be asleep, though I could still feel that vibration, everything in his body alert and alarmed.

我一手放在他肩膀上，他惊跳了一下，但是我没拿开。在我的手掌底下，我可以感觉到他的肌肉绷紧了，全身颤抖。“没事的。”我告诉他，“你没有什么好羞愧的。”我说，“那不是你的错，裘德，你明白吗？”但他假装睡着了，不过我还是可以感觉到那种震颤，他全身警戒而恐慌。

　 I sat there for a while longer, watching him hold himself rigid. Finally I left, closing the door behind me.

我又在那里坐了一会儿，看着他全身僵硬不动。最后我走出房间，关上门。

　 I stayed for the rest of the week. You called him that night, and I answered his phone and lied to you, said something useless about an accident, heard the worry in your voice and wanted so badly to tell you the truth. The next day, you called again and I listened outside his door as he lied to you as well: “A car accident. No. No, not serious. What? I was up at Richard’s house for the weekend. I nodded off and hit a tree. I don’t know; I was tired—I’ve been working a lot. No, a rental. Because mine’s in the shop. It’s not a big deal. No, I’m going to be fine. No, you know Harold—he’s just overreacting. I promise. I swear. No, he’s in Rome until the end of next month. Willem: I promise. It’s fine! Okay. I know. Okay. I promise; I will. You too. Bye.”

接下来那个星期，我一直待在那里。你那天晚上打电话来，我帮他接了电话，跟你撒谎，说他出车祸什么的，听到你声音里的忧虑，我好想告诉你事实。次日，你又打来，我在他门外听着他也跟你撒谎：“车祸。不，不，不严重。什么？我去理查德的别墅过周末。我开车时打瞌睡，撞到一棵树。不知道，我累了吧——我工作量太大了。不，是租来的车。因为我的车送去保养了。没什么大不了的。没什么，我没事的。没有啦，你也知道哈罗德——他总是大惊小怪。我保证。我发誓。没有，他在罗马，要到下个月底才会回来。威廉，我跟你保证。没事的！好，我知道。好，我保证。我会的，你也是。再见。”

　 Mostly, he was meek, tractable. He ate his soup every morning, he took his pills. They made him logy. Every morning he was in his study, working, but by eleven he was on the couch, sleeping. He slept through lunch, and all afternoon, and I only woke him for dinner. You called him every night. Julia called him, too: I always tried to eavesdrop, but couldn’t hear much of their conversations, only that he didn’t say much, which meant Julia must have been saying a great deal. Malcolm came over several times, and the Henry Youngs and Elijah and Rhodes visited as well. JB sent over a drawing of an iris; I had never known him to draw flowers before. He fought me, as Andy had predicted, on the dressings on his legs and back, which he wouldn’t, no matter how I pleaded with and shouted at him, let me see. He let Andy, and I heard Andy say to him, “You’re going to need to come uptown every other day and let me change these. I mean it.”

大部分状况下，他都很顺从、很温驯。每天早上，他会喝掉他的浓汤，吃掉他的药。那些药让他变得迟钝。每天早上他都在书房里工作，到了11点，他会去长沙发上睡觉。睡过午餐时间和一整个下午，直到我叫他吃晚餐。你每天晚上打电话给他。朱丽娅也会打给他，我总是想偷听，但没听到多少，只知道他没说什么，这表示一定都是朱丽娅在说话。马尔科姆来过几次，还有两位亨利·杨、伊莱贾和罗兹也来看过他。杰比送了一幅素描过来，里头是一朵鸢尾花，我从来不知道他也会画花。一如安迪所料，他不肯让我帮他的两腿和背部换药，无论我怎么求他、吼他，他都不肯让我看。他只肯让安迪帮他换药。我听到安迪跟他说：“你每隔一天就得到我诊所来，让我帮你换，我是认真的。”

　 “Fine,” he snapped.

“好啦。”他凶巴巴回答。

　 Lucien came to see him, but he was asleep in his study. “Don’t wake him,” he said, and then, peeking in at him, “Jesus.” We talked for a bit, and he told me about how admired he was at the firm, which is something you never get tired of hearing about your child, whether he is four and in preschool and excels with clay, or is forty and in a white-shoe firm and excels in the protection of corporate criminals. “I’d say you must be proud of him, but I think I know your politics too well for that.” He grinned. He liked Jude quite a bit, I could tell, and I found myself feeling slightly jealous, and then stingy for feeling jealous at all.

卢西恩也来看过他，但当时他在书房里睡觉。“别吵醒他。”卢西恩说，然后探头偷偷看了一下，“天啊。”我们聊了一会儿，他告诉我事务所里大家有多欣赏他。听别人夸你的孩子，这种事情你永远不会腻，无论他是4岁、在托儿所捏黏土很厉害，或是40岁、在大型律师事务所里很会保护企业罪犯。“我本来想说你一定很以他为荣，但我太了解你的政治立场，所以就不说了。”他咧嘴笑。我看得出来，他相当喜欢裘德，我发现自己有点嫉妒，随即觉得自己也太小气了。

　 “No,” I said. “I am proud of him.” I felt bad then, for my years of scolding him about Rosen Pritchard, the one place where he felt safe, the one place he felt truly weightless, the one place where his fears and insecurities banished themselves.

“不，”我说，“我的确很以他为荣。”我觉得很自责，因为这些年来我都为了他待在罗普克而训斥他，但他在那里明明觉得很安全，也真的轻松自在，可以把他的恐惧和不安全感隔绝在外。

　 By the following Monday, the day before I left, he looked better: his cheeks were the color of mustard, but the swelling had subsided, and you could see the bones of his face again. It seemed to hurt him a little less to breathe, a little less to speak, and his voice was less breathy, more like itself. Andy had let him halve his morning pain dosage, and he was more alert, though not exactly livelier. We played a game of chess, which he won.

下个星期一，就在我离开的前一天，他看起来好多了：脸颊变成芥末黄，不过已经消肿，又看得到脸上的骨头了。他呼吸、讲话时没那么痛了，气音少了些，比较像原来的样子。安迪把他早上的止痛药药量减半，他的意识也更加清楚，不过精神倒不见得比较好。我们下了一盘西洋棋，他赢了。

　 “I’ll be back on Thursday evening,” I told him over dinner. I only had classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays that semester.

“我星期四晚上会回来。”我晚餐时告诉他。我那个学期只有周二、周三、周四有课。

　 “No,” he said, “you don’t have to. Thank you, Harold, but really—I’ll be fine.”

“不，”他说，“你不必回来了。谢谢你，哈罗德。但我真的没事了。”

　 “I already bought the ticket,” I said. “And anyway, Jude—you don’t always have to say no, you know. Remember? Acceptance?” He didn’t say anything else.

“我已经买了机票，”我说，“总之，裘德，你不必总是拒绝，你知道。还记得吗？接受就好。”他就没再说什么了。

　 So what else can I tell you? He went back to work that Wednesday, despite Andy’s suggestion he stay home through the end of the week. And despite his threats, Andy came over every night to change his dressings and inspect his legs. Julia returned, and every weekend in October, she or I would go to New York and stay with him at Greene Street. Malcolm stayed with him during the week. He didn’t like it, I could tell, but we decided we didn’t care what he liked, not in this matter.

所以我还能告诉你什么呢？那个星期三他回去上班，不理会安迪要他休养到周末的建议。而安迪也不理会他的威胁，每天晚上都来帮他换药，检查他的两腿。朱丽娅回来了，十月的每个周末，她或我会来纽约，住在格林街陪他。工作日，马尔科姆会过来陪他过夜。他不喜欢，我看得出来，但我们才不管他喜不喜欢，这件事我们就是要坚持。

　 He got better. His legs didn’t get infected. Neither did his back. He was lucky, Andy kept saying. He regained the weight he had lost. By the time you came home, in early November, he was almost healed. By Thanksgiving, which we had that year at the apartment in New York so he wouldn’t have to travel, his cast had been removed and he was walking again. I watched him closely over dinner, watched him talking with Laurence and laughing with one of Laurence’s daughters, but couldn’t stop thinking of him that night, his face when Caleb grabbed his wrist, his expression of pain and shame and fear. I thought of the day I had learned he was using a wheelchair at all: it was shortly after I had found the bag in Truro and was in the city for a conference, and he had come into the restaurant in his chair, and I had been shocked. “Why did you never tell me?” I asked, and he had pretended to be surprised, acted like he thought he had. “No,” I said, “you hadn’t,” and finally he had told me that he hadn’t wanted me to see him that way, as someone weak and helpless. “I would never think of you that way,” I’d told him, and although I didn’t think I did, it did change how I thought of him; it made me remember that what I knew of him was just a tiny fraction of who he was.

他逐渐好转，两腿没有感染，背部也没有。安迪一直说他很幸运。他瘦下来的体重又养回来了。等到你十一月初回家，他几乎已经痊愈了。到了感恩节时（这一年改去我们纽约的公寓过节，免得他跑太远），他的石膏已经拆掉，而且又能走路了。晚餐时我仔细观察他，看着他跟劳伦斯聊天，跟劳伦斯的双胞胎女儿谈笑，却不断想起那一夜的他，想到凯莱布抓住他手腕时，他脸上痛苦、羞愧、恐惧的表情。我想到之前得知他用轮椅的那天：在特鲁罗发现那个袋子后不久，我到纽约参加学术会议，他坐着轮椅跟我在餐厅见面，当时我很震惊。“你为什么从来没告诉过我？”我问，他假装很惊讶，说以为他讲过了。“不，”我说，“你没提过。”最后他才告诉我，他不希望我看到他那个样子，把他当成软弱无助的人。“我绝不会那样想你的。”我告诉他。尽管我不认为自己会那样想，但那的确改变了我对他的想法，那提醒了我，我对他的了解只是一小部分而已。

　 It sometimes seemed as if that week had been a haunting, one that only Andy and I had witnessed. In the months that followed, someone would occasionally joke about it: his poor driving, his Wimbledon ambitions, and he would laugh back, make some self-deprecating comment. He could never look at me in those moments; I was a reminder of what had really happened, a reminder of what he saw as his degradation.

有时候，那个星期好像是一场闹鬼事件，只有安迪和我目睹。接下来几个月，偶尔有人会拿来开玩笑：笑他驾驶技术很烂，笑他网球天王的野心，他也会大笑起来，说些自我嘲讽的话。但在这些时刻，他都不敢看我，因为我会让他想起当时的真相，提醒他那段引以为耻的往事。