《渺小一生》:“所以这是我的错喽？”

　 “I think you should eat more,” he says. He had to gain weight to play Turing, and although he’s lost some of it, he feels massive beside Jude, something puffed and expansive. “Andy’s going to think I’m not doing a good job taking care of you and he’s going to yell at me,” he adds, and Jude makes a sound he thinks is a laugh.

“我觉得你应该多吃一点。”他说。他之前为了扮演图灵增重，虽然已经瘦回来一点，但在裘德旁边他还是觉得自己巨大，肿胀又庞然。“安迪会觉得我没有好好照顾你，他会骂我的。”他说。裘德发出一个声音，他觉得是笑声。

　 The next morning, the day before Thanksgiving, they are both cheery—they both like driving—and load their bag and the boxes of cookies and pies and breads that Jude has baked for Harold and Julia into the car and set off early, the car bouncing east over the cobble-stoned streets of SoHo, and then whooshing up the FDR Drive, singing along to the Duets soundtrack. Outside Worcester they stop at a gas station and Jude goes in to buy them mints and water. He waits in the car, leafing through the paper, and when Jude’s phone rings, he reaches over and sees who it is and answers it.

次日早晨，感恩节前一天，两个人都兴高采烈（他们两个都很喜欢开车），把行李袋和裘德帮哈罗德及朱丽娅烤的一盒盒饼干、派和面包放进车里，很早就出发上路。车子颠簸往东驶过苏荷区的卵石街道，然后加速上了罗斯福东河大道，两人跟着《二重唱》的电影原声带一起唱着歌。到了麻州伍斯特市外，他们在一个加油站停下来，裘德进入站里的商店买薄荷糖和水。他在车里等候，翻着报纸。裘德的手机响了，他伸手去拿，看到来电显示的人，就接了。

　 “Have you told Willem yet?” he hears Andy’s voice saying even before he can say hello. “You have three more days after today, Jude, and then I’m telling him myself. I mean it.”

“你跟威廉说了吗？”他还没来得及出声，就听到安迪的声音说，“过了今天以后，你就只剩三天了，裘德，然后我会自己告诉他。我说真的。”

　 “Andy?” he says, and there is a sudden, sharp silence.

“安迪？”他说，接下来是一段骤然、鲜明的寂静。

　 “Willem,” Andy says. “Fuck.” In the background, he can hear a small child’s delighted voice trill out—“Uncle Andy said a bad word!”—and then Andy swears again, and he can hear a door sliding shut. “Why’re you answering Jude’s phone?” Andy asks. “Where is he?”

“威廉，”安迪说，“妈的。”背景里，他听得到一个小孩兴奋地尖叫“安迪叔叔讲脏话！”安迪又骂了一声，他听得到门甩上的声音。“你干吗接裘德的手机？”安迪问，“他人呢？”

　 “We’re driving up to Harold and Julia’s,” he says. “He’s getting water.” On the other end, there is silence. “Tell me what, Andy?” he asks.

“我们正开车要去哈罗德和朱丽娅家。”他说，“他去买水了。”电话的另一头还是沉默。“安迪，要告诉我什么？”他问。

　 “Willem,” Andy says, and stops. “I can’t. I told him I’d let him do it.”

“威廉，”安迪说，又停住，“我不能说。我告诉过他我会让他自己说的。”

　 “Well, he hasn’t said anything to me,” he says, and he can feel himself fill with strata of emotions: fear layered upon irritation layered upon fear layered upon curiosity layered upon fear. “Andy, you’d better tell me,” he says. Something in him starts to panic. “Is it bad?” he asks. And then he begins to plead: “Andy, don’t do this to me.”

“唔，他什么都没跟我说。”他说，然后可以感觉到心里充满好多层情绪：恐惧叠上恼怒再叠上恐惧再叠上好奇再叠上恐惧。“安迪，你最好告诉我。”他说，心里恐慌起来，“是很糟的事吗？”他问，然后开始恳求，“安迪，别瞒着我。”

　 He hears Andy breathing, slowly. “Willem,” he says, quietly. “Ask him how he really got the burn on his arm. I have to go.”

他听到安迪缓缓呼吸。“威廉，”他低声说，“问他手臂上的烧伤到底是怎么来的。我得挂电话了。”

　 “Andy!” he yells. “Andy!” But he’s gone.

“安迪！”他大喊，“安迪！”但安迪挂断了。

　 He twists his head and looks out the window and sees Jude walking toward him. The burn, he thinks: What about the burn? Jude had gotten it when he tried to make the fried plantains JB likes. “Fucking JB,” he’d said, seeing the bandage wrapped around Jude’s arm. “Always fucking everything up,” and Jude had laughed. “Seriously, though,” he’d said, “are you okay, Judy?” And Jude had said he was: he had gone to Andy’s, and they had done a graft with some artificial skin-like material. They’d had an argument, then, that Jude hadn’t told him how serious the burn was—from Jude’s e-mail, he had assumed it was a singe, certainly not something worthy of a skin graft—and another one this morning when Jude insisted on driving, even though his arm was still clearly hurting him, but: What about the burn? And then, suddenly, he realizes that there is only one way to interpret Andy’s words, and he has to quickly lower his head because he is as dizzy as if someone had just hit him.

他转向窗外，看到裘德走向他。烧伤，他心想：那个烧伤怎么了？裘德说是因为想做杰比爱吃的炸芭蕉而烧伤的。“他妈的杰比，”之前他说，看着裘德手臂上缠绕的绷带，“总是把一切搞砸。”裘德大笑。“不过说真的，”他说，“你还好吗，小裘？”裘德说他很好；他去安迪那里看过了，他们用某种人工皮帮他做了植皮。然后他们又争执了几句，裘德之前都没跟他说那个烧伤有多严重（从裘德的电子邮件，他以为只是轻微灼伤，没想到还要植皮）。另外今天早上他们又争执了一番，因为裘德坚持要开车，虽然他的手臂还是很痛，但是：那个烧伤怎么了？忽然间，他知道安迪的话只有一个解释，他不得不赶紧低下头，因为他觉得脑袋发晕，仿佛刚刚有人狠狠打了他。

　 “Sorry,” Jude says, easing back into the car. “The line took forever.” He shakes the mints out of the bag, and then turns and sees him. “Willem?” he asks. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

“对不起，”裘德回到车上说，“排队好长。”他从袋子里拿出薄荷糖，然后转头看他。“威廉，”他问，“怎么了？你脸色好差。”

　 “Andy called,” he says, and he watches Jude’s face, watches it become stony and scared. “Jude,” he says, and his own voice sounds far away, as if he’s speaking from the depths of a gulch, “how did you get the burn on your arm?” But Jude won’t answer him, just stares at him. This isn’t happening, he tells himself.

“安迪刚刚打电话来了。”他说，然后看着裘德的脸，看着那张脸变得僵硬而恐惧。“裘德，”他说，觉得自己的声音听起来很遥远，好像从峡谷深处传来，“你手臂上的烧伤是怎么来的？”但裘德没回答，只是瞪着他。这没有发生过，他告诉自己。

　 But of course it is. “Jude,” he repeats, “how did you get the burn on your arm?” But Jude only keeps staring at him, his lips closed, and he asks again, and again. Finally, “Jude!” he shouts, astonished by his own fury, and Jude ducks his head. “Jude! Tell me! Tell me right now!”

但是当然发生了。“裘德，”他又说了一次，“你手臂上的烧伤是怎么来的？”裘德只是继续瞪着他，双唇紧闭，然后他又问了一次，再问一次。最后，“裘德！”他大吼，被自己的怒气吓坏了，而裘德突然脑袋往下一缩。“裘德！告诉我！现在就告诉我！”

　 And then Jude says something so quietly he can’t hear him. “Louder,” he shouts at him. “I can’t hear you.”

于是裘德说了些话，声音小到他根本听不见。“大声点，”他又朝他吼，“我听不见。”

　 “I burned myself,” Jude says at last, very softly.

“我自己烧的。”裘德最后终于说了，还是很小声。

　 “How?” he asks, wildly, and once again, Jude’s answer is delivered in such a low voice that he misses most of it, but he can still distinguish certain words: olive oil—match—fire.

“怎么烧的？”他失控地大声问。再一次，裘德的回答很小声，他大部分都听不见，但还是听出某些字眼︰橄榄油、火柴、火。

　 “Why?” he yells, desperately. “Why did you do this, Jude?” He is so angry—at himself, at Jude—that for the first time since he has known him, he wants to hit him, he can see his fist smashing into Jude’s nose, into his cheek. He wants to see his face shattered, and he wants to be the one to do it.

“为什么？”他竭力吼道，“裘德，你为什么要这么做？”他很生气，气自己，也气裘德，气到两人认识以来头一回，他想打他，他可以想象自己的拳头击中裘德的鼻子、他的脸颊。他想看到他的脸被打烂，他想当那个打烂他脸的人。

　 “I was trying not to cut myself,” Jude says, tinily, and this makes him newly livid.

“我那时试着不要割自己。”裘德说，很小声。这句话又让威廉涌上满肚子火。

　 “So it’s my fault?” he asks. “You’re doing this to punish me?”

“所以这是我的错喽？”他问，“你这么做是为了要惩罚我？”