《渺小一生》:“还有接下来很多年。”

　 Shortly after he returned at the end of July, Willem gave him permission to terminate his mostly silent relationship with Dr. Loehmann—but only because he genuinely didn’t have the time any longer. Four hours of his week were now spent at doctors’ offices—two with Andy, two with Loehmann—and he needed to reclaim two of those hours so he could go twice a week to the hospital, where he took off his pants and flipped his tie over his shoulder and was slid into a hyperbaric chamber, a glass coffin where he lay and did work and hoped that the concentrated oxygen that was being piped in all around him might help hasten his healing. He had felt guilty about his eighteen months with Dr. Loehmann, in which he had revealed almost nothing, had spent most of his time childishly protecting his privacy, trying not to say anything, wasting both his and the doctor’s time. But one of the few subjects they had discussed was his legs—not how they had been damaged but the logistics of caring for them—and in his final session, Dr. Loehmann had asked what would happen if he didn’t get better.

威廉七月底回纽约后不久，答应了终止他与娄曼医生大多数情况下都沉默不语的医患关系，因为他实在没有那个时间。以前他每周有四小时花在医生诊所（两小时去安迪那里，两小时去娄曼那里），现在他需要收回其中的两小时，每周去两次医院，脱掉长裤、把领带甩到肩膀后头，滑进像玻璃棺材的高压舱，躺在里头做自己的工作，希望灌进来的高压氧有助于伤口的愈合。他觉得很内疚，去娄曼医生那做了十八个月的心理咨询，他几乎什么都没透露，大部分时间只是幼稚地保护自己的隐私，设法什么都不要说，浪费双方的时间。但他们少数讨论过的主题，就是他的两腿，不是如何变成残废，而是照顾这两条腿要花的各种工夫。最后一次心理咨询，娄曼医生问他，如果不能好转，要怎么办。

　 “Amputation, I guess,” he had said, trying to sound casual, although of course he wasn’t casual, and there was nothing to guess: he knew that as surely as he would someday die, he would do so without his legs. He just had to hope it wouldn’t be soon. Please, he would sometimes beg his legs as he lay in the glass chamber. Please. Give me just a few more years. Give me another decade. Let me get through my forties, my fifties, intact. I’ll take care of you, I promise.

“截肢吧，我猜。”他当时说，故意装出一副不在乎的口气。他当然很在乎，而且没什么好猜的：他很确定自己有一天会死，也很确定到时候他已经失去了两条腿。他只是希望这样的事情不要太早发生。拜托，有时躺在玻璃舱里，他会哀求他的腿。拜托，再给我几年就好。再给我十年。让我完整熬到50岁、60岁。我会好好照顾你们的，我保证。

　 By late summer, his new bout of sicknesses, of treatments had become so commonplace to him that he hadn’t realized how affected Willem might be by them. Early that August, they were discussing what to do (something? nothing?) for Willem’s forty-ninth birthday, and Willem had said he thought they should just do something low-key this year.

但是到了夏末，他对新一波的病情和治疗已经司空见惯了，都没注意到这会对威廉造成什么影响。八月上旬，他们在讨论威廉的49岁生日要怎么过（做点什么？什么都不做？），威廉说他觉得今年就低调一点吧。

　 “Well, we’ll do something big next year, for your fiftieth,” he said. “If I’m still alive by then, that is,” and it wasn’t until he heard Willem’s silence that he had looked up from the stove and seen Willem’s expression and had recognized his mistake. “Willem, I’m sorry,” he said, turning off the burner and making his slow, painful way over to him. “I’m sorry.”

“唔，那我们明年再来办个大的，庆祝你的50岁生日，”他站在炉子前说，“如果我到时候还活着。”直到他发现威廉没吭声，抬头看到威廉的表情，才明白自己说错话了。“威廉，对不起。”他说，关掉炉子，缓慢而痛苦地走向威廉，“对不起。”

　 “You can’t joke like that, Jude,” Willem said, and he put his arms around him.

“裘德，这种事不能开玩笑的。”威廉说，用双手拥住裘德。

　 “I know,” he said. “Forgive me. I was being stupid. Of course I’m going to be around next year.”

“我知道，”他说，“原谅我。我太蠢了。明年我当然还在。”

　 “And for many years to come.”

“还有接下来很多年。”

　 “And for many years to come.”

“还有接下来很多年。”

　 Now it is September, and he is lying on the examining table in Andy’s office, his wounds uncovered and still split open like pomegranates, and at nights he is lying in bed next to Willem. He is often conscious of the unlikeliness of their relationship, and often guilty at his unwillingness to fulfill one of the core duties of couplehood. Every once in a while, he thinks he will try again, and then, just as he is trying to say the words to Willem, he stops, and another opportunity quietly slides away. But his guilt, as great as it is, cannot overwhelm his sense of relief, nor his sense of gratitude: that he should have been able to keep Willem despite his inabilities is a miracle, and he tries, in every other way he can, to always communicate to Willem how thankful he is.

现在是九月了，他躺在安迪诊所的检查台上，包扎的绷带揭开来，那些伤口还是像石榴般没有收口。夜里回家，他和威廉躺在同一张床上。他常常意识到他们的伴侣关系是多么不可能，也常常为自己不情愿履行伴侣间最核心的责任之一而觉得内疚。每隔一阵子，他就想着要再试一次。然而当他要开口跟威廉说的时候，他又停下来，机会就这样无声地溜走了。他庞大的内疚感还是无法压倒那种放松与庆幸之感：庆幸以他的种种无能，居然能保住威廉，真是一个奇迹，而且他总是利用各种方式向威廉表达他的感激之情。

　 He wakes one night sweating so profusely that the sheets beneath him feel as if they’ve been dragged through a puddle, and in his haze, he stands before he realizes he can’t, and falls. Willem wakes, then, and fetches him the thermometer, standing over him as he holds it under his tongue. “One hundred and two,” he says, examining it, and places his palm on his forehead. “But you’re freezing.” He looks at him, worried. “I’m going to call Andy.”

某天夜里他醒来，全身大汗，身子底下的床单感觉像是从水洼里拖出来似的。他在糊涂的状态中想下床站起来，这才发现自己办不到，跌在地上。威廉醒了，拿了温度计让他放在舌下，自己站在旁边等。“三十八度九，”威廉看了温度计之后说，手掌放在他额头，“可是你身上很冷啊，”威廉看着他，满脸忧虑，“我要打电话给安迪。”

　 “Don’t call Andy,” he says, and despite the fever, the chills, the sweating, he feels normal; he doesn’t feel sick. “I just need some aspirin.” So Willem gets it, brings him a shirt, strips and remakes the bed, and they fall asleep again, Willem wrapped around him.

“不要打给他，”他说。就算发烧，全身冰冷又冒汗，他却觉得很正常，不觉得自己病了，“我吃点阿司匹林就没事了。”于是威廉拿了药给他，又拿一件衬衫让他换，再把床单换掉。两个人又睡着了，威廉用身体包着他。

　 The next night he wakes again with a fever, again with chills, again with sweating. “There’s something going around the office,” he tells Willem this time. “Some forty-eight-hour bug. I must’ve caught it.” Again he takes aspirin; again it helps; again he goes back to sleep.

次日晚上，他再度发烧醒来，冷得打战，全身冒汗。“办公室在流行某种东西，”这回他跟威廉说，“好像是四十八小时的病毒。我一定是染上了。”他又服用了阿司匹林；药效发挥后，他再度睡去。

　 The day after that is a Friday and he goes to Andy to have his wounds cleaned, but he doesn’t mention the fever, which disappears by daylight. That night Willem is away, having dinner with Roman, and he goes to bed early, swallowing some aspirin before he does. He sleeps so deeply that he doesn’t even hear Willem come in, but when he wakes the following morning, he is so sweaty that it looks as if he’s been standing under the shower, and his limbs are numb and shaky. Beside him, Willem gently snores, and he sits, slowly, running his hands through his wet hair.

次日是星期五，他去安迪的诊所清理伤口，但没提到前一夜的发烧，因为白天就退烧了。那一晚威廉不在，去跟罗蒙吃晚餐，他提早吞了阿司匹林就上床睡觉。他睡得很熟，连威廉回来都没听到，但次日早晨醒来时，他浑身大汗，像站在莲蓬头下，四肢麻痹而颤抖。在他旁边，威廉发出轻微的鼾声，他缓缓坐起身，双手抚过汗湿的头发。

　 He really is better that Saturday. He goes to work. Willem goes to meet a director for lunch. Before he leaves the offices for the evening, he texts Willem and tells him to ask Richard and India if they want to meet for sushi on the Upper East Side, at a little restaurant he and Andy sometimes go to after their appointments. He and Willem have two favorite sushi places near Greene Street, but both of them have flights of descending stairs, and so they have been unable to go for months because the steps are too difficult for him. That night he eats well, and even as the fatigue punches him midway through the meal, he is conscious that he is enjoying himself, that he is grateful to be in this small, warm place, with its yellow-lit lanterns above him and the wooden geta-like slab atop which are laid tongues of mackerel sashimi—Willem’s favorite—before him. At one point he leans against Willem’s side, from exhaustion and affection, but isn’t even aware he’s done so until he feels Willem move his arm and put it around him.

那个星期六，他真的好转了，还去了事务所工作。威廉则跟一个导演碰面吃午餐。那天傍晚，他要离开办公室前，先传了短信给威廉，叫他问理查德和印蒂亚要不要去上东城吃寿司，那家小餐厅他和安迪有时看诊后也会去。格林街附近有两家他和威廉最喜欢的寿司店，但两家都在地下室且没有电梯。那些阶梯对他来说太困难了，他们有好几个月没去。那天夜里他吃得很好，吃到一半就觉得累极了，但他还是意识到自己很开心，很庆幸在这个温暖的小地方，上方是亮着黄色灯光的纸灯笼，眼前木屐似的厚木板上放着一片片威廉最爱的鲭鱼生鱼片。中间有一度，他因为疲累和深情，靠在旁边的威廉身上，但自己根本没意识到，直到威廉伸出手臂拥着他。

　 Later, he wakes in their bed, disoriented, and sees Harold sitting next to him, staring at him. “Harold,” he says, “what’re you doing here?” But Harold doesn’t speak, just lunges at him, and he realizes with a sickening lurch that Harold is trying to take his clothes off. No, he tells himself. Not Harold. This can’t be. This is one of his deepest, ugliest, most secret fears, and now it is coming true. But then his old instincts awaken: Harold is another client, and he will fight him away. He yells, then, twisting himself, pinwheeling his arms and what he can of his legs, trying to intimidate, to fluster this silent, determined Harold before him, screaming for Brother Luke’s help.

稍后，他在两人的床上茫然醒来，不知身在何处，他看到哈罗德坐在旁边看着他。“哈罗德，”他说，“你怎么来了？”但哈罗德没说话，只是忽然扑向他，他突然涌上一阵作呕的感觉，明白哈罗德想脱掉他的衣服。不，他告诉自己。不要是哈罗德。不可能是这样。这是他最深、最丑陋、最秘密的恐惧之一，而现在成真了。接着，他旧日的本能苏醒：哈罗德是另一个顾客，他会奋力击退他。他大喊，扭着身子，拼命舞动双臂，踢着双腿，设法威吓，想赶走眼前这个沉默、坚决的哈罗德，又尖叫着要卢克修士帮他。

　 And then, suddenly, Harold vanishes and is replaced by Willem, his face near his, saying something he can’t understand. But behind Willem’s head he sees Harold’s again, his strange, grim expression, and he resumes his fight. Above him, he can hear words, can hear that Willem is talking to someone, can register, even through his own fright, Willem’s fright as well. “Willem,” he calls out. “He’s trying to hurt me; don’t let him hurt me, Willem. Help me. Help me. Help me—please.” Then there is nothing—a stretch of blackened time—and when he wakes again, he is in the hospital. “Willem,” he announces to the room, and there, immediately, is Willem, sitting at the edge of his bed, taking his hand. There is a length of plastic tubing snaking out of the back of this hand, and out of the other as well. “Careful,” Willem tells him, “the IVs.”

忽然间，哈罗德消失了，取而代之的是威廉。他的脸凑得好近，说着一些他听不懂的话。但威廉的脑袋后方，他又看到了哈罗德，一脸奇怪、严肃的表情，于是他又开始挣扎。在他上方，他听到有人讲话，是威廉在跟某个人交谈。即使在恐惧中，他仍听得出威廉也很害怕。“威廉，”他大喊，“他想伤害我；别让他伤害我，威廉。帮我。帮我。帮我——拜托。”然后什么都没有了，一段黑掉的时间。等他再度醒来，发现自己在医院里。“威廉。”他对着房间说。威廉立刻出现了，坐在他床旁边，握着他的手。有一条塑料软管从他手背蜿蜒出去，另一只手背也有。“小心点，”威廉告诉他，“有静脉注射管。”

　 For a while they are silent, and Willem strokes his forehead. “He was trying to attack me,” he finally confesses to Willem, stumbling as he speaks. “I never thought Harold would do that to me, not ever.”

有一会儿两人都没说话，威廉抚摸着他的额头。“他想攻击我，”他终于结结巴巴地向威廉坦白，“我从来没想到哈罗德会对我这样，怎么都想不到。”

　 He can see Willem stiffen. “No, Jude,” he says. “Harold wasn’t there. You were delirious from the fever; it didn’t happen.”

他看到威廉全身僵硬起来。“不，裘德，”他说，“哈罗德没来。你因为发烧引发了谵妄；那样的事情根本没发生。”

　 He is relieved and terrified to hear this. Relieved to hear that it wasn’t true; terrified because it seemed so real, so actual. Terrified because what does it say about him, about how he thinks and what his fears are, that he should even imagine this about Harold? How cruel can his own mind be to try to convince him to turn against someone he has struggled so hard to trust, someone who has only ever shown him kindness? He can feel tears in his eyes, but he has to ask Willem: “He wouldn’t do that to me, would he, Willem?”

他一听，放心又惊恐。放心是因为听到这不是真的；惊恐则是因为那一幕很真实，好像真的发生了。同时这也解释了他的状态，他的想法和恐惧，竟然会让他这样想象哈罗德？他的脑子太残忍了，竟然说服他去对付一个他这么努力信任的人，一个始终对他只有关怀的人？他感觉到眼中浮出眼泪，但忍不住问威廉：“威廉，他不会那样对我，对不对？”

　 “No,” says Willem, and his voice is strained. “Never, Jude. Harold would never, ever do that to you, not for anything.”

“对，”威廉说，声音紧绷，“绝对不会的，裘德。哈罗德永远、永远不会那样对你的，绝对不可能。”