I don't know exactly when it was that I became aware of footsteps in the room above mine. They were measured steps, failing lightly but in obvious patterns, suggesting a predatory meditation1, as of pygmies rehearsing a ritual kill.
The mornings were cold and dark. Down the street the rounded doors of the firehouse remained closed except for one day at dawn when a truck nosed slowly out, its lights dissolved in low fog, silent men clutched to its sides, apparitional2 in black slickers. Derelicts were everywhere, often too wasted to beg. Many of them had an arm or leg in a cast, and the ones with bottles mustered3 sullenly4 in doorways5, never breaking their empties, leaving them behind as they themselves moved north to forage6, or simply disappeared. Two feeble men wrestled7 quietly, humming wordless curses at each other, and an old woman limped into view, bundled in pounds of rags, an image in the penciled light of long retreat from Moscow. I opened the window and touched the brittle8 crust of snow settled on the ledge9. The fire engine went speeding down Broadway, pure sound now, shrill10 wind, a voice from the evilest dreams.
A boy named Hanes, the fairest of Globke's assistants, came to see me one afternoon. He brought mail, newspapers, contracts and some cash.
"You were seen in a drive-in restaurant in Ocala, Florida," he said.
Hanes was barely twenty, poetically11 delicate in appearance, and it was hard to imagine him at work in the Transparanoia offices, a place where squat12 men, out-sweating the effects of air conditioning, were willing to hack13 off slabs14 of their own body fat to sell by the pound over transatlantic phone hookups.
"You were also seen at the airport in Benton Harbor, Michigan. According to the thing in the paper, the person who saw you walked up to you and said: 'Hey, Bucky, where you going?' And you said back: 'To get some Chinese food.' Then a two-engine plane rolled up and you got aboard."
Hanes sat on the edge of the unmade bed. His eyes never left me. I remembered a night on the West Coast some months before. The country's blood was up, this or that atrocity15, home or abroad, and even before we hit the stage the whole place was shaking. We were the one group that people depended on to validate16 their emotions and this was to be a night of above-average fury. In our own special context we challenged the authenticity17 of the crowd's passion and wrath18, dipping our bodies in coquettish blue light, merely teasing our instruments for the first hour or so. Then we caved their heads with about twenty thousand watts19 of frozen sound. The pressure of their response was immense, blasting in with the force of a natural disaster, and it became even greater, more physically20 menacing, as they pressed in around the stage, massing for the holocaust21, until finally it broke, all hell, and the only lucid22 memory I later had was of someone slightly familiar pushing across the stage, his face brilliant with pain, eyes clearly seeking me through every layer of chaos23, Hanes, stopping now to punch the drums, whirling in his torn shirt, a sleeve hanging empty, Hanes himself, tumbling backward over a bank of amps.
"I've got a new Garrard changer," he said.
"Glad to hear it."
"My tone arm setup has zero tracking error."
"Do one thing for me," I said. "Take these contracts back."
That night there was a fire in an oil drum on the street below the window. Four people stood around the drum, occasionally tossing wood and garbage into the flames. I tried to read one of the newspapers Hanes had left. The words made no sense to me. I looked at the cover of a magazine and could not quite put together the letters in big block print. In time I fell asleep in a chair, remaining there after waking. There was a knock at the door. I went to the window and looked down to the street, where three of the people were still gathered, bouncing on their toes in the cold. The fourth was at the door, an ageless girl in defeated wet fur, trying to blink her way back to the realm of events. Her long druid's face rested on a package she carried high on her chest.
"I'm Skippy, Bucky. I just want to give you something from somebody and I won't hang around and bother you, I really promise and all. Can I come inside for a minute and no more?"
"But not your friends," I said.
"There's a body in the hall downstairs."
"Probably mine."
"First off this boy I know from New Mexico, Bobby from New Mexico, made me promise to tell you he knows where to get some unbelievable hash that you can have for nothing and you don't even have to talk to him. I'm pretty sure that's it — hash, for nothing, unbelievable."
"I turn on and off with the radio now."
"It's okay really because that's not the something I'm supposed to give you anyway."
She handed me the package.
"What is it?" I said.
"They want you to hold it here because they trust you and there's no other safe place. Someone will come and pick it up at the right time."
"Who wants me to hold it?"
"Happy Valley Farm Commune."
"What's that?"
"It's a new earth-family on the Lower East Side that has the whole top floor of one tenement24. Some of them are ex-Desert Surfers."
"They don't trust each other. But they trust me."
"I guess so," she said. "Three of them are outside now. But they didn't want to come up. They want to show you they respect privacy. They want to return the idea of privacy to American life. They have shotguns, they have handguns, they have knives, they have blowtorches, they have army explosives, they have deer rifles. They stole whatever's in that package. I'm supposed to tell you that Dr. Pepper is going to analyze25 the contents as soon as they can find out where he is. So once they find him and either get him to Essex Street or go to wherever he is, someone will come over here and get the package. I'm supposed to say Dr. Pepper, analyze, Essex Street, get the package. I'm pretty sure that's it."
"Your friends aren't too well organized, are they?"
"They're getting it together. It takes time, I guess. They're new to the city and all. But they think what you're doing right now is really something."
"What am I doing?"
"Returning the idea of privacy to American life."
"Nice seeing you," I said. "Always nice to see nice people. If you ever want the package and I'm either unconscious, dead or not here, have your friends kick in the door. I'll leave the package in an obvious place."
"My name's Skippy."
"I know."
"I can come back later if you want. Whatever you want, Bucky. I can bring my friend Maeve. Or I can come all by myself. Or I can just send Maeve."
"None of those," I said.
"Okay, real glad I came up and all. I was in Atlantic City when you did the four straight hours. Bobby from New Mexico was in Houston the night you weren't there. Said it was killer26. Broke his left wrist jumping off a wall. Real ga-ga night. Okay, have to go now. Too bad we didn't get too much chance to really talk. But it's okay, Bucky. I'm nonverbal just like you."
From the window I watched her talk with the three men before all walked off in a light snow. I heard the footsteps again, someone pacing in a complicated pattern. The package was about twelve inches square, not heavy, wrapped in brown paper sealed with plain brown tape. I dropped it in a small trunk in a corner of the room. It took a long time for the fire in the oil drum to go out. I put on Opel's coat and waited for first light.
Slowly along Great Jones, signs of commerce became apparent, of shipping27 and receiving, export packaging, custom tanning. This was an old street. Its materials were in fact its essence and this explains the ugliness of every inch. But it wasn't a final squalor. Some streets in their decline possess a kind of redemptive tenor28, the suggestion of new forms about to evolve, and Great Jones was one of these, hovering29 on the edge of self-revelation. Paper, yarn30, leathers, tools, buckles31, wire-frame-and-novelty. Somebody unlocked the door of the sandblasting company. Old trucks came rumbling32 off the cobblestones on Lafayette Street. Each truck in turn mounted the curb33, where several would remain throughout the day, listing slightly, circled by heavy-bellied men carrying clipboards, invoices34, bills of lading, forever hoisting35 their trousers over their hips36. A black woman emerged from the smear37 of an abandoned car, talking a scattered38 song. Wind was biting up from the harbor.
I had the door half-open, on my way out for food, when someone spoke39 my name from the top of the next landing. It was a man about fifty years old, wearing a hooded40 sweat shirt. He was sitting on the top step, looking down at me.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. "I'm your upstairs neighbor. Eddie Fenig. Ed Fenig. Maybe you've heard of me. I'm a writer, which gives us something a little bit in common, at least retroactively. I write under my full name. Edward B. Fenig. You're tops in your trade, Bucky, looking at your old lyrics41, never having attended a live performance. So when I saw you from my window yesterday when you were crossing the street this way, I was naturally delighted. Sheer delight, no exaggeration. Maybe you've heard of me. I'm a poet. I'm a novelist. I'm a mystery writer. I write science fiction. I write pornography. I write daytime dramatic serials42. I write one-act plays. I've been published and/or produced in all these forms. But nobody knows me from shit."
Americans pursue loneliness in various ways. For me, Great Jones Street was a time of prayerful fatigue43. I became a half-saint, practiced in visions, informed by a sense of bodily economy, but deficient44 in true pain. I was preoccupied45 with conserving46 myself for some unknown ordeal47 to come and did not make work by engaging in dialogues, or taking more than the minimum number of steps to get from place to place, or urinating unnecessarily.
收听单词发音 |
1
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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apparitional
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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validate
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| vt.（法律）使有效，使生效 | |
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authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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29
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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30
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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31
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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invoices
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| 发票( invoice的名词复数 )； （发货或服务）费用清单； 清单上货物的装运； 货物的托运 | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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38
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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39
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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41
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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42
serials
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| n.连载小说，电视连续剧( serial的名词复数 ) | |
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43
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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45
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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46
conserving
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的现在分词 ) | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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