Chapter 6

I remember the first time Andy Dufresne got in touch with me for something; I remember like it was yesterday. That wasn't the time he wanted Rita Hayworth, though.
That came later. In that summer of 1948 he came around for something else.
Most of my deals are done right there in the exercise yard, and that's where this one went down. Our yard is big, much bigger than most. It's a perfect square, ninety yards on a side. The north side is the outer wall, with a guardtower at either end. The guards up there are armed with binoculars and riot guns. The main gate is in that north side. The truck loading-bays are on the south side of the yard. There are five of them. Shawshank is a busy place during the work-week - deliveries in, deliveries out. We have the license-plate factory, and a big industrial laundry that does all the prison wetwash, plus that of Kittery Receiving Hospital and the Eliot Sanatorium. There's also a big automotive garage where mechanic inmates fix prison, state, and municipal vehicles - not to mention the private cars of the screws, the administration officers ... and, on more than one occasion, those of the parole board.
The east side is a thick stone wall full of tiny slit windows. Cellblock 5 is on the other side of that wail. The west side is Administration and the infirmary. Shawshank has never been as overcrowded as most prisons, and back in '48 it was only filled to something like two-thirds capacity, but at any given time there might be eighty to a hundred and twenty cons on the yard - playing toss with a football or a baseball, shooting craps, jawing at each other, making deals. On Sunday the place was even more crowded; on Sunday the place would have looked like a country holiday ... if there had been any women.
It was on a Sunday that Andy first came to me. I had just finished talking to Elmore Armitage, a fellow who often came in handy to me, about a radio when Andy walked up. I knew who he was, of course; he had a reputation for being a snob and a cold fish. People were saying he was marked for trouble already. One of the people saying so was Bogs Dismond, a bad man to have on your case. Andy had no cellmate, and I'd heard that was just the way he wanted it, although the one-man cells in Cellblock 5 were only a little bigger than coffins. But I don't have to listen to rumours about a man when I can judge him for myself.
'Hello,' he said. 'I'm Andy Dufresne.' He offered his hand and I shook it. He wasn't a man to waste time being social; he got right to the point. 'I understand that you're a man who knows how to get things.'
I agreed that I was able to locate certain items from time to time,
'How do you do that?' Andy asked.
'Sometimes,' I said, 'things just seem to come into my hand. I can't explain it. Unless it's because I'm Irish.'
He smiled a little at that. 'I wonder if you could get me a rock hammer.'
'What would that be, and why would you want it?'
Andy looked surprised. 'Do you make motivations a part of your business?' With words like those I could understand how he had gotten a reputation for being the snobby
sort, the kind of guy who likes to put on airs - but I sensed a tiny thread of humour in his question.
'I'll tell you,' I said. 'If you wanted a toothbrush, I wouldn't ask questions. I'd just quote you a price. Because a toothbrush, you see, is a non-lethal sort of a weapon.'
"You have strong feelings about lethal weapons?'
'I do.'
An old friction-taped baseball flew towards us and he turned, cat-quick, and picked it out of the air. It was a move Frank Malzone would have been proud of. Andy flicked the bail back to where it had come from -just a quick and easy-looking flick of the wrist, but that throw had some mustard on it, just the same. I could see a lot of people were watching us with one eye as they went about their business. Probably the guards in tile tower were watching, too. I won't gild the lily; there are cons that swing weight in any prison, maybe four or five in a small one, maybe two or three dozen in a big one. At Shawshank I was one of those with some weight, and what I thought of Andy Dufresne would have a lot to do with how his time went. He probably knew it too, but he wasn't kowtowing or sucking up to me, and I respected him for that.
'Fair enough. Ill tell you what it is and why I want it. A rock-hammer looks like a miniature pickaxe - about so long.' He held his hands about a foot apart, and that was when I first noticed how neatly kept his nails were. 'It's got a small sharp pick on one end and a fiat, blunt hammerhead on the other. I want it because I like rocks.'
'Rocks,' I said.
'Squat down here a minute,' he said.
I humoured him. We hunkered down on our haunches like Indians.
Andy took a handful of exercise yard dirt and began to sift it between his neat hands, so it emerged in a fine cloud. Small pebbles were left over, one or two sparkly, the rest dull and plain. One of the dull ones was quartz, but it was only dull until you'd rubbed it clean. Then it had a nice milky glow. Andy did the cleaning and then tossed it to me. I caught it and named it.
'Quartz, sure,' he said, 'And look. Mica. Shale, silted granite. Here's a piece of graded limestone, from when they cut this place out of the side of the hill.' He tossed them away and dusted his hands. 'I'm a rockhound. At least... I was a rockhound. In my old life. I'd like to be one again, on a limited scale.'
'Sunday expeditions in the exercise yard?' I asked, standing up. It was a silly idea, and yet ... seeing that little piece of quartz had given my heart a funny tweak. I don't know exactly why; just an association with the outside world, I suppose. You didn't think of such things in terms of the yard. Quartz was something you picked out of a small, quick-running stream.
'Better to have Sunday expeditions here than no Sunday expeditions at all,' he said.

　　我还记得安迪·杜佛尼第一次跟我接触要东西的情形，往事历历在目，好像昨天才发生一样。不是他想要丽塔·海华丝的海报那次，那还是以后的事。一九四八年夏天，他跑来找我要别的东西。
　　我的生意大部分是在运动场上做成的，这桩交易也不例外。我们的运动场很大，呈正方形，每边长九十码。北边是外墙，两端各有一个瞭望塔，上面站着武装警卫，还佩着望远镜和镇暴枪。大门在北面，卡车卸货区则在南边，肖申克监狱总共有五个卸货区。在平常的工作日，肖申克是个忙碌的地方，不停有货进出。我们有一间专造汽车牌照的工厂、一间大洗衣房。洗衣房除了洗烫监狱里所有床单衣物，还替一家医院和老人院清洗床单衣物。此外还有一间大汽车修理厂，由犯人中的技工负责修理囚车和市政府、州政府的车子，不用说还有监狱工作人员的私人轿车，经常也可以看到假释委员会的车停在那儿待修。
　　东边是一堵厚墙，墙上有很多小得像缝隙的窗子，墙的另一边就是第五区的牢房。西边是办公室和医务室。肖申克从不像其他监狱一样人满为患。一九四八年时，还有三分之一的空位。但任何时候，运动场上都有八十到一百二十名犯人在玩美式足球或打棒球、赌骰子、闲聊或暗中交易。星期天，场上人更多，像假日的乡下……如果再加上几个女人的话。
　　安迪第一次来找我时是个星期日。我正跟一个叫安耳默的人谈完话；安耳默隔三差五帮我一些小忙，那天我们谈的是一部收音机的事。我当然知道安迪是谁，别人都认为他是个冷冰冰的势利小人，一副欠揍的样子。说这种话的其中一个人叫做博格斯·戴蒙德，惹上他可真是大坏事一件。安迪没有室友，听说是他自己不想要的。别人都说，他自认他的屎闻起来比别人香。但我不随便听信别人的传言，我要自己来判断。
　　“喂，”他说，“我是安迪·杜佛尼。”他伸出手来，我跟他握手。他不是那种喜欢寒暄的人，开门见山便说出来意。“我知道你有本事弄到任何东西。”
　　我承认我常常有办法弄到一些东西。
　　“你是怎么办到的？”安迪问道。
　　“有时候，”我说，“东西好像莫名其妙地就到了我的手上。我无法解释，除非因为我是爱尔兰人。”
　　他笑笑。“我想麻烦你帮我弄把敲石头的锤子。”
　　“那是什么样子的锤子？你要那种锤子干什么？”
　　安迪很意外，“你做生意还要追根究底吗？”就凭他这句话，我已知道他为何会赢得势利小人的名声，就是那种老爱装腔作势的人——不过我也在他的问话中感觉到一丝幽默。
　　“我告诉你，”我说，“如果你要一只牙刷，我不会问你问题，我只告诉你价钱，因为牙刷不是致命的东西。”
　　“你对致命的东西很过敏吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　一个老旧、贴满了胶带的棒球飞向我们，安迪转过身来，像猫一样敏捷，在半空中把球抓了下来，漂亮的动作连弗兰克·马左恩弗兰克·马左恩（FrankMalzone），二十世纪五十年代数度赢得美国联盟金手套奖的著名三垒手。都会叹为观止。安迪再以迅速利落的动作把球掷回去。我可以看见不少人在各干各的活儿时，还用一只眼睛瞄着我们，也许在塔上的守卫也在看我们。我不做画蛇添足或会惹来麻烦的事。每个监狱中，都有一些特别有分量的人物，小监狱里可能有四、五个，大监狱里可能多达二、三十个，在肖申克，我也算是个有头有脸的人，我怎么看待安迪，可能会影响他在这里的日子好不好过。安迪可能也心知肚明，但他从未向我磕头或拍马屁，我就是敬重他这点。
　　“应该的。我会告诉你这种锤子长什么样子，还有我为什么需要这种锤子。石锤是长得很像鹤嘴锄的小锤子，差不多这么长。”他的手张开约一英尺宽，这是我第一次看见他整齐干净的指甲。“锤子的一端是尖利的小十字镐，另一端是平钝的锤头。我要买锤子是因为我喜欢石头。”
　　“石头？”我说。
　　“你蹲下来一会儿。”他说。
　　我们像印第安人一样蹲着。
　　安迪抓了一把运动场上的尘土，然后让尘土从他干净的手指缝间流下去，扬起了一阵灰。最后他手上留下了几粒小石头，其中一两粒会发光，其余的则灰扑扑的，黯淡无光。其中一粒灰暗的小石头是石英，但是要等摩擦干净了以后，才看得出来是石英，发出一种奶色的光芒。安迪把它擦干净后扔给我。我接住后，马上叫出名字。
　　“石英，不错，”他说，“你看，云母、页岩、沙质花岗岩。这地方有不少石灰石，是当年开辟这一个山丘盖监狱时留下来的。”他把石头扔掉，拍掉手上的灰尘。“我是个石头迷。至少……以前是。我希望能再度开始收集石头，当然是小规模的收集。”
　　“星期日在运动场上的探险？”我问道，站了起来。好一个傻念头，不过……看见那一小块石英，我也不禁稍稍心动了一下，我不知为什么；我想，大概是和外面的世界有某种联系吧。你不会想到在运动场上会看到石英，石英应该是在奔流的小溪中捡到的东西。
　　“星期天有点事做，总比没有的好。”他说。