Chapter 20

'No, sir,' Andy broke in again. 'No, that isn't true. Because-' 'Anyway,' Norton overrode him, expansive and loud, 'let's just look at it from the
other end of the telescope, shall we? Suppose -just suppose, now - that there really was a fellow named Elwood Blotch.'
'Blatch,' Andy said tightly.
'Blatch, by all means. And let's say he was Thomas Williams's cellmate in Rhode Island. The chances are excellent that he has been released by now. Excellent. Why, we don't even know how much time he might have done there before he ended up with Williams, do we? Only that he was doing a six-to-twelve.'
'No. We don't know how much time he'd done. But Tommy said he was a bad actor, a cut-up. I think there's a fair chance that he may still be in. Even if he's been released, the prison will have a record of his last known address, the names of his relatives -' 'And both would almost certainly be dead ends.'
Andy was silent for a moment, and then he burst out: 'Well, it's a chance, isn't it?'
'Yes, of course it is. So just for a moment, Dufresne, let's assume that Blatch exists and that he is still safely ensconced in the Rhode Island State Penitentiary. Now what is he going to say if we bring this kettle of fish to him in a bucket? Is he going to fall down on his knees, roil his eyes, and say "I did it! I did it! By all means add a life term onto my burglary charge!"?'
'How can you be so obtuse?' Andy said, so low that Chester could barely hear. But he heard the warden just fine.
'What? What did you call me?'
'Obtuse? Andy cried. 'Is it deliberate?'
'Dufresne, you've taken five minutes of my time - no, seven - and I have a very busy schedule today. So I believe we'll just declare this little meeting closed and -'
'The country club will have ail the old time-cards, don't you realize that?' Andy shouted. They'll have tax-forms and W-2s and unemployment compensation forms, all
with his name on them! There will be employees there now that were there then, maybe Briggs himself! It's been fifteen years, not forever! They'll remember him! They will remember Blotch! If I've got Tommy to testify to what Blatch told him, and Briggs to testify that Blatch was there, actually working at the country club, I can get a new trial! I can -'
'Guard! Guardl Take this man away!'
'What's the matter with you?' Andy said, and Chester told me he was very nearly screaming by then. 'It's my life, my chance to get out, don't you see that? And you won't make a single long-distance call to at least verify Tommy's story? Listen, I'll pay for the call! I'll pay for -' Then there was a sound of thrashing as the guards grabbed him and started to drag him out.
'Solitary,' Warden Norton said dryly. He was probably - gering his thirty-year pin as he said it 'Bread and water.'
And so they dragged Andy away, totally out of control now, still screaming at the warden; Chester said you could hear him even after the door was shut: 'It's my life! It's my life, don't you understand it's my life?'
Twenty days on the grain and drain train for Andy down there in solitary. It was his second jolt in solitary, and his dust -up with Norton was his first real black mark since he had joined our happy little family.
I'll tell you a little bit about Shawshank's solitary while we're on the subject. It's something of a throwback to those hardy pioneer days of the early-to-mid-1700s in Maine. In ...those days no one wasted much time with such things as 'penalogy' and 'rehabilitation' and 'selective perception'. In, those days, you were taken care of in terms of absolute black and white. You were either guilty or innocent. If you were guilty, you were either hung or put in gaol. And if you were sentenced to gaol, you did not go to an institution. No, you dug your own gaol with a spade provided to you by the Province of Maine. You dug it as wide and as deep as you could during the period between sunup and sundown. Then, they gave you a couple of skins and a bucket, and down you went. Once down, the gaoler would bar the top of your hole, throw down some grain or maybe a piece of maggoty meat once or twice a week, and maybe there would be a dipperful; barley soup on Sunday night. You pissed in the bucket, and you held up the same bucket for water when the gaoler came around at six in the morning. When it rained, you used the bucket to bail out your gaol-cell ... unless, that is, you wanted to drown like a rat in a rainbarrel.
No one spent a long time 'in the hole', as it was called; thirty months was an unusually long term, and so far as I've been able to tell, the longest term ever spent from which an inmate actually emerged alive was served by the so-called 'Durham Boy', a fourteen-year-old psychopath who castrated a schoolmate with a piece of rusty metal. He did seven years, but of course he went in young and strong.
You have to remember that for a crime that was more serious than petty theft or blasphemy or forgetting to put a snotrag in your pocket when out of doors on the Sabbath, you were hung. For low crimes such as those just mentioned and for others like them, you'd do your three or six or nine months in the hole and come out fishbelly white, cringing from the wide-open spaces, your eyes half-blind, your teeth more than likely rocking and rolling in their sockets from the scurvy, your feet crawling with fungus. Jolly old Province of Maine. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.
Shawshank's Solitary Wing was nowhere as bad as that... I guess. Things come in three major degrees in the human experience, I think. There's good, bad, and terrible.
And as you go down into progressive darkness towards terrible, it gets harder and harder to make subdivisions.
To get to Solitary Wing you were led down twenty-three steps to a basement level where the only sound was the drip of water. The only light was supplied by a series of  dangling sixty-watt bulbs. The cells were keg-shaped, like those wall-safes rich people sometimes hide behind a picture. Like a safe, the round doorways were hinged, and solid instead of barred. You get ventilation from above, but no light except for your own sixty-watt bulb, which was turned off from a master-switch promptly at eight p.m., an hour before lights-out in the rest of the prison. The wire wasn't in a wire mesh cage or anything like that. The feeling was that if you wanted to exist down there in the dark, you were welcome to it. Not many did ... but after eight, of course, you had no choice. You had a bunk bolted to the wall and a can with no toilet seat. You had three ways to spend your time: sitting, shitting, or sleeping. Big choice. Twenty days could get to seem like a year. Thirty days could seem like two, and forty days like ten. Sometimes you could hear rats in the ventilation system. In a situation like that, subdivisions of terrible tend to get lost.

　　“不，先生，”安迪急道，“不是这样的，因为——”
　　“总之，”诺顿故意提高声调压过他，“让我们从另一个角度来看这件事好吗？假定——只是假定——假定真有这么一个叫布劳契的家伙。”
　　“布拉契。”安迪连忙道。
　　“好吧，布拉契，就说他是汤米在罗德岛监狱的牢友。非常可能他已经出狱了，很好。我们甚至不知道他和汤米关在一起时，已经关在牢里多久了？只知道他应该坐六至十二年的牢。”
　　“不，我们不知道他关了多久，但汤米说他一向表现很差，我想他很有可能还在狱中。即使他被放出来，监狱一定会留下他的地址、他亲人的名字——”
　　“从这两个资料几乎都不可能查得出任何结果。”
　　安迪沉默了一会儿，然后脱口而出：“但这总是个机会吧？不是吗？”
　　“是的，当然。所以，让我们假设真有这么一个布拉契存在，而且仍然关在罗德岛监狱里。如果我们拿这件事去问他，他会有什么反应？他难道会马上跪下来，两眼往上一翻说：‘是我干的！我干的！判我无期徒刑吧！’”
　　“你怎么这么迟钝？”安迪说。他的声音很低，老柴士特几乎听不清，不过他清清楚楚听到典狱长的话。
　　“什么？你说我什么？”
　　“迟钝！”安迪嚷着，“是故意的吗？”
　　“杜佛尼，你已经浪费我五分钟的时间了，不，七分钟，我今天忙得很，我看我们的谈话就到此为止吧——”
　　“高尔夫球俱乐部也会有旧出勤纪录，你没想到吗？”安迪喊道，“他们一定还保留了报税单、失业救济金申请表等各种档案，上面都会有他的名字。这件事才发生了不过十五年，他们一定还记得他！他们会记得布拉契的。汤米可以作证布拉契说过这些话，而乡村俱乐部的经理也可以出面作证布拉契确实在那儿工作过。我可以要求重新开庭！我可以——”
　　“警卫！警卫！把这个人拉出去！”
　　“你到底是怎么回事呀？”安迪说。老柴士特告诉我，安迪那时几乎在尖叫了。“这是我的人生、我出去的机会，你看不出来吗？你不会打个长途电话过去查问，至少查证一下汤米的说法吗？我会付电话费的，我会——”
　　这时响起一阵杂沓的脚步声，守卫进来把他拖出去。
　　“单独关禁闭，”诺顿说，大概一边说一边摸着他的三十年纪念襟章，“只给水和面包。”
　　于是他们把完全失控的安迪拖出去，他一路喊着：“这是我的人生、我的人生，你不懂吗？我的人生——”
　　安迪在禁闭室关了二十天，这是他第二次关禁闭，也是他加入这个快乐家庭以来，第一次被诺顿在纪录簿上狠狠记上一笔。
　　当我们谈到这件事时，我得告诉你一些有关禁闭室的事。我们缅因州的禁闭室是十八世纪拓荒时代的产物。在那时候，没有人会浪费时间在“狱政学”或“改过自新”和“选择性认知”这些名词上，那是个非黑即白的年代，你不是无辜，就是有罪。如果有罪，不是绞刑，便是下狱。如果被判下狱，可没有什么监狱给你住，缅因州政府会给你一把锄头，让你从日出挖到日落，给自己掘个坑，然后给你几张兽皮和一个水桶，要你躺进自己掘的洞里。下去后，狱卒便把洞口用铁栅给盖上，再扔进一些谷物，或者一个星期给你一两块肉，周日晚上说不定还会有一点大麦粥吃吃。你小便在桶里，狱卒每天早上六点的时候会来倒水，你也拿同一个桶子去接水。天下雨时，你还可以拿这个桶把雨水舀出洞外……除非你想像老鼠一样溺死在洞里。
　　没有人会在这种洞中住太久，三十个月已经算很厉害了。据我所知，在这种坑中待得最久、还能活着出来的是一个十四岁的精神病患者，他用一块生锈的金属片把同学的命根子给剁了。他在洞内待了七年，不过当然是因为他还年轻力壮。
　　你得记住，当年只要比偷东西、亵渎或在安息日出门时忘了带手帕擤鼻涕等过错还严重些的罪名，都可能被判绞刑。至于上述这些过错和其他轻罪的处罚，就是在那种地洞中关上三至六个月或者九个月。等你出来时，你会全身像鱼肚一样白，眼睛半瞎，牙齿动摇，脚上长满真菌。
　　肖申克的禁闭室倒没有那么糟……我猜。人类的感受大致可分为三种程度：好、坏和可怕。当你朝着可怕的方向步入越来越黑暗的地方时，再进一步分类会越来越难。
　　关禁闭的时候，你得走下二十三级楼梯才会到禁闭室。那儿惟一的声音是滴答的水声，惟一的灯光是来自一些摇摇欲坠的六十瓦灯泡发出的微光。地窖成桶状，就好像有钱人有时候藏在画像后面的保险柜一样，圆形的出入口也像保险柜一样，是可以开关的实心门，而不是栅栏。禁闭室的通风口在上面，但没有任何光亮会从上面透进来，只靠一个小灯泡照明。每天晚上八点钟，监狱的主控室就会准时关掉禁闭室的灯，比其他牢房早一个小时。如果你喜欢所有时间都生活在黑暗中，他们也可以这样安排，但没有多少人会这么做……不过八点钟过后，你就没有选择的余地了。墙边有张床，还有个尿罐，但没有马桶座。打发时间的方法只有三种：坐着、拉屎或睡觉，真是伟大的选择！在那里度过二十天，就好像过了一年一样。三十天仿佛两年，四十天则像十年一样。有时你会听到老鼠在通风系统中活动的声音，在这种情况下，连害怕都不知为何物了。