It is the nature and pleasure of townspeople to distrust the city. All the guiding principles that might flow from acenter of ideas and cultural energies are regarded as corrupt1, one or another kind of pornography. This is how it iswith towns.
But Blacksmith is nowhere near a large city. We don't feel threatened and aggrieved2 in quite the same way othertowns do. We're not smack3 in the path of history and its contaminations. If our complaints have a focal point, itwould have to be the TV set, where the outer torment4 lurks5, causing fears and secret desires. Certainly little or noresentment attaches to the College-on-the-Hill as an emblem6 of ruinous influence. The school occupies an everserene edge of the townscape, semidetached, more or less scenic7, suspended in political calm. Not a place designedto aggravate8 suspicions.
In light snow I drove to the airport outside Iron City, a large town sunk in confusion, a center of abandonment andbroken glass rather than a place of fully9 realized urban decay. Bee, my twelve-year-old, was due in on a flight fromWashington, with two stops and one change of planes along the way. But it was her mother, Tweedy Browner, whoshowed up in the arrivals area, a small dusty third-world place in a state of halted renovation10. For a moment I thoughtBee was dead and Tweedy had come to tell me in person.
"Where is Bee?""She's flying in later today. That's why I'm here. To spend some time with her. I have to go to Boston tomorrow.
Family business.""But where is she?""With her father.""I'm her father, Tweedy.""Malcolm Hunt, stupid. My husband.""He's your husband, he's not her father.""Do you still love me, Tuck?" she said.
She called me Tuck, which is what her mother used to call her father. All the male Browners were called Tuck. Whenthe line began to pale, producing a series of aesthetes11 and incompetents12, they gave the name to any man who marriedinto the family, within reason. I was the first of these and kept expecting to hear a note of overrefined irony13 in theirvoices when they called me by that name. I thought that when tradition becomes too flexible, irony enters the voice.
Nasality, sarcasm14, self-caricature and so on. They would punish me by mocking themselves. But they were sweetabout it, entirely15 sincere, even grateful to me for allowing them to carry on.
She wore a Shetland sweater, tweed skirt, knee socks and penny loafers. There was a sense of Protestant disrepairabout her, a collapsed16 aura in which her body struggled to survive. The fair and angular face, the slightly bulgingeyes, the signs of strain and complaint that showed about the mouth and around the eyes, the pulsing at the temple,the raised veins17 in the hands and neck. Cigarette ash clung to the loose weave of her sweater.
"For the third time. Where is she?""Indonesia, more or less. Malcolm's working in deep cover, sponsoring a Communist revival18. It's part of an elegantscheme designed to topple Castro. Let's get out of here, Tuck, before children come swarming19 around to beg.""Is she coming alone?""Why wouldn't she be?""From the Far East to Iron City can't be that simple.""Bee can cope when she has to. She wants to be a travel writer as a matter of actual fact. Sits a horse well."She took a deep drag on her cigarette and exhaled20 smoke in rapid expert streams from nose and mouth, a routine sheused when she wanted to express impatience21 with her immediate22 surroundings. There were no bars or restaurants atthe airport—just a stand with prepackaged sandwiches, presided over by a man with sect23 marks on his face. We gotTweedy's luggage, went out to the car and drove through Iron City, past deserted24 factories, on mainly desertedavenues, a city of hills, occasional cobbled streets, fine old homes here and there, holiday wreaths in the windows.
"Tuck, I'm not happy.""Why not?""I thought you'd love me forever, frankly25. I depend on you for that. Malcolm's away so much.""We get a divorce, you take all my money, you marry a well-to-do, well-connected, well-tailored diplomat26 whosecretly runs agents in and out of sensitive and inaccessible27 areas.""Malcolm has always been drawn28 to jungly places."We were traveling parallel to railroad tracks. The weeds were full of Styrofoam cups, tossed from train windows orwind-blown north from the depot29.
"Janet has been drawn to Montana, to an ashram," I said.
"Janet Savory30? Good God, whatever for?""Her name is Mother Devi now. She operates the ashram's business activities. Investments, real estate, tax shelters.
It's what Janet has always wanted. Peace of mind in a profit-oriented context.""Marvelous bone structure, Janet.""She had a talent for stealth.""You say that with such bitterness. I've never known you to be bitter, Tuck.""Stupid but not bitter.""What do you mean by stealth? Was she covert31, like Malcolm?""She wouldn't tell me how much money she made. I think she used to read my mail. Right after Heinrich was born,she got me involved in a complex investment scheme with a bunch of multilingual people. She said she hadinformation.""But she was wrong and you lost vast sums.""We made vast sums. I was entangled32, enmeshed. She was always maneuvering33. My security was threatened. Mysense of a long and uneventful life. She wanted to incorporate us. We got phone calls from Liechtenstein, theHebrides. Fictional35 places, plot devices."'That doesn't sound like the Janet Savory I spent a delightful36 half hour with. The Janet with the high cheekbones andwry voice.""You all had high cheekbones. Every one of you. Marvelous bone structure. Thank God for Babette and her longfleshy face.""Isn't there somewhere we can get a civilized37 meal?" Tweedy said. "A tableclothy place with icy pats of butter.
Malcolm and I once took tea with Colonel Qaddafí. A charming and ruthless man, one of the few terrorists we've metwho lives up to his public billing."The snow had stopped falling. We drove through a warehouse38 district, more deserted streets, a bleakness39 andanonymity that registered in the mind as a ghostly longing40 for something that was far beyond retrieval. There werelonely cafes, another stretch of track, freight cars paused at a siding. Tweedy chain-smoked extra-longs, shootingexasperated streams of smoke in every direction.
"God, Tuck, we were good together.""Good at what?""Fool, you're supposed to look at me in a fond and nostalgic way, smiling ruefully.""You wore gloves to bed.""I still do.""Gloves, eyeshades and socks.""You know my flaws. You always did. I'm ultrasensitive to many things.""Sunlight, air, food, water, sex.""Carcinogenic, every one of them.""What's the family business in Boston all about?""I have to reassure41 my mother that Malcolm isn't dead. She's taken quite a shine to him, for whatever reason.""Why does she think he's dead?""When Malcolm goes into deep cover, it's as though he never existed. He disappears not only here and now butretroactively. No trace of the man remains42. I sometimes wonder if the man I'm married to is in fact Malcolm Hunt ora completely different person who is himself operating under deep cover. It's frankly worrisome. I don't know whichhalf of Malcolm's life is real, which half is intelligence. I'm hoping Bee can shed some light."Traffic lights swayed on cables in a sudden gust43. This was the city's main street, a series of discount stores,check-cashing places, wholesale44 outlets45. A tall old Moorish46 movie theater, now remarkably47 a mosque48. Blankstructures called the Terminal Building, the Packer Building, the Commerce Building. How close this was to aclassic photography of regret.
"A gray day in Iron City," I said. "We may as well go back to the airport.""How is Hitler?'!
"Fine, solid, dependable.""You look good, Tuck.""I don't feel good.""You never felt good. You're the old Tuck. You were always the old Tuck. We loved each other, didn't we? We toldeach other everything, within the limits of one's preoccupation with breeding and tact49. Malcolm tells me nothing.
Who is he? What does he do?"She sat with her legs tucked under her, facing me, and flicked50 ashes into her shoes, which sat on the rubber mat.
"Wasn't it marvelous to grow up tall and straight, among geldings and mares, with a daddy who wore blue blazersand crisp gray flannels51?""Don't ask me.""Mother used to stand in the arbor52 with an armful of cut flowers. Just stand there, being what she was."At the airport we waited in a mist of plaster dust, among exposed wires, mounds53 of rubble54. Half an hour before Beewas due to arrive, the passengers from another flight began filing through a drafty tunnel into the arrivals area. Theywere gray and stricken, they were stooped over in weariness and shock, dragging their hand luggage across the floor.
Twenty, thirty, forty people came out, without a word or look, keeping their eyes to the ground.
Some limped, some wept. More came through the tunnel, adults with whimpering children, old people trembling, ablack minister with his collar askew55, one shoe missing. Tweedy helped a woman with two small kids. I approached ayoung man, a stocky fellow with a mailman's cap and beer belly56, wearing a down vest, and he looked at me as if Ididn't belong in his space-time dimension but had crossed over illegally, made a rude incursion. I forced him to stopand face me, asked him what had happened up there. As people kept filing past, he exhaled wearily. Then he nodded,his eyes steady on mine, full of a gentle resignation.
The plane had lost power in all three engines, dropped from thirty-four thousand feet to twelve thousand feet.
Something like four miles. When the steep glide57 began, people rose, fell, collided, swam in their seats. Then theserious screaming and moaning began. Almost immediately a voice from the flight deck was heard on the intercom:
"We're falling out of the sky! We're going down! We're a silver gleaming death machine!" This outburst struck thepassengers as an all but total breakdown58 of authority, competence59 and command presence and it brought on a roundof fresh and desperate wailing60.
Objects were rolling out of the galley61, the aisles63 were full of drinking glasses, utensils64, coats and blankets. Astewardess pinned to the bulkhead by the sharp angle of descent was trying to find the relevant passage in ahandbook titled "Manual of Disasters." Then there was a second male voice from the flight deck, this one remarkablycalm and precise, making the passengers believe there was someone in charge after all, an element of hope: "This isAmerican two-one-three to the cockpit voice recorder. Now we know what it's like. It is worse than we'd everimagined. They didn't prepare us for this at the death simulator in Denver. Our fear is pure, so totally stripped ofdistractions and pressures as to be a form of transcendental meditation66. In less than three minutes we will touch down,so to speak. They will find our bodies in some smoking field, strewn about in the grisly attitudes of death. I love you,Lance." This time there was a brief pause before the mass wailing recommenced. Lance? What kind of people werein control of this aircraft? The crying took on a bitter and disillusioned67 tone.
As the man in the down vest told the story, passengers from the tunnel began gathering68 around us. No one spoke,interrupted, tried to embellish69 the account.
Aboard the gliding70 craft, a stewardess65 crawled down the aisle62, over bodies and debris71, telling people in each row toremove their shoes, remove sharp objects from their pockets, assume a fetal position. At the other end of the plane,someone was wrestling with a flotation device. Certain elements in the crew had decided72 to pretend that it was not acrash but a crash landing that was seconds away. After all, the difference between the two is only one word. Didn'tthis suggest that the two forms of flight termination were more or less interchangeable? How much could one wordmatter? An encouraging question under the circumstances, if you didn't think about it too long, and there was no timeto think right now. The basic difference between a crash and a crash landing seemed to be that you could sensiblyprepare for a crash landing, which is exactly what they were trying to do. The news spread through the plane, theterm was repeated in row after row. "Crash landing, crash landing." They saw how easy it was, by adding one word,to maintain a grip on the future, to extend it in consciousness if not in actual fact. They patted themselves forballpoint pens, went fetal in their seats.
By the time the narrator reached this point in his account, many people were crowded around, not only people who'djust emerged from the tunnel but also those who'd been among the first to disembark. They'd come back to listen.
They were not yet ready to disperse73, to reinhabit their earthbound bodies, but wanted to linger with their terror, keepit separate and intact for just a while longer. More people drifted toward us, milled about, close to the entireplaneload. They were content to let the capped and vested man speak on their behalf. No one disputed his account ortried to add individual testimony74. It was as though they were being told of an event they hadn't personally beeninvolved in. They were interested in what he said, even curious, but also clearly detached. They trusted him to tellthem what they'd said and felt.
It was at this point in the descent, as the term "crash landing" spread through the plane, with a pronounced vocalstress on the second word, that passengers in first class came scrambling75 and clawing through the curtains, literallyclimbing their way into the tourist section in order to avoid being the first to strike the ground. There were those intourist who felt they ought to be made to go back. This sentiment was expressed not so much in words and actions asin terrible and inarticulate sounds, mainly cattle noises, an urgent and force-fed lowing. Suddenly the enginesrestarted. Just like that. Power, stability, control. The passengers, prepared for impact, were slow to adjust to the newwave of information. New sounds, a different flight path, a sense of being encased in solid tubing and not somepolyurethane wrap. The smoking sign went on, an international hand with a cigarette. Stewardesses76 appeared withscented towelettes for cleaning blood and vomit77. People slowly came out of their fetal positions, sat back limply.
Four miles of prime-time terror. No one knew what to say. Being alive was a richness of sensation. Dozens of things,hundreds of things. The first officer walked down the aisle, smiling and chatting in an empty pleasant corporate34 way.
His face had the rosy78 and confident polish that is familiar in handlers of large passenger aircraft. They looked at himand wondered why they'd been afraid.
I'd been pushed away from the narrator by people crowding in to listen, well over a hundred of them, dragging theirshoulder bags and garment bags across the dusty floor. Just as I realized I was almost out of hearing range, I saw Beestanding next to me, her small face smooth and white in a mass of kinky hair. She jumped up into my embrace,smelling of jet exhaust.
"Where's the media?" she said.
"There is no media in Iron City."'They went through all that for nothing?"We found Tweedy and headed out to the car. There was a traffic jam on the outskirts79 of the city and we had to sit ona road outside an abandoned foundry. A thousand broken windows, street lights broken, darkness settling in. Bee satin the middle of the rear seat in the lotus position. She seemed remarkably well rested after a journey that hadspanned time zones, land masses, vast oceanic distances, days and nights, on large and small planes, in summer andwinter, from Surabaya to Iron City. Now we sat waiting in the dark for a car to get towed or a drawbridge to close.
Bee didn't think this familiar irony of modern travel was worth a comment. She just sat there listening to Tweedyexplain to me why parents needn't worry about children taking such trips alone. Planes and terminals are the safest ofplaces for the very young and very old. They are looked after, smiled upon, admired for their resourcefulness andpluck. People ask friendly questions, offer them blankets and sweets.
"Every child ought to have the opportunity to travel thousands of miles alone," Tweedy said, "for the sake of herself-esteem and independence of mind, with clothes and toiletries of her own choosing. The sooner we get them inthe air, the better. Like swimming or ice skating. You have to start them young. It's one of the things I'm proudest tohave accomplished80 with Bee. I sent her to Boston on Eastern when she was nine. I told Granny Browner not to meether plane. Getting out of airports is every bit as important as the actual flight. Too many parents ignore this phase ofa child's development. Bee is thoroughly81 bicoastal now. She flew her first jumbo at ten, changed planes at O'Hare,had a near miss in Los Angeles. Two weeks later she took the Concorde to London. Malcolm was waiting with a splitof champagne82."Up ahead the taillights danced, the line began to move.
Barring mechanical failures, turbulent weather and terrorist acts, Tweedy said, an aircraft traveling at the speed ofsound may be the last refuge of gracious living and civilized manners known to man.
收听单词发音 |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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aesthetes
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| n.审美家，唯美主义者( aesthete的名词复数 ) | |
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incompetents
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| n.无能力的，不称职的，不胜任的( incompetent的名词复数 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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51
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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62
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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64
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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66
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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67
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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68
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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69
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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71
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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72
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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73
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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75
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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76
stewardesses
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| （飞机上的）女服务员，空中小姐( stewardess的名词复数 ) | |
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77
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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82
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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