Chapter 1
There's a guy like me in every state and federal prison in America, I guess - I'm the guy who can get it for you. Tailor-made cigarettes, a bag of reefer, if you're partial to that, a bottle of brandy to celebrate your son or daughter's high school graduation, or almost anything else ... within reason, that is. It wasn't always that way. I came to Shawshank when I was just twenty, and I am one of the few people in our happy little family who is willing to own up to what he did. I committed murder. I put a large insurance policy on my wife, who was three years older than I was, and then I fixed the brakes of the Chevrolet coupe her father had given us as a wedding present. It worked out exactly as I had planned, except I hadn't planned on her stopping to pick up the neighbour woman and the neighbour woman's infant son on the way down Castle Hill and into town. The brakes let go and the car crashed through the bushes at the edge of the town common, gathering speed. Bystanders said it must have been doing fifty or better when it hit the base of the Civil War statue and burst into flames. I also hadn't planned on getting caught, but caught I was. I got a season's pass into this place. Maine has no death penalty, but the district attorney saw to it that I was tried for all three deaths and given three life sentences, to run one after the other. That fixed up any chance of parole I might have, for a long, long time. The judge called what I had done 'a hideous, heinous crime', and it was, but it is also in the past now. You can look it up in the yellowing files of the Castle Rock Call, where the big headlines announcing my conviction look sort of funny and antique next to the news of Hitler and Mussolini and FDR's alphabet soup agencies. Have I rehabilitated myself, you ask? I don't know what that word means, at least as far as prisons and corrections go. I think it's a politician's word. It may have some other meaning, and it may be that I will have a chance to find out, but that is the future ... something cons teach themselves not to think about. I was young, good-looking, and from the poor side of town. I knocked up a pretty, sulky, headstrong girl who lived in one of the fine old houses on Carbine Street. Her father was agreeable to the marriage if I would take a job in the optical company he owned and 'work my way up'. I found out that what he really had in mind was keeping me in his house and under his thumb, like a disagreeable pet that has not quite been housebroken and which may bite. Enough hate eventually piled up to cause me to do what I did. Given a second chance I would not do it again, but I'm not sure that means I am rehabilitated. Anyway, it's not me I want to tell you about; I want to tell you about a guy named Andy Dufresne. But before I can tell you about Andy, I have to explain a few other things about myself. It won't take long. As I said, I've been the guy who can get it for you here at Shawshank for damn near forty years. And that doesn't just mean contraband items like extra cigarettes or booze, although those items always top the list. But I've gotten thousands of other items for men doing time here, some of them perfectly legal yet hard to come by in a place where you've supposedly been brought to be punished. There was one fellow who was in for raping a little girl and exposing himself to dozens of others; I got him three pieces of pink Vermont marble and he did three lovely sculptures out of them - a baby, a boy of about twelve, and a bearded young man. He called them The Three Ages of Jesus, and those pieces of sculpture are now in the parlour of a man who used to be governor of this state. Or here's a name you may remember if you grew up north of Massachusetts - Robert Alan Cote. In 1951 he tried to rob the First Mercantile Bank of Mechanic Falls, and the hold-up turned into a bloodbath - six dead in the end, two of them members of the gang, three of them hostages, one of them a young state cop who put his head up at the wrong time and got a bullet in the eye. Cote had a penny collection. Naturally they weren't going to let him have it in here, but with a little help from his mother and a middleman who used to drive a laundry truck, I was able to get it to him. I told him, Bobby, you must be crazy, wanting to have a coin collection in a stone hotel full of thieves. He looked at me and smiled and said, I know where to keep them. They'll be safe enough. Don't you worry. And he was right. Bobby Cote died of a brain tumour in 1967, but that coin collection has never turned up. I've gotten men chocolates on Valentine's Day; I got three of those green milkshakes they serve at McDonald's around St Paddy's Day for a crazy Irishman named O'Malley; I even arranged for a midnight showing of Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones for a party of twenty men who had pooled their resources to rent the films ... although I ended up doing a week in solitary for that little escapade. It's the risk you run when you're the guy who can get it. I've gotten reference books and fuck-books, joke novelties like handbuzzers and itching powder, and on more than one occasion I've seen that a long-timer has gotten a pair of panties from his wife or his girlfriend ... and I guess you'll know what guys in here do with such items during the long nights when time draws out like a blade. I don't get all those things gratis, and for some items the price comes high. But I don't do it just for the money; what good is money to me? I'm never going to own a Cadillac car or fly off to Jamaica for two weeks in February. I do it for the same reason that a good butcher will only sell you fresh meat: I got a reputation and I want to keep it. The only two things I refuse to handle are guns and heavy drugs. I won't help anyone kill himself or anyone else. I have enough killing on my mind to last me a lifetime. 　　我猜美国每个州立监狱和联邦监狱里，都有像我这样的一号人物，不论什么东西，我都能为你弄到手。无论是高级香烟或大麻（如果你偏好此道的话），或弄瓶白兰地来庆祝儿子或女儿高中毕业，总之差不多任何东西……我的意思是说，只要在合理范围内，我是有求必应；可是很多情况不一定都合情合理的。　　我刚满二十岁就来到肖申克监狱。在这个快乐小家庭中，我是少数肯痛痛快快承认自己干了什么的人。我犯了谋杀罪。我为大我三岁的太太投保了一笔数目庞大的寿险，然后在她父亲送我们的结婚礼物——一辆雪佛兰轿车的刹车上动了手脚。一切都正如我的计划，只是没料到她在半路上停下来载了邻居太太和她的小儿子，他们正一起下城堡山进城去。结果刹车失灵，车速越来越快，冲过路边树丛，撞上了一座内战纪念雕像的底座而轰然起火。旁观者说，当时的车速一定超过每小时五十英里。　　我也没料到自己居然会被逮住，但我却锒铛入狱，在这里长期服刑。缅因州没有死刑，但检察官让我因三桩谋杀罪而逐一受审，最后法官判了我三个无期徒刑，数罪并罚。这样一来，我在很长、很长一段时间内，都不可能有机会假释了。法官还在判决书上说我罪行重大，死有余辜。的确如此，不过现在这些事都已成过去。你可以去查查城堡岩的旧报纸档案，有关我的判决当时是地方报纸的头条新闻，与希特勒、墨索里尼以及罗斯福手下那些字母开头的特工人员的新闻并列，如今看来，实在有点可笑，也早已成为老掉牙的旧闻了。　　你问我，我改过自新了吗？我甚至不知道什么叫改过自新，至少我不晓得那在监狱里代表了什么意思，我认为那只是政客爱用的字眼，这个词也许有一些其他的含意，也许有那么一天，我会明白它的含意，但那是未来的事了……而监狱里的囚犯早就学会不要去多想未来。　　当年的我出身贫穷，但年轻英俊。我让一个富家女珠胎暗结，她出身卡宾街的豪华宅邸，漂亮娇纵、但老是闷闷不乐。她父亲同意让我们结婚，条件是我得在他的眼镜公司工作，“靠自己的实力往上爬。”后来我发现，他真正的用意是要让我随时都在他的监控下，就像管着家里豢养的不太听话、还会咬人的猫狗一样。我的怨恨经年累月，越积越深，终于出手造成了这种后果。如果再给我一次机会，我绝对不会重蹈覆辙，但我不确定这样是否表示我已经痛改前非了。　　不过，我真正想说的不是我自己的事，而是安迪·杜佛尼的故事。但在我开始说安迪的故事之前，还得先说几件关于我的事情，反正不会花太多工夫。　　正如我刚才所说，差不多四十年来，在肖申克监狱里，我有办法帮你弄到任何东西。除了永远名列前茅的香烟和酒等违禁品之外，我还有办法弄到上千种其他东西，给这儿的人消磨时间。有些东西绝对合法，只是在这种地方不易取得，因为坐牢本该是一种惩罚。例如，有个家伙强暴了一个小女孩，还涉及几十件暴露的案子。我给他找了三块粉红色的佛蒙特大理石，他雕了三座可爱的雕像，一个婴儿、一个十二岁的男孩，还有一个蓄胡子的年轻人，他称这些雕像为“耶稣的三个不同时期”，现在这些雕像已经成为前任州长客厅中的摆设了。　　又或者，如果你是在马萨诸塞州北边长大的人，一定还记得这个人的名字——罗伯特·艾伦·科特。他在一九五一年，企图抢劫莫堪尼克弗市第一商业银行，结果那次抢劫演变成血腥事件，死了六个人，包括两个强盗、三名人质，还有一个年轻警察因为挑错时间抬起头来，而让子弹穿过眼睛。科特有收集钱币的嗜好。监狱自然不会准他将收藏品带进来，但靠着他母亲和洗衣房卡车司机的帮忙，我还是替他弄到了他想要的东西。我告诉他：你一定是疯了，才会想在这个满是盗贼的石头旅馆中收藏钱币。他看着我微笑说：“我知道该把钱币藏在哪里，绝对安全，你别担心。”他说得没错。直到一九六七年他死于脑瘤时，他所收藏的钱币始终没有现身过。　　我试过在情人节设法为狱友弄到巧克力；在圣帕迪日为一个叫欧迈利的疯狂爱尔兰人弄到三杯麦当劳卖的那种绿色奶昔；我甚至还为二十个人放映过午夜场电影，片名分别是《深喉》和《琼斯小姐体内的魔鬼》（这些都是色情片，他们一起凑钱租片子）……虽然我因为这些越轨行动被关了一周禁闭，但要维持“神通广大”的英名，就必须冒这样的风险。　　我还能弄到参考书和黄色书刊、会让人发痒的粉末之类的恶作剧新奇玩意儿，甚至替被判长期徒刑的家伙弄到太太或女朋友的内裤……我猜你也知道这些人究竟如何度过如刀割似的漫漫长夜了。这些东西并非免费的，有些东西代价不菲。但我绝不是光为钱来干这些事。金钱对我又有何用呢？我既无法拥有一辆凯迪拉克，更不能在二月天飞到牙买加去度两个星期假。我这么做的理由和市场一流肉贩非新鲜肉品不卖的理由是一样的，只是为了维持英名不坠罢了。只有两种东西，我绝对不碰，一是枪械，一是毒品。我不愿帮助任何人把自己或其他人杀掉。我心头上的杀戮已够多了，终我一生，我不想再干任何杀人的勾当。
Chapter 2
Yeah, I'm a regular Neiman-Marcus. And so when Andy Dufresne came to me in 1949 and asked if I could smuggle Rita Hayworth into the prison for him, I said it would be no problem at all. And it wasn't. When Andy came to Shawshank in 1948, he was thirty years old. He was a short neat little man with sandy hair and small, clever hands. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles. His fingernails were always clipped, and they were always clean. That's a funny thing to remember about a man, I suppose, but it seems to sum Andy up for me. He always looked as if he should have been wearing a tie. On the outside he had been a vice-president in the trust department of a large Portland bank. Good work for a man as young as he was, especially when you consider how conservative most banks are ... and you have to multiply that conservatism by ten when you get up into New England, where folks don't like to trust a man with their money unless he's bald, limping, and constantly plucking at his pants to get his truss around straight Andy was in for murdering his wife and her lover. As I believe I have said, everyone in prison is an innocent man. Oh, they read that scripture the way those holy rollers on TV read the Book of Revelations. They were the victims of judges with hearts of stone and balls to match, or incompetent lawyers, or police frame-ups, or bad luck. They read the scripture, but you can see a different scripture in their faces. Most cons are a low sort, no good to themselves or anyone else, and their worst luck was that their mothers carried them to term. In all my years at Shawshank, there have been less than ten men whom I believed when they told me they were innocent. Andy Dufresne was one of them, although I only became convinced of his innocence over a period of years. If I had been on the jury that heard his case in Portland Superior Court over six stormy weeks in 1947-48, I would have voted to convict, too. It was one hell of a case, all right; one of those juicy ones with all the right elements. There was a beautiful girl with society connections (dead), a local sports figure (also dead), and a prominent young businessman in the dock. There was this, plus all the scandal the newspapers could hint at. The prosecution had an open-and-shut case. The trial only lasted as long as it did because the DA was planning to run for the US House of Representatives and he wanted John Q Public to get a good long look at his phiz. It was a crackerjack legal circus, with spectators getting in line at four in the morning, despite the subzero temperatures, to assure themselves of a seat. The facts of the prosecution's case that Andy never contested were these: That he had a wife, Linda Collins Dufresne; that in June of 1947 she had expressed an interest in learning the game of golf at the Falmouth Hills Country Club; that she did indeed take lessons for four months; that her instructor was the Falmouth Hills golf pro, Glenn Quentin; that in late August of 1947 Andy learned that Quentin and his wife had become lovers; that Andy and Linda Dufresne argued bitterly on the afternoon of 10 September 1947; that the subject of their argument was her infidelity. He testified that Linda professed to be glad he knew; the sneaking around, she said, was distressing. She told Andy that she planned to obtain a Reno divorce. Andy told her he would see her in hell before he would see her in Reno. She went off to spend the night with Quentin in Quentin's rented bungalow not far from the golf course. The next morning his cleaning woman found both of them dead in bed. Each had been shot four times. It was that last fact that mitigated more against Andy than any of the others. The DA with the political aspirations made a great deal of it in his opening statement and his closing summation. Andrew Dufresne, he said, was not a wronged husband seeking a hot-blooded revenge against his cheating wife; that, the DA said, could be understood, if not condoned. But this revenge had been of a much colder type. Consider! the DA thundered at the jury. Four and four! Not six shots, but eight! He had fired the gun empty ... and then stopped to reload so he could shoot each of them again! FOUR FOR HIM AND FOUR FOR HER, the Portland Sun blared. The Boston Register dubbed him The Even-Steven Killer. A clerk from the Wise Pawnshop in Lewiston testified that he had sold a six-shot .38 Police Special to Andrew Dufresne just two days before the double murder. A bartender from the country club bar testified that Andy had come in around seven o'clock on the evening of 10 September, had tossed off three straight whiskeys in a twenty-minute period - when he got up from the bar-stool he told the bartender that he was going up to Glenn Quentin's house and he, the bartender, could 'read about the rest of it in the papers'. Another clerk, this one from the Handy-Pik store a mile or so from Quentin's house, told the court that Dufresne had come in around quarter to nine on the same night. He purchased cigarettes, three quarts of beer, and some dish-towels. The county medical examiner testified that Quentin and the Dufresne woman had been killed between eleven p.m. and two a.m. on the night of 10-11 September. The detective from the Attorney General's office who had been in charge of the case testified that there was a turnout less than seventy yards from the bungalow, and that on the afternoon of 11 September, three pieces of evidence had been removed from that turnout: first item, two empty quart bottles of Narragansett Beer (with the defendant's fingerprints on them); the second item, twelve cigarette ends (all Kools, the defendant's brand); third item, a plaster moulage of a set of tyre tracks (exactly matching the tread-and-wear pattern of the tyres on the defendant's 1947 Plymouth). In the living room of Quentin's bungalow, four dishtowels had been found lying on the sofa. There were bullet-holes through them and powder-burns on them. The detective theorized (over the agonized objections of Andy's lawyer) that the murderer had wrapped the towels around the muzzle of the murder-weapon to muffle the sound of the gunshots. Andy Dufresne took the stand in his own defence and told his story calmly, coolly, and dispassionately. He said he had begun to hear distressing rumours about his wife and Glenn Quentin as early as the last week in July. In August he had become distressed enough to investigate a bit. On an evening when Linda was supposed to have gone shopping in Portland after her tennis lesson, Andy had followed her and Quentin to Quentin's one-storey rented house (inevitably dubbed 'the love-nest' by the papers). He had parked in the turnout until Quentin drove her back to the country club where her car was parked, about three hours later. 　　啊，我的商品目录可说是无所不包，因此当安迪·杜佛尼在一九四九年来找我，问我能否把丽塔·海华丝丽塔·海华丝（RitaHayworth，1918—1987），二十世纪四五十年代好莱坞著名性感女星。弄进监狱时，我说没问题。确实没有任何问题。　　安迪在一九四八年到肖申克时是三十岁，他属于五短身材，长得白白净净，一头棕发，双手小而灵巧。他戴了一副金边眼镜，指甲永远剪得整整齐齐、干干净净，我最记得的也是那双手，一个男人给人这种印象还满滑稽的，但这似乎正好总结了安迪这个人的特色，他的样子老让你觉得他似乎应该穿着西装、打着领带的。他没进来前，是波特兰一家大银行的信托部副总裁。在保守的银行界，年纪轻轻就坐上这个位子，可说是前程似锦。尤其在新英格兰这一带，保守的风气更是十倍于其他地方；除非你是个精神委靡的秃头中年人，不时整整西装裤上的线条，惟恐不够笔挺，否则很难得到当地人的信任，让他们把钱存在你那里。安迪是因为谋杀了老婆和她的情夫而被关进来的。　　我相信我说过，监狱里每个犯人都声称自己无辜。他们只是碰上了铁石心肠的法官、无能的律师、警察的诬告，而成为受害者，再不然就是运气实在太坏了。尽管他们手按《圣经》宣誓，但却口是心非，像电视布道家那样信口开河而已。大多数囚犯都不是什么好人，无论对自己或对别人，都没什么好处，他们最大的不幸，就是被生到这世上来。我在肖申克的那些年中，尽管许多人告诉我他们是无辜的，但我相信其中真正无辜的人不超过十个，安迪·杜佛尼就是其中之一。不过我是经过了很多年才相信他的无辜，如果一九四七到四八年间，波特兰高等法院审判他的案子时我也是陪审团的一员，我想我也会投票赞成将他定罪。　　那是个轰动一时的案子，具备了所有耸动刺激的案子必备的要素。三位主角，一位是交游广泛的美丽名媛（已死），一位是当地的运动健将（也死了），被告则是著名的青年企业家，再加上报纸的渲染、对丑闻的暗示。检察当局认为这个案子几乎是铁证如山，而案子之所以还审了那么长的一段时日，是因为侦办此案的检察官当时正要出马竞选众议员，有意留给大家深刻的印象。这是一场出色的法庭秀，旁观的群众清晨四点钟就冒着零度以下的低温到法院排队，免得抢不到位子。　　在这个案子里，安迪始终不曾抗议过由检察官提出的指控，包括安迪的太太琳达在一九四七年六月表示有意去学高尔夫球，她选了佛茂丘乡村俱乐部的课程学了四个月，教练叫格林·昆丁，是一名职业高尔夫球手。结果没有多久，琳达便和高尔夫球教练好起来了，到了八月底，安迪听说了这件事。于是安迪和琳达在一九四七年九月十日下午大吵一架，争论的导火线便是琳达的外遇。　　安迪供称琳达当时表示她很高兴安迪知道这件事，并说偷偷摸摸瞒着他约会，实在很不舒服，她要去雷诺城办离婚。安迪回答，要他一起去雷诺，门儿都没有，他们会先去地狱。琳达当晚即离家出走，到昆丁住处过夜，昆丁家就在高尔夫球场附近。第二天早上，为昆丁清扫洗衣的佣人发现他们两人死在床上，每人各中四枪。　　最后一项事实对安迪最不利。怀抱着政治热情的检察官做了慷慨激昂的开场白和结论。他说安迪·杜佛尼不只是个因为妻子不贞而热血沸腾、急于报复的丈夫，如果是出于这样的动机，我们虽然无法原谅，却可以理解，但是他的报复手段实在太冷血了。想象一下！他连珠炮般对着陪审团说：每人各射了四枪，不是射完手枪里的六发子弹就算了，而是总共射了八枪。把原先枪膛里的子弹射完后，停下来，重新装子弹，然后再一人补一枪！第二天《波特兰太阳报》以斗大标题怒吼着：给他四枪，她也四枪！　　路易斯登镇一家当铺的伙计作证说，他在案发两天前卖了一支点三八口径、有六发子弹的警用手枪给安迪·杜佛尼。乡村俱乐部的酒保作证说九月十日晚上七点左右，安迪到酒吧来喝酒，在二十分钟内喝了三杯烈威士忌酒，当他从椅子上站起来时，他告诉酒保要去昆丁家，并说欲知后事如何，明天看报纸就知道了。还有一个距离昆丁家一英里远的便利商店店员告诉法庭，安迪·杜佛尼在当晚八点四十五分左右去过他的店。他买了香烟、三夸脱啤酒，还有一些擦碗布。法医证明昆丁和琳达是大约在晚上十一点到凌晨两点之间遇害的。检察官派出的探员作证时表示，昆丁家七十码外的地方有个岔道，九月十一日下午，他们在岔道附近找到三样物证：两个空啤酒瓶（上面有被告的指纹）、十二根烟蒂（是被告抽的牌子）以及轮胎痕迹（正是被告一九四七年出厂的普利茅斯牌车子的车胎印子）。　　在昆丁住处的客厅中，有四条擦碗布扔在沙发上，上面有弹孔和火药灼伤的痕迹。警探的推论是，凶手把擦碗布包在枪口上来消音（安迪的律师对探员擅自推论提出强烈抗议）。　　安迪·杜佛尼也走上证人席为自己辩护，他很冷静、镇定、不带感情地述说自己的故事。他说早在七月底就听到太太和昆丁密切来往的事。八月底他悲苦到受不了了，开始调查。一天傍晚，琳达上完高尔夫球课以后，原本说要到波特兰购物，但他尾随琳达和昆丁却到了昆丁住的地方（媒体不可免俗地把这里冠上“爱巢”二字）。他把车子停在附近，一直等昆丁驾车送琳达回俱乐部取车才离开，那是三小时以后的事了。
Chapter 3
'Do you mean to tell this court that your wife did not recognize your brand-new Plymouth sedan behind Quentin's car?' the DA asked him on cross-examination. 'I swapped cars for the evening with a friend,' Andy said, and this cool admission of how well-planned his investigation had been did him no good at all in the eyes of the jury. After returning the friend's car and picking up his own, he had gone home. Linda had been in bed, reading a book. He asked her how her trip to Portland had been. She replied that it had been fun, but she hadn't seen anything she liked well enough to buy. That's when I knew for sure,' Andy told the breathless spectators. He spoke in the same calm, remote voice in which he delivered almost all of his testimony. 'What was your frame of mind in the seventeen days between then and the night your wife was murdered?' Andy's lawyer asked him. 'I was in great distress,' Andy said calmly, coldly. Like a man reciting a shopping list he said that he had considered suicide, and had even gone so far as to purchase a gun in Lewiston on 8 September. His lawyer then invited him to tell the jury what had happened after his wife left to meet Glenn Quentin on the night of the murders. Andy told them ... and the impression he made was the worst possible. I knew him for close to thirty years, and I can tell you he was the most self-possessed man I've ever known. What was right with him he'd only give you a little at a time. What was wrong with him he kept bottled up inside. If he ever had a dark night of the soul, as some writer or other has called it, you would never know. He was the type of man who, if he had decided to commit suicide, would do it without leaving a note but not until his affairs had been put neatly in order. If he had cried on the witness stand, or if his voice had thickened and grown hesitant, even if he had gotten yelling at that Washington-bound District Attorney, I don't believe he would have gotten the life sentence he wound up with. Even if he had've he would have been out on parole by 1954. But he told his story like a recording machine, seeming to say to the jury: this is it. Take it or leave it. They left it. He said he was drunk that night, that he'd been more or less drunk since 24 August, and that he was a man who didn't handle his liquor very well. Of course that by itself would have been hard for any jury to swallow. They just couldn't see this coldly self-possessed young man in the neat double-breasted three-piece woollen suit ever getting falling-down drunk over his wife's sleazy little affair with some small-town golf pro. I believed it because I had a chance to watch Andy that those six men and six women didn't have. Andy Dufresne took just four drinks a year all the time I knew him. He would meet me in the exercise yard every year about a week before his birthday and then again about two weeks before Christmas. On each occasion he would arrange for a bottle of Jack Daniels. He bought it the way most cons arrange to buy their stuff-the slave's wages they pay in here, plus a little of his own. Up until 1965 what you got for your time was a dime an hour. In '65 they raised it all the way up to a quarter. My commission on liquor was and is ten per cent, and when you add on that surcharge to the price of a fine sippin' whiskey like the Black Jack, you get an idea of how many hours of Andy Dufresne's sweat in the prison laundry was going to buy his four drinks a year. On the morning of his birthday, 20 September, he would have himself a big knock, and then he'd have another that night after lights out. The following day he'd give the rest of the bottle back to me, and I would share it around. As for the other bottle, he dealt himself one drink Christmas night and another on New Year's Eve. Then that one would also come to me with instructions to pass it on. Four drinks a year -and that is the behaviour of a man who has been bitten hard by the bottle. Hard enough to draw blood. He told the jury that on the night of the 10th he had been so drunk he could only remember what had happened in little isolated snatches. He had gotten drunk that afternoon - 'I took on a double helping of Dutch courage' is how he put it -before taking on Linda. After she left to meet Quentin, he remembered deciding to confront them. On the way to Quentin's bungalow, he swung into the country club for a couple of quick ones. He could not, he said, remember telling the bartender he could 'read about the rest of it in the papers', or saying anything to him at all. He remembered buying beer in the Handy-Pik, but not the dishtowels. 'Why would I want dishtowels?' he asked, and one of the papers reported that three of the lady jurors shuddered. Later, much later, he speculated to me about the clerk who had testified on the subject of those dishtoweis, and I think it'i worth jotting down what he said. 'Suppose that, during their chmvmhn fur witnesses,' Andy said one day in the oxwulio yard, 'they stumble on this fellow who sold me the beer that night. By then three days have gone by. The facts of the case have been broadsided in all the papers. Maybe they ganged up on the guy, five or six cops, plus the dick from the attorney general's office, plus the DA's assistant. Memory is a pretty subjective thing, Red. They could have started out with "Isn't it possible that he purchased four or five dishtowels?" and worked their way up from there. If enough people want you to remember something, that can be a pretty powerful persuader.' I agreed that it could. 'But there's one even more powerful,' Andy went on in that musing way of his. 'I think it's at least possible that he convinced himself. It was the limelight. Reporters asking him questions, his picture in the papers ... all topped, of course, by his star turn in court. I'm not saying that he deliberately falsified his story, or perjured himself. I think it's possible that lie could have passed a lie detector test with flying colours, or sworn on his mother's sacred name that I bought those dishtowels. But still ... memory is such a goddam subjective thing. 'I know this much: even though my own lawyer thought I had to be lying about half my story, he never bought that business about the dishtowels. It's crazy on the face of it. I was pig-drunk, too drunk to have been thinking about muffling the gunshots. If I'd done it, I just would have let them rip.' He went up to the turnout and parked there. He drank beer and smoked cigarettes. He watched the lights downstairs in Quentin's place go out. He watched a single light go on upstairs ... and fifteen minutes later he watched that one go out. He said he could guess the rest. 'Mr Dufresne, did you then go up to Glenn Quentin's house and kill the two of them?' his lawyer thundered. 　　“你是说你开了你的普利茅斯牌新车跟随你太太？”检察官审问他。　　“那天晚上我和一个朋友换了车子。”安迪说。但他冷静地承认自己计划得多么周详，只会使陪审员感到他城府很深，对他一点好处也没有。　　在还了朋友的车、取回自己的车后，安迪便回家去。琳达早已上床，正在看书。他问她去波特兰好玩吗？她回答说很有意思，不过没有看到她想买的东西。“这时我可以确定了。”安迪告诉那些屏息的旁听者。他在陈述时一直保持冷静和淡漠的声调。　　“从那时候到你太太被杀的那十七天，你脑子里都在想些什么？”安迪的律师问他。　　“我很难过。”安迪冷静淡漠地说，他说他曾经想过自杀，同时在九月八日去路易斯登镇买了一把枪，他说这段话时，口气好像在念购物单一样。　　他的律师要他告诉陪审团，在他太太被杀当晚，琳达离家去和昆丁幽会后，到底发生了什么事情。安迪说了，但他所造成的印象更糟。　　我认识他将近三十年了，我可以告诉你，他是我所认识的人当中自制力最强的一个人。对他有利的事情，他一次只会透露一点点；对他不利的事更是守口如瓶。如果他心底暗藏了什么秘密，那么你永远也无从得知。如果他决定自杀的话，他会等到所有事情都处理得干净利落，连字条都不留。如果他当年出庭时曾经又哭又叫、结结巴巴地说不清楚，甚至对着检察官大吼，我相信他都不至于被判无期徒刑。即使判刑，也会在一九五四年就获得假释。但他说起自己的故事时，就像播放唱片似的，仿佛在告诉陪审团的人说：信不信由你。而他们压根儿就不相信。　　他说那天晚上他喝醉了，而且自从八月二十四日后，他常醉酒，他不是一个善饮的人。陪审团的人无法相信这么一个冷静自制、穿着笔挺双排扣三件头毛料西装的年轻人，会为了太太和镇上的高尔夫球教练有染而酗酒，但我相信，因为我有机会和他长久相处、仔细观察他，而那六男六女的陪审团却没有这样的机会。　　自从我认识他以来，他一年只喝四次酒。每年他都会在生日前一个星期到运动场和我碰头，然后在圣诞节前两星期再碰头一次。每次他都要我替他弄一瓶酒。跟其他犯人一样，他拿在狱中做工赚的钱来买酒，另外再自掏腰包补足不够的钱。一九六五年以前，肖申克的工资是每小时一毛钱，一九六五年起调升到每小时两毛五分。我每瓶酒抽百分之十的佣金，因此你可以算一下，安迪·杜佛尼要在洗衣房中流多少汗，一年才喝得起四次酒。　　在他生日的那天早上，也就是九月二十日，他会狠狠喝醉，当晚熄灯后再醉一次。第二天他会把剩下的半瓶给我，让我和其他人分享。至于另一瓶，他在圣诞夜喝一次，除夕喝一次，然后剩下的酒再交给我分给其他人。一年才喝四次，因为他被酒害惨了。　　他告诉陪审团，十日晚上他喝得酩酊大醉，当晚发生的事只记得片片段段。其实早在那天下午，他就已经醉了：“喝下双份的荷兰勇气。”他说。　　琳达离家出走后，他决定去找他们当面理论。在去昆丁家的路上，他又进乡村俱乐部的酒吧喝了几杯。他不记得曾经告诉酒保要他第二天看报纸，或对他说了什么。他记得去便利商店中买啤酒，但没有买擦碗布。“我为何要买擦碗布呢？”他又问。其中一家报纸报道，有三位女陪审员聆听这些话后，感到不寒而栗。　　后来，在过了很久以后，安迪和我谈话时，对那个店员为何作证说他买了擦碗布有一番推测，我觉得应该把他当时说的话约略记一记。“假定在他们到处寻找证人的时候，雷德，”安迪有一天在运动场对我说，“他们碰到这个卖啤酒给我的店员，当时已经过了三天，有关这个案子的种种发现，也已经在所有报纸上大肆渲染。或许五、六个警察，再加上检察官办公室派来办案的探员和助理，一起找上他。记忆其实是很主观的事情。他们一开始可能只是问：‘他有没有可能买了四、五条擦碗布？’然后一步步进逼。如果有够多的人一直要你记得某件事，那种说服力是很惊人的。”　　我同意，确实有这个可能。　　安迪继续说：“但是还有一种更强大的说服力，我想至少不无这个可能，也就是他说服自己相信他真的卖了擦碗布给我。这个案子是众所瞩目的焦点。记者纷纷采访他，他的照片刊登在报纸上……当然更威风的是，他像明星般出现在法庭上。我并不是说，他故意编造故事或作伪证。我觉得有可能他通过了测谎，或用他妈妈神圣之名发过誓，说我确实买了擦碗布，但是……记忆仍然可能是他妈的非常主观的事情。我只知道：虽然连我的律师也认为我所说的有一半都是谎话，但他也不相信擦碗布的部分。这件事太疯狂了，我那时已经烂醉如泥了，怎么还会想到把枪包起来灭音呢？如果真的是我杀的，我才不管三七二十一呢。”　　他开车来到岔道，把车停在旁边，静静地喝啤酒和抽烟。他看到昆丁家楼下的灯熄了，只剩下楼上一盏灯还亮着……再过了十五分钟，那盏灯也熄了。他说他可以猜到接下来发生了什么事。　　“杜佛尼先生，那么你有没有进昆丁的屋子，把他们两人给杀了？”他的律师吼道。
Chapter 4
'No, I did not,' Andy answered. By midnight, he said, he was sobering up. He was also feeling the first signs of a bad hangover. He decided to go home and sleep it off and think about the whole thing in a more adult fashion the next day. 'At that time, as I drove home, I was beginning to think that the wisest course would be to simply let her go to Reno and get her divorce.' 'Thank you, Mr Dufresne.' The DA popped up. 'You divorced her in the quickest way you could think of, didn't you? You divorced her with a .38 revolver wrapped in dishtowels, didn't you?' 'No sir, I did not,' Andy said calmly. 'And then you shot her lover.' 'No, sir.' 'You mean you shot Quentin first?' 'I mean I didn't shoot either one of them. I drank two quarts of beer and smoked however many cigarettes that the police found at the turnout. Then I drove home and went to bed.' 'You told the jury that between 24 August and 10 September, you were feeling suicidal.' 'Yes, sir.' 'Suicidal enough to buy a revolver.' 'Yes.' 'Would it bother you overmuch, Mr Dufresne, if I told you that you do not seem to me to be the suicidal type?' 'No,' Andy said, 'but you don't impress me as being terribly sensitive, and I doubt very much that, if I were feeling suicidal, I would take my problem to you.' There was a slight tense titter in the courtroom at this, but it won him no points with the jury. 'Did you take your .38 with you on the night of September?' 'No; as I've already testified -' 'Oh, yes!' The DA smiled sarcastically. 'You threw it into the river, didn't you? The Royal River. On the afternoon of 9 September.' 'Yes, sir.' 'One day before the murders.' 'Yes, sir.' That's convenient, isn't it?' 'It's neither convenient nor inconvenient. Only the truth.' 'I believe you heard Lieutenant Mincher's testimony?' Mincher had been in charge of the party which had dragged the stretch of the Royal near Pond Bridge, from which Andy had testified he had thrown the gun. The police had not found it. 'Yes, sir. You know I heard it.' Then you heard him testify that they found no gun, although they dragged for three days. That was rather convenient, too, wasn't it?' 'Convenience aside, it's a fact that they didn't find the gun,' Andy responded calmly. 'But I should like to point out to both you and the jury that the Pond Road Bridge is very close to where the Royal River empties into the Bay of Yarmouth. The current is strong. The gun may have been carried out into the bay itself.' 'And so no comparison can be made between the riflings on the bullets taken from the bloodstained corpses of your wife and Mr Glenn Quentin and the riflings on the barrel of your gun. That's correct, isn't it, Mr Dufresne?' 'Yes.' 'That's also rather convenient, isn't it?' At that, according to the papers, Andy displayed one of the few slight emotional reactions he allowed himself during the entire six-week period of the trial. A slight, bitter smile crossed his face. 'Since I am innocent of this crime, sir, and since I am telling the truth about throwing my gun into the river the day before the crime took place, then it seems to me decidedly inconvenient that the gun was never found.' The DA hammered at him for two days. He re-read the Handy-Pik clerk's testimony about the dishtowels to Andy. Andy repeated that he could not recall buying them, but admitted that he also couldn't remember not buying them. Was it true that Andy and Linda Dufresne had taken out a joint insurance policy in early 1947? Yes, that was true. And if acquitted, wasn't it true that Andy stood to gain $50,000 in benefits? True. And wasn't it true that he had gone up to Glenn Quentin's house with murder in his heart, and wasn't it also true that he had indeed committed murder twice over? No, it was not true. Then what did he think had happened, since there had been no signs of robbery? 'I have no way of knowing that, sir,' Andy said quietly. The case went to the jury at one p.m. on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. The twelve jurymen and women came back at three-thirty. The bailiff said they would have been back earlier, but they had held off in order to enjoy a nice chicken dinner from Bentley's Restaurant at the county's expense. They found him guilty, and brother, if Maine had the death penalty, he would have done the airdance before that spring's crocuses poked their heads out of the dirt. The DA had asked him what he thought had happened, and Andy slipped the question - but he did have an idea, and I got it out of him late one evening in 1955. It had taken those seven years for us to progress from nodding acquaintances to fairly close friends - but I never felt really close to Andy until 1960 or so, and I believe I was the only one who ever did get really close to him. Both being long-timers, we were in the same cellblock from beginning to end, although I was halfway down the corridor from him. 'What do I think?' He laughed - but there was no humour in the sound. 'I think there was a lot of bad luck floating around that night. More than could ever get together in the same short span of time again. I think it must have been some stranger, just passing through. Maybe someone who had a flat tyre on that road after I went home. Maybe a burglar. Maybe a psychopath. He killed them, that's all. And I'm here.' As simple as that. And he was condemned to spend the rest of his life in Shawshank or the part of it that mattered. Five years later he began to have parole hearings, and he was turned down just as regular as clockwork in spite of being a model prisoner. Getting a pass out of Shawshank when you've got murder stamped on your admittance-slip is slow work, as slow as a river eroding a rock. Seven men sit on the board, two more than at most state prisons, and every one of those seven has an ass as hard as the water drawn up from a mineral-spring well. You can't buy those guys, you can't no, you can't cry for them. As far as the board concerned, money don't talk, and nobody walks. Pc other reasons in Andy's case as well ... but that belongs a little further along in my story. 　　“没有，我没有。”安迪回答。他说，到了午夜，他逐渐清醒过来，同时宿醉的感觉开始让他不舒服。于是他决定回家，睡一觉后，第二天再像个大人般好好冷静地想一想，“当我开车回家时，我开始觉得，最好的办法还是就让她去雷诺办离婚吧。”　　“多谢，杜佛尼先生。”　　检察官从椅子上跳起来发言。　　“你用了最快的离婚方式，不是吗？直接用一把包着布的点三八左轮手枪解决她，对不对？”　　“先生，不对，我没有。”安迪冷静地说。　　“然后你又杀了她的情夫。”　　“不是这样，先生。”　　“你是说，你先射杀了昆丁？”　　“我是说我谁都没杀，我喝了两夸脱的啤酒，还抽了警察在岔道找到的随便多少根的烟吧，然后便开车回家，上床睡觉。”　　“你告诉陪审团在八月二十四日到九月十日之间，你曾经想自杀。”　　“是的，先生。”　　“因此去买了一把左轮枪？”　　“是。”　　“杜佛尼先生，我看你不像是想自杀的人，如果我这么说，会冒犯你吗？”　　“不会，”安迪说，“不过你看起来也不像特别敏感的那种人。如果我真的想自杀，大概也不会找你谈我心里的苦闷。”　　庭上一阵窃笑，但他这番话并不能赢得陪审团的同情。　　“你那天晚上带着你的点三八口径手枪吗？”　　“没有，我已经说过了——”　　“哦！对了！”检察官讽刺地微笑道，“你把它扔进河里了，是吗？在九月九日的下午，扔进皇家河中。”　　“是的，先生。”　　“在谋杀案发生的前一天。”　　“是的，先生。”　　“真是太巧了，不是吗？”　　“这无所谓巧不巧合，是事实罢了。”　　“我相信你已经听过明彻警官的证词了吧？”明彻带人去搜索庞德路桥一带的水域，安迪说他把枪从那儿扔到河里，但警方没找到。　　“是的，先生，你知道我听到了。”　　“那么你听到他告诉法庭，他们虽然找了三天，还是没找到枪。你这么说，不是太取巧了吗？”　　“不管巧不巧，他们没找到枪是事实，”安迪冷静道，“但我要跟你、还有陪审团说明一件事：庞德路桥很靠近皇家河的出海口，那里水流很急，枪也许被冲到海湾中了。”　　“因此也就无法比对你手枪中的子弹，以及射入你太太和昆丁先生浑身是血的身体中的子弹了，是吗？”　　“是的。”　　“这不也很巧吗？”　　按照当时报纸的记载，安迪听到他这么说时，脸上浮现出一丝苦笑，整整六个星期的审判过程中，这是安迪不多见的情绪反应之一。　　“由于我是无辜的，再加上当我说我把枪丢入河里时，我说的是实话，因此找不到枪，对我而言，其实是很不巧的。”安迪说。　　检察官炮火猛烈地质问了他两天，把便利商店店员的证词中有关擦碗布的部分重新念一遍。安迪反复说明他记不得曾经买过擦碗布，但也承认他记不得没买过擦碗布。　　安迪和琳达于一九四七年初合买过保险，是吗？是的。如果安迪无罪开释，是否可以得到五万元的保险理赔？是的。那么他前往昆丁的屋子时，不是抱着杀人的打算？打算杀了自己的妻子和昆丁？不是。如果不是的话，那么他认为那天到底发生了什么事，因为这个案子不像劫财害命。　　“先生，我完全想不透发生了什么事。”安迪静静地说。　　这案子在一个大雪纷飞的星期三下午一点钟，交付陪审团表决。十二位陪审员在三点半回到庭上。法警说，他们原本可以早一点返回法庭，但是为了能享受一顿从班特利餐厅买来、由公家招待的免费鸡肉大餐，而拖了一点时间。陪审团判定安迪有罪。各位，如果缅因州有死刑的话，他会在番红花还未从雪中冒出头之前上了西天。　　检察官问过安迪，他认为那天晚上到底发生了什么事，安迪避而不答。但他其实心中的确有一些想法，我在一九五五年一个黄昏时把这些想法套出来。我们两人花了七年工夫，才从点头之交进而成为相当亲近的朋友，但直到一九六年之前，我都从未真正感到跟他很接近。而且我想，我是惟一曾经真正跟他接近的人。我们由始至终都在同一层囚室，只是我在走道中间而他在走道末端。　　“我认为到底是怎么回事？”他笑道，但笑声中没有丝毫幽默的意味，“我认为那天晚上，我真是倒霉透了，古往今来最倒霉的事都集中在这短短几小时内发生。我想一定有个陌生人凑巧经过。也许在我走了之后，有人车子爆胎了，也许是个强盗，也许是个神经病，走进去把他们杀了，就这样，我就被关进来了。”　　就这么简单。而他却得下半辈子——至少在离得开以前——都待在肖申克。五年后，他开始申　　请假释，但每次都被驳回，尽管他是模范犯人。但当你被烙上了谋杀的罪名后，想离开肖申克可有　　得等了，慢得就像流水侵蚀岩石一样。假释听证会中有七个委员，比一般州立监狱还多两个，你不　　能收买那些家伙，也无法用甜言蜜语哄他们，更不能向他们哭求。在假释听证会中，有钱都不能使鬼推磨，任你是谁都插翅难飞。而安迪的情况，原因就更复杂……不过且待下文分解吧。
Chapter 5
There was a trusty, name of Kendricks, who was into me for some pretty heavy money back in the fifties, and it was four years before he got it all paid off. Most of the interest he paid me was information - in my line of work, you're dead if you can't find ways of keeping your ear to the ground. This Kendricks, for instance, had access to records I was never going to see running a stamper down in the goddam plate-shop. Kendricks told me that the parole board vote was 7-0 against Andy Dufresne through 1957,6-1 in '58, 7-0 again in '59, and 5-2 in '60. After that I don't know, but I do know that sixteen years later he was still in Cell 14 of Cellblock 5. By then, 1976, he was fifty-eight. They probably would have fatten big-hearted and let him out around 1983. They give you life, and that's what they take - all of it that counts, anyway. Maybe they set you loose someday, but ... well. Listen: I knew this guy, Sherwood Bolton, his name was, and he had this pigeon in his cell. From 1945 until 1953, when they let him out, he had that pigeon. He wasn't any Birdman of Alcatraz; he just had this pigeon. Jake, he called him. He set Jake free a day before he, Sherwood, that is, was to walk, and Jake flew away just as pretty as you could want. But about a week after Sherwood Bolton left our happy little family, a friend of mine called me over to the west corner of the exercise yard, where Sherwood used to hang out, and my friend said: 'Isn't that Jake, Red?' It was. That pigeon was just as dead as a turd. 　　有个名叫肯德里克斯的模范犯人，在一九五年代向我借了不少钱，后来足足花了四年才付清。他付给我的利息大部分是用情报来抵。干我这一行，如果消息不灵通，就是死路一条。肯德里克斯能看到一些我绝对看不到的纪录和档案。他不像我只在那个该死的车牌工厂里操作压板机器。　　肯德里克斯告诉我，在一九五七年以前的假释听证会上，反对安迪假释的投票纪录是七比，一九五八年是六比一，一九五九年又是七比，一九六年是五比二，以后的我就不知道了。我只知道，经过十六年后，他还在第五区的十四号牢房。到了一九七五年，他已经五十七岁了。他们很可能到一九八三年时，才会大发慈悲放了他。　　他们饶你一命，但是却夺走你生命中所有重要的东西。也许有一天，他们会放你走，但是……　　听着：我认识一个叫波顿的家伙，他在牢房里养了一只鸽子。从一九四五年到一九五三年，当他们放他出来走走时，他都带着这只鸽子。他叫鸽子“杰克”。波顿在出狱前一天，也放杰克自由，杰克立刻姿态漂亮地飞走了。但是在波顿离开我们这个快乐小家庭一个星期之后，有个朋友把我带到运动场角落，波顿过去老爱在那里晃来晃去。有只小鸟像一堆脏床单般软趴趴地瘫在那里，看起来饿坏了。我的朋友说：“那是不是杰克啊？”没错，是杰克，那只鸽子像粪土一样躺在那儿。
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。
Chapter 7
'You could plant an item like that rock-hammer in somebody's skull,' I remarked. 'I have no enemies here,' he said quietly. 'No?' I smiled. 'Wait awhile.' 'If there's trouble, I can handle it without using a rock-hammer.' 'Maybe you want to try an escape? Going under the wall? Because if you do -' He laughed politely. When I saw the rock-hammer three weeks later, I understood why. "You know,' I said, 'if anyone sees you with it, they'll take it may. If they saw you with a spoon, they'd take it away. if you going to do, just sit down here in the yard and 3' away?' "Oh, I believe I can do a lot better than that.' I nodded. That part of it really wasn't my business, anyway. A man engages my services to get him something. Whether he can keep it or not after I get it is his business. 'How much would an item like that go for?' I asked. I was beginning to enjoy his quiet, low-key style. When you've spent ten years in stir, as I had then, you can get awfully tired of the bellowers and the braggarts and the loud-mouths. Yes, I dink it would be fair to say I liked Andy from the first. 'Eight dollars in any rock-and-gem shop,' he said, 'but I realize that in a business like yours you work on a cost-plus basis-' 'Cost plus ten per cent is my going rate, but I have to go up some on a dangerous item. For something like the gadget you're talking about, it takes a little more goose-grease to get the wheels turning. Let's say ten dollars.' 'Ten it is' I looked at him, smiling a little. 'Have you got ten dollars?' 'I do,' he said quietly. A long time after, I discovered that he had better than five hundred. He had brought it in with him. When they check you in at this hotel, one of the bellhops is obliged to bend you over and take a look up your works - but there are a lot of works, and, not to put too fine a point on it, a man who is really determined can get a fairly large item quite a ways up them - far enough to be out of sight, unless the bellhop you happen to draw is in the mood to pull on a rubber glove and go prospecting. 'That's fine,' I said. 'You ought to know what I expect if you get caught with what I get you.' 'I suppose I should,' he said, and I could tell by the slight change in his grey eyes that he knew exactly what I was going to say. It was a slight lightening, a gleam of his special ironic humour. 'If you get caught, you'll say you found it. That's about the long and short of it. They'll put you in solitary for three or four weeks ... plus, of course, you'll lose your toy and you'll get a black mark on your record. If you give them my name, you and I will never do business again. Not for so much as a pair of shoelaces or a bag of Bugler. And I'll send some fellows around to lump you up. I don't like violence, but you'll understand my position. I can't allow it to get around that I can't handle myself. That would surely finish me.' 'Yes. I suppose it would, I understand, and you don't need to worry.' 'I never worry,' I said. 'In a place like this there's no percentage in it.' He nodded and walked away. Three days later he walked up beside me in the exercise yard during the laundry's morning break. He didn't speak or even look my way, but pressed a picture of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton into my hand as neatly as a good magician does a card-trick. He was a man who adapted fast. I got him his rock-hammer. I had it in my cell for one night, and it was just as he described it. It was no tool for escape (it would have taken a man just about six hundred years to tunnel under the wall using that rock-hammer, I figured), but I still felt some misgivings. If you planted that pickaxe end in a man's head, he would surely never listen to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio again. And Andy had already begun having trouble with the sisters. I hoped it wasn't them he was wanting the rock-hammer for. In the end, I trusted my judgment. Early the next morning, twenty minutes before the wake-up horn went off, I slipped the rock-hammer and a package of Camels to Ernie, the old trusty who swept the Cellblock 5 corridors until he was let free in 1956. He slipped it into his tunic without a word, and I didn't see the rock-hammer again for seven years. The following Sunday Andy walked over to me in the exercise yard again. He was nothing to look at that day, I can tell you. His lower lip was swelled up so big it looked like a summer sausage, his right eye was swollen half-shut, and there was an ugly washboard scrape across one cheek. He was having his troubles with the sisters, all right, but he never mentioned them. 'Thanks for the tool,' he said, and walked away. I watched him curiously. He walked a few steps, saw in the dirt, bent over, and picked it up. It was a small rock. Prison fatigues, except for those worn by mechanics when they're on the job, have no pockets. But there are ways to get around that. The little pebble disappeared up Andy's sleeve and didn't come down. I admired that... and I admired him. In spite of the problems he was having, he was going on with his life. There are thousands who don't or won't or can't, and plenty of them aren't in prison, either. And I noticed that, although his face still looked as if a twister had happened to it, his hands were still neat and clean, the nails well-kept. I didn't see much of him over the next six months; Andy spent a lot of that time in solitary. A few words about the sisters. In a lot of pens they are known as bull queers or jailhouse susies - just lately the term in fashion is 'killer queens'. But in they were always the sisters. I don't know why, but other than the name I guess there was no difference. 　　“你可以把锤子插进某人的脑袋中。”我评论道。　　“我在这儿没有敌人。”他静静地说。　　“没有？”我微笑道，“再等一阵子吧。”　　“如果有麻烦的话，我不会用锤子来解决。”　　“也许你想越狱？在墙下挖地道？因为如果你——”　　他温文有礼地笑了起来。等到我三个星期后亲眼见到了那把石锤时，我就明白他为什么笑了。　　“你知道，”我说，“如果有人看见你带着这玩意儿，他们会把它拿走。他们连看到你有个汤匙，都会把它拿走。你要怎么弄呢？就蹲在这儿敲敲打打吗？”　　“噢，我会想出更好的办法的。”　　我点点头，反正那部分确实不关我的事。我只负责供应东西，至于他能否保住那个东西，完全是他的事情。　　“像这样一个玩意儿，要多少钱？”我问，我开始享受他安静低调的态度。如果你像我一样，已经度过了十年的牢狱生涯，你会极端厌倦那些爱大声咆哮、好吹牛、还有大嘴巴的人。所以，可以这么说，我从初次见面就很喜欢安迪。　　“任何卖石头和玉石的店都可以买到，要八块钱，”他说，“不过当然我明白，你经手的东西都还要加一点佣金——”　　“平常是加百分之十，不过我必须把危险物品的价格再提高一点。你要的东西比较不那么容易弄到手，所以就算十块钱好了。”　　“那就十块钱。”　　我看着他，微微一笑。“你有十块钱吗？”　　“有。”他平静地说。　　过了很久，我才发现他至少有五百元，是他入狱时就带进来的钱。每个人入狱时都要先经过一番检查，他们会强迫你弯下腰来，然后仔细查看你的某个部位。不过那部位空间不少，有决心的人想瞒天过海还是有办法，东西直往内塞，表面上甚至看不出来，除非碰巧检查你的那个人居然有心情戴上橡皮手套，往里面猛掏。　　“很好，”我说，“你应该知道万一我给你的东西被发现了，该怎么办吧？”　　“我想我应该知道。”我可以从他的眼神转变中看出，他早已猜到我要说什么了。他的眼神中闪现一丝他特有的带着嘲讽的幽默。　　“如果你被逮着了，你要说是你自己找到的。他们会关你三或四个星期的禁闭……还有，当然啰，你的玩具自然也会被没收，还会在你的记录上留下一个污点。但是如果你说出我的名字，以后就甭想再和我做生意了，连一双鞋带或一包香烟都甭想我卖给你。我也会派人给你一点颜色瞧瞧。我不喜欢暴力，但你要了解我的处境，我可不能随便给人摆了道儿，这样我往后就混不下去了？”　　“我懂，你不用担心。”　　“我从来不担心，”我说，“在这种地方，担心于事无补。”　　他点点头走开了。三天后，趁早上洗衣服的休息空档，他走向我。他没跟我说话，甚至没看我，不过神不知鬼不觉地塞给我一张摺得整整齐齐的钞票，手法就像魔术师玩扑克牌戏法一样利落。这家伙学得很快。我给他弄了一把锤子，正是他形容的尺寸和样子。我把锤子藏在我的牢房中一个晚上，这种锤子不像逃亡工具，我猜如果想用这样一把锤子挖地道逃出去，大约要六百年，但我还是有点不放心。因为万一把这玩意插在某人的脑袋中，他就再也别想听电台播放的流行歌了，而安迪一向跟那些同性恋处不好，我希望他们并非他真正想锤的对象。　　最后，我还是相信自己的判断。第二天一早，起床号还没有响起，我就把锤子藏在香烟盒中拿给厄尼，厄尼是模范囚犯，他在一九五六年出狱前，一直负责打扫第五区的走道。他一句话也没说，就飞快地把锤子塞进上衣里，此后十九年，我不曾再看过那把锤子，等我再看到它时，那把锤子早已磨损得没法用了。　　接下来那个星期日，安迪在运动场上又走向我。他的样子惨不忍睹，下嘴唇肿得像香肠，右眼也肿得张不开，脸颊有一连串刮伤。他又跟那些“姊妹”起冲突了，但他从来不提这件事。“多谢你的工具。”他说，说完便走了。　　我好奇地看着他。他走了几步，在地上看见什么东西，弯下腰去捡起来。那是块小石头。囚衣是没有口袋的（惟有担任技工的囚犯在工作场合中穿的工作服例外），但是总有办法可想，因此那块小石头消失在安迪的袖子中，而且一直没有掉下来，手法真叫人佩服……我也很佩服他，尽管他碰到不少麻烦，还是继续过他的日子，但世界上其他成千上万的人却办不到，他们不愿意或没有能力这么做，其中许多人根本没有被关在牢里，却还是不懂得过日子。我还注意到，尽管安迪的脸孔透露出他碰到麻烦了，但是他的双手仍然干净得一如往常，指甲也修剪得整整齐齐的。　　接下来六个月，我甚少看见他。安迪有好一阵子都被单独关在禁闭室里。　　说到这里，我想先谈谈关于“姊妹”的一些事情。　　这类人有许多不同的名称，像“公牛怪胎”或“牢房苏茜”等等——最近流行的说法是“杀手皇后”，但在肖申克，大家总是称他们为“姊妹”。我不知道为什么，不过除了名称不同之外，我猜其他没有什么不一样。
Chapter 8
It comes as no surprise to most these days that there's a lot of buggery going on inside the walls - except to some of the new fish, maybe, who have the misfortune to be young, slim, good-looking, and unwary - but homosexuality, like straight sex, comes in a hundred different shapes and forms. There are men who can't stand to be without sex of some kind and turn to another man to keep from going crazy. Usually what follows is an arrangement between two fundamentally "Heterosexual men, although I've sometimes wondered if they are quite as heterosexual as they thought they were going to be when they get back to their wives or their girlfriends. There are also men who get 'turned' in prison. In the current parlance they 'go gay', or 'come out of the closet'. Mostly (but not always) they play the female, and their favours are competed for fiercely. And then there are the sisters. They are to prison society what the rapist is to the society outside the walls. They're usually long-timers, doing hard bullets for brutal crimes. Their prey is the young, the weak, and the inexperienced ... or, as in the case of Andy Dufresne, the weak-looking. Their hunting grounds are the showers, the cramped, tunnel-like area way behind the industrial washers in the laundry, sometimes the infirmary. On more than one occasion rape has occurred in the closet-sized projection booth behind the auditorium. Most often what the sisters take by force they could have had for free, if they wanted it; those who have been turned always seem to have 'crushes' on one sister or another, like teenage girls with their Sinatras, Presleys, or Redfords. But for the sisters, the joy has always been in taking it by force... and I guess it always will be. Because of his small size and fair good looks (and maybe also because of that very quality of self-possession I had admired), the sisters were after Andy from the day he walked in. If this was some kind of fairy story, I'd tell you that Andy fought the good fight until they left him alone. I wish I could say that, but I can't. Prison is no fairy-tale world. The first time for him was in the shower less than three days after he joined our happy Shawshank family. Just a lot of slap and tickle that time, I understand. They like to size you up before they make their real move, like jackals finding out if the prey is as weak and hamstrung as it looks. Andy punched back and bloodied the lip of a big, hulking sister named Bogs Diamond - gone these many years since to who knows where. A guard broke it up before it could go any further, but Bogs promised to get him - and Bogs did. The second time was behind the washers in the laundry. A lot has gone on in that long, dusty, and narrow space over the years; the guards know about it and just let it be. It's dim and littered with bags of washing and bleaching compound, drums of Hexlite catalyst, as harmless as salt if your hands are dry, murderous as battery acid if they're wet. The guards don't like to go back there. There's no room to manoeuvre, and one of the first things they teach them when they come to work in a place like this is to never let the cons get you in a place where you can't back up. Bogs wasn't there that day, but Henry Backus, who had been washroom foreman down there since 1922, told me that four of his friends were. Andy held them at bay for a while with a scoop of Hexlite, threatening to throw it in their eyes if they came any closer, but he tripped trying to back around one of the big Washex four-pockets. That was ail it took. They were on him. I guess the phrase gang-rape is one that doesn't change much from one generation to the next. That's what they did to him, those four sisters. They bent him over a gearbox and one of them held a Phillips screwdriver to his temple while they gave him the business. It rips you up some, but not bad - am I speaking from personal experience, you ask? - I only wish I weren't. You bleed for a while. If you don't want some clown asking you if you just started your period, you wad up a bunch of toilet paper and keep it down the back of your underwear until it stops. The bleeding really is like a menstrual flow; it keeps up for two, maybe three days, a slow trickle. Then it stops. No harm done, unless they've done something even more unnatural to you. No physical harm done - but rape is rape, and eventually you have to look at your face in the mirror again and decide what to make of yourself. Andy went through that alone, the way he went through everything alone in those days. He must have come to the conclusion that others before him had come to, namely, that there are only two ways to deal with the sisters: fight them and get taken, or just get taken. He decided to fight When Bogs and two of his buddies came after him a week or so after the laundry incident ('I heard ya got broke in,' Bogs said, according to Ernie, who was around at the time), Andy slugged it out with them. He broke the nose of a fellow named Rooster MacBride, a heavy-gutted farmer who was in for beating his stepdaughter to death. Rooster died in here, I'm happy to add. They took him, all three of them. When it was done, Rooster and the other egg - it might have been Pete Verness, but I'm not completely sure - forced Andy down to his knees. Bogs Diamond stepped in front of him. He had a pearl-handled razor in those days with the words Diamond Pearl engraved on both sides of the grip. He opened it and said, I'm gonna open my fly now, mister man, and you're going to swallow what I give you to swallow. And when you done swallowed mine, you're gonna swallow Rooster's. I guess you done broke his nose and I think he ought to have something to pay for it' Andy said, 'Anything of yours that you stick in my mouth, you're going to lose it.' Bogs looked at Andy like he was crazy, Ernie said. 'No,' he told Andy, talking to him slowly, like Andy was a stupid kid. 'You didn't understand what I said. You do anything like that and I'll put all eight inches of this steel into your ear. Get it?' 'I understand what you said. I don't think you understand me. I'm going to bite whatever you stick into my mouth. You can put that razor in my brain, I guess, but you should know that a sudden serious brain injury causes the victim to simultaneously urinate, defecate... and bite down.' 　　大多数人对监狱中发生鸡奸早已见怪不怪了，或许只有一些新进犯人除外，尤其是那些不幸长得苗条俊秀、又缺乏警觉的年轻犯人。但是同性恋和异性恋一样，也有几百种不同的形式。有的人因为无法忍受无性的生活，因此在狱中转而结交男人，免得自己发疯。通常接下来原本是异性恋的两个男人之间就会有某种安排，虽然我常常怀疑，当他们有朝一日回到妻子和女友身边时，是否真能像自己所说的一样恢复为异性恋者。　　也有一些人在狱中“转变”性倾向。现在流行的说法是，他们变成同性恋者，或是“出柜”了。而这些男同性恋者大多数扮演女性的角色，而且大受欢迎。　　于是就有了这群“姊妹”。　　他们之于监狱这个小型社会，就好像强暴犯之于墙外的大型社会一样。他们往往是罪大恶极的长期犯，而他们的猎物则是一些年轻、瘦弱和没经验的囚犯……或者，就安迪的情况而言，看起来很柔弱的囚犯。淋浴间、洗衣机后面的狭窄通道，有时候甚至医务室，都成为他们的狩猎场。其中不止一次，强暴案也发生于礼堂后面只有衣橱大小的电影放映室中。很多时候，他们其实不必使用暴力也可以得逞，因为入狱后转为同性恋的囚犯似乎总是会迷上其中一位“姊妹”，就好像十来岁的少女迷恋明星或歌星偶像一样。但是对这些姊妹而言，其中的乐趣正在于使用暴力……而我猜这部分永远都不会改变。　　由于安迪长得比较矮小，生就一张俊脸，或许也因为他那特有的泰然自若的神态，他一进来就被那批姊妹看上了。如果我说的是童话故事，我会告诉你安迪一直奋勇抵抗，直到他们罢手为止。我很希望能这么说，但我不能。监狱原本就不是童话世界。　　第一次出事是在他加入我们肖申克快乐家庭还不到三天的时候，在浴室里。就我所知，那次只是一连串的挑逗和侮辱。那些人喜欢在采取真正的行动前，先捉弄一下猎物，就像胡狼想测试看猎物是否真的像外表那么软弱。　　安迪狠狠反击，而且把那个叫博格斯·戴蒙德的大块头嘴唇给打裂了，警卫及时冲进来，才制止住双方进一步的动作，但博格斯发誓非逮到安迪不可，他果然说到做到。　　第二次则发生在洗衣房后面。多年来，那条狭长肮脏的通道发生了不少事情，警卫全都知道，却放任不管。那里很暗，散置着一袋袋洗衣剂、漂白剂和一桶桶HexliteHexlite为复合材料界巨头——美国赫氏公司（Hexcel）的一个商标。催化剂，如果你的手是干的，碰到也不会怎么样，但是如果弄湿了，这些化学药剂就会像电池的酸液一样害你送命。监狱的警卫都不喜欢来这里，也警诫新人不要到这儿来，因为如果被囚犯困在这个地方，你可没有后退之路，连搏斗的空间都不够。　　博格斯当时不在场，但从一九二二年起便在洗衣房当工头的亨利·拜克告诉我，博格斯的四个朋友都在那儿。安迪起先手里拿着一碗Hexlite，让他们不敢靠近，他威胁着如果他们再走近一步，就要把催化剂往他们的眼睛丢过去。但是安迪往后退时，不小心跌倒了，结果他们就一拥而上。　　我想“轮暴”这个名词的意义是永远不会改变的，那正是这四姊妹对他做的事。他们把安迪按在齿轮箱上，拿着螺丝起子对准他的太阳穴，逼他就范。被强暴后会有一点伤口，但不是太严重。你问，这是我的经验之谈吗？——但愿并非如此。之后你会流几天血，如果不希望有些无聊小丑问你是不是月经来了，就在裤子里多垫几张卫生纸。通常血流个两、三天就停了，除非他们用更不自然的方式对待你。不过虽然身体没有什么大损伤，强暴终归是强暴，事后你照镜子瞧自己的脸时，会想到日后该怎么看待自己。　　安迪孤独地经历了这些事情，就像他在那段日子里，孤零零地经历了其他所有事情一样。他一定就像之前许多人那样，得到了这个结论：要对付这群姊妹只有两种方法，要不就是力拼之后不敌，要不就是从一开始就认了。　　他决定跟他们力拼。当博格斯和两个同党一星期后尾随安迪时，安迪猛烈还击，当时厄尼刚好在附近。根据厄尼的说法，博格斯当时说：“我听说你已破身了。”安迪打破了一个叫卢斯特的家伙的鼻子，那家伙是个粗壮的农夫，因为打死继女而被关进牢中。我很乐于告诉你，他后来死在这里。　　他们三个人联手制伏他，轮流强暴他，之后再强迫安迪跪下来。博格斯站在他面前，他那时有一把珍珠柄的剃刀，刀柄上刻了“戴蒙德珍珠”的字样。他打开剃刀说：“我现在要解开拉链啦，男人先生，我要你咽下什么东西，你就得给我咽下。等你咽完了我给你的东西，你就得咽下卢斯特的东西，你把他的鼻子打破了，应该要对他有所补偿。”　　安迪说：“如果你把任何东西塞进我的嘴里，你就会失掉那个东西。”　　厄尼说，博格斯看着安迪，以为他疯了。　　“不对，”他慢慢对着安迪说，好像安迪是个笨孩子，“你没听懂我说的话。如果你胆敢这样做的话，我会把这柄八英寸长的玩意从你耳朵全插进去，懂吗？”　　“我明白你在说什么，但是我想你没听懂我的话。只要你把任何东西塞进我的嘴巴里，我就会把它咬断。你可以把刀子插进我的脑袋里，不过你应该明白，当一个人脑部突然受到严重创伤时，他会同时撒尿拉屎……和大力咬下去。”
Chapter 9
He looked up at Bogs, smiling that little smile of his, old Ernie said, as if the three of them had been discussing stocks and bonds with him instead of throwing it to him just as hard as they could. Just as if he was wearing one of his three-piece bankers' suits instead of kneeling on a dirty broom-closet floor with his pants around his ankles and blood trickling down the insides of his thighs. 'In fact,' he went on, 'I understand that the bite-reflex is sometimes so strong that the victim's jaws have to be pried open with a crowbar or a jackhandle.' Bogs didn't put anything in Andy's mouth that night in late February of 1948, and neither did Rooster MacBride, and so far as I know, no one else ever did, either. What the three of them did was to beat Andy within an inch of his life, and all four of them ended up doing a jolt in solitary. Andy and Rooster MacBride went by way of the infirmary. How many times did that particular crew have at him? I don't know. I think Rooster lost his taste fairly early on -being in nose-splints for a month can do that to a fellow -and Bogs Diamond left off that summer, all at once. That was a strange thing. Bogs was found in his cell, badly beaten, one morning in early June, when he didn't show up in the breakfast nose-count. He wouldn't say who had done it, or how they had gotten to him, but being in my business, I know that a screw can be bribed to do almost anything accept get a gun for an inmate. They didn't make big salaries then, and they don't now. And in those days there was no electronic locking system, no closed-circuit TV, no master-switches which controlled whole areas of the prison. Back in 1948, each cellblock had its own turnkey. A guard could have been bribed real easy to let someone - maybe two or three someones - into the block, and, yes, even into Diamond's cell. Of course a job like that would have cost a lot of money. Not by outside standards, no. Prison economics are on a smaller scale. When you've been in here a while, a dollar bill in your hand looks like a twenty did outside. My guess is, that if Bogs was done, it cost someone a serious piece of change - fifteen bucks, well say, for the turnkey, and two or store apiece for each of the lump-up guys. I'm not saying it was Andy Dufresne, but I do know that he brought in five hundred dollars when he came, and he was a banker in the straight world - a man who understands better than the rest of us the ways in which money can become power. And I know this: After the beating - the three broken ribs, the haemorrhaged eye, the sprained back and the dislocated hip - Bogs Diamond left Andy alone. In fact, after that he left everyone pretty much alone. He got to be like a high wind in the summertime, all bluster and no bite. You could say, in fact, that he turned into a 'weak sister'. That was the end of Bogs Diamond, a man who might eventually have killed Andy if Andy hadn't taken steps to prevent it (if it was him who took the steps). But it wasn't the end of Andy's trouble with the sisters. There was a little hiatus, and then it began again, although not so hard nor so often. Jackals like easy prey, and there were easier pickings around than Andy Dufresne. He always fought them, that's what I remember. He knew, I guess, that if you let them have at you even once, without fighting it, it got that much easier to let them have their way without fighting next time. So Andy would turn up with bruises on his face every once in a while, and there was the matter of the two broken fingers six or eight months after Diamond's beating. Oh yes - and sometime in late 1949, the man landed in the infirmary with a broken cheekbone that was probably the result of someone swinging a nice chunk of pipe with the business-end wrapped in flannel. He always fought back, and as a result, he did his time in solitary. But don't think solitary was the hardship for Andy that it was for some men. He got along with himself. The sisters was something he adjusted himself to - and then, in 1950, it stopped almost completely. That is a part of my story that 111 get to in due time. In the fall of 1948, Andy met me one morning in the exercise yard and asked me if I could get him half a dozen rock-blankets. 'What the hell are those?' I asked. He told me that was just what rockhounds called them; they were polishing cloths about the size of dishtowels. They were heavily padded, with a smooth side and a rough side -the smooth side like fine-grained sandpaper, the rough side almost as abrasive as industrial steel wool (Andy also kept a box of that in his cell, although he didn't get it from me - I imagine he kited it from the prison laundry). I told him I thought we could do business on those, and I ended up getting them from the very same rock-and-gem shop where I'd arranged to get the rock-hammer. This time I charged Andy my usual ten per cent and not a penny more. I didn't see anything lethal or even dangerous in a dozen 7" x 7" squares of padded cloth. Rock-blankets, indeed. It was about five months later that Andy asked if I could get him Rita Hayworth. That conversation took place in the auditorium, during a movie-show. Nowadays we get the movie-shows once or twice a week, but back then the shows were a monthly event. Usually the movies we got had a morally uplifting message to them, and this one, The Lost Weekend, was no different. The moral was that it's dangerous to drink. It was a moral we could take some comfort in. Andy manoeuvred to get next to me, and about halfway through the show he leaned a little closer and asked if I could get him Rita Hayworth. I'll tell you the truth, it kind of tickled me. He was usually cool, calm, and collected, but that night he was jumpy as hell, almost embarrassed, as if he was asking me to get him a load of Trojans or one of those sheepskin-lined gadgets that are supposed to 'enhance your solitary pleasure,' as the magazines put it. He seemed overcharged, a man on the verge of blowing his radiator. 'I can get her,' I said. 'No sweat, calm down. You want the big one or the little one?' At that time Rita was my best girl (a few years before it had been Betty Grable) and she came in two sizes. For a buck you could get the little Rita. For two-fifty you could have the big Rita, four feet high and all woman. 'The big one,' he said, not looking at me. I tell you, he was a hot sketch that night. He was blushing just like a kid trying to get into a kootch show with his big brother's draft-card. 'Can you do it?' 　　安迪抬头看着博格斯，脸上带着惯有的微笑，厄尼描述，仿佛他们三个人只是在和他讨论股票和债券，仿佛他还像在银行上班一样，身上穿着三件头西装，而不是跪在洗衣房的脏地板上，裤子褪到脚踝处，大腿间流下一滴滴鲜血。　　“事实上，”他还继续说，“我只知道，这种用力咬下去的反射动作有时候太激烈了，事后你得用铁锹或钻子才有办法把他的下巴撬开。”　　结果，一九四八年二月的那个晚上，博格斯没敢放任何东西到安迪嘴巴里，卢斯特也没有，就我所知，以后也没有任何人敢这么做。他们三个人结结实实把安迪打了一顿，差那么一点点就把他打死；而四个人都关了一阵子禁闭。安迪和卢斯特还先被送到监狱的医务室疗伤。　　这些家伙找过他几次麻烦？我不知道。我想卢斯特很早便对他失去兴趣了，足足有一个月的时间都得用夹板固定鼻梁，会让一个人倒足胃口。那年夏天，博格斯也停止找他麻烦了。　　那是一件怪事。六月初的一个早上，博格斯没出来吃早饭，他们发现他被打得半死，奄奄一息地躺在牢房中。他没说是谁干的，或是怎么发生的，但是干我这一行，我很清楚你几乎可以买通监狱警卫去做任何事情，只要不是要他们为囚犯带枪进来就好。那时他们的薪水不高，就是现在也不高，而且当时没有电动门锁，没有闭路电视或中央系统可以监控整个监狱。在一九四八年，每个囚区都有单独的门禁和警卫，贿赂警卫让两、三个人混进来很容易，是啊，甚至进到博格斯的牢房中，都有可能。　　当然这样做需要花掉不少钱，不是依照外面的水准，不，监狱里属于小规模经济，你进来一段时间就会发现，手上有张一块钱钞票，就跟外面的二十元一样管用。我猜如果博格斯是这样被暗算的，那么某人可花了不少钱，可能给警卫十五块钱，几个打手则一人两、三块钱。　　我并不是说这件事一定是安迪干的，不过我知道他带了五百元进来。他进来前在银行工作，对于金钱能够发挥的力量，他比我们任何人都更清楚。　　我只知道：自从这次挨打以后——博格斯断了三根肋骨、眼睛出血、背部拉伤加上股骨脱臼，他不再找安迪的麻烦了，事实上，他再也不找任何人麻烦了。他就好像夏天刮大风一样，虽然狂吹着，却都是虚张声势。你可以说，他变成一个“软弱”的姊妹。　　博格斯的故事就此结束，原本他很可能杀了安迪，如果安迪没有采取任何行动来防备的话。但这并不意味着其他姊妹也不再找他麻烦，偶尔他们还是会趁他不备，乘虚而入，但次数不多。毕竟胡狼还是比较喜欢容易上手的猎物，而在肖申克，比安迪容易上手的猎物多的是。　　不过，我记得安迪每次都奋力抵抗。我猜，他知道只要有一次让他们容易上手，以后便永无宁日。因此安迪脸上偶尔会挂彩，在博格斯被打约六或八个月后，他还断了两根指头。对了，在一九四九年末，他还曾经因为脸颊骨断裂而到医务室就诊，看来有人用布将铁管子包起来，用力往他脸上挥打。他总是反击，因此经常被单独监禁。我想关禁闭对他而言并不苦，不像其他人那么受不了，他一点也不害怕独处。　　他勉强适应着和姊妹们周旋——但到了一九五〇年，这种事几乎完全停止了。等一下我会详细讲述这部分。　　一九四八年秋天，有一天早上，安迪在运动场上跟我见面，问我能不能替他弄到一打磨石布。　　“那是什么鬼玩意？”我问道。　　他告诉我那是石头迷的术语，是跟擦碗布差不多大小的布，用来磨亮石头。磨石布厚厚的，一面粗糙，一面光滑，光滑的一面像砂纸，粗糙的一面则像工业用的钢丝绒（安迪的牢房里也有一盒钢丝绒，却不是我帮他弄到的，我猜他是从洗衣房里偷来的）。　　我跟他说这宗生意没问题，替他从同一家岩石和玉石店弄到了他要的东西。这次我只抽百分之十的服务费，没多要他一分，因为我认为这种长七英寸、宽七英寸的正方形布垫没啥危险。磨石布，真是的。　　五个月后，安迪问我能否替他把丽塔·海华丝给弄来。我们这次是借着礼堂放映电影的时候谈生意。现在我们一周可以看一两次电影，以前一个月才看一次，通常放映的电影都含有浓厚的道德启示，那次放映的电影《失去的周末》也不例外，警告我们喝酒是很危险的。这样的道德教训倒是令身陷囹圄的我们感到有点安慰。　　安迪想办法坐到我旁边来，电影放到一半时，他挨近我，问我是否能给他弄到丽塔·海华丝。说实话，我真想笑。他一向表现得很冷静，而且一板一眼，但那天晚上他坐立不安，十分难为情，好像在跟我要保险套似的。他好像充足了电，随时要爆发一样。　　“可以呀，”我说，“别紧张，冷静点，你要大张的还是小张的？”当时丽塔是我最喜欢的电影明星（几年前则是贝蒂·葛兰宝），当时丽塔·海华丝的海报有两种尺寸。花一块钱的话，可以弄个小张的，二块五毛钱则可以弄到大张的，四英尺高，女人味十足。　　“大张的，”他说，没看我。那晚他真是害臊得厉害，脸红得像个想偷拿哥哥身份证去看香艳秀的孩子，“你有办法弄到吗？”
Chapter 10
'Take it easy, sure I can. Does a bear shit in the woods?' The audience was applauding and catcalling as the bugs came out of the walls to get Ray Milland, who was having a bad case of the DT's. 'How soon?' 'A week. Maybe less.' 'Okay.' But he sounded disappointed, as if he had been hoping I had one stuffed down my pants right then. 'How much?" I quoted him the wholesale price. I could afford to give him this one at cost; he'd been a good customer, what with his rock-hammer and his rock-blankets. Furthermore, he'd been a good boy - on more than one night when he was having his problems with Bogs, Rooster, and the rest, I wondered how long it would be before he used the rock-hammer to crack someone's head open. Posters are a big part of my business, just behind the booze and cigarettes, usually half a step ahead of the reefer. In the 60s the business exploded in every direction, with a lot of people wanting funky hang-ups like Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, that Easy Rider poster. But mostly it's girls; one pinup queen after another. A few days after I spoke to Ernie, a laundry driver I did business with back then, brought in better than sixty posters, most of them Rita Hayworths. You may even remember the picture; I sure do. Rita is dressed - sort of- in a bathing suit, one hand behind her head, her eyes half closed, those full, sulky red lips parted. They called it Rita Hayworth, but they might as well have called it Woman in Heat. The prison administration knows about the black market, in case you were wondering. Sure they do. They probably know as much about my business as I do myself. They live with it because they know that a prison is like a big pressure cooker, and there have to be vents somewhere to let off steam. They make the occasional bust, and I've done time in solitary a time or three over the years, but when it's something like posters, they wink. Live and let live. And when a big Rita Hayworth went up in some fishie's cell, the assumption was that it came in the mail from a friend or a relative. Of course all the care-packages from friends and relatives are opened and the contents inventoried, but who goes back and re-checks the inventory sheets for something as harmless as a Rita Hayworth or an Ava Gardner pin-up? When you're in a pressure-cooker you learn to live and let live or somebody will carve you a brand-new mouth just above the Adam's apple. You learn to make allowances. It was Ernie again who took the poster up to Andy's cell, 14, my own, 6. And it was Ernie who brought back the written in Andy's careful hand, just one word: Thanks.' A little while later, as they filed us out for morning chow, I glanced into his ceil and saw Rita over his bunk in all her swimsuited glory, one hand behind her head, her eyes half-closed, those soft, satiny lips parted. It was over his bunk when he could look at her nights, after lights out, in the glow of the arc sodiums in the exercise yard. But in the bright morning sunlight, there were dark slashes across her face - the shadow of the bars on his single slit-window. Now I'm going to tell you what happened in mid-May of 1950 that finally ended Andy's three-year series of skirmishes with the sisters. It was also the incident which eventually got him out of the laundry and into the library, where he filled out his work-time until he left our happy little family earlier this year. You may have noticed now much of what I've told you already is hearsay - someone saw something and told me and I told you. Well, in some cases I've simplified it even more than it really was, and have actually repeated (or will repeat) fourth- or fifth-hand information. That's the way it s here. The grapevine is very real, and you have to use it if you're going to stay ahead. Also, of course, you have to know how to pick out the grains of truth from the chaff of lies, rumours, and wish-it-had-beens. You may also have gotten the idea that I'm describing someone who's more legend than man, and I would have to agree that there's some truth to that. To us long-timers who knew Andy over a space of years, there was an element of fantasy to him, a sense, almost, of myth-magic, if you get what I mean. That story I passed on about Andy refusing to give Bogs Diamond a head-job is part of that myth, and how he kept on fighting the sisters is part of it, and how he got the library job is part of it, too ... but with one important difference: I was there and I saw what happened, and I swear on my mother's name that it's all true. The oath of a convicted murderer may not be worth much, but believe this: I don't lie. Andy and I were on fair speaking terms by then. The guy fascinated me. Looking back to the poster episode, I see there's one thing I neglected to tell you, and maybe I should. Five weeks after he hung Rita up (I'd forgotten all about it by then, and had gone on to other deals), Ernie passed a small white box through the bars of my cell. 'From Dufresne,' he said, low, and never missed a stroke with his push-broom. 'Thanks, Ernie,' I said, and slipped him half a pack of Camels. Now what the hell was this, I was wondering as I slipped the cover from the box. There was a lot of white cotton inside, and below that... I looked for a long time. For a few minutes it was like I didn't even dare touch them, they were so pretty. There's a crying shortage of pretty things in the slam, and the real pity of it is that a lot of men don't even seem to miss them. There were two pieces of quartz in that box, both of them carefully polished. They had been chipped into driftwood shapes. There were little sparkles of iron pyrites in them like flecks of gold. If they hadn't been so heavy, they would have served as a fine pair of men's cufflinks - they were that close to being a matched set. How much work went into creating those two pieces? Hours and hours after lights out, I knew that first the chipping and shaping, and then the almost endless polishing and finishing with those rock-blankets. Looking at them, I felt the warmth that any man or woman feels when he or she is looking at something pretty, something that has been worked and made - that's the thing that really separates us from the animals, I think - and I felt something else, too. A sense of awe for the man's brute persistence. But I never knew just how persistent Andy Dufresne could be until much later. 　　“当然可以，别紧张。”这时大家看到电影精彩处，开始拍手尖叫起来。　　“多久可以弄到？”　　“一个星期，也许可以更快点。”　　“好吧，”他的声音透着失望，好像希望我马上就能从口袋里掏一张出来给他，“多少钱？”　　这次我照批发价算给他。这点折扣，我还给得起；他一直是个好顾客，而且也是个乖宝宝——当博格斯、卢斯特和其他人一直找他麻烦时，我常常怀疑，他哪天会不会拿起他的石锤，敲破某个人的脑袋？　　海报是我的大宗生意，抢手的程度仅次于酒和香烟，通常比大麻的需求量还多。二十世纪六十年代，各种海报的需求量都大增，例如，有不少人想要鲍勃·迪伦鲍勃·迪伦（BobDylan），二十世纪六十年代美国传奇摇滚民谣创作歌手。、吉米·亨德里克斯吉米·亨德里克斯（JimiHendrix），摇滚吉他大师。以及电影《逍遥骑士》的海报。但大多数人还是喜欢女人的海报，一个接一个的性感漂亮海报皇后。　　在安迪和我谈过几天以后，和我有生意往来的洗衣房司机为我捎回六十多张海报，大多数是丽塔·海华丝的海报。你可能还记得那张有名的照片，我就记得清清楚楚，海报上的丽塔·海华丝身着泳装，一只手放在头后面，眼睛半闭，丰满的红唇微张，好一个喷火女郎。　　也许你很好奇，监狱管理当局知道有黑市存在吗？当然知道啰。他们可能跟我一样清楚我的生意，但他们睁一只眼、闭一只眼，因为他们知道整个监狱就像个大压力锅，必须有地方透透气。他们偶尔会来次突击检查，我一年总要被关上两三次禁闭，不过像海报这种东西，他们看了眨眨眼便算了，放彼此一条生路嘛。当某个囚犯的牢房里出现了一张丽塔·海华丝的大张海报时，他们会假定大概是亲戚朋友寄来的。当然事实上亲友寄到监狱的包裹一律都会打开检查，然后登记到清单上，但如果是像丽塔·海华丝或艾娃·嘉娜这种完全无害的性感美女海报，谁又会回去重新审阅那张清单呢？当你生活在压力锅中时，你得学会如何生存，也学会放别人一条生路，否则会有人在你的喉咙上划开一道口子。你得学会体谅。　　厄尼再度替我把海报拿去安迪的十四号牢房，同时替我带回一张字条到我的六号牢房来，上面是安迪一丝不苟的笔迹，只有两个字：“多谢。”　　后来有一天，早上排队去吃早餐时，我找机会瞄了一下安迪的房间，看到丽塔·海华丝的泳装海报亮丽地贴在床头，这样他在每晚熄灯后，还可以借着运动场上的水银灯看着泳装打扮的丽塔·海华丝，她一手放在头后面，眼睛半闭，丰满的红唇微张。可是，白天她的脸上全是一条条黑杠，因为太阳光把铁窗栅栏的阴影印到海报上了。　　现在我要告诉你一九五〇年五月中发生的事，这件事结束了安迪和那些姊妹之间持续三年的小冲突，而他也因为这次事件终于从洗衣房调到图书馆工作，他在图书馆一直待到今年初离开这个快乐小家庭为止。　　你或许已经注意到，我告诉你的许多事情都是道听途说——某人看到某件事以后告诉我，而我再告诉你。在某些情况下，我已经把这些经过四五手传播后的故事简化了许多。不过在这里生活就是如此。这里的确有个秘密情报网，如果你要保持消息灵通，就得运用这个情报网。当然，你得懂得去芜存菁，知道怎么从一大堆谎言、谣传和子虚乌有的幻想中，挑出真正有用的消息。　　还有，你也许会觉得我描述的是个传奇人物，而不是普通人，我不得不承认这多少是事实。对我们这些认识安迪多年的终身犯而言，安迪的确带着点传奇魔幻的色彩，如果你明白我的意思的话。监狱里流传的故事，包括他拒绝向博格斯屈服、不断抵抗其他姊妹，甚至弄到图书馆工作的过程，都带着传奇色彩。但是有一个很大的差别是，最后这件事是我亲眼目睹的，我敢以我妈妈的名字发誓，我说的话句句属实。杀人犯的誓言或许没有什么价值，但是请相信我：我绝不说谎。　　当时我们已经建立起不错的交情，这家伙很有意思。我还忘了告诉你一件事，也许我应该提一下的。就在他挂上丽塔·海华丝的海报五周后，我早已忘记了这整件事，而忙着做其他生意。有一天厄尼从牢房的铁栅栏递给我一个白色小盒子。　　“安迪给你的。”他低声说，两手依然不停地挥动扫把。　　“多谢！”我说，偷偷递给他半包骆驼牌香烟。　　当我打开盒子时，我在想里面会是什么怪东西？里面放了不少棉花，而下面是……　　我看了很久，有几分钟，我甚至有点不敢去碰它们，实在是太美了。这里极端缺乏美好的东西，而真正令人遗憾的是，许多人甚至不怀念这些美丽的东西。　　盒子里是两块石英，两块都经过仔细琢磨，削成浮木的形状，石英中的硫化铁发出闪闪金光。如果不是那么重的话，倒可以做成一对很不错的袖扣，这两块石英就有这么对称精致。　　要琢磨这两块石头得花多少时间？可想而知，一定是在熄灯以后无数小时的苦工。首先得把石头削成想要的形状，然后才是用磨石布不断琢磨打光。看着它们，我内心升起一股暖意，这是任何人看到美丽东西之后都会涌现的感觉。这种美是花了时间和心血打造出来的，是人之所以异于禽兽的原因。我对他的毅力肃然起敬，但直到后来，我才真的了解他是多么坚持不懈。
Chapter 11
In May of 1950, the powers that be decided that the roof of the licence-plate factory ought to be resurfaced with roofing tar. They wanted it done before it got too hot up there, and they sued for volunteers for the work, which was planned to take about a week. More than seventy men spoke up, because it was outside work and May is one damn fine month for outside work. Nine or ten names were drawn out of a hat, and two of them happened to be Andy's and my own. For the next week we'd be marched out to the exercise yard after breakfast, with two guards up front and two more behind ... plus all the guards in the towers keeping a weather eye on the proceedings through their field-glasses for good measure. Four of us would be carrying a big extension ladder on those morning marches -I always got a kick out of the way Dickie Betts, who was on that job, called that sort of  ladder an extensible - and we'd put it up against the side of that low, lit building. Then we'd start bucket-brigading hot buckets of tar up to the roof. Spill that shit on you and you'd jitterbug all the way to the infirmary. There were six guards on the project, all of them picked on the basis of seniority. It was almost as good as a week's vacation, because instead of sweating it out in the laundry or the plate-shop or standing over a bunch of cons cutting pulp or brush somewhere out in the willy wags, they were having a regular May holiday in the sun, just sitting there with their backs up against the low parapet, shooting the bull back and forth. They didn't even have to keep more than half an eye on us, because the south wall sentry post was close enough so that the fellows up there could have spit their chews on us, if they’d wanted to. If anyone on the roof-sealing party had made one funny move, it would take four seconds to cut him smack in two with .45 caliber machine-gun bullets. So those screws just sat there and took their ease. All they needed was a couple of six-packs buried in crushed ice, and they would have been the lords of  all creation. One of them was a fellow named Byron Hadley, and in that year of 1950, he'd been at Shawshank longer than I had. Longer than the last two wardens put together, as a matter of fact. The fellow running the show in 1950 was a prissy-looking downcast Yankee named George Dunahy. He had a degree in penal administration. No one liked him, as far as I could tell, except the people who had gotten him his appointment. I heard that he wasn't interested in anything but compiling statistics for a book (which was later published by a small New England outfit called Light Side Press, where he probably had to pay to have it done), who won the intramural baseball championship each September, and getting a death-penalty law passed in Maine. A regular bear for the death-penalty was George Dunahy. He was fired off the job in 1953, when it came out he was running a discount auto repair service down in the prison garage and splitting the profits with Byron Hadley and Greg Stammas. Hadley and Stammas came out of that one okay - they were old hands at keeping their asses covered - but Dunahy took a walk. No one was sorry to see him go, but nobody was exactly pleased to see Greg Stammas step into his shoes, either. He was a short man with a tight, hard gut and the coldest brown eyes you ever saw. He always had a painful, pursed little grin on his face, as if he had to go to the bathroom and couldn't quite manage it. During Stammas's tenure as warden there was a lot of brutality at Shawshank, and although I have no proof, I believe there were maybe half a dozen moonlight burials in the stand of scrub forest that lies east of the prison. Dunahy was bad, but Greg Stammas was a cruel, wretched, cold-hearted man. He and Byron Hadley were good friends. As warden, George Dunahy was nothing but a posturing figurehead; it was Stammas, and through him, Hadley, who actually administered the prison. Hadley was a tail, shambling man with thinning red hair. He sunburned easily and he talked loud and if you didn't move fast enough to suit him, he'd clout you with his stick. On that day, our third on the roof, he was talking to another guard named Mert Entwhistle. Hadley had gotten some amazingly good news, so he was griping about it. That was his style - he was a thankless man with not a good word for anyone, a man who was convinced that the whole world was against him. The world had cheated him out of the best years of his life, and the world would be more than happy to cheat him out of the rest. I have seen some screws that I thought were almost saintly, and I think I know why that happens - they are able to see the difference between their own lives, poor and struggling as they might be, and the lives of the men they are paid by the state to watch over. These guards are able to formulate a comparison concerning pain. Others can't, or won't. For Byron Hadley there was no basis of comparison. He could sit there, cool and at his ease under the warm May sun and find the gall to mourn his own good luck while less than ten feet away a bunch of men were working and sweating and burning their hands on great big buckets filled with bubbling tar, men who had to work so hard in their ordinary round of days that this looked like a respite. You may remember the old question, the one that's supposed to define your outlook on life when you answer it. For Byron Hadley the answer would always be half empty, the glass is half empty. Forever and ever, amen. If you gave him a cool drink of apple cider, he'd think about vinegar. If you told him his wife had always been faithful to him, he'd tell you it was because she was so damn ugly. So there he sat, talking to Mert Entwhistle loud enough for all of us to hear, his broad white forehead already starting to redden with the sun. He had one hand thrown back over the low parapet surrounding the roof. The other was on the butt of his .38. We all got the story along with Mert. It seemed that Hadley's older brother had gone off to Texas some fourteen years ago and the rest of the family hadn't heard from the son of a bitch since. They had all assumed he was dead, and good riddance. Then, a week and a half ago, a lawyer had called them long-distance from Austin. It seemed that Hadley's brother had died four months ago, and a rich man at that ('It's frigging incredible how lucky some assholes can get,' this paragon of gratitude on the plate-shop roof said). The money had come as a result of oil and oil-leases, and there was close to a million dollars. No, Hadley wasn't a millionaire - that might have made even him happy, at least for a while - but the brother had left a pretty damned decent bequest of thirty-five thousand dollars to each surviving member of his family back in Maine, if they could be found. Not bad. Like getting lucky and winning a sweepstakes. 　　一九五〇年五月，上面决定要翻修监狱车牌工厂的屋顶。他们打算在天气还没有太热时做完，征求自愿去做这份工作的人，整个工程预计要做一个星期。有七十多个人愿意去，因为可以借机到户外透透气，而且五月正是适合户外工作的宜人季节。上面以抽签方式选了九或十个人，其中两个正好是安迪和我。　　接下来那个星期，每天早饭后，警卫两个在前，两个在后，押着我们浩浩荡荡穿过运动场，瞭望塔上所有的警卫都用望远镜远远监视着我们。　　早晨行进的时候，我们之中有四个人负责拿梯子，把梯子架在平顶建筑物旁边，然后开始以人龙把一桶桶热腾腾的沥青传到屋顶上，只要泼一点那玩意儿在你身上，你就得一路狂跳着去医务室找医生。　　有六个警卫监督我们，全是老经验的警卫。对他们而言，那个星期简直像度假一样，比起在洗衣房或打造车牌的工厂中汗如雨下，又或者是站着看管一群囚犯做工扫地，他们现在正在阳光下享受正常人的五月假期，坐在那儿，背靠着栏杆，大摆龙门阵。　　他们甚至只需要用半只眼睛盯着我们就行了，因为南面墙上的警卫岗哨离我们很近，近到那些警卫甚至可以把口水吐到我们身上，如果他们要这么做的话。要是有哪个在屋顶上工作的囚犯敢轻举妄动，只消四秒钟，就会被点四五口径的机关枪扫成马蜂窝，所以那些警卫都很悠闲地坐在那里；如果还有几罐埋在碎冰里的啤酒可以喝，就简直是快活似神仙了。　　其中有个警卫名叫拜伦·哈力，他在肖申克的时间比我还长，事实上，比此前两任典狱长加起来的任期还长。一九五〇年的时候，典狱长是个叫乔治·邓纳海的北方佬，他拿了个狱政学的学位。就我所知，除了任命他的那些人之外，没有人喜欢他。我听说他只对三件事有兴趣：第一是收集统计资料来编他的书（这本书后来由一家叫“粉轻松”的小出版社出版，很可能是他自费出版的），其次是关心每年九月哪个球队赢得监狱棒球联谊赛冠军，第三是推动缅因州通过死刑法。他在一九五三年被革职了，因为他在监狱的汽车修理厂中经营地下修车服务，并且和哈力以及史特马分红。哈力和史特马因为经验老到，知道如何不留把柄，但邓纳海便得走路。没有人因为邓纳海走路而感到难过，但也没有人真的高兴看见史特马坐上他的位子。史特马五短身材，一双冷冰冰的棕色眼睛，脸上永远带着一种痛苦的微笑，就好像他已经憋不住了、非上厕所不可、却又拉不出来的表情。在史特马任期内，肖申克酷刑不断，虽然我没有确切的证据，不过我相信监狱东边的灌木林中，可能发生过五、六次月夜中掩埋尸体的事情。邓纳海不是好人，但史特马更是个残忍冷血的卑鄙小人。　　史特马和哈力是好朋友。邓纳海当典狱长的时候，不过是个装腔作势的傀儡，真正在管事的人是史特马和哈力。　　哈力是高个子，走起路来摇摇晃晃，有一头稀疏的红发。他很容易晒得红彤彤的，喜欢大呼小叫。如果你的动作配合不上他要求的速度，他会用棍子猛敲你。在我们修屋顶的第三天，他在和另一个名叫麦德·安惠的警卫聊天。　　哈力听到了一个天大的好消息，所以正在那儿发牢骚。这是哈力的典型作风，他是个不知感恩的人，对任何人从来没有一句好话，认定全世界都跟他作对：这个世界骗走了他一生中的黄金岁月，而且会把他下半辈子也榨干。我见过一些几乎像圣人般品德高尚的狱卒，我知道他们为什么如此——他们明白自己的生活虽然贫困艰难，却仍然比州政府付钱请他们看守的这群囚犯好得多。这些狱卒能够把痛苦做个比较，其他人却不能，也不会这么做。　　对哈力而言，没什么好比较的。他可以在五月温暖的阳光下悠闲地坐在那儿，慨叹自己的好运，而无视于不到十英尺外，一些人正在挥汗工作，一桶桶滚烫的沥青几乎要灼伤他们的双手，但是对于平日需要辛苦工作的人而言，这份工作已经等于在休息了。或许你还记得大家常问的那个“半杯水”老问题，你的答案正反映了你的人生观。像哈力这种人，他的答案绝对是：有一半是空的，装了水的玻璃杯永远有一半是空的。如果你给他一杯冰凉的苹果汁，他会想要一杯醋。如果你告诉他，他的老婆总是对他忠贞不贰，他会说，那是因为她像无盐嫫母一样丑。　　于是，他就坐在那儿和麦德聊天，声音大得我们所有人都听得到，宽大的前额已经开始晒得发红。他一只手扶在屋顶四周的矮栏杆上，另一只手按在点三八口径手枪的枪柄上。　　我们都听到他的事了。事情是这样的，哈力的大哥在十四年前到德州去，自此音讯全无，全家人都以为他已经死了，真是一大解脱。一星期前，有个律师从奥斯汀打长途电话来，他老兄四个月前过世了，留下了差不多一百万美元的遗产，他是搞石油生意发的财。“真难以置信有些笨瓜有多走运。”这个该死没良心的家伙站在工厂屋顶上说。　　不过，哈力并未成为百万富翁——如果真的成了百万富翁，即使是哈力这种人，可能都会感到很快乐，至少会快乐一阵子——他哥哥留给缅因州老家每个还活在世上的家人每人三万五千美元，真不赖，跟中了彩券一样。
Chapter 12
But to Byron Hadley the glass was always half-empty. He spent most of the morning bitching to Mert about the bite that the goddam government was going to take out of  his windfall. "They'll leave me about enough to buy a new car with,' he allowed, 'and then what happens? You have to pay the damn taxes on the car, and the repairs and maintenance, you get your goddam kids pestering you to take 'em for a ride with the top down -' 'And to drive it, if they're old enough,' Mert said. Old Mert Entwhistle knew which side his bread was buttered on, and he didn't say what must have been as obvious to him as to the rest of us: If that money's worrying you so bad, Byron old kid old sock, I'll just take it off your hands. After all, what are friends for? 'That's right, wanting to drive it, wanting to learn to drive on it, for Chrissake,' Byron said with a shudder. 'Then what happens at the end of the year? If you figured the tax wrong and you don't have enough left over to pay the overdraft, you got to pay out of your own pocket, or maybe even borrow it from one of those kikey loan agencies. And they audit you anyway, you know. It don't matter. And when the government audits you, they always take more. Who can fight Uncle Sam? He puts his hand inside your shirt and squeezes your tit until it's purple, and you end up getting the short end. Christ.' He lapsed into a morose silence, thinking of what terrible bad luck he'd had to inherit that $35,000. Andy Dufresne had been spreading tar with a big Padd brush less than fifteen feet away and now he tossed it into his pail and walked over to where Mert and Hadley were sitting. We all tightened up, and I saw one of the other screws, Tim Youngblood, drag his hand down to where his pistol was bolstered. One of the fellows in the sentry tower struck his partner on the arm and they both turned, too. For one moment I thought Andy was going to get shot, or clubbed. Then he said, very softly, to Hadley: 'Do you trust your wife?' Hadley just stared at him. He was starting to get red in the face, and I knew that was a bad sign. In about three seconds he as going to pull his billy and give Andy the butt end of it right in the solar plexus, where that big bundle of nerves is. A hard enough hit there can kill you, but they always go for it. If it doesn't kill you it will paralyze you long enough to forget whatever cute move it was that you had planned. "Boy," Hadley said, I'll give you just one chance to pick up that Padd. And then you're goin' off this roof on your head.' Andy just looked at him, very calm and still. His eyes were like ice. It was as if he hadn't heard. And I found myself wanting to tell him how it was, to give him the crash course. The crash course is you never let on that you hear the guards talking, you never try to horn in on their conversation unless you're asked (and then you always tell them just what they wanting to hear and shut up again). Black man, white man, red man., yellow man, in prison it doesn't matter because we've got our own brand of equality. In prison every con's a nigger and you have to get used to the idea if you intend to survive men like Hadley and Greg Staminas, who really would kill you just as soon as look at you. When you're in stir you belong to the state and if you forget it, woe is you. I've known men who've lost eyes, men who've lost toes and fingers; I knew one man who lost the tip of his penis and counted himself lucky that was all he lost. I wanted to tell Andy that it was already too late. He could go back and pick up his brush and there would still be some big lug waiting for him in the showers that night, ready to charlie-horse both of his legs and leave him writhing on the cement. You could buy a lug like rat for a pack of cigarettes or three Baby Ruths. Most of all, I wanted to tell him not to make it any worse than it already was. What I did was to keep on running tar onto the roof as if nothing at all was happening. Like everyone else, I look after my own ass first. I have to. It's cracked already, and in Shawshank there have always been Hadleys wiling to finish the job of breaking it. Andy said, 'Maybe I put it wrong. Whether you trust her or not is immaterial. The problem is whether or not you believe she would ever go behind your back, try to hamstring you.' Hadley got up. Mert got up. Tim Youngblood got up. Hadley's face was as red as the side of a firebarn. 'Your only, problem,' he said, 'is going to be how many bones you still get unbroken. You can count them in the infirmary. Come on, Mert we're throwing this sucker over the side.' Tim Youngblood drew his gun. The rest of us kept tarring like mad. The sun beat down. They were going to do it; Hadley and Mert were simply going to pitch him over the side. Terrible accident Dufresne, prisoner 81433-SHNK, was taking a couple of empties down and slipped on the ladder. Too bad. They laid hold of him, Mert on the right arm, Hadley on the left. Andy didn't resist. His eyes never left Hadley's red, horsey face. 'If you've got your thumb on her, Mr Hadley,' he said in that same calm, composed voice, 'there's not a reason why you shouldn't have every cent of that money. Final score, Mr Byron Hadley thirty-five thousand, Uncle Sam zip.' Mert started to drag him towards the edge. Hadley just stood still. For a moment Andy was like a rope between them in a tug-of-war game. Then Hadley said, 'Hold on one second, Mert. What do you mean, boy?' 'I mean, if you've got your thumb on your wife, you can give it to her,' Andy said. 'You better start making sense, boy, or you're going over.' "The government allows you a one-time-only gift to your spouse,' Andy said. 'It's good up to sixty thousand dollars.' Hadley was now looking at Andy as if he had been poleaxed. 'Naw, that ain't right,' he said. 'Tax free?' 'Tax free,' Andy said. 'IRS can't touch cent one.' 'How would you know a thing like that?' Tim Youngblood said: 'He used to be a banker, Byron. I s'pose he might-' 'Shut ya head, Trout,' Hadley said without looking at him. Tim Youngblood flushed and shut up. Some of the guards called him Trout because of his thick lips and buggy eyes. Hadley kept looking at Andy. 'You're the smart banker who shot his wife. Why should I believe a smart banker like you? So I can wind up in here breaking rocks right alongside you? You'd like that, wouldn't you?' 　　但是在哈力眼中，装了水的玻璃杯永远有一半是空的。哈力整个早上都在跟麦德抱怨，该死的政府要抽走他大部分的意外之财，“留下来的钱只够买辆新车，”他悻悻然，“然后怎么样？买了车以后还要付该死的税、付修理费和保养费，该死的孩子们又闹着要你带他们出去兜风——”　　“等到他们长大了，还会要求把车开出去，”麦德说，老麦德知道面包的哪一面涂了奶油，他没有说出我们每个人心底的话，“老小子，如果那笔钱真是这么烫手的话，我很愿意接下这烫手山芋，否则要朋友做什么呢？”　　“对啦！他们会要求开车，要求学开车，天哪！”哈力说到这里有点不寒而栗，“然后到了年底会怎么样？如果你发现不小心把税算错了，还得自掏腰包来补税，甚至还要去借贷来缴税。然后他们还要稽查你的财务呢，稽查完他们铁定要收更多的税，永远都这样。谁有能耐跟山姆大叔对抗？他们伸手到你衬衫里捏着你的奶头，直到你发紫发黑为止，最后倒霉的还是自己，老天爷！”　　他陷入了懊恼的沉默中，想着他继承了这三万五千元，真是倒霉透了。安迪正在十五英尺外用一根大刷子刷沥青，他把刷子顺手扔到桶里，走向麦德和哈力坐的地方。　　我们都紧张起来，我看到有个叫杨勒的警卫准备掏出枪来。在瞭望塔上的一名警卫也用手戳戳同伴的手臂，两人一起转过身来。有一阵子，我还以为安迪会被射杀、狠狠打一顿或两者都发生。　　他轻声问哈力：“你信得过你太太吗？”　　哈力只是瞪着他，开始涨红了脸，我知道要坏事了。三秒钟之内，他会抽出警棍来，朝着安迪的胃部要害打下去，胃后面正是太阳神经丛的所在，那儿有一大束神经，只要力道够大，就能送人上西天，但他们还是会打下去，万一没死，也足以让你麻痹很长一段时间，忘掉原本想做什么。　　“小子，”哈力说，“我只给你一次机会去捡起刷子，然后从这屋顶滚下去。”　　安迪只是看着他，非常冷静，目光如冰，恍若没有听到他的话似的。我真想上去告诉他识时务点，给他上一门速成课，告诉他，你绝不能让警卫知道你在偷听他们谈话，更不能插嘴，除非他们问你（即使他们问你，也只能有问必答，然后立刻闭嘴）。在这里，无论黑、白、红、黄哪色人种，在狱卒眼中都一样，他们全把你当黑鬼，如果你想在哈力和史特马这种人手下活命的话，你得习惯这种想法。当你坐牢的时候，你的命是属于国家的，如果你忘了这点，只有自己倒霉。我曾经看过瞎了眼的人，断了手指、脚趾的人，还有一个人命根子断了一小截，还暗自庆幸只受了这点伤。我想告诉安迪，已经太迟了。他可以回去捡起刷子，但是晚上还是会有个笨蛋在淋浴间等着他，准备打得他两腿痉挛，痛得在地上打滚。而你只要用一包香烟，就可以买通这样的笨蛋。最重要的是，我想告诉他，情况已经够糟了，不要把事情弄得比现在更糟。　　但我什么也没做，只是若无其事地继续铺着沥青。我跟其他人一样，懂得如何明哲保身。我不得不如此。东西已经裂开来啦，而在肖申克，永远会有些像哈力这类人，极乐意把它打断。　　安迪说：“也许我说得不对，你信不信任她不重要，问题在于你是否认为她会在你背后动手脚。”　　哈力站起来，麦德站起来，杨勒也站起来。哈力的脸涨得通红。“现在惟一的问题是，你到底还有几根骨头没断，你可以到医务室去好好数一数。来吧，麦德！我们把这家伙丢下去。”　　杨勒拔出枪来。我们其他人都疯狂地埋头铺沥青。大太阳底下，他们就要这么干了，哈力和麦德准备一人一边把他丢下去。可怕的意外！编号八一四三三?SHNK的囚犯杜佛尼脚踩空了几步，整个人从梯子上滑了下去。太惨了。　　他们两人合力抓住他，麦德在右，哈力在左，安迪没有抵抗，眼睛一直盯住哈力紫涨的脸孔。　　“哈力先生，如果她完全在你的掌控之下，”他还是用一贯平静镇定的声音说，“那么没有什么理由你不能全数保有那笔钱。最后的比数是：拜伦·哈力先生三万五千，山姆大叔零。”　　麦德开始把他拉下去，哈力却只是站在那儿不动。有一阵子，安迪好像拔河比赛的那条绳子，在他们两人之间拉扯着。然后哈力说：“麦德，停一会儿。你说什么？”　　“如果你控制得了你老婆，就可以把钱交给她。”安迪说。　　“你最好把话说清楚点，否则是自找苦吃。”　　“税捐处准许每个人一生中可以馈赠配偶一次礼物，金额最高可达六万元。”安迪说。　　哈力怔怔地望着安迪，好像被斧头砍了一下那样。“不会吧，免税？”他说。　　“免税，”安迪说，“税捐处一分钱也动不了。”　　“你怎么知道这件事？”　　杨勒说：“他以前在银行工作，我想他也许——”　　“闭嘴，你这鳟鱼！”哈力说道，看也不看他，杨勒满脸通红，闭上嘴。有些警卫喊他鳟鱼，因为他嘴唇肥厚，眼睛凸出。哈力盯着安迪看，“你就是那个杀掉老婆的聪明银行家，我为何要相信像你这样的聪明银行家？你想要我跟你一样尝到铁窗滋味吗？你想害我，是不是？”
Chapter 13
Andy said quietly, 'If you went to jail for tax evasion, you'd go to a federal penitentiary, not Shawshank. But you won't. The tax-free gift to the spouse is a perfectly legal loophole. I've done dozens ... no, hundreds of them'. It's meant primarily for people with small businesses to pass on, or for people who come into one-time-only windfalls. Like yourself.' 'I think you're lying,' Hadley said, but he didn't - you could see he didn't. There was an emotion dawning on his face, something that was grotesque overlying that long, ugly countenence and that receding, sunburned brow. An almost obscene emotion when seen on the features of Byron Hadley. It was hope. 'No, I'm not lying. There's no reason why you should take my word for it, either. Engage a lawyer -' 'Ambulance-chasing highway-robbing cocksuckers!'Hadley cried. Andy shrugged. "Then go to the IRS. They'll tell you the same thing for free. Actually, you don't need me to tell you at all. You would have investigated the matter for yourself.' 'You fucking-A. I don't need any smart wife-killing banker to show me where the bear shit in the buckwheat.' 'You'll need a tax lawyer or a banker to set up the gift for you and that will cost you something,' Andy said. 'Or ... if you were interested, I'd be glad to set it up for you nearly free of charge. The price would be three beers apiece for my co-workers -' 'Co-workers,' Mert said, and let out a rusty guffaw. He slapped his knee. A real kneeslapper was old Mert, and I hope he died of intestinal cancer in a part of the world were morphine is as of yet undiscovered. 'Co-workers, ain't that cute? Co-workers! You ain't got any -' 'Shut your friggin' trap,' Hadley growled, and Mert shut. Hadley looked at Andy again. 'What was you saying?' 'I was saying that I'd only ask three beers apiece for my co-workers, if that seems fair,' Andy said. 'I think a man feels more like a man when he's working out of doors in the springtime if he can have a bottle of suds. That's only my opinion. It would go down smooth, and I'm sure you'd have their gratitude.' I have talked to some of the other men who were up there that day - Rennie Martin, Logan St Pierre, and Paul Bonsaint were three of them - and we all saw the same thing then ...felt the same thing. Suddenly it was Andy who had the upper hand. It was Hadley who had the gun on his hip and the billy in his hand, Hadley who had his friend Greg Staminas behind him and the whole prison administration behind Stammas, the whole power of the state behind that, but all at once in that golden sunshine it didn't matter, and I felt my heart leap up in my chest as it never had since the truck drove me and four others through the gate back in 1938 and I stepped out into the exercise yard. Andy was looking at Hadley with those cold, clear, calm eyes, and it wasn't just the thirty-five thousand then, we all agreed on that. I've played it over and over in my mind and I know. It was man against man, and Andy simply forced him, the way a strong man can force a weaker man's wrist to the table in a game of Indian wrestling. There was no reason, you see, why Hadley couldn't be given Mert the nod at that very minute, pitched Andy overside onto his head, and still taken Andy's advice. No reason. But he didn't. 'I could get you all a couple of beers if I wanted to,' Hadley said. 'A beer does taste good while you're workin'. The colossal prick even managed to sound magnanimous. 'I'd just give you one piece of advice the IRS wouldn't bother with,' Andy said. His eyes were fixed unwinkingly on Hadley's. 'Make the gift to your wife if you're sure. If you think there's even a chance she might double-cross you or backshoot you, we could work out something else -' 'Double-cross me?' Hadley asked harshly. 'Double-cross me! Mr Hotshot Banker, if she ate her way through a boxcar of Ex-Lax, she wouldn't dare fart unless I gave her the nod.' Mert, Youngblood, and the other screws yucked it up dutifully. Andy never cracked a smile. 'I'll write down the forms you need,' he said. 'You can get them at the post office, and I'll fill them out for your signature.' That sounded suitably important, and Hadley's chest swelled. Then he glared around at the rest of us and hollered, "What are you jimmies starin' at? Move your asses, goddammit!' He looked back at Andy. 'You come over here with me, hotshot. And listen to me well: if you're Jewing me somehow, you're gonna find yourself chasing your head around Shower C before the week's out.' 'Yes, I understand that,' Andy said softly. And he did understand it. The way it turned out, he understood a lot more than I did - more than any of us did. That's how, on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred the plate-factory roof in 1950 ending up sitting in a row at ten o'clock on a spring morning, drinking Black Label beer supplied by the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank Prison. That beer was piss-warm, but it was still the best I ever had in my life. We sat and drank it and felt the sun on our shoulders, and not even the expression of half amusement, half-contempt on Hadley's face - as if he was watching apes drink beer instead of men -could spoil it. It lasted twenty minutes, that beer-break, and for those twenty minutes we felt like free men. We could have been drinking beer and tarring the roof of one of our own houses. Only Andy didn't drink. I already told you about his drinking habits. He sat hunkered down in the shade, hands dangling between his knees, watching us and smiling a little. It's amazing how many men remember him that way, and amazing how many men were on that work-crew when Andy Dufresne faced down Byron Hadley. I thought there were nine or ten of us, but by 1955 there must have been two hundred of us, maybe more ... if you believed what you heard. So, yeah - if you asked me to give you a flat-out answer to the question of whether I'm trying to tell you about a man or a legend that got made up around the man, like a pearl around a little piece of grit - I'd have to say that the answer lies somewhere in between. All I know for sure is that Andy Dufresne wasn't much like me or anyone else I ever knew since I came inside. He brought in five hundred dollars jammed up his back porch, but somehow that graymeat son of a bitch managed to bring in something else as well. A sense of his own worth, maybe, or a feeling that he would be the winner in the end ... or maybe it was only a sense of freedom, even inside these goddamned grey walls. It was a kind of inner light he carried around with him. I only knew him to lose that light once, and that is also a part of this story. 　　安迪静静地说：“如果你因为逃税而坐牢，你会被关在联邦监狱中，而不是肖申克，不过你不会坐牢。馈赠礼物给配偶是完全合法的法律漏洞，我办过好几十件……不，是几百件这种案子，这条法令主要是为了让小生意人把事业传下去，是为一生中只发一次横财的人，也就是像你这样的人，而开的后门。”　　“我认为你在撒谎。”哈力说，但他只是嘴硬，由他脸上的表情可以看出他其实相信安迪的话。哈力丑陋的长脸上开始浮现些微激动，显得十分古怪，在哈力脸上出现这样的表情尤其可憎。他之所以激动，是因为看到了希望。　　“不，我没撒谎。当然你也不必相信我，你可以去请律师——”　　“你他妈的龟儿子！”哈力吼道。　　安迪耸耸肩，“那你可以去问税捐处，他们会免费告诉你同样的事情，事实上，你不需要我来解说，你可以亲自去调查。”　　“你他妈的，老子用不着谋杀老婆的聪明银行家来教我黑熊在哪里拉大便。”　　“你只需找个律师或银行家帮你办理馈赠手续，不过要花点手续费。”安迪说，“或是……如果你愿意的话，我很乐意免费帮你办，只要你给我的每一位同事送三罐啤酒——”　　“同事？”麦德说，一边拍着膝盖，捧腹大笑。我真希望他在吗啡还未发明的世界里因为肠癌而上西天。“同事，太可笑了？同事？你还有什么——”　　“闭上你的鸟嘴！”哈力吼道，麦德闭嘴。哈力看了安迪一眼，“你刚才说什么？”　　“我说我只要求你给每位同事三罐啤酒，如果你也认为这样公平的话，”安迪说，“我认为当一个人在春光明媚的户外工作了一阵子时，如果有罐啤酒喝喝，他会觉得更像个人。这只是我个人的意见，我相信他们一定会感激你的。”　　我曾经和当天也在现场的几个人谈过——包括马丁、圣皮耶和波恩谢——当时我们都看到同样的事情，有同样的感觉。突然之间，就变成安迪占上风了。哈力腰间插着枪，手上拿着警棍，后面站着老友史特马，还有整个监狱的管理当局在背后撑腰，但是突然之间，在亮丽的金色阳光下，这一切都不算什么。我感到心脏快跳出来了，自从一九三八年，囚车载着我和其他四个人穿过肖申克的大门，我走出囚车踏上运动场以来，还不曾有过这种感觉。　　安迪以冷静自若的眼神看着哈力，这已不只是三万五千元的事情了，我们几个都同意这点。我后来不断在脑海中重播这段画面，我很清楚，这是一个人和另一个人的角力，而且安迪步步进逼、强力推进的方式，就好像两个人在比腕力的时候，强者硬把弱者的手腕压在桌上的情形。哈力大可以向麦德点点头，让他把安迪扔下去，事后仍旧采纳安迪的建议。　　他没有理由不这么做，但他没有这么做。　　“如果我愿意，我是可以给你们每个人几罐啤酒，”哈力说，“工作的时候喝点啤酒是很不错。”这个讨厌鬼甚至还摆出一副宽宏大量的样子。　　“我先给你一个不让税捐处找麻烦的法子，”安迪说。他的眼睛眨也不眨看着哈力。“如果你很有把握的话，就把这笔钱馈赠给你太太。如果你认为老婆会在背后动手脚或吞掉你的钱，我们还可以再想其他——”　　“她敢出卖我？”哈力粗着声音问道，“出卖我？厉害的银行家先生，除非我点头，她连个屁都不敢放一个。”　　麦德和其他人没有一个敢笑。而安迪脸上始终没有露出任何笑意。　　“我会帮你列出所有需要的表格，表格在邮局里都有卖，我会帮你填好，你只要在上面签字就行了。”　　这点很重要，哈力的胸部起伏着，然后他看了我们一眼，吼道：“该死！看什么？干你们的活儿去！”他面向安迪，“你过来，给我听好，如果你胆敢跟我耍什么花样，这礼拜还没过完，你会发现自己在淋浴间追着脑袋跑。”　　“我懂。”安迪轻轻地说。　　他当然懂，他懂得比我多，比其他任何人都多。　　于是一九五〇年，我们这一伙负责翻修屋顶的囚犯，在工作结束前一天的早上十点钟，排排坐在屋顶上喝着啤酒，啤酒是由肖申克监狱有史以来最严苛的狱卒所供应的。啤酒是温的，不过仍然是我这辈子喝过的滋味最棒的啤酒。我们坐在那儿喝啤酒，感觉阳光暖烘烘地洒在肩膀上，尽管哈力脸上带着半轻视、半打趣的神情，好像在看猩猩喝啤酒似的，却都不能破坏我们的兴致。我们喝了二十分钟，这二十分钟让我们感到自己又像个自由人，好像在自家屋顶上铺沥青、喝啤酒。　　只有安迪没喝，我说过他平常是不喝酒的。他蹲坐在阴凉的地方，双手搁在膝盖间摇晃，微微笑着，看着我们。惊人的是，竟然有这么多人记得安迪这副样子；更惊人的是，竟然有那么多人说安迪对抗哈力的时候，他们也在现场铺屋顶。我认为当天去工作的囚犯只有九个人或十个人，但是到了一九五五年，工作人员的人数至少已暴增到两百人，也许还更多……如果你真的人家说什么都信的话。　　总之，如果你要我说，我描述的到底是普通人、还是在加油添醋地描绘一个仿佛沙砾中珍珠般的传奇人物，我想答案是介乎两者之间吧。反正我只知道安迪·杜佛尼不像我，也不像我入狱后见过的任何人。他把五百美金塞在肛门里，偷偷夹带了进来，但似乎他同时也夹带了其他东西进来——或许是对自己的价值深信不疑，或坚信自己终会获得最后胜利……或只是一种自由的感觉，即使被关在这堵该死的灰墙之内，他仍然有一种发自内在的光芒。我知道，他只有一次失去了那样的光芒，而那也是这个故事的一部分。
Chapter 14
By World Series time of 1950 - this was the year Bobby Thompson hit his famous home run at the end of the season, you will remember - Andy was having no more trouble from the sisters. Stammas and Hadley had passed the word. If Andy Dufresne came to either of them or any of the other screws that formed a part of their coterie, and showed so much as a single drop of blood in his underpants, every sister in Shawshank would go to bed that night with a headache. They didn't fight it as I have pointed out, there was always an eighteen-year-old car thief or a firebug or some guy who'd gotten his kicks handling little children. After the day on the plate-shop roof, Andy went his way and the sisters went theirs. He was working in the library then, under a tough old con named Brooks Hatlen. Hatlen had gotten the job back in the late 20s because he had a college education. Brooksie's degree was in animal husbandry, true enough, but college educations in institutes of lower learning like The Shank are so rare that it's a case of beggars not being able to be choosers. In 1952 Brooksie, who had killed his wife and daughter after a losing streak at poker back when Coolidge was President, was paroled. As usual, the state in all its wisdom had let him go long after any chance he might have had to become a useful part of society was gone. He was sixty-eight and arthritic when he tottered out of the main gate in his Polish suit and his French shoes, his parole papers in one 'and and a Greyhound bus ticket in the other. He was crying, then he left. Shawshank was his world. What lay beyond its vails was as terrible to Brooks as the Western Seas had been to superstitious 13th-century sailors. In prison, Brooksie had been a person of some importance. He was the head librarian, an educated man. If he went to the Kittery library and asked or a job, they wouldn't give him a library card. I heard he lied in a home for indigent old folks up Freeport way in 1952, and at that he lasted about six months longer than I thought he would. Yeah, I guess the state got its own back on Brooksie, all right. They trained him to like it inside the shithouse and then they threw him out. Andy succeeded to Brooksie's job, and he was head librarian for twenty-three years. He used the same force of will I'd seen him use on Byron Hadley to get what he wanted for the library, and I saw him gradually turn one small room (which still smelled of turpentine because it had been a paint closet until 1922 and had never been properly aired) lined with Reader's Digest Condensed Books and National Geographic s into the best prison library in New England. He did it a step at a time. He put a suggestion box by the door and patiently weeded out such attempts at humour as More Fuk-Boox Pleeze and Escape in 10 EZ Lesions. He got sold of the things the prisoners seemed serious about. He wrote to three major book clubs in New York and got two of them, The Literary Guild and The Book of the Month Club, to send editions of all their major selections to us at a special cheap rate. He discovered a hunger for information on such snail hobbies as soap-carving, woodworking, sleight of hand, and card solitaire. He got all the books he could on such subjects. And those two jailhouse staples, Erie Stanley Gardener and Louis L'Amour. Cons never seem to get enough of the courtroom or the open range. And yes, he did keep a box of fairly spicy paperbacks under the checkout desk, loaning them out carefully and making sure they always got back. Even so, each new acquisition of that type was quickly read to tatters. He began to write to the state senate in Augusta in 1954. Staminas was warden by then, and he used to pretend Andy was some sort of mascot. He was always in the library, shooting the bull with Andy, and sometimes he'd even throw a paternal arm around Andy's shoulders or give him a goose. He didn't fool anybody. Andy Dufresne was no one's mascot. He told Andy that maybe he'd been a banker on the outside, but that part of his life was receding rapidly into his past and he had better get a hold on the facts of prison life. As far as that bunch of jumped-up Republican Rotarians in Augusta was concerned, there were only three viable expenditures of the taxpayers' money in the field of prisons and corrections. Number one was more walls, number two was more bars, and number three was more guards. As far as the state senate was concerned, Stammas explained, the folks in Thomastan and Shawshank and Pittsfield and South Portland were the scum of the earth. They were there to do hard time, and by God and Sonny Jesus, it was hard time they were going to do. And if there were a few weevils in the bread, wasn't that just too fucking bad? Andy smiled his small, composed smile and asked Stammas what would happen to a block of concrete if a drop of water fell on it once every year for a million years. Stammas laughed and clapped Andy on the back. 'You got no million years, old horse, but if you did, I believe you'd do it with that same little grin on your face. You go on and write your letters. I'll even mail them for you if you pay for the stamps.' Which Andy did. And he had the last laugh, although Stammas and Hadley weren't around to see it Andy's requests for library funds were routinely turned down until 1960, when he received a check for two hundred dollars - the senate probably appropriated it in hopes that he would shut up and go away. Vain hope. Andy felt that he had finally gotten one foot in the door and he simply redoubled his efforts; two letters a week instead of one. In 1962 he got four hundred dollars, and for the rest of the decade the library received seven hundred dollars a year like clockwork. By 1971 that had risen to an even thousand. Not much stacked up against what your average small-town library receives, I guess, but a thousand bucks can buy a lot of recycled Perry Mason stories and Jake Logan Westerns. By the time Andy left, you could go into the library (expanded from its original pa intlocker to three rooms), and find just about anything you'd want. And if you couldn't find it, chances were good that Andy could get it for you. Now you're asking yourself if all this came about just because Andy told Byron Hadley how to save the taxes on his windfall inheritance. The answer is yes ... and no. You can probably figure out what happened for yourself. 　　一九五〇年，美国职业棒球世界大赛开打的时候——如果你还记得的话，那年费城人队在冠亚军大赛中连输四场——总之，那些姊妹再也不来骚扰安迪了。史特马和哈力撂下狠话，如果安迪跑去向他们或其他警卫告状，让他们看到他的内裤里再有一滴血，肖申克每个姊妹当晚都得带着头痛上床。他们一点都没反抗。我在前面说过，总是不停会有十八岁的偷车贼、纵火犯或猥亵儿童的人被关进牢里。所以从翻修屋顶那天开始，安迪和那帮姊妹就井水不犯河水了。　　那个时候，安迪已经调到图书馆，在一个叫布鲁克的老囚犯手下工作。布鲁克在二十世纪二十年代末期便进图书室工作，因为他受过大学教育，尽管布鲁克在大学念的是畜牧系，不过反正在肖申克这种地方，大学生如凤毛麟角，这跟乞丐没什么可以选择的余地是同一道理。　　布鲁克是在柯立芝还在当总统的时候，赌输后失手杀了妻女而被关进来。他在一九五二年获得假释。像往常一样，政府绝不会在他还对社会有一点用处的时候放他出去。当罹患关节炎的布鲁克穿着波兰西装和法国皮鞋，蹒跚步出肖申克大门时，已经六十八岁高龄了。他一手拿着假释文件，一手拿着灰狗长途汽车车票，边走边哭。几十年来，肖申克已经变成他的整个世界，在布鲁克眼中，墙外的世界实在太可怕了，就好像迷信的十五世纪水手面对着大西洋时一样害怕。在狱中，布鲁克是个重要人物，他是图书馆管理员，是受过教育的知识分子。如果他到外面的图书馆求职的话，不要说图书馆不会用他，他很可能连借书证都申请不到。我听说他在一九五三年死于贫苦老人之家，比我估计的还多撑了半年。是呀，政府还蛮会报仇的：他们把他训练得习惯了这个粪坑之后，又把他扔了出去。　　安迪接替了布鲁克的工作，他也干了二十三年的图书馆管理员，他用对付哈力的方法，为图书馆争取到他想要的东西。我看着他渐渐把这个原本只陈列《读者文摘》丛书和《国家地理杂志》的小房间（房间一直有个味道，因为直到一九二二年之前，这原本只是个放油漆的地方，从来也没有空调），扩充成新英格兰地区最好的监狱图书馆。　　他一步一步慢慢来。他先在门边放了个意见箱，很有耐性地筛选掉纯粹开玩笑的提议，例如“请多买些黄色书刊”或“请订购《逃亡的十堂课》”，然后整理出囚犯似乎认真需要的书籍。接着，他写信给纽约主要的读书俱乐部，请他们以特惠价寄来他们的精选图书，并且得到文学协会和每月一书俱乐部的回应。他也发现肖申克的狱友很渴望得到有关休闲嗜好的资讯，例如，有关肥皂雕刻、木工、各种手工艺和单人牌戏的专业书，还有在各监狱都十分抢手的加德纳和拉摩尔的小说，狱友们好像永远看不厌有关法庭的书。还有，他还在借书柜台下藏了一箱比较辛辣的平装书，尽管他出借时很小心，而且确保每一本书都准时归还，不过这类新书几乎每一本都很快就被翻烂了。　　他在一九五四年开始写信给州议会。史特马那时已当上典狱长，他老爱摆出一副安迪只不过是只吉祥物的样子，经常在图书馆里和安迪瞎扯，有时还搂着安迪的肩膀，跟他开玩笑。但是他谁也骗不了，安迪可不是任何人的吉祥物。　　他告诉安迪，也许他在外面是个银行家，但那早已成为过去，他最好认清监狱中的现实。在州议会那些自大的共和党议员眼中，政府花在狱政和感化教育的经费只有三个用途：第一是建造更多的围墙，第二是建造更多的铁窗，第三是增加更多的警卫。而且在州议会诸公眼中，被关在汤玛森、肖申克、匹兹费尔和南波特兰监狱的囚犯，都是地球上的人渣，是进来受苦的。假如面包里出现了几条象鼻虫，那还真他妈的不幸啊！　　安迪依旧神色自若地微笑着。他问史特马，如果每年滴一滴水在坚硬的水泥块上，持续滴上一百万年，会怎么样？史特马大笑，拍拍安迪的背，“你可活不了一百万年，老兄，但如果你真能活这么久，我相信到时候，你还是老样子，脸上还是挂着同样的微笑。你就继续写你的信吧，只要你自己付邮资，我会替你把信寄出去。”　　于是安迪继续写信。最后，终于开怀大笑的人是他，虽然史特马和哈力都没机会看见。安迪不断写信给州议会，要求拨款补助监狱图书馆，也一再遭到拒绝。但是到了一九六〇年，他收到一张两百元的支票。州议会也许希望用这两百元堵住他的嘴，让他别再烦他们了。但安迪认为自己的努力已收到初步成效，于是加倍努力。他开始每周写两封信，而不是一封信。到了一九六二年，他收到四百元，此后十年中，图书馆每年都会准时收到七百元。到了一九七一年，补助款甚至提高到整整一千元。当然这无法与一般小镇图书馆的经费相比，但一千元至少可以采购不少二手侦探小说和西部小说。到安迪离开之前，你在肖申克图书馆中几乎可以找到任何你想看的书，即使找不到，安迪很可能也会为你找到。这时候的图书馆已经从一个油漆储藏室扩展为三个房间了。　　你会问，难道这一切全因为安迪告诉哈力那笔意外之财该如何节税吗？答案是：对……也不对。或许你自己也猜到是怎么回事了。
Chapter 15
Word got around that Shawshank was housing its very own pet financial wizard. In the late spring and the summer of 1950, Andy set up two trust funds for guards who wanted to assure a college education for their kids, he advised a couple of others who wanted to take small fliers in common stock (and they did pretty damn well, as things turned out; one of them did so well he was able to take an early retirement two years later), and I'll be damned if he didn't advise the warden himself, old Lemon Lips George Dunahy, on how to go about setting up a tax-shelter for himself. That was just before Dunahy got the bum's rush, and I believe he -just have been dreaming about all the millions his book was going to make him. By April of 1951, Andy was doing the tax returns for half the screws at Shawshank, and by 1952, he was doing almost all of them. He was paid in what may be a prison's most valuable coin: simple goodwill. Later on, after Greg Stammas took over the warden's office, Andy became even more important - but if I tried to tell you the specifics of just how, I'd be guessing. There are some things I know about and others I can only guess at. I know that there were some prisoners who received all sorts of special considerations - radios in their cells, extraordinary visiting privileges, things like that - and there were people on the outside who were paying for them to have those privileges. Such people are known as 'angels' by the prisoners. All at once some fellow would be excused from working in the plate-shop on Saturday forenoons, and you'd know that fellow had an angel out there who'd coughed up a chuck of dough to make sure it happened. The way it usually works is that the angel will pay the bribe to some middle-level screw, and the screw will spread the grease both up and down the administrative ladder. Then there was the discount auto repair service that laid warden Dunahy low. It went underground for a while and then emerged stronger than ever in the late fifties. And some of the contractors that worked at the prison from time to time were paying kickbacks to the top administration officials, I'm pretty sure, and the same was almost certainly true of the companies whose equipment was bought and installed in the laundry and the licence-plate shop and the stamping-mill that was built in 1963. By the late sixties there was also a booming trade in pills, and the same administrative crowd was involved in turning a buck on that. All of it added up to a pretty good-sized river of illicit income. Not like the pile of clandestine bucks that must fly around a really big prison like Attica or San Quentin, but not peanuts, either. And money itself becomes a problem after a while. You can't just stuff it into your wallet and then shell out a bunch of crumpled twenties and dog -eared tens when you want a pool built in your back yard or an addition put on your house. Once you get past a certain point, you have to explain where that money came from ... and if your explanations aren't convincing enough, you're apt to wind up wearing a number yourself. So there was a need for Andy's services. They took him out of the laundry and installed him in the library, but if you wanted to look at it another way, they never took him out of the laundry at all. They just set him to work washing dirty money instead of dirty sheets. He tunnelled it into stocks, bonds, tax-free municipals, you name it. He told me once about ten years after that day on the plate-shop roof that his feelings about what he was doing were pretty clear, and that his conscience was relatively untroubled. The rackets would have gone on with him or without him. He had not asked to be sent to Shawshank, he went on; he was an innocent man who had been victimized by colossal bad luck, not & missionary or a do-gooder. 'Besides, Red,' he told me with that same half-grin, 'what I'm doing in here isn't all that different from what I was doing outside. I'll hand you a pretty cynical axiom: the amount of expert financial help an individual or company needs rises in direct proportion to how many people that person or business is screwing. The people who run this place are stupid, brutal monsters for the most part. The people who run the straight world are brutal and monstrous, but they happen not to be quite as stupid, because the standard of competence out there is a little higher. Not much, but a little.' 'But the pills,' I said. 'I don't want to tell you your business, but they make me nervous. Reds, uppers, downers, nembutals - now they've got these things they call Phase Fours. I won't get anything like that. Never have.' 'No,' Andy said. 'I don't like the pills either. Never have. But I'm not much of a one for cigarettes or booze, either. But I don't push the pills. I don't bring them in, and I don't sell them once they are in. Mostly it's the screws who do that.' 'But-' 'Yeah, I know. There's a fine line there. What it comes down to, Red, is some people refuse to get their hands dirty at all. That's called sainthood, and the pigeons land on your shoulders and crap all over your shirt. The other extreme is to take a bath in the dirt and deal any goddamned thing that will turn a dollar - guns, switchblades, big H, what the hell. You ever have a con come up to you and offer you a contract?' I nodded. It's happened a lot of times over the years. You're, after all, the man who can get it. And they figure if you can get them a nine-bolt battery for their transistor radio or a carton of Luckies or a lid of reefer, you can put them in touch with a guy who'll use a knife. 'Sure you have,' Andy agreed. 'But you don't do it. Because guys like us, Red, we know there's a third choice. An alternative to staying simon-pure or bathing in the filth and the slime. It's the alternative that grown-ups all over the world pick. You balance off your walk through the hog-wallow against what it gains you. You choose the lesser of two evils and try to keep your good intentions in front of you. And I guess you judge how well you're doing by how well you sleep at night... and what your dreams are like.' 'Good intentions,' I said, and laughed. 'I know all about that, Andy. A fellow can toddle right off to hell on that road.' 'Don't you believe it,' he said, growing sombre. This is hell right here. Right here in The Shank. They sell pills and I tell them what to do with the money. But I've also got the library, and I know of over two dozen guys who have used the books in here to help them pass their high school equivalency tests. Maybe when they get out of here they'll be able to crawl off the shitheap. When we needed that second room back in 1957, I got it because they want to keep me happy. I work cheap. That's the trade-off.' 'And you've got your own private quarters.' 'Sure. That's the way I like it.' The prison population had risen slowly all through the fifties, and it damn near exploded in the sixties, what with every college-age kid in America wanting to try dope and the perfectly ridiculous penalties for the use of a little reefer. But in all that time Andy never had a cellmate, except for a big, silent Indian named Normaden (like all Indians in The Shank, he was called Chief), and Normaden didn't last long. A lot of the other long-timers thought Andy was crazy, but Andy just smiled. He lived alone and he liked it that way ... and as he'd said, they liked to keep him happy. He worked cheap. 　　当时，马路消息流传着肖申克养了个理财高手。一九五〇年的春末到夏天，安迪为想要储备子女大学教育基金的警卫，设立了两个信托基金。他也指导一些想在股市小试身手的警卫如何炒股票（这些警卫炒股票的成绩斐然，其中一个警卫还因发了财而在两年后提早退休）。他绝对也传授了邓纳海典狱长不少避税诀窍。到了一九五一年春天，肖申克半数以上的狱卒都由安迪协助办理退税，到了一九五二年，所有狱卒的报税工作都由他代劳。而他所得到的最大回报，是监狱中最有价值的东西——赢得所有人的善意对待。　　后来，在史特马主政时，安迪的地位更加重要了。至于个中细节，有些事情我是知道的，有些事情我只好用猜的。我知道有不少犯人在外面有亲人或靠山帮他们打点行贿，因此可以在狱中获得特殊礼遇——例如，牢房中可以有收音机，或可以获得额外的亲友探视机会等等。监狱里的囚犯称这些在外面替他们打点的人为“天使”。突然之间，某个家伙礼拜六下午可以不必去工厂工作，于是你知道天使替他打点好了。进行的方式通常都是，天使会把贿款交给中阶的狱卒，再由这个中间人负责向上、向下打通关节，大家都分到一些油水。　　还有就是让邓纳海丢官的廉价修车服务。起先他们只是暗中经营，但在一九五〇年代末期，却大张旗鼓地做起生意来。我也蛮确定有些监狱工程的包商、提供机器设备给洗衣房以及车牌工厂的厂商会让监狱高层抽回扣。到了二十世纪六十年代末，毒品猖獗，同一批监狱管理人员甚至从毒品生意中牟利，这笔非法收入加总起来还蛮多的，虽然不像艾地卡或圣昆丁等大监狱有那么大笔黑钱进出，却也不是小数目。结果赚来的钱反倒成了头痛的问题。你总不能把大把钞票全塞进皮夹里，等到家里要建造游泳池或加盖房间时，再从口袋里掏出一大叠皱巴巴、折了角的十元、二十元钞票来支付工程费。一旦你的收入超过了某个限度，就得解释你的钱是怎么赚来的。如果你的说服力非常弱，那么很可能自己也锒铛入狱。　　所以，安迪的服务就更重要了。他们把安迪调离洗衣房，让他在图书馆工作，但是如果你换个角度来看，他们其实从来不曾把他调开过，只不过安迪过去洗的是脏床单，如今洗的是黑钱罢了。他把这笔非法收入全换成了股票、债券、公债等。　　屋顶事件过了十年后，有一次他告诉我，他很清楚自己做这些事的感觉，也不太会因此而感到良心不安。反正无论有没有他这个人存在，非法勾当都还是会照常进行。他并不是自愿到肖申克来的，他是个无辜的、被命运作弄的倒霉鬼，而不是传教士或大善人。　　“更何况，雷德，”他依旧以那种似笑非笑的表情对我说，“我在这儿做的事与我在外面的工作并没有太大的不同。我教你一条冷血定律好了：个人或公司需要专业理财协助的程度和他们所压榨的人数，恰好成正比。管理这里的人基本上都是愚蠢残忍的怪物，其实外面那些人的手段照样残忍和野蛮，只不过他们没有那么蠢，因为外面的世界所要求的能力水准比这里高一点，也没有高很多，只是高了一点。”　　“但是，毒品——”我说，“我不想多管闲事，不过毒品会让我神经过敏——我是绝不干这种事的，从来没有。”　　“不，”安迪说，“我也不喜欢毒品，从来都不喜欢，我也不喜欢抽烟或喝酒。但是我并没有贩卖毒品，我既没有把毒品弄进来，更不卖毒品，主要都是那些狱卒在卖。”　　“可是——”　　“对，我知道。这中间还是有一条界线。有的人一点坏事都不做，他们是圣人，鸽子都会飞到他们肩膀上，在他们衣服上拉屎等等；还有另外一种极端是，有的人只要有钱，就无恶不作——走私枪械、贩毒，什么勾当都肯干。有没有人找过你去杀人？”　　我点点头。多年来，的确有不少人找过我，毕竟我什么都有办法弄到。有不少人认为，我既然能替他们的收音机弄到干电池，或能替他们弄到香烟、大麻，自然也能替他们弄到懂得用刀的人。　　“当然有人找过你啦，但你不肯，是吗？”安迪说，“因为像我们这种人，我们知道在超凡入圣与无恶不作之间还有第三种选择，这是所有成熟的成年人都会选择的一条路。因此你会在得失之间求取平衡，两害相权取其轻，尽力将善意放在面前。我猜，从你每天晚上睡得好不好，就可以判断你做得好不好……又或者从你晚上都做些什么梦来论断。”　　“善意。”我说着大笑起来，“安迪，我很清楚，一个人会在善意的路上慢慢走下地狱。”　　他变得更加严肃了，“你难道不觉得，这儿就是地狱吗？肖申克就是地狱。他们贩卖毒品，而我教他们如何处理贩毒赚来的钱，但是我也借机充实图书馆。我知道这儿至少有二十多个人因为利用图书馆的书来充实自己而通过了高中同等学力考试。也许他们出去后，从此可以脱离这些粪堆。一九五七年，当我们需要第二间图书室时，我办到了，因为他们需要讨好我，我是个廉价劳动力，这是我们之间的交易。”　　“而且你也拥有私人牢房。”　　“当然，我喜欢那样。”　　二十世纪五十年代，监狱人口慢慢增长，到了六十年代已有人口爆炸之虞，因为当时美国大学生想尝试吸大麻的人比比皆是，而美国的法律又罚得特别严。但安迪始终没有室友，除了一度，有一个高大沉默、名叫诺曼登的印第安人曾经短暂和他同房（跟所有进来这里的印第安人一样，他被称为酋长），但诺曼登没有住多久。不少长期犯认为安迪是个疯子，但安迪只是微笑。他一个人住，他也喜欢那样……正如他说，他们希望讨他欢喜，因为他是个廉价劳动力。
Chapter 16
Prison time is slow time, sometimes you'd swear it's stop-time, but it passes. It passes. George Dunahy departed the scene in a welter of newspaper headlines shouting SCANDAL and NEST-FEATHERING. Stammas succeeded him, and for the next six years Shawshank was a kind of living hell. During the reign of Greg Stammas, the beds in the infirmary and the cells in the solitary wing were always full. One day in 1958 I looked at myself in a small shaving mirror I kept in my cell and saw a forty-year-old man looking back at me. A kid had come in back in 1938, a kid with a big mop of carrotty red hair, half-crazy with rem orse, thinking about suicide. That kid was gone. The red hair was half grey and starting to recede. There were crow's tracks around the eyes. On that day I could see an old man inside, waiting his time to come out. It scared me. Nobody wants to grow old in stir. Stammas went early in 1959. There had been several investigative reporters sniffing around, and one of them even did four months under an assumed name, for a crime made up out of whole cloth. They were getting ready to drag out SCANDAL and NESTFEATHERING again, but before they could bring the hammer down on him, Stammas ran. I can understand that; boy, can I ever. If he had been tried and convicted, he could have ended up right in here. If so, he might have lasted all of five hours. Byron Hadley had gone two years earlier. The sucker had a heart attack and took an early retirement. Andy never got touched by the Stammas affair. In early 1959 a new warden was appointed, and a new assistant warden, and a new chief of guards. For the next eight months or so, Andy was just another con again. It was during that period that Normaden, the big half-breed Passamaquoddy, shared Andy's cell with him. Then everything just started up again. Normaden was moved out, and Andy was living in solitary splendour again. The names at the top change, but the rackets never do. I talked to Normaden once about Andy. 'Nice fella,' Normaden said. It was hard to make out anything he said because he had a harelip and a cleft palate; his words all came out in a slush. 'I liked it there. He never made fun. But he didn't want me there. I could tell.' Big shrug. 'I was glad to go, me. Bad draught in that cell. All thetime cold. He don't let nobody touch his things. That's okay. Nice man, never made fun. But big draught.' Rita Hayworth hung in Andy's cell until 1955, if I remember right. Then it was Marilyn Monroe, that picture from The Seven Year Itch where she's standing over a subway grating and the warm air is flipping her skirt up. Marilyn lasted until 1960, and she was considerably tattered about the edges when Andy replaced her with Jayne Mansfield. Jayne was, you should pardon the expression, a bust. After only a year or so she was replaced with an English actress - might have been Hazel Court, but I'm not sure. In 1966 that one came down and Raquel Welch went up for a record-breaking six-year engagement in Andy's ceil. The last poster to hang there was a pretty country-rock singer whose name was Linda Ronstadt. I asked him once what the posters meant to him, and he gave me a peculiar, surprised sort of look. 'Why, they mean the same thing to me as they do to most cons, I guess,' he said. 'Freedom. You look at those pretty women and you feel like you could almost ... not quite but almost step right through and be beside them. Be free. I guess that's why I always liked Raquel Welch the best. It wasn't just her; it was that beach she was standing on. Looked like she was down in Mexico somewhere. Someplace quiet, where a man would be able to hear himself think. Didn't you ever feel that way about a picture, Red? That you could almost step right through it?' I said I'd never really thought of it that way. 'Maybe someday you'll see what I mean,' he said, and he was right. Years later I saw exactly what he meant ... and when I did, the first thing I thought of was Normaden, and about how he'd said it was always cold in Andy's cell. A terrible thing happened to Andy in late March or early April of 1963. I have told you that he had something that most of the other prisoners, myself included, seemed to lack. Call it a sense of equanimity, or a feeling of inner peace, maybe even a constant and unwavering faith that someday the long nightmare would end. Whatever you want to call it, Andy Dufresne always seemed to have his act together. There was none of that sullen desperation about him that seems to afflict most lifers after a while; you could never smell hopelessness on him. Until that late winter of '63. We had another warden by then, a man named Samuel Norton. The Mather brothers, Cotton and Increase, would have felt right at home with Sam Norton. So far as I know, no one had ever seen him so much as crack a smile. He had a thirty-year pin from the Baptist Advent Church of Eliot. His major innovation as the head of our happy family was to make sure that each incoming prisoner had a New Testament. He had a small plaque on his desk, gold letters inlaid in teakwood, which said CHRIST IS MY SAVIOUR. A sampler on the wall, made by his wife, read: HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. This latter sentiment cut zero ice with most of us. We felt that the judgment had already occurred, and we would be willing to testify with the best of them that the rock would not hide us nor the dead tree give us shelter. He had a Bible quote for every occasion, did Mr Sam Norton, and whenever you meet a man like that, my best advice to you would be to grin big and cover up your balls with both hands. There were less infirmary cases than in the days of Greg Stammas, and so far as I know the moonlight burials ceased altogether, but this is not to say that Norton was not a believer in punishment. Solitary was always well populated. Men lost their teeth not from beatings but from bread and water diets. It began to be called grain and drain, as in Time on the Sam Norton grain and drain train, boys.' The man was the foulest hypocrite that I ever saw in a high position. The rackets I told you about earlier continued to flourish, but Sam Norton added his own new wrinkles. Andy knew about them all, and because we had gotten to be pretty good friends by that time, he let me in on some of them. When Andy talked about them, an expression of amused, disgusted wonder would come over his face, as if he was telling me about some ugly, predatory species of bug that has, by its very ugliness and greed, somehow more comic than terrible. 　　对坐牢的人而言，时间是缓慢的，有时你甚至认为时间停摆了，但时间还是一点一滴地渐渐流逝。邓纳海在报纸头条的丑闻声浪中离开了肖申克。史特马接替他的位子，此后六年，肖申克真是人间地狱。史特马在位时，肖申克医务室的床位和禁闭室的牢房永远人满为患。　　一九五八年某一天，当我在牢房中照着刮胡子用的小镜子时，镜中有个四十岁的中年人与我对望。一九三八年进来的那个男孩，那个有着一头浓密红发、懊悔得快疯了、一心想自杀的年轻人不见了。红发逐渐转灰，而且开始脱落，眼角出现了鱼尾纹。那天，我可以看到一个老人的脸孔很快会在镜中出现，这使我惶恐万分，没有人愿意在监狱中老去。　　一九五九年初，史特马也离开了。当时不少记者混进来调查，其中一个甚至以假名及虚构的罪状在肖申克待了四个月，准备再度揭发监狱里的重重黑幕，但他们还未来得及挥棒打击时，史特马已逃之夭夭。我很明白他为什么要逃跑，真的，因为如果他受审判刑，就会被关进肖申克服刑。真是如此的话，他在这里活不过五小时。哈力早在两年前就离开了，那个吸血鬼因心脏病发而提前退休。　　安迪从来不曾受到史特马事件的牵连。一九五九年初，来了一个新的典狱长、新的副典狱长和新的警卫队长。接下来八个月，安迪回复了普通囚犯的身份。也是在那段时期，诺曼登成了他的室友，然后一切又照旧。诺曼登搬出去后，安迪又再度享受到独居的优惠。上面的人尽管换来换去，但非法勾当从未停息。　　有一次我和诺曼登谈到安迪。“好人一个，”诺曼登说。很难听懂他的话，因为他有兔唇和腭裂，说话时唏哩呼噜的。“他是好人，从不乱开玩笑。我喜欢跟他住，但他不喜欢我跟他住，我看得出来。”他耸耸肩，“我很高兴离开那儿。那牢房空气太坏了，而且很冷。他不让任何人随便碰他的东西，那也没关系。他人很好，从不乱开玩笑，但是空气太坏了。”　　直到一九五五年，丽塔·海华丝的海报都一直挂在安迪的囚房内，然后换成了玛丽莲·梦露在电影《七年之痒》中的剧照，她站在地铁通风口的铁格盖子上，暖风吹来，掀起她的裙子。玛丽莲·梦露一直霸占墙面到一九六〇年，海报边都快烂了，才换上珍·曼斯菲，珍是大胸脯，但只挂了一年，便换上一个英国明星，名字好像叫海莎·科特，我也不确定。到了一九六六年，又换上拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报。最后挂在上面的是个漂亮的摇滚歌星，名叫琳达·朗斯黛。　　我问过他那些海报对他有什么意义？他给了我奇怪和惊讶的一瞥，“怎么？它们对我的意义跟其他犯人一样呀！我想是代表自由吧。看着那些美丽的女人，你觉得好像几乎可以……不是真的可以，但几乎可以……穿过海报，和她们在一起。一种自由的感觉。这就是为什么我总是最喜欢拉蔻儿·薇芝那张，不仅仅是她，而是她站立的海滩，她好像是在墨西哥的海边。在那种安静的地方，一个人可以听到自己内心的思绪。你曾经对一张照片产生过那样的感觉吗？觉得你几乎可以一脚踩进去的感觉？”　　我说我的确从来没有这样想过。　　“也许有一天你会明白我的意思。”他说。没错，多年后我确实完完全全明白他的意思……当我想通时，我想到的第一件事就是诺曼登当时说的话，他说安迪的牢房总是冷冷的。　　一九六三年三月末或四月初的时候，安迪碰到了一件可怕的事情。我告诉过你，安迪有一种大多数犯人（包括我在内）所缺乏的特质，是一种内心的宁静，甚至是一种坚定不移的信念，认为漫长的噩梦终有一天会结束。随便你怎么形容好了，安迪总是一副胸有成竹的样子，大多数被判终身监禁的囚犯入狱一阵子以后，脸上都会有一种阴郁绝望的神情，但安迪脸上却从未出现过，直到一九六三年的暮冬。　　那时我们换了一个典狱长，名叫山姆·诺顿。假如马瑟父子马瑟父子（IncreaseMather&CottonMather），父子俩均为十七世纪著名的公理教会牧师。有机会认识诺顿，一定会觉得十分投契，从来没有人看过诺顿脸上绽开笑容。他是浸信会基督复临教会三十年的老教徒，有一个教会发的襟章。他自从成为这个快乐小家庭的大家长以后，最大的创新措施就是让每个新进犯人都拿到一本《圣经·新约》。在他桌上有个小纪念盘，柚木上嵌的金字写着：“基督是我的救主”，墙上还挂了一幅他太太的刺绣作品，上面绣着：“主的审判就要来临。”这些字使我们大多数人都倒抽一口冷气，我们都觉得审判日早已来到，而且我们也都愿意作证：岩石无法让我们藏身，枯树也不会提供我们遮蔽。他每次训话都引用《圣经》。每次碰到这种人的时候，我建议你最好脸上保持笑容，用双手护住下体。　　医务室的伤患比史特马在位时少多了，也不再出现月夜埋尸的情况，但这并不表示诺顿不相信惩罚的效力。禁闭室总是生意兴隆，不少人掉了牙，不是因为挨打，而是因为狱方只准他们吃面包和喝水，导致营养不良。　　在我所见过的高层人士中，诺顿是最下流的伪君子。狱中的非法勾当一直生意兴隆，而诺顿却更是花招百出。安迪对内幕一清二楚，由于我们这时候慢慢成了好朋友，所以他不时透露一些消息给我。安迪谈起这些事情时，脸上总是带着一种半好玩、半厌恶的表情，好像他谈的是一些掠夺成性的丑陋虫子，它们的丑陋和贪婪，与其说可怕，不如说可笑。
Chapter 17
It was Warden Norton who instituted the 'Inside-Out' programme you may have read about some sixteen or seventeen years back; it was even written up in Newsweek. In the press it sounded like a real advance in practical corrections and rehabilitation. There were prisoners out cutting pulpwood, prisoners repairing bridges and causeways, prisoners constructing potato cellars. Norton called it 'Inside-Out' and was invited to explain it to damn near every Rotary and Kiwanis club in New England, especially after he got his picture in Newsweek. The prisoners called it 'road-ganging', but so far as I know, none of them were ever invited to express their views to the Kiwanians or the Loyal Order of the Moose. Norton was right in there on every operation, thirty-year church-pin and all, from cutting pulp to digging storm-drains to laying new culverts on state highways, there was Norton, skimming off the top. There were a hundred ways to do it -men, materials, you name it. But he had it coming another way, as well. The construction businesses in the area were deathly afraid of Norton's Inside-Out programme, because prison labour is slave labour, and you can't compete with that. So Sam Norton, he of the Testaments and the thirty-year church-pin, was passed a good many thick envelopes under the table during his fifteen-year tenure as Shawshank's warden. And when an envelope was passed, he would either overbid the project, not bid at all, or claim that all his Inside-Outers were committed elsewhere. It has always been something of a wonder to me that Norton was never found in the trunk of a Thunderbird parked off a highway somewhere down in Massachusetts with his hands tied behind his back and half a dozen bullets in his head. Anyway, as the old barrelhouse song says, My God, how the money rolled in. Norton must have subscribed to the old Puritan notion that the best way to figure out which folks God favours is by checking their bank accounts. Andy Dufresne was his right hand in all of this, his silent partner. The prison library was Andy's hostage to fortune. Norton knew it, and Norton used it. Andy told me that one of Norton's favourite aphorisms was One hand washes the other. So Andy gave good advice and made useful suggestions. I can't say for sure that he hand-tooled Norton's Inside-Out programme, but I'm damned sure he processed the money for the Jesus-shouting son of a whore. He gave good advice, made useful suggestions, the money got spread around, and ... son of a bitch! The library would get a new set of automotive repair manuals, a fresh set of Grolier Encyclopedias, books on how to prepare for the Scholastic Achievement Tests. And, of course, more Erie Stanley Gardeners and more Louis L'Amours. And I'm convinced that what happened happened because Norton just didn't want to lose his good right hand. I'll go further: it happened because he was scared of what might happen - what Andy might say against him - if Andy ever got clear of Shawshank State Prison. I got the story a chunk here and a chunk there over a space of seven years, some of it from Andy - but not all. He never wanted to talk about that part of his life, and I don't blame him. I got parts of it from maybe half a dozen different sources. I've said once that prisoners are nothing but slaves, but they have that slave habit of looking dumb and keeping their ears open. I got it backwards and forwards and in the middle, but I'll give it to you from point A to point Z, and maybe you'll understand why the man spent about ten months in a bleak, depressed daze. See, I don't think he knew the truth until 1963, fifteen years after he came into this sweet little hell-hole. Until he met Tommy Williams, I don't think he knew how bad it could get. Tommy Williams joined our happy little Shawshank family in November of 1962. Tommy thought of himself as a native of Massachusetts, but he wasn't proud; in his twenty-seven years he'd done time all over New England. He was a professional thief, and as you may have guessed, my own feeling was that he should have picked another profession. He was a married man, and his wife came to visit each and every week. She had an idea that things might go better with Tommy - and consequently better with their three-year-old mi and herself - if he got his high school degree. She talked him into it, and so Tommy Williams started visiting the library on a regular basis. For Andy, this was an old routine by then. He saw that Tommy got a series of high school equivalency tests. Tommy would brush up on the subjects he had passed in high-school - there weren't many - and then take the test. Andy also saw that he was enrolled in a number of correspondence courses covering the subjects he had failed in school or just missed by dropping out. He probably wasn't the best student Andy ever took over the jumps, and I don't know if he ever did get his high school diploma, but that forms no part of my story. The important thing was that he came to like Andy Dufresne very much, as most people did after a while. On a couple of occasions he asked Andy 'what a smart guy like you is doing in the joint' - a question which is the rough equivalent of that one that goes 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?' But Andy wasn't the type to tell him; he would only smile and turn the conversation into some other channel. Quite normally, Tommy asked someone else, and when he finally got the story, I guess he also got the shock of his young life. The person he asked was his partner on the laundry's steam ironer and folder. The inmates call this device the mangier, because that's exactly what it will do to you if you aren't paying attention and get your bad self caught in it. His partner was Charlie Lathrop, who had been in for about twelve years on a murder charge. He was more than glad to reheat the details of the Dufresne murder trial for Tommy; it broke the monotony of pulling freshly pressed bedsheets out of the machine and tucking them into the basket. He was just getting to the jury waiting until after lunch to bring in their guilty verdict when the trouble whistle went off and the mangle grated to a stop. They had been feeding in freshly washed sheets from the Eliot Nursing Home at the far end; these were spat out dry and neatly pressed at Tommy's and Charlie's end at the rate of one every five seconds. Their job was to grab them, fold them, and slap them into the cart, which had already been lined with brown paper. But Tommy Williams was just standing there, staring at Charlie Lathrop, his mouth unhinged all the way to his chest. He was standing in adrift of sheets that had come through dean and which were now sopping up all the wet muck on the floor - and in a laundry wetwash, there's plenty of muck. So the head bull that day, Homer Jessup, comes rushing over, bellowing his head off and on the prod for trouble. Tommy took no notice of him. He spoke to Charlie as if old Homer, who had busted more heads than he could probably count, hadn't been there. 　　诺顿建立了一种“外役监”制度。你也许在十六、七年前看过这类报道；连《新闻周刊》都为此写过专题，听来似乎是狱政感化的一大革新。让囚犯到监狱外面伐木、修桥筑堤、建造贮藏马铃薯的地窖。诺顿称之为“外役监”，而且应邀到新英格兰的每个扶轮社和同济会去演讲，尤其当他的玉照登上《新闻周刊》之后，更加炙手可热。犯人却称之为“筑路帮派”，但没有一个犯人曾受邀到同济会或扶轮社去发表他们的观点。　　于是，从伐木、挖水沟到铺设地下电缆管道，都可以看见诺顿在里面捞油水，中饱私囊。无论是人员、物料，还是任何你想得到的项目，都有上百种方法可以从中揩油。但是诺顿还另辟蹊径。由于监狱囚犯是廉价奴工，你根本没有办法和他们竞争，所以建筑业全都怕极了诺顿的外役监计划。因此，手持《圣经》、戴着三十年纪念襟章的虔诚教徒诺顿，在十六年的肖申克典狱长任内从桌底下收过不少厚厚的信封。当他收到信封后，他会出过高的价钱来投标工程，或根本不投标工程，或是宣称他的“外役监”计划已经和别人签约了。我只是觉得纳闷，为什么从来不曾有人在麻省某条公路上，发现诺顿的尸体塞在被弃置的雷鸟车后车厢中，双手缚在背后，脑袋瓜中了六颗子弹。　　总之，正如酒吧中播放的老歌歌词：我的天，钱就这么滚滚而来！诺顿一定非常同意清教徒的传统观念，只要检查每个人的银行账户，就知道谁是上帝最眷顾的子民。　　这段期间，安迪是诺顿的左右手和沉默的合伙人，而监狱图书馆就成了押在诺顿手中的人质。诺顿心知肚明，而且也充分利用这点。安迪说，诺顿最喜欢的格言就是，用一只手洗净另外一只手的罪孽。于是，安迪提供诺顿各种有用的建议。我不敢说他亲手打造诺顿的“外役监”计划，但是我很确定他为那龟儿子处理各种钱财，提供有用的建议。钱越滚越多，而……好家伙！图书馆也添购了新的汽车修理手册、百科全书，以及准备升学考试的参考书，当然还有更多加德纳和拉摩尔的小说。　　我相信这件事之所以会发生，一则是诺顿不想失去左右手，二则是他怕安迪如果真的出狱的话，会说一些不利于他的话。　　我的消息是在七年中这边弄一点、那边弄一点所拼凑出来的，有些是从安迪口中得知，但不是全部。他从来不想多谈这些事，我不怪他，有些事情我是从六七个不同的消息来源那儿打探来的。我曾说过囚犯只不过是奴隶罢了，他们也像奴隶一样，表面装出一副笨样子，实际上却竖起耳朵。我把故事说得忽前忽后，不过我会从头到尾把故事完整地说给你听，然后你也许就明白，为什么安迪会陷入沮丧绝望的恍惚状态长达十个月之久。我认为，他直到一九六三年、也就是进来这个甜蜜的地狱牢房十五年后，才清楚谋杀案的真相。在他认识汤米·威廉斯之前，我猜他并不晓得情况会变得那么糟糕。　　汤米在一九六二年十一月加入我们这个快乐的小家庭。汤米自认是麻省人，但他并不以此为荣。在他二十七年的生命中，他坐遍了新英格兰地区的监狱。他是个职业小偷，我却认为他该拣别的行业干，或许你也会这样想。　　他已经结婚，太太每周来探监一次。她认为如果汤米能够完成高中学业，情况也许会逐渐好转，她和三岁的儿子自然也会受益，因此她说服汤米继续进修，于是汤米便开始定期造访图书馆。　　对安迪而言，帮助囚犯读书已经成为例行公事，他协助汤米重新复习高中修过的科目（并不是很多），然后通过同等学力考试。同时他也指导汤米如何利用函授课程，把以前不及格或没有修过的科目修完。　　汤米可能不是安迪教过的学生中最优秀的一位，我也不知道他后来到底有没有拿到高中文凭，但是这些都和我们要讲的故事无关。重要的是，汤米后来非常喜欢安迪，正如其他许多人一样。　　有几次谈话时，他问安迪：“像你这么聪明的人怎么会沦落到这种地方？”这句话就和问人家“像你这样的好女孩怎么会沦落到这种地方？”一样唐突。但安迪不是会回答这种问题的人，微笑着把话岔开。汤米自然去请教别人，最后，他终于弄清楚整个事情，但他自己也极为震惊。　　他询问的对象是跟他一起在洗衣房工作的伙伴，名叫查理·拉朴。查理因为被控谋杀，已经在牢里蹲了十二年。他迫不及待地把整个审判过程原原本本告诉汤米，那天把轧布机熨平的干净床单一条条拉出来塞进篮子里的动作，都不再像平日那么单调了。查理正讲到陪审团等到午餐后，才回到法庭上宣告安迪有罪，这时候机器故障的警笛响起，轧布机吱吱嘎嘎地停了下来。其他囚犯从机器的另一端把刚洗好的老人院床单一条条塞进轧布机里，然后在汤米和查理这一端每五秒钟吐出一条烫得平平整整的干床单，他们的工作是把机器吐出的床单一条条拉起来，折叠好以后放进推车里，推车里早已铺好棕色的干净牛皮纸。　　但是汤米听到警笛声后，只顾站在那儿发愣，张大嘴巴，下巴都要碰到胸口了，呆呆地瞪着查理。机器吐出的床单掉在地上，越积越多，吸干了地上的脏水，而洗衣房的地面通常都很潮湿肮脏。工头霍姆跑过来大声咆哮，想知道哪里出了问题。但是汤米视若无睹，继续和查理谈话，仿佛打人无数的霍姆根本不存在似的。
Chapter 18
'What did you say that golf pro's name was?' 'Quentin,' Charlie answered back, all confused and upset by now. He later said that the kid was as white as a truce flag, 'Glenn Quentin, I think. Something like that, anyway-' 'Here now, here now,' Homer Jessup roared, his neck as red as a rooster's comb. 'Get them sheets in cold water! Get quick! Get quick, by Jesus, you -' 'Glenn Quentin, oh my God,' Tommy Williams said, and that was all he got to say because Homer Jessup, that least peaceable of men, brought his billy down behind his ear. Tommy hit the floor so hard he broke off three of his front teeth. When he woke up he was in solitary, and confined to same for a week, riding a boxcar on Sam Norton's famous grain and drain train. Plus a black mark on his report card. That was in early February in 1963, and Tommy Williams went around to six or seven other long-timers after he got out of solitary and got pretty much the same story. I know; I was one of them. But when I asked him why he wanted it, he just clammed up. Then one day he went to the library and spilled one helluva big budget of information to Andy Dufresne. And for the first and last time, at least since he had approached me about the Rita Hayworth poster like a kid burying his first pack of Trojans, Andy lost his cool ... only this time he blew it entirely. I saw him later that day, and he looked like a man who has stepped on the business end of a rake and given himself a good one, whap between the eyes. His hands were trembling, and when I spoke to him, he didn't answer. Before that afternoon was out he had caught up with Billy Hanlon, who was the head screw, and set up an appointment with Warden Norton for the following day. He told me later that he didn't sleep a wink all that night; he just listened to a cold winter wind howling outside, watched the searchlights go around and around, putting long, moving shadows on the cement walls of the cage he had called home since Harry Truman was President and tried to think it all out. He said it was as if Tommy had produced a key which fitted a cage in the back of his mind, a cage like his own cell. Only instead of holding a man, that cage held a tiger, and that tiger's name was Hope. Williams had produced the key that unlocked the cage and the tiger was out, willy-nilly, to roam his brain. Four years before, Tommy Williams had been arrested in Rhode Island, driving a stolen car that was full of stolen merchandise. Tommy turned in his accomplice, the DA played ball, and he got a lighter sentence ... two to four, with time served. Eleven months after beginning his term, his old cellmate got a ticket out and Tommy got a new one, a man named Elwood Blatch. Blatch had been busted for burglary with a weapon and was serving six to twelve.'I never seen such a high-strung guy,' Tommy said. 'A man like that should never want to be a burglar, specially not with a gun. The slightest little noise, he'd go three feet into the air ... and come down shooting, more likely than not. One night he almost strangled me because some guy down the hall was whopping on his cell bars with a tin cup. 'I did seven months with bun, until they let me walk free. I got time served and time off, you understand. I can't say we talked because you didn't, you know, exactly hold a conversation with El Blatch. He held a conversation with you. He talked all the time. Never shut up. If you tried to get a word in, he'd shake his fist at you and roll his eyes. It gave me the cold chills whenever he done that. Big tall guy he was, mostly bald, with these green eyes set way down deep in the sockets. Jeez, I hope I never see him again. 'It was like a talkin' jag every night. When he grew up, the orphanages he run away from, the jobs he done, the women as fucked, the crap games he cleaned out I just let him run on. My face ain't much, but I didn't want it, you know, rearranged for me. 'According to him, he'd burgled over two hundred joints. It was hard for me to believe, a guy like him who went off like a firecracker every time someone cut a loud fart, but he swore it was true. Now ... listen to me, Red. I know guys sometimes make things up after they know a thing, but even before I knew about this golf pro guy, Quentin, I remember thinking that if El Blatch ever burgled my house, and I found out about it later, I'd have to count myself just about the luckiest motherfucker going still to be alive. Can you imagine him in some lady's bedroom, sifting through her jool'ry box, and she coughs in her sleep or turns over quick? It gives me the cold chills just to think of something like that, I swear on my mother's name it does.' 'He said he'd killed people, too. People that gave him shit. At least that's what he said. And I believed him. He sure looked like a man that could do some killing. He was just so fucking high-strung! Like a pistol with a sawed-off firing pin. I knew a guy who had a Smith & Wesson Police Special with a sawed-off firing pin. It wasn't no good for nothing, except maybe for something to jaw about. The pull on that gun was so light that it would fire if this guy, Johnny Callahan, his name was, if he turned his record-player on full volume and put it on top of one of the speakers. That's how El Blatch was. I can't explain it any better. I just never doubted that he had greased some people.' 'So one night, just for something to say, I go: "Who'd you kill?" Like a joke, you know. So he laughs and says, "There's one guy doing time up Maine for these two people I killed. It was this guy and the wife of the slob who's doing time. I was creeping their place and the guy started to give me some shit." 'I can't remember if he ever told me the woman's name or not,' Tommy went on. 'Maybe he did. But hi New England, Dufresne's like Smith or Jones in the rest of the country, because there's so many Frogs up here. Dufresne, Lavesque, Ouelette, Poulin, who can remember Frog names? But he told me the guy's name. He said the guy was Glenn Quentin and he was a prick, a big rich prick, a golf pro. El said he thought the guy might have cash in the house, maybe as much as five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then, he says to me. So I go, "When was that?" And he goes, "After the war. Just after the war." 'So he went in and he did the joint and they woke up and the guy gave him some trouble. That's what El said. Maybe the guy just started to snore, that's what I say. Anyway, El said Quentin was in the sack with some hotshot lawyer's wife and they sent the lawyer up to Shawshank State Prison. Then he laughs this big laugh. Holy Christ, I was never so glad of anything as I was when I got my walking papers from that place.' 　　“你说那个高尔夫球教练叫什么名字？”　　“昆丁，”查理回答，一脸困惑沮丧的样子。他事后说，汤米的脸色好像战败投降时竖起的白旗一样。“好像是格林·昆丁——之类的。”　　“嘿！嘿！注意！”霍姆的脖子胀得好像鸡冠一样红，“被单放回冷水里，动作快一点，老天爷，你——”　　“格林·昆丁，天哪！”汤米说，他也只能说出这几个字，因为霍姆用警棍在他后脑勺上狠狠敲了一记，汤米倒在地上，撞掉了三颗门牙。当他醒来时，人已在禁闭室中。他被单独监禁了一星期，只准喝水、吃面包，还被记上一笔。　　那是一九六三年二月的事，放出禁闭室以后，汤米又去问了六七个老犯人，听到的故事都差不多。我也是被问的人之一，但是当我问他为何关心这事时，他只是不答腔。　　有一天，他去图书馆对安迪说了一大堆。自从安迪走过来问我买丽塔·海华丝的海报以后，这是安迪第一次、也是最后一次失去了镇定……只不过这次他完全失控。　　那天我后来看见他的时候，他仿佛被重重打了一耙，正中眉心一样。他两手发抖，当我跟他说话时，他没答腔。那天傍晚，他跑去找警卫队长比利·汉龙，约好第二天求见典狱长诺顿。事后他告诉我，他那晚整夜没有合眼，听着隆冬的冷风在外面怒号，看着探照灯的光芒在周围扫射，在牢笼的水泥墙上划出一道道移动的长影，从杜鲁门主政时期开始，这个牢笼就成了他的家。他脑中拼命思考着整件事情。他说，就好像汤米手上有把钥匙，正好开启了他内心深处的牢笼，他自我禁锢的牢笼。那个牢笼里关的不是人，而是一只老虎，那只老虎的名字叫“希望”。汤米给的这把钥匙正好可以打开牢笼，放出希望的老虎，在他脑中咆哮着。　　四年前，汤米在罗德岛被捕，那时他正开着一辆偷来的车，里面放满赃物。汤米招出同党，换取减刑，因此只需服二到四年徒刑。在他入狱将近一年时，他的室友出狱了，换成另一个囚犯和他同住，名叫艾乌·布拉契。布拉契是因为持械闯入民宅偷窃，而被判六至十二年徒刑。　　“我从来没有看过这么神经过敏的人，”汤米告诉我，“这样的人根本不该干小偷的，至少不应该带枪行窃。只要周遭有一点点声音，他很可能就会跳到半空中，拔枪就射。有一天晚上，只不过因为有人在另一个牢房中，拿着铁杯子刮他们牢房的铁栅，他就差点勒死我。　　“在重获自由之前，我跟他同住了七个月。我不能说我们谈过话，因为你知道，你不可能真的和布拉契交谈，每次我们谈话，总是他滔滔说个不完，我只有听的份儿。他从不停嘴，如果你想打个岔，他会两眼一翻，对你挥舞着拳头。每次他这样便让我背脊发凉。他身材高大，几乎秃顶，一对绿眼珠嵌在深陷的眼眶中。老天，我希望这一生不要再看到他。　　“他每晚都说个不停：他在哪里长大的、他如何从孤儿院逃走、他干过什么事，还有他搞过的女人、他赢过的扑克牌；我只有不动声色地听他说。我的脸虽然不怎么样，不过我并不想整形。　　“照他所说，他至少抢过两百个地方，真是令人难以置信，连有人放个响屁，都会使他像鞭炮般惊跳起来，但他发誓是真的。……听着，雷德，我知道有的人听说了一些事以后会编造故事，但是在我听说这个叫昆丁的高尔夫球教练之前，我记得我就曾经想过，假如有一天布拉契潜入我家偷东西的话，我若事后才发现，就算是万幸了。我真不敢想象，当他潜入一个女人的房间翻珠宝盒时，她若在睡梦中咳嗽一声或翻个身，会有什么后果？单单想到这件事，都令人不寒而栗。　　“他说他杀过人，杀过那些惹毛他的人，至少这是他说的，而我相信他的话，他看起来确实像会杀人。他实在太他妈的神经过敏、太紧张了，就像一把锯掉了撞针的枪，随时会发射出去。我认识一个家伙，他有一把锯掉撞针的警用手枪。这样做没什么好处，纯粹是无聊而已，因为手枪的扳机变得十分灵敏，只要他把音响开到最大声，把枪放在喇叭箱上，很可能就会自动发射。布拉契就是这样一个人。我无法说得更清楚了，总之我相信他轰过些什么人。　　“所以一天晚上，我心血来潮，问他杀过谁？我只当听笑话罢了，你知道。他大笑说道：‘有个家伙正因为我杀了两个人而在缅因州服刑。我杀的是这个笨蛋的太太和另一个家伙，我偷偷潜入他的房子，那家伙跟我过不去。’我不记得他是否曾告诉我那女人的名字，”汤米接着说，“也许他说过，但在新英格兰，杜佛尼这个姓就像其他地方的史密斯和琼斯一样普通。但是，他确实把他杀掉的那个家伙的名字告诉我了，他说那家伙叫格林·昆丁，是个讨厌鬼，有钱的讨厌鬼，职业高尔夫球选手。他说他觉得那家伙应该在屋子里放了不少现金，可能有五千美金，在当时，那可是一大笔钱。所以我问：‘事情是什么时候发生的？’他说：‘在战后，战争刚结束没多久。’　　“所以，他闯进他们屋里，两个人被他吵醒，昆丁还给了他一些麻烦，他是这么说的。我则认为，说不定那家伙只不过开始打鼾。他还告诉我，昆丁和一个名律师的老婆鬼混，结果法院把那个律师送进了肖申克监狱。他说完后大笑不已。老天，当我终于可以出狱、离开那个牢房时，真是觉得谢天谢地。”
Chapter 19
I guess you can see why Andy went a little wonky when Tommy told him that story, and why he wanted to see the warden right away. Elwood Blatch had been serving a six-to-twelve rap when Tommy knew him four years before. By the time Andy heard all of this, in 1963, he might be on the verge of getting out ... or already out. So those were the two prongs of the spit Andy was roasting on - the idea that Blatch might still be in on one hand, and the very real possibility that he might be gone like the wind on the other. There were inconsistencies in Tommy's story, but aren't there always in real life? Blatch told Tommy the man who got sent up was a hotshot lawyer, and Andy was a banker, but those are two professions that people who aren't very educated could easily get mixed up. And don't forget that twelve years had gone by between the time Blatch was reading the clippings about the trial and the time he told the tale to Tommy Williams. He also told Tommy he got better than a thousand dollars from a footlocker Quentin had in his closet, but the police said at Andy's trial that there had been no sign of burglary. I have a few ideas about that. First, if you take the cash and the man it belonged to is dead, how are you going to know anything was stolen, unless someone else can tell you it was there to start with? Second, who's to say Blatch wasn't lying about that part of it? Maybe he didn't want to admit killing two people for nothing. Third, maybe there were signs of burglary and the cops either overlooked them - cops can be pretty dumb - or deliberately covered them up so they wouldn't screw the DA's case. The guy was running for public office, remember, and he needed a conviction to run on. An unsolved burglary-murder would have done him no good at all. But of the three, I like the middle one best. I've known a few Elwood Blatches in my time at Shawshank - the trigger-pullers with the crazy eyes. Such fellows want you to think they got away with die equivalent of the Hope Diamond on every caper, even if they got caught with a two-dollar Timex and nine bucks on the one they're doing time for. And there was one thing in Tommy's story that convinced Andy beyond a shadow of a doubt. Blatch hadn't hit Quentin at random. He had called Quentin 'a big rich prick', and he had known Quentin was a golf pro. Well, Andy and his wife had been going out to that country club for drinks and dinner once or twice a week for a couple of years, and Andy had done a considerable amount of drinking there once he found out about his wife's affair. There was a marina with the country club, and for a while in 1947 there had been a part-time grease-and-gas jockey working there who matched Tommy's description of Elwood Blatch. A big tall man, mostly bald, with deep-set green eyes. A man who had an unpleasant way of looking at you, as though he was sizing you up. He wasn't there long, Andy said. Either he quit or Briggs, the fellow in charge of the marina, fired him. But he wasn't a man you forgot. He was too striking for that. So Andy went to see Warden Norton on a rainy, windy day with big grey clouds scudding across the sky above the grey walls, a day when the last of the snow was starting to melt away and show lifeless patches of last year's grass in the fields beyond the prison. The warden has a good-sized office in the administration wing, and behind the warden's desk there's a door which connects with the assistant warden's office. The assistant warden was out that day, but a trustee was there. He was a half-lame fellow whose real name I have forgotten; all the inmates, me included, called him Chester, after Marshall Dillon's sidekick. Chester was supposed to be watering the plants and dusting and waxing the floor. My guess is that the plants went thirsty that day and the only waxing that was done happened because of Chester's dirty ear polishing the keyhole plate of that connecting door. He heard the warden's main door open and close and then Norton saying, 'Good morning, Dufresne, how can I help you?' 'Warden,' Andy began, and old Chester told us that he could hardly recognize Andy's voice it was so changed. 'Warden ... there's something ... something's happened to me that's ... that's so ... so ... I hardly know where to begin.' 'Well, why don't you just begin at the beginning?' the warden said, probably in his sweetest let's-all-turn-to-the-23rd-psalm-and-read-in-unison voice. 'That usually works the best.' And so Andy did. He began by refreshing Norton of the details of the crime he had been imprisoned for. Then he told the warden exactly what Tommy Williams had told him. He also gave out Tommy's name, which you may think wasn't so wise in light of later developments, but I'd just ask you what else he could have done, if his story was to have any credibility at all. When he had finished, Norton was completely silent for some time. I can just see him, probably tipped back in his office chair under the picture of Governor Reed hanging on the wall, his fingers steepled, his liver lips pursed, his brow wrinkled into ladder rungs halfway to the crown of his head, his thirty-year pin gleaming mellowly. 'Yes,' he said finally. That's the damnedest story I ever heard. But I'll tell you what surprises me most about it, Dufresne.' 'What's that, sir?' 'That you were taken in by it.' 'Sir? I don't understand what you mean.' And Chester said that Andy Dufresne, who had faced down Byron Hadley on the plate-shop roof thirteen years before, was almost floundering for words. 'Well now,' Norton said. 'It's pretty obvious to me that this young fellow Williams is impressed with you. Quite taken with you, as a matter of fact he hears your tale of woe, and it's quite natural of him to want to ... cheer you up, let's say. Quite natural. He's a young man, not terribly bright. Not surprising he didn't realize what a state it would put you into. Now what I suggest is -' 'Don't you think I thought of that?' Andy asked. 'But I'd never told Tommy about the man working down at the marina. I never told anyone that - it never even crossed my mind! But Tommy's description of his cellmate and that man ... they're identical!' 'Well now, you may be indulging in a little selective perception there,' Norton said with a chuckle. Phrases like that, selective perception, are required learning for people in the penalogy and corrections business, and they use them all they can. "That's not it at all. Sir.' "That's your slant on it,' Norton said, 'but mine differs. And let's remember that I have only your word that there was such a man working at the Falmouth Country Club back then.' 　　我想你不难看出当安迪听完汤米的故事后，为何有一点魂不守舍了，以及他为何要立刻求见典狱长。布拉契被判六至十二年徒刑，而汤米认识他已是四年前的事。当安迪在一九六三年听见这事时，布拉契也许已经快出狱了……甚至已经出狱。安迪担心的是，一方面布拉契有可能还在坐牢，另一方面，他也可能随风而逝，不见踪影。　　汤米说的故事并不完全前后一致，但现实人生不就是这样吗？布拉契告诉汤米，被关起来的是个名律师，而安迪却是个银行家，只不过受教育不多的人原本就很容易把这两种职业混为一谈。何况别忘了，布拉契告诉汤米这件事时，距离报上刊出审判消息已经十二年了。布拉契告诉汤米，他从昆丁的抽屉拿走了一千多元，但警方在审判中却说，屋内没有被窃的痕迹。在我看来，首先，如果拥有这笔钱的人已经死了，你怎么可能知道屋内到底被偷了多少东西呢？第二，说不定布拉契根本在说谎？也许他不想承认自己无缘无故就杀了两个人。第三，也许屋内确实有被窃的痕迹，但被警方忽略了——警察有时候是很笨的，也可能当时为了不要坏了检察官的大事，他们故意把这事掩盖过去。别忘了，当时检察官正在竞选公职，他很需要把人定罪，作为竞选的宣传，而一件迟迟未破的盗窃杀人案对他一点好处也没有。　　但在这三个可能中，我觉得第二个最有可能。我在肖申克认识不少像布拉契这类的人，他们都有一双疯狂的眼睛，随时会扣扳机。即使他们只不过偷了个两块美金的廉价手表和九块钱零钱就被逮了，他们也会把它说成每次都偷到“希望之星”之类的巨钻后逃之夭夭。　　尽管稍有疑虑，但有一件事说服安迪相信汤米的故事。布拉契绝不是临时起意杀昆丁的，他称昆丁为“有钱的讨厌鬼”，他知道昆丁是个高尔夫职业选手。在那一两年中，安迪和他老婆每个星期总会到乡村俱乐部喝酒吃饭两次，而且安迪发现太太出轨后，也经常独自在那儿喝闷酒。乡村俱乐部有个停靠小艇的码头，一九四七年有一阵子，那儿有个兼差的员工还蛮符合汤米对布拉契的描述。那个人长得很高大，头几乎全秃了，有一对深陷的绿眼睛。他瞪着你的时候，仿佛在打量你一般，会令你浑身不舒服。他没有在那里做多久，要不是自己辞职，就是负责管理码头的人开除了他。但是你不会轻易忘记像他那种人，他太显眼了。　　于是安迪在一个凄风苦雨的日子去见诺顿，那天云层很低，灰蒙蒙的墙上是灰蒙蒙的天。那天也是开始融雪的日子，监狱外田野间露出了无生气的草地。　　典狱长在行政大楼有间相当宽敞的办公室，他的办公室连着副典狱长的办公室，那天副典狱长出去了，不过我有个亲信刚好在那儿，他真正的名字我忘了，大家都叫他柴士特。柴士特负责浇花和给地板打蜡，我想那天有很多植物一定都渴死了，而且只有钥匙孔打了蜡，因为他只顾竖起他的脏耳朵从钥匙孔偷听事情经过。　　他听到典狱长的门打开后又关上，然后听到典狱长说：“早安，杜佛尼，有什么事吗？”　　“典狱长，”安迪说，老柴士特后来告诉我们，他几乎听不出是安迪的声音，因为变得太多了。“典狱长……有件事发生了……我……那真的是……我不知道该从哪儿说起。”　　“那你何不从头说起呢？”典狱长说，大概用他“我们打开《圣经》第二十三诗篇一起读吧”的声音：“这样会容易多了。”　　于是安迪开始从头说起。他先说明自己入狱的前因后果，然后再把汤米的话重复一遍。他也说出了汤米的名字，不过从后来事情的发展看来，这是不智之举，但当时他又别无他法，如果没有人证，别人怎么可能相信你说的呢？　　当他说完后，诺顿不发一语。我可以想象他的表情：整个人靠在椅背上，头快撞到墙上挂着的州长李德的照片，两手合十，指尖抵着下巴，嘴唇噘着，从眉毛以上直到额顶全是皱纹，那个三十年纪念襟章闪闪发亮。　　“嗯，”他最后说，“这是我听过的最该死的故事。但告诉你最令我吃惊的是什么吧，杜佛尼。”　　“先生，是什么？”　　“那就是你居然会相信这个故事。”　　“先生，我不懂你是什么意思？”柴士特告诉我们，十三年前那个在屋顶上毫无惧色地对抗哈力的安迪·杜佛尼，此时竟然语无伦次起来。　　诺顿说：“依我看来，很明显那个年轻的汤米对你印象太好了，他听过你的故事，很自然的就很想……为了鼓舞你的心情，比方说，这是很自然的。他太年轻了，也不算聪明，他根本不知道这么说了会对你产生什么影响。我现在建议你——”　　“你以为我没有这样怀疑过吗？”安迪问，“但是我从来没有告诉汤米那个码头工人的事情。我从来不曾告诉任何人这件事，甚至从来不曾想过这件事！但是汤米对牢友的描述和那个工人……他们根本就是一模一样！”　　“我看你也是受到选择性认知的影响。”诺顿说完后干笑两声。“选择性认知”，这是专搞狱政感化的人最爱用的名词。　　“先生，完全不是这样。”　　“那是你的偏见，”诺顿说，“但是我的看法就不同。别忘了，我只听到你的片面之词，说有这么一个人在乡村俱乐部工作。”
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。
Chapter 21
If anything at all can be said in favour of solitary, it's just that you get time to think. Andy had twenty days in which to think while he enjoyed his grain and drain, and when he got out he requested another meeting with the warden. Request denied. Such a meeting, the warden told him, would be 'counter-productive'. That's another of those phrases you have to master before you can go to work in the prisons and corrections field. Patiently, Andy renewed his request. And renewed it. And renewed it. He had changed, had Andy Dufresne. Suddenly, as that spring of 1963 bloomed around us, there were lines in his face and sprigs of grey showing in his hair. He had lost that little trace of a smile that always seemed to linger around his mouth. His eyes stared out into space more often, and you get to know that when a man stares that way, he is counting up the years served, the months, the weeks, the days. He renewed his request, and renewed i.t He was patient. He had nothing but time. It got to be summer. In Washington, President Kennedy was promising a fresh assault on poverty and on civil rights inequalities, not knowing he had only half a year to live. In Liverpool, a musical group called The Beatles was emerging as a force to be reckoned with in British music, but I guess that no one Stateside had yet heard of them. The Boston Red Sox, still four years away from what New England folks call The Miracle of '67, were languishing in the cellar of the American League. All of those things were going on out in a larger world where people walked free. Norton saw him near the end of June, and this conversation I heard about from Andy himself some seven years later. 'If it's the money, you don't have to worry,' Andy told Norton in a low voice. 'Do you think I'd talk that up? I'd be cutting my own throat I'd be just as indictable as -' 'That's enough,' Norton interrupted. His face was as long and cold as a slate gravestone. He leaned back in his office chair until the back of his head almost touched the sampler reading HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. 'But-' 'Don't you ever mention money to me again,' Norton said. 'Not in this office, not anywhere. Not unless you want to see that library turned back into a storage room and paint-locker again. Do you understand?' 'I was trying to set your mind at ease, that's all.' 'Well now, when I need a sorry son of a bitch like you to set my mind at ease, I'll retire. I agreed to this appointment because I got tired of being pestered, ufresne. I want it to stop. If you want to buy this particular Brooklyn Bridge, that's your affair. Don't make it mine. I could hear crazy stories like yours twice a week if I wanted to lay myself open to them. Every sinner in this place would be using me for a crying towel. I had more respect for you. But this is the end. The end. Have we got an understanding?' 'Yes,' Andy said. 'But I'll be hiring a lawyer, you know.' 'What in God's name for?' 'I think we can put it together,' Andy said. 'With Tommy Williams and with my testimony and corroborative testimony from records and employees at the country club, I think we can put it together.' 'Tommy Williams is no longer an inmate of this facility.' 'What?' 'He's been transferred.' 'Transferred where?' 'Cashman.' At that, Andy fell silent. He was an intelligent man, but it would have taken an extraordinarily stupid man not to smelt deal all over that. Cashman was a minimum -security prison far up north in Aroostook County. The inmates pick a lot of potatoes, and that's hard work, but they are paid a decent wage for their labour and they can attend classes at CVI, a pretty decent vocational-technical institute, if they so desire. More important to a fellow like Tommy, a fellow with a young wife and a child, Cashman had a furlough programme ... which meant a chance to live like a normal man, at least on the weekends. A chance to build a model plane with his kid, have sex with his wife, maybe go on a picnic. Norton had almost surely dangled all of that under Tommy's nose with only one string attached: not one more word about Elwood Blatch, not now, not ever. Or you'll end up doing hard time in Thomaston down there on scenic Route 1 with the real hard guys, and instead of having sex with your wife you'll be having it with some old bull queer. 'But why?' Andy said. 'Why would -' 'As a favour to you,' Norton said calmly, 'I checked with Rhode Island. They did have an inmate named Elwood Blatch. He was given what they call a PP - provisional parole, another one of these crazy liberal programmes to put criminals out on the streets. He's since disappeared.' Andy said: 'The warden down there ... is he a friend of yours?' Sam Norton gave Andy a smile as cold as a deacon's watchchain. 'We are acquainted,' he said. 'Why?' Andy repeated. 'Can't you tell me why you did it? You knew I wasn't going to talk about ... about anything you might have had going. You knew that. So why?' 'Because people like you make me sick,' Norton said deliberately. 'I like you right where you are, Mr Dufresne, and as long as I am warden here at Shawshank, you are going to be right here. You see, you used to think that you were better than anyone else. I have gotten pretty good at seeing that on a man's face. I marked it on yours the first time I walked into the library. It might as well have been written on your forehead in capital letters. That look is gone now, and I like that just fine. It is not just that you are a useful vessel, never think that. It is simply that men like you need to learn humility. Why, you used to walk around that exercise yard as if it was a living room and you were at one of those cocktail parties where the hellhound walk around coveting each others' wives and husbands and getting swinishly drunk. But you don't walk around that way anymore. And I'll be watching to see if you should start to walk that way again. Over a period of years, I'll be watching you with great pleasure. Now get the hell out of here.' 'Okay. But all the extracurricular activities stop now, Norton. The investment counselling, the scams, the free tax advice. It all stops. Get H & R Block to tell you how to declare your extortionate income.' Warden Norton's face first went brick-red ... and then all the colour fell out of it 'You're going back into solitary for that Thirty days. Bread and water. Another black mark. And while you're in, think about this: if anything that's been going on should stop, the library goes. I will make it my personal business to see that it goes back to what it was before you came here. And I will make your life... very hard. Very difficult. You'll do the hardest time it's possible to do. You'll lose that one-bunk Hilton down in Cellblock 5, for starters, and you'll lose those rocks on the windowsill, and you'll lose any protection the guards have given you against the sodomites. You will... lose everything. Clear?'　　要说待在禁闭室有什么好处的话，那就是你有很多时间思考。安迪在享受面包与水的二十天里，好好思考了一番。当他出来后，他再度求见典狱长，但遭到拒绝，典狱长说类似的会晤会产生“反效果”，如果你想从事狱政或惩治工作的话，这是另一个你得先精通的术语。　　安迪很有耐心地再度求见典狱长，接着再度提出请求。他变了。一九六三年，当春回大地的时候，安迪脸上出现了皱纹，头上长出灰发，嘴角惯有的微笑也不见了。目光茫然一片。当一个人开始像这样发呆时，你知道他正在数着他已经度过了多少年、多少月、多少星期，甚至多少天的牢狱之灾。　　他很有耐性，不断提出请求。他除了时间之外一无所有。夏天到了，肯尼迪总统在华盛顿首府承诺将大力扫除贫穷和消除不平等，浑然不知自己只剩下半年的寿命了。在英国利物浦，一个名叫“披头士”的合唱团正冒出头来，但在美国，还没有人知道披头士是何方神圣。还有波士顿红袜队这时仍然在美国联盟垫底，还要再过四年，才到了新英格兰人所说的“一九六七奇迹年”。所有这些事情都发生在外面那个广大的自由世界里。　　诺顿终于在六月底接见安迪，七年以后，我才亲自从安迪口中得知那次谈话的内容。　　“如果是为了钱的事，你不用担心，”安迪压低了声音对诺顿说，“你以为我会说出去吗？我这样是自寻死路，我也一样会被控——”　　“够了，”诺顿打断道。他的脸拉得老长，冷得像墓碑，他拼命往椅背上靠，后脑勺几乎碰到墙上那幅写着“主的审判就要来临”的刺绣。　　“但——”　　“永远不要在我面前提到‘钱’这个字，”诺顿说，“不管在这个办公室或任何地方都一样，除非你想让图书馆变回储藏室，你懂吗？”　　“我只是想让你安心而已。”　　“呐，我要是需要一个成天哭丧着脸的龟儿子来安我的心，那我不如退休算了。我同意和你见面，是因为我已经厌倦了和你继续纠缠下去，杜佛尼，你要适可而止。如果你想要买下布鲁克林桥，那是你的事，别扯到我头上，如果我容许每个人来跟我说这些疯话，那么这里每个人都会来找我诉苦。我一向很尊重你，但这件事就到此为止了，你懂吗？”　　“我知道，”安迪说，“但我会请个律师。”　　“做什么？”　　“我想我们可以把整件事情拼凑起来。有了汤米和我的证词，再加上法庭纪录和乡村俱乐部员工的证词，我想我们可以拼凑出当时的真实情况。”　　“汤米已经不在这里服刑了。”　　“什么？”　　“他转到别的监狱去了。”　　“转走了，转到哪里？”　　“凯西门监狱。”　　安迪陷入沉默。他是个聪明人，但如果你还嗅不出当中的各种交易条件的话，就真的太笨了。凯西门位于北边的阿鲁斯托库县，是个比较开放的监狱。那里的犯人平常需要挖马铃薯，虽然工作辛苦，不过却可以得到合理的报酬，而且如果他们愿意的话，还可以到学校参加各种技能训练。更重要的是，对像汤米这种有太太小孩的人，凯西门有一套休假制度，可以让他在周末时过着正常人的生活，换言之，他可以和太太亲热，和小孩一起建造模型飞机，或者全家出外野餐。　　诺顿一定是把这一切好处全摊在汤米面前，他对汤米的惟一要求是，从此不许再提布拉契三个字，否则就把他送到可怕的汤姆森监狱，不但无法和老婆亲热，反而得侍候一些老同性恋。　　“为什么？”安迪问，“你为什么——”　　“我已经帮了你一个忙，”诺顿平静地说，“我查过罗德岛监狱，他们确实曾经有个叫布拉契的犯人，但由于所谓的‘暂时性假释计划’，他已经假释出狱了，从此不见踪影。这些自由派的疯狂计划简直放任罪犯在街头闲晃。”　　安迪说：“那儿的典狱长……是你的朋友吗？”　　诺顿冷冷一笑，“我认得他。”他说。　　“为什么？”安迪又重复一遍，“你为什么要这么做？你知道我不会乱说话……不会说出你的事情，你明明知道，为什么还要这么做？”　　“因为像你这种人让我觉得很恶心，”诺顿不慌不忙地说，“我喜欢你现在的状况，杜佛尼先生，而且只要我在肖申克当典狱长一天，你就得继续待在这里。从前你老是以为你比别人优秀，我很擅于从别人脸上看出这样的神情，从第一天走进图书馆的时候，我就注意到你脸上的优越感。现在，这种表情不见了，我觉得这样很好。你别老以为自己很有用，像你这种人需要学会谦虚一点。以前你在运动场上散步时，好像老把那里当成自家客厅，神气得像在参加鸡尾酒会，你在跟别人的先生或太太寒暄似的，但你现在不再带着那种神情走在路上了。我会继续注意你，看看你会不会又出现那种样子。未来几年，我会很乐意继续观察你的表现。现在给我滚出去！”　　“好，但我们之间的所有活动到此为止，诺顿。所有的投资咨询、免税指导都到此为止，你去找其他囚犯教你怎么申报所得税吧！”　　诺顿的脸先是变得如砖块一般红……然后颜色全部褪去。“你现在回到禁闭室，再关个三十天，只准吃面包和水，你的纪录上再记一笔。进去后好好想一想，如果你胆敢停掉这一切的话，图书馆也要关门大吉，我一定会想办法让图书馆恢复你进来前的样子，而且我会让你的日子非常……非常难过。你休想再继续一个人住在第五区的希尔顿饭店单人房，你休想继续保存窗台上的石头，警卫也不再保护你不受那些男同性恋的侵犯，你会失去一切，听懂了吗？”
Chapter 22
 I guess it was clear enough. Time continued to pass - the oldest trick in the world, and maybe the only one that really is magic. But Andy Dufresne had changed. He had grown harder. That's the only way I can think of to put it. He went on doing Warden Norton's dirty work and he held onto the library, so outwardly things were about the same. He continued to have his birthday drinks and his New Year's Eve drinks; he continued to share out the rest of each bottle. I got him fresh rock-polishing cloths from time to time, and in 1967 I got him a new rock-hammer - the one I'd gotten him nineteen years ago had plumb worn out. Nineteen years! When you say it sudden like that, those three syllables sound like the thud and double-locking of a tomb door. The rock-hammer, which had been a ten-dollar item back then, went for twenty-two by '67. He and I had a sad little grin over that. Andy continued to shape and polish the rocks he found in the exercise yard, but the yard was smaller by then; half of what had been there in 1950 had been asphalted over in 1962. Nonetheless, he found enough to keep him occupied, I guess. When he had finished with each rock he would put it carefully on his window ledge, which faced east. He told me he liked to look at them in the sun, the pieces of the planet he had taken up from the dirt and shaped. Schists, quartzes, granites. Funny little mica sculptures that were held together with airplane glue. Various sedimentary conglomerates that were polished and cut in such a way that you could see why Andy called them 'millennium sandwiches' - the layers of different material that had built up over a period of decades and centuries. Andy would give his stones and his rock-sculptures away from time to time in order to make room for new ones. He gave me the greatest number, I think - counting the stones that looked like matched cufflinks, I had five. There was one of the mica sculptures I told you about, carefully crafted to look like a man throwing a javelin, and two of the sedimentary conglomerates, all the levels showing in smoothly polished cross-section. I've still got them, and I take them down every so often and think about what a man can do, if he has time enough and the will to use it, a drop at a time. So, on the outside, at least, things were about the same. If Norton had wanted to break Andy as badly as he had said, he would have had to look below the surface to see the change. But if he had seen how different Andy had become, I think Norton would have been well-satisfied with the four years following his clash with Andy. He had told Andy that Andy walked around the exercise yard as if he were at a cocktail party. That isn't the way I would have put it, but I know what he meant. It goes back to what I said about Andy wearing his freedom like an invisible coat, about how he never really developed a prison mentality. His eyes never got that dull look. He never developed the walk that men get when the day is over and they are going back to their cells for another endless night - that flat-footed, hump-shouldered walk. Andy walked with his shoulders squared and his step was always light, as if he was heading home to a good home-cooked meal and a good woman instead of to a tasteless mess of soggy vegetables, lumpy mashed potato, and a slice or two of that fatty, gristly stuff most of the cons called mystery meat ... that, and a picture of Raquel Welch on the wall. But for those four years, although he never became exactly like the others, he did become silent, introspective, and brooding. Who could blame him? So maybe it was Warden Norton who was pleased ... at least, for a while. His dark mood broke around the time of the 1967 World Series. That was the dream year, the year the Red Sox won the pennant instead of placing ninth, as the Las Vegas bookies had predicted. When it happened - when they won the American League pennant - a kind of ebullience engulfed the whole prison. There was a goofy sort of feeling that if the Dead Sox could come to life, then maybe anybody could do it. I can't explain that feeling now, any more than an ex-Beatlemaniac could explain that madness, I suppose. But it was real. Every radio in the place was tuned to the games as the Red Sox pounded down the stretch. There was gloom when the Sox dropped a pair in Cleveland near the end, and a nearly riotous joy when Rico Petrocelli put away the pop fly that clinched it. And then there was the gloom that came when Lonborg was beaten in the seventh game of the Series to end the dream just short of complete fruition. It probably pleased Norton to no end, the son of a bitch. He liked his prison wearing sackcloth and ashes. But for Andy, there was no tumble back down into gloom. He wasn't much of a baseball fan anyway, and maybe that was why. Nevertheless, he seemed to have caught the current of good feeling, and for him it didn't peter out again after the last game of the Series. He had taken that invisible coat out of the closet and put it on again. I remember one bright-gold fall day in very late October, a couple of weeks after the World Series had ended. It must have been a Sunday, because the exercise yard was full of men 'walking off the week' - tossing a Frisbee or two, passing around a football, bartering what they had to barter. Others would be at the long table in the Visitors' Hall, under the watchful eyes of the screws, talking with their relatives, smoking cigarettes, telling sincere lies, receiving their picked-over care packages. Andy was squatting Indian-fashion against the wall, chunking two small rocks together in his hands, his face turned up into the sunlight. It was surprisingly warm, that sun, for a day so late in the year. 'Hello, Red,' he called. 'Come on and sit a spell.' I did. 'You want this?' he asked, and handed me one of the two carefully polished 'millennium sandwiches' I just told you about. 'I sure do,' I said. 'It's very pretty. Thank you.' He shrugged and changed the subject 'Big anniversary coming up for you next year.' I nodded. Next year would make me a thirty-year man. Sixty per cent of my life spent in Shawshank Prison. 'Think you'll ever get out?' 'Sure. When I have a long white beard and just about three marbles left rolling around upstairs.' He smiled a little and then turned his face up into the sun again, his eyes closed. 'Feels good.' 'I think it always does when you know the damn winter's almost right on top of you.' He nodded, and we were silent for a while. 'When I get out of here,' Andy said finally, 'I'm going where it's warm all the time.' He spoke with such calm assurance you would have thought he had only a month or so left to serve. 'You know where I'm goin', Red?' 　　我想他把话说得很清楚了。　　时间继续一天天过去——这是大自然最古老的手段，或许也是惟一的魔法，安迪变了，他变得更冷酷了，这是我惟一能想到的形容词。他继续掩护诺顿做脏事，也继续管理图书馆，所以从外表看来，一切如常。每年生日和年关岁暮时，他照样会喝上一杯，也继续把剩下的半瓶酒和我分享。我不时为他找来新的磨石布，一九六七年时，我替他弄来一把新锤子，十九年前那把已经坏掉了。十九年了！当你突然说出那几个字时，三个音节仿佛坟墓上响起的重重关门声。当年十元的锤子，到了一九六七年，已经是二十二元了。当我把锤子递给他时，他和我都不禁惨然一笑。　　他继续打磨从运动场上找到的石头，但运动场变小了，因为其中一半的地在一九六二年铺上了柏油。不过，看来他还是找了不少石头来让自己忙着。每当他琢磨好一块石头后，他会把它放在朝东的窗台上，他告诉我，他喜欢看着从泥土中找到的一块块片岩、石英、花岗岩、云母等，在阳光下闪闪发光，安迪给这些石头起名叫“千年三明治”，因为岩层是经过几十年、几百年，甚至数千年才堆积而成的。　　隔三差五，安迪会把石雕作品送人，好腾出地方来容纳新琢磨好的石头。他最常送我石头，包括那双袖扣一样的石头，我就有五个，其中有一块好像一个人在掷标枪的云母石，是很小心雕刻出来的。我到现在还保存着这些石头，不时拿出来把玩一番。每当我看见这些石头时，总会想到如果一个人懂得利用时间的话（即使每一次只有一点点时间），一点一滴累积起来，能做出多少事情。　　所以，表面上一切如常。如果诺顿是存心击垮安迪的话，他必须穿透表面，才能看到个中的变化。但是我想在诺顿和安迪冲突之后的四年中，如果他能看得出安迪的改变，应该会感到很满意，因为安迪变化太大了。　　他曾经说，安迪在运动场上散步时，就好像参加鸡尾酒会一样。我不会这么形容，但我知道他是什么意思。我以前也说过，自由的感觉仿佛一件隐形外衣披在安迪身上，他从来不曾培养起一种坐牢的心理状态，他的眼光从来不显呆滞，他也从未像其他犯人一样，在一日将尽时，垮着肩膀，拖着沉重的脚步，回到牢房去面对另一个无尽的夜。他总是抬头挺胸，脚步轻快，好像走在回家的路上一样，而家里有香喷喷的晚饭和好女人在等着他，而不是只有食之无味的蔬菜、马铃薯泥和一两块肥肉……，以及墙上的拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报在等着他。　　但在这四年中，虽然他并没有完全变得像其他人一样，但的确变得沉默、内省，经常若有所思。又怎能怪他呢？不过总算称了诺顿的心……至少有一阵子如此。　　他的沉郁到了一九六七年职业棒球世界大赛时改变了。那是梦幻的一年，波士顿红袜队不再排第九名敬陪末座，而是正如拉斯维加斯赌盘所预测，赢得美国联盟冠军宝座。在他们赢得胜利的一刹那，整个监狱为之沸腾。大家似乎有个傻念头，觉得如果连红袜队都能起死回生，或许其他人也可以。我现在没办法把那种感觉解释清楚，就好像披头士迷也无法解释他们的疯狂一样。但这是很真实的感觉。当红袜队一步步迈向世界大赛总冠军宝座时，监狱里每个收音机都在收听转播。当红袜队在圣路易的冠军争夺战中连输两场的时候，监狱里一片愁云惨雾；当皮特洛切里演出再见接杀时，所有人欢欣雀跃，简直快把屋顶掀掉了；但最后在世界大赛最关键的第七战，当伦伯格吃下败投、红袜队功亏一篑、冠军梦碎时，大家的心情都跌到谷底。惟有诺顿可能在一旁幸灾乐祸，那个龟儿子，他喜欢监狱里的人整天灰头土脸。　　但是安迪的心情没有跌到谷底，也许因为反正他原本就不是棒球迷。虽然如此，他似乎感染了这种振奋的气氛，而且这种感觉在红袜队输掉最后一场球赛后，仍然没有消失。他重新从衣柜中拿出自由的隐形外衣，披在身上。　　我记得在十月底一个高爽明亮的秋日，是棒球赛结束后两周，一定是个星期日，因为运动场上挤满了人，不少人在丢飞盘、踢足球、私下交易，还有一些人在狱卒的监视下，在会客室里和亲友见面、抽烟、说些诚恳的谎话、收下已被狱方检查过的包裹。　　安迪靠墙蹲着，手上把玩着两块石头，他的脸朝着阳光。在这种季节，这天的阳光算是出奇的暖和。　　“哈啰，雷德，”他喊道，“过来聊聊。”　　我过去了。　　“你要这个吗？”他问道，递给我一块磨亮的“千年三明治”。　　“当然好，”我说，“真美，多谢。”　　他耸耸肩，改变话题，“明年是你的大日子了。”　　我点点头，明年是我入狱三十周年纪念日，我一生中百分之六十的光阴都在肖申克州立监狱中度过。　　“你想你出得去吗？”　　“当然，到时我应该胡子已经花白，嘴里只剩三颗摇摇欲坠的牙齿了。”　　他微微一笑，把脸又转向阳光，闭上眼，“感觉真舒服。”　　“我想只要你知道该死的冬天马上来到，一定会有这种感觉。”　　他点点头。我们都沉默下来。　　“等我出去后，”安迪最后说，“我一定要去一个一年到头都有阳光的地方。”他说话那种泰然自若的神情，仿佛他还有一个月便要出去似的。“你知道我会上哪儿吗，雷德？”
Chapter 23
'Nope.' 'Zihuatanejo,' he said, rolling the word softly from his tongue like music. 'Down in Mexico. It's a little place maybe twenty miles from Playa Azul and Mexico Highway 37. It's a hundred miles north-west of Acapulco on the Pacific Ocean. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific?' I told him I didn't. They say it has no memory. And that's where I want to finish out my life, Red. In a warm place that has no memory.' He had picked up a handful of pebbles as he spoke; now he tossed them, one by one, and watched them bounce and roll across the baseball diamond's dirt infield, which would be under a foot of snow before long. 'Zihuatanejo. I'm going to have a little hotel down there. Six cabanas along the beach, and six more set further back, for the highway trade. I'll have a guy who'll take my guests out charter fishing. There'll be a trophy for the guy who catches the biggest marlin of the season, and I'll put his picture up in the lobby. It won't be a family place. It'll be a place for people on their honeymoons ... first or second varieties.' 'And where are you going to get the money to buy this fabulous place?' I asked. 'Your stock account?' He looked at me and smiled. 'That's not so far wrong,' he said. 'Sometimes you startle me, Red.' 'What are you talking about?' 'There are really only two types of men in the world when it comes to bad trouble,' Andy said, cupping a match between his hands and lighting a cigarette. 'Suppose there was a house full of rare paintings and sculptures and fine old antiques, Red? And suppose the guy who owned the house heard that there was a monster of a hurricane headed right at it. One of those two kinds of men just hopes for the best. The hurricane will change course, he says to himself. No right-thinking hurricane would ever dare wipe out all these Rembrandts, my two Degas horses, my Jackson Pollocks and my Paul Klees. Furthermore, God wouldn't allow it. And if worst comes to worst, they're insured. That's one sort of man. The other sort just assumes that hurricane is going to tear right through the middle of his house. If the weather bureau says the hurricane just changed course, this guy assumes it'll change back in order to put his house on ground zero again. This second type of guy knows there's no harm in hoping for the best as long as you're prepared for the worst.' I lit a cigarette of my own. 'Are you saying you prepared for the eventuality?' 'Yes. I prepared for the hurricane. I knew how bad it looked. I didn't have much time, but in the time I had, I operated. I had a friend - just about the only person who stood by me - who worked for an investment company in Portland. He died about six years ago.' 'Sorry.' 'Yeah.' Andy tossed his butt away. 'Linda and I had about fourteen thousand dollars. Not a big bundle, but hell, we were young. We had our whole lives ahead of us.' He grimaced a little, then laughed. 'When the shit hit the fan, I started lugging my Rembrandts out of the path of the hurricane. I sold my stocks and paid the capital gains tax just like a good little boy. Declared everything. Didn't cut any corners.' 'Didn't they freeze your estate?' 'I was charged with murder, Red, not dead! You can't freeze the assets of an innocent man - thank God. And it was a while before they even got brave enough to charge me with the crime. Jim - my friend - and I, we had some time. I got hit pretty good, just dumping everything like that. Got my nose skinned. But at the time I had worse things to worry about than a small skinning on the stock market.' 'Yeah, I'd say you did.' 'But when I came to Shawshank it was all safe. It's still safe. Outside these walls, Red, there's a man that no living soul has ever seen face to face. He has a Social Security card and a Maine driver's license. He's got a birth certificate. Name of Peter Stevens. Nice, anonymous name, huh?' 'Who is he?' I asked. I thought I knew what he was going to say, but I couldn't believe it. 'Me.' 'You're not going to tell me that you had time to set up a false identity while the bulls were sweating you,' I said, 'or that you finished the job while you were on trial for -' 'No, I'm not going to tell you that. My friend Jim was the one who set up the false identity. He started after my appeal was turned down, and the major pieces of identification were in his hands by the spring of 1950.' 'He must have been a pretty close friend,' I said. I was not sure how much of this I believed - a little, a lot, or none. But the day was warm and the sun was out, and it was one hell of a good story. 'All of that's one hundred per cent illegal, setting up a false ID like that.' 'He was a close friend,' Andy said. 'We were in the war together. France, Germany, the occupation. He was a good friend. He knew it was illegal, but he also knew that setting up a false identity in this country is very easy and very safe. He took my money my money with all the taxes on it paid so the IRS wouldn't get too interested - and invested it for Peter Stevens. He did that in 1950 and 1951. Today it amounts to three hundred and seventy thousand dollars, plus change.' I guess my jaw made a thump when it dropped against my chest, because he smiled. 'Think of all the things people wish they'd invested in since 1950 or so, and two or three of them will be things Peter Stevens was into. If I hadn't ended up in here, I'd probably be worth seven or eight million bucks by now. I'd have a Rolls ... and probably an ulcer as big as a portable radio.' His hands went to the dirt and began sifting out more pebbles. They moved gracefully, restlessly. 'I was hoping for the best and expecting the worst -nothing but that The false name was just to keep what little capital I had untainted. It was lugging the paintings out of the path of the hurricane. But I had no idea that the hurricane ... that it could go on as long as it has.' I didn't say anything for a while. I guess I was trying to absorb the idea that this small, spare man in prison grey next to me could be worth more money than Warden Norton would make in the rest of his miserable life, even with the scams thrown in. 　　“不知道。”　　“齐华坦尼荷，”他说，轻轻吐出这几个字，像是唱歌似的，“在墨西哥，距墨西哥三十七号公路和仆拉雅阿苏约二十英里，距太平洋边的阿卡波哥约一百英里的小镇，你知道墨西哥人怎么形容太平洋吗？”　　我说我不知道。　　“他们说太平洋是没有记忆的，所以我要到那儿去度我的余生。雷德，在一个没有记忆、温暖的地方。”　　他一面说，一面捡起一把小石头，然后再一个个扔出去，看着石头滚过棒球场的内野地带。不久以后，这里就会覆上一英尺白雪。　　“齐华坦尼荷。我要在那里经营一家小旅馆。在海滩上盖六间小屋，另外六间靠近公路。我会找个人驾船带客人出海钓鱼，钓到最大一条马林鱼的人还可以获得奖杯，我会把他的照片放在大厅中，这不会是给全家老少住的那种旅馆，而是专给来度蜜月的人住的……。”　　“你打哪来的钱去买这么一个像仙境的地方？”我问道，“你的股票吗？”　　他看着我微笑道，“差不多耶，”他说，“雷德，你有时真令我吃惊。”　　“你在说什么呀？”　　“陷入困境时，人的反应其实只有两种，”安迪说，他圈起手，划了一根火柴，点燃香烟。“假设有间屋子里满是稀有的名画古董，雷德？再假设屋主听说有飓风要来？他可能会有两种反应：第一种人总是怀抱最乐观的期望，认为飓风或许会转向，老天爷不会让该死的飓风摧毁了伦勃朗、德加的名画；万一飓风真的来了，反正这些东西也都保过险了。另一种人认定飓风一定会来，他的屋子绝对会遭殃。如果气象局说飓风转向了，这个家伙仍然假定飓风会回过头来摧毁他的房子。因此他做了最坏的打算，因为他知道只要为最坏的结果预先做好准备，那么抱着乐观的期望就没关系。”　　我也点燃了根烟。“你是说你已经为未来做好准备了吗？”　　“是的，我是预备飓风会来的那种人，我知道后果会有多糟，当时我没有多少时间，但在有限的时间里，我采取了行动。我有个朋友——差不多是惟一支持我的人——他在波特兰一家投资公司做事，六年前过世了。”　　“我为你感到难过。”　　“嗯，”安迪说，把烟蒂丢掉，“琳达和我有大约一万四千元的积蓄，数目不大，但那时我们都还年轻，大好前程摆在我们面前。”他做了个鬼脸，然后大笑，“起风时，我开始把伦勃朗的名画移到没有飓风的地方。所以我卖掉股票，像一般好公民一样乖乖付税，丝毫不敢有所隐瞒或抄捷径。”　　“他们没有冻结你的财产吗？”　　“我是被控谋杀，雷德，我不是死掉！感谢上苍，他们不能随意冻结无辜者的财产，而且当时他们也还没有以谋杀的罪名指控我。我的朋友吉米和我当时还有一点时间，我的损失还不小，匆匆忙忙地卖掉了所有的股票什么的。不过当时我需要担心的问题，比在股市小小失血要严重多了。”　　“是呀，我猜也是。”　　“我来到肖申克时，这笔钱很安全，现在也仍然很安全。雷德，在外面的世界里有一个人，从来没有人亲眼见过他，但是他有一张社会保险卡和缅因州的驾照，还有出生证明。他叫彼得·斯蒂芬，这个匿名还不错吧？”　　“这个人是谁？”我问。我想我知道他要说什么，但我觉得难以置信。　　“我。”　　“你要跟我说在这些人对付你的时候，你还有时间弄一个假身份？”我说，“还是在你受审的时候，一切已经都弄妥了——”　　“我不会这样跟你说，是我的朋友吉米帮我弄的，他是在我上诉被驳回以后开始办的，直到一九五〇年春天，他都还保管着这些身份证件。”　　“你们的交情一定很深，因为这样做绝对犯法。”我说，我不敢确定他的话有多少可信——大部分是真的，只有一点点可以相信，还是全部都不能相信。但那天太阳露脸了，是个暖和的好天气，而这又是个好故事。　　“他和我是很好的朋友，”安迪说，“我们打仗时就在一起，去过法国、德国，他是个好朋友。他知道这样做是不合法的，但他也知道在美国要假造身份很容易，而且也很安全。他把我所有的钱都投资在彼得·斯蒂芬名下——所有该付的税都付了，因此国税局不会来找麻烦。他把这笔钱拿去投资时，是一九五〇年和一九五一年，到今天，这笔钱已经超过三十七万元了。”　　我猜我讶异得下巴落到胸口时，一定发出了“砰”的一声，因为他笑了。　　“想想看，很多人常常惋惜，假如他们在一九五〇年就懂得投资这个那个就好了，而彼得·斯蒂芬正是把钱投资在其中的两三个项目。如果我不是被关在这里，我早就有七八百万的身价了，可以开着劳斯莱斯汽车……说不定还有严重的胃溃疡。”　　他又抓起一把尘土，优雅地让小砂子在指尖慢慢流过。　　“怀抱着最好的希望，但预做最坏的打算——如此而已。捏造假名只是为了保存老本，只不过是在飓风来临之前，先把古董字画搬走罢了。但是我从来不曾料想到，这飓风……竟然会吹这么久。”　　我有好一阵子没说话。我在想，蹲在我身旁这个穿灰色囚衣的瘦小男子，他所拥有的财富恐怕是诺顿一辈子都赚不到的，即使加上他贪污来的钱，都还是望尘莫及。
Chapter 24
'When you said you could get a lawyer, you sure weren't kidding,' I said at last 'For that kind of dough you could have hired Clarence Darrow, or whoever's passing for him these days. Why didn't you, Andy? Christ! You could have been out of here like a rocket.' He smiled. It was the same smile that had been on his face when he'd told me he and his wife had had their whole lives ahead of them. 'No,' he said. 'A good lawyer would have sprung the Williams kid from Cashman whether he wanted to go or not,' I said. I was getting carried away now. 'You could have gotten your new trial, hired private detectives to look for that guy Blatch, and blown Norton out of the water to boot. Why not, Andy?' 'Because I outsmarted myself. If I ever try to put my hands on Peter Stevens's money from inside here, I'd lose every cent of it. My friend Jim could have arranged it, but Jim's dead. You see the problem?' I saw it. For all the good the money could do Andy, it might as well have really belonged to another person. In a way, it did. And if the stuff it was invested in suddenly turned bad, all Andy could do would be to watch the plunge, to trace it day after day on the stocks-and-bonds page of the Press-Herald. It's a tough life if you don't weaken, I guess. 'I'll tell you how it is, Red. There's a big hayfield in the town of Buxton. You know where Buxton is at, don't you?' I said I did. It lies right next door to Scarborough. "That's right. And at the north end of this particular hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no business in a Maine hayfield. It's a piece of volcanic glass, and until 1947 it was a paperweight on my office desk. My friend Jim put it in that wall. There's a key underneath it. The key opens a safe deposit box in the Portland branch of the Casco Bank.' 'I guess you're in a pack of trouble,' I said. 'When your friend Jim died, the IRS must have opened all of his safety deposit boxes. Along with the executor of his will, of course.' Andy smiled and tapped the side of my head. 'Not bad. There's more up there than marshmallows, I guess. But we took care of the possibility that Jim might die while I was in the slam. The box is in the Peter Stevens name, and once a year the firm of lawyers that served as Jim's executors sends a check to the Casco to cover the rental of the Stevens box. 'Peter Stevens is inside that box, just waiting to get out. His birth certificate, his S.S. card, and his driver's license. The license is six years out of date because Jim died six years ago, true, but it's still perfectly renewable for a five-dollar fee. His stock certificates are there, the tax-free municipals, and about eighteen bearer bonds in the amount of ten thousand dollars each.' I whistled. 'Peter Stevens is locked in a safe deposit box at the Casco Bank in Portland and Andy Dufresne is locked in a safe deposit box at Shawshank,' he said. Tit for tat and the key that unlocks the box and the money and the new life is under a hunk of black glass in a Buxton hayfield. Told you this much, so I'll tell you something else, Red - for the last twenty years, give or take, I have been watching the papers with a more than usual interest for news of any construction projects in Buxton. I keep thinking that someday soon I'm going to read that they're putting a highway through there, or erecting a new community hospital, or building a shopping centre. Burying my new life under ten feet of concrete, or spitting it into a swamp somewhere with a big load of fill.' I blurted, 'Jesus Christ, Andy, if all of this is true, how do you keep from going crazy?' He smiled. 'So far, all quiet on the Western front.' 'But it could be years -' 'It will be. But maybe not as many as the state and Warden Norton think it's going to be. I just can't afford to wait that long. I keep thinking about Zihuatanejo and that small hotel. That's all I want from my life now, Red, and I don't think that's too much to want. I didn't kill Glenn Quentin and I didn't kill my wife, and that hotel ... it's not too much to want. To swim and get a tan and sleep in a room with open windows and space... that's not too much to want.' He slung the stones away. 'You know, Red,' he said in an offhand voice, 'a place like that... I'd have to have a man who knows how to get things.' I thought about it for a long time. And the biggest drawback in my mind wasn't even that we were talking pipedreams in a shitty little prison exercise yard with armed guards looking down at us from their sentry posts. 'I couldn't do it,' I said. 'I couldn't get along on the outside. I'm what they call an institutional man now. In here I'm the man who can get it for you, yeah. But out there, anyone can get it for you. Out there, if you want posters or rock-hammers or one particular record or a boat-in-a-bottle model kit, you can use the fucking Yellow Pages. In here, I'm the fucking Yellow Pages. I wouldn't know how to begin. Or where.' 'You underestimate yourself,' he said. 'You're a self-educated man, a self-made man. A rather remarkable man, I think.' 'Hell, I don't even have a high school diploma.' 'I know that,' he said. 'But it isn't just a piece of paper that makes a man. And it isn't just prison that breaks one, either.' 'I couldn't hack it outside, Andy. I know that.' He got up. 'You think it over,' he said casually, just as the inside whistle blew. And he strolled off, as if he was a free man who had just made another free man a proposition. And for a while just that was enough to make me feel free. Andy could do that. He could make me forget for a time that we were both lifers, at the mercy of a hard-ass parole board and a psalm-singing warden who liked Andy Dufresne right where he was. After all, Andy was a lap-dog who could do tax-returns. What a wonderful animal! 　　“当你说你可以请个律师时，你确实不是在开玩笑，”我最后说，“有这么多钱在手上，你连丹诺ClarenceDarrow,1857—1938，美国名律师及演说家、作家。这种等级的名律师都请得起。你为什么不请律师为你申冤呢？你很快就可以出狱呀？”　　他微笑着，以前当他告诉我，他和老婆有美好的前程摆在面前时，脸上也带着那种微笑。“不行。”他说。　　“如果你有个好律师，就可以把汤米这小子从凯西门弄出来，不管他愿不愿意。”我说，开始得意忘形起来。“你可以要求重新开庭，雇私家侦探去找布拉契，把诺顿扳倒，为什么不这么做呢？”　　“因为我被自己的计谋困住了，如果我企图从狱中动用彼得·斯蒂芬的钱，很可能所有的钱都保不住。原本吉米可以帮我的忙，但是他死了，你看出问题出在哪里了吗？”　　我懂了。尽管这笔钱能带来很大的好处，但安迪所有的钱都是属于另一个人的。如果他所投资的领域景气突然变差，安迪也只能眼睁睁看着它下跌，每天盯着报上的股票和债券版，我觉得这真是一种折磨人的生活。　　“我告诉你到底是怎么一回事好了，雷德。巴克斯登镇有一片很大的牧草地。你知道巴克斯登在哪里吧？”　　我说我知道，就在斯卡伯勒附近。　　“没错。牧草地北边有一面石墙，就像弗罗斯特的诗里所描写的石墙一样。石墙底部有一块石头，那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有，那是一块火山岩玻璃，在一九四七年前，那块玻璃一直都放在我办公桌上当镇纸。我的朋友吉米把它放在石墙下，下面藏了一把钥匙，那把钥匙能开启卡斯柯银行波特兰分行的一个保险柜。”　　“我想你麻烦大了，当你的朋友吉米过世时，税捐处的人一定已经把他所有的保险箱都打开了，当然，和他的遗嘱执行人一起。”　　安迪微笑着，拍拍我的头。“不错嘛，脑袋瓜里不是只装了浆糊。不过我们早有准备了，我们早就把吉米在我出狱前就过世的可能性都考虑在内。保险箱是用彼得·斯蒂芬的名字租的，吉米的律师每年送一张支票给波特兰的银行付租金。彼得·斯蒂芬就在那个盒子里，等着出来，他的出生证、社会保险卡和驾照都在那里，这张驾照已有六年没换了，因为吉米死了六年，不过只要花五块钱，就可以重新换发，他的股票也在那儿，还有免税的市府公债和每张价值一万元的债券，一共十八张。”　　我吹了一声口哨。　　“彼得·斯蒂芬锁在波特兰的银行保险柜中，而安迪·杜佛尼则锁在肖申克监狱的保险柜中，”他说，“真是一报还一报。而打开保险柜和开启新生活的那把钥匙则埋在巴克斯登牧草地的一大块黑玻璃下面。反正已经跟你讲了这么多，雷德，我再告诉你一些其他事情好了。过去二十年来，我天天看报的时候，都特别注意巴克斯登有没有任何工程在进行，我总在想，有一天我会看到报上说，那儿要建一座医院、或一条公路、或一个购物中心，那么我的新生活就要永远埋在十英尺的水泥地下，或是随着一堆废土被倒入沼泽中。”　　我脱口而出说：“天哪，安迪，如果你说的都是真的，你怎么有办法不发疯呢？”　　他微笑道：“到目前为止，西线无战事。”　　“但可能要好多年——”　　“是要好多年，但也许没有诺顿认为的那么久，我等不了那么久，我一直想着齐华坦尼荷和我的小旅馆，现在我对生命的要求仅止于此了，雷德，这应该不算非分的要求吧。我根本没有杀格林·昆丁，也没杀我太太。一家小旅馆……不算奢求吧！我可以游游泳、晒晒太阳，睡在一间可以敞开窗子的房间……这不是非分的要求。”　　他把石头扔了出去。　　“雷德，你知道，”他漫不经心地说，“在那样的地方……我需要有人知道如何弄到我要的东西。”　　我沉吟良久，当时我想到的最大困难，居然不是我们不过是在监狱的小运动场上痴人说梦，还有武装警卫居高临下监视着我们。“我没办法，”我说，“我无法适应外面的世界。我已经变成所谓体制化的人了。在这儿，我是那个可以替你弄到东西的人，出去以后，如果你要海报、锤子或什么特别的唱片，只需查工商分类电话簿就可以了。在这里，我就是那他妈的工商分类电话簿，出去了以后，我不知道要从何开始，或如何开始。”　　“你低估了自己，”他说，“你是个懂得自我教育的人，一个相当了不起的人，我觉得。”　　“我连高中文凭都没有。”　　“我知道，”他说，“但是一纸文凭不见得就可以造就一个人，正如同牢狱生涯也不见得会打垮每一个人。”　　“到了外面，我会应付不来的，安迪，我很清楚。”　　他站起来。“你考虑考虑。”他说。就在这时，哨声响起，他走开了，仿佛刚才不过是个自由人在向另一个自由人提供工作机会，在那一刻，我也有种自由的感觉。只有他有办法做到这点，让我暂时忘记我们都是被判无期徒刑的终身犯，命运完全操在严苛的假释委员会和整天唱圣诗的典狱长手中，而典狱长一点都不想放安迪出狱，毕竟安迪是条懂得报税的小狗，养在身边多么有用啊！
Chapter 25
But by that night in my cell I felt like a prisoner again. The whole idea seemed absurd, and that mental image of blue water and white beaches seemed more cruel than foolish it dragged at my brain like a fishhook. I just couldn't wear that invisible coat the way Andy did. I fell asleep that night and dreamed of a great glassy black stone in the middle of a hayfield; a stone shaped like a giant blacksmith's anvil. I was trying to rock the stone up so I could get the key that was underneath. It wouldn't budge; it was just too damned big. And in the background, but getting closer, I could hear the baying of bloodhounds. Which leads us, I guess, to the subject of jailbreaks. Sure, they happen from time to time in our happy little family. You don't go over the wall, though, not at Shawshank, not if you're smart. The searchlight beams go all night, probing long white fingers across the open fields that surround the prison on three sides and the stinking marshland on the fourth. Cons do go over the wall from time to time, and the searchlights almost always catch them. If not, they get picked up trying to thumb a ride on Highway 6 or Highway 99. If they try to cut across country, some farmer sees them and just phones the location in to the prison. Cons who go over the wall are stupid cons. Shawshank is no Canon City, but in a rural area a man humping his ass across country in a grey pyjama suit sticks out like a cockroach on a wedding cake. Over the years, the guys who have done the best - maybe oddly, maybe not so oddly are the guys who did it on the spur of the moment. Some of them have gone out in the middle of a cartful of sheets; a convict sandwich on white, you could say. There was a lot of that when I first came in here, but over the years they have more or less closed that loophole. Warden Norton's famous 'Inside-Out' program produced its share of escapees, too. They were the guys who decided they liked what lay to the right of the hyphen better than what lay to the left and again, in most cases it was a very casual kind of thing. Drop your blueberry rake and stroll into the bushes while one of the screws is having a glass of water at the truck or when a couple of them get too involved in arguing over yards passing or rushing on the old Boston Patriots. 　　但晚上回到囚房时，我又感到自己像个犯人了，这整个主意似乎荒诞不经，去想象那一片碧海蓝天和白色沙滩，不仅愚蠢，而且残酷，这念头好像鱼钩一样拖住我的脑子。我就是无法像安迪那样，披上自由的隐形外衣。那晚我睡着后，梦见牧草地中央有一大块光滑的黑玻璃石头，石头的样子好像铁匠的铁砧，我正在摇晃石头，想拿出埋在下面的钥匙，但石头太大了，怎么也动不了。　　而在身后，我可以听到警犬的吠声越来越近。　　接下来就该谈谈越狱了。　　在这个快乐的小家庭中，不时有人尝试越狱。但是在肖申克，如果你够聪明的话，就不要翻墙越狱。监狱的探照灯整晚都四处扫射，好像长长的白手指般，来回照着监狱四周，其中三面是田野，一面是发出恶臭的沼泽地。隔三差五，就会有囚犯企图翻墙越狱，而探照灯总是把他们逮个正着；否则当他们跑到公路上，竖起大拇指希望能搭便车时，也会被发现。如果乡下农夫看到他们走在田野间，也会打电话通报监狱。想翻墙越狱的囚犯是蠢蛋。在这种乡下地方，一个人穿着囚衣形迹鬼祟，就好像婚礼蛋糕上的蟑螂一样醒目。　　这么多年来，最高明的越狱往往是即兴之作。有的人是躺在一堆床单里混出去的。我刚进来时听过很多这样的案例，不过狱方逐渐不再让囚犯有机可乘。　　诺顿的“外役监”计划也制造了一些逃亡的机会。在大多数情况下，越狱的行动都是临时起意，例如，趁警卫正在卡车旁喝水或几个警卫热烈讨论球赛战况时，把挖蓝莓的工具一扔，就往树丛里跑去。
Chapter 26
In 1969, the Inside-Outers were picking potatoes in Sabbatus. It was the third of November and the work was almost done. There was a guard named Henry Pugh - and he is no longer a member of our happy little family, believe me -sitting on the back bumper of one of the potato trucks and having his lunch with his carbine across his knees when a beautiful (or so it was told to me, but sometimes these things get exaggerated) ten-point buck strolled out of the cold early afternoon mist Pugh went after it with visions of just how that trophy would look mounted in his rec room, and while he was doing it, three of his charges just walked away. Two were recaptured in a Lisbon Falls pinball parlour. The third has not been found to this day. I suppose the most famous case of all was that of Sid Nedeau. This goes back to 1958, and I guess it will never be topped. Sid was out lining the ball-field for a Saturday intramural baseball game when the three o'clock inside whistle blew, signalling the shiftchange for the guards. The parking lot is just beyond the exercise yard, on the other side of the electrically-operated main gate. At three the gate opens and the guards coming on duty and those going off mingle. There's a lot of back-slapping and bullyragging, comparison of league bowling scores and the usual number of tired old ethnic jokes. Sid just trundled his lining machine right out through the gate, leaving a three-inch baseline all the way from third base in the exercise yard to the ditch on the far side of Route 6, where they found the machine overturned in a pile of lime. Don't ask me how he did it. He was dressed in his prison uniform, he stood six-feet-two, and he was billowing clouds of lime-dust behind him. All I can figure is that, it being Friday afternoon and all, the guards going off were so happy to be going off, and the guards coming on were so downhearted to be coming on, that the members of the former group never got their heads out of the clouds and those in the latter never got their noses off their shoetops ... and old Sid Nedeau just sort of slipped out between the two. So far as I know, Sid is still at large. Over the years, Andy Dufresne and I had a good many laughs over Sid Nedeau's great escape, and when we heard about that airline hijacking for ransom, the one where the guy parachuted from the back door of the airplane, Andy swore up and down that D B Cooper's real name was Sid Nedeau. 'And he probably had a pocketful of baseline lime in his pocket for good luck,' Andy said. 'That lucky son of a bitch.' But you should understand that a case like Sid Nedeau, or the fellow who got away clean from the Sabbatus potato-field crew, guys like that are winning the prison version of the Irish Sweepstakes. Purely a case of six different kinds of luck somehow jelling together all at the same moment. A stiff like Andy could wait ninety years and not get a similar break. Maybe you remember, a ways back, I mentioned a guy named Henley Backus, the washroom foreman in the laundry. He came to Shawshank in 1922 and died in the prison infirmary thirty-one years later. Escapes and escape attempts were a hobby of his, maybe because he never quite dared to take the plunge himself. He could tell you a hundred different schemes, all of them crackpot, and all of them had been tried in the Shank at one time or another. My favourite was the tale of Beaver Morrison, a convict who tried to build a glider from scratch in the plate-factory basement. The plans he was working from were in a circa-1900 book called The Modern Boy's Guide to Fun and Adventure. Beaver got it built without being discovered, or so the story goes, only to discover there was no door from the basement big enough to get the damned thing out. When Henley told that story, you could bust a gut laughing, and he knew a dozen - no, two dozen -just as funny. When it came to detailing Shawshank bust-outs, Henley had it down chapter and verse. He told me once that during his time there had been better than four hundred escape attempts that he knew of. Really think about that for a moment before you just nod your head and read on. Four hundred escape attempts! That comes out to 12.9 escape attempts for every year Henley Backus was in Shawshank and keeping track of them. The Escape Attempt of the Month Club. Of course most of them were pretty slipshod affairs, the sort of thing that ends up with a guard grabbing some poor, sidling slob's arm and growling, 'Where do you think you're going, you happy asshole?' Henley said he'd class maybe sixty of them as more serious attempts, and he included the 'prison break' of 1937, the year before I arrived at the Shank. The new administration wing was under construction then and fourteen cons got out, using construction equipment in a poorly locked shed. The whole of southern Maine got into a panic over those fourteen 'hardened criminals', most of whom were scared to death and had no more idea of where they should go than a jackrabbit does when it's headlight-pinned to the highway with a big truck bearing down on it. Not one of those fourteen got away. Two of them were shot dead - by civilians, not police officers or prison personnel -but none got away. How many had gotten away between 1938, when I came here, and that day in October when Andy first mentioned Zihuatanejo to me? Putting my information and Henley's together, I'd say ten. Ten that got away clean. And although it isn't the kind of thing you can know for sure, I'd guess that at least half of those ten are doing time in other institutions of lower learning like the Shank. Because you do get institutionalized. When you take away a man's freedom and teach him to live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability to think in dimensions. He's like that jackrabbit I mentioned, frozen in the oncoming lights of the truck that is bound to kill it. More often than not a con who's just out will pull some dumb job that hasn't a chance in hell of succeeding ... and why? Because it'll get him back inside. Back where he understands how things work. Andy wasn't that way, but I was. The idea of seeing the Pacific sounded good, but I was afraid that actually being there would scare me to death - the bigness of it. 　　一九六九年，外役监计划的内容是去沙巴塔斯挖马铃薯，那天是十一月三日，工作几乎快做完了。有个名叫亨利·浦格的警卫（他现在已不是我们这个快乐家庭的一员了）坐在马铃薯货车的后挡泥板上吃午餐，把卡宾枪放在膝上，这时候，一头漂亮的雄鹿（他们是这样告诉我的，但有时这些事情会加油添醋）从雾中缓缓走出来，浦格追过去，想象着战利品摆在家里康乐室的样子，结果他看守的三个囚犯乘机溜走，其中有两个人在另一个镇的弹子房被逮着，另外一个始终没找到。　　我想最有名的越狱犯是锡德·尼都。他在一九五八年越狱，我猜以后很难有人超越他。由于星期六监狱将举行球赛，因此锡德当时正在球场划界线。三点钟一到，哨声响起，代表警卫要换班了。运动场再过去一点就是停车场，和电动大门恰好位于监狱的两端。三点钟一到，大门开了，来换班的警卫和下班的警卫混在一起，互相拍肩膀，打招呼，比较保龄球赛的战绩，开开玩笑。　　而锡德推着他的划线机，不动声色地从大门走出去，三英寸宽的白线一路从棒球场的本垒板一直画到公路旁的水沟边，他们后来发现划线机翻倒在那里。别问我他是怎么出去的，他有六英尺二英寸高，穿着囚衣，推着划线机走过去时，还会扬起阵阵白灰，竟然就堂而皇之地从大门走出去了。只能说，大概因为正逢星期五下午，要下班的警卫因为即将下班太过兴奋，而来换班的警卫又因为要来换班而太过沮丧，前者得意地把头抬得高高的，后者则垂头丧气，视线始终没离开过鞋尖……锡德就这么趁隙逃跑了。　　就我所知，锡德到现在还逍遥法外。多年来，安迪和我还常常拿锡德的逃亡过程来当笑话讲。后来当我们听说了古柏一九七一年十一月，一个自称古柏的人登上了从波特兰到西雅图的客机，威胁要炸掉飞机，向航空公司勒赎二十万美元。他在西雅图机场拿到赎金，于飞机再度起飞后，从高空跳伞逃脱，从此不见踪影，成为美国历史上一大谜团。劫机勒赎的事，也就是劫机犯从飞机后舱门跳伞逃走的故事，安迪坚持那个叫古柏的劫机犯真名一定叫锡德·尼都。　　“好个幸运的龟儿子，”安迪说。“搞不好他为了讨个吉利，整个口袋都装满了用来划线的白灰粉呢。”　　但是你应该明白，锡德和那个在沙巴塔斯马铃薯田逃走的家伙只是少数中了头彩的幸运儿，仿佛所有的运气刹那间全聚集在他们身上。像安迪这么一板一眼的人，可能等上九十年也逃不出去。　　也许你还记得，我曾经提过有个洗衣房工头名叫韩利·巴克斯，他在一九二二年被关到肖申克来，三十一年后死于监狱的医务室。他简直把研究越狱当作嗜好，或许原因就在于他自己从来不敢亲身尝试。他可以告诉你一百种不同的越狱方法，每一种都很疯狂，而且肖申克的犯人都尝试过。我最喜欢的是毕佛·莫里森的故事，这家伙竟然试图在车牌工厂的地下室建造一架滑翔机。他是照着一九〇〇年出版的《现代男孩玩乐与冒险指南》上面的说明来造飞机，而且一直没有被发现，只是直到最后他才发现地下室的门都太小了，根本没法子把那架该死的滑翔机搬出去。每次韩利说这个故事时，都会引起一阵爆笑，而他还知道一二十个同样好笑的故事。　　有一次韩利告诉我，在他服刑期间，他知道的企图越狱案就有四百多件。在你点点头往下读之前，先停下来好好想一想。四百多次越狱尝试！等于韩利在肖申克监狱服刑期间，每年平均有十二点九次企图越狱事件。当然，大多数越狱行动都还满随便的，结局不外乎某个鬼鬼祟祟的可怜虫、糊涂蛋被警卫一把抓住，痛骂：“你以为你要上哪儿去呀，混蛋！”　　韩利说，比较认真策划的越狱行动大概只有六十件，其中包括一九三七年的“大逃亡”，那是我入狱前一年发生的事情。当时肖申克正在盖新的行政大楼，有十四名囚犯从没有锁好的仓库中拿了施工的工具，越狱逃跑。整个缅因州南部都因为这十四个“顽强的罪犯”陷入恐慌，但其实这十四个人大都吓得半死，完全不知该往哪儿逃，就好像误闯公路的野兔，被迎面而来的大卡车车头灯一照，就动弹不得。结果，十四个犯人没有一个真正逃脱，有两个人被枪射死——但他们是死在老百姓的枪下，而不是被警官或监狱警卫逮着，没有一个人成功逃脱。　　从一九三八年我入狱以来，到安迪第一次和我提到齐华坦尼荷那天为止，究竟有多少人逃离肖申克？把我和韩利听说的加起来，大概十个左右。只有十个人彻彻底底逃脱了。虽然我没有办法确定，但是我猜十个人当中，至少有五个人目前在其他监狱服刑。因为一个人的确会受到监狱环境制约，当你剥夺了某人的自由、教他如何在牢里生存后，他似乎就失去了多面思考的能力，变得好像我刚刚提到的野兔，看着迎面而来、快撞上它的卡车灯光，却僵在那里动弹不得。许多刚出狱的囚犯往往会做一些绝不可能成功的蠢罪案，为什么呢？因为如此一来，他就可以回到牢里，回到他所熟悉了解的地方。　　安迪不是这样的人，但我是。眺望太平洋的念头听起来很棒，但是我害怕有朝一日，我真的到了那里时，浩瀚的太平洋会把我吓得半死。
 
Chapter 27
Anyhow, the day of that conversation about Mexico, and about Mr Peter Stevens ... that was the day I began to believe that Andy had some idea of doing a disappearing act. I hoped to God he would be careful if he did, and still, I wouldn't have bet money on his chances of succeeding. Warden Norton, you see, was watching Andy with a special close eye. Andy wasn't just another deadhead with a number to Norton; they had a working relationship, you might say. Also, he had brains and he had heart Norton was determined to use the one and crush the other. As there are honest politicians on the outside - ones who stay bought - there are honest prison guards, and if you are a good judge of character and if you have some loot to spread around, I suppose it's possible that you could buy enough look-the-other-way to make a break. I'm not the man to tell you such a thing has never been done, but Andy Dufresne wasn't the man who could do it because, as I've said, Norton was watching. Andy knew it, and the screws knew it, too. Nobody was going to nominate Andy for the Inside-Out programme, not as long as Warden Norton was evaluating the nominations. And Andy was not the kind of man to try acasual Sid Nedeau type of escape. If I had been him, the thought of that key would have tormented me endlessly. I would have been lucky to get two hours' worth of honest shuteye a night. Buxton was less than thirty miles from Shawshank. So near and yet so far. I still thought his best chance was to engage a lawyer and try for the retrial. Anything to get out from under Norton's thumb. Maybe Tommy Williams could be shut up by nothing more than a cushy furlough programme, but I wasn't entirely sure. Maybe a good old Mississippi hardass lawyer could crack him ... and maybe that lawyer wouldn't even have to work that hard. Williams had honestly liked Andy. Every now and then I'd bring these points up to Andy, who would only smile, his eyes far away, and say he was thinking about it. Apparently he'd been thinking about a lot of other things, as well. In 1975, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank. He hasn't been recaptured, and I don't think he ever will be. In fact, I don't think Andy Dufresne even exists anymore. But I think there's a man down in Zihuatanejo, Mexico named Peter Stevens. Probably running a very new small hotel in this year of our Lord 1977. I'll tell you what I know and what I think; that's about all I can do, isn't it? On 12 March 1975, the cell doors in Cellblock 5 opened at 6.30 a.m., as they do every morning around here except Sunday. And as they do every day except Sunday, the inmates of those cells stepped forward into the corridor and formed two lines as the cell doors slammed shut behind them. They walked up to the main cellblock gate, where they were counted off by two guards before being sent on down to the cafeteria for a breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and fatty bacon. All of this went according to routine until the count at the cellblock gate. There should have been twenty-nine. Instead, there were twenty-eight. After a call to the Captain of the Guards, Cellblock 5 was allowed to go to breakfast. The Captain of the Guards, a not half-bad fellow named Richard Gonyar, and his assistant, a jolly prick named Dave Burkes, came down to Cellblock 5 right away. Gonyar reopened the cell doors and he and Burkes went down the corridor together, dragging their sticks over the bars, their guns out. In a case like that what you usually have is someone who has been taken sick in the night, so sick he can't even step out of his cell in the morning. More rarely, someone has died... or committed suicide. But this time, they found a mystery instead of a sick man or a dead man. They found no man at all. There were fourteen cells in Cellblock 5, seven to a side, all fairly neat restriction of visiting privileges is the penalty for a sloppy cell at Shawshank - and all very empty. Gonyar's first assumption was that there had been a miscount or a practical joke. So instead of going off to work after breakfast, the inmates of Cellblock 5 were sent back to their cells, joking and happy. Any break in the routine was always welcome. Cell doors opened; prisoners stepped in; cell doors closed. Some clown shouting, 'I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer, you guys run this place just like a frigging prison.' Burkes: 'Shut up in there, or I'll rank you.' The clown: 'I ranked your wife, Burkie,' Gonyar: 'Shut up, all of you, or you'll spend the day in there.' He and Burkes went up the line again, counting noses. They didn't have to go far. 'Who belongs in this cell?' Gonyar asked the rightside night guard. 'Andrew Dufresne,' the rightside answered, and that was all it took. Everything stopped being routine right then. The balloon went up. In all the prison movies I've seen, this wailing horn goes off when there's been a break. That never happens at Shawshank. The first thing Gonyar did was to get in touch with the warden. The second thing was to get a search of the prison going. The third was to alert the State Police in Scarborough to the possibility of a breakout. That was the routine. It didn't call for them to search the suspected escapee's cell, and so no one did. Not then. Why would they? It was a case of what you see is what you get. It was a small square room, bars on the window and bars on the sliding door. There was a toilet and an empty cot. Some pretty rocks on the windowsill. And the poster, of course. It was Linda Ronstadt by then. The poster was right over his bunk. There had been a poster there, in that exact same place, for twenty-six years. And when someone - it was Warden Norton himself, as it turned out, poetic justice if there ever was any - looked behind it, they got one hell of a shock. But that didn't happen until 6.30 that night, almost twelve hours after Andy had been reported missing, probably twenty hours after he had actually made his escape. Norton hit the roof. I have it on good authority - Chester, the trustee, who was waxing the hall floor in the Admin Wing that day. He didn't have to polish any keyplates with his ear that day; he said you could hear the warden clear down to Records & Files as he chewed on Rich Gonyar's ass. 　　总而言之，自从那天安迪谈到墨西哥和彼得·斯蒂芬以后，我开始相信安迪有逃亡的念头。我只能祈祷上帝，让他谨慎行事，但是我不会把赌注押在他身上。典狱长诺顿特别注意他的一举一动，安迪不是普通囚犯。可以这么说，他们之间有密不可分的工作关系。安迪很有头脑，但也很有心，诺顿下定决心要利用他的头脑，同时也击溃他的心。　　就好像外面有一些你永远可以买通的诚实政客一样，监狱里也有一些诚实的警卫，如果你很懂得看人，手头上也有一些钱可以撒的话，我猜你确实有可能买通几个警卫，他们故意放水，眼睛注视着其他地方，让你有机会逃脱。过去不是没有人做过这样的事情，但是安迪没有办法这么做，因为正如我刚才所说，诺顿紧紧盯着他，安迪知道这点，狱卒也都知道这点。　　只要诺顿还继续审核外役监名单，就没有人会提名安迪参加外役监计划，而安迪也不像锡德，他绝不会那么随随便便地展开逃亡行动。　　如果我是他，外面那把钥匙会使我痛苦万分，彻夜难眠。巴克斯登距离肖申克不到三十英里，却可望而不可及。　　我仍然认为找律师要求重新审判的成功机会最大，只要能脱离诺顿的掌握就好。或许他们只不过多给汤米一些休假，就让他封口，我并不确定。或许那些律师神通广大，可以让汤米开口，甚至不用费太大的劲，因为汤米很钦佩安迪。每次我向安迪提出这些意见时，他总是微笑着，目光飘向远方，嘴里说他会考虑考虑。　　看来他同时在考虑的事情还不少。　　一九七五年，安迪从肖申克逃走了，他一直都没被逮到，我相信他永远也不会被逮到。事实上，我想，安迪早已不在这个世上了，而一九七六年这一年，在墨西哥的齐华坦尼荷，有一个叫彼得·斯蒂芬的人正在经营一家小旅馆。　　我会把我所知道的和我猜想的全都告诉你，我也只能做到这样了，不是吗？　　一九七五年三月十二日。当警卫在早上六点半打开第五区牢房的大门时，所有犯人都从自己的房间走出来，站到走廊上，排成两列，牢门砰的一声在他们身后关起。他们走到第五区大门时，会有两个警卫站在门口数人头，算完后便到餐厅去吃麦片、炒蛋和油腻的培根。　　直到数人头之前，一切都是例行公事。第五区牢房的犯人应该有二十七个，但那天早上数来数去都只有二十六个人，于是警卫去报告队长，并先让第五区的囚犯去吃早餐。　　警卫队长名叫理查·高亚，不是个很坏的人，他和助手戴夫·勃克一起来到第五区牢房。高亚打开大门，和勃克一起走进两排牢房中间的走道，手上拿着警棍和枪。像这种情形，通常都是有人在半夜病了，而且因为病得太重，早上根本没有力气走出牢房。更罕见的状况是他根本已经病死了，或自杀了。　　但这次却出现了一个大谜团，他们既没有看到病人，也没有看到死人，里面根本空无一人。第五区共有十四间牢房，每边各七间，全都十分整洁——在肖申克，对牢房太过脏乱的惩罚是禁止会客——而且全都空荡荡的。　　高亚第一个反应是警卫算错人数了，要不就是有人恶作剧，因此他叫第五区的所有囚犯吃完早餐后，都先回到牢房去。那些犯人一面开玩笑，一面高兴地跑回去，任何打破常规的事，他们都觉得很新鲜。　　牢门再度打开，犯人一一走进去，牢门关起。爱开玩笑的犯人故意叫着：“我要找律师，我要找律师，你们怎么可以把监狱管理得像他妈的监狱一样！”　　勃克叫道：“闭嘴，否则我会要你好看。”　　那人喊道：“我操你老婆。”　　高亚说：“你们全都闭嘴，否则今天一整天都待在这里，不准出去。”　　他和勃克一间间检查，一个个数着，没走多远。“这间是谁住的？”高亚问值夜班的警卫。　　“安迪·杜佛尼。”守卫答道。立刻，整个日常作息都乱掉了。监狱里一片哗然。　　在我所看过的监狱电影里面，每当有人逃狱时，就会响起号角的哭号声，但是在肖申克，从来没有这回事。高亚做的第一件事是立刻联络典狱长，第二件事是派人搜索整个监狱，第三件事则是打电话警告州警，可能有人越狱了。　　例行的做法就是如此，标准作业程序没有要求他们检查逃犯的牢房，因此也没有人这么做。何必如此呢？明明就亲眼看到人不在里面。这是个四方形的小房间，窗子上装了铁栅栏，门上也有铁栅栏，此外就是一套卫生设备和空荡荡的床。窗台上还有一些漂亮的石头。　　当然还有那张海报。这时候已经换上了琳达·朗斯黛的海报，海报就贴在他的床头。二十六年来，同一个位置上一直都贴着海报。但是当有人查看海报后面时——结果是诺顿自己发现的，真是因果报应——简直魂飞魄散。　　发现海报后面另有文章，已经是当晚六点半的事了，距离发现安迪失踪足足有十二小时，距离他真正逃亡的时间说不定有二十小时。　　诺顿暴跳如雷。　　我后来是从老柴士特口中知道的，他那天正在行政大楼为地板打蜡，事发当天他不必再把耳朵贴在钥匙孔上，因为他可以把诺顿的咆哮听得一清二楚。
Chapter 28
'What do you mean, you're "satisfied he's not on the prison grounds"? What does that mean? It means you didn't find him! You better find him! You better! Because I want him! Do you hear me? I want him!' Gonyar said something. 'Didn't happen on your shift? That's what you say. So far as I can tell, no one knows when it happened. Or how. Or if it really did. Now, I want him in my office by three o'clock this afternoon, or some heads are going to roll. I can promise you that, and I always keep my promises.' Something else from Gonyar, something that seemed to provoke Norton to even greater rage. 'No? Then look at this! Look at this! You recognize it? Last night's tally for Cellblock 5. Every prisoner accounted for! Dufresne was locked up last night at nine and it is impossible for him to be gone now! It is impossible! Now you find him!" But at six that evening Andy was still among the missing, Norton himself stormed down to Cellblock 5, where the rest of us had been locked up all of that day. Had we been questioned? We had spent most of that long day being questioned by harried screws who were feeling the breath of the dragon on the backs of their necks. We all said the same thing: we had seen nothing, heard nothing. And so far as I know, we were all telling the truth. I know that I was. All we could say was that Andy had indeed been in his cell at the time of the lock-in, and at lights-out an hour later. One wit suggested that Andy had poured himself out through the keyhole. The suggestion earned the guy four days in solitary. They were uptight. So Norton came down - stalked down - glaring at us with blue eyes nearly hot enough to strike sparks from the tempered steel bars of our cages. He looked at us as if he believed we were all in on it. Probably he did believe it. He went into Andy's cell and looked around. It was just as Andy had left it, the sheets of his bunk turned back but without looking slept-in. Rocks on the windowsill... but not all of them. The ones he liked best he took with him. 'Rocks,' Norton hissed, and swept them off the window-ledge with a clatter. Gonyar, already four hours overtime, winced but said nothing. Norton's eyes fell on the Linda Ronstadt poster. Linda was looking back over her shoulder, her hands tucked into the back pockets of a very tight pair of fawn-coloured slacks. She was wearing a halter and she had a deep California tan. It must have offended the hell out of Norton's Baptist sensibilities, that poster. Watching him glare at it, I remembered what Andy had once said about feeling he could almost step through the picture and be with the girl. In a very real way, that was exactly what he did - as Norton was only seconds from discovering. 'Wretched thing!' he grunted, and ripped the poster from the wall with a single swipe of his hand. And revealed the gaping, crumbled hole in the concrete behind it. Gonyar wouldn't go in. Norton ordered him - God, they must have heard Norton ordering Rich Gonyar to go in there all over the prison - and Gonyar just refused him, point-blank. 'I'll have your job for this!' Norton screamed. He was as hysterical as a woman having a hot-flush. He had utterly blown his cool. His neck had turned a rich, dark red, and two veins stood out, throbbing, on his forehead. 'You can count on it, you ... you Frenchman! I'll have your job and I'll see to it that you never get another one in any prison system in New England!' Gonyar silently held out his service pistol to Norton, butt first. He'd had enough. He was four hours overtime, going on five, and he'd just had enough. It was as if Andy's defection from our happy little family had driven Norton right over the edge of some private irrationality that had been there for a long time ... certainly he was crazy that night. I don't know what that private irrationality might have been, of course. But I do know that there were twenty-eight cons listening to Norton's little dust-up with Rich Gonyar that evening as the last of the light faded from a dull late winter sky, all of us hard-timers and long-line riders who had seen the administrators come and go, the hard-asses and the candy-asses alike, and we all knew that Warden Samuel Norton had just passed what the engineers like to call 'the breaking strain'. And by God, it almost seemed to me that somewhere I could heard Andy Dufresne laughing. Norton finally got a skinny drink of water on the night shift to go into that hole that had been behind Andy's poster of Linda Ronstadt. The skinny guard's name was Rory Tremont, and he was not exactly a ball of fire in the brains department. Maybe he thought he was going to win a Bronze Star or something. As it turned out, it was fortunate that Norton got someone of Andy's approximate height and build to go in there; if they had sent a big-assed fellow - as most prison guards seem to be - the guy would have stuck in there is sure as God made green grass ... and he might be there still. Tremont went in with a nylon filament rope, which someone had found in the trunk of his car, tied around his waist and a big six-battery flashlight in one hand. By then Gonyar, who had changed his mind about quitting and who seemed to be the only one there still able to think clearly, had dug out a set of blueprints. I knew well enough what they showed him - a wall which looked, in cross-section, like a sandwich. The entire wall was ten feet thick. The inner and outer sections were each about four feet thick. In the centre was two feet of pipe-space, and you want to believe that was the meat of the thing ... in more ways than one. Tremont's voice came out of the hole, sounding hollow and dead. 'Something smells awful in here, Warden.' 'Never mind that! Keep going.' Tremont's lower legs disappeared into the hole. A moment later his feet were gone, too. His light flashed dimly back and forth. 'Warden, it smells pretty damn bad.' 'Never mind, I said!' Norton cried. Dolorously, Tremont's voice floated back: 'Smells like shit. Oh God, that's what it is, it's shit, oh my God lemme outta here I'm gonna blow my groceries oh shit it's shit oh my Gawwwwwd - And then came the unmistakable sound of Rory Tremont losing his last couple of meals. Well, that was it for me. I couldn't help myself. The whole day - hell no, the last thirty years - all came up on me at once and I started laughing fit to split, alaugh such as I'd never had since I was a free man, the kind of laugh I never expected to have inside these grey walls. And oh dear God didn't it feel good! 　　“你是什么意思？你是什么意思？他不在监狱里，表示你没有找到他？这样你就觉得满意了吗？你最好找到他！因为我要把他逮到！你听见了吗？我要逮到他！”　　高亚嘴里咕哝了几句。　　“不是在你值班的时候发生的？那是你自说自话，就我所知，没有人知道他是什么时候逃出去的，或怎么逃出去的，或他是不是真的逃出去了。我不管，我限你在今天下午三点以前把他带回我的办公室，否则就有人要人头落地了。我说到做到，我一向说到做到。”　　高亚不知又说了什么，使得诺顿更加震怒。　　“没有？看看这个！看看这个！你认得这个吗？这是昨天晚上第五区的点名记录，每个囚犯都在牢房里。昨天晚上九点钟的时候，杜佛尼还被关在牢房里，他不可能就这样不见了！不可能！立刻去把他找到！”　　到了那天下午三点，安迪仍然在失踪名单上。过了几小时后，诺顿自己冲入第五区牢房。那天第五区所有犯人都被关在自己的牢房里，被那些神色仓皇的狱卒盘问了一整天。我们的答案都一样：我们什么也没看见，什么也没听见。就我所知，大家说的都是实话，我知道我没说谎，我们只能说，昨晚所有的犯人回房时，安迪确实进了他的牢房，而且一小时后熄灯时，他也还在。　　有个机灵鬼猜测，安迪可能是从钥匙孔钻出去了，结果这句话为他招惹来四天的单独监禁，这些警卫全都绷得很紧。　　于是诺顿亲自来查房，用他那一对蓝眼睛狠狠瞪着我们，在他的注视下，牢笼的铁栅栏仿佛快冒出火星了。他的眼神流露着怀疑，也许他真的认为我们都是共犯。　　他走进安迪的囚房，到处查看。牢房里还是安迪离开时的样子，床上的被褥看起来不像有人睡过，石头放在窗台上……，不过并非所有的石头都在，他带走了最喜欢的几颗石头。　　“石头。”诺顿悻悻道，把石头哗啦啦地统统从窗台上扫下来，高亚缩在一旁，噤若寒蝉。　　诺顿的目光落在琳达·朗斯黛的海报上。琳达双手插进后裤袋中，回眸一笑，上身穿了件露背的背心，皮肤晒成古铜色。身为浸信会教徒的诺顿看到这张海报一定很生气，我看到他狠狠盯着海报，想起安迪曾经说过，他常觉得似乎可以一脚踩进去，和海报上的女孩在一起。　　他确确实实就这么做了，几秒钟后，诺顿也发现了。　　诺顿一把撕下海报来。“邪门玩意！”他吼道。　　海报后面的水泥墙上出现了一个洞。　　高亚不肯进去。　　诺顿命令他，声音之大，整个监狱一定都听得一清二楚。但是高亚不肯进去。　　“你想丢掉饭碗吗？”诺顿尖叫着，歇斯底里地像个更年期热潮红的女人一样。他早已失去了平日的冷静，脖子胀成深红色，额前两条青筋毕露，不停跳动。“我说到做到，你……你这该死的法国佬！你今天非进去不可，否则就别想再吃这行饭了，以后也休想在新英格兰任何一个监狱找到工作！”　　高亚默默掏出手枪，枪柄对着诺顿，把枪交给他。他受够了，已经过了下班时间两个小时，眼看就快超时工作三个小时。那天晚上，诺顿真是气得发狂，仿佛安迪的叛逃终于揭开他长久以来不为人知的非理性的一面。　　当然，我没有看到他非理性的那一面，但是我知道那天晚上，当暮冬的昏暗天色逐渐变得漆黑一片时，二十六个在肖申克经历过多次改朝换代的长期犯一直在侧耳倾听，我们都知道诺顿正在经历工程师所说的“断裂应变”。　　我仿佛可以听见安迪·杜佛尼正躲在某处窃笑不已。　　诺顿终于找到一个值夜班的瘦小警卫来钻进海报后面的洞里，他的名字叫洛睿·崔门。他平常并不是个聪明人，或许他以为将因此获颁铜星勋章。算诺顿运气好，居然碰巧找到一个身材和安迪差不多的人。大多数监狱警卫都是大块头，如果他们派了个大块头来，一定爬到一半就卡在那里，直到现在还出不来。　　崔门进去时把尼龙绳绑在腰上，手上拿了一支装了六个干电池的大手电筒。这时高亚已经改变心意，不打算辞职了，而他似乎是现场惟一头脑还清醒的人，找来了一组监狱的蓝图。从剖面图看来，监狱的墙就像个三明治，整堵墙足足有十英尺厚，内墙、外墙各有四英尺厚，中间的两英尺空隙是铺设管线的通道，就好像三明治的肉馅一样。　　崔门的声音从洞中传出来，听起来有种空洞和死亡的感觉。“典狱长，里面味道很难闻。”　　“不管它，继续爬。”　　崔门的腿消失在洞口，一会儿，连脚也看不见了，只看到手电筒的光微弱地晃动。　　“典狱长，里面的味道实在很糟糕。”　　“我说不要管它。”诺顿叫道。　　崔门的声音哀戚地飘过来。“闻起来像大便，哦！天哪！真的是大便，哇！是大便！我的天哪，我快吐了，哇……”然后可以清楚地听到崔门把当天吃的所有东西都吐出来了。　　现在轮到我了，我再也忍不住，这一整天——喔，不，过去这三十年来的压抑终于爆发了，我开始大笑，笑得抑制不住，自从失去自由后，我还从未这么开怀地笑过。我从来不曾期望困在灰墙中的我还能笑得这么开心，真是过瘾极了。
Chapter 29
'Get that man out of here!' Warden Norton was screaming, and I was laughing so hard I didn't know if he meant me or Tremont I just went on laughing and kicking my feet and holding onto my belly. I couldn't have stopped if Norton had threatened to shoot me dead-bang on the spot. 'Get him OUT!' Well, friends and neighbours, I was the one who went straight down to solitary, and there I stayed for fifteen days. A long shot. But every now and then I'd think about poor old not-too-bright Rory Tremont bellowing oh shit it's shit, and then I'd think about Andy Dufresne heading south in his own car, dressed in a nice suit, and I'd just have to laugh. I did that fifteen days in solitary practically standing on my head. Maybe because half of me was with Andy Dufresne, Andy Dufresne who had waded in shit and came out clean on the other side, Andy Dufresne, headed for the Pacific. I heard the rest of what went on that night from half a dozen sources. There wasn't all that much, anyway. I guess that Rory Tremont decided he didn't have much left to lose after he'd lost his lunch and dinner, because he did go on. There was no danger of falling down the pipe-shaft between the inner and outer segments of the cellblock wall; it was so narrow that Tremont actually had to wedge himself down. He said later that he could only take half-breaths and that he knew what it would be like to be buried alive. What he found at the bottom of the shaft was a master sewer-pipe which served the fourteen toilets in Cellblock 5, a porcelain pipe that had been laid thirty-three years before. It had been broken into. Beside the jagged hole in the pipe, Tremont found Andy's rock-hammer. Andy had gotten free, but it hadn't been easy. The pipe was even narrower than the shaft Tremont had just descended; it had a two-foot bore. Rory Tremont didn't go in, and so far as I know, no one else did, either. It must have been damn near unspeakable. A rat jumped out of the pipe as Tremont was examining the hole and the rock-hammer, and he swore later that it was nearly as big as a cocker spaniel pup. He went back up the crawlspace to Andy's cell like a monkey on a stick. Andy had gone into that pipe. Maybe he knew that it emptied into a stream five hundred yards beyond the prison on the marshy western side. I think he did. The prison blueprints were around, and Andy would have found a way to look at them. He was a methodical cuss. He would have known or found out that the sewerpipe running out of Cellblock 5 was the last one in Shawshank not hooked into the new waste-treatment plant, and he would have known it was do it by mid-1975 or do it never, because in August they were going to switch us over to the new waste-treatment plant, too. Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of a mile. He crawled that distance, maybe with one of those small Penlites in his hand, maybe with nothing but a couple of books of matches. He crawled through foulness that I either can't imagine or don't want to imagine. Maybe the rats scattered in front of him, or maybe they went for him the way such animals sometimes will when they've had a chance to grow bold in the dark. He must have had just enough clearance at the shoulders to keep moving, and he probably had to shove himself through the places where the lengths of pipe were joined. If it had been me, the claustrophobia would have driven me mad a dozen times over. But he did it. At the far end of the pipe they found a set of muddy footprints leading out of the sluggish, polluted creek the pipe fed into. Two miles from there a search party found his prison uniform - that was a day later. The story broke big in the papers, as you might guess, but no one within a fifteen-mile radius of the prison stepped forward to report a stolen car, stolen clothes, or a naked man in the moonlight. There was not so much as a barking dog in a farmyard. He came out of the sewerpipe and he disappeared like smoke. But I am betting he disappeared in the direction of Buxton. Three months after that memorable day, Warden Norton resigned. He was a broken man, it gives me great pleasure to report. The spring was gone from his step. On his last day he shuffled out with his head down like an old con shuffling down to the infirmary for his codeine pills. It was Gonyar who took over, and to Norton that must have seemed like the unkindest cut of all. For all I know, Sam Norton is down there in Eliot now, attending services at the Baptist church every Sunday, and wondering how the hell Andy Dufresne ever could have gotten the better of him. I could have told him; the answer to the question is simplicity itself. Some have got it, Sam. And some don't, and never will. That's what I know; now I'm going to tell you what I think. I may have it wrong on some of the specifics, but I'd be willing to bet my watch and chain that I've got the general outline down pretty well. Because, with Andy being the sort of man that he was, there's only one or two ways that it could have been. And every now and then, when I think it out, I think of Normaden, that half-crazy Indian. 'Nice fella,' Normaden had said after celling with Andy for six or eight months. 'I was glad to go, me. All the time cold. He don't let nobody touch his things. That's okay. Nice man, never make fun. But big draught.' Poor crazy Normaden. He knew more than all the rest of us, and he knew it sooner. And it was eight long months before Andy could get him out of there and have the cell to himself again. If it hadn't been for the eight months Normaden had spent with him after Warden Norton first came in, I do believe that Andy would have been free before Nixon resigned. I believe now that it began in 1949, way back then - not with the rock-hammer, but with the Rita Hayworth poster. I told you how nervous he seemed when he asked for that, nervous and filled with suppressed excitement. At the time I thought it was just embarrassment, that Andy was the sort of guy who'd never want someone else to know that he had feet of clay and wanted a woman ... even if it was only a fantasy -woman. But I think now that I was wrong. I think now that Andy's excitement came from something else altogether. What was responsible for the hole that Warden Norton eventually found behind the poster of a girl that hadn't even been born when that photo of Rita Hayworth was taken? Andy Dufresne's perseverance and hard work, yeah - I don't take any of that away from him. But there were two other elements in the equation: a lot of luck, and WPA concrete. 　　“把这个人弄出去！”诺顿尖叫着，由于我笑得太厉害了，根本不知道他指的是我，还是崔门。我只是捧腹顿脚，拼命大笑，简直一发不可收拾，即使诺顿威胁要枪毙我，我也没有办法停下来。“把他弄出去！”　　好吧！各位亲朋好友，结果他指的是我。他们把我一路拖到禁闭室去，我在那儿单独监禁了十五天，尽管长日漫漫，但我并不感到无聊，我经常会想起那个不太聪明的可怜鬼崔门大喊“是大便”的声音，然后又想到安迪正开着新车、西装笔挺地直奔南方，就忍不住又开怀大笑起来。在那十五天里，我笑口常开，或许是因为我的心已经飞到安迪那里。安迪·杜佛尼曾经在粪坑中挣扎着前进，但是他出污泥而不染，清清白白地从另外一端爬出来，奔向蔚蓝的太平洋。　　那天后来发生的事，我是从六七个人那儿听来的。我猜当崔门那天把中饭和晚饭都吐出来之后，他觉得反正不会再有什么损失，于是决定继续爬下去。他不用担心会从内外墙中间的通道掉落下来，因为那里实在太窄了，崔门得费好大力气才能推挤前进。他后来说他几乎得屏住呼吸才下得去，而且他到这时候才晓得被活埋是什么滋味。　　他在通道末端发现一个主排水管，那是通往第五区牢房十四个马桶的污水管，是三十三年前装置的瓷管，已经被打破了，崔门在管子的锯齿状缺口旁发现了安迪的石锤。　　安迪终于自由了，但这自由得来不易。　　这管子比崔门爬行的通道还要窄。崔门没有进去，就我所知，其他人也没有进去，我想情况一定糟糕得几乎难以形容。当崔门在检查管子上的缺口和那把石锤时，一只老鼠就从管子里跳了出来，崔门后来发誓那只老鼠跟一头小猎犬一样大。他像猴子爬柱子一样，慢慢爬回安迪的牢房。　　安迪是从那根管子逃出去的。也许他知道污水管是通往离监狱五百码外的一条小溪，因为很多地方都找得到监狱的蓝图，安迪一定想办法看过蓝图。他是个讲求方法的怪胎，他一定已经发现，整个监狱只有第五区的污水管还没有接到新的废水处理厂，而且他也知道，此时不逃，以后就没机会，因为到了一九七五年八月，连我们这区的污水管都要接到新的废水处理厂了。　　五百码，足足有五个美式足球场那么长，绵延将近半英里。他爬过这么远的距离，也许手上拿着一支小手电筒，也许什么都没有，只有几盒火柴，我简直不愿想象，也无法想象，他爬过的地方有多么肮脏，还有吱吱乱叫的肥老鼠在前面跑来跑去，甚至老鼠因为在黑暗中胆子特别大，还会攻击他。通道中几乎无法容身，可能只有非常狭小的空隙足以让他挤过去，在管子接口的地方，或许还得拼命推挤身体才过得去。换作是我，那种幽闭恐惧的气氛准会让我疯掉，但他却成功逃脱了。　　他们在污水管尽头找到一些泥脚印子，泥脚印一路指向监狱排放污水的溪流，搜索小组在距离那里两英里外的地方找到了安迪的囚衣，而那已经是第二天的事了。　　这件事在报上喧腾一时，但在方圆十五英里内，没有任何人向警局报案说车子被偷或丢了衣服，或看到有人裸体在月光下奔跑，更没听见农庄上的狗吠声。安迪从污水管爬出来后，就像一缕轻烟似的失去踪影。　　但我敢说他一定是消失在往巴克斯登的方向。　　那个值得纪念的日子过了三个月后，诺顿典狱长辞职了。我很乐意报告一下，他像只斗败的公鸡，走起路来一点劲也没有。他垂头丧气地离开了肖申克，就像个有气无力地到医务室讨药吃的老囚犯。接替他的是高亚，对诺顿而言，这或许是最冷酷的打击吧。他回到老家，每个星期日上浸信会教堂做礼拜，他一定常常纳闷，安迪到底是怎么打败他的。　　我可以告诉他，答案在于“单纯”。有些人就是有这种本领，典狱长，有些人就是没有，而且永远也学不来。　　以上是我所知道的经过；现在我要告诉你我的想法。或许我在细节部分说得不尽正确，不过我敢打赌，就事情的大概应该八九不离十。因为安迪这样的人会采用的办法不出这一两种。每当我思索这件事时，我总会想起那个疯疯癫癫的印第安人诺曼登所说的话。诺曼登在与安迪同住八个月后说：“他是好人。我很高兴离开那儿。那牢房空气太坏了，而且很冷。他不让任何人随便碰他的东西，那也没关系。他人很好，从不乱开玩笑，但是空气太坏了。”可怜的诺曼登，他比任何人知道的都多，知道的时间也更早。安迪足足花了八个月的时间，才设法让诺曼登转到其他牢房，恢复单独监禁。如果不是诺曼登和他同住了八个月，我相信早在尼克松辞职前，安迪就逃之夭夭了。　　我相信，安迪是在一九四九年开始他的计划，不是托我买石锤时，而是托我买丽塔·海华丝的海报时。我告诉过你当时他似乎很着急，一副坐立难安的样子，兴奋得不得了。那时我还以为他难为情，不愿让别人知道他想女人，特别是梦幻性感女神，但现在我才发现我想错了，他的兴奋是别有原因的。　　监狱当局在海报女郎背后发现的那个洞（现在海报上的那个女孩在第一任海报女郎丽塔·海华丝拍摄那张照片时，甚至还没出生呢），究竟是怎么来的？当然，最主要的原因是安迪·杜佛尼的毅力和苦工，但是还有另外两个不可忽略的因素：幸运之神眷顾和WPA混凝土WPA是指美国在一九三〇年代罗斯福新政时期成立的工作改进总署（WorksProgressAdministration），当时联邦政府采取以工代赈的方法，在公共工程领域提供了八百万个工作机会给失业人口。。
Chapter 30
You don't need me to explain the luck, I guess. The WPA concrete I checked out for myself. I invested some time and a couple of stamps and wrote first to the University of Maine History Department and then to a fellow whose address they were able to give me. This fellow had been foreman of the WPA project that built the Shawshank Max Security Wing. The wing, which contains Cellblocks 3,4, and 5, was built in the years 1934-37. Now, most people don't think of cement and concrete as 'technological developments', the way we think of cars and oil furnaces and rocket-ships, but they really are. There was no modern cement until 1870 or so, and no modern concrete until after the turn of the century. Mixing concrete is as delicate a business as making bread. You can get it too watery or not watery enough. You can get the sand-mix too thick or too thin, and the same is true of the gravel-mix. And back in 1934, the science of mixing the stuff was a lot less sophisticated than it is today. The walls of Cellblock 5 were solid enough, but they weren't exactly dry and toasty. As a matter of fact, they were and are pretty damned dank. After a long wet spell they would sweat and sometimes even drip. Cracks had a way of appearing, some an inch deep, and were routinely mortared over. Now here comes Andy Dufresne into Cellblock 5. He's a man who graduated from the University of Maine's school of business, but he's also a man who took two or three geology courses along the way. Geology had, in fact, become his chief hobby. I imagine it appealed to his patient, meticulous nature. A ten-thousand-year ice age here. A million years of mountain-building there. Tectonic plates grinding against each other deep under the earth's skin over the millennia. Pressure. Andy told me once that all of geology is the study of pressure. And time, of course. He had time to study those walls. Plenty of time. When the cell door slams and the lights go out, there's nothing else to look at. First-timers usually had a hard time adjusting to the confinement of prison life. They get screw-fever, they have to be hauled down to the infirmary and sedated couple of times before they get on the beam. It's not unusual to hear some new member of our happy little family bang on the bars of his cell and screaming to be let out ... before the cries have gone on for long, the chant starts up along the cellblock: 'Fresh fish, hey little fishie, fresh fish, fresh fish, got fresh fish today!' Andy didn't flip out like that when he came to the Shank 1948, but that's not to say that he didn't feel many of same things. He may have come close to madness; some and some go sailing right over the edge. Old life blown away in the wink of an eye, indeterminate nightmare stretching out ahead, a long season in hell. So what did he do, I ask you? He searched almost desperately for something to divert his restless mind. Oh there are all sorts of ways to divert yourself, even in prison; it seems like the human mind is full of an infinite number of possibilities when it comes to diversion. I told you about the sculptor and his Three Ages of Jesus. There were coin collectors who were always losing their collections to thieves, stamp collectors, one fellow who had postcards from thirty-five different countries - and let me tell you, he would have turned out your lights if he'd caught you diddling with his postcards. Andy got interested in rocks. And the walls of his cell. I think that his initial intention might have been to do no more than to carve his initials into the wall where the poster of Rita Hayworth would soon be hanging. His initials, or maybe a few lines from some poem. Instead, what he found was that interestingly weak concrete. Maybe he started to carve his initials and a big chunk of the wall fell out I can see him, lying there on his bunk, looking at that broken chunk of concrete, turning it over in his hands. Never mind the wreck of your whole life, never mind that you got railroaded into this place by a whole trainload of bad luck. Let's forget all that and look at this piece of concrete. Some months further along he might have decided it would be fun to see how much of that wall he could take out. But you can't just start digging into your wall and then, when the weekly inspection (or one of the surprise inspections that are always turning up interesting caches of booze, drugs, dirty pictures, and weapons) comes around, say to the guard: This? Just excavating a little hole in my cell wall. Not to worry, my good man.' No, he couldn't have that. So he came to me and asked if I could get him a Rita Hayworth poster. Not a little one but a big one. And, of course, he had the rock-hammer. I remember thinking when I got him that gadget back in '48 that it would take a man six hundred years to burrow through the wall with it. True enough. But Andy went right through the wall -even with the soft concrete, it took him two rock-hammers and twenty-seven years to hack a hole big enough to get his slim body through four feet of it. Of course he lost most of one of those years to Normaden, and he could only work at night, preferably late at night, when almost everybody is asleep - including the guards who work the night shift. But I suspect the thing which slowed him down the most was getting rid of the wall as he took it out. He could muffle the sound of his work by wrapping the head of his hammer in rock-polishing cloths, but what to do with the pulverized concrete and the occasional chunks that came out whole? I think he must have broken up the chunks into pebbles and... I remembered the Sunday after I had gotten him the rock-hammer. I remember watching him walk across the exercise yard, his face puffy from his latest go-round with the sisters. I saw him stoop, pick up a pebble ... and it disappeared up his sleeve. That inside sleeve-pocket is an old prison trick. Up your sleeve or just inside the cuff of your pants. And I have another memory, very strong but unfocused, maybe something I saw more than once. This memory is of Andy Dufresne walking across the exercise yard on a hot summer day when the air was utterly still. Still, yeah ... except for the little breeze that seemed to be blowing sand around Andy Dufresne's feet. So maybe he had a couple of cheaters in his pants below the knees. You loaded the cheaters up with fill and then just strolled around, your hands in your pockets, and when you feel safe and unobserved, you gave the pockets a little twitch. The pockets, of course, are attached by string or strong thread to the cheaters. The fill goes cascading out of your pantslegs as you walk. The World War II POWS who were trying to tunnel out used the dodge. 　　关于幸运之神眷顾，我猜完全用不着解释了。至于WPA混凝土，我倒是好好查了一下资料。我花了不少时间，也花了不少邮资。我先写信给缅因大学历史系，他们给了我某人的地址，我又写信给那个家伙，他曾经参与WPA工程，同时参与建造肖申克监狱警卫最森严的区域，而且还担任工头。　　位于这个区域的第三、四、五区牢房是在一九三四到一九三七年间建造完成的。今天，大多数人并不认为水泥和混凝土是什么了不起的“技术发展”，就好像我们现在也不认为汽车或暖炉算什么了不起的技术进步一样，但其实不然。现代的水泥直到一八七〇年左右才发展出来，而混凝土更是到二十世纪初才出现。调混凝土的过程就和做面包一样细腻，可能会放了太多水或水放得不够，沙子和碎石的成分也可能太稠或太稀。而在一九三四年，混凝土的科学远不如今天这么进步。　　从外表看来，第五区牢房的墙壁很坚实，但是却不够干，事实上，这些混凝土墙还满容易透水的。经过一段阴雨连绵的日子，这些墙就变得很潮湿，甚至会渗出水来。有些地方已出现龟裂，有些裂痕甚至深达一英寸。他们会定期涂抹砂浆，黏合裂缝。　　后来安迪被关进第五区牢房。他毕业于缅因大学商学院，修过两三门地质学的课，事实上，地质学成为他的一大嗜好，一定是因为非常合乎他极有耐性、一丝不苟的本性。一万年的冰河期、百万年的造山运动、千年床岩在地层底部相互挤压。“压力，”安迪有一次告诉我，“所有的地质学都是在研究压力。”　　当然，还有时间这个因素。　　安迪有很多时间可以研究这些墙。当囚门关上、灯也熄灭之后，除了那堵灰墙，没有其他东西可以看。　　初进监狱的人起初都难以适应这种失去自由的生活，他们会得一种囚犯热，有些人甚至得被拖进医务室施打镇静剂。常会听到新进犯人猛力敲打铁栅栏，大吼大叫着要出去，喊叫声没有持续多久，就会响起其他犯人的唱和声：“鲜鱼来了，鲜鱼来了，嘿，小小的鲜鱼，今天有鲜鱼进来了！”　　一九四八年，安迪初入狱时并没有这种失控的表现，但这并不表示他没有同样的感觉。他或许也曾濒临疯狂边缘。一瞬间，一向熟悉的快乐生活就不见了，眼前是漫长的梦魇，就像置身炼狱。　　那么，他要怎么办呢？我问你。他一定努力找一些事情来做，让自己不再胡思乱想。噢，即使在监狱里，让人分心的方法仍然很多。人类的潜能是无穷的，像我曾经告诉过你的，有个犯人雕刻了耶稣的三个时期，有的犯人收集钱币，有的人集邮，还有人收集到三十五个国家的明信片。　　安迪对石头有兴趣，连带的也对牢房的墙产生兴趣。　　我想他最初的想法只是把名字刻在墙上，或是在后来贴美女海报的墙面上，刻几行诗来鼓舞自己。哪晓得竟然发现这堵混凝土墙意外的松动，只刻了几个字，便落下一大块。我可以想象他躺在床上，手里把玩着混凝土块，看着这块剥落的混凝土沉思。不要老想着自己一生都毁了，不要老想着自己怎么会这么倒霉。把那些全都忘掉，好好看看这块混凝土吧！　　很可能，之后的几个月，他觉得试试看自己能把这堵墙挖开多少，应该还满有趣的。他当然不能这么堂而皇之地挖墙壁，你总不能在警卫每周定期检查时（或是突袭检查时，他们每次总是会翻出一些有趣的东西，例如酒、毒品、色情图片和武器等），对他说：“这个？只不过在墙上挖个小洞而已，没什么好担心的。”　　不，安迪不能这样做，于是他想到托我买丽塔·海华丝的海报，他不要小张的，而要大张的。　　当然，还有他的石锤。我记得一九四八年替他弄到那个小锤子的时候，曾经想过如果要用这把锤子挖穿监狱的墙壁，大概要花六百年的工夫。没错，但是安迪其实只需要挖穿一半的墙壁——但即使混凝土墙非常松软，他用两把锤子，仍然努力了二十七年才成功。　　当然，期间因为跟诺曼登同住而浪费了不少时间。他只能晚上工作，而且是在三更半夜大家都睡熟了之后，包括值夜班的警卫也进入梦乡后。然而拖慢速度的最大难题，还是如何处理敲下来的混凝土块。他可以把磨石布包住锤头来消音，但是敲下来的碎片要怎么处理呢？　　我想他一定把混凝土块弄成很小的碎片，然后装在袖子里运出去。　　我还记得在我帮他弄到石锤后，星期天的时候，我看着他走过运动场，因为和姊妹的冲突而鼻青眼肿的。他弯下腰来，捡起小石子……然后小石子就消失在他的袖口。袖口或裤脚翻边的暗袋是监狱里的老把戏。还有另外一件事让我记忆深刻，可能看过不止一次，就是安迪在炎夏午后窒闷的空气中穿过运动场，没错，空气十分窒闷，除了偶有一阵微风吹过，掀起安迪脚下飞扬的尘土。　　所以，可能他的裤脚还藏着不少花样。你把暗袋装满要丢掉的小碎片，然后到处走动，手一直插在裤袋中，然后当你觉得很安全时，就趁人不注意猛拉暗袋。当然裤袋里一定有一条很坚韧的线连到裤脚的暗袋。于是你一边走动，口袋里的碎片沙砾就在双脚间倾泻而下，第二次大战的战俘挖掘隧道逃跑时，就用过这招妙计。
Chapter 31
The years went past and Andy brought his wall out to the exercise yard cupful by cupful. He played the game with administrator after administrator, and they thought it was because he wanted to keep the library growing. I have no doubt that was part of it, but the main thing Andy wanted was to keep cell 14 in Cellblock 5 a single occupancy. I doubt if he had any real plans or hopes of breaking out, at least not at first. He probably assumed the wall was ten feet of solid concrete, and that if he succeeded in boring all the way through it, he'd come out thirty feet over the exercise yard. But like I say, I don't think he was worried overmuch about breaking through. His assumption could have run this way: I'm only making a foot of progress every seven years or so; therefore, it would take me seventy years to break through; that would make me one hundred and seven years old. Here's a second assumption I would have made, had I been Andy: that eventually I would be caught and get a lot of solitary time, not to mention a very large black mark on my record. After all, there was the regular weekly inspection and a surprise toss - which usually came at night - every second week or so. He must have decided that things couldn't go on for long. Sooner or later, some screw was going to peek behind Rita Hayworth just to make sure Andy didn't have a sharpened spoon-handle or some marijuana reefers Scotch-taped to the wall. And his response to that second assumption must have been to hell with it. Maybe he even made a game out of it. How far in can I get before they find out? Prison is a goddam boring place, and the chance or being surprised by an unscheduled inspection in the middle of the night while he had his poster unstuck probably added some spice to his life during the early years. And I do believe it would have been impossible for him to get away just on dumb luck. Not for twenty-seven years. Nevertheless, I have to believe that for the first two years -until mid-May of 1950, when he helped Byron Hadley get around the tax on his windfall inheritance - that's exactly what he did get by on. Or maybe he had something more than dumb luck going for him even back then. He had money, and he might have been slipping someone a little squeeze every week to take it easy on him. Most guards will go along with that if the price is right; it's money in their pockets and the prisoner gets to keep his whack-off pictures or his tailormade cigarettes. Also, Andy was a model prisoner - quiet, well-spoken, respectful, non-violent. It's the crazies and the stampeders that get their cells turned upside-down at least once every six months, their mattresses unzipped, their pillows taken away and cut open, the outflow pipe from their toilets carefully probed. Then, in 1950, Andy became something more than a model prisoner. In 1950, he became a valuable commodity, a murderer who did tax returns as well as H & R Block. He gave gratis estate-planning advice, set up tax-shelters, filled out loan applications (sometimes creatively). I can remember him sitting behind his desk in the library, patiently going over a car-loan agreement paragraph by paragraph with a screwhead who wanted to buy a used DeSoto, telling the guy what was good about the agreement and what was bad about it, explaining to him that it was possible to shop for a loan and not get hit quite so bad, steering him away from the finance companies which in those days were sometimes little better than legal loan-sharks. When he'd finished, the screwhead started to put out his hand ... and then drew it back to himself  quickly. He'd forgotten for a moment, you see, that he was dealing with a mascot, not a man. Andy kept up on the tax laws and the changes in the stock market, and so his usefulness didn't end after he'd been in cold storage for a while, as it might have done. He began to get his library money, his running war with the sisters had ended, and nobody tossed his cell very hard. He was a good nigger. Then one day, very late in the going - perhaps around October of 1967 - the long-time hobby suddenly turned into something else. One night while he was in the hole up to his waist with Raquel Welch hanging down over his ass, the pick end of his rock-hammer must have suddenly sunk into concrete past the hilt. He would have dragged some chunks of concrete back, but maybe he heard others falling down into that shaft, bouncing back and forth, clinking off that standpipe. Did he know by then that he was going to come upon that shaft, or was he totally surprised? I don't know. He might have seen the prison blueprints by then or he might not have. If not, you can be damned sure he found a way to look at them not long after. All at once he must have realized that, instead of just playing a game, he was playing for high stakes ... in terms of his own life and his own future, the highest. Even then he couldn't have known for sure, but he must have had a pretty good idea because it was right around then that he talked to me about Zihuatanejo for the first time. All of a sudden, instead of just being a toy, that stupid hole in the wall became his master - if he knew about the sewer-pipe at the bottom, and that it led under the outer wall, it did, anyway. He'd had the key under the rock in Buxton to worry about for years. Now he had to worry that some eager-beaver new guard would look behind his poster and expose the whole thing, or that he would get another cellmate, or that he would, after all those years, suddenly be transferred. He had all those things on his mind for the next seven years. All I can say is that he must have been one of the coolest men who ever lived. I would have gone completely nuts after a while, living with all that uncertainty. But Andy just went on playing the game. He had to carry the possibility of discovery for another eight years - the probability of it, you might say, because no matter how carefully he stacked the cards in his favour, as an inmate of a state prison, he just didn't have that many to stack ... and the gods had been kind to him for a very long time; some eighteen years. The most ghastly irony I can think of would have been if he had been offered a parole. Can you imagine it? Three days before the parolee is actually released, he is transferred into the light security wing to undergo a complete physical and a battery of vocational tests. While he's there, his old cell is completely cleaned out. Instead of getting his parole, Andy would have gotten a long turn downstairs in solitary, followed by some more time upstairs ... but in a different cell. If he broke into the shaft in 1967, how come he didn't escape until 1975? I don't know for sure - but I can advance some pretty good guesses. 　　一年年过去，安迪就这么一袋袋把混凝土碎片运到操场倒掉。历经一任又一任的典狱长，无数的春去秋来，他替典狱长服务，他们都以为他是为了扩张图书馆而这么做，我也绝不怀疑这点，但是骨子里他真正要争取的是独居一室的特殊待遇。　　我怀疑他一开始真的有什么具体的越狱计划或抱了什么希望，或许他以为这堵十英尺厚的墙里面扎实地填满了混凝土，或即使成功地把墙挖通了，也只能逃到三十英尺外的运动场上。但是，就像我说的，我不认为安迪很担心这个问题，因为他一定会这么想：我每七年才能前进一英尺，因此可能要花七十年才能把这堵墙挖通，到时候我已经一百零一岁了。　　如果我是安迪，我的第二个假设是：我终究会被逮到，然后关禁闭很长一段时间，记录上也被画一个大叉。毕竟，他们每个星期都会来做例行检查，而且还有突击检查——通常都在晚上。他一定觉得他不可能挖太久，警卫迟早会查看丽塔·海华丝的海报后面有没有磨尖的汤匙柄，或把大麻烟用胶带贴在墙上。　　而他对于第二个假设的反应一定是：管他的！或许他甚至把它当成一场游戏。在他们发现之前，我可以挖得多深？监狱是个非常沉闷的地方，在早年，海报还没贴好就在半夜遭到突击检查的可能性，说不定还为他的生活增添了些许趣味。　　而我确实认为他不可能单靠运气就顺利逃出去，至少不会连续二十七年都这么好运。尽管如此，我不得不说，在一九五〇年五月中旬，他开始帮哈力处理遗产继承税务问题之前两年，他的确运气很好，才没被逮到。　　也有可能，除了运气好以外，他还有其他法宝。反正有钱能使鬼推磨，也许他每个星期都偷偷塞几张钞票给警卫，让他们不要找他麻烦。如果价码还不错的话，大多数警卫都会合作。只要荷包有进账，让犯人拥有一张美女海报或一包香烟也不为过，何况安迪是个模范犯人，他很安静，讲话有条有理，为人谦恭有礼，不会动不动就拳头相向。通常逃不过监狱每半年一次大检查的，都是那些疯疯癫癫或行事冲动的囚犯，这时警卫会把整个牢房彻底搜查一遍，掀开床垫，拆开枕头，连马桶的排水管都要仔细戳一戳。　　到了一九五〇年，安迪除了是模范犯人外，还成了极具价值的资产，他能帮他们退税，免费指导他们如何规划房地产投资、善用免税方案和申请贷款，比专业会计师还要高明。我还记得他坐在图书馆中，耐心地和警卫队长一段一段检查汽车贷款协议书中的条款，为他分析这份协议书的好处和坏处，教他如何找到最划算的贷款方案，引导他避开吸血的金融公司，那些公司几乎是在合法掩护下大放高利贷。当安迪解释完毕时，警卫队长伸出手来要和他握手……然后又很快缩回去。他一时之间忘记了他不是在和正常人打交道。　　安迪一直注意股市动态和税法变动，因此尽管在监狱冷藏了一段时间，并未丝毫减损他的利用价值。他开始为图书馆争取经费补助，他和那群姊妹之间的战争已经停火，警卫不再那么认真地检查他的牢房，他是个模范囚犯。　　然后有一天，可能是一九六七年十月左右，安迪长时间的嗜好突然变得不一样了。有一天晚上，他把海报掀起，整个上半身探入洞里，拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报则盖到他的臀部，石锤的尖头一定突然整个陷入混凝土中。　　他本来已经准备把几块敲下来的混凝土拿走，但是可能在这时候听到有东西掉落，在竖立的管子间来回弹跳，叮当作响。他事先已经知道会挖到那个通道吗？还是当时大吃了一惊？那就不得而知了。他可能已经看过监狱的蓝图，但也可能没有看过。如果没有看过，我敢说他后来一定设法把蓝图找来看了。　　他一定突然明白，他不只是在玩游戏而已，他这么做其实是在赌博，他的赌注下得很大，赌上了自己的生命和未来。即使他当时还不是那么确定，不过应该已经有相当的把握了，因为他第一次跟我谈起齐华坦尼荷，就差不多是在那段期间。在墙上挖洞原本只是好玩而已，突然之间，那个蠢洞却能主宰他的命运——如果他知道通道底部是污水管，以及污水管会一直通往监狱围墙外的话。　　现在，他除了要担心压在巴克斯登石头下的那把钥匙外，还得担心某个力求表现的新警卫会掀开海报，发现这个伟大的工程，或是突然住进一个新室友，或是在这里待了这么多年以后，突然被调到其他监狱去。接下来八年中，他脑子里一直得操心这么多事情，我只能说，他是我所见过的最冷静的人之一。换作是我，在所有事情都这么不确定的情况下，我早就疯了，但安迪却继续赌下去。　　很讽刺的是，还有一件事，我一想起来便不寒而栗，就是万一安迪获得假释的话，怎么办？你能想象吗？获得假释的囚犯在出狱前三天，会被送到另一个地方，接受完整的体检和技能测验。在这三天之中，他的牢房会被彻底清扫一遍，如此一来他的假释不但会成泡影，而且换来的是长时间单独监禁在禁闭室，再加上更长的刑期……但换到不同的牢房服刑。　　如果他在一九六七年就已经挖到通道，为什么他直到一九七五年才越狱？　　我不是很确定——但是我可以猜一猜。
Chapter 32
First, he would have become more careful than ever. He was too smart to just push ahead at flank speed and try to get out in eight months, or even in eighteen. He must have gone on widening the opening on the crawlspace a little at a time. A hole as big as a teacup by the time he took his New Year's Eve drink that year. A hole as big as a dinner plate by the time he took his birthday drink in 1968. As big as a serving-tray by the time the 1969 baseball season opened. For a time I thought it should have gone much faster than it apparently did - after he broke through, I mean. It seemed to me that, instead of having to pulverize the crap and take it out of his cell in the cheater gadgets I have described, he could simply let it drop down the shaft. The length of time he took makes me believe that he didn't dare do that. He might have decided that the noise would arouse someone's suspicions. Or, if he knew about the sewer-pipe, as I believe he must have, he would have been afraid that a falling chunk of concrete would break it before he was ready, screwing up the cellblock sewage system and leading to an investigation. And an investigation, needless to say, would lead to ruin. Still and all, I'd guess that, by the time Nixon was sworn in for his second term, the hole would have been wide enough for him to wriggle through ... and probably sooner than that Andy was a small guy. Why didn't he go then? That's where my educated guesses run out, folks; from this point they become progressively wilder. One possibility is that the crawlspace itself was clogged with crap and he had to clear it out, but that wouldn't account for all the time. So what was it? I think that maybe Andy got scared. I've told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutional man. At first you can't stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you accept them ... and then, as your body and your mind and your spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them. You are told when to eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you're at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you're assigned five minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time was twenty-five minutes after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that's the only time I ever felt the need to take a piss or have a crap: twenty-five minutes past the hour. And if for some reason I couldn't go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come back at twenty-five past the next hour. I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger - that institutional syndrome and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for nothing. How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that sewer line, knowing that the one chance was all he'd ever get? The blueprints might have told him how big the pipe's bore was, but a blueprint couldn't tell him what it would be like inside that pipe - if he would be able to breathe without choking, if the rats were big enough and mean enough to fight instead of retreating ... and a blueprint couldn't 've told him what he'd find at the end of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here's a joke even funnier than the parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through five hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a heavy-gauge mesh screen at the end of it all. Ha, ha, very funny. That would have been on his mind. And if the long shot actually came in and he was able to get out, would he be able to get some civilian clothes and get away from the vicinity of the prison undetected? Last of all, suppose he got out of the pipe, got away from Shawshank before the alarm was raised, got to Buxton, overturned the right rock ... and found nothing beneath? Not necessarily something so dramatic as arriving at the right field and discovering that a high-rise apartment building had been erected on the spot, or that it had turned into a supermarket parking lot. It could have been that some little kid who liked rocks noticed that piece of volcanic glass, turned it over, saw the deposit-box key, and took both it and the rock back to his room as souvenirs. Maybe a November hunter kicked the rock, left the key exposed, and a squirrel or a crow with a liking for bright shiny things had taken it away. Maybe there had been spring floods one year, breaching the wall, washing the key away. Maybe anything. So I think - wild guess or not - that Andy just froze in place for a while. After all, you can't lose if you don't bet. What did he have to lose, you ask? His library, for one thing. The poison peace of institutional life, for another. Any future chance to grab his safe identity. But he finally did it, just as I have told you. He tried ... and, my! Didn't he succeed in spectacular fashion? You tell me! But did he get away, you ask? What happened after? What happened when he got to that meadow and turned over the rock ... always assuming the rock was still there? I can't describe that scene for you, because this institutional man is still in this institution, and expects to be for years to come. But I'll tell you this. Very late in the summer of 1975, on 15 September to be exact, I got a postcard which had been mailed from the tiny town of McNary, Texas. That town is on the American side of the border, directly across from El Porvenir. The message side of the card was totally blank. But I know. I know it in my heart as surely as I know that we're all going to die someday. McNary was where he crossed. McNary, Texas. So that's my story, Jack. I never believed how long it would take to write it all down, or how many pages it would take. I started writing just after I got that postcard, and here I am finishing up on 14 January 1976. I've used three pencils right down to knuckle-stubs, and a whole tablet of paper. I've kept the pages carefully hidden ... not that many could read my hen-tracks, anyway. 　　首先，他会变得比以前都小心。他太聪明了，不会盲目地加快速度推进，想在八个月或甚至十八个月内逃出去。他一定一次只把通道挖宽一点点。那年他在除夕夜喝酒时，洞口可能有茶杯那么大，到了一九六八年庆祝生日时，洞口可能有碟子大小。等到一九六九年棒球季开打时，洞口可能已经挖得像托盘那么大了。　　有一阵子，我猜想在他挖到通道之后，挖掘的速度应该快很多，因为他只要让敲下来的混凝土块直接从通道掉落就行，不必像以前一样把它敲碎后，再用我前面说过的瞒天过海之计，运出牢房丢掉。但由于他花了这么长的时间，我相信他不敢这么做。他或许认为，混凝土掉落的声音会引起其他人怀疑。或是如果他当时正如我所猜想，已经晓得下面是污水管的话，他很可能会担心落下的混凝土块在他还未准备就绪以前，就把污水管打破，弄乱了监狱的排水系统，引起调查。不用多说，如此一来，就大难临头了。　　但我猜想，无论如何，在尼克松第二个任期宣誓就任之前，安迪已经可以勉强挤进那个洞口了……或是更早就可以这么做，安迪长得很瘦小。　　为什么他那时候不走呢？　　各位，到了这个地步，我的理智推理就不管用了，只能乱猜。其中一个可能性是，爬行之处塞满垃圾，他得先清干净，才出得去。但是那也不需要花这么久的时间。所以到底是什么原因呢？　　我觉得，也许安迪开始觉得害怕。　　我曾经试图描述过，逐渐为监狱体制所制约是什么样的情况。起先，你无法忍受被四面墙困住的感觉，然后你逐渐可以忍受这种生活，进而接受这种生活……接下来，当你的身心都逐渐调整适应后，你甚至开始喜欢这种生活了。什么时候可以吃饭，什么时候可以写信，什么时候可以抽烟，全都规定得好好的。如果你在洗衣房或车牌工厂工作，每个小时可以有五分钟的时间上厕所，而且每个人轮流去厕所的时间都是排定的。三十五年来，我上厕所的时间是每当分针走到二十五的时候，经过三十五年后，我只有在那个时间才会想上厕所：每小时整点过后二十五分。如果我当时因为什么原因没办法上厕所，那么过了五分钟后，我的尿意或便意就会消失，直到下个钟头时钟的分针再度指在二十五分时，才会想上厕所。　　我想安迪也在努力克服这种体制化症候群——同时，他内心也有深深的恐惧，深怕经过多年努力，一切都成空。　　想象有多少个夜晚，他清醒地躺在床头贴着的海报下，思索着污水管的问题，心里很清楚这是他惟一的机会？他手上的蓝图只能告诉他这条管子有多大和多长，但无法告诉他管子里面会是什么状况——他能否一路爬过去，而不会窒息？里面的老鼠是否又肥又大，会毫无惧色地攻击他？蓝图更不会告诉他污水管的尽头是什么状况。比安迪获准假释更滑稽的情况是：万一安迪钻进污水管，在黑暗和恶臭中几乎不能呼吸地爬了五百码后，却发现尽头是一堵厚实的铁栅栏的话，哈，哈，不是太好笑了吗！　　他一定曾经设想过这种情况。如果他确实费尽千辛万苦爬出去，他有办法换上平常人的衣服，逃离监狱附近而不被发现吗？最后，假定他爬出了管子，在警报响起之前逃离肖申克，到了巴克斯登，找到了那块石头……结果发现底下空无一物呢？情况倒不一定像终于找到正确地点，却发现那儿已矗立一幢高大的公寓，或变成超级市场的停车场这么戏剧化；可能是一些喜欢寻宝的孩子看到了这块火山岩玻璃，把它翻过来，看到保险箱钥匙，把钥匙和火山岩都带回家当纪念品了；也可能十一月的猎人踢到那块石头，让钥匙露了出来，喜欢闪亮东西的松鼠或乌鸦把它叼走了；或是某年春水暴涨，把那堵墙冲走了，连带的钥匙也流失了。总而言之，任何一种意外都可能发生。　　所以不管我是不是乱猜，有一段时间，安迪不敢轻举妄动。毕竟如果你根本不下注，你就不会输。你问，他还有什么东西可输呢？图书馆是其中一样，监狱中那种受到制约、仿佛中了毒般的平静生活是另外一样。还有，他可能因此丧失了未来得以靠新身份再出发的机会。　　不过他终于成功了，正如同我前面告诉你的。他终于大胆尝试了……而且，我的天！他成功的方式真叫人赞叹哪！　　???　　但是，你问，他真的逃脱了吗？后来发生了什么事？当他抵达那片牧草地把石头翻过来后……假定石头还在那儿，发生了什么事？　　我没有办法描述当时的情况，因为我这体制化的人还活在监狱的体制中，而且预计还要过好几年的牢狱生活。　　但我可以告诉你，一九七五年夏末，其实就在九月十五日那天，我收到了从德州一个名叫麦克纳里的小镇寄来的明信片。麦克纳里就位于美墨边境。卡片背后写讯息的地方是一片空白，但我一看就明白了，我打心里头知道那是谁寄来的，就好像我知道每个人终有一天都会死去一样。　　他就从麦克纳里越过边境。德州的麦克纳里。　　好了，这就是我的故事。我简直无法相信，把这个故事写下来，竟然要花这么多时间，写满这么多页。我收到明信片后，开始把整个故事写下来，一直写到一九七六年一月十四日才停笔。我用掉三枝铅笔，还有一整本簿子。我小心藏起稿子，不过也没有多少人认得出我鬼画符的笔迹。
Chapter 33
It stirred up more memories than I ever would have believed. Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and roiling up the muddy bottom. Well, you weren't writing about yourself, I hear someone in the peanut-gallery saying. You were writing about Andy Dufresne. You're nothing but a minor character in your own story. But you know, that's just not so. It's all about me, every damned word of it. Andy was the part of me they could never lock up, the part of me that will rejoice when the gates finally open for me and I walk out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of mad-money in my pocket. That part of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and scared the rest of me is. I guess it's just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used it better. There are others here like me, others who remember Andy. We're glad he's gone, but a little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure. That's the story and I'm glad I told it, even if it is a bit inconclusive and even though some of the memories the pencil prodded up (like that branch poking up the river-mud) made me feel a little sad and even older than I am. Thank you for listening. And Andy: If you're really down there, as I believe you are, look at the stars for me just after sunset, and touch the sand, and wade in the water, and feel free. I never expected to take up this narrative again, but here I am with the dog -eared, folded pages open on the desk in front of me. Here I am adding another three or four pages, writing in a brand-new tablet. A tablet I bought in a store - I just walked into a store on Portland's Congress Street and bought it. I thought I had put finish to my story in a Shawshank prison cell on a bleak January day in 1976. Now it's late June of 1977 and I am sitting in a small, cheap room of the Brewster Hotel in Portland, adding to it. The window is open, and the sound of the traffic floating in seems huge, exciting, and intimidating. I have to look constantly over at the window and reassure myself that there are no bars on it. I sleep poorly at night because the bed in this room, as cheap as the room is, seems much too big and luxurious. I snap awake every morning promptly at six-thirty, feeling disorientated and frightened. My dreams are bad. I have a crazy feeling of free fall. The sensation is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. What has happened in my life? Can't you guess? I was paroled. After thirty-eight years of routine hearings and routine details (in the course of those thirty-eight years, three lawyers died on me), my parole was granted. I suppose they decided that, at the age of fifty-eight, I was finally used up enough to be deemed safe. I came very close to burning the document you have just read. They search outgoing parolees just as carefully as they search incoming 'new fish'. And beyond containing enough dynamite to assure me of a quick turnaround and another six or eight years inside, my 'memoirs' contained something else: the name of the town where I believe Andy Dufresne to be. Mexican police gladly cooperate with the American police, and I didn't want my freedom - or my unwillingness to give up the story I'd worked so long and hard to write - to cost Andy his. Then I remembered how Andy had brought in his five hundred dollars back in 1948, and I took out my story of him the same way. Just to be on the safe side, I carefully rewrote each page which mentioned Zihuatanejo. If the papers had been found during my 'outside search', as they call it at the Shank, I would have gone back in on turnaround ... but the cops would have been looking for Andy in a Peruvian seacoast town named Las Intrudres. The Parole Committee got me a job as a 'stock-room assistant' at the big FoodWay Market at the Spruce Mall in South Portland - which means I became just one more ageing bag-boy. There's only two kinds of bag-boys, you know; the old ones and the young ones. No one ever looks at either kind. If you shop at the Spruce Mall FoodWay, I may have even taken your groceries out to your car ... but you'd have had to have shopped there between March and April of 1977, because that's as long as I worked there. At first I didn't think I was going to be able to make it on the outside at all. I've described prison society as a scaled-down model of your outside world, but I had no idea of how fast things moved on the outside; the raw speed people move at. They even talk faster. And louder. It was the toughest adjustment I've ever had to make, and I haven't finished making it yet ... not by a long way. Women, for instance. After hardly knowing that they were half of the human race for forty years, I was suddenly working in a store filled with them. Old women, pregnant women wearing T-shirts with arrows pointing downward and the printed motto reading BABY HERE, skinny women with their nipples poking out of their shirts - a woman wearing something like that when I went in would have gotten arrested and then had a sanity hearing - women of every shape and size. I found myself going around with a semi-hard almost all the time and cursing myself for being a dirty old man. Going to the bathroom, that was another thing. When I had to go (and the urge always came on me at twenty-five past the hour), I had to fight the almost overwhelming need to check it with my boss. Knowing that was something I could just go and do in this too-bright outside world was one thing; adjusting my inner self to that knowledge after all those years of checking it with the nearest screwhead or facing two days in solitary for the oversight... that was something else. 　　一边写着，一边勾起我更多的回忆。撰写自己的故事，就好像把树枝插进清澈的河水中，翻搅起河底的泥泞。　　我听到有人说，你写的又不是自己的故事，你写的是安迪的故事，你在自己的故事中，只是个小角色。但是你知道，其实并非如此，里面的字字句句，其实都是我自己的写照。安迪代表了在我内心深处、他们永远也封锁不住的那个部分，当监狱铁门最后终于为我开启，我穿着廉价西装、带着二十块钱走出监狱大门时，会感到欢欣鼓舞的那个部分。不管其他部分的我当时是多么老态龙钟、狼狈、害怕，那部分的我仍然会欢欣雀跃。但是我想，就那个部分而言，安迪所拥有的比我多很多，而且也比我懂得利用它。　　这儿也有不少人像我一样，他们都记得安迪。我们都高兴他走了，但也有点难过。有些鸟儿天生就是关不住的，它们的羽毛太鲜明，歌声太甜美、也太狂野了，所以你只能放它们走，否则哪天你打开笼子喂它们时，它们也会想办法扬长而去。你知道把它们关住是不对的，所以你会为它们感到高兴，但如此一来，你住的地方仍然会因为它们离去而显得更加黯淡和空虚。　　我很高兴把这个故事写下来，尽管故事似乎没有结尾，然而故事勾起了往事（就好像树枝翻搅了河中的泥泞一样），不禁令我感到有点悲伤和垂垂老矣。多谢你肯耐心聆听这个故事。还有，安迪，如果你真的到了南方，请在太阳下山以后，替我看看星星、摸摸沙子、在水中嬉戏，感受完全自由的感觉。　　我从来没有想过这个故事还能继续写下去，但我现在坐在桌前再补充个三四页，这次是用新本子写的。这本子是我从店里买来的，是我走进波特兰国会街的一家店里买来的。　　原本以为我在一九七六年一个阴沉的一月天，已经把这个故事写完了，但现在是一九七七年五月，我正坐在波特兰一家廉价旅馆的房间里，为这个故事添增新页。　　窗子是敞开的，不时传来外面车子的喧嚣声，震耳欲聋，也挺吓人的。我不断看着窗子，确定上面没有装铁栅栏。我晚上常常睡不好，因为尽管房租很便宜，这个床对我来说仍然太大，也太豪华了。我每天早上六点半便惊醒了，感到茫然和害怕。我常做噩梦，重获自由的感觉就好像自由落体骤然下降一样，让人既害怕又兴奋。　　我是怎么了？你还猜不到吗？他们批准我假释了。经过三十八年一次次的听证会和一次次驳回，我的假释申请终于获准了。我猜他们放我出来的主要原因是我已经五十八岁了，如此高龄，不太可能再为非作歹了。　　我差一点就把你们刚刚读到的故事烧掉。他们会详细搜查即将假释的囚犯，就好像搜查新进犯人一样仔细。我的“回忆录”中所包含的爆炸性资料足以让我再坐六到八年的牢，除此之外，里面还记载了我猜测的安迪的去处。墨西哥警察将会很乐意和美国警方合作，而我不希望到头来得牺牲安迪来换取自己的自由——另一方面，我也不想放弃这么辛苦写好的故事。　　这时候，我记起安迪当初是怎么把五百美金偷渡进监狱的，于是我把这几页故事以同样方法偷渡出去。为了保险起见，我很小心地重写了提到齐华坦尼荷的那几页。因此即使这篇故事被搜出来，我得回去坐牢，警察也会到秘鲁海边一个叫拉思因楚德的小镇去搜寻安迪。　　假释委员替我在南波特兰一家超级市场找了个“仓库助理”的差事——也就是说，我成为年纪很大的跑腿伙计。你知道，会跑腿打杂的人基本上只有两种，要不就是年纪很轻，要不就是年纪很大。但不管你属于哪一种，从来没有客人会正眼瞧你。如果你曾经在史布鲁斯超市买过东西，我说不定还曾经帮你把买好的东西从手推车中拿出来，放到车上……但是，你得在一九七七年三、四月间到那里买东西才碰得到我，因为我只在那里工作了一个多月。　　起初，我根本不认为自己能适应外面的世界。我把监狱描绘成外面社会的缩影，但完全没料到外面的世界变化竟然如此之大，人们走路和讲话的速度都变快了，连说话都更大声。　　我一时之间很难适应这一切，到现在还没有完全适应，就拿女人来说吧。近四十年的牢狱生涯，我几乎已经忘记女人占了世界人口的一半。突然之间，我工作的地方充满了女人——老女人、怀孕的女人（T恤上有个箭头往下指着肚子，一行大字写着：“小宝宝在这儿”），以及骨瘦如柴、不穿胸罩、乳头隐隐凸出的女人（在我入狱服刑之前，女人如果像这样穿着打扮，会被当街逮捕，以为她是神经病）等形形色色的女人，我发现自己走在街上常常忍不住起生理反应，只有在心里暗暗诅咒自己是脏老头。　　上厕所是另一件我不能适应的事。当我想上厕所的时候（而且我每次都是在整点过后二十五分想上厕所），我老是有一股强烈的冲动，想去请求上司准我上厕所，我每次都忍得很辛苦才没有这么做，心里晓得在这个光明的外面世界里，想上厕所的话，随时都可以去。关在牢中多年后，每次上厕所都要先向离得最近的警卫报告，一旦疏忽就要关两天禁闭，因此出狱后，尽管知道不必再事事报告，但心里知道是一回事，要完全适应又是另外一回事了。
Chapter 34
My boss didn't like me. He was a young guy, twenty-six or -seven, and I could see that I sort of disgusted him, the way a cringing, servile old dog that crawls up to you on its belly to be petted will disgust a man. Christ, I disgusted myself. But ... I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to tell him. That's what a whole life in prison does for you, young man. It turns everyone in a position of authority into a master, and you into every master's dog. Maybe you know you've become a dog, even in prison, but since everyone else in grey is a dog, too, it doesn't seem to matter so much. Outside, it does. But I couldn't tell a young guy like him. He would never understand. Neither would my P.O., a big, bluff ex-Navy man with a huge red beard and a large stock of Polish jokes. He saw me for about five minutes every week. 'Are you staying out of the bars, Red?' he'd ask when he'd run out of Polish jokes. I'd say yeah, and that would be the end of it until next week. Music on the radio. When I went in, the big bands were just getting up a good head of steam. Now every song sounds like it's about fucking. So many cars. At first I felt like I was taking my life into my hands every time I crossed the street. There was more - everything was strange and frightening -but maybe you get the idea, or can at least grasp a corner of it I began to think about doing something to get back in. When you're on parole, almost anything will serve. I'm ashamed to say it, but I began to think about stealing some money or shoplifting stuff from the FoodWay, anything, to get back in where it was quiet and you knew everything that was going to come up in the course of the day. If I had never known Andy, I probably would have done that, but I kept thinking of him, spending all those years chipping patiently away at the cement with his rock-hammer so he could be free. I thought of that and it made me ashamed and I'd drop the idea again. Oh, you can say he had more reason to be free than I did - he had a new identity and a lot of money. But that's not really true, you know. Because he didn't know for sure that the new identity was still there, and without the new identity, the money would always be out of reach. No, what he needed was just to be free, and if I kicked away what I had, it would be like spitting in the face of everything he had worked so hard to win back. So what I started to do on my time off was to hitchhike a ride down to the little town of Buxton. This was in the early April of 1977, the snow just starting to melt off the fields, the air just beginning to be warm, the baseball teams coming north to start a new season playing the only game I'm sure God approves of. When I went on these trips, I carried a Silva compass in my pocket. There's a big hayfield in Buxton, Andy had said, and at the north end of that hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. A fool's errand, you say. How many hayfields are there in a small rural town like Buxton? Fifty? A hundred? Speaking from personal experience, I'd put it at even higher than that, if you add in the fields now cultivated which might have been haygrass when Andy went in. And if I did find the right one, I might never know it because I might overlook that black piece of volcanic glass, or, much more likely, Andy put it into his pocket and took it with him. So I'd agree with you. A fool's errand, no doubt about it. Worse, a dangerous one for a man on parole, because some of those fields were clearly marked with NO TRESPASSING signs. And, as I've said, they're more than happy to slam your ass back inside if you get out of line. A fool's errand ... but so is chipping at a blank concrete wall for twenty-eight years. And when you're no longer the man who can get it for you and just an old bag-boy, it's nice to have a hobby to take your mind off your new life. My hobby was looking for Andy's rock. So I'd hitchhike to Buxton and walk the roads. I'd listen to the birds, to the spring runoff in the culverts, examine the bottles the retreating snows had revealed - all useless non-returnables, I am sorry to say; the world seems to have gotten awfully spendthrift since I went into the slam - and looking for hayfields. Most of them could be eliminated right off. No rock walls. Others had rock walls, but my compass told me they were facing the wrong direction. I walked these wrong ones anyway. It was a comfortable thing to be doing, and on those outings I really felt free, at peace. An old dog walked with me one Saturday. And one day I saw a winter-skinny deer. Then came 23 April, a day I'll not forget even if I live another fifty-eight years. It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up what a little boy fishing from a bridge told me was called The Old Smith Road. I had taken a lunch in a brown FoodWay bag, and had eaten it sitting on a rock by the road. When I was done I carefully buried my leavings, as my dad had taught me before he died, when I was a sprat no older than the fisherman who had named the road for me. Around two o'clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at the far end of it, running roughly northwest I walked back to it, squelching over the wet ground, and began to walk the wall. A squirrel scolded me from an oak tree. Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass and as smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For a long time I just looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason. The squirrel had followed me, and it was still chattering away. My heart was beating madly. When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside it - the joints in my knees went off like a double-barrelled shotgun - and let my hand touch it. It was real. I didn't pick it up because I thought there would be anything under it; I could just as easily have walked away without finding what was beneath. I certainly had no plans to take it away with me, because I didn't fed it was mine to take - I had a feeling that taking that rock from the field would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its satiny texture against my skin. 　　我的上司不喜欢我，他是个年轻人，二十六、七岁。我可以看出在他眼中，我像只爬到面前乞怜、惹人厌的老癞皮狗，其实连我自己都厌恶自己。但是……我无法控制自己，我真想告诉他：年轻人，这是在监狱里过了大半辈子的结果。在牢里，每个有权的人都变成你的主子，而你就成为主子身边的一条狗。或许你也知道自己是一条狗，但是反正其他犯人也都是狗，似乎就没有什么差别了，然而在外面世界的差别可大了。但我无法让这么年轻的人体会我的感受。他是绝不会了解的，连我的假释官都无法了解我的感受。我每周都要向假释官报到，他是个退伍军人，有把大红胡子，一箩筐的波兰人笑话，每周见我五分钟，每次说完波兰人笑话后，他就问：“雷德，没去酒吧鬼混吧？”我答说没有，咱们便下周再见了。　　还有收音机播的音乐。我入狱前，大乐团演奏的爵士乐才刚刚开始流行，而现在每首歌仿佛都在谈性爱。路上车子这么多，每次过街时，我都心惊肉跳，捏一把冷汗。　　反正每件事都很奇怪，都令人害怕。我开始想，是不是应该再干点坏事，好回到原本熟悉的地方去。如果你是假释犯，几乎任何一点小错都可能把你再送进监牢。我很不好意思这么说，但我的确开始想，要不要在超市偷点钱或顺手牵羊，然后就可以回到那个安静的地方，在那里，至少一天下来，你很清楚什么时候该做什么事情。　　如果不是认识安迪的话，我很可能就这么做了，但一想到他花了那么大的工夫，多年来很有耐性地用个小石锤在水泥上敲敲打打，只是为了换取自由，我就不禁感到惭愧，于是便打消那个念头。或是你也可以说，他想重获自由的理由比我丰富——他拥有一个新身份，他也有很多钱。但是你也知道，这么说是不对的，因为他并不能确定新身份依然存在，如果他没有办法换个新身份，自然也拿不到那笔钱了。不，他追求的单纯是那份自由。如果我把得之不易的自由随便抛弃，那无疑是当着安迪的面，唾弃他辛辛苦苦换回来的一切。　　于是我开始在休假时搭便车来到巴克斯登小镇，那是一九七七年四月初的事了。初春的田野，雪刚刚开始融化，天气也刚暖和起来，棒球队北上展开新球季。我每次去的时候，口袋中都带着一个罗盘。　　我想起了安迪说的话：在巴克斯登镇北边有一大片牧草地，在牧草地的北边有一面石墙，石墙底部有一块石头，那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有，那是一块火山岩玻璃。　　你会说，这还真是愚蠢的行为。像巴克斯登这样的乡下地方，会有多少牧草地？五十？一百？说不定比这还要多。即使我真的找到了，也不见得认得出来，因为我可能没有看到那块黑色的火山岩玻璃，或更可能的情况是，安迪把那块玻璃放进口袋里带走了。　　所以我同意你的话，我这些举动还真是愚蠢行为，毫无疑问。更何况对一个假释犯来说，这趟旅行无疑是一大冒险，因为不少牧草地上都竖着“不许践踏”的牌子。你要是误踏进去一步，很可能吃不了兜着走。我真傻，但是花了二十七年的光阴在混凝土墙中敲敲打打，也同样傻。不过既然我现在不再是监狱里那个什么都弄得到手的万事通，只是个跑腿打杂的人，有件事情做做，让我暂时忘掉出狱后的新生活也好，而我的嗜好就是寻找安迪藏钥匙的石头。　　所以，我经常搭便车来到巴克斯登，走在路上，听着鸟叫，看着潺潺流水，查看融雪后露出的空瓶子——全都是无法退瓶、没用的瓶子。我不得不遗憾地说，比起我入狱之前，现在的世界似乎变得挥霍无度——然后继续寻找那片牧草地。　　路旁有不少牧场，大多数都立刻可以从名单中删除。有的没有石墙，有的有石墙，方向却不对。无论如何，我还是在那些牧草地上走走，在乡下走走很舒服，在这些时候，我才感受到真正的自由和宁静。有一次，有条老狗一直跟着我，还有一次，我看到了一头鹿。　　然后到了四月二十三日，即使我再活个五十八年，都永远忘不了这一天。那是个宜人的星期六下午，我走着走着，在桥上垂钓的男孩告诉我，这条路叫老史密斯路。这时已近中午了，我打开带来的午餐袋子，坐在路旁一块大石头上吃起来。吃完后，小心把垃圾清理干净，这是爸爸在我和那个男孩差不多年纪的时候教我的规矩。　　走到大约两点钟左右，在我左边出现一大片草地，草地尽头有一堵墙，一直往西北方延伸而去，我踩在潮湿的草地上，走向那堵墙。一只松鼠从橡树上唠唠叨叨地斥责我。　　距离墙端还有四分之一的路时，我看见那块大石头了。一点也不错，乌黑的玻璃，光亮得像缎子一样，是不该出现在缅因州牧草地的石头，我呆呆地看了很久，有种想哭的感觉。松鼠跟在我后面，依然唠唠叨叨。我的心则怦怦跳个不停。　　等我情绪稍稍平复后，我走向那块石头，蹲在它旁边，用手摸摸它，它是真的。我拿起石头，不是因为我认为里面还会藏着任何东西，事实上我很可能就这么走开了，没有发现石头下的任何东西。我当然也不打算把石头拿走，因为我不认为我有权利拿走石头，我觉得把这块石头从牧草地上拿走，不啻犯了最糟糕的盗窃罪。不，我只不过把石头拿起来，好好摸摸它，感觉一下它的质地，证明这块玻璃石头的确存在。
Chapter 35
I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it took a while for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to keep away the damp. My name was written across the front in Andy's clear script. I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy's friend before him. Dear Red, If you're reading this, then you're out. One way or another, you're out. And If you've followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. I think you remember the name of the town, don't you? I could use a good man to help me get my project on wheels. Meantime, have a drink on me - and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well. Your friend, Peter Stevens I didn't read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a need to get away from there before I was seen. To make what may be an appropriate pun, I was in terror of being apprehended. I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men's dinners drifting up the stairwell to me - Beefaroni, Ricearoni, Noodleroni. You can bet that whatever the old folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating tonight, it almost certainly ends in roni. I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and cried. With the letter there were twenty new fifty-dollar bills. And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice again - parole violation is my crime. No one's going to throw up any roadblocks to catch a criminal wanted on that charge, I guess - wondering what I should do now. I have this manuscript I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a doctor's bag that holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes. Wondering what I should do. But there's really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living or get busy dying. First I'm going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I'm going to buckle it up, grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I'm going to walk uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the bartender and ask him to bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniels - one for me and one for Andy Dufresne. Other than a beer or two, they'll be the first drinks I've taken as a free man since 1938. Then I am going to tip the bartender a dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave the bar and walk up Spring Street to the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus ticket to El Paso by way of New York City. When I get to El Paso, I'm going to buy a ticket to McNary. And when I get to McNary, I guess I'll have a chance to find out if an old crook like me can find a way to float across the border and into Mexico. Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to forget. I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope Andy is down there. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope. 　　我看着石头下的东西许久、许久，我的眼睛早就看到了，但是我的脑子得花一点时间，才能真正意识到是怎么回事。下面赫然放着一个信封，信封很小心地包在透明的塑胶袋中，以避免弄湿。上面写着我的名字，是安迪整齐的字迹。　　我拿起信封，把石头放回安迪和他已过世的朋友原先放置的地方。　　亲爱的雷德：　　如果你看到这封信的话，那表示你也出来了。不管你是怎么出来的，总之你出来了。如果你已经找到这里，你或许愿意往前再多走一点路，我想你一定还记得那个小镇的名字吧？我需要一个好帮手，帮我把业务推上轨道。　　为我喝一杯，同时好好考虑一下。我会一直留意你的情况。记住，“希望”是个好东西，也许是世间最好的东西，好东西永远不会消逝的。我希望这封信会找到你，而且找到你的时候，你过得很好。　　你的朋友　　彼得·斯蒂芬　　我没有当场打开这封信。一阵恐惧袭来，我只希望在别人看到我之前尽快离开那里。　　回到自己房间以后，我才打开信来读，楼梯口飘来阵阵老人煮晚餐的香味——不外乎是些粉面类的食物，美国每个低收入的老人家晚上几乎都吃这些东西。　　看完信后，我抱头痛哭起来，信封里还附了二十张新的五十元钞票。　　我现在身在布鲁斯特旅馆，再度成了逃犯——违反假释条例是我的罪名。但是我猜，大概没有警察会大费周章地设置路障，来逮捕这样一个犯人吧——我在想，我现在该怎么办？　　我手上有这份稿子，还有一个行李袋，大小和医生的医药包差不多大，所有的财产都在里面。我有十九张五十元钞票、四张十元钞票、一张五元钞票和三张一元钞票，还有一些零钱。我拿一张五十元钞票去买了这本笔记本和一包烟。　　我还在想，我该怎么办？　　但毫无疑问，只有两条路可走。使劲活下去，或使劲找死。　　首先，我要把这份手稿放回行李袋。然后我要把袋子扣上，拿起外套走下楼去，结账离开这家廉价旅馆。然后，我要走进一家酒吧，把一张五元钞票放在酒保面前，要他给我来两杯威士忌，一杯给我自己，一杯给安迪。这将是我从一九三八年入狱以来，第一次以自由人的身份喝酒。喝完后，我会给酒保一元小费，好好谢谢他。离开酒吧后，我便走向灰狗巴士站，买一张经由纽约到艾尔帕索的车票。到了艾尔帕索之后，再买一张车票到麦克纳里。等我到了麦克纳里后，我猜我会想想办法，看看像我这样的老骗子能否找机会跨过边境，进入墨西哥。　　我当然记得那个小镇的名字，齐华坦尼荷，这名字太美了，令人忘不了。　　我发现自己兴奋莫名，颤抖的手几乎握不住笔。我想惟有自由人才能感受到这种兴奋，一个自由人步上漫长的旅程，奔向不确定的未来。　　我希望安迪在那儿。　　我希望我能成功跨越美墨边界。　　我希望能见到我的朋友，和他握握手。　　我希望太平洋就和我梦中所见的一样蔚蓝。　　我希望……