The Landlady
The Landlady
BILLY WEAVER HAD TRAVELLED down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a
change at Swindon on the way, and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o’clock in the
evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station
entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?’
‘Try The Bell and Dragon,’ the porter answered, pointing down the road. ‘They might take you
in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.’
Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell
and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr
Greenslade at the Head Office in London had told him it was a splendid city. ‘Find your own
lodgings,’ he had said, ‘and then go along and report to the Branch Manager as soon as you’ve got
yourself settled.’
Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby
hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was
trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common
characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at Head Office were absolutely
fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.
There were no shops in this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on
each side, all of them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to
their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences.
But now, even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their
doors and windows, and that the handsome white façades were cracked and blotchy from neglect.
Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street-lamp not six yards
away, Billy caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes.
It said BED AND BREAKFAST. There was a vase of pussy-willows, tall and beautiful, standing
just underneath the notice.
He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer. Green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were
hanging down on either side of the window. The pussy-willows looked wonderful beside them. He
went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright
fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dachshund was curled up
asleep with its nose tucked into its belly. The room itself, so far as he could see in the half-
darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a baby-grand piano and a big sofa and
several plump armchairs; and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were
usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all, it looked to him as though
it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly it would be more comfortable than The Bell
and Dragon.
On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boarding-house. There would be beer
and darts in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit
cheaper, too. He had stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before and he had liked it. He had
never stayed in any boarding-houses, and, to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of
them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a powerful
smell of kippers in the living-room.
After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would
walk on and take a look at The Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go.
And now a queer thing happened to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away
from the window when all at once his eye was caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the
small notice that was there, BED AND BREAKFAST, it said, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED
AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word Was like a large black eye staring at
him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to
walk away from that house, and the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the
window to the front door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the
bell.
He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room he heard it ringing, and then at once - it must
have been at once because he hadn’t even had time to take his finger from the bell-button - the
door swung open and a woman was standing there.
Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute’s wait before the door opens. But
this dame was like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell - and out she popped! It made him jump.
She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm
welcoming smile.
‘Please come in,’ she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and Billy
found himself automatically starting forward into the house. The compulsion or, more accurately,
the desire to follow after her into that house was extraordinarily strong.
‘I saw the notice in the window,’ he said, holding himself back.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I was wondering about a room.’
‘It’s all ready for you, my dear,’ she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes.
‘I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,’ Billy told her. ‘But the notice in your window just
happened to catch my eye.’
‘My dear boy,’ she said, ‘why don’t you come in out of the cold?’
‘How much do you charge?’
‘Five and sixpence a night, including breakfast.’
It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he had been willing to pay.
‘If that is too much,’ she added, ‘then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an
egg for breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be sixpence less without the egg.’
‘Five and sixpence is fine,’ he answered. ‘I should like very much to stay here.’
‘I knew you would. Do come in.’
She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one’s best school-friend
welcoming one into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat, and
stepped over the thresh-old.
‘Just hang it there,’ she said, ‘and let me help you with your coat.’
There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking-sticks -
nothing.
‘We have it all to ourselves,’ she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way
upstairs. ‘You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.’
The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who gives a
damn about that? ‘I should’ve thought you’d be simply swamped with applicants,’ he said politely.
‘Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I’m inclined to be just a teeny
weeny bit choosey and particular - if you see what I mean.’
 ‘Ah, yes.’
‘But I’m always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house just on the off-
chance that an acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear,
such a very great pleasure when now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there
who is just exactly right.’ She was half-way up the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the
stair-rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale lips. ‘Like you,’ she added, and her
blue eyes travelled slowly all the way down the length of Billy’s body, to his feet, and then up
again.
On the first-floor landing she said to him, ‘This floor is mine.’
They climbed up a second flight. ‘And this one is all yours,’ she said. ‘Here’s your room. I do
hope you’ll like it.’ She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light
as she went in.
‘The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr Perkins. It is Mr Perkins, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Weaver.’
‘Mr Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water-bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr Weaver.
It’s such a comfort to have a hot water-bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree?
And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly.’
‘Thank you,’ Billy said. ‘Thank you ever so much.’ He noticed that the bedspread had been
taken off the bed, and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for
someone to get in.
‘I’m so glad you appeared,’ she said, looking earnestly into his face. ‘I was beginning to get
worried.’
‘That’s all right,’ Billy answered brightly. ‘You mustn’t worry about me.’ He put his suitcase on
the chair and started to open it.
‘And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came
here?’
‘I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible because
tomorrow I’ve got to get up rather early and report to the office.’
‘Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would
you be kind enough to pop into the sitting-room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone
has to do that because it’s the law of the land, and we don’t want to go breaking any laws at this
stage in the proceedings, do we?’ She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of
the room and closed the door.
Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in the
least. After all, she was not only harmless - there was no question about that - but she was also
quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war,
or something like that, and had never got over it.
So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted
downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living-room. His landlady wasn’t there, but the fire
was glowing in the hearth, and the little dachshund was still sleeping in front of it. The room was
wonderfully warm and cosy. I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all
right.
He found the guest-book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his
name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and, as one always
does with guest-books, he started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff.
The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol.
That’s funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell.
Now where on earth had he heard that rather unusual name before?
Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a
friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of those. He glanced down again at the book.
Christopher Mulholland
         
231 Cathedral Road, Cardiff
Gregory W. Temple
         
27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol
As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t
have almost as much of a familiar ring about it as the first.
‘Gregory Temple?’ he said aloud, searching his memory. ‘Christopher Mulholland? …’
‘Such charming boys,’ a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing
into the room with a large silver tea-tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her,
and rather high up, as though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.
‘They sound somehow familiar,’ he said.
‘They do? How interesting.’
‘I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before somewhere. Isn’t that queer? Maybe it was
in the newspapers. They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous cricketers or
footballers or something like that?’
‘Famous,’ she said, setting the tea-tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. ‘Oh no, I
don’t think they were famous. But they were extraordinarily handsome, both of them, I can
promise you that. They were tall and young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.’
Once more, Billy glanced down at the book. ‘Look here,’ he said, noticing the dates. ‘This last
entry is over two years old.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that - more than three years
ago.’
‘Dear me,’ she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. ‘I would never have
thought it. How time does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr Wilkins?’
‘It’s Weaver,’ Billy said. ‘W-e-a-v-e-r.’
‘Oh, of course it is!’ she cried, sitting down on the sofa. ‘How silly of me. I do apologize. In
one ear and out the other, that’s me, Mr Weaver.’
‘You know something?’ Billy said. ‘Something that’s really quite extraordinary about all this?’
‘No, dear, I don’t.’
‘Well, you see - both of these names, Mulholland and Temple, I not only seem to remember
each of them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both
appear to be sort of connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort
of thing, if you see what I mean - like … like Dempsey and Tunney, for example, or Churchill
and Roosevelt.’
‘How amusing,’ she said. ‘But come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa
and I’ll give you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.’
‘You really shouldn’t bother,’ Billy said. ‘I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.’ He stood
by the piano, watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had
small, white, quickly moving hands, and red finger-nails.
‘I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll think of it in a
second. I’m sure I will.’
There is nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this which lingers just outside the borders of
one’s memory. He hated to give up.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Wait just a minute. Mulholland … Christopher Mulholland …
wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking-tour through the West Country,
and then all of a sudden …’
‘Milk?’ she said. ‘And sugar?’
‘Yes, please. And then all of a sudden …’
‘Eton schoolboy?’ she said. ‘Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right because my Mr
Mulholland was certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge
undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely
fire. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.’ She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and
she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over.
He crossed the room slowly, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the
table in front of him.
‘There we are,’ she said. ‘How nice and cosy this is, isn’t it?’
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke.
But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half-turned towards him, and he could
feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he
caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate directly from her person. It was not in
the least unpleasant, and it reminded him - well, he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of.
Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors of a hospital?
‘Mr Mulholland was a great one for his tea,’ she said at length. ‘Never in my life have I seen
anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr Mulholland.’
‘I suppose he left fairly recently,’ Billy said. He was still puzzling his head about the two
names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the newspapers - in the headlines.
‘Left?’ she said, arching her brows. ‘But my dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr Temple
is also here. They’re on the third floor, both of them together.’
Billy set down his cup slowly on the table, and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him,
and then she put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the knee. ‘How old
are you, my dear?’ she asked.
‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen!’ she cried. ‘Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think
he was a trifle shorter than you are, in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white.
You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr Weaver, did you know that?’
‘They’re not as good as they look,’ Billy said. ‘They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them at
the back.’
‘Mr Temple, of course, was a little older,’ she said, ignoring his remark. ‘He was actually
twenty-eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he hadn’t told me, never in my whole life.
There wasn’t a blemish on his body.’
‘A what?’ Billy said.
‘His skin was just like a baby’s.’
There was a pause. Billy picked up his teacup and took another sip of his tea, then he set it
down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to have
lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of him into the far corner of
the room, biting his lower lip.
‘That parrot,’ he said at last. ‘You know something? It had me completely fooled when I first
saw it through the window from the street. I could have sworn it was alive.’
‘Alas, no longer.’
‘It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been done,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look in the least bit dead.
Who did it?’
‘I did.’
‘You did?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And have you met my little Basil as well?’ She nodded towards the
dachshund curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And suddenly, he
realized that this animal had all the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out
a hand and touched it gently on the top of its back. The back was hard and cold, and when he
pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin underneath, greyish-black and
dry and perfectly preserved.
‘Good gracious me,’ he said. ‘How absolutely fascinating.’ He turned away from the dog and
stared with deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. ‘It must be most awfully
difficult to do a thing like that.’
‘Not in the least,’ she said. ‘I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have
another cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much care for
it.
‘You did sign the book, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘That’s good. Because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I can always
come down here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr Mulholland and Mr … Mr
…’
‘Temple,’ Billy said. ‘Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any other
guests here except them in the last two or three years?’
Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him
out of the corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.
‘No, my dear,’ she said. ‘Only you.’
女房东
女房东
比利•威夫搭下午的慢车，从伦敦出发，在雷丁站换乘，到达巴斯时已是晚上九点，月亮
早就高高挂在车站口对面房屋上方的澄澈夜空中。天气冷得要命，风像冰冷的刀子一样刮在
他脸上。
“请问，”他说，“离这里不远的地方，有没有一家便宜点的旅馆？”
“到‘铃铛和龙’去问问吧。”搬运工指着路上回答，“他们可能会让你住下。离这里大概四
分之一英里，在马路对面。”
比利谢过他，拎起箱子，开始步行四分之一英里，前往“铃铛和龙”。他以前没来过巴
斯，不认识住在这里的人。不过伦敦总部的格林斯拉德先生告诉他，巴斯是一座美妙的小
城。“自己找地方住吧，”他说，“安顿下来之后，就去找分部经理报到。”
比利十七岁，戴一顶崭新的褐色软毡帽，穿一件崭新的海军蓝大衣，里面是一套崭新的
褐色西装，自我感觉很好。他走在街道上，脚步轻快。最近，他做一切事情都尽量轻快。轻
快，他认为，是所有成功商人都有的性格特征。总部的那些大亨，每时每刻都是百分之百的
轻快敏捷。他们简直令人咋舌。
他走的这条街很宽，但是没有店铺，两边都排列着高大的房屋，而且每座房子都一样。
有门廊、柱子，有四五级台阶通向前门，显然曾经有一个时期，这些房子都是非常豪华的住
宅。然而现在，即使在黑暗中，比利也能看出门窗的木头已经油漆剥落，那些漂亮的白色门
脸因为疏于维护，出现了道道裂纹，变得斑斑驳驳。
突然，在不到六码开外，一盏路灯照亮了一扇底楼的窗户，比利看见一张打印的招贴支
在上层的一块玻璃上。招贴上写着“住宿加早餐”。一盆黄灿灿的菊花就放在招贴下面，高高
的，十分美丽。
比利停住脚步。他凑近了一点。绿色的窗帘（好像是天鹅绒质地的）挂在窗户两侧。窗
帘之间，那盆菊花看上去非常奇妙。比利走上前，透过窗户往房间里看，第一眼看见的是壁
炉里明亮的旺火。炉火前面的地毯上趴着一只漂亮的腊肠狗，鼻子埋在肚子里，睡得正香。
在昏暗的光线中，比利可以看到房间里摆满舒适宜人的家具。一架袖珍三角钢琴，一张大沙
发，以及几把鼓鼓囊囊的扶手椅；在房间的一角，他还看见一只关在笼子里的大鹦鹉。一般
来说，在这样的地方，动物总是个好的兆头，比利对自己说；总之，他觉得住在这么一座房
子里应该是很不错的，肯定要比那个“铃铛和龙”舒服。
不过，酒馆会比旅馆更让人开心。那里晚上会供应啤酒，还可以掷飞镖，有许多人可以
聊天，而且，价钱可能也会便宜许多。他以前在一家酒馆住过两晚，很是喜欢。他从没有住
过旅馆，说实在的，心里对旅馆有一点点害怕。光是听到旅馆这两个字，就能想象到水煮白
菜、抠抠搜搜的女房东，还有客厅里的那股臭咸鱼味儿。
比利在寒风里这样犹豫了两三分钟，决定继续往前走，到“铃铛和龙”去看看再做决定。
他转身想走。
就在这时，出现了一件奇怪的事情。他正准备退回来，从窗口离开时，突然，鬼使神差
地，他的眼睛被那张小小的招贴牢牢吸引住了。“住宿加早餐”……“住宿加早餐”……“住宿加
早餐”。每个字都像一只黑色的大眼睛，透过玻璃盯着他，抓住他、逼着他、强迫他留在这
里，不要离开这座房子，还没等反应过来，他竟然真的从窗口走向房子的前门，踏上那几级
台阶，伸手去摸门铃。
他按响了门铃，听见铃声在房屋深处的一个房间里响起，接着，说时迟那时快——这肯
定是立刻发生的，因为他还没来得及把手指从门铃上收回——门突然打开，门里站着一个女
人。
正常情况下，你按响门铃，起码得等上半分钟，门才会开，这女人却像一个玩偶盒子，
比利一按门铃——她就跳出来了！比利吃了一惊。
女人大约四十五到五十岁，一看见比利，就朝他露出一个亲切、热情的微笑。
“请进来吧。”女人和颜悦色地说。她让到一边，把门开得大大的，比利发现他不由自主
地开始往前走。跟着女人走进这座房屋的冲动，更准确地说，是欲望，简直强烈得出奇。
“我看见窗户里的招贴了。”他克制着自己，说道。
“是的，我知道。”
“我想知道有没有房间。”
“都给你准备好了，亲爱的。”女人说。她有一张红扑扑的圆脸，一双非常温柔的蓝眼
睛。
“我正要去‘铃铛和龙’。”比利对她说，“但碰巧看到了你窗户里的那张招贴。”
“亲爱的孩子。”她说，“外面天气这么冷，你为什么不进来呢？”
“房费多少？”
“一晚上五先令六便士，含早餐。”
便宜得令人难以置信，比他愿意支付的价钱少了一半多。
“如果嫌贵，”女人又说，“也许我可以再降一点儿。你早餐想吃一个鸡蛋吗？眼下鸡蛋很
贵的。如果减掉那个鸡蛋，就少收六便士。”
“五先令六便士没有问题。”比利回答，“我非常愿意住在这里。”
“我就知道你会愿意。快进来吧。”
她看上去特别和蔼可亲，完全就像你最好的同学邀请你到他家去过圣诞节时，他妈妈长
的那个样子。于是，比利摘下帽子，跨过了门槛。
“就挂在那儿好了。”女人说，“我来帮你脱大衣。”
大厅里没有别的帽子或大衣。也没有雨伞，没有拐杖——什么都没有。
“这里只有我们俩。”女人说，一边领路往楼上走，一边扭头笑微微地看着比利，“你也看
到了，我的这个蜗居是很少接待客人的。”
这位大妈有点儿神神道道，比利对自己说。可是一晚上只收五先令六便士，管那么多干
吗？“我还以为你这里挤满了想入住的人呢。”比利礼貌地说。
“哦，是这样，亲爱的，当然是这样。但问题是，我习惯性地有那么点儿挑剔和苛求——
希望你明白我的意思。”
“啊，明白。”
“但是我时刻做好准备。在这座房子里，从早到晚一切就绪，指望着万一有个中意的年轻
人能过来呢。偶尔，我打开门，看见站在那儿的正是理想中的人，那可真是一件高兴的事，
亲爱的，一件非常非常令人高兴的事。”她走到楼梯一半，手扶着栏杆，停下身，转过头，看
着比利，苍白的嘴唇含着微笑。“就像你这样的。”她加了一句，一双蓝眼睛慢慢地扫视比利
的全身，一直看到他的双脚，再一点点往上看。
到了二楼平台，女人对比利说：“这层归我。”
他们又上了一层。“这层全都归你。”女人说，“这是你的卧室。希望你会喜欢。”她把比
利领进一间虽然小但很温馨的正面卧室，打开了灯。
“早晨的阳光会从窗户照进来，珀金斯先生。是珀金斯先生，没错吧？”
“不是。”比利说，“我姓威夫。”
“威夫先生。真好。我在被子里放了一个暖水瓶，去去潮气，威夫先生。在一张陌生的床
上，有干净的床单，有一个热乎乎的暖水瓶，真是太舒服了，是吧？你如果感到冷，可以随
时打开煤气取暖炉。”
“谢谢你。”比利说，“真是太谢谢你了。”他注意到，床上的床罩拿掉了，被子的一侧被
整齐地掀开，等着人钻进去。
“你来了我真高兴。”女人热切地端详着他的脸，说道，“我开始时还担心你不进来呢。”
“不会的。”比利欢快地答道，“你不用为我担心。”他把箱子放在椅子上，动手打开。
“亲爱的，晚餐想吃什么？你来这儿之前，有没有弄点什么东西吃吃？”
“我一点儿也不饿，谢谢你。”比利说，“我想尽快上床睡觉，因为明天要早起，到办事处
去报到。”
“那好。我这就离开，让你把箱子里的东西拿出来。不过，在你睡觉前，能不能麻烦你到
一楼的客厅去一下，在登记簿上签个字？每个人都得签字，这是地方法律的规定，在目前这
个阶段，我们可不能违反法律啊，是不是？”她朝比利轻轻挥了挥手，快步走出房间，关上了
门。
这位女房东似乎有点儿精神不正常，但是比利没有感到丝毫的不安。毕竟，这女人不仅
没有危险——这是毫无疑问的——而且一眼就能看出是个善良和慷慨的人。比利猜她可能在
战争中失去过一个儿子，或者有过类似的遭遇，一直没有从打击中恢复过来。
几分钟后，比利拿出了箱子里的东西，洗了洗手，便快步来到楼下，走进客厅。女房东
不在，但壁炉里火光熊熊，那条小腊肠狗仍趴在炉前睡得正香。房间里有种说不出的温馨和
舒适。我是个幸运的人。他搓着双手，想道。感觉真不错。
他发现房客登记簿摊开放在钢琴上，便掏出钢笔，写下自己的姓名和地址。这一页在他
前面只登记了两个人。每个人面对房客登记簿时都会多看几眼，他便也看了起来。一位是来
自卡迪夫的克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德，另一位是来自布里斯托尔的格里高利•W. 坦普尔。
真奇怪，他突然想。克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德。这名字听起来有点耳熟。
是学校里的某个男生？不对。也许是姐姐交往过的众多男青年之一，或者是爸爸的一位
朋友？不是，不是，都不是。他又低头看了一眼登记簿。
克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德，卡迪夫，大教堂路231号
格里高利•W. 坦普尔，布里斯托尔，梧桐道27号
实际上，现在仔细想来，他觉得这第二个名字似乎也和第一个一样，听上去有那么几分
耳熟。
“格里高利•坦普尔？”他大声念出来，一边在记忆中搜索，“克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德？……”
“多么迷人的小伙子。”后面一个声音回答，比利转过身，看见女房东轻飘飘地走进房
间，双手端着一个很大的银托盘。她把托盘平端在面前，举得高高的，就好像托盘是两根拴
住一匹活泼野马的缰绳。
“他们的名字有点儿耳熟。”他说。
“是吗？真有意思。”
“我几乎可以肯定，我以前在什么地方听过这两个名字。这太奇怪了，不是吗？也许是在
报纸上看到过。他们不是什么名人吧？我是说有名的板球手、足球运动员之类的？”
“名人？”女人说着，把托盘放在沙发前面的矮桌上，“哦，不是，我认为他们没什么名。
但是他们帅得不可思议，两个都是，这点我可以向你保证。都是高个子，年轻、英俊，亲爱
的，跟你完全一样。”
比利又低头扫了一眼登记簿。“你看这儿，”他注意到了日期，说道，“最后的登记日期是
两年前。”
“是吗？”
“是的，没错。克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德还要早差不多一年——三年多以前了。”
“天哪。”女人说，摇了摇头，发出一声优雅的轻叹，“我真是没想到。对我们每个人来
说，时间过得多快啊，是不是，威金斯先生？”
“我姓威夫，”比利说，“威——夫。”
“哦，是的，是的！”女人大声说，在沙发上坐了下来，“我真是糊涂了。我总是左耳朵
进、右耳朵出的，我必须道歉。威夫先生。”
“你知道吗？”比利说，“这件事真的非常蹊跷，你知道为什么吗？”
“哦，亲爱的，我不知道。”
“是这样的，这两个名字——姆霍兰德和坦普尔——我好像不仅分别记得它们每一个，而
且，不知怎的，它们似乎还以某种特殊的方式联系在一起。似乎这两个人都因为一件同样的
事情而出名，但愿你明白我的意思——就像……嗯……打个比方吧，就像登普西和滕尼，或
者丘吉尔和罗斯福。”
“真有意思。”女人说，“好了，过来吧，亲爱的，和我一起坐在沙发上，我给你倒一杯好
茶，拿一块姜味饼干，然后你再去睡觉。”
“你真的不必麻烦。”比利说，“太让我过意不去了。”他站在钢琴边，注视着女人摆弄那
些茶杯和茶托。他注意到，女人有一双纤小的、动作敏捷的手，指甲是红色的。
“我几乎可以确定，我在报纸上看到过他们。”比利说，“我很快就能想起来。肯定能想起
来。”
记忆中的某个东西，就在大脑外围的某个地方徘徊，没有什么比这更诱人的了。比利不
愿放弃。
“请等一分钟，”他说，“等一分钟。姆霍兰德……克里斯托弗•姆霍兰德……不就是那个伊
顿公学男生的名字吗？他到西南部去远足，突然之间……”
“加奶吗？”女人说，“加糖吗？”
“好的，多谢。突然之间……”
“伊顿公学的男生？”女人说，“哦，不对，亲爱的，那不可能，我的那位姆霍兰德先生上
我这儿来的时候，肯定不是伊顿公学的男生。他是剑桥的本科生。好了，过来，坐在我身
边，在这可爱的炉火前暖暖身子。来吧。你的茶都给你准备好了。”她拍了拍身边沙发上的空
位，然后坐在那里笑眯眯地看着比利，等着他走过来坐下。
比利慢慢地走向房间那边，轻轻坐在沙发边缘。女人把他的茶杯放在他面前的桌上。
“可以喝茶了。”女人说，“这感觉多么温馨，多么舒适啊，是不是？”
比利开始小口喝茶。女人也是。有半分钟左右，两人谁也没有说话。但是比利知道女人
在看他。她把身体微微转向他，他能感觉到她的目光停留在他脸上，从她茶杯的边缘上注视
着他。时不时地，比利闻到一股奇特的气味，像是从她身体里直接散发出来的。这气味丝毫
也不令人反感，使比利想起了——好吧，他也不确定自己想起了什么。腌核桃？新皮革？还
是医院的走廊？
最后，女人说话了：“姆霍兰德先生酷爱喝茶。我这辈子从没见过有谁像可爱可亲的姆霍
兰德先生一样，喝那么多的茶。”
“我猜他是最近才离开吧。”比利说。他脑子里还在琢磨那两个名字。现在可以确定，他
曾在报纸上看到过它们——被写在标题里。
“离开？”女人说着，扬起了眉毛，“我亲爱的孩子，他从未离开。他还在这儿。坦普尔先
生也在这儿。他们都在四楼，两个人在一起。”
比利把茶杯慢慢放在桌上，眼睛盯着女房东。女房东笑眯眯地看着他，然后伸出一只白
皙的手，宽慰地拍了拍他的膝盖。“亲爱的，你多大了？”她问。
“十七。”
“十七！”她喊了起来，“哦，多么完美的年龄！姆霍兰德当时也是十七。但我认为他比你
矮一点点；实际上我敢肯定他没有你高，而且牙齿也远没有这么白。你有一口绝顶美丽的牙
齿，威夫先生，你知道吗？”
“其实并没有看上去这么好。”比利说，“后面好多颗牙都是补过的。”
“当然啦，坦普尔先生年龄大了点儿。”女人没有理会比利的话，兀自说道，“他竟然有二
十八岁了。不过，要不是他亲口告诉我，我这辈子都不会猜得到。他的身体没有一点瑕疵。”
“没有什么？”比利说。
“他的皮肤简直像婴儿一样。”
片刻的停顿。比利拿起茶杯，又喝了一口，然后又把杯子轻轻放在茶托上。他等着女人
再说点什么，可是她似乎又一次陷入了沉默。比利坐在那儿，咬着下唇，目光直视着前方，
看向房间那头的角落。
“那只鹦鹉，”最后他说，“你知道吗？我第一次透过窗户看见它时，完全被它骗过了。我
敢发誓说它是活的。”
“唉，已经不是了。”
“把它做成这样，手也真是太巧了。”比利说，“它看上去一点也不像已经死了。是谁做
的？”
“我。”
“是你做的？”
“当然。”女人说，“你也见过我的小巴赛了吧？”她冲那只舒舒服服趴在炉火前的腊肠狗
点点头。比利看着腊肠狗。突然，他意识到这条狗也像鹦鹉一样，一直安安静静，一动不
动。他伸出一只手，轻轻摸了摸腊肠狗的身体。后背又硬又冷，他用手指把狗毛拨到一边，
看到了下面的皮肤，灰黑色的，已经风干了，但保存完好。
“天哪。”他说，“这太神奇了。”他把目光从腊肠狗身上转过来，十分崇拜地盯着跟他同
坐在沙发上的小个子女人。“要完成这样一件事，肯定是非常困难的。”
“一点也不。”女人说，“我所有的小宠物离世后，我都把它们做成标本。你要不要再喝一
杯茶？”
“不了，谢谢你。”比利说。茶里有一股淡淡的苦杏仁味，他不太喜欢。
“你在登记簿上签过名了，是吗？”
“哦，是的。”
“很好。以后，我万一忘记了你叫什么名字，就能随时下楼来查一查。直到现在，我还几
乎每天都要查一查姆霍兰德先生和……和……”
“坦普尔先生。”比利说，“格里高利•坦普尔。我冒昧问一句，在最近两三年，除了他们，
还有过别的房客吗？”
女人一只手高高举起茶杯，脑袋微微偏向左边，用眼角的余光看着比利，又给了他一个
温柔的浅笑。
“没有，亲爱的。”她说，“只有你。”
首次发表于《纽约客》 1959.11.28
William and Mary
William and Mary
WILLIAM PEARL DID NOT leave a great deal of money when he died, and his will was a
simple one. With the exception of a few small bequests to relatives, he left all his property to his
wife.
The solicitor and Mrs Pearl went over it together in the solicitor’s office, and when the business
was completed, the widow got up to leave. At that point, the solicitor took a sealed envelope from
the folder on his desk and held it out to his client.
‘I have been instructed to give you this,’ he said. ‘Your husband sent it to us shortly before he
passed away.’ The solicitor was pale and prim, and out of respect for a widow he kept his head on
one side as he spoke, looking downward. ‘It appears that it might be something personal, Mrs
Pearl. No doubt you’d like to take it home with you and read it in privacy.’
Mrs Pearl accepted the envelope and went out into the street. She paused on the pavement,
feeling the thing with her fingers. A letter of farewell from William? Probably, yes. A formal
letter. It was bound to be formal - stiff and formal. The man was incapable of acting otherwise. He
had never done anything informal in his life.
My dear Mary, I trust that you will not permit my departure from this world to upset you too much, but
that you will continue to observe those precepts which have guided you so well during our partnership
together. Be diligent and dignified in all things. Be thrifty with your money. Be very careful that you do
not … et cetera, et cetera.
A typical William letter.
Or was it possible that he might have broken down at the last moment and written her
something beautiful? Maybe this was a beautiful tender message, a sort of love letter, a lovely
warm note of thanks to her for giving him thirty years of her life and for ironing a million shirts
and cooking a million meals and making a million beds, something that she could read over and
over again, once a day at least, and she would keep it for ever in the box on the dressing-table
together with her brooches.
There is no knowing what people will do when they are about to die, Mrs Pearl told herself, and
she tucked the envelope under her arm and hurried home.
She let herself in the front door and went straight to the living-room and sat down on the sofa
without removing her hat or coat. Then she opened the envelope and drew out the contents. These
consisted, she saw, of some fifteen or twenty sheets of lined white paper, folded over once and
held together at the top left-hand corner by a clip. Each sheet was covered with the small, neat,
forward-sloping writing that she knew so well, but when she noticed how much of it there was,
and in what a neat businesslike manner it was written, and how the first page didn’t even begin in
the nice way a letter should, she began to get suspicious.
She looked away. She lit herself a cigarette. She took one puff and laid the cigarette in the ash-
tray.
If this is about what I am beginning to suspect it is about, she told herself, then I don’t want to
read it.
Can one refuse to read a letter from the dead?
Yes.
Well …
She glanced over at William’s empty chair on the other side of the fireplace. It was a big brown
leather armchair, and there was a depression on the seat of it, made by his buttocks over the years.
Higher up, on the backrest, there was a dark oval stain on the leather where his head had rested.
He used to sit reading in that chair and she would be opposite him on the sofa, sewing on buttons
or mending socks or putting a patch on the elbow of one of his jackets, and every now and then a
pair of eyes would glance up from the book and settle on her, watchful, but strangely impersonal,
as if calculating something. She had never liked those eyes. They were ice blue, cold, small, and
rather close together, with two deep vertical lines of disapproval dividing them. All her life they
had been watching her. And even now, after a week alone in the house, she sometimes had an
uneasy feeling that they were still there, following her around, staring at her from doorways, from
empty chairs, through a window at night.
Slowly she reached into her handbag and took out her spectacles and put them on. Then,
holding the pages up high in front of her so that they caught the late afternoon light from the
window behind, she started to read:
This note, my dear Mary, is entirely for you, and will be given you shortly after I am gone.
Do not be alarmed by the sight of all this writing. It is nothing but an attempt on my part to
explain to you precisely what Landy is going to do to me, and why I have agreed that he should do
it, and what are his theories and his hopes. You are my wife and you have a right to know these
things. In fact you must know them. During the past few days, I have tried very hard to speak with
you about Landy, but you have steadfastly refused to give me a hearing. This, as I have already
told you, is a very foolish attitude to take, and I find it not entirely an unselfish one either. It stems
mostly from ignorance, and I am absolutely convinced that if only you were made aware of all the
facts, you would immediately change your view. That is why I am hoping that when I am no
longer with you, and your mind is less distracted, you will consent to listen to me more carefully
through these pages. I swear to you that when you have read my story, your sense of antipathy will
vanish, and enthusiasm will take its place. I even dare to hope that you will become a little proud
of what I have done.
As you read on, you must forgive me, if you will, for the coolness of my style, but this is the
only way I know of getting my message over to you clearly. You see, as my time draws near, it is
natural that I begin to brim with every kind of sentimentality under the sun. Each day I grow more
extravagantly wistful, especially in the evenings, and unless I watch myself closely my emotions
will be overflowing on to these pages.
I have a wish, for example, to write something about you and what a satisfactory wife you have
been to me through the years and am promising myself that if there is time, and I still have the
strength, I shall do that next.
I have a yearning also to speak about this Oxford of mine where I have been living and teaching
for the past seventeen years, to tell something about the glory of the place and to explain, if I can,
a little of what it has meant to have been allowed to work in its midst. All the things and places
that I loved so well keep crowding in on me now in this gloomy bedroom. They are bright and
beautiful as they always were, and today, for some reason, I can see them more clearly than ever.
The path around the lake in the gardens of Worcester College, where Lovelace used to walk. The
gateway at Pembroke. The view westward over the town from Magdalen Tower. The great hall at
Christchurch. The little rockery at St John’s where I have counted more than a dozen varieties of
campanula, including the rare and dainty C. Waldsteiniana. But there, you see! I haven’t even
begun and already I’m falling into the trap. So let me get started now; and let you read it slowly,
my dear, without any of that sense of sorrow or disapproval that might otherwise embarrass your
understanding. Promise me now that you will read it slowly, and that you will put yourself in a
cool and patient frame of mind before you begin.
The details of the illness that struck me down so suddenly in my middle life are known to you. I
need not waste time upon them - except to admit at once how foolish I was not to have gone
earlier to my doctor. Cancer is one of the few remaining diseases that these modern drugs cannot
cure. A surgeon can operate if it has not spread too far; but with me, not only did I leave it too late,
but the thing had the effrontery to attack me in the pancreas, making both surgery and survival
equally impossible.
So here I was with somewhere between one and six months left to live, growing more
melancholy every hour - and then, all of a sudden, in comes Landy.
That was six weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, very early, long before your visiting time, and
the moment he entered I knew there was some sort of madness in the wind. He didn’t creep in on
his toes, sheepish and embarrassed, not knowing what to say, like all my other visitors. He came in
strong and smiling, and he strode up to the bed and stood there looking down at me with a wild
bright glimmer in his eyes, and he said, ‘William, my boy, this is perfect. You’re just the one I
want!’
Perhaps I should explain to you here that although John Landy has never been to our house, and
you have seldom if ever met him, I myself have been friendly with him for at least nine years. I
am, of course, primarily a teacher of philosophy, but as you know I’ve lately been dabbling a good
deal in psychology as well. Landy’s interests and mine have therefore slightly over-lapped. He is a
magnificent neuro-surgeon, one of the finest, and recently he has been kind enough to let me study
the results of some of his work, especially the varying effects of prefrontal lobotomies upon
different types of psychopath. So you can see that when he suddenly burst in on me that Tuesday
morning, we were by no means strangers to one another.
‘Look,’ he said, pulling up a chair beside the bed. ‘In a few weeks you’re going to be dead.
Correct?’
Coming from Landy, the question didn’t seem especially unkind. In a way it was refreshing to
have a visitor brave enough to touch upon the forbidden subject.
‘You’re going to expire right here in this room, and then they’ll take you out and cremate you.’
‘Bury me,’ I said.
‘That’s even worse. And then what? Do you believe you’ll go to heaven?’
‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘though it would be comforting to think so.’
‘Or hell, perhaps?’
‘I don’t really see why they should send me there.’
‘You never know, my dear William.’
What’s all this about?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he said, and I could see him watching me carefully, ‘personally, I don’t believe that after
you’re dead you’ll ever hear of yourself again - unless …’ and here he paused and smiled and
leaned closer ‘ … unless, of course, you have the sense to put yourself into my hands. Would you
care to consider a proposition?’
The way he was staring at me, and studying me, and appraising me with a queer kind of
hungriness, I might have been a piece of prime beef on the counter and he had bought it and was
waiting for them to wrap it up.
‘I’m really serious about it, William. Would you care to consider a proposition?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then listen and I’ll tell you. Will you listen to me?’
‘Go on then, if you like. I doubt I’ve got very much to lose by hearing it.’
‘On the contrary, you have a great deal to gain - especially after you’re dead.’
I am sure he was expecting me to jump when he said this, but for some reason I was ready for it.
I lay quite still, watching his face and that slow white smile of his that always revealed the gold
clasp on an upper denture curled around the canine on the left side of his mouth.
‘This is a thing, William, that I’ve been working on quietly for some years. One or two others
here at the hospital have been helping me, especially Morrison, and we’ve completed a number of
fairly successful trials with laboratory animals. I’m at the stage now where I’m ready to have a go
with a man. It’s a big idea, and it may sound a bit far-fetched at first, but from a surgical point of
view there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it shouldn’t be more or less practicable.’
Landy leaned forward and placed both hands on the edge of my bed. He has a good face,
handsome in a bony sort of way, with none of the usual doctor’s look about it. You know that
look, most of them have it. It glimmers at you out of their eyeballs like a dull electric sign and it
reads Only I can save you. But John Landy’s eyes were wide and bright and little sparks of
excitement were dancing in the centres of them.
‘Quite a long time ago,’ he said, ‘I saw a short medical film that had been brought over from
Russia. It was a rather gruesome thing, but interesting. It showed a dog’s head completely severed
from the body, but with the normal blood supply being maintained through the arteries and veins
by means of an artificial heart. Now the thing is this: that dog’s head, sitting there all alone on a
sort of tray, was alive. The brain was functioning. They proved it by several tests. For example,
when food was smeared on the dog’s lips, the tongue would come out and lick it away: and the
eyes would follow a person moving across the room.
‘It seemed reasonable to conclude from this that the head and the brain did not need to be
attached to the rest of the body in order to remain alive - provided, of course, that a supply of
properly oxygenated blood could be maintained.
‘Now then. My own thought, which grew out of seeing this film, was to remove the brain from
the skull of a human and keep it alive and functioning as an independent unit for an unlimited
period after he is dead. Your brain, for example, after you are dead.’
‘I don’t like that,’ I said.
‘Don’t interrupt, William. Let me finish. So far as I can tell from’ subsequent experiments, the
brain is a peculiarly self-supporting object. It manufactures its own cerebrospinal fluid. The magic
processes of thought and memory which go on inside it are manifestly not impaired by the absence
of limbs or trunk or even of skull, provided, as I say, that you keep pumping in the right kind of
oxygenated blood under the proper conditions.
‘My dear William, just think for a moment of your own brain. It is in perfect shape. It is
crammed full of a lifetime of learning. It has taken you years of work to make it what it is. It is just
beginning to give out some first-rate original ideas. Yet soon it is going to have to die along with
the rest of your body simply because your silly little pancreas is riddled with cancer.’
‘No thank you,’ I said to him. ‘You can stop there. It’s a repulsive idea, and even if you could
do it, which I doubt, it would be quite pointless. What possible use is there in keeping my brain
alive if I couldn’t talk or see or hear or feel? Personally, I can think of nothing more unpleasant.’
‘I believe that you would be able to communicate with us,’ Landy said. ‘And we might even
succeed in giving you a certain amount of vision. But let’s take this slowly. I’ll come to all that
later on. The fact remains that you’re going to die fairly soon whatever happens; and my plans
would not involve touching you at all until after you are dead. Come now, William. No true
philosopher could object to lending his dead body to the cause of science.’
‘That’s not putting it quite straight,’ I answered. ‘It seems to me there’d be some doubts as to
whether I were dead or alive by the time you’d finished with me.’
‘Well,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘I suppose you’re right about that. But I don’t think you ought to
turn me down quite so quickly, before you know a bit more about it.’
‘I said I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Have a cigarette,’ he said, holding out his case.
‘I don’t smoke, you know that.’
He took one himself and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that was no bigger than a shilling piece.
‘A present from the people who make my instruments,’ he said. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’
I examined the lighter, then handed it back.
‘May I go on?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Just lie still and listen. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.’
There were some blue grapes on a plate beside my bed. I put the plate on my chest and began
eating the grapes.
‘At the very moment of death,’ Landy said, ‘I should have to be standing by so that I could step
in immediately and try to keep your brain alive.’
‘You mean leaving it in the head?’
‘To start with, yes. I’d have to.’
‘And where would you put it after that?’
‘If you want to know, in a sort of basin.’
‘Are you really serious about this?’
‘Certainly I’m serious.’
‘All right. Go on.’
‘I suppose you know that when the heart stops and the brain is deprived of fresh blood and
oxygen, its tissues die very rapidly. Anything from four to six minutes and the whole thing’s dead.
Even after three minutes you may get a certain amount of damage. So I should have to work
rapidly to prevent this from happening. But with the help of the machine, it should all be quite
simple.’
‘What machine?’
‘The artificial heart. We’ve got a nice adaptation here of the one originally devised by Alexis
Carrel and Lindbergh. It oxygenates the blood, keeps it at the right temperature, pumps it in at the
right pressure, and does a number of other little necessary things. It’s really not at all
complicated.’
‘Tell me what you would do at the moment of death,’ I said. ‘What is the first thing you would
do?’
‘Do you know anything about the vascular and venous arrangement of the brain?’
‘No.’
‘Then listen. It’s not difficult. The blood supply to the brain is derived from two main sources,
the internal carotid arteries and the vertebral arteries. There are two of each, making four arteries
in all. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the return system is even simpler. The blood is drained away by only two large veins, the
internal jugulars. So you have four arteries going up - they go up the neck of course - and two
veins coming down. Around the brain itself they naturally branch out into other channels, but
those don’t concern us. We never touch them.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Imagine that I’ve just died. Now what would you do?’
‘I should immediately open your neck and locate the four arteries, the carotids and the
vertebrals. I should then perfuse them, which means that I’d stick a large hollow needle into each.
These four needles would be connected by tubes to the artificial heart.
‘Then, working quickly, I would dissect out both the left and right jugular veins and hitch these
also to the heart machine to complete the circuit. Now switch on the machine, which is already
primed with the right type of blood and there you are. The circulation through your brain would be
restored.’
‘I’d be like that Russian dog.’
‘I don’t think you would. For one thing, you’d certainly lose consciousness when you died, and
I very much doubt whether you would come to again for quite a long time - if indeed you came to
at all. But, conscious or not, you’d be in a rather interesting position, wouldn’t you? You’d have a
cold dead body and a living brain.’
Landy paused to savour this delightful prospect. The man was so entranced and bemused by the
whole idea that he evidently found it impossible to believe I might not be feeling the same way.
‘We could now afford to take our time,’ he said. ‘And believe me, we’d need it. The first thing
we’d do would be to wheel you to the operating-room, accompanied of course by the machine,
which must never stop pumping. The next problem …’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘That’s enough. I don’t have to hear the details.’
‘Oh but you must,’ he said. ‘It is important that you should know precisely what is going to
happen to you all the way through. You see, afterwards, when you regain consciousness, it will be
much more satisfactory from your point of view if you are able to remember exactly where you
are and how you came to be there. If only for your own peace of mind you should know that. You
agree?’
I lay still on the bed, watching him.
‘So the next problem would be to remove your brain, intact and undamaged, from your dead
body. The body is useless. In fact it has already started to decay. The skull and the face are also
useless. They are both encumbrances and I don’t want them around. All I want is the brain, the
clean beautiful brain, alive and perfect. So when I get you on the table I will take a saw, a small
oscillating saw, and with this I shall proceed to remove the whole vault of your skull. You’d still
be unconscious at that point so I wouldn’t have to bother with anaesthetic.’
‘Like hell, you wouldn’t,’ I said.
‘You’d be out cold, I promise you that, William. Don’t forget you died just a few minutes
before.’
‘Nobody’s sawing off the top of my skull without an anaesthetic,’ I said.
Landy shrugged his shoulders. ‘It makes no difference to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad to give you a
little procaine if you want it. If it will make you any happier I’ll infiltrate the whole scalp with
procaine, the whole head, from the neck up.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said.
‘You know,’ he went on, ‘it’s extraordinary what sometimes happens. Only last week a man
was brought in unconscious, and I opened his head without any anaesthetic at all and removed a
small blood clot. I was still working inside the skull when he woke up and began talking.
‘ “Where am I?” he asked.
‘ “You’re in hospital.”
‘ “Well,” he said. ‘Fancy that.”
‘ “Tell me,” I asked him, “is this bothering you, what I’m doing?”
‘ “No,” he answered. “Not at all. What are you doing?”
‘ “I’m just removing a blood clot from your brain.”
‘ “You are?”
‘ “Just lie still. Don’t move, I’m nearly finished.”
‘ “So that’s the bastard who’s been giving me all those headaches,” the man said.’
Landy paused and smiled, remembering the occasion. ‘That’s word for word what the man
said,’ he went on, ‘although the next day he couldn’t even recollect the incident. It’s a funny thing,
the brain.’
‘I’ll have the procaine,’ I said.
‘As you wish, William. And now, as I say, I’d take a small oscillating saw and carefully remove
your complete calvarium - the whole vault of the skull. This would expose the top half of the
brain, or rather the outer covering in which it is wrapped. You may or may not know that there are
three separate coverings around the brain itself - the outer one called the dura mater or dura, the
middle one called the arachnoid, and the inner one called the pia mater or pia. Most laymen seem
to have the idea that the brain is a naked thing floating around in fluid in your head. But it isn’t.
It’s wrapped up neatly in these three strong coverings, and the cerebrospinal fluid actually flows
within the little gap between the two coverings, known as the subarachnoid space. As I told you
before, this fluid is manufactured by the brain and it drains off into the venous system by osmosis.
‘I myself would leave all three coverings - don’t they have lovely names, the dura, the
arachnoid, and the pia? - I’d leave them all intact. There are many reasons for this, not least
among them being the fact that within the dura run the venous channels that drain the blood from
the brain into the jugular.
‘Now,’ he went on, ‘we’ve got the upper half of your skull off so that the top of the brain,
wrapped in its outer covering, is exposed. The next step is the really tricky one: to release the
whole package so that it can be lifted cleanly away, leaving the stubs of the four supply arteries
and the two veins hanging underneath ready to be re-connected to the machine. This is an
immensely lengthy and complicated business involving the delicate chipping away of much bone,
the severing of many nerves, and the cutting and tying of numerous blood vessels. The only way I
could do it with any hope of success would be by taking a rongeur and slowly biting off the rest of
your skull, peeling it off downward like an orange until the sides and underneath of the brain
covering are fully exposed. The problems involved are highly technical and I won’t go into them
but I feel fairly sure that the work can be done. It’s simply a question of surgical skill and
patience. And don’t forget that I’d have plenty of time, as much as I wanted, because the artificial
heart would be continually pumping away alongside the operating-table, keeping the brain alive.
‘Now, let’s assume that I’ve succeeded in peeling off your skull and removing everything else
that surrounds the sides of the brain. That leaves it connected to the body only at the base, mainly
by the spinal column and by the two large veins and the four arteries that are supplying it with
blood. So what next?
‘I would sever the spinal column just above the first cervical vertebra, taking great care not to
harm the two vertebral arteries which are in that area. But you must remember that the dura or
outer covering is open at this place to receive the spinal column, so I’d have to close this opening
by sewing the edges of the dura together. There’d be no problem there.
‘At this point, I would be ready for the final move. To one side, on a table, I’d have a basin of a
special shape, and this would be filled with what we call Ringer’s Solution. That is a special kind
of fluid we use for irrigation in neurosurgery. I would now cut the brain completely loose by
severing the supply arteries and the veins. Then I would simply pick it up in my hands and transfer
it to the basin. This would be the only other time during the whole proceeding when the blood
flow would be cut off; but once it was in the basin, it wouldn’t take a moment to re-connect the
stubs of the arteries and veins to the artificial heart.
‘So there you are,’ Landy said. ‘Your brain is now in the basin, and still alive, and there isn’t
any reason why it shouldn’t stay alive for a very long time, years and years perhaps, provided we
looked after the blood and the machine.’
‘But would it function?’
‘My dear William, how should I know? I can’t even tell you whether it would regain
consciousness.’
‘And if it did?’
‘There now! That would be fascinating!’
‘Would it?’ I said, and I must admit I had my doubts.
‘Of course it would! Lying there with all your thinking processes working beautifully, and your
memory as well …’
‘And not being able to see or feel or smell or hear or talk,’ I said.
‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something! I never told you about the eye. Listen. I am
going to try to leave one of your optic nerves intact, as well as the eye itself. The optic nerve is a
little thing about the thickness of a clinical thermometer and about two inches in length as it
stretches between the brain and the eye. The beauty of it is that it’s not really a nerve at all. It’s an
outpouching of the brain itself, and the dura or brain covering extends along it and is attached to
the eyeball. The back of the eye is therefore in very close contact with the brain, and cerebro-
spinal fluid flows right up to it.
‘All this suits my purpose very well, and makes it reasonable to suppose that I could succeed in
preserving one of your eyes. I’ve already constructed a small plastic case to contain the eyeball,
instead of your own socket, and when the brain is in the basin, submerged in Ringer’s Solution,
the eyeball in its case will float on the surface of the liquid.’
‘Staring at the ceiling,’ I said.
‘I suppose so, yes. I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any muscles there to move it around. But it
might be sort of fun to lie there so quietly and comfortably peering out at the world from your
basin.’
‘Hilarious,” I said. ‘How about leaving me an ear as well?’
‘I’d rather not try an ear this time.’
‘I want an ear,’ I said. ‘I insist upon an ear.’
‘No.’
‘I want to listen to Bach.’
‘You don’t understand how difficult it would be,’ Landy said gently. The hearing apparatus -
the cochlea, as it’s called - is a far more delicate mechanism than the eye. What’s more, it is
encased in bone. So is a part of the auditory nerve that connects it with the brain. I couldn’t
possibly chisel the whole thing out intact.’
‘Couldn’t you leave it encased in the bone and bring the bone to the basin?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. This thing is complicated enough already. And anyway, if the eye works, it
doesn’t matter all that much about your hearing. We can always hold up messages for you to read.
You really must leave me to decide what is possible and what isn’t.’
‘I haven’t yet said that I’m going to do it.’
‘I know, William, I know.’
‘I’m not sure I fancy the idea very much.’
‘Would you rather be dead altogether?’
‘Perhaps I would. I don’t know yet. I wouldn’t be able to talk, would I?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then how would I communicate with you? How would you know that I’m conscious?’
‘It would be easy for us to know whether or not you regain consciousness,’ Landy said. The
ordinary electro-encephalograph could tell us that. We’d attach the electrodes directly to the
frontal lobes of your brain, there in the basin.’
‘And you could actually tell?’
‘Oh, definitely. Any hospital could do that part of it.’
‘But I couldn’t communicate with you.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Landy said, ‘I believe you could. There’s a man up in London called
Wertheimer who’s doing some interesting work on the subject of thought communication, and I’ve
been in touch with him. You know, don’t you, that the thinking brain throws off electrical and
chemical discharges? And that these discharges go out in the form of waves, rather like radio
waves?’
‘I know a bit about it,’ I said.
‘Well, Wertheimer has constructed an apparatus somewhat similar to the encephalograph,
though far more sensitive, and he maintains that within certain narrow limits it can help him to
interpret the actual things that a brain is thinking. It produces a kind of graph which is apparently
decipherable into words or thoughts. Would you like me to ask Wertheimer to come and see you?’
‘No,’ I said. Landy was already taking it for granted that I was going to go through with this
business, and I resented his attitude. ‘Go away now and leave me alone,’ I told him. ‘You won’t
get anywhere by trying to rush me.’
He stood up at once and crossed to the door.
‘One question,’ I said.
He paused with a hand on the doorknob. ‘Yes, William?’
‘Simply this. Do you yourself honestly believe that when my brain is in that basin, my mind
will be able to function exactly as it is doing at present? Do you believe that I will be able to think
and reason as I can now? And will the power of memory remain?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ he answered. ‘It’s the same brain. It’s alive. It’s undamaged. In fact, it’s
completely untouched. We haven’t even opened the dura. The big difference, of course, would be
that we’ve severed every single nerve that leads into it - except for the one optic nerve - and this
means that your thinking would no longer be influenced by your senses. You’d be living in an
extraordinary pure and detached world. Nothing to bother you at all, not even pain. You couldn’t
possibly feel pain because there wouldn’t be any nerves to feel it with. In a way, it would be an
almost perfect situation. No worries or fears or pains or hunger or thirst. Not even any desires. Just
your memories and your thoughts and if the remaining eye happened to function, then you could
read books as well. It all sounds rather pleasant to me.’
‘It does, does it?’
‘Yes, William, it does. And particularly for a Doctor of Philosophy. It would be a tremendous
experience. You’d be able to reflect upon the ways of the world with a detachment and a serenity
that no man had ever attained before. And who knows what might not happen then! Great thoughts
and solutions might come to you, great ideas that could revolutionize our way of life! Try to
imagine, if you can, the degree of concentration that you’d be able to achieve!’
‘And the frustration,’ I said.
‘Nonsense. There couldn’t be any frustration. You can’t have frustration without desire, and
you couldn’t possibly have any desire. Not physical desire, anyway.’
‘I should certainly be capable of remembering my previous life in the world, and I might desire
to return to it.’
‘What, to this mess! Out of your comfortable basin and back into this madhouse!’
‘Answer one more question,’ I said. ‘How long do you believe you could keep it alive?’
‘The brain? Who knows? Possibly for years and years. The conditions would be ideal. Most of
the factors that cause deterioration would be absent, thanks to the artificial heart. The blood-
pressure would remain constant at all times, an impossible condition in real life. The temperature
would also be constant. The chemical composition of the blood would be near perfect. There
would be no impurities in it, or virus, no bacteria, nothing. Of course it’s foolish to guess, but I
believe that a brain might live for two or three hundred years in circumstances like these. Goodbye
for now,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop in and see you tomorrow.’ He went out quickly, leaving me, as you
might guess, in a fairly disturbed state of mind.
My immediate reaction after he had gone was one of revulsion towards the whole business.
Somehow, it wasn’t at all nice. There was something basically repulsive about the idea that I
myself, with all my mental faculties intact, should be reduced to a small slimy blob lying in a pool
of water. It was monstrous, obscene, unholy. Another thing that bothered me was the feeling of
helplessness that I was bound to experience once Landy had got me into the basin. There could be
no going back after that, no way of protesting or explaining. I would be committed for as long as
they could keep me alive.
And what, for example, if I could not stand it? What if it turned out to be terribly painful? What
if I became hysterical?
No legs to run away on. No voice to scream with. Nothing. I’d just have to grin and bear it for
the next two centuries.
No mouth to grin with either.
At this point, a curious thought struck me, and it was this: Does not a man who has had a leg
amputated often suffer from the delusion that the leg is still there? Does he not tell the nurse that
the toes he doesn’t have any more are itching like mad, and so on and so forth? I seemed to have
heard something to that effect quite recently.
Very well. On the same premise, was it not possible that my brain, lying there alone in that
basin, might not suffer from a similar delusion in regard to my body? In which case, all my usual
aches and pains could come flooding over me and I wouldn’t even be able to take an aspirin to
relieve them. One moment I might be imagining that I had the most excruciating cramp in my leg,
or a violent indigestion, and a few minutes later, I might easily get the feeling that my poor
bladder - you know me - was so full that if I didn’t get to emptying it soon it would burst.
Heaven forbid.
I lay there for a long time thinking these horrid thoughts. Then quite suddenly, round about
midday, my mood began to change. I became less concerned with the unpleasant aspect of the
affair and found myself able to examine Landy’s proposals in a more reasonable light. Was there
not, after all, I asked myself, something a bit comforting in the thought that my brain might not
necessarily have to die and disappear in a few weeks’ time? There was indeed. I am rather proud
of my brain. It is a sensitive, lucid, and uberous organ. It contains a prodigious store of
information, and it is still capable of producing imaginative and original theories. As brains go, it
is a damn good one, though I say it myself. Whereas my body, my poor old body, the thing that
Landy wants to throw away - well, even you, my dear Mary, will have to agree with me that there
is really nothing about that which is worth preserving any more.
I was lying on my back eating a grape. Delicious it was, and there were three little seeds in it
which I took out of my mouth and placed on the edge of the plate.
‘I’m going to do it,’ I said quietly. ‘Yes, by God, I’m going to do it. When Landy comes back to
see me tomorrow I shall tell him straight out that I’m going to do it.’
It was as quick as that. And from then on, I began to feel very much better. I surprised everyone
by gobbling an enormous lunch, and shortly after that you came in to visit me as usual.
But how well I looked, you told me. How bright and well and chirpy. Had anything happened?
Was there some good news?
Yes, I said there was. And then, if you remember, I bade you sit down and make yourself
comfortable and I began immediately to explain to you as gently as I could what was in the wind.
Alas, you would have none of it. I had hardly begun telling you the barest details when you flew
into a fury and said that the thing was revolting, disgusting, horrible, unthinkable, and when I tried
to go on, you marched out of the room.
Well, Mary, as you know, I have tried to discuss this subject with you many times since then,
but you have consistently refused to give me a hearing. Hence this note, and I can only hope that
you will have the good sense to permit yourself to read it. It has taken me a long time to write.
Two weeks have gone since I started to scribble the first sentence, and I’m now a good deal
weaker than I was then. I doubt whether I have the strength to say much more. Certainly I won’t
say good-bye, because there’s a chance, just a tiny chance, that if Landy succeeds in his work I
may actually see you again later, that is if you bring yourself to come and visit me.
I am giving orders that these pages shall not be delivered to you until a week after I am gone.
By now, therefore, as you sit reading them, seven days have already elapsed since Landy did the
deed. You yourself may even know what the outcome has been. If you don’t, if you have
purposely kept yourself apart and have refused to have anything to do with it - which I suspect
may be the case - please change your mind now and give Landy a call to see how things went
with me. That is the least you can do. I have told him that he may expect to hear from you on the
seventh day.
Your faithful husband,
William
ps. Be good when I am gone, and always remember that it is harder to be a widow than a wife. Do
not drink cocktails. Do not waste money. Do not smoke cigarettes. Do not eat pastry. Do not use
lipstick. Do not buy a television apparatus. Keep my rose beds and my rockery well weeded in the
summers. And incidentally I suggest that you have the telephone disconnected now that I shall
have no further use for it.
W.
Mrs Pearl laid the last page of the manuscript slowly down on the sofa beside her. Her little
mouth was pursed up tight and there was a whiteness around her nostrils.
But really! You would think a widow was entitled to a bit of peace after all these years.
The whole thing was just too awful to think about. Beastly and awful. It gave her the shudders.
She reached for her bag and found herself another cigarette. She lit it, inhaling the smoke deeply
and blowing it out in clouds all over the room. Through the smoke she could see her lovely
television set, brand new, lustrous, huge, crouching defiantly but also a little self-consciously on
top of what used to be William’s worktable.
What would he say, she wondered, if he could see that now?
She paused, to remember the last time he had caught her smoking a cigarette. That was about a
year ago, and she was sitting in the kitchen by the open window having a quick one before he
came home from work. She’d had the radio on loud playing dance music and she had turned round
to pour herself another cup of coffee and there he was standing in the doorway, huge and grim,
staring down at her with those awful eyes, a little black dot of fury blazing in the centre of each.
For four weeks after that, he had paid the housekeeping bills himself and given her no money at
all, but of course he wasn’t to know that she had over six pounds salted away in a soap-flake
carton in the cupboard under the sink.
‘What is it?’ she had said to him once during supper. ‘Are you worried about me getting lung
cancer?’
‘I am not,’ he had answered.
‘Then why can’t I smoke?’
‘Because I disapprove, that’s why.’
He had also disapproved of children, and as a result they had never had any of them either.
Where was he now, this William of hers, the great disapprover?
Landy would be expecting her to call up. Did she have to call Landy?
Well, not really, no.
She finished her cigarette, then lit another one immediately from the old stub. She looked at the
telephone that was sitting on the worktable beside the television set. William had asked her to call.
He had specifically requested that she telephone Landy as soon as she had read the letter. She
hesitated, fighting hard now against that old ingrained sense of duty that she didn’t quite yet dare
to shake off. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and crossed over to the phone on the worktable. She
found a number in the book, dialled it, and waited.
‘I want to speak to Mr Landy, please.’
‘Who is calling?’
‘Mrs Pearl. Mrs William Pearl.’
‘One moment, please.’
Almost at once, Landy was on the other end of the wire.
‘Mrs Pearl?’
‘This is Mrs Pearl.’
There was a slight pause.
‘I am so glad you called at last, Mrs Pearl. You are quite well, I hope?’ The voice was quiet,
unemotional, courteous. ‘I wonder if you would care to come over to the hospital? Then we can
have a little chat. I expect you are very eager to know how it all came out.’
She didn’t answer.
‘I can tell you now that everything went pretty smoothly, one way and another. Far better, in
fact, than I was entitled to hope. It is not only alive, Mrs Pearl, it is conscious. It recovered
consciousness on the second day. Isn’t that interesting?’
She waited for him to go on.
‘And the eye is seeing. We are sure of that because we get an immediate change in the
deflections on the encephalograph when we hold something up in front of it. And now we’re
giving it the newspaper to read every day.’
‘Which newspaper?’ Mrs Pearl asked sharply.
‘The Daily Mirror. The headlines are larger.’
‘He hates the Mirror. Give him The Times.’
There was a pause, then the doctor said, ‘Very well, Mrs Pearl. We’ll give it The Times. We
naturally want to do all we can to keep it happy.’
‘Him,’ she said. ‘Not it. Him!’
‘Him,’ the doctor said. ‘Yes, I beg your pardon. To keep him happy. That’s one reason why I
suggested you should come along here as soon as possible. I think it would be good for him to see
you. You could indicate how delighted you were to be with him again - smile at him and blow
him a kiss and all that sort of thing. It’s bound to be a comfort to him to know that you are
standing by.’
There was a long pause.
‘Well,’ Mrs Pearl said at last, her voice suddenly very meek and tired. ‘I suppose I had better
come on over and see how he is.’
‘Good. I knew you would. I’ll wait here for you. Come straight up to my office on the second
floor. Good-bye.’
Half an hour later, Mrs Pearl was at the hospital.
‘You mustn’t be surprised by what he looks like,’ Landy said as he walked beside her down a
corridor.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘It’s bound to be a bit of a shock to you at first. He’s not very prepossessing in his present state,
I’m afraid.’
‘I didn’t marry him for his looks, Doctor.’
Landy turned and stared at her. What a queer little woman this was, he thought with her large
eyes and her sullen, resentful air. Her features, which must have been quite pleasant once, had now
gone completely. The mouth was slack, the cheeks loose and flabby, and the whole face gave the
impression of having slowly but surely sagged to pieces through years and years of joyless
married life. They walked on for a while in silence.
‘Take your time when you get inside,’ Landy said. ‘He won’t know you’re in there until you
place your face directly above his eye. The eye is always open, but he can’t move it at all, so the
field of vision is very narrow. At present we have it looking up at the ceiling. And of course he
can’t hear anything. We can talk together as much as we like. It’s in here.’
Landy opened a door and ushered her into a small square room.
‘I wouldn’t go too close yet,’ he said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Stay back here a moment with
me until you get used to it all.’
There was a biggish white enamel bowl about the size of a washbasin standing on a high white
table in the centre of the room, and there were half a dozen thin plastic tubes coming out of it.
These tubes were connected with a whole lot of glass piping in which you could see the blood
flowing to and from the heart machine. The machine itself made a soft rhythmic pulsing sound.
‘He’s in there,’ Landy said, pointing to the basin, which was too high for her to see into. ‘Come
just a little closer. Not too near.’
He led her two paces forward.
By stretching her neck, Mrs Pearl could now see the surface of the liquid inside the basin. It was
clear and still, and on it there floated a small oval capsule, about the size of a pigeon’s egg.
‘That’s the eye in there,’ Landy said. ‘Can you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So far as we can tell, it is still in perfect condition. It’s his right eye, and the plastic container
has a lens on it similar to the one he used in his own spectacles. At this moment he’s probably
seeing quite as well as he did before.’
‘The ceiling isn’t much to look at,’ Mrs Pearl said.
‘Don’t worry about that. We’re in the process of working out a whole programme to keep him
amused, but we don’t want to go too quickly at first.’
‘Give him a good book.’
‘We will, we will. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pearl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’ll go forward a little more, shall we, and you’ll be able to see the whole thing.’
He led her forward until they were standing only a couple of yards from the table and now she
could see right down into the basin.
‘There you are,’ Landy said. That’s William.’
He was far larger than she had imagined he would be, and darker in colour. With all the ridges
and creases running over his surface, he reminded her of nothing so much as an enormous pickled
walnut. She could see the stubs of the four big arteries and the two veins coming out from the base
of him and the neat way in which they were joined to the plastic tubes; and with each throb of the
heart machine, all the tubes gave a little jerk in unison as the blood was pushed through them.
‘You’ll have to lean over,’ Landy said, ‘and put your pretty face right above the eye. He’ll see
you then, and you can smile at him and blow him a kiss. If I were you I’d say a few nice things as
well. He won’t actually hear them, but I’m sure he’ll get the general idea.’
‘He hates people blowing kisses at him,’ Mrs Pearl said. ‘I’ll do it my own way if you don’t
mind.’ She stepped up to the edge of the table, leaned forward until her face was directly over the
basin, and looked straight down in William’s eye.
‘Hallo, dear,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me - Mary.’
The eye, bright as ever, stared back at her with a peculiar, fixed intensity.
‘How are you, dear?’ she said.
The plastic capsule was transparent all the way round so that the whole of the eyeball was
visible. The optic nerve connecting the underside of it to the brain looked a short length of grey
spaghetti.
‘Are you feeling all right, William?’
It was a queer sensation peering into her husband’s eye when there was no face to go with it. All
she had to look at was the eye, and she kept staring at it, and gradually it grew bigger and bigger,
and in the end it was the only thing that she could see - a sort of face in itself. There was a
network of tiny red veins running over the white surface of the eyeball, and in the ice-blue of the
iris there were three or four rather pretty darkish streaks radiating from the pupil in the centre. The
pupil was large and black, with a little spark of light reflecting from one side of it.
‘I got your letter, dear, and came over at once to see how you were. Dr Landy says you are
doing wonderfully well. Perhaps if I talk slowly you can understand a little of what I am saying by
reading my lips.’
There was no doubt that the eye was watching her.
‘They are doing everything possible to take care of you, dear. This marvellous machine thing
here is pumping away all the time and I’m sure it’s a lot better than those silly old hearts all the
rest of us have. Ours are liable to break down at any moment, but yours will go on for ever.’
She was studying the eye closely, trying to discover what there was about it that gave it such an
unusual appearance.
‘You seem fine, dear, simply fine. Really you do.’
It looked ever so much nicer, this eye, than either of his eyes used to look, she told herself.
There was a softness about it somewhere, a calm, kindly quality that she had never seen before.
Maybe it had to do with the dot in the very centre, the pupil. William’s pupils used always to be
tiny black pinheads. They used to glint at you, stabbing into your brain, seeing right through you,
and they always knew at once what you were up to and even what you were thinking. But this one
she was looking at now was large and soft and gentle, almost cow-like.
‘Are you quite sure he’s conscious?’ she asked, not looking up.
‘Oh yes, completely,’ Landy said.
‘And he can see me?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Isn’t that marvellous? I expect he’s wondering what happened.’
‘Not at all. He knows perfectly well where he is and why he’s there. He can’t possibly have
forgotten that.’
‘You mean he knows he’s in this basin?’
‘Of course. And if only he had the power of speech, he would probably be able to carry on a
perfectly normal conversation with you this very minute. So far as I can see, there should be
absolutely no difference mentally between this William here and the one you used to know back
home.’
‘Good gracious me,’ Mrs Pearl said, and she paused to consider this intriguing aspect.
You know what, she told herself, looking behind the eye now and staring hard at the great grey
pulpy walnut that lay so placidly under the water, I’m not at all sure that I don’t prefer him as he is
at present. In fact, I believe that I could live very comfortably with this kind of a William. I could
cope with this one.
‘Quiet, isn’t he?’ she said.
‘Naturally he’s quiet.’
No arguments and criticisms, she thought, no constant admonitions, no rules to obey, no ban on
smoking cigarettes, no pair of cold disapproving eyes watching me over the top of a book in the
evenings, no shirts to wash and iron, no meals to cook - nothing but the throb of the heart
machine, which was rather a soothing sound anyway and certainly not loud enough to interfere
with television.
‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘I do believe I’m suddenly getting to feel the most enormous affection for
him. Does that sound queer?’
‘I think it’s quite understandable.’
‘He looks so helpless and silent lying there under the water in his little basin.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘He’s like a baby, that’s what he’s like. He’s exactly like a little baby.’
Landy stood still behind her, watching.
‘There,’ she said softly, peering into the basin. ‘From now on Mary’s going to look after you all
by herself and you’ve nothing to worry about in the world. When can I have him back home,
Doctor?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said when can I have him back - back in my own house?’
‘You’re joking,’ Landy said.
She turned her head slowly around and looked directly at him. ‘Why should I joke?’ she asked.
Her face was bright, her eyes round and bright as two diamonds.
‘He couldn’t possibly be moved.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘This is an experiment, Mrs Pearl.’
‘It’s my husband, Dr Landy.’
A funny little nervous half-smile appeared on Landy’s mouth. ‘Well …’ he said.
‘It is my husband, you know.’ There was no anger in her voice. She spoke quietly, as though
merely reminding him of a simple fact.
‘That’s rather a tricky point,’ Landy said, wetting his lips. ‘You’re a widow now, Mrs Pearl. I
think you must resign yourself to that fact.’
She turned away suddenly from the table and crossed over to the window. ‘I mean it,’ she said,
fishing in her bag for a cigarette. ‘I want him back.’
Landy watched her as she put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. Unless he were very much
mistaken, there was something a bit odd about this woman, he thought. She seemed almost pleased
to have her husband over there in the basin.
He tried to imagine what his own feelings would be if it were his wife’s brain lying there and
her eye staring at him out of that capsule.
He wouldn’t like it.
‘Shall we go back to my room now?’ he said.
She was standing by the window, apparently quite calm and relaxed, puffing her cigarette.
‘Yes, all right.’
On her way past the table she stopped and leaned over the basin once more. ‘Mary’s leaving
now, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘And don’t you worry about a single thing, you understand? We’re
going to get you right back home where we can look after you properly just as soon as we possibly
can. And listen dear …’ At this point she paused and carried the cigarette to her lips, intending to
take a puff.
Instantly the eye flashed.
She was looking straight into it at the time and right in the centre of it she saw a tiny but
brilliant flash of light, and the pupil contracted into a minute black pinpoint of absolute fury.
At first she didn’t move. She stood bending over the basin, holding the cigarette up to her
mouth, watching the eye.
Then very slowly, deliberately, she put the cigarette between her lips and took a long suck. She
inhaled deeply, and she held the smoke inside her lungs for three or four seconds; then suddenly,
whoosh, out it came through her nostrils in two thin jets which struck the water in the basin, and
billowed out over the surface in a thick blue cloud, enveloping the eye.
Landy was over by the door, with his back to her, waiting. ‘Come on, Mrs Pearl,’ he called.
‘Don’t look so cross, William,’ she said softly. ‘It isn’t any good looking cross.’
Landy tuned his head to see what she was doing.
‘Not any more it isn’t,’ she whispered. ‘Because from now on, my pet, you’re going to do just
exactly what Mary tells you. Do you understand that?’
‘Mrs Pearl,’ Landy said, moving towards her.
‘So don’t be a naughty boy again, will you, my precious,’ she said, taking another pull at the
cigarette. ‘Naughty boys are liable to get punished most severely nowadays, you ought to know
that.’
Landy was beside her now, and he took her by the arm and began drawing her firmly but gently
away from the table.
‘Good-bye, darling,’ she called. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
‘That’s enough, Mrs Pearl.’
‘Isn’t he sweet?’ she cried, looking up at Landy with big bright eyes. ‘Isn’t he heaven? I just
can’t wait to get him home.’
威廉与玛丽
威廉与玛丽
威廉•佩尔死后没有留下多少钱财，遗嘱也很简单。除了对亲戚有一些少量的遗赠，他把
所有财产都留给了妻子。
在律师事务所，律师和佩尔夫人把财产清点了一遍，事情办完后，这位遗孀起身准备离
开。就在这时，律师从桌上的文件夹里拿出一个封口的信封，递给他的客户。
“我遵嘱把这个交给您。”他说，“是您的丈夫在过世前不久派人送来的。”律师脸色苍
白、神情拘谨，出于对一位遗孀的尊敬，他说话时脑袋偏向一边，目光低垂。“这似乎是私密
性质的，佩尔夫人。您肯定想拿回家独自阅读。”
佩尔夫人接过信封，出门来到外面的街道上。她在人行道上停住脚，摸了摸指间的那个
信封。是威廉写的一封告别信？很有可能。一封正式的信。——肯定很正式——冠冕堂皇、
一本正经。那男人不可能有别的表现。他这辈子从来没做过非正式的事情。
我亲爱的玛丽，我相信你不会允许我告别人世，让你心绪烦乱，但是你会继续遵守
在我们共同生活的这么多年妥善引导你的那些戒律。在任何事情上都勤勉努力、不失尊
严。厉行节俭。注意千万不可……等等，等等。
一封典型的威廉风格的信。
或者，有没有可能他在最后一刻放下身段，给她写了些优美动听的话？这也许是一封充
满浓情蜜意的信，类似某种情书，以充满感情的笔触感谢她用人生中的三十年陪伴他，熨了
一百万件衬衫、做了一百万顿饭、铺了一百万次床，这封信她可以一遍遍地反复品读，至少
每天读一次，她会把它永远珍藏在她梳妆台的匣子里，跟她的胸针放在一起。
谁也不知道人之将死会做些什么，佩尔夫人对自己说。于是她把信封夹在胳膊下，匆匆
返回家中。
她打开前门走进去，直接去了客厅，坐在沙发上，帽子没摘，大衣也没有脱。她拆开信
封，抽出里面的东西。她看到共有十五到二十张白色横格纸，对折着，左上角别着一根回形
针。每张纸上都密密麻麻写满了字，那种向前倾斜的字体，她再熟悉不过，可是她注意到信
的内容这么多，写得这么公事公办、整整齐齐，而且第一页的开头就不像一封令人愉悦的
信，她便开始心生疑虑。
她移开目光，给自己点了一支烟。她深吸一口，把烟放在了烟灰缸里。
她扫了一眼壁炉另一边的威廉的空椅子。那是一把褐色的皮扶手椅，座位上有个凹坑，
是这么多年他的屁股坐在上面形成的。在椅背的高处，皮革表面有一块椭圆形的深色斑痕，
是他脑袋曾经倚靠的地方。他经常坐在那张椅子里阅读，而她总是坐在他对面的沙发上，缝
纽扣、补袜子，或给他的一件上衣的臂肘处打补丁，时不时地，会有一双眼睛从书上抬起，
落在她身上，凝神注视，却又异样地毫无表情，似乎在盘算着什么。她从来都不喜欢那双眼
睛。淡蓝色的、冷冰冰的，很小，而且两眼离得很近，中间有两道深深的、透着不满的竖纹
把它们分开。这两只眼睛盯了她一辈子。即使此刻，独自在这房子里住了一星期之后，她有
时仍有一种不安的感觉，似乎它们还在那儿，到处跟着她，从门口、从空椅子、从半夜的窗
户盯着她看。
慢慢地，她把手伸进坤包，掏出眼镜戴上。然后，她把那些纸高高地举在面前，就着从
身后的窗户透进来的黄昏的光，开始看了起来：
我亲爱的玛丽，这封信是写给你一个人的，将会在我死后不久交到你手上。
看到这么多内容，请你不要惊慌。其实没有什么，我只是想要准确地向你解释兰迪
将会对我做的事情、我为什么同意他的做法，以及他的理论和他的愿景。你是我的妻
子，你有权了解这些事情。实际上你也必须知道详情。在过去的几天里，我曾非常努力
地试图跟你谈谈兰迪，但你十分坚决地不听我说。我已经告诉过你，这种态度是非常愚
蠢的，而且我发现也是不无自私的。它的根源多半在于无知，我绝对相信，只要你意识
到所有的事实，就会立刻改变想法。所以我希望，当我不在你身边时，当你不再感到心
烦意乱时，你能安下心来，仔细听听我通过这些纸告诉你的话。我向你保证，你读完我
的故事之后，心中的反感就会消失，取而代之的将是热忱。我甚至敢冒昧地希望，你会
为我所做的事情感到一点骄傲。
你在继续读信时，必须尽可能原谅我这种冷冰冰的风格，因为我知道只有用这个办
法才能清楚地向你传达我的意思。你知道，随着大限越来越近，我的内心自然充满了人
间的各种复杂情感。我每天都越来越沉湎于黯然神伤，特别是在傍晚，我必须严密地监
视自己，以免我的情感会在这些信纸上泛滥。
比如，我希望写一写你，写一写你是个多么令人满意的妻子，伴我度过这么多年，
我向自己保证，如果还有时间，如果还有气力，我下次一定会写。
我还有一种渴望，想谈谈我在过去十七年里生活和教学的牛津大学，谈谈这所大学
的辉煌，并且如果可能的话，稍稍解释一下能有幸在这里工作意味着什么。此时此刻，
在这间昏暗的卧室里，我所深爱的所有事情和地方，都潮水般向我涌来，那么明亮和美
丽，一如既往。今天，因为某种原因，我比任何时候都能更清楚地看到它们。伍斯特学
院花园里的湖畔小路，那是拉芙蕾丝经常漫步的地方。位于彭布罗克的校门。从马达兰
高塔上西眺所见的城市景致。基督教堂的宏伟大厅。圣约翰分校的小假山庭院，我在那
里数出了十几种不同的风铃草，包括稀罕而精致的聚花风铃草。可是，你瞧！还没有开
始说正文，我就已经落入了陷阱。好吧，让我言归正传。亲爱的，请你慢慢地读，不要
带有任何忧伤或不满的情绪，那可能会干扰你的理解。请向我保证，你会读得很慢，而
且在开始前会让自己处于一种冷静和耐心的心境中。
我人到中年突然遭遇病魔，关于疾病的细节你已全然知晓，在此我就不必再费笔墨
——我只想承认，当初没有早些去看医生是何等的愚蠢。癌症是现代医药不能治愈的几
种顽疾之一。如果尚未快速扩散，是可以进行手术的。然而，我不仅发现得太迟，而且
癌细胞厚颜无耻，竟然攻击了我的胰腺，使我既无法手术，也无法继续存活。
因此，我只剩下大约一到六个月的生命，随着时间一小时一小时地过去，我的心情
越来越忧郁——接着，突然之间，兰迪来了。
那是六星期前一个星期二的上午，时间很早，还不到你的探视时段，他一走进来，
我就知道有一件疯狂的事情即将发生。他不像我的其他探视者那样，踮着脚轻轻地进
来，怯生生的，神色尴尬，不知道说些什么。他踌躇满志、面带微笑地走进来，大步走
到床前，站在那里低头看着我，眼睛里闪烁着野性的亮光，然后他说：“威廉，我的孩
子，这太完美了。你正是我想要的人！”
也许我应该向你解释一下，约翰•兰迪从未去过我们家，你即使见过他，次数也很有
限，但是在最近九年里，我本人跟他关系很友好。我首先是一位哲学教师，这自不用
说，但你知道，我近些年对心理学也有大量的涉猎。因此，兰迪的兴趣和我有着少许的
重叠。他是一名出色的神经外科医师，属于出类拔萃者之一，最近，他非常慷慨地让我
学习他的某些研究成果，特别是脑前额叶切除术对各种精神病患者的不同影响。因而你
就能明白，当他在星期二上午突然闯进我病房时，我们俩绝对不能算是素昧平生。
“瞧瞧，”他拖了把椅子在我床边坐下，说道，“再过几个星期，你就要死了。对
吗？”
这个问句从兰迪嘴里说出来，似乎并没有特别的恶意。从某个方面来说，有一位探
视者勇敢地触及这个禁忌的话题，倒令人精神为之一振。
“你将会在这间病房里咽气，然后他们会把你抬出去，实行火葬。”
“土葬。”我说。
“那就更糟糕了。然后呢？你相信自己会进天堂吗？”
“我感到怀疑，”我说，“不过这么想想的话倒是令人欣慰。”
“或者会下地狱？”
“我不太明白他们为什么要把我送去那儿。”
“你永远不会知道，我亲爱的威廉。”
“说这些话有什么意义？”我问。
“是这样的，”他说，我能看到他在密切地观察我，“从个人角度来说，我不相信在你
死亡之后，你还能再听到你自己的消息——除非……”说到这里，他停住了，笑微微地凑
上前来，“……除非，当然啦，你明智地把自己交到我的手里。你愿意考虑一个建议
吗？”
他那样专注地凝视我、研究我，带着某种异样的渴望评估我，就好像我是柜台上的
一块特级牛排，他已经买下，正等着别人把它包起来。
“我是郑重其事地在问你，威廉。你愿意考虑一个我的建议吗？”
“我不知道你在说些什么。”
“那就听我详细告诉你。你愿意听吗？”
“你愿意说就说吧。反正我听了也不会损失什么。”
“正好相反，你将会得到很多东西——特别是在你去世之后。”
我相信他以为我听了这话会惊跳起来，但不知怎的，我对此早有准备。我静静地躺
着，注视着他的脸，看着他慢慢绽开一口白牙的微笑，他笑起来嘴巴左边总会露出套在
犬齿上的那颗假牙的金环。
“威廉，我为这件事已默默工作了好几年。这家医院也有一两个人在帮我，特别是莫
里森，我们已用实验动物完成了许多比较成功的试验。在目前这个阶段，我准备好了在
人身上做尝试。这是一个宏伟的想法，起初可能听起来有点儿不靠谱，但是从外科手术
的角度来看，似乎没有任何理由不认为它或多或少是可行的。”
兰迪探身向前，把两只手都放在我的床沿。他的脸很周正，有一种骨感的英俊，丝
毫没有平常医生的那种样子。你知道那副神情，大多数医生都有。他们的眼球朝你闪
着，露出那副神情，像一个毫无生气的电子招牌，上面印着“只有我能救你”。可是约翰•
兰迪的眼睛又大又亮，眼眸中间闪烁着点点兴奋的光。
“很久以前，”他说，“我看过一个医疗短片，是从俄国带过来的。那片子相当恐怖，
但很有趣。在片子里，一只狗的脑袋完全从身体上切断，但是依靠一颗人造心脏，通过
动脉和静脉维持着正常的血液供给。关键在于：那只狗的脑袋，孤零零地放在某种托盘
上，仍然活着。大脑还在运作。他们通过几个实验证明了这点。比如，当把食物抹在狗
的嘴唇上时，舌头会伸出来把它舔掉；有人在房间里走动时，狗的眼睛会跟着转动。
“似乎有理由从中得出结论，头和大脑不需要跟身体其他部分相连才能继续存活——
当然啦，条件是要能维持适当的含氧血的供给。
“重点来了。看这部片子使我产生了一个想法，就是把一个人的大脑从颅骨里取出
来，作为一个独立部件，让它在那人死后无限的时间里继续存活和运转。比如，你的大
脑，在你死去之后。”
“我不愿意。”我说。
“别打断我，威廉。让我把话说完。我从接下来的实验中可以看出，大脑是一件特别
能够自给自足的东西。它自己制造脑脊液。大脑内部进行思维和记忆的神奇过程，显然
并不会因为肢体、躯干，甚至颅骨的缺失而受损，只要，就像我说的，在合适的条件下
不断泵入正确的含氧血。
“我亲爱的威廉，请稍微考虑一下你自己的大脑吧。它形状完美无缺。里面塞满了你
一辈子的学识。你多少年埋头治学，才造就了它现在这样子。它刚刚开始产生一些一流
的创新思想。然而，它很快就要随着你身体的其他部分一起死去，就因为你那愚蠢的小
胰腺被癌细胞所侵蚀。”
“不了，谢谢。”我对他说，“你可以打住了。这是一个令人厌恶的想法，即使你能做
到——对此我深感怀疑，也基本上是毫无意义的。如果我不能说话，没有感觉，听不见
也看不见，让我的大脑活着有什么用呢？就我个人来说，我想不出比这个更让人反感的
事了。”
“我相信你肯定能够跟我们交流。”兰迪说，“说不定你还能拥有一定的视力。不过慢
慢来吧。我稍后再过来商量细节。事实是不管发生什么，你过不了多久就会死去，我的
计划是到你死亡之后才需要触碰你。考虑一下吧，威廉。真正的哲学家都不会反对把自
己的尸体用于科学事业的。”
“这并没有完全说服我。”我回答，“在我看来，当你在我身上动完手脚之后，将会很
难判断我到底是死是活。”
“是啊，”他微微笑着说，“我估计这点你是对的。但我认为你不应该这么快就回绝
我，你还是多了解一点再答复我吧。”
“我说了我不想听。”
“抽支烟吧。”他说，把烟匣子递了过来。
“我不抽烟，你知道的。”
他自己拿出一支，用一个小巧玲珑、跟一先令硬币差不多大的银质打火机把它点
燃。“这是给我做仪器的人送的礼物。”他说，“很别致，是不是？”
我仔细看了看打火机，然后递了回去。
“我可以继续说了吗？”他问。
“还是不说为好。”
“你就静静地躺着听吧。我认为你会发现这是非常有意思的事。”
我床边一个盘子里有一些蓝色的葡萄。我把盘子放在我的胸口，开始吃葡萄。
“在死亡的那一刻，”兰迪说，“我必须站在旁边，这样才能立即上前采取措施，让你
的大脑保持存活。”
“你是说把它留在脑袋里？”
“一开始是的。只能这样。”
“在那之后你把它放在哪儿？”
“如果你想知道，我不妨告诉你，放在一个盆里。”
“你真的没开玩笑吗？”
“我当然没开玩笑。”
“好吧。接着说。”
“我想你大概知道，当心脏停止跳动，大脑缺少了新鲜的血液和氧气，它的组织会迅
速死亡。在四到六分钟里，整个大脑就会死去。即使只过了三分钟，也有可能遭到某种
程度的损害。因此，我必须迅速采取措施，阻止这种情况的发生。但是在机器的帮助
下，这应该是很容易的。”
“什么机器？”
“人造心脏。我们对亚历克西•卡雷尔和林德伯格的创造发明做了巧妙的改良。它能给
血液供氧，保持合适的温度，在适当的压力下泵出血液，还能做许多其他必要的事情。
真的一点儿也不复杂。”
“告诉我，在死亡的那一刻你会做什么？”我说，“你要做的第一件事是什么？”
“你了解大脑的动脉和静脉结构吗？”
“不了解。”
“那就听着，这不难理解。大脑的血液供给主要来自两个渠道，颈内动脉和椎动脉。
它们各有两条动脉，一共是四条。听懂了吗？”
“懂了。”
“回送系统就更简单了。血液通过两条大静脉，颈内静脉，流出去。这样你就有四条
上行的动脉——当然，它们通到颈部——和两条下行的静脉。它们在大脑周围自然分流
到其他渠道，但那些跟我们无关。我们永远不会触碰它们。”
“好吧。”我说，“想象一下我刚刚咽气。现在你会怎么做？”
“我应该立刻切开你的脖颈，找到那四条动脉，颈动脉和椎动脉。然后我应该对它们
进行灌注，也就是说，我会往每条动脉里插入一根大空心针。这四根针都通过管子与人
造心脏相连。
“接着，我快速行动，把左侧和右侧的颈内静脉都解剖出来，也与人造心脏相连，完
成整个循环。现在开动机器，合适的血液已经预先准备好了，大功告成。你大脑中的血
液循环将会恢复。”
“我就会跟那条俄国狗一样。”
“我认为不会。首先，你死后肯定会失去意识，我非常怀疑很长一段时间你恐怕都醒
不过来——最终能不能苏醒还不一定。但是，不管有没有意识，你都会处于一个非常有
趣的状态，是不是？你将会拥有一具冰冷的身体和一个活着的大脑。”
兰迪停住话头，咂摸这令人愉快的前景。此人被这整个想法迷住了，简直如痴如
醉，显然很难相信我会有另外的感觉。
“然后我们就不着急了，可以慢慢来。”他说，“请相信我，我们会需要很多时间。我
们要做的第一件事就是把你推进手术室，当然啦，那台机器也得跟着，它必须一刻也不
停止地泵动。接下来的问题是……”
“好了，”我说，“够了。我不必听具体细节。”
“哦，你必须听。”他说，“你应该准确地了解你从头到尾会经历什么，这很重要。事
后，当你恢复了意识，如果能够回忆起自己是在什么地方，又是怎么在那里的，从你的
角度来说就会安心得多。就算是只为了你自己内心的宁静，你也应该知道。你同意吗？”
我静静地躺在床上，注视着他。
“所以，接下来的问题就是，把你的大脑完整无损地从你的尸体上移除。尸体已经没
有用了，实际上它已经开始腐烂。颅骨和脸也毫无用处，它们都是累赘，我不需要它
们。我需要的只有大脑，干净、漂亮的大脑，十全十美，依然活着。因此，当我把你搬
到桌上时，我会拿起一把锯子，一把小小的摆锯，用它开始锯掉你的整个头颅。这时候
你仍然没有意识，所以我无须使用麻药。”
“你这该死的。”我说。
“你完全没有知觉，我可以向你保证，威廉。别忘了你几分钟前刚刚咽气。”
“没有人能不用麻药就把我的头颅锯下来。”我说。
兰迪耸了耸肩。“这在我看来没什么区别。”他说，“如果你想要，我很愿意给你一点
普鲁卡因。只要能让你高兴一点，我可以用普鲁卡因浸透你的整个头皮，整个脑袋，从
脖子往上。”
“非常感谢。”我说。
“你知道，”他继续说道，“有时候会发生一些很蹊跷的事。就在上个星期，一个男人
神志不清地被带进来，我没用任何麻药就给他开颅，清除一小块血栓。我还在头颅里忙
活着呢，他突然醒了，开始说话。
“‘我在哪儿？’他问。
“‘在医院里。’
“‘哟，’他说，‘真想不到。’
“‘请告诉我，’我问他，‘我的动作会让你感觉到难受吗？’
“‘没有，’他回答道，‘一点也没有。你现在在做什么呢？’
“‘我在清除你脑子里的一块血栓。’
“‘是吗？’
“‘老实躺着，不要动。我快要完事了。’
“‘看来就是这讨厌的东西害得我动不动就头疼。’那人说。”
兰迪停住话头，想起当时的情景，露出了微笑。“这是那个人的原话。”他继续说
道，“不过，第二天他完全不记得这件事了。大脑真是个奇怪的玩意儿。”
“我要普鲁卡因。”我说。
“你会如愿的，威廉。我刚才说到，我会拿一把小小的摆锯，小心翼翼地锯下你的整
个颅盖——也就是整个颅骨。这样一来，大脑的上半部就暴露在外了，准确地说，暴露
的是包裹大脑的外壳。不知你是否了解，大脑周围有三层独立的覆盖膜——外面一层叫
硬脑膜，中间一层叫蛛网膜，里面一层叫软脑膜。外行人多半以为，大脑是一个赤裸的
东西，漂浮在你脑袋里的液体中。其实不是。它被这三层结实的膜包裹得严严实实，脑
脊液实际上是在两层内膜的狭小缝隙间流动，这缝隙被称为蛛网膜下腔。就像我刚才告
诉你的，这个脑脊液是大脑产生的，通过渗透进入静脉系统。
“我很想把这三层膜都留下——它们的名字是不是很可爱？硬脑膜、蛛网膜、软脑膜
——我会让它们都保持完好无损。这么做有许多原因，尤其是硬脑膜里存在着静脉通
道，它们把大脑里的血液送入颈静脉。”
“现在，”他继续说道，“我们已经把你颅骨的上半部拿开，露出了包裹在硬脑膜里的
大脑顶。接下来的一步非常棘手：把整个大脑剥离出来，使它能够干净利落地被拎起
来，下面悬着四根供血动脉和两条静脉的断根，准备重新连接到机器上。这是一项极为
繁琐和复杂的工程，涉及细致地凿去许多骨头，切断许多神经，剪断并扎紧数不清的血
管。要想成功地完成这件事，唯一的办法是拿一把咬骨钳，慢慢地咬掉你剩下来的颅
骨，像剥橘子一样把它往下翻，直到脑膜的侧面和底部全部暴露出来。其中所涉及的难
点是高度技术性的，我在此就不一一赘述了，但我有相当的把握，这项工作能够完成。
这是个手术技术和耐心的问题。别忘了我有的是时间，要多少有多少，因为人造心脏会
一直在手术台旁边泵动，让大脑保持存活。
“好了，让我们假设我已经把你的颅骨成功剥离，把大脑周围的其他东西统统清除。
现在大脑只有底部与身体相连，主要是通过脊柱和两条大静脉，以及给大脑供血的四条
动脉。接下来怎么办呢？
“我会切断第一颈椎上方的脊柱，同时格外当心不要损坏那个区域的两条椎动脉。你
千万别忘了，这地方的硬脑膜是敞开接纳脊柱的，所以我必须缝合硬脑膜的边缘，关闭
这个开口。那样就没有问题了。
“这个时候，我将准备采取最后一个步骤。在旁边的一张桌子上，我放着一个特殊形
状的盆，里面盛满了我们所谓的林格氏液。那是神经外科用于冲洗的一种专门液体。现
在我要切断供血的动脉和静脉，把大脑完整地剥离出来。然后我只要用双手把它捧起
来，送到盆里去就行了。在整个过程中，这是唯一需要切断血流的环节。一旦到了盆
里，只需片刻就能把动脉和静脉的断根与人造心脏相连接。
“然后就大功告成了。”兰迪说，“你的大脑在盆里，依然活着，没有任何理由不会继
续存活很长时间，只要我们仔细留意血液和机器，年复一年地活着也有可能。”
“它会再运行吗？”
“亲爱的威廉，我怎么能知道呢？我甚至无法得知它会不会恢复意识。”
“如果恢复了呢？”
“那太好了。”兰迪说，“会非常神奇！”
“是吗？”我说，不得不承认我心存疑虑。
“那还用说！在那里，你的思维过程将美丽地进行，还有你的记忆……”
“却不能看见、不能触摸，闻不到、听不见，也不能说话。”我说。
“啊！”他喊道，“我就知道我忘了点什么！我没有跟你说眼睛的事。听着。我要争取
让你的视神经保持完好，还有眼睛本身。视神经是一个很小的东西，像体温计那么粗，
大约两英寸长，连接在大脑和眼睛之间。它妙就妙在其实根本不是一根神经，它是大脑
本身的一个外囊，硬脑膜顺着它延伸，与眼球相连。因此，眼球后部与大脑的接触非常
密切，脑脊液直接流向眼球。
“这一切都非常符合我的目的，使我有理由推测我能成功地保留你的一只眼睛。我已
经制作了一个装眼球的小塑料匣子，代替你自己的眼窝，当大脑被放进盆里，浸没在林
格氏液中时，匣子里的那个眼球将会浮在液体表面。”
“瞪着天花板。”我说。
“是的，我想是这样的。说来遗憾，不会有任何肌肉让眼球得以转动。不过，静静
地、舒舒服服地躺在那里，从你的盆里望着这个世界，可能也是某种乐趣呢。”
“真滑稽。”我说，“再给我留一只耳朵怎么样？”
“这次我还是不考虑耳朵了。”
“我要一只耳朵。”我说，“我坚持要一只耳朵。”
“不行。”
“我想听巴赫。”
“你不理解那个难度有多大。”兰迪温和地说，“听觉器官——也就是所谓的耳蜗——
是比眼睛复杂得多的一种精密构造。更麻烦的是，它被骨头所包裹。耳朵与大脑相连的
听觉神经也有一部分在骨头里。我不可能把这一整套东西完好无损地凿出来。”
“你就不能让它包在骨头里，然后再把那块骨头放进盆里吗？”
“不行。”他坚决地说，“这件事本身已经够复杂的了。而且，只要眼睛管用，听力其
实根本没有什么关系。我们完全可以把信息举在你眼前让你读。你真的必须让我来判断
什么是可能的，什么是不可能的。”
“我还没有说我同意这件事呢。”
“我知道，威廉，我知道。”
“我不能肯定我很喜欢这个想法。”
“你难道情愿死去，彻底死去？”
“也许吧。我现在还不知道呢。但到时候我也没法说话，对吗？”
“当然。”
“那我怎么跟你交流呢？你怎么知道我有意识呢？”
“我们很容易就能知道你是否恢复了意识。”兰迪说，“普通的脑电图描记器就能告诉
我们这点。我们会把电极直接连在盆里你大脑的前额叶上。”
“你真的能够知道？”
“哦，这是肯定的。任何一家医院都可以做到这点。”
“可是我无法跟你交流。”
“事实上，”兰迪说，“我相信你可以。伦敦有一个人叫韦特海默，他在思想交流方面
做一些有趣的研究，我一直跟他有联系。大脑思考时会释放电子和化学物质，这点你是
知道的吧？它们是以波的形式释放的，类似于无线电波。”
“我对此略知一二。”我说。
“好吧，韦特海默制造出一种仪器，与脑部造影有几分相似，不过要灵敏得多，他声
称这仪器能在一定范围内帮助他辨读一个大脑正在思考的确切想法。仪器产生某种图
表，似乎可被翻译成文字或思想。你愿意我请韦特海默过来看看你吗？”
“不用。”我说。兰迪已经想当然地以为我接受了这件事，我对他的这种态度很反
感。“你走吧，让我清静清静。”我对他说，“你的催促是不会有任何结果的。”
他立刻站起身，朝门口走去。
“有一个问题。”我说。
他站住了，一只手放在门把手上。“请说，威廉。”
“这个问题很简单。你本人真的相信，我的大脑到了盆里之后，我的思维还能够完全
像目前这样运转吗？你真的相信，我能够像现在这样思考和推理，并且还能保持着记忆
的能力？”
“我认为是可以的。”他回答，“大脑还是同一个大脑。它还活着，没有受到损坏。实
际上，它完全未被触动。我们连硬脑膜都没有打开。当然啦，最大的区别就是我们切断
了通向它内部的每一根神经——除了那根视神经——这就意味着，你的思考不再会受你
感官的影响。你将生活在一个特别纯净、超凡脱俗的世界里。没有任何东西来干扰你，
甚至没有疼痛。你不可能感受到疼痛，因为没有了感知疼痛的神经。在某种程度上，那
简直是一种完美的状态。没有忧虑，没有恐惧，也没有饥饿。甚至没有任何欲望。只有
你的记忆和你的思想，如果留下来的那只眼球碰巧还管用，那你还能够看书。在我听来
这是相当令人愉悦的。”
“果真如此？”
“是的，威廉，是的。特别是对一位哲学博士来说，那将是一种无比精彩的体验。你
将能够以尚未有任何人企及的超然和宁静，反思这个世界的一切。到那时候，谁知道有
什么事情是不可能发生的呢？你也许会产生伟大的思想和方案，那些了不起的想法可能
会彻底改变我们的生活方式也未可知！你尽力想象一下你将能达到的那种专注的程度
吧！”
“以及失望的程度。”我说。
“胡说。不可能有任何失望。没有欲望就没有失望，而你是不可能有任何欲望的。至
少没有肉体的欲望。”
“我肯定能够记得我以前在这个世界的生活，我也许渴望返回其中。”
“什么，返回这个烂摊子！离开你那个舒适的盆，回到这个疯人院！”
“再回答一个问题吧。”我说，“你认为你能让它存活多久呢？”
“大脑？谁知道呢？也许年复一年，很久很久。条件将是十分理想的。拜那个人造心
脏所赐，大多数能引起变质的因素都不存在。血压始终保持恒定，这种情况在现实生活
中是不可能的。温度也是恒定不变的。血液里的化学成分接近完美。里面不会有任何杂
质，也没有病毒或细菌，什么都没有。当然啦，我不该妄加猜测，但我相信在这样的环
境下，一个大脑可以存活两三百年。现在我告辞了，”他说，“明天我会再来看你。”他快
步走了出去，而我，你可能会猜到，难免有点心烦意乱。
他离开后，我的第一反应是对整件事的强烈反感。总之，这听起来绝对不是一件好
事。我的所有智力完好无损，却要沦为一小坨发灰的、黏糊糊的东西，浸在一摊水里，
这想法有一些极端令人厌恶的东西，是荒谬、龌龊、邪恶的。还有一件事令我感到不
安，一旦兰迪把我弄进那个盆里，我肯定会体验到一种无助感。在那之后将没有退路，
没有办法抗议或解释。只要他们让我存活，我就只能被迫活着。
如果，打个比方，我无法忍受呢？如果发现那是极度痛苦的呢？如果我变得歇斯底
里呢？
没有腿可以逃跑。没有嗓子可以尖叫。什么也没有。我只能强颜欢笑，默默忍受两
个世纪。
我也没有嘴能够强颜欢笑。
就在这时，我突然冒出一个奇怪的想法：一条腿被截肢的人，不是经常会产生那条
腿还在的错觉吗？他不是告诉护士，他的那些不再拥有的脚趾痒得要命，如此等等吗？
这样的事情就在不久前我还听说过呢。
是啊。在同样的前提下，我的大脑，孤零零地躺在那个盆里，有没有可能产生关于
我身体的类似错觉呢？那样的话，我平常所有的病痛和不适都会潮水般涌来，我甚至不
能服下一颗阿司匹林来缓解症状。我可能会时而幻想自己腿部抽筋或严重消化不良，时
而又很容易地感觉到我那可怜的膀胱——你了解我的——胀得那么满，如果不赶紧排
空，肯定就会爆炸。
但愿不会。
我躺在病床上，久久地想着这些可怕的念头。突然，就在中午前后，我的心情开始
发生变化。我不再那么关心此事令人不快的方面，而发现自己能够从一个更理性的角度
审视兰迪的建议。我问自己，想到我的大脑不必在几个星期后死亡和消失，是不是多少
令人感到一丝欣慰呢？确实如此。我很为自己的大脑感到骄傲。它是一个敏感、通透、
肥沃多产的器官，蕴含着惊人的信息储备，而且仍然能够产生富有想象力和创新性的思
想。说一句大言不惭的话，作为大脑来说，它是绝对出类拔萃的。而我的身体，我这具
可怜的破身体，兰迪想要丢弃的旧皮囊——是啊，就连你，我亲爱的玛丽，也不得不同
意我的看法：它确实不再有任何值得保存的价值了。
我仰面躺着，吃着一颗葡萄。真好吃啊，里面有三粒小小的籽，我从嘴里取出来，
放在盘子的边缘。
“我同意做。”我轻声说，“是的，苍天在上，我同意做。等到兰迪明天再来看我的时
候，我就立刻告诉他，我同意做。”
就这么迅速地决定了。从那以后，我的感觉大有好转。我狼吞虎咽地吃下分量惊人
的午餐，令每个人都感到吃惊，不久之后，你就像平常一样来探视我了。
你对我说，我看上去气色真好。那么愉快、活泼、容光焕发。发生了什么事吗？有
什么好消息吗？
是的，我说，确实有事。然后，不知你是否记得，我请你坐下来，尽量坐舒服一
些，我立刻开始用尽量委婉的口气向你解释将要发生的事。
然而，你根本不听。我刚讲了几个最明显的细节，你就大为恼火，说这件事恶心、
可怕、令人厌憎、不可想象，我还想继续往下说，你却大步走出了病房。
是啊，玛丽，就像你知道的，在那以后我曾多次试图谈论这个话题，可是你固执地
拒绝听我说话。因此，我只能希望你能明智地让自己读读这封信。我写它花了很长时
间。从我草草写下第一行文字，已经过去了两个星期，现在我比那个时候虚弱多了，我
恐怕没有力气再说更多。当然啦，我不会跟你诀别，因为有一种可能，有一种很小很小
的可能，兰迪的计划会成功，我以后真的还能再见到你，我是说如果你有勇气过来看望
我的话。
我吩咐他们在我死亡一星期后把这些纸交给你。因而，此刻你坐在这里读这些文字
时，兰迪采取行动已经有七天了。你恐怕都不知道结果如何。如果你真的不知道，如果
你故意保持距离，不愿意与此事有任何瓜葛——我怀疑可能会是这种情况——那么请你
现在就改变主意，给兰迪打个电话，看看我的状况怎样。这是你至少能做到的事。我已
经对他说过，在第七天可能会接到你的电话。
你忠实的丈夫
威廉
又及：我离开后你要循规蹈矩，永远记住做一个寡妇比做一个妻子更难。不要喝鸡
尾酒，不要乱花钱，不要抽烟，不要吃油酥点心，不要抹口红，不要买电视机；夏天把
我的玫瑰花坛和假山庭院的杂草剪除干净。顺便提个建议，你把电话线拔掉吧，我不会
再使用它了。
威
佩尔夫人把最后一页手稿慢慢放在身边的沙发上。她的小嘴紧紧地噘了起来，鼻孔周围
有点泛白。
说真的！她还以为熬了这么多年之后，一个寡妇有权利得到一点点清静呢。
整件事情想起来实在太可怕了，残忍而可怕，令她不寒而栗。
她把手伸进包里，又掏出一支烟。她把烟点燃，深深吸了一口，在房间里吞云吐雾。烟
雾中，她可以看见那台漂亮的电视机，崭新、气派、闪着光泽，挑衅般地、同时又有点儿心
虚地盘踞在威廉曾经的工作台上。
如果他此刻看见那个，会怎么说呢？她猜想着。
她停下来，想起了他最后一次看见她抽烟的情景。那大约是一年以前，她坐在厨房敞开
的窗口，想在他下班前匆匆地抽一支。她让收音机大声播放舞曲，然后她转过身，想给自己
再倒一杯咖啡，却突然发现他站在门口，那么魁梧而阴鸷，那双可怕的眼睛向下盯着她，每
个眼眸中间闪着一个愤怒的小黑点。
在那之后的四个星期，他亲自支付家用开支，一分钱也没有给她，当然啦，他不知道她
在水池橱柜下的一个肥皂箱里，藏了六镑多的私房钱。
“怎么回事？”有一次吃晚饭时她问他，“你是担心我患上肺癌吗？”
“不是。”他回答。
“那我为什么不能抽烟？”
“因为我不喜欢，这就是原因。”
他还不喜欢孩子，其结果就是他们一直没有自己的孩子。
她的这位威廉，这个专门与她作对的家伙，此刻在哪里呢？
兰迪还在等她电话呢。她一定要给兰迪打电话吗？
其实也不一定。
她抽完烟，立刻又用烟蒂点燃了一支。她看着放在工作台上电视机旁边的电话。威廉叫
她打电话。他特意要求她读过信之后马上给兰迪打电话。她迟疑着，努力对抗着她还不敢完
全摆脱的那种根深蒂固的责任感。然后，她慢慢地站起身，走向房间那头工作台上的电话。
她在电话簿上找到号码，拨了过去，等待着。
“我想跟兰迪医生说话。”
“请问您是哪位？”
“佩尔夫人。威廉•佩尔夫人。”
“请您稍等。”
几乎立刻，兰迪就在电话那头说话了。
“是佩尔夫人吗？”
“我是佩尔夫人。”
短暂的停顿。
“我很高兴您终于来电话了，佩尔夫人。我希望您一切都好。”那声音温和、礼貌，不带
任何感情，“不知您是否愿意到医院来一趟？然后我们可以稍微聊聊。我猜您一定迫切地想知
道结果如何。”
她没有回答。
“我现在可以告诉您，总的来说，一切都进展得非常顺利。实际上比我所希望的还要好得
多。它不仅活着，佩尔夫人，而且具有意识。它第二天就恢复了神志。这是不是很有意思？”
她等待他继续往下说。
“眼睛也能看见了。这点我们确有把握，因为当我们把东西举在它前面时，脑电图上的挠
度立刻发生了变化。现在我们每天都给它看报纸。”
“什么报纸？”佩尔夫人尖锐地问。
“《每日镜报》。标题很大。”
“他讨厌《镜报》，给他看《泰晤士报》。”
那边停顿了片刻，然后医生说道：“没问题，佩尔夫人。我们会给它看《泰晤士报》的。
我们当然希望能尽我们所能让它感到快乐。”
“是他，”她说，“不是它。是他！”
“是他。”医生说，“是的，请您原谅。让他感到快乐。这也是我建议您尽快到这儿来的原
因之一。我认为，能看见您对他是有好处的。您可以表现出您是多么高兴再次见到他——比
如，朝他微笑，对他抛个飞吻什么的。知道您就站在旁边，对他来说肯定是一个安慰。”
长时间的停顿。
“好吧，”佩尔夫人终于说话了，她的声音突然变得温顺和疲惫，“我想，我最好过去看看
他怎么样了。”
“太好了，我就知道您会这样。我在这里等您。直接来我二楼的办公室。再见。”
半小时后，佩尔夫人到了医院。
“看到他的样子，您千万不要惊讶。”兰迪陪她走在一条过道里，说道。
“我不会的。”
“一开始您肯定会受到一点冲击。恐怕他目前的状态不是特别令人愉悦。”
“我不是因为他的相貌才嫁给他的，医生。”
兰迪转过身，凝神望着她。一个多么古怪的小女人，他想，一双大眼睛，神情里透着阴
沉和怨气。她的五官，曾经无疑是非常妩媚动人的，现在却已风韵殆尽。嘴巴松弛，两颊松
垂下坠，整张脸给人一种印象：经过这么多年不愉快的婚姻生活，它已然缓慢地、确定无疑
地松散成了碎片。他们默默地往前走了一会儿。
“您进去后，不用着急。”兰迪说，“只有当您把脸直接置于他的眼睛上方时，他才会知道
您的存在。那只眼睛一直睁着，但无法转动，所以他的视野非常狭窄。目前我们让它直视着
天花板。当然啦，他现在什么也听不见。我们可以爱聊什么就聊什么。就在这里面。”
兰迪打开一扇门，让她进入一个方形的小房间。
“如果是我，暂时不会靠得太近。”兰迪说着，把一只手放在她的胳膊上，“先跟我在这里
待一会儿吧，等你完全适应了再过去看他。”
房间中央一张高高的白桌子上，有一个洗脸盆那么大的超大白色搪瓷碗，六七根细细的
塑料管从碗里通出来。这些塑料管跟一大堆玻璃管相连，可以看见血液从玻璃管里流出和流
进那个心脏机器。机器本身发出一种低低的、有节奏的搏动声。
“他就在那里面。”兰迪指着那个盆说。盆太高了，她看不见里面的东西。“稍稍凑近一点
吧。不要靠得太近。”
他领她往前走了两步。
佩尔夫人伸长脖子，现在能看见盆里的液体表面了。液体很清，静止不动，表面浮着一
个椭圆形的小容器，约有一个鸽子蛋那么大。
“那里面是眼睛。”兰迪说，“您能看见吗？”
“能。”
“据我们所知，它仍然保持完好无损的状态。这是他的右眼，那个塑料容器上有一个透
镜，类似他自己曾经使用的眼镜。此时此刻，他可能看得跟以前一样清楚呢。”
“天花板没有什么可看的。”佩尔夫人说。
“这点不用担心。我们正在制订一个完整的计划，让他保持兴趣，但是一开始不想动作太
快。”
“给他一本好书。”
“我们会的，会的。您感觉还好吧，佩尔夫人？”
“是的。”
“那我们就再往前走一点，好吗，然后您就能看清全貌了。”
他领着她往前走，最后站在离桌子只有两米远的地方，现在她能直接看见盆里了。
“好了，”兰迪说，“这就是威廉。”
他比她想象的大得多，颜色也更深。表面布满了沟沟壑壑，她感到活像一颗巨大的腌核
桃。她可以看见四根大动脉和两根静脉的断根从他底部伸出来，巧妙地与那些塑料管相连。
随着心脏机器的每一次搏动，所有的管子都同时颤动一下，然后血液就会被推送进管子里。
“您必须探身向前，”兰迪说，“让您漂亮的脸庞位于他的眼睛上方，然后他就会看见您。
您可以对他微笑，朝他抛个飞吻。如果我是您，还会说几句好听的话。他不会听见，但我相
信他能明白大致的意思。”
“他讨厌别人朝他抛飞吻。”佩尔夫人说，“如果您不介意的话，我有我自己的办法。”她
走向桌子边缘，探过身去，让她的脸位于盆的上方，然后往下直视着威廉的眼睛。
“你好，亲爱的。”她轻声说，“是我——玛丽。”
那只眼睛，跟以前一样明亮，以一种奇特的、凝神的专注，盯着她看。
“你好吗，亲爱的？”她说。
那个塑料容器是通体透明的，所以整个眼球都能看见。眼球底部与大脑相连的那根视觉
神经，看上去就像一截短短的灰色意大利面条。
“你感觉好吗，威廉？”
丈夫只有眼睛而没有脸，盯着这只眼睛，使人产生一种很奇怪的感觉。她所要看的仅是
这只眼睛，于是她目不转睛地盯着它，慢慢地，它越变越大，最后成了她唯一能看见的东西
——似乎它本身就成了一张脸。眼球的白色表面纵横着一些细小的红色血管，在淡蓝色的虹
膜里，有三四条漂亮的浅黑色条纹从中间的瞳孔发散出来。瞳孔很大很黑，它的一旁映出一
个小小的光点。
“我收到了你的信，亲爱的，就立刻过来看看你怎么样了。兰迪医生说你的状态非常理
想。如果我说话慢一点，你也许能通过读我的唇语，多少理解一点我在说什么。”
毫无疑问，那只眼睛在注视着她。
“他们在想尽一切办法照顾你，亲爱的。这台奇妙的机器在一刻不停地泵动，我相信它比
我们其他人愚蠢的破心脏强多了。我们的心脏随时都可能崩溃，但你的心脏会永远跳动。”
她仔细端详着那只眼睛，想弄清是什么使它具有这样一种奇异的外观。
“你看上去很好，亲爱的，确实很好。真的。”
这只眼睛，看上去比他原来的那两只眼睛好得多，她对自己说。它似乎有那么一种柔
软，有一种平静、善良的特质，是她以前从未见过的。也许这跟眼睛正中间的那个点——瞳
孔——有关。以前威廉的瞳孔总是呈两个黑黑的小点，它们总是朝你射着光，刺入你的大
脑，把你直接看穿，它们总是立刻知道你要做什么，甚至知道你在想什么。而她此刻看着的
这只眼睛，却是大大的，柔软、温和，几乎像母牛的一样。
“您真的确定他是有意识的？”她问，并未抬起目光。
“是的，完全确定。”兰迪说。
“而且他能看见我？”
“毫无问题。”
“那不是太棒了吗？我猜他正在纳闷是怎么回事。”
“丝毫不会。他完全知道自己在哪里，为什么会在那里。他是绝不可能忘记这点的。”
“您是说他知道自己在这个盆里？”
“当然。如果他有说话的能力，也许此时就能跟您进行十分正常的对话。据我所知，这里
的这个威廉，跟你以前在家里认识的那个威廉，在精神上绝对不会有任何区别。”
“天哪。”佩尔夫人说，她停下来思考这个有趣的方面。
“你知道吗？”她对自己说，此刻她看着那只眼睛的后面，使劲盯着那样平静地躺在水下
的一大坨灰乎乎的烂核桃，“我丝毫不能确定我是否更喜欢他目前这种状态。事实上，我相信
我可以跟这样一位威廉非常舒服地共同生活。我完全能够应对这一位。”
“他很安静，是不是？”她说。
“他自然是很安静的。”
没有争吵和批评，她想，没有动辄发出的警告，没有必须服从的规矩，没有对抽烟的禁
令，晚上没有那双不满的、冷冰冰的眼睛从一本书上方盯着我，没有衬衫需要清洗和熨烫，
没有一日三餐需要准备——什么也没有，只有心脏机器的搏动，这声音听着还蛮令人舒心
的，肯定不会响到足以干扰电视的声音。
“医生，”她说，“我相信我突然对他产生了极为强烈的感情。这听起来奇怪吗？”
“我认为这完全可以理解。”
“他躺在这个小盆的水面下，看起来多么无助和沉默啊。”
“是的，我知道。”
“他就像一个婴儿，真的。他完全就像一个小小的婴儿。”
兰迪一动不动地站在她身后，注视着。
“好吧，”她盯着盆里，轻声说道，“从此以后，玛丽将会独自照顾你，你没有任何需要担
心的事情。医生，我什么时候可以带他回家？”
“您说什么？”
“我说，他什么时候可以回家——回到我自己的家里？”
“你在开玩笑。”兰迪说。
她慢慢地转过头，直视着他。“我为什么要开玩笑？”她问。她的脸上光彩熠熠，圆圆的
眼睛像两颗钻石一样明亮。
“他不可能被搬动。”
“有什么不可以的呢？”
“这是一个实验，佩尔夫人。”
“这是我的丈夫，兰迪医生。”
兰迪的嘴角出现了一抹奇怪的、不安的浅笑。“这个嘛……”他沉吟着。
“这是我的丈夫，您知道。”她的声音里没有怒气。她的话音很轻，似乎只是在提醒他一
个简单的事实。
“这是个很棘手的问题。”兰迪说着，舔了舔嘴唇，“您现在是一个寡妇，佩尔夫人。我认
为您必须接受这个事实。”
她突然从桌旁转过身，朝窗口走去。“我是认真的。”她说，伸手到包里去掏香烟，“我要
让他回去。”
兰迪注视着她把香烟叼在唇间点燃。难道是他完全弄错了？这个女人似乎有点古怪，他
想。看她的样子，她简直很高兴丈夫待在那个盆里。
他试着想象，如果是他妻子的大脑躺在那里，是她的眼睛从那个容器里盯着他看，他自
己会有什么样的感觉。
他不会喜欢。
“现在我们可以回我的办公室了吗？”他说。
她站在窗口，抽着香烟，看上去十分平静和放松。
“好的。”
她经过那张桌子时，停下来，再一次探头看着盆里。“玛丽现在要离开了，亲爱的。”她
说，“你丝毫也不用担心，明白吗？我们这就把你带回家，然后我们会尽快好好地照顾你的。
听着，亲爱的……”说到这里她顿住了，把香烟送到唇边，准备吸一口。
立刻，那只眼睛闪了一下。
她此刻正直视着它，她看见就在它的正中间，有一个细小的、但十分明亮的光点，那是
瞳孔缩小成的一个极度愤怒的微小黑点。
起初她没有动弹。她俯身站在盆边，把香烟高高举在唇边，注视着那只眼睛。
然后，她非常缓慢地而且刻意地，把香烟叼在双唇间，长长地吸了一口。她吸入得很
深，让烟在她的肺里停留了三四秒钟。接着，突然，呼——两股细细的烟从她鼻孔里喷出，
撞击盆里的水，翻滚着掠过水面，形成一团浓浓的青烟，笼罩了那只眼睛。
兰迪站在门边，背对着她，等待着。“快走吧，佩尔夫人。”他大声说。
“别这么气呼呼的，威廉。”她轻声说道，“怒气冲冲没什么好处。”
兰迪扭过头来看她在做什么。
“不会再有用了。”她耳语般地说，“因为从现在起，我的宝贝，玛丽叫你做什么，你就得
做什么。你明白吗？”
“佩尔夫人。”兰迪说着，朝她走过来。
“所以，别再淘气了，好吗？我的乖乖。”她说着，又抽了一口烟，“如今淘气的孩子是会
受到最严厉的惩罚的，这一点你应该知道的。”
此刻兰迪已站在她身边，抓住她的胳膊，开始温和而坚决地把她从桌旁拖走。
“再见啦，亲爱的。”她喊道，“我很快就回来。”
“别闹了，佩尔夫人。”
“他是不是很可爱？”她大声说，一双明亮的大眼睛抬起来看着兰迪，“他是不是很可亲？
我简直等不及要把他带回家了。”
首次出版于《吻了又吻》 1960
The Way up to Heaven
The Way up to Heaven
ALL HER LIFE, Mrs Foster had had an almost pathological fear of missing a train, a plane, a
boat, or even a theatre curtain. In other respects, she was not a particularly nervous woman, but the
mere thought of being late on occasions like these would throw her into such a state of nerves that
she would begin to twitch. It was nothing much - just a tiny vellicating muscle in the corner of the
left eye, like a secret wink - but the annoying thing was that it refused to disappear until an hour
or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.
It was really extraordinary how in certain people a simple apprehension about a thing like
catching a train can grow into a serious obsession. At least half an hour before it was time to leave
the house for the station, Mrs Foster would step out of the elevator all ready to go, with hat and
coat and gloves, and then, being quite unable to sit down, she would flutter and fidget about from
room to room until her husband, who must have been well aware of her state, finally emerged
from his privacy and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better get going now, had
they not?
Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be irritated by this foolishness of his wife’s, but he
could have had no excuse for increasing her misery by keeping her waiting unnecessarily. Mind
you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did, yet whenever they were to go somewhere,
his timing was so accurate - just a minute or two late, you understand - and his manner so bland
that it was hard to believe he wasn’t purposely inflicting a nasty private little torture of his own on
the unhappy lady. And one thing he must have known - that she would never dare to call out and
tell him to hurry. He had disciplined her too well for that. He must also have known that if he was
prepared to wait even beyond the last moment of safety, he could drive her nearly into hysterics.
On one or two special occasions in the later years of their married life, it seemed almost as though
he had wanted to miss the train simply in order to intensify the poor woman’s suffering.
Assuming (though one cannot be sure) that the husband was guilty, what made his attitude
doubly unreasonable was the fact that, with the exception of this one small irrepressible foible,
Mrs Foster was and always had been a good and loving wife. For over thirty years, she had served
him loyally and well. There was no doubt about this. Even she, a very modest woman, was aware
of it, and although she had for years refused to let herself believe that Mr Foster would ever
consciously torment her, there had been times recently when she had caught herself beginning to
wonder.
Mr Eugene Foster, who was nearly seventy years old, lived with his wife in a large six-storey
house in New York City, on East Sixty-second Street, and they had four servants. It was a gloomy
place, and few people came to visit them. But on this particular morning in January, the house had
come alive and there was a great deal of bustling about. One maid was distributing bundles of dust
sheets to every room, while another was draping them over the furniture. The butler was bringing
down suitcases and putting them in the hall. The cook kept popping up from the kitchen to have a
word with the butler, and Mrs Foster herself, in an old-fashioned fur coat and with a black hat on
the top of her head, was flying from room to room and pretending to supervise these operations.
Actually, she was thinking of nothing at all except that she was going to miss her plane if her
husband didn’t come out of his study soon and get ready.
‘What time is it, Walker?’ she said to the butler as she passed him.
‘It’s ten minutes past nine, Madam.’
‘And has the car come?’
‘Yes, Madam, it’s waiting. I’m just going to put the luggage in now.’
‘It takes an hour to get to Idlewild,’ she said. ‘My plane leaves at eleven. I have to be there half
an hour beforehand for the formalities. I shall be late. I just know I’m going to be late.’
‘I think you have plenty of time. Madam,’ the butler said kindly. ‘I warned Mr Foster that you
must leave at nine-fifteen. There’s still another five minutes.’
‘Yes, Walker, I know, I know. But get the luggage in quickly, will you please?’
She began walking up and down the hall, and whenever the butler came by, she asked him the
time. This, she kept telling herself, was the one plane she must not miss. It had taken months to
persuade her husband to allow her to go. If she missed it, he might easily decide that she should
cancel the whole thing. And the trouble was that he insisted on coming to the airport to see her off.
‘Dear God,’ she said aloud, ‘I’m going to miss it. I know, I know, I know I’m going to miss it.’
The little muscle beside the left eye was twitching madly now. The eyes themselves were very
close to tears.
‘What time is it. Walker?’
‘It’s eighteen minutes past, Madam.’
‘Now I really will miss it!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I wish he would come!’
This was an important journey for Mrs Foster. She was going all alone to Paris to visit her
daughter, her only child, who was married to a Frenchman. Mrs Foster didn’t care much for the
Frenchman, but she was fond of her daughter, and, more than that, she had developed a great
yearning to set eyes on her three grandchildren. She knew them only from the many photographs
that she had received and that she kept putting up all over the house. They were beautiful, these
children. She doted on them, and each time a new picture arrived she would carry it away and sit
with it for a long time, staring at it lovingly and searching the small faces for signs of that old
satisfying blood likeness that meant so much. And now, lately, she had come more and more to
feel that she did not really wish to live out her days in a place where she could not be near these
children, and have them visit her, and take them for walks, and buy them presents, and watch them
grow. She knew, of course, that it was wrong and in a way disloyal to have thoughts like these
while her husband was still alive. She knew also that although he was no longer active in his many
enterprises, he would never consent to leave New York and live in Paris. It was a miracle that he
had ever agreed to let her fly over there alone for six weeks to visit them. But, oh, how she wished
she could live there always, and be close to them!
‘Walker, what time is it?’
‘Twenty-two minutes past. Madam.’
As he spoke, a door opened and Mr Foster came into the hall. He stood for a moment, looking
intently at his wife, and she looked back at him - at this diminutive but still quite dapper old man
with the huge bearded face that bore such an astonishing resemblance to those old photographs of
Andrew Carnegie.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose perhaps we’d better get going fairly soon if you want to catch that
plane.’
‘Yes, dear - yes! Everything’s ready. The car’s waiting.’
‘That’s good,’ he said. With his head over to one side, he was watching her closely. He had a
peculiar way of cocking the head and then moving it in a series of small, rapid jerks. Because of
this and because he was clasping his hands up high in front of him, near the chest, he was
somehow like a squirrel standing there - a quick clever old squirrel from the Park.
‘Here’s Walker with your coat, dear. Put it on.’
‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to wash my hands.’
She waited for him, and the tall butler stood beside her, holding the coat and the hat.
‘Walker, will I miss it?’
‘No, Madam,’ the butler said. ‘I think you’ll make it all right.’
Then Mr Foster appeared again, and the butler helped him on with his coat. Mrs Foster hurried
outside and got into the hired Cadillac. Her husband came after her, but he walked down the steps
of the house slowly, pausing halfway to observe the sky and to sniff the cold morning air.
‘It looks a bit foggy,’ he said as he sat down beside her in the car. ‘And it’s always worse out
there at the airport. I shouldn’t be surprised if the flight’s cancelled already.’
‘Don’t say that, dear - please.’
They didn’t speak again until the car had crossed over the river to Long Island.
‘I arranged everything with the servants,’ Mr Foster said. ‘They’re all going off today. I gave
them half-pay for six weeks and told Walker I’d send him a telegram when we wanted them back.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He told me.’
‘I’ll move into the club tonight. It’ll be a nice change staying at the club.’
‘Yes, dear. I’ll write to you.’
‘I’ll call in at the house occasionally to see that everything’s all right and to pick up the mail.’
‘But don’t you really think Walker should stay there all the time to look after things?’ she asked
meekly.
‘Nonsense. It’s quite unnecessary. And anyway, I’d have to pay him full wages.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
‘What’s more, you never know what people get up to when they’re left alone in a house,’ Mr
Foster announced, and with that he took out a cigar and, after snipping off the end with a silver
cutter, lit it with a gold lighter.
She sat still in the car with her hands clasped together tight under the rug.
‘Will you write to me?’ she asked.
‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it. You know I don’t hold with letter-writing unless there’s
something specific to say.’
‘Yes, dear, I know. So don’t you bother.’
They drove on, along Queen’s Boulevard, and as they approached the flat marshland on which
Idlewild is built, the fog began to thicken and the car had to slow down.
‘Oh dear!’ cried Mrs Foster. ‘I’m sure I’m going to miss it now! What time is it?’
‘Stop fussing,’ the old man said. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s bound to be cancelled now.
They never fly in this sort of weather. I don’t know why you bothered to come out.’
She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to her that there was suddenly a new note in his voice, and
she turned to look at him. It was difficult to observe any change in his expression under all that
hair. The mouth was what counted. She wished, as she had so often before, that she could see the
mouth clearly. The eyes never showed anything except when he was in a rage.
‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘if by any chance it does go, then I agree with you - you’ll be certain
to miss it now. Why don’t you resign yourself to that?’
She turned away and peered through the window at the fog. It seemed to be getting thicker as
they went along, and now she could only just make out the edge of the road and the margin of
grassland beyond it. She knew that her husband was still looking at her. She glanced at him again,
and this time she noticed with a kind of horror that he was staring intently at the little place in the
corner of her left eye where she could feel the muscle twitching.
‘Won’t you?’ he said.
‘Won’t I what?’
‘Be sure to miss it now if it goes. We can’t drive fast in this muck.’
He didn’t speak to her any more after that. The car crawled on and on. The driver had a yellow
lamp directed on to the edge of the road, and this helped him to keep going. Other lights, some
white and some yellow, kept coming out of the fog towards them, and there was an especially
bright one that followed close behind them all the time.
Suddenly, the driver stopped the car.
There!’ Mr Foster cried. ‘We’re stuck. I knew it.’
‘No, sir,’ the driver said, turning round. ‘We made it. This is the airport.’
Without a word, Mrs Foster jumped out and hurried through the main entrance into the building.
There was a mass of people inside, mostly disconsolate passengers standing around the ticket
counters. She pushed her way through and spoke to the clerk.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your flight is temporarily postponed. But please don’t go away. We’re
expecting this weather to clear any moment.’
She went back to her husband who was still sitting in the car and told him the news. ‘But don’t
you wait, dear,’ she said. ‘There’s no sense in that.’
‘I won’t,’ he answered. ‘So long as the driver can get me back. Can you get me back, driver?’
‘I think so,’ the man said.
‘Is the luggage out?’
‘yes, sir.’
‘Good-bye, dear,’ Mrs Foster said, leaning into the car and giving her husband a small kiss on
the coarse grey fur of his cheek.
‘Good-bye,’ he answered. ‘Have a good trip.’
The car drove off, and Mrs Foster was left alone.
The rest of the day was a sort of nightmare for her. She sat for hour after hour on a bench, as
close to the airline counter as possible, and every thirty minutes or so she would get up and ask the
clerk if the situation had changed. She always received the same reply - that she must continue to
wait, because the fog might blow away at any moment. It wasn’t until after six in the evening that
the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight had been postponed until eleven o’clock the next
morning.
Mrs Foster didn’t quite know what to do when she heard this news. She stayed sitting on her
bench for at least another half-hour, wondering, in a tired, hazy sort of way, where she might go to
spend the night. She hated to leave the airport. She didn’t wish to see her husband. She was
terrified that in one way or another he would eventually manage to prevent her from getting to
France. She would have liked to remain just where she was, sitting on the bench the whole night
through. That would be the safest. But she was already exhausted, and it didn’t take her long to
realize that this was a ridiculous thing for a elderly lady to do. So in the end she went to a phone
and called the house.
Her husband, who was on the point of leaving for the club, answered it himself. She told him
the news, and asked whether the servants were still there.
‘They’ve all gone,’ he said.
‘In that case, dear, I’ll just get myself a room somewhere for the night. And don’t you bother
yourself about it at all.’
‘That would be foolish,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a large house here at your disposal. Use it.’
‘But, dear, it’s empty.’
‘Then I’ll stay with you myself.’
‘There’s no food in the house. There’s nothing.’
Then eat before you come in. Don’t be so stupid, woman. Everything you do, you seem to want
to make a fuss about it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.’
Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t
arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.
Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. ‘Well,’ he said, standing by
the study door, ‘how was Paris?’
‘We leave at eleven in the morning,’ she answered. ‘It’s definite.’
‘You mean if the fog clears.’
‘It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.’
‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘You must have had an anxious day.’
‘It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.’
‘I’ve ordered a car for the morning,’ he said. ‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out
again to see me off.’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at
the club on your way.’
She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her,
beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he
was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.
‘The club is downtown,’ she said. ‘It isn’t on the way to the airport.’
‘But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?’
‘Oh, yes - of course.’
‘That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.’
She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that
she fell asleep soon after she lay down.
Next morning, Mrs Foster was up early, and by eight-thirty she was downstairs and ready to
leave.
Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. ‘Did you make any coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m
all ready to go.’
They were standing in the hall - they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays - she
with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.
‘Your luggage?’
‘It’s at the airport.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d
better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?’
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘Oh, yes - please!’
‘I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.’
She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for
her as she approached.
‘What time is it?’ she asked him.
‘About nine-fifteen.’
Mr Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps,
she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As
on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather
was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.
‘Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,’ he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.
‘Hurry, please,’ she said to the chauffeur. ‘Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug.
Please get going. I’m late.’
The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.
‘Just a moment!’ Mr Foster said suddenly. ‘Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?’
‘What is it, dear?’ She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.
‘I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,’ he said. ‘Now, where on earth is it? I’m
sure I had it in my hand as I came down.’
‘I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?’
‘A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don’t want to
forget it today.’
‘A little box!’ Mrs Foster cried. ‘I never saw any little box!’ She began hunting frantically in the
back of the car.
Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat
and felt around in his jacket. ‘Confound it,’ he said, ‘I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I won’t be a
moment.’
‘Oh, please!’ she cried. ‘We haven’t got time! Please leave it! You can mail it. It’s only one of
those silly combs anyway. You’re always giving her combs.’
‘And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?’ he said, furious that she should have forgotten
herself for once.
‘Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But …’
‘Stay here!’ he commanded. ‘I’m going to get it.’
‘Be quick, dear! Oh, please be quick!’
She sat still, waiting and waiting.
‘Chauffeur, what time is it?’
The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. ‘I make it nearly nine-thirty.’
‘Can we get to the airport in an hour?’
‘Just about.’
At this point, Mrs Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something white wedged down in the
crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a
small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged
down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.
‘Here it is!’ she cried. ‘I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll be up there for ever searching for
it! Chauffeur, quickly - run in and call him down, will you please?’
The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth, didn’t care very much for any of this,
but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned
and came back. ‘Door’s locked,’ he announced. ‘You got a key?’
‘Yes - wait a minute.’ She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up
tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.
‘Here it is! No - I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know where he’ll be.’
She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She
slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it - and then she stopped. Her head came up,
and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this
hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited - five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten
seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so
tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a
moment before from a place far away inside the house.
Yes - quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a listening one. She appeared
actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the
door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on
key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these
sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house.
Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came
running back down the steps.
‘It’s too late!’ she cried to the chauffeur. ‘I can’t wait for him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane.
Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!’
The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned
absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that
rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth,
usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the voice, when she spoke,
carried a new note of authority.
‘Hurry, driver, hurry!’
‘Isn’t your husband travelling with you?’ the man asked, astonished.
‘Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club. It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll
get a cab. Don’t sit there talking, man. Get going! I’ve got a plane to catch for Paris!’
With Mrs Foster urging him from the back seat, the man drove fast all the way, and she caught
her plane with a few minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic, reclining
comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last.
The new mood was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer sort of way,
wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all, but this was more from pure astonishment at what
she had done than anything else, and as the plane flew farther and farther away from New York
and East Sixty-second Street, a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time she
reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as she could wish.
She met her grandchildren, and they were even more beautiful in the flesh than in their
photographs. They were like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every day she
took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought them presents, and told them charming
stories.
Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her husband - a nice, chatty letter - full of news
and gossip, which always ended with the words ‘Now be sure to take your meals regularly, dear,
although this is something I’m afraid you may not be doing when I’m not with you.’
When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she had to return to America, to her
husband. Everybody, that is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to mind as much as one
might have expected, and when she kissed them all good-bye, there was something in her manner
and in the things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a return in the not too distant
future.
However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay her time. Exactly six weeks after
she had arrived, she sent a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New York.
Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs Foster was interested to observe that there was no car to meet her. It is
possible that she might even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm and did not
overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi with her baggage.
New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of dirty snow lying in the gutters of the
streets. The taxi drew up before the house on Sixty-second Street, and Mrs Foster persuaded the
driver to carry her two large cases to the top of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell.
She waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang again, and she could hear it
tinkling shrilly far away in the pantry, at the back of the house. But still no one came.
So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.
The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of mail lying on the floor where it had
fallen after being slipped through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust sheet was
still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of the cold, the atmosphere was peculiarly
oppressive, and there was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never smelled before.
She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a moment around the comer to the left,
at the back. There was something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had the air of a
woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few
seconds later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.
She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering what to do next. Then, suddenly, she
turned and went across into her husband’s study. On the desk she found his address book, and
after hunting through it for a while she picked up the phone and dialled a number.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Listen - this is Nine East Sixty-second Street … Yes, that’s right. Could you
send someone round as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck between the
second and third floors. At least, that’s where the indicator’s pointing … Right away? Oh, that’s
very kind of you. You see, my legs aren’t any too good for walking up a lot of stairs. Thank you
so much. Good-bye.’
She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband’s desk, patiently waiting for the man who
would be coming soon to repair the lift.
升上天堂
升上天堂
这一辈子，福斯特夫人对于错过火车、飞机、轮船，甚至剧场开幕都有一种近乎病态的
恐惧。在其他方面，她并不是个特别神经质的女人，但只要一想到自己在这些事情上会迟
到，她就立刻紧张得不行，忍不住开始抽搐。倒也不严重——只是左眼角有一块小小的肌肉
在抽动，就像在偷偷眨眼——但恼人的是，要等她稳稳地赶上那趟火车、飞机或其他什么的
约莫一小时后，这抽动才会消失。
说来也很特别，对某些人来说，对赶不上火车这种事情的简单恐慌竟能成为一种严重的
困扰。还有半小时才到离家去车站的时间呢，福斯特夫人就已从电梯里走出来，做好了出发
的准备。她穿着大衣，戴着帽子和手套，完全坐不下来，心神不定、烦躁不安地从一个房间
游荡到另一个房间，直到她的丈夫——他一定十分清楚她的状态——终于从他的私密空间出
来，用一种冷淡、漠然的口吻提出，他们也许应该出发了，是不是？
福斯特先生可能有权对妻子的这种愚蠢感到恼火，但是他绝对没理由毫无必要地让她久
等，增加她的痛苦。当然，没有办法确定他是故意这么做的，但是每次他们要去什么地方，
他总是把时间掐得那么精确——是的，只晚那么一两分钟——而且他的态度那么冷漠，让人
很难相信他不是故意在暗地里恶毒地折磨这个不幸的女人。有一点他肯定心知肚明——她从
来不敢大声嚷嚷，催他赶紧。他在这方面把她调教得太好了。他肯定也知道，如果他故意一
直挨到超过保险时间的最后一刻，准会把她逼得几近歇斯底里。在他们婚后这些年里有过一
两次，他简直好像巴不得误了火车，就为了加剧这个可怜的女人的痛苦。
假设（不过谁也说不准）丈夫真的心存恶意，他这种态度就显得很不合理了，因为除了
这个无法控制的小缺点，福斯特夫人一向都是个贤惠、温柔的好妻子。三十多年来，她对丈
夫百依百顺，忠心耿耿，这点是毫无疑问的。她虽是个很谦逊的女人，但对此也心中有数。
这么多年以来她一直不让自己相信福斯特先生会故意折磨她，可是最近有许多次，她发现自
己心头开始产生了怀疑。
尤金•福斯特先生年近七旬，跟妻子一起生活在东六十二街一座六层楼的大房子里，用着
四个仆人。家里气氛沉闷，很少有人来串门。不过在一月里这个特殊的日子，家里充满活
力，一派忙忙碌碌的景象。一个女仆把一卷卷防尘布送到各个房间，另一个女仆把它们盖在
家具上。男管家把箱子拎到楼下，放在门厅里。厨子不停地从厨房窜出来，跟男管家说上一
句话。福斯特夫人自己穿着一件老式皮草大衣，戴着一顶黑帽子，从一个房间跑到另一个房
间，假装在监督这些行动。实际上她一心只想着如果丈夫不赶紧从书房出来，做好出发的准
备，她就赶不上飞机了。
“什么时间了，沃克？”男管家经过时，她问道。
“九点十分，夫人。”
“车来了吗？”
“来了，夫人，正等着呢。我这就把行李放进去。”
“到机场要一小时。”夫人说，“我的飞机十一点钟起飞。我必须提前半小时赶到那儿办手
续。我要迟到了。我就知道我肯定要迟到了。”
“我认为您来得及，夫人。”男管家亲切地说，“我提醒过福斯特先生，您必须在九点一刻
出发。还有五分钟呢。”
“是的，沃克，我知道，我知道了。拜托了，快把行李搬进车里吧。”
她开始在门厅里踱来踱去，每次男管家经过，她都要问他时间。她不停地告诉自己，这
一趟飞机绝对不能错过。她花了几个月才说服丈夫允许她远行。如果错过飞机，丈夫很有可
能认为她应该取消整个旅行。麻烦的是，他坚持要亲自送她去机场。
“仁慈的上帝啊，”她大声说，“我赶不上了。我知道，我知道，我知道我肯定赶不上
了。”左眼角的那一小块肌肉此刻那么剧烈地抽动着。一双眼睛也马上就要落泪了。
“什么时间了，沃克？”
“九点十八分，夫人。”
“完了，这下我真的赶不上了！”她喊道，“哦，真希望他快点过来！”
这对福斯特夫人来说是一次很重要的旅行。她要独自去巴黎看望她的女儿，那是她唯一
的孩子，嫁给了一个法国人。福斯特夫人不怎么喜欢法国人，但她很爱自己的女儿，更重要
的是，她一直那么渴望亲眼见到她的三个外孙。她只在照片上看见过他们，她收到了许多照
片，把它们摆放在家里各个地方。那三个孩子都很漂亮。她对他们爱得发狂，每次收到一张
新的照片，她都要把它拿走，一坐很长时间，慈爱地盯着照片，寻找富有深意、令人欣慰的
血缘上的相似之处。最近她越来越强烈地感觉到，她真不愿意在这样一个地方度过一生，在
这里她无法靠近那三个孩子，也不能让他们来看望自己，不能带他们去散步，给他们买礼
物，亲眼看着他们一天天长大。当然啦，她知道有这些想法是错误的，而且在某种意义上是
不忠的，因为丈夫还活着呢。她还知道，丈夫虽然在他的许多企业里不再活跃，但永远不会
同意离开纽约，去巴黎生活。这次他竟然同意让她独自飞过去看望他们，并在那里待六个星
期，简直是一个奇迹。然而，哦，她多么希望能永远住在那里，跟孩子们近在咫尺啊！
“沃克，几点钟了？”
“九点二十二分，夫人。”
就在他说话时，一扇门开了，福斯特先生走进了门厅。他站立片刻，专注地看着妻子，
妻子也看着他——看着这个身材矮小，但仍然十分精悍的老男人，那张胡子拉碴的大脸庞，
与安德鲁•卡耐基的那些老照片惊人地相似。
“我说，”他说，“如果你想赶上那趟飞机，我认为也许我们应该很快就出发。”
“是的，亲爱的——是的！一切都准备好了。车正等着呢。”
“很好。”他说。他把脑袋偏到一边，凝神注视着她。他有一个奇怪的习惯，经常会把脑
袋往旁边一歪，并伴随着一连串快速的小抖动。他的这个姿势，还有他把双手交握在胸口的
样子，使他有点像一只松鼠站在那儿——中央公园里一只精明的老松鼠。
“沃克给你把大衣拿来了，亲爱的，穿上吧。”
“我很快就来。”他说，“只是去洗个手。”
她等着他，高个子男管家站在她身边，手里拿着大衣和帽子。
“沃克，我会误机吗？”
“不会的，夫人。”男管家说，“我认为您能赶上。”
接着，福斯特先生又出现了，男管家服侍他穿上大衣。福斯特夫人匆匆走到外面，钻进
了租来的凯迪拉克里。丈夫跟在后面，但他走下门前的台阶时步履缓慢，还停下来察看天
空，嗅了嗅清晨凛冽的空气。
“似乎有点起雾了。”他钻进车里，在她身边坐下时说道，“机场那儿的天气情况总是更糟
糕。如果那趟航班已经被取消，我也不会感到吃惊。”
“别这么说，亲爱的——拜托。”
他们不再说话，直到汽车过河驶往长岛。
“我把仆人们都安排好了。”福斯特先生说，“他们今天全都离开。这六个星期我付他们一
半的薪水，我对沃克说了，我们需要他们回来的时候会给他发电报。”
“是的，”她说，“他告诉我了。”
“我今晚就搬进俱乐部。住在俱乐部里，换换环境也不错。”
“是的，亲爱的。我会给你写信的。”
“我也会时不时地回到家里看看，确保一切都正常，顺便收收邮件。”
“可是，你真的不认为应该让沃克留下来，里里外外地照应一下吗？”她弱弱地问。
“说什么呢？根本没有这个必要。而且，这样我还得付他全额的薪水。”
“噢，是的。”她说，“当然。”
“更重要的是，把人单独留在家里，你永远不知道他们会闹出什么幺蛾子来。”福斯特先
生斩钉截铁地说，然后掏出一支雪茄，用一把小银刀剪去雪茄头，用金质打火机把它点燃。
夫人一动不动地坐在车里，双手在毯子下面紧紧攥在一起。
“你会给我写信吗？”她问。
“看情况吧，”他说，“不一定。你知道我对写信没什么兴趣，除非有什么特别的事情要
说。”
“是的，亲爱的，我知道。那就不用费事了。”
汽车顺着皇后大道继续往前开，靠近机场所在的那片开阔的沼泽地时，雾越来越浓，他
们不得不减慢车速。
“哦，天哪！”福斯特夫人喊道，“这下我肯定赶不上飞机了！现在几点了？”
“别大惊小怪。”老男人说，“反正也没关系。现在航班肯定要取消了。他们从来不在这样
恶劣的天气起飞。我不明白你为什么还要出来白费工夫。”
她仿佛觉得他的语气里突然有了一种新的情绪，但她不能肯定，于是她转过脸看着他。
他的胡子太浓密了，很难看得清表情的变化。重要的是那张嘴。她希望能清楚地看见那张
嘴，这是她经常产生的愿望。他的眼睛从不会显露什么，除非在他发怒的时候。
“当然啦，”他继续说道，“万一飞机真的起飞了，那么我赞同你的意见——即使现在去也
肯定赶不上了。你为什么还不甘心放弃呢？”
她扭过脸，透过车窗看着大雾。车子越往前开，雾气越浓，现在她只能勉强分辨出马路
牙和路旁草地的边缘。她知道丈夫还在看着她。她又扫了一眼丈夫，这次她隐隐有些恐惧地
注意到，丈夫正专注地盯着她左眼角的那一小块地方，她可以感觉到那儿的肌肉在抽动。
“你会吗？”他说。
“我会什么？”
“现在肯定赶不上飞机了。在这样大雾弥漫的天气，车子不能开快。”
之后，他没有再对她说话。汽车像蜗牛似的往前爬。车上有一盏黄灯照着道路边沿，使
司机能继续往前开。其他的车灯，有的白色，有的黄色，不断地从雾中出现，朝他们逼近，
还有一盏特别明亮的车灯，一直紧紧地跟在他们后面。
突然，司机把车停下了。
“瞧！”福斯特先生喊道，“我们动不了啦。我就知道。”
“不，先生。”司机说着，转过身来，“我们已经到了。这就是机场。”
福斯特夫人一言不发地下了车，匆匆穿过入口处，走进机场。里面人山人海，大多是郁
郁不乐的乘客围在值机柜台旁边。她挤过去，跟那个职员说话。
“是的，”那人说，“您的航班暂时推迟了。但是请不要离开，我们估计这场大雾随时都会
消散。”
她回到仍坐在那里的丈夫身边，把这消息告诉了他。“你就别等了，亲爱的。”她说，“这
么做毫无意义。”
“我不等了。”他回答，“希望司机能送我回去。司机先生，你能送我回去吗？”
“我认为可以。”那人说道。
“行李拿出去了吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“再见了，亲爱的。”福斯特夫人说着，靠在车上，在丈夫被灰色大胡子遮盖的面颊上轻
轻吻了一下。
“再见。”他回答，“旅途愉快。”
对她来说，这一天剩下的时间简直像一场噩梦。她坐在尽量靠近航空公司柜台的一张板
凳上，坐了一小时又一小时，每过三十分钟左右，就起身上前去问职员情况有无变化。每次
都得到同样的回答——她必须继续等待，因为大雾随时都会散去。直到晚上六点过后，大喇
叭里才终于播出通知，说这趟航班被推迟到了第二天上午十一点。
听到这消息，福斯特夫人一时不知道该如何是好。她在板凳上又坐了至少半个小时，疲
惫地、恍恍惚惚地想着，她可以在哪儿打发这一夜。她不愿意离开机场。她不希望看见自己
的丈夫。她害怕他最终会以某种方式阻止她飞往法国。她真想就留在这里，在这板凳上坐一
整夜。这是最安全的。可是她已经精疲力竭，而且她很快就意识到，对于一个上了年纪的女
人来说，这么做是很荒唐的。于是，最后她走到电话前，给家里打了电话。
接电话的是她丈夫，他正准备离开家去俱乐部。她把情况告诉了丈夫，并问仆人们是否
还在家里。
“他们都走了。”他说。
“那样的话，亲爱的，我就自己去找一个房间过夜好了。你完全不用为此费心。”
“那样太傻了。”他说，“这儿有一栋大房子供你使用呢。过来住吧。”
“可是，亲爱的，房子里没有人。”
“那我就留下亲自陪你。”
“家里没有吃的。简直一无所有。”
“那你就吃过晚饭再回来。别这么愚蠢，女人。你不管做什么，似乎都想小题大做。”
“是的，”她说，“真对不起。我在这里给自己买个三明治，然后我就回家。”
外面，大雾已经散去了一点，但出租车还是慢慢地开了很久，她再次回到位于东六十二
街的家里时，已经很晚了。
丈夫听见她进门，便从书房里走了出来。“那么，”他站在书房门口，说道，“巴黎怎么样
啊？”
“明天上午十一点钟起飞。”她回答，“这是确定的。”
“你是说如果大雾消散的话。”
“已经在消散了。现在起风了。”
“你看上去很累。”他说，“你这一天肯定过得很焦虑。”
“确实不太舒服。我想直接去睡觉了。”
“我已经订了明天上午的车。”他说，“九点出发。”
“哦，谢谢你，亲爱的。我真心希望你不用大老远的再送我去机场了。”
“是的，”他慢悠悠地说，“我不送你去机场。不过，恐怕你没有理由不顺路把我送到俱乐
部。”
她看着他，在那一刻，他似乎站在离她很远的地方，远在某种界限之外。他突然变得那
么小、那么远，使她完全无法确定他在做什么、他在想什么，甚至不确定他是什么人。
“俱乐部在市中心。”她说，“不在去机场的路上。”
“但是你还有足够的时间，我亲爱的。你不愿意把我送到俱乐部吗？”
“哦，愿意——当然。”
“很好。那么我明天上午九点钟跟你碰面。”
她来到三楼自己的卧室，这一天把她累得够呛，刚躺下没多久就睡着了。
第二天，福斯特夫人很早就起床了，八点半的时候，她在楼下做好了出发的准备。
九点刚过，丈夫出现了。“你煮咖啡了吗？”
“没有，亲爱的。我以为你会在俱乐部吃一顿像样的早餐。车已经来了，正等着呢。我一
切都准备好了。”
他们站在门厅里——最近他们似乎总是在门厅里见面——她戴着帽子、穿着大衣、拿着
钱包，他身着一件款式奇怪的高翻领的爱德华式上衣。
“你的行李呢？”
“都在机场。”
“啊，是的。”他说，“当然。如果你要先送我去俱乐部，我们恐怕应该很快就出发，是不
是？”
“是的！”她大声说，“哦，是的——拜托了！”
“我要先去拿几支雪茄，很快就来。你先上车吧。”
她转身走到外面，司机站在那里，看到她走过来，为她打开了车门。
“几点了？”她问司机。
“差不多九点一刻吧。”
五分钟后，福斯特先生出来了，她看着他慢慢走下台阶，注意到他穿着那条窄窄的烟管
裤，两条腿很像山羊的腿。他跟前一天一样，半路停下来嗅了嗅空气，抬头察看天空。天气
仍然没有完全放晴，但迷雾中透出了一缕阳光。
“也许你这次能交到好运。”他一边说着，一边钻进车里，坐在她身边。
“拜托你快开车。”她对司机说，“不用管毯子了，毯子我自己来调整。快出发吧，我要迟
到了。”
那人坐回驾驶座，发动了引擎。
“再等一下！”福斯特先生突然说，“司机先生，稍等片刻，好吗？”
“怎么了，亲爱的？”她看见他在大衣口袋里找来找去。
“我有一件小礼物，想让你捎给艾伦。”他说，“咦，到底在哪儿呢？我相信我下楼时还拿
在手里的。”
“我没看见你手里拿着东西。是什么礼物？”
“一个白纸包着的小盒子。我昨天忘记给你了，今天可不能再忘记了。”
“一个小盒子！”福斯特夫人喊了起来，“我从没见过什么小盒子！”她开始在汽车的后座
上焦急地寻找。
丈夫继续在他的大衣口袋里找来找去。接着，他解开大衣的纽扣，在上衣里到处摸
索。“真该死，”他说，“我准是把它落在卧室里了。我去去就来。”
“哦，求求你！”她喊道，“我们没时间了！求求你别管它了！你可以邮寄过去。反正也不
过是一把那种没用的梳子，你总是送给她梳子。”
“我请问一句，梳子有什么问题吗？”他说，看到她竟然破天荒地出言不逊，他大为恼
火。
“没什么问题，亲爱的，肯定。可是……”
“等在这儿！”他吩咐道，“我去拿一下。”
“快点儿啊，亲爱的！哦，求求你快一点！”
她一动不动地坐着，等啊，等啊。
“司机先生，几点了？”
男人戴着手表，他看了看，“快到九点半了。”
“我们一小时能赶到机场吗？”
“差不多吧。”
就在这时，福斯特夫人突然发现在丈夫刚才坐的那侧座位的缝隙间，露出一个白色东西
的一角。她伸出手，抽出个用纸包着的小盒子，同时她忍不住留意到小盒子插得很紧、很
深，似乎是被人故意塞进去的。
“在这里！”她喊道，“我找到了！哦，天哪，他会在楼上找个没完没了！司机先生，快
——拜托你跑进去，叫他赶紧下来，好吗？”
那位司机长着一张桀骜不驯的爱尔兰人的小嘴，不太乐意做这种事情，但他还是下了
车，走上房子门前的台阶，接着他又转身回来了。“门锁着。”他大声说，“你有钥匙吗？”
“有——等一下。”她火烧火燎地在钱包里寻找。那张小脸因为焦虑而皱得紧紧的，嘴唇
像小孩子一样噘着。
“在这儿呢！不——我自己去吧。那样会快一些。我知道他会在哪儿。”
她匆匆下了车，走上门前的台阶，一只手里拿着钥匙。她把钥匙插进锁眼，刚要转动
——突然她停住了。她仰起脑袋，完全一动不动地站在那里，整个身体凝固在这个急于转动
钥匙、进入家门的动作中，她等待着——五秒、六秒、七秒、八秒、九秒、十秒，她等待
着。看她站在那里的样子，脑袋高高仰起，身体绷得那么紧，似乎她在倾听中等待某种声音
再次响起——她刚才听见那声音从房子深处很远的地方传出。
没错——她显然是在倾听。她的整个身体都是倾听的姿势。看上去她确实把一只耳朵越
来越近地凑向房门。现在耳朵已经贴在门上了，她将这个姿势又保持了几秒钟，脑袋仰起，
耳朵贴着门，手放在钥匙上，准备进去但没有进去，而是凝神屏息地想要听到并且揣摩从房
子深处那个地方隐隐传来的声音，或者表面上看来是这样。
突然，她在瞬间行动起来。她把钥匙从门里抽回来，快步跑下了台阶。
“太晚了！”她对司机喊道，“我不能等他了，真的不能等了。我要赶不上飞机了。快抓紧
吧，司机先生，快！去机场！”
司机如果仔细地观察她，可能会注意到她的脸色变得煞白，整个神情都突然有了改变。
她脸上不再是那种非常柔顺的、傻乎乎的表情，她的五官有了一种奇怪的刚毅。那张一向那
么松弛的小嘴，现在紧紧地抿成一条线，她的眼睛发亮，说话时声音里透出一种新的权威。
“快点，司机先生，快点！”
“您丈夫不跟您一起旅行吗？”男人惊讶地问。
“当然不！我只是要把他送去俱乐部。没关系，他会理解的。他可以叫一辆出租车。别坐
在那儿废话了，先生！快开车！我还要赶飞机去巴黎呢！”
福斯特夫人在后座上催促着，司机一路开得很快，她提前好几分钟上了飞机。不一会
儿，她就飞到了大西洋的上空，舒舒服服地倚靠在飞机的座椅上，听着引擎的嗡嗡声，终于
要去巴黎了。那种新的情绪仍没有消失。她现在觉得自己格外强大，而且说来奇怪，感觉非
常美妙。当然啦，她有点儿喘不过气来，但纯粹是因为对自己所做的事情感到惊讶，而不是
其他原因，随着飞机离纽约、离东六十二街越来越远，一种异常的平静逐渐把她笼罩。当她
终于到达巴黎时，她已经如自己所愿，变得十分强大、冷静和镇定了。
她见到了三个外孙，他们比照片上还要美丽，一个个就像天使一样。她对自己说，好漂
亮啊。她每天带他们去散步，喂他们吃蛋糕，给他们买礼物，给他们讲动听的故事。
每个星期二，她都要给丈夫写一封信——写一封亲切的、唠唠叨叨的信——聊八卦，说
闲话，最后的结尾总是“一定要按时用餐，亲爱的，我担心在我不在的这段时间里，你可能不
会好好吃饭”。
六个星期过去了，她不得不回到纽约，回到丈夫身边。大家都感到依依不舍，只有她自
己好像并不难过。令人惊讶的是，她似乎不像人们以为的那样黯然神伤，当她跟他们吻别
时，她的行为态度以及她所说的那些话，似乎暗示着在不太遥远的将来，她还有可能回来。
不过，作为一个忠诚的妻子，她一天也没有多待。来到巴黎整整六个星期之后，她给丈
夫发了封电报，登上了返回纽约的飞机。
到了纽约的机场，福斯特夫人饶有兴趣地观察到并没有车来接她。她或许暗暗感到有点
好笑也未可知。但是她出奇地平静，对那个帮她把行李搬进出租车的脚夫，她并没有多给小
费。
纽约比巴黎冷，街道的排水沟里堆着肮脏的残雪。出租车在东六十二街的那座房子前停
住，福斯特夫人请司机帮她把两个大箱子搬到台阶顶上。她付钱让他离开后，按响了门铃。
她等待着，但无人应答。为了保险起见，她又按了一次，可以听见铃声在房子后部的食品储
藏室里刺耳地响着。但仍然没有人来开门。
于是她掏出钥匙，自己把门打开了。
她走进门，第一眼看到的是地板上有一大堆邮件，都是塞进邮箱后掉下来的。房子里昏
暗、阴冷。那台老爷钟上仍然盖着防尘布。虽然阴冷，气氛却是出奇的压抑，空气里有一股
淡淡的异味儿，是她以前从未闻到过的。
她快步走过门厅，往左一拐，绕到房子后部，消失了一会儿。这个行为有一种深思熟虑
的意味，目的性很强，她那样子似乎是去调查一个谣言或证实某种怀疑。几秒钟后，她回来
了，脸上隐约闪烁着一丝满意。
她在门厅中央停了停，似乎在考虑下一步该做什么。突然，她转过身，穿过门厅，走进
丈夫的书房。她在桌上发现了丈夫的地址簿，在里面查找了一会儿，然后拿起电话，拨了一
个号码。
“喂。”她说，“请听我说——这里是九大道东六十二街……是的，没错。您能尽快派个人
过来吗？是的，好像是卡在二楼和三楼之间了。至少指示灯上是这么显示的……现在就来？
哦，太感谢了。要知道，我的腿脚不太灵便，爬不了太高的楼梯。真是谢谢您了。再见。”
她把听筒放回原处，坐在丈夫的桌边，耐心地等待着很快就会来修电梯的那个人。
首次发表于《纽约客》 1954.2.27
Parson’s Pleasure
Parson’s Pleasure
MR BOGGIS WAS DRIVING the car slowly, leaning back comfortably in the seat with one
elbow resting on the sill of the open window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how
pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The primroses especially. And the hawthorn.
The hawthorn was exploding white and pink and red along the hedges and the primroses were
growing underneath in little clumps, and it was beautiful.
He took one hand off the wheel and lit himself a cigarette. The best thing now, he told himself,
would be to make for the top of Brill Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And that must
be the village of Brill, that cluster of cottages among the trees right on the very summit. Excellent.
Not many of his Sunday sections had a nice elevation like that to work from.
He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the summit on the outskirts of the village.
Then he got out and looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out before him like a
huge green carpet. He could see for miles. It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his
pocket, leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised eye to travel slowly over the
landscape.
He could see one medium farmhouse over on the right, back in the fields, with a track leading to
it from the road. There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house surrounded by tall
elms that looked as though it might be a Queen Anne, and there were two likely farms away over
on the left. Five places in all. That was about the lot in this direction.
Mr Boggis drew a rough sketch on his pad showing the position of each so that he’d be able to
find them easily when he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove up through the
village to the other side of the hill. From there he spotted six more possibles - five farms and one
big white Georgian house. He studied the Georgian house through his binoculars. It had a clean
prosperous look, and the garden was well ordered. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately.
There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
In this square then, in this section, there were ten possibles in all. Ten was a nice number, Mr
Boggis told himself. Just the right amount for a leisurely afternoon’s work. What time was it now?
Twelve o’clock. He would have liked a pint of beer in the pub before he started, but on Sundays
they didn’t open until one. Very well, he would have it later. He glanced at the notes on his pad.
He decided to take the Queen Anne first, the house with the elms. It had looked nicely dilapidated
through the binoculars. The people there could probably do with some money. He was always
lucky with Queen Annes, anyway. Mr Boggis climbed back into the car, released the handbrake,
and began cruising slowly down the hill without the engine.
Apart from the fact that he was at this moment disguised in the uniform of a clergyman, there
was nothing very sinister about Mr Cyril Boggis. By trade he was a dealer in antique furniture,
with his own shop and showroom in the King’s Road, Chelsea. His premises were not large, and
generally he didn’t do a great deal of business, but because he always bought cheap, very very
cheap, and sold very very dear, he managed to make quite a tidy little income every year. He was
a talented salesman, and when buying or selling a piece he could slide smoothly into whichever
mood suited the client best. He could become grave and charming for the aged, obsequious for the
rich, sober for the godly, masterful for the weak, mischievous for the widow, arch and saucy for
the spinster. He was well aware of his gift, using it shamelessly on every possible occasion, and
often, at the end of an unusually good performance, it was as much as he could do to prevent
himself from turning aside and taking a bow or two as the thundering applause of the audience
went rolling through the theatre.
In spite of this rather clownish quality of his, Mr Boggis was not a fool. In fact, it was said of
him by some that he probably knew as much about French, English, and Italian furniture as
anyone else in London. He also had surprisingly good taste, and he was quick to recognize and
reject an ungraceful design, however genuine the article might be. His real love, naturally, was for
the work of the great eighteenth-century English designers, Ince, Mayhew, Chippendale, Robert
Adam, Manwaring, Inigo Jones, Hepplewhite, Kent, Johnson, George Smith, Lock, Sheraton, and
the rest of them, but even with these he occasionally drew the line. He refused, for example, to
allow a single piece from Chippendale’s Chinese or Gothic period to come into his showroom, and
the same was true of some of the heavier Italian designs of Robert Adam.
During the past few years, Mr Boggis had achieved considerable fame among his friends in the
trade by his ability to produce unusual and often quite rare items with astonishing regularity.
Apparently the man had a source of supply that was almost inexhaustible, a sort of private
warehouse, and it seemed that all he had to do was to drive out to it once a week and help himself.
Whenever they asked him where he got the stuff, he would smile knowingly and wink and murmur
something about a little secret.
The idea behind Mr Boggis’s little secret was a simple one, and it had come to him as a result of
something that had happened on a certain Sunday afternoon nearly nine years before, while he was
driving in the country.
He had-gone out in the morning to visit his old mother, who lived in Sevenoaks, and on the way
back the fanbelt on his car had broken, causing the engine to overheat and the water to boil away.
He had got out of the car and walked to the nearest house, a smallish farm building about fifty
yards off the road, and had asked the woman who answered the door if he could please have a jug
of water.
While he was waiting for her to fetch it, he happened to glance in through the door to the living-
room, and there, not five yards from where he was standing, he spotted something that made him
so excited the sweat began to come out all over the top of his head. It was a large oak armchair of
a type that he had only seen once before in his life. Each arm, as well as the panel at the back, was
supported by a row of eight beautifully turned spindles. The back panel itself was decorated by an
inlay of the most delicate floral design, and the head of a duck was carved to lie along half the
length of either arm. Good God, he thought. This thing is late fifteenth century!
He poked his head in further through the door, and there, by heavens, was another of them on
the other side of the fireplace!
He couldn’t be sure, but two chairs like that must be worth at least a thousand pounds up in
London. And oh, what beauties they were!
When the woman returned, Mr Boggis introduced himself and straight away asked if she would
like to sell her chairs.
Dear me, she said. But why on earth should she want to sell her chairs?
No reason at all, except that he might be willing to give her a pretty nice price.
And how much would he give? They were definitely not for sale, but just out of curiosity, just
for fun, you know, how much would he give?
Thirty-five pounds.
How much?
Thirty-five pounds.
Dear me, thirty-five pounds. Well, well, that was very interesting. She’d always thought they
were valuable. They were very old. They were very comfortable too. She couldn’t possibly do
without them, not possibly. No, they were not for sale but thank you very much all the same.
They weren’t really so very old, Mr Boggis told her, and they wouldn’t be at all easy to sell, but
it just happened that he had a client who rather liked that sort of thing. Maybe he could go up
another two pounds - call it thirty-seven. How about that?
They bargained for half an hour, and of course in the end Mr Boggis got the chairs and agreed
to pay her something less than a twentieth of their value.
That evening, driving back to London in his old station-wagon with the two fabulous chairs
tucked away snugly in the back, Mr Boggis had suddenly been struck by what seemed to him to be
a most remarkable idea.
Look here, he said. If there is good stuff in one farmhouse, then why not in others? Why
shouldn’t he search for it? Why shouldn’t he comb the countryside? He could do it on Sundays. In
that way, it wouldn’t interfere with his work at all. He never knew what to do with his Sundays.
So Mr Boggis bought maps, large scale maps of all the counties around London, and with a fine
pen he divided each of them up into a series of squares. Each of these squares covered an actual
area of five miles by five, which was about as much territory, he estimated, as he could cope with
on a single Sunday, were he to comb it thoroughly. He didn’t want the towns and the villages. It
was the comparatively isolated places, the large farmhouses and the rather dilapidated country
mansions, that he was looking for; and in this way, if he did one square each Sunday, fifty-two
squares a year, he would gradually cover every farm and every country house in the home
counties.
But obviously there was a bit more to it than that. Country folk are a suspicious lot. So are the
impoverished rich. You can’t go about ringing their bells and expecting them to show you around
their houses just for the asking, because they won’t do it. That way you would never get beyond
the front door. How then was he to gain admittance? Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t let them
know he was a dealer at all. He could be the telephone man, the plumber, the gas inspector. He
could even be a clergyman ….
From this point on, the whole scheme began to take on a more practical aspect. Mr Boggis
ordered a large quantity of superior cards on which the following legend was engraved:
THE REVEREND
CYRIL WINNINGTON BOGGIS
President of the Society   In association with
for the Preservation of   The Victoria and
Rare Furniture   Albert Museum
From now on, every Sunday, he was going to be a nice old parson spending his holiday
travelling around on a labour of love for the ‘Society’, compiling an inventory of the treasures that
lay hidden in the country homes of England. And who in the world was going to kick him out
when they heard that one?
Nobody.
And then, once he was inside, if he happened to spot something he really wanted, well - he
knew a hundred different ways of dealing with that.
Rather to Mr Boggis’s surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness with which he was
received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite
embarrassing, even to him. A slice of cold pie, a glass of port, a cup of tea, a basket of plums, even
a full sit-down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon
him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant
incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great
quantity of houses visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative business.
And now it was another Sunday and Mr Boggis was operating in the country of
Buckinghamshire, in one of the most northerly squares on his map, about ten miles from Oxford,
and as he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, the dilapidated Queen Anne, he began
to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days.
He parked the car about a hundred yards from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way.
He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and a
large station-wagon somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him
time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be
suitable for the occasion.
Mr Boggis strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly. The face
was round and rosy, quite perfect for the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged out at you
from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with
the usual parson’s dog-collar round his neck, and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old
oak walking-stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic easy-going air.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and
the door opened and suddenly there stood before him, or rather above him, a gigantic woman
dressed in riding-breeches. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful
odour of stables and horse manure that clung about her.
‘Yes?’ she asked, looking at him suspiciously. ‘What is it you want?’
Mr Boggis, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat, made a little bow, and
handed her his card. ‘I do apologize for bothering you,’ he said, and then he waited, watching her
face as she read the message.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, handing back the card. ‘What is it you want?’
Mr Boggis explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
‘This wouldn’t by any chance be something to do with the Socialist Party?’ she asked, staring at
him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
From then on, it was easy. A Tory in riding-breeches, male or female, was always a sitting duck
for Mr Boggis. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy on the extreme Right
Wing of the Conservative Party, then two more denouncing the Socialists. As a clincher, he made
particular reference to the Bill that the Socialists had once introduced for the abolition of
bloodsports in the country, and went on to inform his listener that his idea of heaven - ‘though you
better not tell the bishop, my dear’ - was a place where one could hunt the fox, the stag, and the
hare with large packs of tireless hounds from morn till night every day of the week, including
Sundays.
Watching her as he spoke, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was
grinning now, showing Mr Boggis a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. ‘Madam,’ he cried, ‘I
beg of you, please don’t get me started on Socialism.’ At that point, she let out a great guffaw of
laughter, raised an enormous red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly
went over.
‘Come in!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know what the hell you want, but come on in!’
Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the whole house, and
Mr Boggis, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave.
The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back
into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be.
From now on, it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a
large half-timbered brick building of considerable age, and there was a magnificent pear tree still
in blossom covering almost the whole of the south wall.
Mr Boggis knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there
was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer among the cowsheds. There
was no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in church, so he began peering in the
windows to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the dining-room.
Nothing in the library either. He tried the next window, the living-room, and there, right under his
nose, in the little alcove that the window made, he saw a beautiful thing, a semicircular card-table
in mahogany, richly veneered, and in the style of Hepplewhite, built around 1780.
‘Ah-ha,’ he said aloud, pressing his face hard against the glass. ‘Well done, Boggis.’
But that was not all. There was a chair there as well, a single chair, and if he were not mistaken
it was of an even finer quality than the table. Another Hepplewhite, wasn’t it? And oh, what a
beauty! The lattices on the back were finely carved with the honeysuckle, the husk, and the
paterae, the caning on the seat was original, the legs were very gracefully turned and the two back
ones had that peculiar outward splay that meant so much. It was an exquisite chair. ‘Before this
day is done,’ Mr Boggis said softly, ‘I shall have the pleasure of sitting down upon that lovely
seat.’ He never bought a chair without doing this. It was a favourite test of his, and it was always
an intriguing sight to see him lowering himself delicately into the seat, waiting for the ‘give’,
expertly gauging the precise but infinitesimal degree of shrinkage that the years had caused in the
mortice and dovetail joints.
But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon
before him.
The next farm was situated some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his car out of sight,
Mr Boggis had to leave it on the road and walk about six hundred yards along a straight track that
led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a
good deal smaller than the last, and he didn’t hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling and
dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two
large black greyhounds with him, on leashes. When the men caught sight of Mr Boggis walking
forward in his black suit and parson’s collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen
and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him
suspiciously as he approached.
The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog-mouth and small shifty eyes, and
although Mr Boggis didn’t know it, his name was Rummins and he was the owner of the farm.
The tall youth beside him, who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Bert, the
son of Rummins.
The shortish flat-faced man with a narrow corrugated brow and immensely broad shoulders was
Claud. Claud had dropped in on Rummins in the hope of getting a piece of pork or ham out of him
from the pig that had been killed the day before. Claud knew about the killing - the noise of it had
carried far across the fields - and he also knew that a man should have a government permit to do
that sort of thing, and that Rummins didn’t have one.
‘Good afternoon,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’
None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely the same thing -
that somehow or other this clergyman, who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent to
poke his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
‘What beautiful dogs,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘I must say I’ve never been greyhound-racing myself,
but they tell me it’s a fascinating sport.’
Again the silence, and Mr Boggis glanced quickly from Rummins to Bert, then to Claud, then
back again to Rummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his
face, something between a jeer and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer
around the nose.
‘Might I inquire if you are the owner?’ Mr Boggis asked, undaunted, addressing himself to
Rummins.
‘What is it you want?’
‘I do apologize for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.’
Mr Boggis offered his card and Rummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two
didn’t move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
‘And what exactly might you be wanting?’ Rummins asked.
For the second time that morning, Mr Boggis explained at some length the aims and ideals of
the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
‘We don’t have any,’ Rummins told him when it was over. ‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘Now, just a minute, sir,’ Mr Boggis said, raising a finger. ‘The last man who said that to me
was an old farmer down in Sussex, and when he finally let me into his house, d’you know what I
found? A dirty-looking old chair in the corner of the kitchen, and it turned out to be worth four
hundred pounds! I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the
money.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Claud said. ‘There ain’t no chair in the world worth four
hundred pound.’
‘Excuse me,’ Mr Boggis answered primly, ‘but there are plenty of chairs in England worth more
than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They’re tucked away in the farms and
cottages all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on
them with hobnailed boots to reach a pot of jam out of the top cupboard or to hang a picture. This
is the truth I’m telling you, my friends.’
Rummins shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and
stand there in the middle of the room and look around?’
‘Exactly,’ Mr Boggis said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. ‘I don’t
want to pry into your cupboards or into your larder. I just want to look at the furniture to see if you
happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.’
‘You know what I think?’ Rummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. ‘I think you’re
after buying the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?’
‘Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great
fancy to, and it wasn’t beyond my means, I might be tempted to make an offer. But alas, that
rarely happens.’
‘Well,’ Rummins said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in your taking a look around if that’s
all you want.’ He led the way across the yard to the back door of the farmhouse, and Mr Boggis
followed him; so did the son Bert, and Claud with his two dogs. They went through the kitchen,
where the only furniture was a cheap deal table with a dead chicken lying on it, and they emerged
into a fairly large, exceedingly filthy living-room.
And there it was! Mr Boggis saw it at once, and he stopped dead in his tracks and gave a little
shrill gasp of shock. Then he stood there for five, ten, fifteen seconds at least, staring like an idiot,
unable to believe, not daring to believe what he saw before him. It couldn’t be true, not possibly!
But the longer he stared, the more true it began to seem. After all, there it was standing against the
wall right in front of him, as real and as solid as the house itself. And who in the world could
possibly make a mistake about a thing like that? Admittedly it was painted white, but that made
not the slightest difference. Some idiot had done that. The paint could easily be stripped off. But
good God! Just look at it! And in a place like this!
At this point, Mr Boggis became aware of the three men, Rummins, Bert, and Claud, standing
together in a group over by the fireplace, watching him intently. They had seen him stop and gasp
and stare, and they must have seen his face turning red, or maybe it was white, but in any event
they had seen enough to spoil the whole goddamn business if he didn’t do something about it
quick. In a flash, Mr Boggis clapped one hand over his heart, staggered to the nearest chair, and
collapsed into it, breathing heavily.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Claud asked.
‘It’s nothing,’ he gasped. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Please - a glass of water. It’s my heart.’
Bert fetched him the water, handed it to him, and stayed close beside him, staring down at him
with a fatuous leer on his face.
‘I thought maybe you were looking at something,’ Rummins said. The wide frog-mouth
widened a fraction further into a crafty grin, showing the stubs of several broken teeth.
‘No, no,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Oh dear me, no. It’s just my heart. I’m so sorry. It happens every
now and then. But it goes away quite quickly. I’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.’
He must have time to think, he told himself. More important still, he must have time to compose
himself thoroughly before he said another word. Take it gently, Boggis. And whatever you do,
keep calm. These people may be ignorant, but they are not stupid. They are suspicious and wary
and sly. And if it is really true - no it can’t be, it can’t be true …
He was holding one hand up over his eyes in a gesture of pain, and now, very carefully,
secretly, he made a little crack between two of the fingers and peeked through.
Sure enough, the thing was still there, and on this occasion he took a good long look at it. Yes -
he had been right the first time! There wasn’t the slightest doubt about it! It was really
unbelievable!
What he saw was a piece of furniture that any expert would have given almost anything to
acquire. To a layman, it might not have appeared particularly impressive, especially when covered
over as it was with dirty white paint, but to Mr Boggis it was a dealer’s dream. He knew, as does
every other dealer in Europe and America, that among the most celebrated and coveted examples
of eighteenth-century English furniture in existence are the three famous pieces known as ‘The
Chippendale Commodes’. He knew their history backwards - that the first was ‘discovered’ in
1920, in a house at Moreton-in-Marsh, and was sold at Sotheby’s the same year; that the other two
turned up in the same auction rooms a year later, both coming out of Raynham Hall, Norfolk.
They all fetched enormous prices. He couldn’t quite remember the exact figure for the first one, or
even the second, but he knew for certain that the last one to be sold had fetched thirty-nine
hundred guineas. And that was in 1921! Today the same piece would surely be worth ten thousand
pounds. Some man, Mr Boggis couldn’t remember his name, had made a study of these
commodes fairly recently and had proved that all three must have come from the same workshop,
for the veneers were all from the same log, and the same set of templates had been used in the
construction of each. No invoices had been found for any of them, but all the experts were agreed
that these three commodes could have been executed only by Thomas Chippendale himself, with
his own hands, at the most exalted period in his career.
And here, Mr Boggis kept telling himself as he peered cautiously through the crack in his
fingers, here was the fourth Chippendale Commode! And he had found it! He would be rich! He
would also be famous! Each of the other three was known throughout the furniture world by a
special name - The Chastleton Commode, The First Raynham Commode, The Second Raynham
Commode. This one would go down in history as The Boggis Commode! Just imagine the faces of
the boys up there in London when they got a look at it tomorrow morning! And the luscious offers
coming in from the big fellows over in the West End - Frank Partridge, Mallet, Jetley, and the rest
of them! There would be a picture of it in The Times, and it would say, ‘The very fine Chippendale
Commode which was recently discovered by Mr Cyril Boggis, a London dealer ….’ Dear God,
what a stir he was going to make!
This one here, Mr Boggis thought, was almost exactly similar to the Second Raynham
Commode. (All three, the Chastleton and the two Raynhams, differed from one another in a
number of small ways.) It was a most impressive handsome affair, built in the French rococo style
of Chippendale’s Directoire period, a kind of large fat chest-of-drawers set upon four carved and
fluted legs that raised it about a foot from the ground. There were six drawers in all, two long ones
in the middle and two shorter ones on either side. The serpentine front was magnificently
ornamented along the top and sides and bottom, and also vertically between each set of drawers,
with intricate carvings of festoons and scrolls and clusters. The brass handles, although partly
obscured by white paint, appeared to be superb. It was, of course, a rather ‘heavy’ piece, but the
design had been executed with such elegance and grace that the heaviness was in no way
offensive.
‘How’re you feeling now?’ Mr Boggis heard someone saying.
‘Thank you, thank you, I’m much better already. It passes quickly. My doctor says it’s nothing
to worry about really so long as I rest for a few minutes whenever it happens. Ah yes,’ he said,
raising himself slowly to his feet. ‘That’s better. I’m all right now.’
A trifle unsteadily, he began to move around the room examining the furniture, one piece at a
time, commenting upon it briefly. He could see at once that apart from the commode it was a very
poor lot.
‘Nice oak table,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not old enough to be of any interest. Good
comfortable chairs, but quite modern, yes, quite modern. Now this cupboard, well, it’s rather
attractive, but again, not valuable. This chest-of-drawers’ - he walked casually past the
Chippendale Commode and gave it a little contemptuous flip with his fingers - ‘worth a few
pounds, I dare say, but no more. A rather crude reproduction, I’m afraid. Probably made in
Victorian times. Did you paint it white?’
‘Yes,’ Rummins said, ‘Bert did it.’
‘A very wise move. It’s considerably less offensive in white.’
‘That’s a strong piece of furniture,’ Rummins said. ‘Some nice carving on it too.’
‘Machine-carved,’ Mr Boggis answered superbly, bending down to examine the exquisite
craftsmanship. ‘You can tell it a mile off. But still, I suppose it’s quite pretty in its way. It has its
points.’
He began to saunter off, then he checked himself and turned slowly back again. He placed the
tip of one finger against the point of his chin, laid his head over to one side, and frowned as though
deep in thought.
‘You know what?’ he said, looking at the commode, speaking so casually that his voice kept
trailing off. ‘I’ve just remembered … I’ve been wanting a set of legs something like that for a long
time. I’ve got a rather curious table in my own little home, one of those low things that people put
in front of the sofa, sort of a coffee-table, and last Michaelmas, when I moved house, the foolish
movers damaged the legs in the most shocking way. I’m very fond of that table. I always keep my
big Bible on it, and all my sermon notes.’
He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. ‘Now I was just thinking. These legs on your
chest-of-drawers might be very suitable. Yes, they might indeed. They could easily be cut off and
fixed on to my table.’
He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely still, watching him suspiciously,
three pairs of eyes, all different but equally mistrusting, small pig-eyes for Rummins, large slow
eyes for Claud, and two odd eyes for Bert, one of them very queer and boiled and misty pale, with
a little black dot in the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.
Mr Boggis smiled and shook his head. ‘Come, come, what on earth am I saying? I’m talking as
though I owned the piece myself. I do apologize.’
‘What you mean to say is you’d like to buy it,’ Rummins said.
‘Well …’ Mr Boggis glanced back at the commode, frowning. ‘I’m not sure. I might … and
then again … on second thoughts … no … I think it might be a bit too much trouble. It’s not
worth it. I’d better leave it.’
‘How much were you thinking of offering?’ Rummins asked.
‘Not much, I’m afraid. You see, this is not a genuine antique. It’s merely a reproduction.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Rummins told him. ‘It’s been in here over twenty years, and before
that it was up at the Manor House. I bought it there myself at auction when the old Squire died.
You can’t tell me that thing’s new.’
‘It’s not exactly new, but it’s certainly not more than about sixty years old.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Rummins said. ‘Bert, where’s that bit of paper you once found at the back
of one of them drawers? That old bill.’
The boy looked vacantly at his father.
Mr Boggis opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again without uttering a sound. He was
beginning literally to shake with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the window
and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around for stray grains of corn in the yard.
‘It was in the back of that drawer underneath all them rabbit-snares,’ Rummins was saying. ‘Go
on and fetch it out and show it to the parson.’
When Bert went forward to the commode, Mr Boggis turned round again. He couldn’t stand not
watching him. He saw him pull out one of the big middle drawers, and he noticed the beautiful
way in which the drawer slid open. He saw Bert’s hand dipping inside and rummaging around
among a lot of wires and strings.
‘You mean this?’ Bert lifted out a piece of folded yellowing paper and carried it over to the
father, who unfolded it and held it up close to his face.
‘You can’t tell me this writing ain’t bloody old,’ Rummins said, and he held the paper out to Mr
Boggis, whose whole arm was shaking as he took it. It was brittle and it cracked slightly between
his fingers. The writing was in a long sloping copperplate hand:
Edward Montagu, Esq.
Dr
To Thos. Chippendale   
A large mahogany Commode Table of exceeding fine wood, very rich carvd, set upon fluted legs, two
very neat shapd long drawers in the middle part and two ditto on each side, with rich chasd Brass
Handles and Ornaments, the whole completely finished in the most exquisite taste
.........................................£87
Mr Boggis was holding on to himself tight and fighting to suppress the excitement that was
spinning round inside him and making him dizzy. Oh God, it was wonderful! With the invoice, the
value had climbed even higher. What in heaven’s name would it fetch now? Twelve thousand
pounds? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen or even twenty? Who knows?
Oh, boy!
He tossed the paper contemptuously on to the table and said quietly, ‘It’s exactly what I told
you, a Victorian reproduction. This is simply the invoice that the seller - the man who made it and
passed it off as an antique - gave to his client. I’ve seen lots of them. You’ll notice that he doesn’t
say he made it himself. That would give the game away.’
‘Say what you like,’ Rummins announced, ‘but that’s an old piece of paper.’
‘Of course it is, my dear friend. It’s Victorian, late Victorian. About eighteen ninety. Sixty or
seventy years old. I’ve seen hundreds of them. That was a time when masses of cabinet-makers
did nothing else but apply themselves to faking the fine furniture of the century before.’
‘Listen, Parson,’ Rummins said, pointing at him with a thick dirty finger, ‘I’m not saying as
how you may not know a fair bit about this furniture business, but what I am saying is this: How
on earth can you be so mighty sure it’s a fake when you haven’t even seen what it looks like
underneath all that paint?
‘Come here,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Come over here and I’ll show you.’ He stood beside the
commode and waited for them to gather round. ‘Now, anyone got a knife?’
Claud produced a horn-handled pocket knife, and Mr Boggis took it and opened the smallest
blade. Then, working with apparent casualness but actually with extreme care, he began chipping
off the white paint from a small area on the top of the commode. The paint flaked away cleanly
from the old hard varnish underneath, and when he had cleared away about three square inches, he
stepped back and said, ‘Now, take a look at that!’
It was beautiful - a warm little patch of mahogany, glowing like a topaz, rich and dark with the
true colour of its two hundred years.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Rummins asked.
‘It’s processed! Anyone can see that!’
‘How can you see it. Mister? You tell us.’
‘Well, I must say that’s a trifle difficult to explain. It’s chiefly a matter of experience. My
experience tells me that without the slightest doubt this wood has been processed with lime. That’s
what they use for mahogany, to give it that dark aged colour. For oak, they use potash salts, and
for walnut it’s nitric acid, but for mahogany it’s always lime.’
The three men moved a little closer to peer at the wood. There was a slight stirring of interest
among them now. It was always intriguing to hear about some new form of crookery or deception.
‘Look closely at the grain. You see that touch of orange in among the dark red-brown. That’s
the sign of lime.’
They leaned forward, their noses close to the wood, first Rummins, then Claud, then Bert.
‘And then there’s the patina,’ Mr Boggis continued.
‘The what?’
He explained to them the meaning of this word as applied to furniture.
‘My dear friends, you’ve no idea the trouble these rascals will go to to imitate the hard beautiful
bronze-like appearance of genuine patina. It’s terrible, really terrible, and it makes me quite sick to
speak of it!’ He was spitting each word sharply off the tip of the tongue and making a sour mouth
to show his extreme distaste. The men waited, hoping for more secrets.
‘The time and trouble that some mortals will go to in order to deceive the innocent!’ Mr Boggis
cried. ‘It’s perfectly disgusting! D’you know what they did here, my friends? I can recognize it
clearly. I can almost see them doing it, the long, complicated ritual of rubbing the wood with
linseed oil, coating it over with french polish that has been cunningly coloured, brushing it down
with pumice-stone and oil, beeswaxing it with a wax that contains dirt and dust, and finally giving
it the heat treatment to crack the polish so that it looks like two-hundred-year-old varnish! It really
upsets me to contemplate such knavery!’
The three men continued to gaze at the little patch of dark wood.
‘Feel it!’ Mr Boggis ordered. ‘Put your fingers on it! There, how does it feel, warm or cold?’
‘Feels cold,’ Rummins said.
‘Exactly, my friend! It happens to be a fact that faked patina is always cold to the touch. Real
patina has a curiously warm feel to it.’
‘This feels normal,’ Rummins said, ready to argue.
‘No, sir, it’s cold. But of course it takes an experienced and sensitive finger-tip to pass a positive
judgement. You couldn’t really be expected to judge this any more than I could be expected to
judge the quality of your barley. Everything in life, my dear sir, is experience.’
The men were staring at this queer moon-faced clergyman with the bulging eyes, not quite so
suspiciously now because he did seem to know a bit about his subject. But they were still a long
way from trusting him.
Mr Boggis bent down and pointed to one of the metal drawer-handles on the commode. ‘This is
another place where the fakers go to work,’ he said. ‘Old brass normally has a colour and
character all of its own. Did you know that?’
They stared at him, hoping for still more secrets.
‘But the trouble is that they’ve become exceedingly skilled at matching it. In fact it’s almost
impossible to tell the difference between “genuine old” and “faked old”. I don’t mind admitting
that it has me guessing. So there’s not really any point in our scraping the paint off these handles.
We wouldn’t be any the wiser.’
‘How can you possibly make new brass look like old?’ Claud said. ‘Brass doesn’t rust, you
know.’
‘You are quite right, my friend. But these scoundrels have their own secret methods.’
‘Such as what?’ Claud asked. Any information of this nature was valuable, in his opinion. One
never knew when it might come in handy.
‘All they have to do,’ Mr Boggis said, ‘is to place these handles overnight in a box of mahogany
shavings saturated in sal ammoniac. The sal ammoniac turns the metal green, but if you rub off the
green, you will find underneath it a fine soft silvery-warm lustre, a lustre identical to that which
comes with very old brass. Oh, it is so bestial, the things they do! With iron they have another
trick.’
‘What do they do with iron?’ Claud asked, fascinated.
‘Iron’s easy,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Iron locks and plates and hinges are simply buried in common
salt and they come out all rusted and pitted in no time.’
‘All right,’ Rummins said. ‘So you admit you can’t tell about the handles. For all you know,
they may be hundreds and hundreds of years old. Correct?’
‘Ah,’ Mr Boggis whispered, fixing Rummins with two big bulging brown eyes. ‘That’s where
you’re wrong. Watch this.’
From his jacket pocket, he took out a small screwdriver. At the same time, although none of
them saw him do it, he also took out a little brass screw which he kept well hidden in the palm of
his hand. Then he selected one of the screws in the commode - there were four to each handle -
and began carefully scraping all traces of white paint from its head. When he had done this, he
started slowly to unscrew it.
‘If this is a genuine old brass screw from the eighteenth century,’ he was saying, ‘the spiral will
be slightly uneven and you’ll be able to see quite easily that it has been hand-cut with a file. But if
this brasswork is faked from more recent times, Victorian or later, then obviously the screw will
be of the same period. It will be a mass-produced, machine-made article. Anyone can recognize a
machine-made screw. Well, we shall see.’
It was not difficult, as he put his hands over the old screw and drew it out, for Mr Boggis to
substitute the new one hidden in his palm. This was another little trick of his, and through the
years it had proved a most rewarding one. The pockets of his clergyman’s jacket were always
stocked with a quantity of cheap brass screws of various sizes.
‘There you are,’ he said, handing the modern screw to Rummins. ‘Take a look at that. Notice
the exact evenness of the spiral? See it? Of course you do. It’s just a cheap common little screw
you yourself could buy today in any ironmonger’s in the country.’
The screw was handed round from the one to the other, each examining it carefully. Even
Rummins was impressed now.
Mr Boggis put the screwdriver back in his pocket together with the fine hand-cut screw that
he’d taken from the commode, and then he turned and walked slowly past the three men towards
the door.
‘My dear friends,’ he said, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, ‘it was so good of you to let
me peep inside your little home - so kind. I do hope I haven’t been a terrible old bore.’
Rummins glanced up from examining the screw. ‘You didn’t tell us what you were going to
offer,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘That’s quite right. I didn’t, did I? Well, to tell you the honest truth, I
think it’s all a bit too much trouble. I think I’ll leave it.’
‘How much would you give?’
‘You mean that you really wish to part with if?’
‘I didn’t say I wished to part with it. I asked you how much.’
Mr Boggis looked across at the commode, and he laid his head first to one side, then to the
other, and he frowned, and pushed out his lips, and shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little
scornful wave of the hand as though to say the thing was hardly worth thinking about really, was
it?
‘Shall we say … ten pounds. I think that would be fair.’
‘Ten pounds!’ Rummins cried. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Parson, please!’
‘It’s worth more’n that for firewood!’ Claud said, disgusted.
‘Look here at the bill!’ Rummins went on, stabbing that precious document so fiercely with his
dirty fore-finger that Mr Boggis became alarmed. ‘It tells you exactly what it cost! Eighty-seven
pounds! And that’s when it was new. Now it’s antique it’s worth double!’
‘If you’ll pardon me, no, sir, it’s not. It’s a second-hand reproduction. But I’ll tell you what, my
friend - I’m being rather reckless, I can’t help it - I’ll go up as high as fifteen pounds. How’s
that?’
‘Make it fifty,’ Rummins said.
A delicious little quiver like needles ran all the way down the back of Mr Boggis’s legs and then
under the soles of his feet. He had it now. It was his. No question about that. But the habit of
buying cheap, as cheap as it was humanly possible to buy, acquired by years of necessity and
practice, was too strong in him now to permit him to give in so easily.
‘My dear man,’ he whispered softly, ‘I only want the legs. Possibly I could find some use for
the drawers later on, but the rest of it, the carcass itself, as your friend so rightly said, it’s
firewood, that’s all.’
‘Make it thirty-five,’ Rummins said.
‘I couldn’t sir, I couldn’t! It’s not worth it. And I simply mustn’t allow myself to haggle like
this about a price. It’s all wrong. I’ll make you one final offer, and then I must go. Twenty
pounds.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Rummins snapped. ‘It’s yours.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Boggis said, clasping his hands. ‘There I go again. I should never have started
this in the first place.’
‘You can’t back out now, Parson. A deal’s a deal.’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘How’re you going to take it?’
‘Well, let me see. Perhaps if I were to drive my car up into the yard, you gentlemen would be
kind enough to help me load it?’
‘In a car? This thing’ll never go in a car! You’ll need a truck for this!’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway, we’ll see. My car’s on the road. I’ll be back in a jiffy. We’ll manage
it somehow, I’m sure.’
Mr Boggis walked out into the yard and through the gate and then down the long track that led
across the field towards the road. He found himself giggling quite uncontrollably, and there was a
feeling inside him as though hundreds and hundreds of tiny bubbles were rising up from his
stomach and bursting merrily in the top of his head, like sparkling-water. All the buttercups in the
field were suddenly turning into golden sovereigns, glistening in the sunlight. The ground was
littered with them, and he swung off the track on to the grass so that he could walk among them
and tread on them and hear the little metallic tinkle they made as he kicked them around with his
toes. He was finding it difficult to stop himself from breaking into a run. But clergymen never run;
they walk slowly. Walk slowly, Boggis. Keep calm, Boggis. There’s no hurry now. The commode
is yours! Yours for twenty pounds, and it’s worth fifteen or twenty thousand! The Boggis
Commode! In ten minutes it’ll be loaded into your car - it’ll go in easily - and you’ll be driving
back to London and singing all the way! Mr Boggis driving the Boggis Commode home in the
Boggis car. Historic occasion. What wouldn’t a newspaperman give to get a picture of that!
Should he arrange it? Perhaps he should. Wait and see. Oh, glorious day! Oh, lovely sunny
summer day! Oh, glory be!
Back in the farmhouse, Rummins was saying, ‘Fancy that old bastard giving twenty pound for a
load of junk like this.’
‘You did very nicely, Mr Rummins,’ Claud told him. ‘You think he’ll pay you?’
‘We don’t put it in the car till he do.’
‘And what if it won’t go in the car?’ Claud asked. ‘You know what I think, Mr Rummins? You
want my honest opinion? I think the bloody thing’s too big to go in the car. And then what
happens? Then he’s going to say to hell with it and just drive off without it and you’ll never see
him again. Nor the money either. He didn’t seem all that keen on having it, you know.’
Rummins paused to consider this new and rather alarming prospect.
‘How can a thing like that possibly go in a car?’ Claud went on relentlessly. ‘A parson never
has a big car anyway. You ever seen a parson with a big car, Mr Rummins?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Exactly! And now listen to me. I’ve got an idea. He told us, didn’t he, that it was only the legs
he was wanting. Right? So all we’ve got to do is to cut ’em off quick right here on the spot before
he comes back, then it’ll be sure to go in the car. All we’re doing is saving him the trouble of
cutting them off himself when he gets home. How about it, Mr Rummins?’ Claud’s flat bovine
face glimmered with a mawkish pride.
‘It’s not such a bad idea at that,’ Rummins said, looking at the commode. ‘In fact it’s a bloody
good idea. Come on then, we’ll have to hurry. You and Bert carry it out into the yard. I’ll get the
saw. Take the drawers out first.’
Within a couple of minutes, Claud and Bert had carried the commode outside and had laid it
upside down in the yard amidst the chicken droppings and cow dung and mud. In the distance,
half-way across the field, they could see a small black figure striding along the path towards the
road. They paused to watch. There was something rather comical about the way in which this
figure was conducting itself. Every now and again it would break into a trot, then it did a kind of
hop, skip, and jump, and once it seemed as though the sound of a cheerful song came rippling
faintly to them from across the meadow.
‘I reckon he’s balmy,’ Claud said, and Bert grinned darkly, rolling his misty eye slowly round
in its socket.
Rummins came waddling over from the shed, squat and froglike, carrying a long saw. Claud
took the saw away from him and went to work.
‘Cut ’em close,’ Rummins said. ‘Don’t forget he’s going to use ’em on another table.’
The mahogany was hard and very dry, and as Claud worked, a fine red dust sprayed out from
the edge of the saw and fell softly to the ground. One by one, the legs came off, and when they
were all severed, Bert stooped down and arranged them carefully in a row.
Claud stepped back to survey the results of his labour. There was a longish pause.
‘Just let me ask you one question, Mr Rummins,’ he said slowly. ‘Even now, could you put that
enormous thing into the back of a car?’
‘Not unless it was a van.’
‘Correct!’ Claud cried. ‘And parsons don’t have vans, you know. All they’ve got usually is
piddling little Morris Eights or Austin Sevens.’
‘The legs is all he wants,’ Rummins said. ‘If the rest of it won’t go in, then he can leave it. He
can’t complain. He’s got the legs.’
‘Now you know better’n that, Mr Rummins,’ Claud said patiently. ‘You know damn well he’s
going to start knocking the price if he don’t get every single bit of this into the car. A parson’s just
as cunning as the rest of ’em when it comes to money, don’t you make any mistake about that.
Especially this old boy. So why don’t we give him his firewood now and be done with it. Where
d’you keep the axe?’
‘I reckon that’s fair enough,’ Rummins said. ‘Bert, go fetch the axe.’
Bert went into the shed and fetched a tall woodcutter’s axe and gave it to Claud. Claud spat on
the palms of his hands and rubbed them together. Then, with a long-armed high-swinging action,
he began fiercely attacking the legless carcass of the commode.
It was hard work, and it took several minutes before he had the whole thing more or less
smashed to pieces.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, straightening up, wiping his brow. ‘That was a bloody good
carpenter put this job together and I don’t care what the parson says.’
‘We’re just in time!’ Rummins called out. ‘Here he comes!’
牧师的喜悦
牧师的喜悦
波吉斯先生把车开得很慢，舒舒服服地靠着椅背，一条胳膊肘搭在敞开的车窗上。这片
乡村景色多美啊，他想。又看到了初夏的一些蛛丝马迹，真令人感到心旷神怡，特别是樱草
花还有山楂树的花。山楂树顺着篱笆绽开白色、粉色和红色的花团，樱草花在篱笆下面三五
成群地怒放，非常好看。
他的一只手离开方向盘，给自己点了一支烟。现在最好开到布里尔山的山顶上去，他对
自己说。他看到山顶就在前面半英里开外，掩映在山顶上树丛间的那一簇小房子肯定就是布
里尔村。太棒了！在他的星期天业务里，海拔高度这样理想的并不多。
他把车开上山，停在离山顶不远处的村子外面。然后，他从车里出来，打量四周。乡村
的景致像一幅巨大的绿色地毯在他面前展开，一眼能望出好几英里，真是完美。他从口袋里
掏出一个小本子和铅笔，靠在汽车后面，让自己训练有素的眼睛慢慢地扫过这片风景。
他看见右边有一个中等规模的农舍，藏在田野的深处，公路上有一条小道通向那里；后
面是一个更大的农舍；还有一座被高高的榆树包围的房屋，看上去像是安妮女王风格的建
筑，另外左边远处也有两个类似的农舍，一共五处。这个方向大概就这么多了。
波吉斯先生在本子上画了一个草图，标示出每一处的位置，这样，他下去以后就很容易
找到它们。然后他回到车里，开车穿过村舍，来到山的另一边。他在那里又发现六处可能的
地方——五个农舍和一座乔治亚风格的白色大房子。他用双筒望远镜观察了一番乔治亚风格
的大房子。它看上去整洁、殷实，花园十分规整。真可惜，他立刻把它划去了，拜访殷实的
人家没有什么意义。
这样算来，在这笔业务里，在这个方块里，一共有十个可能性。十是个很可观的数字，
波吉斯先生对自己说。不多不少，正适合一个下午不紧不慢地去完成。现在几点了？十二
点。他真想在酒馆里喝一杯啤酒再开始干活，可是星期天酒馆都不开门。好吧，喝酒的事以
后再说。他扫了一眼本子上的笔记。他决定先对付那座有榆树的、安妮女王风格的房子。从
望远镜看过去，那房子好像十分破败。那里的人大概给点儿钱就能搞定。反正，他在安妮女
王风格的房子里总能碰到好运气。波吉斯先生钻回车里，松开手刹，没有打开发动机，让车
慢慢地往山下滑行着。
除了此刻穿着神服，把自己伪装成一名牧师外，西里尔•波吉斯先生看着不像一个阴险的
人。他从事的是古董家具买卖，在切尔西的国王路有自己的店铺和展室。地盘不大，一般来
说生意也不是很多，但他的货物总是买进的时候很便宜，非常非常便宜，而卖出去的时候非
常非常贵，所以每年的收入还是蛮可观的。他是个很有天赋的生意人，每次他想做一笔买卖
时，总能很轻松地把自己调节到最适合客户的情绪里。面对老人他会变得庄重而讨喜，面对
富人他会乖巧奉承，对虔诚的人他会严肃，对软弱的人他会霸气，对寡妇他会打情骂俏，对
未婚女子他会没正经、玩暧昧。他非常清楚自己的这份天赋，毫不脸红地把它用在每一个可
能的场合。他经常是在一次格外精彩的演出快要结束时，必须得拼命克制自己不要转到一
边，深鞠一两个躬，以答谢剧场里的观众雷鸣般的掌声。
波吉斯先生虽然有这种类似小丑般的本事，但他并不是一个傻瓜。实际上，有人说他对
法国、英国和意大利家具的精通程度不亚于伦敦的任何人。而且他的品味不是一般的好，他
能迅速辨别和拒绝不雅致的设计，不管那件东西有多么正宗。当然啦，他最心仪的是十八世
纪伟大的英国设计师的作品，因斯、梅休、齐本德尔、罗伯特•亚当、曼纳林、依理高•琼斯、
赫波怀特、肯特、约翰逊、乔治•史密斯、洛克、谢拉顿，还有其他，但即使是这些作品他偶
尔也会画一条界线。比如，他不会让齐本德尔的中国风格或哥特时期的任何一件作品进入他
的展室，同样还有罗伯特•亚当的几件笨重的意大利风格的设计。
在过去的几年里，波吉斯先生因为能够以惊人的频率拿出非同一般，且经常是很稀罕的
古董，在业内的朋友们中间小有名气。显然，此人有着几乎永不枯竭的供货渠道，他似乎有
个私人仓库，好像只需每星期开车出去一趟，自己动手取回来就行。每当人们问他东西是从
哪儿弄来的，他总是意味深长地微微一笑，眨眨眼睛，喃喃地说那是一个小秘密。
波吉斯先生的那个小秘密，其实说来很简单，那是将近九年前，某个星期天下午发生的
一件事使他产生的灵感，当时他正驱车行驶在乡间。
他早晨出门去拜访他那住在塞文欧克斯的老母亲，在回来的路上，汽车的风扇传送皮带
断了，使得发动机过热，水被烧干。他下车走向离他最近的房屋，那是距离公路五十码的一
座小型农舍，他问那个来开门的女人能否行行好给他一罐水。
他在等待女人取水的时候，碰巧透过门缝往客厅里扫了一眼，发现就在离他不到五码远
的地方，有一样令他大为兴奋、头顶顿时开始冒汗的东西。那是一把很大的橡木扶手椅，同
样的款式他以前只见过一次。它的背板和每个扶手都由一排八根的、漂亮的旋转木柱支撑。
背板本身镶嵌着最精美的花卉图案，每个扶手的正中间雕刻着一只鸭头。“仁慈的上帝
啊，”他想，“这东西是十五世纪晚期的！”
他把脑袋往门里又探进了一些。果然，天呐，壁炉的另一边还有一把配对的椅子！
他没有十足的把握，但两把这样的椅子在伦敦至少要值一千英镑。而且，哦，它们多美
啊！
女人回来后，波吉斯先生向她做了自我介绍，然后开门见山地问她是否愿意出售她的椅
子。
天呐，她说，她凭什么要卖掉她的椅子？
没有什么原因，除非他愿意给她一个很不错的价钱。
那么他愿意给多少呢？椅子是绝对不卖的，但是完全出于好奇，只是为了好玩儿，那
么，他愿意出多少呢？
三十五英镑。
多少？
三十五英镑。
天呐，三十五英镑。好吧，好吧，真有意思。她一向认为它们很值钱。年头很久了，而
且坐着很舒服。她绝不能没有它们，绝对不能。对，椅子是不卖的，不过还是非常感谢你。
它们其实并没有那么多年头，波吉斯先生对她说，而且很难卖得出去，只是他碰巧有一
位客户很喜欢这一类东西。也许他可以再加两个英镑——出到三十七英镑，怎么样？
他们讨价还价了半小时，当然啦，最后波吉斯先生得到了椅子，同意付给她连椅子价值
的二十分之一都不到的价钱。
那天傍晚，波吉斯先生开着他的旧旅行车返回伦敦，后座上藏着那两把美妙的椅子，他
突然灵机一动，产生了一个对他来说最神奇的想法。
想想吧，他说。既然一座农舍里有好东西，别的农舍里怎么会没有？他为什么不去搜寻
搜寻？他为什么不在乡间仔细搜寻一番呢？他可以在星期天做这件事。那样根本不会妨碍他
的工作。反正他星期天总是不知道做什么好。
于是，波吉斯先生买来地图，是伦敦周边所有乡村的大比例图，他用一支细钢笔把每个
乡村分割成一系列方块。每个方块都是方圆五英里的一块地区，如果想搜索得彻底一点儿，
他估计一个星期天差不多能对付这么大的地盘。他不考虑小镇和村庄，他寻找的是相对与世
隔绝的地方，大的农舍和比较破旧的乡村别墅。这样的话，如果每星期干掉一个方块，一年
五十二个方块，慢慢地他就能把伦敦周围乡村的每一个农舍和每一幢别墅都排查一遍。
不过，仅有这些显然是不够的。乡下人都喜欢疑神疑鬼，那些家道中落的人也是。你不
可能大大咧咧地按响他们的门铃，随随便便地问一句，就指望他们带着你在家里各处转一
遍，他们不会那么做的。那样的话，你肯定刚进大门就被挡住了。那么他怎样才能“登堂入
室”呢？也许最好压根儿别让他们知道他是个生意人。他可以说自己是装电话的，是修管道
的，是查煤气的，甚至可以是一位牧师……
从这一点开始，整个计划便呈现出更切实可行的面貌了。波吉斯先生定制了大量很有档
次的名片，上面印着这样的文字：
西里尔•威明顿•波吉斯
牧师
珍稀家具保护协会主席
维多利亚和阿尔伯特博物馆顾问
从那时起的每个星期天，他都会变成一位慈祥的老牧师，利用假日四处巡游，声称是出
于对“协会”的热爱而努力工作，把藏在英国乡下人家的宝贝都登记在册。试想，听到这样一
番话，谁会把他挡在门外呢？
谁也不会。
一旦进到家里，如果碰巧发现一件他真心想要的东西，那么——他有无数种不同的办法
来达到目的。
让波吉斯先生感到意外的是，这个计划竟然成功了。实际上，一开始他在整个乡村一户
户人家中受到的热情接待令他自己都感到汗颜。一片冷馅饼、一杯伯特酒、一杯热茶、一篮
熟李子，甚至还受邀坐下来跟全家一起享用星期日晚餐……这些情况都不由分说地落到他头
上。当然啦，或多或少，也会有一些尴尬时刻以及许多不愉快的插曲，但是话说回来，九年
里有四百多个星期天呢，他参观过的房屋数量加起来十分可观。总之，这是一桩非常有趣、
令人兴奋、获利颇多的买卖。
现在又是一个星期天，波吉斯先生在白金汉郡的乡间活动，那是他地图上最北边的方块
之一，离牛津大约十英里。当他驱车下山，前往他的第一个目标，那座破败的安妮女王房屋
时，他心头不由得产生一种预感，这一天会是他的幸运日。
他把车停在离大门约一百码的地方，下车步行过去。他在交易完成之前一般不愿意让人
看见他的车。一位慈祥的老牧师开着一辆大旅行车，这看上去多少有点儿不相配。而且，步
行这一小段路能使他有时间从外面仔细观察这户人家，从而决定这一次采取什么样的态度最
为恰当。
波吉斯先生快步走上车道。他双腿短粗，肚子很大，圆脸庞红扑扑的，非常适合目前的
这个角色。他的两只褐色的大眼睛从红脸庞上凸出来看着你，给你一种温和而不怎么聪明的
印象。他穿着一套黑西装，脖子上有一圈牧师惯常会戴的白色硬圆领，头上是一顶柔软的黑
礼帽。他手里拿着一根旧橡木拐杖，认为这能使他看上去非常愚钝而随和。
他走向前门，按响了门铃。他听见门厅里传来脚步声，接着门开了，他的面前突然出现
了一个穿马裤的大块头女人，比他高出许多。即使在她的香烟味中也能闻到她身上那股马厩
和马粪的刺鼻气味。
“什么事？”女人怀疑地看着他，问道，“你想要什么？”
波吉斯先生感觉她随时都会发出马嘶声，他抬了抬礼帽，微微鞠了一躬，把名片递给了
她。“抱歉打扰你了。”他说，然后他等在一边，注视着她看名片时的脸色。
“我不明白。”她说，把名片还给了他，“你到底想要什么？”
波吉斯先生解释了一番珍稀家具保护协会的事。
“这不会碰巧跟社会党扯上什么关系吧？”她问，用一对浅色浓眉下的眼睛凶狠地瞪着
他。
这下事情就容易了。一位穿马裤的托利党，不管是男是女，对波吉斯先生来说都是瓮中
之鳖。他花了两分钟慷慨激昂地悼念了极右保守党，又花了两分钟谴责社会党人。作为关键
的杀手锏，他特意提到社会党人提出的那个法案——在全国废除血腥运动。对此他向女人坦
言了自己对天堂的看法——“不过你最好不要告诉主教，亲爱的”——他说：天堂是一个可以
天天打猎的地方，你可以带着一大群不知疲倦的猎狗，每星期七天，星期天也不例外，从早
到晚地打狐狸、打鹿、打兔子。
他一边说一边察言观色，他可以看出魔法开始起作用了。女人这时咧开嘴笑了，向波吉
斯先生露出一嘴微微泛黄的硕大牙齿。“夫人，”波吉斯先生说，“我求求你了，千万别让我开
始说起社会党。”此刻，女人发出一阵粗犷豪放的大笑，举起一只红兮兮的大手拍了一下他的
肩膀，那力道太大了，他差点儿当场栽倒。
“进来！”她喊道，“我不知道你到底想要什么，不过进来吧！”
说来真不走运，也让他颇感意外，整个家里竟然没有一件值钱的东西，波吉斯先生从来
不在贫瘠的土地上浪费时间，他很快就告辞离开了。这次拜访总共花了不到十五分钟，时间
不多也不少，他在重新钻进车里驶向下一个地点时，对自己这么说道。
从现在开始目标就都是农舍了，最近的一处在公路上坡的大约半英里外。这是一座砖木
结构的大房子，年头比较久远，一棵还在开花的高大繁茂的梨树，几乎把整个南墙都遮住
了。
波吉斯先生敲了敲门。他等待着，没有人来开门。他又敲了敲门，还是无人应答。于是
他绕到屋后，在那些牛棚间寻找农舍主，那里也没有人。他猜想他们可能还在教堂，于是他
从窗户往里张望，看能否发现什么有趣的东西。餐厅里没有什么，书房里也没有什么。他换
了一扇窗户试试，里面是客厅，天呐，就在他的鼻子底下，在窗户形成的小壁龛里，他看见
了一件精美的宝物：一个半圆形的红木牌桌，赫波怀特式风格，外表十分华丽，大约制作于
十八世纪八十年代。
“啊哈。”他大声说，把脸使劲贴在玻璃上，“干得漂亮，波吉斯。”
这还不算完。屋里还有一把椅子，一把单独的椅子，如果他没有弄错的话，它的质地比
那牌桌还要精美。又是一件赫波怀特式家具，是不是？哦，真漂亮啊！椅背的格子上精致地
雕刻着金银花、谷壳和圆盘花饰，藤编的椅座绝对是真品，椅腿的角度十分雅致，两条后腿
带有那种独特的外展弧度，这意味着太多。真是一把精制的椅子。“在今天结束之前，”波吉
斯先生轻声说，“我将很荣幸地在那可爱的椅子上落座。”他每次买了椅子都要坐一坐。这是
他最喜欢的一种检测方式，他轻轻沉下身体，落入椅座，等待那种“弹性”，内行地评判着岁
月所导致的榫眼和榫接头间精确而细微的抽缩，这真是非常有趣的一幕。
“不过没必要着急，”他对自己说，“待会儿再回来。”他有整个下午的时间呢。
下一座农舍位于田野的隐蔽处，波吉斯先生为了不让别人看见他的车，就把车停在路
上，顺着一条直通农舍后院的小道步行了大约六百码。他靠近农舍时注意到它的规模比上一
座小很多，因此心里便不抱多大希望。它看上去杂芜而肮脏，有几座棚屋显然已年久失修。
院子的一角有三个男人聚在一起，其中一个带着两条黑色大猎狗，都拴着皮带。男人们
看见穿着黑西装、戴着牧师领圈的波吉斯先生朝他们走来，立刻停止交谈，他们似乎突然怔
住了，变得凝固，如同木鸡似的一动不动，三张脸朝他转过来，怀疑地注视着他一步步走
近。
三人中最年长的那位是个矮胖子，有一张青蛙般的阔嘴巴和一双闪烁游移的小眼睛，波
吉斯先生不知道，此人名叫鲁明斯，是农舍的主人。
他身边那个高个子青年叫伯特，是鲁明斯的儿子，一只眼睛似乎有点儿毛病。
那个大扁脸的矮个子男人叫克劳德，窄窄的额头上堆着皱纹，肩膀特别宽阔。克劳德到
鲁明斯家来串门，希望能从他这里搞到前一天宰杀的那头猪的一块肉或一条腿。克劳德知道
鲁明斯杀了猪——那声音在田野里传得很远——他还知道，做那样的事情是需要获得政府批
准的，而鲁明斯是擅自杀猪。
“下午好。”波吉斯先生说，“天气真不错啊。”
三个男人都没有动。此时此刻，他们心里想的是同一件事——这位牧师肯定不是当地
人，他多半是被派来打探他们的事情，然后把他的发现向政府汇报。
“多么漂亮的狗啊。”波吉斯先生说，“实话实说，我本人从没有去看过赛狗，但听说是一
项特别吸引人的运动。”
还是沉默，波吉斯先生迅速把目光从鲁明斯转向伯特，再转向克劳德，然后又落回鲁明
斯身上，他注意到他们每个人脸上都带着同样奇怪的表情，介于奚落和挑衅之间，嘴角透着
一丝轻蔑，鼻子周围显出讥讽。
“冒昧请问一句，你是农舍主人吗？”波吉斯先生厚着脸皮问鲁明斯。
“你想要什么？”
“很抱歉打扰你们，特别是在一个星期天。”
波吉斯先生递上名片，鲁明斯接过去，举到自己面前。另外两个人没有动，但眼睛都往
旁边瞟着，想看名片。
“你到底想要什么？”鲁明斯问。
波吉斯先生在这一天第二次把珍稀家具保护协会的目标与宗旨详细解释了一遍。
“我们没有。”他讲完后，鲁明斯对他说，“你是在浪费时间。”
“别着急，等一下，先生。”波吉斯先生说着竖起一根指头，“上次对我说这句话的人，是
苏塞克斯郡的一位老农夫，后来他终于让我进入家门时，你知道我发现了什么？一把看着脏
兮兮的旧椅子，放在厨房的角落里，结果价值四百英镑！我告诉他怎么把椅子卖掉，后来他
用那笔钱给自己买了一台新拖拉机。”
“你到底在说些什么？”克劳德说，“世界上不可能有一把椅子值四百镑。”
“对不起，”波吉斯先生一本正经地说，“在英国就有大量的椅子值这个价钱的两倍都不
止。而且你知道它们在哪儿吗？就藏在各地乡村的农舍和别墅里，主人把它们当台阶和踏脚
的梯子，他们穿着大钉靴踩在上面，伸手去够橱柜顶上的一罐果酱或者挂一幅图画。这就是
我要告诉你的实情，我的朋友。”
鲁明斯不安地挪动一下双脚。“你的意思是，你想走进农舍，站在房间中央，到处看
看？”
“正是这个意思。”波吉斯先生说，他终于开始意识到麻烦出在哪里了，“我无意刺探你的
碗橱或食品柜。我只想打量打量家具，看看你家里是不是有什么宝贝，然后我可以在我们协
会的杂志上写写文章。”
“你知道我怎么想吗？”鲁明斯说，用两只恶毒的小眼睛盯着他，“我想你是自己要买那些
东西。不然你下这么大的功夫做什么？”
“哦，天呐。我倒希望我有那个钱呢。当然啦，如果我看见一件自己特别喜欢的东西，而
且没有超过我的支付能力，我可能会忍不住出价的。可是，唉，那种事情很少有。”
“好吧，”鲁明斯说，“如果你只是想看看，我觉得带你进去转一转倒也没什么。”他领头
穿过院子，走向农舍的后门，波吉斯先生紧随其后，他的儿子伯特和带着两条狗的克劳德也
跟了上来。他们走过厨房，厨房里唯一的家具是一张廉价的牌桌，上面扔着一只死鸡，然后
他们走进一间比较宽敞、特别肮脏的客厅。
有了！波吉斯先生一眼就看见了它，他猛地停住脚步，发出一小声惊愕的尖叫。然后他
原地呆立了至少五秒、十秒、十五秒，像傻瓜一样瞪着眼睛，他不能相信，也不敢相信眼前
所见的东西。这不可能是真的，绝对不可能！可是他瞪大眼睛细看，越看越像是真的。毕
竟，它就靠在他面前的墙上，像这座房子一样真实存在着，非虚非幻。而且那样一件东西怎
么可能有人弄错呢？诚然，它被漆成了白色，但那一点儿关系也没有，是某个傻瓜给它刷了
油漆，但很容易就能擦掉的。仁慈的上帝啊！好好看看吧！它竟然是在这样一个地方！
这时波吉斯先生突然意识到，那三个男人，鲁明斯、伯特和克劳德，在壁炉旁凑成一
堆，正专注地盯着他。他们看见了他停住脚、抽冷气、瞪眼睛，肯定也看见他的脸涨得通红
（也可能变得煞白），总之，如果自己不赶紧采取一点儿措施，他们所看见的足以把这笔天
赐的生意整个搞砸。波吉斯先生急中生智，用一只手捂住胸口，踉踉跄跄地走向最近的一把
椅子，一屁股坐进去，呼呼地喘着粗气。
“你这是怎么了？”克劳德问。
“没什么。”他上气不接下气地说，“一分钟就好。拜托——给我一杯水。是心脏的问
题。”
伯特把水拿来，递给了他，然后站在他身边，一脸愚钝地低头斜瞟着他。
“我还以为你在看什么东西呢。”鲁明斯说。那张青蛙般的阔嘴又咧开了一点儿，形成一
个狡猾的微笑，露出几个断了的牙根。
“没有，没有。”波吉斯先生说，“哦，天呐，没有。只是我的心脏。真对不起。时不时就
会犯病。不过很快就会过去的，过两分钟我就没事了。”
他必须有时间思考，他对自己说。更重要的是，他必须有时间让自己完全镇定下来再开
口说话。从容一点儿，波吉斯。不管你做什么，都要保持平静。这几个人可能无知，但绝不
是傻瓜。他们多疑、谨慎、狡猾。如果那东西真的是真品——不，不可能，不可能是真
品……
他用一只手捂住眼睛，做出痛苦的样子，此时他偷偷地、小心翼翼地把两个指头张开一
道细缝，往外窥视。
没错，那东西还在，这一次他好好地把它看了个仔细。是的——他第一眼的判断是正确
的！没有哪怕一丝一毫的疑问！真是令人难以置信啊！
他看见的，是任何行家几乎都会不惜一切代价去获取的一件家具。在外行人看来，它可
能没什么特别了不得的，特别是还涂了一层脏兮兮的白油漆，然而对波吉斯先生来说，这是
一个生意人梦寐以求的东西。他知道，欧洲和美国的其他每一个生意人也知道，现今世上最
著名、最让人觊觎的十八世纪英国家具单品中，有三件大名鼎鼎、被称为“齐本德尔衣柜”的
宝物。他熟悉它们的历史——第一件是一九二〇年在沼地大叶榕村的一户人家发现的，同年
在索斯比拍卖行售出；另外两件于次年在同一家拍卖行出现，都来自诺福克郡的雷纳姆山
庄。它们都卖出了天价。他记不清第一件的具体售价，甚至第二件也记不清了，但他清楚地
知道最后一件卖出了三千九百几尼 [1] 。而那是一九二一年！今天同样一件家具肯定价值一万
英镑。有一个人，波吉斯先生想不起他的名字了，最近对这些衣柜做了研究，证实这三件都
来自同一个作坊，因为它们的板料出自同一根圆木，而且每件家具的构造用的是同一套模
板。它们的发票都没有找到，但所有的行家一致认为这三个衣柜可能是托马斯•齐本德尔独家
亲手打造的，而且是在他事业的鼎盛时期。
此刻，波吉斯先生一边透过手指缝谨慎地偷窥，一边不断地告诉自己：这是“第四件齐本
德尔衣柜”！是他找到的！他要发财了！而且还会出名！另外的三件都在家具界有各自专门的
名字——查斯尔顿衣柜、雷纳姆衣柜一号、雷纳姆衣柜二号。这一件将以“波吉斯衣柜”的名
字载入史册！想象一下伦敦那帮小子明天早晨看到它时的脸色吧！伦敦西区的那些大亨——
弗兰克•帕特里奇、马莱、杰特雷等等，都会给出高额的报价！《泰晤士报》上会登出一张照
片，说明文字是：“这件十分精美的齐本德尔衣柜，最近由伦敦的一位名叫西里尔•波吉斯先生
的交易商发现……”仁慈的上帝，这将会引起多么大的轰动啊！
“眼前的这一件，”波吉斯先生想，“跟雷纳姆衣柜二号几乎一模一样。”（所有那三件，
查斯尔顿和两个雷纳姆，彼此都有许多细小的差异。）这是一件极为气派而俊美的家具，属
于法式洛可可风格，完成于齐本德尔当总监的时期，是一种宽宽大大的斗柜，有四条高出地
面约一英尺的、雕刻精美的、带凹槽的腿。一共有六个抽屉，中间两个长抽屉，两边各有两
个短抽屉。弧形柜面的顶部、两侧和底部都有非常华丽的装饰，每组抽屉之间也镌刻着垂直
的图案，有花饰、卷轴和花簇，雕刻十分精美。黄铜把手虽然被白漆盖住了一些，但显然质
地一流。当然啦，这是一件比较“笨重”的家具，但设计和做工都那么优雅精致，其笨重也就
根本不是问题了。
“你现在感觉怎么样了？”波吉斯先生听见有人说。
“谢谢你，谢谢你，我已经好多了。很快就过去了。我的医生说，只要发作时我能休息几
分钟，就没有什么可担心的。啊，是的。”他说着，慢慢地站了起来，“真的好多了，我现在
没事了。”
他脚步微微有些摇晃地开始在屋里走动，挨个儿查看那些家具，发表一些简短的评论。
他立刻就看出来了，除了那个衣柜，其他的都没什么价值。
“不错的橡木桌子。”他说，“但恐怕年头少了点儿，不会引起什么兴趣。这两把椅子倒很
舒服，但是很现代，没错，很现代。再来看这个碗橱，怎么说呢，看着蛮吸引人的，但还是
不值什么钱。这个斗柜”——他漫不经心地从齐本德尔衣柜旁走过，轻蔑地挥了挥手指
——“我敢说倒还值几个英镑，但也仅此而已。坦白地说，这是一件相当粗糙的复制品，大概
是维多利亚时期的。是你们把它漆成白色的？”
“是的。”鲁明斯说，“伯特干的。”
“很聪明的做法。漆成白色就好得多，没那么扎眼了。”
“这是件很结实的家具。”鲁明斯说，“上面还有漂亮的雕刻。”
“机器刻的。”波吉斯先生派头十足地说，弯腰查看精美的工艺，“隔着一英里就能看出
来。不过，我认为它还是蛮漂亮的。有它的可取之处。”
他溜溜达达地走开去，然后停住脚，又缓缓地转过身来。他把一根手指尖抵在下巴尖
上，脑袋偏向一边，皱起眉头，似乎陷入了沉思。
“你们猜怎么着？”他看着那个衣柜说，语气十分随意，声音时而低得听不见，“我刚才突
然想起……我一直想要类似这样一套的桌腿很久了。我自己的小家里有一张很奇怪的桌子，
就是那种人们放在沙发前面的矮桌，有点儿像咖啡桌，在去年米迦勒节我搬家时，那些愚蠢
的搬家工以极其粗暴的方式把桌腿弄坏了。我很喜欢那张桌子，我总是把我的大《圣经》放
在上面，还有我所有的布道笔记。”
他顿了顿，用手指摸着下巴。“我刚才正琢磨呢。你这斗柜的这些腿或许倒很合适。没
错，应该合适。把它们锯下来安在我的桌子下面，倒也不费什么事。”
他扭头看了看，发现那三个男人一动不动地站着，狐疑地注视着他，三双眼睛各不相
同，却都那么充满怀疑，鲁明斯的小猪眼、克劳德的迟钝的大眼，还有伯特那两只不对称的
眼睛，其中一只非常奇怪，蒙昧不清的浅色中间有个小黑点，就像盘子里的一只鱼眼。
波吉斯先生笑了笑，摇了摇头。“哎呀，哎呀，我这是在说些什么呀？听我的口气，就好
像这件家具归我了似的。实在抱歉。”
“你是想说你愿意把它买下。”鲁明斯说。
“这个……”波吉斯先生扭头扫了一眼衣柜，蹙起眉头，“我说不准。我可能……不过……
仔细想来……不……我认为可能有点儿太麻烦了，不值得。还是算了吧。”
“你想出多少钱？”鲁明斯问。
“恐怕不多。你知道，这不是一件真正的古董，只是个复制品。”
“我没有那么肯定。”鲁明斯对他说，“它在这里二十多年了，是之前庄园主的宅子里的。
老乡绅死后，我在拍卖会上把它买了下来。你可不能说这是个新东西。”
“不算很新，但肯定最多也就六十来年。”
“比这个年头久。”鲁明斯说，“伯特，你那次在一个抽屉里发现的那张纸呢？那张旧账
单。”
男孩茫然地看着父亲。
波吉斯先生张开嘴，但没等发出声音又赶紧闭上了。他真的开始兴奋得发抖了，为了让
自己镇定下来，他走到窗前，看着外面院子里一只胖胖的棕色母鸡啄食散落的谷粒。
“就在那个抽屉里头，在那些捕兔夹的下面。”只听鲁明斯说，“快去把它拿出来，给这位
牧师看看。”
伯特走向衣柜时，波吉斯先生又转过身来。他忍不住要看着伯特。他看见伯特抽出中间
的一个大抽屉，他注意到抽屉打开时是那么流畅顺滑。他看见伯特把手伸进去，在一大堆铁
丝和粗线中间翻来翻去。
“你说的是这个吗？”伯特掏出一张折叠的泛黄的纸，把它拿给了父亲，鲁明斯把纸展
开，举到脸前。
“你可不能说这上面的字还不够有年头吧。”鲁明斯说，把纸递过来给波吉斯先生，波吉
斯先生接过纸时胳膊都在颤抖。纸张松脆，在他的手指间轻微作响。上面的笔迹是一种长长
的斜体字。
爱德华•蒙泰先生
需支付托马斯•齐本德尔
八十七英镑
一张红木大衣柜台，极品木料，雕刻十分精美，带凹槽的腿，中间是两个形状十分
规整的长抽屉，两边各有两个小抽屉，配有豪华的黄铜把手和装饰，整个作品华丽高
贵，极具品位……
波吉斯先生紧紧抓着这张纸，拼命克制着内心激荡着的、令他感到眩晕的兴奋。哦，上
帝，太奇妙了！有了这张账单，价值还会再上几个台阶。看在上帝的分上，现在能卖到多少
钱？一万两千镑？一万四千镑？也许一万五千镑，甚至两万镑？谁知道呢？
哦，天呐！
他轻蔑地把纸扔在桌上，平静地说：“就像我跟你们说的，是一件维多利亚时期的复制
品。这只是卖家给客户提供的发票——卖家就是做了柜子再冒充古董出售的那个家伙。这种
东西我见得多了。你会注意到他没有说东西是他自己做的。这就露出马脚来了。”
“随你怎么说吧，”鲁明斯大声说，“反正这张纸很有年头了。”
“当然，当然，我亲爱的朋友。这是维多利亚时期的，维多利亚晚期。大概是一八九几年
吧，也有六七十年历史了。我见过几百张这样的东西，那个时候，大批的家具木工整天不干
别的，专门仿制前一个世纪的精美家具。”
“听着，牧师。”鲁明斯用一根肮脏的粗手指指着他，说道，“我不是想说你对家具的事一
窍不通，我想说的是，你还没有看到油漆下面是什么样子，凭什么就这么有把握说它是假
货？”
“过来。”波吉斯先生说，“上这儿来，我让你们看个明白。”他站在衣柜旁边，等他们聚
拢过来。“请问，谁有刀子？”
克劳德拿出一把角质柄的小折刀，波吉斯先生接过来打开最小的刀刃。然后，他表面上
漫不经心，实际上十二万分小心，开始把衣柜顶部一小块地方的白漆刮掉。白漆刮干净后，
露出下面古旧而坚实的亮光漆，他清理出三英寸见方后，退后一步，说道：“好了，过来瞧瞧
吧！”
真美啊——一小块温润的红木，闪烁着黄玉般的光泽，沉郁、乌黑，是二百年沉淀的正
宗颜色。
“有什么不对吗？”鲁明斯问。
“是处理过的！谁都看得出来！”
“你是怎么看出来的，先生？你倒是说说看。”
“唉，我不得不说要解释起来有点儿困难。主要是凭经验。我的经验告诉我，这木头用石
灰处理过，绝没有半点儿疑问。他们用石灰处理红木，让它具有那种陈年的暗色。至于橡木
嘛，他们用的是钾盐，胡桃木用的是硝酸，但处理红木都是用石灰。”
三个男人凑近一点儿，盯着那木头。他们现在来了兴致，有点儿躁动不安了。听听新的
骗术和骗局总是令人着迷的。
“仔细看看这个纹理。你们看见在暗红褐色中间有一抹橘黄色吧。那就是石灰的痕迹。”
他们探过身，把鼻子凑向木头，先是鲁明斯，再是克劳德，然后是伯特。
“再来说这个铜绿。”波吉斯先生继续说道。
“什么？”
他向他们解释这个词用在家具上的意思。
“我亲爱的朋友们，你们根本不知道，那帮混蛋为了模仿正宗铜绿那种坚硬而美丽的青铜
色外观，花费了多少工夫。可怕，真是可怕，我一说起来就感到恶心！”他用舌尖把每个字用
力地喷射出去，并且撇着嘴，表示出极度的厌恶。男人们等待着，希望听到更多的秘密。
“有些家伙为了欺骗无辜的人，真是煞费苦心，不惜时间！”波吉斯先生大声说，“实在是
令人作呕！朋友们，你们知道他们在这里是怎么做的吗？我可以看得清清楚楚。我几乎能看
见他们的做法，那种冗长、繁复的程序，用亚麻籽油擦拭木头，再用巧妙配色的法国抛光漆
浸泡，用浮石和油刷一遍，再打一层掺了泥土和灰尘的蜡，最后经过一道热处理，让表面开
裂，看上去就像有二百年历史的旧光泽！唉，想到这样的流氓行径，真让我痛心疾首！”
三个人继续盯着那一小片暗色的木头。
“摸摸它！”波吉斯先生吩咐道，“把你们的手指放在上面！怎么样，感觉如何，是热还是
冷？”
“冷。”鲁明斯说。
“一点儿不错，我的朋友！有一个事实就是，伪造的铜绿摸上去总是冷的。真正的铜绿摸
上去有一种奇特的温热感。”
“这感觉很正常。”鲁明斯不服气地说。
“不，先生，这是冷的。不过只有经验丰富的敏感的手指才能判定它的真伪。就像我不可
能判断你的大麦的质量一样，你也不可能判断这样的东西。生活中的一切，我亲爱的先生，
都靠经验。”
三个男人瞪大眼睛，盯着这个奇怪的圆脸庞牧师，不像刚才那么怀疑他了，因为他好像
确实对这个话题比较懂行。但是他们还远远谈不上相信他。
波吉斯先生弯下腰，指着衣柜上的一个金属抽屉把手。“这也是骗子们做手脚的一个地
方。”他说，“旧黄铜一般都有自己的颜色和特性。这点你们了解吗？”
三个人盯着他，还想听到更多的秘密。
“但麻烦就在于他们这方面的技艺已经变得非常精到了。实际上几乎很难看出‘真旧’和‘做
旧’之间的区别。我不妨承认这其中有我的猜测，所以我们就没必要刮掉这些把手上的油漆
了，即使刮掉也不会看出什么。”
“怎么可能把新黄铜做旧呢？”克劳德说，“黄铜不会生锈，这你知道。”
“你说得不错，我的朋友。但是那帮卑鄙的家伙自有他们见不得人的做法。”
“比如说什么呢？”克劳德问。在他看来，这一类的信息都很有价值。说不定什么时候就
能派上用场也未可知。
“他们需要做的，”波吉斯先生说，“就是将这些把手在一箱浸泡了氯化铵的红木刨花里放
一夜。氯化铵会让金属变绿，而如果你把这层绿擦掉，就会发现下面是一层漂亮而柔和的银
光，跟正宗的旧黄铜的光泽一模一样。哦，太卑鄙了，他们干的这些勾当！他们对付铁又是
另一种套路。”
“他们是怎么对付铁的？”克劳德好奇地问。
“铁很容易。”波吉斯先生说，“只要把铁锁、铁板和铁铰链什么的埋在普通的盐里，它们
立刻就会变得锈迹斑斑，麻麻点点。”
“好吧。”鲁明斯说，“所以你承认你说不出这些把手的道道。就你所知，它们可能有好几
百年历史呢。对不对？”
“啊。”波吉斯先生说，用两只凸出的褐色大眼睛盯着鲁明斯，“这你可就说错了。你仔细
瞧着。”
他从上衣口袋里掏出一个小螺丝刀。与此同时，他还掏出一个小铜螺丝藏在手心里，但
他们谁都没有看见他的动作。然后他在衣柜上挑了一个螺丝——每个把手上有四个螺丝——
他开始小心翼翼地刮去螺丝顶上的白漆。刮干净之后，他便动手把螺丝拧下来。
“如果这真是十八世纪的古董级黄铜螺丝，”他说，“螺纹会有点儿不平整，你一眼就能看
出是用锉刀手工做成的，但如果这个铜把手是近些年——维多利亚时代或者更晚——的冒牌
货，那么螺丝显然也应该是同一时期的，是批量生产、机器制作的东西。机器做的螺丝谁都
认得出来。好吧，我们来看看。”
波吉斯先生用手捂住旧螺丝，把它拔出来，神不知鬼不觉地换上了藏在掌心里的新螺
丝，整个动作并不困难。这也是他的一个小招数，这么多年来证明很有效果。他那件牧师上
衣的口袋里总是放着一堆各种型号的廉价铜螺丝。
“在这儿呢。”他说，把那个现代螺丝递给鲁明斯，“好好看看吧。注意到螺纹多么平整
吗？看见了吗？你肯定看见了。这只是一个不值钱的普通小螺丝，如今你在乡下的随便哪家
五金商店都能买得到。”
螺丝被轮流递到那三个人手里，每人都看得很仔细。就连鲁明斯此刻也心服口服了。
波吉斯先生把螺丝刀，连同他从衣柜上拧下来的那个精美的手工螺丝，一起放回了口袋
里，然后他转过身，慢悠悠地经过三个男人身边，朝门口走去。
“我亲爱的朋友们，”他说，在厨房门口停住脚步，“非常感谢你们让我参观你们家——太
客气了。但愿我没有让你们感到讨厌。”
正在检查螺丝的鲁明斯抬起头来。“你还没说你打算出多少钱呢。”他说。
“啊。”波吉斯先生说，“那倒是真的，可不是吗？唉，实话告诉你们，这的确有点儿太麻
烦了。我想还是算了吧。”
“你愿意出多少钱？”
“你是说你真打算把它卖掉？”
“我没说我想把它卖掉。我只问你出多少钱。”
波吉斯先生看着屋里的衣柜，脑袋先偏到一边，又偏到另一边，然后他皱起眉头，噘起
嘴唇，耸了耸肩膀，轻蔑地挥了一下手，似乎想说这件事实在不值得考虑，不是吗？
“那就……十个英镑吧。我认为这算很公道了。”
“十个英镑！”鲁明斯喊了起来，“拜托，别开玩笑了，牧师。”
“当柴火烧都不止这么多钱！”克劳德懊丧地说。
“看看这个账单！”鲁明斯继续说，用他肮脏的食指粗暴地戳着那张珍贵的文献，让波吉
斯先生看了心惊肉跳。“上面清清楚楚写着钱数呢！八十七英镑！而且那是新货的价钱。现在
成了古董，起码得翻倍！”
“恕我直言，不是，先生，不是古董。是一件二手的复制品。不过，我的朋友，我可以告
诉你——我有点儿草率了，心血来潮——我可以提高到十五英镑。怎么样？”
“五十。”鲁明斯说。
一种甜蜜的微颤，像细针似的顺着波吉斯先生的大腿后面往下蹿，一直蹿到他的脚底。
他得手了，柜子是他的了。这是毫无疑问的。可是这么多年的需求和磨炼使他养成一个习
惯，尽量廉价买进，越便宜越好，这习惯太根深蒂固了，使得他此刻不愿轻易做出让步。
“我亲爱的朋友，”他慢条斯理地小声说，“我只想要这几条腿。几个抽屉也许以后能派上
点儿用场，但是剩下来的，这个柜子本身，就像你这位朋友刚才说的，就是一堆柴火，仅此
而已。”
“那就三十五镑。”鲁明斯说。
“不可能，先生，不可能的！不值那个价！而且我绝对不能允许自己这样讨价还价。这是
完全错误的。我就给你一个最后报价，然后我就走人。二十英镑。”
“成。”鲁明斯一口应下，“归你了。”
“哦，天呐。”波吉斯先生把两个手一攥，说道，“我又陷入了被动。我刚才就不应该开这
个头的。”
“你现在可收不回去了，牧师。说好了就不许赖。”
“是的，是的，我知道。”
“你怎么拿走呢？”
“嗯，让我想想。如果我把我的车开进院子，也许你们几位先生愿意行个好，帮我把它搬
上去？”
“搬上车？这东西肯定塞不进车里！你需要一辆卡车来装它！”
“我认为不必。到时候再看吧。我的车就在路上。我马上就回来。我们总有办法搞定的，
我相信。”
波吉斯先生走进院子，走出大门，走在那条长长的、穿过田野通往公路的小道上。他发
现自己在无法控制地咯咯发笑，而且感到似乎有成百上千的小气泡从肚子里冒上来，像苏打
水一样，噼噼啪啪地在头顶上愉快地爆开。田野里所有的金凤花突然都变成了一个个金镑，
在太阳下闪着金光。遍地都是金币啊，于是他离开小道，走在草地上，这样他就能漫步在金
币中间，踩在金币上，用脚踢着那些金币，听它们发出清脆悦耳的金属声了。他觉得很难克
制着不跑起来。然而牧师是从来不跑的。牧师总是慢慢地走路。慢慢地走路，波吉斯。保持
镇静，波吉斯。现在没必要着急了。柜子是你的了！二十英镑买来的，价值一万五千，甚至
两万英镑！波吉斯衣柜！十分钟后，它就稳稳地放在你车里了——放进去绰绰有余——然后
你一路唱着歌儿，开回伦敦！波吉斯先生开着波吉斯汽车把波吉斯衣柜运回家。历史性的时
刻。新闻记者肯定不惜一切想拍到这幅画面！他是不是应该安排一下。也许应该。等着瞧
吧。哦，辉煌的一天！哦，多么可爱的一个夏日！哦，荣耀归于上帝！
话说在农舍里，鲁明斯说道：“想想吧，那个老混蛋竟然出二十镑买这么一堆破烂。”
“你干得很漂亮，鲁明斯先生。”克劳德对他说，“你说他会付你钱吗？”
“他付了钱咱们再给他装上车。”
“如果车里塞不下呢？”克劳德问，“你知道我在想什么吧，鲁明斯？你想听听我的心里话
吗？我认为这该死的东西太大了，根本塞不进车里去。然后会怎么样呢？然后他就会说算了
吧，就把它撇下，开着车走了，然后你就永远不会再见到他，也不会见到钱。他买的时候并
不是很积极，你知道的。”
鲁明斯没说话，考虑着这个新的、颇令人惊慌的可能性。
“这样一件东西怎么可能塞进车里呢？”克劳德锲而不舍地继续说，“而且没有哪个牧师会
开一辆大车。你从没见过牧师开大车吧，鲁明斯先生？”
“确实没有。”
“这就对啦！现在听我说吧。我倒有个主意。他不是跟我们说他只想要这几条腿吗？我们
只需要在他回来之前，快刀斩乱麻地把腿锯下来，柜子就准能塞进车里了。我们这是省了他
的麻烦，免得他回家后还要自己锯腿。这主意怎么样，鲁明斯先生？”克劳德那张迟钝的大扁
脸上闪动着自鸣得意的神情。
“这倒是个不坏的主意。”鲁明斯看着衣柜，说道，“实话实说，这主意太棒了。说干就
干，抓紧时间。你和伯特把它搬到外面的院子里。我去拿锯子。先把抽屉拉出来。”
两分钟后，克劳德和伯特就把衣柜搬了出来，底朝上放在院子里的鸡屎、牛粪和烂泥中
间。他们看见远处的田野上有一个小小的黑色身影顺着小道往公路上走。他们停下来注视
着，这身影的行为看着有几分滑稽，他时不时地撒腿跑几步，蹦几个高儿，有一次似乎还有
欢快的歌声从草地上隐隐地传到他们耳中。
“我认为他有点儿疯癫。”克劳德说。伯特阴沉地咧嘴笑笑，那颗有白膜的眼珠在眼眶里
慢慢转动。
鲁明斯扛着一把长锯，从工具棚里摇摇晃晃走过来，他五短身材，活像一只青蛙。克劳
德从他手里接过锯子，开始干活。
“锯得高一点儿。”鲁明斯说，“别忘了他还要用在另一张桌子上呢。”
红木很硬、很干，克劳德拉锯时，细细的红粉从锯条边缘喷出来，轻轻落在地上。衣柜
的腿一条接一条地被锯断，都锯下来后，伯特弯下腰，把它们仔细地摆成一排。
克劳德退后一步，欣赏自己的劳动成果。接着是良久的沉默。
“让我问你一个问题吧，鲁明斯先生。”他慢吞吞地说，“就算成了这样，你能把这个大家
伙塞进一辆车里吗？”
“除非是一辆货车。”
“没错！”克劳德喊道，“你知道牧师是不开货车的。他们一般只开小车，莫里斯八代或奥
斯汀七代。”
“他要的只是腿。”鲁明斯说，“如果剩下的柜子塞不进去，他可以留下嘛。他没什么可抱
怨的。他拿到了腿。”
“其实你心里很清楚，鲁明斯先生。”克劳德耐心地说，“你明明知道，如果不能把这柜子
的每一部分都装进车里，他肯定又要开始杀价。一提到钱的事，牧师跟其他人一样精明，这
点你可千万别犯糊涂。特别是这个老家伙。干脆，我们现在就把他的柴火给他，彻底了结这
件事。你的斧子放在哪儿？”
“我认为很有道理。”鲁明斯说，“伯特，去拿斧子。”
伯特走进工具棚，拿来一把伐木头的长斧子，递给克劳德。克劳德往手心里吐了口唾
沫，两手搓了搓。然后，他用长胳膊把斧子高高抡起，开始朝那个没有腿的衣柜发起凶猛的
进攻。
这工作可不轻松，他花了好几分钟才算是把整个衣柜劈成了碎片。
“有一点我得告诉你。”他说，直起腰，擦了擦额头，“不管那牧师怎么说，做这件家具的
木工手艺可真不赖。”
“时间正好！”鲁明斯大声说，“他来了！”
初刊于《时尚先生》1958.4
[1]一种英国货币，1几尼=1.05英镑。
Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat
Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat
AMERICA IS THE LAND of opportunities for women. Already they own about eighty-five per
cent of the wealth of the nation. Soon they will have it all. Divorce has become a lucrative process,
simple to arrange and easy to forget; and ambitious females can repeat it as often as they please
and parlay their winnings to astronomical figures. The husband’s death also brings satisfactory
rewards and some ladies prefer to rely upon this method. They know that the waiting period will
not be unduly protracted, for overwork and hypertension are bound to get the poor devil before
long, and he will die at his desk with a bottle of benzedrines in one hand and a packet of
tranquillizers in the other.
Succeeding generations of youthful American males are not deterred in the slightest by this
terrifying pattern of divorce and death. The higher the divorce rate climbs, the more eager they
become. Young men marry like mice, almost before they have reached the age of puberty, and a
large proportion of them have at least two ex-wives on the payroll by the time they are thirty-six
years old. To support these ladies in the manner to which they are accustomed, the men must work
like slaves, which is of course precisely what they are. But now at last, as they approach their
premature middle age, a sense of disillusionment and fear begins to creep slowly into their hearts,
and in the evenings they take to huddling together in little groups, in clubs and bars, drinking their
whiskies and swallowing their pills, and trying to comfort one another with stories.
The basic theme of these stories never varies. There are always three main characters - the
husband, the wife, and the dirty dog. The husband is a decent clean-living man, working hard at
his job. The wife is cunning, deceitful, and lecherous, and she is invariably up to some sort of
jiggery-pokery with the dirty dog. The husband is too good a man even to suspect her. Things look
black for the husband. Will the poor man ever find out? Must he be a cuckold for the rest of his
life? Yes, he must. But wait! Suddenly, by a brilliant manoeuvre, the husband completely turns the
tables on his monstrous spouse. The woman is flabbergasted, stupefied, humiliated, defeated. The
audience of men around the bar smiles quietly to itself and takes a little comfort from the fantasy.
There are many of these stories going around, these wonderful wishful thinking dreamworld
inventions of the unhappy male, but most of them are too fatuous to be worth repeating, and far
too fruity to be put down on paper. There is one, however, that seems to be superior to the rest,
particularly as it has the merit of being true. It is extremely popular with twice- or thrice-bitten
males in search of solace, and if you are one of them, and if you haven’t heard it before, you may
enjoy the way it comes out. The story is called ‘Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat’, and it goes
something like this:
Mr and Mrs Bixby lived in a smallish apartment somewhere in New York City. Mr Bixby was a
dentist who made an average income. Mrs Bixby was a big vigorous woman with a wet mouth.
Once a month, always on Friday afternoons, Mrs Bixby would board the train at Pennsylvania
Station and travel to Baltimore to visit her old aunt. She would spend the night with the aunt and
return to New York on the following day in time to cook supper for her husband. Mr Bixby
accepted this arrangement good-naturedly. He knew that Aunt Maude lived in Baltimore, and that
his wife was very fond of the old lady, and certainly it would be unreasonable to deny either of
them the pleasure of a monthly meeting.
‘Just so long as you don’t ever expect me to accompany you,’ Mr Bixby had said in the
beginning.
‘Of course not, darling,’ Mrs Bixby had answered. ‘After all, she is not your aunt. She’s mine.’
So far so good.
As it turned out, however, the aunt was little more than a convenient alibi for Mrs Bixby. The
dirty dog, in the shape of a gentleman known as the Colonel, was lurking slyly in the background,
and our heroine spent the greater part of her Baltimore time in this scoundrel’s company. The
Colonel was exceedingly wealthy. He lived in a charming house on the outskirts of town. No wife
or family encumbered him, only a few discreet and loyal servants, and in Mrs Bixby’s absence he
consoled himself by riding his horses and hunting the fox.
Year after year, this pleasant alliance between Mrs Bixby and the Colonel continued without a
hitch. They met so seldom - twelve times a year is not much when you come to think of it - that
there was little or no chance of their growing bored with one another. On the contrary, the long
wait between meetings only made the heart grow fonder, and each separate occasion became an
exciting reunion.
‘Tally-ho!’ the Colonel would cry each time he met her at the station in the big car. ‘My dear,
I’d almost forgotten how ravishing you looked. Let’s go to earth.’
Eight years went by.
It was just before Christmas, and Mrs Bixby was standing on the station in Baltimore waiting
for the train to take her back to New York. This particular visit which had just ended had been
more than usually agreeable, and she was in a cheerful mood. But then the Colonel’s company
always did that to her these days. The man had a way of making her feel that she was altogether a
rather remarkable woman, a person of subtle and exotic talents, fascinating beyond measure; and
what a very different thing that was from the dentist husband at home who never succeeded in
making her feel that she was anything but a sort of eternal patient, someone who dwelt in the
waiting-room, silent among the magazines, seldom if ever nowadays to be called in to suffer the
finicky precise ministrations of those clean pink hands.
‘The Colonel asked me to give you this,’ a voice beside her said. She turned and saw Wilkins,
the Colonel’s groom, a small wizened dwarf with grey skin, and he was pushing a large flatfish
cardboard box into her arms.
‘Good gracious me!’ she cried, all of a flutter. ‘My heavens, what an enormous box! What is it,
Wilkins? Was there a message? Did he send me a message?’
‘No message,’ the groom said, and he walked away.
As soon as she was on the train, Mrs Bixby carried the box into the privacy of the Ladies’ Room
and locked the door. How exciting this was! A Christmas present from the Colonel. She started to
undo the string. ‘I’ll bet it’s a dress,’ she said aloud. ‘It might even be two dresses. Or it might be
a whole lot of beautiful underclothes. I won’t look. I’ll just feel around and try to guess what it is.
I’ll try to guess the colour as well, and exactly what it looks like. Also how much it cost.’
She shut her eyes tight and slowly lifted off the lid. Then she put one hand down into the box.
There was some tissue paper on top; she could feel it and hear it rustling. There was also an
envelope or a card of some sort. She ignored this and began burrowing underneath the tissue
paper, the fingers reaching out delicately, like tendrils.
‘My God,’ she cried suddenly. ‘It can’t be true!’
She opened her eyes wide and stared at the coat. Then she pounced on it and lifted it out of the
box. Thick layers of fur made a lovely noise against the tissue paper as they unfolded, and when
she held it up and saw it hanging to its full length, it was so beautiful it took her breath away.
Never had she seen mink like this before. It was mink, wasn’t it? Yes, of course it was. But
what a glorious colour! The fur was almost pure black. At first she thought it was black; but when
she held it closer to the window she saw that there was a touch of blue in it as well, a deep rich
blue, like cobalt. Quickly she looked at the label. It said simply, WILD LABRADOR MINK.
There was nothing else, no sign of where it had been bought or anything. But that, she told herself,
was probably the Colonel’s doing. The wily old fox was making dam sure he didn’t leave any
tracks. Good for him. But what in the world could it have cost? She hardly dared to think. Four,
five, six thousand dollars? Possibly more.
She just couldn’t take her eyes off it. Nor, for that matter, could she wait to try it on. Quickly
she slipped off her own plain red coat. She was panting a little now, she couldn’t help it, and her
eyes were stretched very wide. But oh God, the feel of that fur! And those huge wide sleeves with
their thick turned-up cuffs! Who was it had once told her that they always used female skins for
the arms and male skins for the rest of the coat? Someone had told her that. Joan Rutfield,
probably; though how Joan would know anything about mink she couldn’t imagine.
The great black coat seemed to slide on to her almost of its own accord, like a second skin. Oh
boy! It was the queerest feeling! She glanced into the mirror. It was fantastic. Her whole
personality had suddenly changed completely. She looked dazzling, radiant, rich, brilliant,
voluptuous, all at the same time. And the sense of power that it gave her! In this coat she could
walk into any place she wanted and people would come scurrying around her like rabbits. The
whole thing was just too wonderful for words!
Mrs Bixby picked up the envelope that was still lying in the box. She opened it and pulled out
the Colonel’s letter:
I once heard you saying you were fond of mink so I got you this. I’m told it’s a good one. Please
accept it with my sincere good wishes as a parting gift. For my own personal reasons I shall not be able
to see you any more. Good-bye and good luck.
Well!
Imagine that!
Right out of the blue, just when she was feeling so happy.
No more Colonel.
What a dreadful shock.
She would miss him enormously.
Slowly, Mrs Bixby began stroking the lovely soft black fur of the coat.
What you lose on the swings you get back on the roundabouts.
She smiled and folded the letter, meaning to tear it up and throw it out of the window, but in
folding it she noticed that there was something written on the other side:
PS. Just tell them that nice generous aunt of yours gave it to you for Christmas.
Mrs Bixby’s mouth, at that moment stretched wide in a silky smile, snapped back like a piece of
elastic.
‘The man must be mad!’ she cried. ‘Aunt Maude doesn’t have that sort of money. She couldn’t
possibly give me this.’
But if Aunt Maude didn’t give it to her, then who did?
Oh God! In the excitement of finding the coat and trying it on, she had completely overlooked
this vital aspect.
In a couple of hours she would be in New York. Ten minutes after that she would be home, and
the husband would be there to greet her; and even a man like Cyril, dwelling as he did in a dark
phlegmy world of root canals, bicuspids, and caries, would start asking a few questions if his wife
suddenly waltzed in from a week-end wearing a six-thousand-dollar mink coat.
You know what I think, she told herself. I think that goddamn Colonel has done this on purpose
just to torture me. He knew perfectly well Aunt Maude didn’t have enough money to buy this. He
knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it.
But the thought of parting with it now was more than Mrs Bixby could bear.
‘I’ve got to have this coat!’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve got to have this coat! I’ve got to have this
coat!’
Very well, my dear. You shall have the coat. But don’t panic. Sit still and keep calm and start
thinking. You’re a clever girl, aren’t you? You’ve fooled him before. The man never has been able
to see much further than the end of his own probe, you know that. So just sit absolutely still and
think. There’s lots of time.
Two and a half hours later, Mrs Bixby stepped off the train at Pennsylvania Station and walked
quietly to the exit. She was wearing her old red coat again now and carrying the cardboard box in
her arms. She signalled for a taxi.
‘Driver,’ she said, ‘would you know of a pawnbroker that’s still open around here?’
The man behind the wheel raised his brows and looked back at her, amused.
‘Plenty along Sixth Avenue,’ he answered.
‘Stop at the first one you see, then, will you please?’ She got in and was driven away.
Soon the taxi pulled up outside a shop that had three brass balls hanging over the entrance.
‘Wait for me, please,’ Mrs Bixby said to the driver, and she got out of the taxi and entered the
shop.
There was an enormous cat crouching on the counter eating fish-heads out of a white saucer.
The animal looked up at Mrs Bixby with bright yellow eyes, then looked away again and went on
eating. Mrs Bixby stood by the counter, as far away from the cat as possible, waiting for someone
to come, staring at the watches, the shoe buckles, the enamel brooches, the old binoculars, the
broken spectacles, the false teeth. Why did they always pawn their teeth, she wondered.
‘Yes?’ the proprietor said, emerging from a dark place in the back of the shop.
‘Oh, good evening,’ Mrs Bixby said. She began to untie the string around the box. The man
went up to the cat and started stroking it along the top of its back, and the cat went on eating the
fishheads.
‘Isn’t it silly of me?’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘I’ve gone and lost my pocket-book, and this being
Saturday, the banks are all closed until Monday and I’ve simply got to have some money for the
week-end. This is quite a valuable coat, but I’m not asking much. I only want to borrow enough on
it to tide me over till Monday. Then I’ll come back and redeem it.’
The man waited, and said nothing. But when she pulled out the mink and allowed the beautiful
thick fur to fall over the counter, his eyebrows went up and he drew his hand away from the cat
and came over to look at it. He picked it up and held it out in front of him.
‘If only I had a watch on me or a ring,’ Mrs Bixby said, ‘I’d give you that instead. But the fact
is I don’t have a thing with me other than this coat.’ She spread out her fingers for him to see.
‘It looks new,’ the man said, fondling the soft fur.
‘Oh yes, it is. But, as I said, I only want to borrow enough to tide me over till Monday. How
about fifty dollars?’
‘I’ll loan you fifty dollars.’
‘It’s worth a hundred times more than that, but I know you’ll take good care of it until I return.’
The man went over to a drawer and fetched a ticket and placed it on the counter. The ticket
looked like one of those labels you tie on to the handle of your suitcase, the same shape and size
exactly, and the same stiff brownish paper. But it was perforated across the middle so that you
could tear it in two, and both halves were identical.
‘Name?’ he asked.
‘Leave that out. And the address.’
She saw the man pause, and she saw the nib of the pen hovering over the dotted line, waiting.
‘You don’t have to put the name and address, do you?’
The man shrugged and shook his head and the pen-nib moved on down to the next line.
‘It’s just that I’d rather not,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘It’s purely personal.’
‘You’d better not lose this ticket, then.’
‘I won’t lose it.’
‘You realize that anyone who gets hold of it can come in and claim the article?’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Simply on the number.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘What do you want me to put for a description?’
‘No description either, thank you. It’s not necessary. Just put the amount I’m borrowing.’
The pen-nib hesitated again, hovering over the dotted line beside the word ARTICLE.
‘I think you ought to put a description. A description is always a help if you want to sell the
ticket. You never know, you might want to sell it sometime.’
‘I don’t want to sell it.’
‘You might have to. Lots of people do.’
‘Look,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘I’m not broke, if that’s what you mean. I simply lost my purse. Don’t
you understand?’
‘You have it your own way then,’ the man said. ‘It’s your coat.’
At this point an unpleasant thought struck Mrs Bixby. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘If I don’t
have a description on my ticket, how can I be sure you’ll give me back the coat and not something
else when I return?’
‘It goes in the books.’
‘But all I’ve got is a number. So actually you could hand me any old thing you wanted, isn’t
that so?’
‘Do you want a description or don’t you?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I trust you.’
The man wrote ‘fifty dollars’ opposite the word VALUE on both sections of the ticket, then he
tore it in half along the perforations and slid the lower portion across the counter. He took a wallet
from the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted five ten-dollar bills. ‘The interest is three percent
a month,’ he said.
‘Yes, all right. And thank you. You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?’
The man nodded but said nothing.
‘Shall I put it back in the box for you?’
‘No,’ the man said.
Mrs Bixby turned and went out of the shop on to the street where the taxi was waiting. Ten
minutes later, she was home.
‘Darling,’ she said as she bent over and kissed her husband. ‘Did you miss me?’
Cyril Bixby laid down the evening paper and glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘It’s twelve and
a half minutes past six,’ he said. ‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’
‘I know. It’s those dreadful trains. Aunt Maude sent you her love as usual. I’m dying for a
drink, aren’t you?’
The husband folded his newspaper into a neat rectangle and placed it on the arm of his chair.
Then he stood up and crossed over to the sideboard. His wife remained in the centre of the room
pulling off her gloves, watching him carefully, wondering how long she ought to wait. He had his
back to her now, bending forward to measure the gin, putting his face right up close to the
measurer and peering into it as though it were a patient’s mouth.
It was funny how small he always looked after the Colonel. The Colonel was huge and bristly,
and when you were near to him he smelled faintly of horseradish. This one was small and neat and
bony and he didn’t really smell of anything at all, except peppermint drops, which he sucked to
keep his breath nice for the patients.
‘See what I’ve bought for measuring the vermouth,’ he said, holding up a calibrated glass
beaker. ‘I can get it to the nearest milligram with this.’
‘Darling, how clever.’
I really must try to make him change the way he dresses, she told herself. His suits are just too
ridiculous for words. There had been a time when she thought they were wonderful, those
Edwardian jackets with high lapels and six buttons down the front, but now they merely seemed
absurd. So did the narrow stovepipe trousers. You had to have a special sort of face to wear things
like that, and Cyril just didn’t have it. His was a long bony countenance with a narrow nose and a
slightly prognathous jaw, and when you saw it coming up out of the top of one of those tightly
fitting old-fashioned suits it looked like a caricature of Sam Weller. He probably thought it looked
like Beau Brummel. It was a fact that in the office he invariably greeted female patients with his
white coat unbuttoned so that they would catch a glimpse of the trappings underneath; and in some
obscure way this was obviously meant to convey the impression that he was a bit of a dog. But
Mrs Bixby knew better. The plumage was a bluff. It meant nothing. It reminded her of an ageing
peacock strutting on the lawn with only half its feathers left. Or one of those fatuous self-
fertilizing flowers - like the dandelion. A dandelion never has to get fertilized for the setting of its
seed, and all those brilliant yellow petals are just a waste of time, a boast, a masquerade. What’s
the word the biologists use? Subsexual. A dandelion is subsexual. So, for that matter, are the
summer broods of water fleas. It sounds a bit like Lewis Carroll, she thought - water fleas and
dandelions and dentists.
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, taking the Martini and seating herself on the sofa with her
handbag on her lap. ‘And what did you do last night?’
‘I stayed on in the office and cast a few inlays. I also got my accounts up to date.’
‘Now really, Cyril, I think it’s high time you let other people do your donkey work for you.
You’re much too important for that sort of thing. Why don’t you give the inlays to the mechanic?’
‘I prefer to do them myself. I’m extremely proud of my inlays.’
‘I know you are, darling, and I think they’re absolutely wonderful. They’re the best inlays in the
whole world. But I don’t want you to burn yourself out. And why doesn’t that Pulteney woman do
the accounts? That’s part of her job, isn’t it?’
‘She does do them. But I have to price everything up first. She doesn’t know who’s rich and
who isn’t.’
‘This Martini is perfect,’ Mrs Bixby said, setting down her glass on the side table. ‘Quite
perfect.’ She opened her bag and took out a handkerchief as if to blow her nose. ‘Oh look!’ she
cried, seeing the ticket. ‘I forgot to show you this! I found it just now on the seat of my taxi. It’s
got a number on it, and I thought it might be a lottery ticket or something, so I kept it.’
She handed the small piece of stiff brown paper to her husband who took it in his fingers and
began examining it minutely from all angles, as though it were a suspect tooth.
‘You know what this is?’ he said slowly.
‘No dear, I don’t.’
‘It’s a pawn ticket.’
‘A what?’
‘A ticket from a pawnbroker. Here’s the name and address of the shop - somewhere on Sixth
Avenue.’
‘Oh dear, I am disappointed. I was hoping it might be a ticket for the Irish Sweep.’
‘There’s no reason to be disappointed,’ Cyril Bixby said. ‘As a matter of fact this could be
rather amusing.’
‘Why could it be amusing, darling?’
He began explaining to her exactly how a pawn ticket worked, with particular reference to the
fact that anyone possessing the ticket was entitled to claim the article. She listened patiently until
he had finished his lecture.
‘You think it’s worth claiming?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s worth finding out what it is. You see this figure of fifty dollars that’s written here?
You know what that means?’
‘No, dear, what does it mean?’
‘It means that the item in question is almost certain to be something quite valuable.’
‘You mean it’ll be worth fifty dollars?’
‘More like five hundred.’
‘Five hundred!’
‘Don’t you understand?’ he said. ‘A pawnbroker never gives you more than about a tenth of the
real value.’
‘Good gracious! I never knew that.’
‘There’s a lot of things you don’t know, my dear. Now you listen to me. Seeing that there’s no
name and address of the owner …’
‘But surely there’s something to say who it belongs to?’
‘Not a thing. People often do that. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been to a
pawnbroker. They’re ashamed of it.’
‘Then you think we can keep it?’
‘Of course we can keep it’ This is now our ticket.’
‘You mean my ticket,’ Mrs Bixby said firmly. ‘I found it.’
‘My dear girl, what does it matter? The important thing is that we are now in a position to go
and redeem it any time we like for only fifty dollars. How about that?’
‘Oh, what fun!’ she cried. ‘I think it’s terribly exciting, especially when we don’t even know
what it is. It could be anything, isn’t that right, Cyril? Absolutely anything!’
‘It could indeed, although it’s most likely to be either a ring or a watch.’
‘But wouldn’t it be marvellous if it was a real treasure? I mean something really old, like a
wonderful old vase or a Roman statue.’
‘There’s no knowing what it might be, my dear. We shall just have to wait and see.’
‘I think it’s absolutely fascinating! Give me the ticket and I’ll rush over first thing Monday
morning and find out!’
‘I think I’d better do that.’
‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘Let me do it!’
‘I think not. I’ll pick it up on my way to work.’
‘But it’s my ticket! Please let me do it, Cyril! Why should you have all the fun?’
‘You don’t know these pawnbrokers, my dear. You’re liable to get cheated.’
‘I wouldn’t get cheated, honestly I wouldn’t. Give the ticket to me, please.’
‘Also you have to have fifty dollars,’ he said, smiling. ‘You have to pay out fifty dollars in cash
before they’ll give it to you.’
‘I’ve got that,’ she said. ‘I think.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t handle it, if you don’t mind.’
‘But Cyril, I found it. It’s mine. Whatever it is, it’s mine, isn’t that right?’
‘Of course it’s yours, my dear. There’s no need to get so worked up about it.’
‘I’m not. I’m just excited, that’s all.’
‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that this might be something entirely masculine - a pocket-
watch, for example, or a set of shirt-studs. It isn’t only women that go to pawnbrokers, you know.’
‘In that case I’ll give it to you for Christmas,’ Mrs Bixby said magnanimously. ‘I’ll be
delighted. But if it’s a woman’s thing, I want it myself. Is that agreed?’
‘That sounds very fair. Why don’t you come with me when I collect it?’
Mrs Bixby was about to say yes to this, but caught herself just in time. She had no wish to be
greeted like an old customer by the pawnbroker in her husband’s presence.
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I will. You see, it’ll be even more thrilling if I stay behind
and wait. Oh, I do hope it isn’t going to be something that neither of us wants.’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ he said. ‘If I don’t think it’s worth fifty dollars, I won’t even take it.’
‘But you said it would be worth five hundred.’
‘I’m quite sure it will. Don’t worry.’
‘Oh, Cyril. I can hardly wait! Isn’t it exciting?’
‘It’s amusing,’ he said, slipping the ticket into his waistcoat pocket. ‘There’s no doubt about
that.’
Monday morning came at last, and after breakfast Mrs Bixby followed her husband to the door
and helped him on with his coat.
‘Don’t work too hard, darling,’ she said.
‘No, all right.’
‘Home at six?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Are you going to have time to go to that pawnbroker?’ she asked.
‘My God, I forgot all about it. I’ll take a cab and go there now. It’s on my way.’
‘You haven’t lost the ticket, have you?’
‘I hope not,’ he said, feeling in his waistcoat pocket. ‘No, here it is.’
‘And you have enough money?’
‘Just about.’
‘Darling,’ she said, standing close to him and straightening his tie, which was perfectly straight.
‘If it happens to be something nice, something you think I might like, will you telephone me as
soon as you get to the office?’
‘If you want me to, yes.’
‘You know, I’m sort of hoping it’ll be something for you, Cyril. I’d much rather it was for you
than for me.’
‘That’s very generous of you, my dear. Now I must run.’
About an hour later, when the telephone rang, Mrs Bixby was across the room so fast she had
the receiver off the hook before the first ring had finished.
‘I got it!’ he said.
‘You did! Oh, Cyril, what was it? Was it something good?’
‘Good!’ he cried. ‘It’s fantastic! You wait till you get your eyes on this! You’ll swoon!’
‘Darling, what is it? Tell me quick!’
‘You’re a lucky girl, that’s what you are.’
‘It’s for me, then?’
‘Of course it’s for you. Though how in the world it ever got to be pawned for only fifty dollars
I’ll be damned if I know. Someone’s crazy.’
‘Cyril! Stop keeping me in suspense! I can’t bear it!’
‘You’ll go mad when you see it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Try to guess.’
Mrs Bixby paused. Be careful, she told herself. Be very careful now.
‘A necklace,’ she said.
‘Wrong.’
‘A diamond ring.’
‘You’re not even warm. I’ll give you a hint. It’s something you can wear.’
‘Something I can wear? You mean like a hat?’
‘No, it’s not a hat,’ he said, laughing.
‘For goodness sake, Cyril! Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because I want it to be a surprise. I’ll bring it home with me this evening.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ she cried. ‘I’m coming right down there to get it now!’
‘I’d rather you didn’t do that.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. Why shouldn’t I come?’
‘Because I’m too busy. You’ll disorganize my whole morning schedule. I’m half an hour
behind already.’
‘Then I’ll come in the lunch hour. All right?’
‘I’m not having a lunch hour. Oh well, come at one-thirty then, while I’m having a sandwich.
Good-bye.’
At half past one precisely, Mrs Bixby arrived at Mr Bixby’s place of business and rang the bell.
Her husband, in his white dentist’s coat, opened the door himself.
‘Oh, Cyril, I’m so excited!’
‘So you should be. You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?’ He led her down the passage and
into the surgery.
‘Go and have your lunch, Miss Pulteney,’ he said to the assistant, who was busy putting
instruments into the sterilizer. ‘You can finish that when you come back.’ He waited until the girl
had gone, then he walked over to a closet that he used for hanging up his clothes and stood in front
of it, pointing with his finger. ‘It’s in there,’ he said. ‘Now - shut your eyes.’
Mrs Bixby did as she was told. Then she took a deep breath and held it, and in the silence that
followed she could hear him opening the cupboard door and there was a soft swishing sound as he
pulled out a garment from among the other things hanging there.
‘All right! You can look!’
‘I don’t dare to,’ she said, laughing.
‘Go on. Take a peek.’
Coyly, beginning to giggle, she raised one eyelid a fraction of an inch, just enough to give her a
dark blurry view of the man standing there in his white overalls holding something up in the air.
‘Mink!’ he cried. ‘Real mink!’
At the sound of the magic word she opened her eyes quick, and at the same time she actually
started forward in order to clasp the coat in her arms.
But there was no coat. There was only a ridiculous fur neckpiece dangling from her husband’s
hand.
‘Feast your eyes on that!’ he said, waving it in front of her face.
Mrs Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started backing away. I’m going to scream, she told
herself. I just know it. I’m going to scream.
‘What’s the matter, my dear? Don’t you like it?’ He stopped waving the fur and stood staring at
her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Why yes,’ she stammered. ‘I … I … think it’s … it’s lovely … really lovely.’
‘Quite took your breath away for a moment there, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘Magnificent quality,’ he said. ‘Fine colour, too. You know something my dear? I reckon a
piece like this would cost you two or three hundred dollars at least if you had to buy it in a shop.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
There were two skins, two narrow mangy-looking skins with their heads still on them and glass
beads in their eye sockets and little paws hanging down. One of them had the rear end of the other
in its mouth, biting it.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try it on.’ He leaned forward and draped the thing around her neck, then
stepped back to admire. ‘It’s perfect. It really suits you. It isn’t everyone who has mink, my dear.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Better leave it behind when you go shopping or they’ll all think we’re millionaires and start
charging us double.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, Cyril.’
‘I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas. Fifty dollars was rather more than I
was going to spend anyway.’
He turned away and went over to the basin and began washing his hands. ‘Run along now, my
dear, and buy yourself a nice lunch. I’d take you out myself but I’ve got old man Gorman in the
waiting-room with a broken clasp on his denture.’
Mrs Bixby moved towards the door.
I’m going to kill that pawnbroker, she told herself. I’m going right back there to the shop this
very minute and I’m going to throw this filthy neckpiece right in his face and if he refuses to give
me back my coat I’m going to kill him.
‘Did I tell you I was going to be late home tonight?’ Cyril Bixby said, still washing his hands.
‘No.’
‘It’ll probably be at least eight-thirty the way things look at the moment. It may even be nine.’
‘Yes, all right. Good-bye.’ Mrs Bixby went out, slamming the door behind her.
At that precise moment, Miss Pulteney, the secretary-assistant, came sailing past her down the
corridor on her way to lunch.
‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ Miss Pulteney said as she went by, flashing a smile. There was a lilt in
her walk, a little whiff of perfume attending her, and she looked like a queen, just exactly like a
queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs Bixby.
上校的大衣
上校的大衣
对女人而言，美国是一片充满机会的土地。她们已经拥有了全国大约百分之八十五的财
富，很快她们便会拥有一切。离婚成为一种获取丰厚利益的程序，处理简便，容易遗忘。只
要她们高兴，野心勃勃的妇女可以随心所欲地一次次重复这个过程，从而将她们的战利品增
值到一个天文数字。丈夫的去世也会给她们带来可喜的奖赏，有些女士宁可依靠这种方法，
因为她们知道，等待不会遥遥无期，要不了多久，过劳和过度紧张必会缠上那可怜的家伙，
他会倒毙在书桌上，一手捏着瓶苏醒剂，一手拿着包镇静剂。
随后的一代又一代美国年轻男性，丝毫没有被这种可怕的离婚和死亡模式吓倒，离婚率
越是向上攀升，他们对婚姻越是热切。年轻人结婚就像老鼠一样，他们几乎在青春期之前就
结婚了，而他们中大部分人到三十六岁的时候，税单上至少会显示有两位前妻。为了用这种
他们已经习惯的方式赡养这些女士，男人们必须像奴隶一样劳作，事实上，他们就是不折不
扣的奴隶。不过现在当他们到了日趋成熟的中年期，一种幻灭和恐惧的感觉开始进入他们内
心，并慢慢蔓延。在晚上，他们喜欢待在俱乐部和酒吧里，三三两两地挤在一起，喝着他们
的威士忌，吞着他们的药丸，试图用诉说故事来互相安慰。
这些故事的基本主题是一成不变的。总是有三个主要角色——丈夫、妻子和一个卑鄙的
第三者。丈夫是一个正派的、安分守己的男人，在自己的岗位上兢兢业业地工作。妻子是狡
猾、虚伪和淫荡的，她不外乎是一直在和某个卑鄙的色鬼暗通款曲。丈夫为人太过善良，甚
至对她毫不怀疑。事情看来对丈夫不妙，这个可怜的人会发现蛛丝马迹吗？他的下半辈子注
定要戴绿帽子吗？是的，他肯定会的。不过，等一下！突然间，一个绝妙的反杀，使丈夫彻
底扭转局面，击败了他的魔鬼妻子。那女人顿时瞠目结舌、呆若木鸡、无地自容，一下子成
了泄气的皮球。酒吧里围在四周的男性听众便默默地会心一笑，从这个虚幻的故事中获得一
点安慰。
有很多这样的故事在流传，这些故事是不快乐的男性所虚构的奇妙而一厢情愿的梦幻世
界，但大多数故事，要么太虚幻而不值得重复，要么太庸俗而不堪落笔记录下来。然而，有
一个故事似乎不同凡响，尤其是它具有真实可信的特点，使得它在那些受过两三次伤、来此
寻找慰藉的男子中广受青睐，如果你是他们中的一员，如果你还没听过，你可能会喜欢接下
来这个故事。这个故事名叫“比克斯比太太和上校的大衣”，它是这样展开的：
比克斯比医生和太太住在纽约城的一套小小的公寓里。比克斯比医生是一名收入平平的
牙医，比克斯比太太是一个精力充沛的大个子女人，长着一张性感的嘴巴。每月一次，往往
是在星期五的下午，比克斯比太太会在宾夕法尼亚车站搭乘火车去巴尔的摩看望她的老姑
姑。她会陪姑姑一个夜晚，在第二天返回纽约，并准时为她丈夫做好晚餐。比克斯比医生随
和大度地接受了这个安排。他知道莫德姑姑住在巴尔的摩，知道他妻子非常爱这位老太太，
要是不让她们两人每月聚一次确实对谁来说都是不近人情的。
“只要你不指望我陪着你去。”比克斯比医生在一开始就这样说了。
“当然不需要，亲爱的，”比克斯比太太回答，“毕竟她不是你的姑姑。她是我姑姑。”
到目前为止，一切都还安然无事。
然而，事情原来是这样的，拜访姑姑只是比克斯比太太的一个巧妙的借口。那个卑鄙的
第三者是个以绅士自居的“上校”，他狡猾地潜伏在暗处，而我们的女主角在巴尔的摩的大部
分时间是和这个恶棍厮混。上校家财万贯，住在城郊一幢漂亮的宅子里。他没有妻子和家庭
的牵绊，只有几个行事谨慎的忠心仆人，比克斯比太太不在的时候，他就以骑马和猎狐作为
消遣。
年复一年，比克斯比太太和“上校”之间的愉快私会一直继续着，从来没有节外生枝过。
他们的会面甚为稀少——一年十二次，想想并不算多——这使得他们几乎不可能彼此生厌。
相反，幽会后的漫长等待，只会使彼此的心变得更加热切，每一次分别都是对激情重聚的催
酿。
“嘿！”每次上校在火车站见到她时，都会从他的大轿车里大声呼喊，“我亲爱的，我几乎
要忘记你的模样有多迷人了。一起去享受我们的世界吧。”
八年过去了。
这是圣诞节的前夕，比克斯比太太到了巴尔的摩火车站，等着列车把她载回纽约。这次
刚结束的“特殊拜访”比往常更令人愉悦，她的心情颇为雀跃。不过，在有上校陪伴的日子
里，她总是这样亢奋。这个男人总有方法，能使她感觉自己也是个相当卓越超群的女性，一
个具有奇妙天资的女人，一个拥有无与伦比魅力的女人。这和家里的牙医丈夫是多么的不
同，他从没能让她产生过任何这样棒的感觉，除了让她感觉自己是永久地待在候诊室里的某
个病人，默默置身于那些杂志中间，等着被叫去接受那双清洁的、至今也少有人光临的、粉
红色手的精细护理。
“上校要我把这个交给您。”她身旁一个声音响起。她转过身，看见了上校的马夫威尔金
斯，一个灰色皮肤、瘦小干瘪的矮子，他把一个又大又扁的硬纸盒塞进她的怀中。
“天哪！”她突然一阵慌乱，叫喊着，“我的上帝，这么大的盒子啊！是什么，威尔金斯？
他有留口信给我吗？”
“没有口信。”马夫说完就走了。
比克斯比太太一上火车就带着纸盒进入女厕所，锁上门。多么令人激动！上校送的圣诞
礼物，她开始解开绳子。“我敢打赌这是一条裙子，”她大声说，“甚至有可能是两条，或者是
一大堆漂亮的内衣。我先不看，我只摸摸看，试着猜一猜那会是什么。我还要猜猜颜色，猜
它究竟是什么样子。还有，花了多少钱。”
她紧紧闭上眼睛，慢慢打开盒盖，然后把一只手探入纸盒。顶上有一些包装纸，她能摸
出来，并听见它们发出窸窸窣窣的声音。还有一个信封或一张什么贺卡，她不管这些，开始
把手探到包装纸下面，手指像卷须一般灵巧地向前伸出。
“我的天呀，”她突然喊了起来，“这不可能是真的！”
她的眼睛睁得滚圆滚圆，盯着那件大衣。然后扑上去抓住它，把它从纸盒里拿出来。厚
厚的毛皮层在展开时碰触到包装纸，发出悦耳的声音，当她把它举起来，看着它垂下的整个
长度，那真是美得让她快要窒息了。
她从没见过像这样的貂皮衣。它是貂皮的，不是吗？是的，它当然是。但这是多么灿烂
的颜色啊！毛皮几乎是纯黑的。最初她以为是黑色的，但是当她拿着它贴近窗子，看见黑色
中还有一抹蓝色，是像钴蓝一样浓郁的深蓝。她飞快地瞥了一眼标签，上面只写着“拉布拉多
野生貂”，仅此而已，没有显示是在哪里买的或任何其他信息。不过，她对自己说，这大概是
上校干的吧，这个狡猾的老狐狸，想确保自己没有留下任何痕迹，真神！但是它究竟值多少
钱呢？她几乎不敢想，是四千，五千，还是六千美元？也许更多。
她简直移不开眼。对这件东西，她真的等不及了，要马上试穿。她利索地脱下自己那件
款式简单的红外套，她此刻有点气喘吁吁，她按捺不住内心的激动，睁大了眼睛。但是，上
帝噢，那毛皮的感觉！那两只宽大的袖子和厚厚的翻起来的袖口！是谁曾经告诉过她，他们
通常用雌貂的毛皮做大衣的袖子，而用雄貂的做大衣的其他部分？有人告诉过她，也许是琼•
拉特费尔德。尽管她无法想象琼怎么会对貂皮那么熟悉。
这件非凡的黑色大衣几乎是自动地滑到了她身上，好像是她的第二层皮肤。噢，好家
伙！这是一种奇异至极的感觉！她朝镜子里面瞅了一眼，太棒了，她整体的风度气质一下子
完全改变了。她看上去艳丽夺目、光彩照人，富贵、灿烂、妖娆，这一切就发生在这一刹
那。而且给了她无穷的力量感！穿着这件大衣她可以阔步走进任何她想去的地方，人们会像
兔子一样在她身边蹿来蹿去，这所有的一切简直美妙得难以言表！
比克斯比太太拿起那个还躺在硬纸盒里的信封，打开它，抽出上校的信：
我曾经听您说您喜欢貂皮，所以我给您买了这个，听说它的质量不错，请把它和我
真挚的美好祝愿当作我们分手的礼物，出于我自己个人的原因，我将不能再见您了，再
见，祝您好运。
好啊！
想象一下！
正在她感到极度快乐之际，晴天霹雳轰然而下。
再也没有上校了。
多么可怕的打击。
她会对他朝思暮想的。
慢慢地，比克斯比太太开始轻轻抚摸这件可爱的、质地柔软的黑色毛皮大衣，这正是失
之东隅、收之桑榆吧。
她露出微笑，把信折起来，想把它撕了扔到窗外，但是在折信的时候，她注意到写在另
一面的一些字：
又及，就对他们说，这是慷慨大度的姑姑送给您的圣诞礼物。
在那一瞬间，比克斯比太太咧开嘴，露出飘忽不定的笑容，笑容很快又像橡皮筋似的收
拢了。
“这男人想必是疯了！”她喊起来，“莫德姑姑没有那么多钱。她不可能给我这个。”
但是，如果不是莫德姑姑买给她的，那么是谁买的？
天哪！在发现这件大衣和试穿它的激动中，她竟完全忽视了这个要命的问题。
几个小时之后她就会到达纽约，再过十分钟她会到家，届时丈夫会在那里迎候她。即使
像西里尔这样一个居住在由根管、两尖齿、龋齿构成的唾液横飞的黑暗世界里的男人，如果
他妻子在周末踏着轻巧的步子走进来，身上穿着一件六千美元的貂皮大衣，他肯定也会少不
了一番询问的。
“你知道我在想什么，”她对自己说，“我觉得那个该死的上校这样做是在故意折磨
我。”他明明知道莫德姑姑没有足够的钱买这件大衣，他知道我没法留下它。
而且一想到他还用它来分手，比克斯比太太简直忍无可忍。
“我必须拥有这件大衣！”她大声说，“我必须拥有这件大衣！我就是要拥有这件大衣！”
太好了，亲爱的，你应该拥有这件大衣。但是别惊慌，坐定下来，保持镇静，然后开始
思考。你是个聪明的女人，不是吗？你以前骗过他，你知道这男人的双眼除了盯着他的探针
头，从来不会再看得更远。所以，你只需完全静下心来坐着思考，现在还有大把时间呢。
两个半小时后，比克斯比太太在宾夕法尼亚火车站走下火车，快步走向出口。此刻她已
换回了自己的红色旧外套，怀抱着硬纸盒，招呼了一辆出租车。
“司机，”她说，“你知道附近有还开着门的当铺吗？”
方向盘后面的那个人回头看着她，扬了扬眉毛，被逗乐了。
“沿着第六大道就有很多。”他回答。
“那么，就在你看到的第一家停下，好吗？”她坐进了车子，接着车子启动了。
很快，出租车就在一家门上挂着三只铜球的店外停下。
“请等着我。”比克斯比太太对司机说，她从出租车里出来，进入店中。
一只体形硕大的猫蜷伏在柜台上，在吃一个白色浅碟里的鱼头。这动物抬头用明亮的黄
眼睛看着比克斯比太太，然后又移开目光，继续吃它的。比克斯比太太站在柜台旁边，尽量
远离那只猫，等着人来接待，一边注视着柜子里的手表、鞋扣、搪瓷胸针、老式双筒望远
镜、破碎的眼镜、假牙。她思索着，为什么人们总是把他们的牙齿送进当铺。
“什么事？”店主从店堂后面的暗处走出来。
“噢，晚上好。”比克斯比太太说，她开始解开绕在盒子上的绳子。那人走到猫旁边，开
始顺着它的脊背抚摸，猫继续吃着它的鱼头。
“你看我傻不傻？”比克斯比太太说，“出去时把钱包给丢了，今天是星期六，所有的银行
都关门关到星期一，我得有一些钱来打发周末。这是一件相当贵重的大衣，但是我要的不
多。我只想借够让我维持到星期一的钱。然后我会回来赎它。”
那个人等着，没有吭声。但是当她抽出貂皮大衣，让美丽厚实的毛皮落在柜台上时，他
扬起眉，从猫身上抽回双手，走过来察看。他拿起它，抖开来举在自己面前。
“如果我身上有一只手表或一枚戒指，”比克斯比太太说，“我会把那东西当给你。可是偏
偏我身边除了这件大衣再没有别的了。”她张开自己的手指让他看。
“它看上去是新的。”那人抚弄着软软的貂毛说着。
“哎，是的，它是新的。不过，如我所说，我只想借够我用到星期一的钱。五十美元怎么
样？”
“那我就借你五十美元吧。”
“它可值这个钱的一百多倍呢，但是我知道你会妥善保管它，直到我回来。”
那人走到抽屉边，取来一张签条，把它放在柜台上。那签条看上去就像人们系在手提箱
把手上的标签，形状和大小完全一样，都是坚硬的棕色纸。但是它的中间贯穿着一排小洞，
你可以把它撕成两半，这两半是完全一样的。
“姓名？”他问。
“让它空着吧，还有地址也空着。”
她看见这个人停下了笔尖，它停在那条虚线上方等着。
“你不用写明姓名和地址，是吗？”那人耸耸肩，摇了摇头，笔尖移到下一行。
“我只是不想而已。”比克斯比太太说，“这纯粹属于个人的隐私。”
“那么，你最好不要遗失这张单据。”
“我不会弄丢的。”
“你明白吗，任何持有它的人都可以来索取这件物品？”
“是的，我明白。”
“只凭这号码。”
“是的，我知道。”
“你希望我怎样填物品说明？”
“谢谢，你也不用填它了。没有必要，只要写上借钱的数目就行了。”
那笔尖再次踌躇不定，停留在物品名称旁边的虚线上。
“我想你应该放上一个说明，如果你想卖掉这签条，一个说明总是有帮助的。你永远都不
会知道，你什么时候可能想卖掉它。”
“我可不想卖掉它。”
“你可能会不得不这样做，很多人都这样。”
“听着，”比克斯比太太说，“我并没有破产，如果你是这个意思的话。我仅仅是丢了我的
钱包。你不明白吗？”
“那么，随你的便吧，”那个人说，“反正这是你的大衣。”
这时一个令人不安的想法向比克斯比太太袭来。
“告诉我，”她说，“如果我在签条上没留下一个描述说明，那么如何保证赎的时候你会把
这件大衣还给我，而不会还给我另外一件？”
“它在账簿里记着呢。”
“但是我只有一个号码。所以实际上，你可以给我任何你想给的旧东西，难道不是吗？”
“你到底要不要写物品说明？”那个人问。
“不用了，我相信你。”
那人在签条两部分的价值栏中分别写下“五十美元”，然后沿着一排孔把它撕成两片，把
下半部分推过柜台。他从夹克口袋里掏出一只钱包，取出五张十美元的纸币。“利息是每月百
分之三。”他说。
“好，没问题，谢谢。你会妥善保管它，对吗？”
那个人点点头，但是没有说话。
“我要把它放回盒子再给你吗？”
“不用了。”那人说。
比克斯比太太转过身，走出店铺来到街上，出租车等在那里。十分钟后她到了家。
“亲爱的，”当她俯身吻她丈夫的时候问道，“你想我吗？”
西里尔•比克斯比放下晚报，看了一眼手腕上的表。“现在是六点十二分半，”他说，“你晚
点了，对吗？”
“我知道，都怪那些糟糕的火车。莫德姑姑像往常一样向你问好。我想喝一杯，你呢？”
丈夫把报纸折成一个整齐的长方形，放在他的椅子扶手上，然后起身横穿到餐具柜旁
边。他的妻子留在房间中央脱下手套，小心地看着他，不知道她该等他多久。此刻他背对着
她，弯腰去量杜松子酒，他把脸凑近量杯，注视着里面，仿佛那是一个病人的嘴巴。
滑稽的是，和上校一比，他看上去是那么瘦小。上校身材魁梧、毛发浓密，当你靠近他
的时候，能闻到一股微弱的辣根 [11] 味。而眼前这个人个头小小、皮肤光洁、瘦骨嶙峋，而且
根本闻不到他的任何气味，除了薄荷糖的味道，他口里常含着薄荷糖，为的是让病人对他的
呼气感到舒服一点。
“看看我买什么来量味美思酒了，”他举起一只标有刻度的玻璃烧杯，说道，“用这个，我
能精确到毫升。”
“亲爱的，你太聪明了。”
她想：我真的必须让他改变穿衣方式，他的那些西装简直可笑得无法形容。曾经有一段
时间，她觉得它们很棒，这些具有爱德华七世时代特征的外套，有高高的翻领，门襟上排列
着六颗纽扣，但现在看上去只觉得很傻。裤管瘦狭的裤子也是如此。穿这样的衣服，你得有
一张特殊的脸，可西里尔没有。他有的是一张瘦削的长脸、一个狭窄的鼻子和一个微微突起
的下巴，当你看到这张脸在一套紧身的老式西装上面露出时，那就像一幅萨姆•韦勒 [12] 的漫
画，而他也许认为自己看起来像博•布鲁梅尔 [13] 呢。事实上，在诊所里，他永远是敞开他的白
大褂来迎候他的女病人，这样她们能够瞥见里面的服饰，这分明是蓄意给人一种他多少也是
个风流人物的印象。但是比克斯比太太更了解他，羽毛只是虚张声势，说明不了什么，这使
她想起一只仅剩一半羽毛的老孔雀在草地上趾高气扬，或想起那些劣等的自体授粉的花卉
——比如蒲公英。蒲公英不用授粉就能结籽，因而它那些鲜丽的黄色花瓣纯粹是浪费时间，
是一种炫耀的假面具。生物学家们用什么词说来着？单性繁殖。蒲公英是单性繁殖。那么，
夏天的水蚤同样如此。她想，这听上去有点像多重身份的路易斯•卡罗尔 [14] ——水蚤、蒲公英
和牙医。
“谢谢，亲爱的。”她说着接过马提尼 [15] ，然后在沙发上坐下，把手提包放在膝上，“昨天
晚上你做什么啦？”
“我待在诊所里，自己浇铸了几个嵌体，另外还去更新了我的账目。”
“听我说，西里尔，我真的觉得你该让别人替你干那些乏味的苦活了。你还有比这些事情
更重要的事要做，你为什么不让技工去做嵌体？”
“我宁可自己做，我很为我做的嵌体自豪。”
“我知道你的手艺，亲爱的，我觉得那绝对是一流的，它们是全世界最棒的！但是我不想
让你把自己弄得疲惫不堪。为什么不是那个名叫普尔特尼的女人做账？那是她的工作，不是
吗？”
“是她做的，但我必须首先把所有的价目都定好。她不知道谁有钱，谁没有。”
“这杯马提尼非常棒！”比克斯比太太说着，把杯子放到茶几上，“相当不错。”她打开手
提包，拿出手帕，好像是要擤自己的鼻子。
“哦，你看！”她看着那张签条，大声说着，“我忘了给你看这个！就是刚才我在出租车的
座位上发现的，上面有一个号码，我想它可能是一张彩票或什么东西，所以留着它。”
她把这张坚硬的棕色小纸片递给丈夫，他用手指接过来，开始翻来覆去地细看，仿佛它
是一颗可能有病的牙齿。
“你知道这是什么吗？”他慢条斯理地说。
“不，亲爱的，我不知道。”
“这是一张当票。”
“一张什么？”
“一张当铺的当票。这里是店的名称和地址——在第六大道的某个地方。”
“哦，亲爱的，太让我失望了，我还希望它可能会是一张彩票呢。”
“没有理由失望，”西里尔•比克斯比说，“事实上，这可能是件相当有趣的事。”
“亲爱的，为什么有趣？”
他开始向她详细地解释当票是怎么一回事，特别强调了任何持有这张票据的人都有权得
到这件物品。她耐心地听着，直到他结束他的宏论。
“你认为值得去领取吗？”她问。
“我想值得去搞清楚它是什么东西。你看见这里写着五十美元的数字吗？你知道那是什么
意思？”
“不知道，亲爱的，它是什么意思？”
“它的意思是，几乎可以肯定，这件不明为何物的东西是非常值钱的。”
“你是说它值五十美元？”
“差不多五百美元吧。”
“五百！”
“你不明白吗？一个当铺老板给你的保价，绝不会多于实际价格的十分之一。”
“天哪，我从来不知道这些事。”
“世上有很多事你不知道，亲爱的，现在你听我说。你看，没有当主的姓名和地址……”
“但是肯定有哪里说到它属于谁吧？”
“丝毫没有。人们经常这样做，他们不想任何人知道他们去过当铺，他们以此为耻。”
“那么你认为我们能够留着它？”
“我们当然能留着它，现在这是我们的当票。”
“你是说我的当票？”比克斯比太太坚定地说道，“它是我发现的。”
“我亲爱的夫人，这有什么关系呢？重要的是我们现在有权去赎回它，想什么时候去都
行，只要五十美元。怎么样？”
“哦，多么有趣！”她喊着，“我觉得这太让人兴奋了，尤其是我们甚至都还不知道那是什
么。任何东西都有可能，对吗，西里尔？什么都可能！”
“确实是什么都有可能的，尽管它最可能是一枚戒指或是一只手表。”
“但是如果它是件奇珍异宝，岂不妙哉？我的意思是真正的古董，比如一只精致的花瓶，
或一尊罗马雕像。”
“具体我也不知道它可能会是什么东西，亲爱的，我们只好等着瞧了。”
“我想这绝对令人神魂颠倒！把当票给我，我打算星期一早上第一件事就是跑过去弄清
楚！”
“我想最好是让我来做这件事。”
“哎，不！”她大声喊叫，“让我来做！”
“我想不用啦，我在上班的路上就顺便办了。”
“但这是我的当票！西里尔，求你让我去赎它！为什么所有的乐趣都该归你？”
“你不了解那些当铺老板，亲爱的，你会很容易受骗的。”
“我不会受骗，我真的不会，把它给我。”
“你还必须有五十美元，”他露出了笑容说道，“在他们把东西给你之前，你得付五十美元
现金。”
她说：“我想，我有的。”
“如果你不介意的话，我希望你还是别插手。”
“可是西里尔，是我发现的，不管它是什么，它是我的，难道不是吗？”
“它当然是你的，亲爱的。没有必要为这事如此激动。”
“我没有，只是有点兴奋，仅此而已。”
“我觉得你还没有想到它可能是完全男性化的东西——例如，一只怀表，或一套衬衫饰
纽。你要知道，不仅仅是女人去当铺。”
“假如是那样，我会把它作为圣诞礼物送给你。”比克斯比太太大度地表示，“我会很高
兴。但是如果是件女人用的东西，我想自己要，这你同意吧？”
“这听起来非常公平。你为什么不跟我一起去赎呢？”
比克斯比太太正想表示同意，但又及时止住了自己。她不希望当铺老板在她丈夫面前像
对一个老主顾那样招呼她。
“不，”她慢慢地说，“还是不了吧，你想，如果我留在家等结果，那应该会更刺激。哎，
我希望那不会是我们俩谁都不想要的东西。”
“你说到点子上了，”他说，“如果我觉得它不值五十美元，我甚至不会要它。”
“但是你说它会值五百美元。”
“这点我非常确定，不用担心。”
“哦，西里尔，我等不及了，这不是很令人兴奋吗？”
“是挺有趣，”他说着把当票放到他的马甲口袋里，“这毫无疑问。”
终于到了星期一早上，早餐之后比克斯比太太跟着丈夫走到门口，帮他穿上外套。
“别工作得太累了，亲爱的。”她说。
“不会的，放心吧。”
“六点钟回家？”
“但愿如此。”
“你准备抽空去那家当铺吗？”她问。
“天哪，我把它忘得一干二净了。现在我就坐辆出租车去那里，正好顺路。”
“你没有把当票丢了，对吧？”
“我想不会，”他摸了摸马夹的口袋，“没丢，它在这里。”
“你的钱够吗？”
“差不多吧。”
“亲爱的，”她贴近他站着，拉直他原本就笔挺的领带，“如果恰好是什么好东西，你觉得
可能是我喜欢的东西，你一到诊所就打电话给我好吗？”
“好的，如果你要我打的话。”
“西里尔，你知道吗，我有点儿希望它会是适合你的东西，我宁愿它给你而不是给我。”
“你真慷慨大度，亲爱的，我现在得走了。”
大约一个小时后，当电话铃响起时，比克斯比太太飞快地穿过房间，在第一串铃声结束
前就从托架上拿起了听筒。
“我拿到它了！”他说。
“你拿到了！哦，西里尔，是什么东西？是一件好东西吗？”
“非常棒！”他大声说，“它太迷人了！你就等着亲眼目睹吧！你会昏倒的！”
“亲爱的，是什么东西？快告诉我！”
“你是一个幸运的女人，这非你莫属。”
“那么，是给我的？”
“当然，是给你的。不过，尽管我很想知道它是怎样以区区五十美元的价格被当掉的，那
可真见鬼了。有人疯了。”
“西里尔！别让我一直东猜西想！我受不了啦！”
“你看到它一定会发疯。”
“它是什么？”
“你猜猜看。”
比克斯比太太停住了。要小心，她告诫自己，现在必须得非常小心。
“一条项链。”她说。
“错了。”
“一枚钻戒。”
“你还没猜到点子上，我给你一点暗示，它是一样你能穿戴的东西。”
“我能穿戴的东西？听你意思好像是一顶帽子？”
“不，不是帽子。”他说着笑了起来。
“看在老天爷的分上，西里尔！你为什么不告诉我？”
“因为我想给你一个惊喜。今天晚上我会带着它回家。”
“你别这么做！”她喊道，“我现在就过去取。”
“我倒是希望你别过来。”
“别犯傻了，亲爱的，我为什么不能去？”
“因为我太忙了，你会扰乱我整个上午的时间安排。我已经延迟半个小时了。”
“那么我在午休时间过去。行了吧？”
“我没有午休时间。哦，好吧，那你一点半钟，我吃三明治的时候来吧。再见。”
一点半钟的时候，比克斯比太太来到比克斯比医生的诊所，她按响电铃，她的丈夫穿着
白色的牙科医生外套，亲自前来开门。
“嘿，西里尔，我太兴奋了！”
“是该兴奋的，你是个幸运的女人，你知道吗？”他引着她穿过走廊来到诊疗室。“去吧，
普尔特尼小姐，吃午餐去吧。”他对他的助手说道。她正忙着把器具放到灭菌器里。“你可以
回来后再做完它。”直等到这个女孩走开，他才走向一个他用来挂衣服的壁柜，在它前面站
住，用手指了指，他说：“它在那里面。现在——闭上你的眼睛。”
比克斯比太太遵照他说的闭上了眼睛。然后深深吸了一口气，屏住，在接下来的静谧
中，她能听到他打开了柜门，当他从挂在那里的别的东西中抽出一件衣服时，发出了一种轻
柔的沙沙声。
“好了！你可以看了！”
“我不敢睁眼。”她说着，还发出了笑声。
“快，瞄一眼。”
她忸怩作态，开始咯咯地笑了起来，将一只眼皮微微抬起一条缝，刚好能够模模糊糊看
到这个男人穿着白大褂站在那里，手中高举着什么东西。
“貂皮！”他喊着，“真正的貂皮！”
听到这充满魔力的词，她迅速睁开双眼，同时，她实际上已经迈步迎上去，要把大衣揣
进怀里。
但是这里没有大衣，只有一条可笑的小毛皮围巾悬挂在她丈夫手上。
“快来一饱眼福！”他边说边在她面前抖动着围巾。
比克斯比太太伸出一只手捂住自己的嘴巴，开始后退。“我快要大声尖叫了，”她对自己
说，“我只知道，我快要尖叫了。”
“怎么啦，亲爱的？你不喜欢它？”他不再抖动那件毛皮，站在那里盯着她，等着她说些
什么。
“啊，是啊。”她结结巴巴地说，“我……我……觉得它……它很可爱……真的很可爱。”
“一瞬间快要让你喘不过气了，是吗？”
“是，是的。”
“极好的质量，”他说，“颜色也雅致。亲爱的，你知道吗？我估计像这样的一件东西，如
果你到店里买的话，最起码要花二三百美元。”
“我不怀疑。”
它是由两块毛皮拼成的，两块窄窄的看上去脏兮兮的毛皮，连着头，有玻璃珠嵌在它们
的眼窝里，还有小爪子垂下来，其中一只的尾部被另一只叼在嘴里。
“拿着，”他说，“戴上试试。”他凑过身子，把那玩意儿绕在她的脖子上，然后退后赞赏
着。“太完美了，它真的适合你。亲爱的，不是每个人都能有貂皮。”
“对的。”
“你去购物的时候，最好把它留在家里，否则他们会以为我们是百万富翁而马上双倍要价
了。”
“我会尽量记住这点，西里尔。”
“恐怕你得对圣诞节别无所求了，不管怎样，五十美元已超出我计划要花的钱。”
他转过身，走向水池开始洗手。“亲爱的，你回去吧，给自己买一份可口的午餐。我本该
送你出去，可老戈尔曼在候诊室等我，他的假牙搭钩断了。”
比克斯比太太朝门口走去。
她对自己说：我要杀了那个当铺老板，我立刻马上就去那家店，我要把这条臭围巾扔到
他脸上，如果他拒绝还我大衣，我就杀了他。
“我告诉过你今天晚上我会晚些回家吗？”西里尔•比克斯比说着，还在洗他的手。
“没有。”
“从目前的情况推测来说，可能至少得到八点半，甚至可能在九点钟。”
“好的，没关系。再见。”比克斯比太太走出去，门在她身后砰地关上了。
恰恰就在这一刻，普尔特尼小姐，那位秘书兼助手，沿着走廊轻轻从她身边走过，出去
吃午餐。
“多好的天气，不是吗？”普尔特尼小姐走过的时候这样说着，脸上闪烁着微笑。她举步
轻盈，身上带着香水的气味，她看上去像个女王，像极了一个穿着漂亮黑貂皮大衣的女王。
她身上穿的，正是上校送给比克斯比太太的那件大衣。
初刊于《掘金》 1959
[11]一种有香辣味的植物，可用作调料。
[12]Sam Weller，英国作家查尔斯•狄更斯的长篇小说《匹克威克外传》中的虚构人物，是
匹克威克先生的仆人。
[13]Beau Brummell，1778－1840，英国著名纨绔子弟，以其时髦服装和举止而闻名。
[14]Lewis Carroll，1832－1898，英国数学家、逻辑学家和作家。
[15]由杜松子酒和味美思酒调配而成。
Royal Jelly
Royal Jelly
‘IT WORRIES ME to death, Albert, it really does,’ Mrs Taylor said.
She kept her eyes fixed on the baby who was now lying absolutely motionless in the crook of
her left arm.
‘I just know there’s something wrong.’
The skin on the baby’s face had a pearly translucent quality and was stretched very tightly over
the bones.
‘Try again,’ Albert Taylor said.
‘It won’t do any good.’
‘You have to keep trying, Mabel,’ he said.
She lifted the bottle out of the saucepan of hot water and shook a few drops of milk on to the
inside of her wrist, testing for temperature.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Come on, my baby. Wake up and take a bit more of this.’
There was a small lamp on the table close by that made a soft yellow glow all around her.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Take just a weeny bit more.’
The husband watched her over the top of his magazine. She was half dead with exhaustion, he
could see that, and the pale oval face, usually so grave and serene, had taken on a kind of pinched
and desperate look. But even so, the drop of her head as she gazed down at the child was curiously
beautiful.
‘You see,’ she murmured. ‘It’s no good. She won’t have it.’
She held the bottle up to the light, squinting at the calibrations.
‘One ounce again. That’s all she’s taken. No - it isn’t even that. It’s only three-quarters. It’s not
enough to keep body and soul together, Albert, it really isn’t. It worries me to death.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘If only they could find out what was wrong.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, Mabel. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘Of course there’s something wrong.’
‘Dr Robinson says no.’
‘Look,’ she said, standing up. ‘You can’t tell me it’s natural for a six-week-old child to weigh
less, less by more than two whole pounds than she did when she was born! Just look at those legs!
They’re nothing but skin and bone!’
The tiny baby lay limply on her arm, not moving.
‘Dr Robinson said you was to stop worrying, Mabel. So did that other one.’
‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that wonderful! I’m to stop worrying!’
‘Now, Mabel.’
‘What does he want me to do? Treat it as some sort of a joke?’
‘He didn’t say that.’
‘I hate doctors! I hate them all!’ she cried, and she swung away from him and walked quickly
out of the room towards the stairs, carrying the baby with her.
Albert Taylor stayed where he was and let her go.
In a little while he heard her moving about in the bedroom directly over his head, quick nervous
footsteps going tap tap tap on the linoleum above. Soon the footsteps would stop, and then he
would have to get up and follow her, and when he went into the bedroom he would find her sitting
beside the cot as usual, staring at the child and crying softly to herself and refusing to move.
‘She’s starving, Albert,’ she would say.
‘Of course she’s not starving.’
‘She is starving. I know she is. And Albert?’
‘Yes?’
‘I believe you know it too, but you won’t admit it. Isn’t that right?’
Every night now it was like this.
Last week they had taken the child back to the hospital, and the doctor had examined it carefully
and told them that there was nothing the matter.
‘It took us nine years to get this baby, Doctor,’ Mabel had said. ‘I think it would kill me if
anything should happen to her.’
That was six days ago and since then it had lost another five ounces.
But worrying about it wasn’t going to help anybody, Albert Taylor told himself. One simply
had to trust the doctor on a thing like this. He picked up the magazine that was still lying on his lap
and glanced idly down the list of contents to see what it had to offer this week:
Among the Bees in May
Honey Cookery
The Bee Farmer and the B. Pharm.
Experiences in the Control of Nosema
The Latest on Royal Jelly
This Week in the Apiary
The Healing Power of Propolis
Regurgitations
British Beekeepers Annual Dinner
Association News
All his life Albert Taylor had been fascinated by anything that had to do with bees. As a small
boy he often used to catch them in his bare hands and go running with them into the house to show
to his mother, and sometimes he would put them on his face and let them crawl about over his
cheeks and neck, and the astonishing thing about it all was that he never got stung. On the
contrary, the bees seemed to enjoy being with him. They never tried to fly away, and to get rid of
them he would have to brush them off gently with his fingers. Even then they would frequently
return and settle again on his arm or hand or knee, any place where the skin was bare.
His father, who was a bricklayer, said there must be some witch’s stench about the boy,
something noxious that came oozing out through the pores of the skin, and that no good would
ever come of it, hypnotizing insects like that. But the mother said it was a gift given him by God,
and even went so far as to compare him with St Francis and the birds.
As he grew older, Albert Taylor’s fascination with bees developed into an obsession, and by the
time he was twelve he had built his first hive. The following summer he had captured his first
swarm. Two years later, at the age of fourteen, he had no less than five hives standing neatly in a
row against the fence in his father’s small back yard, and already - apart from the normal task of
producing honey - he was practising the delicate and complicated business of rearing his own
queens, grafting larvae into artificial cell cups, and all the rest of it.
He never had to use smoke when there was work to do inside a hive, and he never wore gloves
on his hands or a net over his head. Clearly there was some strange sympathy between this boy
and the bees, and down in the village, in the shops and pubs, they began to speak about him with a
certain kind of respect, and people started coming up to the house to buy his honey.
When he was eighteen, he had rented one acre of rough pasture alongside a cherry orchard
down the valley about a mile from the village, and there he had set out to establish his own
business. Now, eleven years later, he was still in the same spot, but he had six acres of ground
instead of one, two hundred and forty well-stocked hives, and a small house he’d built mainly with
his own hands. He had married at the age of twenty and that, apart from the fact that it had taken
them over nine years to get a child, had also been a success. In fact, everything had gone pretty
well for Albert until this strange little baby girl came along and started frightening them out of
their wits by refusing to eat properly and losing weight every day.
He looked up from the magazine and began thinking about his daughter.
That evening, for instance, when she had opened her eyes at the beginning of the feed, he had
gazed into them and seen something that frightened him to death - a kind of misty vacant stare, as
though the eyes themselves were not connected to the brain at all but were just lying loose in their
sockets like a couple of small grey marbles.
Did those doctors really know what they were talking about?
He reached for an ash-tray and started slowly picking the ashes out from the bowl of his pipe
with a matchstick.
One could always take her along to another hospital, somewhere in Oxford perhaps. He might
suggest that to Mabel when he went upstairs.
He could still hear her moving around in the bedroom, but she must have taken off her shoes
now and put on slippers because the noise was very faint.
He switched his attention back to the magazine and went on with his reading. He finished the
article called ‘Experiences in the Control of Nosema’, then turned over the page and began reading
the next one, ‘The Latest on Royal Jelly’. He doubted very much whether there would be anything
in this that he didn’t know already:
What is this wonderful substance called royal jelly?
He reached for the tin of tobacco on the table beside him and began filling his pipe, still reading.
Royal jelly is a glandular secretion produced by the nurse bees to feed the larvae immediately they have
hatched from the egg. The pharyngeal glands of bees produce this substance in much the same way as
the mammary glands of vertebrates produce milk. The fact is of great biological interest because no other
insects in the world are known to have evolved such a process.
All old stuff, he told himself, but for want of anything better to do, he continued to read.
Royal jelly is fed in concentrated form to all bee larvae for the first three days after hatching from the
egg; but beyond that point, for all those who are destined to become drones or workers, this precious
food is greatly diluted with honey and pollen. On the other hand, the larvae which are destined to become
queens are fed throughout the whole of their larval period on a concentrated diet of pure royal jelly.
Hence the name.
Above him, up in the bedroom, the noise of the footsteps had stopped altogether. The house was
quiet. He struck a match and put it to his pipe.
Royal jelly must be a substance of tremendous nourishing power, for on this diet alone, the honey-bee
larva increases in weight fifteen hundred times in five days.
That was probably about right, he thought, although for some reason it had never occurred to
him to consider larval growth in terms of weight before.
This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby should increase in that time to five tons.
Albert Taylor stopped and read that sentence again. He read it a third time.
This is as if a seven-and-a-half-pound baby …
‘Mabel!’ he cried, jumping up from his chair. ‘Mabel! Come here!’
He went out into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs calling for her to come down.
There was no answer.
He ran up the stairs and switched on the light on the landing. The bedroom door was closed. He
crossed the landing and opened it and stood in the doorway looking into the dark room. ‘Mabel,’
he said. ‘Come downstairs a moment, will you please? I’ve just had a bit of an idea. It’s about the
baby.’
The light from the landing behind him cast a faint glow over the bed and he could see her dimly
now, lying on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow and her arms up over her head. She
was crying again.
‘Mabel,’ he said, going over to her, touching her shoulder. ‘Please come down a moment. This
may be important.’
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Don’t you want to hear about my idea?’
‘Oh, Albert, I’m tired,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m doing any more. I don’t
think I can go on. I don’t think I can stand it.’
There was a pause. Albert Taylor turned away from her and walked slowly over to the cradle
where the baby was lying, and peered in. It was too dark for him to see the child’s face, but when
he bent down close he could hear the sound of breathing, very faint and quick. ‘What time is the
next feed?’ he asked.
‘Two o’clock, I suppose.’
‘And the one after that?’
‘Six in the morning.’
‘I’ll do them both,’ he said. ‘You go to sleep.’
She didn’t answer.
‘You get properly into bed, Mabel, and go straight to sleep, you understand? And stop
worrying. I’m taking over completely for the next twelve hours. You’ll give yourself a nervous
breakdown going on like this.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘I’m taking the nipper and myself and the alarm clock into the spare room this very moment, so
you just lie down and relax and forget all about us. Right?’ Already he was pushing the cradle out
through the door.
‘Oh, Albert,’ she sobbed.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Leave it to me.’
‘Albert …’
‘Yes?’
‘I love you, Albert.’
‘I love you too, Mabel. Now go to sleep.’
Albert Taylor didn’t see his wife again until nearly eleven o’clock the next morning.
‘Good gracious me!’ she cried, rushing down the stairs in dressing-gown and slippers. ‘Albert!
Just look at the time! I must have slept twelve hours at least! Is everything all right? What
happened?’
He was sitting quietly in his armchair, smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper. The baby
was in a sort of carry-cot on the floor at his feet, sleeping.
‘Hullo, dear,’ he said, smiling.
She ran over to the cot and looked in. ‘Did she take anything, Albert? How many times have
you fed her? She was due for another one at ten o’clock, did you know that?’
Albert Taylor folded the newspaper neatly into a square and put it away on the side table. ‘I fed
her at two in the morning,’ he said, ‘and she took about half an ounce, no more. I fed her again at
six and she did a bit better that time, two ounces …’
‘Two ounces! Oh, Albert, that’s marvellous!’
‘And we just finished the last feed ten minutes ago. There’s the bottle on the mantelpiece. Only
one ounce left. She drank three. How’s that?’ He was grinning proudly, delighted with his
achievement.
The woman quickly got down on her knees and peered at the baby.
‘Don’t she look better?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Don’t she look fatter in the face?’
‘It may sound silly,’ the wife said, ‘but I actually think she does. Oh, Albert, you’re a marvel!
How did you do it?’
‘She’s turning the corner,’ he said. ‘That’s all it is. Just like the doctor prophesied, she’s turning
the corner.’
‘I pray to God you’re right, Albert.’
‘Of course I’m right. From now on, you watch her go.’
The woman was gazing lovingly at the baby.
‘You look a lot better yourself too, Mabel.’
‘I feel wonderful. I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Let’s keep it this way,’ he said. ‘I’ll do all the night feeds in future. You do the day ones.’
She looked up at him across the cot, frowning. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t allow you to
do that.’
‘I don’t want you to have a breakdown, Mabel.’
‘I won’t, not now I’ve had some sleep.’
‘Much better we share it.’
‘No, Albert. This is my job and I intend to do it. Last night won’t happen again.’
There was a pause. Albert Taylor took the pipe out of his mouth and examined the grain on the
bowl. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘In that case I’ll just relieve you of the donkey work, I’ll do all the
sterilizing and the mixing of the food and getting everything ready. That’ll help you a bit,
anyway.’
She looked at him carefully, wondering what could have come over him all of a sudden.
‘You see, Mabel, I’ve been thinking …’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I’ve been thinking that up until last night I’ve never even raised a finger to help you with this
baby.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘Oh yes it is. So I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to do my share of the work. I’m going
to be the feed-mixer and the bottle-sterilizer. Right?’
‘It’s very sweet of you, dear, but I really don’t think it’s necessary …’
‘Come on!’ he cried. “Don’t change the luck! I done it the last three times and just look what
happened! When’s the next one? Two o’clock, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all mixed,’ he said. ‘Everything’s all mixed and ready and all you’ve got to do when the
time comes is to go out there to the larder and take it off the shelf and warm it up. That’s some
help, isn’t it?’
The woman got up off her knees and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re
such a nice man,’ she said. ‘I love you more and more every day I know you.’
Later, in the middle of the afternoon, when Albert was outside in the sunshine working among
the hives, he heard her calling to him from the house.
‘Albert!’ she shouted. ‘Albert, come here!’ She was running through the buttercups towards
him.
He started forward to meet her, wondering what was wrong.
‘Oh, Albert! Guess what!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just finished giving her the two-o’clock feed and she’s taken the whole lot!’
‘No!’
‘Every drop of it! Oh, Albert, I’m so happy! She’s going to be all right! She’s turned the corner
just like you said!’ She came up to him and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, and
he clapped her on the back and laughed and said what a marvellous little mother she was.
‘Will you come in and watch the next one and see if she does it again, Albert?’
He told her he wouldn’t miss it for anything, and she hugged him again, then turned and ran
back to the house, skipping over the grass and singing all the way.
Naturally, there was a certain amount of suspense in the air as the time approached for the six-
o’clock feed. By five thirty both parents were already seated in the living-room waiting for the
moment to arrive. The bottle with the milk formula in it was standing in a saucepan of warm water
on the mantelpiece. The baby was asleep in its carry-cot on the sofa.
At twenty minutes to six it woke up and started screaming its head off.
‘There you are!’ Mrs Taylor cried. ‘She’s asking for the bottle. Pick her up quick, Albert, and
hand her to me here. Give me the bottle first.’
He gave her the bottle, then placed the baby on the woman’s lap. Cautiously, she touched the
baby’s lips with the end of the nipple. The baby seized the nipple between its gums and began to
suck ravenously with a rapid powerful action.
‘Oh, Albert, isn’t it wonderful?’ she said, laughing.
‘It’s terrific, Mabel.’
In seven or eight minutes, the entire contents of the bottle had disappeared down the baby’s
throat.
‘You clever girl,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Four ounces again.’
Albert Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, peering intently into the baby’s face. ‘You know
what?’ he said. ‘She even seems as though she’s put on a touch of weight already. What do you
think?’
The mother looked down at the child.
‘Don’t she seem bigger and fatter to you, Mabel, than she was yesterday?’
‘Maybe she does, Albert. I’m not sure. Although actually there couldn’t be any real gain in such
a short time as this. The important thing is that she’s eating normally.’
‘She’s turned the corner,’ Albert said. ‘I don’t think you need worry about her any more.’
‘I certainly won’t.’
‘You want me to go up and fetch the cradle back into our own bedroom, Mabel?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said.
Albert went upstairs and moved the cradle. The woman followed with the baby, and after
changing its nappy, she laid it gently down on its bed. Then she covered it with sheet and blanket.
‘Doesn’t she look lovely, Albert?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t that the most beautiful baby you’ve
ever seen in your entire life?’
‘Leave her be now, Mabel,’ he said. ‘Come on downstairs and cook us a bit of supper. We both
deserve it.’
After they had finished eating, the parents settled themselves in armchairs in the living-room,
Albert with his magazine and his pipe, Mrs Taylor with her knitting. But this was a very different
scene from the one of the night before. Suddenly, all tensions had vanished. Mrs Taylor’s
handsome oval face was glowing with pleasure, her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling
bright, and her mouth was fixed in a little dreamy smile of pure content. Every now and again she
would glance up from her knitting and gaze affectionately at her husband. Occasionally, she would
stop the clicking of her needles altogether for a few seconds and sit quite still, looking at the
ceiling, listening for a cry or a whimper from upstairs. But all was quiet.
‘Albert,’ she said after a while.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘What was it you were going to tell me last night when you came rushing up to the bedroom?
You said you had an idea for the baby.’
Albert Taylor lowered the magazine on to his lap and gave her a long sly look.
‘Did I?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
‘What’s the big joke?’ she asked. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’
‘It’s a joke all right,’ he said.
‘Tell it to me, dear.’
‘I’m not sure I ought to,’ he said. ‘You might call me a liar.’
She had seldom seen him looking so pleased with himself as he was now, and she smiled back
at him, egging him on.
‘I’d just like to see your face when you hear it, Mabel, that’s all.’
‘Albert, what is all this?’
He paused, refusing to be hurried.
‘You do think the baby’s better, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do.’
‘You agree with me that all of a sudden she’s feeding marvellously and looking one-hundred-
per-cent different?’
‘I do, Albert, yes.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, the grin widening. ‘You see, it’s me that did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘I cured the baby.’
‘Yes, dear, I’m sure you did.’ Mrs Taylor went right on with her knitting.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Of course I believe you, Albert. I give you all the credit, every bit of it.’
‘Then how did I do it?’
‘Well,’ she said, pausing a moment to think. ‘I suppose it’s simply that you’re a brilliant feed-
mixer. Ever since you started mixing the feeds she’s got better and better.’
‘You mean there’s some sort of an art in mixing the feeds?’
‘Apparently there is.’ She was knitting away and smiling quietly to herself, thinking how funny
men were.
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. Although, mind you, it isn’t so much
how you mix it that counts. It’s what you put in. You realize that, don’t you, Mabel?’
Mrs Taylor stopped knitting and looked up sharply at her husband. ‘Albert,’ she said, ‘don’t tell
me you’ve been putting things into that child’s milk?’
He sat there grinning.
‘Well, have you or haven’t you?’
‘It’s possible,’ he said.
‘I don’t believe it.’
He had a strange fierce way of grinning that showed his teeth.
‘Albert,’ she said. ‘Stop playing with me like this.’
‘Yes, dear, all right.’
‘You haven’t really put anything into her milk, have you? Answer me properly, Albert. This
could be serious with such a tiny baby.’
‘The answer is yes, Mabel.’
‘Albert Taylor! How could you?’
‘Now don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it if you really want me to, but for
heaven’s sake keep your hair on.’
‘It was beer!’ she cried. ‘I just know it was beer!’
‘Don’t be so daft, Mabel, please.’
‘Then what was it?’
Albert laid his pipe down carefully on the table beside him and leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell
me,’ he said, ‘did you ever by any chance happen to hear me mentioning something called royal
jelly?’
‘I did not.’
‘It’s magic,’ he said. ‘Pure magic. And last night I suddenly got the idea that if I was to put
some of this into the baby’s milk …’
‘How dare you!’
‘Now, Mabel, you don’t even know what it is yet.’
‘I don’t care what it is,’ she said. ‘You can’t go putting foreign bodies like that into a tiny
baby’s milk. You must be mad.’
‘It’s perfectly harmless, Mabel, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. It comes from bees.’
‘I might have guessed that.’
‘And it’s so precious that practically no one can afford to take it. When they do, it’s only one
little drop at a time.’
‘And how much did you give to our baby, might I ask?’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s the whole point. That’s where the difference lies. I reckon that our baby,
just in the last four feeds, has already swallowed about fifty times as much royal jelly as anyone
else in the world has ever swallowed before. How about that?’
‘Albert, stop pulling my leg.’
‘I swear it,’ he said proudly.
She sat there staring at him, her brow wrinkled, her mouth slightly open.
‘You know what this stuff actually costs, Mabel, if you want to buy it? There’s a place in
America advertising it for sale at this very moment for something like five hundred dollars a
pound jar! Five hundred dollars! That’s more than gold, you know!’
She hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
‘I’ll prove it,’ he said, and he jumped up and went across to the large bookcase where he kept
all his literature about bees. On the top shelf, the back numbers of the American Bee Journal were
neatly stacked alongside those of the British Bee Journal, Beecraft, and other magazines. He took
down the last issue of the American Bee Journal and turned to a page of small classified
advertisements at the back.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Exactly as I told you. “We sell royal jelly - $480 per lb. jar
wholesale.”’
He handed her the magazine so she could read it herself.
‘Now do you believe me? This is an actual shop in New York, Mabel. It says so.’
‘It doesn’t say you can go stirring it into the milk of a practically new-born baby,’ she said. ‘I
don’t know what’s come over you, Albert, I really don’t.’
‘It’s curing her, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not so sure about that, now.’
‘Don’t be so damn silly, Mabel. You know it is.’
‘Then why haven’t other people done it with their babies?’
‘I keep telling you,’ he said. ‘It’s too expensive. Practically nobody in the world can afford to
buy royal jelly just for eating except maybe one or two multimillionaires. The people who buy it
are the big companies that make women’s face creams and things like that. They’re using it as a
stunt. They mix a tiny pinch of it into a big jar of face cream and it’s selling like hot cakes for
absolutely enormous prices. They claim it takes out the wrinkles.’
‘And does it?’
‘Now how on earth would I know that, Mabel? Anyway,’ he said, returning to his chair, ‘that’s
not the point. The point is this. It’s done so much good to our little baby just in the last few hours
that I think we ought to go right on giving it to her. Now don’t interrupt, Mabel. Let me finish.
I’ve got two hundred and forty hives out there and if I turn over maybe a hundred of them to
making royal jelly, we ought to be able to supply her with all she wants.’
‘Albert Taylor,’ the woman said, stretching her eyes wide and staring at him. ‘Have you gone
out of your mind?’
‘Just hear me through, will you please?’
‘I forbid it,’ she said, ‘absolutely. You’re not to give my baby another drop of that horrid jelly,
you understand?’
‘Now, Mabel …’
‘And quite apart from that, we had a shocking honey crop last year, and if you go fooling
around with those hives now, there’s no telling what might not happen.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my hives, Mabel.’
‘You know very well we had only half the normal crop last year.’
‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he said. ‘Let me explain some of the marvellous things this stuff
does.’
‘You haven’t even told me what it is yet.’
‘All right, Mabel. I’ll do that too. Will you listen? Will you give me a chance to explain it?’
She sighed and picked up her knitting once more. ‘I suppose you might as well get it off your
chest, Albert. Go on and tell me.’
He paused, a bit uncertain now how to begin. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain something
like this to a person with no detailed knowledge of apiculture at all.
‘You know, don’t you,’ he said, ‘that each colony has only one queen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that this queen lays all the eggs?’
‘Yes, dear. That much I know.’
‘All right. Now the queen can actually lay two different kinds of eggs. You didn’t know that,
but she can. It’s what we call one of the miracles of the hive. She can lay eggs that produce
drones, and she can lay eggs that produce workers. Now if that isn’t a miracle, Mabel, I don’t
know what is.’
‘Yes, Albert, all right.’
‘The drones are the males. We don’t have to worry about them. The workers are all females. So
is the queen, of course. But the workers are unsexed females, if you see what I mean. Their organs
are completely undeveloped, whereas the queen is tremendously sexy. She can actually lay her
own weight in eggs in a single day.’
He hesitated, marshalling his thoughts.
‘Now what happens is this. The queen crawls around on the comb and lays her eggs in what we
call cells. You know all those hundreds of little holes you see in a honeycomb? Well, a brood
comb is just about the same except the cells don’t have honey in them, they have eggs. She lays
one egg to each cell, and in three days each of these eggs hatches out into a tiny grub. We call it a
larva.
‘Now, as soon as this larva appears, the nurse bees - they’re young workers - all crowd round
and start feeding it like mad. And you know what they feed it on?’
‘Royal jelly,’ Mabel answered patiently.
‘Right!’ he cried. That’s exactly what they do feed it on. They get this stuff out of a gland in
their heads and they start pumping it into the cell to feed the larva. And what happens then?’
He paused dramatically, blinking at her with his small watery-grey eyes. Then he turned slowly
in his chair and reached for the magazine that he had been reading the night before.
‘You want to know what happens then?’ he asked, wetting his lips.
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘ “Royal jelly,” ’ he read aloud, ‘ “must be a substance of tremendous nourishing power, for on
this diet alone, the honeybee larva increases in weight fifteen hundred times in five days!’
‘How much?’
‘Fifteen hundred times, Mabel. And you know what that means if you put it in terms of a human
being? It means,’ he said, lowering his voice, leaning forward, fixing her with those small pale
eyes, ‘it means that in five days a baby weighing seven and a half pounds to start off with would
increase in weight to five tons!’
For the second time, Mrs Taylor stopped knitting.
‘Now you mustn’t take that too literally, Mabel.’
‘Who says I mustn’t?’
‘It’s just a scientific way of putting it, that’s all’
‘Very well, Albert. Go on.’
‘But that’s only half the story,’ he said. There’s more to come. The really amazing thing about
royal jelly, I haven’t told you yet. I’m going to show you now how it can transform a plain dull-
looking little worker bee with practically no sex organs at all into a great big beautiful fertile
queen.’
‘Are you saying our baby is dull-looking and plain?’ she asked sharply.
‘Now don’t go putting words into my mouth, Mabel, please. Just listen to this. Did you know
that the queen bee and the worker bee, athough they are completely different when they grow up,
are both hatched out of exactly the same kind of egg?’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said.
‘It’s as true as I’m sitting here, Mabel, honest it is. Any time the bees want a queen to hatch out
of the egg instead of a worker, they can do it.’
‘How?’
‘Ah,’ he said, shaking a thick forefinger in her direction. ‘That’s just what I’m coming to. That’s
the secret of the whole thing. Now - what do you think it is, Mabel, that makes this miracle
happen?’
‘Royal jelly,’ she answered. ‘You already told me.’
‘Royal jelly it is!’ he cried, clapping his hands and bouncing up on his seat. His big round face
was glowing with excitement now, and two vivid patches of scarlet had appeared high up on each
cheek.
‘Here’s how it works. I’ll put it very simply for you. The bees want a new queen. So they build
an extra-large cell, a queen cell we call it, and they get the old queen to lay one of her eggs in
there. The other one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine eggs she lays in ordinary worker cells.
Now. As soon as these eggs hatch into larvae, the nurse bees rally round and start pumping in the
royal jelly. All of them get it, workers as well as queen. But here’s the vital thing, Mabel, so listen
carefully. Here’s where the difference comes. The worker larvae only receive this special
marvellous food for the first three days of their larval life. After that they have a complete change
of diet. What really happens is they get weaned, except that it’s not like an ordinary weaning
because it’s so sudden. After the third day they’re put straight away on to more or less routine
bees’ food - a mixture of honey and pollen - and then about two weeks later they emerge from the
cells as workers.
‘But not so the larva in the queen cell! This one gets royal jelly all the way through its larval
life. The nurse bees simply pour it into the cell, so much so in fact that the little larva is literally
floating in it. And that’s what makes it into a queen!’
‘You can’t prove it,’ she said.
‘Don’t talk so damn silly, Mabel, please. Thousands of people have proved it time and time
again, famous scientists in every country in the world. All you have to do is take a larva out of a
worker cell and put it in a queen cell - that’s what we call grafting - and just so long as the nurse
bees keep it well supplied with royal jelly, then presto! - it’ll grow up into a queen! And what
makes it more marvellous still is the absolutely enormous difference between a queen and a
worker when they grow up. The abdomen is a different shape. The sting is different. The legs are
different. The …’
‘In what way are the legs different?’ she asked, testing him.
‘The legs? Well, the workers have little pollen baskets on their legs for carrying the pollen. The
queen has none. Now here’s another thing. The queen has fully developed sex organs. The
workers don’t. And most amazing of all, Mabel, the queen lives for an average of four to six years.
The worker hardly lives that many months. And all this difference simply because one of them got
royal jelly and the other didn’t!’
‘It’s pretty hard to believe,’ she said, ‘that a food can do all that.’
‘Of course it’s hard to believe. It’s another of the miracles of the hive. In fact it’s the biggest
ruddy miracle of them all. It’s such a hell of a big miracle that it’s baffled the greatest men of
science for hundreds of years. Wait a moment. Stay here. Don’t move.’
Again he jumped up and went over to the bookcase and started rummaging among the books
and magazines.
‘I’m going to find you a few of the reports. Here we are. Here’s one of them. Listen to this.’ He
started reading aloud from a copy of the American Bee Journal:
‘ “Living in Toronto at the head of a fine research laboratory given to him by the people of
Canada in recognition of his truly great contribution to humanity in the discovery of insulin, Dr
Frederick A. Banting became curious about royal jelly. He requested his staff to do a basic
fractional analysis …” ’
He paused.
‘Well, there’s no need to read it all, but here’s what happened. Dr Banting and his people took
some royal jelly from queen cells that contained two-day-old larvae, and then they started
analysing it. And what d’you think they found?
‘They found,’ he said, ‘that royal jelly contained phenols, sterols, glycerils, dextrose, and - now
here it comes - and eighty to eighty-five per cent unidentified acids!’
He stood beside the bookcase with the magazine in his hand, smiling a funny little furtive smile
of triumph, and his wife watched him, bewildered.
He was not a tall man; he had a thick plump pulpy-looking body that was built close to the
ground on abbreviated legs. The legs were slightly bowed. The head was huge and round, covered
with bristly short-cut hair, and the greater part of the face - now that he had given up shaving
altogether - was hidden by a brownish yellow fuzz about an inch long. In one way and another, he
was rather grotesque to look at, there was no denying that.
‘Eighty to eighty-five per cent,’ he said, ‘unidentified acids. Isn’t that fantastic?’ He turned back
to the bookshelf and began hunting through the other magazines.
‘What does it mean, unidentified acids?’
‘That’s the whole point! No one knows! Not even Banting could find out. You’ve heard of
Banting?’
‘No.’
‘He just happens to be about the most famous living doctor in the world today, that’s all.’
Looking at him now as he buzzed around in front of the bookcase with his bristly head and his
hairy face and his plump pulpy body, she couldn’t help thinking that somehow, in some curious
way, there was a touch of the bee about this man. She had often seen women grow to look like the
horses that they rode, and she had noticed that people who bred birds or bull terriers or
pomeranians frequently resembled in some small but startling manner the creature of their choice.
But up until now it had never occured to her that her husband might look like a bee. It shocked her
a bit.
‘And did Banting ever try to eat it,’ she asked, ‘this royal jelly?’
‘Of course he didn’t eat it, Mabel. He didn’t have enough for that. It’s too precious.’
‘You know something?’ she said, staring at him but smiling a little all the same. ‘You’re getting
to look just a teeny bit like a bee yourself, did you know that?’
He turned and looked at her.
‘I suppose it’s the beard mostly,’ she said. ‘I do wish you’d stop wearing it. Even the colour is
sort of bee-ish, don’t you think?’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Mabel?’
‘Albert,’ she said. ‘Your language.’
‘Do you want to hear any more of this or don’t you?’
‘Yes, dear, I’m sorry. I was only joking. Do go on.’
He turned away again and pulled another magazine out of the bookcase and began leafing
through the pages. ‘Now just listen to this, Mabel. “In 1939, Heyl experimented with twenty-one-
day-old rats, injecting them with royal jelly in varying amounts. As a result, he found a precocious
follicular development of the ovaries directly in proportion to the quantity of royal jelly injected.”’
‘There!’ she cried. ‘I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’
‘I knew something terrible would happen.’
‘Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with that. Now here’s another, Mabel. “Still and Burdett
found that a male rat which hitherto had been unable to breed, upon receiving a minute daily dose
of royal jelly, became a father many times over.” ’
‘Albert,’ she cried, ‘this stuff is much too strong to give to a baby! I don’t like it at all.’
‘Nonsense, Mabel.’
‘Then why do they only try it out on rats, tell me that? Why don’t some of these famous
scientists take it themselves? They’re too clever, that’s why. Do you think Dr Banting is going to
risk finishing up with precious ovaries? Not him.’
‘But they have given it to people, Mabel. Here’s a whole article about it. Listen.’ He turned the
page and again began reading from the magazine. ‘ “In Mexico, in 1953, a group of enlightened
physicians began prescribing minute doses of royal jelly for such things as cerebral neuritis,
arthritis, diabetes, autointoxication from tobacco, impotence in men, asthma, croup, and gout …
There are stacks of signed testimonials … A celebrated stockbroker in Mexico City contracted a
particularly stubborn case of psoriasis. He became physically unattractive. His clients began to
forsake him. His business began to suffer. In desperation he turned to royal jelly - one drop with
every meal - and presto! he was cured in a fortnight. A waiter in the Café Jena, also in Mexico
City, reported that his father, after taking minute doses of this wonder substance in capsule form,
sired a healthy boy child at the age of ninety. A bullfight promoter in Acapulco, finding himself
landed with a rather lethargic-looking bull, injected it with one gramme of royal jelly (an
excessive dose) just before it entered the arena. Thereupon, the beast became so swift and savage
that it promptly dispatched two picadors, three horses, and a matador, and finally …” ’
‘Listen!’ Mrs Taylor said, interrupting him. ‘I think the baby’s crying.’
Albert glanced up from his reading. Sure enough, a lusty yelling noise was coming from the
bedroom above.
‘She must be hungry,’ he said.
His wife looked at the clock. ‘Good gracious me!’ she cried, jumping up. ‘It’s past her time
again already! You mix the feed, Albert, quickly, while I bring her down! But hurry! I don’t want
to keep her waiting.’
In half a minute, Mrs Taylor was back, carrying the screaming infant in her arms. She was
flustered now, still quite unaccustomed to the ghastly nonstop racket that a healthy baby makes
when it wants its food. ‘Do be quick, Albert!’ she called, settling herself in the armchair and
arranging the child on her lap. ‘Please hurry!’
Albert entered from the kitchen and handed her the bottle of warm milk. ‘It’s just right,’ he said.
You don’t have to test it.’
She hitched the baby’s head a little higher in the crook of her arm, then pushed the rubber teat
straight into the wide-open yelling mouth. The baby grabbed the teat and began to suck. The
yelling stopped. Mrs Taylor relaxed.
‘Oh, Albert, isn’t she lovely?’
‘She’s terrific, Mabel - thanks to royal jelly.’
‘Now, dear, I don’t want to hear another word about that nasty stuff. It frightens me to death.’
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said.
‘We’ll see about that.’
The baby went on sucking the bottle.
‘I do believe she’s going to finish the whole lot again, Albert.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ he said.
And a few minutes later, the milk was all gone.
‘Oh, what a good girl you are!’ Mrs Taylor cried, as very gently she started to withdraw the
nipple. The baby sensed what she was doing and sucked harder, trying to hold on. The woman
gave a quick little tug, and plop, out it came.
‘Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa!’ the baby yelled.
‘Nasty old wind,’ Mrs Taylor said, hoisting the child on to her shoulder and patting its back.
It belched twice in quick succession.
‘There you are, my darling, you’ll be all right now.’
For a few seconds, the yelling stopped. Then it started again.
‘Keep belching her,’ Albert said. ‘She’s drunk it too quick.’
His wife lifted the baby back on to her shoulder. She rubbed its spine. She changed it from one
shoulder to the other. She laid it on its stomach on her lap. She sat it up on her knee. But it didn’t
belch again, and the yelling became louder and more insistent every minute.
‘Good for the lungs,’ Albert Taylor said, grinning. ‘That’s the way they exercise their lungs,
Mabel, did you know that?’
‘There, there, there,’ the wife said, kissing it all over the face. There, there, there.’
They waited another five minutes, but not for one moment did the screaming stop.
‘Change the nappy,’ Albert said. ‘It’s got a wet nappy, that’s all it is.’ He fetched a clean one
from the kitchen, and Mrs Taylor took the old one off and put the new one on.
This made no difference at all.
‘Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa! Waa!’ the baby yelled.
‘You didn’t stick the safety pin through the skin, did you, Mabel?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said, feeling under the nappy with her fingers to make sure.
The parents sat opposite one another in their armchairs, smiling nervously, watching the baby
on the mother’s lap, waiting for it to tire and stop screaming.
‘You know what?’ Albert Taylor said at last.
‘What?’
‘I’ll bet she’s still hungry. I’ll bet all she wants is another swig at that bottle. How about me
fetching her an extra lot?’
‘I don’t think we ought to do that, Albert.’
‘It’ll do her good,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘I’m going to warm her up a second
helping.’
He went into the kitchen, and was away several minutes. When he returned he was holding a
bottle brimful of milk.
‘I made her a double,’ he announced. ‘Eight ounces. Just in case.’
‘Albert! Are you mad? Don’t you know it’s just as bad to overfeed as it is to underfeed?’
‘You don’t have to give her the lot, Mabel. You can stop any time you like. Go on,’ he said,
standing over her. ‘Give her a drink.’
Mrs Taylor began to tease the baby’s upper lip with the end of the nipple. The tiny mouth
closed like a trap over the rubber teat and suddenly there was silence in the room. The baby’s
whole body relaxed and a look of absolute bliss came over its face as it started to drink.
‘There you are, Mabel! What did I tell you?’
The woman didn’t answer.
‘She’s ravenous, that’s what she is. Just look at her suck.’
Mrs Taylor was watching the level of the milk in the bottle. It was dropping fast, and before
long three or four ounces out of the eight had disappeared.
‘There,’ she said. That’ll do.’
‘You can’t pull it away now, Mabel.’
‘Yes, dear. I must.’
‘Go on, woman. Give her the rest and stop fussing.’
‘But Albert …’
‘She’s famished, can’t you see that? Go on, my beauty,’ he said. ‘You finish that bottle.’
‘I don’t like it, Albert,’ the wife said, but she didn’t pull the bottle away.
‘She’s making up for lost time, Mabel, that’s all she’s doing.’
Five minutes later the bottle was empty. Slowly, Mrs Taylor withdrew the nipple, and this time
there was no protest from the baby, no sound at all. It lay peacefully on the mother’s lap, the eyes
glazed with contentment, the mouth half-open, the lips smeared with milk.
‘Twelve whole ounces, Mabel!’ Albert Taylor said. ‘Three times the normal amount! Isn’t that
amazing!’
The woman was staring down at the baby. And now the old anxious tight-lipped look of the
frightened mother was slowly returning to her face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Albert asked. ‘You’re not worried by that, are you? You can’t
expect her to get back to normal on a lousy four ounces, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Come here, Albert,’ she said.’
‘What?’
‘I said come here.’
He went over and stood beside her.
‘Take a good look and tell me if you see anything different.’
He peered closely at the baby. ‘She seems bigger, Mabel, if that’s what you mean. Bigger and
fatter.’
‘Hold her,’ she ordered. ‘Go on, pick her up.’
He reached out and lifted the baby up off the mother’s lap. ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘She weighs a
ton!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Now isn’t that marvellous!’ he cried, beaming. ‘I’ll bet she must be back to normal already!’
‘It frightens me, Albert. It’s too quick.’
‘Nonsense, woman.’
‘It’s that disgusting jelly that’s done it,’ she said. ‘I hate the stuff.’
‘There’s nothing disgusting about royal jelly,’ he answered, indignant.
‘Don’t be a fool, Albert! You think it’s normal for a child to start putting on weight at this
speed?’
‘You’re never satisfied!’ he cried. ‘You’re scared stiff when she’s losing and now you’re
absolutely terrified because she’s gaining! What’s the matter with you, Mabel?’
The woman got up from her chair with the baby in her arms and started towards the door. ‘All I
can say is,’ she said, ‘it’s lucky I’m here to see you don’t give her any more of it, that’s all I can
say.’ She went out, and Albert watched her through the open door as she crossed the hall to the
foot of the stairs and started to ascend, and when she reached the third or fourth step she suddenly
stopped and stood quite still for several seconds as though remembering something. Then she
turned and came down again rather quickly and re-entered the room.
‘Albert,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘I assume there wasn’t any royal jelly in this last feed we’ve just given her?’
‘I don’t see why you should assume that, Mabel.’
‘Albert!’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, soft and innocent.
‘How dare you!’ she cried.
Albert Taylor’s great bearded face took on a pained and puzzled look. ‘I think you ought to be
very glad she’s got another big dose of it inside her,’ he said. ‘Honest I do. And this is a very big
dose, Mabel, believe you me.’
The woman was standing just inside the doorway clasping the sleeping baby in her arms and
staring at her husband with huge eyes. She stood very erect, her body absolutely still with fury, her
face paler, more tight-lipped than ever.
‘You mark my words,’ Albert was saying, ‘you’re going to have a nipper there soon that’ll win
first prize in any baby show in the entire country. Hey, why don’t you weigh her now and see what
she is? You want me to get the scales, Mabel, so you can weigh her?’
The woman walked straight over to the large table in the centre of the room and laid the baby
down and quickly started taking off its clothes. ‘Yes!’ she snapped. ‘Get the scales!’ Off came the
little night-gown, then the undervest.
Then she unpinned the nappy and she drew it away and the baby lay naked on the table.
‘But Mabel!’ Albert cried. ‘It’s a miracle! She’s fat as a puppy!’
Indeed, the amount of flesh the child had put on since the day before was astounding. The small
sunken chest with the rib bones showing all over it was now plump and round as a barrel, and the
belly was bulging high in the air. Curiously, though, the arms and legs did not seem to have grown
in proportion. Still short and skinny, they looked like little sticks protruding from a ball of fat.
‘Look!’ Albert said. ‘She’s even beginning to get a bit of fuzz on the tummy to keep her warm!’
He put out a hand and was about to run the tips of his fingers over the powdering of silky yellowy-
brown hairs that had suddenly appeared on the baby’s stomach.
‘Don’t you touch her!’ the woman cried. She turned and faced him, her eyes blazing, and she
looked suddenly like some kind of little fighting bird with her neck arched over towards him as
though she were about to fly at his face and peck his eyes out.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said, retreating.
‘You must be mad!’ she cried.
‘Now wait just one minute, Mabel, will you please, because if you’re still thinking this stuff is
dangerous … That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it? All right, then. Listen carefully. I shall now
proceed to prove to you once and for all, Mabel, that royal jelly is absolutely harmless to human
beings, even in enormous doses. For example - why do you think we had only half the usual
honey crop last summer? Tell me that.’
His retreat, walking backwards, had taken him three or four yards away from her, where he
seemed to feel more comfortable.
‘The reason we had only half the usual crop last summer,’ he said slowly, lowering his voice,
‘was because I turned one hundred of my hives over to the production of royal jelly.’
‘You what?’
‘Ah,’ he whispered. ‘I thought that might surprise you a bit. And I’ve been making it ever since
right under your very nose.’ His small eyes were glinting at her, and a slow sly smile was creeping
around the corners of his mouth.
‘You’ll never guess the reason, either,’ he said. ‘I’ve been afraid to mention it up to now
because I thought it might … well … sort of embarrass you.’
There was a slight pause. He had his hands clasped high in front of him, level with his chest,
and he was rubbing one palm against the other, making a soft scraping noise.
‘You remember that bit I read you out of the magazine? That bit about the rat? Let me see now,
how does it go? “Still and Burdett found that a male rat which hitherto had been unable to breed
…” ’ He hesitated, the grin widening, showing his teeth.
‘You get the message, Mabel?’
She stood quite still, facing him.
‘The very first time I ever read that sentence, Mabel, I jumped straight out of my chair and I
said to myself if it’ll work with a lousy rat, I said, then there’s no reason on earth why it shouldn’t
work with Albert Taylor.’
He paused again, craning his head forward and turning one ear slightly in his wife’s direction,
waiting for her to say something. But she didn’t.
‘And here’s another thing,’ he went on. ‘It made me feel so absolutely marvellous, Mabel, and
so sort of completely different to what I was before that I went right on taking it even after you’d
announced the joyful tidings. Buckets of it I must have swallowed during the last twelve months.’
The big heavy haunted-looking eyes of the woman were moving intently over the man’s face
and neck. There was no skin showing at all on the neck, not even at the sides below the ears. The
whole of it, to a point where it disappeared into the collar of the shirt, was covered all the way
around with those shortish silky hairs, yellowy black.
‘Mind you,’ he said, turning away from her, gazing lovingly now at the baby, ‘it’s going to
work far better on a tiny infant than on a fully developed man like me. You’ve only got to look at
her to see that, don’t you agree?’
The woman’s eyes travelled slowly downward and settled on the baby. The baby was lying
naked on the table, fat and white and comatose, like some gigantic grub that was approaching the
end of its larval life and would soon emerge into the world complete with mandibles and wings.
‘Why don’t you cover her up, Mabel?’ he said. ‘We don’t want our little queen to catch a cold.’
蜂王浆
蜂王浆
“愁死我了，艾伯特，真的愁死我了。”泰勒太太一边说着，一边目不转睛地注视着那一
动不动地躺在她左臂肘弯里的婴儿，“我就知道事情有点不对劲了。”
她怀里的婴儿脸上的皮肤像珍珠一样透明，紧紧包着骨头。
“再试试看。”艾伯特•泰勒说。
“再试也无济于事。”
“梅布尔，你得继续试。”他说。
她从盛着热水的平底锅里拿起那只奶瓶，摇晃出几滴牛奶落在她的手腕内侧，试试它的
温度。
“来吧。”她轻声说，“来吧，我的宝贝。快醒醒，你再吃一点儿。”
离她很近的桌上有一盏小灯，向四周散发出柔和的黄光。
“求你，”她说，“哪怕就吃一丁点儿。”
她丈夫从杂志上方抬起眼睛看着她。她精疲力尽、累得半死，他全都看在眼里，那张苍
白的椭圆形脸，平常是那样的庄重和安详，现在却笼罩着一种苦恼和绝望的表情，但即便如
此，她低头久久注视孩子的样子，依然是出奇的美丽。
“你瞧，”她低声嘟囔着，“没用的，她不吃。”
她把奶瓶举到灯前，眯起眼睛看它的刻度。
“又是一盎司，总共就吃了这么多。不，甚至还不到，只有四分之三盎司。靠这么点是活
不下去的。艾伯特，真的不够的，我担心死了。”
“我知道。”他说。
“要是他们能找出哪里不对就好了。”
“没什么不对的地方，梅布尔，只是时间问题。”
“当然有些不对劲。”
“鲁宾逊医生说没有。”
“瞧，”她说着站起来，“你总不能告诉我一个六周大的孩子体重一直减轻，减到比她出生
时的两磅还轻是正常的事吧！你就看看这两条腿，它们只剩皮和骨头了！”
小宝宝软绵绵地躺在她的臂弯里，一动也不动。
“鲁宾逊医生说了，他要你别担心，梅布尔。另一个医生也是这样说的。”
“哼！”她说，“那岂不是太好了！我就不用再担心了？！”
“听我说，梅布尔。”
“他想让我怎样？把这当作一个玩笑？”
“他可没有那样说。”
“我讨厌医生！我恨他们所有的人！”她喊着，转身抱着孩子从他身边快步走出房间，向
楼梯走去。
艾伯特留在原处，任她离开。
过了一会儿，他听见她在头顶正上方的卧室里走动，急促而紧张的脚步在上面的油地毡
上“啪嗒啪嗒啪嗒”地踏来踏去。很快脚步就停止了，他不得不起身去找她，当他走进卧室的
时候，他会发现她像往常一样坐在小床旁边，一边注视着孩子，一边轻声哭泣着，不肯离
去。
她会说：“她饿坏了，艾伯特。”
“她当然没有饿坏。”
“她饿了。我知道她饿了，艾伯特？”
“怎么啦！”
“我相信你也知道，但你不想承认。对不对？”
如今，每天夜晚都像这样度过。
上个星期他们从医院里带回孩子，医生做了仔细的检查，告诉他们孩子没什么问题。
“大夫，我们花了九年才有了这个宝宝，”梅布尔当时说，“我想如果她出了什么事，我会
死的。”
那是在六天之前，自那以后，她又瘦了五盎司。
可是瞎担心无济于事，艾伯特•泰勒这样告诫自己。遇到这样的事情，最好的做法只能是
相信医生。他拿起依然搁在他膝盖上的杂志，漫不经心地扫了一眼目录，想看看本周有什么
内容：
五月蜜蜂资讯
蜂蜜烹饪
养蜂人和药物学士
控制蜜蜂疾病的经验
关于蜂王浆的最新资讯
本周养蜂场
蜂胶的治疗作用
反刍喂食
英国养蜂人的年度晚宴
协会动态
艾伯特•泰勒一生都在对与蜜蜂有关的事情沉醉入迷。当他还是个小男孩的时候，经常祼
手去捉蜜蜂，并带着它们跑回家让他母亲看，有时他会把它们放在自己脸上，让它们在脸颊
和脖子上爬来爬去。令人惊讶的是，他从来没有被蜜蜂蜇过。相反，蜜蜂似乎很喜欢和他在
一起。它们从来没有试图飞走，他若要摆脱它们，就不得不用手指轻轻把它们拂去。尽管这
样，它们还是会频频返回，再次停在他的臂、手、膝盖，或任何裸露的皮肤上。
他的父亲是个砖瓦匠，断言说：这孩子身上一定是有女巫的臭味，某种有毒的东西通过
他的皮肤毛孔渗出，这东西没有任何好处，只能使昆虫处于那种睡眠状态。但是他母亲则
说，这是上帝给他的一份礼物，甚至将他与圣弗朗西斯 [1] 和鸟类的互动相提并论。
艾伯特•泰勒长大以后，对蜜蜂的喜爱发展成为痴迷，十二岁的时候，他建造了他的第一
个蜂箱；第二年夏天捕获了他的第一群蜜蜂；两年之后，即十四岁的时候，他有了至少五个
蜂箱，靠在他父亲小小后院的篱笆上，整齐地排成一排。除了生产蜂蜜的正常任务之外，他
已经在练习培养自己的蜂王，这是一项精细而复杂的工作，包括把幼虫移植到人造细胞杯
中，以及接下来的种种工作。
要在蜂箱里做什么时，他从来不用烟熏，也从不戴手套，头上也不用套上一个网。很明
显，这个男孩和蜜蜂之间存在某种奇怪的默契，消息传到村庄、小商店和小酒馆里，人们开
始以钦佩的口吻谈论他，并开始到他家购买蜂蜜。
到了十八岁，他在离村庄约一英里 [2] 的山谷下面——一个樱桃园旁边——租了一英亩高
低不平的牧地，他开始在那里做起了自己的生意。现在，十一年之后，他还在那个老地方经
营，但已经不是一英亩了，他有了六英亩土地、二百四十个大容量的蜂箱，还有一座主要靠
自己动手建造的小屋。他二十岁时结了婚，除了婚后等了九年才有一个孩子之外，也还算成
功。事实上，对艾伯特来说一切都称心如意，直到这个奇怪的女婴降临人世。因为拒绝正常
进食和日渐消瘦，她开始把他们吓得魂不守舍。
他的目光从杂志上抬起，开始想到他的女儿。
例如，在这天傍晚给她喂食时，起初她的两只眼睛是睁着的，他注视着它们，看见某种
让他胆战心惊的东西——一种雾蒙蒙的、茫然空洞的目光，仿佛这对眼睛和大脑根本没有联
系，它们只是像两颗灰色的玻璃小弹珠，松松地搁在眼窝里。
那些医生真的知道他们在说些什么吗？
他伸手拿过一只烟灰缸，开始缓慢地用一根火柴杆挖出烟斗里的灰烬。
带她去别的医院总是可以的，他上楼后也许会向梅布尔建议，可以去牛津的某些医院看
看。
他还能听到她在楼上走动的声音，但她现在肯定是脱了鞋，换上了拖鞋，因为声音变得
非常模糊和微弱。
他又把注意力集中到杂志上，继续阅读下去。他读完了一篇标题为《控制蜜蜂疾病的经
验》的文章，然后翻过这页，开始读下一篇，题目是《关于蜂王浆的最新资讯》，他很怀疑
这里面是否会出现他不知道的东西：
这种被称作蜂王浆的奇特物质是什么呢？
他伸手到他旁边的桌上拿过那罐烟丝，一边开始装烟斗，一边继续读着。
蜂王浆是一种保育蜂的腺分泌物，用以喂养刚从卵中孵出的幼虫。蜜蜂从咽腺产生
这种物质的方式，类同于脊椎动物的乳腺产生乳汁，这个事实具有重大的生物学意义，
因为据悉，世界上还没有其他昆虫进化到这样的程度。
他对自己说，全是些陈年老调。但也没什么更好的事情可做，于是他便继续往下读。
蜜蜂的幼虫从卵中孵出后的头三天，全都食用浓缩形态的蜂王浆。但三天以后，对
所有那些预定成为雄蜂和工蜂的幼虫，它们的这种宝贵食物里就被加入大量的蜂蜜和花
粉做了稀释。而注定成为蜂王的幼虫，在它们的整个幼虫阶段，自始至终以纯净的浓缩
蜂王浆为食物。这也是这种物质以此冠名的原因。
在他上方的卧室里，脚步声完全停止了。屋子安静下来。他划了一根火柴放到烟斗上。
蜂王浆肯定是一种营养价值极高的物质，因为仅靠这种食物，蜜蜂幼虫的体重就能
在五天之内增加一千五百倍。
他想，那大概是对的。尽管出于某种原因，他以前从没有想到用体重来衡量幼虫的成
长。
就像一个七磅半的婴儿在那段时间内应该增加到五吨。
艾伯特•泰勒停下来，把那句话又读了一遍，他读到了第三遍。
就像一个七磅半的婴儿……
“梅布尔！”他喊着从椅子上跳了起来，“梅布尔，快来！”
他走出房间来到走廊，站在楼梯口，呼叫她下来。
没有人回答。
他冲上楼梯，拧开楼梯平台上的灯。卧室的门是关着的，他穿过楼梯平台，打开门，然
后站在门口朝黑洞洞的房间里面看。“梅布尔，”他说，“到楼下来一会儿，好吗？我刚想了一
个主意，是关于孩子的。”
他身后楼梯平台上的微弱灯光投射到了床上，此刻他能够朦朦胧胧地看到她俯身躺着，
把脸埋在枕头里，双臂举过头顶，她还在啜泣。
“梅布尔，”他说着走到她身边，摸着她的肩膀，“请下来一会儿，这可能会很重要。”
“走开，”她说，“让我一个人待会儿。”
“你不想听听我的主意？”
“哎，艾伯特，我累了。”她抽泣着，“我太疲惫了，我根本不知道自己在做什么，我想我
不能再这样下去了，我无法忍受像这样的日子了。”
两人一时无言。艾伯特•泰勒转过身，慢慢走到婴儿睡的摇篮旁边，朝里面凝视。因为太
暗，他看不清楚孩子的脸，但当他弯下身子靠近的时候，他能够听到呼吸的声音，非常微
弱，非常急促。“下一次喂食是什么时候？”他问道。
“我想，是两点钟吧。”
“再后面呢？”
“早晨六点钟。”
“这两次由我来喂，”他说，“你去睡觉。”
她没有回答。
“你好好上床去睡觉，梅布尔，马上躺下入睡，懂吗？别再犯愁了，由我来完全接手接下
来的十二个小时。再这样下去你会精神崩溃的。”
“是的，”她说，“我知道。”
“现在就让我带着小孩和闹钟去空房间，你就只管躺着，彻底放松，把我们全忘掉，好
吗？”他已经推着摇篮就要出门。
“哎，艾伯特。”她啜泣着。
“你什么都不用担心，把这交给我吧。”
“艾伯特……”
“怎么啦？”
“我爱你，艾伯特。”
“我也爱你，梅布尔。快睡吧。”
直到第二天上午将近十一点钟的时候，艾伯特•泰勒才再次见到他的妻子。
“天哪！”她喊着，身穿睡衣和拖鞋冲下楼梯，“艾伯特！你看这时间！我想必至少睡了十
二个小时！一切还好吗？有发生什么事情吗？”
他安静地坐在扶手椅中，一边抽着烟斗，一边读着早报。婴儿在他脚边地板上的一个简
易婴儿床里，睡着了。
“早，亲爱的。”他笑着说道。
她跑到婴儿床旁边，朝里面看。“她吃了什么没有，艾伯特？你喂过她几次？十点钟应该
再喂她一次，你知道吗？”
艾伯特•泰勒把报纸方方正正地折叠起来，放到茶几上。“凌晨两点钟我喂过她，”他
说，“她只喝了大约半盎司就不再喝了。六点钟我再喂她，比那一次要好一点，她喝了两盎
司……”
“两盎司！嘿，艾伯特，这可不寻常！”
“十分钟前我们刚结束最后一次喂奶，奶瓶就在壁炉架上。只剩一盎司了，她喝掉了三盎
司。怎么样？”他自豪地咧嘴笑着，对自己的成就感到快乐。
妇人迅速跪了下来，眼睛盯着婴儿看。
“她看起来是不是好点了？”他殷切地问道，“有没有觉得她的脸胖了一点？”
“这听起来可能很傻，”妻子说，“但我真的觉得她的脸胖了点。哦，艾伯特，你是个奇
迹！你是怎样做到的？”
“她正在转危为安。”他说，“事情就是这样。正如医生预言的，她正在转危为安。”
“我向上帝祈祷你是对的，艾伯特。”
“我当然是对的。从现在开始，你会看着她好起来。”
妇人钟爱地凝视着婴儿。
“你自己看上去也好多了，梅布尔。”
“我感觉很好，昨夜很对不起。”
“就让我们继续这样做吧，”他说，“以后夜里都让我来喂奶，白天由你喂。”
她抬起头隔着婴儿床看着他，皱起了眉。“不行，”她说，“哎，不行，我不会允许你这样
做。”
“梅布尔，我不想让你崩溃！”
“我不会的，现在我已经睡了好些时候了。”
“我们一起分担会更好。”
“不，艾伯特。这是我的职责，也是我想做的，昨天夜里的事不会再发生。”
静默了一会儿。艾伯特•泰勒把烟斗从嘴中拿出来，检查着烟斗里未燃的颗粒。“好
吧，”他说，“既然这样，那就让我来减轻一点你的负担，我来做所有的消毒和食物混合，把
样样都准备好。不管怎样，这对你会有一点帮助。”
她仔细地打量他，想知道他为什么突然间会这么想。
“你看，梅布尔，我一直在想……”
“我听着，亲爱的。”
“我一直在想，直到昨天晚上，我竟从来没有抬起过一个手指头来帮你照看这个孩子。”
“那不是真的。”
“哦，是真的。所以我决定从现在起负起我那份责任。我要成为食品搅拌者和奶瓶消毒
者，好吗？”
“你真是太体贴了，亲爱的，但是我真的不认为有必要……”
“得了，别抢走我的好运！我再喂最后第三次，看看到底会怎么样！下一次是什么时候？
两点钟，是吗？”
“是的。”
“我都混合好了，”他说，“每一样东西都混合好了，全准备妥当，时候一到，你只要去食
品室把它从架子上拿下来，加热一下。这多少是一种帮助，不是吗？”
妇人从跪着的姿势中站了起来，走近他，吻了一下他的脸颊。“你真是个好男人，”她
说，“随着对你一天天的了解，我越来越爱你了。”
随后，过了中午，在屋外的阳光中，当艾伯特在蜂箱之间忙碌时，他听到她在屋里叫
他。
“艾伯特！”她在喊叫，“艾伯特，快来！”她穿过一片毛茛花向他跑来。
他迎着她走过去，不知道出了什么事。
“嗨，艾伯特！猜猜看怎么啦！”
“怎么啦？”
“我刚喂完两点钟的食物，她把它全喝了！”
“不会吧！”
“一滴也不剩！嘿，艾伯特，我太高兴了！她会好起来的！正如你说的，她转危为安
了！”她走到他身边，用双臂搂住他的脖子拥抱他，他则轻轻拍着她的背，笑着说她是个了不
起的小妈妈。
“艾伯特，喂下一顿时你进来看着，看她是否还能喝完？”
他告诉她，他无论如何不会错过。她再一次拥抱他，然后转身跑回屋里，一路唱着歌，
蹦跳着穿过草地。
六点钟的喂食时间快要到了，气氛自然还是悬念多多。这父母两人在五点半钟就已经坐
在起居室里，等着那一刻的到来。装着营养配制奶的瓶子，放在壁炉架上的一锅温水里，宝
宝还在沙发旁的简易婴儿床里熟睡。
离六点钟还有二十分钟的时候，她醒了，大哭大叫起来。
“你瞧！”泰勒太太喊道，“她是要奶瓶。快把她抱起来，艾伯特，把她给我。先把奶瓶给
我。”
他给了她奶瓶，然后把婴儿放到妇人的膝盖上。她谨慎地用奶嘴的顶端碰了一下婴儿的
嘴唇。婴儿用齿龈咬住奶嘴，使劲地大口吮吸起来。
“嗨，艾伯特，这不是太神奇了吗？”她一边说着，一边快乐地笑出声来。
“真是太好了，梅布尔。”
七八分钟之后，整瓶奶都流进了婴儿的咽喉。
“你这聪明的女孩，”泰勒太太说，“又是四盎司。”艾伯特•泰勒在椅子上探过身去，专注
地看着婴儿的脸。“你知道吗？”他说，“她甚至看起来好像已经胖了一点，你觉得呢？”
母亲低头看着婴儿。
“梅布尔，你有没有觉得和昨天相比，她变得大了一点，胖了一点？”
“也许是的，艾伯特，我说不准。虽然这样短的时间不可能有什么真正的增长，但重要的
是她能正常吃了。”
“她转危为安了，”艾伯特说，“我觉得你不必再担心什么了。”
“我当然不会。”
“你要我上楼去，把摇篮拿回我们自己的房间吗，梅布尔？”
“好的，拿上去吧。”她说。
艾伯特搬着摇篮上楼。妇人抱着孩子跟着，换了尿布后，她轻轻把孩子放在婴儿床里，
然后盖上被单和毯子。
“她看起来很可爱是不是，艾伯特？”她低声说，“是你一生中见过的最漂亮的宝宝，对
吗？”
“梅布尔，现在让她自己待一会儿吧。”他说，“快下楼去，为我们做一点晚餐，我们俩也
该吃点什么了。”
吃完饭后，这对年轻父母安坐在起居室的扶手椅里，艾伯特看着杂志，抽着烟斗，泰勒
太太在编织毛线。这是和前一个晚上多么迥然不同的情景！突然间，所有的紧张消除了。泰
勒太太漂亮的椭圆脸上洋溢着快乐，她的面颊呈现粉红的颜色，眼睛闪闪发亮，嘴角上挂着
一抹梦幻的、心满意足的微笑。她时而从编织物上抬起眼睛挚爱地凝视她的丈夫，偶尔，她
会完全停住编织针的嚓嚓声，几秒钟里一动不动地坐着，盯着天花板，倾听楼上有没有哭声
或呜咽声。然而一切都很安静。
“艾伯特。”过了一会儿她说。
“怎么啦，亲爱的？”
“昨天夜里你冲进卧室时想要告诉我什么？你说你对宝宝想到了一个主意。”
艾伯特把杂志放在膝盖上，他的脸上浮现出一种意味深长的狡黠表情。
“我说过吗？”他说。
“是的。”她等着他继续说，但是他没有。
“是什么天大的玩笑？”她问，“你为什么那样傻笑？”
“那是一个玩笑，行吗？”他说。
“把它告诉我，亲爱的。”
“我不确定我是否应该告诉你，你可能会说我是个骗子。”
她很少看见他像现在这样沾沾自喜，她也对他笑了笑，鼓励他说下去。
“我只是想看你听到后有什么表情，梅布尔，仅仅是这样。”
“艾伯特，那么到底是怎么回事？”
他停了停，对她的追问没有回应。
“你觉得孩子好些了，对吗？”他问。
“我当然这样认为。”
“你同意我的说法吗，突然间她吃得很好，看起来也与之前有天壤之别？”
“我同意，艾伯特，是的。”
“那很好。”他说着，笑容绽放得更灿烂了，“你看，这就是我干的事。”
“干了什么？”
“我医好了宝宝。”
“是的，亲爱的，这我没有异议。”泰勒太太说着又开始继续她的编织。
“你不相信我，对吗？”
“我当然相信你，艾伯特。功劳全是你的，每一点都归你。”
“那么我是怎么做到的呢？”
“哎，”她说着，然后停住想了想，“我想原因很简单，你是一个技术高超的餐料调配师。
自从你开始混合食物，她就变得越来越好。”
“你认为我有什么混合食品的诀窍？”
“显然是这样的。”她一边编织，一边暗自笑着，心想男人是多么有趣。
“我要告诉你一个秘密，”他说，“你是完全正确的，不过提醒你一下，重要的不是怎么混
合它，而是放什么进去。你明白这点，对吗，梅布尔？”
泰勒太太突然停下编织，抬起头，目光锐利地看向她的丈夫。“艾伯特，”她说，“你不是
要告诉我，你在孩子的牛奶里放了什么东西吧？”
他坐在那里咧嘴笑着。
“说呀，你倒是有还是没有？”
“这有可能。”他说。
“我不相信。”
他脸上浮现出一种奇怪的凶恶表情，还露出了牙齿。
“艾伯特，”她说，“别这样作弄我。”
“亲爱的，我说。好吧。”
“你并没有真的往她牛奶里放任何东西，对吗？老实回答我，艾伯特。对这么小的婴儿来
说，这很严重。”
“答案是放了，梅布尔。”
“艾伯特•泰勒！你怎么能这样？”
“先别激动，”他说，“如果你真的希望我说，我会把所有的事情告诉你，但看在上帝的分
上，别发火。”
“是啤酒！”她喊着，“我就知道它是啤酒！”
“梅布尔，求你别说这样的傻话。”
“那么是什么？”
艾伯特轻轻地把烟斗放在旁边的桌子上，身子向后靠在椅背上。“告诉我，”他说，“你有
没有偶尔听我提起过一种叫作蜂王浆的东西？”
“没有。”
“这是个神奇的东西，”他说，“完全是魔法。昨天夜里我突然想到，如果我把它放一些到
孩子的牛奶里……”
“你怎么敢！”
“你看，梅布尔，你甚至还不知道它是什么。”
“我才不管它是什么，”她说，“你不能把这样一种不相干的东西放进一个小婴儿的牛奶
里。你简直是疯了。”
“它没有丝毫害处，梅布尔，否则我是不会这么做的。它来自蜜蜂。”
“我早就该想到这一点的。”
“它很珍贵，以至于几乎没人吃得起。他们吃的话，也仅仅是每次一小滴。”
“我可以问一下吗，你给我们的宝宝放了多少？”
“嘿，”他说，“这就是关键所在，也是区别所在。我估计我们的宝宝，仅仅在过去的四次
喂食中，大约已经咽下了世上其他食用过蜂王浆的人的五十倍分量。怎么样？”
“艾伯特，别耍弄我。”
“我发誓。”他得意洋洋地说。
她坐在那里瞪着他，眉头紧皱，嘴巴微微张开。
“梅布尔，如果你想买它，你知道这东西的实际价格吗？美国有一个地方，就在此时此
刻，正在做销售广告，差不多一磅罐装的要五百美元！五百美元！你要知道，那比金子还
贵！”
她根本不知道他在说什么。
“我会让你知道这是真的。”他说着跳起来，走到那个大书柜前，那里放着他有关蜜蜂的
所有文献资料。在最高一层，过期的《美国蜜蜂杂志》整齐地堆叠在《英国蜜蜂杂志》《养
蜂工艺》和其他杂志的旁边。他拿下《美国蜜蜂杂志》的最近一期，翻到后面分类小广告的
一页。
“你看，”他说，“正如我所说的，‘我们销售蜂王浆——每罐一磅装，批发价为四百八十美
元’。”他把杂志给她，让她可以自己看。
“现在你相信了吧？这是纽约的一个实体商店，梅布尔，上面就是这样说的。”
“它可没说你能把它掺在一个几乎刚出生的婴儿的牛奶里。”她说，“我不知道你是怎么想
的，艾伯特，我真的不知道。”
“它治好了她，不是吗？”
“我现在还不确定。”
“别犯傻了，梅布尔，你心知肚明。”
“那么为什么别人不让他们的婴儿吃？”
“我一直在跟你说，”他说，“这东西太昂贵了，世界上除了一两个千万富翁，几乎没人吃
得起蜂王浆。购买蜂王浆的都是些大公司，用它来制造妇女面霜和类似的产品。他们用它作
为一个噱头，把一点点蜂王浆混入到一大罐面霜里，然后包装成抢手货卖出天价。他们声称
它能消除皱纹。”
“它能吗？”
“我怎么会知道，梅布尔？不管怎样，”他说着回到他的椅子上，“这不重要。重要的是，
就在过去几个小时里，它对我们的小宝宝有如此奇妙的功效，让我觉得我们应该给她一直吃
下去。现在，请别打断我，让我把话说完。我那里有二百四十只蜂箱，如果我将其中大概一
百只移作采集蜂王浆之用，我们应该能够供给她所需要的全部用量。”
“艾伯特•泰勒，”妇人瞪大了眼睛对他说，“你疯了吗？”
“请听我说下去好吗？”
“我不允许你这样做，”她说，“绝对不可以，你不能再给我的孩子一滴那种可怕的东西。
明白吗？”
“梅布尔……”
“更何况我们去年的蜂蜜产量糟糕透了，如果你现在去折腾这些蜂箱，谁也说不准会发生
什么。”
“梅布尔，这对我的蜂箱没有什么坏处。”
“你应该很清楚，去年我们的产量只达到正常时的一半。”
“行行好，好吗？”他说，“让我来解释这种东西产生的一些神奇效果。”
“你甚至还没有告诉我那是什么。”
“这没问题，梅布尔，我会告诉你的。你要听吗？你会给我一个机会解释它吗？”
她叹了一口气，再一次拿起她的编织物。“我想，你不妨一吐为快吧，艾伯特，继续说，
把一切都告诉我。”
他踌躇着，有点不确定现在该如何开始。要把这样的事情向一个对养蜂业知之甚少的人
解释清楚，还真不是一件易事。
“你知道的，对吧，”他说，“每群蜜蜂只有一个蜂王？”
“我知道。”
“所有的卵都是蜂王产下的？”
“是的，亲爱的，这我很清楚。”
“好，其实蜂王能下两种不同的卵，你也许不知道这点，但是它能。这就是我们所说的蜂
巢奇迹之一。它能产下孵出雄蜂的卵，也能产下孵出工蜂的卵，如果这不算奇迹，梅布尔，
那么我不知道什么才是奇迹。”
“是的，艾伯特，你说得对。”
“雄蜂是雄性的，我们无须去考虑它们。工蜂全都是雌性，当然，蜂王也是。但工蜂是失
去性功能的雌性，你是否明白我说的意思，它们的器官完全没有发育；相反，蜂王却有惊人
的性能力，它竟然能在一天内产下重达自身体重的卵。”
他犹豫一下，整理着自己的思路。
“情况是这样的：蜂王在蜂房里爬来爬去，在我们称为巢室的地方产卵。你记得你在蜂巢
里看到的几百只小孔吗？好，巢室除了没有蜂蜜而有卵之外，和蜂巢长得差不多是一样的。
蜂王在每个巢室产下一个卵，三天之内每一个卵都会孵化成很小的毛虫。我们称它为幼虫。
“这种幼虫一出现，保育蜂——就是青年工蜂——全都会聚集到它们周围，开始疯狂地喂
养它们。你知道它们是以什么为食吗？”
“蜂王浆。”梅布尔耐着性子回答。
“对啦！”他喊起来，“这正是它们赖以为生的东西。工蜂把这些东西从它们头部的腺体中
取出，然后开始注入到巢室里，用来喂养幼虫。然后你猜怎么样了？”
他戏剧性地停住，眨动着淡灰色的小眼睛。然后慢慢地在椅子上转过身，伸手去拿昨夜
他读的那份杂志。
“你想知道接下来会发生什么吗？”他舔了舔嘴唇，问道。
“我可迫不及待了。”
“蜂王浆，”他大声读着，“肯定是一种营养价值极高的物质，因为仅靠这种食物，蜜蜂幼
虫的体重就能在五天之内增加一千五百倍！”
“多少倍？”
“一千五百倍，梅布尔。如果你把它套用在人类身上，你知道这意味着什么？它的意思
是，”接着他压低声音，凑近身子，用一双灰色的小眼睛直视着她，“它的意思是，在五天之
中，一个生下重七磅半的婴儿会增加到五吨重！”
泰勒太太第二次停下她的编织。
“当然对这句话你可不能太当真，梅布尔。”
“谁说我不能？”
“这只是一种科学的描述，仅此而已。”
“那好吧，艾伯特，说下去。”
“但这只是故事的一半，”他说，“后面还有更多关于蜂王浆的真正神奇之处，我还没有告
诉你呢。现在我来告诉你，它是怎样让一只看起来平凡呆笨、全然没有性器官的小工蜂变成
一只美丽的、能生育的大蜂王。”
“你是说我们的宝宝看上去平凡呆笨？”她厉声问。
“梅布尔，求你了，我可没这么说，你只需听下去。你知道吗，蜂王和工蜂，虽然它们长
大后截然不同，但它们都是由完全相同的卵孵化出来的？”
“我不相信。”她说。
“这就像我现在坐在这里一样真，梅布尔，我没骗你。任何时候，只要蜜蜂们希望卵孵化
出的是蜂王而不是工蜂，它们就能做到这样。”
“怎么做到的？”
“哦，”他一边对着她晃动他粗大的食指，一边说道，“那正是我要说下去的。它是整个事
情的秘密所在。那么，梅布尔，你认为是什么使得这样的奇迹发生的？”
“蜂王浆。”她回答，“你已经告诉我了。”
“正是蜂王浆。”他从座位上跳起来，拍着手叫喊着。他那张大圆脸因激动而发热，两片
鲜艳的红晕在左右面颊上显现。
“它是这样工作的。我用很简单的方式来告诉你，蜜蜂需要一个新蜂王，所以它们建造了
一个格外大的巢室，我们称它为王台，它们让老蜂王在那里产下一个卵，而其他的一千九百
九十九个卵就产在普通的工蜂巢室里。于是，这些卵一孵化成幼虫，保育蜂就会在周围集合
起来，开始注入蜂王浆。所有的幼虫，包括工蜂和蜂王的幼虫，都以蜂王浆为食。梅布尔，
你仔细听着，重点来了，它们的不同之处在于工蜂的幼虫，仅仅在孵出后的头三天能得到这
种特殊而神奇的食物，之后它们的饮食完全改变，实际就是它们被断奶了，这有别于普通的
断奶，因为实在是太突然了。第三天以后，它们差不多直接进食一些常规的蜜蜂食物——蜂
蜜和花粉的混合物——然后，大约两周以后，它们长成工蜂从巢室里出来。
“但王台里的幼虫不是这样！这个幼虫在其幼虫期，自始至终都食用蜂王浆。保育蜂直接
把蜂王浆倾泻在巢室里，量非常多，实际上小幼虫是浮在它上面的。这就是它成为蜂王的原
因。”
“你拿不出证据。”她说。
“梅布尔，求你别说傻话了。数以千计的人一次又一次证明了它，他们是全世界各国的顶
级科学家。你只要把一只工蜂房里的幼虫拿出来放到王台里——我们称这为移植法——只要
保育蜂保持蜂王浆的充足供应，然后，瞧！——它将长成一个蜂王！更令人不可思议的还
有，当蜂王和工蜂长大后，它们之间存在巨大的差异，不仅腹部的形状不同，连它们蜇人的
刺也长得不一样，腿也是不一样的。那……”
“它们的腿有什么不同？”她问道，想要难倒他。
“腿？好吧，工蜂腿上有一个小小的花粉篮，是用来装运花粉的。蜂王的腿上没有。还有
另一件事，蜂王有充分发育的性器官，而工蜂没有。最惊人的是，蜂王平均可以存活四到六
年。而工蜂仅仅活几个月。产生所有这些不同的原因，简单来说可以归纳为一点：因为它们
中一个是吃蜂王浆，而其他的不是！”
“这简直难以置信，”她说，“食物能造成这所有的结果。”
“当然是令人难以置信的。这是蜂巢的另一个奇迹，实际上也是它们当中最大的奇迹，它
是这样一个让最伟大的科学家困惑了几百年的巨大奇迹。等一会儿，你等着，别走。”
他又跳了起头，走到书柜边，开始在书籍和杂志中翻找。
“我要找几份报道给你看。在这里，这是其中一份，听这个。”他开始大声读一本《美国
蜜蜂杂志》中的文章：
“‘弗雷德里克•A.班廷博士 [3] 住在多伦多，为了表彰他发现胰岛素、对人类做出了真正伟
大的贡献，加拿大人民为他成立了一个高级研究实验室，任命他为所长。他对蜂王浆产生了
好奇，他要求他的下属对它做一个基本的成分分析……’”
他停了一下。
“好了，没有必要把全文读完，但事情就是这样发生了。班廷博士和他的员工从王台里拿
了一些蜂王浆，里面还有一只两天大的幼虫，他们开始研究分析。你猜他们发现了什么？”
“他们发现，”他说，“蜂王浆里含有苯酚、固醇、甘油基、葡萄糖，和——现在还未知的
——百分之八十到八十五的未知酸类！”
他手里拿着那份杂志站在书柜旁边，露出一丝玩味而隐秘的胜利微笑，而他的妻子则困
惑地看着他。
他的个头不高，长着一副粗胖的多肉身躯，由两条几乎接近地面的短腿支撑着身体。他
的腿有些轻微弯曲，脑袋又大又圆，上面覆盖着粗硬的短发，现在他已经不再修脸了，大部
分脸被差不多一英寸 [4] 长的棕色细毛遮住。无可争议的是，不管怎么看，他的样子都相当丑
陋奇异。
“百分之八十到八十五，”他说，“未知酸类，这难道不奇妙吗？”他转身面向书柜，在其
他杂志中搜寻。
“那是什么意思，未知酸类？”
“这正是问题的要点！没有人知道！甚至连班廷也不知道。你听说过班廷吗？”
“没有。”
“他正是当今世界上还健在的最著名的医生，就是这样。”
此刻，她看着他匆忙地在书柜前走来走去的样子，看着他那长满粗硬头发的脑袋，他那
毛茸茸的脸，他那粗壮多肉的身体，她不禁想到，不知什么缘故，很奇怪，这个男人有点儿
像蜜蜂。她以前经常看到女人长得像她们骑的马，她还注意到那些养鸟、牛头㹴或博美犬的
人，常常在某种程度上与他们心爱的动物相似。但是直到这一刻之前，她还从没有想到过她
的丈夫看上去会像一只蜜蜂，她有点儿震惊。
“班廷可曾尝试过食用它，”她问，“这种蜂王浆？”
“他当然没有吃过，梅布尔。因为他没有足够的钱，蜂王浆太贵重了。”
“你知道吗？”她一边面带着微笑盯着他，一边说，“你自己看上去有那么一丁点儿像只蜜
蜂了，你知道吗？”
他转过身来，看着她。
“我想这多半是因为你的胡须，”她说，“我希望你别再留着它，甚至那颜色也和蜜蜂的一
样，你不觉得吗？”
“你这该死的在说些什么呀，梅布尔？”
“艾伯特，”她说，“你说粗话！”
“你想继续听下去，还是不想听了？”
“好啦，亲爱的，我很抱歉，我只是开个玩笑。说下去吧。”
他再次转过身，从书柜中抽出另一本杂志，开始一页一页地翻过去。“好，听听这个吧，
梅布尔。‘一九三九年，海尔用出生了二十一天的老鼠做实验，给它们分别注射了不同剂量的
蜂王浆。结果，他发现老鼠卵巢中卵泡发育的早熟程度与给它们的蜂王浆注射量成正比。’”
“你瞧！”她喊着，“我早就知道！”
“知道什么？”
“我知道会发生可怕的事情。”
“胡说，这并没有什么错。梅布尔，下面还有一个，‘斯蒂尔和伯德特发现一只之前一直
不能繁殖的雄性鼠，在每天接受微量的蜂王浆后，一次又一次地当上了父亲’。”
“艾伯特，”她叫起来，“这东西用在婴儿身上太强烈了，我一点也不喜欢它。”
“胡说，梅布尔。”
“那么，为什么他们只在小老鼠身上试验，告诉我？为什么这些著名科学家自己不去试
试？他们太聪明了，这就是原因。你认为班廷医生想长出一个宝贵的卵巢吗？他不会的。”
“但是他们已经用在人身上了，梅布尔。这是有关它的整篇文章，你听听。”他翻到那一
页，又开始朗读那本杂志，“‘在墨西哥，一九五三年，一群开明的内科医师开始开出微小剂
量的蜂王浆处方，来治疗大脑神经炎、关节炎、糖尿病、抽烟引发的自体中毒、男性阳痿、
哮喘、喉炎和痛风……有堆成山的签了名的证明书……墨西哥一个著名的股票经纪人感染了
一种特别顽固的牛皮癣，他因此变得不受欢迎，他的客户纷纷离开，生意开始受挫。在绝望
中他求助于蜂王浆，每餐一滴，瞧！他在两个星期后痊愈了。还是在墨西哥城，耶拿餐厅的
一个服务生，据报道，他的父亲服用了含有这种神奇物质的微量胶囊之后，在九十岁之际喜
得一个健康男孩。阿卡普尔科的一名斗牛活动承办人，他发现自己带着出场的是一头看上去
无精打釆的公牛，于是在进竞技场之前给它注射了一克蜂王浆（这是一个超大的剂量）。于
是，这头野兽突然变得无比敏捷和凶残，快速地杀死了两个斗牛骑手、三匹马和一个斗牛
士，最终……’”
“你听！”泰勒太太打断了他，“我想是宝宝在哭。”
艾伯特从他的读物上抬起眼睛。的确，一阵有力的哭喊声从楼上的卧室传来。
“她肯定饿了。”他说。
他的妻子看了看钟。“天哪！”她跳着喊起来，“又过了她的喂食时间，快，艾伯特，你去
混合食物，我去抱她下来！但是赶快！我不想让她久等。”
半分钟后，泰勒太太双臂抱着尖叫着的婴儿下来。此刻她手忙脚乱，她还不太习惯这种
健康婴儿想要食物时让人心惊肉跳的不停吵闹。“快点，艾伯特！”她呼喊着坐进扶手椅，把
孩子放在膝盖上，“拜托你快些！”
艾伯特从厨房进来，把装着温牛奶的奶瓶给她。“冷热正好，”他说，“你不用试了。”
她把孩子的头往上托到她的臂弯处，然后直接把橡胶奶嘴推进那张张得大大的在哭喊的
嘴巴里。婴儿含住它，开始吮吸。叫声停住了，泰勒太太的神经松弛下来。
“嘿，艾伯特，她是不是很可爱？”
“她非常棒，梅布尔，多亏了蜂王浆。”
“听我说，亲爱的，别再提那个讨厌的东西，我不想再听到一个字，快把我吓死了。”
“你在犯一个大的错误。”他说。
“咱们走着瞧。”
婴儿在继续吮吸奶瓶。
“艾伯特，我相信她又会整个儿喝完。”
“我肯定她会的。”他说。
几分钟过后，牛奶全部喝光了。
“哦，你真是个好女孩！”泰勒太太一边大声说着，一边开始非常缓慢地往外抽出奶嘴。
宝宝感觉到她正在做什么，就更加用力吮吸，不想松开。妇人飞快地轻轻一拉，扑通一声，
奶嘴出来了。
“哇！哇！哇！哇！哇！”婴儿哭喊着。
“讨厌的胀气。”泰勒太太边说边把婴儿举到她的肩膀上，轻轻拍着她的背。她连拍出了
两个嗝。
“现在好了，我亲爱的宝贝，现在你没事了。”
哭喊声停住了几秒钟，然后又重新开始了。
“让她再打嗝，”艾伯特说，“她喝得太快。”
他妻子把孩子举回肩上，轻轻揉搓她的脊梁，又把她从一边肩膀换到另一边。时而把她
腹部朝下放在膝盖上，时而让她起来坐在膝上，她没有再打嗝，但是哭喊声一分钟比一分钟
更大，也更咄咄逼人。
“这对肺有好处，”艾伯特•泰勒咧开嘴笑着说，“那是他们锻炼肺部的方式，梅布尔，你知
道吗？”
“好啦，好啦，好啦，”他妻子一边说着，一边在孩子整张脸上吻来吻去，“好啦，好啦，
好啦。”
他们又等了五分钟，但是尖叫声仍然一刻不停。
“换尿布，”艾伯特说，“尿布湿了，没什么大事。”他从厨房拿来一块清洁的尿布，泰勒
太太把旧的拿掉，把新的裹上去。
这样并没有使状况发生丝毫变化。
“哇！哇！哇！哇！哇！”婴儿叫着。
“你没有让安全别针扎到她的皮肤，是吗，梅布尔？”
“我当然没有。”她说着伸手在尿布下面摸了摸，确定没有。
这对父母就这样面对面地坐在扶手椅上，心神不宁地颤抖着，看着在母亲膝上的宝宝，
等着她累了后停止尖叫。
“你知道吗？”最终，艾伯特•泰勒说。
“什么？”
“我敢打赌她还是饿。我敢打赌她要的就是再来一瓶，要不我们额外再给她一份怎样？”
“我觉得我们不应该这样，艾伯特。”
“这对她有好处，”他说着从椅子上站起来，“我去给她热一热第二份。”
他走进厨房，几分钟之后拿着一瓶满满的牛奶回来。
“我给她弄了个双倍的，”他宣布，“八盎司，只是怕万一还不够。”
“艾伯特，你疯了！难道你不知道，喂得过饱和喂得太少一样糟糕吗？”
“你不必给她吃太多，梅布尔，只要你高兴，可以随时停下来。来吧。”他站在她前面说
道，“给她喝点。”
泰勒太太开始用奶嘴的顶端逗弄婴儿的嘴唇。那张小嘴像个夹子一样夹住了橡胶奶嘴，
屋子里瞬间安静下来。婴儿全身舒展，开始喝奶，一脸的安详。
“你瞧，说对了吧，梅布尔！我说什么来着？”
妇人没回答。
“她饿极了，就是这样子。看着她吸奶的样子就一目了然。”泰勒太太看着瓶中牛奶的水
平面，它下降得很快，瞬息之间，八盎司中的三到四盎司就不见了。
“瞧，”她说，“够了。”
“梅布尔，现在你可不能把它拔出来。”
“要，亲爱的。我必须拔。”
“继续喂，老婆。让她喝完剩余的，别那样惊慌失措。”
“可是艾伯特……”
“她非常饿，你难道看不出来？继续喂，我的美人。”他说，“把这瓶喂光。”
“我可不愿意这样，艾伯特。”他的妻子说道，但她并没有把奶瓶抽离。
“她在弥补失去的能量，梅布尔，她做的仅此而已。”
五分钟之后，奶瓶空了，泰勒太太慢慢地抽出奶嘴，这一次没有遭到婴儿的抗议。没有
一点声音，她平静地躺在母亲的膝盖上，眼中洋溢着满足，嘴巴半张着，嘴唇上留着一抹牛
奶。
“整整十二盎司，梅布尔！”艾伯特•泰勒说，“正常量的三倍！是不是太惊人了！”
妇人低头注视着宝宝。此刻，那种身为人母的惊恐失措、焦虑不安、紧闭双唇的老神情
又慢慢回到她的脸上。
“你怎么啦？”艾伯特问，“你在担心，是吗？你不能指望她只喝糟糕的四盎司就能恢复正
常，别傻了。”
“过来，艾伯特。”她说。
“什么？”
“我要你过来。”
他走过去站在她旁边。
“仔细看看她，告诉我你是否发现了什么异样。”
他贴近宝宝看着。“你的意思是她好像更大了？梅布尔，她是大了些，也胖了些。”
“抱着她，”她命令道，“快呀，把她抱起来。”
他伸出手把宝宝从母亲的膝盖上抱起来。“老天爷！”他喊着，“她简直有一吨重！”
“一点不错。”
“这不是很棒吗？”他脸上堆满笑容，喊叫道，“我敢打赌她差不多已经恢复正常了。”
“我很害怕，艾伯特。这变得太快了。”
“胡说，妇人之见。”
“是那些恶心的蜂王浆干的好事，”她说，“我讨厌那东西。”
“蜂王浆没有什么可恶心的。”他愤愤不平地回答。
“别傻了，艾伯特！一个孩子开始以这样的速度增加体重，你认为正常吗？”
“你永远不会满意！”他粗着嗓子说，“当她瘦下去的时候，你惶惶不可终日，现在她增重
了，你又极度恐惧！你究竟怎么啦，梅布尔？”
妇人双手抱着婴儿从椅子上站起来，开始朝门走去。“我唯一能说的是，”她说，“幸好我
在这里看着你不再给她那东西，我能说的仅此而已。”她从大开的门中径直走出去，穿过走
廊，艾伯特注视着她走到楼梯口，开始上楼，她上了三四级楼梯，突然又停下来，静静地站
了几秒钟，好像想起了什么事情。然后她又转身非常迅速地走下来，回到房间里。
“艾伯特。”她说。
“又怎么啦？”
“我想说，在我们刚才喂她的最后一次奶里面，你没有加蜂王浆吧？”
“我不知道你为什么要那样想，梅布尔。”
“艾伯特！”
“怎么啦？”他露出温和而无辜的神情询问道。
“你竟敢！”她喊叫。
艾伯特•泰勒那张长满胡须的大脸露出痛苦和迷惑的神色。“我觉得你应该高兴她体内又补
充了一次大剂量的蜂王浆，”他说，“说真的，这的确是一次大剂量，梅布尔，相信我吧。”
妇人站在门的里侧，紧紧搂着在她臂上睡着的宝宝，睁大双眼瞪着她丈夫。她笔直地站
着，身体因愤怒而僵硬，她的脸色苍白，双唇从未如此紧闭。
“你记住我说的，”艾伯特说，“你很快就会有一个在全国任何婴儿节目里都能拿第一名的
孩子。喂，你为什么现在不称一下，看看她有多重了？你要我拿磅秤来吗，梅布尔？这样你
就能称一下她了。”
妇人径直走到房间中央的大桌子旁，把孩子放在桌上，开始迅速地脱她的衣服。“是
的！”她急急地说，“拿磅秤来！”她先脱了孩子的小睡衣，然后是汗衫。
接下来她松开别针别着的尿布，把它抽掉，宝宝赤裸着躺在桌子上。
“梅布尔！”艾伯特大叫道，“真是个奇迹！她竟然胖得像只小狗了！”
事实上，自从前一天开始，这个孩子增长的肉量是惊人的。原本那个下陷的、到处可见
肋骨的小小胸部，现在变得饱满而圆滚滚的，像个桶，而肚子更是高高鼓起。然而奇怪的
是，她的双臂和双腿似乎没有按比例长大，依然短小、瘦削，它们看上去像是从一团脂肪中
伸出来的小棍子。
“你看！”艾伯特说，“她肚子上甚至开始长出一些绒毛来保暖呢！”
他伸出一只手，指尖掠过那些突然出现在婴儿肚子上的、柔滑的黄棕色绒毛。
“别碰她！”妇人惊叫起来，她转过身面对着他，她的眼睛在发光，她的模样突然变得像
是某种小斗鸡，朝他拱起脖子，像是马上就会飞到他的脸上，把他的眼珠啄出来。
“慢着。”他一边说着，一边向后退。
“你简直是疯了！”她大声喊着。
“梅布尔，等一下，行吗，这是因为你还觉得这东西很危险……这只是你的想法，不是
吗？好吧，那么你仔细听好了，梅布尔，我现在应该彻头彻尾地证明给你看，蜂王浆对人类
是绝对无害的，即便是服用巨大的剂量。例如——你觉得为什么去年我们的蜂蜜产量只有通
常的一半？告诉我。”
他向后倒退，后退到距她三到四码的距离，似乎在这个位置他觉得更舒服。
“去年夏天我们只有通常一半产量的原因，”他压低了声音，慢慢地说道，“是因为我把一
百个蜂箱转变为生产蜂王浆了。”
“你说什么？”
“啊，”他轻声说，“我想这可能让你大吃一惊。正是在那以后，我就在你的眼皮底下这样
做了。”他的小眼睛对她闪动着光亮，一丝狡猾的微笑慢慢爬上了他的嘴角。
“你永远也猜不出个中原因，”他说，“到现在为止我一直不敢提这件事，因为我觉得它可
能会……怎么说呢……可能会让你有点困惑。”
他稍稍停顿了一下，双手合掌，放在胸前，然后用一只手掌搓着另一只，发出轻柔的刮
擦声。
“你还记得我给你读的杂志上的那段话吗？那段有关于小老鼠的？让我看看，它是怎样说
的？‘斯蒂尔和伯德特发现一只之前一直不能繁殖的雄性鼠……’”他一边咧着嘴笑着，一边犹
豫不决地说道。
“你明白我的意思吗，梅布尔？”
她面对他，非常平静地站着。
“梅布尔，我第一次读到那句话的时候，从椅子上跳了起来，我自言自语道，如果它对一
只糟糕的老鼠有效果，那么，也没理由对艾伯特•泰勒不起作用。”
他再次停下来，向前伸长脖子，一只耳朵微微转向他妻子那边，等着听她说点什么。可
是她没吭声。
“还有一件事情，”他继续说道，“这让我感到如此的不可思议，梅布尔，也让我感到真的
和以前判若两人，因此，即使在你宣布了喜讯后，我还继续服用它。在过去十二个月里，我
肯定咽下了好几桶。”
妇人那双沉重而困惑的大眼睛正专注地扫视着男人的脸和脖子。那脖子上没有露出一点
皮肤，甚至两侧耳朵以下也是。整条脖子一直延伸到衬衫领圈，全都覆盖着短而柔滑的毛
发，呈现出泛黄的黑色。
“告诉你吧，”他转身背着她，钟爱地看着孩子说道，“它对一个小宝宝的作用将远比像我
这样发育完全的人要好。你只要看看她就能知道，不是吗？”
妇人的目光慢慢向下移动，最后落到婴儿身上。小宝宝祼着身子躺在桌子上，又胖又
白，处于昏睡的状态，像是一只巨大的幼虫，快要结束它的幼虫期，不久就会在这个世界上
初露锋芒，长出上下颚和翅膀。
“你为什么不把她盖好，梅布尔？”他说，“我们可不想让我们的小王后感冒。”
首次发表于《吻了又吻》 1960
[1]St Francis，1183－1226，宗教人物，知名天主教“小兄弟会”的创始人，是动物、自然
环境的守护圣人。
[2]英制长度单位，1英里等于1.609344千米。
[3]Frederick A. Banting，1891－1941，加拿大杰出的医学家，诺贝尔生理学或医学奖获得
者。
[4]英制长度单位，1英寸等于2.54厘米。
Georgy Porgy
Georgy Porgy
WITHOUT IN ANY WAY wishing to blow my own trumpet, I think that I can claim to being in
most respects a moderately well-matured and rounded individual. I have travelled a good deal. I
am adequately read. I speak Greek and Latin. I dabble in science. I can tolerate a mildly liberal
attitude in the politics of others. I have compiled a volume of notes upon the evolution of the
madrigal in the fifteenth century. I have witnessed the death of a large number of persons in their
beds; and in addition, I have influenced, at least I hope I have, the lives of quite a few others by the
spoken word delivered from the pulpit.
Yet in spite of all this, I must confess that I have never in my life - well, how shall I put it? - I
have never really had anything much to do with women.
To be perfectly honest, up until three weeks ago I had never so much as laid a finger on one of
them except perhaps to help her over a stile or something like that when the occasion demanded.
And even then I always tried to ensure that I touched only the shoulder or the waist or some other
place where the skin was covered, because the one thing I never could stand was actual contact
between my skin and theirs. Skin touching skin, my skin, that is, touching the skin of a female,
whether it were leg, neck, face, hand, or merely finger, was so repugnant to me that I invariably
greeted a lady with my hands clasped firmly behind my back to avoid the inevitable handshake.
I could go further than that and say that any sort of physical contact with them, even when the
skin wasn’t bare, would disturb me considerably. If a woman stood close to me in a queue so that
our bodies touched, or if she squeezed in beside me on a bus seat, hip to hip and thigh to thigh, my
cheeks would begin burning like mad and little prickles of sweat would start coming out all over
the crown of my head.
This condition is all very well in a schoolboy who has just reached the age of puberty. With him
it is simply Dame Nature’s way of putting on the brakes and holding the lad back until he is old
enough to behave himself like a gentleman. I approve of that.
But there was no reason on God’s earth why I, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, should continue
to suffer a similar embarrassment. I was well trained to resist temptation, and I was certainly not
given to vulgar passions.
Had I been even the slightest bit ashamed of my own personal appearance, then that might
possibly have explained the whole thing. But I was not. On the contrary, and though I say it
myself, the fates had been rather kind to me in that regard. I stood exactly five and a half feet tall
in my stockinged feet, and my shoulders, though they sloped downward a little from the neck,
were nicely in balance with my small neat frame. (Personally, I’ve always thought that a little
slope on the shoulder lends a subtle and faintly aesthetic air to a man who is not overly tall, don’t
you agree?) My features were regular, my teeth were in excellent condition (protruding only a
smallish amount from the upper jaw), and my hair, which was an unusually brilliant ginger-red,
grew thickly all over my scalp. Good heavens above, I had seen men who were perfect shrimps in
comparison with me displaying an astonishing aplomb in their dealings with the fairer sex. And
oh, how I envied them! How I longed to do likewise - to be able to share in a few of those
pleasant little rituals of contact that I observed continually taking place between men and women -
the touching of hands, the peck on the cheek, the linking of arms, the pressure of knee against
knee or foot against foot under the dining-table, and most of all, the full-blown violent embrace
that comes when two of them join together on the floor - for a dance.
But such things were not for me. Alas, I had to spend my time avoiding them instead. And this,
my friends, was easier said than done, even for a humble curate in a small country region far from
the fleshpots of the metropolis.
My flock, you understand, contained an inordinate number of ladies. There were scores of them
in the parish and the unfortunate thing about it was that at least sixty per cent of them were
spinsters, completely untamed by the benevolent influence of holy matrimony.
I tell you I was jumpy as a squirrel.
One would have thought that with all the careful training my mother had given me as a child, I
should have been capable of taking this sort of thing well in my stride; and no doubt I would have
done if only she had lived long enough to complete my education. But alas, she was killed when I
was still quite young.
She was a wonderful woman, my mother. She used to wear huge bracelets on her wrists, five or
six of them at a time, with all sorts of things hanging from them and tinkling against each other as
she moved. It didn’t matter where she was, you could always find her by listening for the noise of
those bracelets. It was better than a cowbell. And in the evenings she used to sit on the sofa in her
black trousers with her feet tucked up underneath her, smoking endless cigarettes from a long
black holder. And I’d be crouching on the floor, watching her.
‘You want to taste my martini, George?’ she used to ask.
‘Now stop it, Clare,’ my father would say. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll stunt the boy’s growth.’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Don’t be frightened of it. Drink it.’
I always did everything my mother told me.
‘That’s enough,’ my father said. ‘He only has to know what it tastes like.’
‘Please don’t interfere, Boris. This is very important.’
My mother had a theory that nothing in the world should be kept secret from a child. Show him
everything. Make him experience it.
‘I’m not going to have any boy of mine going around whispering dirty secrets with other
children and having to guess about this thing and that simply because no one will tell him.’
Tell him everything. Make him listen.
‘Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you what there is to know about God.’
She never read stories to me at night before I went to bed; she just ‘told’ me things instead. And
every evening it was something different.
‘Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you about Mohammed.’
She would be sitting on the sofa in her black trousers with her legs crossed and her feet tucked
up underneath her, and she’d beckon to me in a queer languorous manner with the hand that held
the long black cigarette-holder, and the bangles would start jingling all the way up her arm.
‘If you must have a religion I suppose Mohammedanism is as good as any of them. It’s all
based on keeping healthy. You have lots of wives, and you mustn’t ever smoke or drink.’
‘Why mustn’t you smoke or drink, Mummy?’
‘Because if you’ve got lots of wives you have to keep healthy and virile.’
‘What is virile?’
‘I’ll go into that tomorrow, my pet. Let’s deal with one subject at a time. Another thing about
the Mohammedan is that he never never gets constipated.’
‘Now, Clare,’ my father would say, looking up from his book. ‘Stick to the facts.’
‘My dear Boris, you don’t know anything about it. Now if only you would try bending forward
and touching the ground with your fore-head morning, noon, and night every day, facing Mecca,
you might have a bit less trouble in that direction yourself.’
I used to love listening to her, even though I could only understand about half of what she was
saying. She really was telling me secrets, and there wasn’t anything more exciting than that.
‘Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you precisely how your father makes his money.’
‘Now, Clare, that’s quite enough.’
‘Nonsense, darling. Why make a secret out of it with the child? He’ll only imagine something
much much worse.’
I was exactly ten years old when she started giving me detailed lectures on the subject of sex.
This was the biggest secret of them all, and therefore the most enthralling.
‘Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you how you came into this world,
right from the very beginning.’
I saw my father glance up quietly, and open his mouth wide the way he did when he was going
to say something vital, but my mother was already fixing him with those brilliant shining eyes of
hers, and he went slowly back to his book without uttering a sound.
‘Your poor father is embarrassed,’ she said, and she gave me her private smile, the one that she
gave nobody else, only to me - the one-sided smile where just one corner of her mouth lifted
slowly upward until it made a lovely long wrinkle that stretched right up to the eye itself, and
became a sort of wink-smile instead.
‘Embarrassment, my pet, is the one thing that I want you never to feel. And don’t think for a
moment that your father is embarrassed only because of you.’
My father started wriggling about in his chair.
‘My God, he’s even embarrassed about things like that when he’s alone with me, his own wife.’
‘About things like what?’ I asked.
At that point my father got up and quietly left the room.
I think it must have been about a week after this that my mother was killed. It may possibly
have been a little later, ten days or a fortnight, I can’t be sure. All I know is that we were getting
near the end of this particular series of ‘talks’ when it happened; and because I myself was
personally involved in the brief chain of events that led up to her death, I can still remember every
single detail of that curious night just as clearly as if it were yesterday. I can switch it on in my
memory any time I like and run it through in front of my eyes exactly as though it were the reel of
a cinema film; and it never varies. It always ends at precisely the same place, no more and no less,
and it always begins in the same peculiarly sudden way, with the screen in darkness, and my
mother’s voice somewhere above me, calling my name:
‘George! Wake up, George, wake up!’
And then there is a bright electric light dazzling in my eyes, and right from the very centre of it,
but far away, the voice is still calling me:
‘George, wake up and get out of bed and put your dressing-gown on! Quickly! You’re coming
downstairs. There’s something I want you to see. Come on, child, come on! Hurry up! And put
your slippers on. We’re going outside.’
‘Outside?’
‘Don’t argue with me, George. Just do as you’re told.’ I am so sleepy I can hardly see to walk,
but my mother takes me firmly by the hand and leads me downstairs and out through the front
door into the night where the cold air is like a sponge of water in my face, and I open my eyes
wide and see the lawn all sparkling with frost and the cedar tree with its tremendous arms standing
black against a thin small moon. And overhead a great mass of stars is wheeling up into the sky.
We hurry across the lawn, my mother and I, her bracelets all jingling like mad and me having to
trot to keep up with her. Each step I take I can feel the crisp frosty grass crunching softly under-
foot.
‘Josephine has just started having her babies,’ my mother says. ‘It’s a perfect opportunity. You
shall watch the whole process.’
There is a light burning in the garage when we get there, and we go inside. My father isn’t
there, nor is the car, and the place seems huge and bare, and the concrete floor is freezing cold
through the soles of my bedroom slippers. Josephine is reclining on a heap of straw inside the low
wire cage in one corner of the room - large blue rabbit with small pink eyes that watch us
suspiciously as we go towards her. The husband, whose name is Napoleon, is now in a separate
cage in the opposite corner, and I notice that he is standing up on his hind legs scratching
impatiently at the netting.
‘Look!’ my mother cries. ‘She’s having the first one! It’s almost out!’
We both creep closer to Josephine, and I squat down beside the cage with my face right up
against the wire. I am fascinated. Here is one rabbit coming out of another. It is magical and rather
splendid. It is also very quick.
‘Look how it comes out all neatly wrapped up in its own little cellophane bag!’ my mother is
saying.
‘And just look how she’s taking care of it now! The poor darling doesn’t have a face-flannel,
and even if she did she couldn’t hold it in her paws, so she’s washing it with her tongue instead.’
The mother rabbit rolls her small pink eyes anxiously in our direction, and then I see her
shifting position in the straw so that her body is between us and the young one.
‘Come round the other side,’ my mother says. ‘The silly thing has moved. I do believe she’s
trying to hide her baby from us.’
We go round the other side of the cage. The rabbit follows us with her eyes. A couple of yards
away the buck is prancing madly up and down, clawing at the wire.
‘Why is Napoleon so excited?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, dear. Don’t you bother about him. Watch Josephine. I expect she’ll be having
another one soon. Look how carefully she’s washing that little baby! She’s treating it just like a
human mother treats hers! Isn’t it funny to think that I did almost exactly the same sort of thing to
you once?’ The big blue doe is still watching us, and now, again, she pushes the baby away with
her nose and rolls slowly over to face the other way. Then she goes on with her licking and
cleaning.
‘Isn’t it wonderful how a mother knows instinctively just what she has to do?’ my mother says.
‘Now you just imagine, my pet, that the baby is you, and Josephine is me - wait a minute, come
back over here again so you can get a better look.’
We creep back around the cage to keep the baby in view.
‘See how she’s fondling it and kissing it all over! There! She’s really kissing it now, isn’t she!
Exactly like me and you!’
I peer closer. It seems a queer way of kissing to me.
‘Look!’ I scream. ‘She’s eating it!’
And sure enough, the head of the baby rabbit is now disappearing swiftly into the mother’s
mouth.
‘Mummy! Quick!’
But almost before the sound of my scream has died away, the whole of that tiny pink body has
vanished down the mother’s throat.
I swing quickly around, and the next thing I know I’m looking straight into my own mother’s
face, not six inches above me, and no doubt she is trying to say something or it may be that she is
too astonished to say anything, but all I see is the mouth, the huge red mouth opening wider and
wider until it is just a great big round gaping hole with a black centre, and I scream again, and this
time I can’t stop. Then suddenly out come her hands, and I can feel her skin touching mine, the
long cold fingers closing tightly over my fists, and I jump back and jerk myself free and rush
blindly out into the night. I run down the drive and through the front gates, screaming all the way,
and then, above the noise of my own voice I can hear the jingle of bracelets coming up behind me
in the dark, getting louder and louder as she keeps gaining on me all the way down the long hill to
the bottom of the lane and over the bridge on to the main road where the cars are streaming by at
sixty miles an hour with headlights blazing.
Then somewhere behind me I hear a screech of tyres skidding on the road surface, and then
there is silence, and I notice suddenly that the bracelets aren’t jingling behind me any more.
Poor Mother.
If only she could have lived a little longer.
I admit that she gave me a nasty fright with those rabbits, but it wasn’t her fault, and anyway
queer things like that were always happening between her and me. I had come to regard them as a
sort of toughening process that did me more good than harm. But if only she could have lived long
enough to complete my education, I’m sure I should never have had all that trouble I was telling
you about a few minutes ago.
I want to get on with that now. I didn’t mean to begin talking about my mother. She doesn’t
have anything to do with what I originally started out to say. I won’t mention her again.
I was telling you about the spinsters in my parish. It’s an ugly word, isn’t it - spinster? It
conjures up the vision either of a stringy old hen with a puckered mouth or of a huge ribald
monster shouting around the house in riding-breeches. But these were not like that at all. They
were a clean, healthy, well-built group of females, the majority of them highly bred and
surprisingly wealthy, and I feel sure that the average unmarried man would have been gratified to
have them around.
In the beginning, when I first came to the vicarage, I didn’t have too bad a time. I enjoyed a
measure of protection, of course, by reason of my calling and my cloth. In addition, I myself
adopted a cool dignified attitude that was calculated to discourage familiarity. For a few months,
therefore, I was able to move freely among my parishioners, and no one took the liberty of linking
her arm in mine at a charity bazaar, or of touching my fingers with hers as she passed me the cruet
at suppertime. I was very happy. I was feeling better than I had in years. Even that little nervous
habit I had of flicking my earlobe with my forefinger when I talked began to disappear.
This was what I call my first period, and it extended over approximately six months. Then came
trouble.
I suppose I should have known that a healthy male like myself couldn’t hope to evade
embroilment indefinitely simply by keeping a fair distance between himself and the ladies. It just
doesn’t work. If anything it has the opposite effect.
I would see them eyeing me covertly across the room at a whist drive, whispering to one
another, nodding, running their tongues over their lips, sucking at their cigarettes, plotting the best
approach, but always whispering, and sometimes I overheard snatches of their talk -‘What a shy
person … he’s just a trifle nervous, isn’t he … he’s much too tense … he needs companionship …
he wants loosening up … we must teach him how to relax.’ And then slowly as the weeks went
by, they began to stalk me. I knew they were doing it. I could feel it happening although at first
they did nothing definite to give themselves away.
That was my second period. It lasted for the best part of a year and was very trying indeed. But
it was paradise compared with the third and final phase.
For now, instead of sniping at me sporadically from far away, the attackers suddenly came
charging out of the wood with bayonets fixed. It was terrible, frightening. Nothing is more
calculated to unnerve a man than the swift unexpected assault. Yet I am not a coward. I will stand
my ground against any single individual of my own size under any circumstances. But this
onslaught, I am now convinced, was conducted by vast numbers operating as one skilfully
coordinated unit.
The first offender was Miss Elphinstone, a large woman with moles. I had dropped in on her
during the afternoon to solicit a contribution towards a new set of bellows for the organ, and after
some pleasant conversation in the library she had graciously handed me a cheque for two guineas.
I told her not to bother to see me to the door and I went out into the hall to get my hat. I was about
to reach for it when all at once - she must have come tip-toeing up behind me - all at once I felt a
bare arm sliding through mine, and one second later her fingers were entwined in my own, and she
was squeezing my hand hard, in out, in out, as though it were the bulb of a throat-spray.
‘Are you really so Very Reverend as you’re always pretending to be?’ she whispered.
Well!
All I can tell you is that when that arm of hers came sliding in under mine, it felt exactly as
though a cobra was coiling itself around my wrist. I leaped away, pulled open the front door, and
fled down the drive without looking back.
The very next day we held a jumble sale in the village hall (again to raise money for the new
bellows), and towards the end of it I was standing in a corner quietly drinking a cup of tea and
keeping an eye on the villagers crowding round the stalls when all of a sudden I heard a voice
beside me saying, ‘Dear me, what a hungry look you have in those eyes of yours.’ The next instant
a long curvaceous body was leaning up against mine and a hand with red fingernails was trying to
push a thick slice of coconut cake into my mouth.
‘Miss Prattley,’ I cried. ‘Please!’
But she’d got me up against the wall, and with a teacup in one hand and a saucer in the other I
was powerless to resist. I felt the sweat breaking out all over me and if my mouth hadn’t quickly
become full of the cake she was pushing into it, I honestly believe I would have started to scream.
A nasty incident, that one; but there was worse to come.
The next day it was Miss Unwin. Now Miss Unwin happened to be a close friend of Miss
Elphinstone’s and of Miss Prattley’s, and this of course should have been enough to make me very
cautious. Yet who would have thought that she of all people. Miss Unwin, that quiet gentle little
mouse who only a few weeks before had presented me with a new hassock exquisitely worked in
needlepoint with her own hands, who would have thought that she would ever have taken a liberty
with anyone? So when she asked me to accompany her down to the crypt to show her the Saxon
murals, it never entered my head that there was devilry afoot. But there was.
I don’t propose to describe that encounter; it was too painful. And the ones which followed
were no less savage. Nearly every day from then on, some new outrageous incident would take
place. I became a nervous wreck. At times I hardly knew what I was doing. I started reading the
burial service at young Gladys Pitcher’s wedding. I dropped Mrs Harris’s new baby into the font
during the christening and gave it a nasty ducking. An uncomfortable rash that I hadn’t had in over
two years reappeared on the side of my neck, and that annoying business with my earlobe came
back worse than ever before. Even my hair began coming out in my comb. The faster I retreated,
the faster they came after me. Women are like that. Nothing stimulates them quite so much as a
display of modesty or shyness in a man. And they become doubly persistent if underneath it all
they happen to detect - and here I have a most difficult confession to make - if they happen to
detect, as they did in me, a little secret gleam of longing shining in the backs of the eyes.
You see, actually I was mad about women.
Yes, I know. You will find this hard to believe after all that I have said, but it was perfectly true.
You must understand that it was only when they touched me with their fingers or pushed up
against me with their bodies that I became alarmed. Providing they remained at a safe distance, I
could watch them for hours on end with the same peculiar fascination that you yourself might
experience in watching a creature you couldn’t bear to touch - an octopus, for example, or a long
poisonous snake. I loved the smooth white look of a bare arm emerging from a sleeve, curiously
naked like a peeled banana. I could get enormously excited just from watching a girl walk across
the room in a tight dress; and I particularly enjoyed the back view of a pair of legs when the feet
were in rather high heels - the wonderful braced-up look behind the knees, with the legs
themselves very taut as though they were made of strong elastic stretched out almost to breaking-
point, but not quite. Sometimes, in Lady Birdwell’s drawing-room, sitting near the window on a
summer’s afternoon, I would glance over the rim of my teacup towards the swimming pool and
become agitated beyond measure by the sight of a little patch of sunburned stomach bulging
between the top and bottom of a two-piece bathing-suit.
There is nothing wrong in having thoughts like these. All men harbour them from time to time.
But they did give me a terrible sense of guilt. Is it me, I kept asking myself, who is unwittingly
responsible for the shameless way in which these ladies are now behaving? Is it the gleam in my
eye (which I cannot control) that is constantly rousing their passions and egging them on? Am I
unconsciously giving them what is sometimes known as the come-hither signal every time I glance
their way? Am I?
Or is this brutal conduct of theirs inherent in the very nature of the female?
I had a pretty fair idea of the answer to this question, but that was not good enough for me. I
happen to possess a conscience that can never be consoled by guesswork; it has to have proof. I
simply had to find out who was really the guilty party in this case - me or them, and with this
object in view, I now decided to perform a simple experiment of my own invention, using
Snelling’s rats.
A year or so previously I had had some trouble with an objectionable choirboy named Billy
Snelling. On three consecutive Sundays this youth had brought a pair of white rats into church and
had let them loose on the floor during my sermon. In the end I had confiscated the animals and
carried them home and placed them in a box in the shed at the bottom of the vicarage garden.
Purely for humane reasons I had then proceeded to feed them, and as a result, but without any
further encouragement from me, the creatures began to multiply very rapidly. The two became
five, and five became twelve.
It was at this point that I decided to use them for research purposes. There were exactly equal
numbers of males and females, six of each, so that conditions were ideal.
I first isolated the sexes, putting them into two separate cages, and I left them like that for three
whole weeks. Now a rat is a very lascivious animal, and any zoologist will tell you that for them
this is an inordinately long period of separation. At a guess I would say that one week of enforced
celibacy for a rat is equal to approximately one year of the same treatment for someone like Miss
Elphinstone or Miss Prattley; so you can see that I was doing a pretty fair job in reproducing actual
conditions.
When the three weeks were up, I took a large box that was divided across the centre by a little
fence, and I placed the females on one side and the males on the other. The fence consisted of
nothing more than three single strands of naked wire, one inch apart, but there was a powerful
electric current running through the wires.
To add a touch of reality to the proceedings, I gave each female a name. The largest one, who
also had the longest whiskers, was Miss Elphinstone. The one with a short thick tail was Miss
Prattley. The smallest of them all was Miss Unwin, and so on. The males, all six of them, were
ME.
I now pulled up a chair and sat back to watch the result.
All rats are suspicious by nature, and when I first put the two sexes together in the box with only
the wire between them, neither side made a move. The males stared hard at the females through
the fence. The females stared back, waiting for the males to come forward. I could see that both
sides were tense with yearning. Whiskers quivered and noses twitched and occasionally a long tail
would flick sharply against the wall of the box.
After a while, the first male detached himself from his group and advanced gingerly towards the
fence, his belly close to the ground. He touched a wire and was immediately electrocuted. The
remaining eleven rats froze, motionless.
There followed a period of nine and a half minutes during which neither side moved; but I
noticed that while all the males were now staring at the dead body of their colleague, the females
had eyes only for the males.
Then suddenly Miss Prattley with the short tail could stand it no longer. She came bounding
forward, hit the wire, and dropped dead.
The males pressed their bodies closer to the ground and gazed thoughtfully at the two corpses
by the fence. The females also seemed to be quite shaken, and there was another wait, with neither
side moving.
Now it was Miss Unwin who began to show signs of impatience. She snorted audibly and
twitched a pink mobile nose-end from side to side, then suddenly she started jerking her body
quickly up and down as though she were doing pushups. She glanced round at her remaining four
companions, raised her tail high in the air as much as to say, ‘Here I go, girls,’ and with that she
advanced briskly to the wire, pushed her head through it, and was killed.
Sixteen minutes later, Miss Foster made her first move. Miss Foster was a woman in the village
who bred cats, and recently she had had the effrontery to put up a large sign outside her house in
the High Street, saying FOSTER’S CATTERY. Through long association with the creatures she
herself seemed to have acquired all their most noxious characteristics, and whenever she came
near me in a room I could detect, even through the smoke of her Russian cigarette, a faint but
pungent aroma of cat. She had never struck me as having much control over her baser instincts,
and it was with some satisfaction, therefore, that I watched her now as she foolishly took her own
life in a last desperate plunge towards the masculine sex.
A Miss Montgomery-Smith came next, a small determined woman who had once tried to make
me believe that she had been engaged to a bishop. She died trying to creep on her belly under the
lowest wire, and I must say I thought this a very fair reflection upon the way in which she lived
her life.
And still the five remaining males stayed motionless, waiting.
The fifth female to go was Miss Plumley. She was a devious one who was continually slipping
little messages addressed to me into the collection bag. Only the Sunday before, I had been in the
vestry counting the money after morning service and had come across one of them tucked inside a
folded ten-shilling note. Your poor throat sounded hoarse today during the sermon, it said. Let me
bring you a bottle of my own cherry pectoral to soothe it down. Most affectionately, Eunice
Plumley.
Miss Plumley ambled slowly up to the wire, sniffed the centre strand with the tip of her nose,
came a fraction too close, and received two hundred and forty volts of alternating current through
her body.
The five males stayed where they were, watching the slaughter.
And now only Miss Elphinstone remained on the feminine side.
For a full half-hour neither she nor any of the others made a move. Finally one of the males
stirred himself slightly, took a step forward, hesitated, thought better of it, and slowly sank back
into a crouch on the floor.
This must have frustrated Miss Elphinstone beyond measure, for suddenly, with eyes blazing,
she rushed forward and took a flying leap at the wire. It was a spectacular jump and she nearly
cleared it; but one of her hind legs grazed the top strand, and thus she also perished with the rest of
her sex.
I cannot tell you how much good it did me to watch this simple and, though I say it myself, this
rather ingenious experiment. In one stroke I had laid open the incredibly lascivious, stop-at-
nothing nature of the female. My own sex was vindicated; my own conscience was cleared. In a
trice, all those awkward little flashes of guilt from which I had continually been suffering flew out
of the window. I felt suddenly very strong and serene in the knowledge of my own innocence.
For a few moments I toyed with the absurd idea of electrifying the black iron railings that ran
around the vicarage garden; or perhaps just the gate would be enough. Then I would sit back
comfortably in a chair in the library and watch through the window as the real Misses Elphinstone
and Prattley and Unwin came forward one after the other and paid the final penalty for pestering
an innocent male.
Such foolish thoughts!
What I must actually do now, I told myself, was to weave around me a sort of invisible electric
fence constructed entirely out of my own personal moral fibre. Behind this I would sit in perfect
safety while the enemy, one after another, flung themselves against the wire.
I would begin by cultivating a brusque manner. I would speak crisply to all women, and refrain
from smiling at them. I would no longer step back a pace when one of them advanced upon me. I
would stand my ground and glare at her, and if she said something that I considered suggestive, I
would make a sharp retort.
It was in this mood that I set off the very next day to attend Lady Birdwell’s tennis party.
I was not a player myself, but her ladyship had graciously invited me to drop in and mingle with
the guests when play was over at six o’clock. I believe she thought that it lent a certain tone to a
gathering to have a clergyman present, and she was probably hoping to persuade me to repeat the
performance I gave the last time I was there, when I sat at the piano for a full hour and a quarter
after supper and entertained the guests with a detailed description of the evolution of the madrigal
through the centuries.
I arrived at the gates on my cycle promptly at six o’clock and pedalled up the long drive
towards the house. This was the first week of June, and the rhododendrons were massed in great
banks of pink and purple all the way along on either side. I was feeling unusually blithe and
dauntless. The previous day’s experiment with rats had made it impossible now for anyone to take
me by surprise. I knew exactly what to expect and I was armed accordingly. All around me the
little fence was up.
‘Ah, good evening. Vicar,’ Lady Birdwell cried, advancing upon me with both arms
outstretched.
I stood my ground and looked her straight in the eye. ‘How’s Birdwell?’ I said. ‘Still up in the
city?’
I doubt whether she had ever before in her life heard Lord Birdwell referred to thus by someone
who had never even met him. It stopped her dead in her tracks. She looked at me queerly and
didn’t seem to know how to answer.
‘I’ll take a seat if I may,’ I said, and walked past her towards the terrace where a group of nine
or ten guests were settled comfortably in cane chairs, sipping their drinks. They were mostly
women, the usual crowd, all of them dressed in white tennis clothes, and as I strode in among
them my own sober black suiting seemed to give me, I thought, just the right amount of
separateness for the occasion.
The ladies greeted me with smiles. I nodded to them and sat down in a vacant chair, but I didn’t
smile back.
‘I think perhaps I’d better finish my story another time,’ Miss Elphinstone was saying. ‘I don’t
believe the vicar would approve.’ She giggled and gave me an arch look. I knew she was waiting
for me to come out with my usual little nervous laugh and to say my usual little sentence about
how broadminded I was; but I did nothing of the sort. I simply raised one side of my upper lip
until it shaped itself into a tiny curl of contempt (I had practised in the mirror that morning), and
then I said sharply, in a loud voice, ‘Mens sana in corpore sano.’
‘What’s that?’ she cried. ‘Come again, Vicar.’
‘A clean mind in a healthy body,’ I answered. ‘It’s a family motto.’
There was an odd kind of silence for quite a long time after this. I could see the women
exchanging glances with one another, frowning, shaking their heads.
‘The vicar’s in the dumps,’ Miss Foster announced. She was the one who bred cats. ‘I think the
vicar needs a drink.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘but I never imbibe. You know that.’
‘Then do let me fetch you a nice cooling glass of fruit cup?’
This last sentence came softly and rather suddenly from someone just behind me, to my right,
and there was a note of such genuine concern in the speaker’s voice that I turned round.
I saw a lady of singular beauty whom I had met only once before, about a month ago. Her name
was Miss Roach, and I remembered that she had struck me then as being a person far out of the
usual run. I had been particularly impressed by her gentle and reticent nature; and the fact that I
had felt comfortable in her presence proved beyond doubt that she was not the sort of person who
would try to impinge herself upon me in any way.
‘I’m sure you must be tired after cycling all that distance,’ she was saying now.
I swivelled right round in my chair and looked at her carefully. She was certainly a striking
person - unusually muscular for a woman, with broad shoulders and powerful arms and a huge
calf bulging on each leg. The flush of the afternoon’s exertions was still upon her, and her face
glowed with a healthy red sheen.
‘Thank you so much, Miss Roach,’ I said, ‘but I never touch alcohol in any form. Maybe a
small glass of lemon squash …’
‘The fruit cup is only made of fruit, Padre.’
How I loved a person who called me ‘Padre’. The word has a military ring about it that conjures
up visions of stem discipline and officer rank.
‘Fruit cup?’ Miss Elphinstone said. ‘It’s harmless.’
‘My dear man, it’s nothing but vitamin C,’ Miss Foster said.
‘Much better for you than fizzy lemonade,’ Lady Birdwell said. ‘Carbon dioxide attacks the
lining of the stomach.’
‘I’ll get you some,’ Miss Roach said, smiling at me pleasantly. It was a good open smile, and
there wasn’t a trace of guile or mischief from one comer of the mouth to the other.
She stood up and walked over to the drink table. I saw her slicing an orange, then an apple, then
a cucumber, then a grape, and dropping the pieces into a glass. Then she poured in a large quantity
of liquid from a bottle whose label I couldn’t quite read without my spectacles, but I fancied that I
saw the name JIM on it, or TIM or PIM, or some such word.
‘I hope there’s enough left,’ Lady Birdwell called out. Those greedy children of mine do love it
so.’
‘Plenty,’ Miss Roach answered, and she brought the drink to me and set it on the table.
Even without tasting it I could easily understand why children adored it. The liquid itself was
dark amber-red and there were great hunks of fruit floating around among the ice cubes; and on
top of it all, Miss Roach had placed a sprig of mint. I guessed that the mint had been put there
specially for me, to take some of the sweetness away and to lend a touch of grown-upness to a
concoction that was otherwise so obviously for youngsters.
‘Too sticky for you, Padre!’
‘It’s delectable,’ I said, sipping it. ‘Quite perfect.’
It seemed a pity to gulp it down quickly after all the trouble Miss Roach had taken to make it,
but it was so refreshing I couldn’t resist.
‘Do let me make you another!’
I liked the way she waited until I had set the glass on the table, instead of trying to take it out of
my hand.
‘I wouldn’t eat the mint if I were you,’ Miss Elphinstone said.
‘I’d better get another bottle from the house,’ Lady Birdwell called out. ‘You’re going to need
it, Mildred.’
‘Do that,’ Miss Roach replied. I drink gallons of the stuff myself,’ she went on, speaking to me.
‘And I don’t think you’d say that I’m exactly what you might call emaciated.’
‘No indeed,’ I answered fervently. I was watching her again as she mixed me another brew,
noticing how the muscles rippled under the skin of the arm that raised the bottle. Her neck also
was uncommonly fine when seen from behind; not thin and stringy like the necks of a lot of these
so-called modem beauties, but thick and strong with a slight ridge running down either side where
the sinews bulged. It wasn’t easy to guess the age of a person like this, but I doubted whether she
could have been more than forty-eight or nine.
I had just finished my second big glass of fruit cup when I began to experience a most peculiar
sensation. I seemed to be floating up out of my chair, and hundreds of little warm waves came
washing in under me, lifting me higher and higher. I felt as buoyant as a bubble, and everything
around me seemed to be bobbing up and down and swirling gently from side to side. It was all
very pleasant, and I was overcome by an almost irresistible desire to break into song.
‘Feeling happy?’ Miss Roach’s voice sounded miles and miles away, and when I turned to look
at her, I was astonished to see how near she really was. She, also, was bobbing up and down.
‘Terrific,’ I answered. ‘I’m feeling absolutely terrific.’
Her face was large and pink, and it was so close to me now that I could see the pale carpet of
fuzz covering both her cheeks, and the way the sunlight caught each tiny separate hair and made it
shine like gold. All of a sudden I found myself wanting to put out a hand and stroke those cheeks
of hers with my fingers. To tell the truth I wouldn’t have objected in the least if she had tried to do
the same to me.
‘Listen,’ she said softly. ‘How about the two of us taking a little stroll down the garden to see
the lupins?’
‘Fine,’ I answered. ‘Lovely. Anything you say.’
There is a small Georgian summer-house alongside the croquet lawn in Lady Birdwell’s garden,
and the very next thing I knew, I was sitting inside it on a kind of chaise-longue and Miss Roach
was beside me. I was still bobbing up and down, and so was she, and so, for that matter, was the
summer-house, but I was feeling wonderful. I asked Miss Roach if she would like me to give her a
song.
‘Not now,’ she said, encircling me with her arms and squeezing my chest against hers so hard
that it hurt.
‘Don’t,’ I said, melting.
‘That’s better,’ she kept saying. ‘That’s much better, isn’t it?’
Had Miss Roach or any other female tried to do this sort of thing to me an hour before, I don’t
quite know what would have happened. I think I would probably have fainted. I might even have
died. But here I was now, the same old me, actually relishing the contact of those enormous bare
arms against my body! Also - and this was the most amazing thing of all - I was beginning to feel
the urge to reciprocate.
I took the lobe of her left ear between my thumb and forefinger, and tugged it playfully.
‘Naughty boy,’ she said.
I tugged harder and squeezed it a bit at the same time. This roused her to such a pitch that she
began to grunt and snort like a hog. Her breathing became loud and stertorous.
‘Kiss me,’ she ordered.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Come on, kiss me.’
At that moment, I saw her mouth. I saw this great mouth of hers coming slowly down on top of
me, starting to open, and coming closer and closer, and opening wider and wider; and suddenly
my whole stomach began to roll right over inside me and I went stiff with terror.
‘No!’ I shrieked. ‘Don’t! Don’t, Mummy, don’t!’
I can only tell you that I had never in all my life seen anything more terrifying than that mouth.
I simply could not stand it coming at me like that. Had it been a red-hot iron someone was pushing
into my face I wouldn’t have been nearly so petrified, I swear I wouldn’t. The strong arms were
around me, pinning me down so that I couldn’t move, and the mouth kept getting larger and
larger, and then all at once it was right on top of me, huge and wet and cavernous, and the next
second - I was inside it.
I was right inside this enormous mouth, lying on my stomach along the length of the tongue,
with my feet somewhere around the back of the throat; and I knew instinctively that unless I got
myself out again at once I was going to be swallowed alive - just like that baby rabbit. I could feel
my legs being drawn down the throat by some kind of suction, and quickly I threw up my arms
and grabbed hold of the lower front teeth and held on for dear life. My head was near the mouth-
entrance, and I could actually look right out between the lips and see a little patch of the world
outside - sunlight shining on the polished wooden floor of the summer-house, and on the floor
itself a gigantic foot in a white tennis shoe.
I had a good grip with my fingers on the edge of the teeth, and in spite of the suction, I was
managing to haul myself up slowly towards the daylight when suddenly the upper teeth came
down on my knucles and started chopping away at them so fiercely I had to let go. I went sliding
back down the throat, feet first, clutching madly at this and that as I went, but everything was so
smooth and slippery I couldn’t get a grip. I glimpsed a bright flash of gold on the left as I slid past
the last of the molars, and then three inches farther on I saw what must have been the uvula above
me, dangling like a thick red stalactite from the roof of the throat. I grabbed at it with both hands
but the thing slithered through my fingers and I went on down.
I remember screaming for help, but I could hardly hear the sound of my own voice above the
noise of the wind that was caused by the throat-owner’s breathing. There seemed to be a gale
blowing all the time, a queer erratic gale that blew alternately very cold (as the air came in) and
very hot (as it went out again).
I managed to get my elbows hooked over a sharp fleshy ridge - I presume the epiglottis - and
for a brief moment I hung there, defying the suction and scrabbling with my feet to find a foothold
on the wall of the larynx; but the throat gave a huge swallow that jerked me away, and down I
went again.
From then on, there was nothing else for me to catch hold of, and down and down I went until
soon my legs were dangling below me in the upper reaches of the stomach, and I could feel the
slow powerful pulsing of peristalsis dragging away at my ankles, pulling me down and down and
down …
Far above me, outside in the open air, I could hear the distant babble of women’s voices:
‘It’s not true …’
‘But my dear Mildred, how awful …’
‘The man must be mad …’
‘Your poor mouth, just look at it …’
‘A sex maniac …’
‘A sadist …’
‘Someone ought to write to the bishop …’
And then Miss Roach’s voice, louder than the others, swearing and screeching like a parakeet:
‘He’s damn lucky I didn’t kill him, the little bastard! … I said to him, listen, I said, if ever I
happen to want any of my teeth extracted, I’ll go to the dentist, not to a goddam vicar … It isn’t as
though I’d given him any encouragement either! …’
‘Where is he now, Mildred?’
‘God knows. In the bloody summer-house, I suppose.’
‘Hey girls, let’s go and root him out!’
Oh dear, oh dear. Looking back on it now, some three weeks later, I don’t know how I ever
came through the nightmare of that awful afternoon without taking leave of my senses.
A gang of witches like that is a very dangerous thing to fool around with, and had they managed
to catch me in the summer-house right then and there when their blood was up, they would as
likely as not have torn me limb from limb on the spot.
Either that, or I should have been frog-marched down to the police station with Lady Birdwell
and Miss Roach leading the procession through the main street of the village.
But of course they didn’t catch me.
They didn’t catch me then, and they haven’t caught me yet, and if my luck continues to hold, I
think I’ve got a fair chance of evading them altogether - or anyway for a few months, until they
forget about the whole affair.
As you might guess, I am having to keep entirely to myself and to take no part in public affairs
or social life. I find that writing is a most salutary occupation at a time like this, and I spend many
hours each day playing with sentences. I regard each sentence as a little wheel, and my ambition
lately has been to gather several hundred of them together at once and to fit them all end to end,
with the cogs interlocking, like gears, but each wheel a different size, each turning at a different
speed. Now and again I try to put a really big one right next to a very small one in such a way that
the big one, turning slowly, will make the small one spin so fast that it hums. Very tricky, that.
I also sing madrigals in the evenings, but I miss my own harpsichord terribly.
All the same, this isn’t such a bad place, and I have made myself as comfortable as I possibly
can. It is a small chamber situated in what is almost certainly the primary section of the duodenal
loop, just before it begins to run vertically downward in front of the right kidney. The floor is quite
level - indeed it was the first level place I came to during that horrible descent down Miss Roach’s
throat - and that’s the only reason I managed to stop at all. Above me, I can see a pulpy sort of
opening that I take to be the pylorus, where the stomach enters the small intestine (I can still
remember some of those diagrams my mother used to show me), and below me, there is a funny
little hole in the wall where the pancreatic duct enters the lower section of the duodenum.
It is all a trifle bizarre for a man of conservative tastes like myself. Personally I prefer oak
furniture and parquet flooring. But there is anyway one thing here that pleases me greatly, and that
is the walls. They are lovely and soft, like a sort of padding, and the advantage of this is that I can
bounce up against them as much as I wish without hurting myself.
There are several other people about, which is rather surprising, but thank God they are every
one of them males. For some reason or other, they all wear white coats, and they bustle around
pretending to be very busy and important. In actual fact, they are an uncommonly ignorant bunch
of fellows. They don’t even seem to realize where they are. I try to tell them, but they refuse to
listen. Sometimes I get so angry and frustrated with them that I lose my temper and start to shout;
and then a sly mistrustful look comes over the faces and they begin backing slowly away, and
saying, ‘Now then. Take it easy. Take it easy, vicar, there’s a good boy. Take it easy.’
What sort of talk is that?
But there is one oldish man - he comes in to see me every morning after breakfast - who
appears to live slightly closer to reality than the others. He is civil and dignified, and I imagine he
is lonely because he likes nothing better than to sit quietly in my room and listen to me talk. The
only trouble is that whenever we get on to the subject of our whereabouts, he starts telling me that
he’s going to help me to escape. He said it again this morning, and we had quite an argument
about it.
‘But can’t you see,’ I said patiently, ‘I don’t want to escape.’
‘My dear Vicar, why ever not?’
‘I keep telling you - because they’re all searching for me outside.’
‘Who?’
‘Miss Elphinstone and Miss Roach and Miss Prattley and all the rest of them.’
‘What nonsense.’
‘Oh yes they are! And I imagine they’re after you as well, but you won’t admit it.’
‘No, my friend, they are not after me.’
‘Then may I ask precisely what you are doing down here?’
A bit of a stumper for him, that one. I could see he didn’t know how to answer it.
‘I’ll bet you were fooling around with Miss Roach and got yourself swallowed up just the same
as I did. I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened, only you’re ashamed to admit it.’
He looked suddenly so wan and defeated when I said this that I felt sorry for him.
‘Would you like me to sing you a song?’ I asked.
But he got up without answering and went quietly out into the corridor.
‘Cheer up,’ I called after him. ‘Don’t be depressed. There is always some balm in Gilead.’
乔治·波基
乔治•波基
我无意以任何方式自吹自擂，但我认为可以自许在大多数方面都是一个相当成熟和全
面的人。我旅行过很多地方。我读过很多书。我会讲希腊语和拉丁语。我涉猎科学。我可
以忍受别人在政治方面的轻度自由化态度。我编纂了一卷关于十五世纪马德里小曲演变的
笔记。我目睹了许多人在床上死去。此外，我还通过在布道坛上发表的演讲，影响了（至
少我希望如此）很多人的生活。
尽管如此，我必须承认，我这辈子从来没有——唉，怎么说呢？——我从来没有真正
与女人打过交道。
说句实话，就在三个星期前，我还从来没有用手指触碰过一个女人，也许除了在必要
时扶她翻过栅栏之类。即使在那种情况下，我也总是尽量确保只碰到肩膀、腰部，或其他
皮肤被遮盖的地方，因为我最无法忍受的就是与她们的皮肤接触。皮肤碰到皮肤，也就是
说，我的皮肤碰到一个女人的皮肤，不管是腿、脖子、脸、手，抑或仅仅是手指，都让我
非常反感，因此，我跟女士打招呼时，总是把双手紧紧握在背后，以逃避必须面对的握
手。
我可以更进一步说，与女人的任何身体接触，就算皮肤并没有裸露，都会让我感到十
分不安。如果一个女人排队时站在我旁边，与我身体相触，或者，乘巴士时挤坐在我身
边，屁股挨着屁股，大腿贴着大腿，我的脸颊就会热得发烫，头顶上就会冒出刺痒的小汗
珠。
对于一个刚到青春期的男生来说，这种情况无伤大雅。对他来说，这只是大自然踩了
一脚刹车，把小伙子拉回来一点，等他再长大些、能稳重行事了再说。对此我很赞同。
然而，我已是三十一岁的大龄青年，没有任何理由继续遭受这样的尴尬。我受过良好
的训练，能够抵挡诱惑，绝不会沉溺于庸俗的情欲。
如果我对自己的外表有哪怕一丁点的自卑，那么这件事也许还能解释得通。但我没
有。恰恰相反，我可以大言不惭地说，命运在这方面对我是相当仁慈的。我脱鞋后的身高
正好是五英尺半，虽然有点儿溜肩，但与我瘦小匀称的身体很相配。（我个人一直认为，
对于个头不高的男人来说，稍微有点溜肩会产生一种微妙而含蓄的美感，你认为呢？）我
五官端正，牙齿状况良好（只有上颚微微有点突出），我的头发是异常耀眼的姜红色，十
分浓密。天哪，我曾见过一些跟我相比简直是小虾米的男人，在对待女性时却是惊人的泰
然自若。哦，我多么羡慕他们！我多么渴望也能这样——也能像他们一样，享受我观察到
的男女之间不断发生的愉快的小接触——摸手，轻吻脸颊，互相挽着胳膊，餐桌底下膝盖
贴着膝盖、脚贴着脚，最重要的是，当男女两人在地板上融为一体、翩翩起舞时的那种激
情狂热的拥抱。
但这样的事情不适合我。唉，我不得不费尽心思躲避它们。朋友们，这件事说起来容
易做起来难，即使对我这样一个远离大都市上流社会、住在小乡村的卑微的牧师来说，也
是如此。
你要知道，我的教众中有大批的女士。教区里的女人太多了，而且不幸的是，其中至
少有六成是老处女，完全没有受到神圣婚姻的善意影响。
我告诉你，我像松鼠一样神经质。
人们会以为，我小时候得到母亲的精心训练，一定能从容应对这类事情。毫无疑问，
如果母亲活得够长，完成对我的教育，我肯定就不会有问题。但是，唉，她在我还很年幼
时就死于非命。
我的母亲是个了不起的女人。她手腕上常常同时戴着五六个大手镯，手镯上挂着各种
各样的装饰，她一走动，这些小玩意儿就撞得叮叮作响。不管她在哪里，你只要留心手镯
的声音，就能找到她。这比牛铃铛还管用。到了晚上，她总是穿着黑裤子坐在沙发上，把
脚收在身体下面，用一根长长的黑烟杆不停地抽烟。我蜷缩在地板上，注视着她。
“你想尝尝我的马提尼吗，乔治？”她常常这样问。
“别这么做，克莱尔。”父亲会说，“你如果不小心，会妨碍这孩子的成长的。”
“喝吧。”她说，“别怕。快喝。”
我总是照母亲说的去做。
“够了。”父亲说，“让他尝尝味道就行了。”
“请不要干涉，鲍里斯。这非常重要。”
我母亲有一种理论，认为世界上的任何事情都不应该对孩子保密。把一切告诉他。让
他去体验。
“我可不想让我儿子去跟别的孩子悄悄议论一些肮脏的秘密，他不得不胡乱猜测这件事
或那件事，就因为没有人告诉过他。”
把一切都告诉他。让他听。
“到这儿来，乔治，我来告诉你关于上帝的一切。”
我晚上睡觉前，她从来不念故事给我听，只是“告诉”我一些事情。每天晚上内容都不
一样。
“过来，乔治，现在我要告诉你关于穆罕默德的事。”
她总是穿着黑裤子，盘腿坐在沙发上，把脚收在身体下面，然后用拿着长长的黑烟杆
的那只手，懒洋洋地招呼我，胳膊上的手镯叮叮当当响成一片。
“如果你一定要信仰宗教，我认为伊斯兰教和别的相比毫不逊色。它以保持健康为基
础。你可以有很多妻子，不能抽烟喝酒。”
“为什么不能抽烟喝酒，妈妈？”
“如果你有很多妻子，就必须保持健康和男性活力。”
“男性活力是什么？”
“这个我明天再讲，宝贝。我们一次只谈一个话题。伊斯兰教徒还有一个特点，从来不
会便秘。”
“我说，克莱尔，”正在看书的父亲会抬起头来说，“要实事求是。”
“我亲爱的鲍里斯，你根本就不懂这件事。现在，只要你每天早上、中午和晚上，面对
麦加，试着弯下腰去，用前额触地，你在这方面的麻烦可能就会少一点。”
我总是很喜欢听母亲说话，虽然她的话我只能听懂一半。她真的是在向我透露秘密，
没有什么比这更令人兴奋的了。
“到这儿来，乔治，我详细对你说说你父亲是怎么赚钱的。”
“我说，克莱尔，够了。”
“胡说，亲爱的。为什么在孩子面前搞得神秘兮兮？他只会把事情想象得更糟糕。”
她开始给我详细讲解性的话题时，我刚满十岁。这是天底下最大的秘密，因此也最令
人着迷。
“过来，乔治，现在我要告诉你，你是怎么来到这个世界的，我从头开始讲。”
我看见父亲静静地抬起头，张大嘴巴，似乎想说一句至关重要的话，但母亲已经用那
双炯炯有神的眼睛盯住了他，于是他一声不吭，又把目光慢慢转回到书上。
“你可怜的父亲感到尴尬了。”她说，朝我露出隐秘的微笑，这种微笑她不给别人，只
给我一个人——微笑时嘴歪向一边，只把一个嘴角慢慢地挑起，形成一道可爱的长长的笑
纹，向上延伸到眼睛那儿，类似于眨眼微笑。
“宝贝，我希望你永远不会感觉尴尬。千万不要认为你父亲只是因为你而尴尬。”
父亲开始在椅子里扭动身体。
“上帝啊，当他和我——他自己的妻子，单独在一起时，也会为那样的事情感到尴
尬。”
“什么样的事情？”我问。
这时，父亲站起身，悄悄地离开了房间。
我想大概就是在这一星期后，我母亲死于非命。也许还要更晚一点，十天或两星期
后，我不能确定。我只知道事情发生时，我们的这一系列“谈话”正接近尾声。由于我亲自
参与了导致她死亡的一连串小事件，我仍然清楚地记得那个奇怪夜晚的每一个细节，就像
昨天发生的事情一样。我可以在记忆中随时把它打开，让它在我眼前播放，如同电影胶片
的卷轴，画面永远不变。总是在同样的地方结束，从来没有增减，总是以同样特别突然的
方式开始，屏幕一片漆黑，母亲的声音在上面的什么地方呼唤我的名字：
“乔治！醒醒，乔治，醒醒！”
一道明亮的电光刺痛了我的眼睛，从它的正中央，却又是从很远的地方，那个声音仍
在呼唤我：
“乔治，醒醒，起床，穿上你的晨衣！快！到楼下去。我想让你看一样东西。快，孩
子，快！抓紧时间！穿上鞋子。我们要去外面。”
“去外面？”
“别跟我顶嘴，乔治。照我说的去做。”我困极了，几乎看不见脚下的路，但母亲坚定
地抓住我的手，领我下楼，走出前门，走进夜色，寒冷的空气像海绵里的水洒在我脸上，
我使劲睁开双眼，看到草地上闪烁着晶莹的霜花，在一轮弯月的衬托下，雪松巨大的黑色
树枝格外醒目。头顶上，一大团星星盘旋着升上天空。
我们匆匆穿过草坪，母亲和我，她的手镯叮叮当当响个不停，我不得不小跑着跟上
她。每走一步，我都感觉到脚下结了霜的脆草发出轻轻的嘎吱声。
“约瑟芬刚开始生孩子。”母亲说，“这是一个绝好的机会。你可以观看整个过程。”
赶到那儿时，车库里有一盏灯亮着，我们走了进去。父亲不在，车也不在，那地方显
得格外宽敞而空旷，混凝土地面的寒气透过我拖鞋的鞋底传上来，冷彻骨髓。约瑟芬斜靠
在车库一角的一堆稻草上——那是一只长着粉红色小眼睛的大蓝兔子，我们走近时，它怀
疑地盯着我们。它丈夫叫拿破仑，此刻被单独关在另一个角落的笼子里，我注意到它用后
腿站立，焦躁不安地挠着笼栅。
“看！”母亲喊道，“它正在生第一个！快出来了！”
我们俩都凑近约瑟芬，我蹲在笼子边，脸紧贴着铁丝。我被迷住了。一只兔子从另一
只兔子的身体里出来。这太神奇，太精彩了，而且速度很快。
“看，它被整齐地包在自己的小玻璃纸袋里！”我母亲说。
“现在看看兔妈妈是怎么照顾它的！可怜的小宝宝没有洗脸毛巾，即使有，它的小爪子
也抓不住，所以兔妈妈在用舌头给它洗脸。”
兔妈妈不安地把粉红色的小眼睛转向我们这边，接着我看到它在稻草里挪动，把身体
挡在我们和兔宝宝之间。
“绕到另一边去。”我母亲说，“那傻瓜移动了。它肯定是想把小宝宝藏起来，不让我们
看到。”
我们绕到了笼子的另一边。兔子用眼睛跟着我们。在两三米开外，那只公兔子疯狂地
跳上跳下，用爪子抓着铁丝网。
“拿破仑为什么这么激动？”我问。
“我不知道，亲爱的。别去管它了。看着约瑟芬。我想它很快还会再生出一个。看它给
小宝宝洗得多仔细啊！它对待小兔子，就像人类母亲对待自己的孩子一样！我曾经对你做
过几乎一模一样的事，想想是不是很可笑？”
蓝色的大母兔仍然盯着我们，此刻，它又一次用鼻子把小兔子推开，慢慢地翻身面朝
另一个方向。然后它继续舔小兔子，给它清洗。
“一个母亲凭直觉就知道该做什么，这不是很奇妙吗？”我母亲说，“现在你可以想象，
我的宝贝，那小宝宝就是你，约瑟芬就是我——等一等，再回到这里来，你可以看得更清
楚些。”
我们蹑手蹑脚地绕着笼子走回去，不让兔宝宝离开视线。
“看它怎样爱抚它，把它从头到脚亲了个遍！瞧！它真的在亲吻它呢，不是吗？跟我和
你一模一样！”
我凑近观看。我觉得那种亲吻方式很奇怪。
“看！”我尖叫，“它在吃它！”
果然，兔宝宝的头正迅速消失在兔妈妈的嘴里。
“妈妈！快！”
我的尖叫声还没消失，那个粉红色的小身体已经被兔妈妈咽下喉咙，不见了。
我猛地转过身，接着发现自己正盯着母亲的脸，那张脸就在上面不到六英寸的地方，
毫无疑问她想说些什么，也许是因为太惊愕而说不出来，而我只看到了她的嘴，硕大的血
盆大口，越张越大，越张越大，越张越大，成为一个可怕的大圆洞，中间黑不见底，我再
次尖叫，这次怎么也停不下来了。突然，她的手伸了出来，我能感觉到她的皮肤触到了我
的皮肤，那又长又冷的手指紧紧攥住了我的拳头，我猛地往回一缩，挣脱了她，不管不顾
地冲进了夜色中。我顺着车道往前跑，一路尖叫着穿过大门，接着，在我自己的尖叫声之
上，我听到身后的黑暗中传来手镯的叮当声，越来越近，越来越响，因为她在逐渐地追上
我。她冲下长长的山坡，冲到小路尽头，冲过小桥，来到主干道上，车流正以每小时六十
英里 [3] 的速度行驶，车灯亮得耀眼。
突然，我身后传来车轮在路面打滑的刺耳声音，接着是一片寂静，我突然注意到身后
不再有手镯叮当作响。
可怜的母亲。
她要是能多活几年就好了。
我承认，她的那些兔子让我受了很大的惊吓，但那不是她的错，而且我和她之间经常
发生这样的怪事。我逐渐认为这是一种锻炼过程，对我来说利大于弊。如果她能活得再长
一些，完成对我的教育，我肯定就不会遇到几分钟前告诉你的那些麻烦了。
现在开始言归正传吧。我不是有意要谈论我的母亲。她跟我一开始想要说的话没有任
何关系。我不会再提到她了。
我刚才跟你说到我教区里的那些老处女。“老处女”这个词很难听，是不是？让人联想
到一只噘着嘴的皱脖子老母鸡，或一个穿着马裤在房子周围大喊大叫的下流的大妖怪。但
她们不是那样。她们是一群干净、健康、体格壮硕的女性，大都受过良好教育，而且出奇
地富有。我敢肯定，如果有她们在身边，一般的未婚男性都会很高兴的。
我刚来到牧师住宅的时候，日子过得还不错。当然，我的职业和我的衣着给我提供了
某种程度的保护。此外，我自己采取的那种冷漠庄重的态度，也不鼓励别人与我熟络。因
此在最初的几个月里，我可以在教区居民中自由活动，没有一个女人敢在义卖会上用她的
胳膊挽住我的胳膊，或敢在晚餐桌上递调料瓶时用她的手指碰到我的手指。我很高兴。那
是许多年来我感觉最好的时候。就连说话时紧张地用食指轻弹耳垂的小习惯，也渐渐地开
始消失了。
这是我的第一个阶段，持续了大约六个月。然后麻烦就来了。
我想我应该知道，我这样一个健康男人，单靠与女士们保持一定的距离，是不能奢望
无限期地逃避纷扰的。这根本不管用，反倒可能起了反作用。
我经常看见她们在房间那头打牌时偷偷地打量我，彼此窃窃私语，点点头，用舌头舔
舔嘴唇，使劲吸几口烟，密谋最有效的办法，但总是在窃窃私语，有时我无意中听到她们
的只言片语——“多么害羞的一个人。他只是有点紧张，不是吗……他绷得太紧了……他需
要陪伴……他需要放松……我们必须教他怎样松弛下来。”慢慢地，几个星期过去了，她们
开始跟踪我。我知道她们在跟踪我。我能感觉得到，尽管一开始她们并没有明确地暴露自
己。
这是我的第二个阶段。持续了大半年，令人不胜其扰。但是与第三个阶段，也就是最
后一个阶段相比，那简直就是天堂了。
现在，袭击者不再偶尔从远处放冷枪，而是带着刺刀突然从树林里冲出来。这太可
怕、太吓人了。没有什么比突然袭击更能使人恐惧。但我不是一个懦夫。我在任何情况下
都会坚守自己的阵地，抵抗任何一个与我体型相当的人。但是我现在相信，这种攻击是由
大批人团结一致、巧妙配合进行的。
第一位冒犯者是埃尔芬斯顿小姐，一个长着胎记的大块头女人。那天下午，我顺道去
拜访她，请她为管风琴的一套新风箱捐款。在书房里愉快地交谈了几句之后，她慷慨地递
给我一张两基尼的支票。我告诉她不必送我出门，就走到大厅去拿我的帽子。我正要伸手
去摘帽子，突然——她一定是踮着脚尖溜到我身后的——突然我感到一条裸露的胳膊塞到
了我的胳膊下，一秒钟后，她的手指缠绕住我的手指，她在使劲捏我的手，一下，一下，
好像我的手是咽喉喷雾器的挤压球。
“你总是装出一副教长的派头，你真的那么道貌岸然吗？”她低声说。
我的天！
我只能告诉你，当她的胳膊滑到我的胳膊下面时，我感觉就像一条眼镜蛇缠住了我的
手腕。我一下子跳开，拉开前门，头也不回地顺着车道逃走了。
第二天，我们在村公所举办了一场慈善义卖（仍是为新风箱筹集资金），义卖快要结
束时，我站在角落里静静地喝茶，注视着围在摊位旁的村民们。突然，我听到身边有一个
声音说：“天哪，你眼睛里有着多么饥渴的眼神。”紧接着，一具修长的、曲线柔美的身体
靠在了我身上，一只染着红指甲的手正把一片厚厚的椰子蛋糕塞进我嘴里。
“普拉特利小姐。”我叫道，“请别！”
但是她已经把我逼到墙边，我一手拿着茶杯，一手拿着托盘，完全无力抗拒。我感到
全身都在冒汗，要不是我的嘴里很快填满了她塞进来的蛋糕，我相信我真的会尖叫起来。
这真是一件令人讨厌的事，但更糟糕的还在后头。
接下来的一天是安文小姐。安文小姐碰巧是埃尔芬斯顿小姐和普拉特利小姐的密友，
这当然足以使我十分谨慎。然而，谁会想到偏偏是她，安文小姐，那只安静温柔的小老
鼠，就在几星期前还送给我一个她亲手刺绣的精致的新跪垫，谁会想到她竟然会对别人动
手动脚呢？所以，当她让我陪她去地下室，给她看看那些撒克逊壁画时，我压根儿就没想
到这里面有鬼。然而我错了。
我不想描述这次遭遇，太痛苦了。接下来的几次也同样残酷。从那时起，几乎每天都
有骇人听闻的事件发生。我整天惶惶不安，有时几乎不知道自己在做什么。我竟然在小格
拉迪斯•皮彻的婚礼上念起了葬礼祷文；在给哈里斯太太刚出生的婴儿洗礼时，我竟然失手
把婴儿掉进了洗礼盆里，水没过了头顶。消失两年多的讨厌的皮疹，再次出现在了我的颈
部，那个摸耳垂的恼人的毛病也比以前更严重了。甚至我的头发也随着梳子掉落。我退缩
得越快，她们追得越紧。女人就是这样。没有什么比男人谦逊或羞怯的表现更能刺激她们
了。如果她们碰巧发现——在这里我要非常艰难地坦白一件事——如果她们碰巧发现，就
像在我身上发现的那样，男人眼睛后面偷偷闪烁着一丝渴望的光，她们就会变得双倍的执
着。
看到了吧，其实我对女人很痴迷。
是的，我知道。你会发现这很难相信，毕竟我前面说了那么多，但这完全是真的。你
必须明白，只有当她们用手指触碰我，或用身体顶着我时，我才会感到惊慌。只要保持一
段安全的距离，我可以一连几个小时盯着她们看，那种特别痴迷的样子，就如同你看着一
种自己不敢触碰的动物——比如章鱼，或一条长长的毒蛇。我迷恋裸露的手臂从衣袖里露
出的那种温润白皙，就像一根剥了皮的香蕉。看着一个女孩身着紧身裙走过房间，我会感
到莫名的兴奋；我特别喜欢从后面欣赏穿着高跟鞋的一双玉腿——膝盖后面鼓起的样子十
分曼妙，双腿绷得很紧，仿佛由强韧的弹力拉伸着，临近极限，但还没有达到极限。夏天
的一个下午，在博德威夫人的客厅里，我坐在靠窗的位置上，偶尔从茶杯的边缘瞥一眼游
泳池，看到两件式泳衣的上半身和下半身之间隆起的一小块被太阳晒黑的腹部，我激动的
心情难以言表。
有这样的想法并没有什么错，所有的男人都会不时地冒出这些想法，但它们却使我产
生了一种可怕的负罪感。我不断地问自己，难道是我在不知不觉中导致了这些女士目前的
无耻行为吗？难道是我眼睛里的光（我无法控制）时时唤醒着她们的激情，怂恿她们行动
吗？我每次瞥向她们的时候，是不是在不经意间发出了所谓的“诱惑信号”？是吗？
抑或她们的这种野蛮行为是女性与生俱来的？
对于这个问题，我有一个相当公道的答案，但总觉得还不够好。我碰巧是有良知的，
这种良知永远无法靠猜测来满足，它必须得到证据。我一定要找出这件事情里真正的罪魁
祸首——是我，还是她们——为了这个目标，我决定用斯奈林的那些老鼠来做一个我自己
发明的简单实验。
大约一年前，唱诗班里一个名叫比利•斯奈林的讨厌男孩给我惹了麻烦。连续三个星期
天，这小家伙都带着一对小白鼠来教堂，并在我布道时把白鼠放在地上乱跑。最后，我把
那些白鼠没收了带回家，放在牧师住宅花园尽头的工具棚的一个箱子里。完全出于人道的
原因，我开始喂养它们，没想到，在我没有进一步鼓励的情况下，白鼠开始迅速繁殖。两
只变成了五只，五只变成了十二只。
正是在这个时候，我决定把它们用于研究目的。雄性和雌性的数量完全相同，每种六
只，所以条件很理想。
我先把公老鼠和母老鼠隔离，分别关在两个笼子里，让它们这样待了整整三个星期。
老鼠是一种非常好色的动物，任何一位动物学家都会告诉你，这对它们来说是一段异常漫
长的分离期。据我猜测，一只老鼠一星期的强制独身生活，大致相当于埃尔芬斯顿小姐或
普拉特利小姐一年的同等待遇。因此你们可以看到，我在复制实际环境方面做得相当不
错。
三个星期过去了，我拿起一个中间有小栅栏隔开的大箱子，把母老鼠放在一边，公老
鼠放在另一边。栅栏仅由三根裸露的电线组成，互相间隔一英寸，但是电线里有一股强大
的电流。
为了让整个过程更加真实，我给每只母老鼠起了个名字。最大的一只，也是胡子最长
的，是埃尔芬斯顿小姐；尾巴又短又粗的那只，是普拉特利小姐；最小的那只，是安文小
姐；如此等等。那六只公老鼠都是我。
此刻，我拉过一把椅子，坐下来靠在椅背上，观察结果。
老鼠都是生性多疑的，当我第一次把两种性别的老鼠放在箱子里，中间只有电线隔开
时，双方都没有动。公老鼠透过栅栏盯着母老鼠。母老鼠也盯着公老鼠，等待它们上前。
我看得出双方都因欲望而紧张。胡须颤抖，鼻子抽动，偶尔还会有一条长尾巴猛地甩到箱
子壁上。
过了一会儿，第一只公老鼠离开了队伍，小心翼翼地向栅栏靠近，肚子紧贴着箱底。
它碰到了一根电线，立即触电身亡。剩下的十一只老鼠愣住了，一动不动。
在接下来的九分半钟时间里，双方都没有动弹，但我注意到，所有的公老鼠都盯着它
们同伴的尸体，母老鼠的目光却只盯着公老鼠。
突然，短尾巴的普拉特利小姐再也无法忍受了。它猛地向前一蹦，撞在电线上，倒地
死去。
公老鼠们把身体趴得更低了，若有所思地注视着栅栏旁的两具尸体。母老鼠似乎也胆
战心惊，又等了一阵，双方都没有动作。
现在是安文小姐表现出了不耐烦的样子。它大声哼哼，灵活的粉红色鼻子左右抽动，
随后突然开始迅速地上下摇动身体，似乎在做俯卧撑。它扫了一眼剩下的四个同伴，把尾
巴高高竖起，好像在说，“姐妹们，我去了”。说完，它轻快地走向电线，把头从电线里伸
出去，顿时一命呜呼。
十六分钟后，福斯特小姐迈出了第一步。福斯特小姐是村里一个养猫的女人，最近厚
颜无耻地在她位于高街的房子外面挂了一块大牌子，上面写着“福斯特猫舍”。由于长期与
猫科动物打交道，她自己似乎也习得了它们所有最恶劣的品性。每当她在一个房间里走近
我，就算她抽着俄罗斯香烟，我也能闻到一股微弱而刺鼻的猫味儿。我始终觉得它没能很
好地控制自己的低级本能，因此，当我此刻看着它孤注一掷，向异性猛冲过去，愚蠢地结
束自己生命的时候，我感到了些许的满足。
接下来是身材矮小、意志坚定的蒙哥马利-史密斯小姐，她曾经试图让我相信她跟一位
主教订过婚。这只母老鼠想趴着从电线底下钻过，结果被电死了。我必须说一句，我认为
这十分形象地反映了史密斯小姐的生活方式。
剩下的五只公老鼠仍然一动不动地等待着。
第五只出来的母老鼠是普鲁姆利小姐。她是个奸诈狡猾之人，经常把写给我的小纸条
塞进募捐袋。就在前一个星期天，早晨的礼拜结束后，我在礼拜室里数钱，发现了藏在一
张折好的十先令钞票里的小纸条。“今天布道时，您可怜的嗓子听起来有些沙哑。”小纸条
上说，“我带一瓶我的樱桃清肺剂来给您润润嗓子吧。您最深情的，尤妮斯•普鲁姆利。”
普鲁姆利小姐慢吞吞地走向电线，用鼻尖嗅了嗅中间的那根，它凑得太近了，顿时，
二百四十伏的交流电穿过了它的身体。
五只公老鼠在原地，注视着这场杀戮。
现在，母老鼠这边只有埃尔芬斯顿小姐了。
足足有半个小时，它和其他老鼠都一动不动。最后，一只公老鼠轻轻挪动了一下身
体，往前迈了一步，犹豫地想了想，又慢慢蹲了回去。
这一定让埃尔芬斯顿小姐感到无比沮丧，只见它突然两眼放光，猛冲向前，跳起来扑
向电线。这是一次非常壮观的跳跃，差点儿就跳过去了；然而它的一条后腿擦到了最上面
的那根电线，于是，它也跟其他同性一样呜呼哀哉了。
看着这个简单而——我不妨大言不惭——十分巧妙的实验，我内心的满足感简直无法
形容。我一下子就揭开了女性极度淫荡、完全无所顾忌的本性。我自己的性别获得了平
反，我自己的良知得证了清白。顷刻间，我一直在承受的所有那些令人尴尬的小内疚都飞
出了窗外。我知道自己是清白无辜的，顿时觉得内心十分强大而平静。
有那么一会儿，我脑洞大开，想给牧师住宅花园周围的黑铁栏杆通上电，也许只要大
门通电就够了，然后我可以舒舒服服地坐在书房的椅子里，透过窗户，注视着现实中的埃
尔芬斯顿小姐、普拉特利小姐和安文小姐一个接一个走过来，为纠缠一个无辜男人而遭受
最后的惩罚。
多么愚蠢的想法！
我告诉自己，现在必须要做的，是用我人格的道德纤维，在自己周围编织一道无形的
电栅栏。当敌人一个接一个扑向电线时，我可以安全地稳坐其后。
我要从培养一种粗暴的态度开始。我对女人说话要干脆利落，不对她们展露微笑。当
其中一个女人向我走来时，我不会再后退一步。我会站在原地瞪着她，如果她说了什么我
认为是挑逗的话，我会给予狠狠的反驳。
就是在这种心情下，我第二天动身去参加博德威夫人的网球派对。
我不怎么会打网球，所以夫人很体贴地邀请我在六点钟客人们打完球后过去与他们相
聚。我想，她肯定是认为有一位牧师在场，会给聚会增添某种格调，她可能希望说服我重
复上一次我在那里的表演，那次我晚餐后在钢琴前坐了整整一小时一刻钟，向客人们详细
描述马德里小曲几个世纪以来的演变。
六点钟，我骑自行车准时到达大门口，然后顺着长长的车道，朝那座房子骑去。这是
六月的第一个星期，车道两边的杜鹃花簇拥在一起，有的紫色，有的粉红色。我感到一种
异样的快乐和勇敢。有了前一天的老鼠实验，现在谁也别想打我一个措手不及。我完全清
楚会发生什么，我已经做好了相应的准备。我的周围竖起了一圈小栅栏。
“啊，晚上好，牧师。”博德威夫人喊道，伸出双臂向我迎过来。
我站在原地，直视着她的眼睛。“博德威怎么样？”我说，“还在城里吗？”
我想，她这辈子都没听到过一个从未与博德威勋爵谋面的人这样称呼他。她顿时停住
了脚步。她用奇怪的目光看着我，似乎不知道如何回答。
“如果可以的话，我想找个座位坐下。”说着，我从她身边绕过，走向露台，那里有九
到十个客人舒舒服服地坐在藤椅上，啜饮着饮料。她们大多是女人，就是平常的那一群，
都穿着白色的网球服，当我大步走过她们中间时，我朴素的黑西装在这种场合里，我想，
似乎给了我恰到好处的疏离感。
女士们微笑着向我打招呼。我朝她们点点头，在一把空椅子上坐下，没有对她们报以
微笑。
“我想，最好改天再讲完我的故事吧。”只听埃尔芬斯顿小姐说，“牧师恐怕会不喜
欢。”她咯咯一笑，顽皮地做了个鬼脸。我知道，她是在等着我像平时那样发出紧张的轻
笑，像平常那样嗫嚅着说我的思想有多么开放。但我没有这样做。我只是抬起我的一侧上
唇，露出一个小小的轻蔑的冷笑（那天早上我对着镜子练习过），然后尖刻地大声说：“洁
净的心灵来自健康的身体。 [4] ”
“什么意思？”她喊道，“再说一遍，牧师。”
“洁净的心灵来自健康的身体。”我回答，“是一句家族座右铭。”
在这之后，是很长一段时间的异样的沉默。我看到女人们在互相交换眼神，皱着眉
毛，连连摇头。
“牧师心情不好。”福斯特小姐宣布。她就是那个养猫的人。“我认为牧师需要喝一
杯。”
“谢谢。”我说，“但我从不喝酒。你知道的。”
“那么，我给你拿一杯美味的冰镇水果来好吗？”
最后这句话，是我右边身后的一个人轻声说出来的，十分突然，说话者的声音里有一
种真诚的关切，我转过身去。
我看见了一位美貌非凡的女士，我只在大约一个月前见过她一次。她叫罗奇小姐，我
记得我当时就觉得她这个人超凡脱俗。她温柔寡言的性格给我留下了特别深刻的印象。我
在她面前感到很自在，这一点无疑证明了她不是那种想以任何方式侵犯我的人。
“骑了那么远的车，我想你一定是累了。”她说。
我在椅子里转过身，仔细地看着她。她绝对是个引人注目的人——作为一个女人，肌
肉异常发达，肩膀宽阔，胳膊粗壮，每条腿上都鼓出一大块肌肉。她身上还散发着下午辛
苦打球的光彩，脸上闪着健康的红晕。
“太感谢了，罗奇小姐。”我说，“但我从来滴酒不沾。也许来一小杯柠檬汁……”
“什锦水果是用水果做的，神父。”
我多么喜爱一个叫我“神父”的人。这个词带有军事色彩，让人联想到严格的纪律和军
衔。
“什锦水果吗？”埃尔芬斯顿小姐说，“没有什么害处。”
“亲爱的，那不过都是维生素C。”福斯特小姐说。
“对你来说，这比碳酸柠檬水好多了。”博德威夫人说，“二氧化碳会损伤胃黏膜。”
“我给你弄一些来。”罗奇小姐说着，愉快地对我笑了笑。那是一个坦诚的笑容，整个
嘴巴看不到一丝狡诈或恶作剧的迹象。
她站起来，朝饮料桌走去。我看见她切了一个橘子，一个苹果，一根黄瓜，一颗葡
萄，然后把切好的水果扔进一只玻璃杯。她从一个瓶子里倒出大量的液体，我没戴眼镜，
看不清瓶子的标签，但仿佛看到上面的名字是吉姆，或提姆，或皮姆，或类似的某个词。
“我希望剩下的还够。”博德威夫人大声说，“我那些馋嘴的孩子特别爱喝它。”
“有很多呢。”罗奇小姐回答，她把饮料给我拿来，放在了桌上。
我还没有品尝，但也很容易理解为什么孩子们爱喝它。液体本身是深琥珀红色，大块
大块的水果漂浮在冰块之间，罗奇小姐还在顶上加了一小枝薄荷叶。我猜薄荷叶是专门为
我放的，可以去掉一些甜味，给这种显然适合小朋友的饮料增添一点成熟的味道。
“你觉得太黏了吗，神父？”
“味道好极了。”我抿了一口，说道，“很完美。”
罗奇小姐费了那么多功夫把它做出来，我一口喝光似乎太可惜了，但它这么清爽提
神，我抵挡不住诱惑。
“我再给你做一杯吧？”
她耐心地等我把杯子放在桌上，而不是想从我手里把它拿走，这点让我喜欢。
“如果我是你，就不吃薄荷叶。”埃尔芬斯顿小姐说。
“我最好从屋里再拿一瓶。”博德威夫人大声说，“米尔德丽德，你会用得着的。”
“去拿吧。”罗奇小姐回答，“这玩意儿我自己就能喝几加仑。”她继续对我说，“我想，
你不会认为我是你说的那种弱不禁风的人。”
“绝对不是。”我热情地回答。当她为我调制第二杯时，我又一次凝望着她，注意到她
拿酒瓶的那只胳膊皮肤下的肌肉在微微波动。从后面看，她的脖子也非常优美，不像很多
所谓的现代美女的脖子那样细细的，青筋毕露，而是很粗、很结实，两侧肌腱所在的地
方，各有一道脊状的隆起。这样一个人的年龄是很难猜的，我怀疑她大概不超过四十八九
岁。
我刚喝完第二大杯什锦水果饮料，就开始产生一种十分异样的感觉。我似乎从椅子上
飘浮了起来，成百上千的小暖流在我身下冲过，把我抬得越来越高。我觉得自己像个泡沫
一样升起，周围的一切似乎都在上下浮动，轻轻地左右旋转。这感觉太愉悦了，我被一种
几乎无法抗拒的欲望所控制，想要放声歌唱。
“感觉快乐吗？”罗奇小姐的声音似乎远在千里之外，我转过头去看她时，惊讶地发现
她其实离我很近。她也在上下浮动。
“好极了。”我回答，“我的感觉别提多棒了。”她的脸很大，红扑扑的。现在她离得这
么近，我可以看到她面颊上覆盖的白色绒毛，阳光照在每一根绒毛上，使它像金子一样闪
闪发光。突然，我发现自己很想伸出手去，用手指抚摸她的脸颊。说实话，如果她也对我
做出同样的举动，我不会有丝毫的反对。
“听着。”她轻声说，“我们俩在花园里散散步，去看看羽扁豆好吗？”
“好啊。”我回答，“真美妙。你说什么都行。”
在博德威夫人的花园里，槌球草坪旁边有一间乔治亚风格的小凉亭。接下来我就发现
自己坐在凉亭里的某种躺椅上，罗奇小姐挨在我身旁。我仍然在上下浮动，她也一样，凉
亭也一样，但我感觉美妙极了。我问罗奇小姐要不要我给她唱首歌。
“现在不要。”她说，一边用双臂搂住我，让我的胸口紧紧地压住她的胸口，压得我胸
口生疼。
“别。”我说，感到自己在融化。
“这样才对。”她不停地说，“这样好多了，是不是？”
如果一小时前罗奇小姐或其他女性对我做这种事，我不知道会怎么样。我想我可能会
晕倒。我甚至可能已经死了。但现在的我，虽然还是原来的我，却在美美地享受那两条赤
裸的大胳膊贴着我的身体！而且——这是最令人惊奇的——我开始感觉到回应的冲动。
我用拇指和食指捏住她的左耳垂，开玩笑地拽了拽。
“淘气的孩子。”她说。
我拽得更用力了，同时还捏了一下。这给了她强烈的刺激，她开始像猪一样哼哼唧
唧。她的呼吸变得响亮而急促。
“吻我。”她命令道。
“什么？”我说。
“快，吻我。”
就在这时，我看到了她的嘴。我看见她巨大的嘴慢慢地向我压下来，并且开始张大，
越来越近，越张越大；突然间，我的整个胃开始剧烈翻腾，我吓得僵住了。
“不！”我尖叫起来，“不要！”
我只能告诉你，我这辈子没见过比这张嘴更可怕的东西。我简直无法忍受它那样向我
袭来。即使有人用滚烫的熨斗来烫我的脸，我也不会这么害怕，我发誓我不会。那两条强
壮的手臂搂着我，压得我不能动弹。那张嘴越来越大，越来越大，忽的一下，它就近在眼
前了，巨大，潮湿，像山洞一样，下一秒钟——我就到了嘴里。
我直接进入了这张巨大的嘴，趴在整条舌头上，双脚大概在嗓子眼附近。我本能地知
道，如果不马上爬出去，就会被活活吞掉——就像当年的那只兔宝宝。我感觉到某种吸力
正在把我的双腿吸入喉咙，我赶紧抬起双臂，抓住下面的门牙，死命地抓住不放。我的脑
袋在嘴的入口处，可以从双唇间看到外面的一小块世界——阳光照在凉亭里光洁的木地板
上，照在地板上一只穿白色网球鞋的大脚上。
我用手指牢牢地抓住牙齿边缘，尽管吸力很大，我还是慢慢地引体向上，朝着外面的
天光移动。突然，上排牙齿落在我的指关节上，开始凶猛地砍剁它们。我不得不松开了
手。我顺着喉咙倒退着往下滑，双脚在前，我疯狂地想抓住这个、抓住那个，但一切都那
么地光滑，什么也抓不住。当我滑过最后一颗臼齿时，我瞥见左边闪过一道明亮的金光，
又滑出三英寸后，我看到了上面那个肯定是小舌的东西，像一根粗厚的红色钟乳石，从喉
咙顶上垂下来。我用双手抓住它，但它从我的指间滑脱了，我继续往下出溜。
我记得我尖声大喊救命，但几乎听不到自己的声音，因为喉咙主人的呼吸造成的风声
太响了。似乎一直在刮着大风，一种奇怪的、不规律的大风，时而很冷（风进来时），时
而很热（风出去时）。
我总算用胳膊肘钩住了一个尖利的肉脊——我猜是会厌——有那么一会儿，我就吊在
那里，抵抗着吸力，双脚挣扎着，想在喉壁上找到一个立足点。不料喉咙做出了一个波涛
起伏的大吞咽，把我猛然推开，我又出溜下去了。
从那时起，就没有别的东西供我抓握了，我一直往下滑、往下滑。不一会儿，我的双
腿就悬荡在胃的上端，我能感觉到强大的脉冲缓慢蠕动着，拖拽我的脚踝，把我拉下去、
拉下去、拉下去……
在上面很高的地方，在外面的露天里，我听见远远传来女人们喋喋不休的声音：“这不
是真的……”
“可是，我亲爱的米尔德丽德，多可怕啊……”
“那人一定是疯了……”
“你可怜的嘴，看看吧……”
“色狼……”
“虐待狂……”
“应该有人给主教写信……”
然后，罗奇小姐像长尾鹦鹉一样咒骂和尖叫开了，声音比其他人的都响：“这该死的小
混蛋，我没杀死他就算他走运了！……我对他说，听着，我说，如果我碰巧需要拔牙，我
会去看牙医，而不是去找一个该死的牧师……我根本没有给他任何鼓励！……”
“米尔德丽德，他这会儿在哪儿？”
“天知道。大概在该死的凉亭里吧。”
“嘿，姑娘们，我们去把他揪出来！”
天哪，天哪。事情已经过去大约三个星期了，现在回想起来，我真不知道我是如何经
历那个可怕下午的噩梦而没有失去理智的。
跟这样一帮女巫打交道太危险了，要是她们在热血沸腾时冲进凉亭里把我抓住，很可
能当场就把我撕得粉碎了。
或者，我会被反拧双臂强行带走，由博德威夫人和罗奇小姐领队，穿过村里的主要街
道，押送到警察局。
当然，她们没有抓到我。
她们当时没有抓到我，现在也没有抓到我，如果我继续保持好运气，我想就有机会彻
底避开她们——至少避开几个月，直到她们把这件事完全忘到脑后。
你可能猜到了，我目前只好完全闭门不出，不参与任何公共事务或社交活动。我发现
在这样的时候，写作是最有益的职业，我每天花很多时间斟词酌句。我把每句话看作一个
小轮子，我最近的理想是把几百句话同时凑在一起，首尾相接，就像齿轮一样，轮齿相
扣，但每个轮子的尺寸不同，转动的速度也不同。偶尔，我把一个很大的齿轮放在一个很
小的齿轮旁边，大齿轮慢慢转动，带动了小齿轮嗡嗡地转得飞快。这件事很伤脑筋。
我还在晚上唱马德里小曲，但我非常想念我的羽管键琴。
虽然如此，这地方还不算太糟，我尽量把自己安顿得舒舒服服。这是一个小腔室，几
乎可以肯定位于十二指肠环的主体部分，就在它开始垂直往下通往右肾之前。地面很平
——事实上，在我从罗奇小姐喉咙里往下坠落的可怕过程中，这是我碰到的第一块平地
——也是我能停下来的唯一原因。上面，我可以看到一个柔软湿滑的开口，我认为是幽
门，胃过了那里就是小肠（我还记得母亲以前给我看过的一些图表），下面，墙壁上有个
滑稽的小洞，胰管从那里进入十二指肠的下端。
对于我这样一个品味保守的人来说，这一切都有点奇异。就我个人而言，我更喜欢橡
木家具和拼花木地板。但这里有一点令我十分满意，就是墙壁。它们漂亮、柔软，像是某
种垫子，好处是我可以随心所欲地跳起来撞向它们，不会弄伤自己。
令我十分惊讶的是，这附近还有几个人，不过谢天谢地，都是男人。不知什么原因，
他们都穿着白大褂，匆匆奔走，装出很忙碌、很重要的样子。事实上，他们是一群非常无
知的家伙。他们似乎没有意识到自己身在何处。我想告诉他们，但他们根本不听。有时我
对他们感到非常生气和沮丧，就会发脾气，嘴里大喊大叫。这时他们脸上就会露出狡黠
的、不信任的表情，开始慢慢地往后退，说，“好了。别生气。别紧张，牧师，乖乖的。放
轻松”。
这算说的什么话？
但是有一位老人——他每天早饭后来看我——似乎比其他人更接近现实。他有礼貌、
有尊严，我想象他很孤独，因为他最喜欢安静地坐在我的房间里，听我讲话。唯一的麻烦
是，每当我们谈到我们所处的环境时，他就开始对我说他要协助我逃出去。今天早上他又
说起这个话题，我们为此起了争执。
“可是你看不到吗？”我耐心地说，“我不想逃出去。”
“亲爱的牧师，为什么呢？”
“我一直在告诉你——因为外面她们都在找我。”
“谁？”
“埃尔芬斯顿小姐、罗奇小姐、普拉特利小姐，还有其他所有的人。”
“胡说什么呀。”
“哦，是的，是这样的！我认为她们也在找你，但你不肯承认。”
“不，我的朋友，她们没有找我。”
“那么我请问你，你在这下面做什么呢？”
这个问题对他来说有点棘手。看得出来，他不知道如何回答。
“我敢说，你当时正在跟罗奇小姐调情，结果像我一样，自己被一口吞掉了。我敢说事
情就是这样，只是你羞于承认罢了。”
我说这番话时，他突然显得那么疲倦和沮丧，我真为他感到难过。
“要我给你唱首歌吗？”我问。
但他没有回答，站起身来，悄悄地走到外面的走廊里。
“开心点吧。”我在他身后喊道，“不要郁闷。基列总是有乳香 [5] 。”
初收于《吻了又吻》1960
[3]1英里约等于1.6公里。
[4]原文为拉丁语。
[5]基列，约旦河东，在死海以北的一大片土地。这地区出产一种香料，被称为基列的
乳香，可用于治疗伤口，或作为化妆品。
Genesis and Catastrophe
Genesis and Catastrophe
A True Story
‘EVERYTHING IS NORMAL,’ the doctor was saying. ‘Just lie back and relax.’ His voice was
miles away in the distance and he seemed to be shouting at her. ‘You have a son.’
‘What?’
‘You have a fine son. You understand that, don’t you? A fine son. Did you hear him crying?’
‘Is he all right, Doctor?’
‘Of course he is all right.’
‘Please let me see him.’
‘You’ll see him in a moment.’
‘You are certain he is all right?’
‘I am quite certain.’
‘Is he still crying?’
‘Try to rest. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘Why has he stopped crying, Doctor? What happened?’
‘Don’t excite yourself, please. Everything is normal.’
‘I want to see him. Please let me see him.’
‘Dear lady,’ the doctor said, patting her hand. ‘You have a fine strong healthy child. Don’t you
believe me when I tell you that?’
‘What is the woman over there doing to him?’
‘Your baby is being made to look pretty for you,’ the doctor said. ‘We are giving him a little
wash, that is all. You must spare us a moment or two for that.’
‘You swear he is all right?’
‘I swear it. Now lie back and relax. Close your eyes. Go on, close your eyes. That’s right.
That’s better. Good girl …’
‘I have prayed and prayed that he will live, Doctor.’
‘Of course he will live. What are you talking about?’
‘The others didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘None of my other ones lived, Doctor.’
The doctor stood beside the bed looking down at the pale exhausted face of the young woman.
He had never seen her before today. She and her husband were new people in the town. The
innkeeper’s wife, who had come up to assist in the delivery, had told him that the husband worked
at the local customs-house on the border and that the two of them had arrived quite suddenly at the
inn with one trunk and one suitcase about three months ago. The husband was a drunkard, the
innkeeper’s wife had said, an arrogant, overbearing, bullying little drunkard, but the young woman
was gentle and religious. And she was very sad. She never smiled. In the few weeks that she had
been here, the innkeeper’s wife had never once seen her smile. Also there was a rumour that this
was the husband’s third marriage, that one wife had died and that the other had divorced him for
unsavoury reasons. But that was only a rumour.
The doctor bent down and pulled the sheet up a little higher over the patient’s chest. ‘You have
nothing to worry about,’ he said gently. This is a perfectly normal baby.’
‘That’s exactly what they told me about the others. But I lost them all. Doctor. In the last
eighteen months I have lost all three of my children, so you mustn’t blame me for being anxious.’
‘Three?’
‘This is my fourth … in four years.’
The doctor shifted his feet uneasily on the bare floor.
‘I don’t think you know what it means, Doctor, to lose them all, all three of them, slowly,
separately, one by one. I keep seeing them. I can see Gustav’s face now as clearly as if he were
lying here beside me in the bed. Gustav was a lovely boy, Doctor. But he was always ill. It is
terrible when they are always ill and there is nothing you can do to help them.’
‘I know.’
The woman opened her eyes, stared up at the doctor for a few seconds, then closed them again.
‘My little girl was called Ida. She died a few days before Christmas. That is only four months
ago. I just wish you could have seen Ida, Doctor.’
‘You have a new one now.’
‘But Ida was so beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said. ‘I know.’
‘How can you know?’ she cried.
‘I am sure that she was a lovely child. But this new one is also like that.’ The doctor turned
away from the bed and walked over to the window and stood there looking out. It was a wet grey
April afternoon, and across the street he could see the red roofs of the houses and the huge
raindrops splashing on the tiles.
‘Ida was two years old. Doctor … and she was so beautiful I was never able to take my eyes off
her from the time I dressed her in the morning until she was safe in bed again at night. I used to
live in holy terror of something happening to that child. Gustav had gone and my little Otto had
also gone and she was all I had left. Sometimes I used to get up in the night and creep over to the
cradle and put my ear close to her mouth just to make sure that she was breathing.’
‘Try to rest,’ the doctor said, going back to the bed. ‘Please try to rest.’ The woman’s face was
white and bloodless, and there was a slight bluish-grey tinge around the nostrils and the mouth. A
few strands of damp hair hung down over her forehead, sticking to the skin.
‘When she died … I was already pregnant again when that happened, Doctor. This new one was
a good four months on its way when Ida died. “I don’t want it!” I shouted after the funeral. “I
won’t have it! I have buried enough children!” And my husband … he was strolling among the
guests with a big glass of beer in his hand … he turned around quickly and said, “I have news for
you, Klara, I have good news.” Can you imagine that, Doctor? We have just buried our third child
and he stands there with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me that he has good news. “Today I
have been posted to Braunau,” he says, “so you can start packing at once. This will be a new start
for you, Klara,” he says. “It will be a new place and you can have a new doctor …” ’
‘Please don’t talk any more.’
‘You are the new doctor, aren’t you, Doctor?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And here we are in Braunau.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am frightened. Doctor.’
‘Try not to be frightened.’
‘What chance can the fourth one have now?’
‘You must stop thinking like that.’
‘I can’t help it. I am certain there is something inherited that causes my children to die in this
way. There must be.’
‘That is nonsense.’
‘Do you know what my husband said to me when Otto was born, Doctor? He came into the
room and he looked into the cradle where Otto was lying and he said, “Why do all my children
have to be so small and weak?” ’
‘I am sure he didn’t say that.’
‘He put his head right into Otto’s cradle as though he were examining a tiny insect and he said,
“All I am saying is why can’t they be better specimens? That’s all I am saying.” And three days
after that. Otto was dead. We baptised him quickly on the third day and he died the same evening.
And then Gustav died. And then Ida died. All of them died, Doctor … and suddenly the whole
house was empty….’
‘Don’t think about it now.’
‘Is this one so very small?’
‘He is a normal child.’
‘But small?’
‘He is a little small, perhaps. But the small ones are often a lot tougher than the big ones. Just
imagine, Frau Hitler, this time next year he will be almost learning how to walk. Isn’t that a lovely
thought?”
She didn’t answer this.
‘And two years from now he will probably be talking his head off and driving you crazy with
his chatter. Have you settled on a name for him yet?’
‘A name?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think my husband said that if it was a boy we were going to call
him Adolfus.’
‘That means he would be called Adolf.’
‘Yes. My husband likes Adolf because it has a certain similarity to Alois. My husband is called
Alois.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Oh no!’ she cried, starting up suddenly from the pillow. ‘That’s the same question they asked
me when Otto was born! It means he is going to die! You are going to baptize him at once!’
‘Now, now,’ the doctor said, taking her gently by the shoulders. ‘You are quite wrong. I
promise you you are wrong. I was simply being an inquisitive old man, that is all. I love talking
about names. I think Adolphus is a particularly fine name. It is one of my favourites. And look -
here he comes now.’
The innkeeper’s wife, carrying the baby high up on her enormous bosom, came sailing across
the room towards the bed. ‘Here is the little beauty!’ she cried, beaming. ‘Would you like to hold
him, my dear? Shall I put him beside you?’
‘Is he well wrapped?’ the doctor asked. ‘It is extremely cold in here.’
‘Certainly he is well wrapped.’
The baby was tightly swaddled in a white woollen shawl, and only the tiny pink head protruded.
The innkeeper’s wife placed him gently on the bed beside the mother. ‘There you are,’ she said.
‘Now you can lie there and look at him to your heart’s content.’
‘I think you will like him,’ the doctor said, smiling. ‘He is a fine little baby.’
‘He has the most lovely hands!’ the innkeeper’s wife exclaimed. ‘Such long delicate fingers!’
The mother didn’t move. She didn’t even turn her head to look.
‘Go on!’ cried the innkeeper’s wife. ‘He won’t bite you!’
‘I am frightened to look. I don’t care to believe that I have another baby and that he is all right.’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’
Slowly, the mother turned her head and looked at the small, incredibly serene face that lay on
the pillow beside her.
‘Is this my baby?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh … oh … but he is beautiful.’
The doctor turned away and went over to the table and began putting his things into his bag.
The mother lay on the bed gazing at the child and smiling and touching him and making little
noises of pleasure. ‘Hello, Adolfus,’ she whispered. ‘Hello, my little Adolf …’
‘Ssshh!’ said the innkeeper’s wife. ‘Listen! I think your husband is coming.’
The doctor walked over to the door and opened it and looked out into the corridor.
‘Herr Hitler!’
‘Yes.’
‘Come in, please.’
A small man in a dark-green uniform stepped softly into the room and looked around him.
‘Congratulations,’ the doctor said. ‘You have a son.’
The man had a pair of enormous whiskers meticulously groomed after the manner of the
Emperor Franz Josef, and he smelled strongly of beer. ‘A son?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is he?’
‘He is fine. So is your wife.’
‘Good.’ The father turned and walked with a curious little prancing stride over to the bed where
his wife was lying. ‘Well, Klara,’ he said, smiling through his whiskers. ‘How did it go?’ He bent
down to take a look at the baby. Then he bent lower. In a series of quick jerky movements, he bent
lower and lower until his face was only about twelve inches from the baby’s head. The wife lay
sideways on the pillow, staring up at him with a kind of supplicating look.
‘He has the most marvellous pair of lungs,’ the innkeeper’s wife announced. ‘You should have
heard him screaming just after he came into this world.’
‘But my God, Klara …’
‘What is it, dear?’
‘This one is even smaller than Otto was!’
The doctor took a couple of quick paces forward. ‘There is nothing wrong with that child,’ he
said.
Slowly, the husband straightened up and turned away from the bed and looked at the doctor. He
seemed bewildered and stricken. ‘It’s no good lying. Doctor,’ he said. ‘I know what it means. It’s
going to be the same all over again.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ the doctor said.
‘But do you know what happened to the others, Doctor?’
‘You must forget about the others, Herr Hitler. Give this one a chance.’
‘But so small and weak!’
‘My dear sir, he has only just been bom.’
‘Even so …’
‘What are you trying to do?’ cried the innkeeper’s wife. ‘Talk him into his grave?’
‘That’s enough!’ the doctor said sharply.
The mother was weeping now. Great sobs were shaking her body.
The doctor walked over to the husband and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be good to her,’ he
whispered. ‘Please. It is very important.’ Then he squeezed the husband’s shoulder hard and began
pushing him forward surreptitiously to the edge of the bed. The husband hesitated. The doctor
squeezed harder, signalling him urgently through fingers and thumb. At last, reluctantly, the
husband bent down and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek.
‘All right, Klara,’ he said. ‘Now stop crying.’
‘I have prayed so hard that he will live, Alois.’
‘Yes.’
‘Every day for months I have gone to the church and begged on my knees that this one will be
allowed to live.’
‘Yes, Klara, I know.’
‘Three dead children is all that I can stand, don’t you realize that?’ ‘Of course.’
‘He must live, Alois. He must, he must … Oh God, be merciful unto him now …’
苦果有源：一个真实的故事
苦果有源：一个真实的故事
“一切正常，”医生说，“试着躺下来放松一下。”他的声音既像远在几英里之外，又似乎
是在她面前大喊大叫。
“你生了个儿子。”
“什么？”
“你添了一个健康的儿子。你明白我说的，对吗？一个健康的儿子，你听到他哭了吗？”
“他一切都好吗，大夫？”
“当然，他安然无恙。”
“请让我看看他。”
“你马上就会看到。”
“你肯定他没事？”
“我很确信。”
“他还在哭？”
“只管休息吧，没什么可担心的。”
“为什么他不哭了，大夫，发生什么事了？”
“请别激动，一切都正常。”
“我想看看他，请让我看看他。”
“亲爱的夫人，”医生轻轻拍着她的手说，“你生了个非常健康强壮的孩子。你难道不相信
我对你说的话？”
“那边的那个女人在对他做什么？”
“在帮你打理宝宝，让他看上去漂亮一些。”医生说，“我们给他稍微洗了个澡，仅此而
已。你必须给我们点时间来做这些。”
“你发誓他没事？”
“我发誓。你现在躺好了，安心休息。闭上你的眼睛。快，闭上。这就对了，这样更好。
好孩子……”
“大夫，我祈祷了又祈祷，祈祷他会活下来，”
“他当然会活下来，你说什么哪？”
“另外几个都没有活。”
“什么？”
“大夫，我的其他孩子都没有活下来。”
医生站在床边，低头看着这位年轻妇女苍白而憔悴的脸。此前他从没见过她，她和她丈
夫是镇上的新来客。前来帮助分娩的旅馆老板的妻子告诉医生，孕妇的丈夫在当地边境的海
关工作，大约三个月之前，他们两个带着一只皮箱和一只手提箱，行色匆匆来到旅馆。旅馆
老板的妻子说，那丈夫是个酒鬼，是一个傲慢、专横、恃强凌弱的酒鬼，但那个年轻的妇人
倒是很温和、虔诚，她忧愁哀伤，从来没有笑脸。在旅馆下榻的几个星期中，旅馆老板的妻
子从没见她笑过。还有一个谣传，说她是她丈夫的第三段婚姻，他的一个妻子死了，另一个
因为他的声名狼藉和他离婚了，但只是传闻而已。
医生弯下腰，把被单拉到病人胸部上面一点。“你没有什么可担心的，”他温和地说，“这
是一个完全正常的婴儿。”
“他们对我的其他孩子也是这样说的，但我失去了他们，一个没剩，大夫。在过去十八个
月里，我失去了三个孩子，所以，你不要因为我的焦虑而责备我。”
“三个？”
“这是我的第四个……四年之中。”
医生不安地在光秃秃的地板上挪动他的脚。
“我不认为你明白这意味着什么，大夫，我统统失去了。他们三个慢慢地、分别地、一个
接着一个走了。我还能看到他们，我现在就能看到古斯塔夫的脸，清晰得就像他躺在这里，
躺在我旁边的床上。大夫，古斯塔夫是个可爱的男孩，但他时常生病，当他们总是生病而你
又无能为力的时候，这太可怕了。”
“我明白。”
妇人睁开了眼睛，定定地向上看了医生几秒钟，然后又闭上了它们。
“我的小女孩叫艾达。她是圣诞节前几天死的，离现在才四个月。大夫，我真希望你能够
看到艾达。”
“现在你有了一个新的孩子。”
“但艾达是那样俊俏。”
“是的，”医生说，“我知道。”
“你怎么会知道？”她哭了起来。
“我确信她是个可爱的孩子，但这个新生儿也是这样。”医生转身从她床边离开，走到窗
边，然后站在那里注视着外面。这是四月的一个灰蒙蒙的雨天下午，他能看到街对面住宅的
红屋顶和瓦上溅起的硕大雨点。
“大夫……艾达两岁大，她是那样俊俏，从早上我给她穿好衣服，到晚上她安然回到床
上，我的眼睛根本无法离开她。我过去一直生活在提心吊胆的恐惧中，害怕这孩子会出什么
事。古斯塔夫走了，我的小奥托也走了，她是我唯一留下的孩子。那时我常常在半夜起来，
轻声慢步地走到摇篮旁边，把耳朵贴近她的嘴，只是为了确定她还在呼吸。”
“尽量放松，”医生说着回到床边，“请尽量放松。”这妇人的脸色苍白，几乎没有血色，
她的鼻孔和嘴巴周围有一种淡淡的蓝灰色。几缕湿漉漉的头发垂在她的前额，粘在皮肤上。
“大夫，她死的时候……这事发生时我又怀孕了。艾达死的时候，这个新生命已足足四个
月了。‘我不想要它！’丧礼之后我大声喊叫着，‘我不会拥有它！我已经埋葬了够多的孩子
了。’我的丈夫……手上拿着一个大啤酒杯在客人中间走来走去……他飞快地转过身来说：‘我
有个消息告诉你，克拉拉，我有一个好消息。’大夫，你能想象吗？我们刚埋掉我们的第三个
孩子，他却手拿啤酒杯站在那里，还告诉我他有好消息。‘今天我被派往布劳瑙，’他说，‘所
以你可以马上收拾行李了，克拉拉，这对你来说是个新开始。’他说：‘那是一个新的地方，你
可以有一个新医生……’”
“请别再说话了。”
“你就是新医生，是吗，大夫？”
“正是。”
“现在我们是在布劳瑙？”
“是的。”
“我被吓坏了，大夫。”
“别害怕。”
“现在这第四个的命运会如何？”
“你必须停止胡思乱想。”
“我做不到，我确信有某种遗传因素，才造成我的孩子们这样死去，肯定有。”
“纯属胡扯。”
“大夫，你知道奥托生下来的时候我丈夫对我怎么说吗？他走进房间，看着睡着的奥托的
摇篮说：‘为什么偏偏我的所有孩子会这样又小又弱？’”
“我肯定他不会那么说。”
“他把头伸到奥托的摇篮里，像是在检查一只小昆虫，他说：‘我想说他们成为标本不是
更好吗？这就是我要说的。’过了三天，奥托就死了。我们很快在第三天为他做了洗礼，但当
天晚上他就死了。然后古斯塔夫死了，接下来艾达又死了。大夫，他们全都死了……整个屋
子一下子空了……”
“现在别去想他们了。”
“这一个也很小吗？”
“他是个正常的孩子。”
“但是很小？”
“也许他有点儿小，但小的往往比大的强壮得多。想象一下，希特勒太太，明年这个时候
他就差不多学会走路了，想想这个不是很可爱吗？”
对此她没有接嘴。
“两年之后，他可能会没头没脑地和你交谈，而你准会被缠得发疯。你为他取好名字了
吗？”
“名字？”
“是的。”
“我不知道。我不确定，我记得我丈夫说过，如果是个男孩我们打算叫他阿道弗斯。”
“也就是说他会被称作阿道夫 [1] 。”
“是的，我丈夫喜欢阿道弗斯，因为它和阿洛伊斯颇为相似，我丈夫叫阿洛伊斯。”
“很棒。”
“哦，不！”她喊叫着，突然从枕头上弹起来，“奥托出生时他们也这样问我！这意味着他
要死了！你们得马上为他施洗！”
“好了，好了。”医生一边说着，一边轻轻抓住她的肩膀，“你完全错了。我保证你错了。
我只不过是个爱打听的老人，仅此而已。我喜欢谈论名字，我觉得阿道弗斯是个特别好的名
字，是我最喜爱的一个。你瞧——嘿！他现在来了。”
旅馆老板的妻子把婴儿高高地抱在她宽大的胸口上，稳着步子穿过房间，走到床边。“小
美男来了！”她大声说道，脸上堆满笑容，“亲爱的，你想抱抱他吗？把他放在你旁边好吗？”
“裹好他了吗？”医生问，“这里特别冷。”
“当然，裹得严严实实的。”
婴儿被紧紧裹在一块白色的羊毛包巾里，只露出粉红色的小脑袋。旅馆老板的妻子把他
轻轻放在床上，放在他母亲旁边。“给你。”她说，“现在你可以这样躺着，心满意足地看着
他。”
“我想你会喜欢他，”医生说着脸上露出笑容，“他是一个很棒的小宝宝。”
“他有一双比什么都可爱的小手！”旅馆老板的妻子嚷着，“手指是多么纤细啊！”那母亲
没有动，甚至都没有转过头来看一看。
“快啊！”旅馆老板的妻子喊道，“他又不会咬你！”
“我害怕看他。我不敢相信我又有了一个宝宝，而且他还是好好的。”
“别犯傻了。”
慢慢地，那母亲转过了头，看着身旁枕头上这张安详得令人难以置信的小脸。
“这是我的宝宝？”
“当然。”
“哦……哦……他很俊。”
医生转身离开，走到桌子那边，开始把他的东西放进自己的袋子里。那母亲躺在床上注
视着孩子，露出了笑容，并抚摸他，发出丝丝愉悦的声音。“喂，阿道弗斯，”她轻声
说，“喂，我的小阿道夫……”
“嘘！”旅馆老板的妻子说，“听，我想是你丈夫来了。”
医生走到门口，打开了门，朝外面走廊里看。
“是希特勒先生吗？”
“正是。”
“请进。”
此时，一个身穿深绿色制服的小个头男子悄悄走进病房，然后环顾四周。
“恭喜你，”医生说，“你有一个儿子了。”这个男人有一副威武的络腮胡，是仿照弗朗茨•
约瑟夫一世 [2] 的样式精心修剪的，他身上散发出一股强烈的啤酒味。“一个儿子？”
“是的。”
“他怎么样？”
“他很好。你妻子也是。”
“好。”这位父亲转过身，然后古里古怪地昂着头，颠着小步走到他妻子躺着的床前。“好
啦，克拉拉，”他透过络腮胡露出了笑容，问道，“情况怎样？”他弯腰看了看婴儿，然后把腰
弯得更低。在一阵局促忙乱中，他的身子弯得越来越低，直到他的脸离婴儿的头大约仅十二
英寸。他妻子在枕头上侧身躺着，抬头望着他，一副哀求的样子。
“但是，天啊，克拉拉……”
“怎么啦，亲爱的？”
“这一个甚至比奥托还小！”
医生快速地向前走了几步。
“这个孩子没有什么问题。”他说。
慢慢地，这位丈夫挺直了身子，转身离开病床，然后看着医生。他像是不知所措，受到
沉重的打击。“大夫，大可不必说谎，”他说，“我知道这意味着什么。相同的事情将再次发
生。”
“现在，请你听我说。”医生说。
“但是大夫，你知道其他孩子的情况了吗？”
“希特勒先生，你必须忘掉其他的，给这孩子一个机会。”
“但是他这样小，这样弱！”
“我亲爱的先生，他才刚刚出生。”
“即使如此……”
“你到底想做什么？”旅馆老板的妻子喊道，“你要把他咒入坟墓？”
“够了！”医生语气激烈地说道。
那母亲开始哭泣，剧烈抽泣之下，她的身体在打颤。
医生走到那丈夫身边，一只手放在他的肩上。“对她好点，”医生轻声说，“请务必，这很
重要。”然后捏紧那丈夫的肩膀，开始暗暗地把他推向床边。那丈夫犹豫着，医生的手捏得更
紧了，通过手指动作急切地暗示着他。终于，这丈夫不情愿地俯下身子，轻轻吻了他妻子的
脸颊。
“没事了，克拉拉。”他说，“别哭了。”
“我已经努力祈祷过，希望他能活下来，阿洛伊斯。”
“是的。”
“这几个月来，我每天都去教堂，跪着祈求这一个孩子可以活下来。”
“是的，克拉拉，我知道。”
“我们已经死了三个孩子了，我无法再承受一个，这难道你不明白？”
“当然。”
“他必须活下去，阿洛伊斯。他必须，他必须……哦，上帝！怜悯他吧……”
首次发表于《花花公子》 1959.12
原名《一个健康的儿子》
[1]阿道夫（Adolf），阿道弗斯（Adolfus）的昵称。
[2]Emperor Franz Josef，1830－1916，奥地利皇帝兼匈牙利国王，奥匈帝国的缔造者。
Edward the Conqueror
Edward the Conqueror
LOUISA, HOLDING A DISHCLOTH in her hand, stepped out of the kitchen door at the back of
the house into the cool October sunshine.
‘Edward!’ she called. ‘Ed-ward! Lunch is ready!’
She paused a moment, listening; then she strolled out on to the lawn and continued across it - a
little shadow attending her - skirting the rose bed and touching the sundial lightly with one finger
as she went by. She moved rather gracefully for a woman who was small and plump, with a lilt in
her walk and a gentle swinging of the shoulders and the arms. She passed under the mulberry tree
on to the brick path, then went all the way along the path until she came to the place where she
could look down into the dip at the end of this large garden.
‘Edward! Lunch!’
She could see him now, about eighty yards away, down in the dip on the edge of the wood - the
tallish narrow figure in khaki slacks and dark-green sweater, working beside a big bonfire with a
fork in his hands, pitching brambles on to the top of the fire. It was blazing fiercely, with orange
flames and clouds of milky smoke, and the smoke was drifting back over the garden with a
wonderful scent of autumn and burning leaves.
Louisa went down the slope towards her husband. Had she wanted, she could easily have called
again and made herself heard, but there was something about a first-class bonfire that impelled her
towards it, right up close so she could feel the heat and listen to it burn.
‘Lunch,’ she said, approaching.
‘Oh, hello. All right - yes. I’m coming.’
‘What a good fire.’
‘I’ve decided to clear this place right out,’ her husband said. ‘I’m sick and tired of all these
brambles.’ His long face was wet with perspiration. There were small beads of it clinging all over
his moustache like dew, and two little rivers were running down his throat on to the turtleneck of
the sweater.
‘You better be careful you don’t overdo it, Edward.’
‘Louisa, I do wish you’d stop treating me as though I were eighty. A bit of exercise never did
anyone any harm.’
‘Yes, dear, I know. Oh, Edward! Look! Look!’
The man turned and looked at Louisa, who was pointing now to the far side of the bonfire.
‘Look, Edward! The cat!’
Sitting on the ground, so close to the fire that the flames sometimes seemed actually to be
touching it, was a large cat of a most unusual colour. It stayed quite still, with its head on one side
and its nose in the air, watching the man and woman with a cool yellow eye.
‘It’ll get burnt!’ Louisa cried, and she dropped the dishcloth and darted swiftly in and grabbed it
with both hands, whisking it away and putting it on the grass well clear of the flames.
‘You crazy cat,’ she said, dusting off her hands. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Cats know what they’re doing,’ the husband said. ‘You’ll never find a cat doing something it
doesn’t want. Not cats.’
‘Whose is it? You ever seen it before?’
‘No, I never have. Damn peculiar colour.’
The cat had seated itself on the grass and was regarding them with a sidewise look. There was a
veiled inward expression about the eyes, something curiously omniscient and pensive, and around
the nose a most delicate air of contempt, as though the sight of these two middle-aged persons -
the one small, plump, and rosy, the other lean and extremely sweaty - were a matter of some
surprise but very little importance. For a cat, it certainly had an unusual colour - a pure silvery
grey with no blue in it at all - and the hair was very long and silky.
Louisa bent down and stroked its head. ‘You must go home,’ she said. ‘Be a good cat now and
go on home to where you belong.’
The man and wife started to stroll back up the hill towards the house. The cat got up and
followed, at a distance first, but edging closer and closer as they went along. Soon it was alongside
them, then it was ahead, leading the way across the lawn to the house, walking as though it owned
the whole place, holding its tail straight up in the air, like a mast.
‘Go home,’ the man said. ‘Go on home. We don’t want you.’
But when they reached the house, it came in with them, and Louisa gave it some milk in the
kitchen. During lunch, it hopped up on to the spare chair between them and sat through the meal
with its head just above the level of the table watching the proceedings with those dark-yellow
eyes which kept moving slowly from the woman to the man and back again.
‘I don’t like this cat,’ Edward said.
‘Oh, I think it’s a beautiful cat. I do hope it stays a little while.’
‘Now, listen to me, Louisa. The creature can’t possibly stay here. It belongs to someone else.
It’s lost. And if it’s still trying to hang around this afternoon, you’d better take it to the police.
They’ll see it gets home.’
After lunch, Edward returned to his gardening. Louisa, as usual, went to the piano. She was a
competent pianist and a genuine music-lover, and almost every afternoon she spent an hour or so
playing for herself. The cat was now lying on the sofa, and she paused to stroke it as she went by.
It opened its eyes, looked at her a moment, then closed them again and went back to sleep.
‘You’re an awfully nice cat,’ she said. ‘And such a beautiful colour. I wish I could keep you.’
Then her fingers, moving over the fur on the cat’s head, came into contact with a small lump, a
little growth just above the right eye.
‘Poor cat,’ she said. ‘You’ve got bumps on your beautiful face. You must be getting old.’
She went over and sat down on the long piano stool but she didn’t immediately start to play.
One of her special little pleasures was to make every day a kind of concert day, with a carefully
arranged programme which she worked out in detail before she began. She never liked to break
her enjoyment by having to stop while she wondered what to play next. All she wanted was a brief
pause after each piece while the audience clapped enthusiastically and called for more. It was so
much nicer to imagine an audience, and now and again while she was playing - on the lucky days,
that is - the room would begin to swim and fade and darken, and she would see nothing but row
upon row of seats and a sea of white faces upturned towards her, listening with a rapt and adoring
concentration.
Sometimes she played from memory, sometimes from music. Today she would play from
memory; that was the way she felt. And what should the programme be? She sat before the piano
with her small hands clasped on her lap, a plump rosy little person with a round and still quite
pretty face, her hair done up in a neat bun at the back of her head. By looking slightly to the right,
she could see the cat curled up asleep on the sofa, and its silvery-grey coat was beautiful against
the purple of the cushion. How about some Bach to begin with? Or, better still, Vivaldi. The Bach
adaptation for organ of the D minor Concerto Grosso. Yes - that first. Then perhaps a little
Schumann. Carnaval? That would be fun. And after that - well, a touch of Liszt for a change. One
of the Petrarch Sonnets. The second one - that was the loveliest - the E major. Then another
Schumann, another of his gay ones - Kinderscenen. And lastly, for the encore, a Brahms waltz, or
maybe two of them if she felt like it.
Vivaldi, Schumann, Liszt, Schumann, Brahms. A very nice programme, one that she could play
easily without the music. She moved herself a little closer to the piano and paused a moment while
someone in the audience - already she could feel that this was one of the lucky days - while
someone in the audience had his last cough; then, with the slow grace that accompanied nearly all
her movements, she lifted her hands to the keyboard and began to play.
She wasn’t, at that particular moment, watching the cat at all - as a matter of fact she had
forgotten its presence - but as the first deep notes of the Vivaldi sounded softly in the room, she
became aware, out of the comer of one eye, of a sudden flurry, a flash of movement on the sofa to
her right. She stopped playing at once. ‘What is it?’ she said, turning to the cat. ‘What’s the
matter?’
The animal, who a few seconds before had been sleeping peacefully, was now sitting bolt
upright on the sofa, very tense, the whole body aquiver, ears up and eyes wide open, staring at the
piano.
‘Did I frighten you?’ she asked gently. ‘Perhaps you’ve never heard music before.’
No, she told herself. I don’t think that’s what it is. On second thoughts, it seemed to her that the
cat’s attitude was not one of fear. There was no shrinking or backing away. If anything, there was
a leaning forward, a kind of eagerness about the creature, and the face - well, there was rather an
odd expression on the face, something of a mixture between surprise and shock. Of course, the
face of a cat is a small and fairly expressionless thing, but if you watch carefully the eyes and ears
working together, and particularly that little area of mobile skin below the ears and slightly to one
side, you can occasionally see the reflection of very powerful emotions. Louisa was watching the
face closely now, and because she was curious to see what would happen a second time, she
reached out her hands to the keyboard and began again to play the Vivaldi.
This time the cat was ready for it, and all that happened to begin with was a small extra tensing
of the body. But as the music swelled and quickened into that first exciting rhythm of the
introduction to the fugue, a strange look that mounted almost to ecstasy began to settle upon the
creature’s face. The ears, which up to then had been pricked up straight, were gradually drawn
back, the eyelids drooped, the head went over to one side, and at that moment Louisa could have
sworn that the animal was actually appreciating the work.
What she saw (or thought she saw) was something she had noticed many times on the faces of
people listening very closely to a piece of music. When the sound takes complete hold of them and
drowns them in itself, a peculiar, intensely ecstatic look comes over them that you can recognize
as easily as a smile. So far as Louisa could see, the cat was now wearing almost exactly this kind
of look.
Louisa finished the fugue, then played the siciliana, and all the way through she kept watching
the cat on the sofa. The final proof for her that the animal was listening came at the end, when the
music stopped. It blinked, stirred itself a little, stretched a leg, settled into a more comfortable
position, took a quick glance round the room, then looked expectantly in her direction. It was
precisely the way a concert-goer reacts when the music momentarily releases him in the pause
between two movements of a symphony. The behaviour was so thoroughly human it gave her a
queer agitated feeling in the chest.
‘You like that?’ she asked. ‘You like Vivaldi?’
The moment she’d spoken, she felt ridiculous, but not - and this to her was a trifle sinister - not
quite so ridiculous as she knew she should have felt.
Well, there was nothing for it now except to go straight ahead with the next number on the
programme, which was Carnaval. As soon as she began to play, the cat again stiffened and sat up
straighter; then, as it became slowly and blissfully saturated with the sound, it relapsed into the
queer melting mood of ecstasy that seemed to have something to do with drowning and with
dreaming. It was really an extravagant sight - quite a comical one, too - to see this silvery cat
sitting on the sofa and being carried away like this. And what made it more screwy than ever,
Louisa thought, was the fact that this music, which the animal seemed to be enjoying so much,
was manifestly too difficult, too classical, to be appreciated by the majority of humans in the
world.
Maybe, she thought, the creature’s not really enjoying it at all. Maybe it’s a sort of hypnotic
reaction, like with snakes. After all, if you can charm a snake with music, then why not a cat?
Except that millions of cats hear the stuff every day of their lives, on radio and gramophone and
piano, and, as far as she knew, there’d never yet been a case of one behaving like this. This one
was acting as though it were following every single note. It was certainly a fantastic thing.
But was it not also a wonderful thing? Indeed it was. In fact, unless she was much mistaken, it
was a kind of miracle, one of those animal miracles that happen about once every hundred years.
‘I could see you loved that one,’ she said when the piece was over. ‘Although I’m sorry I didn’t
play it any too well today. Which did you like best - the Vivaldi or the Schumann?’
The cat made no reply, so Louisa, fearing she might lose the attention of her listener, went
straight into the next part of the programme - Liszt’s second Petrarch Sonnet.
And now an extraordinary thing happened. She hadn’t played more than three or four bars when
the animal’s whiskers began perceptibly to twitch. Slowly it drew itself up to an extra height, laid
its head on one side, then on the other, and stared into space with a kind of frowning concentrated
look that seemed to say, ‘What’s this? Don’t tell me. I know it so well, but just for the moment I
don’t seem to be able to place it.’ Louisa was fascinated, and with her little mouth half open and
half smiling, she continued to play, waiting to see what on earth was going to happen next.
The cat stood up, walked to one end of the sofa, sat down again, listened some more; then all at
once it bounded to the floor and leaped up on to the piano stool beside her. There it sat, listening
intently to the lovely sonnet, not dreamily this time, but very erect, the large yellow eyes fixed
upon Louisa’s fingers.
‘Well!’ she said as she struck the last chord. ‘So you came up to sit beside me, did you? You
like this better than the sofa? All right, I’ll let you stay, but you must keep still and not jump
about.’ She put out a hand and stroked the cat softly along the back, from head to tail. ‘That was
Liszt,’ she went on. ‘Mind you, he can sometimes be quite horribly vulgar, but in things like this
he’s really charming.’
She was beginning to enjoy this odd animal pantomime, so she went straight on into the next
item on the programme, Schumann’s Kinderscenen.
She hadn’t been playing for more than a minute or two when she realized that the cat had again
moved, and was now back in its old place on the sofa. She’d been watching her hands at the time,
and presumably that was why she hadn’t even noticed its going; all the same, it must have been an
extremely swift and silent move. The cat was still staring at her, still apparently attending closely
to the music, and yet it seemed to Louisa that there was not now the same rapturous enthusiasm
there’d been during the previous piece, the Liszt. In addition, the act of leaving the stool and
returning to the sofa appeared in itself to be a mild but positive gesture of disappointment.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked when it was over. ‘What’s wrong with Schumann? What’s so
marvellous about Liszt?’ The cat looked straight back at her with those yellow eyes that had small
jet-black bars lying vertically in their centres.
This, she told herself, is really beginning to get interesting - a trifle spooky, too, when she came
to think of it. But one look at the cat sitting there on the sofa, so bright and attentive, so obviously
waiting for more music, quickly reassured her.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to alter my programme
specially for you. You seem to like Liszt so much, I’ll give you another.’
She hesitated, searching her memory for a good Liszt; then softly she began to play one of the
twelve little pieces from Der Weihnachtsbaum. She was now watching the cat very closely, and
the first thing she noticed was that the whiskers again began to twitch. It jumped down to the
carpet, stood still a moment, inclining its head, quivering with excitement, and then, with a slow,
silky stride, it walked around the piano, hopped up on the stool, and sat down beside her.
They were in the middle of all this when Edward came in from the garden.
‘Edward!’ Louisa cried, jumping up. ‘Oh, Edward, darling! Listen to this! Listen what’s
happened!’
‘What is it now?’ he said. ‘I’d like some tea.’ He had one of those narrow, sharp-nosed, faintly
magenta faces, and the sweat was making it shine as though it were a long wet grape.
‘It’s the cat!’ Louisa cried, pointing to it sitting quietly on the piano stool. ‘Just wait till you
hear what’s happened!’
‘I thought I told you to take it to the police.’
‘But, Edward, listen to me. This is terribly exciting. This is a musical cat.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘This cat can appreciate music, and it can understand it too.’
‘Now stop this nonsense, Louisa, and for God’s sake let’s have some tea. I’m hot and tired from
cutting brambles and building bonfires.’ He sat down in an armchair, took a cigarette from a box
beside him, and lit it with an immense patent lighter that stood near the box.
‘What you don’t understand,’ Louisa said, ‘is that something extremely exciting has been
happening here in our house while you were out, something that may even be … well … almost
momentous.’
‘I’m quite sure of that.’
‘Edward, please!’
Louisa was standing by the piano, her little pink face pinker than ever, a scarlet rose high up on
each cheek. ‘If you want to know,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you what I think.’
‘I’m listening, dear.’
‘I think it might be possible that we are at this moment sitting in the presence of -’ She stopped,
as though suddenly sensing the absurdity of the thought.
‘Yes?’
‘You may think it silly, Edward, but it’s honestly what I think.’
‘In the presence of whom, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Of Franz Liszt himself!’
Her husband took a long slow pull at his cigarette and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. He had
the tight-skinned, concave cheeks of a man who has worn a full set of dentures for many years,
and every time he sucked at a cigarette, the cheeks went in even more, and the bones of his face
stood out like a skeleton’s. ‘I don’t get you,’ he said.
‘Edward, listen to me. From what I’ve seen this afternoon with my own eyes, it really looks as
though this might be some sort of a reincarnation.’
‘You mean this lousy cat?’
‘Don’t talk like that, dear, please.’
‘You’re not ill, are you, Louisa?’
‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you very much. I’m a bit confused - I don’t mind admitting it, but
who wouldn’t be after what’s just happened? Edward, I swear to you.’
‘What did happen, if I may ask?’
Louisa told him, and all the while she was speaking, her husband lay sprawled in the chair with
his legs stretched out in front of him, sucking at his cigarette and blowing the smoke up at the
ceiling. There was a thin cynical smile on his mouth.
‘I don’t see anything very unusual about that,’ he said when it was over. ‘All it is - it’s a trick
cat. It’s been taught tricks, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Edward. Every time I play Liszt, he gets all excited and comes running over
to sit on the stool beside me. But only for Liszt, and nobody can teach a cat the difference between
Liszt and Schumann. You don’t even know it yourself. But this one can do it every single time.
Quite obscure Liszt, too.’
‘Twice,’ the husband said. ‘He’s only done it twice.’
‘Twice is enough.’
‘Let’s see him do it again. Come on.’
‘No,’ Louisa said. ‘Definitely not. Because if this is Liszt, as I believe it is, or anyway the soul
of Liszt or whatever it is that comes back, then it’s certainly not right or even very kind to put him
through a lot of silly undignified tests.’
‘My dear woman! This is a cat - a rather stupid grey cat that nearly got its coat singed by the
bonfire this morning in the garden. And anyway, what do you know about reincarnation?’
‘If the soul is there, that’s enough for me,’ Louisa said firmly. ‘That’s all that counts.’
‘Come on, then. Let’s see him perform. Let’s see him tell the difference between his own stuff
and someone else’s.’
‘No, Edward. I’ve told you before, I refuse to put him through any more silly circus tests. He’s
had quite enough of that for one day. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll play him a little more of
his own music’
‘A fat lot that’ll prove.’
‘You watch. And one thing is certain - as soon as he recognizes it, he’ll refuse to budge off that
stool where he’s sitting now.’
Louisa went to the music shelf, took down a book of Liszt, thumbed through it quickly, and
chose another of his finer compositions - the B minor Sonata. She had meant to play only the first
part of the work, but once she got started and saw how the cat was sitting there literally quivering
with pleasure and watching her hands with that rapturous concentrated look, she didn’t have the
heart to stop. She played it all the way through. When it was finished, she glanced up at her
husband and smiled. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You can’t tell me he wasn’t absolutely loving it.’
‘He just likes the noise, that’s all.’
‘He was loving it. Weren’t you, darling?’ she said, lifting the cat in her arms. ‘Oh, my goodness,
if only he could talk. Just think of it, dear - he met Beethoven in his youth! He knew Schubert and
Mendelssohn and Schumann and Berlioz and Grieg and Delacroix and Ingres and Heine and
Balzac. And let me see … My heavens, he was Wagner’s father-in-law! I’m holding Wagner’s
father-in-law in my arms!’
‘Louisa!’ her husband said sharply, sitting up straight. ‘Pull yourself together.’ There was a new
edge to his voice now, and he spoke louder.
Louisa glanced up quickly. ‘Edward, I do believe you’re jealous!’
‘Of a miserable grey cat!’
‘Then don’t be so grumpy and cynical about it all. If you’re going to behave like this, the best
thing you can do is to go back to your gardening and leave the two of us together in peace. That
will be best for all of us, won’t it, darling?’ she said, addressing the cat, stroking its head. ‘And
later on this evening, we shall have some more music together, you and I, some more of your own
work. Oh, yes,’ she said, kissing the creature several times on the neck, ‘and we might have a little
Chopin, too. You needn’t tell me - I happen to know you adore Chopin. You used to be great
friends with him, didn’t you, darling? As a matter of fact - if I remember rightly - it was in
Chopin’s apartment that you met the great love of your life, Madame Something-or-Other. Had
three illegitimate children by her, too, didn’t you? Yes, you did, you naughty thing, and don’t go
trying to deny it. So you shall have some Chopin,’ she said, kissing the cat again, ‘and that’ll
probably bring back all sorts of lovely memories to you, won’t it?’
‘Louisa, stop this at once!’
‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Edward.’
‘You’re behaving like a perfect idiot, woman. And anyway, you forget we’re going out this
evening, to Bill and Betty’s for canasta.’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly go out now. There’s no question of that.’
Edward got up slowly from his chair, then bent down and stubbed his cigarette hard into the
ash-tray. ‘Tell me something,’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t really believe this - this twaddle you’re
talking, do you?’
‘But of course I do. I don’t think there’s any question about it now. And, what’s more, I
consider that it puts a tremendous responsibility upon us, Edward - upon both of us. You as well.’
‘You know what I think,’ he said. ‘I think you ought to see a doctor. And damn quick, too.’
With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, through the french windows, back into the
garden.
Louisa watched him striding across the lawn towards his bonfire and his brambles, and she
waited until he was out of sight before she turned and ran to the front door, still carrying the cat.
Soon she was in the car, driving to town.
She parked in front of the library, locked the cat in the car, hurried up the steps into the
building, and headed straight for the reference room. There she began searching the cards for
books on two subjects - REINCARNATION and LISZT.
Under REINCARNATION she found something called Recurring Earth-Lives - How and Why,
by a man called F. Milton Willis, published in 1921. Under LISZT she found two biographical
volumes. She took out all three books, returned to the car, and drove home.
Back in the house, she placed the cat on the sofa, sat herself down beside it with her books, and
prepared to do some serious reading. She would begin, she decided, with Mr F. Milton Willis’s
work. The volume was thin and a trifle soiled, but it had a good heavy feel to it, and the author’s
name had an authoritative ring.
The doctrine of reincarnation, she read, states that spiritual souls pass from higher to higher
forms of animals. ‘A man can, for instance, no more be reborn as an animal than an adult can re-
become a child.’
She read this again. But how did he know? How could he be so sure? He couldn’t. No one could
possibly be certain about a thing like that. At the same time, the statement took a good deal of the
wind out of her sails.
‘Around the centre of consciousness of each of us, there are, besides the dense outer body, four
other bodies, invisible to the eye of flesh, but perfectly visible to people whose faculties of
perception of superphysical things have undergone the requisite development …’
She didn’t understand that one at all, but she read on, and soon she came to an interesting
passage that told how long a soul usually stayed away from the earth before returning in someone
else’s body. The time varied according to type, and Mr Willis gave the following breakdown:
Drunkards and the
unemployable
  40/50 YEARS
Unskilled labourers   60/100 YEARS
Skilled workers   100/200 YEARS
The bourgeoisie   200/300 YEARS
The upper-middle classes   500 YEARS
The highest class of   600/1,000 YEARS
gentleman farmers
Those in the Path of
Initiation
  1,500/2,000 YEARS
Quickly she referred to one of the other books, to find out how long Liszt had been dead. It said
he died in Bayreuth in 1886. That was sixty-seven years ago. Therefore, according to Mr Willis,
he’d have to have been an unskilled labourer to come back so soon. That didn’t seem to fit at all.
On the other hand, she didn’t think much of the author’s methods of grading. According to him,
‘the highest class of gentleman farmer’ was just about the most superior being on the earth. Red
jackets and stirrup cups and the bloody, sadistic murder of the fox. No, she thought, that isn’t
right. It was a pleasure to find herself beginning to doubt Mr Willis.
Later in the book, she came upon a list of some of the more famous reincarnations. Epictetus,
she was told, returned to earth as Ralph Waldo Emerson. Cicero came back as Gladstone, Alfred
the Great as Queen Victoria, William the Conqueror as Lord Kitchener. Ashoka Vardhana, King
of India in 272 BC, came back as Colonel Henry Steel Olcott, an esteemed American lawyer.
Pythagoras returned as Master Koot Hoomi, the gentleman who founded the Theosophical Society
with Mme Blacatsky and Colonel H. S. Olcott (the esteemed American lawyer, alias Ashoka
Vardhana, King of India). It didn’t say who Mme Blavatsky had been. But ‘Theodore Roosevelt,’
it said, ‘has for numbers of incarnations played great parts as a leader of men … From him
descended the royal line of ancient Chaldea, he having been, about 30,000 BC, appointed
Governor of Chaldea by the Ego we know as Caesar who was then ruler of Persia … Roosevelt
and Caesar have been together time after time as military and administrative leaders; at one time,
many thousands of years ago, they were husband and wife …’
That was enough for Louisa. Mr F. Milton Willis was clearly nothing but a guesser. She was not
impressed by his dogmatic assertions. The fellow was probably on the right track, but his
pronouncements were extravagant, especially the first one of all, about animals. Soon she hoped to
be able to confound the whole Theosophical Society with her proof that man could indeed
reappear as a lower animal. Also that he did not have to be an unskilled labourer to come back
within a hundred years.
She now turned to one of the Liszt biographies, and she was glancing through it casually when
her husband came in again from the garden.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.
‘Oh - just checking up a little here and there. Listen, my dear, did you know that Theodore
Roosevelt once was Caesar’s wife?’
‘Louisa,’ he said, ‘look - why don’t we stop this nonsense? I don’t like to see you making a fool
of yourself like this. Just give me that goddamn cat and I’ll take it to the police station myself.’
Louisa didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring open-mouthed at a picture of Liszt in the book
that lay on her lap. ‘My God!’ she cried. ‘Edward, look!’
‘What?’
‘Look! The warts on his face! I forgot all about them! He had these great warts on his face and
it was a famous thing. Even his students used to cultivate little tufts of hair on their own faces in
the same spots, just to be like him.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Nothing. I mean not the students. But the warts have.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ the man said. ‘Oh, Christ God Almighty.’
‘The cat has them, too! Look, I’ll show you.’
She took the animal on to her lap and began examining his face. ‘There! There’s one! And
there’s another! Wait a minute! I do believe they’re in the same places! Where’s that picture?’
It was a famous portrait of the musician in his old age, showing the fine powerful face framed in
a mass of long grey hair that covered his ears and came half-way down his neck. On the face itself,
each large wart had been faithfully reproduced, and there were five of them in all.
‘Now, in the picture there’s one above the right eyebrow.’ She looked above the right eyebrow
of the cat. ‘Yes! It’s there! In exactly the same place! And another on the left, at the top of the
nose. That one’s there, too! And one just below it on the cheek. And two fairly close together
under the chin on the right side. Edward! Edward! Come and look! They’re exactly the same.’
‘It doesn’t prove a thing.’
She looked up at her husband who was standing in the centre of the room in his green sweater
and ‘khaki slacks, still perspiring freely. ‘You’re scared, aren’t you, Edward? Scared of losing
your precious dignity and having people think you might be making a fool of yourself just for
once.’
‘I refuse to get hysterical about it, that’s all.’
Louisa turned back to the book and began reading some more. ‘This is interesting,’ she said. ‘It
says here that Liszt loved all of Chopin’s work except one - the Scherzo in B flat minor.
Apparently he hated that. He called it the “Governess Scherzo”, and said that it ought to be
reserved solely for people in that profession.’
‘So what?’
‘Edward, listen. As you insist on being so horrid about all this, I’ll tell you what I’m going to
do. I’m going to play this scherzo right now and you can stay here and see what happens.’
‘And then maybe you will deign to get us some supper.’
Louisa got up and took from the shelf a large green volume containing all of Chopin’s works.
‘Here it is. Oh yes, I remember it. It is rather awful. Now, listen - or, rather, watch. Watch to see
what he does.’
She placed the music on the piano and sat down. Her husband remained standing. He had his
hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth, and in spite of himself he was watching the cat,
which was now dozing on the sofa. When Louisa began to play, the first effect was as dramatic as
ever. The animal jumped up as though it had been stung, and it stood motionless for at least a
minute, the ears pricked up, the whole body quivering. Then it became restless and began to walk
back and forth along the length of the sofa. Finally, it hopped down on to the floor, and with its
nose and tail held high in the air, it marched slowly, majestically, from the room.
‘There!’ Louisa cried, jumping up and running after it. That does it! That really proves it!’ She
came back carrying the cat which she put down again on the sofa. Her whole face was shining
with excitement now, her fists were clenched white, and the little bun on top of her head was
loosening and going over to one side. ‘What about it, Edward? What d’you think?’ She was
laughing nervously as she spoke.
‘I must say it was quite amusing.’
‘Amusing! My dear Edward, it’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened! Oh, goodness
me!’ she cried, picking up the cat again and hugging it to her bosom. ‘Isn’t it marvellous to think
we’ve got Franz Liszt staying in the house?’
‘Now, Louisa. Don’t let’s get hysterical.’
‘I can’t help it, I simply can’t. And to imagine that he’s actually going to live with us for
always!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, Edward! I can hardly talk from excitement. And d’you know what I’m going to do next?
Every musician in the whole world is going to want to meet him, that’s a fact, and ask him about
the people he knew - about Beethoven and Chopin and Schubert -’
‘He can’t talk,’ her husband said.
‘Well - all right. But they’re going to want to meet him anyway, just to see him and touch him
and to play their own music to him, modem music he’s never heard before.’
‘He wasn’t that great. Now, if it had been Bach or Beethoven …’
‘Don’t interrupt, Edward, please. So what I’m going to do is to notify all the important living
composers everywhere. It’s my duty. I’ll tell them Liszt is here, and invite them to visit him. And
you know what? They’ll come flying in from every corner of the earth!’
‘To see a grey cat?’
‘Darling, it’s the same thing. It’s him. No one cares what he looks like. Oh, Edward, it’ll be the
most exciting thing there ever was!’
‘They’ll think you’re mad.’
‘You wait and see.’ She was holding the cat in her arms and petting it tenderly but looking
across at her husband, who now walked over to the french windows and stood there staring out
into the garden. The evening was beginning, and the lawn was turning slowly from green to black,
and in the distance he could see the smoke from his bonfire rising up in a white column.
‘No,’ he said, without turning round, ‘I’m not having it. Not in this house. It’ll make us both
look perfect fools.’
‘Edward, what do you mean?’
‘Just what I say. I absolutely refuse to have you stirring up a lot of publicity about a foolish
thing like this. You happen to have found a trick cat. OK - that’s fine. Keep it, if it pleases you. I
don’t mind. But I don’t wish you to go any further than that. Do you understand me, Louisa?’
‘Further than what?’
‘I don’t want to hear any more of this crazy talk. You’re acting like a lunatic.’
Louisa put the cat slowly down on the sofa. Then slowly she raised herself to her full small
height and took one pace forward. ‘Damn you, Edward!’ she shouted, stamping her foot. ‘For the
first time in our lives something really exciting comes along and you’re scared to death of having
anything to do with it because someone may laugh at you! That’s right, isn’t it? You can’t deny it,
can you?’
‘Louisa,’ her husband said. ‘That’s quite enough of that. Pull yourself together now and stop
this at once.’ He walked over and took a cigarette from the box on the table, then lit it with the
enormous patent lighter. His wife stood watching him, and now the tears were beginning to trickle
out of the inside corners of her eyes, making two little shiny rivers where they ran through the
powder on her cheeks.
‘We’ve been having too many of these scenes just lately, Louisa,’ he was saying. ‘No no, don’t
interrupt. Listen to me. I make full allowance for the fact that this may be an awkward time of life
for you, and that -’
‘Oh, my God! You idiot! You pompous idiot! Can’t you see that this is different, this is - this is
something miraculous? Can’t you see that?’
At that point, he came across the room and took her firmly by the shoulders. He had the freshly
lit cigarette between his lips, and she could see faint contours on his skin where the heavy
perspiration had dried up in patches. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry. I’ve given up my golf and I’ve
been working all day in the garden, and I’m tired and hungry and I want some supper. So do you.
Off you go now to the kitchen and get us both something good to eat.’
Louisa stepped back and put both hands to her mouth. ‘My heavens!’ she cried. ‘I forgot all
about it. He must be absolutely famished. Except for some milk, I haven’t given him a thing to eat
since he arrived.’
‘Who?’
‘Why, him of course. I must go at once and cook something really special. I wish I knew what
his favourite dishes used to be. What do you think he would like best, Edward?’
‘Goddamn it, Louisa!’
‘Now, Edward, please. I’m going to handle this my way just for once. You stay here,’ she said,
bending down and touching the cat gently with her fingers. ‘I won’t be long.’
Louisa went into the kitchen and stood for a moment, wondering what special dish she might
prepare. How about a soufflé? A nice cheese soufflé? Yes, that would be rather special. Of course,
Edward didn’t much care for them, but that couldn’t be helped.
She was only a fair cook, and she couldn’t be sure of always having a soufflé come out well, but
she took extra trouble this time and waited a long while to make certain the oven had heated fully
to the correct temperature. While the soufflé was baking and she was searching around for
something to go with it, it occurred to her that Liszt had probably never in his life tasted either
avocado pears or grapefruit, so she decided to give him both of them at once in a salad. It would
be fun to watch his reaction. It really would.
When it was all ready, she put it on a tray and carried it into the living-room. At the exact
moment she entered, she saw her husband coming in through the french windows from the garden.
‘Here’s his supper,’ she said, putting it on the table and turning towards the sofa. ‘Where is he?’
Her husband closed the garden door behind him and walked across the room to get himself a
cigarette.
‘Edward, where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘Ah, yes. Yes, that’s right. Well - I’ll tell you.’ He was bending forward to light the cigarette,
and his hands were cupped around the enormous patent lighter. He glanced up and saw Louisa
looking at him - at his shoes and the bottoms of his khaki slacks, which were damp from walking
in long grass.
‘I just went out to see how the bonfire was going,’ he said.
Her eyes travelled slowly upward and rested on his hands.
‘It’s still burning fine,’ he went on. ‘I think it’ll keep going all night.’
But the way she was staring made him uncomfortable.
‘What is it?’ he said, lowering the lighter. Then he looked down and noticed for the first time
the long thin scratch that ran diagonally clear across the back of one hand, from the knuckle to the
wrist.
‘Edward!’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know. Those brambles are terrible. They tear you to pieces. Now, just a
minute, Louisa. What’s the matter?’
‘Edward!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman, sit down and keep calm. There’s nothing to get worked up about,
Louisa! Louisa, sit down!’
征服者爱德华
征服者爱德华
路易莎抓着一块抹布，走出房子后面的厨房门，来到沁着凉意的十月阳光里。
“爱德华！”她喊道，“爱德华！午饭做好了！”
她顿了顿，侧耳细听，然后走到草坪上，并顺着草坪继续往前走——身后跟着一个小小
的影子——绕过玫瑰花坛，边走边用一根手指轻轻触碰着那个日晷。她是一个胖墩墩的矮个
子女人，但走起路来非常优雅，脚步轻快活泼，肩膀和胳膊轻柔地摆动。她经过那棵桑树，
走到砖路上，顺着砖路一直往前走，来到可以看见大花园尽头那一片坑洼处。
“爱德华！吃午饭！”
现在她能看见他了，约莫八十码 [1] 开外，在树林边坑洼处——那个瘦瘦高高的身影，穿
着卡其布裤子和墨绿色运动衫，双手拿着耙子，在一堆大篝火旁边干活，把荆棘耙到大火堆
顶上。火势熊熊，橘色的火焰跳动着，冒出乳白色的烟，烟飘回来笼罩花园，带有一股秋天
和焚烧落叶的好闻气味。
路易莎走下斜坡，朝丈夫走去。她如果愿意，完全可以再喊几声，让丈夫听见，但不知
怎的，那堆美妙的大篝火似乎在吸引着她往前，她走得很近，能感觉到热浪扑来，能听到噼
噼啪啪的声音。
“吃午饭。”她走上前去说。
“哦，是你。行——好的，我这就来。”
“这篝火真漂亮。”
“我决定把这地方彻底清理干净。”丈夫说，“这么多的荆棘，真让人厌烦透顶。”他的长
脸上汗津津的，胡子上沾着无数细小的汗珠，就像露珠一样，两道汗水顺着他的喉咙淌下
来，浸湿了运动衫的圆领。
“你最好当心点，别弄得太累了，爱德华。”
“路易莎，真希望你能别把我当成一个八十岁老人。活动活动腿脚不会有什么坏处。”
“是的，亲爱的，我知道。哦，爱德华！看！快看！”
男人转过身，看着路易莎，路易莎正指着篝火的另一侧。
“快看，爱德华！那只猫！”
一只很大的猫，颜色十分怪异，蹲在地上，离篝火那么近，有时候火舌似乎都舔到它身
上了。它一动不动，脑袋偏向一侧，鼻子高高竖着，用冷冰冰的黄眼睛注视着男人和女人。
“它会被烧着的！”路易莎喊道，她扔下抹布，飞快地冲过去，用两只手抓起那只猫，抱
着它迅速跑开，放在远离火焰的草地上。
“你这只疯猫。”她掸了掸双手，说道，“脑子发昏了吗？”
“猫知道自己在做什么。”丈夫说，“你永远不会看到一只猫在做自己不愿做的事。永远不
会。”
“这是谁家的猫？你以前见过它吗？”
“没有，从没见过。这颜色真奇怪。”
猫已经蹲坐在草地上，正斜着眼睛打量他们。那双眼睛有一种模糊不清的内敛表情，似
乎无所不知又满含抑郁，十分奇怪，鼻子周围透着一种极为含蓄的轻蔑，似乎看到这两个中
年人——一个矮矮胖胖、脸蛋红润，另一个高高瘦瘦、满身是汗——是一件多少令人惊讶的
事，但又完全无关紧要。作为一只猫，它的颜色确实非常罕见——纯银灰色，没有夹杂一点
蓝色——而且猫毛很长，丝绸般柔顺。
路易莎弯下腰，抚摸它的脑袋。“你必须回家去。”她说，“乖乖地听话，回自己家里去
吧。”
男人和妻子开始爬上坡，往家里走去。那只猫站起身，跟在后面，起初保持着一定的距
离，但是慢慢地越挨越近。不一会儿，它就跟他们并排了，然后它跑在前面，领头穿过草
坪，走向房子，看它走路的派头，似乎这片地方整个都属于它。它的尾巴直直地竖在空中，
像一根桅杆。
“回家去，”男人说，“回家去。我们不收留你。”
可是，他们走进家门时，它跟他们一起进来了，路易莎在厨房里给了它一些牛奶。吃午
饭的时候，它跳到他们俩中间那把空椅子上，脑袋只比桌面高出一点，那双深黄色的眼睛不
停地慢慢从女人移向男人，再从男人移向女人，注视着整个用餐过程，直到结束。
“我不喜欢这只猫。”爱德华说。
“哦，我认为它是一只漂亮的猫。真希望它能留下来陪我们待一阵子。”
“你听我说，路易莎。这只猫不能留在这儿。它是别人的猫，走失了。如果它今天下午还
想赖在这里不走，你最好把它送去交给警察。他们会帮它找到家的。”
吃过午饭，爱德华继续去收拾花园。路易莎像往常一样走向钢琴。她是一位出色的钢琴
演奏者，是一位真正的音乐爱好者，几乎每天下午都会花一小时左右独自弹琴。那只猫此时
躺在沙发上，路易莎走过时停下来抚摸了它一下。猫睁开眼睛，打量了她一会儿，然后又闭
上眼睛，接着睡觉。
“你真是一只特别乖的猫，”路易莎说，“而且颜色这么漂亮。真希望我能留下你。”她用
手指抚摸猫头上的皮毛，突然摸到一个小小的肿块，就在右眼上面一点。
“可怜的猫。”她说，“你这漂亮的脸上有肿块了。你一定上了年纪。”
她走过去，坐在长长的琴凳上，但并没有立刻开始弹琴。她有一个独特的小乐趣，就是
把每天都当成开音乐会的日子，精心安排一份非常具体的节目单，然后再开始弹琴。如果弹
完一曲还要停下来考虑下一曲该弹什么，就破坏了弹琴的乐趣，那是她绝对不愿意的。每一
曲弹完后，她只需要一个短暂的停顿，让观众热烈鼓掌、大声叫好。幻想底下坐着观众真是
太美妙了。偶尔她弹琴的时候——那是在运气好的日子里——房间会开始晃动、隐去、逐渐
变暗，然后她就看到一排排的座椅，以及无数张白色的脸庞仰起来看着她，观众们听得全神
贯注、如痴如醉。
她有时是凭记忆弹琴，有时是看着乐谱。今天她想只凭记忆，她愿意这样。节目单该怎
么制定呢？她坐在钢琴前，一双小手叠放在大腿上，她是个面色红润的小胖子，有一张圆圆
的、但仍很漂亮的脸，头发在脑后盘成一个整整齐齐的圆髻。她看了一眼右边，发现那只猫
蜷在沙发上睡着了，在紫色沙发靠垫的衬托下，那银灰色的猫毛那么美丽。就用巴赫的曲子
开头怎么样？或者，维瓦尔第的更好。巴赫改编的《D小调大协奏曲》，好的——这是第一支
曲子。然后，也许可以来一点舒曼，《狂欢节》？那肯定很有趣。再往后——对了，弹点儿
李斯特换换风格吧，挑一首《彼特拉克十四行诗》，就挑第二首——这是最美的一首——E大
调。然后再来一点舒曼，就挑一支他的欢快曲目——《童年情景》。最后，作为返场曲目，
挑一支勃拉姆斯的圆舞曲，如果到时候感觉好，说不定会弹两支。
维瓦尔第、舒曼、李斯特、舒曼、勃拉姆斯。一份很漂亮的节目单，她可以不看乐谱，
轻松地弹下来。她把身体往钢琴前凑了凑，停顿了一下，等待观众席里的某个人——她已经
感觉到今天是一个运气好的日子——等待观众席里的某个人最后咳嗽一声。然后，带着几乎
伴随着她一举一动的那种舒缓和优雅，她把双手笼在琴键上，开始弹琴。
在那特定的时刻，她并没有看着那只猫——实际上，她已经忘记了猫的存在——但是，
当维瓦尔第的第一组深沉的音符在房间里轻柔地响起时，她通过眼角的余光注意到，她右边
的沙发上突然出现一片忙乱、一阵闪动。她立刻停止弹琴，“怎么回事？”她说，把目光转向
那只猫，“出什么事了？”
那只猫几秒钟前还睡得很香，此刻在沙发上坐得笔直，神情十分机警，它的全身都在颤
动，耳朵竖起，眼睛睁得大大的，紧盯着钢琴。
“我吓着你了吗？”路易莎温和地问，“也许你以前从没听过音乐。”
“不，”她对自己说，“我认为不是这样。”她又想了想，觉得猫的反应不像是出于恐惧，
它没有瑟缩，也没有后退。要说有什么不同，反而是它向前探过身，表现出一种热切，而且
那张脸——是啊，那张脸上的表情相当奇怪，似乎混杂着惊讶和错愕。当然啦，一只猫的脸
很小，几乎没有什么表情，但是如果你仔细观察眼睛和耳朵的同步动作，特别是一侧耳朵下
面那一小块活动的皮肤，你就能偶尔看到非常强烈的情感反应。路易莎此刻密切地注视着这
张脸，接着，因为她好奇地想看看第二次会有什么反应，就把双手放到琴键上，又开始弹那
首维瓦尔第。
这次，猫已经有所准备，一开始只是身体绷得更紧了点，但随着音乐逐渐饱满、加速，
进入赋格曲引子第一段的激越节奏，一种奇怪的、渐渐升华为狂喜的神情开始出现在猫的脸
上。它的两只耳朵刚才就直直地竖了起来，此刻慢慢往后缩，眼睑低垂，脑袋偏到一边。在
这一刻，路易莎可以发誓这只猫真是在欣赏音乐。
她看见的（或者她以为自己看见的）是她多次在那些全神贯注地听一段音乐的人们脸上
看到过的神情。当音乐完全把他们吸引住，使他们沉溺其中时，他们脸上就会出现一种独特
的、极度兴奋的表情，像微笑一样很容易识别。就路易莎所见，这只猫现在就几乎完全是这
样一副表情。
路易莎弹完了赋格曲，开始弹西西里舞曲，她一直留神注视着沙发上的猫。音乐停止
时，她终于得到了猫在听音乐的最后证据。猫眨眨眼睛，活动了一下身体，伸了伸一条腿，
换了一种更舒服的姿势，快速地扫了一眼房间，然后期待地看着路易莎这边。这完全就是一
个常去听音乐会的人，在交响乐的两个乐章之间的空隙暂时放松下来的样子。这做派活脱脱
像个人，使她胸口产生了一种焦躁的感觉。
“你喜欢这个？”她问，“你喜欢维瓦尔第？”
话一出口，她就感觉到荒唐，但是并没有——这么说她有点儿阴险——并没有她原来以
为会感觉到的那样荒唐。
好吧，暂时不管这个，还是接着弹奏节目单上的第二支曲子吧，那是《狂欢节》。她刚
开始弹，猫就又绷紧身体，坐得笔直。然后，它慢慢地、满怀喜悦地被音乐所笼罩，陷入那
种古怪的、忘乎所以的情绪，似乎跟溺亡和做梦有关。这只银灰色的猫坐在沙发上，被音乐
弄得这样心醉神迷，这真是夸张的一幕，也是滑稽的一幕。更加诡异的是，路易莎心想，猫
看似如此喜爱的这支曲子其实非常深奥、非常古典，是世界上大多数人都无法欣赏的。
也许，她想，猫并不是在欣赏音乐。也许，这只是一种催眠反应，就像蛇那样。是啊，
既然能用音乐给一条蛇催眠，猫为什么不行呢？但成千上万的猫每天都在收音机、留声机和
钢琴上听到这些音乐，而据她所知，从来没有哪只猫做出这只猫这样的行为。看这只猫的反
应，它似乎在专心欣赏每一个音符呢。这真是一件匪夷所思的事。
但这不同时也是一件十分奇妙的事吗？确实如此。是啊，除非她弄错了，这简直就是个
奇迹啊，是那种一百年才会出现一次的动物奇迹。
“我看得出你喜欢这支曲子。”曲子弹完后，她说道，“真是对不起，我今天弹得不太好。
你最喜欢哪一支——是维瓦尔第的还是舒曼的？”
猫没有回答，于是，路易莎生怕失去这位听者的注意力，赶紧开始弹节目单上的下一支
曲子——李斯特的《彼特拉克十四行诗》第二首。
这时，一件非常反常的事情发生了。她刚弹了三四个小节，猫的胡须就开始明显地抽
搐。它慢慢地把身体挺得格外笔直，把头偏向一边，接着又偏向另一边，用一种凝神蹙眉的
神情盯着前面，似乎在说：“这是什么？别告诉我。我对它太熟悉了，只是一时好像有点想不
起来。”路易莎被迷住了，她半张着小嘴，微笑着，继续弹奏，等着看接下来到底会发生什么
事。
猫站起来，走到沙发的一头，又坐下了，接着听了一会儿。随后它突然跳到地板上，噌
地一下蹿上了琴凳，坐在她身边，专心致志地听着这首优美的十四行诗，此时它已不再如梦
如醉，而是非常警醒，那双大大的黄眼睛盯着路易莎的手指。
“结束！”路易莎说着，弹出最后一个和弦。“怎么，你过来坐在我身边了，是吗？跟沙发
相比，你更喜欢这里？好吧，我就让你留在这儿，但你必须一动不动，不许乱蹦乱跳。”她伸
出一只手，轻轻抚摸猫的后背，从脑袋一直摸到尾巴。“刚才是李斯特。”她继续说道，“听
着，他有的时候庸俗得可怕，但是在这一类曲子里，他真的很有魅力。”
她开始喜欢这种奇怪的动物哑剧了，于是便接着弹节目单上的下一支曲子：舒曼的《童
年情景》。
刚弹了一两分钟，她就意识到猫又挪了窝，此刻已回到沙发上的老地方。她刚才一直注
视着自己的手，大概就是因为这点没注意到猫的行为。不过，猫的动作肯定是极为迅捷而无
声的。猫仍然盯着她看，仍然一副专心聆听音乐的样子，可是在路易莎看来，它不像刚才听
前一支李斯特的曲子时那样充满狂热的激情了。而且，离开琴凳、回到沙发，这本身就是表
示一种委婉而坚决的失望。
“这是怎么了？”一曲终了，她问，“舒曼有什么问题？李斯特有那么神奇吗？”猫用两只
黄色的眼睛直盯着她，眼睛中间有一道漆黑的小竖条。
路易莎对自己说，事情真的开始变得有趣了——仔细想想，还有那么一点诡异可怕。但
是她看了一眼坐在沙发上的猫，它那么机敏、那么专注，显然正等着听更多的音乐，于是她
很快放下心来。
“好吧。”她说，“我把我的打算告诉你。我要专门为你调整我的节目单。你看上去这么喜
欢李斯特，我就再给你弹一支吧。”
她迟疑着，在记忆中搜寻李斯特的代表作，然后开始轻轻弹奏《圣诞树》的十二首小作
品之一。她一边弹，一边非常密切地注视着那只猫，首先她注意到猫的胡须又开始抽搐了。
猫从沙发跳到地毯上，一动不动地站立片刻，偏着脑袋，浑身兴奋地颤动，然后，它迈着缓
慢、柔滑的步子，绕过钢琴，一下子跳上琴凳，坐在了她身边。
就在这个时候，爱德华从花园回来了。
“爱德华！”路易莎喊道，一跃而起，“哦，爱德华，亲爱的！听听这个！听听发生了什么
事！”
“又怎么啦？”爱德华说，“我想喝点茶。”他长着一张有着尖鼻子的窄脸，脸色微微有些
发紫，整张脸上汗津津的，汗珠像一粒粒湿漉漉的长葡萄。
“是这只猫！”路易莎喊道，指着静静坐在琴凳上的猫，“你等着听刚才发生了什么吧！”
“我记得我叫你把它交给警察的。”
“可是，爱德华，听我说。这简直太让人兴奋了。这是一只懂音乐的猫。”
“哦，是吗？”
“这只猫能欣赏音乐，而且能理解音乐。”
“好了，别再胡言乱语了，路易莎，看在上帝的分上，快去沏点茶吧。我在外面砍荆棘、
生篝火，早就又热又累了。”他在一张扶手椅里坐下，从身边的盒子里取出一支烟，用盒子旁
边一个硕大的漆皮打火机把烟点燃。
“你还不明白呢，”路易莎说，“你在外面的时候，我们家里发生了一件特别令人兴奋的事
情，一件可以说是……嗯……简直是了不得的大事。”
“对此我毫不怀疑。”
“爱德华，拜托！”
路易莎站在钢琴旁，粉红的小脸比往常更红，两边面颊上各泛起一抹深红色。“如果你真
的想知道，”她说，“我就把我的想法告诉你。”
“我听着呢，亲爱的。”
“我认为，我们此时此刻可能面对着——”她停住话头，似乎突然意识到这个想法的荒
谬。
“什么？”
“你可能认为很荒唐，爱德华，但我真是这么想的。”
“看在上天的分上，我们面对着谁？”
“面对着弗朗兹•李斯特本人！”
她的丈夫缓缓地使劲抽了一口香烟，把烟喷向天花板。他皮肤紧绷，面颊凹陷，就像一
个戴了多年全口假牙的人，每吸一口烟，面颊都陷得更深一点，脸上的骨头突出，活像一具
骷髅。“我不明白。”他说。
“爱德华，听我说。根据我今天下午亲眼看到的情形，这真的可能是某种转世轮回。”
“你是说这只讨厌的猫？”
“求求你别这么说话，亲爱的。”
“你没生病吧，路易莎？”
“我一切都好，非常感谢。我只是有点儿迷糊——这一点我承认，但谁经历了这样的事
情，会不犯迷糊呢？爱德华，我向你发誓——”
“请问，到底发生了什么事？”
路易莎告诉了他。当她说话的时候，丈夫四仰八叉地躺在椅子里，两条腿伸在前面，吸
着香烟，把烟喷向上面的天花板。他嘴角含着一丝讥讽的笑。
“我没看出这有什么不同寻常的。”路易莎讲完后，他说，“没什么大不了——这是一只会
耍把戏的猫。它学会了耍把戏，仅此而已。”
“别说傻话了，爱德华。每次我一弹李斯特，他就兴奋不已，跑过来挨着我坐在琴凳上。
但是只有李斯特。没有人能教一只猫懂得李斯特和舒曼的区别。就连你自己也搞不清。可是
这只猫每次都这样。就连李斯特比较含蓄的曲子也不例外。”
“两次，”丈夫说，“他只这么做了两次。”
“两次就够了。”
“我们再看他做一次。来吧。”
“不，”路易莎说，“绝对不行。如果他真是李斯特——我相信是的，或者是李斯特的灵魂
什么的回来了，那么，绝对不应该让他做一大堆荒唐的测试，这甚至是很不人道的。”
“我亲爱的夫人！这是一只猫——一只相当愚蠢的灰猫，今天上午在花园里差点儿被篝火
烧掉了皮毛。而且，关于转世轮回你又知道些什么？”
“只要他的灵魂在，对我来说就足够了。”路易莎坚决地说，“那才是最重要的。”
“那么好吧。我们来看看他的表演。我们来看看他怎么区分他自己的东西和别人的东
西。”
“不，爱德华。我刚才对你说过了。我拒绝让他再做荒唐的马戏团测试。他这一天的表现
已经够了。不过我会告诉你我要做什么。我要再给他弹一些他自己的音乐。”
“那很能证明问题。”
“你仔细看着。有一点是确定的——他一听出是哪支曲子，就不会再肯离开他现在坐的那
张琴凳。”
路易莎走到乐谱书架前，拿下一本李斯特作品，快速地翻了翻，挑选了他的另一支练习
曲——B小调奏鸣曲。她本来只想弹作品的第一部分，可是开始之后，她看到猫坐在那里喜悦
得浑身发颤，用那种热烈而专注的眼神盯着她的双手，她就不忍心停止了。她把整支曲子弹
完。然后，她抬头看了一眼丈夫，微微笑了。“怎么样？”她说，“你不能否认他绝对热爱这支
曲子。”
“他只是喜欢这声音，仅此而已。”
“他热爱这曲子。是不是啊，亲爱的？”她说着，把猫抱到了怀里。“哦，天哪，如果他能
说话该多好啊。想想吧，亲爱的——他年轻的时候见过贝多芬！他认识舒伯特、门德尔松、
舒曼、柏辽兹、葛利格、德拉克洛瓦、安格尔、海涅和巴尔扎克。而且，让我想想……我的
天哪，他还是瓦格纳的岳父！我怀里居然抱着瓦格纳的岳父！”
“路易莎！”她丈夫严厉地说道，并一下子坐得笔直，“镇定一点。”他声音里有一种新的
情绪，说话嗓音也提高了。
路易莎飞快地抬头看了她丈夫一眼。“爱德华，我认为你是在嫉妒！”
“哦，当然，我当然是在嫉妒——嫉妒一只讨厌的灰猫！”
“那就别这么一副脾气暴躁、尖酸刻薄的样子。如果你一直是这个态度，最好还是回去干
你的园丁活儿，让我们两个清清静静地待着。这对我们大家都好，是不是呀，亲爱的？”她一
边对猫说着，一边抚摸着它的脑袋。“今天晚上，我们一起再欣赏一些音乐，你和我，再挑几
个你自己的作品。哦，对了，”她说，在猫的脖子上亲了几口，“我们还可以弹一点肖邦。你
不用告诉我——我碰巧知道你喜爱肖邦。你曾经跟他是亲密的朋友，是不是，亲爱的？实际
上——如果我没有记错的话——你就是在肖邦的公寓里认识了你生命中的真爱，某某某夫
人。还跟她有了三个私生子，是不是？没错，没错，你这个淘气的家伙，你可不许否认。所
以，你还要听一些肖邦，”她说着，又亲了亲猫，“那可能会让你回忆起各种美好的往事，是
不是？”
“路易莎，立刻给我停止！”
“哦，别这么古板，爱德华。”
“你的表现像个十足的白痴，女人。而且，你忘了我们今晚要出去，要到比尔和贝蒂家去
打牌。”
“哦，但我现在不可能出去了。这是毫无疑问的。”
爱德华慢慢从椅子里站起身，然后弯下腰，把香烟用力捻灭在烟灰缸里。“跟我说实话
吧，”他轻声说，“你不是真的相信这些——相信你说的这些胡言乱语吧？”
“我当然相信。我想现在这已经没有任何疑问了。而且，我认为这赋予了我们一种非同小
可的责任，爱德华——赋予了我们俩。你也有份。”
“你知道我怎么想吗？”爱德华说，“我认为你应该去看医生。越快越好。”
说完，他便转过身去，大步走出了房间，跨过落地长窗，回到了花园。
路易莎注视着他大步走过草坪，走向他的篝火和他的荆棘，她一直等到他在视野中消
失，然后转过身，跑向前门，怀里仍然抱着那只猫。
她很快地钻进车里，驱车到镇上去。
她把车停在图书馆门前，把猫锁在车里，匆匆登上大楼的台阶，径直朝参考书阅览室走
去。她开始搜寻两大类图书的卡片——转世轮回和李斯特。
在转世轮回的类别中，她找到一本《生命轮回——寻踪探秘》，作者是密尔顿•威利斯，
出版于一九二一年。在李斯特的类别中，她找到两本传记。她把这三本书都借了出来，返回
车里，开车回家。
回到家中，她把猫放在沙发上，拿着三本书坐在猫的旁边，准备认真地读一读。她决定
先读密尔顿•威利斯的那本书。书不厚，还有点脏，但拿在手里感觉沉甸甸的，作者的名字有
一种很权威的味道。
她读到，转世轮回之道，是灵魂不断进化到更高的动物形式。
例如，人不可能重生为一个动物，就像成年人不会重新变成小孩子一样。
她把这段话又读了一遍。但他是怎么知道的呢？他怎么能这么肯定呢？不可能。这样的
事情，谁也不可能有百分之百的把握。然而，下面这段话又使她大为泄气。
在我们每个人的意识核心周围，除了愚钝的外部身体，还有另外四种身体，肉眼不
可见，但是那些对于超物质世界事物的感知能力格外强大的人，却完全能看见……
她完全不知所云，但坚持往下读，很快，她读到了有趣的一段，说的是一个灵魂通常要
离开人间多长时间才能进入别人的身体，轮回转世。灵魂种类不同，时间长短也不一样，威
利斯先生给出了下面这个分类表：
酒鬼和失业者40—50年
非技术工人60—100年
技术工人100—200年
资产阶级200—300年
中上阶层500年
最高阶层的乡绅600—1000年
启蒙道路上的人1500—2000年
她立刻查了查另外两本书中的一本，弄清李斯特死了多长时间。书上说李斯特于一八八
六年死于拜罗伊特。那就是六十七年前。那么，根据威利斯先生的说法，这么快就转世轮回
的必须是一位非技术工人。那似乎根本对不上。另外，她认为作者的分类法不太合理。根据
他的分类，“最高阶层的乡绅”差不多是人间最高等级的生灵了。可那些人穿红夹克、喝饯行
酒、野蛮残酷地虐杀狐狸。不，她想，那不对。发现自己对威利斯先生开始产生怀疑，她很
高兴。
她在书的后面还读到一份名单，是一些比较著名的转世轮回实例。书上说，埃皮克提图
作为拉尔夫•瓦尔多•爱默生返回了人间；西塞罗变成格莱斯顿回归，阿尔弗雷德大王变成维多
利亚女王，征服者威廉变成基奇纳勋爵；公元前二十七年的印度国王阿育王，变身为亨利•斯
蒂尔•奥尔科特上校——一位受人尊敬的美国律师；毕达哥拉斯回归时成了库图弥大师，就是
那位跟布拉瓦茨基夫人和奥尔科特上校（那位受人尊敬的美国律师，又名印度的阿育王）一
起创办了通神学会的人。书上没说布拉瓦茨基夫人曾经是谁。不过它说“西奥多•罗斯福”——
作为举足轻重的领袖人物多次转世轮回……古代迦勒底皇家后裔就是由他始传，大
约公元前30000年，他被时任波斯统治者的恺撒大帝任命为迦勒底总督……罗斯福和恺撒
大帝多次转世轮回为军事和行政领导人，好几千年前的一次，他们曾为一对夫妻……
路易莎不用再往下看了，密尔顿•威利斯显然是在胡编乱猜。她认为他那些自以为是的断
言都不可信。这家伙的路子可能是对的，但是他的断言太夸张了，特别是第一条关于动物
的。很快，她就能拿出人可以托生为低等动物的证据，驳倒整个通神学会。而且，能够在一
百年内转世轮回的，不一定必须是一位非技术工人。
她拿起李斯特的一本传记，随意地扫了几眼，这时她丈夫就从花园回来了。
“你又在做什么？”他问。
“哦——只是随便查点东西。听我说，亲爱的，你知道西奥多•罗斯福曾经是恺撒大帝的妻
子吗？”
“路易莎，”爱德华说，“我说——我们是不是别再谈这些疯话呢？我不愿意看到你这样闹
笑话。快把那只该死的猫给我，我亲自送到警察局去。”
路易莎似乎没有听见他的话。那本书放在她腿上，她盯着书上李斯特的一张肖像，吃惊
地张开了嘴。“哦，上帝！”她喊道，“爱德华，快看！”
“什么？”
“你看！他脸上的肉瘤！我都把它们忘记了！他脸上有这些大肉瘤，这是一件人人都知道
的事。他的学生甚至故意在自己脸上同样的地方留出一撮撮小胡子，就是为了模仿他。”
“这跟这件事有什么关系？”
“没什么关系。我的意思是说，跟那些学生没关系，但是跟肉瘤有关系。”
“哦，上帝。”男人说，“哦，万能的上帝啊。”
“这只猫也有肉瘤！看，我指给你看。”
她把猫抱到腿上，开始仔细检查它的脸。“找到了！这儿有一个！这儿还有一个！等一
等！我相信它们是在同样的位置！那张照片呢？”
那是音乐家老年一张很出名的肖像，精致而刚毅的脸，浓密的灰色长发盖住他的耳朵，
一直垂到脖子上面。那张脸上的每一个大肉瘤都被忠实地复制了出来，一共有五个。
“看到吗，肖像的右眉毛上面有一个。”她端详着猫的右眉毛上面，“没错！在这儿呢！位
置完全一样！左边还有一个，在鼻子尖上。这儿也有！下面还有一个，就在面颊上。还有两
个挨得比较近的，在右侧下巴的底部。爱德华！爱德华！快来看啊！完全一模一样。”
“这证明不了什么。”
她抬头看着丈夫，丈夫站在房间中央，穿着绿色运动衫和卡其布裤子，仍然在大量出
汗。“你害怕了，爱德华，是不是？你害怕失去你那宝贵的面子，害怕人们觉得你平生第一次
出了洋相。”
“我不愿意为这事失去理智，仅此而已。”
路易莎把目光转回书上，开始继续往下读。“真有趣，”她说，“这里写着李斯特热爱肖邦
的所有作品，只有一个例外——降B小调诙谐曲。他似乎很讨厌这支曲子，称之为‘家庭教师
诙谐曲’，说应该把它只留给那个行业的人。”
“那又怎么样？”
“爱德华，听我说。既然你一味坚持这种讨厌的态度，我不妨告诉你我要做什么。我现在
就来弹这支诙谐曲，你可以留在这里，看看会有什么反应。”
“然后你大概就肯屈尊给我们做点晚饭了。”
路易莎站起身，从书架上抽出一本绿色大厚书，里面收了肖邦的所有作品。“有了。哦，
没错，我记得它。确实很难听。好了，仔细听——准确地说，是仔细看。留意他的反应。”
她把乐谱放在钢琴上，坐了下来。她丈夫仍然站着，双手插在口袋里，嘴里叼着香烟，
眼睛不由自主地盯着那只正在沙发上打盹的猫。路易莎开始弹琴，最初的效果跟以前一样非
常戏剧化。猫突然跳了起来，好像被蜇了一下似的，一动不动地站了至少一分钟，耳朵竖
起，整个身体微微颤抖。然后，它变得坐立不安，开始在沙发上来来回回地走。最后，它跳
到地板上，鼻子和尾巴都翘得高高的，它昂首阔步，慢慢地走出了房间。
“看到了吧！”路易莎大喊一声，跳起来去追它，“成功了！确实得到了证明！”她把猫抱
回来，重新放在沙发上。她兴奋极了，整个脸上容光焕发，两个拳头攥得发白，后脑勺上的
小发髻松了，歪到了一边。“怎么样，爱德华？你还有什么话可说？”她说话时发出紧张的笑
声。
“我不得不说，确实蛮好笑的。”
“好笑！我亲爱的爱德华，这是有史以来最奇妙的一件事！哦，我的天哪！”她喊道，又
把猫抱起来，紧紧搂在胸口，“想想吧，弗朗兹•李斯特住在我们家里，是不是太美妙了？”
“好了，路易莎。别这么歇斯底里。”
“我忍不住，我就是忍不住。想象一下吧，他要永远跟我们生活在一起了！”
“你说什么？”
“哦，爱德华！我兴奋得说不出话来。你知道我接下来要做什么吗？全世界的每个音乐家
都想要来拜见他，这是肯定的，向他打听他认识的那些人——贝多芬啊、肖邦啊、舒伯特啊
——”
“他不会说话。”丈夫说。
“那个——好吧。但他们还是想来拜见他，就为了能看见他，抚摸他，弹奏他们的音乐给
他听，那些是他以前从未听到过的现代音乐。”
“他没有那么伟大。话说，如果是巴赫或者贝多芬……”
“别打断我，爱德华，拜托。所以，我要通知世界各地所有活着的重要作曲家。这是我的
责任。我要告诉他们，李斯特在这里，我要邀请他们来拜访他。然后，你知道吗？他们会从
世界的各个角落飞过来。”
“就为了看一只灰猫？”
“亲爱的，这没什么两样。就是他。谁也不会在意他看上去什么样。哦，爱德华，这会成
为有史以来最激动人心的事！”
“他们会认为你疯了。”
“你就等着瞧吧。”她把猫抱在怀里，温柔地抚摸着，眼睛却看着她的丈夫，爱德华此刻
走向落地长窗，站在那里朝花园眺望。暮色正在降临，草地慢慢地由绿色转为黑色，远处，
能看见他的篝火冒出一股白烟，袅袅升入空中。
“不，”他头也不转地说，“我不同意。不同意在这个家里搞这一套。那样的话，我们俩都
成了十足的傻瓜。”
“爱德华，你是什么意思？”
“就是这个意思。我绝对不允许你把这样一件蠢事搞得沸沸扬扬。你只是碰巧找到了一只
会耍把戏的猫。好——没问题。如果你愿意，就养着它好了。我没意见。但我不希望你再闹
出别的花样。你明白吗，路易莎？”
“闹出什么花样？”
“我不想再听到这些胡言乱语。你的表现像个疯子。”
路易莎慢慢地把猫放在沙发上。然后她慢慢地尽量挺直矮小的身体，往前跨了一步。“你
真该死，爱德华！”她跺着脚，大声喊道，“在我们的生活里，破天荒第一次出现了一件真正
激动人心的事，可是你却吓得要死，不敢跟它扯上关系，生怕别人会笑话你！是这么回事
吧？你无法否认，是不是？”
“路易莎，”她丈夫说，“不要再闹了。赶紧镇静下来，立刻停止吧。”他走过来，从桌上
的匣子里拿了一支香烟，用那个硕大的漆皮打火机把烟点燃。他的妻子站在那里注视着他，
此刻泪水已经开始从她眼角流出来，把面颊上的香粉冲出两条亮晶晶的痕迹。
“最近我们的这种场面太多了。”爱德华说，“不，不，别打断我。听我说。我充分考虑
到，这可能是你人生中的一个尴尬时期，而且——”
“哦，我的上帝！你这个白痴！你这个自大的白痴！你难道看不出这是不一样的，这是
——这是一个奇迹吗？这点你难道看不出来吗？”
这时，他从房间那头走过来，用力抓住她的双肩。他唇间叼着刚点燃的香烟，她隐约看
到他皮肤上有大量出汗被吹干后的斑斑印迹。“听着。”他说，“我饿了。我放弃了打高尔夫
球，一整天都在花园里干活，现在又累又饿，想吃一些晚饭。你也是。赶紧到厨房去，给我
们俩弄点好东西吃吃。”
路易莎退后一步，用两只手捂住了嘴。“我的天哪！”她喊道，“我完全忘记了。他一定早
就饿坏了。他来了后只喝过几口牛奶，我什么也没有给他吃。”
“谁？”
“哎呀，当然是他。我必须立刻去做一些很不一般的东西。我真希望知道他以前最爱吃的
菜是什么。你认为他最喜欢吃什么呢，爱德华？”
“该死，路易莎！”
“好了，爱德华，拜托。那么我就按我的方式去做吧。你待在这里。”她一边说着，一边
弯下腰，用手指轻轻碰了碰猫，“我很快就回来。”
路易莎走进厨房，站了一会儿，考虑做什么特色美食。蛋奶酥怎么样？一道美味的奶酪
蛋奶酥？没错，那肯定很有特色。当然啦，爱德华不太爱吃，但那也没办法。
她的厨艺只是差强人意，对蛋奶酥做出来的效果一向没有把握，但这次她格外用心，等
了很长时间，确保炉子完全加热到合适的温度。蛋奶酥烤着的时候，她到处寻找跟它相配的
东西，突然想到李斯特可能一辈子都没尝过鳄梨和西柚，于是决定给他把这两样同时做在沙
拉里。到时候观察他的反应会很有意思。肯定。
一切就绪，她把美食放在托盘上，端进了客厅。就在她进来的那一刻，她看见丈夫从花
园跨过落地长窗进来了。
“这是他的晚饭。”路易莎说，把托盘放在桌上，朝沙发转过身来，“他在哪儿？”
丈夫进来后，关上花园的门，走到房间这头，给自己拿香烟。
“爱德华，他在哪儿？”
“谁？”
“你明知道是谁。”
“啊，是的。是的，没错。好吧——我告诉你。”他俯身点烟，双手拢住那个硕大的漆皮
打火机。他抬头扫了一眼，发现路易莎正看着他——看着他的鞋子和卡其布裤子的裤脚，因
为在长长的草地上走过，鞋子和裤脚都沾湿了。
“我刚才去看看那堆篝火怎么样了。”他说。
她的目光慢慢往上抬，停在他的双手上。
“仍然烧得很好。”他继续说，“我认为烧一整夜没问题。”
然而，她盯着他的那种眼神使他感到了不安。
“怎么啦？”他说，放下了打火机。然后他垂下目光，第一次注意到自己一只手背上那道
斜斜的、又长又细的抓痕，从指关节一直延伸到手腕。
“爱德华！”
“是的，”他说，“我知道。那些荆棘太可怕了。简直能把你撕成碎片。喂，等一下，路易
莎。出什么事了？”
“爱德华！”
“哦，看在上帝的分上，女人，快坐下来，保持冷静。没有什么好激动的。路易莎！路易
莎，坐下！”
首次发表于《纽约客》 1953.10.31
[1]英美制长度单位，1码等于0.9144米。
Pig 1
Pig
1
Once upon a time, in the City of New York, a beautiful baby boy was born into this world, and the
joyful parents named him Lexington.
No sooner had the mother returned home from the hospital carrying Lexington in her arms than
she said to her husband, ‘Darling, now you must take me out to a most marvellous restaurant for
dinner so that we can celebrate the arrival of our son and heir.’
Her husband embraced her tenderly and told her that any woman who could produce such a
beautiful child as Lexington deserved to go absolutely anywhere she wanted. But was she strong
enough yet, he inquired, to start running around the city late at night?
‘No,’ she said, she wasn’t. But what the hell.
So that evening they both dressed themselves up in fancy clothes, and leaving little Lexington in
the care of a trained infant’s nurse who was costing them twenty dollars a day and was Scottish
into the bargain, they went out to the finest and most expensive restaurant in town. There they
each ate a giant lobster and drank a bottle of champagne between them, and after that they went on
to a nightclub, where they drank another bottle of champagne and then sat holding hands for
several hours while they recalled and discussed and admired each individual physical feature of
their lovely newborn son.
They arrived back at their house on the East Side of Manhattan at around two o’clock in the
morning and the husband paid off the taxi driver and then began feeling in his pockets for the key
to the front door. After a while, he announced that he must have left it in the pocket of his other
suit, and he suggested that they ring the bell and get the nurse to come down and let them in. An
infant’s nurse at twenty dollars a day must expect to be hauled out of bed occasionally in the night,
the husband said.
So he rang the bell. They waited. Nothing happened. He rang it again, long and loud. They
waited another minute. Then they both stepped back on to the street and shouted the nurse’s name
(McPottle) up at the nursery windows on the third floor, but there was still no response. The house
was dark and silent. The wife began to grow apprehensive. Her baby was imprisoned in this place,
she told herself. Alone with McPottle. And who was McPottle? They had known her for two days,
that was all, and she had a thin mouth, a small disapproving eye, and a starchy bosom, and quite
clearly she was in the habit of sleeping too soundly for safety. If she couldn’t hear the front
doorbell, then how on earth did she expect to hear a baby crying? Why this very second the poor
thing might be swallowing its tongue or suffocating on its pillow.
‘He doesn’t use a pillow,’ the husband said. ‘You are not to worry. But I’ll get you in if that’s
what you want.’ He was feeling rather superb after all the champagne, and now he bent down and
undid the laces of one of his black patent-leather shoes, and took it off. Then, holding it by the toe,
he flung it hard and straight through the dining-room window on the ground floor.
‘There you are,’ he said, grinning. ‘We’ll deduct it from McPottle’s wages.’
He stepped forward and very carefully put a hand through the hole in the glass and released the
catch. Then he raised the window.
‘I shall lift you in first, little mother,’ he said, and took his wife around the waist and lifted her
off the ground. This brought her big red mouth up level with his own, and very close, so he started
kissing her. He knew from experience that women like very much to be kissed in this position,with
their bodies held tight and their legs dangling in the air, so he went on doing it for quite a long
time, and she wiggled her feet, and made loud gulping noises down in her throat. Finally, the
husband turned her round and began easing her gently through the open window into the dining-
room. At this point, a police patrol car came nosing silently along the street towards them. It
stopped about thirty yards away, and three cops of Irish extraction leaped out of the car and started
running in the direction of the husband and wife, brandishing revolvers.
‘Stick ’em up!’ the cops shouted. ‘Stick ’em up!’ But it was impossible for the husband to obey
this order without letting go of his wife, and had he done this she would either have fallen to the
ground or would have been left dangling half in and half out of the house, which is a terribly
uncomfortable position for a woman; so he continued gallantly to push her upward and inward
through the window. The cops, all of whom had received medals before for killing robbers,
opened fire immediately, and although they were still running, and although the wife in particular
was presenting them with a very small target indeed, they succeeded in scoring several direct hits
on each body - sufficient anyway to prove fatal in both cases.
Thus, when he was no more than twelve days old, little Lexington became an orphan.
猪 一
猪
一
很久很久以前，在纽约城里，一个漂亮的小男孩来到了这个世界，欣喜若狂的爸爸妈妈
给他起名莱克星顿。
妈妈抱着莱克星顿刚从医院回到家里，就对丈夫说：“亲爱的，现在你必须带我去最豪华
的餐馆吃饭，好好庆祝一下我们的继承人儿子的降生。”
丈夫温柔地拥抱她，对她说，不管哪个女人，能制造出一个像莱克星顿这样漂亮的孩
子，都绝对有资格去任何她想去的地方。可是，他询问道，她身子骨还比较弱，有力气在夜
里满城乱逛吗？
对，她说，她没力气。可是管他呢。
于是，那天夜里，他们俩都换上漂亮的衣服，把小莱克星顿交给一位经过训练的育儿保
姆，那保姆是他们以每天二十美元的价钱请来的，而且还是个苏格兰人。他们去了城里最精
致、最昂贵的餐馆，每人吃了一只巨大的龙虾，两人分喝了一瓶香槟，然后他们去了一家夜
总会，又喝了一瓶香槟。在那里他俩握着手，一坐好几个小时，回忆、讨论和赞美他们可爱
的新生儿的每一个长相特征。
大约凌晨两点的时候，他们回到位于曼哈顿东区的家，丈夫付了出租车钱，开始在口袋
里掏前门的钥匙。过了一会儿，他声称钥匙肯定留在另一件西装的口袋里了，他提议按门
铃，让那个保姆下来开门放他们进去。一天二十美元雇来的育儿保姆，偶尔在大半夜把她从
床上叫起来完全没问题，丈夫说。
于是，他按响了门铃。他们等待着，什么动静也没有。他又按了一次，按的时间很长，
声音很响。他们又等了一分钟。接着他们都退回到街上，朝三楼育儿室的窗口大喊保姆的名
字（麦伯特），但仍然没有回音。房子里静悄悄的，一片漆黑。妻子开始有了一种不祥的预
感。她的小宝宝被关在这座房子里，她对自己说。只有麦伯特陪着他。麦伯特是何许人呢？
他们才认识她两天，仅此而已，她有一张薄薄的嘴，一双苛责的小眼睛，胸脯像一块平板，
她似乎习惯于睡得太死，这是很不安全的。如果她连前门的门铃都听不见，又怎么能指望她
听见小宝宝的哭声呢？哎呀，说不定就在此时此刻，可怜的小家伙吞了自己的舌头，或被枕
头堵住了呼吸呢。
“他睡觉不用枕头。”丈夫说，“你不用担心。不过，如果你想进屋，我会把你弄进去
的。”喝了那么多香槟，他觉得自己无所不能。他弯下腰，解开自己的一只黑色漆皮鞋的鞋
带，把鞋子脱了下来。然后，他用一个脚趾勾住鞋子，用力一甩，把鞋子直接甩向了一楼餐
厅的窗户。
“走你。”他咧嘴笑着说，“从麦伯特的工钱里扣除。”
他走上前，非常小心地把一只手伸进玻璃上的那个洞，打开了窗栓。他把窗户抬了起
来。
“我先把你抱进去，小妈妈。”他说，然后他抱住妻子的腰，把她从地上举了起来。这样
一来，她那鲜红的大嘴正好跟他的嘴巴齐平，而且离得很近，于是他开始吻她。他凭经验知
道，女人非常喜欢以这个姿势被人亲吻，身体被抱得紧紧的，两条腿悬在空中，因此他吻了
很长时间。她扭动着双脚，嗓子里发出很响的吞咽声。最后，丈夫把她转过来，开始轻轻地
把她从打开的窗户那里放进餐厅。就在这时，一辆警车从街上悄无声息地朝他们开来，警车
大约停在三十码开外，三名爱尔兰血统的警察从车里跳出来，手里挥着手枪，朝这对夫妻的
方向跑了过来。
“举起手来！”警察喊道，“举起手来！”可是丈夫不可能听从这个命令，除非他松开自己
的妻子，而他一旦松手，妻子就会要么摔在地上，要么悬在那儿，半个身子在房里，半个身
子在房外，这对一个女人来说是一种极不舒服的姿势。于是，丈夫继续勇敢地高举着妻子，
把她往窗户里送。这几位警察都曾经因为杀死过强盗而获得奖章，他们不由分说就开了火，
虽然他们还在奔跑，虽然妻子在他们面前只露出了很小一点目标，但他们还是成功地把几颗
子弹射进了每具身体——对那两个人来说都足以致命。
就这样，小莱克星顿刚出生十二天，就成了一名孤儿。
Pig 2
2
The news of this killing, for which the three policemen subsequently received citations, was
eagerly conveyed to all the relatives of the deceased couple by newspaper reporters, and the next
morning the closest of these relatives, as well as a couple of undertakers, three lawyers, and a
priest, climbed into taxis and set out for the house with the broken window. They assembled in the
living-room, men and women both, and they sat around in a circle on the sofas and armchairs,
smoking cigarettes and sipping sherry and debating what on earth should be done now with the
baby upstairs, the orphan Lexington.
It soon became apparent that none of the relatives was particularly keen to assume responsibility
for the child, and the discussions and arguments continued all through the day. Everybody
declared an enormous, almost an irresistible desire to look after him, and would have done so with
the greatest of pleasure were it not for the fact that their apartment was too small, or that they
already had one baby and couldn’t possibly afford another, or that they wouldn’t know what to do
with the poor little thing when they went abroad in the summer, or that they were getting on in
years, which surely would be most unfair to the boy when he grew up, and so on and so forth.
They all knew, of course, that the father had been heavily in debt for a long time and that the
house was mortgaged and that consequently there would be no money at all to go with the child.
They were still arguing like mad at six in the evening when suddenly, in the middle of it all, an
old aunt of the deceased father (her name was Glosspan) swept in from Virginia, and without even
removing her hat and coat, not even pausing to sit down, ignoring all offers of a martini, a whisky,
a sherry, she announced firmly to the assembled relatives that she herself intended to take sole
charge of the infant boy from then on. What was more, she said, she would assume full financial
responsibility on all counts, including education, and everyone else could go back home where
they belonged and give their consciences a rest. So saying, she trotted upstairs to the nursery and
snatched Lexington from his cradle and swept out of the house with the baby clutched tightly in
her arms, while the relatives simply sat and stared and smiled and looked relieved, and McPottle
the nurse stood stiff with disapproval at the head of the stairs, her lips compressed, her arms folded
across her starchy bosom.
And thus it was that the infant Lexington, when he was thirteen days old, left the City of New
York and travelled southward to live with his Great Aunt Glosspan in the State of Virginia.
猪 二
二
射杀事件过后，三名警察接受了传讯，这消息被报社记者积极地报告给了这对已故夫妇
的所有亲属，第二天早晨，亲属中关系最近的几个，以及两位殡仪员、三名律师和一位神
父，纷纷钻进出租车，前往那座窗户被砸破的房子。他们男男女女全都集中在客厅里，在沙
发和扶手椅里落座，围成一圈，抽香烟，喝雪利酒，争论现在该如何处置楼上的那个婴儿
——已沦为孤儿的莱克星顿。
很快大家就发现，没有一位亲属特别积极地愿意承担照顾这个孩子的责任，讨论和争辩
持续了整整一天。每个人都言之凿凿地宣称自己非常乐意，甚至有着无法抗拒的欲望去照顾
莱克星顿，如果不是因为他们的公寓太小，或者家里已经有了一个婴儿，再多一个实在养不
起，或者他们不知道夏天出国度假时该拿可怜的小家伙怎么办，或者他们年事已高，对小男
孩的成长肯定极为不利……要不是诸如此类的种种原因，他们肯定会以极大的喜悦收养莱克
星顿。当然啦，他们都知道那位父亲长期欠着大量外债，房子已经被抵押，因此根本不会有
钱留给这个孩子。
晚上六点，他们仍然在十分激烈地争执，就在大家唇枪舌剑的时候，已故父亲的一位老
姑妈（名叫格罗斯潘）突然从弗吉尼亚赶了过来，她连帽子和大衣都没有脱，甚至没有坐下
来喘口气，对别人递来的马提尼、威士忌和雪利酒一概不予理会，她毫不含糊地对聚在一起
的亲戚宣布，从此以后，她将独自承担照顾这个小男孩的责任。而且，她说，她还将承担所
有经济上的责任，包括教育，其他人都可以各回各家，从此安下心来，不再内疚。她一边这
么说着，一边快步走到楼上的婴儿室，一把抱起婴儿床上的莱克星顿，然后把婴儿紧紧搂在
怀里，离开房子，扬长而去。那些亲戚只是坐在那里，面面相觑，脸上浮出微笑，一副如释
重负的样子。保姆麦伯特不满地呆立在楼梯顶上，抿着嘴唇，双臂抱在平板一块的胸前。
就这样，婴儿莱克星顿在只有十三天大时，离开了纽约城，一路南行，到弗吉尼亚州去
跟他的姑奶奶格罗斯潘一起生活。
Pig 3
3
Aunt Glosspan was nearly seventy when she became guardian to Lexington, but to look at her you
would never have guessed it for one minute. She was as sprightly as a woman half her age, with a
small, wrinkled, but still quite beautiful face and two lovely brown eyes that sparkled at you in the
nicest way. She was also a spinster, though you would never have guessed that either, for there
was nothing spinsterish about Aunt Glosspan. She was never bitter or gloomy or irritable; she
didn’t have a moustache; and she wasn’t in the least bit jealous of other people, which in itself is
something you can seldom say about either a spinster or a virgin lady, although of course it is not
known for certain whether Aunt Glosspan qualified on both counts.
But she was an eccentric old woman, there was no doubt about that. For the past thirty years she
had lived a strange isolated life all by herself in a tiny cottage high up on the slopes of the Blue
Ridge Mountains, several miles from the nearest village. She had five acres of pasture, a plot for
growing vegetables, a flower garden, three cows, a dozen hens, and a fine cockerel.
And now she had little Lexington as well.
She was a strict vegetarian and regarded the consumption of animal flesh as not only unhealthy
and disgusting, but horribly cruel. She lived upon lovely clean foods like milk, butter, eggs,
cheese, vegetables, nuts, herbs, and fruit and she rejoiced in the conviction that no living creature
would be slaughtered on her account, not even a shrimp. Once, when a brown hen of hers passed
away in the prime of life from being eggbound, Aunt Glosspan was so distressed that she nearly
gave up egg-eating altogether.
She knew not the first thing about babies, but that didn’t worry her in the least. At the railway
station in New York, while waiting for the train that would take her and Lexington back to
Virginia, she bought six feeding-bottles, two dozen diapers, a box of safety pins, a carton of milk
for the journey, and a small paper-covered book called The Care of Infants. What more could
anyone want? And when the train got going, she fed the baby some milk, changed its nappies after
a fashion, and laid it down on the seat to sleep. Then she read The Care of Infants from cover to
cover.
‘There is no problem here,’ she said, throwing the book out of the window. ‘No problem at all.’
And curiously enough there wasn’t. Back home in the cottage everything went just as smoothly
as could be. Little Lexington drank his milk and belched and yelled and slept exactly as a good
baby should, and Aunt Glosspan glowed with joy whenever she looked at him and showered him
with kisses all day long.
猪 三
三
格罗斯潘姑奶奶成为莱克星顿的监护人的那年，已经快七十岁了，但是看她的样子，你
绝对猜不到这点。她像个三十多岁的女人一样充满活力，一张布满皱纹的小脸依然美丽，两
只可爱的褐色眼睛那么温柔地对你闪着光。她还是个老处女，不过这点你也永远不会猜到，
因为格罗斯潘姑奶奶身上没有半点老处女的影子。她从不尖刻、阴郁或心情烦躁。她嘴唇上
的汗毛不浓密，也丝毫不嫉妒别人，单单这点就很少有老姑娘或老处女能够做到，当然啦，
谁也不能确定格罗斯潘姑奶奶是否真的具有这两种身份。
但她是个古怪的老太婆，这点是毫无疑问的。在过去的三十年里，她独自一人住在蓝岭
山脉，高高山坡上的一座很小的木屋里，过着一种奇怪的、与世隔绝的生活，那里离最近的
村子也有好几英里。她有五英亩的牧场、一片菜地、一个花园、三头奶牛、十几只母鸡，以
及一只漂亮的小公鸡。
现在，她又有了小莱克星顿。
她是一个严格的素食者，认为吃动物的肉不仅有害健康、令人恶心，而且是极为残忍
的。她主要靠牛奶、黄油、鸡蛋、奶酪、蔬菜、坚果、野草和水果等洁净的食物为生，并颇
为欣慰地相信，没有任何活物因为她的缘故而遭到杀戮，哪怕是一只小虾。有一次，她的一
只褐色母鸡因为生蛋难产，年纪轻轻就死去了，格罗斯潘姑奶奶难过极了，差点儿就彻底不
再吃鸡蛋了。
她对小婴儿一无所知，但丝毫没有为此犯难。她带着莱克星顿乘火车回弗吉尼亚，在纽
约的火车站等车时，她买了六个奶瓶、两打尿片、一包安全别针、一盒路上喝的牛奶，以及
一本小小的平装书《育儿大全》。除此之外还需要什么呢？火车开动后，她喂婴儿喝了些牛
奶，依葫芦画瓢地给他换了尿片，然后把婴儿放在座位上让他睡觉。她把《育儿大全》从头
到尾看了一遍。
“没有任何问题。”她说完就把那本书扔出了车窗外，“毫无问题。”
说来奇怪，果然毫无问题。回到那座小木屋，一切都出奇地顺利。小莱克星顿乖乖地喝
奶、打嗝、喊叫、睡觉，完全是个模范婴儿，格罗斯潘姑奶奶一看到他就喜不自禁，整天抱
着他亲个不停。
Pig 4
4
By the time he was six years old, young Lexington had grown into a most beautiful boy with long
golden hair and deep blue eyes the colour of cornflowers. He was bright and cheerful, and already
he was learning to help his old aunt in all sorts of different ways around the property, collecting
the eggs from the chicken house, turning the handle of the butter churn, digging up potatoes in the
vegetable garden and searching for wild herbs on the side of the mountain. Soon, Aunt Glosspan
told herself, she would have to start thinking about his education.
But she couldn’t bear the thought of sending him away to school. She loved him so much now
that it would kill her to be parted from him for any length of time. There was, of course, that
village school down in the valley, but it was a dreadful-looking place, and if she sent him there she
just knew they would start forcing him to eat meat the very first day he arrived.
‘You know what, my darling?’ she said to him one day when he was sitting on a stool in the
kitchen watching her make cheese. ‘I don’t really see why I shouldn’t give you your lessons
myself.’
The boy looked up at her with his large blue eyes, and gave her a lovely trusting smile. ‘That
would be nice,’ he said.
‘And the very first thing I should do would be to teach you how to cook.’
‘I think I would like that. Aunt Glosspan.’
‘Whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to learn some time,’ she said. ‘Vegetarians like
us don’t have nearly so many foods to choose from as ordinary people, and therefore they must
learn to be doubly expert with what they have.’
‘Aunt Glosspan,’ the boy said, ‘what do ordinary people eat that we don’t?’
‘Animals,’ she answered, tossing her head in disgust.
‘You mean live animals?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Dead ones.’
The boy considered this for a moment.
‘You mean when they die they eat them instead of burying them?’
‘They don’t wait for them to die, my pet. They kill them.’
‘How do they kill them, Aunt Glosspan?’
‘They usually slit their throats with a knife.’
‘But what kind of animals?’
‘Cows and pigs mostly, and sheep.’
‘Cows!’ the boy cried. ‘You mean like Daisy and Snowdrop and Lily?’
‘Exactly, my dear.’
‘But how do they eat them, Aunt Glosspan?’
‘They cut them up into bits and they cook the bits. They like it best when it’s all red and bloody
and sticking to the bones. They love to eat lumps of cow’s flesh with the blood oozing out of it.’
‘Pigs too?’
‘They adore pigs.’
‘Lumps of bloody pig’s meat,’ the boy said. ‘Imagine that. What else do they eat. Aunt
Glosspan?’
‘Chickens.’
‘Chickens!’
‘Millions of them.’
‘Feathers and all?’
‘No, dear, not the feathers. Now run along outside and get Aunt Glosspan a bunch of chives,
will you, my darling.’
Shortly after that, the lessons began. They covered five subjects, reading, writing, geography,
arithmetic, and cooking, but the latter was by far the most popular with both teacher and pupil. In
fact, it very soon became apparent that young Lexington possessed a truly remarkable talent in this
direction. He was a born cook. He was dextrous and quick. He could handle his pans like a
juggler. He could slice a single potato in twenty paper-thin slivers in less time than it took his aunt
to peel it. His palate was exquisitely sensitive, and he could taste a pot of strong onion soup and
immediately detect the presence of a single tiny leaf of sage. In so young a boy, all this was a bit
bewildering to Aunt Glosspan, and to tell the truth she didn’t quite know what to make of it. But
she was proud as proud as could be, all the same, and predicted a brilliant future for the child.
‘What a mercy it is,’ she said, ‘that I have such a wonderful little fellow to look after me in my
dotage.’ And a couple of years later, she retired from the kitchen for good, leaving Lexington in
sole charge of all household cooking. The boy was now ten years old, and Aunt Glosspan was
nearly eighty.
猪 四
四
小莱克星顿六岁的时候，出落成了一个十分漂亮的男孩子，一头长长的金发，一双深邃
的蓝眼睛，颜色跟矢车菊一样。他聪明伶俐，生性快活，已经学着帮老姑奶奶里里外外地干
各种活计了：从鸡窝里捡鸡蛋，给奶油搅拌器摇把手，在菜园子里挖土豆，到山坡上去找野
菜。过不了多久，格罗斯潘姑奶奶对自己说，她该考虑这孩子的教育问题了。
可是一想到要把他送去学校，她就觉得受不了。她这么深爱着莱克星顿，跟他分开，哪
怕一分一秒，都会要了她的命。当然啦，村办学校就在下面的山谷里，但那是个看上去很可
怕的地方，如果把莱克星顿送到那里，她知道他上学的第一天他们就会逼着他吃肉的。
“你知道吗，亲爱的？”有一天，莱克星顿坐在厨房的小凳子上看她做奶酪时，她对他说
道，“我认为我完全可以自己教你学习功课。”
男孩抬头用他那双蓝色的大眼睛看着姑奶奶，朝她露出可爱的、信赖的笑容。“那多好
啊。”他说。
“首先第一步，我要教你怎么烹饪。”
“我肯定会喜欢的，格罗斯潘姑奶奶。”
“不管喜欢不喜欢，你早晚都必须学会。”她说，“我们这样的素食者，远远不像普通人有
那么多食物可以选择，所以，必须学会特别高超的厨艺，充分利用有限的食材。”
“格罗斯潘姑奶奶，”男孩说，“普通人吃的什么东西是我们不吃的呢？”
“动物。”姑奶奶回答，厌恶地甩了一下脑袋。
“你是指活的动物？”
“不。”她说，“死的动物。”
男孩思忖了片刻。
“你的意思是说，动物死后，他们不把它们埋葬，而是把它们吃掉吗？”
“他们不会等动物死去，宝贝儿。他们把动物杀死。”
“怎么把动物杀死呢，格罗斯潘姑奶奶？”
“通常是用刀子割开动物的喉咙。”
“是什么动物呢？”
“多半是牛和猪，还有羊。”
“牛！”男孩喊了起来，“你是说像雏菊、雪花莲和百合花那样的奶牛？”
“一点不错，亲爱的。”
“可是他们怎么吃这些动物呢，格罗斯潘姑奶奶？”
“他们把动物切成小块，烧熟了吃。他们最喜欢红红的、带血的、粘在骨头上的肉。他们
爱吃那种往外渗血的大块牛肉。”
“猪也是吗？”
“他们可喜欢吃猪肉了。”
“一块块血淋淋的猪肉。”男孩说，“真不敢想象。他们还吃什么呢，格罗斯潘姑奶奶？”
“鸡。”
“鸡！”
“数不清的鸡。”
“连鸡毛一起吃？”
“不，亲爱的，鸡毛不吃。好了，跑到外面去，给格罗斯潘姑奶奶摘一把细香葱吧，好
吗，亲爱的？”
不久之后，他们便开始上课了。一共五门功课：阅读、写作、地理、数学和烹饪，但不
管是老师还是学生，都对最后一门功课情有独钟。事实上很快就能明显看出，小小年纪的莱
克星顿在这方面具有得天独厚的才能。他是个天生的烹饪家。他心灵手巧，动作敏捷。他操
纵那些锅碗瓢盆，就像魔术师变戏法一样。他能把一个土豆切成薄纸般的二十片，用的时间
比姑奶奶给土豆削皮的时间还短。他的味觉格外灵敏，一锅浓味洋葱汤，他只要尝一口，就
能立刻辨别出里面有一片鼠尾草叶子。这么年幼的一个男孩子，竟然有这样的本事，这让格
罗斯潘姑奶奶有点儿迷惑不解，说句实话，她并不完全明白这是怎么回事。不过，她还是感
到非常骄傲，并且预言这孩子的未来不可限量。
“感谢上帝，”她说，“在我晚年有这样一个出色的小家伙照顾我。”又过了两年，她彻底
退出了厨房，由莱克星顿独揽家里的烹饪大权。此时，男孩已经十岁，格罗斯潘姑奶奶将近
八十高龄。
Pig 5
5
With the kitchen to himself, Lexington straight away began experimenting with dishes of his own
invention. The old favourites no longer interested him. He had a violent urge to create. There were
hundreds of fresh ideas in his head. ‘I will begin,’ he said, ‘by devising a chestnut soufflé.’ He
made it and served it up for supper that very night. It was terrific. ‘You are a genius!’ Aunt
Glosspan cried, leaping up from her chair and kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You will make
history!’
From then on, hardly a day went by without some new delectable creation being set upon the
table. There was Brazilnut soup, hominy cutlets, vegetable ragout, dandelion omelette, cream-
cheese fritters, stuffed-cabbage surprise, stewed foggage, shallots à la bonne femme, beetroot
mousse piquant, prunes Stroganoff, Dutch rarebit, turnips on horseback, flaming spruce-needle
tarts, and many many other beautiful compositions. Never before in her life. Aunt Glosspan
declared, had she tasted such food as this; and in the mornings, long before lunch was due, she
would go out on to the porch and sit there in her rocking-chair, speculating about the coming meal,
licking her chops, sniffing the aromas that came wafting out through the kitchen window.
‘What’s that you’re making in there today, boy?’ she would call out.
‘Try to guess. Aunt Glosspan.’
‘Smells like a bit of salsify fritters to me,’ she would say, sniffing vigorously.
Then out he would come, this ten-year-old child, a little grin of triumph on his face, and in his
hands a big steaming pot of the most heavenly stew made entirely of parsnips and lovage.
‘You know what you ought to do,’ his aunt said to him, gobbling the stew. ‘You ought to set
yourself down this very minute with paper and pencil and write a cooking-book.’
He looked at her across the table, chewing his parsnips slowly.
‘Why not?’ she cried. ‘I’ve taught you how to write and I’ve taught you how to cook and now
all you’ve got to do is put the two things together. You write a cooking-book, my darling, and it’ll
make you famous the whole world over.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will.’
And that very day, Lexington began writing the first page of that monumental work which was
to occupy him for the rest of his life. He called it Eat Good and Healthy.
猪 五
五
厨房完全归了自己，莱克星顿立刻开始试验他发明的各种菜式。他对以前的拿手菜不再
感兴趣。他有一种十分强烈的创造冲动，脑子里冒出了几百个新鲜想法。“首先，”他说，“我
要发明一道栗子蛋奶酥。”他把这道菜做了出来，当天晚上就端上了桌。味道美极了。“你是
个天才！”格罗斯潘姑奶奶喊道，一下子从椅子里跳起来，亲吻他的两边面颊，“你会载入史
册的！”
从此一发而不可收，几乎每天都有一道新创的美味被摆上餐桌。有巴西坚果汤、香炸玉
米粒、烩蔬菜、蒲公英煎蛋卷、奶油芝士饼、白菜皮包馅、红烧再生草、丽人青葱段、辣味
甜菜根慕斯、酸奶油李子、荷兰干酪、马鞍萝卜、烈焰松针果馅饼，以及许许多多其他美妙
的组合。格罗斯潘姑奶奶宣称，她活了大半辈子，从来没有尝过这样的美食。上午，离午饭
做好还早着呢，她就出门来到前廊上，坐在自己的摇椅里，猜想着即将到来的美餐，嗅着从
厨房窗户里飘来的阵阵香味，垂涎欲滴。
“今天你在里面做什么呢，孩子？”她会大声问。
“你猜猜看，格罗斯潘姑奶奶。”
“闻着有一点像婆罗门参煎饼。”她猜道，同时一个劲儿地嗅鼻子。
然后他来了，这个年仅十岁的孩子，脸上带着一点得意的笑容，手里端着一个热气腾腾
的大锅，锅里是用防风草和独活草做的炖菜，堪称人间美味。
“你知道你应该做什么吗？”姑奶奶狼吞虎咽地吃着炖菜，对他说道，“你应该立刻拿着纸
和笔坐下来，写一本烹饪书。”
他隔着桌子看着姑妈，慢慢嚼着嘴里的防风草。
“为什么不写？”姑妈大声说，“我教过你怎么写字，还教过你怎么烹饪，现在你要做的就
是把这两件事结合起来。亲爱的，你写一本烹饪书吧，这会让你在全世界都出名的。”
“好吧，”他说，“我写。”
就在那天，莱克星顿开始写那部不朽之作的第一页，他的余生都倾注于此。他给这本书
起名叫《美味健康食谱》。
Pig 6
6
Seven years later, by the time he was seventeen, he had recorded over nine thousand different
recipes, all of them original, all of them delicious.
But now, suddenly, his labours were interrupted by the tragic death of Aunt Glosspan. She was
afflicted in the night by a violent seizure, and Lexington, who had rushed into her bedroom to see
what all the noise was about, found her lying on her bed yelling and cussing and twisting herself
into all manner of complicated knots. Indeed, she was a terrible sight to behold, and the agitated
youth danced around her in his pyjamas, wringing his hands, and wondering what on earth he
should do. Finally in an effort to cool her down, he fetched a bucket of water from the pond in the
cow field and tipped it over her head, but this only intensified the paroxysms, and the old lady
expired within the hour.
‘This is really too bad,’ the poor boy said, pinching her several times to make sure that she was
dead. ‘And how sudden! How quick and sudden! Why only a few hours ago she seemed in the
very best of spirits. She even took three large helpings of my most recent creation, devilled
mushroomburgers, and told me how succulent it was.’
After weeping bitterly for several minutes, for he had loved his aunt very much, he pulled
himself together and carried her outside and buried her behind the cowshed.
The next day, while tidying up her belongings, he came across an envelope that was addressed
to him in Aunt Glosspan’s handwriting. He opened it and drew out two fifty-dollar bills and a
letter.
Darling boy [the letter said], I know that you have never yet been down the mountain since you were
thirteen days old, but as soon as I die you must put on a pair of shoes and a clean shirt and walk down to
the village and find a doctor. Ask the doctor to give you a death certificate to prove that I am dead. Then
take this certificate to my lawyer, a man called Mr Samuel Zucker-mann, who lives in New York City
and who has a copy of my will. Mr Zuckermann will arrange everything. The cash in this envelope is to
pay the doctor for the certificate and to cover the cost of your journey to New York. Mr Zuckermann will
give you more money when you get there, and it is my earnest wish that you use it to further your
researches into culinary and vegetarian matters, and that you continue to work upon that great book of
yours until you are satisfied that it is complete in every way. Your loving aunt - Glosspan.
Lexington, who had always done everything his aunt told him, pocketed the money, put on a
pair of shoes and a clean shirt, and went down the mountain to the village where the doctor lived.
‘Old Glosspan?’ the doctor said. ‘My God, is she dead?’
‘Certainly she’s dead,’ the youth answered. ‘If you will come back home with me now I’ll dig
her up and you can see for yourself.’
‘How deep did you bury her?’ the doctor asked.
‘Six or seven feet down, I should think.’
‘And how long ago?’
‘Oh, about eight hours.’
‘Then she’s dead,’ the doctor announced. ‘Here’s the certificate.’
猪 六
六
七年后，莱克星顿十七岁时，已经记录了九千多个不同的菜的烹饪方法，全都是原创，
全都很美味。
然而，因为格罗斯潘姑奶奶的不幸去世，他的辛勤工作突然终止。姑奶奶夜里突发严重
的惊厥，莱克星顿听见动静，冲进她的卧室看个究竟，发现她躺在床上，一个劲儿地喊叫、
咒骂，把身体扭曲成各种复杂的形状。她那副样子着实骇人，年轻人穿着睡衣，焦虑不安地
在她床边转来转去，拧着双手，不知道自己到底该怎么办。最后，为了给姑奶奶降降温，他
从奶牛场的池塘里打来一桶水，兜头浇在姑奶奶身上，没想到反而加重了病情，一小时不
到，老太婆就一命呜呼了。
“这真是太糟糕了。”可怜的小伙子说，他掐了姑奶奶几次，看她是不是真的死了，“这太
突然了！多么迅速和突然啊！唉，就在几个小时前，她还是一副兴致勃勃的样子。我刚发明
的那道辣味蘑菇汉堡，她吃了足足三大份呢，还对我称赞它非常美味。”
莱克星顿难过地哭了几分钟——因为他非常爱他的姑奶奶，然后他振作起来，把姑奶奶
抬到外面，埋在了牛棚后面。
第二天，他整理姑奶奶的遗物时，发现了一个信封，上面写着他的名字，是格罗斯潘姑
奶奶的笔迹。他打开信封，掏出两张五十美元的钞票和一封信。“亲爱的孩子——”信里写
道：
我知道，你从出生十三天后就没有在山下待过，但我死后，你必须穿上一双皮鞋和
一件干净衬衫，下山走到村子里，找到医生，请医生给你开一份死亡证明，证实我已死
亡。然后拿着这份证明去找我的律师，一个名叫塞缪尔•祖克曼先生的男人，他住在纽约
城，手里有我的一份遗嘱。祖克曼先生会安排一切。这个信封里的现金，是医生开证明
的费用和你去纽约的路费。到了纽约，祖克曼先生会给你更多的钱，我真心地希望你可
以用那些钱继续你在厨艺和素食方面的研究，继续撰写你那部巨著，直到你认为它已全
部完成，再无遗憾。
爱你的姑奶奶——格罗斯潘
莱克星顿一向对他的姑奶奶言听计从，他把钱放进口袋，穿上一双皮鞋和一件干净衬
衫，下山去了医生所在的村子里。
“格罗斯潘老人家？”医生说，“上帝啊，她死了？”
“她肯定是死了。”年轻人回答，“如果你现在跟我回去，我就把她从地里刨出来，你可以
亲自看看。”
“你把她埋得有多深？”医生问。
“约莫六七英尺深吧。”
“多久以前？”
“哦，大概八小时前。”
“那她就是死了。”医生宣布，“给，这是证明。”
Pig 7
7
Our hero now sets out for the City of New York to find Mr Samuel Zuckermann. He travelled on
foot, and he slept under hedges, and he lived on berries and wild herbs, and it took him sixteen
days to reach the metropolis.
‘What a fabulous place this is!’ he cried as he stood at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and
Fifth Avenue, staring around him. There are no cows or chickens anywhere, and none of the
women looks in the least like Aunt Glosspan.’
As for Mr Samuel Zuckermann, he looked like nothing that Lexington had ever seen before.
He was a small spongy man with livid jowls and a huge magenta nose, and when he smiled, bits
of gold flashed at you marvellously from lots of different places inside his mouth. In his luxurious
office, he shook Lexington warmly by the hand and congratulated him upon his aunt’s death.
‘I suppose you knew that your dearly beloved guardian was a woman of considerable wealth?’
he said.
‘You mean the cows and the chickens?’
‘I mean half a million bucks,’ Mr Zuckermann said.
‘How much?’
‘Half a million dollars, my boy. And she’s left it all to you.’ Mr Zuckermann leaned back in his
chair and clasped his hands over his spongy paunch. At the same time, he began secretly working
his right forefinger in through his waistcoat and under his shirt so as to scratch the skin around the
circumference of his navel - a favourite exercise of his, and one that gave him a peculiar pleasure.
‘Of course, I shall have to deduct fifty per cent for my services,’ he said, ‘But that still leaves you
with two hundred and fifty grand.’
‘I am rich!’ Lexington cried. ‘This is wonderful! How soon can I have the money?’
‘Well,’ Mr Zuckermann said, ‘luckily for you, I happen to be on rather cordial terms with the
tax authorities around here, and I am confident that I shall be able to persuade them to waive all
death duties and back taxes.’
‘How kind you are,’ murmured Lexington.
‘I should naturally have to give somebody a small honorarium.’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann.’
‘I think a hundred thousand would be sufficient.’
‘Good gracious, isn’t that rather excessive?’
‘Never undertip a tax inspector or a policeman,’ Mr Zuckermann said. ‘Remember that.’
‘But how much does it leave for me?’ the youth asked meekly.
‘One hundred and fifty thousand. But then you’ve got the funeral expenses to pay out of that.’
‘Funeral expenses?’
‘You’ve got to pay for the funeral parlour. Surely you know that?’
‘But I buried her myself, Mr Zuckermann, behind the cowshed.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ the lawyer said. ‘So what?’
‘I never used a funeral parlour.’
‘Listen,’ Mr Zuckermann said patiently. ‘You may not know it, but there is a law in this state
which says that no beneficiary under a will may receive a single penny of his inheritance until the
funeral parlour has been paid in full.’
‘You mean that’s a law?’
‘Certainly, it’s a law, and a very good one it is, too. The funeral parlour is one of our great
national institutions. It must be protected at all costs.’
Mr Zuckermann himself, together with a group of public-spirited doctors, controlled a
corporation that owned a chain of nine lavish funeral parlours in the city, not to mention a casket
factory in Brooklyn and a postgraduate school for embalmers in Washington Heights. The
celebration of death was therefore a deeply religious affair in Mr Zuckermann’s eyes. In fact, the
whole business affected him profoundly, almost as profoundly, one might say, as the birth of
Christ affected the shopkeeper.
‘You had no right to go out and bury your aunt like that,’ he said. ‘None at all.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Zuckermann.’
‘Why, it’s downright subversive.’
‘I’ll do whatever you say, Mr Zuckermann. All I want to know is how much I’m going to get in
the end, when everything’s paid.’
There was a pause. Mr Zuckermann sighed and frowned and continued secretly to run the tip of
his finger around the rim of his navel.
‘Shall we say fifteen thousand?’ he suggested, flashing a big gold smile. ‘That’s a nice round
figure.’
‘Can I take it with me this afternoon?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
So Mr Zuckermann summoned his chief cashier and told him to give Lexington fifteen thousand
dollars out of the petty cash, and to obtain a receipt. The youth, who by this time was delighted to
be getting anything at all, accepted the money gratefully and stowed it away in his knapsack. Then
he shook Mr Zuckermann warmly by the hand, thanked him for all his help, and went out of the
office.
‘The whole world is before me!’ our hero cried as he emerged into the street. ‘I now have
fifteen thousand dollars to see me through until my book is published. And after that, of course, I
shall have a great deal more.’ He stood on the pavement, wondering which way to go. He turned
left and began strolling slowly down the street, staring at the sights of the city.
‘What a revolting smell,’ he said, sniffing the air. ‘I can’t stand this.’ His delicate olfactory
nerves, tuned to receive only the most delicious kitchen aromas, were being tortured by the stench
of the diesel-oil fumes pouring out of the backs of buses.
‘I must get out of this place before my nose is ruined altogether,’ he said. ‘But first, I’ve simply
got to have something to eat. I’m starving.’ The poor boy had had nothing but berries and wild
herbs for the past two weeks, and now his stomach was yearning for solid food. I’d like a nice
hominy cutlet, he told himself. Or maybe a few juicy salsify fritters.
He crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. The place was hot inside, and dark and
silent. There was a strong smell of cooking-fat and cabbage water. The only other customer was a
man with a brown hat on his head, crouching intently over his food, who did not look up as
Lexington came in.
Our hero seated himself at a corner table and hung his knapsack on the back of his chair. This
he told himself, is going to be most interesting. In all my seventeen years I have tasted only the
cooking of two people, Aunt Glosspan and myself - unless one counts Nurse McPottle, who must
have heated my bottle a few times when I was an infant. But I am now about to sample the art of a
new chef altogether, and perhaps, if I am lucky, I may pick up a couple of useful ideas for my
book.
A waiter approached out of the shadows at the back, and stood beside the table.
‘How do you do,’ Lexington said. ‘I should like a large hominy cutlet please. Do it twenty-five
seconds each side, in a very hot skillet with sour cream, and sprinkle a pinch of lovage on it before
serving - unless of course your chef knows a more original method, in which case I should be
delighted to try it.’
The waiter laid his head over to one side and looked carefully at his customer. ‘You want the
roast pork and cabbage?’ he asked. ‘That’s all we got left.’
‘Roast what and cabbage?’
The waiter took a soiled handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shook it open with a violent
flourish, as though he were cracking a whip. Then he blew his nose loud and wet.
‘You want it or don’t you?’ he said, wiping his nostrils.
‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is,’ Lexington replied, ‘but I should love to try it. You see, I
am writing a cooking-book and …’
‘One pork and cabbage!’ the waiter shouted, and somewhere in the back of the restaurant, far
away in the darkness, a voice answered him.
The waiter disappeared. Lexington reached into his knapsack for his personal knife and fork.
These were a present from Aunt Glosspan, given him when he was six years old, made of solid
silver, and he had never eaten with any other instruments since. While waiting for the food to
arrive, he polished them lovingly with a piece of soft muslin.
Soon the waiter returned carrying a plate on which there lay a thick greyish-white slab of
something hot. Lexington leaned forward anxiously to smell it as it was put down before him. His
nostrils were wide open to receive the scent, quivering and sniffing.
‘But this is absolute heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘What an aroma! It’s tremendous!’
The waiter stepped back a pace, watching his customer carefully.
‘Never in my life have I smelled anything as rich and wonderful as this!’ our hero cried, seizing
his knife and fork. ‘What on earth is it made of?’
The man in the brown hat looked around and stared, then returned to his eating. The waiter was
backing away towards the kitchen.
Lexington cut off a small piece of the meat, impaled it on his silver fork, and carried it up to his
nose so as to smell it again. Then he popped it into his mouth and began to chew it slowly, his
eyes half closed, his body tense.
‘This is fantastic!’ he cried. It is a brand-new flavour! Oh, Glosspan, my beloved Aunt, how I
wish you were with me now so you could taste this remarkable dish! Waiter! Come here at once! I
want you!’
The astonished waiter was now watching from the other end of the room, and he seemed
reluctant to move any closer.
‘If you will come and talk to me I will give you a present,’ Lexington said, waving a hundred-
dollar-bill. ‘Please come over here and talk to me.’
The waiter sidled cautiously back to the table, snatched away the money, and held it up to his
face, peering at it from all angles. Then he slipped it quickly into his pocket.
‘What can I do for you, my friend?’ he asked.
‘Look,’ Lexington said. ‘If you will tell me what this delicious dish is made of, and exactly how
it is prepared, I will give you another hundred.’
‘I already told you,’ the man said. ‘It’s pork.’
‘And exactly what is pork?’
‘You never had roast pork before?’ the waiter asked, staring.
‘For heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is and stop keeping me in suspense like this.’
‘It’s pig,’ the waiter said. ‘You just bung it in the oven.’
‘Pig!’
‘All pork is pig. Didn’t you know that?’
‘You mean this is pig’s meat?’
‘I guarantee it.’
‘But … but … that’s impossible,’ the youth stammered. ‘Aunt Glosspan, who knew more about
food than anyone else in the world, said that meat of any kind was disgusting, revolting, horrible,
foul, nauseating, and beastly. And yet this piece that I have here on my plate is without doubt the
most delicious thing that I have ever tasted. Now how on earth do you explain that? Aunt
Glosspan certainly wouldn’t have told me it was revolting if it wasn’t.’
‘Maybe your aunt didn’t know how to cook it,’ the waiter said.
‘Is that possible?’
‘You’re damned right it is. Especially with pork. Pork has to be very well done or you can’t eat
it.’
‘Eureka!’ Lexington cried. ‘I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened! She did it wrong!’ He handed
the man another hundred-dollar bill. ‘Lead me to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Introduce me to the genius
who prepared this meat.’
Lexington was at once taken to the kitchen, and there he met the cook who was an elderly man
with a rash on one side of his neck.
‘This will cost you another hundred,’ the waiter said.
Lexington was only too glad to oblige, but this time he gave the money to the cook. ‘Now listen
to me,’ he said. ‘I have to admit that I am really rather confused by what the waiter has just been
telling me. Are you quite sure that the delectable dish which I have just been eating was prepared
from pig’s flesh?’
The cook raised his right hand and began scratching the rash on his neck.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at the waiter and giving him a sly wink, ‘all I can tell you is that I think
it was pig’s meat.’
‘You mean you’re not sure?’
‘One can never be sure.’
‘Then what else could it have been?’
‘Well,’ the cook said, speaking very slowly and still staring at the waiter. ‘There’s just a chance,
you see, that it might have been a piece of human stuff.’
‘You mean a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Or a woman. It could have been either. They both taste the same.’
‘Well - now you really do surprise me,’ the youth declared.
‘One lives and learns.’
‘Indeed one does.’
‘As a matter of fact, we’ve been getting an awful lot of it just lately from the butcher’s in place
of pork,’ the cook declared.
‘Have you really?’
‘The trouble is, it’s almost impossible to tell which is which. They’re both very good.’
‘The piece I had just now was simply superb.’
‘I’m glad you liked it,’ the cook said. ‘But to be quite honest, I think that it was a bit of pig. In
fact, I’m almost sure it was.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘In that case, we shall have to assume that you are right,’ Lexington said. ‘So now will you
please tell me - and here is another hundred dollars for your trouble - will you please tell me
precisely how you prepared it?’
The cook, after pocketing the money, launched upon a colourful description of how to roast a
loin of pork, while the youth, not wanting to miss a single word of so great a recipe, sat down at
the kitchen table and recorded every detail in his notebook.
‘Is that all?’ he asked when the cook had finished.
‘That’s all.’
‘But there must be more to it than that, surely?’
‘You got to get a good piece of meat to start off with,’ the cook said. ‘That’s half the battle. It’s
got to be a good hog and it’s got to be butchered right, otherwise it’ll turn out lousy whichever
way you cook it.’
‘Show me how,’ Lexington said. ‘Butcher me one now so I can learn.’
‘We don’t butcher pigs in the kitchen,’ the cook said. ‘That lot you just ate came from a
packing-house over in the Bronx.’
‘Then give me the address!’
The cook gave him the address, and our hero, after thanking them both many times for all their
kindnesses, rushed outside and leapt into a taxi and headed for the Bronx.
猪 七
七
我们的主人公出发到纽约城去找塞缪尔•祖克曼先生。他是走着去的，夜里睡在篱笆树
下，靠吃浆果和野菜为生，他走了整整十六天才到达大都会。
“这是多么奇妙的一个地方啊！”他站在第五大道第五十七街的拐角，瞪大眼睛打量着周
围，惊叹道，“到处都看不见奶牛和鸡群，而且那些女人都跟格罗斯潘姑奶奶完全不一样。”
至于塞缪尔•祖克曼先生，莱克星顿更是从来没有见过像他这样的人。
他是一个皮肉松弛的矮个子男人，青灰色的双下巴，一个硕大的红色酒糟鼻，一笑起
来，点点金光从嘴里不同的地方朝你闪烁，令人眼晕。他在豪华的办公室里热情地跟莱克星
顿握手，并为他姑奶奶的离世向他表示祝贺。
“我想，你知道你心爱的监护人是一个拥有可观财富的女人吧？”他说。
“您指的是那些奶牛和鸡吗？”
“我指的是五十万美元。”祖克曼先生说。
“多少？”
“五十万美元，我的孩子。她把它们都留给了你。”祖克曼先生往椅背上一靠，两只手交
叠在他松松软软的大肚子上。与此同时，他开始偷偷地把右手的食指伸进马甲，掏到衬衫下
面，去挠他肚脐眼周围的皮肤——这是他最喜欢做的一件事，总能给他带来奇特的快感。“当
然啦，我要扣除百分之五十作为我的佣金。”他说，“但你还剩足足二十五万美元呢。”
“我有钱了！”莱克星顿喊道，“太美妙了！我多久能拿到这笔钱？”
“是这样的，”祖克曼先生说，“你运气不错，我碰巧跟这里的税务机构关系不错，我相信
我肯定能够说服他们免除所有的死亡税和遗产税。”
“您真是太好了。”莱克星顿喃喃地说。
“我自然要给某人一笔小小的谢礼。”
“就按您说的办，祖克曼先生。”
“我认为十万美元就足够了。”
“我的天哪，那不是太多了吗？”
“千万别舍不得在税务官或警察身上花钱。”祖克曼先生说，“记住这句话吧。”
“那么我还能剩下多少呢？”年轻人低声下气地问。
“十五万美元。但你还有丧葬费需要支付呢。”
“丧葬费？”
“你得给殡仪馆付钱。这你肯定是知道的吧？”
“可是我已经自己把她给埋了，祖克曼先生，就埋在了牛棚的后面。”
“对此我没有怀疑。”律师说，“那又怎么样？”
“我从来没请过殡仪馆。”
“听着，”祖克曼先生耐心地说，“你可能不知道，这个州有一条法律规定，遗嘱受益人在
付清殡仪馆所有费用之前，不得从遗产中分得一分钱。”
“您说那是一条法律？”
“当然是一条法律，而且是一条非常好的法律。殡仪馆是我们重要的国家机构之一，必须
不惜一切代价保护它。”
祖克曼先生自己和一批有公德心的医生一起，控制着一家股份有限公司，在城里拥有九
家铺张奢华的连锁殡仪馆，更不用说还有布鲁克林的一家棺材厂和华盛顿高地的一家尸体防
腐研究所。因此，在祖克曼先生眼中，丧葬仪式是一桩很有宗教意义的事务。实际上，整个
事务都对他产生了深刻的影响，那深刻的程度，可以说几乎相当于基督的诞生对店老板的影
响。
“你没有权利自己那样草草地掩埋你的姑奶奶。”他说，“绝对没有。”
“我很抱歉，祖克曼先生。”
“哼，那完全是破坏性行为。”
“我完全听您的，祖克曼先生。我只想知道，付完所有的费用之后，我最终能拿到多少
钱。”
停顿了片刻，祖克曼先生叹了口气，皱起眉头，继续偷偷地用指尖绕着肚脐眼周围画圈
儿。
“也许会有一万五？”他提出个数字，嘴里绽开一个闪着金光的笑容，“那是个很可观的整
数。”
“我今天下午能拿到手吗？”
“没有什么不可以。”
于是，祖克曼先生叫来他的总出纳，叫他从小额备用金里取一万五千美元给莱克星顿，
并开具收据。到了这会儿，年轻人能拿到仨瓜俩枣就谢天谢地了，他感激地接过钱，收进了
自己的背包里。然后，他热情地跟祖克曼先生握手，感谢他的所有帮助，便离开了办公室。
“整个世界都在我的面前！”我们的主人公来到街上，大声喊道，“现在有一万五千美元帮
我渡过难关，坚持到我的书出版的那天。在那之后，不用说，我就能挣到更多的钱。”他站在
人行道上，考虑该往哪边走。他往左一拐，顺着街道慢慢往前溜达，一边瞪大眼睛欣赏着城
市的景物。
“多么令人作呕的气味。”他嗅了嗅空气，说道，“我简直无法忍受。”他敏感的嗅觉神
经，被调教得只能接受最美味的烹饪香气，此刻闻到公共汽车后面喷出的柴油尾气，实在是
痛苦不堪。
“在我的鼻子被彻底毁掉之前，我必须离开这个地方。”他说，“不过，我先得找点东西吃
吃。我已经饿坏了。”在过去的两个星期里，可怜的小伙子只靠浆果和野菜果腹，现在他的肚
子渴望着实实在在的食物。“我真想来一份上好的香炸玉米粒，”他对自己说，“或者几张鲜嫩
美味的婆罗门参煎饼。”
他穿过街道，走进一家小餐馆。里面很热，安安静静的，光线昏暗。有一股浓浓的烹调
脂肪和水煮白菜的气味。店里只有一位顾客，是一个头戴褐色帽子的男人，正专注地埋头吃
东西，莱克星顿进来时，他连眼皮都没抬一下。
我们的主人公在墙角一张桌子旁坐下，把他的背包挂在椅背上。这件事肯定特别有意
思，他对自己说。我活了整整十七年，只尝过两个人的厨艺，格罗斯潘姑奶奶和我自己的
——除非再算上那个保姆麦伯特，我在襁褓中时她肯定给我热过几回奶瓶。现在，我将要品
尝一位全新的厨师的手艺，如果运气好，说不定还能得到一两个有价值的好点子，写进我的
书里呢。
一位侍者从后面的阴影里走出来，站在桌子旁边。
“您好。”莱克星顿说，“我想要一大份香炸玉米粒。烧热的平底锅里倒入酸奶油，每一面
煎二十五秒钟，端上桌前再撒上一撮独活草——当然啦，除非你们的厨师知道一种更独到的
做法，那样的话，我非常乐意品尝一下。”
侍者把脑袋偏向一边，仔细打量着这位顾客。“你是想要叉烧和白菜吗？”他问，“我们只
剩这个了。”
“叉什么和白菜？”
侍者从裤子口袋里掏出一条脏兮兮的手帕，动作夸张地大力把它抖开，就像在甩响鞭。
然后他使劲擤鼻子，声音很大，鼻涕很多。
“你到底要还是不要？”他擦着鼻孔问。
“我根本不知道你说的是什么，”莱克星顿回答，“不过很愿意尝一尝。知道吗，我正在写
一本食谱……”
“一份叉烧和白菜！”侍者大喊一声，在很远的暗处，在餐馆后面的什么地方，一个声音
回答了他。
侍者消失了。莱克星顿从背包里拿出他专用的那副刀叉。这是格罗斯潘姑奶奶送给他的
礼物，纯银打造，是他在六岁那年得到的，从那以后，他就再也没有用过其他餐具。在等待
食物上桌时，他用一块柔软的棉布喜爱地擦拭它们。
很快，侍者就回来了，手里端着一个盘子，里面是一坨热气腾腾的灰白色的东西。盘子
放到莱克星顿面前时，他迫不及待地凑上去闻。他鼻孔张得大大的以便吸收香气，不住地嗅
吸、抽动。
“啊，真是人间美味啊！”他惊叫道，“好香啊！真的是太美妙了！”
侍者退后一步，小心翼翼地观察着这位顾客。
“我这辈子还从没有闻到过这样醇厚和鲜美的东西呢！”我们的主人公喊道，一把抓起了
他的刀叉，“这到底是什么做的？”
戴褐色帽子的男人扭过脸，瞪大眼瞧了瞧，又继续回去吃东西。侍者一步步向厨房后
退。
莱克星顿切了一小片肉，用银叉子把它扎住，送到鼻子底下，又闻了闻。然后他把肉丢
进嘴里，开始慢慢地咀嚼，他半闭着眼睛，身体紧绷。
“太奇妙了！”他喊道，“是一种崭新的美味！哦，格罗斯潘，我心爱的姑奶奶，多么希望
您此刻跟我在一起，也能品尝这道非凡的菜啊！侍者！快过来！我有事！”
那位惊愕的侍者此刻正在房间的另一头察言观色，他似乎不愿意再靠近一步。
“你如果过来跟我聊聊，我就送你一份礼物。”莱克星顿一边说，一边挥舞着一张百元美
钞，“拜托，过来跟我聊聊吧。”
侍者小心翼翼地回到桌旁，一把抢走了钱，把它举在脸前，从各个角度仔细打量。然后
他把钱迅速塞进了口袋。
“你有何吩咐，我的朋友？”他问。
“是这样，”莱克星顿说，“如果你能告诉我这道美味是什么，具体做法是怎样的，我就再
给你一百。”
“我已经告诉你了。”男人说，“这是叉烧。”
“叉烧到底是什么呢？”
“你以前从没吃过叉烧？”侍者问，吃惊地瞪大了眼睛。
“看在上帝的分上，朋友，快告诉我是什么吧，别再这样让我悬着心了。”
“是猪肉。”侍者说，“直接丢进炉子里就完事了。”
“猪！”
“所有的叉烧都是猪肉。你不知道吗？”
“你是说，这是猪的肉？”
“我向你保证。”
“可是……可是……这不可能呀。”年轻人结结巴巴地说，“格罗斯潘姑奶奶比世界上的任
何人都更精通食物，她说不管哪一种肉，都是可怕、肮脏、龌龊的，是令人恶心、作呕、倒
胃口的。可是我面前盘子里的这块肉，无疑是我这辈子尝过的最美味的东西。对此你究竟能
作何解释呢？如果它并不令人作呕，格罗斯潘姑奶奶肯定不会那么对我说的。”
“也许你的姑奶奶不会做肉食。”侍者说。
“有这种可能吗？”
“绝对有可能。特别是猪肉。猪肉必须做得非常考究，不然根本没法吃。”
“明白了！”莱克星顿喊道，“我敢说就是这么回事！她的做法不对！”他又递给那人一张
百元美钞。“带我去厨房。”他说，“把烹制这块肉的那位天才介绍给我。”
莱克星顿立刻被领进了厨房，见到了厨师，那是个上了年纪的男人，脖子侧面有一块
癣。
“那你还得再掏一百。”侍者说。
莱克星顿欣然从命，但这次他把钱给了厨师。“请听我说，”他说，“必须承认，我完全被
侍者刚才对我说的话弄糊涂了。你真的确定，我刚才吃的那道美味的菜是用猪肉做的？”
厨师举起右手，开始抓挠脖子上的那块癣。
“这个嘛，”他说，眼睛看着侍者，并朝他狡猾地眨了眨眼，“我只能告诉你，我认为这是
猪肉。”
“你是说你不能确定？”
“任何事都不可能百分之百确定。”
“那它还能是什么呢？”
“这个嘛，”厨子说，他语速很慢，眼睛仍然盯着侍者，“弄得不好，嗯，它也有可能是一
块人肉。”
“你是说一个男人？”
“没错。”
“天哪。”
“或者女人。两者都有可能。味道都是一样的。”
“啊——你真的让我惊着了。”年轻人大声说。
“活到老学到老。”
“确实如此。”
“实际上，我们最近从屠夫那儿收到一大堆这玩意儿，冒充猪肉。”厨师宣称。
“真的吗？”
“麻烦的是，几乎很难分清到底是哪种。质量都非常好。”
“我刚才吃的那块简直超级棒。”
“我很高兴你喜欢。”厨师说，“说句实在话，我认为那是一块猪肉。实际上，我几乎可以
肯定。”
“是吗？”
“是的。”
“那样的话，我们姑且认为你是对的。”莱克星顿说，“所以现在请你告诉我——给你添麻
烦了，再给你一百美元——你能否告诉我，这道菜具体是怎么做的呢？”
厨师把钱塞进口袋，开始天花乱坠地讲述怎么烹制一块猪腰肉，年轻人一个字也不想漏
掉，他在厨房的桌子旁坐下，把这个伟大的烹饪方法仔仔细细记录在本子上。
“这就完了？”厨师说完后，他问道。
“完了。”
“但除此之外肯定还有别的吧？”
“首先你得弄到一块上好的肉。”厨师说，“那是成功的一半。必须是一头好猪，宰杀的方
式也要对头，不然的话，不管你用什么办法烹制，都会很难吃。”
“快教教我。”莱克星顿说，“现在就杀一头给我看，让我学习学习。”
“我们不在厨房里杀猪。”厨师说，“你刚才吃的那块肉，来自布朗克斯的一家肉类屠宰
场。”
“那快把地址给我！”
厨师把地址给了他，我们的主人公反反复复地对他们俩表示感谢之后，冲到门外，跳上
一辆出租车，直奔布朗克斯。
pig 8
8
The packing house was a big four-storey brick building, and the air around it smelled sweet and
heavy, like musk. At the main entrance gates, there was a large notice which said VISITORS
WELCOME AT ANY TIME, and thus encouraged, Lexington walked through the gates and
entered a cobbled yard which surrounded the building itself. He then followed a series of signposts
(THIS WAY FOR THE GUIDED TOURS), and came eventually to a small corrugated-iron shed
set well apart from the main building (VISITORS’ WAITING-ROOM). After knocking politely
on the door, he went in.
There were six other people ahead of him in the waiting-room. There was a fat mother with her
two little boys aged about nine and eleven. There was a bright-eyed young couple who looked as
though they might be on their honeymoon. And there was a pale woman with long white gloves,
who sat very upright, looking straight ahead, with her hands folded on her lap. Nobody spoke.
Lexington wondered whether they were all writing cooking-books like himself, but when he put
this question to them aloud, he got no answer. The grown-ups merely smiled mysteriously to
themselves and shook their heads, and the two children stared at him as though they were seeing a
lunatic.
Soon, the door opened and a man with a merry pink face popped his head into the room and
said, ‘Next, please.’ The mother and the two boys got up and went out.
About ten minutes later, the same man returned. ‘Next, please,’ he said again, and the
honeymoon couple jumped up and followed him outside.
Two new visitors came in and sat down — a middle-aged husband and a middle-aged wife, the
wife carrying a wicker shopping-basket containing groceries.
‘Next, please,’ said the guide, and the woman with the long white gloves got up and left.
Several more people came in and took their places on the stiffbacked wooden chairs.
Soon the guide returned for the fourth time, and now it was Lexington’s turn to go outside.
‘Follow me, please,’ the guide said, leading the youth across the yard towards the main
building.
‘How exciting this is!’ Lexington cried, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘I only wish my
dear Aunt Glosspan could be with me now to see what I am going to see.’
‘I myself only do the preliminaries,’ the guide said. ‘Then I shall hand you over to someone
else.’
‘Anything you say,’ cried the ecstatic youth.
First they visited a large penned-in area at the back of the building where several hundred pigs
were wandering around. ‘Here’s where they start,’ the guide said. ‘And over there’s where they go
in.’
‘Where?’
‘Right there.’ The guide pointed to a long wooden shed that stood against the outside wall of the
factory. ‘We call it the shackling-pen. This way, please.’
Three men wearing long rubber boots were driving a dozen pigs into the shackling-pen just as
Lexington and the guide approached, so they all went in together.
‘Now,’ the guide said,’ watch how they shackle them.’
Inside, the shed was simply a bare wooden room with no roof, and there was a steel cable with
hooks on it that kept moving slowly along the length of one wall, parallel with the ground, about
three feet up. When it reached the end of the shed, this cable suddenly changed direction and
climbed vertically upward through the open roof towards the top floor of the main building.
The twelve pigs were huddled together at the far end of the pen, standing quietly, looking
apprehensive. One of the men in rubber boots pulled a length of metal chain down from the wall
and advanced upon the nearest animal, approaching it from the rear. Then he bent down and
quickly looped one end of the chain around one of the animal’s hind legs. The other end he
attached to a hook on the moving cable as it went by. The cable kept moving. The chain tightened.
The pig’s leg was pulled up and back, and then the pig itself began to be dragged backwards. But
it didn’t fall down. It was rather a nimble pig, and somehow it managed to keep its balance on
three legs, hopping from foot to foot and struggling against the pull of the chain, but going back
and back all the time until at the end of the pen where the cable changed direction and went
vertically upward, the creature was suddenly jerked off its feet and borne aloft. Shrill protests
filled the air.
‘Truly a fascinating process,’ Lexington said. ‘But what was the funny cracking noise it made
as it went up?’
‘Probably the leg,’ the guide answered. ‘Either that or the pelvis.’
‘But doesn’t that matter?’
‘Why should it matter?’ the guide asked. ‘You don’t eat the bones.’
The rubber-booted men were busy shackling up the rest of the pigs, and one after another they
were hooked to the moving cable and hoisted up through the roof, protesting loudly as they went.
‘There’s a good deal more to this recipe than just picking herbs, Lexington said. ‘Aunt Glosspan
would never have made it.’
At this point, while Lexington was gazing skyward at the last pig to go up, a man in rubber
boots approached him quietly from behind and looped one end of a chain around the youth’s own
ankle, hooking the other end to the moving belt. The next moment, before he had time to realize
what was happening, our hero was jerked off his feet and dragged backwards along the concrete
floor of the shackling-pen.
‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Hold everything! My leg is caught!’
But nobody seemed to hear him, and five seconds later, the unhappy young man was jerked off
the floor and hoisted vertically upward through the open roof of the pen, dangling upside down by
one ankle, and wriggling like a fish.
‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Help! There’s been a frightful mistake! Stop the engines! Let me down!’
The guide removed a cigar from his mouth and looked up serenely at the rapidly ascending
youth, but he said nothing. The men in rubber boots were already on their way out to collect the
next batch of pigs.
‘Oh, save me!’ our hero cried. ‘Let me down! Please let me down!’ But he was now
approaching the top floor of the building where the moving belt curled like a snake and entered a
large hole in the wall, a kind of doorway without a door; and there, on the threshold, waiting to
greet him, clothed in a dark-stained yellow rubber apron, and looking for all the world like Saint
Peter at the Gates of Heaven, the sticker stood.
Lexington saw him only from upside down, and very briefly at that, but even so he noticed at
once the expression of absolute peace and benevolence on the man’s face, the cheerful twinkle in
the eyes, the little wistful smile, the dimples in his cheeks - and all this gave him hope.
‘Hi there,’ the sticker said, smiling.
‘Quick! Save me!’ our hero cried.
‘With pleasure,’ the sticker said, and taking Lexington gently by one ear with his left hand, he
raised his right hand and deftly slit open the boy’s jugular vein with a knife.
The belt moved on. Lexington went with it. Everything was still upside down and the blood was
pouring out of his throat and getting into his eyes, but he could still see after a fashion, and he had
a blurred impression of being in an enormously long room, and at the far end of the room there
was a great smoking cauldron of water, and there were dark figures, half hidden in the steam,
dancing around the edge of it, brandishing long poles. The conveyor-belt seemed to be travelling
right over the top of the cauldron, and the pigs seemed to be dropping one by one into the boiling
water, and one of the pigs seemed to be wearing long white gloves on its front feet.
Suddenly our hero started to feel very sleepy, but it wasn’t until his good strong heart had
pumped the last drop of blood from his body that he passed on out of this, the best of all possible
worlds, into the next.
猪 八
八
肉类屠宰场是一座四层的大砖楼房，周围的空气里有一种浓浓的甜丝丝的气味，很像麝
香。在大门入口处，一个很大的招牌上写着“欢迎随时参观”。莱克星顿受到鼓励，穿过大
门，走进环绕大楼的一个鹅卵石地面的院子。然后，他跟随一系列指示牌（参观由此向
前），来到一个远离主楼的瓦楞铁屋顶的小棚屋（参观者等候室）。他礼貌地敲了敲门，走
了进去。
进了等候室，在他前面有六个人。一个胖胖的母亲带着两个小男孩，年龄分别是九岁和
十一岁左右；一对眼睛明亮的年轻夫妇，看样子好像在度蜜月；还有一个脸色苍白的女人，
戴着一双长长的白手套，她正襟危坐，目视前方，双手叠放在大腿上。没有人说话。莱克星
顿想知道他们是否都像他一样在写烹饪食谱，他大声向他们提出这个问题，却没有得到回
答。几位成年人只是兀自露出神秘的微笑，对他摇了摇头，而两个孩子使劲盯着他，就像看
到了一个疯子。
不一会儿，门开了，一个男人把头探进屋里，他有一张愉快的粉红色面孔，他说：“下一
位。”那位母亲和两个小男孩站起身，走了出去。
大约十分钟后，那个男人回来了。“下一位。”他又说道，度蜜月的那对夫妇一跃而起，
跟他去了外面。
两位新的参观者走进来坐下——人到中年的丈夫和人到中年的妻子，妻子拿着一个柳条
购物篮，里面装着食物。
“下一位。”导游说完，那个戴着长长的白手套的女人便起身离开了。
又有几个人走进来，坐在笔直的木椅上。
很快，导游再一次回来，轮到莱克星顿到外面去了。
“请跟我来。”导游说，领着年轻人穿过院子，朝主楼走去。
“多么令人兴奋啊！”莱克星顿喊道，两只脚轮流地蹦高，“我真希望亲爱的格罗斯潘姑奶
奶此刻跟我在一起，看到我即将看到的东西。”
“我现在做的只是第一步。”导游说，“然后我会把你交给另外的人。”
“一切都听您的。”欣喜若狂的年轻人大声说。
他们首先参观了主楼后面一大片被圈起来的地方，那里有几百头猪在漫无目的地转
悠。“就是从这里开始的。”导游说，“然后它们从那里进去。”
“哪里？”
“就是那里。”导游指着工厂围墙边一个长长的木头棚子，“我们称它为脚镣栏。请这边
走。”
莱克星顿和导游走近时，三个穿着长筒橡胶靴的男人正把十二头猪赶进脚镣栏，于是他
们一起走了进去。
“好了，”导游说，“观察一下怎么给它们上脚镣。”
进去之后，那棚子只是一间空荡荡的木屋，没有屋顶，但是有一根上面带钩子的钢丝
绳，大概三英尺高，跟地面平行，慢慢地顺着一面墙移动。钢丝绳移动到棚屋的尽头，突然
改变方向，垂直向上，穿过敞开的屋顶，向主楼的顶层移动。
那十二头猪挤缩在围栏的远端，静静地站在那里，神色惶恐。一个穿橡胶靴的男人从墙
上抽下一截金属链条，走向离他最近的那头猪，从后面朝它靠近。然后他弯下腰，迅速用链
条的一头套住猪的一条后腿。他把链条的另一头挂在不断移动的钢丝绳的一个钩子上。钢丝
绳继续移动。链条绷紧了。猪的那条腿被往上和往后拖起，接着猪的整个身体都被向后拽。
但是它没有倒下。这是一头非常灵活的猪，它竟然靠三条腿保持住了平衡，一跳一跳地，拼
命抵抗着链条的拖拽，然而它还是在不断地后退。最后，到了围栏那头，钢丝绳改变方向、
垂直往上，那头猪突然离开地面，被吊到了半空。空气中响彻着刺耳的尖叫声。
“真是一个神奇的过程。”莱克星顿说，“可是，它被吊起来时，那奇怪的嘎巴声是怎么回
事？”
“可能是腿，”导游回答，“也可能是骨盆。”
“那不要紧吗？”
“有什么要紧的？”导游问，“你又不吃骨头。”
几个穿橡胶靴的男人忙着给其他的猪套上脚镣，猪一头接一头地被挂在移动钢丝绳的钩
子上，然后被吊起来穿过屋顶，它们一路发出尖厉的抗议声。
“这道食谱的名堂可真多，远远不是挑野菜那么简单。”莱克星顿说，“格罗斯潘姑奶奶绝
对做不出来。”
莱克星顿正仰头注视着最后一头猪被吊上去，突然，一个穿橡胶靴的男人悄悄从后面靠
近他，用一根链条的一头套住了这位年轻人的左脚脖子，并把链条的另一头挂在了移动钢丝
绳的钩子上。接着，还没等他反应过来是怎么回事，我们的主人公就被拽得失去平衡，后退
着被拖过脚镣栏的水泥地面。
“停下！”他喊道，“赶快停下！我的腿被套住了！”
但似乎没有人听见，五秒钟后，这个不幸的年轻人被拽得离开地面，垂直向上，穿过围
栏敞开的屋顶，他的一个脚脖子被套住，头朝下挂在那里，身体像鱼似的扭个不停。
“救命！”他喊道，“救命！太可怕了，弄错啦！快把机器停下！放我下去！”
导游从嘴里拿开雪茄，抬头镇静地看着迅速上升的年轻人，但他什么也没有说。而那几
个穿橡胶靴的男人已经出去带下一批猪进来了。
“哦，救救我！”我们的主人公叫道，“放我下去！求求你，放我下去！”可是，此刻他正
在靠近主楼的顶层，移动带在这里像蛇一样打了个弯，钻入墙上的一个大洞，它类似一个门
洞，但没有门。站在那门槛上等着迎接他的，是屠夫，他穿着布满深黑污渍的黄色橡胶围
裙，那样子像极了站在天国门口的圣彼得。
莱克星顿只能颠倒着看见他，而且只看了短短一眼，但即便如此，他也立刻注意到那人
脸上绝对宁静和仁慈的表情，他眼睛里闪烁的愉快的光，他意味深长的淡淡笑容，以及他面
颊上的酒涡——这一切使他产生了希望。
“你好。”屠夫笑微微地说。
“快！救救我！”我们的主人公喊道。
“非常乐意。”屠夫说，他用左手轻轻抓住莱克星顿的一只耳朵，举起右手，用一把刀娴
熟地切开了小伙子的颈静脉。
传送带继续向前。莱克星顿也随之移动。一切仍然是颠倒的，血从他的脖颈里涌出来，
流进他的眼睛，但他还能够勉强看见，他有一种模模糊糊的印象，好像他是在一间巨大的长
屋子里，屋子远远的那头有一大锅热气腾腾的水，几个黑乎乎的人影在水蒸气中半隐半现，
他们挥动着长杆，围着大锅的边缘跳舞。传送带似乎直接从大锅的顶上经过，那些猪似乎一
头接一头地被丢进下面的沸水中，其中一头猪的前蹄上似乎还戴着长长的白手套。
突然，我们的主人公开始感到困意袭来，但是直到他那强健的心脏把最后一滴血泵出了
他的身体，他才从这个最好的世界离开，进入了另一个世界。
首次出版于《吻了又吻》 1960
The Champion of the World
The Champion of the World
ALL DAY, IN BETWEEN serving customers, we had been crouching over the table in the office
of the filling-station, preparing the raisins. They were plump and soft and swollen from being
soaked in water, and when you nicked them with a razor-blade the skin sprang open and the jelly
stuff inside squeezed out as easily as you could wish.
But we had a hundred and ninety-six of them to do altogether and the evening was nearly upon
us before we had finished.
‘Don’t they look marvellous!’ Claud cried, rubbing his hands together hard. ‘What time is it,
Gordon?’
‘Just after five.’
Through the window we could see a station-wagon pulling up at the pumps with a woman at the
wheel and about eight children in the back eating ice-creams.
‘We ought to be moving soon,’ Claud said. ‘The whole thing’ll be a washout if we don’t arrive
before sunset, you realize that.’ He was getting twitchy now. His face had the same flushed and
pop-eyed look it got before a dog-race or when there was a date with Clarice in the evening.
We both went outside and Claud gave the woman the number of gallons she wanted. When she
had gone, he remained standing in the middle of the driveway squinting anxiously up at the sun
which was now only the width of a man’s hand above the line of trees along the crest of the ridge
on the far side of the valley.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Lock up.’
He went quickly from pump to pump, securing each nozzle in its holder with a small padlock.
‘You’d better take off that yellow pullover,’ he said.
‘Why should I?’
‘You’ll be shining like a bloody beacon out there in the moonlight.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘You will not,’ he said. ‘Take if off, Gordon, please. I’ll see you in three minutes.’ He
disappeared into his caravan behind the filling station, and I went indoors and changed my yellow
pullover for a blue one.
When we met again outside, Claud was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a dark-green
turtleneck sweater. On his head he wore a brown cloth cap with the peak pulled down low over his
eyes, and he looked like an apache actor out of a nightclub.
‘What’s under there?’ I asked, seeing the bulge at his waistline.
He pulled up his sweater and showed me two thin but very large white cotton sacks which were
bound neat and tight around his belly. ‘To carry the stuff,’ he said darkly.
‘I see.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘I still think we ought to take the car.’
‘It’s too risky. They’ll see it parked.’
‘But it’s over three miles up to that wood.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I suppose you realize we can get six months in the clink if they catch us.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘I’m not coming,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth it.’
‘The walk will do you good, Gordon. Come on.’
It was a calm sunny evening with little wisps of brilliant white cloud hanging motionless in the
sky, and the valley was cool and very quiet as the two of us began walking together along the
grass verge on the side of the road that ran between the hills towards Oxford.
‘You got the raisins?’ Claud asked.
‘They’re in my pocket.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Marvellous.’
Ten minutes later we turned left off the main road into a narrow lane with high hedges on either
side and from now on it was all uphill.
‘How many keepers are there?’ I asked.
‘Three.’
Claud threw away a half-finished cigarette. A minute later he lit another.
‘I don’t usually approve of new methods,’ he said. ‘Not on this sort of a job.’
‘Of course.’
‘But by God, Gordon, I think we’re on to a hot one this time.’
‘You do?’
‘There’s no question about it.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘It’ll be a milestone in the history of poaching,’ he said. ‘But don’t you go telling a single soul
how we’ve done it, you understand. Because if this ever leaked out we’d have every bloody fool in
the district doing the same thing and there wouldn’t be a pheasant left.’
‘I won’t say a word.’
‘You ought to be very proud of yourself,’ he went on. There’s been men with brains studying
this problem for hundreds of years and not one of them’s ever come up with anything even a
quarter as artful as you have. Why didn’t you tell me about it before?’
‘You never invited my opinion,’ I said.
And that was the truth. In fact, up until the day before, Claud had never even offered to discuss
with me the sacred subject of poaching. Often enough, on a summer’s evening when work was
finished, I had seen him with cap on head sliding quietly out of his caravan and disappearing up
the road towards the woods; and sometimes, watching him through the windows of the filling-
station, I would find myself wondering exactly what he was going to do, what wily tricks he was
going to practise all alone up there under the trees in the dead of night. He seldom came back until
very late, and never, absolutely never did he bring any of the spoils with him personally on his
return. But the following afternoon - and I couldn’t imagine how he did it - there would always be
a pheasant or a hare or a brace of partridges hanging up in the shed behind the filling-station for us
to eat.
This summer he had been particularly active, and during the last couple of months he had
stepped up the tempo to a point where he was going out four and sometimes five nights a week.
But that was not all. It seemed to me that recently his whole attitude towards poaching had
undergone a subtle and mysterious change. He was more purposeful about it now, more tight-
lipped and intense than before, and I had the impression that this was not so much a game any
longer as a crusade, a sort of private war that Claud was waging single-handed against an invisible
and hated enemy.
But who?
I wasn’t sure about this, but I had a suspicion that it was none other than the famous Mr Victor
Hazel himself, the owner of the land and the pheasants. Mr Hazel was a local brewer with an
unbelievably arrogant manner. He was rich beyond words, and his property stretched for miles
along either side of the valley. He was a self-made man with no charm at all and previous few
virtues. He loathed all persons of humble station, having once been one of them himself, and he
strove desperately to mingle with what he believed were the right kind of folk. He rode to hounds
and gave shooting-parties and wore fancy waistcoats and every weekday he drove an enormous
black Rolls-Royce past the filling-station on his way to the brewery. As he flashed by, we would
sometimes catch a glimpse of the great glistening brewer’s face above the wheel, pink as a ham,
all soft and inflamed from drinking too much beer.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon, right out of the blue, Claud had suddenly said to me, ‘I’ll be
going on up to Hazel’s woods again tonight. Why don’t you come along?’
‘Who, me?’
‘It’s about the last chance this year for pheasants,’ he had said. ‘The shooting-season opens
Saturday and the birds’ll be scattered all over the place after that - if there’s any left.’
‘Why the sudden invitation?’ I had asked, greatly suspicious.
‘No special reason, Gordon. No reason at all.’
‘Is it risky?’
He hadn’t answered this.
‘I suppose you keep a gun or something hidden away up there?’
‘A gun!’ he cried, disgusted. ‘Nobody ever shoots pheasants, didn’t you know that? You’ve
only got to fire a cap-pistol in Hazel’s woods and the keepers’ll be on you.’
‘Then how do you do it?’
‘Ah,’ he said, and the eyelids drooped over the eyes, veiled and secretive.
There was a long pause. Then he said, ‘Do you think you could keep your mouth shut if I was to
tell you a thing or two?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’ve never told this to anyone else in my whole life, Gordon.’
‘I am greatly honoured,’ I said. ‘You can trust me completely.’
He turned his head, fixing me with pale eyes. The eyes were large and wet and ox-like, and they
were so near to me that I could see my own face reflected upside down in the centre of each.
‘I am now about to let you in on the three best ways in the world of poaching a pheasant,’ he
said. ‘And seeing that you’re the guest on this little trip, I am going to give you the choice of
which one you’d like us to use tonight. How’s that?’
‘There’s a catch in this.’
‘There’s no catch, Gordon. I swear it.’
‘All right, go on.’
‘Now, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Here’s the first big secret.’ He paused and took a long suck at
his cigarette. ‘Pheasants,’ he whispered softly, ‘is crazy about raisins.’
‘Raisins?’
‘Just ordinary raisins. It’s like a mania with them. My dad discovered that more than forty years
ago just like he discovered all three of these methods I’m about to describe to you now.’
‘I thought you said your dad was a drunk.’
‘Maybe he was. But he was also a great poacher, Gordon. Possibly the greatest there’s ever
been in the history of England. My dad studied poaching like a scientist.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I mean it. I really mean it.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘my dad used to keep a whole flock of prime cockerels in the back yard
purely for experimental purposes.’
‘Cockerels?’
‘That’s right. And whenever he thought up some new stunt for catching a pheasant, he’d try it
out on a cockerel first to see how it worked. That’s how he discovered about raisins. It’s also how
he invented the horsehair method.’
Claud paused and glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure that there was nobody
listening. ‘Here’s how it’s done,’ he said. ‘First you take a few raisins and you soak them
overnight in water to make them nice and plump and juicy. Then you get a bit of good stiff
horsehair and you cut it up into half-inch lengths. Then you push one of these lengths of horsehair
through the middle of each raisin so that there’s about an eighth of an inch of it sticking out on
either side. You follow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now - the old pheasant comes along and eats one of these raisins. Right? And you’re watching
him from behind a tree. So what then?’
‘I imagine it sticks in his throat.’
‘That’s obvious, Gordon. But here’s the amazing thing. Here’s what my dad discovered. The
moment this happens, the bird never moves his feet again! He becomes absolutely rooted to the
spot, and there he stands pumping his silly neck up and down just like it was a piston, and all
you’ve got to do is walk calmly out from the place where you’re hiding and pick him up in your
hands.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I swear it,’ he said. ‘Once a pheasant’s had the horsehair you can fire a rifle in his ear and he
won’t even jump. It’s just one of those unexplainable little things. But it takes a genius to discover
it.’
He paused, and there was a gleam of pride in his eye now as he dwelt for a moment or two upon
the memory of his father, the great inventor.
‘So that’s Method Number One,’ he said. ‘Method Number Two is even more simple still. All
you do is you have a fishing line. Then you bait the hook with a raisin and you fish for the
pheasant just like you fish for a fish. You pay out the line about fifty yards and you lie there on
your stomach in the bushes waiting till you get a bite. Then you haul him in.’
‘I don’t think your father invented that one.’
‘It’s very popular with fishermen,’ he said, choosing not to hear me. ‘Keen fishermen who can’t
get down to the seaside as often as they want. It gives them a bit of the old thrill. The only trouble
is it’s rather noisy. The pheasant squawks like hell as you haul him in, and then every keeper in
the wood comes running.’
‘What is Method Number Three?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Number Three’s a real beauty. It was the last one my dad ever invented before he
passed away.’
‘His final great work?’
‘Exactly, Gordon. And I can even remember the very day it happened, a Sunday morning it
was, and suddenly my dad comes into the kitchen holding a huge white cockerel in his hands and
he says, “I think I’ve got it!” There’s a little smile on his face and a shine of glory in his eyes and
he comes in very soft and quiet and he puts the bird down right in the middle of the kitchen table
and he says, “By God I think I’ve got a good one this time!” “A good what?” Mum says, looking
up from the sink. “Horace, take that filthy bird off my table.” The cockerel has a funny little paper
hat over its head, like an ice-cream cone upside down, and my dad is pointing to it proudly.
“Stroke him,” he says. “He won’t move an inch.” The cockerel starts scratching away at the paper
hat with one of its feet, but the hat seems to be stuck on with glue and it won’t come off. “No bird
in the world is going to run away once you cover up his eyes,” my dad says, and he starts poking
the cockerel with his finger and pushing it around on the table, but it doesn’t take the slightest bit
of notice. “You can have this one,” he says, talking to Mum. “You can kill it and dish it up for
dinner as a celebration of what I have just invented.” And then straight away he takes me by the
arm and marches me quickly out the door and off we go over the fields and up into the big forest
the other side of Haddenham which used to belong to the Duke of Buckingham, and in less than
two hours we get five lovely fat pheasants with no more trouble than it takes to go out and buy
them in a shop.’
Claud paused for breath. His eyes were huge and moist and dreamy as they gazed back into the
wonderful world of his youth.
‘I don’t quite follow this,’ I said. ‘How did he get the paper hats over the pheasants’ heads up in
the woods?’
‘You’d never guess it.’
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t.’
‘Then here it is. First of all you dig a little hole in the ground. Then you twist a piece of paper
into the shape of a cone and you fit this into the hole, hollow end upward, like a cup. Then you
smear the paper cup all around the inside with bird-lime and drop in a few raisins. At the same
time you lay a trail of raisins along the ground leading up to it. Now - the old pheasant comes
pecking along the trail, and when he gets to the hole he pops his head inside to gobble the raisins
and the next thing he knows he’s got a paper hat stuck over his eyes and he can’t see a thing. Isn’t
it marvellous what some people think of, Gordon? Don’t you agree?’
‘Your dad was a genius,’ I said.
‘Then take your pick. Choose whichever one of the three methods you fancy and we’ll use it
tonight.’
‘You don’t think they’re all just a trifle on the crude side, do you?’
‘Crude!’ he cried, aghast. ‘Oh my God! And who’s been having roasted pheasant in the house
nearly every single day for the last six months and not a penny to pay?’
He turned and walked away towards the door of the workshop. I could see that he was deeply
pained by my remark.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Don’t go.’
‘You want to come or don’t you?’
‘Yes, but let me ask you something first. I’ve just had a bit of an idea.’
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You are talking about a subject you don’t know the first thing about.’
‘Do you remember that bottle of sleeping-pills the doc gave me last month when I had a bad
back?’
‘What about them?’
‘Is there any reason why those wouldn’t work on a pheasant?’
Claud closed his eyes and shook his head pityingly from side to side.
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘It’s not worth discussing,’ he said. ‘No pheasant in the world is going to swallow those lousy
red capsules. Don’t you know any better than that?’
‘You are forgetting the raisins,’ I said. ‘Now listen to this. We take a raisin. Then we soak it till
it swells. Then we make a tiny slit in one side of it with a razor-blade. Then we hollow it out a
little. Then we open up one of my red capsules and pour all the powder into the raisin. Then we
get a needle and cotton and very carefully we sew up the slit. Now …’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Claud’s mouth slowly beginning to open.
‘Now,’ I said. ‘We have a nice clean-looking raisin with two and a half grains of seconal inside
it, and let me tell you something now. That’s enough dope to knock the average man unconscious,
never mind about birds!’
I paused for ten seconds to allow the full impact of this to strike home.
‘What’s more, with this method we could operate on a really grand scale. We could prepare
twenty raisins if we felt like it, and all we’d have to do is scatter them around the feeding-grounds
at sunset and then walk away. Half an hour later we’d come back, and the pills would be
beginning to work, and the pheasants would be up in the trees by then, roosting, and they’d be
starting to feel groggy, and they’d be wobbling and trying to keep their balance, and soon every
pheasant that had eaten one single raisin would keel over unconscious and fall to the ground. My
dear boy, they’d be dropping out of the trees like apples, and all we’d have to do is walk around
picking them up!’
Claud was staring at me, rapt.
‘Oh Christ,’ he said softly.
‘And they’d never catch us either. We’d simply stroll through the woods dropping a few raisins
here and there as we went, and even if they were watching us they wouldn’t notice anything.’
‘Gordon,’ he said, laying a hand on my knee and gazing at me with eyes large and bright as two
stars. ‘If this thing works, it will revolutionize poaching.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘How many pills have you got left?’ he asked.
‘Forty-nine. There were fifty in the bottle and I’ve only used one.’
‘Forty-nine’s not enough. We want at least two hundred.’
‘Are you mad!’ I cried.
He walked slowly away and stood by the door with his back to me, gazing at the sky.
‘Two hundred’s the bare minimum,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s really not much point in doing it
unless we have two hundred.’
What is it now, I wondered. What the hell’s he trying to do?
‘This is the last chance we’ll have before the season opens,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t possibly get any more.’
‘You wouldn’t want us to come back empty-handed, would you?’
‘But why so many?’
Claud turned his head and looked at me with large innocent eyes. ‘Why not?’ he said gently.
‘Do you have any objection?’
My God, I thought suddenly. The crazy bastard is out to wreck Mr Victor Hazel’s opening-day
shooting-party.
‘You get us two hundred of those pills,’ he said, ‘and then it’ll be worth doing.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You could try, couldn’t you?’
Mr Hazel’s party took place on the first of October every year and it was a very famous event.
Debilitated gentleman in tweed suits, some with titles and some who were merely rich, motored in
from miles around with their gun-bearers and dogs and wives, and all day long the noise of
shooting rolled across the valley. There were always enough pheasants to go round, for each
summer the woods were methodically restocked with dozens and dozens of young birds at
incredible expense. I had heard it said that the cost of rearing and keeping each pheasant up to the
time when it was ready to be shot was well over five pounds (which is approximately the price of
two hundred loaves of bread). But to Mr Hazel it was worth every penny of it. He became, if only
for a few hours, a big cheese in a little world and even the Lord Lieutenant of the County slapped
him on the back and tried to remember his first name when he said goodbye.
‘How would it be if we just reduced the dose?’ Claud asked. ‘Why couldn’t we divide the
contents of one capsule among four raisins?’
‘I suppose you could if you wanted to.’
‘But would a quarter of a capsule be strong enough for each bird?’
One simply had to admire the man’s nerve. It was dangerous enough to poach a single pheasant
up in those woods at this time of year and here he was planning to knock off the bloody lot.
‘A quarter would be plenty,’ I said.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Work it out for yourself. It’s all done by bodyweight. You’d still be giving about twenty times
more than is necessary.’
‘Then we’ll quarter the dose,’ he said, rubbing his hands. He paused and calculated for a
moment. ‘We’ll have one hundred and ninety-six raisins!’
‘Do you realize what that involves?’ I said. ‘They’ll take hours to prepare.’
‘What of it!’ he cried. We’ll go tomorrow instead. ‘We’ll soak the raisins overnight and then
we’ll have all morning and afternoon to get them ready.’
And that was precisely what we did.
Now, twenty-four hours later, we were on our way. We had been walking steadily for about
forty minutes and we were nearing the point where the lane curved round to the right and ran
along the crest of the hill towards the big wood where the pheasants lived. There was about a mile
to go.
‘I don’t suppose by any chance these keepers might be carrying guns?’ I asked.
‘All keepers carry guns,’ Claud said.
I had been afraid of that.
‘It’s for the vermin mostly.’
‘Ah.’
‘Of course there’s no guarantee they won’t take a pot at a poacher now and again.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Not at all. But they only do it from behind. Only when you’re running away. They like to
pepper you in the legs at about fifty yards.’
‘They can’t do that!’ I cried. ‘It’s a criminal offence!’
‘So is poaching,’ Claud said.
We walked on awhile in silence. The sun was below the high hedge on our right now and the
lane was in shadow.
‘You can consider yourself lucky this isn’t thirty years ago,’ he went on. ‘They used to shoot
you on sight in those days.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Many’s the night when I was a nipper I’ve gone into the kitchen and seen
my old dad lying face downward on the table and Mum standing over him digging the grapeshot
out of his buttocks with a potato knife.’
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘It makes me nervous.’
‘You believe me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I believe you.’
‘Towards the end he was so covered in tiny little white scars he looked exactly like it was
snowing.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All right.’
‘Poacher’s arse, they used to call it,’ Claud said. ‘And there wasn’t a man in the whole village
who didn’t have a bit of it one way or another. But my dad was the champion.’
‘Good luck to him,’ I said.
‘I wish to hell he was here now,’ Claud said, wistful. ‘He’d have given anything in the world to
be coming with us on this job tonight.’
‘He could take my place,’ I said. ‘Gladly.’
We had reached the crest of the hill and now we could see the wood ahead of us, huge and dark
with the sun going down behind the trees and little sparks of gold shining through.
‘You’d better let me have those raisins,’ Claud said.
I gave him the bag and he slid it gently into his trouser pocket.
‘No talking once we’re inside,’ he said. ‘Just follow me and try not to go snapping any
branches.’
Five minutes later we were there. The lane ran right up to the wood itself and then skirted the
edge of it for about three hundred yards with only a little hedge between. Claud slipped through
the hedge on all fours and I followed.
It was cool and dark inside the wood. No sunlight came in at all.
‘This is spooky,’ I said.
‘Ssshh!’
Claud was very tense. He was walking just ahead of me, picking his feet up high and putting
them down gently on the moist ground. He kept his head moving all the time, the eyes sweeping
slowly from side to side, searching for danger. I tried doing the same, but soon I began to see a
keeper behind every tree, so I gave it up.
Then a large patch of sky appeared ahead of us in the roof of the forest and I knew that this
must be the clearing. Claud had told me that the clearing was the place where the young birds
were introduced into the woods in early July, where they were fed and watered and guarded by the
keepers, and where many of them stayed from force of habit until the shooting began.
‘There always plenty of pheasants in the clearing,’ he had said.
‘Keepers too, I suppose.’
‘Yes, but there’s thick bushes all around and that helps.’
We were now advancing in a series of quick crouching spurts, running from tree to tree and
stopping and waiting and listening and running on again, and then at last we were kneeling safely
behind a big clump of alder right on the edge of the clearing and Claud was grinning and nudging
me in the ribs and pointing through the branches at the pheasants.
The place was absolutely stiff with birds. There must have been two hundred of them at least
strutting around among the tree-stumps.
‘You see what I mean?’ Claud whispered.
It was an astonishing sight, a sort of poacher’s dream come true. And how close they were!
Some of them were not more than ten paces from where we knelt. The hens were plump and
creamy-brown and they were so fat their breast-feathers almost brushed the ground as they
walked. The cocks were, slim and beautiful, with long tails and brilliant red patches around the
eyes, like scarlet spectacles. I glanced at Claud. His big ox-like face was transfixed in ecstasy. The
mouth was slightly open and the eyes had a kind of glazy look about them as they stared at the
pheasants.
I believe that all poachers react in roughly the same way as this on sighting game. They are like
women who sight large emeralds in a jeweller’s window, the only difference being that the women
are less dignified in the methods they employ later on to acquire the loot. Poacher’s arse is nothing
to the punishment that a female is willing to endure.
‘Ah-ha,’ Claud said softly. ‘You see the keeper?’
‘Where?’
‘Over the other side, by that big tree. Look carefully.’
‘My God!’
‘It’s all right. He can’t see us.’
We crouched close to the ground, watching the keeper. He was a smallish man with a cap on his
head and a gun under his arm. He never moved. He was like a little post standing there.
‘Let’s go,’ I whispered.
The keeper’s face was shadowed by the peak of his cap, but it seemed to me that he was looking
directly at us.
‘I’m not staying here,’ I said.
‘Hush,’ Claud said.
Slowly, never taking his eyes from the keeper, he reached into his pocket and brought out a
single raisin. He placed it in the palm of his right hand, and then quickly, with a little flick of the
wrist, he threw the raisin high into the air. I watched it as it went sailing over the bushes and I saw
it land within a yard or so of two henbirds standing together beside an old tree-stump. Both birds
turned their heads sharply at the drop of the raisin. Then one of them hopped over and made a
quick peck at the ground and that must have been it.
I glanced up at the keeper. He hadn’t moved.
Claud threw a second raisin into the clearing; then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth.
At this point, I saw the keeper turn away his head in order to survey the wood behind him.
Quick as a flash, Claud pulled the paper bag out of his pocket and tipped a huge pile of raisins
into the cup of his right hand.
‘Stop,’ I said.
But with a great sweep of the arm he flung the whole handful high over the bushes into the
clearing.
They fell with a soft little patter, like raindrops on dry leaves, and every single pheasant in the
place must either have seen them coming or heard them fall. There was a flurry of wings and a
rush to find the treasure.
The keeper’s head flicked round as though there were a spring inside his neck. The birds were
all pecking away madly at the raisins. The keeper took two quick paces forward and for a moment
I thought he was going to investigate. But then he stopped, and his face came up and his eyes
began travelling slowly around the perimeter of the clearing.
‘Follow me,’ Claud whispered. ‘And keep down.’ He started crawling away swiftly on all fours,
like some kind of a monkey.
I went after him. He had his nose close to the ground and his huge tight buttocks were winking
at the sky and it was easy to see now how poacher’s arse had come to be an occupational disease
among the fraternity.
We went along like this for about a hundred yards.
‘Now run,’ Claud said.
We got to our feet and ran, and a few minutes later we emerged through the hedge into the
lovely open safety of the lane.
‘It went marvellous,’ Claud said, breathing heavily. ‘Didn’t it go absolutely marvellous?’ The
big face was scarlet and glowing with triumph.
‘It was a mess,’ I said.
‘What!’ he cried.
‘Of course it was. We can’t possibly go back now. That keeper knows there was someone
there.’
‘He knows nothing,’ Claud said. ‘In another five minutes it’ll be pitch dark inside the wood and
he’ll be sloping off home to his supper.’
‘I think I’ll join him.’
‘You’re a great poacher,’ Claud said. He sat down on the grassy bank under the hedge and lit a
cigarette.
The sun had set now and the sky was a pale smoke blue, faintly glazed with yellow. In the
woods behind us the shadows and the spaces in between the trees were turning from grey to black.
‘How long does a sleeping-pill take to work?’ Claud asked.
‘Look out,’ I said. ‘There’s someone coming.’
The man had appeared suddenly and silently out of the dusk and he was only thirty yards away
when I saw him.
‘Another bloody keeper,’ Claud said.
We both looked at the keeper as he came down the lane towards us. He had a shotgun under his
arm and there was a black Labrador walking at his heels. He stopped when he was a few paces
away and the dog stopped with him and stayed behind him, watching us through the keeper’s legs.
‘Good evening,’ Claud said, nice and friendly.
This one was a tall bony man about forty with a swift eye and a hard cheek and hard dangerous
hands.
‘I know you,’ he said softly, coming closer. ‘I know the both of you.’
Claud didn’t answer this.
‘You’re from the fillin’-station. Right?’
His lips were thin and dry, with some sort of a brownish crust over them.
‘You’re Cubbage and Hawes and you’re from the fillin’-station on the main road. Right?’
‘What are we playing?’ Claud said. ‘Twenty Questions?’
The keeper spat out a big gob of spit and I saw it go floating through the air and land with a
plop on a patch of dry dust six inches from Claud’s feet. It looked like a little baby oyster lying
there.
‘Beat it,’ the man said. ‘Go on. Get out.’
Claud sat on the bank smoking his cigarette and looking at the gob of spit.
‘Go on,’ the man said. ‘Get out.’
When he spoke, the upper lip lifted above the gum and I could see a row of small discoloured
teeth, one of them black, the others quince and ochre.
‘This happens to be a public highway,’ Claud said. ‘Kindly do not molest us.’
The keeper shifted the gun from his left arm to his right.
‘You’re loiterin’,’ he said, ‘with intent to commit a felony. I could run you in for that.’
‘No you couldn’t,’ Claud said.
All this made me rather nervous.
‘I’ve had my eye on you for some time,’ the keeper said, looking at Claud.
‘It’s getting late,’ I said. ‘Shall we stroll on?’
Claud flipped away his cigarette and got slowly to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
We wandered off down the lane the way we had come, leaving the keeper standing there, and
soon the man was out of sight in the half-darkness behind us.
‘That’s the head keeper,’ Claud said. ‘His name is Rabbetts.’
‘Let’s get the hell out,’ I said.
‘Come in here,’ Claud said.
There was a gate on our left leading into a field and we climbed over it and sat down behind the
hedge.
‘Mr Rabbetts is also due for his supper,’ Claud said. ‘You mustn’t worry about him.’
We sat quietly behind the hedge waiting for the keeper to walk past us on his way home. A few
stars were showing and a bright three-quarter moon was coming up over the hills behind us in the
east.
‘Here he is,’ Claud whispered. ‘Don’t move.’
The keeper came loping softly up the lane with the dog padding quick and soft-footed at his
heels, and we watched them through the hedge as they went by.
‘He won’t be coming back tonight,’ Claud said.
‘How do you know that?’
‘A keeper never waits for you in the wood if he knows where you live. He goes to your house
and hides outside and watches for you to come back.’
‘That’s worse.’
‘No, it isn’t, not if you dump the loot somewhere else before you go home. He can’t touch you
then.’
‘What about the other one, the one in the clearing?’
‘He’s gone too.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘I’ve been studying these bastards for months, Gordon, honest I have. I know all their habits.
There’s no danger.’
Reluctantly I followed him back into the wood. It was pitch dark in there now and very silent,
and as we moved cautiously forward the noise of our footsteps seemed to go echoing around the
walls of the forest as though we were walking in a cathedral.
‘Here’s where we threw the raisins,’ Claud said.
I peered through the bushes.
The clearing lay dim and milky in the moonlight.
‘You’re quite sure the keeper’s gone?’
‘I know he’s gone.’
I could just see Claud’s face under the peak of his cap, the pale lips, the soft pale cheeks, and
the large eyes with a little spark of excitement dancing slowly in each.
‘Are they roosting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘All around. They don’t go far.’
‘What do we do next?’
‘We stay here and wait. I brought you a light,’ he added, and he handed me one of those small
pocket flashlights shaped like a fountain-pen. ‘You may need it.’
I was beginning to feel better. ‘Shall we see if we can spot some of them sitting in the trees?’ I
said.
‘No.’
‘I should like to see how they look when they’re roosting.’
‘This isn’t a nature-study,’ Claud said. ‘Please be quiet.’
We stood there for a long time waiting for something to happen.
‘I’ve just had a nasty thought,’ I said. ‘If a bird can keep its balance on a branch when it’s
asleep, then surely there isn’t any reason why the pills should make it fall down.’
Claud looked at me quick.
‘After all,’ I said, ‘it’s not dead. It’s still only sleeping.’
‘It’s doped,’ Claud said.
‘But that’s just a deeper sort of sleep. Why should we expect it to fall down just because it’s in
a deeper sleep?’
There was a gloomy silence.
‘We should’ve tried it with chickens,’ Claud said. ‘My dad would’ve done that.’
‘Your dad was a genius,’ I said.
At that moment there came a soft thump from the wood behind us.
‘Hey!’
‘Sshh!’
We stood listening.
Thump.
‘There’s another!’
It was a deep muffled sound as though a bag of sand had been dropped from about shoulder
height.
Thump!
‘They’re pheasants!’ I cried.
‘Wait!’
‘I’m sure they’re pheasants!’
Thump! Thump!
‘You’re right!’
We ran back into the wood.
‘Where were they?’
‘Over here! Two of them were over here!’
‘I thought they were this way.’
‘Keep looking!’ Claud shouted. ‘They can’t be far.’
We searched for about a minute.
‘Here’s one!’ he called.
When I got to him he was holding a magnificent cock-bird in both hands. We examined it
closely with our flashlights.
‘It’s doped to the gills,’ Claud said. ‘It’s still alive, I can feel its heart, but it’s doped to the
bloody gills.’
Thump!
‘There’s another!’
Thump! Thump!
‘Two more!’
Thump!
Thump! Thump! Thump!
‘Jesus Christ!’
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Thump! Thump!
All around us the pheasants were starting to rain down out of the trees. We began rushing
around madly in the dark, sweeping the ground with our flashlights.
Thump! Thump! Thump! This lot fell almost on top of me. I was right under the tree as they
came down and I found all three of them immediately - two cocks and a hen. They were limp and
warm, the feathers wonderfully soft in the hand.
‘Where shall I put them?’ I called out. I was holding them by the legs.
‘Lay them here, Gordon! Just pile them up here where it’s light!’
Claud was standing on the edge of the clearing with the moonlight streaming down all over him
and a great bunch of pheasants in each hand. His face was bright, his eyes big and bright and
wonderful, and he was staring around him like a child who has just discovered that the whole
world is made of chocolate.
Thump!
Thump! Thump!
‘I don’t like it,’ I said. ‘It’s too many.’
‘It’s beautiful!’ he cried and he dumped the birds he was carrying and ran off to look for more.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Thump!
It was easy to find them now. There were one or two lying under every tree. I quickly collected
six more, three in each hand, and ran back and dumped them with the others. Then six more. Then
six more after that.
And still they kept falling.
Claud was in a whirl of ecstasy now, dashing about like a mad ghost under the trees. I could see
the beam of his flashlight waving around in the dark and each time he found a bird he gave a little
yelp of triumph.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
‘That bugger Hazel ought to hear this!’ he called out.
‘Don’t shout,’ I said. ‘It frightens me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t shout. There might be keepers.’
‘Screw the keepers!’ he cried. ‘They’re all eating!’
For three or four minutes, the pheasants kept on falling. Then suddenly they stopped.
‘Keep searching!’ Claud shouted. ‘There’s plenty more on the ground!’
‘Don’t you think we ought to get out while the going’s good?’
‘No,’ he said.
We went on searching. Between us we looked under every tree within a hundred yards of the
clearing, north, south, east, and west, and I think we found most of them in the end. At the
collecting-point there was a pile of pheasants as big as a bonfire.
‘It’s a miracle,’ Claud was saying. ‘It’s a bloody miracle.’ He was staring at them in a kind of
trance.
‘We’d better just take half a dozen each and get out quick,’ I said.
‘I would like to count them, Gordon.’
‘There’s no time for that.’
‘I must count them.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
‘One …
‘Two …
‘Three …
‘Four …’
He began counting them very carefully, picking up each bird in turn and laying it carefully to
one side. The moon was directly overhead now and the whole clearing was brilliantly illuminated.
‘I’m not standing around here like this,’ I said. I walked back a few paces and hid myself in the
shadows, waiting for him to finish.
‘A hundred and seventeen … a hundred and eighteen … a hundred and nineteen … a hundred
and twenty!’ he cried. ‘One hundred and twenty birds! It’s an all-time record!’
I didn’t doubt it for a moment.
‘The most my dad ever got in one night was fifteen and he was drunk for a week afterwards!’
‘You’re the champion of the world,’ I said. ‘Are you ready now?’
‘One minute,’ he answered and he pulled up his sweater and proceeded to unwind the two big
white cotton sacks from around his belly. ‘Here’s yours,’ he said, handing one of them to me. ‘Fill
it up quick.’
The light of the moon was so strong I could read the small print along the base of the sack. J. w.
CRUMP, it said, KESTON FLOUR MILLS, LONDON SW17.
‘You don’t think that bastard with the brown teeth is watching us this very moment from behind
a tree?’
‘There’s no chance of that,’ Claud said. ‘He’s down at the filling-station like I told you, waiting
for us to come home.’
We started loading the pheasants into the sacks. They were soft and floppy-necked and the skin
underneath the feathers was still warm.
‘There’ll be a taxi waiting for us in the lane,’ Claud said.
‘What?’
‘I always go back in a taxi, Gordon, didn’t you know that?’
I told him I didn’t.
‘A taxi is anonymous,’ Claud said. ‘Nobody knows who’s inside a taxi except the driver. My
dad taught me that.’
‘Which driver?’
‘Charlie Kinch. He’s only too glad to oblige.’
We finished loading the pheasants, and I tried to hump my bulging sack on to my shoulder. My
sack had about sixty birds inside it, and it must have weighed a hundredweight and a half, at least.
‘I can’t carry this,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to leave some of them behind.’
‘Drag it,’ Claud said. ‘Just pull it behind you.’
We started off through the pitch-black woods, pulling the pheasants behind us. ‘We’ll never
make it all the way back to the village like this,’ I said.
‘Charlie’s never let me down yet,’ Claud said.
We came to the margin of the wood and peered through the hedge into the lane. Claud said,
‘Charlie boy’ very softly and the old man behind the wheel of the taxi not five yards away poked
his head out into the moonlight and gave us a sly toothless grin. We slid through the hedge,
dragging the sacks after us along the ground.
‘Hullo!’ Charlie said. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s cabbages,’ Claud told him. ‘Open the door.’
Two minutes later we were safely inside the taxi, cruising slowly down the hill towards the
village.
It was all over now bar the shouting. Claud was triumphant, bursting with pride and excitement,
and he kept leaning forward and tapping Charlie Kinch on the shoulder and saying, ‘How about it,
Charlie? How about this for a haul?’ and Charlie kept glancing back popeyed at the huge bulging
sacks lying on the floor between us and saying, ‘Jesus Christ, man, how did you do it?’
‘There’s six brace of them for you, Charlie,’ Claud said. And Charlie said, ‘I reckon pheasants
is going to be a bit scarce up at Mr Victor Hazel’s opening-day shoot this year,’ and Claud said, ‘I
imagine they are, Charlie, I imagine they are.’
‘What in God’s name are you going to do with a hundred and twenty pheasants?’ I asked.
‘Put them in cold storage for the winter,’ Claud said. ‘Put them in with the dogmeat in the deep-
freeze at the filling-station.’
‘Not tonight, I trust?’
‘No, Gordon, not tonight. We leave them at Bessie’s house tonight.’
‘Bessie who?’
‘Bessie Organ.’
‘Bessie Organ!’
‘Bessie always delivers my game, didn’t you know that?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ I said. I was completely stunned. Mrs Organ was the wife of the
Reverend Jack Organ, the local vicar.
‘Always choose a respectable woman to deliver your game,’ Claud announced. ‘That’s correct,
Charlie, isn’t it?’
‘Bessie’s a right smart girl,’ Charlie said.
We were driving through the village now and the street-lamps were still on and the men were
wandering home from the pubs. I saw Will Prattley letting himself in quietly by the side-door of
his fishmonger’s shop and Mrs Prattley’s head was sticking out of the window just above him, but
he didn’t know it.
‘The vicar is very partial to roasted pheasant,’ Claud said.
‘He hangs it eighteen days,’ Charlie said, ‘then he gives it a couple of good shakes and all the
feathers drop off.’
The taxi turned left and swung in through the gates of the vicarage. There were no lights on in
the house and nobody met us. Claud and I dumped the pheasants in the coal shed at the rear, and
then we said good-bye to Charlie Kinch and walked back in the moonlight to the filling-station,
empty-handed. Whether or not Mr Rabbetts was watching us as we went in, I do not know. We
saw no sign of him.
‘Here she comes,’ Claud said to me the next morning.
‘Who?’
‘Bessie - Bessie Organ.’ He spoke the name proudly and with a slight proprietary air, as though
he were a general referring to his bravest officer.
I followed him outside.
‘Down there,’ he said, pointing.
Far away down the road I could see a small female figure advancing towards us.
‘What’s she pushing?’ I asked.
Claud gave me a sly look.
‘There’s only one safe way of delivering game,’ he announced, ‘and that’s under a baby.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured, ‘yes, of course.’
‘That’ll be young Christopher Organ in there, aged one and a half. He’s a lovely child, Gordon.’
I could just make out the small dot of a baby sitting high up in the pram, which had its hood
folded down.
‘There’s sixty or seventy pheasants at least under that little nipper,’ Claud said happily. ‘You
just imagine that.’
‘You can’t put sixty or seventy pheasants in a pram.’
‘You can if it’s got a deep well underneath it, and if you take out the mattress and pack them in
tight, right up to the top. All you need then is a sheet. You’ll be surprised how little room a
pheasant takes up when it’s limp.’
We stood beside the pumps waiting for Bessie Organ to arrive. It was one of those warm
windless September mornings with a darkening sky and a smell of thunder in the air.
‘Right through the village bold as brass,’ Claud said. ‘Good old Bessie.’
‘She seems in rather a hurry to me.’
Claud lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘Bessie is never in a hurry,’ he said.
‘She certainly isn’t walking normal,’ I told him. ‘You look.’
He squinted at her through the smoke of his cigarette. Then he took the cigarette out of his
mouth and looked again.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘She does seem to be going a tiny bit quick, doesn’t she?’ he said carefully.
‘She’s going damn quick.’
There was a pause. Claud was beginning to stare very hard at the approaching woman.
‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to be caught in the rain, Gordon. I’ll bet that’s exactly what it is, she
thinks it’s going to rain and she don’t want the baby to get wet.’
‘Why doesn’t she put the hood up?’
He didn’t answer this.
‘She’s running!’ I cried. ‘Look!’ Bessie had suddenly broken into a full sprint.
Claud stood very still, watching the woman; and in the silence that followed I fancied I could
hear a baby screaming.
‘What’s up?’
He didn’t answer.
‘There’s something wrong with that baby,’ I said. ‘Listen.’
At this point, Bessie was about two hundred yards away from us but closing fast.
‘Can you hear him now?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s yelling his head off.’
The small shrill voice in the distance was growing louder every second, frantic, piercing,
nonstop, almost hysterical.
‘He’s having a fit,’ Claud announced.
‘I think he must be.’
‘That’s why she’s running, Gordon. She wants to get him in here quick and put him under a
cold tap.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said. ‘In fact I know you’re right. Just listen to that noise.’
‘If it isn’t a fit, you can bet your life it’s something like it.’
‘I quite agree.’
Claud shifted his feet uneasily on the gravel of the driveway. ‘There’s a thousand and one
different things keep happening every day to little babies like that,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘I knew a baby once who caught his fingers in the spokes of the pram wheel. He lost the lot. It
cut them clean off.’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever it is,’ Claud said, ‘I wish to Christ she’d stop running.’
A long truck loaded with bricks came up behind Bessie and the driver slowed down and poked
his head out of the window to stare. Bessie ignored him and flew on, and she was so close now I
could see her big red face with the mouth wide open, panting for breath. I noticed she was wearing
white gloves on her hands, very prim and dainty, and there was a funny little white hat to match
perched right on the top of her head, like a mushroom.
Suddenly, out of the pram, straight up into the air, flew an enormous pheasant!
Claud let out a cry of horror.
The fool in the truck going along beside Bessie started roaring with laughter.
The pheasant flapped around drunkenly for a few seconds, then it lost height and landed in the
grass by the side of the road.
A grocer’s van came up behind the truck and began hooting to get by. Bessie kept running.
Then - whoosh! - a second pheasant flew up out of the pram.
Then a third, and a fourth. Then a fifth.
‘My God!’ I said. ‘It’s the pills! They’re wearing off!’
Claud didn’t say anything.
Bessie covered the last fifty yards at a tremendous pace, and she came swinging into the
driveway of the filling-station with birds flying up out of the pram in all directions.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she cried.
‘Go round the back!’ I shouted. ‘Go round the back!’ But she pulled up sharp against the first
pump in the line, and before we could reach her she had seized the screaming infant in her arms
and dragged him clear.
‘No! No!’ Claud cried, racing towards her. ‘Don’t lift the baby! Put him back! Hold down the
sheet!’ But she wasn’t even listening, and with the weight of the child suddenly lifted away, a
great cloud of pheasants rose up out of the pram, fifty or sixty of them, at least, and the whole sky
above us was filled with huge brown birds flapping their wings furiously to gain height.
Claud and I started running up and down the driveway waving our arms to frighten them off the
premises. ‘Go away!’ we shouted. ‘Shoo! Go away!’ But they were too dopey still to take any
notice of us and within half a minute down they came again and settled themselves like a swarm of
locusts all over the front of my filling-station. The place was covered with them. They sat wing to
wing along the edges of the roof and on the concrete canopy that came out over the pumps, and a
dozen at least were clinging to the sill of the office window. Some had flown down on to the rack
that held the bottles of lubricating-oil, and others were sliding about on the bonnets of my second-
hand cars. One cock-bird with a fine tail was perched superbly on top of a petrol pump, and quite a
number, those that were too drunk to stay aloft, simply squatted in the driveway at our feet,
fluffing their feathers and blinking their small eyes.
Across the road, a line of cars had already started forming behind the brick-lorry and the
grocery-van, and people were opening their doors and getting out and beginning to cross over to
have a closer look. I glanced at my watch. It was twenty to nine. Any moment now, I thought, a
large black car is going to come streaking along the road from the direction of the village, and the
car will be a Rolls, and the face behind the wheel will be the great glistening brewer’s face of Mr
Victor Hazel.
‘They near pecked him to pieces!’ Bessie was shouting, clasping the screaming baby to her
bosom.
‘You go on home, Bessie,’ Claud said, white in the face.
‘Lock up,’ I said. ‘Put out the sign. We’ve gone for the day.’
野鸡还魂记
野鸡还魂记
整整一天了，除了应付顾客，一有空隙我们就伏在加油站营业室的桌子上，准备着那些
葡萄干。由于葡萄干被浸在水里，所以它们圆润、柔软、胀鼓鼓的。用剃须刀片轻轻一划，
表皮就会爆开，里面果冻般的果肉轻轻一挤就出来了。
但我们总共有一百九十六颗要弄，不等我们做完，天就要黑了。
“它们看起来棒极了！”克劳德一边大声嚷道，一边使劲搓着双手，“戈登，现在什么时候
了？”
“刚过五点。”
透过窗子我们看见一辆旅行车向油泵停靠过来，驾驶它的是一名妇女，后座大约坐着八
个孩子，正在吃冰淇淋。
“我们该赶紧动身了。”克劳德说，“如果太阳下山前我们到不了，那么整件事就会泡汤，
这你明白吗？”他现在开始焦躁不安起来，脸上泛着红晕，眼球鼓起，一如以往赛狗前或晚上
要和克拉丽斯约会那样兴奋。
我们两人走出去，克劳德给那位妇女加了她要的油量。她离开后，他仍然站在车道中
间，抬起头，焦虑地眯起眼睛看着太阳。此刻，太阳高出山谷对面山脊上的树线仅仅只有一
只手的宽度。
“好吧，”我说，“上锁。”
他飞快地从一个油泵转到另一个油泵，将每个喷嘴用一把小挂锁固定在它的底座上。
“你最好脱下这件黄色的套衫。”他说。
“为什么我要脱下？”
“你会在月光下闪闪发亮，像座该死的灯塔。”
“我不会有事的。”
“你会的，”他说，“戈登，脱下吧，求你了。三分钟后见。”他消失在加油站后面他的活
动拖车里，我进屋脱下黄套衫，换上了一件蓝色的。
当我们在外面再会合时，克劳德穿着一条黑裤子和一件墨绿色的高翻领运动衫，头上戴
着一顶咖啡色布帽，帽舌向下拉到贴近眼睛，就像一个从夜总会出来的演痞子的艺人。
“那底下是什么？”我看着他腰间的鼓起问道。
他拉起他的运动衫，给我展示那两只很薄但很大的白布袋，它们被整齐地紧紧绑在他的
腹部。“用来运东西的。”他表情神秘地说。
“我明白了。”
“我们走吧。”他说。
“我还是觉得我们应该开那辆车去。”
“这太冒险，他们会看到它停着。”
“但是到那片树林有三英里 [7] 远。”
“是的，”他说，“我想你明白，如果被他们抓到的话，我们会蹲上六个月的大牢。”
“这你从没告诉过我。”
“我没有吗？”
“我不去了，”我说，“这不值得。”
“散散步对你有好处，戈登，走吧。”
这是一个安静而晴朗的傍晚，几朵亮丽的白云一动不动地悬挂在空中，当我们俩开始一
起沿着路边的草地行走时，山谷显得凉爽而宁静，这条路在两座山中间延展，一直通往牛
津。
“你带了葡萄干吗？”克劳德问。
“在我口袋里。”
“很好，”他说，“妙极了。”
十分钟后我们左转离开了大路，进入一条狭窄的小道，它的两边长着高高的树篱，从这
里开始，走的全是上坡路。
“那里有多少人看守？”我问。
“三个。”
克劳德把一支抽了一半的烟扔掉，过了一分钟又点燃另一支。
“我通常不赞成新方法，”他说，“用在这种事情上是行不通的。”
“当然。”
“但是天啊，戈登，我想我们这次要用的是一个了不起的方法。”
“你真这么想？”
“这毫无疑问。”
“但愿你是对的。”
“这将是偷猎史上的一个里程碑，”他说，“但我们是怎么做的，你绝不能告诉任何人，因
为这方法一旦泄露出去，这个地区的所有大笨蛋都会来效仿，那么这里的野鸡将会荡然无
存。”
“我不会吐露一个字。”
“你应该为自己感到骄傲，”他继续说，“数百年来，一直有人在绞尽脑汁研究这个问题，
但没有一个人能想出像你这样巧妙的方法，哪怕你的四分之一都没有。之前你为什么不告诉
我？”
“你从没征求过我的意见。”我说。
这是真的，事实上，直到前一天，克劳德都从未提过要和我讨论偷猎这个神圣的话题。
在夏天的晚上，当工作结束之后，我经常看见他戴着帽子，悄悄地从他的拖车屋里走出来，
消失在那条去树林的路上。有时候，我透过加油站的窗户看着他，不禁感到疑惑，他究竟去
做什么，在这万籁俱寂的夜里，他径直跑到那些树下去玩什么狡猾的把戏。他一般很晚才回
来，而且从来不带回任何战利品，绝对没有。但是在第二天下午——我想象不出他是怎么弄
来的——在加油站后面的棚子里，总会挂着一只野鸡，或一只野兔，或一对松鸡，供我们享
用。
这个夏季他尤其活跃，在前两个月里，他的外出频率增加到每星期有四五个夜晚。但还
不只是如此，在我看来，他最近对偷猎的整个态度似乎发生了微妙而神秘的变化。现在他更
有目的性了，更守口如瓶，而且比以前更热切了。我有一种感觉，这与其说是一场游戏，不
如说是一场“十字军东征”，是克劳德在以一己之力对一个隐形的仇敌发动的一场私人的战
争。
可那个仇敌是谁呢？
我不能肯定，但我怀疑他不是别人，正是赫赫有名的维克托•黑兹尔先生——土地和野鸡
的拥有者。黑兹尔先生是当地的一个啤酒制造商，惯于露出一副财大气粗的傲慢态度。他富
得难以用语言形容，他的地产沿着山谷两边延展好几英里。他是一个白手起家的人，然而毫
无魅力，更是和美德绝缘。他对社会地位低下的人嗤之以鼻，可他自己也曾是他们中的一
员，他拼命想要交往的是他认为体面的人。他骑马打猎，举行射击派对，身穿华丽的马甲。
在每个工作日，他会开着一辆庞大的黑色劳斯莱斯经过加油站去啤酒厂。当他一闪而过的时
候，我们偶尔会瞥见驾驶盘上方啤酒商那张油光闪闪的大脸，呈火腿一样的粉红色，整个儿
松垮垮的，显然这红肿是因为喝了太多的啤酒。
总之，昨天下午，克劳德突然出人意料地对我说：“今晚我又要去他的树林，你何不一起
去呢？”
“谁，我吗？”
“这差不多是今年逮野鸡的最后时机了。”他说，“猎季将在星期六开始，这之后鸟会飞散
到各地——如果还有剩下的话。”
“为什么突然邀我去？”我问道，心中充满了怀疑。
“戈登，没有什么特别的理由，没有任何原因。”
“有危险吗？”
他不置可否。
“我怀疑你在那里藏了一把枪或其他什么东西。”
“枪！”他喊起来，露出不屑的神情，“没有人用枪打野鸡，你难道不知道？在黑兹尔的树
林里，哪怕你发射的是玩具枪，守林人都会盯上你。”
“那么你是怎样捉的？”
“啊。”他的眼皮垂下来遮住了眼睛，表情含蓄，讳莫如深。
一阵长时间的沉默，然后他说：“如果我把实情告知你一二，你觉得你能做到守口如瓶
吗？”
“当然。”
“戈登，我这辈子从没和别人说过这事。”
“我很荣幸，”我说，“你能这样绝对信任我。”
他转过脸，用灰色的眼睛注视着我。那双眼睛很大，湿湿的，像是公牛的眼睛，它们离
我这样近，以至于我能看到自己的脸倒映在这一对眼珠的正中央。
“现在，我要让你知道世界上三种最好的偷猎野鸡的方法，”他说，“既然让你加入了这场
有趣的经历，那么我要让你来选择，选你想要我们今晚采用哪种方法。你看怎样？”
“这里面有什么蹊跷？”
“绝对没有，戈登，我发誓。”
“好吧，继续说。”
“听好，事情是这样的。”他说，“这是第一个大秘密。”他停住，深深地吸了一口纸
烟。“野鸡，”他压低了声音说，“非常喜欢葡萄干。”
“葡萄干？”
“就是普通的葡萄干。野鸡对它们爱得发狂。我爸爸在四十多年前就发现了这点，就像他
发现了我现在要向你描述的这三种方法一样。”
“我想起你说过你爸爸是个醉汉。”
“也许他是吧，戈登，但他还是个伟大的偷猎者，大概是英格兰历史上最伟大的偷猎者，
我爸爸像科学家一样钻研偷猎。”
“当真？”
“我是说真的，不和你开玩笑。”
“我相信你。”
“你知道吗，”他说，“我爸爸经常在后院饲养一大群上好的小公鸡，目的纯粹是做实
验。”
“小公鸡？”
“正是。不管什么时候，他只要想出一种捉野鸡的新花招，就会先用小公鸡试验，看它怎
样生效。他就是这样发现葡萄干的，马鬃的方法也是这样发明的。”
克劳德停下来，回头看了一眼，好像是确定一下没有人在偷听。“是这样做的，”他
说，“首先拿一些新鲜葡萄干，放在水里浸泡过夜，使它们变得好看，饱满而多汁。然后拿少
许坚挺的优质马鬃，剪成一段一段，每段半英寸长，然后将一段马鬃从一个葡萄干中间穿
过，这样两边就会有八分之一英寸的马鬃露出来。你听得懂吗？”
“是的。”
“现在——那只老野鸡走过来了，吃了一颗这样的葡萄干，对吗？而你躲在一棵树后看
着，那么会发生什么呢？”
“我猜它会卡在野鸡的喉咙里。”
“戈登，这是必然的，但我爸爸还发现了更令人吃惊的事情。这一刻你会看见，那只野鸡
再也没法移动它的脚！它完完全全地扎根在那个地方，当它站着的时候，那该死的脖子就像
活塞一样上下摆动着。你需要做的就是一声不响地从藏身处走出来，用手把它拾起来。”
“我可不相信这些。”
“我发誓。”他说，“一旦一只野鸡吃下了马鬃，你可以用来复枪对着它的耳朵开枪，它甚
至都不会跳一下。这仅仅是那些无法解释的小事之一，只有等天才去揭开它的秘密了。”
他停住，当他回忆起他父亲——那个伟大的发明家时，他沉默了好一会儿，眼睛里闪现
出一抹自豪的目光。
“所以，这是第一种方法。”他说，“第二种方法甚至还更简单，你只需一根钓鱼线，然后
把葡萄干作为诱饵串在钩上，就能像钓鱼那样钓野鸡了。你把线放出去大约五十码，然后俯
卧在灌木丛里，等到野鸡咬了钩，把它拖过来就行了。”
“我想这不是你父亲发明的。”
“这深受钓鱼者的欢迎。”他说着，只当没听见我的话，“热衷钓鱼的人们不能如愿常去海
边，这能让他们大大地过把瘾。唯一的麻烦是相当喧闹，当你拉野鸡时，它会发出又尖又响
的叫声，然后，树林里所有的看守人都会跑过来。”
“那么第三种方法是什么呢？”我问。
“啊，”他说，“第三种方法真是妙不可言，那是我爸爸生前最后的发明。”
“他最后的杰作？”
“一点不错，戈登。我甚至能记得事情发生的那天，那是一个星期天的早晨，我爸爸突然
走进厨房，双手抓着一只肥大的白公鸡，他说：‘我想我是成功了！’他脸上露出微笑，眼中含
着自豪，闪闪有光，他变得很温柔、平和，把鸡放在厨房桌子的当中，说道：‘老天，我想这
次我有了一个绝妙的主意！’‘绝妙的什么？’妈妈说着从水槽边抬头看他，‘霍勒斯，把这只脏
鸟从我桌上拿走。’那只公鸡的头上戴着一顶滑稽的小纸帽，就像一个倒过来的蛋卷冰淇淋，
我爸爸得意扬扬地指着它。‘摸摸它，’他说，‘它一动都不会动。’那只公鸡开始用一只脚爪乱
抓它的帽子，但帽子好像是用胶水粘住的，没有掉下来。‘世界上没有一只鸟在你遮住它的眼
睛时会逃跑。’我爸爸说。他开始用手指捅着公鸡，把它在桌子上推来推去，但是它没有发出
一丝轻微的声音。‘你把它拿去吧，’他对妈妈说，‘你可以把它宰了，端上餐桌，庆祝一下我
的新发明。’然后他拉着我的胳膊快步出门，我们穿过田野，进入那片大森林，就在哈德纳姆
的另一边，以前一直是白金汉公爵拥有的地方。在不到两小时里，我们轻而易举地逮到了五
只可爱的肥野鸡，卖给了一家店铺。”
克劳德停下来吸了一口气，当他睁大眼睛，回忆着他幼年的奇妙世界时，他的眼眶湿润
了，溢满了梦幻。
“我一点也没弄明白。”我说，“他在树林里是怎样把纸帽扣到野鸡头上的？”
“你永远也猜不到。”
“我肯定猜不出。”
“那么，我来告诉你。首先在地上挖一个洞，然后用一张纸旋成一个圆锥形，把它开口向
上嵌入洞中，像是一只杯子。然后在纸杯里面涂满粘鸟胶，再丢入一些葡萄干，与此同时，
再在地面上撒上一长串葡萄干把野鸡引过来。现在，老野鸡一路啄着葡萄干走过来，当它走
到洞口的时候，就把头伸进去狼吞虎咽地吃葡萄干，接着它发现它的眼睛被一顶纸帽罩住，
它什么也看不见了。这难道不让人觉得很奇妙吗？戈登，你不赞同吗？”
“你爸爸真是个天才。”我说。
“好了，做出你的选择，从这三个方法中挑一个你喜欢的，我们今晚就用它。”
“你不觉得它们都是些粗制滥造的小把戏吗？”
“粗制滥造！”他一脸惊骇地喊叫起来，“哦，我的天！是谁在过去六个月里天天在屋里享
用烤野鸡而不用付一分钱？”
他转身离开，朝工场间的门走去。我能看出他被我的话深深地刺痛了。
“等一下，”我说，“你别走。”
“你是要挑一个还是不挑？”
“我挑，但让我先问你一件事情，我刚刚冒出一个主意。”
“别说了，你在谈论一个你根本不懂的话题。”
“你记得上个月我的背受伤时，医生给我的那瓶安眠药吗？”
“那又能怎样？”
“有什么理由不能把它们用在野鸡身上呢？”
克劳德闭上眼睛，怜悯地来回摇晃着他的脑袋。
“等等。”我说。
“这个方法都不值得去讨论，”他说，“世界上没有一只野鸡会吞下这些讨厌的红色胶囊。
你连这都不清楚吗？”
“你忘了葡萄干，”我说，“现在听好了，我们拿一颗葡萄干，把它浸泡得鼓起来，然后用
剃刀在它的一面割开一个小缝，我们再把它掏空一点，然后打开我的一颗红色胶囊，把所有
的药粉倒进葡萄干里，然后我们用针和棉线非常小心地把缝隙缝合起来。现在……”
我从眼角瞥见克劳德的嘴巴慢慢地张开了。
“现在，”我说，“让我来告诉你一些常识，我们有一颗看起来很干净，里面有两粒半西可
巴比妥 [8] 的葡萄干，这足以使一个中等身材的人昏迷不醒，更不用说鸟类了！”
我停顿了十来秒，好让他动心，全盘接受我的想法。
“更重要的是，用这种方法我们可以大规模运作。如果我们喜欢的话，可以准备二十颗葡
萄干，只需在太阳下山时把它们撒在动物觅食的地方，然后走开。半个小时后我们再返回，
药物开始起作用了，那时野鸡已上树栖息，它们会开始感到头晕眼花，并摇摇晃晃地试图保
持自己的平衡，很快，凡是吃过葡萄干的野鸡都会失去知觉翻身跌落到地上。我亲爱的伙
计，它们就像苹果一样从树上跌落下来，我们只用把它们一一从地上捡起来就行了。”
克劳德注视着我，听得简直入迷了。
“哦，老天。”他轻声地说。
“他们也永远不会逮住我们，我们只是在树林里漫步，在经过的各处撒下一些葡萄干，即
使他们看到我们，也不会产生任何怀疑。”
“戈登，”他说着把一只手放在我的膝盖上，睁大两只像星星一样明亮的眼睛直视着
我，“如果这有效果，那将是一场偷猎革命。”
“我很高兴听你这样说。”
“你还有多少药？”他问。
“四十九粒。一瓶有五十粒，我只吃了一粒。”
“四十九粒太少，我们至少得有两百粒。”
“你疯啦！”我喊道。
他慢慢走开，背对着我站在门边，仰视着天空。
“两百粒绝对是最小的数目，”他平静地说道，“除非我们有两百粒，否则做这件事真的没
多大意义。”
现在怎么办，我想，他究竟要干什么？
“这是我们在狩猎期开始前的最后机会。”他说。
“我不可能有更多的药。”
“你不想让我们空手而归，是吗？”
“但是为什么要这么多？”
克劳德转过脸，用那双坦率的大眼睛看着我。“为什么不呢？”他温和地说，“你有什么反
对的理由？”
天呐，我突然想，这个疯狂的家伙是想试图破坏维克托•黑兹尔先生的“狩猎开放日聚
会”。
“你去为我们搞到两百粒这样的药片，”他说，“然后才值得一做。”
“我办不到。”
“你可以试试，不是吗？”
黑兹尔先生的聚会定在每年的十月一日举行，是一场著名的盛事。穿着花呢西装、身体
虚弱的绅士带着他们的持枪人、猎狗和妻子从几英里之外的地方驱车而来，他们有些人有头
衔，有些人仅仅是有钱，枪声整天在山谷里回荡不绝。总是有足够的野鸡在到处走动，因为
每年夏季，黑兹尔先生都会付出惊人的价钱，在森林里系统地补充许多只雏鸟。我听说抚育
每只雏鸟、使它长大，到狩猎被射杀时的费用远远不止五英镑（这大概是两百条面包的价
格）。但是对黑兹尔先生而言，所花去的每一个便士都是值得的。即使狩猎只有几个小时，
他在这个小小的世界里也成了一个大人物，甚至连郡长也会在他说再见的时候拍拍他的肩，
要记住他的名字。
“如果我们减少剂量，那会怎样呢？”他问，“为什么我们不能把一个胶囊里的药分到四颗
葡萄干里？”
“我觉得如果你想这样，并没有什么不妥。”
“但是四分之一的胶囊对一只野鸡能起作用吗？”
这个人的勇气让人不得不佩服，每年这个时候，在这些树林里偷猎一只野鸡都是够危险
的，而他却打算在这里对它们大开杀戒。
“四分之一的量足够了。”我说。
“你确定吗？”
“你自己算一算吧，这是由体重决定的，你给的药量仍然比它必要的剂量高出二十倍。”
“那么我们就用四分之一。”他说着，一边搓着双手。他停下来算了一会儿。“我们要有一
百九十六颗葡萄干！”
“你知道这意味着什么吗？”我说，“得花好几个小时做准备呢。”
“那算什么！”他大声嚷着，“那我们明天再去，我们把葡萄干浸泡过夜，然后，我们还有
一整个上午和下午来准备。”
这正是我们之前做的事。
现在，二十四小时以后，我们走在路上。我们已经稳稳当当走了大约四十分钟，就快到
小路向右转弯的地方，小路从那里沿着山顶向野鸡生活的大树林蜿蜒而去，大约还要走一英
里才能到达那儿。
“我想，这些守林人该不会带着枪吧？”我问。
“所有的守林人都佩枪。”克劳德说。
我一直对此感到害怕。
“那主要是为了对付歹徒。”
“啊。”
“当然，也不能保证他们偶尔不会对偷猎者开枪。”
“你在开玩笑。”
“一点也不开玩笑。但是他们只会从后面开枪，只是在你逃跑时开枪。他们喜欢在相距大
约五十码的地方射你的腿。”
“他们不能那样做！”我喊着，“这是犯罪行为！”
“偷猎也是。”克劳德说。
我们一声不吭地走了一会儿。现在太阳落到了我们右边的高树篱的下面，小路被树篱的
阴影笼罩着。
“你大可为自己庆幸这不是在三十年前，”他继续说，“那时他们一看到你就会开枪。”
“你相信是这样的吗？”
“我很清楚。”他说，“小时候，有好多个夜晚，当我走进厨房时，看见我的老爸趴在桌
上，妈妈俯身站在旁边，用一把土豆刀把他屁股上的葡萄弹挖出来。”
“别说了！”我说，“这让我毛骨悚然。”
“你相信我说的，不是吗？”
“是的，我相信。”
“到最后，他身上布满了小小的白色伤疤，看上去就像是正在下雪。”
“是的，”我说，“好啦。”
“‘偷猎者的屁股’，他们都这么叫。”克劳德说，“整个村子的人多少都有一点这样或那样
的伤疤，而我爸爸的是第一名。”
“祝他好运。”我说。
“我真希望他现在就在这里。”克劳德沉思着说道，“为了今晚和我们一起干好这档子事，
他会全力以赴的。”
“那他可以替代我了，”我说，“我非常乐意这样。”
我们已经到了山顶，现在我们能看见前方的树林，巨大而黑暗，阳光落到了树林后面，
有少许金光闪闪而出。
“你最好让我来拿那些葡萄干。”克劳德说。
我把袋子给他，他把它轻轻塞进裤子口袋。
“一进树林就别再讲话了，”他说，“只用跟着我，尽量不要碰断树枝。”
五分钟之后我们到了那里。小路一直延伸到了树林，然后在它周围环绕了大约三百码，
中间只隔了一道小树篱。克劳德四肢着地钻过树篱，我跟着他。
树林里面阴冷、幽暗，阳光一点也照不进去。
“这里真是阴森森的。”我说。
“嘘！别出声。”
克劳德很紧张。他走在我前面，高高地抬起他的脚，然后把它们轻轻落在潮湿的地面
上。他的头一直在转动，眼睛从一边慢慢地扫向另一边，寻找着危险因素。我试着模仿他，
但很快我就开始在每棵树后面都看到守林人了，所以我只好放弃了。
接着，在我们前面的树顶上，露出了一大片天空，我知道那里肯定是一片林间空地。克
劳德曾经告诉过我，林间空地是七月初把幼鸟引进树林的地方，在那里它们由守林人喂食、
供水和看守，出于习惯，在狩猎期开始之前它们很多都留在这里。
“林间空地总会有大量野鸡。”
“我想，看守的人也多。”
“不错，但是四周有茂密的灌木丛，这对我们很有利。”他说。
我们现在以一连串快速的匍匐冲刺向前推进，从一棵树跑到另一棵树下，然后停下来，
等着、听着，又继续跑，最后我们来到林地边上一大簇赤杨树丛的后面，安全地跪下了。克
劳德咧开嘴巴笑了，用手肘轻推我的肋骨，透过树枝，指着那里的野鸡。
这地方到处都是鸟，肯定有不下两百只，在树桩之间大摇大摆地走来走去。
“你明白我的意思吗？”克劳德耳语着。
眼前的景象令人惊异，有一种偷猎者梦想成真的感觉。它们就近在咫尺！有的离我们跪
的地方不到十步。母鸡是肉鼓鼓的，奶黄色，它们如此肥胖，以至于走起路来胸前的羽毛几
乎擦到了地上；而公鸡修长美丽，拖着长尾巴，眼睛四周有一圈亮丽的红色，就像戴了副鲜
红的眼镜。我瞥了一眼克劳德，他那张像牛一样的大脸在狂喜中惊呆了。当他双眼注视着野
鸡的时候，嘴巴微微张开，脸上神情呆滞。
我相信，所有的偷猎者看到猎物时的反应都大致如此。他们就像妇女在珠宝商的橱窗里
看到了大块绿宝石，唯一的不同就是，这些妇女接下来获取战利品的手段没有那么高尚。“偷
猎者的屁股”与一个女人愿意付出的代价相比根本算不了什么。
“啊哈，”克劳德轻声地说，“你看见守林人了吗？”
“在哪里？”
“在另一边，那棵大树旁边。仔细看。”
“我的天呐！”
“没事，他看不到我们。”
我们贴近地面蹲伏着，看着这个守林人。他是个小个子，头上戴着一顶帽子，腋下夹着
一支枪。他一动也不动，就像竖立在那里的一根小柱子。
“我们走吧。”我低声说。
那个守林人的脸被他的帽缘遮蔽了，但在我看来，他似乎在直视着我们。
“我不想待在这里。”我说。
“别出声。”克劳德说。
他的眼睛一直盯着守林人，一边慢慢把手伸进口袋，拿出了一颗葡萄干。他把它放在手
掌里，然后手腕迅速甩动了一下，把葡萄干向上抛入空中。我看着它飞过灌木丛，落在了离
两只雌野鸡大约一码远的地方，它们一起站在一个老树桩旁边。两只鸟突然转过头对着落下
的葡萄干。然后其中一只跃过去，飞快地啄了一下地面，一定是把它吃下了。
我抬起头看着守林人，他没有动。
克劳德把第二颗葡萄干抛入林中空地，然后是第三颗、第四颗、第五颗。
这时，我看见守林人转过头去查看他身后的树林。
快得就像闪光，克劳德从口袋里抽出那个纸袋，把一大堆葡萄干倒在他右手拿着的帽子
里。
“停一下。”我说。
但是随着他的手臂大幅度地一挥，整整一大把葡萄干被向上抛过灌木丛，进入了林间空
地。
它们落下时发出轻而急促的嗒嗒声，就像是雨点落在干树叶上。那里的每一只野鸡不是
看见了它们坠地就是听到了它们下落的声音，于是应声而来的是一阵骤疾的拍翅和对珍馐美
味争先恐后的寻觅。
守林人的脑袋飞快地转过来，好像他的颈脖里装有一个弹簧。鸟儿们都在疯狂地啄食葡
萄干。守林人快速向前跨了两步，在那个瞬间，我以为他要进去检查了。但接下来他停住了
步子，仰起脸，他的眼睛开始沿着林间空地的周界慢慢转动。
“跟着我，”克劳德对我低声耳语，“低下身子。”他开始四肢着地敏捷地爬离，就像猴子
一样。
我跟在他后面。他的鼻子接近地面，他那紧绷着的大屁股在对着天空眨眼，现在就很容
易理解“偷猎者的屁股”是怎样成为这个行当的职业病了。
我们就这样前行了大约一百码。
“现在开跑。”克劳德说。
我们站起来跑着，几分钟后我们通过了树篱，进入了可爱、空旷而安全的小路。
“太惊人了。”克劳德说着，他的呼吸沉重，“是不是非常了不起？”那张大脸因为胜利而
变得绯红又有神采。
“一团糟了。”我说。
“什么？！”他喊叫起来。
“当然是一团糟。现在我们不可能回去了，那个守林人知道有人在那里。”
“他什么也不知道，”克劳德说，“再过五分钟树林里就黑得伸手不见五指，他会溜回家去
吃晚饭。”
“我觉得我也要像他一样开溜了。”
“你是个伟大的偷猎者。”克劳德说。他在树篱下面的草皮上坐下，点燃了一支烟。
这时太阳已经下山了，天空呈暗淡的烟蓝色，泛着微微的黄光。在我们身后的树林里，
树木之间的阴影和空间由灰色转变成了黑色。
“安眠药多久起作用？”克劳德问。
“当心！”我说，“有人过来了。”
那个人突然出现，默默地从暮色中走出来，我看到他时他离我们只有三十码远。
“又是一个混蛋的守林人。”克劳德说。
当这个守林人沿着小路向我们走来时，我们两人看着他。他的腋下夹着一支猎枪，一条
黑色的纽芬兰猎犬紧随在他的脚跟后。他在离我们几步远的地方停下脚步，那条狗也同时停
住了，站在他后面，从守林人的两腿之间看着我们。
“晚上好。”克劳德友好地说道。
这个人又高又瘦，大约四十来岁，有一双机敏的眼睛、一张冷酷的脸颊和一双让人捉摸
不定的手。
“我认识你们，”他轻声说，走得更近了，“我认得你们两个。”
克劳德没有回应。
“你们是加油站的，对吗？”
他的嘴唇薄而干燥，上面有一层褐色的坚硬外皮。
“你们是库贝奇和霍斯，你们是从大马路上的加油站来的，是吗？”
“我们在玩什么？”克劳德说，“二十个问题 [9] ？”
这个守林人吐出一大口唾液，我看见它在空中飘浮，然后噗的一声，落到一块干燥的尘
土上，距克劳德的脚仅仅只有六英寸，看上去就像是一个躺在那里的小牡蛎崽子。
“赶快走开，”那人说，“快，离开。”
克劳德坐在草皮上抽他的烟，看着那一大团唾液。
“快，”那人说，“离开这里。”
他说话的时候，上嘴唇抬起，露出了牙龈，我能看见他那排变了颜色的小牙齿中有一颗
是黑的，其他的是柑橘色和咖啡色的。
“这可是一条公共道路，”克劳德说，“请别骚扰我们。”
这个守林人把他的枪从右臂移到了右手。
“你们东游西逛，”他说，“是想蓄意犯罪吗？我可以让你们吃吃苦头。”
“不，你不能。”克劳德说。
这一切让我非常紧张。
“我已经注意你们一些时候了。”守林人眼睛盯着克劳德说道。
“时间晚了。”我说，“我们继续走吧？”
克劳德把他的烟头弹掉，慢慢地站起来。“好吧，”他说，“我们走。”
我们沿着来时的路走着，留下那个守林人站在那里，很快，那人消失在我们后面半明半
暗的暮色中。
“那是守林人的领班，”克劳德说，“他的名字叫拉巴茨。”
“让我们赶快离开这鬼地方。”我说。
“到这里来。”克劳德说。
在我们左边有一扇门通往一片田野，我们爬过去，坐在树篱后面。
“拉巴茨先生也该去吃他的晚饭了。”克劳德说，“你用不着担心他。”
我们静静地坐着，等候这个守林人在回家途中从我们身边经过。几颗星星出现了，一弯
明亮的、只有三分之一个圆的残月在我们身后东边的山上升起。
“他来了！”克劳德轻声说，“别动。”
那个守林人带着狗，沿着小路轻轻地迈着大步走来，狗在他的脚后跟旁飞快地蹿来蹿
去，他和狗走过时，我们透过树篱看着。
“今天夜里他不会回来了。”克劳德说。
“你怎么知道？”
“守林人如果知道你住在哪里，绝不会在树林里等你。而是到你家来，藏在屋外，等着你
回来。”
“那岂不是更糟！”
“不，不糟，如果你在回家前把战利品放到其他地方，不就万事大吉了。那样他就不能碰
你。”
“另一个会怎么样呢，林间空地的那个？”
“他也走了。”
“你不能这样想当然。”
“戈登，不瞒你说，我研究这些家伙好几个月了。我知道他们的所有习惯，我们不存在危
险。”
我不情愿地跟着他回到树林。现在里面是一片黑暗，也非常安静，当我们小心翼翼地朝
前走的时候，我们的脚步声似乎在森林的墙壁上回响，我们犹如在大教堂里漫步。
“这里就是我们扔葡萄干的地方。”克劳德说。
我透过灌木丛凝视。
那片林中空地在月光中呈现着模糊不清的乳白色。
“你真的确定守林人走了？”
“我知道他走了。”
我只能看得清克劳德帽檐下面的脸，他苍白的嘴唇、柔软而黯淡的脸颊，还有他的一双
大眼睛，每只眼睛里都在慢慢地跳跃着兴奋的小火花。
“它们在睡觉吗？”
“是的。”
“在哪里？”
“就在周围。它们不会走远。”
“接下来我们做什么？”
“我们待在这儿等着。我给你带了一个灯。”他说着给我一个形状像钢笔的袖珍手电
筒，“你可能用得着。”
我的感觉开始有所好转。“我们看一看，能不能发现它们有的歇在树上？”我说。
“别。”
“我想看看它们睡觉时的样子。”
“这可不是做自然研究。”克劳德说，“请安静。”
我们在那里站了很久，等着一些事情发生。
“我刚才冒出一个让人扫兴的想法，”我说，“如果鸟睡觉时能在树枝上保持平衡，那么我
们就没有理由认为药会使它跌下来。”
克劳德迅速地转过脸看着我。
“毕竟，”我说，“它没有死，它只是在睡觉而已。”
“它被下了药。”克劳德说。
“但那只是一种比较深度的睡眠。为什么它只是处于深度睡眠中，我们就指望它会跌下来
呢？”
接下来是一阵沮丧的沉默。
“我们本该用鸡来试验一下，”克劳德说，“我爸爸就会这样做。”
“你爸爸是个天才。”我说。
就在那一刻，我们身后的树林里传来了一声轻轻的撞击声。
“嘿！”
“嘘！”
我们站定，侧起耳朵听着。
砰！
“又有一声！”
那是一种非常沉闷的声音，好像一袋沙子从肩膀高的地方掉了下来。
砰！
“它们是野鸡！”我大声说。
“等等！”
“我肯定它们是野鸡！”
砰！砰！
“你是对的！”
我们跑进树林。
“它们在哪儿？”
“在这边！有两只在这边！”
“我觉得是在这个方向。”
“继续找！”克劳德大声说，“它们不可能在远处。”
我们搜寻了大约一分钟。
“这里有一只！”他喊道。
当我走到他跟前时，他双手拿着一只漂亮的雄鸡。我们用手电筒近距离地察看它。
“它的腮下垂肉被麻醉了，”克劳德说，“它还是活的，我能感觉到它的心跳，但是它那该
死的腮被麻醉了。”
砰！
“又有一只！”
砰！砰！
“又有两只！”
砰！
砰！砰！砰！
“耶稣基督！”
砰！砰！砰！砰！
砰！砰！
我们四周的野鸡开始雨点般地从树上落了下来。我们也开始发疯似的在黑暗中奔来跑
去，用我们的手电筒扫射着地面。
砰！砰！砰！这几只就像落在了我的身上，它们落下来的时候我正在树下，我立刻把它
们三只全找到了——两只公的，一只母的。它们软软的、温热的，头部的羽毛非常柔软。
“我该把它们放在哪儿？”我大声叫嚷，提着它们的腿。
“戈登，把它们放在这里！就把它们堆在这里，这里亮！”
克劳德站在林间空地的边缘，月光洒在他的身上，他的两只手中各抓着一大把野鸡。他
的脸上发光，眼睛大而明亮、神采奕奕的，他环顾四周，就像一个刚刚发现整个世界都是巧
克力做的孩子。
砰！
砰！砰！
“我倒并不喜欢这样，”我说，“太多了。”
“美妙极了！”他喊着，丢下他带过来的野鸡，然后又跑去找更多的。
砰！砰！砰！砰！
砰！
现在很容易找到它们。每棵树下都躺着一两只。我又飞快地收集到六只，每只手上抓着
三只，跑回来把它们和其他的扔到一起。然后又是六只。
而它们还在继续往下掉。
此刻克劳德卷入了一个狂喜的旋涡中，他像是一个发疯的鬼魂，在树下乱冲乱撞，我能
看见他手电筒的光亮在黑暗中摇来晃去，每找到一只野鸡他就会发出一小声胜利的尖叫。
砰！砰！砰！
“那个该死的黑兹尔应该听听这个！”克劳德喊道。
“别喊了！”我说，“吓死我了。”
“你说什么？”
“不要喊叫，可能有守林人。”
“醉鬼守林人！”他喊着，“他们全在吃喝着呢！”
野鸡接连不断地坠落了三四分钟，然后突然停住了。
“继续搜寻！”克劳德叫着，“地上还有很多。”
“你不认为我们应该见好就收吗？”
“不。”他说。
我们继续寻找着，一起查看空地周围一百码之内的每一棵树的下面，东、南、西、北全
都找遍了，最后我觉得我们已搜寻到了绝大多数。战利品的集中点有了这一堆野鸡，犹如燃
烧着的一大团篝火。
“这是一个奇迹，”克劳德说，“这是一个了不起的奇迹。”他一边说着，一边出神地凝视
着它们。
“我们最好每人带上半打，赶快出去。”我说。
“戈登，我想数一数它们。”
“没有时间数了。”
“我必须数一数。”
“不行！”我说，“赶快。”
“一……
“二……
“三……
“四……”
他开始非常仔细地数，依次把每一只鸟拿起，然后又轻轻地放到另一边去。现在明月当
空照着，整块林间空地明亮皎洁。
“我不会像这样站在这里。”我说着，退后几步隐藏到阴影中，等着他数完。
“一百十七……一百十八……一百十九……一百二十！”他喊着，“一百二十只野鸡！这是
一个空前的记录！”
我也丝毫不怀疑。
“我爸爸在一个夜里最多逮到十五只，后来他醉了一个星期！”
“你可是世界冠军了。”我说，“准备走了吧？”
“等一下。”他回答道。他拉起他的运动衫，伸手解下两只绕在肚子上的白色大布袋。“这
只你拿着，”他说着把其中一只递给我，“快装满它。”
月光是如此的明亮，我甚至能看清袋子底部印着的小字，它们是：J.W.克伦普，凯斯顿
面粉厂，伦敦，SW 17。
“你不认为就在这一刻，那个牙齿咖啡色的家伙正在一棵树后看着我们？”
“那不可能。”克劳德说，“正如我告诉你的，他去了加油站，等着我们回家。”
我们开始把野鸡装入袋子。它们软弱无力，脖子东倒西歪，但羽毛底下的皮依然是温热
的。
“会有出租车在小路上等着我们。”克劳德说。
“你说什么？”
“我总是乘出租车回去的，戈登，你不知道？”
我告诉他我毫不知情。
“坐出租车是匿名的。”克劳德说，“除了司机，没有人知道出租车里坐着谁。这是我爸爸
教我的。”
“哪一个司机？”
“查理•凯奇，他是唯一热心帮忙的。”
我们装完了野鸡，我试着把鼓鼓囊囊的袋子甩到肩上。我的袋子里大约有六十只野鸡，
重量至少有一英担 [10] 半。“我背不动，”我说，“我们得留下一些。”
“拖着走，”克劳德说，“就在你身后拖着。”
我们出发了，把野鸡拖在身后，穿过了漆黑的树林。“像这样，我们绝无可能一路走回村
子。”我说。
“查理还从来没有让我失望过。”克劳德说。
我们到了树林的边缘，透过树篱仔细朝小路上看。克劳德说：“查理兄弟。”声音非常轻
柔。出租车就停在离我们不到五码远的地方，方向盘后面的那个老人在月光中伸出了头，向
我们投来一个诡秘的、咧嘴不见牙齿的笑容。我们钻出树篱，手中拖着的袋子在地上和我们
一起移动。
“喂！”查理说，“这是什么？”
“是钱。”克劳德告诉他，“打开门。”
两分钟之后，我们稳稳当当地进了出租车，车子慢慢开下山，朝村子而去。
现在除了叫喊外，一切都过去了。克劳德扬扬得意，心中满是骄傲和兴奋，他一直前倾
着身子，他轻轻拍着查理•凯奇的肩膀说：“怎么样，查理？收获怎么样？”查理则时不时回过
头来，睁大眼睛看一下放在我们中间地板上鼓鼓囊囊的袋子，说道：“耶稣基督，伙计，你是
怎么弄到的？”
“查理，其中有六对是给你的。”克劳德说。查理说：“我估计维克托•黑兹尔先生的狩猎开
幕日打的野鸡会少些了。”克劳德说：“我想它们会变少的，查理，我猜会的。”
“以上帝的名义，你准备用这一百二十只野鸡做什么？”我问。
“把它们冷藏过冬，”克劳德说，“把它们和狗食一起放在加油站的冰箱里。”
“不是今夜吧，我想？”
“不，戈登，不是今夜。今夜我们把它们留在贝茜家里。”
“贝茜是谁？”
“贝茜•奥根。”
“贝茜•奥根！”
“贝茜总是为我转运猎物，你难道不知道？”
“我什么也不知道。”我说。我彻底蒙了，奥根太太是本地牧师杰克•奥根的妻子。
“总得选择一个受人尊重的妇女来转运你的猎物，”克劳德宣称，“那是正确之举。查理，
不是吗？”
“贝茜是个聪明的女人。”查理说。
现在我们在经过村子，街灯还亮着，男人们正从酒馆里摇摇摆摆地游荡回家去。我看见
威尔•普拉特利悄悄地从自己鱼店的边门进去，这时，普拉特利太太刚好从他上面的窗口伸出
头来张望，可是他并不知道。
“牧师非常喜爱烤野鸡。”克劳德说，“他把它吊上十八天，然后用力摇几下，所有的羽毛
都会落掉。”
出租车左转弯，摇摇晃晃进了教区牧师住宅的大门。屋子里没有灯，也没有人来接应我
们。克劳德和我把野鸡扔到后面的煤棚里，然后我们向查理•凯奇道别，空着手，在月光下走
回加油站。我们进屋时拉巴茨先生是不是在监视我们，我不知道。我们没有看见他。
“她向这里来了。”第二天早上克劳德说。
“谁？”
“贝茜——贝茜•奥根。”他颇为自豪地说出这个名字，带有一点儿支配者的口气，仿佛他
是一位将军，正在提到他的勇敢下属。
我跟着他来到外面。
“在那儿。”他一边说着，一边用手指着。
路的尽头，我可以看到一个小小的女人身影在向我们走来。
“她推着什么？”我问。
克劳德对我使了个诡秘的眼色。
“转运猎物有一个唯一的安全方法，”他宣称，“那就是放在婴儿下面。”
“是的，”我低声嘟哝着，“是的，当然。”
“戈登，那里面是幼小的克里斯托弗•奥根，一岁半大，是个可爱的孩子。”
我依稀看到婴儿车上有个小点，是坐着的婴儿，车篷没有打开。
“这个小孩下面至少有六十只或七十只野鸡，”克劳德快乐地说道，“你就想象一下吧。”
“一辆婴儿车里不可能放六七十只野鸡。”
“如果那下面够深，是可以放下的，如果把垫子拿出来，把它们压紧，一直堆到上面，只
需用一条被单盖着。你会惊奇地发现，一只野鸡软弱无力时所占的空间是多么小。”
我们站在汽油泵旁边等着贝茜•奥根到达。这是九月里一个无风的温暖早晨，天空阴暗，
空气中飘浮着一股雷电的气味。
“她非常大胆地经过了村子，”克劳德说，“老贝茜真棒。”
“在我看来，她似乎有点急匆匆。”
克劳德用前一根的烟头点了一支新烟。“可贝茜一向是从容不迫的。”他说。
“她肯定不是在正常走路。”我告诉他，“你瞧。”
他眯起眼睛，透过香烟的烟雾看着她。然后他把烟从嘴上拿开再看。
“是吧？”我说。
“她看起来确实走得有点快，不是吗？”他谨慎地说。
“她走得真快。”
沉默了一会儿，克劳德开始非常专注地看着这个正在走近的妇女。
“戈登，也许她不想赶上这场雨。我敢打赌正是这样，她认为要下雨了，她不想宝宝被淋
湿。”
“为什么她不把车篷盖上？”
他没有回答我。
“她在跑了！”我叫起来，“看！”贝茜突然全速冲刺着。
克劳德一动不动地站着，看着这个女人，在随之而来的沉静中，我想象着我可能听到了
婴儿的尖叫声。
“出了什么事？”
他没有回答。
“那个孩子有点不对劲，”我说，“你听。”
这时候，贝茜离我们大约两百码，但是正在迅速地靠近。
“你现在听得到他吗？”我说。
“听得见。”
“他的头在转动，他在尖叫。”
远处那细小的尖叫声每秒钟都在变得更响，是如此狂乱、刺耳、不停歇，近乎歇斯底
里。
“他受惊吓了。”克劳德断言。
“我想一定是。”
“戈登，那就是她奔跑的原因。她想快点带他到这里，使他冷静下来。”
“你肯定猜对了，”我说，“事实上我知道你是对的，只要听那声音。”
“即使不是惊吓，我也敢用性命打赌，八九不离十。”
“我很赞同。”
克劳德心神不安地在车道的砂砾上移动着他的双脚。“每天都有许许多多不同的事情发生
在像这样小的婴儿身上。”他说。
“当然。”
“我曾经听说过一个婴儿，把手指卡在了婴儿车的轮子里。他惨极了，手指全被切掉
了。”
“是的。”
“无论它是什么，”克劳德说，“我真希望她别再跑了。”
一辆运载着砖块的长卡车在贝茜后面逼近，司机放慢速度，把头伸出窗外看着。贝茜不
理他，继续奔跑。这时她离得很近了，我能看见她那张红红的大脸，看见她嘴巴张得大大
的，她在喘气。我注意到她戴着白色的手套，打扮得很整洁、讲究，头上还顶着一顶滑稽的
小白帽，就像是一个蘑菇。
突然，一只大野鸡从婴儿车里飞了出来，直冲天空。
克劳德发出一声惊骇的叫喊。
卡车里的那个傻蛋从贝茜旁边驰过，哈哈大笑起来。
那只野鸡拍着翅膀，醉醺醺地转了几秒钟，然后降低了高度，跌落在路边的草地上。
一辆杂货店的货车紧跟在卡车后面开来，按响喇叭从旁边驰过。贝茜继续跑着。
然后——嗖的一声！——第二只野鸡飞出婴儿车。
然后第三只、第四只、第五只。
“我的天呐！”我说，“是药！它们的功效过去了！”
克劳德一言不发。
贝茜以惊人的速度走完了最后五十码，她跌跌撞撞地进入加油站的车道，野鸡从各个方
向飞出了婴儿车。
“到底是怎么回事？”
“绕到后面去！”我大声喊叫着，“绕到后面去！”但她突然在那排汽油泵的第一只旁边停
下来，我们还没来得及赶到，她就用双臂抱住尖叫着的婴儿，把他从婴儿车里拖出。
“不要！不要！”克劳德喊着向她跑去，“不要抱起孩子！把他放回去！按住被单！”但是
她甚至听都没听，由于孩子的重量突然消失，一大群野鸡飞出婴儿车，至少有五十只或六十
只之多，我们头顶的整个天空布满了棕色的大鸟，疯狂地拍打着翅膀要想升高。
克劳德和我开始在车道上奔来跑去，挥动着手臂惊吓它们，让它们离开加油站的地
盘。“走开！”我们大声喊叫，“嘘！走开！”可是它们被麻醉得太厉害了，根本不理会我们的
喊叫，在半分钟里它们又落了下来，像一群蝗虫，分布在我的加油站前面，这块地方全被它
们覆盖了。它们翅膀贴着翅膀地停在屋顶的边缘和油泵上方的混凝土天篷上，至少有十几只
紧贴在办公室的窗台上，一些飞落到放置润滑油瓶的架子上，另一些在我那些二手车的发动
机罩盖上滑来滑去。一只有着美丽尾巴的雄鸡趾高气扬地站在一只汽油泵的上面，还有好多
只因为被深度麻醉，以至于无法待在高处，只好蹲伏在我们脚边的车道上，在抖松自己的羽
毛，眨动着它们的小眼睛。
路对面，运砖卡车和杂货店货车的后面形成了一排车流，人们打开门出来，纷纷走过来
做近距离的观察。我看了一下表，八点四十分。我想，现在随时可能有一辆黑色大轿车从村
子里开出，沿着大路疾驰而来，这会是辆劳斯莱斯，在驾驶盘后面的将会是啤酒制造商维克
托•黑兹尔那张油光光的闪亮大脸。
“它们几乎要把他啄成碎片了！”贝茜大声喊叫着，把尖叫着的婴儿紧紧搂在怀里。
“你快回家去，贝茜。”克劳德说着，脸色变得苍白。
“上锁，”我说，“挂出牌子。今天我们停止营业。”
初刊于《纽约客》 1959.1.31
[7]英美制长度单位，1英里约等于1.61公里。
[8]一种镇静催眠药，有麻醉、抗惊厥、抗焦镇静和催眠的功效。
[9]一种有助于提高推理能力和创造力的口语游戏，起源于美国。
[10]英美制质量单位，1英担=112磅，约为50.8公斤。
An African Story
An African Story
FOR ENGLAND, THE WAR began in September, 1939. The people on the island knew about it
at once and began to prepare themselves. In farther places the people heard about it a few minutes
afterwards, and they too began to prepare themselves.
And in East Africa, in Kenya Colony, there was a young man who was a white hunter, who
loved the plains and the valleys and the cool nights on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. He too heard
about the war and began to prepare himself. He made his way over the country to Nairobi, and he
reported to the RAF and asked that they make him a pilot. They took him in and he began his
training at Nairobi airport, flying in little Tiger Moths and doing well with his flying.
After five weeks he nearly got court-martialled because he took his plane up and instead of
practising spins and stall-turns as he had been ordered to do, he flew off in the direction of Nakuru
to look at the wild animals on the plain. On the way, he thought he saw a Sable antelope, and
because these are rare animals, he became excited and flew down low to get a better view. He was
looking down at the antelope out of the left side of the cockpit, and because of this he did not see
the giraffe on the other side. The leading edge of the starboard wing struck the neck of the giraffe
just below the head and cut clean through it. He was flying as low as that. There was damage to
the wing, but he managed to get back to Nairobi, and as I said, he was nearly court-martialled,
because you cannot explain away a thing like that by saying you hit a large bird, not when there
are pieces of giraffe skin and giraffe hair sticking to the wing and the stays.
After six weeks he was allowed to make his first solo cross-country flight, and he flew off from
Nairobi to a place called Eldoret, which is a little town eight thousand feet up in the Highlands.
But again he was unlucky. This time he had engine failure on the way, due to water in the fuel
tanks. He kept his head and made a beautiful forced landing without damaging the aircraft, not far
from a little shack which stood alone on the highland plain with no other habitation in sight. That
is lonely country up there.
He walked over to the shack, and there he found an old man, living alone, with nothing but a
small patch of sweet potatoes, some brown chickens and a black cow.
The old man was kind to him. He gave him food and milk and a place to sleep, and the pilot stayed
with him for two days and two nights, until a rescue plane from Nairobi spotted his aircraft on the
ground, landed beside it, found out what was wrong, went away and came back with clean petrol
which enabled him to take off and return.
But during his stay, the old man, who was lonely and had seen no one for many months, was
glad of his company and of the opportunity to talk. He talked much and the pilot listened. He
talked of the lonely life, of the lions that came in the night, of the rogue elephant that lived over
the hill in the west, of the hotness of the days and of the silence that came with the cold at
midnight.
On the second night he talked about himself. He told a long, strange story, and as he told it, it
seemed to the pilot that the old man was lifting a great weight off his shoulders in the telling.
When he had finished, he said that he had never told that to anyone before, and that he would
never tell it to anyone again, but the story was so strange that the pilot wrote it down on paper as
soon as he got back to Nairobi. He wrote it not in the old man’s words, but in his own words,
painting it as a picture with the old man as a character in the picture, because that was the best way
to do it. He had never written a story before, and so naturally there were mistakes. He did not
know any of the tricks with words which writers use, which they have to use just as painters have
to use tricks with paint, but when he had finished writing, when he put down his pencil and went
over to the airmen’s canteen for a pint of beer, he left behind him a rare and powerful tale.
We found it in his suitcase two weeks later when we were going through his belongings after he
had been killed in training, and because he seemed to have no relatives, and because he was my
friend, I took the manuscript and looked after it for him.
This is what he wrote.
The old man came out of the door into the bright sunshine, and for a moment he stood leaning on
his stick, looking around him, blinking at the strong light. He stood with his head on one side,
looking up, listening for the noise which he thought he had heard.
He was small and thick and well over seventy years old, although he looked nearer eighty-five,
because rheumatism had tied his body into knots. His face was covered with grey hair, and when
he moved his mouth, he moved it only on one side of his face. On his head, whether indoors or
out, he wore a dirty white topee.
He stood quite still in the bright sunshine, screwing up his eyes, listening for the noise.
Yes, there it was again. The head of the old man flicked around and he looked towards the small
wooden hut standing a hundred yards away on the pasture. This time there was no doubt about it:
the yelp of a dog, the high-pitched, sharp-piercing yelp of pain which a dog gives when he is in
great danger. Twice more it came and this time the noise was more like a scream than a yelp. The
note was higher and more sharp, as though it were wrenched quickly from some small place inside
the body.
The old man turned and limped fast across the grass towards the wooden shed where Judson
lived, pushed open the door and went in.
The small white dog was lying on the floor and Judson was standing over it, his legs apart, his
black hair falling all over his long, red face; standing there tall and skinny, muttering to himself
and sweating through his greasy white shirt. His mouth hung open in an odd way, lifeless way, as
though his jaw was too heavy for him, and he was dribbling gently down the middle of his chin.
He stood there looking at the small white dog which was lying on the floor, and with one hand he
was slowly twisting his left ear; in the other he held a heavy bamboo.
The old man ignored Judson and went down on his knees beside his dog, gently running his thin
hands over its body. The dog lay still, looking up at him with watery eyes. Judson did not move.
He was watching the dog and the man.
Slowly the old man got up, rising with difficulty, holding the top of his stick with both hands
and pulling himself to his feet. He looked around the room. There was a dirty rumpled mattress
lying on the floor in the far comer; there was a wooden table made of packing cases and on it a
Primus stove and a chipped blue-enamelled saucepan. There were chicken feathers and mud on the
floor.
The old man saw what he wanted. It was a heavy iron bar standing against the wall near the
mattress, and he hobbled over towards it, thumping the hollow wooden floorboards with his stick
as he went. The eyes of the dog followed his movements as he limped across the room. The old
man changed his stick to his left hand, took the iron bar in his right, hobbled back to the dog and
without pausing, he lifted the bar and brought it down hard upon the animal’s head. He threw the
bar to the ground and looked up at Judson, who was standing there with his legs apart, dribbling
down his chin and twitching around the corners of his eyes. He went right up to him and began to
speak. He spoke very quietly and slowly, with a terrible anger, and as he spoke he moved only one
side of his mouth.
‘You killed him,’ he said. ‘You broke his back.’
Then, as the tide of anger rose and gave him strength, he found more words. He looked up and
spat them into the face of the tall Judson, who twitched around the corners of his eyes and backed
away towards the wall.
‘You lousy, mean, dog-beating bastard. That was my dog. What the hell right have you got
beating my dog, tell me that. Answer me, you slobbering madman. Answer me.’
Judson was slowly rubbing the palm of his left hand up and down on the front of his shirt, and
now the whole of his face began to twitch. Without looking up, he said, ‘He wouldn’t stop licking
that old place on his paw. I couldn’t stand the noise it made. You know I can’t stand noises like
that, licking, licking, licking. I told him to stop. He looked up and wagged his tail; but then he
went on licking. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I beat him.’
The old man did not say anything. For a moment it looked as though he were going to hit this
creature. He half raised his arm, dropped it again, spat on the floor, turned around and hobbled out
of the door into the sunshine. He went across the grass to where a black cow was standing in the
shade of a small acacia tree, chewing its cud, and the cow watched him as he came limping across
the grass from the shed. But it went on chewing, munching its cud, moving its jaws regularly,
mechanically, like a metronome in slow time. The old man came limping up and stood beside it,
stroking its neck. Then he leant against its shoulder and scratched its back with the butt end of his
stick. He stood there for a long time, leaning against the cow, scratching it with his stick; and now
and again he would speak to it, speaking quiet little words, whispering them almost, like a person
telling a secret to another.
It was shady under the acacia tree, and the country around him looked lush and pleasant after
the long rains, for the grass grows green up in the Highlands of Kenya; and at this time of the year,
after the rains, it is as green and rich as any grass in the world. Away in the north stood Mount
Kenya itself, with snow upon its head, with a thin white plume trailing from its summit where the
city winds made a storm and blew the white powder from the top of the mountain. Down below,
upon the slopes of that same mountain there were lion and elephant, and sometimes during the
night one could hear the roar of the lions as they looked at the moon.
The days passed and Judson went about his work on the farm in a silent, mechanical kind of
way, taking in the corn, digging the sweet potatoes and milking the black cow, while the old man
stayed indoors away from the fierce African sun. Only in the late afternoon when the air began to
get cool and sharp, did he hobble outside, and always he went over to his black cow and spent an
hour with it under the acacia tree. One day when he came out he found Judson standing beside the
cow, regarding it strangely, standing in a peculiar attitude with one foot in front of the other and
gently twisting his ear with his right hand.
‘What is it now?’ said the old man as he came limping up.
‘Cow won’t stop chewing,’ said Judson.
‘Chewing her cud,’ said the old man. ‘Leave her alone.’
Judson said, ‘It’s the noise, can’t you hear it? Crunchy noise like she was chewing pebbles, only
she isn’t; she’s chewing grass and spit. Look at her, she goes on and on crunching, crunching,
crunching, and it’s just grass and spit. Noise goes right into my head.’
‘Get out,’ said the old man. ‘Get out of my sight.’
At dawn the old man sat, as he always did, looking out of his window, watching Judson coming
across from his hut to milk the cow. He saw him coming sleepily across the field, talking to
himself as he walked, dragging his feet, making a dark green trail in the wet grass, carrying in his
hand the old four-gallon kerosene tin which he used as a milk pail. The sun was coming up over
the escarpment and making long shadows behind the man, the cow and the little acacia tree. The
old man saw Judson put down the tin and he saw him fetch the box from beside the acacia tree and
settle himself upon it, ready for the milking. He saw him suddenly kneeling down, feeling the
udder of the cow with his hands and at the same time the old man noticed from where he sat that
the animal had no milk. He saw Judson get up and come walking fast towards the shack. He came
and stood under the window where the old man was sitting and looked up.
‘Cow’s got no milk,’ he said.
The old man leaned through the open window, placing both his hands on the sill.
‘You lousy bastard, you’ve stole it.’
‘I didn’t take it,’ said Judson. ‘I bin asleep.’
‘You stole it.’ The old man was leaning farther out of the window, speaking quietly with one
side of his mouth. ‘I’ll beat the hell out of you for this,’ he said.
Judson said, ‘Someone stole it in the night, a native, one of the Kikuyu. Or maybe she’s sick.’
It seemed to the old man that he was telling the truth. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, ‘if she milks this
evening; and now for Christ’s sake, get out of my sight.’
By evening the cow had a full udder and the old man watched Judson draw two quarts of good
thick milk from under her.
The next morning she was empty. In the evening she was full. On the third morning she was
empty once more.
On the third night the old man went on watch. As soon as it began to get dark, he stationed
himself at the open window with an old twelve-bore shot gun lying on his lap, waiting for the thief
who came and milked his cow in the night. At first it was pitch dark and he could not see the cow
even, but soon a three-quarter moon came over the hills and it became light, almost as though it
was day time. But it was bitter cold because the Highlands are seven thousand feet up, and the old
man shivered at his post and pulled his brown blanket closer around his shoulders. He could see
the cow well now, just as well as in daylight, and the little acacia tree threw a deep shadow across
the grass, for the moon was behind it.
All through the night the old man sat there watching the cow, and save when he got up once and
hobbled back into the room to fetch another blanket, his eyes never left her. The cow stood
placidly under the small tree, chewing her cud and gazing at the moon.
An hour before dawn her udder was full. The old man could see it; he had been watching it the
whole time, and although he had not seen the movement of its swelling any more than one can see
the movement of the hour hand of a watch, yet all the time he had been conscious of the filling as
the milk came down. It was an hour before dawn. The moon was low, but the light had not gone.
He could see the cow and the little tree and the greenness of the grass around the cow. Suddenly
he jerked his head. He heard something. Surely that was a noise he heard. Yes, there it was again,
a rustling in the grass right underneath the window where he was sitting. Quickly he pulled
himself up and looked over the sill on to the ground.
Then he saw it. A large black snake, a Mamba, eight feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, was
gliding through the wet grass, heading straight for the cow and going fast. Its small pear-shaped
head was raised slightly off the ground and the movement of its body against the wetness made a
clear hissing sound like gas escaping from a jet. He raised his gun to shoot. Almost at once he
lowered it again, why he did not know, and he sat there not moving, watching the Mamba as it
approached the cow, listening to the noise it made as it went, watching it come up close to the cow
and waiting for it to strike.
But it did not strike. It lifted its head and for a moment let it sway gently back and forth; then it
raised the front part of its black body into the air under the udder of the cow, gently took one of
the thick teats into its mouth and began to drink.
The cow did not move. There was no noise anywhere, and the body of the Mamba curved
gracefully up from the ground and hung under the udder of the cow. Black snake and black cow
were clearly visible out there in the moonlight.
For half an hour the old man watched the Mamba taking the milk of the cow. He saw the gentle
pulsing of its black body as it drew the liquid out of the udder and he saw it, after a time, change
from one teat to another, until at last there was no longer any milk left. Then the Mamba gently
lowered itself to the ground and slid back through the grass in the direction whence it came. Once
more it made a clear hissing noise as it went, and once more it passed underneath the window
where the old man sat, leaving a thin dark trail in the wet grass where it had gone. Then it
disappeared behind the shack.
Slowly the moon went down behind the ridge of Mount Kenya. Almost at the same time the sun
rose up out of the escarpment in the east and Judson came out of his hut with the four-gallon
kerosene tin in his hand, walking sleepily towards the cow, dragging his feet in the heavy dew as
he went. The old man watched him coming and waited. Judson bent down and felt the udder with
his hand and as he did so, the old man shouted at him. Judson jumped at the sound of the old
man’s voice.
‘It’s gone again,’ said the old man.
Judson said, ‘Yes, cow’s empty.’
‘I think,’ said the old man slowly, ‘I think that it was a Kikuyu boy. I was dozing a bit and only
woke up as he was making off. I couldn’t shoot because the cow was in the way. He made off
behind the cow. I’ll wait for him tonight. I’ll get him tonight,’ he added.
Judson did not answer. He picked up his four-gallon tin and walked back to his hut.
That night the old man sat up again by the window watching the cow. For him there was this
time a certain pleasure in the anticipation of what he was going to see. He knew that he would see
the Mamba again, but he wanted to make quite certain. And so, when the great black snake slid
across the grass towards the cow an hour before sunrise, the old man leaned over the window sill
and followed the movements of the Mamba as it approached the cow. He saw it wait for a moment
under the belly of the animal, letting its head sway slowly backwards and forwards half a dozen
times before finally raising its body from the ground to take the teat of the cow into its mouth. He
saw it drink the milk for half an hour, until there was none left, and he saw it lower its body and
slide smoothly back behind the shack whence it came. And while he watched these things, the old
man began laughing quietly with one side of his mouth.
Then the sun rose up from behind the hills, and Judson came out of his hut with the four-gallon
tin in his hand, but this time he went straight to the window of the shack where the old man was
sitting wrapped up in his blankets.
‘What happened?’ said Judson.
The old man looked down at him from his window. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing happened. I
dozed off again and the bastard came and took it while I was asleep. Listen, Judson,’ he added,
‘we got to catch this boy, otherwise you’ll be going short of milk, not that that would do you any
harm. But we got to catch him. I can’t shoot because he’s too clever; the cow’s always in the way.
You’ll have to get him.’
‘Me get him? How?’
The old man spoke very slowly. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I think you must hide beside the cow, right
beside the cow. That is the only way you can catch him.’
Judson was rumpling his hair with his left hand.
‘Today,’ continued the old man, ‘you will dig a shallow trench right beside the cow. If you lie
in it and if I cover you over with hay and grass, the thief won’t notice you until he’s right
alongside.’
‘He may have a knife,’ Judson said.
‘No, he won’t have a knife. You take your stick. That’s all you’ll need.’
Judson said, ‘Yes, I’ll take my stick. When he comes, I’ll jump up and beat him with my stick.’
Then suddenly he seemed to remember something. What about her chewing?’ he said. ‘Couldn’t
stand her chewing all night, crunching and crunching, crunching spit and grass like it was pebbles.
Couldn’t stand that all night,’ and he began twisting again at his left ear with his hand.
‘You’ll do as you’re bloody well told,’ said the old man.
That day Judson dug his trench beside the cow which was to be tethered to the small acacia tree
so that she could not wander about the field. Then, as evening came and as he was preparing to lie
down in the trench for the night, the old man came to the door of his shack and said, ‘No point in
doing anything until early morning. They won’t come till the cow’s full. Come in here and wait;
it’s warmer than your filthy little hut.’
Judson had never been invited into the old man’s shack before. He followed him in, happy that
he would not have to lie all night in the trench. There was a candle burning in the room. It was
stuck into the neck of a beer bottle and the bottle was on the table.
‘Make some tea,’ said the old man, pointing to the Primus stove standing on the floor. Judson lit
the stove and made tea. The two of them sat down on a couple of wooden boxes and began to
drink. The old man drank his hot and made loud sucking noises as he drank. Judson kept blowing
on his, sipping it cautiously and watching the old man over the top of his cup. The old man went
on sucking away at his tea until suddenly Judson said, ‘Stop.’ He said it quietly, plaintively
almost, and as he said it he began to twitch around the comers of his eyes and around his mouth.
‘What?’ said the old man.
Judson said. That noise, that sucking noise you’re making.’
The old man put down his cup and regarded the other quietly for a few moments, then he said,
‘How many dogs you killed in your time, Judson?’
There was no answer.
‘I said how many? How many dogs?’
Judson began picking the tea leaves out of his cup and sticking them on to the back of his left
hand. The old man was leaning forward on his box.
‘How many dogs, Judson?’
Judson began to hurry with his tea leaves. He jabbed his fingers into his empty cup, picked out a
tea leaf, pressed it quickly on to the back of his hand and quickly went back for another. When
there were not many left and he did not find one immediately, he bent over and peered closely into
the cup, trying to find the ones that remained. The back of the hand which held the cup was
covered with wet black tea leaves.
‘Judson!’ The old man shouted, and one side of his mouth opened and shut like a pair of tongs.
The candle flame flickered and became still again.
Then quietly and very slowly, coaxingly, as someone to a child. ‘In all your life, how many
dogs has it been?’
Judson said, ‘Why should I tell you?’ He did not look up. He was picking the tea leaves off the
back of his hand one by one and returning them to the cup.
‘I want to know, Judson.’ The old man was speaking very gently. ‘I’m getting keen about this
too. Let’s talk about it and make some plans for more fun.’
Judson looked up. A ball of saliva rolled down his chin, hung for a moment in the air, snapped
and fell to the floor.
‘I only kill ’em because of a noise.’
‘How often’ve you done it? I’d love to know how often.’
‘Lots of times long ago.’
‘How? Tell me how you used to do it. What did you like best?’
No answer.
‘Tell me, Judson. I’d love to know.’
‘I don’t see why I should. It’s a secret.’
‘I won’t tell. I swear I won’t tell.’
‘Well, if you’ll promise.’ Judson shifted his seat closer and spoke in a whisper. ‘Once I waited
till one was sleeping, then I got a big stone and dropped it on his head.’
The old man got up and poured himself a cup of tea. ‘You didn’t kill mine like that.’
‘I didn’t have time. The noise was so bad, the licking, and I just had to do it quick.’
‘You didn’t even kill him.’
‘I stopped the noise.’
The old man went over to the door and looked out. It was dark. The moon had not yet risen, but
the night was clear and cold with many stars. In the east there was a little paleness in the sky, and
as he watched, the paleness grew and it changed from a paleness into a brightness, spreading over
the sky so that the light was reflected and held by the small drops of dew upon the grass along the
highlands; and slowly, the moon rose up over the hills. The old man turned and said, ‘Better get
ready. Never know; they might come early tonight.’
Judson got up and the two of them went outside. Judson lay down in the shallow trench beside
the cow and the old man covered him over with grass, so that only his head peeped out above the
ground. ‘I shall be watching, too,’ he said, ‘from the window. If I give a shout, jump up and catch
him.’
He hobbled back to the shack, went upstairs, wrapped himself in blankets and took up his
position by the window. It was early still. The moon was nearly full and it was climbing. It shone
upon the snow on the summit of Mount Kenya.
After an hour the old man shouted out of the window:
‘Are you still awake, Judson?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I’m awake.’
‘Don’t go to sleep,’ said the old man. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.’
‘Cow’s crunching all the time,’ said Judson.
‘Good, and I’ll shoot you if you get up now,’ said the old man.
‘You’ll shoot me?’
‘I said I’ll shoot you if you get up now.’
A gentle sobbing noise came up from where Judson lay, a strange gasping sound as though a
child was trying not to cry, and in the middle of it, Judson’s voice, ‘I’ve got to move; please let me
move. This crunching.’
‘If you get up,’ said the old man, ‘I’ll shoot you in the belly.’
For another hour or so the sobbing continued, then quite suddenly it stopped.
Just before four o’clock it began to get very cold and the old man huddled deeper into his
blankets and shouted, ‘Are you cold out there, Judson? Are you cold?’
‘Yes,’ came the answer. ‘So cold. But I don’t mind because cow’s not crunching any more.
She’s asleep.’
The old man said, ‘What are you going to do with the thief when you catch him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you kill him?’
A pause.
‘I don’t know. I’ll just go for him.’
‘I’ll watch,’ said the old man. ‘It ought to be fun.’ He was leaning out of the window with his
arms resting on the sill.
Then he heard the hiss under the window sill, and looked over and saw the black Mamba,
sliding through the grass towards the cow, going fast and holding its head just a little above the
ground as it went.
When the Mamba was five yards away, the old man shouted. He cupped his hands to his mouth
and shouted, ‘Here he comes, Judson; here he comes. Go and get him.’
Judson lifted his head quickly and looked up. As he did so he saw the Mamba and the Mamba
saw him. There was a second, or perhaps two, when the snake stopped, drew back and raised the
front part of its body in the air. Then the stroke. Just a flash of black and a slight thump as it took
him in the chest. Judson screamed, a long, high-pitched scream which did not rise nor fall, but
held its note until gradually it faded into nothingness and there was silence. Now he was standing
up, ripping open his shirt, feeling for the place in his chest, whimpering quietly, moaning and
breathing hard with his mouth wide open. And all the while the old man sat quietly at the open
window, leaning forward and never taking his eyes away from the one below.
Everything comes very quick when one is bitten by a black Mamba, and almost at once the
poison began to work. It threw him to the ground, where he lay humping his back and rolling
around on the grass. He no longer made any noise. It was all very quiet, as though a man of great
strength was wrestling with a giant whom one could not see, and it was as though the giant was
twisting him and not letting him get up, stretching his arms through the fork of his legs and
pushing his knees up under his chin.
Then he began pulling up the grass with his hands and soon after that he lay on his back kicking
gently with his legs. But he didn’t last very long. He gave a quick wriggle, humped his back again,
turning over as he did it, then he lay on the ground quite still, lying on his stomach with his right
knee drawn up underneath his chest and his hands stretched out above his head.
Still the old man sat by the window, and even after it was all over, he stayed where he was and
did not stir. There was a movement in the shadow under the acacia tree and the Mamba came
forward slowly towards the cow. It came forward a little, stopped, raised its head, waited, lowered
its head, and slid forward again right under the belly of the animal. It raised itself into the air and
took one of the brown teats in its mouth and began to drink. The old man sat watching the Mamba
taking the milk of the cow, and once again he saw the gentle pulsing of its body as it drew the
liquid out of the udder.
While the snake was still drinking, the old man got up and moved away from the window.
‘You can have his share,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t mind you having his share,’ and as he
spoke he glanced back and saw again the black body of the Mamba curving upward from the
ground, joining with the belly of the cow.
‘Yes,’ he said again, ‘we don’t mind your having his share.’
非洲的故事
非洲的故事
对于英国来说，战争是在一九三九年九月开始的。英伦小岛上的人们立刻就知道了，开
始做好准备。在较远的地方，人们是几分钟后才得到消息，他们也开始做好准备。
在东部非洲，在肯尼亚的殖民地，有一位青年是白人职业猎手，他热爱平原、山谷，以
及乞力马扎罗山坡上清凉的夜晚。他也听到了要打仗的消息，也开始做好准备。他长途跋涉
前往内罗毕，报名参加英国皇家空军，要求当一名飞行员。他们接收了他，他在内罗毕机场
开始接受训练，开那种小型的虎蛾机，飞得相当不错。
五个星期后，他差点上了军事法庭，因为他开飞机后，并没有遵照命令练习绕圈和旋
转，而是飞往纳库鲁的方向，去看平原上的野生动物。途中他以为看见了一头黑马羚，这可
是非常稀罕的物种，他立刻兴奋起来，把飞机降下去，想看得更清楚些。他正从驾驶舱的左
侧低头打量那头黑马羚，所以没有看见右侧的那只长颈鹿。飞机右舷的前缘砍中了长颈鹿的
脖子，正好就在它的脑袋下面一点，一下子就砍穿了。他当时飞得就是那么低。机翼损坏
了，但他勉强返回了内罗毕，然后，就像我前面说的，他差点上了军事法庭，因为那样的事
情是搪塞不过去的，你不能说是撞上了一只大鸟，机翼和支架上还沾着长颈鹿的碎皮和长颈
鹿的毛呢。
六个星期后，他第一次获得了越野单飞的机会，从内罗毕飞到一个名叫埃尔多雷特的地
方，那是高原上一个海拔八千英尺的小镇。可是他又交了厄运。半路上发动机出了故障，因
为燃料箱里进了水。他还算冷静，来了个漂亮的紧急迫降，飞机没有损坏。离降落处不远的
地方有一个小棚屋，孤零零地立在高地平原上，周围杳无人烟。这是一片荒凉的乡村。
他朝棚屋走去，发现有个老人独自住在里面，只靠一小片甘薯地、几只褐色母鸡和一头
黑奶牛过活。
老人对他很好。给了他吃食、牛奶和睡觉的地方，飞行员跟老人一起待了两天两夜，后
来一架救援机从内罗毕飞来，看见了地面上他的飞机，便降落在它旁边，弄清了故障原因，
返回去取来清洁汽油，使他得以起飞、返航。
在飞行员逗留期间，那个老人——他一直孤零零地生活，好几个月看不见一个人——很
喜欢有他做伴，有个人可以说说话。老人说得很多，飞行员耐心地听着。老人谈到孤寂的生
活，谈到夜里跑来的狮子，谈到住在西边山上的那头离群的野象，谈到白天的炎热，以及夜
半的寒意和寂静。
第二天夜里，他谈到了他自己，讲了一个很长、很奇怪的故事。老人讲述的时候，飞行
员觉得他通过讲这件事似乎正在卸去肩头一个沉重的包袱。老人讲完后，说他从来没有把这
件事告诉过任何人，而且以后也不会再对别人讲。然而那个故事太奇怪了，飞行员一回到内
罗毕，就把它写在了纸上。他不是用老人的话写故事，而是用他自己的话，把老人作为故事
里的一个人物讲述那个故事，因为那是最好的方式。他以前从未写过故事，错误在所难免。
他也不懂得任何文字技巧——作家们像画家使用绘画技巧一样使用着那些技巧，然而，在他
写完后，当他放下铅笔，起身到飞行员食堂去喝一杯啤酒时，他留下的是一篇罕见而有力的
故事。
两星期后，他在训练中遇难，我们清点他的遗物时，在箱子里发现了这篇故事，因为他
似乎没有亲属，也因为他是我的朋友，我就收下这份手稿，替他保存。
下面就是他写的。
老人走出门，来到明亮的阳光里，他拄着拐杖站了一会儿，打量着周围，在强烈的光线
下眨着眼睛。他脑袋偏向一边，眼睛往上看着，倾听他刚才仿佛听见的声音。
他矮墩墩的，有七十多岁了，但看上去更像八十五，因为风湿病使他的身体佝偻成一
团。他脸上布满灰色的胡子，嘴巴只有半边能动。他不管在屋里还是屋外，头上总戴着一顶
脏兮兮的白色遮阳帽。
他在耀眼的阳光里定定地站着，眯起眼睛，听着那个声音。
没错，又来了。老人的脑袋轻快地一转，看向一百码开外牧场上的那个小木屋。这次没
有半点疑问了：是一只狗的叫声，是一只狗遭遇巨大危险时发出的高亢、尖利刺耳的吠叫
声。狗又叫了两声，这次声音不像是吠叫，而更像是一种哀嚎。声音凄厉，更加刺耳，似乎
是从身体里某个狭窄的地方迅速挤压出来的。
老人转过身，瘸着腿快步走过草地，朝贾德森住的小木屋走去，并推开门走了进去。
那只小白狗躺在地上，贾德森双腿叉开站在旁边，黑头发披散在他那长长的红脸膛上。
他高个子，瘦骨嶙峋，站在那里喃喃自语，汗水浸湿了他油渍斑斑的白衬衫。他的嘴巴奇怪
地耷拉着，一副毫无生气的样子，似乎下巴对他来说太重了，一滴滴口水从下巴中间轻轻滴
落。他站在那里，看着躺在地上的小白狗，用一只手慢慢地捻着自己的左耳朵，另一只手里
拿着一根沉甸甸的竹子。
老人没有理会贾德森，他俯身跪在他的狗身边，用瘦巴巴的双手轻轻抚摸狗的身体。狗
一动不动地躺着，抬起一双泪汪汪的眼睛看着他。贾德森没有动弹，他注视着狗和老人。
慢慢地，老人站起身，他用双手撑着拐杖头，十分费力地缓缓直起身子。他打量着木屋
里。远处墙角的地上铺着一张肮脏的、皱巴巴的垫子，那张木头桌子是用包装箱做的，上面
放着做饭用的简易炉和一个裂了口的蓝色搪瓷平底锅。地板上有一些鸡毛和泥巴。
老人看见了他需要的东西。一根沉重的铁条靠在床垫旁边的墙上，他一瘸一拐地走过
去，拐杖咚咚地砸着空洞的木地板。他瘸着腿走向房间那头，狗的眼睛一直跟着他。老人把
拐杖换到左手，用右手拿起铁条，踉踉跄跄回到狗的身边，毫不迟疑地举起铁条，重重地砸
向狗的脑袋。他把铁条扔在地上，看着贾德森，贾德森双腿叉开站在那里，口水滴在下巴
上，眼角周围在抽搐。老人走到贾德森面前，开始说话。他的话说得很轻、很慢，带着可怕
的怒气，说话时只有半边嘴巴在动。
“你打死了它。”他说，“你打断了它的背。”
接着，随着怒气的上升，他有了气力，也有了更多的话要说。他抬起头，对准高个子的
贾德森脸上啐了一口，贾德森眼角周围抽搐着，朝墙边退去。
“你这个肮脏、卑鄙的杂种，竟然打狗！这是我的狗。你他妈的有什么权力打我的狗，你
说。回答我，你这个流口水的疯子。快回答我。”
贾德森把左手的手掌在衬衫前襟上慢慢地上下擦了擦，现在他的整张脸都开始抽搐了。
他没有抬眼，说道：“它不停地舔它爪子上的那块地方。我受不了它发出的声音。你知道我没
法忍受那种声音，吧嗒，吧嗒，吧嗒。我叫它别舔了。它抬起头，摇晃着尾巴，可接着又继
续舔。我实在是没法忍受，就打了它。”
老人什么也没说。一时间，他似乎想把这家伙狠狠揍一顿。他微微抬起胳膊，接着又垂
下了，朝地上啐了一口，转过身，一瘸一拐地走出门，走进阳光里。他穿过草地，走向站在
小金合欢树的树荫下反刍的那头黑奶牛，奶牛注视着他从小木屋瘸着腿走过草地。它继续反
刍，嘎吱嘎吱地咀嚼，下巴机械地、有规律地动着，像一台慢速的节拍器。老人一瘸一拐地
走过去，站在奶牛身边，抚摸它的脖子。然后，他靠在奶牛的肩膀上，用拐杖头挠它的后
背。老人在那里站了很长时间，靠在奶牛身上，用拐杖给它挠后背。偶尔，他会跟奶牛说
话，压低声音说悄悄话，就像一个人在把秘密告诉另一个人。
金合欢树下很阴凉，而且几场大雨过后，肯尼亚高原上的草长得郁郁葱葱，老人的周围
一片翠绿，景色十分宜人。每年的这个时候，雨季过后，这里像世界上的任何草地一样青翠
和丰美。北边的远处就是肯尼亚山，山顶积雪覆盖，一道细细的白雾环绕山巅，那是凛冽的
寒风形成的风暴，吹散了山顶上白色的雪粉。下面，在那座山的山坡上，有狮子和大象，夜
里有些时候，还能听见狮子抬头望月时的咆哮。
日子一天天过去，贾德森默默地在农场里干活，像一台机器一样，收玉米，刨甘薯，给
那头黑奶牛挤奶，老人待在屋里，躲避酷烈的非洲阳光。只有到了傍晚，空气开始变得清
凉，不那么闷热了，他才摇摇晃晃地走到外面，他总是走向他的黑奶牛，陪它在金合欢树下
消磨一小时。一天，他出来时发现贾德森站在奶牛身旁，用奇怪的眼神打量它，他站姿很特
别，一只脚在前，一只脚在后，右手轻轻地捻着自己的耳朵。
“又怎么啦？”老人瘸着腿走过去，说道。
“奶牛嚼个不停。”贾德森说。
“它在反刍呢。”老人说，“别管它。”
贾德森说：“那声音，你听不见吗？嘎吱嘎吱的，就好像在嚼石子儿，其实不是，它只是
在嚼草和唾沫。你看看它，它不停地嚼啊嚼，嘎吱，嘎吱，嘎吱，其实就是草和唾沫。这声
音直往我的脑袋里钻。”
“滚。”老人说，“滚，别让我看见你。”
天亮的时候，老人像往常一样坐了起来，看着窗外，注视着贾德森从他的小木屋出来，
去挤牛奶。他看见贾德森睡眼惺忪地走过田地，边走边喃喃自语，拖着双脚，在湿漉漉的草
地上留下一道墨绿色的脚印，手里提着那个四加仑 [1] 的旧煤油桶，那是他的挤奶桶。太阳从
悬崖顶上升起来了，男人、奶牛和小金合欢树后面拖了长长的影子。老人看见贾德森放下煤
油桶，又看见他从金合欢树旁拿过那个木箱子，坐在上面，准备挤奶。老人看见他突然跪下
来，用双手抚摸奶牛的乳房，与此同时，老人从他坐的地方注意到，奶牛已经没有奶了。他
看见贾德森站起身，快步朝棚屋走过来。贾德森走过来站在老人坐着的窗户根旁，抬起了
头。
“奶牛没有奶了。”他说。
老人从敞开的窗户探出身去，双手撑在窗台上。
“你这个下作的混蛋，准是你偷的。”
“我没有偷。”贾德森说，“我一直在睡觉。”
“就是你偷的。”老人把身子又往窗外探出一些，用半边嘴巴轻声说道，“我要把你打得屁
滚尿流。”他说。
贾德森说：“夜里有人偷奶，是当地人，基库尤人。要么就是奶牛病了。”
老人觉得贾德森说的是实情。“再看看吧，”他说，“看它今天晚上有没有奶。现在，看在
基督的分上，快从我眼前消失。”
晚上，奶牛的乳房满了，老人注视着贾德森从它身下挤出两夸脱浓稠的好牛奶。
第二天早晨，奶牛没有奶。到了晚上，它乳房是满的。第三天早晨，它又没有奶了。
第三天夜里，老人去站岗。天刚一擦黑，他就坐在敞开的窗口，腿上放着一杆十二号口
径的旧滑膛枪，等着夜里来偷偷挤奶的那个小偷。一开始，四下里漆黑一片，他连奶牛都看
不见，但是不一会儿，四分之三个月亮升上了山坡，周围有了光亮，几乎像白天一样了。天
气很冷，因为高地的海拔有七千英尺，放哨的老人打着哆嗦，把褐色的毛毯拉上来，紧紧裹
住肩膀。现在他可以清楚地看见奶牛了，清楚得就像白天一样，那棵小金合欢树在草地上投
下黑黑的影子，因为月亮在它的后面。
整整一夜，老人坐在那里盯着奶牛，中间只起身过一次，瘸着腿回房间里去再拿一条毛
毯，除此之外，他的眼睛一刻也没离开过奶牛。奶牛静静地站在小树下，眼望着月亮，慢吞
吞地反刍。
天亮前一小时，它的乳房满了。老人看得很真切。他一直在注视着它，虽然没有看见它
鼓涨的过程，就像看不见钟表上时针的移动一样，但是他意识到牛奶正流下来把乳房灌满。
还有一个小时天就亮了。月亮悬得很低，但月光并未消失。他能看见奶牛、小树和奶牛周围
绿色的草地。突然，他脑袋一挺。他听见了动静。没错，他听见的是一种响动。是的，又出
现了，一阵沙沙声，就在他坐着的窗户根下的草地上。他迅速站起身，靠在窗台上朝地面望
去。
他看见了。一条黑色的大蛇，曼巴蛇，足有八英尺长，有男人的胳膊那么粗，正爬过潮
湿的草地，直奔奶牛而去，爬的速度很快。它那梨形的小脑袋从地面上微微抬起一点，身体
贴着湿草移动，发出清晰的沙沙声，就像喷气式飞机正在喷气一样。老人举枪准备射击。几
乎就在同时，他又把枪放下了，不知道为什么，他坐在那里没有动，注视着曼巴蛇慢慢靠近
奶牛，听着它爬过时发出的声音，看着它爬到奶牛身边，等着它发起攻击。
但是蛇并没有攻击。它抬起头，把头轻轻前后摇晃了几下，然后把黑色身体的前半截高
高抬起，凑到奶牛的乳房下，用嘴轻轻叼住一个粗大的奶头，开始喝奶。
奶牛没有动。四下里听不到一点声音，曼巴蛇的身体从地面优美地抬起来，悬吊在奶牛
的乳房下。黑色的蛇，黑色的奶牛，在月光下显得那么清晰。
足足半个小时，老人注视着曼巴蛇吸走奶牛的奶。他看见它一口口吸出乳房里的奶液，
黑色的身体轻柔地波动，过了一阵，他看见蛇从一个奶头换到另一个奶头，直到把奶吸得一
滴不剩。然后，曼巴蛇把身体轻轻落回地面，在草地上顺着原路往回爬。它爬行时又一次发
出清晰的沙沙声，又一次从老人坐着的窗户下经过，在湿漉漉的草地上留下一条细细的深色
痕迹。然后，它就消失在了棚屋后面。
月亮慢慢地沉落到肯尼亚山的后面。几乎就在同时，太阳从东边的悬崖上升起，贾德森
从他的木屋里出来，手里提着那个四加仑的煤油桶，他在露水深重的草地上拖着脚，睡眼惺
忪地走向奶牛。老人注视着他走过来，等待着。贾德森弯下腰，用手摸了摸奶牛的乳房，这
时老人大声朝他喊话。贾德森听到老人的声音，跳了起来。
“又没了。”老人说。
贾德森说：“是啊，没有奶了。”
“我想，”老人慢悠悠地说，“我想，准是一个基库尤男孩干的。我打了个盹儿，醒来正好
看见他逃走。我没法开枪，因为奶牛挡在中间呢。他从奶牛后面逃走了。今晚我再等着他。
今晚我要抓住他。”老人加了一句。
贾德森没有回答。他拎起他的四加仑煤油桶，走回了他的小木屋。
那天夜里，老人又坐在窗口监视奶牛。对他来说，这次是含着几分喜悦期待着即将看到
的一幕。他知道他还会看见那条曼巴蛇，但他想确保万无一失。于是，当日出前一小时，黑
色的大蛇在草地上爬向那头奶牛时，老人把身子探出窗台，目光紧盯着曼巴蛇靠近奶牛的身
影。他看见大蛇在奶牛的肚皮下等了一会儿，让蛇头慢慢地前后摇摆了六七下，然后终于把
身体从地面上直起来，用嘴叼住奶牛的奶头。老人看见它喝了半小时，把牛奶喝得一滴不
剩，然后他看见它把身体落回地面，顺着原路爬过草地，返回棚屋后面去了。老人注视着这
一切时，用半边嘴巴发出了轻轻的笑声。
太阳从山丘后面升起来了，贾德森从他的小木屋里出来，手里拎着那个四加仑的煤油
桶，但是这次他直接走向棚屋的窗户，老人正裹着毛毯坐在那里。
“发生了什么事？”贾德森说。
老人从窗户低头看着他。“没有。”他说，“什么事也没发生。我又打了个盹儿，那混蛋趁
我睡着时过来偷走了牛奶。听我说，贾德森，”他接着说道，“我们必须抓住那小子，不然你
的牛奶就短缺了，这对你倒没什么损害，但我们必须把他抓住。我不能开枪，因为那小子太
机灵了，总是有奶牛挡在中间。只能由你去抓他了。”
“我抓他？怎么抓？”
老人语速非常缓慢。“我想，”他说，“我想你必须藏在奶牛身旁，就在奶牛的边上。只有
这样，你才能把他抓住。”
贾德森用左手揉搓着自己的头发。
“今天，”老人继续说道，“你就在奶牛身边挖一个浅坑。如果你躺在坑里，如果我用干草
和青草把你盖住，那么，小偷必须走到近旁才会发现你。”
“他可能有刀。”贾德森说。
“不，他不会有刀。你拿上你的棍子，别的就不需要了。”
贾德森说：“好的，我拿上我的棍子。等他来了，我就扑上去，用我的棍子打他。”突
然，他似乎想起了什么。“它嚼个不停怎么办？”他说，“我可受不了它嚼上一整夜，嘎吱，嘎
吱，嘎吱，嚼唾沫和青草，就像嚼石子儿似的。一整夜都这样，我可受不了。”他又开始用手
捻他的左耳朵。
“少废话，叫你做什么就做什么。”老人说。
那天，贾德森在奶牛的身边挖坑，奶牛被拴在那棵小金合欢树上，以免它在农场上乱
跑。夜幕降临了，贾德森刚要在坑里躺下过夜，老人走到他棚屋的门口，说道：“等明天凌晨
再行动也不迟。奶牛的奶满了，他们才会来。到屋里来等着吧，这儿比你那脏兮兮的小木屋
暖和。”
贾德森从来没有受邀进入过老人的棚屋。他跟着老人进屋，庆幸自己不用整夜躺在那个
坑里。房间里点着一根蜡烛。蜡烛插在一个啤酒瓶的瓶口，啤酒瓶放在桌上。
“沏点茶吧。”老人说，指着地板上那个做饭的简易炉。贾德森点着炉子，沏了茶。两人
在两个木头箱子上坐下，开始喝茶。老人喝滚烫的茶，边喝边发出很响的吸气声。贾德森不
停地吹自己的茶，谨慎地小口喝着，从杯子边缘注视着老人。老人继续吸着气喝茶，最后，
贾德森突然说道：“停。”他的话音很轻，几乎有些哀怨，话一出口，他的眼角和嘴巴周围便
开始抽搐。
“什么？”老人问。
贾德森说：“那声音，你发出的那种吸气声。”
老人放下茶杯，静静地端详了对方片刻，然后说道：“你这辈子打死了多少只狗，贾德
森？”
没有回答。
“我问你呢，多少只？多少只狗？”
贾德森开始把他茶杯里的茶叶捞出来，一根根贴在自己的左手背上。老人从木箱上探过
身。
“多少只狗，贾德森？”
贾德森捞茶叶的速度加快了。他把几根手指戳进空茶杯，捞起一片茶叶，迅速地贴在手
背上，然后迅速地再去捞另一片。茶杯里已不剩多少茶叶，他没有马上捞到一片，就埋下
头，专注地盯着杯子里，想找到剩下的茶叶。端着杯子的那只手的手背上，贴满了湿漉漉的
黑茶叶。
“贾德森！”老人大喊一声，他的半边嘴巴像老虎钳一样一开一合。蜡烛的火苗跳了一
下，又静止不动了。
然后，他压低声音、轻言细语、语速缓慢，就像在对一个小孩子说话。“你这辈子，到底
打死过多少只狗？”
贾德森说：“我凭什么要告诉你？”他没有把眼睛抬起来。他把手背上的茶叶一片片捏
起，放回茶杯里。
“我想知道，贾德森。”老人说话的口气非常缓和，“我对这件事也很着迷。我们聊一聊
吧，制订一些更有趣的计划。”
贾德森抬起目光。一股唾液滚下他的下巴，在空中悬了一会儿，断了，掉落在地板上。
“我是因为声音才打死它们的。”
“这件事你做了多少次？我很想知道有多少次。”
“许多都是很久以前的事了。”
“怎么做的？说说你以前是怎么做的。你最喜欢哪种方式？”
没有回答。
“跟我说说，贾德森。我很想知道。”
“我不明白为什么要说。这是个秘密。”
“我不会说出去的。我发誓不说出去。”
“好吧，既然你能保证。”贾德森把座位往前挪挪，压低了声音说，“有一次，我等一只狗
睡着了，就搬起一块大石头砸在它脑袋上。”
老人站起身，又给自己倒了杯茶。“但你并不是这样弄死我的狗的。”
“我当时来不及。那声音太可怕了，吧嗒，吧嗒，我必须赶紧让它住嘴。”
“你没有干脆把它打死。”
“我把那声音止住了。”
老人走到门口，往外看了看。天黑了。月亮还没有升起，星星很多，夜空清冽、寒冷。
东边的天际有一小片白色，就在他注视的当儿，白色越来越大，放射出耀眼的光亮，扩展到
整个天空，这光亮映在高地草坡上的一颗颗小露珠里，被它们噙住。慢慢地，月亮升到了山
坡上。老人转过身，说道：“做好准备吧。谁说得准呢，今晚他可能来得早。”
贾德森站起身，两人走到屋外。贾德森在奶牛身边的浅坑里躺下，老人给他盖上青草，
最后只有他的脑袋露出地面。“我也会从窗口看着的。”他说，“我一喊，你就跳起来抓住
他。”
他摇摇晃晃地走回棚屋，来到楼上，用毛毯裹住身体，在窗口坐定。时间还很早。月亮
几乎是满的，正一点点往上爬。它映照着肯尼亚山顶上的白雪。
过了一小时，老人朝窗外喊道：“你还醒着吗，贾德森？”
“醒着，”他回答，“我醒着呢。”
“可别睡着了。”老人说，“不管怎样，都不能睡着了。”
“奶牛一直在嘎吱嘎吱。”贾德森说。
“很好，如果你现在站起来，我就朝你开枪。”老人说。
“你朝我开枪？”
“我说的是‘如果你现在站起来，我就朝你开枪’。”
从贾德森躺的地方传来一阵轻轻的啜泣声，一种奇怪的大喘气的声音，就像一个孩子拼
命忍着不哭，在这喘气声中，只听贾德森的声音说道：“我需要动一动，请你让我动一动吧。
这惹人厌的嘎吱声。”
“如果你站起来，”老人说，“我就朝你的肚子开枪。”
啜泣声又持续了一小时左右，突然停止了。
将近四点钟的时候，天气变得十分寒冷，老人把毛毯裹得更紧一些，大声喊道：“你在外
面冷吗，贾德森？你冷吗？”
“冷，”贾德森回答，“太冷了。但我不在乎，因为奶牛不再嘎吱了。它睡着了。”
老人说：“你抓住了小偷，打算拿他怎么办？”
“我不知道。”
“你会杀死他吗？”
顿了顿。
“我不知道。我只管把他抓住。”
“我会看着的。”老人说，“应该很有意思。”他把胳膊撑在窗台上，从窗口探出身子。
接着，他听见窗台下面有沙沙声，抬眼一看，看见了那条黑色的曼巴蛇，在草地上蜿蜒
地朝奶牛爬去，速度很快，脑袋从地面上微微抬起一点。
曼巴蛇爬到五码开外时，老人喊了起来。他把双手拢在嘴边，喊道：“他来啦，贾德森。
他来啦。快把他抓住。”
贾德森迅速抬起脑袋往上看。就在他这么做的时候，他看见了曼巴蛇，曼巴蛇也看见了
他。就在那短短的一秒，也许是两秒，蛇停住了，把头一缩，然后身体的上半段陡然升到空
中。说时迟那时快。一道黑光一闪，“砰”的一声轻响，它击中了贾德森的胸口。贾德森发出
尖叫，一声长长的、高亢的尖叫，没有抑扬顿挫，保持着同样的音调，渐渐地隐入虚无，归
于平静。他已经站了起来，撕扯开自己的衬衫，摸着胸口的那个地方，轻轻地哭泣着、呜咽
着，嘴巴张得大大的，呼吸粗重。在这过程中，老人一直静静地坐在敞开的窗口，探出身
子，眼睛一刻也没有离开下面的那个人。
被黑色曼巴蛇咬过之后，一切都会发生得很快，毒性几乎立刻就开始发作。贾德森被撂
倒在地，弓起后背在草地上打滚。他不再发出声音。四下里十分安静，似乎一个力大无比的
人正在跟一个看不见的巨人摔跤，似乎那个巨人正把他扭成一团，不让他站起来，把他的胳
膊拉长了塞过两腿之间，把他的膝盖推上去抵在下巴底下。
然后，他开始用手拔地上的草，又过了不久，他仰面躺着，轻轻踢蹬着双腿。但是他并
没能撑多久。他快速蠕动了一下，又弓起后背，同时翻了个身，接着便趴在地上不动了，右
膝弯上去压在胸口下，双手伸过了头顶。
老人仍坐在窗口，即使一切都结束之后，他还是坐在那里没有动弹。金合欢树下的阴影
里有了动静，曼巴蛇慢慢地朝奶牛爬去。它往前爬了一段，停住了，昂起头，等待着，又把
头垂下去，再次爬到了奶牛的肚皮下面。它把身子升到空中，用嘴叼住一个褐色的奶头，开
始吮吸。老人坐在那里注视着曼巴蛇吸奶牛的奶，他又一次看见它一口口吸出乳房里的奶
液，它黑色的身体轻柔地波动着。
蛇还在吸奶的时候，老人站起身，离开了窗口。
“他的那份归你。”他轻声说，“没关系，他的那份归你。”说着，他回头扫了一眼，又看
见曼巴蛇黑色的身体蜿蜒地从地面升起，与奶牛的肚子连在一起。
“是的，”他又说了一遍，“没关系，他的那份归你。”
首次出版于《献给你》 1945
[1]英美制容量单位，1英制加仑=4.546092升。
Madame Rosette
Madame Rosette
‘OH JESUS, THIS IS wonderful,’ said the Stag.
He was lying back in the bath with a Scotch and soda in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
The water was right up to the brim and he was keeping it warm by turning the tap with his toes.
He raised his head and took a little sip of his whisky, then he lay back and closed his eyes.
‘For God’s sake, get out,’ said a voice from the next room. ‘Come on. Stag, you’ve had over an
hour.’ Stuffy was sitting on the edge of the bed with no clothes on, drinking slowly and waiting his
turn.
The Stag said, ‘All right. I’m letting the water out now,’ and he stretched out a leg and flipped
up the plug with his toes.
Stuffy stood up and wandered into the bathroom holding his drink in his hand. The Stag lay in
the bath for a few moments more, then, balancing his glass carefully on the soap rack, he stood up
and reached for a towel. His body was short and square, with strong thick legs and exaggerated
calf muscles. He had coarse curly ginger hair and a thin, rather pointed face covered with freckles.
There was a layer of pale ginger hair on his chest.
‘Jesus,’ he said, looking down into the bathtub, ‘I’ve brought half the desert with me.’
Stuffy said. ‘Wash it out and let me get in. I haven’t had a bath for five months.’
This was back in the early days when we were fighting the Italians in Libya. One flew very hard
in those days because there were not many pilots. They certainly could not send any out from
England because there they were fighting the Battle of Britain. So one remained for long periods
out in the desert, living the strange unnatural life of the desert, living in the same dirty little tent,
washing and shaving every day in a mug full of one’s own spat-out tooth water, all the time
picking flies out of one’s tea and out of one’s food, having sandstorms which were as much in the
tents as outside them so that placid men became bloody-minded and lost their tempers with their
friends and with themselves; having dysentery and gippy tummy and mastoid and desert sores,
having some bombs from the Italian S-79s, having no water and no women, having no flowers
growing out of the ground; having very little except sand sand sand. One flew old Gloster Gladia-
tors against the Italian CR42s, and when one was not flying, it was difficult to know what to do.
Occasionally one would catch scorpions, put them in empty petrol cans and match them against
each other in fierce mortal combat. Always there would be a champion scorpion in the squadron, a
sort of Joe Louis who was invincible and won all his fights. He would have a name; he would
become famous and his training diet would be a great secret known only to the owner. Training
diet was considered very important with scorpions. Some were trained on corned beef, some on a
thing called Machonachies, which is an unpleasant canned meat stew, some on live beetles and
there were others who were persuaded to take a little beer just before the fight, on the’ premise that
it made the scorpion happy and gave him confidence. These last ones always lost. But there were
great battles and great champions, and in the afternoons when the flying was over, one could often
see a group of pilots and airmen standing around in a circle on the sand, bending over with their
hands on their knees, watching the fight, exhorting the scorpions and shouting at them as people
shout at boxers or wrestlers in a ring. Then there would be a victory, and the man who owned the
winner would become excited. He would dance around in the sand yelling, waving his arms in the
air and extolling in a loud voice the virtues of the victorious animal. The greatest scorpion of all
was owned by a sergeant called Wishful who fed him only on marmalade. The animal had an
unmentionable name, but he won forty-two consecutive fights and then died quietly in training just
when Wishful was considering the problem of retiring him to stud.
So you can see that because there were no great pleasures while living in the desert, the small
pleasures became great pleasures and the pleasures of children became the pleasures of grown
men. That was true for everyone; for the pilots, the fitters, the riggers, the corporals who cooked
the food, and the men who kept the stores. It was true for the Stag and for Stuffy, so true that when
the two of them wangled a forty-eight hour pass and a lift by air into Cairo, and when they got to
the hotel, they were feeling about having a bath rather as you would feel on the first night of your
honeymoon.
The Stag had dried himself and was lying on the bed with a towel round his waist, with his
hands up behind his head, and Stuffy was in the bath, lying with his head against the back of the
bath, groaning and sighing with ecstasy.
The Stag said, ‘Stuffy.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Women,’ said Stuffy. ‘We must find some women to take out to supper.’
The Stag said, ‘Later. That can wait till later.’ It was early afternoon.
‘I don’t think it can wait,’ said Stuffy.
‘Yes,’ said the Stag, ‘it can wait.’
The Stag was very old and wise; he never rushed any fences. He was twenty-seven, much older
than anyone else in the squadron, including the CO, and his judgement was much respected by the
others.
‘Let’s do a little shopping first,’ he said.
‘Then what?’ said the voice from the bathroom.
‘Then we can consider the other situation.’
There was a pause.
‘Stag?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know any women here?’
‘I used to. I used to know a Turkish girl with very white skin called Wenka, and a Yugoslav girl
who was six inches taller than I, called Kiki, and another who I think was Syrian. I can’t
remember her name.’
‘Ring them up,’ said Stuffy.
‘I’ve done it. I did it while you were getting the whisky. They’ve all gone. It isn’t any good.’
‘It’s never any good,’ Stuffy said.
The Stag said, ‘We’ll go shopping first. There is plenty of time.’
In an hour Stuffy got out of the bath. They both dressed themselves in clean khaki shorts and
shirts and wandered downstairs, through the lobby of the hotel and out into the bright hot street.
The Stag put on his sunglasses.
Stuffy said, ‘I know. I want a pair of sunglasses.’
‘All right. We’ll go and buy some.’
They stopped a gharry, got in and told the driver to go to Cicurel’s. Stuffy bought his sunglasses
and the Stag bought some poker dice, then they wandered out again on to the hot crowded street.
‘Did you see that girl?’ said Stuffy.
‘The one that sold us the sunglasses?’
‘Yes. That dark one.’
‘Probably Turkish,’ said Stag.
Stuffy said, ‘I don’t care what she was. She was terrific. Didn’t you think she was terrific?’
They were walking along the Sharia Kasr-el-Nil with their hands in their pockets, and Stuffy
was wearing the sunglasses which he had just bought. It was a hot dusty afternoon, and the
sidewalk was crowded with Egyptians and Arabs and small boys with bare feet. The flies followed
the small boys and buzzed around their eyes, trying to get at the inflammation which was in them,
which was there because their mothers had done something terrible to those eyes when the boys
were young, so that they would not be eligible for military conscription when they grew older. The
small boys pattered along beside the Stag and Stuffy shouting, ‘Baksheesh, baksheesh,’ in shrill
insistent voices, and the flies followed the small boys. There was the smell of Cairo, which is not
like the smell of any other city. It comes not from any one thing or from any one place; it comes
from everything everywhere; from the gutters and the sidewalks, from the houses and the shops
and the things in the shops and the food cooking in the shops, from the horses and the dung of the
horses in the streets and from the drains; it comes from the people and the way the sun bears down
upon the people and the way the sun bears down upon the gutters and the drains and the horses
and the food and the refuse in the streets. It is a rare, pungent smell, like something which is sweet
and rotting and hot and salty and bitter all at the same time, and it is never absent, even in the cool
of the early morning.
The two pilots walked along slowly among the crowd.
‘Didn’t you think she was terrific?’ said Stuffy. He wanted to know what the Stag thought.
‘She was all right.’
‘Certainly she was all right. You know what. Stag?’
‘What?’
‘I would like to take that girl out tonight.’
They crossed over a street and walked on a little farther.
The Stag said, ‘Well, why don’t you? Why don’t you ring up Rosette?’
‘Who in the hell’s Rosette?’
‘Madame Rosette,’ said the Stag. ‘She is a great woman.’
They were passing a place called Tim’s Bar. It was run by an Englishman called Tim Gilfillan
who had been a quartermaster sergeant in the last war and who had somehow managed to get left
behind in Cairo when the army went home.
‘Tim’s,’ said the Stag. ‘Let’s go in.’
There was no one inside except for Tim, who was arranging his bottles on shelves behind the
bar.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, turning around. ‘Where you boys been all this time?’
‘Hello, Tim.’
He did not remember them, but he knew by their looks that they were in from the desert.
‘How’s my old friend Graziani?’ he said, leaning his elbows on the counter.
‘He’s bloody close,’ said the Stag. ‘He’s outside Mersah.’
‘What you flying now?’
‘Gladiators.’
‘Hell, they had those here eight years ago.’
‘Same ones still here,’ said the Stag. ‘They’re clapped out.’ They got their whisky and carried
the glasses over to a table in the corner.
Stuffy said, ‘Who’s this Rosette?’
The Stag took a long drink and put down the glass.
‘She’s a great woman,’ he said.
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s a filthy old Syrian Jewess.’
‘All right,’ said Stuffy, ‘all right, but what about her.’
‘Well,’ said Stag, ‘I’ll tell you. Madame Rosette runs the biggest brothel in the world. It is said
that she can get you any girl that you want in the whole of Cairo.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No, it’s true. You just ring her up and tell her where you saw the woman, where she was
working, what shop and at which counter, together with an accurate description, and she will do
the rest.’
‘Don’t be such a bloody fool,’ said Stuffy.
‘It’s true. It’s absolutely true. Thirty-three squadron told me about her.’
‘They were pulling your leg.’
‘All right. You go and look her up in the phone book.’
‘She wouldn’t be in the phone book under that name.’
‘I’m telling you she is,’ said Stag. ‘Go and look her up under Rosette. You’ll see I’m right.’
Stuffy did not believe him, but he went over to Tim and asked him for a telephone directory and
brought it back to the table. He opened it and turned the pages until he came to R-o-s. He ran his
finger down the column. Roseppi … Rosery … Rosette. There it was, Rosette, Madame and the
address and number, clearly printed in the book. The Stag was watching him.
‘Got it?’ he said.
‘Yes, here it is. Madame Rosette.’
‘Well, why don’t you go and ring her up?’
‘What shall I say?’
The Stag looked down into his glass and poked the ice with his finger.
‘Tell her you are a Colonel,’ he said. ‘Colonel Higgins; she mistrusts pilot officers. And tell her
that you have seen a beautiful dark girl selling sunglasses at Cicurel’s and that you would like, as
you put it, to take her out to dinner.’
‘There isn’t a telephone here.’
‘Oh yes there is. There’s one over there.’
Stuffy looked around and saw the telephone on the wall at the end of the bar.
‘I haven’t got a piastre piece.’
‘Well, I have,’ said Stag. He fished in his pocket and put a piastre on the table.
‘Tim will hear everything I say.’
‘What the hell does that matter? He probably rings her up himself. You’re windy,’ he added.
‘You’re a shit.’ said Stuffy.
Stuffy was just a child. He was nineteen; seven whole years younger than the Stag. He was
fairly tall and he was thin, with a lot of black hair and a handsome wide-mouthed face which was
coffee brown from the sun of the desert. He was unquestionably the finest pilot in the squadron,
and already in these early days, his score was fourteen Italians confirmed destroyed. On the
ground he moved slowly and lazily like a tired person and he thought slowly and lazily like a
sleepy child, but when he was up in the air his mind was quick and his movements were quick, so
quick that they were like reflex actions. It seemed, when he was on the ground, almost as though
he was resting, as though he was dozing a little in order to make sure that when he got into the
cockpit he would wake up fresh and quick, ready for that two hours of high concentration. But
Stuffy was away from the aerodrome now and he had something on his mind which had waked
him up almost like flying. It might not last, but for the moment anyway, he was concentrating.
He looked again in the book for the number, got up and walked slowly over to the telephone.
He put in the piastre, dialled the number and heard it ringing the other end. The Stag was sitting at
the table looking at him and Tim was still behind the bar arranging his bottles. Tim was only about
five yards away and he was obviously going to listen to everything that was said. Stuffy felt rather
foolish. He leaned against the bar and waited, hoping that no one would answer.
Then click, the receiver was lifted at the other end and he heard a woman’s voice saying, ‘Allo.’
He said, ‘Hello, is Madame Rosette there?’ He was watching Tim. Tim went on arranging his
bottles, pretending to take no notice, but Stuffy knew that he was listening.
‘This ees Madame Rosette. Oo ees it?’ Her voice was petulant and gritty. She sounded as if she
did not want to be bothered with anyone just then.
Stuffy tried to sound casual. ‘This is Colonel Higgins.’
‘Colonel oo?’
‘Colonel Higgins.’ He spelled it.
‘Yes, Colonel. What do you want?’ She sounded impatient. Obviously this was a woman who
stood no nonsense. He still tried to sound casual.
‘Well, Madame Rosette, I was wondering if you would help me over a little matter.’
Stuffy was watching Tim. He was listening all right. You can always tell if someone is listening
when he is pretending not to. He is careful not to make any noise about what he is doing and he
pretends that he is concentrating very hard upon his job. Tim was like that now, moving the bottles
quickly from one shelf to another, watching the bottles, making no noise, never looking around
into the room. Over in the far corner the Stag was leaning forward with his elbows on the table,
smoking a cigarette. He was watching Stuffy, enjoying the whole business and knowing that Stuffy
was embarrassed because of Tim. Stuffy had to go on.
‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ he said. ‘I was in Cicurel’s today buying a pair of
sunglasses and I saw a girl there whom I would very much like to take out to dinner.’
‘What’s ’er name?’ The hard, rasping voice was more business-like than ever.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, sheepishly.
‘What’s she look like?’
‘Well, she’s got dark hair, and tall and, well, she’s very beautiful.’
‘What sort of dress was she wearing?’
‘Er, let me see. I think it was a kind of white dress with red flowers printed all over it.’ Then, as
a brilliant afterthought, he added, ‘She had a red belt.’ He remembered that she had been wearing
a shiny red belt.
There was a pause. Stuffy watched Tim who wasn’t making any noise with the bottles; he was
picking them up carefully and putting them down carefully.
Then the loud gritty voice again, ‘It may cost you a lot.’
‘That’s all right.’ Suddenly he didn’t like the conversation any more. He wanted to finish it and
get away.
‘Might cost you six pounds, might cost you eight or ten. I don’t know till I’ve seen her. That all
right?’
‘Yes yes, that’s all right.’
‘Where you living, Colonel?’
‘Metropolitan Hotel,’ he said without thinking.
‘All right, I give you a ring later.’ And she put down the receiver, bang.
Stuffy hung up, went slowly back to the table and sat down.
‘Well,’ said Stag, ‘that was all right, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said that she would call me back at the hotel.’
‘You mean she’ll call Colonel Higgins at the hotel.’
Stuffy said ‘Oh Christ.’
Stag said, ‘It’s all right. We’ll tell the desk that the Colonel is in our room and to put his calls
through to us. What else did she say?’
‘She said it may cost me a lot, six or ten pounds.’
‘Rosette will take ninety per cent of it,’ said Stag. ‘She’s a filthy old Syrian Jewess.’
‘How will she work it?’ Stuffy said.
He was really a gentle person and now he was feeling worried about having started something
which might become complicated.
‘Well,’ said Stag, ‘she’ll dispatch one of her pimps to locate the girl and find out who she is. If
she’s already on the books, then it’s easy. If she isn’t, the pimp will proposition her there and then
over the counter at Cicurel’s. If the girl tells him to go to hell, he’ll up the price, and if she still
tells him to go to hell, he’ll up the price still more, and in the end she’ll be tempted by the cash and
probably agree. Then Rosette quotes you a price three times as high and takes the balance herself.
You have to pay her, not the girl. Of course, after that the girl goes on Rosette’s books, and once
she’s in her clutches she’s finished. Next time Rosette will dictate the price and the girl will not be
in a position to argue.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if she refuses, Rosette will say, “All right, my girl, I shall see that your employers,
that’s Cicurel’s, are told about what you did last time, how you’ve been working for me and using
their shop as a market place. Then they’ll fire you.” That’s what Rosette will say, and the wretched
girl will be frightened and do what she’s told.’
Stuffy. said, ‘Sounds like a nice person.’
‘Who?’
‘Madame Rosette.’
‘Charming,’ said Stag. ‘She’s a charming person.’
It was hot. Stuffy wiped his face with his handkerchief.
‘More whisky,’ said Stag. ‘Hi, Tim, two more of those.’
Tim brought the glasses over and put them on the table without saying anything. He picked up
the empty glasses and went away at once. To Stuffy it seemed as though he was different from
what he had been when they first came in. He wasn’t cheery any more, he was quiet and offhand.
There wasn’t any more ‘Hi, you fellows, where you been all this time’ about him now, and when
he got back behind the counter he turned his back and went on arranging the bottles.
The Stag said, ‘How much money you got?’
‘Nine pounds, I think.’
‘May not be enough. You gave her a free hand, you know. You ought to have set a limit. She’ll
sting you now.’
‘I know,’ Stuffy said.
They went on drinking for a little while without talking. Then Stag said, ‘What you worrying
about, Stuffy?’
‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘Nothing at all. Let’s go back to the hotel. She may ring up.’
They paid for their drinks and said good-bye to Tim, who nodded but didn’t say anything. They
went back to the Metropolitan and as they went past the desk, the Stag said to the clerk, ‘If a call
comes in for Colonel Higgins, put it through to our room. He’ll be there.’ The Egyptian said, ‘Yes,
sir,’ and made a note of it.
In the bedroom, the Stag lay down on his bed and lit a cigarette. ‘And what am I going to do
tonight?’ he said.
Stuffy had been quiet all the way back to the hotel. He hadn’t said a word. Now he sat down on
the edge of the other bed with his hands still in his pockets and said, ‘Look, Stag, I’m not very
keen on this Rosette deal any more. It may cost too much. Can’t we put it off?
The Stag sat up. ‘Hell no,’ he said. ‘You’re committed. You can’t fool about with Rosette like
that. She’s probably working on it at this moment. You can’t back out now.’
‘I may not be able to afford it,’ Stuffy said.
‘Well, wait and see.’
Stuffy got up, went over to the parachute bag and took out the bottle of whisky. He poured out
two, filled the glasses with water from the tap in the bathroom, came back and gave one to the
Stag.
‘Stag,’ he said. ‘Ring up Rosette and tell her that Colonel Higgins has had to leave town
urgently, to rejoin his regiment in the desert. Ring her up and tell her that. Say the Colonel asked
you to deliver the message because he didn’t have time.’
‘Ring her up yourself.’
‘She’d recognize my voice. Come on, Stag, you ring her.’
‘No,’ he said, I won’t.’
‘Listen,’ said Stuffy suddenly. It was the child Stuffy speaking. ‘I don’t want to go out with that
woman and I don’t want to have any dealings with Madame Rosette tonight. We can think of
something else.’
The Stag looked up quickly. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll ring her.’
He reached for the phone book, looked up her number and spoke it into the telephone. Stuffy
heard him get her on the line and he heard him giving her the message from the Colonel. There
was a pause, then the Stag said, ‘I’m sorry Madame Rosette, but it’s nothing to do with me. I’m
merely delivering a message.’ Another pause; then the Stag said the same thing over again and
that went on for quite a long time, until he must have got tired of it, because in the end he put
down the receiver and lay back on his bed. He was roaring with laughter.
‘The lousy old bitch,’ he said, and he laughed some more.
Stuffy said, ‘Was she angry?’
‘Angry,’ said Stag. ‘Was she angry? You should have heard her. Wanted to know the Colonel’s
regiment and God knows what else and said he’d have to pay. She said you boys think you can
fool around with me but you can’t.’
‘Hooray,’ said Stuffy. ‘The filthy old Jewess.’
‘Now what are we going to do?’ said the Stag. ‘It’s six o’clock already.’
‘Let’s go out and do a little drinking in some of those Gyppi places.’
‘Fine. We’ll do a Gyppi pub crawl.’
They had one more drink, then they went out. They went to a place called the Excelsior, then
they went to a place called the Sphinx, then to a small place called by an Egyptian name, and by
ten o’clock they were sitting happily in a place which hadn’t got a name at all, drinking beer and
watching a kind of stage show. At the Sphinx they had picked up a pilot from Thirty-three
squadron, who said that his name was William. He was about the same age as Stuffy, but his face
was younger, for he had not been flying so long. It was especially around his mouth that he was
younger. He had a round schoolboy face and a small turned-up nose and his skin was brown from
the desert.
The three of them sat happily in the place without a name drinking beer, because beer was the
only thing that they served there. It was a long wooden room with an unpolished wooden sawdust
floor and wooden tables and chairs. At the far end there was a raised wooden stage where there
was a show going on. The room was full of Egyptians, sitting drinking black coffee with the red
tarbooshes on their heads. There were two fat girls on the stage dressed in shiny silver pants and
silver brassieres. One was waggling her bottom in time to the music. The other was waggling her
bosom in time to the music. The bosom waggler was most skilful. She could waggle one bosom
without waggling the other and sometimes she would waggle her bottom as well. The Egyptians
were spellbound and kept giving her a big hand. The more they clapped the more she waggled and
the more she waggled the faster the music played, and the faster the music played, the faster she
waggled, faster and faster and faster, never losing the tempo, never losing the fixed brassy smile
that was upon her face, and the Egyptians clapped more and more and louder and louder as the
speed increased. Everyone was very happy.
When it was over William said, ‘Why do they always have those dreary fat women? Why don’t
they have beautiful women?’
The Stag said, ‘The Gyppies like them fat. They like them like that.’
‘Impossible,’ said Stuffy.
‘It’s true,’ Stag said. ‘It’s an old business. It comes from the days where there used to be lots of
famines here, and all the poor people were thin and all the rich people and the aristocracy were
well fed and fat. If you got someone fat you couldn’t go wrong; she was bound to be high-class.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Stuffy.
William said, ‘Well, we’ll soon find out. I’m going to ask those Gyppies.’ He jerked his thumb
towards two middle-aged Egyptians who were sitting at the next table, only about four feet away.
‘No,’ said Stag. “No, William. We don’t want them over here.’
‘Yes,’ said Stuffy.
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘We’ve got to find out why the Gyppies like fat women.’
He was not drunk. None of them was drunk, but they were happy with a fair amount of beer and
whisky, and William was the happiest. His brown schoolboy face was radiant with happiness, his
turned-up nose seemed to have turned up a little more, and he was probably relaxing for the first
time in many weeks. He got up, took three paces over to the table of the Egyptians and stood in
front of them, smiling.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘my friends and I would be honoured if you would join us at our table.’
The Egyptians had dark greasy skins and podgy faces. They were wearing the red hats and one
of them had a gold tooth. At first, when William addressed them, they looked a little alarmed.
Then they caught on, looked at each other, grinned and nodded.
‘Pleess,’ said one.
‘Pleess,’ said the other, and they got up, shook hands with William and followed him over to
where the Stag and Stuffy were sitting.
William said, ‘Meet my friends. This is the Stag. This is Stuffy. I am William,’
The Stag and Stuffy stood up, they all shook hands, the Egyptians said ‘Pleess’ once more and
then everyone sat down.
The Stag knew that their religion forbade them to drink. ‘Have a coffee,’ he said.
The one with the gold tooth grinned broadly, raised his palms upward and hunched his
shoulders a little. ‘For me,’ he said, ‘I am accustomed. But for my frient,’ and he spread out his
hands towards the other, ‘for my frient - I cannot speak.’
The Stag looked at the friend. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Pleess,’ he answered. ‘I am accustomed.’
‘Good,’ said Stag. ‘Two coffees,’
He called a waiter. ‘Two coffees,’ he said. ‘And, wait a minute. Stuffy, William, more beer?’
‘For me,’ Stuffy said, ‘I am accustomed. But for my friend,’ and he turned towards William,
‘for my friend - I cannot speak,’
William said, ‘Please. I am accustomed,’ None of them smiled.
The Stag said, ‘Good. Waiter, two coffees and three beers,’ The waiter fetched the order and the
Stag paid. The Stag lifted his glass towards the Egyptians and said, ‘Bung ho,’
‘Bung ho,’ said Stuffy.
‘Bung ho,’ said William.
The Egyptians seemed to understand and they lifted their coffee cups. ‘Pleess,’ said the one.
Thank you,’ said the other. They drank.
The Stag put down his glass and said, ‘It is an honour to be in your country.’
‘You like?’
‘Yes,’ said the Stag. ‘Very fine.’
The music had started again and the two fat women in silver tights were doing an encore. The
encore was a knockout. It was surely the most remarkable exhibition of muscle control that has
ever been witnessed; for although the bottom-waggler was still just waggling her bottom, the
bosom-waggler was standing like an oak tree in the centre of the stage with her arms above her
head. Her left bosom she was rotating in a clockwise direction and her right bosom in an
anticlockwise direction. At the same time she was waggling her bottom and it was all in time to
the music. Gradually the music increased its speed, and as it got faster, the rotating and the
waggling got faster and some of the Egyptians were so spellbound by the contra-rotating bosoms
of the woman that they were unconsciously following the movements of the bosoms with their
hands, holding their hands up in front of them and describing circles in the air. Everyone stamped
their feet and screamed with delight and the two women on the stage continued to smile their fixed
brassy smiles.
Then it was over. The applause gradually died down.
‘Remarkable,’ said the Stag.
‘You like?’
‘Please, it was remarkable.’
‘Those girls,’ said the one with the gold tooth, ‘very special.’
William couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned across the table and said, ‘Might I ask you a
question?’
‘Pleess,’ said Golden Tooth. ‘Pleess.’
‘Well,’ said William, ‘How do you like your women? Like this - slim?’ and he demonstrated
with his hands. ‘Or like this - fat?’
The gold tooth shone brightly behind a big grin. ‘For me, I like this, fat,’ and a pair of podgy
hands drew a big circle in the air.
‘And your friend?’ said William.
‘For my frient,’ he answered, ‘I cannot speak.’
‘Pleess,’ said the friend. ‘Like this.’ He grinned and drew a fat girl in the air with his hands.
Stuffy said, ‘Why do you like them fat?’
Golden Tooth thought for a moment, then he said, ‘You like them slim, eh?’
‘Please,’ said Stuffy. ‘I like them slim.’
‘Why you like them slim? You tell me.’
Stuffy rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. ‘William,’ he said, ‘why do we
like them slim?’
‘For me,’ said William, ‘I am accustomed.’
‘So am I,’ Stuffy said. ‘But why?’
William considered. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why we like them slim.’
‘Ha,’ said Golden Tooth, ‘You don’t know.’ He leaned over the table towards William and said
triumphantly, ‘And me, I do not know either.’
But that wasn’t good enough for William. The Stag,’ he said, ‘says that all rich people in Egypt
used to be fat and all poor people were thin.’
‘No,’ said Golden Tooth, ‘No no no. Look those girls up there. Very fat; very poor. Look queen
of Egypt, Queen Farida. Very thin; very rich. Quite wrong.’
‘Yes, but what about years ago?’ said William.
‘What is this, years ago?’
William said, ‘Oh all right. Let’s leave it.’
The Egyptians drank their coffee and made noises like the last bit of water running out of the
bathtub. When they had finished, they got up to go.
‘Going?’ said the Stag.
‘Pleess,’ said Golden Tooth.
William said, ‘Thank you.’ Stuffy said, ‘Pleess.’ The other Egyptian said, ‘Pleess’ and the Stag
said, ‘Thank you.’ They all shook hands and the Egyptians departed.
‘Ropey types,’ said William.
‘Very,’ said Stuffy. ‘Very ropey types.’
The three of them sat on drinking happily until midnight, when the waiter came up and told
them that the place was closing and that there were no more drinks. They were still not really
drunk because they had been taking it slowly, but they were feeling healthy.
‘He says we’ve got to go.’
‘All right. Where shall we go? Where shall we go, Stag?’
‘I don’t know. Where do you want to go?’
‘Let’s go to another place like this,’ said William. This is a fine place.’
There was a pause. Stuffy was stroking the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Stag,’ he said
slowly, ‘I know where I want to go. I want to go to Madame Rosette’s and I want to rescue all the
girls there.’
‘Who’s Madame Rosette?’ William said.
‘She’s a great woman,’ said the Stag.
‘She’s a filthy old Syrian Jewess,’ said Stuffy.
‘She’s a lousy old bitch,’ said the Stag.
‘All right,’ said William. ‘Let’s go. But who is she?’
They told him who she was. They told him about their telephone calls and about Colonel
Higgins, and William said, ‘Come on, let’s go. Let’s go and rescue all the girls.’
They got up and left. When they went outside, they remembered that they were in a rather
remote part of the town.
‘We’ll have to walk a bit,’ said Stag. ‘No gharries here.’
It was a dark starry night with no moon. The street was narrow and blacked-out. It smelled
strongly with the smell of Cairo. It was quiet as they walked along, and now and again they passed
a man or sometimes two men standing back in the shadow of a house, leaning against the wall of
the house, smoking.
‘I say,’ said William, ‘ropey, what?’
‘Very,’ said Stuffy. ‘Very bad types.’
They walked on, the three of them walking abreast; square short ginger-haired Stag, tall dark
Stuffy, and tall young William who went bareheaded because he had lost his cap. They headed
roughly towards the centre of the town where they knew that they would find a gharry to take
them on to Rosette.
Stuffy said, ‘Oh, won’t the girls be pleased when we rescue them?’
‘Jesus,’ said the Stag, ‘it ought to be a party.’
‘Does she actually keep them locked up?’ William said.
‘Well, no,’ said Stag. ‘Not exactly. But if we rescue them now, they won’t have to work any
more tonight anyway. You see, the girls she has at her place are nothing but ordinary shop girls
who still work during the day in the shops. They have all of them made some mistake or other
which Rosette either engineered or found out about, and now she has put the screws on them; she
makes them come along in the evening, But they hate her and they do not depend on her for a
living. They would kick her in the teeth if they got the chance.’
Stuffy said, ‘We’ll give them the chance.’
They crossed over a street. William said, ‘How many girls will there be there, Stag?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose there might be thirty.’
‘Good God,’ said William. ‘This will be a party. Does she really treat them very badly?’
The Stag said, ‘Thirty-three squadron told me that she pays them nothing, about twenty akkers a
night. She charges the customers a hundred or two hundred akkers each. Every girl earns for
Rosette between five hundred and a thousand akkers every night.’
‘Good God,’ said William. ‘A thousand piastres a night and thirty girls. She must be a
millionaire.’
‘She is. Someone calculated that not even counting her outside business, she makes the
equivalent of about fifteen hundred pounds a week. That’s, let me see, that’s between five and six
thousand pounds a month. Sixty thousand pounds a year.’
Stuffy came out of his dream. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘Jesus Christ. The filthy old Syrian Jewess.’
‘The lousy old bitch,’ said William.
They were coming into a more civilized section of the town, but still there were no gharries.
The Stag said, ‘Did you hear about Mary’s House?’
‘What’s Mary’s House?’ said William.
‘It’s a place in Alexandria. Mary is the Rosette of Alex.’
‘Lousy old bitch,’ said William.
‘No,’ Stag said. They say she’s a good woman. But anyway, Mary’s House was hit by a bomb
last week. The navy was in port at the time and the place was full of sailors, nautic types.’
‘Killed?’
‘Lots of them killed. And d’you know what happened? They posted them as killed in action.’
‘The Admiral is a gentleman,’ said Stuffy.
‘Magnificent,’ said William.
Then they saw a gharry and hailed it.
Stuffy said, ‘We don’t know the address,’
‘He’ll know it,’ said Stag. ‘Madame Rosette,’ he said to the driver.
The driver grinned and nodded. Then William said, ‘I’m going to drive. Give me the reins,
driver, and sit up here beside me and tell me where to go,’
The driver protested vigorously, but when William gave him ten piastres, he gave him the reins.
William sat high up on the driver’s seat with the driver beside him. The Stag and Stuffy got in the
back of the carriage.
‘Take off,’ said Stuffy. William took off. The horses began to gallop.
‘No good,’ shrieked the driver. ‘No good. Stop.’
‘Which way Rosette?’ shouted William.
‘Stop,’ shrieked the driver.
William was happy. ‘Rosette,’ he shouted. ‘Which way?’
The driver made a decision. He decided that the only way to stop this madman was to get him to
his destination. ‘This way,’ he shrieked. ‘Left.’ William pulled hard on the left rein and the horses
swerved around the corner. The gharry took it on one wheel.
‘Too much bank,’ shouted Stuffy from the back seat.
‘Which way now?’ shouted William.
‘Left,’ shrieked the driver. They took the next street to the left, then they took one to the right,
two more to the left, then one to the right again and suddenly the driver yelled, ‘Here pleess, here
Rosette. Stop.’
William pulled hard on the reins and gradually the horses raised their heads with the pulling and
slowed down to a trot.
‘Where?’ said William.
‘Here,’ said the driver. ‘Pleess.’ He pointed to a house twenty yards ahead. William brought the
horses to a stop right in front of it.
‘Nice work, William,’ said Stuffy.
‘Jesus,’ said the Stag. ‘That was quick.’
‘Marvellous,’ said William. ‘Wasn’t it?’ He was very happy.
The driver was sweating through his shirt and he was too frightened to be angry.
William said. ‘How much?’
‘Pleess, twenty piastres.’
William gave him forty and said. ‘Thank you very much. Fine horses.’ The little man took the
money, jumped up on to the gharry, and drove off. He was in a hurry to get away.
They were in another of those narrow, dark streets, but the houses, what they could see of them,
looked huge and prosperous. The one which the driver had said was Rosette’s was wide and thick
and three storeys high, built of grey concrete, and it had a large thick front door which stood wide
open. As they went in, the Stag said, ‘Now leave this to me. I’ve got a plan.’
Inside there was a cold grey dusty stone hall, lit by a bare electric light bulb in the ceiling, and
there was a man standing in the hall. He was a mountain of a man, a huge Egyptian with a flat face
and two cauliflower ears. In his wrestling days he had probably been billed as Abdul the Killer or
The Poisonous Pasha, but now he wore a dirty white cotton suit.
The Stag said, ‘Good evening. Is Madame Rosette here?’
Abdul looked hard at the three pilots, hesitated, then said, ‘Madame Rosette top floor.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stag. ‘Thank you very much.’ Stuffy noticed that the Stag was being polite.
There was always trouble for somebody when he was like that. Back in the squadron, when he was
leading a flight, when they sighted the enemy and when there was going to be a battle, the Stag
never gave an order without saying ‘Please’ and he never received a message without saying
‘Thank you.’ He was saying ‘Thank you’ now to Abdul.
They went up the bare stone steps which had iron railings. They went past the first landing and
the second landing, and the place was as bare as a cave. At the top of the third flight of steps, there
was no landing; it was walled off, and the stairs ran up to a door. The Stag pressed the bell. They
waited a while, then a little panel in the door slid back and a pair of small black eyes peeked
through. A woman’s voice said, ‘What you boys want?’ Both the Stag and Stuffy recognized the
voice from the telephone. The Stag said, ‘We would like to see Madame Rosette.’ He pronounced
the Madame in the French way because he was being polite.
‘You officers? Only officers here,’ said the voice. She had a voice like a broken board.
‘Yes,’ said Stag. ‘We are officers.’
‘You don’t look like officers. What kind of officers?’
‘RAF.’
There was a pause. The Stag knew that she was considering. She had probably had trouble with
pilots before, and he hoped only that she would not see William and the light that was dancing in
his eyes; for William was still feeling the way he had felt when he drove the gharry. Suddenly the
panel closed and the door opened.
‘All right, come in,’ she said. She was too greedy, this woman, even to pick her customers
carefully.
They went in and there she was. Short, fat, greasy, with wisps of untidy black hair straggling
over her forehead; a large, mud-coloured face, a large wide nose and a small fish mouth, with just
the trace of a black moustache above the mouth. She had on a loose black satin dress.
‘Come into the office, boys,’ she said, and started to waddle down the passage to the left. It was
a long wide passage, about fifty yards long and four or five yards wide. It ran through the middle
of the house, parallel with the street, and as you came in from the stairs, you had to turn left along
it. All the way down there were doors, about eight or ten of them on each side. If you turned right
as you came in from the stairs, you ran into the end of the passage, but there was one door there
too, and as the three of them walked in, they heard a babble of female voices from behind that
door. The Stag noted that it was the girls’ dressing room.
‘This way, boys,’ said Rosette. She turned left and slopped down the passage, away from the
door with the voices. The three followed her. Stag first, then Stuffy, then William, down the
passage which had a red carpet on the floor and huge pink lampshades hanging from the ceiling.
They got about halfway down the passage when there was a yell from the dressing room behind
them. Rosette stopped and looked around.
‘You go on, boys,’ she said, ‘into the office, last door on the left. I won’t be a minute.’ She
turned and went back towards the dressing-room door. They didn’t go on. They stood and watched
her, and just as she got to the door, it opened and a girl rushed out. From where they stood, they
could see that her fair hair was all over her face and that she had on an untidy-looking green
evening dress. She saw Rosette in front of her and she stopped. They heard Rosette say something,
something angry and quick spoken, and they heard the girl shout something back at her. They saw
Rosette raise her right arm and they saw her hit the girl smack on the side of the face with the
palm of her hand. They saw her draw back her hand and hit her again in the same place. She hit
her hard. The girl put her hands up to her face and began to cry. Rosette opened the door of the
dressing room and pushed her back inside.
‘Jesus,’ said the Stag. ‘She’s tough.’ William said, ‘So am I.’ Stuffy didn’t say anything.
Rosette came back to them and said, ‘Come along, boys. Just a bit of trouble, that’s all.’ She led
them to the end of the passage and in through the last door on the left. This was the office. It was a
medium-sized room with two red plush sofas, two or three red plush armchairs and a thick red
carpet on the floor. In one corner was a small desk, and Rosette sat herself behind it, facing the
room.
‘Sit down, boys,’ she said.
The Stag took an armchair, Stuffy and William sat on a sofa.
‘Well,’ she said, and her voice became sharp and urgent. ‘Let’s do business.’
The Stag leaned forward in his chair. His short ginger hair looked somehow wrong against the
bright red plush. ‘Madame Rosette,’ he said, ‘it is a great pleasure to meet you. We have heard so
much about you.’ Stuffy looked at the Stag. He was being polite again. Rosette looked at him too,
and her little black eyes were suspicious. ‘Believe me,’ the Stag went on, ‘we’ve really been
looking forward to this for quite a time now.’
His voice was so pleasant and he was so polite that Rosette took it.
‘That’s nice of you boys,’ she said. ‘You’ll always have a good time here. I see to that. Now -
business.’
William couldn’t wait any longer. He said slowly. ‘The Stag says that you’re a great woman.’
‘Thanks, boys.’
Stuffy said, ‘The Stag says that you’re a filthy old Syrian Jewess.’
William said quickly, ‘The Stag says that you’re a lousy old bitch.’
‘And I know what I’m talking about,’ said the Stag.
Rosette jumped to her feet. ‘What’s this?’ she shrieked, and her face was no longer the colour of
mud; it was the colour of red clay. The men did not move. They did not smile or laugh; they sat
quite still, leaning forward a little in their seats, watching her.
Rosette had had trouble before, plenty of it, and she knew how to deal with it. But this was
different. They didn’t seem drunk, it wasn’t about money and it wasn’t about one of her girls. It
was about herself and she didn’t like it.
‘Get out,’ she yelled. ‘Get out unless you want trouble,’ But they did not move.
For a moment she paused, then she stepped quickly from behind her desk and made for the
door. But the Stag was there first and when she went for him, Stuffy and William each caught one
of her arms from behind.
‘We’ll lock her in,’ said the Stag. ‘Let’s get out.’
Then she really started yelling and the words which she used cannot be written down on paper,
for they were terrible words. They poured out of her small fish mouth in one long unbroken high-
pitched stream, and little bits of spit and saliva came out with them. Stuffy and William pulled her
back by the arms towards one of the big chairs and she fought and yelled like a large fat pig being
dragged to the slaughter. They got her in front of the chair and gave her a quick push so that she
fell backwards into it. Stuffy nipped across to her desk, bent down quickly and jerked the
telephone cord from its connection. The Stag had the door open and all three of them were out of
the room before Rosette had time to get up. The Stag had taken the key from the inside of the
door, and now he locked it. The three of them stood outside in the passage.
‘Jesus,’ said the Stag. ‘What a woman!’
‘Mad as hell,’ William said. ‘Listen to her.’
They stood outside in the passage and they listened. They heard her yelling, then she began
banging on the door, but she went on yelling and her voice was not the voice of a woman, it was
the voice of an enraged but articulate bull.
The Stag said, ‘Now quick. The girls. Follow me. And from now on you’ve got to act serious.
You’ve got to act serious as hell.’
He ran down the passage towards the dressing room, followed by Stuffy and William. Outside
the door he stopped, the other two stopped and they could still hear Rosette yelling from her office.
The Stag said, ‘Now don’t say anything. Just act serious as hell,’ and he opened the door and went
in.
There were about a dozen girls in the room. They all looked up. They stopped talking and
looked up at the Stag, who was standing in the doorway. The Stag clicked his heels and said. ‘This
is the Military Police. Les Gendarmes Militaires.’ He said it in a stern voice and with a straight
face and he was standing there in the doorway at attention with his cap on his head. Stuffy and
William stood behind him.
‘This is the Military Police,’ he said again, and he produced his identification card and held it up
between two fingers.
The girls didn’t move or say anything. They stayed still in the middle of what they were doing
and they were like a tableau because they stayed so still. One had been pulling on a stocking and
she stayed like that, sitting on a chair with her leg out straight and the stocking up to her knee with
her hands on the stocking. One had been doing her hair in front of a mirror and when she looked
round she kept her hands up to her hair. One was standing up and had been applying lipstick and
she raised her eyes to the Stag but still held the lipstick to her mouth. Several were just sitting
around on plain wooden chairs, doing nothing, and they raised their heads and turned them to the
door, but they went on sitting. Most of them were in some sort of shiny evening dress, one or two
were half-clothed, but most of them were in shiny green or shiny blue or shiny red or shiny gold,
and when they turned to look at the Stag, they were so still that they were like a tableau.
The Stag paused. Then he said, ‘I am to state on behalf of the authorities that they are sorry to
disturb you. My apologies, mesd’moiselles. But it is necessary that you come with us for purposes
of registration, et cetera. Afterwards you will be allowed to go. It is a mere formality. But now you
must come, please. I have conversed with Madame.’
The Stag stopped speaking, but still the girls did not move.
‘Please,’ said the Stag, ‘get your coats. We are the military.’ He stepped aside and held open the
door. Suddenly the tableau dissolved, the girls got up, puzzled and murmuring, and two or three of
them moved towards the door. The others followed. The ones that were half-clothed quickly
slipped into dresses, patted their hair with their hands and came too. None of them had coats.
‘Count them,’ said the Stag to Stuffy as they filed out of the door. Stuffy counted them aloud
and there were fourteen.
‘Fourteen, sir,’ said Stuffy, who was trying to talk like a sergeant-major.
The Stag said, ‘Correct,’ and he turned to the girls who were crowded in the passage. ‘Now,
mesd’moiselles, I have the list of your names from Madame, so please do not try to run away. And
do not worry. This is merely a formality of the military.’
William was out in the passage opening the door which led to the stairs, and he went out first.
The girls followed and the Stag and Stuffy brought up the rear. The girls were quiet and puzzled
and worried and a little frightened and they didn’t talk, none of them talked except for a tall one
with black hair who said, ‘Mon Dieu, a formality of the military. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what
next.’ But that was all and they went on down. In the hall they met the Egyptian who had a flat
face and two cauliflower ears. For a moment it looked as though there would be trouble. But the
Stag waved his identification card in his face and said. ‘The Military Police,’ and the man was so
surprised that he did nothing and let them pass.
And so they came out into the street and the Stag said, ‘It is necessary to walk a little way, but
only a very little way,’ and they turned right and walked along the sidewalk with the Stag leading,
Stuffy at the rear and William walking out on the road guarding the flank. There was some moon
now. One could see quite well and William tried to keep in step with Stag and Stuffy tried to keep
in step with William, and they swung their arms and held their heads up high and looked very
military, and the whole thing was a sight to behold. Fourteen girls in shiny evening dresses,
fourteen girls in the moonlight in shiny green, shiny blue, shiny red, shiny black and shiny gold,
marching along the street with the Stag in front, William alongside and Stuffy at the rear. It was a
sight to behold.
The girls had started chattering. The Stag could hear them, although he didn’t look around. He
marched on at the head of the column and when they came to the crossroads he turned right. The
others followed and they had walked fifty yards down the block when they came to an Egyptian
café. The Stag saw it and he saw the lights burning behind the blackout curtains. He turned around
and shouted ‘Halt!’ The girls stopped, but they went on chattering and anyone could see that there
was mutiny in the ranks. You can’t make fourteen girls in high heels and shiny evening dresses
march all over town with you at night, not for long anyway, not for long, even if it is a formality
of the military. The Stag knew it and now he was speaking.
‘Mesd’moiselles,’ he said, ‘listen to me.’ But there was mutiny in the ranks and they went on
talking and the tall one with dark hair was saying, ‘Mon Dieu, what is this? What in hell’s name
sort of a thing is this, oh mon Dieu?’
‘Quiet,’ said the Stag. ‘Quiet!’ and the second time he shouted it as a command. The talking
stopped.
‘Mesd’moiselles,’ he said, and now he became polite. He talked to them in his best way and
when the Stag was polite there wasn’t anyone who didn’t take it. It was an extraordinary thing
because he could make a kind of smile with his voice without smiling with his lips. His voice
smiled while his face remained serious. It was a most forcible thing because it gave people the
impression that he was being serious about being nice.
‘Mesd’moiselles,’ he said, and his voice was smiling. ‘With the military there always has to be
formality. It is something unavoidable. It is something that I regret exceedingly. But there can be
chivalry also. And you must know that with the RAF there is great chivalry. So now it will be a
pleasure if you will all come in here and take with us a glass of beer. It is the chivalry of the
military.’ He stepped forward, opened the door of the café and said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, let’s have
a drink. Who wants a drink?’
Suddenly the girls saw it all. They saw the whole thing as it was, all of them at once. It took
them by surprise. For a second they considered. Then they looked at one another, then they looked
at the Stag, then they looked around at Stuffy and at William, and when they looked at those two
they caught their eyes and the laughter that was in them. All at once the girls began to laugh and
William laughed and Stuffy laughed and they moved forward and poured into the café.
The tall one with dark hair took the Stag by the arm and said, ‘Mon Dieu, Military Police, mon
Dieu, oh mon Dieu,’ and she threw her head back and laughed and the Stag laughed with her.
William said, ‘It is the chivalry of the military,’ and they moved into the café.
The place was rather like the one that they had been in before, wooden and sawdusty, and there
were a few coffee-drinking Egyptians sitting around with the red tarbooshes on their heads.
William and Stuffy pushed three round tables together and fetched chairs. The girls sat down. The
Egyptians at the other tables put down their coffee cups, turned around in their chairs and gaped.
They gaped like so many fat muddy fish, and some of them shifted their chairs round facing the
party so that they could get a better view and they went on gaping.
A waiter came up and the Stag said, ‘Seventeen beers. Bring us seventeen beers.’ The waiter
said ‘Pleess’ and went away.
As they sat waiting for the drinks the girls looked at the three pilots and the pilots looked at the
girls. William said, ‘It is the chivalry of the military,’ and the tall dark girl said, ‘Mon Dieu, you
are crazy people, oh mon Dieu.’
The waiter brought the beer. William raised his glass and said, ‘To the chivalry of the military.’
The dark girl said, ‘Oh mon Dieu.’ Stuffy didn’t say anything. He was busy looking around at the
girls, sizing them up, trying to decide now which one he liked best so that he could go to work at
once. The Stag was smiling and the girls were sitting there in their shiny evening dresses, shiny
red, shiny gold, shiny blue, shiny green, shiny black and shiny silver, and once again it was almost
a tableau, certainly it was a picture, and the girls were sitting there sipping their beer, seeming
quite happy, not seeming suspicious any more because to them the whole thing now appeared
exactly as it was and they understood.
‘Jesus,’ said the Stag. He put down his glass and looked around him. ‘Oh Jesus, there’s enough
here for the whole squadron. How I wish the whole squadron was here!’ He took another drink,
stopped in the middle of it and put down his glass quickly. ‘I know what,’ he said. ‘Waiter, oh
waiter.’
‘Pleess.’
‘Get me a big piece of paper and a pencil.’
‘Pleess.’ The waiter went away and came back with a sheet of paper. He took a pencil from
behind his ear and handed it to the Stag. The Stag banged the table for silence.
‘Mesd’moiselles,’ he said, ‘for the last time there is a formality. It is the last of all the
formalities.’
‘Of the military,’ said William.
‘Oh mon Dieu,’ said the dark girl.
‘It is nothing,’ the Stag said. ‘You are required to write your name and your telephone number
on this piece of paper. It is for my friends in the squadron. It is so that they can be as happy as I
am now, but without the same trouble beforehand.’ The Stag’s voice was smiling again. One could
see that the girls liked his voice. ‘You would be very kind if you would do that,’ he went on, ‘for
they too would like to meet you. It would be a pleasure.’
‘Wonderful,’ said William.
‘Crazy,’ said the dark girl, but she wrote her name and number on the paper and passed it on.
The Stag ordered another round of beer. The girls certainly looked funny sitting there in their
dresses, but they were writing their names down on the paper. They looked happy and William
particularly looked happy, but Stuffy looked serious because the problem of choosing was a
weighty one and it was heavy on his mind. They were good-looking girls, young and good-
looking, all different, completely different from each other because they were Greek and Syrian
and French and Italian and light Egyptian and Yugoslav and many other things, but they were
good-looking, all of them were good-looking and handsome.
The piece of paper had come back to the Stag now and they had all written on it; fourteen
strangely written names and fourteen telephone numbers. The Stag looked at it slowly. ‘This will
go on the squadron notice-board,’ he said, ‘and I will be regarded as a great benefactor.’
William said, ‘It should go to headquarters. It should be mimeographed and circulated to all
squadrons. It would be good for morale.’
‘Oh mon Dieu,’ said the dark girl. ‘You are crazy.’
Slowly Stuffy got to his feet, picked up his chair, carried it round to the other side of the table
and pushed it between two of the girls. All he said was ‘Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit here?’ At
last he had made up his mind, and now he turned towards the one on his right and quietly went to
work. She was very pretty; very dark and very pretty and she had plenty of shape. Stuffy began to
talk to her, completely oblivious to the rest of the company, turning towards her and leaning his
head on his hand. Watching him, it was not so difficult to understand why he was the greatest pilot
in the squadron. He was a young concentrator, this Stuffy; an intense athletic concentrator who
moved towards what he wanted in a dead straight line. He took hold of winding roads and
carefully he made them straight, then he moved over them with great speed and nothing stopped
him. He was like that, and now he was talking to the pretty girl but no one could hear what he was
saying.
Meanwhile the Stag was thinking. He was thinking about the next move, and when everyone
was getting towards the end of their third beer, he banged the table again for silence.
‘Mesd’moiselles,’ he said. ‘It will be a pleasure for us to escort you home. I will take five of
you,’ - he had worked it all out - ‘Stuffy will take five, and Jamface will take four. We will take
three gharries and I will take five of you in mine and I will drop you home one at a time.’
William said, ‘It is the chivalry of the military.’
‘Stuffy,’ said the Stag. ‘Stuffy, is that all right? You take five. It’s up to you whom you drop off
last.’
Stuffy looked around. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Oh yes. That suits me.’
‘William, you take four. drop them home one by one; you understand.’
‘Perfectly,’ said William. ‘Oh perfectly.’
They all got up and moved towards the door. The tall one with dark hair took the Stag’s arm
and said, ‘You take me?’
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I take you.’
‘You drop me off last?’
‘Yes. I drop you off last.’
‘Oh mon Dieu,’ she said. That will be fine.’
Outside they got three gharries and they split up into parties. Stuffy was moving quickly. He got
his girls into the carriage quickly, climbed in after them and the Stag saw the gharry drive off
down the street. Then he saw William’s gharry move off, but it seemed to start away with a sudden
jerk, with the horses breaking into a gallop at once. The Stag looked again and he saw William
perched high up on the driver’s seat with the reins in his hands.
The Stag said, ‘Let’s go,’ and his five girls got into their gharry. It was a squash, but everyone
got in. The Stag sat back in his seat and then he felt an arm pushing up and under and linking with
his. It was the tall one with dark hair. He turned and looked at her.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Hello, you.’
‘Ah,’ she whispered. ‘You are such goddam crazy people.’ And the Stag felt a warmness inside
him and he began to hum a little tune as the gharry rattled on through the dark streets.
罗塞塔夫人
罗塞塔夫人
“哦，上帝，这太棒了。”公鹿说。
他仰面躺在浴缸里，一手拿着苏格兰威士忌加苏打水，一手拿着香烟。水一直漫到浴
缸边缘，他用脚趾转动水龙头，保持水温。
他抬起头，喝了一小口威士忌，然后躺下来，闭上了眼睛。
“看在上帝的分上，快出来。”隔壁房间里一个声音说，“快出来，公鹿，你已经泡了一
个多小时了。”老蔫坐在床边，没穿衣服，慢慢地喝着酒，等着轮到他泡澡。
公鹿说：“好吧。我现在把水放掉。”他伸出一条腿，用脚趾把塞子挑起来。
老蔫站起身，手里端着酒，慢慢走进浴室。又在浴缸里躺了一会儿的公鹿这才站起
来，小心地把酒杯放在肥皂架上，伸手去拿毛巾。他五短身材，敦厚结实，双腿粗壮有
力，小腿的肌肉鼓鼓的。一头姜黄色的头发粗糙卷曲着，瘦削的尖脸上长满了雀斑，胸前
有一层淡姜黄色的胸毛。
“上帝，”他低头看着浴缸里说，“我把半个沙漠都带来了。”
老蔫说：“把沙子冲掉，让我进来。我已经五个月没洗澡了。”
这是我们在利比亚与意大利人作战的初期。那时候飞行员不够多，所以飞得很辛苦。
英国当然不能派人出来，因为他们那里正在打不列颠之战。我们只好长时间地待在沙漠
里，过着奇怪的、非正常的沙漠生活，住在一顶肮脏的小帐篷里，每天洗脸、刮胡子用的
都是自己吐出来的一茶缸刷牙水，一刻不停地挑出茶水和食物里的苍蝇；沙尘暴袭来时，
即使在帐篷里，也和帐篷外一样不得平静，哪怕再心平气和的男人也变成火暴脾气，对朋
友和自己都失去了耐心；还有痢疾、中耳炎和沙漠溃疡，以及意军S-79战斗机的轰炸。没
有水，没有女人，没有鲜花从地里长出来，几乎什么也没有，只有沙子，沙子，沙子。对
抗意军的CR42，我们驾驶的是旧款角斗士战斗机，没有飞行任务时，就不知道该做什么。
偶尔我们会捉蝎子，把它们放在空汽油罐里，让它们互相较量，展开你死我活的激烈
搏斗。中队里总会出现一只冠军蝎子，就像拳击手乔•路易斯，百战百胜，所向披靡。这只
蝎子有自己的名字；它会变得远近闻名，它的训练食谱会成为头等机密，只有它的主人知
道。训练食谱据说对蝎子非常重要。有的蝎子训练时吃咸牛肉；有的吃名叫“马乔奈
奇”（Machonachies）的东西，是一种很难吃的炖肉罐头；有的用活甲虫喂养；有的在参赛
前被哄劝着喝一点啤酒，只要能使它兴奋，给它们带去信心。最后这批蝎子总是惨败，但
是也有一些了不起的比赛和了不起的冠军。下午的飞行结束后，经常可以看到一群飞行员
和空军士兵在沙滩上围成一圈，弯着腰、双手撑在膝盖上，观看战斗，给那些蝎子加油支
招，就像在场上给拳击手和摔跤手呐喊鼓劲一样。然后战斗就会迎来获胜者，它的主人会
变得格外兴奋。他会在沙地上蹦蹦跳跳，大喊大叫，挥舞着双臂，大声夸赞那只获胜蝎子
的优点。最厉害的一只蝎子，属于一个叫老盘算的中士，他只给蝎子吃果酱。这只蝎子有
一个难以启齿的名字，但它连续赢了四十二场比赛，最后，就在老盘算考虑让它退役去配
种时，它在训练中静静地死去了。
你可以看得出，在沙漠里生活没有什么大的快乐，所以小快乐变成了大快乐，孩童的
快乐变成了成人的快乐。不论是飞行员、装配工、索具工、做饭的下士，还是管仓库的
人，大家都是这样。对公鹿和老蔫来说也是这样，所以当他们俩弄到一张四十八小时的通
行证，搭飞机到开罗，下榻在酒店里时，他们对洗澡的感觉，就和你在蜜月中第一夜的感
觉一样。
公鹿已经擦干身体，躺在床上，他的腰上缠着一条毛巾，双手枕在脑后。老蔫泡在浴
缸里，脑袋靠在浴缸壁上，喜不自禁地呻吟着，叹息着。
公鹿说：“老蔫。”
“在呢。”
“我们现在做什么呢？”
“女人，”老蔫说，“必须找几个女人，带出去吃晚饭。”
公鹿说：“稍后再说，那个可以稍后再说。”此刻刚刚下午两三点。
“我可不认为这可以等。”老蔫说。
“没事，”公鹿说，“可以等。”
公鹿上了年纪，非常聪明，从不贸然行事。他已经二十七岁了，比中队里的其他人都
大得多，包括队长。因此他的判断力得到大家的普遍尊重。
“我们先去买点东西吧。”他说。
“然后呢？”浴缸里的声音说。
“然后再考虑其他情况。”
一阵沉默。
“公鹿？”
“在呢。”
“你认识这儿的女人吗？”
“以前认识。我曾经认识一个土耳其女孩，叫温卡，皮肤特别白。还认识一个南斯拉夫
女孩，叫琪琪，比我高六英寸 [1] 。还有一个，我猜可能是叙利亚人。我记不起她的名字
了。”
“给她们打电话。”老蔫说。
“我打过了。我在你去拿威士忌的时候打的。她们都不在了。没用了。”
“彻底歇菜。”老蔫说。
公鹿说：“我们先去买东西。有的是时间。”
一个小时后，老蔫从浴缸里出来了。他们都穿上干净的卡其布短裤和衬衫，慢慢走下
楼来，穿过酒店的大堂，来到明晃晃而炎热的大街上。公鹿戴上了墨镜。
老蔫说：“我知道了。我想要一副墨镜。”
“好。我们去买一副。”
他们拦下一辆马车，上车后告诉车夫，去奇丘雷尔（Cicurel）。老蔫买了副墨镜，公
鹿买了几个扑克骰子，然后他们又闲逛到炎热拥挤的街道上。
“你看见那个姑娘了吗？”老蔫说。
“卖给我们墨镜的那个？”
“对。黑皮肤的那个。”
“可能是土耳其人。”公鹿说。
老蔫说：“我不管她是哪儿的人。她真漂亮。你不觉得她很漂亮吗？”
他们手插在口袋里，沿着沙里亚•卡斯尼尔街走着，老蔫戴着刚买的墨镜。这是一个炎
热的下午，尘土飞扬，人行道上挤满了埃及人、阿拉伯人和光脚的小男孩。苍蝇跟着小男
孩，在他们的眼睛周围嗡嗡地飞，觊觎着他们的眼疾，那是因为男孩小时候母亲对他们的
眼睛做了些可怕的手脚，使他们长大后没有资格被征兵入伍。小男孩们啪嗒啪嗒地走在公
鹿和老蔫身旁，用尖利的、不依不饶的声音喊着，“小费，小费”。苍蝇也跟着他们。空气
里有开罗的味道，跟其他城市的味道都不一样。它不是来自某件东西或某个地方，它无处
不在。它来自排水沟和人行道，来自房屋和商店，来自商店里的东西和商店里烹煮的食
物，来自街道上的马和马粪，来自下水道；它来自人，来自阳光照在人身上的方式，来自
阳光照在沟渠、下水道、马、食物，以及街道的垃圾上的方式。它是一种罕见的刺鼻的气
味，就像某种又甜、又咸、又苦、又热、正在腐烂的东西散发出的气息，即使在凉爽的清
晨也不会消失。
两位飞行员在人群里慢慢地走着。
“你不觉得她很棒吗？”老蔫说。他想知道公鹿是怎么想的。
“她不错。”
“当然不错。公鹿，你知道吗？”
“什么？”
“我想今晚带那个姑娘出来。”
他们穿过一条街，又往前走了一点。
公鹿说：“好啊，为什么不呢？你为什么不给罗塞塔打个电话呢？”
“这该死的罗塞塔是谁？”
“罗塞塔夫人。”公鹿说，“她是个了不起的女人。”
他们经过一个叫蒂姆酒吧的地方。是一个叫蒂姆•吉尔菲兰的英国人开的，他在上次战
争中担任军士长，后来军队返回时，他不知怎的留在了开罗。
“蒂姆酒吧。”公鹿说，“我们进去吧。”
里面除了蒂姆，没有别人，蒂姆正在摆放柜台后面架子上的酒瓶。
“好啊，好啊，好啊。”他说着转过身来，“你们这两个小伙子，这段时间去哪儿了？”
“你好，蒂姆。”
蒂姆不记得他们，但从他们的样子知道他们是从沙漠来的。
“我的老朋友格拉齐亚尼好吗？”他说着转过身来，两肘靠在柜台上。
“他离我很近。”公鹿说，“他在梅萨城外。”
“你现在飞什么机型？”
“角斗士。”
“见鬼，他们八年前就飞那玩意儿。”
“现在这里还是那些。”公鹿说，“都老掉牙了。”
他们买了威士忌，端着酒杯来到角落里的一张桌子边。
老蔫说：“那个罗塞塔是谁？”
公鹿喝了一大口酒，放下酒杯。
他说：“她是个了不起的女人。”
“她是谁？”
“她是个肮脏的老婊子。”
“好吧，”老蔫说，“好吧，关于她有什么说法？”
“我跟你这么说吧。”公鹿说，“罗塞塔夫人经营着世界上最大的妓院。据说，在整个开
罗，不管你想要哪个姑娘，她都可以给你找来。”
“胡扯。”
“不，是真的，你只要打个电话给她，说说你是在哪里看到那个姑娘的，她在哪里工
作，哪家商店，哪个柜台，再准确地描述一下长相，剩下的事就交给她好了。”
“别他妈胡扯了。”老蔫说。
“这是真的。千真万确。是三十三中队告诉我的。”
“他们在拿你开玩笑呢。”
“好吧。你去电话簿里查一查她。”
“她不会用这个名字出现在电话簿里。”
“我说有就有。”公鹿说，“在罗塞塔这个名字下面查查她。你就会发现我是对的。”
老蔫不相信他的话，但还是走到蒂姆面前，向他要了一本电话簿，拿回到桌上。他打
开电话簿翻了翻，找到“罗-塞”这一页。他的手指在那一栏往下滑。罗塞皮……罗塞利……
罗塞塔。找到了，罗塞塔夫人，还有清清楚楚印着的地址和号码。公鹿在一旁看着他。
“查到了？”他说。
“查到了，在这里。罗塞塔夫人。”
“那么，干吗不去给她打个电话呢？”
“我该怎么说呢？”
公鹿低头看着自己的酒杯，用手指戳戳冰块。
“告诉她你是一名上校。”他说，“希金斯上校，她不大信任飞行员。告诉她，你在奇丘
雷尔看到一个漂亮的黑皮肤女孩在卖墨镜，你很想，用你的话说，很想把她带出来吃晚
饭。”
“这里没有电话。”
“哦，有的。那边有一台。”
老蔫环顾四周，看见了吧台那头的墙上挂着的电话。
“我连一个硬币也没有。”
“噢，我有。”公鹿说。他把手伸进口袋，掏出一个硬币放在桌上。
“蒂姆会听见我说的话。”
“那有什么关系？没准儿他自己也给她打电话呢。你神经过敏。”他加了一句。
“你混蛋。”老蔫说。
老蔫还是个孩子。他才十九岁，比公鹿整整小了七岁。他个子很高，瘦瘦的，头发乌
黑浓密，一张英俊的脸，嘴巴很大，皮肤被沙漠的阳光晒成了咖啡色。他无疑是中队里最
优秀的飞行员，参战时间不长，但已被证实消灭了十四个意大利人。他在地面上行动缓
慢，像个疲倦的人一样慵懒；他的思路也很迟钝，懒洋洋的如同一个瞌睡的孩子；但是到
了空中，他思维敏捷，动作迅速，反应快得像是条件反射。他在地面上的时候，似乎是在
休息，似乎是在打个小盹儿，养精蓄锐，为两小时的思想高度集中做好准备，以保证进入
驾驶舱后能迅速清醒。老蔫此时不在机场，但他脑子里有一件事几乎像飞行一样使他警
醒。这可能持续不了太久，但至少眼下他全神贯注。
他又在电话簿里寻找号码，然后站起身，慢慢地走向电话机。他塞进硬币，拨了号
码，听到电话那头的铃声在响。公鹿坐在桌旁看着他，蒂姆还在吧台后面整理酒瓶。蒂姆
离老蔫只有五码远，显然会听到他说的每一句话。老蔫觉得自己很愚蠢。他靠在吧台上等
待着，希望没有人接听。
咔哒一声，另一头的话筒被拿了起来，他听到一个女人的声音说，“喂”。
他说：“你好，罗塞塔夫人在吗？”他看着蒂姆。蒂姆继续整理酒瓶，假装没有留意，
但老蔫知道他在听。
“我是罗塞塔夫人。你是谁？”她的声音烦躁而沙哑，似乎此刻不愿意被任何人打扰。
老蔫努力让自己的声音轻松随意。“我是希金斯上校。”
“哪位上校？”
“希金斯上校。”他把名字拼出来。
“好的，上校。你想要什么？”她声音透着不耐烦。显然，这是一个不好惹的女人。老
蔫仍然让语气显得漫不经心。
“嗯，罗塞塔夫人，我有一件小事想请你帮忙。”
老蔫注视着蒂姆。蒂姆果然在听。当一个人假装没听、其实在听时，总是能看得出来
的。他很小心，做事不发出任何声音，假装一门心思专注于他的工作。蒂姆现在就是这
样，他快速地把酒瓶从一个架子挪到另一个架子，眼睛看着酒瓶，不发出一点声音，从不
扭头朝屋里张望。在远处的那个角落里，公鹿正在抽烟，身子向前倾着，两肘支在桌子
上。他看着老蔫，很享受整个过程，知道老蔫因为蒂姆而感到尴尬。老蔫必须把戏演下
去。
“不知道你能不能帮帮我。”他说，“今天我在奇丘雷尔的店里买墨镜时，看到一个姑
娘，我很想把她带出来吃晚饭。”
“她叫什么名字？”那严厉、刺耳的声音显得更强势了。
“我不知道。”他不好意思地说。
“她长得什么样？”
“嗯，她有一头深色的头发，个子很高，而且，嗯，非常漂亮。”
“她穿的是什么衣服？”
“呃，让我想想。好像是一条白裙子，上面印满了红花。”接着，他灵光一闪，补充
道，“她系着一条红腰带。”他记得她系着一条闪闪发亮的红腰带。
一阵沉默。老蔫看着蒂姆，蒂姆摆弄酒瓶没有发出一点声音；他小心地拿起酒瓶，又
小心地放下。
那个沙哑刺耳的声音又说：“这可能会让你花不少钱。”
“没关系。”他突然不再喜欢这谈话了，只想赶紧结束，离开。
“你可能要花六镑 [2] ，也可能要花八镑或十镑。我见过她之后才知道，没问题吧？”
“行，行，没问题。”
“你住在哪儿，上校？”
“大都会酒店。”他不假思索地说。
“好吧，待会儿我给你打电话。”砰的一声，她放下电话。
老蔫挂了电话，慢慢地走回桌边，坐了下来。
“嗯。”公鹿说，“很顺利，是不是？”
“是啊，我想是的。”
“她怎么说？”
“她说会给我往酒店回电话。”
“你是说她会给酒店的希金斯上校打电话。”
老蔫说：“哦，上帝。”
公鹿说：“没关系。我们告诉前台，上校在我们房间，叫他们把他的电话转过来。她还
说了些什么？”
“她说我可能要花很多钱，六镑到十镑。”
“罗塞塔夫人会拿走百分之九十，”公鹿说，“她是个肮脏的老婊子。”
“她是怎么操作的呢？”老蔫说。他是一个性情温和的人，现在隐约感到有些不安，担
心他捅了马蜂窝，这件事可能会变得很复杂。
“是这样的，”公鹿说，“她会派一个皮条客去找那个姑娘，弄清楚她是谁。如果她已经
登记在册，事情就简单了。如果没有，皮条客就会去奇丘雷尔商店的柜台上跟她商量。如
果姑娘对他说‘去死吧’，他就把价格往上提，如果姑娘还是对他说‘去死吧’，他就把价格再
往上提，最后姑娘经不起金钱的诱惑，很可能就会同意。然后罗塞塔夫人会问你要三倍的
价钱，自己拿大头。你得把钱付给她，而不是那个姑娘。当然，在这之后，那姑娘就进了
罗塞塔的登记册，而一旦落进她的魔爪，就算完蛋了。下次由罗塞塔夫人来定价，那姑娘
连争辩的资格都没有。”
“为什么？”
“如果姑娘拒绝，罗塞塔夫人就会说：‘好吧，我的姑娘，我要让你的雇主，也就是奇
丘雷尔的老板，知道你上次都干了些什么，你是怎样为我工作，怎样把他们的店铺当作交
易市场的。然后他们就会炒你的鱿鱼。’罗塞塔夫人准会这么说，那可怜的姑娘准会被吓
坏，不得不乖乖就范。”
老蔫说：“听起来是个好人。”
“谁？”
“罗塞塔夫人。”
“很迷人，”公鹿说，“她是个有魅力的人。”
真热啊。老蔫用手帕擦了擦脸。
“再喝点威士忌。”公鹿说，“嗨，蒂姆，再来两杯。”
蒂姆把杯子端过来放在桌子上，什么也没说。他拿起空杯子，立刻就离开了。在老蔫
看来，蒂姆似乎和他们刚进来时不一样了。他不再那么欢快，而是显得沉默，漫不经心。
他刚才还热情地招呼，“喂，伙计们，这段时间你们去哪儿了？”现在却判若两人，他回到
柜台后面，转过身继续整理酒瓶。
公鹿问：“你身上有多少钱？”
“大概有九镑吧。”
“可能不够。要知道你是让她放开手去干的。你应该设一个限度。她现在准会狠狠宰你
一笔。”
“我知道。”老蔫说。
他们继续喝了会儿酒，没有说话。然后公鹿说：“你在担心什么呢，老蔫？”
“没有，”他回答，“没有担心什么。我们回酒店吧。她可能会打电话来。”
他们付了酒钱，向蒂姆道别。蒂姆点点头，但什么也没说。他们回到大都会酒店，经
过前台时，公鹿对服务员说：“如果有电话找希金斯上校，请转到我们的房间。他在那
里。”那个埃及人说：“好的，先生。”把这事记了下来。
在卧室里，公鹿躺到床上，点了一支烟。“我今晚做什么呢？”他说。
在回酒店的路上，老蔫一直很沉默，一句话也没有说。此刻，他在另一张床的边沿坐
下来，双手仍然插在口袋里，他说：“喂，公鹿，我对与罗塞塔的这桩交易已经没什么兴趣
了。价钱可能太贵。我们能推脱掉吗？”
公鹿坐了起来。“这可不行。”他说，“你没有退路了。你不能那样忽悠罗塞塔夫人。她
这会儿可能正在办这件事呢。你现在不能反悔了。”
“我可能负担不起。”老蔫说。
“没事，走着瞧吧。”
老蔫站了起来，走到降落伞包旁边，拿出那瓶威士忌。他倒了两杯，打开浴室水龙头
把杯子加满，走回来递给公鹿一杯。
“公鹿。”他说，“给罗塞塔夫人打个电话吧，就说希金斯上校必须紧急离开城里，返回
沙漠里的兵团。打个电话告诉她吧。就说是上校请你转达的，因为他自己没有时间。”
“你自己给她打电话好了。”
“她听得出我的声音。拜托了，公鹿，你给她打电话吧。”
“不。”他说，“我不打。”
“听着。”老蔫突然说，说话的是他性格里的那个孩童老蔫，“我不想带那个女人出去
了，我今晚也不想跟罗塞塔夫人做什么交易。我们可以想点别的。”
公鹿迅速抬起头来，然后说：“好吧。我给她打。”
他伸手拿起电话簿，查了她的号码，对着话筒报了出来。老蔫听到他跟对方接通电
话，听到他把上校的口信告诉了她。停了一会儿，公鹿说：“对不起，罗塞塔夫人，但这事
跟我没关系。我只是在传达一个口信。”又停了一会儿，公鹿又说了一遍同样的话，说了很
长时间，后来他一定是厌倦了，只见他终于放下话筒，躺回到床上。他放声大笑。
“这讨厌的老婊子。”他说，又笑了起来。
老蔫说：“她生气了吗？”
“生气。”公鹿说，“她生气了吗？你真应该听听她怎么说。她想知道这位上校是哪个团
的，天知道还有什么，并强调他必须付钱。她说，你们这些家伙自以为可以糊弄我，做梦
去吧。”
“妈呀。”老蔫说，“这个可恶的老婊子。”
“那我们现在做什么呢？”公鹿说，“已经六点钟了。”
“我们出去，到那些埃及兵的地方去喝点酒。”
“好啊。我们去逛逛埃及兵的酒吧。”
他们又喝了一杯，然后就出去了。他们先去了一家叫精英的酒吧，又去了一家叫斯芬
克斯的酒吧，然后去了一家有个埃及名字的小酒吧，到了十点钟的时候，他们开开心心地
坐在一个没有名字的地方，喝啤酒，看一种舞台表演。在斯芬克斯，他们偶遇了三十三中
队的一名飞行员，他说他的名字叫威廉。他的年龄跟老蔫差不多，但他的脸显得比较年
轻，因为他飞行的时间没有那么长。尤其他的嘴巴周围显得更年轻。他长着一张小学生的
团团脸，小鼻子向上翘着，皮肤在沙漠里被晒成了棕色。
他们三个快活地坐在那个没有名字的地方喝啤酒，因为那里只供应啤酒。这是一间长
长的木头房间，地上是粗糙的木屑地板，桌椅也是木头的。房间的另一头有一个木头舞
台，上面正在进行一场表演。房间里挤满了埃及人，他们坐在那里喝黑咖啡，头上戴着红
色的塔布什帽。舞台上有两个胖姑娘，穿着银闪闪的裤子，戴着银色胸罩。一个跟着音乐
的节拍扭屁股。另一个跟着音乐的节拍摇乳房。那个摇乳房的更有技巧。她可以只摇一
边，不摇另一边，有时还同时扭屁股。那些埃及人被迷住了，不停地给她鼓掌喝彩。他们
鼓掌越热烈，她摇得越起劲；她摇得越起劲，音乐节拍越快；音乐节拍越快，她摇得也越
快。越来越快，越来越快，节奏始终不乱，脸上始终带着固定的、僵硬的笑容。随着速度
的加快，埃及人的鼓掌越来越热烈，声音越来越响。每个人都很开心。
演出结束后，威廉说：“他们为什么总是请这些乏味的胖女人？为什么不找一些美
女？”
公鹿说：“埃及兵喜欢胖女人。他们就喜欢这样的女人。”
“不可能。”老蔫说。
“这是真的。”公鹿说，“说来话长了。很久以前，这里经常闹饥荒，所有的穷人都很
瘦，而所有的富人和贵族都吃得很好，养得胖胖的。如果你碰到一个胖子，那准错不了，
她肯定是上流社会的。”
“胡扯。”老蔫说。
威廉说：“好吧，我们很快就能弄清楚。我要去问问那些埃及兵。”他用拇指指了指旁
边桌上的两个中年埃及人，他们离他只有四英尺远。
“不要。”公鹿说，“不要，威廉。我们不希望他们坐过来。”
“问问吧。”老蔫说。
“是啊。”威廉说，“我们得弄清楚埃及兵为什么喜欢胖女人。”
他没有喝醉。他们都没有喝醉，但是喝了大量的啤酒和威士忌都感到很快活，威廉是
最快活的。他那小学生般的棕色脸上洋溢着喜悦的光彩，那个翘鼻子似乎翘得更厉害了一
点，他大概是好几个星期以来第一次放松心情。他站起身，走了三步，来到埃及人的桌
边，微笑着站在他们面前。
“先生们，”他说，“如果你们能坐到我们的桌边，我和我的朋友们将不胜荣幸。”
两个埃及人皮肤黝黑油腻，脸蛋胖嘟嘟的。他们戴着红帽子，其中一个还镶着一颗金
牙。起初，当威廉跟他们说话时，他们显得有点惊慌。接着他们明白过来，互相看看，微
笑着点了点头。
“客气了。”一个说。
“客气了。”另一个说。他们站起来，和威廉握了握手，跟着他走到公鹿和老蔫坐着的
地方。
威廉说：“认识一下我的朋友们。这是公鹿。这是老蔫。我是威廉。”
公鹿和老蔫站了起来，大家握了握手，埃及人又说了一遍“客气了”，然后每个人都坐
下。
公鹿知道他们的宗教是禁止喝酒的。“喝杯咖啡吧。”他说。
镶金牙的那个咧开嘴笑了，举起双手，掌心向上，肩膀微微耸了耸。“对我来说，”他
说，“已经习惯了。至于我的朋友，”他朝另一位摊了摊双手，“至于我的朋友——无可奉
告。”
公鹿看着那位朋友。“咖啡？”他问。
“客气。”他回答说，“我习惯了。”
“好的。”公鹿说，“两杯咖啡。”
他叫来一个侍者。“两杯咖啡。”他说，“还有，等一等。老蔫，威廉，再来点啤酒
吗？”
“对我来说，”老蔫说，“已经习惯了。至于我的朋友，”他转向威廉，“至于我的朋友
——无可奉告。”
威廉说：“客气。我习惯了。”他们谁也没有笑。
公鹿说：“好。服务员，两杯咖啡，三杯啤酒。”侍者拿来账单，公鹿付了钱。公鹿对
着埃及人举起酒杯，说道：“干杯！”
“干杯。”老蔫说。
“干杯。”威廉说。
埃及人似乎能听懂，他们举起了咖啡杯。“客气。”一个说。“谢谢。”另一个说。他们
喝了咖啡。
公鹿放下酒杯说：“来到你们国家我感到很荣幸。”
“你喜欢？”
“是的。”公鹿说，“非常好。”
音乐又开始了，两个穿银色紧身衣的胖女人在返场表演。返场表演真是精彩绝伦，展
示了前所未见的最高超的肌肉控制能力，那个扭屁股的还在只管扭屁股，但那个摇乳房的
却像一棵橡树站在舞台中央，双手举过头顶。她的左乳房顺时针旋转，右乳房逆时针旋
转。与此同时，她还在扭屁股，完全和着音乐的节拍。音乐逐渐加快速度，随着音乐节奏
加快，转乳房和扭屁股也越来越快，一些埃及人对那个女人反向旋转的两个乳房完全着了
迷，不知不觉地用双手跟着它们一起运动，他们把双手举在面前，在空中画着圆圈。每个
人都高兴得跺脚、尖叫，舞台上的两个女人继续展露着她们固定的、僵硬的笑容。
演出结束了。掌声渐渐平息下来。
“真精彩。”公鹿说。
“你喜欢？”
“当然，太了不起了。”
“那些姑娘，”镶金牙的那个说，“非常特别。”
威廉等不及了。他从桌子那头探过来说道：“我可以问你们一个问题吗？”
“客气，”金牙说，“客气。”
“是这样的，”威廉说，“你们喜欢女人什么样？喜欢这样的——苗条的？”他用双手比
画着，“还是这样的——胖胖的？”
那颗金牙在灿烂的笑容后面闪闪发光。“对我来说，我喜欢这样的，胖胖的。”一双胖
手在空中画了一个大圆圈。
“你的朋友呢？”威廉说。
“至于我的朋友，”他回答，“无可奉告。”
“客气。”那位朋友说。“我喜欢这样的。”他咧嘴一笑，双手在空中比画出一个胖女
孩。
老蔫说：“你们为什么喜欢胖的？”
金牙想了想，说道：“你们喜欢苗条的，嗯？”
“不好意思，”老蔫说，“我喜欢苗条的。”
“你为什么喜欢苗条的？你告诉我。”
老蔫用手掌擦了擦脖子后面。“威廉，”他说，“我们为什么喜欢苗条的？”
“对我来说，”威廉说，“我习惯了。”
“我也是。”老蔫说，“但是为什么呢？”
威廉想了想。“不知道。”他说，“我不知道我们为什么喜欢苗条的。”
“哈哈，”金牙说，“你不知道。”他从桌上朝威廉探过身，得意地说，“那么我也不知
道。”
但威廉还是不满意。“这位公鹿说，”他说，“以前埃及所有的富人都很胖，所有的穷人
都很瘦。”
“不，”金牙说，“不，不，不。看看那边的那些姑娘非常胖，非常穷。再看看埃及女
王，法里达女王非常瘦，非常富。完全错了。”
“不错，但是多年以前呢？”威廉说。
“什么，多年以前？”
威廉说：“哦，好吧。不说这事了。”
埃及人喝着咖啡，发出的声音就像浴缸里最后一点水流尽时的声音一样。他们喝完
后，起身离开。
“这就走了？”公鹿说。
“客气了。”金牙说。
威廉说：“谢谢你们。”老蔫说：“客气了。”另一个埃及人说：“客气了。”公鹿说：“谢
谢。”众人纷纷握手，然后埃及人就走了。
威廉说：“土老帽。”
“是啊，”老蔫说，“真是土老帽。”
他们三个坐在那里开心地喝酒，一直喝到半夜，这时侍者走过来，对他们说酒吧要打
烊了，不再有酒供应。
他们因为喝得很慢，还没有完全喝醉，但都感觉血脉偾张。
“他说我们得走了。”
“好吧。我们去哪儿呢？公鹿，我们去哪儿呢？”
“不知道。你们想去哪儿？”
“我们再去一个这样的地方吧。”威廉说，“这地方真不赖。”
一阵沉默。老蔫用手摸摸自己的脖子后面。“公鹿，”他慢慢地说，“我知道我要去哪
儿。我要去找罗塞塔夫人，我要去把那儿所有的姑娘都救出来。”
“罗塞塔夫人是谁？”威廉说。
“她是个了不起的女人。”公鹿说。
“她是个肮脏的老婊子。”老蔫说。
“她是个可恶的老婊子。”公鹿说。
“好吧。”威廉说，“我们走。但她到底是谁呢？”
他们对他说了她是谁。他们把打电话和希金斯上校的事告诉了威廉，威廉说：“快，我
们走。我们去把所有的姑娘都救出来。”
他们起身离开。来到外面，他们才想起这是城里一个相当偏远的地区。
“我们得走一段路了。”公鹿说，“这里没有马车。”
这是一个黑沉沉的星夜，没有月亮。街道狭窄而昏暗。空气里有一股浓郁的开罗味
道。他们走着，四周静悄悄的，偶尔会遇到一个或两个男人站在房子的阴影里，靠在墙上
抽烟。
“我说，”威廉说，“真是土老帽，是吧？”
“是啊，”老蔫说，“特别不上路子。”
他们往前走，三个人并排：矮小敦实、姜黄色头发的公鹿，高大、黝黑的老蔫，年轻
的高个子威廉，他的帽子掉了，光着脑袋。他们大模大样地向市中心走去，知道在那儿能
找到一辆马车，载他们去找罗塞塔。
老蔫说：“哦，我们把那些姑娘救出来时，她们会不会很高兴？”
“上帝。”公鹿说，“应该搞一场大派对。”
“她真的把她们关起来了？”威廉说。
“没有。”公鹿说，“不完全是。但如果我们现在把她们救出来，她们今晚就不用工作
了。要知道，她那里的姑娘都是些普通的女店员，白天还在店里上班。她们都犯过这样那
样的错误，那些错误要么是罗塞塔策划的，要么就是被她发现的，现在她就要挟姑娘们，
强迫她们晚上过来。但是她们恨她，而且并不依赖她生活。如果有机会，她们恨不得踢碎
她的牙齿才好。”
老蔫说：“我们就要给她们这个机会。”
他们过了马路。威廉说：“那里会有多少个姑娘，公鹿？”
“不知道。我猜大概有三十个。”
“仁慈的上帝。”威廉说，“真是一场大派对呢。她真的虐待她们吗？”
公鹿说：“三十三中队的人告诉我，她什么也不给她们，一晚上也就给她们二十个大子
儿。她向每个顾客要一二百呢。每个女孩每天晚上能给罗塞塔挣五百到一千。”
“仁慈的上帝。”威廉说，“每个一千皮阿斯特，三十个姑娘。她准是腰缠万贯了。”
“没错。有人计算过，不算她外头的生意，她每星期的收入相当于一千五百镑。一个月
就是，让我算算，大约五六千镑。每年六万镑。”
老蔫从梦中醒来。“上帝，”他说，“耶稣基督。这个肮脏的老婊子。”
“这个可恶的老婊子。”威廉说。
他们来到城里一个比较繁华的地方，但仍然没有马车。
公鹿说：“你们听说过玛丽之家的事吗？”
“玛丽之家是什么？”威廉说。
“是亚历山大城的一个地方。玛丽就是亚历山大城的罗塞塔。”
“可恶的老婊子。”威廉说。
“不。”公鹿说，“据说她是个好女人。但不管怎么说，玛丽之家上星期被一颗炸弹击中
了。当时海军就在港口，那里面到处都是水手和海员。”
“死了？”
“死了很多人。你们知道发生了什么事吗？他们宣传说这些人是阵亡的。”
“海军上将是一位绅士。”老蔫说。
“很了不起。”威廉说。
这时，他们看见了一辆马车，赶紧拦下。
老蔫说：“我们不知道地址。”
“他准知道。”公鹿说。“罗塞塔夫人。”他对车夫说。
车夫咧嘴一笑，点了点头。然后威廉说：“我来驾车。把缰绳给我，车夫，你坐在我边
上，告诉我怎么走。”
车夫拼命反对，可是在威廉给了他十个硬币后，他交出了缰绳。威廉高高地坐在驾驶
座上，车夫坐在他旁边。公鹿和老蔫爬上了马车的后座。
“开路。”老蔫说。威廉出发了。马嘚嘚跑了起来。
“不好。”车夫尖叫道，“不好。停下。”
“罗塞塔往哪边走？”威廉喊道。
“停下。”车夫尖叫。
威廉很高兴。“罗塞塔。”他喊道，“往哪边走？”
车夫做出了决定。他认为，只有一个办法能阻止这个疯子，那就是把他送到他的目的
地。“这边走。”他尖叫道，“往左。”威廉用力拉扯左缰绳，马拐过了街角。马车拐弯时只
有一个轮子着地。
“倾斜得太厉害了。”老蔫在后座上喊道。
“现在往哪儿走？”威廉喊道。
“往左。”车夫尖叫。他们拐进左边的一条街，又拐进右边的一条街，又往左拐了两
次，往右拐了一次，突然车夫喊道：“到了，罗塞塔就在这里。停车。”
威廉用力地拉缰绳，马被拽得一点点昂起头来，放慢了速度。
“在哪儿？”威廉说。
“这儿。”车夫说，“请看。”他指着前面二十码外的一座房子。威廉把马停在它的正前
方。
“干得漂亮，威廉。”老蔫说。
“上帝。”公鹿说，“速度真快。”
“真神奇。”威廉说，“是不是？”他很得意。
车夫的衬衫被汗湿透了，他吓得要命，顾不上生气。
威廉说：“多少钱？”
“客气了，二十皮阿斯特。”
威廉给了他四十，说道：“非常感谢。真是好马。”小个子男人接过钱，跳上马车，赶
着车跑了。他巴不得赶紧离开。
他们又是在一条狭窄、昏暗的街道上，但是看到的房屋都显得非常高大、气派。车夫
说的罗塞塔所在的那座房子宽大厚实，三层楼高，灰色混凝土结构，高大厚重的前门敞开
着。他们走进去时，公鹿说：“现在都交给我吧。我有一个计划。”
里面是一间灰蒙蒙的、阴冷的石头大厅，只有天花板上亮着一盏光秃秃的电灯泡，大
厅里站着一个男人。他人高马大，是个魁梧的埃及人，长着一张扁平的脸和两只被打得变
了形的耳朵。当年摔跤的时候，他可能被吹嘘成“杀手阿卜杜勒”或“有毒的帕夏”，但现在
他穿着一件脏兮兮的白色棉质西装。
公鹿说：“晚上好。罗塞塔夫人在吗？”
阿卜杜勒盯着三位飞行员，迟疑了一下，说道：“罗塞塔夫人在顶楼。”
“谢谢。”公鹿说，“非常感谢。”老蔫注意到公鹿很讲礼貌。每当他讲礼貌的时候，总
是有人会倒霉。在中队里，他领航飞行，当发现敌情，即将开始战斗时，公鹿下命令总是
会说“请”，收到情报也总会说一声“谢谢”。他现在对阿卜杜勒说了“谢谢”。
他们走上带铁栏杆的光秃秃的石头台阶。第一层和第二层楼梯平台都像山洞一样光秃
秃的。第三层楼梯的顶上没有平台，这里用墙做了隔断，楼梯通向一扇门。公鹿按了门
铃。他们等了一会儿，门上的一块小木板滑开，一双黑色的小眼睛从里面望出来。一个女
人的声音说：“你们这些小伙子想要什么？”公鹿和老蔫都听出这就是电话里的那个声音。
公鹿说：“我们想看看罗塞塔夫人。”他用法国人的语气称呼夫人，因为他此刻很讲礼貌。
“你们是军官吗？这里只接待军官。”那声音说。她的嗓音像一块碎木板。
“是的。”公鹿说，“我们是军官。”
“你们看上去不像军官。是什么军官？”
“空军。”
一阵沉默。公鹿知道她心里在盘算。她可能以前和飞行员有过麻烦，他只希望她不要
看到威廉，看到威廉眼里闪烁的亮光，因为威廉的感觉还和刚才赶马车的时候一样。突
然，木板关闭，房门打开了。
“好的，进来吧。”她说。这女人太贪心了，顾不上谨慎挑选客户。
他们走进去，看到了她。她又矮又胖，油腻腻的，一缕缕乱糟糟的黑发散落在前额
上；一张土黄色的大脸，阔大的鼻子，鱼一般的小嘴，嘴上面隐约可见一点黑色的胡子。
她穿着一件宽松的黑色缎子裙。
“到办公室来吧，孩子们。”她说着，摇摇摆摆地走向左边的走廊。这条走廊又长又
宽，大约五十码长，四五码宽。它穿过房子中央，与街道平行。你从楼梯进来时，必须顺
着走廊向左拐。走廊两边都是门，每边大约有八到十扇门。如果你从楼梯进来时向右拐，
就来到了走廊尽头，那里也有一扇门。他们三个走进去时，听到那扇门后传来女人叽叽喳
喳的说话声。公鹿注意到这是姑娘们的化妆室。
“这边走，孩子们。”罗塞塔说。她向左一拐，慢悠悠地在走廊里往前走，离开了那扇
传出人声的门。他们三个跟在她身后走着，先是公鹿，再是老蔫，最后是威廉，走廊的地
板上铺着红地毯，天花板上挂着巨大的粉红色灯罩。到了走廊一半的地方，身后的化妆室
里传来一声喊叫。罗塞塔停下脚步，转过头去。
“你们继续往前走，孩子们，”她说，“进办公室，在左边最后一个门。我马上就
来。”她转身向化妆室门口走去。他们没有往前走，站在那里注视着她，她刚走到门口，门
就开了，一个姑娘冲了出来。从他们站的地方可以看到她金黄色的头发披散在脸上，身上
穿着一件邋里邋遢的绿色晚礼服。她看见罗塞塔站在她面前，便停了下来。他们听见罗塞
塔说了几句话，语气恼怒，语速很快，姑娘反过来冲她嚷嚷。他们看见罗塞塔举起右臂，
他们看见她用手掌打了那姑娘的脸。他们看见她缩回手，又在同一个地方掴了一掌。她打
得很重。姑娘用双手挡住脸，哭了起来。罗塞塔打开了化妆室的门，把姑娘推了进去。
“上帝，”公鹿说，“她可真凶。”威廉说：“我也不好惹。”老蔫没有说话。
罗塞塔回到他们身边，说道：“走吧，孩子们。只是一点小麻烦，没什么大不了。”她
领着他们来到走廊尽头，走进左边的最后一扇门。这就是办公室。一个中等大小的房间，
有两张红色长毛绒沙发，两三把红色长毛绒扶手椅，地板上铺着厚厚的红地毯。一个角落
里有一张小写字台，罗塞塔在写字台后面坐下，面朝整个房间。
“坐下吧，孩子们。”她说。
公鹿坐进一把扶手椅，老蔫和威廉坐在沙发上。
“好了。”她说，声音变得尖锐而急迫，“言归正传吧。”
公鹿在椅子里向前倾着身子。他的姜黄色短发和鲜红色长毛绒衬在一起似乎很不协
调。“罗塞塔夫人，”他说，“见到你很高兴。我们久仰大名。”老蔫看着公鹿。公鹿又开始
讲礼貌了。罗塞塔也看着他，黑色的小眼睛里满是狐疑。“相信我，”公鹿继续说，“我们期
待这次会面真的已经很久了。”
他的声音那么中听，那么有礼貌，罗塞塔听进去了。
“孩子们，你们真不错。”她说，“你们在这儿准会玩得很开心。我保证。好了——谈生
意吧。”
威廉等不及了。他慢悠悠地说：“公鹿说你是个了不起的女人。”
“谢谢你们，孩子。”
老蔫说：“公鹿说你是个肮脏的老婊子。”
威廉马上接道：“公鹿说你是个可恶的老婊子。”
“而且我不是凭空胡说。”公鹿说。
罗塞塔跳了起来。“怎么回事？”她尖叫起来，脸也不再是土黄色，而变成了红土的颜
色。几个男人没有动。他们既不微笑也不大笑，只是静静地坐着，身子微微前倾，注视着
她。
罗塞塔以前也遇到过麻烦，一大堆麻烦，她知道怎么对付。但这次不一样。他们看上
去并没有喝醉，不是为了钱，也不是为了她的某个姑娘。他们说的是她自己，她很恼火。
“出去。”她喊道，“快滚出去，除非你们想惹麻烦。”但他们没有动。
她停了一会儿，迅速地从桌子后面出来，向门口走去。但公鹿抢先了一步，当她走向
公鹿时，老蔫和威廉从后面各抓住她的一只胳膊。
“把她锁在屋里。”公鹿说，“我们出去吧。”
她真的开始大喊大叫了，她说的那些话不宜写在纸上，因为实在不堪入目。它们滔滔
不绝地从她的小鱼嘴里冒出来，形成一条长长的、不间断的、高亢刺耳的水流，还带出来
一些口水和唾液。老蔫和威廉拉着她的胳膊，把她拽向一把大椅子，她像一头被拖到屠宰
场的肥猪一样拼命挣扎，大声叫嚷。他们把她拉到椅子前面，猛地一推，她猝不及防地向
后倒进了椅子里。老蔫快步走到她的办公桌前，迅速弯下身子，拔断了电话线。公鹿刚才
没有关门，罗塞塔还没来得及起身，他们三个就走了出去。公鹿已经从门里边拿了钥匙，
此刻锁上了门。三个人站在外面的走廊里。
“上帝。”公鹿说，“多可怕的女人！”
“完全疯了。”威廉说，“听听她的声音。”
他们站在外面的走廊里听着。他们听到了她的叫喊，然后她开始使劲砸门，嘴里还在
继续喊叫，声音不像是一个女人，而像是一头狂怒但伶牙俐齿的公牛。
公鹿说：“现在快点。去救那些姑娘。跟我来。从现在起，你们要严肃起来。必须表现
得非常严肃。”
他顺着走廊跑向化妆室，后面跟着老蔫和威廉。他在门外停住脚步，另外两个也站住
了，还能听见罗塞塔在办公室里叫喊。公鹿说：“现在什么也别说。”他打开门，走了进
去。
房间里有十几个姑娘。她们都抬起头来。她们停止了交谈，抬眼看着站在门口的公
鹿。公鹿把两个脚跟一碰，说道：“我们是宪兵队的。宪兵队。”他板着脸，严肃地说。他
立正站在门口，头上戴着帽子。老蔫和威廉站在他身后。
“我们是宪兵队的。”他又说了一遍，然后掏出身份证件，用两个手指夹着举起来。
那些姑娘既不动也不说话。她们定格在刚才的动作中，完全一动不动，就像一幕舞台
造型。一个正在拉一只长袜，她就那样坐在椅子上，一条腿伸直，双手拉着长袜，长袜已
拉到了膝盖上。一个正对着镜子做头发，她扭过头来时，双手仍然举在头发上。一个站在
那里涂口红，她抬起眼睛看着公鹿，口红仍然贴在嘴边。还有几个姑娘只是坐在普通的木
头椅子上，什么也没做，她们抬起头，朝门口望去，但还是继续坐着。她们大多穿着某种
亮晶晶的晚礼服，有一两个还是半裸，但多半都穿着绿闪闪、蓝闪闪、红闪闪或金闪闪的
衣服，扭头看着公鹿时，她们是完全静止的，酷似一幕舞台造型。
公鹿顿了顿。然后他说：“我代表当局声明，很抱歉打扰了你们。小姐们，我致以歉
意。但你们务必跟我们走一趟，做一些登记什么的。完事后你们就可以走了。纯粹是一种
形式。但拜托你们必须去一趟。我和夫人已经谈过了。”
公鹿停住了话头，姑娘们仍然不动。
“请拿上你们的外套。”公鹿说，“我们是军方的。”他走到一旁，把门打开。突然，舞
台造型消失了，姑娘们站了起来，迷惑不解，喃喃自语，有两三个朝门口走去。其他人跟
在后面。那几个半裸的迅速穿上衣服，用手拍了拍头发，也走了过来。她们都没有穿外
套。
“数一数。”她们鱼贯走出房门时，公鹿对老蔫说。老蔫大声数了数，一共十四个人。
“十四个，长官。”老蔫说，模仿军士长的口吻。
公鹿说：“没错。”他转向拥挤在走廊里的那些姑娘。“小姐们，听我说，我从夫人那里
拿到了你们的名单，所以请不要试图逃跑。不用担心。这只是军方例行公事。”
威廉从走廊里出来，打开通向楼梯的门，他第一个走了出去。姑娘们跟着他走，公鹿
和老蔫殿后。姑娘们沉默不语，满心的困惑不安，还有点儿害怕。她们没有说话，只有一
个黑头发的高个子说道：“我的上帝，军方例行公事。我的上帝，我的上帝，接下来
呢？”但仅此而已，他们继续往下走。到了大厅里，遇到了那个扁脸、耳朵被打得变了形的
埃及人。一时间，似乎要有麻烦了。但公鹿把身份证件在他脸前挥了挥，说道：“宪兵队
的。”那人惊讶极了，什么也没做，就让他们过去了。
他们来到了外面的街上。公鹿说：“需要走一段路，只走很短的一段路。”他们往右一
拐，顺着人行道往前走，公鹿领头，老蔫殿后，威廉走在马路上保护着侧面。现在有了一
些月光。人们可以看得很清楚，威廉和公鹿保持步调一致，老蔫和威廉保持步调一致，他
们挥舞着胳膊，高昂着头，看上去很有军人的派头，那场面很是壮观。十四个姑娘穿着闪
亮的晚礼服，在月光下，十四个姑娘穿着绿闪闪、蓝闪闪、红闪闪、黑闪闪和金闪闪的衣
服，在街道上走着，公鹿在前面，威廉在旁边，老蔫在最后。那场面真的很壮观。
姑娘们开始叽叽喳喳。公鹿能听到她们的声音，但没有扭头去看。他走在队伍的最前
面，走到十字路口时向右拐。其他人跟在后面，沿着街区走了五十码，来到一家埃及咖啡
馆。公鹿看到了咖啡馆，也看到了遮光窗帘后面的灯光。他转身喊道：“立定！”姑娘们停
住了脚步，但继续叽叽喳喳说个不停，现在谁都看得出来，队伍里发生了骚乱。你不可能
让十四个穿着高跟鞋和闪光晚礼服的姑娘大半夜陪着你在城里游行，至少不能走太远，不
能走太远，哪怕是军方例行公事也不行。公鹿知道这一点，于是他说话了。
“诸位小姐，”他说，“听我说。”但是队伍里发生了骚乱，姑娘们继续叽叽喳喳，那个
高个子、黑头发的说：“我的上帝，这是怎么回事？这到底是怎么回事，哦，我的上帝？”
“安静。”公鹿说，“安静！”第二遍他是喊出来的，是一声命令。叽叽喳喳的声音停止
了。
“诸位小姐。”他说，这时他变得有礼貌了。他用他最文明的方式跟她们谈话，当公鹿
彬彬有礼时，没有人不被他折服。这是一件很了不起的事，他可以让声音里含着某种微
笑，但嘴唇并不笑。他的声音是微笑的，脸上却保持严肃。这就很有威力了，给人的印象
是他真心要做一件好事。
“诸位小姐。”他说，声音里含着微笑，“军队里总是需要例行公事。这是不可避免的。
这也是我感到十分遗憾的一件事。但同时也存在着骑士精神。你们必须知道，皇家空军有
着伟大的骑士精神。所以，如果你们都进来，和我们一起喝杯啤酒，我们将深感荣幸。这
就是军人的骑士精神。”他走上前，打开咖啡馆的门，说道：“哦，看在上帝的分上，我们
喝一杯吧。有谁想喝？”
突然，姑娘们一切都明白了。她们一下子看清了整个事情的真面目。这让她们大吃一
惊。她们考虑了一会儿。她们互相看了看，然后看了看公鹿，又扭头看了看老蔫和威廉，
当她们看着那两个人时，捕捉到了他们的目光，看到了那目光里的笑意。姑娘们顿时笑了
起来，威廉也笑了，老蔫也笑了，他们一起走上前，涌进了咖啡馆。
高个子、黑头发的姑娘抓住公鹿的胳膊说：“我的上帝，宪兵，我的上帝，哦，我的上
帝。”她把头往后一仰，哈哈大笑，公鹿也跟着笑了起来。威廉说：“这就是军人的骑士精
神。”他们走进了咖啡馆。
这地方和他们之前去过的地方很像，木头桌椅，锯木屑，有几个喝咖啡的埃及人坐在
那里，头上戴着红色的塔布什帽。威廉和老蔫把三张圆桌推到一起，搬来几把椅子。姑娘
们坐了下来。其他桌子上的埃及人放下手里的咖啡杯，在椅子里转过身来，目瞪口呆。他
们像许多泥潭里的胖头鱼一样瞠目结舌，有些人为了看得更清楚些，特意把椅子转过来，
对着那一伙人，继续目瞪口呆地看。
一个侍者走上前来，公鹿说：“十七杯啤酒。给我们上十七杯啤酒。”侍者说了声“好
的”，就走开了。
坐着等啤酒时，姑娘们看着三位飞行员，飞行员看着姑娘们。威廉说：“这就是军人的
骑士精神。”那个高个子、黑头发的姑娘说：“我的上帝，你们都是疯子。哦，我的上帝。”
侍者端来了啤酒。威廉举起酒杯说：“敬军人的骑士精神。”黑头发姑娘说：“哦，我的
上帝。”老蔫什么也没说。他忙着四下打量那些姑娘，仔细评估她们，想确定自己最喜欢哪
一位，以便马上开始行动。公鹿面带微笑，姑娘们坐在那里，穿着亮晶晶的晚礼服，红闪
闪，金闪闪，蓝闪闪，绿闪闪，黑闪闪，银闪闪，这又像是一幕舞台造型，至少是一幅图
画。姑娘们坐在那里喝啤酒，似乎很开心，看上去不再有疑虑，因为她们现在看到了整个
事情的真面目，而且看懂了。
“上帝。”公鹿说。他放下杯子，环顾四周。“哦，上帝，这里能坐得下整个中队的人。
我多么希望整个中队都在这里！”他又喝了一口，喝到一半停下来，迅速放下杯子。“我知
道了。”他说，“服务员，哦，服务员。”
“在。”
“给我一张大纸和一支铅笔。”
“好的。”侍者走开了，旋即拿着一张纸回来。他从耳朵后面拿出一支铅笔递给公鹿。
公鹿敲敲桌子，让大家安静。
“诸位小姐，”他说，“还有最后一个手续。这是例行公事的最后一项。”
“军方例行公事。”威廉说。
“哦，我的上帝。”黑头发姑娘说。
“其实也没什么。”公鹿说，“你们必须把自己的名字和电话号码写在这张纸上。这是给
我中队里的朋友们的。这样一来，他们就可以像我现在这样快乐，而不必事先费那么多事
了。”公鹿的声音里又含着笑容了。可以看出，姑娘们喜欢听他的声音。“如果你们愿意，
那就太好了，”他接着说，“因为他们也想认识认识你们。这是一种荣幸。”
“太棒了。”威廉说。
“疯了。”黑头发姑娘说，但她在纸上写了自己的名字和号码，然后把纸传了下去。公
鹿又要了一轮啤酒。姑娘们穿着裙子坐在那里确实显得很滑稽，都在纸上写了自己的名
字。她们看上去很高兴，威廉更是显得特别高兴，但是老蔫一脸严肃，因为选择是一个非
常棘手的难题，沉甸甸地压在他的心头。她们都是美丽的姑娘，年轻漂亮，各有各的美，
每一个都完全不一样，有希腊人、叙利亚人、法国人、意大利人、浅肤色埃及人、南斯拉
夫人，还有许多其他地方的人，但都很漂亮，她们都很漂亮、标致。
那张纸又回到了公鹿手上，她们在上面写了字。十四个笔迹奇怪的名字和十四个电话
号码。公鹿慢慢地打量着它。“这会贴在中队的布告栏上，”他说，“我会被看作一个大恩
人。”
威廉说：“应该送到总部去。应该油印出来，发给所有的中队。这对鼓舞士气有好
处。”
“哦，我的上帝。”黑头发姑娘说，“你们疯了。”
老蔫慢慢地站了起来，拿起自己的椅子搬到桌子的另一边，挤在两个姑娘中间。他只
说了一句：“对不起。我可以坐在这儿吗？”他终于拿定了主意，此刻转向右边的那个姑
娘，悄悄地开始行动。姑娘非常漂亮，很黑，很俏，身材丰满。老蔫开始跟她搭讪，完全
不理会其他人。他转向她，用一只手支着脑袋。看他的样子，就不难理解他为什么是中队
里最出色的飞行员了。这个老蔫年轻而专注，像运动员一样注意力高度集中，看准目标就
一直往前走。他掌控着蜿蜒曲折的道路，小心翼翼地把它们捋直，然后迅速地向前走，没
有什么能阻止他。他就是这样，现在正在和那个漂亮女孩说话，但没有人能听清他在说什
么。
与此同时，公鹿在思索。他在考虑下一步怎么办，众人快要喝完第三杯啤酒时，他又
敲敲桌子，示意大家安静下来。
“诸位小姐，”他说，“护送你们回家是我们的荣幸。我带走你们五个”——他已经都盘
算好了——“老蔫带走五个，娃娃脸带走四个。我们雇三辆马车，我的马车捎上你们五个，
我把你们一个个送到家。”
威廉说：“这就是军人的骑士精神。”
“老蔫。”公鹿说，“老蔫，这样行吗，你带走五个，你自己决定最后送谁？”
老蔫环顾四周。“好的。”他说，“哦，好的。我没意见。”
“威廉，你带走四个。把她们一个个送到家。你懂的。”
“完美。”威廉说，“哦，完美。”
他们都站起来，向门口走去。黑发高个子姑娘抓住公鹿的胳膊说：“你送我？”
“是的。”他回答，“我送你。”
“你最后送我下车？”
“是的。我最后送你。”
“哦，我的上帝。”她说，“那就好。”
到了外面，他们拦了三辆马车，一伙人分成了几队。老蔫行动很快。他迅速让他的那
几个姑娘坐上了马车，自己跟在后面爬了上去，公鹿目送着马车在街道上远去。接着，他
看见威廉的马车也出发了，但似乎猛地颠簸了一下，几匹马立刻飞奔起来。公鹿又看了
看，只见威廉高高地坐在驾驶座上，手里握着缰绳。
公鹿说：“我们走吧。”他的五个姑娘钻进了马车。真挤啊，但好歹每个人都上了车。
公鹿在座位上坐下来，感觉到一只胳膊伸过来往下一塞，跟他的胳膊挽在了一起。是那个
高个子、黑头发的姑娘。他转脸看着她。
“你好。”他说，“你好啊。”
“啊。”她低声说，“你们真是他妈的疯子。”公鹿感到心头一热，不由得哼起了小曲
儿，马车骨碌碌地行驶在漆黑的街道上。
初刊于《哈珀斯》1945.8
[1]英制长度单位，1英寸=1/12英尺=1/36码=2.54厘米。后文“英尺”“码”不另注。
[2]此处指埃及镑。埃及镑是埃及的流通货币。辅币单位是皮阿斯特及米利姆。1镑
=100皮阿斯特=1000米利姆。
Katina
Katina
Some brief notes about the last days of RAF fighters in the first Greek campaign.
PETER SAW HER FIRST.
She was sitting on a stone, quite still, with her hands resting on her lap. She was staring
vacantly ahead, seeing nothing, and all around, up and down the little street, people were running
backward and forward with buckets of water, emptying them through the windows of the burning
houses.
Across the street on the cobblestones, there was a dead boy. Someone had moved his body close
in to the side so that it would not be in the way.
A little farther down an old man was working on a pile of stones and rubble. One by one he was
carrying the stones away and dumping them to the side. Sometimes he would bend down and peer
into the ruins, repeating a name over and over again.
All around there was shouting and running and fires and buckets of water and dust. And the girl
sat quietly on the stone, staring ahead, not moving. There was blood running down the left side of
her face. It ran down from her forehead and dropped from her chin on to the dirty print dress she
was wearing.
Peter saw her and said, ‘Look at that little girl.’
We went up to her and Fin put his hand on her shoulder, bending down to examine the cut.
‘Looks like a piece of shrapnel,’ he said. ‘She ought to see the Doc.’
Peter and I made a chair with our hands and Fin lifted her up on to it. We started back through
the streets and out towards the aerodrome, the two of us walking a little awkwardly, bending
down, facing our burden. I could feel Peter’s fingers clasping tightly in mine and I could feel the
buttocks of the little girl resting lightly on my wrists. I was on the left side and the blood was
dripping down from her face on to the arm of my flying suit, running down the waterproof cloth
on to the back of my hand. The girl never moved or said anything.
Fin said, ‘She’s bleeding rather fast. We’d better walk a bit quicker.’
I couldn’t see much of her face because of the blood, but I could tell that she was lovely. She
had high cheekbones and large round eyes, pale blue like an autumn sky, and her hair was short
and fair. I guessed she was about nine years old.
This was in Greece in early April, 1941, at Paramythia. Our fighter squadron was stationed on a
muddy field near the village. We were in a deep valley and all around us were the mountains. The
freezing winter had passed, and now, almost before anyone knew it, spring had come. It had come
quietly and swiftly, melting the ice on the lakes and brushing the snow off the mountain tops; and
all over the airfield we could see the pale green shoots of grass pushing up through the mud,
making a carpet for our landings. In our valley there were warm winds and wild flowers.
The Germans, who had pushed in through Yugoslavia a few days before, were now operating in
force, and that afternoon they had come over very high with about thirty-five Dorniers and
bombed the village. Peter and Fin and I were off duty for a while, and the three of us had gone
down to see if there was anything we could do in the way of rescue work. We had spent a few
hours digging around in the ruins and helping to put out fires, and we were on our way back when
we saw the girl.
Now, as we approached the landing field, we could see the Hurricanes circling around coming
in to land, and there was the Doc standing out in front of the dispersal tent, just as he should have
been, waiting to see if anyone had been hurt. We walked towards him, carrying the child, and Fin,
who was a few yards in front, said,
‘Doc, you lazy old devil, here’s a job for you.’
The Doc was young and kind and morose except when he got drunk. When he got drunk he
sang very well.
‘Take her into the sick bay,’ he said. Peter and I carried her in and put her down on a chair.
Then we left her and wandered over to the dispersal tent to see how the boys had got along.
It was beginning to get dark. There was a sunset behind the ridge over in the west, and there
was a full moon, a bombers’ moon, climbing up into the sky. The moon shone upon the shoulders
of the tents and made them white; small white pyramids, standing up straight, clustering in little
orderly groups around the edges of the aerodrome. They had a scared-sheep look about them the
way they clustered themselves together, and they had a human look about them the way they stood
up close to one another, and it seemed almost as though they knew that there was going to be
trouble, as though someone had warned them that they might be forgotten and left behind. Even as
I looked, I thought I saw them move. I thought I saw them huddle just a fraction nearer together.
And then, silently, without a sound, the mountains crept a little closer into our valley.
For the next two days there was much flying. There was the getting up at dawn, there was the
flying, the fighting and the sleeping; and there was the retreat of the army. That was about all there
was or all there was time for. But on the third day the clouds dropped down over the mountains
and slid into the valley. And it rained. So we sat around in the mess-tent drinking beer and
resinato, while the rain made a noise like a sewing machine on the roof. Then lunch. For the first
time in days the whole squadron was present. Fifteen pilots at a long table with benches on either
side and Monkey, the CO sitting at the head.
We were still in the middle of our fried corned beef when the flap of the tent opened and in
came the Doc with an enormous dripping raincoat over his head. And with him, under the coat,
was the little girl. She had a bandage round her head.
The Doc said, ‘Hello. I’ve brought a guest.’ We looked around and suddenly, automatically, we
all stood up.
The Doc was taking off his raincoat and the little girl was standing there with her hands hanging
loose by her sides looking at the men, and the men were all looking at her. With her fair hair and
pale skin she looked less like a Greek than anyone I’ve ever seen. She was frightened by the
fifteen scruffy-looking foreigners who had suddenly stood up when she came in, and for a moment
she half-turned as if she were going to run away out into the rain.
Monkey said, ‘Hallo. Hallo there. Come and sit down.’
‘Talk Greek,’ the Doc said. ‘She doesn’t understand.’
Fin and Peter and I looked at one another and Fin said, ‘Good God, it’s our little girl. Nice
work, Doc.’
She recognized Fin and walked round to where he was standing. He took her by the hand and
sat her down on the bench, and everyone else sat down too. We gave her some fried corned beef
and she ate it slowly, looking down at her plate while she ate. Monkey said, ‘Get Pericles.’
Pericles was the Greek interpreter attached to the squadron. He was a wonderful man we’d
picked up at Yanina, where he had been the local school teacher. He had been out of work ever
since the war started. ‘The children do not come to school,’ he said. ‘They are up in the mountains
and fight. I cannot teach sums to the stones.’
Pericles came in. He was old, with a beard, a long pointed nose and sad grey eyes. You couldn’t
see his mouth, but his beard had a way of smiling when he talked.
‘Ask her her name,’ said Monkey.
He said something to her in Greek. She looked up and said, ‘Katina.’ That was all she said.
‘Look, Pericles,’ Peter said, ‘ask her what she was doing sitting by that heap of ruins in the
village.’
Fin said. ‘For God’s sake leave her alone.’
‘Ask her, Pericles,’ said Peter.
‘What should I ask?’ said Pericles, frowning.
Peter said, ‘What she was doing sitting on that heap of stuff in the village when we found her.’
Pericles sat down on the bench beside her and he talked to her again. He spoke gently and you
could see that his beard was smiling a little as he spoke, helping her. She listened and it seemed a
long time before she answered. When she spoke, it was only a few words, and the old man
translated: ‘She says that her family were under the stones.’
Outside the rain was coming down harder than ever. It beat upon the roof of the mess-tent so
that the canvas shivered as the water bounced upon it. I got up and walked over and lifted the flap
of the tent. The mountains were invisible behind the rain, but I knew they were around us on every
side. I had a feeling that they were laughing at us, laughing at the smallness of our numbers and at
the hopeless courage of the pilots. I felt that it was the mountains, not us, who were the clever
ones. Had not the hills that very morning turned and looked northward towards Tepelene where
they had seen a thousand German aircraft gathered under the shadow of Olympus? Was it not true
that the snow on the top of Dodona had melted away in a day, sending little rivers of water
running down across our landing field? Had not Kataphidi buried his head in a cloud so that our
pilots might be tempted to fly through the whiteness and crash against his rugged shoulders?
And as I stood there looking at the rain through the tent flap, I knew for certain that the
mountains had turned against us. I could feel it in my stomach.
I went back into the tent and there was Fin, sitting beside Katina, trying to teach her English
words. I don’t know whether he made much progress, but I do know that once he made her laugh
and that was a wonderful thing for him to have done. I remember the sudden sound of her high
laughter and how we all looked up and saw her face; how we saw how different it was to what it
had been before. No one but Fin could have done it. He was so gay himself that it was difficult to
be serious in his presence. He was gay and tall and black-haired, and he was sitting there on the
bench, leaning forward, whispering and smiling, teaching Katina to speak English and teaching
her how to laugh.
The next day the skies cleared and once again we saw the mountains. We did a patrol over the
troops which were already retreating slowly towards Thermopylae, and we met some
Messerschmitts and Ju-87s dive-bombing the soldiers. I think we got a few of them, but they got
Sandy. I saw him going down. I sat quite still for thirty seconds and watched his plane spiralling
gently downward. I sat and waited for the parachute. I remember switching over my radio and
saying quietly, ‘Sandy, you must jump now. You must jump; you’re getting near the ground.’ But
there was no parachute.
When we landed and taxied in there was Katina, standing outside the dispersal tent with the
Doc; a tiny shrimp of a girl in a dirty print dress, standing there watching the machines as they
came in to land. To Fin, as he walked in, she said, ‘Tha girisis xana.’
Fin said, ‘What does it mean, Pericles?’
‘It just means “you are back again”,’ and he smiled.
The child had counted the aircraft on her fingers as they took off, and now she noticed that there
was one missing. We were standing around taking off our parachutes and she was trying to ask us
about it, when suddenly someone said, ‘Look out. Here they come.’ They came through a gap in
the hills, a mass of thin, black silhouettes, coming down upon the aerodrome.
There was a scramble for the slit trenches and I remember seeing Fin catch Katina round the
waist and carry her off with us, and I remember seeing her fight like a tiger the whole way to the
trenches.
As soon as we got into the trench and Fin had let her go, she jumped out and ran over on to the
airfield. Down came the Messerschmitts with their guns blazing, swooping so low that you could
see the noses of the pilots sticking out under their goggles. Their bullets threw up spurts of dust all
around and I saw one of our Hurricanes burst into flames. I saw Katina standing right in the
middle of the field, standing firmly with her legs astride and her back to us, looking up at the
Germans as they dived past. I have never seen anything smaller and more angry and more fierce in
my life. She seemed to be shouting at them, but the noise was great and one could hear nothing at
all except the engines and the guns of the aeroplanes.
Then it was over. It was over as quickly as it had begun, and no one said very much except Fin,
who said, ‘I wouldn’t have done that, ever; not even if I was crazy.’
That evening Monkey got out the squadron records and added Katina’s name to the list of
members, and the equipment officer was ordered to provide a tent for her. So, on the eleventh of
April, 1941, she became a member of the squadron.
In two days she knew the first name or nickname of every pilot and Fin had already taught her
to say ‘Any luck?’ and ‘Nice work.’
But that was a time of much activity, and when I try to think of it hour by hour, the whole
period becomes hazy in my mind. Mostly, I remember, it was escorting the Blenheims to Valona,
and if it wasn’t that, it was a ground-strafe of Italian trucks on the Albanian border or an SOS from
the Northumberland Regiment saying they were having the hell bombed out of them by half the
aircraft in Europe.
None of that can I remember. I can remember nothing of that time clearly, save for two things.
The one was Katina and how she was with us all the time; how she was everywhere and how
wherever she went the people were pleased to see her. The other thing that I remember was when
the Bull came into the mess-tent one evening after a lone patrol. The Bull was an enormous man
with massive, slightly hunched shoulders and his chest was like the top of an oak table. Before the
war he had done many things, most of them things which one could not do unless one conceded
beforehand that there was no difference between life and death. He was quiet and casual and when
he came into a room or into a tent, he always looked as though he had made a mistake and hadn’t
really meant to come in at all. It was getting dark and we were sitting round in the tent playing
shove-halfpenny when the Bull came in. We knew that he had just landed.
He glanced around a little apologetically, then he said, ‘Hello,’ and wandered over to the bar
and began to get out a bottle of beer.
Someone said, ‘See anything. Bull?’
The Bull said, ‘Yes,’ and went on fiddling with the bottle of beer.
I suppose we were all very interested in our game of shove-halfpenny because no one said
anything else for about five minutes. Then Peter said, What did you see, Bull?’
The Bull was leaning against the bar, alternately sipping his beer and trying to make a hooting
noise by blowing down the neck of the empty bottle.
Peter said, ‘What did you see?’
The Bull put down the bottle and looked up. ‘Five S-79s,’ he said.
I remember hearing him say it, but I remember also that our game was exciting and that Fin had
one more shove to win. We all watched him miss it and Peter said, ‘Fin, I think you’re going to
lose.’ And Fin said, ‘Go to hell.’
We finished the game, then I looked up and saw the Bull still leaning against the bar making
noises with his beer bottle.
He said, ‘This sounds like the old Mauretania coming into New York harbour,’ and he started
blowing into the bottle again.
‘What happened with the S-79s?’ I said.
He stopped his blowing and put down the bottle.
‘I shot them down.’
Everyone heard it. At that moment eleven pilots in that tent stopped what they were doing and
eleven heads flicked around and looked at the Bull. He took another drink of his beer and said
quietly, ‘At one time I counted eighteen parachutes in the air together.’
A few days later he went on patrol and did not come back. Shortly afterwards Monkey got a
message from Athens. It said that the squadron was to move down to Elevsis and from there do a
defence of Athens itself and also cover the troops retreating through the Thermopylae Pass.
Katina was to go with the trucks and we told the Doc he was to see that she arrived safely. It
would take them a day to make the journey. We flew over the mountains towards the south,
fourteen of us, and at two-thirty we landed at Elevsis. It was a lovely aerodrome with runways and
hangars; and best of all, Athens was only twenty-five minutes away by car.
That evening, as it was getting dark, I stood outside my tent. I stood with my hands in my
pockets watching the sun go down and thinking of the work which we were to do. The more that I
thought of it, the more impossible I knew it to be. I looked up, and once again I saw the
mountains. They were closer to us here, crowding in upon us on all sides, standing shoulder to
shoulder, tall and naked, with their heads in the clouds, surrounding us everywhere save in the
south, where lay Piraeus and the open sea. I knew that each night, when it was very dark, when we
were all tired and sleeping in our tents, those mountains would move forward, creeping a little
closer, making no noise, until at last on the appointed day they would tumble forward with one
great rush and push us into the sea.
Fin emerged from his tent.
‘Have you seen the mountains?’ I said.
‘They’re full of gods. They aren’t any good,’ he answered.
‘I wish they’d stand still,’ I said.
Fin looked up at the great crags of Pames and Pentelikon.
‘They’re full of gods,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when there is a moon,
you can see the gods sitting on the summits. There was one on Kataphidi when we were at
Paramythia. He was huge, like a house but without any shape and quite black.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Of course I saw him.’
‘When?’ I said. ‘When did you see him, Fin?’
Fin said, ‘Let’s go into Athens. Let’s go and look at the women in Athens.’
The next day the trucks carrying the ground staff and the equipment rumbled on to the
aerodrome, and there was Katina sitting in the front seat of the leading vehicle with the Doc beside
her. She waved to us as she jumped down, and she came running towards us, laughing and calling
our names in a curious Greek way. She still had on the same dirty print dress and she still had a
bandage round her forehead; but the sun was shining in her hair.
We showed her the tent which we had prepared for her and we showed her the small cotton
nightdress which Fin had obtained in some mysterious way the night before in Athens. It was
white with a lot of little blue birds embroidered on the front and we all thought that it was very
beautiful. Katina wanted to put it on at once and it took a long time to persuade her that it was
meant only for sleeping in. Six times Fin had to perform a complicated act which consisted of
pretending to put on the nightdress, then jumping on to the bed and falling fast asleep. In the end
she nodded vigorously and understood.
For the next two days nothing happened, except that the remnants of another squadron came
down from the north and joined us. They brought six Hurricanes, so that altogether we had about
twenty machines.
Then we waited.
On the third day German reconnaissance aircraft appeared, circling high over Piraeus, and we
chased after them but never got up in time to catch them. This was understandable, because our
radar was of a very special type. It is obsolete now, and I doubt whether it will ever be used again.
All over the country, in all the villages, up on the mountains and out on the islands, there were
Greeks, all of whom were connected to our small operations room by field telephone.
We had no operations officer, so we took it in turns to be on duty for the day. My turn came on
the fourth day, and I remember clearly what happened.
At six-thirty in the morning the phone buzzed.
‘This is A-7,’ said a very Greek voice. ‘This is A-7. There are noises overhead.’
I looked at the map. There was a little ring with ‘A-7’ written inside it just beside Yanina. I put
a cross on the celluloid which covered the map and wrote ‘Noises’ beside it, as well as the time:
‘0631 hours.’
Three minutes later the phone went again.
‘This is A-4. This is A-4. There are many noises above me,’ said an old quavering voice, but I
cannot see because there are thick clouds.’
I looked at the map. A-4 was Mt Karava. I made another cross on the celluloid and wrote ‘Many
noises - 0634,’ and then I drew a line between Yanina and Karava. It pointed towards Athens, so I
signalled the ‘readiness’ crew to scramble, and they took off and circled the city. Later they saw a
Ju-88 on reconnaissance high above them, but they never caught it. It was in such a way that one
worked the radar.
That evening when I came off duty I could not help thinking of the old Greek, sitting all alone in
a hut up at A-4; sitting on the slope of Karava looking up into the whiteness and listening all day
and all night for noises in the sky. I imagined the eagerness with which he seized the telephone
when he heard something, and the joy he must have felt when the voice at the other end repeated
his message and thanked him. I thought of his clothes and wondered if they were warm enough
and I thought, for some reason, of his boots, which almost certainly had no soles left upon them
and were stuffed with tree bark and paper.
That was April seventeenth. It was the evening when Monkey said, ‘They say the Germans are
at Lamia, which means that we’re within range of their fighters. Tomorrow the fun should start.’
It did. At dawn the bombers came over, with the fighters circling around overhead, watching the
bombers, waiting to pounce, but doing nothing unless someone interfered with the bombers.
I think we got eight Hurricanes into the air just before they arrived. It was not my turn to go up,
so with Katina standing by my side I watched the battle from the ground. The child never said a
word. Now and again she moved her head as she followed the little specks of silver dancing high
above in the sky. I saw a plane coming down in a trail of black smoke and I looked at Katina. The
hatred which was on the face of the child was the fierce burning hatred of an old woman who has
hatred in her heart; it was an old woman’s hatred and it was strange to see it.
In that battle we lost a sergeant called Donald.
At noon Monkey got another message from Athens. It said that morale was bad in the capital
and that every available Hurricane was to fly in formation low over the city in order to show the
inhabitants how strong we were and how many aircraft we had. Eighteen of us took off. We flew
in tight formation up and down the main streets just above the roofs of the houses. I could see the
people looking up, shielding their eyes from the sun, looking at us as we flew over, and in one
street I saw an old woman who never looked up at all. None of them waved, and I knew then that
they were resigned to their fate. None of them waved, and I knew, although I could not see their
faces, that they were not even glad as we flew past.
Then we headed out towards Thermopylae, but on the way we circled the Acropolis twice. It
was the first time I had seen it so close.
I saw a little hill - a mound almost, it seemed - and on the top of it I saw the white columns.
There were a great number of them, grouped together in perfect order, not crowding one another,
white in the sunshine, and I wondered, as I looked at them, how anyone could have put so much
on top of so small a hill in such an elegant way.
Then we flew up the great Thermopylae Pass and I saw long lines of vehicles moving slowly
southwards towards the sea. I saw occasional puffs of white smoke where a shell landed in the
valley and I saw a direct hit on the road which made a gap in the line of trucks. But we saw no
enemy aircraft.
When we landed Monkey said, ‘Refuel quickly and get in the air again; I think they’re waiting
to catch us on the ground.’
But it was no use. They came down out of the sky five minutes after we had landed. I remember
I was in the pilots’ room in Number Two Hangar, talking to Fin and to a big tall man with rumpled
hair called Paddy. We heard the bullets on the corrugated-iron roof of the hangar, then we heard
explosions and the three of us dived under the little wooden table in the middle of the room But
the table upset. Paddy set it up again and crawled underneath. ‘There’s something about being
under a table,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel safe unless I’m under a table.’
Fin said, ‘I never feel safe.’ He was sitting on the floor watching the bullets making holes in the
corrugated-iron wall of the room. There was a great clatter as the bullets hit the tin.
Then we became brave and got up and peeped outside the door. There were many
Messerschmitt 109s circling the aerodrome, and one by one they straightened out and dived past
the hangers, spraying the ground with their guns. But they did something else. They slid back their
cockpit hoods and as they came past they threw out small bombs which exploded when they hit
the ground and fiercely flung quantities of large lead balls in every direction. Those were the
explosions which we had heard, and it was a great noise that the lead balls made as they hit the
hangar.
Then I saw the men, the ground crews, standing up in their slit trenches firing at the
Messerschmitts with rifles, reloading and firing as fast as they could, cursing and shouting as they
shot, aiming ludicrously, hopelessly, aiming at an aeroplane with just a rifle. At Elevsis there were
no other defences.
Suddenly the Messerschmitts all turned and headed for home, all except one, which glided
down and made a smooth belly landing on the aerodrome.
Then there was chaos. The Greeks around us raised a shout and jumped on to the fire tender and
headed out towards the crashed German aeroplane. At the same time more Greeks streamed out
from every comer of the field, shouting and yelling and crying for the blood of the pilot. It was a
mob intent upon vengeance and one could not blame them; but there were other considerations.
We wanted the pilot for questioning, and we wanted him alive.
Monkey, who was standing on the tarmac, shouted to us, and Fin and Paddy and I raced with
him towards the station wagon which was standing fifty yards away. Monkey was inside like a
flash, started the engine and drove off just as the three of us jumped on the running board. The fire
tender with the Greeks on it was not fast and it still had two hundred yards to go, and the other
people had a long way to run. Monkey drove quickly and we beat them by about fifty yards.
We jumped up and ran over to the Messerschmitt, and there, sitting in the cockpit, was a fair-
haired boy with pink cheeks and blue eyes. I have never seen anyone whose face showed so much
fear.
He said to Monkey in English, ‘I am hit in the leg.’
We pulled him out of the cockpit and got him into the car, while the Greeks stood around
watching. The bullet had shattered the bone in his shin.
We drove him back and as we handed him over to the Doc, I saw Katina standing close, looking
at the face of the German. This kid of nine was standing there looking at the German and she
could not speak; she could not even move. She clutched the skirt of her dress in her hands and
stared at the man’s face. ‘There is a mistake somewhere,’ she seemed to be saying. ’There must be
a mistake. This one has pink cheeks and fair hair and blue eyes. This cannot possibly be one of
them. This is an ordinary boy.’ She watched him as they put him on a stretcher and carried him
off, then she turned and ran across the grass to her tent.
In the evening at supper I ate my fried sardines, but I could not eat the bread or the cheese. For
three days I had been conscious of my stomach, of a hollow feeling such as one gets just before an
operation or while waiting to have a tooth out in the dentist’s house. I had had it all day for three
days, from the moment I woke up to the time I fell asleep. Peter was sitting opposite me and I
asked him about it.
‘I’ve had it for a week,’ he said. ‘It’s good for the bowels. It loosens them.’
‘German aircraft are like liver pills,’ said Fin from the bottom of the table. ’They are very good
for you, aren’t they, Doc?’
The Doc said, ‘Maybe you’ve had an overdose.’
‘I have,’ said Fin, ‘I’ve had an overdose of German liver pills. I didn’t read the instructions on
the bottle. Take two before retiring.’
Peter said, ‘I would love to retire.’
After supper three of us walked down to the hangers with Monkey, who said, ‘I’m worried
about this ground-strafing. They never attack the hangars because they know that we never put
anything inside them. Tonight I think we’ll collect four of the aircraft and put them into Number
Two Hangar.’
That was a good idea. Normally the Hurricanes were dispersed all over the edge of the
aerodrome, but they were picked off one by one, because it was impossible to be in the air the
whole time. The four of us took a machine each and taxied it into Number Two Hangar, and then
we pulled the great sliding doors together and locked them.
The next morning, before the sun had risen from behind the mountains, a flock of Ju-87s came
over and blew Number Two Hangar right off the face of the earth. Their bombing was good and
they did not even hit the hangars on either side of it.
That afternoon they got Peter. He went off towards a village called Khalkis, which was being
bombed by Ju-88s, and no one ever saw him again. Gay, laughing Peter, whose mother lived on a
farm in Kent and who used to write to him in long, pale-blue envelopes which he carried about in
his pockets.
I had always shared a tent with Peter, ever since I came to the squadron, and that evening after I
had gone to bed he came back to that tent. You need not believe me; I do not expect you to, but I
am telling you what happened.
I always went to bed first, because there is not room in one of those tents for two people to be
turning around at the same time. Peter usually came in two or three minutes afterwards. That
evening I went to bed and I lay thinking that tonight he would not be coming. I wondered whether
his body lay tangled in the wreckage of his aircraft on the side of some bleak mountain or whether
it was at the bottom of the sea, and I hoped only that he had had a decent funeral.
Suddenly I heard a movement. The flap of the tent opened and it shut again. But there were no
footsteps. Then I heard him sit down on his bed. It was a noise that I had heard every night for
weeks past and always it had been the same. It was just a thump and a creaking of the wooden legs
of the camp bed. One after the other the flying boots were pulled off and dropped upon the ground,
and as always one of them took three times as long to get off as the other. After that there was the
gentle rustle of a blanket being pulled back and then the creakings of the rickety bed as it took the
weight of a man’s body.
They were sounds I had heard every night, the same sounds in the same order, and now I sat up
in bed and said, ‘Peter.’ It was dark in the tent. My voice sounded very loud.
‘Hallo, Peter. That was tough luck you had today.’ But there was no answer.
I did not feel uneasy or frightened, but I remember at the time touching the tip of my nose with
my finger to make sure that I was there; then because I was very tired, I went to sleep.
In the morning I looked at the bed and saw it had been slept in. But I did not show it to anyone,
not even to Fin. I put the blankets back in place myself and patted the pillow.
It was on that day, the twentieth of April, 1941, that we fought the Battle of Athens. It was
perhaps the last of the great dog-fighting air battles that will ever be fought, because nowadays the
planes fly always in great formation of wings and squadrons, and attack is carried out methodically
and scientifically upon the orders of the leader. Nowadays one does not dog-fight at all over the
sky except upon very rare occasions. But the Battle of Athens was a long and beautiful dog-fight
in which fifteen Hurricanes fought for half an hour with between one hundred and fifty and two
hundred German bombers and fighters.
The bombers started coming over early in the afternoon. It was a lovely spring day and for the
first time the sun had in it a trace of real summer warmth. The sky was blue, save for a few wispy
clouds here and there and the mountains stood out black and clear against the blue of the sky.
Pentelikon no longer hid his head in the clouds. He stood over us, grim and forbidding,
watching every move and knowing that each thing we did was of little purpose. Men were foolish
and were made only so that they should die, while mountains and rivers went on for ever and did
not notice the passing of time. Had not Pentelikon himself many years ago looked down upon
Thermopylae and seen a handful of Spartans defending the pass against the invaders; seen them
fight until there was not one man left alive among them? Had he not seen the Persians cut to pieces
by Leonidas at Marathon, and had he not looked down upon Salamis and upon the sea when
Themistodes and the Athenians drove the enemy from their shores, causing them to lose more than
two hundred sails? All these things and many more he had seen, and now he looked down upon
us, we were as nothing in his eyes. Almost there was a look of scorn upon the face of the
mountain, and I thought for a moment that I could hear the laughter of the gods. They knew so
well that we were not enough and that in the end we must lose.
The bombers came over just after lunch, and at once we saw that there were a great number of
them. We looked up and saw that the sky was full of little silver specks and the sunlight danced
and sparkled upon a hundred different pairs of wings.
There were fifteen Hurricanes in all and they fought like a storm in the sky. It is not easy to
remember much about such a battle, but I remember looking up and seeing in the sky a mass of
small black dots. I remember thinking to myself that those could not be aeroplanes; they simply
could not be aeroplanes, because there were not so many aeroplanes in the world.
Then they were on us, and I remember that I applied a little flap so that I should be able to turn
in tighter circles; then I remember only one or two small incidents which photographed themselves
upon my mind. There were the spurts of flame from the guns of a Messerschmitt as he attacked
from the frontal quarter of my starboard side. There was the German whose parachute was on fire
as it opened. There was the German who flew up beside me and made rude signs at me with his
fingers. There was the Hurricane which collided with a Messerschmitt. There was the aeroplane
which collided with a man who was descending in a parachute, and which went into a crazy
frightful spin towards the earth with the man and the parachute dangling from its port wing. There
were the two bombers which collided while swerving to avoid a fighter, and I remember distinctly
seeing a man being thrown clear out of the smoke and debris of the collision, hanging in mid-air
with his arms outstretched and his legs apart. I tell you there was nothing that did not happen in
that battle. There was the moment when I saw a single Hurricane doing tight turns around the
summit of Mt Parnes with nine Messerschmitts on its tail and then I remember that suddenly the
skies seemed to dear. There was no longer any aircraft in sight. The battle was over. I turned
around and headed back towards Elevsis, and as I went I looked down and saw Athens and Piraeus
and the rim of the sea as it curved around the gulf and travelled southward towards the
Mediterranean. I saw the port of Piraeus where the bombs had fallen and I saw the smoke and fire
rising above the docks. I saw the narrow coastal plain, and on it I saw tiny bonfires, thin columns
of black smoke curling upward and drifting away to the east. They were the fires of aircraft which
had been shot down, and I hoped only that none of them were Hurricanes.
Just then I ran straight into a Junkers 88; a straggler, the last bomber returning from the raid. He
was in trouble and there was black smoke streaming from one of his engines. Although I shot at
him, I don’t think that it made any difference. He was coming down anyway. We were over the
sea and I could tell that he wouldn’t make the land. He didn’t. He came down smoothly on his
belly in the blue Gulf of Piraeus, two miles from the shore. I followed him and circled, waiting to
make sure that the crew got out safely into their dinghy.
Slowly the machine began to sink, dipping its nose under the water and lifting its tail into the
air. But there was no sign of the crew. Suddenly, without any warning, the rear gun started to fire.
They opened up with their rear gun and the bullets made small jagged holes in my starboard wing.
I swerved away and I remember shouting at them. I slid back the hood of the cockpit and shouted,
‘You lousy brave bastards. I hope you drown.’ The bomber sank soon backwards.
When I got back they were all standing around outside the hangars counting the score, and
Katina was sitting on a box with tears rolling down her cheeks. But she was not crying, and Fin
was kneeling down beside her, talking to her in English, quietly and gently, forgetting that she
could not understand.
We lost one third of our Hurricanes in that battle, but the Germans lost more.
The Doc was dressing someone who had been burnt and he looked up and said, ‘You should
have heard the Greeks on the aerodrome cheering as the bombers fell out of the sky.’
As we stood around talking, a truck drove up and a Greek got out and said that he had some
pieces of body inside. ‘This is the watch,’ he said, ‘that was on the arm.’ It was a silver wrist
watch with a luminous dial, and on the back there were some initials. We did not look inside the
truck.
Now we had, I think, nine Hurricanes left.
That evening a very senior RAF officer came out from Athens and said, ‘Tomorrow at dawn
you will all fly to Megara. It is about ten miles down the coast. There is a small field there on
which you can land. The Army is working on it throughout the night. They have two big rollers
there and they are rolling it smooth. The moment you land you must hid your aircraft in the olive
grove which is on the south side of the field. The ground staff are going farther south to Argos and
you can join them later, but you may be able to operate from Megara for a day or two.’
Fin said, ‘Where’s Katina? Doc, you must find Katina and see that she gets to Argos safely.’
The Doc said, ‘I will,’ and we knew that we could trust him.
At dawn the next morning, when it was still dark, we took off and flew to the little field at Megara,
ten miles away. We landed and hid our Hurricanes in the olive grove and broke off branches of the
trees and put them over the aircraft. Then we sat down on the slope of a small hill and waited for
orders.
As the sun rose up over the mountains we looked across the field and saw a mass of Greek
villagers coming down from the village of Megara, coming down towards our field. There were
many hundreds of them, women and children mostly, and they all came down towards our field,
hurrying as they came.
Fin said, ‘What the hell,’ and we sat up on our little hill and watched, wondering what they
were going to do.
They dispersed all around the edge of the field and gathered armfuls of heather and bracken.
They carried it out on to the field, and forming themselves into long lines, they began to scatter the
heather and the bracken over the grass. They were camouflaging our landing field. The rollers,
when they had rolled out the ground and made it flat for landing, had left marks which were easily
visible from above, and so the Greeks came out of their village, every man, woman and child, and
began to put matters right. To this day I do not know who told them to do it. They stretched in a
long line across the field, walking forward slowly and scattering the heather, and Fin and I went
out and walked among them.
They were old women and old men mostly, very small and very sad-looking, with dark, deeply
wrinkled faces and they worked slowly scattering the heather. As we walked by, they would stop
their work and smile, saying something in Greek which we could not understand. One of the
children gave Fin a small pink flower and he did not know what to do with it, but walked around
carrying it in his hand.
Then we went back to the slope of the hill and waited. Soon the field telephone buzzed. It was
the very senior officer speaking. He said that someone must fly back to Elevsis at once and collect
important messages and money. He said also that all of us must leave our little field at Megara and
go to Argos that evening. The others said that they would wait until I came back with the money
so that we could all fly to Argos together.
At the same time, someone had told the two Army men who were still rolling our field, to
destroy their rollers so that the Germans would not get them. I remember, as I was getting into my
Hurricane, seeing the two huge rollers charging towards each other across the field and I
remember seeing the Army men jump aside just before they collided. There was a great crash and
I saw all the Greeks who were scattering heather stop in their work and look up. For a moment
they stood rock still, looking at the rollers. Then one of them started to run. It was an old woman
and she started to run back to the village as fast as she could, shouting something as she went, and
instantly every man, woman and child in the field seemed to take fright and ran after her. I wanted
to get out and run beside them and explain to them; to say I was sorry but that there was nothing
else we could do. I wanted to tell them that we would not forget them and that one day we would
come back. But it was no use. Bewildered and frightened, they ran back to their homes, and they
did not stop running until they were out of sight, not even the old men.
I took off and flew to Elevsis. I landed on a dead aerodrome. There was not a soul to be seen. I
parked my Hurricane, and as I walked over to the hangars the bombers came over once again. I
hid in a ditch until they had finished their work, then got up and walked over to the small
operations room. The telephone was still on the table, so for some reason I picked up the receiver
and said, ‘Hallo.’
A rather German voice at the other end answered.
I said, ‘Can you hear me?’ and the voice said:
‘Yes, yes, I can hear you.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘listen carefully.’
‘Yes, continue please.’
‘This is the RAF speaking. And one day we will come back, do you understand. One day we
will come back.’
Then I tore the telephone from its socket and threw it through the glass of the closed window.
When I went outside there was a small man in civilian clothes standing near the door. He had a
revolver in one hand and a small bag in the other.
‘Do you want anything?’ he said in quite good English.
I said, ‘Yes, I want important messages and papers which I am to carry back to Argos.’
‘Here you are,’ he said, as he handed me the bag. ‘And good luck.’
I flew back to Megara. There were two Greek destroyers standing offshore, burning and sinking.
I circled our field and the others taxied out, took off and we all flew off towards Argos.
The landing ground at Argos was just a kind of small field. It was surrounded by thick olive
groves into which we taxied our aircraft for hiding. I don’t know how long the field was, but it was
not easy to land upon it. You had to come in low hanging on the prop, and the moment you
touched down you had to start putting on brake, jerking it on and jerking it off again the moment
she started to nose over. But only one man overshot and crashed.
The ground staff had arrived already and as we got out of our aircraft Katina came running up
with a basket of black olives, offering them to us and pointing to our stomachs, indicating that we
must eat.
Fin bent down and ruffled her hair with his hand. He said, ‘Katina, one day we must go into
town and buy you a new dress.’ She smiled at him but did not understand and we all started to eat
black olives.
Then I looked around and saw that the wood was full of aircraft. Around every comer there was
an aeroplane hidden in the trees, and when we asked about it we learned that the Greeks had
brought the whole of their air force down to Argos and parked them in that little wood. They were
peculiar ancient models, not one of them less than five years old, and I don’t know how many
dozen there were there.
That night we slept under the trees. We wrapped Katina up in a large flying suit and gave her a
flying helmet for a pillow, and after she had gone to sleep we sat around eating black olives and
drinking resinato out of an enormous cask. But we were very tired, and soon we fell asleep.
All the next day we saw the truckloads of troops moving down the road towards the sea, and as
often as we could we took off and flew above them.
The Germans kept coming over and bombing the road near by, but they had not yet spotted our
airfield.
Later in the day we were told that every available Hurricane was to take off at six p.m. to
protect an important shipping move, and the nine machines, which were all that were now left,
were refuelled and got ready. At three minutes to six we began to taxi out of the olive grove on to
the field.
The first two machines took off, but just as they left the ground something black swept down out
of the sky and shot them both down in flames. I looked around and saw at least fifty Messerschmitt
110s circling our field, and even as I looked some of them turned and came down upon the
remaining seven Hurricanes which were waiting to take off.
There was no time to do anything. Each one of our aircraft was hit in that first swoop, although
funnily enough only one of the pilots was hurt. It was impossible now to take off, so we jumped
out of our aircraft, hauled the wounded pilot out of his cockpit and ran with him back to the slit
trenches, to the wonderful big, deep zig-zagging slit trenches which had been dug by the Greeks.
The Messerschmitts took their time. There was no opposition either from the ground or from the
air, except that Fin was firing his revolver.
It is not a pleasant thing to be ground-strafed especially if they have cannon in their wings; and
unless one has a deep slit trench in which to lie, there is no future in it. For some reason, perhaps
because they thought it was a good joke, the German pilots went for the slit trenches before they
bothered about the aircraft. The first ten minutes was spent rushing madly around the corners of
the trenches so as not to be caught in a trench which ran parallel with the line of flight of the
attacking aircraft. It was a hectic, dreadful ten minutes, with everyone shouting ‘Here comes
another,’ and scrambling and rushing to get around the corner into the other section of the trench.
Then the Germans went for the Hurricanes and at the same time for the mass of old Greek
aircraft parked all around the olive grove, and one by one, methodically and systematically, they
set them on fire. The noise was terrific, and everywhere - in the trees, on the rocks and on the
grass - the bullets splattered.
I remember peeping cautiously over the top of our trench and seeing a small white flower
growing just a few inches away from my nose. It was pure white and it had three petals. I
remember looking past it and seeing three of the Germans diving on my own Hurricane which was
parked on the other side of the field and I remember shouting at them, although I do not know
what I said.
Then suddenly I saw Katina. She was running out from the far corner of the aerodrome, running
right out into the middle of this mass of blazing guns and burning aircraft, running as fast as she
could. Once she stumbled, but she scrambled to her feet again and went on running. Then she
stopped and stood looking up, raising her fists at the planes as they flew past.
Now as she stood there, I remember seeing one of the Messer-schmitts turning and coming in
low straight towards her and I remember thinking that she was so small that she could not be hit. I
remember seeing the spurts of flame from his guns as he came, and I remember seeing the child,
for a split second, standing quite still, facing the machine. I remember that the wind was blowing
in her hair.
Then she was down.
The next moment I shall never forget. On every side, as if by magic, men appeared out of the
ground. They swarmed out of their trenches and like a crazy mob poured on to the aerodrome,
running towards the tiny little bundle, which lay motionless in the middle of the field. They ran
fast, crouching as they went, and I remember jumping up out of my slit trench and joining with
them. I remember thinking of nothing at all and watching the boots of the man in front of me,
noticing that he was a little bow-legged and that his blue trousers were much too long.
I remember seeing Fin arrive first, followed closely by a sergeant called Wishful, and I
remember seeing the two of them pick up Katina and start running with her back towards the
trenches. I saw her leg, which was just a lot of blood and bones, and I saw her chest where the
blood was spurting out on to her white print dress; I saw, for a moment, her face, which was white
as the snow on top of Olympus.
I ran beside Fin, and as he ran, he kept saying, ‘The lousy bastards, the lousy, bloody bastards’;
and then as we got to our trench I remember looking round and finding that there was no longer
any noise or shooting. The Germans had gone.
Fin said, ‘Where’s the Doc?’ and suddenly there he was, standing beside us, looking at Katina -
looking at her face.
The Doc gently touched her wrist and without looking up he said, ‘She is not alive.’
They put her down under a little tree, and when I turned away I saw on all sides the fires of
countless burning aircraft. I saw my own Hurricane burning near by and I stood staring hopelessly
into the flames as they danced around the engine and licked against the metal of the wings.
I stood staring into the flames, and as I stared the fire became a deeper red and I saw beyond it
not a tangled mass of smoking wreckage, but the flames of a hotter and intenser fire which now
burned and smouldered in the hearts of the people of Greece.
Still I stared, and as I stared I saw in the centre of the fire, whence the red flames sprang, a
bright, white heat, shining bright and without any colour.
As I stared, the brightness diffused and became soft and yellow like sunlight, and through it,
beyond it, I saw a young child standing in the middle of a field with the sunlight shining in her
hair. For a moment she stood looking up into the sky, which was clear and blue and without any
clouds; then she turned and looked towards me, and as she turned I saw that the front of her white
print dress was stained deep red, the colour of blood.
Then there was no longer any fire or any flames and I saw before me only the glowing twisted
wreckage of a burned-out plane. I must have been standing there for quite a long time.
卡蒂娜
卡蒂娜
英国皇家空军战斗机飞行员
在首次希腊战役最后几天的笔记
彼得先看见了她。
她坐在一块石头上，一动不动，双手放在腿上。她两眼失神地盯着前面，却什么也看不
见，周围的小街上，人们提着一桶桶水来回奔跑，把水泼进正在燃烧的房屋的窗户里。
街对面的鹅卵石地面上，有一个死去的男孩。有人把他的尸体挪到了一边，以免挡路。
再往前一点，一个老头子在一堆碎石瓦砾上忙碌着。他把石头一块块搬起来，扔到一
边。他不时伏下身去，盯着废墟里看，一遍遍地呼喊一个名字。
周围到处都是喊叫、奔跑、火焰、水桶和灰尘。女孩静静地坐在石头上，茫然盯着前
方，一动不动。她的左脸在流血。血从额头淌下，又从下巴滴到身上那件脏兮兮的印花裙
上。
彼得看见了她，说道：“看那个小姑娘。”
我们朝她走去，芬把一只手放在她肩膀上，弯下腰去检查伤口。“好像是一块弹片。”他
说，“应该让她去看医生。”
我和彼得用我们的手搭了一把椅子，芬把小姑娘抱起来放在上面。我们返身穿过街道，
朝停机坪走去，我们俩脸对着小姑娘，弯着身，走得有点吃力。我可以感觉到彼得用手指紧
紧抓着我的手，我可以感觉到小姑娘的屁股轻轻坐在我的手腕上。我在左边，血从她的脸上
滴到我飞行服的袖子上，滑过防水的布料，落在我的手背上。小姑娘一直没有动弹，也没有
说话。
芬说：“她失血很多。我们最好走快一点。”
她在流血，所以我不怎么看得清她的脸，但可以看出她很可爱。高高的颧骨，一双圆圆
的大眼睛，是金秋天空一样的浅蓝色，她的黄头发剪得短短的。我猜她大约九岁。
这是一九四一年四月初，在希腊的帕拉米夏。我们的战斗机中队驻扎在村庄附近一片泥
泞的场地。我们位于一个很深的山谷，周围都是大山。寒冷的冬天已经过去，现在，几乎在
不知不觉之中，春天已经来了。它悄悄地、迅速地到来，融化了湖里的冰，拂去了山顶上的
积雪；在整个停机坪上，都能看见嫩绿色的青草从泥泞里萌出，为我们的着陆铺了一层软
毯。在我们的山谷里，有温暖的春风和朵朵的野花。
德国人几天前横扫了南斯拉夫，目前正在调集武力，那天下午，空中飞来大约三十五架
道尼尔战斗机，轰炸了这个村庄。我和彼得、芬当时没有任务，于是我们三个就到村里去看
看能不能做一些救援工作。我们花了几小时在废墟里挖掘，帮村民把火扑灭，就在返回的途
中，看见了那个小姑娘。
当时，我们快要靠近停机坪了，可以看见飓风战斗机盘旋着准备降落，医生走出来站在
疏散帐篷前面，看是否有人受伤，这是他应尽的职责。我们架着孩子朝他走去，芬领先我们
几米，说道：“医生，你这个老懒鬼，你的活儿来了。”
医生很年轻、很随和，不喝酒的时候有些忧郁。一旦喝醉了酒，唱歌非常好听。
“把她送进医务室。”他说。我和彼得把小姑娘架进去，放在一把椅子上。我们把她留在
那儿，出来转到疏散帐篷那儿，看看小伙子们情况怎么样。
天已经开始变黑了。太阳在西边的山脊上沉落，一轮满月缓缓升上天空，那是轰炸者的
月亮。月光映照着帐篷的斜顶，使它们泛出白色。小小的白色金字塔，挺身而立，三五成
群、整整齐齐地聚在停机坪的边缘。它们聚在一起的样子，有点像受了惊吓的绵羊，而它们
彼此靠得很近的样子，又有点像人类，似乎它们知道即将大祸临头，似乎有人警告过它们可
能会被忘却、会被抛弃。就在我注视它们的时候，我似乎看见它们在移动，又稍稍聚集得更
近了些。
紧接着，悄悄地，毫无声息地，大山朝我们的山谷偷偷靠近了一点。
接下来的两天，飞行任务频繁。天蒙蒙亮就起床、飞行、作战、睡觉，接着军队撤退
了。除此之外没什么好说的，或者，也没有时间说更多的。但是到了第三天，乌云笼罩了大
山，飘进了山谷。天下雨了，于是我们都坐在炊事帐篷里，喝啤酒和当地的酒，雨点砸在帐
篷顶上，发出缝纫机一般的声响。然后吃午饭。整个中队的人都在场，这是好几天来的第一
次。十五位飞行员坐在一张长桌两边的板凳上，队长瘦猴坐在桌首。
我们的烤咸牛肉刚吃到一半，帐篷的帘子突然被掀开，医生走了进来，头上顶着一件滴
水的大雨衣。雨衣下面和他站在一起的，正是那个小姑娘。她头上缠着绷带。
医生说：“你们好。我带来一位客人。”我们扭过头，突然，我们下意识地全都站了起
来。
医生脱掉雨衣，小姑娘站在那里，双手垂在身体两侧，看着这些男人，男人们也都看着
她。她那浅黄色的头发、白皙的皮肤，比我见过的任何人都更不像一个希腊人。十五个肮脏
粗糙的外国人看见她进来都突然站起身，使她受了不小的惊吓，一时间，她半转过身，似乎
想要逃到外面的大雨中。
瘦猴说：“你好，你好啊。过来坐下吧。”
“说希腊语。”医生说，“她听不懂的。”
我和芬、彼得互相对视着，芬说：“天哪，这是我们的那个小姑娘。干得不错，医生。”
小姑娘认出了芬，她走过来，绕到芬站的地方。芬牵起她的手，领她坐到板凳上，然后
其他人也都坐了下来。我们给了她一些烤咸牛肉，她慢慢地吃着，一直低垂眼睛看着自己的
盘子。瘦猴说：“把佩里克利叫来。”
佩里克利是中队里的希腊翻译官。他是我们在亚尼纳找到的一个出色的男人，当时他是
地方学校的老师。战争打响以后，他就失业了。“孩子们不来上学了。”他说，“他们都在山里
打仗。我总不能教石头学算术吧。”
佩里克利进来了。他是个老人，留着胡子，鼻子又长又尖，有一双忧伤的灰眼睛。你看
不见他的嘴，但是他说话时，他的胡子显出一丝笑意。
“问她叫什么名字。”瘦猴说。
他用希腊语对小姑娘说了句什么。小姑娘抬起头，说：“卡蒂娜。”她只说了这三个字。
“听我说，佩里克利，”彼得说，“问问她坐在村里的废墟堆上做什么。”
芬说：“看在上帝的分上，放过她吧。”
“问她，佩里克利。”彼得说。
“我该问什么呢？”佩里克利皱起了眉头问道。
彼得说：“你问我们发现她的时候，她为什么坐在村里的废墟堆上。”
佩里克利挨着小姑娘在板凳上坐下，又对她说话。他语气温和，而且你可以看出他说话
时胡子在微笑，在鼓励她。小姑娘听着，似乎过了很长时间才回答。她只说了短短几个词，
老人翻译道：“她说她的家人埋在石头下面。”
外面，雨下得更大了。大雨打在炊事帐篷的顶上，帆布在雨点的撞击下不住颤动。我站
起身，走过去掀开帐篷的帘子。大山被雨帘遮住看不见了，但我知道它们从各个方向把我们
包围。我有一种感觉，似乎它们在嘲笑我们，嘲笑我们势单力薄，嘲笑飞行员们无谓的勇
气。我感觉到，真正机智的不是我们，而是大山。就在那天早晨，难道不是群山转身面朝北
边的泰匹林，目睹了一千多架德国飞机聚集在奥林匹斯山的阴影下吗？多多那山顶的积雪难
道不是在一天之内融化，让无数条小河流下来，淌过我们的停机坪吗？卡塔菲狄山难道不是
把它的头颅隐藏在云里，引诱我们的飞行员飞进那些白云，撞毁在它高低不平的山肩上吗？
当我站在那里，透过帐篷的帘子看着大雨时，我知道大山肯定转过来跟我们作对了。我
内心深处有这种感觉。
我返回帐篷里，看见芬坐在卡蒂娜身边，正在教她说英语单词。我不知道芬是否取得很
大进展，但我知道他有一次把她逗笑了，他能做到这点真了不起。我记得卡蒂娜突然发出的
大笑声，还记得我们都抬起头，看到了她的脸。我记得我们看到她的脸庞跟以前有多么的不
同。除了芬，没人能做成这件事。芬是个乐天派，在他面前，想要保持严肃是很难的。他性
情活泼，黑头发，个子高高的，他坐在板凳上，探着身子、面带微笑、低声细语，在教卡蒂
娜说英语，在教她怎么发出笑声。
第二天，天空放晴了，我们又一次看见了大山。我们在已经朝着塞莫皮莱缓慢撤退的军
队上空巡逻，遇到了正在俯冲轰炸士兵的几架梅塞施米特式战斗机和Ju-87轰炸机。我记得我
们击中了几架，但是他们击中了桑迪。我眼睁睁地看着他坠落。我呆坐了三十秒，注视着他
的飞机缓缓地盘旋落下。我等着降落伞的出现。我记得我接通了无线电，轻声地说：“桑迪，
你必须赶紧跳出来。快跳出来啊，你已经接近地面了。”然而降落伞没有出现。
我们降落滑行时，看见卡蒂娜和医生一起站在疏散帐篷外面。一个那么瘦弱的小姑娘，
穿着脏兮兮的印花裙，站在那里，注视着飞机进入停机坪降落。芬走进去时，她说：“塔吉里
斯，哈纳。”
芬说：“这是什么意思，佩里克利？”
“意思是‘你们又回来了’。”他笑着说。
飞机降落时，孩子用手指头数着数，这时她注意到少了一架。我们围站在旁边摘掉身上
的降落伞，卡蒂娜想追问我们这件事，突然有人说道：“注意。它们来了。”它们从群山的缝
隙中飞来，密密麻麻的一大片小黑点，朝停机坪俯冲下来。
大家慌乱地奔向狭长的掩壕，我记得看见芬一把搂住卡蒂娜的腰，抱起她和我们一起躲
避空袭，我还记得在奔向掩壕的一路上，我看见卡蒂娜像小老虎一样反抗着。
我们刚钻进掩壕，芬刚把她放开，她就纵身跳出去，跑向飞机跑道。梅塞施米特式战斗
机俯冲下来，机关枪不断扫射，它们飞得真低啊，都能看见飞行员的鼻子从风镜下面突出
来。它们的子弹在周围激起一团团尘雾，我看见我们的一架飓风战斗机燃起了火苗。我看见
卡蒂娜就站在跑道中间，双腿分开，背对着我们，站得稳稳的，抬头看着那些俯冲而过的德
国兵。有生以来，我从没见过有谁那么娇小、那么愤怒、那么情绪激烈。她似乎正冲他们喊
叫，但是噪声太大了，除了飞机引擎和机枪的声音，什么也听不见。
接着，一切便结束了。这场袭击可谓来去匆匆，谁也没有多说什么，只有芬说道：“我永
远不会那么做，哪怕是疯了，也不会那么做。”
那天晚上，瘦猴拿出中队的档案，把卡蒂娜的名字写进了队员名单，并吩咐设备管理员
给卡蒂娜提供一顶帐篷。就这样，在一九四一年四月十一日，卡蒂娜成了中队的一员。
不出两天，她就知道了每一位飞行员的小名或外号，芬已经教会她说“怎么样”和“干得
好”。
可是那段时间活动频繁，当我试图详细回忆当时具体做了什么时，脑子里只是一片模
糊。我记得大多数时候是护送布伦海姆轰炸机去法罗拉，如果不是，那就是在阿尔巴尼亚边
境轰炸地面的意大利卡车，或者收到诺森伯兰郡团的求救信号，说他们正遭到欧洲半数飞机
的惨烈轰炸。
所有这些我都记不真切了。那段时间的一切我都记忆模糊，只有两件事例外。一是卡蒂
娜，她一直跟我们在一起，到处都有她的身影，她不管走到哪里，人们都很高兴看见她。我
记得的第二件事是一天傍晚，大牛在一次单机巡逻之后走进了炊事帐篷。大牛是个身材魁梧
的男人，一对宽肩膀微微有些耸起，胸膛如同橡木桌面一样平坦。战争开始前，他做过许多
事情，其中大多数都是只有早把生死置之度外的人才能做到的。他性格安静、随和，每次走
进一个房间或一顶帐篷，总显得好像自己弄错了，根本不应该进来似的。天渐渐黑了，我们
坐在帐篷里，玩掷钢板儿赌博的游戏，大牛走了进来。我们知道他刚刚降落。
他略含歉意地扫视了一圈，说：“你们好。”他慢慢走到吧台前，拿出一瓶啤酒。
有人说：“看见什么了吗，大牛？”
大牛说：“看见了。”然后继续摆弄着啤酒瓶。
我想，我们当时都非常专注于掷钢板赌博的游戏，因为有五分钟左右谁也没有再说什
么。直到后来彼得说道：“你看见了什么，大牛？”
大牛靠在吧台上，一会儿喝几口啤酒，一会儿往空酒瓶口里吹气，想弄出类似汽笛的声
音。
彼得说：“你看见了什么？”
大牛放下酒瓶，抬起目光。“五架S-79战斗机。”他说。
我记得我听见了他说这句话，但我还记得我们的游戏太刺激了，芬又有了一次赢钱的机
会。我们都眼睁睁地看着他错失良机。彼得说：“芬，我认为你要输了。”芬说：“去你的
吧。”
游戏玩完了，我抬起头来，看见大牛仍然靠在吧台上，把他的啤酒瓶吹得呜呜响。
他说：“这声音就像‘毛里塔尼亚号’开进纽约港。”他又开始往瓶口吹气。
“那些S-79怎么样了？”我说。
他停止吹气，放下了酒瓶。
“我把它们打下来了。”
每个人都听见了这话。顿时，帐篷里的十一位飞行员都停下手头的事情，十一个脑袋都
迅速转过去，看着大牛。他又喝了一口啤酒，轻声说道：“有那么一刻，我在空中数到十八顶
降落伞。”
几天后，他去巡逻，再也没有回来。
之后不久，瘦猴得到雅典的消息，说中队要转移到埃莱夫西斯，从那里对雅典进行防
守，同时掩护我们的军队通过塞莫皮莱隘口撤退。
卡蒂娜跟着卡车队转移，我们叫医生一定要保证她安全到达。我们一共是十四个人，往
南飞过群山，两点半的时候降落在埃莱夫西斯。这是一个漂亮的停机坪，有跑道和机库，最
棒的是，开车二十五分钟就能到雅典。
那天傍晚，夜色正在降临，我站在自己的帐篷外。我双手插在口袋里，注视着太阳渐渐
西沉，思考着我们要做的工作。我越想越觉得不可能完成。我抬起头，又一次看见了那些大
山。在这里它们离我们更近了，从四面八方朝我们挤压过来，它们肩并肩矗立着，巍峨、赤
裸，头颅耸立在云端，从三面把我们包围，只有南边是比雷埃夫斯和开阔的海域。我知道，
每天夜里，天完全黑下来之后，我们都筋疲力尽地在帐篷里睡觉时，那些大山就会向前移
动，悄悄地、一点点地，不发出任何声音，最后，到了指定的那一天，它们就会势不可挡地
向前翻滚，把我们推进海里。
芬从他的帐篷里出来。
“你看见那些大山吗？”我说。
“山里有很多神。凶多吉少。”他回答。
“我希望它们站住不动。”我说。
芬抬头看着帕尼萨山和彭特利孔山的悬崖峭壁。
“这些山里有很多神。”他说，“有时候，在半夜三更，天上有月亮的时候，你能看见神坐
在山顶上。我们在帕拉米夏时，卡塔菲狄山上就有一个神。他的块头像房子一样大，但没有
任何形状，黑乎乎的一团。”
“你看见他了？”
“当然看见了。”
“什么时候？”我说，“你是什么时候看见他的，芬？”
芬说：“我们进雅典城吧。我们去看看雅典的女人吧。”
第二天，载着地勤人员和设备物资的卡车，轰隆隆地驶进了停机场，卡蒂娜坐在第一辆
车的前座上，医生坐在她旁边。她跳下来时，朝我们招手，一边大笑着，一边用奇怪的希腊
口音叫我们的名字。她仍然穿着那条脏兮兮的印花裙，额头上仍然缠着绷带。但是阳光照得
她的头发闪闪发亮。
我们给她看我们为她准备的帐篷，给她看那件小小的棉布睡衣，那是前一天夜里芬以某
种神秘的方式在雅典弄到的。白色的睡衣，胸前绣着许多蓝色的小鸟，我们都认为非常漂
亮。卡蒂娜立刻就想穿上，我们花了好长时间才让她明白，那是晚上睡觉穿的。芬不得不把
一套复杂的动作表演了六遍——假装穿上睡衣，然后跳到床上立刻睡着。最后，卡蒂娜拼命
点头，总算明白了。
接下来的两天，什么也没发生，只是另一个中队的剩余人员从北边过来，加入了我们。
他们带来六架飓风战斗机，这样一来，我们就一共有了二十来架飞机。
然后我们等待着。
第三天，德国侦察机出现了，在比雷埃夫斯上空盘旋，我们拼命追赶，但始终没能及时
追上他们。这也情有可原，因为我们的雷达是一种非常特殊的型号，现在已经被淘汰，我估
计永远也不会再使用了。在全国各地，在山区和岛屿的所有村庄里，都有一些希腊人通过野
战电话跟我们的小控制室联络。
控制室没有操作员，我们只能轮流在那里值班。第四天轮到我值班，我清楚地记得所发
生的事情。
早晨六点三十分，电话响了。
“这里是A-7，”一个希腊口音很重的声音说，“这里是A-7。头顶上有声音。”
我看着地图。亚尼纳的旁边画着一个小圆圈，里面写着“A-7”。我在地图上蒙着的透明胶
片上打了个叉，旁边写上“噪声”，还有时间：“0631”。
三分钟后，电话又响了。
“这里是A-4，这里是A-4。我头顶上有许多声音，”一个苍老而发颤的声音说，“但我看不
清，因为云太厚了。”
我看着地图。A-4是卡拉瓦山。我在透明胶片上又打了个叉，写上“许多噪声——0634”，
然后在亚尼纳和卡拉瓦之间画了一条线。这条线指向雅典，于是我发信号通知“预备”队员紧
急起飞，他们飞到空中，在城市上空盘旋。后来，他们看见一架Ju-88在他们上面的高空，但
他们一直没能追上它。当时我们的雷达就是这样工作的。
那天晚上我值完班后，忍不住想起那个独自坐在A-4观察点的一间小茅屋里的希腊老人，
他坐在卡拉瓦的山坡上，抬眼眺望白色的云团，整日整夜地侧耳捕捉空中的声音。我想象着
他听见声音、抓起电话时的那种急切，以及当电话那头的声音重复他的消息并向他表示感谢
时，他所感到的喜悦。我想到他的衣服，不知道是否足够暖和，接着不知怎的，我想到了他
的靴子，几乎可以肯定那双靴子已经没有鞋底，只塞着一些树皮和纸片。
那是四月十七日。就在那天傍晚，瘦猴说：“他们说德国人在拉米亚，这就意味着我们是
在他们战斗机的射程内。明天好戏就要开场了。”
果然。黎明时分，轰炸机过来了，上面盘旋着一些战斗机，它们是在守望轰炸机，时刻
准备突袭，但是只在有人妨碍轰炸机时它们才会出击。
我记得就在它们到来前，我们有八架飓风战斗机飞在空中。当时没有轮到我，所以我在
地面上注视着这场战斗，卡蒂娜站在我身边。这孩子一句话也没说。她时常转动脑袋，跟随
上面高空中跳动的那些银色小点。我看见一架飞机坠落了，后面拖着一条黑烟，然后我看着
卡蒂娜。这孩子脸上的仇恨，像一名内心充满恨意的老妇人所具有的那种激烈燃烧的仇恨，
那是一名老妇人的仇恨，这看上去令人感到怪异。
在这场战斗中，我们失去了一位名叫唐纳德的中士。
中午，瘦猴又收到了雅典发来的消息。消息说，首都士气低沉，为了向市民们显示我们
多么强大、拥有多少架飞机，要求每一架可用的飓风战斗机在城市的低空做编队飞行。我们
共有十八人起飞。我们组成密集的队形在主要街道上空飞来飞去，低得几乎碰到房顶。我能
看见人们抬起头，把手放在眼睛上挡住阳光，看着我们在头顶飞过。在一条街上我看见一个
老妇人，她却始终连头也没有抬。他们没有一个人挥手，于是我知道了，他们已经听天由
命。他们没有一个人挥手，我虽然看不见他们的脸，但也知道我们飞过时他们并不感到高
兴。
然后，我们朝塞莫皮莱飞去，并且中途在卫城上空盘旋了两圈。那是我第一次近距离地
看见卫城。
我看见一座小山——看上去也就是个土堆——在小山顶上我看见了白色的柱子。它们数
量众多，整整齐齐地聚集在一起，并不显得拥挤，在阳光下白得耀眼。我看着它们，惊叹怎
么有人能把这么多柱子以这么高雅的形式放置于这么一座小山上。
随后，我们飞向宏伟的塞莫皮莱隘口，我看见长长的一队队车辆慢慢地开向南边的大
海。偶尔我看见白烟腾起，那是一颗炮弹落在山谷里，我还看见一颗炮弹直接击中道路，使
卡车队伍形成一个缺口。但是没有看见敌机。
我们降落时，瘦猴说：“快把油箱加满，再次起飞。我认为他们正等着在地面抓住我
们。”
然而没有用了。就在我们降落后五分钟，他们就从天空冲了下来。我记得我当时在二号
机库的飞行员办公室，跟芬和一个头发乱糟糟的名叫帕蒂的大块头男人说话。我们听见子弹
打在机库的瓦楞铁屋顶上，接着听见了爆炸声，我们三个赶紧躲到房间中央的小木头桌子下
面。可是桌子翻了。帕蒂把它重新摆正，钻进下面。“躲在桌子底下踏实多了。”他说，“我只
有躲在桌子底下的时候才感到安全。”
芬说：“我从来没感到安全过。”他坐在地板上，注视着子弹在房间的瓦楞铁墙上打出一
个个窟窿。子弹打中铁皮时发出“啪啪”的巨响。
接着我们胆子大了起来，站起身，朝门外张望。停机坪上空有许多梅塞施米特式109战斗
机在盘旋，随即一架接一架拉起来，俯冲过机库，用机枪扫射地面。但他们还做了件别的
事。他们掀起座舱盖，飞过时抛出一些小炸弹，小炸弹落地时发生爆炸，把无数的大铅粒猛
地炸向四面八方。我们先前听见的就是这些爆炸声，铅粒打中机库时的声音真是震耳欲聋。
这时我看见了那些人，那些地勤人员，他们站在狭长的掩壕里，用来福枪朝梅塞施米特
式战斗机开火，以最快的速度装子弹、射击，一边嘴里高声地咒骂，他们滑稽可笑地、无望
地瞄准，用区区一杆来福枪瞄准一架飞机。埃莱夫西斯没有其他的防御。
突然，梅塞施米特式战斗机全都掉转方向，打道回府，只有一架滑落下来，在停机坪缓
缓地机腹着地。
接着便是一片骚乱。我们周围的希腊人大呼小叫，他们跳上消防车，朝那架失事的德国
飞机驶去。与此同时，更多的希腊人从场地的各个角落冲出来，嘴里大喊着、咆哮着，要那
个飞行员偿还血债。他们是一伙暴民，一心想要报仇雪恨，这也是无可指摘的，但是我们还
有别的考虑。我们想审问那个飞行员，所以希望抓活的。
瘦猴站在跑道上，朝我们大喊，我和芬、帕蒂和他一起朝五十码之外的那辆旅行车冲
去。瘦猴像闪电一样钻进车里，启动引擎，把车开了出去，与此同时我们三个跳上了踏板。
那辆载着希腊人的消防车开得不快，离飞机还有两百码，在地上奔跑的人距离更远。瘦猴把
车开得很快，领先了他们五十码左右。
我们跳下车，跑向那架梅塞施米特式战斗机，坐在驾驶舱里的是一个黄头发的小伙子，
蓝色的眼睛，面颊红扑扑的。我从没见过谁的脸上露出那么强烈的恐惧。
他用英语对瘦猴说：“我的腿中弹了。”
我们把他从驾驶舱里拖出来，塞进汽车，那些希腊人站在周围看着。子弹打碎了他的胫
骨。
我们载着他开车返回，把他交给医生，这时我看见卡蒂娜站在近旁，注视着德国人的
脸。这个九岁的孩子站在那里看着德国人，说不出话来，她甚至一动也不动。她用双手紧紧
抓住自己的裙子，盯着那人的脸。“一定是什么地方弄错了。”她似乎在说，“一定是弄错了。
这个人黄头发、蓝眼睛，面颊红扑扑的。他不可能是他们的人。他是一个普通的男孩。”他们
把他搬上担架抬走时，她一直注视着他，然后她转过身，从草地跑回了自己的帐篷。
晚饭时，我吃掉了我的那份油炸沙丁鱼，但没有胃口吃面包和奶酪。整整三天了，我的
胃里有一种异样的感觉，空落落的，就像马上要做手术或在牙医诊所里等着拔牙时那样。这
感觉持续了整整三天，从早晨醒来一直到晚上入睡。彼得坐在我对面，我向他询问了这件
事。
“这感觉我有了一星期。”他说，“对肠胃有好处。能把肠胃清清空。”
“德国飞机就像保肝丸。”坐在桌尾的芬说，“他们对你大有好处，是不是这样，医生？”
医生说：“你可能服药过量了。”
“我就是，”芬说，“我吃了太多的德国保肝丸。我没有看药瓶上的说明。就寝前服两
粒。”
彼得说：“我真想退伍啊。”
晚饭后，我们三个和瘦猴一起朝下面的机库走去。瘦猴说：“这种向地面的扫射使我忧心
忡忡。他们从来不袭击机库，知道我们从来不把任何东西放在机库里。我想，今天晚上我们
挑四架飞机，把它们放进二号机库吧。”
这是个好主意。飓风战斗机因为不可能一直在天上飞，一般都分散在停机坪的各个边
缘，然后一架接一架滑出。我们四个一人开一架，滑入二号机库，然后把那两扇大滑门合
拢，锁上。
第二天早晨，太阳还没有从大山后面升起，一群Ju-87轰炸机开过来，把二号机库夷为平
地。他们的轰炸十分精准，紧挨着的另外两个机库毫发未损。
那天下午，他们击落了彼得。彼得飞往一个名叫卡尔基斯的村庄，那个村庄遭到Ju-88的
轰炸，此后，彼得再无音信。快活的、笑声朗朗的彼得，他的母亲住在肯特州一个农庄，经
常用浅蓝色的长信封给他写信，彼得把那些信装在口袋里，随身带着。
我加入中队以后，一直跟彼得合住一个帐篷，那天夜里我上床后，他回到了那个帐篷。
你不用相信我，我没有指望你相信我，我只是把当时的事情告诉你。
我总是先上床睡觉，因为那种帐篷很小，两个人同时在里面就转不开身。彼得一般总是
在两三分钟后进来。那天夜里，我上了床，躺在那里，想着今天夜里他不会来了。我想，不
知道他那蜷曲在飞机残骸里的尸体，是在某处荒凉的山坡上，还是沉到了海底深处，我只希
望他能有一个体面的葬礼。
突然，我听到了动静。帐篷的帘子被掀开，接着又合上了。但是没有脚步声。然后我听
见他在他的床上坐下。这是过去几个星期里我每天夜里都听到的声音，没有任何变化。砰的
一声，接着是行军床木腿的嘎吱声。飞行靴一只接一只被脱下来，扔在地上，其中一只总是
需要比另一只多两倍的时间才能脱掉。在那之后，是毛毯被拽上来的轻微的窸窣声，以及摇
摇晃晃的行军床承受一个男人身体时的嘎吱声。
这些是我每天夜里听到的声音，同样的声音、同样的顺序，于是，我从床上坐起来，说
了声：“彼得。”帐篷里一片漆黑。我的声音听上去很响。
“嘿，彼得。你今天真不走运。”然而没有回答。
我没有感到不安或害怕，但我记得当时我用手指摸了摸鼻尖，确保自己是真实的存在。
接着我便睡了过去，因为我实在太疲倦了。
早晨，我看着那张床，发现它有人睡过。但是我没有对任何人声张这件事，包括芬。我
亲自把毛毯放回原处，把枕头拍了拍。
就在那天，在一九四一年四月二十日，我们打了雅典之战。这大概是历史上最后一场大
规模的空中格斗，因为现在飞机都是组成大规模的翼形和编队飞行，并且遵照指挥官的命
令，系统地、科学地进行袭击。如今，除非在非常罕见的情形下，一般不会在空中格斗。然
而雅典之战却是一场长时间的、漂亮的大格斗，十五架飓风战斗机对抗一百五十到两百架德
国轰炸机和战斗机。
中午刚过，轰炸机就开始飞来了。那是一个美丽的春日，太阳第一次透出了一点初夏的
暖意。天空一片蔚蓝，只偶尔点缀着几朵轻云，大山黑压压地矗立着，在蓝天的衬托下，轮
廓十分清晰。
彭特利孔山不再把头颅隐藏在云里。它俯视着我们，那么威严和阴森，观察我们的一举
一动，知道我们做的每一件事都毫无意义。人类是愚蠢的，生来注定一死，而大山和河流万
古长存，不会在意时间的流逝。早在许多年前，彭特利孔山不是曾经俯瞰塞莫皮莱，目睹了
一伙斯巴达人守卫关隘，抗击侵略者吗？它不是目睹了他们一直战斗到全军覆没吗？它不是
曾经目睹波斯人在马拉松被列奥尼达弄得土崩瓦解吗？它不是曾经俯视萨拉米斯，俯视大
海，看见狄密斯托克利和雅典人把敌人赶出他们的海岸，使他们损失了两百多艘船吗？它目
睹了所有这些以及更多的事情，现在，它俯视着我们，而我们在它眼里一文不值。大山的脸
上几乎显出了轻蔑的表情，一时间我似乎听见了诸神的笑声。他们知道得太清楚了，我们势
单力薄，必败无疑。
刚吃过午饭，轰炸机就过来了，我们立刻看出它们数量庞大。我们抬起头，看见天空里
布满银色的小点，阳光在一百对不同的翅膀上闪烁跳跃。
我们一共有十五架飓风战斗机，它们在空中如暴风雨一般激烈作战。这样一场鏖战，具
体的细节很难记住，但我记得我抬头看见天空中密密麻麻的黑色小点。我记得我暗自纳闷，
那些不可能是飞机，绝对不可能是飞机，因为世界上没有那么多飞机。
接着，它们就朝我们开火了，我记得我振动了一下机翼，这样就能绕小圈盘旋，之后的
事情，我只能记得一两个小小的瞬间，它们深深印刻在我的脑海里。一架梅塞施米特式战斗
机从我右舷前十五分钟方向处开火，机枪喷出一股股火焰。那个德国人的降落伞打开时着了
火。有个德国人跟我并排飞，用手指对我做出粗鲁的手势。有架飓风战斗机跟一架梅塞施米
特式战斗机相撞。有架飞机撞到一个正拉着降落伞下降的人，飞机打着可怕的旋儿疾速冲向
地面，有人和降落伞悬挂在它的左翼上。两架轰炸机在急转弯躲避一架战斗机时撞在了一
起，我清楚地记得一个人在撞击的浓烟和残骸中被抛出机外，悬在空中，四肢呈大字张开。
告诉你吧，在那场战役中，没有任何事情不可能发生。有一个瞬间，我看见一架孤零零的飓
风战斗机在帕尼萨山顶盘旋，后面跟着九架梅塞施米特式战斗机，接着我记得天空似乎突然
一片空旷，视野中一架飞机也没有了。战斗已经结束。我掉转方向，返回埃莱夫西斯，一低
头，看见雅典和比雷埃夫斯，以及海湾边弯弯曲曲往南朝着地中海延伸的海岸线。我看见被
炸弹击中的比雷埃夫斯港口，看见码头上升起的浓烟和火光。我看见狭窄的海岸平原，看见
平原上的一堆堆小篝火，细细的黑烟袅袅上升，往东飘散。它们是飞机被击落后燃烧的火
焰，我只希望其中没有一架是飓风战斗机。
就在这时，我迎头碰上了一架落单的容克88，它是突袭后返航的最后一架轰炸机。它遇
到了麻烦，一个引擎正在冒黑烟。我朝它射击，但恐怕意义不大，它已经在坠落了。我们是
在大海上空，看得出来它不可能降落在陆地了。果然如此，它稳稳地落入了蓝色的比雷埃夫
斯海湾，距离海岸两英里处。我跟在它后面盘旋，等着看机上的人是否安全离开飞机，坐进
他们的小艇。
缓缓地，飞机开始下沉，机头扎进水里，机尾高高翘起。可是不见机组人员的影子。突
然，毫无预兆地，机尾的枪开火了。他们用机尾的枪突然开火，子弹在我的右翼上打出一个
个参差不齐的窟窿。我猛一转弯，我记得我朝他们大喊。我打开驾驶舱的盖子，喊道：“你们
这些吃了豹子胆的混蛋。但愿你们全都淹死。”轰炸机很快就沉没了。
我返回时，他们都站在机库外面，清点损失。卡蒂娜坐在一个箱子上，泪水顺着她的面
颊滚落。但是她并没有哭出声，芬跪在她身边，用英语跟她说话，轻声细语，忘记了她并不
能听懂。
在那场战役中，我们的飓风战斗机损失了三分之一，但德国人的损失更大。
医生正在给一个烧伤的人清理包扎伤口，他抬起头，说道：“你真应该听听当轰炸机从天
空坠落的时候，那些希腊人是怎么欢呼的。”
我们站在那儿闲聊时，一辆卡车开过来，里面跳出一个希腊人，说卡车里有一具支离破
碎的尸体。“这是手表，”他说，“是胳膊上的。”那是一块表面发光的银质腕表，背面有几个
大写字母。我们没有往卡车里看。
现在我们只剩下九架飓风战斗机了，我想。
那天晚上，英国皇家空军一位级别很高的军官从雅典过来，他说：“明天黎明时分，你们
都飞往迈加拉。顺着海岸线往南飞大约十英里。那儿有一片小场地，你们可以降落。部队在
那里连夜干活。他们有两个压路机，正在把地面碾平。你们降落后，必须立刻把飞机藏在场
地以南的橄榄树林里。地勤人员正去往更南边的阿哥斯，你们晚些时候加入他们，但你们可
以在迈加拉活动一两天。”
芬说：“卡蒂娜在哪儿？医生，你必须找到卡蒂娜，保证她安全到达阿哥斯。”
医生说：“没问题。”我们知道可以信任他。
第二天黎明时分，天还没有放亮，我们就起飞了，飞往十英里外迈加拉的那片小场地。
我们降落后，把我们的飓风战斗机藏在橄榄树林里，并从树上折下一些树枝盖住飞机。然后
我们坐在一座小山坡上，等候命令。
太阳在大山上升起来了，我们放眼眺望那片场地，发现一大群希腊村民离开迈加拉村
庄，朝我们的场地拥来。他们足有好几百人，大多数是女人和孩子，浩浩荡荡地拥向我们的
场地，一副急急忙忙的样子。
芬说：“见鬼！”我们都在小山坡上坐直身子，仔细观察，想知道他们打算做什么。
他们分散到场地的各个边缘，捡拾大把大把的石楠和欧洲蕨。他们抱着它们来到场地
上，排成长长的好几队，开始把石楠和欧洲蕨撒在草地上。他们是在伪装我们的降落场。压
路机在把地面碾平、供飞机降落时，留下了一些痕迹，很容易从空中看见，于是希腊人从自
己的村庄里倾巢而出，每一个男人、女人和孩子，开始弥补这个失误。直到今天，我也不知
道是谁叫他们这么做的。他们在场地上排成长长的队伍，慢慢地往前走，一边把石楠撒在地
上。我和芬走出去，来到他们中间。
他们大多都是上了年纪的男人和女人，个头十分矮小，神情十分凄楚，黑黢黢的脸上布
满皱纹，动作迟缓地撒着那些石楠。我们走过时，他们停住手，露出微笑，用希腊语说几句
我们听不懂的话。其中有个孩子给了芬一朵粉红色小花，芬不知道该拿它怎么办，就捏在手
里到处走来走去。
之后我们回到山坡上，等待着。不一会儿，野战电话响了。是那个级别很高的军官打来
的。他说，必须有人立刻飞回埃莱夫西斯，领取重要情报和资金。他还说，我们必须全体离
开迈加拉的小场地，当晚赶到阿哥斯。战友们说，他们会等我拿到钱回来后，再一起飞往阿
哥斯。
与此同时，有人告诉那两个还在碾平我们场地的军人，叫他们把压路机销毁，不让德国
人得到。我记得，当我钻进我的飓风战斗机时，看见两台巨大的压路机在场地上面对面朝对
方冲去，我记得就在它们相撞前的一刻，两个军人跳到了一边。随着一声惊天动地的巨响，
我看见那些撒石楠的希腊人都停住了手，抬头看去。他们一动不动地站了片刻，看着那两台
压路机。然后，其中一个拔腿跑了起来。那是一个老妇人，她开始以最快的速度跑回村庄，
一边跑一边嘴里喊着什么。立刻，场地上的每一个男人、女人和孩子似乎都变得恐慌了，都
跟在她后面跑。我真想钻出飞机，跑到他们身边，向他们解释，我想说我很抱歉，但除此之
外我们没有别的办法。我想告诉他们，我们不会忘记他们，有朝一日我们还会回来。但是没
有用了。他们困惑不解、惊慌失措，纷纷跑回自己的家，他们一刻不停地跑，很快不见了人
影，就连年迈的老者也不例外。
我启动飞机，飞往埃莱夫西斯。我降落在一个死寂的停机坪。到处看不见一个人影。我
停好飓风战斗机，就在我朝机库走去时，那些轰炸机又过来了。我藏在一个战壕里，等它们
轰炸完，然后站起身，走向那间小小的作战指挥部。电话机还在桌上，我鬼使神差地，拿起
话筒，说了声：“喂。”
那头传来一个德国口音很重的声音。
我问：“你能听见吗？”那个声音答道：“是的，是的，我能听见。”
“很好，”我说，“仔细听着。”
“好的，请讲。”
“这里是英国皇家空军。总有一天我们会回来的，你明白吗？总有一天我们会回来的。”
我把电话机从插座上拔下来，扔出了紧闭的玻璃窗外。我走出来时，有一个老百姓打扮
的小个子男人站在门边。他一只手里拿着手枪，另一只手里拿着一个小口袋。
“你想要什么东西吗？”他用很流利的英语问。
我说：“是的，我想把重要的情报和文件带回阿哥斯。”
“在这里。”他说，然后把口袋递给了我，“祝你好运。”
我飞回了迈加拉。海上有两艘希腊驱逐舰，正在燃烧和下沉。我在我们场地的上空盘旋
示意，其他战友滑出跑道起飞，大家一起飞往阿哥斯。
阿哥斯的降落地是一片很小的场地。周围是茂密的橄榄树林，我们把飞机滑进去隐藏起
来。我不知道那片场地有多长，只知道在上面降落很不容易。必须让螺旋桨低速旋转，在着
陆的一瞬间马上刹车，一踩一松，看到飞机开始打转立刻再次刹住。不过只有一个人不慎滑
出跑道，撞毁了飞机。
地勤人员已经到了，我们从飞机里出来时，卡蒂娜拎着一篮子黑橄榄朝我们跑来，她把
橄榄递给我们，指指我们的肚子，示意我们快吃。
芬弯下腰，用手揉了揉她的头发。他说：“卡蒂娜，我们将来一定要到城里去，给你买一
条新裙子。”她笑眯眯地看着他，但没有听懂，然后我们都开始吃黑橄榄。
这时我看看周围，发现树林里满是飞机。树丛中几乎每个角落都隐藏着一架飞机，我们
打听了一下才知道，希腊人把他们全部的空军力量都转移到阿哥斯，停在了那片小树林里。
它们都是奇特而古老的机型，没有一架的历史少于五年，我至今也不知道究竟有多少架飞
机。
那天夜里，我们睡在树下。我们给卡蒂娜裹了一件很大的飞行服，还给了她一顶飞行头
盔当枕头，她睡着后，我们坐在周围吃黑橄榄，从一个巨大的桶里喝葡萄酒。可是我们都很
疲倦，不一会儿就睡着了。
第二天从早到晚，我们看着一辆辆载着军人的卡车在路上驶过，奔向海边，我们尽可能
频繁地起飞，在他们的上空飞行掩护。
德国人不停地飞过来，轰炸附近的道路，但他们还没有发现我们的机场。
那天晚些时候，我们得到通知，所有能使用的飓风战斗机都在傍晚六点起飞，保护一次
重要的海上运输行动。我们仅剩的九架飞机加满了油，准备出发。六点差三分时，我们把飞
机滑出橄榄树林，滑向跑道。
前两架飞机起飞了，可是它们刚离开地面，空中就有一团黑乎乎的东西俯冲而下，朝它
们开火，使它们都燃烧起来。我看看周围，发现至少有五十架梅塞施米特式110战斗机在我们
场地上空盘旋，就在我注视的时候，其中的几架掉转身，朝着剩下的、正在等待起飞的七架
飓风战斗机俯冲下来。
根本来不及采取任何行动。我们的每架飞机都在第一次突袭时被击中，滑稽的是，只有
一位飞行员受了伤。现在起飞是不可能了，我们便跳出自己的飞机，把受伤的飞行员从驾驶
舱里拖出来，抬着他跑回狭长的掩壕，跑回希腊人挖的那些美妙的、又大又深的、之字形的
狭长战壕。
梅塞施米特式战斗机不慌不忙。地面和空中都没有抵抗力量，只有芬在用他的左轮手枪
射击。
遭遇空中扫射是一件很难受的事，特别是他们的机翼上装着大炮。除非有一条很深的长
战壕可供躺在里面，不然根本没法保命。不知出于什么原因，也许认为这是很好玩的一件事
吧，那些德国飞行员都是先袭击战壕，再去轰炸飞机。最初的十分钟，大家都在战壕的拐弯
处疯狂乱窜，以免在一条与来袭飞机的飞行路线平行的战壕里被打个正着。那真是狂乱而恐
怖的十分钟啊，每个人都在大喊着“又来了一架”，同时都手忙脚乱地冲过拐弯处，躲进战壕
的另一部分。
然后，德国人去袭击飓风战斗机，同时袭击停在橄榄树林里的那一大批老式希腊飞机，
他们有条不紊、很有章法地让一架架飞机起了火。声音震耳欲聋，子弹射向四面八方——树
林里、岩石间、草地上。
我记得我从我们战壕的上沿小心翼翼地张望，看见一朵小白花，就在离我鼻子几英寸的
地方。纯白色的，有三个花瓣。我记得我的目光越过它，看见三架德国飞机，朝停在场地另
一边的我的那架飓风战斗机俯冲下去，我记得我朝他们大喊大叫，但不记得自己说了什么。
突然，我看见了卡蒂娜。她正从停机坪远端的角落里跑出来，她以最快的速度，一刻不
停地跑向这场枪林弹雨、飞机燃烧的混战的中心。有一次她被绊倒了，但挣扎着又爬起来，
继续往前跑。接着她停住脚步，站在那里往上看，朝飞过的那些飞机举起了拳头。
我记得，就在她站在那儿时，我看见一架梅塞施米特式战斗机转过头，低低地直朝她开
过去，我记得自己在想，她那么小，不可能被击中。我记得看见德国飞机逼近时，机枪里喷
出的火焰，我记得我看见那孩子，在那短短的一瞬，立住一动不动，面对着敌机。我记得风
吹拂着她的头发。
然后她就倒下了。
接下来的一刻我永远不会忘记。就像施了魔法一样，在四面八方，男人们纷纷从地上出
现。他们从各自的战壕里爬出来，像一群疯狂的暴民，拥向停机坪，奔向躺在场地中央的那
个一动不动的小小身影。他们蹲着身子，跑得很快，我记得我从战壕里一跃而出，加入了他
们的队伍。我记得我什么也没想，只盯着前面那个男人的靴子，注意到他有点儿罗圈腿，而
且他的蓝裤子太长了。
我记得看见芬第一个赶到，后面紧跟着一个名叫威什弗的中士，我记得看见他们俩抱起
卡蒂娜，迅速跑回战壕。我看见了她那血肉模糊的腿，我看见了她的胸口，鲜血喷出来染红
了她的白色印花裙。有一刻我看见了她的脸，白得像奥林匹斯山顶上的雪。
我和芬一起奔跑，他边跑边不住地说：“该死的混蛋，该死的、挨千刀的混蛋。”我记得
我们赶回战壕时，我环顾四周，发现不再有任何声音和射击。德国人已经离开。
芬说：“医生在哪儿？”医生突然出现了，站在我们身边，看着卡蒂娜——看着她的脸。
医生轻轻摸了摸她的手腕，没有抬头，低声说道：“她已经没气了。”
他们把她放在一棵小树下，我扭过脸去，看见到处都是数不清的飞机正在燃烧的火焰。
我看见我自己的那架飓风战斗机在近旁燃烧，我站在那里，绝望地盯着火苗在引擎周围跳
跃，舔舐着金属的机翼。
我站在那里，呆呆地看着火苗，看着看着，火焰变成了更深的红色，我在火焰后面看到
的不是扭曲缠绕的冒烟的残骸，而是一团更炽热、更强烈的熊熊之火，在希腊人的心中燃烧
不灭。
我仍然呆呆地看着，这时我看见在火焰的中心，当红色的火苗蹿动时，有一种闪亮的白
热，那么耀眼夺目，没有任何色彩。
我呆呆地看着，那强光弥漫开去，变得像阳光一样柔和、金黄，透过它，越过它，我看
见一个小孩子站在一片场地中央，阳光照得她的头发闪闪发亮。她站在那里，抬眼望着天
空，天空那么蔚蓝、清澈，没有一丝云彩。然后她转过身，朝我看来，就在她转身的时候，
我看见她那条白色印花裙的胸前有一片深红色，那是血的颜色。
接着，不再有烈焰，也不再有火苗，我看见面前只有一架被烧毁的飞机那发红、扭曲的
残骸。我一定在那里站了很长时间。
THE VANASHIG GLASS

THE VANASHIG GLASS
Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.
Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.
“Up! Get up! Now!”
Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.
“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the same dream before.
His aunt was back outside the door.
“Are you up yet?” she demanded.
“Nearly,” said Harry.
“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”
Harry groaned.
“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the door.
“Nothing, nothing …”
Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten?
Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.
When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike.
Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise — unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast.
Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask questions.”
Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.
Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.
About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way — all over the place.
Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel — Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.
Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn’t much room.
Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”
“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy.”
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?”
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty … thirty …”
“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.
“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.”
Uncle Vernon chuckled.
“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ’Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.
At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.