Life with the Day family acquired a reassuring1 pattern. My father would leave for work before any of us stirred from our sleep, and that golden waking hour between his departure and my march to school was a comfort. My mother at the stove, stirring oatmeal or frying breakfast in a pan; the twins exploring the kitchen on unsteady feet. The picture windows framed and kept away the outside world. The Days' home had long ago been a working farm, and though agriculture had been abandoned, vestiges2 remained. An old barn, red paint souring to a dark mauve, now served as a garage. The split-rail fence that fronted the property was falling apart stick by stick. The field, an acre or so that had flushed green with corn, lay fallow, a tangle3 of brambles that Dad only bothered to mow4 once each October. The Days were the first to abandon farming in the area, and their distant neighbors joined them over the years, selling off homesteads and acreage to developers. But when I was a child, it was still a quiet, lonesome place.
The trick of growing up is to remember to grow. The mental part of becoming Henry Day demanded full attention to every detail of his life, but no amount of preparation for the changing can account for the swath of the subject's family history—memories of bygone birthday parties and other intimacies—that one must pretend to remember. History is easy enough to fake; stick around anyone long enough and one can catch up to any plot. But other accidents and flaws expose the risks of assuming another's identity. Fortunately we seldom had company, for the old house was isolated5 on a small bit of farmland out in the country.
Near my first Christmas, while my mother attended to the crying twins upstairs and I idled by the fireplace, a knock came at the front door. On the porch stood a man with his fedora in hand, the smell of a recent cigar mixing with the faintly medicinal aroma6 of hair oil. He grinned as if he recognized me at once, although I had not seen him before.
"Henry Day," he said. "As I live and breathe."
I stood fixed7 to the threshold, searching my memory for an errant clue as to who this man might be. He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly at the waist, then strode past me into the foyer, glancing furtively8 up the stairs. "Is your mother in? Is she decent?"
Hardly anyone came to visit in the middle of the day, except occasionally the farmers' wives nearby or mothers of my schoolmates, driving out from town with a fresh cake and new gossip. When we had spied on Henry, there was no man other than his father or the milkman who came to the house.
He tossed his hat on the sideboard and turned to face me again. "How long's it been, Henry? Your mama's birthday, maybe? You don't look like you've grown a whisker. Your daddy not feeding you?"
I stared at the stranger and did not know what to say.
"Run up the stairs and tell your mama I'm here for a visit. Go on now, son."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Why, your Uncle Charlie, a-course."
"But I don't have any uncles."
The man laughed; then his brow furrowed9 and his mouth became a severe line. "Are you okay, Henry boy?" He bent10 down to look me in the eye. "Now, I'm not actually your uncle, son, but your mama's oldest friend. A friend of the family, you might say."
My mother saved me by coming down the stairway unbidden, and the moment she saw the stranger, she threw her arms into the air and rushed to embrace him. I took advantage of their reunion to slip away.
A close call, but not as bad as the scare a few weeks later. In those first few years, I still had all my changeling powers and could hear like a fox. Prom any room in the house, I could eavesdrop11 on my parents during their unguarded conversations, and overheard Dad's suspicions during one such pillow talk.
"Have you noticed anything odd about the boy lately?"
She slips into bed beside him. "Odd?"
"There's the singing around the house."
"He's a lovely voice."
"And those fingers."
I looked at my hands, and in comparison with other children's, my fingers were exceedingly long and out of proportion.
"I think he'll be a pianist. Billy, we ought to have him at lessons."
"And toes."
I curled up my toes in my bed upstairs.
"And he seems to have grown not an inch or put on not a pound all winter long."
"He needs some sun is all."
The old man rolls over toward her. "He's a queer lad, is all I know."
"Billy ... stop."
I resolved that night to become a true boy and begin paying closer attention to how I might be considered normal. Once such a mistake had been made, nothing could be done. I couldn't very well shorten my fingers and toes and invite further skepticism, but I could stretch the rest of me a bit each night and keep up with all the other children. I also made it a point to avoid Dad as much as possible.
The idea of the piano intrigued12 me as a way to ingratiate myself with my mother. When she wasn't listening to crooners on the radio, she might dial in the classics, particularly on a Sunday. Bach sent my head spinning with buried reveries, conjuring13 an echo from the distant past. But I had to figure away to mention my interest without Mom realizing that her private conversations could be heard no matter how quiet or intimate. Fortunately, the twins supplied the answer. At Christmas, my distant grandparents sent them a toy piano. No bigger than a bread basket, it produced but a tinny octave of notes, and from New Year's Day the keys gathered a dusty coat. I rescued the toy and sat in the nursery, playing nearly recognizable tunes14 from distant memory. My sisters, as usual, were enchanted16, and they sat like two entranced yogis as I tested my memory on the piano's limited range. Dust rag in hand, my mother wandered by and stood in the doorway17, listening intently. From the corner of my eye, I watched her watching me, and when I ended with a flourish, her applause was not completely unexpected.
In the fleeting18 time between homework and dinner, I picked out a tune15 of sorts, and gradually revealed my native talent, but she needed more encouragement than that. My scheme was casual and simple. I let drop the fact that a half-dozen of the kids in school took music lessons, when, in truth, there may have been one or two. On car trips, I pretended that the panel below my window was a keyboard and fingered measures until my father ordered me to cut that out. I made a point of whistling the first few bars of something familiar, like Beethoven's Ninth, when helping19 Mom dry the dishes. I did not beg, but bided20 my time, until she came to believe the idea as her own. My gambit played out when, on the Saturday before Henry's eighth birthday, my parents drove me into the city to see a man about piano lessons.
We left the twin toddlers with the neighbors, and the three of us sat up front in my father's coupe, embarking21 early that spring morning in our Sunday clothes. We drove past the town where I went to school, where we shopped and went to Mass, and onto the highway into the city. Shiny cars zipped along the asphalt as we picked up speed, joining a ribbon of pure energy flowing in both directions. We went faster than I'd ever gone in my life, and I had not been to the city in nearly one hundred years. Billy drove the '49 De Soto like an old friend, one hand on the wheel, his free arm thrown across the seat behind my mother and me. The old conquistador stared at us from the steering22 wheel's hub, and as Dad made a turn, the explorer's eyes seemed to follow us.
On our approach to the city, the factories on the outskirts23 appeared first, great smokestacks exhaling24 streams of dark clouds, furnaces within glowing with hearts of fire. A bend in the road—then all at once, a view of buildings stretched to heaven. The downtown's sheer size left me breathless, and the closer we came, the greater it loomed25, until suddenly we were in the car-choked streets. The shadows deepened and darkened. At a cross street, a trolley26 scraped along, its pole shooting sparks to the wires above. Its doors opened like a bellows27, and out poured a crowd of people in their spring coats and hats; they stood on a concrete island in the street, waiting for the light to change. In the department store windows, reflections of shoppers and traffic cops mingled28 with displays of new goods: women's dresses and men's suits on mannequins, which fooled me initially29, appearing alive and posing perfectly30 still.
"I don't know why you feel the need to come all the way downtown for this. You know I don't like coming into the city. I'll never find parking."
Mom's right arm shot out. "There's a space, aren't we lucky?"
Riding up in the elevator, my father reached inside his coat pocket for a Camel, and as the doors opened on the fifth floor, he lit up. We were a few minutes early, and while they debated over whether or not to go in, I walked to the door and entered. Mr. Martin may not have been a fairy, but he was very fey. Tall and thin, his white hair long in a shaggy boy's cut, he wore a worn plum-colored suit. Christopher Robin31 all grown up and gone to genteel seed. Behind him stood the most beautiful machine I had ever seen. Lacquered to a high black finish, the grand piano drew all of the vitality32 of the room toward its propped-open lid. Those keys held in their serenity33 the possibility of every beautiful sound. I was too dumbstruck to answer his inquiry34 the first time.
"May I help you, young man?"
"I'm Henry Day, and I'm here to learn everything you know."
"My dear young man," he replied, sighing, "I'm afraid that's impossible."
I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys unlocked a distant memory of a stern German instructor35 ordering me to increase the tempo36. I stretched my fingers as far apart as possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting37 an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided38 behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. "Have you played before?"
"Once upon a time ..."
"Find me middle C, Mr. Day."
And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.
My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite ahem. Mr. Martin wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses39, resurrecting scores that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded heissblütig, heissblütig—more passion, more feeling.
"You said he was a beginner."
"He is," my mother replied. "I don't think he's ever even seen a real piano."
"This boy is a natural."
For fun, I plinked out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the way I would play it for my sisters. I was careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.
"He taught himself that," Mom said. "On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he can sing, too, sing like a bird."
Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice the wordless exchange. My mother rattled40 on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not discover the melody.
"Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum requirement, however, is for eight weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy." Then he mentioned, in a voice barely above a whisper, his fee. My father lit another Camel and walked toward the window.
"But for your son"—he addressed my mother now—"for Henry, a born musician if I ever heard one, for him, I will require only half the tuition, but you must commit to sixteen weeks. Four months. We will know how far we can go."
I picked out a rudimentary "Happy Birthday." My father finished his smoke and tapped me on the shoulder, indicating we were to leave. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her lightly by the fleshy part of her arm above the elbow.
"I'll call you Monday," he said, "at three-thirty. We'll think it over."
Mr. Martin bowed slightly and looked me straight in the eye. "You have a gift, young man."
As we drove home, I watched the city recede41 in the mirror and disappear. Mom chattered42 incessantly43, dreaming the future, planning our lives. Billy, hands locked on the wheel, concentrated on the road and said nothing.
"I'll buy some laying hens, that's what I'll do. Remember when you used to say you wanted to turn our place back into a real farm? I'll start a brood of chickens, and we'll sell the eggs, and that will pay the bill, surely. And imagine, we'll have fresh eggs ourselves every morning, too. And Henry can take the school bus to the streetcar, and the streetcar into town. You could drive him to the streetcar Saturdays?"
"I could do chores to earn the fare."
"You see, Billy, how much he wants to learn? He has a gift, that Mr. Martin said. And he's so refined. Did you ever see such a thing in your life as that piano? He must shine it every day."
My father rolled down his window about an inch to let in a roar of fresh air.
"Did you hear him play 'Happy Birthday to You,' like he's been at it forever? It's what he wants; it's what I want. Sweetheart."
"When would he practice, Ruth? Even I know you have to play every day, and I might be able to afford piano lessons, but I certainly can't afford a piano in the house."
"There's a piano at school," I said. "Nobody uses it. I'm sure if I asked, they'd let me stay after...."
"What about your homework and those chores you said you would do? I don't want to see your grades slipping."
"Nine times nine is eighty-one. Separate is spelled S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E. Oppenheimer gave us the bomb, which took care of the Japs. The Holy Trinity is the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, and it is a holy mystery that no one can figure out."
"All right, Einstein. You can try it, but for eight weeks. Just to be sure. And your mother will have to raise the egg money, and you have to help care for the chickens. They teach you that in that school of yours?"
Ruth studied his face, a rare look of love and wonder in her gaze. Both grinned a private, sheepish half-smile, the meaning of which eluded44 me. Sitting between them, I basked45 in the warmth of the moment, lacking any guilt46 over the fact that I was not their child. We drove on, the happiest of happy little families.
As we crossed a high bridge over the river not far from our house, a commotion47 flashed along the riverbank far below. To my horror, I saw a line of changelings walking through a clearing in single file, blending in with the budding trees and bushes, then vanishing in a blink. Those strange children moved like deer. My parents were oblivious48, but at the thought of those creatures down there, I flushed and broke into a sweat, which as quickly turned to a chill. That they still existed alarmed me, for I had nearly forgotten them. That they could expose my past made me ill, and I was about to beg my father to pull off the road. But he lit up another cigarette and opened his window wider, and the fresh air alleviated49 my nausea50, if not my fear.
Mom broke the spell. "Didn't Mr. Martin ask us to commit to four months?"
"I'll call him Monday and work out a deal. Let's try two months, actually, at first. See if the boy likes it."
For the next eight years, I took piano lessons, and it was the happiest time of all my lives. If I came in early to school, the nuns51 were glad to let me practice at the upright in the lunchroom. Later on, they let me into the church to learn the organ, and I was the youngest substitute organist the parish ever had. Life became orderly, and the discipline a joy. Each morning, my hand went under the warm bellies52 of the chickens, collecting eggs, and each afternoon, my fingers upon the keyboard, perfecting my technique. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the trip into the city proved a tonic53, away from farm and family and into civilization. No longer something wild, but a creature of culture, on my way to becoming a virtuoso54 once again.
我在戴家过上了安稳的日子。我们都还在梦乡中时，父亲已经出门上班，在他离开之后到我上学之前的那段金色晨光，真令人舒服。母亲在炉边煮燕麦粥，或者用平底锅煎早餐。双胞胎迈着蹒跚的脚步在厨房里东寻西找。落地窗隔开了外面的世界，将景色框成一幅幅画。戴氏家园长久以来就是个耕作的农场，虽然现在已经放弃了农作，遗迹仍然保留着。一个旧谷仓现在被用作车库，上面的红漆已经酸化成了深紫色。挡在设施前的围栅一条接一条地倒下。大约有一英亩左右的农田正泛出玉米的绿芽，但是无人耕种，只有父亲每年十月才会除一下荆棘。戴家是本地第一家放弃农作的，此后几年里，他们的远邻们也纷纷学样，将宅第和地皮卖给开发商。但当我还是个孩子时，那里仍然是一方安静、寂寞的土地。
长大的诀窍就是记住要长大。化身为亨利·戴，在心理上需要去关注他生活的点点滴滴，但为变身所作的准备并不包括弄清对象的家庭历史——对以前生日聚会的记忆，以及其他私事——那些人们必须假装记住的事情。历史能轻而易举地伪造，只要跟一个人粘在一起足够久，就能了解任何事情。但总还有突发事件和百密一疏的时候，这说明了假扮他人身份是多么危险。好在我家几乎不和别人往来，因为老屋茕茕孑立在乡村深处的一块小农地上。
快过第一个圣诞节时，某天，母亲正在楼上照顾哭闹的姐妹，我在壁炉旁无所事事，这时大门上响起了敲门声。门廊处站着一个男人，软呢帽拿在手里，发油里淡淡的药物清香混合着一股刚刚吸过的雪茄烟味。他咧开嘴笑了，好像一下子认出了我，但我从未见过他。
“亨利·戴，”他说，“我可不会忘了你。”
我怔在门口，在记忆中搜寻这人身份的一切线索。他鞋后跟“咔嚓”一声，微一弯腰，从我身边跨过，走进大厅，鬼鬼祟祟地朝楼上瞟了一眼，“你母亲在吗?
她好吗? ”
中午的这个时候几乎没有人会来拜访，除了偶尔有住在附近的农妇或是我同学的母亲们会来，驾车从镇上送来新鲜的蛋糕和新鲜的闲话。我们对亨利展开侦察时，除了他父亲和送奶工，没有其他男人来过这屋子。
那男人把帽子扔在餐具柜上，又转过身对着我：“亨利，有多久没见了? 可能上次还是你妈妈的生日吧? 你看上去连胡子都没长。你爸爸没喂好你吗? ”
我盯着这个陌生人，不知该说什么。
“快上楼告诉你妈妈我来了。去吧，孩子。”
“我该说谁来了? ”
“啊，当然是你查理叔叔了。”
“但我没有叔叔。”
这人哈哈大笑，接着皱起眉头，嘴唇紧紧抿成一条线。“你没事吧，亨利宝贝?”他弯下腰看着我的眼睛，“嗯，我不是你的亲叔叔，孩子，而是你妈妈的最老的老朋友。可以这么说，我是你们家的朋友。”
我母亲不请自来地从楼梯上下来，这可把我救了。她一看到这个陌生人，就张开双臂奔过去拥抱他。趁他们团聚之时，我溜走了。
这次亲密访问和几周后的惊吓相比，还不算怎么糟。在最初几年，我还有换生灵的所有本领，听觉和狐狸一般灵敏。无论在屋子里的哪个房间，我都能窃听到父母毫不设防的对话。一天晚上，我听到爸爸在枕边说着他的怀疑。
“最近你有没有注意到这个孩子有点古怪? ”
她钻进被子，躺在他身边，“古怪? ”
“他在家里到处唱歌。”
“他有副好嗓子。”
“还有那些手指。”
我看了看我的双手，与其他孩子相比，我的手指长得出奇，不成比例。
“我觉得他能成为一个钢琴家。比利，我们应该让他去上课。”
“还有脚趾。”
我在楼上的床上蜷起脚趾。
“还有，整个冬天他好像一点也没长高，也没长胖。”
“他要多晒晒太阳。”
老家伙翻过身来对她说：“我就是觉得，他是个奇怪的孩子。”
“比利……别说了。”
那晚，我决定要变成一个真正的男孩，并开始非常留心怎样才能让人觉得我正常。错误一旦铸成，就无可挽救。我不能大幅度缩短我的手指脚趾来招致更多的怀疑，但我能在每天晚上将我身体的其他部分拉伸一点儿，变得和其他孩子一样。我还得出结论，要尽量避着爸爸。
弹钢琴这个主意提醒了我，可以这样来讨好母亲。特别是在星期天，她不听收音机里的歌曲时，会放古典音乐的唱片。巴赫使我的头脑随着沉埋的往事旋转，从遥远的过去荡起一个回声。但我得想个办法来提起我的兴趣，又不能让妈妈发觉她的私房话无论多么小声多么私密都会被听到。幸运的是，双胞胎提供了解决方案。
圣诞节时，远方的祖父母送给她们一台玩具钢琴。它和面包篮差不多大，只能弹出一个八度音阶。从大年初一开始，琴键上就蒙了一层灰。
我把这个玩具抢救了出来，坐在幼儿室里，弹奏那遥远的记忆中隐隐约约的曲调。妹妹们和往常一样被迷住了，我在钢琴有限的音域上测试记忆时，她们像是练瑜伽似的端坐在地上。母亲手里拿着抹布经过，站在门口静听。我用眼角余光看到她正看着我，我用潇洒的一挥结束曲子时．她的掌声不出意料地响起。
从做完功课到吃晚饭的短暂时间里，我弹了各种各样的调子，慢慢地展露出我的天分，但她还需要更多的鼓励。我的计谋在不经意间展开，方法简单。我透露说学校里的孩子有半数都在上音乐课，但其实只有一两个。开车出去时，我把车窗下面的侧板当作琴键，手指不停地打节拍，直到父亲命我停下。帮母亲擦碟子时，我哼着一些熟悉曲子的开头几节，比如贝多芬《第九交响曲》。我没有恳求，只是等待时机，等她相信这个主意是她自己的想法。亨利八岁生日前的那个星期六，父母开车带我进城去见一个教钢琴的人，这时，我的策略告一段落。
我们把双胞胎交给邻居照管，三个人坐进父亲车子的前排，穿着我们最好的衣服，在那个春天的早晨出发了。车子驶过我上学的镇子，我们停下来望弥撒，然后开上通往城里的高速公路。闪着光泽的小汽车在柏油马路上迤逦前行，我们加速并入这条两端不断延长的能量带。我们的速度比我一生中任何一次都快，而我已将近有一百年没有去过城里了。比利像老朋友似的驾驶着德苏鲁，一手掌着方向盘，另一条空着的胳膊横在母亲和我背后的座位上。老西班牙征服者①从方向盘中央盯着我们，爸爸转弯时，这个探险家的眼睛似乎也跟着我们。
随着我们开近城市，最先出现的是郊区的工厂，巨大的烟囱喷吐黑云，里面的炉子燃烧着火的心脏。马路转了个弯——猛然间，建筑物铺向天际。城区的庞大规模让我敛声屏气，我们越是接近，它就越加壮阔，然后我们突然就进入了车水马龙的街道。阴影加深、变暗。
十字路口，一辆电车嘎嘎开过，它的天线在上面的电线上爆出火花。
车门像风箱似的拉开，一群穿着春衣、戴着帽子的人涌出来，他们站在街上的水泥安全岛上，等待红绿灯转变。百货商店的橱窗上映着购物者和交警的身影，和最新陈列的商品融合在一起，女士套裙和男士西装穿在模特儿身上。起初那些模特儿把我弄迷糊了，它们看起来栩栩如生，但摆出的姿态纹丝不动。
“我不知道你为什么觉得有必要大老远为了这事来城里。你知道我不喜欢进城。
从来都找不到停车位。”
妈妈伸出右臂。“那边有个位置，我们运气好吧? ”
在上升的电梯里，父亲伸手进外套口袋里摸出一支骆驼香烟，电梯门在第五层上打开，他点燃了烟。我们早到了几分钟，他们还在争辩是否应当进去，我已走到门口跨了进去。马丁先生也许不是一个仙灵，但看上去却很有仙灵风范。他又高又瘦，长长的白发剪成乱蓬蓬的童花头，穿一件紫红色旧西装。克里斯托夫·罗宾长大成人，变得彬彬有礼。他身后立着一架我所见过的最美丽的机器。这架大钢琴披着亮黑色的漆料，将房间中所有的活力都吸聚到它撑起的琴盖上。这些琴键在宁静中把持着发出任何一个美丽音符的可能。我万分震撼，连他第一次发问都没回答。
“有何贵干，小伙子? ”
“我叫亨利·戴，我到这儿来学习你会的所有东西。”
“亲爱的小伙子，”他叹道，“恐怕这是不可能的。”
我走到钢琴前，坐在琴凳上。琴键打开我悠远的记忆，那是一位严厉的德国指导老师命令我加快节奏。我尽可能舒张手指，看看自己的跨度，然后把它们放在白键上，没有发出一点额外的声音。马丁先生悄悄移步到我身后，从我肩后审视着我的手指，“你以前弹过吗? ”
“很久以前……”
“给我弹一个中央c ，戴先生。”
我不假思索地用右手拇指侧面按下了一个键。
我的父母走进房间，礼貌地清了清嗓子以示到来。马丁先生转过身，大步过去与他们见礼。他们握手和介绍时，我从音阶的中间往两边弹。钢琴的音调抖擞起强有力的神经，唤醒我记忆中的曲谱。
我头脑中有一个声音要求我heissblintig，heiblintig更富激情，更有感觉。
“你们说他是个初学者。”
“他是，”我母亲回答说，“我想他以前连真正的钢琴都没见过。”
“这孩子是天才。”
为了好玩，我用给妹妹们演奏的方法弹起《小星星，亮晶晶》。我谨慎地只用了一根手指，好似这架大钢琴只是个玩具。
“他自学的，”妈妈说，“在一架小钢琴上弹，就是您在玩具管弦乐器店看到的那种。他还会唱歌，唱得跟鸟儿似的。”
爸爸飞快地瞥了我一眼。马丁先生忙于评价我母亲，没有注意到这无言的交流。
母亲滔滔不绝地历数我的才能，但没人在听。我缓慢地、断断续续地练习我的肖邦，伪装得如此巧妙，甚至老资格的马丁都没有听出这个曲调来。
“戴先生，戴夫人，我同意收下你们的儿子。但我最低的要求是，_ 次要学八周，每周是周三下午和周六，我来教这个孩子。”接着他用比耳语高不了多少的声音提出了费用。父亲又点了一支骆驼烟，走到窗前。
“但是对于您的儿子——”现在他跟我妈妈说话了——“亨利是我闻所未闻的天才音乐家，对于他，我只收一半学费，但必须来上十六周的课。四个月。我们会知道他能学到什么程度。”
我弹起基础性的< 生日快乐》。父亲吸完烟，拍了拍我肩膀，示意我们要走了。
他走到妈妈身边，轻轻握住她的膀子。
“星期一我会给您打电话，”他说，“三点半。我们会考虑考虑。”
马丁先生微微鞠躬，看定我的眼睛，“小伙子，你有天赋。”
回家路上，我看着城市在后视镜中倒退、消失。妈妈喋喋不休地梦想着未来，计划着我们的生活。比利两只手锁定在方向盘上，注意力集中在路上，什么话也没说。
“我要买一些下蛋的母鸡，我要干这个。还记得你说过，你想把①德文：热血澎湃．热血澎湃．我们的地方变回真正的农场? 我要从一窝小鸡开始，我们卖掉鸡蛋，然后当然能付这笔款子。想想吧，我们自己每天早晨能吃到新鲜鸡蛋。亨利能坐学校巴士去换乘电车，再坐电车进城。星期六你能送他去电车站吗? ”
“我要做杂活赚钱。”
“你看，比利，他多想学啊? 他是个天才，马丁先生说的。他是个多么有教养的人。你这辈子见过这样的钢琴吗? 他一定每天都擦它。”
父亲把车窗摇下一寸，一股新鲜空气呼啸而入。
“你没听见他弹《生日快乐》就像他一直在弹似的? 这是他想要的，这是我想要的。甜心。”
“他什么时候练习呢，露丝? 就连我也知道他得每天弹，我也许付得起钢琴课的学费，但我肯定买不起一架钢琴放在家里。”
“学校里有钢琴，”我说，“没人用它。我肯定我开口的话，他们会让我放学后……”
“那你的家庭作业和你说过你来做的家务怎么办? 我不想看到你成绩下滑。”
“9 乘9 等于81。separate拼作S －E －P-A_R-A-T-E 。奥本海默发明了原子弹，它照顾了日本人。圣三位一体是圣父、圣子和圣灵，这个神圣之谜无人能解。”
“好吧，爱因斯坦。你去学学看，但只能八周。去求个心安。你母亲来卖鸡蛋赚钱，你帮忙养小鸡。他们在你学校里教过你那个吗? ”
露丝注视着他的面容，目光中有种难得的爱意和惊讶。两人都露出一种会意的、羞涩的淡淡笑容，我不解其中之意。我坐在他们中间，沐浴在此刻的温暖中，丝毫不为我不是他们的孩子而感到内疚。
我们开车向前，这是一个快乐小家庭最为幸福的一刻。
当我们穿过一条离家不远的高架桥时，下方的河岸闪过一丝悸动。我恐惧地看到一队换生灵排队走过一块空地，走进发芽的树木和灌木丛，转眼间就消失了。这些奇怪的孩子行动像鹿一样敏捷。
我的父母没有看见，但我一想到下面的那些生物，就脸上发烧，冷汗直冒，很快打起寒战来。他们还在，我惊慌失措，因为我已经几乎忘记了他们。他们会揭发我的过去，我一阵恶心，差点要央求父亲在路边停车。但他又点了一支烟，把车窗开大了些，新鲜空气减轻了我的晕眩，但没有减轻我的恐惧。
妈妈打破了沉默，“马丁先生不是让我们学四个月吗? ”
“我星期一会给他打电话，达成协议。让我们先试两个月，其实，就是开个头。
看看这孩子是否喜欢。”
此后八年，我都学钢琴，这是我生命中所有最快乐的时光。如果我上学得早，修女们就会高兴地让我在餐厅的竖式钢琴上练习。后来，他们让我去教堂学管风琴，我成了教区有史以来最年轻的管风琴候补手。生活循序渐进，训练乐在其中。早晨，我把手探入母鸡温暖的肚子底下收集鸡蛋，下午，我把手指放在琴键上琢磨我的技艺。每周三和周六的进城让我美滋滋地离开农场和家，进入文明世界。我不再是野性的东西，而是一种有文化的生物，正再次走在成为演奏家的路上。
收听单词发音 |
1
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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eavesdrop
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| v.偷听，倾听 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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28
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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synapses
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| n.（神经元的）突触( synapse的名词复数 )；染色体结合( synapsis的名词复数 )；联会；突触；（神经元的）触处 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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42
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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43
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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45
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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46
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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48
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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49
alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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51
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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52
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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53
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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54
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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