白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第14章

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xpectedly　in　some　reflecting　surface。　We　moved　from　store　to　store；　rejecting　not　only　items　in　certain　departments；　not　only　entire　departments　but　whole　stores；　mammoth　corporations　that　did　not　strike　our　fancy　for　one　reason　or　another。　There　was　always　another　store；　three　floors；　eight　floors；　basement　full　of　cheese　graters　and　paring　knives。　I　shopped　with　reckless　abandon。　I　shopped　for　immediate　needs　and　distant　contingencies。　I　shopped　for　its　own　sake；　looking　and　touching；　inspecting　merchandise　I　had　no　intention　of　buying；　then　buying　it。　I　sent　clerks　into　their　fabric　books　and　pattern　books　to　search　for　elusive　designs。　I　began　to　grow　in　value　and　self…regard。　I　filled　myself　out；　found　new　aspects　of　myself；　located　a　person　I'd　forgotten　existed。　Brightness　settled　around　me。　We　crossed　from　furniture　to　men's　wear；　walking　through　cosmetics。　Our　images　appeared　on　mirrored　columns；　in　glassware　and　chrome；　on　TV　monitors　in　security　rooms。　I　traded　money　for　goods。　The　more　money　I　spent；　the　less　important　it　seemed。　I　was　bigger　than　these　sums。　These　sums　poured　off　my　skin　like　so　much　rain。　These　sums　in　fact　came　back　to　me　in　the　form　of　existential　credit。　I　felt　expansive；　inclined　to　be　sweepíngly　generous；　and　told　the　kids　to　pick　out　their　Christmas　gifts　here　and　now。　I　gestured　in　what　I　felt　was　an　expansive　manner。　I　could　tell　they　were　impressed。　They　fanned　out　across　the　area；　each　of　them　suddenly　inclined　to　be　private；　shadowy；　even　secretive。　Periodically　one　of　them　would　return　to　register　the　name　of　an　item　with　Babette；　careful　not　to　let　the　others　know　what　it　was。　I　myself　was　not　to　be　bothered　with　tedious　details。　I　was　the　benefactor；　the　one　who　dispenses　gifts；　bonuses；　bribes；　baksheesh。　The　children　knew　it　was　the　nature　of　such　things　that　I　could　not　be　expected　to　engage　in　technical　discussions　about　the　gifts　themselves。　We　ate　another　meal。　A　band　played　live　Muzak。　Voices　rose　ten　stories　from　the　gardens　and　promenades；　a　roar　that　echoed　and　swirled　through　the　vast　gallery；　mixing　with　noises　from　the　tiers；　with　shuffling　feet　and　chiming　bells；　the　hum　of　escalators；　the　sound　of　people　eating；　the　human　buzz　of　some　vivid　and　happy　transaction。
　　We　drove　home　in　silence。　We　went　to　our　respective　rooms；　wishing　to　be　alone。　A　little　later　I　watched　Steffie　in　front　of　the　TV　set。　She　moved　her　lips；　attempting　to　match　the　words　as　they　were　spoken。
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　　It　is　the　nature　and　pleasure　of　townspeople　to　distrust　the　city。　All　the　guiding　principles　that　might　flow　from　a　center　of　ideas　and　cultural　energies　are　regarded　as　corrupt；　one　or　another　kind　of　pornography。　This　is　how　it　is　with　towns。
　　But　Blacksmith　is　nowhere　near　a　large　city。　We　don't　feel　threatened　and　aggrieved　in　quite　the　same　way　other　towns　do。　We're　not　smack　in　the　path　of　history　and　its　contaminations。　If　our　plaints　have　a　focal　point；　it　would　have　to　be　the　TV　set；　where　the　outer　torment　lurks；　causing　fears　and　secret　desires。　Certainly　little　or　no　resentment　attaches　to　the　College…on…the…Hill　as　an　emblem　of　ruinous　influence。　The　school　occupies　an　ever　serene　edge　of　the　townscape；　semidetached；　more　or　less　scenic；　suspended　in　political　calm。　Not　a　place　designed　to　aggravate　suspicions。
　　In　light　snow　I　drove　to　the　airport　outside　Iron　City；　a　large　town　sunk　in　confusion；　a　center　of　abandonment　and　broken　glass　rather　than　a　place　of　fully　realized　urban　decay。　Bee；　my　twelve…year…old；　was　due　in　on　a　flight　from　Washington；　with　two　stops　and　one　change　of　planes　along　the　way。　But　it　was　her　mother；　Tweedy　Browner；　who　showed　up　in　the　arrivals　area；　a　small　dusty　third…world　place　in　a　state　of　halted　renovation。　For　a　moment　I　thought　Bee　was　dead　and　Tweedy　had　e　to　tell　me　in　person。
　　〃Where　is　Bee？〃
　　〃She's　flying　in　later　today。　That's　why　I'm　here。　To　spend　some　time　with　her。　I　have　to　go　to　Boston　tomorrow。　Family　business。〃
　　〃But　where　is　she？〃
　　〃With　her　father。〃
　　〃I'm　her　father；　Tweedy。〃
　　〃Malcolm　Hunt；　stupid。　My　husband。〃
　　〃He's　your　husband；　he's　not　her　father。〃
　　〃Do　you　still　love　me；　Tuck？〃　she　said。
　　She　called　me　Tuck；　which　is　what　her　mother　used　to　call　her　father。　All　the　male　Browners　were　called　Tuck。　When　the　line　began　to　pale；　producing　a　series　of　aesthetes　and　inpetents；　they　gave　the　name　to　any　man　who　married　into　the　family；　within　reason。　I　was　the　first　of　these　and　kept　expecting　to　hear　a　note　of　overrefined　irony　in　their　voices　when　they　called　me　by　that　name。　I　thought　that　when　tradition　bees　too　flexible；　irony　enters　the　voice。　Nasality；　sarcasm；　self…caricature　and　so　on。　They　would　punish　me　by　mocking　themselves。　But　they　were　sweet　about　it；　entirely　sincere；　even　grateful　to　me　for　allowing　them　to　carry　on。
　　She　wore　a　Shetland　sweater；　tweed　skirt；　knee　socks　and　penny　loafers。　There　was　a　sense　of　Protestant　disrepair　about　her；　a　collapsed　aura　in　which　her　body　struggled　to　survive。　The　fair　and　angular　face；　the　slightly　bulging　eyes；　the　signs　of　strain　and　plaint　that　showed　about　the　mouth　and　around　the　eyes；　the　pulsing　at　the　temple；　the　raised　veins　in　the　hands　and　neck。　Cigarette　ash　clung　to　the　loose　weave　of　her　sweater。
　　〃For　the　third　time。　Where　is　she？〃
　　〃Indonesia；　more　or　less。　Malcolm's　working　in　deep　cover；　sponsoring　a　munist　revival。　It's　part　of　an　elegant　scheme　designed　to　topple　Castro。　Let's　get　out　of　here；　Tuck；　before　children　e　swarming　around　to　beg。〃
　　〃Is　she　ing　alone？〃
　　〃Why　wouldn't　she　be？〃
　　〃From　the　Far　East　to　Iron　City　can't　be　that　simple。〃
　　〃Bee　can　cope　when　she　has　to。　She　wants　to　be　a　travel　writer　as　a　matter　of　actual　fact。　Sits　a　horse　well。〃
　　She　took　a　deep　drag　on　her　cigarette　and　exhaled　smoke　in　rapid　expert　streams　from　nose　and　mouth；　a　routine　she　used　when　she　wanted　to　express　impatience　with　her　immediate　surroundings。　There　were　no　bars　or　restaurants　at　the　airport—just　a　stand　with　prepackaged　sandwiches；　presided　over　by　a　man　with　sect　marks　on　his　face。　We　got　Tweedy's　luggage；　went　out　to　the　car　and　drove　through　Iron　City；　past　deserted　factories；　on　mainly　deserted　avenues；　a　city　of　hills；　occasional　cobbled　streets；　fine　old　homes　here　and　there；　holiday　wreaths　in　the　windows。
　　〃Tuck；　I'm　not　happy。〃
　　〃Why　not？〃
　　〃I　thought　you'd　love　me　forever；　frankly。　I　depend　on　you　for　that。　Malcolm's　away　so　much。〃
　　〃We　get　a　divorce；　you　take　all　my　money；　you　marry　a　well…to…do；　well…connected；　well…tailored　diplomat　who　secretly　runs　agents　in　and　out　of　sensitive　and　inaccessible　areas。〃
　　〃Malcolm　has　always　been　drawn　to　jungly　places。〃
　　We　were　traveling　parallel　to　railroad　tracks。　The　weeds　were　full　of　Styrofoam　cups；　tossed　from　train　windows　or　wind…blown　north　from　the　depot。
　　〃Janet　has　been　drawn　to　Montana；　to　an　ashram；〃　I　said。
　　〃Janet　Savory？　Good　God；　whatever　for？〃
　　〃Her　name　is　Mother　Devi　now。　She　operates　the　ashram's　business　activities。　Investments；　real　estate；　tax　shelters。　It's　what　Janet　has　always　wanted。　Peace　of　mind　in　a　profit…oriented　context。〃
　　〃Marvelous　bone　structure；　Janet。〃
　　〃She　had　a　talent　for　stealth。〃
　　〃You　say　that　with　such　bitterness。　I've　never　known　you　to　be　bitter；　Tuck。〃
　　〃Stupid　but　not　bitter。〃
　　〃What　do　you　mean　by　stealth？　Was　she　covert；　like　Malcolm？〃
　　〃She　wouldn't　tell　me　how　much　money　she　made。　I　think　she　used　to　read　my　mail。　Right　after　Heinrich　was　born；　she　got　me　involved　in　a　plex　investment　scheme　with　a　bunch　of　multilingual　people。　She　said　she　had　information。〃
　　〃But　she　was　wrong　and　you　lost　vast　sums。〃
　　〃We　made　vast　sums。　I　was　entangled；　enmeshed。　She　was　always　maneuvering。　My　security　was　threatened。　My　sense　of　a　long　and　uneventful　life。　She　wanted　to　incorporate　us。　We　got　phone　calls　from　Liechtenstein；　the　Hebrides。　Fictional　places；　plot　devices。〃
　　'That　doesn't　sound　like　the　Janet　Savory　I　spent　a　delightful　half　hour　with。　The　Janet　with　the　high　cheekbones　and　wry　voice。〃
　　〃You　all　had　high　cheekbones。　Every　one　of　you。　Marvelous　bone　structure。　Thank　God　for　Babette　and　her　long　fleshy　face。〃
　　〃Isn't　there　somewhere　we　can　get　a　civilized　meal？〃　Tweedy　said。　〃A　tableclothy　place　with　icy　pats　of　butter。　Malcolm　and　I　once　took　tea　with　Colonel　Qaddafí。　A　charming　and　ruthless　man；　one　of　the　few　terrorists　we've　met　who　lives　up　to　his　public　billing。〃
　　The　snow　had　stopped　falling。　We　drove　through　a　warehouse　district；　more　deserted　streets；　a　bleakness　and　anonymity　that　registered　in　the　mind　as　a　ghostly　longing　for　something　that　was　far　beyond　retrieval。　There　were　lonely　cafes；　another　stretch　of　track；　freight　cars　paused　at　a　siding。　Tweedy　chain…smoked　extra…longs；　shooting　exasperated　streams　of　smoke　in　every　direction。
　　〃God；　Tuck；　we　were　good　together。〃
　　〃Good　at　what？〃
　　〃Fool；　you're　supposed　to　look　at　me　in　a　fond　and　nostalgic　way；　smiling　ruefully。〃
　　〃You　wore　gloves　to　bed。〃
　　〃I　still　do。〃
　　〃Gloves；　eyeshades　and　socks。〃
　　〃You　know　my　flaws。　You　always　did。　I'm　ultrasensitive　to　many　things。〃
　　〃Sunlight；　air；　food；　water；　sex。〃
　　〃Carcinogenic；　every　one　of　them。〃
　　〃What's　the　family　business　in　Boston　all　about？〃
　　〃I　have　to　reassure　my　mother　that　Malcolm　isn't　dead。　She's　taken　quite　a　shine　to　him；　for　whatever　reason。〃
　　〃Why　does　she　think　he's　dead？〃
　　〃When　Malcolm　goes　into　deep　cover；　it's　as　though　he　never　existed。　He　disappears　not　only　here　and　now　but　retroactively。　No　trace　of　the　man　remains。　I　sometimes　wonder　if　the　man　I'm　married　to　is　in　fact　Malcolm　Hunt　or　a　pletely　different　person　who　is　himself　operating　under　deep　cover。　It's　frankly　worrisome。　I　don't　know　which　half　of　Malcolm's　life　is　real；　which　half　is　intelligence。　I'm　hoping　Bee　can　shed　some　light。〃
　　Traffic　lights　swayed　on　cables　in　a　sudden　gust。　This　was　the　city's　main　street；　a　series　of　discount　stores；　check…cashing　places；　wholesale　outlets。　A　tall　old　Moorish　movie　theater；　now　remarkably　a　mosque。　Blank　structures　called　the　Terminal　Building；　the　Packer　Building；　the　merce　Building。　How　close　this　was　to　a　classic　photography　of　regret。
　　〃A　gray　day　in　Iron　City；〃　I　said。　〃We　may　as　well　go　back　to　the　airport。〃
　　〃How　is　Hitler？'！
　　〃Fine；　solid；　dependable。〃
　　〃You　look　good；　Tuck。〃
　　〃I　don't　feel　good。〃
　　〃You　never　felt　good。　You're　the　old　Tuck。　You　were　always　the　old　Tuck。　We　loved　each　other；　didn't　we？　We　told　each　other　everything；　within　the　limits　of　one's　preoccupation　with　breeding　and　tact。　Malcolm　tells　me　nothing。　Who　is　he？　What　does　he　do？〃
　　She　sat　with　her　legs　tucked　under　her；　facing　me；　and　flicked　ashes　into　her　shoes；　which　sat　on　the　rubber　mat。
　　〃Wasn't　it　marvelous　to　grow　up　tall　and　straight；　among　geldings　and　mares；　with　a　daddy　who　wore　blue　blazers　and　crisp　gray　flannels？〃
　　〃Don't　ask　me。〃
　　〃Mother　used　to　stand　in　the　arbor　with　an　armful　of　cut　flowers。　Just　stand　there；　being　what　she　was。〃
　　At　the　airport　we　waited　in　a　mist　of　plaster　dust；　among　exposed　wires；　mounds　of　rubble。　Half　an　hour　before　Bee　was　due　to　arrive；　the　passengers　fro