白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第16章

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　　〃I　don't　like　this　business　with　Mother；〃　Bee　said　in　a　voice　of　cultivated　distress。　〃She　looks　keyed…up　all　the　time。　Like　she's　worried　about　something　but　she's　not　sure　what　it　is。　It's　Malcolm；　of　course。　He's　got　his　jungle。　What　does　she　have？　A　huge　airy　kitchen　with　a　stove　that　belongs　in　a　three…star　restaurant　in　the　provinces。　She　put　all　her　energy　into　that　kitchen；　but　for　what？　It's　not　a　kitchen　at　all。　It's　her　life；　her　middle　age。　Baba　could　enjoy　a　kitchen　like　that。　It　would　be　a　kitchen　to　her。　To　Mother　it's　like　a　weird　symbol　of　getting　through　a　crisis；　except　she　hasn't　gotten　through　it。〃
　　〃Your　mother　is　not　sure　exactly　who　her　husband　is。〃
　　〃That's　not　the　basic　problem。　The　basic　problem　is　that　she　doesn't　know　who　she　is。　Malcolm　is　in　the　highlands　living　on　tree　bark　and　snake。　That's　who　Malcolm　is。　He　needs　heat　and　humidity。　He's　got　like　how　many　degrees　in　foreign　affairs　and　economics　but　all　he　wants　to　do　is　squat　under　a　tree　and　watch　tribal　people　pack　mud　all　over　their　bodies。　They're　fun　to　watch。　What　does　Mother　do　for　fun？〃
　　Bee　was　small…featured　except　for　her　eyes；　which　seemed　to　contain　two　forms　of　life；　the　subject　matter　and　its　hidden　implications。　She　talked　about　Babette's　effortless　skills　in　making　things　work；　the　house；　the　kids；　the　flow　of　the　routine　universe；　sounding　a　little　like　me；　but　there　was　a　secondary　sea…life　moving　deep　in　the　iris　of　her　eye。　What　did　it　mean；　what　was　she　really　saying；　why　did　she　seem　to　expect　me　to　respond　in　kind？　She　wanted　to　municate　in　this　secondary　way；　with　optic　fluids。　She　would　have　her　suspicions　confirmed；　find　out　about　me。　But　what　suspicions　did　she　harbor　and　what　was　there　to　find　out？　I　began　to　worry。　As　the　odor　of　burning　toast　filled　the　house；　I　tried　to　get　her　to　talk　about　life　in　the　seventh　grade。
　　〃Is　the　kitchen　on　fire？〃
　　〃That's　Steffie　burning　toast。　A　thing　she　does　from　time　to　time。〃
　　〃I　could　have　prepared　some　kind　of　kimchi　dish。〃
　　〃Something　from　your　Korean　period。〃
　　〃It's　cabbage　pickled　with　red　pepper　and　a　bunch　of　other　things。　Fiery　hot。　But　I　don't　know　about　ingredients。　They're　hard　enough　to　find　in　Washington。〃
　　〃We're　probably　having　something　besides　toast；〃　I　said。
　　The　mild　rebuke　made　her　happy。　She　liked　me　best　when　I　was　dry；　derisive　and　cutting；　a　natural　talent　she　believed　I'd　forfeited　through　long　association　with　children。
　　The　TV　said：　〃Now　we　will　put　the　little　feelers　on　the　butterfly。〃
　　In　bed　two　nights　later　I　heard　voices；　put　on　my　robe　and　went　down　the　hall　to　see　what　was　going　on。　Denise　stood　outside　the　bathroom　door。
　　〃Steffie's　taking　one　of　her　baths。〃
　　〃It's　late；〃　I　said。
　　〃She's　just　sitting　in　all　that　dirty　water。〃
　　〃It's　my　dirt；〃　Steffie　said　from　the　other　side　of　the　door。
　　〃It's　still　dirt。〃
　　〃Well　it's　my　dirt　and　I　don't　care。〃
　　〃It's　dirt；〃　Denise　said。
　　〃It's　my　dirt。〃
　　〃Dirt　is　dirt。〃
　　〃Not　when　it's　mine。〃
　　Bee　appeared　at　the　end　of　the　hall　wearing　a　silver　and　red　kimono。　Just　stood　there；　distant　and　pale。　There　was　a　moment　in　which　our　locus　of　pettiness　and　shame　seemed　palpably　to　expand；　a　cartoon　of　self…awareness。　Denise　muttered　something　violent　to　Steffie　through　the　crack　in　the　door；　then　went　quietly　to　her　room。
　　In　the　morning　I　drove　Bee　to　the　airport。　Rides　to　airports　make　me　quiet　and　glum。　We　listened　to　news　updates　on　the　radio；　curiously　excited　reports　about　firemen　removing　a　burning　sofa　from　a　tenement　in　Watertown；　delivered　in　a　background　clamor　of　ticker…tape　machines。　I　realized　Bee　was　watching　me　carefully；　importantly。　She　sat　with　her　back　against　the　door；　her　knees　up；　held　tightly　together；　arms　enfolding　them。　The　look　was　one　of　solemn　passion。　It　was　a　look　I　did　not　necessarily　trust；　believing　it　had　little　to　do　with　pity　or　love　or　sadness。　I　recognized　it　in　fact　as　something　else　pletely。　The　adolescent　female's　tenderest　form　of　condescension。
　　On　the　way　back　from　the　airport；　I　got　off　the　expressway　at　the　river　road　and　parked　the　car　at　the　edge　of　the　woods。　I　walked　up　a　steep　path。　There　was　an　old　picket　fence　with　a　sign。
　　THE　OLD　BURYING　GROUND
　　Blacksmith　Village
　　The　headstones　were　small；　tilted；　pockmarked；　spotted　with　fungus　or　moss；　the　names　and　dates　barely　legible。　The　ground　was　hard；　with　patches　of　ice。　I　walked　among　the　stones；　taking　off　my　gloves　to　touch　the　rough　marble。　Embedded　in　the　dirt　before　one　of　the　markers　was　a　narrow　vase　containing　three　small　American　flags；　the　only　sign　that　someone　had　preceded　me　to　this　place　in　this　century。　I　was　able　to　make　out　some　of　the　names；　great　strong　simple　names；　suggesting　a　moral　rigor。　I　stood　and　listened。
　　I　was　beyond　the　traffic　noise；　the　intermittent　stir　of　factories　across　the　river。　So　at　least　in　this　they'd　been　correct；　placing　the　graveyard　here；　a　silence　that　had　stood　its　ground。　The　air　had　a　bite。　I　breathed　deeply；　remained　in　one　spot；　waiting　to　feel　the　peace　that　is　supposed　to　descend　upon　the　dead；　waiting　to　see　the　light　that　hangs　above　the　fields　of　the　landscapist's　lament。
　　I　stood　there；　listening。　The　wind　blew　snow　from　the　branches。　Snow　blew　out　of　the　woods　in　eddies　and　sweeping　gusts。　I　raised　my　collar；　put　my　gloves　back　on。　When　the　air　was　still　again；　I　walked　among　the　stones；　trying　to　read　the　names　and　dates；　adjusting　the　flags　to　make　them　swing　free。　Then　I　stood　and　listened。
　　The　power　of　the　dead　is　that　we　think　they　see　us　all　the　time。　The　dead　have　a　presence。　Is　there　a　level　of　energy　posed　solely　of　the　dead？　They　are　also　in　the　ground；　of　course；　asleep　and　crumbling。　Perhaps　we　are　what　they　dream。
　　May　the　days　be　aimless。　Let　the　seasons　drift。　Do　not　advance　the　action　according　to　a　plan。
　　20
　　Mr。　Treadwell's　sister　died。　Her　first　name　was　Gladys。　The　doctor　said　she　died　of　lingering　dread；　a　result　of　the　four　days　and　nights　she　and　her　brother　had　spent　in　the　Mid…Village　Mall；　lost　and　confused。
　　A　man　in　Glassboro　died　when　the　rear　wheel　of　his　car　separated　from　the　axle。　An　idiosyncrasy　of　that　particular　model。
　　The　lieutenant　governor　of　the　state　died　of　undisclosed　natural　causes；　after　a　long　illness。　We　all　know　what　that　means。
　　A　Mechanicsville　man　died　outside　Tokyo　during　a　siege　of　the　airport　by　ten　thousand　helmeted　students。
　　When　I　read　obituaries　I　always　note　the　age　of　the　deceased。　Automatically　I　relate　this　figure　to　my　own　age。　Four　years　to　go；　I　think。　Nine　more　years。　Two　years　and　I'm　dead。　The　power　of　numbers　is　never　more　evident　than　when　we　use　them　to　speculate　on　the　time　of　our　dying。　Sometimes　I　bargain　with　myself。　Would　I　be　willing　to　accept　sixty…five；　Genghis　Khan's　age　on　dying？　Suleiman　the　Magnificent　made　it　to　seventy…six。　That　sounds　all　right；　especially　the　way　I　feel　now；　but　how　will　it　sound　when　I'm　seventy…three？
　　It's　hard　to　imagine　these　men　feeling　sad　about　death。　Attila　the　Hun　died　young。　He　was　still　in　his　forties。　Did　he　feel　sorry　for　himself；　succumb　to　self…pity　and　depression？　He　was　the　King　of　the　Huns；　the　Invader　of　Europe；　the　Scourge　of　God。　I　want　to　believe　he　lay　in　his　tent；　wrapped　in　animal　skins；　as　in　some　internationally　financed　movie　epic；　and　said　brave　cruel　things　to　his　aides　and　retainers。　No　weakening　of　the　spirit。　No　sense　of　the　irony　of　human　existence；　that　we　are　the　highest　form　of　life　on　earth　and　yet　ineffably　sad　because　we　know　what　no　other　animal　knows；　that　we　must　die。　Attila　did　not　look　through　the　opening　in　his　tent　and　gesture　at　some　lame　dog　standing　at　the　edge　of　the　fire　waiting　to　be　thrown　a　scrap　of　meat。　He　did　not　say；　〃That　pathetic　flea…ridden　beast　is　better　off　than　the　greatest　ruler　of　men。　It　doesn't　know　what　we　know；　it　doesn't　feel　what　we　feel；　it　can't　be　sad　as　we　are　sad。〃
　　I　want　to　believe　he　was　not　afraid。　He　accepted　death　as　an　experience　that　flows　naturally　from　life；　a　wild　ride　through　the　forest；　as　would　befit　someone　known　as　the　Scourge　of　God。　This　is　how　it　ended　for　him；　with　his　attendants　cutting　off　their　hair　and　disfiguring　their　own　faces　in　barbarian　tribute；　as　the　camera　pulls　back　out　of　the　tent　and　pans　across　the　night　sky　of　the　fifth　century　A。D。；　clear　and　uncontaminated；　bright…banded　with　shimmering　worlds。
　　Babette　looked　up　from　her　eggs　and　hash　browns　and　said　to　me　with　a　quiet　intensity；　〃Life　is　good；　Jack。〃
　　〃What　brings　this　on？〃
　　〃I　just　think　it　ought　to　be　said。〃
　　〃Do　you　feel　better　now　that　you've　said　it？〃
　　〃I　have　terrible　dreams；〃　she　murmured。
　　Who　will　die　first？　She　says　she　wants　to　die　first　because　she　would　feel　unbearably　lonely　and　sad　without　me；　especially　if　the　children　were　grown　and　living　elsewhere。　She　is　adamant　about　this。　She　sincerely　wants　to　precede　me。　She　discusses　the　subject　with　such　argumentative　force　that　it's　obvious　she　thinks　we　have　a　choice　in　the　matter。　She　also　thinks　nothing　can　happen　to　us　as　long　as　there　are　dependent　children　in　the　house。　The　kids　are　a　guarantee　of　our　relative　longevity。　We're　safe　as　long　as　they're　around。　But　once　they　get　big　and　scatter；　she　wants　to　be　the　first　to　go。　She　sounds　almost　eager。　She　is　afraid　I　will　die　unexpectedly；　sneakily；　slipping　away　in　the　night。　It　isn't　that　she　doesn't　cherish　life；　it's　being　left　alone　that　frightens　her。　The　emptiness；　the　sense　of　cosmic　darkness。
　　MasterCard；　Visa；　American　Express。
　　I　tell　her　I　want　to　die　first。　I've　gotten　so　used　to　her　that　I　would　feel　miserably　inplete。　We　are　two　views　of　the　same　person。　I　would　spend　the　rest　of　my　life　turning　to　speak　to　her。
　　No　one　there；　a　hole　in　space　and　time。　She　claims　my　death　would　leave　a　bigger　hole　in　her　life　than　her　death　would　leave　in　mine。　This　is　the　level　of　our　discourse。　The　relative　size　of　holes；　abysses　and　gaps。　We　have　serious　arguments　on　this　level。　She　says　if　her　death　is　capable　of　leaving　a　large　hole　in　my　life；　my　death　would　leave　an　abyss　in　hers；　a　great　yawning　gulf。　I　counter　with　a　profound　depth　or　void。　And　so　it　goes　into　the　night。　These　arguments　never　seem　foolish　at　the　time。　Such　is　the　dignifying　power　of　our　subject。
　　She　put　on　a　long　glossy　padded　coat—it　looked　segmented；　exoskeletal；　designed　for　the　ocean　floor—and　went　out　to　teach　her　class　in　posture。　Steffie　moved　soundlessly　through　the　house　carrying　small　plastic　bags　she　used　for　lining　the　wicker　baskets　scattered　about。　She　did　this　once　or　twice　a　week　with　the　quiet　and　conscientious　air　of　someone　who　does　not　want　credit　for　saving　lives。　Murray　came　over　to　talk　to　the　two　girls　and　Wilder；　something　he　did　from　time　to　time　as　part　of　his　investigation　into　what　he　called　the　society　of　kids。　He　talked　about　the　otherworldly　babble　of　the　American　family。　He　seemed　to　think　we　were　a　visionary　group；　open　to　special　forms　of　consciousness。　There　were　huge　amounts　of　data　flowing　through　the　house；　waiting　to　be　analyzed。
　　He　went　upstairs　with　the　three　kids　to　watch　TV。　Heinrich　walked　into　the　kitchen；　sat　at　the　table　and　gripped　a　fork　tightly　in　ea