白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第17章

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　　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　each　hand。　The　refrigerator　throbbed　massively。　I　flipped　a　switch　and　somewhere　beneath　the　sink　a　grinding　mechanism　reduced　parings；　rinds　and　animal　fats　to　tiny　drainable　fragments；　with　a　motorized　surge　that　made　me　retreat　two　paces。　I　took　the　forks　out　of　my　son's　hands　and　put　them　in　the　dishwasher。
　　〃Do　you　drink　coffee　yet？〃
　　〃No；〃　he　said。
　　〃Baba　likes　a　cup　when　she　gets　back　from　class。〃
　　〃Make　her　tea　instead。〃
　　〃She　doesn't　like　tea。〃
　　〃She　can　learn；　can't　she？〃
　　〃The　two　things　have　pletely　different　tastes。〃
　　〃A　habit's　a　habit。〃
　　〃You　have　to　acquire　it　first。〃
　　〃That's　what　I'm　saying。　Make　her　tea。〃
　　〃Her　class　is　more　demanding　than　it　sounds。　Coffee　relaxes　her。〃
　　'That's　why　it's　dangerous；〃　he　said。
　　〃It's　not　dangerous。〃
　　〃Whatever　relaxes　you　is　dangerous。　If　you　don't　know　that；　I　might　as　well　be　talking　to　the　wall。〃
　　〃Murray　would　also　like　coffee；〃　I　said；　aware　of　a　small　note　of　triumph　in　my　voice。
　　〃Did　you　see　what　you　just　did？　You　took　the　coffee　can　with　you　to　the　counter。〃
　　〃So　what？〃
　　〃You　didn't　have　to。　You　could　have　left　it　by　the　stove　where　you　were　standing　and　then　gone　to　the　counter　to　get　the　spoon。〃
　　〃You're　saying　I　carried　the　coffee　can　unnecessarily。〃
　　〃You　carried　it　in　your　right　hand　all　the　way　to　the　counter；　put　it　down　to　open　the　drawer；　which　you　didn't　want　to　do　with　your　left　hand；　then　got　the　spoon　with　your　right　hand；　switched　it　to　your　left　hand；　picked　up　the　coffee　can　with　your　right　hand　and　went　back　to　the　stove；　where　you　put　it　down　again。〃
　　〃That's　what　people　do。〃
　　〃It's　wasted　motion。　People　waste　tremendous　amounts　of　motion。　You　ought　to　watch　Baba　make　a　salad　sometime。〃
　　〃People　don't　deliberate　over　each　tiny　motion　and　gesture。　A　little　waste　doesn't　hurt。〃
　　〃But　over　a　lifetime？〃
　　〃What　do　you　save　if　you　don't　waste？〃
　　〃Over　a　lifetime？　You　save　tremendous　amounts　of　time　and　energy；〃　he　said。
　　〃What　will　you　do　with　them？〃
　　〃Use　them　to　live　longer。〃
　　The　truth　is　I　don't　want　to　die　first。　Given　a　choice　between　loneliness　and　death；　it　would　take　me　a　fraction　of　a　second　to　decide。　But　I　don't　want　to　be　alone　either。　Everything　I　say　to　Babette　about　holes　and　gaps　is　true。　Her　death　would　leave　me　scattered；　talking　to　chairs　and　pillows。　Don't　let　us　die；　I　want　to　cry　out　to　that　fifth　century　sky　ablaze　with　mystery　and　spiral　light。　Let　us　both　live　forever；　in　sickness　and　health；　feebleminded；　doddering；　toothless；　liver…spotted；　dim…sighted；　hallucinating。　Who　decides　these　things？　What　is　out　there？　Who　are　you？
　　I　watched　the　coffee　bubble　up　through　the　center　tube　and　perforated　basket　into　the　small　pale　globe。　A　marvelous　and　sad　invention；　so　roundabout；　ingenious；　human。　It　was　like　a　philosophical　argument　rendered　in　terms　of　the　things　of　the　world—　water；　metal；　brown　beans。　I　had　never　looked　at　coffee　before。
　　〃When　plastic　furniture　burns；　you　get　cyanide　poisoning；〃　Heinrich　said；　tapping　the　Formica　tabletop。
　　He　ate　a　winter　peach。　I　poured　a　cup　of　coffee　for　Murray　and　together　the　boy　and　I　went　up　the　stairs　to　Denise's　room；　where　the　TV　set　was　currently　located。　The　volume　was　kept　way　down；　the　girls　engaged　in　a　rapt　dialogue　with　their　guest。　Murray　looked　happy　to　be　there。　He　sat　in　the　middle　of　the　floor　taking　notes；　his　toggle　coat　and　touring　cap　next　to　him　on　the　rug。　The　room　around　him　was　rich　in　codes　and　messages；　an　archaeology　of　childhood；　things　Denise　had　carried　with　her　since　the　age　of　three；　from　cartoon　clocks　to　werewolf　posters。　She　is　the　kind　of　child　who　feels　a　protective　tenderness　toward　her　own　beginnings。　It　is　part　of　her　strategy　in　a　world　of　displacements　to　make　every　effort　to　restore　and　preserve；　keep　things　together　for　their　value　as　remembering　objects；　a　way　of　fastening　herself　to　a　life。
　　Make　no　mistake。　I　take　these　children　seriously。　It　is　not　possible　to　see　too　much　in　them；　to　overindulge　your　casual　gift　for　the　study　of　character。　It　is　all　there；　in　full　force；　charged　waves　of　identity　and　being。　There　are　no　amateurs　in　the　world　of　children。
　　Heinrich　stood　in　a　corner　of　the　room；　taking　up　his　critical…observer　position。　I　gave　Murray　his　coffee　and　was　about　to　leave　when　I　glanced　in　passing　at　the　TV　screen。　I　paused　at　the　door；　looked　more　closely　this　time。　It　was　true；　it　was　there。　I　hissed　at　the　others　for　silence　and　they　swiveled　their　heads　in　my　direction；　baffled　and　annoyed。　Then　they　followed　my　gaze　to　the　sturdy　TV　at　the　end　of　the　bed。
　　The　face　on　the　screen　was　Babette's。　Out　of　our　mouths　came　a　silence　as　wary　and　deep　as　an　animal　growl。　Confusion；　fear；　astonishment　spilled　from　our　faces。　What　did　it　mean？　What　was　she　doing　there；　in　black　and　white；　framed　in　formal　borders？　Was　she　dead；　missing；　disembodied？　Was　this　her　spirit；　her　secret　self；　some　two…dimensional　facsimile　released　by　the　power　of　technology；　set　free　to　glide　through　wavebands；　through　energy　levels；　pausing　to　say　good…bye　to　us　from　the　fluorescent　screen？
　　A　strangeness　gripped　me；　a　sense　of　psychic　disorientation。　It　was　her　all　right；　the　face；　the　hair；　the　way　she　blinks　in　rapid　twos　and　threes。　I'd　seen　her　just　an　hour　ago；　eating　eggs；　but　her　appearance　on　the　screen　made　me　think　of　her　as　some　distant　figure　from　the　past；　some　ex…wife　and　absentee　mother；　a　walker　in　the　mists　of　the　dead。　If　she　was　not　dead；　was　I？　A　two…syllable　infantile　cry；　ba…ba；　issued　from　the　deeps　of　my　soul。
　　All　this　pressed　in　seconds。　It　was　only　as　time　drew　on；　normalized　itself；　returned　to　us　a　sense　of　our　surroundings；　the　room；　the　house；　the　reality　in　which　the　TV　set　stood—it　was　only　then　that　we　understood　what　was　going　on。
　　Babette　was　teaching　her　class　in　the　church　basement　and　it　was　being　televised　by　the　local　cable　station。　Either　she　hadn't　known　there　would　be　a　camera　on　hand　or　she　preferred　not　to　tell　us；　out　of　embarrassment；　love；　superstition；　whatever　causes　a　person　to　wish　to　withhold　her　image　from　those　who　know　her。
　　With　the　sound　down　low　we　couldn't　hear　what　she　was　saying。　But　no　one　bothered　to　adjust　the　volume。　It　was　the　picture　that　mattered；　the　face　in　black　and　white；　animated　but　also　flat；　distanced；　sealed　off；　timeless。　It　was　but　wasn't　her。　Once　again　I　began　to　think　Murray　might　be　on　to　something。　Waves　and　radiation。　Something　leaked　through　the　mesh。　She　was　shining　a　light　on　us；　she　was　ing　into　being；　endlessly　being　formed　and　reformed　as　the　muscles　in　her　face　worked　at　smiling　and　speaking；　as　the　electronic　dots　swarmed。
　　We　were　being　shot　through　with　Babette。　Her　image　was　projected　on　our　bodies；　swam　in　us　and　through　us。　Babette　of　electrons　and　photons；　of　whatever　forces　produced　that　gray　light　we　took　to　be　her　face。
　　The　kids　were　flushed　with　excitement　but　I　felt　a　certain　disquiet。　I　tried　to　tell　myself　it　was　only　television—whatever　that　was；　however　it　worked—and　not　some　journey　out　of　life　or　death；　not　some　mysterious　separation。　Murray　looked　up　at　me；　smiling　in　his　sneaky　way。
　　Only　Wilder　remained　calm。　He　watched　his　mother；　spoke　to　her　in　half…words；　sensible…sounding　fragments　that　were　mainly　fabricated。　As　the　camera　pulled　back　to　allow　Babette　to　demonstrate　some　fine　point　of　standing　or　walking；　Wilder　approached　the　set　and　touched　her　body；　leaving　a　handprint　on　the　dusty　surface　of　the　screen。
　　Then　Denise　crawled　up　to　the　set　and　turned　the　volume　dial。　Nothing　happened。　There　was　no　sound；　no　voice；　nothing。　She　turned　to　look　at　me；　a　moment　of　renewed　confusion。　Heinrich　advanced；　fiddled　with　the　dial；　stuck　his　hand　behind　the　set　to　adjust　the　recessed　knobs。　When　he　tried　another　channel；　the　sound　boomed　out；　raw　and　fuzzy。　Back　at　the　cable　station；　he　couldn't　raise　a　buzz　and　as　we　watched　Babette　finish　the　lesson；　we　were　in　a　mood　of　odd　misgiving。　But　as　soon　as　the　program　ended；　the　two　girls　got　excited　again　and　went　downstairs　to　wait　for　Babette　at　the　door　and　surprise　her　with　news　of　what　they'd　seen。
　　The　small　boy　remained　at　the　TV　set；　within　inches　of　the　dark　screen；　crying　softly；　uncertainly；　in　low　heaves　and　swells；　as　Murray　took　notes。
　　II　The　Airborne　Toxic　Event
　　21
　　After　a　night　of　dream…lit　snows　the　air　turned　clear　and　still。　There　was　a　taut　blue　quality　in　the　January　light；　a　hardness　and　confidence。　The　sound　of　boots　on　packed　snow；　the　contrails　streaked　cleanly　in　the　high　sky。　Weather　was　very　much　the　point；　although　I　didn't　know　it　at　first。
　　I　turned　into　our　street　and　walked　past　men　bent　over　shovels　in　their　driveways；　breathing　vapor。　A　squirrel　moved　along　a　limb　in　a　flowing　motion；　a　passage　so　continuous　it　seemed　to　be　its　own　physical　law；　different　from　the　ones　we've　learned　to　trust。　When　I　was　halfway　down　the　street　I　saw　Heinrich　crouched　on　a　small　ledge　outside　our　attic　window。　He　wore　his　camouflage　jacket　and　cap；　an　outfit　with　plex　meaning　for　him；　at　fourteen；　struggling　to　grow　and　to　escape　notice　simultaneously；　his　secrets　known　to　us　all。　He　looked　east　through　binoculars。
　　I　went　around　back　to　the　kitchen。　In　the　entranceway　the　washer　and　dryer　were　vibrating　nicely。　I　could　tell　from　Babette's　voice　that　the　person　she　was　talking　to　on　the　phone　was　her　father。　An　impatience　mixed　with　guilt　and　apprehension。　I　stood　behind　her；　put　my　cold　hands　to　her　cheeks。　A　little　thing　I　liked　to　do。　She　hung　up　the　phone。
　　〃Why　is　he　on　the　roof？〃
　　〃Heinrich？　Something　about　the　train　yards；〃　she　said。　〃It　was　on　the　radio。〃
　　〃Shouldn't　I　get　him　down？〃
　　〃Why？〃
　　〃He　could　fall。〃
　　〃Don't　tell　him　that。〃
　　〃Why　not？〃
　　〃He　thinks　you　underestimate　him。〃
　　〃He's　on　a　ledge；〃　I　said。　'There　must　be　something　I　should　be　doing。〃
　　'The　more　you　show　concern；　the　closer　he'll　go　to　the　edge。〃
　　〃I　know　that　but　I　still　have　to　get　him　down。〃
　　〃Coax　him　back　in；〃　she　said。　〃Be　sensitive　and　caring。　Get　him　to　talk　about　himself。　Don't　make　sudden　movements。〃
　　When　I　got　to　the　attic　he　was　already　back　inside；　standing　by　the　open　window；　still　looking　through　the　glasses。　Abandoned　possessions　were　everywhere；　oppressive　and　soul…worrying；　creating　a　weather　of　their　own　among　the　exposed　beams　and　posts；　the　fiberglass　insulation　pads。
　　〃What　happened？〃
　　'The　radio　said　a　tank　car　derailed。　But　I　don't　think　it　derailed　from　what　I　could　see。　I　think　it　got　rammed　and　something　punched　a　hole　in　it。　There's　a　lot　of　smoke　and　I　don't　like　the　looks　of　it。〃
　　〃What　does　it　look　like？〃
　　He　handed　me　the　binoculars　and　stepped　aside。　Without　climbing　onto　the　ledge　I　couldn't　see　the　switching　yard　and　the　car　or　cars　in　question。　But　the　smoke　was　plainly　visible；　a　heavy　black　mass　hanging　in　the　air　beyond　the　river；　more　or　less　shapeless。
　　〃Did　you　see　fire　engines？〃
　　〃They're　all　over　the　place；〃　he　said。　〃But　it　looks　to　me　like　they're　not　getting　too　close。　It　mu