《渺小一生》:他們從來沒有指責他

　 He sees Dr. Loehmann every Monday and Thursday. On Monday nights, he returns to work after his appointment. But on Thursdays he is made to see Harold and Julia, and with them he is horrifically rude as well: and not just rude but nasty, spiteful. He behaves in ways that astonish him, in ways he has never dared before in his life, not even when he was a child, in ways that he would have been beaten for by anyone else. But not by Harold and Julia. They never rebuke him, they never discipline him.

他每個星期一和星期四去婁曼醫(yī)生那里。星期一晚上，他做完心理咨詢會回辦公室繼續(xù)工作。但是星期四結(jié)束后，他就得去看哈羅德和朱麗婭，他對他們也極不禮貌；不光是不禮貌，態(tài)度還非常惡劣、充滿怨恨。他的種種行為把自己都嚇到了，很多是他這輩子從來不敢對別人做的，就連小時候也不敢，否則一定會挨揍。但哈羅德和朱麗婭不會揍他。他們從來沒有指責他，也從來沒有懲罰他。

　 “This is disgusting,” he says that night, pushing away the chicken stew Harold has made. “I won’t eat this.”

“這太惡心了，”那天晚上他說，把哈羅德做的燉雞推開，“我不要吃。”

　 “I’ll get you something else,” Julia says quickly, getting up. “What do you want, Jude? Do you want a sandwich? Some eggs?”

“那我?guī)湍闩獎e的，”朱麗婭很快地站起來說，“裘德，你想吃什么？要三明治嗎？還是蛋？”

　 “Anything else,” he says. “This tastes like dog food.” But he is speaking to Harold, staring at him, daring him to flinch, to break. His pulse leaps in his throat with anticipation: He can see Harold springing from his chair and hitting him in the face. He can see Harold crumpling with tears. He can see Harold ordering him out of his house. “Get the fuck out of here, Jude,” Harold will say. “Get out of our lives and never come back.”

“其他什么都好，”他說，“這個吃起來像狗食。”他對著哈羅德說，眼睛瞪著他，想把他激到受不了而崩潰。他期待得心臟都跳到喉嚨口了，他可以想象哈羅德從椅子上跳起來，打他的臉；他可以想象哈羅德皺著臉哭泣；他可以想象哈羅德命令他離開。“他媽的給我滾出去，裘德，”哈羅德會說，“滾出我的人生，永遠不要再回來。”

　 “Fine,” he’ll say. “Fine, fine. I don’t need you anyway, Harold. I don’t need any of you.” What a relief it will be to learn that Harold had never really wanted him after all, that his adoption was a whim, a folly whose novelty tarnished long ago.

“很好，”他會說，“很好，很好。反正我也不需要你，哈羅德。我不需要你們?nèi)魏我粋€人。”那會是多么大的解脫，這么一來，他就會知道哈羅德原來根本不是真的想要他，收養(yǎng)他只是一時興起做的傻事，那種新鮮感早就沒了。

　 But Harold does none of those things, just looks at him. “Jude,” he says at last, very quietly.

但哈羅德什么都沒做，只是看著他。“裘德。”最后他終于說，很小聲。

　 “Jude, Jude,” he mocks him, squawking his own name back to Harold like a jay. “Jude, Jude.” He is so angry, so furious: there is no word for what he is. Hatred sizzles through his veins. Harold wants him to live, and now Harold is getting his wish. Now Harold is seeing him as he is.

“裘德，裘德。”他嘲弄著，像只藍冠鴉粗聲地學(xué)著哈羅德講他自己的名字。“裘德，裘德。”他太生氣、太憤怒了，沒有字眼可以形容現(xiàn)在的他。熱騰騰的恨意在他的血管內(nèi)嘶嘶作響。哈羅德要他活著，現(xiàn)在哈羅德如愿以償了，現(xiàn)在哈羅德看到他真正的一面了。

　 Do you know how badly I could hurt you? he wants to ask Harold. Do you know I could say things that you would never forget, that you would never forgive me for? Do you know I have that power? Do you know that every day I have known you I have been lying to you? Do you know what I really am? Do you know how many men I have been with, what I have let them do to me, the things that have been inside me, the noises I have made? His life, the only thing that is his, is being possessed: By Harold, who wants to keep him alive, by the demons who scrabble through his body, dangling off his ribs, puncturing his lungs with their talons. By Brother Luke, by Dr. Traylor. What is life for? he asks himself. What is my life for?

你知道我可以把你傷得多重嗎？他想問哈羅德。你知道我可以說出一些你永遠不會忘記、永遠不會原諒我的話嗎？你知道我有那樣的力量嗎？你知道從認識你的第一天起，我就在跟你撒謊嗎？你知道真正的我是什么樣子嗎？你知道我跟多少男人在一起過，我讓他們對我做了什么，讓什么進入我的身體，我又發(fā)出過什么聲音嗎？他唯一擁有的，就是自己這條命，但他這條命卻一直被人控制，包括希望他活著的哈羅德，那些在他身上亂扒、抓著他的肋骨蕩來蕩去、用爪子戳他肺的惡魔。還有盧克修士、特雷勒醫(yī)生?；钪菫榱耸裁?？他問自己。我的一生是為了什么？

　 Oh, he thinks, will I never forget? Is this who I am after all, after all these years?

啊，他心想，我永遠不會忘記嗎？即使過了這么多年，我就是這樣的人嗎？

　 He can feel his nose start to bleed, and he pushes back from the table. “I’m leaving,” he tells them, as Julia enters the room with a sandwich. He sees that she has cut off its crusts and sliced it into triangles, the way you would for a child, and for a second he wavers and almost begins to bawl, but then he recalls himself and glares again at Harold.

他可以感覺到鼻子開始流血，于是他從桌旁退開。“我要走了。”他告訴他們，此時朱麗婭拿著三明治走進來。他看到她切掉了面包邊，把三明治對半切成三角形，就像做給小孩吃的那樣。一時間他動搖了，差點要放聲痛哭，但他回過神來，再度瞪著哈羅德。

　 “No, you’re not,” Harold says, not angrily, but decisively. He stands up from his chair, points his finger at him. “You’re staying and you’re finishing.”

“不，你不能走，”哈羅德說，口氣并不憤怒，而是堅定。他從椅子上站起來，一根指頭指著他，“你要留下來吃完。”

　 “No, I’m not,” he announces. “Call Andy, I don’t care. I’m going to kill myself, Harold, I’m going to kill myself no matter what you do, and you’re not going to be able to stop me.”

“不，我不要，”他宣布，“打電話給安迪啊，我不在乎。我會自殺的，哈羅德。無論你做什么，我都會自殺的，你沒有辦法阻止我。”

　 “Jude,” he hears Julia whisper. “Jude, please.”

“裘德，”他聽到朱麗婭低聲說，“裘德，拜托。”

　 Harold walks over to him, taking the plate from Julia as he does, and he thinks: This is it. He raises his chin, he waits for Harold to hit him in the face with it, but he doesn’t, just puts the plate before him. “Eat,” Harold says, his voice tight. “You’re going to eat this now.”

哈羅德走向他，半路接過朱麗婭手中的盤子。他心想：來了。他昂起下巴，等著哈羅德用那盤子砸他的臉，但結(jié)果沒有，哈羅德只是把盤子放在他面前。“快吃，”哈羅德說，聲音緊繃，“吃完才可以。”

　 He thinks, unexpectedly, of the day he had his first episode at Harold and Julia’s. Julia was at the grocery store, and Harold was upstairs printing out a worrisomely complicated recipe for a soufflé he claimed he was going to make. There he had lain in the pantry, trying to keep himself from kicking his legs out in agony, listening to Harold clatter down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Jude?” he’d called, not seeing him, and as quiet as he had tried to be, he had made a noise anyway, and Harold had opened the door and found him. He had known Harold for six years by that point, but he was always careful around him, dreading but expecting the day when he would be revealed to him as he really was. “I’m sorry,” he’d tried to tell Harold, but he was only able to croak.

他出乎意料地想到了他第一次在哈羅德家背痛發(fā)作的那一天。當時朱麗婭去雜貨店了，哈羅德在樓上打印一個非常復(fù)雜的舒芙蕾食譜，宣稱他要做這道甜點。他躺在食品貯藏室，設(shè)法忍著不要痛苦得蹬腿，接著他聽到哈羅德走下樓梯，進入廚房。“裘德？”哈羅德沒看到他，于是喊他的名字。他努力保持安靜，但還是發(fā)出了聲音，哈羅德打開食品貯藏室的門，發(fā)現(xiàn)了他。當時他認識哈羅德六年了，但他一直很謹慎，擔心卻又預(yù)料到有一天他會在哈羅德面前暴露真正的樣子。“對不起。”他試圖告訴哈羅德，卻只勉強發(fā)出沙啞的聲音。

　 “Jude,” Harold had said, frightened, “can you hear me?,” and he’d nodded, and Harold had entered the pantry himself, picking his way around the stacks of paper towels and jugs of dishwasher detergent, lowering himself to the floor and gently pulling his head into his lap, and for a second he had thought that this was the moment he had always half anticipated, the one in which Harold would unzip his pants and he would have to do what he had always done. But he hadn’t, had just stroked his head, and after a while, as he twitched and grunted, his body tensing itself with pain, its heat filling his joints, he realized that Harold was singing to him. It was a song he had never heard before but that he recognized instinctually was a child’s song, a lullaby, and he juddered and chattered and hissed through his teeth, opening and closing his left hand, gripping the throat of a nearby bottle of olive oil with his right, as on and on Harold sang. As he lay there, so desperately humiliated, he knew that after this incident Harold would either become distant from him or would draw closer still. And because he didn’t know which would happen, he found himself hoping—as he never had before and never would again—that this episode would never end, that Harold’s song would never finish, that he would never have to learn what followed it.

“裘德，”哈羅德說，嚇壞了，“你聽得到我說話嗎？”他點點頭。哈羅德走進食品貯藏室，繞過一堆堆廚房紙巾和一瓶瓶洗碗精，坐到地上，輕輕把他的頭拉過來放在膝上。有一秒鐘，他想這就是他一直半期待的那一刻，哈羅德會拉開褲子拉鏈，他就得做他以前常做的那件事。但哈羅德沒有，只是撫摸他的頭，過一會兒，當他抽搐又呻吟，身體痛得緊繃，關(guān)節(jié)發(fā)熱時，他才發(fā)現(xiàn)哈羅德在對他唱歌。那首歌他從來沒聽過，但一聽就知道是一首童謠，一首搖籃曲，而他身體晃動、牙齒打戰(zhàn)、嘶嘶吸著氣，他左手張開又握緊，右手抓著旁邊的一瓶橄欖油，同時哈羅德繼續(xù)唱著。他躺在那里，覺得丟臉極了，他知道這起事件過后，哈羅德若不是跟他疏遠，就是更親近。因為他不知道哪個會發(fā)生，所以不自覺地期望（他從來沒有這樣，以后也不會這樣）這次發(fā)作永遠不要結(jié)束，希望哈羅德的歌永遠不要唱完，希望他永遠不必知道結(jié)束后會怎么樣。

　 And now he is so much older, Harold is so much older, Julia is so much older, they are three old people and he is being given a sandwich meant for a child, and a directive—Eat—meant for a child as well. We are so old, we have become young again, he thinks, and he picks up the plate and throws it against the far wall, where it shatters, spectacularly. He sees the sandwich had been grilled cheese, sees one of the triangular slabs slap itself against the wall and then ooze down it, the white cheese dripping off in gluey clumps.

而現(xiàn)在，他老了這么多，哈羅德老了這么多，朱麗婭老了這么多，他們是三個老人，他們卻給了他一個該給小孩吃的三明治，還有指令——快吃——也是對小孩說的。我們很老，卻又變年輕了，他心想。然后他拿起那個盤子，丟向另一頭的墻壁，盤子轟然砸碎了。他看到那是個烤奶酪三明治，其中一片三角形摔在墻上，隨即往下流淌，白色黏稠的奶酪成團流了出來。

　 Now, he thinks, almost giddily, as Harold comes close to him once more, now, now, now. And Harold raises his hand and he waits to be hit so hard that this night will end and he will wake in his own bed and for a while be able to forget this moment, will be able to forget what he has done.

現(xiàn)在，他心想，簡直要暈眩起來，看著哈羅德再度逼近他，現(xiàn)在，現(xiàn)在，就是現(xiàn)在。哈羅德舉起一手，他等著那只手重重打下來，重得將這一晚結(jié)束，他醒來時會躺在自己的床上，忘記這一刻，忘記自己做過什么。

　 But instead he finds Harold wrapping him in his arms, and he tries to push him away, but Julia is holding him too, leaning over the carapace of his wheelchair, and he is trapped between them. “Leave me alone,” he roars at them, but his energy is dissipating and he is weak and hungry. “Leave me alone,” he tries again, but his words are shapeless and useless, as useless as his arms, as his legs, and he soon stops trying.

但結(jié)果他發(fā)現(xiàn)哈羅德沒打他，而是用雙臂把他擁進懷里。他想推開，但朱麗婭也湊向他的輪椅背板，抱住了他，他被困在兩人之間。“不要煩我，”他朝他們大吼，但他的精力消失了，整個人變得虛弱又饑餓，“不要煩我。”他又試了一次，但是他的話既不成形又不管用，無用得像他的雙臂，像他的雙腿，于是他很快就放棄嘗試了。

　 “Jude,” Harold says to him, quietly. “My poor Jude. My poor sweetheart.” And with that, he starts to cry, for no one has ever called him sweetheart, not since Brother Luke. Sometimes Willem would try—sweetheart, Willem would try to call him, honey—and he would make him stop; the endearment was filthy to him, a word of debasement and depravity. “My sweetheart,” Harold says again, and he wants him to stop; he wants him to never stop. “My baby.” And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.

“裘德，”哈羅德輕聲說，“我可憐的裘德。我可憐的甜心。”聽到這些話，他哭了起來，因為自從盧克修士以來，沒有人喊過他甜心。有時威廉試著喊他甜心或是蜜糖，他會要他別喊；那種親熱對他來說很骯臟，那些稱呼是貶損而墮落的字眼。“我的甜心。”哈羅德又說。他希望他停止，又希望他永遠不要停止。“我的寶貝。”他哭了又哭，為了他過去的一切；為了可能的一切、所有舊日的傷痛、舊日的快樂；為了他終于能當一個小孩的羞愧和喜悅、懷著小孩可能的奇想、渴望和不安全感而哭；為了可以不乖卻能被原諒的特權(quán)，為了能享受溫柔、鐘愛、端上食物被逼著吃的奢侈；為了他終于、終于有辦法相信父母的保證；為了他終于相信他對某個人來說是特別的，盡管他犯過那么多錯又那么可恨，而且就是因為他犯過那么多錯又那么可恨。