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

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


　　〃That's　what　Denise　said。〃
　　〃I　told　him　that。　He　said；　'Well；　why　didn't　you　do　it？'〃
　　〃Why　didn't　we？〃
　　〃She's　a　child；　not　a　doctor—that's　why。〃
　　〃Did　you　tell　him　that？〃
　　〃I　don't　know　what　I　told　him；〃　she　said；　〃I'm　never　in　control　of　what　I　say　to　doctors；　much　less　what　they　say　to　me。　There's　some　kind　of　disturbance　in　the　air。〃
　　〃I　know　exactly　what　you　mean。〃
　　〃It's　like　having　a　conversation　during　a　spacewalk；　dangling　in　those　heavy　suits。〃
　　〃Everything　drifts　and　floats。〃
　　〃I　lie　to　doctors　all　the　time。〃
　　〃So　do　I。〃
　　〃But　why？〃　she　said。
　　As　I　started　the　car　I　realized　his　crying　had　changed　in　pitch　and　quality。　The　rhythmic　urgency　had　given　way　to　a　sustained；　inarticulate　and　mournful　sound。　He　was　keening　now。　These　were　expressions　of　Mideastern　lament；　of　an　anguish　so　accessible　that　it　rushes　to　overwhelm　whatever　immediately　caused　it。　There　was　something　permanent　and　soul…struck　in　this　crying。　It　was　a　sound　of　inbred　desolation。
　　〃What　do　we　do？〃
　　〃Think　of　something；〃　she　said。
　　'There's　still　fifteen　minutes　before　your　class　is　due　to　start。　Let's　take　him　to　the　hospital；　to　the　emergency　entrance。　Just　to　see　what　they　say。〃
　　〃You　can't　take　a　child　to　an　emergency　ward　because　he's　crying。　If　anything　is　not　an　emergency；　this　would　be　it。〃
　　〃I'll　wait　in　the　car；〃　I　said。
　　〃What　do　I　tell　them？　'My　child　is　crying。'　Do　they　even　have　an　emergency　ward？〃
　　〃Don't　you　remember？　We　took　the　Stovers　this　past　summer。〃
　　〃Why？〃
　　〃Their　car　was　being　repaired。〃
　　〃Never　mind。〃
　　〃They　inhaled　the　spray　mist　from　some　kind　of　stain　remover。〃
　　〃Take　me　to　my　class；〃　she　said。
　　Posture。　When　I　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　church；　some　of　her　students　were　walking　down　the　steps　to　the　basement　entrance。　Babette　looked　at　her　son—a　searching；　pleading　and　desperate　look。　He　was　in　the　sixth　hour　of　his　crying。　She　ran　along　the　sidewalk　and　into　the　building。
　　I　thought　of　taking　him　to　the　hospital。　But　if　a　doctor　who　examined　the　boy　thoroughly　in　his　cozy　office　with　paintings　on　the　wall　in　elaborate　gilded　frames　could　find　nothing　wrong；　then　what　could　emergency　technicians　do；　people　trained　to　leap　on　chests　and　pound　at　static　hearts？
　　I　picked　him　up　and　set　him　against　the　steering　wheel；　facing　me；　his　feet　on　my　thighs。　The　huge　lament　continued；　wave　on　wave。　It　was　a　sound　so　large　and　pure　I　could　almost　listen　to　it；　try　consciously　to　apprehend　it；　as　one　sets　up　a　mental　register　in　a　concert　hall　or　theater。　He　was　not　sniveling　or　blubbering。　He　was　crying　out；　saying　nameless　things　in　a　way　that　touched　me　with　its　depth　and　richness。　This　was　an　ancient　dirge　all　the　more　impressive　for　its　resolute　monotony。　Ululation。　I　held　him　upright　with　a　hand　under　each　arm。　As　the　crying　continued；　a　curious　shift　developed　in　my　thinking。　I　found　that　I　did　not　necessarily　wish　him　to　stop。　It　might　not　be　so　terrible；　I　thought；　to　have　to　sit　and　listen　to　this　a　while　longer。　We　looked　at　each　other。　Behind　that　dopey　countenance；　a　plex　intelligence　operated。　I　held　him　with　one　hand；　using　the　other　to　count　his　fingers　inside　the　mittens；　aloud；　in　German。　The　inconsolable　crying　went　on。　I　let　it　wash　over　me；　like　rain　in　sheets。　I　entered　it；　in　a　sense。　I　let　it　fall　and　tumble　across　my　face　and　chest。　I　began　to　think　he　had　disappeared　inside　this　wailing　noise　and　if　I　could　join　him　in　his　lost　and　suspended　place　we　might　together　perform　some　reckless　wonder　of　intelligibility。　I　let　it　break　across　my　body。　It　might　not　be　so　terrible；　I　thought；　to　have　to　sit　here　for　four　more　hours；　with　the　motor　running　and　the　heater　on；　listening　to　this　uniform　lament。　It　might　be　good；　it　might　be　strangely　soothing。　I　entered　it；　fell　into　it；　letting　it　enfold　and　cover　me。　He　cried　with　his　eyes　open；　his　eyes　closed；　his　hands　in　his　pockets；　his　mittens　on　and　off。　I　sat　there　nodding　sagely。
　　On　an　impulse　I　turned　him　around；　sat　him　on　my　lap　and　started　up　the　car；　letting　Wilder　steer。　We'd　done　this　once　before；　for　a　distance　of　twenty　yards；　at　Sunday　dusk；　in　August；　our　street　deep　in　drowsy　shadow。　Again　he　responded；　crying　as　he　steered；　as　we　turned　corners；　as　I　brought　the　car　to　a　halt　back　at　the　Congregational　church。　I　set　him　on　my　left　leg；　an　arm　around　him；　drawing　him　toward　me；　and　let　my　mind　drift　toward　near　sleep。　The　sound　moved　into　a　fitful　distance。　Now　and　then　a　car　went　by。　I　leaned　against　the　door；　faintly　aware　of　his　breath　on　my　thumb。　Some　time　later　Babette　was　knocking　on　the　window　and　Wilder　was　crawling　across　the　seat　to　lift　the　latch　for　her。　She　got　in；　adjusted　his　hat；　picked　a　crumpled　tissue　off　the　floor。
　　We　were　halfway　home　when　the　crying　stopped。　It　stopped　suddenly；　without　a　change　in　tone　and　intensity。　Babette　said　nothing；　I　kept　my　eyes　on　the　road。　He　sat　between　us；　looking　into　the　radio。　I　waited　for　Babette　to　glance　at　me　behind　his　back；　over　his　head；　to　show　relief；　happiness；　hopeful　suspense。　I　didn't　know　how　I　felt　and　wanted　a　clue。　But　she　looked　straight　ahead　as　if　fearful　that　any　change　in　the　sensitive　texture　of　sound；　movement；　expression　would　cause　the　crying　to　break　out　again。
　　At　the　house　no　one　spoke。　They　all　moved　quietly　from　room　to　room；　watching　him　distantly；　with　sneaky　and　respectful　looks。　When　he　asked　for　some　milk；　Denise　ran　softly　to　the　kitchen；　barefoot；　in　her　pajamas；　sensing　that　by　economy　of　movement　and　lightness　of　step　she　might　keep　from　disturbing　the　grave　and　dramatic　air　he　had　brought　with　him　into　the　house。　He　drank　the　milk　down　in　a　single　powerful　swallow；　still　fully　dressed；　a　mitten　pinned　to　his　sleeve。
　　They　watched　him　with　something　like　awe。　Nearly　seven　straight　hours　of　serious　crying。　It　was　as　though　he'd　just　returned　from　a　period　of　wandering　in　some　remote　and　holy　place；　in　sand　barrens　or　snowy　ranges—a　place　where　things　are　said；　sights　are　seen；　distances　reached　which　we　in　our　ordinary　toil　can　only　regard　with　the　mingled　reverence　and　wonder　we　hold　in　reserve　for　feats　of　the　most　sublime　and　difficult　dimensions。
　　17
　　Babette　said　to　me　in　bed　one　night；　〃Isn't　it　great　having　all　these　kids　around？〃
　　'There'll　be　one　more　soon。〃
　　〃Who？〃
　　〃Bee　is　ing　in　a　couple　of　days。〃
　　〃Good。　Who　else　can　we　get？〃
　　The　next　day　Denise　decided　to　confront　her　mother　directly　about　the　medication　she　was　or　was　not　taking；　hoping　to　trick　Babette　into　a　confession；　an　admission　or　some　minimal　kind　of　flustered　response。　This　was　not　a　tactic　the　girl　and　I　had　discussed　but　I　couldn't　help　admiring　the　boldness　of　her　timing。　All　six　of　us　were　jammed　into　the　car　on　our　way　to　the　Mid…Village　Mall　and　Denise　simply　waited　for　a　natural　break　in　the　conversation；　directing　her　question　toward　the　back　of　Babette's　head；　in　a　voice　drained　of　inference。
　　〃What　do　you　know　about　Dylar？〃
　　〃Is　that　the　black　girl　who's　staying　with　the　Stovers？〃
　　〃That's　Dakar；〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃Dakar　isn't　her　name；　it's　where　she's　from；〃　Denise　said。　〃It's　a　country　on　the　ivory　coast　of　Africa。〃
　　〃The　capital　is　Lagos；〃　Babette　said。　〃I　know　that　because　of　a　surfer　movie　I　saw　once　where　they　travel　all　over　the　world。〃
　　〃The　Perfect　Wave〃　Heinrich　said。　〃I　saw　it　on　TV。〃
　　〃But　what's　the　girl's　name？〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　Babette　said；　〃but　the　movie　wasn't　called　The　Perfect　Wave。　The　perfect　wave　is　what　they　were　looking　for。〃
　　'They　go　to　Hawaii；〃　Denise　told　Steffie；　〃and　wait　for　these　tidal　waves　to　e　from　Japan。　They're　called　origamis。〃
　　〃And　the　movie　was　called　The　Long　Hot　Summer；〃　her　mother　said。
　　〃The　Long　Hot　Summer；〃　Heinrich　said；　〃happens　to　be　a　play　by　Tennessee　Ernie　Williams。〃
　　〃It　doesn't　matter；〃　Babette　said；　〃because　you　can't　copyright　titles　anyway。〃
　　〃If　she's　an　African；〃　Steffie　said；　〃I　wonder　if　she　ever　rode　a　camel。〃
　　'Try　an　Audi　Turbo。〃
　　〃Try　a　Toyota　Supra。〃
　　〃What　is　it　camels　store　in　their　humps？〃　Babette　said。　〃Food　or　water？　I　could　never　get　that　straight。〃
　　〃There　are　one…hump　camels　and　two…hump　camels；〃　Heinrich　told　her。　〃So　it　depends　which　kind　you're　talking　about。〃
　　〃Are　you　telling　me　a　two…hump　camel　stores　food　in　one　hump　and　water　in　the　other？〃
　　〃The　important　thing　about　camels；〃　he　said；　〃is　that　camel　meat　is　considered　a　delicacy。〃
　　〃I　thought　that　was　alligator　meat；〃　Denise　said。
　　〃Who　introduced　the　camel　to　America？〃　Babette　said。　〃They　had　them　out　west　for　a　while　to　carry　supplies　to　coolies　who　were　building　the　great　railroads　that　met　at　Ogden；　Utah。　I　remember　my　history　exams。〃
　　〃Are　you　sure　you're　not　talking　about　llamas？〃　Heinrich　said。
　　〃The　llama　stayed　in　Peru；〃　Denise　said。　〃Peru　has　the　llama；　the　vicu？a　and　one　other　animal。　Bolivia　has　tin。　Chile　has　copper　and　iron。〃
　　〃I'll　give　anyone　in　this　car　five　dollars；〃　Heinrich　said；　〃if　they　can　name　the　population　of　Bolivia。〃
　　〃Bolivians；〃　my　daughter　said。
　　The　family　is　the　cradle　of　the　world's　misinformation。　There　must　be　something　in　family　life　that　generates　factual　error。　Over…closeness；　the　noise　and　heat　of　being。　Perhaps　something　even　deeper；　like　the　need　to　survive。　Murray　says　we　are　fragile　creatures　surrounded　by　a　world　of　hostile　facts。　Facts　threaten　our　happiness　and　security。　The　deeper　we　delve　into　the　nature　of　things；　the　looser　our　structure　may　seem　to　bee。　The　family　process　works　toward　sealing　off　the　world。　Small　errors　grow　heads；　fictions　proliferate。　I　tell　Murray　that　ignorance　and　confusion　can't　possibly　be　the　driving　forces　behind　family　solidarity。　What　an　idea；　what　a　subversion。　He　asks　me　why　the　strongest　family　units　exist　in　the　least　developed　societies。　Not　to　know　is　a　weapon　of　survival；　he　says。　Magic　and　superstition　bee　entrenched　as　the　powerful　orthodoxy　of　the　clan。　The　family　is　strongest　where　objective　reality　is　most　likely　to　be　misinterpreted。　What　a　heartless　theory；　I　say。　But　Murray　insists　it's　true。
　　In　a　huge　hardware　store　at　the　mall　I　saw　Eric　Massingale；　a　former　microchip　sales　engi