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

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alked　down　the　aisle；　smiling　and　chatting　in　an　empty　pleasant　corporate　way。　His　face　had　the　rosy　and　confident　polish　that　is　familiar　in　handlers　of　large　passenger　aircraft。　They　looked　at　him　and　wondered　why　they'd　been　afraid。
　　I'd　been　pushed　away　from　the　narrator　by　people　crowding　in　to　listen；　well　over　a　hundred　of　them；　dragging　their　shoulder　bags　and　garment　bags　across　the　dusty　floor。　Just　as　I　realized　I　was　almost　out　of　hearing　range；　I　saw　Bee　standing　next　to　me；　her　small　face　smooth　and　white　in　a　mass　of　kinky　hair。　She　jumped　up　into　my　embrace；　smelling　of　jet　exhaust。
　　〃Where's　the　media？〃　she　said。
　　〃There　is　no　media　in　Iron　City。〃
　　'They　went　through　all　that　for　nothing？〃
　　We　found　Tweedy　and　headed　out　to　the　car。　There　was　a　traffic　jam　on　the　outskirts　of　the　city　and　we　had　to　sit　on　a　road　outside　an　abandoned　foundry。　A　thousand　broken　windows；　street　lights　broken；　darkness　settling　in。　Bee　sat　in　the　middle　of　the　rear　seat　in　the　lotus　position。　She　seemed　remarkably　well　rested　after　a　journey　that　had　spanned　time　zones；　land　masses；　vast　oceanic　distances；　days　and　nights；　on　large　and　small　planes；　in　summer　and　winter；　from　Surabaya　to　Iron　City。　Now　we　sat　waiting　in　the　dark　for　a　car　to　get　towed　or　a　drawbridge　to　close。　Bee　didn't　think　this　familiar　irony　of　modern　travel　was　worth　a　ment。　She　just　sat　there　listening　to　Tweedy　explain　to　me　why　parents　needn't　worry　about　children　taking　such　trips　alone。　Planes　and　terminals　are　the　safest　of　places　for　the　very　young　and　very　old。　They　are　looked　after；　smiled　upon；　admired　for　their　resourcefulness　and　pluck。　People　ask　friendly　questions；　offer　them　blankets　and　sweets。
　　〃Every　child　ought　to　have　the　opportunity　to　travel　thousands　of　miles　alone；〃　Tweedy　said；　〃for　the　sake　of　her　self…esteem　and　independence　of　mind；　with　clothes　and　toiletries　of　her　own　choosing。　The　sooner　we　get　them　in　the　air；　the　better。　Like　swimming　or　ice　skating。　You　have　to　start　them　young。　It's　one　of　the　things　I'm　proudest　to　have　acplished　with　Bee。　I　sent　her　to　Boston　on　Eastern　when　she　was　nine。　I　told　Granny　Browner　not　to　meet　her　plane。　Getting　out　of　airports　is　every　bit　as　important　as　the　actual　flight。　Too　many　parents　ignore　this　phase　of　a　child's　development。　Bee　is　thoroughly　bicoastal　now。　She　flew　her　first　jumbo　at　ten；　changed　planes　at　O'Hare；　had　a　near　miss　in　Los　Angeles。　Two　weeks　later　she　took　the　Concorde　to　London。　Malcolm　was　waiting　with　a　split　of　champagne。〃
　　Up　ahead　the　taillights　danced；　the　line　began　to　move。
　　Barring　mechanical　failures；　turbulent　weather　and　terrorist　acts；　Tweedy　said；　an　aircraft　traveling　at　the　speed　of　sound　may　be　the　last　refuge　of　gracious　living　and　civilized　manners　known　to　man。
　　19
　　Bee　made　us　feel　self…conscious　at　times；　a　punishment　that　visitors　will　unintentionally　inflict　on　their　placent　hosts。　Her　presence　seemed　to　radiate　a　surgical　light。　We　began　to　see　ourselves　as　a　group　that　acted　without　design；　avoided　making　decisions；　took　turns　being　stupid　and　emotionally　unstable；　left　wet　towels　everywhere；　mislaid　our　youngest　member。　Whatever　we　did　was　suddenly　a　thing　that　seemed　to　need　explaining。　My　wife　was　especially　disconcerted。　If　Denise　was　a　pint…sized　missar；　nagging　us　to　higher　conscience；　then　Bee　was　a　silent　witness；　calling　the　very　meaning　of　our　lives　into　question。　I　watched　Babette　stare　into　her　cupped　hands；　aghast。
　　That　chirping　sound　was　just　the　radiator。
　　Bee　was　quietly　disdainful　of　wisecracks；　sarcasm　and　other　family　business。　A　year　older　than　Denise；　she　was　taller；　thinner；　paler；　both　worldly　and　ethereal；　as　though　in　her　heart　she　was　not　a　travel　writer　at　all；　as　her　mother　had　said　she　wished　to　be；　but　simply　a　traveler；　the　purer　form；　someone　who　collects　impressions；　dense　anatomies　of　feeling；　but　does　not　care　to　record　them。
　　She　was　self…possessed　and　thoughtful；　had　brought　us　hand…carved　gifts　from　the　jungles。　She　took　taxis　to　school　and　dance　class；　spoke　a　little　Chinese；　had　once　wired　money　to　a　stranded　friend。　I　admired　her　in　a　distant　and　uneasy　way；　sensing　a　nameless　threat；　as　if　she　were　not　my　child　at　all　but　the　sophisticated　and　self…reliant　friend　of　one　of　my　children。　Was　Murray　right？　Were　we　a　fragile　unit　surrounded　by　hostile　facts？　Would　I　promote　ignorance；　prejudice　and　superstition　to　protect　my　family　from　the　world？
　　On　Christmas　Day；　Bee　sat　by　the　fireplace　in　our　seldom　used　living　room；　watching　the　turquoise　flames。　She　wore　a　long　loose　khaki　outfit　that　looked　casually　expensive。　I　sat　in　the　armchair　with　three　or　four　gift　boxes　in　my　lap；　apparel　and　tissue　paper　hanging　out。　My　dog…eared　copy　of　Mein　Kampf　rested　on　the　floor　at　the　side　of　the　chair。　Some　of　the　other　people　were　in　the　kitchen　preparing　the　meal；　some　had　gone　upstairs　to　investigate　their　gifts　in　private。　The　TV　said：　〃This　creature　has　developed　a　plicated　stomach　in　keeping　with　its　leafy　diet。〃
　　〃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