白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第43部分

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　　Panasonic。
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　　What　time　was　it　when　I　opened　my　eyes；　sensing　someone　or　something　nearby？　Was　it　an　odd…numbered　hour？　The　room　was　soft　and　webby。　I　stretched　my　legs；　blinked…　slowly　focused　on　a　familiar　object。　It　was　Wilder；　standing　two　feet　from　the　bed；　gazing　into　my　face。　We　spent　a　long　moment　in　mutual　contemplation。　His　great　round　head；　set　as　it　was　on　a　small…limbed　and　squattish　body；　gave　him　the　look　of　a　primitive　clay　figurine；　some　household　idol　of　obscure　and　cultic　derivation。　I　had　the　feeling　he　wanted　to　show　me　something。　As　I　slipped　quietly　out　of　bed；　he　walked　in　his　quilted　booties　out　of　the　room。　I　followed　him　into　the　hall　and　toward　the　window　that　looks　out　on　our　backyard。　I　was　barefoot　and　robeless　and　felt　a　chill　pass　through　the　Hong　Kong　polyester　of　my　pajamas。　Wilder　stood　looking　out　the　window；　his　chin　about　an　inch　above　the　sill。　It　seemed　I'd　spent　my　life　in　lopsided　pajamas；　the　shirt　buttons　inserted　in　mismatching　slits；　the　fly　undone　and　drooping。　Was　it　dawn　already？　Were　those　crows　I　heard　screaming　in　the　trees？
　　There　was　someone　sitting　in　the　backyard。　A　white…haired　man　sitting　erect　in　the　old　wicker　chair；　a　figure　of　eerie　stillness　and　posure。　At　first；　dazed　and　sleepy；　I　didn't　know　what　to　make　of　the　sight。　It　seemed　to　need　a　more　careful　interpretation　than　I　was　able　to　provide　at　the　moment。　I　thought　one　thing；　that　he'd　been　inserted　there　for　some　purpose。　Then　fear　began　to　enter；　palpable　and　overwhelming；　a　fist　clenching　repeatedly　in　my　chest。　Who　was　he；　what　was　happening　here？　I　realized　Wilder　was　no　longer　next　to　me。　I　reached　the　doorway　to　his　room　just　in　time　to　see　his　head　sink　into　the　pillow。　By　the　time　I　got　to　the　bed；　he　was　fast　asleep。　I　didn't　know　what　to　do。　I　felt　cold；　white。　I　worked　my　way　back　to　the　window；　gripping　a　doorknob；　a　handrail；　as　if　to　remind　myself　of　the　nature　and　being　of　real　things。　He　was　still　out　there；　gazing　into　the　hedges。　I　saw　him　in　profile　in　the　uncertain　light；　motionless　and　knowing。　Was　he　as　old　as　I'd　first　thought—or　was　the　white　hair　purely　emblematic；　part　of　his　allegorical　force？　That　was　it；　of　course。　He　would　be　Death；　or　Death's　errand…runner；　a　hollow…eyed　technician　from　the　plague　era；　from　the　era　of　inquisitions；　endless　wars；　of　bedlams　and　leprosariums。　He　would　be　an　aphorist　of　last　things；　giving　me　the　barest　glance—civilized；　ironic—as　he　spoke　his　deft　and　stylish　line　about　my　journey　out。　I　watched　for　a　long　time；　waiting　for　him　to　move　a　hand。　His　stillness　was　manding。　I　felt　myself　getting　whiter　by　the　second。　What　does　it　mean　to　bee　white？　How　does　it　feel　to　see　Death　in　the　flesh；　e　to　gather　you　in？　I　was　scared　to　the　marrow。　I　was　cold　and　hot；　dry　and　wet；　myself　and　someone　else。　The　fist　clenched　in　my　chest。　I　went　to　the　staircase　and　sat　on　the　top　step；　looking　into　my　hands。　So　much　remained。　Every　word　and　thing　a　bead…work　of　bright　creation。　My　own　plain　hand；　crosshatched　and　whorled　in　a　mesh　of　expressive　lines；　a　life　terrain；　might　itself　be　the　object　of　a　person's　study　and　wonder　for　years。　A　cosmology　against　the　void。
　　I　got　to　my　feet　and　went　back　to　the　window。　He　was　still　there。　I　went　into　the　bathroom　to　hide。　I　closed　the　toilet　lid　and　sat　there　a　while；　wondering　what　to　do　next。　I　didn't　want　him　in　the　house。
　　I　paced　for　a　time。　I　ran　cold　water　over　my　hands　and　wrists；　splashed　it　in　my　face。　I　felt　light　and　heavy；　muddled　and　alert。　I　took　a　scenic　paperweight　from　the　shelf　by　the　door。　Inside　the　plastic　disk　floated　a　3…D　picture　of　the　Grand　Canyon；　the　colors　zooming　and　receding　as　I　turned　the　object　in　the　light。　Fluctuating　planes。　I　liked　this　phrase。　It　seemed　the　very　music　of　existence。　If　only　one　could　see　death　as　just　another　surface　one　inhabits　for　a　time。　Another　facet　of　cosmic　reason。　A　zoom　down　Bright　Angel　Trail。
　　í　turned　to　immediate　things。　If　I　wanted　to　keep　him　out　of　the　house；　the　thing　to　do　was　go　outside。　First　1　would　look　in　on　the　smaller　children。　I　moved　quietly　through　the　rooms　on　bare　white　feet。　I　looked　for　a　blanket　to　adjust；　a　toy　to　remove　from　a　child's　warm　grasp；　feeling　I'd　wandered　into　a　TV　moment。　All　was　still　and　well。　Would　they　regard　a　parent's　death　as　just　another　form　of　divorce？
　　I　looked　in　on　Heinrich。　He　occupied　the　top　left　corner　of　the　bed；　his　body　tightly　wound　like　the　kind　of　trick　device　that　uncoils　abruptly　when　it's　touched。　I　stood　in　the　doorway　nodding。
　　I　looked　in　on　Babette。　She　was　many　levels　down；　a　girl　again；　a　figure　running　in　a　dream。　I　kissed　her　head；　smelling　the　warm　musty　air　that　carried　up　from　sleep。　I　spotted　my　copy　of　Mein　Kampf　in　a　pile　of　books　and　journals。　The　radio　came　on。　I　hurried　out　of　the　room；　fearing　that　some　call…in　voice；　some　stranger's　soul…lament；　would　be　the　last　thing　I　heard　in　this　world。
　　I　went　down　to　the　kitchen。　I　looked　through　the　window。　He　was　there　in　the　wicker　armchair　on　the　wet　grass。　I　opened　the　inner　door　and　then　the　storm　door。　I　went　outside；　the　copy　of　Mein　Kampf　clutched　to　my　stomach。　When　the　storm　door　banged　shut；　the　man's　head　jerked　and　his　legs　came　uncrossed。　He　got　to　his　feet　and　turned　in　my　direction。　The　sense　of　eerie　and　invincible　stillness　washed　off；　the　aura　of　knowingness；　the　feeling　he　conveyed　of　an　ancient　and　terrible　secret。　A　second　figure　began　to　emerge　from　the　numinous　ruins　of　the　first；　began　to　assume　effective　form；　develop　in　the　crisp　light　as　a　set　of　movements；　lines　and　features；　a　contour；　a　living　person　whose　distinctive　physical　traits　seemed　more　and　more　familiar　as　I　watched　them　e　into　existence；　a　little　amazed。
　　It　was　not　Death　that　stood　before　me　but　only　Vernon　Dickey；　my　father…in…law。
　　〃Was　I　asleep？〃　he　said。
　　〃What　are　you　doing　out　here？〃
　　〃Didn't　want　to　wake　you　folks。〃
　　〃Did　we　know　you　were　ing？〃
　　〃I　didn't　know　it　myself　till　yesterday　afternoon。　Drove　straight　through。　Fourteen　hours。〃
　　〃Babette　will　be　happy　to　see　you。〃
　　〃I　just　bet。〃
　　We　went　inside。　I　put　the　coffee　pot　on　the　stove。　Vernon　sat　at　the　table　in　his　battered　denim　jacket；　playing　with　the　lid　of　an　old　Zippo。　He　had　the　look　of　a　ladies'　man　in　the　crash…dive　of　his　career。　His　silvery　hair　had　a　wan　tinge　to　it；　a　yellowish　discolor；　and　he　bed　it　back　in　a　ducktail。　He　wore　about　four　days'　stubble。　His　chronic　cough　had　taken　on　a　jagged　edge；　an　element　of　irresponsibility。　Babette　worried　less　about　his　condition　than　about　the　fact　that　he　took　such　sardonic　pleasure　in　his　own　hackings　and　spasms；　as　if　there　were　something　fatefully　attractive　in　this　terrible　noise。　He　still　wore　a　garrison　belt　with　a　longhorn　buckle。
　　〃So　what　the　hell。　Here　I　am。　Big　deal。〃
　　〃What　are　you　doing　these　days？〃
　　〃Shingling　here；　rustproofing　there。　I　moonlight；　except　there's　nothing　I'm　moonlighting　from。　Moonlight　is　all　that's　out　there。〃
　　I　noticed　his　hands。　Scarred；　busted；　notched；　permanently　seamed　with　grease　and　mud。　He　glanced　around　the　room；　trying　to　spot　something　that　needed　replacing　or　repair。　Such　flaws　were　mainly　an　occasion　for　discourse。　It　put　Vernon　at　an　advantage　to　talk　about　gaskets　and　washers；　about　grouting；　caulking；　spackling。　There　were　times　when　he　seemed　to　attack　me　with　terms　like　ratchet　drill　and　whipsaw。　He　saw　my　shaki…ness　in　such　matters　as　a　sign　of　some　deeper　inpetence　or　stupidity。　These　were　the　things　that　built　the　world。　Not　to　know　or　care　about　them　was　a　betrayal　of　fundamental　principles；　a　betrayal　of　gender；　of　species。　What　could　be　more　useless　than　a　man　who　couldn't　fix　a　dripping　faucet—fundamentally　useless；　dead　to　history；　to　the　messages　in　his　genes？　I　wasn't　sure　I　disagreed。
　　〃I　was　saying　to　Babette　the　other　day。　'If　there's　one　thing　your　father　doesn't　resemble；　it's　a　widower。'〃
　　〃What　did　she　say　to　that？〃
　　〃She　thinks　you're　a　danger　to　yourself。　'He'll　fall　asleep　smoking。　He'll　die　in　a　burning　bed　with　a　missing　woman　at　his　side。
　　An　official　missing　person。　Some　poor　lost　unidentified　multi…divorced　woman。'〃
　　Vernon　coughed　in　appreciation　of　the　insight。　A　series　of　pulmonary　gasps。　I　could　hear　the　stringy　mucus　whipping　back　and　forth　in　his　chest。　I　poured　his　coffee　and　waited。
　　〃Just　so　you　know　where　I'm　at；　Jack；　there's　a　woman　that　wants　to　marry　my　ass。　She　goes　to　church　in　a　mobile　home。　Don't　tell　Babette。〃
　　〃That's　the　last　thing　I'd　do。〃
　　〃She'd　get　real　exercised。　Start　in　with　the　discount　calls。〃
　　〃She　thinks　you've　gotten　too　lawless　for　marriage。〃
　　〃The　thing　about　marriage　today　is　you　don't　have　to　go　outside　the　home　to　get　those　little　extras。　You　can　get　whatever　you　want　in　the　recesses　of　the　American　home。　These　are　the　times　we　live　in；　for　better　or　worse。　Wives　will　do　things。　They　want　to　do　things。　You　don't　have　to　drop　little　looks。　It　used　to　be　the　only　thing　available　in　the　American　home　was　the　basic　natural　act。　Now　you　get　the　options　too。　The　action　is　thick；　let　me　tell　you。　It's　an　amazing　ment　on　our　times　that　the　more　options　you　get　in　the　home；　the　more　prostitutes　you　see　in　the　streets。　How　do　you　figure　it；　Jack？　You're　the　professor。　What　does　it　mean？〃
　　〃I　don't　know。〃
　　〃Wives　wear　edible　panties。　They　know　the　words；　the　usages。　Meanwhile　the　prostitutes　are　standing　in　the　streets　in　all　kinds　of　weather；　day　and　night。　Who　are　they　waiting　for？　Tourists？　Businessmen？　Men　who've　been　turned　into　stalkers　of　flesh？　It's　like　the　lid's　blown　off。　Didn't　I　read　somewhere　the　Japanese　go　to　Singapore？　Whole　planeloads　of　males。　A　remarkable　people。〃
　　〃Are　you　seriously　thinking　of　getting　married？〃
　　〃I'd　have　to　be　crazy　to　marry　a　woman　that　worships　in　a　mobile　home。〃
　　There　was　an　astuteness　about　Vernon；　a　deadpan　quality　of　alert　and　searching　intelligence；　a　shrewdness　waiting　for　a　shapely　occasion。　This　made　Babette　nervous。　She'd　seen　him　sidle　up　to　women　in　public　places　to　ask　some　delving　question　in　his　blank…faced　canny　way。　She　refused　to　go　into　restaurants　with　him；　fearing　his　offhand　remarks　to　waitresses；　intimate　remarks；