白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第42节

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　　〃Good。　Do　you　want　to　go？　Of　course　you　do。　You　like　your　mother。　She's　in　Mexico　City　now；　isn't　she？〃
　　〃Who'll　take　me？〃
　　〃I'll　take　you　to　the　airport。　Your　mother　will　pick　you　up　at　the　other　end。　It's　easy。　Bee　does　it　all　the　time。　You　like　Bee。〃
　　The　enormity　of　the　mission；　of　flying　to　a　foreign　country　at　nearly　supersonic　speed；　at　thirty　thousand　feet；　alone；　in　a　humped　container　of　titanium　and　steel；　caused　her　to　grow　momentarily　silent。　We　watched　the　water　boil。
　　〃I　signed　up　to　be　a　victim　again。　It's　just　before　Easter。　So　I　think　I　have　to　stay　here。〃
　　〃Another　evacuation？　What's　the　occasion　this　time？〃
　　〃A　funny　smell。〃
　　〃You　mean　some　chemical　from　a　plant　across　the　river？〃
　　〃I　guess　so。〃
　　〃What　do　you　do　as　the　victim　of　a　smell？〃
　　〃They　have　to　tell　us　yet。〃
　　〃I'm　sure　they　won't　mind　excusing　you　just　this　once。　I'll　write　a　note；〃　I　said。
　　My　first　and　fourth　marriages　were　to　Dana　Breedlove；　who　is　Steffie's　mother。　The　first　marriage　worked　well　enough　to　encourage　us　to　try　again　as　soon　as　it　became　mutually　convenient。　When　we　did；　after　the　melancholy　epochs　of　Janet　Savory　and　Tweedy　Browner；　things　proceeded　to　fall　apart。　But　not　before　Stephanie　Rose　was　conceived；　a　star…hung　night　in　Barbados。　Dana　was　there　to　bribe　an　official。
　　She　told　me　very　little　about　her　intelligence　work。　I　knew　she　reviewed　fiction　for　the　CIA；　mainly　long　serious　novels　with　coded　structures。　The　work　left　her　tired　and　irritable；　rarely　able　to　enjoy　food；　sex　or　conversation。　She　spoke　Spanish　to　someone　on　the　telephone；　was　a　hyperactive　mother；　shining　with　an　eerie　stormlight　intensity。　The　long　novels　kept　arriving　in　the　mail。
　　It　was　curious　how　I　kept　stumbling　into　the　pany　of　lives　in　intelligence。　Dana　worked　part…time　as　a　spy。　Tweedy　came　from　a　distinguished　old　family　that　had　a　long　tradition　of　spying　and　counterspying　and　she　was　now　married　to　a　high…level　jungle　operative。　Janet；　before　retiring　to　the　ashram；　was　a　foreign…currency　analyst　who　did　research　for　a　secret　group　of　advanced　theorists　connected　to　some　controversial　think…tank。　All　she　told　me　is　that　they　never　met　in　the　same　place　twice。
　　Some　of　my　adoration　of　Babette　must　have　been　sheer　relief。　She　was　not　a　keeper　of　secrets；　at　least　not　until　her　death　fears　drove　her　into　a　frenzy　of　clandestine　research　and　erotic　deception。　I　thought　of　Mr。　Gray　and　his　pendulous　member。　The　image　was　hazy；　unfinished。　The　man　was　literally　gray；　giving　off　a　visual　buzz。
　　The　water　progressed　to　a　rolling　boil。　Steffie　helped　the　boy　down　from　his　perch。　I　ran　into　6abette　on　my　way　to　the　front　door。　We　exchanged　the　simple　but　deeply　sincere　question　we'd　been　asking　each　other　two　or　three　times　a　day　since　the　night　of　the　Dylar　revelations。　〃How　do　you　feel？〃　Asking　the　question；　hearing　it　asked；　made　us　both　feel　better。　I　bounded　upstairs　to　find　my　glasses。
　　The　National　Cancer　Quiz　was　on　TV。
　　In　the　lunchroom　in　Centenary　Hall；　I　watched　Murray　sniff　his　utensils。　There　was　a　special　pallor　in　the　faces　of　the　New　York　émigrés。　Lasher　and　Grappa　in　particular。　They　had　the　wanness　of　obsession；　of　powerful　appetites　confined　to　small　spaces。　Murray　said　that　Elliot　Lasher　had　a　film　noir　face。　His　features　were　sharply　defined；　his　hair　perfumed　with　some　oily　extract。　I　had　the　curious　thought　that　these　men　were　nostalgic　for　black…and…white；　their　longings　dominated　by　achromatic　values；　personal　extremes　of　postwar　urban　gray。
　　Alfonse　Stompanato　sat　down；　radiating　aggression　and　threat。　He　seemed　to　be　watching　me；　one　department　head　measuring　the　aura　of　another。　There　was　a　Brooklyn　Dodger　emblem　sewed　to　the　front　of　his　gown。
　　Lasher　wadded　up　a　paper　napkin　and　tossed　it　at　someone　two　tables　away。　Then　he　stared　at　Grappa。
　　〃Who　was　the　greatest　influence　on　your　life？〃　he　said　in　a　hostile　tone。
　　〃Richard　Widmark　in　Kiss　of　Death。　When　Richard　Widmark　pushed　that　old　lady　in　that　wheelchair　down　that　flight　of　stairs；　it　was　like　a　personal　breakthrough　for　me。　It　resolved　a　number　of　conflicts。　I　copied　Richard　Widmark's　sadistic　laugh　and　used　it　for　ten　years。　It　got　me　through　some　tough　emotional　periods。　Richard　Widmark　as　Tommy　Udo　in　Henry　Hathaway's　Kiss　of　Death。　Remember　that　creepy　laugh？　Hyena…faced。　A　ghoulish　titter。　It　clarified　a　number　of　things　in　my　life。　Helped　me　bee　a　person。〃
　　〃Did　you　ever　spit　in　your　soda　bottle　so　you　wouldn't　have　to　share　your　drink　with　the　other　kids？〃
　　〃It　was　an　automatic　thing。　Some　guys　even　spit　in　their　sandwiches。　After　we　pitched　pennies　to　the　wall；　we'd　buy　stuff　to　eat　and　drink。　There　was　always　a　flurry　of　spitting。　Guys　spit　on　their　fudge　pops；　their　charlotte　russes。〃
　　〃How　old　were　you　when　you　first　realized　your　father　was　a　jerk？〃
　　〃Twelve　and　a　half；〃　Grappa　said。　〃I　was　sitting　in　the　balcony　at　the　Loew's　Fairmont　watching　Fritz　Lang's　Clash　by　Night　with　Barbara　Stanwyck　as　Mae　Doyle；　Paul　Douglas　as　Jerry　d'Amato　and　the　great　Robert　Ryan　as　Earl　Pfeiffer。　Featuring　J。　Carroll　Naish；　Keith　Andes　and　the　early　Marilyn　Monroe。　Shot　in　thirty…two　days。　Black　and　white。〃
　　〃Did　you　ever　get　an　erection　from　a　dental　hygienist　rubbing　against　your　arm　while　she　cleaned　your　teeth？〃
　　〃More　times　than　I　can　count。〃
　　〃When　you　bite　dead　skin　off　your　thumb；　do　you　eat　it　or　spit　it　out？〃
　　〃Chew　it　briefly；　then　propel　it　swiftly　from　the　end　of　the　tongue。〃
　　〃Do　you　ever　close　your　eyes；〃　Lasher　said；　〃while　you're　driving　on　a　highway？〃
　　〃I　closed　my　eyes　on　95　North　for　eight　full　seconds。　Eight　seconds　is　my　personal　best。　I've　closed　my　eyes　for　up　to　six　seconds　on　winding　country　roads　but　that's　only　doing　thirty　or　thirty…five。　On　multilane　highways　I　usually　hover　at　seventy　before　I　close　my　eyes。　You　do　this　on　straightaways。　I've　closed　my　eyes　for　up　to　five　seconds　on　straightaways　driving　with　other　people　in　the　car。　You　wait　till　they're　drowsy　is　how　you　do　it。〃
　　Grappa　had　a　round　moist　worried　face。　There　was　something　in　it　of　a　sweet　boy　betrayed。　I　watched　him　light　up　a　cigarette；　shake　out　the　match　and　toss　it　into　Murray's　salad。
　　〃How　much　pleasure　did　you　take　as　a　kid；〃　Lasher　said；　〃in　imagining　yourself　dead？〃
　　〃Never　mind　as　a　kid；〃　Grappa　said。　〃I　still　do　it　all　the　time。　Whenever　I'm　upset　over　something；　I　imagine　all　my　friends；　relatives　and　colleagues　gathered　at　my　bier。　They　are　very；　very　sorry　they　weren't　nicer　to　me　while　I　lived。　Self…pity　is　something　I've　worked　very　hard　to　maintain。　Why　abandon　it　just　because　you　grow　up？　Self…pity　is　something　that　children　are　very　good　at；　which　must　mean　it　is　natural　and　important。　Imagining　yourself　dead　is　the　cheapest；　sleaziest；　most　satisfying　form　of　childish　self…pity。　How　sad　and　remorseful　and　guilty　all　those　people　are；　standing　by　your　great　bronze　coffin。　They　can't　even　look　each　other　in　the　eye　because　they　know　that　the　death　of　this　decent　and　passionate　man　is　the　result　of　a　conspiracy　they　all　took　part　in。　The　coffin　is　banked　with　flowers　and　lined　with　a　napped　fabric　in　salmon　or　peach。　What　wonderful　cross…currents　of　self…pity　and　self…esteem　you　are　able　to　wallow　in；　seeing　yourself　laid　out　in　a　dark　suit　and　tie；　looking　tanned；　fit　and　rested；　as　they　say　of　presidents　after　vacations。　But　there　is　something　even　more　childish　and　satisfying　than　self…pity；　something　that　explains　why　I　try　to　see　myself　dead　on　a　regular　basis；　a　great　fellow　surrounded　by　sniveling　mourners。　It　is　my　way　of　punishing　people　for　thinking　their　own　lives　are　more　important　than　mine。〃
　　Lasher　said　to　Murray；　〃We　ought　to　have　an　official　Day　of　the　Dead。　Like　the　Mexicans。〃
　　〃We　do。　It's　called　Super　Bowl　Week。〃
　　I　didn't　want　to　listen　to　this。　I　had　my　own　dying　to　dwell　upon；　independent　of　fantasies。　Not　that　I　thought　Grappa's　remarks　were　ill…founded。　His　sense　of　conspiracy　aroused　in　me　a　particular　ripple　of　response。　This　is　what　we　forgive　on　our　deathbeds；　not　lovelessness　or　greed。　We　forgive　them　for　their　ability　to　put　themselves　at　a　distance；　to　scheme　in　silence　against　us；　do　us；　effectively；　in。
　　I　watched　Alfonse　reassert　his　bearish　presence　with　a　shoulder…rolling　gesture。　I　took　this　as　a　sign　that　he　was　wanning　up　to　speak。　I　wanted　to　bolt；　make　off　suddenly；　run。
　　〃In　New　York；〃　he　said；　looking　directly　at　me；　〃people　ask　if　you　have　a　good　internist。　This　is　where　true　power　lies。　The　inner　organs。　Liver；　kidneys；　stomach；　intestines；　pancreas。　Internal　medicine　is　the　magic　brew。　You　acquire　strength　and　charisma　from　a　good　internist　totally　aside　from　the　treatment　he　provides。　People　ask　about　tax　lawyers；　estate　planners；　dope　dealers。　But　it's　the　internist　who　really　matters。　'Who's　your　internist？'　someone　will　say　in　a　challenging　tone。　The　question　implies　that　if　your　internist's　name　is　unfamiliar；　you　are　certain　to　die　of　a　mushroom…shaped　tumor　on　your　pancreas。　You　are　meant　to　feel　inferior　and　doomed　not　just　because　your　inner　organs　may　be　trickling　blood　but　because　you　don't　know　who　to　see　about　it；　how　to　make　contacts；　how　to