白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第62节

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his　was　my　plan。　Step　back；　regard　the　squalor；　make　sure　things　were　correctly　placed。
　　Mink's　eyes　dropped　out　of　his　skull。　They　gleamed；　briefly。　He　raised　his　hand　and　pulled　the　trigger；　shooting　me　in　the　wrist。
　　The　world　collapsed　inward；　all　those　vivid　textures　and　connections　buried　in　mounds　of　ordinary　stuff。　I　was　disappointed。　Hurt；　stunned　and　disappointed。　What　had　happened　to　the　higher　plane　of　energy　in　which　I'd　carried　out　my　scheme？　The　pain　was　searing。　Blood　covered　my　forearm；　wrist　and　hand。　I　staggered　back；　moaning；　watching　blood　drip　from　the　tips　of　my　fingers。　I　was。　troubled　and　confused。　Colored　dots　appeared　at　the　edge　of　my　field　of　vision。　Familiar　little　dancing　specks。　The　extra　dimensions；　the　super　perceptions；　were　reduced　to　visual　clutter；　a　whirling　miscellany；　meaningless。
　　〃And　this　could　represent　the　leading　edge　of　some　warmer　air；〃　Mink　said。
　　I　looked　at　him。　Alive。　His　lap　a　puddle　of　blood。　With　the　restoration　of　the　normal　order　of　matter　and　sensation；　I　felt　I　was　seeing　him　for　the　first　time　as　a　person。　The　old　human　muddles　and　quirks　were　set　flowing　again。　passion；　remorse；　mercy。　But　before　I　could　help　Mink；　I　had　to　do　some　basic　repair　work　on　myself。　Once　again　I　took　out　my　handkerchief；　managed　with　my　right　hand　and　my　teeth　to　tie　it　firmly　just　above　the　bullet　hole　in　my　left　wrist；　or　between　the　wound　and　the　heart。　Then　I　sucked　at　the　wound　briefly；　not　knowing　quite　why；　and　spat　out　the　resulting　blood　and　pulp。　The　bullet　had　made　a　shallow　penetration　and　deflected　away。　Using　my　good　hand；　I　grabbed　Mink　by　his　bare　foot　and　dragged　him　across　the　blood…dappled　tile；　the　gun　still　clutched　in　his　fist。　There　was　something　redemptive　here。　Dragging　him　foot…first　across　the　tile；　across　the　medicated　carpet；　through　the　door　and　into　the　night。　Something　large　and　grand　and　scenic。　Is　it　better　to　mit　evil　and　attempt　to　balance　it　with　an　exalted　act　than　to　live　a　resolutely　neutral　life？　I　know　I　felt　virtuous；　I　felt　blood…stained　and　stately；　dragging　the　badly　wounded　man　through　the　dark　and　empty　street。
　　The　rain　had　stopped。　I　was　shocked　at　the　amount　of　blood　we　were　leaving　behind。　His；　mainly。　The　sidewalk　was　striped。　An　interesting　cultural　deposit。　He　reached　up　feebly；　dropped　more　Dylar　down　his　throat。　The　gun　hand　dragged。
　　We　reached　the　car。　Mink　kicked　free；　involuntarily；　his　body　flopping　and　spinning；　a　little　fishlike。　He　made　spent　and　gasping　noises；　short　of　oxygen。　I　decided　to　attempt　mouth…to…mouth。　I　leaned　over　him；　used　my　thumb　and　index　finger　to　clothes…pin　his　nose　and　then　tried　to　work　my　face　down　into　his。　The　awkwardness　and　grim　intimacy　of　the　act　made　it　seem　all　the　more　dignified　under　the　circumstances。　All　the　larger；　more　generous。　I　kept　trying　to　reach　his　mouth　in　order　to　breathe　powerful　gusts　of　air　into　his　lungs。　My　lips　were　gathered；　ready　to　funnel。　His　eyes　followed　me　down。　Perhaps　he　thought　he　was　about　to　be　kissed。　I　savored　the　irony。
　　His　mouth　was　awash　in　regurgitated　Dylar　foam；　half　chewed　tablets；　flyspeck　shards　of　polymer。　I　felt　large　and　selfless；　above　resentment。　This　was　the　key　to　selflessness；　or　so　it　seemed　to　me　as　I　knelt　over　the　wounded　man；　exhaling　rhythmically　in　the　littered　street　beneath　the　roadway。　Get　past　disgust。　Forgive　the　foul　body。　Embrace　it　whole。　After　some　minutes　of　this；　I　felt　him　e　around；　take　regular　breaths。　I　continued　to　hover　just　above　him；　our　mouths　almost　touching。
　　〃Who　shot　me？〃　he　said。
　　〃You　did。〃
　　〃Who　shot　you？〃
　　〃You　did。　The　gun　is　in　your　hand。〃
　　〃What　was　the　point　I　was　trying　to　make？〃
　　〃You　were　out　of　control。　You　weren't　responsible。　I　forgive　you。〃
　　〃Who　are　you；　literally？〃
　　〃A　passerby。　A　friend。　It　doesn't　matter。〃
　　〃Some　millipedes　have　eyes；　some　do　not。〃
　　With　much　effort；　many　false　starts；　I　got　him　into　the　back　of　the　car；　where　he　stretched　out　moaning。　It　was　no　longer　possible　to　tell　whether　the　blood　on　my　hands　and　clothes　was　his　or　mine。　My　humanity　soared。　I　started　up　the　car。　The　pain　in　my　arm　was　a　throb；　less　fiery　now。　I　drove　one…handed　through　the　empty　streets；　looking　for　a　hospital。　Iron　City　Lying…in。　Mother　of　Mercy。　miseration　and　Rapport。　I　would　take　whatever　they　had；　even　an　emergency　ward　in　the　worst　part　of　town。　This　is　where　we　belonged；　after　all；　with　the　multiple　slash　wounds；　the　entry　and　exit　wounds；　the　blunt　instrument　wounds；　the　traumas；　overdoses；　acute　deliriums。　The　only　traffic　was　a　milk　van；　a　bakery　van；　some　heavy　trucks。　The　sky　began　to　lighten。　We　came　to　a　place　with　a　neon　cross　over　the　entrance。　It　was　a　three…story　building　that　might　have　been　a　Pentecostal　church；　a　day…care　center；　world　headquarters　for　some　movement　of　regimented　youth。
　　There　was　a　wheelchair　ramp；　which　meant　I　could　drag　Mink　to　the　front　door　without　banging　his　head　on　the　concrete　steps。　I　got　him　out　of　the　car；　clutched　his　sleek　foot　and　moved　up　the　ramp。　He　held　one　hand　at　his　midsection　to　stanch　the　flow。　The　gun　hand　dragged　behind。　Dawn。　There　was　a　spaciousness　to　this　moment；　an　epic　pity　and　passion。　Having　shot　him；　having　led　him　to　believe　he'd　shot　himself；　I　felt　I　did　honor　to　both　of　us；　to　all　of　us；　by　merging　our　fortunes；　physically　leading　him　to　safety。　I　took　long　slow　strides；　pulling　his　weight。　It　hadn't　occurred　to　me　that　a　man's　attempts　to　redeem　himself　might　prolong　the　elation　he　felt　when　he　mitted　the　crime　he　now　sought　to　make　up　for。
　　I　rang　the　bell。　In　a　matter　of　seconds；　someone　appeared　at　the　door。　An　old　woman；　a　nun；　black…habited；　black…veiled；　leaning　on　a　cane。
　　〃We're　shot；〃　I　said；　lifting　my　wrist　in　the　air。
　　〃We　see　a　lot　of　that　here；〃　she　answered　matter…of…factly；　in　an　accented　voice；　turning　to　go　back　inside。
　　I　dragged　Mink　across　the　entranceway。　The　place　appeared　to　be　a　clinic。　There　were　waiting　rooms；　screened　cubicles；　doors　marked　X…Ray；　Eye　Test。　We　followed　the　old　nun　to　the　trauma　room。　Two　orderlies　showed　up；　great　squat　men　with　sumo　physiques。　They　lifted　Mink　onto　a　table　and　tore　away　his　clothes　in　neat　short　practiced　strokes。
　　〃Inflated…adjusted　real　ine；〃　he　said。
　　More　nuns　arrived；　rustling；　ancient；　speaking　German　to　each　other。　They　carried　transfusion　equipment；　wheeled　in　trays　of　glinting　implements。　The　original　nun　approached　Mink　to　remove　the　gun　from　his　hand。　I　watched　her　toss　it　in　a　desk　drawer　that　held　about　ten　other　handguns　and　half　a　dozen　knives。　There　was　a　picture　on　the　wall　of　Jack　Kennedy　holding　hands　with　Pope　John　XXIII　in　heaven。　Heaven　was　a　partly　cloudy　place。
　　The　doctor　arrived；　an　elderly　man　in　a　shabby　three…piece　suit。　He　spoke　German　to　the　nuns　and　studied　Mink's　body；　which　was　now　partly　clad　in　sheets。
　　〃No　one　knows　why　the　sea　birds　e　to　San　Miguel；〃　Willie　said。
　　I　was　growing　fond　of　him。　The　original　nun　took　me　into　a　cubicle　to　work　on　my　wound。　I　started　to　give　her　a　version　of　the　shootings　but　she　showed　no　interest。　I　told　her　it　was　an　old　gun　with　feeble　bullets。
　　〃Such　a　violent　country。〃
　　〃Have　you　been　in　Germantown　long？〃　I　said。
　　〃We　are　the　last　of　the　Germans。〃
　　〃Who　lives　here　now；　mostly？〃
　　〃Mostly　no　one；〃　she　said。
　　More　nuns　walked　by；　heavy　rosaries　swinging　from　their　belts。　I　found　them　a　merry　sight；　the　kind　of　homogeneous　presence　that　makes　people　smile　at　airports。
　　I　asked　my　nun　her　name。　Sister　Hermann　Marie。　I　told　her　I　knew　some　German；　trying　to　gain　her　favor；　as　I　always　did　with　medical　personnel　of　any　kind；　at　least　in　the　early　stages；　before　my　fear　and　distrust　overwhelmed　any　hope　I　might　have　had　in　maneuvering　for　advantage。
　　〃Gut；　besser；　best；〃　I　said。
　　A　smile　appeared　on　her　seamed　face。　I　counted　for　her；　pointed　to　objects　and　gave　their　names。　She　nodded　happily；　cleaning　out　the　wound　and　wrapping　the　wrist　in　sterile　pads。　She　said　I　would　not　need　a　splint　and　told　me　the　doctor　would　write　a　prescription　for　antibiotics。　We　counted　to　ten　together。
　　Two　more　nuns　appeared；　wizened　and　creaky。　My　nun　said　something　to　them　and　soon　all　four　of　us　were　charmingly　engaged　in　a　childlike　dialogue。　We　did　colors；　items　of　clothing；　parts　of　the　body。　I　felt　much　more　at　ease　in　this　German…speaking　pany　than　I　had　with　the　Hitler　scholars。　Is　there　something　so　innocent　in　the　recitation　of　names　that　Cod　is　pleased？
　　Sister　Hermann　Marie　applied　finishing　touches　to　the　bullet　wound。　From　my　chair　I　had　a　clear　view　of　the　picture　of　Kennedy　and　the　Pope　in　heaven。　I　had　a　sneaking　admiration　for　the　picture。　It　made　me　feel　good；　sentimentally　refreshed。　The　President　still　vigorous　after　death。　The　Pope's　homeliness　a　kind　of　radiance。　Why　shouldn't　it　be　true？　Why　shouldn't　they　meet　somewhere；　advanced　in　time；　against　a　layer　of　fluffy　cumulus；　to　clasp　hands？　Why　shouldn't　we　all　meet；　as　in　some　epic　of　protean　gods　and　ordinary　people；　aloft；　well…formed；　shining？
　　I　said　to　my　nun；　〃What　does　the　Church　say　about　heaven　today？　Is　it　still　the　old　heaven；　like　that；　in　the　sky？〃
　　She　turned　to　glance　at　the　picture。