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白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第49部分

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 in sixty watts of dusty light。 I began to suspect I was the only person he ever talked to。 I also began to suspect he needed me more than I needed him。 A disconcerting and terrible thought。
  There was a German…language book on a ruined table near the door。 The title was lettered in black in a thick heavy ominous typeface: Das Aegyptische Todtenbuch。
  〃What's that?〃 I said。
  〃The Egyptian Book of the Dead;〃 he whispered。 〃A best…seller in Germany。〃
  Every so often; when Denise wasn't home; I wandered into her room。 I picked up things; put them down; looked behind a curtain; glanced into an open drawer; stuck my foot under the bed and felt around。 Absentminded browsing。
  Babette listened to talk radio。
  I started throwing things away。 Things in the top and bottom of my closet; things in boxes in the basement and attic。 I threw away correspondence; old paperbacks; magazines I'd been saving to read; pencils that needed sharpening。 I threw away tennis shoes; sweat socks; gloves with ragged fingers; old belts and neckties。 I came upon stacks of student reports; broken rods for the seats of director's chairs。 I threw these away。 I threw away every aerosol can that didn't have a top。
  The gas meter made a particular noise。
  That night on TV I saw newsfilm of policemen carrying a body bag out of someone's backyard in Bakersville。 The reporter said two bodies had been found; more were believed buried in the same yard。 Perhaps many more。 Perhaps twenty bodies; thirty bodies— no one knew for sure。 He swept an arm across the area。 It was a big backyard。
  The reporter was a middle…aged man who spoke clearly and strongly and yet with some degree of intimacy; conveying a sense of frequent contact with his audience; of shared interests and mutual trust。 Digging would continue through the night; he said; and the station would cut back to the scene as soon as developments warranted。 He made it sound like a lover's promise。
  Three nights later I wandered into Heinrich's room; where the TV set was temporarily located。 He sat on the floor in a hooded sweatshirt; watching live coverage of the same scene。 The backyard was floodlit; men with picks and shovels worked amid mounds of dirt。 In the foreground stood the reporter; bareheaded; in a sheepskin coat; in a light snow; giving an update。 The police said they had solid information; the diggers were methodical and skilled; the work had been going on for over seventy…two hours。 But no more bodies had been found。
  The sense of failed expectations was total。 A sadness and emptiness hung over the scene。 A dejection; a sorry gloom。 We felt it ourselves; my son and I; quietly watching。 It was in the room; seeping into the air from pulsing streams of electrons。 The reporter seemed at first merely apologetic。 But as he continued to discuss the absense of mass graves; he grew increasingly forlorn; gesturing at the diggers; shaking his head; almost ready to plead with us for sympathy and understanding。 I tried not to feel disappointed。
  30
  In the dark the mind runs on like a devouring machine; the only thing awake in the universe。 I tried to make out the walls; the dresser in the corner。 It was the old defenseless feeling。 Small; weak; deathbound; alone。 Panic; the god of woods and wilderness; half goat。 I moved my head to the right; remembering the clock…radio。 I watched the numbers change; the progression of digital minutes; odd to even。 They glowed green in the dark。
  After a while I woke up Babette。 Warm air came rising from her body as she shifted toward me。 Contented air。 A mixture of forgetfulness and sleep。 Where am I; who are you; what was I dreaming?
  〃We have to talk;〃 I said。
  She mumbled things; seemed to fend off some hovering presence。 When I reached for the lamp; she gave me a backhand punch in the arm。 The light went on。 She retreated toward the radio; covering her head and moaning。
  〃You can't get away。 There are things we have to talk about。 I want access to Mr。 Gray。 I want the real name of Gray Research。〃
  All she could do was moan; 〃No。〃
  〃I'm reasonable about this。 I have a sense of perspective。 No huge hopes or expectations。 I only want to check it out; give it a try。 I don't believe in magical objects。 I only say; 'Let me try; let me see。' I've been lying here for hours practically paralyzed。 I'm drenched in sweat。 Feel my chest; Babette。〃
  〃Five more minutes。 I need to sleep。〃
  〃Feel。 Give me your hand。 See how wet。〃
  〃We all sweat;〃 she said。 〃What is sweat?〃
  〃There are rivulets here。〃
  〃You want to ingest。 No good; Jack。〃
  〃All I ask is a few minutes alone with Mr。 Gray; to find out if I qualify。〃
  〃He'll think you want to kill him。〃
  〃But that's crazy。 I'd be crazy。 How can I kill him?〃
  〃He'll know I told you about the motel。〃
  〃The motel is over and done。 I can't change the motel。 Do I kill the only man who can relieve my pain? Feel under my arms if you don't believe me。〃
  〃He'll think you're a husband with a grudge。〃
  〃The motel is frankly small grief。 Do I kill him and feel better? He doesn't have to know who I am。 I make up an identity; I invent a context。 Help me; please。〃
  〃Don't tell me you sweat。 What is sweat? I gave the man my word。〃
  In the morning we sat at the kitchen table。 The clothes dryer was running in the entranceway。 I listened to the tapping sound of buttons and zippers as they struck the surface of the drum。
  〃I already know what I want to say to him。 I'll be descriptive; clinical。 No philosophy or theology。 I'll appeal to the pragmatist in him。 He's bound to be impressed by the fact that I'm actually scheduled to die。 This is frankly more than you could claim。 My need is intense。 I believe he'll respond to this。 Besides; he'll want another crack at a live subject。 That's the way these people are。〃
  〃How do I know you won't kill him?〃
  〃You're my wife。 Am I a killer?〃
  〃You're a man; Jack。 We all know about men and their insane rage。 This is something men are very good at。 Insane and violent jealousy。 Homicidal rage。 When people are good at something; it's only natural that they look for a chance to do this thing。 If I were good at it; I would do it。 It happens I'm not。 So instead of going into homicidal rages; I read to the blind。 In other words I know my limits。 I am willing to settle for less。〃
  〃What did I do to deserve this? This is not like you。 Sarcastic; mocking。〃
  〃Leave it alone;〃 she said。 〃Dylar was my mistake。 I won't let you make it yours as well。〃
  We listened to the tap and scratch of buttons and zipper tabs。 It was time for me to leave for school。 The voice upstairs remarked: 〃A California think…tank says the next world war may be fought over salt。〃
  All afternoon I stood by the window in my office; watching the Observatory。 It was growing dark when Winnie Richards appeared at the side door; looked both ways; then began moving in a wolf…trot along the sloping turf。 I hurried out of my office and down the stairs。 In seconds I was out on a cobbled path; running。 Almost at once I experienced a strange elation; the kind of bracing thrill that marks the recovery of a lost pleasure。 I saw her turn a corner in a controlled skid before she disappeared behind a maintenance building。 I ran as fast as I could; cutting loose; cutting into the wind; running chest out; head high; my arms pumping hard。 She reappeared at the edge of the library; an alert and stealthy figure moving beneath the arched windows; nearly lost to the dusk。 When she drew near the steps she suddenly accelerated; going full tilt from what was almost a standing start。 This was a deft and lovely maneuver that I was able to appreciate even as it put me at a disadvantage。 I decided to cut behind the library and pick her up on the long straight approach to the chemistry labs。 Briefly I ran alongside the members of the lacrosse team as they charged off a field after practice。 We ran step for step; the players waving their sticks in a ritualized manner and chanting something I couldn't understand。 When I reached the broad path I was gasping for breath。 Winnie was nowhere in sight。 I ran through the faculty parking lot; past the starkl
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