白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第10章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　〃Plus　I'd　like　to　believe　she　chews　only　two　pieces　a　day；　the　way　she　forgets　things。〃
　　〃What　do　I　forget？〃　Babette　said。
　　〃It's　all　right；〃　Denise　said。　〃Never　mind。〃
　　〃What　do　I　forget？〃
　　〃Go　ahead　and　chew。　Never　mind　the　warning。　I　don't　care。〃
　　I　scooped　Wilder　off　a　chair　and　gave　him　a　noisy　kiss　on　the　ear　and　he　shrank　away　in　delight。　Then　I　put　him　on　the　counter　and　went　upstairs　to　find　Heinrich。　He　was　in　his　room　studying　the　deployment　of　plastic　chessmen。
　　〃Still　playing　with　the　fellow　in　prison？　How's　it　going？〃
　　〃Pretty　good。　I　think　I　got　him　cornered。〃
　　〃What　do　you　know　about　this　fellow？　I've　been　meaning　to　ask。〃
　　〃Like　who　did　he　kill？　That's　the　big　thing　today。　Concern　for　the　victim。〃
　　〃You've　been　playing　chess　with　the　man　for　months。　What　do　you　know　about　him　except　that　he's　in　jail　for　life；　for　murder？　Is　he　young；　old；　black；　white？　Do　you　municate　at　all　except　for　chess　moves？〃
　　〃We　send　notes　sometimes。〃
　　〃Who　did　he　kill？〃
　　〃He　was　under　pressure。〃
　　〃And　what　happened？〃
　　〃It　kept　building　and　building。〃
　　〃So　he　went　out　and　shot　someone。　Who　did　he　shoot？〃
　　〃Some　people　in　Iron　City。〃
　　〃How　many？〃
　　〃Five。〃
　　〃Five　people。〃
　　〃Not　counting　the　state　trooper；　which　was　later。〃
　　〃Six　people。　Did　he　care　for　his　weapons　obsessively？　Did　he　have　an　arsenal　stashed　in　his　shabby　little　room　off　a　six…story　concrete　car　park？〃
　　〃Some　handguns　and　a　bolt…action　rifle　with　a　scope。〃
　　〃A　telescopic　sight。　Did　he　fire　from　a　highway　overpass；　a　rented　room？　Did　he　walk　into　a　bar；　a　washette；　his　former　place　of　employment　and　start　firing　indiscriminately？　People　scattering；　taking　cover　under　tables。　People　out　on　the　street　thinking　they　heard　firecrackers。　'I　was　just　waiting　for　the　bus　when　I　heard　this　little　popping　noise　like　firecrackers　going　off。'〃
　　〃He　went　up　to　a　roof。〃
　　〃A　rooftop　sniper。　Did　he　write　in　his　diary　before　he　went　up　to　the　roof？　Did　he　make　tapes　of　his　voice；　go　to　the　movies；　read　books　about　other　mass　murderers　to　refresh　his　memory？〃
　　〃Made　tapes。〃
　　〃Made　tapes。　What　did　he　do　with　them？〃
　　〃Sent　them　to　people　he　loved；　asking　for　forgiveness。〃
　　〃'I　can't　help　myself；　folks。'　Were　the　victims　total　strangers？　Was　it　a　grudge　killing？　Did　he　get　fired　from　his　job？　Had　he　been　hearing　voices？〃
　　'Total　strangers。〃
　　〃Had　he　been　hearing　voices？〃
　　〃On　TV。〃
　　〃Talking　just　to　him？　Singling　him　out？〃
　　〃Telling　him　to　go　down　in　history。　He　was　twenty…seven；　out　of　work；　divorced；　with　his　car　up　on　blocks。　Time　was　running　out　on　him。〃
　　〃Insistent　pressuring　voices。　How　did　he　deal　with　the　media？　Give　lots　of　interviews；　write　letters　to　the　editor　of　the　local　paper；　try　to　make　a　book　deal？〃
　　〃There　is　no　media　in　Iron　City。　He　didn't　think　of　that　till　it　was　too　late。　He　says　if　he　had　to　do　it　all　over　again；　he　wouldn't　do　it　as　an　ordinary　murder；　he　would　do　it　as　an　assassination。〃
　　〃He　would　select　more　carefully；　kill　one　famous　person；　get　noticed；　make　it　stick。〃
　　〃He　now　knows　he　won't　go　down　in　history。〃
　　〃Neither　will　I。〃
　　〃But　you've　got　Hitler。〃
　　〃Yes；　I　have；　haven't　I？〃
　　〃What's　Tommy　Roy　Foster　got？〃
　　〃All　right；　he's　told　you　all　these　things　in　the　letters　he　sends。　What　do　you　say　when　you　respond？〃
　　〃I'm　losing　my　hair。〃
　　I　looked　at　him。　He　wore　a　warmup　suit；　a　towel　around　his　neck；　sweatbands　on　both　wrists。
　　〃You　know　what　your　mother　would　say　about　this　chess　by　mail　relationship。〃
　　〃I　know　what　you　would　say。　You're　saying　it。〃
　　〃How　is　your　mother？　Hear　from　her　lately？〃
　　〃She　wants　me　to　go　out　to　the　ashram　this　summer。〃
　　〃Do　you　want　to　go？〃
　　〃Who　knows　what　I　want　to　do？　Who　knows　what　anyone　wants　to　do？　How　can　you　be　sure　about　something　like　that？　Isn't　it　all　a　question　of　brain　chemistry；　signals　going　back　and　forth；　electrical　energy　in　the　cortex？　How　do　you　know　whether　something　is　really　what　you　want　to　do　or　just　some　kind　of　nerve　impulse　in　the　brain？　Some　minor　little　activity　takes　place　somewhere　in　this　unimportant　place　in　one　of　the　brain　hemispheres　and　suddenly　I　want　to　go　to　Montana　or　I　don't　want　to　go　to　Montana。　How　do　I　know　I　really　want　to　go　and　it　isn't　just　some　neurons　firing　or　something？　Maybe　it's　just　an　accidental　flash　in　the　medulla　and　suddenly　there　I　am　in　Montana　and　I　find　out　I　really　didn't　want　to　go　there　in　the　first　place。　I　can't　control　what　happens　in　my　brain；　so　how　can　I　be　sure　what　I　want　to　do　ten　seconds　from　now；　much　less　Montana　next　summer？　It's　all　this　activity　in　the　brain　and　you　don't　know　what's　you　as　a　person　and　what's　some　neuron　that　just　happens　to　fire　or　just　happens　to　misfire。　Isn't　that　why　Tommy　Roy　killed　those　people？〃
　　In　the　morning　I　walked　to　the　bank。　I　went　to　the　automated　teller　machine　to　check　my　balance。　I　inserted　my　card；　entered　my　secret　code；　tapped　out　my　request。　The　figure　on　the　screen　roughly　corresponded　to　my　independent　estimate；　feebly　arrived　at　after　long　searches　through　documents；　tormented　arithmetic。　Waves　of　relief　and　gratitude　flowed　over　me。　The　system　had　blessed　my　life。　I　felt　its　support　and　approval。　The　system　hardware；　the　mainframe　sitting　in　a　locked　room　in　some　distant　city。　What　a　pleasing　interaction。　I　sensed　that　something　of　deep　personal　value；　but　not　money；　not　that　at　all；　had　been　authenticated　and　confirmed。　A　deranged　person　was　escorted　from　the　bank　by　two　armed　guards。　The　system　was　invisible；　which　made　it　all　the　more　impressive；　all　the　more　disquieting　to　deal　with。　But　we　were　in　accord；　at　least　for　now。　The　networks；　the　circuits；　the　streams；　the　harmonies。
　　11
　　I　woke　in　the　grip　of　a　death　sweat。　Defenseless　against　my　own　racking　fears。　A　pause　at　the　center　of　my　being。　I　lacked　the　will　and　physical　strength　to　get　out　of　bed　and　move　through　the　dark　house；　clutching　walls　and　stair　rails。　To　feel　my　way；　reinhabit　my　body；　re…enter　the　world。　Sweat　trickled　down　my　ribs。　The　digital　reading　on　the　clock…radio　was　3：51。　Always　odd　numbers　at　times　like　this。　What　does　it　mean？　Is　death　odd…numbered？　Are　there　life…enhancing　numbers；　other　numbers　charged　with　menace？　Babette　murmured　in　her　sleep　and　I　moved　close；　breathing　her　heat。
　　Finally　I　slept；　to　be　awakened　by　the　smell　of　burning　toast。　That　would　be　Steffie。　She　burns　toast　often；　at　any　hour；　intentionally。　She　loves　the　smell；　she　is　addicted；　it's　her　treasured　scent。　It　satisfies　her　in　ways　wood　smoke　cannot；　or　snuffed　candles；　or　the　odor　of　explosive　powder　drifting　down　the　street　from　firecrackers　set　off　on　the　Fourth。　She　has　evolved　orders　of　preference。　Burnt　rye；　burnt　white；　so　on。
　　I　put　on　my　robe　and　went　downstairs。　I　was　always　putting　on　a　bathrobe　and　going　somewhere　to　talk　seriously　to　a　child。　Babette　was　with　her　in　the　kitchen。　It　startled　me。　I　thought　she　was　still　in　bed。
　　〃Want　some　toast？〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃I'll　be　fifty…one　next　week。〃
　　〃That's　not　old；　is　it？〃
　　〃I've　felt　the　same　for　twenty…five　years。〃
　　〃Bad。　How　old　is　my　mother？〃
　　〃She's　still　young。　She　was　only　twenty　when　we　were　married　the　first　time。〃
　　〃Is　she　younger　than　Baba？〃
　　〃About　the　same。　Just　so　you　don't　think　I'm　one　of　those　men　who　keeps　finding　younger　women。〃
　　I　wasn't　sure　whether　my　replies　were　meant　for　Steffie　or　Babette。　This　happens　in　the　kitchen；　where　the　levels　of　data　are　numerous　and　deep；　as　Murray　might　say。
　　〃Is　she　still　in　the　CIA？〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃We're　not　supposed　to　talk　about　that。　She's　just　a　contract　agent　anyway。〃
　　〃What's　that？〃
　　〃That's　what　people　do　today　for　a　second　ine。〃
　　〃What　exactly　does　she　do？〃　Babette　said。
　　〃She　gets　a　phone　call　from　Brazil。　That　activates　her。〃
　　〃Then　what？〃
　　〃She　carries　money　in　a　suitcase　the　length　and　breadth　of　Latin　America。〃
　　〃That's　all？　I　could　do　that。〃
　　〃Sometimes　they　send　her　books　to　review。〃
　　〃Have　I　met　her？〃　Babette　said。
　　〃No。〃
　　〃Do　I　know　her　name？〃
　　〃Dana　Breedlove。〃
　　Steffie's　lips　formed　the　words　as　I