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

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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。
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　　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