白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第60章

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　　〃Don't　worry；〃　Denise　told　her。　〃No　matter　what　he　says　now；　he'll　get　you　back　when　the　time　es。〃
　　Steffie　looked　at　me　with　deep　interest　and　curiosity。　I　told　her　I　would　travel　to　Mexico　myself　and　do　whatever　had　to　be　done　to　get　her　back　here。　She　looked　at　Denise。
　　〃It's　better　to　hire　people；〃　the　older　girl　said　helpfully。　〃That　way　you　have　someone　who's　done　it　before。〃
　　Babette　came　in　and　picked　up　Wilder。
　　'There　you　are；〃　she　said。　〃We're　going　to　the　airport　with　Steffie。　Yes　we　are。　Yes　yes。〃
　　〃Bruce；　Bruce。〃
　　The　next　day　there　was　an　evacuation　for　noxious　odor。　SIMUVAC　vehicles　were　everywhere。　Men　in　Mylex　suits　patrolled　the　streets；　many　of　them　carrying　instruments　to　measure　harm。　The　consulting　firm　that　conceived　the　evacuation　gathered　a　small　group　of　puter…screened　volunteers　in　a　police　van　in　the　supermarket　parking　lot。　There　was　half　an　hour　of　self…induced　gagging　and　vomiting。　The　episode　was　recorded　on　videotape　and　sent　somewhere　for　analysis。
　　Three　days　later　an　actual　noxious　odor　drifted　across　the　river。　A　pause；　a　careful　thoughtfulness；　seemed　to　settle　on　the　town。　Traffic　moved　more　slowly；　drivers　were　exceedingly　polite。　There　was　no　sign　of　official　action；　no　jitneys　or　ambulettes　painted　in　primary　colors。　People　avoided　looking　at　each　other　directly。　An　irritating　sting　in　the　nostrils；　a　taste　of　copper　on　the　tongue。　As　time　passed；　the　will　to　do　nothing　seemed　to　deepen；　to　fix　itself　firmly。　There　were　those　who　denied　they　smelled　anything　at　all。　It　is　always　that　way　with　odors。　There　were　those　who　professed　not　to　see　the　irony　of　their　inaction。　They'd　taken　part　in　the　SIMUVAC　exercise　but　were　reluctant　to　flee　now。　There　were　those　who　wondered　what　caused　the　odor；　those　who　looked　worried；　those　who　said　the　absence　of　technical　personnel　meant　there　was　nothing　to　worry　about。　Our　eyes　began　to　water。
　　About　three　hours　after　we'd　first　bee　aware　of　it；　the　vapor　suddenly　lifted；　saving　us　from　our　formal　deliberations。
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　　Now　and　then　I　thought　of　the　Zumwalt　automatic　hidden　in　the　bedroom。
　　The　time　of　dangling　insects　arrived。　White　houses　with　caterpillars　dangling　from　the　eaves。　White　stones　in　driveways。　You　can　walk　at　night　down　the　middle　of　the　street　and　hear　women　talking　on　the　telephone。　Wanner　weather　produces　voices　in　the　dark。　They　are　talking　about　their　adolescent　sons。　How　big；　how　fast。　The　sons　are　almost　frightening。　The　quantities　they　eat。　The　way　they　loom　in　doorways。　These　are　the　days　that　are　full　of　wormy　bugs。　They　are　in　the　grass；　stuck　to　the　siding；　hanging　in　the　air；　hanging　from　the　trees　and　eaves；　stuck　to　the　window　screens。　The　women　talk　long…distance　to　the　grandparents　of　the　growing　boys。　They　share　the　Trimline　phone；　beamish　old　folks　in　hand…knit　sweaters　on　fixed　ines。
　　What　happens　to　them　when　the　mercial　ends？
　　I　got　a　call　myself　one　night。　The　operator　said；　'There's　a　Mother　Devi　that　wishes　to　talk　collect　to　a　Jack　Gladney。　Do　you　accept？〃
　　〃Hello；　Janet。　What　do　you　want？〃
　　〃Just　to　say　hello。　To　ask　how　you　are。　We　haven't　talked　in　ages。〃
　　〃Talked？〃
　　〃Swami　wants　to　know　if　our　son　is　ing　to　the　ashram　this　summer。〃
　　〃Our　son？〃
　　〃Yours；　mine　and　his。　Swami　regards　the　children　of　his　followers　as　his　children。〃
　　〃I　sent　a　daughter　to　Mexico　last　week。　When　she　gets　back；　I'll　be　ready　to　talk　about　the　son。〃
　　〃Swami　says　Montana　will　be　good　for　the　boy。　He　will　grow　out；　fill　out。　These　are　his　touchy　years。〃
　　〃Why　are　you　calling？　Seriously。〃
　　〃Just　to　greet　you；　Jack。　We　greet　each　other　here。〃
　　〃Is　he　one　of　those　whimsical　swamis　with　a　snow…white　beard？　Sort　of　fun　to　look　at？〃
　　〃We're　serious　people　here。　The　cycle　of　history　has　but　four　ages。　We　happen　to　be　in　the　last　of　these。　There　is　little　time　for　whimsy。〃
　　Her　tiny　piping　voice　bounced　down　to　me　from　a　hollow　ball　in　geosynchronous　orbit。
　　〃If　Heinrich　wants　to　visit　you　this　summer；　it's　all　right　with　me。　Let　him　ride　horses；　fish　for　trout。　But　í　don't　want　him　getting　involved　in　something　personal　and　intense；　like　religion。　There's　already　been　some　kidnap　talk　around　here。　People　are　edgy。〃
　　〃The　last　age　is　the　Age　of　Darkness。〃
　　〃Fine。　Now　tell　me　what　you　want。〃
　　〃Nothing。　I　have　everything。　Peace　of　mind；　purpose；　true　fellowship。　I　only　wish　to　greet　you。　I　greet　you；　Jack。　I　miss　you。　I　miss　your　voice。　I　only　wish　to　talk　a　while；　pass　a　moment　or　two　in　friendly　reminiscence。〃
　　I　hung　up　and　went　for　a　walk。　The　women　were　in　their　lighted　homes；　talking　on　the　phone。　Did　swami　have　twinkling　eyes？　Would　he　be　able　to　answer　the　boy's　questions　where　I　had　failed；　provide　assurances　where　I　had　incited　bickering　and　debate？　How　final　is　the　Age　of　Darkness？　Does　it　mean　supreme　destruction；　a　night　that　swallows　existence　so　pletely　that　I　am　cured　of　my　own　lonely　dying？　I　listened　to　the　women　talk。　All　sound；　all　souls。
　　When　I　got　home　I　found　Babette　in　her　sweatsuit　by　the　bedroom　window；　staring　into　the　night。
　　Delegates　to　the　Hitler　conference　began　arriving。　About　ninety　Hitler　scholars　would　spend　the　three　days　of　the　conference　attending　lectures；　appearing　on　panels；　going　to　movies。　They　would　wander　the　campus　with　their　names　lettered　in　gothic　type　on　laminated　tags　pinned　to　their　lapels。　They　would　exchange　Hitler　gossip；　spread　the　usual　sensational　rumors　about　the　last　days　in　the　führerbunker。
　　It　was　interesting　to　see　how　closely　they　resembled　each　other　despite　the　wide　diversity　of　national　and　regional　backgrounds。　They　were　cheerful　and　eager；　given　to　spitting　when　they　laughed；　given　to　outdated　dress；　homeliness；　punctuality。　They　seemed　to　have　a　taste　for　sweets。
　　I　weled　them　in　the　starkly　modern　chapel。　I　spoke　in　German；　from　notes；　for　five　minutes。　I　talked　mainly　about　Hitler's　mother；　brother　and　dog。　His　dog's　name　was　Wolf。　This　word　is　the　same　in　English　and　German。　Most　of　the　words　I　used　in　my　address　were　the　same　or　nearly　the　same　in　both　languages。　I'd　spent　days　with　the　dictionary；　piling　lists　of　such　words。　My　remarks　were　necessarily　disjointed　and　odd。　I　made　many　references　to　Wolf；　many　more　to　the　mother　and　the　brother；　a　few　to　shoes　and　socks；　a　few　to　jazz；　beer　and　baseball。　Of　course　there　was　Hitler　himself。　I　spoke　the　name　often；　hoping　it　would　overpower　my　insecure　sentence　structure。
　　The　rest　of　the　time　I　tried　to　avoid　the　Germans　in　the　group。　Even　in　my　black　gown　and　dark　glasses；　with　my　name　in　Nazi　typeface　over　my　heart；　I　felt　feeble　in　their　presence；　death…prone；　listening　to　them　produce　their　guttural　sounds；　their　words；　their　heavy　metal。　They　told　Hitler　jokes　and　played　pinochle。　All　I　could　do　was　mutter　a　random　monosyllable；　rock　with　empty　laughter。　I　spent　a　lot　of　time　in　my　office；　hiding。
　　Whenever　I　remembered　the　gun；　lurking　in　a　stack　of　undershirts　like　a　tropical　insect；　I　felt　a　small　intense　sensation　pass　through　me。　Whether　pleasurable　or　fearful　I　wasn't　sure。　I　knew　it　mainly　as　a　childhood　moment；　the　profound　stir　of　secret…keeping。
　　What　a　sly　device　a　handgun　is。　One　so　small　in　particular。　An　intimate　and　cunning　thing；　a　secret　history　of　the　man　who　owns　it。　I　recalled　how　I'd　felt　some　days　earlier；　trying　to　find　the　Dylar。　　Like　someone　spying　on　the　family　garbage。　Was　I　immersing　myself；　little　by　little；　in　a　secret　life？　Did　I　think　it　was　my　last　defense　against　the　ruin　worked　out　for　me　so　casually　by　the　force　or　nonforce；　the　principle　or　power　or　chaos　that　determines　such　things？　Perhaps　I　was　beginning　to　understand　my　ex…wives　and　their　ties　to　intelligence。
　　The　Hitler　scholars　assembled；　wandered；　ate　voraciously；　laughed　through　oversized　teeth。　I　sat　at　my　desk　in　the　dark；　thinking　of　secrets。　Are　secrets　a　tunnel　to　a　dreamworld　where　you　control　events？
　　In　the　evening　I　sped　out　to　the　airport　to　meet　my　daughter's　plane。　She　was　excited　and　happy；　wore　Mexican　things。　She　said　the　people　who　sent　her　mother　books　to　review　wouldn't　leave　her　alone。　Dana　was　getting　big　thick　novels　every　day；　writing　review