诺贝尔文学经典:《宠儿》第9章Part 6

All the while Denver was obliged to talk about what they were doing — the how and why of it. About people Denver knew once or had seen, giving them more life than life had: the sweet-smelling whitewoman who brought her oranges and cologne and good wool skirts; Lady Joneswho taught them songs to spell and count by; a beautiful boy as smart as she was with a birthmarklike a nickel on his cheek. A white preacher who prayed for their souls while sethe peeled potatoesand Grandma Baby sucked air. And she told her about Howard and Buglar: the parts of the bedthat belonged to each (the top reserved for herself); that before she transferred to Baby Suggs' bedshe never knew them to sleep without holding hands. She described them to Beloved slowly, tokeep her attention, dwelling on their habits, the games they taught her and not the fright that drovethem increasingly out of the house — -anywhere — and finally far away.
This day they are outside. It's cold and the snow is hard as packed dirt. Denver has finished singingthe counting song Lady Jones taught her students. Beloved is holding her arms steady whileDenver unclasps frozen underwear and towels from the line. One by one she lays them inBeloved's arms until the pile, like a huge deck of cards, reaches her chin. The rest, aprons andbrown stockings, Denver carries herself. Made giddy by the cold, they return to the house. Theclothes will thaw slowly to a dampness perfect for the pressing iron, which will make them smelllike hot rain. Dancing around the room with Sethe's apron, Beloved wants to know if there areflowers in the dark. Denver adds sticks to the stovefire and assures her there are. Twirling, her faceframed by the neckband, her waist in the apron strings' embrace, she says she is thirsty.
Denver suggests warming up some cider, while her mind races to something she might do or say to interest and entertain the dancer. Denver is a strategist now and has to keep Beloved by her sidefrom the minute Sethe leaves for work until the hour of her return when Beloved begins to hover atthe window, then work her way out the door, down the steps and near the road. Plotting haschanged Denver markedly. Where she was once indolent, resentful of every task, now she is spry,executing, even extending the assignments Sethe leaves for them. All to be able to say "We got to"and "Ma'am said for us to." Otherwise Beloved gets private and dreamy, or quiet and sullen, andDenver's chances of being looked at by her go down to nothing. She has no control over theevenings. When her mother is anywhere around, Beloved has eyes only for Sethe. At night, in bed,anything might happen. She might want to be told a story in the dark when Denver can't see her.
Or she might get up and go into the cold house where Paul D has begun to sleep. Or she might cry,silently. She might even sleep like a brick, her breath sugary from fingerfuls of molasses or sand-cookie crumbs. Denver will turn toward her then, and if Beloved faces her, she will inhale deeplythe sweet air from her mouth. If not, she will have to lean up and over her, every once in a while,to catch a sniff. For anything is better than the original hunger — the time when, after a year of thewonderful little i, sentences rolling out like pie dough and the company of other children, therewas no sound coming through. Anything is better than the silence when she answered to handsgesturing and was indifferent to the movement of lips. When she saw every little thing and colorsleaped smoldering into view. She will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner platesand all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her Beloved. The ciderjug is heavy, but it always is, even whenempty. Denver can carry it easily, yet she asks Beloved tohelp her. It is in the cold house next to the molasses and six pounds of cheddar hard as bone. Apallet is in the middle of the floor covered with newspaper and a blanket at the foot. It has beenslept on for almost a month, even though snow has come and, with it, serious winter.
It is noon, quite light outside; inside it is not. A few cuts of sun break through the roof and wallsbut once there they are too weak to shift for themselves. Darkness is stronger and swallows themlike minnows.
The door bangs shut. Denver can't tell where Beloved is standing. "Where are you?" she whispersin a laughing sort of way.
"Here," says Beloved.
"Where?"
"Come find me," says Beloved.

丹芙被迫一刻不停地说着她们正在做的事情——怎么做，为什么做。说着她从前认识和见过的人，讲得栩栩如生，比真人还真：送给她橙子、香水和上好的羊毛裙的香喷喷的白女人；教他们唱字母歌、数字歌的琼斯女士；跟她一样聪明、脸蛋上有块五分钢镚似的胎记的漂亮男孩；塞丝削着土豆而贝比奶奶奄奄一息时为她们的灵魂祈祷的白人牧师。她还给她讲了霍华德和巴格勒：床上属于他们的地盘（他们把上铺留给她）；还有，在她搬到贝比·萨格斯的床上之前，她从没见过他们不手拉着手睡觉。她慢条斯理地向宠儿描述他们，吊她的胃口，翻来覆去地讲他们的习惯、他们教她的游戏，却没有讲那将他们逼出家门的恐惧——随便去哪儿——和最终的远走高飞。
这一天，她们待在外面。天很冷，积雪就像夯实的土地一样硬。丹芙已经唱完了琼斯女士教给她的学生们的数字歌。丹芙从绳子上解下冻僵的内衣和毛巾，宠儿伸手接着。她把它们一件一件放到宠儿怀里，直到它们像一沓巨型扑克牌一样挨到了她的下巴。剩下的围裙和棕色袜子，丹芙自己拿着。她们冻得头晕眼花，赶紧回到屋里。衣物会慢慢地溶化、变潮，正好适于烙铁熨烫，熨衣的味道闻起来就像热雨。宠儿系着塞丝的围裙满屋跳舞，想知道黑暗里是否有花儿。丹芙往炉火里添着劈柴，向她肯定说，有。宠儿的脸上缠着领巾，腰里系着围裙带，她一边转圈一边说她渴了。
丹芙建议热点苹果汁，同时急忙寻思能做点什么或说点什么，好让这个舞星感兴趣和快活。丹芙现在是个阴谋家了，想方设法把宠儿留在身边，从塞丝离家上班一直到她该回来的钟点。到了这个钟点，宠儿就开始在窗前徘徊，接着开门出去，走下台阶，走到大路旁。阴谋明显地改变了丹芙。她原来什么活计都懒得做、讨厌干，现在则是又麻利又能干，甚至自觉增加塞丝留给她们的任务。什么都可以说成是"我们非干不可"和"太太说了让我们干"。否则宠儿会变得孤僻、恍惚，或者沉默寡言乃至闷闷不乐，而这样下去丹芙被注视的机会就要减少到零。她控制不了晚上的局面。只要她妈妈在周围的什么地方活动，宠儿的眼睛就只盯着塞丝一个人。到了夜里，在床上，什么都可能发生。在黑暗中，丹芙看不见她时，她可能想听个故事。

要么她可能起来到保罗·D已经开始在里面睡觉的冷藏室去。她还可能默默地哭泣。她甚至可能睡得像块砖头，由于用手指吃糖浆和甜饼干渣，她的呼吸变得甜丝丝的。丹芙愿意转向她，如果宠儿脸朝她睡，她就能深深地吸进她嘴里甜甜的气息。否则，她就必须每隔一会儿爬起一次，越过她的身体去嗅上一鼻子。因为什么都比最初的饥饿要好——那个时期，在整整一年美妙的小写i、馅饼面团一样滚出来的句子以及同其他孩子的相伴之后，就再没有声音了。什么都比寂静好；那个时期，她只能回答别人的手势，面对嘴唇的动作却毫无反应。那个时期，她能看到每一样细小的东西和色彩燃烧着跳进视野。而今，她情愿放弃最热烈的落日、盘子一般硕大的星星和秋天的全部血液，而满足于最暗淡的黄色，只要那黄色来自她的宠儿。苹果汁罐子很沉，不过它从来就是那样，甚至空的时候也是。丹芙其实能够轻易地提起它，可她还是请宠儿来帮忙。罐子在冷藏室里，挨着糖浆和六磅像石头一样硬的切达干酪。地板中央有一张草荐床，床脚盖着报纸和一条毯子。它被睡了将近一个月了，尽管严冬早已随冰雪一道降临。
正是中午，外面相当亮；屋里却不然。几丝阳光从屋顶和墙壁挤进来，可是进来后就太微弱了，都不能单独成束。强大的黑暗将它们像小鱼一样吞噬。
门砰地合上。丹芙拿不准宠儿站在哪里。
"你在哪儿？"她似笑非笑地悄声问道。
"在这儿呢。"宠儿道。
"哪儿？"
"来找我吧。"宠儿道。