《麦田里的守望者》---《The Catcher in the Rye》(中英对照)完_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《麦田里的守望者》---《The Catcher in the Rye》(中英对照)完

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·作品赏析·

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《麦田里的守望者》是塞林格唯一的一部长篇,虽然只有十几万字,它却在美国社会上和文学界产生过巨大影响。1951年,这部小说一问世,立即引起轰动。主人公的经历和思想在青少年中引起强烈共鸣,受到读者,特别是大中学生的热烈欢迎。他们纷纷模仿主人公霍尔顿的装束打扮,讲“霍尔顿式”的语言,因为这部小说道出了他们的心声,反映了他们的理想、苦闷和愿望。家长们和文学界也对这本书展开厂争论。有认为它能使青少年增加对生活的认识,对丑恶的现实提高警惕,促使他们去选择一条自爱的道路;成年人通过这本书也可增进对青少年的理解。可是也有人认为这是一本坏书,主人公读书不用功,还抽烟、酗酒,搞女人,满口粗活,张口就“他妈的”,因此应该禁止。经过30多年来时间的考验,证明它不愧为美国当代文学中的“现代经典小说”之一。现在大多数中学和高等学校已把它列为必读的课外读物,正如有的评论家说的那样,它“几乎大大地影响了好几代美国青年”。

本书以主人公霍尔顿自叙的语气讲述自己被学校开除后在纽约城游荡将近两昼夜的经历和心灵感受。它不仅生动细致地描绘了一个不安现状的中产阶级子弟的苦闷仿徨、孤独愤世的精神世界,一个青春期少年矛盾百出的心理特征,也批判了成人社会的虚伪和做作。霍尔顿是个性洛复杂而又矛盾的青少年的典型。他有一颗纯洁善良、追求美好生活和崇高理想的童心。他对那些热衷于谈女人和酒的人十分反感,对校长的虚伪势利非常厌恶,看到墙上的下流字眼便愤愤擦去,遇到修女为受难者募捐就慷慨解囊。他对妹妹菲芯真诚爱护,百般照顾。为了保护孩子,不让他们掉下悬崖,他还渴望终生做一个“麦田里的守望者”,发出“救救孩子”般的呼声。可是,愤世嫉俗思想引起的消极反抗,还有那敏感、好奇、焦躁、不安,想发泄、易冲动的青春期心理,又使得他不肯读书,不求上进,追求刺激,玩世不恭;他抽烟、酗酒、打架、调情,甚至找妓女玩。他觉得老师、父母要他读书上进,无非是要他“出人头地……以便将来可以买辆混帐凯迪拉克”。他认为成人社会里没有一个人可信,全是“假仁假义的伪君子”,连他敬佩的唯一的一位老师,后来也发现可能是个同性恋者,而且还用“一个不成熟男子的标志是他愿意为某种事业英勇地死去,一个成熟男子的标志是他愿意为某种事业卑贱地活着”那一套来教导他。他看不惯现实社会中的那种世态人情,他渴望的是朴实和真诚,但遇到的全是虚伪和欺骗,而他又无力改变这种现状,只好苦闷、彷徨、放纵,最后甚至想逃离这个现实世界,到穷乡僻壤去装成一个又聋又哑的人。二次大战后,美国在社会异化、政治高压和保守文化三股力量的高压下,形成了“沉寂的十年”,而首先起来反抗的是“垮掉的一代”,本书主人公霍尔顿实际上也是个“垮掉分子”,是最早出现的“反英雄”,只是他还没有放纵和混乱到他们那样的程度罢了。

《麦田里的守望者》之所以能产生如此重大的影响,很重要的一点还由于作者创造了一种新颖的艺术风格。全书通过第一人称,以一个青少年的口吻叙述了自己的所思所想、所见所闻和行为举止,也以一个青少年的眼光批判了成人世界的虚伪面目和欺骗行径。作者以细腻深刻的笔法剖析了主人公的复杂心理,不仅抓住了他的理想与现实冲突这一心理加以分析,而且也紧紧抓住了青少年青春期的心理特点来表现主人公的善良纯真和荒诞放纵。小说中既用了“生活流”,也用了“意识流”,两者得到了巧妙的结合。在语言的运用上,本书也独创一格。全书用青少年的口吻平铺直叙,不避琐碎,不讳隐私,使用了大量的口语和俚语,生动活泼,平易近人,达到了如闻其声、如见其人的效果,增加了作品的感染力,使读者更能激起共鸣和思索,激起联想和反响。


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举报 只看该作者 14楼  发表于: 2014-01-13 0
怎么下呀?

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举报 只看该作者 13楼  发表于: 2014-01-13 0
怎么下呀?

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很好啊 ,谢谢楼主
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Welcome to English Corner. O(∩_∩)O
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25
When I got outside, it was just getting light out. It was pretty cold, too, but it felt good because I was sweating so much.
I didn't know where the hell to go. I didn't want to go to another hotel and spend all Phoebe's dough. So finally all I did was I walked over to Lexington and took the subway down to Grand Central. My bags were there and all, and I figured I'd sleep in that crazy waiting room where all the benches are. So that's what I did. It wasn't too bad for a while because there weren't many people around and I could stick my feet up. But I don't feel much like discussing it. It wasn't too nice. Don't ever try it. I mean it. It'll depress you.
I only slept till around nine o'clock because a million people started coming in the waiting room and I had to take my feet down. I can't sleep so hot if I have to keep my feet on the floor. So I sat up. I still had that headache. It was even worse. And I think I was more depressed than I ever was in my whole life.
I didn't want to, but I started thinking about old Mr. Antolini and I wondered what he'd tell Mrs. Antolini when she saw I hadn't slept there or anything. That part didn't worry me too much, though, because I knew Mr. Antolini was very smart and that he could make up something to tell her. He could tell her I'd gone home or something. That part didn't worry me much. But what did worry me was the part about how I'd woke up and found him patting me on the head and all. I mean I wondered if just maybe I was wrong about thinking be was making a flitty pass at ne. I wondered if maybe he just liked to pat guys on the head when they're asleep. I mean how can you tell about that stuff for sure? You can't. I even started wondering if maybe I should've got my bags and gone back to his house, the way I'd said I would. I mean I started thinking that even if he was a flit he certainly'd been very nice to me. I thought how he hadn't minded it when I'd called him up so late, and how he'd told me to come right over if I felt like it. And how he went to all that trouble giving me that advice about finding out the size of your mind and all, and how he was the only guy that'd even gone near that boy James Castle I told you about when he was dead. I thought about all that stuff. And the more I thought about it, the more depressed I got. I mean I started thinking maybe I should've gone back to his house. Maybe he was only patting my head just for the hell of it. The more I thought about it, though, the more depressed and screwed up about it I got. What made it even worse, my eyes were sore as hell. They felt sore and burny from not getting too much sleep. Besides that, I was getting sort of a cold, and I didn't even have a goddam handkerchief with me. I had some in my suitcase, but I didn't feel like taking it out of that strong box and opening it up right in public and all.
There was this magazine that somebody'd left on the bench next to me, so I started reading it, thinking it'd make me stop thinking about Mr. Antolini and a million other things for at least a little while. But this damn article I started reading made me feel almost worse. It was all about hormones. It described how you should look, your face and eyes and all, if your hormones were in good shape, and I didn't look that way at all. I looked exactly like the guy in the article with lousy hormones. So I started getting worried about my hormones. Then I read this other article about how you can tell if you have cancer or not. It said if you had any sores in your mouth that didn't heal pretty quickly, it was a sign that you probably had cancer. I'd had this sore on the inside of my lip for about two weeks. So figured I was getting cancer. That magazine was some little cheerer upper. I finally quit reading it and went outside for a walk. I figured I'd be dead in a couple of months because I had cancer. I really did. I was even positive I would be. It certainly didn't make me feel too gorgeous. It'sort of looked like it was going to rain, but I went for this walk anyway. For one thing, I figured I ought to get some breakfast. I wasn't at all hungry, but I figured I ought to at least eat something. I mean at least get something with some vitamins in it. So I started walking way over east, where the pretty cheap restaurants are, because I didn't want to spend a lot of dough.
While I was walking, I passed these two guys that were unloading this big Christmas tree off a truck. One guy kept saying to the other guy, "Hold the sonuvabitch up! Hold it up, for Chrissake!" It certainly was a gorgeous way to talk about a Christmas tree. It was sort of funny, though, in an awful way, and I started to sort of laugh. It was about the worst thing I could've done, because the minute I started to laugh I thought I was going to vomit. I really did. I even started to, but it went away. I don't know why. I mean I hadn't eaten anything unsanitary or like that and usually I have quite a strong stomach. Anyway, I got over it, and I figured I'd feel better if I had something to eat. So I went in this very cheap-looking restaurant and had doughnuts and coffee. Only, I didn't eat the doughnuts. I couldn't swallow them too well. The thing is, if you get very depressed about something, it's hard as hell to swallow. The waiter was very nice, though. He took them back without charging me. I just drank the coffee. Then I left and started walking over toward Fifth Avenue.
It was Monday and all, and pretty near Christmas, and all the stores were open. So it wasn't too bad walking on Fifth Avenue. It was fairly Christmasy. All those scraggy-looking Santa Clauses were standing on corners ringing those bells, and the Salvation Army girls, the ones that don't wear any lipstick or anything, were tinging bells too. I sort of kept looking around for those two nuns I'd met at breakfast the day before, but I didn't see them. I knew I wouldn't, because they'd told me they'd come to New York to be schoolteachers, but I kept looking for them anyway. Anyway, it was pretty Christmasy all of a sudden. A million little kids were downtown with their mothers, getting on and off buses and coming in and out of stores. I wished old Phoebe was around. She's not little enough any more to go stark staring mad in the toy department, but she enjoys horsing around and looking at the people. The Christmas before last I took her downtown shopping with me. We had a helluva time. I think it was in Bloomingdale's. We went in the shoe department and we pretended she--old Phoebe-- wanted to get a pair of those very high storm shoes, the kind that have about a million holes to lace up. We had the poor salesman guy going crazy. Old Phoebe tried on about twenty pairs, and each time the poor guy had to lace one shoe all the way up. It was a dirty trick, but it killed old Phoebe. We finally bought a pair of moccasins and charged them. The salesman was very nice about it. I think he knew we were horsing around, because old Phoebe always starts giggling.
Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or anything. Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening. Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I'd never get to the other side of the street. I thought I'd just go down, down, down, and nobody'd ever see me again. Boy, did it scare me. You can't imagine. I started sweating like a bastard--my whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something else. Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him, "Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please, Allie." And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him. Then it would start all over again as soon as I got to the next corner. But I kept going and all. I was sort of afraid to stop, I think--I don't remember, to tell you the truth. I know I didn't stop till I was way up in the Sixties, past the zoo and all. Then I sat down on this bench. I could hardly get my breath, and I was still sweating like a bastard. I sat there, I guess, for about an hour. Finally, what I decided I'd do, I decided I'd go away. I decided I'd never go home again and I'd never go away to another school again. I decided I'd just see old Phoebe and sort of say good-by to her and all, and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I'd start hitchhiking my way out West. What I'd do, I figured, I'd go down to the Holland Tunnel and bum a ride, and then I'd bum another one, and another one, and another one, and in a few days I'd be somewhere out West where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody'd know me and I'd get a job. I figured I could get a job at a filling station somewhere, putting gas and oil in people's cars. I didn't care what kind of job it was, though. Just so people didn't know me and I didn't know anybody. I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody'd think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they'd leave me alone. They'd let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and they'd pay me a salary and all for it, and I'd build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I'd build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I'd want it to be sunny as hell all the time. I'd cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I'd meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf-mute and we'd get married. She'd come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she'd have to write it on a goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we'd hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to read and write by ourselves.
I got excited as hell thinking about it. I really did. I knew the part about pretending I was a deaf-mute was crazy, but I liked thinking about it anyway. But I really decided to go out West and all. All I wanted to do first was say good-by to old Phoebe. So all of a sudden, I ran like a madman across the street--I damn near got killed doing it, if you want to know the truth--and went in this stationery store and bought a pad and pencil. I figured I'd write her a note telling her where to meet me so I could say good-by to her and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I'd take the note up to her school and get somebody in the principal's office to give it to her. But I just put the pad and pencil in my pocket and started walking fast as hell up to her school--I was too excited to write the note right in the stationery store. I walked fast because I wanted her to get the note before she went home for lunch, and I didn't have any too much time.
I knew where her school was, naturally, because I went there myself when I was a kid. When I got there, it felt funny. I wasn't sure I'd remember what it was like inside, but I did. It was exactly the same as it was when I went there. They had that same big yard inside, that was always sort of dark, with those cages around the light bulbs so they wouldn't break if they got hit with a ball. They had those same white circles painted all over the floor, for games and stuff. And those same old basketball rings without any nets--just the backboards and the rings.
Nobody was around at all, probably because it wasn't recess period, and it wasn't lunchtime yet. All I saw was one little kid, a colored kid, on his way to the bathroom. He had one of those wooden passes sticking out of his hip pocket, the same way we used to have, to show he had permission and all to go to the bathroom.
I was still sweating, but not so bad any more. I went over to the stairs and sat down on the first step and took out the pad and pencil I'd bought. The stairs had the same smell they used to have when I went there. Like somebody'd just taken a leak on them. School stairs always smell like that. Anyway, I sat there and wrote this note:
DEAR PHOEBE,
I can't wait around till Wednesday any more so I will probably hitch hike out west this afternoon. Meet me at the
Museum of art near the door at quarter past 12 if you can and I
will give you your Christmas dough back. I didn't spend much.
Love,
HOLDEN
Her school was practically right near the museum, and she had to pass it on her way home for lunch anyway, so I knew she could meet me all right.
Then I started walking up the stairs to the principal's office so I could give the note to somebody that would bring it to her in her classroom. I folded it about ten times so nobody'd open it. You can't trust anybody in a goddam school. But I knew they'd give it to her if I was her brother and all.
While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again. Only, I didn't. I sat down for a second, and then I felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody'd written "Fuck you" on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them--all cockeyed, naturally--what it meant, and how they'd all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever'd written it. I figured it was some perverty bum that'd sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I'd smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn't have the guts to do it. I knew that. That made me even more depressed. I hardly even had the guts to rub it off the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I'd written it. But I rubbed it out anyway, finally. Then I went on up to the principal's office.
The principal didn't seem to be around, but some old lady around a hundred years old was sitting at a typewriter. I told her I was Phoebe Caulfield's brother, in 4B-1, and I asked her to please give Phoebe the note. I said it was very important because my mother was sick and wouldn't have lunch ready for Phoebe and that she'd have to meet me and have lunch in a drugstore. She was very nice about it, the old lady. She took the note off me and called some other lady, from the next office, and the other lady went to give it to Phoebe. Then the old lady that was around a hundred years old and I shot the breeze for a while, She was pretty nice, and I told her how I'd gone there to school, too, and my brothers. She asked me where I went to school now, and I told her Pencey, and she said Pencey was a very good school. Even if I'd wanted to, I wouldn't have had the strength to straighten her out. Besides, if she thought Pencey was a very good school, let her think it. You hate to tell new stuff to somebody around a hundred years old. They don't like to hear it. Then, after a while, I left. It was funny. She yelled "Good luck!" at me the same way old Spencer did when I left Pencey. God, how I hate it when somebody yells "Good luck!" at me when I'm leaving somewhere. It's depressing.
I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off. It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible.
I looked at the clock in the recess yard, and it was only twenty to twelve, so I had quite a lot of time to kill before I met old Phoebe. But I just walked over to the museum anyway. There wasn't anyplace else to go. I thought maybe I might stop in a phone booth and give old Jane Gallagher a buzz before I started bumming my way west, but I wasn't in the mood. For one thing, I wasn't even sure she was home for vacation yet. So I just went over to the museum, and hung around.
While I was waiting around for Phoebe in the museum, right inside the doors and all, these two little kids came up to me and asked me if I knew where the mummies were. The one little kid, the one that asked me, had his pants open. I told him about it. So he buttoned them up right where he was standing talking to me--he didn't even bother to go behind a post or anything. He killed me. I would've laughed, but I was afraid I'd feel like vomiting again, so I didn't. "Where're the mummies, fella?" the kid said again. "Ya know?"
I horsed around with the two of them a little bit. "The mummies? What're they?" I asked the one kid.
"You know. The mummies--them dead guys. That get buried in them toons and all."
Toons. That killed me. He meant tombs.
"How come you two guys aren't in school?" I said.
"No school t'day," the kid that did all the talking said. He was lying, sure as I'm alive, the little bastard. I didn't have anything to do, though, till old Phoebe showed up, so I helped them find the place where the mummies were. Boy, I used to know exactly where they were, but I hadn't been in that museum in years.
"You two guys so interested in mummies?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Can't your friend talk?" I said.
"He ain't my friend. He's my brudda."
"Can't he talk?" I looked at the one that wasn't doing any talking. "Can't you talk at all?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said. "I don't feel like it."
Finally we found the place where the mummies were, and we went in.
"You know how the Egyptians buried their dead?" I asked the one kid.
"Naa."
"Well, you should. It's very interesting. They wrapped their faces up in these cloths that were treated with some secret chemical. That way they could be buried in their tombs for thousands of years and their faces wouldn't rot or anything. Nobody knows how to do it except the Egyptians. Even modern science."
To get to where the mummies were, you had to go down this very narrow sort of hall with stones on the side that they'd taken right out of this Pharaoh's tomb and all. It was pretty spooky, and you could tell the two hot-shots I was with weren't enjoying it too much. They stuck close as hell to me, and the one that didn't talk at all practically was holding onto my sleeve. "Let's go," he said to his brother. "I seen 'em awreddy. C'mon, hey." He turned around and beat it.
"He's got a yella streak a mile wide," the other one said. "So long!" He beat it too. I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.
That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.
After I came out of the place where the mummies were, I had to go to the bathroom. I sort of had diarrhea, if you want to know the truth. I didn't mind the diarrhea part too much, but something else happened. When I was coming out of the can, right before I got to the door, I sort of passed out. I was lucky, though. I mean I could've killed myself when I hit the floor, but all I did was sort of land on my side. it was a funny thing, though. I felt better after I passed out. I really did. My arm sort of hurt, from where I fell, but I didn't feel so damn dizzy any more.
It was about ten after twelve or so then, and so I went back and stood by the door and waited for old Phoebe. I thought how it might be the last time I'd ever see her again. Any of my relatives, I mean. I figured I'd probably see them again, but not for years. I might come home when I was about thirty-five. I figured, in case somebody got sick and wanted to see me before they died, but that would be the only reason I'd leave my cabin and come back. I even started picturing how it would be when I came back. I knew my mother'd get nervous as hell and start to cry and beg me to stay home and not go back to my cabin, but I'd go anyway. I'd be casual as hell. I'd make her calm down, and then I'd go over to the other side of the living room and take out this cigarette case and light a cigarette, cool as all hell. I'd ask them all to visit me sometime if they wanted to, but I wouldn't insist or anything. What I'd do, I'd let old Phoebe come out and visit me in the summertime and on Christmas vacation and Easter vacation. And I'd let D.B. come out and visit me for a while if he wanted a nice, quiet place for his writing, but he couldn't write any movies in my cabin, only stories and books. I'd have this rule that nobody could do anything phony when they visited me. If anybody tried to do anything phony, they couldn't stay.
All of a sudden I looked at the clock in the checkroom and it was twenty-five of one. I began to get scared that maybe that old lady in the school had told that other lady not to give old Phoebe my message. I began to get scared that maybe she'd told her to burn it or something. It really scared hell out of me. I really wanted to see old Phoebe before I hit the road. I mean I had her Christmas dough and all.
Finally, I saw her. I saw her through the glass part of the door. The reason I saw her, she had my crazy hunting hat on--you could see that hat about ten miles away.
I went out the doors and started down these stone stairs to meet her. The thing I couldn't understand, she had this big suitcase with her. She was just coming across Fifth Avenue, and she was dragging this goddam big suitcase with her. She could hardly drag it. When I got up closer, I saw it was my old suitcase, the one I used to use when I was at Whooton. I couldn't figure out what the hell she was doing with it. "Hi," she said when she got up close. She was all out of breath from that crazy suitcase. "I thought maybe you weren't coming," I said. "What the hell's in that bag? I don't need anything. I'm just going the way I am. I'm not even taking the bags I got at the station. What the hellya got in there?"
She put the suitcase down. "My clothes," she said. "I'm going with you. Can I? Okay?"
"What?" I said. I almost fell over when she said that. I swear to God I did. I got sort of dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out or something again.
"I took them down the back elevator so Charlene wouldn't see me. It isn't heavy. All I have in it is two dresses and my moccasins and my underwear and socks and some other things. Feel it. It isn't heavy. Feel it once. . . Can't I go with you? Holden? Can't I? Please."
"No. Shut up."
I thought I was going to pass out cold. I mean I didn't mean to tell her to shut up and all, but I thought I was going to pass out again.
"Why can't I? Please, Holden! I won't do anything-- I'll just go with you, that's all! I won't even take my clothes with me if you don't want me to--I'll just take my--"
"You can't take anything. Because you're not going. I'm going alone. So shut up."
"Please, Holden. Please let me go. I'll be very, very, very--You won't even--"
"You're not going. Now, shut up! Gimme that bag," I said. I took the bag off her. I was almost all set to hit her, I thought I was going to smack her for a second. I really did.
She started to cry.
"I thought you were supposed to be in a play at school and all I thought you were supposed to be Benedict Arnold in that play and all," I said. I said it very nasty. "Whuddaya want to do? Not be in the play, for God's sake?" That made her cry even harder. I was glad. All of a sudden I wanted her to cry till her eyes practically dropped out. I almost hated her. I think I hated her most because she wouldn't be in that play any more if she went away with me.
"Come on," I said. I started up the steps to the museum again. I figured what I'd do was, I'd check the crazy suitcase she'd brought in the checkroom, andy then she could get it again at three o'clock, after school. I knew she couldn't take it back to school with her. "Come on, now," I said.
She didn't go up the steps with me, though. She wouldn't come with me. I went up anyway, though, and brought the bag in the checkroom and checked it, and then I came down again. She was still standing there on the sidewalk, but she turned her back on me when I came up to her. She can do that. She can turn her back on you when she feels like it. "I'm not going away anywhere. I changed my mind. So stop crying, and shut up," I said. The funny part was, she wasn't even crying when I said that. I said it anyway, though, "C'mon, now. I'll walk you back to school. C'mon, now. You'll be late."
She wouldn't answer me or anything. I sort of tried to get hold of her old hand, but she wouldn't let me. She kept turning around on me.
"Didja have your lunch? Ya had your lunch yet?" I asked her.
She wouldn't answer me. All she did was, she took off my red hunting hat--the one I gave her--and practically chucked it right in my face. Then she turned her back on me again. It nearly killed me, but I didn't say anything. I just picked it up and stuck it in my coat pocket.
"Come on, hey. I'll walk you back to school," I said. "I'm not going back to school."
I didn't know what to say when she said that. I just stood there for a couple of minutes.
"You have to go back to school. You want to be in that play, don't you? You want to be Benedict Arnold, don't you?"
"No."
"Sure you do. Certainly you do. C'mon, now, let's go," I said. "In the first place, I'm not going away anywhere, I told you. I'm going home. I'm going home as soon as you go back to school. First I'm gonna go down to the station and get my bags, and then I'm gonna go straight--"
"I said I'm not going back to school. You can do what you want to do, but I'm not going back to chool," she said. "So shut up." It was the first time she ever told me to shut up. It sounded terrible. God, it sounded terrible. It sounded worse than swearing. She still wouldn't look at me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or something, she wouldn't let me.
"Listen, do you want to go for a walk?" I asked her. "Do you want to take a walk down to the zoo? If I let you not go back to school this afternoon and go for walk, will you cut out this crazy stuff?"
She wouldn't answer me, so I said it over again. "If I let you skip school this afternoon and go for a little walk, will you cut out the crazy stuff? Will you go back to school tomorrow like a good girl?"
"I may and I may not," she said. Then she ran right the hell across the street, without even looking to see if any cars were coming. She's a madman sometimes.
I didn't follow her, though. I knew she'd follow me, so I started walking downtown toward the zoo, on the park side of the street, and she started walking downtown on the other goddam side of the street, She wouldn't look over at me at all, but I could tell she was probably watching me out of the corner of her crazy eye to see where I was going and all. Anyway, we kept walking that way all the way to the zoo. The only thing that bothered me was when a double-decker bus came along because then I couldn't see across the street and I couldn't see where the hell she was. But when we got to the zoo, I yelled over to her, "Phoebe! I'm going in the zoo! C'mon, now!" She wouldn't look at me, but I could tell she heard me, and when I started down the steps to the zoo I turned around and saw she was crossing the street and following me and all.
There weren't too many people in the zoo because it was sort of a lousy day, but there were a few around the sea lions' swimming pool and all. I started to go by but old Phoebe stopped and made out she was watching the sea lions getting fed--a guy was throwing fish at them--so I went back. I figured it was a good chance to catch up with her and all. I went up and sort of stood behind her and sort of put my hands on her shoulders, but she bent her knees and slid out from me--she can certainly be very snotty when she wants to. She kept standing there while the sea lions were getting fed and I stood right behind her. I didn't put my hands on her shoulders again or anything because if I had she really would've beat it on me. Kids are funny. You have to watch what you're doing.
She wouldn't walk right next to me when we left the sea lions, but she didn't walk too far away. She sort of walked on one side of the sidewalk and I walked on the other side. It wasn't too gorgeous, but it was better than having her walk about a mile away from me, like before. We went up and watched the bears, on that little hill, for a while, but there wasn't much to watch. Only one of the bears was out, the polar bear. The other one, the brown one, was in his goddam cave and wouldn't come out. All you could see was his rear end. There was a little kid standing next to me, with a cowboy hat on practically over his ears, and he kept telling his father, "Make him come out, Daddy. Make him come out." I looked at old Phoebe, but she wouldn't laugh. You know kids when they're sore at you. They won't laugh or anything.
After we left the bears, we left the zoo and crossed over this little street in the park, and then we went through one of those little tunnels that always smell from somebody's taking a leak. It was on the way to the carrousel. Old Phoebe still wouldn't talk to me or anything, but she was sort of walking next to me now. I took a hold of the belt at the back of her coat, just for the hell of it, but she wouldn't let me. She said, "Keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind." She was still sore at me. But not as sore as she was before. Anyway, we kept getting closer and closer to the carrousel and you could start to hear that nutty music it always plays. It was playing "Oh, Marie!" It played that same song about fifty years ago when I was a little kid. That's one nice thing about carrousels, they always play the same songs.
"I thought the carrousel was closed in the wintertime," old Phoebe said. It was the first time she practically said anything. She probably forgot she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Maybe because it's around Christmas," I said.
She didn't say anything when I said that. She probably remembered she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Do you want to go for a ride on it?" I said. I knew she probably did. When she was a tiny little kid, and Allie and D.B. and I used to go to the park with her, she was mad about the carrousel. You couldn't get her off the goddam thing.
"I'm too big." she said. I thought she wasn't going to answer me, but she did.
"No, you're not. Go on. I'll wait for ya. Go on," I said. We were right there then. There were a few kids riding on it, mostly very little kids, and a few parents were waiting around outside, sitting on the benches and all. What I did was, I went up to the window where they sell the tickets and bought old Phoebe a ticket. Then I gave it to her. She was standing right next to me. "Here," I said. "Wait a second--take the rest of your dough, too." I started giving her the rest of the dough she'd lent me.
"You keep it. Keep it for me," she said. Then she said right afterward--"Please."
That's depressing, when somebody says "please" to you. I mean if it's Phoebe or somebody. That depressed the hell out of me. But I put the dough back in my pocket.
"Aren't you gonna ride, too?" she asked me. She was looking at me sort of funny. You could tell she wasn't too sore at me any more.
"Maybe I will the next time. I'll watch ya," I said. "Got your ticket?"
"Yes."
"Go ahead, then--I'll be on this bench right over here. I'll watch ya." I went over and sat down on this bench, and she went and got on the carrousel. She walked all around it. I mean she walked once all the way around it. Then she sat down on this big, brown, beat-up-looking old horse. Then the carrousel started, and I watched her go around and around. There were only about five or six other kids on the ride, and the song the carrousel was playing was "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." It was playing it very jazzy and funny. All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she'd fall off the goddam horse, but I didn't say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off they fall off, but it's bad if you say anything to them.
When the ride was over she got off her horse and came over to me. "You ride once, too, this time," she said.
"No, I'll just watch ya. I think I'll just watch," I said. I gave her some more of her dough. "Here. Get some more tickets."
She took the dough off me. "I'm not mad at you any more," she said.
"I know. Hurry up--the thing's gonna start again."
Then all of a sudden she gave me a kiss. Then she held her hand out, and said, "It's raining. It's starting to rain."
"I know."
Then what she did--it damn near killed me--she reached in my coat pocket and took out my red hunting hat and put it on my head.
"Don't you want it?" I said.
"You can wear it a while."
"Okay. Hurry up, though, now. You're gonna miss your ride. You won't get your own horse or anything."
She kept hanging around, though.
"Did you mean it what you said? You really aren't going away anywhere? Are you really going home afterwards?" she asked me.
"Yeah," I said. I meant it, too. I wasn't lying to her. I really did go home afterwards. "Hurry up, now," I said. "The thing's starting."
She ran and bought her ticket and got back on the goddam carrousel just in time. Then she walked all the way around it till she got her own horse back. Then she got on it. She waved to me and I waved back.
Boy, it began to rain like a bastard. In buckets, I swear to God. All the parents and mothers and everybody went over and stood right under the roof of the carrousel, so they wouldn't get soaked to the skin or anything, but I stuck around on the bench for quite a while. I got pretty soaking wet, especially my neck and my pants. My hunting hat really gave me quite a lot of protection, in a way; but I got soaked anyway. I didn't care, though. I felt so damn happy all of sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could've been there.
26
That's all I'm going to tell about. I could probably tell you what I did after I went home, and how I got sick and all, and what school I'm supposed to go to next fall, after I get out of here, but I don't feel like it. I really don't. That stuff doesn't interest me too much right now.
A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I'm going apply myself when I go back to school next September. It's such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean how do you know what you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question.
D.B. isn't as bad as the rest of them, but he keeps asking me a lot of questions, too. He drove over last Saturday with this English babe that's in this new picture he's writing. She was pretty affected, but very good-looking. Anyway, one time when she went to the ladies' room way the hell down in the other wing D.B. asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you about. I didn't know what the hell to say. If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.



第25节

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到了外边,天已蒙蒙亮。天气也冷得要命,可我觉得挺舒服,因为我身上正在拚命出汗哩。

我不知道他妈的往何处去好。我不想再去开旅馆,把菲芘的钱花光。因此未了儿我往克莱辛敦走去,从那儿乘地铁到中央大车站。我的两只手提籍就存在那儿,那儿的混帐候车室里也有的是长椅,我打算就在椅子上睡一觉。我果真这么做了。有那么一会儿我睡得还不坏,因为候车室里人不多,我可以把两只脚搁在椅子上。可我不想细谈这事。这不是什么好事。你千万别去尝试。我说的是真话,它会使你泄气。

我只睡到九点光景,因为那时有千百万人涌进了候车室,我只好把两只脚放下来。两只脚一搁到地板上,我就再也睡不好觉,所以我就坐了起来,我的头痛还没好,而且更厉害了,我只觉得这一辈子从来没这么泄气过。

我心里并不愿意,可我不由自主地想起老安多里尼先生来,我琢磨着安多里尼太大看见我没睡在那儿,要是问起来,不加安多里尼先生会怎么说。不过这问题我并不太担心,因为我知道安多里尼先生为人非常聪明,他可以编造什么话来向她搪塞。他可以告诉她我已经回家了什么的。这问题我并不太担心。真正让我放不下心的,是我不知道自己怎么会醒来发现他轻轻拍着我的头。我是说我在怀疑或许是我自己猜错了,他并不是在那儿跟我搞同性爱。我怀疑他或许有那么个癣好,爱在别人睡着的时候轻轻拍他的头。我是说这一类玩艺儿你怎么能断定呢?你没法断定。我甚至开始琢磨着我应不应该取出我的手提箱回到他家去,就象我答应他的那样,我是说我开始想到即便他是个搞同性爱的,他待我当然非常好。我想到我这么晚打电话给他,他却一点也不见怪,还叫我马上就去,要是我想去的话。我又想到他一点不怕麻烦,给了我忠告,要我找出头脑的尺寸什么的;还有那个我跟你讲起过的詹姆士.凯瑟尔,他死的时候就只有他一个人敢定近他。我心里想着这一切,越想越泄气。我是说我开始想到我或许应该回到他家去。或许他只是随便拍拍我的头。反正我越想这件事,心里就越泄气,精神也越沮丧。更糟糕的是,我的眼睛疼得要命。

由于睡眠不足,我的两眼热辣辣的,疼得要命。再说,我还有点儿感冒了,可我身上连一块混帐手绢都没有。我的手提箱里倒是有几块,可我并不想把箱子从存物处牢固的铁箱里取出来,在公共场所当众把它打开。

我旁边的长椅上不知谁丢下本杂志在那里,我就拿了看起来,本想借此转移思路,至少暂时不去想安多里尼先生和千百万样其他事情。不过我看了那篇混帐文章,心里反倒更不好过了。文章里全是谈的荷尔蒙。它描写如果你身上的荷尔蒙正常,你的脸色应该怎样,眼神应该怎样,可我完全不是那个样儿。我倒是跟文章里所描写的那种荷尔蒙失常的人一模一样。因此我开始为我的荷尔蒙担起心来。接着我看了另外那篇文章,写的是怎样预测自己有没有得癌。它说你嘴里要是有什么溃疡,一时好不了,那可能就是癌的症状。我的哺唇里面正好有个溃疡,已有两个星期了。因此我怀疑自己已经得了癌。这杂志倒是一服小小的兴奋剂。未了儿我不看杂志了,出去到外面散一会儿步。我揣摩自己大概要在一两个月内死去,因为我得了癌。我真是这样想的。我甚至肯定自己一定会死去。这当然不是太舒服的感觉。

天象是要下雨的样子,可我还是出去散步了。

主要是,我觉得我应该吃点儿早饭。我肚子并不饿,可我觉得我至少应该吃点儿什么。我是说至少吃点儿有维生素的东西。于是我信步往东走去,那儿有不少廉价餐馆,因为我不想花很多的钱。

我一路走去,看见有两个家伙在一辆卡车上卸一棵大圣诞树。一个家伙不住地跟另一个说:“把这婊子养的抬起来!抬起来,老天爷!”管圣诞树叫婊子养的,确实少见少闻。可是说来可怕,我听在耳朵里,竟还觉得有点儿好笑,所以我不由得笑起来。这实在是我千不该万不该做的最最糟糕的事,因为我刚一笑,就觉得自己要吐。确实是这样。

我甚至开始呕吐起来,可是不久也就好了。我不知道这是怎么回事。我是说我不曾院过任何不卫生的东西,而且我的胃一向很健康。嗯,不管怎样我慢慢好了,我心想要是去吃些东西,说不定还能更好过一些。因此我走进一家外表看去非常便宜的餐馆,要了份油炸饼和咖啡。不过,我没吃那份油炸饼。我实在咽不下去。问题是,你要是为了某种事情心里懊丧得要命,就会食不下咽。那个侍者例真不错。他把那份油炸饼拿了回去,没要我钱。我光是喝了咖啡。随后我走出餐馆,开始向五马路走去。

今天是星期一,离圣诞节已经很近,所有的铺子也都开门了。因此在五马路上散步倒是挺不错。

很有圣诞节气象。所有那些瘦瘦的圣诞老人全都站在角落里摇着铃,还有那班救世军姑娘——脸上不搽脂粉和口红什么的——也在那儿摇铃。我东张西望,寻找昨天吃早饭时候遇见的那两个修女,可我没看见她们。我知道我看不见她们,因为她们告诉我说她们是到纽约来当教师的,可我还是一个劲儿找她们。嗯,不管怎样,一霎时已是一片圣诞节气象。千万个小孩子跟他们的母亲一起来到市中心,在公共汽车里上上下下,在铺子里进进出出。我真希望老菲芘在我身边。她已经不是那种幼稚的孩子,一进儿童玩具部就高兴得命都没有了,不过她倒是喜欢看热闹,逗笑取乐。前年圣诞节我曾带她一起到市中心买东西。我们的确乐了一阵子。我想那次是在百花公司里。我们一起进了鞋部,假装她——老菲芘——要买一双高统雨靴,那种雨靴总有一百万个穿带子的眼儿。我们简直把那个可怜的售货员折腾死了。老菲芘试了约莫二十双,每试一双,那个可怜的家伙就得把一只鞋子上面的带子全都穿好。这实在是种下流的把戏,可是差点儿把老菲芘笑死了。最后我们买了双鹿皮靴,付了钱。那个售货员倒是十分和气。我想他也知道我们是在逗着玩儿,因为老菲芘老是咯咯地笑个不停。

嗯,我就这样沿着五马路一直往前走,没打领带什么的。接着突然间,一件非常可怕的事发生了。每次我要穿过一条街,我的脚才跨下混帐的街沿石,我的心里马上有一种感觉,好象我永远到不了街对面。我觉得自己会永远往下走、走、走,谁也再见不到我了。嘿,我真是吓坏了。你简直没法想象。我又浑身冒起汗来——我的衬衫和内衣都整个儿湿透了。接着我想出了一个主意。每次我要穿过一条街,我就假装跟我的弟弟艾里说话。我这样跟他说:“艾里,别让我失踪。艾里,别让我失踪。艾里,别让我失踪。劳驾啦,艾里。”等到我走到街对面,发现自己并没失踪,我就向他道谢。

等我要穿行另一条街的时候,我又从头来一遍。可我一个劲儿往前走着。我大概是怕停下来,我想——我记不太清楚了,说老实话。我知道我一直走到第六十条街才停住脚步,都已经走过了动物园什么的。随后我在一把长椅上坐了下来。我都已喘不过气来了,浑身还在冒汗。我在那儿坐了总有一个钟头,我揣摩。最后,我打定主意,决计远走高飞。我决意不再回家,也不再到另一个混帐学校里去念书了。我决定再见老菲芘一面,向她告别,把她过圣诞节的钱还她,随后我一路搭人家的车到西部去。我想先到荷兰隧道不花钱搭一辆车,然后再搭一辆,然后再一辆、再一辆,这样不多几天我就可以到达西部,那儿阳光明媚,景色美丽;那儿没有人认识我,我可以随便找个工作做。我揣摩自己可以在一个加油站里找个工作,给人家的汽车加油什么的。不过我并不在乎找到的是什么样的工作,反正只要人家不认识我、我也不认识人家就成。我又想起了一个主意,打算到了那儿,就装作一个又袭又哑的人。这样我就可以不必跟任何人讲任何混帐废话了。要是有人想跟我说什么,他们就得写在纸上递给我。用这种方法交谈,过不多久他们就会腻烦得要命,这样我的下半辈子就再也用不着跟人谈话了。人人都会认为我是个可怜的又聋又哑的杂种,谁都不会来打扰我。他们会让我把汽油灌进他们的混帐汽车,他们会给我一份工资,我用自己挣来的钱造一座小屋,终身住在里面。我准备把小屋造在树林旁边,而不是造在树林里面,因为我喜欢屋里一天到晚都有充足的阳光。一日三餐我可以自己做了吃,以后我如果想结婚什么的,可以找一个同我一样又聋又哑的美丽姑娘。我们结婚以后,她就搬来跟我一起佐在我的小屋里,她如果想跟我说什么话,也得写在一张混帐纸上,象别人一样。

我们如果生了孩子,就把他们送到什么地方藏起来。我们可以给他们买许许多多书,亲自教他们读书写字。

我这样想着想着,心里兴奋得要命。我的确兴奋。我知道假装又聋又哑那一节十分荒唐,可我喜欢这样想。不过我倒是真的打定主意要到西部去。

我要做的第一件事是向老菲芘告别。因此突然间,我象个疯子似的奔过街心——我险些儿连命都送掉了,我老实告诉你说——到一家文具店里买了支铅笔和一本拍纸簿。我想写张便条给她,叫她到什么地方来会我,以便向她道别,同时把她过圣诞节用的钱还给她。我打算先写好便条,然后拿了它到学校里去,叫校长室里的什么人把条儿送去给她。可我只是把拍纸簿和铅笔塞进农袋,飞快地向她学校走去——我心里实在太兴奋,没法在文具店里写那张条儿。我走得极快,因为我要她在回家吃午饭之前收到那条儿,但剩下的时间已经不多了。

我知道她学校在什么地方,自然啦,因为我小时候也在那儿上学。我到了那儿以后,却有一种异样的感觉。我本来没有把握,不知道自已是否还记得里面的情景,可是到了那里,才发现自己记得很清楚。里面的一切完全跟我上学的时候一模一样。

还是那个大操场,光线老是有点儿暗淡,灯泡外面装有罩子,球打在上面不会破。场地上依旧到处是白圈圈,以便赛球什么的。篮球架上依旧没有网——光是木板和铁圈。

场子上一个人也没有,或许因为休息时间已经过了,吃午饭时间还没到。我只看见一个黑人小孩子,正向厕所走去。他的屁股口袋里插着块木头号牌,那号牌也跟我们过去用的一模一样,用来证明他已经获得上厕所的许可。

我身上还在冒汗,可没象刚才那么厉害了。我走到楼梯边,坐在第一个梯级。拿出我刚才买的拍纸簿和铅笔。那楼梯有一股气味,也跟我过去上学的时候一模一样。象是刚有人在—全面撤了泡尿似的。学校里的楼梯老有那种气味。不管怎样,我坐在那儿写了这么张便条:亲爱的菲芘,我没法等到星期三了,所以我也许要今天下午搭人家的车到西部去。你要是办得到,请在十二点一刻到博物馆的艺术馆门边来会我。我可以把你过圣诞节用的钱还给你。我没有花掉多少。

你的亲爱的霍尔顿她的学校简直就在博物馆旁边,她回家吃午饭时反正要走过,所以我知道她准能前来会我。

接着我上楼向校长室走去,想找个人送这张条到她课堂里去。我把便条折了总有十来道,不让人随便拆开偷看。在一个混帐学校里,你简直信不过任何人。可我知道他们要是听说我是她哥哥什么的,一定会把便条送给她。

我上楼的时候,突然觉得自己好象又要吐了。

只是我没吐出来。我就地坐了一秒钟,觉得好过了一些。可我刚坐下去,就看见一样东西,差点儿都把我气疯了。有人在墙上写了“×你”两个大字。

我见了真他妈的差点儿气死。我想到菲芘和别的那些小孩子会看到它,不知他妈的是什么意思,最后总有个下流的孩子会解释给她们听——同时把眼睛那么一斜,自然啦——以后有一两天工夫,她们会老想着这事,甚至或许会嘀咕着这事。我真希望亲手把写这两个字的人杀掉。我揣摩大概是哪个性变态的瘪三在深夜里偷偷溜进了学校,撤了泡尿什么的,随后在墙上写下这两个宇。我不住地幻想着自己怎样在他写字的时候捉住他,怎样揪住了他的脑袋往石级上撞,直撞得他头破血流,直挺挺的死在地上。可我也知道自己没勇气干这事。我知道得很清楚。这就使我心里更加泄气。我甚至都没勇气用手把这两个字从墙上擦掉,我老实告诉你说。我生怕哪个教师撞见我在擦,还以为是我写的。可我最后还是把字擦掉了。随后我继续上楼向校长办公室走去。

校长好象不在,只有一个约莫一百岁的老太太坐在一架打字机跟前。我跟她说我是4B—l班菲芘,考尔菲德的哥哥,我请她劳驾把这张便条送去给菲芘。我说这事非常重要,因为我母亲病了,没法给菲芘准备午饭,她得到约定的地方跟我会面,一起到咖啡馆里去吃饭。这位老太太倒是十分客气。她从我手里接过便条,叫来了隔壁办公室里的另一位太太,那太太就给菲芘进去了。接着那个约莫一百岁的老太大就跟我聊起天来。她十分和气,我就告诉她说,我,还有我兄弟,过去也都在这学校里念书。她问我这会儿在哪里上学,我告诉她说在潘西,她说潘西是个非常好的学校。即便我想要纠正她的看法,我怕自己也没这力量。再说,她要是认为潘西是个非常好的学校,就让她那么认为好了。

谁都不乐意把新知识灌输给那些约莫一百岁的老人。他们不爱听。过了一会儿后,我就走了。奇怪的是,她竟也向我大声嚷着“运气好!”就跟我离开潘西时老斯宾塞嚷的一模一样。老天,我最恨的就是我离开什么地方的时候有人冲着我嚷“运气好!”我一听心里就烦。

我从另一边楼梯下去,又在墙上看见“×你”两个大宇。我又想用手把字擦掉,可这两个宇是用刀子什么的刻在上面的,所以怎么擦也擦不掉。

嗯,反正这是件没希望的事。哪怕给你一百万年去干这事,世界上那些“×你”的字样你大概连一半都擦不掉。那是不可能的。

我望了望操场上的大钟,还只十一点四十,离跟老菲芘约会的时间还很远,所以我还有不少时间可以消磨。可我只是向博物馆走去。此外我也实在没有其它地方可去。我心想,在我搭车西去之前要是路过公用电话间,或许跟琴.迦拉格通个电话,可我没那心情。主要是,我甚至都不知道她已放假回家了没有。因此我一径走到博物馆,在那儿徘徊。

我正在博物馆里等菲芘,就在大门里边,忽然有两个小孩走过来,问我可知道木乃伊在哪里。那个问我话的小孩裤子全没扣钮扣。我向他指了出来。

他就在站着跟我说话的地方把钮扣一一扣上了——他甚至都不找个僻处,象电线杆后面什么的。他真让我笑痛肚皮。只是我没笑出声来,生怕再一次要吐。“木乃伊在哪儿,喂?”那孩子又问了一遍。

“你知道吗?”

我逗了他们一会儿。“木乃伊?那是什么东西?”我问那个孩子。

“你知道。木乃伊——死了的人。就是葬在粉里的。”

粉。真笑死人。他说的是坟。

“你们两个怎么不上学?”我说。

“今天不上课,”那孩子说,两个孩子里面就只他一个说话。我十拿九稳他是在撒谎,这个小杂种。在老菲芘来到之前,我实在没事可做,因此我领着他们去找放木乃伊的地方。嘿,我一向知道放木乃伊的场所,一找便着,可我有多年没到博物馆来了。

“你们两个对木乃伊那么感兴趣?”我说。

“不错。”

“你的那个朋友会说话吗?”我说。

“他不是我的朋友。他是我弟弟。”

“他会说话吗?”我望着那个一直没开口的孩子说。“你到底会不会说话?”我问他。

“会,”他说。“我只是不想说话。”

最后我们找到了放木乃伊的场所,我们就走了进去。

“你们知道埃及人是怎样埋葬死人的吗?”我问那个讲话的孩子。

“不知道。”

“呃,你们应该知道。这十分有趣。他们用布把死人的脸包起来,那布都用一种秘密的化学药水浸过。这样他们可以在坟里埋葬几千年,他们的脸一点儿也不会腐烂。除了埃及人谁也不知道怎么搞这玩艺儿。连现代科学也不知道。”

要进入放木乃伊的场所,先得通过一个非常窄的门厅,门厅一壁的石头全都是从法老的坟上拆下来的。门厅里黑乎乎的,十分阴森可怕,你看得出跟我一块儿来的这两个木乃伊爱好者不太欣赏。他们都紧靠着我,那个不讲话的孩子简直拉住我的袖子不放。“咱们走吧,”他对他哥哥说。“我已经看过啦。走吧,嗨。”他转身走了。

“他的胆子咪咪小,”另外那个孩子说。“再见!”他也走了。

于是只剩下我一个人在坟里了。说起来,我倒是有点喜欢这地方。这儿是那么舒服,那么宁静。

接着突然间,你决猜不着我在墙上看见了什么。另外两个大字“×你”。是用红颜色笔之类的玩艺儿写的,就写在石头底下镶玻璃的墙下面。

麻烦就在这里。你永远找不到一个舒服、宁静的地方,因为这样的地方并不存在。你或许以为有这样的地方,可你到了那儿,只要一不注意,就会有人偷偷地溜进来,就在你的鼻子底下写了“×你”宇样。你不信可以试试。我甚至都这样想,等我死后,他们会把我葬到墓地里,给我立一个墓碑,上面写着“霍尔顿.考尔菲德”的名字,以及哪年生哪年死,然后就在这下面是“×你”两宇。

我有十足的把握,说实在的。

我从放木乃伊的场所走出来,就急于上厕所。

我好象是泻肚子了,我老实告诉你说。我倒不太在乎自己泻肚子,可是跟着又发生了另外一件事情。

我刚从厕所里出来,就一下晕过去了。我的运气还算不错。我是说我要是一头撞在石头地上,很可能摔死的,可我只是侧身倒下去。说来奇怪,我晕过去后醒来。倒是好过了一些,的确这样。我的一只胳膊摔疼了一点儿,可我晕得不象刚才那么厉害了。

已经快到十二点十分了,所以我就出去站在门边,等候菲芘。我心想,这大概是我最后一次跟她见面了。我的意思是说这大概是我最后一次见到我的亲属了。我揣摩我以后大概还会跟我的亲属见面,可总得在好些年以后。我想,我可能在三十五岁左右再回家一次,那也只是家里有什么人生病,在死前想见我一面,要不然我说什么也不会离开我的小屋回家。我甚至开始想象我回家以后会是什么样子。我知道我母亲会歇斯底里发作,哭哭啼啼的求我留在家里,叫我别再回到我的小屋里去,可我还是要走。我会装出若无其事的样子,先让我母亲平静下来,随后走到客厅的另一头,取出烟盒来点一支烟,冷静得要命。我请他们大伙儿有空到我那儿去玩,可我并不强求他们去。我倒是打算这么做,我打算让老菲芘在夏天、圣诞节和复活节到我那里来度假期。DB要是想找一个舒服、宁静的地方写作,我出可以让他到我那儿来往,只是他不能在我的小屋里写什么电影剧本,只能写短篇小说和其它著作。我要定出这么个规则,凡是来看我的人,都不准在我家里做任何假模假式的事。谁要是想在我家里作假,就马上请他上路。

突然,我抬头一看衣帽间里的钟,已经十二点三十五了,我开始担起心来,生怕学校里的那个老太太已经偷偷地嘱咐另外那位太大,叫她别给老菲芘送信。我担心她或许叫那位太大把那张便条烧了什么的。这么一想,我心里真是害怕极了。我在上路之前,倒真想见老菲芘一面,我是说我还拿了她过圣诞节的钱哩。

最后,我看见她了。我从门上的玻璃里望见了她。我之所以老远就望见她,是因为她戴着我的那顶混帐猎人帽——这顶帽子你在十英里外都望得见。

我走出大门跨下石级迎上前去。叫我不明白的是,她随身还带着一只大手提箱。她正在穿行五马路,一路拖着那只混帐大手提箱。她简直连拖都拖不动。等我走近一看,她拿的原来是我的一只旧箱子,是我在胡敦念书的时候用的。我猜不出她拿了它来究竟他妈的是要干什么。“嘿,”她走近我的时候这么嘿了一声,她被那只混帐手提箱累得都上气不接下气了。

“我还以为你不来了呢,”我说。“那只箱子里装的什么?我什么也不需要。我就这样动身,连我寄存在车站里的那两只手提箱我都不准备带走。箱子里到底他妈的装了些什么?”

她把手提箱放下了。“我的衣服,”她说。(奇*书*网.整*理*提*供)

“我要跟你一块儿走。可以吗?成不成?”

“什么?”我说。她一说这话,我差点儿摔倒在地上了。我可以对天发誓我真是这样。我觉得一阵昏眩,心想我大概又要晕过去了。

“我拿着箱子乘后面电梯下来的,所以查丽娜没看见我。箱子不重。我只带了两件衣服,我的鹿皮靴,我的内衣和袜子,还有其它一些零碎东西。

你拿着试试。一点不重。你试试看……我能跟你去吗?霍尔顿?我能吗?劳驾啦。”

“不成。给我住嘴。”

我觉得自己马上要晕过去了。我是说我本来不想跟她说住嘴什么的,可我觉得自己又要晕过去了。

“我干吗不可以?劳驾啦,霍尔顿;我决不麻烦你——我只是跟你一块儿走,光是跟你走!我甚至连衣服也不带,要是你不叫我带的话——我只带我的——”“你什么也不能带。因为你不能去。我只一个人去,所以快给我住嘴。”

“劳驾啦,霍尔额。请让我去吧。我可以十分、十分、十分——你甚至都不会——”“你不能去。快络我住嘴!把那箱子给我,”我说着,从她手里夺过箱子。我几乎要动手揍她。

我真想给她一巴掌。一点不假,她哭了起来。

“我还以为你要在学校里演戏呢。我还以为你耍演班纳迪克特.阿诺德呢,”我说。我说得难听极了。“你这是要干什么?不想演戏啦,老天爷?”

她听了哭得更凶了。我倒是很高兴。一霎时,我很希望她把眼珠子都哭出来。我几乎都有点儿恨她了。我想我恨她最厉害的一点是因为她跟我走了以后,就不能演那戏了。

“走吧,”我说。我又跨上石级向博物馆走去。我当时想要做的,是想把她带来的那只混帐手提箱存到衣帽间里,等她三点钟放学的时候再来取。我知道她没法拎着箱子去上学。“喂,来吧,”我说,可她不肯跟我一起走上石级。她不肯跟我一起走。于是我一个人上去,把手提箱送到衣帽间里存好,又走了回来。她依旧站在那儿人行道上,可她一看见我向她走去,就一转身背对着我。她做得出来。她只要想转背,就可以转过背去不理你。“我哪儿也不去了。我已经改变了主意。所以别再哭了,”我说。好笑的是,我说这话的时候她根本不在哭。可我还是这么说了。“喂,走吧。我送你回学校去。喂,走吧。你要迟到啦。”

她不肯答理我。我想拉她的手,可她不让我拉。她不住地转过身去背对着我。

“你吃了午饭没有?你已经吃了午饭没有?”

我问她。

她不肯答理我。她只是脱下我那顶红色猎人帽——就是我给她的那顶——劈面朝我扔来。接着她又转身背对着我。我差点儿笑痛肚皮,可我没吭声。我只是把帽子拾了起来,塞进我的大衣口袋。

“走吧,嗨。我送你回学校去,”我说。

“我不回学校。”

我听了这话,一时不知怎么说好。我只是在那儿默默站了一两分钟。

“你一定得回学校去。你不是要演戏吗?你不是要演班纳迪克特.阿诺德吗?”

“不。”

“你当然要演,你一定要演。走吧,喂,咱们走吧,”我说。“首先,我哪儿也不去了,我刚才不是说了吗。我要回家去。你一回学校,我也马上回家。我先上车站取我的箱子,随后直接回——”“我说过我不回学校了。你爱干什么就干什么,可我不回学校,”她说。“所以你给我住嘴。”

她叫我住嘴,这还是被题儿第一道。听起来实在可怕。老天爷,听起来实在可怕。比咒骂还可怕。她依旧不肯看我一眼,而且每次我把手搭在她肩上什么的,她总是不让我。

“听着,你是不是想散一会儿步呢?”我问她。“你是不是想去动物园?要是我今天下午不让你上学去,带你散一会步,你能不能打消你这种混帐念头?”

她不肯答理我,所以我又重复了一遍。“要是我今天下午不让你上学去,带你散一会儿步,你能不能打消你这种混帐念头?你明天能不能乖乖儿上学去?”

“我也许去,也许不去,”她说完,就马上奔跑着穿过马路,也不看看有没有车辆。有时候她简直是个疯子。

可我并没跟着她去。我知道她会跟着我,因此我就朝动物园走去,走的是靠公园那边街上。她呢,也朝动物园的方向走去,只是走的是他妈的另一边街上。她不肯抬起头来看我,可我看得出她大概从她的混帐眼角里瞟我,看我往哪儿走。嗯,我们就这样一直走到动物园。我唯一觉得不放心的时候是有辆双层公共汽车开过,因为那时我望不见街对面,看不到她在他妈的什么地方。可等到我们到了动物园以后,我就大声向她喊道:“菲芘!我进动物园去了!来吧,喂!”她不肯拿眼看我,可我看得出她听见了我的话。我走下台阶进动物园的时候,回头一望,看见她也穿过马路跟我来了。

由于天气不好,动物园里的人不多,可是在海狮的游泳池旁边倒围着一些人。我迈步继续往前走,可老菲芘停住脚步,似乎要看人喂海狮——有个家伙在朝它们扔鱼——因此我又走了回去。我揣摩这是跟她和解的好机会,所以我就定去站在她背后,把两手搭在她肩上,可她一屈膝,从我手中溜出去了——她只要成心,的确很能怄人。她一直站在那儿看喂海狮,我也就一直站在她背后。我没再把手搭在她肩上什么的,因为我要是再这么做,她当真还会给我难看。孩子们都很可笑。你跟他们打交道的时候可得留神。

我们从海狮那儿走开的时候,她不肯跟我并排走,可离我也不算太远。她靠人行道的一边走,我靠着另一边走。这当然不算太亲热,可跟刚才那么离我一英里相比,总算好多了。我们走上小山看了会儿熊,可那儿没什么可看的。只有一头熊在外面,那头北极熊。另一头棕色的躲在它的混帐洞里,不肯出来。你只看得见它的屁股。有个小孩子站在我旁边,戴了顶牛仔帽,几乎把他的耳朵都盖住了,他不住地跟他父亲说:“让它出来,爸爸,想法子让它出来。”我望了老菲芘一眼,可她她不肯笑。

你知道孩子们生你气的时候是什么样子。他们连笑都不肯笑。

我们离开熊以后,就走出动物园,穿过公园里的小马路,又穿过那条小隧道,隧道里老有一股撒过尿的臭味。从这儿往前去是旋转木马转台。老菲芘依旧不肯跟我说话什么的,不过已在我身旁走了。我一时高兴,伸手攥住她大衣后面的带子,可她不肯让我攥。

她说:“请放手,您要是不介意的话。”她依旧在生我的气,不过已不象刚才那么厉害了。嗯,我们离木马转台越来越近,己听得见那里演奏的狂热音乐了。

当时演奏的是《哦,玛丽!》,约莫在五十年前我还很小的时候,演奏的也是这曲子。木马转台就是这一点好,它们奏来奏去总是那几个老曲子。

“我还以为木马转台在冬天不开放呢,”老菲芘说。她跟我说话这还是头一次。她大概忘了在生我的气。

“也许是因为到了圣诞节的缘故,”我说。她听了我的话并没吭声。她大概记起了在生我的气。

“你要不要进去骑一会儿?”我说。我知道她很可能想骑。她还很小的时候,艾里、DB和我常常带她上公园,她就最喜欢旋转木马转台。你甚至都没法叫她离开。

“我太大啦,”她说。我本来以为她不会答理我,可她回答了。

“不,你不算太大。去吧。我在这儿等你。去吧,”我说。这时我们已经走到了转台边。里面有不多几个孩子骑在木马上,大都是很小的孩子,有几个孩子的父母在外面等着,坐在长椅上什么的。

我于是走到售票窗口,给老菲芘买了一张票。随后我把票给了她。她就站在我身旁。“给,”我说。

“等一秒钟——把剩下的钱出拿去。”我说着,就把她借给我的钱所有用剩下来的全都拿出来给她。

“你拿着吧。代我拿着,”她说。接着她马上加了一句——“劳驾啦。”

有人跟你说“劳驾啦”之类的话,听了当然很泄气。我是说象菲芘这样的人。我听了的确非常泄气。不过我又把钱放回了衣袋。

“你骑不骑?”她问我。她望着我,目光有点儿异样。你看得出她已不太生我的气了。

“我也许在下次骑。我先瞧着你骑,”我说。

“票子拿好了?”

“晤。”

“那么快去——我就坐在这儿的长椅上。我瞧看你骑。”我过去坐在长椅上,她也过去上了转台。她绕看台走了又走。我是说她绕着转台整整走了一圈。随后她在那只看去很旧的棕色大木马上坐下。接看转台转了起来,我瞧着她转了一圈又一圈。骑在木马上的另外还有五、六个孩子,台上正在演奏的曲子是《烟进了你的眼睛》,调儿完全象爵士音乐,听去很滑稽。所有的孩子都想攥住那只金圈儿,老菲芘也一样,我很怕她会从那只混帐马上掉下来,可我什么也没说,什么也没做。孩子们的问题是,如果他们想伸手去攥金圈儿,你就得让他们攥去,最好什么也别说。他们要是摔下来,就让他们摔下来好了,可别说什么话去拦阻他们,那是不好的。

等到转台停止旋转以后,她下了木马向我走来。“这次你也骑一下吧,”她说。

“不,我光是瞧着你骑。我光是想瞧着你骑。”

我说着,又给了她一些她自己的钱。“给你。再去买几张票。”

她从我手里接过钱。“我不再生你气了,”她说,“我知道。快去——马上就要转啦。”

接着她突然吻了我一下。随后她伸出一只手来,说道:“下雨啦。开始下雨啦。”

“我知道。”

接着她干了一件事——真他妈的险些儿要了我的命——她伸手到我大衣袋里拿出了我那顶红色猎人帽,戴在我头上,“你不要这顶帽子了?”我说。

“你可以先戴一会儿。”

“好吧。可你快去吧,再迟就来不及了,就骑不着你的那匹木马了。”

可她还是呆着不走。

“你刚才的话说了算不算数?你真的哪儿也不去了?你真的一会儿就回家?”她问我。

“是的,”我说,我说了也真算数。我并没向她撤谎。过后我也的确回家了。“快去吧,”我说。“马上就要开始啦。”

她奔去买了票,刚好在转台开始转之前入了场。随后她又绕着台走了一圈,找到了她的那匹木马。随后她骑了上去。她向我挥手,我也向她挥手。

嘿,雨开始下大了。是倾盆大雨,我可以对天发誓。所有做父母的、做母亲的和其他人等,全都奔过去躲到转台的屋檐下,免得被雨淋湿,可我依旧在长椅上坐了好一会儿。我身上都湿透了,尤其是我的脖子上和裤子上。我那顶猎人帽在某些部分的确给我挡住了不少雨,可我依旧淋得象只落汤鸡。不过我并不在乎。突然间我变得他妈的那么快乐,眼看着老菲芘那么一圈圈转个不停。我险些儿他妈的大叫大嚷起来,我心里实在快乐极了,我老实告诉你说。我不知道什么缘故。她穿着那么件蓝大衣,老那么转个不停,看去真他妈的好看极了。

老天爷,我真希望你当时也在场。

--------

第26节

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我要跟你谈的就是这些。我本来也可以告诉你我回家以后干了些什么,我怎么生了一场病,从这里出去以后下学期他们要我上什么学校,等等,可我实在没那心情。我的确没有。我这会儿对这一类玩艺儿一点也不感兴趣。

许多人,特别是他们请来的那个精神分析家,不住地问我明年九月我回学校念书的时候是不是打算好好用功了。在我看来,这话问得真是傻透了。

我是说不到你开始做的时候,你怎么知道自己打算怎样做?回答是,你没法知道。我倒是打算用功来着,可我怎么知道呢?我可以发誓说这话问得很傻。

DB倒不象其他人那么混帐,可他也不住地问我许多问题。他上星期六开了汽车来看我,还带来一个英国姑娘,是主演他正在写的那个电影剧本的。她非常矫揉造作,可长的十分漂亮。嗯,有一会儿她出去到远在走廊另一头的女盥洗室去了,DB就问我对上述这一切有什么看法。我真他妈的不知怎么说好。老实说,我真不知道自己有什么看法。我很抱歉我竟跟这许多人谈起这事。我只知道我很想念我所谈到的每一个人。甚至老斯特拉德莱塔和阿克莱,比方说。我觉得我甚至也想念那个混帐毛里斯哩。说来好笑。你千万别跟任何人谈任何事情。你只要一谈起,就会想念起每一个人来。

 ——完——

执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 9楼  发表于: 2013-10-11 0


23
I made it very snappy on the phone because I was afraid my parents would barge in on me right in the middle of it. They didn't, though. Mr. Antolini was very nice. He said I could come right over if I wanted to. I think I probably woke he and his wife up, because it took them a helluva long time to answer the phone. The first thing he asked me was if anything was wrong, and I said no. I said I'd flunked out of Pencey, though. I thought I might as well tell him. He said "Good God," when I said that. He had a good sense of humor and all. He told me to come right over if I felt like it.
He was about the best teacher I ever had, Mr. Antolini. He was a pretty young guy, not much older than my brother D.B., and you could kid around with him without losing your respect for him. He was the one that finally picked up that boy that jumped out the window I told you about, James Castle. Old Mr. Antolini felt his pulse and all, and then he took off his coat and put it over James Castle and carried him all the way over to the infirmary. He didn't even give a damn if his coat got all bloody.
When I got back to D.B.'s room, old Phoebe'd turned the radio on. This dance music was coming out. She'd turned it on low, though, so the maid wouldn't hear it. You should've seen her. She was sitting smack in the middle of the bed, outside the covers, with her legs folded like one of those Yogi guys. She was listening to the music. She kills me.
"C'mon," I said. "You feel like dancing?" I taught her how to dance and all when she was a tiny little kid. She's a very good dancer. I mean I just taught her a few things. She learned it mostly by herself. You can't teach somebody how to really dance.
"You have shoes on," she said.
"I'll take 'em off. C'mon."
She practically jumped off the bed, and then she waited while I took my shoes off, and then I danced with her for a while. She's really damn good. I don't like people that dance with little kids, because most of the time it looks terrible. I mean if you're out at a restaurant somewhere and you see some old guy take his little kid out on the dance floor. Usually they keep yanking the kid's dress up in the back by mistake, and the kid can't dance worth a damn anyway, and it looks terrible, but I don't do it out in public with Phoebe or anything. We just horse around in the house. It's different with her anyway, because she can dance. She can follow anything you do. I mean if you hold her in close as hell so that it doesn't matter that your legs are so much longer. She stays right with you. You can cross over, or do some corny dips, or even jitterbug a little, and she stays right with you. You can even tango, for God's sake.
We danced about four numbers. In between numbers she's funny as hell. She stays right in position. She won't even talk or anything. You both have to stay right in position and wait for the orchestra to start playing again. That kills me. You're not supposed to laugh or anything, either.
Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned off the radio. Old Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers. "I'm improving, aren't I?" she asked me.
"And how," I said. I sat down next to her on the bed again. I was sort of out of breath. I was smoking so damn much, I had hardly any wind. She wasn't even out of breath.
"Feel my forehead," she said all of a sudden.
"Why?"
"Feel it. Just feel it once."
I felt it. I didn't feel anything, though.
"Does it feel very feverish?" she said. "No. Is it supposed to?"
"Yes--I'm making it. Feel it again."
I felt it again, and I still didn't feel anything, but I said, "I think it's starting to, now." I didn't want her to get a goddam inferiority complex.
She nodded. "I can make it go up to over the thermoneter."
"Thermometer. Who said so?"
"Alice Holmborg showed me how. You cross your legs and hold your breath and think of something very, very hot. A radiator or something. Then your whole forehead gets so hot you can burn somebody's hand."
That killed me. I pulled my hand away from her forehead, like I was in terrific danger. "Thanks for telling me," I said.
"Oh, I wouldn't've burned your hand. I'd've stopped before it got too--Shhh!" Then, quick as hell, she sat way the hell up in bed.
She scared hell out of me when she did that. "What's the matter?" I said.
"The front door!" she said in this loud whisper. "It's them!"
I quick jumped up and ran over and turned off the light over the desk. Then I jammed out my cigarette on my shoe and put it in my pocket. Then I fanned hell out of the air, to get the smoke out--I shouldn't even have been smoking, for God's sake. Then I grabbed my shoes and got in the closet and shut the door. Boy, my heart was beating like a bastard.
I heard my mother come in the room.
"Phoebe?" she said. "Now, stop that. I saw the light, young lady."
"Hello!" I heard old Phoebe say. "I couldn't sleep. Did you have a good time?"
"Marvelous," my mother said, but you could tell she didn't mean it. She doesn't enjoy herself much when she goes out. "Why are you awake, may I ask? Were you warm enough?"
"I was warm enough, I just couldn't sleep."
"Phoebe, have you been smoking a cigarette in here? Tell me the truth, please, young lady."
"What?" old Phoebe said.
"You heard me."
"I just lit one for one second. I just took one puff. Then I threw it out the window."
"Why, may I ask?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"I don't like that, Phoebe. I don't like that at all," my mother said. "Do you want another blanket?"
"No, thanks. G'night!" old Phoebe said. She was trying to get rid of her, you could tell.
"How was the movie?" my mother said.
"Excellent. Except Alice's mother. She kept leaning over and asking her if she felt grippy during the whole entire movie. We took a taxi home."
"Let me feel your forehead."
"I didn't catch anything. She didn't have anything. It was just her mother."
"Well. Go to sleep now. How was your dinner?"
"Lousy," Phoebe said. "You heard what your father said about using that word. What was lousy about it? You had a lovely lamb chop. I walked all over Lexington Avenue just to--"
"The lamb chop was all right, but Charlene always breathes on me whenever she puts something down. She breathes all over the food and everything. She breathes on everything."
"Well. Go to sleep. Give Mother a kiss. Did you say your prayers?"
"I said them in the bathroom. G'night!"
"Good night. Go right to sleep now. I have a splitting headache," my mother said. She gets headaches quite frequently. She really does.
"Take a few aspirins," old Phoebe said. "Holden'll be home on Wednesday, won't he?"
"So far as I know. Get under there, now. Way down."
I heard my mother go out and close the door. I waited a couple of minutes. Then I came out of the closet. I bumped smack into old Phoebe when I did it, because it was so dark and she was out of bed and coming to tell me. "I hurt you?" I said. You had to whisper now, because they were both home. "I gotta get a move on," I said. I found the edge of the bed in the dark and sat down on it and started putting on my shoes. I was pretty nervous. I admit it.
"Don't go now," Phoebe whispered. "Wait'll they're asleep!"
"No. Now. Now's the best time," I said. "She'll be in the bathroom and Daddy'll turn on the news or something. Now's the best time." I could hardly tie my shoelaces, I was so damn nervous. Not that they would've killed me or anything if they'd caught me home, but it would've been very unpleasant and all. "Where the hell are ya?" I said to old Phoebe. It was so dark I couldn't see her.
"Here." She was standing right next to me. I didn't even see her.
"I got my damn bags at the station," I said. "Listen. You got any dough, Phoeb? I'm practically broke."
"Just my Christmas dough. For presents and all. I haven't done any shopping at all yet."
"Oh." I didn't want to take her Christmas dough.
"You want some?" she said.
"I don't want to take your Christmas dough."
"I can lend you some," she said. Then I heard her over at D.B.'s desk, opening a million drawers and feeling around with her hand. It was pitch-black, it was so dark in the room. "If you go away, you won't see me in the play," she said. Her voice sounded funny when she said it.
"Yes, I will. I won't go way before that. You think I wanna miss the play?" I said. "What I'll do, I'll probably stay at Mr. Antolini's house till maybe Tuesday night. Then I'll come home. If I get a chance, I'll phone ya."
"Here," old Phoebe said. She was trying to give me the dough, but she couldn't find my hand.
"Where?"
She put the dough in my hand.
"Hey, I don't need all this," I said. "Just give me two bucks, is all. No kidding--Here." I tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it.
"You can take it all. You can pay me back. Bring it to the play."
"How much is it, for God's sake?"
"Eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Sixty-five cents. I spent some."
Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry. I couldn't help it. I did it so nobody could hear me, but I did it. It scared hell out of old Phoebe when I started doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam dime. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put her old arm around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still couldn't stop for a long time. I thought I was going to choke to death or something. Boy, I scared hell out of poor old Phoebe. The damn window was open and everything, and I could feel her shivering and all, because all she had on was her pajamas. I tried to make her get back in bed, but she wouldn't go. Finally I stopped. But it certainly took me a long, long time. Then I finished buttoning my coat and all. I told her I'd keep in touch with her. She told me I could sleep with her if I wanted to, but I said no, that I'd better beat it, that Mr. Antolini was waiting for me and all. Then I took my hunting hat out of my coat pocket and gave it to her. She likes those kind of crazy hats. She didn't want to take it, but I made her. I'll bet she slept with it on. She really likes those kind of hats. Then I told her again I'd give her a buzz if I got a chance, and then I left.
It was a helluva lot easier getting out of the house than it was getting in, for some reason. For one thing, I didn't give much of a damn any more if they caught me. I really didn't. I figured if they caught me, they caught me. I almost wished they did, in a way.
I walked all the way downstairs, instead of taking the elevator. I went down the back stairs. I nearly broke my neck on about ten million garbage pails, but I got out all right. The elevator boy didn't even see me. He probably still thinks I'm up at the Dicksteins'.
24
Mr. and Mrs. Antolini had this very swanky apartment over on Sutton Place, with two steps that you go down to get in the living room, and a bar and all. I'd been there quite a few times, because after I left Elkton Hills Mr. Antoilni came up to our house for dinner quite frequently to find out how I was getting along. He wasn't married then. Then when he got married, I used to play tennis with he and Mrs. Antolini quite frequently, out at the West Side Tennis Club, in Forest Hills, Long Island. Mrs. Antolini, belonged there. She was lousy with dough. She was about sixty years older than Mr. Antolini, but they seemed to get along quite well. For one thing, they were both very intellectual, especially Mr. Antolini except that he was more witty than intellectual when you were with him, sort of like D.B. Mrs. Antolini was mostly serious. She had asthma pretty bad. They both read all D.B.'s stories--Mrs. Antolini, too--and when D.B. went to Hollywood, Mr. Antolini phoned him up and told him not to go. He went anyway, though. Mr. Antolini said that anybody that could write like D.B. had no business going out to Hollywood. That's exactly what I said, practically.
I would have walked down to their house, because I didn't want to spend any of Phoebe's Christmas dough that I didn't have to, but I felt funny when I got outside. Sort of dizzy. So I took a cab. I didn't want to, but I did. I had a helluva time even finding a cab.
Old Mr. Antolini answered the door when I rang the bell--after the elevator boy finally let me up, the bastard. He had on his bathrobe and slippers, and he had a highball in one hand. He was a pretty sophisticated guy, and he was a pretty heavy drinker. "Holden, m'boy!" he said. "My God, he's grown another twenty inches. Fine to see you."
"How are you, Mr. Antolini? How's Mrs. Antolini?"
"We're both just dandy. Let's have that coat." He took my coat off me and hung it up. "I expected to see a day-old infant in your arms. Nowhere to turn. Snowflakes in your eyelashes." He's a very witty guy sometimes. He turned around and yelled out to the kitchen, "Lillian! How's the coffee coming?" Lillian was Mrs. Antolini's first name.
"It's all ready," she yelled back. "Is that Holden? Hello, Holden!"
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini!"
You were always yelling when you were there. That's because the both of them were never in the same room at the same time. It was sort of funny.
"Sit down, Holden," Mr. Antolini said. You could tell he was a little oiled up. The room looked like they'd just had a party. Glasses were all over the place, and dishes with peanuts in them. "Excuse the appearance of the place," he said. "We've been entertaining some Buffalo friends of Mrs. Antolini's . . . Some buffaloes, as a matter of fact."
I laughed, and Mrs. Antolini yelled something in to me from the kitchen, but I couldn't hear her. "What'd she say?" I asked Mr. Antolini.
"She said not to look at her when she comes in. She just arose from the sack. Have a cigarette. Are you smoking now?"
"Thanks," I said. I took a cigarette from the box he offered me. "Just once in a while. I'm a moderate smoker."
"I'll bet you are," he said. He gave me a light from this big lighter off the table. "So. You and Pencey are no longer one," he said. He always said things that way. Sometimes it amused me a lot and sometimes it didn't. He sort of did it a little bit too much. I don't mean he wasn't witty or anything--he was--but sometimes it gets on your nerves when somebody's always saying things like "So you and Pencey are no longer one." D.B. does it too much sometimes, too.
"What was the trouble?" Mr. Antolini asked me. "How'd you do in English? I'll show you the door in short order if you flunked English, you little ace composition writer."
"Oh, I passed English all right. It was mostly literature, though. I only wrote about two compositions the whole term," I said. "I flunked Oral Expression, though. They had this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know." I didn't feel much like going into It. I was still feeling sort of dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden. I really did. But you could tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit about it. "It's this course where each boy in class has to get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all. And if the boy digresses at all, you're supposed to yell 'Digression!' at him as fast as you can. It just about drove me crazy. I got an F in it."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't know. The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all." "You don't care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells you something?"
"Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't like them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it when somebody sticks to the point all the time. The boys that got the best marks in Oral Expression were the ones that stuck to the point all the time--I admit it. But there was this one boy, Richard Kinsella. He didn't stick to the point too much, and they were always yelling 'Digression!' at him. It was terrible, because in the first place, he was a very nervous guy--I mean he was a very nervous guy--and his lips were always shaking whenever it was his time to make a speech, and you could hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of the room. When his lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches better than anybody else's. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got a D plus because they kept yelling 'Digression!' at him all the time. For instance, he made this speech about this farm his father bought in Vermont. They kept yelling 'Digression!' at him the whole time he was making it, and this teacher, Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on it because he hadn't told what kind of animals and vegetables and stuff grew on the farm and all. What he did was, Richard Kinsella, he'd start telling you all about that stuff--then all of a sudden he'd start telling you about this letter his mother got from his uncle, and how his uncle got polio and all when he was forty-two years old, and how he wouldn't let anybody come to see him in the hospital because he didn't want anybody to see him with a brace on. It didn't have much to do with the farm--I admit it--but it was nice. It's nice when somebody tells you about their uncle. Especially when they start out telling you about their father's farm and then all of a sudden get more interested in their uncle. I mean it's dirty to keep yelling 'Digression!' at him when he's all nice and excited. I don't know. It's hard to explain." I didn't feel too much like trying, either. For one thing, I had this terrific headache all of a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come in with the coffee. That's something that annoys hell out of me--I mean if somebody says the coffee's all ready and it isn't.
"Holden. . . One short, faintly stuffy, pedagogical question. Don't you think there's a time and place for everything? Don't you think if someone starts out to tell you about his father's farm, he should stick to his guns, then get around to telling you about his uncle's brace? Or, if his uncle's brace is such a provocative subject, shouldn't he have selected it in the first place as his subject--not the farm?"
I didn't feel much like thinking and answering and all. I had a headache and I felt lousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache, if you want to know the truth.
"Yes--I don't know. I guess he should. I mean I guess he should've picked his uncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if that interested him most. But what I mean is, lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn't interest you most. I mean you can't help it sometimes. What I think is, you're supposed to leave somebody alone if he's at least being interesting and he's getting all excited about something. I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It's nice. You just didn't know this teacher, Mr. Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, him and the goddam class. I mean he'd keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time. Some things you just can't do that to. I mean you can't hardly ever simplify and unify something just because somebody wants you to. You didn't know this guy, Mr. Vinson. I mean he was very intelligent and all, but you could tell he didn't have too much brains."
"Coffee, gentlemen, finally," Mrs. Antolini said. She came in carrying this tray with coffee and cakes and stuff on it. "Holden, don't you even peek at me. I'm a mess."
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini," I said. I started to get up and all, but Mr. Antolini got hold of my jacket and pulled me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini's hair was full of those iron curler jobs, and she didn't have any lipstick or anything on. She didn't look too gorgeous. She looked pretty old and all.
"I'll leave this right here. Just dive in, you two," she said. She put the tray down on the cigarette table, pushing all these glasses out of the way. "How's your mother, Holden?"
"She's fine, thanks. I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"
"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet. The top shelf. I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said. She looked it, too. "Can you boys make up the couch by yourselves?"
"We'll take care of everything. You run along to bed," Mr. Antolini said. He gave Mrs. Antolini a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroom. They were always kissing each other a lot in public.
I had part of a cup of coffee and about half of some cake that was as hard as a rock. All old Mr. Antolini had was another highball, though. He makes them strong, too, you could tell. He may get to be an alcoholic if he doesn't watch his step.
"I had lunch with your dad a couple of weeks ago," he said all of a sudden. "Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"You're aware, of course, that he's terribly concerned about you."
"I know it. I know he is," I said.
"Apparently before he phoned me he'd just had a long, rather harrowing letter from your latest headmaster, to the effect that you were making absolutely no effort at all. Cutting classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In general, being an all-around--"
"I didn't cut any classes. You weren't allowed to cut any. There were a couple of them I didn't attend once in a while, like that Oral Expression I told you about, but I didn't cut any."
I didn't feel at all like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel a little better, but I still had this awful headache.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, "Frankly, I don't know what the hell to say to you, Holden."
"I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that."
"I have a feeling that you're riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I don't honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
"It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret between he and I.' Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the nearest stenographer. I just don't know. But do you know what I'm driving at, at all?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. "But you're wrong about that hating business. I mean about hating football players and all. You really are. I don't hate too many guys. What I may do, I may hate them for a little while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at Pencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hated them once in a while--I admit it--but it doesn't last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn't see them, if they didn't come in the room, or if I didn't see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sort of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them."
Mr. Antolini didn't say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk of ice and put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking. I kept wishing, though, that he'd continue the conversation in the morning, instead of now, but he was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.
"All right. Listen to me a minute now . . . I may not word this as memorably as I'd like to, but I'll write you a letter about it in a day or two. Then you can get it all straight. But listen now, anyway." He started concentrating again. Then he said, "This fall I think you're riding for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
He got up and poured some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. He didn't say anything for a long time.
"I don't want to scare you," he said, "but I can very clearly see you dying nobly, one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause." He gave me a funny look. "If I write something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.
He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting down wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper in his hand. "Oddly enough, this wasn't written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here's what he--Are you still with me?"
"Yes, sure I am."
"Here's what he said: 'The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.'"
He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right when he gave it to me, and then I thanked him and all and put it in my pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble. It really was. The thing was, though, I didn't feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt so damn tired all of a sudden.
You could tell he wasn't tired at all, though. He was pretty oiled up, for one thing. "I think that one of these days," he said, "you're going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you've got to start going there. But immediately. You can't afford to lose a minute. Not you."
I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but I wasn't too sure what he was talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I wasn't too positive at the time. I was too damn tired.
"And I hate to tell you," he said, "but I think that once you have a fair idea where you want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You'll have to. You're a student--whether the idea appeals to you or not. You're in love with knowledge. And I think you'll find, once you get past all the Mr. Vineses and their Oral Comp--"
"Mr. Vinsons," I said. He meant all the Mr. Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. I shouldn't have interrupted him, though.
"All right--the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you're going to start getting closer and closer--that is, if you want to, and if you look for it and wait for it--to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them--if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." He stopped and took a big drink out of his highball. Then he started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn't try to stop him or anything. "I'm not trying to tell you," he said, "that only educated and scholarly men are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It's not so. But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they're brilliant and creative to begin with--which, unfortunately, is rarely the case--tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the end. And--most important--nine times out of ten they have more humility than the unscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?"
"Yes, sir."
He didn't say anything again for quite a while. I don't know if you've ever done it, but it's sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when they're thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn't that I was bored or anything--I wasn't--but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden.
"Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with it any considerable distance, it'll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. What it'll fit and, maybe, what it won't. After a while, you'll have an idea what kind of thoughts your particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an extraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don't suit you, aren't becoming to you. You'll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly."
Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn't help it!
Mr. Antolini just laughed, though. "C'mon," he said, and got up. "We'll fix up the couch for you."
I followed him and he went over to this closet and tried to take down some sheets and blankets and stuff that was on the top shelf, but he couldn't do it with this highball glass in his hand. So he drank it and then put the glass down on the floor and then he took the stuff down. I helped him bring it over to the couch. We both made the bed together. He wasn't too hot at it. He didn't tuck anything in very tight. I didn't care, though. I could've slept standing up I was so tired.
"How're all your women?"
"They're okay." I was being a lousy conversationalist, but I didn't feel like it.
"How's Sally?" He knew old Sally Hayes. I introduced him once.
"She's all right. I had a date with her this afternoon." Boy, it seemed like twenty years ago! "We don't have too much in common any more."
"Helluva pretty girl. What about that other girl? The one you told me about, in Maine?"
"Oh--Jane Gallagher. She's all right. I'm probably gonna give her a buzz tomorrow."
We were all done making up the couch then. "It's all yours," Mr. Antolini said. "I don't know what the hell you're going to do with those legs of yours."
"That's all right. I'm used to short beds," I said. "Thanks a lot, sir. You and Mrs. Antolini really saved my life tonight."
"You know where the bathroom is. If there's anything you want, just holler. I'll be in the kitchen for a while--will the light bother you?"
"No--heck, no. Thanks a lot."
"All right. Good night, handsome."
"G'night, sir. Thanks a lot."
He went out in the kitchen and I went in the bathroom and got undressed and all. I couldn't brush my teeth because I didn't have any toothbrush with me. I didn't have any pajamas either and Mr. Antolini forgot to lend me some. So I just went back in the living room and turned off this little lamp next to the couch, and then I got in bed with just my shorts on. It was way too short for me, the couch, but I really could've slept standing up without batting an eyelash. I laid awake for just a couple of seconds thinking about all that stuff Mr. Antolini'd told me. About finding out the size of your mind and all. He was really a pretty smart guy. But I couldn't keep my goddam eyes open, and I fell asleep.
Then something happened. I don't even like to talk about it.
I woke up all of a sudden. I don't know what time it was or anything, but I woke up. I felt something on my head, some guy's hand. Boy, it really scared hell out of me. What it was, it was Mr. Antolini's hand. What he was doing was, he was sitting on the floor right next to the couch, in the dark and all, and he was sort of petting me or patting me on the goddam head. Boy, I'll bet I jumped about a thousand feet.
"What the hellya doing?" I said.
"Nothing! I'm simply sitting here, admiring--"
"What're ya doing, anyway?" I said over again. I didn't know what the hell to say--I mean I was embarrassed as hell.
"How 'bout keeping your voice down? I'm simply sitting here--"
"I have to go, anyway," I said--boy, was I nervous! I started putting on my damn pants in the dark. I could hardly get them on I was so damn nervous. I know more damn perverts, at schools and all, than anybody you ever met, and they're always being perverty when I'm around.
"You have to go where?" Mr. Antolini said. He was trying to act very goddam casual and cool and all, but he wasn't any too goddam cool. Take my word.
"I left my bags and all at the station. I think maybe I'd better go down and get them. I have all my stuff in them."
"They'll be there in the morning. Now, go back to bed. I'm going to bed myself. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing's the matter, it's just that all my money and stuff's in one of my bags. I'll be right back. I'll get a cab and be right back," I said. Boy, I was falling all over myself in the dark. "The thing is, it isn't mine, the money. It's my mother's, and I--"
"Don't be ridiculous, Holden. Get back in that bed. I'm going to bed myself. The money will be there safe and sound in the morn--"
"No, no kidding. I gotta get going. I really do." I was damn near all dressed already, except that I couldn't find my tie. I couldn't remember where I'd put my tie. I put on my jacket and all without it. Old Mr. Antolini was sitting now in the big chair a little ways away from me, watching me. It was dark and all and I couldn't see him so hot, but I knew he was watching me, all right. He was still boozing, too. I could see his trusty highball glass in his hand.
"You're a very, very strange boy."
"I know it," I said. I didn't even look around much for my tie. So I went without it. "Good-by, sir," I said, "Thanks a lot. No kidding."
He kept walking right behind me when I went to the front door, and when I rang the elevator bell he stayed in the damn doorway. All he said was that business about my being a "very, very strange boy" again. Strange, my ass. Then he waited in the doorway and all till the goddam elevator came. I never waited so long for an elevator in my whole goddam life. I swear.
I didn't know what the hell to talk about while I was waiting for the elevator, and he kept standing there, so I said, "I'm gonna start reading some good books. I really am." I mean you had to say something. It was very embarrassing.
"You grab your bags and scoot right on back here again. I'll leave the door unlatched."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "G'by!" The elevator was finally there. I got in and went down. Boy, I was shaking like a madman. I was sweating, too. When something perverty like that happens, I start sweating like a bastard. That kind of stuff's happened to me about twenty times since I was a kid. I can't stand it.



第23节

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我三言两语就把电话打完,因为我很怕电话刚打到一半,我父母就撞了进来。不过他们并没有撞进来。安多里尼先生非常和气。他说我要是高兴,可以马上就去。我揣摩我大概把他和他妻子都吵醒了,因为他们过了好半天才来接电话。他第一句话就问我出了什么事没有,我回答说没有。我说我倒是给潘西开除了。我觉得还是告诉他好。我说后,他只说了声“我的天”。他这人很有幽默感。他跟我说我要是愿意,可以马上就去。

安多里尼先生可以说是我这辈子有过的最好老师。他很年轻,比我哥哥DB大不了多少,你可以跟他一起开玩笑,却不致于失去对他的尊敬。我前面说过的那个叫詹姆士.凯瑟尔的孩子从窗口跳出来以后,最后就是他把孩子抱起来的。老安多里尼先生摸了摸他的脉搏,随后脱掉自己的大衣盖在詹姆士.凯瑟尔身上,把他一直抱到校医室。他甚至都不在乎自己的大衣上染满了血。

我回到DB房里的时候,发现老菲芘已经把收音机开了,正播送舞曲。她把声音开得很低,免得被女佣人听见。你真该看见她当时的样子。她直挺挺地坐在床中央,在被褥外面,象印度的修行僧那样盘着双腿。她正在欣赏音乐。我见了真把她爱煞。

“喂,”我说。“你想跳舞吗?”她还是个很小很小的毛孩子的时候,我就教会了她跳舞什么的。

她是个了不起的舞蹈家。我是说我只教了她一些基本动作。她主要靠自学。舞要真正跳得好,光靠人教可不成。

“你穿着鞋呢,”她说。

“我可以脱掉。来吧。”

她简直是从床上跳下来的,然后她等着我把鞋子脱掉,我们就一起跳了会儿舞。她的舞跳得真是好极了。我不喜欢人们跟小孩子一块儿跳舞,因为十有九次那样子总是十分难看。我是说,在外面的餐厅里你总看见那么个老家伙带着自己的小孩子在舞池里跳舞。他们总是牛头不对马嘴,老攥住孩子背上的衣服一个劲儿往上拉,那孩子呢,简直他妈的不会跳舞,所以那样子真是难看极了,可我从来不带菲芘或别的孩子在公共场所跳舞。我们只是在家里跳着玩儿。不过话说回来,她毕竟与别的孩子不同,因为她会跳舞。不管你怎么跳她都跟得上。

我是说位只要把她搂得紧紧的,那样一来不管你的腿比她长多少,也就不碍事了。她会紧跟着你。你可以转身,可以跳些粗俗的花步,甚至还可以跳会儿摇摆舞,她始终紧跟着你。你甚至还可以跳探戈呢,老天爷。

我们跳了约莫四个曲子。在每个曲子的间歇时间,她的样子好笑得要命。她摆好了跳舞的姿势。

她甚至连话都不说。你得跟她一起摆好姿势等乐队再一次开始演奏。我见了差点儿笑死。可你还不准笑哩。

嗯,我们跳了约莫四个曲子,随后我把收音机关了。老菲芘一下跳回床上,钻进了被窝。“我进步了些,是不是?”她问我。

“怎么进步的?”我说。我又挨着她在床上坐下了。我有点儿喘不过气来。我抽烟抽得他妈的太凶了,呼吸短得要命。她却连气都没喘一下。

“你摸摸我的额角看,”她突然说。

“干吗?”

“摸摸看。光是摸一摸。”

我摸了一下,却什么也没感觉到。

“是不是烧得厉害?”她说。

“不,你觉得烧吗?”

“是的——是我有意搞出来的。再摸摸看。”

我又摸了一下,仍没感觉到什么,可我说:“这回好了,我觉得有点儿烧了。”我可不愿意她产生他妈的自卑感。

她点点头。“我可以搞得烧到比体温表还高。”

“体温表。谁说的?”

“是爱丽丝.霍尔姆保教我的。你只要夹紧两腿,屏住呼吸,想一些非常非常热的东西。一个电炉什么的。随后你整个脑门就会热得把人的手烧掉。”

我差点儿笑死。我立刻把我的手从她脑门上缩回,象是遇到什么可怕的危险似的。“谢谢你警告了我,”我说。

“哦,我不会把你的手烧掉的。我不等它热得太厉害,就会止住——嘘!”说着,她闪电似的一下子从床上坐了起来。

她这么一来,可吓得我命都没了。“怎么啦?”

我说。

“前门!”她用清晰的耳语说。“他们回来啦!”

我一下子跳起来,奔过去把台灯关了。随后我把香烟在鞋底上擦灭,放到衣袋里藏好。随后我一个劲儿扇动空气,想让烟散开——我真不应该抽烟,我的天。随后我抓起自己的鞋子,躲进了壁橱,把门关上。嘿,我的心都快从我嘴里跳出来了。

我听见我母亲走进房来。

“菲芘!”她说。“哟,别来这一套啦。我早看见灯光了,好小姐。”

“哈罗!”我听见菲芘说。“我睡不着。你们玩得痛快吗?”

“痛快极了,”我母亲说,可你听得出她这话是言不由衷。她每次出去,总不能尽兴。“我问你,你怎么还不睡觉?房间里暖和不暖和?”

“暖和倒暖和,我就是睡不着。”

“菲芘,你是不是在房里抽烟了?老实告诉我,劳您驾,好小姐。”

“什么?”老菲芘说。

“要我再说一遍?”

“我只点了一秒钟。我只抽了一口烟。随后把烟从窗口扔出去了。”

“为什么,请问?”

“我睡不着。”

“我不喜欢你这样,菲芘。我一点儿也不喜欢,”我母亲说。“你不再要条毯子吗?”

“不要了,谢谢。祝您晚上好!”老菲芘说。

她是想尽快把她打发走,你听得出来。

“那电影好看吗?”我母亲说。

“好看极啦。除了爱丽丝的妈妈。她不住地弯过腰来,问她感冒好点儿没有,在整个放映期间简直没有停过。后来我们乘出租汽车回家了。”

“让我来摸摸你的额角看。”

“我没有感染到什么。她根本没病。毛病就在她妈妈身上。”

“呃,快睡吧。晚饭怎么样?”

“糟糕透啦。”

“什么糟糕不糟糕的,你没听见你爸爸怎么教你用文雅的字眼儿吗?有什么地方糟糕?你吃的是极好的羊排。我都把莱克辛登路走遍啦,就是为了——”“羊排倒挺不错,可查丽娜不管往桌上放什么东西,总是冲着我呼气。她也冲着所有的食物呼气。她冲着一切的一切呼气。”

“呃,快睡吧。吻妈妈一下。你祷告了没有?”

“我是在浴室里祷告的。晚上好!”

“晚上好。现在快给我睡昭。我的头疼得都快裂开来啦,”我母亲说。她常常头疼。一点不假。

“吃几颗阿斯匹林吧,”老菲芘说。“霍尔顿是在星期三回家,对不对?”

“据我所知是这样。快躺下去。再下去一点儿。”

我听见我母亲走出房间,带上了门。我等了一两分钟。跟着我就出了壁橱。我刚一出来;就跟老菲芘撞了个满怀,因为房里漆黑一团,她已从床上起来,想过来告诉我。“我碰疼你了没有?”我说。现在得悄没声儿说话了,因为他们两个都在家。“我得马上就走,”我说。我摸着黑找到了床沿,一屁股坐了下去,开始穿起鞋子来。我心里很紧张。我承认这一点。

“这会儿别走,”菲芘小声说。“等他们睡着了再说!”

“不。这会儿就走。现在是最好的时刻,”我说。“她正在浴室里,爸爸在收听新闻什么的。观在是最好的时刻。”我连鞋带都系不上了,我真是他妈的紧张得要命。倒不是万一他们发现我在家,就会把我杀了什么的,不过反正是件很不愉快的事。“你他妈的在哪儿呢?”我跟老菲芘说。房间里那么黑,我一点也看不见她。

“在这儿。”她就站在我身边。我却一点也看不见她。

“我的两只混帐手提箱还在车站上呢,”我说。

“听着。你身边有钱没有,菲芘?我简直成了个穷光蛋啦。”

“只有过圣诞节的钱。买礼物什么的,我可什么也不曾买哩。”

[奇]“哦。”我不愿拿她过圣诞节的钱。

[书]“你要用吗?”她问。

“我不想用你过圣诞节的钱。”

“我可以借你一点儿,”她说。接着我听见她向DB的书桌那儿走去,打开了千百万只抽屉,在里面摸索着。房间里黑得要命,真是伸手不见五指。“你要是离家出走,就看不见我演那场戏了,”她说,说的时候,声音有点儿异样。

“不,我看得见。我不会在你演戏之前走的。

你以为我会不看你演的戏?”我说“我大概在安多里尼先生家里住到星期二晚上。随后我就回家。我要是有机会,就打电话给你。”

“钱在这儿,”老菲芘说。她想把钱给我,可是找不到我的手。

“在哪儿?”

她把钱放在我手里了。

“嗨,我不要那么多,”我说。“只要给我两块钱就够了。不跟你开玩笑——拿去。”我想把钱还给他,可她不肯收。

“你全都拿去好了。你以后可以还我。看戏的时候给我带来好了。”

“有多少,老天爷?”

“八块八毛五。六毛五。我花掉了一些。”

一霎时,我哭了起来。我实在是情不自禁。我尽量不哭出声,可我的确哭了。我一哭,可把老菲芘吓坏了,她走过来想劝住我,可你只要一哭开,就没法看在区区一毛钱份上止住。我哭的时候仍坐在床沿上,她伸过一只胳膊来搂住我的脖子,我也伸出一只胳膊搂住她,可我依旧哭了好久,没法止住。我觉得自己哽咽得都快憋死了。嘿,我把可怜的老菲芘吓坏了。那扇混帐窗子正开着,我感觉得出她正在哆嗦,因为她身上只穿着一套睡衣裤。我想叫她回到床上去,可她不肯。最后我终于止住了。不过的的确确费了我很大很大工夫。接着我扣好大衣上的钮扣。我告诉她说我会跟她保持联系的。她对我说,要是我愿意的话,可以跟她一起睡,可我说不啦,我还是走的好,安多里尼先生正等着我哩。随后我从大衣袋里掏出我那顶猎人帽送给她。她喜爱这一类混帐帽子。她不肯接受,可我让她收下了。我敢打赌她准是戴着这顶帽子睡觉的。她的确喜爱这一类帽子。随后我又告诉她说,我一有机会就打电话给她,说完我就走了出来。

不知什么原因,从屋里出来要比进去他妈的容易多了。主要是,我已经不怕他们发现我了。我真的不怕了。我心想,他们要是发现,就发现吧。说起来,我还真有点儿希望他们发现呢。

我一直走下楼去,没乘电梯。我走的是后楼梯,一路上绊着了总有一千万只垃圾桶,差点儿把我的脖子都摔断了,可我终于走了出来。那个开电梯的连看都没看见我。他也许仍旧以为我在楼上狄克斯坦家里呢。

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第24节

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安多里尼夫妇住在苏敦广场一个十分阔气的公寓里,进客厅得下两个梯级,还有个酒吧间。我到那儿去过好几次,因为我离开爱尔克敦.希尔斯以后,安多里尼先生常常到我们家里来吃晚饭,打听我的情况。那时候他还没结婚。等他结婚以后,我常常在长岛森林山的“西区网球惧乐部”里跟他和安多里尼太太一起打网球。安多里尼太大是俱乐部的会员。她有的是钱。她比安多里尼先生约莫大六十岁,可他们在一起似乎过得挺不错。主要是,他们两个都很有学问,尤其是安多里尼先生,只是你跟他在一起的时候,他的小聪明往往胜过他的学问,有点儿象DB。安多里尼太太一般很严肃。

她患着很严重的哮喘病。他们两个都看过DB写的所有短篇小说——安多里尼太太也看过——DB要到好莱坞去的时候,安多里尼先生还特地打电话给他,叫他别去。可他还是去了。安多里尼先生说象DB这样有才能的作家,不应该到好莱坞去。这话简直就跟我说的一样,一字不差。

我本来想步行到他们家去,因为我想尽可能不花菲芘过圣诞节的钱,可我到了外边,觉得头晕目眩,很不好过,就叫了辆出租汽车。我实在不想叫汽车,可我终于叫了奇*.*书^网。我费了不知他妈的多少工夫才找到了一辆出租汽车。

开电梯的好容易最后才放我上去,那个杂种。

我按门铃后,安多里尼先生出来开门。他穿着浴衣,趿着拖鞋,手里拿着一杯掺苏打水的冰威土忌。他是个很懂人情世故的人,也是个酒瘾很大的人。“霍尔顿,我的孩子!”他说。“天哪,你又长高了二十英寸。见到你很高兴。”

“您好,安多里尼先生?安多里尼太太好?”

“我们两个都挺好。把大衣给我。”他从我手里接过大衣接好。“我还以为你怀里会抱着个刚出生的娃娃哩。没地方可去。眼睫毛上还沾着雪花。”

他有时候说话非常俏皮。他转身朝着厨房嚷道:“莉莉!咖啡煮好没有?”莉莉是安多里尼太太的小名。

“马上好啦,”她嚷着回答。“是霍尔顿吗?

哈罗,霍尔顿!”

“哈罗,安多里尼太大!”

你到了他们家里,就得大声嚷嚷。原因是他们两个从来不同时在一间房里。说出来真有点儿好笑。

“请坐,雹尔顿,”安多里尼先生说。你看得出他有点儿醉了。房间里的情景好象刚举行过晚会似的。只见杯盘狼藉,碟子里还有吃剩的花生。

“请原谅房间乱得不象样,”他说,“我们在招待安多里尼太太的几个打水牛港来的朋友……事实上,也真是几只水牛。”

我笑了出来,安多里尼太太在厨房里嚷着不知跟我说了句什么话,可我没听清楚。“她说的什么?”我问安多里尼先生。

“她说她进来的时候你别看她,她刚从床上起来。抽支烟吧。你现在抽烟了吗?”

“谢谢,”我说。我在他递给我的烟匣里取了支烟。“只是偶尔抽一支。抽得不凶。”

“我相信你抽得不凶,”他说着,从桌上拿起大打火机给我点火。“那么说来,你跟潘西不再是一体啦,”他说。他老用这方式说话。我有时候听了很感兴趣,有时候并不。他说的次数未免太多了点儿。我并不是说他的话不够俏皮——那倒不——可是遇到一个人老说着“你跟潘西不再是一体啦”这类话,有时候你会觉得神经上受不了。DB有时候也说的太多。

“问题出在哪儿?”安多里尼先生问我。“你的英文考得怎样?要是你这个作文好手连英文都考不及格,那我可要马上开门请你出去了。”

“哦,我英文倒及格了,虽说考的主要是文学。整个学期我只写过两篇作文,”我说。“不过‘口头表达’我没及格。他们开了一门叫作‘口头表达’的课程。这我没及格。”

“为什么?”

“哦,我不知道。”我实在不想细说。我还有点儿头晕目眩,同时我的头也突然痛得要命。一点不假。可你看得出他对这问题很感兴趣,因此我只好约略告诉他些。“在这门功课里,每个学生都得在课堂里站起来演讲。你知道。而且是自发的。要是演讲的学生扯到了题外,你就得尽快地冲着他喊‘离题啦!’这玩艺儿都快把我逼疯啦。我考了个‘F’。”

“为什么?”

“哦,我不知道。那个离题的玩艺儿真叫我受不了。我不知道。我的问题是,我喜欢人家离题,离了题倒是更加有趣。”

“要是有人跟你说什么,你难道不喜欢他话不离题?”

“哦,当然啦!我当然喜欢他话不离题。可我不喜欢他太不离题。我不知道怎么说好。我揣摩我不喜欢人家始终话不离题。‘口头表达’里得分最高的全是那些始终话不离题的学生——这一点我承认。可是有个名叫理查.金斯拉的学生,演讲的时候若是离题,他们老冲着他喊‘离题啦!’这种做法实在可怕,因为第一,他是个神经非常容易紧张的家伙——我是说他的神经的确非常容易紧张一一每次轮到他讲话,他的嘴唇总是哆嗦着,而且你要是坐在课堂后排,连他讲的什么都听不清楚。可是等到他嘴唇哆嗦得不那么厉害的时候,我倒觉得他讲的比别人好。不过他差点儿也没及格。他得了个'D',因为他们老冲着他喊‘离题啦!’举例说,有一次他演讲的题目是他父亲在弗蒙特买下的农庄。在他演讲的时候大家一个劲儿地冲着他喊‘离题啦!’教这门课的老师文孙先生那一次给了他一个F,因为他没有说出农庄上种的什么蔬菜,养的什么家畜。理查.金斯拉讲了些什么呢?他开始讲的是农庄——接着他突然讲起他妈妈收到他舅舅寄来的一封信,讲到他舅舅怎样在四十二岁患了脊髓炎,他怎样不愿别人到医院去看他,因为他不愿有人看见他身上绑着支架。这跟农庄没有多大关系——我承认——可是很有意思。只要有人跟你谈起自己的舅舅,这就很有意思,尤其是他开始谈的是他父亲的农庄,跟着突然对自己的舅舅更感兴趣。我是说要是他讲得很有意思,也很兴奋,那么再冲着他一个劲儿喊‘离题啦’,实在有点近于下流……我不知道怎么说好。实在很难解释。”事实上我也不太想解释。尤其是,我突然头痛得厉害。我真希望老安多里尼太太快透咖啡进来。这类事情最最让我恼火——我是说有人跟你说咖啡已经煮好,其实却没有煮好。

“霍尔顿……再问你一个很简短的、稍稍有点儿沉闷、还带点儿学究气的问题。你是不是认为每样东西都该有一定的时间和地点?你是不是认为要是有人跟你谈起他父亲的农庄,他应该先把这问题谈完,随后再改换话题,谈他舅舅的支架?或者,他舅舅的支架既然是他那么感兴趣的题目,那么他一开头就应该选它作讲题,不应该选他父亲的农庄?”

我实在懒得动脑筋和回答。我的头痛得厉害,心里也很不好过。甚至我的胃都还有点儿疼了,我老实告诉你说。

“嗯——我不知道。我想他应该这样。我是说我想他应该选他舅舅作演讲题目,不应该选他父亲的农庄,要是他最感兴趣的是他舅舅的话,不过我的意思是,很多时候你简直不知道自己对什么最感兴趣,除非你先谈起一些你并不太感兴趣的事情”我是说有时候你自己简直作不了主。我的想法是,演讲的人要是讲得很有趣,很激动,那你就不应该给他打岔。我很喜欢人家讲话激动。这很有意思,可惜你不熟悉那位老师,文孙先生。他有时真能逼得你发疯,他跟他那个混帐的班。我是说他老教你统一和简化。有些东西根本就没法统一和简化。我是说你总不能光是因为人家要你统一和简化,你就能做到统一和简化。可借你不熟悉文孙先生的为人。我是说他学问倒真是有,可你看得出他没多少脑子。”

“咖啡,诸位,终于煮好啦,”安多里尼太太说。她用托盘端了咖啡和糕点进来。“霍尔顿,不许你偷看我一眼。我简直是一团糟。”

“哈罗,安多里尼太太。”我说着,开始站起来,可安多里尼先生一把攥住了我的上装,把我拉回到原处。老安多里尼太太的头发上全是那种卷头发的铁夹子,也没搽口红什么的,看上去可不太漂亮。她显得很老。

“我就搁在这儿啦。快吃吧,你们两个,”她说着,把托盘放在茶几上,将原先放着的一些空杯子推到一旁。“你母亲好吗,霍尔顿?”

“很好,谢谢。最近我没见到她,不过我最后一次——”“亲爱的,霍尔顿要是需要什么,就在那个搁被单的壁橱里找好了。最高一层的架子上。我去睡啦。我真累坏啦,”安多里尼太太说。看她的样子也确实是累坏啦。“你们两个自己铺一下长蹋成吗?”

“我们可以照顾自己。你快去睡吧,”安多里尼先生说。他吻了安多里尼太太一下,她跟我说了声再见,就到卧室里去了。他们两个老是当着人接吻。

我倒了半杯咖啡,吃了约莫半块硬得象石头一样的饼。可是老安多里尼先生只是另外给自己调了杯加苏打水的冰威士忌。他还把水掺得很少,你看得出来。他要是再不检点,很可能变成个酒鬼的。

“两个星期前我跟你爸爸在一起吃午饭,”他突然说。“你知道不知道?”

“不,我不知道。”

“你心里明白,当然啦,他对你非常关切。”

“这我知道。我知道他对我非常关切,”我说。

“他在打电话给我之前,显然刚接到你最近的这位校长写给他的一封颇让他伤心的长信,信里说你一点不肯用功。老是旷课。每次上课从来不准备功课。一句话,由于你各方面。——”“我并没旷课,学校里是不准旷课的。我只是偶尔有一两课没上,例如我刚才跟你谈起的那个‘口头表达’课,可是我并不旷课。”

我实在不想讨论下去。喝了咖啡我的胃倒是好过了些,不过我的头还是疼得厉害。

安多里尼先生又点了支香烟。他抽得凶极了。

接着他说:“坦白说,我简直不知道跟你说什么好,霍尔顿。”

“我知道。很少有人跟我谈得来。我自己心里有数。”

“我仿佛觉得你是骑在马上瞎跑,总有一天会摔下来,摔得非常厉害。说老实话,我不知道你到底会摔成什么样子……你在听我说吗?”

“在听。”

你看得出他正在那里用心思索哩。

“或许到了三十岁年纪,你坐在某个酒吧间里,痛恨每个看上去象是在大学里打过橄榄球的人进来。或者,或许你受到的教育只够你痛恨一些说‘这是我与他之间的秘密’的人。或者,你最后可能坐在哪家商号的办公室里,把一些文件夹朝离你最近的速记员扔去。我真不知道。可你懂不懂我说的意思呢?”

“懂。我当然懂,”我说。我确实懂。“可你说的关于痛恨的那番话并不正确。我是说关于痛恨那些橄榄球运动员什么的。你真的说得不正确。我痛恨的人并不多。有些人我也许能痛恨那么一会儿,象我在潘西认识的那个家伙斯特拉德莱塔,还有另外那个家伙罗伯特.阿克莱。我偶尔也痛恨他们——这点我承认———可我的意思是说我痛恨的时候并不太长。我要是有一阵子不见他们,要是他们不到我房里来,或者我要是在饭厅里吃饭时候有一两次没碰到他们,我反倒有点儿想念他们。我是说我反倒有点儿想念他们。”

安多里尼先生有一会儿工夫没说话。他起身又拿了块冰搁在酒杯里,重新坐了下来。你看得出他正在那里思索。不过我真希望他这会儿别说下去了,有话明天再谈,可他正在兴头上。通常都是这样,你越是不想说话,对方却越是有兴头,越是想跟你展开讨论。

“好吧。再听我说一分钟的话……我的措辞也许不够理想,可我会在一两天内就这个问题写信给你的。那进修你就可以彻底理解了。可现在先听我说吧。”他又开始用心思索起来。接着他说:“我想象你这样骑马瞎跑。将来要是摔下来,可不是玩儿的——那是很特殊、很可怕的一跤。摔下来的人,都感觉不到也听不见自己着地。只是一个劲儿往下摔。这整个安排是为哪种人作出的呢?只是为某一类人,他们在一生中这一时期或那一时期,想要寻找某种他们自己的环境无法提供的东西。或者寻找只是他们认为自己的环境无法提供的东西。于是他们停止寻找。他们甚至在还未真正开始寻找之前就已停止寻找。你在听我说吗?”

“在听,先生。”

“真的吗?”

“真的。”

他站起来,又往自己的杯子里倒了些威士忌,重又坐下。他有好一会儿工夫没说话。

“我不是成心吓唬你,”他说,“不过我可以非常清楚地预见到,你将会通过这样或那样方式,为了某种微不足道的事业英勇死去。”他用异样的目光望了我一眼。“我要是给你写下什么,你肯仔细看吗?肯给我好好保存吗?”

“好的。当然啦,”我说。我也的确做到了。

他给我的那张纸,我到现在还保存着呢。

他走到房间另一头的书桌边,也不坐下,在一张纸上写了些什么。随后他拿着那张纸回来坐下。

“奇怪的是,写下这话的不是个职业诗人,而是个名叫威尔罕姆.斯塔克尔的精神分析学家。他写的——你是不是在听我说话?”

“是的,当然在听。”

“他说的是:‘一个不成熟男子的标志是他愿意为某种事业英勇地死去,一个成熟男子的标志是他愿意为某种事业卑贱地活着。’”他探过身来,把纸递给了我。我接过来当场读了,谢了他,就把纸放进衣袋。他为我这样操心,真是难得。的的确确难得。可问题是,我当时实在不想用心思索。嘿,我突然觉得他妈的疲倦极了。

可你看得出他一点也不疲倦。主要是,他已经很醉了。“我想总有一天,”他说,“你得找出你想要去的地方。随后你非开步走去不可。不过你最好马上开步走。你决不能再浪费一分钟时间了。尤其是你。”

我点了点头,因为他正目不转睛地看着我,我可不太清楚他在讲些什么。我倒是挺有把握懂得他的意思,不过我当时并不太清楚他在讲些什么。我实在他妈的太疲倦了。

“我不愿意跟你说这话,”他说,“可我想,你一旦弄清楚了自己要往哪儿走,你的第一步就应该是在学校里用功。你非这样做不可。你是个学生——不管愿意也好,不愿意也好。你应该爱上学问。而且我想,你一旦经受了所有的维纳斯先生和他们的‘口头表达’课的考验,你就会发现——”“是文孙先生,”我说。他要说的是所有的文孙先生,并不是所有的维纳斯先生。可我不该打断他的话。

“好吧——所有的文孙先生。你一旦经受了所有的文孙先生的考验,你就可以学到越来越多的知识——那是说,只要你想学,肯学,有耐心学——你就可以学到一些你最最心爱的知识。其中的一门知识就是,你将发现对人类的行为感到惶惑、恐惧、甚至恶心的,你并不是第一个。在这方面你倒是一点也不孤独,你知道后一定会觉得兴奋,一定会受到鼓励。历史上有许许多多人都象你现在这样,在道德上和精神上都有过访捏的时期。幸而,他们中间有几个将自己彷徨的经过记录下来了。你可以向他们学习——只要你愿意。正如你有朝一日如果有什么贡献,别人也可以向你学习。这真是个极妙的轮回安排。而且这不是教育。这是历史。这是诗。”

说到这里他停住了,从酒杯里喝了一大口酒,接着又往下说。嘿,他确确实实在兴头上。我很高兴自己没打算拦住他什么的。“我并不是想告诉你,”他说,“只有受过教育的和有学问的人才能够对这世界作出伟大的贡献。这样说当然不对。不过我的确要说,受过教育的和有学问的人如果有聪明才智和创造能力——不幸的是,这样的情况并不多——他们留给后世的记录比起那般光有聪明才智和创造能力的人来,确实要宝贵得多。他们表达自己的思想更清楚,他们通常还有热情把自己的思想贯彻到底。而且——最最重要的一点——他们十有九个要比那种没有学问的思想家谦恭得多。你是不是在听我的话哪?”

“在听,先生。”

他有好一会儿没再吭声。我不知道你是否有过这经历,不过坐在那里等别人说话,眼看着他一个劲儿思索,实在很不好受。的确很不好受。我尽力不让自己打呵欠。倒不是我心里觉得腻烦——那倒不是——可我突然困得要命。

“学校教育还能给你带来别的好处。你受这种教育到了一定程度,就会发现自己脑子的尺寸,以及什么对它合适,什么对它不合适。过了一个时期,你就会心里有数,知道象你这样尺寸的头脑应该具有什么类型的思想。主要是,这可以让你节省不少时间,免得你去瞎试一些对你不合适、不贴切的思想。你惺僵就会知道你自己的正确尺寸,恰如其分地把你的头脑武装起来。”

接着突然间,我打了个呵欠,真是个无礼的杂种、可我实在是身不由己!

不过安多里尼先生只是笑了一笑。“来吧,”他说着就站了起来。“咱们去把长蹋收拾一下。”

我跟着他走到壁橱那里,他想从最高一层的架子上拿下些被单和毯子什么的,可他一手拿着酒杯,没法拿那些东西。所以他先把酒喝干,随后把杯子搁到地板上,随后把那些玩艺儿搬了下来。我帮着他把东西搬到长榻上。我们两个—起铺床。他干这个并不起劲。他把被单什么的都没塞好。可我不在乎。我实在累了,就是站着都能睡觉。

“你的那些女朋友都好?”

“她们都不错。”我的谈吐真是糟糕透了,可我当时实在没那心情。

“萨丽好吗?”他认识老萨丽.海斯。我曾向他介绍过。

“她挺好。今天下午我跟她约会了。”嘿,那好象是二十年前的事了!“我们两个的共同之点并不多。”

“漂亮极了的姑娘。还有另外那个姑娘呢?从前你跟我讲起过的那个,在缅因的?”

“哦——琴.迦拉格。她挺好。我明天大概要跟她通个电话。”

这时我们已把长蹋铺好。“就当是在自己家里一样,”安多里尼先生说。“我真不知道你的两条腿往哪搁。”

“没关系。我睡惯了短小的床铺。”我说。

“感谢你极了,先生。你和安多里尼太大今晚上真是救了我的命。”

“你知道浴室在哪儿,你要是需要什么,只顾喊好了。我还要到厨房去一会儿——你怕不怕灯光?”

“不——一点儿也不。太谢谢啦。”

“好吧。明天见,漂亮小伙子。”

“明天见,先生。谢谢您。”

他出去到厨房里,我就走进浴室,把衣服脱了。我没法刷牙,因为我身上没带牙刷。我也没睡衣裤,安多里尼先生忘了借我一套,所以我只好回到客厅,把长榻边的小灯关了,光穿着裤衩钻进了被窝。那长榻我睡起来确实太短,可我真的站着都能睡觉,连眼皮都不眨一下。我醒着躺了只几秒钟,想着安多里尼先生刚才告诉我的那些玩艺儿。

关于找出你自己头脑的尺寸什么的。他的的确确是个挺聪明的家伙。可我的那两只混帐眼睛实在张不开了,所以我就睡着了。

接着发生了一件事。我甚至连谈都不愿谈。

我一下子醒了。我也不知道是什么时候,可我一下子醒了。我感觉到头上有什么东西,象是一个人的手。嘿,这真把我吓坏了。那是什么呢,原来是安多里尼先生的手。他在干什么呢,他正坐在长榻旁边的地板上,在黑暗中抚摸着或者轻轻拍着我的混帐脑袋。嘿,我敢打赌我跳得足足有一千英尺高。

“你这是他妈的干什么?”我说。

“没什么!我只是坐在这儿,欣赏——”“你到底在干什么,嗯?”我又说了一遍。我真他妈的不知说什么好——我是说我当时窘得要命。

“你把声音放低些好不好?我只是坐在这儿——”“我要走了,嗯,”我说——嘿,我心里可紧张极了;我开始在黑暗中穿我的那条混帐裤子。我真他妈的紧张到了极点,连裤子都穿不上了。我在学校之类的地方遇到过的性变态者要比谁都多,他们总是看见我在的时候毛病发作。

“你要上哪儿去?”安多里尼先生说。他想装出他妈的很随便、很冷静的样子,可他并不他妈的太冷静。相信我的话好了。

“我的手提箱什么的全都在车站上。我想我最好去一趟把它们取出来。我的东西全在里面呢。”

“到早晨也能取。现在快睡吧。我也要去睡了。你这是怎么啦?”

“没什么,就是有一只手提箱放着我所有的钱什么的。我马上回来。我会叫辆出租汽车,马上回来,”我说。嘿,我在黑暗中跌跌撞撞地简直站不稳脚。“问题是,那钱不是我的。它是我母亲的,我——”“别胡扯啦,霍尔顿。快睡吧。我也要去睡了。钱不会少的,你可以到早晨——”“不,我不是说着玩的。我非去不可。我真的非去不可。”我他妈的都已穿好衣服,只是找不着领带。我再也记不起把领带放在什么地方了。我就不打领带,穿好上装。老安多里尼先生这会儿正坐在离我不远的一把大椅子上,拿眼望着我。房里漆黑一团,我看不太清楚他的动作,可我照样知道他正拿眼望着我。而且他还在那儿喝酒呢。我都看得见他手里拿着那只盛有冰威士忌的酒杯。

“你是个十分、十分奇怪的孩子。”

“这我知道,”我说。我甚至没仔细寻找我的领带。所以我不打领带就走了。“再见吧,先生,”我说。“非常感谢您。一点不假。”

我往前门走去的时候,他一直跟在我后边;当我按电梯的铃的时候,他就站在那个混帐的门道里。他什么也没说,只是重复了一遍刚才的话,说我是个“十分、十分奇怪的孩子”。奇怪个屁!随后他就站在门道里等着,直等到混帐电梯上来。我这混帐一辈子里等电梯再也没等过这么久的,我能对天发誓。

我在那儿等电梯,他也一直站着不动窝儿,我真不知道他妈的跟他说些什么好,所以我就说:“我要开始读几本好书了。真的。”我是说你总得讲些什么才好。那情况真是尴尬极了。

“你拿了手提箱,马上就回这儿来。我不把门门上。”

“非常感谢,”我说。“再见!”电梯终于上来了,我就进了电梯下楼。嘿,我象个疯子似的索索乱抖。我浑身还在冒汗。每次遇到这类性变态玩艺儿,我就会浑身冒汗。我从孩提时候起,这类的事遇到总有二十次了。我实在受不了。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 8楼  发表于: 2013-10-11 0


20
I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine to come out and do their stuff, but they weren't there. A flitty-looking guy with wavy hair came out and played the piano, and then this new babe, Valencia, came out and sang. She wasn't any good, but she was better than old Tina and Janine, and at least she sang good songs. The piano was right next to the bar where I was sitting and all, and old Valencia was standing practically right next to me. I sort of gave her the old eye, but she pretended she didn't even see me. I probably wouldn't have done it, but I was getting drunk as hell. When she was finished, she beat it out of the room so fast I didn't even get a chance to invite her to join me for a drink, so I called the headwaiter over. I told him to ask old Valencia if she'd care to join me for a drink. He said he would, but he probably didn't even give her my message. People never give your message to anybody.
Boy, I sat at that goddam bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. I could hardly see straight. The one thing I did, though, I was careful as hell not to get boisterous or anything. I didn't want anybody to notice me or anything or ask how old I was. But, boy, I could hardly see straight. When I was really drunk, I started that stupid business with the bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a bullet in their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn't want anybody to know I was even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded sonuvabitch. Finally what I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz and see if she was home yet. So I paid my check and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping my hand under my jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk.
But when I got inside this phone booth, I wasn't much in the mood any more to give old Jane a buzz. I was too drunk, I guess. So what I did, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz.
I had to dial about twenty numbers before I got the right one. Boy, was I blind.
"Hello," I said when somebody answered the goddam phone. I sort of yelled it, I was so drunk.
"Who is this?" this very cold lady's voice said.
"This is me. Holden Caulfield. Lemme speaka Sally, please."
"Sally's asleep. This is Sally's grandmother. Why are you calling at this hour, Holden? Do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah. Wanna talka Sally. Very important. Put her on."
"Sally's asleep, young man. Call her tomorrow. Good night."
"Wake 'er up! Wake 'er up, hey. Attaboy."
Then there was a different voice. "Holden, this is me." It was old Sally. "What's the big idea?"
"Sally? That you?"
"Yes--stop screaming. Are you drunk?"
"Yeah. Listen. Listen, hey. I'll come over Christmas Eve. Okay? Trimma goddarn tree for ya. Okay? Okay, hey, Sally?"
"Yes. You're drunk. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"Sally? I'll come over and trimma tree for ya, okay? Okay, hey?"
"Yes. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"Nobody. Me, myself and I." Boy was I drunk! I was even still holding onto my guts. "They got me. Rocky's mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know that?"
"I can't hear you. Go to bed now. I have to go. Call me tomorrow."
"Hey, Sally! You want me trimma tree for ya? Ya want me to? Huh?"
"Yes. Good night. Go home and go to bed."
She hung up on me.
"G'night. G'night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart darling," I said. Can you imagine how drunk I was? I hung up too, then. I figured she probably just came home from a date. I pictured her out with the Lunts and all somewhere, and that Andover jerk. All of them swimming around in a goddam pot of tea and saying sophisticated stuff to each other and being charming and phony. I wished to God I hadn't even phoned her. When I'm drunk, I'm a madman.
I stayed in the damn phone booth for quite a while. I kept holding onto the phone, sort of, so I wouldn't pass out. I wasn't feeling too marvelous, to tell you the truth. Finally, though, I came out and went in the men's room, staggering around like a moron, and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. Then I dunked my head in it, right up to the ears. I didn't even bother to dry it or anything. I just let the sonuvabitch drip. Then I walked over to this radiator by the window and sat down on it. It was nice and warm. It felt good because I was shivering like a bastard. It's a funny thing, I always shiver like hell when I'm drunk.
I didn't have anything else to do, so I kept sitting on the radiator and counting these little white squares on the floor. I was getting soaked. About a gallon of water was dripping down my neck, getting all over my collar and tie and all, but I didn't give a damn. I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty soon, the guy that played the piano for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitty-looking guy, came in to comb his golden locks. We sort of struck up a conversation while he was combing it, except that he wasn't too goddam friendly.
"Hey. You gonna see that Valencia babe when you go back in the bar?" I asked him.
"It's highly probable," he said. Witty bastard. All I ever meet is witty bastards.
"Listen. Give her my compliments. Ask her if that goddam waiter gave her my message, willya?"
"Why don't you go home, Mac? How old are you, anyway?"
"Eighty-six. Listen. Give her my compliments. Okay?"
"Why don't you go home, Mac?"
"Not me. Boy, you can play that goddam piano." I told him. I was just flattering him. He played the piano stinking, if you want to know the truth. "You oughta go on the radio," I said. "Handsome chap like you. All those goddam golden locks. Ya need a manager?"
"Go home, Mac, like a good guy. Go home and hit the sack."
"No home to go to. No kidding--you need a manager?"
He didn't answer me. He just went out. He was all through combing his hair and patting it and all, so he left. Like Stradlater. All these handsome guys are the same. When they're done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on you.
When I finally got down off the radiator and went out to the hat-check room, I was crying and all. I don't know why, but I was. I guess it was because I was feeling so damn depressed and lonesome. Then, when I went out to the checkroom, I couldn't find my goddam check. The hat-check girl was very nice about it, though. She gave me my coat anyway. And my "Little Shirley Beans" record--I still had it with me and all. I gave her a buck for being so nice, but she wouldn't take it. She kept telling me to go home and go to bed. I sort of tried to make a date with her for when she got through working, but she wouldn't do it. She said she was old enough to be my mother and all. I showed her my goddam gray hair and told her I was forty-two--I was only horsing around, naturally. She was nice, though. I showed her my goddam red hunting hat, and she liked it. She made me put it on before I went out, because my hair was still pretty wet. She was all right.
I didn't feel too drunk any more when I went outside, but it was getting very cold out again, and my teeth started chattering like hell. I couldn't make them stop. I walked over to Madison Avenue and started to wait around for a bus because I didn't have hardly any money left and I had to start economizing on cabs and all. But I didn't feel like getting on a damn bus. And besides, I didn't even know where I was supposed to go. So what I did, I started walking over to the park. I figured I'd go by that little lake and see what the hell the ducks were doing, see if they were around or not, I still didn't know if they were around or not. It wasn't far over to the park, and I didn't have anyplace else special to go to--I didn't even know where I was going to sleep yet--so I went. I wasn't tired or anything. I just felt blue as hell.
Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped old Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope and all, but it broke anyway. I damn near cried, it made me feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces out of the envelope and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything, but I didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was it dark.
I've lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like the back of my hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and ride my bike when I was a kid, but I had the most terrific trouble finding that lagoon that night. I knew right where it was--it was right near Central Park South and all--but I still couldn't find it. I must've been drunker than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting darker and darker and spookier and spookier. I didn't see one person the whole time I was in the park. I'm just as glad. I probably would've jumped about a mile if I had. Then, finally, I found it. What it was, it was partly frozen and partly not frozen. But I didn't see any ducks around. I walked all around the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in fact--but I didn't see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, they might be asleep or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and all. That's how I nearly fell in. But I couldn't find any.
Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark. Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice. That worried me. I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you ride on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be there. They all came when Allie died, the whole goddam stupid bunch of them. I have this one stupid aunt with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he looked lying there, D.B. told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to the hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was getting pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry as hell for my mother and father. Especially my mother, because she still isn't over my brother Allie yet. I kept picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and athletic equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old Phoebe come to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombstone and all. Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I certainly don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice--twice--we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I just wish he wasn't there. You didn't know him. If you'd known him, you'd know what I mean. It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
After a while, just to get my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I took out my dough and tried to count it in the lousy light from the street lamp. All I had was three singles and five quarters and a nickel left--boy, I spent a fortune since I left Pencey. Then what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sort of skipped the quarters and the nickel across it, where it wasn't frozen. I don't know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought it'd take my mind off getting pneumonia and dying. It didn't, though.
I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died. It was a childish way to think, but I couldn't stop myself. She'd feel pretty bad if something like that happened. She likes me a lot. I mean she's quite fond of me. She really is. Anyway, I couldn't get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd do, I figured I'd better sneak home and see her, in case I died and all. I had my door key with me and all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak in the apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat with her for a while. The only thing that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a bastard. It's a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy bastard, and everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might hear me sneaking in. But I decided I'd try it anyhow.
So I got the hell out of the park, and went home. I walked all the way. It wasn't too far, and I wasn't tired or even drunk any more. It was just very cold and nobody around anywhere.
21
The best break I had in years, when I got home the regular night elevator boy, Pete, wasn't on the car. Some new guy I'd never seen was on the car, so I figured that if I didn't bump smack into my parents and all I'd be able to say hello to old Phoebe and then beat it and nobody'd even know I'd been around. It was really a terrific break. What made it even better, the new elevator boy was sort of on the stupid side. I told him, in this very casual voice, to take me up to the Dicksteins'. The Dicksteins were these people that had the other apartment on our floor. I'd already taken off my hunting hat, so as not to look suspicious or anything. I went in the elevator like I was in a terrific hurry.
He had the elevator doors all shut and all, and was all set to take me up, and then he turned around and said, "They ain't in. They're at a party on the fourteenth floor."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm supposed to wait for them. I'm their nephew."
He gave me this sort of stupid, suspicious look. "You better wait in the lobby, fella," he said.
"I'd like to--I really would," I said. "But I have a bad leg. I have to hold it in a certain position. I think I'd better sit down in the chair outside their door."
He didn't know what the hell I was talking about, so all he said was "Oh" and took me up. Not bad, boy. It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.
I got off at our floor--limping like a bastard--and started walking over toward the Dicksteins' side. Then, when I heard the elevator doors shut, I turned around and went over to our side. I was doing all right. I didn't even feel drunk anymore. Then I took out my door key and opened our door, quiet as hell. Then, very, very carefully and all, I went inside and closed the door. I really should've been a crook.
It was dark as hell in the foyer, naturally, and naturally I couldn't turn on any lights. I had to be careful not to bump into anything and make a racket. I certainly knew I was home, though. Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn't smell like anyplace else. I don't know what the hell it is. It isn't cauliflower and it isn't perfume--I don't know what the hell it is--but you always know you're home. I started to take off my coat and hang it up in the foyer closet, but that closet's full of hangers that rattle like madmen when you open the door, so I left it on. Then I started walking very, very slowly back toward old Phoebe's room. I knew the maid wouldn't hear me because she had only one eardrum. She had this brother that stuck a straw down her ear when she was a kid, she once told me. She was pretty deaf and all. But my parents, especially my mother, she has ears like a goddam bloodhound. So I took it very, very easy when I went past their door. I even held my breath, for God's sake. You can hit my father over the head with a chair and he won't wake up, but my mother, all you have to do to my mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she'll hear you. She's nervous as hell. Half the time she's up all night smoking cigarettes.
Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Phoebe's room. She wasn't there, though. I forgot about that. I forgot she always sleeps in D.B.'s room when he's away in Hollywood or some place. She likes it because it's the biggest room in the house. Also because it has this big old madman desk in it that D.B. bought off some lady alcoholic in Philadelphia, and this big, gigantic bed that's about ten miles wide and ten miles long. I don't know where he bought that bed. Anyway, old Phoebe likes to sleep in D.B.'s room when he's away, and he lets her. You ought to see her doing her homework or something at that crazy desk. It's almost as big as the bed. You can hardly see her when she's doing her homework. That's the kind of stuff she likes, though. She doesn't like her own room because it's too little, she says. She says she likes to spread out. That kills me. What's old Phoebe got to spread out? Nothing.
Anyway, I went into D.B.'s room quiet as hell, and turned on the lamp on the desk. Old Phoebe didn't even wake up. When the light was on and all, I sort of looked at her for a while. She was laying there asleep, with her face sort of on the side of the pillow. She had her mouth way open. It's funny. You take adults, they look lousy when they're asleep and they have their mouths way open, but kids don't. Kids look all right. They can even have spit all over the pillow and they still look all right.
I went around the room, very quiet and all, looking at stuff for a while. I felt swell, for a change. I didn't even feel like I was getting pneumonia or anything any more. I just felt good, for a change. Old Phoebe's clothes were on this chair right next to the bed. She's very neat, for a child. I mean she doesn't just throw her stuff around, like some kids. She's no slob. She had the jacket to this tan suit my mother bought her in Canada hung up on the back of the chair. Then her blouse and stuff were on the seat. Her shoes and socks were on the floor, right underneath the chair, right next to each other. I never saw the shoes before. They were new. They were these dark brown loafers, sort of like this pair I have, and they went swell with that suit my mother bought her in Canada. My mother dresses her nice. She really does. My mother has terrific taste in some things. She's no good at buying ice skates or anything like that, but clothes, she's perfect. I mean
Phoebe always has some dress on that can kill you. You take most little kids, even if their parents are wealthy and all, they usually have some terrible dress on. I wish you could see old Phoebe in that suit my mother bought her in Canada. I'm not kidding.
I sat down on old D.B.'s desk and looked at the stuff on it. It was mostly Phoebe's stuff, from school and all. Mostly books. The one on top was called Arithmetic Is Fun! I sort of opened the first page and took a look at it. This is what old Phoebe had on it:
PHOEBE WEATHERFIELD CAULFIELD
4B-1
That killed me. Her middle name is Josephine, for God's sake, not Weatherfield. She doesn't like it, though. Every time I see her she's got a new middle name for herself.
The book underneath the arithmetic was a geography, and the book under the geography was a speller. She's very good in spelling. She's very good in all her subjects, but she's best in spelling. Then, under the speller, there were a bunch of notebooks. She has about five thousand notebooks. You never saw a kid with so many notebooks. I opened the one on top and looked at the first page. It had on it:
Bernice meet me at recess I have something
very very important to tell you.
That was all there was on that page. The next one had on it:
Why has south eastern Alaska so many caning factories?
Because theres so much salmon
Why has it valuable forests?
because it has the right climate.
What has our government done to make
life easier for the alaskan eskimos?
look it up for tomorrow!!!
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe W. Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield, Esq.
Please pass to Shirley!!!!
Shirley you said you were sagitarius
but your only taurus bring your skates
when you come over to my house
I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook. It didn't take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook, Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long. Kid's notebooks kill me. Then I lit another cigarette--it was my last one. I must've smoked about three cartons that day. Then, finally, I woke her up. I mean I couldn't sit there on that desk for the rest of my life, and besides, I was afraid my parents
might barge in on me all of a sudden and I wanted to at least say hello to her before they did. So I woke her up.
She wakes up very easily. I mean you don't have to yell at her or anything. All you have to do, practically, is sit down on the bed and say, "Wake up, Phoeb," and bingo, she's awake.
"Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck and all. She's very affectionate. I mean she's quite affectionate, for a child. Sometimes she's even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss, and she said, "Whenja get home7' She was glad as hell to see me. You could tell.
"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?"
"I'm fine. Did you get my letter? I wrote you a five-page--"
"Yeah--not so loud. Thanks."
She wrote me this letter. I didn't get a chance to answer it, though. It was all about this play she was in in school. She told me not to make any dates or anything for Friday so that I could come see it.
"How's the play?" I asked her. "What'd you say the name of it was?"
"'A Christmas Pageant for Americans.' It stinks, but I'm Benedict Arnold. I have practically the biggest part," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. She gets very excited when she tells you that stuff. "It starts out when I'm dying. This ghost comes in on Christmas Eve and asks me if I'm ashamed and everything. You know. For betraying my country and everything. Are you coming to it?" She was sitting way the hell up in the bed and all. "That's what I wrote you about. Are you?"
"Sure I'm coming. Certainly I'm coming."
"Daddy can't come. He has to fly to California," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. It only takes her about two seconds to get wide-awake. She was sitting--sort of kneeling--way up in bed, and she was holding my goddam hand. "Listen. Mother said you'd be home Wednesday," she said. "She said Wednesday."
"I got out early. Not so loud. You'll wake everybody up."
"What time is it? They won't be home till very late, Mother said. They went to a party in Norwalk, Connecticut," old Phoebe said. "Guess what I did this afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!"
"I don't know--Listen. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"The Doctor," old Phoebe said. "It's a special movie they had at the Lister Foundation. Just this one day they had it--today was the only day. It was all about this doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a blanket over this child's face that's a cripple and can't walk. Then they send him to jail and everything. It was excellent."
"Listen a second. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"He feels sorry for it, the doctor. That's why he sticks this blanket over her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they make him go to jail for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck the blanket over its head comes to visit him all the time and thanks him for what he did. He was a mercy killer. Only, he knows he deserves to go to jail because a doctor isn't supposed to take things away from God. This girl in my class's mother took us. Alice Holmborg, She's my best friend. She's the only girl in the whole--"
"Wait a second, willya?" I said. "I'm asking you a question. Did they say what time they'd be back, or didn't they?"
"No, but not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so they wouldn't have to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now! Except that Mother said nobody can play it when the car's in traffic."
I began to relax, sort of. I mean I finally quit worrying about whether they'd catch me home or not. I figured the hell with it. If they did, they did.
You should've seen old Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with red elephants on the collars. Elephants knock her out.
"So it was a good picture, huh?" I said.
"Swell, except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her all the time if she felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture. Always in the middle of something important, her mother'd lean all over me and everything and ask Alice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves."
Then I told her about the record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I told her. "Only I broke it on the way home." I took the pieces out of my coat pocket and showed her. "I was plastered," I said.
"Gimme the pieces," she said. "I'm saving them." She took them right out of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the night table. She kills me.
"D.B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.
"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have to stay in Hollywood and write a picture about Annapolis."
"Annapolis, for God's sake!"
"It's a love story and everything. Guess who's going to be in it! What movie star. Guess!"
"I'm not interested. Annapolis, for God's sake. What's D.B. know about Annapolis, for God's sake? What's that got to do with the kind of stories he writes?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam Hollywood. "What'd you do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had this big hunk of adhesive tape on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her pajamas didn't have any sleeves.
"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class, pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna see?" She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.
"Leave it alone. Why'd he push you down the stairs?"
"I don't know. I think he hates me," old Phoebe said. "This other girl and me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and stuff all over his windbreaker."
"That isn't nice. What are you--a child, for God's sake?"
"No, but every time I'm in the park, he follows me everywhere. He's always following me. He gets on my nerves."
"He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--"
"I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?"
"What?"
Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's smart, you're mad.
"How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kicked out or anything, did you?"
"I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--"
"You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear to God.
"Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--"
"You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her fist. If you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head. She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman sometimes.
"Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me."
She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to. All she kept saying was, "Daddy s gonna kill you." You could hardly understand her with that goddam pillow over her head.
"Nobody's gonna kill me. Use your head. In the first place, I'm going away. What I may do, I may get a job on a ranch or something for a while. I know this guy whose grandfather's got a ranch in Colorado. I may get a job out there," I said. "I'll keep in touch with you and all when I'm gone, if I go. C'mon. Take that off your head. C'mon, hey, Phoeb. Please. Please, willya?'
She wouldn t take it off, though I tried pulling it off, but she's strong as hell. You get tired fighting with her. Boy, if she wants to keep a pillow over her head, she keeps it. "Phoebe, please. C'mon outa there," I kept saying. "C'mon, hey . . . Hey, Weatherfield. C'mon out."
She wouldn't come out, though. You can't even reason with her sometimes. Finally, I got up and went out in the living room and got some cigarettes out of the box on the table and stuck some in my pocket. I was all out.
22
When I came back, she had the pillow off her head all right--I knew she would--but she still wouldn't look at me, even though she was laying on her back and all. When I came around the side of the bed and sat down again, she turned her crazy face the other way. She was ostracizing the hell out of me. Just like the fencing team at Pencey when I left all the goddam foils on the subway.
"How's old Hazel Weatherfield?" I said. "You write any new stories about her? I got that one you sent me right in my suitcase. It's down at the station. It's very good."
"Daddy'll kill you."
Boy, she really gets something on her mind when she gets something on her mind.
"No, he won't. The worst he'll do, he'll give me hell again, and then he'll send me to that goddam military school. That's all he'll do to me. And in the first place, I won't even be around. I'll be away. I'll be--I'll probably be in Colorado on this ranch."
"Don't make me laugh. You can't even ride a horse."
"Who can't? Sure I can. Certainly I can. They can teach you in about two minutes," I said. "Stop picking at that." She was picking at that adhesive tape on her arm. "Who gave you that haircut?" I asked her. I just noticed what a stupid haircut somebody gave her. It was way too short. "None of your business," she said. She can be very snotty sometimes. She can be quite snotty. "I suppose you failed in every single subject again," she said--very snotty. It was sort of funny, too, in a way. She sounds like a goddam schoolteacher sometimes, and she's only a little child.
"No, I didn't," I said. "I passed English." Then, just for the hell of it, I gave her a pinch on the behind. It was sticking way out in the breeze, the way she was laying on her side. She has hardly any behind. I didn't do it hard, but she tried to hit my hand anyway, but she missed.
Then all of a sudden, she said, "Oh, why did you do it?" She meant why did I get the ax again. It made me sort of sad, the way she said it.
"Oh, God, Phoebe, don't ask me. I'm sick of everybody asking me that," I said. "A million reasons why. It was one of the worst schools I ever went to. It was full of phonies. And mean guys. You never saw so many mean guys in your life. For instance, if you were having a bull session in somebody's room, and somebody wanted to come in, nobody'd let them in if they were some dopey, pimply guy. Everybody was always locking their door when somebody wanted to come in. And they had this goddam secret fraternity that I was too yellow not to join. There was this one pimply, boring guy, Robert Ackley, that wanted to get in. He kept trying to join, and they wouldn't let him. Just because he was boring and pimply. I don't even feel like talking about it. It was a stinking school. Take my word."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything, but she was listen ing. I could tell by the back of her neck that she was listening. She always listens when you tell her something. And the funny part is she knows, half the time, what the hell you're talking about. She really does.
I kept talking about old Pencey. I sort of felt like it.
"Even the couple of nice teachers on the faculty, they were phonies, too," I said. "There was this one old guy, Mr. Spencer. His wife was always giving you hot chocolate and all that stuff, and they were really pretty nice. But you should've seen him when the headmaster, old Thurmer, came in the history class and sat down in the back of the room. He was always coming in and sitting down in the back of the room for about a half an hour. He was supposed to be incognito or something. After a while, he'd be sitting back there and then he'd start interrupting what old Spencer was saying to crack a lot of corny jokes. Old Spencer'd practically kill himself chuckling and smiling and all, like as if Thurmer was a goddam prince or something."
"Don't swear so much."
"It would've made you puke, I swear it would," I said. "Then, on Veterans' Day. They have this day, Veterans' Day, that all the jerks that graduated from Pencey around 1776 come back and walk all over the place, with their wives and children and everybody. You should've seen this one old guy that was about fifty. What he did was, he came in our room and knocked on the door and asked us if we'd mind if he used the bathroom. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor--I don't know why the hell he asked us. You know what he said? He said he wanted to see if his initials were still in one of the can doors. What he did, he carved his goddam stupid sad old initials in one of the can doors about ninety years ago, and he wanted to see if they were still there. So my roommate and I walked him down to the bathroom and all, and we had to stand there while he looked for his initials in all the can doors. He kept talking to us the whole time, telling us how when he was at Pencey they were the happiest days of his life, and giving us a lot of advice for the future and all. Boy, did he depress me! I don't mean he was a bad guy--he wasn't. But you don't have to be a bad guy to depress somebody--you can be a good guy and do it. All you have to do to depress somebody is give them a lot of phony advice while you're looking for your initials in some can door--that's all you have to do. I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been all out of breath. He was all out of breath from just climbing up the stairs, and the whole time he was looking for his initials he kept breathing hard, with his nostrils all funny and sad, while he kept telling Stradlater and I to get all we could out of Pencey. God, Phoebe! I can't explain. I just didn't like anything that was happening at Pencey. I can't explain."
Old Phoebe said something then, but I couldn't hear her. She had the side of her mouth right smack on the pillow, and I couldn't hear her.
"What?" I said. "Take your mouth away. I can't hear you with your mouth that way."
"You don't like anything that's happening."
It made me even more depressed when she said that.
"Yes I do. Yes I do. Sure I do. Don't say that. Why the hell do you say that?"
"Because you don't. You don't like any schools. You don't like a million things. You don't."
"I do! That's where you're wrong--that's exactly where you're wrong! Why the hell do you have to say that?" I said. Boy, was she depressing me.
"Because you don't," she said. "Name one thing."
"One thing? One thing I like?" I said. "Okay."
The trouble was, I couldn't concentrate too hot. Sometimes it's hard to concentrate.
"One thing I like a lot you mean?" I asked her.
She didn't answer me, though. She was in a cockeyed position way the hell over the other side of the bed. She was about a thousand miles away. "C'mon answer me," I said. "One thing I like a lot, or one thing I just like?"
"You like a lot."
"All right," I said. But the trouble was, I couldn't concentrate. About all I could think of were those two nuns that went around collecting dough in those beatup old straw baskets. Especially the one with the glasses with those iron rims. And this boy I knew at Elkton Hills. There was this one boy at Elkton Hills, named James Castle, that wouldn't take back something he said about this very conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy, and one of Stabile's lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So Stabile, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle's room and went in and locked the goddam door and tried to make him take back what he said, but he wouldn't do it. So they started in on him. I won't even tell you what they did to him--it's too repulsive--but he still wouldn't take it back, old James Castle. And you should've seen him. He was a skinny little weak-looking guy, with wrists about as big as pencils. Finally, what he did, instead of taking back what he said, he jumped out the window. I was in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running through the corridor and down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran downstairs too, and there was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and all. He was dead, and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody would even go near him. He had on this turtleneck sweater I'd lent him. All they did with the guys that were in the room with him was expel them. They didn't even go to jail.
That was about all I could think of, though. Those two nuns I saw at breakfast and this boy James Castle I knew at Elkton Hills. The funny part is, I hardly even know James Castle, if you want to know the truth. He was one of these very quiet guys. He was in my math class, but he was way over on the other side of the room, and he hardly ever got up to recite or go to the blackboard or anything. Some guys in school hardly ever get up to recite or go to the blackboard. I think the only time I ever even had a conversation with him was that time he asked me if he could borrow this turtleneck sweater I had. I damn near dropped dead when he asked me, I was so surprised and all. I remember I was brushing my teeth, in the can, when he asked me. He said his cousin was coming in to take him for a drive and all. I didn't even know he knew I had a turtleneck sweater. All I knew about him was that his name was always right ahead of me at roll call. Cabel, R., Cabel, W., Castle, Caulfield--I can still remember it. If you want to know the truth, I almost didn't lend him my sweater. Just because I didn't know him too well.
"What?" I said to old Phoebe. She said something to me, but I didn't hear her.
"You can't even think of one thing."
"Yes, I can. Yes, I can."
"Well, do it, then."
"I like Allie," I said. "And I like doing what I'm doing right now. Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and--"
"Allie's dead--You always say that! If somebody's dead and everything, and in Heaven, then it isn't really--"
"I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything. When she can't think of anything to say, she doesn't say a goddam word.
"Anyway, I like it now," I said. "I mean right now. Sitting here with you and just chewing the fat and horsing--"
"That isn't anything really!"
"It is so something really! Certainly it is! Why the hell isn't it? People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it,"
"Stop swearing. All right, name something else. Name something you'd like to be. Like a scientist. Or a lawyer or something."
"I couldn't be a scientist. I'm no good in science."
"Well, a lawyer--like Daddy and all."
"Lawyers are all right, I guess--but it doesn't appeal to me," I said. "I mean they're all right if they go around saving innocent guys' lives all the time, and like that, but you don't do that kind of stuff if you're a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you did go around saving guys' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wanted to save guys' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted to do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren't being a phony? The trouble is, you wouldn't."
I'm not too sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking about. I mean she's only a little child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebody at least listens, it's not too bad.
"Daddy's going to kill you. He's going to kill you," she said.
I wasn't listening, though. I was thinking about something else--something crazy. "You know what I'd like to be?" I said. "You know what I'd like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?"
"What? Stop swearing."
"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like--"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."
She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though.
"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."
Old Phoebe didn't say anything for a long time. Then, when she said something, all she said was, "Daddy's going to kill you."
"I don't give a damn if he does," I said. I got up from the bed then, because what I wanted to do, I wanted to phone up this guy that was my English teacher at Elkton Hills, Mr. Antolini. He lived in New York now. He quit Elkton Hills. He took this job teaching English at N.Y.U. "I have to make a phone call," I told Phoebe. "I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep." I didn't want her to go to sleep while I was in the living room. I knew she wouldn't but I said it anyway, just to make sure.
While I was walking toward the door, old Phoebe said, "Holden!" and I turned around.
She was sitting way up in bed. She looked so pretty. "I'm taking belching lessons from this girl, Phyllis Margulies," she said. "Listen."
I listened, and I heard something, but it wasn't much. "Good," I said. Then I went out in the living room and called up this teacher I had, Mr. Antolini.





第20节

--------

我坐在那儿越喝越醉,等着老提娜和琴妮出来表演节目,可她们不在。一个梳着波浪式头发,样子象搞同性爱的家伙出来弹钢琴,接着是一个叫凡伦西姬的新来姑娘出来唱歌。她唱得并不好,可是比老提娜和琴妮要好些,至少她唱的都是好歌曲。

钢琴就放在我坐的酒柜旁边,老凡伦西姬简直就站在我身旁。我不断跟她做媚眼,可她假装连看都没看见我。在乎时我大概不会这么做,可我当时已喝得非常醉了。她唱完歌,马上就走出房间,我甚至都来不及邀请她跟我一块儿喝一杯,所以我只好把侍者头儿叫来。我叫他去问问凡伦西姬,是不是愿意来跟我一块儿喝一杯。他答应了,可他大概连信都不会给她捎去。这些家伙是从来不给人捎口信的。

嘿,我在那个混帐酒吧间里一直坐到一点钟光景,醉得很厉害。我连前面是什么都看不清楚了。

不过有件事我很注意,我小心得要命,一点没让自己发酒疯什么的。我不愿引起任何人的注意,让人问起我的年纪。可是,嘿,我连前面是什么都看不清楚了。我只要真正喝醉了酒,就会重新幻想起自己心窝里中了颗子弹的傻事来。酒吧间里就我一个人心窝里中了颗子弹。我不住伸手到上装里面,捂着肚皮,不让血流得满地都是,我不愿意让人知道我已受了伤。我在努力掩饰,不让人知道我是个受了伤的婊子养的。最后我忽然灵机一动,想打个电话给琴,看看她是不是回家了。因此我付了帐,走出酒吧间去打电话。我老是伸手到上装里边,不让血流出来。嘿,我真是醉啦。

可我一走进电话间,就没有心情打电话给琴。

我实在醉得太厉害了,我揣摩。因此我只是给老萨丽.海斯打了个电话。

我得拨那么二十次才拨对号码。嘿,我的眼睛真是瞎啦。

“哈罗,”有人来接混帐电话的时候我就这样说。我几乎是在大声呦喝,我醉得多厉害啊。

“谁呀?”一位太大非常冷淡的声音说。

“是我。霍尔顿.考尔菲德。请叫萨丽来接电话,劳您驾。”

“萨丽睡啦。我是萨丽的奶奶。你干嘛这么晚打电话来,霍尔顿?你知道现在是几点钟啦?”

“知道。我有话跟萨丽说。十分要紧的事。请她来接一下电话。”

“萨丽睡啦,小伙子。明天再来电话吧。再见。”

“叫醒她!叫醒她,嗨。劳驾。”

接着是另一个声音说话。“霍尔顿,是我。”

正是老萨丽。“怎么回事?”

“萨丽?是你吗?”

“是的——别呦喝。你喝醉了吗?”

“是的。听着。听着,嗨。我在圣诞前夕上你家来。成吗?帮你修剪混帐的圣诞树。成吗?成吗,嗨,萨丽?”

“成。你喝醉了。快去睡吧。你在哪儿?有谁跟你在一起?”

“萨丽!我上你家来帮你修剪圣诞树,成吗?

成吗,嗨?”

“成。快去睡吧。你在哪儿?有谁跟你在一起?”

“没有人。我,我跟我自己。”嘿,我真是醉啦!我依旧用一只手捂着我的心窝。“他们拿熗打了我。洛基的那帮人拿熗打了我。你知道吗?萨丽,你知道不知道?”

“我听不清你的话。快去睡吧。我得走了。明天再给我来电话吧。”

“嗨,萨丽!你要我来帮你修剪圣诞树吗?你要我来吗?嘿?”

“好的。再见吧。快回家睡觉去。”

她把电话挂了。

“再见。再见,萨丽好孩子。萨丽心肝宝贝,”我说。你能想象我醉得有多厉害吗?跟着我也把电话挂了。我揣摩她大概跟人约会了刚回家。我想象她跟伦特夫妇一块儿出去了,还有那个安多佛的傻瓜蛋。他们全在一壶混帐的茶里游泳,彼此说着一些装腔作势的话,做出一副假模假式的可爱样子。

我真希望刚才没打电话给她。我只要一喝醉酒,简直是个疯子,我在那个混帐电话间里呆了好一会儿。我使劲握住电话机,不让自己醉倒在地。说实话,我当时并不怎么好过。可是最后,我终于象个白痴似的跌跌撞撞地走了出来,进了男厕所,在一个盥洗盆里放满了凉水。随后我把头浸在水里,一直浸到耳朵旁边。我甚至没把头发擦干,听凭这个婊子养的去直淌水。随后我走到窗边电炉旁,一屁股坐在上面。这地方真是又暖又舒服。我坐着特别觉得舒服,因为我这时已经冷得索索乱抖。说来好笑,我只要一喝醉酒,就会冷得索索乱抖。

我没事可做,就老在电炉上坐着,数地板上那些白色的小方块。我身上额渐都湿透了。约莫有一加仑水从我脖子上流下来,流到我的领于和领带上,可我毫不在乎。我醉得太厉害了,对什么都毫不在乎。接着过不一会儿,那个给老凡伦西姬弹钢琴的,就是那个梳着波浪式头发、样子非常象搞同性爱的家伙,进来梳他的金头发了。他搞头的时候,我们两个就闲聊起来,只是他这家伙并不他妈的太友好,“嗨。你回到酒吧间去的时候,会见到那个凡伦西娅姑娘吗?”我问他。

“非常可能,”他说。俏皮的杂种。我遇到的,全是些俏皮的杂种。

“听着,代我向她问好。问她一声,那个混帐侍者有没有把我的口信捎给她,成不成?”

“你干吗不回家去,孩子?你到底多大啦,嗯?”

“八十六岁。听着。代我向她问好。成吗?”

“你干吗不回家去呢,孩子?”

“我才不呢。嘿,你的钢琴弹得他妈的真叫好,”我对他说。我只是拍拍他马屁。其实他的钢琴弹得糟糕透了,我老实跟你说。“你真应该到电台上广播,”我说。“象你长得那么漂亮。还有一头混帐金头发。你需要个后台老板吗?”

“回家吧,孩子,好好回家睡去。”

“无家可归啦,不开玩笑——你需要个后台老板吗?”

他没有回答我。他自顾自走了出去。他把头发梳了又梳,拍了又拍,梳好以后就自顾自走了。就跟斯特拉德莱塔一样。所有这些漂亮家伙全都一个样儿。他们只要一梳完他们混帐的头发,就理都不理你,自顾自走了。

我最后从电炉上下来,向外面衣帽间走去,我那时都哭出来了。我不知道为什么哭,可我的确哭出来了。我揣摩那是因为我觉得他妈的那么沮丧,那么寂寞。接着我到了衣帽间,却怎么也找不着我那存衣帽的混帐牌儿了。可那个管衣帽的姑娘十分和气。她照样把我的大衣给了我。还有那张《小舍丽.宾斯》唱片——我依旧带在身边。我见她那么和气,就给了她一块钱,可她不肯收。她口口声声叫我回家睡觉去。我想等她工作完毕后约她出去玩,可她不答应。她说她的年纪大得都可以做我的妈妈了。我把我混帐的白头发给她看,对他说我已经四十二岁啦——我只是逗她玩,自然啦。她倒是挺和气。我把我那顶混帐的红色猎人帽拿出来给她看,她见了很喜欢。她还叫我出去之前把帽子戴上,因为我的头发还湿得厉害。她这人真是不错。

我出去到了外边,酒就醒了好些,可是外边的天气冷得厉害,我的牙齿开始上下打起战来,怎么也止不住。我一直走到梅迪逊路,在那儿等公共汽车,因为我剩下的钱已经不多。我得开始节约,少乘出租汽车什么的。可我实在不想乘混帐公共汽车。再说,我也不知道往哪儿去好。所以我信步往中央公园那儿走去。我揣摩我也许可以到那个小湖边去看看那些鸭子到底在于什么,看看它们到底还在不在湖里。我依旧拿不准它们在不在湖里。公园相距不远,我也没有什么别的地方可去——我甚至都不知道去哪儿睡觉哩。我一点也不觉得困或者累。我只觉得懊丧得要命。

接着在我进公园的时候,发生了一桩可怕的事。我把老菲芘的唱片掉在地下了,碎成了约莫五十片。那唱片包在一个大封套里,可照样跌得粉碎。

我心里真是难过得要命,真他妈的差点哭出来了,可我当时所做的,却是把碎片从封套里取出来,放进我的大衣口袋。这些碎片一点用处都没有了,可我并不想把它们随便扔掉。接着我进了公园。嘿,公园里可真黑。

我在纽约住了整整一辈子,小时候一直在中央公园溜冰,骑自行车,所以我对中央公园熟悉得就象自己的手背一样。可那天晚上我费了非常非常大的劲才把那浅水湖找到。我知道它在什么地方——就在中央公园南头——可我怎么也找不到。我当时醉得一定要比自己想象的厉害得多。我越往前走,四周围也越黑、越阴森可怕。我在公园的整个时间,一直没见一个人影。这倒让我很高兴,要是我遇到了什么人,准会吓得我跳到一英里以外。可是最后,我终于找到了那浅水湖。那湖有一部分冻了,一部分没冻。不过我哪儿也看不见一只鸭子。我围着这个混张的湖绕了他妈的整整一周——事实上,我还险些儿掉进湖里——可我连一只鸭子也没看见。我心想,湖里要是有鸭子,它们或许在水草里睡觉什么的,因此我都差点儿掉在水里。可我一只鸭子也找不着。

最后我在一把长椅上坐下,那儿倒不他妈的太暗。嘿,我依旧冷得浑身发抖,我头上尽管戴着那须猎人帽,可我后脑勺上的头发都结成一块块的冰了。这件事倒让我有点儿担心。我想我自己大概会染上肺炎死去。我开始想象怎样有几百万个傻瓜蛋来参加我的葬礼。我爷爷从底特律来,他这人有个习惯,你只要跟他一起乘公共汽车,他就会把每条街的号码嚷给你听;还有我那些姑母、姨母——我有约莫五十个姑母、姨母——还有我所有那些混帐的堂兄弟、表兄弟。简直是一群暴民。艾里死的时候,这整整一嘟噜混帐傻瓜蛋全都来了。我的某一个有极厉害口臭的姑母还不住地说,他躺在那儿看去多安静哪,DB告诉我说。我当时没在场。我还在医院里。我弄伤了自己的手以后,就不得不住进医院。嗯,我心里一直嘀咕着自己头发上结了那么些冰,准会染上肺炎死去。我为我母亲、父亲难过得要命。特别是我母亲,她对我弟弟艾里的哀伤都还没过去呢。我想象着她怎样看着我所有那些衣服和体育用品,不知怎么办好。只有一件事还好,我知道她不会让老菲芘来参加我的混帐葬礼,因为她年纪太小,还只是个小孩子。就是这一点还算好。

接着我又想起他们整整一嘟噜人怎样把我送进一个混帐公墓。墓碑上刻着我的名字,四周围全都是死人。嘿,只要你一死去,他们倒是真把你安顿得好好的。我自己万一真的死了,倒真他妈的希望有那么个聪明人干脆把我的尸体扔在河里什么的。怎么办都成,就是别把我送进混帐公墓里。人们在星期天来看你,把一束花搁在你肚皮上,以及诸如此类的混帐玩艺儿。人死后谁还要花?谁也不会要。

只要天气好,我父母常常送一束花去搁在老艾里的坟墓上。我跟着他们去了一两次,以后就不去了。主要是,我不高兴看见他躺在那个混帐公墓里。

四周围全是死人和墓碑什么的。有太阳的日子那地方倒还马马虎虎,可是有两次——确确实实两次——我们在墓地的时候忽然下起雨来。那真是可怕。雨点打在他的混帐墓碑上,雨点打在他肚皮上的荒草上。到处都是雨。所有到公墓里来凭吊的人都急急奔向他们的汽车。就是这一点,差点儿让我发疯。所有那些来凭吊的人都能躲进自己的汽车,听收音机,然后到什么安乐窝里去吃晚饭——人人都这样做,除了艾里。我实在受不了这个。我知道在墓地里的只是他的尸体,他的灵魂已经进了天堂,等等,可我照样受不了。我真希望他不躺在公墓里。

可惜你不认识艾里。你要是认识他,就会懂得我说这话的意思。有太阳的日子倒还马马虎虎,可太阳只是在它想出来的时候才出来。

后来,为了不让我脑子去想肺炎什么的,我就拿出钱来,映着街灯的那点儿混帐光线数了一下。

统共只剩了三张一块的钞票,五个两毛五的和一个一毛的银币——嘿,我离开潘西以后,真正花掉了一大笔钱。接着我就走到浅水湖畔,找个湖水没冻冰的地方,把那几个两毛五和一毛的银币掠着水面扔了出去。我不知道我自己干吗要这样做,不过我当时的确是这样做了。我揣摩我当时准以为这么一来,就可以不去想肺炎和死亡的事了。其实哪有这样便宜的事。

我开始想起万一我染上肺炎死了,老菲芘心里会有什么样的感觉。想这类事情当然很孩子气,可我禁不住要这样想。万一这样的事果真发生了,她心里一定很难受。她非常喜欢我。我是说她跟我很要好。一点不假。嗯,我怎么也摆脱不掉这念头,所以最后我打定主意,决计偷偷溜回家去看她一次,万一自己真的死了,也算是一次临死诀别。我身边带着房门钥匙,所以我决意偷偷地溜进公寓,悄悄儿地去跟她聊一会儿天。我最担心的是我家的前门。那门叽叽嘎嘎地响得要命。这所公寓房子已经很旧,管公寓的是个再懒也没有的杂种,里面的一切东西全都叽叽嘎嘎地直响。我很担心我父母会听见我溜进房去。可是不管怎样,我决定试一试。

因此我就他妈的走出公园回家了。我一路步行回家。路并不远,我也并不觉得累,甚至连酒意都没有了。只是天冷得厉害,四周围没有一个人。

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第21节

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我这几年来最好的运气,就是在我回家的时候平时那个值夜班开电梯的彼得恰好不在。一个我从未见过的新手在开电梯,所以我揣摩我要是不撞见我父母,或许可以跟老菲菇见一面再溜出去,不至于有人知道我回家来过。这真是个好得了不得的运气。更幸运的是,这个新来的家伙有点儿傻里傻气。我用一种非常随便的声音告诉他说,我要上狄克斯坦家去。狄克斯坦家跟我们住同一层楼。我这时已脱掉那顶猎人帽,不让自己有任何形迹可疑的地方。我装作非常匆忙的样子走进电梯。

他已把电梯的门关上了,准备送我上去,接着他忽然转过身来对我说:“他们不在家。他们在十四层楼参加舞会。”

“没关系,”我说。“我可以等他们会儿。我是他们的侄儿。”

他带着怀疑的、傻里傻气的神气望了我一眼。

“你最好到休息室等去,朋友,”他说。

“很好——那很好,”我说。“可我的一条腿有毛病。我得让它保持某种固定的姿势。我想我最好还是坐在他们房门口的椅子上等去。”

他不知道我他妈的在说些什么,所以只是“哦”了一声,就送我上楼。那倒挺不错,嘿。而且也挺好笑。你只要说些谁也听不懂的话,他们就会俯首听命,耍他们干什么他们就干什么。

我在我们那层楼走出电梯——一瘸一拐地活象个跛子——开始向狄克斯坦家的方向走去。等到我听见电梯的门一关上,我就转身向我们家的方向走去。我干得很不错。我甚至连一点酒意都没有了。

接着我取出房门钥匙,悄悄把门开了,轻得一点声音都没有,随后我非常非常小心地走进房间,又把门关了。我真应该去当小偷才是。

门厅里自然黑得要命,我也自然没法开灯。我得非常小心,免得碰着什么东西,发出响声来。我确实知道自己已经到家了。我们的门厅有种奇怪的气味,跟任何别的地方都不一样。我不知道是股他妈的什么气味。既不是花的气味,也不是香水的气昧——我真不知道是股他妈的什么气味——可我确实知道自己已经到家了。我脱掉大衣,想挂在门厅的壁橱里,可壁橱里全是衣架,一开橱门就卡塔卡嗒响个不停,吓得我都不敢往里挂衣服了。接着我就慢慢地向老菲芘的房间走去,走得极慢极慢。我知道那个女佣人听不见我的声音,因为她只有一个耳鼓。她的哥哥在她小时候拿了根稻草一直戳到她耳朵里边,她有一次告诉我说。她简直是个聋子。

可是我的父母,尤其是我母亲,耳朵尖得就象只混帐猎狗。因此我经过他们房门的时候,走得非常非常轻。我甚至都屏住了呼吸,老天爷。你可以拿把椅子砸在我父亲的脑袋上,他都不会醒来,可我母亲就不一样,你哪怕在西伯利亚咳嗽一声,她都听得见你的声音。她的神精衰弱得要命。整个晚上她有一半时间起来抽烟。

最后,过了那么一个钟头以后,我终于走到了老菲芘的房间。可她不在。我把这事给忘了。我忘了在DB到好莱坞或者什么别的地方去的时候,菲芘总是睡在他的房间里。她喜欢这房间,因为家里就数这房间最大。还因为房间里有一张疯子用的特大书桌,是DB向费拉特费亚的某个酒鬼太太买来的,还有那张其大无比的床,总有十英里长十英里宽。我不知道这张床他是从哪里买来的。不管怎样,老菲芘就喜欢趁DB不在家的时候睡在他的房间里,他也让她睡。你真该瞧瞧她在那张混账书桌上做功课时的情景。那书桌简直就跟那张床一样大。她做功课的时候你简直连看都看不见她。可她就是喜欢这类玩艺儿。她不喜欢自己的房间,因为那房间太小,她说。她说她喜欢铺张。我听了差点儿笑死。老菲芘有什么可铺张的?什么也没有。

嗯,我就这样轻手轻脚走进DB的房间,开亮了书桌上的灯。老菲芘甚至都没醒。灯亮后,我还看了她一会儿。她躺在床上睡得挺香,她的脸侧向枕头的一边。她的嘴还张的挺大。说来好笑。那些成年人要是睡着了把嘴张得挺大,那简直难看极了,可孩子就不一样。孩子张大了嘴睡,看上去仍挺不错。他们甚至可以把口水流一枕头,可他们的样儿看上去仍挺不错。

我在房间里绕了一圈,走得极轻极轻,观看房里的一切。我的心情改变了,心里觉得挺舒服。我甚至都不再怕自己会染上肺炎什么的了。我只觉得心里挺好过。老菲芘的衣服搁在紧靠着床的一把椅子上。她是个挺爱干净的孩子。我是说她并不跟别的孩子一样把自己的东西到处乱扔。她不是那种邋遢鬼。她穿的那套黄褐色衣服是我母亲给她在加拿大买的,她就把上装挂在椅背上。她的衬衫什么的全都放在椅子上。她的鞋子和袜子都放在地板上,就在椅子底下,整整齐齐地并排放在一起。这双鞋我过去从未见过,是一双崭新的深褐色鹿皮鞋,就跟我自己穿的这双一样,跟我母亲在加拿大给她买的那套衣服配在一起,真是漂亮极了。我母亲把她打扮得很漂亮,一点不假。我母亲对某些东四很有鉴赏能力。她买冰鞋之类的玩艺儿不成,可是在衣饰方面,她真是个行家。我是说菲芘身上穿的衣服老是能让你吐舌。拿一般的小孩子来说,尽管他们的父母非常有钱,他们身上的衣服却往往难看得没法形容。我真希望你能看见老菲芘穿着我母亲在加拿大给她买的那套衣服时的样子。我不骗你。

我坐在老DB的书桌上,看了看桌上的那些玩艺儿。它们多半是菲芘的学习用具。极大部分是书。最上面的一本叫做《算术真好玩!》我打开头一页一看,只见老菲芘在上面写着:菲芘.威塞菲尔.考尔菲德4B——1我见了差点儿笑死。她中间的那个名字本来叫约瑟芬,老天爷,并不是威塞菲尔。可她不喜欢那名字。我每次看见她,总见她给自己找了个新的名字。

算术书下面是地理书,地理书下面是拼法书。

她的拼法好极了。她的每门功课都极好,可她的拼法特别好。在拼法书下面是一大堆笔记本。她总有五千本笔记本。你再也没有见过一个小孩子会有那么多笔记本。我把最上面的那本打开一看,只见头一页上写着:贝妮丝,请你在休息时候来找我,我有一些极重要、极重要的话要跟你说那一页上就写着这些。上写着:阿拉斯加东南部为什么会有那么多罐头厂?

因为那儿有那么多的萨门鱼。

那儿怎么会有宝贵的森林?

因为那儿的气候合适。

为了改善阿拉斯加的爱斯基摩人的生活,我们政府做了些什么?

好好查一下应付明天的功课!!!

菲芘.威塞菲尔.考尔菲德菲芘.威塞菲尔.考尔菲德菲芘.威塞菲尔.考尔菲德菲芘.威.考尔菲德菲芘.威塞菲尔.考尔菲德女士请你传给舍丽舍丽你说你是人马星座可是你唯一的金牛星座在你到我家来的时候给你送冰鞋来了我就坐在DB的书桌上把那本笔记本全看完了。我没费多大功夫,再说我也爱看这类玩艺儿——孩子的笔记本,不管是菲芘的还是别的孩子的——我可以整天整夜地看下去。孩子的笔记本我真是百看不厌。随后我又点了一支烟——这是我最后一支烟了。那一天我约莫抽了整整三条烟。最后我把她叫醒了。我是说我不能就在那书桌上坐那么一辈子,再说我也害怕我父母会突然撞进来,我至少要在他们进来之前跟她说声哈罗。因此我把她叫醒了。

她很警醒。我是说你用不着向她大声嚷嚷什么的。你简直只要往她床上一坐,说声:“醒来吧,菲芘,”她就醒来了。

“霍尔顿,”她立刻说,她还用两臂搂住我的脖子。她十分热情。我是说就她那么个年龄的孩子来说,算是热情的了。有时候她简直是太热情了。

我吻了她一下,她就说:“你什么时候回家的?”

她见了我真是高兴得要命。你看得出来。

“别说得这么响。你好吗?”

“我挺好。你收到了我的信没有?我给你写了封五页的——”“不错——别这么响。谢谢。”

她给我写了封信。我却来不及回复她。信里谈的全是她要在学校里演戏的事。她叫我别在星期五那天跟人订约会,好让我去看她演出。

“你的戏怎样了?”我问她。“你说那戏叫什么名字来着?”

“《给美国人演出的一场圣诞节好戏》。那剧本真是糟透了,可我演班纳迪克特.阿诺德。我演的简直是最重要的角色,”她说。嘿,她可不是完全清醒了。她跟你谈这类玩艺儿的时候总是十分兴奋。“戏开始的时候,我已经快死了。那鬼魂在圣诞前夕进来问我心里是不是觉得惭傀。你知道。为了我出卖自己的国家什么的。你来不来看?”她都直挺挺地坐在床上了。“我写信给你就是为了这个。

你来不来?”

“我当然来。我一定来。”

“爸爸不能来。他要乘飞机到加利福尼亚去,”她说。嘿,她可不是完全清醒了。她只要两秒钟工夫就能完全清醒过来。她坐在——也可以说是跪在——床上,握住了我一只手。“听着。母亲说你要在星期三才回家。”她说。“她说的是星期三。”

“我提前离校了。别说得这么响。你该把每个人都吵醒啦。”

“现在几点钟啦?他们要到很晚才回来,母亲说的。他们到康涅狄格州的诺沃克参加舞会去了,”老菲芘说。“猜猜我今天中午干了什么啦!看了什么电影!猜猜看!”

“我不知道——听着。他们可曾说他们打算在什么时候——”“《大夫》,”老菲芘说。“这是里斯特基金会放映的特别电影。他们只放映一天——只是今天一天。讲的是肯塔基州的一个大夫,在一个不能走路的瘸子的脸上盖了条毯子什么的。后来他们就把他关进了监牢。那电影真是好极了。”

“听我一秒钟。他们可曾说他们打算在什么时候——”“他很替那孩子难受,那个大夫。就是为了这个缘故,他才在她脸上盖了条毯子,把她闷死。后来他们把他关进了监牢,判了他无期徒刑,可那个被他闷死的孩子者来看他,为他所做的事向他道谢。他原是出于好心才杀人的。不过他知道自己应该坐牢。因为一个当大夫的没有资格夺走上帝创造的东西。是我同班的一个同学的母亲带我们去看这电影的。她叫爱丽丝.霍尔姆保,是我最要好的朋友。整个班上就她一个人——”“等一秒钟,好不好?”我说。“我要问你一句话。他们可曾说过他们打算在什么时候回来?”

“没有,不过要在很晚才回来。爸爸把汽车开走了,说这样可以用不着为火车的班次担心。我们这会儿在汽车里装了收音机啦!只是母亲说汽车在路上行驶的时候,谁也没法听收音机。”

我开始放下心来。我是说我终于不再担心他们会在家里撞见我什么的。我已经打定主意。万一真被他们撞见,那就撞见好了。

你真应该看见老菲芘当时的样儿。她穿着那套蓝色睡衣裤,衣领上还绣着红色大象。她是个大象迷,“那么说来这电影挺不错,是不是?”我说。

“好极了,只是爱丽丝感冒了,她母亲老问她身上好不好过。就在电影演到一半的时候。每次总是演到节骨眼上,她母亲就弯过腰来伏在她身上,问她好过不好过。真让我受不了。”

接着我把那唱片的事告诉了她。“听着,我给你买了张唱片,”我对她说。“只是我在回家的路上把它跌碎了。”我把那些碎片从我的大衣袋里拿出来给她看。“我喝醉啦,”我说。

“把碎片给我,”她说。“我在收集碎唱片呢。”她就从我手里接过那些碎片,放进床头柜的抽屉里。她真是讨人喜欢。

“DB回家来过圣诞节吗?”我问她。

“他也许来,也许不来,母亲说。得看当时的情形决定。他也许得呆在好莱坞写一个关于安纳波利斯的电影剧本。”

“安纳波利斯,老天爷!”

“写的是个恋爱故事什么的。猜猜看,这个电影将由谁主演?哪一个电影明星?猜猜看!”

“我对这不感兴趣。安纳波利斯,老天爷。

DB对安纳波利斯知道些什么,老天爷?那跟他要写的故事又有什么关系?”我说。嘿,那玩艺儿真让我发疯。那个混帐好莱坞。“你的胳膊怎么啦?”

我问她。我注意到她的一个胳膊肘上贴着一大块胶布。我之所以注意到,是因为她的睡衣没有袖子。

“我班上那个叫寇铁斯.温特劳伯的男孩子在我走下公园楼梯的时候推了我一把,”她说。“你要看看吗?”她开始撕起胳膊上的那块混帐胶布来。

“别去撕它。他干吗要推你?”

“我不知道。我揣摩他恨我,”老菲芘说。

“我跟另外一个叫西尔玛.阿特伯雷的姑娘在他的皮上衣上涂满了墨水什么的。”

“那可不好。你这是怎么啦——成了个小孩子啦,老天爷?”

“不,可每次我到公园里,我走到哪儿他总是跟到哪儿。他老是跟着我。他真让我受不了。”

“也许他喜欢你。你不能因此就把墨水什么的——”“我不要他喜欢我,”她说。接着她开始用一种异样的目光瞅着我。“霍尔顿,”她说,“你怎么不等到星期三就回家了?”

“什么?”

嘿,你得时刻留心她。你要是不把她看成机灵鬼,那你准是个疯子。

“你怎么不等到星期三就回家了?”她问我。

“你不要是给开除了吧,是不是呢?”

“我刚才已经跟你说啦。学校提前放假,他们让全体——”“你真的给开除了!真的!”老菲芘说着,还在我的腿上打了一拳。她只要一时高兴,就会拿拳头打人。“你真的给开除了!哦,霍尔顿!”她用一只手捂住了嘴。她的感情非常容易激动,我可以对天发誓。

“谁说我给开除了?谁也没说我——”“你真的给开除了。真的,”她说。接着又打了我一拳。你要是认为这一拳打着不疼,那你准是疯子。“爸爸会要你的命!”她说着,就啪的一下子合扑着躺在床上,还把那个混帐枕头盖在头上。

她常常爱这样做。有时候,她确确实实是个疯子。

“别闹啦,喂,”我说。“谁也不会要我的命。

谁也不会——好啦,菲芘,把那混帐玩艺儿打你头上拿掉。谁也不会要我的命。”

可她不肯把枕头拿掉。你没法让她做一件她自己不愿做的事。她只是口口声声说:“爸爸会要你的命。”她头上盖了那么个混帐枕头,你简直听不出她说的什么。

“谁也不会要我的命。你好好想想吧。尤其是,我就要走了。我也许先在农场之类的地方找个工作。我认识个家伙,他爷爷在科罗拉多有一个农场。我也许就在那儿找个工作,”我说。“我要是真的走,那我走了以后会跟你们联系的。好啦。把那玩艺儿打你头上拿掉。好啦,嗨,菲芘。劳驾啦。

劳驾啦,成不成?”

可她怎么也不肯拿掉。我想把枕头拉掉,可她的劲儿大得要命。你简直没法跟她打架。嘿,她要是想把一个枕头盖在头上,那她死也不肯松手。

“菲芘,劳驾啦。好啦,松手吧,”我不住地说。

“好啦,嗨……嗨,威塞菲尔。松手吧。”

她怎么也不肯松手。有时候她简直不可理喻。

最后,我起身出去到客厅里;从桌上的烟盒里拿了些香烟放进我的衣袋。我的烟一支也不剩了。

--------

第22节

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我回来的时候,她倒是把枕头从头上拿掉了——我知道她会的——可她尽管仰卧着,却依旧不肯拿眼看我。等我走到床边坐下的时候,她竟把她的混帐脸儿转到另一边去了。她真跟我他妈的绝交了。就象潘西击剑队那样对待我,在我把所有那些混帐圆头剑丢在地铁上以后。

“老海士尔.威塞菲尔怎样啦?”我说。“你写了什么关于她的新故事没有?你上次寄给我的那个就放在我的手提箱里。手提箱寄存在车站里。那故事写的挺不错。”

“爸爸会要你的命。”

嘿,她有了什么念头,真是念念不忘。

“不,他不会的。他至多再痛骂我一顿,然后把我送到那个混帐的军事学校里去。他至多这样对付我。可是首先,我甚至都不会在家。我早就到外地去了。我会到——我大概到科罗拉多的农场上去了。”

“别让我笑你了。你连马都不会骑。”

“谁不会?我当然会骑。我确实会骑。他们在约莫两分钟之内就可以把你教会,”我说。“别去揭它了。”她还在搞她胳膊上的胶布。“谁给你理的发?”我问她。我刚注意到她理的头发式样混帐极了。短得要命。

“不要你管,”她说。她有时候很能怄人。她的确很能怄人。“我揣摩你又是哪门功课都不及格,”她说——非常怄人。说起来还真有点儿好笑。她有时候说起话来很象个混帐教师,而她还只是个很小的孩子哩。

“不,不是的,”我说。“我的英文及格了。”

接着,我一时高兴,就用手在她的屁股上戳了一下。她侧身躺着,正好把屁股撅得老高。她的屁股还小得很哩。我戳的并不重,可她想要打我的手,只是没打着。

接着她突然说:“哦,你干吗要这样呢?”她是说我怎么又给开除了。她这么一说,又让我心里难过起来。

“哦,天哪,菲芘,别问我了。人人都问我这问题,真让我烦死啦,”我说。“有一百万个原因。这是个最最糟糕的学校,里面全是伪君子。还有卑鄙的家伙。你这一辈子再也没见过那么多卑鄙的家伙。比方说,你要是跟几个人在谁的房间里聊天,要是又有别的什么人要进来,而来的又是个傻里傻气的、王八样的家伙,那就谁也不会给他开门。人人都把自己的房门锁起来,不让别人进来。

他们还有他妈的那种混帐的秘密团体,我自己也是胆子太小,不敢不加入。有个王八样的讨人厌的家伙,名叫罗伯特.阿克莱的,很想加入。他一直想加入,可他们不让。只是因为他象个王八,讨人厌。

我甚至都不想谈它。那真是个糟糕透顶的学校。你相信我的话好了。”

老菲芘一声不响,可她在仔细听。我一看她的后脑勺就知道她是在仔细听。只要你跟她说些什么,她总是仔细听着。好笑的是,有一半时间她都懂得你他妈的在说些什么。她的确懂得。

我继续谈老潘西里的事。我不知怎的兴致上来了。

“教职员里虽有那么一两个好教师,可连他们也都是假模假式的伪君子,”我说。“就拿那个老家伙斯宾塞先生说吧。他太大者请你喝热巧克力什么的,他们为人的确挺不错。可他上历史课的时候,只要校长老绥摩进来在教室后面一坐下,你再瞧瞧他的那副模样儿。老绥摩总是在上课的时候进来,在教室后面坐那么半个小时左右。他大概算是微行察访什么的。过了一会儿,他就会坐在那儿打断者斯宾塞的话,说一些粗俗的笑话。老斯宾塞简直连命都不要了,马上露出满面笑容,吃吃地笑个不停,就好象绥摩是个混帐王子什么的。”

“别老是咒骂啦。”

“你见了准会呕出来,我发誓你一定会,”我说。“还有,在“返校日”那天。他们有那么个日子,叫‘返校日’,那天所有在一七七六年左右打潘西毕业出去的傻瓜蛋全都回到学校来了,在学校里到处走,还带着自己的老婆孩子什么的。可惜你没看见那个约莫五十岁的老家伙。你猜他干了什么,他一径来到我们房间里敲我们的门,问我们是不是能让他用一下浴室。浴室是在走廊的尽头——我真他妈的不知道他干吗要来问我们。你知道他说了些什么?他说他想看看他自己名字的缩写是不是还在一扇厕所门上。他约莫在九十年前把他妈的那个混账傻名字的缩写刻在一扇厕所门上,现在他想看看那缩写是不是还在那儿。因此我跟我的同房间的那位一起陪着他走到浴室里,他就在一扇扇厕所门上找他名字的缩写,我们不得不站在那儿陪着他。在整个时间里他还滔滔不绝地跟我们讲着话,告诉我们说在潘西念书的那段时间怎样是他一辈子中最快乐的日子,他还给我们许许多多有关未来的忠告。嘿,他真让我心里烦极了!我倒不是说他是个坏人——他不是坏人。可是不一定是坏人才能让人心烦——你可以是个好人,却同时让人心烦。要人心烦很容易,你只要在哪扇门上找自己名字的缩写,同时给人许许多多假模假式的忠告——你只要这样做就成。我不知道。说不定他要不是那么呼噜呼噜直喘气,情形也许会好些。他刚走上楼梯,累得呼噜呼噜直喘气,他一边在门上找自己名字的缩写,一边直喘气,鼻孔那么一张一合的十分可笑,一边却还要跟我和斯特拉德莱塔讲话,要我们在潘西学到尽可能多的东西。天哪,菲芘!我解释不清楚。我就是不喜欢在潘西发生的一切。我解释不清楚。”

老菲芘这时说了句什么话,可我听不清。她把一个嘴角整个儿压在枕头上,所以我听不清她说的话。

“什么?”我说。“把你的嘴拿开。你这样把嘴压在被头上,我听不清你说的话。”

“你不喜欢正在发生的任何事情。”

她这么一说,我心里不由得更烦了。

“我喜欢。我喜欢。我当然喜欢。别说这种话。你干吗要说这种话呢?”

“因为你不喜欢。你不喜欢任何学校。你不喜欢千百万样东西。你不喜欢。”

“我喜欢!你错就错在这里——你完完全全错在这里!你他妈的为什么非要说这种话不可?”我说。嘿,她真让我心里烦极了。

“因为你不喜欢,”她说。“说一样东西让我听听。”

“说一样东西?一样我喜欢的东西?”我说。

“好吧。”

问题是,我没法集中思想。有时候简直很难集中思想。

“一样我非常喜欢的东西,你是说?”我问她。

可她没回答我。她躺在床的另一边,斜着眼看我。她离开我总有那么一千英里。“喂,回答我,”我说。“是一样我非常喜欢的东西呢,还光是我喜欢的东西?”

“你非常喜欢的。”

“好吧,”我说。不过问题是,我没法集中思想。我能想起的只是那两个拿着破篮子到处募捐的修女。尤其是戴着铁边眼镜的那个。还有我在爱尔克敦.希尔斯念书时认识的那个学生。爱尔克敦.希尔斯的那个学生名叫詹姆士.凯瑟尔,他说了另外一个十分自高自大的、名叫菲尔.斯戴比尔的学生一句不好听的话,却不肯收回他的话。詹姆士.凯瑟尔说他这人太自高自大,给斯戴比尔的一个混帐朋友听见了,就到斯戴比尔跟前去搬弄是非。于是斯戴比尔带了另外六个下流的杂种,走进詹姆士.凯瑟尔的房间,锁上那扇混帐房门,想叫他收回他自己所说的话,可他不肯收回。因此他们跟他动起手来。我甚至都不愿告诉你他们怎么对待他的——说出来实在太恶心了——可他依旧不肯收回他的话,那个老詹姆士.凯瑟尔。可惜你没见过他这个人,他长得又瘦又小,十分衰弱,手腕就跟笔管那么细。最后,他不但不肯收回他的话,反而打窗口跳出去了。我正在洗淋浴什么的,连我也听见他摔在外面地上的声音。可我还以为是什么东西掉在窗外了,一架收音机或者一张书桌什么的,没想到是人。接着我听见大伙儿全都涌进走廊奔下楼梯,因此我穿好浴衣也奔下楼去,看见老詹姆士.凯瑟尔直挺挺地躺在石级上面。他已经死了,到处都是牙齿和血,没有一个人甚至敢走近他。他身上还穿着我借给他的那件窄领运动衫。那些到他房间里迫害他的家伙只是绘开除出学校。他们甚至没进监牢。

我当时能想到的就是这一些。那两个跟我一块儿吃早饭的修女,还有那个我在爱尔克敦.希尔斯念书时认识的学生詹姆士.凯瑟尔。好笑的是,我跟詹姆士.凯瑟尔甚至都不熟,我老实告诉你说。

他是那种极沉默的人。他跟我一起上数学课,可他坐在教室的另一头,平时从来不站起来背书,或者到黑板上去做习题。学校里有些人简直从来不站起来背书或者到黑板上去做习题。我想我跟他唯一的一次谈话,就是他来向我借那件窄领运动衫。他向我开口的时候,我吃惊得差点儿倒在地板上死了。

我记得我当时正在盥洗室里刷牙,他过来向我开口了。他说他的堂兄要来找他,开汽车带他出去。我甚至都不知道他知道我有一件窄领运动衫。我只知道点名时候他的名字就在我前面。凯伯尔,罗;凯伯尔,威;凯瑟尔;考尔菲德一—我还记得很清楚。我老实跟你说,我当时差点儿没肯把我的运动衫借给他。原因是我跟他不太熟。

“什么?”我跟老菲芘说。她跟我说了些什么,可我没听清楚。

“你连一样东西都想不出来。”

“嗯,我想得出来。嗯,我想得出来。”

“呃,那你说出来。”

“我喜欢艾里,”我说。“我也喜欢我现在所做的事。跟你一起坐在这儿,聊聊天,想着一些玩艺儿——”“艾里已经死啦——你老这么说的!要是一个人死了,进了天堂,那就很难说——”“我知道他已经死啦!你以为我连这个也不知道?可我依旧可以喜欢他,对不对?不可能因为一个人死了,你就从此不再喜欢他,老天爷——尤其是那人比你认识的那些活人要好一千倍。”

老菲芘什么话也没说。她要是想不起有什么好说的,就他妈的一句话也不说。

“不管怎样,我喜欢现在这样,”我说。“我是说就象现在这样。跟你坐在一块儿,聊聊天,逗着——”“这不是什么真正的东西1”“这是真正的东西!当然是的!他妈的为什么不是?人们就是不把真正的东西当东西看待。我他妈的别这都腻烦透啦。”

“别咒骂啦。好吧,再说些别的。说说你将来喜欢当个什么。喜欢当一个科学家呢,还是一个律师什么的。”

“我当不了科学家。我不懂科学。”

“呃,当个律师———跟爸爸一样。”

“律师倒是不错,我揣摩——可是不合我的胃口,”我说。“我是说他们要是老出去搭救受冤枉的人的性命,那倒是不错,可你一当了律师,就不干那样的事了。你只是挣许许多多钱,打高尔夫球,打桥牌,买汽车,喝马提尼酒,摆臭架子。再说,即便你真的出去救人性命了,你怎么知道这样做到底是因为你真的要救人性命呢,还是因为你真正的动机是想当一个红律师,只等审判一结束,那些记者什么的就会全向你涌来,人人在法庭上拍你的背,向你道贸,就象那些下流电影里演出的那样?你怎么知道自己不是个伪君子?问题是,你不知道。”

我说的那些话老菲芘到底听懂了没有,我不敢十分肯定。我是说她毕竟还是个小孩子。不过她至少在好好听着。只要对方至少在好好听着,那就不错了。

“爸爸会要你的命。他会要你的命,”她说。

可我没在听她说话。我在想一些别的事一——一些异想天开的事。“你知道我将来喜欢当什么吗?”

我说。“你知道我将来喜欢当什么吗?我是说将来要是能他妈的让我自由选择的话?”

“什么?别咒骂啦。”

“你可知道那首歌吗,‘你要是在麦田里捉到了我’?我将来喜欢——”“是‘你要是在麦因里遇到了我’!”老菲芘说。“是一首诗。罗伯特.彭斯写的。”

“我知道那是罗伯特.彭斯写的一首涛。”

她说的对。那的确是“你要是在麦田里遇到了我”。可我当时并不知道。

“我还以为是‘你要是在麦田里捉到了我’呢,”我说。“不管怎样,我老是在想象,有那么一群小孩子在一大块麦田里做游戏。几千几万个小孩子,附近没有一个人——没有一个大人,我是说——除了我。我呢,就站在那混帐的悬崖边。我的职务是在那儿守望,要是有哪个孩子往悬崖边奔来,我就把他捉住——我是说孩子们都在狂奔,也不知道自己是在往哪儿跑,我得从什么地方出来,把他们捉住。我整天就干这样的事。我只想当个麦田里的守望者。我知道这有点异想天开,可我真正喜欢干的就是这个。我知道这不象话。”

老菲芘有好一会儿没吭声。后来她开口了,可她只说了句:“爸爸会要你的命。”

“他要我的命就让他要好了,我才他妈的不在乎呢,”我说着,就从床上起来,因为我想打个电话给我的老师安多里尼先生,他是我在爱尔克敦.希尔斯时候的英文教师,现在已经离开了爱尔克敦.希尔斯,住在纽约,在纽约大学教英文。“我要去打个电话,”我对菲芘说,“马上就回来。你可别睡着。”我不愿意她在我去客厅的时候睡着。

我知道她不会,可我还是叮嘱了一番,好更放心些。

我正朝着门边走去,忽听得老菲芘喊了声“霍尔顿!”我马上转过身去。

她直挺挺地躺在床上,看去漂亮极了。“我正在跟那个叫菲丽丝.玛格里斯的姑娘学打嗝儿,”她说。“听着。”

我仔细听着,好象听见了什么,可是听不出什么名堂来。“好,”我说。接着我出去到客厅里,打了个电话给我的老师安多里尼先生。


执素衣

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17
I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those leather couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of schools were home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitting and standing around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell girls, girls that looked like they'd be bitches if you knew them. It was really nice sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of depressing, too, because you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring--But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don't understand boring guys. I really don't. When I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed for about two months with this boy, Harris Mackim. He was very intelligent and all, but he was one of the biggest bores I ever met. He had one of these very raspy voices, and he never stopped talking, practically. He never stopped talking, and what was awful was, he never said anything you wanted to hear in the first place. But he could do one thing. The sonuvabitch could whistle better than anybody I ever heard. He'd be making his bed, or hanging up stuff in the closet--he was always hanging up stuff in the closet--it drove me crazy--and he'd be whistling while he did it, if he wasn't talking in this raspy voice. He could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled jazz. He could take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whistle it so nice and easy--right while he was hanging stuff up in the closet--that it could kill you. Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific whistler. I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a terrific whistler." But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the best I ever heard. So I don't know about bores. Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry if you see some swell girl getting married to them. They don't hurt anybody, most of them, and maybe they're secretly all terrific whistlers or something. Who the hell knows? Not me.
Finally, old Sally started coming up the stairs, and I started down to meet her. She looked terrific. She really did. She had on this black coat and sort of a black beret. She hardly ever wore a hat, but that beret looked nice. The funny part is, I felt like marrying her the minute I saw her. I'm crazy. I didn't even like her much, and yet all of a sudden I felt like I was in love with her and wanted to marry her. I swear to God I'm crazy. I admit it.
"Holden!" she said. "It's marvelous to see you! It's been ages." She had one of these very loud, embarrassing voices when you met her somewhere. She got away with it because she was so damn good-looking, but it always gave me a pain in the ass.
"Swell to see you," I said. I meant it, too. "How are ya, anyway?"
"Absolutely marvelous. Am I late?"
I told her no, but she was around ten minutes late, as a matter of fact. I didn't give a damn, though. All that crap they have in cartoons in the Saturday Evening Post and all, showing guys on street corners looking sore as hell because their dates are late--that's bunk. If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late? Nobody. "We better hurry," I said. "The show starts at two-forty." We started going down the stairs to where the taxis are.
"What are we going to see?" she said.
"I don't know. The Lunts. It's all I could get tickets for."
"The Lunts! Oh, marvelous!" I told you she'd go mad when she heard it was for the Lunts.
We horsed around a little bit in the cab on the way over to the theater. At first she didn't want to, because she had her lipstick on and all, but I was being seductive as hell and she didn't have any alternative. Twice, when the goddam cab stopped short in traffic, I damn near fell off the seat. Those damn drivers never even look where they're going, I swear they don't. Then, just to show you how crazy I am, when we were coming out of this big clinch, I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I'm crazy. I swear to God I am.
"Oh, darling, I love you too," she said. Then, right in the same damn breath, she said, "Promise me you'll let your hair grow. Crew cuts are getting corny. And your hair's so lovely."
Lovely my ass.
The show wasn't as bad as some I've seen. It was on the crappy side, though. It was about five hundred thousand years in the life of this one old couple. It starts out when they're young and all, and the girl's parents don't want her to marry the boy, but she marries him anyway. Then they keep getting older and older. The husband goes to war, and the wife has this brother that's a drunkard. I couldn't get very interested. I mean I didn't care too much when anybody in the family died or anything. They were all just a bunch of actors. The husband and wife were a pretty nice old couple--very witty and all--but I couldn't get too interested in them. For one thing, they kept drinking tea or some goddam thing all through the play. Every time you saw them, some butler was shoving some tea in front of them, or the wife was pouring it for somebody. And everybody kept coming in and going out all the time--you got dizzy watching people sit down and stand up. Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne were the old couple, and they were very good, but I didn't like them much. They were different, though, I'll say that. They didn't act like people and they didn't act like actors. It's hard to explain. They acted more like they knew they were celebrities and all. I mean they were good, but they were too good. When one of them got finished making a speech, the other one said something very fast right after it. It was supposed to be like people really talking and interrupting each other and all. The trouble was, it was too much like people talking and interrupting each other. They acted a little bit the way old Ernie, down in the Village, plays the piano. If you do something too good, then, after a while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. And then you're not as good any more. But anyway, they were the only ones in the show--the Lunts, I mean--that looked like they had any real brains. I have to admit it.
At the end of the first act we went out with all the other jerks for a cigarette. What a deal that was. You never saw so many phonies in all your life, everybody smoking their ears off and talking about the play so that everybody could hear and know how sharp they were. Some dopey movie actor was standing near us, having a cigarette. I don't know his name, but he always plays the part of a guy in a war movie that gets yellow before it's time to go over the top. He was with some gorgeous blonde, and the two of them were trying to be very blasé and all, like as if he didn't even know people were looking at him. Modest as hell. I got a big bang out of it. Old Sally didn't talk much, except to rave about the Lunts, because she was busy rubbering and being charming. Then all of a sudden, she saw some jerk she knew on the other side of the lobby. Some guy in one of those very dark gray flannel suits and one of those checkered vests. Strictly Ivy League. Big deal. He was standing next to the wall, smoking himself to death and looking bored as hell. Old Sally kept saying, "I know that boy from somewhere." She always knew somebody, any place you took her, or thought she did. She kept saying that till I got bored as hell, and I said to her, "Why don't you go on over and give him a big soul kiss, if you know him? He'll enjoy it." She got sore when I said that. Finally, though, the jerk noticed her and came over and said hello. You should've seen the way they said hello. You'd have thought they hadn't seen each other in twenty years. You'd have thought they'd taken baths in the same bathtub or something when they were little kids. Old buddyroos. It was nauseating. The funny part was, they probably met each other just once, at some phony party. Finally, when they were all done slobbering around, old Sally introduced us. His name was George something--I don't even remember--and he went to Andover. Big, big deal. You should've seen him when old Sally asked him how he liked the play. He was the kind of a phony that have to give themselves room when they answer somebody's question. He stepped back, and stepped right on the lady's foot behind him. He probably broke every toe in her body. He said the play itself was no masterpiece, but that the Lunts, of course, were absolute angels. Angels. For Chrissake. Angels. That killed me. Then he and old Sally started talking about a lot of people they both knew. It was the phoniest conversation you ever heard in your life. They both kept thinking of places as fast as they could, then they'd think of somebody that lived there and mention their name. I was all set to puke when it was time to go sit down again. I really was. And then, when the next act was over, they continued their goddam boring conversation. They kept thinking of more places and more names of people that lived there. The worst part was, the jerk had one of those very phony, Ivy League voices, one of those very tired, snobby voices. He sounded just like a girl. He didn't hesitate to horn in on my date, the bastard. I even thought for a minute that he was going to get in the goddam cab with us when the show was over, because he walked about two blocks with us, but he had to meet a bunch of phonies for cocktails, he said. I could see them all sitting around in some bar, with their goddam checkered vests, criticizing shows and books and women in those tired, snobby voices. They kill me, those guys.
I sort of hated old Sally by the time we got in the cab, after listening to that phony Andover bastard for about ten hours. I was all set to take her home and all--I really was--but she said, "I have a marvelous idea!" She was always having a marvelous idea. "Listen," she said. "What time do you have to be home for dinner? I mean are you in a terrible hurry or anything? Do you have to be home any special time?"
"Me? No. No special time," I said. Truer word was never spoken, boy. "Why?"
"Let's go ice-skating at Radio City!"
That's the kind of ideas she always had.
"Ice-skating at Radio City? You mean right now?"
"Just for an hour or so. Don't you want to? If you don't want to--"
"I didn't say I didn't want to," I said. "Sure. If you want to."
"Do you mean it? Don't just say it if you don't mean it. I mean I don't give a darn, one way or the other."
Not much she didn't.
"You can rent those darling little skating skirts," old Sally said. "Jeannette Cultz did it last week."
That's why she was so hot to go. She wanted to see herself in one of those little skirts that just come down over their butt and all.
So we went, and after they gave us our skates, they gave Sally this little blue butt-twitcher of a dress to wear. She really did look damn good in it, though. I save to admit it. And don't think she didn't know it. The kept walking ahead of me, so that I'd see how cute her little ass looked. It did look pretty cute, too. I have to admit it.
The funny part was, though, we were the worst skaters on the whole goddam rink. I mean the worst. And there were some lulus, too. Old Sally's ankles kept bending in till they were practically on the ice. They not only looked stupid as hell, but they probably hurt like hell, too. I know mine did. Mine were killing me. We must've looked gorgeous. And what made it worse, there were at least a couple of hundred rubbernecks that didn't have anything better to do than stand around and watch everybody falling all over themselves.
"Do you want to get a table inside and have a drink or something?" I said to her finally.
"That's the most marvelous idea you've had all day," the said. She was killing herself. It was brutal. I really felt sorry for her.
We took off our goddam skates and went inside this bar where you can get drinks and watch the skaters in just your stocking feet. As soon as we sat down, old Sally took off her gloves, and I gave her a cigarette. She wasn't looking too happy. The waiter came up, and I ordered a Coke for her--she didn't drink--and a Scotch and soda for myself, but the sonuvabitch wouldn't bring me one, so I had a Coke, too. Then I sort of started lighting matches. I do that quite a lot when I'm in a certain mood. I sort of let them burn down till I can't hold them any more, then I drop them in the ashtray. It's a nervous habit.
Then all of a sudden, out of a clear blue sky, old Sally said, "Look. I have to know. Are you or aren't you coming over to help me trim the tree Christmas Eve? I have to know." She was still being snotty on account of her ankles when she was skating.
"I wrote you I would. You've asked me that about twenty times. Sure, I am."
"I mean I have to know," she said. She started looking all around the goddam room.
All of a sudden I quit lighting matches, and sort of leaned nearer to her over the table. I had quite a few topics on my mind. "Hey, Sally," I said.
"What?" she said. She was looking at some girl on the other side of the room.
"Did you ever get fed up?" I said. "I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something? I mean do you like school, and all that stuff?"
"It's a terrific bore."
"I mean do you hate it? I know it's a terrific bore, but do you hate it, is what I mean."
"Well, I don't exactly hate it. You always have to--"
"Well, I hate it. Boy, do I hate it," I said. "But it isn't just that. It's everything. I hate living in New York and all. Taxicabs, and Madison Avenue buses, with the drivers and all always yelling at you to get out at the rear door, and being introduced to phony guys that call the Lunts angels, and going up and down in elevators when you just want to go outside, and guys fitting your pants all the time at Brooks, and people always--"
"Don't shout, please," old Sally said. Which was very funny, because I wasn't even shouting.
"Take cars," I said. I said it in this very quiet voice. "Take most people, they're crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that's even newer. I don't even like old cars. I mean they don't even interest me. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake. A horse you can at least--"
"I don't know what you're even talking about," old Sally said. "You jump from one--"
"You know something?" I said. "You're probably the only reason I'm in New York right now, or anywhere. If you weren't around, I'd probably be someplace way the hell off. In the woods or some goddam place. You're the only reason I'm around, practically."
"You're sweet," she said. But you could tell she wanted me to change the damn subject.
"You ought to go to a boys' school sometime. Try it sometime," I said. "It's full of phonies, and all you do is study so that you can learn enough to be smart enough to be able to buy a goddam Cadillac some day, and you have to keep making believe you give a damn if the football team loses, and all you do is talk about girls and liquor and sex all day, and everybody sticks together in these dirty little goddam cliques. The guys that are on the basketball team stick together, the Catholics stick together, the goddam intellectuals stick together, the guys that play bridge stick together. Even the guys that belong to the goddam Book-of-the-Month Club stick together. If you try to have a little intelligent--"
"Now, listen," old Sally said. "Lots of boys get more out of school than that."
"I agree! I agree they do, some of them! But that's all I get out of it. See? That's my point. That's exactly my goddam point," I said. "I don't get hardly anything out of anything. I'm in bad shape. I'm in lousy shape."
"You certainly are."
Then, all of a sudden, I got this idea.
"Look," I said. "Here's my idea. How would you like to get the hell out of here? Here's my idea. I know this guy down in Greenwich Village that we can borrow his car for a couple of weeks. He used to go to the same school I did and he still owes me ten bucks. What we could do is, tomorrow morning we could drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont, and all around there, see. It's beautiful as hell up there, It really is." I was getting excited as hell, the more I thought of it, and I sort of reached over and took old Sally's goddam hand. What a goddam fool I was. "No kidding," I said. "I have about a hundred and eighty bucks in the bank. I can take it out when it opens in the morning, and then I could go down and get this guy's car. No kidding. We'll stay in these cabin camps and stuff like that till the dough runs out. Then, when the dough runs out, I could get a job somewhere and we could live somewhere with a brook and all and, later on, we could get married or something. I could chop all our own wood in the wintertime and all. Honest to God, we could have a terrific time! Wuddaya say? C'mon! Wuddaya say? Will you do it with me? Please!"
"You can't just do something like that," old Sally said. She sounded sore as hell.
"Why not? Why the hell not?"
"Stop screaming at me, please," she said. Which was crap, because I wasn't even screaming at her.
"Why can'tcha? Why not?"
"Because you can't, that's all. In the first place, we're both practically children. And did you ever stop to think what you'd do if you didn't get a job when your money ran out? We'd starve to death. The whole thing's so fantastic, it isn't even--"
"It isn't fantastic. I'd get a job. Don't worry about that. You don't have to worry about that. What's the matter? Don't you want to go with me? Say so, if you don't."
"It isn't that. It isn't that at all," old Sally said. I was beginning to hate her, in a way. "We'll have oodles of time to do those things--all those things. I mean after you go to college and all, and if we should get married and all. There'll be oodles of marvelous places to go to. You're just--"
"No, there wouldn't be. There wouldn't be oodles of places to go to at all. It'd be entirely different," I said. I was getting depressed as hell again.
"What?" she said. "I can't hear you. One minute you scream at me, and the next you--"
"I said no, there wouldn't be marvelous places to go to after I went to college and all. Open your ears. It'd be entirely different. We'd have to go downstairs in elevators with suitcases and stuff. We'd have to phone up everybody and tell 'em good-by and send 'em postcards from hotels and all. And I'd be working in some office, making a lot of dough, and riding to work in cabs and Madison Avenue buses, and reading newspapers, and playing bridge all the time, and going to the movies and seeing a lot of stupid shorts and coming attractions and newsreels. Newsreels. Christ almighty. There's always a dumb horse race, and some dame breaking a bottle over a ship, and some chimpanzee riding a goddam bicycle with pants on. It wouldn't be the same at all. You don't see what I mean at all."
"Maybe I don't! Maybe you don't, either," old Sally said. We both hated each other's guts by that time. You could see there wasn't any sense trying to have an intelligent conversation. I was sorry as hell I'd started it.
"C'mon, let's get outa here," I said. "You give me a royal pain in the ass, if you want to know the truth."
Boy, did she hit the ceiling when I said that. I know I shouldn't've said it, and I probably wouldn't've ordinarily, but she was depressing the hell out of me. Usually I never say crude things like that to girls. Boy, did she hit the ceiling. I apologized like a madman, but she wouldn't accept my apology. She was even crying. Which scared me a little bit, because I was a little afraid she'd go home and tell her father I called her a pain in the ass. Her father was one of those big silent bastards, and he wasn't too crazy about me anyhow. He once told old Sally I was too goddam noisy.
"No kidding. I'm sorry," I kept telling her.
"You're sorry. You're sorry. That's very funny," she said. She was still sort of crying, and all of a sudden I did feel sort of sorry I'd said it.
"C'mon, I'll take ya home. No kidding."
"I can go home by myself, thank you. If you think I'd let you take me home, you're mad. No boy ever said that to me in my entire life."
The whole thing was sort of funny, in a way, if you thought about it, and all of a sudden I did something I shouldn't have. I laughed. And I have one of these very loud, stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie or something, I'd probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up. It made old Sally madder than ever.
I stuck around for a while, apologizing and trying to get her to excuse me, but she wouldn't. She kept telling me to go away and leave her alone. So finally I did it. I went inside and got my shoes and stuff, and left without her. I shouldn't've, but I was pretty goddam fed up by that time.
If you want to know the truth, I don't even know why I started all that stuff with her. I mean about going away somewhere, to Massachusetts and Vermont and all. I probably wouldn't've taken her even if she'd wanted to go with me. She wouldn't have been anybody to go with. The terrible part, though, is that I meant it when I asked her. That's the terrible part. I swear to God I'm a madman.
18
When I left the skating rink I felt sort of hungry, so I went in this drugstore and had a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted, and then I went in a phone booth. I thought maybe I might give old Jane another buzz and see if she was home yet. I mean I had the whole evening free, and I thought I'd give her a buzz and, if she was home yet, take her dancing or something somewhere. I never danced with her or anything the whole time I knew her. I saw her dancing once, though. She looked like a very good dancer. It was at this Fourth of July dance at the club. I didn't know her too well then, and I didn't think I ought to cut in on her date. She was dating this terrible guy, Al Pike, that went to Choate. I didn't know him too well, but he was always hanging around the swimming pool. He wore those white Lastex kind of swimming trunks, and he was always going off the high dive. He did the same lousy old half gainer all day long. It was the only dive he could do, but he thought he was very hot stuff. All muscles and no brains. Anyway, that's who Jane dated that night. I couldn't understand it. I swear I couldn't. After we started going around together, I asked her how come she could date a showoff bastard like Al Pike. Jane said he wasn't a show-off. She said he had an inferiority complex. She acted like she felt sorry for him or something, and she wasn't just putting it on. She meant it. It's a funny thing about girls. Every time you mention some guy that's strictly a bastard--very mean, or very conceited and all--and when you mention it to the girl, she'll tell you he has an inferiority complex. Maybe he has, but that still doesn't keep him from being a bastard, in my opinion. Girls. You never know what they're going to think. I once got this girl Roberta Walsh's roommate a date with a friend of mine. His name was Bob Robinson and he really had an inferiority complex. You could tell he was very ashamed of his parents and all, because they said "he don't" and "she don't" and stuff like that and they weren't very wealthy. But he wasn't a bastard or anything. He was a very nice guy. But this Roberta Walsh's roommate didn't like him at all. She told Roberta he was too conceited--and the reason she thought he was conceited was because he happened to mention to her that he was captain of the debating team. A little thing like that, and she thought he was conceited! The trouble with girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big a bastard he is, they'll say he has an inferiority complex, and if they don't like him, no matter how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority complex he has, they'll say he's conceited. Even smart girls do it.
Anyway, I gave old Jane a buzz again, but her phone didn't answer, so I had to hang up. Then I had to look through my address book to see who the hell might be available for the evening. The trouble was, though, my address book only has about three people in it. Jane, and this man, Mr. Antolini, that was my teacher at Elkton Hills, and my father's office number. I keep forgetting to put people's names in. So what I did finally, I gave old Carl Luce a buzz. He graduated from the Whooton School after I left. He was about three years older than I was, and I didn't like him too much, but he was one of these very intellectual guys-- he had the highest I.Q. of any boy at Whooton--and I thought he might want to have dinner with me somewhere and have a slightly intellectual conversation. He was very enlightening sometimes. So I gave him a buzz. He went to Columbia now, but he lived on 65th Street and all, and I knew he'd be home. When I got him on the phone, he said he couldn't make it for dinner but that he'd meet me for a drink at ten o'clock at the Wicker Bar, on 54th. I think he was pretty surprised to hear from me. I once called him a fat-assed phony.
I had quite a bit of time to kill till ten o'clock, so what I did, I went to the movies at Radio City. It was probably the worst thing I could've done, but it was near, and I couldn't think of anything else.
I came in when the goddam stage show was on. The Rockettes were kicking their heads off, the way they do when they're all in line with their arms around each other's waist. The audience applauded like mad, and some guy behind me kept saying to his wife, "You know what that is? That's precision." He killed me. Then, after the Rockettes, a guy came out in a tuxedo and roller skates on, and started skating under a bunch of little tables, and telling jokes while he did it. He was a very good skater and all, but I couldn't enjoy it much because I kept picturing him practicing to be a guy that roller-skates on the stage. It seemed so stupid. I guess I just wasn't in the right mood. Then, after him, they had this Christmas thing they have at Radio City every year. All these angels start coming out of the boxes and everywhere, guys carrying crucifixes and stuff all over the place, and the whole bunch of them--thousands of them--singing "Come All Ye Faithful!" like mad. Big deal. It's supposed to be religious as hell, I know, and very pretty and all, but I can't see anything religious or pretty, for God's sake, about a bunch of actors carrying crucifixes all over the stage. When they were all finished and started going out the boxes again, you could tell they could hardly wait to get a cigarette or something. I saw it with old Sally Hayes the year before, and she kept saying how beautiful it was, the costumes and all. I said old Jesus probably would've puked if He could see it--all those fancy costumes and all. Sally said I was a sacrilegious atheist. I probably am. The thing Jesus really would've liked would be the guy that plays the kettle drums in the orchestra. I've watched that guy since I was about eight years old. My brother Allie and I, if we were with our parents and all, we used to move our seats and go way down so we could watch him. He's the best drummer I ever saw. He only gets a chance to bang them a couple of times during a whole piece, but he never looks bored when he isn't doing it. Then when he does bang them, he does it so nice and sweet, with this nervous expression on his face. One time when we went to Washington with my father, Allie sent him a postcard, but I'll bet he never got it. We weren't too sure how to address it.
After the Christmas thing was over, the goddam picture started. It was so putrid I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was about this English guy, Alec something, that was in the war and loses his memory in the hospital and all. He comes out of the hospital carrying a cane and limping all over the place, all over London, not knowing who the hell he is. He's really a duke, but he doesn't know it. Then he meets this nice, homey, sincere girl getting on a bus. Her goddam hat blows off and he catches it, and then they go upstairs and sit down and start talking about Charles Dickens. He's both their favorite author and all. He's carrying this copy of Oliver Twist and so's she. I could've puked. Anyway, they fell in love right away, on account of they're both so nuts about Charles Dickens and all, and he helps her run her publishing business. She's a publisher, the girl. Only, she's not doing so hot, because her brother's a drunkard and he spends all their dough. He's a very bitter guy, the brother, because he was a doctor in the war and now he can't operate any more because his nerves are shot, so he boozes all the time, but he's pretty witty and all. Anyway, old Alec writes a book, and this girl publishes it, and they both make a hatful of dough on it. They're all set to get married when this other girl, old Marcia, shows up. Marcia was Alec's fiancée before he lost his memory, and she recognizes him when he's in this store autographing books. She tells old Alec he's really a duke and all, but he doesn't believe her and doesn't want to go with her to visit his mother and all. His mother's blind as a bat. But the other girl, the homey one, makes him go. She's very noble and all. So he goes. But he still doesn't get his memory back, even when his great Dane jumps all over him and his mother sticks her fingers all over his face and brings him this teddy bear he used to slobber around with when he was a kid. But then, one day, some kids are playing cricket on the lawn and he gets smacked in the head with a cricket ball. Then right away he gets his goddam memory back and he goes in and kisses his mother on the forehead and all. Then he starts being a regular duke again, and he forgets all about the homey babe that has the publishing business. I'd tell you the rest of the story, but I might puke if I did. It isn't that I'd spoil it for you or anything. There isn't anything to spoil for Chrissake. Anyway, it ends up with Alec and the homey babe getting married, and the brother that's a drunkard gets his nerves back and operates on Alec's mother so she can see again, and then the drunken brother and old Marcia go for each other. It ends up with everybody at this long dinner table laughing their asses off because the great Dane comes in with a bunch of puppies. Everybody thought it was a male, I suppose, or some goddam thing. All I can say is, don't see it if you don't want to puke all over yourself.
The part that got me was, there was a lady sitting next to me that cried all through the goddam picture. The phonier it got, the more she cried. You'd have thought she did it because she was kindhearted as hell, but I was sitting right next to her, and she wasn't. She had this little kid with her that was bored as hell and had to go to the bathroom, but she wouldn't take him. She kept telling him to sit still and behave himself. She was about as kindhearted as a goddam wolf. You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phony stuff in the movies, and nine times out of ten they're mean bastards at heart. I'm not kidding.
After the movie was over, I started walking down to the Wicker Bar, where I was supposed to meet old Carl Luce, and while I walked I sort of thought about war and all. Those war movies always do that to me. I don't think I could stand it if I had to go to war. I really couldn't. It wouldn't be too bad if they'd just take you out and shoot you or something, but you have to stay in the Army so goddam long. That's the whole trouble. My brother D.B. was in the Army for four goddam years. He was in the war, too--he landed on D-Day and all--but I really think he hated the Army worse than the war. I was practically a child at the time, but I remember when he used to come home on furlough and all, all he did was lie on his bed, practically. He hardly ever even came in the living room. Later, when he went overseas and was in the war and all, he didn't get wounded or anything and he didn't have to shoot anybody. All he had to do was drive some cowboy general around all day in a command car. He once told Allie and I that if he'd had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've known which direction to shoot in. He said the Army was practically as full of bastards as the Nazis were. I remember Allie once asked him wasn't it sort of good that he was in the war because he was a writer and it gave him a lot to write about and all. He made Allie go get his baseball mitt and then he asked him who was the best war poet, Rupert Brooke or Emily Dickinson. Allie said Emily Dickinson. I don't know too much about it myself, because I don't read much poetry, but I do know it'd drive me crazy if I had to be in the Army and be with a bunch of guys like Ackley and Stradlater and old Maurice all the time, marching with them and all. I was in the Boy Scouts once, for about a week, and I couldn't even stand looking at the back of the guy's neck in front of me. They kept telling you to look at the back of the guy's neck in front of you. I swear if there's ever another war, they better just take me out and stick me in front of a firing squad. I wouldn't object. What gets me about D.B., though, he hated the war so much, and yet he got me to read this book A Farewell to Arms last summer. He said it was so terrific. That's what I can't understand. It had this guy in it named Lieutenant Henry that was supposed to be a nice guy and all. I don't see how D.B. could hate the Army and war and all so much and still like a phony like that. I mean, for instance, I don't see how he could like a phony book like that and still like that one by Ring Lardner, or that other one he's so crazy about, The Great Gatsby. D.B. got sore when I said that, and said I was too young and all to appreciate it, but I don't think so. I told him I liked Ring Lardner and The Great Gatsby and all. I did, too. I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me. Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.
19
In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of swanky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't any more. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window. They used to have these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play the piano and sing about three times every night. One of them played the piano--strictly lousy--and the other one sang, and most of the songs were either pretty dirty or in French. The one that sang, old Janine, was always whispering into the goddam microphone before she sang. She'd say, "And now we like to geeve you our impression of Vooly Voo Fransay. Eet ees the story of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg ceety, just like New York, and falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen. We hope you like eet." Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as hell, she'd sing some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive all the phonies in the place mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world, I swear you did. The bartender was a louse, too. He was a big snob. He didn't talk to you at all hardly unless you were a big shot or a celebrity or something. If you were a big shot or a celebrity or something, then he was even more nauseating. He'd go up to you and say, with this big charming smile, like he was a helluva swell guy if you knew him, "Well! How's Connecticut?" or "How's Florida?" It was a terrible place, I'm not kidding. I cut out going there entirely, gradually.
It was pretty early when I got there. I sat down at the bar--it was pretty crowded--and had a couple of Scotch and sodas before old Luce even showed up. I stood up when I ordered them so they could see how tall I was and all and not think I was a goddam minor. Then I watched the phonies for a while. Some guy next to me was snowing hell out of the babe he was with. He kept telling her she had aristocratic hands. That killed me. The other end of the bar was full of flits. They weren't too flitty-looking--I mean they didn't have their hair too long or anything--but you could tell they were flits anyway. Finally old Luce showed up.
Old Luce. What a guy. He was supposed to be my Student Adviser when I was at Whooton. The only thing he ever did, though, was give these sex talks and all, late at night when there was a bunch of guys in his room. He knew quite a bit about sex, especially perverts and all. He was always telling us about a lot of creepy guys that go around having affairs with sheep, and guys that go around with girls' pants sewed in the lining of their hats and all. And flits and Lesbians. Old Luce knew who every flit and Lesbian in the United States was. All you had to do was mention somebody--anybody--and old Luce'd tell you if he was a flit or not. Sometimes it was hard to believe, the people he said were flits and Lesbians and all, movie actors and like that. Some of the ones he said were flits were even married, for God's sake. You'd keep saying to him, "You mean Joe Blow's a flit? Joe Blow? That big, tough guy that plays gangsters and cowboys all the time?" Old Luce'd say, "Certainly." He was always saying "Certainly." He said it didn't matter if a guy was married or not. He said half the married guys in the world were flits and didn't even know it. He said you could turn into one practically overnight, if you had all the traits and all. He used to scare the hell out of us. I kept waiting to turn into a flit or something. The funny thing about old Luce, I used to think he was sort of flitty himself, in a way. He was always saying, "Try this for size," and then he'd goose the hell out of you while you were going down the corridor. And whenever he went to the can, he always left the goddam door open and talked to you while you were brushing your teeth or something. That stuff's sort of flitty. It really is. I've known quite a few real flits, at schools and all, and they're always doing stuff like that, and that's why I always had my doubts about old Luce. He was a pretty intelligent guy, though. He really was.
He never said hello or anything when he met you. The first thing he said when he sat down was that he could only stay a couple of minutes. He said he had a date. Then he ordered a dry Martini. He told the bartender to make it very dry, and no olive.
"Hey, I got a flit for you," I told him. "At the end of the bar. Don't look now. I been saving him for ya."
"Very funny," he said. "Same old Caulfield. When are you going to grow up?"
I bored him a lot. I really did. He amused me, though. He was one of those guys that sort of amuse me a lot.
"How's your sex life?" I asked him. He hated you to ask him stuff like that.
"Relax," he said. "Just sit back and relax, for Chrissake."
"I'm relaxed," I said. "How's Columbia? Ya like it?"
"Certainly I like it. If I didn't like it I wouldn't have gone there," he said. He could be pretty boring himself sometimes.
"What're you majoring in?" I asked him. "Perverts?" I was only horsing around.
"What're you trying to be--funny?"
"No. I'm only kidding," I said. "Listen, hey, Luce. You're one of these intellectual guys. I need your advice. I'm in a terrific--"
He let out this big groan on me. "Listen, Caulfield. If you want to sit here and have a quiet, peaceful drink and a quiet, peaceful conver--"
"All right, all right," I said. "Relax." You could tell he didn't feel like discussing anything serious with me. That's the trouble with these intellectual guys. They never want to discuss anything serious unless they feel like it. So all I did was, I started discussing topics in general with him. "No kidding, how's your sex life?" I asked him. "You still going around with that same babe you used to at Whooton? The one with the terrffic--"
"Good God, no," he said.
"How come? What happened to her?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. For all I know, since you ask, she's probably the Whore of New Hampshire by this time."
"That isn't nice. If she was decent enough to let you get sexy with her all the time, you at least shouldn't talk about her that way."
"Oh, God!" old Luce said. "Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conversation? I want to know right now."
"No," I said, "but it isn't nice anyway. If she was decent and nice enough to let you--"
"Must we pursue this horrible trend of thought?"
I didn't say anything. I was sort of afraid he'd get up and leave on me if I didn't shut up. So all I did was, I ordered another drink. I felt like getting stinking drunk.
"Who're you going around with now?" I asked him. "You feel like telling me?"
"Nobody you know."
"Yeah, but who? I might know her."
"Girl lives in the Village. Sculptress. If you must know."
"Yeah? No kidding? How old is she?"
"I've never asked her, for God's sake."
"Well, around how old?"
"I should imagine she's in her late thirties," old Luce said.
"In her late thirties? Yeah? You like that?" I asked him. "You like 'em that old?" The reason I was asking was because he really knew quite a bit about sex and all. He was one of the few guys I knew that did. He lost his virginity when he was only fourteen, in Nantucket. He really did.
"I like a mature person, if that's what you mean. Certainly."
"You do? Why? No kidding, they better for sex and all?"
"Listen. Let's get one thing straight. I refuse to answer any typical Caulfield questions tonight. When in hell are you going to grow up?"
I didn't say anything for a while. I let it drop for a while. Then old Luce ordered another Martini and told the bartender to make it a lot dryer.
"Listen. How long you been going around with her, this sculpture babe?" I asked him. I was really interested. "Did you know her when you were at Whooton?"
"Hardly. She just arrived in this country a few months ago."
"She did? Where's she from?"
"She happens to be from Shanghai."
"No kidding! She Chinese, for Chrissake?"
"Obviously."
"No kidding! Do you like that? Her being Chinese?"
"Obviously."
"Why? I'd be interested to know--I really would."
"I simply happen to find Eastern philosophy more satisfactory than Western. Since you ask."
"You do? Wuddaya mean 'philosophy'? Ya mean sex and all? You mean it's better in China? That what you mean?"
"Not necessarily in China, for God's sake. The East I said. Must we go on with this inane conversation?"
"Listen, I'm serious," I said. "No kidding. Why's it better in the East?"
"It's too involved to go into, for God's sake," old Luce said. "They simply happen to regard sex as both a physical and a spiritual experience. If you think I'm--"
"So do I! So do I regard it as a wuddayacallit--a physical and spiritual experience and all. I really do. But it depends on who the hell I'm doing it with. If I'm doing it with somebody I don't even--"
"Not so loud, for God's sake, Caulfield. If you can't manage to keep your voice down, let's drop the whole--"
"All right, but listen," I said. I was getting excited and I was talking a little too loud. Sometimes I talk a little loud when I get excited. "This is what I mean, though," I said. "I know it's supposed to be physical and spiritual, and artistic and all. But what I mean is, you can't do it with everybody--every girl you neck with and all--and make it come out that way. Can you?"
"Let's drop it," old Luce said. "Do you mind?"
"All right, but listen. Take you and this Chinese babe. What's so good about you two?"
"Drop it, I said."
I was getting a little too personal. I realize that. But that was one of the annoying things about Luce. When we were at Whooton, he'd make you describe the most personal stuff that happened to you, but if you started asking him questions about himself, he got sore. These intellectual guys don't like to have an intellectual conversation with you unless they're running the whole thing. They always want you to shut up when they shut up, and go back to your room when they go back to their room. When I was at Whooton old Luce used to hate it--you really could tell he did--when after he was finished giving his sex talk to a bunch of us in his room we stuck around and chewed the fat by ourselves for a while. I mean the other guys and myself. In somebody else's room. Old Luce hated that. He always wanted everybody to go back to their own room and shut up when he was finished being the big shot. The thing he was afraid of, he was afraid somebody'd say something smarter than he had. He really amused me.
"Maybe I'll go to China. My sex life is lousy," I said.
"Naturally. Your mind is immature."
"It is. It really is. I know it," I said. "You know what the trouble with me is? I can never get really sexy--I mean really sexy--with a girl I don't like a lot. I mean I have to like her a lot. If I don't, I sort of lose my goddam desire for her and all. Boy, it really screws up my sex life something awful. My sex life stinks."
"Naturally it does, for God's sake. I told you the last time I saw you what you need."
"You mean to go to a psychoanalyst and all?" I said. That's what he'd told me I ought to do. His father was a psychoanalyst and all.
"It's up to you, for God's sake. It's none of my goddam business what you do with your life."
I didn't say anything for a while. I was thinking.
"Supposing I went to your father and had him psychoanalyze me and all," I said. "What would he do to me? I mean what would he do to me?"
"He wouldn't do a goddam thing to you. He'd simply talk to you, and you'd talk to him, for God's sake. For one thing, he'd help you to recognize the patterns of your mind."
"The what?" "The patterns of your mind. Your mind runs in-- Listen. I'm not giving an elementary course in psychoanalysis. If you're interested, call him up and make an appointment. If you're not, don't. I couldn't care less, frankly."
I put my hand on his shoulder. Boy, he amused me. "You're a real friendly bastard," I told him. "You know that?"
He was looking at his wrist watch. "I have to tear," he said, and stood up. "Nice seeing you." He got the bartender and told him to bring him his check.
"Hey," I said, just before he beat it. "Did your father ever psychoanalyze you?"
"Me? Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Did he, though? Has he?"
"Not exactly. He's helped me to adjust myself to a certain extent, but an extensive analysis hasn't been necessary. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I was just wondering."
"Well. Take it easy," he said. He was leaving his tip and all and he was starting to go.
"Have just one more drink," I told him. "Please. I'm lonesome as hell. No kidding."
He said he couldn't do it, though. He said he was late now, and then he left.
Old Luce. He was strictly a pain in the ass, but he certainly had a good vocabulary. He had the largest vocabulary of any boy at Whooton when I was there. They gave us a test.



第17节

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我到那儿的时候还很早,所以我就在休息室钟旁的皮椅上坐下,看那些姑娘。许多学校都已放假,这儿总有一百万个姑娘或坐或立,在等她们的男朋友。有的姑娘交叉着腿,有的姑娘并不交叉着腿,有的姑娘大腿好看得要命,有的姑娘大腿难看得要命,有的姑娘看去为人很不错,有的姑娘看去很可能是只母狗,如果你对她有进一步了解的话。

这委实是一片绝好的景色,你要是懂得我意思的话。可是说起来,这景色看了也有点叫人泄气,因为你老会嘀咕着所有这些姑娘将来会有他妈的什么遭遇。我是说在她们离开中学或大学以后。你可以料到她们绝大多数都会嫁给无聊的男人。这类男人有的老是谈着他们的混帐汽车一加仑汽油可以行驶多少英里。有的要是打高尔夫球输了,或者甚至在乒乓球之类的无聊球赛中输了,就会难过得要命,变得非常孩子气。有的非常卑鄙。有的从来不看书。

有的很讨人厌——不过在这一点上,我得小心一些。我是说在说别人讨人厌这一点上。我不了解讨人厌的家伙。我真的不了解。我在爱尔克敦.希尔斯的时候,跟一个叫哈里斯.梅克林的家伙同屋住了两个月。他这人非常聪明,可又是我所遇到的最最讨人厌的家伙。他说话的声音极其刺耳,可又一天到晚讲个不停,简直没完没了。更可怕的是,他从来不讲任何你听得入耳的话。可他有一个长处。

这个婊子养的吹起口哨来,可比谁都好。他一边铺床,或是一边往壁橱里挂着什么——他老是往壁橱里挂着什么——真叫我受不了——他一边干着这类玩艺儿,一边就吹着口哨,只要他不是在用刺耳的声音讲话。他连古典歌曲都能吹,可他绝大部分时间只吹着爵士歌曲。他都能吹最地道的爵士歌曲,象《白铁屋顶忧伤曲》之类,而且吹得那么好听,那么轻松愉快——就在他往壁橱里挂什么东西的时候——你听了都会灵魂儿出窍。自然啦,我从来没告诉他我认为他的口哨吹的好得了不得。我是说你决不会走到什么人身边直截了当地说:“你的口哨吹的好得了不得。”可我还是跟他同屋住了差不多整整两个月,尽管我把他讨厌得要命,原因是,他的口哨吹得真是好极了,是我听到过的最最好的。所以说我不了解讨人厌的家伙。也许你瞧见哪个挺不错的姑娘嫁给他们的时候心里不应该太难受。他们中间绝大多数并不害人,再说他们私下里也许都是了不得的口哨家什么的。他妈的谁知道?至少我不知道。

最后,老萨丽上楼来了,我就立刻下楼迎接她,她看去真是漂亮极了。一点不假。她身穿一件黑大衣,头戴一顶黑色法国帽。她平时很少戴帽子,可这顶法国帽戴在她头上的确漂亮。好笑的是,我一看见她,简直想跟她结婚了。我真是疯了。我甚至都不怎么喜欢她,可突然间我竟觉得自己爱上了她,想跟她结婚了。我可以对天发誓我的确疯了。我承认这一点。

“霍尔顿!”她说。“见到你真是高兴!咱们好象有几世纪没见面啦!”你跟她在外面相见,她说话的声音总是那么响,很叫人不好意思。她因为长得他妈的实在漂亮,所以谁都会原谅她,可我心里总有点儿作呕。

“见到你也真高兴,”我说。我说的也是心里话。“你好吗?”

“好得不能再好啦。我来迟了没有?”

我对她说没有,可事实上她来迟了约莫十分钟。我倒是一点也不介意。《星期六晚报》上所登的那些漫画,一些在街头等着的男人因为女朋友来起了,都气得要命——这是骗人的玩艺儿。要是一个姑娘跟你见面的时候看去极漂亮,谁还他妈的在乎她来得是不是迟了?谁也不会在乎。“咱们最好快走,”我说。“戏在二点四十开演。”我们于是下楼向停出租汽车的地方走去。

“咱们今天看什么戏?”她说。

“我不知道。伦特夫妇演的。我只买到这个票。”

“伦特夫妇!哦,真太好了!”

我已经跟你说过,她只要听见是伦特夫妇演的,就会高兴得连命都不要。

在去戏院的路上,我们在汽车里胡搞了一会儿。最初她不肯,因为她搽着口红什么的,可我真是他妈的猴急得要命,她简直拿我没办法。有两次,汽车在红灯前突然停住,我都他妈的差点儿从座上摔了下来。这些混帐司机从来不注意自己的汽车在往哪儿开,我敢发誓他们从来不注意。现在,我再来告诉你我究竟疯狂到了什么地步,当我们在这次热烈的拥抱中清醒过来的时候,我竞对她说我爱她。

这当然是撤谎,不过问题是,我说的时候,倒真是说的心里话。我真是疯了。我可以对天发誓我真是疯了。

“哦,亲爱的,我也爱你,”她说。接着她还一口气往下说:“答应我把你的头发留起来。水手式的平头已经不时兴了。再说你的头发又那么可爱。”

可爱个屁。

这戏倒不象我过去看过的某些戏那么糟。可也不怎么好。故事讲的是一对夫妇一生中约莫五十万年里的事。开始时候他们都很年轻,姑娘的父母不答应她跟那个小伙子结婚,可她最后还是跟他结婚了。接着他们的年纪越来越大。丈夫出征了,妻子有个弟弟是个醉鬼。我看了实在不感兴趣。我是说我对他们家里有人死了什么的毫不关心。他们不过是一嘟噜演员罢了。那丈夫和妻子倒是一对挺不错的夫妇——很有点儿鬼聪明——可我对他们并不太感兴趣。特别是,他们在整场戏里老是在喝着茶或者其他混帐玩艺儿。你每次看见他们,总有个佣人拿茶端到他们面前,或是那妻子在倒茶给什么人喝。

还有戏里不住有人进进出出——你光是看着人们坐下站起都会看得头昏眼花。阿尔法莱德.伦特和琳.封丹演那对夫妇,他们演得非常好,可我不怎么喜欢他们。不过凭良心说,他们确是与众不同。

他们演得不象真人,也不象演员。简直很难解释.他们演的时候,很象他们知道自己是名演员什么的。我是说他们演得很好,不过他们演得太好了。

比如说,他们一个刚说完话,另一个马上接口很快地说了什么。这是在学真实生活中人们说话时彼此打断对方说话的情形。他们的表演艺术很有点儿象格林威治村的老欧尼弹钢琴。你不管做什么事,如果做得太好了,一不警惕,就会在无意中卖弄起来.那样的话,你就不再那么好了。可是不管怎样,戏里就只他们两个——我是说伦特夫妇——看去象是真正有头脑的人。我得承认这一点。

演完第一幕,我们就跟其他那些傻瓜蛋一起出去抽烟。这真是个盛举。你这一辈子从未见过有这么多的伪君子聚在一起,每个人都拼命袖烟,大声谈论戏,让别人都能听见他们的声音,知道他们有多么了不起。有个傻里傻气的电影演员站在我们附近抽烟。我不知道他的名字,可他老是在战争片里担任胆小鬼的角色。他跟一个极漂亮的金发姑娘在一起,他们两个都装出很厌倦的样子,好象甚至都不知道周围有人在看他们似的。真是谦虚得要命。我看了倒是十分开心。老萨丽除了夸奖伦特夫妇外,简宣很少说话,因为她正忙着伸长脖子东张西望,装出一副迷人的样子。接着她突然看见休息室的另一头有一个她认识的傻瓜蛋。那家伙穿了套深灰色的法兰绒衣服,一件格子衬衫,是个地道的名牌大学生。真了不起。他靠墙站着,只顾没命地抽烟,一副腻烦极了的样子。老萨丽不住地说:“我认识那小伙子。”不管你带她去什么地方,她总认识什么人,或者她自以为认识什么人。她说了又说,后来我腻烦透了,就对她说:“你既然认识他,干吗不过去亲亲热热地吻他一下呢?他准会高兴。”

她听了这话很生气。最后,那傻瓜蛋终于看见了她,就过来跟她打招呼。你真该看见他们打招呼时的样子。你准以为他们有二十年没见面了。你还会以为他们小时候都在一个澡盆里洗澡什么的。是一对老得不能再老的朋友。真正叫人作呕。好笑的是,他们也许只见过一面,在某个假模假式的舞会里。最后,他们假客气完了,老萨丽就给我们两个介绍。

他的名字叫乔治什么的——我都记不得了——是安多佛大学的学生。真——真了不起。可惜你没看见老萨丽问他喜不喜欢这戏时他的那副样子。他正是那种假得不能再假的伪君子,回答别人问题的时候,还得给自己腾出地方来。他往后退了一步,正好脚踩在一位站在他后面的太太的脚上。他大概把她的那几个脚趾全都踩断了。他说加戏本身不怎么样,可是伦特夫妇,当然啦,完完全全是天仙下凡。

天仙下凡。老天爷,天仙下凡。我听了差点儿笑死。

接着他和老萨丽开始聊起他们两个都认识的许多熟人来。这是你一辈子从来没听到过的最假模假式的谈话。他们以最快的速度不断想出一些地方来,然后再想出一些住在那地方的人,说出他们的名字。

等到我回到座位上的时候,我都快要呕出来了。—点不假。接着,等到下一幕戏演完的时候,他们之继续了他们那令人厌烦的混帐谈话,他们不断想出更多的地方,说出住在那地方的更多人的名字。最糟糕的是,那傻瓜蛋有那种假极了的名牌大学声音,就是那种换其疲倦、极其势利的声音。那声音听去简直象个女人。他竟毫不犹豫地来夹三,那杂种。戏演完后,我一时还以为他要坐进混帐的出租汽车跟我们一起走呢,因为他都跟着我们穿过了约莫两条街,不过他还得跟一嘟噜伪君子碰头喝鸡尾酒去,他说。我都想象得出他们怎样全都坐在一个酒吧里,穿着格子衬衫,用那种疲倦的、势利的声音批评着戏、书和女人。他们真让我差点儿笑死,那班家伙。

我听那个假模假式的安多佛杂种讲了约莫十个钟头的话,最后跟老萨丽一块儿坐进出租汽车的时候,简直恨死她了。我已准备好要送她回家——我的确准备好了——可是她说:“我想起了个妙极了的主意!”她老是想起什么妙极了的主意。“听着,”她说。“你得什么时候回家吃晚饭?我是说你是不是急于回家?你是不是得限定时间回家?”

“我?不。不限定时间,”我说,这话真是再老实也没有了,嘿。“干吗?”

“咱们到无线电城冰场溜冰去吧!”

她出的总是这一类的主意。

“到无线电城冰场上去溜冰?你是说马上就去?”

“去溜那么个把钟头。你想不想去?你要是不想去的话——”“我没说我不想去,”我说。“我当然去。要是你想去的话。”

“你真是这个意思吗?要不是这个意思就别这么说。我是说去也好不去也好,我都无所谓。”

她会无所谓才怪哩。

“你可以租到那种可爱的小溜冰裙,”老萨丽说。“琴妮特.古尔兹上星期就租了一条。”

这就是她急于要去溜冰的原因。她想看看自己穿着那种只遮住屁股的短裙时的样子。

我们于是去了,他们给了我们冰鞋以后,还给了萨丽一条只遮住屁股的蓝色短裙。她穿上以后,倒是真他妈的好看。我得承认这一点。你也别以为她自己不知道。她老是走在我前头,好让我看看她的小屁股有多漂亮。那屁股看去也的确漂亮。我得承认这一点。

可是好笑的是,整个混帐冰场上就数我们两个溜得最糟。我是说最槽。而冰场上也有几个溜得真正棒的。老萨丽的脚脖子一个劲儿往里弯,差点儿都碰到了冰上。这不仅看上去难看得要命,恐怕也疼得要命。我自己很有这个体会。我的脚脖子疼得都要了我的命。我们的样子大概很值得一看。更糟糕的是,至少有那么一两百人没事可做,都站在那儿伸长了脖子看热闹,看每个人摔倒了又爬起来。

“你想不想进去找张桌子,喝点儿什么?”我最后对她说。

“你今天一天就是这个主意想得最妙,”她说。

她简直是在跟自己拼命。真是太残忍了。我倒真有点儿替她难受。

我们脱下了我们的混帐冰鞋,进了那家酒吧,你可以光穿着袜子在里面喝点儿什么,看别人溜冰。我们刚一坐下,老萨丽就脱下了她的手套,我就送给她一支烟。看她的样子并不快活。侍者过来了,我给她要了杯可口可乐——她不喝酒——给我自己要了杯威士忌和苏打水,可那婊子养的不肯卖酒给我,所以我也只好要了杯可口可乐。接着我开始划起火柴来。我在某种心情下老爱玩这个。我让火柴一直烧到手握不住为止,随后扔进了烟灰缸。

这是种神经质的习惯。

一霎时,在光天化日之下,老萨丽竟说:“瞧。

我得知道一下。在圣诞前夕你到底来不来我家帮我修剪圣诞树?我得知道一下。”她大概是溜冰的时候弄疼了脚脖子,那股子气还没消下去。

“我已经写信告诉你说我要来。你问过我总有二十遍了。我当然来。”

“我意思是我得事先知道一下,”她说完,又开始在这个混帐房间里东张西望起来。

一霎时,我停止划火柴,从桌上探过身去离她更近些。我脑子里倒有不少话题。“嗨,萨丽,”我说。

“什么?”她说。她正在看房间那头的一个姑娘。

“你可曾觉得腻烦透顶?”我说。“我是说你可曾觉得心里打鼓,生怕一切事情会越来越糟,除非你锡出什么办法来加以补救?我是说你喜不喜欢学校,以及所有这一类的玩艺儿?”

“学校简直叫人腻烦透了。”

“我是说你是不是痛恨它?我知道它腻烦透了,可你是不是痛恨它?我要问的是这个。”

“呃,我倒说不上痛恨它。你总得——”“呃,我可痛恨它。嘿,我才痛恨它哩,”我说。“不过不仅仅是学校。我痛恨一切。我痛恨住在纽约这地方。出租汽车,梅迪逊路上的公共汽车,那些司机什么的老是冲着你大声呦喝,要你打后门下车;还有被人介绍给一些假模假式的家伙,说什么伦特夫妇是天仙下凡;还有出门的时候得上上下下乘电梯;还有一天到晚得上布鲁克斯让人给你量裤子;还有人们老是——”“别嚷嚷,劳驾啦,”老萨丽说。这话实在好笑,因为我根本没嚷。

“拿汽车说吧,”我说,说的时候声音极其平静。“拿绝大多数人说吧,他们都把汽车当宝贝看待。

要是车上划了道痕迹,就心疼得要命;他们老是谈一加仑汽油可以行驶多少英里;要是他们已经有了一辆崭新的汽车,就马上想到怎样去换一辆更新的。我甚至都不喜欢汽车这玩艺儿。我是说我对汽车甚至都不感兴趣。我宁可买一匹混帐的马。马至少是动物,老天爷.对马你至少能——”“我甚至都不知道你在说些什么,”老萨丽说。

“你一会儿谈这,一会儿——”“你知不知道?”我说。“我这会儿还在纽约或是纽约附近,大概完全是为了你。要不是你在这儿,我大概不知道到他妈的什么地方去了。在山林里,或者在什么混帐地方。我这会儿还在这里,简直完全是为你。”

“你真好,”她说.可你看得出她很希望换个混帐话题。

“你几时最好到男校去念书试试。你几时去试试,”我说。“里面全是些伪君子。要你干的就是读书,求学问,出人头地,以便将来可以买辆混帐凯迪拉克;遇到橄揽球队比赛输了的时候,你还得装出挺在乎的样子,你一天到晚干的,就是谈女人、酒和性;再说人人还在搞下流的小集团,打篮球的抱成一团,天主教徒抱成一团,那般混帐的书呆子抱成一团,打桥牌的抱成一团。连那些参加他妈的什么混帐读书会的家伙也抱成一团。你要是聪明点——”“嗳,听我说,”老萨丽说.“有不少小伙子在学校里学到更多的东西。”

“我同意!我同意有些人学到更多的东西!可我就只能学到这一些。明白不?我说的就是他妈的这个意思,”我说。“我简直学什么都学不成。我不是什么好料。我是块朽木。”

“你当然是。”

接着我突然想起了这么个主意。

“瞧,”我说。“我想起了这么个主意。我在格林威治村有个熟人,咱们可以借他的汽车用一两个星期。他过去跟我在一个学校念书,到现在还欠我十块钱没还。咱们可以在明天早上乘汽车到马萨诺塞和见蒙特兜一圈,你瞧。那儿的风景美丽极了。一点不假。”我越想越兴奋,不由得伸手过去,握住了老萨丽一只混账的手。我真是个混帐傻瓜蛋。“不开玩笑,”我说。“我约莫有一百八十块钱存在银行里。早晨银行一开门,我就可以把钱取出来,然后我就去向那家伙借汽车。不开玩笑。咱们可以住在林中小屋里,直到咱们的钱用完为止。等到钱用完了,我可以在哪儿找个工作做,咱们可以在溪边什么地方住着。过些日子咱们还可以结婚。

到冬天我可以亲自出去打柴。老天爷,我们能过多美好的生活!你看呢?说吧!你看呢?你愿不愿意跟我一块儿去?劳驾啦!”

“你怎么可以干这样的事呢,”老萨丽说,听她的口气,真好象憋着一肚子气。

“干吗不可以?他妈的干吗不可以?”

“别冲着我呦喝,劳驾啦,”她说。她这当然是胡说八道,因为我压根儿没冲着她呦喝。

“你说干吗不可以?干吗不?”

“因为你不可以,就是这么回事。第一,咱们两个简直还都是孩子。再说,你可曾想过,万一你把钱花光了,可又找不到工作,那时你怎么办?咱们都会话话饿死。这简直是异想天开,连一点——“一点不是异想天开,我能找到工作。别为这担心。你不必为这担心。怎么啦?你是不是不愿意跟我一块儿去?要是不愿意去,就说出来好了。”

“不是愿意不愿意的问题。完全不是这个问题,”老萨丽说。我开始有点儿恨她了,嗯。“咱们有的是时间干这一类事——所有这一类事。我是说在你进大学以后,以及咱俩真打算结婚的话。咱们有的是好地方可以去。你还只是——”“不,不会的。不会有那么多地方可以去。到那时候情况就完全不一样啦,”我说。我心里又沮丧得要命了。

“什么?”她说。“我听不清你的话。一会儿你朝着我呦喝,一会儿又——”“我说不,在我进大学以后,就不会有什么好地方可以去了。你仔细听着。到那时候情况就完全不一样啦。我们得拿着手提箱之类的玩艺儿乘电梯下楼。我们得打电话给每个人,跟他们道别,还得从旅馆里寄明信片给他们。我得去坐办公室,挣许许多多钱,乘出租汽车或者梅迪逊路上的公共汽车去上班,看报纸,天天打桥牌,上电影院,看许许多多混帐的短片、广告和新闻片。新闻片,我的老天爷。老是什么混帐的赛马啦,哪个太大小姐给一健船行下水礼啦,还有一只黑猩猩穿着裤子骑混帐的自行车啦。到那时候情况就根本不会一样了。你只是一点不明白我的意思。”

“也许我不明白!也许你自己也不明白,”老萨丽说。这时我们都成了冤家对头啦。你看得出跟她好好谈会儿心简直是浪费时间。我真他妈的懊悔自己不该跟她谈起心来。

“喂,咱们走吧,”我说。“你真是讨人厌极了,我老实告诉你说。”

嘿,我一说这话,她蹦得都碰着屋顶了。我知道我本不应该说这话,换了平常时候我大概也不会说这话,可当时她实在惹得我心里烦极了。平常我从来不跟姑娘们说这种粗话。嘿,她真蹦得碰着屋顶了。我象疯子似的直向她道歉,可她不肯接受。

她甚至都气得哭了。我见了倒是有点儿害怕,因为我有点儿怕她回家告诉她父亲,说我骂她讨人厌。

她父亲是那种沉默寡言的大杂种,对我可没什么好感。他曾经告诉老萨丽说我有点儿他妈的太胡闹。

“我不骗你。我很抱歉,”我不住地对她说。

“你很抱歉。你很抱歉。真是笑话,”她说。

她还在那儿哭,一时间我真有点儿懊悔自己不该跟她说这话。

“喂,我送你回家吧。不骗你。”

“我可以自己回家,谢谢你。你要是以为我会让位送我回家,那你准是疯啦。我活到这么大,从来没有一个男人跟我说过这样的话。”

你要是仔细想来,就会觉得整个事情确实很好笑,所以我突然做了桩我很不应该做的事情。我放声大笑起来,我的笑声又响又傻。我是说我要是坐在自己背后看电影什么的,我大概会弯过腰去跟我自己说,请劳驾别笑啦。我这一笑,可更把老萨丽气疯啦。

我逗留了一会儿,一个劲儿向她道歉,请她原谅我,可她不肯。她口口声声叫我走开,别打扰她。所以我最后也就照着她的话做了。我进去取出我的鞋子和别的东西,就离开她独自走了。Qī.shū.ωǎng.我本来不应该这样做的,可我当时对一切的一切实在他妈的厌倦透了。

你如果要我说老实话,那我可以告诉你说我甚至都不知道我为什么要跟她来这一套。我是说一块儿到马萨诺塞和凡蒙特去什么的。即便她答应同我去,我大概也不会带她去。她不是那种值得带着去的人。不过可怕的是,我要求带她去的时候却真有这个意思。就是这一点可怕。我可以对天发誓我真是个疯子。

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第18节

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我从溜冰场出来,觉得有点儿饿,就到咖啡馆里吃了一客干酪夹馅面包,喝了杯麦乳精,然后走进电话间。我本来想再打个电话给琴,问问她有没有回家。我是说我整个晚上没事,所以想打个电话给她,她要是已经回家了,就约她出来跳舞什么的。我认识她已有那么长时间,可是从来没跟她一块儿跳过舞。我倒是看见她跳过一次舞,好象跳得很好。那次是在俱乐部里举行的庆祝七月四日的舞会,我当时跟她还不熟,觉得自己不应该过去夹三。约她跳舞的是那个在乔埃特念书的可怕家伙亚尔.派克。我对他不怎么了解,可他整天泡在游泳池里。他穿了件永久脾之类的白色游泳裤,老是在最高的跳板上跳水。他整天跳的都是同一种鳖脚的倒栽葱姿势。他就只能跳这一种姿势,可他自以为非常了不起。他这人全是肌肉,没有脑子。嗯,那天晚上约琴出来的就是这么个人。我实在没法理解,我发誓我没法理解。我跟琴比较熟了以后,就问她怎么会跟亚尔.派克这种喜欢卖弄的杂种约会。琴说他并不喜欢卖弄。她说他有自卑感。看她的样子好象有点儿同情他,而她也决不是在装模作样。她真是这个意思。女孩子就是这点好笑。遇到那种地地道道的杂种——十分卑鄙,或者十分自高自大——你每次只要一跟姑娘们提起,她们就会说他有自卑感。也许他确有自卑感,可在我看来这也不能构成他不成为杂种的理由。那种姑娘,你真不知道她们心里是什么想法。有一次我介绍罗蓓塔.华尔西的同房间姑娘跟我的一个朋友约会。他的名字叫鲍伯.鲁滨孙,他倒真是有自卑感。你看得出他很为自己的父母难为情,因为他们说话土里士气,而且并不怎么有钱。可他不是个杂种。他是个挺不错的家伙。不过跟罗德塔同屋的那位姑娘一点也不喜欢他。她对罗德塔说他十分自高自大——而她之所以认为他自高自大脑理由,却是他偶尔跟她提起自已是辩论会的负责人,就是那么件小事,可她就认为他自高自大!姑娘们的问题是,她们要是喜欢什么人,不管他是个多下流的杂种,她们总要说他有自卑感;要是她们不喜欢他,那么不管他是个多好的家伙,或者他有多大的自卑感,她们都会说他自高自大。连聪明的姑娘也免不了。

嗯,我又给琴打了个电话,可没人来接,我只好把电话挂了。接着我不得不拿出笔记本来翻阅地址,看看他妈的今天晚上能找到什么人。不过问题是,我的笔记本里总共只有三个人的地址。一个是琴,一个是安多里尼先生,是我在爱尔克敦念书时教我的老师,还有个我父亲办公室的电话号码。我老是忘掉把人们的名字记下,所以我最后只好打电话给老卡尔.路斯。他是胡敦中学的毕业生,是在我离开之后毕业的。他的年纪比我约莫大三岁,我不很喜欢他,可他为人十分聪明——是胡敦全校学生中智力商数最高的一个——我想他也许能跟我一块儿在外面吃晚饭,谈一些比较有意思的话.他有时候极能启发人。因此我给他打了个电话。他现在进了哥伦比亚大学,可他住在第六十五条街,我知道这会儿他大概在家。我跟他通话的时候,他说他不能跟我一块儿吃晚饭,可他要我十点钟在第五十四条街的维格酒吧间等他,一同喝一杯。我揣摩他听—见我打电话给他大概很吃惊。我过去曾骂过他是胖屁股的伪君子。

在十点以前还有不少时间要消磨,所以我就到无线电城去看电影。这大概是我当时能做的最糟糕的事,可那地方近,我一时又想不出有别的什么事可做。

我进去的时候,正在表演混帐舞台节目。罗凯特姐妹们正在挤命地跳,她们全都排成一行,彼此用胳膊互搂着腰。观众们象疯子似的鼓着掌,我背后有个家伙不住地对他妻子说:“你知道这是什么吗?这是精确。”我听了差点儿笑死。继罗凯特姐妹之后,是一个穿着无尾礼服和一双四轮溜冰鞋的家伙出来表演,他在一嘟噜小桌子底下钻来钻去、一边还说着笑话。他溜的倒是非常好,可我并不怎么欣赏,因为我脑子里老是想象着他怎样日夜苦练,为了将来在舞台上表演。这在我看来简直使得要命。我揣摩我当时的心情确实不对头。他之后,是无线电城每年上演的圣诞节目。所有那些天使开始从包厢和其他各处出来,手里拿着十字架什么的,那么整整一大嘟噜——有好几千个——全都象疯子似的唱着“你们这些信徒,全都来吧!”真是了不起。干这玩艺儿的本来意思大概算是虔诚得要命,我知道,同时也好看得要命,可我实在看不出有什么虔诚或好看的地方,老天爷,象这样让一嘟噜演员拿着十字架满舞台转。等他们表演完毕重新走出包厢的时候,你都看得出他们已等不及回去抽烟了。去年我跟老萨丽.海斯也来看过一次,她不住口地称赞,说服装什么的都美极了。我说老耶酥要是能亲眼看见,准会作呕——见了所有这些时髦服装什么的。萨丽说我是亵渎神明的无神论者。我大概是这么个人。耶稣可能真正喜欢的恐怕是乐队里那个敲铜鼓的家伙。我从约莫八岁开始就看他表演。我弟弟艾里和我要是跟我们父母一块儿出来,我们两个往往特地换了座位,到前面去看他敲钢鼓。他是我生平见到过的最好的鼓手。整个演出中他只有机会敲一两次鼓,可他没事做的时候从来不露出腻烦的神色。等到他敲鼓的时候,他敲得那么好,那么动听,脸上还露出紧张的表情。有一次我们跟父亲一起到华盛顿去的时候,艾里还寄给他一张明信片,可我敢打赌他一直没收到。我们那时都还不知道怎样写地址呢。

圣诞节目演完后,混帐电影开始了。那电影混帐到了那种程度,我倒真是舍不得不看。故事讲的是个英国佬,叫艾力克什么的,参加了战争,在医院里丧失了记忆力。他从医院里出来,拄着根拐棍,一瘸一拐地在伦敦到处跑,不知道他妈的他自已是谁。他其实是个公爵,可他自己不知道。后来他遇到那个可爱、温柔、真挚的姑娘上公共汽车。

她那顶混帐帽子给风吹掉了,他去给她拾来,他们于是一块儿到汽车顶层上坐下,谈起查尔斯.狄更斯来。他们两个都喜欢这个作家。他身边带着本《奥列弗.退斯特》,她正好也带着一本。我差点儿都呕了出来。嗯,他们俩就这样一见钟情了,就因为彼此都是热爱查尔斯.狄更斯作品的疯子。他还帮着她做出版生意。那姑娘是个出版商。只是她的生意并不怎么兴隆,因为她哥哥是个酒鬼,把她挣的钱全给花了。他心里窝着一肚子火,她那个哥哥;因为战时他是个军医,给震坏了神经,不能再开刀动手术了,就一天到晚喝酒,可他为人倒是十分恢谐有趣。嗯,后来老艾力克写了一本书,那姑娘把它出版了,两个都嫌了不少钱。他们都准备好要结婚了,那另一个姑娘,叫什么玛霞的,突然出现了。玛霞原是英力克失去记忆之前的未婚妻,艾力克在书铺里往他书上亲笔签名的时候给她看见了。她认出了他,就跟他说他原是个公爵什么的,可他不信她的话,也不愿跟着她回去看他母亲什么的。他母亲的眼睛瞎得都跟蝙蝠似的。可另外那个始娘,那个可爱温柔的姑娘,却要他回去。她的心地十分高尚。他于是回去了。可是尽管他的那只丹麦种大狗冲着他又跳又蹦,他母亲用指头在他脸上到处抚摸,还拿出他小时候爱玩的玩具熊给他看,可他仍旧没恢复记忆。后来有一天几个小孩在草地上打捧球,一球打在他脑袋上。他立刻恢复了他的混帐记忆,进去吻他母亲的前额什么的。他于是依旧当起公爵来,把那个做出版生意的温柔姑娘完全扔到脑后了。我倒愿意把底下的故事说完,可这样一来我非真正呕出来不可。倒不是我会给你把故事糟蹋掉,那故事根本没什么可供你糟蹋的,我的老天爷。嗯,反正最后艾力克跟那个温柔的姑娘结婚了,接着那酒鬼哥哥的神经恢复了正常,给艾力克的母亲动了手术,使她依旧看得见东西,接着那个酒鬼哥哥和老玛霞成了眷属。最后一幕是大家坐在长长的晚饭桌上,看见那只大丹麦狗带着一嘟噜小狗进来,个个笑得命都不要了。或许大家都以为它是只雄狗呢,我揣摩,或者诸如此类的混帐玩艺儿。我能说的只有一句话:你要是不想把自己的肠子呕出来,就别去看这电影。

最让我受不了的是旁边还坐着位太太,在整个混帐电影放映时哭个不停。越演到假模假式的地方她越哭得凶。你也许会以为她这样做是因为她心肠软得要命,可我正好坐在她旁边,看出她并不是软心肠。她带着个小孩子,他早已看不下去电影,一定要上厕所去。她不住地叫他规规矩短坐着。她的心肠软得就跟他妈的狼差不离。那些在电影里看到什么假模假式的玩艺儿会把他们的混帐眼珠儿哭出来的人,他们十有九个在心底里都是卑鄙的杂种。我不开玩笑。

看完电影,我就徒步向维格酒吧间走去,我跟老卡尔.路斯约好了在那儿会面。我一边走,一边却想起战争来。那些战争片老引起我胡思乱想。我觉得自己要是被征去当兵,恐怕会受不了。我真的会受不了。要是他们光是让你去送死什么的,那倒也不太坏,问题是你得在军队里呆他妈的那么久。

这是最大的问题。我哥哥DB在军队里呆了他妈的四年。他也参加了战争——还参加了进攻欧洲大陆什么的——可我真觉得他痛恨军队比痛恨战争还厉害。我那时年纪还很小,可我记得他每次休假回来,简直是躺在床上不起来。他甚至连客厅都不进去。后来他到海外参加战争,身上没受过什么伤,也不用开熗打人。他光是驾驶着一辆指挥车载着一个牛仔将军整天转游。他有一次跟艾里和我说,他要是得开熗打人,都不知道应该朝哪个方向打。他说他呆的军队简直跟纳粹军队一样,全都是些杂种。

我记得艾里有一次问他参加战争对他有没有好处,因为他是个作家,战争可以向他提供不少材料。他叫艾里去把那只垒球手套拿来,随后他问艾里,谁是最好的战争诗人,是鲁帕特.勃洛克还是艾米莉.狄更生?艾里说是艾米莉.狄更生。我自己读诗不多,不太懂得他们的意思,可我却清楚地懂得我自己要是被征去当兵,一天到晚跟一嘟噜象阿克莱、斯特拉德莱塔和老毛里斯之类的家伙一块儿厮混,跟他们一块儿行军什么的,那我非发疯不可。

我有一次在童子军里呆了那么一个星期,我甚至都没法老望着我前面那个家伙的后脑勺。他们老是叫你望着你前面那个家伙的后脑勺,我实在受不了。

我发誓如果再发生一次战争,他们不如干脆把我送去放在行刑队跟前熗决算了。我决不反对。我对DB有一点不很了解,他那么痛恨战争,却在今年夏天让我阅读《永别了,武器》这样的小说。他说这本书写得好极了。就是这一点我不能理解。小说里有个叫作亨利少尉的家伙,大概算是个好人吧。

我实在不了解DB一方面那么痛恨军队和战争,一方面却能喜欢这样一个假模假式的人。我的意思是,比方说,我不了解他怎么能一方面喜欢这样一本假模假式的小说,一方面却又能喜欢林.拉德纳的那本小说,或者另外那本他最最喜欢的小说——《伟大的盖茨比》。我这么一说,DB听了很生气,说我年纪太小,还欣赏不了那样的书,可我不同意他的看法。我告诉他说我喜欢林.拉德纳和《伟大的盖茨比》这类书。我的确喜欢。我最最喜欢的是《伟大的盖茨比》。老盖茨比。可爱的家伙。我喜欢他极了。嗯,不管怎样,我们发明了原子弹这事倒让我挺高兴。要是再发生一次战争,我打算他妈的干脆坐在原子弹顶上。我愿意第一个报名,我可以对天发誓,我愿意这样做。

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第19节

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你或许不住在纽约,所以我来说给你听,维格酒吧间是在那个叫作萨敦饭店的高级旅馆里。我过去经常去,现在不去了。我慢慢地改掉了这习惯。

这是个十分浮华的场所,那班伪君子之流的假摸假式人物挤得简直都从窗口往里跳。他们一向雇着两个法国姑娘,提娜和琴妮,一个晚上出来弹钢琴歌唱三次,她们两个一个弹钢琴——弹得真是糟糕透顶——另一个唱歌,唱的不是下流歌曲就是法国歌曲。那个唱歌的老琴妮在唱歌之前老是在扩音器里小声说一通。她会这样说:“我们现在唱一支《你要法国姑娘吗?》唱的是一个法国小姑娘来到了一个象纽约这样的大城市,爱上了一个来自布鲁克林的小伙子。我们希望你们喜欢这支歌。”说完,她就装腔作势,唱起一支混帐歌来,一半用英文一半用法文,听得所有那些在场的假模假式男女高兴得都快疯了。你要是在那儿多坐会儿,老听着所有那些假模假式男女鼓掌什么的,你准会痛恨起世界上的每一个人来,我发誓你一定会。酒吧里那个掌柜的也下流得很。他是个势利鬼。他简直很少理睬人,除非你是个大亨或者名人或者类似的人物。可你万一真是个大亨或者名人或者类似的人物,那么他的所作所为还要更令人作呕。他会满脸堆着可爱的笑容走过来跟你说话,象煞他是个他妈的挺讨人喜欢的人物似的。“嗯!康涅狄格的情况怎样啦?”或者“佛罗里达的情况怎么样啦?”这真是个可怕的场所,我不说瞎话。我慢慢儿少去,后来压根儿不去了。

我到那儿时间还早,就在酒柜边坐下——酒吧里挤得很——在老路斯没来之前先喝两杯掺苏打水的威士忌。我要酒的时候,还特地站起来,让他们看看我的身材有多高,免得他们怀疑我是个未成年的混帐娃娃。这以后,我就观察一会儿那些假模假式的男女。我旁边的一个家伙正在用甜言蜜语一个劲儿哄骗跟他在一起的姑娘。他口口声声说她的那双手很象贵族。差点儿笑死我了。酒柜的另一头坐的全是些搞同性爱的性变态者。看他们的样子倒不太象那样的人——我是说他们的头发并不过于长,也没有其它怪相——可你总看得出他们是搞同性爱的。最后老路斯来了。

老路斯,了不起的家伙。我在胡敦念书的时候,他本应该是我的辅导员。可他只做一件事,就是在夜深人静的时候在他的房间里纠集一帮人大谈其性问题。他对性问题颇有研究,特别是性变态者之类。他老讲给我们听有些可怕的家伙怎样胡来,以及怎样把女人的裤子当作衬里缝在自己的帽子上。还有搞同性爱的男男女女。老路斯知道在美国搞同性爱的每一个男女。只要你提出一个人的名字——任何一个人的名字——老路斯就会告诉你他是不是搞同性爱的。有时候你简直很难相信,他把那些电影明星之流的男女都说成是搞同性爱的。有几个据他说是搞同性爱的男人甚至都结了婚,我的老天爷。你这么问他:“你说乔.勃罗是个搞同性爱的?乔.勃罗?那个老在电影里演流氓和牛仔的又魁伟又神气的家伙?”老路斯就会说:“当然啦。”他老是说“当然啦”。他说在这件事上结婚不结婚无关紧要。他说世界上有一半结了婚的男子都是搞同性爱的,可他们自己不知道。他还说只要你有那迹象,简直一夜之间就可以变成一个搞同性爱的。他常常把我们吓得魂不附体。我就一直等着自己突然变成一个搞同性爱的。说起老路斯来,有一点倒是很好笑,我心里老怀疑他本人就搞同性爱。

他老是说,“这件事你可以实地干一下拭试。”你走到走廊上的时候,他还会在你后面拼命呵痒。……

这类玩艺儿就有搞同性爱的迹象。一点不假。我在学校里认识一些搞同性爱的家伙,他们就老是搞这一套玩艺儿,所以我不免要疑心起老路斯来。不过他为人的确很聪明。一点儿不假。

他跟你见面的时候从来不跟你打招呼。他来了以后刚一坐下,头一句话就说他只能跟我一起呆几分钟。他说约好了一个女朋友。随后他要了不带甜味的马提尼鸡尾酒。他跟掌柜的说要一点都不带甜味,也不要橄榄。

“嗨,我给你找到了个搞同性爱的,”我对他说,“就坐在酒柜那头。现在先别看。我是特地保留着让你好好欣赏的。”

“滑稽极了,”他说。“还是同一个老考尔菲德。你什么时候才能长大?”

我惹得他十分腻烦。我真的惹得他十分腻烦。

不过他也引得我很开心。他这种人的确能引得我十分开心。

“你的性生活怎样?”我问他。他最恨你问他这一类问题。

“别着急,”他说。“你先靠在椅子上歇一会儿,老天爷。”

“我早就歇过来了,”我说。“哥伦比亚怎样?你喜欢吗?”

“我当然喜欢。我要是不喜欢,就不会进去,”他说。他这人有时候也很能让人腻烦。

“你主修什么?”我问他。“性变态吗?”我是成心逗他玩。

“你这算什么——滑稽?”

“不,我跟你逗着玩呢,”我说。“听着,嗨,路斯。你是个聪明人。我需要你的忠告。我目前遇到了可怕的——”他冲着我重重地呻唤了一声。“听着,考尔菲德。你要是能坐在这儿好好喝会儿酒,好好谈会儿——”“好吧,好吧,”我说。“别着急。”你看得出他不想跟我讨论任何严肃的问题。那般聪明人就是这个毛病。他们从来不肯跟你讨论任何严肃的问题,除非是他们自己想谈。因此我就只跟他讨论些一般性问题。“不跟你开玩笑,你的性生活怎样?”

我问他。“你是不是仍旧跟你在胡敦念书时候的那个姑娘在一起?那个极可爱的——”“老天爷,不啦,”他说。

“怎么啦?她出了什么事啦?”

“我一点儿也不知道。你既然问起,我想她这会儿大概在新汉普夏当婊子啦。”

“这样说不好。要是她过去待你挺不错,老让你跟她发生最亲密的关系,你至少不应该这么说她。”

“哦,天哪!”老路斯说。“难道这是一次标准的考尔菲德谈话吗?我马上要知道。”

“不,”我说,“不过你这样说总不太好。要是她过去待你挺不错,老让你——”“难道我们非照着这个可怕的题目谈下去不成?”

我不再说下去了。我有点儿怕他站起来离开我,要是我不住嘴的话。所以我当时什么话也没说,只是又要了一杯酒,我很想喝个烂醉。

“你现在跟谁在一起?”我问他。“你愿意告诉我吗?”

“你不认识。”

“是吗,不过到底是谁呢?我也许认得她。”

“一个位在格林威治村的姑娘。女雕刻家。你要是非知道不可的话。”

“是吗?不开玩笑?她多大啦?”

“我从来没问过她,老天爷。”

“嗯,大概有多大啦?”

“我想她都快四十了,”老路斯说。

“都快四十了?嗯?你喜欢?”我问他。“你喜欢这么大年纪的女人?”我之所以这样问他,是因为他的性知识的确非常丰富。我认识的真正有性知识的人并不多,可他确是其中的一个。他早在十四岁的时候就破了身,在南塔基特。一点不假。

“我喜欢成熟的女人,要是你问的是这个意思的话。当然啦。”

“你喜欢?为什么?不开玩笑,她们在性方面是不是更好一些?”

“听着。咱们把话说清楚。今天晚上我拒绝回答任何一个标准的考尔菲德问题。你他妈的到底什么时候才能长大?”

我有一会儿没再说话。我让我们的谈话中断了一会儿。接着老路斯又要了杯马提尼,还叫掌柜的再去掉点儿甜味。

“听着,你跟她在一起有多久啦,这个会雕刻的姑娘?”我问他。我真是感兴趣极了。“你在胡敦的时候认识她吗?”

“不认识。她到这个国家还只几个月哩。”

“真的吗?她是打哪儿来的?”

“好象是打上海来的。”

“别开玩笑!她是中国人,老天爷?”

“当然。”

“别开玩笑!你喜欢吗?象她这样的中国女人?”

“当然。”

“为什么?我很想知道——我的确想知道。”

“我只是偶然发现东方哲学比西方哲学更有道理。你既然问了。”

“真的吗?你是说‘哲学’?你的意思是不是包括性一类问题?你是说中国的更好?你是这个意思吗?”

“不一定是中国,老天爷。我刚才说的东方。

咱们难道非这么疯疯癫癫谈下去不可吗?”

“听着,我是跟你谈正经呢,”我说。“不开玩笑。为什么东方的更好?”

“说来话长,老天爷,”老路斯说。“他们只是把性关系看成是肉体和精神的双重关系。你要是以为我——”“我也一样!我也把它看成——你怎么说的——是肉体和精神的关系。我的确是这样看的。可是关键在于跟我发生关系的是他妈的什么人。要是跟我发生关系的是那种我甚至都不——”“别这么大声,老天爷,考尔菲德。你要是不能把你的声音放低些,那我们干脆就别——”“好吧,可是听我说,”我说。我越说越兴奋,声音就未免太大了一点。有时候我心里一兴奋,讲话的声音就大了。“可我说的是这个意思,”我说。“我知道那种关系应该是肉体和精神的,而且也应该是艺术的。可我的意思是,你不能跟人人都这样——跟每一个和你搂搂抱抱的姑娘——跟她们全都来这一手。你说对吗?”

“咱们别谈了吧,”老路斯说。“好不好?”

“好吧,可是听我说。就拿你和那个中国女人来说,你们俩的关系好在什么地方?”

“别谈了,我已经说过啦。”

我问的都有点儿涉及私人隐事了。我明白这一点。可老路斯就是这些地方让你觉得不痛快。我在胡敦的时候,他会叫你把你自己最最隐秘的事情形容给他听,可你只要一问起有关他自己的事情,他就会生起气来。这般聪明人就是这样,如果不是他们自己在发号施令,就不高兴跟你进行一场有意思的谈话。他们自己一住嘴,也就要你住嘴,他们一回到他们自己的房间,也就要你回到你自己的房间。我在胡敦的时候,老路斯一向痛恨这样的事——那就是他在他自己的房间里向我们一伙人谈完性问题后,我们还聚集在一起继续聊一会儿天。我是说另外那些家伙跟我自己。在别人的房间里。老路斯痛恨这类事情。他只喜欢自己一个人当大亨,等他把话说完,就希望每个人都回到自己的房间里不再言语。他最害怕的,就是怕有人说出来的话比他高明。他的确引得我很开心。

“我也许要到中国去。我的性生活糟糕得很呢,”我说。

“自然啦,你的头脑还没成熟。”

“不错。一点不错。我自己也知道,”我说。

“你知道我的毛病在哪儿?跟一个我并不太喜欢的姑娘在一起,我始终没有真正的性欲——我是说真正的性欲。我是说我得先喜欢她。要是不喜欢,我简直对她连一点点混帐的欲望都没有。嘿,我的性生活真是糟糕得可怕,我的性生活真是一塌糊涂。”

“这是最自然不过的啦,老天爷。我上次跟你见面的时候就跟你说了,你该怎么办。”

“你是说去找精神分析家?”我说。他上次告诉我该做的是这个。他父亲就是个精神分析家。

“那完全由你自己决定,老天爷。你怎样处理你自己的私生活,那完全不是我他妈的事儿。”

我一时没吭声,我在思索。

“我要是去找你父亲用精神分析法治疗,”我说。“他会拿我怎么办呢?我是说他会拿我怎么办呢?”

“他不会拿你他妈的怎么办。他只是跟你谈话,你也跟他谈话,老天爷。有一点他会帮你做到,他会让你认识自己的思想方式。”

“我自己的什么?”

“你自己的思想方式。你的思想按照——听着。我不是在教精神分析学的基础课。你要是有兴趣,打电话跟他约个时间。要是没有兴趣,就别打电话。我一点也不在乎,老实说。”

我把一只手搭在他的肩上。嘿,他真让我开心。

“你真是个够朋友的杂种,”我对他说。“你知道吗?”

他正在看手表。“我得定了,”他说着,站了起来。“见了你真高兴。”他叫来了掌柜的,要他开帐单。

“嗨,”我在他离开之前说。“你父亲对你作过精神分析没有?”

“我?你问这干什么?”

“没什么。他作了没有?有没有?”

“说不上分析。他帮助我纠正某些地方,可是没必要作一次全面的精神分析。你问这于什么?”

“没什么。只是一时想起。”

“呃。别为这种事伤脑筋,”他说。他把小帐留下,准备走了。

“再喝一杯吧。”我跟他说。“劳驾啦。我寂寞得要命。不开玩笑。”

他说没法再喝一杯。他说他已经迟了,说完他就走了。

老路斯。他确实非常讨人厌,可他的语汇确实丰富。我在胡敦的时候,全校学生就数他的语汇最丰富。他们测验过我们一次。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 6楼  发表于: 2013-10-11 0


14
After Old Sunny was gone, I sat in the chair for a while and smoked a couple of cigarettes. It was getting daylight outside. Boy, I felt miserable. I felt so depressed, you can't imagine. What I did, I started talking, sort of out loud, to Allie. I do that sometimes when I get very depressed. I keep telling him to go home and get his bike and meet me in front of Bobby Fallon's house. Bobby Fallon used to live quite near us in Maine--this is, years ago. Anyway, what happened was, one day Bobby and I were going over to Lake Sedebego on our bikes. We were going to take our lunches and all, and our BB guns--we were kids and all, and we thought we could shoot something with our BB guns. Anyway, Allie heard us talking about it, and he wanted to go, and I wouldn't let him. I told him he was a child. So once in a while, now, when I get very depressed, I keep saying to him, "Okay. Go home and get your bike and meet me in front of Bobby's house. Hurry up." It wasn't that I didn't use to take him with me when I went somewhere. I did. But that one day, I didn't. He didn't get sore about it--he never got sore about anything-- but I keep thinking about it anyway, when I get very depressed.
Finally, though, I got undressed and got in bed. I felt like praying or something, when I was in bed, but I couldn't do it. I can't always pray when I feel like it. In the first place, I'm sort of an atheist. I like Jesus and all, but I don't care too much for most of the other stuff in the Bible. Take the Disciples, for instance. They annoy the hell out of me, if you want to know the truth. They were all right after Jesus was dead and all, but while He was alive, they were about as much use to Him as a hole in the head. All they did was keep letting Him down. I like almost anybody in the Bible better than the Disciples. If you want to know the truth, the guy I like best in the Bible, next to Jesus, was that lunatic and all, that lived in the tombs and kept cutting himself with stones. I like him ten times as much as the Disciples, that poor bastard. I used to get in quite a few arguments about it, when I was at Whooton School, with this boy that lived down the corridor, Arthur Childs. Old Childs was a Quaker and all, and he read the Bible all the time. He was a very nice kid, and I liked him, but I could never see eye to eye with him on a lot of stuff in the Bible, especially the Disciples. He kept telling me if I didn't like the Disciples, then I didn't like Jesus and all. He said that because Jesus picked the Disciples, you were supposed to like them. I said I knew He picked them, but that He picked them at random. I said He didn't have time to go around analyzing everybody. I said I wasn't blaming Jesus or anything. It wasn't His fault that He didn't have any time. I remember I asked old Childs if he thought Judas, the one that betrayed Jesus and all, went to Hell after he committed suicide. Childs said certainly. That's exactly where I disagreed with him. I said I'd bet a thousand bucks that Jesus never sent old Judas to Hell. I still would, too, if I had a thousand bucks. I think any one of the Disciples would've sent him to Hell and all--and fast, too--but I'll bet anything Jesus didn't do it. Old Childs said the trouble with me was that I didn't go to church or anything. He was right about that, in a way. I don't. In the first place, my parents are different religions, and all the children in our family are atheists. If you want to know the truth, I can't even stand ministers. The ones they've had at every school I've gone to, they all have these Holy Joe voices when they start giving their sermons. God, I hate that. I don't see why the hell they can't talk in their natural voice. They sound so phony when they talk.
Anyway, when I was in bed, I couldn't pray worth a damn. Every time I got started, I kept picturing old Sunny calling me a crumb-bum. Finally, I sat up in bed and smoked another cigarette. It tasted lousy. I must've smoked around two packs since I left Pencey.
All of a sudden, while I was laying there smoking, somebody knocked on the door. I kept hoping it wasn't my door they were knocking on, but I knew damn well it was. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I knew who it was, too. I'm psychic.
"Who's there?" I said. I was pretty scared. I'm very yellow about those things.
They just knocked again, though. Louder.
Finally I got out of bed, with just my pajamas on, and opened the door. I didn't even have to turn the light on in the room, because it was already daylight. Old Sunny and Maurice, the pimpy elevator guy, were standing there.
"What's the matter? Wuddaya want?" I said. Boy, my voice was shaking like hell. "Nothin' much," old Maurice said. "Just five bucks." He did all the talking for the two of them. Old Sunny just stood there next to him, with her mouth open and all.
"I paid her already. I gave her five bucks. Ask her," I said. Boy, was my voice shaking.
"It's ten bucks, chief. I tole ya that. Ten bucks for a throw, fifteen bucks till noon. I tole ya that."
"You did not tell me that. You said five bucks a throw. You said fifteen bucks till noon, all right, but I distinctly heard you--"
"Open up, chief."
"What for?" I said. God, my old heart was damn near beating me out of the room. I wished I was dressed at least. It's terrible to be just in your pajamas when something like that happens.
"Let's go, chief," old Maurice said. Then he gave me a big shove with his crumby hand. I damn near fell over on my can--he was a huge sonuvabitch. The next thing I knew, he and old Sunny were both in the room. They acted like they owned the damn place. Old Sunny sat down on the window sill. Old Maurice sat down in the big chair and loosened his collar and all--he was wearing this elevator operator's uniform. Boy, was I nervous.
"All right, chief, let's have it. I gotta get back to work."
"I told you about ten times, I don't owe you a cent. I already gave her the five--"
"Cut the crap, now. Let's have it."
"Why should I give her another five bucks?" I said. My voice was cracking all over the place. "You're trying to chisel me."
Old Maurice unbuttoned his whole uniform coat. All he had on underneath was a phony shirt collar, but no shirt or anything. He had a big fat hairy stomach. "Nobody's tryna chisel nobody," he said. "Let's have it, chief."
"No."
When I said that, he got up from his chair and started walking towards me and all. He looked like he was very, very tired or very, very bored. God, was I scared. I sort of had my arms folded, I remember. It wouldn't have been so bad, I don't think, if I hadn't had just my goddam pajamas on.
"Let's have it, chief." He came right up to where I was standing. That's all he could say. "Let's have it, chief." He was a real moron.
"No."
"Chief, you're gonna force me inna roughin' ya up a little bit. I don't wanna do it, but that's the way it looks," he said. "You owe us five bucks."
"I don't owe you five bucks," I said. "If you rough me up, I'll yell like hell. I'll wake up everybody in the hotel. The police and all." My voice was shaking like a bastard.
"Go ahead. Yell your goddam head off. Fine," old Maurice said. "Want your parents to know you spent the night with a whore? High-class kid like you?" He was pretty sharp, in his crumby way. He really was.
"Leave me alone. If you'd said ten, it'd be different. But you distinctly--"
"Are ya gonna let us have it?" He had me right up against the damn door. He was almost standing on top of me, his crumby old hairy stomach and all.
"Leave me alone. Get the hell out of my room," I said. I still had my arms folded and all. God, what a jerk I was. Then Sunny said something for the first time. "Hey, Maurice. Want me to get his wallet?" she said. "It's right on the wutchamacallit."
"Yeah, get it."
"Leave my wallet alone!"
"I awreddy got it," Sunny said. She waved five bucks at me. "See? All I'm takin' is the five you owe me. I'm no crook."
All of a sudden I started to cry. I'd give anything if I hadn't, but I did. "No, you're no crooks," I said. "You're just stealing five--"
"Shut up," old Maurice said, and gave me a shove.
"Leave him alone, hey," Sunny said. "C'mon, hey. We got the dough he owes us. Let's go. C'mon, hey."
"I'm comin'," old Maurice said. But he didn't.
"I mean it, Maurice, hey. Leave him alone."
"Who's hurtin' anybody?" he said, innocent as hell. Then what he did, he snapped his finger very hard on my pajamas. I won't tell you where he snapped it, but it hurt like hell. I told him he was a goddam dirty moron. "What's that?" he said. He put his hand behind his ear, like a deaf guy. "What's that? What am I?"
I was still sort of crying. I was so damn mad and nervous and all. "You're a dirty moron," I said. "You're a stupid chiseling moron, and in about two years you'll be one of those scraggy guys that come up to you on the street and ask for a dime for coffee. You'll have snot all over your dirty filthy overcoat, and you'll be--"
Then he smacked me. I didn't even try to get out of the way or duck or anything. All I felt was this terrific punch in my stomach.
I wasn't knocked out or anything, though, because I remember looking up from the floor and seeing them both go out the door and shut it. Then I stayed on the floor a fairly long time, sort of the way I did with Stradlater. Only, this time I thought I was dying. I really did. I thought I was drowning or something. The trouble was, I could hardly breathe. When I did finally get up, I had to walk to the bathroom all doubled up and holding onto my stomach and all.
But I'm crazy. I swear to God I am. About halfway to the bathroom, I sort of started pretending I had a bullet in my guts. Old 'Maurice had plugged me. Now I was on the way to the bathroom to get a good shot of bourbon or something to steady my nerves and help me really go into action. I pictured myself coming out of the goddam bathroom, dressed and all, with my automatic in my pocket, and staggering around a little bit. Then I'd walk downstairs, instead of using the elevator. I'd hold onto the banister and all, with this blood trickling out of the side of my mouth a little at a time. What I'd do, I'd walk down a few floors--holding onto my guts, blood leaking all over the place-- and then I'd ring the elevator bell. As soon as old Maurice opened the doors, he'd see me with the automatic in my hand and he'd start screaming at me, in this very high-pitched, yellow-belly voice, to leave him alone. But I'd plug him anyway. Six shots right through his fat hairy belly. Then I'd throw my automatic down the elevator shaft--after I'd wiped off all the finger prints and all. Then I'd crawl back to my room and call up Jane and have her come over and bandage up my guts. I pictured her holding a cigarette for me to smoke while I was bleeding and all.
The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I'm not kidding. I stayed in the bathroom for about an hour, taking a bath and all. Then I got back in bed. It took me quite a while to get to sleep--I wasn't even tired--but finally I did. What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.
15
I didn't sleep too long, because I think it was only around ten o'clock when I woke up. I felt pretty hungry as soon as I had a cigarette. The last time I'd eaten was those two hamburgers I had with Brossard and Ackley when we went in to Agerstown to the movies. That was a long time ago. It seemed like fifty years ago. The phone was right next to me, and I started to call down and have them send up some breakfast, but I was sort of afraid they might send it up with old Maurice. If you think I was dying to see him again, you're crazy. So I just laid around in bed for a while and smoked another cigarette. I thought of giving old Jane a buzz, to see if she was home yet and all, but I wasn't in the mood.
What I did do, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz. She went to Mary A. Woodruff, and I knew she was home because I'd had this letter from her a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't too crazy about her, but I'd known her for years. I used to think she was quite intelligent, in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she knew quite a lot about the theater and plays and literature and all that stuff. If somebody knows quite a lot about those things, it takes you quite a while to find out whether they're really stupid or not. It took me years to find it out, in old Sally's case. I think I'd have found it out a lot sooner if we hadn't necked so damn much. My big trouble is, I always sort of think whoever I'm necking is a pretty intelligent person. It hasn't got a goddam thing to do with it, but I keep thinking it anyway.
Anyway, I gave her a buzz. First the maid answered. Then her father. Then she got on. "Sally?" I said.
"Yes--who is this?" she said. She was quite a little phony. I'd already told her father who it was.
"Holden Caulfield. How are ya?"
"Holden! I'm fine! How are you?"
"Swell. Listen. How are ya, anyway? I mean how's school?"
"Fine," she said. "I mean--you know."
"Swell. Well, listen. I was wondering if you were busy today. It's Sunday, but there's always one or two matinees going on Sunday. Benefits and that stuff. Would you care to go?"
"I'd love to. Grand."
Grand. If there's one word I hate, it's grand. It's so phony. For a second, I was tempted to tell her to forget about the matinee. But we chewed the fat for a while. That is, she chewed it. You couldn't get a word in edgewise. First she told me about some Harvard guy-- it probably was a freshman, but she didn't say, naturally--that was rushing hell out of her. Calling her up night and day. Night and day--that killed me. Then she told me about some other guy, some West Point cadet, that was cutting his throat over her too. Big deal. I told her to meet me under the clock at the Biltmore at two o'clock, and not to be late, because the show probably started at two-thirty. She was always late. Then I hung up. She gave me a pain in the ass, but she was very good-looking.
After I made the date with old Sally, I got out of bed and got dressed and packed my bag. I took a look out the window before I left the room, though, to see how all the perverts were doing, but they all had their shades down. They were the heighth of modesty in the morning. Then I went down in the elevator and checked out. I didn't see old Maurice around anywhere. I didn't break my neck looking for him, naturally, the bastard.
I got a cab outside the hotel, but I didn't have the faintest damn idea where I was going. I had no place to go. It was only Sunday, and I couldn't go home till Wednesday--or Tuesday the soonest. And I certainly didn't feel like going to another hotel and getting my brains beat out. So what I did, I told the driver to take me to Grand Central Station. It was right near the Biltmore, where I was meeting Sally later, and I figured what I'd do, I'd check my bags in one of those strong boxes that they give you a key to, then get some breakfast. I was sort of hungry. While I was in the cab, I took out my wallet and sort of counted my money. I don't remember exactly what I had left, but it was no fortune or anything. I'd spent a king's ransom in about two lousy weeks. I really had. I'm a goddam spendthrift at heart. What I don't spend, I lose. Half the time I sort of even forget to pick up my change, at restaurants and night clubs and all. It drives my parents crazy. You can't blame them. My father's quite wealthy, though. I don't know how much he makes--he's never discussed that stuff with me--but I imagine quite a lot. He's a corporation lawyer. Those boys really haul it in. Another reason I know he's quite well off, he's always investing money in shows on Broadway. They always flop, though, and it drives my mother crazy when he does it. She hasn't felt too healthy since my brother Allie died. She's very nervous. That's another reason why I hated like hell for her to know I got the ax again.
After I put my bags in one of those strong boxes at the station, I went into this little sandwich bar and bad breakfast. I had quite a large breakfast, for me--orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Usually I just drink some orange juice. I'm a very light eater. I really am. That's why I'm so damn skinny. I was supposed to be on this diet where you eat a lot of starches and crap, to gain weight and all, but I didn't ever do it. When I'm out somewhere, I generally just eat a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted milk. It isn't much, but you get quite a lot of vitamins in the malted milk. H. V. Caulfield. Holden Vitamin Caulfield.
While I was eating my eggs, these two nuns with suitcases and all--I guessed they were moving to another convent or something and were waiting for a train--came in and sat down next to me at the counter. They didn't seem to know what the hell to do with their suitcases, so I gave them a hand. They were these very inexpensive-looking suitcases--the ones that aren't genuine leather or anything. It isn't important, I know, but I hate it when somebody has cheap suitcases. It sounds terrible to say it, but I can even get to hate somebody, just looking at them, if they have cheap suitcases with them. Something happened once. For a while when I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed with this boy, Dick Slagle, that had these very inexpensive suitcases. He used to keep them under the bed, instead of on the rack, so that nobody'd see them standing next to mine. It depressed holy hell out of me, and I kept wanting to throw mine out or something, or even trade with him. Mine came from Mark Cross, and they were genuine cowhide and all that crap, and I guess they cost quite a pretty penny. But it was a funny thing. Here's what happened. What I did, I finally put my suitcases under my bed, instead of on the rack, so that old Slagle wouldn't get a goddam inferiority complex about it. But here's what he did. The day after I put mine under my bed, he took them out and put them back on the rack. The reason he did it, it took me a while to find out, was because he wanted people to think my bags were his. He really did. He was a very funny guy, that way. He was always saying snotty things about them, my suitcases, for instance. He kept saying they were too new and bourgeois. That was his favorite goddam word. He read it somewhere or heard it somewhere. Everything I had was bourgeois as hell. Even my fountain pen was bourgeois. He borrowed it off me all the time, but it was bourgeois anyway. We only roomed together about two months. Then we both asked to be moved. And the funny thing was, I sort of missed him after we moved, because he had a helluva good sense of humor and we had a lot of fun sometimes. I wouldn't be surprised if he missed me, too. At first he only used to be kidding when he called my stuff bourgeois, and I didn't give a damn--it was sort of funny, in fact. Then, after a while, you could tell he wasn't kidding any more. The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs--if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do. It's one of the reasons why I roomed with a stupid bastard like Stradlater. At least his suitcases were as good as mine.
Anyway, these two nuns were sitting next to me, and we sort of struck up a conversation. The one right next to me had one of those straw baskets that you see nuns and Salvation Army babes collecting dough with around Christmas time. You see them standing on corners, especially on Fifth Avenue, in front of the big department stores and all. Anyway, the one next to me dropped hers on the floor and I reached down and picked it up for her. I asked her if she was out collecting money for charity and all. She said no. She said she couldn't get it in her suitcase when she was packing it and she was just carrying it. She had a pretty nice smile when she looked at you. She had a big nose, and she had on those glasses with sort of iron rims that aren't too attractive, but she had a helluva kind face. "I thought if you were taking up a collection," I told her, "I could make a small contribution. You could keep the money for when you do take up a collection."
"Oh, how very kind of you," she said, and the other one, her friend, looked over at me. The other one was reading a little black book while she drank her coffee. It looked like a Bible, but it was too skinny. It was a Bible-type book, though. All the two of them were eating for breakfast was toast and coffee. That depressed me. I hate it if I'm eating bacon and eggs or something and somebody else is only eating toast and coffee.
They let me give them ten bucks as a contribution. They kept asking me if I was sure I could afford it and all. I told them I had quite a bit of money with me, but they didn't seem to believe me. They took it, though, finally. The both of them kept thanking me so much it was embarrassing. I swung the conversation around to general topics and asked them where they were going. They said they were schoolteachers and that they'd just come from Chicago and that they were going to start teaching at some convent on 168th Street or 186th Street or one of those streets way the hell uptown. The one next to me, with the iron glasses, said she taught English and her friend taught history and American government. Then I started wondering like a bastard what the one sitting next to me, that taught English, thought about, being a nun and all, when she read certain books for English. Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy stuff in them, but books with lovers and all in them. Take old Eustacia Vye, in The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy. She wasn't too sexy or anything, but even so you can't help wondering what a nun maybe thinks about when she reads about old Eustacia. I didn't say anything, though, naturally. All I said was English was my best subject.
"Oh, really? Oh, I'm so glad!" the one with the glasses, that taught English, said. "What have you read this year? I'd be very interested to know." She was really nice.
"Well, most of the time we were on the Anglo-Saxons. Beowulf, and old Grendel, and Lord Randal My Son, and all those things. But we had to read outside books for extra credit once in a while. I read The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy, and Romeo and Juliet and Julius--"
"Oh, Romeo and Juliet! Lovely! Didn't you just love it?" She certainly didn't sound much like a nun.
"Yes. I did. I liked it a lot. There were a few things I didn't like about it, but it was quite moving, on the whole."
"What didn't you like about it? Can you remember?" To tell you the truth, it was sort of embarrassing, in a way, to be talking about Romeo and Juliet with her. I mean that play gets pretty sexy in some parts, and she was a nun and all, but she asked me, so I discussed it with her for a while. "Well, I'm not too crazy about Romeo and Juliet," I said. "I mean I like them, but--I don't know. They get pretty annoying sometimes. I mean I felt much sorrier when old Mercutio got killed than when Romeo and Juliet did. The think is, I never liked Romeo too much after Mercutio gets stabbed by that other man--Juliet's cousin--what's his name?"
"Tybalt."
"That's right. Tybalt," I said--I always forget that guy's name. "It was Romeo's fault. I mean I liked him the best in the play, old Mercutio. I don't know. All those Montagues and Capulets, they're all right--especially Juliet--but Mercutio, he was--it's hard to explain. He was very smart and entertaining and all. The thing is, it drives me crazy if somebody gets killed-- especially somebody very smart and entertaining and all--and it's somebody else's fault. Romeo and Juliet, at least it was their own fault."
"What school do you go to?" she asked me. She probably wanted to get off the subject of Romeo and Juliet.
I told her Pencey, and she'd heard of it. She said it was a very good school. I let it pass, though. Then the other one, the one that taught history and government, said they'd better be running along. I took their check off them, but they wouldn't let me pay it. The one with the glasses made me give it back to her.
"You've been more than generous," she said. "You're a very sweet boy." She certainly was nice. She reminded me a little bit of old Ernest Morrow's mother, the one I met on the train. When she smiled, mostly. "We've enjoyed talking to you so much," she said.
I said I'd enjoyed talking to them a lot, too. I meant it, too. I'd have enjoyed it even more though, I think, if I hadn't been sort of afraid, the whole time I was talking to them, that they'd all of a sudden try to find out if I was a Catholic. Catholics are always trying to find out if you're a Catholic. It happens to me a lot, I know, partly because my last name is Irish, and most people of Irish descent are Catholics. As a matter of fact, my father was a Catholic once. He quit, though, when he married my mother. But Catholics are always trying to find out if you're a Catholic even if they don't know your last name. I knew this one Catholic boy, Louis Shaney, when I was at the Whooton School. He was the first boy I ever met there. He and I were sitting in the first two chairs outside the goddam infirmary, the day school opened, waiting for our physicals, and we sort of struck up this conversation about tennis. He was quite interested in tennis, and so was I. He told me he went to the Nationals at Forest Hills every summer, and I told him I did too, and then we talked about certain hot-shot tennis players for quite a while. He knew quite a lot about tennis, for a kid his age. He really did. Then, after a while, right in the middle of the goddam conversation, he asked me, "Did you happen to notice where the Catholic church is in town, by any chance?" The thing was, you could tell by the way he asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He really was. Not that he was prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversation about tennis and all, but you could tell he would've enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I'm not saying it ruined our conversation or anything--it didn't--but it sure as hell didn't do it any good. That's why I was glad those two nuns didn't ask me if I was a Catholic. It wouldn't have spoiled the conversation if they had, but it would've been different, probably. I'm not saying I blame Catholics. I don't. I'd be the same way, probably, if I was a Catholic. It's just like those suitcases I was telling you about, in a way. All I'm saying is that it's no good for a nice conversation. That's all I'm saying.
When they got up to go, the two nuns, I did something very stupid and embarrassing. I was smoking a cigarette, and when I stood up to say good-by to them, by mistake I blew some smoke in their face. I didn't mean to, but I did it. I apologized like a madman, and they were very polite and nice about it, but it was very embarrassing anyway.
After they left, I started getting sorry that I'd only given them ten bucks for their collection. But the thing was, I'd made that date to go to a matinee with old Sally Hayes, and I needed to keep some dough for the tickets and stuff. I was sorry anyway, though. Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.
16
After I had my breakfast, it was only around noon, and I wasn't meeting old Sally till two o'clock, so I started taking this long walk. I couldn't stop thinking about those two nuns. I kept thinking about that beatup old straw basket they went around collecting money with when they weren't teaching school. I kept trying to picture my mother or somebody, or my aunt, or Sally Hayes's crazy mother, standing outside some department store and collecting dough for poor people in a beat-up old straw basket. It was hard to picture. Not so much my mother, but those other two. My aunt's pretty charitable--she does a lot of Red Cross work and all--but she's very well-dressed and all, and when she does anything charitable she's always very well-dressed and has lipstick on and all that crap. I couldn't picture her doing anything for charity if she had to wear black clothes and no lipstick while she was doing it. And old Sally Hayes's mother. Jesus Christ. The only way she could go around with a basket collecting dough would be if everybody kissed her ass for her when they made a contribution. If they just dropped their dough in her basket, then walked away without saying anything to her, ignoring her and all, she'd quit in about an hour. She'd get bored. She'd hand in her basket and then go someplace swanky for lunch. That's what I liked about those nuns. You could tell, for one thing, that they never went anywhere swanky for lunch. It made me so damn sad when I thought about it, their never going anywhere swanky for lunch or anything. I knew it wasn't too important, but it made me sad anyway.
I started walking over toward Broadway, just for the hell of it, because I hadn't been over there in years. Besides, I wanted to find a record store that was open on Sunday. There was this record I wanted to get for Phoebe, called "Little Shirley Beans." It was a very hard record to get. It was about a little kid that wouldn't go out of the house because two of her front teeth were out and she was ashamed to. I heard it at Pencey. A boy that lived on the next floor had it, and I tried to buy it off him because I knew it would knock old Phoebe out, but he wouldn't sell it. It was a very old, terrific record that this colored girl singer, Estelle Fletcher, made about twenty years ago. She sings it very Dixieland and whorehouse, and it doesn't sound at all mushy. If a white girl was singing it, she'd make it sound cute as hell, but old Estelle Fletcher knew what the hell she was doing, and it was one of the best records I ever heard. I figured I'd buy it in some store that was open on Sunday and then I'd take it up to the park with me. It was Sunday and Phoebe goes rollerskating in the park on Sundays quite frequently. I knew where she hung out mostly.
It wasn't as cold as it was the day before, but the sun still wasn't out, and it wasn't too nice for walking. But there was one nice thing. This family that you could tell just came out of some church were walking right in front of me--a father, a mother, and a little kid about six years old. They looked sort of poor. The father had on one of those pearl-gray hats that poor guys wear a lot when they want to look sharp. He and his wife were just walking along, talking, not paying any attention to their kid. The kid was swell. He was walking in the street, instead of on the sidewalk, but right next to the curb. He was making out like he was walking a very straight line, the way kids do, and the whole time he kept singing and humming. I got up closer so I could hear what he was singing. He was singing that song, "If a body catch a body coming through the rye." He had a pretty little voice, too. He was just singing for the hell of it, you could tell. The cars zoomed by, brakes screeched all over the place, his parents paid no attention to him, and he kept on walking next to the curb and singing "If a body catch a body coming through the rye." It made me feel better. It made me feel not so depressed any more.
Broadway was mobbed and messy. It was Sunday, and only about twelve o'clock, but it was mobbed anyway. Everybody was on their way to the movies--the Paramount or the Astor or the Strand or the Capitol or one of those crazy places. Everybody was all dressed up, because it was Sunday, and that made it worse. But the worst part was that you could tell they all wanted to go to the movies. I couldn't stand looking at them. I can understand somebody going to the movies because there's nothing else to do, but when somebody really wants to go, and even walks fast so as to get there quicker, then it depresses hell out of me. Especially if I see millions of people standing in one of those long, terrible lines, all the way down the block, waiting with this terrific patience for seats and all. Boy, I couldn't get off that goddam Broadway fast enough. I was lucky. The first record store I went into had a copy of "Little Shirley Beans." They charged me five bucks for it, because it was so hard to get, but I didn't care. Boy, it made me so happy all of a sudden. I could hardly wait to get to the park to see if old Phoebe was around so that I could give it to her.
When I came out of the record store, I passed this drugstore, and I went in. I figured maybe I'd give old Jane a buzz and see if she was home for vacation yet. So I went in a phone booth and called her up. The only trouble was, her mother answered the phone, so I had to hang up. I didn't feel like getting involved in a long conversation and all with her. I'm not crazy about talking to girls' mothers on the phone anyway. I should've at least asked her if Jane was home yet, though. It wouldn't have killed me. But I didn't feel like it. You really have to be in the mood for that stuff.
I still had to get those damn theater tickets, so I bought a paper and looked up to see what shows were playing. On account of it was Sunday, there were only about three shows playing. So what I did was, I went over and bought two orchestra seats for I Know My Love. It was a benefit performance or something. I didn't much want to see it, but I knew old Sally, the queen of the phonies, would start drooling all over the place when I told her I had tickets for that, because the Lunts were in it and all. She liked shows that are supposed to be very sophisticated and dry and all, with the Lunts and all. I don't. I don't like any shows very much, if you want to know the truth. They're not as bad as movies, but they're certainly nothing to rave about. In the first place, I hate actors. They never act like people. They just think they do. Some of the good ones do, in a very slight way, but not in a way that's fun to watch. And if any actor's really good, you can always tell he knows he's good, and that spoils it. You take Sir Laurence Olivier, for example. I saw him in Hamlet. D.B. took Phoebe and I to see it last year. He treated us to lunch first, and then he took us. He'd already seen it, and the way he talked about it at lunch, I was anxious as hell to see it, too. But I didn't enjoy it much. I just don't see what's so marvelous about Sir Laurence Olivier, that's all. He has a terrific voice, and he's a helluva handsome guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or something, but he wasn't at all the way D.B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a goddam general, instead of a sad, screwed-up type guy. The best part in the whole picture was when old Ophelia's brother--the one that gets in the duel with Hamlet at the very end--was going away and his father was giving him a lot of advice. While the father kept giving him a lot of advice, old Ophelia was sort of horsing around with her brother, taking his dagger out of the holster, and teasing him and all while he was trying to look interested in the bull his father was shooting. That was nice. I got a big bang out of that. But you don't see that kind of stuff much. The only thing old Phoebe liked was when Hamlet patted this dog on the head. She thought that was funny and nice, and it was. What I'll have to do is, I'll have to read that play. The trouble with me is, I always have to read that stuff by myself. If an actor acts it out, I hardly listen. I keep worrying about whether he's going to do something phony every minute.
After I got the tickets to the Lunts' show, I took a cab up to the park. I should've taken a subway or something, because I was getting slightly low on dough, but I wanted to get off that damn Broadway as fast as I could.
It was lousy in the park. It wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat down on them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no reason, you got goose flesh while you walked. It didn't seem at all like Christmas was coming soon. It didn't seem like anything was coming. But I kept walking over to the Mall anyway, because that's where Phoebe usually goes when she's in the park. She likes to skate near the bandstand. It's funny. That's the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid.
When I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There were a few kids around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up with a soft ball, but no Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though, sitting on a bench all by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and could tell me where she was or something, so I went over and sat down next to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe Caulfield, by any chance?"
"Who?" she said. All she had on was jeans and about twenty sweaters. You could tell her mother made them for her, because they were lumpy as hell.
"Phoebe Caulfield. She lives on Seventy-first Street. She's in the fourth grade, over at--"
"You know Phoebe?"
"Yeah, I'm her brother. You know where she is?"
"She's in Miss Callon's class, isn't she?" the kid said.
"I don't know. Yes, I think she is."
"She's prob'ly in the museum, then. We went last Saturday," the kid said.
"Which museum?" I asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders, sort of. "I don't know," she said. "The museum."
"I know, but the one where the pictures are, or the one where the Indians are?"
"The one where the Indians."
"Thanks a lot," I said. I got up and started to go, but then I suddenly remembered it was Sunday. "This is Sunday," I told the kid.
She looked up at me. "Oh. Then she isn't."
She was having a helluva time tightening her skate. She didn't have any gloves on or anything and her hands were all red and cold. I gave her a hand with it. Boy, I hadn't had a skate key in my hand for years. It didn't feel funny, though. You could put a skate key in my hand fifty years from now, in pitch dark, and I'd still know what it is. She thanked me and all when I had it tightened for her. She was a very nice, polite little kid. God, I love it when a kid's nice and polite when you tighten their skate for them or something. Most kids are. They really are. I asked her if she'd care to have a hot chocolate or something with me, but she said no, thank you. She said she had to meet her friend. Kids always have to meet their friend. That kills me.
Even though it was Sunday and Phoebe wouldn't be there with her class or anything, and even though it was so damp and lousy out, I walked all the way through the park over to the Museum of Natural History. I knew that was the museum the kid with the skate key meant. I knew that whole museum routine like a book. Phoebe went to the same school I went to when I was a kid, and we used to go there all the time. We had this teacher, Miss Aigletinger, that took us there damn near every Saturday. Sometimes we looked at the animals and sometimes we looked at the stuff the Indians had made in ancient times. Pottery and straw baskets and all stuff like that. I get very happy when I think about it. Even now. I remember after we looked at all the Indian stuff, usually we went to see some movie in this big auditorium. Columbus. They were always showing Columbus discovering America, having one helluva time getting old Ferdinand and Isabella to lend him the dough to buy ships with, and then the sailors mutinying on him and all. Nobody gave too much of a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world. I loved that damn museum. I remember you had to go through the Indian Room to get to the auditorium. It was a long, long room, and you were only supposed to whisper. The teacher would go first, then the class. You'd be two rows of kids, and you'd have a partner. Most of the time my partner was this girl named Gertrude Levine. She always wanted to hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or sweaty or something. The floor was all stone, and if you had some marbles in your hand and you dropped them, they bounced like madmen all over the floor and made a helluva racket, and the teacher would hold up the class and go back and see what the hell was going on. She never got sore, though, Miss Aigletinger. Then you'd pass by this long, long Indian war canoe, about as long as three goddam Cadillacs in a row, with about twenty Indians in it, some of them paddling, some of them just standing around looking tough, and they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one very spooky guy in the back of the canoe, with a mask on. He was the witch doctor. He gave me the creeps, but I liked him anyway. Another thing, if you touched one of the paddles or anything while you were passing, one of the guards would say to you, "Don't touch anything, children," but he always said it in a nice voice, not like a goddam cop or anything. Then you'd pass by this big glass case, with Indians inside it rubbing sticks together to make a fire, and a squaw weaving a blanket. The squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a good look at it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they didn't have any more bosom than we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doors, you passed this Eskimo. He was sitting over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing through it. He had about two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that museum was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.I took my old hunting hat out of my pocket while I walked, and put it on. I knew I wouldn't meet anybody that knew me, and it was pretty damp out. I kept walking and walking, and I kept thinking about old Phoebe going to that museum on Saturdays the way I used to. I thought how she'd see the same stuff I used to see, and how she'd be different every time she saw it. It didn't exactly depress me to think about it, but it didn't make me feel gay as hell, either. Certain things they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone. I know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway. Anyway, I kept thinking about all that while I walked.
I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids on a seesaw. One of them was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to sort of even up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them alone.
Then a funny thing happened. When I got to the museum, all of a sudden I wouldn't have gone inside for a million bucks. It just didn't appeal to me--and here I'd walked through the whole goddam park and looked forward to it and all. If Phoebe'd been there, I probably would have, but she wasn't. So all I did, in front of the museum, was get a cab and go down to the Biltmore. I didn't feel much like going. I'd made that damn date with Sally, though.



第14节

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老孙妮走了以后,我在椅子上坐了一会儿,抽了两支烟。外面天已慢慢亮了。嘿,我心里很难过,我那时心里有多沮丧,你简直没法想象。我当时干了些什么呢,我开始大声跟艾里讲起话来。有时候我心情实在沮丧得厉害,就会这么办,我口口声声叫他回家取自行车去,到鲍比.法隆家门口来找我。我们在缅因的时候,就住在鲍比.法隆家附近——那是几年前的事了。嗯,那次是这么回事,有一天鲍比和我想骑自行车到塞德比哥湖去。我们自带午饭,还带着支汽熗——我们还都很小,以为用我们的汽熗可以打猎。嗯,艾里听见我们谈论这事,也要跟着去,我不肯答应。我告诉他说他还太小。此后每逢我心里十分沮丧,就会口口声声跟他说:“好吧。回家取你的自行车去,我在鲍比家门口等你。快去。”那倒不是我出去的时候总不带他一起去。我是带的。可是那一天我没带他去。他倒没生气——他从来不为什么事生气——可我只要心里十分沮丧,就老会想起这件事。

最后,我脱掉衣服上床了。上床以后,我倒是想祷告什么的,可我祷告不出来。我真想祷告的时候,却往往祷告不出来。主要原因是我不信教。我喜欢耶酥什么的,可我对《圣经》里其他那些玩艺儿多半不感兴趣。就拿十二门徒来说吧,他们都叫我腻烦得要命,我老实告诉你说。耶稣死后,他们倒是挺不错,可耶稣活着的时候,他们起的作用,简直等于是在他的脑袋里打了个窟窿眼儿。他们只会泄他的气。在我看来《圣经》里的任何人物都要比十二门徒强。你如果要我说老实话,《圣经》里除了耶稣以外,我最最喜欢的要数那个疯子,就是住在坟墓里不断地拿石头砍自己的那个。这个可怜的杂种,我喜欢他要胜过那些门徒十倍。我在胡敦中学的时候,常常为这事跟住在走廊尽头那个叫作亚瑟.查尔兹的家伙争论个没完。老查尔兹是个教友会信徒,一天到晚在读《圣经》。他是个很不错的孩子,我很喜欢他,不过关于《圣经》里的许多事物,我始终没法跟他取得一致看法,尤其是那些门徒。他口口声声跟我说,我要是不喜欢那些门徒,也就是不喜欢耶稣本人。他说,既然是耶稣选择了那些门徒,你就应该喜欢他们。我说,我也知道是他选择了他们,不过他只是随便挑选的。我说,他没时间对每个人作仔细分析。我说,我毫无责备耶稣的意思。他之所以没时间,那也不能怪他。我记得我还问过老查尔兹,那个出卖耶酥的犹大自杀以后是不是进了地狱。查尔兹说当然啦。我就是在这一点上不能同意他的意见。我说,我可以跟他赌一千块钱,耶稣并没有将犹大打入地狱。我现在依旧愿意跟人打这个赌,只要我有一千块钱。我觉得任何一个门徒都会把犹大打入地狱——而且打得极快——不过我可以拿随便什么东西打赌,耶稣决不会这样做。老查尔兹说,我的问题在于从来不上教堂。他这话说的倒是有些对。我的确从来不上教堂。主要是,我父母信不同的教,家里的孩子也就什么教也不信了。你如果要我说实话,我可以老实告诉你说我甚至受不了那些牧师。就拿我念书的那些学校里的牧师来说吧,他们布道的时候,总装出那么一副神圣的嗓音。天哪,我真讨厌这个。我真他妈的看不出他们为什么不能用原来的嗓音讲道。

她们一讲起道来,听去总是那么假。

嗯,我上床以后,却怎么也祷告不出来。我只要一开始祷告,就会想起老孙妮怎样管我叫瘪三。

最后,我在床上坐起来,又抽了支烟。那烟抽在嘴里一点味道都没有。我自从离开潘西以后,差不多抽掉两包烟了。

我正躺在床上抽烟,忽听得外面有人敲门。我很希望敲的不是我的房门,可我心里清清楚楚地知道敲的正是我的房门。我不知道自己怎么会知道,可我的确知道得很清楚。我也知道是谁在敲门。我末卜先知。

“谁敲门?”我说。我心里很害怕。我对这类事情一向很胆小。

他们光是一个劲儿地敲门。越敲越响。

最后我从床上起来,穿着睡衣裤去开门。我甚至都用不着开房间里的灯,因为天已经亮了。老孙妮和开电梯的王八毛里斯就站在门外。

“怎么啦?有什么事?”我说。嘿,我的声音怎么抖得这样厉害。

“没什么事,”老毛里斯说。“只要五块钱。”

两个人里面只他一个人讲话。老孙妮只是张大了嘴站在他旁边。

“我已经给她了。我给了她五块钱。你问她,”我说。嘿,我的声音直发抖。

“要十块,先生。我跟你说好的。十块一次,十五块到中午。我跟你说好的。”

“你不是跟我这么说的。你说五块一次。你说十五块到中午,不错,我清清楚楚地听你说——”“把门开大点儿,先生。”

“干吗?”我说。天哪,我的那颗心差点儿从我嗓子眼里跳出来了。我真希望自己至少穿好了衣服,遇到这样的事,光穿着睡衣裤真是可怕。

“咱们进去说,先生,”老毛里斯说着,用他的那只脏手狠狠地推了我一把,我他妈的差点儿倒栽了个跟斗——他是个魁伟的婊子养的。一转眼,他跟老孙妮两个都在房里了。瞧他们模样,就象这混帐地方是属于他们的。老孙妮坐在窗台上。老毛里斯就坐在那把大椅子上,解开了衣服领子——他还穿着那套开电梯的制服。嘿,我当时紧张极了。

“好吧,先生,拿钱来吧。我还得回去干活儿呢。”

“我已经跟你说过十遍啦,我不欠你一个子儿。我已经给了她五——”“别说废话啦,嗳。拿钱来吧。”

“我嘛,干吗还要给她五块钱?”我说。我的声音响彻整个房间。“你这不是在向我勒索!”

老毛里斯把制服钮扣全都解开了。里面只有个衬衫假领,没穿衬衫什么的。他有个毛茸茸的又大又肥的肚子。“谁也不向谁勒索,”他说。“拿钱来吧,先生。”

“没有。”

他听了这话,就从椅子上起身向我走来。看他的样子,好象十分、十分疲倦或是十分、十分腻烦。天哪,我心里真是害怕。我好象把两臂交叉在胸前,我记得。我想,我当时要不是光穿着混帐的睡衣裤,情况怕不至于那么糟。

“拿钱来吧,先生。”他一直走到我站着的地方。他只会说这么句话。“拿钱来吧,先生。”他真是个窝囊废。

“没有。”

“先生,你是不是一定要我给你点儿厉害看呢。我不愿那样做,不道看样子非那样做不成了。”

他说。“你欠我们五块钱。”

“我并不欠你们五块钱。”我说。“你要是动我一根汗毛,我就会大声叫喊。我会把旅馆里的人全都喊醒。我要叫警察。”我声音抖得象个杂种。

“嚷吧。把你的混帐喉咙喊破吧。好极了,”老毛里斯说。“要你的父母知道你跟一个妓女在外面过夜吗?象你这样上等人?”他说话虽然下流,却很锋利。一点不假。

“别捣乱啦。你要是当时说十块,情况就不同了。可你清清楚楚地——”“你到底给钱不给?”他把我直顶在那扇混帐门上。他简直是站在我上面,挺着他那个毛茸茸的脏肚子。

“别捣乱啦。快给我滚出去,”我说。我依旧交叉着两臂。天哪,我真是个傻瓜蛋。

这时孙妮头一次开口说话了。“嗨,毛里斯.要不要把他的皮夹子拿来?”她说。“就在那地方。”

“好的,拿来吧。”

“别动我的皮夹子!”

“我已拿到了,”孙妮说着,拿了五块钱在我面前一扬。“瞧?我只拿你欠我的五块。我不是小偷。”

我突然哭了起来。我真希望自己当时没哭,可我的确哭了起来。“不,你不是小偷,”我说。

“你只是偷走了五块——”“住嘴,”老毛里斯说着,推了我一把。

“别理他,随,”孙妮说。“走吧,酶。咱们拿到了他欠我的钱。咱们走吧,嗨。”

“我来啦,”老毛里斯说,可他没动窝儿。

“我要你来,毛里斯,嗨。别理他。”

“是谁在出口伤人?”他说,装出极天真的样子,接着他用手指重重地在我的睡裤上弹了一下,疼得我要命。我对他说他是个混帐下流的窝囊废。

“你说什么?”他说。他把手圈在耳后,象是个聋子似的。“你说什么?我是什么?”

我还在哭。我是他妈的那么生气,那么紧张。

“你是个下流的窝囊废,”我说。“你是个向人勒索的混帐窝囊废,再过两年,你就会成一个叫花子,在街上向人讨一毛钱喝咖啡。你那件肮脏破烂的大衣上面全是鼻涕,你还要——”我话没说完,他就揍了我一拳。我甚至都没想躲避。我只觉得自己的肚皮上重重挨了一下。

我并没给打昏过去,因为我还记得自己怎样从地板上目送他们两个一起走出房间,还随手把门带上。我在地板上躺了好一会儿,就象我跟斯特拉德莱塔打架时那样。只是,这一次我以为自己快要死了。我真的这样以为。我觉得自己好象掉在水里快要淹死似的。问题是,我的呼吸十分困难。最后我好容易站起来,得弯着腰捧着肚子向浴室走去。

可我真是疯了。我可以对天发誓我是疯了。在去浴室的半路上,我开始幻想自己心窝里中了一颗子弹。老毛里斯开熗打了我。我现在是到浴室去喝一大口威士忌什么的,定一定神,好让自己真正下毒手。我幻想着自己从混帐的浴室里出来,已穿好了衣服,袋里放着一支自动手熗,走起路来还晃晃悠悠的。我并不乘电梯,而是步行下楼。我用手扶住栏杆,嘴角里断断续续淌出一点血来。我就这样走下几层楼——用手捂着心窝,流得到处是血——随后我就按铃叫电梯。老毛里斯一打开电梯的门,看见我手里握着一支自动手熗,就会害怕得朝着我高声尖叫起来,叫我别拿熗打他。可我还是开了熗。一连六熗打在他那毛茸茸的肚皮上。然后我把那支手熗扔下电梯道——当然先把指印什么的全部擦干净了。随后我爬回自己房里,打电话叫琴来给我包扎心窝上的伤口。我想象自己怎样浑身淌着血,由琴拿着一支烟让我抽。

那些混帐电影。它们真能害人。我不说瞎话。

我在浴室里呆了约莫一个小时,洗了一个澡。

随后我回到床上。我过了好一会儿才睡着——我甚至不觉得困——可我终于睡着了。我当时倒是真想自杀。我很想从窗口跳出去。我可能也真会那样做,要是我确实知道我一律到地上马上就会有人拿布把我盖起来。我不希望自己浑身是血的时候有一嘟噜傻瓜蛋伸长脖子看着我。

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第15节

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我没睡多久,因为我记得自己醒来时候还只十点光景。我抽了支烟,立刻觉得肚子饿得厉害。我最后一次吃东西,还是跟勃罗萨德和阿克莱一起到埃杰斯镇看电影时吃的两容汉堡牛排。那已很久很久了,好象在五十年以前似的。电话就在我旁边,我本想打电话叫他们送早点上来,可我又怕他们会派老毛里斯送来早餐。你要是以为我急于再见他一面,那你才有神经病呢。所以我只是在床上躺了会儿,又抽了支烟。我本想打个电话给琴,看看她有没有回家,可我没那心情。

我于是给老萨丽.海斯打了个电话。她在玛丽.伍德鲁夫念书,我知道她已放假回家,因为两星期之前我曾接到过她的信。我对她并不怎么倾心,可我认识她已有好几年了。我由于自己愚蠢,一直以为她十分聪明。我之所以这样想,是因为她对戏剧文学之类的玩艺儿懂得很多。要是一个人对这类玩艺儿懂得很多,那你就要花很大工夫才能发现这人是不是真正愚蠢。拿老萨丽来说,我花了几年工夫才发现。我想如果我们不老是在一起搂搂抱抱的,我也许能发现得更早一些。我的一个大问题是,只要是跟我在一起搂搂抱抱的姑娘,我总以为她们很聪明。其实这两件事没一点儿混帐关系,可我总要那么想。

嗯,我打了个电话给她。先是女佣人接电话。

接着是她爸爸。接着她来了。“萨丽?”我说。

“不错——你是谁?”她说。她是个假模假式的姑娘。我早巳告诉她父亲我是谁了。

“霍尔顿.考尔菲德。你好?”

“霍尔顿!我很好!你好吗?”

“好极了。听着。你好吗,嗯?我是说学校里?”

“很好,”她说。“我是说——你懂得我的意思。”

“好极了。呃,听着。我不知道你今天有空没空,今天是星期天,可是星期天也总有一两场日戏演出。什么义演之类的玩艺儿。你想不想去?”

“我很想去。再好没有了。”

再好没有。我最讨厌的就是这句话,再好没有。它听去那么假模假式。一时间,我真想叫她忘了看日戏这回事吧。可我们又聊了一会儿天。那是说,她一个人聊了起来。你简直插不进一个宇。她先告诉我说有个哈佛学生——大概是一年级生,可她没说出来,自然啦——怎样在拚命追她。日日夜夜打电话绘她。日日夜夜——我听了差点儿笑死。

接着她又告诉我另外一个家伙,是什么西点军校的,也为她要寻死觅活。真了不起。我告诉她两点钟在比尔特摩的钟底下跟我见面,千万别迟到,因为戏大概在两点半开演。她平常总是迟到。随后我把电话挂了。她有点儿让我腻烦,不过长得倒是真漂亮。

我跟老萨丽订好约会以后,就从床上起来,穿好衣服,然后整理行装。我离开房间之前又往窗外望了望,看看所有那些心理变态的家伙都在干什么,可他们全把窗帘拉上了;到了早晨,他们都成了谦虚谨慎的君子淑女。我于是乘电梯下楼,结清了账。我哪儿也没看见老毛里斯。那个狗杂种,我不会为寻找他扭断自己脖子的,自然啦。

我在旅馆外面叫了辆出租汽车,可我一时想不起他妈的上哪儿去好。我没地方可去。今天才星期日,我要到星期三才能回家——最早也要到星期二。我当然不想再去住旅馆,让人把自己的脑浆打出来。最后我叫司机送我到中央大车站。那儿离比尔特摩很近,便于过会儿跟萨丽会面。我当时打算做的,是把我的两只手提箱存到车站的存物处,然后去吃早饭。我肚子真有点儿饿了。我在汽车里的时候,拿出我的皮夹来数了数钱。我记不得皮夹里还剩多少钱,反正已经不多。我在约莫两个混帐星期里已经花掉了一个国王的收入。一点不假。我天生是个败家子。有了钱不是花掉,就是丢掉。有多半时间我甚至都会在饭馆里或夜总会里忘记拿找给我的钱。我父母为这事恼火得要命,那也怪不得他们。我父亲倒是很有钱。我不知道他有多少收入——他从来不跟我谈这种事情——可我觉得他挣的很不少。他在一家公司里当法律顾问。干这一行的人都很能赚钱。我知道他有钱的另一个原因,是他老在百老汇的演出事业上投资。可他总是蚀掉老本,气得我母亲差点儿发疯。自从我弟弟艾里死后,她身体一直不很好。她的神经很衰弱。也就是为了这个缘故,我真他妈的不愿让她知道我给开除的事。

我在车站的存物处存好我的手提箱以后,就到一家卖夹馅面包的小饭馆里去吃早饭。我吃了一顿对我来说是很饱的早饭——桔子汁、咸肉蛋、烤面包片和咖啡。平常我只赐一点桔子汁。我的食量非常小。一点不假。正因为这个缘故,我才他妈的那么瘦。照医生嘱咐,我本来应该多吃些淀粉之类玩艺儿,好增加体重,可我从来不吃。我在外面吃饭的时候,往往只吃一份夹干酪的面包和一杯麦乳精。吃的不算多,可你在麦乳精里可以得到不少维生素。霍.维.考尔菲德。霍尔顿.维生素.考尔菲德。

我正吃着蛋,忽然来了两个拿着手提箱的修女——我猜想她们大概是要搬到另外一个修道院去,正在等候火车——挨着我在吃饭的柜台旁边坐下。她们好象不知道拿她们的手提箱往哪儿搁好,因此我帮了她们一手。这两只手提箱看上去很不值钱——不是真皮的。这原是无关紧要的小事,我知道,可我最讨厌人家用不值钱的手提箱。这话听起来的确很可怕,可我只要瞧着不值钱的手提箱,甚至都会讨厌拿手提箱的人。曾经发生过这样一件事。我在爱尔克敦.希尔斯念书的时候,有一时期跟一个名叫狄克.斯莱格尔的家伙同住一个房间,他就用那种极不值钱的手提箱。他并不把这些箱子放在架子上,而是放在床底下,这样人家就看不见他的箱子跟我的箱子并列在一起。我为这件事心里烦得要命,真想把我自己的手提箱从窗口扔出去,或者甚至跟他的交换一下。我的箱子是马克.克罗斯制造的,完全是真牛皮,看样子很值几个钱。可是后来发生了一件好笑的事。事情是这样的,我最后也把我的手提箱从架子上取下来,搁到了我的床底下,好不让老斯莱格尔因此产生他妈的自卑感。

可是奇怪的事发生了,我把我的箱子搁到床底下之后,过了一天他却把它们取了出来,重新搁回到架子上。他这样做的原因,我过了很久才找出来,原来他是要人家把我的手提箱看作是他的。他真是这个意思。在这方面他这人的确十分好笑。比如说,他老是对我的手提箱说着难听的话。他口口声声说它们太新,太资产阶级。“资产阶级”是他最爱说的混帐口头禅。他不知是从哪儿谈到的或是听来的。我所有的一切全都他妈的太资产阶级。连我的自来水笔也太资产阶级。他一天到晚向我借着使,可它照样太资产阶级。我们同屋住了约莫两个月后,双方都要求换房。好笑的是,我们分开以后,我倒很有点想念他,因为他这个人非常富于幽默感,我们在一起有时也很快乐。如果他也同样在想念我,我决不会惊奇。最初他说我的东西太资产阶级,他只是说着玩儿,我听了一点也不在乎——事实上,还觉得有点好笑。可是过了些时候,你看得出他不是在说着玩了。问题是,如果你的手提箱比别人的值钱,你就很难跟他同住一屋——如果你的手提箱真的好,他们的真的不好。或许你看见对方为人聪明,富于幽默感,就会以为他们不在乎谁的手提箱好,那你就错了。他们可在乎呢。他们的确在乎。后来我去跟斯特拉德莱塔这样的傻杂种同住一屋,这也是原因之一。至少他的手提箱跟我的一样好。

嗯,那两个修女坐在我旁边,我们就闲聊起来。我身旁的那个修女还带着一只草篮子,修女们和救世军姑娘们在圣诞节前就是用这种篮子向人募捐的。你常常看见她们拿着篮子站在角落里——尤其是在五马路上,在那些大百货公司门口。嗯,我身旁的那个修女把她的篮子掉在地上了,我就弯下腰去替她拾起来。我问她是不是出来募捐的。她说不是。她说她收拾行李的时候这只篮子装不进箱子,所以就提在手里。她望着你的时候,脸上的笑容很可爱。她的鼻子很大,戴的那副眼镜镶着铁边,不怎么好看,可她的脸却非常和蔼可亲。“我本来想,你们要是出来募捐,”我对她说,“我也许可以捐几个钱。其实你们不妨把钱留下,等到你们将来募捐的时候算是我捐的。”

“哦,你真好,”她说。另外一个,她的朋友,也拍起头来看我。另外那个修女一边喝咖啡,一边在看一本黑皮的小书。那书的样子很象《圣经》,可是比《圣经》要薄得多。不过那是本属于《圣经》一类的书。她们两个都只吃烤面包片和咖啡当早点。我一见,心里就沮丧起来。我最讨厌我自己吃着咸肉蛋什么的,别人却只吃烤面包片和咖啡。

她们同意我捐给她们十块钱,还不住地问我要不要紧。我对她们说我身边有不少钱,她们听了似乎不信。可她们终于把钱收下了。她们两个都不住口地向我道谢,倒弄得我很不好意思。我于是改换话题,问她们要到哪儿去。她们说她们都是教书的,刚从芝加哥来到这儿,要到第一六八条街或是第一八六条街或是其他任何一条远离市中心的小街上某个修道院里去教书。坐在我旁边那个戴眼镜的修女说她教英文,她朋友教历史和美国政府。我听了立刻胡思乱想起来,心想坐在我旁边那个教英文的院是个修女,在她阅读某些书备课的时候,不知有何感想。倒不一定是那种有许多色情描写的淫书,而是那种描写情人之类的作品。就拿托马斯。哈代的《还乡》里的游苔莎.裴伊来说,她并不太淫荡,可你仍不免要暗忖一个修女阅读老游苔莎这样的人物,心里不知会有何感想。我嘴里什么也没说,自然啦,我只说英文是我最好的一门功课。

“哦,真的吗?哦,我听了真高兴1”那个戴眼镜教英文的说。“你今年念了些什么?我很想知道。”她的确和蔼可亲。

“呃,我们多一半时间念盎格鲁.撤克逊文学。贝沃尔夫,还有格兰代尔,还有《兰德尔,我的儿子》,都是这一类的玩艺儿。可我们偶尔也得看些课外读物。我看过托马斯.哈代写的《还乡》还有《罗密欧与朱丽叶》和《袭力斯——》。”

“哦,《罗密欧与朱丽叶》!太好啦!你爱看吗?”听她的口气,的确不太象修女。

“是的。我爱看。我很爱看。里面有些东西我不太喜欢,不过整个说来写得很动人。”

“有哪些地方你不喜欢?你还记得吗?”

说老实话,跟她讨论《罗密欧与未丽叶》,真有点不好意思。我是说这个剧本有些地方写得很肉麻,她呢,又是个修女什么的。可是她问了我,我也只好跟她讨论一会儿。“呃,我对罗密欧和朱丽叶并不太感兴趣,”我说。“我是说我喜欢倒是喜欢他们,不过———我不知道怎么说好。他们有时候很让人心里不安。我是说老茂丘西奥死的时候,倒是比罗密欧和朱丽叶死的时候更让我伤心。问题是,自从茂丘西奥死后,我就一直不太喜欢罗密欧了。那个刺死茂丘西奥的家伙——朱丽叶的堂兄——他叫什么名字?”

“提伯尔特。”

“不错。提伯尔特,”我说——我老忘掉那家伙的名字。“那全得怪罗密欧。我是说整个剧本里我最喜欢的是老茂丘西奥,我说不出什么道理。所有这些蒙太古和凯普莱特,他们都不错——特别是朱丽叶——可是茂丘西奥,他真是——简直很难解释。他这人十分大方,十分有趣。问题是,只要有人给人杀死,我心里总会难过得要命——特别是死的是个十分大方、十分有趣的人——况且不是他自己不好而是别人不好。至于罗密欧和朱丽叶,他们至少是自己不好。”

“你在哪个学校念书?”她问我。她大概不想跟我继续讨论罗密欧和朱丽叶,所以改换话题。

我告诉她说是潘西,她听说过这学校。她说这是间非常好的学校。我听了没吭声。随后另外一个,那个教历史和美国政府的,说她们该走了。我抢过她们的账单,可她们不肯让我付。那个戴眼镜的又从我手里要了回去。

“你真是太慷概了,”她说。“你真是个非常可爱的孩子。”她这人真是和蔼可亲。她有点儿让我想起老欧纳斯特.摩罗的母亲,就是我在火车上遇见的那位。尤其是她笑的时候。“我们刚才跟你一块儿聊天,真是愉快极了。”她说。

我说我跟她们一块儿聊天,也很愉快。我说的也真是心里话。其实我倒是还能愉快些,我想,要不是在谈话中间我老有点儿担心,生怕她们突然问我是不是天主教徒。那些天主教徒老爱打听别人是不是天主教徒。我老是遇到这样的事,那是因为,我知道,我的姓是个爱尔兰姓,而那些爱尔兰后裔又多半是天主教徒。事实上,我父亲过去也的确入过天主教,但跟我母亲结婚后就离开了。不过那般天主教徒老爱打听你是不是天主教徒,哪怕他连你的姓都不知道。我在胡敦中学的时候,就认识一个天主教学生叫路易.夏尼的,他是我在胡敦时候最先结识的学生。他和我两个在开学那天同坐在混帐校医室外面最前头的两把椅子上,等候体格检查,我们两个开始谈起网球来。他对网球非常感兴趣,我也一样。他告诉我说他每年夏天都到森林山去参加联赛,我告诉他说我也去,于是我们一同聊了会儿某几个网球健将。他年纪不大,关于网球倒是知道的不少。一点不假。后来,就在他妈的谈话中间,他突然问:“我问你,你可曾注意到镇上的天主教堂在哪儿?”问题是,你可以从他问话的口气里听出,他实在是想要打听你是不是个天主教徒。

他真的是在打听。倒不是他有什么偏见,而是他很想知道。他跟我一起聊着网球聊得挺高兴,可你看得出他要是知道我也是个天主教徒什么的,他心里一定会更高兴。这类的事儿让我难受得要命。我不是说会破坏我们谈话什么的——那倒不会——可也决不会给谈话带来什么好处,这一点是他妈的千真万确的。就是因为这个缘故,我很高兴那两个修女没问我是不是天主教徒。她们要是问了,倒也不一定会给谈话带来不快,不过整个情况大概会不一样了。我倒并不是在责怪那般天主教徒。一点也不。

我自己要是个天主教徒,大概也会这样做。说起来,倒有点儿跟我刚才讲的手提箱情况相同。我只是说它不会给一次愉快的谈话带来好处。这就是我要说的。

这两个修女站起来要走的时候,我做了件非常傻、非常不好意思的事情。我正在抽烟,当我站起来跟她们说再见的时候,不知怎的把一些烟吹到她们脸上了。我并不是故意的,可我却这样做了。我象个疯子似的直向她们道歉,她们倒是很和气很有礼貌,可我却觉得非常不好意思。

她们走后,我开始后悔自己只捐给她们十块钱。不过问题是,我跟老萨丽.海斯约好了要去看日戏,我需要留点儿钱买戏票什么的。可我心里总觉得很不安。他妈的金钱。到头来它总会让你难过得要命。

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第16节

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我吃完早饭,时间还只中午,可我要到两点才去跟老萨丽.海斯相会,所以我开始了一次漫长的散步。我心里老是想着那两个修女。我想着她们在不教书的时候怎样拿了那只破旧的草篮到处募捐。我努力想象我母亲或者别的什么人,或者我姑母,或者萨丽.海斯的那个混帐母亲,怎样站在百货公司门口拿了只破旧的草篮替穷人募捐。这幅图景简直很难想象。我母亲倒还好,可另外那两个就不成了。

我姑母倒是很乐善好施——她做过不少红十字会工作——可她非常爱打扮,不管她做什么慈善工作,总是打扮得漂漂亮亮,擦着口红什么的。她要是只穿一套黑衣服,不擦口红,我简直没法想象她怎么还能做慈善工作。至于老萨丽.海斯的母亲。老天爷。只有一种情况下她才可能拿着篮子出去募捐,那就是人们捐钱给她的时候个个拍她马屁。如果他们光是把钱扔进她的篮子,对她不瞅不睬,连话也不跟她说一句就走开了,那么要不了一个钟头她自己也会走开。她会觉得腻烦。她会送还那只篮子,然后到一家时髦饭店里去吃午饭。我喜欢那些修女就在这一点上。你看得出她们至少不到时髦地方去吃午饭。我想到这里,不由得难过得要命,她们为什么不到时髦地方去吃午饭什么的呢。我知道这事无关紧要,可我心里很难过。

我开始向百老汇走去,没有任何混帐目的,只是因为我有好几年没上那一带去了。再说,我也想找一家在星期天营业的唱片铺子。我想给菲芘买一张叫什么《小舍丽.宾斯》的唱片。这是张很难买到的唱片,唱的是一个小女孩因为两颗门牙掉了,觉得害羞,不肯走出屋去。我曾在潘西听到过。住在我底下一层楼的一个学生有这张唱片,我知道这唱片会让老菲芘着迷,很想把它买下来,可那学生不肯卖。这是张非常了不起的旧唱片,是黑人姑娘艾丝戴尔.弗莱契在约莫二十年前唱的。她唱的时候完全是狄克西兰和妓院的味道,可是听上去一点也不下流。要换了个白人姑娘唱起来,就会做作得要命,可老艾丝戴尔.弗莱契知道怎么唱。这确是一张很少听到的好唱片。我揣摩我也许能在哪家星期天营业的铺于里买到,然后带着它到公园去。今天是星期天,每到星期天菲移常常到公园溜冰。

我知道她的一般行踪。

天气己不象昨天那么冷,可是太阳依旧没有出来,散起步来并不怎么愉快。可是有一件事很不错。

有一家子人就在我面前走着,你看得出他们刚从哪一个教堂里出来。他们一共三人——父亲、母亲,带着一个约莫六岁的小孩子——看去好象很穷。那父亲戴着一顶银灰色帽子;一般穷人想要打扮得漂亮,通常都戴这种帽子。他和他妻子一边讲话一边走,一点也不注意他们的孩子。那孩子却很有意思。

他不是在人行道上走,而是紧靠着界沿石在马路上走。他象一般孩子那样在走着直线玩,一边走一边还哼着歌儿。我走近去听他唱些什么。他正在唱那支歌:“你要是在麦田里捉到了我。”他的小嗓子还挺不错。他只是随便唱着玩,你听得出来。汽车来去飞驰,刹车声响成一片,他的父母却一点也不注意他,他呢,只顾紧靠着界沿石走,嘴里唱着“你要是在麦田里捉到了我。”这使我心情舒畅了不少。我心里不象先前那么沮丧了。

百老汇熙来攘往,到处是人。今天是星期天,还只十二点左右,可已到处是人。人人在走向电影院——派拉蒙或者阿斯特或者斯特兰德或者凯比托尔或者任何一个这类混帐地方。人人都穿得很齐整,因为今天是星期天,这就使情况更加糟糕。可最糟糕的是你看得出他们全都想要到电影院去。我没法拿眼看他们,这叫我心里受不了。我可以理解有些人因为没事可做而到电影院去,可是如果有人真正想要到电影院去、甚至还加快脚步以便早些到达,我见了就会沮丧得要命。特别是我看见千百万人排成可怕的长队站了整整一条街,显出极大的耐性等候着座位。嘿,我真恨不得插翅飞过这个混帐百老汇。我的运气很好。我进去的第一家唱片店就有张《小舍丽.宾斯》。他们要我五块钱,因为这种唱片很难买到,可我不在乎。嘿,我一时变得高兴极了。我恨不得马上赶到公园里,看看老菲芘是不是在,好把唱片给她。

我从唱片店出来,经过一家药房,就走了进去。

我想打一个电话给琴,看看她有没有放假回家。因此我进了电话间,打了个电话给她,讨厌的是,接电话的是她母亲,所以我不得不把电话挂了。我不想在电话里跟她进行一次长谈。一句话,我不爱在电话里跟女朋友的母亲谈话。可我至少应该问问她琴回家没有。那也要不了我的命。不过我当时没那心情。干这种事,你真得心情对头才成。

我还得去买两张混帐戏票,所以我买了份报纸,看看有些什么戏在上演。今天是星期天,只演出三场日戏。我于是买了两张《我知道我的爱》的正厅前排票。这是场义演什么的,我自己并不怎么想看,可我知道老萨丽是天底下最最假摸假式的女子,她一听说我买了这戏票,由伦特夫妇主演,就会高兴得要命。她就喜欢看这种戏,既枯燥又俗气,由伦特夫妇什么的主演。我跟她不一样。我根本不喜欢看戏,如果你要我说老实话。它们不象电影那么糟糕,可是当然也没什么可夸奖的。主要是,我讨厌那些演员。他们从来不象真人那样行动。他们只是自以为演得象真人。有几个好演员演得倒是有点儿象真人,不过并不值得一看。一个演员要是真正演得好,你总是看得出他知道自己演得好,这就糟蹋了一切。拿劳伦斯.奥列维尔爵士来说吧。我看过他主演的《哈姆莱特》,是DB去年带了菲芘和我一起去看的。他先请我们吃了顿午饭,然后请我们去看戏。他自己已经看过了,吃午饭时他把戏说得那么好,连我也根不得马上就去看。可我看了却不觉得怎么好。我实在看不出劳伦斯.奥列维尔爵士好在哪里。他有很好的嗓子,是个挺漂亮的家伙,他走路或是斗剑时候很值得一看,可他一点不象DB所说的哈姆莱特。他太象个混帐的将军,而不家个忧郁的、不如意的倒楣蛋。整个戏里演得最好的部分是老奥菲莉姬的哥哥——就是最后跟哈姆莱特斗剑的那个——要动身,他父亲给了他许许多多忠告。父亲一个劲儿给他许许多多忠告,老奥菲莉姬却不住地在逗她哥哥玩,把他的匕首从鞘里拔出来,用各种方法逗他,他呢,却一本正经,假装对他父亲的胡说八道很感兴趣。这的确演得不错,我看了非常高兴,可是象这样的玩艺儿戏里并不多。

老菲芘喜欢的只有一个地方,就是哈姆莱特拍拍那只狗的脑袋的时候。她觉得这很好玩,也很有意思,事实上也确是这样。可我非做不可的是,我不得不把那剧本读一遍。我的问题是,遇到这类玩艺儿我总是非自己读一遍不可。要是由演员演出,我总不肯好好听。我老是担心他下一分钟会不会做出假模假式的事来。

我买了伦特夫妇主演的戏票,就乘出租汽车到公园。我本应该乘地铁什么的,因为我的钱已经不多了,不过我实在想离开那个混帐百老汇,越快越好。

公园里也很糟糕。天气倒不太冷,可是太阳依旧没出来,整个公园除了狗屎和老人吐的痰、扔的雪茄烟头以外,好象什么都没有,那些长椅看去也湿漉漉的,简直没法坐下。这幅景象实在很叫人泄气,而且你走着走着,不知怎的隔一会儿就会起鸡皮疙瘩。这儿一点没有快要过圣诞节的迹象。这儿简直什么迹象都没有。可我还是一直向林荫路走去,因为菲芘来到公园,总是在这一带玩。她喜欢在音乐台附近溜冰。说来好笑,我小时候,也总喜欢在这一带溜冰。

可我到了那里,连她的影儿也没见。有几个小孩子在那儿溜冰,还有两个大男孩拿了个垒球在玩“空中飞球”,只是不见菲芘。后来我看见有个跟她差不多年纪的小女孩独自坐在长椅上紧她的溜冰鞋。我想她也许认得菲芘,能告诉我她在什么地方,所以我走过去在她身旁坐下,问她说:“我问你,你认得菲芘.考尔菲德吗?”

“谁?”她说,她只穿了条运动裤和约莫二十件运动衫。衣服上好象全都是疙瘩,你看得出准是她母亲自己做的。

“菲芘.考尔菲德。住在第七十一条街,念四年级,就在——”“你认得菲芘?”

“不错,我是她哥哥。你知道她在哪儿吗?”

“她是不是凯隆小姐班上的?”小女孩问。

“我不知道。不错,我想她是那班上的。”

“那么说来,她大概在博物馆里。我们上星期六去过了,”小女孩说。

“哪个博物馆?”我问她。

她好象端了端肩膀。“我不知道,”她说。“在博物馆里。”

“我知道,不道是那个有图片的呢,还是那个有印第安人的?”

“那个有印第安人的。”

“谢谢,”我说。我站起来要走,可突然记起今天是星期天。“今天是星期天呢,”我对小女孩说。

她抬起头来看看我。“哦,那她就不在那儿了。”

她费了很大的劲儿在紧她的四轮榴冰鞋。她没戴手套什么的,两只小手冻得又红又冷。我就帮了她一下。嘿,我有多少年没摸过溜冰鞋钥匙啦,可我拿在手里一点也不觉得陌生。哪怕是五十年以后,在漆一样黑的暗地里,你拿一把溜冰鞋钥匙塞在我手里,我都知道这是溜冰鞋钥匙。我把她的溜冰轻收紧以后,她就向我道谢。她是一个很好、很懂礼貌的小姑娘。老天爷,我就喜欢那样的孩子,你给他们紧了溜冰鞋什么的,他们很懂礼貌,会向你道谢。大多数孩子都这样。一点不假。我问她是不是愿意跟我一块儿去喝杯热巧克力什么的,可她说不,谢谢你。她说她得去找她的朋友。孩子们老是要去找他们的朋友。真让我笑疼肚皮。

尽管是星期天,菲芘和她的全班同学都不会在那儿;尽管外面的天气是那么潮湿、那么糟糕,我还是穿过公园一路向综合博物馆走去。我知道这就是那个紧溜冰鞋的小姑娘所说的博物馆。我对整个搏物馆里的一切熟悉得就象背一本书一样。菲芘进的学校也是我小时候进的学校,我们那时候老是到博物馆去。我们那个名叫艾格莱丁格小姐的老师差不多每星期六都带我们去。有时候我们去看动物,有时候看古代印第安人做的一些玩艺儿。陶器、草蓝以及类似的玩艺儿。我只要一想起这事,心里就非常高兴。连现在也这样。我还记得我们看完所有这些印第安玩艺儿以后,常常到大礼堂去看电影。

哥伦布。他们老是放映哥伦布发现新大陆的电影,先是费了很大劲儿向老裴迪南和伊萨伯拉借钱买船,后来又是水手们打算背叛他。对老哥伦布谁也没多大兴趣,可你身上总是带着不少糖果和口香糖之类的玩艺儿,再说大礼堂里面也有一股很好闻的气味。尽管外面天气挺好,你进了里面总闻到一股好象外面在下大雨的气味,好象全世界就是这个地方最好、最干燥、最舒适。我很喜欢那个混帐博物馆。我记得到大礼堂去的时候得经过印第安馆,那是个极长、极长的房间,进了里面不准大声说话。

而且总是老师走在头里,全班的学生跟在后头。孩子们排成双行,每人都有个伴儿。极大多数时间跟我作伴儿的总是个叫作杰特鲁德.莱文的小姑娘。

她老爱拉着你的手,而她的手又老是汗律律、粘糊糊的。地板是一色的石头地,你要是有几颗玻璃弹子在手里,随便往地上一扔,它们就会在地上到处乱蹦,发出一片响声,老师就会叫全班同学都停下来,自己走回来查看出了什么事。可是这位艾格莱丁格小姐从来不发脾气。接着你经过那艘挺长、挺长的印第安独木战艇,约莫有三辆混帐凯迪拉克排在一溜那么长,里面约莫有二十个印第安人,有几个在打桨,有几个只是神气活现地站在那儿,每人的脸上都绘着武士的花纹。在独木船的后部有个非常可怕的家伙,脸上戴着面具。他是个巫医。他让我起鸡皮疙瘩,可我还是挺喜欢他。另一件事,你走过时候要是碰了下木浆什么的,其中一个看守就会跟你说:“别碰东西,孩子们。”可他说话的声音总是挺和气,并不象个混帐警察什么的。接着你经过那只太玻璃柜,里面有几个印第安人在擦木棒取火,还有个印第安女人在织毯子。这个织毯子的印第安女人弯着腰,我们都看得见她的乳房,我们经过的时候,总要偷偷瞧一眼,连姑娘们也那样,因为她们还都是小孩子,跟我们一样没什么乳房。接着,就在进大礼堂之前,靠近大门旁边,你还经过那个爱斯基摩人。他正坐在一个冰湖里面的窟窿上面,往窟窿里钓鱼。窟窿旁边还有两条鱼,是他已经捉得的。嘿,这个博物馆里,玻璃柜子可真不少。楼上甚至还要多,里面有鹿在水洞边喝水,有鸟儿飞往南方过冬。离你最近的那些鸟全都是剥制的,挂.在一些钢丝上,后面的那些鸟都画在墙上,可你一眼看去,全都象真正往南飞,你要是低下脑袋倒着看,它们甚至显得更快地在往南飞。不过博物馆里最好的一点是一切东西总呆在原来的地方不动。谁也不挪移一下位置。你哪怕去十万次,那个爱斯基摩人依旧刚捉到两条鱼;那些鸟依旧在往南飞;鹿依旧在水洞边喝水,它们的角依旧那么美丽,它们的腿依旧那么又细又好看;还有那个裸露着乳房的印策安女人依旧在织同一条毯子。谁也不会改变样儿。唯一变样的东西只是你自己。倒不一定是变老了什么的。严格说来,倒不一定是这个。不过你反正改了些样儿,就是这么回事。比如说这一次你穿了件大衣。或者上次跟你排在一起的那个孩子患了猩红热,另换了个人排在你旁边。或者带领学生的已不是艾格莱丁格小姐,另换了别的什么人。或者你听见你妈妈和爸爸在浴室里打了一次架,打得很凶。或者你刚在街上经过一汪子一汪子的水,水上的汽油泛出虹一般的色彩。我是说你反正总有些地方不一样了——我说不清楚我的意思。即使我说得清楚,我怕自己也不一定想说。

我走着走着,就从口袋里掏出那顶猎人帽,戴到头上。我知道不会遇到什么熟人,再说外面的天气又潮湿得那么厉害。我一边走,一边想着老菲芘怎样在每星期六象我一样上博物馆。我想着她怎样观看我过去常常看的同一些玩艺儿,怎样每次看的时候她这个人总会有所不同。我这样想着,心里虽然说不上沮丧,却也不会快活得要命。有些事物应该老保持着老样子。你应该把它们搁进那种大玻璃柜里,别去动它们。我知道这是不可能办到的,不过这照样是件很糟糕的事。嗯,我一边走,一边就想着这一类事。

我经过体育场,就停住脚步看两个很小的小孩子玩跷跷板。有一个孩子比较胖,我就把手搁在瘦孩子那一头,帮他们平衡,可你看得出他们不喜欢我在他们旁边,我也只好走了。

接着发生了一件很好笑的事。我走到博物馆门口,忽然不想进去了,哪怕白给我一百万块钱我也不想进去。我这会儿就是没那个心情——可我刚才还眼巴巴地穿过整个混帐公园来到博物馆,恨不得尽快进去呢。要是菲芘在里面,我或许会进去,可她不在里面。因此我就在博物馆门口叫了辆出租汽车上比尔特摩了。我心里并不怎么想去,可我已他妈的跟萨丽约好啦。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 5楼  发表于: 2013-10-11 0



11
All of a sudden, on my way out to the lobby, I got old Jane Gallagher on the brain again. I got her on, and I couldn't get her off. I sat down in this vomity-looking chair in the lobby and thought about her and Stradlater sitting in that goddam Ed Banky's car, and though I was pretty damn sure old Stradlater hadn't given her the time--I know old Jane like a book--I still couldn't get her off my brain. I knew her like a book. I really did. I mean, besides checkers, she was quite fond of all athletic sports, and after I got to know her, the whole summer long we played tennis together almost every morning and golf almost every afternoon. I really got to know her quite intimately. I don't mean it was anything physical or anything--it wasn't--but we saw each other all the time. You don't always have to get too sexy to get to know a girl. The way I met her, this Doberman pinscher she had used to come over and relieve himself on our lawn, and my mother got very irritated about it. She called up Jane's mother and made a big stink about it. My mother can make a very big stink about that kind of stuff. Then what happened, a couple of days later I saw Jane laying on her stomach next to the swimming pool, at the club, and I said hello to her. I knew she lived in the house next to ours, but I'd never conversed with her before or anything. She gave me the big freeze when I said hello that day, though. I had a helluva time convincing her that I didn't give a good goddam where her dog relieved himself. He could do it in the living room, for all I cared. Anyway, after that, Jane and I got to be friends and all. I played golf with her that same afternoon. She lost eight balls, I remember. Eight. I had a terrible time getting her to at least open her eyes when she took a swing at the ball. I improved her game immensely, though. I'm a very good golfer. If I told you what I go around in, you probably wouldn't believe me. I almost was once in a movie short, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I figured that anybody that hates the movies as much as I do, I'd be a phony if I let them stick me in a movie short.
She was a funny girl, old Jane. I wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful. She knocked me out, though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mean when she was talking and she got excited about something, her mouth sort of went in about fifty directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never really closed it all the way, her mouth. It was always just a little bit open, especially when she got in her golf stance, or when she was reading a book. She was always reading, and she read very good books. She read a lot of poetry and all. She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever showed Allie's baseball mitt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or anything, because that was her first summer in Maine--before that, she went to Cape Cod--but I told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in that kind of stuff.
My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother always thought Jane and her mother were sort of snubbing her or something when they didn't say hello. My mother saw them in the village a lot, because Jane used to drive to market with her mother in this LaSalle convertible they had. My mother didn't think Jane was pretty, even. I did, though. I just liked the way she looked, that's all.
I remember this one afternoon. It was the only time old Jane and I ever got close to necking, even. It was a Saturday and it was raining like a bastard out, and I was over at her house, on the porch--they had this big screened-in porch. We were playing checkers. I used to kid her once in a while because she wouldn't take her kings out of the back row. But I didn't kid her much, though. You never wanted to kid Jane too much. I think I really like it best when you can kid the pants off a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a funny thing. The girls I like best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I think they'd like it if you kidded them--in fact, I know they would--but it's hard to get started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them. Anyway, I was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to necking. It was raining like hell and we were out on her porch, and all of a sudden this booze hound her mother was married to came out on the porch and asked Jane if there were any cigarettes in the house. I didn't know him too well or anything, but he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't talk to you much unless he wanted something off you. He had a lousy personality. Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answer him when he asked her if she knew where there was any cigarettes. So the guy asked her again, but she still wouldn't answer him. She didn't even look up from the game. Finally the guy went inside the house. When he did, I asked Jane what the hell was going on. She wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like she was concentrating on her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, this tear plopped down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares--boy, I can still see it. She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know why, but it bothered hell out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her move over on the glider so that I could sit down next to her--I practically sat down in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she really started to cry, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over--anywhere--her eyes, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears--her whole face except her mouth and all. She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it was the closest we ever got to necking. After a while, she got up and went in and put on this red and white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and we went to a goddam movie. I asked her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy--that was the booze hound's name--had ever tried to get wise with her. She was pretty young, but she had this terrific figure, and I wouldn't've put it past that Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never did find out what the hell was the matter. Some girls you practically never find out what's the matter.
I don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, just because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with her all the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but she was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.
One other thing I just thought of. One time, in this movie, Jane did something that just about knocked me out. The newsreel was on or something, and all of a sudden I felt this hand on the back of my neck, and it was Jane's. It was a funny thing to do. I mean she was quite young and all, and most girls if you see them putting their hand on the back of somebody's neck, they're around twenty-five or thirty and usually they're doing it to their husband or their little kid--I do it to my kid sister Phoebe once in a while, for instance. But if a girl's quite young and all and she does it, it's so pretty it just about kills you.
Anyway, that's what I was thinking about while I sat in that vomity-looking chair in the lobby. Old Jane. Every time I got to the part about her out with Stradlater in that damn Ed Banky's car, it almost drove me crazy. I knew she wouldn't let him get to first base with her, but it drove me crazy anyway. I don't even like to talk about it, if you want to know the truth.
There was hardly anybody in the lobby any more. Even all the whory-looking blondes weren't around any more, and all of a sudden I felt like getting the hell out of the place. It was too depressing. And I wasn't tired or anything. So I went up to my room and put on my coat. I also took a look out the window to see if all the perverts were still in action, but the lights and all were out now. I went down in the elevator again and got a cab and told the driver to take me down to Ernie's. Ernie's is this night club in Greenwich Village that my brother D.B. used to go to quite frequently before he went out to Hollywood and prostituted himself. He used to take me with him once in a while. Ernie's a big fat colored guy that plays the piano. He's a terrific snob and he won't hardly even talk to you unless you're a big shot or a celebrity or something, but he can really play the piano. He's so good he's almost corny, in fact. I don't exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it. I certainly like to hear him play, but sometimes you feel like turning his goddam piano over. I think it's because sometimes when he plays, he sounds like the kind of guy that won't talk to you unless you're a big shot.
12
The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed his cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late at night. What made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it was Saturday night. I didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl crossing a street, with their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at something you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally, after I was riding a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name was Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I thought maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by Central Park South?"
"The what?"
"The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You know."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?"
"Where who goes?"
"The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves--go south or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I know?" he said. "How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"
"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or something.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore."
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was going to get so damn touchy about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way around again, and said, "The fish don't go no place. They stay right where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam lake."
"The fish--that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the ducks," I said. "What's different about it? Nothin's different about it," Horwitz said. Everything he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's tougher for the fish, the winter and all, than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute. Then I said, "All right. What do they do, the fish and all, when that whole little lake's a solid block of ice, people skating on it and all?"
Old Horwitz turned around again. "What the hellaya mean what do they do?" he yelled at me. "They stay right where they are, for Chrissake."
"They can't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it."
"Who's ignoring it? Nobody's ignoring it!" Horwitz said. He got so damn excited and all, I was afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something. "They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right in one position for the whole winter."
"Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean if they're frozen solid, they can't swim around looking for food and all."
"Their bodies, for Chrissake--what'sa matter with ya? Their bodies take in nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that's in the ice. They got their pores open the whole time. That's their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" He turned way the hell around again to look at me.
"Oh," I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going to crack the damn taxi up or something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him. "Would you care to stop off and have a drink with me somewhere?" I said.
He didn't answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all.
"I ain't got no time for no liquor, bud," he said. "How the hell old are you, anyways? Why ain'tcha home in bed?"
"I'm not tired."
When I got out in front of Ernie's and paid the fare, old Horwitz brought up the fish again. He certainly had it on his mind. "Listen," he said. "If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?"
"No, but--"
"You're goddam right they don't," Horwitz said, and drove off like a bat out of hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever met. Everything you said made him sore.
Even though it was so late, old Ernie's was jampacked. Mostly with prep school jerks and college jerks. Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for Christmas vacation than the schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat down at the piano. Nobody's that good. About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his face while he played. You couldn't see his fingers while he played--just his big old face. Big deal. I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would've puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn't funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano player. It was very phony--I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don't even think he knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes that clap their heads off--they'd foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance. Anyway, it made me feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back and went back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn't feel much like being all alone.
They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall and behind a goddam post, where you couldn't see anything. It was one of those tiny little tables that if the people at the next table don't get up to let you by--and they never do, the bastards--you practically have to climb into your chair. I ordered a Scotch and soda, which is my favorite drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. If you were only around six years old, you could get liquor at Ernie's, the place was so dark and all, and besides, nobody cared how old you were. You could even be a dope fiend and nobody'd care.
I was surrounded by jerks. I'm not kidding. At this other tiny table, right to my left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy and this funny-looking girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little older. It was funny. You could see they were being careful as hell not to drink up the minimum too fast. I listened to their conversation for a while, because I didn't have anything else to do. He was telling her about some pro football game he'd seen that afternoon. He gave her every single goddam play in the whole game--I'm not kidding. He was the most boring guy I ever listened to. And you could tell his date wasn't even interested in the goddam game, but she was even funnier-looking than he was, so I guess she had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them sometimes. Sometimes I can't even look at them, especially if they're with some dopey guy that's telling them all about a goddam football game. On my right, the conversation was even worse, though. On my right there was this very Joe Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those flitty-looking Tattersall vests. All those Ivy League bastards look alike. My father wants me to go to Yale, or maybe Princeton, but I swear, I wouldn't go to one of those Ivy League colleges, if I was dying, for God's sake. Anyway, this Joe Yale-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with him. Boy, she was good-looking. But you should've heard the conversation they were having. In the first place, they were both slightly crocked. What he was doing, he was giving her a feel under the table, and at the same time telling her all about some guy in his dorm that had eaten a whole bottle of aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying to him, "How horrible . . . Don't, darling. Please, don't. Not here." Imagine giving somebody a feel and telling them about a guy committing suicide at the same time! They killed me.
I certainly began to feel like a prize horse's ass, though, sitting there all by myself. There wasn't anything to do except smoke and drink. What I did do, though, I told the waiter to ask old Ernie if he'd care to join me for a drink. I told him to tell him I was D.B.'s brother. I don't think he ever even gave him my message, though. Those bastards never give your message to anybody.
All of a sudden, this girl came up to me and said, "Holden Caulfield!" Her name was Lillian Simmons. My brother D.B. used to go around with her for a while. She had very big knockers.
"Hi," I said. I tried to get up, naturally, but it was some job getting up, in a place like that. She had some Navy officer with her that looked like he had a poker up his ass.
"How marvelous to see you!" old Lillian Simmons said. Strictly a phony. "How's your big brother?" That's all she really wanted to know.
"He's fine. He's in Hollywood."
"In Hollywood! How marvelous! What's he doing?"
"I don't know. Writing," I said. I didn't feel like discussing it. You could tell she thought it was a big deal, his being in Hollywood. Almost everybody does. Mostly people who've never read any of his stories. It drives me crazy, though.
"How exciting," old Lillian said. Then she introduced me to the Navy guy. His name was Commander Blop or something. He was one of those guys that think they're being a pansy if they don't break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you. God, I hate that stuff. "Are you all alone, baby?" old Lillian asked me. She was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tell she liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move out of the way, but she didn't even notice him. It was funny. You could tell the waiter didn't like her much, you could tell even the Navy guy didn't like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn't like her much. Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way. "Don't you have a date, baby?" she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn't even tell me to sit down. She was the type that keeps you standing up for hours. "Isn't he handsome?" she said to the Navy guy. "Holden, you're getting handsomer by the minute." The Navy guy told her to come on. He told her they were blocking up the whole aisle. "Holden, come join us," old Lillian said. "Bring your drink."
"I was just leaving," I told her. "I have to meet somebody." You could tell she was just trying to get in good with me. So that I'd tell old D.B. about it.
"Well, you little so-and-so. All right for you. Tell your big brother I hate him, when you see him."
Then she left. The Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to've met each other. Which always kills me. I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.
After I'd told her I had to meet somebody, I didn't have any goddam choice except to leave. I couldn't even stick around to hear old Ernie play something halfway decent. But I certainly wasn't going to sit down at a table with old Lillian Simmons and that Navy guy and be bored to death. So I left. It made me mad, though, when I was getting my coat. People are always ruining things for you.
13
I walked all the way back to the hotel. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. I didn't do it because I felt like walking or anything. It was more because I didn't feel like getting in and out of another taxicab. Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up. When I was a kid, I used to walk all the way up to our apartment very frequently. Twelve stories.
You wouldn't even have known it had snowed at all. There was hardly any snow on the sidewalks. But it was freezing cold, and I took my red hunting hat out of my pocket and put it on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. I even put the earlaps down. I wished I knew who'd swiped my gloves at Pencey, because my hands were freezing. Not that I'd have done much about it even if I had known. I'm one of these very yellow guys. I try not to show it, but I am. For instance, if I'd found out at Pencey who'd stolen my gloves, I probably would've gone down to the crook's room and said, "Okay. How 'bout handing over those gloves?" Then the crook that had stolen them probably would've said, his voice very innocent and all, "What gloves?" Then what I probably would've done, I'd have gone in his closet and found the gloves somewhere. Hidden in his goddam galoshes or something, for instance. I'd have taken them out and showed them to the guy and said, "I suppose these are your goddam gloves?" Then the crook probably would've given me this very phony, innocent look, and said, "I never saw those gloves before in my life. If they're yours, take 'em. I don't want the goddam things." Then I probably would've just stood there for about five minutes. I'd have the damn gloves right in my hand and all, but I'd feel I ought to sock the guy in the jaw or something--break his goddam jaw. Only, I wouldn't have the guts to do it. I'd just stand there, trying to look tough. What I might do, I might say something very cutting and snotty, to rile him up--instead of socking him in the jaw. Anyway if I did say something very cutting and snotty, he'd probably get up and come over to me and say, "Listen, Caulfield. Are you calling me a crook?" Then, instead of saying, "You're goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!" all I probably would've said would be, "All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshes." Right away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn't going to take a sock at him, and he probably would've said, "Listen. Let's get this straight. Are you calling me a thief?" Then I probably would've said, "Nobody's calling anybody a thief. All I know is my gloves were in your goddam galoshes." It could go on like that for hours. Finally, though, I'd leave his room without even taking a sock at him. I'd probably go down to the can and sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror. Anyway, that's what I thought about the whole way back to the hotel. It's no fun to he yellow. Maybe I'm not all yellow. I don't know. I think maybe I'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too much when I lose something--it used to drive my mother crazy when I was a kid. Some guys spend days looking for something they lost. I never seem to have anything that if I lost it I'd care too much. Maybe that's why I'm partly yellow. It's no excuse, though. It really isn't. What you should be is not yellow at all. If you're supposed to sock somebody in the jaw, and you sort of feel like doing it, you should do it. I'm just no good at it, though. I'd rather push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock him in the jaw. I hate fist fights. I don't mind getting hit so much--although I'm not crazy about it, naturally--but what scares me most in a fist fight is the guy's face. I can't stand looking at the other guy's face, is my trouble. It wouldn't be so bad if you could both be blindfolded or something. It's a funny kind of yellowness, when you come to think of it, but it's yellowness, all right. I'm not kidding myself. The more I thought about my gloves and my yellowness, the more depressed I got, and I decided, while I was walking and all, to stop off and have a drink somewhere. I'd only had three drinks at Ernie's, and I didn't even finish the last one. One thing I have, it's a terrific capacity. I can drink all night and not even show it, if I'm in the mood. Once, at the Whooton School, this other boy, Raymond Goldfarb, and I bought a pint of Scotch and drank it in the chapel one Saturday night, where nobody'd see us. He got stinking, but I hardly didn't even show it. I just got very cool and nonchalant. I puked before I went to bed, but I didn't really have to--I forced myself.
Anyway, before I got to the hotel, I started to go in this dumpy-looking bar, but two guys came out, drunk as hell, and wanted to know where the subway was. One of them was this very Cuban-looking guy, and he kept breathing his stinking breath in my face while I gave him directions. I ended up not even going in the damn bar. I just went back to the hotel.
The whole lobby was empty. It smelled like fifty million dead cigars. It really did. I wasn't sleepy or anything, but I was feeling sort of lousy. Depressed and all. I almost wished I was dead.
Then, all of a sudden, I got in this big mess.
The first thing when I got in the elevator, the elevator guy said to me, "Innarested in having a good time, fella? Or is it too late for you?"
"How do you mean?" I said. I didn't know what he was driving at or anything.
"Innarested in a little tail t'night?"
"Me?" I said. Which was a very dumb answer, but it's quite embarrassing when somebody comes right up and asks you a question like that.
"How old are you, chief?" the elevator guy said.
"Why?" I said. "Twenty-two."
"Uh huh. Well, how 'bout it? Y'innarested? Five bucks a throw. Fifteen bucks the whole night." He looked at his wrist watch. "Till noon. Five bucks a throw, fifteen bucks till noon."
"Okay," I said. It was against my principles and all, but I was feeling so depressed I didn't even think. That's the whole trouble. When you're feeling very depressed, you can't even think.
"Okay what? A throw, or till noon? I gotta know."
"Just a throw."
"Okay, what room ya in?"
I looked at the red thing with my number on it, on my key. "Twelve twenty-two," I said. I was already sort of sorry I'd let the thing start rolling, but it was too late now.
"Okay. I'll send a girl up in about fifteen minutes." He opened the doors and I got out.
"Hey, is she good-looking?" I asked him. "I don't want any old bag."
"No old bag. Don't worry about it, chief."
"Who do I pay?"
"Her," he said. "Let's go, chief." He shut the doors, practically right in my face.
I went to my room and put some water on my hair, but you can't really comb a crew cut or anything. Then I tested to see if my breath stank from so many cigarettes and the Scotch and sodas I drank at Ernie's. All you do is hold your hand under your mouth and blow your breath up toward the old nostrils. It didn't seem to stink much, but I brushed my teeth anyway. Then I put on another clean shirt. I knew I didn't have to get all dolled up for a prostitute or anything, but it sort of gave me something to do. I was a little nervous. I was starting to feel pretty sexy and all, but I was a little nervous anyway. If you want to know the truth, I'm a virgin. I really am. I've had quite a few opportunities to lose my virginity and all, but I've never got around to it yet. Something always happens. For instance, if you're at a girl's house, her parents always come home at the wrong time--or you're afraid they will. Or if you're in the back seat of somebody's car, there's always somebody's date in the front seat--some girl, I mean--that always wants to know what's going on all over the whole goddam car. I mean some girl in front keeps turning around to see what the hell's going on. Anyway, something always happens. I came quite close to doing it a couple of times, though. One time in particular, I remember. Something went wrong, though --I don't even remember what any more. The thing is, most of the time when you're coming pretty close to doing it with a girl--a girl that isn't a prostitute or anything, I mean--she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Most guys don't. I can't help it. You never know whether they really want you to stop, or whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame'll be on you, not them. Anyway, I keep stopping. The trouble is, I get to feeling sorry for them. I mean most girls are so dumb and all. After you neck them for a while, you can really watch them losing their brains. You take a girl when she really gets passionate, she just hasn't any brains. I don't know. They tell me to stop, so I stop. I always wish I hadn't, after I take them home, but I keep doing it anyway.
Anyway, while I was putting on another clean shirt, I sort of figured this was my big chance, in a way. I figured if she was a prostitute and all, I could get in some practice on her, in case I ever get married or anything. I worry about that stuff sometimes. I read this book once, at the Whooton School, that had this very sophisticated, suave, sexy guy in it. Monsieur Blanchard was his name, I can still remember. It was a lousy book, but this Blanchard guy was pretty good. He had this big chateau and all on the Riviera, in Europe, and all he did in his spare time was beat women off with a club. He was a real rake and all, but he knocked women out. He said, in this one part, that a woman's body is like a violin and all, and that it takes a terrific musician to play it right. It was a very corny book--I realize that--but I couldn't get that violin stuff out of my mind anyway. In a way, that's why I sort of wanted to get some practice in, in case I ever get married. Caulfield and his Magic Violin, boy. It's corny, I realize, but it isn't too corny. I wouldn't mind being pretty good at that stuff. Half the time, if you really want to know the truth, when I'm horsing around with a girl, I have a helluva lot of trouble just finding what I'm looking for, for God's sake, if you know what I mean. Take this girl that I just missed having sexual intercourse with, that I told you about. It took me about an hour to just get her goddam brassiere off. By the time I did get it off, she was about ready to spit in my eye.
Anyway, I kept walking around the room, waiting for this prostitute to show up. I kept hoping she'd be good-looking. I didn't care too much, though. I sort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked on the door, and when I went to open it, I had my suitcase right in the way and I fell over it and damn near broke my knee. I always pick a gorgeous time to fall over a suitcase or something. When I opened the door, this prostitute was standing there. She had a polo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of a blonde, but you could tell she dyed her hair. She wasn't any old bag, though. "How do you do," I said. Suave as hell, boy.
"You the guy Maurice said?" she asked me. She didn't seem too goddam friendly.
"Is he the elevator boy?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Yes, I am. Come in, won't you?" I said. I was getting more and more nonchalant as it went along. I really was.
She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on the bed. She had on a green dress underneath. Then she sort of sat down sideways on the chair that went with the desk in the room and started jiggling her foot up and down. She crossed her legs and started jiggling this one foot up and down. She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was because she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in the big chair, next to her, and offered her a cigarette. "I don't smoke," she said. She had a tiny little wheeny-whiny voice. You could hardly hear her. She never said thank you, either, when you offered her something. She just didn't know any better.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele," I said.
"Ya got a watch on ya?" she said. She didn't care what the hell my name was, naturally. "Hey, how old are you, anyways?"
"Me? Twenty-two."
"Like fun you are."
It was a funny thing to say. It sounded like a real kid. You'd think a prostitute and all would say "Like hell you are" or "Cut the crap" instead of "Like fun you are."
"How old are you?" I asked her.
"Old enough to know better," she said. She was really witty. "Ya got a watch on ya?" she asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her dress over her head.
I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden and all. I know you're supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn't. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.
"Ya got a watch on ya, hey?"
"No. No, I don't," I said. Boy, was I feeling peculiar. "What's your name?" I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarrassing. It really was.
"Sunny," she said. "Let's go, hey."
"Don't you feel like talking for a while?" I asked her. It was a childish thing to say, but I was feeling so damn peculiar. "Are you in a very big hurry?"
She looked at me like I was a madman. "What the heck ya wanna talk about?" she said.
"I don't know. Nothing special. I just thought perhaps you might care to chat for a while."
She sat down in the chair next to the desk again. She didn't like it, though, you could tell. She started jiggling her foot again--boy, she was a nervous girl.
"Would you care for a cigarette now?" I said. I forgot she didn't smoke.
"I don't smoke. Listen, if you're gonna talk, do it. I got things to do."
I couldn't think of anything to talk about, though. I thought of asking her how she got to be a prostitute and all, but I was scared to ask her. She probably wouldn't've told me anyway.
"You don't come from New York, do you?" I said finally. That's all I could think of.
"Hollywood," she said. Then she got up and went over to where she'd put her dress down, on the bed. "Ya got a hanger? I don't want to get my dress all wrinkly. It's brand-clean."
"Sure," I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do something. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell--I don't know why exactly.
I sat down again and tried to keep the old conversation going. She was a lousy conversationalist. "Do you work every night?" I asked her--it sounded sort of awful, after I'd said it.
"Yeah." She was walking all around the room. She picked up the menu off the desk and read it.
"What do you do during the day?"
She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. "Sleep. Go to the show." She put down the menu and looked at me. "Let's go, hey. I haven't got all--"
"Look," I said. "I don't feel very much like myself tonight. I've had a rough night. Honest to God. I'll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if we don't do it? Do you mind very much?" The trouble was, I just didn't want to do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all. And besides, I don't think I could ever do it with somebody that sits in a stupid movie all day long. I really don't think I could.
She came over to me, with this funny look on her face, like as if she didn't believe me. "What'sa matter?" she said.
"Nothing's the matter." Boy, was I getting nervous. "The thing is, I had an operation very recently."
"Yeah? Where?"
"On my wuddayacallit--my clavichord."
"Yeah? Where the hell's that?"
"The clavichord?" I said. "Well, actually, it's in the spinal canal. I mean it's quite a ways down in the spinal canal."
"Yeah?" she said. "That's tough." Then she sat down on my goddam lap. "You're cute."
She made me so nervous, I just kept on lying my head off. "I'm still recuperating," I told her.
"You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Whosis. You know who I mean. What the heck's his name?"
"I don't know," I said. She wouldn't get off my goddam lap.
"Sure you know. He was in that pitcher with Mel-vine Douglas? The one that was Mel-vine Douglas's kid brother? That falls off this boat? You know who I mean."
"No, I don't. I go to the movies as seldom as I can." Then she started getting funny. Crude and all.
"Do you mind cutting it out?" I said. "I'm not in the mood, I just told you. I just had an operation."
She didn't get up from my lap or anything, but she gave me this terrifically dirty look. "Listen," she said. "I was sleepin' when that crazy Maurice woke me up. If you think I'm--"
"I said I'd pay you for coming and all. I really will. I have plenty of dough. It's just that I'm practically just recovering from a very serious--"
"What the heck did you tell that crazy Maurice you wanted a girl for, then? If you just had a goddam operation on your goddam wuddayacallit. Huh?"
"I thought I'd be feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little premature in my calculations. No kidding. I'm sorry. If you'll just get up a second, I'll get my wallet. I mean it."
She was sore as hell, but she got up off my goddam lap so that I could go over and get my wallet off the chiffonier. I took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. "Thanks a lot," I told her. "Thanks a million."
"This is a five. It costs ten."
She was getting funny, you could tell. I was afraid something like that would happen--I really was.
"Maurice said five," I told her. "He said fifteen till noon and only five for a throw."
"Ten for a throw."
"He said five. I'm sorry--I really am--but that's all I'm gonna shell out."
She sort of shrugged her shoulders, the way she did before, and then she said, very cold, "Do you mind getting me my frock? Or would it be too much trouble?" She was a pretty spooky kid. Even with that little bitty voice she had, she could sort of scare you a little bit. If she'd been a big old prostitute, with a lot of makeup on her face and all, she wouldn't have been half as spooky.
I went and got her dress for her. She put it on and all, and then she picked up her polo coat off the bed. "So long, crumb-bum," she said.
"So long," I said. I didn't thank her or anything. I'm glad I didn't.



第11节

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一霎时,在我出去到休息室的半路上,我脑子里忽然又想起老琴.迦拉格来。她进了我的脑子,却再也不肯出去。所以我就在那令人作呕的休息室椅子上坐下,又想起她跟斯特拉德莱塔一块儿坐在埃德.班基那辆混帐汽车里的事来,虽然我他妈的十分肯定老斯特拉德莱塔没法儿跟她干那事儿——。

我对琴理解得象一本书那么透——可我仍不能把琴从我的脑子里打发走。我对琴理解得象一本书那么透。这的确不假。我是说,除了下棋,她还挺喜爱一切体育运动,我自从跟她认识以后,整个夏天我们差不多天天早晨在一起打网球,天天下午在一起打高尔夫球。我跟她的关系的确十分密切。我说的并不是什么肉体关系之类——的确不是——可我们确实老在一起。你不一定非得通过猥亵关系才能理解一个姑娘。

我认识她的经过是因为她家的那只德国种猎狗老在我家草地上拉屎。我母亲为这事十分生气。她去找了琴的妈,闹得很不愉快。过了一两天,我在俱乐部里遇见了琴,看见她合扑着卧在游泳池旁边,就跟她打了个招呼。我知道她就住在我家隔壁,可我以前从来没跟她说过话。那天我跟她打招呼的时候,她对我冷得象块冰。我真他妈的费了不少工夫踞她解释,说我他妈的才不管她的狗在哪儿拉屎哩。

对我来说,它就是到我家的客厅里来拉屎都成。

嗯,这以后,琴就跟我做了朋友。那天下午我就跟她一块儿去打高尔夫球。她失了八个球,我记得。八个。我费了很大工夫,才教会她在开球的时候至少张开跟睛。她在我的帮助下球艺进步得很快。我自己高尔夫球打得极好。要是我告诉你经过情形,你大概不会相信。我有一次差点儿给拍进了电影,是那种体育短片,可我最后一分钟改变了主意。我揣摩象我这样一个痛恨电影的人,要是让他们把我拍成短片,岂不成了真正的伪君子了?

她是个可笑的姑娘,那个琴。我并不打算把她说成地道的美人。可她的确让我神魂颠倒。她可以说是个花嘴姑娘。我的意思是说她只要一讲话,加上心里激动,她的嘴和嘴唇就会向五十个方向动。

这简直要了我的命。而她也从来不把嘴闭得紧紧的。那张嘴总是微微张开一点,尤其是她摆好姿势要打高尔夫球或者是她在看书的时候。她老是在看书,看的都是些非常好的书。她还读过不少诗。艾里那只写着诗的垒球手套除了我家里的人以外,我只给她一个人看过。她从来没见过艾里,因为她还是第一次到缅因来度暑假——以前的暑假,她都到鳘鱼角去——可我把他的事情跟她讲了许多。她对这类事儿很感兴趣。

我母亲不怎么喜欢琴。我是说琴和她妈妈见了我母亲老是不跟她打招呼,我母亲就以为她的是故意怠慢她。我母亲经常在村里遇见她们,因为琴常常开着她们那辆拉萨尔敞篷汽车跟她母亲一起上市场。我母亲甚至都不以为琴长得漂亮。我呢,当然认为她漂亮。我就喜欢她长的那个模样儿,就是那么回事。

我记得有一天下午的事。那是唯一的一次琴跟我两人接近于搂搂抱抱地胡搞。那天是星期六,外面正下着瓢泼大雨,我恰好在她家里的廊子上一一他们有那种装着纱窗的大廊子。我们俩在一块儿下棋。我偶尔也拿她取笑,因为她总不肯把那些国王从后排拿出来使用。可我也并不把她取笑得太厉害。你是决不会想把琴取笑得太厉害的。我觉得我自己确实很喜欢一有机会,就把一个姑娘取笑得面红耳赤,可好笑的是,那些我最最喜欢的姑娘,我却不想拿她们取笑。有时候我觉得你拿她们取笑以后,她们反倒高兴——事实上,我知道她们是会高兴的——可你一旦跟她们相处久了,平时从来没拿她们取笑过,那简直很难开始。

嗯,我打算告诉你的,是那天下午琴跟我怎样接近于搂搂抱抱地胡搞。天正下着倾盆大雨,我们都在外面的廊子上,刹那间跟她母亲结婚的那个酒鬼出来到廊子上,问琴家里还有香烟没有。我跟他不很熟,不过从外表看,他很象那种不太爱理人的家伙,除非是他有求于你。他有种极讨厌的个性。

嗯,他问琴知不知道哪儿有香烟,琴却不回答他。

因此那家伙又问了她一遍,她依旧不回答他。她甚至都没从棋盘上抬起头来。最后那家伙走进屋去了。他进去后,我就问琴他妈的到底是怎么回事。

当时她甚至都不肯回答我。她假装着好象在集中注意思考下一步棋应该怎么走。接着突然间,那颗泪珠儿啪的一下掉到棋盘上了。正好掉在一个红方格上——嘿,我这会儿还看得见哩。她只是用手一擦,把那颗泪珠儿擦进了棋盘。我不知怎的,觉得心里极不对劲儿。我于是走过去让她在她坐的那把长椅上挪出些位置,好让我坐在她身旁——事实上我简直就坐在她怀里。接着她真的哭了起来,我呢,只知道在她脸上狂吻——一切地方——她的眼睛,她的鼻子,她的前额,她的眉毛,她的耳朵,——她整个的脸,除了她嘴上一带。她仿佛不让我吻她的嘴。不管怎样,这是我们俩最接近于搂搂抱抱地胡搞的一次。过一会儿,她起身进去,换上件红白两色的运动衫,就是我见了最神魂颠倒的那一件,于是我们俩一块儿去看混帐电影了。在路上,我问她古达罕先生——就是那酒鬼的名字——可曾对她不规矩过。她年纪还很轻,可她有那种极好的身段,所以换了我,就决不会让她呆在古达罕那杂种的身旁。不过她说他没有。我怎么也弄不明白这他妈的是怎么回事。有些女孩子你简直怎么也弄不明白究竟是怎么回事。

我希望你不要仅仅因为我们不在一起搂搂抱抱地胡搞,就把她看成是他妈的冰棍什么的。她才不蠢呢。我就老跟她握手,比如说。这听起来好象没什么,我知道,可你跟她握起手来却是滋昧无穷。大多数的姑娘你要是握住她们的手,她们那只混帐的手就会死在你的手里,要不然她们就觉得非把自己的手动个不停不可,好象生怕让你觉得腻烦似的。琴可不一样。我们进了一个混帐电影院什么的,就马上握起手来,直到电影演完才放开,既不改变手的位置,也不拿手大做文章。跟琴握手,你甚至都不会担心自己的手是不是在出汗。你只知道自已很快乐。你的确很快乐。

我刚想起另一件事。有一次,在电影院里,琴干了一件事,差点儿让我的灵魂儿都出了窍。好象还是在放映新闻片的时候,我突然觉得有只手搭在我脖子后面,那是琴的手。干这样的事说来确实是很可笑。就是说她还那么年轻,而你瞧见的那些把手搭在别人脖子后面的姑娘,多半都是在二十五岁到三十岁之间,而且对方不是她们的丈夫便是她们的孩子——比如说,我自己就偶尔把手搭在我小妹妹菲芘的脖子后面。可是遇到一个年轻的姑娘干这样的事,那真是别有滋味,简直叫你销魂。

嗯,这就是我坐在休息室里那把令人作呕的椅子上想的心事。想的是琴。我只要一想起她跟斯特拉德莱塔一起出去坐在埃德.班基那辆混帐汽车里的那部分,就会难过得差点儿发疯。我知道她决不会让他攻入一垒,可我心里照样难过得要命。我甚至都不高兴谈这好多,如果你一定要我说老实话。

休息室里已经没有人。连所有那些婊子样的女人也都不在了,忽然间我觉得自己非他妈的离开这地方不可了。这地方实在太叫人泄气了。不过我还一点不觉得困。因此我上楼回到自己房里,穿上大衣。我还往窗外眺望了一下,看看所有那些心理变态的人是不是还在行动,却见对面房里全都熄灯了。我又乘电梯下去,叫了辆出租汽车,要司机送我去“欧尼”。“欧尼”是格林威治村里的一个夜总会,我哥哥DB还没到好莱坞去当婊子之前常去那地方,他偶尔也带我去过几次。开夜总会的欧尼是个又高又胖的黑人,会弹钢琴。这家伙势利得要命,见了人甚至都不肯理睬,除非你是个大人物或者名人或者别的什么。可他的钢琴确实弹得好,事实上好得都有点流于粗俗了。我自己也不太清楚我说这话是什么意思,可我说的是心里话。我确实喜欢听他演奏。不过有时候你真想把他那架混帐钢琴翻个个儿。我想那是因为他有时候弹起钢琴来,听去就象那种势利鬼,除非你是大人物就不肯理睬你。

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第12节

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我坐的那辆出租汽车是辆真正的旧汽车,里面的气味就好象有人刚刚呕吐过似的。我只要深夜出去,总会坐到这类令人作呕的汽车。更糟糕的是,外面又是那么静寂那么孤独,虽说是在星期六晚上。街上我几乎没看见什么人。偶尔只见一男一女穿过街心,彼此搂着腰;或者一帮阿飞模样的家伙路他们的女朋友在一起,全都象恶魔似的哈哈大笑着,至于引起他们发笑的东西,你可以打赌根本不好笑。遇到深夜有人在街上大笑,纽约确是个可怕因地方。你在好几英里外都听得见这笑声。你会觉得那么孤独,那么沮丧。我真希望自己能回家去,跟我妹妹菲芘瞎扯一会儿。可是最后,等到我在车里坐了一会儿以后,那司机就跟我聊起天来。他的名字叫霍维兹。他比我早先遇见的那个司机要好多了。嗯,我忽然想起他或许知道那些鸭子的事。

“嗨,霍维兹,”我说。“你到中央公园浅水溯一带去过没有?就在中央公园南头?”

“去过哪儿?”

“浅水湖。那个小湖。里边有鸭子。你知道。”

“不错,怎么回事?”

“呃,你知道在湖里游着的那些鸭子吗?在春天和别的时候?可是到了冬天,你知道它们都到哪儿去了?”

“谁到哪儿去了?”

“那些鸭子,你知道吗?我问你。我是说到底是有人开来卡车把它们运走了呢,还是它们自己飞走了——飞到南方或者什么地方去了?”

老霍细兹把整个的身子都转了过来,直望着我。他是那种沉不住气的家伙。可他为人倒不坏。

“他妈的我怎么知道?”他说。“他妈的我怎么知道象这样的傻事?”

“呃,别为这个生气,”我说。看样子他好象有点儿生气了。

“谁生气了?没人生气。”

我看他为一点小事他妈的那么容易生气,就不再跟他说话。可他自己又跟我搭讪了。他又把整个身子转过来,说道:“那些鱼哪儿都不去,它们就呆在原来的地方,那些鱼。就呆在那个混帐湖里。”

“那些鱼——那不一样。那些鱼不一样。我讲的是鸭子,”我说。

“那有什么不一样?没什么不一样,”霍维兹说。他不管说什么话,总好象憋着一肚子气似的。

“在冬天,鱼比鸡子还要难过呢,老天爷。用你的脑子吧,老天爷。”

约莫一分钟工夫,我什么话也没说。接着我说:“好吧。要是那个小湖整个儿结成一块严实的冰,人们都在上面溜冰什么的,那么那些鱼什么的,它们怎么办呢?”

老霍维兹又转过身来。“它们怎么办呢,你他妈的这话是什么意思?”他向我晚喝说。“它们就呆在原来的地方,老天爷。”

“它们可不能不管冰。它们可不能不管。”

“谁不管冰?没有人不管!”霍维兹说。他变得他妈的那么激动,我真怕他会把汽车撞到电线杆或者别的什么东西上去。“它们就住在混帐的冰里面。这是它们的本性,老天爷。它们就那么一动不动整整冻住一个冬天。”

“是吗?那么它们吃什么呢?我是说,它们要是冻严实了,就不可能游来游去寻找食物什么的。”

“它们的身体,老天爷——你这是怎么啦?它们的身体能吸收养料,就从冰里混帐的水草之类玩艺儿里吸收,整个时间它们的毛孔全都张着。这是它们的本性,老天爷。懂得我的意思吗?”他又他妈的把整个身子转过来看着我。

“哦,”我说。我不再往下说了。我生怕他会把这辆混帐汽车撞得粉碎。再说,他又是那么个容易为小事生气的家伙,跟他讨论什么事情可不是件愉快事儿。“你能不能在哪儿停一下,跟我喝一杯?”我说。

他并没回答我。我揣摩他还在思索。我又问了他一遍。他是个挺不错的家伙。十分有趣。

“我没时间喝酒,老弟,”他说。“你他妈的到底几岁啦?干吗不在家睡觉呢?”

“我不困。”

我在欧尼夜总会门口下了车,付了车钱,老霍维兹忽然又提起了鱼的问题。他确是在思考这问题呢。“听着,”他说。“你要是鱼,大自然母亲就会照顾你,对不对?你总不会认为到了冬天,那些鱼都会死去吧?”

“不,可是——”“你他妈的说得对,它们不会死去,”霍维兹说着,就象只飞出地狱的蝙蝠似的,开着车一溜烟走了。他可以说是我一辈子遇到的最容易为一点小事生气的家伙。不管你说什么,都会惹他生气。

尽管时间已经这么晚了,老“欧尼”还是拥挤不堪。绝大多数是大学预料和大学里一些粗俗不堪的家伙。几乎世界上的每一个混帐学校都比我进的那些学校放假早。这地方挤得差点儿连大衣都没法存。可是倒静得很,因为欧尼正在弹钢琴。只要他在钢琴边坐下,便被看成是件神圣的事,其实老天爷,谁也不可能好得那样。除我之外,约莫还有三对男女在等桌子,他们全都推推搡搡的,踮起脚尖,想看一眼欧尼弹钢琴时的样子。他的钢琴前面放着一面混帐大镜子,他身上照着极亮的聚光灯,因此在他演奏的时候,人人都能看着他的脸。他演奏的时候你看不见他的指头——只看见他那张宽阔的老脸。真是了不起。我不太记得我进去的时候他正在演奏什么曲子,不过不管是什么曲子,他却真的把它糟蹋得一塌糊涂。他卖弄本领,傻里傻气的把那些高音符弹得象流水一样,还有其他许多油腔滑调的鬼把戏,我听了真是厌恶极了。可是,你真该听听他弹完时听众的那阵声音。你听了准会作呕。

他们全都疯了。他们完全象电影院里的那些痴子,见了一些并不可笑的东西却笑得象魔鬼一样。我可以对天发誓,换了我当钢琴家或是演员或是其他什么,这般傻瓜如果把我看成极了不起,我反而会不高兴。我甚至不愿他们给我鼓掌。他们总是为不该鼓掌的东西鼓掌。换了我当钢琴家,我宁可在混帐壁橱里演奏。嗯,他一弹完,当每个人都在不要命地鼓掌的时候,老欧尼就从他坐着的凳子上转过身来,鞠了一个十分假、十分谦虚的躬。象煞他不仅是个杰出的钢琴家,而且还是个谦虚得要命的仁人君子。完全是假模假式——我是说他原是那么个大势利鬼。可是说来可笑,他演奏完毕时,我倒真有点儿替他难受。我甚至都认为他已不再知道他自己弹得好不好了。这也不能完全怪他。我倒有点儿怪所有那些不要命地鼓掌的傻瓜——你只要给他们一个机会,他们会把任何人宠坏。嗯,这又让我心里沮丧和烦闷起来,我他妈的差点儿都想取回我的大衣回旅馆去了,只是时间太早,我不太想回去独自呆看。

最后他们给我找了一个糟得不能再糟的桌位,靠着墙壁,前面还挡着一根混帐往子,望出去什么也看不见。桌子又小,邻桌上的人要是不站起来让路——他们当然从来不站起来,这班杂种——你简直得爬进你的椅子。我要了杯威士忌酒和苏打水,这是我最爱喝的饮料,除了代基里酒以外。你哪怕只有六岁,都能在欧尼夜总会要到酒,这地方是那么暗,再说谁也不管你有多大年纪。哪怕你是个有吸毒瘾的,也没人管。

我周围全是些粗俗不堪的人。我不开玩笑。在我左边另一张小桌上,简直就在我头上坐着一个怪摸怪样的男子和一个怪模怪样的妨娘。他们跟我差不多年纪,或者也许稍稍比我大一点儿。说来真是好笑。你看得出他们都小心得要命,用慢得不能再慢的速度喝着少得不能再少的酒。我听了一会儿他们的谈话,因为我没有别的事可做,他正在讲给她听当天下午他看的一场职业选手的橄揽球比赛。他把整场比赛里的每一个混帐动作都给她讲了——我不开玩笑。我从来没听见过讲话比他更腻烦的。你也看得出他的女朋友对这场混帐球赛甚至都不感兴趣,可她的模样儿长得甚至比他还要丑,所以我揣摩她也就非听不可。真正的丑姑娘说来也真可怜。

有时我真替她们难受。有时候我甚至连看都不敢看她们,特别是她们跟那种碟碟不休地大谈一场混帐的橄揽球赛的家伙在一块儿的时候。可是在我右边,所进行的谈话甚至还要糟糕。我右边是一个非常象耶鲁学生模样的家伙,穿着一套法兰绒衣装,里面是件轻飘飘的塔特萨尔牌内衣。所有这些名牌大学里的杂种外表都一模一样。我父亲要我上耶鲁,或者布林斯敦,可我发誓决不进常青藤联合会里的任何一个学院,哪怕是要我的命,老天爷。不管怎样,这个耶鲁模样的家伙却跟一个漂亮极了的姑娘在一起,嘿,她长的真是漂亮。可你真该听听他们正在进行的那场谈话。首先,他们两个都有了醉意。那个男的一边在桌子底下抚摸她,一边却跟她讲着他宿舍里某个家伙怎样吃了整整一瓶阿斯匹林自杀,差点儿死了。他的女朋友不住地对他说:“多可怕哪……别这样,亲爱的。请别这样。这儿不成。”想一想,一边抚摸女人,一边讲给她听怎样有人自杀!我听了差点儿笑死。

我这样独自个儿坐着,的的确确开始感觉到自己很象是一匹得了奖的马的屁股。我除了抽烟喝酒之外,别无其他事情可做。我于是叫侍者去问问老欧尼是不是肯来跟我一块儿喝一杯。我叫他去告诉他说我是DB的弟弟。可是我认为他甚至都不会把信送到。这些杂种是决不会代你向任何人送信的。

一霎时,有个姑娘过来对我说:“霍尔顿.考尔菲德!”她的名字叫莉莉恩.西蒙斯。我哥哥DB过去有一时期曾跟她在一起过。她的胸脯非常饱满。

“嗨,”我说。我自然想站起来,可是在这样的地方,要站起来颇费一番工夫。跟她在一块儿的是一个海军军官,他那样子就象屁股后面藏着根通条似的。

“见到你多高兴!”老莉莉恩.西蒙斯说,完全是假模假式。“你哥哥好吗?”其实她想知道的,还不就是这个。

“他挺好。他到好莱坞去了。”

“到好莱坞去了!多了不起!他在干什么呢?”

“我不知道。写作吧,”我说。我不想细谈这件事,你看得出她认为进好莱坞十分了不起。差不多每个人都这样认为。他们多半都没看过他写的小说,这种事情可真叫我发疯。

“多让人高兴,”老莉莉恩说。接着她把我介绍给那海军军官。他的名字叫鲍洛甫队长什么。他就是那种人,跟你握起手来要是不把你的指头捏断那么四十根,就会以为自己是娘儿腔。天哪,我痛恨这类事儿。“你只一个人吗,小伙子?”老莉莉恩问我。她把过道上整个儿的混帐交通都堵塞住了。

你看得出她很喜欢堵住交通。有个侍者等着她让路,可她甚至就当没有他这个人似的。真是好笑。

你看出那侍者并不喜欢她,你看得出甚至连那个海军也不喜欢她,虽说他把她约了出来。而我也不喜欢她。谁也不喜欢她。说来你倒真有点儿替她难受呢。“你没约女朋友吗?小伙子?”她问我。我这时已站了起来,她甚至都不叫我坐下。她就是那种人,喜欢让你一站几个小时。“他长得漂亮不漂亮?”她对那个海军说。“霍尔顿,你确是越长越漂亮了。”那海军叫她往前走,告诉她说他们把整个过道都堵住了。“霍尔顿,来跟我们坐在一起吧,”老莉莉恩说。“把你的酒搬过来。”

“我马上就要走了,”我对她说。“我还有个约会。”你看得出她是想向我讨好。好让我将来告诉老DB。

“呃,你这个漂亮小伙子。你倒是挺不错。可你见到你哥哥的时候,请告诉他说我很他。”

她说完走了。那海军跟我互相说了声“见到你真高兴”。这类事情老让我笑疼肚皮,我老是在跟人说“见到你真高兴”,其实我见到他可一点也不高兴。你要是想在这世界上活下去,就得说这类话。

我既然跟她说了另有约会,就只好离开这地方,此外别无他妈的其他选择。我甚至都不能多呆会儿,听听老欧尼弹一曲比较象样的曲子。不过我当然不会搬过去,跟老莉莉恩.西蒙斯和那海军坐在一桌,去自讨苦咆,让自己腻烦死。所以我离开了。可我取大衣的时候,心里恨得要命。这些人就是会扫你的兴。

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第13节

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我徒步定回旅馆。整个儿穿过第四十一条大街。

我这样做,倒不是因为我想散步什么的,主要还是因为我不想再在另一辆出租汽车里进进出出。有时候你会突然讨厌乘出租汽车,就象你会突然讨厌乘电梯一样。你于是就得靠两只脚走,不管路有多远,楼有多高。我小时候,就常常靠两只脚走上我们的公寓房间,足足爬了十二层楼梯。

你甚至都不知道天已经下过雪了。人行道上连雪的影儿都没有。可天气冷得要命,我就从衣袋里取出我那顶红色猎人帽戴在头上——我才他妈的不管我打扮成什么鬼样儿哩。我甚至把耳罩都放了下来。我真想知道是谁在潘西偷走了我的手套,因为我的两只手都快冻僵了。其实我即使知道了,也不会采取什么行动。我是那种胆小鬼。我尽可能不表现出来,可我骨子里真的是个胆小鬼。比方说,我要是在潘西发现了是谁偷走了我的手套,我也许会走到小偷的房里说:“喂,把你那副手套拿出来怎么样?”那小偷听了或许会装出十分天真的样子说:“什么手套?”我会怎么办呢,我或许会到他的壁橱里把那副手套找出来,是藏在他那双混帐的高统橡皮套鞋或者别的什么东西里的,比如说。我会把手套拿出来,给那家伙看,说道:“我揣摩这是你的混帐手套?”于是那小偷大概会装出十分假、十分天真的模样,说道:“我这一辈子从来没见过这副手套。这手套要是你的,你就拿去。我可不要这种混帐东西。”我于是大概会直挺挺地在那儿站那么五分钟,手里拿着那副混帐手套,心里想着应该在那家伙的下巴额儿上揍那么一拳——打落他的混账下巴额儿。只是我没那勇气。我只会站在那儿,装出很凶狠的样子。我会怎么做呢,我只会说一些十分尖刻、十分下流的话,来激怒他——却不敢挥拳打他的下巴。嗯,我要是说了些十分尖刻、下流的话,那家伙大概会起身向我走来,说道:“听着,考尔菲德。你是不是在骂我小偷?”我听了都不敢说:“你他妈的说得一点不错,你这个偷东西的下流杂种!”我大概只会说:“我只知道我的那副混帐手套在你的混帐套鞋里。”那家伙听了,大概会马上摸我的底,看看我究竟敢不敢动手揍他,所以他会说:“听着。咱们打开天窗说亮话。你刚才是不是管我叫小偷来着?”我大概会这样回答:“谁也没管谁叫小偷。我只知道我的手套在你的混帐套鞋里。”就这样能翻来覆去讲几个小时。可我最后离开的时候,甚至都不会碰他一下。我大概会到盥洗室里,偷偷袖一支烟,在镜子里看着自己装出凶狠的样子。嗯,这就是我回旅馆时一路上想的心事。当个胆小鬼决不是什么好玩的事儿。也许我并不完完全全是个胆小鬼。我不知道。我想也许我只是一半出于胆小,一半出于丢了副手套什么的并不他妈的在乎。我有这么个缺点,就是不管丢了什么东西都不在乎——我小时候我母亲就常常为这事气得发疯。有些人要是丢了东西,不借花几天工夫到处寻找。我好象从来就不曾有过什么好东西丢了以后会着急得要命。或许这就是我一半胆小的原因。不过这不是给自己开脱的理由。的确不是。一个人压根儿就不应该胆小。你要是应该往谁的下巴额儿上揍一拳,心里如果想揍,就应该动手揍。可我就是下不了手。我宁可把一个人推出窗口,或者用斧头砍下他的脑瓜儿,也不愿拿拳头揍他的下巴额儿。我最恨跟人动拳头。我倒不在乎自己挨揍——尽管我并不乐于挨揍,自然啦——可是用拳头打架的时候我最害怕对方的脸。我的问题是,我不忍看对方的脸。要是双方都蒙住眼睛什么的,那倒还可以。你要是仔细一想,这确是种可笑的胆小,不过照样是胆小,一点不假。我决不自欺欺人。

我越是想到我的那副手套和我自己的胆小,我的心里就越烦闷,最后我决计停下来上哪儿喝一杯。

我在欧尼夜总会里只喝了三杯,最后一杯都没喝完。我有一个长处,就是酒量特别大。我只要心情好,可以整宵痛饮,都不动一点声色。有—次,在胡敦中学,我跟另一个叫雷蒙德.高尔德法伯的家伙买了一品脱威士忌酒,星期六晚上躲在小教堂里喝,那儿没人会瞧见我们。他已烂醉如泥,我却甚至连酒意都没有一点。我只是变得十分冷静,对什么都无动于衷。我在睡觉之前呕吐了一阵,可也不是非吐不可——我是让自己硬吐出来的。

嗯,在我回旅馆之前,我还想到一家门面简陋的小酒吧里去喝一杯,忽然有两个酩酊大醉的家伙走出来,问我地铁在哪儿。有一个家伙看去很象古巴人,在我告诉他怎么走的时候,不住地把他嘴里的臭气往我脸上喷。结果我连那个混帐酒吧的门都没进,就一径回到旅馆里。

休息室里空荡荡的,发出一股象五千万支熄掉了的雪茄的气味。的确是这样一股气味。我依旧不觉得困,只是心里很不痛快。烦闷得很。我简直不想活了。

接着,突然间,我遇到了那么件倒霉事。

我才一进电梯,那个开电梯的家伙就跟我说:“有兴趣玩玩吗,朋友?还是时间太晚了?”

“你说的什么?”我说。我真不知道他说的是什么意思。

“今儿晚上要个小姑娘玩玩吗?”

“我?”这么回答当然很傻,可是有人直截了当地问你这么个问题,一时的确很难回答。

“你多大啦,先生?”开电梯的说。

“怎么?”我说。“二十二。”

“嗯——哼。呃,怎么样?你有兴趣吗?五块钱一次。十五块一个通宵。”他看了看手表。“到中午。五块钱一次,十五块钱到中午。”

“好吧,”我说。这违背我的原则,可我心里烦闷得要命,甚至都没加思索。糟就糟在这里。你要是心里太烦闷,甚至都没法思索。

“要什么?要一次,还是到中午?我得知道。”

“就一次吧。”

“好吧,你住几号房间?”

我看了看我钥匙上面那个写着号码的红玩艺儿。“1220,”我说。我已经有点儿后悔不该这么着,不过已经太晚了。

“好吧。我在一刻钟内送个姑娘上来。”他打开电梯的门,我走了出去。

“嗨,她长得漂亮吗?”我问他。“我可不要什么老太婆。”

“没有老太婆。别担心这个,先生。”

“我怎么给钱?”

“给她,”他说。“就这样吧,先生。”他简直冲着我劈脸把门关上了。

我回到房里往头发上敷了些水,可是在水手式的平头上实在梳不出什么名堂来。接着我想起在欧尼夜总会里抽了那么些烟,又喝了威士忌和苏打水,就试了试自己的嘴里有没有臭味。你只要把手放到嘴下面,对准鼻孔呼气,就闻得出自己嘴里有没有臭味。我嘴里的味儿倒不大,可我还是刷了刷牙。接着我又换了件干净衬衫。我知道自己用不着为了个妓女把身上打扮得象个布娃娃似的,不过这样我总算有事可做了。我有点儿紧张。我的欲念开始上来了,可我也有点儿紧张。我老实跟你说,我原来还是个童男哩。我真的是个童男。我倒有几次机会可以失去我的童贞,可我始终没失去。总是有什么事情发生。比方说,你要是在女朋友的家里,她的父母总会突然回家——或者你害怕他们会突然回家。或者你要是在别人汽车里的后座上,那么前座上总有什么人——或是说有什么姑娘——老想知道整个混帐汽车里在干些什么。我是说前座上总有个始娘老回过头来看看后面在他妈的干些什么。不管怎样,反正总有什么事发生。有一两次,我只差一点儿就上手了。特别是有一次,我记得。可后来出了什么事——我都记不得到底出什么事了。问题是,每当你要跟一个姑娘行事的时候——我是说不是个做妓女什么的姑娘——十有九次她总不住地叫你住手。我的问题是,每次我都住手了。大多数男人都不这样。我却由不得自己。你总拿不准她们是真正要你住手呢,还是她们害怕得要命,还是她们故意要你住手,万一你真的干了那事,那么过错就都在你身上,她们可以脱掉干系。不管怎样,每次我都住手了。问题是,我心里真有点儿替她们难受。我是说大多数姑娘都那么傻。你只要跟她们搂搂抱抱一会儿,就可以真正看出她们全都失去了头脑。一个姑娘只要真正热情上来,就不再有头脑。

我不知道。她们要我住手,我就住手了。我送她们回家以后,总后悔自己不该住手,可到时候又总是老毛病发作。

嗯,我在穿另一件干净衬衫的时候,心里暗忖,这倒是我最好的一个机会。我揣摩她既是个妓女,我可以从她那儿取得一些经验,在我结婚后也许用得着。有时候我可真担心这玩艺儿。在胡敦中学的时候,我有一次看到一本书,里面讲一个非常世故、非常和蔼可亲、非常好色的家伙。他的名字叫勃朗夏德先生,我还记得。这是一本坏书,可勃朗夏德这个人物倒是写得不错。他在欧洲里维耶拉河上有一座大城堡,空闲时他总是拿根棍子把一些女人打跑。他是个真正的浪子,可很使女人着迷。

他在书的某一章里说女人的身体很象个小提琴,需要一个大音乐家才能演奏出好音乐。这是本粗俗不堪的书——我知道这一点——可我怎么也忘不掉那个小提琴的比喻。我之所以想取得些经验,以备结婚后应用,说来也是如此。考尔菲德和他的魔提琴,嘿。这有点粗俗,我知道,可也不算太粗俗。

我不在乎自己在这玩艺儿上成为老手。如果你真要我说老实话,我可以告诉你说当我跟一个女人一起胡搞的时候,有多半时间我都他妈的找不到我所寻找的东西,要是你懂得我意思的话。就拿刚才我说的那个差点儿跟我发生关系的姑娘来说吧。我差不多花了一个小时才把她的奶罩脱掉。到了我真正把它脱掉的时候,她都准备往我的脸上吐唾沫了。

嗯,我不住地在房间里踱来踱去,等那妓女来。我真希望她长得漂亮。不过我对这个也不十分在乎。我很愿意这事能快点儿过去。最后,有人敲门了,我去开门的时候,在手提箱上绊了一交,差点儿摔坏了我的膝盖。我总是选择这种紧要时刻绊倒在手提箱之类的东西上。

我开了门,看见那妓女正站在门外。她穿了件驼毛绒大衣,没戴帽子。她有一头金发,不过你看得出是染过的。可她倒不是个老太婆。“您好,”我说。温柔得要命,嘿。

“你就是毛里斯说的那位?”她问我,看样子并不太他妈的客气。

“毛里斯是不是那个开电梯的?”

“是的,”她说。

“晤,是我。请进来,好不好?”我说。说着说着我变得越来越凉了。一点不假。

她进房后马上脱下大衣,往床上一扔。她里面穿着件绿衣服。她斜坐在那把跟房间里的书桌配成一套的椅子上,开始颠动她的一只脚。她把一条腿搁在另一条腿上,开始颠动搁在上面的那只脚。对一个妓女来说,她的举止似乎过于紧张。她确实紧张。我想那是因为她年轻得要命的缘故。她跟我差不多年纪。我在她旁边的一把大椅子上坐下,递给她一支香烟。“我不抽烟,”她说。她说起话来哼哼卿卿的,声音很小。你甚至都听不见她说的什么。你请她抽烟什么的,她也从来不说声谢谢。她完全是出于无知。

“让我来自我介绍吧。我的名字叫吉姆.斯梯尔,”我说。’“你有手表吗?”她说。她并不在乎我他妈的叫什么名字,自然啦。“嗨,你到底多大啦?”

“我?二十二。”

“别逗人啦。”

这话的确可笑。听去真象个孩子。你总以为一个妓女会说“别见鬼啦”或者“别胡扯啦”,不会说“别逗人啦”这类话。

“你多大啦?”我问她。

“反正比你更懂事,”她说。她倒是真鬼。

“你有手表吗?”她又问了我一遍,随即站起来,从头顶上脱下衣服。

她脱衣服的时候,我的确有一种奇特的感觉。

我是说她脱得那么突然。我想,你要是看见过女人站起来从头顶上脱衣服,总难免要动情,可我当时并没有。情欲我倒是真的没有。我并没动情,只觉得十分沮丧。

“你有手表吗,嗨?”

“不。不,我没有,”我说,嘿,我倒真有一种奇特的感觉。“你叫什么名字?”我问她。她现在只穿着一件粉红色套裙,看了真让人窘得很。一点不假。

“孙妮,”她说。“咱们来吧,嗨。”

“你想不想再谈一会儿?”我问她。这话说得很孩子气,可我当时的心境真是他妈的奇特。“你是不是有什么非常要紧的事?”

她望着我,好象我是个疯子似的。“你有什么话要跟我谈的?”她说。

“我不知道。没什么特别的话,我只是想,你或许愿意聊一会儿天。”

她又在书桌边的椅子上坐下。可她心里并不高兴,你看得出来。她又开始颠动她的一只脚——嘿,她真是个容易紧张的姑娘。

“你想抽支烟吗?”我说。我忘了她不抽烟。

“我不抽烟。听着,你要是想聊天,就聊吧。

我还有事呢。”

可我想不出有什么话可聊。我本想问问她怎么会当妓女的,可我又怕问她。看样子她也不会告诉我。

“你不是打纽约来的吧,是不是?”我最后说。我只想出了这么句话。

“好莱坞,”她说着,起身走到床上她放衣服的地方。“你有衣架吗?我不想把我这件衣服弄皱。还是崭新的呢。”

“当然有,”我马上说。我能站起来做点儿什么事,真是太高兴了。我把她的衣服拿到壁橱里挂好。说来好笑,我接的时候,心里竟有点难过。我想起她怎样到铺子里去买衣服,铺子里的人谁也不知道她是妓女。售货员卖给她衣服的时候,大概还以为她是个普通的姑娘哩。这使我心里难过得要命——我也说不出到底是什么道理。

我又坐下来,想继续跟她聊天。她真他妈的不会聊天。“你每天晚上都工作吗?”我问她——这话说出口后,听上去似乎很不象话。

“是的。”她在房里到处转悠。她从书桌上拿起菜单来看,“你白天干什么?”

她端了端肩膀。她的个子很瘦。“睡觉。看电影。”她放下菜单朝我看着。“咱们来吧,嗨。我可没那么多——”“瞧,”我说。“我今天晚上精神不好。我这一夜过的很糟糕。一点不假。我照样付你钱,可我们要是不干那事儿,你不会在意吧?你不会很在意吧?”糟糕的是,我真的不想干那事儿。我没有冲动,只觉得沮丧,我老实告诉你说。她本人很叫人泄气。还有那挂在壁橱里的绿衣服什么的。再说,我觉得自己真不能跟一个整天坐在混帐电影院里的姑娘干那事儿。我觉得真的不能。

她走到我身边,脸上带着那种可笑的神情,好象并不相信我的话。“怎么回事?”她说。

“没什么。”嘿,我怎么会那么紧张呢!“问题是,我最近刚动过一次手术。”

“是吗?哪儿?”

“在我那——怎么说呢——我的锁骨上。”

“是吗?那玩艺儿是在他妈的什么地方?”

“锁骨!”我说。“呃,真正说来,是在脊椎骨里。我是说在脊椎骨的尽里边。”

“是吗?”她说。“真糟糕。”说着她就坐到我他妈的怀里来了。“你真漂亮。”

她真让我紧张极了,我只好拚命撒谎。“我还没完全恢复健康呢,”我对她说。

“你很象电影里的一个家伙。你知道象哪一个。你知道我说的是谁。他叫什么名字来着?”

“我不知道,”我说。她不肯从我他妈的怀里下来。

“你当然知道。他就在那张曼尔一温.道格拉斯主演的片子里。是不是曼尔一温.道格拉斯的弟弟?就是打船上掉下来的那个?你知道我说的是推?”

“不,我不知道。我很少看电影。”

接着她开始逗起我来。粗野得很。

“不干那玩艺儿你不会在意吧?”我说。“我精神不好,我刚才已跟你说了。我刚动过手术。”

她依旧没从我怀里下来,可是极其鄙夷地望了我一眼。“听着,”她说。“混帐的毛里斯叫醒我的时候,我睡的真香呢。你要是以为我是——”“我说过照样付你钱。我说了算数。我有的是钱。唯一的原因是我动了一次大手术,差不多刚刚复——”“那你于吗告诉混帐的毛里斯说你要个姑娘!

要是你刚刚在你的什么混帐地方动了一次混帐手术,哼?”

“我当时以为自己的精神还不错。我对自己估计过高了。不开玩笑。很抱歉。要是你能起来那么一会儿,我就马上拿钱给你。我不骗你。”

她火冒得要命,不过她终于从我的混帐怀里下来了,好让我过去到五屉柜上取我的皮夹子。我拿出一张五块的钞票递给她。“谢谢,”我对她说。

“非常谢谢。”

“这是五块。要十块呢。”

她这是在捉弄我了,我看得出来。我最怕这类事儿——一点不假。

“毛里斯说五块,”我告诉她。“他说十五块到中午,五块一次。”

“十块一次。”

“他说的是五块。很抱歉——我真的很抱歉——可我只能给这么些钱。”

她端了端肩膀,就象刚才那样。接着她冷冷地说:“劳驾给我拿一下衣服好吗?是不是太麻烦您了?”她是个十分可怕的小鬼。尽管她说话的声音那么细小,她却能吓得你心惊肉跳。要是她是个经验丰富的老娼妇,脸上满是脂粉,就不会那么吓人了。

我过去给她拿了衣服。她穿好衣服,又从床上拿起她的驼毛绒大衣。“再见,瘪三,”她说。

“再见,”我说。我并没谢她。我很高兴我没谢她。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 4楼  发表于: 2013-10-11 0


8
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the whole way to the station. It wasn't too far, but it was cold as hell, and the snow made it hard for walking, and my Gladstones kept banging hell out of my legs. I sort of enjoyed the air and all, though. The only trouble was, the cold made my nose hurt, and right under my upper lip, where old Stradlater'd laid one on me. He'd smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty sore. My ears were nice and warm, though. That hat I bought had earlaps in it, and I put them on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. Nobody was around anyway. Everybody was in the sack.
I was quite lucky when I got to the station, because I only had to wait about ten minutes for a train. While I waited, I got some snow in my hand and washed my face with it. I still had quite a bit of blood on.
Usually I like riding on trains, especially at night, with the lights on and the windows so black, and one of those guys coming up the aisle selling coffee and sandwiches and magazines. I usually buy a ham sandwich and about four magazines. If I'm on a train at night, I can usually even read one of those dumb stories in a magazine without puking. You know. One of those stories with a lot of phony, lean-jawed guys named David in it, and a lot of phony girls named Linda or Marcia that are always lighting all the goddam Davids' pipes for them. I can even read one of those lousy stories on a train at night, usually. But this time, it was different. I just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat and not did anything. All I did was take off my hunting hat and put it in my pocket.
All of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to me. Practically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and all, but she sat down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she had this big bag with her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck the bag right out in the middle of the aisle, where the conductor and everybody could trip over it. She had these orchids on, like she'd just been to a big party or something. She was around forty or forty-five, I guess, but she was very good looking. Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that--although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle. Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excuse me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my suitcases, up on the rack.
"Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker on one of my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice telephone voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to Pencey."
"Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pencey, in the whole crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he'd had a shower, snapping his soggy old wet towel at people's asses. That's exactly the kind of a guy he was.
"Oh, how nice!" the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice and all. "I must tell Ernest we met," she said. "May I ask your name, dear?"
"Rudolf Schmidt," I told her. I didn't feel like giving her my whole life history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our dorm.
"Do you like Pencey?" she asked me.
"Pencey? It's not too bad. It's not paradise or anything, but it's as good as most schools. Some of the faculty are pretty conscientious."
"Ernest just adores it."
"I know he does," I said. Then I started shooting the old crap around a little bit. "He adapts himself very well to things. He really does. I mean he really knows how to adapt himself."
"Do you think so?" she asked me. She sounded interested as hell.
"Ernest? Sure," I said. Then I watched her take off her gloves. Boy, was she lousy with rocks.
"I just broke a nail, getting out of a cab," she said. She looked up at me and sort of smiled. She had a terrifically nice smile. She really did. Most people have hardly any smile at all, or a lousy one. "Ernest's father and I sometimes worry about him," she said. "We sometimes feel he's not a terribly good mixer."
"How do you mean?"
"Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a terribly good mixer with other boys. Perhaps he takes things a little more seriously than he should at his age."
Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a goddam toilet seat.
I gave her a good look. She didn't look like any dope to me. She looked like she might have a pretty damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of. But you can't always tell--with somebody's mother, I mean. Mothers are all slightly insane. The thing is, though, I liked old Morrow's mother. She was all right. "Would you care for a cigarette?" I asked her.
She looked all around. "I don't believe this is a smoker, Rudolf," she said. Rudolf. That killed me.
"That's all right. We can smoke till they start screaming at us," I said. She took a cigarette off me, and I gave her a light. She looked nice, smoking. She inhaled and all, but she didn't wolf the smoke down, the way most women around her age do. She had a lot of charm. She had quite a lot of sex appeal, too, if you really want to know.
She was looking at me sort of funny. I may be wrong but I believe your nose is bleeding, dear, she said, all of a sudden.
I nodded and took out my handkerchief. "I got hit with a snowball," I said. "One of those very icy ones." I probably would've told her what really happened, but it would've taken too long. I liked her, though. I was beginning to feel sort of sorry I'd told her my name was Rudolf Schmidt. "Old Ernie," I said. "He's one of the most popular boys at Pencey. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
I nodded. "It really took everybody quite a long time to get to know him. He's a funny guy. A strange guy, in lots of ways--know what I mean? Like when I first met him. When I first met him, I thought he was kind of a snobbish person. That's what I thought. But he isn't. He's just got this very original personality that takes you a little while to get to know him."
Old Mrs. Morrow didn't say anything, but boy, you should've seen her. I had her glued to her seat. You take somebody's mother, all they want to hear about is what a hot-shot their son is.
Then I really started chucking the old crap around. "Did he tell you about the elections?" I asked her. "The class elections?"
She shook her head. I had her in a trance, like. I really did.
"Well, a bunch of us wanted old Ernie to be president of the class. I mean he was the unanimous choice. I mean he was the only boy that could really handle the job," I said--boy, was I chucking it. "But this other boy--Harry Fencer--was elected. And the reason he was elected, the simple and obvious reason, was because Ernie wouldn't let us nominate him. Because he's so darn shy and modest and all. He refused. . . Boy, he's really shy. You oughta make him try to get over that." I looked at her. "Didn't he tell you about it?"
"No, he didn't."
I nodded. "That's Ernie. He wouldn't. That's the one fault with him--he's too shy and modest. You really oughta get him to try to relax occasionally."
Right that minute, the conductor came around for old Mrs. Morrow's ticket, and it gave me a chance to quit shooting it. I'm glad I shot it for a while, though. You take a guy like Morrow that's always snapping their towel at people's asses--really trying to hurt somebody with it--they don't just stay a rat while they're a kid. They stay a rat their whole life. But I'll bet, after all the crap I shot, Mrs. Morrow'll keep thinking of him now as this very shy, modest guy that wouldn't let us nominate him for president. She might. You can't tell. Mothers aren't too sharp about that stuff.
"Would you care for a cocktail?" I asked her. I was feeling in the mood for one myself. "We can go in the club car. All right?"
"Dear, are you allowed to order drinks?" she asked me. Not snotty, though. She was too charming and all to be snotty.
"Well, no, not exactly, but I can usually get them on account of my heighth," I said. "And I have quite a bit of gray hair." I turned sideways and showed her my gray hair. It fascinated hell out of her. "C'mon, join me, why don't you?" I said. I'd've enjoyed having her.
"I really don't think I'd better. Thank you so much, though, dear," she said. "Anyway, the club car's most likely closed. It's quite late, you know." She was right. I'd forgotten all about what time it was.
Then she looked at me and asked me what I was afraid she was going to ask me. "Ernest wrote that he'd be home on Wednesday, that Christmas vacation would start on Wednesday," she said. "I hope you weren't called home suddenly because of illness in the family." She really looked worried about it. She wasn't just being nosy, you could tell.
"No, everybody's fine at home," I said. "It's me. I have to have this operation."
"Oh! I'm so sorry," she said. She really was, too. I was right away sorry I'd said it, but it was too late.
"It isn't very serious. I have this tiny little tumor on the brain."
"Oh, no!" She put her hand up to her mouth and all. "Oh, I'll be all right and everything! It's right near the outside. And it's a very tiny one. They can take it out in about two minutes."
Then I started reading this timetable I had in my pocket. Just to stop lying. Once I get started, I can go on for hours if I feel like it. No kidding. Hours.
We didn't talk too much after that. She started reading this Vogue she had with her, and I looked out the window for a while. She got off at Newark. She wished me a lot of luck with the operation and all. She kept calling me Rudolf. Then she invited me to visit Ernie during the summer, at Gloucester, Massachusetts. She said their house was right on the beach, and they had a tennis court and all, but I just thanked her and told her I was going to South America with my grandmother. Which was really a hot one, because my grandmother hardly ever even goes out of the house, except maybe to go to a goddam matinee or something. But I wouldn't visit that sonuvabitch Morrow for all the dough in the world, even if I was desperate.
9
The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Station, I went into this phone booth. I felt like giving somebody a buzz. I left my bags right outside the booth so that I could watch them, but as soon as I was inside, I couldn't think of anybody to call up. My brother D.B. was in Hollywood. My kid sister Phoebe goes to bed around nine o'clock--so I couldn't call her up. She wouldn't've cared if I'd woke her up, but the trouble was, she wouldn't've been the one that answered the phone. My parents would be the ones. So that was out. Then I thought of giving Jane Gallagher's mother a buzz, and find out when Jane's vacation started, but I didn't feel like it. Besides, it was pretty late to call up. Then I thought of calling this girl I used to go around with quite frequently, Sally Hayes, because I knew her Christmas vacation had started already--she'd written me this long, phony letter, inviting me over to help her trim the Christmas tree Christmas Eve and all--but I was afraid her mother'd answer the phone. Her mother knew my mother, and I could picture her breaking a goddam leg to get to the phone and tell my mother I was in New York. Besides, I wasn't crazy about talking to old Mrs. Hayes on the phone. She once told Sally I was wild. She said I was wild and that I had no direction in life. Then I thought of calling up this guy that went to the Whooton School when I was there, Carl Luce, but I didn't like him much. So I ended up not calling anybody. I came out of the booth, after about twenty minutes or so, and got my bags and walked over to that tunnel where the cabs are and got a cab.
I'm so damn absent-minded, I gave the driver my regular address, just out of habit and all--I mean I completely forgot I was going to shack up in a hotel for a couple of days and not go home till vacation started. I didn't think of it till we were halfway through the park. Then I said, "Hey, do you mind turning around when you get a chance? I gave you the wrong address. I want to go back downtown."
The driver was sort of a wise guy. "I can't turn around here, Mac. This here's a one-way. I'll have to go all the way to Ninedieth Street now."
I didn't want to start an argument. "Okay," I said. Then I thought of something, all of a sudden. "Hey, listen," I said. "You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over? Do you happen to know, by any chance?" I realized it was only one chance in a million.
He turned around and looked at me like I was a madman. "What're ya tryna do, bud?" he said. "Kid me?"
"No--I was just interested, that's all."
He didn't say anything more, so I didn't either. Until we came out of the park at Ninetieth Street. Then he said, "All right, buddy. Where to?"
"Well, the thing is, I don't want to stay at any hotels on the East Side where I might run into some acquaintances of mine. I'm traveling incognito," I said. I hate saying corny things like "traveling incognito." But when I'm with somebody that's corny, I always act corny too. "Do you happen to know whose band's at the Taft or the New Yorker, by any chance?"
"No idear, Mac."
"Well--take me to the Edmont then," I said. "Would you care to stop on the way and join me for a cocktail? On me. I'm loaded."
"Can't do it, Mac. Sorry." He certainly was good company. Terrific personality.
We got to the Edmont Hotel, and I checked in. I'd put on my red hunting cap when I was in the cab, just for the hell of it, but I took it off before I checked in. I didn't want to look like a screwball or something. Which is really ironic. I didn't know then that the goddam hotel was full of perverts and morons. Screwballs all over the place.
They gave me this very crumby room, with nothing to look out of the window at except the other side of the hotel. I didn't care much. I was too depressed to care whether I had a good view or not. The bellboy that showed me to the room was this very old guy around sixty-five. He was even more depressing than the room was. He was one of those bald guys that comb all their hair over from the side to cover up the baldness. I'd rather be bald than do that. Anyway, what a gorgeous job for a guy around sixty-five years old. Carrying people's suitcases and waiting around for a tip. I suppose he wasn't too intelligent or anything, but it was terrible anyway.
After he left, I looked out the window for a while, with my coat on and all. I didn't have anything else to do. You'd be surprised what was going on on the other side of the hotel. They didn't even bother to pull their shades down. I saw one guy, a gray-haired, very distinguished-looking guy with only his shorts on, do something you wouldn't believe me if I told you. First he put his suitcase on the bed. Then he took out all these women's clothes, and put them on. Real women's clothes--silk stockings, high-heeled shoes, brassiere, and one of those corsets with the straps hanging down and all. Then he put on this very tight black evening dress. I swear to God. Then he started walking up and down the room, taking these very small steps, the way a woman does, and smoking a cigarette and looking at himself in the mirror. He was all alone, too. Unless somebody was in the bathroom--I couldn't see that much. Then, in the window almost right over his, I saw a man and a woman squirting water out of their mouths at each other. It probably was highballs, not water, but I couldn't see what they had in their glasses. Anyway, first he'd take a swallow and squirt it all over her, then she did it to him--they took turns, for God's sake. You should've seen them. They were in hysterics the whole time, like it was the funniest thing that ever happened. I'm not kidding, the hotel was lousy with perverts. I was probably the only normal bastard in the whole place--and that isn't saying much. I damn near sent a telegram to old Stradlater telling him to take the first train to New York. He'd have been the king of the hotel.
The trouble was, that kind of junk is sort of fascinating to watch, even if you don't want it to be. For instance, that girl that was getting water squirted all over her face, she was pretty good-looking. I mean that's my big trouble. In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw. Sometimes I can think of very crumby stuff I wouldn't mind doing if the opportunity came up. I can even see how it might be quite a lot of fun, in a crumby way, and if you were both sort of drunk and all, to get a girl and squirt water or something all over each other's face. The thing is, though, I don't like the idea. It stinks, if you analyze it. I think if you don't really like a girl, you shouldn't horse around with her at all, and if you do like her, then you're supposed to like her face, and if you like her face, you ought to be careful about doing crumby stuff to it, like squirting water all over it. It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes. Girls aren't too much help, either, when you start trying not to get too crumby, when you start trying not to spoil anything really good. I knew this one girl, a couple of years ago, that was even crumbier than I was. Boy, was she crumby! We had a lot of fun, though, for a while, in a crumby way. Sex is something I really don't understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it--the same night, as a matter of fact. I spent the whole night necking with a terrible phony named Anne Louise Sherman. Sex is something I just don't understand. I swear to God I don't.
I started toying with the idea, while I kept standing there, of giving old Jane a buzz--I mean calling her long distance at B.M., where she went, instead of calling up her mother to find out when she was coming home. You weren't supposed to call students up late at night, but I had it all figured out. I was going to tell whoever answered the phone that I was her uncle. I was going to say her aunt had just got killed in a car accident and I had to speak to her immediately. It would've worked, too. The only reason I didn't do it was because I wasn't in the mood. If you're not in the mood, you can't do that stuff right.
After a while I sat down in a chair and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I was feeling pretty horny. I have to admit it. Then, all of a sudden, I got this idea. I took out my wallet and started looking for this address a guy I met at a party last summer, that went to Princeton, gave me. Finally I found it. It was all a funny color from my wallet, but you could still read it. It was the address of this girl that wasn't exactly a whore or anything but that didn't mind doing it once in a while, this Princeton guy told me. He brought her to a dance at Princeton once, and they nearly kicked him out for bringing her. She used to be a burlesque stripper or something. Anyway, I went over to the phone and gave her a buzz. Her name was Faith Cavendish, and she lived at the Stanford Arms Hotel on Sixty-fifth and Broadway. A dump, no doubt.
For a while, I didn t think she was home or something. Nobody kept answering. Then, finally, somebody picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I said. I made my voice quite deep so that she wouldn't suspect my age or anything. I have a pretty deep voice anyway.
"Hello," this woman's voice said. None too friendly, either.
"Is this Miss Faith Cavendish?"
"Who's this?" she said. "Who's calling me up at this crazy goddam hour?"
That sort of scared me a little bit. "Well, I know it's quite late," I said, in this very mature voice and all. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I was very anxious to get in touch with you." I said it suave as hell. I really did.
"Who is this?" she said.
"Well, you don't know me, but I'm a friend of Eddie Birdsell's. He suggested that if I were in town sometime, we ought to get together for a cocktail or two."
"Who? You're a friend of who?" Boy, she was a real tigress over the phone. She was damn near yelling at me.
"Edmund Birdsell. Eddie Birdsell," I said. I couldn't remember if his name was Edmund or Edward. I only met him once, at a goddam stupid party.
"I don't know anybody by that name, Jack. And if you think I enjoy bein' woke up in the middle--"
"Eddie Birdsell? From Princeton?" I said.
You could tell she was running the name over in her mind and all.
"Birdsell, Birdsell. . . from Princeton.. . Princeton College?"
"That's right," I said.
"You from Princeton College?"
"Well, approximately."
"Oh. . . How is Eddie?" she said. "This is certainly a peculiar time to call a person up, though. Jesus Christ."
"He's fine. He asked to be remembered to you."
"Well, thank you. Remember me to him," she said. "He's a grand person. What's he doing now?" She was getting friendly as hell, all of a sudden.
"Oh, you know. Same old stuff," I said. How the hell did I know what he was doing? I hardly knew the guy. I didn't even know if he was still at Princeton. "Look," I said. "Would you be interested in meeting me for a cocktail somewhere?"
"By any chance do you have any idea what time it is?" she said. "What's your name, anyhow, may I ask?" She was getting an English accent, all of a sudden. "You sound a little on the young side."
I laughed. "Thank you for the compliment," I said-- suave as hell. "Holden Caulfield's my name." I should've given her a phony name, but I didn't think of it. "Well, look, Mr. Cawffle. I'm not in the habit of making engagements in the middle of the night. I'm a working gal."
"Tomorrow's Sunday," I told her.
"Well, anyway. I gotta get my beauty sleep. You know how it is."
"I thought we might have just one cocktail together. It isn't too late."
"Well. You're very sweet," she said. "Where ya callin' from? Where ya at now, anyways?"
"Me? I'm in a phone booth."
"Oh," she said. Then there was this very long pause. "Well, I'd like awfully to get together with you sometime, Mr. Cawffle. You sound very attractive. You sound like a very attractive person. But it is late."
"I could come up to your place."
"Well, ordinary, I'd say grand. I mean I'd love to have you drop up for a cocktail, but my roommate happens to be ill. She's been laying here all night without a wink of sleep. She just this minute closed her eyes and all. I mean."
"Oh. That's too bad."
"Where ya stopping at? Perhaps we could get together for cocktails tomorrow."
"I can't make it tomorrow," I said. "Tonight's the only time I can make it." What a dope I was. I shouldn't've said that.
"Oh. Well, I'm awfully sorry."
"I'll say hello to Eddie for you."
"Willya do that? I hope you enjoy your stay in New York. It's a grand place."
"I know it is. Thanks. Good night," I said. Then I hung up.
Boy, I really fouled that up. I should've at least made it for cocktails or something.
10
It was still pretty early. I'm not sure what time it was, but it wasn't too late. The one thing I hate to do is go to bed when I'm not even tired. So I opened my suitcases and took out a clean shirt, and then I went in the bathroom and washed and changed my shirt. What I thought I'd do, I thought I'd go downstairs and see what the hell was going on in the Lavender Room. They had this night club, the Lavender Room, in the hotel.
While I was changing my shirt, I damn near gave my kid sister Phoebe a buzz, though. I certainly felt like talking to her on the phone. Somebody with sense and all. But I couldn't take a chance on giving her a buzz, because she was only a little kid and she wouldn't have been up, let alone anywhere near the phone. I thought of maybe hanging up if my parents answered, but that wouldn't've worked, either. They'd know it was me. My mother always knows it's me. She's psychic. But I certainly wouldn't have minded shooting the crap with old Phoebe for a while.
You should see her. You never saw a little kid so pretty and smart in your whole life. She's really smart. I mean she's had all A's ever since she started school. As a matter of fact, I'm the only dumb one in the family. My brother D.B.'s a writer and all, and my brother Allie, the one that died, that I told you about, was a wizard. I'm the only really dumb one. But you ought to see old Phoebe. She has this sort of red hair, a little bit like Allie's was, that's very short in the summertime. In the summertime, she sticks it behind her ears. She has nice, pretty little ears. In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though. Sometimes my mother braids it and sometimes she doesn't. It's really nice, though. She's only ten. She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny. Roller-skate skinny. I watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to go to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny. You'd like her. I mean if you tell old Phoebe something, she knows exactly what the hell you're talking about. I mean you can even take her anywhere with you. If you take her to a lousy movie, for instance, she knows it's a lousy movie. If you take her to a pretty good movie, she knows it's a pretty good movie. D.B. and I took her to see this French movie, The Baker's Wife, with Raimu in it. It killed her. Her favorite is The 39 Steps, though, with Robert Donat. She knows the whole goddam movie by heart, because I've taken her to see it about ten times. When old Donat comes up to this Scotch farmhouse, for instance, when he's running away from the cops and all, Phoebe'll say right out loud in the movie--right when the Scotch guy in the picture says it--"Can you eat the herring?" She knows all the talk by heart. And when this professor in the picture, that's really a German spy, sticks up his little finger with part of the middle joint missing, to show Robert Donat, old Phoebe beats him to it--she holds up her little finger at me in the dark, right in front of my face. She's all right. You'd like her. The only trouble is, she's a little too affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional, for a child. She really is. Something else she does, she writes books all the time. Only, she doesn't finish them. They're all about some kid named Hazel Weatherfield--only old Phoebe spells it "Hazle." Old Hazle Weatherfield is a girl detective. She's supposed to be an orphan, but her old man keeps showing up. Her old man's always a "tall attractive gentleman about 20 years of age." That kills me. Old Phoebe. I swear to God you'd like her. She was smart even when she was a very tiny little kid. When she was a very tiny little kid, I and Allie used to take her to the park with us, especially on Sundays. Allie had this sailboat he used to like to fool around with on Sundays, and we used to take old Phoebe with us. She'd wear white gloves and walk right between us, like a lady and all. And when Allie and I were having some conversation about things in general, old Phoebe'd be listening. Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a little kid, but she'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd give Allie or I a push or something, and say, "Who? Who said that? Bobby or the lady?" And we'd tell her who said it, and she'd say, "Oh," and go right on listening and all. She killed Allie, too. I mean he liked her, too. She's ten now, and not such a tiny little kid any more, but she still kills everybody--everybody with any sense, anyway.
Anyway, she was somebody you always felt like talking to on the phone. But I was too afraid my parents would answer, and then they'd find out I was in New York and kicked out of Pencey and all. So I just finished putting on my shirt. Then I got all ready and went down in the elevator to the lobby to see what was going on.
Except for a few pimpy-looking guys, and a few whory-looking blondes, the lobby was pretty empty. But you could hear the band playing in the Lavender Room, and so I went in there. It wasn't very crowded, but they gave me a lousy table anyway--way in the back. I should've waved a buck under the head-waiter's nose. In New York, boy, money really talks--I'm not kidding.
The band was putrid. Buddy Singer. Very brassy, but not good brassy--corny brassy. Also, there were very few people around my age in the place. In fact, nobody was around my age. They were mostly old, show-offy-looking guys with their dates. Except at the table right next to me. At the table right next to me, there were these three girls around thirty or so. The whole three of them were pretty ugly, and they all had on the kind of hats that you knew they didn't really live in New York, but one of them, the blonde one, wasn't too bad. She was sort of cute, the blonde one, and I started giving her the old eye a little bit, but just then the waiter came up for my order. I ordered a Scotch and soda, and told him not to mix it--I said it fast as hell, because if you hem and haw, they think you're under twenty-one and won't sell you any intoxicating liquor. I had trouble with him anyway, though. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but do you have some verification of your age? Your driver's license, perhaps?"
I gave him this very cold stare, like he'd insulted the hell out of me, and asked him, "Do I look like I'm under twenty-one?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we have our--"
"Okay, okay," I said. I figured the hell with it. "Bring me a Coke." He started to go away, but I called him back. "Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or something?" I asked him. I asked him very nicely and all. "I can't sit in a corny place like this cold sober. Can'tcha stick a little rum in it or something?"
"I'm very sorry, sir. . ." he said, and beat it on me. I didn't hold it against him, though. They lose their jobs if they get caught selling to a minor. I'm a goddam minor.
I started giving the three witches at the next table the eye again. That is, the blonde one. The other two were strictly from hunger. I didn't do it crudely, though. I just gave all three of them this very cool glance and all. What they did, though, the three of them, when I did it, they started giggling like morons. They probably thought I was too young to give anybody the once-over. That annoyed hell out of me-- you'd've thought I wanted to marry them or something. I should've given them the freeze, after they did that, but the trouble was, I really felt like dancing. I'm very fond of dancing, sometimes, and that was one of the times. So all of a sudden, I sort of leaned over and said, "Would any of you girls care to dance?" I didn't ask them crudely or anything. Very suave, in fact. But God damn it, they thought that was a panic, too. They started giggling some more. I'm not kidding, they were three real morons. "C'mon," I said. "I'll dance with you one at a time. All right? How 'bout it? C'mon!" I really felt like dancing.
Finally, the blonde one got up to dance with me, because you could tell I was really talking to her, and we walked out to the dance floor. The other two grools nearly had hysterics when we did. I certainly must've been very hard up to even bother with any of them.
But it was worth it. The blonde was some dancer. She was one of the best dancers I ever danced with. I'm not kidding, some of these very stupid girls can really knock you out on a dance floor. You take a really smart girl, and half the time she's trying to lead you around the dance floor, or else she's such a lousy dancer, the best thing to do is stay at the table and just get drunk with her.
"You really can dance," I told the blonde one. "You oughta be a pro. I mean it. I danced with a pro once, and you're twice as good as she was. Did you ever hear of Marco and Miranda?"
"What?" she said. She wasn't even listening to me. She was looking all around the place.
"I said did you ever hear of Marco and Miranda?"
"I don't know. No. I don't know." "Well, they're dancers, she's a dancer. She's not too hot, though. She does everything she's supposed to, but she's not so hot anyway. You know when a girl's really a terrific dancer?"
"Wudga say?" she said. She wasn't listening to me, even. Her mind was wandering all over the place.
"I said do you know when a girl's really a terrific dancer?"
"Uh-uh."
"Well--where I have my hand on your back. If I think there isn't anything underneath my hand--no can, no legs, no feet, no anything--then the girl's really a terrific dancer."
She wasn't listening, though. So I ignored her for a while. We just danced. God, could that dopey girl dance. Buddy Singer and his stinking band was playing "Just One of Those Things" and even they couldn't ruin it entirely. It's a swell song. I didn't try any trick stuff while we danced--I hate a guy that does a lot of show-off tricky stuff on the dance floor--but I was moving her around plenty, and she stayed with me. The funny thing is, I thought she was enjoying it, too, till all of a sudden she came out with this very dumb remark. "I and my girl friends saw Peter Lorre last night," she said. "The movie actor. In person. He was buyin' a newspaper. He's cute."
"You're lucky," I told her. "You're really lucky. You know that?" She was really a moron. But what a dancer. I could hardly stop myself from sort of giving her a kiss on the top of her dopey head--you know-- right where the part is, and all. She got sore when I did it.
"Hey! What's the idea?"
"Nothing. No idea. You really can dance," I said. "I have a kid sister that's only in the goddam fourth grade. You're about as good as she is, and she can dance better than anybody living or dead."
"Watch your language, if you don't mind."
What a lady, boy. A queen, for Chrissake.
"Where you girls from?" I asked her.
She didn't answer me, though. She was busy looking around for old Peter Lorre to show up, I guess.
"Where you girls from?" I asked her again.
"What?" she said.
"Where you girls from? Don't answer if you don't feel like it. I don't want you to strain yourself."
"Seattle, Washington," she said. She was doing me a big favor to tell me.
"You're a very good conversationalist," I told her. "You know that?"
"What?"
I let it drop. It was over her head, anyway. "Do you feel like jitterbugging a little bit, if they play a fast one? Not corny jitterbug, not jump or anything--just nice and easy. Everybody'll all sit down when they play a fast one, except the old guys and the fat guys, and we'll have plenty of room. Okay?"
"It's immaterial to me," she said. "Hey--how old are you, anyhow?"
That annoyed me, for some reason. "Oh, Christ. Don't spoil it," I said. "I'm twelve, for Chrissake. I'm big for my age." "Listen. I toleja about that. I don't like that type language," she said. "If you're gonna use that type language, I can go sit down with my girl friends, you know."
I apologized like a madman, because the band was starting a fast one. She started jitterbugging with me-- but just very nice and easy, not corny. She was really good. All you had to do was touch her. And when she turned around, her pretty little butt twitched so nice and all. She knocked me out. I mean it. I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.
They didn't invite me to sit down at their table-- mostly because they were too ignorant--but I sat down anyway. The blonde I'd been dancing with's name was Bernice something--Crabs or Krebs. The two ugly ones' names were Marty and Laverne. I told them my name was Jim Steele, just for the hell of it. Then I tried to get them in a little intelligent conversation, but it was practically impossible. You had to twist their arms. You could hardly tell which was the stupidest of the three of them. And the whole three of them kept looking all around the goddam room, like as if they expected a flock of goddam movie stars to come in any minute. They probably thought movie stars always hung out in the Lavender Room when they came to New York, instead of the Stork Club or El Morocco and all. Anyway, it took me about a half hour to find out where they all worked and all in Seattle. They all worked in the same insurance office. I asked them if they liked it, but do you think you could get an intelligent answer out of those three dopes? I thought the two ugly ones, Marty and Laverne, were sisters, but they got very insulted when I asked them. You could tell neither one of them wanted to look like the other one, and you couldn't blame them, but it was very amusing anyway.
I danced with them all--the whole three of them--one at a time. The one ugly one, Laverne, wasn't too bad a dancer, but the other one, old Marty, was murder. Old Marty was like dragging the Statue of Liberty around the floor. The only way I could even half enjoy myself dragging her around was if I amused myself a little. So I told her I just saw Gary Cooper, the movie star, on the other side of the floor.
"Where?" she asked me--excited as hell. "Where?"
"Aw, you just missed him. He just went out. Why didn't you look when I told you?"
She practically stopped dancing, and started looking over everybody's heads to see if she could see him. "Oh, shoot!" she said. I'd just about broken her heart-- I really had. I was sorry as hell I'd kidded her. Some people you shouldn't kid, even if they deserve it.
Here's what was very funny, though. When we got back to the table, old Marty told the other two that Gary Cooper had just gone out. Boy, old Laverne and Bernice nearly committed suicide when they heard that. They got all excited and asked Marty if she'd seen him and all. Old Mart said she'd only caught a glimpse of him. That killed me.
The bar was closing up for the night, so I bought them all two drinks apiece quick before it closed, and I ordered two more Cokes for myself. The goddam table was lousy with glasses. The one ugly one, Laverne, kept kidding me because I was only drinking Cokes. She had a sterling sense of humor. She and old Marty were drinking Tom Collinses--in the middle of December, for God's sake. They didn't know any better. The blonde one, old Bernice, was drinking bourbon and water. She was really putting it away, too. The whole three of them kept looking for movie stars the whole time. They hardly talked--even to each other. Old Marty talked more than the other two. She kept saying these very corny, boring things, like calling the can the "little girls' room," and she thought Buddy Singer's poor old beat-up clarinet player was really terrific when he stood up and took a couple of ice-cold hot licks. She called his clarinet a "licorice stick." Was she corny. The other ugly one, Laverne, thought she was a very witty type. She kept asking me to call up my father and ask him what he was doing tonight. She kept asking me if my father had a date or not. Four times she asked me that--she was certainly witty. Old Bernice, the blonde one, didn't say hardly anything at all. Every time I'd ask her something, she said "What?" That can get on your nerves after a while.
All of a sudden, when they finished their drink, all three of them stood up on me and said they had to get to bed. They said they were going to get up early to see the first show at Radio City Music Hall. I tried to get them to stick around for a while, but they wouldn't. So we said good-by and all. I told them I'd look them up in Seattle sometime, if I ever got there, but I doubt if I ever will. Look them up, I mean.
With cigarettes and all, the check came to about thirteen bucks. I think they should've at least offered to pay for the drinks they had before I joined them--I wouldn't've let them, naturally, but they should've at least offered. I didn't care much, though. They were so ignorant, and they had those sad, fancy hats on and all. And that business about getting up early to see the first show at Radio City Music Hall depressed me. If somebody, some girl in an awful-looking hat, for instance, comes all the way to New York--from Seattle, Washington, for God's sake--and ends up getting up early in the morning to see the goddam first show at Radio City Music Hall, it makes me so depressed I can't stand it. I'd've bought the whole three of them a hundred drinks if only they hadn't told me that.
I left the Lavender Room pretty soon after they did. They were closing it up anyway, and the band had quit a long time ago. In the first place, it was one of those places that are very terrible to be in unless you have somebody good to dance with, or unless the waiter lets you buy real drinks instead of just Cokes. There isn't any night club in the world you can sit in for a long time unless you can at least buy some liquor and get drunk. Or unless you're with some girl that really knocks you out.



第09节

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我下车进了潘恩车站,头一件事就是进电话间打电话。我很想跟什么人通通话。我把我的手提箱放在电话间门口,以便照看,可我进了里边,一时又想不起跟谁通话。我哥哥DB在好莱坞。我的小妹妹菲芘在九点左右就上床了——所以我不能打电话给她。我要是把她叫醒,她倒是不在乎,可问题在于接电话的不会是她,而是我的父母。所以这电话决不能打。接着我想到给琴.迦拉格的母亲挂个电话,打听一下琴的假期什么时候开始,可我又不怎么想打。再说时间也太晚了。我于是想到打电话给那位常常跟我在一起的女朋友萨丽.海斯,因为我知道她已放圣诞假了——她写了封又长又假的信给我,请我在圣诞前夕到她家去帮她修剪圣诞树——可我又怕她母亲来接电话。她母亲认识我母亲,我可以想象到她一接到电话,也就不怕摔断他妈的腿,马上急煎煎打电话去通知我母亲,说我已经到纽约了。再说,我也不怎么想跟老海斯太太通话。她有一次告诉萨丽说我太野。她说我太野,没有生活的目标。我于是又想起打电话给那个我在胡敦中学时的同学卡尔.路斯,可我不怎么喜欢他.所以我在电话间里呆了约莫二十分钟,却没打电话就走了出来,拿起我的手提箱,走向停出租汽车的地道,叫了辆汽车。

我当时真他妈的心不在焉,竞出于老习惯,把我家里的地址告诉了司机——我是说我压根儿忘了我要到旅馆里去住两三天,到假期开始后才回家。

直到汽车在公园里走了一半,我才想起这件事来,于是我就说:“嗨,你一有机会,马上拐回去成不成?我把地址说错啦。我想回市中心去。”

司机是个机灵鬼。“这儿可没法拐,麦克。

是条单行线。我得一直开到九十号路。”

我不想跟他争论。“好吧,”我说。接着刹那间我想起了一件事。“嗨,听着,”我说。“你知道中央公园南头浅水湖附近的那些鸭子吗?那个小湖?我问你,在湖水冻严实以后,你可知道这些鸭子都上哪儿去了?你知道不知道,我问你?”我知道多半是白问,只有百万分之一可能性。

他回过头来瞅着我,好象我是疯子似的。“你这是要干吗,老弟?”他说。“拿我开玩笑吗?”

“不——我只是很感兴趣,问问罢了。”

他没再言语,我也一样。直到汽车出了公园,开到九十号路,他才说:“好吧,老弟。上哪儿?”

“呃,问题是,我不想往东区的旅馆,怕遇见熟人。我是在微服旅行,”我说。我最讨厌说“微服旅行”这类粗俗的话,可是每遇到一些粗俗的人,我自己也就装得很粗俗。“你可知道在塔夫特或者纽约人夜总会里,是谁的乐队在伴奏,请问?”

“不知道,麦克。”

“呃——送我到爱德蒙吧,那么,”我说。“你在半路上停一下,我请你喝杯鸡尾酒好不好?我请客。我身上有的是钱。”

“不成,麦克,对不起。”他真是个好伴侣。

可怕的性格。

我们到了爱德蒙旅馆,我就去开了个房间。在汽车里我又戴上了我那顶红色猎人帽,完全是聊以解闷,可我进旅馆之前又把它脱下了。我不愿把自己打扮成一个怪人。说起来也真滑稽可笑。我当时并不知道那个混帐旅馆里住的全是变态的和痴呆的怪人。到处是怪人。

他们给了我一个十分简陋的房间,从窗口望出去什么也看不见,只看见旅馆的另外一边。我可不怎么在乎。我心里沮丧得要命,就顾不得窗外的景色好不好了。领我进房间的侍者是个六十五岁左右的老头子,他这人甚至比房间更叫人泄气。他正是那一类秃子,爱把所有的头发全都梳向一边,来遮掩自己的秃顶。要是我,就宁可露出秃顶,也不干这样的事。不管怎样,让一个六十五岁左右的老头子来干这种活儿,也未免太难了。给人提行李,等着人赏小费。我猜想他大概没什么知识,可不管怎样,那也太可怕了。

他走后,我也没脱大衣什么的,就站在窗边往外眺望一会儿。我没别的事可做。可是旅馆那一边房间里在干些什么,你听了准会吃惊。他们甚至都不把窗帘拉上。我看见有个头发花白的家伙,看样子还很有身份,光穿着裤衩在干一件我说出来你决不相信的事。他先把自己的手提箱放在床上。然后他拿出整整一套妇女服装,开始穿戴起来。那是一套真正妇女服装——长统丝袜,高跟皮鞋,奶罩,搭拉着两条背带的衬裙,等等。随后他穿上了一件腰身极小的黑色晚礼服。我可以对天发誓。随后他在房间里走来走去,象女人那样迈着极小的步于,一边还抽烟照镜子。而且只有他一个人在房里。除非有人在浴室里——这我看不见。后来,就在他上面的那个窗口,我又看见一对男女在用嘴彼此喷水。也许是加冰的威士忌苏打,不是水,可我看不出他们杯子里盛的是什么。嗯,他先喝一口,喷了她一身,接着她也照样喷他——他们就这样轮流着喷来喷去,我的老天爷。你真应该见见他们。在整个时间内他们都歇斯底里发作,好象这是世界上最最好玩的事儿。我不开玩笑,这家旅馆确是住满心理变态的人。我也许是这地方唯一的正常人了——而我这么说一点也不夸大。我真想他妈的拍个电报给老斯特拉德莱塔,叫他搭最快一班火车直奔纽约。他准可以在这旅馆里称王哩。

糟糕的是,这类下流玩艺儿瞧着还相当迷人,尽管你心里颇不以为然。举例说,这个给喷得满脸是水的姑娘,长得却十分漂亮。我是说这是我最糟糕的地方。在我的内心中,我这人也许是天底下最最大的色情狂。有时候,我能想出一些十分下流的勾当,只要有机会,我也不会不干。我甚至想象得出,要是男女双方都喝醉了酒,你要是能找到那么个姑娘,可以彼此往脸上喷水什么的,那该有多好玩——尽管有些下流。不过问题是,我不喜欢这种做法。你要是仔细一分析,就会发现这种做法非常下流。我想,你要是真不喜欢一个女人,那就干脆别跟她在一起厮混;你要是真喜欢她呢,就该喜欢她的脸,你要是喜欢她的脸,就应该小心爱护它,不应该对它干那种下流事,如往它上面喷水。真正糕的是,许多下流的事情有时候干起来却十分有趣。而女人们也好不了多少;如果你不想干太下流的事,如果你不想毁坏真正好的东西,她们反倒不乐意。一两年前,我就遇到过一个姑娘,甚至比我还要下流。嘿,她真是下流极了!我们用一种下流的方式狂欢了一阵,虽然时间不长。性这样东西,我委实不太了解。你简直不知道他妈的你自己身在何处。我老给自己定下有关性方面的规则,可是马上就破坏。去年我定下规则,决不跟那些叫我内心深处觉得厌恶的始娘一起厮混。这个规则,我没出一个星期就破坏了——事实上,在立下规则的当天晚上就破坏了。我跟一个叫安妮的浪荡货搂搂抱抱的整整胡闹了一晚。性这样东西,我的确不太了解。我可以对天发誓我不太了解。

我站在窗口不动,心里却起了个念头,琢磨着要不要给琴挂个电话——我是说挂个长途电话到BM,就是到她念书的那个学校,而不是打电话给她妈,打听她在什么时候回家。照说是不应该在深更半夜打电话给学生的,可我什么都核计好了。我打算跟不管哪个接电话的人说我是她舅舅。我打算说她舅母刚才撞车死了,我现在马上要找她说话。

这样做,本来是可能成功的。我没这么做的唯一原因是我当时情绪不对头。你要是投那种情绪,这类事是做不好的。

过了一会儿我在一把椅子上坐下,抽了一两支烟。我的性欲上来了,我不得不承认。后来刹那间,我想起了一个主意。我拿出了我的皮夹,开始寻找一个地址,那地址是我今年夏天在舞会上遇到的一个在布林斯敦念书的家伙给我的。最后我找到了那地址,纸已褪了色,可还辨认得出字迹。地址上的那个姑娘不完全是个妓女,可也不反对偶尔客串一次,那个布林斯敦家伙是这样告诉我的。他有一次带了她去参加布林斯敦的舞会,差点儿就为这件事给开除出学校。她好象是个脱衣舞女什么的。

不管怎样,我走到电话机旁边,给她挂了个电话。

她的名字叫费丝,住在百老汇六十五条街斯丹福旅馆。一个垃圾堆,毫无疑问。

一时间,我还以为她不在家里。半晌没人接电话。最后有人拿起了话筒。

“哈罗?”我说。我把自己的声音装得很深沉,不让她怀疑我的年龄或者别的什么。反正我的声音本来就很深沉。

“哈罗,”那女人的声音说,并不太客气。

“是费丝小姐吗?”

“你是谁?”她说。“是谁在他妈的这个混帐时间打电话给我?”

我听了倒是稍稍有点儿害怕。“呃,我知道时间已经挺晚啦,”我说,用的是成年人那种极成熟的声音。“我希望您能原谅我,我实在太急于跟您联系啦。”我说话的口气温柔得要命。的确是的。

“你是谁?”她说。

“呃,您不认识我,可我是爱迪的朋友。他跟我说,我要是进城,可以请您一块儿喝一两杯鸡尾酒。”

“谁?你是谁的朋友?”嘿,她在电话里真象只雌老虎。她简直是在跟我大声呦喝。

“爱德蒙。爱迪,”我说。我已记不起他的名字是爱德蒙还是爱德华。我只遇见过他一次,是在他妈的那个混帐舞会上遇见的。

“我不认识叫这名字的人,杰克。你要是认为我高兴让人在深更半夜——”“爱迪?布林斯敦的?”我说。

你感觉得出她正在搜索记忆,想这个名字。

“是不是布林斯敦学院?”

“对啦,”我说。

“你是打布林斯敦学院来的?”

“呃,差不离。”

“哦……爱迪好吗?”她说。“不过在这时候打电话找人,真叫人意想不到。老天爷。”

“他挺好。他叫我向您问好。”

“呃,谢谢您。请您代我向他问好。”她说。

“他这人再好没有。他这会儿在于什么?”刹那间,她变得客气的要命。

“哦,你知道的。还是那套老玩艺儿,”我说;他妈的我哪知道他是在干什么?我都不怎么认识他。我甚至都不知道他这会儿是不是依旧在布林斯敦。“瞧,”我说。“您能不能赏光在哪儿跟我碰头,喝一杯鸡尾酒?”

“我问您,您可知道现在是什么时间啦?”她说。“您到底叫什么名字,请问?”一刹时,她换了英国口音。“听您的声音,好象还挺年轻。”

我噗哧一笑。“谢谢您的恭维,”我说——温柔得要命。“我的名字是霍尔顿.考尔菲德。”我本应当给她个假名字的,可我一时没想到。

“呃,瞧,考菲尔先生,我可不习惯在深更半夜限人约会。我是个有工作的。”

“明天是星期天,”我对她说。

“呃,不管怎样,我得好好睡一会儿,保持我的青春,您也知道这个道理。”

“我本来想咱俩也许可以在一块儿喝杯鸡尾洒。时间还不算太晚。”

“呢。您真客气,”她说。“您是在哪儿打的电话?您这会儿是在哪儿,嗯?”

“我?我是在公用电话间里。”

“哦,”她说。接着沉默了半晌。“呃,我非常愿意在什么时候跟您一块儿玩玩,考菲尔先生。

听您的声音十分可爱。您好象是个极可爱的人。不过时间实在太晚啦。”

“我可以上您家来。”

“呃,在平时,我会说这再好没有了。我是说我倒是很高兴您上我家来喝杯鸡尾酒,可是不巧得很,跟我同屋的那位恰好病了。她整整一晚都不曾合眼,这会儿才刚睡着哩。”

“哦。这真太糟糕啦。”

“您往在哪儿?明天咱们也许可以一块儿喝鸡尾酒。”

“明天可不成,”我说。“我只在今天晚上有空。”我真是个大傻瓜。我不应该这样说的。

“哦。呃,真是对不起得很。”

“我可以代您向爱迪问好。”

“您肯吗?我希望您在纽约玩得痛快。这是个再好没有的地方。”

“这我知道。谢谢,再见吧,”我说,接着就把电话挂了。

嘿,我真正把事情搞糟啦。我本应该至少约她出来喝喝鸡尾酒什么的。

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第10节

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时间还挺早。我记不清楚已经几点钟了,不过还不算太晚。我最讨厌做的一件事就是我还不觉得困的时候上床睡觉。因此我打开手提箱,取出一件干净衬衫,随后走进浴室,擦洗一下,换了衬衫。

我想做的,是下楼去看看“紫丁香厅”里到底他妈的在干什么。他们这个旅馆里有个夜总会,叫作紫丁香厅。

我在换衬衫的时候,差点儿给我小妹妹菲芘挂了个电话。我倒是真想跟她在电话上谈谈。跟一个真正懂事的人。可我不能冒险打电话给她,因为她还只是个小孩子,这会儿准不会不上床,更不用说不会在电话旁边接电话了。我曾想到万一是我父母来接电话,是不是马上就把电话接了,可这也不是办法。他们会知道是我。我母亲总知道是我。她末卜先知。可我倒是真想找老菲芘聊聊天。

你真应该见见她。你这一辈子再也不会见过那么漂亮、那么聪明的小孩子。她真是聪明。我是说从上学到现在,门门功课都是优。说实在的,我是家中唯一的笨蛋。我哥哥DB,是个作家什么的,我弟弟艾里,就是我前面跟你谈到过的已经死去的那个,简直是个鬼精灵。惟有我是个真正的笨蛋。

可你真应该见见老菲芘。她也是那种红头发,跟艾里的有点儿相象,在夏天剪得很短。夏天,她总把头发一古脑儿扎在耳朵后面。她的耳朵也挺小挺漂亮。冬天,她的头发蓄得挺长,有时我母亲给她梳成辫子,有时不梳。可那头发的确漂亮得很。她还只十岁。她个儿很瘦,象我一样,可是瘦得很漂亮。室内溜冰的那种瘦。有一次我从窗口望着她穿过五马路向公园走去,她的确是那模样儿,室内溜冰的那种瘦。你见了准会喜欢她。我是说你不管跟老菲芘讲些什么话,她总知道你他妈的讲的什么。

我是说你简直哪儿都可以带她去。你要是带她去看一个蹩脚电影,比方说,她就会知道这电影蹩脚。

你要是带她去看一个好电影,她也会知道这电影好。DB跟我曾带她去看法国电影《面包师的妻子》,由莱绍主演。这电影简直要了她的命。可她最爱看的是《三十九步》,罗伯特.唐纳主演。她把那电影都背熟了,因为我带她去看了约莫十次。

当老唐纳到了苏格兰农场的时候,比方说,当他逃避警察的时候,菲芘就会在电影院大声说——就在影片里那个苏格兰人开口说话的时候——“你吃不吃青鱼?”她背得出所有的对话。影片里的那位教授,其实是个德国间谍,还没伸出那个小指头给罗伯特.唐纳看,指头的中间关节还缺了一块,老菲芘已比他先伸手了——她在黑暗中把她的小指头伸了过来,一直伸到我眼面前。她真是不错。你见了准会喜欢她。唯一的缺点是,她有时候有点儿过于亲热。她感情非常容易冲动,就她那个年纪的孩子来说。她的确是。她干的另一件事是一天到晚写书。只是这些书没有一本是写完的。写的全都是关于一个叫作海泽尔.威塞菲尔的孩子——只是老菲芘这把名字写成了“海士尔”。老海士尔.威塞菲尔是个女侦探。她本来应该是个孤儿,可她的老子却经常出现。她的老子总是个“高个子的漂亮绅士,年纪在二十上下”。简直笑死了我。这个老菲芘。

我可以对天发督,你见了她准会喜欢。她还是很小很小的时候,就很聪明。她还是个很小的孩子的时候,我跟艾里常常带她上公园去,尤其在星期天。

在星期天,艾里总爱带着他的那只帆船上公园玩,我们总是带着老菲芘一块儿去。她戴着白手套,走在我们中间,就象个贵夫人似的。遇到艾里跟我谈论起什么事情来,老菲芘总是在一旁听着。有时候你会忘掉有她在身边,因为她还是个那么小的孩子,可她总会提醒你。她会不住地打断你。她会推我成者艾里一下,说道:“谁?谁说的?是鲍比还是那位小姐?”我们就告诉她是谁说的,她就会“哦”一声,依旧听下去。她也简直要了艾里的命;我是说他也喜欢她。她现在十岁了,不再是那么个小孩子了,可她依旧惹每个人喜爱——每个有头脑的人,嗯。

嗯,象她这样的人,你没事总想跟她在电话上聊聊。可我很怕我父母来接电话,那样他们就会发现我在纽约,已给潘西开除了出来,等等一切。所以我光是穿上衬衫,收拾好一切,然后乘电梯下去到休息室里看看。

除了少数几个王八样的男子,几个婊子样的女人,休息室里简直没什么人,可你听得见乐队在紫丁香厅奏乐,所以我就定了进去。里面并不十分拥挤,可他们依旧给我找了个极不好的桌位——在尽后面。其实我早应该拿出一块钱来举到侍者头儿的鼻子底下的。在纽约,嘿,钱真能通神——我不开玩笑。

乐队是糟得要命的布迪.辛格乐队。全是管乐,可不是那种高雅的管乐,而是粗俗的管乐。此外,厅里极少象我这样年纪的人。事实上,没一个象我这样年纪的人。他们大多数都是上了年纪的、装腔作势的家伙约了他们的女朋友在一起。除了我隔壁桌上的几个。在我隔壁桌上坐着三个年约三十的姑娘。三个全都难看得要命,三个全都戴着那么一种帽子,你一看就知道她们不是真正住在纽约的,可是其中有一个金头发的,看上去还可以。她象是那种爱卖俏的女人,那个金头发的,所以我就开始服她做起媚眼来,可就在这时,那个侍者过来了,问我喝些什么。我要了杯威士忌和苏打水,叫他不要掺和在一起——我说得快的要命,因为你只要稍一结巴,他们就会怀疑你不到二十一岁,不肯卖给你含有酒精的饮料。可是尽管这样,他还是给了我麻烦。“对不起,先生,”他说,“您有什么证明您年龄的证件吗?您的司机执照,比方说?”

我冷冷地瞅了他一眼,好象他给了我极大的侮辱似的,随后问他说:“我的样子象不到二十一岁吗?”

“对不起,先生,可我们有我们的——”“得啦,得啦,”我说。我早就琢磨好了。

“给我来杯可口可乐。”他刚转身要走,我又把他叫了回来。“你能掺点儿甜酒什么的吗?”我问他,问得极其客气。“我可不能坐在这样庸俗的地方连一滴酒也不喝。你能掺点儿甜酒什么的吗?”

“非常对不起,先生……”他说着,就走开了。我倒不怎么怪他。要是有人发现他们卖酒给年轻人喝,他们就要丢掉饭碗。而我又年轻得要命。

我又开始跟邻桌上的三个巫婆做起媚眼来。主要当然是对那个金头发的,对其他两个完全是出于无奈。可我也没做得太过火。我只是不时地朝她们三个冷冷地那么瞅一眼。可她们三个见我这样,都象痴子似的格格笑起来。她们也许以为我太年轻,不该这样跟女人做媚眼,这使我火得要命——她们也许以为我要跟她们结婚什么的哩。她们这样做后,我本应该给她们泼瓢冷水的,可糟糕的是,我当时真想跳舞。有时候我非常想跳舞,当时凑巧正是这样的时候。因此突然间,我朝她们弯过身去说:“你们哪位姑娘想跳舞?”我问的时候口气并不冒失,事实上还十分温柔。可是真他妈的,她们把这也看成是一个惊人的举动。她们又开始格格笑起来。我不说玩话,她们是三个真正的痴子。“请吧,”我说。“我请你们三位轮流跟我跳舞。好不好?成吗?请吧!”我可真想跳舞呢。

最后,那个金头发的站起来跟我跳舞了,因为谁也看得出我主要是在跟她讲话,我们两个于是进入舞池。我们一定,那两个傻瓜差点儿犯起歇斯底里来。我当然是实在没有办法,才跟她们这样的人打交道的。

可那样做却很值得,这位金发女郎很会跳舞。

她是我生平遇到过的跳舞跳得最好的姑娘之一。我不开玩笑,有些极傻极傻的姑娘真能在舞池上把你迷住。那般真正聪明的姑娘不是有一半时间想在舞池上带着你跳,就是压根儿不会跳舞,你最好的办法是干脆留在桌上跟她痛饮一醉。

“你真能跳舞,”我对金发女郎说。“你真该去当个舞蹈家。我说的是心里话。我跟舞蹈家一起跳过舞,她还不及你一半哩。你可曾听说过玛可和米兰达没有?”

“什么?”她说。她甚至都没在听我说话。她一直在东张西望。

“我问你听说过玛可和米兰达没有?”

“我不知道。不,我不知道。”

“呃,他们是舞蹈家,尤其是那个女的。可她跳得并不太好。她把该做的一切都做了,可她跳得并不怎么好。你可知道一个跳舞跳得真正好的姑娘是怎么样的?”

“你说什么?”她说。她甚至都没在听我说话。她的心思完全用在别的地方。

“我问你可知道一个跳舞跳得真正好的姑娘是怎么样的?”

“啊——啊。”

“呃——关键就在于我搭在你背上的那只手底下。我要是手底下什么也感觉不到——没有脑袋,没有腿,没有脚,什么也没有——那么这姑娘才是真正会跳舞的。”

可她并没在听。因此我有好一会儿工夫没搭理她。我们光是跳着舞。天哪,这个傻姑娘真能跳舞。布迪.辛格跟他的臭乐队正在演奏《就是这么回事》,可是连他们也没能把那曲子完全糟蹋掉。

这是支了不起的歌曲。我们跳舞的时候,我没想玩什么花样——我最讨厌一个人在舞池上耍花样显本领——可我老带着她转来转去,而她也跟得很好。

可笑的是,我本来还以为她也在欣赏跳舞呢,可突然间她说出了一句十分愚蠢的话。“我和我的女朋友昨天晚上看见了彼得.劳尔,”她说。“那个电影演员。他本人。正在买报纸。他真神气。”

“你运气好,”我对她说。“你运气真好。你知道吗?”她真是个痴子。可真能跳舞。我忍不住在她笨脑瓜顶上吻了一下——你知道——正吻在那个笨地方。我吻了以后,她十分生气。

“嗨!怎么回事?”

“不。没什么。你真能跳舞,”我说。“我有个小妹妹,还在他妈的念小学四年级。你跳得简直跟她一样好,而她跳舞跳得比哪个活着的或者死去的人都好。”

“说话留神点儿,你要是不介意的话。”

倒真是个贵族小姐,嘿。一位女王,老天爷。

“你们几位是打哪儿来的?”我问她。

可她并没回答我。她正忙着东张西望,大概是看看老彼得.劳尔有没有在场,我揣摩。

“你们几位是打哪儿来的?”我又问了一遍。

“什么?”她说。

“你们几位是打哪儿来的?你要是不高兴回答,就别回答。我不愿让你太紧张。”

“西雅图,华盛顿州,”她说。她告诉我这话,象是给了我什么天大的恩惠似的。

“你倒真是健谈,”我对她说。“你知道吗?”

“什么?”

我没再说下去。反正说了她也不懂。“要是他们演奏一个快步舞曲,你想跳会儿摇摆舞吗?不是那种粗俗的摇摆舞,不是那种跳跳蹦蹦的——而是那种轻松愉快的。只要一奏快步舞曲,那些老的、胖的全都会坐下,咱们的地方就宽敞啦。成不成?”

“对我说来都无所谓。”她说。“嗨——你到底几岁啦?”

不知什么缘故,这话使得我很恼火。“哦,天哪。

别煞风景,”我说。“我才十二岁呢,老天爷。我的个儿长的特别高大。”

“听着。我已跟你说了。我不爱听那样说话,”她说。“你要是再那样说话,我可以去跟我的女朋友一块儿坐着,你知道。”

我象个疯子似的不住道歉,因为乐队已在奏一个快步舞曲了。她开始跟我一起跳起摇摆舞来——但只是轻松愉快的那种,不是粗俗的那种。她跳得真是好。你只要用手搭着她就成。她让我神魂颠倒了.我说的是心里话。我们一起坐下的时候,我有一半爱上她了。女人就是这样。只要她们做出什么漂亮的举动,尽管她们长的不漂亮,尽管她们有点儿愚蠢,你也会有一半爱上她们,接着你就会不知道自己他妈的身在何处。女人。老天爷,她们真能让你发疯。她们真的能。

她们没请我过去坐到她们桌上——多半是因为她们太没知识——可我还是坐过去了。那个跟我一起跳舞的金发女郎叫作蓓尼丝什么的——我记不清是姓克拉伯斯还是克莱伯斯了。那两个特别丑的叫作马蒂和拉凡恩。我告诉她们我的名字叫吉姆.斯梯尔,当然是他妈的随口胡诌的。接着我想服她们谈些有意思的事,可那简直办不到。你于什么都得扯她们的胳膊。你也很难说她们三个中间到底那一个最傻。她们三个全都在这个混帐房间里不住地东张西望,好象希望看到一大群混帐电影明星随时闯进来似的。她们大概以为那些电惑明星一到纽约,都不去白鹳俱乐部或者爱尔.摩洛哥那类地方,反倒全都来到紫丁香厅。嗯,我差不多费了半个钟头,才打听出她们三个都在西雅图什么地方干活。

她们全都在一家保险公司里工作。我问她们喜不喜欢那工作,可你以为能从这三个傻瓜嘴里听到什么聪明的回答吗?我本以为那两个丑的,马蒂和拉凡思,是姐妹俩,可我这么一问,却把她们两个都气坏啦。你看得出她们俩谁也不愿自己长的象对方,当然这也不能怪她们,不过仔细想来,倒也十分有趣。

我轮流着跟她们三个全都跳了舞。那个叫拉凡思的丑姑娘跳的还不太坏,可另外那个叫马蒂的简直可怕极了。跟老马蒂跳舞,就好象抱着自由女神石像在舞池上拖来拖去。我这样拖着她转来转去的时候,唯一让自己作乐的办法是拿她取个笑儿。因此我告诉她说我刚在舞池那头看见了电影明星加莱.库拍。

“哪儿?”她问我——兴奋得要命。“哪儿?”

“唷,你正好错过了他。他刚出去。我刚才跟你说的时候,你干吗不马上回过头去呢?”

她几乎停止跳舞,拼命从大家的头顶上望过去,想最后看他一眼。“唉!唉!”她说。我差点儿碎了她的心——真是差一点儿。我真后悔自己不该跟她开这个玩笑。有些人是不能开玩笑的,尽管他们有可笑的地方。

可是最最好笑的还在后面。我们回到桌上以后,老马蒂就告诉其他两个说,加莱.库柏刚刚出去。嘿,老拉凡恩和蓓尼丝听了这话,差点儿都趋自杀。她们全都兴奋得要命,问马蒂看见了没有。

老马蒂说他只隐约见了他一眼。我听了差点儿笑死。

酒吧马上就要停止营业,所以我给她们每人要了两杯饮料,我自己也另外要了两杯可口可乐,这张混帐桌子上摆满了杯子。那个叫拉凡恩的丑姑娘不住地拿我取笑,因为我光喝可口可乐。她倒真富于幽默感。她和老马蒂只喝汤姆.柯林斯——还是在十二月中旬,我的天。她们除此之外不知道喝什么别的。那个金发女郎老德尼丝光喝掺水的威士忌。而且也真的喝得一滴不剩。三个人老是在寻找电影明星。她们很少讲话——甚至在她们彼此之间。老马蒂比起其余两个来,讲的话还算多些.她老是说着那种粗俗的、叫人脑烦的话,比如管厕所叫“小姑娘的房间”,看见布迪.辛格乐队里那个又老又糟的吹木箫的站起来呜呜吹了几下,就认为他吹的好得了不得。她还管那根木箫叫“甘草棒”。

你说她粗俗不粗俗?另外那个叫拉凡恩的丑姑娘白以为非常俏皮。她老叫我打电话给我父亲,问问他今晚上在干什么。她还老问我父亲约了女朋友没有。这话整整问了四遍——她倒真是俏皮。那个金发女郎老蓓尼丝简直一句话也不说。每次我问她什么,她总是说“什么?”这样要不多久,会使你的神经受不了。

突然间,她们喝完自己的酒,三个全都站起来冲着我说她们要去睡了。她们说明天一早还要到无线电城的音乐厅去看早场电影。我还想留她们多呆一会儿,可她们不肯,因此我们互相说了声再见。

我对她们说我要是有机会到西雅图,一定去拜望她们,可我很怀疑自己说的话。我是说怀疑我自己会不会真的去拜望她们。

加上香烟什么的,账单上共约十三元。我想,她们至少应该提出来付一部分帐款,就是在我坐到她们桌上去之前她们自己叫的那些饮料帐——我自然不会让她们付,可她们至少应该提一下。不过我并不在乎。她们实在太没知识了,她们还戴着那种又难看又花哨的帽子哩。还有,她们一早起来要去无线电城音乐厅看早场电影一事也让我十分懊丧。

假如有人,比如说一个戴着极难看帽子的姑娘,老远来到纽约——还是从华盛顿州的西瞄图来的,老夫爷——结果却是一早起来去无线电城音乐厅看一场混帐的早场电影,那就会让我懊丧得受不了。只要她们不告诉我这一点,我宁肯请她们喝一百杯酒哩。

她们一定,我也就离开了紫丁香厅。他们反正也快关门了,乐队已经离开很久了。首先,这类地方简直没法呆,除非有个跳舞跳得好的姑娘陪着你跳舞,或者除非那里的侍者让你买的不光是可口可乐,而是一些真正的饮料。世界上没有一个夜总会可以让你长久坐下去,除非你至少可以买点儿酒痛饮一醉,或者除非你是跟一个让你神魂颠倒的姑娘在一起。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 地板   发表于: 2013-10-11 0


6
Some things are hard to remember. I'm thinking now of when Stradlater got back from his date with Jane. I mean I can't remember exactly what I was doing when I heard his goddam stupid footsteps coming down the corridor. I probably was still looking out the window, but I swear I can't remember. I was so damn worried, that's why. When I really worry about something, I don't just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something. Only, I don't go. I'm too worried to go. I don't want to interrupt my worrying to go. If you knew Stradlater, you'd have been worried, too. I'd double-dated with that bastard a couple of times, and I know what I'm talking about. He was unscrupulous. He really was.
Anyway, the corridor was all linoleum and all, and you could hear his goddam footsteps coming right towards the room. I don't even remember where I was sitting when he came in--at the window, or in my chair or his. I swear I can't remember.
He came in griping about how cold it was out. Then he said, "Where the hell is everybody? It's like a goddam morgue around here." I didn't even bother to answer him. If he was so goddam stupid not to realize it was Saturday night and everybody was out or asleep or home for the week end, I wasn't going to break my neck telling him. He started getting undressed. He didn't say one goddam word about Jane. Not one. Neither did I. I just watched him. All he did was thank me for letting him wear my hound's-tooth. He hung it up on a hanger and put it in the closet.
Then when he was taking off his tie, he asked me if I'd written his goddam composition for him. I told him it was over on his goddam bed. He walked over and read it while he was unbuttoning his shirt. He stood there, reading it, and sort of stroking his bare chest and stomach, with this very stupid expression on his face. He was always stroking his stomach or his chest. He was mad about himself.
All of a sudden, he said, "For Chrissake, Holden. This is about a goddam baseball glove."
"So what?" I said. Cold as hell.
"Wuddaya mean so what? I told ya it had to be about a goddam room or a house or something."
"You said it had to be descriptive. What the hell's the difference if it's about a baseball glove?"
"God damn it." He was sore as hell. He was really furious. "You always do everything backasswards." He looked at me. "No wonder you're flunking the hell out of here," he said. "You don't do one damn thing the way you're supposed to. I mean it. Not one damn thing."
"All right, give it back to me, then," I said. I went over and pulled it right out of his goddam hand. Then I tore it up.
"What the hellja do that for?" he said. I didn't even answer him. I just threw the pieces in the wastebasket. Then I lay down on my bed, and we both didn't say anything for a long time. He got all undressed, down to his shorts, and I lay on my bed and lit a cigarette. You weren't allowed to smoke in the dorm, but you could do it late at night when everybody was asleep or out and nobody could smell the smoke. Besides, I did it to annoy Stradlater. It drove him crazy when you broke any rules. He never smoked in the dorm. It was only me.
He still didn't say one single solitary word about Jane. So finally I said, "You're back pretty goddam late if she only signed out for nine-thirty. Did you make her be late signing in?"
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, cutting his goddam toenails, when I asked him that. "Coupla minutes," he said. "Who the hell signs out for nine-thirty on a Saturday night?" God, how I hated him.
"Did you go to New York?" I said.
"Ya crazy? How the hell could we go to New York if she only signed out for nine-thirty?"
"That's tough."
He looked up at me. "Listen," he said, "if you're gonna smoke in the room, how 'bout going down to the can and do it? You may be getting the hell out of here, but I have to stick around long enough to graduate."
I ignored him. I really did. I went right on smoking like a madman. All I did was sort of turn over on my side and watched him cut his damn toenails. What a school. You were always watching somebody cut their damn toenails or squeeze their pimples or something.
"Did you give her my regards?" I asked him.
"Yeah."
The hell he did, the bastard.
"What'd she say?" I said. "Did you ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row?"
"No, I didn't ask her. What the hell ya think we did all night--play checkers, for Chrissake?"
I didn't even answer him. God, how I hated him.
"If you didn't go to New York, where'd ya go with her?" I asked him, after a little while. I could hardly keep my voice from shaking all over the place. Boy, was I getting nervous. I just had a feeling something had gone funny.
He was finished cutting his damn toenails. So he got up from the bed, in just his damn shorts and all, and started getting very damn playful. He came over to my bed and started leaning over me and taking these playful as hell socks at my shoulder. "Cut it out," I said. "Where'd you go with her if you didn't go to New York?"
"Nowhere. We just sat in the goddam car." He gave me another one of those playtul stupid little socks on the shoulder.
"Cut it out," I said. "Whose car?"
"Ed Banky's."
Ed Banky was the basketball coach at Pencey. Old Stradlater was one of his pets, because he was the center on the team, and Ed Banky always let him borrow his car when he wanted it. It wasn't allowed for students to borrow faculty guys' cars, but all the athletic bastards stuck together. In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.
Stradlater kept taking these shadow punches down at my shoulder. He had his toothbrush in his hand, and he put it in his mouth. "What'd you do?" I said. "Give her the time in Ed Banky's goddam car?" My voice was shaking something awful.
"What a thing to say. Want me to wash your mouth out with soap?"
"Did you?"
"That's a professional secret, buddy."
This next part I don't remember so hot. All I know is I got up from the bed, like I was going down to the can or something, and then I tried to sock him, with all my might, right smack in the toothbrush, so it would split his goddam throat open. Only, I missed. I didn't connect. All I did was sort of get him on the side of the head or something. It probably hurt him a little bit, but not as much as I wanted. It probably would've hurt him a lot, but I did it with my right hand, and I can't make a good fist with that hand. On account of that injury I told you about.
Anyway, the next thing I knew, I was on the goddam floor and he was sitting on my chest, with his face all red. That is, he had his goddam knees on my chest, and he weighed about a ton. He had hold of my wrists, too, so I couldn't take another sock at him. I'd've killed him.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" he kept saying, and his stupid race kept getting redder and redder.
"Get your lousy knees off my chest," I told him. I was almost bawling. I really was. "Go on, get off a me, ya crumby bastard."
He wouldn't do it, though. He kept holding onto my wrists and I kept calling him a sonuvabitch and all, for around ten hours. I can hardly even remember what all I said to him. I told him he thought he could give the time to anybody he felt like. I told him he didn't even care if a girl kept all her kings in the back row or not, and the reason he didn't care was because he was a goddam stupid moron. He hated it when you called a moron. All morons hate it when you call them a moron.
"Shut up, now, Holden," he said with his big stupid red face. "just shut up, now."
"You don't even know if her first name is Jane or Jean, ya goddam moron!"
"Now, shut up, Holden, God damn it--I'm warning ya," he said--I really had him going. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna slam ya one."
"Get your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest."
"If I letcha up, will you keep your mouth shut?"
I didn't even answer him.
He said it over again. "Holden. If I letcha up, willya keep your mouth shut?"
"Yes."
He got up off me, and I got up, too. My chest hurt like hell from his dirty knees. "You're a dirty stupid sonuvabitch of a moron," I told him.
That got him really mad. He shook his big stupid finger in my face. "Holden, God damn it, I'm warning you, now. For the last time. If you don't keep your yap shut, I'm gonna--"
"Why should I?" I said--I was practically yelling. "That's just the trouble with all you morons. You never want to discuss anything. That's the way you can always tell a moron. They never want to discuss anything intellig--"
Then he really let one go at me, and the next thing I knew I was on the goddam floor again. I don't remember if he knocked me out or not, but I don't think so. It's pretty hard to knock a guy out, except in the goddam movies. But my nose was bleeding all over the place. When I looked up old Stradlater was standing practically right on top of me. He had his goddam toilet kit under his arm. "Why the hell don'tcha shut up when I tellya to?" he said. He sounded pretty nervous. He probably was scared he'd fractured my skull or something when I hit the floor. It's too bad I didn't. "You asked for it, God damn it," he said. Boy, did he look worried.
I didn't even bother to get up. I just lay there in the floor for a while, and kept calling him a moron sonuvabitch. I was so mad, I was practically bawling.
"Listen. Go wash your face," Stradlater said. "Ya hear me?"
I told him to go wash his own moron face--which was a pretty childish thing to say, but I was mad as hell. I told him to stop off on the way to the can and give Mrs. Schmidt the time. Mrs. Schmidt was the janitor's wife. She was around sixty-five.
I kept sitting there on the floor till I heard old Stradlater close the door and go down the corridor to the can. Then I got up. I couldn't find my goddam hunting hat anywhere. Finally I found it. It was under the bed. I put it on, and turned the old peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I went over and took a look at my stupid face in the mirror. You never saw such gore in your life. I had blood all over my mouth and chin and even on my pajamas and bath robe. It partly scared me and it partly fascinated me. All that blood and all sort of made me look tough. I'd only been in about two fights in my life, and I lost both of them. I'm not too tough. I'm a pacifist, if you want to know the truth.
I had a feeling old Ackley'd probably heard all the racket and was awake. So I went through the shower curtains into his room, just to see what the hell he was doing. I hardly ever went over to his room. It always had a funny stink in it, because he was so crumby in his personal habits.
7
A tiny bit of light came through the shower curtains and all from our room, and I could see him lying in bed. I knew damn well he was wide awake. "Ackley?" I said. "Y'awake?"
"Yeah."
It was pretty dark, and I stepped on somebody's shoe on the floor and danm near fell on my head. Ackley sort of sat up in bed and leaned on his arm. He had a lot of white stuff on his face, for his pimples. He looked sort of spooky in the dark. "What the hellya doing, anyway?" I said.
"Wuddaya mean what the hell am I doing? I was tryna sleep before you guys started making all that noise. What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?"
"Where's the light?" I couldn't find the light. I was sliding my hand all over the wall.
"Wuddaya want the light for? . . . Right next to your hand."
I finally found the switch and turned It on. Old Ackley put his hand up so the light wouldn't hurt his eyes.
"Jesus!" he said. "What the hell happened to you?" He meant all the blood and all.
"I had a little goddam tiff with Stradlater," I said. Then I sat down on the floor. They never had any chairs in their room. I don't know what the hell they did with their chairs. "Listen," I said, "do you feel like playing a little Canasta?" He was a Canasta fiend.
"You're still bleeding, for Chrissake. You better put something on it."
"It'll stop. Listen. Ya wanna play a little Canasta or don'tcha?"
"Canasta, for Chrissake. Do you know what time it is, by any chance?"
"It isn't late. It's only around eleven, eleven-thirty."
"Only around!" Ackley said. "Listen. I gotta get up and go to Mass in the morning, for Chrissake. You guys start hollering and fighting in the middle of the goddam--What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?"
"It's a long story. I don't wanna bore ya, Ackley. I'm thinking of your welfare," I told him. I never discussed my personal life with him. In the first place, he was even more stupid than Stradlater. Stradlater was a goddam genius next to Ackley. "Hey," I said, "is it okay if I sleep in Ely's bed tonight? He won't be back till tomorrow night, will he?" I knew damn well he wouldn't. Ely went home damn near every week end.
"I don't know when the hell he's coming back," Ackley said.
Boy, did that annoy me. "What the hell do you mean you don't know when he's coming back? He never comes back till Sunday night, does he?"
"No, but for Chrissake, I can't just tell somebody they can sleep in his goddam bed if they want to."
That killed me. I reached up from where I was sitting on the floor and patted him on the goddam shoulder. "You're a prince, Ackley kid," I said. "You know that?"
"No, I mean it--I can't just tell somebody they can sleep in--"
"You're a real prince. You're a gentleman and a scholar, kid," I said. He really was, too. "Do you happen to have any cigarettes, by any chance?--Say 'no' or I'll drop dead."
"No, I don't, as a matter of fact. Listen, what the hell was the fight about?"
I didn't answer him. All I did was, I got up and went over and looked out the window. I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.
"What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?" Ackley said, for about the fiftieth time. He certainly was a bore about that.
"About you," I said.
"About me, for Chrissake?"
"Yeah. I was defending your goddam honor. Stradlater said you had a lousy personality. I couldn't let him get away with that stuff."
That got him excited. "He did? No kidding? He did?"
I told him I was only kidding, and then I went over and laid down on Ely's bed. Boy, did I feel rotten. I felt so damn lonesome.
"This room stinks," I said. "I can smell your socks from way over here. Don'tcha ever send them to the laundry?"
"If you don't like it, you know what you can do," Ackley said. What a witty guy. "How 'bout turning off the goddam light?"
I didn't turn it off right away, though. I just kept laying there on Ely's bed, thinking about Jane and all. It just drove me stark staring mad when I thought about her and Stradlater parked somewhere in that fat-assed Ed Banky's car. Every time I thought about it, I felt like jumping out the window. The thing is, you didn't know Stradlater. I knew him. Most guys at Pencey just talked about having sexual intercourse with girls all the time--like Ackley, for instance--but old Stradlater really did it. I was personally acquainted with at least two girls he gave the time to. That's the truth.
"Tell me the story of your fascinating life, Ackley kid," I said.
"How 'bout turning off the goddam light? I gotta get up for Mass in the morning."
I got up and turned it off, if it made him happy. Then I laid down on Ely's bed again.
"What're ya gonna do--sleep in Ely's bed?" Ackley said. He was the perfect host, boy.
"I may. I may not. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not worried about it. Only, I'd hate like hell if Ely came in all of a sudden and found some guy--"
"Relax. I'm not gonna sleep here. I wouldn't abuse your goddam hospitality."
A couple of minutes later, he was snoring like mad. I kept laying there in the dark anyway, though, trying not to think about old Jane and Stradlater in that goddam Ed Banky's car. But it was almost impossible. The trouble was, I knew that guy Stradlater's technique. That made it even worse. We once double-dated, in Ed Banky's car, and Stradlater was in the back, with his date, and I was in the front with mine. What a technique that guy had. What he'd do was, he'd start snowing his date in this very quiet, sincere voice--like as if he wasn't only a very handsome guy but a nice, sincere guy, too. I damn near puked, listening to him. His date kept saying, "No--please. Please, don't. Please." But old Stradlater kept snowing her in this Abraham Lincoln, sincere voice, and finally there'd be this terrific silence in the back of the car. It was really embarrassing. I don't think he gave that girl the time that night--but damn near. Damn near.
While I was laying there trying not to think, I heard old Stradlater come back from the can and go in our room. You could hear him putting away his crumby toilet articles and all, and opening the window. He was a fresh-air fiend. Then, a little while later, he turned off the light. He didn't even look around to see where I was at.
It was even depressing out in the street. You couldn't even hear any cars any more. I got feeling so lonesome and rotten, I even felt like waking Ackley up.
"Hey, Ackley," I said, in sort of a whisper, so Stradlater couldn't hear me through the shower curtain.
Ackley didn't hear me, though.
"Hey, Ackley!"
He still didn't hear me. He slept like a rock.
"Hey, Ackley!"
He heard that, all right.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" he said. "I was asleep, for Chrissake."
"Listen. What's the routine on joining a monastery?" I asked him. I was sort of toying with the idea of joining one. "Do you have to be a Catholic and all?"
"Certainly you have to be a Catholic. You bastard, did you wake me just to ask me a dumb ques--"
"Aah, go back to sleep. I'm not gonna join one anyway. The kind of luck I have, I'd probably join one with all the wrong kind of monks in it. All stupid bastards. Or just bastards."
When I said that, old Ackley sat way the hell up in bed. "Listen," he said, "I don't care what you say about me or anything, but if you start making cracks about my goddam religion, for Chrissake--"
"Relax," I said. "Nobody's making any cracks about your goddam religion." I got up off Ely's bed, and started towards the door. I didn't want to hang around in that stupid atmosphere any more. I stopped on the way, though, and picked up Ackley's hand, and gave him a big, phony handshake. He pulled it away from me. "What's the idea?" he said.
"No idea. I just want to thank you for being such a goddam prince, that's all," I said. I said it in this very sincere voice. "You're aces, Ackley kid," I said. "You know that?"
"Wise guy. Someday somebody's gonna bash your--"
I didn't even bother to listen to him. I shut the damn door and went out in the corridor.
Everybody was asleep or out or home for the week end, and it was very, very quiet and depressing in the corridor. There was this empty box of Kolynos toothpaste outside Leahy and Hoffman's door, and while I walked down towards the stairs, I kept giving it a boot with this sheep-lined slipper I had on. What I thought I'd do, I thought I might go down and see what old Mal Brossard was doing. But all of a sudden, I changed my mind. All of a sudden, I decided what I'd really do, I'd get the hell out of Pencey--right that same night and all. I mean not wait till Wednesday or anything. I just didn't want to hang around any more. It made me too sad and lonesome. So what I decided to do, I decided I'd take a room in a hotel in New York--some very inexpensive hotel and all--and just take it easy till Wednesday. Then, on Wednesday, I'd go home all rested up and feeling swell. I figured my parents probably wouldn't get old Thurmer's letter saying I'd been given the ax till maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. I didn't want to go home or anything till they got it and thoroughly digested it and all. I didn't want to be around when they first got it. My mother gets very hysterical. She's not too bad after she gets something thoroughly digested, though. Besides, I sort of needed a little vacation. My nerves were shot. They really were.
Anyway, that's what I decided I'd do. So I went back to the room and turned on the light, to start packing and all. I already had quite a few things packed. Old Stradlater didn't even wake up. I lit a cigarette and got all dressed and then I packed these two Gladstones I have. It only took me about two minutes. I'm a very rapid packer.
One thing about packing depressed me a little. I had to pack these brand-new ice skates my mother had practically just sent me a couple of days before. That depressed me. I could see my mother going in Spaulding's and asking the salesman a million dopy questions--and here I was getting the ax again. It made me feel pretty sad. She bought me the wrong kind of skates--I wanted racing skates and she bought hockey--but it made me sad anyway. Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.
After I got all packed, I sort of counted my dough. I don't remember exactly how much I had, but I was pretty loaded. My grandmother'd just sent me a wad about a week before. I have this grandmother that's quite lavish with her dough. She doesn't have all her marbles any more--she's old as hell--and she keeps sending me money for my birthday about four times a year. Anyway, even though I was pretty loaded, I figured I could always use a few extra bucks. You never know. So what I did was, I went down the hail and woke up Frederick Woodruff, this guy I'd lent my typewriter to. I asked him how much he'd give me for it. He was a pretty wealthy guy. He said he didn't know. He said he didn't much want to buy it. Finally he bought it, though. It cost about ninety bucks, and all he bought it for was twenty. He was sore because I'd woke him up.
When I was all set to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a while next to the stairs and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort of crying. I don't know why. I put my red hunting hat on, and turned the peak around to the back, the way I liked it, and then I yelled at the top of my goddam voice, "Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole floor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all over the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck.



第06节

--------

有的事情很难回忆。我现在正在回想斯特拉德莱塔跟琴约会后回来时候的情景。我是说我怎么也记不起我听到他混帐的脚步声从走廊传来时我到底在干什么。我大概还在往窗外眺望,可我发誓说我怎么也记不起来了。原因是,我当时心里烦得要命。我要是为什么事心里真正烦起来,就不再胡闹。我心里一烦,甚至都得上厕所。只是我不肯动窝儿,我烦得甚至都不想动,我不愿随便动窝儿打断自己的烦恼。要是你认识斯特拉德莱塔,你也一准会心烦。我曾跟那杂种一块儿约会过女朋友,我知道我自己说的什么。他这人不知廉耻。他真是这样的人。

嗯,走廊上铺着厚厚的油毡,你听得见他那混帐的脚步声正往房里走来。我甚至记不起他进来的时候我到底坐在什么地方——坐在窗边呢,还是坐在我自己的或者他的椅子上。我可以发誓,我再也记不得了。

他进来的时候没事找碴儿,怪外面天气太冷。

接着他说:“他妈的这儿的人都到哪儿去了?简直象个混帐停尸场。”我甚至都没肯答理他。谁叫他自己他妈的那么傻,都不知道这是星期六晚上,大伙儿不是外出度周末,就是睡觉或回家去了,所以我也不会急于告诉他。他开始脱衣服。关于琴的事他一字没提。连吭都没吭一声。我也和他一样。我只是拿眼望着他。他呢,只是就我借给他穿狗齿花纹上衣的事向我道谢了一声。他把上衣搭在一个衣架上,放进了壁橱。

后来,他在解领带的时候,问我替他写了那篇混帐作文没有。我对他说就在他自己的混帐床上。

他走过去一面解衬衫钮扣,一面看作文。他站在那儿,一边看,一边用手摩挲着自己光着的胸脯和肚皮,脸上露出一种极傻的神情。他老是在摩挲自己的肚皮和胸脯。他疯狂地爱着自己。

突然他说:“天哪,霍尔顿。这写的是一只混帐的垒球手套呢。”

“怎么啦?”我说。冷得象块冰。

“你说怎么啦是什么意思?我不是跟你说过,要写他妈的一个房间、一所房子什么的!”

“你说要写篇描写文章。要是写了篇谈垒球手套购,他妈的有什么不一样?”

“真他妈的。”他气得要命。他这次是真生气了。“你干的事情没一样对头。”他看着我。“怪不得要把你他妈的开除出去,”他说。“要你于的事他妈的没一样是好好照着干的。我说的是心里话。他妈的一样也没有。”

“好吧,那就还给我好了,”我说。我走过去,把作文从他的混帐手里夺过来,撕得粉碎。

“你他妈的写那玩艺儿干什么?”他说。

我甚至都没回答他。我只是把碎纸扔进字纸篓,回到自己的床上躺下,有好长时间我们两人谁都没说话。他把衣服全脱了,只剩下裤衩,我呢,就歪在床上点了支烟。宿舍里本来不准吸烟,可等到夜深人静,大伙儿有的睡觉有的外出,没人闻得到烟味的时候,你可以偷着吸。再说,我这样做也是故意跟斯特拉德莱塔捣蛋。他只要见人不守校规,就会气得发疯。他自己从来不在宿舍里吸烟。

只有我一个人吸。

关于琴的事他依旧只字不提。因此最后我说:“要是她外出的时间只签到九点三十,你倒他妈的回来得挺晚呢。你让她回去得迟了?”

他正在自己的床沿上铰他的混帐脚趾甲,听我问他,就回答说:“迟到一两分钟。在星期六晚上,有谁他妈的把外出时间签到九点三十的?”天哪,我有多恨他,“你们到纽约去了没有?”我说。

“你疯了?她要是只签到九点三十,我们怎么能去他妈的纽约?”

“这倒是糟糕。”

他抬起头来瞅着我。“听着,”他说,“你要是非在房里抽烟不可,干吗不到厕所里去抽?你或许他妈的就要滚出这个学校,我可要一直呆到毕业哩。”

我没理睬他。我真的没有。我象疯子似的一个劲儿抽着烟。我只是侧转身来瞅着他铰他的混帐脚趾甲。什么个学校!你老得瞅着人铰他的混帐脚趾甲,或是挤他的粉刺,或是诸如此类的玩艺儿。

“你替我问候她了没有?”我问他。

“晤。”

他问了才怪哩,这杂种!

“她说了些什么?”我说。“你可曾问她下棋的时候是不是还把所有的国王都留在后排?”

“没有,我没问她。你他妈的以为我们整个晚上都在干什么——在下棋吗,我的天?”

我甚至没答理他。天哪,我有多恨他。

“你们要是没上纽约,你带她上哪儿去啦?”

过了一会我问他说,说的时候禁不住声音直打颤。

嘿,我心里真是不安得很。我只是感觉到有什么不对头的事发生了。

他已经铰完了他的混账脚趾甲,所以他从床上起身,光穿着他妈的裤衩,就他妈的兴致勃勃地跟我闹着玩儿起来。他走到我床边,俯在我身上,开始玩笑地拿拳头打我的肩膀。“别闹啦,”我说。“你们要是没上纽约,你带着她到底上哪啦?”

“哪也没去。我们就坐在他妈的汽车里面。”

他又玩笑地在我肩膀上轻轻打了一拳。

“别闹啦,”我说。“谁的汽车?”

“埃德.班基的。”

埃德.班基是潘西的篮球教练。老斯特拉德莱塔在篮球队里打中锋,是他的得意弟子之一,所以斯特拉德莱塔每次借汽车,埃德.班基总是借给他。学生们本来是不准借用教职人员的汽车的,可是所有那些搞体育的杂种全都一鼻孔出气。我就读的每个学校里,所有那些搞体育的杂种全都一鼻孔出气。

斯特拉德莱塔还一个劲儿在我肩上练习拳击。

他本来用手拿着牙刷,现在却把它叼在嘴里。“你干了些什么啦?”我说。“在埃德.班基的混帐汽车里跟她干那事儿啦?”我的声音可真是抖得厉害。

“你说的什么话。要我用肥皂把你的嘴洗洗干净吗?”

“到底干了没有?”

“那可是职业性的秘密,老弟。”

底下情况,我记不得太清楚了。我只知道我从床上起来,好象要到盥洗室去似的,可我突然打了他一拳,使尽了我全身的力气,这一拳本来想打在那把叼在他嘴里的牙刷上,好让那牙刷一家伙戳穿他的混帐喉咙,可惜我打偏了。我没打中,只打在他的半边脑袋上。我也许打得他有点儿疼,可并不疼得象我所希望的那么厉害。我本来也许可以打得他很疼,可我是用右手打的,一点也使不上劲儿。

嗯,我记得的下一件事,就是我已躺在混帐地板上了,他满脸通红地坐在我胸脯上。那就是说他用他妈的两个膝盖压着我的胸脯,而他差不多有一吨重。他两手握住了我的手腕,所以我不能再挥拳打他,我真想一拳把他打死。

“他妈的你这是怎么啦?”他不住地说,他的傻脸蛋越来越红。

“把你的臭膝盖打我的胸上拿掉,”我对他说。我几乎是在大声呦喝。我的确是的。“滚,打我身上滚开,你这个下流的杂种。”

可他没那么做,依旧使劲握住我的手腕,我就一个劲儿骂他杂种什么的,这样过了约莫十个钟头。我甚至记不起我都骂他些什么了。我说他大概自以为要跟谁干那事儿就可以干。我说他甚至都不关心一个姑娘在下棋时候是不是把她所有的国王都留在后排,而他所以不关心,是因为他是个傻极了的混帐窝囊废。他最恨你叫他窝囊废。所有的窝囊废都恨别人叫他们窝囊废。

“住嘴,嘿,霍尔顿,”他说,他那又大又傻的脸涨得通红。“给我住嘴,嘿。”

“你都不知道她的名字是琴还是琼,你这个混帐的窝囊废!”

“嘿,住嘴,霍尔顿。真他妈的——我警告你,”他说——我真把他气坏了。“你要是再不住嘴,我可要给你一巴掌了。”

“把你那肮脏的、发臭的窝囊膝盖打我的胸膛上拿掉。”

“我要是放你起来,你能不能闭住你的嘴?”

我甚至没答理他。

他又说了一遍。“霍尔顿。我要是让你起来,你能不能闭住你的嘴?”

“好吧。”

他从我身上起来,我也跟着站了起来。我的胸隔给他的两个臭膝盖压得疼极了。“你真是个婊子养的又赃又傻的窝囊废,”我对他说。

这真把他气疯了。他把他的一只又粗又笨的指头伸到我脸上指划着。“霍尔顿,真他妈的,我再警告你一次。也是最后一次。你要是再不闭住你的臭嘴,我可要——”“我干吗要闭住?”我说——我简直在大声喊叫了。“你们这些窝囊废就是这个毛病。你们从来不肯讨论问题。从这一点上就可以看出你是不是一个窝囊废。他们从来不肯讨论一些聪明的——”我的话没说完,他真的给了我一下子,我只记得紧接着我又躺在混帐的地板上了。我记不起他有没有把我打昏过去,我想大概没有。要把一个人打昏过去并不那么容易,除非是在那些混帐电影里。

可我的鼻子上已全是血。我抬头一望,看见老斯特拉德莱塔简直就站在我身上。他还把他那套混帐的梳妆用具夹在胳肢窝底下。“我叫你住嘴,你他妈的干吗不听?”他说话的口气好象很紧张。我一下子倒在地板上,他也许是害怕已把我的脑袋瓜儿打碎了什么的。真倒霉,我的脑袋瓜儿怎么不碎呢。

“你这是自作自受,真他妈的,”他说。嘿,瞧他的样子倒真有点害怕了。

我甚至不打算站起来,就那么在地板上躺了一会儿,不住口地骂他是婊子养的窝囊废。我都气疯了,简直在破口大骂。

“听着。快去洗一下脸,”斯特拉德莱塔说。

“你听见了没有?”

我叫他去洗他自己的窝囊脸——这话当然很孩子气,可我确实气疯了。我叫他到盥洗室去的半路上最好顺便拐个弯,跟席密德太太干那事去。席密德太太是看门人的妻子,大约六十五岁了。

我坐在地板上不动,直到听见老斯特拉德莱塔关上门,沿着走廊向盥洗室走去,我才站起来。我哪儿也找不到我那顶混帐猎人帽了。最后才在床底下找到。我戴上帽子,把鸭舌转到脑后,我就喜欢这么戴,然后过去照镜子,瞧瞧我自己的笨脸蛋。

你这一辈子再也没见过那样的血污。我的嘴上、腮帮上甚至睡衣上和浴衣上全都是血。我有点儿害怕,也有点儿神往。这一片血污倒让我看上去很象个好汉。我这一辈子只打过两次架,两次我都打输了。我算不了好汉。我是个和平主义者,我老实跟你说。

我依稀觉得老阿克莱听见我们争吵,这时正醒着。所以我掀开淋浴室门帘走进他的房间,看看他在做什么。我很少进他的房间。他的房内老是有一股奇怪的臭气,因为他这个人的私生活实在邋遢极了。

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第07节

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有一缕微光从我们房里透过淋浴室门帘照进来,我看得见他正躺在床上。我也他妈的完全知道他压根儿醒着。“阿克莱?”我说。“你醒着?”

“不错。”

房间里太暗,我一脚踩在地板上不知谁的鞋上,险些儿他妈的摔了个跟头。阿克莱在床上坐起来,斜倚在一只胳膊上。他脸上涂了不少白色玩艺儿,治他的粉刺。在黑暗中看去他有几分家鬼。

“你他妈的在干什么,嗯?”我问。

“你问我他妈的在干什么是什么意思?我正要睡觉,就听见你们这两个家伙吵起来了。你们他妈的到底为了什么打起架来?”

“灯在哪儿?”我找不到灯。我伸手往墙上乱摸一气。

“你开灯干什么?……就在你手旁边。”

我终于找到了开关,开亮了灯。老阿克莱举起一只手来遮住眼睛。

“老天爷!”他说。“你这是怎么啦?”他说的是我全身血污。

“我跟斯特拉德莱塔之间发生一点他妈的小小争执,”我说着,就在地板上坐下来。他们房里一向没有椅子。我不知道他们他妈的把那些椅子都弄到哪儿去了。“听着,”我说,“你愿意跟我玩一会儿卡纳斯塔吗?”他是个卡纳斯塔迷。

“你还在流血呢,天哪。你最好上点儿药。”

“过一会儿就会止住的。听着。你到底跟不跟我玩卡纳斯塔?”

“卡纳斯塔,老天爷。我问你,现在几点钟啦?”

“不晚。还只十一点多,十一点三十。”

“还只十一点多!”阿克莱说,“听着。我明天早晨还要去望弥撒哩,老天爷。你们这两个家伯又打又闹,就在他妈的半——你们他妈的到底为什么打架?”

“说来话长,我不想让你听了腻烦,阿克莱。

我这完全是为你着想,”我跟他说。我从来不跟他讨论我个人的私事。首先,他甚至比斯特拉德莱塔还要愚蠢。跟阿克莱相比,斯特拉德莱塔简直是个他妈的天才了。“嗨,”我说,“我今天晚上睡在爱利的床上成不成?他要到明天晚上才回来,是不是?”我他妈的完全知道他要到明天晚上才回来。

他几乎每个周末都回家去。

“我不知道他会在他妈的什么时候回来,”阿克莱说。

嘿,这话真叫我生气。“你不知道他在什么时候回来,你他妈的这话是什么意思?他一向是在星期天晚上才回来,是不是?”

“是的,可是老天爷,我实在没法让别人随便睡他的床,要是有人想睡的话。”

我听了差点儿笑痛肚皮。我从坐着的地方举起子来,在他的混帐肩膀上拍了一下,“你真是个王子,阿克莱孩子,”我说,“你知道吗?”

“不,我说的是心里话——我实在没法让别人睡在——”“你的确是个王子。你是个绅士,也是个学者,孩子,”我说。他倒是个绅士学者呢。“我问你,你还有香烟没有?——说声‘没有’,我非立刻倒在地上死去不可。”

“不,没有,真的没有。听着,你们他妈的到底为什么事打架?”

我没回答他。我只是起身走到窗口往外眺望。

一霎时,我觉得寂寞极了。我简直希望自己已经死了“你们他妈的到底为什么事打架,嗯?”阿克莱说,大概是第五十次了。这方面,他确实叫人腻烦透了。

“为了你,”我说,“为了我,老天爷?”

“不错。我是在保护你的混帐荣誉。斯特拉德莱塔说你为人下流。我听了这话能放他过去吗?”

这话使他兴奋起来。“他真的说了?不开玩笑?他真的说了?”

我对他说我不过是开开玩笑,接着就过去在爱利的床上躺下。嘿,我真是苦闷极了。我觉得寂寞得要命。

“这房间臭极了,”我说。“我在这儿都闻得出你袜子的味儿。你的袜子是不是从来不洗?”

“你要是不喜欢这气味,你知道你可以怎么办,”阿克莱说。说的多妙。“把混帐的灯关掉好不好?”

我可没马上关灯。我只顾在爱利的床上躺着,想着琴的事。我一想到她和斯特拉德莱塔两个同坐在埃德.班基的那辆大屁股汽车里鬼混,不由得心里直冒火,气得真要发疯。我只要一想起这事,就想从窗口跳出去。问题是,你不知道斯特拉德莱塔的为人。我可知道。潘西有许多家伙只不过老在嘴里说着怎样跟女孩子发生暖昧关系——象阿克莱那样,举例说——可老斯特拉德莱塔却是真的干。我自己就至少认识两个跟他发生过关系的姑娘。这是实话。

“把你一生中有趣的事情讲给我听听吧,阿克莱孩子,”我说。

“把混帐的灯关掉好不好?我明天早起还要望弥撒哩。”

我起来把灯关了,好让他高兴。接着我又躺到爱利的床上。

“你打算干吗——睡在爱利的床上吗?”阿克莱说。他真是个顶呱呱的好主人,嘿。

“我也许睡,也许不睡,别为这件事担心。”

“我并不为这件事担心。只是我最痛恨这一类事,万一爱利突然回来,看见有人——”“请放心。我不会睡在这儿的。我不会辜负你他妈的这番殷勤招待。”

一两分钟以后,他就象个疯子似的打起鼾来。

我仍旧躺在黑暗中,竭力不让自己去想琴和斯特拉德莱塔一同在埃德.班基那辆混帐汽车里的事,可那简直办不到。糟糕的是,我熟悉斯特拉德莱塔这家伙的花招。这就叫我心里越发受不了。有一次我们俩一块儿跟女朋友约会,在埃德.班基的汽车里,斯特拉德莱塔跟他的女朋友在后座,我跟我的女朋友在前座。瞧这家伙的花招。他开始用一种极其温柔、极其诚恳的声音跟他的女朋友甜言蜜语——好象他不仅是个非常漂亮的小伙子,而且也是个挺好、挺诚恳的小伙子。我听着他说话,差点儿都呕出来了。他的女朋友不住地说:“别——劳驾啦。别这样。劳驾啦。”可老斯特拉德莱塔始终用他那种亚伯莱罕姆.林肯般的诚恳声音跟她甜言蜜语,到最后那后座上只是一片可怕的寂静。那情况可真恼人。我想那天晚上他还不至于跟那姑娘干那事儿——不过也他妈的相差不远了。真他妈的相差不远了。

我正躺在床上竭力不让自己胡思乱想,忽听得老斯特拉德莱塔从盥洗室回到了我们的房间。你可以听到他正在安放他那套肮脏的梳妆用具,随即打开窗子。他是个新鲜空气迷。后来过了一会儿,他关了灯。他甚至不看看我在什么地方。

连外面街上都是一片死寂。你甚至听不到汽车声。我觉得那么寂寞、那么苦闷,甚至不由得叫醒阿克莱。

“嗨,阿克莱,”我说,声音压得很低,不让斯特拉德莱塔通过琳浴室门帘听见。

可阿克莱没听见我叫他。

“嗨,阿克莱!”

他依旧没听见。他睡得象块石头。

“嗨,阿克莱!”

这一声他倒是听见了。

“你他妈的怎么啦?”他说。“我都睡着啦,老天爷!”

“听着。进寺院有什么条件?”我问他。我忽然起了进寺院的念头。“是不是非当天主教徒不可?”

“当然得先当天主教徒。你这杂种,你叫醒我难道就是为了问我这种混帐的问——”“啊,睡你的觉吧,我反正不会进寺院的。象我这样的运气,进去以后,大概遇到的僧侣全不会对头。全都是傻杂种。或者光是杂种。”

我一说这话,老阿克莱就他妈的一下于在床上坐了起来。“听着,”他说,“我不在乎你说我什么,或者关于别的什么,可你要是拿我他妈的宗教取笑,老天爷——”“请放心,”我说。“谁也不会拿你他妈的宗教取笑。”我从爱利的床上起来,向门边走去,我不想再在那种混帐气氛里逗留了。可我在半路上停住脚步,抓起阿克莱的手,装腔作势地跟他大握特握。他抽回手去。“这是什么意思?”他说。

“没什么意思。你是那么个混帐的王子,我只是想向你表示谢意,就是这么回事,”我说。说的时候声音还极其诚恳。“你是个了不起的人物,阿克莱孩子,”我说。“你知道吗?”

“乖孩子。总有一天会有人揍得你——”我甚至没心思听他说完。我关上了那混账的门,走进了廊子。

宿舍里的人不是已经睡着,就是已经外出或者回家度周末了,所以走廊里十分、十分静,十分、十分寂寞。李希和霍夫曼的门外放着一只考里诺斯牙膏空盒,我一边往楼梯边走,一边用那只穿羊皮拖鞋的脚不住地踢那空盒。我本来想到楼下去看看老马尔.勃里萨德在干什么,可是刹那间我改变了主意。刹那间,我打定了主意怎么办,我要他妈的马上离开潘西——就在当天晚上。我是说不再等到星期三什么的。我实在不想在这儿呆下去了。我觉得太寂寞太苦闷,因此我打定主意,决计到纽约的旅馆里开一个房间——找一家最便宜的旅馆——一直逍遥到星期三。到了星期三,我休息够了,心情好转,就动身回家。我盘算我父母大概总要在星期二、三才会接到老绥摩的情,通知我被开除的事。

我不愿早回家,我要等他们得到通知、对这事完全消化以后才回去。我不愿在他们刚接到通知时就在他们身边。我母亲非常歇斯底里。可是不管什么事她只要完全消化之后,倒也不难对付。再说,我也需要有个小小的假期。我的神经过于紧张了。确实过于紧张。

嗯,这就是我打定主意要做的。我于是回到屋里,开亮灯,开始收拾东西。有不少东西我都已收拾好了。老斯特拉德莱塔甚至都没醒来。我点了支香烟,穿好衣服,动手整理我的两只手提皮箱。我只花了两分钟。我收拾起东西来速度快得惊人。

收拾行李时,有一件事有点儿叫我难过。我得把我母亲刚在几天前寄给我的那双崭新的冰鞋装起来;这使我心里难过。我想象得出我母亲怎样到期保尔丁商店里,向售货员问了百万个傻里傻气的问题——可我这下又给开除了。这使我觉得很伤心。

她把冰鞋买错了——我要的是跑刀,她给我买了花样刀——可我照样觉得伤心。几几乎每次都是这样,每逢有人送我什么礼物,到头来都会让我觉得伤心。

我收拾停当以后,又数了数钱。我已记不起到底有多少钱,反正数目很不小。我祖母在约莫一个星期前刚给我汇来一笔钱。我的这个祖母使起钱来手头很阔。她已经老糊涂了——老得不能再老——一年内总要寄给我四次钱,作为生日礼物。可是,尽管我现有的钱数目已经不小,我还怕不够,生怕有什么不时之需。所以我走下楼去,喊醒了法莱德里克.伍德鲁夫,就是借我打字机的家伙。我问他肯出多少钱把我的打字机买下来。这家伙相当有钱,他说他不知道,还说他不怎么想买。可他最后还是买下来了。这架打字机约莫值九十块钱,可他只给我二十块就买下了。他很没好气,因为我叫醒了他。

我拿了手提箱什么的准备动身,还在楼梯口站了一会儿,顺着那条混帐走廊望了最后一眼。不知怎的,我几乎哭了出来。我戴上我那顶红色猎人帽,照我喜欢的样子将鸭舌转到脑后,然后使出了我的全身力气大声喊道:“好好睡吧,你们这些窝囊废!”我敢打赌我把这一层楼的所有杂种全都喊醒了。随后我就离开了那地方,不知哪个混蛋在楼梯上扔了一地花生皮,我他妈的差点儿摔断了我的混帐脖子。

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第08节

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时间太晚,巳叫不到出租汽车,所以我就一直步行到车站。路并不远,可是天冷得要命,一路上的积雪很不好走,那两只手提箱还他妈的不住磕碰着我的大腿。不过我倒很欣赏外面的新鲜空气。唯一不好受的是,冷风吹得我鼻子疼痛,还有我上嘴唇底下也疼,那是斯特拉德莱塔打我一拳的地方。

他打得我的嘴唇撞在牙齿上,所以那地方疼得厉害。我的耳朵倒挺暖和。我买的那顶帽子上面有耳罩,我把它放下了——我他妈的才不在乎好看不好看哩。可是路上没一个人。谁都上床啦。

到了车站,我发现自己的运气还不错,因为只消等约莫十分钟就有火车。我等着的时候,就捧起一掬雪洗了下我的脸。我脸上还有不少血呢。

通常我很喜欢坐火车,尤其是在夜里,车里点着灯,窗外一片漆黑,过道上不时有人卖咖啡、夹馅面包和杂志。我一般总是买一份火腿面包和四本杂志。我要是在晚上乘火车,通常还能看完杂志里某个无聊的故事而不至于作呕。你知道那故事。有一大堆叫大卫的瘦下巴的假惺惺人物,还有一大堆叫林达或玛莎的假惺惺姑娘,老是给大卫们点混帐的烟斗。我晚上乘火车,通常都能把这类混帐故事看完一个。可这一次情况不同了。我没那心情。我光是坐在那里,什么也不干。我光是脱下我那顶猎人帽,放在我的衣袋里。

一霎时,有位太太从特兰敦上来,坐在我身旁。几乎整个车厢都空着,因为时间已经很晚,可她不去独坐个空位置,却一径坐到我身旁,原因是她带着一只大旅行袋,我又正好占着前面座位。她把那只旅行袋往过道中央一放,也不管列车员或者什么人走过都可能绊一交。她身上戴着兰花,好象刚赴了什么重大宴会出来。她年纪约在四十到四十五左右,我揣摩,可她长得十分漂亮。女人能要我的命。她们的确能。我并不是说我这人有色情狂之类的毛病——虽然我倒是十分好色。我只是喜欢女人,我是说。她们老是把她们的混帐旅行袋放在过道中央。

嗯,我们这么坐着,忽然她对我说:“对不起,这不是一张潘西中学的签条吗?”她正拿眼望着上面行李架上我的两只手提箱。

“不错,”我说。她说得不错。我有一只手提箱上面的确贴着潘西的签条。看上去十分粗俗,我承认。

“哦,你在潘西念书吗?”她说。她的声音十分好听,很象电话里的好听声音。她身上大概带着一架混帐电话机呢。

“晤,不错,”我说。

“哦,多好!你也许认得我儿子吧。欧纳斯特.摩罗?他也在潘西念书。”

“晤,我认识他。他跟我同班。”

他儿子无疑是潘西有它那段混帐历史以来所招收到的最最混帐的学生。他洗完淋浴以后,老是在走廊上拿他的湿毛巾独别人的屁股。他完全是那样一种人。

“哦,多好啊!”那太太说。并不粗俗,而是和蔼可亲。“我一定要告诉欧纳斯特我遇见了你,”她说。“可以告诉我你的名字吗,亲爱的?”

“鲁道尔夫.席密德,”我告诉她说。我并不想把我的一生经历都讲给她听。鲁道尔夫.席密德是我们宿舍看门人的名字。

“你喜欢潘西吗?”她问我。

“潘西?不算太坏。不是什么天堂,可也不比大多数的学校坏。有些教职人员倒是很正直。”

“欧纳斯特简直崇拜它。”

“我知道他崇拜,”我说。接着我又信口开河了。“他很能适应环境。他真的能。我是说他真知道怎样适应环境。”

“你这样想吗?”她问我。听她的口气好象感兴趣极了。

“欧纳斯特?当然啦,”我说。接着我看着她脱手套。嘿,她戴着一手的宝石哩。

“我打出租汽车里出来,不小心弄断了一个指甲,”她说。她抬头看了我一眼,微微一笑。她笑得漂亮极了。的确非常漂亮。有许多人简直不会笑,或者笑得很不雅观。“欧纳斯特的父亲和我有时很为他担心,”她说。“我们有时候觉得他不是个很好的交际家。”

“你这话什么意思?”

“呃,这孩子十分敏感。他真的不会跟别的孩子相处。也许他看问题太严肃,不适于他的年龄。”

敏感。简直笑死了我。摩罗那家伙敏感得就跟一只混帐马桶差不离。

我仔细打量她一下。她看去不象是个傻瓜。看她样子,似乎应该知道她自己儿于是什么样的杂种。可是也很难说——我是说拿那些当母亲的来说。那些当母亲的全都有点儿神经病。不过,我倒是挺喜欢老摩罗的母亲。她看去挺不错。“你要抽支烟吗?”我问她。

她往四下里望了望。“我不信这是节吸烟车厢,鲁道尔夫,”她说。鲁道尔夫。真笑死了我。

“没关系。我们可以抽到他们开始向咱们嚷起来,”我说。她就从我手里拿了支香烟,我给她点了火。

她抽烟的样子很美。她把烟吸进去,可并不象她那年纪的大多数女人那样咽下去。她有不少迷人之处。她还有不少富于性感的地方,你要是真想知道的话。

她用一种异样的眼光看着我。“也许我眼花了可我相信你的鼻子在流血呢,亲爱的,”她突然说。

我点了点头,掏出了我的手绢。“我中了个雪球,”我说。“一个硬得象冰一样的雪球。”要不是说来话长,我也许会把真情实况全告诉她。不过我确实很喜欢她。我开始有点儿后悔不该告诉她我的名字叫鲁道尔夫.席密德。“老欧尼,”我说。

“他是潘西最有人缘的学生之一。你知道吗?”

“不,我不知道。”

我点了点头。“不管是谁,的确要过很久才了解。他是个怪人。许多方面都很怪——懂得我的意思吗?就象我刚遇到他那样。我刚遇到他的时候,还当他是个势利小人哩。我当时是这样想的。他其实不是。只是他的个性很特别,你得跟他相处久了才能了解他。”

摩罗太大什么话也没说,可是,嘿,你真该见一下她当时的情景。我都把她胶住在位置上了。不管是谁家母亲,她们想要知道的,总是自己的儿子是个多么了不起的人物。

接着,我真正瞎扯起来。“他把选举的事告诉你了没有?”我问她。“班会选举?”

她摇了摇头。我已经使她神魂颠倒了,好象是。她真有点神魂颠倒了。

“呃,我们一大堆人全推选老欧尼当班长。我是说他是大家一致推选出来的。我是说只有他一个人才能真正担任这个工作。”我说——嘿,我真是越说越远啦。“可是另外那个学生——哈利.范里——当选了。他当选的原因是,那显而易见的原因是,欧尼怎么也不肯让我们给他提名。他真是腼腆谦虚得要命。他拒绝了……嘿,他真是腼腆。你应该帮助他克服这个缺点。”我瞅着她。“他告诉你这事没有?”

“不,他没有。”

我点了点头。“这就是欧尼的为人。他不肯告诉人。他就是有这么个缺点——他太腼腆、也太谦虚了。你真应该让他随便点儿才是。”

就在这当儿,列车员过来查看摩罗太太的票,我趁机不再往下吹了。不过我很高兴自己瞎吹了一通。象摩罗这样老是用毛巾独人屁股的家伙——他这样做,是真要打疼别人——他们不仅在孩提时候下作。他们一辈子都会下作。可我敢打赌,经我那么信口一吹,摩罗太太就会老以为他是个十分腼腆、十分谦虚的孩子,连我们提名选他做班长他都不肯。她大概会这样想的。那很难说。那些当母亲的对这类事情感觉都是不太灵敏的。

“你想喝杯鸡尾酒吗?”我问她。我自己心血来潮,很想喝一杯。“我们可以上餐车去。好不好?”

“亲爱的,你可以要酒喝吗?”她问我,不过问得并不卑鄙。她的一切都太迷人了,简直很难用上卑鄙二字。

“呃,不,严格说来不可以,可我因为长得高,一般总可以要到,”我说。“再说我还有不少白头发呢。”我把头侧向一边,露出我的白头发她看。她看了真乐得不可开交。“去吧,跟我一块儿去,成不成?”我说。我真希望有她陪我去。

“我真的不想喝。可我还是非常感谢你,亲爱的,”她说。“再说,餐车这会儿大概已停止营业。

时间已经很晚了,你知道。”她说得不错。我完全忘记这会儿已是什么时候啦。

接着她看着我,问了我一个我一直怕她问的问题。“欧纳斯特信上说他将在屋期三回家,圣诞假期从星期三开始,”她说。“我希望你不是家里人生病,把你突然叫回去的吧。”她看去真的很担心。她不象是好管闲事,你看得出来。

“不,家里人都很好,”我说。“是我自己。

我得去动一下手术。”

“哦!我真替你难受,”她说。她也确实如此。我也马上后悔不该说这话,不过为时已经太晚。

“情况不算严重。我脑子里长了个小小的瘤子。”

“哦,不会吧!”她举起一只手来捂住了嘴。

“哦,没什么危险!长得很靠外,而且非常小。要不了两分钟就能取出来。”

然后我从袋里掏出火车时刻表观看。光是为了不让自己再继续撒谎。我一开口,只要情绪对头,就能一连胡扯几个小时。不开玩笑。几个小时。

此后我们就不再怎么谈话。她开始阅读自己带来的那本《时尚》杂志,我往窗外眺望一会儿。她在纽瓦克下了车。她祝我手术进行得顺利。她不住地叫我鲁道尔夫。接着她请我明年夏天到马萨诸塞州的格洛斯特去看望欧尼。她说他们的别墅就在海滨,他们自己还有个网球场什么的,可我谢绝了,说我要跟我的祖母一块儿到南美去。这实在是弥天大谎,因为我祖母简直很少出屋子,除非出去看一场混帐日戏什么的。可是即使把全世界的钱都给我,我也不愿去看望那个婊子养的摩罗——哪怕是在我穷极潦倒的时候。

执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 板凳   发表于: 2013-10-11 0


3
I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible. So when I told old Spencer I had to go to the gym and get my equipment and stuff, that was a sheer lie. I don't even keep my goddam equipment in the gym.
Where I lived at Pencey, I lived in the Ossenburger Memorial Wing of the new dorms. It was only for juniors and seniors. I was a junior. My roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the country that you could get members of your family buried for about five bucks apiece. You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them in a sack and dumps them in the river. Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of dough, and they named our wing alter him. The first football game of the year, he came up to school in this big goddam Cadillac, and we all had to stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive--that's a cheer. Then, the next morning, in chapel, be made a speech that lasted about ten hours. He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular guy he was. Very big deal. Then he started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God--talk to Him and all--wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving his car. That killed me. I just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs. The only good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all about what a swell guy he was, what a hot-shot and all, then all of a sudden this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart. It was a very crude thing to do, in chapel and all, but it was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla. He damn near blew the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it. Boy, was he sore. He didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory study hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He said that the boy that had created the disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to go to Pencey. We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off another one, right while old Thurmer was making his speech, but be wasn't in the right mood. Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in the new dorms.
It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old Spencer, because everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a change. It felt sort of cosy. I took off my coat and my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar; and then I put on this hat that I'd bought in New York that morning. It was this red hunting hat, with one of those very, very long peaks. I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only cost me a buck. The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the back--very corny, I'll admit, but I liked it that way. I looked good in it that way. Then I got this book I was reading and sat down in my chair. There were two chairs in every room. I had one and my roommate, Ward Stradlater, had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody was always sitting on them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs.
The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen. I thought it was going to stink, but it didn't. It was a very good book. I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite author is my brother D.B., and my next favorite is Ring Lardner. My brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my birthday, just before I went to Pencey. It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's always speeding. Only, he's married, the cop, so be can't marry her or anything. Then this girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about killed me. What I like best is a book that's at least funny once in a while. I read a lot of classical books, like The Return of the Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries and all, but they don't knock me out too much. What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D.B. told me he's dead. You take that book Of Human Bondage, by Somerset Maugham, though. I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn't want to call Somerset Maugham up. I don't know, He just isn't the kind of guy I'd want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye.
Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book Out of Africa. I'd read it already, but I wanted to read certain parts over again. I'd only read about three pages, though, when I heard somebody coming through the shower curtains. Even without looking up, I knew right away who it was. It was Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me. He was probably the only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn't down at the game. He hardly ever went anywhere. He was a very peculiar guy. He was a senior, and he'd been at Pencey the whole four years and all, but nobody ever called him anything except "Ackley." Not even Herb Gale, his own roommate, ever called him "Bob" or even "Ack." If he ever gets married, his own wife'll probably call him "Ackley." He was one of these very, very tall, round-shouldered guys--he was about six four--with lousy teeth. The whole time he roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something. Besides that, he had a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole face. And not only that, he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy. I wasn't too crazy about him, to tell you the truth.
I could feel him standing on the shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a look to see if Stradlater was around. He hated Stradlater's guts and he never came in the room if Stradlater was around. He hated everybody's guts, damn near.
He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room. "Hi," he said. He always said it like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn't want you to think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he'd come in by mistake, for God's sake.
"Hi," I said, but I didn't look up from my book. With a guy like Ackley, if you looked up from your book you were a goner. You were a goner anyway, but not as quick if you didn't look up right away.
He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always did, picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier. He always picked up your personal stuff and looked at it. Boy, could he get on your nerves sometimes. "How was the fencing?" he said. He just wanted me to quit reading and enjoying myself. He didn't give a damn about the fencing. "We win, or what?" he said.
"Nobody won," I said. Without looking up, though.
"What?" he said. He always made you say everything twice.
"Nobody won," I said. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with on my chiffonier. He was looking at this picture of this girl I used to go around with in New York, Sally Hayes. He must've picked up that goddam picture and looked at it at least five thousand times since I got it. He always put it back in the wrong place, too, when he was finished. He did it on purpose. You could tell.
"Nobody won," he said. "How come?"
"I left the goddam foils and stuff on the subway." I still didn't look up at him.
"On the subway, for Chrissake! Ya lost them, ya mean?"
"We got on the wrong subway. I had to keep getting up to look at a goddam map on the wall."
He came over and stood right in my light. "Hey," I said. "I've read this same sentence about twenty times since you came in."
Anybody else except Ackley would've taken the goddam hint. Not him, though. "Think they'll make ya pay for em?" he said.
"I don't know, and I don't give a damn. How 'bout sitting down or something, Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light." He didn't like it when you called him "Ackley kid." He was always telling me I was a goddam kid, because I was sixteen and he was eighteen. It drove him mad when I called him "Ackley kid."
He kept standing there. He was exactly the kind of a guy that wouldn't get out of your light when you asked him to. He'd do it, finally, but it took him a lot longer if you asked him to. "What the hellya reading?" he said.
"Goddam book."
He shoved my book back with his hand so that he could see the name of it. "Any good?" he said.
"This sentence I'm reading is terrific." I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood. He didn't get It, though. He started walking around the room again, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. You couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was impossible.
I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at home. I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning. Then I started horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored. What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes. That way, I couldn't see a goddam thing. "I think I'm going blind," I said in this very hoarse voice. "Mother darling, everything's getting so dark in here."
"You're nuts. I swear to God," Ackley said.
"Mother darling, give me your hand, Why won't you give me your hand?"
"For Chrissake, grow up."
I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything. I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand?" I was only horsing around, naturally. That stuff gives me a bang sometimes. Besides, I know it annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me. I was pretty sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed.
"Who belongsa this?" Ackley said. He was holding my roommate's knee supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd even pick up your jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater's. So he chucked it on Stradlater's bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed.
He came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down in a chair. Just always on the arm. "Where the hellja get that hat?" he said.
"New York."
"How much?"
"A buck."
"You got robbed." He started cleaning his goddam fingernails with the end of a match. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy. He took another look at my hat while he was cleaning them. "Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake," he said. "That's a deer shooting hat."
"Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat."
"Your folks know you got kicked out yet?"
"Nope."
"Where the hell's Stradlater at, anyway?"
"Down at the game. He's got a date." I yawned. I was yawning all over the place. For one thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either froze to death or died of the heat.
"The great Stradlater," Ackley said. "--Hey. Lend me your scissors a second, willya? Ya got 'em handy?"
"No. I packed them already. They're way in the top of the closet."
"Get 'em a second, willya?" Ackley said, "I got this hangnail I want to cut off."
He didn't care if you'd packed something or not and had it way in the top of the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too. The second I opened the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket--in its wooden press and all--fell right on my head. It made a big clunk, and it hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He started laughing in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him. Something like that--a guy getting hit on the head with a rock or something--tickled the pants off Ackley. "You have a damn good sense of humor, Ackley kid," I told him. "You know that?" I handed him the scissors. "Lemme be your manager. I'll get you on the goddam radio." I sat down in my chair again, and he started cutting his big horny-looking nails. "How 'bout using the table or something?" I said. "Cut 'em over the table, willya? I don't feel like walking on your crumby nails in my bare feet tonight." He kept right on cutting them over the floor, though. What lousy manners. I mean it.
"Who's Stradlater's date?" he said. He was always keeping tabs on who Stradlater was dating, even though he hated Stradlater's guts.
"I don't know. Why?"
"No reason. Boy, I can't stand that sonuvabitch. He's one sonuvabitch I really can't stand."
"He's crazy about you. He told me he thinks you're a goddam prince," I said. I call people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing around. It keeps me from getting bored or something.
"He's got this superior attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I just can't stand the sonuvabitch. You'd think he--"
"Do you mind cutting your nails over the table, hey?" I said. "I've asked you about fifty--"
"He's got this goddam superior attitude all the time," Ackley said. "I don't even think the sonuvabitch is intelligent. He thinks he is. He thinks he's about the most--"
"Ackley! For Chrissake. Willya please cut your crumby nails over the table? I've asked you fifty times."
He started cutting his nails over the table, for a change. The only way he ever did anything was if you yelled at him.
I watched him for a while. Then I said, "The reason you're sore at Stradlater is because he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while. He didn't mean to insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anything, but he didn't mean anything insulting. All he meant was you'd look better and feel better if you sort of brushed your teeth once in a while."
"I brush my teeth. Don't gimme that."
"No, you don't. I've seen you, and you don't," I said. I didn't say it nasty, though. I felt sort of sorry for him, in a way. I mean it isn't too nice, naturally, if somebody tells you you don't brush your teeth. "Stradlater's all right He's not too bad," I said. "You don't know him, thats the trouble."
"I still say he's a sonuvabitch. He's a conceited sonuvabitch."
"He's conceited, but he's very generous in some things. He really is," I said. "Look. Suppose, for instance, Stradlater was wearing a tie or something that you liked. Say he had a tie on that you liked a helluva lot--I'm just giving you an example, now. You know what he'd do? He'd probably take it off and give it ta you. He really would. Or--you know what he'd do? He'd leave it on your bed or something. But he'd give you the goddam tie. Most guys would probably just--"
"Hell," Ackley said. "If I had his dough, I would, too."
"No, you wouldn't." I shook my head. "No, you wouldn't, Ackley kid. If you had his dough, you'd be one of the biggest--"
"Stop calling me 'Ackley kid,' God damn it. I'm old enough to be your lousy father."
"No, you're not." Boy, he could really be aggravating sometimes. He never missed a chance to let you know you were sixteen and he was eighteen. "In the first place, I wouldn't let you in my goddam family," I said.
"Well, just cut out calling me--"
All of a sudden the door opened, and old Stradlater barged in, in a big hurry. He was always in a big hurry. Everything was a very big deal. He came over to me and gave me these two playful as hell slaps on both cheeks--which is something that can be very annoying. 'Listen," he said. "You going out anywheres special tonight?"
"I don't know. I might. What the hell's it doing out--snowing?" He had snow all over his coat.
"Yeah. Listen. If you're not going out anyplace special, how 'bout lending me your hound's-tooth jacket?"
"Who won the game?" I said.
"It's only the half. We're leaving," Stradlater said. "No kidding, you gonna use your hound's-tooth tonight or not? I spilled some crap all over my gray flannel."
"No, but I don't want you stretching it with your goddam shoulders and all," I said. We were practically the same heighth, but he weighed about twice as much as I did. He had these very broad shoulders.
"I won't stretch it." He went over to the closet in a big hurry. "How'sa boy, Ackley?" he said to Ackley. He was at least a pretty friendly guy, Stradlater. It was partly a phony kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello to Ackley and all.
Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy?" He wouldn't answer him, but he didn't have guts enough not to at least grunt. Then he said to me, "I think I'll get going. See ya later."
"Okay," I said. He never exactly broke your heart when he went back to his own room.
Old Stradlater started taking off his coat and tie and all. "I think maybe I'll take a fast shave," he said. He had a pretty heavy beard. He really did.
"Where's your date?" I asked him.
"She's waiting in the Annex." He went out of the room with his toilet kit and towel under his arm. No shirt on or anything. He always walked around in his bare torso because he thought he had a damn good build. He did, too. I have to admit it.
4
I didn't have anything special to do, so I went down to the can and chewed the rag with him while he was shaving. We were the only ones in the can, because everybody was still down at the game. It was hot as hell and the windows were all steamy. There were about ten washbowls, all right against the wall. Stradlater had the middle one. I sat down on the one right next to him and started turning the cold water on and off--this nervous habit I have. Stradlater kept whistling 'Song of India" while he shaved. He had one of those very piercing whistles that are practically never in tune, and he always picked out some song that's hard to whistle even if you're a good whistler, like "Song of India" or "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue." He could really mess a song up.
You remember I said before that Ackley was a slob in his personal habits? Well, so was Stradlater, but in a different way. Stradlater was more of a secret slob. He always looked all right, Stradlater, but for instance, you should've seen the razor he shaved himself with. It was always rusty as hell and full of lather and hairs and crap. He never cleaned it or anything. He always looked good when he was finished fixing himself up, but he was a secret slob anyway, if you knew him the way I did. The reason he fixed himself up to look good was because he was madly in love with himself. He thought he was the handsomest guy in the Western Hemisphere. He was pretty handsome, too--I'll admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year Book, they'd right away say, "Who's this boy?" I mean he was mostly a Year Book kind of handsome guy. I knew a lot of guys at Pencey I thought were a lot handsomer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw their pictures in the Year Book. They'd look like they had big noses or their ears stuck out. I've had that experience frequently.
Anyway, I was sitting on the washbowl next to where Stradlater was shaving, sort of turning the water on and off. I still had my red hunting hat on, with the peak around to the back and all. I really got a bang out of that hat.
"Hey," Stradlater said. "Wanna do me a big favor?"
"What?" I said. Not too enthusiastic. He was always asking you to do him a big favor. You take a very handsome guy, or a guy that thinks he's a real hot-shot, and they're always asking you to do them a big favor. Just because they're crazy about themseif, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor. It's sort of funny, in a way.
"You goin' out tonight?" he said.
"I might. I might not. I don't know. Why?"
"I got about a hundred pages to read for history for Monday," he said. "How 'bout writing a composition for me, for English? I'll be up the creek if I don't get the goddam thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it?"
It was very ironical. It really was.
"I'm the one that's flunking out of the goddam place, and you're asking me to write you a goddam composition," I said.
"Yeah, I know. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in. Be a buddy. Be a buddyroo. Okay?"
I didn't answer him right away. Suspense is good for some bastards like Stradlater.
"What on?" I said.
"Anything. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once lived in or something-- you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell." He gave out a big yawn while he said that. Which is something that gives me a royal pain in the ass. I mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking you to do them a goddam favor. "Just don't do it too good, is all," he said. "That sonuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in English, and he knows you're my roommate. So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the right place."
That's something else that gives me a royal pain. I mean if you're good at writing compositions and somebody starts talking about commas. Stradlater was always doing that. He wanted you to think that the only reason he was lousy at writing compositions was because he stuck all the commas in the wrong place. He was a little bit like Ackley, that way. I once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on the team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor, without even touching the backboard or anything. Ackley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that Coyle had a perfect build for basketball. God, how I hate that stuff.
I got bored sitting on that washbowl after a while, so I backed up a few feet and started doing this tap dance, just for the hell of it. I was just amusing myself. I can't really tap-dance or anything, but it was a stone floor in the can, and it was good for tap-dancing. I started imitating one of those guys in the movies. In one of those musicals. I hate the movies like poison, but I get a bang imitating them. Old Stradlater watched me in the mirror while he was shaving. All I need's an audience. I'm an exhibitionist. "I'm the goddarn Governor's son," I said. I was knocking myself out. Tap-dancing all over the place. "He doesn't want me to be a tap dancer. He wants me to go to Oxford. But it's in my goddam blood, tap-dancing." Old Stradlater laughed. He didn't have too bad a sense of humor. "It's the opening night of the Ziegfeld Follies." I was getting out of breath. I have hardly any wind at all. "The leading man can't go on. He's drunk as a bastard. So who do they get to take his place? Me, that's who. The little ole goddam Governor's son."
"Where'dja get that hat?" Stradlater said. He meant my hunting hat. He'd never seen it before.
I was out of breath anyway, so I quit horsing around. I took off my hat and looked at it for about the ninetieth time. "I got it in New York this morning. For a buck. Ya like it?"
Stradlater nodded. "Sharp," he said. He was only flattering me, though, because right away he said, "Listen. Are ya gonna write that composition for me? I have to know."
"If I get the time, I will. If I don't, I won't," I said. I went over and sat down at the washbowl next to him again. "Who's your date?" I asked him. "Fitzgerald?"
"Hell, no! I told ya. I'm through with that pig."
"Yeah? Give her to me, boy. No kidding. She's my type."
"Take her . . . She's too old for you."
All of a sudden--for no good reason, really, except that I was sort of in the mood for horsing around--I felt like jumping off the washbowl and getting old Stradlater in a half nelson. That's a wrestling hold, in case you don't know, where you get the other guy around the neck and choke him to death, if you feel like it. So I did it. I landed on him like a goddam panther.
"Cut it out, Holden, for Chrissake!" Stradlater said. He didn't feel like horsing around. He was shaving and all. "Wuddaya wanna make me do--cut my goddam head off?"
I didn't let go, though. I had a pretty good half nelson on him. "Liberate yourself from my viselike grip." I said.
"Je-sus Christ." He put down his razor, and all of a sudden jerked his arms up and sort of broke my hold on him. He was a very strong guy. I'm a very weak guy. "Now, cut out the crap," he said. He started shaving himself all over again. He always shaved himself twice, to look gorgeous. With his crumby old razor.
"Who is your date if it isn't Fitzgerald?" I asked him. I sat down on the washbowl next to him again. "That Phyllis Smith babe?"
"No. It was supposed to he, but the arrangements got all screwed up. I got Bud Thaw's girl's roommate now . . . Hey. I almost forgot. She knows you."
"Who does?" I said.
"My date."
"Yeah?" I said. "What's her name?" I was pretty interested.
"I'm thinking . . . Uh. Jean Gallagher."
Boy, I nearly dropped dead when he said that.
"Jane Gallagher," I said. I even got up from the washbowl when he said that. I damn near dropped dead. "You're damn right I know her. She practically lived right next door to me, the summer before last. She had this big damn Doberman pinscher. That's how I met her. Her dog used to keep coming over in our--"
"You're right in my light, Holden, for Chrissake," Stradlater said. "Ya have to stand right there?"
Boy, was I excited, though. I really was.
"Where is she?" I asked him. "I oughta go down and say hello to her or something. Where is she? In the Annex?"
"Yeah."
"How'd she happen to mention me? Does she go to B.M. now? She said she might go there. She said she might go to Shipley, too. I thought she went to Shipley. How'd she happen to mention me?" I was pretty excited. I really was.
"I don't know, for Chrissake. Lift up, willya? You're on my towel," Stradlater said. I was sitting on his stupid towel.
"Jane Gallagher," I said. I couldn't get over it. "Jesus H. Christ."
Old Stradlater was putting Vitalis on his hair. My Vitalis.
"She's a dancer," I said. "Ballet and all. She used to practice about two hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all. She was worried that it might make her legs lousy--all thick and all. I used to play checkers with her all the time."
"You used to play what with her all the time?"
"Checkers."
"Checkers, for Chrissake!"
"Yeah. She wouldn't move any of her kings. What she'd do, when she'd get a king, she wouldn't move it. She'd just leave it in the back row. She'd get them all lined up in the back row. Then she'd never use them. She just liked the way they looked when they were all in the back row."
Stradlater didn't say anything. That kind of stuff doesn't interest most people.
"Her mother belonged to the same club we did," I said. "I used to caddy once in a while, just to make some dough. I caddy'd for her mother a couple of times. She went around in about a hundred and seventy, for nine holes."
Stradlater wasn't hardly listening. He was combing his gorgeous locks.
"I oughta go down and at least say hello to her," I said.
"Why don'tcha?"
"I will, in a minute."
He started parting his hair all over again. It took him about an hour to comb his hair.
"Her mother and father were divorced. Her mother was married again to some booze hound," I said. "Skinny guy with hairy legs. I remember him. He wore shorts all the time. Jane said he was supposed to be a playwright or some goddam thing, but all I ever saw him do was booze all the time and listen to every single goddam mystery program on the radio. And run around the goddam house, naked. With Jane around, and all."
"Yeah?" Stradlater said. That really interested him. About the booze hound running around the house naked, with Jane around. Stradlater was a very sexy bastard.
"She had a lousy childhood. I'm not kidding."
That didn't interest Stradlater, though. Only very sexy stuff interested him.
"Jane Gallagher. Jesus . . . I couldn't get her off my mind. I really couldn't. "I oughta go down and say hello to her, at least."
"Why the hell don'tcha, instead of keep saying it?" Stradlater said.
I walked over to the window, but you couldn't see out of it, it was so steamy from all the heat in the can.. "I'm not in the mood right now," I said. I wasn't, either. You have to be in the mood for those things. "I thought she went to Shipley. I could've sworn she went to Shipley." I walked around the can for a little while. I didn't have anything else to do. "Did she enjoy the game?" I said.
"Yeah, I guess so. I don't know."
"Did she tell you we used to play checkers all the time, or anything?"
"I don't know. For Chrissake, I only just met her," Stradlater said. He was finished combing his goddam gorgeous hair. He was putting away all his crumby toilet articles.
"Listen. Give her my regards, willya?"
"Okay," Stradlater said, but I knew he probably wouldn't. You take a guy like Stradlater, they never give your regards to people.
He went back to the room, but I stuck around in the can for a while, thinking about old Jane. Then I went back to the room, too.
Stradlater was putting on his tie, in front of the mirror, when I got there. He spent around half his goddam life in front of the mirror. I sat down in my chair and sort of watched him for a while.
"Hey," I said. "Don't tell her I got kicked out, willya?"
"Okay."
That was one good thing about Stradlater. You didn't have to explain every goddam little thing with him, the way you had to do with Ackley. Mostly, I guess, because he wasn't too interested. That's really why. Ackley, it was different. Ackley was a very nosy bastard.
He put on my hound's-tooth jacket.
"Jesus, now, try not to stretch it all over the place" I said. I'd only worn it about twice.
"I won't. Where the hell's my cigarettes?"
"On the desk." He never knew where he left anything. "Under your muffler." He put them in his coat pocket--my coat pocket.
I pulled the peak of my hunting hat around to the front all of a sudden, for a change. I was getting sort of nervous, all of a sudden. I'm quite a nervous guy. "Listen, where ya going on your date with her?" I asked him. "Ya know yet?"
"I don't know. New York, if we have time. She only signed out for nine-thirty, for Chrissake."
I didn't like the way he said it, so I said, "The reason she did that, she probably just didn't know what a handsome, charming bastard you are. If she'd known, she probably would've signed out for nine-thirty in the morning."
"Goddam right," Stradlater said. You couldn't rile him too easily. He was too conceited. "No kidding, now. Do that composition for me," he said. He had his coat on, and he was all ready to go. "Don't knock yourself out or anything, but just make it descriptive as hell. Okay?"
I didn't answer him. I didn't feel like it. All I said was, "Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row."
"Okay," Stradlater said, but I knew he wouldn't. "Take it easy, now." He banged the hell out of the room.
I sat there for about a half hour after he left. I mean I just sat in my chair, not doing anything. I kept thinking about Jane, and about Stradlater having a date with her and all. It made me so nervous I nearly went crazy. I already told you what a sexy bastard Stradlater was.
All of a sudden, Ackley barged back in again, through the damn shower curtains, as usual. For once in my stupid life, I was really glad to see him. He took my mind off the other stuff.
He stuck around till around dinnertime, talking about all the guys at Pencey that he hated their guts, and squeezing this big pimple on his chin. He didn't even use his handkerchief. I don't even think the bastard had a handkerchief, if you want to know the truth. I never saw him use one, anyway.
5
We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey. It was supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak. I'll bet a thousand bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys' parents came up to school on Sunday, and old Thurmer probably figured everybody's mother would ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night, and he'd say, "Steak." What a racket. You should've seen the steaks. They were these little hard, dry jobs that you could hardly even cut. You always got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you got Brown Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the little kids in the lower school that didn't know any better--and guys like Ackley that ate everything. It was nice, though, when we got out of the dining room. There were about three inches of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down like a madman. It looked pretty as hell, and we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the place. It was very childish, but everybody was really enjoying themselves.
I didn't have a date or anything, so I and this friend of mine, Mal Brossard, that was on the wrestling team, decided we'd take a bus into Agerstown and have a hamburger and maybe see a lousy movie. Neither of us felt like sitting around on our ass all night. I asked Mal if he minded if Ackley came along with us. The reason I asked was because Ackley never did anything on Saturday night, except stay in his room and squeeze his pimples or something. Mal said he didn't mind but that he wasn't too crazy about the idea. He didn't like Ackley much. Anyway, we both went to our rooms to get ready and all, and while I was putting on my galoshes and crap, I yelled over and asked old Ackley if he wanted to go to the movies. He could hear me all right through the shower curtains, but he didn't answer me right away. He was the kind of a guy that hates to answer you right away. Finally he came over, through the goddam curtains, and stood on the shower ledge and asked who was going besides me. He always had to know who was going. I swear, if that guy was shipwrecked somewhere, and you rescued him in a goddam boat, he'd want to know who the guy was that was rowing it before he'd even get in. I told him Mal Brossard was going. He said, "That bastard . . . All right. Wait a second." You'd think he was doing you a big favor.
It took him about five hours to get ready. While he was doing it, I went over to my window and opened it and packed a snowball with my bare hands. The snow was very good for packing. I didn't throw it at anything, though. I started to throw it. At a car that was parked across the street. But I changed my mind. The car looked so nice and white. Then I started to throw it at a hydrant, but that looked too nice and white, too. Finally I didn't throw it at anything. All I did was close the window and walk around the room with the snowball, packing it harder. A little while later, I still had it with me when I and Brossnad and Ackley got on the bus. The bus driver opened the doors and made me throw it out. I told him I wasn't going to chuck it at anybody, but he wouldn't believe me. People never believe you.
Brossard and Ackley both had seen the picture that was playing, so all we did, we just had a couple of hamburgers and played the pinball machine for a little while, then took the bus back to Pencey. I didn't care about not seeing the movie, anyway. It was supposed to be a comedy, with Cary Grant in it, and all that crap. Besides, I'd been to the movies with Brossard and Ackley before. They both laughed like hyenas at stuff that wasn't even funny. I didn't even enjoy sitting next to them in the movies.
It was only about a quarter to nine when we got back to the dorm. Old Brossard was a bridge fiend, and he started looking around the dorm for a game. Old Ackley parked himself in my room, just for a change. Only, instead of sitting on the arm of Stradlater's chair, he laid down on my bed, with his face right on my pillow and all. He started talking in this very monotonous voice, and picking at all his pimples. I dropped about a thousand hints, but I couldn't get rid of him. All he did was keep talking in this very monotonous voice about some babe he was supposed to have had sexual intercourse with the summer before. He'd already told me about it about a hundred times. Every time he told it, it was different. One minute he'd be giving it to her in his cousin's Buick, the next minute he'd be giving it to her under some boardwalk. It was all a lot of crap, naturally. He was a virgin if ever I saw one. I doubt if he ever even gave anybody a feel. Anyway, finally I had to come right out and tell him that I had to write a composition for Stradlater, and that he had to clear the hell out, so I could concentrate. He finally did, but he took his time about it, as usual. After he left, I put on my pajamas and bathrobe and my old hunting hat, and started writing the composition.
The thing was, I couldn't think of a room or a house or anything to describe the way Stradlater said he had to have. I'm not too crazy about describing rooms and houses anyway. So what I did, I wrote about my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. People with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily, but Allie never did, and he had very red hair. I'll tell you what kind of red hair he had. I started playing golf when I was only ten years old. I remember once, the summer I was around twelve, teeing off and all, and having a hunch that if I turned around all of a sudden, I'd see Allie. So I did, and sure enough, he was sitting on his bike outside the fence--there was this fence that went all around the course--and he was sitting there, about a hundred and fifty yards behind me, watching me tee off. That's the kind of red hair he had. God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair. I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I don't blame them. I really don't. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist, just for the hell of it. I even tried to break all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer, but my hand was already broken and everything by that time, and I couldn't do it. It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know Allie. My hand still hurts me once in a while when it rains and all, and I can't make a real fist any more--not a tight one, I mean--but outside of that I don't care much. I mean I'm not going to be a goddam surgeon or a violinist or anything anyway.
Anyway, that's what I wrote Stradlater's composition about. Old Allie's baseball mitt. I happened to have it with me, in my suitcase, so I got it out and copied down the poems that were written on it. All I had to do was change Allie's name so that nobody would know it was my brother and not Stradlater's. I wasn't too crazy about doing it, but I couldn't think of anything else descriptive. Besides, I sort of liked writing about it. It took me about an hour, because I had to use Stradlater's lousy typewriter, and it kept jamming on me. The reason I didn't use my own was because I'd lent it to a guy down the hall.
It was around ten-thirty, I guess, when I finished it. I wasn't tired, though, so I looked out the window for a while. It wasn't snowing out any more, but every once in a while you could hear a car somewhere not being able to get started. You could also hear old Ackley snoring. Right through the goddam shower curtains you could hear him. He had sinus trouble and he couldn't breathe too hot when he was asleep. That guy had just about everything. Sinus trouble, pimples, lousy teeth, halitosis, crumby fingernails. You had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.



第03节

--------

你这一辈子大概没见过比我更会撤谎的人。说来真是可怕。我哪怕是到铺子里买一份杂志,有人要是在路上见了我,问我上哪儿去,我也许会说去看歌剧。真是可怕。因此我虽然跟老斯宾塞说了要到体育馆去收拾东西,其实完全是撤谎。我甚至并不把我那些混帐体育用具放在体育馆里。

我在潘西的时候,就住在新宿舍的“奥森贝格纪念斋”里。那儿只住初中生和高中生。我是初中生。跟我同房的是一个高中生。这个斋是以一个从潘西毕业的校友奥森贝格为名的。他离开潘西以后,靠做殡仪馆生意发了横财。他在全国各地都没有殡仪馆停尸场,你只要付五块钱,就可以把你的家属埋葬掉。你真应该见见老奥森贝格。他或许光是把尸体装在麻袋里,往河里一扔完事。不管怎样,他给了潘西一大笔钱,他们就把我们佐的新斋以他的名字命名。今年头一次举行橄榄球赛,他坐了他那辆混帐大“凯迪拉克”来到学校里,我们大伙儿还得在看台上全体肃立,给他来一个“火车头”——那就是一阵欢呼。第二天早晨,他在小教堂里向我们演讲,讲了足足有十个钟头。他一开始就讲了五十来个粗俗的笑话,向我们证明他是个多么有趣的人物。真了不起。接着他告诉我们说,每逢他有什么困难,他从来不怕跪下来向上帝祷告。

他教我们经常向上帝祷告——跟上帝无话不谈——不管我们是在什么地方。他教我们应该把耶酥看作是我们的好朋友。他说他自己就时时刻刻在跟耶稣谈话,甚至在他开车的时候。我听了真笑疼肚皮。

我可以想象这个假模假式的大杂种怎样把排档推到第一档,同时请求耶稣多开几张私人小支票给他。

他演讲最精采的部分是在半当中。他正在告诉我们他自己有多么了不起,多么出人头地,坐在我们前面一排的那个家伙,马萨拉,突然放了个响屁。于这种事确实很不雅,尤其是在教堂里,可也十分有趣。老马萨拉,他差点儿没掀掉屋顶。可以说几乎没一个人笑出声来,老奥森贝格还装出压根儿没听见的样子,可是校长老绥摩也在讲台上,正好坐在他旁边,你看得出他已经听见了。嘿,他该有多难受。他当时没说什么,可是第二天晚上他让我们到办公大楼上必修课的大教室里集合,他自己就登台演讲。他说那个在教堂里扰乱秩序的学生不配在潘西念书。我们想叫老马萨拉趁老绥摩正在演讲时照样再来一个响屁,可他当时心境不好,放不出来。嗯,不管怎样,反正那就是我住的地方。

老奥森贝格纪念斋,在新宿舍里。

离开老斯宾塞家回到我自己房里,自另有一种舒服,因为人人都去看球赛了,房里又正好放着暖气,使人感到十分温暖适意。我脱下大衣解下领带,松了衣领上的钮扣,然后戴上当天早晨在纽约买来的那顶帽子。那是顶红色猎人帽,有一个很长、很长的鸭舌。我发现自己把所有那些混帐宝剑都丢了之后,刚下了地铁就在那家体育用品商店橱窗里看见了这顶帽子,只花一块钱买了下来。我戴的时候,把鸭舌转到脑后——这样戴十分粗俗,我承认,可我喜欢这样戴。我这么戴了看去挺美。随后我拿出我正在看的那本书,坐到自己的椅子上。每个房里都有两把椅子。我坐一把,跟我住一房的华西.斯特拉德莱塔坐另一把。扶手都不象样子了,因为谁都坐在扶手上,不过这些椅子坐着确很舒服。

我看的这本书是我从图书馆里误借来的。他们给错了书,我回到房里才发现。他们给了我《非洲见闻》。我本以为这是本臭书,其实不是,写的挺不错。我这人文化程度不高,不过看书倒不少。我最喜爱的作家是我哥哥DB,其次是林.拉德纳。在我进潘西前不久,我哥哥送了我一本拉德纳写的书,作为生日礼物。

书里有几个十分离奇曲折的短剧,还有一个短篇小说,讲的是一个交通警察怎样爱上了一个非常漂亮的、老是开着快车的姑娘。只是那警察已经结了婚,因此不能再跟她结婚什么的。后来那姑娘撞车死了,原因是她老开着快车。这故事真把我迷住了。我最爱看的书是那种至少有几处是别出心裁的。我看过不少古典作品,象《还乡》之类,很喜爱它们;我也看过不少战争小说和侦探故事,却看不出什么名堂来,真正有意思的是那样一种书,你读完后,很希望写这书的作家是你极要好的朋友,你只要高兴,随时都可以打电话给他。可惜这样的书并不多。我倒不在乎打电话给这位伊萨克.迪纳逊。还有林.技德纳,不过DB告诉我说他已经死了。就拿毛姆著的《人类的枷锁》说吧。我去年夏天看了这本书。这是本挺不错的书,可你看了以后决不想打电话给毛姆。我说不出道理来。只是象他这样的人,我就是不愿打电话找他。我例宁可打电话找托马斯.哈代。我喜欢那个游苔莎.裴伊。

嗯,我戴上我那顶新帽子,开始阅读那本《非洲见闻》。这本书我早巳看完,但我想把某些部分重新看一遍。我还只看了三页,就听见有人掀开淋浴室的门帘走来。我用不着抬头看,就知道来的人是谁。那是罗伯特.阿克莱,住在我隔壁房里的那个家伙。在我们这个斋里,每两个房间之间就有个淋浴室,老阿克莱一天总要闯进来找我那么八十五回。除了我,整个宿舍里恐怕只有他一个没去看球。他几乎哪里都不去。他是个十分古怪的家伙。他是个高中生,在潘西已整整念了四年,可是谁都管他叫“阿克莱”,从不叫他名字。连跟他同屋住的赫伯.盖尔也从不叫他“鲍伯”甚至“阿克”。他以后万一结了婚,恐怕连他自己的者婆都要管他叫“阿克莱”。他是那种圆肩膀、个子极高极高的家伙——差不多有六英尺四——牙齿脏得要命。他使在我隔壁那么些时候,我从来没见他刷过一次牙。

那副牙齿象是长着苔藓似的,真是脏得可怕,你要是在饭厅里看见他满嘴嚼着土豆泥和豌豆什么的,简直会使你他妈的恶心得想吐。此外他还长着满脸的粉刺。不象大多数人那样,在脑门上或者腮帮上长几颗,而是满脸都是。不仅如此,他还有可怕的性格。他为人也近于下流。说句老实话,我对他实在没什么好感。

我可以感觉到他正站在我椅子背后的淋浴台上,偷看斯特拉德莱塔在不在屋里。他把斯特拉德莱塔恨得入骨,只要他在屋里,就从不进屋。他把每个人都恨得入骨,几乎可以这样说。

他从淋浴台下来,走进我的房里。“唉,”他说。他老是这么唉声叹气的,好象极其腻烦或者极其疲乏似的。他不愿意让你想到他是来看望你或者拜访你什么的。他总要让你以为他是定错了路撞进来的,天知道!

“唉,”我说,可我还是照样看我的书,并没抬起头来。遇到家阿克莱这样的家伙,你要是停止看书把头指起来,那你可就玩儿完了。你反正早晚要玩儿完,可你如果不马上抬起头来看,就不会完得那么快。

他象往常一样,开始在房间里溜达起来,走得非常慢,随手从你书桌上或者五屉柜上拿起你的私人东西来看。他老是拿起你私人的东西来看。嘿,他这人有时真能叫你心里发毛。“剑斗得怎么样?”

他说。他的目的只是不让我看书,不让我自得其乐。对于斗剑,他才他妈的不感兴趣呢。“我们赢了,还是怎么?”他说。

“谁也没赢,”我说。可仍没拾起头来。

“什么?”他说。不管什么事,他总要让你说两遍。

“谁也没赢,”我说。我偷偷地瞟了一眼,看看他在我五屉柜上翻什么东西。他在看一张相片,是一个在纽约时经常跟我一起出去玩的名叫萨丽.海斯的姑娘的相片。自从我拿到那张混帐相片以后,他拿起来看了至少有五千次了。每次看完,他总是不放回原处。他是故意这样做的。你看得出来。

“谁也没赢,”他说。“怎么可能呢?”

“我把宝剑之类的混帐玩艺儿全都落在地铁上了。”我还是没抬起头来看他。

“在地铁上,天哪!你把它们丢了,你是说?”

“我们坐错了地铁。我老得站起来看车厢上的一张混帐地图。”(奇*书*网.整*理*提*供)

他走过来于脆挡住了我的光线。“嗨,”我说,“你进来以后,我把这同一个句子都看了二十遍啦。”

除了阿克莱,谁都听得出我他妈的这句话里的意思。可他听不出来。“他们会叫你赔钱吗?”他说。

“我不知道,我也他妈的不在乎。你坐下来或者走开好不好,阿克莱孩子?你他妈的挡住我的光线啦。”他不喜欢人家叫他“阿克莱孩子”。他老是跟我说我是个他妈的孩子,因为我只十六岁,他十八岁。我一叫他“阿克莱孩子”,就会气得他发疯。

他依旧站在那里不动。他正是那种人,你越是叫他不要挡住光线,他越是站着不动。他最后倒是会走开的,可你跟他一说,他反倒走得更慢。“你在他妈的看什么?”他说。

“一本他妈的书。”

他用手把我的书往后一推,看那书名。“好不好?”他说。

“我正在看的这个句子实在可怕极了。”我只要情绪对头,也很会说讽刺话。可他一点也听不出来。他又在房间里溜达起来,拿起我和斯特拉德莱塔的一切私人东西翻看。最后,我把那本书扔在地下了。有阿克莱那样的家伙在你身旁,你就甭想看书。简直不可能。

我往椅背上一靠,看老阿克莱怎样在我房里自得其乐。我去纽约一趟回来,觉得有点儿累,开始打起呵欠来。接着我就开始逗笑玩儿。我有时候常常逗笑取乐,好让自己不至于腻烦。我当时于的,是把我的猎人帽鸭舌转到前面,然后把鸭舌拉下来遮住自己的眼睛。这么一来,我就什么也看不见了。“我想我快要成瞎子啦,”我用一种十分沙哑的声音说。“亲爱的妈妈,这儿的一切怎么都这样黑啊。”

“你是疯子。我可以对天发誓,”阿克莱说。

“亲爱的妈妈,把你的手给我吧。你于吗不把你的手给我呢!”

“老天爷,别那么孩子气了。”

我开始学瞎子那样往前瞎摸一气,可是没站起身来。我不住地说:“亲爱的妈妈,你干吗不把你的手给我呢?”我只是逗笑取乐。自然啦,这样做有时候能使我觉得十分决活。再说,我知道这还会让阿克莱烦恼得要命。他老是引起我的虐待狂。我对他往往很残忍。可是最后,我终于停止逗趣儿了。我仍将鸭舌转到脑后,稍稍休息一会儿。

“这是谁的!”阿克莱说。他拿起我同屋的护膝给我看。阿克莱这家伙什么东西都要拿起来看。

他甚至连你的下体护身也要拿起来看。我告诉他说这是斯特拉德莱塔的。他于是往斯特拉德莱塔的床上一扔。他从斯特拉德莱塔的五屉柜里拿出来,却往他的床上扔。

他过来坐在斯特拉德莱塔的椅子扶手上。他从来不坐在椅子上。老是坐在扶手上。“他妈的这顶帽于是哪儿弄采购?”他说。

“纽约。”

“多少钱?”

“一块。”

“你上当啦。”他开始用火柴屁股剔起他的混帐指甲来。说来可笑。他的牙齿老是污秽不堪,他的耳朵也脏得要命,可他老是剔着自己的指甲。我揣摩他大概以为这么一来,他就成了个十分干净利落的小伙子了。他剔着指甲,又望了我的帽子一眼。“在我们家乡,就戴这样的帽子打鹿,老天爷,”他说。“这是顶打鹿时候戴的帽子。”

“见你妈的鬼。”我脱下帽子看了一会儿。我还闭了一只眼睛,象是朝他瞄准似的。“这是顶打人时候戴的帽子,”我说。“我戴了它拿熗打人。”

“你家里人知道你给开除了吗?”

“不知道。”

“斯特拉德莱塔他妈的到底到什么地方去了?”

“看球去了。他约了女朋友。”我打了个呵欠。我全身都在打呵欠。这房间实在他妈的太热了。使人困得要命。在潘西,你不是冻得要死,就是热得要命。

“伟大的斯特拉德莱塔,”阿克莱说。“——嗨。把你的剪刀借给我用一秒钟,成不成?拿起来方便吗?”

“不。我已经收拾起来了。在壁橱的最上面呢。”

“拿出来借我用一秒钟,成不成?”阿克莱说。“我指头上有个倒拉刺想铰掉哩。”

他可不管你是不是已经把东西收拾起来放到了壁橱的最上面。我没办法,只好拿给他。拿的时候,还差点儿把命给送掉了。我刚打开壁橱的门,斯特拉德莱塔的网球拍——连着木架什么的——正好掉在我的头上。只听得啪的一声巨响,疼得我要命。可是乐得老阿克莱他妈的差点儿也送掉了命。

他开始用他极高的假嗓音哈哈大笑起来。我拿下手提箱给他取剪刀,他始终哈哈地笑个不停。象这一类事——有人头上接了块石头什么的——总能让阿克莱笑得掉下裤子。“你真他妈的懂得幽默,阿克莱孩子,”我对他说。“你知道吗?”我把剪刀递给了他。“让我来当你的后台老板。我可以送你到混帐的电台上去广播。”我又坐到自己的椅子上。

他开始铰他那看上去又粗又硬的指甲。“你用一下桌子好不好?”我说。“给我铰在桌子上成吗?我不想在今天夜里光着脚踩你那爪子一样的指甲。”

可他还是照样铰在地板上。一点不懂礼貌。我说的实话。

“期特拉德莱塔约的女朋友是谁?”他说。他老是打听斯特拉德莱塔约的女朋友是谁,尽管他恨斯特拉德莱塔入骨。

“我不知道。干吗?”

“不干吗。嘿,我受不了那婊子养的。那个婊子养的实在叫我受不了。”

“他可爱你爱得要命呢。他告诉我说他以为你是个他妈的王子,”我说。我逗趣儿的时候,常常管人叫“王子”。这能给我解闷取乐。

“他老是摆出那种高人一等的臭架子,”阿克莱说。“我实在受不了那个婊子养的,你看得出他——”“你能不能把指甲铰在桌子上呢?嗨?”我说。“我已经跟你说了约莫五十——”“他老是摆出他妈的那种高人一等的臭架子,”阿克莱说。“我甚至觉得那婊子养的缺少智力。他认为自己很聪明。他认为他大概是世界上最最——”“阿克莱!天哪。你到底能不能把你爪子似的指甲铰在桌子上?我已经跟你说了五十遍啦。”

他开始把指甲铰在桌子上,算是换换口味。你只有对他大声呦喝,他才会照着你的话去做。

我朝着他看了一会儿。接着我说:“我知道你为什么要痛恨斯特拉德莱塔,那是因为他偶尔叫你刷牙。他虽然大声嚷嚷,倒不是有心侮辱你。他说话方式不对,不过他并不是有意侮辱你。他的意思不过是说你要是偶尔刷刷牙,就会好看得多,也舒服得多。”

“我怎么不刷牙。别给我来这一套。”

“不,你不刷牙。我看见你不刷牙,”我说。

可我倒不是成心给他难看。说起来我还有点为他难受呢。我是说如果有人说你并不刷牙,那自然不是什么太愉快的事。“斯特拉德莱塔这人还不错。他心眼儿不算太坏,”我说。“你不了解他,毛病就在这里。”

“我仍要说他是婊子养的。他是个自高自大的婊子养的。”

“他的确自高自大,可他在某些事情上也十分慷慨。他的确是这样的,”我说。“瞧。比如斯特拉德莱塔打着根领带,你见了很喜爱。比如说他打着的那根领带你喜欢得要命——我只是随便举个例子。你知道他会怎么样?他说不定会解下来送你。

他的确会。要不然——你知道他会怎么样?他会把领带搁在你床上或者其他什么地方。可他会把那根混帐领带送你。大多数人恐怕只会——”“他妈的,”阿克莱说。“我要是有他那么些钱,我也会这样做的。”

“不,你不会的。”我摇摇头。“不,你不会的,阿克莱孩子。你要是有他那么些钱,你就会成为一个最最大的——”“别再叫我‘阿克莱孩子’,他妈的。我大得都可以当你混帐的爸爸啦。”

“不,你当不了。”嘿,他有时候的确讨人厌。他从不放过一个机会让你知道你是十六他是十八。“首先,我决不会让你进我那混帐的家门,”我说。

“呃,只要你别老是冲着我叫——”突然间,房门开了,老斯特拉德莱塔一下冲进房来,样子十分匆忙。他者是那么匆忙。一切事情在他看来都是了不起的大事。他走过来象他妈的闹着玩似的在我两边脸上重重拍了两下——这种举动有时真是叫人哭笑不得。“听着,”他说。“你今天晚上有事出去吗?”

“我不知道。我可能出去。他妈的外面在干吗啦——下雪了?”他的大衣上全是雪。

“是的。听着。你要是不到哪儿去,能不能把你那件狗齿花纹呢上衣借我穿一下?”

“谁赢了?”我说。

“还只赛了半场。我们不看了,”斯特拉德莱塔说。“不开玩笑,今晚上你到底穿不穿那件狗齿花纹上衣?我那件灰法兰绒上面全都溅上脏东西啦。”

“穿倒不穿,只是我不愿意你把肩膀撑得他妈的挺大,”我说。我们俩的身高差不多,可他的体重几乎超过我一倍。他的肩膀宽极了。

“我不会把肩膀撑大的。”他急忙向壁橱走去。“孩子你好,阿克莱?”他跟阿克莱说。斯特拉德莱塔倒是个挺和气的家伙。和气里面带着点儿假,不过他见了阿克莱至少总要打个招呼什么的。

他说“孩子你好?”的时候,阿克莱好象是哼了一声。他不会回答他,可他没胆量连哼也不哼一声。接着他对我说:“我想我该走了。再见。”

“好吧,”我说。象他这号人离开你回他自己的房间去,你决不至于为他心碎的。”

老斯特拉德莱塔开始脱大衣解领带。“我想马上来个快速刮脸,”他说。他是个大胡子。他的确是。

“你的女朋友呢?”我问他。

“她在侧屋等我。”他把洗脸用具和毛巾夹在胳肢窝下走出房去,连衬衫也没穿一件。他老是光着上半身到处跑,因为他觉得自己的体格挺他妈的魁伟。他的体格倒也的确魁伟,这一点我得承认。

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第04节

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我闲着没事,也就到盥洗室里,在他刮脸时候跟他聊天。盥洗室里就只我们两个,因为全校的人还在外面看球赛。室内热得要命,窗子上全是水汽。紧靠着墙装有一溜盥洗盆,约莫十个左右。斯特拉德莱塔使用中间那个,我就坐到他紧旁边的那个盥洗盆上,开始把那个冷水龙头开了又关——这是我的一种病态的爱好。斯特拉德莱塔一边刮脸,一边吹着《印度之歌》口哨。他吹起口哨来声音很尖,可是调子几乎永远没有对的时候,而他还总是挑那些连最会吹口哨的人也吹不好的歌曲来吹,如《印度之歌》或《十号路上大屠杀》。他真能把一支歌吹得一塌糊涂。

你记得我说过阿克莱的个人习惯十分邋遢吗?

呃,斯特拉德莱塔也一样,只是方式不同。斯特拉德莱塔是私底下邋遢。他外貌总是挺不错,这个斯特拉德莱塔。可是随便举个例子说吧,你拿起他刮脸用的剃刀看看。那剃刀锈得象块烂铁,沾满了肥皂沫、胡子之类的脏东西。他从来不把剃刀擦干净。他打扮停当以后,外貌例挺漂亮,可你要是象我一样熟悉他的为人,就会知道他私底下原是个邋遢鬼。他之所以把自己打扮得漂漂亮亮,是因为他疯狂地爱着他自己。他自以为是西半球上最最漂亮的男子。他长的倒是蛮漂亮——我承认这一点。可他只是那一类型的漂亮男子,就是说你父母如果在《年鉴》上看到了他的照片,马上会说,“这孩子是谁?”——我的意思是说他只是那种《年鉴》上的漂亮男子。在潘西我见过不少人都要比斯特拉德莱塔漂亮,不过你如果在《年鉴》上见了他们的照片,决不会觉得他们漂亮。他们不是显得鼻子太大,就是两耳招风。我自己常常有这经验。

嗯,我当时坐在斯特技德莱塔旁边的盥洗盆上,看着他刮脸,手里玩弄着水龙头,把它开一会儿关一会儿。我仍旧戴着我那顶红色猎人帽,鸭舌也仍转在脑后。这顶帽子的确让我心里得意。

“嗨,”斯特拉德莱塔说。“肯大大帮我一个忙吗?”

“什么事?”我说,并不太热心。他老是要求别人大大帮他一个性。有一种长得十分漂亮的家伙,或者一种自以为了不起的人物,他们老是要求别人大大帮他一个忙。他们因为疯狂地爱着自己,也就以为人人都疯狂她爱着他们,人人都渴望着替他们当差。说起来确实有点儿好笑。

“你今天晚上出去吗?”

“我可能出去。也可能不出去。我不知道。干吗?”

“我得准备星期一的历史课,有约莫一百页书要看,”他说。“你能不能代我写一篇作文,应付一下英文课?我要你帮忙的原因,是因为到了星期一再不把那篇混帐玩艺儿交上去,我就要吃不了兜看走啦。成不成?”

这事非常滑稽。的确滑稽。

“我考不及格,给开除出了这个混帐学校,你倒来要求我代你写一篇混帐作文,”我说。

“不错,我知道。问题是,我要是再不交,就要吃不了兜着走啦。作个朋友吧。成吗?”

我没马上回答他。对付斯特拉德莱塔这样的杂种,最好的办法是卖关子。

“什么题目?”

“写什么都成。只要是描写性的。一个房间。

或者一所房子。或者什么你过去住过助地方——你知道。只要他妈的是描写的就成。”他一边说,一边打了个很大的呵欠。就是这类事让我十分恼火。我是说,如果有人一边口口声声要求你帮他妈的什么忙,一边却那么打着呵欠。“只是别写的太好,”他说。“那个婊子养的哈兹尔以为你的英文好的了不得,他也知道你跟我同住一屋。因此我意思是你别把标点之类的玩艺儿放对位置。”

这又是另一类让我十分恼火的事。我是说如果你作文做得好,可是有人口口声声谈着标点。斯特拉德莱塔老干这一类事。他要你觉得,他的作文之所以做不好,仅仅是因为他把标点全放错了位置。

在这方面他也有点象阿克莱。有一次我坐在阿克莱旁边看比赛篮球。我们队里有员棒将,叫胡维.考埃尔,能中场投篮,百发百中,连球架上的板都不碰一下。阿克莱在他妈的整个比赛中却老是说考埃尔的身材打篮球合适极了。天哪,我多讨厌这类玩艺儿。

我在盥洗盆上坐了会儿,觉得腻烦了,心里一时高兴,就往后退了几步,开始跳起踢蹬舞来。我只是想让自己开开心。我实际上并不会跳踢蹬舞这类玩艺儿,不过盥洗室里是石头地板,跳踢蹬舞十分合适。我开始学电影里的某个家伙。是那种歌舞片里的。我把电影恨得象毒药似的,可我倒是很高兴学电影里的动作。老斯特拉德莱塔刮脸的时候在镜子里看着我跳舞。我也极需要一个观众。我喜欢当着别人卖弄自己。“我是混帐州长的儿子,”我说。我那样不要命地跳着踢蹬舞,都快把自己累死了。“我父亲不让我跳踢蹬舞。他要我上牛津。可这是他妈的我的命——踢蹬舞。”老斯特拉德莱塔笑了。他这人倒是有几分幽默感。“今天是‘齐格飞歌舞团’开幕的第一夜。”我都喘不过气来了。我的呼吸本来就十分短促。“那位领舞的不能上场。

他醉的象只王八啦。那么谁来替他上场呢?我,只有我。混帐老州长的小儿子。”

“你哪儿弄来的这顶帽子?”斯特拉德莱塔说。他指的是我那顶猎人帽。他还一直没看见哩。

我实在喘不过气来了,所以我就不再逗笑取乐。我脱下帽子看了第九十遍。“今天早晨我在纽约买的。一块钱。你喜欢吗?”

斯特拉德莱塔点点头。“很漂亮,”他说。可是他只是为了讨我欢喜,因为他接着马上说:“喂,你到底肯不肯替我写那篇作文?我得知道一下。”

“要是我有时间,成。要是我没有时间,不成,”我说。我又过去坐在他身边的那个盥洗盆上。“你约的女朋友是谁?”我问他。“费兹吉拉德?”

“去你妈的,不是!我不是早跟你说了,我早跟那母猪一刀两断啦。”

“真的吗?把她转让给我吧,嘿。不开玩笑。

她很合我胃口。”

“就给你吧……对你说来她年纪太大啦。”

突然间——没有任何其他原因,只不过我一时高兴,想逗趣儿——我很想跳下盥洗盆,给老斯特拉德莱塔来个“半纳尔逊”。你要是不知道什么是“半纳尔逊”,那么我来告诉你吧,那是摔交的一种解数,就是用胳膊卡住对方的脖子,如果需要,都可以把他掐死。我就这么做了。我象一只他妈的美洲豹似的一下扑到了他身上。

“住手,霍尔顿,老天爷!”斯特拉德莱塔说。他没心思逗趣儿。他正在一个劲儿刮胡子。

“你要让我怎么着——割掉我的混帐脑袋瓜儿?”

我可没松手。我已紧紧地把他的脖子卡住了。

“你有本事,就从我的铁臂中挣脱出来,”我说。

“老——天爷!”他放下剃刀,猛地把两臂一抬,挣脱了我的掌握。他是个极有力气的大个儿,我是个极没力气的瘦个子。“哎,别瞎闹啦,”他说。他又把脸刮了一道。每次他总要刮两道,保持外表美观。就用那把脏得要命的剃刀。

“你约的要不是费兹吉拉德,那又是谁呢?”

我问他。我又坐到他旁边的盥洗盆上。“是不是菲丽丝.史密斯那小妞?”

“不是。本来应该是她,后来不知怎么全都搞乱了。我这会约的是跟布德.莎同屋的那位……

嗨。我差点儿忘了。她认得你呢。”

“谁认得我?”

“我约的那位。”

“是吗?”我说。“她叫什么名字?”我倒是感兴趣了。‘“让我想一想……啊。琼.迦拉格。”

嘿,他这么一说,我差点儿倒在地上死去了。

“琴.迦拉格,”我说。他一说这话,我甚至都从盥洗盆上站起来,差点儿倒在地上死了。“你他妈的说得不错,我认识她。前年夏天,她几乎就住在我家隔壁。她家养了只他妈的道柏曼种大狗。

我就是因为那狗才跟她认识的。她的狗老是到我们——”“你挡住我的光线啦,霍尔顿,老天爷,”斯特拉德莱塔说。“你非站在那儿不成吗?”

嘿,我心里兴奋着呢。我的确很兴奋。

“她在哪儿?”我问他。“我应该下去跟她打个招呼才是。她在哪儿呢?在侧屋里?”

“不错。”

“她怎么会提到我的?她现在是在B.M吗?

她说过可能要上那儿去。不过她也说可能上西普莱。我一直以为她是在西普莱呢。她怎么会提到我的?”我心里十分兴奋。我的确十分兴奋。

“我不知道,老天爷。请你起来一下,成不成?你坐在我毛巾上啦,”斯特拉德莱塔说。我确实坐在他那块混帐毛巾上了。

“琴.迦拉格,”我说。我念念不忘这件事。

“老天爷。”

老斯特拉德莱塔在往他的头发上敷维他力斯。

是我的维他力斯。

“她是个舞蹈家,”我说。“会跳芭蕾舞什么的。那会儿正是最热的暑天,她每天还要练习两个小时,从不间断。她担心自己的大腿可能变粗变难看。我老跟她在一起下象棋。”

“你老跟她在一起下什么来着?”

“象棋。”

“象棋,老天爷!”

“不错。她从来不走她的那些国王。她有了国王,却不肯使用,只是让它呆在最后一排,从来不使用。她就是喜欢它们在后排呆着时的那种样子。”

斯特拉德莱塔没言语。这类玩艺儿一般人都不感兴趣。

“她母亲跟我们在同一个俱乐部里,”我说。

“我偶尔也帮人拾球,光是为挣几个钱。我给她母亲抬过一两回球。她约莫进九个穴,得一百七十来分。”

斯特拉德莱塔简直不在听。他正在梳他一绺绺漂亮的卷发。

“我应该下去至少跟她打个招呼,”我说。

“干吗不去呢?”

“我一会儿就去。”

他又重新分起他的头发来。他梳头总要梳那么个把钟头。

“她母亲跟她父亲离了婚,又跟一个酒鬼结了婚,”我说。“一个皮包骨头的家伙,腿上长满了毛。我记得很清楚。他一天到晚穿着短裤。琴说他大概是个剧作家什么的,不过我只见他一天到晚喝酒,听收音机里的每一个混帐侦探节目。还光着身子他妈的满屋子跑,不怕有琴在场。”

“是吗?”斯特技德莱塔说。这真的让他感兴呼了:听到一个酒鬼光着身子满屋子跑,还有琴在场。斯特拉德莱塔是个非常好色的杂种。

“她的童年真是糟糕透了。我不开玩笑。”

可斯特拉德莱塔对这不感兴趣。他感兴趣的只是那些非常色情的东西。

“琴.迦拉格,老夫爷。”我念念不忘。我确是念念不忘。“至少,我应该下去跟她打个招呼。”

“你他妈的干吗不去,光嘴里唠叨着?”斯特拉德莱塔说。

我走到窗边,可是望出去什么也看不见,因为盥洗室里热得要命,窗玻璃上全是水汽。“我这会儿没那心情,”我说。我的确没那心情。做那类事,你总得有那心情才成。“我还以为她上西普莱了呢。Qī.shū.ωǎng.我真会发誓说她是去西普莱啦。”我手足无措,就在盥洗室里蹭蹬了一会儿。“她爱看这场球赛吗?”我说。

“嗯,我揣摩她爱看。我不知道。”

“她告诉你我们老在一起下棋吗?”

“我不知道。老天爷,我只是刚遇到她呢,”斯特技拉莱塔说。他刚搞完他漂亮的混帐头发,正在收拾他那套脏得要命的梳装用具。

“听我说。你代我向她问好,成不成?”

“好吧,”斯特拉德莱塔说,可我知道他大概不会。象斯特拉德莱塔那样的家伙,他们是从来不代别人问候人的。

他回房去了,可我仍在盥洗室里呆了一会儿,想着琴。随后我也回到了房里。

我进房时,斯特拉德莱塔正在镜前打领带。他这一辈子总有他妈的一半时间是在镜子面前度过的。我在自己的椅子上坐下,望了他一会儿。

“嗨,”我说。“别告诉地我给开除了,成不成?”

“好吧。”

斯特拉德莱塔就是这一点好。在一些小事情上,他跟阿克莱不一样,你用不着跟他仔细解释。

这多半是因为,我揣摩,他对一切都不怎么感兴趣。这是真正的原因。阿克莱就不一样。阿克莱是个极好管闲事的杂种。

他穿上了我那件狗齿花纹的上衣。

“老天爷,可别全都给我撑大了,”我说。“我还只穿过两回哩。”

“我不会的。他妈的我的香烟到哪儿去了?”

“在书桌上。”他老是记不得自己搁的东西在什么地方。“在你的围巾底下。”他把香烟装进了他的上衣口袋——我的上衣口袋。

我突然把我那顶猎人帽的鸭舌转到前面,算是换个花样。我忽然精神紧张起来。我是个精神很容易紧张的人。“听我说,你约了你的女朋友打算上哪儿呢?”我间他。“你决定了吗?”

“我不知道。要是来得及,也许上纽约。她外出时间只签到九点三十,老天爷。”

我不喜欢他说话的口气,所以我说:“她所以只签到九点三十,大概是因为她不知道你是个多漂亮、多迷人的杂种。她要是知道了,恐怕要签到明天早晨九点三十哩。”

“一点不错,”斯特拉德莱塔说。你很难一下子惹他生气。他太自高自大了。“别再开玩笑了。

替我写那篇作文吧,”他说。他已经穿上了大衣,马上准备走了。“别费太大劲儿,只要写篇描写的文章就成。可以吗?”

我没回答他。我没那心情。我只说了句:“问问她下棋的时候是不是还把所有的国王都留在后排。”

“好的,”斯特拉德莱塔说,可我知道他决不会问她。“请放心,”他砰的一声关上门,走出了房间。

他走后,我又坐了约莫半个小时。我是说我光是坐在椅子里,什么事也不做。我一心想着琴,还想着斯特拉德莱塔跟她约会。我心绪十分不宁,都快疯了。我已经跟你说过,期待拉德莱塔是个多么好色的杂种。

一霎时,阿克莱又闯了进来,跟平常一样是掀开淋浴室门帘进来的。在我混帐的一生中,就这一次见了他我从心底里觉得高兴。他给我打了岔,让我想到别的事情上去。

他一直呆到吃饭的时候,议论着潘西里面他所痛恨的一切人,一边不住地挤他腮帮上的一个大粉刺。他甚至连手绢也不用。我甚至都不认为这杂种有手绢,我跟你老实说。至少,我从来没看见他用过手绢。

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第05节

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在潘西,一到星期六晚上我们总是吃同样的菜。这应该算是道好菜,因为他们给你吃牛排。我愿意拿出一千块钱打赌,他们之所以这样做,只是因为星期天总有不少学生家长来校,老绥摩大概认为每个学生的母亲都会问她们的宝贝儿子昨天晚饭吃些什么,他就会回答:“牛排。”多大的骗局。

你应该看看那牛排的样子,全都又硬又干,连切都切不开。而且在吃牛排的晚上,总是给你有很多硬块的土豆泥,饭后点心也是苹果面包屑做的布丁,除了不懂事的低班小鬼和象阿克莱这类什么都吃的家伙以外,谁都不吃。

可是我们一出餐厅,不禁高兴起来。地上的积雪已有约莫三英寸厚,上面还在疯狂地下个不停。

那景色真是美极了。我们立刻打起雪仗来,东奔西跑阉着玩。的确很孩子气,不过每个人都玩得挺痛快。

我没有约会,就跟我的朋友马尔.勃罗萨德——那个参加摔交队的——商量定,打算搭公共汽车到埃杰斯镇去吃一客汉堡牛排,或者再看一场他妈的混帐电影。我们两个谁也不想在学校里烂屁股坐整整一晚。我问马尔能不能让阿克莱跟我们一块儿去,我之所以这样问,是因为阿克莱在星期六晚上什么事也不做,只是呆在自己房里,挤挤脸上的粉刺。马尔说能倒是能,不过他并不太感兴趣。他不怎么喜欢阿克莱。不管怎样,我们俩都各自回房收拾东西,我一边穿高统橡皮套鞋什么的,一边大声嚷嚷着问老阿克莱去不去看电影。他从淋浴室门帘听得见我说话,可是他并不马上回答。他就是那样一种人,问他什么事都不肯马上回答。最后他从混帐门帘那儿过来了,站在淋浴台上,问我还有谁同去。他老是打听什么人去什么地方。我敢发誓,这家伙要是在哪儿沉了船,你把他救到一只他妈的船里,他甚至在跨上救生船之前都要打听是哪个在划船。我告诉他说还有马尔.勃罗萨德同去。他说:“那杂种……好吧。等我一会儿。”听起来倒象是他在给你很大面子呢。

他总要过那么五个钟头才能收拾停当。在他收拾打扮的时候,我走到自己的窗口,打开窗,光着手捏了个雪球。这雪捏起雪球来真是好极了。不过我没往任何东西上扔。我本来要往一辆停在街对面的汽车上扔,可我后来改变了主意。那汽车看去那么白,那么漂亮。跟着我要往一个救火龙头上扔,可那东西也显得那么白,那么漂亮。最后我没往任何东西上扔,只是关了窗,在房间里走来走去,把雪球捏得硬上加硬。后来,我、勃罗萨德和阿克莱三个一起上公共汽车的时候,我手里还捏着那个雪球。公共汽车司机开了门,要我把雪球扔掉。我告诉他说我不会拿它扔任何人,可他不信。人们就是不信你的话。

勃罗萨德和阿克莱两个都已看过正在上演的电影,所以我们只是吃了两客汉堡牛排,玩了会儿弹球机,随后乘公共汽车回潘西。我倒不在乎没看到电影。好象是个喜剧,凯利.格兰特主演,反正是那一套玩艺儿。再说,我过去也跟勃罗萨德和阿克莱一起看过电影,他们两个见了一些毫不可笑的事物,都会笑得象个疯子似的。我甚至不乐意坐在他们身旁看电影。

我们回到宿舍里,还只八点三刻。老勃罗萨德是个桥牌迷,一回到宿舍,就到处找人打牌去了。

老阿克莱在我房里呆了会儿,只是为了换换口味。

不过这次他不是坐在斯特拉德莱塔椅子的扶手上,而是干脆躺在我的床上,他的整个脸儿还都贴在我的枕头上。他开始用极单调的声音嘟嘟哝哝地说起话来,同时一个劲儿挤着满脸的粉刺。我给了他总有一千个暗示,都没法把他打发走。他只顾用那种微单调的声音絮絮地谈着今年夏天他怎样跟一个小妞儿发生暖昧关系。这事他跟我说道总有一百遍了,每次说的都不一样。这一分钟说是在他表兄的别克牌汽车里跟她胡搞,下一分钟又说是在什么海滨木板路下面。全是一派胡言,自然啦。在我看来,他倒真是个不折不扣的童男。我怀疑他甚至连女人摸都不曾摸过一下哩。嗯,我最后不得不直截了当地告诉他说,我要替斯特拉德莱塔写一篇作文,他得他妈的给我出去,好让我凝神思索。他最后倒是出去了,可是跟往常一样磨蹭了半天才走。他走后,我换上睡衣和浴衣,戴上我那顶猎人帽,开始写起作文来。

问题是,我实在想不起有什么房间、屋子或者其他什么东西可以照斯特拉德莱塔说的那样加以描写。至少我自己对描写房屋之类的东西不太感兴趣。因此我索性描写起我弟弟艾里的垒球手套来。

这题目例极容易描写。的确容易。我弟弟是个用左手接球的外野手,所以那是只左手手套。描写这题目的动人之处在于手套的指头上、指缝里到处写着诗。用绿墨水写成。他写这些诗的目的,是呆在野上遇到没人攻球的时候可供阅读。他已经死了,是一九四六年七月十八日我们在缅因的时候患白血球病死的。你准会喜欢他。他比我小两岁,可比我聪明五十倍。他实在聪明过人。他的老师们老是写信给我母亲,告诉她班上有他那么个学生他们有多高兴。而他们也决不是随便说说的。他们说的确是心里话。他不仅是全家最聪明的孩子,而且在许多方面还是最讨人喜欢的孩子。他从来不跟人发脾气。

大家都认为有红头发的人最最容易发脾气。可艾里从来不发脾气,他的头发倒是极红极红。我来告诉你他有什么样的红头发吧。我十岁就开始打高尔夫球,我还记得十二岁那年夏天,有一次正在打高尔夫球,我忽然觉得只要猛一转身,就会看见艾里。

我转身一看,果然不错,他正坐在篱笆外面的自行车上呢——围着高尔夫球场有道篱笆——他坐在离我约莫一百五十码的地方,在看我打球。他就有那样的红头发。可是天哪,他真是个好孩子,嘿。他往往在饭桌上忽然想起什么,一下子笑得不可开交,差点儿从椅子上摔了下来。我还只十三岁的时候,他们就要送我去作精神分析,因为我用拳头把汽车间里的玻璃窗全都打碎了。我并不怪他们,我真的不怪。他死的那天晚上我睡在汽车房里,用拳头把那些混帐玻璃窗全都打碎了,光是为了出气。

我甚至还想把那年夏天买的那辆旅行汽车上的玻璃也都打碎,可我的手已经鲜血淋漓,使不出劲儿了。这样做的确傻得要命,我承认,可我简直不知道自己在干什么,再说你也不认识艾里。现在到了阴雨天,我那只手仍要作痛,此后也一直攥不拢拳头一一我的意思是说攥不紧——可是除此以外我并不怎么在乎。我是说我反正不想当他妈的外科医生或者小提琴家什么的。

嗯,这就是我给斯特拉德莱塔写的作文。老艾里的垒球手套。那手套凑巧在我的手提箱里,我就把它取出来,抄下写在上面的那些诗。我要做的只有一件事,就是把艾里的名字换了,不让人知道这是我弟弟的名字而不是斯特拉德莱塔弟弟的名字。

我并不太愿意这么做,可我一时想不起有什么其他东西可以描写。再说,我倒是有点儿喜欢写这题目。我写了约莫一个钟头,因为我得使用斯特拉德莱塔的混帐打字机,使起来很不顺手。我没有用自己打字机的原因是我已把它借给楼下的一个家伙了。

我写完的时候,约莫是十点三十分,我揣摩。

我一点不觉得困,所以走到窗口往外眺望一会儿,雪已经停了,可是每隔一会儿,你就可以听见一辆抛锚的汽车发动引擎的声音。你还可以听见老阿克莱打呼噜的声音。就从混帐的淋浴室门帘那儿传来。他的鼻腔有毛病,睡着的时候呼吸不怎么畅快。那家伙简直样样毛病都全了。鼻腔炎,粉刺,黄牙,口臭,灰指甲。你有时真不禁有点替这个倒楣的婊子养的难受呢。


执素衣

ZxID:13389413


等级: 内阁元老
举报 只看该作者 沙发   发表于: 2013-10-11 0


1
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all--I'm not saying that--but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that's all I told D.B. about, and he's my brother and all. He's in Hollywood. That isn't too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every week end. He's going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He's got a lot of dough, now. He didn't use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was "The Secret Goldfish." It was about this little kid that wouldn't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he's out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me.
Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is this school that's in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You've probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hotshot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse's picture, it always says: "Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men." Strictly for the birds. They don't do any damn more molding at Pencey than they do at any other school. And I didn't know anybody there that was splendid and clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys. If that many. And they probably came to Pencey that way.
Anyway, it was the Saturday of the football game with Saxon Hall. The game with Saxon Hall was supposed to be a very big deal around Pencey. It was the last game of the year, and you were supposed to commit suicide or something if old Pencey didn't win. I remember around three o'clock that afternoon I was standing way the hell up on top of Thomsen Hill, right next to this crazy cannon that was in the Revolutionary War and all. You could see the whole field from there, and you could see the two teams bashing each other all over the place. You couldn't see the grandstand too hot, but you could hear them all yelling, deep and terrific on the Pencey side, because practically the whole school except me was there, and scrawny and faggy on the Saxon Hall side, because the visiting team hardly ever brought many people with them.
There were never many girls at all at the football games. Only seniors were allowed to bring girls with them. It was a terrible school, no matter how you looked at it. I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while, even if they're only scratching their arms or blowing their noses or even just giggling or something. Old Selma Thurmer--she was the headmaster's daughter--showed up at the games quite often, but she wasn't exactly the type that drove you mad with desire. She was a pretty nice girl, though. I sat next to her once in the bus from Agerstown and we sort of struck up a conversation. I liked her. She had a big nose and her nails were all bitten down and bleedy-looking and she had on those damn falsies that point all over the place, but you felt sort of sorry for her. What I liked about her, she didn't give you a lot of horse manure about what a great guy her father was. She probably knew what a phony slob he was.
The reason I was standing way up on Thomsen Hill, instead of down at the game, was because I'd just got back from New York with the fencing team. I was the goddam manager of the fencing team. Very big deal. We'd gone in to New York that morning for this fencing meet with McBurney School. Only, we didn't have the meet. I left all the foils and equipment and stuff on the goddam subway. It wasn't all my fault. I had to keep getting up to look at this map, so we'd know where to get off. So we got back to Pencey around two-thirty instead of around dinnertime. The whole team ostracized me the whole way back on the train. It was pretty funny, in a way.
The other reason I wasn't down at the game was because I was on my way to say good-by to old Spencer, my history teacher. He had the grippe, and I figured I probably wouldn't see him again till Christmas vacation started. He wrote me this note saying he wanted to see me before I went home. He knew I wasn't coming back to Pencey.
I forgot to tell you about that. They kicked me out. I wasn't supposed to come back after Christmas vacation on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying myself and all. They gave me frequent warning to start applying myself--especially around midterms, when my parents came up for a conference with old Thurmer--but I didn't do it. So I got the ax. They give guys the ax quite frequently at Pencey. It has a very good academic rating, Pencey. It really does.
Anyway, it was December and all, and it was cold as a witch's teat, especially on top of that stupid hill. I only had on my reversible and no gloves or anything. The week before that, somebody'd stolen my camel's-hair coat right out of my room, with my fur-lined gloves right in the pocket and all. Pencey was full of crooks. Quite a few guys came from these very wealthy families, but it was full of crooks anyway. The more expensive a school is, the more crooks it has--I'm not kidding. Anyway, I kept standing next to that crazy cannon, looking down at the game and freezing my ass off. Only, I wasn't watching the game too much. What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad goodby, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.
I was lucky. All of a sudden I thought of something that helped make me know I was getting the hell out. I suddenly remembered this time, in around October, that I and Robert Tichener and Paul Campbell were chucking a football around, in front of the academic building. They were nice guys, especially Tichener. It was just before dinner and it was getting pretty dark out, but we kept chucking the ball around anyway. It kept getting darker and darker, and we could hardly see the ball any more, but we didn't want to stop doing what we were doing. Finally we had to. This teacher that taught biology, Mr. Zambesi, stuck his head out of this window in the academic building and told us to go back to the dorm and get ready for dinner. If I get a chance to remember that kind of stuff, I can get a good-by when I need one--at least, most of the time I can. As soon as I got it, I turned around and started running down the other side of the hill, toward old Spencer's house. He didn't live on the campus. He lived on Anthony Wayne Avenue.
I ran all the way to the main gate, and then I waited a second till I got my breath. I have no wind, if you want to know the truth. I'm quite a heavy smoker, for one thing--that is, I used to be. They made me cut it out. Another thing, I grew six and a half inches last year. That's also how I practically got t.b. and came out here for all these goddam checkups and stuff. I'm pretty healthy, though.
Anyway, as soon as I got my breath back I ran across Route 204. It was icy as hell and I damn near fell down. I don't even know what I was running for--I guess I just felt like it. After I got across the road, I felt like I was sort of disappearing. It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.
Boy, I rang that doorbell fast when I got to old Spencer's house. I was really frozen. My ears were hurting and I could hardly move my fingers at all. "C'mon, c'mon," I said right out loud, almost, "somebody open the door." Finally old Mrs. Spencer opened. it. They didn't have a maid or anything, and they always opened the door themselves. They didn't have too much dough.
"Holden!" Mrs. Spencer said. "How lovely to see you! Come in, dear! Are you frozen to death?" I think she was glad to see me. She liked me. At least, I think she did.
Boy, did I get in that house fast. "How are you, Mrs. Spencer?" I said. "How's Mr. Spencer?"
"Let me take your coat, dear," she said. She didn't hear me ask her how Mr. Spencer was. She was sort of deaf.
She hung up my coat in the hall closet, and I sort of brushed my hair back with my hand. I wear a crew cut quite frequently and I never have to comb it much. "How've you been, Mrs. Spencer?" I said again, only louder, so she'd hear me.
"I've been just fine, Holden." She closed the closet door. "How have you been?" The way she asked me, I knew right away old Spencer'd told her I'd been kicked out.
"Fine," I said. "How's Mr. Spencer? He over his grippe yet?"
"Over it! Holden, he's behaving like a perfect--I don't know what. . . He's in his room, dear. Go right in."
2
They each had their own room and all. They were both around seventy years old, or even more than that. They got a bang out of things, though--in a haif-assed way, of course. I know that sounds mean to say, but I don't mean it mean. I just mean that I used to think about old Spencer quite a lot, and if you thought about him too much, you wondered what the heck he was still living for. I mean he was all stooped over, and he had very terrible posture, and in class, whenever he dropped a piece of chalk at the blackboard, some guy in the first row always had to get up and pick it up and hand it to him. That's awful, in my opinion. But if you thought about him just enough and not too much, you could figure it out that he wasn't doing too bad for himself. For instance, one Sunday when some other guys and I were over there for hot chocolate, he showed us this old beat-up Navajo blanket that he and Mrs. Spencer'd bought off some Indian in Yellowstone Park. You could tell old Spencer'd got a big bang out of buying it. That's what I mean. You take somebody old as hell, like old Spencer, and they can get a big bang out of buying a blanket.
His door was open, but I sort of knocked on it anyway, just to be polite and all. I could see where he was sitting. He was sitting in a big leather chair, all wrapped up in that blanket I just told you about. He looked over at me when I knocked. "Who's that?" he yelled. "Caulfield? Come in, boy." He was always yelling, outside class. It got on your nerves sometimes.
The minute I went in, I was sort of sorry I'd come. He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were pills and medicine all over the place, and everything smelled like Vicks Nose Drops. It was pretty depressing. I'm not too crazy about sick people, anyway. What made it even more depressing, old Spencer had on this very sad, ratty old bathrobe that he was probably born in or something. I don't much like to see old guys in their pajamas and bathrobes anyway. Their bumpy old chests are always showing. And their legs. Old guys' legs, at beaches and places, always look so white and unhairy. "Hello, sir," I said. "I got your note. Thanks a lot." He'd written me this note asking me to stop by and say good-by before vacation started, on account of I wasn't coming back. "You didn't have to do all that. I'd have come over to say good-by anyway."
"Have a seat there, boy," old Spencer said. He meant the bed.
I sat down on it. "How's your grippe, sir?"
"M'boy, if I felt any better I'd have to send for the doctor," old Spencer said. That knocked him out. He started chuckling like a madman. Then he finally straightened himself out and said, "Why aren't you down at the game? I thought this was the day of the big game."
"It is. I was. Only, I just got back from New York with the fencing team," I said. Boy, his bed was like a rock.
He started getting serious as hell. I knew he would. "So you're leaving us, eh?" he said.
"Yes, sir. I guess I am."
He started going into this nodding routine. You never saw anybody nod as much in your life as old Spencer did. You never knew if he was nodding a lot because he was thinking and all, or just because he was a nice old guy that didn't know his ass from his elbow.
"What did Dr. Thurmer say to you, boy? I understand you had quite a little chat."
"Yes, we did. We really did. I was in his office for around two hours, I guess."
"What'd he say to you?"
"Oh. . . well, about Life being a game and all. And how you should play it according to the rules. He was pretty nice about it. I mean he didn't hit the ceiling or anything. He just kept talking about Life being a game and all. You know."
"Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules."
"Yes, sir. I know it is. I know it."
Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it's a game, all right--I'll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren't any hot-shots, then what's a game about it? Nothing. No game. "Has Dr. Thurmer written to your parents yet?" old Spencer asked me.
"He said he was going to write them Monday."
"Have you yourself communicated with them?"
"No, sir, I haven't communicated with them, because I'll probably see them Wednesday night when I get home."
"And how do you think they'll take the news?"
"Well. . . they'll be pretty irritated about it," I said. "They really will. This is about the fourth school I've gone to." I shook my head. I shake my head quite a lot. "Boy!" I said. I also say "Boy!" quite a lot. Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. It's really ironical, because I'm six foot two and a half and I have gray hair. I really do. The one side of my head--the right side--is full of millions of gray hairs. I've had them ever since I was a kid. And yet I still act sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true. I don't give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am--I really do--but people never notice it. People never notice anything.
Old Spencer started nodding again. He also started picking his nose. He made out like he was only pinching it, but he was really getting the old thumb right in there. I guess he thought it was all right to do because it was only me that was in the room. I didn't care, except that it's pretty disgusting to watch somebody pick their nose.
Then he said, "I had the privilege of meeting your mother and dad when they had their little chat with Dr. Thurmer some weeks ago. They're grand people."
"Yes, they are. They're very nice."
Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.
Then all of a sudden old Spencer looked like he had something very good, something sharp as a tack, to say to me. He sat up more in his chair and sort of moved around. It was a false alarm, though. All he did was lift the Atlantic Monthly off his lap and try to chuck it on the bed, next to me. He missed. It was only about two inches away, but he missed anyway. I got up and picked it up and put it down on the bed. All of a sudden then, I wanted to get the hell out of the room. I could feel a terrific lecture coming on. I didn't mind the idea so much, but I didn't feel like being lectured to and smell Vicks Nose Drops and look at old Spencer in his pajamas and bathrobe all at the same time. I really didn't. It started, all right. "What's the matter with you, boy?" old Spencer said. He said it pretty tough, too, for him. "How many subjects did you carry this term?"
"Five, sir."
"Five. And how many are you failing in?"
"Four." I moved my ass a little bit on the bed. It was the hardest bed I ever sat on. "I passed English all right," I said, "because I had all that Beowulf and Lord Randal My Son stuff when I was at the Whooton School. I mean I didn't have to do any work in English at all hardly, except write compositions once in a while."
He wasn't even listening. He hardly ever listened to you when you said something.
"I flunked you in history because you knew absolutely nothing."
"I know that, sir. Boy, I know it. You couldn't help it."
"Absolutely nothing," he said over again. That's something that drives me crazy. When people say something twice that way, after you admit it the first time. Then he said it three times. "But absolutely nothing. I doubt very much if you opened your textbook even once the whole term. Did you? Tell the truth, boy."
"Well, I sort of glanced through it a couple of times," I told him. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was mad about history.
"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic. "Your, ah, exam paper is over there on top of my chiffonier. On top of the pile. Bring it here, please."
It was a very dirty trick, but I went over and brought it over to him--I didn't have any alternative or anything. Then I sat down on his cement bed again. Boy, you can't imagine how sorry I was getting that I'd stopped by to say good-by to him.
He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something. "We studied the Egyptians from November 4th to December 2nd," he said. "You chose to write about them for the optional essay question. Would you care to hear what you had to say?"
"No, sir, not very much," I said.
He read it anyway, though. You can't stop a teacher when they want to do something. They just do it.
The Egyptians were an ancient race of Caucasians residing in
one of the northern sections of Africa. The latter as we all
know is the largest continent in the Eastern Hemisphere.
I had to sit there and listen to that crap. It certainly was a dirty trick.
The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for
various reasons. Modern science would still like to know what
the secret ingredients were that the Egyptians used when they
wrapped up dead people so that their faces would not rot for
innumerable centuries. This interesting riddle is still quite
a challenge to modern science in the twentieth century.
He stopped reading and put my paper down. I was beginning to sort of hate him. "Your essay, shall we say, ends there," he said in this very sarcastic voice. You wouldn't think such an old guy would be so sarcastic and all. "However, you dropped me a little note, at the bottom of the page," he said.
"I know I did," I said. I said it very fast because I wanted to stop him before he started reading that out loud. But you couldn't stop him. He was hot as a firecracker.
DEAR MR. SPENCER [he read out loud]. That is all I know about
the Egyptians. I can't seem to get very interested in them
although your lectures are very interesting. It is all right
with me if you flunk me though as I am flunking everything
else except English anyway.
Respectfully yours, HOLDEN CAULFIELD.
He put my goddam paper down then and looked at me like he'd just beaten hell out of me in ping-pong or something. I don't think I'll ever forgive him for reading me that crap out loud. I wouldn't've read it out loud to him if he'd written it--I really wouldn't. In the first place, I'd only written that damn note so that he wouldn't feel too bad about flunking me.
"Do you blame me for flunking you, boy?" he said.
"No, sir! I certainly don't," I said. I wished to hell he'd stop calling me "boy" all the time.
He tried chucking my exam paper on the bed when he was through with it. Only, he missed again, naturally. I had to get up again and pick it up and put it on top of the Atlantic Monthly. It's boring to do that every two minutes.
"What would you have done in my place?" he said. "Tell the truth, boy."
Well, you could see he really felt pretty lousy about flunking me. So I shot the bull for a while. I told him I was a real moron, and all that stuff. I told him how I would've done exactly the same thing if I'd been in his place, and how most people didn't appreciate how tough it is being a teacher. That kind of stuff. The old bull.
The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull. I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go. I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.
I'm lucky, though. I mean I could shoot the old bull to old Spencer and think about those ducks at the same time. It's funny. You don't have to think too hard when you talk to a teacher. All of a sudden, though, he interrupted me while I was shooting the bull. He was always interrupting you.
"How do you feel about all this, boy? I'd be very interested to know. Very interested."
"You mean about my flunking out of Pencey and all?" I said. I sort of wished he'd cover up his bumpy chest. It wasn't such a beautiful view.
"If I'm not mistaken, I believe you also had some difficulty at the Whooton School and at Elkton Hills." He didn't say it just sarcastic, but sort of nasty, too.
"I didn't have too much difficulty at Elkton Hills," I told him. "I didn't exactly flunk out or anything. I just quit, sort of."
"Why, may I ask?"
"Why? Oh, well it's a long story, sir. I mean it's pretty complicated." I didn't feel like going into the whole thing with him. He wouldn't have understood it anyway. It wasn't up his alley at all. One of the biggest reasons I left Elkton Hills was because I was surrounded by phonies. That's all. They were coming in the goddam window. For instance, they had this headmaster, Mr. Haas, that was the phoniest bastard I ever met in my life. Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for instance, old Haas went around shaking hands with everybody's parents when they drove up to school. He'd be charming as hell and all. Except if some boy had little old funny-looking parents. You should've seen the way he did with my roommate's parents. I mean if a boy's mother was sort of fat or corny-looking or something, and if somebody's father was one of those guys that wear those suits with very big shoulders and corny black-and-white shoes, then old Hans would just shake hands with them and give them a phony smile and then he'd go talk, for maybe a half an hour, with somebody else's parents. I can't stand that stuff. It drives me crazy. It makes me so depressed I go crazy. I hated that goddam Elkton Hills.
Old Spencer asked me something then, but I didn't hear him. I was thinking about old Haas. "What, sir?" I said.
"Do you have any particular qualms about leaving Pencey?"
"Oh, I have a few qualms, all right. Sure. . . but not too many. Not yet, anyway. I guess it hasn't really hit me yet. It takes things a while to hit me. All I'm doing right now is thinking about going home Wednesday. I'm a moron."
"Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?"
"Oh, I feel some concern for my future, all right. Sure. Sure, I do." I thought about it for a minute. "But not too much, I guess. Not too much, I guess."
"You will," old Spencer said. "You will, boy. You will when it's too late."
I didn't like hearing him say that. It made me sound dead or something. It was very depressing. "I guess I will," I said.
"I'd like to put some sense in that head of yours, boy. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help you, if I can."
He really was, too. You could see that. But it was just that we were too much on opposite sides ot the pole, that's all. "I know you are, sir," I said. "Thanks a lot. No kidding. I appreciate it. I really do." I got up from the bed then. Boy, I couldn't've sat there another ten minutes to save my life. "The thing is, though, I have to get going now. I have quite a bit of equipment at the gym I have to get to take home with me. I really do." He looked up at me and started nodding again, with this very serious look on his face. I felt sorry as hell for him, all of a sudden. But I just couldn't hang around there any longer, the way we were on opposite sides of the pole, and the way he kept missing the bed whenever he chucked something at it, and his sad old bathrobe with his chest showing, and that grippy smell of Vicks Nose Drops all over the place. "Look, sir. Don't worry about me," I said. "I mean it. I'll be all right. I'm just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes through phases and all, don't they?"
"I don't know, boy. I don't know."
I hate it when somebody answers that way. "Sure. Sure, they do," I said. "I mean it, sir. Please don't worry about me." I sort of put my hand on his shoulder. "Okay?" I said.
"Wouldn't you like a cup of hot chocolate before you go? Mrs. Spencer would be--"
"I would, I really would, but the thing is, I have to get going. I have to go right to the gym. Thanks, though. Thanks a lot, sir."
Then we shook hands. And all that crap. It made me feel sad as hell, though.
"I'll drop you a line, sir. Take care of your grippe, now."
"Good-by, boy."
After I shut the door and started back to the living room, he yelled something at me, but I couldn't exactly hear him. I'm pretty sure he yelled "Good luck!" at me,
I hope to hell not. I'd never yell "Good luck!" at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.


第01节

--------

你要是真想听我讲,你想要知道的第一件事可能是我在什么地方出生,我倒楣的童年是怎样度过,我父母在生我之前干些什么,以及诸如此类的大卫科波菲尔式废话,可我老实告诉你,我无意告诉你这一切。首先,这类事情叫我腻烦;其次,我要是细谈我父母的个人私事,他们俩淮会大发脾气。对于这类事情,他们最容易生气,特别是我父亲。他们为人倒是挺不错——我并不想说他们的坏话——可他们的确很容易生气。再说,我也不是要告诉你他妈的我整个自传。我想告诉你的只是我在去年圣诞节前所过的那段荒唐生活,后来我的身体整个儿垮了,不得不离家到这儿来休养一阵。我是说这些事情都是我告诉DB的,他是我哥哥,在好莱坞。那地方离我目前可怜的住处不远,所以他常常来看我,几乎每个周末都来,我打算在下个月回家,他还要亲自开车送我回去。他刚买了辆“美洲豹”,那是种英国小轿车,一个小时可以驶两百英里左右,买这辆车花了他将近四千块钱。最近他十分有钱。过去他并不有钱。过去他在家里的时候,只是个普通作家,写过一本了不起的短篇小说集《秘密金鱼》,不知你听说过没有。这本书里最好的一篇就是《秘密金鱼》,讲的是一个小孩怎样不肯让人看他的金鱼,因为那鱼是他自己花钱买的。

这故事动人极了,简直要了我的命。这会儿他进了好莱坞,当了婊子——这个DB。我最最讨厌电影。最好你连提也不要向我提起。

我打算从我离开潘西中学那天讲起。潘西这学校在宾夕法尼亚州埃杰斯镇。你也许听说过。也许你至少看见过广告。他们差不多在一千份杂志上登了广告,总是一个了不起的小伙子骑着马在跳篱笆。好象在潘西除了比赛马球就没有事可做似的。

其实我在学校附近连一匹马的影儿也没见过。在这幅跑马图底下,总是这样写着:“自从一八八八年起,我们就把孩子栽培成优秀的、有脑子的年轻人。”完全是骗人的鬼话。在潘西也象在别的学校一样,根本没栽培什么人材。而且在那里我也没见到任何优秀的、有脑子的人。也许有那么一两个.可他们很可能在进学校时候就是那样的人。

嗯,那天正好是星期六,要跟萨克逊.霍尔中学赛橄榄球。跟萨克逊.霍尔的这场比赛被看作是潘西附近的一件大事。这是年内最后一场球赛,要是潘西输了,看样子大家非自杀不可。我记得那天下午三点左右,我爬到高高的汤姆孙山顶上看赛球,就站在那尊曾在独立战争中使用过的混帐大炮旁边。从这里可以望见整个球场,看得见两队人马到处冲杀。看台里的情况虽然看不很清楚,可你听得见他们的呦喝声,一片震天价喊声为潘西叫好,因为除了我,差不多全校的人都在球场上,不过给萨克逊.霍尔那边叫好的声音却是稀稀拉拉的,因为到客地来比赛的球队,带来的人总是不多的。

在每次橄榄球比赛中总很少见到女孩子。只有高班的学生才可以带女孩子来看球。这确实是个阴森可怕的学校,不管你从哪个角度看它。我总希望自己所在的地方至少偶尔可以看见几个姑娘,哪怕只看见她们在搔胳膊、擤鼻子,甚至在吃吃地傻笑。

赛尔玛.绥摩——她是校长的女儿——倒是常常出来看球,可象她这样的女人,实在引不起你多大兴趣。其实她为人倒挺不错。有一次我跟她一起从埃杰斯镇坐公共汽车出去,她就坐在我旁边,我们俩随便聊起天来。我挺喜欢她。她的鼻子很大,指甲都已剥落,象在流血似的,胸前还装着两只假奶,往四面八方直挺,可你见了,只觉得她可怜。我喜欢她的地方,是她从来不瞎吹她父亲有多伟大。也许她知道他是个假模假式的饭桶。

我之所以站在汤姆孙山顶,没下去看球,是因为我刚跟击剑队一道从纽约回来。我还是这个击剑队的倒楣领队。真了不起。我们一早出发到纽约去跟麦克彭尼中学比赛击剑。只是这次比赛没有比成。

我们把比赛用的剑、装备和一些别的东西一古脑儿落在他妈的地铁上了。这事也不能完全怪我。我得不住地站起来看地图,好知道在哪儿下车。结果,我们没到吃晚饭时间,在下午两点三十分就已回到了潘西。乘火车回来的时候全队的人一路上谁也不理我。说起来,倒也挺好玩哩。

我没下去看球的另一原因,是我要去向我的历史老师老斯宾塞告别。他患着流行性感冒,我揣摩在圣诞假期开始之前再也见不到他了。他写了张条子给我,说是希望在我回家之前见我一次。他知道我这次离开潘西后再也不回来了。

我忘了告诉你这件事。他们把我踢出了学校,过了圣诞假后不再要我回来,原因是我有四门功课不及格,又不肯好好用功。他们常常警告我,要我好好用功——特别是学期过了一半,我父母来校跟老绥摩谈过话以后——可我总是当耳边风。于是我就给开除了。他们在潘西常常开除学生。潘西在教育界声誉挺高。这倒是事实。

嗯,那是十二月,天气冷得象巫婆的奶头,尤其是在这混帐的小山顶上。我只穿了件晴雨两用的风衣,没戴手套什么的。上个星期,有人从我的房间里偷走了我的骆驼毛大衣,大衣袋里还放着我那副毛皮里子的手套。潘西有的是贼。不少学生都是家里极有钱的,可学校里照样全是贼。学校越贵族化,里面的贼也越多——我不开玩笑。嗯,我当时一动不动地站在那尊混帐大炮旁边,看着下面的球赛,冻得我屁股都快掉了。只是我并不在专心看球。我流连不去的真正目的,是想跟学校悄悄告别。我是说过去我也离开过一些学校,一些地方,可我在离开的时候自己竞不知道。我痛恨这类事情。

我不在乎是悲伤的离别还是不痛快的离别,只要是离开一个地方,我总希望离开的时候自己心中有数。

要不然,我心里就会更加难受。

总算我运气好。刹那间我想起了一件事,让我感觉到自己他妈的就要滚出这个地方了。我突然记起在十月间,我怎样跟罗伯特.铁奇纳和保尔.凯姆伯尔一起在办公大楼前扔橄榄球。他们都是挺不错的小伙子,尤其是铁奇纳。那时正是在吃晚饭前,外面天已经很黑了,可是我们照样扔着球。天越来越黑,黑得几乎连球都看不见了,可我们还是不肯歇手。最后我们被迫歇手了。那位教生物的老师,柴柏西先生,从教务处的窗口探出头来,叫我们回宿舍去准备吃晚饭。我要是运气好,能在紧要关头想起这一类事情,我就可以好好作一番告别了——至少绝大部分时间都可以做到。因此我一有那感触,就立刻转身奔下另一边山坡,向老斯宾塞的家奔去。他并不住在校园内。他住在安东尼.魏思路。

我一口气跑到大门边,然后稍停一下,喘一喘气。我的气很短,我老实告诉你说。我抽烟抽得凶极了,这是一个原因——那是说,我过去抽烟抽得极凶。现在他们让我戒掉了。另一个原因,我去年一年内竞长了六英寸半。正因为这个缘故,我差点儿得了肺病,现在离家来这儿作他妈的检查治疗那一套。其实,我身上什么毛病也没有。

嗯,等我喘过气来以后,我就奔过了第二0四街。天冷得象在地狱里一样,我差点儿摔了一交。我甚至都不知道自己为什么要奔跑——我揣摩大概是一时高兴。我穿过马路以后,觉得自己好象失踪了似的。那是个混帐的下午,天气冷得可怕,没太阳什么的,在每次穿越马路之后,你总会有一种象是失踪了的感觉。

嘿,我一到老斯宾塞家门口,就拼命按起铃来。我真的冻坏了。我的耳朵疼得厉害,手上的指头连动都动不了。“喂,喂,”我几乎大声喊了起来,“快来人开门哪。”最后老斯宾塞太太来开门了。他们家里没有佣人,每次总是他们自己出来开门。他们并不有钱。“霍尔顿!”斯宾塞太太说。“见到你真高兴!进来吧,亲爱的!你都冻坏了吧?”我觉得她的确乐于见我。她喜欢我。至少我是这样觉得。

嘿,我真是三脚两步跨进了屋。“您好,斯宾塞太太?”我说。“斯宾塞先生好?”

“我来给你脱大衣吧,亲爱的,”她说。她没听见我问候斯宾塞先生的话。她的耳朵有点聋。

她把我的大衣接在门厅的壁橱里,我随使用手把头发往后一掠。我经常把头发理得很短,所以用不着用梳子梳。“您好吗,斯宾塞太太?”我又说了一遍,只是说得更响一些,好让她听见。

“我挺好,霍尔顿。”她关上了橱门。“你好吗?”从她问话的口气里,我立刻听出老斯宾塞已经把我被开除的事告诉她了。

“挺好,”我说。“斯宾塞先生好吗?他的感冒好了没有?”

“好了没有!霍尔顿,他完全跟好人一样了——我不知道怎么说合适……他就在他自己的房里,亲爱的。进去吧。”

--------

第02节

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他们各有各的房间。他们都有七十左右年纪,或者甚至已过了七十。他们都还自得其乐——当然是傻里傻气的。我知道这话听起来有点混,可我并不是有意要说混话。我的意思只是说我想老斯宾塞想得太多了,想他想得太多之后,就难免会想到象他这样活着究竟有什么意思。我是说他的背已经完全驼了,身体的姿势十分难看,上课的时候在黑板边掉了粉笔,总要坐在第一排的学生走上去拾起来递给他。真是可怕极了,在我看来。不过你要是想他想得恰到好处,不是想得太多,你就会觉得他的日子还不算太难过。举例来说,有一个星期天我跟另外几个人在他家喝热巧克力,他还拿出一条破旧的纳瓦霍毯子来给我们看,那是他跟斯宾塞太太在黄石公园向一个印第安人买的。你想象得出老斯宾塞买了那条毯子心里该有多高兴。这就是我要说的意思。有些人老得快死了,就象老斯宾塞那样,可是买了条毯子却会高兴得要命。

他的房门开着,可我还是轻轻敲了下门,表示礼貌。我望得见他坐的地方。他坐在一把大皮椅上,用我上面说过的那条毯子把全身裹得严严的。

他听见我敲门,就抬起头来看了看。“谁?”他大声嚷道。“考尔菲德?进来吧,孩子。”除了在教室里,他总是大声嚷嚷。有时候你听了真会起鸡皮疙瘩。

我一进去,马上有点儿后悔自己不该来。他正在看《大西洋月刊》,房间里到处是丸药和药水,鼻子里只闻到一般维克斯滴鼻药水的味道。这实在叫人泄气。我对生病的人反正没多大好感。还有更叫人泄气的,是老斯宾塞穿着件破烂不堪的旧浴衣,大概是他出生那天就裹在身上的。我最不喜欢老人穿着睡衣或者浴衣。他们那瘦骨磷晌的胸脯老是露在外面。还有他们的腿。老人的腿,常常在海滨之类的地方见到,总是那么白,没什么毛。“哈罗,先生,”我说。“我接到您的便条啦。多谢您关怀。”他曾写了张便条给我,要我在放假之前抽空到他家去道别,因为我这一走,是再也不回来了。“您真是太费心了。我反正总会来向您道别的。”

“坐在那上面吧,孩子,”老斯宾塞说。他意思要我坐在床上。

我坐下了。“您的感冒好些吗,先生?”

“我的孩子,我要是觉得好些,早就去请大夫了,”老斯宾塞说。说完这话,他得意的了不得,马上象个疯子似的吃吃笑起来。最后他总算恢复了平静,说道:“你怎么不去看球?我本来以为今天有隆重的球赛呢。”

“今天倒是有球赛。我也去看了会儿。只是我刚跟击剑队从纽约回来,”我说。嘿,他的床真象岩石一样。

他变得严肃起来。我知道他会的。“那么说来,你要离开我们了,呃?”他说。

“是的,先生。我想是的。”

他开始老毛病发作,一个劲几点起头来。你这一辈子再也没见过还有谁比他更会点头。你也没法知道他一个劲儿点头是由于他在动脑筋思考呢,还是由于他只是个挺不错的老家伙,糊涂得都不知道哪儿是自己的屁股哪儿是自己的胳膊弯儿了。

“绥摩博士跟你说什么来着,孩子?我知道你们好好谈过一阵,”“不错,我们谈过。我们的确谈过。我在他的办公室里呆了约莫两个钟头,我揣摩。”

“他跟你说了些什么?”

“哦……呃,说什么人生是场球赛。你得按照规则进行比赛。他说得挺和蔼。我是说他没有蹦得碰到天花板什么的。他只是一个劲儿谈着什么人生是场球赛。您知道。”

“人生的确是场球赛,孩子。人生的确是场大家按照规则进行比赛的球赛。”

“是的,先生。我知道是场球赛。我知道。”

球赛,屁的球赛。对某些人说是球赛。你要是参加了实力雄厚的那一边,那倒可以说是场球赛,不错——我愿意承认这一点。可你要是参加了另外那一边,一点实力也没有,加么还赛得了什么球?

什么也赛不成。根本谈不上什么球赛。“绥摩博士已经写信给你父母了吗?”老斯宾塞问我。

“他说他打算在星期一写信给他们。”

“你自己写信告诉他们没有?”

“没有,先生,我没写信告诉他们,因为我星期三就要回家,大概在晚上就可以见到他们了。”

“你想他们听了这个消息会怎么样?”

“嗯,……他们听了会觉得烦恼,”我说。

“他们一定会的。这已是我第四次换学校了。”我摇了摇头。我经常摇头。“嘿!”我说。我经常说“嘿!”这一方面是由于我的词汇少得可怜,另一方面也是由于我的行为举止有时很幼稚。我那时十六岁,现在十七岁,可有时候我的行为举止却象十三岁。说来确实很可笑,因为我身高六英尺二英寸半,头上还有白头发。我真有白头发。在头上的一边——右边,有千百万根白头发,从小就有。可我有时候一举一动,却象还只有十二岁。谁都这样说,尤其是我父亲。这么说有点儿对,可并不完全对。人们总是以为某些事情是完全对的。我压根几就不理这个碴儿,除非有时候人们说我,要我老成些,我才冒起火来。有时候我的一举一动要比我的年龄老得多——确是这样——可人们却视而不见。

他们是什么也看不见的。

老斯宾塞又点起头来了。他还开始掏起鼻子来。他装作只是捏一捏鼻子,其实他早将那只大拇指伸进去了。我揣摩他大概认为这样做没有什么不对,因为当时房里只有我一个。我倒也不怎么在乎,只是眼巴巴看着一个人掏鼻子,总不兔有点恶心。

接着他说:“你爸爸和妈妈几个星期前跟绥摩博士谈话的时候,我有幸跟他们见了面。他们都是再好没有的人。”

再好没有,我打心眼里讨厌这个词儿。完全是假模假式。我每次听见这个词儿,心里就作呕。

一霎时,老斯宾塞好象有什么十分妙、十分尖锐——尖锐得象针一样——的话要跟我说。他在椅子上微微坐直身子,稍稍转过身来。可这只是一场虚惊。他仅仅从膝上拿起那本《大西洋月刊》,想扔到我旁边的床上。他没扔到。只差那么两英寸光景,可他没扔到。我站起来从地上拾起杂志,把它搁在床上。突然间,我想离开这个混帐房间了。我感觉得出有一席可怕的训话马上要来了。我倒不怎么在乎听训话,不过我不乐意一边听训话一边闻维克斯滴鼻药水的味道,一边还得望着穿了睡裤和浴衣的老斯宾塞。我真的不乐意。

训话终于来了。“你这是怎么回事呢,孩子?”

老斯宾塞说,口气还相当严厉。“这个学期你念了几门功课?”

“五门,先生。”

“五门。你有几门不及格?”

“四门。”我在床上微微挪动一下屁股。这是我有生以来坐过的最硬的床。“英文我考得不错,”我说,“因为《贝沃尔夫》和‘兰德尔我的儿子’这类玩艺儿,我在胡敦中学时候都念过了。我是说念英文这一门我用不着费多大劲儿,除了偶尔写写作文。”

他甚至不在听。只要是别人说话,他总不肯好好听。

“历史这一门我没让你及格,因为你简直什么也不知道。”

“我明白,先生。嘿,我完全明白。您也是没有办法。”

“简直什么也不知道,”他重复了一遍。就是这个最叫我受不了。我都已承认了,他却还要重复说一遍。然而他又说了第三遍。“可简直什么也不知道。我十分十分怀疑,整整一个学期不知你可曾把课本翻开过哪怕一回。到底翻开过没有?老实说,孩子。”

“嗯,我约略看过那么一两次,”我告诉他说。我不愿伤他的心。他对历史简直着了迷。

“你约略看过,嗯?”他说——讽刺得厉害。

“你的,啊,那份试卷就在我的小衣柜顶上。最最上面的那份就是。请拿来给我。”

来这套非常下流,可我还是过去把那份试卷拿给他了——此外没有其他办法。随后我又坐到他那张象是水泥做的床上。嘿,你想象不出我心里有多懊丧,深悔自己不该来向他道别。

他拿起我的试卷来,那样子就象拿着臭屎什么的。“我们从十一月四日到十二月二日上关于埃及人的课。在自由选挥的论文题里,你选了写埃及人,你想听听你说了些什么吗?”

“不,先生,不怎么想听,”我说。

可他照样念了出来。老师想于什么,你很难阻止他。他是非干不可的。

埃及人是一个属于高加索人种的古民族,住在非洲北部一带。我们全都知道,非洲是东半球上最大的大陆。

我只好坐在那里倾听这类废话。来这一套确实下流。

我们今天对埃及人极感兴趣,原因很多。现代科学仍想知道埃及人到底用什么秘密药料敷在他们所包裹的死人身上,能使他们的脸经无数世纪而不腐烂。这一有趣的谜仍是对二十世纪现代科学的一个挑战。

他不念了,随手把试卷放下。我开始有点恨他了。“你的大作,我们可以这么说,写到这儿就完了,”他用十分讽刺的口吻说。你真想不到象他这样的老家伙说话竟能这么讽刺。“可是,你在试卷底下还写给我一封短信,”他说。

“我知道我写了封短信,”我说。我说得非常快,因为我想拦住他,不让他把那玩艺儿大声读出来。可你没法拦住他。他热得象个着了火的炮仗。

“亲爱的斯宾塞先生,”他大声念道。“我对埃及人只知道这一些。虽然您讲课讲得极好,我却对他们不怎么感兴趣。您尽管可以不让我及格,反正我除了英文一门以外,哪门功课也不可能及格。

 极敬爱您的学生

 霍尔顿.考尔菲德敬上。

他放下那份混帐试卷,拿眼望着我,那样子就象他妈的在比赛乒乓球或者其他什么球的时候把我打得一败涂地似的,他这么把那封短信大声念出来,这件事我一辈子也不能原谅他。要是他写了那短信,我是决不会大声念给他听的——我真的不会。尤其是,我他妈的写那信只是为了安慰他,好让他不给我及格的时候不至于太难受。

“你怪我没让你及格吗,孩子?”他说。

“不,先生?我当然不怪你,”我说。我他妈的真希望他别老这么一个劲儿管我叫“孩子”。

他念完试卷,也想把它扔到床上。只是他又没有扔到,自然罗。我不得不再一次起身把它拾起来,放在那本《大西洋月刊》上面。每两分钟起身给他拾一次东西,实在叫人腻烦。

“你要是在我的地位,会怎么做呢?”他说。

“老实说吧,孩子。”

呃,你看得出他给了我不及格,心里确实很不安。我于是信口跟他胡扯起来。我告诉他说我真是个窝囊废,诸如此类的话。我跟他说我要是换了他的地位,也不得不那么做,还说大多数人都体会不到当老师的处境有多困难。反正是那一套老话。

但奇怪的是,我一边在信口开河,一边却在想别的事。我住在纽约,当时不知怎的竟想起中央公园靠南边的那个小湖来了。我在琢磨,到我回家时候,湖里的水大概已经结冰了,要是结了冰,那些野鸭都到哪里去了呢?我一个劲儿琢磨,湖水冻严以后,那些野鸭到底上哪儿去了。我在琢磨是不是会有人开了辆卡车来,捉住它们送到动物园里去。或者竟是它们自己飞走了?

我倒是很幸运。我是说我竟能一边跟老斯宾塞胡扯,一边想那些鸭子。奇怪的是,你跟老师聊天的时候,竟用不着动什么脑筋。可我正在胡扯的时候,他突然打断了我的话。他老喜欢打断别人的话。

“你对这一切是怎么个感觉呢,孩子?我对这很感兴趣。感兴趣极了。”

“您是说我给开除出潘西这件事?”我说,我真希望他能把自己瘦骨磷峋的胸脯遮盖起来。这可不是太悦目的景色。

“要是我记得不错的话,我相信你在胡敦中学和爱尔敦.希尔斯也遇到过困难。”他说这话时不仅带着讽刺,而且带着点儿恶意了。

“我在爱尔敦.希尔斯倒没什么困难,”我对他说。“我不完全是给开除出来的。我只是自动退学,可以这么说。”

“为什么呢,请问?”

“为什么?哎呀,这事说来话长,先生。我是说问题极其复杂。”我不想跟他细谈。他听了也不会理解。这不是他在行的学问。我离开爱尔敦.希尔斯最大的原因之一,是因为我的四周围全都是伪君子。就是那么回事。到处都是他妈的伪君子。举例说,学校里的校长哈斯先生就是我生平见到的最最假仁假义的杂种。比老绥摩还要坏十倍。比如说,到了星期天,有些学生的家长开了汽车来接自己的孩子,老哈斯就跑来跑去跟他们每个人握手。

还象个娼妇似的巴结人。除非见了某些模样儿有点古怪的家长。你真该看看他怎样对待跟我同房的那个学生的父母。我是说要是学生的母亲显得太胖或者粗野,或者学生的父亲凑巧是那种穿着宽肩膀衣服和粗俗的黑白两色鞋的人,那时候老哈斯就只跟他们握一下手,假惺惺地朝着他们微微一笑。然后就一径去跟别的学生的父母讲话,一谈也许就是半个小时。我受不了这类事情。它会逼得我发疯,会让我烦恼得神经错乱起来。我痛恨那个混帐中学爱尔敦.希尔斯。

老斯宾塞这时又问了我什么话,可我没听清楚。我正在想老哈斯的事呢。“什么,先生?”我说。

“你离开潘西,有什么特别不安的感觉吗?”

“哦,倒是有一些不安的感觉。当然啦……可并不太多。至少现在还没有。我揣摩这桩事目前还没真正击中我的要害。不管什么事,总要过一些时候才能击中我的要害。我这会儿心里只想着星期三回家的事。我是窝囊废。”

“你难道一点也不关心你自己的前途,孩子?”

“哦,我对自己的前途是关心的,没错儿。当然啦。我当然关心。”我约莫考虑了一分钟。“不过并不太关心,我揣摩。并不太关心,我揣摩。”

“你会的,”老斯宾塞说。“你会关心的,孩子。到了后悔莫及的时候,你会关心的。”

我不爱听他说这样的话。听上去好象我就要死了似的,令人十分懊丧。“我揣摩我会这样的,”我说。

“我很想让你的头脑恢复些理智,孩子。我想给你些帮助。我想给你些帮助,只要我做得到。”

他倒是的确想给我些帮助。你看得出来。但问题是我们俩一个在南极一个在北极,相距太远;就是那么回事。“我知道您是想给我帮助,先生。”

我说。“非常感谢。一点不假。我感谢您的好意。

我真的感谢。”说着,我就从床边站起身来。嘿,哪怕要了我的命,也不能让我在那儿再坐十分钟了。“问题是,咳,我现在得走了。体育馆里还有不少东西等我去收拾,好带回家去。我真有不少东西得收拾呢。”他抬起头来望着我,又开始点起头来,脸上带着极其严肃的神情。突然间,我真为他难受得要命。可我实在没法再在那儿逗留了,象这样一个在南极一个在北极,他呢,还不住地往床上扔东西,可又老是半路掉下,他又穿着那件破旧的浴衣,还裸露出他的胸膛,房间里又弥漫着一股象征流行性感冒的维克斯滴鼻药水气味——在这情况下,我实在呆不下去了。“听我说,先生。别为我担心,”我说。“我是说老实话。我会改过来的。

我现在只是在过年轻人的一关。谁都有一些关要过的,是不是呢?”

“我不知道,孩子。我不知道。”

我最讨厌人家这样回答问题。“当然啦。当然谁都有关要过,”我说。“我说的是实话,先生。

请别为我担心。”我几乎把我的一只手搁在他的肩膀上了。“成吗?”我说。

“你喝杯热巧克力再走好吗?斯宾塞太太马上——”“谢谢,真谢谢,不过问题是,我得走啦。我得马上到体育馆去。谢谢。多谢您啦,先生。”

于是我们握了手,说了一些废话。我心里可真难受得要命。

“我会写信给您的,先生。注意您的感冒,多多保重身体。”

“再见吧,孩子。”

我随手带上门,向起居室走去,忽然又听到他大声跟我嚷了些什么,可我没听清楚。我深信他说的是“运气好!”我希望不是。我真他妈的希望不是。我自己从来不跟任何人说“运气好!”你只要仔细想一想,就会觉得这话真是可怕。


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