雙語(yǔ)·心是孤獨(dú)的獵手 第二部分 15

The time had come for Singer to go to Antonapoulos again. The journey was a long one.For, although the distance between them was something less than two hundred miles, the train meandered to points far out of the way and stopped for long hours at certain stations during the night.Singer would leave the town in the afternoon and travel all through the night and until the early morning of the next day.As usual, he was ready far in advance.He planned to have a full week with his friend this visit.His clothes had been sent to the cleaner's, his hat blocked, and his bags were in readiness.The gifts he would carry were wrapped in colored tissue paper—and in addition there was a de luxe basket of fruits done up in cellophane and a crate of late-shipped strawberries.On the morning before his departure Singer cleaned his room.In his ice box he found a bit of left-over goose liver and took it out to the alley for the neighborhood cat.On his door he tacked the same sign he had posted there before, stating that he would be absent for several days on business.During all these preparations he moved about leisurely with two vivid spots of color on his cheekbones.His face was very solemn.

Then at last the hour for departure was at hand. He stood on the platform, burdened with his suitcases and gifts, and watched the train roll in on the station tracks.He found himself a seat in the day coach and hoisted his luggage on the rack above his head.The car was crowded, for the most part with mothers and children.The green plush seats had a grimy smell.The windows of the car were dirty and rice thrown at some recent bridal pair lay scattered on the floor.Singer smiled cordially to his fellow-travelers and leaned back in his seat.He closed his eyes.The lashes made a dark, curved fringe above the hollows of his cheeks.His right hand moved nervously inside his pocket.

For a while his thoughts lingered in the town he was leaving behind him. He saw Mick and Doctor Copeland and Jake Blount and Biff Brannon.The faces crowded in on him out of the darkness so that he felt smothered.He thought of the quarrel between Blount and the Negro.The nature of this quarrel was hopelessly confused in his mind—but each of them had on several occasions broken out into a bitter tirade against the other, the absent one.He had agreed with each of them in turn, though what it was they wanted him to sanction he did not know.And Mick—her face was urgent and she said a good deal that he did not understand in the least.And then Biff Brannon at the New York Café.Brannon with his dark, iron-like jaw and his watchful eyes.And strangers who followed him about the streets and buttonholed him for unexplainable reasons.The Turk at the linen shop who flung his hands up in his face and babbled with his tongue to make words the shape of which Singer had never imagined before.A certain mill foreman and an old black woman.A businessman on the main street and an urchin who solicited soldiers for a whorehouse near the river.Singer wriggled his shoulders uneasily.The train rocked with a smooth, easy motion.His head nodded to rest on his shoulder and for a short while he slept.

When he opened his eyes again the town was far behind him. The town was forgotten.Outside the dirty window there was the brilliant midsummer countryside.The sun slanted in strong, bronze-colored rays over the green fields of the new cotton.There were acres of tobacco, the plants heavy and green like some monstrous jungle weed.The orchards of peaches with the lush fruit weighting down the dwarfed trees.There were miles of pastures and tens of miles of wasted, washed-out land abandoned to the hardier weeds.The train cut through deep green pine forests where the ground was covered with the slick brown needles and the tops of the trees stretched up virgin and tall into the sky.And farther, a long way south of the town, the cypress swamps—with the gnarled roots of the trees writhing down into the brackish waters, where the gray, tattered moss trailed from the branches, where tropical water flowers blossomed in dankness and gloom.Then out again into the open beneath the sun and the indigo-blue sky.

Singer sat solemn and timid, his face turned fully toward the window. The great sweeps of space and the hard, elemental coloring almost blinded him.This kaleidoscopic variety of scene, this abundance of growth and color, seemed somehow connected with his friend.His thoughts were with Antonapoulos.The bliss of their reunion almost stifled him.His nose was pinched and he breathed with quick, short breaths through his slightly open mouth.

Antonapoulos would be glad to see him. He would enjoy the fresh fruits and the presents.By now he would be out of the sick ward and able to go on an excursion to the movies, and afterward to the hotel where they had eaten dinner on the first visit.Singer had written many letters to Antonapoulos, but he had not posted them.He surrendered himself wholly to thoughts of his friend.

The half-year since he had last been with him seemed neither a long nor a short span of time. Behind each waking moment there had always been his friend.And this submerged communion with Antonapoulos had grown and changed as though they were together in the flesh.Sometimes he thought of Antonapoulos with awe and self-abasement, sometimes with pride—always with love unchecked by criticism, freed of will.When he dreamed at night the face of his friend was always before him, massive and gentle.And in his waking thoughts they were eternally united.

The summer evening came slowly. The sun sank down behind a ragged line of trees in the distance and the sky paled.The twilight was languid and soft.There was a white full moon, and low purple clouds lay over the horizon.The earth, the trees, the unpainted rural dwellings darkened slowly.At intervals mild summer lightning quivered in the air.Singer watched all of this intently until at last the night had come, and his own face was reflected in the glass before him.

Children staggered up and down the aisle of the car with dripping paper cups of water. An old man in overalls who had the seat before Singer drank whiskey from time to time from a Coca-Cola bottle.Between swallows he plugged the bottle carefully with a wad of paper.A little girl on the right combed her hair with a sticky red lollipop.Shoeboxes were opened and trays of supper were brought in from the dining-car.Singer did not eat.He leaned back in his seat and kept desultory account of all that went on around him.At last the car settled down.Children lay on the broad plush seats and slept, while men and women doubled up with their pillows and rested as best they could.

Singer did not sleep. He pressed his face close against the glass and strained to see into the night.The darkness was heavy and velvety.Sometimes there was a patch of moonlight or the flicker of a lantern from the window of some house along the way.From the moon he saw that the train had turned from its southward course and was headed toward the east.The eagerness he felt was so keen that his nose was too pinched to breathe through and his cheeks were scarlet.He sat there, his face pressed close against the cold, sooty glass of the window, through most of the long night journey.

The train was more than an hour late, and the fresh, bright summer morning was well under way when they arrived. Singer went immediately to the hotel, a very good hotel where he had made reservations in advance.He unpacked his bags and arranged the presents he would take to Antonapoulos on the bed.From the menu the bell boy brought him he selected a luxurious breakfast—broiled bluefish, hominy, French toast, and hot black coffee.After breakfast he rested before the electric fan in his underwear.At noon he began to dress.He bathed and shaved and laid out fresh linen and his best seersucker suit.At three o'clock the hospital was open for visiting hours.It was Tuesday and the eighteenth of July.

At the asylum he sought Antonapoulos first in the sick ward where he had been confined before. But at the doorway of the room he saw immediately that his friend was not there.Next he found his way through the corridors to the office where he had been taken the time before.He had his question already written on one of the cards he carried about with him.The person behind the desk was not the same as the one who had been there before.He was a young man, almost a boy, with a half-formed, immature face and a lank mop of hair.Singer handed him the card and stood quietly, his arms heaped with packages, his weight resting on his heels.

The young man shook his head. He leaned over the desk and scribbled loosely on a pad of paper.Singer read what he had written and the spots of color drained from his cheekbones instantly.He looked at the note a long time, his eyes cut sideways and his head bowed.For it was written there that Antonapoulos was dead.

On the way back to the hotel he was careful not to crush the fruit he had brought with him. He took the packages up to his room and then wandered down to the lobby.Behind a potted palm tree there was a slot machine.He inserted a nickel but when he tried to pull the lever he found that the machine was jammed.Over this incident he made a great to-do.He cornered the clerk and furiously demonstrated what had happened.His face was deathly pale and he was so beside himself that tears rolled down the ridges of his nose.He flailed his hands and even stamped once with his long, narrow, elegantly shoed foot on the plush carpet.Nor was he satisfied when his coin was refunded, but insisted on checking out immediately.He packed his bag and was obliged to work energetically to make it close again.For in addition to the articles he had brought with him he carried away three towels, two cakes of soap, a pen and a bottle of ink, a roll of toilet paper, and a Holy Bible.He paid his bill and walked to the railway station to put his belongings in custody.The train did not leave until nine in the evening and he had the empty afternoon before him.

This town was smaller than the one in which he lived. The business streets intersected to form the shape of a cross.The stores had a countrified look；there were harnesses and sacks of feed in half of the display windows.Singer walked listlessly along the sidewalks.His throat felt swollen and he wanted to swallow but was unable to do so.To relieve this strangled feeling he bought a drink in one of the drugstores.He idled in the barber shop and purchased a few trifles at the ten-cent store.He looked no one full in the face and his head drooped down to one side like a sick animal's.

The afternoon was almost ended when a strange thing happened to Singer. He had been walking slowly and irregularly along the curb of the street.The sky was overcast and the air humid.Singer did not raise his head, but as he passed the town pool room he caught a sidewise glance of something that disturbed him.He passed the pool room and then stopped in the middle of the street.Listlessly he retraced his steps and stood before the open door of the place.There were three mutes inside and they were talking with their hands together.All three of them were coatless.They wore bowler hats and bright ties.Each of them held a glass of beer in his left hand.There was a certain brotherly resemblance between them.

Singer went inside. For a moment he had trouble taking his hand from his pocket.Then clumsily he formed a word of greeting.He was clapped on the shoulder.A cold drink was ordered.They surrounded him and the fingers of their hands shot out like pistons as they questioned him.

He told his own name and the name of the town where he lived. After that he could think of nothing else to tell about himself.He asked if they knew Spiros Antonapoulos.They did not know him.Singer stood with his hands dangling loose.His head was still inclined to one side and his glance was oblique.He was so listless and cold that the three mutes in the bowler hats looked at him queerly.After a while they left him out of their conversation.And when they had paid for the rounds of beers and were ready to depart they did not suggest that he join them.

Although Singer had been adrift on the streets for half a day he almost missed his train. It was not clear to him how this happened or how he had spent the hours before.He reached the station two minutes before the train pulled out, and barely had time to drag his luggage aboard and find a seat.The car he chose was almost empty.When he was settled he opened the crate of strawberries and picked them over with finicky care.The berries were of a giant size, large as walnuts and in fullblown ripeness.The green leaves at the top of the rich-colored fruit were like tiny bouquets.Singer put a berry in his mouth and though the juice had a lush, wild sweetness there was already a subtle flavor of decay.He ate until his palate was dulled by the taste and then rewrapped the crate and placed it on the rack above him.At midnight he drew the windowshade and lay down on the seat.He was curled in a ball, his coat pulled over his face and head.In this position he lay in a stupor of half-sleep for about twelve hours.The conductor had to shake him when they arrived.

Singer left his luggage in the middle of the station floor. Then he walked to the shop.He greeted the jeweler for whom he worked with a listless turn of his head.When he went out again there was something heavy in his pocket.For a while he rambled with bent head along the streets.But the unrefracted brilliance of the sun, the humid heat, oppressed him.He returned to his room with swollen eyes and an aching head.After resting he drank a glass of iced coffee and smoked a cigarette.Then when he had washed the ash tray and the glass he brought out a pistol from his pocket and put a bullet in his chest.