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[Novel] 《肖申克的救赎》-----《The Shawshank Redemption》完结

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Chapter 20

'No, sir,' Andy broke in again. 'No, that isn't true. Because-' 'Anyway,' Norton overrode him, expansive and loud, 'let's just look at it from the
other end of the telescope, shall we? Suppose -just suppose, now - that there really was a fellow named Elwood Blotch.'
'Blatch,' Andy said tightly.
'Blatch, by all means. And let's say he was Thomas Williams's cellmate in Rhode Island. The chances are excellent that he has been released by now. Excellent. Why, we don't even know how much time he might have done there before he ended up with Williams, do we? Only that he was doing a six-to-twelve.'
'No. We don't know how much time he'd done. But Tommy said he was a bad actor, a cut-up. I think there's a fair chance that he may still be in. Even if he's been released, the prison will have a record of his last known address, the names of his relatives -' 'And both would almost certainly be dead ends.'
Andy was silent for a moment, and then he burst out: 'Well, it's a chance, isn't it?'
'Yes, of course it is. So just for a moment, Dufresne, let's assume that Blatch exists and that he is still safely ensconced in the Rhode Island State Penitentiary. Now what is he going to say if we bring this kettle of fish to him in a bucket? Is he going to fall down on his knees, roil his eyes, and say "I did it! I did it! By all means add a life term onto my burglary charge!"?'
'How can you be so obtuse?' Andy said, so low that Chester could barely hear. But he heard the warden just fine.
'What? What did you call me?'
'Obtuse? Andy cried. 'Is it deliberate?'
'Dufresne, you've taken five minutes of my time - no, seven - and I have a very busy schedule today. So I believe we'll just declare this little meeting closed and -'
'The country club will have ail the old time-cards, don't you realize that?' Andy shouted. They'll have tax-forms and W-2s and unemployment compensation forms, all
with his name on them! There will be employees there now that were there then, maybe Briggs himself! It's been fifteen years, not forever! They'll remember him! They will remember Blotch! If I've got Tommy to testify to what Blatch told him, and Briggs to testify that Blatch was there, actually working at the country club, I can get a new trial! I can -'
'Guard! Guardl Take this man away!'
'What's the matter with you?' Andy said, and Chester told me he was very nearly screaming by then. 'It's my life, my chance to get out, don't you see that? And you won't make a single long-distance call to at least verify Tommy's story? Listen, I'll pay for the call! I'll pay for -' Then there was a sound of thrashing as the guards grabbed him and started to drag him out.
'Solitary,' Warden Norton said dryly. He was probably - gering his thirty-year pin as he said it 'Bread and water.'
And so they dragged Andy away, totally out of control now, still screaming at the warden; Chester said you could hear him even after the door was shut: 'It's my life! It's my life, don't you understand it's my life?'
Twenty days on the grain and drain train for Andy down there in solitary. It was his second jolt in solitary, and his dust -up with Norton was his first real black mark since he had joined our happy little family.
I'll tell you a little bit about Shawshank's solitary while we're on the subject. It's something of a throwback to those hardy pioneer days of the early-to-mid-1700s in Maine. In ...those days no one wasted much time with such things as 'penalogy' and 'rehabilitation' and 'selective perception'. In, those days, you were taken care of in terms of absolute black and white. You were either guilty or innocent. If you were guilty, you were either hung or put in gaol. And if you were sentenced to gaol, you did not go to an institution. No, you dug your own gaol with a spade provided to you by the Province of Maine. You dug it as wide and as deep as you could during the period between sunup and sundown. Then, they gave you a couple of skins and a bucket, and down you went. Once down, the gaoler would bar the top of your hole, throw down some grain or maybe a piece of maggoty meat once or twice a week, and maybe there would be a dipperful; barley soup on Sunday night. You pissed in the bucket, and you held up the same bucket for water when the gaoler came around at six in the morning. When it rained, you used the bucket to bail out your gaol-cell ... unless, that is, you wanted to drown like a rat in a rainbarrel.
No one spent a long time 'in the hole', as it was called; thirty months was an unusually long term, and so far as I've been able to tell, the longest term ever spent from which an inmate actually emerged alive was served by the so-called 'Durham Boy', a fourteen-year-old psychopath who castrated a schoolmate with a piece of rusty metal. He did seven years, but of course he went in young and strong.
You have to remember that for a crime that was more serious than petty theft or blasphemy or forgetting to put a snotrag in your pocket when out of doors on the Sabbath, you were hung. For low crimes such as those just mentioned and for others like them, you'd do your three or six or nine months in the hole and come out fishbelly white, cringing from the wide-open spaces, your eyes half-blind, your teeth more than likely rocking and rolling in their sockets from the scurvy, your feet crawling with fungus. Jolly old Province of Maine. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.
Shawshank's Solitary Wing was nowhere as bad as that... I guess. Things come in three major degrees in the human experience, I think. There's good, bad, and terrible.
And as you go down into progressive darkness towards terrible, it gets harder and harder to make subdivisions.
To get to Solitary Wing you were led down twenty-three steps to a basement level where the only sound was the drip of water. The only light was supplied by a series of dangling sixty-watt bulbs. The cells were keg-shaped, like those wall-safes rich people sometimes hide behind a picture. Like a safe, the round doorways were hinged, and solid instead of barred. You get ventilation from above, but no light except for your own sixty-watt bulb, which was turned off from a master-switch promptly at eight p.m., an hour before lights-out in the rest of the prison. The wire wasn't in a wire mesh cage or anything like that. The feeling was that if you wanted to exist down there in the dark, you were welcome to it. Not many did ... but after eight, of course, you had no choice. You had a bunk bolted to the wall and a can with no toilet seat. You had three ways to spend your time: sitting, shitting, or sleeping. Big choice. Twenty days could get to seem like a year. Thirty days could seem like two, and forty days like ten. Sometimes you could hear rats in the ventilation system. In a situation like that, subdivisions of terrible tend to get lost.

　　“不，先生，”安迪急道，“不是这样的，因为——”
　　“总之，”诺顿故意提高声调压过他，“让我们从另一个角度来看这件事好吗？假定——只是假定——假定真有这么一个叫布劳契的家伙。”
　　“布拉契。”安迪连忙道。
　　“好吧，布拉契，就说他是汤米在罗德岛监狱的牢友。非常可能他已经出狱了，很好。我们甚至不知道他和汤米关在一起时，已经关在牢里多久了？只知道他应该坐六至十二年的牢。”
　　“不，我们不知道他关了多久，但汤米说他一向表现很差，我想他很有可能还在狱中。即使他被放出来，监狱一定会留下他的地址、他亲人的名字——”
　　“从这两个资料几乎都不可能查得出任何结果。”
　　安迪沉默了一会儿，然后脱口而出：“但这总是个机会吧？不是吗？”
　　“是的，当然。所以，让我们假设真有这么一个布拉契存在，而且仍然关在罗德岛监狱里。如果我们拿这件事去问他，他会有什么反应？他难道会马上跪下来，两眼往上一翻说：‘是我干的！我干的！判我无期徒刑吧！’”
　　“你怎么这么迟钝？”安迪说。他的声音很低，老柴士特几乎听不清，不过他清清楚楚听到典狱长的话。
　　“什么？你说我什么？”
　　“迟钝！”安迪嚷着，“是故意的吗？”
　　“杜佛尼，你已经浪费我五分钟的时间了，不，七分钟，我今天忙得很，我看我们的谈话就到此为止吧——”
　　“高尔夫球俱乐部也会有旧出勤纪录，你没想到吗？”安迪喊道，“他们一定还保留了报税单、失业救济金申请表等各种档案，上面都会有他的名字。这件事才发生了不过十五年，他们一定还记得他！他们会记得布拉契的。汤米可以作证布拉契说过这些话，而乡村俱乐部的经理也可以出面作证布拉契确实在那儿工作过。我可以要求重新开庭！我可以——”
　　“警卫！警卫！把这个人拉出去！”
　　“你到底是怎么回事呀？”安迪说。老柴士特告诉我，安迪那时几乎在尖叫了。“这是我的人生、我出去的机会，你看不出来吗？你不会打个长途电话过去查问，至少查证一下汤米的说法吗？我会付电话费的，我会——”
　　这时响起一阵杂沓的脚步声，守卫进来把他拖出去。
　　“单独关禁闭，”诺顿说，大概一边说一边摸着他的三十年纪念襟章，“只给水和面包。”
　　于是他们把完全失控的安迪拖出去，他一路喊着：“这是我的人生、我的人生，你不懂吗？我的人生——”
　　安迪在禁闭室关了二十天，这是他第二次关禁闭，也是他加入这个快乐家庭以来，第一次被诺顿在纪录簿上狠狠记上一笔。
　　当我们谈到这件事时，我得告诉你一些有关禁闭室的事。我们缅因州的禁闭室是十八世纪拓荒时代的产物。在那时候，没有人会浪费时间在“狱政学”或“改过自新”和“选择性认知”这些名词上，那是个非黑即白的年代，你不是无辜，就是有罪。如果有罪，不是绞刑，便是下狱。如果被判下狱，可没有什么监狱给你住，缅因州政府会给你一把锄头，让你从日出挖到日落，给自己掘个坑，然后给你几张兽皮和一个水桶，要你躺进自己掘的洞里。下去后，狱卒便把洞口用铁栅给盖上，再扔进一些谷物，或者一个星期给你一两块肉，周日晚上说不定还会有一点大麦粥吃吃。你小便在桶里，狱卒每天早上六点的时候会来倒水，你也拿同一个桶子去接水。天下雨时，你还可以拿这个桶把雨水舀出洞外……除非你想像老鼠一样溺死在洞里。
　　没有人会在这种洞中住太久，三十个月已经算很厉害了。据我所知，在这种坑中待得最久、还能活着出来的是一个十四岁的精神病患者，他用一块生锈的金属片把同学的命根子给剁了。他在洞内待了七年，不过当然是因为他还年轻力壮。
　　你得记住，当年只要比偷东西、亵渎或在安息日出门时忘了带手帕擤鼻涕等过错还严重些的罪名，都可能被判绞刑。至于上述这些过错和其他轻罪的处罚，就是在那种地洞中关上三至六个月或者九个月。等你出来时，你会全身像鱼肚一样白，眼睛半瞎，牙齿动摇，脚上长满真菌。
　　肖申克的禁闭室倒没有那么糟……我猜。人类的感受大致可分为三种程度：好、坏和可怕。当你朝着可怕的方向步入越来越黑暗的地方时，再进一步分类会越来越难。
　　关禁闭的时候，你得走下二十三级楼梯才会到禁闭室。那儿惟一的声音是滴答的水声，惟一的灯光是来自一些摇摇欲坠的六十瓦灯泡发出的微光。地窖成桶状，就好像有钱人有时候藏在画像后面的保险柜一样，圆形的出入口也像保险柜一样，是可以开关的实心门，而不是栅栏。禁闭室的通风口在上面，但没有任何光亮会从上面透进来，只靠一个小灯泡照明。每天晚上八点钟，监狱的主控室就会准时关掉禁闭室的灯，比其他牢房早一个小时。如果你喜欢所有时间都生活在黑暗中，他们也可以这样安排，但没有多少人会这么做……不过八点钟过后，你就没有选择的余地了。墙边有张床，还有个尿罐，但没有马桶座。打发时间的方法只有三种：坐着、拉屎或睡觉，真是伟大的选择！在那里度过二十天，就好像过了一年一样。三十天仿佛两年，四十天则像十年一样。有时你会听到老鼠在通风系统中活动的声音，在这种情况下，连害怕都不知为何物了。

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举报只看该作者 21楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 21

If anything at all can be said in favour of solitary, it's just that you get time to think. Andy had twenty days in which to think while he enjoyed his grain and drain, and when he got out he requested another meeting with the warden. Request denied. Such a meeting, the warden told him, would be 'counter-productive'. That's another of those phrases you have to master before you can go to work in the prisons and corrections field.
Patiently, Andy renewed his request. And renewed it. And renewed it. He had changed, had Andy Dufresne. Suddenly, as that spring of 1963 bloomed around us, there were lines in his face and sprigs of grey showing in his hair. He had lost that little trace of a smile that always seemed to linger around his mouth. His eyes stared out into space more often, and you get to know that when a man stares that way, he is counting up the years served, the months, the weeks, the days.
He renewed his request, and renewed i.t He was patient. He had nothing but time. It got to be summer. In Washington, President Kennedy was promising a fresh assault on poverty and on civil rights inequalities, not knowing he had only half a year to live. In Liverpool, a musical group called The Beatles was emerging as a force to be reckoned with in British music, but I guess that no one Stateside had yet heard of them. The Boston Red Sox, still four years away from what New England folks call The Miracle of '67, were languishing in the cellar of the American League. All of those things were going on out in a larger world where people walked free.
Norton saw him near the end of June, and this conversation I heard about from Andy himself some seven years later.
'If it's the money, you don't have to worry,' Andy told Norton in a low voice. 'Do you think I'd talk that up? I'd be cutting my own throat I'd be just as indictable as -'
'That's enough,' Norton interrupted. His face was as long and cold as a slate gravestone. He leaned back in his office chair until the back of his head almost touched the sampler reading HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY.
'But-'
'Don't you ever mention money to me again,' Norton said. 'Not in this office, not anywhere. Not unless you want to see that library turned back into a storage room and
paint-locker again. Do you understand?'
'I was trying to set your mind at ease, that's all.'
'Well now, when I need a sorry son of a bitch like you to set my mind at ease, I'll retire. I agreed to this appointment because I got tired of being pestered, ufresne.
I want it to stop. If you want to buy this particular Brooklyn Bridge, that's your affair. Don't make it mine. I could hear crazy stories like yours twice a week if I wanted to lay myself open to them. Every sinner in this place would be using me for a crying towel. I had more respect for you. But this is the end. The end. Have we got an understanding?'
'Yes,' Andy said. 'But I'll be hiring a lawyer, you know.'
'What in God's name for?'
'I think we can put it together,' Andy said. 'With Tommy Williams and with my testimony and corroborative testimony from records and employees at the country club, I think we can put it together.' 'Tommy Williams is no longer an inmate of this facility.'
'What?'
'He's been transferred.'
'Transferred where?'
'Cashman.'
At that, Andy fell silent. He was an intelligent man, but it would have taken an extraordinarily stupid man not to smelt deal all over that. Cashman was a minimum -security prison far up north in Aroostook County. The inmates pick a lot of potatoes, and that's hard work, but they are paid a decent wage for their labour and they can attend classes at CVI, a pretty decent vocational-technical institute, if they so desire. More important to a fellow like Tommy, a fellow with a young wife and a child, Cashman had a furlough programme ... which meant a chance to live like a normal man, at least on the weekends. A chance to build a model plane with his kid, have sex with his wife, maybe go on a picnic.
Norton had almost surely dangled all of that under Tommy's nose with only one string attached: not one more word about Elwood Blatch, not now, not ever. Or you'll end up doing hard time in Thomaston down there on scenic Route 1 with the real hard guys, and instead of having sex with your wife you'll be having it with some old bull queer.
'But why?' Andy said. 'Why would -'
'As a favour to you,' Norton said calmly, 'I checked with Rhode Island. They did have an inmate named Elwood Blatch. He was given what they call a PP - provisional parole, another one of these crazy liberal programmes to put criminals out on the streets. He's since disappeared.'
Andy said: 'The warden down there ... is he a friend of yours?'
Sam Norton gave Andy a smile as cold as a deacon's watchchain. 'We are acquainted,' he said.
'Why?' Andy repeated. 'Can't you tell me why you did it? You knew I wasn't going to talk about ... about anything you might have had going. You knew that. So why?'
'Because people like you make me sick,' Norton said deliberately. 'I like you right where you are, Mr Dufresne, and as long as I am warden here at Shawshank, you are going to be right here. You see, you used to think that you were better than anyone else. I have gotten pretty good at seeing that on a man's face. I marked it on yours the first time I walked into the library. It might as well have been written on your forehead in capital letters. That look is gone now, and I like that just fine. It is not just that you are a useful vessel, never think that. It is simply that men like you need to learn humility. Why, you used to walk around that exercise yard as if it was a living room and you were at one of those cocktail parties where the hellhound walk around coveting each others' wives and husbands and getting swinishly drunk.
But you don't walk around that way anymore. And I'll be watching to see if you should start to walk that way again. Over a period of years, I'll be watching you with great pleasure. Now get the hell out of here.'
'Okay. But all the extracurricular activities stop now, Norton. The investment counselling, the scams, the free tax advice. It all stops. Get H & R Block to tell you how to declare your extortionate income.'
Warden Norton's face first went brick-red ... and then all the colour fell out of it 'You're going back into solitary for that Thirty days. Bread and water. Another black mark. And while you're in, think about this: if anything that's been going on should stop, the library goes. I will make it my personal business to see that it goes back to what it was before you came here. And I will make your life... very hard. Very difficult. You'll do the hardest time it's possible to do. You'll lose that one-bunk Hilton down in Cellblock 5, for starters, and you'll lose those rocks on the windowsill, and you'll lose any protection the guards have given you against the sodomites. You will... lose everything. Clear?'

　　要说待在禁闭室有什么好处的话，那就是你有很多时间思考。安迪在享受面包与水的二十天里，好好思考了一番。当他出来后，他再度求见典狱长，但遭到拒绝，典狱长说类似的会晤会产生“反效果”，如果你想从事狱政或惩治工作的话，这是另一个你得先精通的术语。
　　安迪很有耐心地再度求见典狱长，接着再度提出请求。他变了。一九六三年，当春回大地的时候，安迪脸上出现了皱纹，头上长出灰发，嘴角惯有的微笑也不见了。目光茫然一片。当一个人开始像这样发呆时，你知道他正在数着他已经度过了多少年、多少月、多少星期，甚至多少天的牢狱之灾。
　　他很有耐性，不断提出请求。他除了时间之外一无所有。夏天到了，肯尼迪总统在华盛顿首府承诺将大力扫除贫穷和消除不平等，浑然不知自己只剩下半年的寿命了。在英国利物浦，一个名叫“披头士”的合唱团正冒出头来，但在美国，还没有人知道披头士是何方神圣。还有波士顿红袜队这时仍然在美国联盟垫底，还要再过四年，才到了新英格兰人所说的“一九六七奇迹年”。所有这些事情都发生在外面那个广大的自由世界里。
　　诺顿终于在六月底接见安迪，七年以后，我才亲自从安迪口中得知那次谈话的内容。
　　“如果是为了钱的事，你不用担心，”安迪压低了声音对诺顿说，“你以为我会说出去吗？我这样是自寻死路，我也一样会被控——”
　　“够了，”诺顿打断道。他的脸拉得老长，冷得像墓碑，他拼命往椅背上靠，后脑勺几乎碰到墙上那幅写着“主的审判就要来临”的刺绣。
　　“但——”
　　“永远不要在我面前提到‘钱’这个字，”诺顿说，“不管在这个办公室或任何地方都一样，除非你想让图书馆变回储藏室，你懂吗？”
　　“我只是想让你安心而已。”
　　“呐，我要是需要一个成天哭丧着脸的龟儿子来安我的心，那我不如退休算了。我同意和你见面，是因为我已经厌倦了和你继续纠缠下去，杜佛尼，你要适可而止。如果你想要买下布鲁克林桥，那是你的事，别扯到我头上，如果我容许每个人来跟我说这些疯话，那么这里每个人都会来找我诉苦。我一向很尊重你，但这件事就到此为止了，你懂吗？”
　　“我知道，”安迪说，“但我会请个律师。”
　　“做什么？”
　　“我想我们可以把整件事情拼凑起来。有了汤米和我的证词，再加上法庭纪录和乡村俱乐部员工的证词，我想我们可以拼凑出当时的真实情况。”
　　“汤米已经不在这里服刑了。”
　　“什么？”
　　“他转到别的监狱去了。”
　　“转走了，转到哪里？”
　　“凯西门监狱。”
　　安迪陷入沉默。他是个聪明人，但如果你还嗅不出当中的各种交易条件的话，就真的太笨了。凯西门位于北边的阿鲁斯托库县，是个比较开放的监狱。那里的犯人平常需要挖马铃薯，虽然工作辛苦，不过却可以得到合理的报酬，而且如果他们愿意的话，还可以到学校参加各种技能训练。更重要的是，对像汤米这种有太太小孩的人，凯西门有一套休假制度，可以让他在周末时过着正常人的生活，换言之，他可以和太太亲热，和小孩一起建造模型飞机，或者全家出外野餐。
　　诺顿一定是把这一切好处全摊在汤米面前，他对汤米的惟一要求是，从此不许再提布拉契三个字，否则就把他送到可怕的汤姆森监狱，不但无法和老婆亲热，反而得侍候一些老同性恋。
　　“为什么？”安迪问，“你为什么——”
　　“我已经帮了你一个忙，”诺顿平静地说，“我查过罗德岛监狱，他们确实曾经有个叫布拉契的犯人，但由于所谓的‘暂时性假释计划’，他已经假释出狱了，从此不见踪影。这些自由派的疯狂计划简直放任罪犯在街头闲晃。”
　　安迪说：“那儿的典狱长……是你的朋友吗？”
　　诺顿冷冷一笑，“我认得他。”他说。
　　“为什么？”安迪又重复一遍，“你为什么要这么做？你知道我不会乱说话……不会说出你的事情，你明明知道，为什么还要这么做？”
　　“因为像你这种人让我觉得很恶心，”诺顿不慌不忙地说，“我喜欢你现在的状况，杜佛尼先生，而且只要我在肖申克当典狱长一天，你就得继续待在这里。从前你老是以为你比别人优秀，我很擅于从别人脸上看出这样的神情，从第一天走进图书馆的时候，我就注意到你脸上的优越感。现在，这种表情不见了，我觉得这样很好。你别老以为自己很有用，像你这种人需要学会谦虚一点。以前你在运动场上散步时，好像老把那里当成自家客厅，神气得像在参加鸡尾酒会，你在跟别人的先生或太太寒暄似的，但你现在不再带着那种神情走在路上了。我会继续注意你，看看你会不会又出现那种样子。未来几年，我会很乐意继续观察你的表现。现在给我滚出去！”
　　“好，但我们之间的所有活动到此为止，诺顿。所有的投资咨询、免税指导都到此为止，你去找其他囚犯教你怎么申报所得税吧！”
　　诺顿的脸先是变得如砖块一般红……然后颜色全部褪去。“你现在回到禁闭室，再关个三十天，只准吃面包和水，你的纪录上再记一笔。进去后好好想一想，如果你胆敢停掉这一切的话，图书馆也要关门大吉，我一定会想办法让图书馆恢复你进来前的样子，而且我会让你的日子非常……非常难过。你休想再继续一个人住在第五区的希尔顿饭店单人房，你休想继续保存窗台上的石头，警卫也不再保护你不受那些男同性恋的侵犯，你会失去一切，听懂了吗？”

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举报只看该作者 22楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 22

I guess it was clear enough.
Time continued to pass - the oldest trick in the world, and maybe the only one that really is magic. But Andy Dufresne had changed. He had grown harder. That's the only way I can think of to put it. He went on doing Warden Norton's dirty work and he held onto the library, so outwardly things were about the same. He continued to have his birthday drinks and his New Year's Eve drinks; he continued to share out the rest of each bottle. I got him fresh rock-polishing cloths from time to time, and in 1967 I got him a new rock-hammer - the one I'd gotten him nineteen years ago had plumb worn out. Nineteen years! When you say it sudden like that, those three syllables sound like the thud and double-locking of a tomb door. The rock-hammer, which had been a ten-dollar item back then, went for twenty-two by '67. He and I had a sad little grin over that.
Andy continued to shape and polish the rocks he found in the exercise yard, but the yard was smaller by then; half of what had been there in 1950 had been asphalted over in 1962. Nonetheless, he found enough to keep him occupied, I guess. When he had finished with each rock he would put it carefully on his window ledge, which faced east. He told me he liked to look at them in the sun, the pieces of the planet he had taken up from the dirt and shaped. Schists, quartzes, granites. Funny little mica sculptures that were held together with airplane glue. Various sedimentary conglomerates that were polished and cut in such a way that you could see why Andy called them 'millennium sandwiches' - the layers of different material that had built up over a period of decades and centuries.
Andy would give his stones and his rock-sculptures away from time to time in order to make room for new ones. He gave me the greatest number, I think - counting the stones that looked like matched cufflinks, I had five. There was one of the mica sculptures I told you about, carefully crafted to look like a man throwing a javelin, and two of the sedimentary conglomerates, all the levels showing in smoothly polished cross-section. I've still got them, and I take them down every so often and think about what a man can do, if he has time enough and the will to use it, a drop at a time.
So, on the outside, at least, things were about the same. If Norton had wanted to break Andy as badly as he had said, he would have had to look below the surface to see the change. But if he had seen how different Andy had become, I think Norton would have been well-satisfied with the four years following his clash with Andy.
He had told Andy that Andy walked around the exercise yard as if he were at a cocktail party. That isn't the way I would have put it, but I know what he meant. It goes back to what I said about Andy wearing his freedom like an invisible coat, about how he never really developed a prison mentality. His eyes never got that dull look. He never developed the walk that men get when the day is over and they are going back to their cells for another endless night - that flat-footed, hump-shouldered walk.
Andy walked with his shoulders squared and his step was always light, as if he was heading home to a good home-cooked meal and a good woman instead of to a tasteless mess of soggy vegetables, lumpy mashed potato, and a slice or two of that fatty, gristly stuff most of the cons called mystery meat ... that, and a picture of Raquel Welch on the wall.
But for those four years, although he never became exactly like the others, he did become silent, introspective, and brooding. Who could blame him? So maybe it was Warden Norton who was pleased ... at least, for a while.
His dark mood broke around the time of the 1967 World Series. That was the dream year, the year the Red Sox won the pennant instead of placing ninth, as the Las Vegas bookies had predicted. When it happened - when they won the American League pennant - a kind of ebullience engulfed the whole prison. There was a goofy sort of feeling that if the Dead Sox could come to life, then maybe anybody could do it. I can't explain that feeling now, any more than an ex-Beatlemaniac could explain that madness, I suppose. But it was real. Every radio in the place was tuned to the games as the Red Sox pounded down the stretch. There was gloom when the Sox dropped a pair in Cleveland near the end, and a nearly riotous joy when Rico Petrocelli put away the pop fly that clinched it. And then there was the gloom that came when Lonborg was beaten in the seventh game of the Series to end the dream just short of complete fruition. It probably pleased Norton to no end, the son of a bitch. He liked his prison wearing sackcloth and ashes. But for Andy, there was no tumble back down into gloom. He wasn't much of a baseball fan anyway, and maybe that was why. Nevertheless, he seemed to have caught the current of good feeling, and for him it didn't peter out again after the last game of the Series. He had taken that invisible coat out of the closet and put it on again.
I remember one bright-gold fall day in very late October, a couple of weeks after the World Series had ended. It must have been a Sunday, because the exercise yard was full of men 'walking off the week' - tossing a Frisbee or two, passing around a football, bartering what they had to barter. Others would be at the long table in the Visitors' Hall, under the watchful eyes of the screws, talking with their relatives, smoking cigarettes, telling sincere lies, receiving their picked-over care packages.
Andy was squatting Indian-fashion against the wall, chunking two small rocks together in his hands, his face turned up into the sunlight. It was surprisingly warm, that sun, for a day so late in the year.
'Hello, Red,' he called. 'Come on and sit a spell.'
I did.
'You want this?' he asked, and handed me one of the two carefully polished 'millennium sandwiches' I just told you about.
'I sure do,' I said. 'It's very pretty. Thank you.'
He shrugged and changed the subject 'Big anniversary coming up for you next year.'
I nodded. Next year would make me a thirty-year man. Sixty per cent of my life spent in Shawshank Prison.
'Think you'll ever get out?'
'Sure. When I have a long white beard and just about three marbles left rolling around upstairs.'
He smiled a little and then turned his face up into the sun again, his eyes closed. 'Feels good.'
'I think it always does when you know the damn winter's almost right on top of you.'
He nodded, and we were silent for a while.
'When I get out of here,' Andy said finally, 'I'm going where it's warm all the time.' He spoke with such calm assurance you would have thought he had only a month or so left to serve. 'You know where I'm goin', Red?'

　　我想他把话说得很清楚了。
　　时间继续一天天过去——这是大自然最古老的手段，或许也是惟一的魔法，安迪变了，他变得更冷酷了，这是我惟一能想到的形容词。他继续掩护诺顿做脏事，也继续管理图书馆，所以从外表看来，一切如常。每年生日和年关岁暮时，他照样会喝上一杯，也继续把剩下的半瓶酒和我分享。我不时为他找来新的磨石布，一九六七年时，我替他弄来一把新锤子，十九年前那把已经坏掉了。十九年了！当你突然说出那几个字时，三个音节仿佛坟墓上响起的重重关门声。当年十元的锤子，到了一九六七年，已经是二十二元了。当我把锤子递给他时，他和我都不禁惨然一笑。
　　他继续打磨从运动场上找到的石头，但运动场变小了，因为其中一半的地在一九六二年铺上了柏油。不过，看来他还是找了不少石头来让自己忙着。每当他琢磨好一块石头后，他会把它放在朝东的窗台上，他告诉我，他喜欢看着从泥土中找到的一块块片岩、石英、花岗岩、云母等，在阳光下闪闪发光，安迪给这些石头起名叫“千年三明治”，因为岩层是经过几十年、几百年，甚至数千年才堆积而成的。
　　隔三差五，安迪会把石雕作品送人，好腾出地方来容纳新琢磨好的石头。他最常送我石头，包括那双袖扣一样的石头，我就有五个，其中有一块好像一个人在掷标熗的云母石，是很小心雕刻出来的。我到现在还保存着这些石头，不时拿出来把玩一番。每当我看见这些石头时，总会想到如果一个人懂得利用时间的话（即使每一次只有一点点时间），一点一滴累积起来，能做出多少事情。
　　所以，表面上一切如常。如果诺顿是存心击垮安迪的话，他必须穿透表面，才能看到个中的变化。但是我想在诺顿和安迪冲突之后的四年中，如果他能看得出安迪的改变，应该会感到很满意，因为安迪变化太大了。
　　他曾经说，安迪在运动场上散步时，就好像参加鸡尾酒会一样。我不会这么形容，但我知道他是什么意思。我以前也说过，自由的感觉仿佛一件隐形外衣披在安迪身上，他从来不曾培养起一种坐牢的心理状态，他的眼光从来不显呆滞，他也从未像其他犯人一样，在一日将尽时，垮着肩膀，拖着沉重的脚步，回到牢房去面对另一个无尽的夜。他总是抬头挺胸，脚步轻快，好像走在回家的路上一样，而家里有香喷喷的晚饭和好女人在等着他，而不是只有食之无味的蔬菜、马铃薯泥和一两块肥肉……，以及墙上的拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报在等着他。
　　但在这四年中，虽然他并没有完全变得像其他人一样，但的确变得沉默、内省，经常若有所思。又怎能怪他呢？不过总算称了诺顿的心……至少有一阵子如此。
　　他的沉郁到了一九六七年职业棒球世界大赛时改变了。那是梦幻的一年，波士顿红袜队不再排第九名敬陪末座，而是正如拉斯维加斯赌盘所预测，赢得美国联盟冠军宝座。在他们赢得胜利的一刹那，整个监狱为之沸腾。大家似乎有个傻念头，觉得如果连红袜队都能起死回生，或许其他人也可以。我现在没办法把那种感觉解释清楚，就好像披头士迷也无法解释他们的疯狂一样。但这是很真实的感觉。当红袜队一步步迈向世界大赛总冠军宝座时，监狱里每个收音机都在收听转播。当红袜队在圣路易的冠军争夺战中连输两场的时候，监狱里一片愁云惨雾；当皮特洛切里演出再见接杀时，所有人欢欣雀跃，简直快把屋顶掀掉了；但最后在世界大赛最关键的第七战，当伦伯格吃下败投、红袜队功亏一篑、冠军梦碎时，大家的心情都跌到谷底。惟有诺顿可能在一旁幸灾乐祸，那个龟儿子，他喜欢监狱里的人整天灰头土脸。
　　但是安迪的心情没有跌到谷底，也许因为反正他原本就不是棒球迷。虽然如此，他似乎感染了这种振奋的气氛，而且这种感觉在红袜队输掉最后一场球赛后，仍然没有消失。他重新从衣柜中拿出自由的隐形外衣，披在身上。
　　我记得在十月底一个高爽明亮的秋日，是棒球赛结束后两周，一定是个星期日，因为运动场上挤满了人，不少人在丢飞盘、踢足球、私下交易，还有一些人在狱卒的监视下，在会客室里和亲友见面、抽烟、说些诚恳的谎话、收下已被狱方检查过的包裹。
　　安迪靠墙蹲着，手上把玩着两块石头，他的脸朝着阳光。在这种季节，这天的阳光算是出奇的暖和。
　　“哈啰，雷德，”他喊道，“过来聊聊。”
　　我过去了。
　　“你要这个吗？”他问道，递给我一块磨亮的“千年三明治”。
　　“当然好，”我说，“真美，多谢。”
　　他耸耸肩，改变话题，“明年是你的大日子了。”
　　我点点头，明年是我入狱三十周年纪念日，我一生中百分之六十的光阴都在肖申克州立监狱中度过。
　　“你想你出得去吗？”
　　“当然，到时我应该胡子已经花白，嘴里只剩三颗摇摇欲坠的牙齿了。”
　　他微微一笑，把脸又转向阳光，闭上眼，“感觉真舒服。”
　　“我想只要你知道该死的冬天马上来到，一定会有这种感觉。”
　　他点点头。我们都沉默下来。
　　“等我出去后，”安迪最后说，“我一定要去一个一年到头都有阳光的地方。”他说话那种泰然自若的神情，仿佛他还有一个月便要出去似的。“你知道我会上哪儿吗，雷德？”

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举报只看该作者 23楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 23

'Nope.'
'Zihuatanejo,' he said, rolling the word softly from his tongue like music. 'Down in Mexico. It's a little place maybe twenty miles from Playa Azul and Mexico Highway 37. It's a hundred miles north-west of Acapulco on the Pacific Ocean. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific?'
I told him I didn't.
They say it has no memory. And that's where I want to finish out my life, Red. In a warm place that has no memory.'
He had picked up a handful of pebbles as he spoke; now he tossed them, one by one, and watched them bounce and roll across the baseball diamond's dirt infield, which would be under a foot of snow before long.
'Zihuatanejo. I'm going to have a little hotel down there. Six cabanas along the beach, and six more set further back, for the highway trade. I'll have a guy who'll take my guests out charter fishing. There'll be a trophy for the guy who catches the biggest marlin of the season, and I'll put his picture up in the lobby. It won't be a family place. It'll be a place for people on their honeymoons ... first or second varieties.'
'And where are you going to get the money to buy this fabulous place?' I asked. 'Your stock account?'
He looked at me and smiled. 'That's not so far wrong,' he said. 'Sometimes you startle me, Red.'
'What are you talking about?'
'There are really only two types of men in the world when it comes to bad trouble,' Andy said, cupping a match between his hands and lighting a cigarette. 'Suppose there was a house full of rare paintings and sculptures and fine old antiques, Red? And suppose the guy who owned the house heard that there was a monster of a hurricane headed right at it. One of those two kinds of men just hopes for the best. The hurricane will change course, he says to himself. No right-thinking hurricane would ever dare wipe out all these Rembrandts, my two Degas horses, my Jackson Pollocks and my Paul Klees. Furthermore, God wouldn't allow it. And if worst comes to worst, they're insured. That's one sort of man. The other sort just assumes that hurricane is going to tear right through the middle of his house. If the weather bureau says the hurricane just changed course, this guy assumes it'll change back in order to put his house on ground zero again. This second type of guy knows there's no harm in hoping for the best as long as you're prepared for the worst.'
I lit a cigarette of my own. 'Are you saying you prepared for the eventuality?'
'Yes. I prepared for the hurricane. I knew how bad it looked. I didn't have much time, but in the time I had, I operated. I had a friend - just about the only person who stood by me - who worked for an investment company in Portland. He died about six years ago.'
'Sorry.'
'Yeah.' Andy tossed his butt away. 'Linda and I had about fourteen thousand dollars. Not a big bundle, but hell, we were young. We had our whole lives ahead of us.' He grimaced a little, then laughed. 'When the shit hit the fan, I started lugging my Rembrandts out of the path of the hurricane. I sold my stocks and paid the capital gains tax just like a good little boy. Declared everything. Didn't cut any corners.'
'Didn't they freeze your estate?'
'I was charged with murder, Red, not dead! You can't freeze the assets of an innocent man - thank God. And it was a while before they even got brave enough to charge me with the crime. Jim - my friend - and I, we had some time. I got hit pretty good, just dumping everything like that. Got my nose skinned. But at the time I had worse things to worry about than a small skinning on the stock market.'
'Yeah, I'd say you did.'
'But when I came to Shawshank it was all safe. It's still safe. Outside these walls, Red, there's a man that no living soul has ever seen face to face. He has a Social Security card and a Maine driver's license. He's got a birth certificate. Name of Peter Stevens. Nice, anonymous name, huh?'
'Who is he?' I asked. I thought I knew what he was going to say, but I couldn't believe it.
'Me.'
'You're not going to tell me that you had time to set up a false identity while the bulls were sweating you,' I said, 'or that you finished the job while you were on trial for -' 'No, I'm not going to tell you that. My friend Jim was the one who set up the false identity. He started after my appeal was turned down, and the major pieces of identification were in his hands by the spring of 1950.'
'He must have been a pretty close friend,' I said. I was not sure how much of this I believed - a little, a lot, or none. But the day was warm and the sun was out, and it was one hell of a good story. 'All of that's one hundred per cent illegal, setting up a false ID like that.'
'He was a close friend,' Andy said. 'We were in the war together. France, Germany, the occupation. He was a good friend. He knew it was illegal, but he also knew that setting up a false identity in this country is very easy and very safe. He took my money my money with all the taxes on it paid so the IRS wouldn't get too interested - and invested it for Peter Stevens. He did that in 1950 and 1951. Today it amounts to three hundred and seventy thousand dollars, plus change.'
I guess my jaw made a thump when it dropped against my chest, because he smiled.
'Think of all the things people wish they'd invested in since 1950 or so, and two or three of them will be things Peter Stevens was into. If I hadn't ended up in here, I'd probably be worth seven or eight million bucks by now. I'd have a Rolls ... and probably an ulcer as big as a portable radio.'
His hands went to the dirt and began sifting out more pebbles. They moved gracefully, restlessly.
'I was hoping for the best and expecting the worst -nothing but that The false name was just to keep what little capital I had untainted. It was lugging the paintings out of the path of the hurricane. But I had no idea that the hurricane ... that it could go on as long as it has.'
I didn't say anything for a while. I guess I was trying to absorb the idea that this small, spare man in prison grey next to me could be worth more money than Warden Norton would make in the rest of his miserable life, even with the scams thrown in.

　　“不知道。”
　　“齐华坦尼荷，”他说，轻轻吐出这几个字，像是唱歌似的，“在墨西哥，距墨西哥三十七号公路和仆拉雅阿苏约二十英里，距太平洋边的阿卡波哥约一百英里的小镇，你知道墨西哥人怎么形容太平洋吗？”
　　我说我不知道。
　　“他们说太平洋是没有记忆的，所以我要到那儿去度我的余生。雷德，在一个没有记忆、温暖的地方。”
　　他一面说，一面捡起一把小石头，然后再一个个扔出去，看着石头滚过棒球场的内野地带。不久以后，这里就会覆上一英尺白雪。
　　“齐华坦尼荷。我要在那里经营一家小旅馆。在海滩上盖六间小屋，另外六间靠近公路。我会找个人驾船带客人出海钓鱼，钓到最大一条马林鱼的人还可以获得奖杯，我会把他的照片放在大厅中，这不会是给全家老少住的那种旅馆，而是专给来度蜜月的人住的……。”
　　“你打哪来的钱去买这么一个像仙境的地方？”我问道，“你的股票吗？”
　　他看着我微笑道，“差不多耶，”他说，“雷德，你有时真令我吃惊。”
　　“你在说什么呀？”
　　“陷入困境时，人的反应其实只有两种，”安迪说，他圈起手，划了一根火柴，点燃香烟。“假设有间屋子里满是稀有的名画古董，雷德？再假设屋主听说有飓风要来？他可能会有两种反应：第一种人总是怀抱最乐观的期望，认为飓风或许会转向，老天爷不会让该死的飓风摧毁了伦勃朗、德加的名画；万一飓风真的来了，反正这些东西也都保过险了。另一种人认定飓风一定会来，他的屋子绝对会遭殃。如果气象局说飓风转向了，这个家伙仍然假定飓风会回过头来摧毁他的房子。因此他做了最坏的打算，因为他知道只要为最坏的结果预先做好准备，那么抱着乐观的期望就没关系。”
　　我也点燃了根烟。“你是说你已经为未来做好准备了吗？”
　　“是的，我是预备飓风会来的那种人，我知道后果会有多糟，当时我没有多少时间，但在有限的时间里，我采取了行动。我有个朋友——差不多是惟一支持我的人——他在波特兰一家投资公司做事，六年前过世了。”
　　“我为你感到难过。”
　　“嗯，”安迪说，把烟蒂丢掉，“琳达和我有大约一万四千元的积蓄，数目不大，但那时我们都还年轻，大好前程摆在我们面前。”他做了个鬼脸，然后大笑，“起风时，我开始把伦勃朗的名画移到没有飓风的地方。所以我卖掉股票，像一般好公民一样乖乖付税，丝毫不敢有所隐瞒或抄捷径。”
　　“他们没有冻结你的财产吗？”
　　“我是被控谋杀，雷德，我不是死掉！感谢上苍，他们不能随意冻结无辜者的财产，而且当时他们也还没有以谋杀的罪名指控我。我的朋友吉米和我当时还有一点时间，我的损失还不小，匆匆忙忙地卖掉了所有的股票什么的。不过当时我需要担心的问题，比在股市小小失血要严重多了。”
　　“是呀，我猜也是。”
　　“我来到肖申克时，这笔钱很安全，现在也仍然很安全。雷德，在外面的世界里有一个人，从来没有人亲眼见过他，但是他有一张社会保险卡和缅因州的驾照，还有出生证明。他叫彼得·斯蒂芬，这个匿名还不错吧？”
　　“这个人是谁？”我问。我想我知道他要说什么，但我觉得难以置信。
　　“我。”
　　“你要跟我说在这些人对付你的时候，你还有时间弄一个假身份？”我说，“还是在你受审的时候，一切已经都弄妥了——”
　　“我不会这样跟你说，是我的朋友吉米帮我弄的，他是在我上诉被驳回以后开始办的，直到一九五〇年春天，他都还保管着这些身份证件。”
　　“你们的交情一定很深，因为这样做绝对犯法。”我说，我不敢确定他的话有多少可信——大部分是真的，只有一点点可以相信，还是全部都不能相信。但那天太阳露脸了，是个暖和的好天气，而这又是个好故事。
　　“他和我是很好的朋友，”安迪说，“我们打仗时就在一起，去过法国、德国，他是个好朋友。他知道这样做是不合法的，但他也知道在美国要假造身份很容易，而且也很安全。他把我所有的钱都投资在彼得·斯蒂芬名下——所有该付的税都付了，因此国税局不会来找麻烦。他把这笔钱拿去投资时，是一九五〇年和一九五一年，到今天，这笔钱已经超过三十七万元了。”
　　我猜我讶异得下巴落到胸口时，一定发出了“砰”的一声，因为他笑了。
　　“想想看，很多人常常惋惜，假如他们在一九五〇年就懂得投资这个那个就好了，而彼得·斯蒂芬正是把钱投资在其中的两三个项目。如果我不是被关在这里，我早就有七八百万的身价了，可以开着劳斯莱斯汽车……说不定还有严重的胃溃疡。”
　　他又抓起一把尘土，优雅地让小砂子在指尖慢慢流过。
　　“怀抱着最好的希望，但预做最坏的打算——如此而已。捏造假名只是为了保存老本，只不过是在飓风来临之前，先把古董字画搬走罢了。但是我从来不曾料想到，这飓风……竟然会吹这么久。”
　　我有好一阵子没说话。我在想，蹲在我身旁这个穿灰色囚衣的瘦小男子，他所拥有的财富恐怕是诺顿一辈子都赚不到的，即使加上他贪污来的钱，都还是望尘莫及。

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Chapter 24

'When you said you could get a lawyer, you sure weren't kidding,' I said at last 'For that kind of dough you could have hired Clarence Darrow, or whoever's passing for him these days. Why didn't you, Andy? Christ! You could have been out of here like a rocket.' He smiled. It was the same smile that had been on his face when he'd told me he and his wife had had their whole lives ahead of them. 'No,' he said.
'A good lawyer would have sprung the Williams kid from Cashman whether he wanted to go or not,' I said. I was getting carried away now. 'You could have gotten your new trial, hired private detectives to look for that guy Blatch, and blown Norton out of the water to boot. Why not, Andy?'
'Because I outsmarted myself. If I ever try to put my hands on Peter Stevens's money from inside here, I'd lose every cent of it. My friend Jim could have arranged it, but Jim's dead. You see the problem?'
I saw it. For all the good the money could do Andy, it might as well have really belonged to another person. In a way, it did. And if the stuff it was invested in suddenly turned bad, all Andy could do would be to watch the plunge, to trace it day after day on the stocks-and-bonds page of the Press-Herald. It's a tough life if you don't weaken, I guess.
'I'll tell you how it is, Red. There's a big hayfield in the town of Buxton. You know where Buxton is at, don't you?'
I said I did. It lies right next door to Scarborough.
"That's right. And at the north end of this particular hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no business in a Maine hayfield. It's a piece of volcanic glass, and until 1947 it was a paperweight on my office desk. My friend Jim put it in that wall.
There's a key underneath it. The key opens a safe deposit box in the Portland branch of the Casco Bank.'
'I guess you're in a pack of trouble,' I said. 'When your friend Jim died, the IRS must have opened all of his safety deposit boxes. Along with the executor of his will, of course.'
Andy smiled and tapped the side of my head. 'Not bad. There's more up there than marshmallows, I guess. But we took care of the possibility that Jim might die while I was in the slam. The box is in the Peter Stevens name, and once a year the firm of lawyers that served as Jim's executors sends a check to the Casco to cover the rental of the Stevens box.
'Peter Stevens is inside that box, just waiting to get out. His birth certificate, his S.S. card, and his driver's license. The license is six years out of date because Jim died six years ago, true, but it's still perfectly renewable for a five-dollar fee. His stock certificates are there, the tax-free municipals, and about eighteen bearer bonds in the amount of ten thousand dollars each.'
I whistled.
'Peter Stevens is locked in a safe deposit box at the Casco Bank in Portland and Andy Dufresne is locked in a safe deposit box at Shawshank,' he said. Tit for tat and the key that unlocks the box and the money and the new life is under a hunk of black glass in a Buxton hayfield. Told you this much, so I'll tell you something else, Red - for the last twenty years, give or take, I have been watching the papers with a more than usual interest for news of any construction projects in Buxton. I keep thinking that someday soon I'm going to read that they're putting a highway through there, or erecting a new community hospital, or building a shopping centre. Burying my new life under ten feet of concrete, or spitting it into a swamp somewhere with a big load of fill.'
I blurted, 'Jesus Christ, Andy, if all of this is true, how do you keep from going crazy?'
He smiled. 'So far, all quiet on the Western front.'
'But it could be years -'
'It will be. But maybe not as many as the state and Warden Norton think it's going to be. I just can't afford to wait that long. I keep thinking about Zihuatanejo and that small hotel. That's all I want from my life now, Red, and I don't think that's too much to want. I didn't kill Glenn Quentin and I didn't kill my wife, and that hotel ... it's not too much to want. To swim and get a tan and sleep in a room with open windows and space... that's not too much to want.'
He slung the stones away.
'You know, Red,' he said in an offhand voice, 'a place like that... I'd have to have a man who knows how to get things.'
I thought about it for a long time. And the biggest drawback in my mind wasn't even that we were talking pipedreams in a shitty little prison exercise yard with armed guards looking down at us from their sentry posts. 'I couldn't do it,' I said. 'I couldn't get along on the outside. I'm what they call an institutional man now. In here I'm the man who can get it for you, yeah. But out there, anyone can get it for you. Out there, if you want posters or rock-hammers or one particular record or a boat-in-a-bottle model kit, you can use the fucking Yellow Pages. In here, I'm the fucking Yellow Pages. I wouldn't know how to begin. Or where.'
'You underestimate yourself,' he said. 'You're a self-educated man, a self-made man.
A rather remarkable man, I think.'
'Hell, I don't even have a high school diploma.'
'I know that,' he said. 'But it isn't just a piece of paper that makes a man. And it isn't just prison that breaks one, either.'
'I couldn't hack it outside, Andy. I know that.' He got up. 'You think it over,' he said casually, just as the inside whistle blew. And he strolled off, as if he was a free man who had just made another free man a proposition. And for a while just that was enough to make me feel free. Andy could do that. He could make me forget for a time that we were both lifers, at the mercy of a hard-ass parole board and a psalm-singing warden who liked Andy Dufresne right where he was. After all, Andy was a lap-dog who could do tax-returns. What a wonderful animal!

　　“当你说你可以请个律师时，你确实不是在开玩笑，”我最后说，“有这么多钱在手上，你连丹诺ClarenceDarrow,1857—1938，美国名律师及演说家、作家。这种等级的名律师都请得起。你为什么不请律师为你申冤呢？你很快就可以出狱呀？”
　　他微笑着，以前当他告诉我，他和老婆有美好的前程摆在面前时，脸上也带着那种微笑。“不行。”他说。
　　“如果你有个好律师，就可以把汤米这小子从凯西门弄出来，不管他愿不愿意。”我说，开始得意忘形起来。“你可以要求重新开庭，雇私家侦探去找布拉契，把诺顿扳倒，为什么不这么做呢？”
　　“因为我被自己的计谋困住了，如果我企图从狱中动用彼得·斯蒂芬的钱，很可能所有的钱都保不住。原本吉米可以帮我的忙，但是他死了，你看出问题出在哪里了吗？”
　　我懂了。尽管这笔钱能带来很大的好处，但安迪所有的钱都是属于另一个人的。如果他所投资的领域景气突然变差，安迪也只能眼睁睁看着它下跌，每天盯着报上的股票和债券版，我觉得这真是一种折磨人的生活。
　　“我告诉你到底是怎么一回事好了，雷德。巴克斯登镇有一片很大的牧草地。你知道巴克斯登在哪里吧？”
　　我说我知道，就在斯卡伯勒附近。
　　“没错。牧草地北边有一面石墙，就像弗罗斯特的诗里所描写的石墙一样。石墙底部有一块石头，那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有，那是一块火山岩玻璃，在一九四七年前，那块玻璃一直都放在我办公桌上当镇纸。我的朋友吉米把它放在石墙下，下面藏了一把钥匙，那把钥匙能开启卡斯柯银行波特兰分行的一个保险柜。”
　　“我想你麻烦大了，当你的朋友吉米过世时，税捐处的人一定已经把他所有的保险箱都打开了，当然，和他的遗嘱执行人一起。”
　　安迪微笑着，拍拍我的头。“不错嘛，脑袋瓜里不是只装了浆糊。不过我们早有准备了，我们早就把吉米在我出狱前就过世的可能性都考虑在内。保险箱是用彼得·斯蒂芬的名字租的，吉米的律师每年送一张支票给波特兰的银行付租金。彼得·斯蒂芬就在那个盒子里，等着出来，他的出生证、社会保险卡和驾照都在那里，这张驾照已有六年没换了，因为吉米死了六年，不过只要花五块钱，就可以重新换发，他的股票也在那儿，还有免税的市府公债和每张价值一万元的债券，一共十八张。”
　　我吹了一声口哨。
　　“彼得·斯蒂芬锁在波特兰的银行保险柜中，而安迪·杜佛尼则锁在肖申克监狱的保险柜中，”他说，“真是一报还一报。而打开保险柜和开启新生活的那把钥匙则埋在巴克斯登牧草地的一大块黑玻璃下面。反正已经跟你讲了这么多，雷德，我再告诉你一些其他事情好了。过去二十年来，我天天看报的时候，都特别注意巴克斯登有没有任何工程在进行，我总在想，有一天我会看到报上说，那儿要建一座医院、或一条公路、或一个购物中心，那么我的新生活就要永远埋在十英尺的水泥地下，或是随着一堆废土被倒入沼泽中。”
　　我脱口而出说：“天哪，安迪，如果你说的都是真的，你怎么有办法不发疯呢？”
　　他微笑道：“到目前为止，西线无战事。”
　　“但可能要好多年——”
　　“是要好多年，但也许没有诺顿认为的那么久，我等不了那么久，我一直想着齐华坦尼荷和我的小旅馆，现在我对生命的要求仅止于此了，雷德，这应该不算非分的要求吧。我根本没有杀格林·昆丁，也没杀我太太。一家小旅馆……不算奢求吧！我可以游游泳、晒晒太阳，睡在一间可以敞开窗子的房间……这不是非分的要求。”
　　他把石头扔了出去。
　　“雷德，你知道，”他漫不经心地说，“在那样的地方……我需要有人知道如何弄到我要的东西。”
　　我沉吟良久，当时我想到的最大困难，居然不是我们不过是在监狱的小运动场上痴人说梦，还有武装警卫居高临下监视着我们。“我没办法，”我说，“我无法适应外面的世界。我已经变成所谓体制化的人了。在这儿，我是那个可以替你弄到东西的人，出去以后，如果你要海报、锤子或什么特别的唱片，只需查工商分类电话簿就可以了。在这里，我就是那他妈的工商分类电话簿，出去了以后，我不知道要从何开始，或如何开始。”
　　“你低估了自己，”他说，“你是个懂得自我教育的人，一个相当了不起的人，我觉得。”
　　“我连高中文凭都没有。”
　　“我知道，”他说，“但是一纸文凭不见得就可以造就一个人，正如同牢狱生涯也不见得会打垮每一个人。”
　　“到了外面，我会应付不来的，安迪，我很清楚。”
　　他站起来。“你考虑考虑。”他说。就在这时，哨声响起，他走开了，仿佛刚才不过是个自由人在向另一个自由人提供工作机会，在那一刻，我也有种自由的感觉。只有他有办法做到这点，让我暂时忘记我们都是被判无期徒刑的终身犯，命运完全操在严苛的假释委员会和整天唱圣诗的典狱长手中，而典狱长一点都不想放安迪出狱，毕竟安迪是条懂得报税的小狗，养在身边多么有用啊！

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Chapter 25

But by that night in my cell I felt like a prisoner again. The whole idea seemed absurd, and that mental image of blue water and white beaches seemed more cruel than foolish it dragged at my brain like a fishhook. I just couldn't wear that invisible coat the way Andy did. I fell asleep that night and dreamed of a great glassy black stone in the middle of a hayfield; a stone shaped like a giant blacksmith's anvil. I was trying to rock the stone up so I could get the key that was underneath. It wouldn't budge; it was just too damned big.
And in the background, but getting closer, I could hear the baying of bloodhounds.
Which leads us, I guess, to the subject of jailbreaks.
Sure, they happen from time to time in our happy little family. You don't go over the wall, though, not at Shawshank, not if you're smart. The searchlight beams go all night, probing long white fingers across the open fields that surround the prison on three sides and the stinking marshland on the fourth. Cons do go over the wall from time to time, and the searchlights almost always catch them. If not, they get picked up trying to thumb a ride on Highway 6 or Highway 99. If they try to cut across country, some farmer sees them and just phones the location in to the prison. Cons who go over the wall are stupid cons. Shawshank is no Canon City, but in a rural area a man humping his ass across country in a grey pyjama suit sticks out like a cockroach on a wedding cake.
Over the years, the guys who have done the best - maybe oddly, maybe not so oddly are the guys who did it on the spur of the moment. Some of them have gone out in the middle of a cartful of sheets; a convict sandwich on white, you could say. There was a lot of that when I first came in here, but over the years they have more or less closed that loophole.
Warden Norton's famous 'Inside-Out' program produced its share of escapees, too. They were the guys who decided they liked what lay to the right of the hyphen better than what lay to the left and again, in most cases it was a very casual kind of thing. Drop your blueberry rake and stroll into the bushes while one of the screws is having a glass of water at the truck or when a couple of them get too involved in arguing over yards passing or rushing on the old Boston Patriots.

　　但晚上回到囚房时，我又感到自己像个犯人了，这整个主意似乎荒诞不经，去想象那一片碧海蓝天和白色沙滩，不仅愚蠢，而且残酷，这念头好像鱼钩一样拖住我的脑子。我就是无法像安迪那样，披上自由的隐形外衣。那晚我睡着后，梦见牧草地中央有一大块光滑的黑玻璃石头，石头的样子好像铁匠的铁砧，我正在摇晃石头，想拿出埋在下面的钥匙，但石头太大了，怎么也动不了。
　　而在身后，我可以听到警犬的吠声越来越近。
　　接下来就该谈谈越狱了。
　　在这个快乐的小家庭中，不时有人尝试越狱。但是在肖申克，如果你够聪明的话，就不要翻墙越狱。监狱的探照灯整晚都四处扫射，好像长长的白手指般，来回照着监狱四周，其中三面是田野，一面是发出恶臭的沼泽地。隔三差五，就会有囚犯企图翻墙越狱，而探照灯总是把他们逮个正着；否则当他们跑到公路上，竖起大拇指希望能搭便车时，也会被发现。如果乡下农夫看到他们走在田野间，也会打电话通报监狱。想翻墙越狱的囚犯是蠢蛋。在这种乡下地方，一个人穿着囚衣形迹鬼祟，就好像婚礼蛋糕上的蟑螂一样醒目。
　　这么多年来，最高明的越狱往往是即兴之作。有的人是躺在一堆床单里混出去的。我刚进来时听过很多这样的案例，不过狱方逐渐不再让囚犯有机可乘。
　　诺顿的“外役监”计划也制造了一些逃亡的机会。在大多数情况下，越狱的行动都是临时起意，例如，趁警卫正在卡车旁喝水或几个警卫热烈讨论球赛战况时，把挖蓝莓的工具一扔，就往树丛里跑去。

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Chapter 26

In 1969, the Inside-Outers were picking potatoes in Sabbatus. It was the third of November and the work was almost done. There was a guard named Henry Pugh - and he is no longer a member of our happy little family, believe me -sitting on the back bumper of one of the potato trucks and having his lunch with his carbine across his knees when a beautiful (or so it was told to me, but sometimes these things get exaggerated) ten-point buck strolled out of the cold early afternoon mist Pugh went after it with visions of just how that trophy would look mounted in his rec room, and while he was doing it, three of his charges just walked away. Two were recaptured in a Lisbon Falls pinball parlour. The third has not been found to this day.
I suppose the most famous case of all was that of Sid Nedeau. This goes back to 1958, and I guess it will never be topped. Sid was out lining the ball-field for a Saturday intramural baseball game when the three o'clock inside whistle blew, signalling the shiftchange for the guards. The parking lot is just beyond the exercise yard, on the other side of the electrically-operated main gate. At three the gate opens and the guards coming on duty and those going off mingle. There's a lot of back-slapping and bullyragging, comparison of league bowling scores and the usual number of tired old ethnic jokes.
Sid just trundled his lining machine right out through the gate, leaving a three-inch baseline all the way from third base in the exercise yard to the ditch on the far side of Route 6, where they found the machine overturned in a pile of lime. Don't ask me how he did it. He was dressed in his prison uniform, he stood six-feet-two, and he was billowing clouds of lime-dust behind him. All I can figure is that, it being Friday afternoon and all, the guards going off were so happy to be going off, and the guards coming on were so downhearted to be coming on, that the members of the former group never got their heads out of the clouds and those in the latter never got their noses off their shoetops ... and old Sid Nedeau just sort of slipped out between the two. So far as I know, Sid is still at large. Over the years, Andy Dufresne and I had a good many laughs over Sid Nedeau's great escape, and when we heard about that airline hijacking for ransom, the one where the guy parachuted from the back door of the airplane, Andy swore up and down that D B Cooper's real name was Sid Nedeau.
'And he probably had a pocketful of baseline lime in his pocket for good luck,' Andy said. 'That lucky son of a bitch.'
But you should understand that a case like Sid Nedeau, or the fellow who got away clean from the Sabbatus potato-field crew, guys like that are winning the prison version of the Irish Sweepstakes. Purely a case of six different kinds of luck somehow jelling together all at the same moment. A stiff like Andy could wait ninety years and not get a similar break.
Maybe you remember, a ways back, I mentioned a guy named Henley Backus, the washroom foreman in the laundry. He came to Shawshank in 1922 and died in the prison infirmary thirty-one years later. Escapes and escape attempts were a hobby of his, maybe because he never quite dared to take the plunge himself. He could tell you a hundred different schemes, all of them crackpot, and all of them had been tried in the Shank at one time or another. My favourite was the tale of Beaver Morrison, a convict who tried to build a glider from scratch in the plate-factory basement. The plans he was working from were in a circa-1900 book called The Modern Boy's Guide to Fun and Adventure. Beaver got it built without being discovered, or so the story goes, only to discover there was no door from the basement big enough to get the damned thing out. When Henley told that story, you could bust a gut laughing, and he knew a dozen - no, two dozen -just as funny.
When it came to detailing Shawshank bust-outs, Henley had it down chapter and verse. He told me once that during his time there had been better than four hundred escape attempts that he knew of. Really think about that for a moment before you just nod your head and read on. Four hundred escape attempts! That comes out to 12.9 escape attempts for every year Henley Backus was in Shawshank and keeping track of them. The Escape Attempt of the Month Club. Of course most of them were pretty slipshod affairs, the sort of thing that ends up with a guard grabbing some poor, sidling slob's arm and growling, 'Where do you think you're going, you happy asshole?'
Henley said he'd class maybe sixty of them as more serious attempts, and he included the 'prison break' of 1937, the year before I arrived at the Shank. The new administration wing was under construction then and fourteen cons got out, using construction equipment in a poorly locked shed. The whole of southern Maine got into a panic over those fourteen 'hardened criminals', most of whom were scared to death and had no more idea of where they should go than a jackrabbit does when it's headlight-pinned to the highway with a big truck bearing down on it. Not one of those fourteen got away. Two of them were shot dead - by civilians, not police officers or prison personnel -but none got away.
How many had gotten away between 1938, when I came here, and that day in October when Andy first mentioned Zihuatanejo to me? Putting my information and Henley's together, I'd say ten. Ten that got away clean. And although it isn't the kind of thing you can know for sure, I'd guess that at least half of those ten are doing time in other institutions of lower learning like the Shank. Because you do get institutionalized. When you take away a man's freedom and teach him to live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability to think in dimensions. He's like that jackrabbit I mentioned, frozen in the oncoming lights of the truck that is bound to kill it. More often than not a con who's just out will pull some dumb job that hasn't a chance in hell of succeeding ... and why? Because it'll get him back inside. Back where he understands how things work.
Andy wasn't that way, but I was. The idea of seeing the Pacific sounded good, but I was afraid that actually being there would scare me to death - the bigness of it.

　　一九六九年，外役监计划的内容是去沙巴塔斯挖马铃薯，那天是十一月三日，工作几乎快做完了。有个名叫亨利·浦格的警卫（他现在已不是我们这个快乐家庭的一员了）坐在马铃薯货车的后挡泥板上吃午餐，把卡宾熗放在膝上，这时候，一头漂亮的雄鹿（他们是这样告诉我的，但有时这些事情会加油添醋）从雾中缓缓走出来，浦格追过去，想象着战利品摆在家里康乐室的样子，结果他看守的三个囚犯乘机溜走，其中有两个人在另一个镇的弹子房被逮着，另外一个始终没找到。
　　我想最有名的越狱犯是锡德·尼都。他在一九五八年越狱，我猜以后很难有人超越他。由于星期六监狱将举行球赛，因此锡德当时正在球场划界线。三点钟一到，哨声响起，代表警卫要换班了。运动场再过去一点就是停车场，和电动大门恰好位于监狱的两端。三点钟一到，大门开了，来换班的警卫和下班的警卫混在一起，互相拍肩膀，打招呼，比较保龄球赛的战绩，开开玩笑。
　　而锡德推着他的划线机，不动声色地从大门走出去，三英寸宽的白线一路从棒球场的本垒板一直画到公路旁的水沟边，他们后来发现划线机翻倒在那里。别问我他是怎么出去的，他有六英尺二英寸高，穿着囚衣，推着划线机走过去时，还会扬起阵阵白灰，竟然就堂而皇之地从大门走出去了。只能说，大概因为正逢星期五下午，要下班的警卫因为即将下班太过兴奋，而来换班的警卫又因为要来换班而太过沮丧，前者得意地把头抬得高高的，后者则垂头丧气，视线始终没离开过鞋尖……锡德就这么趁隙逃跑了。
　　就我所知，锡德到现在还逍遥法外。多年来，安迪和我还常常拿锡德的逃亡过程来当笑话讲。后来当我们听说了古柏一九七一年十一月，一个自称古柏的人登上了从波特兰到西雅图的客机，威胁要炸掉飞机，向航空公司勒赎二十万美元。他在西雅图机场拿到赎金，于飞机再度起飞后，从高空跳伞逃脱，从此不见踪影，成为美国历史上一大谜团。劫机勒赎的事，也就是劫机犯从飞机后舱门跳伞逃走的故事，安迪坚持那个叫古柏的劫机犯真名一定叫锡德·尼都。
　　“好个幸运的龟儿子，”安迪说。“搞不好他为了讨个吉利，整个口袋都装满了用来划线的白灰粉呢。”
　　但是你应该明白，锡德和那个在沙巴塔斯马铃薯田逃走的家伙只是少数中了头彩的幸运儿，仿佛所有的运气刹那间全聚集在他们身上。像安迪这么一板一眼的人，可能等上九十年也逃不出去。
　　也许你还记得，我曾经提过有个洗衣房工头名叫韩利·巴克斯，他在一九二二年被关到肖申克来，三十一年后死于监狱的医务室。他简直把研究越狱当作嗜好，或许原因就在于他自己从来不敢亲身尝试。他可以告诉你一百种不同的越狱方法，每一种都很疯狂，而且肖申克的犯人都尝试过。我最喜欢的是毕佛·莫里森的故事，这家伙竟然试图在车牌工厂的地下室建造一架滑翔机。他是照着一九〇〇年出版的《现代男孩玩乐与冒险指南》上面的说明来造飞机，而且一直没有被发现，只是直到最后他才发现地下室的门都太小了，根本没法子把那架该死的滑翔机搬出去。每次韩利说这个故事时，都会引起一阵爆笑，而他还知道一二十个同样好笑的故事。
　　有一次韩利告诉我，在他服刑期间，他知道的企图越狱案就有四百多件。在你点点头往下读之前，先停下来好好想一想。四百多次越狱尝试！等于韩利在肖申克监狱服刑期间，每年平均有十二点九次企图越狱事件。当然，大多数越狱行动都还满随便的，结局不外乎某个鬼鬼祟祟的可怜虫、糊涂蛋被警卫一把抓住，痛骂：“你以为你要上哪儿去呀，混蛋！”
　　韩利说，比较认真策划的越狱行动大概只有六十件，其中包括一九三七年的“大逃亡”，那是我入狱前一年发生的事情。当时肖申克正在盖新的行政大楼，有十四名囚犯从没有锁好的仓库中拿了施工的工具，越狱逃跑。整个缅因州南部都因为这十四个“顽强的罪犯”陷入恐慌，但其实这十四个人大都吓得半死，完全不知该往哪儿逃，就好像误闯公路的野兔，被迎面而来的大卡车车头灯一照，就动弹不得。结果，十四个犯人没有一个真正逃脱，有两个人被熗射死——但他们是死在老百姓的熗下，而不是被警官或监狱警卫逮着，没有一个人成功逃脱。
　　从一九三八年我入狱以来，到安迪第一次和我提到齐华坦尼荷那天为止，究竟有多少人逃离肖申克？把我和韩利听说的加起来，大概十个左右。只有十个人彻彻底底逃脱了。虽然我没有办法确定，但是我猜十个人当中，至少有五个人目前在其他监狱服刑。因为一个人的确会受到监狱环境制约，当你剥夺了某人的自由、教他如何在牢里生存后，他似乎就失去了多面思考的能力，变得好像我刚刚提到的野兔，看着迎面而来、快撞上它的卡车灯光，却僵在那里动弹不得。许多刚出狱的囚犯往往会做一些绝不可能成功的蠢罪案，为什么呢？因为如此一来，他就可以回到牢里，回到他所熟悉了解的地方。
　　安迪不是这样的人，但我是。眺望太平洋的念头听起来很棒，但是我害怕有朝一日，我真的到了那里时，浩瀚的太平洋会把我吓得半死。

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Chapter28

'What do you mean, you're "satisfied he's not on the prison grounds"? What does that mean? It means you didn't find him! You better find him! You better! Because I want him! Do you hear me? I want him!'
Gonyar said something.

'Didn't happen on your shift? That's what you say. So far as I can tell, no one knows when it happened. Or how. Or if it really did. Now, I want him in my office by three o'clock this afternoon, or some heads are going to roll. I can promise you that, and I always keep my promises.'
Something else from Gonyar, something that seemed to provoke Norton to even greater rage.
'No? Then look at this! Look at this! You recognize it? Last night's tally for Cellblock 5. Every prisoner accounted for! Dufresne was locked up last night at nine and it is impossible for him to be gone now! It is impossible! Now you find him!"
But at six that evening Andy was still among the missing, Norton himself stormed down to Cellblock 5, where the rest of us had been locked up all of that day. Had we been questioned?

We had spent most of that long day being questioned by harried screws who were feeling the breath of the dragon on the backs of their necks. We all said the same thing: we had seen nothing, heard nothing. And so far as I know, we were all telling the truth. I know that I was. All we could say was that Andy had indeed been in his cell at the time of the lock-in, and at lights-out an hour later.
One wit suggested that Andy had poured himself out through the keyhole. The suggestion earned the guy four days in solitary. They were uptight.
So Norton came down - stalked down - glaring at us with blue eyes nearly hot enough to strike sparks from the tempered steel bars of our cages. He looked at us as if he believed we were all in on it. Probably he did believe it.

He went into Andy's cell and looked around. It was just as Andy had left it, the sheets of his bunk turned back but without looking slept-in. Rocks on the windowsill... but not all of them. The ones he liked best he took with him.
'Rocks,' Norton hissed, and swept them off the window-ledge with a clatter. Gonyar, already four hours overtime, winced but said nothing.

Norton's eyes fell on the Linda Ronstadt poster. Linda was looking back over her shoulder, her hands tucked into the back pockets of a very tight pair of fawn-coloured slacks. She was wearing a halter and she had a deep California tan. It must have offended the hell out of Norton's Baptist sensibilities, that poster. Watching him glare at it, I remembered what Andy had once said about feeling he could almost step through the picture and be with the girl. In a very real way, that was exactly what he did - as Norton was only seconds from discovering. 'Wretched thing!' he grunted, and ripped the poster from the wall with a single swipe of his hand.

And revealed the gaping, crumbled hole in the concrete behind it. Gonyar wouldn't go in.
Norton ordered him - God, they must have heard Norton ordering Rich Gonyar to go in there all over the prison - and Gonyar just refused him, point-blank.
'I'll have your job for this!' Norton screamed. He was as hysterical as a woman having a hot-flush. He had utterly blown his cool. His neck had turned a rich, dark red, and two veins stood out, throbbing, on his forehead. 'You can count on it, you ... you Frenchman! I'll have your job and I'll see to it that you never get another one in any prison system in New England!'
Gonyar silently held out his service pistol to Norton, butt first. He'd had enough. He was four hours overtime, going on five, and he'd just had enough. It was as if Andy's defection from our happy little family had driven Norton right over the edge of some private irrationality that had been there for a long time ... certainly he was crazy that night.

I don't know what that private irrationality might have been, of course. But I do know that there were twenty-eight cons listening to Norton's little dust-up with Rich Gonyar that evening as the last of the light faded from a dull late winter sky, all of us hard-timers and long-line riders who had seen the administrators come and go, the hard-asses and the candy-asses alike, and we all knew that Warden Samuel Norton had just passed what the engineers like to call 'the breaking strain'.
And by God, it almost seemed to me that somewhere I could heard Andy Dufresne laughing.
Norton finally got a skinny drink of water on the night shift to go into that hole that had been behind Andy's poster of Linda Ronstadt. The skinny guard's name was Rory Tremont, and he was not exactly a ball of fire in the brains department. Maybe he thought he was going to win a Bronze Star or something. As it turned out, it was fortunate that Norton got someone of Andy's approximate height and build to go in there; if they had sent a big-assed fellow - as most prison guards seem to be - the guy would have stuck in there is sure as God made green grass ... and he might be there still.
Tremont went in with a nylon filament rope, which someone had found in the trunk of his car, tied around his waist and a big six-battery flashlight in one hand. By then Gonyar, who had changed his mind about quitting and who seemed to be the only one there still able to think clearly, had dug out a set of blueprints. I knew well enough what they showed him - a wall which looked, in cross-section, like a sandwich. The entire wall was ten feet thick. The inner and outer sections were each about four feet thick. In the centre was two feet of pipe-space, and you want to believe that was the meat of the thing ... in more ways than one.

Tremont's voice came out of the hole, sounding hollow and dead. 'Something smells awful in here, Warden.'
'Never mind that! Keep going.'
Tremont's lower legs disappeared into the hole. A moment later his feet were gone, too. His light flashed dimly back and forth.
'Warden, it smells pretty damn bad.'
'Never mind, I said!' Norton cried.
Dolorously, Tremont's voice floated back: 'Smells like shit. Oh God, that's what it is, it's shit, oh my God lemme outta here I'm gonna blow my groceries oh shit it's shit oh my Gawwwwwd - And then came the unmistakable sound of Rory Tremont losing his last couple of meals.
Well, that was it for me. I couldn't help myself. The whole day - hell no, the last thirty years - all came up on me at once and I started laughing fit to split, alaugh such as I'd never had since I was a free man, the kind of laugh I never expected to have inside these grey walls. And oh dear God didn't it feel good!

　　“你是什么意思？你是什么意思？他不在监狱里，表示你没有找到他？这样你就觉得满意了吗？你最好找到他！因为我要把他逮到！你听见了吗？我要逮到他！”
　　高亚嘴里咕哝了几句。
　　“不是在你值班的时候发生的？那是你自说自话，就我所知，没有人知道他是什么时候逃出去的，或怎么逃出去的，或他是不是真的逃出去了。我不管，我限你在今天下午三点以前把他带回我的办公室，否则就有人要人头落地了。我说到做到，我一向说到做到。”
　　高亚不知又说了什么，使得诺顿更加震怒。
　　“没有？看看这个！看看这个！你认得这个吗？这是昨天晚上第五区的点名记录，每个囚犯都在牢房里。昨天晚上九点钟的时候，杜佛尼还被关在牢房里，他不可能就这样不见了！不可能！立刻去把他找到！”
　　到了那天下午三点，安迪仍然在失踪名单上。过了几小时后，诺顿自己冲入第五区牢房。那天第五区所有犯人都被关在自己的牢房里，被那些神色仓皇的狱卒盘问了一整天。我们的答案都一样：我们什么也没看见，什么也没听见。就我所知，大家说的都是实话，我知道我没说谎，我们只能说，昨晚所有的犯人回房时，安迪确实进了他的牢房，而且一小时后熄灯时，他也还在。
　　有个机灵鬼猜测，安迪可能是从钥匙孔钻出去了，结果这句话为他招惹来四天的单独监禁，这些警卫全都绷得很紧。
　　于是诺顿亲自来查房，用他那一对蓝眼睛狠狠瞪着我们，在他的注视下，牢笼的铁栅栏仿佛快冒出火星了。他的眼神流露着怀疑，也许他真的认为我们都是共犯。
　　他走进安迪的囚房，到处查看。牢房里还是安迪离开时的样子，床上的被褥看起来不像有人睡过，石头放在窗台上……，不过并非所有的石头都在，他带走了最喜欢的几颗石头。
　　“石头。”诺顿悻悻道，把石头哗啦啦地统统从窗台上扫下来，高亚缩在一旁，噤若寒蝉。
　　诺顿的目光落在琳达·朗斯黛的海报上。琳达双手插进后裤袋中，回眸一笑，上身穿了件露背的背心，皮肤晒成古铜色。身为浸信会教徒的诺顿看到这张海报一定很生气，我看到他狠狠盯着海报，想起安迪曾经说过，他常觉得似乎可以一脚踩进去，和海报上的女孩在一起。
　　他确确实实就这么做了，几秒钟后，诺顿也发现了。
　　诺顿一把撕下海报来。“邪门玩意！”他吼道。
　　海报后面的水泥墙上出现了一个洞。
　　高亚不肯进去。
　　诺顿命令他，声音之大，整个监狱一定都听得一清二楚。但是高亚不肯进去。
　　“你想丢掉饭碗吗？”诺顿尖叫着，歇斯底里地像个更年期热潮红的女人一样。他早已失去了平日的冷静，脖子胀成深红色，额前两条青筋毕露，不停跳动。“我说到做到，你……你这该死的法国佬！你今天非进去不可，否则就别想再吃这行饭了，以后也休想在新英格兰任何一个监狱找到工作！”
　　高亚默默掏出手熗，熗柄对着诺顿，把熗交给他。他受够了，已经过了下班时间两个小时，眼看就快超时工作三个小时。那天晚上，诺顿真是气得发狂，仿佛安迪的叛逃终于揭开他长久以来不为人知的非理性的一面。
　　当然，我没有看到他非理性的那一面，但是我知道那天晚上，当暮冬的昏暗天色逐渐变得漆黑一片时，二十六个在肖申克经历过多次改朝换代的长期犯一直在侧耳倾听，我们都知道诺顿正在经历工程师所说的“断裂应变”。
　　我仿佛可以听见安迪·杜佛尼正躲在某处窃笑不已。
　　诺顿终于找到一个值夜班的瘦小警卫来钻进海报后面的洞里，他的名字叫洛睿·崔门。他平常并不是个聪明人，或许他以为将因此获颁铜星勋章。算诺顿运气好，居然碰巧找到一个身材和安迪差不多的人。大多数监狱警卫都是大块头，如果他们派了个大块头来，一定爬到一半就卡在那里，直到现在还出不来。
　　崔门进去时把尼龙绳绑在腰上，手上拿了一支装了六个干电池的大手电筒。这时高亚已经改变心意，不打算辞职了，而他似乎是现场惟一头脑还清醒的人，找来了一组监狱的蓝图。从剖面图看来，监狱的墙就像个三明治，整堵墙足足有十英尺厚，内墙、外墙各有四英尺厚，中间的两英尺空隙是铺设管线的通道，就好像三明治的肉馅一样。
　　崔门的声音从洞中传出来，听起来有种空洞和死亡的感觉。“典狱长，里面味道很难闻。”
　　“不管它，继续爬。”
　　崔门的腿消失在洞口，一会儿，连脚也看不见了，只看到手电筒的光微弱地晃动。
　　“典狱长，里面的味道实在很糟糕。”
　　“我说不要管它。”诺顿叫道。
　　崔门的声音哀戚地飘过来。“闻起来像大便，哦！天哪！真的是大便，哇！是大便！我的天哪，我快吐了，哇……”然后可以清楚地听到崔门把当天吃的所有东西都吐出来了。
　　现在轮到我了，我再也忍不住，这一整天——喔，不，过去这三十年来的压抑终于爆发了，我开始大笑，笑得抑制不住，自从失去自由后，我还从未这么开怀地笑过。我从来不曾期望困在灰墙中的我还能笑得这么开心，真是过瘾极了。

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举报只看该作者 28楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 27

Anyhow, the day of that conversation about Mexico, and about Mr Peter Stevens ...
that was the day I began to believe that Andy had some idea of doing a disappearing act. I hoped to God he would be careful if he did, and still, I wouldn't have bet money on his chances of succeeding. Warden Norton, you see, was watching Andy with a special close eye. Andy wasn't just another deadhead with a number to Norton; they had a working relationship, you might say. Also, he had brains and he had heart Norton was determined to use the one and crush the other.

As there are honest politicians on the outside - ones who stay bought - there are honest prison guards, and if you are a good judge of character and if you have some loot to spread around, I suppose it's possible that you could buy enough look-the-other-way to make a break. I'm not the man to tell you such a thing has never been done, but Andy Dufresne wasn't the man
who could do it because, as I've said, Norton was watching. Andy knew it, and the screws knew it, too.

Nobody was going to nominate Andy for the Inside-Out programme, not as long as Warden Norton was evaluating the nominations. And Andy was not the kind of man to try acasual Sid Nedeau type of escape.
If I had been him, the thought of that key would have tormented me endlessly. I would have been lucky to get two hours' worth of honest shuteye a night. Buxton was less than thirty miles from Shawshank. So near and yet so far.
I still thought his best chance was to engage a lawyer and try for the retrial. Anything to get out from under Norton's thumb.
Maybe Tommy Williams could be shut up by nothing more than a cushy furlough programme, but I wasn't entirely sure. Maybe a good old Mississippi hardass lawyer could crack him ... and maybe that lawyer wouldn't even have to work that hard. Williams had honestly liked Andy. Every now and then I'd bring these points up to Andy, who would only smile, his eyes far away, and say he was thinking about it.

Apparently he'd been thinking about a lot of other things, as well.
In 1975, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank. He hasn't been recaptured, and I don't think he ever will be. In fact, I don't think Andy Dufresne even exists anymore.
But I think there's a man down in Zihuatanejo, Mexico named Peter Stevens. Probably running a very new small hotel in this year of our Lord 1977.

I'll tell you what I know and what I think; that's about all I can do, isn't it?
On 12 March 1975, the cell doors in Cellblock 5 opened at 6.30 a.m., as they do every morning around here except Sunday. And as they do every day except Sunday, the inmates of those cells stepped forward into the corridor and formed two lines as the cell doors slammed shut behind them. They walked up to the main cellblock gate, where they were counted off by two guards before being sent on down to the cafeteria for a breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and fatty bacon.

All of this went according to routine until the count at the cellblock gate. There should have been twenty-nine. Instead, there were twenty-eight. After a call to the Captain of the Guards, Cellblock 5 was allowed to go to breakfast.
The Captain of the Guards, a not half-bad fellow named Richard Gonyar, and his assistant, a jolly prick named Dave Burkes, came down to Cellblock 5 right away. Gonyar reopened the cell doors and he and Burkes went down the corridor together, dragging their sticks over the bars, their guns out. In a case like that what you usually have is someone who has been taken sick in the night, so sick he can't even step out of his cell in the morning. More rarely, someone has died... or committed suicide.
But this time, they found a mystery instead of a sick man or a dead man. They found no man at all. There were fourteen cells in Cellblock 5, seven to a side, all fairly neat restriction of visiting privileges is the penalty for a sloppy cell at Shawshank - and all very empty.
Gonyar's first assumption was that there had been a miscount or a practical joke. So instead of going off to work after breakfast, the inmates of Cellblock 5 were sent back to their cells, joking and happy. Any break in the routine was always welcome.
Cell doors opened; prisoners stepped in; cell doors closed. Some clown shouting, 'I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer, you guys run this place just like a frigging prison.'
Burkes: 'Shut up in there, or I'll rank you.'
The clown: 'I ranked your wife, Burkie,'
Gonyar: 'Shut up, all of you, or you'll spend the day in there.'
He and Burkes went up the line again, counting noses. They didn't have to go far.
'Who belongs in this cell?' Gonyar asked the rightside night guard.
'Andrew Dufresne,' the rightside answered, and that was all it took. Everything stopped being routine right then. The balloon went up.
In all the prison movies I've seen, this wailing horn goes off when there's been a break. That never happens at Shawshank. The first thing Gonyar did was to get in touch with the warden. The second thing was to get a search of the prison going. The third was to alert the State Police in Scarborough to the possibility of a breakout.
That was the routine. It didn't call for them to search the suspected escapee's cell, and so no one did. Not then. Why would they? It was a case of what you see is what you get. It was a small square room, bars on the window and bars on the sliding door. There was a toilet and an empty cot. Some pretty rocks on the windowsill.
And the poster, of course. It was Linda Ronstadt by then. The poster was right over his bunk. There had been a poster there, in that exact same place, for twenty-six years.
And when someone - it was Warden Norton himself, as it turned out, poetic justice if there ever was any - looked behind it, they got one hell of a shock.
But that didn't happen until 6.30 that night, almost twelve hours after Andy had been reported missing, probably twenty hours after he had actually made his escape.
Norton hit the roof.
I have it on good authority - Chester, the trustee, who was waxing the hall floor in the Admin Wing that day. He didn't have to polish any keyplates with his ear that day; he said you could hear the warden clear down to Records & Files as he chewed on Rich Gonyar's ass.

　　总而言之，自从那天安迪谈到墨西哥和彼得·斯蒂芬以后，我开始相信安迪有逃亡的念头。我只能祈祷上帝，让他谨慎行事，但是我不会把赌注押在他身上。典狱长诺顿特别注意他的一举一动，安迪不是普通囚犯。可以这么说，他们之间有密不可分的工作关系。安迪很有头脑，但也很有心，诺顿下定决心要利用他的头脑，同时也击溃他的心。
　　就好像外面有一些你永远可以买通的诚实政客一样，监狱里也有一些诚实的警卫，如果你很懂得看人，手头上也有一些钱可以撒的话，我猜你确实有可能买通几个警卫，他们故意放水，眼睛注视着其他地方，让你有机会逃脱。过去不是没有人做过这样的事情，但是安迪没有办法这么做，因为正如我刚才所说，诺顿紧紧盯着他，安迪知道这点，狱卒也都知道这点。
　　只要诺顿还继续审核外役监名单，就没有人会提名安迪参加外役监计划，而安迪也不像锡德，他绝不会那么随随便便地展开逃亡行动。
　　如果我是他，外面那把钥匙会使我痛苦万分，彻夜难眠。巴克斯登距离肖申克不到三十英里，却可望而不可及。
　　我仍然认为找律师要求重新审判的成功机会最大，只要能脱离诺顿的掌握就好。或许他们只不过多给汤米一些休假，就让他封口，我并不确定。或许那些律师神通广大，可以让汤米开口，甚至不用费太大的劲，因为汤米很钦佩安迪。每次我向安迪提出这些意见时，他总是微笑着，目光飘向远方，嘴里说他会考虑考虑。
　　看来他同时在考虑的事情还不少。
　　一九七五年，安迪从肖申克逃走了，他一直都没被逮到，我相信他永远也不会被逮到。事实上，我想，安迪早已不在这个世上了，而一九七六年这一年，在墨西哥的齐华坦尼荷，有一个叫彼得·斯蒂芬的人正在经营一家小旅馆。
　　我会把我所知道的和我猜想的全都告诉你，我也只能做到这样了，不是吗？
　　一九七五年三月十二日。当警卫在早上六点半打开第五区牢房的大门时，所有犯人都从自己的房间走出来，站到走廊上，排成两列，牢门砰的一声在他们身后关起。他们走到第五区大门时，会有两个警卫站在门口数人头，算完后便到餐厅去吃麦片、炒蛋和油腻的培根。
　　直到数人头之前，一切都是例行公事。第五区牢房的犯人应该有二十七个，但那天早上数来数去都只有二十六个人，于是警卫去报告队长，并先让第五区的囚犯去吃早餐。
　　警卫队长名叫理查·高亚，不是个很坏的人，他和助手戴夫·勃克一起来到第五区牢房。高亚打开大门，和勃克一起走进两排牢房中间的走道，手上拿着警棍和熗。像这种情形，通常都是有人在半夜病了，而且因为病得太重，早上根本没有力气走出牢房。更罕见的状况是他根本已经病死了，或自杀了。
　　但这次却出现了一个大谜团，他们既没有看到病人，也没有看到死人，里面根本空无一人。第五区共有十四间牢房，每边各七间，全都十分整洁——在肖申克，对牢房太过脏乱的惩罚是禁止会客——而且全都空荡荡的。
　　高亚第一个反应是警卫算错人数了，要不就是有人恶作剧，因此他叫第五区的所有囚犯吃完早餐后，都先回到牢房去。那些犯人一面开玩笑，一面高兴地跑回去，任何打破常规的事，他们都觉得很新鲜。
　　牢门再度打开，犯人一一走进去，牢门关起。爱开玩笑的犯人故意叫着：“我要找律师，我要找律师，你们怎么可以把监狱管理得像他妈的监狱一样！”
　　勃克叫道：“闭嘴，否则我会要你好看。”
　　那人喊道：“我操你老婆。”
　　高亚说：“你们全都闭嘴，否则今天一整天都待在这里，不准出去。”
　　他和勃克一间间检查，一个个数着，没走多远。“这间是谁住的？”高亚问值夜班的警卫。
　　“安迪·杜佛尼。”守卫答道。立刻，整个日常作息都乱掉了。监狱里一片哗然。
　　在我所看过的监狱电影里面，每当有人逃狱时，就会响起号角的哭号声，但是在肖申克，从来没有这回事。高亚做的第一件事是立刻联络典狱长，第二件事是派人搜索整个监狱，第三件事则是打电话警告州警，可能有人越狱了。
　　例行的做法就是如此，标准作业程序没有要求他们检查逃犯的牢房，因此也没有人这么做。何必如此呢？明明就亲眼看到人不在里面。这是个四方形的小房间，窗子上装了铁栅栏，门上也有铁栅栏，此外就是一套卫生设备和空荡荡的床。窗台上还有一些漂亮的石头。
　　当然还有那张海报。这时候已经换上了琳达·朗斯黛的海报，海报就贴在他的床头。二十六年来，同一个位置上一直都贴着海报。但是当有人查看海报后面时——结果是诺顿自己发现的，真是因果报应——简直魂飞魄散。
　　发现海报后面另有文章，已经是当晚六点半的事了，距离发现安迪失踪足足有十二小时，距离他真正逃亡的时间说不定有二十小时。
　　诺顿暴跳如雷。
　　我后来是从老柴士特口中知道的，他那天正在行政大楼为地板打蜡，事发当天他不必再把耳朵贴在钥匙孔上，因为他可以把诺顿的咆哮听得一清二楚。

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Chapter 29

'Get that man out of here!' Warden Norton was screaming, and I was laughing so hard I didn't know if he meant me or Tremont I just went on laughing and kicking my feet and holding onto my belly. I couldn't have stopped if Norton had threatened to shoot me dead-bang on the spot. 'Get him OUT!'

Well, friends and neighbours, I was the one who went straight down to solitary, and there I stayed for fifteen days. A long shot. But every now and then I'd think about poor old not-too-bright Rory Tremont bellowing oh shit it's shit, and then I'd think about Andy Dufresne heading south in his own car, dressed in a nice suit, and I'd just have to laugh. I did that fifteen days in solitary practically standing on my head. Maybe because half of me was with Andy Dufresne, Andy Dufresne who had waded in shit and came out clean on the other side, Andy Dufresne, headed for the Pacific.
I heard the rest of what went on that night from half a dozen sources. There wasn't all that much, anyway. I guess that Rory
Tremont decided he didn't have much left to lose after he'd lost his lunch and dinner, because he did go on. There was no danger of falling down the pipe-shaft between the inner and outer segments of the cellblock wall; it was so narrow that Tremont actually had to wedge himself down. He said later that he could only take half-breaths and that he knew what it would be like to be buried alive.

What he found at the bottom of the shaft was a master sewer-pipe which served the fourteen toilets in Cellblock 5, a porcelain pipe that had been laid thirty-three years before. It had been broken into. Beside the jagged hole in the pipe, Tremont found Andy's rock-hammer.
Andy had gotten free, but it hadn't been easy.

The pipe was even narrower than the shaft Tremont had just descended; it had a two-foot bore. Rory Tremont didn't go in, and so far as I know, no one else did, either.
It must have been damn near unspeakable. A rat jumped out of the pipe as Tremont was examining the hole and the rock-hammer, and he swore later that it was nearly as big as a cocker spaniel pup. He went back up the crawlspace to Andy's cell like a monkey on a stick.
Andy had gone into that pipe. Maybe he knew that it emptied into a stream five hundred yards beyond the prison on the marshy western side. I think he did. The prison blueprints were around, and Andy would have found a way to look at them. He was a methodical cuss. He would have known or found out that the sewerpipe running out of Cellblock 5 was the last one in Shawshank not hooked into the new waste-treatment plant, and he would have known it was do it by mid-1975 or do it never, because in August they were going to switch us over to the new waste-treatment plant, too.

Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of a mile. He crawled that distance, maybe with one of those small Penlites in his hand, maybe with nothing but a couple of books of matches. He crawled through foulness that I either can't imagine or don't want to imagine. Maybe the rats scattered in front of him, or maybe they went for him the way such animals sometimes will when they've had a chance to grow bold in the dark. He must have had just enough clearance at the shoulders to keep moving, and he probably had to shove himself through the places where the lengths of pipe were joined. If it had been me, the claustrophobia would have driven me mad a dozen times over. But he did it.

At the far end of the pipe they found a set of muddy footprints leading out of the sluggish, polluted creek the pipe fed into. Two miles from there a search party found his prison uniform - that was a day later.
The story broke big in the papers, as you might guess, but no one within a fifteen-mile radius of the prison stepped forward to report a stolen car, stolen clothes, or a naked man in the moonlight. There was not so much as a barking dog in a farmyard. He came out of the sewerpipe and he disappeared like smoke.
But I am betting he disappeared in the direction of Buxton.

Three months after that memorable day, Warden Norton resigned. He was a broken man, it gives me great pleasure to report. The spring was gone from his step. On his last day he shuffled out with his head down like an old con shuffling down to the infirmary for his codeine pills. It was Gonyar who took over, and to Norton that must have seemed like the unkindest cut of all. For all I know, Sam Norton is down there in Eliot now, attending services at the Baptist church every Sunday, and wondering how the hell Andy Dufresne ever could have gotten the better of him.

I could have told him; the answer to the question is simplicity itself. Some have got it, Sam. And some don't, and never will.
That's what I know; now I'm going to tell you what I think. I may have it wrong on some of the specifics, but I'd be willing to bet my watch and chain that I've got the general outline down pretty well. Because, with Andy being the sort of man that he was, there's only one or two ways that it could have been. And every now and then, when I think it out, I think of Normaden, that half-crazy Indian. 'Nice fella,' Normaden had said after celling with Andy for six or eight months. 'I was glad to go, me. All the time cold. He don't let nobody touch his things. That's okay. Nice man, never make fun. But big draught.' Poor crazy Normaden. He knew more than all the rest of us, and he knew it sooner. And it was eight long months before Andy could get him out of there and have the cell to himself again. If it hadn't been for the eight months Normaden had spent with him after Warden Norton first came in, I do believe that Andy would have been free before Nixon resigned.

I believe now that it began in 1949, way back then - not with the rock-hammer, but with the Rita Hayworth poster. I told you how nervous he seemed when he asked for that, nervous and filled with suppressed excitement. At the time I thought it was just embarrassment, that Andy was the sort of guy who'd never want someone else to know that he had feet of clay and wanted a woman ... even if it was only a fantasy -woman. But I think now that I was wrong. I think now that Andy's excitement came from something else altogether.

What was responsible for the hole that Warden Norton eventually found behind the poster of a girl that hadn't even been born when that photo of Rita Hayworth was taken?

Andy Dufresne's perseverance and hard work, yeah - I don't take any of that away from him. But there were two other elements in the equation: a lot of luck, and WPA concrete.

　　“把这个人弄出去！”诺顿尖叫着，由于我笑得太厉害了，根本不知道他指的是我，还是崔门。我只是捧腹顿脚，拼命大笑，简直一发不可收拾，即使诺顿威胁要熗毙我，我也没有办法停下来。“把他弄出去！”
　　好吧！各位亲朋好友，结果他指的是我。他们把我一路拖到禁闭室去，我在那儿单独监禁了十五天，尽管长日漫漫，但我并不感到无聊，我经常会想起那个不太聪明的可怜鬼崔门大喊“是大便”的声音，然后又想到安迪正开着新车、西装笔挺地直奔南方，就忍不住又开怀大笑起来。在那十五天里，我笑口常开，或许是因为我的心已经飞到安迪那里。安迪·杜佛尼曾经在粪坑中挣扎着前进，但是他出污泥而不染，清清白白地从另外一端爬出来，奔向蔚蓝的太平洋。
　　那天后来发生的事，我是从六七个人那儿听来的。我猜当崔门那天把中饭和晚饭都吐出来之后，他觉得反正不会再有什么损失，于是决定继续爬下去。他不用担心会从内外墙中间的通道掉落下来，因为那里实在太窄了，崔门得费好大力气才能推挤前进。他后来说他几乎得屏住呼吸才下得去，而且他到这时候才晓得被活埋是什么滋味。
　　他在通道末端发现一个主排水管，那是通往第五区牢房十四个马桶的污水管，是三十三年前装置的瓷管，已经被打破了，崔门在管子的锯齿状缺口旁发现了安迪的石锤。
　　安迪终于自由了，但这自由得来不易。
　　这管子比崔门爬行的通道还要窄。崔门没有进去，就我所知，其他人也没有进去，我想情况一定糟糕得几乎难以形容。当崔门在检查管子上的缺口和那把石锤时，一只老鼠就从管子里跳了出来，崔门后来发誓那只老鼠跟一头小猎犬一样大。他像猴子爬柱子一样，慢慢爬回安迪的牢房。
　　安迪是从那根管子逃出去的。也许他知道污水管是通往离监狱五百码外的一条小溪，因为很多地方都找得到监狱的蓝图，安迪一定想办法看过蓝图。他是个讲求方法的怪胎，他一定已经发现，整个监狱只有第五区的污水管还没有接到新的废水处理厂，而且他也知道，此时不逃，以后就没机会，因为到了一九七五年八月，连我们这区的污水管都要接到新的废水处理厂了。
　　五百码，足足有五个美式足球场那么长，绵延将近半英里。他爬过这么远的距离，也许手上拿着一支小手电筒，也许什么都没有，只有几盒火柴，我简直不愿想象，也无法想象，他爬过的地方有多么肮脏，还有吱吱乱叫的肥老鼠在前面跑来跑去，甚至老鼠因为在黑暗中胆子特别大，还会攻击他。通道中几乎无法容身，可能只有非常狭小的空隙足以让他挤过去，在管子接口的地方，或许还得拼命推挤身体才过得去。换作是我，那种幽闭恐惧的气氛准会让我疯掉，但他却成功逃脱了。
　　他们在污水管尽头找到一些泥脚印子，泥脚印一路指向监狱排放污水的溪流，搜索小组在距离那里两英里外的地方找到了安迪的囚衣，而那已经是第二天的事了。
　　这件事在报上喧腾一时，但在方圆十五英里内，没有任何人向警局报案说车子被偷或丢了衣服，或看到有人裸体在月光下奔跑，更没听见农庄上的狗吠声。安迪从污水管爬出来后，就像一缕轻烟似的失去踪影。
　　但我敢说他一定是消失在往巴克斯登的方向。
　　那个值得纪念的日子过了三个月后，诺顿典狱长辞职了。我很乐意报告一下，他像只斗败的公鸡，走起路来一点劲也没有。他垂头丧气地离开了肖申克，就像个有气无力地到医务室讨药吃的老囚犯。接替他的是高亚，对诺顿而言，这或许是最冷酷的打击吧。他回到老家，每个星期日上浸信会教堂做礼拜，他一定常常纳闷，安迪到底是怎么打败他的。
　　我可以告诉他，答案在于“单纯”。有些人就是有这种本领，典狱长，有些人就是没有，而且永远也学不来。
　　以上是我所知道的经过；现在我要告诉你我的想法。或许我在细节部分说得不尽正确，不过我敢打赌，就事情的大概应该八九不离十。因为安迪这样的人会采用的办法不出这一两种。每当我思索这件事时，我总会想起那个疯疯癫癫的印第安人诺曼登所说的话。诺曼登在与安迪同住八个月后说：“他是好人。我很高兴离开那儿。那牢房空气太坏了，而且很冷。他不让任何人随便碰他的东西，那也没关系。他人很好，从不乱开玩笑，但是空气太坏了。”可怜的诺曼登，他比任何人知道的都多，知道的时间也更早。安迪足足花了八个月的时间，才设法让诺曼登转到其他牢房，恢复单独监禁。如果不是诺曼登和他同住了八个月，我相信早在尼克松辞职前，安迪就逃之夭夭了。
　　我相信，安迪是在一九四九年开始他的计划，不是托我买石锤时，而是托我买丽塔·海华丝的海报时。我告诉过你当时他似乎很着急，一副坐立难安的样子，兴奋得不得了。那时我还以为他难为情，不愿让别人知道他想女人，特别是梦幻性感女神，但现在我才发现我想错了，他的兴奋是别有原因的。
　　监狱当局在海报女郎背后发现的那个洞（现在海报上的那个女孩在第一任海报女郎丽塔·海华丝拍摄那张照片时，甚至还没出生呢），究竟是怎么来的？当然，最主要的原因是安迪·杜佛尼的毅力和苦工，但是还有另外两个不可忽略的因素：幸运之神眷顾和WPA混凝土WPA是指美国在一九三〇年代罗斯福新政时期成立的工作改进总署（WorksProgressAdministration），当时联邦政府采取以工代赈的方法，在公共工程领域提供了八百万个工作机会给失业人口。。

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Chapter 30

You don't need me to explain the luck, I guess. The WPA concrete I checked out for myself. I invested some time and a couple of stamps and wrote first to the University of Maine History Department and then to a fellow whose address they were able to give me. This fellow had been foreman of the WPA project that built the Shawshank Max Security Wing.

The wing, which contains Cellblocks 3,4, and 5, was built in the years 1934-37. Now, most people don't think of cement and concrete as 'technological developments', the way we think of cars and oil furnaces and rocket-ships, but they really are. There was no modern cement until 1870 or so, and no modern concrete until after the turn of the century. Mixing concrete is as delicate a business as making bread. You can get it too watery or not watery enough. You can get the sand-mix too thick or too thin, and the same is true of the gravel-mix. And back in 1934, the science of mixing the stuff was a lot less sophisticated than it is today.

The walls of Cellblock 5 were solid enough, but they weren't exactly dry and toasty. As a matter of fact, they were and are pretty damned dank. After a long wet spell they would sweat and sometimes even drip. Cracks had a way of appearing, some an inch deep, and were routinely mortared over.

Now here comes Andy Dufresne into Cellblock 5. He's a man who graduated from the University of Maine's school of business, but he's also a man who took two or three geology courses along the way. Geology had, in fact, become his chief hobby. I imagine it appealed to his patient, meticulous nature. A ten-thousand-year ice age here.

A million years of mountain-building there. Tectonic plates grinding against each other deep under the earth's skin over the millennia. Pressure. Andy told me once that all of geology is the study of pressure.
And time, of course.

He had time to study those walls. Plenty of time. When the cell door slams and the lights go out, there's nothing else to look at.

First-timers usually had a hard time adjusting to the confinement of prison life. They get screw-fever, they have to be hauled down to the infirmary and sedated couple of times before they get on the beam. It's not unusual to hear some new member of our happy little family bang on the bars of his cell and screaming to be let out ... before the cries have gone on for long, the chant starts up along the cellblock: 'Fresh fish, hey little fishie, fresh fish, fresh fish, got fresh fish today!'

Andy didn't flip out like that when he came to the Shank 1948, but that's not to say that he didn't feel many of same things. He may have come close to madness; some and some go sailing right over the edge. Old life blown away in the wink of an eye, indeterminate nightmare stretching out ahead, a long season in hell.
So what did he do, I ask you? He searched almost desperately for something to divert his restless mind. Oh there are all sorts of ways to divert yourself, even in prison; it seems like the human mind is full of an infinite number of possibilities when it comes to diversion. I told you about the sculptor and his Three

Ages of Jesus. There were coin collectors who were always losing their collections to thieves, stamp collectors, one fellow who had postcards from thirty-five different countries - and let me tell you, he would have turned out your lights if he'd caught you diddling with his postcards.
Andy got interested in rocks. And the walls of his cell.

I think that his initial intention might have been to do no more than to carve his initials into the wall where the poster of Rita Hayworth would soon be hanging. His initials, or maybe a few lines from some poem. Instead, what he found was that interestingly weak concrete. Maybe he started to carve his initials and a big chunk of the wall fell out I can see him, lying there on his bunk, looking at that broken chunk of concrete, turning it over in his hands. Never mind the wreck of your whole life, never mind that you got railroaded into this place by a whole trainload of bad luck. Let's forget all that and look at this piece of concrete.

Some months further along he might have decided it would be fun to see how much of that wall he could take out. But you can't just start digging into your wall and then, when the weekly inspection (or one of the surprise inspections that are always turning up interesting caches of booze, drugs, dirty pictures, and weapons) comes around, say to the guard: This? Just excavating a little hole in my cell wall. Not to worry, my good man.'
No, he couldn't have that. So he came to me and asked if I could get him a Rita Hayworth poster. Not a little one but a big one.

And, of course, he had the rock-hammer. I remember thinking when I got him that gadget back in '48 that it would take a man six hundred years to burrow through the wall with it. True enough. But Andy went right through the wall -even with the soft concrete, it took him two rock-hammers and twenty-seven years to hack a hole big enough to get his slim body through four feet of it.

Of course he lost most of one of those years to Normaden, and
he could only work at night, preferably late at night, when almost everybody is asleep - including the guards who work the night shift. But I suspect the thing which slowed him down the most was getting rid of the wall as he took it out. He could muffle the sound of his work by wrapping the head of his hammer in rock-polishing cloths, but what to do with the pulverized concrete and the occasional chunks that came out whole?
I think he must have broken up the chunks into pebbles and...
I remembered the Sunday after I had gotten him the rock-hammer. I remember watching him walk across the exercise yard, his face puffy from his latest go-round with the sisters. I saw him stoop, pick up a pebble ... and it disappeared up his sleeve.
That inside sleeve-pocket is an old prison trick. Up your sleeve or just inside the cuff of your pants. And I have another memory, very strong but unfocused, maybe something I saw more than once. This memory is of Andy Dufresne walking across the exercise yard on a hot summer day when the air was utterly still. Still, yeah ... except for the little breeze that seemed to be blowing sand around Andy Dufresne's feet.
So maybe he had a couple of cheaters in his pants below the knees. You loaded the cheaters up with fill and then just strolled around, your hands in your pockets, and when you feel safe and unobserved, you gave the pockets a little twitch. The pockets, of course, are attached by string or strong thread to the cheaters. The fill goes cascading out of your pantslegs as you walk. The World War II POWS who were trying to tunnel out used the dodge.

　　关于幸运之神眷顾，我猜完全用不着解释了。至于WPA混凝土，我倒是好好查了一下资料。我花了不少时间，也花了不少邮资。我先写信给缅因大学历史系，他们给了我某人的地址，我又写信给那个家伙，他曾经参与WPA工程，同时参与建造肖申克监狱警卫最森严的区域，而且还担任工头。
　　位于这个区域的第三、四、五区牢房是在一九三四到一九三七年间建造完成的。今天，大多数人并不认为水泥和混凝土是什么了不起的“技术发展”，就好像我们现在也不认为汽车或暖炉算什么了不起的技术进步一样，但其实不然。现代的水泥直到一八七〇年左右才发展出来，而混凝土更是到二十世纪初才出现。调混凝土的过程就和做面包一样细腻，可能会放了太多水或水放得不够，沙子和碎石的成分也可能太稠或太稀。而在一九三四年，混凝土的科学远不如今天这么进步。
　　从外表看来，第五区牢房的墙壁很坚实，但是却不够干，事实上，这些混凝土墙还满容易透水的。经过一段阴雨连绵的日子，这些墙就变得很潮湿，甚至会渗出水来。有些地方已出现龟裂，有些裂痕甚至深达一英寸。他们会定期涂抹砂浆，黏合裂缝。
　　后来安迪被关进第五区牢房。他毕业于缅因大学商学院，修过两三门地质学的课，事实上，地质学成为他的一大嗜好，一定是因为非常合乎他极有耐性、一丝不苟的本性。一万年的冰河期、百万年的造山运动、千年床岩在地层底部相互挤压。“压力，”安迪有一次告诉我，“所有的地质学都是在研究压力。”
　　当然，还有时间这个因素。
　　安迪有很多时间可以研究这些墙。当囚门关上、灯也熄灭之后，除了那堵灰墙，没有其他东西可以看。
　　初进监狱的人起初都难以适应这种失去自由的生活，他们会得一种囚犯热，有些人甚至得被拖进医务室施打镇静剂。常会听到新进犯人猛力敲打铁栅栏，大吼大叫着要出去，喊叫声没有持续多久，就会响起其他犯人的唱和声：“鲜鱼来了，鲜鱼来了，嘿，小小的鲜鱼，今天有鲜鱼进来了！”
　　一九四八年，安迪初入狱时并没有这种失控的表现，但这并不表示他没有同样的感觉。他或许也曾濒临疯狂边缘。一瞬间，一向熟悉的快乐生活就不见了，眼前是漫长的梦魇，就像置身炼狱。
　　那么，他要怎么办呢？我问你。他一定努力找一些事情来做，让自己不再胡思乱想。噢，即使在监狱里，让人分心的方法仍然很多。人类的潜能是无穷的，像我曾经告诉过你的，有个犯人雕刻了耶稣的三个时期，有的犯人收集钱币，有的人集邮，还有人收集到三十五个国家的明信片。
　　安迪对石头有兴趣，连带的也对牢房的墙产生兴趣。
　　我想他最初的想法只是把名字刻在墙上，或是在后来贴美女海报的墙面上，刻几行诗来鼓舞自己。哪晓得竟然发现这堵混凝土墙意外的松动，只刻了几个字，便落下一大块。我可以想象他躺在床上，手里把玩着混凝土块，看着这块剥落的混凝土沉思。不要老想着自己一生都毁了，不要老想着自己怎么会这么倒霉。把那些全都忘掉，好好看看这块混凝土吧！
　　很可能，之后的几个月，他觉得试试看自己能把这堵墙挖开多少，应该还满有趣的。他当然不能这么堂而皇之地挖墙壁，你总不能在警卫每周定期检查时（或是突袭检查时，他们每次总是会翻出一些有趣的东西，例如酒、毒品、色情图片和武器等），对他说：“这个？只不过在墙上挖个小洞而已，没什么好担心的。”
　　不，安迪不能这样做，于是他想到托我买丽塔·海华丝的海报，他不要小张的，而要大张的。
　　当然，还有他的石锤。我记得一九四八年替他弄到那个小锤子的时候，曾经想过如果要用这把锤子挖穿监狱的墙壁，大概要花六百年的工夫。没错，但是安迪其实只需要挖穿一半的墙壁——但即使混凝土墙非常松软，他用两把锤子，仍然努力了二十七年才成功。
　　当然，期间因为跟诺曼登同住而浪费了不少时间。他只能晚上工作，而且是在三更半夜大家都睡熟了之后，包括值夜班的警卫也进入梦乡后。然而拖慢速度的最大难题，还是如何处理敲下来的混凝土块。他可以把磨石布包住锤头来消音，但是敲下来的碎片要怎么处理呢？
　　我想他一定把混凝土块弄成很小的碎片，然后装在袖子里运出去。
　　我还记得在我帮他弄到石锤后，星期天的时候，我看着他走过运动场，因为和姊妹的冲突而鼻青眼肿的。他弯下腰来，捡起小石子……然后小石子就消失在他的袖口。袖口或裤脚翻边的暗袋是监狱里的老把戏。还有另外一件事让我记忆深刻，可能看过不止一次，就是安迪在炎夏午后窒闷的空气中穿过运动场，没错，空气十分窒闷，除了偶有一阵微风吹过，掀起安迪脚下飞扬的尘土。
　　所以，可能他的裤脚还藏着不少花样。你把暗袋装满要丢掉的小碎片，然后到处走动，手一直插在裤袋中，然后当你觉得很安全时，就趁人不注意猛拉暗袋。当然裤袋里一定有一条很坚韧的线连到裤脚的暗袋。于是你一边走动，口袋里的碎片沙砾就在双脚间倾泻而下，第二次大战的战俘挖掘隧道逃跑时，就用过这招妙计。

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Chapter 31

The years went past and Andy brought his wall out to the exercise yard cupful by cupful. He played the game with administrator after administrator, and they thought it was because he wanted to keep the library growing. I have no doubt that was part of it, but the main thing Andy wanted was to keep cell 14 in Cellblock 5 a single occupancy.

I doubt if he had any real plans or hopes of breaking out, at least not at first. He probably assumed the wall was ten feet of solid concrete, and that if he succeeded in boring all the way through it, he'd come out thirty feet over the exercise yard. But like I say, I don't think he was worried overmuch about breaking through. His assumption could have run this way: I'm only making a foot of progress every seven years or so; therefore, it would take me seventy years to break through; that would make me one hundred and seven years old.
Here's a second assumption I would have made, had I been Andy: that eventually I would be caught and get a lot of solitary time, not to mention a very large black mark on my record. After all, there was the regular weekly inspection and a surprise toss - which usually came at night - every second week or so. He must have decided that things couldn't go on for long. Sooner or later, some screw was going to peek behind Rita Hayworth just to make sure Andy didn't have a sharpened spoon-handle or some marijuana reefers Scotch-taped to the wall.
And his response to that second assumption must have been to hell with it. Maybe he even made a game out of it. How far in can I get before they find out? Prison is a goddam boring place, and the chance or being surprised by an unscheduled inspection in the middle of the night while he had his poster unstuck probably added some spice to his life during the early years.

And I do believe it would have been impossible for him to get away just on dumb luck. Not for twenty-seven years. Nevertheless, I have to believe that for the first two years -until mid-May of 1950, when he helped Byron Hadley get around the tax on his windfall inheritance - that's exactly what he did get by on.
Or maybe he had something more than dumb luck going for him even back then. He had money, and he might have been slipping someone a little squeeze every week to take it easy on him.
Most guards will go along with that if the price is right; it's money in their pockets and the prisoner gets to keep his whack-off pictures or his tailormade cigarettes. Also, Andy was a model prisoner - quiet, well-spoken, respectful, non-violent. It's the crazies and the stampeders that get their cells turned upside-down at least once every six months, their mattresses unzipped, their pillows taken away and cut open, the outflow pipe from their toilets carefully probed.

Then, in 1950, Andy became something more than a model prisoner. In 1950, he became a valuable commodity, a murderer who did tax returns as well as H & R Block. He gave gratis estate-planning advice, set up tax-shelters, filled out loan applications (sometimes creatively). I can remember him sitting behind his desk in the library, patiently going over a car-loan agreement paragraph by paragraph with a screwhead who wanted to buy a used DeSoto, telling the guy what was good about the agreement and
what was bad about it, explaining to him that it was possible to shop for a loan and not get hit quite so bad, steering him away from the finance companies which in those days were sometimes little better than legal loan-sharks. When he'd finished, the screwhead started to put out his hand ... and then drew it back to himself quickly. He'd forgotten for a moment, you see, that he was dealing with a mascot, not a man.
Andy kept up on the tax laws and the changes in the stock market, and so his usefulness didn't end after he'd been in cold storage for a while, as it might have done.

He began to get his library money, his running war with the sisters had ended, and nobody tossed his cell very hard. He was a good nigger.
Then one day, very late in the going - perhaps around October of 1967 - the long-time hobby suddenly turned into something else. One night while he was in the hole up to his waist with Raquel Welch hanging down over his ass, the pick end of his rock-hammer must have suddenly sunk into concrete past the hilt.
He would have dragged some chunks of concrete back, but maybe he heard others falling down into that shaft, bouncing back and forth, clinking off that standpipe. Did he know by then that he was going to come upon that shaft, or was he totally surprised? I don't know. He might have seen the prison blueprints by then or he might not have. If not, you can be damned sure he found a way to look at them not long after.
All at once he must have realized that, instead of just playing a game, he was playing for high stakes ... in terms of his own life and his own future, the highest.

Even then he couldn't have known for sure, but he must have had a pretty good idea because it was right around then that he talked to me about Zihuatanejo for the first time. All of a sudden, instead of just being a toy, that stupid hole in the wall became his master - if he knew about the sewer-pipe at the bottom, and that it led under the outer wall, it did, anyway.
He'd had the key under the rock in Buxton to worry about for years. Now he had to worry that some eager-beaver new guard would look behind his poster and expose the whole thing, or that he would get another cellmate, or that he would, after all those years, suddenly be transferred. He had all those things on his mind for the next seven years. All I can say is that he must have been one of the coolest men who ever lived. I would have gone completely nuts after a while, living with all that uncertainty. But Andy just went on playing the game.
He had to carry the possibility of discovery for another eight years - the probability of it, you might say, because no matter how carefully he stacked the cards in his favour, as an inmate of a state prison, he just didn't have that many to stack ... and the gods had been kind to him for a very long time; some eighteen years.

The most ghastly irony I can think of would have been if he had been offered a parole. Can you imagine it? Three days before the parolee is actually released, he is transferred into the light security wing to undergo a complete physical and a battery of vocational tests. While he's there, his old cell is completely cleaned out.
Instead of getting his parole, Andy would have gotten a long turn downstairs in solitary, followed by some more time upstairs ... but in a different cell.
If he broke into the shaft in 1967, how come he didn't escape until 1975?

I don't know for sure - but I can advance some pretty good guesses.

　　一年年过去，安迪就这么一袋袋把混凝土碎片运到操场倒掉。历经一任又一任的典狱长，无数的春去秋来，他替典狱长服务，他们都以为他是为了扩张图书馆而这么做，我也绝不怀疑这点，但是骨子里他真正要争取的是独居一室的特殊待遇。
　　我怀疑他一开始真的有什么具体的越狱计划或抱了什么希望，或许他以为这堵十英尺厚的墙里面扎实地填满了混凝土，或即使成功地把墙挖通了，也只能逃到三十英尺外的运动场上。但是，就像我说的，我不认为安迪很担心这个问题，因为他一定会这么想：我每七年才能前进一英尺，因此可能要花七十年才能把这堵墙挖通，到时候我已经一百零一岁了。
　　如果我是安迪，我的第二个假设是：我终究会被逮到，然后关禁闭很长一段时间，记录上也被画一个大叉。毕竟，他们每个星期都会来做例行检查，而且还有突击检查——通常都在晚上。他一定觉得他不可能挖太久，警卫迟早会查看丽塔·海华丝的海报后面有没有磨尖的汤匙柄，或把大麻烟用胶带贴在墙上。
　　而他对于第二个假设的反应一定是：管他的！或许他甚至把它当成一场游戏。在他们发现之前，我可以挖得多深？监狱是个非常沉闷的地方，在早年，海报还没贴好就在半夜遭到突击检查的可能性，说不定还为他的生活增添了些许趣味。
　　而我确实认为他不可能单靠运气就顺利逃出去，至少不会连续二十七年都这么好运。尽管如此，我不得不说，在一九五〇年五月中旬，他开始帮哈力处理遗产继承税务问题之前两年，他的确运气很好，才没被逮到。
　　也有可能，除了运气好以外，他还有其他法宝。反正有钱能使鬼推磨，也许他每个星期都偷偷塞几张钞票给警卫，让他们不要找他麻烦。如果价码还不错的话，大多数警卫都会合作。只要荷包有进账，让犯人拥有一张美女海报或一包香烟也不为过，何况安迪是个模范犯人，他很安静，讲话有条有理，为人谦恭有礼，不会动不动就拳头相向。通常逃不过监狱每半年一次大检查的，都是那些疯疯癫癫或行事冲动的囚犯，这时警卫会把整个牢房彻底搜查一遍，掀开床垫，拆开枕头，连马桶的排水管都要仔细戳一戳。
　　到了一九五〇年，安迪除了是模范犯人外，还成了极具价值的资产，他能帮他们退税，免费指导他们如何规划房地产投资、善用免税方案和申请贷款，比专业会计师还要高明。我还记得他坐在图书馆中，耐心地和警卫队长一段一段检查汽车贷款协议书中的条款，为他分析这份协议书的好处和坏处，教他如何找到最划算的贷款方案，引导他避开吸血的金融公司，那些公司几乎是在合法掩护下大放高利贷。当安迪解释完毕时，警卫队长伸出手来要和他握手……然后又很快缩回去。他一时之间忘记了他不是在和正常人打交道。
　　安迪一直注意股市动态和税法变动，因此尽管在监狱冷藏了一段时间，并未丝毫减损他的利用价值。他开始为图书馆争取经费补助，他和那群姊妹之间的战争已经停火，警卫不再那么认真地检查他的牢房，他是个模范囚犯。
　　然后有一天，可能是一九六七年十月左右，安迪长时间的嗜好突然变得不一样了。有一天晚上，他把海报掀起，整个上半身探入洞里，拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报则盖到他的臀部，石锤的尖头一定突然整个陷入混凝土中。
　　他本来已经准备把几块敲下来的混凝土拿走，但是可能在这时候听到有东西掉落，在竖立的管子间来回弹跳，叮当作响。他事先已经知道会挖到那个通道吗？还是当时大吃了一惊？那就不得而知了。他可能已经看过监狱的蓝图，但也可能没有看过。如果没有看过，我敢说他后来一定设法把蓝图找来看了。
　　他一定突然明白，他不只是在玩游戏而已，他这么做其实是在赌博，他的赌注下得很大，赌上了自己的生命和未来。即使他当时还不是那么确定，不过应该已经有相当的把握了，因为他第一次跟我谈起齐华坦尼荷，就差不多是在那段期间。在墙上挖洞原本只是好玩而已，突然之间，那个蠢洞却能主宰他的命运——如果他知道通道底部是污水管，以及污水管会一直通往监狱围墙外的话。
　　现在，他除了要担心压在巴克斯登石头下的那把钥匙外，还得担心某个力求表现的新警卫会掀开海报，发现这个伟大的工程，或是突然住进一个新室友，或是在这里待了这么多年以后，突然被调到其他监狱去。接下来八年中，他脑子里一直得操心这么多事情，我只能说，他是我所见过的最冷静的人之一。换作是我，在所有事情都这么不确定的情况下，我早就疯了，但安迪却继续赌下去。
　　很讽刺的是，还有一件事，我一想起来便不寒而栗，就是万一安迪获得假释的话，怎么办？你能想象吗？获得假释的囚犯在出狱前三天，会被送到另一个地方，接受完整的体检和技能测验。在这三天之中，他的牢房会被彻底清扫一遍，如此一来他的假释不但会成泡影，而且换来的是长时间单独监禁在禁闭室，再加上更长的刑期……但换到不同的牢房服刑。
　　如果他在一九六七年就已经挖到通道，为什么他直到一九七五年才越狱？
　　我不是很确定——但是我可以猜一猜。

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Chapter 32

First, he would have become more careful than ever. He was too smart to just push ahead at flank speed and try to get out in eight months, or even in eighteen. He must have gone on widening the opening on the crawlspace a little at a time. A hole as big as a teacup by the time he took his New Year's Eve drink that year. A hole as big as a dinner plate by the time he took his birthday drink in 1968. As big as a serving-tray by the time the 1969 baseball season opened.

For a time I thought it should have gone much faster than it apparently did - after he broke through, I mean. It seemed to me that, instead of having to pulverize the crap and take it out of his cell in the cheater gadgets I have described, he could simply let it drop down the shaft. The length of time he took makes me believe that he didn't dare do that. He might have decided that the noise would arouse someone's suspicions. Or, if he knew about the sewer-pipe, as I believe he must have, he would have been afraid that a falling chunk of concrete would break it before he was ready, screwing up the cellblock sewage system and leading to an investigation. And an investigation, needless to say, would lead to ruin.
Still and all, I'd guess that, by the time Nixon was sworn in for his second term, the hole would have been wide enough for him to wriggle through ... and probably sooner than that Andy was a small guy.
Why didn't he go then?

That's where my educated guesses run out, folks; from this point they become progressively wilder. One possibility is that the crawlspace itself was clogged with crap and he had to clear it out, but that wouldn't account for all the time. So what was it?

I think that maybe Andy got scared.
I've told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutional man. At first you can't stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you accept them ... and then, as your body and your mind and your spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them. You are told when to eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you're at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you're assigned five minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom. For thirty-five years, my time was twenty-five minutes after the hour, and after thirty-five years, that's the only time I ever felt the need to take a piss or have a crap:
twenty-five minutes past the hour. And if for some reason I couldn't go, the need would pass at thirty after, and come back at twenty-five past the next hour.
I think Andy may have been wrestling with that tiger - that institutional syndrome and also with the bulking fears that all of it might have been for nothing.

How many nights must he have lain awake under his poster, thinking about that sewer line, knowing that the one chance was all he'd ever get? The blueprints might have told him how big the pipe's bore was, but a blueprint couldn't tell him what it would be like inside that pipe - if he would be able to breathe without choking, if the rats were big enough and mean enough to fight instead of retreating ... and a blueprint couldn't 've told him what he'd find at the end of the pipe, when and if he got there. Here's a joke even funnier than the parole would have been: Andy breaks into the sewer line, crawls through five hundred yards of choking, shit-smelling darkness, and comes up against a heavy-gauge mesh screen at the end of it all. Ha, ha, very funny.

That would have been on his mind. And if the long shot actually came in and he was able to get out, would he be able to get some civilian clothes and get away from the vicinity of the prison undetected? Last of all, suppose he got out of the pipe, got away from Shawshank before the alarm was raised, got to Buxton, overturned the right rock ... and found nothing beneath? Not necessarily something so dramatic as arriving at the right field and discovering that a high-rise apartment building had been erected on the spot, or that it had turned into a supermarket parking lot. It could have been that some little kid who liked rocks noticed that piece of volcanic glass, turned it over, saw the deposit-box key, and took both it and the rock back to his room as souvenirs. Maybe a November hunter kicked the rock, left the key exposed, and a squirrel or a crow with a liking for bright shiny things had taken it away. Maybe there had been spring floods one year, breaching the wall, washing the key away.

Maybe anything.
So I think - wild guess or not - that Andy just froze in place for a while. After all, you can't lose if you don't bet. What did he have to lose, you ask? His library, for one thing. The poison peace of institutional life, for another. Any future chance to grab his safe identity.
But he finally did it, just as I have told you. He tried ... and, my! Didn't he succeed in spectacular fashion? You tell me!
But did he get away, you ask? What happened after? What happened when he got to that meadow and turned over the rock ... always assuming the rock was still there?

I can't describe that scene for you, because this institutional man is still in this institution, and expects to be for years to come.
But I'll tell you this. Very late in the summer of 1975, on 15 September to be exact, I got a postcard which had been mailed from the tiny town of McNary, Texas. That town is on the American side of the border, directly across from El Porvenir.
The message side of the card was totally blank. But I know. I know it in my heart as surely as I know that we're all going to die someday.

McNary was where he crossed. McNary, Texas.
So that's my story, Jack. I never believed how long it would take to write it all down, or how many pages it would take. I started writing just after I got that postcard, and here I am finishing up on 14 January 1976. I've used three pencils right down to knuckle-stubs, and a whole tablet of paper. I've kept the pages carefully hidden ... not that many could read my hen-tracks, anyway.

　　首先，他会变得比以前都小心。他太聪明了，不会盲目地加快速度推进，想在八个月或甚至十八个月内逃出去。他一定一次只把通道挖宽一点点。那年他在除夕夜喝酒时，洞口可能有茶杯那么大，到了一九六八年庆祝生日时，洞口可能有碟子大小。等到一九六九年棒球季开打时，洞口可能已经挖得像托盘那么大了。
　　有一阵子，我猜想在他挖到通道之后，挖掘的速度应该快很多，因为他只要让敲下来的混凝土块直接从通道掉落就行，不必像以前一样把它敲碎后，再用我前面说过的瞒天过海之计，运出牢房丢掉。但由于他花了这么长的时间，我相信他不敢这么做。他或许认为，混凝土掉落的声音会引起其他人怀疑。或是如果他当时正如我所猜想，已经晓得下面是污水管的话，他很可能会担心落下的混凝土块在他还未准备就绪以前，就把污水管打破，弄乱了监狱的排水系统，引起调查。不用多说，如此一来，就大难临头了。
　　但我猜想，无论如何，在尼克松第二个任期宣誓就任之前，安迪已经可以勉强挤进那个洞口了……或是更早就可以这么做，安迪长得很瘦小。
　　为什么他那时候不走呢？
　　各位，到了这个地步，我的理智推理就不管用了，只能乱猜。其中一个可能性是，爬行之处塞满垃圾，他得先清干净，才出得去。但是那也不需要花这么久的时间。所以到底是什么原因呢？
　　我觉得，也许安迪开始觉得害怕。
　　我曾经试图描述过，逐渐为监狱体制所制约是什么样的情况。起先，你无法忍受被四面墙困住的感觉，然后你逐渐可以忍受这种生活，进而接受这种生活……接下来，当你的身心都逐渐调整适应后，你甚至开始喜欢这种生活了。什么时候可以吃饭，什么时候可以写信，什么时候可以抽烟，全都规定得好好的。如果你在洗衣房或车牌工厂工作，每个小时可以有五分钟的时间上厕所，而且每个人轮流去厕所的时间都是排定的。三十五年来，我上厕所的时间是每当分针走到二十五的时候，经过三十五年后，我只有在那个时间才会想上厕所：每小时整点过后二十五分。如果我当时因为什么原因没办法上厕所，那么过了五分钟后，我的尿意或便意就会消失，直到下个钟头时钟的分针再度指在二十五分时，才会想上厕所。
　　我想安迪也在努力克服这种体制化症候群——同时，他内心也有深深的恐惧，深怕经过多年努力，一切都成空。
　　想象有多少个夜晚，他清醒地躺在床头贴着的海报下，思索着污水管的问题，心里很清楚这是他惟一的机会？他手上的蓝图只能告诉他这条管子有多大和多长，但无法告诉他管子里面会是什么状况——他能否一路爬过去，而不会窒息？里面的老鼠是否又肥又大，会毫无惧色地攻击他？蓝图更不会告诉他污水管的尽头是什么状况。比安迪获准假释更滑稽的情况是：万一安迪钻进污水管，在黑暗和恶臭中几乎不能呼吸地爬了五百码后，却发现尽头是一堵厚实的铁栅栏的话，哈，哈，不是太好笑了吗！
　　他一定曾经设想过这种情况。如果他确实费尽千辛万苦爬出去，他有办法换上平常人的衣服，逃离监狱附近而不被发现吗？最后，假定他爬出了管子，在警报响起之前逃离肖申克，到了巴克斯登，找到了那块石头……结果发现底下空无一物呢？情况倒不一定像终于找到正确地点，却发现那儿已矗立一幢高大的公寓，或变成超级市场的停车场这么戏剧化；可能是一些喜欢寻宝的孩子看到了这块火山岩玻璃，把它翻过来，看到保险箱钥匙，把钥匙和火山岩都带回家当纪念品了；也可能十一月的猎人踢到那块石头，让钥匙露了出来，喜欢闪亮东西的松鼠或乌鸦把它叼走了；或是某年春水暴涨，把那堵墙冲走了，连带的钥匙也流失了。总而言之，任何一种意外都可能发生。
　　所以不管我是不是乱猜，有一段时间，安迪不敢轻举妄动。毕竟如果你根本不下注，你就不会输。你问，他还有什么东西可输呢？图书馆是其中一样，监狱中那种受到制约、仿佛中了毒般的平静生活是另外一样。还有，他可能因此丧失了未来得以靠新身份再出发的机会。
　　不过他终于成功了，正如同我前面告诉你的。他终于大胆尝试了……而且，我的天！他成功的方式真叫人赞叹哪！　　???
　　但是，你问，他真的逃脱了吗？后来发生了什么事？当他抵达那片牧草地把石头翻过来后……假定石头还在那儿，发生了什么事？
　　我没有办法描述当时的情况，因为我这体制化的人还活在监狱的体制中，而且预计还要过好几年的牢狱生活。
　　但我可以告诉你，一九七五年夏末，其实就在九月十五日那天，我收到了从德州一个名叫麦克纳里的小镇寄来的明信片。麦克纳里就位于美墨边境。卡片背后写讯息的地方是一片空白，但我一看就明白了，我打心里头知道那是谁寄来的，就好像我知道每个人终有一天都会死去一样。
　　他就从麦克纳里越过边境。德州的麦克纳里。
　　好了，这就是我的故事。我简直无法相信，把这个故事写下来，竟然要花这么多时间，写满这么多页。我收到明信片后，开始把整个故事写下来，一直写到一九七六年一月十四日才停笔。我用掉三枝铅笔，还有一整本簿子。我小心藏起稿子，不过也没有多少人认得出我鬼画符的笔迹。

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Chapter 33

It stirred up more memories than I ever would have believed. Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and roiling up the muddy bottom.

Well, you weren't writing about yourself, I hear someone in the peanut-gallery saying. You were writing about Andy Dufresne. You're nothing but a minor character in your own story. But you know, that's just not so. It's all about me, every damned word of it. Andy was the part of me they could never lock up, the part of me that will rejoice when the gates finally open for me and I walk out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of mad-money in my pocket. That part of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and scared the rest of me is. I guess it's just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used it better.

There are others here like me, others who remember Andy. We're glad he's gone, but a little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
That's the story and I'm glad I told it, even if it is a bit inconclusive and even though some of the memories the pencil prodded up (like that branch poking up the river-mud) made me feel a little sad and even older than I am. Thank you for listening. And Andy: If you're really down there, as I believe you are, look at the stars for me just after sunset, and touch the sand, and wade in the water, and feel free.

I never expected to take up this narrative again, but here I am with the dog -eared, folded pages open on the desk in front of me. Here I am adding another three or four pages, writing in a brand-new tablet. A tablet I bought in a store - I just walked into a store on Portland's Congress Street and bought it.
I thought I had put finish to my story in a Shawshank prison cell on a bleak January day in 1976. Now it's late June of 1977 and I am sitting in a small, cheap room of the Brewster Hotel in Portland, adding to it.

The window is open, and the sound of the traffic floating in seems huge, exciting, and intimidating. I have to look constantly over at the window and reassure myself that there are no bars on it. I sleep poorly at night because the bed in this room, as cheap as the room is, seems much too big and luxurious. I snap awake every morning promptly at six-thirty, feeling disorientated and frightened. My dreams are bad. I have a crazy feeling of free fall. The sensation is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
What has happened in my life? Can't you guess? I was paroled. After thirty-eight years of routine hearings and routine details (in the course of those thirty-eight years, three lawyers died on me), my parole was granted. I suppose they decided that, at the age of fifty-eight, I was finally used up enough to be deemed safe.

I came very close to burning the document you have just read. They search outgoing parolees just as carefully as they search incoming 'new fish'. And beyond containing enough dynamite to assure me of a quick turnaround and another six or eight years inside, my 'memoirs' contained something else: the name of the town where I believe Andy Dufresne to be. Mexican police gladly cooperate with the American police, and I didn't want my freedom - or my unwillingness to give up the story I'd worked so long and hard to write - to cost Andy his.

Then I remembered how Andy had brought in his five hundred dollars back in 1948, and I took out my story of him the same way. Just to be on the safe side, I carefully rewrote each page which mentioned Zihuatanejo. If the papers had been found during my 'outside search', as they call it at the Shank, I would have gone back in on turnaround ... but the cops would have been looking for Andy in a Peruvian seacoast town named Las Intrudres.

The Parole Committee got me a job as a 'stock-room assistant' at the big FoodWay Market at the Spruce Mall in South Portland - which means I became just one more ageing bag-boy. There's only two kinds of bag-boys, you know; the old ones and the young ones. No one ever looks at either kind. If you shop at the Spruce Mall FoodWay, I may have even taken your groceries out to your car ... but you'd have had to have shopped there between March and April of 1977, because that's as long as I worked there.
At first I didn't think I was going to be able to make it on the outside at all. I've described prison society as a scaled-down model of your outside world, but I had no idea of how fast things moved on the outside; the raw speed people move at. They even talk faster. And louder.

It was the toughest adjustment I've ever had to make, and I haven't finished making it yet ... not by a long way. Women, for instance. After hardly knowing that they were half of the human race for forty years, I was suddenly working in a store filled with them. Old women, pregnant women wearing T-shirts with arrows pointing downward and the printed motto reading BABY HERE, skinny women with their nipples poking out of their shirts - a woman wearing something like that when I went in would have gotten arrested and then had a sanity hearing - women of every shape and size. I found myself going around with a semi-hard almost all the time and cursing myself for being a dirty old man.

Going to the bathroom, that was another thing. When I had to go (and the urge always came on me at twenty-five past the hour), I had to fight the almost overwhelming need to check it with my boss. Knowing that was something I could just go and do in this too-bright outside world was one thing; adjusting my inner self to that knowledge after all those years of checking it with the nearest screwhead or facing two days in solitary for the oversight... that was something else.

　　一边写着，一边勾起我更多的回忆。撰写自己的故事，就好像把树枝插进清澈的河水中，翻搅起河底的泥泞。
　　我听到有人说，你写的又不是自己的故事，你写的是安迪的故事，你在自己的故事中，只是个小角色。但是你知道，其实并非如此，里面的字字句句，其实都是我自己的写照。安迪代表了在我内心深处、他们永远也封锁不住的那个部分，当监狱铁门最后终于为我开启，我穿着廉价西装、带着二十块钱走出监狱大门时，会感到欢欣鼓舞的那个部分。不管其他部分的我当时是多么老态龙钟、狼狈、害怕，那部分的我仍然会欢欣雀跃。但是我想，就那个部分而言，安迪所拥有的比我多很多，而且也比我懂得利用它。
　　这儿也有不少人像我一样，他们都记得安迪。我们都高兴他走了，但也有点难过。有些鸟儿天生就是关不住的，它们的羽毛太鲜明，歌声太甜美、也太狂野了，所以你只能放它们走，否则哪天你打开笼子喂它们时，它们也会想办法扬长而去。你知道把它们关住是不对的，所以你会为它们感到高兴，但如此一来，你住的地方仍然会因为它们离去而显得更加黯淡和空虚。
　　我很高兴把这个故事写下来，尽管故事似乎没有结尾，然而故事勾起了往事（就好像树枝翻搅了河中的泥泞一样），不禁令我感到有点悲伤和垂垂老矣。多谢你肯耐心聆听这个故事。还有，安迪，如果你真的到了南方，请在太阳下山以后，替我看看星星、摸摸沙子、在水中嬉戏，感受完全自由的感觉。
　　我从来没有想过这个故事还能继续写下去，但我现在坐在桌前再补充个三四页，这次是用新本子写的。这本子是我从店里买来的，是我走进波特兰国会街的一家店里买来的。
　　原本以为我在一九七六年一个阴沉的一月天，已经把这个故事写完了，但现在是一九七七年五月，我正坐在波特兰一家廉价旅馆的房间里，为这个故事添增新页。
　　窗子是敞开的，不时传来外面车子的喧嚣声，震耳欲聋，也挺吓人的。我不断看着窗子，确定上面没有装铁栅栏。我晚上常常睡不好，因为尽管房租很便宜，这个床对我来说仍然太大，也太豪华了。我每天早上六点半便惊醒了，感到茫然和害怕。我常做噩梦，重获自由的感觉就好像自由落体骤然下降一样，让人既害怕又兴奋。
　　我是怎么了？你还猜不到吗？他们批准我假释了。经过三十八年一次次的听证会和一次次驳回，我的假释申请终于获准了。我猜他们放我出来的主要原因是我已经五十八岁了，如此高龄，不太可能再为非作歹了。
　　我差一点就把你们刚刚读到的故事烧掉。他们会详细搜查即将假释的囚犯，就好像搜查新进犯人一样仔细。我的“回忆录”中所包含的爆炸性资料足以让我再坐六到八年的牢，除此之外，里面还记载了我猜测的安迪的去处。墨西哥警察将会很乐意和美国警方合作，而我不希望到头来得牺牲安迪来换取自己的自由——另一方面，我也不想放弃这么辛苦写好的故事。
　　这时候，我记起安迪当初是怎么把五百美金偷渡进监狱的，于是我把这几页故事以同样方法偷渡出去。为了保险起见，我很小心地重写了提到齐华坦尼荷的那几页。因此即使这篇故事被搜出来，我得回去坐牢，警察也会到秘鲁海边一个叫拉思因楚德的小镇去搜寻安迪。
　　假释委员替我在南波特兰一家超级市场找了个“仓库助理”的差事——也就是说，我成为年纪很大的跑腿伙计。你知道，会跑腿打杂的人基本上只有两种，要不就是年纪很轻，要不就是年纪很大。但不管你属于哪一种，从来没有客人会正眼瞧你。如果你曾经在史布鲁斯超市买过东西，我说不定还曾经帮你把买好的东西从手推车中拿出来，放到车上……但是，你得在一九七七年三、四月间到那里买东西才碰得到我，因为我只在那里工作了一个多月。
　　起初，我根本不认为自己能适应外面的世界。我把监狱描绘成外面社会的缩影，但完全没料到外面的世界变化竟然如此之大，人们走路和讲话的速度都变快了，连说话都更大声。
　　我一时之间很难适应这一切，到现在还没有完全适应，就拿女人来说吧。近四十年的牢狱生涯，我几乎已经忘记女人占了世界人口的一半。突然之间，我工作的地方充满了女人——老女人、怀孕的女人（T恤上有个箭头往下指着肚子，一行大字写着：“小宝宝在这儿”），以及骨瘦如柴、不穿胸罩、乳头隐隐凸出的女人（在我入狱服刑之前，女人如果像这样穿着打扮，会被当街逮捕，以为她是神经病）等形形色色的女人，我发现自己走在街上常常忍不住起生理反应，只有在心里暗暗诅咒自己是脏老头。
　　上厕所是另一件我不能适应的事。当我想上厕所的时候（而且我每次都是在整点过后二十五分想上厕所），我老是有一股强烈的冲动，想去请求上司准我上厕所，我每次都忍得很辛苦才没有这么做，心里晓得在这个光明的外面世界里，想上厕所的话，随时都可以去。关在牢中多年后，每次上厕所都要先向离得最近的警卫报告，一旦疏忽就要关两天禁闭，因此出狱后，尽管知道不必再事事报告，但心里知道是一回事，要完全适应又是另外一回事了。

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举报只看该作者 34楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 34

My boss didn't like me. He was a young guy, twenty-six or -seven, and I could see that I sort of disgusted him, the way a cringing, servile old dog that crawls up to you on its belly to be petted will disgust a man. Christ, I disgusted myself. But ... I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to tell him. That's what a whole life in prison does for you, young man. It turns everyone in a position of authority into a master, and you into every master's dog. Maybe you know you've become a dog, even in prison, but since everyone else in grey is a dog, too, it doesn't seem to matter so much. Outside, it does. But I couldn't tell a young guy like him. He would never understand. Neither would my P.O., a big, bluff ex-Navy man with a huge red beard and a large stock of Polish jokes. He saw me for about five minutes every week. 'Are you staying out of the bars, Red?' he'd ask when he'd run out of Polish jokes. I'd say yeah, and that would be the end of it until next week.

Music on the radio. When I went in, the big bands were just getting up a good head of steam. Now every song sounds like it's about fucking. So many cars. At first I felt like I was taking my life into my hands every time I crossed the street.

There was more - everything was strange and frightening -but
maybe you get the idea, or can at least grasp a corner of it I began to think about doing something to get back in. When you're on parole, almost anything will serve. I'm ashamed to say it, but I began to think about stealing some money or shoplifting stuff from the FoodWay, anything, to get back in where it was quiet and you knew everything that was going to come up in the course of the day.

If I had never known Andy, I probably would have done that, but I kept thinking of him, spending all those years chipping patiently away at the cement with his rock-hammer so he could be free. I thought of that and it made me ashamed and I'd drop the idea again. Oh, you can say he had more reason to be free than I did - he had a new identity and a lot of money. But that's not really true, you know. Because he didn't know for sure that the new identity was still there, and without the new identity, the money would always be out of reach. No, what he needed was just to be free, and if I kicked away what I had, it would be like spitting in the face of everything he had worked so hard to win back.

So what I started to do on my time off was to hitchhike a ride down to the little town of Buxton. This was in the early April of 1977, the snow just starting to melt off the fields, the air just beginning to be warm, the baseball teams coming north to start a new season playing the only game I'm sure God approves of. When I went on these trips, I carried a Silva compass in my pocket.

There's a big hayfield in Buxton, Andy had said, and at the north end of that hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield.
A fool's errand, you say. How many hayfields are there in a small rural town like Buxton? Fifty? A hundred? Speaking from personal experience, I'd put it at even higher than that, if you add in the fields now cultivated which might have been haygrass when Andy went in. And if I did find the right one, I might never know it because I might overlook that black piece of volcanic glass, or, much more likely, Andy put it into his pocket and took it with him.
So I'd agree with you. A fool's errand, no doubt about it. Worse, a dangerous one for a man on parole, because some of those fields were clearly marked with NO TRESPASSING signs. And, as I've said, they're more than happy to slam your ass back inside if you get out of line. A fool's errand ... but so is chipping at a blank concrete wall for twenty-eight years. And when you're no longer the man who can get it for you and just an old bag-boy, it's nice to have a hobby to take your mind off your new life. My hobby was looking for Andy's rock.
So I'd hitchhike to Buxton and walk the roads. I'd listen to the birds, to the spring runoff in the culverts, examine the bottles the retreating snows had revealed - all useless non-returnables,
I am sorry to say; the world seems to have gotten awfully spendthrift since I went into the slam - and looking for hayfields.

Most of them could be eliminated right off. No rock walls. Others had rock walls, but my compass told me they were facing the wrong direction. I walked these wrong ones anyway. It was a comfortable thing to be doing, and on those outings I really felt free, at peace. An old dog walked with me one Saturday. And one day I saw a winter-skinny deer.
Then came 23 April, a day I'll not forget even if I live another fifty-eight years. It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up what a little boy fishing from a bridge told me was called The Old Smith Road. I had taken a lunch in a brown FoodWay bag, and had eaten it sitting on a rock by the road. When I was done I carefully buried my leavings, as my dad had taught me before he died, when I was a sprat no older than the fisherman who had named the road for me.
Around two o'clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at the far end of it, running roughly northwest I walked back to it, squelching over the wet ground, and began to walk the wall. A squirrel scolded me from an oak tree.
Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass and as smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For a long time I just looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason. The squirrel had followed me, and it was still chattering away. My heart was beating madly.

When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside it - the joints in my knees went off like a double-barrelled shotgun - and let my hand touch it. It was real. I didn't pick it up because I thought there would be anything under it; I could just as easily have walked away without finding what was beneath. I certainly had no plans to take it away with me, because I didn't fed it was mine to take - I had a feeling that taking that rock from the field would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its satiny texture against my skin.

　　我的上司不喜欢我，他是个年轻人，二十六、七岁。我可以看出在他眼中，我像只爬到面前乞怜、惹人厌的老癞皮狗，其实连我自己都厌恶自己。但是……我无法控制自己，我真想告诉他：年轻人，这是在监狱里过了大半辈子的结果。在牢里，每个有权的人都变成你的主子，而你就成为主子身边的一条狗。或许你也知道自己是一条狗，但是反正其他犯人也都是狗，似乎就没有什么差别了，然而在外面世界的差别可大了。但我无法让这么年轻的人体会我的感受。他是绝不会了解的，连我的假释官都无法了解我的感受。我每周都要向假释官报到，他是个退伍军人，有把大红胡子，一箩筐的波兰人笑话，每周见我五分钟，每次说完波兰人笑话后，他就问：“雷德，没去酒吧鬼混吧？”我答说没有，咱们便下周再见了。
　　还有收音机播的音乐。我入狱前，大乐团演奏的爵士乐才刚刚开始流行，而现在每首歌仿佛都在谈性爱。路上车子这么多，每次过街时，我都心惊肉跳，捏一把冷汗。
　　反正每件事都很奇怪，都令人害怕。我开始想，是不是应该再干点坏事，好回到原本熟悉的地方去。如果你是假释犯，几乎任何一点小错都可能把你再送进监牢。我很不好意思这么说，但我的确开始想，要不要在超市偷点钱或顺手牵羊，然后就可以回到那个安静的地方，在那里，至少一天下来，你很清楚什么时候该做什么事情。
　　如果不是认识安迪的话，我很可能就这么做了，但一想到他花了那么大的工夫，多年来很有耐性地用个小石锤在水泥上敲敲打打，只是为了换取自由，我就不禁感到惭愧，于是便打消那个念头。或是你也可以说，他想重获自由的理由比我丰富——他拥有一个新身份，他也有很多钱。但是你也知道，这么说是不对的，因为他并不能确定新身份依然存在，如果他没有办法换个新身份，自然也拿不到那笔钱了。不，他追求的单纯是那份自由。如果我把得之不易的自由随便抛弃，那无疑是当着安迪的面，唾弃他辛辛苦苦换回来的一切。
　　于是我开始在休假时搭便车来到巴克斯登小镇，那是一九七七年四月初的事了。初春的田野，雪刚刚开始融化，天气也刚暖和起来，棒球队北上展开新球季。我每次去的时候，口袋中都带着一个罗盘。
　　我想起了安迪说的话：在巴克斯登镇北边有一大片牧草地，在牧草地的北边有一面石墙，石墙底部有一块石头，那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有，那是一块火山岩玻璃。
　　你会说，这还真是愚蠢的行为。像巴克斯登这样的乡下地方，会有多少牧草地？五十？一百？说不定比这还要多。即使我真的找到了，也不见得认得出来，因为我可能没有看到那块黑色的火山岩玻璃，或更可能的情况是，安迪把那块玻璃放进口袋里带走了。
　　所以我同意你的话，我这些举动还真是愚蠢行为，毫无疑问。更何况对一个假释犯来说，这趟旅行无疑是一大冒险，因为不少牧草地上都竖着“不许践踏”的牌子。你要是误踏进去一步，很可能吃不了兜着走。我真傻，但是花了二十七年的光阴在混凝土墙中敲敲打打，也同样傻。不过既然我现在不再是监狱里那个什么都弄得到手的万事通，只是个跑腿打杂的人，有件事情做做，让我暂时忘掉出狱后的新生活也好，而我的嗜好就是寻找安迪藏钥匙的石头。
　　所以，我经常搭便车来到巴克斯登，走在路上，听着鸟叫，看着潺潺流水，查看融雪后露出的空瓶子——全都是无法退瓶、没用的瓶子。我不得不遗憾地说，比起我入狱之前，现在的世界似乎变得挥霍无度——然后继续寻找那片牧草地。
　　路旁有不少牧场，大多数都立刻可以从名单中删除。有的没有石墙，有的有石墙，方向却不对。无论如何，我还是在那些牧草地上走走，在乡下走走很舒服，在这些时候，我才感受到真正的自由和宁静。有一次，有条老狗一直跟着我，还有一次，我看到了一头鹿。
　　然后到了四月二十三日，即使我再活个五十八年，都永远忘不了这一天。那是个宜人的星期六下午，我走着走着，在桥上垂钓的男孩告诉我，这条路叫老史密斯路。这时已近中午了，我打开带来的午餐袋子，坐在路旁一块大石头上吃起来。吃完后，小心把垃圾清理干净，这是爸爸在我和那个男孩差不多年纪的时候教我的规矩。
　　走到大约两点钟左右，在我左边出现一大片草地，草地尽头有一堵墙，一直往西北方延伸而去，我踩在潮湿的草地上，走向那堵墙。一只松鼠从橡树上唠唠叨叨地斥责我。
　　距离墙端还有四分之一的路时，我看见那块大石头了。一点也不错，乌黑的玻璃，光亮得像缎子一样，是不该出现在缅因州牧草地的石头，我呆呆地看了很久，有种想哭的感觉。松鼠跟在我后面，依然唠唠叨叨。我的心则怦怦跳个不停。
　　等我情绪稍稍平复后，我走向那块石头，蹲在它旁边，用手摸摸它，它是真的。我拿起石头，不是因为我认为里面还会藏着任何东西，事实上我很可能就这么走开了，没有发现石头下的任何东西。我当然也不打算把石头拿走，因为我不认为我有权利拿走石头，我觉得把这块石头从牧草地上拿走，不啻犯了最糟糕的盗窃罪。不，我只不过把石头拿起来，好好摸摸它，感觉一下它的质地，证明这块玻璃石头的确存在。

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举报只看该作者 35楼发表于: 2013-10-23 0

Chapter 35

I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it took a while for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to keep away the damp. My name was written across the front in Andy's clear script. I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy's friend before him.
Dear Red,

If you're reading this, then you're out. One way or another, you're out. And If you've followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. I think you remember the name of the town, don't you? I could use a good man to help me get my project on wheels.

Meantime, have a drink on me - and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.
Your friend, Peter Stevens I didn't read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a need to get away from there before I was seen. To make what may be an appropriate pun, I was in terror of being apprehended.

I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men's dinners drifting up the stairwell to me - Beefaroni, Ricearoni, Noodleroni. You can bet that whatever the old folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating tonight, it almost certainly ends in roni.

I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and cried. With the letter there were twenty new fifty-dollar bills.
And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice again - parole violation is my crime. No one's going to throw up any roadblocks to catch a criminal wanted on that charge, I guess - wondering what I should do now.

I have this manuscript I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a doctor's bag that holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes.
Wondering what I should do.
But there's really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living or get busy dying.
First I'm going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I'm going to buckle it up, grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I'm going to walk uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the bartender and ask him to bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniels - one for me and one for Andy Dufresne. Other than a beer or two, they'll be the first drinks I've taken as a free man since 1938. Then I am going to tip the bartender a dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave the bar and walk up Spring Street to the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus ticket to El Paso by way of New York City. When I get to El Paso, I'm going to buy a ticket to McNary. And when I get to McNary, I guess I'll have a chance to find out if an old crook like me can find a way to float across the border and into Mexico.
Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to forget.

I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.
I hope Andy is down there.
I hope I can make it across the border.
I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.
I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.
I hope.

　　我看着石头下的东西许久、许久，我的眼睛早就看到了，但是我的脑子得花一点时间，才能真正意识到是怎么回事。下面赫然放着一个信封，信封很小心地包在透明的塑胶袋中，以避免弄湿。上面写着我的名字，是安迪整齐的字迹。
　　我拿起信封，把石头放回安迪和他已过世的朋友原先放置的地方。
　　亲爱的雷德：
　　如果你看到这封信的话，那表示你也出来了。不管你是怎么出来的，总之你出来了。如果你已经找到这里，你或许愿意往前再多走一点路，我想你一定还记得那个小镇的名字吧？我需要一个好帮手，帮我把业务推上轨道。
　　为我喝一杯，同时好好考虑一下。我会一直留意你的情况。记住，“希望”是个好东西，也许是世间最好的东西，好东西永远不会消逝的。我希望这封信会找到你，而且找到你的时候，你过得很好。
　　你的朋友
　　彼得·斯蒂芬
　　我没有当场打开这封信。一阵恐惧袭来，我只希望在别人看到我之前尽快离开那里。
　　回到自己房间以后，我才打开信来读，楼梯口飘来阵阵老人煮晚餐的香味——不外乎是些粉面类的食物，美国每个低收入的老人家晚上几乎都吃这些东西。
　　看完信后，我抱头痛哭起来，信封里还附了二十张新的五十元钞票。
　　我现在身在布鲁斯特旅馆，再度成了逃犯——违反假释条例是我的罪名。但是我猜，大概没有警察会大费周章地设置路障，来逮捕这样一个犯人吧——我在想，我现在该怎么办？
　　我手上有这份稿子，还有一个行李袋，大小和医生的医药包差不多大，所有的财产都在里面。我有十九张五十元钞票、四张十元钞票、一张五元钞票和三张一元钞票，还有一些零钱。我拿一张五十元钞票去买了这本笔记本和一包烟。
　　我还在想，我该怎么办？
　　但毫无疑问，只有两条路可走。使劲活下去，或使劲找死。
　　首先，我要把这份手稿放回行李袋。然后我要把袋子扣上，拿起外套走下楼去，结账离开这家廉价旅馆。然后，我要走进一家酒吧，把一张五元钞票放在酒保面前，要他给我来两杯威士忌，一杯给我自己，一杯给安迪。这将是我从一九三八年入狱以来，第一次以自由人的身份喝酒。喝完后，我会给酒保一元小费，好好谢谢他。离开酒吧后，我便走向灰狗巴士站，买一张经由纽约到艾尔帕索的车票。到了艾尔帕索之后，再买一张车票到麦克纳里。等我到了麦克纳里后，我猜我会想想办法，看看像我这样的老骗子能否找机会跨过边境，进入墨西哥。
　　我当然记得那个小镇的名字，齐华坦尼荷，这名字太美了，令人忘不了。
　　我发现自己兴奋莫名，颤抖的手几乎握不住笔。我想惟有自由人才能感受到这种兴奋，一个自由人步上漫长的旅程，奔向不确定的未来。
　　我希望安迪在那儿。
　　我希望我能成功跨越美墨边界。
　　我希望能见到我的朋友，和他握握手。
　　我希望太平洋就和我梦中所见的一样蔚蓝。
　　我希望……

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《肖申克的救赎》-----《The Shawshank Redemption》完结_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《肖申克的救赎》-----《The Shawshank Redemption》完结


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