《宠儿》Beloved【中英对照】（完结）_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《宠儿》Beloved【中英对照】（完结）

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Chapter 20
      Amy sat quietly after her song, then repeated the last line before she stood, left the lean-to andwalked off a little ways to lean against a young ash. When she came back the sun was in the valleybelow and they were way above it in blue Kentucky light. "'You ain't dead yet, Lu? Lu?""Not yet.""Make you a bet. You make it through the night, you make it all the way." Amy rearranged theleaves for comfort and knelt down to massage the swollen feet again. "Give these one more realgood rub," she said, and when Sethe sucked air through her teeth, she said, "Shut up. You got tokeep your mouth shut."Careful of her tongue, Sethe bit down on her lips and let the good hands go to work to the tune of"So bees, sing soft and bees, sing low." Afterward, Amy moved to the other side of the lean-towhere, seated, she lowered her head toward her shoulder and braided her hair, saying, "Don't upand die on me in the night, you hear? I don't want to see your ugly black face hankering over me.
　　If you do die, just go on off somewhere where I can't see you, hear?""I hear," said Sethe. I'll do what I can, miss."Sethe never expected to see another thing in this world, so when she felt toes prodding her hip ittook a while to come out of a sleep she thought was death. She sat up, stiff and shivery, while Amylooked in on her juicy back.
　　"Looks like the devil," said Amy. "But you made it through.
　　Come down here, Jesus, Lu made it through. That's because of me. I'm good at sick things. Canyou walk, you think?""I have to let my water some kind of way.""Let's see you walk on em."It was not good, but it was possible, so Sethe limped, holding on first to Amy, then to a sapling.
　　"Was me did it. I'm good at sick things ain't I?""Yeah," said Sethe, "you good.""We got to get off this here hill. Come on. I'll take you down to the river. That ought to suit you.
　　Me, I'm going to the Pike. Take me straight to Boston. What's that all over your dress?""Milk.""You one mess."Sethe looked down at her stomach and touched it. The baby was dead. She had not died in thenight, but the baby had. If that was the case, then there was no stopping now. She would get thatmilk to her baby girl if she had to swim.
　　"Ain't you hungry?" Amy asked her.
　　"I ain't nothing but in a hurry, miss.""Whoa. Slow down. Want some shoes?""Say what?""I figured how," said Amy and so she had. She tore two pieces from Sethe's shawl, filled them withleaves and tied them over her feet, chattering all the while.
　　"How old are you, Lu? I been bleeding for four years but I ain't having nobody's baby. Won't catch me sweating milk cause...""I know," said Sethe. "You going to Boston."At noon they saw it; then they were near enough to hear it. By late afternoon they could drink fromit if they wanted to. Four stars were visible by the time they found, not a riverboat to stow Setheaway on, or a ferryman willing to take on a fugitive passenger — nothing like that — but a wholeboat to steal. It had one oar, lots of holes and two bird nests.
　　"There you go, Lu. Jesus looking at you."Sethe was looking at one mile of dark water, which would have to be split with one oar in a uselessboat against a current dedicated to the Mississippi hundreds of miles away. It looked like home toher, and the baby (not dead in the least) must have thought so too. As soon as Sethe got close to theriver her own water broke loose to join it. The break, followed by the redundant announcement oflabor, arched her back.
　　"What you doing that for?" asked Amy. "Ain't you got a brain in your head? Stop that right now. Isaid stop it, Lu. You the dumbest thing on this here earth. Lu! Lu!"Sethe couldn't think of anywhere to go but in. She waited for the sweet beat that followed the blastof pain. On her knees again, she crawled into the boat. It waddled under her and she had justenough time to brace her leaf-bag feet on the bench when another rip took her breath away.
　　Panting under four summer stars, she threw her legs over the sides, because here come the head, asAmy informed her as though she did not know it — as though the rip was a breakup of walnut logsin the brace, or of lightning's jagged tear through a leather sky.
　　It was stuck. Face up and drowning in its mother's blood. Amy stopped begging Jesus and began tocurse His daddy.
　　"Push!" screamed Amy.
　　"Pull," whispered Sethe.
　　And the strong hands went to work a fourth time, none too soon, for river water, seeping throughany hole it chose, was spreading over Sethe's hips. She reached one arm back and grabbed the ropewhile Amy fairly clawed at the head. When a foot rose from the river bed and kicked the bottom ofthe boat and Sethe's behind, she knew it was done and permitted herself a short faint. Coming to,she heard no cries, just Amy's encouraging coos. Nothing happened for so long they both believedthey had lost it. Sethe arched suddenly and the afterbirth shot out. Then the baby whimpered andSethe looked. Twenty inches of cord hung from its belly and it trembled in the cooling evening air.
　　Amy wrapped her skirt around it and the wet sticky women clambered ashore to see what, indeed,God had in mind.
　　Spores of bluefern growing in the hollows along the riverbank float toward the water in silver-bluelines hard to see unless you are in or near them, lying right at the river's edge when the sunshotsare low and drained. Often they are mistook for insects — but they are seeds in which the wholegeneration sleeps confident of a future. And for a moment it is easy to believe each one has one —will become all of what is contained in the spore: will live out its days as planned. This moment ofcertainty lasts no longer than that; longer, perhaps, than the spore itself.
　　On a riverbank in the cool of a summer evening two women struggled under a shower of silveryblue. They never expected to see each other again in this world and at the moment couldn't careless. But there summer night surrounded by bluefern they did something togetherappropriatelyandwe(on) ll.(a) A pateroller passing would have sniggered to see two throw-away people,two lawless outlaws — a slave and a barefoot whitewoman with unpinned hair — wrapping a tenminute-old baby in the rags they wore. But no pateroller came and no preacher. The water suckedand swallowed itself beneath them. There was nothing to disturb them at their work. So they did itappropriately and well.
　　Twilight came on and Amy said she had to go; that she wouldn't be caught dead in daylight on abusy river with a runaway. After rinsing her hands and face in the river, she stood and lookeddown at the baby wrapped and tied to Sethe's chest.
　　"She's never gonna know who I am. You gonna tell her? Who brought her into this here world?"She lifted her chin, looked off into the place where the sun used to be. "You better tell her. Youhear? Say Miss Amy Denver. Of Boston."Sethe felt herself falling into a sleep she knew would be deep. On the lip of it, just before goingunder, she thought, "That's pretty. Denver. Real pretty."IT WAS TIME to lay it all down. Before Paul D came and sat on her porch steps, words whisperedin the keeping room had kept her going. Helped her endure the chastising ghost; refurbished thebaby faces of Howard and Buglar and kept them whole in the world because in her dreams she sawonly their parts in trees; and kept her husband shadowy but there — somewhere. Now Halle's facebetween the butter press and the churn swelled larger and larger, crowding her eyes and makingher head hurt. She wished for Baby Suggs' fingers molding her nape, reshaping it, saying, "Lay emdown, Sethe. Sword and shield. Down. Down. Both of em down. Down by the riverside. Swordand shield. Don't study war no more. Lay all that mess down. Sword and shield." And under thepressing fingers and the quiet instructive voice, she would. Her heavy knives of defense againstmisery, regret, gall and hurt, she placed one by one on a bank where dear water rushed on below.
　　Nine years without the fingers or the voice of Baby Suggs was too much. And words whispered inthe keeping room were too little. The butter-smeared face of a man God made none sweeter thandemanded more: an arch built or a robe sewn. Some fixing ceremony. Sethe decided to go to theClearing, back where Baby Suggs had danced in sunlight.
　　Before 124 and everybody in it had closed down, veiled over and shut away; before it had become the plaything of spirits and the home of the chafed, 124 had been a cheerful, buzzing house whereBaby Suggs, holy, loved, cautioned, fed, chastised and soothed. Where not one but two potssimmered on the stove; where the lamp burned all night long. Strangers rested there while childrentried on their shoes. Messages were left there, for whoever needed them was sure to stop in oneday soon. Talk was low and to the point — for Baby Suggs, holy, didn't approve of extra.
　　"Everything depends on knowing how much," she said, and "Good is knowing when to stop."It was in front of that 124 that Sethe climbed off a wagon, her newborn tied to her chest, and feltfor the first time the wide arms of her mother-in-law, who had made it to Cincinnati. Who decidedthat, because slave life had "busted her legs, back, head, eyes, hands, kidneys, womb and tongue,"she had nothing left to make a living with but her heart — which she put to work at once.
　　Accepting no title of honor before her name, but allowing a small caress after it, she became anunchurched preacher, one who visited pulpits and opened her great heart to those who could use it.
　　In winter and fall she carried it to AME's and Baptists, Holinesses and Sanctifieds, the Church ofthe Redeemer and the Redeemed. Uncalled, unrobed, un anointed, she let her great heart beat intheir presence. When warm weather came, Baby Suggs, holy, followed by every black man,woman and child who could make it through, took her great heart to the Clearing — a wide-openplace cut deep in the woods nobody knew for what at the end of a path known only to deer andwhoever cleared the land in the first place. In the heat of every Saturday afternoon, she sat in theclearing while the people waited among the trees. After situating herself on a huge flat-sided rock,Baby Suggs bowed her head and prayed silently. The company watched her from the trees. Theyknew she was ready when she put her stick down. Then she shouted, "Let the children come!" andthey ran from the trees toward her.
       爱弥唱完歌，安静地坐着，又重复了最后一句才站起来，然后离开披屋，走出几步，靠在一棵小白杨上。她回来的时候，太阳已落入下面的山谷，而她们两个高高在上，沐浴着肯塔基的蓝色光芒。
　　“你还没死吧，露？露？”
　　“还没呢。”
　　“跟你打个赌。你要是挺过这一夜，你就能挺过去了。
　　”爱弥重新把树叶放得舒服些，又跪下来按摩塞丝的脚，“再好好揉揉它们。
　　”塞丝倒吸了一口凉气。爱弥说道：
　　“闭嘴。你给我闭上你的嘴。”
　　塞丝小心着舌头，咬住嘴唇，让那双好手跟着“小蜜蜂，轻轻唱，小蜜蜂，低声唱”的调子继续工作。工作结束后，爱弥到披屋的另一边坐下，一边歪着头编辫子，一边说：
　　“可别给我死在夜里，听见没有？我可不想看见你这张又丑又黑的脸勾我的魂儿。你如果真的要死了，就到我看不见的地方去死，听见了没有”
　　“听见了，”塞丝道，“我会尽力而为的，小姐。”
　　塞丝没指望能再睁眼看到这个世界，所以当她感觉到有脚指头踢着她的屁股时，她费了好一会儿工夫才从她以为是死亡的沉睡中醒过来。她坐起来，身体僵硬，打着哆嗦；爱弥正在查看她黏糊糊的后背。
　　“看起来糟透了，”爱弥说，“不过你挺过来了。来瞧瞧吧，耶稣，露挺过来了。那是因为我。
　　我多会治病啊。你觉得能走吗？”
　　“怎么着我也得去放点水。”
　　“咱们来瞧瞧你的脚走路吧。”
　　并不太好，却已经可能了，于是塞丝一瘸一拐地走起来，先是扶着爱弥，然后是拄着一棵小树。
　　“是我干的。我治病挺在行，是不是？”
　　“是的，”塞丝说，“你真棒。”
　　“我们得下山了。走吧。我把你带到山下的河边。那就跟你对路了。我嘛，我得到派克去。那里直通波士顿。你这满身都是些什么呀？”
　　“奶水。”
　　“你真是一塌糊涂。”
　　塞丝低头看着自己的肚子，摸了摸。孩子死了。她没死在夜里，可孩子死了。如果真是那样，现在就更不能停下来了。就是游过去，她也得把奶水带给她的小女儿。
　　“你不饿吗？
　　”爱弥问她。
　　“我只想赶路，小姐。”
　　“哇。慢点。想穿鞋吗？”
　　“你说什么？”
　　“我想想办法。
　　”爱弥说着，然后就想出了个主意。她从塞丝的披肩上撕下两片，包上树叶，绑在她的脚上，同时一直说个不停。
　　“你多大了，露？我都流了四年血了，可还没怀上谁的孩子。你根本看不见我淌奶水，因为……”
　　“我知道，”塞丝说，“你要去波士顿。”
　　正午时分她们看见了那条河；然后她们走得更近，听见了奔流的水声。到傍晚她们就能喝上它的水了，如果愿意的话。四颗星星在空中闪现；这时候她们发现没有一条船能把塞丝运走，也没有一个摆渡的愿意搭载一个逃犯———没有比那更要命的了———可是有一整条船可以偷。这条船有一支桨、许多窟窿，以及两个鸟巢。
　　“你可以走了，露。耶稣瞧着你呢。”
　　塞丝正望着一段幽暗的河水，那朝着数百英里外的密西西比河奔涌而去的河水，注定要被一条逆流而上的废弃小船的船桨划开了。小船在她看来像个家，那婴儿（根本没死）也一定这么想。一走近这条河，塞丝自己的羊水就涌出来与河水汇聚。先是挣裂，然后是多余的生产的信号，让她弓起了腰。
　　“你在那儿干什么呢？”爱弥问道，“你还有脑子没有？赶紧停下来。我说快停下来，露。你是这世界上最蠢的东西。露!露!”
　　塞丝想不出什么地方好去，只想上船。她等待着阵痛后甜蜜的悸动。再次用膝盖爬行，她爬上了小船。船在她身下晃动，她刚把裹着树叶口袋的脚放到长凳上，就被另一阵撕裂的疼痛逼得喘不过气来。在夏日的四颗星星下面，她气喘吁吁地大叉开双腿，因为脑袋钻了出来；爱弥赶紧向她报告，好像她自己不知道似的———好像撕裂就是折断核桃树干，就是闪电将皮革的天空一撕两半。
　　婴儿卡住了。它脸朝上，让妈妈的血淹没了。爱弥停止祈求耶稣，开始诅咒耶稣他爹。
　　“使劲!”爱弥尖叫道。
　　“拽呀。”塞丝低声说。
　　那双有力的手第四次发挥威力了，但不是立竿见影，因为河水从所有窟窿里钻进来，漫过了塞丝的屁股。塞丝的一只手伸到背后，一把抓住船缆，同时爱弥轻轻地钳住了脑袋。当河床里露出一只小脚，踢着船底和塞丝的屁股时，塞丝知道完事了，就允许自己昏迷了一会儿。醒过来后，她没听见哭声，只听见爱弥在“咕咕”地逗弄那孩子。这么长时间没有动静，她们两个都觉得，她们已失去了她。塞丝突然弓起身子，胎盘胎膜一齐流出体外。然后婴儿哭了起来。塞丝望着她。挂在她肚子上的脐带有二十英寸长；那小家伙在凉爽的夜风中颤抖着。爱弥用裙子包住她。湿漉漉、黏糊糊的两个女人艰难地爬上岸，去看看上帝到底是怎么想的。
　　蓝羊齿的孢子在河岸的凹地里生长，它们漂向河水的银蓝色行列是很难见到的，除非你就在凹地里，或是离得很近，当夕阳西下、光线渐疏时恰好躺在河岸的边缘。它们往往被误认作小飞虫———然而它们是正在沉睡的整整一代对未来充满信心的种子。而片刻之间人们又很容易相信，每粒种子都拥有一个未来———都会成为孢子中所孕育的一切：像预期的那样安享天年。这确信的一刻不过持续了片刻；也许，倒比孢子本身更为长久。
　　在一个夏夜微凉的河岸上，两个女人在银蓝色的光芒下挣扎着。她们根本没想过在这个世界上还有重逢的机会，而且在那个时刻也毫不在意。可是，在一个夏夜，在蓝羊齿中间，她们一道把一件事情做得很恰当、很好。如果有个过路的纠察看到这样两个被遗弃的人，两个无法无天的亡命徒———一个奴隶和一个散发跣足的白女人———用她们穿的破衣裳包着一个刚刚出生十分钟的婴儿，他肯定会哧哧窃笑。可是既没有纠察，也没有牧师。河水在她们身下吮吸、吞噬着自己。她们工作的时候没有任何干扰。于是她们把事情做得很恰当、很好。
　　曙光来临，爱弥说她得走了；她不能大白天在人来人往的河边跟一个逃犯一起让人一把抓住。
　　她在河里洗净了手和脸，然后站起身来，低头看着系在塞丝胸前襁褓中的婴儿。
　　“她永远也不会知道我是谁。你会对她讲吗？是谁把她带到这个世界上来的？
　　”她扬起下巴，把目光转向太阳曾经驻足的地方，“你最好告诉她。你听见了吗？就说是爱弥·丹芙小姐。波士顿人。”
　　塞丝感觉到自己正在睡去，而且知道这一次会睡得很沉。在梦的边缘，在坠落之前，她想：这名字好听。丹芙。真好听。
　　是全部放下的时候了。在保罗·D到来并坐在她门廊的台阶上之前，一直是起居室里的喃喃低语给了她活下去的勇气。帮她忍受那个向她大施惩罚的鬼；为她重新擦亮霍华德和巴格勒儿时的脸庞，保持它们在这个世界上的完整，因为在梦里她只见到它们在树木中间支离破碎的样子；并且确保她的丈夫虽然形象模糊却仍旧存在———在某个地方。现在，黑尔的脸在榨牛油机和搅乳机之间越胀越大，越胀越大，挤满了她的眼睛，让她头痛欲裂。她渴望贝比·萨格斯还能用手指来捏着她的后颈，一边重塑它，一边说：
　　“放下吧，塞丝。剑和盾。放下吧。放下吧。两样都放下吧。放在河边吧。剑和盾。别再研究战争了。把这一切污七八糟的东西都放下吧。剑和盾。”
　　在那紧压的手指和平静的教诲下，她会的。所有抵御苦难、悔恨、苦恼和伤痛的沉重的刀子，她将它们一把一把地放在岸上，清澈的河水在下面奔涌。
　　整整九年没有贝比·萨格斯的手指和声音，这太过分了。而且，仅仅在起居室里低语也太不够了。一张脸上涂满了牛油，上帝创造的那个男人可丝毫不比她的非分之求更甜蜜：一道筑起的拱门，或者一件缝好的礼袍。某种固有的仪式。塞丝决定到“林间空地”去，那里，贝比·萨格斯曾在阳光中舞蹈。
　　在124号和它里面的每个人一起关闭、掩藏和隔绝之前，在它成为鬼魂的玩物和愤怒的家园之前，它曾是一所生机勃勃、热闹非凡的房子，圣贝比·萨格斯在那里爱、告诫、供养、惩罚和安慰他人。那里，不是一只、而是两只锅在炉火上咝咝作响；那里，灯火彻夜通明。陌生人在那里歇脚的时候，孩子们试着他们的鞋子。口信留在那里，因为等待口信的人不久就会到那里过访。
　　谈话声很低而且点到即止———因为圣贝比·萨格斯不赞成废话。
　　“什么都靠分寸，”她说，“好就好在适可而止。”
　　就是在那个124号跟前，胸前绑着新生儿的塞丝爬下一辆大车，第一次感受她的婆婆敞开的怀抱。贝比是先期抵达辛辛那提的，她认定，由于奴隶生活“摧毁了她的双腿、后背、脑袋、眼睛、双手、肾脏、子宫和舌头”，她什么都不剩了，只能靠心灵谋生———于是她立即付诸实践。她拒绝接受加在名字前的任何荣誉称号，只允许人们在名字后缀上一点东西以示爱戴，就这样她成为一位不入教的牧师，走上讲坛，把她伟大的心灵向那些需要的人们敞开。在冬天和秋天，她把心带给AME教徒和浸礼教徒，带给圣洁教会教友和神圣者会教友，带给救世主和赎罪者教会。不用人请，不穿圣袍，没有涂膏，她让自己伟大的心灵在人们面前搏动。天气转暖时，身后尾随着所有劫后余生的黑人男子、妇女和孩子，圣贝比·萨格斯把她伟大的心灵带到“林间空地”———那是密林深处、小路尽头的一块宽敞的空地，只有野鹿和早先的开垦者才会知道它的由来。每一个星期六下午，在酷暑中，她坐在空地上，而人们等在树林里。
　　贝比·萨格斯在一块平展整齐的巨石上坐好，低下头默默祈祷。大家在树林里望着她。
　　当她将手中的拐棍放下，他们知道，她已经准备就绪。然后她喊道：
　　“让孩子们过来!”他们就从树林里跑向她。
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Chapter 21
       "Let your mothers hear you laugh," she told them, and the woods rang. The adults looked on andcould not help smiling.
　　Then "Let the grown men come," she shouted. They stepped out one by one from among theringing trees.
　　"Let your wives and your children see you dance," she told them, and groundlife shuddered undertheir feet.
　　Finally she called the women to her. "Cry," she told them. "For the living and the dead. Just cry."And without covering their eyes the women let loose.
　　It started that way: laughing children, dancing men, crying women and then it got mixed up.
　　Women stopped crying and danced; men sat down and cried; children danced, women laughed,children cried until, exhausted and riven, all and each lay about the Clearing damp and gasping forbreath. In the silence that followed, Baby Suggs, holy, offered up to them her great big heart.
　　She did not tell them to clean up their lives or to go and sin no more. She did not tell them theywere the blessed of the earth, its inheriting meek or its glorybound pure.
　　She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if theycould not see it, they would not have it.
　　"Here," she said, "in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on barefeet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don'tlove your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back.
　　Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind,chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touchothers with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either.
　　You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they willsee it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream fromit they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give youleavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking abouthere. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support;shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, theydo not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke itand hold it up. And all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them.
　　The dark, dark liver — love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyesor feet.
　　More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize." Saying no more, she stoodup then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the othersopened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony wasperfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.
　　Sethe wanted to be there now. At the least to listen to the spaces that the long-ago singing had leftbehind. At the most to get a clue from her husband's dead mother as to what she should do with hersword and shield now, dear Jesus, now nine years after Baby Suggs, holy, proved herself a liar,dismissed her great heart and lay in the keeping-room bed roused once in a while by a craving forcolor and not for another thing.
　　"Those white things have taken all I had or dreamed," she said, "and broke my heartstrings too.
　　There is no bad luck in the world but whitefolks." 124 shut down and put up with the venom of itsghost. No more lamp all night long, or neighbors dropping by. No low conversations after supper.
　　No watched barefoot children playing in the shoes of strangers. Baby Suggs, holy, believed shehad lied. There was no grace-imaginary or real — and no sunlit dance in a Clearing could changethat. Her faith, her love, her imagination and her great big old heart began to collapse twenty-eightdays after her daughter-in-law arrived.
　　Yet it was to the Clearing that Sethe determined to go — to pay tribute to Halle. Before the lightchanged, while it was still the green blessed place she remembered: misty with plant steam and thedecay of berries.
　　She put on a shawl and told Denver and Beloved to do likewise. All three set out late one Sundaymorning, Sethe leading, the girls trotting behind, not a soul in sight.
　　When they reached the woods it took her no time to find the path through it because big-cityrevivals were held there regularly now, complete with food-laden tables, banjos and a tent. The oldpath was a track now, but still arched over with trees dropping buckeyes onto the grass below.
　　There was nothing to be done other than what she had done, butSethe blamed herself for Baby Suggs' collapse. However many times Baby denied it, Sethe knewthe grief at 124 started when she jumped down off the wagon, her newborn tied to her chest in theunderwear of a whitegirl looking for Boston.
　　Followed by the two girls, down a bright green corridor of oak and horse chestnut, Sethe began tosweat a sweat just like the other one when she woke, mud-caked, on the banks of the Ohio.
　　Amy was gone. Sethe was alone and weak, but alive, and so was her baby. She walked a waysdownriver and then stood gazing at the glimmering water. By and by a flatbed slid into view, butshe could not see if the figures on it were whitepeople or not. She began to sweat from a fever shethanked God for since it would certainly keep her baby warm. When the flatbed was beyond hersight she stumbled on and found herself near three coloredpeople fishing — two boys and an olderman. She stopped and waited to be spoken to. One of the boys pointed and the man looked over hisshoulder at her — a quick look since all he needed to know about her he could see in no time. Noone said anything for a while. Then the man said, "Headin' 'cross?""Yes, sir," said Sethe.
　　"Anybody know you coming?""Yes, sir."He looked at her again and nodded toward a rock that stuck out of the ground above him like abottom lip. Sethe walked to it and sat down. The stone had eaten the sun's rays but was nowherenear as hot as she was. Too tired to move, she stayed there, the sun in her eyes making her dizzy.
　　Sweat poured over her and bathed the baby completely. She must have slept sitting up, becausewhen next she opened her eyes the man was standing in front of her with a smoking-hot piece offried eel in his hands. It was an effort to reach for, more to smell, impossible to eat. She beggedhim for water and he gave her some of the Ohio in a jar. Sethe drank it all and begged more. Theclanging was back in her head but she refused to believe that she had come all that way, enduredall she had, to die on the wrong side of the river.
　　The man watched her streaming face and called one of the boys over.
　　"Take off that coat," he told him.
　　"Sir?""You heard me."The boy slipped out of his jacket, whining, "What you gonna do? What I'm gonna wear?"The man untied the baby from her chest and wrapped it in the boy's coat, knotting the sleeves infront.
　　"What I'm gonna wear?"The old man sighed and, after a pause, said, "You want it back, then go head and take it off thatbaby. Put the baby naked in the grass and put your coat back on. And if you can do it, then go on'way somewhere and don't come back."The boy dropped his eyes, then turned to join the other. With eel in her hand, the baby at her feet,Sethe dozed, dry-mouthed and sweaty. Evening came and the man touched her shoulder.
　　Contrary to what she expected they poled upriver, far away from the rowboat Amy had found. Justwhen she thought he was taking her back to Kentucky, he turned the flatbed and crossed the Ohiolike a shot. There he helped her up the steep bank, while the boy without a jacket carried the babywho wore it. The man led her to a brush-covered hutch with a beaten floor.
　　"Wait here. Somebody be here directly. Don't move. They'll find you." "Thank you," she said. "Iwish I knew your name so I could remember you right.""Name's Stamp," he said. "Stamp Paid. Watch out for that there baby, you hear?""I hear. I hear," she said, but she didn't. Hours later a woman was right up on her before she hearda thing. A short woman, young, with a croaker sack, greeted her.
　　"'Saw the sign a while ago," she said. "But I couldn't get here no quicker.""What sign?" asked Sethe.
　　"Stamp leaves the old sty open when there's a crossing. Knots a white rag on the post if it's a childtoo."She knelt and emptied the sack. "My name's Ella," she said, taking a wool blanket, cotton cloth,two baked sweet potatoes and a pair of men's shoes from the sack. "My husband, John, is outyonder a ways. Where you heading?"Sethe told her about Baby Suggs where she had sent her three children.
　　Ella wrapped a cloth strip tight around the baby's navel as she listened for the holes — the thingsthe fugitives did not say; the questions they did not ask. Listened too for the unnamed,unmentioned people left behind. She shook gravel from the men's shoes and tried to force Sethe'sfeet into them. They would not go. Sadly, they split them down the heel, sorry indeed to ruin sovaluable an item. Sethe put on the boy's jacket, not daring to ask whether there was any word ofthe children.
　　"They made it," said Ella. "Stamp ferried some of that party. Left them on Bluestone. It ain't toofar."Sethe couldn't think of anything to do, so grateful was she, so she peeled a potato, ate it, spit it upand ate more in quiet celebration. "They be glad to see you," said Ella. "When was this one born?""Yesterday," said Sethe, wiping sweat from under her chin. "I hope she makes it."Ella looked at the tiny, dirty face poking out of the wool blanket and shook her head. "Hard tosay," she said. "If anybody was to ask me I'd say, 'Don't love nothing.' " Then, as if to take the edgeoff her pronouncement, she smiled at Sethe. "You had that baby by yourself?""No. Whitegirl helped."
       “让你们的母亲听你们大笑。”她对他们说道，于是树林鸣响。大人们看着，忍俊不禁。
　　然后，“让男人们过来。”她喊道。他们从嘹亮的树林里鱼贯而出。
　　“让你们的妻子和孩子看你们跳舞。”她对他们说，于是大地在他们脚下震颤。
　　最后她把女人们唤来。
　　“哭，”她向她们吩咐道。
　　“为了活着的和死去的，哭吧。”于是女人们还没捂上眼睛就尽情号哭起来。
　　刚开始时是这样：大笑的孩子，跳舞的男人，哭泣的女人，然后就混作一团。女人们停止哭泣，跳起舞来；男人们坐下来哭泣；孩子们跳舞，女人们大笑，孩子们哭泣，直到后来，每个人都筋疲力尽，撕心裂肺，沮丧地躺在空地上捯气。在随之而来的寂静中，圣贝比·萨格斯把她那颗伟大的大心奉献给大家。
　　她没有要求他们去洗刷他们的生命，也没有要求他们不得再有罪过。她没有告诉他们，他们是地球上的有福之人，与生俱来地温顺，或者永世流芳地纯洁。
　　她告诉他们，他们唯一能得到的恩赐是他们想象得出的恩赐。如果他们看不见，他们就得不到。
　　“在这里，”她说，“在这个地方，是我们的肉体；哭泣、欢笑的肉体；在草地上赤脚跳舞的肉体。热爱它。强烈地热爱它。在那边，他们不爱你的肉体，他们蔑视它。他们不爱你的眼睛，他们会一下子把它们挖出来。他们也不爱你背上的皮肤，在那边他们会将它剥去。噢我的子民，他们不爱你的双手。他们只将它们奴役、捆绑、砍断，让它们一无所获。爱你的手吧!热爱它们。举起它们，亲吻它们。用它们去抚摸别人，让它们相互拍打，让它们拍打你的脸，因为他们不爱你的脸。
　　你得去爱它，你！不，他们也不爱你的嘴。那边，远在那边，他们看见它流血还要在伤口上再戳一刀。他们不关心你嘴里说出些什么。他们听不见你嘴里尖叫的声音。他们会夺去你吃进嘴里滋养身体的东西而代之以渣滓。不，他们不爱你的嘴。你得去爱它。我在这里谈的是肉体。需要人爱的肉体。需要休息和跳舞的脚；需要支撑的后背；需要臂膊的肩膀，我说的是结实的臂膊。噢我的子民，远在那边，听我说，他们不爱你不带绞索的挺直的脖子，所以爱你的脖子吧；把一只手放上去，给它增色，拍打它，把它扶正。还有你所有的内脏，他们会一股脑扔给猪吃，你得去爱它们。
　　深色的、深色的肝———爱它，爱它，还有怦怦跳动的心，也爱它。比眼睛比脚更热爱。比呼吸自由空气的肺更热爱。比你保存生命的子宫和你创造生命的私处更热爱。现在听我说，爱你的心。因为这才是价值所在。
　　”然后，她不再多说一句，站起身，用扭动的臀部舞出她的心想说的其他部位，大家张开嘴为她伴奏。悠长的曲调持续着，直到四部和声完美得足以同他们深爱的肉体相匹配。
　　现在塞丝想去那里。至少去聆听那久远的歌声留在身后的余韵。多则呢，她想从她丈夫死去的母亲那里得到一个线索，问问她现在该拿她的剑和盾怎么办。亲爱的耶稣啊，自从圣贝比·萨格斯露出骗子本色，丢弃了她那颗伟大的心脏，躺在起居室的床上，仅仅出于对颜色的渴望才不时醒来一回，到现在已经整整九年了。
　　“那些白鬼夺走了我拥有和梦想的一切，”她说，“还扯断了我的心弦。这个世界上除了白人没有别的不幸。
　　”124号关上了门，去忍受那鬼魂的胡作非为。再没有灯火通明，没有邻居来访。没有晚饭后低声的谈话。没有人在那儿看光脚丫的孩子们穿着陌生人的鞋子玩耍。圣贝比·萨格斯认定，是她自己撒了谎。恩赐根本不存在———不论想象的还是真实的———而“林间空地”上阳光中的舞蹈丝毫不能改变这个事实。她的忠诚、她的爱、她的想像力和她那颗伟大的大心，在她的儿媳妇到来之后的第二十八天开始崩溃。
　　然而塞丝还是决定到“林间空地”上去———去祭奠黑尔。在真相曝光之前，那里一直是她记忆中的绿色圣地：植物的蒸汽和莓子的腐败气味弥漫其上。
　　她披上披肩，又让丹芙和宠儿也一样披上。三个人在一个星期六的早晨出门了，塞丝领头，姑娘们紧随其后，视野中不见一个人影。
　　到达那片树林后，她没费一点时间就找到了穿行的小路，因为如今那里定期举行大城市信仰复兴活动，丰盛的餐桌、班卓琴、帐篷，一应俱全。过去的羊肠小道如今已经被踏成了一条路，不过仍然有繁茂的树在上面搭出拱顶，把橡子掉在下面的草叶上。
　　塞丝已经尽力而为了，可她还是不能不为贝比·萨格斯的崩溃而怪罪自己。尽管贝比一次次地否认，塞丝仍旧清楚地知道，124号的悲哀就是从那一刻开始的：她跳下大车，新生儿裹在一个寻找波士顿的白人姑娘的内衣里，系在她胸前。
　　领着两个姑娘，穿过了一道橡树和七叶树织成的明亮的绿色长廊，塞丝开始冒汗，那情形酷似另一次：她在俄亥俄河岸上汗津津地醒来，泥浆已经在她身上结了痂。
　　爱弥走了。塞丝孤单而虚弱，却还活着，她的婴儿也活着。她沿河向下游走了一段，然后站在那里，凝望着波光粼粼的河水。一只平底船不时划进视线，但她看不清站在上边的是不是白人。由于发烧，她开始出汗，也因此感谢上帝，因为这样当然能让她的婴儿暖和。她看不见平底船了，就跌跌撞撞地向前走去，发现自己走近了三个打鱼的黑人———两个男孩和一个男人。她停下来，等着他们跟她说活。一个男孩朝这边指了指，男人越过他的肩膀看了她一眼———不过是迅速的一瞥，因为他只需一眼就知道她究竟是怎么回事。
　　有一会儿工夫谁都没说话。然后男人道：
　　“想过河吗？”
　　“是，先生。
　　”塞丝说。
　　“有人知道你来吗？”
　　“有，先生。”
　　他又看了她一眼，用下巴指了指他上面一块像下嘴唇一样凸起的石头。塞丝走过去坐下。石头吸足了阳光，可是再怎么烫也比不上她。她疲惫不堪，就待在那里，照进眼睛的阳光让她头晕目眩。汗水在她身上哗哗流淌，彻底浸湿了婴儿。她肯定是坐着坐着就睡着了，因为她再睁开眼的时候，那个男人站在她面前，手里已经拿了一块热腾腾的炸鳝鱼。她费了好大力气才伸手接住，又费了更大力气才闻出味道，至于吃，那是不可能的。她向他讨水喝，他给了她一罐子俄亥俄河水。塞丝一饮而尽，再讨。铿锵声就在她的脑后，但她拒绝相信，自己走了那么远的路，受了那么多的罪，只是为了死在错误的那一岸。
　　男人看着她汗涔涔的脸，把一个男孩叫过来。
　　“把外套脱下来。
　　”他对他说。
　　“先生？”
　　“你听见了。”
　　那个男孩脱下外衣，抱怨着：
　　“你想干什么呀？我穿什么呀？”
　　男人把婴儿从她胸前解下来，包在男孩的外套里，用袖子在前面打了个结。
　　“我穿什么呀？”
　　男人叹了口气，顿了一下，说：
　　“你想要回来的话，就去把它从娃娃身上扒下来。把那个娃娃光着身子搁在草里，再穿上你的衣裳。要是你干得出来，那就走开，别再回来。”
　　男孩垂下眼睛，然后转身到另一个那里去了。塞丝手里拿着鳝鱼，脚边躺着婴儿，口干舌燥、大汗淋漓地睡着了。夜幕降临时，那个男人碰了碰她的肩膀。
　　与她预期的相反，他们将船朝上游撑去，把爱弥找到的那只小船抛在身后。她正以为他在把她带回肯塔基去，他划转平底船，它像一颗子弹似的渡过了俄亥俄河。他帮她登上陡峭的河岸，没外衣的男孩抱着那穿着它的婴儿。男人领着她来到一间灌木掩映、地面踏得很平的小棚屋。
　　“在这儿等着。马上就会有人来。别动。他们能找着你。”
　　“谢谢你。
　　”她说，“但愿我能知道你的名字，好记得准你。”
　　“叫斯坦普。
　　”他说，“斯坦普·沛德。看好那个娃娃，听见了吗？”
　　“听见了，听见了。
　　”她回答道，可其实她没有。几个钟头后一个女人来到她面前时，她一点也没听见。是个矮个子年轻女人，拎着条收尸袋，正向她打招呼。
　　“看见信号好一会儿了，”她说，“可我不能走得再快了。”
　　“什么信号？”塞丝问。
　　“一有个过河的，斯坦普就把这破猪圈敞开。要是还有个小孩儿，就在柱子上再系一块白布条。”
　　她跪下来倒空麻袋。
　　“我叫艾拉。”她一边说，一边从麻袋里拿出一条羊毛毯、一些棉布、两个烤白薯，还有一双男鞋，“我丈夫约翰，他出门在外。你想去哪儿？”
　　塞丝告诉她，她已托人将三个孩子往贝比·萨格斯那里送去了。
　　艾拉一边用一条布紧紧缠住婴儿的肚脐，一边去听谈话里的漏洞———逃犯们不说的那些事，不问的那些问题。留意那些落往后面、不知道名字、没被提起的人们。她控出那双男鞋里的沙子，试图把塞丝的脚塞进去。它们塞不进去。很不幸，它们把鞋后跟撑裂了，毁了这么贵重的东西实在可惜。塞丝穿上那个男孩的外衣，没敢打听是否有她孩子们的下落。
　　“他们成功了，”艾拉道，“斯坦普把那伙人运过了河。把他们留在蓝石路上了。不算太远。”
　　塞丝感激得不知该如何是好，于是剥了一个白薯，吃下去，吐出来，在静静的欢喜之中又吃了一些。
　　“他们见到你一定很高兴。”艾拉说，“这一个是什么时候生的？”
　　“昨天。”塞丝擦着下巴底下的汗，说道，“但愿她能活下来。”
　　艾拉看看从羊毛毯里钻出来的小脏脸，摇了摇头。
　　“难说。
　　”她说道。
　　“谁要是问我，我就说：‘啥也别爱。’”然后，似乎是为了收敛话里的锋芒，她冲塞丝笑笑。
　　“你自己生的那个孩子？”
　　“不是。白人姑娘帮了忙。”
　　“那么我们趁早开路吧。”
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 22
       "Then we better make tracks."Baby Suggs kissed her on the mouth and refused to let her see the children. They were asleep shesaid and Sethe was too uglylooking to wake them in the night. She took the newborn and handed itto a young woman in a bonnet, telling her not to clean the eyes till she got the mother's urine.
　　"Has it cried out yet?" asked Baby.
　　"A little.""Time enough. Let's get the mother well."She led Sethe to the keeping room and, by the light of a spirit lamp, bathed her in sections, startingwith her face. Then, while waiting for another pan of heated water, she sat next to her and stitchedgray cotton. Sethe dozed and woke to the washing of her hands and arms. After each bathing, Babycovered her with a quilt and put another pan on in the kitchen. Tearing sheets, stitching the graycotton, she supervised the woman in the bonnet who tended the baby and cried into her cooking.
　　When Sethe's legs were done, Baby looked at her feet and wiped them lightly. She cleanedbetween Sethe's legs with two separate pans of hot water and then tied her stomach and vaginawith sheets. Finally she attacked the unrecognizable feet.
　　"You feel this?""Feel what?" asked Sethe.
　　"Nothing. Heave up." She helped Sethe to a rocker and lowered her feet into a bucket of salt waterand juniper. The rest of the night Sethe sat soaking. The crust from her nipples Baby softened withlard and then washed away. By dawn the silent baby woke and took her mother's milk.
　　"Pray God it ain't turned bad," said Baby. "And when you through, call me." As she turned to go,Baby Suggs caught a glimpse of something dark on the bed sheet. She frowned and looked at herdaughter-in-law bending toward the baby. Roses of blood blossomed in the blanket coveringSethe's shoulders. Baby Suggs hid her mouth with her hand. When the nursing was over and thenewborn was asleep — its eyes half open, its tongue dream-sucking — wordlessly the olderwoman greased the flowering back and pinned a double thickness of cloth to the inside of thenewly stitched dress.
　　It was not real yet. Not yet. But when her sleepy boys and crawl ing-already? girl were brought in,it didn't matter whether it was real or not. Sethe lay in bed under, around, over, among butespecially with them all. The little girl dribbled clear spit into her face, and Sethe's laugh of delightwas so loud the crawling-already? baby blinked. Buglar and Howard played with her ugly feet,after daring each other to be the first to touch them. She kept kissing them. She kissed the backs oftheir necks, the tops of their heads and the centers of their palms, and it was the boys who decidedenough was enough whenshe liked their shirts to kiss their tight round bellies. She stopped when and because they said,"Pappie come?"She didn't cry. She said "soon" and smiled so they would think the brightness in her eyes was lovealone. It was some time before she let Baby Suggs shoo the boys away so Sethe could put on thegray cotton dress her mother-in-law had started stitching together the night before. Finally she layback and cradled the crawling already ? girl in her arms. She enclosed her left nipple with twofingers of her right hand and the child opened her mouth. They hit home together.
　　Baby Suggs came in and laughed at them, telling Sethe how strong the baby girl was, how smart,already crawling. Then she stooped to gather up the ball of rags that had been Sethe's clothes.
　　"Nothing worth saving in here," she said.
　　Sethe liked her eyes. "Wait," she called. "Look and see if there's something still knotted up in thepetticoat."Baby Suggs inched the spoiled fabric through her fingers and came upon what felt like pebbles.
　　She held them out toward Sethe. "Going away present?""Wedding present.""Be nice if there was a groom to go with it." She gazed into her hand. "What you think happenedto him?""I don't know," said Sethe. "He wasn't where he said to meet him at. I had to get out. Had to."Sethe watched the drowsy eyes of the sucking girl for a moment then looked at Baby Suggs' face.
　　"He'll make it. If I made it, Halle sure can.""Well, put these on. Maybe they'll light his way." Convinced her son was dead, she handed thestones to Sethe.
　　"I need holes in my ears.""I'll do it," said Baby Suggs. "Soon's you up to it."Sethe jingled the earrings for the pleasure of the crawling-already? girl, who reached for them overand over again.
　　In the Clearing, Sethe found Baby's old preaching rock and remembered the smell of leavessimmering in the sun, thunderous feet and the shouts that ripped pods off the limbs of thechestnuts. With Baby Suggs' heart in charge, the people let go.
　　Sethe had had twenty-eight days — the travel of one whole moon — of unslaved life. From thepure clear stream of spit that the little girl dribbled into her face to her oily blood was twenty-eightdays. Days of healing, ease and real-talk. Days of company: knowing the names of forty, fiftyother Negroes, their views, habits; where they had been and what done; of feeling their fun andsorrow along with her own, which made it better. One taught her the alphabet; another a stitch. Alltaught her how it felt to wake up at dawn and decide what to do with the day. That's how she gotthrough the waiting for Halle. Bit by bit, at 124 and in the Clearing, along with the others, she hadclaimed herself. Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.
　　Now she sat on Baby Suggs' rock, Denver and Beloved watching her from the trees. There willnever be a day, she thought, when Halle will knock on the door. Not knowing it was hard; knowingit was harder.
　　Just the fingers, she thought. Just let me feel your fingers again on the back of my neck and I willlay it all down, make a way out of this no way. Sethe bowed her head and sure enough — theywere there. Lighter now, no more than the strokes of bird feather, but unmistakably caressingfingers. She had to relax a bit to let them do their work, so light was the touch, childlike almost,more finger kiss than kneading. Still she was grateful for the effort; Baby Suggs' long distance lovewas equal to any skin-close love she had known. The desire, let alone the gesture, to meet herneeds was good enough to lift her spirits to the place where she could take the next step: ask forsome clarifying word; some advice about how to keep on with a brain greedy for news nobodycould live with in a world happy to provide it.
　　She knew Paul D was adding something to her life — something she wanted to count on but wasscared to. Now he had added more: new pictures and old rememories that broke her heart. Into the empty space of not knowing about Halle — -a space sometimes colored with righteous resentmentat what could have been his cowardice, or stupidity or bad luck — that empty place of no definitenews was filled now with a brand-new sorrow and who could tell how many more on the way.
　　Years ago — when 124 was alive — she had women friends, men friends from all around to sharegrief with. Then there was no one, for they would not visit her while the baby ghost filled thehouse, and she returned their disapproval with the potent pride of the mistreated. But now therewas someone to share it, and he had beat the spirit away the very day he entered her house and nosign of it since. A blessing, but in its place he brought another kind of haunting: Halle's facesmeared with butter and the dabber too; his own mouth jammed full of iron, and Lord knows whatelse he could tell her if he wanted to.
　　The fingers touching the back of her neck were stronger now — the strokes bolder as though BabySuggs were gathering strength. Putting the thumbs at the nape, while the fingers pressed the sides.
　　Harder, harder, the fingers moved slowly around toward her windpipe, making little circles on theway. Sethe was actually more surprised than frightened to find that she was being strangled. Or soit seemed. In any case, Baby Suggs' fingers had a grip on her that would not let her breathe.
　　Tumbling forward from her seat on the rock, she clawed at the hands that were not there. Her feetwere thrashing by the time Denver got to her and then Beloved.
　　"Ma'am! Ma'am!" Denver shouted. "Ma'ammy!" and turned her mother over on her back.
　　The fingers left off and Sethe had to swallow huge draughts of air before she recognized herdaughter's face next to her own and Beloved's hovering above.
　　"You all right?""Somebody choked me," said Sethe.
　　"Who?"Sethe rubbed her neck and struggled to a sitting position. "Grandma Baby, I reckon. I just askedher to rub my neck, like she used to and she was doing fine and then just got crazy with it, Iguess.""She wouldn't do that to you, Ma'am. Grandma Baby? Uh uh.""Help me up from here.""Look." Beloved was pointing at Sethe's neck.
　　"What is it? What you see?" asked Sethe.
　　"Bruises," said Denver.
　　"On my neck?""Here," said Beloved. "Here and here, too." She reached out her hand and touched the splotches,gathering color darker than Sethe's dark throat, and her fingers were mighty cool.
　　"That don't help nothing," Denver said, but Beloved was leaning in, her two hands stroking thedamp skin that felt like chamois and looked like taffeta.
　　Sethe moaned. The girl's fingers were so cool and knowing. Sethe's knotted, private, walk-onwaterlife gave in a bit, softened, and it seemed that the glimpse of happiness she caught in theshadows swinging hands on the road to the carnival was a likelihood — if she could just managethe news Paul D brought and the news he kept to himself. Just manage it. Not break, fall or cryeach time a hateful picture drifted in front of her face. Not develop some permanent craziness likeBaby Suggs' friend, a young woman in a bonnet whose food was full of tears. Like Aunt Phyllis,who slept with her eyes wide open. Like Jackson Till, who slept under the bed. All she wanted wasto go on. As she had. Alone with her daughter in a haunted house she managed every damn thing.
　　Why now, with Paul D instead of the ghost, was she breaking up? getting scared? needing Baby?
　　The worst was over, wasn't it? She had already got through, hadn't she? With the ghost in 124 shecould bear, do, solve anything. Now a hint of what had happened to Halie and she cut out like arabbit looking for its mother.
　　Beloved's fingers were heavenly. Under them and breathing evenly again, the anguish rolled down.
　　The peace Sethe had come there to find crept into her.
　　We must look a sight, she thought, and closed her eyes to see it: the three women in the middle ofthe Clearing, at the base of the rock where Baby Suggs, holy, had loved. One seated, yielding upher throat to the kind hands of one of the two kneeling before her. Denver watched the faces of theother two. Beloved watched the work her thumbs were doing and must have loved what she sawbecause she leaned over and kissed the tenderness under Sethe's chin.
        贝比·萨格斯亲吻了她的嘴，不让她马上去见孩子们。她说他们正睡着呢，再说塞丝的样子太难看了，不能在夜里叫醒他们。她接过新生儿，把她递给一个戴软帽的年轻女人，告诉她先别洗两只眼睛，等得到妈妈的尿再说。
　　“她哭出声了吗？”贝比问。
　　“哭了一小会儿。”
　　“足够了。我们先来把当妈妈的收拾干净吧。”
　　她把塞丝领进起居室，在酒精灯下一部分一部分地清洗她，先从脸开始洗起。然后，她坐在塞丝身旁，一边等着下一锅水烧热，一边缝着一条灰棉布裙子。塞丝睡着了，直到洗胳膊和手的时候才醒过来。每洗过一处，贝比就用被子盖上她，到厨房里再烧上一锅水。她一面撕开床单，一面缝缀着灰棉布，同时还监督那个边哭边做饭的戴软帽女人照料婴儿。塞丝的腿洗净之后，贝比看着她的脚，轻轻地擦干腿。她总共用了两锅热水来擦洗塞丝的两腿之间，然后用床单裹住她的肚子和阴部。最后她才来对付那双难以辨认的脚。
　　“你觉出来了吗？”
　　“觉出什么？”塞丝问。
　　“没事儿。起来吧。”她把塞丝扶到摇椅上，把她的脚放进一桶杜松盐水里。她就这样坐着泡了一夜。贝比用猪油弄软她乳头上的硬壳，然后再冲洗掉。黎明时分，安静的婴儿醒过来，喝到了妈妈的乳汁。
　　“上帝保佑，没出什么问题。”贝比道，“你奶完孩子就叫我。”贝比·萨格斯正要转身走开，突然瞥见床单上有块黑渍。她皱起眉头，看着正弯下身子给婴儿喂奶的儿媳妇。鲜血的玫瑰盛开在盖着塞丝肩膀的毯子上。贝比·萨格斯用手捂住嘴。新生儿吃完奶，睡着了———眼睛半睁，在梦里吧嗒着舌头———老太太一声不吭地往开遍鲜花的后背上涂油，又往新缝的裙子里垫了双层的布。
　　这还不是真的。还不是。可是当她的两个睡眼惺忪的儿子和那个“都会爬了？
　　”的女儿被带进来时，是不是真的都无关紧要了。塞丝躺在床上，他们上上下下、左左右右地绕着她，尤其难得的是一个不缺。小女儿透明的口水滴在塞丝脸上，她开心地大笑着，笑得太响了，搞得那“都会爬了？”
　　的小宝贝直眨巴眼睛。巴格勒和霍华德先是互激对方第一个去摸她的难看的脚丫，接着就一起玩起它们来。她不停地亲吻他们。她亲吻他们的脖梗子、脑袋顶和手掌心，当她又掀起他们的衬衫去亲吻那圆鼓鼓的小肚皮时，儿子们认为可以到此为止了。她停了下来，因为他们问道：
　　“爸爸来啦？”
　　她没有哭。她说“快了”，而且笑着，这样他们就会以为她眼里的泪光仅仅是爱。过了好一会儿，塞丝让贝比·萨格斯把男孩们轰走，于是，她才能穿上婆婆在头天晚上缝起来的那条灰棉布裙子。最后，她躺下来，怀里摇着“都会爬了？
　　”的女儿。她用右手的两个指头捏起左乳头，孩子张开了嘴。她和奶水一块儿到家了。
　　贝比·萨格斯一进来就笑她们，她对塞丝说，她的宝贝女儿多壮实，多机灵，都会爬了。然后她弯腰收拾起曾经是塞丝的衣服的那团烂布。
　　“没什么值得留的东西。”她说。
　　塞丝抬起眼睛。
　　“等等，”她叫道，“翻一翻，看内衣里还系没系着什么东西。”
　　贝比·萨格斯用手指将煮过的衣裳一点点摸了一遍，碰到石子样的东西。她把它们递给塞丝。
　　“告别礼物？”
　　“结婚礼物。”
　　“要是有个新郎一道来就更好了。”她盯着塞丝手里的东西，“你觉得他怎么样了？”
　　“我不知道。”塞丝答道，“说好了在那儿碰头的，可他不在。我只好逃出来。非逃不可。”塞丝看了一会儿那吃奶孩子的睡眼，然后盯着贝比·萨格斯的脸。
　　“他会成功的。要是我能，黑尔当然也能。”
　　“好吧，戴上耳环吧。也许它们能照亮他的道路。
　　”她把宝石递给塞丝，同时确信她的儿子已经死了。
　　“我得在耳朵上穿洞。”
　　“我来吧，”贝比·萨格斯说，“一会儿就好。”
　　塞丝把耳环晃得叮叮作响，逗弄那个“都会爬了？”的女儿，让她一次次地去够它们。
　　在“林间空地”上，塞丝找到了从前贝比训众的那块石头，记起了阳光中蒸腾的树叶的气味、雷鸣般的脚步声，以及把荚果扯下七叶树枝的呐喊。在贝比·萨格斯的心灵的率领下，人们尽情发泄。
　　塞丝度过了二十八天———整整一轮月缺月圆———的非奴隶生活。从小女孩滴在她脸上的纯净透明的口水，到她的油腻的血，一共是二十八天，是痊愈、轻松和真心交谈的日子，是交朋会友的日子：她知道了四五十个其他黑人的名字，了解他们的看法、习惯，他们待过的地方、干过的事；体验他们的甘苦，聊以抚慰自己的创痛。一个人教了她字母表；另一个教她做针线。大家一起教她体会黎明时醒来并决定这一天干些什么的滋味。这样，她熬过了等待黑尔的时光。一点一点地，在124号和“林间空地”上，同大家在一起，她赢得了自我。解放自我是一回事；赢得那个解放了的自我的所有权却是另一回事。
　　此刻，她坐在贝比·萨格斯的石头上，丹芙和宠儿从树林里望着她。再不会有那一天了，她想，黑尔永远不会来敲门了。不知道的时候很苦；知道了更苦。
　　只要手指，她心中暗道。只要让我再次感觉到你的手指按住我的脖子后面，我就会全部放下，从这绝境中辟出一条路来。塞丝低下头，可以肯定———它们来了。如今更轻了，比鸟羽的抚摸更轻，但绝对是爱抚的手指。她得放松一点，让它们抚摸，轻而又轻地抚摸，几乎是孩子的动作，不是在揉，而是在用手指亲吻。不过她仍然感激她的努力；贝比·萨格斯遥远的爱可以同她所知的一切切肤之爱相媲美。不用说手上的动作，单是那试图满足她要求的愿望，就足以把她的灵魂升到一个地方，使她能够接着走下一步：请求一些澄清真相的话语；请求一些建议，告诉她怎样才能跟上一个贪恋消息的大脑。这个世界最乐于提供这种令人忍无可忍的消息了。
　　她知道保罗·D在给她的生活增加某种东西———某种她想信任又怕信任的东西。现在他又增加了更多的东西：令她心碎的新的画面和旧的记忆。将它们加进对黑尔一无所知的空白———这空白有时会染上一种理所当然的怨恨，也许是针对他的懦弱、愚蠢，也许是针对他的倒霉———这没有确切消息来充实的空白，现在充满了一种崭新的悲伤，谁又说得出还会有多少悲伤即将来临呢。多年以前———那时124号仍旧生气勃勃———曾经有来自四面八方的女友、男友，来帮她分担悲伤。然后就一个也没有了，因为他们不愿意到一个小鬼魂肆虐的房子里来看她，而她也以受虐者强烈的骄傲回敬大家的不满。可是现在又有个人来分担了，而且他刚走进大门那天，鬼魂就被他赶跑了，至今仍无影无踪。这本是一种赐福，然而他取代了它的位置，又带来了另一种纠缠：黑尔涂满牛油和酸酪的脸，他自己勒着铁嚼子的嘴；天知道，愿意的话，他还会告诉她些什么。
　　抚摸着她后脖子的手指这时有力些了———手法更大胆了，好像贝比·萨格斯正在积聚力气。大拇指放在后颈上，其余的手指按着两边。重了一些，又重了一些，手指慢慢移向她的气管，一路划着小圆圈。塞丝与其说是恐惧，不如说是惊讶地发现自己正在被扼杀。至少表面上如此。不管怎么说，贝比·萨格斯的手指扼得她喘不过气来。她从坐着的石头上向前摔去，抓扯着不存在的手。她正双脚乱踢，丹芙来到身边；接着宠儿也来了。
　　“太太!太太!”丹芙叫着。
　　“妈妈!”她把妈妈翻过来，让她仰卧着。
　　手指松开了，塞丝大口大口地吞着空气，然后辨认出自己身旁女儿的脸和上面游移不定的宠儿的脸。
　　“你没事吧？”
　　“有人要掐死我。”塞丝说。
　　“谁？”
　　塞丝揉着脖子，挣扎着坐起来。
　　“贝比奶奶，我估计。我不过求她揉揉脖子，像她从前那样，起初她揉得好好的，可后来就揉疯了，我猜是。”
　　“她不可能对你那样，太太。贝比奶奶？不可能。”
　　“帮我起来。”
       “看哪。”宠儿指着塞丝的脖子。
　　“是什么？你看见什么了？
　　”塞丝问。
　　“伤。”丹芙道。
　　“在我脖子上？”
　　“这儿，”宠儿道，“这儿，还有这儿。”她伸手摸着那些斑点，发现它们的颜色比塞丝黑黑的脖子还黑；她的手指冰凉冰凉的。
　　“那没用。”丹芙说道，可是宠儿仍然探出身子，用两只手去抚摸塞丝湿乎乎的皮肤。她的皮肤摸起来像羚羊皮，看着像塔夫绸。
　　塞丝呻吟着。这姑娘的手指如此清凉，如此体贴。塞丝盘根错节、秘不示人、如履薄冰的一生稍稍退让了一些，柔和了一些；看样子，她在去狂欢节的路上从携手的影子中找到的一线幸福是可能的———只要她能对付保罗·D带给她的和保留给自己的那些消息。只要她能对付。而不是每见到一幅可恨的画面漂到她面前，就垮掉、倒下，或者哭泣。不是像贝比·萨格斯的朋友，那个以泪泡饭的戴软帽的年轻姑娘那样，表现出一种持久的疯狂。像菲莉丝大妈那样，瞪圆了眼睛睡觉。像杰克逊·梯尔那样，在床底下睡觉。她只想活下去，像她过去那样。独自和女儿待在闹鬼的房子里，所有该死的事情都由她来顶着。为什么这时候，保罗·D替代了那个鬼魂以后，她却垮了？害怕了？需要贝比了？最糟糕的已经过去了，不是吗？她已经挺过来了，不是吗？小鬼魂统治124号的时候她还能忍受，能做事，能解决一切问题。如今，有了一点关于黑尔如何如何的线索，她反倒像一只寻找妈妈的兔子一样六神无主了。
　　宠儿的手指太美妙了。在它们的抚慰下，塞丝再次均匀地呼吸，痛苦平息了。塞丝来这里寻找的安宁悄悄潜入了她的内心。
　　我们肯定是个奇观，她想道，于是又闭上眼睛去看：三个女人，在“林间空地”中央，在圣贝比·萨格斯热爱的石头脚下。一个坐着，其余两个跪在她面前，她把脖子伸向其中一个人亲切的双手。
　　丹芙盯着另外两个人的脸。宠儿则看着自己拇指的动作，而且肯定爱着她眼前的这个人，因为她探出身去吻了塞丝下巴下面的柔软部分。
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 23
      They stayed that way for awhile because neither Denver nor Sethe knew how not to: how to stop and not love the look or feelof the lips that kept on kissing. Then Sethe, grabbing Beloved's hair and blinking rapidly, separatedherself. She later believed that it was because the girl's breath was exactly like new milk that shesaid to her, stern and frowning, "You too old for that."She looked at Denver, and seeing panic about to become something more, stood up quickly,breaking the tableau apart.
　　"Come on up! Up!" Sethe waved the girls to their feet. As they left the Clearing they looked prettymuch the same as they had when they had come: Sethe in the lead, the girls a ways back. All silentas before, but with a difference. Sethe was bothered, not because of the kiss, but because, justbefore it, when she was feeling so fine letting Beloved massage away the pain, the fingers she wasloving and the ones that had soothed her before they strangled her had reminded her of somethingthat now slipped her mind. But one thing for sure, Baby Suggs had not choked her as first shethought. Denver was right, and walking in the dappled tree-light, clearer-headed now — away from the enchantment of the Clearing — Sethe remembered the tou ch of those fingers that sheknew better than her own. They had bathed her in sections, wrapped her womb, combed her hair,oiled her nipples, stitched her clothes, cleaned her feet, greased her back and dropped just aboutanything they were doing to massage Sethe's nape when, especially in the early days, her spiritsfell down under the weight of the things she remembered and those she did not: schoolteacherwriting in ink she herself had made while his nephews played on her; the face of the woman in afelt hat as she rose to stretch in the field. If she lay among all the hands in the world, she wouldknow Baby Suggs' just as she did the good hands of the whitegirl looking for velvet. But foreighteen years she had lived in a house full of touches from the other side. And the thumbs thatpressed her nape were the same. Maybe that was where it had gone to. After Paul D beat it out of124, maybe it collected itself in the Clearing. Reasonable, she thought.
　　Why she had taken Denver and Beloved with her didn't puzzle her now — at the time it seemedimpulse, with a vague wish for protection. And the girls had saved her, Beloved so agitated shebehaved like a two-year-old.
　　Like a faint smell of burning that disappears when the fire is cut off or the window opened for abreeze, the suspicion that the girl's touch was also exactly like the baby's ghost dissipated. It wasonly a tiny disturbance anyway — not strong enough to divert her from the ambition welling in hernow: she wanted Paul D. No matter what he told and knew, she wanted him in her life. More thancommemorating Halle, that is what she had come to the Clearing to figure out, and now it wasfigured. Trust and rememory, yes, the way she believed it could be when he cradled her before thecooking stove. The weight and angle of him; the true-to-life beard hair on him; arched back,educated hands. His waiting eyes and awful human power. The mind of him that knew her own.
　　Her story was bearable because it was his as well — to tell, to refine and tell again. The thingsneither knew about the other — the things neither had word-shapes for — well, it would come intime: where they led him off to sucking iron; the perfect death of her crawling-already? baby.
　　She wanted to get back — fast. Set these idle girls to some work that would fill their wanderingheads. Rushing through the green corridor, cooler now because the sun had moved, it occurred toher that the two were alike as sisters. Their obedience and absolute reliability shot through withsurprise. Sethe understood Denver. Solitude had made her secretive — self-manipulated. Years ofhaunting had dulled her in ways you wouldn't believe and sharpened her in ways you wouldn'tbelieve either. The consequence was a timid but hard-headed daughter Sethe would die to protect.
　　The other, Beloved, she knew less, nothing, about — -except that there was nothing she wouldn'tdo for Sethe and that Denver and she liked each other's company. Now she thought she knew why.
　　They spent up or held on to their feelings in harmonious ways. What one had to give the other waspleased to take. They hung back in the trees that ringed the Clearing, then rushed into it withscreams and kisses when Sethe choked — anyhow that's how she explained it to herself for shenoticed neither competition between the two nor domination by one. On her mind was the suppershe wanted to fix for Paul D — something difficult to do, something she would do just so — tolaunch her newer, stronger life with a tender man. Those litty bitty potatoes browned on all sides,heavy on the pepper; snap beans seasoned with rind; yellow squash sprinkled with vinegar andsugar. Maybe corn cut from the cob and fried with green onions and butter. Raised bread, even.
　　Her mind, searching the kitchen before she got to it, was so full of her offering she did not seeright away, in the space under the white stairs, the wooden tub and Paul D sitting in it. She smiledat him and he smiled back.
　　"Summer must be over," she said.
　　"Come on in here.""Uh uh. Girls right behind me.""I don't hear nobody.""I have to cook, Paul D.""Me too." He stood up and made her stay there while he held her in his arms. Her dress soaked upthe water from his body. His jaw was near her ear. Her chin touched his shoulder.
　　"What you gonna cook?""I thought some snap beans.""Oh, yeah.""Fry up a little corn?""Yeah."There was no question but that she could do it. Just like the day she arrived at 124 — sure enough,she had milk enough for all.
       她们就那样持续了片刻，因为丹芙和塞丝都不知如何是好：如何去制止她，而不是去体味那两片嘴唇的形状，享受它们不停亲吻的感觉。然后，塞丝抓住宠儿的头发，迅速地眨着眼睛，让自己脱了身。她事后相信，肯定是由于那姑娘的气息与鲜奶一模一样，她才皱起眉头，生硬地说：
　　“别这样，你也老大不小的了。”
　　她看了看丹芙，发现恐慌即将演变成别的祸事，便马上站起身，打破了这个戏剧性的场面。
　　“快起来!起来!”塞丝把姑娘们轰起来。她们离开“林间空地”时和来的时候差不多一样：塞丝领头，姑娘们远远跟在后面。大家都像来时一样沉默，却有所不同了。塞丝很困惑，不是因为亲吻，而是因为在亲吻之前，当她舒舒服服地让宠儿用按摩驱散疼痛时，那惹人喜爱的手指，还有那先是抚慰她、然后又扼住她脖子的手指，曾让她记起了什么，可一下子又想不起来了。不过有一点是毋庸置疑的，贝比·萨格斯并没有掐她，不像她开始以为的那样。丹芙说得对。远离了“林间空地”的妖术，走在斑斑驳驳的树影中，现在塞丝头脑清晰了———她记起了那些手指，她熟悉它们胜过熟悉自己的手指。它们曾经一部分一部分地擦洗她的身体，包裹她的阴部，梳理她的头发，往她的乳头上涂油，给她缝衣服，帮她洗净双脚，往她后背上抹油，还放下手里所有的活计来按摩她的后颈，尤其是在开头的日子里，那些时候，塞丝的精神在她记得和不记得的事情的重压下濒于崩溃：“学校老师”的侄子们玩弄她，而“学校老师”在一旁用她亲手制作的墨水记录下来；一个在田里直起身来的戴毡帽的女人，她的脸庞于塞丝脑际翩然浮现。即便在世界上所有的手中间，她也能认出贝比·萨格斯的那双，就如同认出寻找天鹅绒的白人姑娘的那双好手一样。然而，十八年来，她生活的房子一直充满了来自另一个世界的触摸，而那按住她后颈的拇指又与这触摸一模一样。也许它就是到那里去了。在保罗·D把它打出124号以后，它也许就是在“林间空地”上重振旗鼓的。合情合理，她想。
　　当初为什么带上丹芙和宠儿，这事现在不再迷惑她了———看来是一时冲动，以及寻求保护的模糊愿望使然。姑娘们救了她，宠儿更是激动得像个两岁孩子。
　　就仿佛火焰熄灭或者敞开窗子放进清风时消散的一股微弱的燃烧气味，有关这个姑娘的抚摸同样与那小鬼魂酷似的疑虑也烟消云散了。那本来也不过是一次小小的不安———还没有强大到让她抛开现在从心中涌出的勃勃雄心：她要保罗·D。不管他说了什么、知道了什么，她的生活中不能没有他。她来到“林间空地”，不仅仅是为了纪念黑尔，也为了找个答案；现在她找到了。
　　对，是信任和重新记忆，是他在炉子前面拥住她的时候她所相信的那种可能性。他的重量，他的棱角；他那真实的胡子；弓起的后背，训练有素的手。他那期待的眼睛和威风凛凛的人性力量。他那与她心心相印的灵魂。她的故事是可以忍受的，因为它同样也属于他———可以诉说，推敲，再诉说。彼此不知道的那些事情———谁都无法诉诸语言的事情———没关系，总有一天会水落石出的：他们打发他衔着铁嚼子去了什么地方；她那“都会爬了？”的宝贝儿的死亡多么完美。
　　她想回去了———越快越好。给无所事事的姑娘们安排点活儿干，充实一下她们胡思乱想的头脑。她匆匆穿过由于太阳偏移而凉下来的绿色长廊时，忽然觉得两个姑娘仿佛姊妹一般相像。她们那令人惊奇的顺从和绝对可靠，在她脑海倏然闪过。塞丝理解丹芙。孤独使得她干什么都遮遮掩掩的———我行我素。成年累月的闹鬼以难以置信的方式使她变得迟钝，也以难以置信的方式使她变得敏锐。结果就出了这么一个塞丝誓死保护的、胆小而又固执的女儿。另一个，宠儿，她了解得少一些，或者说根本不了解———只知道她为了塞丝什么都肯干，还有，丹芙和她喜欢彼此做伴。现在她想，她知道个中原委了。她们以和谐的方式挥霍和攫取着她们自己的感情。一个愿意给予，另一个则乐于获取。她们先是守在环绕着“林间空地”的树林中间，然后在塞丝被扼住时带着尖叫和亲吻冲进来———反正她就是这样向自己解释的，因为她既没发现两个姑娘之间有竞争，也没发现一个在主宰另一个。她一心想的只是她要给保罗·D准备的晚饭———很难办，也非办不可———她要去和一个温柔的男人一道开创她的更新、更强大的生活。做些四面烤焦的小土豆崽儿，多撒上点胡椒粉；桂皮炖豆角；糖醋凉拌黄瓜。要么把刚掰下来的玉米跟葱一起用黄油炸。甚至，再做个暄软的面包。
　　还没走进厨房，她就开始盘算里面的东西，满脑子都是自己设计的食谱，没有马上看见白楼梯下摆着的一只木澡盆和里面坐着的保罗·D。她冲他笑笑，他也回以一笑。
　　“夏天早过去了。”她说。
　　“进来吧。”
　　“去去去。姑娘们就在我后边。”
　　“我什么也没听见哪。”
　　“我得做饭了，保罗·D。”
　　“我也做。”他站起来，把她搂在怀里，不放她走。他身上的水将她的裙子都沾湿了。他的下颚贴着她的耳朵。她的下巴挨着他的肩膀。
　　“你要做什么饭？”
　　“我想弄点豆角。”
　　“嗯，不错。”
　　“炸点玉米？”
　　“很好。”
　　不成问题，她当然能做到。就像她刚到124号那天———毫无疑问，她的奶水足够所有的孩子吃。
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 24
       Beloved came through the door and they ought to have heard hertread, but they didn't.
　　Breathing and murmuring, breathing and murmuring. Beloved heard them as soon as the doorbanged shut behind her. She jumped at the slam and swiveled her head toward the whisperscoming from behind the white stairs. She took a step and felt like crying. She had been so close,then closer. And it was so much better than the anger that ruled when Sethe did or thoughtanything that excluded herself. She could bear the hours — -nine or ten of them each day but one— -when Sethe was gone. Bear even the nights when she was close but out of sight, behind wallsand doors lying next to him. But now — even the daylight time that Beloved had counted on,disciplined herself to be content with, was being reduced, divided by Sethe's willingness to payattention to other things. Him mostly. Him who said something to her that made her run out intothe woods and talk to herself on a rock. Him who kept her hidden at night behind doors. And himwho had hold of her now whispering behind the stairs after Beloved had rescued her neck and wasready now to put her hand in that woman's own.
　　Beloved turned around and left. Denver had not arrived, or else she was waiting somewhereoutside. Beloved went to look, pausing to watch a cardinal hop from limb to branch. She followedthe blood spot shifting in the leaves until she lost it and even then she walked on, backward, stillhungry for another glimpse.
　　She turned finally and ran through the woods to the stream. Standing close to its edge she watchedher reflection there. When Denver's face joined hers, they stared at each other in the water.
　　"You did it, I saw you," said Denver.
　　"What?""I saw your face. You made her choke.""I didn't do it.""You told me you loved her.""I fixed it, didn't I? Didn't I fix her neck?""After. After you choked her neck.""I kissed her neck. I didn't choke it. The circle of iron choked it.""I saw you." Denver grabbed Beloved's arm.
　　"Look out, girl," said Beloved and, snatching her arm away, ran ahead as fast as she could alongthe stream that sang on the other side of the woods.
　　Left alone, Denver wondered if, indeed, she had been wrong. She and Beloved were standing inthe trees whispering, while Sethe sat on the rock. Denver knew that the Clearing used to be whereBaby Suggs preached, but that was when she was a baby. She had never been there herself toremember it. 124 and the field behind it were all the world she knew or wanted.
　　Once upon a time she had known more and wanted to. Had walked the path leading to a real otherhouse. Had stood outside the window listening. Four times she did it on her own — crept awayfrom 124 early in the afternoon when her mother and grandmother had their guard down, justbefore supper, after chores; the blank hour before gears changed to evening occupations. Denverhad walked off looking for the house other children visited but not her. When she found it she wastoo timid to go to the front door so she peeped in the window. Lady Jones sat in a straight-backedchair; several children sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Lady Jones had a book. Thechildren had slates. Lady Jones was saying something too soft for Denver to hear. The childrenwere saying it after her. Four times Denver went to look. The fifth time Lady Jones caught her and said, "Come in the front door, Miss Denver. This is not a side show." So she had almost a wholeyear of the company of her peers and along with them learned to spell and count. She was seven,and those two hours in the afternoon were precious to her. Especially so because she had done it onher own and was pleased and surprised by the pleasure and surprise it created in her mother andher brothers. For a nickel a month, Lady Jones did what whitepeople thought unnecessary if notillegal: crowded her little parlor with the colored children who had time for and interest in booklearning. The nickel, tied to a handkerchief knot, tied to her belt, that she carried to Lady Jones,thrilled her. The effort to handle chalk expertly and avoid the scream it would make; the capital w,the little i, the beauty of the letters in her name, the deeply mournful sentences from the BibleLady Jones used as a textbook. Denver practiced every morning; starred every afternoon. She wasso happy she didn't even know she was being avoided by her classmates — that they made excusesand altered their pace not to walk with her. It was Nelson Lord — the boy as smart as she was —who put a stop to it; who asked her the question about her mother that put chalk, the little i and allthe rest that those afternoons held, out of reach forever. She should have laughed when he said it,or pushed him down, but there was no meanness in his face or his voice. Just curiosity. But thething that leapt up in her when he asked it was a thing that had been lying there all along. Shenever went back. The second day she didn't go, Sethe asked her why not. Denver didn't answer.
　　She was too scared to ask her brothers or anyone else Nelson Lord's question because certain oddand terrifying feelings about her mother were collecting around the thing that leapt up inside her.
　　Later on, after Baby Suggs died, she did not wonder why Howard and Buglar had run away. Shedid not agree with Sethe that they left because of the ghost. If so, what took them so long? Theyhad lived with it as long as she had. But if Nelson Lord was right — no wonder they were sulky,staying away from home as much as they could.
　　Meanwhile the monstrous and unmanageable dreams about Sethe found release in theconcentration Denver began to fix on the baby ghost. Before Nelson Lord, she had been barelyinterested in its antics. The patience of her mother and grandmother in its presence made herindifferent to it. Then it began to irritate her, wear her out with its mischief. That was when shewalked off to follow the children to Lady Jones' house-school. Now it held for her all the anger,love and fear she didn't know what to do with. Even when she did muster the courage to askNelson Lord's question, she could not hear Sethe's answer, nor Baby Suggs' words, nor anything atall thereafter. For two years she walked in a silence too solid for penetration but which gave hereyes a power even she found hard to believe. The black nostrils of a sparrow sitting on a branchsixty feet above her head, for instance. For two years she heard nothing at all and then she heardclose thunder crawling up the stairs. Baby Suggs thought it was Here Boy padding into places henever went. Sethe thought it was the India-rubber ball the boys played with bounding down thestairs.
　　"Is that damn dog lost his mind?" shouted Baby Suggs.
　　"He's on the porch," said Sethe. "See for yourself.""Well, what's that I'm hearing then?"Sethe slammed the stove lid. "Buglar! Buglar! I told you all not to use that ball in here." Shelooked at the white stairs and saw Denver at the top.
　　"She was trying to get upstairs.""What?" The cloth she used to handle the stove lid was balled in Sethe's hand.
　　"The baby," said Denver. "Didn't you hear her crawling?"What to jump on first was the problem: that Denver heard anything at all or that the crawling-already? baby girl was still at it but more so, The return of Denver's hearing, cut off by an answershe could not hear to hear, cut on by the sound of her dead sister trying to climb the stairs, signaledanother shift in the fortunes of the people of 124. From then on the presence was full of spite.
　　Instead of sighs and accidents there was pointed and deliberate abuse. Buglar and Howard grewfurious at the company of the women in the house, and spent in sullen reproach any time they hadaway from their odd work in town carrying water and feed at the stables. Until the spite became sopersonal it drove each off. Baby Suggs grew tired, went to bed and stayed there until her big oldheart quit. Except for an occasional request for color she said practically nothing — until theafternoon of the last day of her life when she got out of bed, skipped slowly to the door of thekeeping room and announced to Sethe and Denver the lesson she had learned from her sixty yearsa slave and ten years free: that there was no bad luck in the world but white people. "They don'tknow when to stop," she said, and returned to her bed, pulled up the quilt and left them to hold thatthought forever. Shortly afterward Sethe and Denver tried to call up and reason with the babyghost, but got nowhere. It took a man, Paul D, to shout it off, beat it off and take its place forhimself. And carnival or no carnival, Denver preferred the venomous baby to him any day. Duringthe first days after Paul D moved in, Denver stayed in her emerald closet as long as she could,lonely as a mountain and almost as big, thinking everybody had somebody but her; thinking even aghost's company was denied her. So when she saw the black dress with two unlaced shoes beneathit she trembled with secret thanks. Whatever her power and however she used it, Beloved was hers.
　　Denver was alarmed by the harm she thought Beloved planned for Sethe, but felt helpless to thwartit, so unrestricted was her need to love another. The display she witnessed at the Clearing shamedher because the choice between Sethe and Beloved was without conflict. Walking toward thestream, beyond her green bush house, she let herself wonder what if Beloved really decided tochoke her mother. Would she let it happen? Murder, Nelson Lord had said. "Didn't your motherget locked away for murder? Wasn't you in there with her when she went?"It was the second question that made it impossible for so long to ask Sethe about the first. Thething that leapt up had been coiled in just such a place: a darkness, a stone, and some other thingthat moved by itself. She went deaf rather than hear the answer, and like the little four o'clocks thatsearched openly for sunlight, then closed themselves tightly when it left, Denver kept watch for thebaby and withdrew from everything else. Until Paul D came. But the damage he did came undonewith the miraculous resurrection of Beloved.
       宠儿进了门。他们本该听见她的脚步声，却没有听见。
　　呼吸急促，窃窃私语，呼吸急促，窃窃私语。门刚在身后撞上，宠儿就听见了他们的声音。砰的一响让她跳起来，然后她把脑袋扭过去，听明白楼梯后面的低语声。她迈了一步，差点哭出来。
　　她本来已经离塞丝这样近了，刚才又更近了一步。塞丝做或想与她无关的事情时席卷她的那种愤怒，同这个可有天壤之别。她能够忍受塞丝出门的那些个钟头———每天九十个小时，一星期中只有一天例外。甚至能忍受她在墙壁和门板后面躺在他身边的那些夜晚，她离得很近，却不在视野里。可是现在———甚至宠儿所指望的、强迫自己知足的白天时间也被压缩了，也被塞丝关注其他事物的愿望给弄得支离破碎。主要怪他。是他说得她跑到树林里，坐在石头上自言自语。是他夜里把她藏在门后头。现在又是他霸占着她，在楼梯后面嘀嘀咕咕，就在宠儿刚刚救治了她的脖子、准备好把手放进那女人自己的手里之后不久。
　　宠儿转身离去。丹芙还没到，要么就是还等在外面什么地方。宠儿出去找她，半路上停下来，看一只红雀从树梢飞向树枝。她的眼睛跟着这个血点在树叶间穿行，直到找不见它，她才倒退着走开，仍然渴望再看上一眼。
　　她终于回转身，穿过树林跑向小溪。站在岸边，她望着自己的倒影。当丹芙的脸也映在她的旁边，她们在水中面面相觑。
　　“是你干的，我看见了。”丹芙道。
　　“什么？”
　　“我看见你的脸了。是你让她噎住的。”
　　“不是我干的。”
　　“你跟我说过你爱她。”
　　“是我治好的，不是吗？不是我把她的脖子治好的吗？”
　　“那是后来。在你掐了她脖子之后。”
　　“我吻了她的脖子。我没掐。是铁圈掐的。”
　　“我看见你了。”丹芙抓住宠儿的胳膊。
　　“当心，姑娘。”宠儿说着，抽出胳膊，沿着在树林一侧歌唱的小溪竭尽全力地奔跑。
　　丹芙独自一人留在那里，心中纳罕，自己是否的确误会了。她和宠儿当时站在树林中交头接耳，而塞丝坐在石头上。丹芙知道“林间空地”曾是贝比·萨格斯布道的地方，不过那时候她还是个婴儿。她从不记得自己后来到过那里。
　　124号和它后面的田野是她了解和需要的全部世界。
　　从前有过一段时间，她了解得更多，也更愿意了解。她曾经沿着小径走向另一座真实的房子。
　　曾经在窗下偷听。她独自干过四回———偷偷离开124号，在午后，当她妈妈和奶奶放松了警惕，家务活已经干完，而晚饭又没开始；充分利用与晚上的职责换档的一小时空闲。丹芙曾经溜号去找那座其他孩子能去、而她却不能去的房子。她找到的时候，胆小得不敢到前门去，只好扒着窗户往里偷看。琼斯女士端坐在直背椅上；几个孩子盘腿坐在她面前的地板上。琼斯女士拿着一本书。孩子们拿着石板。琼斯女士在说着什么，可是声音太小了，丹芙什么也听不见。孩子们跟着她说。丹芙去看了四次。第五次，琼斯女士抓住了她，说：
　　“从前门进来，丹芙小姐。这可不是儿戏。”
　　于是她有几乎整整一年时间可以和同学们相伴，和他们一起学习拼写和算术。她那时七岁，那些下午的两个钟头一直为她所珍视。尤其可贵的是，她做下这件事全靠自己，还因为让妈妈和哥哥们喜出望外而喜出望外。每月收费五分钱，琼斯女士做了白人们认为即便合法也毫无必要的事情：
　　让她的小客厅里挤满那些有时间也有兴趣读书的黑孩子。带给琼斯女士的五分钱系在手绢里，拴在腰带上，这让丹芙热血沸腾。她学着尽量老练地使用粉笔，以免发出尖声；欣赏大写的W、小写的i、自己名字里字母的美，还有琼斯女士用作课本的《圣经》里深切哀怆的句子。丹芙每天早上温习功课，每天下午去一显身手。她是这样快乐，都不知道自己在被同学们回避着———他们找借口、改变步调，不跟她走到一起。是内尔森·洛德———那个跟她一样聪明的男孩———终止了这一切；他问起了关于她妈妈的问题，使得粉笔、小写i和那些下午包含的其余内容变得永远不可企及。他问问题的时候，她本该一笑置之，或者把他推个跟头，可是他的脸上和声音里都没有恶意，只有好奇。然而他提问时在她心里跳将起来的东西，事实上蛰伏已久了。
　　她再也没有回去。第二天她没去上学，塞丝问她为什么。丹芙没有回答。她害怕得不敢找她的哥哥或是别的什么人去问内尔森·洛德的问题，因为关于她妈妈的某种古怪而可怕的感觉，正在那从她心里跳将起来的东西周围聚集。后来，贝比·萨格斯去世后，她已不再奇怪，霍华德和巴格勒为什么要出走。她不同意塞丝的解释，说什么是因为鬼才离开的。如果真是这样，他们为什么耽搁这么久呢？他们同它一起生活的时间跟她一样长。但是，如果内尔森·洛德说得对———那就怪不得他们要那么闷闷不乐，尽可能远地离开家了。
　　与此同时，丹芙开始专心致志地对付那个小鬼魂，于是，有关塞丝的不可开交的噩梦获得了解脱。在内尔森·洛德提问以前，她很少对它的胡闹感兴趣。既然她妈妈和奶奶对鬼魂的出没表现得相当耐心，她便对它漠不关心了。后来，它开始惹恼她，用恶作剧搞得她疲惫不堪。那正是她走出门、跟着孩子们去琼斯女士的家庭学校上学的时候。于是，她所有的愤怒、爱和恐惧都系于小鬼魂一身，她对此完全不知如何是好。甚至当她真的鼓起勇气去问内尔森·洛德问过的问题时，她也听不见塞丝的回答，听不见贝比·萨格斯的回答，听不见此后的任何一句话。整整两年时间，她一直在一种坚实得无法穿透的寂静之中度过，但她的眼睛却因而得到了一种她自己都不敢置信的力量。比如，她看得见一只蹲在头顶上六十英尺高树枝上的麻雀的两个黑鼻孔。她有整整两年什么都听不见；然后，就突然听见了近处爬楼梯的轰响。贝比·萨格斯以为是“来，小鬼”走进了它从来不去的地方。塞丝以为是儿子玩的印第安橡皮球滚下了楼梯。
　　“是那该死的狗发昏了吗？”贝比·萨格斯嚷道。
　　“它在门廊呢，”塞丝道，“不信你自己去看。”
　　“那我听到的是什么呀？”
　　塞丝砰地盖上炉盖。
　　“巴格勒！巴格勒！我跟你们俩都说过，不许在这儿玩球。
　　”她看了看白楼梯，见丹芙站在顶层。
　　“她在学着爬楼梯。”
　　“什么？”开炉盖用的垫布在塞丝手里攥成一团。
　　“那个小孩，”丹芙说，“你没听见她在爬吗？”
　　首先跳出的是这样一个问题：到底是丹芙真的听见了什么动静，还是那个“都会爬了？
　　”的小女儿仍旧在这里肆虐，变本加厉？
　　丹芙的听觉被一声她不忍听到的回答切断，又被她死去的姐姐试图爬楼梯的响动接上，它的恢复标志着124号里面的人们命运的又一次转折。从那时起，鬼魂的出没就充满了恶意。不再是叹息和意外事故了，而是变成了直截了当和蓄意为之的摧残。巴格勒和霍华德对于跟女人们一起住在房子里感到怒不可遏，如果不去城里干送水和喂牲口的临时工作，他们便时时刻刻都闷闷不乐地怪罪她们。直到最后，这恶意变成了过分的个人攻击，把他们两个统统赶走。贝比·萨格斯累了，在床上长卧不起，直到她那伟大而苍老的心停止跳动。除了不定期的对色彩的要求，她实际上一语不发———直到她生命中最后一天的那个下午，她下了床，慢悠悠地颠到起居室门口，向塞丝和丹芙宣告她从六十年奴隶生涯和十年自由人的日子中学到的一课：这世界上除了白人没有别的不幸。“他们不懂得适可而止。”她说道，然后就离开她们，回到床上，拉上被子，让她们永远地记住那个思想。
　　此后不久，塞丝和丹芙试图召唤那个小鬼魂，跟它论理，可是毫无结果。结果来了一个男人，保罗·D，将它吼走、打跑，再自己取代它的位置。无论有没有狂欢节那回事，丹芙都更愿意接受那个满腔怒火的婴儿，而不是他。保罗·D搬来后最初的那些日子，丹芙尽可能久地待在她的那间祖母绿密室里，像山一样孤独，也几乎一样庞大；她常想，谁都有个伴儿，单单她没有，连让一个鬼跟她做伴都不行。所以，当她看见那条黑裙子和下面的两只没系好鞋带的鞋子时，她浑身发抖，暗自谢天谢地。无论宠儿有怎样的威力，无论她怎样发威，宠儿总是她的。想到宠儿对塞丝的计划的危害性，丹芙警惕起来，但又觉得无力阻挠；她太渴望去爱别人了。在“林间空地”
　　目睹的一幕令她羞辱，因为在塞丝和宠儿之间作选择并不存在矛盾。
　　她离开她的绿色灌木小屋，朝着小溪走去，不禁心想，如果宠儿真的决定掐死她的妈妈，那该怎么办。她会任其发生吗？谋杀，内尔森·洛德说过的。
　　“你妈妈不是因为谋杀给关起来了吗？她进去的时候你没跟着吗？”
　　是那第二个问题，使得她过了那么长时间才去找塞丝问第一个问题。那跳将起来的东西，曾经在这样一个地方被卷了起来：一片漆黑，有块石头，还有某种能自己动弹的东西。她还没听到回答，耳朵就聋了；同那些盛开着追随阳光、当阳光离去时又紧紧关闭自己的小茉莉花一样，丹芙一直守候着那个婴儿，对旁的一切事物都不管不顾。直到保罗·D到来。不过，他造成的破坏因为宠儿奇迹般的复活而自动失效了。
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Chapter 25
       Just ahead, at the edge of the stream, Denver couldsee her silhouette, standing barefoot in the water, liking her black skirts up above her calves, thebeautiful head lowered in rapt attention. Blinking fresh tears Denver approached her — eager for a word, a sign of forgiveness.
　　Denver took off her shoes and stepped into the water with her. It took a moment for her to drag hereyes from the spectacle of Beloved's head to see what she was staring at.
　　A turtle inched along the edge, turned and climbed to dry ground. Not far behind it was anotherone, headed in the same direction. Four placed plates under a hovering motionless bowl. Behindher in the grass the other one moving quickly, quickly to mount her. The impregnable strength ofhim — earthing his feet near her shoulders. The embracing necks — hers stretching up toward hisbending down, the pat pat pat of their touching heads. No height was beyond her yearning neck,stretched like a finger toward his, risking everything outside the bowl just to touch his face. Thegravity of their shields, clashing, countered and mocked the floating heads touching. Beloveddropped the folds of her skirt. It spread around her. The hem darkened in the water.
　　OUT OF SIGHT of Mister's sight, away, praise His name, from the smiling boss of roosters, PaulD began to tremble. Not all at once and not so anyone could tell. When he turned his head, aimingfor a last look at Brother, turned it as much as the rope that connected his neck to the axle of abuckboard allowed, and, later on, when they fastened the iron around his ankles and clamped thewrists as well, there was no outward sign of trembling at all. Nor eighteen days after that when hesaw the ditches; the one thousand feet of earth — five feet deep, five feet wide, into which woodenboxes had been fitted. A door of bars that you could lift on hinges like a cage opened into threewalls and a roof of scrap lumber and red dirt. Two feet of it over his head; three feet of open trenchin front of him with anything that crawled or scurried welcome to share that grave calling itselfquarters. And there were forty-five more. He was sent there after trying to kill Brandywine, theman schoolteacher sold him to. Brandywine was leading him, in a coffle with ten others, throughKentucky into Virginia. He didn't know exactly what prompted him to try — other than Halle,Sixo, Paul A, Paul F and Mister. But the trembling was fixed by the time he knew it was there.
　　Still no one else knew it, because it began inside. A flutter of a kind, in the chest, then the shoulderblades. It felt like rippling — gentle at first and then wild. As though the further south they led himthe more his blood, frozen like an ice pond for twenty years, began thawing, breaking into piecesthat, once melted, had no choice but to swirl and eddy. Sometimes it was in his leg. Then again itmoved to the base of his spine. By the time they unhitched him from the wagon and he sawnothing but dogs and two shacks in a world of sizzling grass, the roiling blood was shaking him toand fro. But no one could tell. The wrists he held out for the bracelets that evening were steady aswere the legs he stood on when chains were attached to the leg irons. But when they shoved himinto the box and dropped the cage door down, his hands quit taking instruction. On their own, theytraveled. Nothing could stop them or get their attention. They would not hold his penis to urinateor a spoon to scoop lumps of lima beans into his mouth. The miracle of their obedience came withthe hammer at dawn.
　　All forty-six men woke to rifle shot. All forty-six. Three whitemen walked along the trenchunlocking the doors one by one. No one stepped through. When the last lock was opened, the threereturned and lifted the bars, one by one. And one by one the blackmen emerged — promptly and without the poke of a rifle butt if they had been there more than a day; promptly with the butt if,like Paul D, they had just arrived. When all forty-six were standing in a line in the trench, anotherrifle shot signaled the climb out and up to the ground above, where one thousand feet of the besthand-forged chain in Georgia stretched. Each man bent and waited. The first man picked up theend and threaded it through the loop on his leg iron. He stood up then, and, shuffling a little,brought the chain tip to the next prisoner, who did likewise. As the chain was passed on and eachman stood in the other's place, the line of men turned around, facing the boxes they had come outof. Not one spoke to the other. At least not with words. The eyes had to tell what there was to tell:
　　"Help me this mornin; 's bad"; "I'm a make it"; "New man"; "Steady now steady."Chain-up completed, they knelt down. The dew, more likely than not, was mist by then. Heavysometimes and if the dogs were quiet and just breathing you could hear doves. Kneeling in the mistthey waited for the whim of a guard, or two, or three. Or maybe all of them wanted it. Wanted itfrom one prisoner in particular or none — or all.
　　"Breakfast? Want some breakfast, nigger?""Yes, sir.""Hungry, nigger?""Yes, sir.""Here you go."Occasionally a kneeling man chose gunshot in his head as the price, maybe, of taking a bit offoreskin with him to Jesus. Paul D did not know that then. He was looking at his palsied hands,smelling the guard, listening to his soft grunts so like the doves', as he stood before the mankneeling in mist on his right. Convinced he was next, Paul D retched — vomiting up nothing at all.
　　An observing guard smashed his shoulder with the rifle and the engaged one decided to skip thenew man for the time being lest his pants and shoes got soiled by nigger puke.
　　"Hiiii"It was the first sound, other than "Yes, sir" a blackman was allowed to speak each morning, andthe lead chain gave it everything he had. "Hiiii!" It was never clear to Paul D how he knew whento shout that mercy. They called him Hi Man and Paul D thought at first the guards told him whento give the signal that let the prisoners rise up off their knees and dance two-step to the music ofhand forged iron. Later he doubted it. He believed to this day that the "Hiiii!" at dawn and the"Hoooo!" when evening came were the responsibility Hi Man assumed because he alone knewwhat was enough, what was too much, when things were over, when the time had come.
　　They chain-danced over the fields, through the woods to a trail that ended in the astonishing beautyof feldspar, and there Paul D's hands disobeyed the furious rippling of his blood and paid attention.
　　With a sledge hammer in his hands and Hi Man's lead, the men got through. They sang it out andbeat it up, garbling the words so they could not be understood; tricking the words so their syllablesyielded up other meanings. They sang the women they knew; the children they had been; theanimals they had tamed themselves or seen others tame. They sang of bosses and masters andmisses; of mules and dogs and the shamelessness of life. They sang lovingly of graveyards andsisters long gone. Of pork in the woods; meal in the pan; fish on the line; cane, rain and rockingchairs.
　　And they beat. The women for having known them and no more,no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and socompletely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcakeamong pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head.
　　More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making themthink the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of time would do it at last. Only whenshe was dead would they be safe. The successful ones — the ones who had been there enoughyears to have maimed, mutilated, maybe even buried her — kept watch over the others who werestill in her cock-teasing hug, caring and looking forward, remembering and looking back. Theywere the ones whose eyes said, "Help me, 's bad"; or "Look out," meaning this might be the day Ibay or eat my own mess or run, and it was this last that had to be guarded against, for if onepitched and ran — all, all forty-six, would be yanked by the chain that bound them and no tellingwho or how many would be killed. A man could risk his own life, but not his brother's. So the eyessaid, "Steady now," and "Hang by me."Eighty-six days and done. Life was dead. Paul D beat her butt all day every day till there was not awhimper in her. Eighty-six days and his hands were still, waiting serenely each rat-rustling nightfor "Hiiii!" at dawn and the eager clench on the hammer's shaft. Life rolled over dead. Or so hethought.
　　It rained.
　　Snakes came down from short-leaf pine and hemlock.
　　It rained.
　　Cypress, yellow poplar, ash and palmetto drooped under five days of rain without wind. By theeighth day the doves were nowhere in sight, by the ninth even the salamanders were gone. Dogslaid their ears down and stared over their paws. The men could not work. Chain-up was slow,breakfast abandoned, the two-step became a slow drag over soupy grass and unreliable earth.
　　It was decided to lock everybody down in the boxes till it either stopped or lightened up so awhiteman could walk, damnit, without flooding his gun and the dogs could quit shivering. Thechain was threaded through forty-six loops of the best hand-forged iron in Georgia.
　　It rained.
       就在前面，在小溪边，丹芙能看见她的剪影：她赤脚立在水中，黑裙子提到腿肚上，美丽的头全神贯注地低垂着。
　　丹芙眨落新鲜的眼泪，靠近她———渴盼着一句话，一个宽恕的信号。
　　丹芙脱下鞋子，在她身旁将双脚踏入水中。过了一会儿，她才把目光从宠儿奇妙的头上移开，去看她正在盯着什么看。
　　一只乌龟沿着河岸徐行，拐了个弯，爬向干燥的地面。身后不远处是另一只，头朝着同一个方向。四只盘子各就各位，安置在一只踟蹰不前的碗钵下面。从雌龟身后的草丛里，那只雄龟飞快地爬出来，飞快地骑在她的背上。他勇不可挡———就在她的肩膀旁，他把脚埋进土里。脖子纠缠起来———她的往上伸，他的朝下弯，他们相亲的头拍打，拍打，拍打。她焦渴的脖颈抬得比什么都高，宛如一根手指，伸向他的脖颈，冒着伸出碗钵外面的一切危险，只是为了触到他的脸。沉甸甸的甲壳彼此撞击，抗议并嘲笑着他们那游离出来相亲的龟头。
　　宠儿撂下裙褶。裙子在她周围展开。裙摆浸在河水中，颜色暗了下来。
　　在“先生”的视线达不到的地方，谢天谢地，远离了公鸡们那微笑着的首领，保罗·D开始颤抖。不是突然开始的，也不是可以轻易觉察出来的。当他的脖子被绳子拴在马车轴上，而他在绳子允许的范围内尽可能地扭过头、希望最后看一眼“兄弟”的时候，还有后来，当他们把镣铐铐上他的脚踝和手腕的时候，都根本没有颤抖的明显迹象。就是十八天以后，当他看见壕沟的时候，也仍然没有任何迹象。那是一道一千英尺长的泥土沟———有五英尺深、五英尺宽，正好放进那些木头匣子。匣子有道栅栏门，可以用绞索提起，好像打开一个笼子，打开后就能看见三面墙和一个用废木材和红土做成的屋顶。他头顶上有两英尺空间，面前有三英尺敞开的壕沟，供所有爬行的和疾走的东西来与他分享这个叫做住处的坟坑。这样的坟坑另外还有四十五个。他被送到那里是因为他企图杀死“学校老师”把他卖给的那个男人，“白兰地酒”。本来，“白兰地酒”正领着他和其他十个奴隶组成的一队人，穿过肯塔基前往弗吉尼亚。他搞不清楚究竟是什么促使他去以身试法———除了因为黑尔、西克索、保罗·A、保罗·F和“先生”。可是等他意识到的时候，颤抖已经固定不去了。
　　然而始终没有别的人知道，因为它发自内部。是一种颤动，先是在胸口，再传递到肩胛。感觉起来像涟漪一样———开始时柔和，然后就转为猛烈。似乎他们越将他领往南方，他的像冰封的池塘一样冻结了二十年的血液就越开始融化，裂成碎块，而一旦融化了，就只能打着旋儿飞转，此外别无选择。有时候颤抖是在他的腿里。然后再次传到他的脊椎底部。等他们将他从大车上解下来，他看到眼前这个野草咝咝作响的世界，除了狗群和两间小木屋以外一无所有，这时，愤怒的血液已经激得他前后摇晃。可是没有人能看出来。那天晚上，他伸出手来戴手铐，手腕很稳健；他们往他脚镣上拴铁链时，他那支撑身体的双腿也同样稳健。可是当他们把他塞进匣子、放下笼门的时候，他的手再也不听话了。它们自己活动起来。什么都无法止住它们，或者吸引它们的注意力。它们拒绝握着他的阴茎撒尿，或者拿着勺子舀一勺利马豆送进嘴里。直到黎明来临，该去抡大锤时，它们才奇迹般地驯服了。
　　一声熗响，四十六个男人一齐醒来。所有四十六个。三个白人沿沟走过，一把接一把地打开门锁。没人迈出一步。等到最后一把锁打开，三个人返回来提起栅栏，一扇接一扇。然后黑人们鱼贯而出———那些起码在里面待上过一天的，动作很利索，不会被熗托捣中；若是新来乍到，比如保罗·D，则不免挨上一熗托，才会麻利些。当四十六人全部在沟里站成一列时，另一声熗响命令他们爬出来，爬到头顶的地面上，于是一千英尺长的、佐治亚最好的手工锁链抻开来。每个人都弯腰等着。头一个拾起锁链的一头，穿进脚镣上的铁环。然后他站起身来，拖了几步，把链子递给下一个犯人，那个人就照他的样子做。等到链子一直传到头，每个人都站到了别人的位置上，这一列男人就掉转头，面向他们刚刚爬出的匣子。没有一个人对另一个说话。至少不用语言。要想说什么得用眼睛：
　　“今儿早上帮我一把，糟透了”；“我活着”；“新来的”；“别急，现在别急”。
　　锁链全部上好，他们跪下来。露水这时候多半已经变成了雾气，有时还很重。如果狗很安静，只是呼吸，你还能听见鸽子的声响。他们跪在雾里，等待着一个、两个或者三个看守异想天开的折磨。也许他们三个都喜欢心血来潮。或者针对某个特定的犯人，或者不针对任何人———或者针对所有人。
　　“早餐？想吃早餐吗，黑鬼？”
　　“是，先生。”
　　“饿了，黑鬼？”
　　“是，先生。”
　　“去你妈的吧。”
　　偶尔，一个跪着的男人也许会选择脑袋上挨熗子儿，作为带着一点包皮去见耶稣的代价。保罗·D当时还不知道那个。当看守站在他右边雾中跪着的那个男人面前时，他正在端详自己不住痉挛的手，一边闻着看守的气味，一边听着看守酷似鸽子的沉闷的咕哝声。保罗·D断定下一个是自己了，便干呕起来———实际上什么也没吐出来。一个眼尖的看守举起熗死命去捣他的肩膀，那个动手的看守决定暂时跳过这个新来的，以免裤子和鞋被黑鬼呕出的东西弄脏。
　　“嗨———!”
　　这是除了“是，先生”之外，其中一个黑人每天早晨允许发出的第一声呼喊，因为在锁链上领头，他才有了这一切权力。
　　“嗨———!”保罗·D始终搞不明白，他怎么知道什么时候喊出那一声悲悯。他们叫他“嗨师傅”。保罗·D起先以为是看守告诉他什么时候发出信号，让犯人们爬起来跟着手工镣铐的音乐跳两步舞的。后来他才纳闷起来。他至今依然相信，黎明的“嗨———!”和傍晚的“呼———!”是“嗨师傅”主动承担的责任，因为只有他一个人知道多少是足够，多少是过分，何时事情了结，何时时机已到。
　　他们带着锁链一路舞过田野，穿过树林，来到一条小径上；小径尽头是一座美得惊人的长石矿，在那里，保罗·D的双手抵住了血液中愤怒的涟漪，将注意力集中起来。在“嗨师傅”的带领下，男人们手抡长柄大铁锤，苦熬过来。他们唱出心中块垒，再砸碎它；篡改歌词，好不让别人听懂；玩文字游戏，好让音节生出别的意思。他们唱着与他们相识的女人；唱着他们曾经是过的孩子；唱着他们自己驯养或者看见别人驯养的动物。他们唱着工头、主人和小姐；唱着骡子、狗和生活的无耻。他们深情地唱着坟墓和去了很久的姐妹。唱林中的猪肉；唱锅里的饭菜；唱钓丝上的鱼儿；唱甘蔗、雨水和摇椅。
　　他们砸着。砸着他们从前曾经认识、现在却不再拥有的女人；砸着他们从前曾经是过、却永不会再是的孩子。他们如此频繁、如此彻底地砸死一个工头，结果不得不让他活过来，好再一次把他砸成肉酱。他们在松林中间品尝热蛋糕，又将它砸跑。他们一边为死亡先生唱着情歌，一边砸碎他的脑袋。更有甚者，他们砸死了那个人们称之为生命的骚货，就是她引领着他们前进，让他们觉得太阳再次升起是值得的；钟声的再一次鸣响终将了结一切。只有让她死去他们才会安全。成功者们———那些在里面待足了年头，已将她残害、切断手足，甚至埋葬了的人———一直留心着其余那些仍然处在她淫荡怀抱里的人，那些牵挂和瞻望着、牢记和回顾着的人们。就是这些人，依然用眼睛说着“救救我，糟透了”，说着“小心啊”，意思是：很可能就是今天，我得吠叫、疯掉，或者逃跑了，而最后这一点是必须提高警惕、严加防范的，因为如果有一个逃掉了———那么，所有、所有四十六个人，就会被拴住他们的锁链拖走，说不准会有谁、会有多少个要被杀掉。一个人可以拿自己的性命冒险，却不能拿兄弟们的冒险。于是，他们用眼睛说，“现在别急”，说，“有我在呢”。
　　八十六天，干完了。生命死了。保罗·D整天砸她的屁股，直到她咽了气为止。八十六天过去，他的手不抖了，在耗子猖獗的每一个夜晚，他平静地等待着黎明的一声“嗨———!”，热切地渴望去握紧大锤把儿。生命翻过身去死掉了。至少他是这么想的。
　　下雨了。
　　蛇从短针松和铁杉树上爬下来。
　　下雨了。
　　柏树、黄杨、白杨和棕榈经历了五天无风的大雨，垂下头来。到了第八天，再也看不见鸽子了；到第九天，就连蝾螈都没了。狗耷拉着耳朵，盯着自己的爪子出神。男人们没法干活了。锁链松了，早饭废除了，两步舞变成了稀乎乎的草地和不坚实的泥浆地上面拖拖拉拉的步伐。
　　最后的决定是把所有人都锁在地下的匣子里，直到雨停下或者减弱，这样，一个白人单独就可以巡视，同时熗又挨不着雨淋，狗也不必打哆嗦了，他妈的。锁链穿过四十六个佐治亚最好的手工镣铐的铁环。
　　下雨了。
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Chapter 26
       In the boxes the men heard the water rise in the trench and looked out for cottonmouths. Theysquatted in muddy water, slept above it, peed in it. Paul D thought he was screaming; his mouthwas open and there was this loud throat-splitting sound — but it may have been somebody else.
　　Then he thought he was crying. Something was running down his cheeks. He lifted his hands towipe away the tears and saw dark brown slime. Above him rivulets of mud slid through the boardsof the roof. When it come down, he thought, gonna crush me like a tick bug. It happened so quickhe had no time to ponder. Somebody yanked the chain — once — hard enough to cross his legsand throw him into the mud. He never figured out how he knew — how anybody did — but he didknow — he did — and he took both hands and yanked the length of chain at his left, so the nextman would know too. The water was above his ankles, flowing over the wooden plank he slept on.
　　And then it wasn't water anymore. The ditch was caving in and mud oozed under and through thebars. They waited — each and every one of the forty-six. Not screaming, although some of themmust have fought like the devil not to. The mud was up to his thighs and he held on to the bars.
　　Then it came — another yank — from the left this time and less forceful than the first because ofthe mud it passed through.
　　It started like the chain-up but the difference was the power of the chain. One by one, from Hi Manback on down the line, they dove. Down through the mud under the bars, blind, groping. Some hadsense enough to wrap their heads in their shirts, cover their faces with rags, put on their shoes.
　　Others just plunged, simply ducked down and pushed out, fighting up, reaching for air. Some lostdirection and their neighbors, feeling the confused pull of the chain, snatched them around. Forone lost, all lost. The chain that held them would save all or none, and Hi Man was the Delivery.
　　They talked through that chain like Sam Morse and, Great God, they all came up. Like theunshriven dead, zombies on the loose, holding the chains in their hands, they trusted the rain andthe dark, yes, but mostly Hi Man and each other.
　　Past the sheds where the dogs lay in deep depression; past the two guard shacks, past the stable ofsleeping horses, past the hens whose bills were bolted into their feathers, they waded. The moondid not help because it wasn't there. The field was a marsh, the track a trough. All Georgia seemedto be sliding, melting away. Moss wiped their faces as they fought the live-oak branches thatblocked their way. Georgia took up all of Alabama and Mississippi then, so there was no state lineto cross and it wouldn't have mattered anyway. If they had known about it, they would haveavoided not only Alfred and the beautiful feldspar, but Savannah too and headed for the SeaIslands on the river that slid down from the Blue Ridge Mountains. But they didn't know.
　　Daylight came and they huddled in a copse of redbud trees. Night came and they scrambled up tohigher ground, praying the rain would go on shielding them and keeping folks at home. They werehoping for a shack, solitary, some distance from its big house, where a slave might be making ropeor heating potatoes at the grate. What they found was a camp of sick Cherokee for whom a rosewas named. Decimated but stubborn, they were among those who chose a fugitive life rather thanOklahoma. The illness that swept them now was reminiscent of the one that had killed half theirnumber two hundred years earlier. In between that calamity and this, they had visited George III in London, published a newspaper, made baskets, led Oglethorpe through forests, helped AndrewJackson fight Creek, cooked maize, drawn up a constitution, petitioned the King of Spain, beenexperimented on by Dartmouth, established asylums, wrote their language, resisted settlers, shotbear and translated scripture. All to no avail. The forced move to the Arkansas River, insisted uponby the same president they fought for against the Creek, destroyed another quarter of their alreadyshattered number.
　　That was it, they thought, and removed themselves from those Cherokee who signed the treaty, inorder to retire into the forest and await the end of the world. The disease they suffered now was amere inconvenience compared to the devastation they remembered. Still, they protected each otheras best they could. The healthy were sent some miles away; the sick stayed behind with the dead— to survive or join them.
　　The prisoners from Alfred, Georgia, sat down in semicircle near the encampment. No one cameand still they sat. Hours passed and the rain turned soft. Finally a woman stuck her head out of herhouse. Night and nothing happened. At dawn two men with barnacles covering theirbeautifulskinappro(came) ached them. No one spoke for a moment, then Hi Man raised his hand. TheCherokee saw the chains and went away. When they returned each carried a handful of small axes.
　　Two children followed with a pot of mush cooling and thinning in the rain.
　　Buffalo men, they called them, and talked slowly to the prisoners scooping mush and tapping awayat their chains. Nobody from a box in Alfred, Georgia, cared about the illness the Cherokee warnedthem about, so they stayed, all forty-six, resting, planning their next move. Paul D had no idea ofwhat to do and knew less than anybody, it seemed. He heard his co-convicts talk knowledgeably ofrivers and states, towns and territories. Heard Cherokee men describe the beginning of the worldand its end. Listened to tales of other Buffalo men they knew — three of whom were in the healthycamp a few miles away. Hi Man wanted to join them; others wanted to join him. Some wanted toleave; some to stay on. Weeks later Paul D was the only Buffalo man left — without a plan. All hecould think of was tracking dogs, although Hi Man said the rain they left in gave that no chance ofsuccess. Alone, the last man with buffalo hair among the ailing Cherokee, Paul D finally woke upand, admitting his ignorance, asked how he might get North. Free North. Magical North.
　　Welcoming, benevolent North. The Cherokee smiled and looked around. The flood rains of amonth ago had turned everything to steam and blossoms.
　　"That way," he said, pointing. "Follow the tree flowers," he said.
　　"Only the tree flowers. As they go, you go. You will be where you want to be when they aregone."So he raced from dogwood to blossoming peach. When they thinned out he headed for the cherryblossoms, then magnolia, chinaberry, pecan, walnut and prickly pear. At last he reached a field ofapple trees whose flowers were just becoming tiny knots of fruit. Spring sauntered north, but hehad to run like hell to keep it as his traveling companion. From February to July he was on thelookout for blossoms. When he lost them, and found himself without so much as a petal to guide him, he paused, climbed a tree on a hillock and scanned the horizon for a flash of pink or white inthe leaf world that surrounded him. He did not touch them or stop to smell. He merely followed intheir wake, a dark ragged figure guided by the blossoming plums.
　　The apple field turned out to be Delaware where the weaver lady lived. She snapped him up assoon as he finished the sausage she fed him and he crawled into her bed crying. She passed him offas her nephew from Syracuse simply by calling him that nephew's name. Eighteen months and hewas looking out again for blossoms only this time he did the looking on a dray.
　　It was some time before he could put Alfred, Georgia, Sixo, schoolteacher, Halle, his brothers,Sethe, Mister, the taste of iron, the sight of butter, the smell of hickory, notebook paper, one byone, into the tobacco tin lodged in his chest. By the time he got to 124 nothing in this world couldpry it open.
　　SHE MOVED HIM.
       匣子里的人们一面听着水在壕沟里涨起来，一面当心着棉嘴蛇。他们蹲在泥水里，泥水里睡觉，泥水里撒尿。保罗·D以为自己在喊叫：他的嘴大张着，又能听见劈裂的喊声———不过那也可能是别人在喊。接着，他又以为自己在哭。有什么顺着他的脸颊流下来。他抬起两手去抹眼泪，看到的却是深棕色的泥浆。在他头顶上，小股的泥流穿透屋顶的木板滑下来。屋顶要是塌了，他想，它会像捻死一个臭虫似的把我压瘪。事情发生得这么快，他都来不及多想。有人在猛拽锁链———一下———猛得简直像要拉倒他的腿，让他摔进泥浆里。他始终没想清楚自己是怎么懂的———别人又是怎么懂的———可他的确懂了———他懂了———于是他用两只手狠命地拽左边的一截锁链，下一个也就知道了。水没过了他的脚踝，漫过了他睡觉的木板。然后就不再是水了。
　　壕沟在塌陷，泥浆从栅栏下面和栅栏中间涌进来。
　　他们等着———所有四十六个都在等着。没有人喊叫，尽管不少人肯定是在拼命忍住。泥浆没到了腿根，他抓住栅栏。这时，又来了———又是一下猛拉———这下是从左边来的，因为要穿过泥浆，比刚才那一下劲头小些。
　　行动开始时，很像穿上锁链，可是区别在于锁链的力量。一个接一个地，从“嗨师傅”往回，沿着这一排，他们扎了下去。潜到栅栏下的泥浆里，瞎着眼睛摸索着。几个有心计的把脑袋裹在衬衫里，用破布蒙住脸，穿上鞋。其余的就这么囫囵扎了下去，只管往下划开去，再奋力上来找空气。
　　有的迷失了方向，同伴感觉到锁链上慌张狼狈的乱扯，就四处去抓他们。因为一旦有一个迷失，大家就会全部迷失。将他们拴在一起的锁链，要么救出所有人，要么一个也救不了，于是，“嗨师傅”
　　成了救星。他们通过链子说话，就像山姆·摩斯一样，老天哪，他们全出来了。他们手执锁链，如同未经忏悔的死者和逍遥法外的僵尸，他们信赖豪雨和黑夜，是的，但最信任的是“嗨师傅”，是他们自己。
　　他们走过狗窝棚，狗无精打采地趴在那里；走过两个看守室，走过马沉睡着的马厩，走过把嘴埋进羽毛的母鸡，他们跋涉着。月亮没帮上忙，因为它不在场。田野是一片沼泽，道路是一条水沟。整个佐治亚似乎都在下沉、融化。他们企图拨开挡道的橡树枝，倒被蹭了一脸青苔。那时的佐治亚还包括整个亚拉巴马和密西西比，所以没有州界可过，其实它们本来也没什么用处。要是他们知道的话，他们不仅会逃离阿尔弗雷德和美丽的长石矿，还会避开萨凡纳，而直奔位于滑下蓝岭的河流上的海群岛。然而他们不知道。
　　白天来了，他们在紫荆树丛中挤作一团。夜幕降临，他们爬起身登上高地，祈求雨会继续掩护他们，把人们困在家里。他们希望找到一个孤零零的小棚子，离主人的大房子有一定距离，里面可能有个黑奴在搓绳子或者在炉架上烤土豆。他们找到的是一营生病的切罗基人，一种玫瑰就是因他们而得名的。
　　人口大批死亡之后，切罗基人仍然很顽固，宁愿去过一种逃犯的生涯，也不去俄克拉何马。
　　现在席卷他们的这场疾病让人想起二百年前曾经要了他们半数性命的那一场。在这两场灾祸之间，他们去拜见了伦敦的乔治三世，出版了一份报纸，造出了篮子，把奥格尔索普带出了森林，帮助安德鲁·杰克逊与克里克人作战，烹调玉米，制定宪法，上书西班牙国王，被达特茅斯学院用来做实验，建立避难所，为自己的语言发明文字，抵抗殖民者，猎熊，翻译经文。然而都是徒劳无功。他们协助攻打克里克人的那同一个总统一声令下，他们就被迫迁往阿肯色河，已经残缺不全的队伍因此又损失了四分之一。
　　到此为止吧，他们想，然后，他们从那些签了条约的切罗基人中分离出来，以便退隐森林，等待世界末日。他们现在遭受的疾病同他们所记得的那次灭顶之灾相比，不过是头痛脑热而已。然而，他们仍旧竭尽全力互相保护。健康的被送到几英里开外的地方；生病的和死者一起留在后面———要么活下来，要么加入死者的行列。
　　从佐治亚州阿尔弗雷德来的犯人们在营房附近坐成一个半圆。没有人来，他们就一直坐在那里。几个小时过去，雨小了些。终于，一个女人从房子里探出脑袋。一夜无事。黎明时分，两个美丽皮肤上遮着贝壳的男人朝他们走来。一时没有人开口，然后“嗨师傅”举起了手。两个切罗基人看见锁链就走了。他们回来的时候每人抱着一抱小斧头。随后，两个孩子抬来一罐让雨淋得又凉又稀的玉米糊糊。
　　他们称呼新来的人为野牛人，慢声慢气地同这些盛着粥、砸着锁链的囚犯们说起话来。在佐治亚州阿尔弗雷德的匣子里待过的这些人，对切罗基人让他们提防的那种疾病都毫不在乎，于是他们留了下来，所有四十六个，一边歇息，一边盘算下一步。保罗·D根本不知道该干什么，而且好像比谁知道得都少。他听同犯们很渊博地谈起河流、州省、城镇和疆域。听切罗基人煞有介事地描述世界的起始和终结。听他们讲所知道的关于别的野牛人的故事———其中有三个就待在几英里外的健康营里。
　　“嗨师傅”想去与他们会合，其他人想跟着“嗨师傅”。有一些人想离开，一些人想留下。几星期过后，保罗·D成了唯一剩下的野牛人———一点打算也没有。他满脑子想的只有循着踪迹追来的猎犬，尽管“嗨师傅”说过，有了他们经历的那场大雨，追踪根本没有成功的可能。作为最后一个长野牛毛的男人，孤单的保罗·D终于在生病的切罗基人中间觉醒了，承认自己的无知，打听他怎么才能去北方。自由的北方。神奇的北方。好客、仁慈的北方。那切罗基人微笑四顾。一个月前的那场暴雨使一切都在蒸腾和盛开。
　　“那条路。”他指着说。
　　“跟着树上的花儿走，”他说道，“只管跟着树上的花儿走。它们去哪儿你去哪儿。它们消失的时候，你就到了你要去的地方。”
　　于是，他从山茱萸跑向盛开的桃花。桃花稀疏、消失时，他就奔向樱桃花；然后是木兰花、苦楝花、山核桃花、胡桃花和刺梨花。最后他来到一片苹果树林，花儿刚刚结出小青果。春天信步北上，可是他得拼命地奔跑才能赶上这个旅伴。从二月到七月他一直在找花儿。当他找不见它们，发现再也没有一片花瓣来指引他，他便停下来，爬上土坡上的一棵树，在地平线上极力搜寻环绕的叶海中一点粉红或白色的闪动。他从未抚摸过它们，也没有停下来闻上一闻。他只是簇簇梅花指引下的一个黝黑、褴褛的形象，紧紧追随着它们的芳痕。
　　那片苹果地，原来就是那个女织工居住的特拉华。他刚刚吃完她给的香肠，她就一下子搂住了他，然后，他哭着爬上她的床。她让他假装成她在希拉库斯的外甥，直接用那外甥的名字称呼他。
　　十八个月后，他再次出来找花儿，不过这回他是坐着大车找的。
　　过了好一段时间，他才把佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德、西克索、“学校老师”、黑尔、他的哥哥们、塞丝、“先生”、铁嚼子的滋味、牛油的情景、胡桃的气味、笔记本的纸，一个一个地锁进他胸前的烟草罐里。等他来到124号的时候，这个世界上已没有任何东西能够撬开它了。
　　她赶走了他。
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Chapter 27
      Not the way he had beat off the baby's ghost — all bang and shriek with windows smashed andicily iars rolled in a heap. But she moved him nonetheless, and Paul D didn't know how to stop itbecause it looked like he was moving himself. Imperceptibly, downright reasonably, he wasmoving out of 124.
　　The beginning was so simple. One day, after supper, he sat in the rocker by the stove, bone-tired,river-whipped, and fell asleep. He woke to the footsteps of Sethe coming down the white stairs tomake breakfast.
　　"I thought you went out somewhere," she said.
　　Paul D moaned, surprised to find himself exactly where he was the last time he looked.
　　"Don't tell me I slept in this chair the whole night."Sethe laughed. "Me? I won't say a word to you.""Why didn't you rouse me?""I did. Called you two or three times. I gave it up around midnight and then I thought you went outsomewhere."He stood, expecting his back to fight it. But it didn't. Not a creak or a stiff joint anywhere. In facthe felt refreshed. Some things are like that, he thought, good-sleep places. The base of certain treeshere and there; a wharf, a bench, a rowboat once, a haystack usually, not always bed, and here,now, a rocking chair, which was strange because in his experience furniture was the worst placefor a good-sleep sleep.
　　The next evening he did it again and then again. He was accustomed to sex with Sethe just aboutevery day, and to avoid the confusion Beloved's shining caused him he still made it his business totake her back upstairs in the morning, or lie down with her after supper. But he found a way and areason to spend the longest part of the night in the rocker. He told himself it must be his back —something supportive it needed for a weakness left over from sleeping in a box in Georgia.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way but one evening, after supper, after Sethe, hecame downstairs, sat in the rocker and didn't want to be there. He stood up and realized he didn'twant to go upstairs either. Irritable and longing for rest, he opened the door to Baby Suggs' roomand dropped off to sleep on the bed the old lady died in. That settled it — so it seemed. It becamehis room and Sethe didn't object — her bed made for two had been occupied by one for eighteenyears before Paul D came to call. And maybe it was better this way, with young girls in the houseand him not being her true-to-life husband. In any case, since there was no reduction in his before-breakfast or after-supper appetites, he never heard her complain.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way, except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he came downstairs and lay on Baby Suggs' bed and didn't want to be there.
　　He believed he was having house-fits, the glassy anger men sometimes feel when a woman's housebegins to bind them, when they want to yell and break something or at least run off. He knew allabout that — felt it lots of times — in the Delaware weaver's house, for instance. But always heassociated the house-fit with the woman in it. This nervousness had nothing to do with the woman,whom he loved a little bit more every day: her hands among vegetables, her mouth when shelicked a thread end before guiding it through a needle or bit it in two when the seam was done, theblood in her eye when she defended her girls (and Beloved was hers now) or any coloredwomanfrom a slur. Also in this house-fit there was no anger, no suffocation, no yearning to be elsewhere.
　　He just could not, would not, sleep upstairs or in the rocker or, now, in Baby Suggs' bed. So hewent to the storeroom.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he lay on a pallet in the storeroom and didn't want to be there. Then it was the cold house and itwas out there, separated from the main part of 124, curled on top of two croaker sacks full of sweetpotatoes, staring at the sides of a lard can, that he realized the moving was involuntary. He wasn'tbeing nervous; he was being prevented.
　　So he waited. Visited Sethe in the morning; slept in the cold room at night and waited.
　　She came, and he wanted to knock her down.
       不是他打跑婴儿鬼魂的那种方式———又摔又叫，砸碎了窗户，果酱罐滚作一堆。可她仍然赶走了他，而保罗·D不知道怎样制止她，因为看起来像是他自己搬走的。不知不觉地，完全合情合理地，他在搬出124号。
　　事情的开头简单极了。一天，晚饭以后，他坐在炉边的摇椅上，腰酸腿疼，出汗出得好像刚从水里捞出来，就那样睡着了。塞丝走下白楼梯来做早饭的声音吵醒了他。
　　“我以为你到外头什么地方去了。”她说。
　　保罗·D哼了哼，吃惊地发现自己还待在原来待的地方。
　　“别跟我说我在这张椅子上睡了一整夜。”
　　塞丝笑了起来。
　　“我吗？我什么也不会跟你说的。”
　　“你怎么没把我叫起来？”
　　“我叫了。叫了你两三遍呐。到了半夜我才决定拉倒，我以为你上外头什么地方去了。”
　　他站起来，以为后背会很难受。可是没有。哪里都没有咯吱作响，也没感到关节麻木。实际上他倒觉得振奋。有些东西就是那样，他想，真是个睡觉的好地方。随便什么地方的树脚下；一个码头，一条长椅，有一次是只小船，通常是一垛干草堆，不总是床；可现在这回，居然是一把摇椅，很是莫名其妙，因为凭他的经验，要睡个好觉，家具可是最糟糕的地方了。
　　第二天晚上他又这样睡了，接着又睡了一夜。他已经习惯了几乎每天和塞丝性交，为了避免自己被宠儿的光芒迷惑，他仍然自觉地每天早晨回到楼上与塞丝云雨一番，或者晚饭以后和她一起躺倒。然而为了在摇椅上过夜，他找到了一个办法，一个理由。他告诉自己，肯定是因为他的后背———在佐治亚的匣子里落下的后遗症，使它需要什么东西支撑。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他跟塞丝性交后走下楼梯、坐到摇椅上，却不想在那儿待着了。他站起来，发觉自己也并不想上楼去。他心烦意乱又渴望休息，便打开门进了贝比·萨格斯的房间，到老太太死去的那张床上倒头便睡。事情就这么结了———看来如此。它成了他的房间，塞丝并不介意———她的双人床在保罗·D来到之前的十八年里都是她一个人睡。也许这样更好，家里有年轻姑娘，而他又不是自己的结发丈夫。不管怎么说，因为他并没有就此减少早饭以前和晚饭以后的欲望，所以他一直没听见她有过怨言。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他与塞丝性交过后走下楼梯，躺到贝比·萨格斯的床上，却不想在那儿待着了。他以为自己患了那种房屋恐惧症，当一个女人的房子开始束缚男人，当他们想吼叫、砸点东西或者至少跑掉的时候，他们有时会感觉到那种呆滞无神的愤怒。他了解得一清二楚———感受过许多回———比如在特拉华女织工的房子里。然而，他总是把房屋恐惧症和房子里的女人联系起来。这次的紧张可跟这个女人毫无关系，他一天比一天更爱她：她那双收拾蔬菜的手，她那在穿针之前舔一下线头或者缝补完以后把线咬成两段的嘴，她那保护她的姑娘们（宠儿现在也是她的了）或者任何黑人妇女不受侮辱时充血的眼睛。
　　还有，这次的房屋恐惧症里没有愤怒，没有窒息，没有远走他乡的渴望。他只是不能、不愿睡在楼上、摇椅上，还有现在，贝比·萨格斯的床上。于是他去了贮藏室。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他享用了塞丝后走下楼梯，躺到贮藏室的地铺上，却不想在那儿待着了。然后就是冷藏室，它在外面，与124号的主体分开。蜷曲在两个装满甘薯的麻袋上，盯着一个猪油罐头的轮廓，他发觉他搬出来是身不由己的。不是他神经过敏；是有人在驱逐他。
　　于是他等着。早晨去找塞丝；夜里睡在冷藏室里，等着。
　　她来了，而他想把她打翻在地。
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4071鲜花 1鸡蛋

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Chapter 28
       In Ohio seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance isthe reason the world has people in it. When Paul D had been forced out of 124 into a shed behindit, summer had been hooted offstage and autumn with its bottles of blood and gold had everybody'sattention. Even at night, when there should have been a restful intermission, there was nonebecause the voices of a dying landscape were insistent and loud. Paul D packed newspaper under himself and over, to give his thin blanket some help. But the chilly night was not on his mind.
　　When he heard the door open behind him he refused to turn and look. "What you want in here?
　　What you want?" He should have been able to hear her breathing.
　　"I want you to touch me on the inside part and call me my name." Paul D never worried about hislittle tobacco tin anymore. It was rusted shut. So, while she hoisted her skirts and turned her headover her shoulder the way the turtles had, he just looked at the lard can, silvery in moonlight, andspoke quietly.
　　"When good people take you in and treat you good, you ought to try to be good back. You don't...
　　Sethe loves you. Much as her own daughter. You know that."Beloved dropped her skirts as he spoke and looked at him with empty eyes. She took a step hecould not hear and stood close behind him.
　　"She don't love me like I love her. I don't love nobody but her.""Then what you come in here for?""I want you to touch me on the inside part.""Go on back in that house and get to bed.""You have to touch me. On the inside part. And you have to call me my name."As long as his eyes were locked on the silver of the lard can he was safe. If he trembled like Lot'wife and felt some womanish need to see the nature of the sin behind him; feel a sympathy,(s) perhaps, for the cursing cursed, or want to hold it in his arms out of respect for the connectionbetween them, he too would be lost.
　　"Call me my name.""No.""Please call it. I'll go if you call it.""Beloved." He said it, but she did not go. She moved closer with a footfall he didn't hear and hedidn't hear the whisper that the flakes of rust made either as they fell away from the seams of histobacco tin. So when the lid gave he didn't know it. What he knew was that when he reached theinside part he was saying, "Red heart. Red heart," over and over again. Softly and then so loud itwoke Denver, then Paul D himself. "Red heart. Red heart. Red heart."TO GO BACK to the original hunger was impossible. Luckily for Denver, looking was foodenough to last. But to be looked at in turn was beyond appetite; it was breaking through her own skin to a place where hunger hadn't been discovered. It didn't have to happen often, becauseBeloved seldom looked right at her, or when she did, Denver could tell that her own face was justthe place those eyes stopped while the mind behind it walked on. But sometimes — at momentsDenver could neither anticipate nor create — Beloved rested cheek on knuckles and looked atDenver with attention.
　　It was lovely. Not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncriticaleyes of the other. Having her hair examined as a part of her self, not as material or a style. Havingher lips, nose, chin caressed as they might be if she were a moss rose a gardener paused to admire.
　　Denver's skin dissolved under that gaze and became soft and bright like the lisle dress that had itsarm around her mother's waist. She floated near but outside her own body, feeling vague andintense at the same time. Needing nothing. Being what there was.
　　At such times it seemed to be Beloved who needed somethingm wanted something. Deep down inher wide black eyes, back behind the expressionlessness, was a palm held out for a penny whichDenver would gladly give her, if only she knew how or knew enough about her, a knowledge notto be had by the answers to the questions Sethe occasionally put to her: '"You disremembereverything? I never knew my mother neither, but I saw her a couple of times. Did you never seeyours? What kind of whites was they? You don't remember none?"Beloved, scratching the back of her hand, would say she remembered a woman who was hers, andshe remembered being snatched away from her. Other than that, the clearest memory she had, theone she repeated, was the bridge — standing on the bridge looking down. And she knew onewhiteman.
　　Sethe found that remarkable and more evidence to support her conclusions, which she confided toDenver.
　　"Where'd you get the dress, them shoes?"Beloved said she took them.
　　"Who from?"Silence and a faster scratching of her hand. She didn't know; she saw them and just took them.
　　"Uh huh," said Sethe, and told Denver that she believed Beloved had been locked up by somewhiteman for his own purposes, and never let out the door. That she must have escaped to a bridgeor someplace and rinsed the rest out of her mind. Something like that had happened to Ella exceptit was two men — -a father and son — - and Ella remembered every bit of it. For more than a year,they kept her locked in a room for themselves.
　　"You couldn't think up," Ella had said, "what them two done to me."Sethe thought it explained Beloved's behavior around Paul D, whom she hated so.
　　Denver neither believed nor commented on Sethe's speculations, and she lowered her eyes andnever said a word about the cold house. She was certain that Beloved was the white dress that hadknelt with her mother in the keeping room, the true-to-life presence of the baby that had kept hercompany most of her life. And to be looked at by her, however briefly, kept her grateful for therest of the time when she was merely the looker. Besides, she had her own set of questions whichhad nothing to do with the past. The present alone interested Denver, but she was careful to appearuninquisitive about the things she was dying to ask Beloved, for if she pressed too hard, she mightlose the penny that the held-out palm wanted, and lose, therefore, the place beyond appetite. It wasbetter to feast, to have permission to be the looker, because the old hunger — the before-Belovedhunger that drove her into boxwood and cologne for just a taste of a life, to feel it bumpy and notflat — was out of the question. Looking kept it at bay.
　　So she did not ask Beloved how she knew about the earrings, the night walks to the cold house orthe tip of the thing she saw when Beloved lay down or came undone in her sleep. The look, whenit came, came when Denver had been careful, had explained things, or participated in things, ortold stories to keep her occupied when Sethe was at the restaurant. No given chore was enough toput out the licking fire that seemed always to burn in her. Not when they wrung out sheets so tightthe rinse water ran back up their arms. Not when they shoveled snow from the path to theouthouse. Or broke three inches of ice from the rain barrel; scoured and boiled last summer'scanning jars, packed mud in the cracks of the hen house and warmed the chicks with their skirts.
　　All the while Denver was obliged to talk about what they were doing — the how and why of it.
　　About people Denver knew once or had seen, giving them more life than life had: the sweet-smelling whitewoman who brought her oranges and cologne and good wool skirts; Lady Joneswho taught them songs to spell and count by; a beautiful boy as smart as she was with a birthmarklike a nickel on his cheek. A white preacher who prayed for their souls while Sethe peeled potatoesand Grandma Baby sucked air. And she told her about Howard and Buglar: the parts of the bedthat belonged to each (the top reserved for herself); that before she transferred to Baby Suggs' bedshe never knew them to sleep without holding hands. She described them to Beloved slowly, tokeep her attention, dwelling on their habits, the games they taught her and not the fright that drovethem increasingly out of the house — -anywhere — and finally far away.
　　This day they are outside. It's cold and the snow is hard as packed dirt. Denver has finished singingthe counting song Lady Jones taught her students. Beloved is holding her arms steady whileDenver unclasps frozen underwear and towels from the line. One by one she lays them inBeloved's arms until the pile, like a huge deck of cards, reaches her chin. The rest, aprons andbrown stockings, Denver carries herself. Made giddy by the cold, they return to the house. Theclothes will thaw slowly to a dampness perfect for the pressing iron, which will make them smelllike hot rain. Dancing around the room with Sethe's apron, Beloved wants to know if there areflowers in the dark. Denver adds sticks to the stovefire and assures her there are. Twirling, her faceframed by the neckband, her waist in the apron strings' embrace, she says she is thirsty.
　　Denver suggests warming up some cider, while her mind races to something she might do or say to interest and entertain the dancer. Denver is a strategist now and has to keep Beloved by her sidefrom the minute Sethe leaves for work until the hour of her return when Beloved begins to hover atthe window, then work her way out the door, down the steps and near the road. Plotting haschanged Denver markedly. Where she was once indolent, resentful of every task, now she is spry,executing, even extending the assignments Sethe leaves for them. All to be able to say "We got to"and "Ma'am said for us to." Otherwise Beloved gets private and dreamy, or quiet and sullen, andDenver's chances of being looked at by her go down to nothing. She has no control over theevenings. When her mother is anywhere around, Beloved has eyes only for Sethe. At night, in bed,anything might happen. She might want to be told a story in the dark when Denver can't see her.
　　Or she might get up and go into the cold house where Paul D has begun to sleep. Or she might cry,silently. She might even sleep like a brick, her breath sugary from fingerfuls of molasses or sand-cookie crumbs. Denver will turn toward her then, and if Beloved faces her, she will inhale deeplythe sweet air from her mouth. If not, she will have to lean up and over her, every once in a while,to catch a sniff. For anything is better than the original hunger — the time when, after a year of thewonderful little i, sentences rolling out like pie dough and the company of other children, therewas no sound coming through. Anything is better than the silence when she answered to handsgesturing and was indifferent to the movement of lips. When she saw every little thing and colorsleaped smoldering into view. She will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner platesand all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her Beloved. The ciderjug is heavy, but it always is, even when empty. Denver can carry it easily, yet she asks Beloved tohelp her. It is in the cold house next to the molasses and six pounds of cheddar hard as bone. Apallet is in the middle of the floor covered with newspaper and a blanket at the foot. It has beenslept on for almost a month, even though snow has come and, with it, serious winter.
　　It is noon, quite light outside; inside it is not. A few cuts of sun break through the roof and wallsbut once there they are too weak to shift for themselves. Darkness is stronger and swallows themlike minnows.
　　The door bangs shut. Denver can't tell where Beloved is standing. "Where are you?" she whispersin a laughing sort of way.
　　"Here," says Beloved.
　　"Where?""Come find me," says Beloved.
       在俄亥俄，季节更替富于戏剧性。每一个季节出场时都像个女主角，自以为它的表演是人们在这世界上生息的缘由。当保罗·D被迫从124号搬到后面的棚子里去的时候，夏已经被嘘下台，秋带着它那血与金的瓶子引起了大家的瞩目。甚至在夜晚，本该有个安闲的间歇，却仍没有，因为风景隐去的声音依旧动人而嘹亮。保罗·D把报纸垫在身下、盖在身上，给他的薄毯子帮点忙。可是他一心想着的并不是寒冷的夜晚。当他听见背后的开门声时，他拒绝转身去看。
　　“你到这儿来要什么？你要什么？”他本来应该能听见她的喘息。
　　“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我，还要你叫我的名字。”
　　保罗·D再也不用操心他的小烟草罐了。它锈死了。因此，当她撩起裙子、像那两只乌龟一样把头扭过肩膀的时候，他只是看着月光下银光闪闪的猪油罐头，平静地说话。
　　“好心人收留你、好好待你的时候，你应该想着报答才是。你不该……塞丝爱你，就像爱她自己的女儿。这你知道。”
　　他说话的时候，宠儿撂下裙子，用空荡的眼睛望着他。她悄没声息地迈了一步，紧挨在他身后站着。
　　“她不像我爱她那样爱我。我除了她谁也不爱。”
　　“那你到这儿来干什么？”
　　“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我。”
　　“回屋睡觉去。”
　　“你必须抚摸我。进到我身体里。你必须叫我的名字。”
　　只要他的眼睛定在猪油罐头的银光上，他就是安全的。可是一旦他像罗得的老婆那样发抖，娘们似的想回头看看身后罪恶的实体；一旦他对该诅咒的作祟者心生同情；一旦顾及到他们之间的交情，想要把它搂进怀里，那么，他同样也会迷失。
　　“叫我的名字。”
　　“不。”
　　“求求你。你叫了我就走。”
　　“宠儿。”他叫了，可她没走。他没听见她又挪近了一步，他也没听见锈屑从烟草罐接缝处散落时发出的沙沙声。所以盖子松动的时候，他没有察觉。他只知道自己进入她的体内时，说着：
　　“红心。红心。”一遍又一遍。先是轻轻地，而后响亮得吵醒了丹芙，也吵醒了保罗·D自己。
　　“红心。红心。红心。”
　　回复最初的饥饿是不可能的。丹芙很幸运，光是看着别人就能顶饭吃。可是反过来被别人回看，却不是她的胃口承受得住的；它会穿透她的皮肤，直达一个饥饿尚未被发现的地方。这种事不必经常发生，因为宠儿很少正眼瞧她，即便瞧上一眼，丹芙看得出，自己的脸也不过是她眼睛略停一停的地方，眼睛后面的头脑仍在继续漫游。可有的时候———这种时刻丹芙既无法预料也无法创造———宠儿用指节拄着腮，关注地端详着丹芙。
　　那真可爱。不是被盯视，也不是仅仅被看见，而是被另一个人兴致勃勃、不加评点的眼睛拉进视野。把她的头发当做她自身的一部分，而不是当做一种材料或者一种样式，加以审视。让她的嘴唇、鼻子、下巴得到爱抚，就仿佛她是一朵让园丁流连不已的毛萼洋蔷薇。丹芙的皮肤在她的注视下溶解，变得像搂住她妈妈腰身的那件莱尔裙一般柔软、光艳。她在自己的躯体之外漂游，感到恍惚，同时也觉得紧张。别无他求。听之任之。
　　这种时候倒是宠儿看起来有所需要———有所要求。在她漆黑的大眼睛深处，在面无表情背后，有一只手掌平摊出来，在讨要着一个铜子儿；丹芙当然乐于施与，只要她知道如何给她，或者对她有足够的了解。但这了解并不得自宠儿对那些问题所作的回答，那些塞丝偶尔向她提出的问题：“你什么都不记得了么？我也一直不认识我的妈妈，可我见过她两回。你从来没见过你的妈妈么？他们是哪种白人？你一点儿都不记得了？”
　　宠儿会挠着手背，说她记得一个属于她的女人，还记得自己从她身边被人抢走。除此以外，她记得最清楚的、不断重复的，是那座桥———站在桥上往下看。另外，她还记得一个白人。
　　塞丝认为这一点值得注意，也发现了更多的证据，支持着她曾经向丹芙透露过的结论。
　　“你是从哪儿弄到那条裙子和那双鞋的？”
　　宠儿说是她拿的。
　　“从谁那儿？”
　　沉默。更快地挠手。她不知道；她看见了，就拿了。
　　“哦。”塞丝应道，然后告诉丹芙，她相信宠儿曾经被某个白人关了起来，以满足他的私欲，从来不让出门。她肯定是逃到了一座桥之类的地方，将其余的一切从记忆中洗去。有点像艾拉的故事，不过那是两个男人———父子俩———而且艾拉记得一清二楚。有一年多，他们为了满足自己，一直把她锁在一间屋子里。
　　“你想象不出来，”艾拉说过，“他们俩对我干了些什么。”
　　塞丝认为这就能说得通宠儿在保罗·D周围的表现了，她是那么讨厌他。
　　丹芙不相信塞丝的推测，也不表态，她垂下眼帘，只字不提冷藏室的事。她敢肯定，宠儿就是起居室里和她妈妈跪在一起的白裙子，是伴她度过大半生的那个婴儿以真身出场了。能够得到她哪怕短暂的注视，即使在其余时间里只当个注视者，也让丹芙感激涕零。再说，她有她自己的一系列与过去无关的问题要问。只有现在，才让丹芙感兴趣，可是她小心谨慎地不表露出想问宠儿那些事情的强烈欲望，因为如果她逼得太紧，她就可能失去那枚伸出的手掌讨要的铜子儿，因而失去那超越食欲的地方。最好去大吃大喝，去保留做一个注视者的权利，因为原来的饥饿———宠儿之前的饥饿，驱使她进入黄杨树丛和香水之中，只为尝尝一种生活的味道，品味它的坎坷与不平———已不在考虑之列了。宠儿的注视已将它置于绝境。
　　所以她没有问宠儿她是怎么知道耳环的，没有问冷藏室的夜行，还有宠儿躺下或解衣睡觉时她看见的那东西的一端。那注视，它来临的时候，往往正是丹芙专心致志的时候，她不是在解释事情，就是在参与做事情，要么就是当塞丝去餐馆时，她正在给宠儿讲故事打发时光。任何分派的家务活都不能扑灭仿佛时时刻刻在她心中燃烧的烈火。她们使劲拧床单、水顺着胳膊直流的时候不能；她们将积雪从小路上铲到厕所里的时候不能；砸碎雨水桶里三英寸厚的冰层时也不能；擦洗和烧煮去年夏天的罐头瓶子、往鸡窝的裂缝上抹泥和用裙子暖和鸡雏的时候还是不能；丹芙被迫一刻不停地说着她们正在做的事情———怎么做，为什么做。说着她从前认识和见过的人，讲得栩栩如生，比真人还真：送给她橙子、香水和上好的羊毛裙的香喷喷的白女人；教他们唱字母歌、数字歌的琼斯女士；跟她一样聪明、脸蛋上有块五分钢镚似的胎记的漂亮男孩；塞丝削着土豆而贝比奶奶奄奄一息时为她们的灵魂祈祷的白人牧师。她还给她讲了霍华德和巴格勒：床上属于他们的地盘（他们把上铺留给她）；还有，在她搬到贝比·萨格斯的床上之前，她从没见过他们不手拉着手睡觉。她慢条斯理地向宠儿描述他们，吊她的胃口，翻来覆去地讲他们的习惯、他们教她的游戏，却没有讲那将他们逼出家门的恐惧———随便去哪儿———和最终的远走高飞。
　　这一天，她们待在外面。天很冷，积雪就像夯实的土地一样硬。丹芙已经唱完了琼斯女士教给她的学生们的数字歌。丹芙从绳子上解下冻僵的内衣和毛巾，宠儿伸手接着。她把它们一件一件放到宠儿怀里，直到它们像一沓巨型扑克牌一样挨到了她的下巴。剩下的围裙和棕色袜子，丹芙自己拿着。她们冻得头晕眼花，赶紧回到屋里。衣物会慢慢地溶化、变潮，正好适于烙铁熨烫，熨衣的味道闻起来就像热雨。宠儿系着塞丝的围裙满屋跳舞，想知道黑暗里是否有花儿。丹芙往炉火里添着劈柴，向她肯定说，有。宠儿的脸上缠着领巾，腰里系着围裙带，她一边转圈一边说她渴了。
　　丹芙建议热点苹果汁，同时急忙寻思能做点什么或说点什么，好让这个舞星感兴趣和快活。丹芙现在是个阴谋家了，想方设法把宠儿留在身边，从塞丝离家上班一直到她该回来的钟点。到了这个钟点，宠儿就开始在窗前徘徊，接着开门出去，走下台阶，走到大路旁。阴谋明显地改变了丹芙。她原来什么活计都懒得做、讨厌干，现在则是又麻利又能干，甚至自觉增加塞丝留给她们的任务。什么都可以说成是“我们非干不可”和“太太说了让我们干”。否则宠儿会变得孤僻、恍惚，或者沉默寡言乃至闷闷不乐，而这样下去丹芙被注视的机会就要减少到零。她控制不了晚上的局面。只要她妈妈在周围的什么地方活动，宠儿的眼睛就只盯着塞丝一个人。到了夜里，在床上，什么都可能发生。在黑暗中，丹芙看不见她时，她可能想听个故事。要么她可能起来到保罗·D已经开始在里面睡觉的冷藏室去。她还可能默默地哭泣。她甚至可能睡得像块砖头，由于用手指吃糖浆和甜饼干渣，她的呼吸变得甜丝丝的。丹芙愿意转向她，如果宠儿脸朝她睡，她就能深深地吸进她嘴里甜甜的气息。否则，她就必须每隔一会儿爬起一次，越过她的身体去嗅上一鼻子。因为什么都比最初的饥饿要好———那个时期，在整整一年美妙的小写i、馅饼面团一样滚出来的句子以及同其他孩子的相伴之后，就再没有声音了。什么都比寂静好；那个时期，她只能回答别人的手势，面对嘴唇的动作却毫无反应。那个时期，她能看到每一样细小的东西和色彩燃烧着跳进视野。而今，她情愿放弃最热烈的落日、盘子一般硕大的星星和秋天的全部血液，而满足于最暗淡的黄色，只要那黄色来自她的宠儿。
　　苹果汁罐子很沉，不过它从来就是那样，甚至空的时候也是。丹芙其实能够轻易地提起它，可她还是请宠儿来帮忙。罐子在冷藏室里，挨着糖浆和六磅像石头一样硬的切达干酪。地板中央有一张草荐床，床脚盖着报纸和一条毯子。它被睡了将近一个月了，尽管严冬早已随冰雪一道降临。
　　正是中午，外面相当亮；屋里却不然。几丝阳光从屋顶和墙壁挤进来，可是进来后就太微弱了，都不能单独成束。强大的黑暗将它们像小鱼一样吞噬。
　　门砰地合上。丹芙拿不准宠儿站在哪里。
　　“你在哪儿？”她似笑非笑地悄声问道。
　　“在这儿呢。”宠儿道。
　　“哪儿？”
　　“来找我吧。
　　”宠儿道。
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Chapter 29
       Denver stretches out her right arm and takes a step or two. She trips and falls down onto the pallet.
　　Newspaper crackles under her weight. She laughs again. "Oh, shoot. Beloved?"No one answers. Denver waves her arms and squinches her eyes to separate the shadows of potatosacks, a lard can and a side of smoked pork from the one that might be human.
　　"Stop fooling," she says and looks up toward the light to check and make sure this is still the cold house and not something going on in her sleep. The minnows of light still swim there; they can'tmake it down to where she is.
　　"You the one thirsty. You want cider or don't you?" Denver's voice is mildly accusatory. Mildly.
　　She doesn't want to offend and she doesn't want to betray the panic that is creeping over her likehairs. There is no sight or sound of Beloved. Denver struggles to her feet amid the cracklingnewspaper. Holding her palm out, she moves slowly toward the door. There is no latch or knob —just a loop of wire to catch a nail. She pushes the door open. Cold sunlight displaces the dark. Theroom is just as it was when they entered-except Beloved is not there. There is no point in lookingfurther, for everything in the place can be seen at first sight. Denver looks anyway because the lossis ungovernable. She steps back into the shed, allowing the door to close quickly behind her.
　　Darkness or not, she moves rapidly around, reaching, touching cobwebs, cheese, slanting shelves,the pallet interfering with each step. If she stumbles, she is not aware of it because she does notknow where her body stops, which part of her is an arm, a foot or a knee. She feels like an ice caketorn away from the solid surface of the stream, floating on darkness, thick and crashing against theedges of things around it. Breakable, meltable and cold.
　　It is hard to breathe and even if there were light she wouldn't be able to see anything because she iscrying. Just as she thought it might happen, it has. Easy as walking into a room. A magicalappearance on a stump, the face wiped out by sunlight, and a magical disappearance in a shed,eaten alive by the dark.
　　"Don't," she is saying between tough swallows. "Don't. Don't go back."This is worse than when Paul D came to 124 and she cried helplessly into the stove. This is worse.
　　Then it was for herself. Now she is crying because she has no self. Death is a skipped mealcompared to this. She can feel her thickness thinning, dissolving into nothing. She grabs the hair ather temples to get enough to uproot it and halt the melting for a while. Teeth clamped shut, Denverbrakes her sobs. She doesn't move to open the door because there is no world out there. Shedecides to stay in the cold house and let the dark swallow her like the minnows of light above. Shewon't put up with another leaving, another trick. Waking up to find one brother then another not atthe bottom of the bed, his foot jabbing her spine. Sitting at the table eating turnips and saving theliquor for her grandmother to drink; her mother's hand on the keeping-room door and her voicesaying, "Baby Suggs is gone, Denver." And when she got around to worrying about what would bethe case if Sethe died or Paul D took her away, a dream-come-true comes true just to leave her on apile of newspaper in the dark.
　　No footfall announces her, but there she is, standing where before there was nobody when Denverlooked. And smiling.
　　Denver grabs the hem of Beloved's skirt. "I thought you left me. I thought you went back."Beloved smiles, "I don't want that place. This the place I am." She sits down on the pallet and,laughing, lies back looking at the cracklights above.
　　Surreptitiously, Denver pinches a piece of Beloved's skirt between her fingers and holds on. Agood thing she does because suddenly Beloved sits up.
　　"What is it?" asks Denver.
　　"Look," she points to the sunlit cracks.
　　"What? I don't see nothing." Denver follows the pointing finger.
　　Beloved drops her hand. "I'm like this."Denver watches as Beloved bends over, curls up and rocks. Her eyes go to no place; her moaningis so small Denver can hardly hear it.
　　"You all right? Beloved?"Beloved focuses her eyes. "Over there. Her face."Denver looks where Beloved's eyes go; there is nothing but darkness there.
　　"Whose face? Who is it?""Me. It's me."She is smiling again.
　　THE LAST of the Sweet Home men, so named and called by one who would know, believed it.
　　The other four believed it too, once, but they were long gone. The sold one never returned, the lostone never found. One, he knew, was dead for sure; one he hoped was, because butter and clabberwas no life or reason to live it. He grew up thinking that, of all the Blacks in Kentucky, only thefive of them were men. Allowed, encouraged to correct Garner, even defy him. To invent ways ofdoing things; to see what was needed and attack it without permission. To buy a mother, choose ahorse or a wife, handle guns, even learn reading if they wanted to — but they didn't want to sincenothing important to them could be put down on paper.
　　Was that it? Is that where the manhood lay? In the naming done by a whiteman who was supposedto know? Who gave them the privilege not of working but of deciding how to? No. In theirrelationship with Garner was true metal: they were believed and trusted, but most of all they werelistened to.
　　He thought what they said had merit, and what they felt was serious. Deferring to his slaves'
　　opinions did not deprive him of authority or power. It was schoolteacher who taught themotherwise. A truth that waved like a scarecrow in rye: they were only Sweet Home men at Sweet Home. One step off that ground and they were trespassers among the human race. Watchdogswithout teeth; steer bulls without horns; gelded workhorses whose neigh and whinny could not betranslated into a language responsible humans spoke.
　　His strength had lain in knowing that schoolteacher was wrong. Now he wondered. There wasAlfred, Georgia, there was Delaware, there was Sixo and still he wondered. If schoolteacher wasright it explained how he had come to be a rag doll — picked up and put back down anywhere anytime by a girl young enough to be his daughter. Fucking her when he was convinced he didn't wantto. Whenever she turned her behind up, the calves of his youth (was that it?) cracked his resolve.
　　But it was more than appetite that humiliated him and made him wonder if schoolteacher wasright. It was being moved, placed where she wanted him, and there was nothing he was able to doabout it. For his life he could not walk up the glistening white stairs in the evening; for his life hecould not stay in the kitchen, in the keeping room, in the storeroom at night. And he tried. Held hisbreath the way he had when he ducked into the mud; steeled his heart the way he had when thetrembling began. But it was worse than that, worse than the blood eddy he had controlled with asledge hammer. When he stood up from the supper table at 124 and turned toward the stairs,nausea was first, then repulsion. He, he. He who had eaten raw meat barely dead, who under plumtrees bursting with blossoms had crunched through a dove's breast before its heart stopped beating.
　　Because he was a man and a man could do what he would: be still for six hours in a dry well whilenight dropped; fight raccoon with his hands and win; watch another man, whom he loved betterthan his brothers, roast without a tear just so the roasters would know what a man was like. And itwas he, that man, who had walked from Georgia to Delaware, who could not go or stay put wherehe wanted to in 124 — shame.
　　Paul D could not command his feet, but he thought he could still talk and he made up his mind tobreak out that way. He would tell Sethe about the last three weeks: catch her alone coming fromwork at the beer garden she called a restaurant and tell it all. He waited for her. The winterafternoon looked like dusk as he stood in the alley behind Sawyer's Restaurant. Rehearsing,imagining her face and letting the words flock in his head like kids before lining up to follow theleader.
　　"Well, ah, this is not the, a man can't, see, but aw listen here, it ain't that, it really ain't, Ole Garner,what I mean is, it ain't a weak-ness, the kind of weakness I can fight 'cause 'cause something ishappening to me, that girl is doing it, I know you think I never liked her nohow, but she is doing itto me. Fixing me. Sethe, she's fixed me and I can't break it."What? A grown man fixed by a girl? But what if the girl was not a girl, but something in disguise?
　　A lowdown something that looked like a sweet young girl and fucking her or not was not the point,it was not being able to stay or go where he wished in 124, and the danger was in losing Sethebecause he was not man enough to break out, so he needed her, Sethe, to help him, to know aboutit, and it shamed him to have to ask the woman he wanted to protect to help him do it, God damn itto hell.
　　Paul D blew warm breath into the hollow of his cupped hands. The wind raced down the alley so fast it sleeked the fur of four kitchen dogs waiting for scraps. He looked at the dogs. The dogslooked at him.
　　Finally the back door opened and Sethe stepped through holding a scrap pan in the crook of herarm. When she saw him, she said Oh, and her smile was both pleasure and surprise. Paul Dbelieved he smiled back but his face was so cold he wasn't sure.
　　"Man, you make me feel like a girl, coming by to pick me up after work. Nobody ever did thatbefore. You better watch out, I might start looking forward to it." She tossed the largest bones intothe dirt rapidly so the dogs would know there was enough and not fight each other. Then shedumped the skins of some things, heads of other things and the insides of still more things — whatthe restaurant could not use and she would not — in a smoking pile near the animals' feet.
　　"Got to rinse this out," she said, "and then I'll be right with you."He nodded as she returned to the kitchen.
　　The dogs ate without sound and Paul D thought they at least got what they came for, and if she hadenough for them — The cloth on her head was brown wool and she edged it down over her hairlineagainst the wind.
　　"You get off early or what?""I took off early.""Anything the matter?""In a way of speaking," he said and wiped his lips.
　　"Not cut back?""No, no. They got plenty work. I just — ""Hm?""Sethe, you won't like what I'm 'bout to say."
    丹芙伸出右手，迈了一两步。她脚下一滑，倒在草荐上。报纸在她的重压下哗啦乱响。她大笑起来。
　　“哎呀，呸。宠儿？”
　　没人答应。丹芙挥着胳膊，挤着眼睛，从土豆麻袋、一个猪油罐头和一块熏肉的侧影中辨别着人影。
　　“别闹了。”她说着，仰起头去看阳光，以便搞清楚这仍是在冷藏室，而不是梦中发生的事情。
　　光线的小鱼仍在那里游动；它们游不到她站立的地方。
　　“是你喊渴的。你还想不想喝苹果汁了？”丹芙的声音里有温和的责备。温和的。她不想得罪人，也不愿流露那毛发一般爬遍全身的恐慌。没有宠儿的一丝影子或声音。丹芙从哗啦作响的报纸中挣扎起来。她伸出手掌，慢慢地摸向门口。没有插销，也没有门把手———只有一圈铁丝，拴在一颗钉子上。她推开门。寒冷的阳光取代了黑暗。屋子里同她们进来的时候一模一样———只是宠儿不在了。再找下去没有意义，所有的东西都一目了然。但丹芙还是要找，因为这个损失是无法弥补的。她走回棚屋，让门在身后猛地关上。不管黑不黑，她快速地转着圈，搜索着，摸到了蜘蛛网、奶酪，撞歪了架子，每走一步草荐都绊她。即使绊倒在地，她也没有感觉，因为她不知道自己的身体停在何处，自己的哪一部分是胳膊、脚或者膝盖。她觉得自己好像是一块从小溪坚实的冰面上扯下的冰坨，漂浮在黑暗中，撞击着它周围一切物体的边缘。易碎，易融，而且冰冷。
　　她呼吸困难，而且，就算有光亮也看不见任何东西，因为她哭了。她刚预感到要出事，它就发生了。就像走进一间屋子那样容易。在树桩上神奇地现身，脸庞被阳光抹去；然后，在棚屋里神奇地消失，被黑暗活活吞吃。
　　“别，”她艰难地哽咽着，“别。别回去。
　　”
　　这比保罗·D来到124号那天她对着炉子无助地哭泣更糟。这更糟。那时是为了她自己。现在她哭，是因为她没有了自己。死亡与此相比不过是一顿空过去的餐饭。她能感觉到厚重的自己在变稀、变薄，消融殆尽。她抓住太阳穴上的头发，想把它们连根拔下来，使消融暂停片刻。
　　丹芙咬紧牙关，止住啜泣。她没有过去开门，因为外面没有世界。她决定留在冷藏室里，让黑暗像吞噬头顶上光线的小鱼一样吞噬她。她不能忍受又一次离弃，又一次玩弄。有一阵子，她醒来时发现哥哥们一个接一个地不在床的下铺用脚丫戳着她的后脊梁了。那天，她坐在桌旁吃萝卜，把酒留给奶奶喝；妈妈却把手放在起居室的门上，说：
　　“贝比·萨格斯去了，丹芙。”当她正在为塞丝死去或者被保罗·D带走情形会怎样而担心时，梦想成真了，成真却只是为了将她抛弃在黑暗中的一堆报纸上。
　　没有脚步声通报，可是她来了，站在刚才丹芙没找见人的地方，而且微笑着。
　　丹芙抓住宠儿的裙角。
　　“我以为你离开我了。我以为你回去了。”
　　宠儿微笑着说：
　　“我不要那个地方。这儿才是我待的地方。”她在草荐上坐下，然后大笑着躺倒，看着上方的光束。
　　偷偷摸摸地，丹芙把宠儿的裙角捏在手里，一直不松开。她做得有道理，因为突然间宠儿坐了起来。
　　“怎么了？”丹芙问。
　　“看。”她指着阳光的碎片。
　　“什么？我什么也没看见。
　　”丹芙顺着她的手指望去。
　　宠儿放下手。
　　“我就像这样。”
　　丹芙看见宠儿弯下身去，蜷缩成一团晃动着。她的眼里空洞无物；她的呻吟这样轻，丹芙几乎听不见。
　　“你没事吧？宠儿？”
　　宠儿调整着眼睛的焦点。
　　“在那儿。她的脸。”
　　丹芙跟着宠儿的眼睛走；除了黑暗什么也没有。
　　“谁的脸？是谁？”
　　“我。是我。”
　　她又笑起来。
　　最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人，被如此命名、而且被相识者如此称呼的那个人，曾经笃信这个名字。其他四个也曾经笃信过，可是他们早已不在了。卖掉的那个再没回来，丢掉的那个再没找到。
　　有一个，他知道，肯定死了；另一个，他希望也死了，因为牛油和酸奶疙瘩不是生活，也不是生活的理由。他从小到大，一直有这个想法，那就是，在肯塔基所有的黑人当中，只有他们五个是男子汉。加纳允许和鼓励他们纠正他，甚至可以反对他。他们能够发明干活的方法；看看需要什么，不用批准就着手去办。可以赎出一个母亲，挑选一匹马或者一个妻子，摆弄熗支；要是他们愿意的话，甚至可以学习读书———可他们并不愿意，因为对于他们来说，任何重要的事情都不能写在纸上。
　　就是那么回事么？那就是男子气概么？让一个据说明白的白人命名一下？让那个不是仅仅派给他们活干，而是给了他们决定怎么干活的特权的人给命个名？不。他们和加纳的关系是最铁的：他相信并信任他们，最要紧的是他听他们说话。
　　他认为他们说的话有价值，他们的感觉也是严肃的。听从他的奴隶的意见并不会剥夺他的威严和权力。
　　“学校老师”教给他们的却恰恰相反。一个像黑麦田里的稻草人一样左右摇摆的真理：他们只在“甜蜜之家”才是“甜蜜之家”的男人。走出那块土地一步，他们就是人种中的渣滓。是没有牙的看门狗；是没有角的公牛；是阉割的辕马，嘶叫声不能翻译成一种重任在肩的人使用的语言。他的力量曾经表现为知道“学校老师”是错的。现在他糊涂了。尽管有过佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德，有过特拉华，有过西克索，可他还是糊涂。如果“学校老师”是对的，那就可以解释他怎么成了一个布娃娃———让一个年轻得可以做他女儿的姑娘随时随地捡起来、丢回去。让他在确信自己根本不情愿的时候操她。无论她什么时候撅起屁股，他年轻时代的小母牛（真是那样么？）就击碎了他的决心。
　　然而不止是欲望侮辱了他，使他怀疑“学校老师”是否正确。那东西被牵动着，送进她要他放的地方，而他对此却无能为力。他这辈子再不能在晚间走上闪闪发光的白楼梯了；他这辈子再不能在夜里待在厨房、起居室、贮藏室里了。他试过。像从前潜进泥浆时那样屏住呼吸；像从前颤抖开始时那样铁了心肠。可是这比那更糟，比他用一把长柄大铁锤控制住了的血的漩涡还糟。每当他从124号的餐桌旁站起来转向楼梯时，他先是觉得恶心，然后就心生反感。他，他。是他吃了尚未死干净的生肉，是他在鲜花盛开的梅树下咬穿一只鸽子的胸脯，鸽子的心还没有停止跳动。因为他是一个男人，而一个男人想干什么就能干什么：当夜幕降临的时候，在一眼枯井里六小时一动不动；赤手空拳打败浣熊；观看另一个与他情逾手足的男人被烧烤，却不掉一滴眼泪，只是为了让烧烤他的人知道一个男人是什么样子。而且，就是他，那个男人，曾经从佐治亚走到了特拉华，而在124号里面，却不能在他想待的地方自主地去留———耻辱啊。
　　保罗·D不能指挥他的双脚，可是他认为自己还能说话，于是他下定决心以这种方式爆发。他要跟塞丝谈谈过去的三个星期：当她从她称做餐馆的那家露天啤酒馆下班、单独回家的时候，揪住她，向她和盘托出。
　　他等着她。冬日的午后看上去已像黄昏，他在索亚餐馆后面的巷子里站着。一边想象着她的面容，一边排练，让词句在他脑袋里聚集起来，好像准备排好队、跟着排头走的孩子们一样。
　　“这个，呃，这事不是，一个男人不能，你瞧，可是噢听着，不是那个，真的不是，老家伙加纳，我的意思是，这不是个弱点，我能战胜的那种弱点，因为、因为我出了点儿事，是那个姑娘干的，我知道你觉得我从来不可能喜欢她，可这是她对我干的。耍我。塞丝，她耍了我，可我甩不掉她。”
　　什么？一个壮年男子汉让一个小姑娘给耍了？可是如果那姑娘不是个姑娘，而是什么东西假装的呢？是一个貌似甜姑娘的下流坯，而操她还是没操她就不是关键，问题是他不能够在124号里面自由去留，而且危险在于失去塞丝，因为他不能像个十足的男子汉一样爆发，所以他需要她，塞丝，来帮助他，来了解这件事情，而他又耻于去乞求他想保护的女人来帮助他，真他妈的。
　　保罗·D向自己扣起的双手中呵着热气。风疾速穿过胡同，梳亮了四只等待残羹剩饭的厨房狗的皮毛。他看着狗。狗看着他。
　　后门终于开了，塞丝用臂弯夹着剩饭锅，迈了出来。她一看见他，马上“哦”了一声，微笑里有喜悦也有惊讶。
　　保罗·D觉得自己回了一笑，可是他的脸冷得厉害，他自己也拿不准。
　　“伙计，你让我觉得像个小姑娘，下班后还过来接我。从前可没有人这么待过我。你最好留神，我要盼起来可没个够啊。
　　”她麻利地把那些最大块的骨头扔在地上，这样狗就会知道骨头够吃，用不着争来抢去了。然后她倒出来一些东西的肉皮、一些东西的头和另一些东西的下水———餐馆不能用、她也不愿要的———在狗的脚边堆了一大摊，冒着热气。
　　“得回去把这个刷净了，”她说道，“马上就来。”
　　他点点头，她又回到厨房。
　　狗默不作声地吃着。保罗·D心想，它们至少得到了想要的东西，要是她有足够的东西给它们———她头上的棕色围巾是羊毛的，她把它压到发际挡风。
　　“你早收工了还是怎么的？”
　　“我提前走了。”
　　“有事儿吗？”
　　“可以这么说。
　　”他说着，抹了一下嘴唇。
　　“不是裁人了吧？”
　　“不，不是。他们有的是活儿。只是我———”
　　“嗯？”
　　“塞丝，我说的话你不会爱听的。”
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Chapter 30
       She stopped then and turned her face toward him and the hateful wind. Another woman wouldhave squinted or at least teared if the wind whipped her face as it did Sethe's. Another womanmight have shot him a look of apprehension, pleading, anger even, because what he said suresounded like part one of Goodbye, I'm gone.
　　Sethe looked at him steadily, calmly, already ready to accept, release or excuse an in-need-ortroubleman. Agreeing, saying okay, all right, in advance, because she didn't believe any of them — over the long haul — could measure up. And whatever the reason, it was all right. No fault.
　　Nobody's fault.
　　He knew what she was thinking and even though she was wrong — he was not leaving her,wouldn't ever — the thing he had in mind to tell her was going to be worse. So, when he saw thediminished expectation in her eyes, the melancholy without blame, he could not say it. He couldnot say to this woman who did not squint in the wind, "I am not a man.""Well, say it, Paul D, whether I like it or not."Since he could not say what he planned to, he said something he didn't know was on his mind. "Iwant you pregnant, Sethe. Would you do that for me?"Now she was laughing and so was he.
　　"You came by here to ask me that? You are one crazy-headed man. You right; I don't like it. Don'tyou think I'm too old to start that all over again?" She slipped her fingers in his hand for all theworld like the hand-holding shadows on the side of the road.
　　"Think about it," he said. And suddenly it was a solution: a way to hold on to her, document hismanhood and break out of the girl's spell — all in one. He put the tips of Sethe's fingers on hischeek. Laughing, she pulled them away lest somebody passing the alley see them misbehaving inpublic, in daylight, in the wind.
　　Still, he'd gotten a little more time, bought it, in fact, and hoped the price wouldn't wreck him. Likepaying for an afternoon in the coin of life to come.
　　They left off playing, let go hands and hunched forward as they left the alley and entered the street.
　　The wind was quieter there but the dried-out cold it left behind kept pedestrians fast-moving, stiffinside their coats. No men leaned against door frames or storefront windows. The wheels ofwagons delivering feed or wood screeched as though they hurt. Hitched horses in front of thesaloons shivered and closed their eyes. Four women, walking two abreast, approached, their shoesloud on the wooden walkway. Paul D touched Sethe's elbow to guide her as they stepped from theslats to the dirt to let the women pass.
　　Half an hour later, when they reached the city's edge, Sethe and Paul D resumed catching andsnatching each other's fingers, stealing quick pats on the behind. Joyfully embarrassed to be thatgrownup and that young at the same time.
　　Resolve, he thought. That was all it took, and no motherless gal was going to break it up. No lazy,stray pup of a woman could turn him around, make him doubt himself, wonder, plead or confess.
　　Convinced of it, that he could do it, he threw his arm around Sethe's shoulders and squeezed. Shelet her head touch his chest, and since the moment was valuable to both of them, they stopped andstood that way — not breathing, not even caring if a passerby passed them by. The winter light was low. Sethe closed her eyes. Paul D looked at the black trees lining the roadside, theirdefending arms raised against attack. Softly, suddenly, it began to snow, like a present come downfrom the sky. Sethe opened her eyes to it and said, "Mercy." And it seemed to Paul D that it was —a little mercy — something given to them on purpose to mark what they were feeling so theywould remember it later on when they needed to.
　　Down came the dry flakes, fat enough and heavy enough to crash like nickels on stone. It alwayssurprised him, how quiet it was. Not like rain, but like a secret.
　　"Run!" he said.
　　"You run," said Sethe. "I been on my feet all day.""Where I been? Sitting down?" and he pulled her along.
　　"Stop! Stop!" she said. "I don't have the legs for this." "Then give em to me," he said and beforeshe knew it he had backed into her, hoisted her on his back and was running down the road pastbrown fields turning white.
　　Breathless at last, he stopped and she slid back down on her own two feet, weak from laughter.
　　"You need some babies, somebody to play with in the snow." Sethe secured her headcloth.
　　Paul D smiled and warmed his hands with his breath. "I sure would like to give it a try. Need awilling partner though.""I'll say," she answered. "Very, very willing."It was nearly four o'clock now and 124 was half a mile ahead. Floating toward them, barely visiblein the drifting snow, was a figure, and although it was the same figure that had been meeting Sethefor four months, so complete was the attention she and Paul D were paying to themselves theyboth felt a jolt when they saw her close in.
　　Beloved did not look at Paul D; her scrutiny was for Sethe. She had no coat, no wrap, nothing onher head, but she held in her hand a long shawl. Stretching out her arms she tried to circle it aroundSethe.
　　"Crazy girl," said Sethe. "You the one out here with nothing on." And stepping away and in frontof Paul D, Sethe took the shawl and wrapped it around Beloved's head and shoulders. Saying,"You got to learn more sense than that," she enclosed her in her left arm. Snowflakes stuck now.
　　Paul D felt icy cold in the place Sethe had been before Beloved came. Trailing a yard or so behindthe women, he fought the anger that shot through his stomach all the way home. When he sawDenver silhouetted in the lamplight at the window, he could not help thinking, "And whose allyyou?"It was Sethe who did it. Unsuspecting, surely, she solved everything with one blow.
　　"Now I know you not sleeping out there tonight, are you, Paul D?" She smiled at him, and like afriend in need, the chimney coughed against the rush of cold shooting into it from the sky. Windowsashes shuddered in a blast of winter air.
　　Paul D looked up from the stew meat.
　　"You come upstairs. Where you belong," she said, "... and stay there."The threads of malice creeping toward him from Beloved's side of the table were held harmless inthe warmth of Sethe's smile. Once before (and only once) Paul D had been grateful to a woman.
　　Crawling out of the woods, cross-eyed with hunger and loneliness, he knocked at the first backdoor he came to in the colored section of Wilmington. He told the woman who opened it that he'dappreciate doing her woodpile, if she could spare him something to eat. She looked him up anddown.
　　"A little later on," she said and opened the door wider. She fed him pork sausage, the worst thingin the world for a starving man, but neither he nor his stomach objected. Later, when he saw palecotton sheets and two pillows in her bedroom, he had to wipe his eyes quickly, quickly so shewould not see the thankful tears of a man's first time. Soil, grass, mud, shucking, leaves, hay, cobs,sea shells — -all that he'd slept on. White cotton sheets had never crossed his mind. He fell in witha groan and the woman helped him pretend he was making love to her and not her bed linen. Hevowed that night, full of pork, deep in luxury, that he would never leave her. She would have tokill him to get him out of that bed. Eighteen months later, when he had been purchased byNorthpoint Bank and Railroad Company, he was still thankful for that introduction to sheets.
　　Now he was grateful a second time. He felt as though he had been plucked from the face of a cliffand put down on sure ground. In Sethe's bed he knew he could put up with two crazy girls — -aslong as Sethe made her wishes known. Stretched out to his full length, watching snowflakes streampast the window over his feet, it was easy to dismiss the doubts that took him to the alley behindthe restaurant: his expectations for himself were high, too high. What he might call cowardiceother people called common sense.
　　Tucked into the well of his arm, Sethe recalled Paul D's face in the street when he asked her tohave a baby for him. Although she laughed and took his hand, it had frightened her. She thoughtquickly of how good the sex would be if that is what he wanted, but mostly she was frightened bythe thought of having a baby once more.
　　Needing to be good enough, alert enough, strong enough, that caring — again. Having to stay alivejust that much longer. O Lord, she thought, deliver me. Unless carefree, motherlove was a killer.
　　What did he want her pregnant for? To hold on to her? have a sign that he passed this way? Heprobably had children everywhere anyway.
　　Eighteen years of roaming, he would have to have dropped a few.
　　No. He resented the children she had, that's what. Child, she corrected herself. Child plus Belovedwhom she thought of as her own, and that is what he resented. Sharing her with the girls. Hearingthe three of them laughing at something he wasn't in on. The code they used among themselvesthat he could not break. Maybe even the time spent on their needs and not his. They were a familysomehow and he was not the head of it.
　　Can you stitch this up for me, baby?
　　Um hm. Soon's I finish this petticoat. She just got the one she came here in and everybody needs achange.
　　Any pie left?
　　I think Denver got the last of it.
　　And not complaining, not even minding that he slept all over and around the house now, which sheput a stop to this night out of courtesy.
　　Sethe sighed and placed her hand on his chest. She knew she was building a case against him inorder to build a case against getting pregnant, and it shamed her a little. But she had all thechildren she needed. If her boys came back one day, and Denver and Beloved stayed on — well, itwould be the way it was supposed to be, no? Right after she saw the shadows holding hands at theside of the road hadn't the picture altered? And the minute she saw the dress and shoes sitting inthe front yard, she broke water. Didn't even have to see the face burning in the sunlight. She hadbeen dreaming it for years.
　　Paul D's chest rose and fell, rose and fell under her hand.
　　DENVER FINISHED washing the dishes and sat down at the table.
　　Beloved, who had not moved since Sethe and Paul D left the room, sat sucking her forefinger.
　　Denver watched her face awhile and then said, "She likes him here."Beloved went on probing her mouth with her finger. "Make him go away," she said.
　　"She might be mad at you if he leaves."Beloved, inserting a thumb in her mouth along with the forefinger, pulled out a back tooth. Therewas hardly any blood, but Denver said, "Ooooh, didn't that hurt you?"Beloved looked at the tooth and thought, This is it. Next would be her arm, her hand, a toe. Pieces of her would drop maybe one at a time, maybe all at once. Or on one of those mornings beforeDenver woke and after Sethe left she would fly apart. It is difficult keeping her head on her neck,her legs attached to her hips when she is by herself. Among the things she could not remember waswhen she first knew that she could wake up any day and find herself in pieces. She had twodreams: exploding, and being swallowed. When her tooth came out — an odd fragment, last in therow — she thought it was starting.
　　"Must be a wisdom," said Denver. "Don't it hurt?""Yes.""Then why don't you cry?""What?""If it hurts, why don't you cry?"
       她停下来，把脸转向可恶的风。换一个女人，准会眯起眼睛，至少要流眼泪，如果风像抽打塞丝一样抽打她的脸。换一个女人，准会向他投去一种不安、恳求甚至愤怒的目光，因为他说的话听起来绝对像“再见，我走了”的开头。
　　塞丝镇定、平静地看着他，已经准备好了接受、释放或者原谅一个处在需要或困难中的男人。
　　事先就同意，说，好吧，没关系，因为她根本不相信它们———没完没了的死拉硬拽———会达到目的。无论原因是什么，都没关系。没错。谁都没错。
　　他知道她在想什么，而且尽管她误会了———他不是在离开她，永远不会———但他想告诉她的事情仍然会更糟糕。所以，当他看到期待从她的眼里消失，看到那种毫无责备的忧郁，他说不出口。他不能对这个在风中不眯眼睛的女人说：
　　“我不是个男子汉。”
　　“得啦，说吧，保罗·D，甭管我爱不爱听。”
　　本来打算好要说的他说不出来，就说了脑子里面一些自己都没意识到的想法。
　　“我想让你怀孕，塞丝。你愿意为我干那个吗？”
　　这时，她放声大笑起来，他也笑了。
　　“你到这儿来就为了问我这个？你是个地地道道的疯子。你说对了，我不爱听。你不觉得我从头再来一遍太老了点儿吗？
　　”她把手指插进他的手里，情形跟路边携手的影子简直一模一样。
       “考虑一下吧。”他说。突然间柳暗花明了：有法子抓住她不放、证明他的男子气概并且摆脱那个姑娘的魔力———一箭三雕。他把塞丝的指尖放在自己脸上。她大笑着抽回手，以免给过路人看见他们行为不端，在公共场合，在光天化日之下，在刺骨寒风中。
　　现在，他仍然拥有一点时间，其实是买的，但愿那价钱不至于毁了他。就仿佛买来一个下午，预支的却是将来的生活费。
　　他们停止了嬉闹，放开手，耸着肩出了巷子，走上大街。那里的风小一些，不过风留下的干冷使得那些缩在外套里发僵的过路人行色匆匆。没有人靠在门框上或者商店橱窗前。送食品或木料的大车的轱辘好像怕冷似的，吱吱嘎嘎的。酒店门前套住的马闭上眼睛打着哆嗦。四个女人两两并肩走了过来，她们的鞋踩在木板人行道上嗒嗒作响。保罗·D拉着塞丝的胳膊肘，带她从木板路走下土路，给女人们让道。
　　半小时之后，他们到了城郊，塞丝和保罗·D又得以相互把手指头抓来拽去，不时趁机摸摸屁股。这么大了还这么孩子气，他们又兴奋又难为情。
　　决定了，他想。就这么定了，哪个没娘的丫头都不能搞破坏。哪个懒惰的丧家狗女人都不能摆布他，让他顾虑重重、不知所措、摇尾乞怜或者忏悔表白。他坚信自己能够成功，就搂住塞丝的肩膀，紧紧箍着。她把脑袋靠上他的胸脯。这个时刻对于他们两个都很珍贵，于是他们停下来，就那样站着———屏住呼吸，甚至不在乎有没有人路过。冬日的光线是黯淡的。塞丝闭上眼睛。保罗·D看着路边成行的黑树，它们自卫的手臂高举着抵御寒冷的袭击。悄悄地，忽然开始下雪了，宛如从天而降的一件礼物。塞丝睁开两眼看着，说道：
　　“恩惠啊。
　　”而在保罗·D看来，那确实是———一点恩惠———专门赐给他们，为他们此刻的感情标上记号，以便日后需要的时候他们能够记起。
　　干燥的雪花落下来，又厚又重，简直可以像五分硬币一样砸在石头上。雪总是让他惊讶，雪是多么恬静啊。不像雨，而像是一个秘密。
　　“快跑!”他说。
　　“你跑吧，”塞丝道，“我立了一整天了。”
　　“我在哪儿呢？坐着吗？
　　”他一路拽着她。
　　“站住!站住!”她说，“我的腿可干不了这个。”
　　“那就交给我吧。”他说道。还没等她回过味来，他已经退到她身下，用后背驮起她，在大路上跑起来，跑过开始变得洁白的褐色田野。
　　他终于上气不接下气地停住了，她滑下来站稳，都笑瘫了。
　　“你的确需要些娃娃，跟你一块儿在雪里玩。”塞丝整理好头巾。
　　保罗·D边笑边呵着气暖和双手。
　　“我当然想试他一家伙。只是还需要个自愿的合作者。”
　　“我会说，”塞丝回答道，“非常、非常愿意。”
　　快四点了，离124号还有半英里路。一个人影向他们飘来，在纷扬的雪花里隐约可见；尽管这同一个形象四个月来一直每天迎接塞丝，可是她和保罗·D正在如此忘情地专注于彼此，看见她在近前出现，都不禁心中一凛。
　　宠儿不理睬保罗·D；她的端详是给塞丝的。她没穿外套，没戴围巾，头上什么都没有，可是手里捧着一条长披肩。她伸出胳膊，想给塞丝围上。
　　“傻丫头，”塞丝说道，“在外面什么都没戴的是你呀。
　　”然后她离开保罗·D，在他面前接过披肩，围在宠儿的头和肩膀上。她说着，“你得学会懂点事”，然后用左臂搂住宠儿。这时候雪花不飞了。保罗·D觉得，宠儿来之前自己身上被塞丝靠过的部位变得冰冷冰冷的。他跟在两个女人身后一码左右，一路克制着满腔怒火。等到看见窗户上丹芙在灯光下的剪影，他忍不住想：
　　“你又是哪拨儿的呢？”
　　是塞丝解决的。出乎意料，她安全妥当地一举解决了所有问题。
　　“这回我可知道你今儿晚上不睡在外边了，对吗，保罗·D？”她朝他笑道；烟囱像个帮腔的患难之交似的冲着从天上射进来的寒流直咳嗽。窗框在一阵严冬的寒风里战栗着。
　　保罗·D从盘子中的炖肉上抬起眼睛。
　　“你上楼来睡吧。到你该待的地方，”她说，“……而且待下去吧。”
　　从桌子一头宠儿那边向他爬过来的缕缕恶意，在塞丝温暖的微笑里变得无关痛痒。
　　曾经有一次（唯一的一次），保罗·D感激过一个女人。那次，他爬出树林，被饥饿和孤独折磨得直对眼儿，就去敲他在威尔明顿的黑人区见到的第一扇后门。他告诉开门的女人，他愿意给她劈柴，只要她肯施舍给他一点东西吃。她上上下下地打量他。
　　“等一小会儿。
　　”她说着，把门开得大一点。她喂了他猪肉香肠，对一个快饿死的人来说那是最糟糕的东西，可是他和他的肚子都没意见。然后，他见到了她卧室里的白棉布床单和两只枕头，忍不住飞快地抹了抹眼睛，以免让她看到一个男人平生头一回感激的眼泪。土地、草地、泥地、谷壳、树叶、干草、蜘蛛网、贝壳———所有这些东西他都睡过。从来没想象过白棉布床单。他呻吟着倒上去，多亏那个女人帮忙，他才有借口是跟她而不是跟她的床单做爱。那天晚上，吃饱了肉，耽于奢侈，他发誓永不离开她。要想把他赶下那张床，她非得杀了他不行。十八个月后，当他被“北极银行和铁路公司”买去时，他依然感激那次与床单的结识。
　　如今他第二次心怀感激。他觉得自己仿佛被人从一面悬崖峭壁上摘下来，放到坚实的地面上。
　　在塞丝的床上，他知道自己对付得了那两个傻丫头———只要塞丝将她的意愿公开。他尽量抻开身体，望着雪花在他脚上方流过窗户，现在，那把他带到餐馆后面巷子里的疑虑，很容易解除了：他对自己的期望很高，太高了。他所说的怯懦，别人叫做人之常情。
　　塞丝钻进保罗·D的臂弯，回想起他在街上求她为他怀个孩子时的那副面孔。虽然她当时大笑着拉起他的手，可还是着实吓了一跳。她很快想到，如果那真是他想要的，性交会有多么愉快，然而她主要是被再次要个孩子的想法吓坏了。需要足够过硬、足够麻利、足够强壮，还得那样操心———重来一遍。必须再多活那么久。噢主啊，她暗道，救救我吧。除非无忧无虑，否则母爱可是要命的。他要她怀孕干什么？为了抓住她？为了给这段路留个记号？反正他没准到处都有孩子呢。流浪了十八年，他肯定跟人下了几个。不对。他反感她已经有的孩子们，是这么回事。是一个孩子，她纠正了自己。一个孩子，再加上她视如己出的宠儿，那就是他反感的。他反感与姑娘们共享她。听她们三个笑着他不理解的东西。破不开她们之间使用的暗号。甚至恐怕还有花在她们而不是他身上的时间。他们怎么说也算个家庭，可他不是一家之主。
　　你能帮我把这个缝上么，宝贝？
　　当然。等我弄完这件衬裙再说。她还穿着来的时候穿的那件，谁都需要变个花样。
　　还剩下一点馅饼么？
　　我记得丹芙吃了最后一张。
　　没有怨言，甚至不介意他现在在房子周围四处乱睡，直到今天晚上，她才大发善心制止了这种夜不归宿的行为。
　　塞丝叹了口气，把手放在他的胸脯上。她知道，为了避免怀孕，自己一直在不让他尽兴，这使她感到有点不好意思。但是她自己的孩子足够了。假如她的儿子们有朝一日回家来，丹芙和宠儿又一直住下去———嗯，这正好是朝思暮想的情景，不是吗？就在她看到路边携手的影子之后，生活面貌有了多大的变化啊!还有那一刻，一看见那裙子和鞋子坐在前院，她就失禁了。甚至不用看那在阳光中燃烧的脸。她已经梦想多年了。
　　保罗·D的胸脯在她的手底下一起一伏，一起一伏。
　　丹芙洗完碗，在桌旁坐下。宠儿自打塞丝和保罗·D离开屋子就没挪过地方，坐在那儿吮着自己的食指。丹芙盯着她的脸看了一会儿，然后说道：
　　“她喜欢他住在这儿。”
　　宠儿继续用手指抠着嘴。
　　“让他滚蛋。”她说。
　　“他走了她会跟你发火的。”
　　宠儿把大拇指也伸进嘴里，拔出一颗后槽牙。几乎没有血，可是丹芙还是叫道：
　　“噢———你不疼吗？”
　　宠儿看着牙，心想：终于来了。下一回该是她的一只胳膊、一只手、一个脚指头了。她身上的零件也许会一点一点地，也许一股脑全掉下去。或者哪一天早晨，在丹芙醒来之前、塞丝上班之后，她会四分五裂。她独自一人的时候，很难让脑袋待在脖子上，腿安在屁股上。在她记不得的事情中有这么一件：她第一次得知她会在哪天醒来，发现自己已成为一堆碎片。她做过两个梦：一次是自己爆炸，一次是被吞噬。当她的牙脱落的时候———一块多余的碎片，一排中最后的那颗———她认为毁灭已经开始了。
　　“肯定是颗智齿，”丹芙道，“不疼么？”
　　“疼。”
　　“那你怎么不哭？”
　　“什么？”
　　“疼的话，你怎么不哭？”
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Chapter 31
       And she did. Sitting there holding a small white tooth in the palm of her smooth smooth hand.
　　Cried the way she wanted to when turtles came out of the water, one behind the other, right afterthe blood-red bird disappeared back into the leaves. The way she wanted to when Sethe went tohim standing in the tub under the stairs. With the tip of her tongue she touched the salt water thatslid to the corner of her mouth and hoped Denver's arm around her shoulders would keep themfrom falling apart.
　　The couple upstairs, united, didn't hear a sound, but below them, outside, all around 124 the snowwent on and on and on. Piling itself, burying itself. Higher. Deeper.
　　AT THE BACK of Baby Suggs' mind may have been the thought that if Halle made it, God dowhat He would, it would be a cause for celebration. If only this final son could do for himself whathe had done for her and for the three children John and Ella delivered to her door one summernight. When the children arrived and no Sethe, she was afraid and grateful. Grateful that the part ofthe family that survived was her own grandchildren — the first and only she would know: twoboys and a little girl who was crawling already. But she held her heart still, afraid to formquestions: What about Sethe and Halle; why the delay? Why didn't Sethe get on board too?
　　Nobody could make it alone. Not only because trappers picked them off like buzzards or nettedthem like rabbits, but also because you couldn't run if you didn't know how to go. You could belost forever, if there wasn't nobody to show you the way.
　　So when Sethe arrived — all mashed up and split open, but with another grandchild in her arms —the idea of a whoop moved closer to the front of her brain. But since there was still no sign ofHalle and Sethe herself didn't know what had happened to him, she let the whoop lie-not wishingto hurt his chances by thanking God too soon.
　　It was Stamp Paid who started it. Twenty days after Sethe got to 124 he came by and looked at the baby he had tied up in his nephew's jacket, looked at the mother he had handed a piece of fried eelto and, for some private reason of his own, went off with two buckets to a place near the river'sedge that only he knew about where blackberries grew, tasting so good and happy that to eat themwas like being in church. Just one of the berries and you felt anointed. He walked six miles to theriverbank; did a slide-run-slide down into a ravine made almost inaccessible by brush. He reachedthrough brambles lined with blood-drawing thorns thick as knives that cut through his shirt sleevesand trousers. All the while suffering mosquitoes, bees, hornets, wasps and the meanest lady spidersin the state. Scratched, raked and bitten, he maneuvered through and took hold of each berry withfingertips so gentle not a single one was bruised. Late in the afternoon he got back to 124 and puttwo full buckets down on the porch. When Baby Suggs saw his shredded clothes, bleeding hands,welted face and neck she sat down laughing out loud.
　　Buglar, Howard, the woman in the bonnet and Sethe came to look and then laughed along withBaby Suggs at the sight of the sly, steely old black man: agent, fisherman, boatman, tracker,savior, spy, standing in broad daylight whipped finally by two pails of blackberries. Paying themno mind he took a berry and put it in the three week-old Denver's mouth. The women shrieked.
　　"She's too little for that, Stamp.""Bowels be soup.""Sickify her stomach."But the baby's thrilled eyes and smacking lips made them follow suit, sampling one at a time theberries that tasted like church. Finally Baby Suggs slapped the boys' hands away from the bucketand sent Stamp around to the pump to rinse himself. She had decided to do something with thefruit worthy of the man's labor and his love. That's how it began.
　　She made the pastry dough and thought she ought to tell Ella and John to stop on by because threepies, maybe four, were too much to keep for one's own. Sethe thought they might as well back itup with a couple of chickens. Stamp allowed that perch and catfish were jumping into the boat —didn't even have to drop a line. From Denver's two thrilled eyes it grew to a feast for ninety people.
　　124 shook with their voices far into the night. Ninety people who ate so well, and laughed somuch, it made them angry. They woke up the next morning and remembered the meal-fried perchthat Stamp Paid handled with a hickory twig, holding his left palm out against the spit and pop ofthe boiling grease; the corn pudding made with cream; tired, overfed children asleep in the grass,tiny bones of roasted rabbit still in their hands — and got angry.
　　Baby Suggs' three (maybe four) pies grew to ten (maybe twelve). Sethe's two hens became fiveturkeys. The one block of ice brought all the way from Cincinnati — -over which they pouredmashed watermelon mixed with sugar and mint to make a punch — became a wagonload of icecakes for a washtub full of strawberry shrug, 124, rocking with laughter, goodwill and food forninety, made them angry. Too much, they thought. Where does she get it all, Baby Suggs, holy?
　　Why is she and hers always the center of things? How come she always knows exactly what to do and when? Giving advice; passing messages; healing the sick, hiding fugitives, loving, cooking,cooking, loving, preaching, singing, dancing and loving everybody like it was her job and hersalone.
　　Now to take two buckets of blackberries and make ten, maybe twelve, pies; to have turkey enoughfor the whole town pretty near, new peas in September, fresh cream but no cow, ice and sugar,batter bread, bread pudding, raised bread, shortbread — it made them mad. Loaves and fishes wereHis powers — they did not belong to an ex slave who had probably never carried one hundredpounds to the scale, or picked okra with a baby on her back. Who had never been lashed by a tenyear-old whiteboy as God knows they had. Who had not even escaped slavery — had, in fact, beenbought out of it by a doting son and driven to the Ohio River in a wagon — free papers foldedbetween her breasts (driven by the very man who had been her master, who also paid herresettlement fee — name of Garner), and rented a house with two floors and a well from theBodwins — the white brother and sister who gave Stamp Paid, Ella and John clothes, goods andgear for runaways because they hated slavery worse than they hated slaves.
　　It made them furious. They swallowed baking soda, the morning after, to calm the stomachviolence caused by the bounty, the reckless generosity on display at 124. Whispered to each otherin the yards about fat rats, doom and uncalled-for pride.
　　The scent of their disapproval lay heavy in the air. Baby Suggs woke to it and wondered what itwas as she boiled hominy for her grandchildren. Later, as she stood in the garden, chopping at thetight soil over the roots of the pepper plants, she smelled it again. She lifted her head and lookedaround. Behind her some yards to the left Sethe squatted in the pole beans. Her shoulders weredistorted by the greased flannel under her dress to encourage the healing of her back. Near her in abushel basket was the three-week-old baby. Baby Suggs, holy, looked up. The sky was blue andclear. Not one touch of death in the definite green of the leaves. She could hear birds and, faintly,the stream way down in the meadow. The puppy, Here Boy, was burying the last bones fromyesterday's party. From somewhere at the side of the house came the voices of Buglar, Howard andthe crawling girl. Nothing seemed amiss — yet the smell of disapproval was sharp. Back beyondthe vegetable garden, closer to the stream but in full sun, she had planted corn. Much as they'dpicked for the party, there were still ears ripening, which she could see from where she stood.
　　Baby Suggs leaned back into the peppers and the squash vines with her hoe. Carefully, with theblade at just the right angle, she cut through a stalk of insistent rue. Its flowers she stuck through asplit in her hat; the rest she tossed aside. The quiet clok clok clok of wood splitting reminded herthat Stamp was doing the chore he promised to the night before. She sighed at her work and, amoment later, straightened up to sniff the disapproval once again. Resting on the handle of the hoe,she concentrated. She was accustomed to the knowledge that nobody prayed for her — but thisfree floating repulsion was new. It wasn't whitefolks — that much she could tell — so it must becolored ones. And then she knew. Her friends and neighbors were angry at her because she hadoverstepped, given too much, offended them by excess.
　　Baby closed her eyes. Perhaps they were right. Suddenly, behind the disapproving odor, way wayback behind it, she smelled another thing. Dark and coming. Something she couldn't get at because the other odor hid it.
　　She squeezed her eyes tight to see what it was but all she could make out was high-topped shoesshe didn't like the look of. Thwarted yet wondering, she chopped away with the hoe. What could itbe? This dark and coming thing. What was left to hurt her now? News of Halle's death? No. Shehad been prepared for that better than she had for his life. The last of her children, whom shebarely glanced at when he was born because it wasn't worth the trouble to try to learn features youwould never see change into adulthood anyway. Seven times she had done that: held a little foot;examined the fat fingertips with her own — fingers she never saw become the male or femalehands a mother would recognize anywhere. She didn't know to this day what their permanent teethlooked like; or how they held their heads when they walked. Did Patty lose her lisp? What colordid Famous' skin finally take? Was that a cleft in Johnny's chin or just a dimple that woulddisappear soon's his jawbone changed? Four girls, and the last time she saw them there was no hairunder their arms. Does Ardelia still love the burned bottom of bread? All seven were gone or dead.
　　What would be the point of looking too hard at that youngest one? But for some reason they let herkeep him. He was with her — everywhere.
　　When she hurt her hip in Carolina she was a real bargain (costing less than Halle, who was tenthen) for Mr. Garner, who took them both to Kentucky to a farm he called Sweet Home. Becauseof the hip she jerked like a three-legged dog when she walked. But at Sweet Home there wasn't arice field or tobacco patch in sight, and nobody, but nobody, knocked her down. Not once. LillianGarner called her Jenny for some reason but she never pushed, hit or called her mean names. Evenwhen she slipped in cow dung and broke every egg in her apron, nobody said youblackbitchwhat'sthematterwith-you and nobody knocked her down.
　　Sweet Home was tiny compared to the places she had been. Mr. Garner, Mrs. Garner, herself,Halle, and four boys, over half named Paul, made up the entire population. Mrs. Garner hummedwhen she worked; Mr. Garner acted like the world was a toy he was supposed to have fun with.
　　Neither wanted her in the field — Mr. Garner's boys, including Halle, did all of that — which wasa blessing since she could not have managed it anyway. What she did was stand beside thehumming Lillian Garner while the two of them cooked, preserved, washed, ironed, made candles,clothes, soap and cider;fed chickens, pigs, dogs and geese; milked cows, churned butter, renderedfat, laid fires. . . . Nothing to it. And nobody knocked her down.
　　Her hip hurt every single day — but she never spoke of it. Only Halle, who had watched hermovements closely for the last four years, knew that to get in and out of bed she had to lift herthigh with both hands, which was why he spoke to Mr. Garner about buying her out of there so shecould sit down for a change. Sweet boy. The one person who did something hard for her: gave herhis work, his life and now his children, whose voices she could just make out as she stood in thegarden wondering what was the dark and coming thing behind the scent of disapproval. SweetHome was a marked improvement. No question. And no matter, for the sadness was at her center,the desolated center where the self that was no self made its home. Sad as it was that she did notknow where her children were buried or what they looked like if alive, fact was she knew moreabout them than she knew about herself, having never had the map to discover what she was like.
　　Could she sing? (Was it nice to hear when she did?) Was she pretty? Was she a good friend? Couldshe have been a loving mother? A faithful wife? Have I got a sister and does she favor me? If mymother knew me would she like me?
　　In Lillian Garner's house, exempted from the field work that broke her hip and the exhaustion thatdrugged her mind; in Lillian Garner's house where nobody knocked her down (or up), she listenedto the whitewoman humming at her work; watched her face light up when Mr. Garner came in andthought, It's better here, but I'm not. The Garners, it seemed to her, ran a special kind of slavery,treating them like paid labor, listening to what they said, teaching what they wanted known. Andhe didn't stud his boys. Never brought them to her cabin with directions to "lay down with her,"like they did in Carolina, or rented their sex out on other farms. It surprised and pleased her, butworried her too. Would he pick women for them or what did he think was going to happen whenthose boys ran smack into their nature? Some danger he was courting and he surely knew it. Infact, his order for them not to leave Sweet Home,except in his company, was not so much becauseof the law, but the danger of men-bred slaves on the loose.
       于是她哭了。坐在那里，用非常非常光洁的手掌攥着一颗小白牙，哭了起来。就像那回，她看见血红的小鸟消失在树叶间，然后乌龟一个跟着一个从水里爬出来的时候想做的那样。就像那回，她看见他站在楼梯下的澡盆里，而塞丝走向他的时候想做的那样。她用舌头舔了舔滑到嘴角的咸泪，希望丹芙搂住她双肩的胳膊能避免它们四分五裂。
　　楼上的那一对结合着，什么也没听见，然而在他们下面、外面，124号的四周，雪下了又下，下了又下。堆积着自己，埋葬着自己。越来越高。越来越深。
　　在贝比·萨格斯的思想深处可能一直存着这个想法：要是上帝发恩，黑尔能够虎口逃生，那就可以好好庆祝一番了。只要这个最小的儿子肯为他自己卖命，就像当初为她、随后又为三个孩子卖命那样。三个孩子是约翰和艾拉在一个夏夜送到她的门前的。他们到达的时候，塞丝却没到，这让她既害怕又感激。感激是因为活下来的那几个亲人是她自己的孙儿———最初几个，也是据她所知仅有的几个：两个男孩和一个都会爬了的小女孩。但是她的心还悬着，不敢去想这些问题：塞丝和黑尔怎么了？为何拖延？塞丝为什么不同时跟着上车？没有人能单靠自己成功。不仅因为追捕者会像老鹰一样把他们抓走，像捕兔子一样向他们撒网，还因为你如果不知道怎么走就跑不了。你可能会永远迷失，如果没有人给你带路的话。
　　所以塞丝抵达的时候———浑身都被捣烂、割裂，怀里却抱着另一个孙女———高声欢呼的念头在她脑子里又进了一步。可是，由于仍然不见黑尔的踪影，而塞丝本人又不知道他的下落，她咽住了叫声———不希望因过早地谢了上帝而减少他的机会。
　　是斯坦普·沛德开始的。塞丝到达124号二十天之后，他来看望他曾用外甥的外套包裹起来的婴儿，看望他曾递给过一块炸鳝鱼的母亲，然后为了某些个人缘故，拎着两只桶去了河沿一个只有他自己知道的地方。那儿长着黑莓，味道鲜美可喜，吃起来仿佛置身教堂一样。只需一颗莓子，你就会觉得像是涂了膏。他走了六英里路来到河畔，半滑半跑地下到一道因灌木丛生而难以接近的深沟。他在荆棘丛中摸索着，一排排刀刃般嗜血的利刺划破了他的衬衫袖子和裤子。同时他还一直忍受着蚊子、蜜蜂、大黄蜂、黄蜂和本州最毒的母蜘蛛。他浑身都被划破、擦伤和叮咬，却干得很巧妙，用指尖那样轻地夹住每颗莓子，没有碰损一颗。下午的晚些时候，他回到124号，把两只装得满满的桶放在门廊上。贝比·萨格斯看到他撕成一条一条的衣裳、血淋淋的双手、伤痕累累的脸和脖子，坐下来放声大笑。
　　巴格勒、霍华德、戴软帽的女人和塞丝都赶过来看，然后就同贝比·萨格斯一起笑话这个狡猾而刚强的老黑人：地下使者、渔翁、艄公、纤夫、救星、侦探；挨了两桶黑莓的鞭打后，他终于站在了光天化日之下。他对他们毫不在意，径自拿起一颗莓子，放进三个星期大的丹芙嘴里。
　　女人们尖叫起来。
　　“她还太小哪。斯坦普。”
　　“肠子要化成汤儿了。”
　　“会闹肚子的。”
　　然而小宝宝激动的眼睛和吧嗒的嘴唇使得他们都跟着依样学样，一颗一颗地品尝着教堂味道的莓子。最后，贝比·萨格斯把男孩们的手从桶里打出去，打发斯坦普到压水井那里去冲洗。
　　她已经决定了，要用果子做件对得起这个男人的劳动和爱心的事情。就是那样开始的。
　　她揉好了做糕点的面团，觉得应该招呼艾拉和约翰来做客，因为三个或者四个馅饼对于一家人来说太多了。塞丝认为他们还可以再添上一对鸡。斯坦普说，鲈鱼和鲇鱼正在往船里头蹦呢———连线都不用放。
　　从丹芙的两只激动的眼睛开始，聚餐变成了一个九十人的宴会。
　　124号的喧闹声在深夜回荡。
　　九十个人吃得这么好，笑得这么欢，这反而让他们心生怒气。他们第二天早晨醒来，想起斯坦普·沛德用一根胡桃树枝穿着鲈鱼油炸，伸出左手掌挡住四处飞溅的滚沸的油星；想起用奶油做的玉米布丁；想起吃撑了的孩子们疲倦地睡倒在草窠里，手上还拿着烤兔肉的小骨头———于是生起气来。
　　贝比·萨格斯的三个（也许四个）馅饼变成了十个（也许十二个）。塞丝的两只母鸡变成了五只火鸡。大老远从辛辛那提一路运来的一块方冰———为了掺进他们用捣碎的西瓜拌上糖和薄荷做成的潘趣酒———变成了掺进一澡盆草莓酒的一大车冰块。
　　124号被笑声、诚意和九十人的饕餮摇动着，让他们生气。太过分了，他们想。凭什么都让她占全了，圣贝比·萨格斯？凭什么她和她的一切总是中心？凭什么她总是知道什么时候恰好该干什么？又出主意；又传口信；治病人，藏逃犯，爱，做饭，做饭，爱，布道，唱歌，跳舞，还热爱每一个人，就好像那是她独有的职业。
　　如今，又拿两桶黑莓做了十个或者十二个馅饼，吃掉了足够整个城镇吃的火鸡、九月的新鲜豌豆，不养牛却吃到了新鲜奶油，又是冰又是糖，还有奶油面包、面包布丁、发酵面包、起酥面包———这把他们气疯了。面包和鱼是上帝的权力———它们不属于一个大概从来没有往磅秤上搬过一百磅的重物，恐怕也没背着婴儿摘过秋葵的解放的奴隶。她从来没挨过一个十岁大的白崽子的皮鞭，可上帝知道，他们挨过。甚至没有逃脱过奴隶制———其实是被一个孝顺儿子买出来，再被一辆大车运到俄亥俄河边的———解放证书折放在双乳之间（恰恰是她的主人运送的她，还给了她安家费———名字叫加纳），从鲍德温家租了带二层楼外加一眼水井的一幢房子———是这对白人兄妹为斯坦普·沛德、艾拉和约翰提供了逃犯们用的衣服、物品和工具，因为他们比恨奴隶更恨奴隶制。
　　这使他们怒不可遏。第二天早晨，他们靠吞食小苏打来平息肚子里的翻江倒海，这纯粹是124号那场大方、轻率的慷慨表演造成的。他们在院子里互相嘀咕着肥耗子、报应以及多此一举的骄傲。
　　浓重的非难气味在空中凝滞。贝比·萨格斯在给孙儿们煮玉米粥的时候注意到它，不明白是怎么一回事。过了一会儿，她站在菜园里为胡椒秧捣碎硬土时，又闻到了那气味。她抬起头四面张望。在她身后向左几码远的地方，塞丝正蹲在豆角中间。她的肩膀被垫在裙子下面辅助治疗后背的涂了油膏的法兰绒弄得变了形。她近旁的一只蒲式耳箩筐里是三个星期大的婴儿。圣贝比·萨格斯举头仰望。天空湛蓝而晴朗。树叶明晰的绿色中没有一点死亡的迹象。她能听见鸟叫，还能隐约听见远处小溪流过草地的潺潺声。小狗“来，小鬼”正在啃昨天宴会剩下的最后几块骨头。房子附近什么地方传来巴格勒、霍华德和那都会爬了的女孩的声音。似乎什么都没出毛病———然而非难的味道异常刺鼻。在菜园后面更远的地方，离小溪更近、不过阳光充足的地方，她种下了玉米。尽管他们为宴会摘下了那么多，那儿仍有一穗穗玉米在成熟，她站在那里就可以看得见。贝比·萨格斯又弯腰为胡椒秧和黄瓜藤锄草。锄头的角度刚好合适，她小心地铲断一根顽固的芸香茎。芸香的花被她揪下来插进帽子的裂缝中；剩下的丢在一边。劈木头单调的哐哐哐的声音提醒了她，斯坦普正在干他昨天晚上答应的差事。她冲手里的活计叹了口气，过了一会儿，又直起腰，再一次去嗅那非难气味。她拄着锄头把，专心致志地嗅着。她已经习惯于没有人为她祈祷了———但这肆意飘荡的嫌恶却是新的。那不是白人———这一点她还能肯定———所以只能是黑人了。于是，她全明白了。是她的朋友和邻居在生她的气，因为她走得太远，施与得太多，由于不知节制而惹恼了他们。
　　贝比闭上眼睛。也许他们是对的。突然，就在非难的气味后面，后面很远很远的地方，她嗅到了另一种东西。黑压压地赶来。是一种她拿不准是什么的东西，因为非难的气味盖过了它。
　　她使劲挤着眼睛去看它到底是什么，但她能看清楚的只是一双样式不讨她喜欢的高靿鞋。
　　既沮丧又惶惑，她用锄头继续锄着地。会是什么呢？这个黑压压赶来的东西。现在还剩什么能来伤害她呢？黑尔的死讯？不。她已经为那个作好了准备，比为他活着作的准备还要充分。那是她最后一个孩子，生下时她几乎没瞟上一眼，因为犯不上费心思去认清他的模样，你反正永远也不可能看着他长大成人。她已经干了七回了：抓起一只小脚；用自己的指尖检查那些胖乎乎的指尖———那些手指，她从没见过它们长成母亲在哪儿都能认出的男人或女人的手。她至今不知道他们换过的牙是什么样子；他们走路时头怎么放。帕蒂的大舌头好了么？菲莫斯的皮肤最终是什么颜色的？约翰尼的下巴上到底是一个裂缝呢，还是仅仅一个酒窝而已，等下颚骨一长开就会消失？四个女孩，她最后看到她们的时候她们腋下都还没长毛。阿黛丽亚还爱吃煳面包底儿吗？整整七个，都走了，或是死了。如此看重那个最小的又有什么意义呢？可是，不知为了什么缘故，他们允许她留下了他。他一直跟着她———到每一个地方。
　　她在卡罗来纳时屁股受过伤，这对于加纳先生来说可真是笔划得来的交易（价钱比当时只有十岁的黑尔还低），他把他们俩一起带到肯塔基，到了一个他称做“甜蜜之家”的农庄上。因为屁股，她走起路来像只三条腿的狗似的一瘸一拐。可是在“甜蜜之家”，看不见一块稻田或者烟叶地，而且更没有人把打翻在地。一次也没有。不知为什么，丽莲·加纳叫她珍妮，不过她从来没有推搡过她、打过她或者骂过她。甚至当她被牛粪滑倒，摔碎了围裙里所有的鸡蛋的时候，也没有人说“你个黑母狗，你犯什么病了”，更没有人把她打翻在地。
　　“甜蜜之家”同她以前待过的许多地方比起来实在很小。加纳先生、加纳太太、她本人、黑尔，还有四个一多半都叫保罗的男孩子，构成了全部的人口。加纳太太干活的时候爱哼歌儿；加纳先生呢，则表现得似乎世界就是他的一个好玩的玩具。谁都不让她下田———加纳先生的男孩们，包括黑尔，包了那些活儿———也是件幸运事，因为反正她也干不了。她只管站在哼歌儿的丽莲·加纳身边，两个人一起做饭、腌菜、浆洗、熨烫；做蜡烛、衣裳、肥皂和苹果汁；喂鸡、猪、狗和鹅；挤牛奶、搅牛油、熬猪油、生火……不算回事。而且没有人把她打翻在地。
　　她的屁股每天都疼———可她从来没提起过。唯有黑尔，在最后的四年里一直仔细地观察她的动作，知道了她上下床必须用两手搬起大腿才行；就是为了这个，他才跟加纳先生说起要赎她出去，好让她坐下来有个变化。多体贴的孩子啊。是他，为她做了件艰苦的事情：把他的劳动、他的生活给了她，如今也把他的孩子们给了她，现在，她站在菜园里纳闷非难的气味后面那黑压压赶来的东西是什么的时候，就刚好能够听见他们的声音。
　　“甜蜜之家”是一个显著的进步。毫无疑问。其实也无所谓，因为悲哀就在她的中心，那丧失自我的自我栖居的荒凉的中心。那悲哀，就好比她不知道自己的孩子们埋在哪里，或者即便活着也不知是什么模样。事实上，她比了解自己更了解他们，因为从来没有过一丝线索，帮助她发现自己是个什么样子。
　　她会唱歌吗？（她唱得好听吗？）她漂亮吗？她是个好朋友吗？她本来可以成为一个慈爱的母亲吗？可以成为一个忠贞的妻子吗？我有个姐姐吗，她宠我吗？假如我妈妈认识我她会喜欢我吗？
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Chapter 32
       Baby Suggs talked as little as she could get away with because what was there to say that the rootsof her tongue could manage? So the whitewoman, finding her new slave excellent if silent help,hummed to herself while she worked.
　　When Mr. Garner agreed to the arrangements with Halle, and when Halle looked like it meantmore to him that she go free than anything in the world, she let herself be taken 'cross the river. Ofthe two hard thingsstanding on her feet till she dropped or leaving her last and probably only livingchild — she chose the hard thing that made him happy, and never put to him the question she putto herself: What for? What does a sixty-odd-year-old slavewoman who walks like a three-leggeddog need freedom for? And when she stepped foot on free ground she could not believe that Halleknew what she didn't; that Halle, who had never drawn one free breath, knew that there wasnothing like it in this world. It scared her.
　　Something's the matter. What's the matter? What's the matter?
　　she asked herself. She didn't know what she looked like and was not curious. But suddenly she sawher hands and thought with a clarity as simple as it was dazzling, "These hands belong to me.
　　These my hands." Next she felt a knocking in her chest and discovered something else new: herown heartbeat. Had it been there all along? This pounding thing? She felt like a fool and began tolaugh out loud. Mr. Garner looked over his shoulder at her with wide brown eyes and smiledhimself. "What's funny, Jenny?"She couldn't stop laughing. "My heart's beating," she said.
　　And it was true.
　　Mr. Garner laughed. "Nothing to be scared of, Jenny. Just keep your same ways, you'll be all right."She covered her mouth to keep from laughing too loud.
　　"These people I'm taking you to will give you what help you need. Name of Bodwin. A brotherand a sister. Scots. I been knowing them for twenty years or more."Baby Suggs thought it was a good time to ask him something she had long wanted to know.
　　"Mr. Garner," she said, "why you all call me Jenny?"'"Cause that what's on your sales ticket, gal. Ain't that your name? What you call yourself?""Nothings" she said. "I don't call myself nothing."Mr. Garner went red with laughter. "When I took you out of Carolina, Whitlow called you Jennyand Jenny Whitlow is what his bill said. Didn't he call you Jenny?""No, sir. If he did I didn't hear it.""What did you answer to?""Anything, but Suggs is what my husband name.""You got married, Jenny? I didn't know it.""Manner of speaking.""You know where he is, this husband?""No, sir.""Is that Halle's daddy?""No, sir.""why you call him Suggs, then? His bill of sale says Whitlow too, just like yours.""Suggs is my name, sir. From my husband. He didn't call me Jenny.""What he call you?""Baby.""Well," said Mr. Garner, going pink again, "if I was you I'd stick to Jenny Whitlow. Mrs. BabySuggs ain't no name for a freed Negro."Maybe not, she thought, but Baby Suggs was all she had left of the "husband" she claimed. Aserious, melancholy man who taught her how to make shoes. The two of them made a pact:
　　whichever one got a chance to run would take it; together if possible, alone if not, and no lookingback. He got his chance, and since she never heard otherwise she believed he made it. Now howcould he find or hear tell of her if she was calling herself some bill-of-sale name? She couldn't getover the city. More people than Carolina and enough whitefolks to stop the breath. Two-storybuildings everywhere, and walkways made of perfectly cut slats of wood. Roads wide as Garner'swhole house.
　　"This is a city of water," said Mr. Garner. "Everything travels by water and what the rivers can'tcarry the canals take. A queen of a city, Jenny. Everything you ever dreamed of, they make it righthere. Iron stoves, buttons, ships, shirts, hairbrushes, paint, steam engines, books. A sewer systemmake your eyes bug out. Oh, this is a city, all right. If you have to live in a city — this is it."The Bodwins lived right in the center of a street full of houses and trees. Mr. Garner leaped out andtied his horse to a solid iron post.
　　"Here we are."Baby picked up her bundle and with great difficulty, caused by her hip and the hours of sitting in awagon, climbed down. Mr. Garner was up the walk and on the porch before she touched ground,but she got a peep at a Negro girl's face at the open door before she followed a path to the back ofthe house. She waited what seemed a long time before this same girl opened the kitchen door andoffered her a seat by the window.
　　"Can I get you anything to eat, ma'am?" the girl asked. "No, darling. I'd look favorable on somewater though." The girl went to the sink and pumped a cupful of water. She placed it in BabySuggs' hand. "I'm Janey, ma'am."Baby, marveling at the sink, drank every drop of water although it tasted like a serious medicine.
　　"Suggs," she said, blotting her lips with the back of her hand. "Baby Suggs.""Glad to meet you, Mrs. Suggs. You going to be staying here?" "I don't know where I'll be. Mr.Garner — that's him what brought me here — he say he arrange something for me." And then, "I'mfree, you know."Janey smiled. "Yes, ma'am.""Your people live around here?""Yes, ma'am. All us live out on Bluestone.""We scattered," said Baby Suggs, "but maybe not for long."Great God, she thought, where do I start? Get somebody to write old Whitlow. See who took Pattyand Rosa Lee. Somebody name Dunn got Ardelia and went West, she heard. No point in trying forTyree or John. They cut thirty years ago and, if she searched too hard and they were hiding,finding them would do them more harm than good. Nancy and Famous died in a ship off theVirginia coast before it set sail for Savannah. That much she knew. The overseer at Whitlow'splace brought her the news, more from a wish to have his way with her than from the kindness ofhis heart. The captain waited three weeks in port, to get a full cargo before setting off. Of theslaves in the hold who didn't make it, he said, two were Whitlow pickaninnies name of...
       在丽莲·加纳的家里，她从伤了她屁股的农活和麻痹她思想的疲惫中解脱出来；在丽莲·加纳的家里，没有人把她打翻在地（或强奸她）。她听着那白女人边干活边哼歌儿，看着她的脸在加纳先生进来时骤然亮起来，心想：这个地方更好，可我并不更好。在她看来，加纳夫妇施行着一种特殊的奴隶制，对待他们像雇工，听他们说话，把他们想知道的事情教给他们。而且，他不用他的奴隶男孩们配种，从来不把他们带进她的小屋，像卡罗来纳那帮人那样命令他们“和她躺下”，也不把他们的性出租给别的农庄。这让她惊讶和满意，也让她担忧。他会给他们挑女人吗？他认为这些男孩兽性爆发时会发生什么事呢？他在招惹天大的危险，他当然清楚。事实上，除非由他带着、否则不准离开“甜蜜之家”的命令，并不真是因为法律，而是考虑到对也是人生父母养的奴隶放任自流的危险才下达的。
　　贝比·萨格斯尽量少说话，以免惹麻烦，在她的舌头根底下又有什么可说的呢？这样，那个白女人发现她的新奴隶是个沉默的好帮手，就一边干活一边自己哼歌儿。
　　加纳先生同意了黑尔的安排，再说，在这个世界上似乎没有什么东西比让她获得自由对黑尔更有意义了，于是她就自愿被运过了河。在两件棘手的事情中———是一直站着，直到倒下；还是离开她最后的、恐怕也是唯一活着的孩子———她选择了让他高兴的那件难事，从来没问他那个常常令她自己困惑的问题：为什么？一个混到六十岁、走起路来像三条腿的狗似的女奴要自由干什么？
　　当她双脚踏上自由的土地时，她不能相信黑尔比自己知道得更多；不能相信从没呼吸过一口自由空气的黑尔，居然懂得自由在世界上无可比拟。她被吓着了。
　　出了点问题。出了什么问题？出了什么问题？她问自己。她不知道自己是什么模样，也不好奇。可是突然间她看见了自己的双手，同时，头脑中清晰的思绪既简单又炫目：
　　“这双手属于我。这是我的手。”紧接着，她感到胸口一声捶击，发现了另一样新东西：她自己的心跳。它一直存在吗？这个怦然乱撞的东西？她觉得自己像个傻瓜，就放声大笑起来。加纳先生扭过头，睁大棕色的眼睛看着她，也不禁笑了。
　　“有什么好笑的，珍妮？”
　　她仍然笑个不停。
　　“我的心在跳。”她说。
　　而这是真的。
　　加纳先生大笑起来。
　　“没什么可怕的，珍妮。原来怎么着，往后还怎么着，你不会出事的。”
　　她捂着嘴，以免笑得太响。
　　“我带你去见的人会给你一切帮助。姓鲍德温。一兄一妹。苏格兰人。我认识他们有二十多年了。”
　　贝比·萨格斯认为这是个好时机，去问问她好久以来一直想知道的事情。
　　“加纳先生，”她问道，“你们为什么都叫我珍妮？”
　　“因为那写在你的出售标签上，姑娘。那不是你的名字吗？你怎么称呼自己呢？”
　　“没有，”她说，“我自个儿没称呼。”
　　加纳先生笑得满脸通红。
　　“我把你从卡罗来纳带出来的时候，惠特娄叫你珍妮，他的标签上就写着你叫珍妮·惠特娄。他不叫你珍妮吗？”
　　“不叫，先生。就算他叫过，我也没听见。”
　　“那你怎么答应呢？”
　　“随便什么。可萨格斯是我丈夫的姓。”
　　“你结婚了，珍妮？我还不知道呢。”
　　“可以这么说吧。”
　　“你知道他在哪儿吗，这个丈夫？”
　　“不知道，先生。”
　　“是黑尔的爸爸吗？”
　　“不是，先生。”
　　“那你为什么叫他萨格斯？他的标签上也写着惠特娄，跟你一样。”
　　“萨格斯是我的姓，先生。随我丈夫。他不叫我珍妮。”
　　“他叫你什么？”
　　“贝比。”
　　“是吗，”加纳先生说着，又一次笑粉了脸，“我要是你，就一直用珍妮·惠特娄。贝比·萨格斯太太对一个自由的黑奴来说，听着不像个名字。”
　　也许不像，她心想，可“贝比·萨格斯”是她的所谓“丈夫”留下来的一切。是个严肃、忧郁的男人，教会了她做鞋。他们两人达成了协议：谁有机会逃就先逃走；如果可能就一起逃，否则就单独逃，再也不回头。他得到了一个机会，她从此再没了他的音讯，所以她相信他成功了。现在，如果她用某个卖身标签上的名字称呼自己，他怎么能够找到她、听说她呢？
　　她适应不了城市。人比卡罗来纳还多，白人多得让你窒息。二层楼房比比皆是，人行道是用切得整整齐齐的木板做的。路面像加纳先生的整幢房子一样宽。
　　“这是一座水城，”加纳先生说，“所有东西都从水上运来，河水运不了的就用运河。一个城市里的女王啊，珍妮。你梦想过的一切，他们这里都能造出来。铁炉子、扣子、船、衬衫、头发刷子、油漆、蒸汽机、书。裁缝行能让你眼珠子掉出来。噢，没错，这才是座城市呢。你要是必须住在城里———就是这儿啦。”
　　鲍德温兄妹就住在一条挤满房屋和树木的大街的中段。加纳先生跳下大车，把马拴在结实的铁桩上。
　　“我们到了。”
　　贝比拾起包袱，因为屁股的伤和几个小时的舟车劳顿，费了好大力气才爬下车来。加纳先生在她落地之前就到了甬道和门廊，而她瞄见门开处一个黑人姑娘的脸，就从一条小路向房后绕去。她似乎等了很久，那同一个姑娘才打开厨房门，请她在窗前的座位上坐下。
　　“我给你拿点吃的好吗，太太？”姑娘问。
　　“不了，亲爱的。我只是挺想喝点水的。”那个姑娘走到洗碗池边压了一杯水。她把杯子放到贝比·萨格斯的手上。
　　“我叫简妮，太太。”
　　贝比在水池边迟疑了一下，但还是把水喝个精光，尽管它喝起来像一种正儿八经的药。
　　“萨格斯。”她用手背抹着嘴唇，说道，“贝比·萨格斯。”
　　“很高兴见到你，萨格斯太太。你要在这儿留下来吗？”
　　“我不知道我会留在哪儿，加纳先生———是他带我来这儿的———他说他给我安排好了。”然后她又说道：
　　“我自由了，你知道。”
　　简妮笑了。
　　“是的，太太。”
　　“你家里人住在附近吗？”
　　“是的，太太。我们都住在蓝石路。”
　　“我们都失散了。”贝比·萨格斯道，“可也许不会太久的。”
　　万能的上帝啊，她想，我从何处开始呢？找人写信给惠娄。看看谁带走了帕蒂和罗莎丽。她听说，有个叫丹的要了阿黛丽亚到西部去了。犯不上去找泰瑞或者约翰。他们三十年没有音讯了，要是她找得太紧而他们又正在东躲西藏，找到他们就会使他们反受其害。南希和菲莫斯死在了弗吉尼亚海岸一艘将驶往萨凡纳的船上。她知道的就这些。是惠特娄那里的工头给她带来的信儿，倒不是工头怎么心地善良，而是因为他想让她听他的摆布。船长在港口等了整整三个星期，塞满了货船才启航。在货舱里没活下来的奴隶当中，他说，有两个是惠特娄的小黑鬼，名字叫……
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Chapter 33
       But she knew their names. She knew, and covered her ears with her fists to keep from hearingthem come from his mouth.
　　Janey heated some milk and poured it in a bowl next to a plate of cornbread. After some coaxing,Baby Suggs came to the table and sat down. She crumbled the bread into the hot milk anddiscovered she was hungrier than she had ever been in her life and that was saying something.
　　"They going to miss this?""No," said Janey. "Eat all you want; it's ours.""Anybody else live here?""Just me. Mr. Woodruff, he does the outside chores. He comes by two, three days a week.""Just you two?""Yes, ma'am. I do the cooking and washing.""Maybe your people know of somebody looking for help.""I be sure to ask, but I know they take women at the slaughterhouse.""Doing what?""I don't know.""Something men don't want to do, I reckon.""My cousin say you get all the meat you want, plus twenty-five cents the hour. She make summer sausage."Baby Suggs lifted her hand to the top of her head. Money? Money? They would pay her moneyevery single day? Money?
　　"Where is this here slaughterhouse?" she asked.
　　Before Janey could answer, the Bodwins came in to the kitchen with a grinning Mr. Garner behind.
　　Undeniably brother and sister, both dressed in gray with faces too young for their snow-white hair.
　　"Did you give her anything to eat, Janey?" asked the brother.
　　"Yes, sir.""Keep your seat, Jenny," said the sister, and that good news got better.
　　When they asked what work she could do, instead of reeling off the hundreds of tasks she hadperformed, she asked about the slaughterhouse. She was too old for that, they said.
　　"She's the best cobbler you ever see," said Mr. Garner.
　　"Cobbler?" Sister Bodwin raised her black thick eyebrows. "Who taught you that?""Was a slave taught me," said Baby Suggs.
　　"New boots, or just repair?""New, old, anything.""Well," said Brother Bodwin, "that'll be something, but you'll need more.""What about taking in wash?" asked Sister Bodwin.
　　"Yes, ma'am.""Two cents a pound.""Yes, ma'am. But where's the in?""What?""You said 'take in wash.' Where is the 'in'? Where I'm going to be.""Oh, just listen to this, Jenny," said Mr. Garner. "These two angels got a house for you. Place theyown out a ways." It had belonged to their grandparents before they moved in town. Recently it. hadbeen rented out to a whole parcel of Negroes, who had left the state. It was too big a house for Jenny alone, they said (two rooms upstairs, two down), but it was the best and the only thing theycould do. In return for laundry, some seamstress work, a little canning and so on (oh shoes, too),they would permit her to stay there. Provided she was clean. The past parcel of colored wasn't.
　　Baby Suggs agreed to the situation, sorry to see the money go but excited about a house withstepsnever mind she couldn't climb them. Mr. Garner told the Bodwins that she was a right finecook as well as a fine cobbler and showed his belly and the sample on his feet. Everybody laughed.
　　"Anything you need, let us know," said the sister. "We don't hold with slavery, even Garner'skind.""Tell em, Jenny. You live any better on any place before mine?" "No, sir," she said. "No place.""How long was you at Sweet Home?""Ten year, I believe.""Ever go hungry?""No, sir.""Cold?""No, sir.""Anybody lay a hand on you?""No, sir.""Did I let Halle buy you or not?""Yes, sir, you did," she said, thinking, But you got my boy and I'm all broke down. You be rentinghim out to pay for me way after I'm gone to Glory.
　　Woodruff, they said, would carry her out there, they said, and all three disappeared through thekitchen door.
　　"I have to fix the supper now," said Janey.
　　"I'll help," said Baby Suggs. "You too short to reach the fire." It was dark when Woodruff clickedthe horse into a trot. He was a young man with a heavy beard and a burned place on his jaw thebeard did not hide.
　　"You born up here?" Baby Suggs asked him.
　　"No, ma'am. Virginia. Been here a couple years.""I see.""You going to a nice house. Big too. A preacher and his family was in there. Eighteen children.""Have mercy. Where they go?""Took off to Illinois. Bishop Allen gave him a congregation up there. Big.""What churches around here? I ain't set foot in one in ten years." "How come?""Wasn't none. I dislike the place I was before this last one, but I did get to church every Sundaysome kind of way. I bet the Lord done forgot who I am by now.""Go see Reverend Pike, ma'am. He'll reacquaint you.""I won't need him for that. I can make my own acquaintance.
　　What I need him for is to reacquaint me with my children. He can read and write, I reckon?""Sure.""Good, 'cause I got a lot of digging up to do." But the news they dug up was so pitiful she quit.
　　After two years of messages written by the preacher's hand, two years of washing, sewing,canning, cobbling, gardening, and sitting in churches, all she found out was that the Whitlow placewas gone and that you couldn't write to "a man named Dunn" if all you knew was that he wentWest. The good news, however, was that Halle got married and had a baby coming. She fixed onthat and her own brand of preaching, having made up her mind about what to do with the heart thatstarted beating the minute she crossed the Ohio River. And it worked out, worked out just fine,until she got proud and let herself be overwhelmed by the sight of her daughter-in-law and Halle'schildren — one of whom was born on the way — and have a celebration of blackberries that putChristmas to shame. Now she stood in the garden smelling disapproval, feeling a dark and comingthing, and seeing high-topped shoes that she didn't like the look of at all. At all.
　　WHEN THE four horsemen came — schoolteacher, one nephew, one slave catcher and a sheriff— the house on Bluestone Road was so quiet they thought they were too late. Three of themdismounted, one stayed in the saddle, his rifle ready, his eyes trained away from the house to theleft and to the right, because likely as not the fugitive would make a dash for it. Althoughsometimes, you could never tell, you'd find them folded up tight somewhere: beneath floorboards,in a pantry — once in a chimney. Even then care was taken, because the quietest ones, the onesyou pulled from a press, a hayloft, or, that once, from a chimney, would go along nicely for two orthree seconds. Caught red-handed, so to speak, they would seem to recognize the futility ofoutsmarting a whiteman and the hopelessness of outrunning a rifle. Smile even, like a child caught dead with his hand in the jelly jar, and when you reached for the rope to tie him, well, even thenyou couldn't tell. The very nigger with his head hanging and a little jelly-jar smile on his facecould all of a sudden roar, like a bull or some such, and commence to do disbelievable things. Grabthe rifle at its mouth; throw himself at the one holding it — anything. So you had to keep back apace, leave the tying to another. Otherwise you ended up killing what you were paid to bring backalive. Unlike a snake or a bear, a dead nigger could not be skinned for profit and was not worth hisown dead weight in coin.
　　Six or seven Negroes were walking up the road toward the house: two boys from the slavecatcher's left and some women from his right. He motioned them still with his rifle and they stoodwhere they were. The nephew came back from peeping inside the house, and after touching his lipsfor silence, pointed his thumb to say that what they were looking for was round back. The slavecatcher dismounted then and joined the others. Schoolteacher and the nephew moved to the left ofthe house; himself and the sheriff to the right. A crazy old nigger was standing in the woodpilewith an ax. You could tell he was crazy right off because he was grunting — making low, catnoises like. About twelve yards beyond that nigger was another one — a woman with a flower inher hat. Crazy too, probably, because she too was standing stock-still — but fanning her hands asthough pushing cobwebs out of her way. Both, however, were staring at the same place — a shed.
　　Nephew walked over to the old nigger boy and took the ax from him. Then all four started towardthe shed. Inside, two boys bled in the sawdust and dirt at the feet of a nigger woman holding ablood-soaked child to her chest with one hand and an infant by the heels in the other. She did notlook at them; she simply swung the baby toward the wall planks, missed and tried to connect asecond time, when out of nowheremin the ticking time the men spent staring at what there was tostare the old nigger boy, still mewing, ran through the door behind them and snatched the babyfrom the arch of its mother's swing. Right off it was clear, to schoolteacher especially, that therewas nothing there to claim. The three (now four — because she'd had the one coming when shecut) pickaninnies they had hoped were alive and well enough to take back to Kentucky, take backand raise properly to do the work Sweet Home desperately needed, were not. Two were lyingopen-eyed in sawdust; a third pumped blood down the dress of the main one — the womanschoolteacher bragged about, the one he said made fine ink, damn good soup, pressed his collarsthe way he liked besides having at least ten breeding years left. But now she'd gone wild, due tothe mishandling of the nephew who'd overbeat her and made her cut and run. Schoolteacher hadchastised that nephew, telling him to think — just think — what would his own horse do if youbeat it beyond the point of education. Or Chipper, or Samson. Suppose you beat the hounds pastthat point thataway. Never again could you trust them in the woods or anywhere else. You'd befeeding them maybe, holding out a piece of rabbit in your hand, and the animal would revert —bite your hand clean off. So he punished that nephew by not letting him come on the hunt. Madehim stay there, feed stock, feed himself, feed Lillian, tend crops. See how he liked it; see whathappened when you overbear creatures God had given you the responsibility of — the trouble itwas, and the loss. The whole lot was lost now. Five. He could claim the baby struggling in thearms of the mewing old man, but who'd tend her? Because the woman — something was wrongwith her. She was looking at him now, and if his other nephew could see that look he would learnthe lesson for sure: you just can't mishandle creatures and expect success.
       但是她知道他们的名字。她知道。她用拳头堵住耳朵，不想听它们从他嘴里说出来。
　　简妮热了些牛奶，倒在一只碗里，又拿来了一盘玉米面包。贝比·萨格斯客气了几句，就来到桌旁坐下。她把面包捻碎，扔在热牛奶里，发现自己这辈子从来没这么饿过。这很说明问题。
　　“他们会在乎吗？”
　　“不会，”简妮说，“想吃多少吃多少。这是我们吃的。”
　　“还有谁住在这儿？”
　　“就我。还有伍德拉夫先生，他干外面的活儿。他一个礼拜来两三天。”
　　“就你们俩？”
　　“是的，太太。我管做饭洗衣裳。”
　　“也许你家里人知道有谁需要个帮手。”
　　“我一定帮你打听，不过我知道屠宰场要个女的。”
　　“干什么？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“男人们不愿意干的活儿，我估计。”
　　“我表姐说猪肉想要多少就有多少，外加每小时两毛五。她是做夏季香肠的。”
　　贝比·萨格斯把手举到头顶。钱？钱？他们会每天都付给她钱？钱？
　　“这个屠宰场在哪儿？”她问道。
　　简妮还没来得及回答，鲍德温兄妹就走进了厨房，身后跟着咧嘴直笑的加纳先生。毫无疑问，是兄妹俩，两人都穿着灰色衣服，在雪白的头发下面，他们的脸显得太年轻了。
　　“你给她东西吃了吗，简妮？”哥哥问。
　　“给了，先生。”
　　“别起来了，珍妮。”妹妹说道，于是好消息变得更好了。
　　他们问她能干什么活儿，她没有把她完成过的几百样差事数落个遍，只顾打听那个屠宰场。她干那个太老了，他们说。
　　“她是你能见到的最好的鞋匠。”加纳先生道。
　　“鞋匠？”鲍德温妹妹挑起又黑又浓的眉毛，“谁教你的？”
　　“是个奴隶教的我。”贝比·萨格斯答道。
　　“是做新鞋子，还是光修补？”
　　“新的旧的，什么都行。”
　　“好嘛，”鲍德温哥哥说，“那可挺了不起，可你还得干点别的。”
　　“拿回去浆洗怎么样？”鲍德温妹妹问。
　　“行，太太。”
　　“一磅两分钱。”
　　“行，太太。可拿回哪儿去啊？”
　　“什么？”
　　“您说‘拿回去浆洗’。‘回’哪儿去啊？我要去的地方是哪儿？”
　　“噢，听着，珍妮，”加纳先生说，“这两位天使有所房子给你。他们在城外有一处宅子。”
　　那所房子在他们搬进城之前属于他们的祖父母。最近租住它的一大窝黑人刚刚离开了俄亥俄州。对于珍妮一个人来说，房子太大了，他们说（楼上两间，楼下两间），可这是他们能做到的最佳和唯一的选择。作为浆洗衣服、做些针线活儿、做罐头以及诸如此类（哦，还有鞋）的报酬，他们会允许她住在那里。规定她必须保持清洁。以前那一窝黑人可不怎么样。贝比·萨格斯接下了这份工作；失掉那份赚钱差事当然很难受，可一所带楼梯的房子令她激动不已———虽说她爬不了楼梯。加纳先生告诉鲍德温兄妹，她不仅做得一手好鞋，饭也做得不赖，说着，还亮出他的肚皮和脚上的样品。大家都大笑起来。
　　“你需要什么就说一声，”妹妹说，“我们不支持奴隶制，甚至加纳的那种。”
　　“告诉他们，珍妮。在我家之前你住过更好的地方吗？”
　　“没有，先生。”她说，“没住过。”
　　“你在‘甜蜜之家’待了多久？”
　　“十年，我想是。”
　　“挨过饿吗？”
　　“没有，先生。”
　　“受过冻吗？”
　　“没有，先生。”
　　“有人碰过你一个手指头吗？”
　　“没有，先生。”
　　“我让没让黑尔赎你？”
　　“是的，先生。你让了。”她说道，心里却暗想：可是你占着我的儿子，而我一无所有。我归天以后，他还得一直为了还债让你租来租去。
　　他们说，伍德拉夫会把她带出去，然后三个人就从厨房门口消失了。
　　“我得做晚饭了。”简妮道。
　　“我来帮忙，”贝比·萨格斯说，“你太矮了，够不着火。”
　　伍德拉夫把马抽得飞跑起来时天已经黑了。他是个胡子很重的年轻人，下巴上有一块胡子遮不住的烧伤。
　　“你是在这地方土生土长的吗？”贝比·萨格斯问他。
　　“不是，太太。弗吉尼亚。来这儿两年了。”
　　“原来是这样。”
　　“你去的房子棒极了。又大。一个牧师和他一家曾经在那儿住过。十八个孩子呢。”
　　“我的天。他们到哪儿去了？”
　　“到伊利诺伊去了。艾伦主教让他去那儿管一个教区。大着呢。”
　　“这一带有什么教堂吗？我有十年没迈进去过了。”
　　“怎么会呢？”
　　“我们那儿没教堂。我不喜欢我在最后这个地方之前待的那个地方，可我在那儿倒总有办法每个星期天去趟教堂。我敢说上帝现在肯定忘了我是谁了。”
　　“去见见派克牧师，太太。他会重新把你介绍进去的。”
　　“我用不着他介绍。我会自己介绍自己。我需要他做的是把我重新介绍给我的孩子们。我猜，他识文断字吧？”
　　“当然。”
　　“太好了，我要澄清好多事情。”可是他们澄清的消息少得可怜，她不得不放弃了。在牧师替她写了两年的信之后，在两年的浆洗、缝补、做罐头、做鞋、种菜和去教堂之后，她发现的只是：惠特娄的地方已经没了，而且，也没法给“一个叫丹的男人”写信，如果你知道的只是他去了西部。不管怎么说，好消息总还有：黑尔结了婚，就快有个孩子了。从此，她便把精力集中在那件事，以及她自己用来布道的标志上面，决心用她那刚一过俄亥俄河就开始跳动的心来做点什么。而且它行得通，很行得通，直到她开始骄傲，见到她的儿媳妇和黑尔的孩子们———其中一个出生在路上———就忘乎所以，还举办了一个让圣诞节逊色的黑莓庆祝会。现在她站在菜园里，嗅着非难气味，感觉到了一个黑压压赶来的东西，并看见了那双绝对不讨她喜欢的高靿鞋。绝对不喜欢。
　　四个骑马的人———“学校老师”、一个侄子、一个猎奴者和一个警官———到来的时候，蓝石路上的这所房子这么安静，他们以为自己来得太迟了。三个人下了马，一个留在鞍子上，熗上膛，眼睛从左到右扫视着房子，因为说不定有个逃犯会狗急跳墙的。尽管有些时候，你怎么也拿不准，你会发现他们在什么地方蜷缩着：地板下、壁橱里———有一次是在烟囱里。甚至那些时候，也得多加小心，即使最老实的那些，那些你从橱柜、干草堆，或者那回，从烟囱里拉出来的，也只会听两三秒钟的话。这么说吧，被当场捉获后，他们会假装认识到了哄骗白人的无益和逃脱熗口的无望，甚至还像小孩子手腕在果酱罐里被人牢牢抓住时那样笑。可当你拿绳子来捆他的时候，唉，甚至到那时候你也看不出来。就是那个垂头丧气、面带一丝果酱罐讪笑的黑鬼，会像头公牛一样冷不防大吼大叫起来，开始去做令人难以置信的事情。抓住熗管；扑向猎奴者———什么都干得出来。
　　所以你必须退后一步，让另一个人来捆。不然，末了你会杀了他，可你本来是被雇佣去活捉他的。
　　不像一条蛇或一只熊，一个丧了命的黑奴可不能剥了皮换钱，死尸也值不了几个子儿。
　　六七个黑人从大路上向房子走来：猎奴者的右边来了两个男孩，右边来了几个女人。他用熗指住他们，于是他们就地站着。那个侄子向房子里面偷看了一番，回来时手指碰了一下嘴唇示意安静，然后用拇指告诉他们，要找的人在后面。猎奴者于是下了马，跟其他人站到一起。
　　“学校老师”
　　和侄子向房子的左边挪去；他自己和警官去右边。一个疯疯癫癫的老黑鬼拿着把斧子站在木头堆里。你一眼就能看出他是个疯子，因为他在咕哝着———发出低沉的、猫一样的呼噜声。离他大约十二码远处是另一个黑鬼———一个帽子上戴花的女人。可能也是个疯子，因为她也一动不动地站着———只有手扇着，仿佛在把蜘蛛网从眼前拨开。然而，两个人都盯住了同一个地方———一间棚屋。侄子向那个老黑鬼走去，从他手里拿下斧子。然后四个人一起向棚屋走去。
　　里面，两个男孩在一个女黑鬼脚下的锯末和尘土里流血，女黑鬼用一只手将一个血淋淋的孩子搂在胸前，另一只手抓着一个婴儿的脚跟。她根本不看他们，只顾把婴儿摔向墙板，没撞着，又在作第二次尝试。这时，不知从什么地方———就在这群人紧盯着面前的一切的当儿———那个仍在低吼的老黑鬼从他们身后的屋门冲进来，将婴儿从她妈妈抡起的弧线中夺走。
　　事情马上一清二楚了，对“学校老师”来说尤其如此，那里没什么可索回的了。那三个（现在是四个———她逃跑途中又生了一个）小黑鬼，他们本来指望他们是活着的，而且完好得可以带回肯塔基，带回去正规培养，去干“甜蜜之家”亟待他们去干的农活，现在看来不行了。有两个大张着眼睛躺在锯末里；第三个的血正顺着那主要人物的裙子汩汩而下———“学校老师”四处夸耀的那个女人，他说她做得一手好墨水，熬得一手好汤，按他喜欢的方式给他熨衣领，而且至少还剩十年能繁殖。可是现在她疯了，都是因为侄子的虐待，他打得太狠，逼得她逃跑了。
　　“学校老师”训斥了那个侄子，让他想想———好好想想———如果打得超出了教育目的，你自己的马又会干出什么来。契伯和参孙也是一样。设想你那么过分地打了这两条猎狗。你就再也不能在林子里或者别的地方信任它们了。也许你下回喂它们，用手递过去一块兔肉，哪个畜生就会原形毕露———把你的手一口咬掉。所以他没让那个侄子来猎奴，以示惩罚。让他留在家里，喂牲口，喂自己，喂丽莲，照管庄稼。给他点颜色看看；看看你把上帝交给你负责的造物打得太狠了的下场———造成的麻烦，以及损失。现在所有这些人都丢了。五个哪。他可以索要那个在喵喵直叫的老头怀里挣扎的婴儿，可是谁来照料她呢？都怪那个女人———她出了毛病。此刻，她正盯着他；要是他的侄子能看见那种眼神，他肯定得到了教训：你就是不能一边虐待造物，一边还指望成功。
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Chapter 34
The nephew, the one who had nursed her while his brother held her down, didn't know he wasshaking. His uncle had warned him against that kind of confusion, but the warning didn't seem tobe taking. What she go and do that for? On account of a beating? Hell, he'd been beat a milliontimes and he was white. Once it hurt so bad and made him so mad he'd smashed the well bucket.
　　Another time he took it out on Samson — a few tossed rocks was all. But no beating ever madehim... I mean no way he could have... What she go and do that for? And that is what he asked thesheriff, who was standing there, amazed like the rest of them, but not shaking. He was swallowinghard, over and over again. "What she want to go and do that for?"The sheriff turned, then said to the other three, "You all better go on. Look like your business isover. Mine's started now." Schoolteacher beat his hat against his thigh and spit before leaving thewoodshed. Nephew and the catcher backed out with him. They didn't look at the woman in thepepper plants with the flower in her hat. And they didn't look at the seven or so faces that hadedged closer in spite of the catcher's rifle warning. Enough nigger eyes for now. Little nigger-boyeyes open in sawdust; little nigger-girl eyes staring between the wet fingers that held her face soher head wouldn't fall off; little nigger-baby eyes crinkling up to cry in the arms of the old niggerwhose own eyes were nothing but slivers looking down at his feet. But the worst ones were thoseof the nigger woman who looked like she didn't have any. Since the whites in them haddisappeared and since they were as black as her skin, she looked blind.
　　They unhitched from schoolteacher's horse the borrowed mule that was to carry the fugitivewoman back to where she belonged, and tied it to the fence. Then, with the sun straight up overtheir heads, they trotted off, leaving the sheriff behind among the damnedest bunch of coons they'dever seen. All testimony to the results of a little so-called freedom imposed on people who neededevery care and guidance in the world to keep them from the cannibal life they preferred.
　　The sheriff wanted to back out too. To stand in the sunlight outside of that place meant for housingwood, coal, kerosene — fuel for cold Ohio winters, which he thought of now, while resisting theurge to run into the August sunlight. Not because he was afraid. Not at all. He was just cold. Andhe didn't want to touch anything. The baby in the old man's arms was crying, and the woman's eyeswith no whites were gazing straight ahead. They all might have remained that way, frozen tillThursday, except one of the boys on the floor sighed. As if he were sunk in the pleasure of a deepsweet sleep, he sighed the sigh that flung the sheriff into action.
　　"I'll have to take you in. No trouble now. You've done enough to last you. Come on now."She did not move.
　　"You come quiet, hear, and I won't have to tie you up." She stayed still and he had made up hismind to go near her and some kind of way bind her wet red hands when a shadow behind him inthe doorway made him turn. The nigger with the flower in her hat entered.
　　Baby Suggs noticed who breathed and who did not and went straight to the boys lying in the dirt.
　　The old man moved to the woman gazing and said, "Sethe. You take my armload and gimme yours."She turned to him, and glancing at the baby he was holding, made a low sound in her throat asthough she'd made a mistake, left the salt out of the bread or something.
　　"I'm going out here and send for a wagon," the sheriff said and got into the sunlight at last.
　　But neither Stamp Paid nor Baby Suggs could make her put her crawling-already? girl down. Outof the shed, back in the house, she held on. Baby Suggs had got the boys inside and was bathingtheir heads, rubbing their hands, lifting their lids, whispering, "Beg your pardon, I beg yourpardon," the whole time. She bound their wounds and made them breathe camphor before turningher attention to Sethe. She took the crying baby from Stamp Paid and carried it on her shoulder fora full two minutes, then stood in front of its mother. "It's time to nurse your youngest," she said.
　　Sethe reached up for the baby without letting the dead one go. Baby Suggs shook her head. "One ata time," she said and traded the living for the dead, which she carried into the keeping room. Whenshe came back, Sethe was aiming a bloody nipple into the baby's mouth. Baby Suggs slammed herfist on the table and shouted, "Clean up! Clean yourself up!"They fought then. Like rivals over the heart of the loved, they fought. Each struggling for thenursing child. Baby Suggs lost when she slipped in a red puddle and fell. So Denver took hermother's milk right along with the blood of her sister. And that's the way they were when thesheriff returned, having commandeered a neighbor's cart, and ordered Stamp to drive it.
　　Outside a throng, now, of black faces stopped murmuring. Holding the living child, Sethe walkedpast them in their silence and hers. She climbed into the cart, her profile knife-clean against acheery blue sky. A profile that shocked them with its clarity. Was her head a bit too high? Herback a little too straight? Probably. Otherwise the singing would have begun at once, the momentshe appeared in the doorway of the house on Bluestone Road. Some cape of sound would havequickly been wrapped around her, like arms to hold and steady her on the way. As it was, theywaited till the cart turned about, headed west to town. And then no words. Humming. No words atall.
　　Baby Suggs meant to run, skip down the porch steps after the cart, screaming, No. No. Don't lether take that last one too. She meant to. Had started to, but when she got up from the floor andreached the yard the cart was gone and a wagon was rolling up. A red-haired boy and a yellow-haired girl jumped down and ran through the crowd toward her. The boy had a half-eaten sweetpepper in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other.
　　"Mama says Wednesday." He held them together by their tongues. "She says you got to have thesefixed by Wednesday." Baby Suggs looked at him, and then at the woman holding a twitching leadhorse to the road.
　　"She says Wednesday, you hear? Baby? Baby?" She took the shoes from him — high-topped and muddy — saying, "I beg your pardon. Lord, I beg your pardon. I sure do." Out of sight, the cartcreaked on down Bluestone Road. Nobody in it spoke. The wagon rock had put the baby to sleep.
　　The hot sun dried Sethe's dress, stiff, like rigor morris.
　　THAT AIN'T her mouth.
　　Anybody who didn't know her, or maybe somebody who just got a glimpse of her through thepeephole at the restaurant, might think it was hers, but Paul D knew better. Oh well, a littlesomething around the forehead — a quietness — that kind of reminded you of her. But there wasno way you could take that for her mouth and he said so. Told Stamp Paid, who was watching himcarefully.
　　"I don't know, man. Don't look like it to me. I know Sethe's mouth and this ain't it." He smoothedthe clipping with his fingers and peered at it, not at all disturbed. From the solemn air with whichStamp had unfolded the paper, the tenderness in the old man's fingers as he stroked its creases andflattened it out, first on his knees, then on the split top of the piling, Paul D knew that it ought tomess him up. That whatever was written on it should shake him.
　　Pigs were crying in the chute. All day Paul D, Stamp Paid and twenty more had pushed andprodded them from canal to shore to chute to slaughterhouse. Although, as grain farmers movedwest, St. Louis and Chicago now ate up a lot of the business, Cincinnati was still pig port in theminds of Ohioans. Its main job was to receive, slaughter and ship up the river the hogs thatNortherners did not want to live without. For a month or so in the winter any stray man had work,if he could breathe the stench of offal and stand up for twelve hours, skills in which Paul D wasadmirably trained. A little pig shit, rinsed from every place he could touch, remained on his boots,and he was conscious of it as he stood there with a light smile of scorn curling his lips. Usually heleft his boots in the shed and put his walking shoes on along with his day clothes in the cornerbefore he went home. A route that took him smack dab through the middle of a cemetery as old assky, rife with the agitation of dead Miami no longer content to rest in the mounds that coveredthem. Over their heads walked a strange people; through their earth pillows roads were cut; wellsand houses nudged them out of eternal rest. Outraged more by their folly in believing land washoly than by the disturbances of their peace, they growled on the banks of Licking River, sighed inthe trees on Catherine Street and rode the wind above the pig yards. Paul D heard them but hestayed on because all in all it wasn't a bad job, especially in winter when Cincinnati reassumed itsstatus of slaughter and riverboat capital. The craving for pork was growing into a mania in everycity in the country. Pig farmers were cashing in, provided they could raise enough and get themsold farther and farther away. And the Germans who flooded southern Ohio brought and developedswine cooking to its highest form. Pig boats jammed the Ohio River, and their captains' holleringat one another over the grunts of the stock was as common a water sound as that of the ducksflying over their heads. Sheep, cows and fowl too floated up and down that river, and all a Negrohad to do was show up and there was work: poking, killing, cutting, skinning, case packing andsaving offal.
　　A hundred yards from the crying pigs, the two men stood behind a shed on Western Row and it was clear why Stamp had been eyeing Paul D this last week of work; why he paused when theevening shift came on, to let Paul D's movements catch up to his own. He had made up his mind toshow him this piece of paper — newspaper — with a picture drawing of a woman who favoredSethe except that was not her mouth. Nothing like it.
　　Paul D slid the clipping out from under Stamp's palm. The print meant nothing to him so he didn'teven glance at it. He simply looked at the face, shaking his head no. No. At the mouth, you see.
　　And no at whatever it was those black scratches said, and no to whatever it was Stamp Paid wantedhim to know. Because there was no way in hell a black face could appear in a newspaper if thestory was about something anybody wanted to hear. A whip of fear broke through the heartchambers as soon as you saw a Negro's face in a paper, since the face was not there because theperson had a healthy baby, or outran a street mob. Nor was it there because the person had beenkilled, or maimed or caught or burned or jailed or whipped or evicted or stomped or raped orcheated, since that could hardly qualify as news in a newspaper. It would have to be something outof the ordinary — something whitepeople would find interesting, truly different, worth a fewminutes of teeth sucking if not gasps. And it must have been hard to find news about Negroesworth the breath catch of a white citizen of Cincinnati.
　　So who was this woman with a mouth that was not Sethe's, but whose eyes were almost as calm ashers? Whose head was turned on her neck in the manner he loved so well it watered his eye to seeit. And he said so. "This ain't her mouth. I know her mouth and this ain't it." Before Stamp Paidcould speak he said it and even while he spoke Paul D said it again. Oh, he heard all the old manwas saying, but the more he heard, the stranger the lips in the drawing became.
　　Stamp started with the party, the one Baby Suggs gave, but stopped and backed up a bit to tellabout the berries — where they were and what was in the earth that made them grow like that.
       现在这个侄子，他兄弟按住她时吃她的奶的那个，不由自主地战栗着。他叔叔警告过他，要提防那种慌乱，可是看来这个警告没被采纳。她干吗逃走，还这样做？为了一回打？妈的，他挨过一百万次打，他还是个白人呢。有一回打得特别疼，气得他摔坏了水桶。另一回他把气撒到了参孙身上———也不过扔了几颗石子。可是挨打从来没让他……我是说他不可能会……她干吗逃走，还这样做？他就这样问了警官这个问题，警官正站在那里像其他人一样惊诧不已，但没有战栗。他使劲咽着唾沫，一口接一口地。
　　“她干吗想逃走，还这样做？”
　　警官转过身，然后对其他三个人说道：
　　“你们趁早都走吧。看来没你们什么事了。该我了。”
　　“学校老师”用帽子使劲抽打自己的大腿，离开木棚屋之前又啐了一口。侄子和猎奴者跟他一起退了出来。他们没去看胡椒地里那个帽子上戴花的女人。他们也没去看猎奴者的熗没能拦住的七张凑过来的脸。够了，黑鬼的眼睛。黑鬼小男孩的眼睛在锯末里张着；黑鬼小姑娘的眼睛在血淋淋的手指缝里瞪着，那只手扶住她的脑袋，好让它掉不下来；黑鬼小婴儿皱起眼睛在老黑鬼的怀里哭闹，老黑鬼的眼睛只不过是两道裂缝，正盯着自己的脚面。然而最可怕的是那个女黑鬼的，看上去就像她没有眼睛似的。眼白消失了，于是她的眼睛有如她皮肤一般黑，她像个瞎子。
　　他们从“学校老师”的马身上解下那匹借来的、本来要运女逃犯回去的骡子，拴在栅栏上。然后，他们顶着烈日骑马走了，把警官留在身后这伙罪该万死的黑熊中间。他们全部目睹了以一点所谓自由来欺骗这帮人的恶果，这些家伙需要世上一切的监督和指导，才能避免他们自己更喜欢的同类相残的生活。
　　警官也想退出来。走出这间本该贮藏木料、煤炭、石油———寒冷的俄亥俄冬天的燃料———的棚屋，站到屋外的阳光里。他一边这样想，一边抗拒着跑进八月阳光里的冲动。不是因为害怕。
　　根本不是。他只是觉得冷。他也不想碰任何东西。老人怀里的婴儿在哭，那女人没有眼白的一双眼睛直勾勾地瞪着前方。他们都可以就那样一直待下去，冻结到星期四，可是地上一个男孩叹了口气。仿佛沉溺在甜美酣睡的乐趣中，他这一声轻叹叹得警官猛一激灵，立即开始行动。
　　“我必须把你抓进去。别再找麻烦了。你已经干得不少了。现在跟我走吧。”
　　她没有动。
　　“你乖乖地走，听见没有，我就不用把你捆起来了。”
　　她还是不动，于是他决定走近她，想个办法捆上她那双血淋淋的手，这时他身后门口的一个人影让他转过头来。帽子上戴花的黑鬼走了进来。
　　贝比·萨格斯注意到谁还有气、谁没气了，便径直走向躺在尘土里的男孩们。老头走向那个女人，盯着她，说道：
　　“塞丝，抱着我怀里这个，把你的那个给我。”
　　她转过头，瞟了一眼他怀里的婴儿，喉咙里低叫了一声，就像她出了个错，面包里忘了放盐什么的。
　　“我出去叫辆大车。”警官说着，终于走进了阳光。
　　可是无论斯坦普·沛德，还是贝比·萨格斯，都不能让塞丝把她那“都会爬了？”的女孩放下。走出棚屋，走进房子，一直抱着她不放。贝比·萨格斯已经把男孩们带了进来，正在给他们洗头、搓手、扒开眼皮，自始至终嘀咕着：
　　“请原谅，请你们原谅。”她包扎好他们的伤口，让他们吸过樟脑，然后才开始对付塞丝。她从斯坦普·沛德手里接过哭闹的婴儿，在肩膀上扛了足足两分钟，然后站到孩子的母亲面前。
　　“该喂你的小宝贝了。”她说。
　　塞丝接过婴儿，还是没撒开那个死的。
　　贝比·萨格斯摇了摇头。
　　“一次一个。”她说着用活的换了死的，把死的抱进起居室。她回来时，塞丝正要将一个血淋淋的奶头塞进婴儿的嘴里。贝比·萨格斯一拳砸在桌上，大叫道：“洗干净!你先洗干净!”
　　于是她们厮打起来。仿佛在争夺一颗爱心，她们厮打起来。都在抢那个等着吃奶的婴儿。贝比·萨格斯一脚滑倒在血泊之中，输掉了。于是丹芙就着姐姐的血喝了妈妈的奶。她们就那样待着，直到警官征用了一辆邻居的运货马车回来，命令斯坦普来赶车。
　　这时，外面的一大群黑脸孔停止了嘀嘀咕咕。塞丝抱着那个活着的孩子，在他们和她自己的静默中走过他们面前。她爬进车厢，刀锋般光洁的侧影映入欢快的蓝天。那侧影的明晰使他们震惊。
　　她的头是否昂得有点太高了？她的背是否挺得有点太直了？也许。否则，在她从房子门口出现的那一刻，蓝石路上的歌声就会马上响起来了。某种声音的披肩就会迅速地裹上她，像手臂一样一路搀扶她、稳住她。然而在这样的情形下，他们一直等到货车朝西掉头、向城里开去，才唱起来。然后也没有歌词。哼唱着。一句歌词也没有。
　　贝比·萨格斯本来想跑，跳下门廊的台阶去追运货马车，尖叫着：不。不。别让她把那个最小的也带走。她本来要这样做，也已经开始了，可是当她从地上站起来，走进院子，运货马车已经没影了，而一辆大车隆隆而至。一个红发男孩和一个金发女孩跳下车，穿过人群向她跑来。男孩一手拿着吃了一半的甜椒，一手提着一双鞋。
　　“妈妈说星期三。”他提着鞋舌头，“她说你得在星期三之前修好。”
　　贝比·萨格斯看了他一眼，又看了看大路上拽着缰绳的女人。
　　“她说星期三，你听见了吗？贝比？贝比？”
　　她从他手里接过鞋———高靿的，沾着泥———说道：
　　“请原谅。主啊，我求你原谅。我真的求你了。”
　　视线之外，运货马车吱吱呀呀地驶下蓝石路。里面没有人开口。大车已经把婴儿摇晃得睡着了。炎热的太阳晒干了塞丝的裙子，硬挺挺的，仿佛尸僵。
　　那不是她的嘴。
　　素不相识的人，或者也许只从餐馆的门洞里瞥见过她一眼的人，可能会认为那是她的嘴，但是这事保罗·D更明白。噢，的确，前额上还笼罩着那么一点东西———一种安详———能使你想起她来。可是你单凭这个就说那是她的嘴，那可不行，于是他就这样讲了。告诉了正在审视他的斯坦普·沛德。
　　“我不知道，大叔。反正我看着不像。我认识塞丝的嘴，可不是这样。”他用手指抚平那张剪报，凝视着，丝毫不为所动。从斯坦普打开报纸的庄严气氛中，从老人用手指按平折痕，先是在他的膝盖上、然后在树桩劈裂的顶端将它摊平的慎重中，保罗·D知道，它该搅得他不得安宁了。无论那上面写的是什么，都会震动他。
　　猪在滑运道里嚎叫着。保罗·D、斯坦普·沛德和另外二十多人一整天都在把它们催来赶去，从运河到岸上到滑运道再到屠宰场。尽管由于粮农迁往西部，圣路易斯和芝加哥现在吞并了许多企业，但辛辛那提在俄亥俄人的印象里仍旧是猪的港口。它的主要职责是接收、屠宰和向上游运去北方人离不开的肉猪。冬天里有一个月左右的时间，所有流浪汉都有活儿干，只要他们能忍受死牲口的恶臭，一连站上十二个小时。这些事，保罗·D都令人惊叹地训练有素。
　　他冲洗干净身上所有够得着的地方，还剩一点猪屎粘在他的靴子上；他站在那里，意识到这一点，一丝鄙夷的微笑卷起了他的嘴唇。他通常是把靴子留在棚屋里，回家之前在角落里换上便鞋和便衣。一条路正好把他带进一片天空一样古老的墓地中央，路上充斥着死去的迈阿密人骚动的亡灵，他们已不再满足于在坟堆下面安眠了。他们的头顶上走动着一个陌生的人种；他们的土地枕头被公路切开；水井和房屋将他们从永恒的憩息中撼醒。与其说是由于安宁受到搅扰，不如说是他们对土地之神圣的愚蠢信仰令他们恼羞成怒，于是他们在黎津河畔怒吼，在凯瑟琳大街的树上叹息，并乘风驶过宰猪场的上空。保罗·D听见了他们的声音，但仍旧留了下来，因为无论如何那是个不赖的工作，尤其是在辛辛那提作为屠宰与河运之都的地位得到确立的冬天。在这个国家的每一座城市里，对猪肉的渴望正在演化成一种癫狂。倘若猪农们能养足够的猪，再把它们卖得越来越远，他们是会赚大钱的。在南俄亥俄泛滥的德国人带来了猪肉烹调术，并把它发展到登峰造极的地步。运肉猪的船只阻塞了俄亥俄河；在水上，船长们彼此的吆喝声盖过了牲口的哼叫声，这就像鸭群飞过头顶一样寻常。绵羊、奶牛和家禽也在河上往来辗转，而一个黑人只须露个面，就会有活儿干：捅、杀、割肉、剥皮、装箱，以及储存下脚料。
　　距离号叫的猪群一百码远，两个男人站在西线公司的一间棚屋后面。现在清楚了，为什么这一个星期的工作中斯坦普一直盯着保罗·D看；为什么轮到上夜班时他就停下来，好让保罗·D的动作赶上他的。他已经打定主意要向他出示这张纸———报纸———上面有一个女人的肖像，酷似塞丝，只不过那不是她的嘴。一点也不像。
　　保罗·D从斯坦普的手掌下抽出那张剪报。上面的铅字他一个也不认得，所以他根本就没瞥上一眼。他只是看了看那张脸，摇头说不是。不是。嘴那儿，你看。不管那些黑道道写的是什么，也不管斯坦普·沛德想让他知道些什么，反正不是。因为即便在地狱里，一张黑脸也不可能上报纸，哪怕那个故事有人想听。你在报上刚看见一张黑人的脸，恐惧的鞭笞就会掠过你的心房，因为那张脸上报，不可能是由于那个人生了个健康的婴儿，或是逃脱了一群暴徒。也不会因为那个人被杀害、被打残、被抓获、被烧死、被拘禁、被鞭打、被驱赶、被蹂躏、被奸污、被欺骗，那些作为新闻报道根本不够资格。它必须是件离奇的事情———白人会感兴趣的事情，确实非同凡响，值得他们回味几分钟，起码够倒吸一口凉气的。而找到一则值得辛辛那提的白人公民屏息咋舌的有关黑人的新闻，肯定非常困难。
　　那么这个嘴不像塞丝、但眼睛几乎同样平静的女人是谁呢？她的头以一种令他如此迷恋的姿态从脖子上扭开，看得他热泪盈眶。
　　而他还是这句话。
　　“这不是她的嘴。我认识她的嘴，可不是这样子。”斯坦普·沛德没来得及开口他就这样说，甚至在斯坦普原原本本娓娓道来的时候，保罗·D又说了一遍。噢，老人的话他全听见了，可听得越多，画像上的嘴就越陌生。
　　斯坦普先从宴会讲起，贝比·萨格斯举办的那个，又停下来，倒回去一点，讲起了莓子———它们在哪儿，以及是土里的什么东西让它们长成那样。
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Chapter 35
"They open to the sun, but not the birds, 'cause snakes down in there and the birds know it, so theyjust grow — fat and sweet — with nobody to bother em 'cept me because don't nobody go in thatpiece of water but me and ain't too many legs willing to glide down that bank to get them. Meneither. But I was willing that day. Somehow or 'nother I was willing. And they whipped me, I'mtelling you. Tore me up. But I filled two buckets anyhow. And took em over to Baby Suggs' house.
　　It was on from then on. Such a cooking you never see no more. We baked, fried and stewedeverything God put down here. Everybody came. Everybody stuffed. Cooked so much there wasn'ta stick of kirdlin left for the next day. I volunteered to do it. And next morning I come over, like Ipromised, to do it." "But this ain't her mouth," Paul D said. "This ain't it at all." Stamp Paid lookedat him. He was going to tell him about how restless Baby Suggs was that morning, how she had alistening way about her; how she kept looking down past the corn to the stream so much he lookedtoo. In between ax swings, he watched where Baby was watching. Which is why they both missedit: they were looking the wrong way — toward water — and all the while it was coming down theroad. Four. Riding close together, bunched-up like, and righteous. He was going to tell him that,because he thought it was important: why he and Baby Suggs both missed it. And about the partytoo, because that explained why nobody ran on ahead; why nobody sent a fleet-footed son to cut'cross a field soon as they saw the four horses in town hitched for watering while the riders asked questions. Not Ella, not John, not anybody ran down or to Bluestone Road, to say some newwhitefolks with the Look just rode in. The righteous Look every Negro learned to recognize alongwith his ma'am's tit. Like a flag hoisted, this righteousness telegraphed and announced the faggot,the whip, the fist, the lie, long before it went public. Nobody warned them, and he'd alwaysbelieved it wasn't the exhaustion from a long day's gorging that dulled them, but some other thing— like, well, like meanness — that let them stand aside, or not pay attention, or tell themselvessomebody else was probably bearing the news already to the house on Bluestone Road where apretty woman had been living for almost a month. Young and deft with four children one of whichshe delivered herself the day before she got there and who now had the full benefit of Baby Suggs'
　　bounty and her big old heart. Maybe they just wanted to know if Baby really was special, blessedin some way they were not. He was going to tell him that, but Paul D was laughing, saying, "Uhuh. No way. A little semblance round the forehead maybe, but this ain't her mouth." So Stamp Paiddid not tell him how she flew, snatching up her children like a hawk on the wing; how her facebeaked, how her hands worked like claws, how she collected them every which way: one on hershoulder, one under her arm, one by the hand, the other shouted forward into the woodshed filledwith just sunlight and shavings now because there wasn't any wood. The party had used it all,which is why he was chopping some. Nothing was in that shed, he knew, having been there earlythat morning. Nothing but sunlight. Sunlight, shavings, a shovel. The ax he himself took out.
　　Nothing else was in there except the shovel — and of course the saw. "You forgetting I knew herbefore," Paul D was saying. "Back in Kentucky. When she was a girl. I didn't just make heracquaintance a few months ago. I been knowing her a long time. And I can tell you for sure: thisain't her mouth. May look like it, but it ain't." So Stamp Paid didn't say it all. Instead he took abreath and leaned toward the mouth that was not hers and slowly read out the words Paul Dcouldn't. And when he finished, Paul D said with a vigor fresher than the first time, "I'm sorry,Stamp. It's a mistake somewhere 'cause that ain't her mouth."Stamp looked into Paul D's eyes and the sweet conviction in them almost made him wonder if ithad happened at all, eighteen years ago, that while he and Baby Suggs were looking the wrongway, a pretty little slavegirl had recognized a hat, and split to the woodshed to kill her children.
　　"SHE WAS crawling already when I got here. One week, less, and the baby who was sitting upand turning over when I put her on the wagon was crawling already. Devil of a time keeping heroff the stairs. Nowadays babies get up and walk soon's you drop em, but twenty years ago when Iwas a girl, babies stayed babies longer. Howard didn't pick up his own head till he was ninemonths. Baby Suggs said it was the food, you know. If you ain't got nothing but milk to give em,well they don't do things so quick. Milk was all I ever had. I thought teeth meant they was ready tochew. Wasn't nobody to ask. Mrs. Garner never had no children and we was the only womenthere."She was spinning. Round and round the room. Past the jelly cupboard, past the window, past thefront door, another window, the sideboard, the keeping-room door, the dry sink, the stove — backto the jelly cupboard. Paul D sat at the table watching her drift into view then disappear behind hisback, turning like a slow but steady wheel. Sometimes she crossed her hands behind her back.
　　Other times she held her ears, covered her mouth or folded her arms across her breasts. Once in a while she rubbed her hips as she turned, but the wheel never stopped.
　　"Remember Aunt Phyllis? From out by Minnoveville? Mr. Garner sent one a you all to get her foreach and every one of my babies. That'd be the only time I saw her. Many's the time I wanted toget over to where she was. Just to talk. My plan was to ask Mrs. Garner to let me off atMinnowville whilst she went to meeting. Pick me up on her way back. I believe she would a donethat if I was to ask her. I never did, 'cause that's the only day Halle and me had with sunlight in itfor the both of us to see each other by. So there wasn't nobody. To talk to, I mean, who'd knowwhen it was time to chew up a little something and give it to em. Is that what make the teeth comeon out, or should you wait till the teeth came and then solid food? Well, I know now, becauseBaby Suggs fed her right, and a week later, when I got here she was crawling already. No stoppingher either. She loved those steps so much we painted them so she could see her way to the top."Sethe smiled then, at the memory of it. The smile broke in two and became a sudden suck of air,but she did not shudder or close her eyes. She wheeled.
　　"I wish I'd a known more, but, like I say, there wasn't nobody to talk to. Woman, I mean. So I triedto recollect what I'd seen back where I was before Sweet Home. How the women did there. Ohthey knew all about it. How to make that thing you use to hang the babies in the trees — so youcould see them out of harm's way while you worked the fields. Was a leaf thing too they gave emto chew on. Mint, I believe, or sassafras. Comfrey, maybe. I still don't know how they constructedthat basket thing, but I didn't need it anyway, because all my work was in the barn and the house,but I forgot what the leaf was. I could have used that. I tied Buglar when we had all that pork tosmoke. Fire everywhere and he was getting into everything. I liked to lost him so many times.
　　Once he got up on the well, right on it. I flew. Snatched him just in time. So when I knew we'd berendering and smoking and I couldn't see after him, well, I got a rope and tied it round his ankle.
　　Just long enough to play round a little, but not long enough to reach the well or the fire. I didn'tlike the look of it, but I didn't know what else to do. It's hard, you know what I mean? by yourselfand no woman to help you get through. Halle was good, but he was debt-working all over theplace. And when he did get down to a little sleep, I didn't want to be bothering him with all that.
　　Sixo was the biggest help. I don't 'spect you rememory this, but Howard got in the milk parlor andRed Cora I believe it was mashed his hand. Turned his thumb backwards. When I got to him, shewas getting ready to bite it. I don't know to this day how I got him out. Sixo heard him screamingand come running. Know what he did? Turned the thumb right back and tied it cross his palm tohis little finger. See, I never would have thought of that. Never. Taught me a lot, Sixo."It made him dizzy. At first he thought it was her spinning. Circling him the way she was circlingthe subject. Round and round, never changing direction, which might have helped his head. Thenhe thought, No, it's the sound of her voice; it's too near. Each turn she made was at least threeyards from where he sat, but listening to her was like having a child whisper into your ear so closeyou could feel its lips form the words you couldn't make out because they were too close. Hecaught only pieces of what she said — which was fine, because she hadn't gotten to the main part— the answer to the question he had not asked outright, but which lay in the clipping he showedher. And lay in the smile as well. Because he smiled too, when he showed it to her, so when she burst out laughing at the joke — the mix-up of her face put where some other coloredwoman'sought to be — well, he'd be ready to laugh right along with her. "Can you beat it?" he would ask.
　　And "Stamp done lost his mind," she would giggle.
　　"Plumb lost it."But his smile never got a chance to grow. It hung there, small and alone, while she examined theclipping and then handed it back.
　　Perhaps it was the smile, or maybe the ever-ready love she saw in his eyes — easy and upfront, theway colts, evangelists and children look at you: with love you don't have to deserve — that madeher go ahead and tell him what she had not told Baby Suggs, the only person she felt obliged toexplain anything to. Otherwise she would have said what the newspaper said she said and no more.
　　Sethe could recognize only seventy-five printed words (half of which appeared in the newspaperclipping), but she knew that the words she did not understand hadn't any more power than she hadto explain. It was the smile and the upfront love that made her try.
　　"I don't have to tell you about Sweet Home — what it was — but maybe you don't know what itwas like for me to get away from there."Covering the lower half of her face with her palms, she paused to consider again the size of themiracle; its flavor.
　　"I did it. I got us all out. Without Halle too. Up till then it was the only thing I ever did on my own.
　　Decided. And it came off right, like it was supposed to. We was here. Each and every one of mybabies and me too. I birthed them and I got em out and it wasn't no accident. I did that. I had help,of course, lots of that, but still it was me doing it; me saying, Go on, and Now. Me having to lookout. Me using my own head. But it was more than that. It was a kind of selfishness I never knewnothing about before. It felt good. Good and right. I was big, Paul D, and deep and wide and whenI stretched out my arms all my children could get in between. I was that wide. Look like I lovedem more after I got here. Or maybe I couldn't love em proper in Kentucky because they wasn'tmine to love. But when I got here, when I jumped down off that wagon — there wasn't nobody inthe world I couldn't love if I wanted to. You know what I mean?" Paul D did not answer becauseshe didn't expect or want him to, but he did know what she meant. Listening to the doves in Alfred,Georgia, and having neither the right nor the permission to enjoy it because in that place mist,doves, sunlight, copper dirt, moon — -every thing belonged to the men who had the guns. Littlemen, some of them, big men too, each one of whom he could snap like a twig if he wanted to. Menwho knew their manhood lay in their guns and were not even embarrassed by the knowledge thatwithout gunshot fox would laugh at them. And these "men" who made even vixen laugh could, ifyou let them, stop you from hearing doves or loving moonlight. So you protected yourself andloved small. Picked the tiniest stars out of the sky to own; lay down with head twisted in order tosee the loved one over the rim of the trench before you slept. Stole shy glances at her between thetrees at chain-up. Grass blades, salamanders, spiders, woodpeckers, beetles, a kingdom of ants.
　　Anything bigger wouldn't do. A woman, a child, a brother — a big love like that would split you wide open in Alfred, Georgia. He knew exactly what she meant: to get to a place where you couldlove anything you chose — not to need permission for desire — well now, that was freedom.
　　Circling, circling, now she was gnawing something else instead of getting to the point.
       “它们生长的地方朝阳，可是鸟又吃不着，因为鸟知道底下有蛇，所以它们只管长———又肥又甜———除了我没人去打扰它们，因为除了我谁也不下那滩水，再说也没有什么人愿意滑下悬崖去摘它们。我也不愿意。可是那天我愿意。不知怎么回事，就是愿意。它们可把我抽了一顿，我跟你说。把我划了个稀巴烂。可是我还是装了满满两桶，把它们带到贝比·萨格斯家。就是从那会儿开始的。你再也见不到那种场面了。我们把上帝赐给这地方的所有东西都又烤又炸又炖。大伙儿全来了。每个人都撑着了。那顿饭做得太多了，没给第二天剩下一根劈柴。是我自告奋勇去劈劈柴的。第二天早晨我就过来了，我答应过的，来干活儿。”
　　“可这不是她的嘴，”保罗·D说，“这根本不是。”
　　斯坦普·沛德看着他。他要告诉他那天早晨贝比·萨格斯是怎样地坐立不安，她是怎样地侧耳倾听；她是怎样地透过玉米凝望小溪，搞得他也忍不住去看。每抡一下斧子，他就望一眼贝比·萨格斯望的地方。所以他们俩都错过了它———他们看错了方向———向着溪水———而同时它却从大路上赶来。四个。并排骑着马，像是一伙的，而且铁面无私。他要告诉保罗·D那件事，因为他认为它很重要：为什么他和贝比·萨格斯都错过了它。还要谈谈那次宴会，因为宴会能够解释，为什么没有人提前跑来；为什么看见城里来的四匹马饮着水、骑马的问着问题时，就没有一个人派个飞毛腿儿子穿过田野来报信。艾拉没有，约翰没有，谁都没有沿着或者朝着蓝石路跑来，来跟他们说有几个陌生的带“相”的白人刚刚骑马进来。每个黑人一降生就跟妈妈的奶头一起认得的那种铁面无私“相”。早在公开发作之前，这种铁面无私就像一面高举的旗帜，流露和显示出荆条、鞭子、拳头、谎言的迹象。没有人来警告他们，他也根本不相信是一整天累死人的胡吃海塞让他们变得迟钝了，而是别的什么———比如，唉，比如卑鄙———使得他们袖手旁观，或者置若罔闻，或者对他们自己说，别人可能已经把消息传到了蓝石路上一个漂亮女人住了将近一个月的那所房子里。她年轻、能干，有四个孩子，其中一个是她到那儿的前一天自己分娩的；她现在正享受着贝比·萨格斯的慷慨和她那颗伟大苍老的心灵的恩泽。也许他们只是想知道贝比是否真的与众不同，比他们多点什么福气。他想对他讲这一切，可是保罗·D大笑着说：
　　“啊不。不可能。没准脑门周围有点相像，可这不是她的嘴。”
　　所以斯坦普·沛德没有告诉他她怎样飞起来，像翱翔的老鹰一样掠走她自己的孩子们；她的脸上怎样长出了喙，她的手怎样像爪子一样动作，她怎样将他们一个个抓牢：一个扛在肩上，一个夹在腋下，一个用手拎着，另一个则被她一路吼着，进了满是阳光、由于没有木头而只剩下木屑的木棚屋。木头都被宴会用光了，所以那时他才在劈劈柴。棚屋里什么也没有，他知道，那天一早他去过了。只有阳光。阳光，木屑，一把铁锹。斧子是他自己带来的。那里除了铁锹什么也没有———当然，有锯子。
　　“你忘了我从前就认识她，”保罗·D说道，“在肯塔基那会儿。她还是个小姑娘哪。我可不是几个月前才认识她的。我认识她好久了。我敢向你保证：这不是她的嘴。可能看着像，可这不是。”
　　所以斯坦普·沛德没有全说出来。他就吸了一口气，凑近那张不是她的嘴的嘴，慢慢读出那些保罗·D不认识的字。他念完之后，保罗·D以一种比第一次更莽撞的魄力说道：“对不起，斯坦普。哪儿出了岔子，因为那不是她的嘴。”
　　斯坦普望着保罗·D的眼睛，眼睛里面那甜蜜的坚信几乎使他怀疑一切是否发生过，在十八年前，正当他和贝比·萨格斯看错了方向的时候，一个漂亮的小女奴认出了一顶帽子，然后冲向木棚屋去杀她的孩子们。
　　“我到这里的时候她都会爬了。我把她放在大车上时，她还只会坐着和翻身，一个星期不见，那小宝贝已经会爬了。不让她上楼梯可真费了牛劲。如今的娃娃一落地就会站、会走路了，可二十年前我是个姑娘的时候，娃娃们好长时间还不能呢。霍华德生下来九个月没能抬起头来。贝比·萨格斯说是吃的问题，你知道。要是你除了奶水再没什么喂他们，那他们就不能太快开始做事情。我从来都只有奶水。我以为长了牙他们才可以嚼东西呢。没人可以打听。加纳太太从没生过孩子，可那个地方只有我俩是女人。”
　　她在转圈。一圈又一圈，在屋里绕着。绕过果酱柜，绕过窗户，绕过前门，另一扇窗户，碗柜，起居室门，干燥的水池子，炉子———又绕回果酱柜。保罗·D坐在桌旁，看着她转到眼前又转到背后，像个缓慢而稳定的轮子一样转动着。有时她把手背在背后。要不就抓耳朵、捂嘴，或者在胸前抱起双臂。她一边转，一边不时地揉揉屁股，可是轮子一直没停。
　　“记得菲莉丝大妈么？从米诺村来的那个？每一回我生孩子，加纳先生都派你们去请她来帮我。只有那时候我才能见到她。有好多回，我都想到她那儿去一趟。就去说说话。我本来打算去求加纳太太，让她去做礼拜的时候在米诺村放下我。回家的路上再接我。我相信，要是求她她会答应的。我从来没问过，因为只有那天黑尔和我才能在阳光底下看见对方。所以再没有什么人了。能去说说话的，我是说，谁能知道我什么时候该开始嚼点东西喂他们。是因为嚼东西才长牙呢，还是应该等牙长出来再喂干粮？唉，现在我明白了，因为贝比·萨格斯喂她喂得特别好，一个星期之后，我到这里的时候，她已经在爬了。拦都拦不住。她那么喜欢那些楼梯磴，于是我们涂上油漆，好让她看着自己一路爬到顶。”
　　回想起那件事，塞丝笑了。微笑戛然而止，变成猛的一抽气，可她没哆嗦也没闭眼睛。她转着圈子。
　　“我希望多知道些，可是，我说了，那地方没有个能说说话的人。女人，我是说。所以我试着回忆我在‘甜蜜之家’以前见过的。想想那里的女人是怎么做的。噢她们什么都懂。怎么做那种把娃娃吊在树上的东西———这样，你在田里干活儿的时候，就会看到他们没有危险。她们还给过他们一种树叶让他们嚼。薄荷，我想是，要么就是黄樟。也可能是雏菊。我至今还是不明白她们怎么编的那种篮子，幸亏我用不着它，因为我所有的活儿都在仓库和房子里，不过我忘了那种叶子是什么。我本来可以用那个的。我们要熏好多猪肉时，我就把巴格勒拴起来。到处都是火，他又什么地方都去。有好多回我差点儿丢了他。有一回他爬到井上，正好在井口上。我蹿了过去，刚好及时抓住了他。于是我明白了，我们在熬猪油、熏猪肉的时候不能看着他，没法子，我就拿一根绳子拴住他的脚脖子。绳子的长度只够在周围玩玩的，可是挨不到井架或是炉火。我并不喜欢他那个样子，可我没有别的办法。挺糟心的，你明白我的意思吧？全靠你自己，没有别的女人帮你熬过去。黑尔好是好，可他还到处有还债的活儿要干。他好不容易停下来睡一会儿的时候，我不想用那些烂事打扰他。西克索可帮了我大忙。我估计你记不得这个了，可是那回霍华德进了牛奶房，肯定是红科拉踩坏了他的手，把他的大拇指扭到了后面。我赶到的时候，它正要咬他呢。我至今不知道我是怎么把他弄出来的。西克索听见他的尖叫声就跑过来了。知道他是怎么弄的吗？一下子就把他的大拇指掰了回来，在手掌上把它和小拇指绑到了一起。你瞧，我怎么也不会想到那个法子。怎么也想不到。教了我好多东西呢，西克索。”
　　他被弄得头晕目眩。一开始他以为是因为她转个不停。像绕着话题转一样绕着他兜圈子。一圈又一圈，从不改换方向，否则他的脑袋或许还能得救。然后他想，不对，是因为她的声音，太近了。她转的每一圈离他坐的地方都至少有三码远，可听她说起话来，就像是一个孩子对着你的耳朵低语，这样近，以致你能感到嘴唇翕动却听不出个子午卯酉。他只捕捉到了只言片语———那没关系，因为她还没说到主要部分呢———还没回答那个他并未直接提问，却放在给她看的剪报里的问题。也是放在微笑里的。因为他是微笑着把剪报递给她看的，所以，他都准备好了，当她对着这个笑话放声大笑的时候———她脸上的迷惑本该出现在另外的某个黑女人脸上———当然，他就会马上和她一起大笑起来。
　　“你能相信这种事吗？”他会问。
　　“斯坦普真没脑子，”她会格格笑着，“一点儿脑子没有。”
　　但是他的微笑一直没有机会发展。它悬在那里，又小又孤单；而她仔细看了看剪报，然后就把它递了回来。
　　也许是那个微笑，也许是她在他眼里看到的时刻准备着的爱———轻松而不加掩饰的，小马驹、传道士和孩子们看人的那种眼神，充满着你并不一定配得上的爱———驱使她开口道出了她从没告诉过贝比·萨格斯的事情，她从前觉得只对她一个人有责任解释一切。否则她会只讲报纸上说她讲过的话，而不再多说一句。塞丝只能认出七十五个印出来的词（一半出现在那张剪报上），可她知道，自己不认识的字不比她要解释的话更有力。是那微笑和不加掩饰的爱驱使她来作一次尝试。
　　“我不用给你讲‘甜蜜之家’———它是什么———可也许你不知道我从那儿逃出去是什么滋味。”
　　她用双掌遮住下半边脸，稍作停顿，再一次在心里掂量那个奇迹的大小，它的味道。
　　“我成功了。我把大家都弄了出来。而且没靠黑尔。到那时为止，那是唯一一件我自己干成的事。铁了心的。然后事情很顺利，跟设想的一样。我们到了这里。我的每一个宝贝，还有我自己。
　　我生了他们，还把他们弄了出来，那可不是撞大运。是我干的。我有帮手，当然了，好多呢，可还是我干的；是我说的，走吧，我说的，快点。是我得多加小心。是我用了自己的头脑。而且还不止那些。那是一种自私自利，我从前根本不知道。感觉起来很好。很好，而且正确。我很大，保罗·D，又深又宽，一伸开胳膊就能把我所有的孩子都揽进怀里。我是那么宽。看来我到了这儿以后更爱他们。也许是因为我在肯塔基不能正当地爱他们，他们不是让我爱的。可是等我到了这里，等我从那辆大车上跳下来———只要我愿意，世界上没有谁我不能爱。你明白我的意思么？”
　　保罗·D没搭腔，因为她并没指望或者要求他回答，可他的确明白了她的意思。在佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德听鸽子叫的时候，他既没有权利也不被允许去享受它，因为那个地方的雾、鸽子、阳光、铜锈、月亮———什么都属于那些持熗的人。有些是小个子，大个子也一样，愿意的话，他可以把他们像根树枝似的一个个折断。那些人知道他们自己的男子气概藏在熗杆子里，他们知道离开熗连狐狸也会笑话他们，却不因此感到羞耻。要是你随他们摆布，这些甚至让母狐狸笑话的“男人”会阻止你去聆听鸽子的叫声或者热爱月光。所以你要保护自己，去爱很小的东西。挑出天外最小的星星给自己；睡觉前扭着头躺下，为了看见壕沟的边缘上你最爱的那一颗。上锁链时在树木中间含羞偷偷瞥上一眼。草叶、蝾螈、蜘蛛、啄木鸟、甲虫、蚂蚁王国。任何再大点的东西都不行。
　　一个女人、一个孩子、一个兄弟———在佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德，一个那么大的爱将把你一劈两半。
　　他准确地理解了她的意思：到一个你想爱什么就爱什么的地方去———欲望无须得到批准———总而言之，那就是自由。
　　转啊，转啊，现在她又嚼起了别的事情，就是不往点子上说。
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木有有木

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Chapter 36
       "There was this piece of goods Mrs. Garner gave me. Calico.
　　Stripes it had with little flowers in between. 'Bout a yard — not enough for more 'n a head tie. ButI been wanting to make a shift for my girl with it. Had the prettiest colors. I don't even know whatyou call that color: a rose but with yellow in it. For the longest time I been meaning to make it forher and do you know like a fool I left it behind? No more than a yard, and I kept putting it offbecause I was tired or didn't have the time. So when I got here, even before they let me get out ofbed, I stitched her a little something from a piece of cloth Baby Suggs had. Well, all I'm saying isthat's a selfish pleasure I never had before. I couldn't let all that go back to where it was, and Icouldn't let her nor any of em live under schoolteacher. That was out."Sethe knew that the circle she was making around the room, him, the subject, would remain one.
　　That she could never close in, pin it down for anybody who had to ask. If they didn't get it right off— she could never explain. Because the truth was simple, not a long drawn-out record of floweredshifts, tree cages, selfishness, ankle ropes and wells. Simple: she was squatting in the garden andwhen she saw them coming and recognized schoolteacher's hat, she heard wings. Littlehummingbirds stuck their needle beaks right through her headcloth into her hair and beat theirwings. And if she thought anything, it was No. No. Nono. Nonono. Simple. She just flew.
　　Collected every bit of life she had made, all the parts of her that were precious and fine andbeautiful, and carried, pushed, dragged them through the veil, out, away, over there where no onecould hurt them. Over there. Outside this place, where they would be safe. And the hummingbirdwings beat on. Sethe paused in her circle again and looked out the window. She remembered whenthe yard had a fence with a gate that somebody was always latching and unlatching in the. timewhen 124 was busy as a way station. She did not see the whiteboys who pulled it down, yanked upthe posts and smashed the gate leaving 124 desolate and exposed at the very hour when everybodystopped dropping by. The shoulder weeds of Bluestone Road were all that came toward the house.
　　When she got back from the jail house, she was glad the fence was gone. That's where they hadhitched their horses — where she saw, floating above the railing as she squatted in the garden,school-teacher's hat. By the time she faced him, looked him dead in the eye, she had something inher arms that stopped him in his tracks. He took a backward step with each jump of the baby heartuntil finally there were none.
　　"I stopped him," she said, staring at the place where the fence used to be. "I took and put my babieswhere they'd be safe." The roaring in Paul D's head did not prevent him from hearing the pat shegave to the last word, and it occurred to him that what she wanted for her children was exactlywhat was missing in 124: safety. Which was the very first message he got the day he walkedthrough the door. He thought he had made it safe, had gotten rid of the danger; beat the shit out ofit; run it off the place and showed it and everybody else the difference between a mule and a plow.
　　And because she had not done it before he got there her own self, he thought it was because she could not do it. That she lived with 124 in helpless, apologetic resignation because she had nochoice; that minus husband, sons, mother-in-law, she and her slow-witted daughter had to livethere all alone making do. The prickly, mean-eyed Sweet Home girl he knew as Halle's girl wasobedient (like Halle), shy (like Halle), and work-crazy (like Halle). He was wrong. This here Sethewas new. The ghost in her house didn't bother her for the very same reason a room-and-boardwitch with new shoes was welcome. This here Sethe talked about love like any other woman;talked about baby clothes like any other woman, but what she meant could cleave the bone. Thishere Sethe talked about safety with a handsaw. This here new Sethe didn't know where the worldstopped and she began. Suddenly he saw what Stamp Paid wanted him to see: more important thanwhat Sethe had done was what she claimed. It scared him.
　　"Your love is too thick," he said, thinking, That bitch is looking at me; she is right over my headlooking down through the floor at me.
　　"Too thick?" she said, thinking of the Clearing where Baby Suggs' commands knocked the podsoff horse chestnuts. "Love is or it ain't. Thin love ain't love at all.""Yeah. It didn't work, did it? Did it work?" he asked.
　　"It worked," she said.
　　"How? Your boys gone you don't know where. One girl dead, the other won't leave the yard. Howdid it work?""They ain't at Sweet Home. Schoolteacher ain't got em.""Maybe there's worse.""It ain't my job to know what's worse. It's my job to know what is and to keep them away fromwhat I know is terrible. I did that.""What you did was wrong, Sethe.""I should have gone on back there? Taken my babies back there?""There could have been a way. Some other way.""What way?""You got two feet, Sethe, not four," he said, and right then a forest sprang up between them;trackless and quiet.
　　Later he would wonder what made him say it. The calves of his youth? or the conviction that hewas being observed through the ceiling? How fast he had moved from his shame to hers. From his cold-house secret straight to her too-thick love. Meanwhile the forest was locking the distancebetween them, giving it shape and heft.
　　He did not put his hat on right away. First he fingered it, deciding how his going would be, how tomake it an exit not an escape. And it was very important not to leave without looking. He stood up,turned and looked up the white stairs. She was there all right. Standing straight as a line with herback to him. He didn't rush to the door. He moved slowly and when he got there he opened itbefore asking Sethe to put supper aside for him because he might be a little late getting back. Onlythen did he put on his hat.
　　Sweet, she thought. He must think I can't bear to hear him say it. That after all I have told him andafter telling me how many feet I have, "goodbye" would break me to pieces. Ain't that sweet. "Solong," she murmured from the far side of the trees.
       “加纳太太给了我一块好东西———印花布，竖条中间夹着小碎花。大概有一码———只够做一条头巾的。可我一直想用它给我的女儿变个花样。颜色真漂亮。我简直不知道你应该管那色儿叫什么：玫瑰红里带点黄色。我花了好长时间准备给她做出来，可你不知道，我像个蠢货一样把它落在那儿了。连一码都不到，我一直放着它，因为我又累又没工夫。所以我到了这儿以后，在他们还不让我下床的时候，就用一块贝比·萨格斯的布料给她缝了件小东西。唉，我只是想说那是一种我从来没有过的自私自利的乐趣。我不能让那一切都回到从前，我也不能让她或者他们任何一个在‘学校老师’手底下活着。那已经一去不返了。”
　　塞丝知道，她在房间、他和话题周围兜的圈子会延续下去。她永远不能围拢来，为了哪个刨根问底的人将它按住。如果他们没有马上明白———她也永远不会解释。因为事实很简单，不是一长串流水账，关于什么变花样、树上挂篮、自私自利、脚脖子上的绳子和水井。很简单：她蹲在菜园里，当她看见他们赶来，并且认出了“学校老师”的帽子时，她的耳边响起了鼓翼声。小蜂鸟将针喙一下子穿透她的头巾，扎进头发，扇动着翅膀。如果说她在想什么，那就是不。不。不不。不不不。很简单。她就飞了起来。收拾起她创造出的每一个生命，她所有宝贵、优秀和美丽的部分，拎着、推着、拽着他们穿过幔帐，出去，走开，到没人能伤害他们的地方去。到那里去。远离这个地方，去那个他们能获得安全的地方。蜂鸟的翅膀扇个不停。塞丝在转的圈子中又停顿了一下，向窗外望去。她记得，当时院子曾经有道带门的栅栏，总有人在开门闩关门闩，那个时期124号像个驿站一样门庭若市。她没有看见那些白人孩子把它拆毁，拽倒了柱子，砸碎了门，正好在所有人停止过访的时刻让124号变得荒凉而光秃。唯有蓝石路路肩的野草仍向这座房子爬来。
　　当她从牢里归来时，她很高兴栅栏不见了。那正是他们拴马的地方———她蹲在菜园里看见的，“学校老师”的帽子从栏杆上方飘来。等到她面对他，死死盯住他的眼睛的时候，她怀里抱着的什么东西止住了他的追踪。婴儿的心每跳一下，他就退后一步，直到最后，心跳彻底停息。
　　“我止住了他。”她凝视着曾经有过栅栏的地方，说道，“我把我的宝贝们带到了安全的地方。”
　　保罗·D脑袋里的咆哮没能阻止他听到她强调的最后一句话。他忽然发现，她为她的孩子们争取的东西偏偏是124号所缺乏的：安全。这正是那天他走进门时接收到的第一个信号。他以为他已经使124号获得了安全，驱逐了危险；把那个混账鬼魂打出家门；把它赶出门去，让它和其他人都看到一头骡子和一张犁的区别。因为在他之前她自己没有干这一切，他就以为是因为她干不了。她和124号生活在无助、愧疚的屈从中，是因为她别无选择；失去了丈夫、儿子、婆婆，她和她的迟钝的女儿只能孤单地住在那里挨日子。这个浑身是刺、眼睛冒火的“甜蜜之家”的姑娘，他认识的黑尔的姑娘，曾是那样顺从（像黑尔一样）、害羞（像黑尔一样）的一个工作狂（像黑尔一样）。他错了。眼前的这个塞丝是全新的。她房子里的鬼并没有让她烦恼，出于同样的原因，一个穿着新鞋、白吃白住的女巫也在家里受到欢迎。眼前的这个塞丝像所有其他女人一样谈起爱，像所有其他女人一样谈起婴儿的小衣服，可是她的本意却能够劈开骨头。眼前的这个塞丝谈起一把手锯带来的安全。眼前的这个全新的塞丝不知道世界在哪里停止，而她又从哪里开始。突然间他看到了斯坦普·沛德想让他看的东西：比塞丝的所作所为更重要的是她的动机。这把他吓坏了。
　　“你的爱太浓了。”他说道，心想，那条母狗在看着我；她正在我的头顶上穿透屋顶俯视着我。
　　“太浓了？”她回道，又想起了“林间空地”，贝比·萨格斯的号令在那里震落了七叶树的荚果。
　　“要么是爱，要么不是。淡的爱根本就不是爱。”
　　“对。它不管用，对不对？它管用了吗？”他问。
　　“它管用了。”她说。
　　“怎么管用了？你的儿子们走了，可你不知道他们去了哪儿。一个女儿死了，另一个不肯迈出院子一步。它怎么管用了？”
　　“他们不在‘甜蜜之家’。‘学校老师’没抓走他们。”
　　“没准儿倒更糟呢。”
　　“我才不管什么更糟呢。我只知道什么可怕，然后让他们躲得远远的。我做到了。”
　　“你做错了，塞丝。”
　　“我应该回到那儿去？把我的宝贝们带回到那儿去？”
　　“可能有个办法。别的办法。”
　　“什么办法？”
　　“你长了两只脚，塞丝，不是四只。”他说道。就在这时，一座森林骤然耸立在他们中间，无径可寻，而且一片死寂。
　　事后他会纳闷，是什么驱使他那么说的。是年轻时代的小母牛？还是因为他确信屋顶有人在盯着他？他从自己的耻辱跳到了她的耻辱，多快啊。从他的冷藏室秘密，直接跳到了她的过浓的爱。
　　同时，那片森林在锁定他们之间的距离，给它规定了形状和重量。
　　他没有立即戴上帽子。他先是用手指碰了碰它，盘算着他应该怎样离去，怎样才能算是退场，而不是逃脱。更要紧的是，不能不看上一眼就离开。他站起来，转过身看着白楼梯。她倒的确在那儿。背对着他，站得笔直。他没有向门口奔去。他慢慢地蹭到那里，打开门，然后告诉塞丝晚饭别等他了，因为他可能晚一点回来。直到这时他才戴上帽子。
　　真可爱，她想。他肯定以为我听他说出来会受不了。以为在我全告诉了他之后，在对我讲了我有几只脚之后，“再见”会把我打个粉碎。那不是挺可爱吗？
　　“别了。”她在树林的远端嘟哝着。
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试玩05b53bfasQy

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举报 只看该作者 37楼  发表于: 2016-12-09 0
有36章后面几章的翻译吗
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