朗读者(作者：本哈德·施林克 译者：姚仲珍)

xhai

　　“朗读者”是一个叫做米歇尔·白格的少年。白格在他十五岁的那一年，巧遇并结识了三十六岁的妇女汉娜。汉娜足可以做他的母亲，可他们却成了秘密情人。比超越正常性关第更可怕的是，公共汽车售票员汉娜，在纳粹时期，竟然是臭名昭著的集中营女看守。汉娜一直对白格隐瞒着自己的经历并在关键时刻失踪了。当白格作为法律系大学生参与法庭实习的时候，审判的战犯之一就是汉娜。而白格发现自己居然还深深地爱着汉娜。这是一个惊心动魄的时刻……。《生死朗读》击中了衣食无忧的现代中产阶级的症结所在。它的多种含义和广泛的共鸣性使小说获得了饱满的阅读魅力。它的结局非常独到：后来白格发现汉娜是一个文盲，发现汉娜只是因为羞于暴露自己是文盲才去参军的；可是等到白格终于下定决心，去监狱接出汉娜的时候，汉娜自杀了。

　　这是一本感人至深的小说，那曾经刻骨铭心的爱以令人难以置信的方式展开，在为无可饶恕的历史罪孽而被深坦在心底里的某一处，永远永远地成为一道伤疤，比忏悔更令人心碎……这本迅速地在二十五个国度畅销的书如此轻薄短小，然而它却给人们带来了震惊！晕眩！窒息！如果阅读也有星级享受的话，它无疑是一本五星级的小说！

xhai

PART ONE

　Chapter 1

　WHEN I was fifteen, I got hepatitis肝炎. It started in the fall and lasted until spring. As the old year darkened and turned colder, I got weaker and weaker. Things didn’t start to improve until the New Year. January was warm, and my mother moved my bed out onto the balcony. I saw sky, sun, clouds, and heard the voices of children playing in the courtyard. As dusk came one evening in February, there was the sound of a blackbird singing.
　The first time I ventured outside, it was to go from Blumenstrasse, where we lived on the second floor of a massive turn-of-the-century building, to Bahnhofstrasse. That’s where I’d thrown up on the way home from school one day the previous October. I’d been feeling weak for days, in a way that was completely new to me. Every step was an effort. When I was faced with stairs either at home or at school, my legs would hardly carry me. I had no appetite. Even if I sat down at the table hungry, I soon felt queasy. I woke up every morning with a dry mouth and the sensation that my insides were in the wrong place and too heavy for my body. I was ashamed of being so weak. I was even more ashamed when I threw up. That was another thing that had never happened to me before. My mouth was suddenly full, I tried to swallow everything down again, and clenched my teeth with my hand in front of my mouth, but it all burst out of my mouth anyway straight through my fingers. I leaned against the wall of the building, looked down at the vomit around my feet, and retched something clear and sticky.
　When rescue came, it was almost an assault. The woman seized my arm and pulled me through the dark entryway into the courtyard. Up above there were lines strung from window to window, loaded with laundry. Wood was stacked in the courtyard; in an open workshop a saw screamed and shavings flew. The woman turned on the tap, washed my hand first, and then cupped both of hers and threw water in my face. I dried myself with a handkerchief.
　“Get that one!”
　There were two pails standing by the faucet; she grabbed one and filled it. I took the other one, filled it, and followed her through the entryway. She swung her arm, the water sluiced down across the walk and washed the vomit into the gutter. Then she took my pail and sent a second wave of water across the walk.
　When she straightened up, she saw I was crying. “Hey, kid,” she said, startled, “hey, kid” - and took me in her arms. I wasn’t much taller than she was, I could feel her breasts against my chest. I smelled the sourness of my own breath and felt her fresh sweat as she held me, and didn’t know where to look. I stopped crying.
　She asked me where I lived, put the pails down in the entryway, and took me home, walking beside me holding my schoolbag in one hand and my arm in the other. It’s no great distance from Bahnhofstrasse to Blumenstrasse. She walked quickly, and her decisiveness helped me to keep pace with her. She said goodbye in front of our building.
　That same day my mother called in the doctor, who diagnosed hepatitis. At some point I told my mother about the woman. If it hadn’t been for that, I don’t think I would have gone to see her. But my mother simply assumed that as soon as I was better, I would use my pocket money to buy some flowers, go introduce myself, and say thank you, which was why at the end of February I found myself heading for Bahnhofstrasse.










　　第一部

　　第01节

　　我十五岁的时候得了黄疸病，发病时在秋天，病愈时在春天。越到年底，天气越冷，白天越短，我的身体也就越弱，新年伊始才有所好转。一月的天气很暖和，母亲为我在阳台上搭了一张床。我看得见天空、太阳、云彩，也听得见孩子们在院子里玩耍。二月里的一天傍晚，我听见一只乌鸦在歌唱。

　　我们家住在鲜花街一座于世纪之交建造的巨大楼房的二楼。我在这里走的第一段路是从鲜花街到火车站街。十月里的一个星期一，在放学回家的路上，我呕吐了。几天来，我身体特别虚弱，我一生中从未那样虚弱过，每迈一步都很吃力。在家或在学校上楼梯的时候，我的腿几乎抬不起来。我也没有食欲，即使是饥肠辘辘地坐在餐桌旁，也很快就又厌食了。早晨醒来口干舌燥，浑身难受，好像身体的器官都错了位。我的身体这么弱，我感到很害羞，特别是当我呕吐的时候。那样的呕吐在我的一生中还是第一次。我尽力把嘴里的东西咽下去，上嘴唇咬着下嘴唇，手捂着嘴，但是，嘴里的东西还是顺着手指喷了出来。我靠在墙上，看着脚边的污秽物，呕吐起白沫来。

　　把我扶起来的那个女人，她的动作几乎是粗暴的。她搀着我的胳膊，领着我穿过了黑洞洞的门廊来到一座院子里。院子里窗与窗之间都拉上了绳子，上面挂着晾晒的衣服，院子里还堆着木头。在一间露天的工棚里，有人正在锯木头，木屑四溅。在院门旁，有一个水龙头，那个女人拧开了水龙头，先给我洗了手，然后用手捧着水给我冲了脸。我用手帕把脸擦干了。

　　"你拿另外一只！"在水龙头旁有两只水桶，她拿了一只，装满了水，我拿了另外一只，也装满水。跟在她后面。她用力摆了一下把水泼到了路上，呕吐物被冲到了下水道里。她从我手里接过水桶，把这一桶水也泼到了路上。

　　她站起身来，看见我在哭。"小家伙，"她惊讶地说，"小家伙。"她把我搂在了怀里。我几乎和她一样高，感觉到她的胸贴在我的胸上，在这样紧的拥抱中我闻到了自己呼出的难闻的气昧和她身上新鲜的汗味。我不知道应该把两支胳膊放在什么地方。我停止了哭泣。

　　她问我住在什么地方，然后把水桶放到了门廊里，送我回家。她走在我身旁，一手拿着我的书包，一手扶着我的胳膊。从火车站街到鲜花街并不远。她走得很快，很果断，这使我跟上她的步伐很容易。在我家门前她与我告了别。

　　就在同一天，母亲请来了医生，他诊断我得了黄疸病。不知什么时候我向母亲提起了那个女人。我没想到我还应该去看她，但我母亲却理所当然地这样认为。她说，只要有可能，我应该用我的零花钱买一束鲜花，做一下自我介绍，并对她表示感谢。这样，二月底，我去了火车站街。

xhai

Chapter 2
　THE BUILDING on Bahnhofstrasse is no longer there. I don’t know when or why it was torn down. I was away from my hometown for many years. The new building, which must have been put up in the seventies or eighties, has five floors plus finished space under the roof, is devoid of balconies or arched windows, and its smooth fa?ade is an expanse of pale plaster. A plethora of doorbells indicates a plethora of tiny apartments, with tenants moving in and out as casually as you would pick up and return a rented car. There’s a computer store on the ground floor where once there were a pharmacy, a supermarket, and a video store.
　The old building was as tall, but with only four floors, a first floor of faceted sandstone blocks, and above it three floors of brickwork with sandstone arches, balconies, and window surrounds. Several steps led up to the first floor and the stairwell; they were wide at the bottom, narrower above, set between walls topped with iron banisters and curving outwards at street level. The front door was flanked by pillars, and from the corners of the architrave横梁 one lion looked up Bahnhofstrasse while another looked down. The entryway through which the woman had led me to the tap in the courtyard was a side entrance.
　I had been aware of this building since I was a little boy. It dominated the whole row. I used to think that if it made itself any heavier and wider, the neighboring buildings would have to move aside and make room for it. Inside, I imagined a stairwell with plaster moldings, mirrors, and an oriental runner held down with highly polished brass rods. I assumed that grand people would live in such a grand building. But because the building had darkened with the passing of the years and the smoke of the trains, I imagined that the grand inhabitants would be just as somber, and somehow peculiar - deaf or dumb or hunchbacked or lame.
　In later years I dreamed about the building again and again. The dreams were similar, variations on one dream and one theme. I’m walking through a strange town and I see the house. It’s one in a row of buildings in a district I don’t know. I go on, confused, because the house is familiar but its surroundings are not. Then I realize that I’ve seen the house before. I’m not picturing Bahnhofstrasse in my hometown, but another city, or another country. For example, in my dream I’m in Rome, see the house, and realize I’ve seen it already in Bern. This dream recognition comforts me; seeing the house again in different surroundings is no more surprising than encountering an old friend by chance in a strange place. I turn around, walk back to the house, and climb the steps. I want to go in. I turn the door handle.
　If I see the house somewhere in the country, the dream is more long-drawn-out, or I remember its details better. I’m driving a car. I see the house on the right and keep going, confused at first only by the fact that such an obviously urban building is standing there in the middle of the countryside. Then I realize that this is not the first time I’ve seen it, and I’m doubly confused. When I remember where I’ve seen it before, I turn around and drive back. In the dream, the road is always empty, as I can turn around with my tires squealing and race back. I’m afraid I’ll be too late, and I drive faster. Then I see it. It is surrounded by fields, rape (European plant of the mustard family (Botany) wheat or vines in the Palatinate, lavender in Provence. The landscape is flat, or at most gently rolling. There are no trees. The day is cloudless, the sun is shining, the air shimmers and the road glitters in the heat. The fire walls make the building look unprepossessing不吸引人的 and cut off. They could be the firewalls of any building. The house is no darker than it was on Bahnhofstrasse, but the windows are so dusty that you can’t see anything inside the rooms, not even the curtains; it looks blind.
　I stop on the side of the road and walk over to the entrance. There’s nobody about, not a sound to be heard, not even a distant engine, a gust of wind, a bird. The world is dead. I go up the steps and turn the knob.
　But I do not open the door. I wake up knowing simply that I took hold of the knob and turned it. Then the whole dream comes back to me, and I know that I’ve dreamed it before.



　　第02节

　　火车站街上的那座房子，现在已经不在了，我不知道什么时候什么原因被拆除的。我好多年没有回过家乡了。七十年代或八十年代新建的那座房子是五层楼房，带有阁楼，木带凸窗间和阳台，粉刷得光亮。门铃很多，说明小套房很多。人们从这种公寓里搬进搬出，就像租用或退还一辆汽车一样。一楼现在是一家计算机店，以前那里是一家药店、一家日用品店和录像带出租店。

　　原来的那座老房子和现在的新房子一样高，但只有四层楼。一楼用水磨方石建造，上面三层用砖建造，带有用砂岩建造的凸窗间、阳台和窗框。进屋和上楼都要走几步台阶，台阶下宽上窄，两边是扶墙，上有铁扶手，扶手底端呈蜗牛状。门的两边都有圆柱，横梁两角卧着两个狮子，俯视着火车站街。那个女人带我到院里洗手走的那个门是侧门。

　　在我很小的时候，就注意到了那座房子。它在一排房子中鹤立(又鸟)群。我想，如果它再宽、再笨重一些的话，邻近的房子就不得不被挤到一边去而为它让路了。我猜想，房子里面有石膏花饰、交叉穹隆的平顶、东方式的长地毯和磨得锃亮的铜杆扶手。我想，在这样体面的房子里也应住着体面的人。由于经过长年累月的火车烟的烟熏，房子变黑了。于是，我对里面的体面居民的想象也大打折扣，他们变成了怪里怪气的人，非聋即哑，非驼即瘸。

　　在后来的许多年里，我总是反复梦见那座房子。那些梦大同小异，都是同一个梦的翻版，或是同一个主题的翻版。我走在一个陌生的城市里，看见了那座房子。它坐落在一个我所陌生的城区里的一排房子中。我继续往前走，困惑不解，因为我只熟悉那座房子却对那个城区感到陌生。然后，我突然想起我曾经见过那座房子，但我想起的不是在我家乡火车站街上的那座房子，而是在另外一个城市，另外一个国家。例如，我梦见在罗马看见了那座房子，但忆起的却是在伯尔尼曾经见过它。这样的梦中记忆，使我感到很安慰。在另外一种环境里再看到那座房子，对我来说并不像在一个陌生的环境中与一位老朋友不期而遇那样令我感到奇怪。我转身向房子走回去，我上楼梯，我要进去，我按下门把手。

　　如果我梦到在乡下看见那座房子，我的梦持续的时间便会更长些，或者此后我能更好地忆起它的细节。我开着车，看见那座房子在我右边。我继续往前开，先是感到困惑不解，为什么一座很显然属于城市街道两旁的房子会建在一块空旷地里呢？然后，我想起那座房子我曾经见过，于是感到双重的困惑不解。如果我要是想起在什么地方见过它的话，我就会调转车头往回开。梦中的街道总是没有人，我调转车头，轮胎发出刺耳的尖声。我以飞快的速度开回去，我害怕回去得太晚，于是开得更快了。然后，我看见了它。它的周围都是田地、油菜田、谷物。行宫中的葡萄园及法国田园中的草香草。这里很平坦，最多有点小山包，没有树木。天气晴朗，阳光灿烂，空气回荡，街道热得闪闪发光。一道风火墙把那座房子给隔开了，难以看清。那可能是一座房子的风火墙。那座房子不像火车站街的那座房子那样黑，可窗子特别脏，屋里什么东西都辨认不出来，连窗帘都看不出来。那是座模糊不清的房子。

　　我把车停在了路边，穿过了马路来到了房门口，看不到一个人，听不到一点声音，甚至连远处的马达声也听不到。没有风吹，没有鸟语，世界死一般寂静。我迈上了台阶，按下门把手。

　　但是我打不开门。我醒了，只知道抓到了门把手并按下了它。然后，整个梦境又浮现在脑海中，我记得，这样的梦我曾经做过。

xhai

Chapter 3
　I DIDN’T KNOW the woman’s name. Clutching my bunch of flowers, I hesitated in front of the door and all the bells. I would rather have turned around and left, but then a man came out of the building, asked who I was looking for, and directed me to Frau Schmitz on the third floor.
　No decorative plaster, no mirrors, no runner. Whatever unpretentious beauty the stairwell might once have had, it could never have been comparable to the grandeur of the fa?ade, and it was long gone in any case. The red paint on the stairs had worn through in the middle, the stamped green linoleum that was glued on the walls to shoulder height was rubbed away to nothing, and bits of string had been stretched across the gaps in the banisters. It smelled of cleaning fluid. Perhaps I only became aware of all this some time later. It was always just as shabby and just as clean, and there was always the same smell of cleaning fluid, sometimes mixed with the smell of cabbage or beans, or fried food or boiling laundry.
　I never learned a thing about the other people who lived in the building apart from these smells, the mats outside the apartment doors, and the nameplates under the doorbells. I cannot even remember meeting another tenant on the stairs.
　Nor do I remember how I greeted Frau Schmitz. I had probably prepared two or three sentences about my illness and her help and how grateful I was, and recited them to her. She led me into the kitchen.
　It was the largest room in the apartment, and contained a stove and sink, a tub and a boiler, a table, two chairs, a kitchen cabinet, a wardrobe, and a couch with a red velvet spread thrown over it. There was no window. Light came in through the panes of the door leading out onto the balcony - not much light; the kitchen was only bright when the door was open. Then you heard the scream of the saws from the carpenter’s shop in the yard and smelled the smell of wood.
　The apartment also had a small, cramped living room with a dresser, a table, four chairs, a wing chair, and a coal stove. It was almost never heated in winter, nor was it used much in summer either. The window faced Bahnhofstrasse, with a view of what had been the railroad station, but was now being excavated and already in places held the freshly laid foundations of the new courthouse and administration buildings. Finally, the apartment also had a windowless toilet. When the toilet smelled, so did the hall.
　I don’t remember what we talked about in the kitchen. Frau Schmitz was ironing; she had spread a woolen blanket and a linen cloth over the table; lifting one piece of laundry after another from the basket, she ironed them, folded them, and laid them on one of the two chairs. I sat on the other. She also ironed her underwear, and I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help looking. She was wearing a sleeveless smock, blue with little pale red flowers on it. Her shoulder-length, ash-blond hair was fastened with a clip at the back of her neck. Her bare arms were pale. Her gestures of lifting the iron, using it, setting it down again, and then folding and putting away the laundry were an exercise in slow concentration, as were her movements as she bent over and then straightened up again. Her face as it was then has been overlaid in my memory by the faces she had later. If I see her in my mind’s eye as she was then, she doesn’t have a face at all, and I have to reconstruct it. High forehead, high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, full lips that formed a perfect curve without any indentation, square chin. A broad-planed, strong, womanly face. I know that I found it beautiful. But I cannot recapture its beauty.
　

　　第03节

　　我不知道那个女人叫什么名字。我手持一束鲜花，犹豫不决地站在了楼下门口的门铃前。我真想回去，但这时，从门里走出一个人来，他问我要找谁，并把我领到了四楼的史密芝女士家。

　　没有石膏花饰，没有镜子，没有地毯。楼道里应有的那种纯朴的、不能与门面的那种富丽堂皇相比拟的美，早已不复存在。阶梯中间的红漆已被踩没了，贴在楼梯旁墙上的、与肩齐高的、有压印花纹的绿色漆布被磨得油光锃亮。凡是楼梯扶手支柱坏了的地方，都被拉上了绳子，楼道闻起来有洗涤剂的味道——也许这些都是我后来才注意到的。它总是那样年久失修的样子，总是那样地清洁，闻起来总是同一种洗涤剂的味道，有时和白菜或扁豆的味混在一起，有时和炒炸或煮、洗衣服的味混在一起。除了这些味道、门前的脚垫和门铃按钮下面的姓名牌，我不认识住在这里的任何其他人。我也不记得我是否在楼道里曾遇到过其他住户。

　　我也记不得我是怎样和史密芝女士打的招呼。可能我把事先想好了的两三句有关我的病情、她的帮助和感谢她的话背给了她听。她把我带到厨房里。

　　厨房是所有房间中最大的一间，里面有电炉盘。水池、浴盆、浴水加热炉、一张桌子、两把椅子、一台冰箱、一个衣柜和一张长沙发。沙发椅上铺着一块红色的天鹅绒布料。厨房没有窗子，光线是由通向阳台的门上的玻璃照射进来的，没有多少光线，只是门开着的时候厨房才有亮，可是这样就听得见从院子里木工棚中传来的锯木头的尖叫声，并闻得到木头味。

　　还有一间又小又窄的起居室，里面配有餐具柜。餐桌、四把椅子、耳型扶手沙发和一个炉子。这个房间冬天的时候从来就没生过炉子，夏天的时候也几乎是闲置不用。窗子面向火车站街，看得见以前的被挖得乱七八糟的火车站旧址和已经奠基的新的法院和政府机关办公大楼的工地。房间里还有一间不带窗户的厕所，如果厕所里有臭味的话，房间过道里也闻得到。

　　我也不记得我们在厨房里都说了些什么。史密芝女士在熨衣服，她在桌子上铺了一块毛垫和一块亚麻巾，从筐篓里一件接一件地拿出衣服，熨好之后叠起来放在其中的一把椅子上。我坐在另外的一把椅子上。她也熨她的内裤，我不想看，但又无法把目光移开。她穿着一件无袖的蓝底带有浅红色小花的围裙。她把她的齐肩长的金灰色长发用发夹束在了颈后。她裸露的胳膊是苍白的。她拿着熨斗熨几下，又放下，把熨好的衣服叠在一起放在一边。她手的动作很慢，很专注，转身、弯腰、起身的动作也同样很慢／民专注。她当时的面部表情被我后来的记忆覆盖了。如果我闭上眼睛想象她当时的样子，想象不出她的面部表情是什么样子。我必须重新塑造她。她高额头，高颧骨，两只浅蓝色的眼睛，上下的两片嘴唇均匀而丰满，下颚显得非常有力，一幅平淡的、冷冰冰的女人面孔。我知道，我曾经觉得它很美，眼下我又看出它的漂亮之处。

xhai

Chapter 4
　“W AIT,” SHE said as I got up to go. “I have to leave too, and I’ll walk with you.”
　I waited in the hall while she changed her clothes in the kitchen. The door was open a crack. She took off the smock and stood there in a bright green slip女人套裙. Two stockings were hanging over the back of the chair. Picking one up, she gathered it into a roll using one hand, then the other, then balanced on one leg as she rested the heel of her other foot against her knee, leaned forward, slipped the rolled-up stocking over the tip of her foot, put her foot on the chair as she smoothed the stocking up over her calf, knee, and thigh, then bent to one side as she fastened the stocking to the garter belt. Straightening up, she took her foot off the chair and reached for the other stocking. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her neck and shoulders, her breasts, which the slip veiled rather than concealed, her hips which stretched the slip tight as she propped her foot on her knee and then set it on the chair, her leg, pale and naked, then shimmering in the silky stocking.
　She felt me looking at her. As she was reaching for the other stocking, she paused, turned towards the door, and looked straight at me. I can’t describe what kind of look it was - surprised, skeptical, knowing, reproachful. I turned red. For a fraction of a second I stood there, my face burning. Then I couldn’t take it any more. I fled out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street.
　I dawdled along. Bahnhofstrasse, H?usserstrasse, Blumenstrasse - it had been my way to school for years. I knew every building, every garden, and every fence, the ones that were repainted every year and the ones that were so gray and rotten that I could crumble the wood in my hand, the iron railings that I ran along as a child banging a stick against the posts and the high brick wall behind which I had imagined wonderful and terrible things, until I was able to climb it, and see row after boring row of neglected beds of flowers, berries, and vegetables. I knew the cobblestones in their layer of tar on the road, and the changing surface of the sidewalk, from flagstones to little lumps of basalt玄武岩 set in wave patterns, tar, and gravel.
　It was all familiar. When my heart stopped pounding and my face was no longer scarlet, the encounter between the kitchen and the hall seemed a long way away. I was angry with myself. I had run away like a child, instead of keeping control of the situation, as I thought I should. I wasn’t nine years old anymore, I was fifteen. That didn’t mean I had any idea what keeping control would have entailed.
　The other puzzle was the actual encounter that had taken place between the kitchen and the hall. Why had I not been able to take my eyes off her? She had a very strong, feminine body, more voluptuous than the girls I liked and watched. I was sure I wouldn’t even have noticed her if I’d seen her at the swimming pool. Nor had she been any more naked than the girls and women I had already seen at the swimming pool. And besides, she was much older than the girls I dreamed about. Over thirty? It’s hard to guess ages when you’re not that old yourself and won’t be anytime soon.
　Years later it occurred to me that the reason I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her was not just her body, but the way she held herself and moved. I asked my girlfriends to put on stockings, but I didn’t want to explain why, or to talk about the riddle of what had happened between the kitchen and the hall. So my request was read as a desire for garters and high heels and erotic extravaganza, and if it was granted, it was done as a come-on. There had been none of that when I had found myself unable to look away. She hadn’t been posing or teasing me. I don’t remember her ever doing that. I remember that her body and the way she held it and moved sometimes seemed awkward. Not that she was particularly heavy. It was more as if she had withdrawn into her own body, and left it to itself and its own quiet rhythms, unbothered by any input from her mind, oblivious to the outside world. It was the same obliviousness that weighed in her glance and her movements when she was pulling on her stockings. But then she was not awkward, she was slow-flowing, graceful, seductive - a seductiveness that had nothing to do with breasts and hips and legs, but was an invitation to forget the world in the recesses of the body.
　I knew none of this - if indeed I know any of it now and am not just making patterns in the air. But as I thought back then on what had excited me, the excitement came back. To solve the riddle, I made myself remember the whole encounter, and then the distance I had created by turning it into a riddle dissolved, and I saw it all again, and again I couldn’t take my eyes off her.






　　第04节

　　"等一下！"当我站起来准备要走的时候，她对我说，"我也要出去一下，可以一起走一段。"

　　我在楼道里等她，她在厨房里换衣服。门开着一条小缝，她脱掉了围裙，换上了一件浅绿色衬衣。在椅子的扶手上挂着两双长统袜，她拿下来一双，用两手把它卷成圆筒状，用一条腿掌握着平衡，并用这条腿的膝盖支撑着另一条腿的后部，弯下腰，把卷好的长统袜套到了脚上，然后把脚放到了椅子上，把长统袜从小腿肚提到膝盖，再从膝盖提到大腿。她把身子倾向一边，把穿到腿上的长统袜用长统袜绳绑好，然后站起身来，把脚从椅子上拿下来，抓起了另一只袜子。

　　我目不转睛地盯着她，从她的脖颈到肩膀，从她的那对只被衬衣围盖但并没有遮严的(禁止)到她的只被衬衣遮住的屁股。当她把一只脚放到膝盖上并坐到椅子上的时候，就可以看得见她的先是裸露、苍白、后又被长统袜装束起来的光滑的大腿。

　　她感觉到了我的目光，她很熟练地穿好了另一只长统袜，把脸转向门这边，看着我的眼睛。我不知道她是怎样注视着我的：惊奇地、疑问地、知情地，还是谴责地？我脸红了，我面红耳赤地站了一会儿，然后我实在坚持不住了，冲出了房间，跑下了楼梯，跑出了那座房子。

　　我慢慢地走着，火车站街、房子街、鲜花街是我这些年上学、放学的必经之路。我认得每座房子、每座花园和每道拦栅。那些栏栅每年都要重新粉刷，栏栅的木头都变得朽烂不堪，以致我用手都能挤压进去。我小的时候，常常过路边用一根棍子响响地敲打着那些铁栏栅的铁杆。还有那些砖砌的高高的围墙，我曾经想象过里面的美好和恐怖，直到我能爬高时才看见里面不过是一排排枯萎的、无人照料的鲜花、浆果和蔬菜类。我也认得铺在路面上的铺石块和漆在路面上的油漆，还有交替铺在路面上的、形状各异的光滑岩石以及铺成波浪形状的小块玄武岩、油漆和碎石。

　　我熟悉这儿的一切。当我的心不再狂跳，不再面红耳赤的时候，在厨房与门廊之间所看见的那一幕情景也离我远去。我生自己的气，因为我就像一个小孩子一样一跑了之，没有像我对自己所期待的那样沉着自信。我不再是九岁的孩子了，我十五岁了！尽管如此，怎样才算沉着自信对我来说仍是个谜。

　　另一个谜是在厨房与门廊之间所发生的那一幕情景本身。为什么我不能把目光从她身上移开？她的身体很强健，极富有女人味，比我曾喜欢过的、博得我的青睐的姑娘们的身体丰满。我相信，要是我在游泳池看见她的话，她不会引起我的注意。她也不像我曾经在游泳池见过的姑娘们和妇人们那样裸露。另外，她也比我梦想的姑娘们年纪要大得多。她有三十多岁？人们很难估计出自己还未曾经历过的，或尚未达到的年龄段的人们的年龄。

　　多年以后我才明白，并不是因为她的身体本身，而是她的姿势和动作让我目不转睛。我请求我的女友们穿长统袜，但我不想解释我的请求，我不想告诉别人那个令我迷惑不解的、发生在厨房与门廊之间的那一幕情景。这样，我的请求就成了寻求肆无忌惮的情欲、寻求(禁止)的一种愿望。一旦我的这种请求得到了满足，它也是以一种卖弄风情的姿态出现，并非那种让我目不转睛的姿态。汉娜并没有拿姿态，没有卖弄风情，我也不记得她曾拿过什么姿态、卖弄过什么风情。我只记得她的身体、她的姿势和动作，它们有时显得有点笨重。但那不是真的笨重，那是她让自己回到了内心世界，那是她不让由大脑所支配的任何命令来干扰她这安静的生活节奏，那是她完全忘却了外部世界的存在。这样的忘却外部世界的情形还体现在她那次穿长统袜的姿势和动作上。但那一次，她的动作并非慢慢腾腾，相反，它非常麻利、妩媚和具有诱惑力。但诱惑人的不是(禁止)、屁股和大腿，而是吸引你进入她的内心世界而忘却外部世界的一种力量。

　　当时，我并不知道这些——尽管我现在知道了，而且知道了为什么。那时，每当我思考使我那样兴奋的原因时，我就又兴奋起来。为了解开这个谜，我就必须追忆那一幕情景。当我把那一幕视为不解之谈时，我实际上是在与它保持距离。这种距离感解除后，当时所发生的一切就又历历在目了，我仍旧在目不转睛地盯着。

xhai

Chapter 5
　A WEEK LATER I was standing at her door again.
　For a week I had tried not to think about her. But I had nothing else to occupy or distract me; the doctor was not ready to let me go back to school, I was bored stiff with books after months of reading, and although friends still came to see me, I had been sick for so long that their visits could no longer bridge the gap between their daily lives and mine, and became shorter and shorter. I was supposed to go for walks, a little further each day, without overexerting myself. I could have used the exertion.
　Being ill when you are a child or growing up is such an enchanted interlude! The outside world, the world of free time in the yard or the garden or on the street, is only a distant murmur in the sickroom. Inside, a whole world of characters and stories proliferates out of the books you read. The fever that weakens your perception as it sharpens your imagination turns the sickroom into someplace new, both familiar and strange; monsters come grinning out of the patterns on the curtains and the carpet, and chairs, tables, bookcases, and wardrobes burst out of their normal shapes and become mountains and buildings and ships you can almost touch although they’re far away. Through the long hours of the night you have the church clock for company and the rumble of the occasional passing car that throws its headlights across the walls and ceiling. These are hours without sleep, which is not to say that they’re sleepless, because on the contrary, they’re not about lack of anything, they’re rich and full. Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again. They are hours when anything is possible, good or bad.
　This passes as you get better. But if the illness has lasted long enough, the sickroom is impregnated with it and although you’re convalescing and the fever has gone, you are still trapped in the labyrinth.
　I awoke every day feeling guilty, sometimes with my pajama pants damp or stained. The images and scenes in my dreams were not right. I knew I would not be scolded by my mother, or the pastor who had instructed me for my confirmation (coming of age ceremony (Christianity, Judaism) and whom I admired, or by my older sister who was the confidante of all my childhood secrets. But they would lecture me with loving concern, which was worse than being scolded. It was particularly wrong that when I was not just idly dreaming, I actively fantasized images and scenes.
　I don’t know where I found the courage to go back to Frau Schmitz. Did my moral upbringing somehow turn against itself? If looking at someone with desire was as bad as satisfying the desire, if having an active fantasy was as bad as the act you were fantasizing, then why not the satisfaction and the act itself? As the days went on, I discovered that I couldn’t stop thinking sinful thoughts. In which case I also wanted the sin itself.
　There was another way to look at it. Going there might be dangerous. But it was obviously impossible for the danger to act itself out. Frau Schmitz would greet me with surprise, listen to me apologize for my strange behavior, and amicably say goodbye. It was more dangerous not to go; I was running the risk of becoming trapped in my own fantasies. So I was doing the right thing by going. She would behave normally, I would behave normally, and everything would be normal again.
　That is how I rationalized it back then, making my desire an entry in a strange moral accounting, and silencing my bad conscience. But that was not what gave me the courage to go to Frau Schmitz. It was one thing to tell myself that my mother, my admired pastor, and my older sister would not try to stop me if they really thought about it, but would in fact insist that I go. Actually going was something else again. I don’t know why I did it. But today I can recognize that events back then were part of a lifelong pattern in which thinking and doing have either come together or failed to come together - I think, I reach a conclusion, I turn the conclusion into a decision, and then I discover that acting on the decision is something else entirely, and that doing so may proceed from the decision, but then again it may not. Often enough in my life I have done things I had not decided to do. Something - whatever that may be - goes into action; “it” goes to the woman I don’t want to see anymore, “it” makes the remark to the boss that costs me my head, “it” keeps on smoking although I have decided to quit, and then quits smoking just when I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a smoker and always will be. I don’t mean to say that thinking and reaching decisions have no influence on behavior. But behavior does not merely enact whatever has already been thought through and decided. It has its own sources, and is my behavior, quite independently, just as my thoughts are my thoughts, and my decisions my decisions.


　　第05节

　　一个星期以后，我又站在了她的门口。

　　我试了一个星期不去想她。可我又无所事事，没有任何事情可以转移我的注意力，医生还不允许我去上学。读了几个月书以后，读书也令我感到厌倦。朋友们虽然来看我，但我已经病了这么久，他们的来访已经不能在我们之间的日常生活中架起桥梁，再说，他们逗留的时间也越来越短。他们说我该去散步，一天比一天多走一点，又不要累着。其实，我需要这种累。

　　童年和少年时代生病是多么讨厌！外部世界，庭院里、花园里或大街上的休闲世界的喧嚣只是隐隐约约地传到病房中。里面的病人在阅读，书中的历史和人物世界在屋里滋长。发烧使知觉减弱，使幻想敏锐，病房成了新的即熟悉又陌生的房间。蓬莱蕉在窗帘上显出它的图案，墙壁纸在做鬼脸，桌子、椅子、书架和衣柜堆积如山，像楼房，像轮船，它们近得触手可及，但又十分遥远。伴随病人们度过漫长夜晚的是教堂的钟声，是偶尔开过的汽车的鸣笛声和它的前灯反射到墙上和被子上的灯光。那是些无限但并非失眠的夜晚，不是空虚而是充实的夜晚。病人们时而渴望什么，时而沉浸在回忆中，时而又充满恐惧，时而又快乐不已，这是些好事坏事都可能发生的夜晚。

　　如果病人的病情有所好转，这种情形就会减少。但如果病人久病不愈，那么．病房就会笼罩上这种气氛，即使是不发烧也会产生这种错乱。

　　我每天早上醒来都问心有愧，有时睡裤潮湿污秽，因为梦中的情景不正经。我知道，母亲，还有我所尊敬的、为我施坚信礼的牧师以及我可以向其倾吐我童年时代秘密的姐姐，他们都不会责怪我，相反，他们会以一种慈爱的、关心的方式来安慰我。但对我来说，安慰比责怪更让我难受。特别不公平的是，如果不能在梦中被动他梦到那些情景，我就会主动地去想象。

　　我不知道，我哪儿来的勇气去了史密芝女士那儿。难道道德教育在一定程度上适得其反吗？如果贪婪的目光像肉欲的满足一样恶劣，如果主动想象和幻想行为一样下流的话，那么，为什么不选择肉欲的满足和幻想的行为呢？我一天比一天地清楚，我无法摆脱这种邪念。这样，我决定把邪念付诸行动。

　　我有一个顾虑，认为去她那儿一定会很危险。但实际上不可能发生这种危险。史密芝女士将会对我的出现表示惊讶，但她会欢迎我，听我为那天的反常行为向她道歉，然后和我友好地告别。不去才危险呢，不去我就会陷入危险的幻想中而不能自拔。去是对的，她的举止会很正常，我的举止也会很正常，一切都会重新正常起来。

　　就这样，我当时理智地把我的情欲变成了少见的道德考虑，而把内疚隐而不宣。但这并没有给我勇气去史密芝女士那儿。我想，母亲、尊敬的牧师还有姐姐在仔细考虑后不阻止我，反而鼓励我到她那儿去，这是一回事；真的到她那儿去却完全是另一回事。我不知道我为什么去了。现在，在当时发生的事情中我看到了一种模式，一种我的思想和行为始终都没有跳出的模式：凡事我先思考，然后得出一种结论，在做决定时坚持这种结论，然后才知道，做事有其自身的规律，它可能跟着决定走，但也可能不跟着它走。在我的一生中，我做了许多我没有决定去做的事，而有许多我决定去做的事却没去做。但不管做什么都在做。我去见了我不想再见到的女人，在审判长面前拼命地解释一些问题，尽管我决定戒烟了，而且也放弃了吸烟，但当我意识到我是个吸烟者并且想要保持这种状态时，我又继续吸烟了。我不是说思维和决定对行为没有影响，但行为并非总是按事先想好或已决定的那样发生。行为有它自己的方式，同样我的行为也有它自己独特的方式，就像我的思想就是我的思想，我的决定就是我的决定一样。

xhai

Chapter 6
　SHE WASN’T at home. The front door of the building stood ajar, so I went up the stairs, rang the bell, and waited. Then I rang again. Inside the apartment the doors were open, as I could see through the glass of the front door, and I could also make out the mirror, the wardrobe, and the clock in the hall. I could hear it ticking.
　I sat down on the stairs and waited. I wasn’t relieved, the way you can sometimes be when you feel funny about a certain decision and afraid of the consequences and then relieved that you’ve managed to carry out the former without incurring the latter. Nor was I disappointed. I was determined to see her and to wait until she came.
　The clock in the hall struck the quarter hour, then the half hour, then the hour. I tried to follow its soft ticking and to count the nine hundred seconds between one stroke and the next, but I kept losing track. The yard buzzed with the sound of the carpenter’s saws, the building echoed with voices or music from one of the apartments, and a door opened and closed. Then I heard slow, heavy, regular footsteps coming up the stairs. I hoped that whoever he was, he lived on the second floor. If he saw me - how would I explain what I was doing there? But the footsteps didn’t stop at the second floor. They kept coming. I stood up.
　It was Frau Schmitz. In one hand she was carrying a coal scuttle煤桶, in the other a box of briquets煤砖/球. She was wearing a uniform jacket and skirt, and I realized that she was a streetcar conductor. She didn’t notice me until she reached the landing - she didn’t look annoyed, or surprised, or mocking - none of the things I had feared. She looked tired. When she put down the coke焦煤, 焦炭 and was hunting in her jacket pocket for the key, coins fell out onto the floor. I picked them up and gave them to her.
　“There are two more scuttles down in the cellar. Will you fill them and bring them up? The door’s open.”
　I ran down the stairs. The door to the cellar was open, the light was on, and at the bottom of the long cellar stairs I found a bunker made of boards with the door on the latch and a loose padlock hanging from the open bolt. It was a large space, and the coke was piled all the way up to the ceiling hatch through which it had been poured from the street into the cellar. On one side of the door was a neat stack of briquets; on the other side were the coal scuttles.
　I don’t know what I did wrong. At home I also fetched the coke from the cellar and never had any problems. But then the coke at home wasn’t piled so high. Filling the first scuttle went fine. As I picked up the second scuttle by the handles and tried to shovel the coke up off the floor, the mountain began to move. From the top little pieces started bouncing down while the larger ones followed more sedately; further down it all began to slide and there was a general rolling and shifting on the floor. Black dust rose in clouds. I stood there, frightened, as the lumps came down and hit me and soon I was up to my ankles in coke.
　I got my feet out of the coke, filled the second scuttle, looked for a broom, and when I found it I swept the lumps that had rolled out into the main part of the cellar back into the bunker, latched the door, and carried the two scuttles upstairs.
　She had taken off her jacket, loosened her tie and undone the top button, and was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of milk. She saw me, began to choke with laughter, and then let it out in full-throated peals. She pointed at me and slapped her other hand on the table. “Look at you, kid, just look at you!” Then I caught sight of my black face in the mirror over the sink, and laughed too.
　“You can’t go home like that. I’ll run you a bath and beat the dust out of your clothes.” She went to the tub and turned on the faucet. The water ran steaming into the tub. “Take your clothes off carefully, I don’t need black dust all over the kitchen.”
　I hesitated, took off my sweater and shirt, and hesitated again. The water was rising quickly and the tub was almost full.
　“Do you want to take a bath in your shoes and pants? I won’t look, kid.” But when I had turned off the faucet and taken off my underpants, she looked me over calmly. I turned red, climbed into the tub, and submerged myself. When I came up again she was out on the balcony with my clothes. I heard her beating the shoes against each other and shaking out my pants and sweater. She called down something about coal dust and sawdust, someone called back up to her, and she laughed. Back in the kitchen, she put my things on the chair. Glancing quickly at me, she said, “Take the shampoo and wash your hair. I’ll bring a towel in a minute,” then took something out of the wardrobe, and left the kitchen.
　I washed myself. The water in the tub was dirty and I ran in some fresh so that I could wash my head and face clean under the flow. Then I lay there, listening to the boiler roar, and feeling the cool air on my face as it came through the half-open kitchen door, and the warm water on my body. I was comfortable. It was an exciting kind of comfort and I got hard.
　I didn’t look up when she came into the kitchen, until she was standing by the tub.
　She was holding a big towel in her outstretched arms. “Come!”
　I turned my back as I stood up and climbed out of the tub. From behind, she wrapped me in the towel from head to foot and rubbed me dry. Then she let the towel fall to the floor. I didn’t dare move. She came so close to me that I could feel her breasts against my back and her stomach against my behind. She was naked too. She put her arms around me, one hand on my chest and the other on my erection.
　“That’s why you’re here!”
　“I ...” I didn’t know what to say. Not yes, but not no either. I turned around. I couldn’t see much of her, we were standing too close. But I was overwhelmed by the presence of her naked body. “You’re so beautiful!”
　“Come on, kid, what are you talking about!” She laughed and wrapped her arms around my neck. I put my arms around her too.
　I was afraid of touching, of kissing, afraid I wouldn’t please her or satisfy her. But when we had held each other for a while, when I had smelled her smell and felt her warmth and her strength, everything fell into place. I explored her body with my hands and mouth, our mouths met, and then she was on top of me, looking into my eyes until I came and closed my eyes tight and tried to control myself and then screamed so loud that she had to cover my mouth with her hand to smother the sound.






　　第06节

　　她不在家，楼房的大门虚掩着。我上了楼梯，按了门铃，等在那儿。我又按了一遍。透过房门的玻璃我可以看到，屋子里的门没有关。我可以看到门廊里的镜子、衣架和挂钟，并听得见挂钟的滴答声。

　　我坐在楼梯上等，感觉并不轻松。如果一个人在做决定时感到软弱无力，如果他对后果感到恐惧，如果对他的决定得以实施，而且没有产生什么不良后果而感到高兴的话，那么，他会感觉如何呢？我也并没有感到失望，我决心见到她，一定等她回来。

　　门廊里的挂钟先后敲响了一刻钟、半点钟和整点钟的钟声。我数着钟摆轻轻的滴答声，从一次响声之后开始数，直数到下次响声的九百秒。但是，我的注意力总是被分散。院子里发出锯木头的刺耳尖叫声，楼道里可听得见从别的房间里传出来的说话声或音乐声。然后，我听见有人脚步均匀地、沉稳地、慢慢地上楼的声音。我希望他住在三楼，如果他看见我，我该怎样向他解释我在这儿做什么呢？但是，脚步声在三楼没有停下来而是继续往上走，我站了起来。

　　来人是史密芝女士，她一手提着焦炭篮，另一只手拎着煤球篓。她穿了一身制服，夹克衫和裙子，从着装上我看得出来，她是有轨电车售票员。直到走上楼梯平台，她才发现我。她看上去没有生气，没有惊奇，没有嘲笑，完全没有我所恐惧的样子。她看上去很疲惫。当她把煤篓子放下，在夹克衫兜里找钥匙的时候，硬币掉到了地上，我把它们抬起来交给她。

　　"楼下的地下室里还有两个篮子，能去把它们装满提上来吗？门是开着的。"

　　我跑到了楼下，地下室的门开着，里面的灯也亮着。在走了很长一段台阶后，到了地下室，看见了一间用木板隔开的房间，房门虚掩着，开着的环状锁挂在门闩上。房间很大，焦炭一直堆到了棚顶下的小窗那么高，焦炭就是从这个小窗口从街上倒进来的。在门的两边，一侧整齐地分层堆放着煤坯，另一侧摆放着煤篮子。

　　我不知道，我哪儿做错了。我在家里也从地下室里往上提煤，而且从来没出过什么问题，只不过我们家的煤没有堆得那么高。装第一篮子的时候还没有什么问题，当我提第二篮子准备往里装的时候，煤山开始晃动，从上面蹦蹦跳跳地滑落下来大大小小的煤块，在地下又堆成了一堆。黑色的煤灰像云雾一样散开，我愣在那儿，看着一个煤块接着一个煤块地往下掉，一会儿工夫，我的两脚就被埋在了煤堆里。

　　当煤山安静下来的时候，我从煤堆里迈了出来，把第二个篮子装满，找到一把扫帚，把地下室过道里的和木板间里的煤扫到了一起，锁上门，提着两个篮子上了楼。

　　她已经脱掉了夹克衫，领带也放松了，最上边的扣子也解开了，手里拿着一杯牛奶，坐在厨房里的桌子旁。她看到我的时候，先是咯咯地笑，接着就放声大笑。她一手指着我，另一只手敲着桌子："瞧瞧你什么样子，小家伙，瞧瞧你什么样子！"这时，从洗手池上面的镜子里，我也看到了自己的黑脸，我和她一起笑了起来。

　　"你不能这个样子回家，我给你放洗澡水，并把你的衣服打扫干净。"她走向浴盆，打开水龙头，水冒着热气哗哗地流进浴盆。"你脱衣服小心点儿，我的厨房里可不需要煤炭。"

　　我迟迟疑疑地脱掉了毛衣和衬衣之后，又犹豫起来。水涨得很快，浴盆几乎都满了。

　　"你想穿着鞋和裤子洗澡吗，小家伙？我不看的。"但是，当我把水龙头关掉并脱掉了内裤之后，她在静静地、仔细地打量着我。我脸红了，迈进了浴盆，潜在水里。当我从水里露出头的时候，她已经拿着我的东西在阳台上了。我听得见她把两只鞋子对着敲打着，我听得见她在抖着我的裤子和毛衣。她在向楼下喊着"煤灰"，底下的人也向上喊着"木屑"，她笑了。回到厨房后，她把我的东西放在了椅子上。她只是很快地向我瞥了一眼，"用点洗头膏，洗洗你的头发，我马上去拿浴巾。"她从衣柜里拿出了什么东西就离开了厨房。

　　我洗着，浴盆里的水脏了，我放着干净水，以便把头和脸冲干净。然后，我躺在那儿，听着热水器的轰鸣声，脸上感觉到从敞开一条缝的厨房门里流入的冷空气。身体泡在热水里，我感觉很舒服，舒服得令我兴奋，我的(禁止)坚挺起来。

　　当她走进厨房时，我没有抬头，直到她走到浴盆前我才抬头。她张开双臂，手里拿着一条大浴巾："来！"当我站起身来迈出浴盆的时候，我背对着她。她用毛巾从后面把我围了起来，从头到脚给我擦干，然后她让浴巾滑落到地上。我不敢动，她站得离我如此之近，使我的后背感觉到了她的(禁止)，我的屁股感觉到了她的腹部。她也（禁止）。她用双臂搂着我。

　　"你不就是为这个才来的吗！"

　　"我……"我不知道我该说什么，没有说不，也没有说是。我转过身来，没有看到她什么，我们站得太近了。但是，我被眼前她的luoti(被禁止)征服了。"你多美呀！""啊，小家伙，你在说什么呀！"她笑着用两手搂住了我的脖子，我也拥抱着她。

　　我害怕，怕抚摸，怕接吻，怕我不能令她满意，怕我满足不了她。但当我们拥抱了一会儿之后，我闻到了她的体味，感觉出她的体温和力量，一切就水到渠成了。我用手，用嘴探索着她的身体，最后吻到嘴。我双眼紧闭，起初还努力控制自己，接着就大声叫喊起来。我的叫声如此之大，她只好用手把我的嘴捂住。

xhai

Chapter 7
　THE NEXT night I fell in love with her. I could barely sleep, I was yearning for her, I dreamed of her, thought I could feel her until I realized that I was clutching the pillow or the blanket. My mouth hurt from kissing. I kept getting erections, but I didn’t want to masturbate. I wanted to be with her.
　Did I fall in love with her as the price for her having gone to bed with me? To this day, after spending the night with a woman, I feel I’ve been indulged and I must make it up somehow - to her by trying at least to love her, and to the world by facing up to it.
　One of my few vivid recollections of early childhood has to do with a winter morning when I was four years old. The room I slept in at that time was unheated, and at night and first thing in the morning it was often very cold. I remember the warm kitchen and the hot stove, a heavy piece of iron equipment in which you could see the fire when you lifted out the plates and rings with a hook, and which always held a basin of hot water ready. My mother had pushed a chair up close to the stove for me to stand on while she washed and dressed me. I remember the wonderful feeling of warmth, and how good it felt to be washed and dressed in this warmth. I also remember that whenever I thought back to this afterwards, I always wondered why my mother had been spoiling me like this. Was I ill? Had my brothers and sisters been given something I hadn’t? Was there something coming later in the day that was nasty or difficult that I had to get through?
　Because the woman who didn’t yet have a name in my mind had so spoiled me that afternoon, I went back to school the next day. It was also true that I wanted to show off my new manliness. Not that I would ever have talked about it. But I felt strong and superior, and I wanted to show off these feelings to the other kids and the teachers. Besides, I hadn’t talked to her about it but I assumed that being a streetcar conductor she often had to work evenings and nights. How would I see her every day if I had to stay home and wasn’t allowed to do anything except my convalescent walks?
　When I came home from her, my parents and brother and sisters were already eating dinner. “Why are you so late? Your mother was worried about you.” My father sounded more annoyed than concerned.
　I said that I’d lost my way, that I’d wanted to walk through the memorial garden in the cemetery to Molkenkur, but wandered around who knows where for a long time and ended up in Nussloch. “I had no money, so I had to walk home from Nussloch.”
　“You could have hitched a ride.” My younger sister sometimes did this, but my parents disapproved.
　My older brother snorted contemptuously. “Molkenkur and Nussloch are in completely opposite directions.”
　My older sister gave me a hard look.
　“I’m going back to school tomorrow.”
　“So pay attention in Geography. There’s north and there’s south, and the sun rises ...”
　My mother interrupted my brother. “The doctor said another three weeks.”
　“If he can get all the way across the cemetery to Nussloch and back, he can also go to school. It’s not his strength he’s lacking, it’s his brains.”
　As small boys, my brother and I beat up on each other constantly, and later we fought with words. He was three years older than me, and better at both. At a certain point I stopped fighting back and let his attacks dissipate into thin air. Since then he had confined himself to grousing (Slang) complain; criticize) at me.
　“What do you think?” My mother turned to my father. He set his knife and fork down on his plate, leaned back, and folded his hands in his lap. He said nothing and looked thoughtful, the way he always did when my mother talked to him about the children or the household. As usual, I wondered whether he was really turning over my mother’s question in his mind, or whether he was thinking about work. Maybe he did try to think about my mother’s question, but once his mind started going, he could only think about work. He was a professor of philosophy, and thinking was his life - thinking and reading and writing and teaching.
　Sometimes I had the feeling that all of us in his family were like pets to him. The dog you take for a walk, the cat you play with and that curls up in your lap, purring, to be stroked - you can be fond of them, you can even need them to a certain extent, and nonetheless the whole thing - buying pet food, cleaning up the cat box, and trips to the vet - is really too much. Your life is elsewhere. I wish that we, his family, had been his life. Sometimes I also wished that my grousing brother and my cheeky little sister were different. But that evening I suddenly loved them all. My little sister. It probably wasn’t easy being the youngest of four, and she needed to be cheeky just to hold her own. My older brother. We shared a bedroom, which must be even harder for him than it was for me, and on top of that, since I’d been ill he’d had to let me have the room to myself and sleep on the sofa in the living room. How could he not nag me? My father. Why should we children be his whole life? We were growing up and soon we’d be adults and out of the house.
　I felt as if we were sitting all together for the last time around the round table under the five-armed, five-candled brass chandelier, as if we were eating our last meal off the old plates with the green vine-leaf border, as if we would never talk to each other so intimately again. I felt as if I were saying goodbye. I was still there and already gone. I was homesick for my mother and father and my brother and sisters, and I longed to be with the woman.
　My father looked over at me. “‘I’m going back to school tomorrow’ - that’s what you said, isn’t it?”
　“Yes.” So he had noticed that it was him I’d asked and not my mother, and also that I had not said I was wondering whether I should go back to school or not.
　He nodded. “Let’s have you go back to school. If it gets to be too much for you, you’ll just stay home again.”
　I was pleased. And at the same time I felt I’d just said my final goodbyes.




　　第07节

　　在第二天夜里，我发现我爱上了她。我睡不实，想她，梦见她。我感觉我在抱着她，后来才发现我抱的是枕头或者被子。昨天把嘴都吻疼了。我想和她在一起。

　　她跟我睡觉是她对我爱她的回报吗？迄今为止，每与一个女人睡过一夜之后，我都会产生一种感觉：我被宠爱了，为此我必须要报答，以爱的方式报答她，报答我所处的世界。

　　儿童时代的事情我能记起的不多，但是，四岁时的一个冬日早晨仍让我记忆犹新。当时，我睡觉的房间没有暖气，夜里和早晨通常都很冷。我还记得暖烘烘的厨房里面生着一个笨重的铁炉子，上面总烧着一盆热水，如果把上面的圆形炉盖用钩子挪掉的话，就能看到红彤彤的火苗。在炉子前，我妈妈放了一把椅子，当她给我擦洗和穿衣服的时候，我站在上面。我还记得那种温暖舒服的感觉，记得在洗澡和穿衣时得到的温暖享受。我还记得，每当这种情形在记忆中出现时，我就会想，为什么我妈妈那样宠爱我，我生病了吗？我的兄弟姐妹得到了一些我所没有得到的东西吗？是否今天还有我必须要承受的不愉快和难办的事情在等着我？

　　也正是因为那个我不知道她叫什么名字的女人头一天下午对我如此宠爱，第二天我才又去上学了。此外，我想要显示一下我已具备的男子汉气。我自觉强健有力，比别人都强。我想把我的这种强健有力和优越感展示给学校的同学和老师们看。再有，尽管我和她没有谈到过，但我想象得出，一个有轨电车的售票员会经常工作到晚上和夜里。如果只允许我呆在家里，为了康复而散散步的话，那么我怎么能够每天都见到她呢？

　　当我从她那儿回到家的时候，我的父母和兄弟姐妹已经在吃晚饭了。"你为什么这么晚才回来？你妈妈都为你担心了。"我爸爸的口气听上去与其说是担忧，倒不如说是生气。

　　我说，我迷路了。我本打算从荣誉陵园散步到慕垦库尔，但走来走去，最终却走到了挪施涝赫，我身上没带钱，只好从挪施涝赫走回来。

　　"你可以搭车吗！"我妹妹偶尔搭车，但我父母不允许她这样做。

　　我哥哥对我的话嗤之以鼻："慕垦库尔和挪施涝赫根本就不在同一个方向。"

　　我姐姐也审视地看着我。

　　"我明天想去上学。"

　　"那么好好学学地理，分清东南西北，而且，太阳在…·"

　　我母亲打断了我哥哥的话："医生说还要三周。"

　　"如果他能从荣誉陵园走到挪施涝赫，并从那儿又走回来，那他也能去上学。他缺的不是体力，而是聪明才智。"我和我哥哥小的时候就经常打架，后来大了就斗嘴。他比我大三岁，在各方面都比我占优势，不知从什么时候起，我停止了反击，让他的好斗行为找不到对手。从此，他也只能发发牢骚而已。

　　"你看呢？"我妈妈转向了我爸爸。他把刀叉放到了盘子上，身子靠在椅背上，两手放在大腿上。他没有说话，看上去在沉思。就像妈妈每次问他关于孩子们的情况或家务事时一样，就像每次一样，我心里都在想，他是否真的在想妈妈的问题还是在思考他的工作。也许，他也想去思考妈妈的问题，可他一旦陷入沉思，那么他所思考的无非就是他的工作了。他是哲学教授，思考是他的生命，他的生命就是思考、阅读、写作和教学。

　　有时候，我有一种感觉，我们——也就是他的家庭成员——对他来说就像家庭宠物一样，就像可以和人一道散步的狗、跟人玩耍的猫——蜷缩在人的怀里、一边发着呼噜声一边让人轻轻抚摸的猫。家庭宠物可能对人挺有好处，人们在一定程度上甚至需要它们，但是，买食料，打扫粪便，看兽医，这又未免太多了，因为，生活本身不在这儿。我非常希望，我们——也就是他的家庭，应当是他的生命。有时，我也真希望我那爱抱怨的哥哥和调皮的妹妹不是这样子。但是，那天晚上，我突然觉得他们都非常可爱。我妹妹：她是四个孩子中最小的一个，大概最小的也不太好当，她不调皮捣蛋就不行。我哥哥：我们住在一个房间，他一定比我觉得更不方便。此外，自从我生病后，他必须把房间彻底让给我，而在客厅的沙发上睡觉，他怎能不抱怨呢？我父亲：为什么我们这些孩子该成为他的生活呢？我们很快就会长大成人，离开这个家。

　　我感觉，这好像是我们最后一次一起围坐在上面吊着麦芯产的五蕊灯的圆桌旁，好像是我们最后一次用带有绿边的老盘子吃饭，好像是我们最后一次相互信任地交谈。我感觉，我们好像是在告别。我人虽在，但心已飞了。我一方面渴望与父母和兄弟姐妹在一起，另一方面，我也渴望和那个女人在一起。

　　我爸爸看着我说："'我明天要上学。'你是这样说的，对吗？"

　　"是的。"他注意到，我问的是他，而不是妈妈，而且这之前也没有提到过。我在想，我明天是否该上学。

　　他点头说："我们让你去上学，如果你觉得受不了的话，那就再呆在家里。"

　　我很高兴，同时也感到，现在和他们告别过了。

xhai

Chapter 8
　F OR THE next few days, the woman was working the early shift. She came home at noon, and I cut my last class every day so as to be waiting for her on the landing outside her apartment. We showered and made love, and just before half past one I scrambled into my clothes and ran out the door. Lunch was at one-thirty. On Sundays lunch was at noon, but her early shift also started and ended later.
　I would have preferred to skip the shower. She was scrupulously clean, she showered every morning, and I liked the smell of perfume, fresh perspiration, and streetcar that she brought with her from work. But I also liked her wet, soapy body; I liked to let her soap me and I liked to soap her, and she taught me not to do it bashfully, but with assurance and possessive thoroughness. When we made love, too, she took possession of me as a matter of course. Her mouth took mine, her tongue played with my tongue, she told me where to touch her and how, and when she rode me until she came, I was there only because she took pleasure in me and on me. I don’t mean to say that she lacked tenderness and didn’t give me pleasure. But she did it for her own playful enjoyment, until I learned to take possession of her too.
　That came later. I never completely mastered it. And for a long time I didn’t miss it. I was young, and I came quickly, and when I slowly came back alive again afterwards, I liked to have her take possession of me. I would look at her when she was on top of me, her stomach which made a deep crease above her navel, her breasts, the right one the tiniest bit larger than the left, her face and open mouth. She would lean both hands against my chest and throw them up at the last moment, as she gave a toneless sobbing cry that frightened me the first time, and that later I eagerly awaited.
　Afterwards we were exhausted. She often fell asleep on top of me. I would listen to the saws in the yard and the loud cries of the workers who operated them and had to shout to make themselves heard. When the saws fell silent, the sound of the traffic echoed faintly in the kitchen. When I heard children calling and playing, I knew that school was out and that it was past one o’clock. The neighbor who came home at lunchtime scattered birdseed鸟饵on his balcony, and the doves came and cooed.
　“What’s your name?” I asked her on the sixth or seventh day. She had fallen asleep on me and was just waking up. Until then I avoided saying anything to her that required me to choose either the formal or the familiar form of address.
　She stared. “What?”
　“What’s your name?”
　“Why do you want to know?” She looked at me suspiciously.
　“You and I ... I know your last name, but not your first. I want to know your first name. What’s the matter with ...?”
　She laughed. “Nothing, kid, there’s nothing wrong with that. My name is Hanna.” She kept on laughing, didn’t stop, and it was contagious.
　“You looked at me so oddly.”
　“I was still half asleep. What’s yours?”
　I thought she knew. At that time it was the in thing not to carry your schoolbooks in a bag but under your arm, and when I put them on her kitchen table, my name was on the front. But she hadn’t paid any attention to them.
　“My name is Michael Berg.”
　“Michael, Michael, Michael.” She tried out the name. “My kid’s called Michael, he’s in college.”
　“In high school.”
　“In high school, he’s what, seventeen?”
　I was proud at the two extra years she’d given me, and nodded.
　“He’s seventeen and when he grows up he wants to be a famous ...” She hesitated.
　“I don’t know what I want to be.”
　“But you study hard.”
　“Sort of.” I told her she was more important to me than school and my studies. And I wished I were with her more often. “I’ll have to repeat a class in any case.”
　“What class?” It was the first real conversation we’d had with each other.
　“Tenth grade. I’ve missed too much in the last months while I was ill. If I still wanted to move up next year I’d have to work like an idiot. I’d also have to be in school right now.” I told her I was cutting classes.
　“Out.” She threw back the coverlet. “Get out of my bed. And if you don’t want to do your work, don’t come back. Your work is idiotic? Idiotic? What do you think selling and punching tickets is?”
　She got out of bed, stood naked in the kitchen being a conductor. With her left hand she opened the little holder with the blocks of tickets, using her left thumb, covered with a rubber thimble, to pull off two tickets, flipped her right hand to get hold of the punch that hung from her wrist, and made two holes. “Two to Rohrbach.” She dropped the punch, reached out her hand for a bill, opened the purse at her waist, put the money in, snapped it shut again, and squeezed the change out of the coin holder that was attached to it. “Who still doesn’t have a ticket?” She looked at me. “Idiotic - you don’t know what idiotic is.”
　I sat on the edge of the bed. I was stunned. “I’m sorry. I’ll do my work. I don’t know if I’ll make it, school only has another six weeks to go. I’ll try. But I won’t get through it if I can’t see you anymore. I ...”
　At first I wanted to say, I love you. But then I didn’t. Maybe she was right, of course she was right. But she had no right to demand that I do more at school, and make that the condition for our seeing each other again. “I can’t not see you.”
　The clock in the hall struck one-thirty. “You have to go.” She hesitated. “From tomorrow on I’m working the main shift. I’ll be home at five-thirty and you can come. Provided you work first.”
　We stood facing each other naked, but she couldn’t have seemed more dismissive if she’d had on her uniform. I didn’t understand what was going on. Was she thinking of me? Or of herself? If my schoolwork is idiotic, that makes her work even more so - that’s what upset her? But I hadn’t ever said that my work or hers was idiotic. Or was it that she didn’t want a failure for a lover? But was I her lover? What was I to her? I dressed, dawdling, and hoped she would say something. But she said nothing. Then I had all my clothes on and she was still standing there naked, and as I kissed her goodbye, she didn’t respond.



　　第08节

　　在随后的几天里，那个女人上早班，十二点钟回家。我一天接一天地逃掉最后一节课，为的是坐在她房门前的楼梯台阶上等她。我们淋浴，我们做爱，快到一点半的时候，我匆匆地穿上衣服，快速离开。我们家一点半吃午饭。周日十二点就吃午饭，而她的早班上得晚，结束得也晚。

　　我宁愿放弃淋浴，可她干净得过分，早晨起来就淋浴。我喜欢闻她身上的香水味、新鲜的汗味，还有她从工作中带回来的有轨电车味。我也喜欢她湿淋淋的、打了香皂的身子，也乐意让她给我身上打香皂，也乐意给她打香皂。她教我不要难为情，而要理所当然地、彻底地去占有她。当我们做爱时，她也理所当然地采取占有我的做法，因为她在和我做爱，在从我身上获得情欲的满足。我不是说她不温柔，也不是说我没有得到乐趣。但在我学会去占有她之前，她只是顾及她的感受和乐趣。

　　学会占有她，那是以后的事——但我从未做到完全学会，因为我很久都觉得没有这种必要。我年轻，很快就能达到(禁止)。当我的体力慢慢恢复后，我又接着和她做爱。她把两手支撑在我的胸上，在最后一刻使劲抓我，抬起头猛地发出一种轻轻的抽咽般的喊叫声。第一次，我被她的这种叫声吓坏了，后来我开始渴望地期盼听到她的这种声音。

　　之后，我们都精疲力尽了。她经常躺在我怀里就睡着了，我听着院子里的锯木声和淹没在锯木声中的工人们的大喊大叫声。当听不到锯木声的时候，火车站街上微弱的交通嘈杂声就传入了厨房。当我听见孩子们的喊叫声、玩耍声时，我就知道学校已放学，已过一点钟了。中午回家的邻居在阳台上给鸟儿撒上鸟食，鸽子飞来，咕咕地叫着。

　　"你叫什么名字？"在第六天或第七天的时候，我问她。她在我怀里刚刚睡醒。这之前我一直避免用"你"和"您"来称呼她。

　　她一下子跳起来说："什么？"

　　"你叫什么名字？"

　　"你为什么想知道？"她满脸不信任地看着我说。

　　"你和我……我知道你姓什么，但不知道你叫什么。我想知道你的名字，这有什么……"

　　她笑了："没什么，小家伙，这没什么不对的。我叫汉娜。"她接着笑，止不住地笑，把我都感染了。

　　"你刚才看我时的表情很奇怪。"

　　"我还没睡醒呢。你叫什么名字？"

　　我以为她知道我的名字。当时时兴的是把上学用的东西不放在书包里，而是夹在腋下。当我把它们放在厨房桌子上时，我的名字都是朝上的，在作业本上和用很结实的纸包的书皮的课本上都贴上了小标签，上面写着课本的名称和我的名字，但是，她却从未注意这些。

　　"我叫米夏尔·白格。"

　　"米夏尔，米夏尔，米夏尔。"她试着叫着这个名字。

　　"我的小家伙叫米夏尔，是个大学生……"

　　"中学生。"

　　"……是个中学生，有……多大，十七岁？"

　　我点点头，她把我说大两岁，我感到很自豪。

　　"……十七岁了，当他长大的时候，想当一个著名的……"她犹豫着。

　　"我不知道我要当什么。"

　　"但你学习很用功。"

　　"就那么回事吧。"我对她说，她对我来说比学习和上学还重要，我更愿意经常地到她那儿去。"反正我得留级。"

　　"你在哪儿留级？"她坐了起来，这是我们之间第一次真正地交谈。

　　"高一。在过去的几个月里，由于生病我落下的课程太多了。如果我要跟班上的话，就必须用功学。这真无聊。就是现在也应该呆在学校里。"我告诉了她我逃学的事儿。

　　"滚！"她掀开鸭绒被子，"从我的床上滚出去2如果你的功课做不好的话，就再也别来了。学习无聊？无聊？你以为卖票、验票是什么有趣的事吗？"她站起来，（禁止）地在厨房里表演起售票员来。她用左手把装票本的小夹子打开，用戴着胶皮套的大拇指撕下两张票，右手一摇就把挂在右手腕上来回摇摆着的剪票钳子抓在了手里，喀喀两下说："两张若坝河。"她放下剪票钳子，伸出手来，拿了一张纸票，打开放在肚子前的钱夹把钱放了进去，再关上钱夹，从钱夹外层放硬币的地方挤出了零钱。"谁还没有票？"她看着我说："无聊，你知道什么是无聊。"

　　我坐在床沿上，呆若水(又鸟)。"很抱歉，我会跟班上课的，我不知道我能不能跟上，还有六周这个学期就要结束了。我要试试。可是，如果你不允许我再见到你的话，我就做不到。我……"起初我想说"我爱你"，但是又不想说了。也许她说的有道理，有一定的道理。但是，她没有权利要求我去做更多的功课，也没有权利把我做功课的情况作为我们能否相见的条件。"我不能不见你。"

　　过廊里的挂钟敲响了一点半的钟声。"你必须走了，"她犹豫着，"从明天起我上白班，五点钟就上班，下了班我就回家，你也可以来，如果在这之前你把功课做好的话。"

　　我们（禁止）地、面对面地站在那儿。她对我来说是不可抗拒的，如果她穿着工作制服，其不可抗拒性也不过如此。我弄不明白所发生的事情。这到底是关系到我，还是关系到她？如果说我的功课无聊话，那么她的工作才是真正的无聊，这样说是对她的一种伤害吗？不过，我并没说谁做的事情无聊。或许她不想让一个功课不好的人做她的情人？可是我是她的情人吗？我对她来说算什么呢？我磨磨蹭蹭地在穿衣服，希望她能说点什么，可她什么都没说。我穿好了衣服，她仍就（禁止）地站在那儿。当我和她拥抱告别时，她一点反应都没有。

xhai

Chapter 9
　WHY DOES it make me so sad when I think back to that time? Is it yearning for past happiness - for I was happy in the weeks that followed, in which I really did work like a lunatic and passed the class, and we made love as if nothing else in the world mattered. Is it the knowledge of what came later, and that what came out afterwards had been there all along?
　Why? Why does what was beautiful suddenly shatter in hindsight because it concealed dark truths? Why does the memory of years of happy marriage turn to gall怨恨when our partner is revealed to have had a lover all those years? Because such a situation makes it impossible to be happy? But we were happy! Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily. Because happiness is only real if it lasts forever? Because things always end painfully if they contained pain, conscious or unconscious, all along? But what is unconscious, unrecognized pain?
　I think back to that time and I see my former self. I wore the well-cut suits which had come down to me from a rich uncle, now dead, along with several pairs of two-tone shoes, black and brown, black and white, suede and calf. My arms and legs were too long, not for the suits, which my mother had let down (lengthen, let out a hem in order to make an article of clothing longer) for me, but for my own movements. My glasses were a cheap over-the-counter pair and my hair a tangled mop, no matter what I did. In school I was neither good nor bad; I think that many of the teachers didn’t really notice me, nor did the students who dominated the class. I didn’t like the way I looked, the way I dressed and moved, what I achieved and what I felt I was worth. But there was so much energy in me, such belief that one day I’d be handsome and clever and superior and admired, such anticipation when I met new people and new situations. Is that what makes me sad? The eagerness and belief that filled me then and exacted (demand, require) a pledge保证from life that life could never fulfill? Sometimes I see the same eagerness and belief in the faces of children and teenagers and the sight brings back the same sadness I feel in remembering myself. Is this what sadness is all about? Is it what comes over us when beautiful memories shatter in hindsight because the remembered happiness fed not just on actual circumstances but on a promise that was not kept?
　She - I should start calling her Hanna, just as I started calling her Hanna back then - she certainly didn’t nourish herself on promises, but was rooted in the here and now.
　I asked her about her life, and it was as if she rummaged around in a dusty chest to get me the answers. She had grown up in a German community in Rumania, then come to Berlin at the age of sixteen, taken a job at the Siemens factory, and ended up in the army at twenty-one. Since the end of the war, she had done all manner of jobs to get by. She had been a streetcar conductor for several years; what she liked about the job was the uniform and the constant motion, the changing scenery and the wheels rolling under her feet. But that was all she liked about it. She had no family. She was thirty-six. She told me all this as if it were not her life but somebody else’s, someone she didn’t know well and who wasn’t important to her. Things I wanted to know more about had vanished completely from her mind, and she didn’t understand why I was interested in what had happened to her parents, whether she had had brothers and sisters, how she had lived in Berlin and what she’d done in the army. “The things you ask, kid!”
　It was the same with the future - of course I wasn’t hammering out plans for marriage and future. But I identified more with Julien Sorel’s relationship with Madame de Renal than his one with Mathilde de la Mole. I was glad to see Felix Krull end up in the arms of the mother rather than the daughter. My sister, who was studying German literature, delivered a report at the dinner table about the controversy as to whether Mr. von Goethe and Madame von Stein had had a relationship, and I vigorously defended the idea, to the bafflement of my family. I imagined how our relationship might be in five or ten years. I asked Hanna how she imagined it. She didn’t even want to think ahead to Easter, when I wanted to take a bicycle trip with her during the vacation. We could get a room together as mother and son, and spend the whole night together.
　Strange that this idea and suggesting it were not embarrassing to me. On a trip with my mother I would have fought to get a room of my own. Having my mother with me when I went to the doctor or to buy a new coat or to be picked up by her after a trip seemed to me to be something I had outgrown. If we went somewhere together and we ran into my schoolmates, I was afraid they would think I was a mama’s boy. But to be seen with Hanna, who was ten years younger than my mother but could have been my mother, didn’t bother me. It made me proud.
　When I see a woman of thirty-six today, I find her young. But when I see a boy of fifteen, I see a child. I am amazed at how much confidence Hanna gave me. My success at school got my teachers’ attention and assured me of their respect. The girls I met noticed and liked it that I wasn’t afraid of them. I felt at ease in my own body.
　The memory that illuminates and fixes my first meetings with Hanna makes a single blur of the weeks between our first conversation and the end of the school year. One reason for that is we saw each other so regularly and our meetings always followed the same course. Another is that my days had never been so full and my life had never been so swift and so dense. When I think about the work I did in those weeks, it’s as if I had sat down at my desk and stayed there until I had caught up with everything I’d missed during my hepatitis, learned all the vocabulary, read all the texts, worked through all the theorems and memorized the periodic table. I had already done the reading about the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich while I was in my sickbed. And I remember our meetings in those weeks as one single long meeting. After our conversation, they were always in the afternoon: if she was on the late shift, then from three to four-thirty, otherwise until five-thirty. Dinner was at seven, and at first Hanna forced me to be home on time. But after a while an hour and a half was not enough, and I began to think up excuses to miss dinner.
　It all happened because of reading aloud. The day after our conversation, Hanna wanted to know what I was learning in school. I told her about Homer, Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC), Roman statesman and writer), and Hemingway’s story about the old man and his battle with the fish and the sea. She wanted to hear what Greek and Latin sounded like, and I read to her from the Odyssey and the speeches against Cataline.
　“Are you also learning German?”
　“How do you mean?”
　“Do you only learn foreign languages, or is there still stuff you have to learn in your own?”
　“We read texts.” While I was sick, the class had read Emilia Galotti and Intrigues and Love, and there was an essay due on them. So I had to read both, which I did after finishing everything else. By then it was late, and I was tired, and next day I’d forgotten it all and had to start all over again.
　“So read it to me!”
　“Read it yourself, I’ll bring it for you.”
　“You have such a nice voice, kid, I’d rather listen to you than read it myself.”
　“Oh, come on.”
　But next day when I arrived and wanted to kiss her, she pulled back. “First you have to read.”
　She was serious. I had to read Emilia Galotti to her for half an hour before she took me into the shower and then to bed. Now I enjoyed showering too - the desire I felt when I arrived had got lost as I read aloud to her. Reading a play out loud so that the various characters are more or less recognizable and come to life takes a certain concentration. Lust reasserted itself under the shower. So reading to her, showering with her, making love to her, and lying next to her for a while afterwards - that became the ritual in our meetings.
　She was an attentive listener. Her laugh, her sniffs of contempt, and her angry or enthusiastic remarks left no doubt that she was following the action intently, and that she found both Emilia and Luise to be silly little girls. Her impatience when she sometimes asked me to go on reading seemed to come from the hope that all this imbecility would eventually play itself out. “Unbelievable!” Sometimes this made even me eager to keep reading. As the days grew longer, I read longer, so that I could be in bed with her in the twilight. When she had fallen asleep lying on me, and the saw in the yard was quiet, and a blackbird was singing as the colors of things in the kitchen dimmed until nothing remained of them but lighter and darker shades of gray, I was completely happy.


　　第09节

　　为什么一想起过去我就很伤心？这是一种对过去幸福时光的怀念吗？——在随后的几周里，我的确很幸福愉快，我拼命地用功学习而没有留级；我们相亲相爱，仿佛世界上只有我俩。还是由于我后来知道了事实真相？

　　为什么？为什么对我们来说那么美好的东西竟在回忆中被那些隐藏的丑恶变得支离破碎？为什么对一段幸福婚姻的回忆在发现另一方多年来竟还有一个情人之后会变得痛苦不堪？是因为人在这种情况下无幸福可言吗？但是他们曾经是幸福的！有时候人们对幸福的回忆大打折扣，如果结局令人痛苦。是因为只有持久的幸福才称得上幸福吗？是因为不自觉的和没有意识到的痛苦一定要痛苦地了结吗？可什么又是不自觉和没有意识到的痛苦呢？

　　我回想着过去，眼前出现了当时的我自己。我穿着一套讲究的西服，那是我一位富有的叔叔的遗物，它和几双有两种颜色的皮鞋——黑色和棕色、黑色和白色、生皮和软皮，一起传到了我手里。我的胳膊和腿都很长，穿妈妈为我放大的任何制服都不合身。我胳膊腿不是为穿衣长的，而是为动作协调长的。我的眼镜的式样是疾病保险公司所支付的那种，价钱最便宜。我的头发是那种蓬松型，我可以随心所欲地梳理它。在学校里，我的功课不好不坏。我相信，许多老师没有把我当回事，班里的好学生也没把我放在眼里。我不喜欢我的长相，不喜欢我的穿戴举止，不满我的现状，对别人对我的评价不屑一顾。希望有朝一日变得英俊聪明，超过其他人，让他们羡慕我。不过，我有多少精力，多少信心？我还能期待遇到什么新人和新情况呢！

　　是这些令我伤感吗？还是我当时的勤奋努力和内心所充满的信念令我伤感？我的信念是对生活的一种承诺，一种无法兑现的承诺。有时候，我在儿童和青少年的脸上能看到这种勤奋和信念。我看到它们时，我感到伤感，一种令我想起自己的过去的伤感。这是一种绝对的伤感吗？当一段美好的回忆变得支离破碎时，我们就一定伤感吗？因为被追忆的幸福不仅仅存在于当时的现实生活中，也存在于当时没有履行的诺言中？

　　她——从现在起我应叫她汉娜，就像我当时开始叫她汉娜一样，她当然不是生活在承诺中，而是生活在现实中，仅仅生活在现实中。

　　我问过她的过去，她的回答仿佛像从布满灰尘的老箱子里折腾出来的东西一样没有新意。她在七座堡长大，十七岁去了柏林，曾是西门子公司的一名女工，二十一岁时去当了兵。战争结束以后，所有可能的工作她都做过。有轨电车售票员的工作，她已经干了几年了，她喜欢那套制服和这种往返运动，喜欢变换的风景还有脚下车轮的转动。除此之外，她并不喜欢这份工作。三十六岁了，仍没有成家。她讲述这些的时候，仿佛讲的不是她自己的生活，而是另外一个她不熟悉、与她无关的人的生活。我想详细知道的事情，她往往都不记得了。她也不理解我为什么对诸如此类的问题感兴趣：她父母从事什么职业？她是否有兄弟姐妹？她在柏林是怎样生活的？她当兵时都做了什么？"你都想知道些什么呀！小家伙。"

　　她对未来的态度也是如此。当然，我没有想结婚组建家庭的计划。但是，相对而言，我对朱连·索雷尔与雷娜尔的关系比他与马蒂尔德·德拉莫尔的关系更为同情。我知道，腓力斯·科鲁尔最后不愿在他女儿的怀里，而愿在他母亲的怀里死去。我姐姐是学日耳曼学的，她曾在饭桌上讲述过关于歌德和施泰因夫人的暧昧关系的争论。我强词夺理地为他．们辩护，这令全家人感到震惊。我设想过我们的关系在五年或十年之后会是什么样子。我问汉娜她是怎么想的，她说她甚至连复活节的事都还没想。我们曾商定，复活节放假时，我和她骑自行车出去。这样，我们就可以以母子身份住在一个房间里，可以整夜呆在一起了。

　　我的设想和建议很少有不令我痛苦的时候。有一次和妈妈一起度假，我本想为自己力争一个单间。由妈妈陪着去看医生，或者去买一件新大衣，或者旅行回来由她去接站，这些我觉得都已与我的年龄不相称了。如果和妈妈在路上遇到同学的话，我害怕他们把我当做妈妈的宝贝儿子。尽管汉娜比我妈妈年轻十岁，可也够做我妈妈的年龄了。不过，和她在一起，我不但不怕别人看见，反而还为此感到自豪。

　　如果现在我见到一个三十六岁的女人，我会认为她很年轻，但是，如果我现在看到一个十五岁的男孩，我会认为他还是个孩子。汉娜给了我那么多自信，这使我感到惊讶。我在学校取得的成绩引起了老师们的注意，他们已对我刮目相看。我接触的女孩们也察觉到，我在她们面前不再胆怯，她们也喜欢我这样。我感到惬意。

　　我对与汉娜最初的相遇记忆犹新，当时的情景历历在目，这使得我对后来发生的事情，即从我与她的那次谈话到学年结束之前的那几周内发生的事情，反而记不清了。其中原因之一，是我们见面、分手都太有规律了。另一个原因是，在此之前，我从未有过这么忙碌的日子，我的生活节奏还从本这么快过，生活从未这么充实过。如果我回想我在那几周内所做的功课的话，我仿佛感觉到我又坐在写字台旁，而且一直坐在那儿，直到把我生病期间所落下的功课都赶上为止。我学了所有的生词，念了所有的课文，证明了所有的数学习题，连接了所有的化学关系。关于魏玛共和国和第三帝国，我在医院的病床上就读过了。还有我们的约会，在我的记忆中，这时约会的时间持续最长。自我们那次谈话之后，我们总是在下午见面。如果她上晚班的话，就从三点到四点半，否则就到五点半。七点钟开晚饭。开始时，她还催我准时回家，可是，过了一段时间以后，我就不止呆一个半小时了，我开始找借口放弃吃晚饭。

　　这是由于要朗读的缘故。在我们交谈之后的第二天，汉娜想知道我在学校都学什么。于是，我向她讲述了荷马史诗、西塞罗的演讲和海明威的《老人与海》的故事——老人怎样与鱼、与海搏斗。她想知道希腊语和拉丁语听起来是什么样。我给她朗读了《奥德赛》中的一段和反对卡塔琳娜的演讲。

　　"你还学德语吗？"

　　"你是什么意思？"

　　"你是只学外语呢，还是自己的本国语言也有要学？"

　　"我们念课文。"我生病期间，我们班读了《爱米丽雅·葛洛获》和《阴谋与爱情》。这之后，我们要写一篇读后感。这样，我还要补读这两本书。我每次都是在做完其他作业之后才开始阅读它们。这样，当我开始阅读时，时间就已经很晚了，我也很累了，读过的东西第二天就全忘记了，我必须重读一遍。

　　"读给我听听！"

　　"你自己读吧，我把它给你带来。"

　　"小家伙，你的声音特别好听，我宁愿听你朗读而不愿自己去读。"

　　"是吗？原来如此？"

　　第二天，我仍去她那儿。当我想亲吻她时，她却躲开了："你得先给我朗读！"

　　她是认真的。在她让我淋浴和上床之前，我要为她朗读半个小时的《爱米丽雅·葛洛获》。现在我也喜欢淋浴了。我来时的性欲，在朗读时都消失了，因为朗读一段课文时要绘声绘色地把不同的人物形象表现出来，这需要集中精力。淋浴时，我的性欲又来了。朗读、淋浴、做爱，然后在一起躺一会儿，这已成了我们每次约会的例行公事。

　　她是个注意力集中的听众，她的笑，她的嗤之以鼻，她的愤怒或者是赞赏的惊呼，都毫无疑问地表明，她紧张地跟踪着情节。她认为爱米丽雅像露伊莎一样都是愚蠢的、没有教养的女孩。她有时迫不及待地求我继续念下去，这是由于她希望这段愚蠢的故事应该早点结束。"怎么会有这种事呢／有时我自己也渴望读下去。当天变长的时候，我读的时间也长些，为的是在黄昏时才与她上床。当她在我怀里入睡，院子里的锯木声沉默下来，乌鸦在唱歌，厨房里也只剩下越来越淡的和越来越黯的颜色时，我也沉浸在无限幸福之中。

xhai

Chapter 10
　ON THE first day of Easter vacation, I got up at four. Hanna was working the early shift. She rode her bicycle to the streetcar depot at a quarter past four and was on the streetcar to Schwetzingen at four-thirty. On the way out, she’d told me, the streetcar was often empty. It only filled up on the return journey.
　I got on at the second stop. The second car was empty; Hanna was standing in the first car close to the driver. I debated whether I should sit in the first or the second car, and decided on the second. It promised privacy, a hug, a kiss. But Hanna didn’t come. She must have seen that I had been waiting at the stop and had got on. That’s why the streetcar had stopped. But she stayed up with the driver, talking and joking. I could see them.
　The streetcar passed one stop after another. No one was waiting to get on. The streets were empty. It was not yet sunrise, and under a colorless sky everything lay pale in the pale light: buildings, parked cars, the new leaves on the trees and first flowers on the shrubs, the gas tank, and the mountains in the distance. The streetcar was moving slowly; presumably the schedule was based both on stopping times and on the time between each stop, and so the speed of travel had to be slowed down when there were no actual stops. I was imprisoned in the slow-moving car. At first I sat, then I went and stood on the front platform and tried to impale Hanna with my stare; I wanted her to feel my eyes in her back. After some time she turned around and glanced at me. Then she went on talking to the driver. The journey continued. Once we’d passed Eppelheim the rails were no longer in the surface of the road, but laid alongside on a graveled embankment. The car accelerated, with the regular clackety-clack of a train. I knew that this stretch continued through various places and ended up in Schwetzingen. But I felt rejected, exiled from the real world in which people lived and worked and loved. It was as if I were condemned to ride forever in an empty car to nowhere.
　Then I saw another stop, a shelter in the middle of open country. I pulled the cord the conductors used to signal the driver to stop or start. The streetcar stopped. Neither Hanna nor the driver looked back at me when they heard the bell. As I got off, I thought they were looking at me and laughing. But I wasn’t sure. Then the streetcar moved on, and I looked after it until it headed down into a dip and disappeared behind a hill. I was standing between the embankment and the road, there were fields around me, and fruit trees, and further on a nursery苗圃with greenhouses. The air was cool, and filled with the twittering of birds. Above the mountains the pale sky shone pink.
　The trip on the streetcar had been like a bad dream. If I didn’t remember its epilogue so vividly, I would actually be tempted to think of it as a bad dream. Standing at the streetcar stop, hearing the birds and watching the sun come up was like an awakening. But waking from a bad dream does not necessarily console you. It can also make you fully aware of the horror you just dreamed, and even of the truth residing in that horror. I set off towards home in tears, and couldn’t stop crying until I reached Eppelheim.
　I walked all the way back. I tried more than once to hitch a ride. When I was halfway there, the streetcar passed me. It was full. I didn’t see Hanna.
　I was waiting for her on the landing outside her apartment at noon, miserable, anxious, and furious.
　“Are you cutting school again?”
　“I’m on vacation. What was going on this morning?”
　She unlocked the door and I followed her into the apartment and into the kitchen.
　“What do you mean, what was going on this morning?”
　“Why did you behave as if you didn’t know me? I wanted ...”
　“I behaved as if I didn’t know you?” She turned around and stared at me coldly. “You didn’t want to know me. Getting into the second car when you could see I was in the first.”
　“Why would I get up at four-thirty on my first day of vacation to ride to Schwetzingen? Just to surprise you, because I thought you’d be happy. I got into the second car ...”
　“You poor baby. Up at four-thirty, and on your vacation too.”
　I had never seen her sarcastic before. She shook her head.
　“How should I know why you’re going to Schwetzingen? How should I know why you choose not to know me? It’s your business, not mine. Would you leave now?”
　I can’t describe how furious I was. “That’s not fair, Hanna. You knew, you had to know that I only got in the car to be with you. How can you believe I didn’t want to know you? If I didn’t, I would not have got on at all.”
　“Oh, leave me alone. I already told you, what you do is your business, not mine.” She had moved so that the kitchen table was between us; everything in her look, her voice, and her gestures told me I was an intruder and should leave.
　I sat down on the sofa. She had treated me badly and I had wanted to call her on it. But I hadn’t got through to her. Instead, she was the one who’d attacked me. And I became uncertain. Could she be right, not objectively, but subjectively? Could she have, must she have misunderstood me? Had I hurt her, unintentionally, against my will, but hurt her anyway?
　“I’m sorry, Hanna. Everything went wrong. I didn’t mean to upset you, but it looks ...”
　“It looks? You think it looks like you upset me? You don’t have the power to upset me. And will you please go, finally? I’ve been working, I want to take a bath, and I want a little peace.” She looked at me commandingly. When I didn’t get up, she shrugged, turned around, ran water into the tub, and took off her clothes.
　Then I stood up and left. I thought I was leaving for good. But half an hour later I was back at her door. She let me in, and I said the whole thing was my fault. I had behaved thoughtlessly, inconsiderately, unlovingly. I understood that she was upset. I understood that she wasn’t upset because I couldn’t upset her. I understood that I couldn’t upset her, but that she simply couldn’t allow me to behave that way to her. In the end, I was happy that she admitted I’d hurt her.
　So she wasn’t as unmoved and uninvolved as she’d been making out, after all.
　“Do you forgive me?”
　She nodded.
　“Do you love me?”
　She nodded again. “The tub is still full. Come, I’ll bathe you.”
　Later I wondered if she had left the water in the tub because she knew I would come back. If she had taken her clothes off because she knew I wouldn’t be able to get that out of my head and that it would bring me back. If she had just wanted to win a power game.
　After we’d made love and were lying next to each other and I told her why I’d got into the second car and not the first, she teased me. “You want to do it with me in the streetcar too? Kid, kid!” It was as if the actual cause of our fight had been meaningless.
　But its results had meaning. I had not only lost this fight. I had caved in after a short struggle when she threatened to send me away and withhold herself. In the weeks that followed I didn’t fight at all. If she threatened, I instantly and unconditionally surrendered. I took all the blame. I admitted mistakes I hadn’t made, intentions I’d never had. Whenever she turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me. Sometimes I had the feeling that she hurt herself when she turned cold and rigid. As if what she was yearning for was the warmth of my apologies, protestations, and entreaties. Sometimes I thought she just bullied me. But either way, I had no choice.
　I couldn’t talk to her about it. Talking about our fights only led to more fighting. Once or twice I wrote her letters. But she didn’t react, and when I asked her about them, she said, “Are you starting that again?”


　　第10节

　　复活节第一天，我四点钟就起床了。汉娜上早班，她四点一刻骑自行车去有轨电车停车场，四点半她就在开往施魏青根的电车上了。她对我说过，去时车上往往很空，只是回来时，车上才满满的。

　　我在第二站上了车。第二节车厢是空的，汉娜在第一节车厢里，站在司机旁边。我犹豫着是上前面的车厢还是上后面的车厢，最后我还是决定上了后面的车厢。后面的车厢很隐蔽，可以拥抱，可以接吻，但是汉娜没有过来。她一定看到了我在车站等车，也看到我上了车，否则车也不会停下来。可是她还是呆在司机旁边和他聊天说笑，这些我都能看到。

　　车开过了一站又一站，没有人在等车。街道上也没有人，太阳还没有升起来，白云下面，一切都笼罩在白茫茫的晨曦中：房屋、停着的小汽车、刚刚变绿的树木、开花的灌木丛、煤气炉还有远处的山脉。因为好多站都没有停车，车现在开得很慢，估计是由于车到每站的时间是固定的，车必须按时到站。我被关在了慢慢行驶的车厢里。最初，我还坐在那儿，后来，我站到了车厢前面的平台上，而且尽力注视着汉娜。她应该能感觉到我在她身后注视着她。过了一会儿，她转过身来仔细地打量着我，然后又接着和司机聊天。车继续行驶着，过了埃佩尔海姆之后，铁轨不是建在街上，而是建在街旁用鹅卵石砌成的路堤上。车开得快些了，带着有轨电车那种均匀的咔哒咔哒声。我知道这条路线要经过好多地方，终点站是施魏青根。此时此刻，我感觉自己与世隔绝了，与人们生活、居住、相爱的正常世界隔绝了。好像我活该要无目的地、无止境地坐在这节车厢里。

　　后来，在一块空地上，我看见了一个停车站，也就是一个等车的小房子。我拉了一下售票员用以给司机发出停车或开车信号的绳子。车停了下来，汉娜和司机都没有因为我拉了停车信号而回头看看我。当我下车的时候，好像她对我笑了笑，但我不敢肯定。接着车就开走了。我目送它先是开进了一块凹地，然后在一座小山丘后面消失不见了。我站在路堤和街道中间，环绕着我的是田地、果树，再远一点是带着花房的花园。这里空气清新、鸟语花香，远处山上的白云下，飘浮着红霞。

　　坐在车上的那段时间，就好像做了一场噩梦。如果我对那后果不是如此记忆犹新的话，我真的会把它当做一场噩梦来对待。我站在停车站，听着鸟语，看着日出，就好像刚刚睡醒一样。但是，从一场噩梦中醒来也并非是件轻松的事，也许恶梦会成真，甚至人们梦中的可怕情景也会在现实生活中再现。我泪流满面地走在回家的路上，一直到了埃佩尔海姆我才止住了哭泣。

　　我徒步往家走，试了几次想搭车都没有搭成。当我走了一半路程的时候，有轨电车从我身边开了过去，车上很拥挤，我没有看到汉娜。

　　十二点的时候，我伤心地、忧心忡忡地。大为恼怒地坐在她房门前的台阶上等候她。

　　"你又逃学了？"

　　"我放假了，今天早上是怎么回事？"她打开房门，我跟她进了屋，进了厨房。

　　"你为什么装做不认识我的样子？我想要……"

　　"我装做不认识你的样子？"她转过身来，冷冰冰地看着我的脸说，"你根本不想认识我，你上了第二节车厢而你明明看见我在第一节车厢里。"

　　"我为什么在放假的第一天早上四点半就乘车去施魏青根？我仅仅是想要给你个惊喜，因为我想你会高兴的。我上了第二节车厢……"

　　"你这可怜的孩子，在四点半就起床了，而且还是在你的假期里。"我还没有领教过她嘲讽的口吻。她摇着头："我怎么知道你为什么要去施魏青根，我怎么知道你为什么不想认得我，这是你的事情，不是我的，现在你还不想走吗？"

　　我无法描述我的气愤程度。"这不公平，汉娜，你知道的，你一定知道的，我是为你才去坐车的，你怎么能认为我不想认得你呢？如果我不想认识你的话，我也就根本不会去乘车了。"

　　"啊，行了，我已经说过，你怎么做是你的事，不关我的事。"她调整了自己的位置，这样，我们之间就隔了厨房的一张桌子。她的眼神、她的声音、她的手势都说明她正把我当成了一个破门而入者来对付，并要求我走开。

　　我坐到沙发里。她恶劣地对待了我，我想质问她。但我还根本没有来得及开始，她却先向我进攻了。这样一来，我开始变得没有把握了。她也许是对的？但不是在客观上，而是在主观上？她会或者她一定误解了我吗？我伤害她了吗？我无意伤害她，也不愿伤害她，可还是伤害了她？

　　"很抱歉，汉娜，一切都搞糟了，我没想伤害你，可是看来……"。"看来？你的意思是，看来你把我伤害了？你没那能力伤害我，你不行。现在你总该走了吧？我干了一天的活，想洗澡，我要安静一会儿。"她敦促地看着我。看我还没站起来，她耸了耸肩，转过身去，开始放水脱衣服。

　　现在，我站起来走了。我想，我这一走就一去不复返了。可是半小时之后，我又站在了她的房门前。她让我进了屋。我把一切都承担了，承认我毫无顾及地、不加思考地、无情无爱地处理了这事。我知道她受到了伤害。我也知道她没有受到伤害，因为我没有能力伤害她。我明白我不可能伤害她，因为她根本就不给我这种机会。最后，当她承认我伤害了她的时候，我很幸福。这样看来，她并非像她所表现的那样无动于衷，那样无所谓。

　　"你原谅我了吗？"

　　她点点头。

　　"你爱我吗？"

　　她又点点头。"浴缸里还有水，来，我给你洗澡！"

　　后来我自问，她把浴缸里的水留在那儿，是不是因为她知道我还会回来的？她把衣服脱掉了是不是因为她知道我忘不了看到她脱衣服时的感觉，因此，会为此再回去的？她是否只是为了在这场争执中取胜？当我们做完爱，躺在一起时，我给她讲了我为什么没有上第一节车厢而是上了第二节车厢的原因。她以嘲弄的口吻说：'小家伙，小家伙，你甚至在有轨电车上也想和我做爱吗？"这样一来，引起我们争吵的原因就似乎无关紧要了。

　　可事情的结果却至关重要。我在这场争吵中不仅仅败下阵来，在短暂的争执之后，当她威胁着要把我拒之门外时，当她回避我时，我屈服了。在接下来的几周里，我没有和她争吵过一次，即使是很短暂的一次也没有。当她一威胁我对，我立刻就无条件地投降。我把所有的过错都揽到自己身上。不是我的过错我也承认，不是故意的也说是故意的。当她的态度冷淡和严厉的时候，我乞求她重新对我好，原谅我，爱我。有时候，我感觉到，她似乎也为自己的冷淡无情而苦恼。好像她也渴望得到我的温暖、我的道歉、我的保证和我的恳求。有时我想，她太轻易地就征服了我，可是无论如何，我都没有选择的余地。

　　我和她无法就此交谈。就我们的争吵来交谈会导致一场新的争吵。我给她写了一封或两封长信，可她对此毫无反应。当我问起此事时，她反问道："你怎么又开始了？"

xhai

Chapter 11
　NOT THAT Hanna and I weren’t happy again after the first day of Easter vacation. We were never happier than in those weeks of April. As sham as our first fight and indeed all our fights were, everything that enlarged our ritual of reading, showering, making love, and lying beside each other did us good. Besides which, she had trumped herself with her accusation that I hadn’t wanted to know her. When I wanted to be seen with her, she couldn’t raise any fundamental objections. “So it was you who didn’t want to be seen with me” - she didn’t want to have to listen to that. So the week after Easter we set off by bike on a four-day trip to Wimpfen, Amorbach, and Miltenberg.
　I don’t remember what I told my parents. That I was doing the trip with my friend Matthias? With a group? That I was going to visit a former classmate? My mother was probably worried, as usual, and my father probably found, as usual, that she should stop worrying. Hadn’t I just passed the class, when nobody thought I could do it?
　While I was sick, I hadn’t spent any of my pocket money. But that wouldn’t be enough if I wanted to pay for Hanna as well. So I offered to sell my stamp collection to the stamp dealer next to the Church of the Holy Spirit. It was the only shop that said on the door that it purchased collections. The salesman looked through my album and offered me sixty marks. I made him look at my showpiece, a straight-edged Egyptian stamp with a pyramid that was listed in the catalog for four hundred marks. He shrugged. If I cared that much about my collection, maybe I should hang on to it. Was I even allowed to be selling it? What did my parents say about it? I tried to bargain. If the stamp with the pyramid wasn’t that valuable, I would just keep it. Then he could only give me thirty marks. So the stamp with the pyramid was valuable after all? In the end I got seventy marks. I felt cheated, but I didn’t care.
　I was not the only one with itchy feet. To my amazement, Hanna started getting restless days before we left. She went this way and that over what to take, and packed and repacked the saddlebag (bag laid behind a saddle of a horse; bag placed behind a bicycle seat) and rucksack I had got hold of for her. When I wanted to show her the route I had worked out on the map, she didn’t want to look, or even hear about it. “I’m too excited already. You’ll have worked it out right anyway, kid.”
　We set off on Easter Monday. The sun was shining and went on shining for four days. The mornings were cool and then the days warmed up, not too warm for cycling, but warm enough to have picnics. The woods were carpets of green, with yellow green, bright green, bottle green, blue green, and black green daubs, flecks, and patches. In the flatlands along the Rhine, the first fruit trees were already in bloom. In Odenwald the first forsythias连翘属植物were out.
　Often we could ride side by side. Then we pointed out to each other the things we saw: the castle, the fisherman, the boat on the river, the tent, the family walking single file along the bank, the enormous American convertible with the top down. When we changed directions or roads, I had to ride ahead; she didn’t want to have to bother with such things. Otherwise, when the traffic was too heavy, she sometimes rode behind me and sometimes vice versa. Her bike had covered spokes, pedals, and gears, and she wore a blue dress with a big skirt that fluttered in her wake. It took me some time to stop worrying that the skirt would get caught in the spokes or the gears and she would fall off. After that, I liked watching her ride ahead of me.
　How I had looked forward to the nights. I had imagined that we would make love, go to sleep, wake up, make love again, go to sleep again, wake up again and so on, night after night. But the only time I woke up again was the first night. She lay with her back to me, I leaned over her and kissed her, and she turned on her back, took me into her and held me in her arms. “Kid, kid.” Then I fell asleep on top of her. The other nights we slept right through, worn out by the cycling, the sun, and the wind. We made love in the mornings.
　Hanna didn’t just let me be in charge of choosing our direction and the roads to take. I was the one who picked out the inns where we spent the nights, registered us as mother and son while she just signed her name, and selected our food from the menu for both of us. “I like not having to worry about a thing for a change.”
　The only fight we had took place in Amorbach. I had woken up early, dressed quietly, and crept out of the room. I wanted to bring up breakfast and also see if I could find a flower shop open where I could get a rose for Hanna. I had left a note on the night table. “Good morning! Bringing breakfast, be right back,” or words to that effect. When I returned, she was standing in the room, trembling with rage and white-faced.
　“How could you go just like that?”
　I put down the breakfast tray with the rose on it and wanted to take her in my arms. “Hanna.”
　“Don’t touch me.” She was holding the narrow leather belt that she wore around her dress; she took a step backwards and hit me across the face with it. My lip split and I tasted blood. It didn’t hurt. I was horrorstruck. She swung again.
　But she didn’t hit me. She let her arm fall, dropped the belt, and burst into tears. I had never seen her cry. Her face lost all its shape. Wide-open eyes, wide-open mouth, eyelids swollen after the first tears, red blotches on her cheeks and neck. Her mouth was making croaking, throaty sounds like the toneless cry when we made love. She stood there looking at me through her tears.
　I should have taken her in my arms. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do. At home none of us cried like that. We didn’t hit, not even with our hands, let alone a leather belt. We talked. But what was I supposed to say now?
　She took two steps towards me, beat her fists against me, then clung to me. Now I could hold her. Her shoulders trembled, she knocked her forehead against my chest. Then she gave a deep sigh and snuggled into my arms.
　“Shall we have breakfast?” She let go of me. “My God, kid, look at you.” She fetched a wet towel and cleaned my mouth and chin. “And your shirt is covered with blood.” She took off the shirt and my pants, and we made love.
　“What was the matter? Why did you get so angry?”
　We were lying side by side, so satiated and content that I thought everything would be cleared up now.
　“What was the matter, what was the matter - you always ask such silly questions. You can’t just leave like that.”
　“But I left you a note ...”
　“Note?”
　I sat up. The note was no longer on the night table where I had left it. I got to my feet, and searched next to the night table, and underneath, and under the bed and in it. I couldn’t find it. “I don’t understand. I wrote you a note saying I was going to get breakfast and I’d be right back.”
　“You did? I don’t see any note.”
　“You don’t believe me?”
　“I’d love to believe you. But I don’t see any note.”
　We didn’t go on fighting. Had a gust of wind come and taken the note and carried it away to God knows where? Had it all been a misunderstanding, her fury, my split lip, her wounded face, my helplessness? Should I have gone on searching, for the note, for the cause of Hanna’s fury, for the source of my helplessness?
　“Read me something, kid!” She cuddled up to me and I picked up Eichendorff’s Memoirs of a Good-for-Nothing and continued from where I had left off. Memoirs of a Good-for-Nothing was easy to read aloud, easier than Emilia Galotti and Intrigues and Love. Again, Hanna followed everything eagerly. She liked the scattering of poems. She liked the disguises, the mix-ups, the complications and pursuits which the hero gets tangled up in Italy. At the same time, she held it against him that he’s a good-for-nothing who doesn’t achieve anything, can’t do anything, and doesn’t want to besides. She was torn in all directions; hours after I stopped reading, she was still coming up with questions. “Customs collector - wasn’t much of a job?”
　Once again the report on our fight has become so detailed that I would like to report on our happiness. The fight made our relationship more intimate. I had seen her crying. The Hanna who could cry was closer to me than the Hanna who was only strong. She began to show a soft side that I had never seen before. She kept looking at my split lip, until it healed, and stroking it gently.
　We made love in a different way. For a long time I had abandoned myself to her and her power of possession. Then I had also learned to take possession of her. On this trip and afterwards, we no longer merely took possession of each other.
　I have a poem that I wrote back then. As poetry, it’s worthless. At the time I was in love with Rilke and Benn, and I can see that I wanted to imitate them both. But I can also see how close we were at the time. Here is the poem:
　
　When we open ourselves
　you yourself to me and I myself to you,
　when we submerge
　you into me and I into you
　when we vanish
　into me you and into you I
　
　Then
　am I me
　and you are you



　　第11节

　　汉娜和我并不是在复活节第一天过后就不再幸福了。四月份的那周我们很愉快，我们从本那样愉快过。这第一次争吵——也是我们的主要争吵之一，改变了我们日常生活的所有方式，即朗读、淋浴。做爱，然后躺在一起的生活方式，这对我们有好处。此外，她一口认定我那天不想认她。但是，当我想和她一起展示给外人看时，她又提不出原则性的反对意见。"原来你还是不愿意让别人看见我和你在一起。"她不想听到我说这样的话。这样，复活节过后的那周，我们骑车出去了四天，我们去了温普芬、阿木尔巴赫和米尔藤堡。

　　我已不记得，我当时都对父母说了些什么。是说我和好朋友马蒂亚斯一起出去？还是和几个人一起出去？是说我去拜访一位老同学？大概我母亲像以往一样对我很不放心，而我父亲却也像往常一样，认为母亲对我不应该有什么木放心。别人都不相信我会赶上功课，我不是也赶上了吗？

　　生病期间，我的零花钱都没花。可是如果我为汉娜付钱的话，却又不够。因此，我就在圣灵大教堂附近的一家邮票店出售了我的集邮邮票。那是惟一的一家门上贴着收购集邮邮册招牌的邮票店。一位店员翻了翻我的集邮册，然后出价六十马克。我指给他看了一张我的王牌邮票，一张带有金字塔的方形埃及邮票，这张邮票在票册中的标价为四百马克。他耸耸肩。如果我十分眷恋我的集邮的话，也许我该保留它们。我到底可不可以卖掉它们呢？我的父母会对此说些什么呢？我尽量讨价还价，我说，如果像他说的那样带金字塔那张邮票不值钱的话，那么我干脆就不卖它了。这样一来，他又仅出三十马克了。这么说，带金字塔的那张邮票还是值钱？最后，我卖了七十马克。我感觉自己被骗了，可这对我来说无所谓。

　　不仅我对这次旅行激动不已，令我感到惊讶的是汉娜在出发的前几天也已经心神不定了。她考虑来考虑去应该带些什么东西，把东西装到了自行车的挂包里和我为她买来的肩背包里，折腾来折腾去的。当我想在地图上指给她看我考虑好的路线图时，她什么都不想听，什么都不想看。"我现在太兴奋了，小家伙，你做的一定错不了。"

　　复活节的星期一我们上路了。当日阳光明媚，一连四天都阳光明媚。早晨天气凉爽，白天天气暖和，但对骑自行车来说还不是太暖和，不过在外野餐已不冷了。森林像一块绿地毯一样，由黄绿、浅绿、深绿、蓝绿和墨绿组成。一会儿深，一会儿浅地交织在一起。莱茵平原上的第一批果树已经开花了，奥登森林的连翘刚刚抽芽。

　　我们常常并肩而行，我们相互指看一些沿途见到的东西：城堡、垂钓者、河上行驶的船、帐篷、岸上列队行走的一家家人，还有敞篷美国大轿车。转弯和走新路时，必须由我带路。朝哪个方向走和走哪条路的事她不想操心。如果路面很拥挤的话，时而她在前面骑，时而我在前面骑。她骑的自行车的链条、脚蹬和齿轮处都有遮板。她穿着一件蓝色的连衣裙，宽肥的下摆随风飘舞。我曾为她担心，怕她的裙子被卷到链条或车链子里，怕她因此而跌倒。在我不再担心之后，我愿意看着她在我前面骑。

　　我多么盼望着夜晚的降临啊！我想象着我们做爱、睡觉、醒来、再做爱、再入睡、再醒来等等，夜复一夜。可是，只是在第一天夜里，我醒过来一次。她背对着我躺着，我俯身亲吻她，她转过身来，仰卧着，把我搂在怀里：'我的小家伙，我的小家伙。"之后，我就躺在她怀里睡着了。由于风吹日晒，加之骑车的疲劳，后来我们都一觉睡到天亮。我们在早上做爱。

　　汉娜不仅把选择方向道路的事交给我，还要由我来寻找我们过夜的客栈。我们以母子关系登记住宿，她只需在登记条上签字就行。我不仅要为自己点菜，还要为她点菜。"这次我什么都不想操心。"

　　我们唯一的一次争吵发生在阿木尔巴赫。我很早就醒了，蹑手蹑脚地穿好衣服从房间里溜了出去。我想把早餐端上来，也想着一看有没有已经开门的花店，好给汉娜买一枝玫瑰。我给她在夜桌上留了一张字条："早上好。取早餐，一会儿就回来。"或者类似这样的话。当我回来时，她站在房中间，衣服穿了一半，愤怒地发抖，脸色苍白。

　　"你怎么能就这样一走了之了呢！"

　　我把放早餐的托盘和玫瑰放下，想把她搂在怀里。"汉娜…"

　　"别碰我！她手里拿着扎连衣裙的细皮带，往后退了一步，对着我的脸就抽了过来。我的嘴唇被抽破了，鲜血直流，我感觉不到疼痛。我被吓坏了，她又举起了手臂。

　　可是她没有再打下来，她把手臂垂了下来，皮带落到了地上。她哭了，我还从未看见她哭过。她的脸变了形，变得目瞪口呆，眼皮哭得红肿，面颊上、脖颈上泛着红癍，嘴里发出沙哑的喉音，类似我们做爱时她发出的那种无声的喊叫。她站在那里，泪水汪汪地看着我。

　　我应该把她搂在怀里，可我又不能，我不知道该做什么。我们家里的人不是这样的哭法，我们家里的人不动手打人，更不用皮带抽人，我们家里的人只动口。可是我该说什么呢？

　　她向我走近了两步扑到了我的怀里，用拳头捶我，紧紧地抓着我。现在我可以抱着她了，她的肩在抽搐，她用额头撞着我的胸。接着她深深地端了口气，紧紧地依偎在我怀里。

　　"我们吃早餐吧？"她从我怀里挣脱出来说。"我的天哪，小家伙，你看上去像什么样子！'她取了条湿毛巾把我的嘴和下巴擦干净了。"怎么连衬衫都到处是血。"她为我脱掉了衬衫，然后脱掉了裤子，之后她自己也把衣服脱了，我们就做起爱来。

　　"到底是怎么回事？你为什么那么气愤？"我们躺在一起，是那样的心满意足。我想现在一切都该得到解释了吧。

　　"怎么回事，怎么回事，你总是问愚蠢的问题！你不能就这么走了。"

　　"可是我给你留了一张字条……"

　　"一张字条？"

　　我坐了起来，在夜桌上放字条的地方什么都没有。我站了起来，桌边、桌下、床上、床下，到处找，都没有找到。"我搞不明白是怎么一回事，我给你写了一张字条，说我去取早餐，即刻就回。"

　　"你写了吗？我没有看到字条。"

　　"你不相信我吗？"

　　"我倒是情愿相信你，可我没有见到字条。"

　　我们不再争吵了。来了一阵风把字条刮走了吗？刮到了什么地方或者利到了一个虚无地。她的愤怒、我流血的嘴唇、她受到伤害的面部表情还有我的无能为力，难道所有这一切都是误解吗？

　　我还应该继续寻找那张字条吗？寻找汉娜生气的原因？寻找我为什么那么无能为力的原因吗？"小家伙，念点什么吧！"她紧紧地依偎在我怀里。我拿出了艾兴道夫的《无用之人》，接着上次停下来的地方念了起来。《无用之人》比《爱米丽雅·葛洛获》和《阴谋与爱情》念起来容易。汉娜又紧张地跟随着情节。她喜欢里面的诗，喜欢主人公在意大利时所穿的服装，喜欢混淆不清，喜欢梦想成真，喜欢追逐，同时她也认为主人公可恶，因为他是个无用之人，无所事事，游手好闲，什么都不会做，而且也愿意什么都不会做。她对一些问题犹豫不决，在我念完之后的几小时还可能提出这样的问题："海关税收员不是什么好职业吧？"

　　我又不自觉地这么详尽地叙述了我们的争吵，现在我也乐意讲一讲我们的幸福一面。这次争吵把我们的关系变得更密切了。我看见了她哭，哭泣的汉娜比坚强的汉娜更令我感到亲切。她开始显露出她温柔的一面，她的这种温柔，以前我还从未体验过。我破裂的嘴唇在愈合之前，她不时地就看看，轻轻地摸摸。

　　我们做爱的方式也不一样了。很长时间里，我完全听她指挥，由她采取主动。后来，我也学会了采取主动。在我们的旅行中和自从旅行以来，我们做爱时已不仅仅采取上下位的姿势了。

　　我有一首当时写的诗，作为诗它没有什么价值。我当时很崇拜里尔克和本，我清楚地意识到我是想同时效仿他们两位，可我也再次意识到我们的关系当时是多么的密切。下面是那首诗：

　　当我们敞开心扉时，

　　我们合二为一。

　　当我们沉浸时，

　　你中有我，我中有你。

　　当我们消失时，

　　你在我心里，我在你心里。

　　这之后，

　　我是我，

　　你是你。