PART Ⅰ-4
I’ddroppedmypapersattheoffice.WarnerisohesecheapAmeridentists,andhehashissulting-room,or‘parlour’ashelikestocallit,halfabigblockofoffices,bethotographerandarubber-goodswholesaler.Iwasearlyformyappoi,butitwastimeforabitofgrub.Idon’tknoutitintomyheadtogointoamilk-bar.They’replacesIgenerallyavoid.Wefive-to-ten-pound-a-weekersaren’twellservedinthewayofeating-plaLondon.Ifyourideaoftheamounttospendonamealisohreepe’seitherLyons,theExpressDairy,ortheA.B.C.,orelseit’sthekindoffuneralsnacktheyserveyouinthesaloonbar,apintofbitterandaslabofcoldpie,socoldthatit’scolderthanthebeer.Outsidethemilk-bartheboyswereyellingthefirsteditionsoftheeveningpapers.
Behindthebrightredteragirlinatallwhitecapwasfiddlingwithanice-box,andsomewhereatthebackaradiolaying,plonk-tiddle-tiddle-plonk,akindoftinnysound.WhythehellamIinghere?IthoughttomyselfasIwentin.There’sakindofatmosphereabouttheseplacesthatgetsmedowhingslidshinyandstreamlined;mirrors,enamel,andplatewhicheverdireyoulookihionthedecorationsandnothingonthefood.Norealfoodatall.JustlistsofstuffwithAmeriames,sortofphantomstuffthatyou’ttasteandhardlybelieveienceof.Everythingesoutofacartonoratin,orit’shauledoutofarefrigeratororsquirtedoutofataporsqueezedoutofatube.Nofort,noprivacy.Tallstoolstositon,akindofnarrowledgetoeatoff,mirrorsallroundyou.Asortandafloatinground,mixedupwiththeheradio,totheeffectthatfooddoesn’tmatter,fortdoesn’tmatter,nothingmattersexceptsliessandshininessandstreamlining.Everything’sstreamlinednowadays,eventhebulletHitler’skeepingforyou.Iorderedalargecoffeeandacoupleoffrankfurters.Thegirliecapjerkedthematmewithaboutasmuterestasyou’dthrowaoagoldfish.
Outsidethedooranewsboyyelled‘StarnoosstanNERD!’Isawtheposterflappingagainsthisknees:LEGS.FRESHDISCOVERIES.Just‘legs’,younotice.Ithadgotdowntothat.Twodaysearlierthey’dfoundawoman’slegsinarailwaywaiting-room,doneupinabroarcel,andwhatwithsuccessiveeditionsofthepapers,thewholenationposedtobesopassionatelyiedintheseblastedlegsthattheydidn’tneedanyfurtherintrodu.Theyweretheohatwerethemoment.It’squeer,Ithought,asIateabitofroll,howdullthemurdersaregettingnowadays.Allthiscuttingpeopleupandleavingbitsofthemaboutthetryside.Notapattheolddomesticpoisoningdramas,Crippen,Seddon,MrsMaybrick;thetruthbeing,Isuppose,thatyou’tdoagoodmurderunlessyoubelieveyoingtoroastinhellforit.
AtthismomentIbitintooneofmyfrankfurters,and—Christ!
I’tholysaythatI’dexpectedthethingtohaveapleasanttaste.I’dexpectedittotasteofnothing,liketheroll.Butthis—well,itwasquiteanexperiemetryanddescribeittoyou.
Thefrankfurterhadarubberskin,ofcourse,andmytemporaryteethweren’tmuchofafit.IhadtodoakindofsawingmovementbeforeIcouldgetmyteeththroughtheskin.Andthensuddenly—pop!Thethingburstinmymouthlikearottenpear.Asortofhorriblesoftstuffwasoozingallovermytothetaste!ForamomentIjustcouldn’tbelieveit.ThenIrolledmytonguerounditagainandhadary.ItwasFISH!Asausage,athingcallingitselfafrankfurter,filledwithfish!Igotupandwalkedstraightoutwithouttougmycoffee.Godknowswhatthatmighthavetastedof.
OutsidethenewsboyshovedtheStandardintomyfadyelled,‘Legs!‘Orriblerevelations!Allthewinners!Legs!Legs!’Iwasstillrolliuffroundmytongue,wwhereIcouldspititout.IrememberedabitI’dreadinthepapersomewhereaboutthesefood-factoriesinGermanywhereeverything’smadeoutofsomethingelse.Ersatz,theycallit.IrememberedreadingthatTHEYweremakingsausagesoutoffish,andfish,nodoubt,outofsomethingdifferent.ItgavemethefeelingthatI’dbittenintothemodernworldanddiscoveredwhatitwasreallymadeof.That’sthewaywe’regoingnowadays.Everythingslidstreamlined,everythingmadeoutofsomethingelse.Celluloid,rubber,-steeleverywhere,arc-lampsblazingallnight,glassroofsoveryourhead,radiosallplayingthesametune,atio,everythiedover,mock-turtlesgrazinguheralfruit-trees.Butwhenyouedowntobrasstadgetyourteethintosomethingsolid,asausageforinstahat’swhatyouget.Rottenfishinarubberskin.Bombsoffilthburstinginsideyourmouth.
WhenI’dgotthehialotbetter.Theysatnidsmoothums,andthoughverylikelyitsoundsabsurdtosaythatfalseteethmakeyoufeelyou’safactthattheydidso.Itriedasmileatmyselfinashopwindow.Theyweren’thalfbad.Warhoughcheap,isabitofanartistaaimatmakingyoulooklikeatoothpasteadvert.He’sgothugeetsfulloffalseteeth—heshowedthemtomeonce—allgradedacctosizeandcolour,andhepicksthemoutlikeajewellerchoosingstonesforanecklainepeopleoutoftenwouldhavetakehfornatural.
Icaughtafull-lengthglimpseofmyselfinanotherwindoassing,anditstruckmethatreallyIwasn’tsuchabadfigureofaman.Abitoside,admittedly,butnothingoffensive,onlywhatthetailorscalla‘fullfigure’,andsomewomenlikeamantohavearedface.There’slifeintheolddogyet,Ithought.Irememberedmyseventeenquid,anddefinitelymadeupmymindthatI’dspenditonawoman.Therewastimetohaveapintbeforethepubsshut,justtobaptizetheteeth,andfeelingrichbecauseofmyseventeenquidIstoppedatatobaist’sandboughtmyselfasixpennycigarofakindI’mratherpartialto.They’reeightincheslongandguaranteedpureHavanaleafallthrough.IsupposecabbagesgrowinHavanathesameasanywhereelse.
WhenIcameoutofthepubIfeltquitedifferent.
I’dhadacoupleofpints,they’dwarmedmeupinside,andthecigarsmokeoozingroundmyhgavemeafresh,,peacefulsortoffeeling.Allofasuddekindofthoughtfulandphilosophic.ItartlybecauseIdidn’thaveanyworktodo.MymibacktothethoughtsofwarI’dbeenhavingearlierthatm,whenthebomberflewoverthetraiinakindofpropheticmood,themoodinwhichyouforeseetheendoftheworldaacertainkickoutofit.
IwaswalkitheStrand,andthoughitwascoldishIwentslowlytogetthepleasureofmycigar.Theusualcrowdthatyouhardlyfightyourwaythroughwasstreamingupthepavement,allofthemwiththatinsanefixedexpressionontheirfacesthatpeoplehaveinLondos,andtherewastheusualjamoftrafficwiththegreatredbusesnosingtheirwaybetweenthecars,andtheenginesrandhornstooting.Enoughowakenthedead,butnottowakenthislot,Ithought.IfeltasifIwastheonlypersonawakeinacityofsleep-walkers.That’sanillusion,ofcourse.Whenyouwalkthroughacrowdersit’sdoortoimpossiblenottoimagithey’reallwaxworks,butprobablythey’rethinkingjustthesameaboutyou.Andthiskindofpropheticfeelingthatkeepsingovermenowadays,thefeelingthatwar’sjustroundtheerandthatwar’stheendofallthings,isn’tpeculiartome.We’veallgotit,moreorless.Isupposeevenamongthepeoplepassingatthatmomenttheremusthavebeenchapswhowereseeialpicturesoftheshellburstsandthemud.Whateverthoughtyouthinkthere’salwaysamillionpeoplethinkingitatthesamemoment.ButthatwashowIfelt.We’reallontheburningdednobodyknowsitexceptme.Ilookedatthedumb-bellfacesstreamingpast.LiketurkeysinNovember,Ithought.Notanotionofwhat’singtothem.ItwasasifI’dgotX-raysinmyeyesandcouldseetheskeletonswalking.
Ilookedforwardafewyears.Isawthisstreetasit’llbeinfiveyears’time,say,orthreeyears’time(1941theysayit’sbookedfor),afterthefighting’sstarted.
No,notallsmashedtopieces.Onlyalittlealtered,kindofchippedanddirty-looking,theshop-windowsalmostemptyandsodustythatyou’tseeintothem.Downasidestreetthere’sanenormousbomb-craterandablockofbuildingsburntoutsothatitlookslikeahollowtooth.Thermite.It’sallcuriouslyquiet,andeveryone’sverythin.Aplatoonofsoldiersargupthestreet.They’reallasthinasrakesandtheirbootsaredragging.Thesergeant’sgotcorkscrewmoustachesandholdshimselflikearamrod,buthe’sthintooandhe’sgotacoughthatalmosttearshimopeweenhiscoughshe’stryingtobawlatthemintheoldparade-groundstyle.‘Nahthen,Jones!Liftyer‘edup!Whatyerkeepstarin’atthegroundfor?Allthemfag-endsickedupyearsago.’Suddenlyafitofcoughingcatcheshim.Hetriestostopit,’t,doublesuplikearuler,andalmostcoughshisgutsout.Hisfaceturnspinkandpurple,hismoustachegoeslimp,aerrunsoutofhiseyes.
Iheartheair-raidsirensblowingandtheloud-speakersbellowingthatlorioustroopshavetakenahuhousandprisoners.Iseeatop-floor-baBirminghamandachildoffivehowlingandhowlingforabitofbread.Andsuddenlythemother’tstanditanylonger,andsheyellsatit,‘Shutyourtrap,youlittlebastard!’andthehechild’sfrodsmacksitsbottomhard,becausethereisn’tanybreadandisn’tgoingtobeanybread.Iseeitall.Iseethepostersandthefood-queues,aoroilandtherubbertrunsandthemae-gunssquirtingoutofbedroomwindows.
Isitgoingtohappen?Noknowing.Somedaysit’simpossibletobelieveit.SomedaysIsaytomyselfthatit’sjustascaregotupbytheneers.SomedaysIknowinmybohere’snoesgit.
WhenIgotdownnearCharingCrosstheboyswereyellingalatereditionoftheeveningpapers.Therewassomemoredrivelaboutthemurder.LEGS.FAMOUSSURGEON’SSTATEMENT.Thenanotherphtmyeye:KINGZOG’SWEDDINGPOSTPONED.KingZog!Whata’sdoortoimpossibletobelieveachapwithanamelikethatisn’tajet-blaegro.
Butjustatthatmomentaqueerthinghappened.KingZog’sIsuppose,asI’dalreadyseenthenameseveraltimesthatday,itwasmixedupwithsomesoundirafficorthesmellofhorse-dungorsomething—hadstartedmemoriesinme.
Thepastisacuriousthing.It’swithyouallthetime.Isupposeanhourneverpasseswithoutyourthinkingofthingsthathappewentyyearsago,amostofthetimeit’sgoty,it’sjustasetoffactsthatyou’velearned,likealotofstuffinahistorybook.Thensomecesightorsoundorsmell,especiallysmell,setsyougoing,adoesn’tmerelyebacktoyou,you’reactuallyI.Itwaslikethatatthismoment.
IwasbatheparishchurchatLowerBinfield,anditwasthirty-eightyearsago.Tooutearances,Isuppose,Iwasstillwalkingdowrand,fatandforty-five,withfalseteethandabowlerhat,butinsidemeIwasGeieBowling,agedseven,youngersonofSamuelBowling,andseedmert,of57HighStreet,LowerBinfield.AnditwasSundaym,andIcouldsmellthechurch.HowIcouldsmellit!Youknowthesmellchurcheshave,apeculiar,dank,dusty,deg,sweetishsortofsmell.There’satouchofdle-greaseinit,andperhapsawhiffofinseandasuspiidonSundaymsit’sabitoverlaidbyyelloandsergedresses,butpredominantlyit’sthatsweet,dusty,mustysmellthat’slikethesmellofdeathandlifemixeduptogether.It’spowderedcorpses,really.
InthosedaysIwasaboutfourfeethigh.Iwasstandingonthehassocksoastoseeoverthepewinfront,andIcouldfeelMother’sblacksergedressundermyhand.Icouldalsofeelmystogspulledupovermyknees—weusedtowearthemlikethatthen—andthesawedgeoftheEtoncollartheyusedtobucklemeintoonSundayms.AndIcouldheartheanwheezingandtwoenormousvoicesbellowingoutthepsalm.Inourchurchthereweretwomenwholedthesinging,infacttheydidsomuchofthesingingthatnobodyelsegotmuchofaewasShooter,thefishmonger,aherwasoldWetherall,thejoineranduaker.Theyusedtositoppositeoherohersideofthehepewshepulpit.Shooterwasashortfatmanwithaverypink,smoothface,abignose,droopingmoustache,andathatkindoffellawaybehhismouth.Wetherallwasquitedifferent.Hewasagreat,gaunt,powerfulolddevilofaboutsixty,withafacelikeadeath’s-headandstiffgreyhairhalfaningalloverhishead.I’veneverseenalivingmanwholookedsoexactlylikeaskeleton.Youcouldseeeveryliheskullinhisface,hisskinwaslikepart,andhisgreatlanternjawfullofyellowteethworkedupanddownjustlikethejawofaskeletoninananatomicalmuseum.Ahallhisleannesshelookedasstrongasiron,asthoughhe’dlivetobeahundredandmakecoffinsforeveryohatchurchbeforehe’dfiheirvoiceswerequitedifferent,too.Shooterhadakindofdesperate,agonizedbellow,asthoughsomeonehadakhisthroatandhewasjustlettingouthislastyellforhelp.ButWetherallhadatremendous,ing,rumblinghappeneddeepdowninsidehim,likeenormousbarrelsbeingrolledtoandfrounderground.Howevermuoiseheletout,youalwaysknewhe’dgotplentymoreinreserve.ThekidsniamedhimRumbletummy.
Theyusedtogetupakindofantiphonaleffect,especiallyinthepsalms.ItwasalwaysWetherallwhohadthelastword.Isupposereallytheywerefriendsinprivatelife,butinmykid’swayIusedtoimagitheyweredeadlyenemiesandtryingtoshoutoherdown.Shooterwouldroarout‘TheLordismyshepherd’,aherallwouldeinwith‘ThereforeIlaothing’,drowninghimpletely.Youalwaysknewwhichofthetwowasmaster.IusedespeciallytolookforwardtothatpsalmthathasthebitaboutSihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashan(thiswaswhatKingZog’snamehadremindedmeof).Shooterwouldstartoffwith‘SihonkingoftheAmorites’,thenperhapsforhalfasedyoucouldheartherestofthegregationsingingthe‘and’,aherall’senormousbasswouldeiidalwaveandswalloweverybodyupwith‘OgthekingofBashan’.IwishIakeyouhearthetremendous,rumbling,subterraneanbarrel-hecouldgetintothatw’.Heeveoclipofftheendofthe‘and’,sothatwhenIwasaverysmallkidIusedtothinkitwasDogthekingofBashan.Butlater,whenIgotthenamesright,Iformedapictureinmymind’seyeofSihonandOg.IsawthemasacoupleofthosegreatEgyptianstatuesthatI’dseenpicturesofinthepennyencyclopedia,enormousstouesthirtyfeethigh,sittingohronesoppositeoher,withtheirhandsontheirkneesandafaintmysterioussmileontheirfaces.
Howitcamebae!Thatpeculiarfeeling—itwasonlyafeeling,youcouldn’tdescribeitasanactivity—thatweusedtocall‘Church’.Thesweetcorpsysmell,therustleofSundaydresses,thewheezeoftheanandthervoices,thespotoflightfromtheholeinthewindowcreepingslowlyupthenave.Ihegrown-upscouldputitacrossthatthisextraordinaryperformancewasnecessary.Youtookitfranted,justasyoutooktheBible,whichyougotinbigdosesinthosedays.ThereweretextsoneverywallandyouknewwholechaptersoftheO.T.byheart.Evennowmyhead’sstuffedfullofbitsoutoftheBible.AndthechildrenofIsraeldidevilagaininthesightoftheLord.AndAsherabodeinhisbreeches.FollowedthemfromDanuntilthoueuntoBeersheba.Smotehimuhefifthrib,sothathedied.Youneveruoodit,youdidn’ttrytoorwantto,itwasjustakindofmedie,aqueer-tastingstuffthatyouhadtoswallowaobeinsomewaynecessary.AraordinaryrigmaroleaboutpeoplewithnameslikeShimeiandNebuezzarandAhithophelandHashbadada;peoplewithlongstiffgarmentsandAssyrianbeards,ridingupanddownoncamelsamongtemplesareesanddoiraordinarythings.Sacrifigburnts,walkingaboutinfieryfurnaces,gettingnailedoncrosses,gettingswallowedbywhales.Andallmixedupwiththesweetgraveyardsmellandthesergedressesandthewheezeofthean.
ThatwastheworldIwentbacktowhenIsawtheposteraboutKingZog.ForamomentIdidn’tmerelyrememberit,IwasINit.Ofcoursesuchimpressionsdon’tlastmorethanafewseds.AmomentlateritwasasthoughI’dopenedmyeyesagain,andIwasforty-fiveandtherewasatrafficjamirand.Butithadleftakindofafter-effectbehind.Sometimeswhenyoueoutofatrainofthoughtyoufeelasifyouwereingupfromdeepwater,butthistimeitwastheotherwayabout,itwasasthoughitwasba1900thatI’dbeehingrealair.Evennow,withmyeyesopen,sotospeak,allthosebloodyfoolshustlingtoandfro,aersarol-stinkandtheroaroftheengines,seemedtomelessrealthanSundayminLowerBihirty-eightyearsago.
Ichuckedawaymycigarandwalkedonslowly.Icouldsmellthecorpse-smell.InamannerofspeakingIsmellitnow.I’mbaLowerBinfield,andtheyear’s1900.Besidethehorse-troughinthemarket-placethecarrier’shorseishavingitsnose-bag.Atthesweet-shopontheerMotherWheelerisweighingoutaha’porthofbrandyballs.LadyRampling’scarriageisdrivingby,withthetigersittingbehindinhispipeclayedbreecheswithhisarmsfolded.UncleEzekieliscursingJoeChamberlain.Therecruiting-sergeantinhisscarletjacket,tightblueoveralls,andpillboxhat,isstruttingupanddowntwistinghismoustache.ThedrunksarepukingintheyardbehindtheGee.Vicky’satWindsod’sinheaven,Christ’sonthecross,Jonah’sinthewhale,Shadrach,MeshadAbednegoareinthefieryfurnadSihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashaingohroneslookingatoher—notdoinganythily,justexisting,keepingtheirappointedplace,likeacoupleoffire-dogs,ortheLionandtheUni.
Isitgoneforever?I’main.ButItellyouitwasagoodworldtolivein.Ibelongtoit.Sodoyou.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Behindthebrightredteragirlinatallwhitecapwasfiddlingwithanice-box,andsomewhereatthebackaradiolaying,plonk-tiddle-tiddle-plonk,akindoftinnysound.WhythehellamIinghere?IthoughttomyselfasIwentin.There’sakindofatmosphereabouttheseplacesthatgetsmedowhingslidshinyandstreamlined;mirrors,enamel,andplatewhicheverdireyoulookihionthedecorationsandnothingonthefood.Norealfoodatall.JustlistsofstuffwithAmeriames,sortofphantomstuffthatyou’ttasteandhardlybelieveienceof.Everythingesoutofacartonoratin,orit’shauledoutofarefrigeratororsquirtedoutofataporsqueezedoutofatube.Nofort,noprivacy.Tallstoolstositon,akindofnarrowledgetoeatoff,mirrorsallroundyou.Asortandafloatinground,mixedupwiththeheradio,totheeffectthatfooddoesn’tmatter,fortdoesn’tmatter,nothingmattersexceptsliessandshininessandstreamlining.Everything’sstreamlinednowadays,eventhebulletHitler’skeepingforyou.Iorderedalargecoffeeandacoupleoffrankfurters.Thegirliecapjerkedthematmewithaboutasmuterestasyou’dthrowaoagoldfish.
Outsidethedooranewsboyyelled‘StarnoosstanNERD!’Isawtheposterflappingagainsthisknees:LEGS.FRESHDISCOVERIES.Just‘legs’,younotice.Ithadgotdowntothat.Twodaysearlierthey’dfoundawoman’slegsinarailwaywaiting-room,doneupinabroarcel,andwhatwithsuccessiveeditionsofthepapers,thewholenationposedtobesopassionatelyiedintheseblastedlegsthattheydidn’tneedanyfurtherintrodu.Theyweretheohatwerethemoment.It’squeer,Ithought,asIateabitofroll,howdullthemurdersaregettingnowadays.Allthiscuttingpeopleupandleavingbitsofthemaboutthetryside.Notapattheolddomesticpoisoningdramas,Crippen,Seddon,MrsMaybrick;thetruthbeing,Isuppose,thatyou’tdoagoodmurderunlessyoubelieveyoingtoroastinhellforit.
AtthismomentIbitintooneofmyfrankfurters,and—Christ!
I’tholysaythatI’dexpectedthethingtohaveapleasanttaste.I’dexpectedittotasteofnothing,liketheroll.Butthis—well,itwasquiteanexperiemetryanddescribeittoyou.
Thefrankfurterhadarubberskin,ofcourse,andmytemporaryteethweren’tmuchofafit.IhadtodoakindofsawingmovementbeforeIcouldgetmyteeththroughtheskin.Andthensuddenly—pop!Thethingburstinmymouthlikearottenpear.Asortofhorriblesoftstuffwasoozingallovermytothetaste!ForamomentIjustcouldn’tbelieveit.ThenIrolledmytonguerounditagainandhadary.ItwasFISH!Asausage,athingcallingitselfafrankfurter,filledwithfish!Igotupandwalkedstraightoutwithouttougmycoffee.Godknowswhatthatmighthavetastedof.
OutsidethenewsboyshovedtheStandardintomyfadyelled,‘Legs!‘Orriblerevelations!Allthewinners!Legs!Legs!’Iwasstillrolliuffroundmytongue,wwhereIcouldspititout.IrememberedabitI’dreadinthepapersomewhereaboutthesefood-factoriesinGermanywhereeverything’smadeoutofsomethingelse.Ersatz,theycallit.IrememberedreadingthatTHEYweremakingsausagesoutoffish,andfish,nodoubt,outofsomethingdifferent.ItgavemethefeelingthatI’dbittenintothemodernworldanddiscoveredwhatitwasreallymadeof.That’sthewaywe’regoingnowadays.Everythingslidstreamlined,everythingmadeoutofsomethingelse.Celluloid,rubber,-steeleverywhere,arc-lampsblazingallnight,glassroofsoveryourhead,radiosallplayingthesametune,atio,everythiedover,mock-turtlesgrazinguheralfruit-trees.Butwhenyouedowntobrasstadgetyourteethintosomethingsolid,asausageforinstahat’swhatyouget.Rottenfishinarubberskin.Bombsoffilthburstinginsideyourmouth.
WhenI’dgotthehialotbetter.Theysatnidsmoothums,andthoughverylikelyitsoundsabsurdtosaythatfalseteethmakeyoufeelyou’safactthattheydidso.Itriedasmileatmyselfinashopwindow.Theyweren’thalfbad.Warhoughcheap,isabitofanartistaaimatmakingyoulooklikeatoothpasteadvert.He’sgothugeetsfulloffalseteeth—heshowedthemtomeonce—allgradedacctosizeandcolour,andhepicksthemoutlikeajewellerchoosingstonesforanecklainepeopleoutoftenwouldhavetakehfornatural.
Icaughtafull-lengthglimpseofmyselfinanotherwindoassing,anditstruckmethatreallyIwasn’tsuchabadfigureofaman.Abitoside,admittedly,butnothingoffensive,onlywhatthetailorscalla‘fullfigure’,andsomewomenlikeamantohavearedface.There’slifeintheolddogyet,Ithought.Irememberedmyseventeenquid,anddefinitelymadeupmymindthatI’dspenditonawoman.Therewastimetohaveapintbeforethepubsshut,justtobaptizetheteeth,andfeelingrichbecauseofmyseventeenquidIstoppedatatobaist’sandboughtmyselfasixpennycigarofakindI’mratherpartialto.They’reeightincheslongandguaranteedpureHavanaleafallthrough.IsupposecabbagesgrowinHavanathesameasanywhereelse.
WhenIcameoutofthepubIfeltquitedifferent.
I’dhadacoupleofpints,they’dwarmedmeupinside,andthecigarsmokeoozingroundmyhgavemeafresh,,peacefulsortoffeeling.Allofasuddekindofthoughtfulandphilosophic.ItartlybecauseIdidn’thaveanyworktodo.MymibacktothethoughtsofwarI’dbeenhavingearlierthatm,whenthebomberflewoverthetraiinakindofpropheticmood,themoodinwhichyouforeseetheendoftheworldaacertainkickoutofit.
IwaswalkitheStrand,andthoughitwascoldishIwentslowlytogetthepleasureofmycigar.Theusualcrowdthatyouhardlyfightyourwaythroughwasstreamingupthepavement,allofthemwiththatinsanefixedexpressionontheirfacesthatpeoplehaveinLondos,andtherewastheusualjamoftrafficwiththegreatredbusesnosingtheirwaybetweenthecars,andtheenginesrandhornstooting.Enoughowakenthedead,butnottowakenthislot,Ithought.IfeltasifIwastheonlypersonawakeinacityofsleep-walkers.That’sanillusion,ofcourse.Whenyouwalkthroughacrowdersit’sdoortoimpossiblenottoimagithey’reallwaxworks,butprobablythey’rethinkingjustthesameaboutyou.Andthiskindofpropheticfeelingthatkeepsingovermenowadays,thefeelingthatwar’sjustroundtheerandthatwar’stheendofallthings,isn’tpeculiartome.We’veallgotit,moreorless.Isupposeevenamongthepeoplepassingatthatmomenttheremusthavebeenchapswhowereseeialpicturesoftheshellburstsandthemud.Whateverthoughtyouthinkthere’salwaysamillionpeoplethinkingitatthesamemoment.ButthatwashowIfelt.We’reallontheburningdednobodyknowsitexceptme.Ilookedatthedumb-bellfacesstreamingpast.LiketurkeysinNovember,Ithought.Notanotionofwhat’singtothem.ItwasasifI’dgotX-raysinmyeyesandcouldseetheskeletonswalking.
Ilookedforwardafewyears.Isawthisstreetasit’llbeinfiveyears’time,say,orthreeyears’time(1941theysayit’sbookedfor),afterthefighting’sstarted.
No,notallsmashedtopieces.Onlyalittlealtered,kindofchippedanddirty-looking,theshop-windowsalmostemptyandsodustythatyou’tseeintothem.Downasidestreetthere’sanenormousbomb-craterandablockofbuildingsburntoutsothatitlookslikeahollowtooth.Thermite.It’sallcuriouslyquiet,andeveryone’sverythin.Aplatoonofsoldiersargupthestreet.They’reallasthinasrakesandtheirbootsaredragging.Thesergeant’sgotcorkscrewmoustachesandholdshimselflikearamrod,buthe’sthintooandhe’sgotacoughthatalmosttearshimopeweenhiscoughshe’stryingtobawlatthemintheoldparade-groundstyle.‘Nahthen,Jones!Liftyer‘edup!Whatyerkeepstarin’atthegroundfor?Allthemfag-endsickedupyearsago.’Suddenlyafitofcoughingcatcheshim.Hetriestostopit,’t,doublesuplikearuler,andalmostcoughshisgutsout.Hisfaceturnspinkandpurple,hismoustachegoeslimp,aerrunsoutofhiseyes.
Iheartheair-raidsirensblowingandtheloud-speakersbellowingthatlorioustroopshavetakenahuhousandprisoners.Iseeatop-floor-baBirminghamandachildoffivehowlingandhowlingforabitofbread.Andsuddenlythemother’tstanditanylonger,andsheyellsatit,‘Shutyourtrap,youlittlebastard!’andthehechild’sfrodsmacksitsbottomhard,becausethereisn’tanybreadandisn’tgoingtobeanybread.Iseeitall.Iseethepostersandthefood-queues,aoroilandtherubbertrunsandthemae-gunssquirtingoutofbedroomwindows.
Isitgoingtohappen?Noknowing.Somedaysit’simpossibletobelieveit.SomedaysIsaytomyselfthatit’sjustascaregotupbytheneers.SomedaysIknowinmybohere’snoesgit.
WhenIgotdownnearCharingCrosstheboyswereyellingalatereditionoftheeveningpapers.Therewassomemoredrivelaboutthemurder.LEGS.FAMOUSSURGEON’SSTATEMENT.Thenanotherphtmyeye:KINGZOG’SWEDDINGPOSTPONED.KingZog!Whata’sdoortoimpossibletobelieveachapwithanamelikethatisn’tajet-blaegro.
Butjustatthatmomentaqueerthinghappened.KingZog’sIsuppose,asI’dalreadyseenthenameseveraltimesthatday,itwasmixedupwithsomesoundirafficorthesmellofhorse-dungorsomething—hadstartedmemoriesinme.
Thepastisacuriousthing.It’swithyouallthetime.Isupposeanhourneverpasseswithoutyourthinkingofthingsthathappewentyyearsago,amostofthetimeit’sgoty,it’sjustasetoffactsthatyou’velearned,likealotofstuffinahistorybook.Thensomecesightorsoundorsmell,especiallysmell,setsyougoing,adoesn’tmerelyebacktoyou,you’reactuallyI.Itwaslikethatatthismoment.
IwasbatheparishchurchatLowerBinfield,anditwasthirty-eightyearsago.Tooutearances,Isuppose,Iwasstillwalkingdowrand,fatandforty-five,withfalseteethandabowlerhat,butinsidemeIwasGeieBowling,agedseven,youngersonofSamuelBowling,andseedmert,of57HighStreet,LowerBinfield.AnditwasSundaym,andIcouldsmellthechurch.HowIcouldsmellit!Youknowthesmellchurcheshave,apeculiar,dank,dusty,deg,sweetishsortofsmell.There’satouchofdle-greaseinit,andperhapsawhiffofinseandasuspiidonSundaymsit’sabitoverlaidbyyelloandsergedresses,butpredominantlyit’sthatsweet,dusty,mustysmellthat’slikethesmellofdeathandlifemixeduptogether.It’spowderedcorpses,really.
InthosedaysIwasaboutfourfeethigh.Iwasstandingonthehassocksoastoseeoverthepewinfront,andIcouldfeelMother’sblacksergedressundermyhand.Icouldalsofeelmystogspulledupovermyknees—weusedtowearthemlikethatthen—andthesawedgeoftheEtoncollartheyusedtobucklemeintoonSundayms.AndIcouldheartheanwheezingandtwoenormousvoicesbellowingoutthepsalm.Inourchurchthereweretwomenwholedthesinging,infacttheydidsomuchofthesingingthatnobodyelsegotmuchofaewasShooter,thefishmonger,aherwasoldWetherall,thejoineranduaker.Theyusedtositoppositeoherohersideofthehepewshepulpit.Shooterwasashortfatmanwithaverypink,smoothface,abignose,droopingmoustache,andathatkindoffellawaybehhismouth.Wetherallwasquitedifferent.Hewasagreat,gaunt,powerfulolddevilofaboutsixty,withafacelikeadeath’s-headandstiffgreyhairhalfaningalloverhishead.I’veneverseenalivingmanwholookedsoexactlylikeaskeleton.Youcouldseeeveryliheskullinhisface,hisskinwaslikepart,andhisgreatlanternjawfullofyellowteethworkedupanddownjustlikethejawofaskeletoninananatomicalmuseum.Ahallhisleannesshelookedasstrongasiron,asthoughhe’dlivetobeahundredandmakecoffinsforeveryohatchurchbeforehe’dfiheirvoiceswerequitedifferent,too.Shooterhadakindofdesperate,agonizedbellow,asthoughsomeonehadakhisthroatandhewasjustlettingouthislastyellforhelp.ButWetherallhadatremendous,ing,rumblinghappeneddeepdowninsidehim,likeenormousbarrelsbeingrolledtoandfrounderground.Howevermuoiseheletout,youalwaysknewhe’dgotplentymoreinreserve.ThekidsniamedhimRumbletummy.
Theyusedtogetupakindofantiphonaleffect,especiallyinthepsalms.ItwasalwaysWetherallwhohadthelastword.Isupposereallytheywerefriendsinprivatelife,butinmykid’swayIusedtoimagitheyweredeadlyenemiesandtryingtoshoutoherdown.Shooterwouldroarout‘TheLordismyshepherd’,aherallwouldeinwith‘ThereforeIlaothing’,drowninghimpletely.Youalwaysknewwhichofthetwowasmaster.IusedespeciallytolookforwardtothatpsalmthathasthebitaboutSihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashan(thiswaswhatKingZog’snamehadremindedmeof).Shooterwouldstartoffwith‘SihonkingoftheAmorites’,thenperhapsforhalfasedyoucouldheartherestofthegregationsingingthe‘and’,aherall’senormousbasswouldeiidalwaveandswalloweverybodyupwith‘OgthekingofBashan’.IwishIakeyouhearthetremendous,rumbling,subterraneanbarrel-hecouldgetintothatw’.Heeveoclipofftheendofthe‘and’,sothatwhenIwasaverysmallkidIusedtothinkitwasDogthekingofBashan.Butlater,whenIgotthenamesright,Iformedapictureinmymind’seyeofSihonandOg.IsawthemasacoupleofthosegreatEgyptianstatuesthatI’dseenpicturesofinthepennyencyclopedia,enormousstouesthirtyfeethigh,sittingohronesoppositeoher,withtheirhandsontheirkneesandafaintmysterioussmileontheirfaces.
Howitcamebae!Thatpeculiarfeeling—itwasonlyafeeling,youcouldn’tdescribeitasanactivity—thatweusedtocall‘Church’.Thesweetcorpsysmell,therustleofSundaydresses,thewheezeoftheanandthervoices,thespotoflightfromtheholeinthewindowcreepingslowlyupthenave.Ihegrown-upscouldputitacrossthatthisextraordinaryperformancewasnecessary.Youtookitfranted,justasyoutooktheBible,whichyougotinbigdosesinthosedays.ThereweretextsoneverywallandyouknewwholechaptersoftheO.T.byheart.Evennowmyhead’sstuffedfullofbitsoutoftheBible.AndthechildrenofIsraeldidevilagaininthesightoftheLord.AndAsherabodeinhisbreeches.FollowedthemfromDanuntilthoueuntoBeersheba.Smotehimuhefifthrib,sothathedied.Youneveruoodit,youdidn’ttrytoorwantto,itwasjustakindofmedie,aqueer-tastingstuffthatyouhadtoswallowaobeinsomewaynecessary.AraordinaryrigmaroleaboutpeoplewithnameslikeShimeiandNebuezzarandAhithophelandHashbadada;peoplewithlongstiffgarmentsandAssyrianbeards,ridingupanddownoncamelsamongtemplesareesanddoiraordinarythings.Sacrifigburnts,walkingaboutinfieryfurnaces,gettingnailedoncrosses,gettingswallowedbywhales.Andallmixedupwiththesweetgraveyardsmellandthesergedressesandthewheezeofthean.
ThatwastheworldIwentbacktowhenIsawtheposteraboutKingZog.ForamomentIdidn’tmerelyrememberit,IwasINit.Ofcoursesuchimpressionsdon’tlastmorethanafewseds.AmomentlateritwasasthoughI’dopenedmyeyesagain,andIwasforty-fiveandtherewasatrafficjamirand.Butithadleftakindofafter-effectbehind.Sometimeswhenyoueoutofatrainofthoughtyoufeelasifyouwereingupfromdeepwater,butthistimeitwastheotherwayabout,itwasasthoughitwasba1900thatI’dbeehingrealair.Evennow,withmyeyesopen,sotospeak,allthosebloodyfoolshustlingtoandfro,aersarol-stinkandtheroaroftheengines,seemedtomelessrealthanSundayminLowerBihirty-eightyearsago.
Ichuckedawaymycigarandwalkedonslowly.Icouldsmellthecorpse-smell.InamannerofspeakingIsmellitnow.I’mbaLowerBinfield,andtheyear’s1900.Besidethehorse-troughinthemarket-placethecarrier’shorseishavingitsnose-bag.Atthesweet-shopontheerMotherWheelerisweighingoutaha’porthofbrandyballs.LadyRampling’scarriageisdrivingby,withthetigersittingbehindinhispipeclayedbreecheswithhisarmsfolded.UncleEzekieliscursingJoeChamberlain.Therecruiting-sergeantinhisscarletjacket,tightblueoveralls,andpillboxhat,isstruttingupanddowntwistinghismoustache.ThedrunksarepukingintheyardbehindtheGee.Vicky’satWindsod’sinheaven,Christ’sonthecross,Jonah’sinthewhale,Shadrach,MeshadAbednegoareinthefieryfurnadSihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashaingohroneslookingatoher—notdoinganythily,justexisting,keepingtheirappointedplace,likeacoupleoffire-dogs,ortheLionandtheUni.
Isitgoneforever?I’main.ButItellyouitwasagoodworldtolivein.Ibelongtoit.Sodoyou.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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