諾貝爾文學經典:《寵兒》第9章Part 6

All the while Denver was obliged to talk about what they were doing — the how and why of it. About people Denver knew once or had seen, giving them more life than life had: the sweet-smelling whitewoman who brought her oranges and cologne and good wool skirts; Lady Joneswho taught them songs to spell and count by; a beautiful boy as smart as she was with a birthmarklike a nickel on his cheek. A white preacher who prayed for their souls while Sethe peeled potatoesand Grandma Baby sucked air. And she told her about Howard and Buglar: the parts of the bedthat belonged to each (the top reserved for herself); that before she transferred to Baby Suggs' bedshe never knew them to sleep without holding hands. She described them to Beloved slowly, tokeep her attention, dwelling on their habits, the games they taught her and not the fright that drovethem increasingly out of the house — -anywhere — and finally far away.
This day they are outside. It's cold and the snow is hard as packed dirt. Denver has finished singingthe counting song Lady Jones taught her students. Beloved is holding her arms steady whileDenver unclasps frozen underwear and towels from the line. One by one she lays them inBeloved's arms until the pile, like a huge deck of cards, reaches her chin. The rest, aprons andbrown stockings, Denver carries herself. Made giddy by the cold, they return to the house. Theclothes will thaw slowly to a dampness perfect for the pressing iron, which will make them smelllike hot rain. Dancing around the room with Sethe's apron, Beloved wants to know if there areflowers in the Dark. Denver adds sticks to the stovefire and assures her there are. Twirling, her faceframed by the neckband, her waist in the apron strings' embrace, she says she is thirsty.
Denver suggests warming up some cider, while her mind races to something she might do or say to interest and entertain the dancer. Denver is a strategist now and has to keep Beloved by her sidefrom the minute Sethe leaves for work until the hour of her return when Beloved begins to hover atthe window, then work her way out the door, down the steps and near the road. Plotting haschanged Denver markedly. Where she was once indolent, resentful of every task, now she is spry,executing, even extending the assignments Sethe leaves for them. All to be able to say "We got to"and "Ma'am said for us to." Otherwise Beloved gets private and dreamy, or quiet and sullen, andDenver's chances of being looked at by her go down to nothing. She has no control over theevenings. When her mother is anywhere around, Beloved has eyes only for Sethe. At night, in bed,anything might happen. She might want to be told a story in the dark when Denver can't see her.
Or she might get up and go into the cold house where Paul D has begun to sleep. Or she might cry,silently. She might even sleep like a brick, her breath sugary from fingerfuls of molasses or sand-cookie crumbs. Denver will turn toward her then, and if Beloved faces her, she will inhale deeplythe sweet air from her mouth. If not, she will have to lean up and over her, every once in a while,to catch a sniff. For anything is better than the original hunger — the time when, after a year of thewonderful little i, sentences rolling out like pie dough and the company of other children, therewas no sound coming through. Anything is better than the silence when she answered to handsgesturing and was indifferent to the movement of lips. When she saw every little thing and colorsleaped smoldering into view. She will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner platesand all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her Beloved. The ciderjug is heavy, but it always is, even whenempty. Denver can carry it easily, yet she asks Beloved tohelp her. It is in the cold house next to the molasses and six pounds of cheddar hard as bone. Apallet is in the middle of the floor covered with newspaper and a blanket at the foot. It has beenslept on for almost a month, even though snow has come and, with it, serious winter.
It is noon, quite light outside; inside it is not. A few cuts of sun break through the roof and wallsbut once there they are too weak to shift for themselves. Darkness is stronger and swallows themlike minnows.
The door bangs shut. Denver can't tell where Beloved is standing. "Where are you?" she whispersin a laughing sort of way.
"Here," says Beloved.
"Where?"
"Come find me," says Beloved.

丹芙被迫一刻不停地說着她們正在做的事情——怎麼做，爲什麼做。說着她從前認識和見過的人，講得栩栩如生，比真人還真：送給她橙子、香水和上好的羊毛裙的香噴噴的白女人；教他們唱字母歌、數字歌的瓊斯女士；跟她一樣聰明、臉蛋上有塊五分鋼鏰似的胎記的漂亮男孩；塞絲削着土豆而貝比奶奶奄奄一息時爲她們的靈魂祈禱的白人牧師。她還給她講了霍華德和巴格勒：牀上屬於他們的地盤（他們把上鋪留給她）；還有，在她搬到貝比·薩格斯的牀上之前，她從沒見過他們不手拉着手睡覺。她慢條斯理地向寵兒描述他們，吊她的胃口，翻來覆去地講他們的習慣、他們教她的遊戲，卻沒有講那將他們逼出家門的恐懼——隨便去哪兒——和最終的遠走高飛。
這一天，她們待在外面。天很冷，積雪就像夯實的土地一樣硬。丹芙已經唱完了瓊斯女士教給她的學生們的數字歌。丹芙從繩子上解下凍僵的內衣和毛巾，寵兒伸手接着。她把它們一件一件放到寵兒懷裏，直到它們像一沓巨型撲克牌一樣捱到了她的下巴。剩下的圍裙和棕色襪子，丹芙自己拿着。她們凍得頭暈眼花，趕緊回到屋裏。衣物會慢慢地溶化、變潮，正好適於烙鐵熨燙，熨衣的味道聞起來就像熱雨。寵兒繫着塞絲的圍裙滿屋跳舞，想知道黑暗裏是否有花兒。丹芙往爐火裏添着劈柴，向她肯定說，有。寵兒的臉上纏着領巾，腰裏繫着圍裙帶，她一邊轉圈一邊說她渴了。
丹芙建議熱點蘋果汁，同時急忙尋思能做點什麼或說點什麼，好讓這個舞星感興趣和快活。丹芙現在是個陰謀家了，想方設法把寵兒留在身邊，從塞絲離家上班一直到她該回來的鐘點。到了這個鐘點，寵兒就開始在窗前徘徊，接着開門出去，走下臺階，走到大路旁。陰謀明顯地改變了丹芙。她原來什麼活計都懶得做、討厭幹，現在則是又麻利又能幹，甚至自覺增加塞絲留給她們的任務。什麼都可以說成是"我們非幹不可"和"太太說了讓我們幹"。否則寵兒會變得孤僻、恍惚，或者沉默寡言乃至悶悶不樂，而這樣下去丹芙被注視的機會就要減少到零。她控制不了晚上的局面。只要她媽媽在周圍的什麼地方活動，寵兒的眼睛就只盯着塞絲一個人。到了夜裏，在牀上，什麼都可能發生。在黑暗中，丹芙看不見她時，她可能想聽個故事。

要麼她可能起來到保羅·D已經開始在裏面睡覺的冷藏室去。她還可能默默地哭泣。她甚至可能睡得像塊磚頭，由於用手指吃糖漿和甜餅乾渣，她的呼吸變得甜絲絲的。丹芙願意轉向她，如果寵兒臉朝她睡，她就能深深地吸進她嘴裏甜甜的氣息。否則，她就必須每隔一會兒爬起一次，越過她的身體去嗅上一鼻子。因爲什麼都比最初的飢餓要好——那個時期，在整整一年美妙的小寫i、餡餅麪糰一樣滾出來的句子以及同其他孩子的相伴之後，就再沒有聲音了。什麼都比寂靜好；那個時期，她只能回答別人的手勢，面對嘴脣的動作卻毫無反應。那個時期，她能看到每一樣細小的東西和色彩燃燒着跳進視野。而今，她情願放棄最熱烈的落日、盤子一般碩大的星星和秋天的全部血液，而滿足於最暗淡的黃色，只要那黃色來自她的寵兒。蘋果汁罐子很沉，不過它從來就是那樣，甚至空的時候也是。丹芙其實能夠輕易地提起它，可她還是請寵兒來幫忙。罐子在冷藏室裏，挨着糖漿和六磅像石頭一樣硬的切達乾酪。地板中央有一張草荐牀，牀腳蓋着報紙和一條毯子。它被睡了將近一個月了，儘管嚴冬早已隨冰雪一道降臨。
正是中午，外面相當亮；屋裏卻不然。幾絲陽光從屋頂和牆壁擠進來，可是進來後就太微弱了，都不能單獨成束。強大的黑暗將它們像小魚一樣吞噬。
門砰地合上。丹芙拿不準寵兒站在哪裏。
"你在哪兒？"她似笑非笑地悄聲問道。
"在這兒呢。"寵兒道。
"哪兒？"
"來找我吧。"寵兒道。