白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第11章

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nstrated　the　pronunciation　of　consonants；　diphthongs；　long　and　short　vowels。　He　in　turn　would　look　closely　into　my　mouth　as　I　attempted　to　reproduce　the　unhappy　sounds。
　　His　was　a　mild　and　quiet　face；　an　oval　surface　with　no　hint　of　distinctiveness　until　he　started　his　vocal　routines。　Then　the　warping　began。　It　was　an　eerie　thing　to　see；　shamefully　fascinating；　as　a　seizure　might　be　if　witnessed　in　a　controlled　environment。　He　tucked　his　head　into　his　trunk；　narrowed　his　eyes；　made　grimacing　humanoid　faces。　When　it　was　time　for　me　to　repeat　the　noises　I　did　likewise；　if　only　to　please　the　teacher；　twisting　my　mouth；　shutting　my　eyes　pletely；　conscious　of　an　overarticulation　so　tortured　it　must　have　sounded　like　a　sudden　bending　of　the　natural　law；　a　stone　or　tree　struggling　to　speak。　When　I　opened　my　eyes　he　was　only　inches　from　my　mouth；　leaning　in　to　peer。　I　used　to　wonder　what　he　saw　in　there。
　　There　were　strained　silences　before　and　after　each　lesson。　I　tried　to　make　small　talk；　get　him　to　discuss　his　years　as　a　chiropractor；　his　life　before　German。　He　would　look　off　into　the　middle　distance；　not　angry　or　bored　or　evasive—just　detached；　free　of　the　connectedness　of　events；　it　seemed。　When　he　did　speak；　about　the　other　boarders　or　the　landlord；　there　was　something　querulous　in　his　voice；　a　drawn…out　note　of　plaint。　It　was　important　for　him　to　believe　that　he'd　spent　his　life　among　people　who　kept　missing　the　point。
　　〃How　many　students　do　you　have？〃
　　〃For　German？〃
　　〃Yes。〃
　　〃You're　the　only　one　I　have　for　German。　I　used　to　have　others。　German　has　fallen　off。　These　things　go　in　cycles；　like　everything　else。〃
　　〃What　else　do　you　teach？〃
　　〃Greek；　Latin；　ocean　sailing。〃
　　〃People　e　here　to　learn　ocean　sailing？〃
　　〃Not　so　much　anymore。〃
　　〃It's　amazing　how　many　people　teach　these　days；〃　I　said。　〃There　is　a　teacher　for　every　person。　Everyone　I　know　is　either　a　teacher　or　a　student。　What　do　you　think　it　means？〃
　　He　looked　off　toward　a　closet　door。
　　〃Do　you　teach　anything　else？〃　I　said。
　　〃Meteorology。〃
　　〃Meteorology。　How　did　that　e　about？〃
　　〃My　mother's　death　had　a　terrible　impact　on　me。　I　collapsed　totally；　lost　my　faith　in　God。　I　was　inconsolable；　withdrew　pletely　into　myself。　Then　one　day　by　chance　I　saw　a　weather　report　on　TV。　A　dynamic　young　man　with　a　glowing　pointer　stood　before　a　multicolored　satellite　photo；　predicting　the　weather　for　the　next　five　days。　I　sat　there　mesmerized　by　his　self…assurance　and　skill。　It　was　as　though　a　message　was　being　transmitted　from　the　weather　satellite　through　that　young　man　and　then　to　me　in　my　canvas　chair。　I　turned　to　meteorology　for　fort。　I　read　weather　maps；　collected　books　on　weather；　attended　launchings　of　weather　balloons。　I　realized　weather　was　something　I'd　been　looking　for　all　my　life。　It　brought　me　a　sense　of　peace　and　security　I'd　never　experienced。　Dew；　frost　and　fog。　Snow　flurries。　The　jet　stream。　I　believe　there　is　a　grandeur　in　the　jet　stream。　I　began　to　e　out　of　my　shell；　talk　to　people　in　the　street。　'Nice　day。'　'Looks　like　rain。'　'Hot　enough　for　you？'　Everyone　notices　the　weather。　First　thing　on　rising；　you　go　to　the　window；　look　at　the　weather。　You　do　it；　I　do　it。　I　made　a　list　of　goals　I　hoped　to　achieve　in　meteorology。　I　took　a　correspondence　course；　got　a　degree　to　teach　the　subject　in　buildings　with　a　legal　occupancy　of　less　than　one　hundred。
　　I've　taught　meteorology　in　church　basements；　in　trailer　parks；　in　people's　dens　and　living　rooms。　They　came　to　hear　me　in　Millers　Creek；　Lumberville；　Watertown。　Factory　workers；　housewives；　merchants；　members　of　the　police　and　the　fire。　I　saw　something　in　their　eyes。　A　hunger；　a　pelling　need。〃
　　There　were　little　holes　in　the　cuffs　of　his　thermal　undershirt。　We　were　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　room。　I　waited　for　him　to　go　on。　It　was　the　time　of　year；　the　time　of　day；　for　a　small　insistent　sadness　to　pass　into　the　texture　of　things。　Dusk；　silence；　iron　chill。　Something　lonely　in　the　bone。
　　When　I　got　home；　Bob　Pardee　was　in　the　kitchen　practicing　his　golf　swing。　Bob　is　Denise's　father。　He　said　he　was　driving　through　town　on　his　way　to　Glassboro　to　make　a　presentation　and　thought　he'd　take　us　all　to　dinner。
　　He　swung　his　locked　hands　in　slow　motion　over　his　left　shoulder；　following　through　smoothly。　Denise　eyed　him　from　a　stool　by　the　window。　He　wore　a　half　shaggy　cardigan　with　sleeves　that　draped　over　the　cuffs。
　　〃What　kind　of　presentation？〃　she　said。
　　〃Oh；　you　know。　Charts；　arrows。　Slap　some　colors　on　a　wall。　It's　a　basic　outreach　tool；　sweetheart。〃
　　〃Did　you　change　jobs　again？〃
　　〃I'm　raising　funds。　Busy　as　hell；　too；　better　believe。〃
　　〃What　kind　of　funds？〃
　　〃Just　whatever's　out　there；　you　know？　People　want　to　give　me　food　stamps；　etchings。　Hey；　great；　I　don't　mind。〃
　　He　was　bent　over　a　putt。　Babette　leaned　on　the　refrigerator　door　with　her　arms　folded；　watching　him。　Upstairs　a　British　voice　said：　〃There　are　forms　of　vertigo　that　do　not　include　spinning。〃
　　〃Funds　for　what？〃　Denise　said。
　　〃There's　a　little　thing　you　might　have　had　occasion　to　hear　of；　called　the　Nuclear　Accident　Readiness　Foundation。　Basically　a　legal　defense　fund　for　the　industry。　Just　in　case　kind　of　thing。〃
　　〃Just　in　case　what？〃
　　〃Just　in　case　I　faint　from　hunger。　Let's　sneak　up　on　some　ribs；　why　don't　we？　You　got　your　leg　men；　you　got　your　breast　men。
　　Babette；　what　do　you　say？　I'm　about　semiprepared　to　slaughter　my　own　animal。〃
　　〃How　many　jobs　is　this　anyway？〃
　　〃Don't　pester　me；　Denise。〃
　　〃Never　mind；　I　don't　care；　do　what　you　want。〃
　　Bob　took　the　three　older　kids　to　the　Wagon　Wheel。　I　drove　Babette　to　the　river…edge　house　where　she　would　read　to　Mr。　Treadwell；　the　blind　old　man　who　lived　there　with　his　sister。　Wilder　sat　between　us；　playing　with　the　supermarket　tabloids　that　Treadwell　favored　as　reading　matter。　As　a　volunteer　reader　to　the　blind；　Babette　had　some　reservations　about　the　old　gent's　appetite　for　the　unspeakable　and　seamy；　believing　that　the　handicapped　were　morally　bound　to　higher　types　of　entertainment。　If　we　couldn't　look　to　them　for　victories　of　the　human　。spirit；　who　could　we　look　to？　They　had　an　example　to　set　just　as　she　did　as　a　reader　and　morale…booster。　But　she　was　professional　in　her　duty；　reading　to　him　with　high　earnestness；　as　to　a　child；　about　dead　men　who　leave　messages　on　answering　machines。
　　Wilder　and　I　waited　in　the　car。　The　plan　was　that　after　the　reading　the　three　of　us　would　meet　the　Wagon　Wheel　group　at　the　Dinky　Donut；　where　they　would　have　dessert　and　we　would　have　dinner。　I'd　brought　along　a　copy　of　Mein　Kampf　for　that　segment　of　the　evening。
　　The　Treadwell　house　was　an　old　frame　structure　with　rotting　trellises　along　the　porch。　Less　than　five　minutes　after　she'd　entered；　Babette　came　out；　walked　uncertainly　to　the　far　end　of　the　porch　and　peered　across　the　dim　yard。　Then　she　walked　slowly　toward　the　car。
　　〃Door　was　open。　I　went　in；　nobody。　I　looked　around；　nothing；　nobody。　I　went　upstairs；　no　sign　of　life。　There　doesn't　seem　to　be　anything　missing。〃
　　〃What　do　you　know　about　his　sister？〃
　　〃She's　older　than　he　is　and　probably　in　worse　shape　if　you　disregard　the　fact　that　he's　blind　and　she　isn't。〃
　　The　two　nearest　houses　were　dark；　both　up　for　sale；　and　no　one　at　four　other　houses　in　the　area　knew　anything　about　the　Treadwells'
　　movements　over　the　past　few　days。　We　drove　to　the　state　trooper　barracks　and　talked　to　a　female　clerk　who　sat　behind　a　puter　console。　She　told　us　there　was　a　disappearance　every　eleven　seconds　and　taped　everything　we　said。
　　At　the　Dinky　Donut；　outside　town；　Bob　Pardee　sat　quietly　as　the　family　ate　and　talked。　The　soft　pink　golfer's　face　had　begun　to　droop　from　his　skull。　His　flesh　seemed　generally　to　sag；　giving　him　the　hangdog　look　of　someone　under　strict　orders　to　lose　weight。　His　hair　was　expensively　cut　and　layered；　a　certain　amount　of　color　bed　in；　a　certain　amount　of　technology　brought　to　bear；　but　it　seemed　to　need　a　more　dynamic　head。　I　realized　Babette　was　looking　at　him　carefully；　trying　to　grasp　the　meaning　of　the　four　careening　years　they'd　spent　as　man　and　wife。　The　panoramic　carnage。　He　drank；　gambled；　drove　his　car　down　embankments；　got　fired；　quit；　retired；　traveled　in　disguise　to　Coaltown　where　he　paid　a　woman　to　speak　Swedish　to　him　as　they　screwed。　It　was　the　Swedish　that　enraged　Babette；　either　that　or　his　need　to　confess　it；　and　she　hit　out　at　him—hit　out　with　the　backs　of　her　hands；　with　her　elbows　and　wrists。　Old　loves；　old　fears。　Now　she　watched　him　with　a　tender　sympathy；　a　reflectiveness　that　seemed　deep　and　fond　and　generous　enough　to　contain　all　the　magical　coun…terspells　to　his　current　run　of　woe；　although　I　knew；　of　course；　as　I　went　back　to　my　book；　that　it　was　only　a　passing　affection；　one　of　those　kindnesses　no　one　understands。
　　By　noon　the　next　day　they　were　dragging　the　river。
　　13
　　The　students　tend　to　stick　close　to　campus。　There　is　nothing　for　them　to　do　in　Blacksmith　proper；　no　natural　haunt　or　attraction。　They　have　their　own　food；　movies；　music；　theater；　sports；　conversation　and　sex。　This　is　a　town　of　dry　cleaning　shops　and　opticians。　Photos　of　looming　Victorian　homes　decorate　the　wind