白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第18章
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led the Terminal Building； the Packer Building； the merce Building。 How close this was to a classic photography of regret。
〃A gray day in Iron City；〃 I said。 〃We may as well go back to the airport。〃
〃How is Hitler？'！
〃Fine； solid； dependable。〃
〃You look good； Tuck。〃
〃I don't feel good。〃
〃You never felt good。 You're the old Tuck。 You were always the old Tuck。 We loved each other； didn't we？ We told each other everything； within the limits of one's preoccupation with breeding and tact。 Malcolm tells me nothing。 Who is he？ What does he do？〃
She sat with her legs tucked under her； facing me； and flicked ashes into her shoes； which sat on the rubber mat。
〃Wasn't it marvelous to grow up tall and straight； among geldings and mares； with a daddy who wore blue blazers and crisp gray flannels？〃
〃Don't ask me。〃
〃Mother used to stand in the arbor with an armful of cut flowers。 Just stand there； being what she was。〃
At the airport we waited in a mist of plaster dust； among exposed wires； mounds of rubble。 Half an hour before Bee was due to arrive； the passengers from another flight began filing through a drafty tunnel into the arrivals area。 They were gray and stricken； they were stooped over in weariness and shock； dragging their hand luggage across the floor。 Twenty； thirty； forty people came out； without a word or look； keeping their eyes to the ground。
Some limped； some wept。 More came through the tunnel； adults with whimpering children； old people trembling； a black minister with his collar askew； one shoe missing。 Tweedy helped a woman with two small kids。 I approached a young man； a stocky fellow with a mailman's cap and beer belly； wearing a down vest； and he looked at me as if I didn't belong in his space…time dimension but had crossed over illegally； made a rude incursion。 I forced him to stop and face me； asked him what had happened up there。 As people kept filing past； he exhaled wearily。 Then he nodded； his eyes steady on mine； full of a gentle resignation。
The plane had lost power in all three engines； dropped from thirty…four thousand feet to twelve thousand feet。 Something like four miles。 When the steep glide began； people rose； fell； collided； swam in their seats。 Then the serious screaming and moaning began。 Almost immediately a voice from the flight deck was heard on the inter： 〃We're falling out of the sky！ We're going down！ We're a silver gleaming death machine！〃 This outburst struck the passengers as an all but total breakdown of authority； petence and mand presence and it brought on a round of fresh and desperate wailing。
Objects were rolling out of the galley； the aisles were full of drinking glasses； utensils； coats and blankets。 A stewardess pinned to the bulkhead by the sharp angle of descent was trying to find the relevant passage in a handbook titled 〃Manual of Disasters。〃 Then there was a second male voice from the flight deck； this one remarkably calm and precise； making the passengers believe there was someone in charge after all； an element of hope： 〃This is American two…one…three to the cockpit voice recorder。 Now we know what it's like。 It is worse than we'd ever imagined。 They didn't prepare us for this at the death simulator in Denver。 Our fear is pure； so totally stripped of distractions and pressures as to be a form of transcendental meditation。 In less than three minutes we will touch down； so to speak。 They will find our bodies in some smoking field； strewn about in the grisly attitudes of death。 I love you； Lance。〃 This time there was a brief pause before the mass wailing remenced。 Lance？ What kind of people were in control of this aircraft？ The crying took on a bitter and disillusioned tone。
As the man in the down vest told the story； passengers from the tunnel began gathering around us。 No one spoke； interrupted； tried to embellish the account。
Aboard the gliding craft； a stewardess crawled down the aisle； over bodies and debris； telling people in each row to remove their shoes； remove sharp objects from their pockets； assume a fetal position。 At the other end of the plane； someone was wrestling with a flotation device。 Certain elements in the crew had decided to pretend that it was not a crash but a crash landing that was seconds away。 After all； the difference between the two is only one word。 Didn't this suggest that the two forms of flight termination were more or less interchangeable？ How much could one word matter？ An encouraging question under the circumstances； if you didn't think about it too long； and there was no time to think right now。 The basic difference between a crash and a crash landing seemed to be that you could sensibly prepare for a crash landing； which is exactly what they were trying to do。 The news spread through the plane； the term was repeated in row after row。 〃Crash landing； crash landing。〃 They saw how easy it was； by adding one word； to maintain a grip on the future； to extend it in consciousness if not in actual fact。 They patted themselves for ballpoint pens； went fetal in their seats。
By the time the narrator reached this point in his account； many people were crowded around； not only people who'd just emerged from the tunnel but also those who'd been among the first to disembark。 They'd e back to listen。 They were not yet ready to disperse； to reinhabit their earthbound bodies； but wanted to linger with their terror； keep it separate and intact for just a while longer。 More people drifted toward us； milled about； close to the entire planeload。 They were content to let the capped and vested man speak on their behalf。 No one disputed his account or tried to add individual testimony。 It was as though they were being told of an event they hadn't personally been involved in。 They were interested in what he said； even curious； but also clearly detached。 They trusted him to tell them what they'd said and felt。
It was at this point in the descent； as the term 〃crash landing〃 spread through the plane； with a pronounced vocal stress on the second word； that passengers in first class came scrambling and clawing through the curtains； literally climbing their way into the tourist section in order to avoid being the first to strike the ground。 There were those in tourist who felt they ought to be made to go back。 This sentiment was expressed not so much in words and actions as in terrible and inarticulate sounds； mainly cattle noises； an urgent and force…fed lowing。 Suddenly the engines restarted。 Just like that。 Power； stability； control。 The passengers； prepared for impact； were slow to adjust to the new wave of information。 New sounds； a different flight path； a sense of being encased in solid tubing and not some polyurethane wrap。 The smoking sign went on； an international hand with a cigarette。 Stewardesses appeared with scented towelettes for cleaning blood and vomit。 People slowly came out of their fetal positions； sat back limply。 Four miles of prime…time terror。 No one knew what to say。 Being alive was a richness of sensation。 Dozens of things； hundreds of things。 The first officer walked down the aisle； smiling and chatting in an empty pleasant corporate way。 His face had the rosy and confident polish that is familiar in handlers of large passenger aircraft。 They looked at him and wondered why they'd been afraid。
I'd been pushed away from the narrator by people crowding in to listen； well over a hundred of them； dragging their shoulder bags and garment bags across the dusty floor。 Just as I realized I was almost out of hearing range； I saw Bee standing next to me； her small face smooth and white in a mass of kinky hair。 She jumped up into my embrace； smelling of jet exhaust。
〃Where's the media？〃 she said。
〃There is no media in Iron City。〃
'They went through all that for nothing？〃
We found Tweedy and headed out to the car。 There was a traffic jam on the outskirts of the city and we had to sit on a road outside an abandoned foundry。 A thousand broken windows； street lights broken； darkness settling in。 Bee sat in the middle of the rear seat in the lotus position。 She seemed remarkably well rested after a journey that had spanned time zones； land masses； vast oceanic distances； days and nights； on large and small planes； in summer and winter； from Surabaya to Iron City。 Now we sat waiting in the dark for a car to get towed or a drawbridge to close。 Bee didn't think this familiar irony of modern travel was worth a ment。 She just sat there listening to Tweedy explain to me why parents needn't worry about children taking such trips alone。 Planes and terminals are the safest of places for the very young and very old。 They are looked after； smiled upon； admired for their resourcefulness and pluck。 People ask friendly questions； offer them blankets and sweets。
〃Every child ought to have the opportunity to travel thousands of miles alone；〃 Tweedy said； 〃for the sake of her self…esteem and independence of mind； with clothes and toiletries of her own choosing。 The sooner we get them in the air； the better。 Like swimming or ice skating。 You have to start them young。 It's one of the things I'm proudest to have acplished with Bee。 I sent her to Boston on Eastern when she wa
