白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第47章
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carrying instruments to measure and probe； riding through town in teams of six or eight in chunky peglike vehicles that resembled Lego toys。
I stood by Wilder's bed watching him sleep。 The voice next door said： 〃In the four…hundred…thousand…dollar Nabisco Dinah Shore。〃
This was the night the insane asylum burned down。 Heinrich and I got in the car and went to watch。 There were other men at the scene with their adolescent boys。 Evidently fathers and sons seek fellowship at such events。 Fires help draw them closer； provide a conversational wedge。 There is equipment to appraise； the technique of firemen to discuss and criticize。 The manliness of firefighting—the virility of fires； one might say—suits the kind of laconic dialogue that fathers and sons can undertake without awkwardness or embarrassment。
〃Most of these fires in old buildings start in the electrical wiring；〃 Heinrich said。 〃Faulty wiring。 That's one phrase you can't hang around for long without hearing。〃
〃Most people don't burn to death；〃 I said。 'They die of smoke inhalation。〃
'That's the other phrase；〃 he said。
Flames roared through the dormers。 We stood across the street watching part of the roof give way； a tall chimney slowly fold and sink。 Pumper trucks kept arriving from other towns； the men descending heavily in their rubber boots and old…fashioned hats。 Hoses were manned and trained； a figure rose above the shimmering roof in the grip of a telescopic ladder。 We watched the portico begin to go； a far column leaning。 A woman in a fiery nightgown walked across the lawn。 We gasped； almost in appreciation。 She was white…haired and slight； fringed in burning air； and we could see she was mad； so lost to dreams and furies that the fire around her head seemed almost incidental。 No one said a word。 In all the heat and noise of detonating wood； she brought a silence to her。 How powerful and real。 How deep a thing was madness。 A fire captain hurried toward her； then circled out slightly； disconcerted； as if she were not the person； after all； he had expected to meet here。 She went down in a white burst； like a teacup breaking。 Four men were around her now； batting at the flames with helmets and caps。
The great work of containing the blaze went on； a labor that seemed as old and lost as cathedral…building； the men driven by a spirit of lofty munal craft。 A Dalmatian sat in the cab of a hook…and…ladder truck。
〃It's funny how you can look at it and look at it；〃 Heinrich said。 〃Just like a fire in a fireplace。〃
〃Are you saying the two kinds of fire are equally pelling？〃
〃I'm just saying you can look and look。〃
〃'Man has always been fascinated by fire。' Is that what you're saying？〃
〃This is my first burning building。 Give me a chance；〃 he said。
The fathers and sons crowded the sidewalk； pointing at one or another part of the half gutted structure。 Murray； whose rooming house was just yards away； sidled up to us and shook our hands without a word。 Windows blew out。 We watched another chimney slip through the roof； a few loose bricks tumbling to the lawn。 Murray shook our hands again； then disappeared。
Soon there was a smell of acrid matter。 It could have been insulation burning—polystyrene sheathing for pipes and wires— or one or more of a dozen other substances。 A sharp and bitter stink filled the air； overpowering the odor of smoke and charred stone。 It changed the mood of the people on the sidewalk。 Some put hankies to their faces； others left abruptly in disgust。 Whatever caused the odor； I sensed that it made people feel betrayed。 An ancient； spacious and terrible drama was being promised by something unnatural； some small and nasty intrusion。 Our eyes began to burn。 The crowd broke up。 It was as though we'd been forced to recognize the existence of a second kind of death。 One was real； the other synthetic。 The odor drove us away but beneath it and far worse was the sense that death came two ways； sometimes at once； and how death entered your mouth and nose； how death smelled； could somehow make a difference to your soul。
We hurried to our cars； thinking of the homeless； the mad； the dead； but also of ourselves now。 This is what the odor of that burning material did。 It plicated our sadness； brought us closer to the secret of our own eventual end。
At home I fixed warm milk for us both。 I was surprised to see him drink it。 He gripped the mug with both hands； talked about the noise of the conflagration； the air…fed wallop of bustion； like a ramjet thrusting。 I almost expected him to thank me for the nice fire。 We sat there drinking our milk。 After a while he went into his closet to chin。
I sat up late thinking of Mr。 Gray。 Gray…bodied； staticky； unfinished。 The picture wobbled and rolled； the edges of his body flared with random distortion。 Lately I'd found myself thinking of him often。 Sometimes as Mr。 Gray the posite。 Four or more grayish figures engaged in a pioneering work。 Scientists； visionaries。 Their wavy bodies passing through each other； mingling； blending； fusing。 A little like extraterrestrials。 Smarter than the rest of us； selfless； sexless； determined to engineer us out of our fear。 But when the bodies fused 1 was left with a single figure； the project manager； a hazy gray seducer moving in ripples across a motel room。 Bedward； plotward。 I saw my wife reclining on her side； voluptuously rounded； the eternal waiting nude。 I saw her as he did。 Dependent； submissive； emotionally captive。 I felt his mastery and control。 The dominance of his postion。 He was taking over my mind； this man I'd never seen； this half image； the barest smidge of brainlight。 His bleak hands enfolded a rose…white breast。 How vivid and living it was； what a tactile delight； dusted with russet freckles about the tip。 I experienced aural torment。 Heard them in their purling foreplay； the love babble and buzzing flesh。 Heard the sloppings and smackings； the swash of wet mouths； bedsprings sinking in。 An interval of mumbled adjustments。 Then gloom moved in around the gray…sheeted bed； a circle slowly closing。
Panasonic。
33
What time was it when I opened my eyes； sensing someone or something nearby？ Was it an odd…numbered hour？ The room was soft and webby。 I stretched my legs； blinked… slowly focused on a familiar object。 It was Wilder； standing two feet from the bed； gazing into my face。 We spent a long moment in mutual contemplation。 His great round head； set as it was on a small…limbed and squattish body； gave him the look of a primitive clay figurine； some household idol of obscure and cultic derivation。 I had the feeling he wanted to show me something。 As I slipped quietly out of bed； he walked in his quilted booties out of the room。 I followed him into the hall and toward the window that looks out on our backyard。 I was barefoot and robeless and felt a chill pass through the Hong Kong polyester of my pajamas。 Wilder stood looking out the window； his chin about an inch above the sill。 It seemed I'd spent my life in lopsided pajamas； the shirt buttons inserted in mismatching slits； the fly undone and drooping。 Was it dawn already？ Were those crows I heard screaming in the trees？
There was someone sitting in the backyard。 A white…haired man sitting erect in the old wicker chair； a figure of eerie stillness and posure。 At first； dazed and sleepy； I didn't know what to make of the sight。 It seemed to need a more careful interpretation than I was able to provide at the moment。 I thought one thing； that he'd been inserted there for some purpose。 Then fear began to enter； palpable and overwhelming； a fist clenching repeatedly in my chest。 Who was he； what was happening here？ I realized Wilder was no longer next to me。 I reached the doorway to his room just in time to see his head sink into the pillow。 By the time I got to the bed； he was fast asleep。 I didn't know what to do。 I felt cold； white。 I worked my way back to the window； gripping a doorknob； a handrail； as if to remind myself of the nature and being of real things。 He was still out there； gazing into the hedges。 I saw him in profile in the uncertain light； motionless and knowing。 Was he as old as I'd first thought—or was the white hair purely emblematic； part of his allegorical force？ That was it； of course。 He would be Death； or Death's errand…runner； a hollow…eyed technician from the plague era； from the era of inquisitions； endless wars； of bedlams and leprosariums。 He would be an aphorist of last things； giving me the barest glance—civilized； ironic—as he spoke his deft and stylish line about my journey out。 I watched for a long time； waiting for him to move a hand。 His stillness was manding。 I felt myself getting whiter by the second。 What does it mean to bee white？ How does it feel to see Death in the flesh； e to gather you in？ I was scared to the marrow。 I was cold and hot； dry and wet； myself and someone else。 The fist clenched in my chest。 I went to the staircase and sat on the top step； looking into my hands。 So much remained。 Every word and thing a bead…work of bright creation。 My own plain hand； crosshatched and whorled in a mesh of expressive lines； a life terrain； might itself be the object of a person's study and wonder fo
