白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第64章

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dge　over；　extremely　deliberate　in　his　movements；　following　some　numbered　scheme；　and　the　cars　went　wailing　past；　horns　blowing　belatedly；　drivers'　eyes　searching　the　rearview　mirror。　He　walked　the　tricycle　across　the　grass。　The　women　watched　him　regain　a　firm　placement　on　the　seat。　Stay；　they　called。　Do　not　go。　No；　no。　Like　fpreigners　reduced　to　simple　phrases。　The　cars　kept　ing；　whipping　into　the　straightaway；　endless　streaking　traffic。　He　set　off　to　cross　the　last　three　lanes；　dropping　off　the　median　like　a　bouncing　ball；　front　wheel；　rear　wheels。　Then　the　head…wagging　race　to　the　other　side。　Cars　dodged；　strayed；　climbed　the　curbstone；　astonished　heads　appearing　in　the　side　windows。　The　furiously　pedaling　boy　could　not　know　how　slow　he　seemed　to　be　moving　from　the　vantage　point　of　the　women　on　the　porch。　The　women　were　silent　by　now；　outside　the　event；　suddenly　tired。　How　slow　he　moved；　how　mistaken　he　was　in　thinking　he　was　breezing　right　along。　It　made　them　tired。　The　horns　kept　blowing；　sound　waves　mixing　in　the　air；　flattening；　calling　back　from　vanished　cars；　scolding。　He　reached　the　other　side；　briefly　rode　parallel　to　the　traffic；　seemed　to　lose　his　balance；　fall　away；　going　down　the　embankment　in　a　multicolored　tumble。　When　he　reappeared　a　second　later；　he　was　sitting　in　a　water　furrow；　part　of　the　intermittent　creek　that　acpanies　the　highway。　Stunned；　he　made　the　decision　to　cry。　It　took　him　a　moment；　mud　and　water　everywhere；　the　tricycle　on　its　side。　The　women　began　to　call　once　more；　each　raising　an　arm　to　revoke　the　action。　Boy　in　the　water；　they　said。　Look；　help；　drown。　And　he　seemed；　on　his　seat　in　the　creek；　profoundly　howling；　to　have　heard　them　for　the　first　time；　looking　up　over　the　earthen　mound　and　into　the　trees　across　the　expressway。　This　frightened　them　all　the　more。　They　called　and　waved；　were　approaching　the　early　phases　of　uncontrollable　terror　when　a　passing　motorist；　as　such　people　are　called；　alertly　pulled　over；　got　out　of　the　car；　skidded　down　the　embankment　and　lifted　the　boy　from　the　murky　shallows；　holding　him　aloft　for　the　clamoring　elders　to　see。
　　We　go　to　the　overpass　all　the　time。　Babette；　Wilder　and　I。　We　take　a　thermos　of　iced　tea；　park　the　car；　watch　the　setting　sun。　Clouds　are　no　deterrent。　Clouds　intensify　the　drama；　trap　and　shape　the　light。　Heavy　overcasts　have　little　effect。　Light　bursts　through；　tracers　and　smoky　arcs。　Overcasts　enhance　the　mood。　We　find　little　to　say　to　each　other。　More　cars　arrive；　parking　in　a　line　that　extends　down　to　the　residential　zone。　People　walk　up　the　incline　and　onto　the　overpass；　carrying　fruit　and　nuts；　cool　drinks；　mainly　the　middle…aged；　the　elderly；　some　with　webbed　beach　chairs　which　they　set　out　on　the　sidewalk；　but　younger　couples　also；　arm　in　arm　at　the　rail；　looking　west。　The　sky　takes　on　content；　feeling；　an　exalted　narrative　life。　The　bands　of　color　reach　so　high；　seem　at　times　to　separate　into　their　constituent　parts。　There　are　turreted　skies；　light　storms；　softly　falling　streamers。　It　is　hard　to　know　how　we　should　feel　about　this。　Some　people　are　scared　by　the　sunsets；　some　determined　to　be　elated；　but　most　of　us　don't　know　how　to　feel；　are　ready　to　go　either　way。　Rain　is　no　deterrent。　Rain　brings　on　graded　displays；　wonderful　running　hues。　More　cars　arrive；　people　e　trudging　up　the　incline。　The　spirit　of　these　warm　evenings　is　hard　to　describe。　There　is　anticipation　in　the　air　but　it　is　not　the　expectant　midsummer　hum　of　a　shirtsleeve　crowd；　a　sandlot　game；　with　coherent　precedents；　a　history　of　secure　response。　This　waiting　is　introverted；　uneven；　almost　backward　and　shy；　tending　toward　silence。　What　else　do　we　feel？　Certainly　there　is　awe；　it　is　all　awe；　it　transcends　previous　categories　of　awe；　but　we　don't　know　whether　we　are　watching　in　wonder　or　dread；　we　don't　know　what　we　are　watching　or　what　it　means；　we　don't　know　whether　it　is　permanent；　a　level　of　experience　to　which　we　will　gradually　adjust；　into　which　our　uncertainty　will　eventually　be　absorbed；　or　just　some　atmospheric　weirdness；　soon　to　pass。　The　collapsible　chairs　are　yanked　open；　the　old　people　sit。　What　is　there　to　say？　The　sunsets　linger　and　so　do　we。　The　sky　is　under　a　spell；　powerful　and　storied。　Now　and　then　a　car　actually　crosses　the　overpass；　moving　slowly；　deferentially。　People　keep　ing　up　the　incline；　some　in　wheelchairs；　twisted　by　disease；　those　who　attend　them　bending　low　to　push　against　the　grade。　I　didn't　know　how　many　handicapped　and　helpless　people　there　were　in　town　until　the　warm　nights　brought　crowds　to　the　overpass。　Cars　speed　beneath　us；　ing　from　the　west；　from　out　of　the　towering　light；　and　we　watch　them　as　if　for　a　sign；　as　if　they　carry　on　their　painted　surfaces　some　residue　of　the　sunset；　a　barely　detectable　luster　or　film　of　telltale　dust。　No　one　plays　a　radio　or　speaks　in　a　voice　that　is　much　above　a　whisper。　Something　golden　falls；　a　softness　delivered　to　the　air。　There　are　people　walking　dogs；　there　are　kids　on　bikes；　a　man　with　a　camera　and　long　lens；　waiting　for　his　moment。　It　is　not　until　some　time　after　dark　has　fallen；　the　insects　screaming　in　the　heat；　that　we　slowly　begin　to　disperse；　shyly；　politely；　car　after　car；　restored　to　our　separate　and　defensible　selves。
　　The　men　in　Mylex　suits　are　still　in　the　area；　yellow…snouted；　gathering　their　terrible　data；　aiming　their　infrared　devices　at　the　earth　and　sky。
　　Dr。　Chakravarty　wants　to　talk　to　me　but　I　am　making　it　a　point　to　stay　away。　He　is　eager　to　see　how　my　death　is　progressing。　An　interesting　case　perhaps。　He　wants　to　insert　me　once　more　in　the　imaging　block；　where　charged　particles　collide；　high　winds　blow。　But　I　am　afraid　of　the　imaging　block。　Afraid　of　its　magnetic　fields；　its　puterized　nuclear　pulse。　Afraid　of　what　it　knows　about　me。
　　I　am　taking　no　calls。
　　The　supermarket　shelves　have　been　rearranged。　It　happened　one　day　without　warning。　There　is　agitation　and　panic　in　the　aisles；　dismay　in　the　faces　of　older　shoppers。　They　walk　in　a　fragmented　trance；　stop　and　go；　clusters　of　well…dressed　figures　frozen　in　the　aisles；　trying　to　figure　out　the　pattern；　discern　the　underlying　logic；　trying　to　remember　where　they'd　seen　the　Cream　of　Wheat。　They　see　no　reason　for　it；　find　no　sense　in　it。　The　scouring　pads　are　with　the　hand　soap　now；　the　condiments　are　scattered。　The　older　the　man　or　woman；　the　more　carefully　dressed　and　groomed。　Men　in　Sansabelt　slacks　and　bright　knit　shirts。　Women　with　a　powdered　and　fussy　look；　a　self…conscious　air；　prepared　for　some　anxious　event。　They　turn　into　the　wrong　aisle；　peer　along　the　shelves；　sometimes　stop　abruptly；　causing　other　carts　to　run　into　them。　Only　the　generic　food　is　where　it　was；　white　packages　plainly　labeled。　The　men　consult　lists；　the　women　do　not。　There　is　a　sense　of　wandering　now；　an　aimless　and　haunted　mood；　sweet…tempered　people　taken　to　the　edge。　They　scrutinize　the　small　print　on　packages；　wary　of　a　second　level　of　betrayal。　The　men　scan　for　stamped　dates；　the　women　for　ingredients。　Many　have　trouble　making　out　the　words。　Smeared　print；　ghost　images。　In　the　altered　shelves；　the　ambient　roar；　in　the　plain　and　heartless　fact　of　their　decline；　they　try　to　work　their　way　through　confusion。　But　in　the　end　it　doesn't　matter　what　they　see　or　think　they　see。　The　terminals　are　equipped　with　holographic　scanners；　which　decode　the　binary　secret　of　every　item；　infallibly。　This　is　the　language　of　waves　and　radiation；　or　how　the　dead　speak　to　the　living。　And　this　is　where　we　wait　together；　regardless　of　age；　our　carts　stocked　with　brightly　colored　goods。　A　slowly　moving　line；　satisfying；　giving　us　time　to　glance　at　the　tabloids　in　the　racks。　Everything　we　need　that　is　not　food　or　love　is　here　in　the　tabloid　racks。　The　tales　of　the　supernatural　and　the　extraterrestrial。　The　miracle　vitamins；　the　cures　for　cancer；　the　remedies　for　obesity。　The　cults　of　the　famous　and　the　dead。
　　（the　end）