《渺小一生》:“但是我真的認為你應該去做心理咨詢?！?/h1>
He couldn’t remember when he had been angrier on his own behalf. Lots of things made him angry—general injustice, incompetence, directors who didn’t give Willem a part he wanted—but he rarely got angry about things that happened or had happened to him: his pains, past and present, were things he tried not to brood about, were not questions to which he spent his days searching for meaning. He already knew why they had happened: they had happened because he had deserved them.
他記憶中，從來不曾為了自己這么生氣過。讓他生氣的事情很多（一般的不公平、無能，還有沒選中威廉去演戲的那些導演），但他很少為了自己的事情而生氣，他的疼痛、過去和現(xiàn)在，他都設(shè)法不去擔憂，不花時間去想其中的意義。他已經(jīng)知道為什么那些事會發(fā)生在自己身上了，因為他活該。
But he knew too that his anger was unjustified. And as much as he resented his dependence upon Andy, he was grateful for him as well, and he knew Andy found his behavior illogical. But Andy’s job was to make people better: Andy saw him the way he saw a mangled tax law, as something to be untangled and repaired—whether he thought he could be repaired was almost incidental. The thing he was trying to fix—the scars that raised his back into an awful, unnatural topography, the skin stretched as glossy and taut as a roasted duck’s: the reason he was trying to save money—was not, he knew, something Andy would approve of. “Jude,” Andy would say if he ever heard what he was planning, “I promise you it’s not going to work, and you’re going to have wasted all that money. Don’t do it.”
但他也知道，自己的憤怒并不理直氣壯。雖然他很氣自己這么依賴安迪，但也很感激他，同時他也知道，安迪覺得他的行為莫名其妙。安迪的工作是讓人好過一點：安迪看他，就像他看著一份亂七八糟的稅法，是必須被理清、被修復的，而他自己是否覺得被修復幾乎是不重要的。其實他真正試著修復的東西，就是他背上那些隆起的疤痕。那些疤痕形成一幅可怕、不自然的樣貌，皮膚緊繃又發(fā)亮，活像只烤鴨。他存錢就是為了這個，但他知道安迪不會贊成的?！棒玫?，”要是安迪聽了他的計劃，一定會說，“我跟你保證不會有用的，你只會把那些錢浪費掉而已。別去做?！?
“But they’re hideous,” he would mumble.
“可是那些疤好丑。”他會囁嚅著說。
“They’re not, Jude,” Andy would say. “I swear to god they’re not.”
“才不丑，裘德?！卑驳蠒f，“我跟上帝發(fā)誓根本不丑?！?
(But he wasn’t going to tell Andy anyway, so he would never have to have that particular conversation.)
（反正他不打算告訴安迪，他永遠不必跟他進行這段對話。）
The days passed and he didn’t call Andy and Andy didn’t call him. As if in punishment, his wrist throbbed at night when he was trying to sleep, and at work he forgot and banged it rhythmically against the side of his desk as he read, a longtime bad tic he’d not managed to erase. The stitches had seeped blood then, and he’d had to clean them, clumsily, in the bathroom sink.
過了幾天，他一直沒有打電話給安迪，安迪也沒打給他。但好像是上天要懲罰他似的，晚上入睡前，他的手腕就不斷抽痛。但是工作時他又忘了，還邊閱讀邊用手腕規(guī)律地敲著桌側(cè)。這是他一直戒除不了的惡習。然后他手臂的縫線就會滲出血來，他就得在浴室的水槽里笨拙地清理。
“What’s wrong?” Willem asked him one night.
“怎么了？”威廉有天晚上問他。
“Nothing,” he said. He could tell Willem, of course, who would listen and say “Hmm” in his Willem-ish way, but he knew he would agree with Andy.
“沒事。”他說。當然，他可以告訴威廉，他會傾聽，然后老樣子地說“嗯”，但他知道威廉會同意安迪的意見。
A week after their fight, he came home to Lispenard Street—it was a Sunday, and he had been walking through west Chelsea—and Andy was waiting on the steps before their front door.
在他們吵架一星期后，他晚上回到利斯本納街。那是星期天，他一路穿過西切爾西走回來，發(fā)現(xiàn)安迪在大樓前的臺階上等他。
He was surprised to see him. “Hi,” he said.
他看到他很驚訝?！班?。”他說。
“Hi,” Andy had replied. They stood there. “I wasn’t sure if you’d take my call.”
“嗨，”安迪回答，他們站在那兒，“我不確定你會不會接我的電話?！?
“Of course I would’ve.”
“我當然會接啊。”
“Listen,” Andy said. “I’m sorry.”
“聽我說，”安迪說，“我很抱歉?！?
“Me too. I’m sorry, Andy.”
“我也是。對不起，安迪?！?
“But I really do think you should see someone.”
“但是我真的認為你應該去做心理咨詢?！?
“I know you do.”
“我知道?！?
And somehow they managed to leave it at that: a fragile and mutually unsatisfying cease-fire, with the question of the therapist the vast gray demilitarized zone between them. The compromise (though how this had been agreed upon as such was unclear to him now) was that at the end of every visit, he had to show Andy his arms, and Andy would examine them for new cuts. Whenever he found one, he would log it in his chart. He was never sure what might provoke another outburst from Andy: sometimes there were many new cuts, and Andy would merely groan and write them down, and sometimes there were only a few new cuts and Andy would get agitated anyway. “You’ve fucking ruined your arms, you know that, right?” he would ask him. But he would say nothing, and let Andy’s lecture wash over him. Part of him understood that by not letting Andy do his job—which was, after all, to heal him—he was being disrespectful, and was to some degree making Andy into a joke in his own office. Andy’s tallies—sometimes he wanted to ask Andy if he would get a prize once he reached a certain number, but he knew it would make him angry—were a way for him to at least pretend he could manage the situation, even if he couldn’t: it was the accrual of data as a small compensation for actual treatment.
總之，他們設(shè)法到此為止：一個雙方都不滿意的、脆弱的?；穑睦碜稍兊膯栴}是他們兩人之間一片廣大的灰色非軍事區(qū)。兩人的妥協(xié)方式（雖然他也搞不清是如何達成這個一致意見的）就是每次看診過后，他得讓安迪檢查兩只手臂，安迪會察看上頭有沒有新的割痕。只要發(fā)現(xiàn)一道，安迪就會在病歷上記下來。他從來不確定什么又會引起安迪的暴怒：有時新割痕很多，但安迪只是咕噥著寫下來；有時只有一道新割痕，安迪還是因此發(fā)脾氣?！澳闼麐尩陌涯愕氖直鄱細У袅?，你知道吧？”他會問他。一部分的他明白，如果不讓安迪做他的工作——說到底，就是治愈他——是對安迪的不尊重，也害安迪成為他專業(yè)上的笑話。對安迪來說，那些割傷的紀錄（有時他想問安迪，如果達到某個數(shù)字，他是不是能得到獎品，但他知道安迪聽了會生氣）是假裝自己至少能控制狀況的一種方式，盡管他根本控制不了。這項信息的累積，是對真正治療的一種小小彌補。
And then, two years later, another wound had opened on his left leg, which had always been the more troublesome one, and his cuttings were set aside for the more urgent matter of his leg. He had first developed one of these wounds less than a year after the injury, and it had healed quickly. “But it won’t be the last,” the Philadelphia surgeon had said. “With an injury like yours, everything—the vascular system, the dermal system—has been so compromised that you should expect you might get these now and again.”
過了兩年，他的左腿上又出現(xiàn)了一個瘡，左腿的傷口向來比較棘手，于是他的割傷就被暫時擱置一旁，先處理腿上更緊急的問題。他第一次長這種瘡是被車子撞傷后不到一年，很快就痊愈了?！暗@不會是最后一次?！蹦莻€費城的外科醫(yī)生說，“像你受了這種大傷，身上的一切，血管系統(tǒng)、皮膚系統(tǒng)，都受到了損傷，所以你偶爾就會生這種瘡。”
This was the eleventh he’d had, so although he was prepared for the sensation of it, he was never to know its cause (An insect bite? A brush against the edge of a metal filing cabinet? It was always something so gallingly small, but still capable of tearing his skin as easily as if it had been made of paper), and he was never to cease being disgusted by it: the suppuration, the sick, fishy scent, the little gash, like a fetus’s mouth, that would appear, burbling viscous, unidentifiable fluids. It was unnatural, the stuff of monster movies and myths, to walk about with an opening that wouldn’t, couldn’t be closed. He began seeing Andy every Friday night so he could debride the wound, cleaning it and removing the dead tissue and examining the area around it, looking for new skin growth, as he held his breath and gripped the side of the table and tried not to scream.
這回是第十一個了。盡管他有準備，但他從來不知道成因是什么（昆蟲咬傷？刮到金屬檔案柜的邊緣？這類傷口一開始總是小得煩人，但還是有本事輕易地撕開他的皮膚，仿佛他的皮膚是紙做的），而且每次都很擾人：傷口化膿，令人作嘔，還帶著魚腥味，小小的切口像個胚胎的嘴巴，里頭會冒出黏稠的不明液體。腿上帶著這么個怪物和神話電影里才會出現(xiàn)的開口走來走去實在很反常，而且這傷口怎么都不肯愈合。他開始每星期五都去安迪那，好讓他幫忙清創(chuàng)、清理傷口并除去壞死組織，檢查周圍的區(qū)域，尋找新長出來的皮膚。他得憋著氣抓住檢查臺邊緣，盡量忍著不要大叫。
“You have to tell me when it’s painful, Jude,” Andy had said, as he breathed and sweated and counted in his head. “It’s a good thing if you can feel this, not a bad thing. It means the nerves are still alive and still doing what they’re supposed to.”
“裘德，你痛了要說。”安迪說過。他滿頭大汗地吸氣吐氣，在心里數(shù)著數(shù)字。“你會痛是好事，不是壞事。這表示你的神經(jīng)沒壞死，還在發(fā)揮功能?！?
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