It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the papers—goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.
I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.
New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat.
I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over the radio and at the office till I couldn't get them out of my mind. It was like the first time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward, the cadaver's head-or what there was left of it-floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadaver's head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.
I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I'd been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet, and how all the little successes I'd totted up so happily at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate-glass fronts along Madison Avenue.
I was supposed to be having the time of my life.
I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping about in those same size-seven patent leather shoes I'd bought in Bloomingdale's one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocketbook to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on-drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion-everybody would think I must be having a real whirl.
Look what can happen in this country, they'd say. A girl lives in some out-of-the-way town for nineteen years, so poor she can't afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York like her own private car.
Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolleybus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn't get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
There were twelve of us at the hotel.
We had all won a fashion magazine contest, by writing essays and stories and poems and fashion blurbs, and as prizes they gave us jobs in New York for a month, expenses paid, and piles and piles of free bonuses, like ballet tickets and passes to fashion shows and hair stylings at a famous expensive salon and chances to meet successful people in the field of our desire and advice about what to do with our particular complexions.
I still have the make-up kit they gave me, fitted out for a person with brown eyes and brown hair: an oblong of brown mascara with a tiny brush, and a round basin of blue eye shadow just big enough to dab the tip of your finger in, and three lipsticks ranging from red to pink, all cased in the same little gilt box with a mirror on one side. I also have a white plastic sunglasses case with colored shells and sequins and a green plastic starfish sewed onto it.
I realized we kept piling up these presents because it was as good as free advertising for the firms involved, but I couldn't be cynical. I got such a kick out of all those free gifts showering on to us. For a long time afterward I hid them away, but later, when I was all right again, I brought them out, and I still have them around the house. I use the lipsticks now and then, and last week I cut the plastic starfish off the sunglasses case for the baby to play with.
So there were twelve of us at the hotel, in the same wing on the same floor in single rooms, one after the other, and it reminded me of my dormitory at college. It wasn't a proper hotel-I mean a hotel where there are both men and women mixed about here and there on the same floor.
This hotel—the Amazon—was for women only, and they were mostly girls my age with wealthy parents who wanted to be sure their daughters would be living where men couldn't get at them and deceive them; and they were all going to posh secretarial schools like Katy Gibbs, where they had to wear hats and stockings and gloves to class, or they had just graduated from places like Katy Gibbs and were secretaries to executives and junior executives and simply hanging around in New York waiting to get married to some career man or other.
These girls looked awfully bored to me. I saw them on the sunroof, yawning and painting their nails and trying to keep up their Bermuda tans, and they seemed bored as hell. I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in airplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil.
Girls like that make me sick. I'm so jealous I can't speak. Nineteen years, and I hadn't been out of New England except for this trip to New York. It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water.
I guess one of my troubles was Doreen.
I'd never known a girl like Doreen before. Doreen came from a society girls' college down South and had bright white hair standing out in a cotton candy fluff round her head and blue eyes like transparent agate marbles, hard and polished and just about indestructible, and a mouth set in a sort of perpetual sneer. I don't mean a nasty sneer, but an amused, mysterious sneer, as if all the people around her were pretty silly and she could tell some good jokes on them if she wanted to.
Doreen singled me out right away. She made me feel I was that much sharper than the others, and she really was wonderfully funny. She used to sit next to me at the conference table, and when the visiting celebrities were talking she'd whisper witty sarcastic remarks to me under her breath.
Her college was so fashion conscious, she said, that all the girls had pocketbook covers made out of the same material as their dresses, so each time they changed their clothes they had a matching pocketbook. This kind of detail impressed me. It suggested a whole life of marvelous, elaborate decadence that attracted me like a magnet.
The only thing Doreen ever bawled me out about was bothering to get my assignments in by a deadline.
“What are you sweating over that for?” Doreen lounged on my bed in a peach silk dressing gown, filing her long, nicotine-yellow nails with an emery board, while I typed up the draft of an interview with a best-selling novelist.
That was another thing—the rest of us had starched cotton summer nighties and quilted housecoats, or maybe terry-cloth robes that doubled as beach coats, but Doreen wore these full-length nylon and lace jobs you could half see through, and dressing gowns the color of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of electricity. She had an interesting, slightly sweaty smell that reminded me of those scallopy leaves of sweet fern you break off and crush between your fingers for the musk of them.
“You know old Jay Cee won't give a damn if that story's in tomorrow or Monday.” Doreen lit a cigarette and let the smoke flare slowly from her nostrils so her eyes were veiled. “Jay Cee's ugly as sin,” Doreen went on coolly. “I bet that old husband of hers turns out all the lights before he gets near her or he'd puke otherwise.”
Jay Cee was my boss, and I liked her a lot, in spite of what Doreen said. She wasn't one of the fashion magazine gushers with fake eyelashes and giddy jewelry. Jay Cee had brains, so her plug-ugly looks didn't seem to matter. She read a couple of languages and knew all the quality writers in the business.
I tried to imagine Jay Cee out of her strict office suit and luncheon-duty hat and in bed with her fat husband, but I just couldn't do it. I always had a terribly hard time trying to imagine people in bed together.
Jay Cee wanted to teach me something, all the old ladies I ever knew wanted to teach me something, but I suddenly didn't think they had anything to teach me. I fitted the lid on my typewriter and clicked it shut.
Doreen grinned. “Smart girl.”
Somebody tapped at the door.
“Who is it?” I didn't bother to get up.
“It's me, Betsy. Are you coming to the party?”
“I guess so.” I still didn't go to the door.
They imported Betsy straight from Kansas with her bouncing blonde ponytail and Sweetheart-of-Sigma-Chi smile. I remember once the two of us were called over to the office of some blue-chinned TV producer in a pinstripe suit to see if we had any angles he could build up for a program, and Betsy started to tell about the male and female corn in Kansas. She got so excited about that damn corn even the producer had tears in his eyes, only he couldn't use any of it, unfortunately, he said.
Later on, the Beauty Editor persuaded Betsy to cut her hair and made a cover girl out of her, and I still see her fare now and then, smiling out of those “P.Q.'s wife wears B.H. Wragge” ads.
Betsy was always asking me to do things with her and the other girls as if she were trying to save me in some way. She never asked Doreen. In private, Doreen called her Pollyanna Cowgirl.
“Do you want to come in our cab?” Betsy said through the door.
Doreen shook her head.
“That's all right, Betsy,” I said. “I'm going with Doreen.”
“Okay.” I could hear Betsy padding off down the hall.
“We'll just go till we get sick of it,” Doreen told me, stubbing out her cigarette in the base of my bedside reading lamp, “then we'll go out on the town. Those parties they stage here remind me of the old dances in the school gym. Why do they always round up Yalies? They're so stoo pit!”
Buddy Willard went to Yale, but now I thought of it, what was wrong with him was that he was stupid. Oh, he'd managed to get good marks all right, and to have an affair with some awful waitress on the Cape by the name of Gladys, but he didn't have one speck of intuition. Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
We were stuck in the theater-hour rush. Our cab sat wedged in back of Betsy's cab and in front of a cab with four of the other girls, and nothing moved.
Doreen looked terrific. She was wearing a strapless white lace dress zipped up over a snug corset affair that curved her in at the middle and bulged her out again spectacularly above and below, and her skin had a bronzy polish under the pale dusting powder. She smelled strong as a whole perfume store.
I wore a black shantung sheath that cost me forty dollars. It was part of a buying spree I had with some of my scholarship money when I heard I was one of the lucky ones going to New York. This dress was cut so queerly I couldn't wear any sort of a bra under it, but that didn't matter much as I was skinny as a boy and barely rippled, and I liked feeling almost naked on the hot summer nights.
The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my odd color, but being with Doreen made me forget my worries. I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
When the man in the blue lumber shirt and black chinos and tooled leather cowboy boots started to stroll over to us from under the striped awning of the bar where he'd been eyeing our cab, I couldn't have any illusions. I knew perfectly well he'd come for Doreen. He threaded his way out between the stopped cars and leaned engagingly on the sill of our open window.
“And what, may I ask, are two nice girls like you doing all alone in a cab on a nice night like this?”
He had a big, wide, white toothpaste-ad smile.
“We're on our way to a party,” I blurted, since Doreen had gone suddenly dumb as a post and was fiddling in a blasé way with her white lace pocketbook cover.
“That sounds boring,” the man said. “Whyn't you both join me for a couple of drinks in that bar over there? I've some friends waiting as well.”
He nodded in the direction of several informally dressed men slouching around under the awning. They had been following him with their eyes, and when he glanced back at them, they burst out laughing.
The laughter should have warned me. It was a kind of low, know-it-all snicker, but the traffic showed signs of moving again, and I knew that if I sat tight, in two seconds I'd be wishing I'd taken this gift of a chance to see something of New York besides what the people on the magazine had planned out for us so carefully.
“How about it, Doreen?” I said.
“How about it, Doreen?” the man said, smiling his big smile. To this day I can't remember what he looked like when he wasn't smiling. I think he must have been smiling the whole time. It must have been natural for him, smiling like that.
“Well, all right,” Doreen said to me. I opened the door, and we stepped out of the cab just as it was edging ahead again and started to walk over to the bar.
There was a terrible shriek of brakes followed by a dull thump-thump.
“Hey you!” Our cabby was craning out of his window with a furious, purple expression. “Waddaya think you're doin'?”
He had stopped the cab so abruptly that the cab behind bumped smack into him, and we could see the four girls inside waving and struggling and scrambling up off the floor.
The man laughed and left us on the curb and went back and handed a bill to the driver in the middle of a great honking and some yelling, and then we saw the girls from the magazine moving off in a row, one cab after another, like a wedding party with nothing but bridesmaids.
“Come on, Frankie,” the man said to one of his friends in the group, and a short, scrunty fellow detached himself and came into the bar with us.
He was the type of fellow I can't stand. I'm five feet ten in my stocking feet, and when I am with little men I stoop over a bit and slouch my hips, one up and one down, so I'll look shorter, and I feel gawky and morbid as somebody in a sideshow.
For a minute I had a wild hope we might pair off according to size, which would line me up with the man who had spoken to us in the first place, and he cleared a good six feet, but he went ahead with Doreen and didn't give me a second look. I tried to pretend I didn't see Frankie dogging along at my elbow and sat close by Doreen at the table.
It was so dark in the bar I could hardly make out anything except Doreen. With her white hair and white dress she was so white she looked silver. I think she must have reflected the neons over the bar. I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.
“Well, what'll we have?” the man asked with a large smile.
“I think I'll have an old-fashioned,” Doreen said to me.
Ordering drinks always floored me. I didn't know whisky from gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of. Buddy Willard and the other college boys I knew were usually too poor to buy hard liquor or they scorned drinking altogether. It's amazing how many college boys don't drink or smoke. I seemed to know them all. The farthest Buddy Willard ever went was buying us a bottle of Dubonnet, which he only did because he was trying to prove he could be aesthetic in spite of being a medical student.
“I'll have a vodka,” I said.
The man looked at me more closely. “With anything?”
“Just plain,” I said. “I always have it plain.”
I thought I might make a fool of myself by saying I'd have it with ice or soda or gin or anything. I'd seen a vodka ad once, just a glass full of vodka standing in the middle of a snowdrift in a blue light, and the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka plain must be all right. My dream was someday ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful.
The waiter came up then, and the man ordered drinks for the four of us. He looked so at home in that citified bar in his ranch outfit I thought he might well be somebody famous.
Doreen wasn't saying a word, she only toyed with her cork placemat and eventually lit a cigarette, but the man didn't seem to mind. He kept staring at her the way people stare at the great white macaw in the zoo, waiting for it to say something human.
The drinks arrived, and mine looked clear and pure, just like the vodka ad.
“What do you do?” I asked the man, to break the silence shooting up around me on all sides, thick as jungle grass. “I mean what do you do here in New York?”
Slowly and with what seemed a great effort, the man dragged his eyes away from Doreen's shoulder. “I'm a disc jockey,” he said. “You prob'ly must have heard of me. The name's Lenny Shepherd.”
“I know you,” Doreen said suddenly.
“I'm glad about that, honey,” the man said, and burst out laughing. “That'll come in handy. I'm famous as hell.”
Then Lenny Shepherd gave Frankie a long look.
“Say, where do you come from?” Frankie asked, sitting up with a jerk. “What's your name?”
“This here's Doreen.” Lenny slid his hand around Doreen's bare arm and gave her a squeeze.
What surprised me was that Doreen didn't let on she noticed what he was doing. She just sat there, dusky as a bleached-blonde Negress in her white dress, and sipped daintily at her drink.
“My name's Elly Higginbottom,” I said. “I come from Chicago.” After that I felt safer. I didn't want anything I said or did that night to be associated with me and my real name and coming from Boston.
“Well, Elly, what do you say we dance some?”
The thought of dancing with that little runt in his orange suede elevator shoes and mingy T-shirt and droopy blue sports coat made me laugh. If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit. Black or gray, or brown, even. Blue just makes me laugh.
“I'm not in the mood,” I said coldly, turning my back on him and hitching my chair over nearer to Doreen and Lenny.
Those two looked as if they'd known each other for years by now. Doreen was spooning up the hunks of fruit at the bottom of her glass with a spindly silver spoon, and Lenny was grunting each time she lifted the spoon to her mouth, and snapping and pretending to be a dog or something, and trying to get the fruit off the spoon. Doreen giggled and kept spooning up the fruit.
I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn't taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallower's sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
“I better go now,” Frankie said, standing up.
I couldn't see him very clearly, the place was so dim, but for the first time I heard what a high, silly voice he had. Nobody paid him any notice.
“Hey, Lenny, you owe me something. Remember, Lenny, you owe me something, don't you, Lenny?”
I thought it odd Frankie should be reminding Lenny he owed him something in front of us, and we being perfect strangers, but Frankie stood there saying the same thing over and over until Lenny dug into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of green bills and peeled one off and handed it to Frankie. I think it was ten dollars.
“Shut up and scram.”
For a minute I thought Lenny was talking to me as well, but then I heard Doreen say, “I won't come unless Elly comes.” I had to hand it to her the way she picked up my fake name.
“Oh, Elly'll come, won't you, Elly?” Lenny said, giving me a wink.
“Sure I'll come,” I said. Frankie had wilted away into the night, so I thought I'd string along with Doreen. I wanted to see as much as I could.
I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I'd stop and look so hard I never forgot it.
I certainly learned a lot of things I never would have learned otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me sick I never let on, but pretended that's the way I knew things were all the time.
這是個(gè)詭異、酷熱的夏天。間諜羅森伯格夫婦在這個(gè)夏天坐上了電椅。而我不知道自己在紐約做什么。我對(duì)于處決這種事情懵懵懂懂,但一想到全身通電而死就感到反胃,偏偏報(bào)紙上全是這事兒。在每個(gè)街角,每個(gè)散發(fā)著霉臭、花生味的地鐵出入口,這些標(biāo)題都瞪大眼睛盯著我。按說(shuō)這本和我無(wú)關(guān),但我就是忍不住地想,被電流竄遍神經(jīng)活活燒死會(huì)是種什么感覺(jué)。
我想世上最恐怖的事情,莫過(guò)于此吧。
紐約真是夠糟的。那隨風(fēng)潛入夜的隱約帶有鄉(xiāng)間濕氣的清新氣味,才剛早上九點(diǎn),就已宛如美夢(mèng)余韻般蒸騰得無(wú)影無(wú)蹤。高樓構(gòu)筑的花崗巖峽谷底下是海市蜃樓般的灰蒙一片,暑氣逼人的街道在烈日下泛著熱浪。車頂被曬得嘶嘶作響,晃得人眼花。干燥的、煤灰般的塵土吹入我的眼中,直下我的喉嚨。
收音機(jī)和辦公室里總在說(shuō)羅森伯格夫婦的事,弄得我想忘也忘不掉。那感覺(jué)就像第一次看見(jiàn)尸體,過(guò)了好幾個(gè)禮拜,那尸體的頭——或者該說(shuō)留在尸身上的殘余物——仍不時(shí)浮現(xiàn)在我眼前,從我早餐的雞蛋和培根后面冒出來(lái),從巴迪·威拉德的臉后面冒出來(lái),這家伙正是害我見(jiàn)到那具尸體的罪魁禍?zhǔn)?。之后沒(méi)多久,我就覺(jué)得自己走到哪里都帶著一顆用繩子拴著的死人頭顱,像帶著一個(gè)黑乎乎的、沒(méi)有鼻子的、酸臭的氣球。
我知道那個(gè)夏天自己有些不對(duì)勁,因?yàn)槲覞M腦子都是羅森伯格夫婦的事;要不就是成天想著自己怎么那么蠢,買了那些穿著不舒服又很昂貴的衣服,只好讓它們像死魚(yú)一樣無(wú)精打采地掛在衣櫥里;我也搞不明白,麥迪遜大道上的光滑大理石和玻璃櫥窗,是怎么把我在大學(xué)期間興高采列地積累的小小成就消弭于無(wú)形的。
我本該享受著人生的大好時(shí)光才對(duì)啊。
我本該是全美成千上萬(wàn)大學(xué)女生羨慕的對(duì)象,她們一心向往的就是穿著和我一樣的七號(hào)漆面皮鞋四處游走。這雙鞋是我趁午餐的時(shí)候跑到布魯明戴爾百貨商店買的,當(dāng)時(shí)還買了一條黑色的漆面皮帶和一個(gè)黑色的漆面手袋來(lái)配它。當(dāng)我的照片登上了我們十二人所任職的雜志社的雜志時(shí),人人都以為我一定樂(lè)得暈頭轉(zhuǎn)向。照片中的我穿著仿銀絲質(zhì)料的緊身胸衣,下半身是一條云朵般的白紗大蓬裙,在某個(gè)名為“星光屋頂”的地方喝著馬丁尼,身旁環(huán)繞著數(shù)位年輕男子。他們雖然沒(méi)什么名氣,卻有著美國(guó)人那種十足的好身材,都是專為這次拍攝雇來(lái)或者借調(diào)來(lái)的。
人們會(huì)說(shuō),瞧瞧,美國(guó)真是無(wú)奇不有。一個(gè)在窮鄉(xiāng)僻壤住了十九年,窮到連本雜志都買不起的鄉(xiāng)下姑娘,居然拿了獎(jiǎng)學(xué)金念大學(xué),還一會(huì)兒得這個(gè)獎(jiǎng),一會(huì)兒得那個(gè)獎(jiǎng),最后竟把紐約當(dāng)作私家車一樣,駕馭起來(lái)得心應(yīng)手。
其實(shí),我什么都駕馭不了,甚至連自己都掌控不好。我就像一輛麻木的無(wú)軌電車,一路從所住的旅館顛簸到辦公室再到派對(duì),然后又從派對(duì)顛簸回旅館再到辦公室。我想我本該像大多數(shù)其他女孩那樣興奮,但我自己就是沒(méi)這種感覺(jué)。我只感到一種極度的靜與空,如同處于暴風(fēng)眼中一般,在周遭的紛擾喧鬧中,遲鈍地前進(jìn)。
我們總共十二個(gè)人住在這家旅館。
我們?nèi)稼A得了一個(gè)時(shí)尚雜志舉辦的競(jìng)賽,有的寫(xiě)了散文,有的寫(xiě)了小說(shuō),有的寫(xiě)了詩(shī)歌,還有的寫(xiě)了時(shí)尚廣告文案,獎(jiǎng)品就是在紐約市見(jiàn)習(xí)一個(gè)月。開(kāi)銷全由雜志社支付,此外還有各種免費(fèi)福利,比如芭蕾舞的門票,時(shí)裝秀和頂級(jí)發(fā)型沙龍的招待券,有機(jī)會(huì)依照個(gè)人喜好和該領(lǐng)域的成功人士見(jiàn)面,還有針對(duì)個(gè)人膚質(zhì)的化妝建議,等等。
我手頭還有一套他們送的化妝品,適合棕眼褐發(fā)的女孩:內(nèi)有一支帶小刷子的長(zhǎng)方形褐色睫毛膏,一小盤(pán)只容指尖放入的藍(lán)色眼影,三支唇膏,顏色從大紅到粉色漸變。這些全裝在一個(gè)內(nèi)蓋鑲了面鏡子的鍍金小盒里。我還有一個(gè)白色塑料墨鏡盒,上面綴著彩色貝殼、金屬圓片和綠色的塑料海星。
我明白之所以有源源不斷的禮物,是因?yàn)檫@形同給贊助商免費(fèi)打廣告,即使如此,我也無(wú)法憤世嫉俗。這些天上掉下來(lái)的禮物,我可是收得心花怒放。雖然我把禮物收起來(lái)了好一陣子,但一等我恢復(fù)正常,又將它們一一拿出來(lái)擺在屋子各處?,F(xiàn)在我仍時(shí)不時(shí)地抹抹那幾支唇膏,上周我還把墨鏡盒上的塑料海星割下來(lái)給小寶寶玩。
就這樣,我們十二人住在同一家旅館同一個(gè)側(cè)翼的同一個(gè)樓層的單人房里,一間緊挨著一間,這讓我想起大學(xué)宿舍。這不是一家普通意義上的旅館——我指的是那種男女混住在同一樓層的旅館。
這家叫“亞馬遜”的旅館只接待女客。她們多和我年紀(jì)相仿,家境殷實(shí),她們的父母希望自己的寶貝女兒住在不會(huì)被男人勾引和欺騙的地方。她們讀的全是像凱蒂·吉布斯這類的高級(jí)秘書(shū)學(xué)校,得戴著帽子、穿著長(zhǎng)筒襪、戴著手套去上課;要不,她們就是剛從這類學(xué)校畢業(yè),擔(dān)任著各級(jí)主管的秘書(shū),留在紐約只是為了等待嫁給事業(yè)有成的男人的機(jī)會(huì)。
在我看來(lái),這些女孩實(shí)在無(wú)聊。我看見(jiàn)她們?cè)跇琼斕炫_(tái),打著呵欠涂著指甲,曬著日光浴保養(yǎng)在百慕大群島曬出的小麥色肌膚,看起來(lái)真的無(wú)聊透頂。我和其中一個(gè)聊過(guò),她說(shuō)她厭倦了游艇,厭倦了搭飛機(jī)飛來(lái)飛去,厭倦了在圣誕節(jié)到瑞士滑雪,厭倦了巴西男人。
我受夠了那樣的女孩。我已嫉妒到說(shuō)不出話來(lái)。十九年來(lái),除了這趟紐約之行,我不曾踏出過(guò)新英格蘭地區(qū)。這是我的第一個(gè)大好機(jī)會(huì),但我卻只是坐看機(jī)會(huì)像流水般從我指間嘩嘩流逝。
我想,我的麻煩之一是朵琳。
我以前不曾認(rèn)識(shí)像朵琳這樣的女孩。她來(lái)自南方一所上流女校,一頭閃亮的白發(fā),像是棉花糖一樣蓬松醒目,圈住她的整張臉;一對(duì)藍(lán)眸澄澈如瑪瑙珠子,又硬又亮,堅(jiān)不可摧;嘴邊永遠(yuǎn)帶著一抹嘲諷的微笑。我說(shuō)的不是那種惹人討厭的冷笑,而是一種頑皮而神秘的嘲笑,仿佛她身邊盡是蠢蛋,只要她愿意,她隨時(shí)都能嘲弄他們一番。
朵琳第一眼就注意上了我,讓我覺(jué)得我比其他人機(jī)靈得多,而她這個(gè)人也確實(shí)有趣得很。開(kāi)會(huì)時(shí),她總是挨著我坐,來(lái)訪的名流說(shuō)話時(shí),她會(huì)壓低聲音和我耳語(yǔ)些詼諧的嘲諷。
她說(shuō)她的學(xué)校很注重時(shí)尚。所有女孩都有和服裝相同材質(zhì)面料的手包,所以她們每換一套衣服都有與之相配的手包。這種對(duì)細(xì)節(jié)的講究讓我印象深刻。它展現(xiàn)出一種神奇炫目的生活方式,帶著刻意而精致的頹廢氣息,像磁鐵般深深吸引著我。
朵琳只會(huì)因?yàn)橐患虑閷?duì)著我吼,那就是我總是努力如期完成工作。
“你那么拼命干嗎呀?”朵琳穿著一件蜜桃色的絲綢晨袍,懶洋洋地窩在我的床上,手里拿著銼刀打磨著被尼古丁熏得微黃的長(zhǎng)指甲,而我則忙著在打字機(jī)上敲出一位暢銷小說(shuō)家的采訪稿。
這是朵琳的又一個(gè)與眾不同之處——我們穿的是上過(guò)漿的夏季棉質(zhì)睡衣和夾棉家居服,或者是可以充當(dāng)海灘浴袍的毛巾布長(zhǎng)袍,可朵琳穿的要么是半透明的尼龍長(zhǎng)衫或是蕾絲長(zhǎng)衫,要么是會(huì)因靜電而貼在身上的肉色晨袍。她身上有一股好聞的輕微的汗味,讓人想到香蕨木的扇形葉片,這種葉子摘下一些在指間揉碎,就會(huì)散發(fā)一股麝香味。
“你知道的,老杰·茜根本不在意你的稿子是明天交還是周一交。”朵琳點(diǎn)了根煙,裊裊煙霧從鼻孔逐漸散開(kāi),遮住了她的眼睛。“杰·茜長(zhǎng)得丑死了。”她冷冷地說(shuō),“我打賭她那老伴在親近她之前得把燈全關(guān)了,免得吐出來(lái)。”
杰·茜是我的上司,不管朵琳怎么說(shuō),我還是很喜歡她。她不是時(shí)尚雜志圈里那種撲閃著假睫毛、珠光寶氣、虛情假意的人。杰·茜有腦子,所以相貌丑點(diǎn)也不打緊。她會(huì)幾種語(yǔ)言,而且對(duì)這一行里的優(yōu)秀作家了如指掌。
我試著想象杰·茜脫下嚴(yán)謹(jǐn)?shù)霓k公室套裝,摘下午宴帽子,和她的肥老公上床的模樣,可我就是做不到。對(duì)我來(lái)說(shuō),想象別人上床難如登天。
杰·茜想教我些東西,所有我認(rèn)識(shí)的老太太都想教我點(diǎn)東西,但是我突然覺(jué)得她們根本沒(méi)什么好教給我的。我罩上打字機(jī)的蓋子,咔一聲合上。
朵琳咧嘴一笑。“聰明。”
有人敲門。
“誰(shuí)?。?rdquo;我懶得起身。
“是我,貝琪。你要去舞會(huì)嗎?”
“大概會(huì)吧。”我還是沒(méi)有起身開(kāi)門。
從堪薩斯被請(qǐng)來(lái)紐約的貝琪梳著輕盈彈跳的金色馬尾辮,臉上帶著電影《賭徒甜心》里女主人公的甜美笑容。記得有一次,我們倆被某電視劇制作人叫進(jìn)辦公室,這個(gè)下頦泛著青色胡楂、穿著細(xì)條紋西裝的制作人問(wèn)我們有沒(méi)有什么點(diǎn)子可以拿出來(lái)做節(jié)目。然后貝琪就開(kāi)始大談堪薩斯的雌雄株玉米,她說(shuō)起那該死的玉米真是情緒激昂,聽(tīng)得制作人眼泛淚光,不過(guò)他說(shuō),真是可惜,這些都用不上。
后來(lái),美容部編輯說(shuō)服貝琪剪了短發(fā),讓她做了封面模特。現(xiàn)在我仍不時(shí)看見(jiàn)她在“魁北克的太太穿B.H.Wragge(1)”的廣告中展露迷人的笑臉。
貝琪總愛(ài)邀我陪她和她的女伴一起做這做那,好像這樣是在以某種方式拯救我。但她從來(lái)不找朵琳。朵琳私底下都叫她“牛仔傻大妞”。
“你要跟我們一起搭出租車嗎?”貝琪在門外問(wèn)。
朵琳搖了搖頭。
“沒(méi)關(guān)系,貝琪。”我說(shuō),“我和朵琳一起去。”
“好吧。”我聽(tīng)見(jiàn)貝琪腳步輕快地走向長(zhǎng)廊另一頭。
“我們?nèi)タ纯窗桑軌蛄司妥摺?rdquo;朵琳說(shuō)著把煙蒂按熄在我床頭閱讀燈的燈座上。“然后我們進(jìn)城去玩。這里辦的派對(duì)讓我想起那些在學(xué)校體育館辦的老式舞會(huì)。他們?yōu)槭裁纯倫?ài)圍著耶魯?shù)膶W(xué)生轉(zhuǎn)?耶魯?shù)亩己艽腊ィ?rdquo;
巴迪·威拉德就是上的耶魯,我現(xiàn)在一想,發(fā)現(xiàn)他的毛病就是蠢。對(duì),他是拼命學(xué)出了好成績(jī),還曾經(jīng)和科德角一個(gè)叫格拉迪斯的可怕的女招待交往過(guò),但他沒(méi)有哪怕一丁點(diǎn)兒直覺(jué)。而朵琳有直覺(jué)。她說(shuō)的每一件事,好像都說(shuō)出了我偷偷藏在骨頭里的每一個(gè)想法。
戲劇開(kāi)演前的交通高峰把我們困住了。我們的出租車前面是貝琪的車,后面是另外四個(gè)女孩的車。每輛車都寸步難行。
朵琳看起來(lái)真美。她穿著一件無(wú)肩帶的白色蕾絲晚裝,拉鏈底下的緊身胸衣勾勒出纖細(xì)的腰身,玲瓏有致,甚是惹眼。臉上淡白色的蜜粉襯得肌膚泛出古銅色的光澤,身上的香味濃得好像混合了一整間香水店的芬芳。
我穿著一件花了四十美元買的黑色山東綢緊身小禮服。一知道自己成為紐約之行的幸運(yùn)兒之一,我就動(dòng)用了部分獎(jiǎng)學(xué)金瘋狂采購(gòu),這件小禮服就是其中的戰(zhàn)利品。它的剪裁怪得很,里面完全穿不下任何款式的文胸,不過(guò)無(wú)所謂,反正我瘦得跟個(gè)小男孩一樣,身材幾乎沒(méi)有曲線。而且,在這炎炎夏夜,我喜歡這種幾近赤裸的感覺(jué)。
可是,這城市讓我小麥色的皮膚褪了色,使我看起來(lái)黃得像個(gè)中國(guó)人。照理說(shuō)我應(yīng)該為穿著和奇怪的膚色感到緊張不安,但和朵琳在一起讓我忘掉了這些擔(dān)憂。我覺(jué)得自己無(wú)比睿智,無(wú)所畏懼。有個(gè)男人向我們走來(lái),他穿著藍(lán)色格紋衫、黑色斜紋棉布褲,腳上是一雙雕有圖案的牛仔皮靴。先前他就站在路邊一間酒吧外的條紋遮陽(yáng)篷下,瞧著我們的出租車。我沒(méi)有產(chǎn)生一絲綺想,因?yàn)槲仪宄刂浪菫槎淞斩鴣?lái)。他穿過(guò)擁堵的車陣,往我們敞開(kāi)的車窗上一靠,魅力十足。
“冒昧相問(wèn),值此良宵,兩位漂亮姑娘為何獨(dú)自搭車?”
他咧著一口大白牙,露出牙膏廣告般的笑容。
“我們正要去參加派對(duì)。”我脫口而出,因?yàn)樯砼缘亩淞胀蝗怀聊孟窀?,懨懨地?fù)芘咨俳z的皮包罩套。
“聽(tīng)起來(lái)挺沒(méi)勁的。”男人說(shuō),“何不跟我到那邊的酒吧喝兩杯?我還有幾個(gè)朋友在那兒等著呢。”
他朝遮陽(yáng)篷底下那幾個(gè)衣著隨意、姿態(tài)慵懶的男人點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭。一見(jiàn)他回頭瞧了一眼,一直看著他的幾個(gè)人轟地笑了。
那笑聲本該讓我警覺(jué),那是一種低沉的、自以為是的竊笑。偏偏此時(shí)車陣出現(xiàn)移動(dòng)的跡象,我知道如果繼續(xù)坐在車?yán)?,不出兩秒我就?huì)后悔沒(méi)有把握良機(jī)看看紐約的另一面,這可是雜志社悉心安排的行程里見(jiàn)不到的。
“怎么樣,朵琳?”我問(wèn)。
“怎么樣,朵琳?”那男人也說(shuō),維持著他那大大的笑容。直到今天我也想不起他不笑的時(shí)候是個(gè)什么模樣。我想他一定無(wú)時(shí)無(wú)刻不在笑。對(duì)他來(lái)說(shuō),那樣的笑容必定是再自然不過(guò)的吧。
“那,好吧。”朵琳對(duì)我說(shuō)。我打開(kāi)車門,就在我倆下車時(shí),出租車剛好徐徐開(kāi)動(dòng)。我們邁步走向酒吧。
突然傳來(lái)一陣刺耳的剎車聲,緊跟著是沉悶的砰砰的撞擊聲。
“喂!”我們那輛車的司機(jī)怒氣沖沖地從窗口探出頭,臉色鐵青,“搞什么鬼?。?rdquo;
他的車停得太突然,后面那輛出租車猛地撞了上來(lái),里面的四個(gè)姑娘被震得東倒西歪,正掙扎著爬起來(lái)。
四周喇叭聲和喊叫聲不絕于耳,和我們搭訕的那個(gè)男人哈哈大笑。他把我和朵琳留在路邊,折返回去給司機(jī)塞了張鈔票。然后,我們看見(jiàn)載著雜志社女孩的車魚(yú)貫駛離,就像載滿伴娘的婚禮車隊(duì)。
“來(lái)吧,弗蘭基。”那男人對(duì)著他的一個(gè)朋友說(shuō)道。一個(gè)侏儒一樣的矮個(gè)兒立刻邁步出列,跟著我們走進(jìn)酒吧。
我真受不了弗蘭基這類的男人。我只穿襪子都有五英尺十英寸高,所以和小個(gè)子男人在一起時(shí),為了讓自己看起來(lái)矮一些,我要稍稍彎腰駝背,把屁股往下撅,搞得一邊高一邊低,就像個(gè)又笨又殘的跑龍?zhí)椎摹?/p>
有那么一會(huì)兒,我奢望會(huì)按照身高來(lái)配對(duì),這樣我就能跟最初前來(lái)搭訕的那個(gè)男人湊對(duì),因?yàn)樗鸫a有六英尺高。但是他看也不看我一眼,就與朵琳走在一起。我只好假裝沒(méi)瞧見(jiàn)貼在我肘邊的那個(gè)弗蘭基,緊挨著朵琳坐下。
酒吧里燈光昏暗,除了朵琳,我?guī)缀跏裁匆部床磺濉K陌装l(fā)白衣襯得她整個(gè)人也是白的,看起來(lái)銀光閃閃。我想她肯定是反射了酒吧里霓虹燈的光。我覺(jué)得自己融入了重重陰影中,變成了一張底片,而底片中的人我此生從未見(jiàn)過(guò)。
“那么,喝點(diǎn)什么呢?”那個(gè)男人帶著大大的笑容問(wèn)道。
“我想來(lái)杯老式的雞尾酒。”朵琳對(duì)我說(shuō)。
點(diǎn)酒我不在行。我連威士忌和杜松子酒都分不清,沒(méi)一次點(diǎn)到自己真正喜歡的口味。巴迪·威拉德和我認(rèn)識(shí)的其他大學(xué)生要么窮到買不起烈酒,要么根本不屑于喝酒。真想不到有那么多大學(xué)生不抽煙不喝酒,而這種人全讓我給遇上了。巴迪·威拉德買的最烈的東西,就是一瓶杜本內(nèi)葡萄酒,而此舉不過(guò)是為了證明學(xué)醫(yī)的他也有審美品位罷了。
“我來(lái)杯伏特加吧。”我說(shuō)。
那男人深深地望了我一眼,問(wèn):“加點(diǎn)什么嗎?”
“純的就好。”我說(shuō),“我都喝純的。”
我怕如果我說(shuō)要加冰塊、杜松子酒或其他什么,聽(tīng)起來(lái)會(huì)很蠢。我曾經(jīng)看過(guò)一個(gè)伏特加廣告,滿滿一杯伏特加置于隨風(fēng)飄舞的雪花中,在藍(lán)色的燈光下澄凈如水,所以我覺(jué)得來(lái)點(diǎn)純的準(zhǔn)沒(méi)錯(cuò)。我的夢(mèng)想就是有一天能點(diǎn)到一杯甘醇的美酒。
侍者走上前來(lái),那個(gè)男人為我們四人點(diǎn)了酒水。他一身牧場(chǎng)上的打扮,卻于這間充滿都市感的酒吧中怡然自得,我猜他很有可能是個(gè)名人。
朵琳一言不發(fā),只玩著她的軟木杯墊,最后點(diǎn)了根煙。那男人似乎并不介意,只盯著她看,那樣子就像動(dòng)物園里的游客盯著白色的巨型金剛鸚鵡,等著它開(kāi)口說(shuō)人話。
酒送來(lái)了。我的伏特加果然像廣告里那樣澄澈純凈。
“你是做什么的?”我問(wèn)那個(gè)男人,試圖打破從四面八方涌來(lái)的濃密如叢林野草的沉默,“我是說(shuō),你在紐約做什么?”
他好像頗費(fèi)了番力氣才慢慢地將目光從朵琳的肩膀移開(kāi)。“我是個(gè)DJ。”他說(shuō),“你可能聽(tīng)說(shuō)過(guò)我。我叫倫尼·謝潑德。”
“我知道你。”朵琳突然開(kāi)口。
“我很高興你知道,甜心!”那男人說(shuō)著突然大笑起來(lái),“這樣就方便多了。我的名氣還真是大。”
接著倫尼·謝潑德意味深長(zhǎng)地看了弗蘭基一眼。
“那個(gè),你們從哪兒來(lái)?”弗蘭基猛地坐直了,問(wèn)我,“叫什么名字?”
“這位是朵琳。”倫尼的手滑向朵琳裸露的胳膊,攬往了她。
我很驚訝,朵琳明知他的一舉一動(dòng),卻沒(méi)有半點(diǎn)反應(yīng)。她依然坐在那里,朦朧得好像一個(gè)身穿白裳、頭頂漂白金發(fā)的黑人女子,在一片昏暗之中優(yōu)雅地啜飲著。
“我叫艾莉·希金巴騰,”我說(shuō),“來(lái)自芝加哥。”瞎掰完這句我覺(jué)得安全多了。我可不希望今晚我所說(shuō)或所做的一切會(huì)跟來(lái)自波士頓的我、真名實(shí)姓的我,扯上任何關(guān)系。
“好吧,艾莉,我們跳支舞如何?”
一想到要和這個(gè)腳蹬橘色小羊皮矮子樂(lè)增高鞋,上穿廉價(jià)T恤,外搭松垮藍(lán)色運(yùn)動(dòng)外套的矮冬瓜跳舞,我就覺(jué)得可笑。要說(shuō)有什么是我瞧不起的,那就是穿藍(lán)衣服的男人。黑色或灰色,哪怕棕色都行,可藍(lán)色只會(huì)讓我發(fā)笑。
“我沒(méi)心情。”我冷冷地轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)身,猛地把椅子拉近朵琳和倫尼。
這兩人看起來(lái)好像彼此已相識(shí)多年。每當(dāng)朵琳用細(xì)長(zhǎng)的銀勺舀起杯底的大塊水果湊近唇邊,倫尼就呼呼地作勢(shì)欲咬,像是條狗似的,要搶勺子上的水果。朵琳咯咯直笑,不停地舀起水果來(lái)吃。
我想,最終,伏特加是我要找的那款酒。它的滋味難以名狀,跟任何東西的味道都不一樣。喝下一口,直沖胃部,就像賣藝的人吞下了一柄劍,令我全身力量倍增,感覺(jué)自己像神一樣。
“我還是走吧。”弗蘭基說(shuō)著,站起身。
我看不太清他的模樣,這里太昏暗了,但我第一次聽(tīng)清了他那又尖又蠢的嗓音。沒(méi)人理會(huì)他。
“喂,倫尼,你欠我東西。記住,倫尼,你欠我東西,能記住嗎,倫尼?”
我覺(jué)得這很奇怪,弗蘭基在我們兩個(gè)完全陌生的人跟前提醒倫尼欠他東西。但他就是杵在那兒翻來(lái)覆去地說(shuō),直到倫尼伸手從口袋里抽出一大卷綠色的鈔票,抽了一張遞給他。我覺(jué)得那應(yīng)該是十美元。
“閉嘴,滾吧。”
一時(shí)之間,我覺(jué)得倫尼這話也是對(duì)我說(shuō)的。然后我聽(tīng)見(jiàn)朵琳來(lái)了句:“艾莉不去的話,我也不去。”我不得不佩服朵琳,把我的假名叫得那么順口。
“噢,艾莉會(huì)去的。對(duì)嗎,艾莉?”倫尼邊說(shuō)邊對(duì)我使眼色。
“我當(dāng)然會(huì)去。”我答道。弗蘭基已經(jīng)消失在夜色中,我只能跟朵琳牢牢拴在一起。我還想借此機(jī)會(huì)大開(kāi)眼界呢。
我喜歡觀察別人身處緊要關(guān)頭時(shí)的反應(yīng)。如果遇上車禍或街頭打架,甚至是泡在實(shí)驗(yàn)室玻璃罐里的嬰兒標(biāo)本,我都會(huì)停下來(lái)看個(gè)仔細(xì),把一切銘記于心。
要不是用這種辦法,我不可能學(xué)到那么多東西。所以就算因此受到驚嚇,或者惡心作嘔,我也不動(dòng)聲色,反而假裝自己一貫見(jiàn)多識(shí)廣。
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(1) 美國(guó)一服裝品牌。
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