“I'm going to be a psychiatrist.”
Joan spoke with her usual breathy enthusiasm.We were drinking apple cider in the Belsize lounge.
“Oh,” I said dryly, “that's nice.”
“I've had a long talk with Doctor Quinn, and she thinks it's perfectly possible.” Doctor Quinn was Joan's psychiatrist, a bright, shrewd, single lady, and I often thought if I had been assigned to Doctor Quinn I would be still in Caplan or, more probably,Wymark. Doctor Quinn had an abstract quality that appealed to Joan, but it gave me the polar chills.
Joan chattered on about Egos and Ids, and I turned my mind to something else, to the brown, unwrapped package in my bottom drawer. I never talked about Egos and Ids with Doctor Nolan. I didn't know just what I talked about really.
“…I'm going to live out, now.”
I tuned in on Joan then. “Where?” I demanded, trying to hide my envy.
Doctor Nolan said my college would take me back for the second semester, on her recommendation and Philomena Guinea's scholarship, but as the doctors vetoed my living with my mother in the interim, I was staying on at the asylum until the winter term began.
Even so, I felt it unfair of Joan to beat me through the gates.
“Where?” I persisted. “They're not letting you live on your own, are they?” Joan had only that week been given town privileges again.
“Oh no, of course not. I'm living in Cambridge with Nurse Kennedy. Her roommate's just got married, and she needs someone to share the apartment.”
“Cheers.” I raised my apple cider glass, and we clinked. In spite of my profound reservations, I thought I would always treasure Joan. It was as if we had been forced together by some overwhelming circumstance, like war or plague, and shared a world of our own. “When are you leaving?”
“On the first of the month.”
“Nice.”
Joan grew wistful, “You'll come visit me, won't you, Esther?”
“Of course.”
But I thought, “Not likely.”
“It hurts,” I said. “Is it supposed to hurt?”
Irwin didn't say anything. Then he said, “Sometimes it hurts.”
I had met Irwin on the steps of the Widener Library. I was standing at the top of the long flight, overlooking the red brick buildings that walled the snow-filled quad and preparing to catch the trolley back to the asylum, when a tall young man with a rather ugly and bespectacled, but intelligent face, came up and said, “Could you please tell me the time?”
I glanced at my watch. “Five past four.”
Then the man shifted his arms around the load of books he was carrying before him like a dinner tray and revealed a bony wrist.
“Why, you've a watch yourself!”
The man looked ruefully at his watch. He lifted it and shook it by his ear. “Doesn't work.” He smiled engagingly. “Where are you going?”
I was about to say, “Back to the asylum,” but the man looked promising, so I changed my mind. “Home.”
“Would you like some coffee first?”
I hesitated. I was due at the asylum for supper and I didn't want to be late so close to being signed out of there for good.
“A very small cup of coffee?”
I decided to practice my new, normal personality on this man who, in the course of my hesitations, told me his name was Irwin and that he was a very well-paid professor of mathematics, so I said, “All right,” and, matching my stride to Irwin's, strolled down the long, ice-encrusted flight at his side.
It was only after seeing Irwin's study that I decided to seduce him.
Irwin lived in a murky, comfortable basement apartment in one of the rundown streets of outer Cambridge and drove me there—for a beer, he said—after three cups of bitter coffee in a student cafe. We sat in his study on stuffed brown leather chairs, surrounded by stacks of dusty, incomprehensible books with huge formulas inset artistically on the page like poems.
While I was sipping my first glass of beer—I have never really cared for cold beer in midwinter, but I accepted the glass to have something solid to hold on to—the doorbell rang.
Irwin seemed embarrassed. “I think it may be a lady.”
Irwin had a queer, old-world habit of calling women ladies.
“Fine, fine,” I gestured largely. “Bring her in.”
Irwin shook his head. “You would upset her.”
I smiled into my amber cylinder of cold beer.
The doorbell rang again with a peremptory jab. Irwin sighed and rose to answer it. The minute he disappeared, I whipped into the bathroom and, concealed behind the dirty, aluminum-colored Venetian blind, watched Irwin's monkish face appear in the door crack.
A large, bosomy Slavic lady in a bulky sweater of natural sheep's wool, purple slacks, high-heeled black overshoes with Persian lamb cuffs and a matching toque, puffed white, inaudible words into the wintry air. Irwin's voice drifted back to me through the chilly hall.
“I'm sorry, Olga…I'm working, Olga…no, I don't think so, Olga,” all the while the lady's red mouth moved and the words, translated to white smoke, floated up among the branches of the naked lilac by the door. Then, finally, “Perhaps, Olga…good-bye, Olga.”
I admired the immense, steppelike expanse of the lady's wool-clad bosom as she retreated a few inches from my eye, down the creaking wooden stair, a sort of Siberian bitterness on her vivid lips.
“I suppose you have lots and lots of affairs in Cambridge,” I told Irwin cheerily, as I stuck a snail with a pin in one of Cambridge's determinedly French restaurants.
“I seem,” Irwin admitted with a small, modest smile, “to get on with the ladies.”
I picked up my empty snail shell and drank the herb-green juice. I had no idea if this was proper, but after months of wholesome, dull asylum diet, I was greedy for butter.
I had called Doctor Nolan from a pay phone at the restaurant and asked for permission to stay overnight in Cambridge with Joan. Of course, I had no idea whether Irwin would invite me back to his apartment after dinner or not, but I thought his dismissal of the Slavic lady—another professor's wife—looked promising.
I tipped back my head and poured down a glass of Nuits-St.-Georges.
“You do like wine,” Irwin observed.
“Only Nuits-St.-Georges. I imagine him…with the dragon…”
Irwin reached for my hand.
I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I would respect him. Irwin was afull professor at twenty-six and had the pale, hairless skin of a boy genius. I also needed somebody quite experienced to make up for my lack of it, and Irwin's ladies reassured me on this head. Then, to be on the safe side, I wanted somebody I didn't know and wouldn't go on knowing—a kind of impersonal, priestlike official, as in the tales of tribal rites.
By the end of the evening I had no doubts about Irwin whatsoever.
Ever since I'd learned about the corruption of Buddy Willard my virginity weighed like a millstone around my neck. It had been of such enormous importance to me for so long that my habit was to defend it at all costs. I had been defending it for five years and I was sick of it.
It was only as Irwin swung me into his arms, back at the apartment, and carried me, wine-dazed and limp, into the pitch-black bedroom, that I murmured, “You know, Irwin, I think I ought to tell you, I'm a virgin.”
Irwin laughed and flung me down on the bed.
A few minutes later an exclamation of surprise revealed that Irwin hadn't really believed me. I thought how lucky it was I had started practicing birth control during the day, because in my winey state that night I would never have bothered to perform the delicate and necessary operation. I lay, rapt and naked, on Irwin's rough blanket, waiting for the miraculous change to make itself felt.
But all I felt was a sharp, startlingly bad pain.
“It hurts,” I said. “Is it supposed to hurt?”
Irwin didn't say anything. Then he said, “Sometimes it hurts.”
After a little while Irwin got up and went into the bathroom, and I heard the rushing of shower water. I wasn't sure if Irwin had done what he planned to do, or if my virginity had obstructed him in some way. I wanted to ask him if I was still a virgin, but I felt too unsettled. A warm liquid was seeping out between my legs. Tentatively, I reached down and touched it.
When I held my hand up to the light streaming in from the bathroom, my fingertips looked black.
“Irwin,” I said nervously, “bring me a towel.”
Irwin strolled back, a bathtowel knotted around his waist, and tossed me a second, smaller towel. I pushed the towel between my legs and pulled it away almost immediately. It was half black with blood.
“I'm bleeding!” I announced, sitting up with a start.
“Oh, that often happens,” Irwin reassured me. “You'll be all right.”
Then the stories of blood-stained bridal sheets and capsules of red ink bestowed on already deflowered brides floated back to me. I wondered how much I would bleed, and lay down, nursing the towel. It occurred to me that the blood was my answer. I couldn't possibly be a virgin any more. I smiled into the dark. I felt part of a great tradition.
Surreptitiously, I applied a fresh section of white towel to my wound, thinking that as soon as the bleeding stopped, I would take the late trolley back to the asylum. I wanted to brood over my new condition in perfect peace. But the towel came away black and dripping.
“I…think I better go home,” I said faintly.
“Surely not so soon.”
“Yes, I think I better.”
I asked if I could borrow Irwin's towel and packed it between my thighs as a bandage.Then I pulled on my sweaty clothes. Irwin offered to drive me home, but I didn't see how I could let him drive me to the asylum, so I dug in my pocketbook for Joan's address. Irwin knew the street and went out to start the car. I was too worried to tell him I was still bleeding. I kept hoping every minute that it would stop.
But as Irwin drove me through the barren, snow-banked streets I felt the warm seepage let itself through the dam of the towel and my skirt and onto the car seat.
As we slowed, cruising by house after lit house, I thought how fortunate it was I had not discarded my virginity while living at college or at home, where such concealment would have been impossible.
Joan opened the door with an expression of glad surprise. Irwin kissed my hand and told Joan to take good care of me.
I shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling the blood drain from my face in one spectacular flush.
“Why, Esther,” Joan said, “what on earth's the matter?”
I wondered when Joan would notice the blood trickling down my legs and oozing, stickily, into each black patent leather shoe. I thought I could be dying from a bullet wound and Joan would still stare through me with her blank eyes, expecting me to ask for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
“Is that nurse here?”
“No, she's on night duty at Caplan…”
“Good.” I made a little bitter grin as another soak of blood let itself through the drenched padding and started the tedious journey into my shoes. “I mean…bad.”
“You look funny,” Joan said.
“You better get a doctor.”
“Why?”
“Quick”
“But…”
Still she hadn't noticed anything.
I bent down, with a brief grunt, and slipped off one of my winter-cracked black Bloomingdale shoes. I held the shoe up, before Joan's enlarged, pebbly eyes, tilted it, and watched her take in the stream of blood that cascaded onto the beige rug.
“My God!What is it?”
“I'm hemorrhaging.”
Joan half led, half dragged me to the sofa and made me lie down. Then she propped some pillows under my blood-stained feet. Then she stood back and demanded, “Who was that man?”
For one crazy minute I thought Joan would refuse to call a doctor until I confessed the whole story of my evening with Irwin and that after my confession she would still refuse, as a sort of punishment. But then I realized that she honestly took my explanation at face value, that my going to bed with Irwin was utterly incomprehensible to her, and his appearance a mere prick to her pleasure at my arrival.
“Oh somebody,” I said, with a flabby gesture of dismissal. Another pulse of blood released itself and I contracted my stomach muscles in alarm. “Get a towel.”
Joan went out and came back almost immediately with a pile of towels and sheets. Like a prompt nurse, she peeled back my blood-wet clothes, drew a quick breath as she arrived at the original royal red towel, and applied a fresh bandage. I lay, trying to slow the beating of my heart, as every beat pushed forth another gush of blood.
I remembered a worrisome course in the Victorian novel where woman after woman died, palely and nobly, in torrents of blood, after a difficult childbirth. Perhaps Irwin had injured me in some awful, obscure way, and all the while I lay there on Joan's sofa I was really dying.
Joan pulled up an Indian hassock and began to dial down the long list of Cambridge doctors. The first number didn't answer. Joan began to explain my case to the second number, which did answer, but then broke off and said “I see” and hung up.
“What's the trouble?”
“He'll only come for regular customers or emergencies. It's Sunday.”
I tried to lift my arm and look at my watch, but my hand was a rock at my side and wouldn't budge. Sunday—the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
“For God's sake,” I said, “tell them I'm an emergency.”
The third number didn't answer and, at the fourth, the party hung up the minute Joan mentioned it was about a period. Joan began to cry.
“Look, Joan,” I said painstakingly, “call up the local hospital. Tell them it's an emergency. They'll have to take me.”
Joan brightened and dialed a fifth number. The Emergency Service promised her a staff doctor would attend to me if I could come to the ward. Then Joan called a taxi.
Joan insisted on riding with me. I clasped my fresh padding of towels with a sort of desperation as the cabby, impressed by the address Joan gave him, cut corner after corner in the dawn-pale streets and drew up with a great squeal of tires at the Emergency Ward entrance.
I left Joan to pay the driver and hurried into the empty, glaringly lit room. A nurse bustled out from behind a white screen. In a few swift words, I managed to tell her the truth about my predicament before Joan came in the door, blinking and wide-eyed as a myopic owl.
The EmergencyWard doctor strolled out then, and I climbed, with the nurse's help, on to the examining table. The nurse whispered to the doctor, and the doctor nodded and began unpacking the bloody toweling. I felt his fingers start to probe, and Joan stood, rigid as a soldier, at my side, holding my hand, for my sake or hers I couldn't tell.
“Ouch!” I winced at a particularly bad jab.
The doctor whistled.
“You're one in a million.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it's one in a million it happens to like this.”
The doctor spoke in a low, curt voice to the nurse, and she hurried to a side table and brought back some rolls of gauze and silver instruments. “I can see,” the doctor bent down, “exactly where the trouble is coming from.”
“But can you fix it?”
The doctor laughed. “Oh, I can fix it, all right.”
I was roused by a tap on my door. It was past midnight, and the asylum quiet as death. I couldn't imagine who would still be up.
“Come in!” I switched on the bedside light. The door clicked open, and Doctor Quinn's brisk, dark head appeared in the crack. I looked at her with surprise, because although I knew who she was, and often passed her, with a brief nod, in the asylum hall, I never spoke to her at all.
Now she said, “Miss Greenwood, may I come in a minute?”
I nodded.
Doctor Quinn stepped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. She was wearing one of her navy blue, immaculate suits with a plain, snow-white blouse showing in the V of the neck.
“I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Greenwood, and especially at this time of night, but I thought you might be able to help us out about Joan.”
For a minute I wondered if Doctor Quinn was going to blame me for Joan's return to the asylum. I still wasn't sure how much Joan knew, after our trip to the Emergency Ward, but a few days later she had come back to live in Belsize, retaining, however, the freest of town privileges.
“I'll do what I can,” I told Doctor Quinn.
Doctor Quinn sat down on the edge of my bed with a grave face. “We would like to find out where Joan is. We thought you might have an idea.”
Suddenly I wanted to dissociate myself from Joan completely. “I don't know,” I said coldly. “Isn't she in her room?”
It was well after the Belsize curfew hour.
“No, Joan had a permit to go to a movie in town this evening, and she's not back yet.”
“Who was she with?”
“She was alone.” Doctor Quinn paused. “Have you any idea where she might be likely to spend the night?”
“Surely she'll be back. Something must have held her up.” But I didn't see what could have held Joan up in tame night Boston.
Doctor Quinn shook her head. “The last trolley went by an hour ago.”
“Maybe she'll come back by taxi.”
Doctor Quinn sighed.
“Have you tried the Kennedy girl?” I went on. “Where Joan used to live?”
Doctor Quinn nodded.
“Her family?”
“Oh, she'd never go there…but we've tried them, too.”
Doctor Quinn lingered a minute, as if she could sniff out some clue in the still room. Then she said, “Well, we'll do what we can,” and left.
I turned out the light and tried to drop back to sleep, but Joan's face floated before me, bodiless and smiling, like the face of the Cheshire cat. I even thought I heard her voice, rustling and hushing through the dark, but then I realized it was only the night wind in the asylum trees…
Another tap woke me in the frost-gray dawn.
This time I opened the door myself.
Facing me was Doctor Quinn. She stood at attention, like a frail drill sergeant, but her outlines seemed curiously smudged.
“I thought you should know,” Doctor Quinn said. “Joan has been found.”
Doctor Quinn's use of the passive slowed my blood.
“Where?”
“In the woods, by the frozen ponds…”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“One of the orderlies found her,” Doctor Quinn continued, “just now, coming to work…”
“She's not…”
“Dead,” said Doctor Quinn. “I'm afraid she's hanged herself.”
“我要當(dāng)精神科醫(yī)生。”
瓊像平常一樣氣息急促、充滿熱情地說。我們正在貝爾賽思樓的休息廳里喝蘋果汁。
“哦。”我冷淡地回應(yīng),“不錯。”
“我和昆因醫(yī)生聊了很久,她認(rèn)為這很有可能。”昆因是瓊的主治醫(yī)生,一個精明干練的單身女人。我常想,如果當(dāng)初我被分配到昆因醫(yī)生的手里,我很可能還在卡普蘭樓待著,甚至有可能淪落到威瑪克樓去。昆因醫(yī)生有一種令瓊深為之著迷的獨特氣質(zhì),卻讓我感到一種極地般的寒冷。
瓊喋喋不休地談著“自我”“本我”一類的東西,而我的思緒早已飄遠(yuǎn),想著最下層抽屜里那個被打開了的褐色包裹。我不曾與諾蘭醫(yī)生談過“自我”“本我”。其實,我都不知道我談過些什么。
“……我要搬出去了。”
我把思緒收回到瓊身上。“搬到哪里去?”我掩飾著嫉妒問道。
諾蘭醫(yī)生說,有她的保證和費羅米娜·吉尼亞的獎學(xué)金支持,學(xué)校愿意讓我下學(xué)期復(fù)學(xué)。不過,醫(yī)生反對我在返校前回家與母親同住,所以我要在療養(yǎng)院待到寒假后的新學(xué)期開始。
即便如此,我還是憤憤不平于瓊先我一步出院。
“搬到哪兒去?”我繼續(xù)追問。“他們不會讓你自己一個人住吧?”直到這個星期,瓊才重新獲準(zhǔn)進城。
“哦,當(dāng)然不讓。我會跟肯尼迪護士住在劍橋鎮(zhèn)。她的室友剛結(jié)婚,搬走了,她得找個人合租。”
“恭喜。”我舉起手里的蘋果汁,和她碰杯。雖然我在心底對她仍有所保留,但我會永遠(yuǎn)珍惜這個朋友。好像我們倆被戰(zhàn)爭或瘟疫這類不可抗拒的大環(huán)境所迫,共享過一個只屬于我們倆的世界。“什么時候走?”
“下個月一號。”
“很好。”
瓊眼含期盼,問道:“你會來看我的吧,埃斯特?”
“當(dāng)然。”
但我心想:“不大可能。”
“好痛。”我說,“本來就這么痛嗎?”
歐文沒回答,過了一會兒才說:“有時候會痛。”
我是在哈佛大學(xué)的懷德納圖書館長階上認(rèn)識的歐文,當(dāng)時我站在長階的頂端,看著下方紅墻之內(nèi)的積雪中庭,準(zhǔn)備乘電車回療養(yǎng)院。一個個子頗高,長得相當(dāng)丑陋,戴著眼鏡但看起來挺聰明的年輕人走上前來,問我:“請問現(xiàn)在幾點?”
我看了一眼手表。“四點零五。”
這男人胸前抱著一摞書,像端了個餐盤,他動了動手臂,露出細(xì)瘦的手腕。
“哎,你自己有表?。?rdquo;
他無奈地看著他的表,抬起手腕在耳邊晃動。“壞了。”他露出迷人的微笑。“你去哪兒?”
我正打算說“回療養(yǎng)院”,但這男人看起來會是個好對象,于是我改變主意說:“回家。”
“想先來杯咖啡嗎?”
我猶豫了。我應(yīng)該趕回療養(yǎng)院吃晚飯的,他們就要批準(zhǔn)我永遠(yuǎn)離開那里,我可不想這個馬上就能永遠(yuǎn)離開療養(yǎng)院的時候因為遲歸而橫生枝節(jié)。
“只喝小小的一杯咖啡?”
在我猶豫不決之時,他告訴我他叫歐文,是個薪水優(yōu)渥的數(shù)學(xué)教授,而我決定在這個男人面前表現(xiàn)出我全新、正常的一面,于是我說:“好吧。”然后邁開大步,跟他并肩走下結(jié)冰的長階。
不過,我是在參觀過歐文的書房后,才決定要勾引他。
歐文住的地下室位于劍橋外圍一條破落的街道上,里面幽暗舒適。他先帶我到學(xué)生餐館喝了三杯苦咖啡,然后開車載我到他家。“喝杯啤酒吧。”他說。我們坐在他書房的褐色皮椅上,四周堆滿蒙塵的艱深晦澀的書籍,巨大的公式雅致地穿插在書頁之中,像詩一樣。
我小口啜著第一杯啤酒——我向來不喜歡在隆冬喝冰啤,不過為了讓雙手有堅實的東西可握,我還是接過了玻璃杯——這時,門鈴響起。
歐文一臉尷尬。“我想可能是位女士。”
歐文有個老派的怪習(xí)慣,稱呼女人為女士。
“沒關(guān)系,沒關(guān)系。”我夸張地?fù)]揮手,“請她進來啊。”
歐文搖搖頭。“她看到你會不高興。”
我微笑地看著手中裝著冰啤的琥珀色玻璃杯。
門鈴又被用力地按響。歐文嘆了口氣,起身應(yīng)門。他一走開,我立刻閃進浴室,躲在臟兮兮的銀鋁色軟式百葉窗后面,從門縫中偷窺歐文那張如修士般的臉。
一個身材高大、胸部豐滿的斯拉夫裔女子出現(xiàn)在門外。她穿著天然羊毛織的笨重毛衣,寬松的紫色長褲,腳上是波斯羊毛褶邊的黑色高跟罩靴,頭上戴著與鞋同款的小圓帽。我聽不清她說了些什么,只看見吐露的字眼在冷冽的空氣中凝成一團團白霧。歐文的聲音沿著寒冷的走廊飄向我的耳朵。
“對不起,奧爾嘉……我在工作,奧爾嘉……不,我沒這么想,奧爾嘉。”這位女士的紅唇動個不停,一字一句都化作白霧,繚繞于門邊那棵紫丁香光禿的枝丫間。最后,終于聽見:“再說吧,奧爾嘉……再見,奧爾嘉。”
這位女士被羊毛覆蓋的胸部寬廣無垠,如草原一般,我自嘆弗如。我眼看著她從我眼前漸漸后退,走下嘎吱作響的木頭臺階,曾經(jīng)鮮活的雙唇似乎蒙上了西伯利亞的苦寒。
“我猜,你在劍橋有過很多很多的艷遇。”在劍橋附近一家堅守法式風(fēng)格的餐廳里,我一邊愉快地同歐文說著話,一邊用一根針挑出蝸牛肉。
“我啊——”歐文謙虛地淺笑道,“似乎真的很有女士緣。”
我拿起空的蝸牛殼,嘬盡里面草綠色的肉汁。我不知道這樣做是否顯得失禮,但在療養(yǎng)院吃了幾個月索然無味的健康飲食,我太想念黃油的滋味了。
我在餐廳用公用電話打給諾蘭醫(yī)生,請她準(zhǔn)許我在劍橋和瓊住一晚。當(dāng)然,我不確定晚餐后歐文會不會帶我回他的公寓,不過我想他既然打發(fā)了那位斯拉夫女士——另一位教授的太太——看起來我很有希望。
我仰頭飲盡一杯夜圣喬治葡萄酒。
“你確實很喜歡紅酒。”歐文觀察入微。
“只愛夜圣喬治。我想象著他……屠龍……”
歐文握住了我的手。
我曾想過,我的第一個男人一定得聰明,這樣才能贏得我的敬重。歐文二十六歲就當(dāng)上正教授,還有天才兒童般白皙無汗毛的皮膚,正合我意。況且,我也需要一個經(jīng)驗豐富的老手來彌補我的青澀懵懂,歐文的女士緣確保他在這方面是我的上上之選。另外,為安全起見,我要找的是以前不認(rèn)識、以后也不會有瓜葛的對象——就像部落傳說中那種了無私情的神職人員,幫助女孩完成初夜的儀式。
夜幕低垂之時,我已確定歐文是不二人選。
自從看清了巴迪·威拉德墮落的一面,貞操就成了我脖子上重如磐石的枷鎖。這么久以來,我視守貞為頭等大事,不計代價的捍衛(wèi)甚至已經(jīng)變成了一種習(xí)慣。五年了,我厭倦了。
回到公寓,歐文把我摟入懷中,將醉醺醺、軟綿綿的我?guī)肫岷诘呐P室,這時我才對他喃喃低語:“歐文,我想我該告訴你,我還是處女。”
歐文笑著將我推倒在床上。
幾分鐘后,歐文一聲驚呼??梢娝安⑽茨梦业脑挳?dāng)真。我慶幸自己已經(jīng)裝了避孕器,否則晚上帶著醉意,我一定無心采取那些細(xì)致的必要措施。我赤裸地躺在歐文的粗毛毯上,心馳神往地等候著奇妙新境界的降臨。
可我感覺到的,只有懾人的劇痛。
“好痛。”我說,“本來就這么痛嗎?”
歐文沒回答,過了一會兒才說:“有時候會痛。”
沒多久,歐文起身走進浴室,我聽見嘩嘩的沐浴聲。我不確定歐文是否按計劃做了他想做的事,還是我的處女身份令他多少受了些妨礙。我很想問問他,我還是不是處女,但整個人暈乎乎的。突然兩腿間涌出一股熱流,我試探地伸手去摸。
收回手,借著浴室透出的光線,我的手指尖似乎是黑色的。
“歐文。”我緊張起來,“給我條毛巾。”
歐文腰間系著浴巾,閑適地走過來,扔給我一條小毛巾。我把毛巾塞在兩腿之間,接著立刻就又抽了出來。毛巾被血染紅了大半。
“我在流血!”我倏然起身,大聲說道。
“哦,這是常有的事。”歐文向我保證,“一會兒就好。”
那一刻,各種故事浮現(xiàn)在我的腦海:新娘落紅的床單,已非完璧的新娘私藏紅墨水膠囊假造初夜。我一邊想著到底會流多少血,一邊躺回床上輕撫著毛巾,突然意識到這血就是我要的答案,我不可能再是處女了。黑暗中,我揚起嘴角,感到自己終于成為偉大傳統(tǒng)的一分子。
我用白毛巾的干凈部分偷偷擦拭我的創(chuàng)口,心想:等血止住了就搭夜班電車回療養(yǎng)院,我要在全然平靜之中思考人生的新境界??墒浅槌雒硪豢矗€是滴著黑色的血。
“我……我還是回家吧。”我虛弱地說。
“不用這么急。”
“不,我最好還是回家。”
我跟歐文借了那條毛巾,墊在兩腿間當(dāng)吸血的繃帶,然后穿上汗?jié)竦囊路?。歐文要載我回家,但我怎么可能讓他送我回療養(yǎng)院呢,所以我從手提包里翻出瓊的地址。歐文知道那條街,出去發(fā)動了車子。我心里很是慌張,沒法告訴他我還在流血,只能默默祈禱血快點止住。
可是當(dāng)歐文載著我穿過積雪的荒涼街巷,我感覺到兩腿間的暖流透過層層疊疊的毛巾和裙子,滲到了車座上。
車速慢了下來,駛過一間間亮著燈的房子。我心想,還好不是在學(xué)?;蚣依飼r失去貞操,否則這狼狽的模樣無論如何也無法掩飾。
瓊打開門,一臉驚喜。歐文吻了我的手,交代瓊要好好照顧我。
我靠在關(guān)好的門上,覺得自己臉部的血液也隨著大出血流干了。
“怎么了,埃斯特?”瓊問,“到底發(fā)生了什么事?”
不知瓊何時才會注意到血正沿著我的大腿往下流,黏糊糊地滲進兩只黑色漆皮鞋里。我想就算我中彈,奄奄一息,瓊也只會茫然地看著我,等我開口要杯咖啡和三明治。
“護士在嗎?”
“不在,她去卡普蘭樓值夜班了……”
“好極了。”我苦笑一聲,又一股血流沖過濕透的毛巾,開始直奔我鞋子而去的乏味旅程。“我是說……不妙。”
“你的樣子好奇怪。”瓊說。
“你最好去找醫(yī)生來。”
“為什么?”
“快去。”
“但是……”
她還是什么都沒發(fā)現(xiàn)。
我彎下腰,發(fā)出一聲短促的呻吟,脫下一只購自布魯明戴爾百貨商店,已經(jīng)因嚴(yán)冬而皸裂的黑皮鞋。我把這只鞋子舉到瓊那雙睜大的灰石色眼睛前,將鞋子傾斜,看著她注視著一道血瀑從鞋里流到米色的地毯上。
“天哪!這是什么?”
“我大出血。”
瓊把我半拖半拽到沙發(fā)上躺下,在我沾滿血的雙腳下墊了幾個枕頭,接著往后一退,質(zhì)問道:“那個男人是誰?”
有那么一刻,我有個瘋狂的念頭,覺得要是我沒全盤招認(rèn)整晚和歐文干的好事,瓊就不會幫我找醫(yī)生,而且即便我坦白之后,她還是不會去請醫(yī)生,這算是她對我的某種懲罰。但我隨即意識到,她會真的認(rèn)為我的解釋就是表面的意思而已,所以她完全無法理解我和歐文上床這件事背后的意義。她很高興我的到訪,而歐文的出現(xiàn)不過讓她有點掃興罷了。
“只是某個人而已。”我邊回答,邊打出個無力再說的手勢。又一股鮮血涌出,我驚恐地收縮腹部肌肉,“拿毛巾來。”
瓊跑出去,轉(zhuǎn)眼就拿了一疊毛巾和床單回來。她像個手腳麻利的護士,脫掉我被鮮血浸透的衣服,當(dāng)她看見原來那條血紅的毛巾時,飛快地吸了一口氣,連忙為我換上干凈的繃帶。我躺在那里,努力讓心跳慢下來,因為每一次的心跳都會推動又一波的血涌。
我想起在學(xué)校修過一門探討維多利亞時期小說的惱人課程。那個時期的小說經(jīng)常描寫女人難產(chǎn)后,一個個蒼白而高貴地死在血泊之中。或許歐文以某種可怕而隱晦的方式傷害了我,現(xiàn)在我躺在瓊的沙發(fā)上,真的快要死了。
瓊拉過一個印度風(fēng)格的跪墊,就著一長串劍橋醫(yī)生的名單開始撥電話。第一個號碼沒人接。第二個有人接,瓊開始解釋我的狀況,但說到一半就打住,說聲“明白了”后掛斷電話。
“怎么了?”
“今天是星期天,他只看??秃图痹\。”
我想抬手看看表,但放在身側(cè)的手僵得像石頭一樣,根本動不了。星期天——醫(yī)生的天堂!醫(yī)生們會去鄉(xiāng)村俱樂部,醫(yī)生們會到海灘,醫(yī)生們會約情人,醫(yī)生們會陪老婆,醫(yī)生們會上教堂,醫(yī)生們會開游艇,每個醫(yī)生都鐵了心要當(dāng)凡人,不當(dāng)醫(yī)生。
“看在上帝的分上。”我說,“就跟他們說我的狀況很緊急。”
第三個號碼沒人接。第四個,一聽瓊說是月經(jīng)問題就掛了電話。瓊哭了起來。
“聽著,瓊。”我費力地說,“打給這里的醫(yī)院,告訴他們是急診,必須來接我。”
瓊眼睛一亮,開始撥第五個電話。急診室答應(yīng),如果我能設(shè)法自行前往醫(yī)院,會有醫(yī)生來處理我的狀況。于是瓊叫了輛出租車。
瓊堅持要陪我去。我絕望般地按緊新?lián)Q上的毛巾,瓊告知的目的地讓司機加足了馬力,在破曉的街道上猛抄捷徑,終于輪胎發(fā)出尖銳的剎車聲,車子停在急診處的門口。
我留下瓊付車費,自己沖進空空蕩蕩卻燈火通明的急診室。護士從白色屏風(fēng)后跑出來,我趕緊三言兩語交代了來龍去脈。接著瓊進來了,眨著大眼睛,活像只近視的貓頭鷹。
急診處的醫(yī)生不緊不慢地走出來,護士扶著我爬上檢查臺,再對醫(yī)生耳語了幾句,醫(yī)生點點頭,解開我身上血淋淋的毛巾,我感覺到他的手指探入我體內(nèi)。瓊就像個軍人一樣直挺挺地站在我身旁,握著我的手,也不知道是為了給我打氣,還是讓她自己好受些。
“啊哦!”醫(yī)生一個猛戳,我痛得身子一縮。
醫(yī)生吹了聲口哨。
“你是百萬分之一。”
“什么意思?”
“我說,一百萬人中只有一個人會發(fā)生你這種情況。”
醫(yī)生低聲和護士交代了幾句,護士匆忙跑到邊上的小桌旁,拿了幾卷紗布和銀亮的工具回來。“我看見了,”醫(yī)生彎腰說道,“出血處就在那里。”
“能縫上嗎?”
醫(yī)生笑起來,“哦,能縫上,沒問題。”
我被敲門聲驚醒。已過午夜,療養(yǎng)院一片死寂。我想不出這時還有誰沒睡。
“進來。”我打開床頭燈。門咔嗒一聲開了,昆因醫(yī)生長著利落黑發(fā)的頭從門縫中探進來。我驚訝地看著她。雖然我知道她是誰,也常與她在長廊里擦身而過點頭示意,但從不曾與她交談過。
此時她說:“格林伍德小姐,我可以進來嗎?”
我點點頭。
昆因醫(yī)生走進房間,靜靜地關(guān)上門。她穿著整潔的海軍藍(lán)套裝——這種衣服她有好幾件——V形領(lǐng)口下露出素凈的白色襯衫。
“很抱歉打擾你,格林伍德小姐,尤其是現(xiàn)在這么晚了,但事關(guān)瓊,我想或許你可以幫忙。”
一時之間,我以為昆因醫(yī)生深夜來訪是怪我害得瓊重回療養(yǎng)院。我不確定那晚去過急診處后,瓊到底知道了多少,不過幾天之后她就住回貝爾賽思樓,但仍保有進城的自由。
“我會盡我所能。”我對昆因醫(yī)生說。
昆因醫(yī)生坐在我的床沿上,面色凝重。“我們想知道瓊上哪兒去了?;蛟S你知道。”
我突然想跟瓊劃清界限。“我不知道。”我冷冷地說,“她不在房間里嗎?”
貝爾賽思樓的宵禁時間早就過了。
“不在。她今晚獲準(zhǔn)進城看電影,到現(xiàn)在還沒回來。”
“她和誰一起去的?”
“她一個人。”昆因醫(yī)生頓了頓,“你想得到她可能會在哪里過夜嗎?”
“她肯定會回來的。一定是有事耽擱了。”但我實在想不出波士頓平常無奇的夜生活,能有什么事讓她流連忘返。
昆因醫(yī)生搖搖頭。“末班電車一小時前就開走了。”
“也許她會坐出租車回來。”
昆因醫(yī)生嘆了口氣。
“你們和那個肯尼迪護士聯(lián)系過了嗎?”我不死心,“之前瓊和她住過。”
昆因醫(yī)生點了點頭。
“她的家人呢?”
“哦,她從不回家……但我們還是問過了。”
昆因醫(yī)生在我房間逗留了一會兒,好像可以從這靜謐的房間里嗅出點線索來。接著她說:“好吧,我們再盡力找找看。”然后就離開了。
我關(guān)上燈,倒回床上試圖重新入睡,但眼前飄浮著瓊的臉,沒有身體,笑得像《愛麗絲夢游仙境》里的那只柴郡貓。我甚至感覺聽見了她的聲音,在黑暗中沙沙作響,但隨即發(fā)現(xiàn)只是夜風(fēng)吹過樹梢……
霧蒙蒙的破曉時分,又一陣敲門聲驚醒了我。
這一次我親自開的門。
在我面前的是昆因醫(yī)生。她立正的站姿像個疲弱的訓(xùn)練教官,而她的輪廓竟怪異地模糊不清。
“我想應(yīng)該通知你一聲。”昆因醫(yī)生說,“瓊被我們找到了。”
昆因醫(yī)生的一個“被”字,讓我的血液流速都減慢了。
“哪兒?”
“樹林里,封凍的湖邊。”
我張開嘴,卻說不出話來。
“一名護理員發(fā)現(xiàn)的……”昆因醫(yī)生繼續(xù)道,“就在剛才,上班途中……”
“她沒……”
“死了。”昆因醫(yī)生說,“應(yīng)該是上吊自殺。”
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