Chapter 3 Part One (1)

Spring 1978 Chapter One The designated meeting point is Paris.Those of us who survived the initial torture and the rigors of training that followed were rewarded by being sent to Africa to risk our lives and, hopefully, save the lives of others.This is my first visit east of Chicago. The plane arrived in Paris at the crack of dawn.Below 10,000 feet, the city is just beginning to wake up, like a plump woman brushing away her sleepy languor in the first light of dawn. An hour later, I left my luggage at the airport and hopped out of the metro to the center of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where the specific music of rush hour was resounding.

①Concrete music, a kind of music made by recording and editing natural sounds, here refers to noise. I glanced nervously at my watch. It was only 15 minutes.I checked the street map one last time and ran like crazy to the headquarters of the International Medical Corps on St. Father Street.It is an ancient building that refuses to be renovated. I was sweating profusely when I ran to headquarters, but I was not late. "Sit down, Dr. Hiller." François Peltier, the irascible presiding interrogator, looked exactly like Don Quixote, down to his little beard.The only thing that was different was his shirt, which was open almost all the way to his belly button.There is also the cigarette hanging between the thin fingers.

① Don Quixote, the protagonist in the masterpiece "Don Quixote" by the Spanish writer Cervantes.In the following, Sancho Panza is his servant, and Dulcinea is his lover. He fits so well with a resting Sancho Panza-like figure on one side, scribbling something into a legal pad, and on the other sits a chubby guy in his early 30s Dutch woman (is it Dulcinea?). From the beginning of the oral examination, it was obvious that François was not very popular with the United States.He holds them responsible for everything from nuclear waste to high cholesterol. He barraged me with hostile questions.At first I answered politely and know-how, but when I realized that the questions were endless, the answers began to take on a sarcastic tone, wondering when the next flight back to Chicago would take off .

Almost an hour later, he's still grilling me about every detail of my life, like why didn't I burn my draft card during the Vietnam War? My answer is a rhetorical question, did the Frenchman burn his draft card when he fought in Vietnam before us? He quickly changed the subject, and we continued our unpleasant mutual shelling. "Dr. Shearer, tell me, do you know where Ethiopia is?" "Please do not insult my intelligence, Doctor Peltier." "What if I told you that the other three Americans I interviewed thought it was in South America?" "Then I'll tell you they're stupid, and you shouldn't bother with them at all."

"Both points are correct." At this moment, he jumped up and began to walk around.Suddenly he stopped, turned around and said, "Imagine you're in a run-down field hospital, in the middle of nowhere in Africa, far from anything civilized you're familiar with. How do you keep from losing your mind?" "Bach," I replied without blinking. ① Bach (1685-1750), a German composer, was born in a musical family, and his four sons were also composers. "what?" "Johann Sebastian Bach, or any of his relatives. I start each day with 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, and two or three rousing variations and fugues. "

"Ah, yes, I can see from your resume that you are also a good musician. Unfortunately, our clinic does not include pianos." "That's okay, I can play in my head and still get excited. I have a practice keyboard that I can take with me. It doesn't make any sound. It keeps my fingers sharp and the music keeps my mind healthy." For the first time that morning I seemed to short-circuit the current of hostility.What other stone could he throw at me now?My mind was on high alert. "Well," he mused, looking me up and down, "you're not broken yet."

"You sound disappointed." François stared at me intently and asked again: "What about the filth and hunger and terrible disease?" "My one-year internship has been under the worst conditions. I think I can withstand any horrific medical situation imaginable." "What about leprosy? Smallpox?" "I'll admit I've never seen a single case of either disease in the state of Michigan. Are you trying to throw me out?" "Kindly," he had to admit, bending closer to me conspiratorially, sending a particularly bad smell of smoke. "Because if you're going to be scared off, it's much better to run here than in the middle of Africa."

At this point the Dutch woman decided to speak. "Tell me, why would you go to the third world when you could go to the homes of people on Park Avenue to see a doctor?" "How does saying you want to help someone give you the impression?" "As expected," Sang Li commented while recording, "Can't you find anything new?" My endurance is rapidly disappearing, and my anger is rising. "Frankly, you guys really let me down. I thought the international medical team was full of altruistic doctors, not annoying sarcastic characters." The three interrogators glanced at each other before François turned to me and asked bluntly, "So, what about sex?"

"Not here, François, not in front of everyone," I countered.At this moment, I don't care about anything. His two minions laughed, and he laughed too. "This also answers one of my most important questions, Matthew, you have a great sense of humor." He held out his hand and said, "Welcome guys." For this sake, I'm not sure that I miss a guy.But I have come such a long way, and I have been tossing for so long, I think I should accept it first, at least think about it before talking. Three weeks of training for Eritrea begins the day after tomorrow, so I have 48 hours to see the spectacle of Paris.

I checked into the cheap, sleazy hotel on the Left Bank they reserved for candidates, and decided it had a nice atmosphere.I'm sure it's one of those small hotels where every room is like a loft and every spring in the bed creaks.Perhaps François chose this place to exercise us for the journey ahead. My brother told me that it was impossible to eat bad food in Paris, and he was absolutely right.I ate at a place called Small Zinc Restaurant.There, you choose from an assortment of exotic crustaceans on display upstairs, and they bring you upstairs to eat.If I had the guts to ask the names of the things I ate, they might not have tasted so good.

The life of those two days was a great shock to me.Trying to see Paris' art treasures in such a short amount of time is like trying to swallow an elephant in one gulp.But I pulled out all the strength.From dawn until dark, I absorb the city through every pore. After they had kicked me out of the Louvre and locked the gates, I had a quick supper at a small nearby café, then strolled along the Boulevard Saint-Michel until I was too tired to go back to my room and Cockroaches for company. The jetlag that has been chasing me since I arrived in Paris finally took hold of me when I sat down for what seemed like the first time of the day. As soon as I took off my shoes and fell on the bed, I fell into the sluggish state of arriving in Paris. Of course, I remember the exact date: Monday, April 3, 1978.Yet it started off like any morning: I shaved, showered, picked out the coolest shirt (a blue cardigan) to put on, and headed to the Eritrean Action Group on Holy Father Street.first day. By this time I had regained my confidence, strengthened my perspective, and was ready for anything. Except for the emotional ambush that awaits me. Most people are already there, chatting over paper cups of coffee.François introduced me between puffs to four Frenchmen (one of whom was a pretty woman), two Dutchmen, one of whom wore a hat like a ten-gallon bucket, who Will do most of the anesthesia work (don't tell me the connection between the two). And Sylvia. I stopped breathing.She is a poem without words. Everything about her is beautiful.Her face was the exact opposite of Medusa's, and one look would turn you into jelly. ① Medusa, a Gorgon in Greek mythology, can turn anyone who looks at her into stone. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and no makeup.His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail.But that didn't fool anyone. "Don't judge Sylvia because of her looks, Matthew. She's a very astute diagnostician, so even though her grandpa was a Nazi and her father caused lung cancer, I picked her." "Hello," I said despite the lack of oxygen, "I can understand Grandpa's sins, but what would make her dad cancerous?" "It's simple," François grinned. "His last name is D'Alessandro." "You mean the head of the Italian car manufacturer Fama?" "Exactly. The number one polluter of roads and trails, not to mention the chemical waste they produce..." Francois seemed to be conveying the news with a kind of perverted joy. I looked at her and asked, "Is he playing tricks on me again?" "He's not guilty of it," she admitted, "but notice that Luke, the saint today, forgot to mention that my ecologically guilty father fought with the U.S. Army during the war. Are you From where, Matthew?" ①Saint Luke, a figure in Christian legend, is believed to be the author of the Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles in the Bible, and he practiced medicine. "It also happens to be an automotive capital, Dearborn, Michigan, except my last name isn't Ford." "You're lucky. To come from a well-known and, in my case, notorious family is sometimes a nuisance." François pointed at me and confided to her mischievously: "By the way, Sylvia, you have to be careful with this guy, he wants to make people think that he is a simple bumpkin, but he is actually a serious pianist, and he can say Italian." "Really?" She looked at me, which seemed to make a deep impression on her. "It's not as fluent as your English. But if you're taking music, you need to know Italian." "Oh, do you like opera?" she asked eagerly. "Like it. Do you like it too?" "I love it as hell. But if you're born in Milan, you grow up into two things, football and opera, and La Scala and La Scala." "And Scaropan," I added, rather proud of my ability to alliterate what she said. At this moment François yelled: "Now sit down and shut up, the time for cocktails is over." Immediately, the joking stopped, and the thoughts of all the people present were focused on treating the illness.We each took a seat (Sylvia sat cross-legged on the floor with two others). "Let me make a prediction," Francois said, energized. "Nobody who hates me yet will hate me in a week. It will be very hot, tense, and dangerous. The conditions there are you Never seen it before. Before this civil war, Ethiopia was already one of the poorest countries in the world - annual per capita income was $90. The people lived in a state of endless hunger, which was exacerbated by years of drought , was a complete nightmare." He took a breath and added, "Now, let's start with infectious diseases." The No. 62 project of the international medical team officially started. I feel like I have a mixed mindset when it comes to women.As soon as they expressed interest in me I started running away.That was the case that morning in Paris. Not Sylvia, of course, but Denise Lagarde. She was a vivacious, quick-witted physician from Grenoble who, as the French so vividly put it, "had a well-furnished balcony" (one learns important words so quickly, Surprising).In any other situation, she would look drool-worthy. ①This phrase is often used to describe a plump and voluptuous woman. We all went to a restaurant for dinner.Believe it or not, there are over two hundred types of cheese out there.Under normal circumstances, I would feel like I was in food heaven, but that day my taste buds, like my other senses, were all numb.That was the initial impact of Sylvia on me. Denise managed to get a seat next to me, teasing me desperately.Three hours later, as we drank coffee, she whispered to me, unashamedly candid, "I find you particularly attractive, Matthew." I pay the same compliment, hoping it won't lead to what I'm almost sure it will. "Would you like me to show you around Paris?" Unfortunately, my answer was very untactful. "Thanks, Denise, I've been around." She got my point, and that's how I made my first enemy. Sylvia was never alone.She was like a bagpiper in colorful clothes, and wherever she went, she was surrounded by a crowd of men and women who admired her. However, I soon discovered that she was under very tight guards, giving people a sinister feeling. On the first Friday, I happened to arrive early.When I accidentally looked out the window, Sylvia came into my sight.She was walking gracefully and briskly down the street and into the building.I was admiring the sight when I noticed that, in addition to the usual group of admirers, a broad-chested, middle-aged man followed her about 100 yards behind her.I had an eerie feeling that he was staring at her slightly.Naturally, this was probably just my imagination, so I didn't mention it. During the half-hour lunch break (not too French, I agree), we were all around for some sandwiches.Sylvia went to the street to buy newspapers.As we were about to start the afternoon, I saw her come back.I noticed that a little further down the street, the same person was staring at her, apparently intently. Now that I know it wasn't my imagination, I decided to warn her. At the end of the afternoon, when some of the group was heading back to the hotel we called the "Hilton Termite Hack," I ventured to ask Sylvia if she could come with me for a drink and a brief conversation. private matter. She kindly obliged, and we went to a small hotel two doors away. When I squeezed into the narrow compartment with a glass of white wine in each hand, she smiled and said, "I said, what's the matter?" "Sylvia, I know you must have plans tonight, so I'll try to speak as quickly as possible. I don't want to make you..." I hesitated, "But I think someone is following you." "I know." She said without worry. "you know?" "Always. My father was afraid something would happen to me." "You mean that guy is your bodyguard?" "It can be said that it is. But I would rather see Nino as my savior in times of crisis. But Dad is not blindly suspicious. I regret to say that he is justified in doing so..." Her voice became lower and lower. Oh dear, I'm afraid I'm in trouble.Suddenly I remembered reading about her mother being kidnapped and killed many years ago.That was world news. "Hey," I whispered apologetically, "I'm sorry for asking this question. Let's go back to the group." "Why are you in such a hurry? Let's finish the drink and chat for a while. Do you watch NBA basketball games?" "Not often. You know, when you're a resident, you sleep in every spare moment you have. Why do you ask?" "Oh, Fama has its own professional basketball team that plays Europa League. Every year we take in players from the NBA. I was hoping you might notice if there was a player on the Detroit Pistons who wasn't as aggressive, but still Play a few seasons in the second division." "Listen, I'm going to ask an expert. I'll ask my brother Chatz when I write. He's definitely a fan." "That's one of the things I'll miss when I'm in Africa. Whenever the players were playing in England, my dad would fly over and take me to the games." "What do you do in England between games?" "I read there for almost 10 years after my mother died and I even did my MD at Cambridge." "Aha, no wonder you have an upper-class accent. What's your major?" "I haven't made up my mind yet. But it's probably something like pediatric surgery, depending on my hand—I'll find out soon. What about you?" "I was also attracted by the scalpel at the beginning, but now I really believe that the scalpel will be obsolete within a few years and will be replaced by various genetic technologies. I hope to eventually engage in genetic technology. So after returning from Africa , I might go for a PhD in molecular biology or something. But I'm looking forward to this adventure to Africa. Are you too?" "Well, this is between the two of us, and sometimes I don't know if I can handle it." "Don't worry, you have so many conditions that are not good for you. If Francois thinks you can't handle the difficult situation, he won't choose you." "I hope so," she murmured, still with a hint of doubt in her voice. It was then that I became aware, for the first time, of the little sparks of doubt that now and then flickered beneath her unassailable exterior.It's good to know she's human too. As we walked out the door, I saw Nino leaning on the parking meter, "reading" the newspaper. "By the way, Sylvia, is he going to Eritrea with us?" "Thank God he's not going. Actually, it would be a new experience for me to be able to really live on my own." "If my words are of any use, you can tell your father that I will be there to protect you." She seemed to really appreciate my words.She smiled at me, and that smile destroyed every immune system that kept me from actually falling in love with her. Chapter two At the end of the second weekend of training, the opera house has the event of a lifetime: the legendary soprano Maria Callas will play Violetta for the last time in .I must not miss such an opportunity.My behavior was a little childish: I pretended to be unwell, and left the seminar early to wait in line to see if I could get a standing ticket. Needless to say, I wasn't the only one in and around Paris who wanted to see Callas perform.There seemed to be enough people in the line ahead of me to fill every one of the theater's two thousand-plus seats.Yet I remind myself that I have been innocent all my life, and if my virtue will be rewarded sooner or later, this is the right time. The prayers of my heart were answered. At around 6:30, when the line had only moved about 20 people and things were looking worse, I heard a woman's voice exclaim: "Matthew, I thought you were sick." Was exposed on the spot!I turned around and found that it was none other than Miss Perfect. Instead of her modest workday hairstyle, she let the curls cascade down her shoulders.She was wearing a sober black dress that showed much more of her legs than she usually would in jeans.All in all, she was downright beautiful. "I'm fine," I explained, "I just want to see Callas play. But I'm being punished for playing truant, so I don't think I'll like it." "Ah, come with me, then. My father's company has a box at the theater, and I'll be by myself tonight." "I'd love to. But don't you think I'm a little too 'dressy' for you?" I replied, pointing to my frayed denim shirt and corduroy trousers. "You're not on stage, Matthew. Only I can see. Come on, we don't want to miss the overture." She took me by the hand and led me past hordes of eager rivals, up grand marble stairs and into admirable vaulted rows of red, blue, white and green marble. foyer. As I feared, I was the only man not wearing a tux or tuxedo.But I consoled myself that I am an invisible person.I mean, who would notice me when I have the Venus of Milan next to me? ①Venus of Milan, a statue of Venus made by a sculptor in Antioch in 150 BC was found on Mino Island in 1820. It is called Venus of Mino, and the author called it "Venus of Milan". Nas" comes from this. A young waiter in uniform led us along a quiet corridor to a wooden door. Inside the door was a red velvet box. Looking down, we saw a deep valley full of noble people and a tall vault in front of the curtain. It was the famous fabulous chandelier of the Opera House, suspended from the zenith of full-coloured trims, painted by Chagall with the most famous subjects in opera and ballet (mainly lovers, it seems). ① Gerger (1887-1985), a Jewish painter born in Russia, painted a large number of oil paintings throughout his life and illustrated many literary masterpieces. In 1964, he painted a new ceiling painting for the Paris Opera House, and in 1966, he created two large-scale murals for the New York Metropolitan Opera House. I was literally in heaven as the band tuned in below us.We sat in the front two seats, a half bottle of champagne waiting for us.Using my years of experience as a restaurant host, I poured us each a full glass of wine without spilling a drop.I toasted gracefully: "To my host..." I began, "Milan Automobile Manufacturing Company," and added, "and to those closest to the plant." She laughed appreciatively. The bearish Nino (also in a tuxedo) entered the box as the lights began to dim. He sat quietly in the back.Although he was still as expressionless as ever, I wondered if he was also looking forward to the start of the opera. "Are you familiar?" "Absolutely." I said modestly, "I wrote a thesis on the Chinese Academy of Sciences when I was in college. I played the famous pieces in it for about an hour after class yesterday." "Ah, where did you find the piano?" "I just pretended to be shopping at Master Voices, took the sheet music off the shelf, and started playing on one of their Steinway pianos. Luckily, they didn't throw me out the door .” "I wish I was there. I wish you had told me first." "I didn't know I was going. Anyway, if you really want to go, we can go tomorrow. The manager invites me to come anytime." "You promise, Matthew." She raised her glass, as if to thank me first.Even in a theater where the lights are dimming, her smile shines brightly. The opening chorus "Let's Raise a Glass of Joy" perfectly reflected my heart. Although I was intoxicated by Callas's stage charm, I kept sneaking a glance at Sylvia, studying her profile at her leisure. . Half an hour later, the heroine stands alone on stage singing "Maybe It's Him", and despite her many relationships, she realizes that her relationship with Alfredo is the first time in her life that she has truly fallen in love. Callas is very emotional, and she conveys the depth of Violetta's love with her unique expressiveness.As Sylvia turned to me to share this moment with me, I dared to wonder if she had ever experienced these same feelings, and if so, with whom. When the first act was over and the curtain came down with warm applause, another servant came in with fish, meat, cheese and other appetizing biscuits and champagne.As a guest, I felt I should make an intellectual contribution, and I made a rather pedantic comment. "Did you realize that throughout the first act there is no pause in the music, no recitative, not even an actual aria until 'Maybe It's Him'?" "I wasn't paying attention at all." "That's the trick. Verdi's really brilliant." "Apparently the same is true of my companion tonight." The lights dim again and tragedy begins to unfold. Minutes later, as Violetta realizes her doom is approaching, the brass section unfurls a thunderous chorus, "God, So Young to Die."Callas finally passed out, woke up and just had time to sing in an incredible high B-flat before dying of exhaustion. The audience is completely mesmerized, and they hold their breath for fear of spoiling the atmosphere.Then, as the applause broke into a wave of adoration, I suddenly felt myself shaking Sylvia's hand.I looked at her.She burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Matthew, I know I'm stupid." It was an exciting moment, and there was no need to feel apologetic.My eyes feel a bit moist too. I put my other hand on hers.She didn't move, and we stayed like that until the curtain finally fell. According to my memory, the famous female singer took a total of 14 solo curtain calls when her admirers stood up to pay their respects.I'm clapping for selfish reasons.As long as the compliments and bouquets kept flying to Callas, I could be alone with Sylvia in this oasis of time. When we finally walked out of the theater, Nino was waiting, unobtrusive but visible. Sylvia took my arm and suggested, "Shall we go for a walk?" "OK." She made an imperceptible gesture to the bodyguard, and we started strolling through the streets of Paris at night.From time to time, we passed brightly lit open-air restaurants filled with opera-goers eating late-night supper and toasting from “cups of joy.”Both of us are still immersed in the charm of Callas art. "You know, her charm is not only her voice," Sylvia commented, "but her ability to bring characters to believable life." "Yeah, I mean, especially when you consider that Verdi's original heroine weighed almost 300 pounds. I'm not kidding. At the scene where she died, the audience died too—laughed. But Kara Even at her age Ruth can appear as a frail young woman rather than a female sumo wrestler." There was an appreciative, coloratura-like laugh. We finished the Rue Saint-Honoré, and I suggested calling a taxi—or Nino, who followed us discreetly in a Peugeot (not a Fama) at two miles an hour.But Sylvia, who was still full of energy, insisted on walking all the way back. We sat down on a nearby bench to rest for a while before crossing the Seine at the Ninth Bridge.Seen from here, the city is like a galaxy on the ground, stretching from all directions to the infinite distance. As we sat there in silence, I struggled to share my turbulent thoughts with her.Do we know enough about each other?I wasn't sure, but I took the risk anyway. "Sylvia, does it always make you cry like that?" She nodded. "I think Italians are more sentimental." “It’s the same with Americans. But I’ve found that I always associate the pain I see on stage with events in my own life. It’s a socially respectable excuse to remember past pain.” Her eyes told me she understood exactly what I meant. "You know about my mother?" "Know." "You know, this evening—on the stage—when the doctor pronounced Violetta dead, I couldn't help thinking of my father saying the same things to me. But I don't need to make excuses for my grief. An artistic excuse. I still miss her terribly." "How did your father cope with it all these years?" "Actually, he couldn't handle it at all. I mean, it's been almost 15 years, and he's still kind of submerged. Occasionally we talk about it, but most of the time he's completely immersed in his work. He just locked himself in his office, away from other people." "Does that include you too?" "I guess especially me." I wondered if the subject was too difficult for her, but at this point she volunteered. "I was only a little girl, so I didn't know everything about her—the first female editor of the Morning Post, committed to social reform, and very brave. It's not easy to live up to her. But I prefer to think that She's happy that I'm the person I am today — or at least trying to be." I didn't know whether to answer her with hypocritical clichés or to say what I really thought--dead parents live only in the hearts of their children. She sighed and stared dreamily at the water.Her pain is palpable and palpable. "Hey," I said after a moment, "I'm so sorry, maybe I shouldn't have brought this up at all." "It's okay. Some part of me still has the urge to talk about it—talk about her. Making new friends provides an acceptable excuse." "Hopefully," I said softly, "I mean I hope we'll be friends." She reacted momentarily coyly, before replying, "Of course. I mean, we're already friends." Her tone suddenly changed.She glanced at her watch and stood up hastily. "Oh, do you know what time it is? I still have two articles to read for class tomorrow." "Which two articles?" "Typhus," she replied as we began to hurry away. "Ah," I said affectively, "permit me to remind you, Doctor, that there are actually three diseases included in that term—" "Yes," she said at once, "the plague, Brill's disease, and mouse typhoid." ① Brill's disease, an acute fever named after the American doctor Nathan Brill, is considered to be a mild recurrence of typhus patients after recovery. "Very well," I said, perhaps inadvertently condescending. "Come on, Matthew, you seem to have a hard time believing I went to medical school." "Yes," I admitted happily, "it's very difficult." It was almost dawn when she turned to me with a slight smile and said, "Have a great night, thank you." "Hey, that was supposed to be my line." There was a moment of awkward pause—according to the usual practice, we should say good night to each other and then break up, but she said shyly: "I noticed that opera also deeply moved you, judging from what you said tonight, I don't know Do you think so…” I interrupted her insights. "Yes." Even just saying that pained me. "It's my father. I'll tell you later." Then I kissed her lightly on both cheeks and went back into the room to enter the depths of my dream. third chapter I love my dad, but I'm also ashamed of him.For as long as I can remember, he has lived through great emotional turmoil.He is either "on top of the world" or overwhelmed by the world. In other words, either dead drunk or miserable sober. Unfortunately, no matter what the state is, the children cannot get close to him.I just can't stand being with him.There is nothing more frightening for a child than having a father or mother who is out of control, and Henry Shearer was one of those extreme losers - leaping from a height of responsibility without a parachute And down. He is an assistant professor of literature at Cutler Two-Year Junior College in Dearborn, Michigan.I think his main goal in life is self-destruction, and he seems to be extremely good at it.He was so clever that the department caught him drinking a few months before he was due for tenure. My mother and he explained his job change to younger brother Zetz and me by saying that my father wanted to focus his full time on writing.Here's how he put it: "Many of us just dream of writing the great book that lives in our heads, but it takes real courage to commit to it without the safety net of a career." Mother, on the other hand, did not call a family meeting to announce that she would be taking on the double duty of housekeeper and breadwinner. Since my husband "works" late into the night, she wakes up early, prepares breakfast, packs our lunches, drives us to school, and then goes to work at the hospital.She used to be the head nurse of surgery, but now because she needs flexible working hours, she has been demoted to become a floating shift nurse, and she can work in any department that lacks manpower. It's a testament to her versatility -- and her stamina, too.In exchange for not having to work for the second half of the afternoon—to drop us off from school to various friends’ houses, to the dentist, and to my all-important piano lessons—she had to go back to work for several hours at night.Unfortunately, this does not count as overtime. She takes care of us all, but who takes care of her?She was perpetually fatigued and had deep dark circles around her eyes. I try to grow up as quickly as possible so that I can carry my share of the burden.一开始蔡兹年纪太小，不明白在发生些什么事。我尽我所能不让他了解真相，归结起来其实就是把他和爸爸的接触减到最少。 我10岁时对妈妈建议说，为了减轻她的一些压力，我退学去找点活干。她大笑起来，由衷地觉得又有趣又感动。但是她解释说，法律要求儿童接受教育，至少要到16岁。而且不管怎样，她希望我能上大学。 “那么，你能不能至少教教我怎么给大家做晚餐？这能给你帮点忙，对不对？” 她向我俯下身来，把我紧紧搂住。 不到一年，我得到了这份差事。 “向厨师致敬。”我第一次努力之后父亲快活地说。 这让我起鸡皮疙瘩。 每当父亲晚餐时“心情好”，他就会详细地讯问蔡兹和我关于学校的功课和社会活动的情况。这总让我们感到特别别扭，所以我就想到扭转形式的一招，鼓励他谈谈他自己那天写的东西。因为，即使还没有写在纸上，他也会仔细考虑过他的题目——“英雄之概念”——说出值得一听的想法来。 确实，多年以后上大学时，我的一篇比较阿基里斯①和李尔王②的论文得了A，那篇文章几乎和父亲那些较为令人感奋的一次夜课中的内容一模一样。 ①阿基里斯，希腊神话中特洛伊战争中的英雄，除了脚跟外，全身刀枪不入。 ②李尔王，莎士比亚悲剧《李尔王》中的主人公。 我很高兴能够有机会看到他曾经一定是个多么能激励人的老师，后来我开始懂得他是如何拐弯抹角地逃避了生活。然而，作为一个研究世界文学的所谓专家，经典巨著的伟大使他胆怯，最后放弃了创作任何有价值的作品的希望。这是一个多么大的浪费啊。 弟弟年纪不大时就已经意识到我们家与众不同。 “他为什么不像别人的爸爸那样去办公室上班？” “他的办公室就在他的脑子里。难道你不明白吗？” “不明白，”他承认道，“我是说，他的脑子付给他钱吗？” 这孩子开始让我心烦了。 “闭上嘴，要么去做功课，要么就削土豆。” “为什么要你来对我发号施令？”他抱怨道。 “我猜是我运气好。”没有必要对他说出他不得不靠我做代理爸爸这件事在我心里产生的负罪感。 当炉子上炖着东西，或者更确切地说是炖着解冻食品的时候，我会挤出半个小时练钢琴。我欢迎这种逃遁。 现在想想，在那些年里如果能有时间参加体育运动就好了，因为我有时觉得，没有和迫而本的少年们在运动场上浑身臭汗中结了友谊是个遗憾。不过上中学以后，我在一切集会场合演奏，是唯一一个能和运动好手们竞争最漂亮的姑娘的人，这也是种补偿吧。 钢琴是我统治下的一个不可攻克的堡垒，在那里我是个至高无上的、孤独的君主，它是无法形容的——几乎是肉体上的——快乐的源泉。 在我们家，晚餐通常用不了多久——吃通心粉和奶酪能要多少时间？吃完最后一口，父亲就消失了，留下对菜单的一句夸奖，让儿子们去清理厨房。 蔡兹和我收拾完餐具之后，就在桌旁坐下，我辅导他算术。 他在学校里遇到了问题，看来是不服管教，注意力不集中。他的老师波特先生已经给家里写过一封信了。这封信让父亲给截住了，信的内容使他非常愤怒，决定亲自处理此事。 “这究竟是怎么回事，蔡兹？” “没事，没事，”弟弟申明道，“那家伙和我过不去罢了。” “啊，”父亲说，“我猜就是这么回事。一个傲慢的市侩。看来，我得去趟学校，让他明白明白。” 我拼命想让他打消这个念头。 “不，爸，你不能去。” “对不起，马修，”他眉毛一扬冲着我说，“我还是这个家的一家之长。事实上，我想明天就去见这个波特先生。” 我担心极了，妈妈很晚从医院回来时我把这事告诉了她。 “啊，老天，”她呻吟道，显然觉得毫无办法，“咱们可不能让他这么干。” “你怎么拦得住他呢？” She didn't answer.但那晚我正在自己房间里学习的时候，蔡兹穿着睡衣走了进来。他打手势让我别出声，到楼梯平台上去。 我们像木筏上的两个飘泊者那样站在黑暗之中，听着父母在激烈地争吵。 “看在老天的分上，”妈妈生气地抱怨道，“事情已经够糟的了，别再火上加油了。” “我是他爸爸，见鬼。这个白痴和他过不去，我不能让他这么做。” “我可不觉得事情像蔡兹说的那样。反正，让我来处理吧。” “我已经说了这事我来管，乔安妮。” “我觉得最好还是让我来，亨利。”她坚决地说。 “可以问问是为什么吗？” “请你别让我明说出来。” 一阵遏制下的沉默。然后我听见父亲的声音变得关切起来。 “你看上去累了，乔安妮，干吗不坐下，让我给你弄杯东西喝？” “别！” “我是指喝杯可可。见鬼，至少我还能做这点事吧。” “不用，亨利。”她断然说道。终于，她的无比辛酸淹没了她对我们的爱的堤坝而稍有流露。“恐怕你最多也只能做这一点了。” 在迷漫于房屋每一个角落的孤寂中，当小弟弟抬头看着我寻求支持时，我几乎只能看清他脸的轮廓。 这一次，我一句话也说不出来。 Chapter Four 第二天，西尔维亚和我整天都是哈欠不断。整个上午弗朗索瓦都企图捕捉住我的目光，但我都巧妙地躲过了他的眼睛。让他得出令他感到高兴的随便什么结论吧。 至于达历山德罗大夫嘛，她又回复了女教师般的伪装，一点口风也不露。 我觉得看见她偷偷向我笑了一笑，但这也可能是我一厢情愿的希望。我等不及地想要和她说话。 来讲斑疹伤寒的客座教师，著名的萨尔贝特里医院的让·米歇尔·戈特列布大夫专门研究“古老的疾病”——那些大多数人认为早已从地球上消灭了的病，比如说天花、鼠疫或麻风病。但在非洲和印度，仍有成百上千万的人患这些病。 不仅如此，他和蔼地提醒我们说，就在我们舒舒服服地在巴黎聊天的时候，世界上得结核病的人数比人类历史上任何一个时期都要多。 如果我曾对自己参加国际医疗队的决定有过任何怀疑的话，那么戈特列布就是一个活生生的、雄辩性的再肯定。我以为自己是一个真正的医生，但我一辈子还没有医治过一个天花病例。我在美国医治过的最穷的、靠福利救济看病的病人也都进行过预防接种。而且，除了一对危地马拉来的非法移民夫妻的婴儿之外，我还没有见过别的小儿麻痹症患者。 《独立宣言》可以认为人人生而平等是不言而喻的事，但在世界上，可悲的事实是，除了工业化国家之外，我们的星球上有无数最贫穷的人得不到人的最基本的健康权。 我认为，正是这一点使我对于有可能在第三世界使用我的技术感到如此地骄傲。在这里，我们不仅可以治好在过去会因缺乏医疗而死亡的病人，而且还能带去预防接种这样的预防性医疗的奇迹。这是被从詹纳①到乔纳斯·索尔克③等科学家在百年间发现而至今尚未应用于他们的技术。 ①詹纳，爱德华·詹纳（1749-1823），英国医生，牛痘接种法的首创人。 ②索尔克（1914-），美国医生，医学研究者，成功研制出小儿麻痹症疫苗。 在被缩得特别短的午餐时间里，西尔维亚和我没有加入到那些围着戈特列市打转的。勤奋好学的、要把他挤干的人群之中。 “报告听得过瘾吗？” “非常过瘾，”她微笑着说，“幸亏昨晚我是和一个对斑疹伤寒的最新研究十分了解的年轻医生一起度过的。” 我正要问她今晚有什么打算时，弗朗索瓦已把教鞭在地上敲得砰砰直响，命令我们马上继续工作。 这样，我便只好整个下午忍受着各种各样希奇古怪的细菌，直到得知自己命运的时刻的到来。 戈特列布教授5点整时结束了报告，祝我们大家好运气。 我正整理着一整天记下的一大堆笔记时，西尔维亚走上前来，很随便地把胳膊往我肩膀上一放，问道：“你今晚给我弹琴好吗？我保证弹完琴以后一定学习。” “有一个条件，”我提出要求道，“中间我请你吃晚饭。” “那不是条件，而是享受。咱们什么时候见？” “7点在旅馆大厅里。” “好。穿什么样的衣服？” “非常漂亮的，”我迅速答道，“回头见。” 她像向好友告别那样向后对我摆了摆手，便加入到了那群等着她一起回去的崇拜者之中。 那晚当我看见她的时候，我不敢肯定她有没有换过装，但仔细一看，我注意到她穿的牛仔裤是黑的而不是蓝的，T恤衫上没有公司的标识，而且似乎更贴身。根据她的标准，她算是戴了首饰了：一条小小的珍珠项链。 我自己的衣着改善成了一件当天下午在拉菲特商场买的浅蓝色套头衫。 吻过我的两颊之后，她立刻问我是否记得带上我们的功课。我指指我的航空手提包，表示里面不是我的脏衣服。 我们走出门口时，她平淡地说道：“我定好了卢德夏饭店。” “很抱歉，”我维护着自己的独立，申明道，“我已经在小锌馆定好座位了。我告诉过你今晚是我——” “没矛盾，马修，饭店只是为你的音乐会定的。” What?全区第一流的饭店？我真不知道该感到得意还是生气，但我决定先不做判断。我拉着她的手向拉斯柏伊大道走去。 但当我们走进那豪华的大厅时，我开始感到明显的不自在，而在走进那高大、有着无数镜子、另一端放着一架盖子敞开的大钢琴的舞厅时，我简直吓坏了。 “你是不是也租好了听众？”我半开玩笑地问道。 “别傻了。而且我也并没有'租'下这地方。” “你是说我们是私闯进来的？” “不是。我只是给饭店经理打了个电话，很客气地请求他准许。他一听说你是谁，马上就答应了。” “我是谁呢？” “国际医疗队里一个热情的钢琴家，就要去到国外一个离最近的钢琴也有好几千英里的地方。你的献身精神使他十分感动。” 我的心情从小调①转成了大调。我真的觉得非常荣幸，突然间充满了要在那架钢琴上弹它个淋漓尽致的欲望。 ①小调，西方音乐中小调多为悲伤的，忧郁的，哀怨的。 旁边的一张桌子上放着个托盘，上面有一瓶白葡萄酒和两只酒杯。 “你叫的？”我问道。 她摇摇头，看了看说：“有张卡。” 我打开封套念道： 亲爱的医生们： 祝你们音乐之夜快乐，望你们知道，到处人们都钦佩你们为世界上不 幸的人所带去的“和谐”。 祝二位旅途愉快。 经理路易斯·贝热龙 “你对他说什么了，西尔维亚？说我是阿尔伯特·施韦策①吗？” she laughed. ①施韦策（1875-1965），德国神学家，哲学家，风琴家，赤道非洲的传教医生。1952年诺贝尔和平奖获得者。 “是什么使你认为你不是？” "You'll find out soon enough." 我坐了下来，手指开始在键盘上跳动起来。模型键盘看来挺起作用。 “嘿，”我快活地说道，“这架琴刚刚调过音。” 我那唯一的听众在旁边的一张椅子上舒服地坐好以后，我开始弹巴赫的《降B调第对号序曲》——表面看来非常容易的一只曲子，可以很好地热身而不会出问题。除了4小节之外，这位大师每只手同时只用一个音符，但其特点是，那正是最恰当的一个音符。 当我刚把手放在琴键上的时候，我感到一阵颤栗。我已经快有3个星期没有碰过钢琴了，有着重新与之结合的几乎是肉体上的欲望。我原来还没有意识到钢琴是我生命中多么重要的一部分。 弹着弹着，我的存在越来越变成了音乐的一部分。 我事先并没有考虑好演奏的曲目，就让自己的心灵指挥双手。在那一刻，它们很想探索莫扎特的《K457号C小调奏鸣曲》。我感到极为轻快，奏起了乐曲开始那清新有力的八度和音。 我完全浸沉其中，忘记了西尔维亚的存在。渐渐地，我不再是个演奏者，而成了一个听众——听着另一个人的演奏。 这只曲子很容易被误认为是贝多芬的：有力而感人，包含着一种超越尘世的痛苦。 徐缓乐章弹到一半时，我已完全迷失了自我，像只在星际漂浮的宇宙飞船。 也不知道过了多少时间，我觉得自己慢慢地恢复了知觉，意识到了周围的一切。我再一次支配了音乐，以克制的激情弹完最后几个音符。我听任自己的头垂了下去，感情已完全消耗尽了。 我不知道西尔维亚感觉如何，但我觉得快活极了。 她一句话也没有说，而是走了过来，两只手捧着我的脸，吻了吻我的额头。 几分钟以后，我们向饭馆走去。这时，圣米歇尔大道已是一片黑暗。欢声笑语，这最富于人情味的音乐，从餐馆和咖啡厅流人大街。然而她仍然没有发表一个字的评论。 我们在楼下陈列的海味中挑选出要吃的东西以后，就走到楼上，侍者给我们开了一瓶家常红葡萄酒。西尔维亚端起酒杯，但没有喝酒。她似乎陷入了沉思。终于她开始笨拙地说道： “马修，我不知道该怎么说。我来自一个金钱可以买到一切的世界，”她停顿了一下，然后身子俯过桌面，带着火一般的激情说，“除了你刚才的演奏。” 我不知该怎样回答。 “你弹得像天使一样。你可以成为职业钢琴家。” “不对，”我纠正她道，“我是个不折不扣的业余爱好者。” “可是你本来是可能成为一个职业钢琴家的。” I shrugged. “也许会，也许不会。关键是，一个得了肺病的孩子，你要给他弹巴赫，就得让他的健康恢复到能听才行。我是说，咱们就是因此才要到厄立特里亚去的，不是吗？” “当然，”她微带踌躇地说，“只不过我觉得——我是说——你似乎可以有很多的机会。” 突然我感觉到，在生活中迈出这样重大的一步，她的心情很矛盾。也许这是可以理解的，因为她要去的地方是世界上少数几个对法玛公司及其产品一无所知的地方之一。 等我们在弗洛尔咖啡厅的一张桌子旁开始工作的时候，已经是回回点了。我们要了咖啡，开始看第二天要学的疾病。 弗朗索瓦总是在后面的一个小间里接待仰慕者。这时他向我们走过来，看看我们在干什么。我们应该想到这一点的。 他看了一眼我们的材料，然后装出蔑视的神气对我说：“你可真叫我失望，马修。” "what do you mean?" “很简单，如果我和一个像达历山德罗女士这样漂亮的姑娘约会，我是不会把时间浪费在研究流行病学上的。” “一边去，弗朗索瓦。”西尔维亚装作生气地说。 他退了回去。 我们花了将近两个小时才把第二天那些复杂的材料看完一遍，里面还包括许多数据。 西尔维亚终于宣布说我们准备好了。“咱们要不要换上一杯脱咖啡因的咖啡，然后再喝杯睡前酒？” “当然，为什么不呢？何况这次轮到你付账了。” 这是很长的一晚，令人兴奋，可也很累。我盼望能抱着枕头睡觉了。 “我刚想起来一件事，”我们正收拾东西的时候西尔维亚说道，“公司日本部的经理刚送给我爸爸一只很小的新录音机。你可以录几盘磁带，我们好带到阿斯马拉去听。” “我有个更好的主意，”我回答说，“既然将来我们的钱没什么用，咱们干吗不买点真正的演奏家的磁带，比如说阿什肯纳齐①或丹尼尔·巴伦波姆的？” ①阿什肯纳齐（1937-），钢琴家，指挥，生于苏联，后来入冰岛籍。 “我喜欢你的演奏。”她坚持说。 “你还是尽量改掉这个习惯吧。”我劝她说。 我们离开了咖啡厅，开始慢慢走回旅馆。 “你最初是怎么开始的？”她问道，“我是指弹钢琴。” “你要我长说还是短说？” “我不急。让我带你去面包房，我们可以给自己买点早餐，怎样？” 我小的时候总是幻想爸爸会来参加一次学校的运动会，在百码短跑里胜过所有别的爸爸。不用说，这事从来没有发生过，因为比赛的那天他总会“有点不舒服”。 有的时候他也会蹒跚地来到学校露个面，不过那时他就会作为个旁观者迷迷糊糊地坐在一边，不时拿出随身带的小酒瓶偷偷喝上一口。因此，直到有一天上午在学校的操场上偶然看见他在校门口时为止，我从来没有看到过他积极地使用体力。那天他好像是去找我弟弟的算术老师波特先生。 我正全神贯注在打半场篮球，突然听见汤米·斯特德曼大声喊道：“天哪，希勒，你爸真了不起。” 我突然感到一阵毫无道理的激动。我以前从没有为父亲感到骄傲过。遗憾的是，我欣喜的心清马上就化成了泡影。因为汤米如此佩服的是我爸爸给了波特先生一拳，波特先生没防备，身子一歪摔倒在地。 等我跑过去的时候，挨打的人已经站了起来，正威胁地朝我父亲晃着手指头。 “这事不算完，你这醉鬼。”他一面往教室楼里走，一面大声喊道。 父亲气喘吁吁地站在那里，脸上露出一丝得意的笑容。他注意到了我，对我喊道：“嘿，马修，你看见我把那邪恶的巨人打翻在地了吗？” 我沮丧极了。你无法相信我感到多么羞耻，只希望能化成水珠渗到地下去。 “爸，你于吗要这么做？妈求过你——”我突然停了下来。“我是说，这只会使蔡兹的处境更糟。” 他吹胡子瞪眼地说：“很抱歉，儿子，可我不能让那个野蛮人迫害你弟弟。我觉得你应该为我感到骄傲。走，我带你们两个出去吃饭。” “不行，爸，”我低声说道，“我们还有4节课呢。你还是回家去吧。” 我意识到如果我不采取主动，他是不会走的，因此我就抓着他的胳膊和他一起往校门走去。我能感到同学们火辣辣的眼光穿透了我的背，我没有敢回过头去。 不幸的是，我们走到出口处时，我看见了他们。他们都站在那里看着，安静得惹人注意。 不知为何，这使情况更糟。我知道嘲笑是不可避免的，想到以后什么时候会碰见一群小孩向我吃吃地笑就觉得害怕。 我回过身去，开始走上通向同龄伙伴的长长的路，双眼死死地盯着地。 “你没事吧，马修？” 我抬起头来，惊奇地发现是波特先生。他似乎没有生我的气。 “是的，先生，我没事。” “他常常这个样子吗？” 我不知道该怎样回答。我是应该承认他是个酗酒成癖的醉鬼，从而增加自己的耻辱呢，还是应该尽量挽回几分尊严？ “有时候这样。”我模模糊糊地答道，慢慢走回汤米·斯特德曼身边。“嘿，咱们还打球吗？” “当然要打，希勒，当然。” 具有讽刺意义的是，在这一个多方面都令人痛苦的事件中，最痛苦的就是朋友们都表现得那么礼貌，都那么可怕地、充满怜悯地、煞费苦心地有礼貌。 幸亏父亲再也没有对现实世界进行过类似的堂吉诃德式的出击。后来他一直呆在家里，“写他的书”，咒骂世界的不公平。 那个时候，我自己对于命运给予我的也不十分满意。我唯一的解脱便是晚上安顿好蔡兹以后的时间。他非常听话地很快长大了起来，不久就能独立生活，很情愿地回到自己房间去学习了。这使我能独自练钢琴。我常常一连练上好几个小时，发泄自己的愤怒，把父亲缺乏的自律一古脑儿地召唤到自己身上。 上中学以后，我就没有时间坐在那里听他这时已变得漫无边际的讲话了，而且他终于把我逼急了。 一天晚上，我正在费劲地练习肖邦的卿兴幻想曲》，他突然脚步不稳地出现在门口，厉声说道：“我想干点活呢，你非得弹得这么响吗？” 我想了一下，蔡兹正在楼上用功呢，他并没有嫌我声音大，于是我紧盯着他的眼睛，没有提高嗓门但火气不小地粗暴地说：“是的。” 我回转身去弹琴，再也没有理他。 我沉默了片刻，然后平板地说：“那以后不久，他自杀了。” 她一把紧抓住我的胳膊。 “虽然他从来不出去，却在车库里留着一辆车。有时他会去坐在车里，我猜他是在幻想自己正行驶在开阔的公路上，朝着某个目的地前进。有一天，他采取了在我看来是最终拒绝现实世界的表示，把一根软管接在了汽车的排气管上……” 我看了看她，她一时语塞。 “不过，我很少谈起这件事。” “对，”她同意道，“你用不着经常提。它总是在那里——就在一层薄薄的记忆的帷幕后面——等着在你最想不到的时候浮现出来。” 这个姑娘，她能理解。她真的理解。 我们在全然的沉默中走完了其余的路。 到旅馆后，她默默地吻了我，又一次捏了捏我的胳膊，便轻轻地离开了。 正是夜深人静之时，我向来最恨这个时刻。但是在那一刻，我并不感到完全孤独。