Chapter 6 Part 1 (3)

Chapter nine How excited you are at breakfast, how depressed you are at dinner. It is true that we had been warned a thousand times that the country was very poor, but not one, not even our tried and tested captain, had ever seen anyone live in such dreadful poverty.Personally, I don't know how I can eat a simple pizza when I know there are so many children crying hungrily all night in their mother's arms. That day was so tense that it was difficult to recall when Sylvia had become a problem.In the afternoon, she worked up her courage and became one of us again.She was more confident in her diagnosis and her demeanor was reassuring.In fact she made an excellent diagnosis.

Denise is examining a 6-year-old girl.She had a chest infection and was given some antibiotics a week ago by a doctor from a UN mobile medical team in the village, but now she was rushed to us, pale and sweaty, with a fast and weak pulse that could barely be felt up.When Denise couldn't hear her heartbeat with the stethoscope, she panicked and called Sylvia over. "God," Sylvia responded immediately, "Go get the ultrasound machine right now." "What are you talking about, D'Alessandro? It's a viral infection—" Sylvia interrupted her, repeating to the nurse, "Come on, Yohannes." He obediently ran out.

"Really," Denise protested, "you have no idea what you're doing, do you?" "Shut up, Lagarde. I think I may have found the reason." Within minutes, Yohannes was in, wheeling the old equipment we had brought.Sylvia quickly turned on the switch and placed the detector on the child's chest.Her suspicions were instantly confirmed. "That's what I knew. She had a pericardial effusion, a squeezed heart. No wonder you can't hear anything. Surely you know we're out of any local anesthesia?" "Absolutely." "Damn it, I just had to fuck it up."

She asked Denise to help Yohanis hold down the little patient, and then said in a low voice to cheer herself up: "Come on, D'Alessandro, you have no choice. Just pierce and be quick." Moments later, the child screamed in pain as she pushed the needle in under the breastbone and sucked out some cloudy fluid.Within seconds the squeeze on the heart eased and the little girl began to breathe normally. Sylvia bent down, stroked the child's forehead and said softly, "I'm sorry, I have to do this, I know it hurts, but there is no other way." Denise had no choice but to say, "Well done, D'Alessandro."

By the time François called a group of exhausted us together for a meeting that night, Sylvia's inspired move was already known. "I'll keep it short, guys," François began, "because I know you all can't wait to experience the vibrant nightlife here." We were too tired to give a token smile . "Anyway," he continued, "the only thing we have to discuss tonight is how to make the best use of the little medicine the thief left us." "Did you mean 'thief'?" Morris asked in surprise. "Ah, they're called shifta's here, man. But whatever they're called, they're the same black marketers who try to get most of our meds away wherever we go."

"With all due respect to Your Excellency, François—" I began to protest. "Stop talking nonsense, you mean the most disrespectful." "Well, that's disrespectful. Why don't you put guards on the car if you know they're going to take our stuff?" "What the hell do you think I did, Shearer? Sadly, the 'Guards' themselves drove off the whole damn truck yesterday." He made me feel like a squished bug.Then he said to the others: "We have to be very careful about prioritizing the surgeries." The hum of discontent grew louder as people circulated a handwritten list.

Morris said lividly, "I can't believe this," he said, patting the paper for emphasis, "From what I've seen, we don't have lidocaine, we don't have erythromycin , the halides are only half as good as they started. What else can we do, François? Cut off the ingrown toenails?" I noticed in particular that apart from these main medicines, all the antimicrobial eye ointments were missing.DaWitt and the dozens of patients like him we diagnose every day will not be treated for the foreseeable future. "When can we expect to be replenished?" I asked angrily.

"As soon as we in Paris get the insurance money," François replied. "Don't come complaining to me about the bureaucracy, we're lucky enough to have insurance." At this moment Sylvia raised her hand. "What's the matter, Miss Fama?" He didn't hide his anger. "Can I make a phone call?" Without waiting for Francois to answer, the rest of the people replied almost in unison: "No!" Denise sneered, "Call for the first flight out of here, D'Alessandro?" But Sylvia had been through four hours of fighting, she was no longer the wilting lily they had seen at breakfast, and she didn't care about where she was in the polls.

"I know I wasn't very popular today, and I apologize to everyone. I especially want to apologize to Denise for messing things up in the morning. But asking for a phone right now is a legitimate attempt to be helpful." "I'm listening," said François, folding his arms. "I want to call my father." More moans, whistles, and contemptuous phews.It was obvious that the team had a scapegoat. Their smug, self-righteous faces really pissed me off.I stood up and leaned against the table, pressing them down one by one with my eyes. "Come on, guys, shut up and let her talk."

The laughing sound fell, and Sylvia finished what she wanted to say. "As you all know, being a dirty capitalist, my dad had connections with his kind in the pharmaceutical industry, and it was possible to expedite the delivery of the medicines we needed here." People's initial reaction was silence.All eyes were on the Boss, and his response was surprisingly generous. "Oh, as the Ethiopian proverb says, 'Only a shifta can catch a shifta', so why not give Dad a chance?" He put his hand into his pocket, took out a key and handed it to her, saying: "Take this opportunity, ask him to send a few boxes of red wine produced in Tuscany, Italy."

Sylvia managed to straighten up and walk out of the room, knowing what jeers would erupt as she walked away. "Typical bourgeois," Denise quipped, "go to my dad for everything." "Come on, stop pestering her," I snapped. "Given what you already thought of her, don't you think it took courage for her to offer to use her father's influence? Don't you ever have a minute Anxiety or momentary hesitation? I still think Sylvia has her merits." "Yes," Marta agreed wryly, "that's called money." Their mocking laughter was interrupted by Sylvia's reappearance.Suddenly, everyone shut up. "Thank you," she said softly as she handed the key back to François. "He knows who to call. We might be able to get a make-up order by the end of the week." "Excellent," cheered my roommate Gilles. "Well done, Sylvia. By the way, your diagnosis was excellent this afternoon." There was some polite but grudging applause at his remarks.It was far from a show of affection, but at least the attack on Sylvia was over. "Well, boys," announced François, "the meeting is over, let's all go to sleep." Within seconds it was just Sylvia and me.We each held a candle, and she smiled uneasily. "Thank you for supporting me." "Thank you for doing what you do, it makes a big difference." She looked very beautiful in the flickering candlelight. "How is Milan's family?" I asked in a nonchalant voice. "Very good... not bad. "How is Nico?" "I didn't ask." "Didn't your father tell you?" "If you want to know the actual situation, he just wants to talk about me and want to know what kind of people you are." It suddenly occurred to me that I wonder what kind of report Nino made.Also, how much his boss already knew about me. I decided to stop thinking about it, at least not for now. "Come on, Sylvia, it's getting late. Blow out the candles." "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, as if she could feel my gaze on her cheek. "Because I want to remember you as you are now." Then we didn't say another word, just put out the little candle flame, and stood side by side in the darkness. I put my arms around her and turned on the flashlight.We started walking slowly towards her cabin.There was a dead silence in the compound, only the chirping of night birds and foxes.Their exotic names are known only to a man like Gilles.The huts and trees were shadowy in the moonlight, and the temperature was barely bearable. "You know what?" she murmured, "Today started with the worst day of my life and ended with the greatest day. There's only one reason for that." She squeezed my arm hard, " How can I thank you?" "It's nothing." I replied. Then we came to her door.She looked up at me. "I don't want today to end." After a while we were all inside the house, hugging each other by the flame of a candle. I can't describe how I felt touching and kissing Silvia D'Alessandro, or how perfect my world was when we hugged. Suddenly she stopped. "I have to tell you something, Matthew," she said, "I'm terrified. I've never been with a man." I was really surprised.It would never have occurred to me that a girl as sophisticated as Sylvia could be a virgin, but the look on her face showed it was true.This allowed me to draw my own conclusions about what I meant to her. And just like that, we had sex for the first time in a dilapidated hut in a small remote village in Ethiopia. chapter Ten This is not a dream. It was like midnight when I woke up to find myself still sleeping next to Sylvia.I couldn't believe that she was breathing peacefully in my arms.She looked more beautiful than ever.I really want to kiss her, but I can't disturb her sleep. I looked at my watch, it was past 5 o'clock.Through the makeshift blinds on her window, she could see the beginning of light in a dark sky.I have to go back to my room. Although I tried to dress as quietly as I could, Sylvia suddenly opened her eyes, raised herself on her arms, and looked at me in the twilight of dawn. She just looked at it at first, then said, "No." "why no?" "You can't go, Matthew." I leaned over and put my face next to hers. "Would you like them to know?" "What does that matter? They can see it in my face anyway." "Yes," I said with a smile, "can you see that in my face?" She nodded. "So you can stay." "No," I said jokingly, "I don't want to make Gilles jealous." she laughed.I broke free of her magic and forced myself to do what I knew was right. "Matthew—" I paused and said softly, "Don't worry, we've just started a whole new chapter. See you later." Gilles woke up with a start when I entered the shed and quickly reached for his glasses, but I reassured him and said, "Don't sweat, it's still early, I just went for a walk." "Ah, of course." He replied in a tone that I couldn't figure out, "Don't worry, you didn't bother me. I have been training myself to wake up at 5 o'clock to watch the birds. Now that you are up, you want to come with me ?" I thanked him for his generous invitation, promised to go with him in the future, and thanked him for not paying attention to his surroundings, or noticing and kindly pretending not to notice.Anyway, I hope he sees the bluebird that brings happiness this morning. Our pantomime went on for almost 48 hours.My teammates didn't seem to notice any change in our behavior, and we were glad that no one knew our secrets. The next morning, François sent the two of us in the half-track to see a sick chief.I should have been suspicious of him being so magnanimous in letting me bring a friend on a simple round that would have sufficed for one person. He grinned at us when we came back. "You two, I have to relocate you. From now on you will both live in Room 11, that is, if you don't mind..." Sylvia and I exchanged glances. "Never mind," I said on behalf of both, "we'll force ourselves to obey." Suddenly I remembered. "Hey, there's only 10 rooms in all." "Ah, believe it or not, Shearer, we've moved your stuff to the newest development in the yard." "You mean my things have also been moved there?" Sylvia asked in surprise and amusement. "No, we think you'd be willing to move it yourself. After get off work, of course. Anyway, some of our convalescents just happened to be there, and they erected the entire shed in record time while you were away this morning." It seems so evidently so.The structure of the shed is in a sense architecturally exemplary, combining the cuboid shape of a telephone booth with the gentle slope of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.But so what, it had the incalculable advantage of being on the other side of the warehouse, away from the other sheds.No matter how humble it is, it is our first home.Sylvia and I stood hand in hand, looking at the newly built dwelling. "Happy?" I asked. She smiled. "I told you that anyone would see." "That's good, so we don't have to tell everyone." At this time, Francois said loudly in the distance: "Please allow me to remind you, this is not an excuse, and you can't be late for work in the afternoon." Needless to say, our night was one to remember. We are very happy. In the relentless heat of the day, however, it's impossible not to notice what's going on around us. The land is parched.Nothing seemed to bloom or grow except the bold, defiant purple blossoms of the jacaranda trees.The surrounding landscape was a monotonous dull tan--a dark brown with just a detectable hint of red.Sometimes in meditation I imagine that this is the result of the land absorbing the blood of all the carnage shed. From the clinic, we could sometimes hear the rattling of gunfire.It's a worrisome sound, and not just because it means that injured people are about to be operated on.Naturally I never asked the political affiliation of the wounded patient.Some people are so young that I often suspect that they don't know themselves.And this again illustrates the folly of war. Sylvia's father knew what to do.Before the first week was over, the helicopters of his oil exploration company on the Dahrak Islands were safely transporting the medicine from the Asmara airport to our backyard.The patients huddled around cheered and danced to welcome the magical helicopters. And we celebrated with surgery and prescribing doxycycline for trachoma patients (ah, but not Dawitt). It's all about the speed of work that makes it all bearable.We simply don't have time to shudder at the horrible diseases we see.It's one thing to see a picture in a book, but quite another to be confronted in reality with the severely disfigured face of an otherwise adorable child. Sylvia and I were together except for doctor visits.For others, tired and unchanging days inevitably affect their spirits, while for us, each day is an infinite repetition of pure happiness.Yet the unacceptable senselessness of death that we must endure every day affects even us. I was able to work out my pain by practicing on a fake keyboard, but Sylvia didn't have the means to talk about her feelings.I can tell without her talking when things are particularly difficult and she needs reassurance. She would go home, change into her bathrobe, and hurry to the makeshift open-air shower.If the time is well grasped, the water will still be warm after a day in the sun. When I got back from the shower, she would sit next to me on the bed.With the keyboard on my lap, I played furiously.Without the music, she would have no way of knowing which piece I was playing, so I explained it to her. "It's the last movement of what Beethoven calls the Moonlight Sonata. Whoever gave the sonata that stupid name has never heard that part—it's really intense, and Ludwig really is. A violent whirlwind was unleashed." ① Ludwig, the name of Beethoven. Then I threw myself back into those crazy arpeggios and booming chords with all my might. "You're an incredible artist," she said, kissing the back of my neck. "I can tell by your face that you put your heart and soul into it," she smiled. "Sometimes I can, too. Hear the music." That's when I'll stop and we'll talk about the day.Because we can't stop talking.It's the only way to stay sane. If a patient died, Sylvia always blamed herself.She spent a good half of the night beating herself harshly about the stillbirth of twin babies shortly after one afternoon. It took all my powers of convincing to convince her that prenatal testing in this country was not only low quality but non-existent.In fact, many women in labor have lost their babies before they reached us, walking many miles to the clinic.She was silent for a moment, then said in a low, serious voice: "Sometimes I hate this place." "No, you don't hate." I retorted, pulling her into my arms. Since the mess hall is the only "recreation" room with electricity, everyone stays there after dinner, reading old papers from a week ago, writing letters, chatting about business or - yes - smoking.The pressure was brutal indeed, and one or two of us fell back into the old habit of smoking. We often listen to the news on the BBC International program on the shortwave radio.When it comes to Eritrea's insurgents fighting to gain independence from Ethiopia, we listen eagerly.They're in London, but they seem to know more than we do about what's happening on our doorstep. The other doctors hardly had a social life to speak of.Gilles' bird has wings, of course, so most of the time he sits alone, reading a book or staring blankly.However, he seems unwilling to do so.I was always trying to get him to join us, and he seemed reluctant. "The chatter always ends up in personal history," he commented darkly. "So what? It might be fun." "Not with me. I don't have a past." My helpful nature keeps me from giving up. "You can always make up details. I'm sure most people do." "I have no imagination." On this point, too, my pastoral magnanimity has come to an end. When the last readers had exchanged the last paperbacks, there was nothing to pass the time except talking until bedtime. Gradually, we learned the stories of each other's past lives, the various adventures and misfortunes that led us to this oasis of boredom and boredom together today.The past of our colleagues inevitably became our main entertainment. I think François was the first to pour it all out, which is to be expected.We know from the ring on his left hand that he is married, and from the fact that Madame Peltier never shows up we can deduce that their union was not a happy one - she didn't show up until we got on the plane. One night he casually mentioned that he was a "happily married man" and I couldn't help saying "Really?" "Really, Shearer," he affirmed, "we've been together for 20 years and have three wonderful kids." "How much time do you spend with them?" "This kind of thing shouldn't be measured in quantities, old man." "I know, I know, but judging from your time abroad, your short experience of family life must have been surprisingly intense." That's when Maurice Hermans asked the question we've all been dying to ask. "If I don't mind my liberty, Francois, what does your wife get out of this arrangement?" "Oh," he said slowly, lighting a cigarette, "she's married and doesn't have to suffer the inconvenience of having a husband around all the time. She's proud of my work, of course. She's our fundraiser herself." Director of the Raising Office, and a good mother." I thought to myself, this is not a move to gain the upper hand.But it's not over yet. “Every August in our little villa in Normandy, we remind ourselves that sex is like fine champagne – fizzy at the beginning, it will be even better in 20 years. We fill our brief encounters with suave conversation , so that we will temporarily forget that we are no longer in love." Needless to say, no one asked any more questions. Over time, phrases like "when I get back to Paris" began to enter everyday conversation.We often need to remind ourselves of the idealism that brought us to this far-off and troubled land, because we are gradually becoming the characters in Sartre's "No Way Out".It's just that it turns out that it's not "someone else" in hell, but the same people. ① Sartre (1905-1980), French philosopher, playwright, novelist, and the founder of French existentialism. At the beginning of this long adventure of ours, when Maurice Hermans would play the harmonica, he would sit on the porch and play it out of respect for us.But gradually, he not only moved the show indoors, but also began to compete with the BBC. In principle, even this is tolerable.Unfortunately, his repertoire is only "Red River Valley" and "My Dear Clementin".Tales can be heard that he was about to be lynched. One night in early May, we heard on the radio that former Italian Prime Minister Aldo Moro had been kidnapped and killed by left-wing terrorists.Sylvia was greatly shaken.Not only did it bring back terrible memories of her own mother's fate, but Moreau also had a personal relationship with her father. I tried to comfort her. "At least you're safe here, and you won't encounter that kind of thing." I made her promise to stop listening to the news broadcasts. "Just take advantage of the fact that we're in the middle of nowhere. Our patients are enough to worry us about." She nodded and took my hand. "You're right. We should cherish these moments." For me, those words were overshadowed by sadness.They remind me that idylls cannot last forever. Occasionally I dared to contemplate the future, but it was always so full of pain that I could not bear the inevitable separation of the contemplation of the future. However, despite the best efforts of my rational mind, I would still fantasize about marrying Sylvia.One night a midwife had a breech delivery and couldn't handle it.I performed an emergency C-section on a pregnant woman.When I wrapped the baby in a blanket and gave it to the mother, I managed to imagine what the baby Sylvia and I might have looked like.It was a brief moment, full of pure joy, and I cannot imagine what happened afterwards. I absolutely can't imagine a life where we could be together in the real world.I mean, is she coming back to Dearburn with me to practice medicine?Not too possible.will i go to italyNot very feasible either.I could not imagine myself being welcomed into her social circle in Milan. I've come to believe that we are puppets played by cruel fate, brought together only to tear us apart and cause us more pain.I definitely can't hide this thought from Sylvia.She admitted without hesitation that the same specter of parting haunted her own mind. "I mean, we're so happy now," I insisted, "why can't we live like this forever?" "I agree." At first I couldn't believe my ears. "Everything is so perfect now," she analyzed, "Why can't we just stay in Africa? The work here will last forever." "Are you serious, Sylvia? Are you saying you're really going to give up all that other stuff in your world?" "The only thing that matters is love and work, Matthew. Everything in my world is here, it starts here, and it ends here." "Ah, I would like to spend this life with you, if you can be sure that this is the life you really want." "This is the life I really want to live." "Then will you marry me?" "My answer was 3 words: 'yes', 'yes', or 'yes'." Her dark eyes sparkled, and she threw herself on me and hugged me. "Why don't we go and find a priest?" "Fine, I'm fine with it." It doesn't matter what form we get married as long as we can get married. I offered to call the Asmara Catholic Cathedral to make an appointment.When does she want to go? "The sooner the better," she said. At this time, a thought suddenly appeared in my mind. "I said, you're not pregnant, are you?" "No, but I'm suddenly intrigued by the idea." Then she admitted in a more serious voice, "Honestly, actually, now that we've made up our minds, I think it would be better to give my father a fait accompli." Better. I can't explain it, it's just a gut feeling." I understand she is right.The longer we wait, the more likely it is that news will reach this extremely powerful man.He's going to move the world -- certainly Eritrea -- and take my daughter from me. We went to François, without explaining why, but simply asking for a long-overdue vacation to Asmara. "No problem." He agreed kindly. "Don't forget to try the restaurant on the 6th floor of the Nyala Hotel. They set up the tables like little tents. Very interesting." Two days later, we set off from Adisuma at 7 in the morning, and arrived in the outskirts of the Eritrean capital before noon.The elevation here is a full mile above Adi Sumah.The climate change has been dramatic: we've put summer hell behind us and entered spring. We had a culture shock while driving into town.After living for so long in the wilds of Africa, we suddenly came to a place that looked a lot like the suburbs of Milan.Not without reason, as most of the buildings in the city date back to the Italian conquest in 1889, and since then it has been the center of the Italian-African empire. Asmara lives up to its name: a flower forest, full of bougainvilleas and jacarandas.The streets are immaculate, lined with open-air cafes and real shops, not market-placed wares.Even here, however, our battered half-track was not out of place, since nearly half the transport here is drawn by horses. Since we were not there for sightseeing, we drove straight onto Liberty Avenue and stopped near the Catholic Cathedral.This is an Italianate building overlooking the surroundings.We were a few minutes early so wandered around inside the church, looking at the 20th century stained glass windows that pretended to be Gothic masterpieces. Suddenly my attention was drawn to something miraculous, and my longing for many weeks was unexpectedly satisfied.Without pausing to ask for permission, I found myself rapidly pulling the osmanthus from the cathedral organ.I haven't played the piano for many weeks. Of course, only Bach's great Fugue in Minor will be played. The opening part is only half played, and there is a loud voice that overwhelms the powerful music. "May I ask who you are?" I got carried away with being able to play the piano again, and my answer might be a little disrespectful. "At the moment I'm nothing more than a humble servant of Bach. We have an appointment to meet Bishop Yifter, vicar of the diocese. Do you know where he can be found?" "You've found him," replied the man, and he added, grandly, "You're early, boys, and you evidently flew here on the wings of love." Like most of his compatriots, Mr Yifter was very strong, but much better dressed than the people around Adi Suma.He had begun to sit on his head, a double chin, and the wire frames of his glasses pressed tightly to his face, giving him an air of alertness.He had been staring at me sternly for a while, thinking I would understand him, but finally had to say, "Mr. Shearer, you've played enough. This way, both of you, please." Three cups of coffee are already waiting in his office, which is lined with walls of books.I couldn't help but notice that many of them were in Latin. "Please," he said, pointing to the coffee, "the coffee beans are grown here by some members of our Capuchin Society." "Ah," I said irresistibly, "so this is real coffee." He gave me an odd look, then gave me what I thought was his best smile. "Well, boys, you are far from home now. Did you meet in Africa?" "No, sir, we met three months ago when we were training for this mission in Paris." "Ah," commented the priest, "so you haven't known each other long?" Is this just my imagination, or am I actually feeling the skepticism implied in his question? "I don't think it was very long in terms of years and months," I replied on behalf of both of us, "but we have been living together--I mean working together day and night. In such cases, people and People get very close." "Yes," agreed Mr. Efter, "we've heard all about your excellent work. You should be congratulated. Well, where do we begin now?" Well, I thought to myself, you could start by being nice.I imagine his business is not necessarily good enough to turn away would-be converts like myself. He leaned back in the chair, pressed the fingertips of his hands together, and looked at Sylvia. "Marriage is a very serious business, Mademoiselle D'Alessandro, and of course an eternal and unbreakable union." Sylvia glanced at me.My expression showed that I was growing impatient with his condescending attitude. She turned and said softly: "We know that, sir, and that is why we have come to you. I was educated at St Bartholomew, Wiltshire." He seemed to find it very useful, so he directly replied to Sylvia, "Okay." What exactly does this mean? At this time, Sylvia asked: "Then are you willing to preside over our wedding?" "Of course, of course, when the time comes. But the church rule is that people who want to get married must come to us five or six times to get them fully prepared. Would you like to come once a month?" I can't say for sure, but I think he just delayed our wedding for half a year.But I was wrong. "Of course in your case," he added, "one side is non-Catholic." He looked at me. "May I take it that you are willing to accept religious instruction?" "Yes. Can I think I don't have to formally convert to Catholicism if I don't want to?" "Yes, as long as you allow your children to be brought up in this true faith." For a split second, I didn't react.I've said to Sylvia that I would like our children to be Catholic, but I don't like the pressure this man is putting on me.However, I knew there was only one word to get us out of here, so I said it: "Agreed." "Wonderful." His response was the most enthusiastic of the day. "I am sure that three months at the most will suffice for a well-bred man like you." No, this has been a procrastination tactic for 9 months. I just nodded. "Very well," he stood up, "so is this hour convenient for you?" “方便，先生，”西尔维亚客气地说，“这样我们来回只要一天就够了。” “非常好。那我们是不是……”他手伸进法衣的口袋，拿出了一本精巧的皮面日志。他仔细地翻过后建议说：“我们24号再见面，行吗？” 那是3个星期以后。 “好的。”西尔维亚代表我们二人回答。说完后，她一把抓住我的胳膊把我拉了出去。 一走到他听不见的地方，西尔维亚便低声说道：“深呼吸，马修，做深呼吸，等到了街上再说。” 我们必须从教堂的门廊经过才能回到停汽车的地方。 那时，我们才看见了后墙上的铜牌。日期是1922年，是为了纪念教堂最初的捐助者而设的。其中赫然包括了温琴佐·达历山德罗，法玛公司的创始人，以及他为之忠实服务的领袖，贝尼托·墨索里尼。 “哦，这就明白了，”我挖苦地说道，“你知道这是个家族教堂吗？” “我要是知道的话，你觉得我会提出到这里来吗？” 然后她用那美丽的大眼睛看着我，柔声问道：“你仍愿意和我结婚吗？” “当然啦，西尔维亚。只要不在这里。” 我们在意大利和美国使馆的经历与在教堂的经历截然不同。当地态度和蔼的职员答应尽一切可能促使他们各自的政府尽快同意我们在国外结婚。他们都对我们说，我们可以准备在两个星期后举行婚礼。 我们冒着让弗朗索瓦失望的危险，退掉了在尼亚拉饭店预定的当晚的餐位，而在公园咖啡厅匆匆喝了一杯蒸馏咖啡就动身回去了。 “你在想什么，马修？” “仅仅是在琢磨而已。”我说。 “琢磨什么？” “琢磨你父亲需要多长时间把我们拆散。” 她抓住我的手。“别傻了，什么也不可能使我们分开。” “别那么自信。” “我说，你现实点，我们已经超过21岁了，他怎么可能阻止我们呢？” “西尔维亚，”我半开玩笑地说，“以你父亲的关系，他可以让你参加意大利的第一个前往火星的太空项目。” 我们晚上很晚才到家，但回到熟悉的环境使我们非常高兴。那晚我们久久地、热烈地做爱。 后来我们拥抱着静静地躺在那里。 西尔维亚悄声说：“马修，没关系。” "what?" “我们已经是夫妻了。” 我紧搂着她。真的，别的什么也不重要。 Chapter Eleven “不行，弗朗索瓦，你不能硬要我这么干。” 如果这是军队，我就会被送上军事法庭。 当我投身于这一使命时，我曾认为不会有任何任务能可惜或令人不安到无法执行的地步，但是我错了。我发现自己无法拿着武器向另一个人瞄准，然后扣动扳机。具有讽刺意义的是，在所有的人里，居然是弗朗索瓦在对我的和平主义进行考验。 “听着，马修，你得现实点。这些大门外不到100米的地方就在进行一场战争。你可能会发现需要保卫你的病人的安全。为了他们，同时也为了你自己，你有责任学会使用这把枪。” 但是他身不由己的举动表露了他真正的情感：从他那小心翼翼地在手指头上吊着那把.38口径的自动手枪的样子可以看出，他也非常厌恶用训练来拯救生命的手去握导致死亡的工具。“让我告诉你吧，为了减轻你的负罪感，我建议做出下列妥协：学会使用这个东西，把真正需要开枪的决定推迟到问题直接面对你的时候。” 他停了下来，恼怒地吸了一口气，补充道：“至少答应我做一下选择。” 我让步了。 此后的两个星期，每天早上6点半钟，我们大家都聚集在大院的一个偏僻角落，尽可能远离每天早在医生开门前很久就排在门外的大群病人。 弗朗索瓦展现出了他一直不为人知的艺术天资——他做了3个硬纸板人形，在心脏部位贴上了6个同心圆。然后他把“哈泼”、“奇柯”和“格罗丘”分别放在10米、20米和30米之外，向我们演示怎样以无情的准确性将它们处死。我的一些医生同事，包括西尔维亚，很喜欢这种练习。然而，最具有讽刺意味的是，我成了我们之中的神枪手，甚至连弗朗索瓦都留下了很深的印象。 “希勒，你要是有朝一日给人治病治腻了，可以去做个黑手党的杀手。”他开玩笑说。不用说，我并没有笑。 弗朗索瓦的枪迅速具有了护身符的地位。它成了我们的亚瑟王神剑：它将在邪恶下保护我们，使我们能不受伤害地完成我们神圣的职责。 我们1978年到达的时候，内战发展到了一个危险的新阶段。向来爱冒险的苏联人卷入进来，大规模地重新武装了埃塞俄比亚政权。他们大大增强了的军火实力，使形势对厄立特里亚起义者非常不利，在撤退中到处遭到了流血浩劫。 这些挫折使大批群众流离失所，联合国的救济人员拼命设立难民营。在甘契瓦以东40英里我们这个地区最新建立的一个难民营里仅有两名护士、简单的急救设备和一些治疗诸如随处可见、死亡率极高（特别在儿童中）的痢疾等病的“看家药”。由于我们最近似于“医院”，便定期派出两个医生去给这些难民治疗较为紧急的病症。 我和西尔维亚盼望着一起去执行这样的任务，当时这似乎并没有什么冒失之处。对于我们来说，这给了我们一个既可表现无私精神又可以亲密相处的机会，让我们既能得到“表扬”，又能在路途上一连几个小时快活地在一起。 当然，我们也意识到旅途上不是没有危险的。埃塞俄比亚军队、厄立特里亚解放力量以及纯粹的盗匪就像城市里对立的团伙那样经常为争夺地盘而无谓地打仗，根本不管在交火中打中了谁。 我们正要第三次上路去甘契瓦。在做最后的准备的时候，弗朗索瓦和马尔塔帮助我们检查装在久经风霜的半履带式汽车后部的补给品。弗朗索瓦一声不响地从仪表盘上的贮物箱中拿出手枪，检查是不是上好了子弹。 他吻别西尔维亚的时候，我求他对我免了这种感情的表露。并不是因为我不爱他，而是我不愿在不必要的近处承受他那浑身的烟味。 正如人们对法玛公司法定女继承人会做出的判断，西尔维亚开起车来神气活现。如果我听之任之，她会把着方向盘直到终点的。清早的天气不太热，开车能微微带来一些快感。 我的任务降为看地图和放音乐（第一盘磁带我选的是泰勒曼①的小号独奏曲，来反映新的一天的乐观心情）。后来，我们沉溺于独自相处的快乐之中，聊起天来。 ①泰勒曼（1681-1767），德国自学成才的音乐家。 开始我们又玩了一轮自己发明的游戏：没有被邀请参加我们的婚礼的人之中，谁会最生气。这样，我们走过了几英里颠簸的路程，然后，我们又讨论了另一个老问题：在两年的合同期满以后我们还要在这里呆多久。 “呃，就我而言，”我深情地说，“永远好像还不够长。怎么啦，西尔维亚，突然想家了？” “为什么要想家？” “我也不知道，也许是想一碗真正上乘的意大利面条。” 她回答时脸好像有点红。“别担心，马修，我向你发誓我要学会做饭。” “得啦，你知道说到你的烹调技术时我并不是认真的。但是另一方面，关系到孩子时……” “你是不是指我们想在什么地方抚养他们？” “对。”我答道，极力抑制突然而来的想做父亲的强烈渴望。在这件事上，我们两人谁都找不到一个容易的答案。 我们继续往前开了一段，听任斯科托和多明戈在荒野中对唱《托斯卡》中的一段小夜曲。西尔维亚似乎陷入了沉思。 “你呆呆地想什么呢，小姐？” “你认为我们还回得去吗？” “回哪儿？” “你知道的，回我们来的地方。” “会的，去参加我们第一个孙子的婚礼。” she laughed. 车子开了两个小时以后，格兰·古尔德①正在演奏巴赫的《哥德堡变奏曲》，空气已经热得像火炉了。当我们来到一丛按树旁时，我让西尔维亚停下车，喝了些加蜂蜜的茶厂弗朗索瓦大妈”用来喝下食盐片防止中暑的偏方的一部分），然后我接过方向盘，开过格雷姆丘陵地带。 ①古尔德（1932-1982），加拿大钢琴家。 几分钟后，大路通到一片开阔的高地。我们已经得到过警告，说这种地形最危险，因为可能的侵犯者能够看见我们而自己不会被发现。可是我们年轻，正在相爱，又有谁会想伤害我们呢？ 不久我们就知道了。刚开始，那声音像一块小石头。在非洲这么偏僻的地方？显然我不愿意相信穿透右侧车前盖的是一颗子弹，可是伴随一阵巨大的噬噬声，被打穿的水箱里的蒸汽喷了出来。我竭尽全力才使车没有失去控制，并停了下来。我至今仍记得自己当时对情况极富说服力的估计：“妈的！” “什么事？”西尔维亚突然害怕起来，问道。 “不是什么事，”我纠正她道，“是什么人。不知道我的美国汽车俱乐部会员证在这儿管不管用。”绞刑架下的幽默。 我把手伸进仪表盘上的贮物箱，抓起手枪匆匆下车去看出了什么事时，感觉到太阳穴处的血管突突直跳。这时，我面对面地碰上了我们的对手：两个瘦而结实、肤色红褐的战士，胸前交叉挂着子弹袋。他们非常凶狠，在齐腰的高度端着连我都能认得出的俄国造步枪，枪口直指我们。 知识分子的本性难移，我试图和他们对话。 “你们想要什么？”我拿出我最好的埃塞俄比亚语阴沉地说。我的心脏撞击着肋骨，跳得是这样响，我真怕自己会听不见他们的回答。 一个外国佬说他们的话，这使他们一惊。两个人里较高的一个凶狠地打量着我。很不快调的是，我们仍能听见格兰·古尔德的琴声。 “跟我们来。”他吼叫着说。我决不可能让这些家伙把西尔维亚带走。绝对得先把我打死才行。 “滚开，别挡路。”我也吼道，还加上了从病人痛苦时用的骂人话中学来的精华。这生动的土话又一次使他们愣住了。我回头对西尔维亚大喊，要她赶快坐到驾驶座上，在换挡前的一刹那通知我。 显然她是吓傻了。“不，马修，也许我们应该按他们说的去做。” “听我的，见鬼，”我厉声说道，企图把她从瘫痪状态下震醒，“你不会愿意做他们的俘虏的。好了，按我说的去做！” 这时，伏击者之一用步枪向我示意，要我走到他那儿去。我没有动，尽管我知道他马上会开枪。 “快，西尔维亚！”我再一次喊道。半履带式汽车中仍然毫无动静。 那人的眼中冒出了怒火，很明显，他要杀人。那一刻，我变成了一个不惜一切保护配偶的本能动物。 突然，一颗子弹呼啸着从我耳边飞过，切断了我和文明间的联系的最后一环。我狂怒地瞄准着向他的胸口开了一枪。我差一点命中了他，但他往下一跪，躲过了子弹。在他还没有来得及爬起来前，我已跳上了汽车踏脚板。突然，我发现了在大路另一边的第三个枪手。他正把步枪举到齐肩高，瞄准西尔维亚。 我本能地毫不犹豫地开了枪。他向后反跳出去。天哪，我打死了一个人。这是我一生中最可怕的时刻，然而我没有时间再去想它。我很快倾过身去，摇着西尔维亚，使劲喊她的名字。她惊醒过来，立刻机警地换挡。汽车扬起一团灰尘驰去。 但这时，一阵弹雨从大路两侧倾泻而来。在汽车逐渐加速之际，我把身子探出车窗，将手枪里的子弹全部射向了敌人。四周一片混乱。子弹在到处开花。 我感到有什么东西撕扯着我的太阳穴，脑袋里面突然像国庆夜那样一片闪亮。 然后是一片黑暗。