Chapter 8 Part Three (1)

1981, New York Chapter fifteen There is a popular legend that a graduate student walked into Harvard's genetic engineering lab 20 years ago and never came out.Some say he's still inside, eyes glued to the microscope, desperately trying to find a particularly unstable gene.There is an element of truth to this legend, for once a researcher embarks on such a quest, a part of him is bound forever to the vagaries of the world.There is no day, no night, no change of seasons, no passage of time. When I started at Harvard, the field was almost in its infancy, less than 20 years after Crick and Watson discovered the structure of deoxyribonucleic acid.Their discovery provides the key to unlocking the secrets of each of the body's 75 trillion cells in the future.

①Crick (1916—), Watson (1928—), Crick is a British biophysicist, who participated in the most important discovery in biology in the 20th century—determining the molecular structure of DNA (deoxyribonucleic acid). Together with Watson and Wilkins, he won the 1962 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.Watson, American biophysicist. However, there have been fantasists who believe that all diseases can eventually be cured by reintroducing into humans the repair of whichever gene is found to be defective. I'm one of those dedicated fanatics.I am a firm believer that it can be done, it should be done, and even if we never sleep again in this lifetime - let's do it.

After returning from Africa, I spent the first 4 years in front of my DNA synthesizer, running experiment after experiment, looking for the exact molecular structure that could be used to reverse the tumor. My persistent search for a gene reminds me of Gilles.He scans the horizon next to the freeze every morning at 5 a.m. to catch sight of a rare bird, and my irresistible urge to conquer the disease keeps me working through the night. Can a person live on pizza alone?Philosophers have debated this question for years.But I experimented with it myself when I was a graduate student.I know that in Eritrea one can live on rough bread.Served with melted cheese and sliced ​​tomatoes on a similar flatbread, how nutritious this diet is by comparison.

Some people may wonder, what does this have to do with scientific research?The answer is that when you're feverishly following a strand of DNA, you're not wasting time on dinner or something.Pizza is the only food. Not surprisingly, the project I worked on for my PhD thesis was neurobiology.After you've had a bullet in your head, it's no exaggeration to say that your mind is always on your mind.So I set out to explore both hemispheres of the brain, studying neural pathways, jumping over neuronal synapses, to see what I could discover in this little-known field.This paradise inside the human body is also where demons sometimes come to sow devastating tumors.I am more and more determined to destroy them.

After finishing my research in molecular biology in 1984, I stayed at Harvard as a postdoctoral researcher.I guess a big part of it is due to inertia.Labs look the same everywhere, and Boston seems to be as good as anywhere else when it comes to pizza. Also, on rare occasions, we dine out.I always coax my friends into the old Italian part of the north of town, where you can hardly see signs in English or hear anyone speak English. Every time I go there, I imagine seeing Sylvia.Sometimes I think I hear her voice, or see her walking right in front of me.I took a few steps to catch up, only to realize that my mind was playing tricks on me again.

Even now, I dream of her reappearing at night and wake up alone.Apparently it wasn't just my pursuit of science that locked me in the lab. Once I started publishing my research, I got letters from various institutions asking if I wanted to change places.What attracted me the most was an invitation from Cornell Medical College on the northern side of Manhattan. By this time, Zeitz was almost desperate, thinking that I was bound to become a "crazy old bachelor."He desperately wanted me to change places, hoping that on the way from one microscope to another, I would meet a lovely stewardess and live happily ever after with her.Ellen and Zeitz were equally concerned about my emotional burnout, but she put it mildly:

"In Boston, if you go for it, the right woman will be there; in New York, if you want to hide, the right woman will find you." Zeitz peddled New York's endless opportunities for a cultural life: theatres, concerts, opera, and more.Not to mention that the prominence of the job is a natural magnet for the best and brightest women. Anyway, I decided to go there.It's time for a change of scenery.Finally, I too got over the guilt of living in a place with more than one room.I was so lucky to find this stunning apartment with a river view on East End Avenue, and it inspired me to get back into jogging and exercise (my waistline seems to be growing faster than my career).

My apartment was in a perfect location and surprisingly cheap.It's been on the market for nearly six months, and the old Mrs. Osterleicher, who sold it, was very picky about who was allowed to live in the apartment she had shared with her husband, a psychiatrist, for so long. For some reason (desperation?), she smiled at me as soon as I walked in the door and offered to show me the house.Apparently, she doesn't usually do that. Still, she couldn't bring herself to enter her husband's study.I admired the ceiling-high wooden bookshelves crammed with technical books and belles-lettres in every European language, but she remained uneasily at the door.

"If you have any interest in these books, doctor..." she said timidly, but could not finish. "Aren't you going to take them with you?" I asked, immediately aware of the sadness in her voice. "I'm going to Florida to live with my daughter. They've got enough books." She caught my eye on the piano and stopped talking. It was a mahogany "parlor grand" that was often produced before the war, extremely finely crafted, with ivory keys almost like new.I knew instinctively that it must still be in tune. "Do you play the piano?" I heard her ask.

"Once upon a time." The tone of a man who only plays on Sundays. At this time, she came to me, smiling enthusiastically, and gesturing to the piano. "May I have the honor, doctor?" Her voice was eager. I froze for a moment, with a strong desire to play - for her and for myself - and a horrible certainty that I still couldn't. I look down at the keyboard.Suddenly, I seemed to be standing on top of Mexico's dizzying cliffs, the same cliffs that attract daredevils to risk their lives.I seem to be standing so high that just looking at the black and white keys makes me dizzy.My heart beat faster, and I slowly backed away from the edge of the cliff.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, "I've had a baby." As much as I wanted to escape, I forced myself to stay as long as possible out of courtesy.She went on talking, but I didn't catch a word.I slipped away when the time came. When I got back to the hospital I had a message waiting for me, from the real estate agent: "Whatever you pay for her apartment, Mrs. Oestreicher will include the piano. Before they send her to the madhouse Grab this opportunity quickly." There is no word that can express exactly the opposite of the nightmare. "Daydreaming" doesn't quite fit, because I enjoy this almost physical ecstasy after falling asleep that night. I was sitting at Dr. Osterreicher's piano.The room was dark and silent.It's late and I'm alone.I start playing.So easy, as effortless as breathing.I started from the simple and plain "Prelude in C Major", and naturally played "Well-tempered Piano", Variations, Sonata, and finished "The Art of Fugue" impeccably.Then, I started to play the "C Major Prelude" again, repeating the master's whole set of piano pieces endlessly. My body and soul were completely in love, and not only was I playing the music again, I was reunited with the music.This is the happiest moment of my life. At this time, I woke up.If the joy in the dream is strong, the pain in reality is even more so.I now know with absolute certainty that I will never be able to play on that piano. The next morning I called Mrs. Osterreicher to thank her for agreeing to sell me the apartment, and especially for her generous offer of a piano, which I regrettably could not accept.She replied politely that she understood, but it was sad to hear. That's how I moved from Boston in June, before the evenings were hot enough to attract new joggers to workouts. I even got a cleaning lady to come and tidy up my stray socks and leggings.I often come home to a nutritious dinner she's left me, microwaveable, with a scolding note like this: Dear doctor, health begins at home.your mary beth I have two lab assistants under contract who have undoubtedly accelerated the progress of my work.I practice pediatric neurology 3 afternoons a week.Although unfortunately I mostly deal with patients whose treatment is beyond diagnosis, I enjoy being in direct contact with small patients.It also served to remind me why I did the research I did. By the late 1980s, genetic engineering was finally producing some concrete results.In my own case, I developed a technique that activates a special T-cell killer that destroys certain tumors in mice. My life is not all work and no play.I mean, at least once a year, I go to exotic places like Acapulco, Mexico, Honolulu, Tokyo, etc. (my colleagues do know how to choose a meeting location).And I have to go, because I am already the president. During those years, these activities gave me a passable social life: the occasional fleeting romance.Some of these women I thought were possible to develop, but I didn't go on because, whatever their talents and characters, they weren't Sylvia. We all had a sense of urgency at the time.French Anderson, one of the pioneers in our field, expressed this feeling well in all of us: "Ask a cancer patient who has only a few months to live, ask what the body is doing. Withering AIDS patients... the 'urgency' comes from a human compassion for fellow human beings in need." But if our branch really wants to take off in medicine, Washington officials have to have the courage to allow us to test our treatment methods on humans. There are various ethical and medical issues involved here.The idea that this is an interference with the work of God is a doctrinal objection.And there's the normal worry that if you have at least 100,000 genes in your body, you might be erroneously activating genes that shouldn't be, creating some kind of anomalous neoplastic nightmare. However, until we can find someone within the FDA willing to take a leap of faith, our struggle will remain a never-ending drama.Deliberate subcommittees always manage to evade the question until it becomes academic, that is, the patient dies.Someone had to force them to let us intervene while there was still a little time, so that became my task. I met Josh Lipton as he was dying, a sweet, tousled 11-year-old boy who had had chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery on his relentlessly growing medulla before moving from Houston. Tumors have been treated, but to no avail.Now he has only a few weeks to live at most. Even though every arrow in the quiver of medical science has been used for him, Josh and his parents still struggle.He clings to life tightly and refuses to let go, and his parents continue to look for other possible methods, even going to the "Clinic for the Desperate" on the other side of the Mexico River to inquire about their heretical cures. I decided to ask Washington for special permission to deal with it.I asked two internationally renowned experts to submit sworn testimony that all known medical treatments were unable to help this boy.Now that no further pain or harm could be caused, they urged the leaders of the government to allow us to try my method, which successfully - at least in the laboratory - stopped the growth of the tumor. While government officials discuss and argue sanctimoniously, Josh's life is rapidly draining away.I examined him one evening and realized that the next document in this endless document journey would be his death certificate. Even though I didn't know the chairman of the committee, Dr. Stephen Grabiner, I called him directly and explained the situation: "Did you want me to read the FDA approval of his treatment at his funeral? Hell, get serious, okay, Doctor? Take a chance. It's my head that's in danger, not yours. (Actually, it was Josh's head, but patients often find themselves relegated to the back burner in such heated struggles.) There seemed to be a reaction on the other end of the phone line.The heart awakens the intellect, and the intellect awakens the will. "Understood, Dr. Shearer. I'll see if I can hold a committee over the weekend." Oddly enough, you remember insignificant details about some major events. It was nearly 3 o'clock in the morning on Thursday, March 14, 1991, and we were sitting in the laboratory about to start tasting a new dish, a smoked salmon pizza that I specially ordered from the North Wind Restaurant.At this time, the phone rang, looking for me.I ventured to think that a phone call at this time of night could not be a trivial matter. "Hey, Matthew, I'm Steve Grabiner, sorry to call you so late, but I know you won't want me to wait until dawn. I won't bore you with details, the most important thing is We agree that you will have this treatment once, and you will not be allowed to do it again. I will fax you the consent form tomorrow morning." I couldn't say a word. "Dr. Grabiner, Steve, what can I tell you?" "Ah," he replied with ease and weariness, "you can say you're absolutely sure it won't turn out to be a horrible thing." "Well, I can't say that, you know that." "So I'm going to have a big Scotch and go to bed. Good night, old chap." Doubt and anxiety set in as I quickly made the list of staff to wake up.I took responsibility for taking one's life on an unknown voyage.Even though Josh's parents had assured me that they had no illusions, I still couldn't bear the thought of how painful my failure would cause them. Time is too precious, so I called the nurse on duty in Josh's ward and asked her to call Josh's parents to sign the informed consent immediately.She replied that Mr and Mrs Lipton were already in their son's hospital room. Vigorously aware that every grain of sand was constantly leaking through the hourglass, I dashed across the yard and hopped on the elevator.The slowness of the numbers in the elevator tonight was painfully slow. Once on Josh's floor I rushed to his hospital room.Barbara and Greg Lipton were already waiting in the corridor.Their joy was premature and unsettling. "Oh, Dr. Shearer, that's great news," said Barbara excitedly. "Thank you, Doctor," my father said more soberly, "for giving us another chance." I know that my most difficult task is to maintain confidence without completely eliminating doubts.It's subtle, but I have to.They have to be prepared to fail just like me. The child was already awake, and we had a friendly exchange of words.Lisa, my senior laboratory assistant, is preparing the instruments. I asked the little patient if he knew what we were going to do. "Dad said it was another shot, a new drug or something." "It's not a drug," I explained. "It's just a way I figured out to rearrange the cells in your blood so that they go back into your body to swallow the tumor forever." He nodded sleepily.I picked up the syringe from the tray, looking for a blood vessel in the child's bony arm that hadn't been pricked by the needle.I stuck the needle in as gently as I could and drew blood. Lisa then hurried back to the lab, where two assistants waited, and began the slow, tricky, and still unproven process of manipulating his T cells so they could attack the tumor. At 6am, the equipment in my lab is humming as the activation process progresses.It takes time, and time is the most scarce thing.I had nothing to do, so I paced back and forth in the lab.Lisa was the only one who had the guts to accuse me. "For heaven's sake, Matt, can't you just find some other place to hang out? You're making everyone nervous." Just then, the phone rang.The call was from Warren Oliver, the hospital's press officer. "Hey, Hiller, what's going on?" I wasn't in the mood to open up about my anxiety, so I tried to avoid the problem.But he was insistent. "I heard you got permission from the Washington gang. What's the matter? That's news, man. It's great news." "Only if you succeed." "It will work, won't it? Besides, it won't work, and the mere fact that you're the first to get permission to do it is in our favor." I tried my best to keep my temper in check, reminding myself that his mission was to get coverage in the papers, which was fast becoming a specialty in medicine. "I'm sorry, Warren, but I'm really busy right now." "Okay, just don't forget I'm there, Matthew. We're in this together. You're on the job, I'm on the job." I hung up before he could finish his pep talk and vowed not to do to my lab people what Warren had done to me. I told everyone I was leaving the hospital for breakfast and wouldn't be back for a few hours.They didn't hide their gratitude. After three days we ended the antiviral gene conversion and were able to introduce the new cells into the blood of sick children.While no one officially knew what was going to happen, the tension was palpable even in the hallway outside his hospital room. With the baby's parents standing on either side of Josh's pillow and holding his hands, I sat on the bed and started injecting the potion into his veins—that's what I call it for the baby.I try to appear confident. "How do these cells know where to go, Doc?" Barbara asked me afterwards. "Isn't it possible that they disappeared in other parts of the body?" This is what happens in my nightmares. "Well," I didn't answer directly, "every cell has its own unique DNA address. I want my virus to have the correct zip code." There is no immediate response from the patient, neither good nor bad. We entered the observation phase. In the days since then, except for jogging and picking up the mail, I have hardly left the hospital for a moment, seeing Josh five or six times a day, doing routine vital signs, observing his eyes, and so on. Once, his father blocked me, trying to catch some straws on the information. "How is the situation, doctor?" "It's too early to tell why, Greg." "Then why do you keep checking him?" he asked. How could I be honest with him and tell him I just wanted to check to see if his son was alive? Towards the end of day 5, we sent Josh to the radiology department for the first post-op scan.We all huddled around Al Redding, the radiologist, dictating his observations into a miniature tape recorder. "The size of the tumor is 1.5×2×2, compared with the last size on the 14th, it shows that it has not increased." There was a hum from the bystanders. "Did I hear you right, Al?" I asked, hoping to be 100 percent sure this wasn't my imagination. "You mean the tumor didn't grow at all?" "I think that's what I reported just now, Matthew," said Redding flatly, moving away so that I could have a closer look. I was suddenly filled with hope, but I didn't have the courage to share it with others, not even to tell his parents, who reacted in the exact opposite way to our wary radiologist. Barbara began to cry softly. "You've succeeded, doctor, and it's no longer developing." "We can't say that for sure yet," I warned. "Besides, there's always a risk of haemorrhage if there's even a tiny bit of tumor. We're not out of the woods yet. It might be a temporary reprieve. Now I'm We need to introduce some new cells to him." But now I am optimistic.Cautiously optimistic. A scan four days later showed that the tumor had not only stopped growing, but had shrunk by 20%.It was getting harder and harder to hide my ecstasy, especially when Josh sat up with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed two weeks later. "Can you play tennis, kid?" I asked him the morning of the third induction. "A little bit," he said. "Then you and I should make an appointment to play one day." "Okay, doctor." He smiled.This time I could see optimism in his eyes. After 3 nights, a miracle happened.I was finishing my rounds and thought I'd stop by and see Josh.I turned a corner and couldn't believe my eyes: at the other end of the corridor, my patient was walking with his parents!No one supported him. It was an unbelievable sight and I couldn't hold back my emotions and rushed towards them. "How are you feeling?" I asked breathlessly. "Very good, doc. Excellent." "He's not only good, he's downright good," Grieg laughs.This is the most emotional display I've seen him make. We did not ask for an appointment as is customary.I simply sent a nurse to inform the radiology department that we were taking the baby for a scan right away.They didn't make us wait. The results were sensational.The tumor has shrunk to half its original size and no longer presses on the brain. Al Redding, unemotional, finally thawed out and shook my hand vigorously. "Congratulations, Matt, you made it." "No, Al, it's Josh who should be praised." When I got back to the office, I called everyone in my life, Mom and Malcolm, Zeitz and Ellen, and they were all too excited to speak.As soon as I put down the phone, it suddenly rang loudly again. "What's the matter now, Matthew?" asked Warren Oliver impatiently. "Journalists are our conduits to our donors. I want to remind you that our research projects cost a lot of money, and I owe a special debt to a girl in the New York Times. Come on," he urged, "press Play by the rules and tell me, do you have anything of value to report?" "Not yet," I replied, thinking that a single success would not be enough to provide a sound scientific basis. "Whatever I tell you has the potential to arouse unrealistic hopes." "Did you just say 'provoked'? Did you mean you've got some definite result you're keeping from me? For God's sake, Matthew, tell me." I am defeated.Against my rational judgment, I agreed to go to Oliver's office for a 15-minute interview and to speak briefly on television. Journalists are professionals, most are MDs themselves.While they were impressed with what I told them, I was reassured knowing they weren't going to go into detail. Media hype means nothing to me. With one odd exception. I suddenly wondered whether the Italian newspapers would reprint the news. Chapter Sixteen Obviously I can't escape it.The press seemed to have everything they could to find my phone number.The only action I could take was to turn off the pager, go into the movie theater and hide. Or go to a concert hall.When I flip through the Sunday edition of The New York Times, I peruse the plethora of musical entertainment on offer, yet I know immediately which one I want to listen to. That very afternoon my old friend Evie's cellist husband, Roger Josephson, was playing Mozart, Chopin, and Frank at Carnegie Hall.She will undoubtedly be among the audience.Not only can I learn about her postpartum situation, but I can also tell her about my own situation. ① Frank (1822-1890), a French-Belgian composer. Tickets are almost sold out, but I still managed to get a ticket for the front end of the row.Since seeing him at the wedding, Josephson has put on some weight, and his hair has started to show strands of gray.His outstanding features are complemented by his more mature musical skills.He seems to be becoming a real master. I had been an accompanist before, so it was impossible not to notice the skill of his pianist.It was a beautiful Mexican woman named Carmen de la Roche.From their sophisticated delivery and imaginative, free-tempo playing style, the two clearly performed together a lot. I looked for Evie during the intermission, but there were a lot of people, and she might be the type of wife who gets nervous and doesn't want to sit in front of people, preferring to hide in her husband's dressing room. Roger and his partner played the exciting last movement of Chopin, and the audience applauded wildly.They really deserved it. I didn't really have the guts to do such a thing, but I went up to the door of the stage in a very happy mood, said I was a friend of the Josephsons, and got in easily. Naturally, the cellist's dressing room is filled with sycophants and well-wishers, administrators, press releases, and more.I hesitated, instead of plunging headfirst into the energetic crowd, and stood on tiptoe, trying to see if I could spot Evie from a distance.At this moment, a Mexican woman playing the piano came to me, smiled very charmingly, and asked, "Can I help you?" "Thanks," I replied, "I'm an old friend of Mrs. Josephson, didn't know she—" "I'm Mrs. Josephson." There was a spark of Latin possessiveness in her response.It took about a second for me to react. "But—what happened to Evie?" I asked awkwardly. "I made it," she grinned, her dark eyes sparkling. "They've been divorced for years. Don't you read the papers?" "Oh, I've actually been out of the country for a while," I explained, apologetically ignorant of recent changes in the music world, "in that case, I'd better leave." "Why don't you wait? She's due to pick up her daughter soon." The news is both good and bad.I'm soon to be reunited with a once-inseparable friend, but at the same time I learn that life hasn't been kind to her all these years.She is divorced and a single mother. "No, I just can't believe it." The voice was mezzo-soprano, the tone was cheerful, and the timbre was as crisp as a bell crotch.It's Evie, who at first glance looks the same as he did almost 20 years ago.Short brown hair, big hazel eyes as bright as ever.Her cheeks were bright red from the March wind, from surprise, or both. We ignored the bystanders around us and rushed forward to hug each other.Her perfume is the scent of spring flowers. "Where have you been for the past 20 years?" she asked me, while continuing to hug me nonchalantly. "It's a long story, Evie." Then I changed the subject. "I've just arrived in New York, and it looks like there's been a change or two in your life." "Yes, you can say that," she said calmly, "come and meet two of the most important changes in my life." She approached two girls, each wearing a blue jumper over a white shirt.They were chatting with a Latin American woman who turned out to be their nanny.You can tell who they are at a glance, and you can't be wrong.Shrinking their moms is what they look like, and they all undoubtedly share their mama's alluring looks. Lily, 13, and Debbie, 11, were enthusiastic when Evie introduced me to them. "This is my old friend, the talented pianist I used to tell you about." "You mean the man who became the doctor?" Lily asked. "And went to the jungle and never came back?" asked the sister. "Almost." Their mother smiled. "How did you hear that I was in Africa?" My curiosity was aroused and I asked. "I have my own way," Evie joked. "I actually care about you a lot more closely than you think. I have a secret source." "what?" "It's called the Michigan Alumni Newsletter. Your brother is great at keeping old classmates up to date on your activities. Your family must be very proud of you." Only then did she take a closer look at my left forehead. "Barely noticeable," she said sympathetically. "You're lucky, I guess, aren't you?" "You could say that," I replied, hoping to sound ambiguous. "What brought you to New York?" I realized at once that my younger brother, who was my chronicler, had not been very informative about my recent activities. "Oh, I guess I'd say Cornell Medical College. I'm a professor there." "Really?" she asked cheerfully. "Is being a doctor everything you want it to be?" "Do you want a simple yes or no answer, or can I take you and the kids somewhere for an early dinner?" "That's great," said her daughters happily. "Are you sure you have no other more important arrangements?" Evie asked with a smile in his eyes. "Absolutely." Then I said to the two girls, "Do you like Russian tearooms?" They nodded eagerly. Evie manages to get her ex-husband's attention.They waved at each other a few times, obviously to show the handover of responsibility for the children, and then we left. As soon as I got to the street, the children instinctively jumped up and ran to the front, giving me the opportunity to say what I wanted to say to their mother. "It's a pity that your marriage failed." "I don't quite agree with that, Matthew. We've got two wonderful daughters, and that's something I wouldn't trade for anything." "But bringing them up alone—you were alone, weren't you?" "Here's New York," she replied, "and you can't say the ratio is in favor of bachelorettes." She is in a good mood.I could sense that when we were alone together I would hear the dark side of her and Roger's broken marriage. But now that we have arrived at the Russian tea room, our attention turns to the crepes with caviar and yogurt and, of course, the tea brewed in a samovar. We haven't seen each other for so long, so naturally we need to exchange a lot of basic information.It doesn't surprise me that she chooses the daughters as the high point of the narrative, and that Roger abandons her to marry a fiery Mexican woman as the low point.She told everything frankly in front of the children, who obviously experienced this blow after blow firsthand. My own pride is the clinic in Eritrea, the low tide is inevitably shot.I pass this casually so as not to upset the children.In this way, an opportunity was left for discussing Sylvia in the future—a subject definitely not for children's ears. Evie looked as indomitable as ever.Even today, 20 years after we first met, nothing has changed my original impression of her.She is strong, bright, and optimistic, ready to accept good things with gratitude and bad things without any self-pity if they come their way. She had apparently adjusted her career plans after the divorce, but Roger generously helped her get an appointment at Juliard College, where she taught a master's course in cello as a private tutor.She still performs with various chamber music groups throughout New York City. Despite my legitimate excuses, I still feel irrationally guilty about not being there for her when there was a crisis in her life and my friendship might have helped her. "What do you do in the summer?" I asked, trying to keep the first conversation to neutral topics. "Oh, the kids went to Roger and..."—you could tell she was still having trouble with the name—"to live with Carmen for a month. I've been going to the Aspen Music Festival lately. All right." , why don't you tell me what you're hiding?" I am confused. "What do you mean by that?" "Her name, what does she do, how many children do you have?" "What are you talking about, Evie?" "What do you think I'm talking about? Your wife." “什么妻子？” “纽约每一个像样点的男人似乎都有的妻子呗。” “对不起，让你失望了，我没有妻子。” 她停下来考虑了片刻，显然拿不定主意如何对付这个对她说来实在反常的现象。我知道她的下一个问题会是什么，感觉到她在拼命努力地小心措词。 “哦，没有成功？” “噢，”我含糊地答道，“我以后再告诉你。” “如果不使你太痛苦的话。” “啊，不痛苦。”我的回答使人难以相信，至少对埃维是如此，她仍和从前一样能看透我的心思。 这时我把注意力转向了孩子们。我希望多了解她们，我明显地感觉到她们下午和父亲在一起过得并不开心。 她们非常可爱，就我所见，已经平安度过并很好地适应了当今过多发生的家庭之舟触礁事件。很显然，她们的母亲为照顾她们肯定度过了几年艰辛的岁月，因为她们刚刚才到不必每时每刻都要有父母之一在身边、可以自己生活的阶段。埃维真不简单。 晚饭已经结束，孩子们几下就吃完了俄式水果奶油布丁。我叫了一辆出租车送她们回家。我高兴地发现，她们就住在离我一个街区远的地方，在具有传奇色彩的博尚巷里。 “你们这所房子很有名，”我对孩子们说，“人们给了它一个外号，叫它'东卡内基厅'，说这是纽约唯一的一所每一个公寓都配有冰箱、冰柜、炉子和斯坦韦牌钢琴的住宅楼。” “是的，”戴比说，“妈妈喜欢叫它'交响乐巷'。” 我看着埃维，她笑了。 “我是孩子们唯一的监护人，这是好处之一。不存在谁得到这套房子的问题。我不仅很高兴有这么多酷爱音乐的邻居，”她顽皮地一笑，“而且还特别得意，因为卡门对这房子想要得要命，可是怎么也办不到。” “啊，他们仍然有可能得到的。”莉莉插嘴道。 “怎么回事，宝贝？”埃维问。 “这事有点复杂，不过卡门说要是塞普哈迪先生得到了伦敦的那份工作，他的楼顶套间就会上市，他们会是第一个有希望的买主。” 我看见埃维对此的反应是一个响亮而没有说出口来的“妈的”。为了安慰她，我谎称自己也可能对那套房子感兴趣，会同样努力地争取得到它。两个孩子好像很喜欢这个主意。 “现在告诉我我急着想知道的事，”埃维急切地说，“目前在音乐方面你在干些什么？” 我搜索着，想找到一个回答。 “目前我正把莫扎特所有的钢琴协奏曲都过——” “太棒了。”埃维大声说。我不好意思地补充道：“只不过我是让丹尼尔·巴伦波姆在弹。我是说，我在实验室大忙了，只能在音响上放光盘听。不过这事说来话长，我们下次见面再谈——希望很快就能再见。” 在电梯里，我看得出埃维在和女儿们进行着无言的对话，以及她们同意她尽管提出她的建议的暗示。 “哦，马特，女孩子们和我想请你过来吃晚饭。” "That's great." “哪天对你合适，马特？” “我的时间由自己支配，所以你们来定吧。” 我们进行了复杂的协调时间的工作。孩子们星期一有音乐课，埃维星期二、四上课要上到10点半。星期一、四的下午我有研讨会，在各个不同的时间还有客座报告会。 我们能排出的第一个共同的日子几乎在半个月以后。我很满意这个时间，因为我需要时间来整理自己的思绪。 和埃维的重逢打开了道道记忆的脉络。那失去了的机会，那没有抓住的机缘。我当时根本就不应该听任我们逐渐疏远起来。 有一件事是肯定的。我们现在既然又一次相遇，我们的友谊将在原来的基础上重新开始，而这一次将不再会中断。 Chapter Seventeen 作为一个怪人的问题在于，只要你表现得稍显正常，大家便都注意到了。 因此两周后，当我5点30分离开实验室，说要到第二天才回去时，人们就开始嚼舌头了。 实际上，那天早上我头发理得比较像样地走进实验室时就已经埋下了祸根。既不开医学会，又没有从华盛顿来的客人，老板干吗要在看来无缘无故的情况下收拾得整齐像样？ 具体情况我甚至连秘书宝拉都没有告诉，仅仅让她记下那晚“晚餐，7点半”，然后要她自己记住提醒我“带上玩偶”。 我在非洲最后的日子里曾在附近的村子里到处转悠，寻找手工艺人（我现在才知道他们是最棒的）购买——有时定做——当地各式各样人物的小人像，好在回国后怀念他们时拿出来看看，回忆他们是什么人，和我的关系等。 我看着我厄立特里亚的微型居民，想从中为埃维的女儿们挑选礼物。 一开始我想给她们带去和她们同龄的女孩子的小模型，但最后我挑了我最珍爱的两个：两个老音乐家演奏当地的乐器，一个是一种鼓，另一个是一把长脖子提琴。（这两个音乐家和艾达圣诞节聚会上的音乐家一模一样。） 我决定不给埃维小人像，一开始我并不明白其中的原因。我猜是因为我不愿意她成为我已经留在了身后的生活的一部分。因此，我只是给她带了花去。我记得她喜欢水仙花。 “东卡内基厅”真是名不虚传。进门时我认出了一个著名的钢琴家和他的妻子，显然正要去一个音乐会（不是他演出，否则他会走得早得多）。开电梯的意大利人在把客人送到各自的目的地时不停嘴地大谈音乐，对我也是如此，他立刻就认为我是某种大师。 当他得知我的目的地后，他宣称约瑟夫森太太是个“可爱的女士，出色的音乐家，但最重要的是：一个了不起的母亲”。（他是把自已经过深思熟虑的对这里居民的判断一律提供给所有的客人，还是说埃维很特殊？他还说，“我的妻子也是个优秀的母亲，不过遗憾的是她不会乐器”。） 对他来说，遗憾的是我们终于来到了埃维的楼层。 从她邻居的公寓里传出了演奏拉赫马尼诺夫①的《第三钢琴协奏曲》的乐声，这毫不令人奇怪。但当时引起我注意的是从埃维门下飘出来的西红柿和大蒜的刺鼻香气。 ①拉赫马尼诺夫（1873-1943），20世纪最著名的俄国作曲家、钢琴家兼指挥，俄罗斯浪漫主义传统的最后一位伟大倡导者。 由于某种奇怪的原因，这给了我很深的印象。真正的家中烹调的晚餐，不是饭馆或微波炉晚餐，而正在等待着我加入到她们中去的是一个真正的家庭。 戴比打开了前门，告诉我她妈妈因为开系教师会耽误了，几分钟前刚到家。 “你能过一会儿再来吗？”她好心地建议道，“我们还没有准备好呢。” “戴比，”埃维不满地大声喊道，“马上带马修到厨房来。” “你好，”飞走进厨房时她微笑道，“正如女招待领班刚才对你说的那样，我有点晚了。你能把那瓶意大利干葡萄酒打开吗？” 莉莉往碗里刮干酪丝的时候，埃维把面团放进滤器里。她的围裙遮在一条朴素但使人增色的连衣裙上，我肯定她上课时穿的不是这件衣服。房间里充满了引起联想的各种气味，使我想起了我们很久以前的学生生活，那时我们常自己做晚饭，然后演奏直到半夜。 我们彼此吻了吻面颊。我觉得莉莉可能不喜欢这种公开表示感情的做法，但我也感到戴比会喜欢。当我慈父般地拍拍她的头发时，她红着脸的微笑似乎证明了这一点。 当女孩子们在厨房的桌子上放好餐具后，我拿出了礼物。她们打开包装，完全给迷住了。晚饭时这几乎成了唯一的话题。 我讲给她们听阿迪苏玛的事，我的记忆和6年前同样生动，因为一切仍活在我心中：那些等了一夜（有时还要久）的病人的长不见尾的队伍，而医生往往只能给他们一眨眼的工夫（当时我们称之为“飞行诊断”）；那牺牲了国内轻松舒适的工作去帮助饥饿、干旱和内战的受害者的一群无私的人们；以及永远改变了我的态度的——如坐下来吃这样一顿饭时的内疚感——更为深刻的经历。 她们是两个很乖的孩子，无论是上菜或收拾桌子都不让妈妈动一个手指头。可是她们却公然无视妈妈明明白白的要她们回屋去做作业的要求。埃维不得不下命令了： “我认为你们两位女士最好还是去做作业，不然就不给你们打电话的时间了。” 在这一威胁之下，两个人全都离开了，虽然戴比很不情愿地拖延着，要求妈妈允许她“你们开始演奏时”回来听。 “没人说过要演奏，”埃维稍带窘意地反驳说，“马修一天很累了，也许只想坐下来放松放松。” 为了强调话已说完，她转向我问道：“你每天几点钟开始在医院上班？” 对我来说，这是个舒服得多的话题。 “实际上我有时候整晚都呆在实验室里。” 我性格中的这个毛病却错误地给了孩子们深刻的印象。 “你是说你根本不睡觉吗？”莉莉圆睁着两眼问道。 “啊，我总能缩在沙发上睡上一会儿的。”我很快解释道。 “是不是因为这个你才没有结婚？”戴比天真地问道。 埃维的脸红得像救火车一般。她摆出妈妈的架子说： “够了，小姐，现在你正式被通知离开这里。” “好吧，希望待会儿再见。” “天哪，她们真可爱。”我大声笑了起来，要不是埃维脸上的红晕消退了，我的夸奖会长得多。“没有她们罗杰怎么受得了？” “啊，他受得了，”她答道，没有去掩饰她的不快，“我认为他甚至把他在远东的巡回演出安排在她们的假期之中，以使她们决不可能飞过去和他——更确切地说是和他们在一起。你可能已经猜到了，卡门不是我最喜欢的那类人。信不信由你，她自己有3个孩子，她小心谨慎地不去照顾他们。不过，话又说回来，你是知道艺术家的脾气的。” “我很难过，埃维，”我同情地说，“这对你或孩子们都不公平。我是说，你也应该有机会去巡回演出。” “也许等女儿们长大了以后。我只能等待。好了，现在该谈谈你了——我们知道了你医学上的业绩，告诉我在音乐方面你在做些什么。” 我没有抱任何幻想而来，我知道不可避免地会提到这个问题。毕竟，音乐曾经是联结我们的纽带，我们间的共同语言。难道两条鱼能够在一起交谈而永远不提水吗？ 尽管我考虑过这个问题，其实还花了许多个小时一门心思地琢磨如何对她讲我音乐上的（我能称它为什么呢？）失落，但却始终没能找到恰当的字眼来表达。我能给她什么样的合理解释呢？枪击后的精神创伤？根据我咨询过的心理分析研究，这个说法表面上是讲得通的。但我的情况是这样的吗？ 此外，我和西尔维亚的关系所留下的幽灵般的阴影，我还能继续避而不谈多长时间呢？今天我这个样子正是它造成的呀。 或者更确切地说，它使得我不是别的样子。 我从未向任何人袒露过。只有现在，在我向她敞开心扉的时候我才开始明白，这么多年来我生活于其中的痛苦的沉默的全部含义。 在交谈过程中我也意识到，埃维是世界上唯一一个我能与之坦述这一切的人。 我从瑞士小镇上的那个下午说起。 “上帝呀，马特，”她听后同情地低声说道，“那一定是个毁灭性的打击。你怎么受得了啊？” 从那以后的这些年里，有多少次我对自己提出了同样的问题。当我意识到我失去了音乐方面的能力的最初那一刻，我是如何承受住的？ 沉默良久以后她说： “贝多芬。这使我想到了贝多芬。但是尽管他听不见了，他仍能作曲。他能创造出《欢乐颂》，能在自己的头脑里听到歌唱它的声音。你一定感到自己失音了。” “埃维，请你不要太夸张。我并不是个天才。世界并不因为少了我而贫乏一些。” “但是你却贫乏了啊，马特。”她说，声音中充满了理解的同情，仿佛她的话是从我的心中说出来的。 我们沉默了好几分钟，然后她真挚地看着我说：“请把一切都告诉我吧，马特，不要怕。” 我们一直谈到深夜，谈到西尔维亚，谈到巴黎，谈到非洲，然后是她的完全消失。 埃维不声不响地听着。 当我终于说完以后，她凝视着我，然后说：“你仍然在爱着她。” “我也不知道。我想她仍然是我精神上的一个存在。” “在所有的时间里？” “当然不是。有时出现。比如当我听到一只曾为她弹过的曲子。嘿，我说，现在这已经没什么了。” “听你说来我得到的印象可不是如此，”她关切地答道，“见鬼，马修，这么久了，你为什么仍在恋着那一切？我的意思是，你相信她会想到你吗？” “我不知道。”我支吾道。然后我说：“不太可能。”最后我说：“当然不会。根本不会。” “你可以打赌她不会，”埃维生气地说，“看在上帝的分上，音乐是你生命中的灵魂，你怎么可以让她偷去你的灵魂？” 我无言以对，她仍抓住不放。 “说呀，马特。这是我，你的老朋友埃维。看着我的眼睛，对我说你可以忍受没有音乐的生活。” 我怎么能对她说我不能？她是不是已经看出来了？ 她把手放在了我的手上，说对于一个艺术家来说，这是她能够想像的最可怕的事了。 我提醒她说，我是个医生。 “但你照样还是个艺术家。”她动情地答道。 “谢谢了，”我喃喃道，“这话出自你口，对我很有意义。” 她想了片刻后问道：“从那次以后你试过吗？我是说甚至弹弹像《G调小步舞曲》这样简单的东西？” “埃维，全没有了，每一个音符都不存在了，连乐句中的休止符都没有了。我已经多多少少地习惯了。我的意思是，作为一个医生我拯救了生命。这是一种殊荣。请相信我，如果我必须选择的话……” “可是你为什么需要选择呢，马修？为什么你要受到这样的惩罚？” 现在我又有点后悔把一切告诉了她。 然而在内心深处，我知道如果我们没有重逢，这种局面维持不了多久我就会垮掉的。 Chapter Eighteen 我责备自己在埃维家呆得太晚了。她早上得早起，准备孩子们上学，而我并没有这样的责任。但我们被谈话深深吸引，忘了时间。 在我到家以后，我甚至不得不和自己斗争，打消像过去那样想给她打电话感谢她的荒谬念头。 我不愿——或不能就这么去睡觉，因此坐下来希望能凭空想出一个随便的借口，好再这样见一次。（也许可以请埃维和孩子们去音乐会或看日场演出；或星期日早上到公园去骑自行车，然后到草地酒家去吃顿早午餐。）当我考虑着各种可能性时，我注意到，它们全是些把我们作为一个家庭来考虑的设想。为什么在我幻想的节目单上，我竟没有放进单独请埃维出去晚餐这一项？ 也许是因为我害怕陷入到感情中去？可是你这个傻瓜，你把今晚和她这种心与心的交流叫做什么？你还能比这陷得更深吗？ 我在自己心里和蔡兹交谈，他嘲讽地问道：“现在又有什么问题了，老大哥——害怕起幸福来了？” 答案：是的。 “可是这件事很容易呀，马特，”蔡兹继续开导说，“你们已经是20年的朋友了，这并不是新的开始，而是自然的继续。你为什么不放松一点，听任事情自由发展？” 有的时候，弟弟的话有点道理，特别是在我的想像中。因此我听从了他的劝告。 第二天上午，我给埃维打了个电话对她表示感谢。她也避开自己的感情，强调说孩子们都非常喜欢我，求她不久再请我去。 “顺便问问，”她说，“下星期六有个纪念莫扎特生日的聚会，你有兴趣来参加吗？每年都有一群朋友和同事聚在一起纪念一番。想找个机会演奏一下的人都来。” 哎呀，听起来有点像在施加压力，但她很快让我放下心来。 “不想扮演演员的人可以扮演听众，因此你只需坐在那里听，并且原谅那些不可原谅的错误。” "mistake?" “当然啦，这确确实实是一群各式各样的音乐家。我最好的朋友乔琪在朱利尼德学院我们系教中提琴。她丈夫是个会计师，是个极可爱的人，但轻着说他弹钢琴是个笨蛋。他劲头可大了，所以我们就都闭上耳朵。你愿意来吗？” “当然。你打算演奏什么？” “哦，我演奏《五部曲》，加上他们要把我拉进去的不管什么节目。” “听起来很有意思。我什么时候去接你？” “8点钟怎样？” “行。我需要带什么东西吗？” “呃，你可以挑上一瓶好的白葡萄酒，我带上我那有名的卤汁宽面条。” “太好了。我盼着去呢。” 路易吉以四分之一拍的速度把我们送到三层楼下的聚会处，并利用这短暂的路程和我交谈。 “这位先生是钢琴家，是吧？” “谁说的？”我有点疑心地说。 埃维耸耸肩，表示不是她的责任。这时路易吉说明道：“很明显，你没有带乐器，要不是钢琴你能演奏什么？” “哦，我可以唱歌嘛。”我开玩笑道。 我们的交谈者考虑了半秒钟，然后认定道：“不，我想不会。” 谈话结束。Here we are. 我向来不善于在聚会上应酬，所以我总是很高兴有机会弹琴。除了葬礼，在其他所有场合大家一直都邀请我演奏。 不过这一回，聊天并未使我不知所措，因为所谈的是熟悉的题目，讨论新出现的艺术家时我可以坚持自己的观点，而且当我遇见《纽约时报》的音乐评论家时，我觉得自己“退休”了真是轻松。这家伙什么都评论，包括餐前小吃（幸亏他喜欢埃维做的烤宽面条，不然我会用皮带抽他的）。 莫扎特的保留曲目被彻底地演绎了一遍，弦乐器特别突出。然后轮到《五部曲》，这是我特别喜欢的。《降E调曲》是我们爱好音乐的会计师主人表现的时候，埃维告诉我，他为此一年到头都在练习。 当别的参加演出的人快活地在自己的位置上坐下，边聊天边调音时，他焦急地站在那里扫视着听众。不知出于什么原因，他的目光落到了我的身上。 “喂，那位，”他紧张地笑着，“你不是埃维的朋友吗？我叫哈维，我不记得你的名字了。” 我又一次介绍了自己。显然，将要成为众目睽睽的中心使他恐慌至极。 “啊，马特，我注意到你不演出，但是你会读谱吗？” “你有什么想法？”我友好地问道。 “你能在下一个节目里替我翻谱吗？” “当然，哈维，我很高兴这样做。” 埃维正站在调潘趣酒的大碗旁热烈地聊着天，但我们的目光相遇在一起，她微笑着，似乎是说：“祝你愉快。这也并不是我的安排。” 然后我们就开始了。哈维像大力神赫尔克勒斯一样费劲地勉强跟得上音乐。我的感觉就和做实习医生时，眼看着一个特别笨拙的医生笨手笨脚地把一个简单的手术搞得一团糟一样。这一次我非常想去于预，别让莫扎特受罪了。不过，尽管哈维笨拙失误，能再一次离钢琴这么近我感到真是太好了。 总算演完了。然后，埃维和几个系里的朋友上台来表演弦乐五重奏。她经过我身边时吻了我一下，轻声说：“你于得棒极了，马特。” “多谢啦。”我笑着回吻了她。我不知道这是不是仅仅为能在肉体上接近她的借口，不过不管怎么说，我和哈维成了朋友，我答应他如果那晚他再演出（上帝啊，千万别），我还给他翻谱。 埃维遵守诺言，没有提到我过去曾是钢琴家。但是显然，她对一两个朋友吐露过我将来可能会是……伴侣？因为几乎我与之交谈的每一个人都主动地对她的人品和作为音乐家的才能大大地赞扬一番。有位先生发表了如下见解，说她的丈夫罗杰“放弃了这样一个女人简直是个百分之百的笨蛋。但是早晚卡门会把他的睾丸加到自己的收藏品之中，那时他就会爬着回来找她的”。 只要我有发言权，他休想。 我们待得太晚了，路易吉已经回家了。当我们终于回到埃维的住所时，值夜班的鲍勃耐心地等着看是否需要送我下去。我不知道埃维的想法，但是感谢上帝她心中有数。 “今晚我们没有多少机会谈谈，为什么不进来再待一会儿？” “好啊。”我答道，于是鲍勃便消失了。 “我去弄点咖啡，我们可以到琴室去喝。”她建议说，手指指向前门右边的一间房间，“真正的咖啡，还是去咖啡因的咖啡？” “最好给我真正的。等一会儿我还要到实验室去呢。” “这么晚还去？” “这是我确立的一个习惯做法，好让星期六夜里干'末班作业'的人得到称赞。” 我走进琴室，打开了电灯。这确实是个音乐家的天堂。墙面上没有排满书的地方全都用软木做了隔音处理——这样只要有人兴起，任何时候都可以演奏。埃维的藏书似乎包括了所有有关大提琴的著作。 她的琴架放在窗旁，这样她拉琴时就可以凝视窗外的河流。屋里还有一架闲置不用的斯坦韦牌大钢琴。 我刚往钢琴前走了一步，埃维就端着放咖啡的托盘走了进来。她非常体贴，什么也没有说。 我接过托盘，把它放在桌子上，伸出双臂搂住了她。 我们互相紧紧地拥抱了片刻，然后接吻。我们已不再仅仅是朋友，而快要成为情人了。一切都是那样的自然。过了一会儿，我从她的怀抱中脱出身来，轻轻地关上了门，好让我们初次做爱的声音留在琴室中——一间创造音乐的房间。 那夜我新生了。我知道我会醒来而埃维会在我身边。不仅是明天或后天，而是无数个未来的早晨。我可以睁开眼睛，伸出手去抚摩她。我第一次感觉到了永恒。 在我认识她的这些年里，我甚至都没有看见过埃维穿游泳衣的样子，因此她的肉体对于我完全是新鲜的体会。我是在吻她的乳房时才第一次看到它们的。 埃维在做爱时表现出的温柔和性感是我做梦也没有想到她会具有的。我是怎么压下了我始终对她怀有的渴望的？ 冉冉升起的朝阳似乎把我们作为大自然事物发展中的一个部分在欢迎我们。 我在爱情中醒来。 但我们不得不急匆匆地起来。孩子们还在睡觉，所以我们还有时间做出合乎规矩的样子来。埃维迅速回到自己的房间，而我则很快穿好衣服，把琴室收拾得好像我是在最后一分钟才决定“留下过夜”的样子。（我非常怀疑莉莉和戴比会相信这种说法，不过我也不认为我的出现会让她们不高兴。） 总之，我们像一家人一样在一起吃了早饭。当她们回到自己的房间去做女孩子们星期日早上要做的事以后，埃维和我坐在那里冲着对方微笑。 “哦，事情发生得够快的。”她笑道。 “我看从相识20年这一点上，很难把我们放在仓促一族之列。你难道不同意吗？” 不用语言，她的表情就说明了一切。唯一的问题是：现在怎么办？ 我们坐在那里喝咖啡，假装翻阅着星期天的报纸，其实两个人都急切地想讨论我们共同的未来。 “你要回家去吗？”她问。 “总要回的。我是说，早晚我至少总得换衬衫。” "and then?" “我不知道。你有什么主意吗？” “马特，我们有了开始，你认为我们该怎么进行下去？” “就这么办，埃维，就进行下去。唯一的问题是，我公寓的地方恐怕连放你的大提琴都够呛，更别说你的两个女儿了。” “那如果我请你在我这里住上，比方说，一个星期，怎么样？” “孩子们怎么办？” “呃，我同意这方面可能会有问题，”她微笑着承认道，“我怕她们再也不会让你走了。” That's exactly what happened.