Chapter 38 Chapter Thirty-eight

Chirping birds woke Natalie, and she opened her eyes.Byron sat beside her, smoking a cigarette.The open door to the balcony was blowing in a cool breeze.In a sky dotted with pink clouds, a pale moon and a star hung low over the rolling sea. "Hey, what a bird to hear! How long have you been awake, Byron?" "It didn't take long, but I really woke up. I just woke up and tried to convince myself that everything was real." She sat up, kissed him tenderly, and sighed contentedly as the blanket slid down her chest. "Oh, the air is really cool, how do you feel?"

"I can close that door." "No, no, the sea smells very good." She stretched the blanket up to her neck and leaned against him.After a moment of silence, she said again: "Byron, how does the submarine operate?" He glanced down at her.He put an arm around her and stroked her shoulder. "are you joking?" "No. Is it difficult to explain?" "Not at all. But why talk about that again?" "Because I want to know." "Oh, it's a hell of a subject to talk to a beautiful naked woman. But—well. I'll tell you how a submarine works. First of all, a submarine is constructed in such a way that it only needs to be ballasted It just floats to the surface of the sea. In this way, you only need to put a few tons of seawater into the diving tank, and it will sink under the water. Then use compressed air to expel the water, and it will surface again. You never Starting from the marginal buoyancy, using the change of water as the ballast, you can make it a rock or a cork as you like, this is the general principle. There are still many details, which are very boring.”

"So, is it safe? How much should I worry about you?" "It's less than being a traffic cop in New York." "But you get hazard pay." "That's because non-combatants, people like Congressmen and you, have fantasies about the risks involved in going underwater in a submarine. No submariner has ever been able to debate Congress to abandon that notion." "Aren't you in great danger of being crushed when you plunge deep into the water?" "No. A submarine is nothing but a long, waterproof steel tube strong enough to withstand the pressure of the sea. That's its inner hull, the pressure hull. This is the actual hull. You The outside you see is just the shell for the sink, and the bottom is open. Sea water can be rushed in and out. The inside shell has a gauge to measure the pressure depth. You will never dive to that depth. To this day, Nobody knows how deep the old 'S-45' can go. We're as safe as a thick cushion in the sub."

"But submarines are wrecked." "Ocean ships and yachts have wrecks too. It's funny when people in boats are in distress at the bottom of the ocean, telegraphing outside, but it never happens a lot. There's a way of getting out of that too. We've all been trained in that. train." "But when you put water in the boat to make it dive, doesn't the release itself get out of hand? Don't laugh, my dear. All of this is a mystery to a man like me." "I'm laughing at your good question. But as I've told you, the main sinks are outside the real hull, they're just affixed to it. Once they're in, the water-filled The submarine just floats on the surface and rises and falls with the waves. For diving, there is also a small airtight tank inside—the negative tank. It can hold about twelve tons of seawater. After filling the negative tank, you will continue to dive. etc. You have dived to the depth you want, close the negative tank, and you are floating there. You spread the wings of the bow, and it is like a fat airplane, flying slowly in dense air. Submarine The men on board are handpicked, all good men, my dear. All seventy-five of us are committed to not making a mistake! There are no sloppy people on a submarine. That's the truth about submarines, and it's A strange conversation with my new wife in bed." Natalie yawned, "I feel better when you explain it that way. That rusty boat really scares me."

"The new submarines are bigger ships than the 'S-45'," Byron said. "That's the boat I'd like to transfer to next." She yawned again.At this time, a bright pink light appeared on the wall. "My God, is that the sun? Where has the night gone? Draw the curtains." Byron went to the window and drew the heavy curtains.As he walked back to her in the gloom, Natalie thought how beautiful he was—a sculpted manly figure, alive and warm and tan, and she felt a pang of joy in her heart. He sat down beside her.She leaned towards him and kissed him.She pretended to resist when the young husband put his arms around her, but she couldn't suppress the joyous laughter that welled up in her heart.At this time, the sun has risen outside the window curtain, shining on another big day of the war years...

They didn't eat breakfast until noon in the sun-drenched living room.The roses were fragrant in the room.They ate oysters, steak and wine.This was ordered by Natalie.That's all she wants to eat, she says, and Byron calls it the perfect recipe.They ate in their pajamas, didn't say much, just looked at each other affectionately, and sometimes laughed at a silly remark—or nothing at all.Their countenances glow with the gratification of their lusts.Then she said, "Byron, how long have we been together?" "Well, seventy-two hours since we docked—that's two-thirty on Thursday."

The innocent joy in her eyes diminished a bit. "Ah, so fast? This honeymoon is too short." "This isn't our honeymoon. I still have twenty days off. I reported to 's-45' straight from the submarine school. I'll take the twenty days off as soon as you get home. When are you going back?" " She rests her head in her hands. "Oh dear, do I have to start thinking now?" "Hey, Natalie, why don't you send Ellen a telegram and tell him we're married and going home soon?" "I can't do it." "I won't let you go back to Italy."

Natalie raised her eyebrows at his blunt tone. "But I must go." "No, you can't. Ellen is too clever," Byron said. "Come on, let's finish off the wine. He won't leave that house as long as you, or me, or someone else writes letters for him, does his research in the library, keeps the kitchen in charge, and manages the gardeners and plumbers. That's all." The thing. He likes it, he's not easily frightened. Uncle Ellen's a tenacious fellow, though he doesn't cook and catches colds all the time. What do you think he'll do if you send a telegram?"

Natalie hesitated. "He will try to make me change my mind. If that doesn't work, make serious preparations to leave Italy." "That's the biggest help you can do to him." "No, he'll make a mess. He's not good with officials. The dumber the officials, the worse off he is. He can really fall into his own trap. Leslie Sloot and I won't last long can put him on the road. This time we must do it." "Slote? Isn't Slote going to Moscow?" "He offered to stop in Rome or Siena first. He was sincere to Ellen." "I know whom he's sincerely for."

Natalie said softly with sharp eyes, "Brannie, are you jealous of Leslie Sloot?" "Okay, sixty days." "What did you say, dear?" "You go back to Italy for two months. It can't be longer. Sixty days should be enough. If Ellen doesn't leave by April 1st or before that, he'll blame himself. You go home. Book your return trip now tickets." Natalie curled her wide mouth. "Understood. Byron, are you giving me orders?" "Exactly." She rested her chin on the palm of her hand and stared at him in surprise. "You know, I feel very comfortable being told so by you. I can't say why. Perhaps this pleasant novelty will wear off gradually. Anyway, my lord, I will obey. Sixty days. "

"Well," said Byron, "let's get dressed and walk around Lisbon." "I've been around," said Natalie, "but I'm all for a change of air." As soon as Byron put the keys on the hotel counter, he demanded their passports.The dark, short clerk disappeared through a door with a sleepy look. "Look at those guys," Byron said.Despite the sunshine, half a dozen Germans in belted black raincoats were gathering at the entrance to the hall to talk, casting a sharp glance at everyone who entered or exited. "Why don't they just put on boots and A's? What are they? Raincoats? Sombreros? Bronze faces? Where do they find time to sunbathe?" "I recognize them from behind. They give people goosebumps," Natalie said.The clerk at the counter came out of the door, busy looking through some papers. "Sorry, the passport is not ready yet." "I need my passport!" Natalie's voice was shrill. The clerk raised his eyes slightly at her. "Perhaps this afternoon, ma'am," he said, and turned away. Walking from the dreary bedroom to the cold and sunny outside, I suddenly feel very refreshed.Byron took a taxi to visit Lisbon and its environs.In terms of places of interest, it is far from Rome or Paris.Yet the crayon-like rows of green, pink, and blue houses perched high on the hills along a wide river made a pretty picture.Byron was very happy, and he thought his new wife must be very happy too.She held his arm tightly, smiled slightly, and said little.those strangely combined Moorish and Gothic buildings The raised church and the imposing fortress on the highest hill in the city brought back memories of Byron's long-forgotten drudgery in the arts.They got out of the taxi and walked arm in arm down the small, steep, narrow streets of Alfama.Crowds of ragged children ran in and out of the centuries-old dilapidated houses.Shops the size of public phone booths stood open, selling fish, bread and cuts of meat.It was a long, aimless walk. ① Moorish style refers to the architecture of Islamic mosques in Morocco and Algeria.Gothic is a kind of architecture characterized by high columns and steeples that has prevailed in Western Europe since the eleventh century. "Where did the taxi promise to meet us?" Natalie asked nervously, as they crossed an alley and were both a little breathless at the stench. "Are you all right?" he said. She smiled wearily. "I'm not afraid of your jokes. I have committed the common problem of all the silly women who travel around the world: I am tired from walking." "Let's go back, then. I've had enough." "You don't care?" She didn't say a word as the taxi drove back to the hotel along the riverside road.He went to shake her hand, which felt cold and wet.Once inside the hotel, she tugged at his elbow. "Don't forget—the passport." Her words are redundant.The clerk had handed Byron two maroon passports together with the keys.The man grinned silly, showing his large yellow false teeth.Natalie grabbed her passport.As she walked into the elevator with Byron, she looked through it carefully. "That's right?" he said. "Seems right. But I bet the German Gestapo took pictures. So did yours." "Well, it's mostly hotel procedure. The Germans do what they want these days, and I don't think the Portuguese dare defy them. But what does it matter to you?" She went into the bedroom of the suite to take off her coat and hat, and Byron followed her, put his arms around her, and kissed her.She kissed back too.She hugged him tightly, but her expression was indifferent.He leaned back with a questioning expression. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I've got a bad headache. After all, red wine is not the way to drink breakfast. I'm lucky to have some very good pills with me. Let me take one." After a while she came out of the bathroom smiling. "Okay, go ahead as usual," he said. "It won't work that fast." "Yes. Don't worry." They kissed and collapsed on the bed.But Natalie looked like a spring had snapped inside.She whispered some love words in his ear, trying to be as affectionate as possible.After a while, he sat up and gently lifted her up. "Okay, tell me what?" She put her arms around her knees and squatted against the railing at the head of the bed. "It's all right, all right! Is there something wrong with me? Maybe I'm a little tired. The headache isn't over yet." "Natalie," he said, taking her hand, kissing it, and looking straight at her. "I don't think anyone can enjoy such a great pleasure without paying a little price. At first we didn't get our passports back, and those Germans were standing in the hall again. I felt a terrible depression. When we toured, my brain I have been imagining some terrible scenarios: the hotel is still delaying in giving me a passport; Gone; Lisbon has added me, a Jew without a passport, stuck here. " "Natalie, you didn't even stand a hair on end during the whole time in Poland. Haven't you got your passport by now?" "I know, I know I'm just cranky, and it's just a stretch of nerves: too many good things in too short a time. I'll get over it in a little while." He strokes her hair. "You lied to me. I thought you were happy in Lisbon." "Brani, I hate Lisbon. I've always hated this place. I swear to God, no matter what happens, I'll die regretting that we didn't get married in Lisbon and spend our wedding days here. night. It's a sad, miserable city. I know you look at it differently, you keep saying it's like San Francisco. But San Francisco isn't full of Jews fleeing the Germans. San Francisco doesn't have a religion The courts forced the Jews to be baptized by force, and burned those who objected, and took the Jewish children away and raised them as Christians. Do you know this little history? It happened here." ① Refers to religious persecution since the Middle Ages.In Europe, Spain and Portugal are the most brutal. Byron's face turned serious.His eyes narrowed into slits. "I may have read it." "Maybe! If you've read it, how can you forget it! Such a cruel fact will make anyone angry. But somehow, everything that happened to European Jews for thousands of years seems to be taken for granted. Ben Qi There was a very witty phrase: fish in the net." Byron said, "I'll do anything you want me to do about religion, Natalie. I've always been prepared to. Do you want me to be a Jew?" "Are you crazy?" She turned her head towards him suddenly, an angry gleam in her eyes.She had given him that glare once in Koenigsberg, and said goodbye abruptly and brutally. "Why do you want to get married? That's what makes me feel good. You explain it to me. We can love each other as much as you want, you know that, and you can do whatever you want. Now I feel that a rope I'm bound to you by a cable of thick nerves. I don't know where you're going or when I'll see you again. All I know is that you're going off with that stinking submarine on Thursday. Why don't we tear up those Portuguese marriage papers? Let's put things back the way they were. Ah, if we're ever going to be human again, if we're still willing to get married then, we can do it officially. This time It's nonsense." "No, not nonsense. This is what I have wanted since I was born. Now, I have it. We can't tear up the marriage certificate. You are my wife." "But, for God's sake, why do you bother! Why do you bother yourself!" "But, Natalie, here's the thing: Married officers have perks." She stared at him.Her tense face relaxed.She smiled slowly, forcedly, and ran her hands through his hair. "So it is! Well, Braney, that makes sense. You should have told me. I can understand greed." They kissed and fell back on the bed.The mood is much better this time.But the phone rang.It rang and rang.They had no choice but to stop kissing.Byron sighed. "Probably 's—No. 45'," he picked up the receiver. "Hey, uh, okay. You guys are so thoughtful. Nine o'clock? Wait a minute." He covered the phone. "Zelston apologized for disturbing us. He and Slote thought we might want to find some fancy place for a meal. Best food in Lisbon, best singer in Portugal." "Jesus, old Slote seems to be a masochist." "To go or not to go?" "up to you." Byron said, "They're kind. Why don't you go? We've got to eat anyway. Get out of the black raincoats." He promised to go, hung up, and took her in his arms again. The restaurant was a low brick room lit only by candles on the tables and a roaring log in the arched fireplace.Half the people who ate there were Jews, and many of them wore gorgeous casual clothes.In this quiet place, the loudest voices were the two large groups of British guests sitting side by side.A table for six was vacant directly opposite the fireplace, and was staring longingly at it from some of the customers gathered in the bistro.The four Americans sat at another special table not far from the fireplace.Punchy Zelston and the newlyweds were quick to laugh as they sipped Portuguese baijiu.Not so with Slote.He drank a lot of wine, but he said little and didn't laugh.The firelight from the fireplace shone on his square spectacles, and even in that rosy light his face was pale. "By the way, are you young people interested in war?" Zelston said while eating meat. "Did you forget that there is a war? There is news." "If it's good news, I'm interested," Natalie said. "Unless it's good news." "So, the British army has occupied Tobruk." Natalie said: "Is Tobruk important?" Byron said loudly: "Important! It is the best seaport between Egypt and Tunisia. This is great news." "Yeah," said Zelston, "they're charging in North Africa. That's going to change the whole game." Sloter broke his silence and said in a husky voice: "They're fighting the Italians." He coughed lightly, and went on: "Byron, you really didn't know what to do with the books I gave you in Berlin. Have you seen it all? Natalie said you have seen it all." "I've read everything I could find in English—maybe seven or eight out of ten." The diplomat shook his head. "Courage is amazing!" "I can't say I got it all," Byron said. "Sometimes I just skim them. But I turn them from cover to cover." "What books?" Zelston said. "After a Luftwaffe pilot nearly knocked his head off," Natalie said, "my babe got a little curious about the Germans. He wanted to know more about them. Sloter fired him A general bibliography of romanticism, nationalism, and idealism in nineteenth-century Germany." "I never dreamed what he'd do," Sloter said, turning his firelit, expressionless glasses toward her. "I had plenty of time at Siena last year," Byron said, "and I'm interested." "What do you find?" Zelston said, refilling Byron's drink. "Even if I were to be shot for not reading German philosophy, I would not read it." "The main thing I found was that Hitler was in the blood of the Germans," Byron said. Thesis. I think he has proved his thesis quite well. I used to think that the Nazis came out of the stinky gutters in groups. It was something new. But all their concepts, slogans And what they did was written about in old books. It's been a hundred years in the making in Germany." "Longer than that," Sloter said. "Your homework is very good, and the score is excellent." "Ah, bullshit!" Natalie said. "Give him an honor for what? To repeat some cliché? Byron is curious about these things because of the superficiality of American education, and because half of what he has received has not assimilated it." go in." "Not much," Byron said. "Most of the time I play poker or ping-pong." "Well, apparently so," his new wife said sharply. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be like a blind nerd to delve into the one-sided book list he made for you, so as to give him a chance to praise you so condescendingly." "I deny condescending praise, and I deny one-sidedness," Sloter said. "Jastrow--perhaps I should call you Henry by now--not that I'm fussy, but I think I've mastered the material in this field. I admire your husband for taking the books so seriously. " "This idea that the Nazis were the pinnacle of German philosophy and culture," Nathalie said, "the whole thing is trite and bogus. Hitler's racism came from Goppingrey, a Frenchman; His racial superiority comes from Chamberlain, an Englishman; his sadism towards the Jews comes from Ruge, a Viennese political villain. The only German thinker with whom Hitler can be directly related is Richard Wagner. He is another crazy Socialists who hate Jews, you can find Wagner's words here and there. But Nietzsche fell out with Wagner for that malicious stupidity. Anyway, no one seriously takes Wagner as a thinker. His music is also called I'm sick, even though it's irrelevant to what we're talking about. Slote, I know you've read more books than I do in this field, but I still don't understand why you gave Byron such a A dull, heavy list of books. Maybe you just want to frighten him with some big names. But you should know that he can't be frightened." "I know that," Sloter said.He poured wine into his glass with a bang, filled it to the brim, and drank it down in one gulp. ① Wagner (1813-1883), a German composer, mainly composed of operas. "Your veal is cold," Byron said to his new wife.The tit-for-tat conflict between Natalie and her former lover looks like it's about to end. She tossed her hair back at him, impatiently cut a piece of meat, and talked while eating. "We, more than anyone else, were responsible for creating Hitler. We Americans, largely by refusing to join the League of Nations, and then in the worst of the depression, passed that madness in 1930." The Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act knocked down European economies one by one like dominoes. After the passage of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act, German banks collapsed. The Germans went hungry , made trouble. Hitler promised to smash the communists. The Germans swallowed his revolution in order to resist the communist revolution. He kept his promise and used terror to control the Germans to obey him. This That's how it happened. Well, Blaney, not a single German in a thousand has ever read those books. It's all a thick cloud from the University Wasli. Hitler was America's isolationism and The cowardice of England and France is not the product of Hegel and Nietzsche." "University Gas said it well, my dear," Sloter said. "But I only accept you in one sense." He put his spread fingertips together, sat lazily on the chair, and stared at her with a strange smile—a smile that expressed both his A sense of superiority also expresses frustration. "That is: at any time and Whereas, philosophical writings are always a kind of gas emitted from the advancing social machine-this idea, so to speak, was invented by Hegel, and Marx took it and vulgarized it.But you can rediscover what the machine must have looked like and how it worked by dissecting the gas.No matter how those ideas come about, they can still be powerful and true.Jastrow, German Romanticism is an extremely important and powerful critique of the Western way of life.It confronts all those nasty weaknesses of ours. " "For example...?" Her tone was harsh and abrupt. Suddenly Slote became polemical, as if he wanted, if nothing else, at least to conquer her with words in front of Byron.he first used a He poked his fingers back and forth in the air, as if adding exclamation marks to his words. "For example, my dear, the spirit of Christ has been dead and rotted since Galileo's knife. Or the ideals of the French and American Revolutions are nothing but myths about human nature. Or, the "Declaration of Independence" The author himself owns black slaves. Or say, 'The defenders of liberty, equality, fraternity finally beheaded helpless women and each other. Natalie, the Germans have their own for all these Great clarity. They saw through the corruption of the Roman Empire and smashed it to pieces. They saw through the corruption of the Catholic Church and broke its backbone. Today they see Christian Industrial Democracy as a rotting skeleton. They intend to take over by force. The masters of the Germans have been telling them for a hundred years that their time is coming, that cruelty and bloodshed are God's footprints in the course of history. These are the ones I prescribe to Byron The content of those books. They are detailed and detailed. The list of books is well-founded. Of course, in Germany, there is another argument-a normal liberal argument, which is in the same line as the West. The same thing is 'good Germany'. Natalie, I naturally understand. Most of their leaders have voted for Bismarck, and the rest have almost become the hawks of the Kaiser. Hitler waited until His time has come, and he is domineering. Listen!" ① Galileo (1564-1642), an Italian astronomer, was arrested and imprisoned by the Pope for his celestial theory. Sloter quotes in solemn tones, beating the air with a stiff finger: "The German Revolution will not be due to what happened in Kant's Critique and Fichte's a priori." Idealism was later tempered or tempered. The effect of these doctrines was to develop that revolutionary force which burst forth when the time was ripe. Christianity restrained the rough warrior-like passions of the Germans, but it could not kill them. When When the talisman of check--the cross--falls, the mad, belligerent violence will rush forth again. Then the old stone-gods will rise from the forgotten ruins, and wipe their eyes The grime of the millennia. Thor will rise again with his hammer, and will smash the Gothic cathedrals to pieces." Slote made a clumsy gesture with one fist to signify the blow of the hammer, and then went on: "Don't laugh at this ideologue who warns you about Kant, Fichte, and other philosophers. Don't laugh at a Illusions that foresee revolutions that break out in the realm of reason as well as in the realm of reality. Thought precedes action as lightning precedes thunder. The German thunder is truly German. It is not swift, But it rolls on and on a little slowly. But it will come. When you hear a thunderbolt like you have never heard in the history of the world, you will know that the German thunderbolt has finally fallen." "Heine—the Jew who wrote the greatest German poem, the Heine who captivated German philosophy—this is what Heine wrote," said Sloter, in a softer tone. "He wrote these words a hundred and sixty years ago." There was a sound of chairs being moved behind him.A group of German customers in evening dress, chatting cheerfully in German, walked towards the large table by the fireplace, followed by three bowed and respectful waiters.Sloter was touched.He looked back, and his eyes were on the face of the chief of the German secret police.The man smiled kindly and bent down.With this man was the one they had seen at the hotel with the scar on his forehead, and another German with a bald head.There were also three giggling Portuguese women in bright evening gowns. "The philosophy seminar is over," Punch Zelston murmured. "Why?" Byron said. "One reason," interrupted Natalie, "is that I'm bored." As soon as the German sat down, the conversation in the restaurant fell silent.The Jew looked at them with apprehension.In the momentary silence, only the voice of the loud, indifferent English guest grew louder. "What do these Brits do?" Natalie asked Zelston. "Apartments. They live here because things are cheap and there's no rationing. Also, I guess because it's not a Luftwaffe bombing target," says Zelston. "Officials at the British embassy don't particularly like them." "That passage of Heine you just quoted is remarkable," Byron said to Sloter. "I wrote a dissertation on Heine and Hegel when I was at Oxford," Sloter said with a slight smile. "Heine was attracted to Hegel for a long time, and then he rejected Hegel. I once translated that passage as an inscription for a book. The rhetoric of that passage is very gorgeous, just like Jesus Like Lemmy. The Jewish prophets are of the same line." While they were drinking coffee, a pink spotlight divided the dim room in two and fell on a gray curtain over the small bandstand.Bench Zelston said, "That's him. He's the best fado singer." ① A national song and dance of Portugal. "Fadu" means destiny. ②A Hebrew prophet in the Bible·Old Testament. "Best of what?" Byron said.At this moment, a young man with a pale face and dark eyes came out from behind the scenes in a black jacket with thick fringe, holding an onion-shaped guitar in his hand. "French singer, Destiny song. Very bleak, very Portuguese." As soon as the young man played the piano--strong, shrill, mournful sound, rhythmic like hammering--the restaurant fell silent.He sang in a crisp, high-pitched, flowery voice, his dark eyes looked around, and the spotlight turned his high forehead pink.Natalie whispered to Zelston, "What's the song?" "It's an old tune. It's a Fadu tune that students often sing." "What do the lyrics mean?" "Ah, the words are never important. Just a line or two. Just sang: 'Close your eyes. Life will be easier if you close your eyes.'" The eyes of the newlyweds met.Byron put his hand on Natalie's. Young singers sang several tunes.Sometimes he is fast, sometimes slow; sometimes weeping, sometimes cheerful and exciting, very unique.Apparently this is the essence of Fado, because whenever he performs these coloraturas in the middle of a tune, the Portuguese in the restaurant applaud and sometimes applaud. "Beautiful," Natalie whispered to Punchy Zelston at the end of a tune. "thank you." He brushed his mustache with both hands. "I expected it to be to your liking. It's a taste indeed." "Spieler! kocnnen sie 'o sole mio'singen?" The bald German was talking to the singer.He sits just a few feet from the stage.Smiling unnaturally, the singer replied in Portuguese, gesturing with his oddly shaped guitar that he could only perform Fado songs.The German told him to sing "o sole mio" in a joking tone, and the young man shook his head again in a helpless gesture.The German pointed at him with a smoking cigar and shouted something in Portuguese.As a result, the entire restaurant fell silent, including the British—and the faces of the three Portuguese women sitting at the German table turned icy cold.那个年轻的表演者用可怜巴巴的神情朝周围的观众望了望，然后很蹩脚地唱起“o sole mio”来。那德国人朝椅背上一仰，用手里的雪茄望空打着拍子。菜馆被一片窒息的空气所笼罩。娜塔丽对泽尔斯顿说：“咱们走吧。” ①德语：“唱歌的，你会唱《我的太阳》吗？” “我赞成。” 他们走出菜馆的时候，那位歌手还在嗑嗑巴巴地唱着那支意大利曲子。在进门的柜台上摆着一幅这个歌手的相片，下面放着一叠唱片，就是这个歌手灌的，用硬纸袋套着。“要是有第一支曲子的，”娜塔丽对拜伦说，“给我买一张。”他买了两张。 外面的街灯比菜馆里头的灯光要亮。It was cold and windy.莱斯里•斯鲁特把脖子上的围巾拉拉紧，对拜伦说：“你什么时候走？” “后天才走。” “照我计算时间的法儿，离现在还有几年呢。”娜塔丽带着挑战的语调说，一边搂紧她丈夫的胳膊。 “那么，娜塔丽，我要不要想法去订咱们星期六去罗马的飞机票？” “先等等吧，也许他还不走呢，我总可以这么盼着。” “当然，”斯鲁特把手伸给拜伦。“要是见不着你的话，这里就向你祝贺了，祝你幸福，海上风平浪静。” “谢谢。还谢谢你把套房让给我们住。我们那样喧宾夺主，太唐突了。” “亲爱的伙计，”斯鲁特说，“那套房在我手里是白白浪费。” 娜塔丽的四肢痉挛起来。她梦见德国秘密警察在敲门。她从噩梦中醒来，在黑暗中听到真有人在敲门。她一动不动地躺在床上，希望这只不过是那噩梦留下的痕迹在她那为云雾所遮蔽的头脑中徘徊，以为敲门声就会停止的。它没停。她看了看自己的夜光表，碰了一下拜伦的热呼呼、毛茸茸的腿。 “拜伦！拜伦！” 他倚着胳膊肘直起身子，接着整个儿坐起来了。 "What time is it?" “一点三刻。”门敲得更响更急了。拜伦跳下床去，赶忙穿上浴衣。 “勃拉尼，可别随便放人进来！先弄清楚了是谁。” 娜塔丽也离开了那个温暖的、安乐窝般的床，穿上一件亵衣，夜晚的寒气冻得她直打哆嗦。这时，拜伦打开了寝室的门。“不要害怕，是埃斯特。” “他来干什么？” “这正是我要弄清楚的。” The door closed again.娜塔丽跑到门跟前，把耳朵贴在门上，听到提到了托布鲁克。她觉得这样偷听未免太丢脸了，就索性嘎嘎地拧了下门把手，走了出来。那两个年轻人正坐在沙发上躬着身子在交谈，他们都站了起来。穿嵌金线的蓝制服、戴白色大檐帽的埃斯特上尉在吃一只苹果。 “嗨，娜塔丽，象这样冲到度蜜月的夫妇的房间里，真太不该了，”他愉快地说。“我们正在谈着一件风险特别大的任务。” "What's the matter?" 拜伦说：“改变了命令。没什么严重、紧急的事，不用急得出汗。” “对。实际上我正赶着要走。”埃斯特上尉把苹果核丢在烟灰缸里。“我得把上岸过夜的艇上的人全找回来。这么深更半夜来漫游伊什图里尔和里斯本倒是满有趣的。再见吧，拜伦。” 上尉咧嘴向她笑了笑，又轻轻拍一下他那歪戴得很放荡的帽子，就走了。 “哦，告诉我！”娜塔丽抱着双臂，质问她丈夫。 拜伦走到红大理石壁炉跟前，用火柴把一堆引火物和木头下面的纸点着了。“'s—45号'今天早晨开走。” “呃，就在今天早晨？太糟糕啦。去哪儿？” “我不知道。由于占领了托布鲁克，任务改了——说老实话，我自己先就不清楚。好象是要检查一下地中海潜艇的装备。” “那么，好吧，我想这是我自找。我的全部结婚生活（也许这就是全部了）给缩短了三分之一。” “娜塔丽，咱们的结婚生活由你从意大利回国那时候算起，”他用胳膊搂住了她，两个人站在那里望着火光亮起来，“咱们的结婚生活将会很，很幸福，而且很多产。我计划要六个孩子。” 这话把陷在愁苦中的年轻妻子逗乐了。她把一只手放到他脸上。“我的天！六个！我可跑不到终点。天哪，这火好极啦。昨晚上咱们睡觉之前把酒喝光了吗？你去瞧瞧。”他端来了一杯酒，又替她点上一支烟。“勃拉尼，有件事得告诉你一下。去年十一月，埃伦病得很厉害。他以为他会死。我只好陪他去看罗马的一位专科大夫。原来是肾结石，他在艾克塞尔索休养了两个星期，真受了大罪。最后，病好了。可是一天晚上，在他情绪很低沉的时候，埃伦对我说，他打算把他的全部财产全留给我。他把总的数目告诉了我，我大吃一惊。”她对他笑了笑，呷了一口酒。拜伦用眯成一道缝的眼睛望着她。“我想他一定是个吝啬鬼，象大部分单身汉一样。这也是他移居意大利的一个原因：他可以花很少的钱，过得舒舒服服的。埃伦把他从《一个犹太人的耶稣》那本书所赚的钱几乎全存起来了，每年他还能从那本书拿到更多的钱。他那本关于保罗的书收入也不少。那以前，他还从他的教授薪金里攒了许多。但是住在意大利，他连税也不上。房产之外，埃伦有的还不止十万元。他现在只吃利息就够生活了。他把钱拨回去在纽约投资了。对这些情况，过去我完全不知道。一点儿也不知道。至于他会留给我什么，我是从来也没想过的。可是，目前事情就是这样。”娜塔丽握着拜伦的下巴，推来推去。“你干嘛这么冷冰冰的？我是在告诉你，你娶了个有遗产的女人。”拜伦把一块掉下来的红煤拨回火堆上去。“哼，他真精明，比我想的要精明。” “可是你这话公道吗？尤其是你还计划要六个孩子呢。” “也许不公道，”拜伦耸了耸肩膀。“你的钱够回国的吗？不管怎样，两个月之内你得回国。” “我知道。我已经同意了。钱我有的是。哎哟，这火烤起人来了。”她斜靠在火光前的一张长榻上，亵衣敞开了，火光在她光溜溜的腿上温暖地嬉戏着。“勃拉尼，你家里可知道你打算结婚？” “不知道。连我自己对结得成结不成还没有把握的时候，何必去找那麻烦。不过，我给华伦去过信。” “他还在夏威夷吗？” “还在那儿。他和杰妮丝都喜欢那里。我想你我两人有一天也会跑到那里去的。海军不断地在充实太平洋舰队。华伦认为咱们不久就会跟日本人打仗。整个海军都有这种感觉。” “不跟德国打？” “不。你坐在这儿听起来也许奇怪。可是咱们的同胞对希特勒仍然不那么仇恨。几家报纸杂志放上几炮，不过如此。” 他坐在靠她脚跟前的地板上，把头倚在她那裸露着的柔嫩的大腿上。她抚摸着他的头发。“你们究竟几点走？怎么走法？” “'夫人'六点到这儿来接我。” “六点？哦，那还有好几个钟头哪。咱们还可以享受一大段结婚生活呢。当然，你还得打行李。” "ten minutes." “我能陪你到艇上吗？” “我看不出有什么不可以的。” 娜塔丽深深叹了口气说：“瞧，你干嘛坐在地板上呀。过来吧。” 没有黎明。天空变得越来越惨白，终于成了浅灰色。烟雾和细雨把海遮得看不见了。埃斯特上尉用一辆嘎嘎作响的法国小汽车把他们接走了。车的后座上挤着四个面色忧郁的水兵，身上满是酒和呕吐过的气味。他一只手开着车，另一只手俯着身子去操纵一个失灵了的刮水器——加速器踏板是一直踩着的。沿江的马路在浓雾中空无一人，他们很快就到了里斯本。 那只潜艇和停在它前头的一只锈得很厉害的轮船相比之下，更显得小了。轮船上漆着巨大的星条旗，上面飘着一面美国国旗。船头船尾都是用金属模板镂出的大而难看的白色字母的船名：“漂亮的美国佬”。从这条船的奇特的轮廓和加铆钉的钢板看起来都象条外国船，而且是三四十年的老船了。这种船吃水那么浅，一行驶起来就会把它的推进器和满是藓苔的红色船底大部分露在外面。在细雨中，犹太人在码头上排着队，静静地等着上船——他们大都携带着硬纸做的手提箱、布包和一些破旧衣服。孩子们——为数很不少——紧紧地偎依着父母，一声不吭地站在那里。浮桥旁一张桌子那边， 有两个穿制服的葡萄牙官员正在检验证件并在上面盖图章——助手们给他们撑着伞。穿橡胶斗篷的警察在队伍旁边踱来踱去。船上栏杆那边是黑压压的一片乘客，呆呆地望着码头和里斯本的群山，就象被释放出来的囚徒回头望着牢狱似的，玩味着他们获得的自由。 “这只海洋猎犬什么时候露的面？”拜伦说。 “昨天早晨。是一条波兰的旧涡轮机船。水手大部分是希腊人和土耳其人，”埃斯特说。“我曾试着跟他们聊聊天。那些比较愉快的看来都象职业杀人犯。我估计这些犹太人将会象沙丁鱼似的给塞到上下五层的床位上，他们得付'玛丽皇后号'特等舱的票价。说到这点这些家伙还大笑特笑呢。”他看了看手表。“哦，我们七点十五分解缆。再见，娜塔丽，祝你幸福。你曾经是个漂亮的新娘子，如今你是个漂亮的海军妻子。” 副艇长上艇了，他轻快地向一个浮桥旁边向他敬礼的哨兵回了个礼。码头上，离浮桥不远，一个水兵不顾已经下起来的雨，正搂着个穿红缎子衣服、矮胖的葡萄牙娼妇在亲吻。拜伦望了那个水兵一眼，咧嘴笑了笑，然后把双臂伸向他的妻子。她拥抱了他。“你这个傻瓜。你自找苦吃：去跟这么个女人结了婚。” “那时我喝醉啦，”拜伦说。他一遍又一遍地吻她。 艇上的水手长吹起哨子，随后，扩音器叽嘎地嚷出：“现在各就各位，听候行动命令！” “哦，我看这回得走啦，”他说，“再会吧。” 娜塔丽正在努力不哭出来，她甚至还微笑着。“结婚的主意想得对，亲爱的，我真这么认为。那是灵感，我佩服你这么办事。我深深意识到我是结了婚的。我爱你，我也很幸福。” "I love you." 拜伦登上潜艇，走上甲板时敬了个礼。在那越下越密的细雨中，娜塔丽裹紧了雨衣，她呼出的气在湿冷的空气中冒着烟。她站在码头上，吸着码头特有的气味——沥青、机器、鱼和海的味道，听着海鸥凄凉的鸣声，第一次感到她使自己陷入了什么境地。她是个海军的妻子，一点不假。 三个穿黑色防雨衣、戴矮檐大毡帽的男子在码头上来回踱着，不动声色地巡视着难民。难民们要么竭力不去理睬他们，要么带着恐怖偷望着。妇女们把孩子拉到身边。三个男人在浮桥旁边停了下来，一个从黑色公文包里抽出些文件，然后和坐在桌旁的官员交谈起来。这时，艇上穿厚呢绒上衣的水兵把梯板拉上去了，水手长吹起哨子。扩音器粗厉地嚷着。穿风雨衣的艇长和埃斯特上尉在小而窄的艇桥上出现了，挥着手。“再见啦，娜塔丽！”卡鲁索艇长喊着。她并没看见拜伦到前甲板上来。可是过了一会儿，她留意拜伦正在和其他水兵一起站在离锚不远的地方，穿着黄褐色的制服和一件棕色防风衣，手插到后兜里，裤子在微风中抖动着。这是她生平第一次看到拜伦穿制服，他好象显得不同了，疏远了，老了些。埃斯特正通过扩音器喊着命令。彩色的信号旗升起了。水兵们排成一行在拽绳缆。拜伦沿着前甲板走了过来，站到他的新婚妻子对面，挨近得伸出手来几乎可以握到。她朝他飞了个吻。他那张在大檐帽下边的脸一本正经，很镇定。雾角声响了，潜艇离开了码头，黑色的水把他们俩分隔开来。 “你一定得回国，”他嚷着。 “我一定回去。啊，我起誓一定回去。” “我在那儿等你。两个月！” 他到自己的岗位上去了。推进器把海水翻腾得瑟瑟作响，这条黑色的低矮潜艇就在蒙蒙细雨中变得越来越模糊了。 croak!croak!croak!鸥群凄厉地尖声叫着，展翅跟着艇尾正在消失的波迹飞去。 娜塔丽沿着码头匆匆地走了。她走过德国秘密警察，走过排队等待逃命的犹太人——那些人眼睛直直地朝一个方向注视着，那就是他们必须通过的浮桥旁那张桌子：那里，葡萄牙官员正和那三个德国人一边核对着证件，一边大声笑着。娜塔丽的手冒着汗，紧紧地抓住她口袋里的护照。 “喂，老斯鲁特，”她找到一部电话机好容易才接上线之后说，“我是拜伦•亨利太太。你有兴趣替我买一份早餐吗？看来我有空闲了。然后，亲爱的，咱们就赶到意大利去把埃伦接出来。我得回国。”