疑罪從無

by Tobias Wolff

拜厄斯·沃爾夫（Tobias Wolff），1945年出生于美國阿拉巴馬州的伯明翰市，是蜚聲美國的短篇小說家及回憶錄創(chuàng)作大師，被文學(xué)界譽(yù)為美國的“契訶夫”，現(xiàn)任美國斯坦福大學(xué)人文學(xué)科教授。沃爾夫曾在上世紀(jì)八十年代憑借短篇小說榮獲三次歐·亨利獎；2006年獲得福克納筆會獎；2009年3月4日，憑借《我們的故事開始了》一舉奪得美國杰出短篇小說獎。沃爾夫的短篇小說時常發(fā)表在《華盛頓郵報》、《紐約客》、《格蘭特》、《時尚先生》等著名文學(xué)雜志上，充分展露了他非凡的創(chuàng)作天賦。

在沃爾夫的文字世界里，那些影響了我們的主人公及其發(fā)生在他們身上的故事將不會消失，他（它）們靜靜地呆在某個時間的轉(zhuǎn)角、記憶的轉(zhuǎn)角，故事的開始和結(jié)束都在同一個地方。此次的短篇小說節(jié)選《疑罪從無》，亦是如此：美國先生馬爾龍在羅馬出差辦事途中，遭遇了一次偷竊，慶幸的是，扒手在偷竊過程中哮喘發(fā)作，犯罪未遂，反為馬爾龍所救。糟糕的雷雨天氣、哮喘病發(fā)作的扒手、事業(yè)家庭兩不順的中年男子馬爾龍、歧視吉普賽人的刻薄司機(jī)，所有的故事都將隨著馬爾龍的一時善意——送扒手回家——而進(jìn)入高潮。而馬爾龍這位美國先生的一時善意有沒有得到相應(yīng)的回報呢？

故事將結(jié)束在它開始的地方，讀者朋友們，你們猜到結(jié)局了嗎？

He leaned down to the 1）pickpocket. The 2）heaving and 3）gasping had stopped， but he was still making a show of his breathlessness.

“Thats better，” Mallon said. “Can you stand up？ Try to stand up. Here，” he said， and gripped the pickpockets arm and forced him upright until he saw his face for the first time. It was a round dark face with a small round mouth， lips as full and tender—looking as a girls. Despite the sheen of sweat on the puffy cheeks， the vanity of the pencil-line mustache， the 4）sparse 5）streaks of hair plastered across the damp forehead， Mallon had an impression of dignity； dignity， and dignity offended. As the pickpocket labored for breath， he gazed up at Mallon with his dark eyes. “How could you？” they asked.

Mallon might have said， “Because you tried to steal from me.” But he was still conscious of the flush of joy hed felt when his blow 6）struck home—when he knew hed hurt the man. It lingered in the faint tingling of his skin， an edgy sense of 7）buoyancy， vitality. Where that joy came from he couldnt say， but he knew that its roots were deeper than some clumsy failed larceny.

Fat drops of rain began to patter on the 8）awning.

“How are you？” Mallon said. “Can you walk？”

The pickpocket turned away as if insulted by the hypocrisy of Mallons concern. He leaned against the store window with both hands， and his head sank lower as his shoulders rose and fell. A grayhaired woman inside the store rapped on the glass and made a shooing motion. When the pickpocket ignored her， she rapped harder and kept rapping. He really was a little man： she glared down at him like a 9）schoolmarm scolding a guilty child.

“I have to go，” Mallon said. “Im sorry.” He looked up at the sky. He would have liked to call Silvestri， to tell him that he was on his way， but his cell phone was back at the hotel and there was no public telephone in sight. “Im sorry，” he said again， and stepped into the rain and walked quickly up the street.

One of the 10）ubiquitous Bangladeshi umbrella 11）hustlers was working the corner， and Mallon had just shelled out seven euros when he heard a woman shouting. He didnt want to look back but did. It was the woman from the shop， pushing and batting the pickpocket away from the window while he hunched and covered his head like a boxer trying to get through the last seconds of a round. Mallon slipped his billfold back into his jacket pocket and took the umbrella that the Bangladeshi had opened for him. He hesitated， then turned back.

The pickpocket was out on the sidewalk now， in the rain. The woman stood just under the awning with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Excuse me， 12）signora，” Mallon said， coming up to them. “This man isnt well. He needs to rest a moment.”

“I know these people，” she said. “We dont want them here.”

The rain fell in sheets， ran down the pickpockets shiny 13）scalp and face， down his leather jacket. Strings of water hung like a fringe from the 14）hem of the jacket， dripping onto the sagging pants and 15）dainty shoes.

“Here，” Mallon said， and offered him the umbrella， but he only looked at Mallon with his hurt dark eyes and then lowered his head again. Mallon bumped him in the shoulder with the handle of the umbrella. “Go on—take it！” he said.

And finally， with a beaten， unwilling look， the pickpocket did. He stood between Mallon and the signora， panting softly， holding the umbrella at a careless angle. He seemed 16）oblivious of the water sliding down it onto his back； he seemed unable to move. So， too， the signora， steadfast in her icy pose. Mallon stepped under the awning， not so much to get out of the rain as to break free of this 17）tableau.

And that was when he saw a taxi round the corner with a light glowing on its roof. It was absurd to hope for an empty cab in rain like this， most likely the driver had simply forgotten to turn it off， but Mallon ran out waving his arm and the cab veered sharply to the curb， sending a comber of water over his shoes. He opened the door but couldnt help looking back. The pickpocket had lowered the umbrella to the ground upside down and was leaning on the shaft， head low， neck bared to the sky. The signora kept her post.

“Wait，” Mallon said to the driver.

He went back and grabbed the pickpockets sleeve and pulled him to the cab. “Get in，” Mallon said， and took the umbrella and pushed him into the back seat. He leaned inside. “O.K.， where do you live？”

“No Gypsies！” the driver said. He was twisted around， scowling at the pickpocket.

“Gypsy？ Look， hes not well. Ill pay，”Mallon added.

The driver shook his head.

“No Gypsies. He was a thick-shouldered guy with a long blue jaw， a hawkish beak， and heavy black eyebrows. His shaved head was blue with 18）stubble. Get him out，”he said. Mallon was thrown by his anger and the dissonant paleness of his eyes， and before he could reply the driver seized the pickpockets jacket and gave him a shake.“Out， you！”

“No，” Mallon said. He closed the umbrella and slid onto the seat next to the pickpocket. “He needs to go home，” he said. “Ill come along.”

The driver stabbed a finger at Mallon. “Out.”

Mallon looked at the drivers nameplate： Michele Kadare. “Its the law，” he said， bluffing. “If you dont take us， 19）Signor Kadare， Ill report you and youll lose your license. Believe me—I am quite serious.”

The driver fastened those pale eyes on Mallon. The 20）windshield wipers 21）rasped against the glass. The driver turned and put his hands on the 22）steering wheel. His meaty fingers were white and hairless as chalk. He raised his eyes to the 23）rearview mirror and he and Mallon exchanged stares.

“O.K.， Mr. American，” he said. “You pay.”

他沖著那個扒手俯下身去。那扒手的種種急呼速喘早已停下，卻仍裝出一副透不過氣來的樣子。

“好多了，”馬爾龍說道?！罢镜闷饋韱幔吭囍酒鹕韥?。站這兒，”他邊說邊抓緊了那個扒手的手臂并迫使其站得筆直，直到此時他才第一次看到了那個扒手的臉。那是一張黝黑的圓臉，嘴巴小小圓圓的，嘴唇既豐滿又柔嫩——看起來像是一個女孩兒的嘴巴。他那腫脹的臉頰上汗?jié)瘳摤?，洋氣的鉛筆胡，濕漉漉的前額貼著幾撂發(fā)絲。盡管如此，馬爾龍還是感覺到那個扒手有一絲尊貴；尊貴，摻雜著被冒犯的尊貴。那個扒手吃力喘息的同時，還用他烏溜溜的眼睛緊緊盯著馬爾龍。“你怎么可以這樣？”那雙眼睛問道。

馬爾龍可能會說：“因為你想偷我東西?！钡愿杏X到自己因擊中那扒手致其受傷的那絲快慰。那種歡樂彌留于馬爾龍的肌膚感觸中，輕浮躍動的一股銳感。那種快樂來自于哪里他不知道，但是他知道那原因不只是那笨拙的偷盜敗筆。

大滴的雨水開始拍打雨篷。

“你怎么樣？”馬爾龍問道?！澳隳茏呗穯幔俊?/p>

那個扒手把臉轉(zhuǎn)到了一邊，仿佛在馬爾龍假意的關(guān)心之下受到侮辱一般。他用雙手靠在商店的櫥窗上，肩膀隨喘息起伏，腦袋垂得更低了。一個頭發(fā)花白的婦人在店里面敲了敲窗玻璃，做了個“噓”的手勢。那扒手并沒有理會她，她敲得越發(fā)的兇，不停地敲著。他的確是一個小個兒男人：那婦女朝他惡狠狠地瞪下來，就好像一個女教師在斥責(zé)一個犯了錯的小孩兒。

“我得走了，”馬爾龍說。“對不起?！彼ь^看著天空。他應(yīng)該給西爾維斯特里打個電話，告訴人家他正在路上，但是他的手機(jī)落在了酒店里，而且眼前也沒有公共電話。“對不起，”他又說了一遍，然后走進(jìn)雨里，快速走向街道的另一頭。

一個那種無處不在的孟加拉賣傘小販，正在那轉(zhuǎn)角賣著傘。馬爾龍剛給他付完七歐元，就聽到了一個女人的大叫。他不想回過頭看，但還是看了。是剛才那商店里的女人，推搡、拍打著那個扒手，讓其遠(yuǎn)離櫥窗，而那個扒手彎腰弓背以手擋護(hù)著腦袋，就像拳擊手試圖熬過一個回合的最后幾秒鐘。馬爾龍把他的錢夾子放進(jìn)了夾克口袋，并接過那個孟加拉人為他撐開的雨傘。他猶豫了一下，然后掉頭往回走。

那個扒手現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)在商店外面的人行道上了，在雨里。那個女人只是雙手叉在胸前站在雨篷下面。

“打擾一下，夫人，”馬爾龍邊說邊走近他們，“這男子不舒服，需要休息片刻。”

“我知道這種人，”她說?！拔覀儾幌胱屗麄兇粼谶@兒?！?/p>

雨一大片一大片地澆下來，落到了那個扒手光亮的頭皮和臉上，滑下他的皮夾克。那夾克下沿掛著成串像花邊墜穗般的雨水，滴在那松垂的褲子和精致的鞋子上。

“這兒，”馬爾龍說著，而后遞給他那把傘，但他只是用他那痛苦的烏溜溜的眼睛看著馬爾龍，然后再次垂下了他的頭。馬爾龍用傘柄碰了碰他的肩膀。“來——拿著！”馬爾龍說道。

最終，帶著一個被打敗、不情愿的神情，那扒手接過了傘。他站在馬爾龍和那個婦人的中間，輕喘著，隨意歪撐著那把傘。他似乎忘了雨水正從傘上滑到他的背上；他似乎不大能動。那位婦人，同樣也一動不動，冷冰冰地站著。馬爾龍走到雨篷下，與其說是為了躲雨，不如說是為了打破這個僵局。

就在這時，馬爾龍看到拐角處一輛頂上亮著燈的出租車。在這樣的雨中期待一輛空出租車的出現(xiàn)是荒唐的，很有可能那個司機(jī)只是忘了關(guān)掉空車標(biāo)燈，馬爾龍揮著胳膊跑出來，而那輛出租車旋即駛靠向路邊停下，濺起一灘水漫過他的鞋子。他打開車門卻忍不住回頭看。那個扒手把傘顛倒著丟到了地上，靠在柱子上，低著頭，脖子光光地對著天空。那位夫人則堅守著她的崗位。

“等等，”馬爾龍對司機(jī)說道。

他走回去，抓住那個扒手的袖子，將其拽到了出租車旁。“上車，”馬爾龍說，然后拿上雨傘，把那個扒手推到了后座。馬爾龍在車?yán)飪A著身子?！昂昧?，你住在哪兒？”

“我不載吉普賽人！”那司機(jī)說。他轉(zhuǎn)過身，忿忿地瞪著那個扒手。

“吉普賽人？看，他不大舒服。我會付錢的。”馬爾龍補(bǔ)充道。

那個司機(jī)搖了搖頭。

“不載吉普賽人。這厚肩膀的家伙，長下巴胡茬青青的，鷹鉤鼻，眉毛濃黑，剃了頭，發(fā)茬青青的。讓他滾下車，”司機(jī)說道。馬爾龍被那司機(jī)的怒火和不搭調(diào)的淡泊眼神給搞懵了，在他還沒來得及回句話的時候，那司機(jī)已經(jīng)拽住了扒手的夾克并搖了一下他?！澳悖萝?！”

“不，”馬爾龍說。他合上雨傘并坐到那個扒手旁邊的座位上?！八没丶?，”馬爾龍說?！拔視黄鸶！?/p>

那司機(jī)沖馬爾龍豎起了中指?！跋萝?。”

馬爾龍看著那個司機(jī)的工牌：米歇爾·卡達(dá)雷?！胺梢?guī)定的，”馬爾龍唬弄著說道?！叭绻憔茌d，卡達(dá)雷先生，我會舉報你，而你將會失去你的執(zhí)照。不是唬你，我是說真的?！?img src="https://cimg.fx361.com/images/2018/07/08/qkimagesfkyyfkyy201311fkyy20131117-3-l.jpg"/>

那個司機(jī)用暗淡的雙眼死死地瞪著馬爾龍。雨刮器擦著玻璃發(fā)出刺耳的聲音。那個司機(jī)轉(zhuǎn)過身并將雙手放到了方向盤上。他肉肉的手指很白且沒有什么汗毛，像粉筆一樣。他舉目瞧了瞧后視鏡，并與馬爾龍互瞪了幾眼。

“好吧，美國先生，”那個司機(jī)說。“你來付錢。”