Why?

The question flowed through Biff always, unnoticed, like the blood in his veins. He thought of people and of objects and of ideas and the question was in him.Midnight, the dark morning, noon.Hitler and the rumors of war.The price of loin of pork and the tax on beer.Especially he meditated on the puzzle of the mute.Why, for instance, did Singer go away on the train and, when he was asked where he had been, pretend that he did not understand the question?And why did everyone persist in thinking the mute was exactly as they wanted him to be—when most likely it was all a very queer mistake?Singer sat at the middle table three times a day.He ate what was put before him—except cabbage and oysters.In the battling tumult of voices he alone was silent.He liked best little green soft butter beans and he stacked them in a neat pile on the prongs of his fork.And sopped their gravy with his biscuits.

Biff thought also of death. A curious incident occurred.One day while rummaging through the bathroom closet he found a bottle of Agua Florida that he had overlooked when taking Lucile the rest of Alice's cosmetics.Meditatively he held the bottle of perfume in his hands.It was four months now since her death—and each month seemed as long and full of leisure as a year.He seldom thought of her.

Biff uncorked the bottle. He stood shirtless before the mirror and dabbled some of the perfume on his dark, hairy armpits.The scent made him stiffen.He exchanged a deadly secret glance with himself in the mirror and stood motionless.He was stunned by the memories brought to him with the perfume, not because of their clarity, but because they gathered together the whole long span of years and were complete.Biff rubbed his nose and looked sideways at himself.The boundary of death.He felt in him each minute that he had lived with her.And now their life together was whole as only the past can be whole.Abruptly Biff turned away.

The bedroom was done over. His entirely now.Before it had been tacky and flossy and drab.There were always stockings and pink rayon knickers with holes in them hung on a string across the room to dry.The iron bed had been flaked and rusty, decked with soiled lace boudoir pillows.A bony mouser from downstairs would arch its back and rub mournfully against the slop jar.

All of this he had changed. He traded the iron bed for a studio couch.There was a thick red rug on the floor, and he had bought a beautiful cloth of Chinese blue to hang on the side of the wall where the cracks were worst.He had unsealed the fireplace and kept it laid with pine logs.Over the mantel was a small photograph of Baby and a colored picture of a little boy in velvet holding a ball in his hands.A glassed case in the corner held the curios he had collected—specimens of butterflies, a rare arrowhead, a curious rock shaped like a human profile.Blue-silk cushions were on the studio couch, and he had borrowed Lucile's sewing-machine to make deep red curtains for the windows.He loved the room.It was both luxurious and sedate.On the table there was a little Japanese pagoda with glass pendants that tinkled with strange musical tones in a draught.

In this room nothing reminded him of her. But often he would uncork the bottle of Agua Florida and touch the stopper to the lobes of his ears or to his wrists.The smell mingled with his slow ruminations.The sense of the past grew in him.Memories built themselves with almost architectural order.In a box where he stored souvenirs he came across old pictures taken before their marriage.Alice sitting in a field of daisies.Alice with him in a canoe on the river.Also among the souvenirs there was a large bone hairpin that had belonged to his mother.As a little boy he had loved to watch her comb and knot her long black hair.He had thought that hairpins were curved as they were to copy the shape of a lady and he would sometimes play with them like dolls.At that time he had a cigar box full of scraps.He loved the feel and colors of beautiful cloth and he would sit with his scraps for hours under the kitchen table.But when he was six his mother took the scraps away from him.She was a tall, strong woman with a sense of duty like a man.She had loved him best.Even now he sometimes dreamed of her.And her worn gold wedding ring stayed on his finger always.

Along with the Agua Florida he found in the closet a bottle of lemon rinse Alice had always used for her hair. One day he tried it on himself.The lemon made his dark, white-streaked hair seem fluffy and thick.He liked it.He discarded the oil he had used to guard against baldness and rinsed with the lemon preparation regularly.Certain whims that he had ridiculed in Alice were now his own.Why?

Every morning Louis, the colored boy downstairs, brought him a cup of coffee to drink in bed. Often he sat propped on the pillows for an hour before he got up and dressed.He smoked a cigar and watched the patterns the sunlight made on the wall.Deep in meditation he ran his forefinger between his long, crooked toes.He remembered.

Then from noon until five in the morning he worked downstairs. And all day Sunday.The business was losing money.There were many slack hours.Still at meal-times the place was usually full and he saw hundreds of acquaintances every day as he stood guard behind the cash register.

“What do you stand and think about all the time?”Jake Blount asked him.“You look like a Jew in Germany.”

“I am an eighth part Jew，”Biff said.“My Mother's grandfather was a Jew from Amsterdam. But all the rest of my folks that I know about were Scotch-Irish.”

It was Sunday morning. Customers lolled at the tables and there were the smell of tobacco and the rustle of newspaper.Some men in a corner booth shot dice, but the game was a quiet one.

“Where's Singer?”Biff asked.“Won't you be going up to his place this morning?”

Blount's face turned dark and sullen. He jerked his head forward.Had they quarreled—but how could a dummy quarrel?No, for this had happened before.Blount hung around sometimes and acted as though he were having an argument with himself.But pretty soon he would go—he always did—and the two of them would come in together, Blount talking.

“You live a fine life. Just standing behind a cash register.Just standing with your hand open.”

Biff did not take offense. He leaned his weight on his elbows and narrowed his eyes.“Let's me and you have a serious talk.What is it you want anyway?”

Blount smacked his hands down on the counter. They were warm and meaty and rough.“Beer.And one of them kittle packages of cheese crackers with peanut butter in the inside.”

“That's not what I meant，”Biff said.“But we'll come around to it later.”

The man was a puzzle. He was always changing.He still drank like a crazy fish, but liquor did not drag him down as it did some men.The rims of his eyes were often red, and he had a nervous trick of looking back startled over his shoulder.His head was heavy and huge on his thin neck.He was the sort of fellow that kids laughed at and dogs wanted to bite.Yet when he was laughed at it cut him to the quick—he got rough and loud like a sort of clown.And he was always suspecting that somebody was laughing.

Biff shook his head thoughtfully.“Come，”he said.“What makes you stick with that show?You can find something better than that. I could give you a part-time job here.”

“Christamighty！I wouldn't park myself behind that cash box if you was to give me the whole damn place, lock, stock, and barrel.”

There he was. It was irritating.He could never have friends or even get along with people.

“Talk sense，”Biff said.“Be serious.”

A customer had come up with his check and he made change. The place was still quiet.Blount was restless.Biff felt him drawing away.He wanted to hold him.He reached for two A-l cigars on the shelf behind the counter and offered Blount a smoke.Warily his mind dismissed one question after another, and then finally he asked：

“If you could choose the time in history you could have lived, what era would you choose?”

Blount licked his mustache with his broad, wet tongue.“If you had to choose between being a stiff and never asking another question, which would you take?”

“Sure enough，”Biff insisted.“Think it over.”

He cocked his head to one side and peered down over his long nose. This was a matter he liked to hear others talk about.Ancient Greece was his.Walking in sandals on the edge of the blue Aegean.The loose robes girdled at the waist.Children.The marble baths and the contemplations in the temples.

“Maybe with the Incas. In Peru.”

Biff's eyes scanned over him, stripping him naked. He saw Blount burned a rich, red brown by the sun, his face smooth and hairless, with a bracelet of gold and precious stones on his forearm.When he closed his eyes the man was a good Inca.But when he looked at him again the picture fell away.It was the nervous mustache that did not belong to his face, the way he jerked his shoulder, the Adam's apple on his thin neck, the bagginess of his trousers.And it was more than that.

“Or maybe around　1775.”

“That was a good time to be living，”Biff agreed.

Blount shuffled his feet self-consciously. His face was rough and unhappy.He was ready to leave.Biff was alert to detain him.“Tell me—why did you ever come to this town anyway?”He knew immediately that the question had not been a politic one and he was disappointed with himself.Yet it was queer how the man could land up in a place like this.

“It's the God's truth I don't know.”

They stood quietly for a moment, both leaning on the counter. The game of dice in the corner was finished.The first dinner order, a Long Island duck special, had been served to the fellow who managed the A.and P.store.The radio was turned half-way between a church sermon and a swing band.

Blount leaned over suddenly and smelled Biff's face.

“Perfume?”

“Shaving lotion，”Biff said composedly.

He could not keep Blount longer. The fellow was ready to go.He would come in with Singer later.It was always like this.He wanted to draw Blount out completely so that he could understand certain questions concerning him.But Blount would never really talk—only to the mute.It was a most peculiar thing.

“Thanks for the cigar，”Blount said.“See you later.”

“So long.”

Biff watched Blount walk to the door with his rolling, sailor-like gait. Then he took up the duties before him.He looked over the display in the window.The day's menu had been pasted on the glass and a special dinner with all the trimmings was laid out to attract customers.It looked bad.Right nasty.The gravy from the duck had run into the cranberry sauce and a fly, was stuck in the dessert.

“Hey, Louis！”he called.“Take this stuff out of the window. And bring me that red pottery bowl and some fruit.”

He arranged the fruits with an eye for color and design. At last the decoration pleased him.He visited the kitchen and had a talk with the cook.He lifted the lids of the pots and sniffed the food inside, but without heart for the matter.Alice always had done this part.He disliked it.His nose sharpened when he saw the greasy sink with its scum of food bits at the bottom.He wrote down the menus and the orders for the next day.He was glad to leave the kitchen and take his stand by the cash register again.

Lucile and Baby came for Sunday dinner. The little kid was not so good now.The bandage was still on her head and the doctor said it could not come off until next month.The binding of gauze in place of the yellow curls made her head look naked.

“Say hello to Uncle Biff, Hon，”Lucile prompted.

Baby bridled fretfully.“Hello to Unca Biff Hon，”she gassed.

She put up a struggle when Lucile tried to take off her Sunday coat.“Now you just behave yourself，”Lucile kept saying.“You got to take it off or you'll catch pneumonia when we go out again. Now you just behave yourself.”

Biff took the situation in charge. He soothed Baby with a ball of candy gum and eased the coat from her shoulders.Her dress had lost its set in the struggle with Lucile.He straightened it so that the yoke was in line across her chest.He retied her sash and crushed the bow to just the right shape with his fingers.Then he patted Baby on her little behind.“We got some strawberry ice cream today，”he said.

“Bartholomew, you'd make a mighty good mother.”

“Thanks，”Biff said.“That's a compliment”

“We just been to Sunday School and church. Baby, say the verse from the Bible you learned for your Uncle Biff.”

The kid hung back and pouted.“Jesus wept，”she said finally. The scorn that she put in the two words made it sound like a terrible thing.

“Want to see Louis?”Biff asked.“He's back in the kitchen.”

“I wanna see Willie. I wanna hear Willie play the harp.”

“Now, Baby, you're just trying yourself，”Lucile said impatiently.“You know good and well that Willie's not here. Willie was sent off to the penitentiary.”

“But Louis，”Biff said.“He can play the harp, too. Go tell him to get the ice cream ready and play you a tune.”

Baby went toward the kitchen, dragging one heel on the floor. Lucile laid her hat on the counter.There were tears in her eyes.“You know I always said this：If a child is kept clean and well cared for and pretty then that child will usually be sweet and smart.But if a child's dirty and ugly then you can't expect anything much.What I'm trying to get at is that Baby is so shamed over losing her hair and that bandage on her head that it just seems like it makes her cut the buck all the time.She won't practice her elocution—she won't do a thing.She feels so bad I just can’t manage her.”

“If you'd quit picking with her so much she'd be all right.”

At last he settled them in a booth by the window. Lucile had a special and there was a breast of chicken cut up fine, cream of wheat, and carrots for Baby.She played with her food and spilled milk on her little frock.He sat with them until the rush started.Then he had to be on his feet to keep things going smoothly.

People eating. The wide-open mouths with the food pushed in.What was it?The line he had read not long ago.Life was only a matter of intake and alimentation and reproduction.The place was crowded.There was a swing band on the radio.

Then the two he was waiting for came in. Singer entered the door first, very straight and swank in his tailored Sunday suit.Blount followed along just behind his elbow.There was something about the way they walked that struck him.They sat at their table, and Blount talked and ate with gusto while Singer watched politely.When the meal was finished they stopped by the cash register for a few minutes.Then as they went out he noticed again there was something about their walking together that made him pause and question himself.What could it be?The suddenness with which the memory opened up deep down in his mind was a shock.The big deaf-mute moron whom Singer used to walk with sometimes on the way to work.The sloppy Greek who made candy for Charles Parker.The Greek always walked ahead and Singer followed.He had never noticed them much because they never came into the place.But why had he not remembered this?Of all times he had wondered about the mute to neglect such an angle.See everything in the landscape except the three waltzing elephants.But did it matter after all?

Biff narrowed his eyes. How Singer had been before was not important.The thing that mattered was the way Blount and Mick made of him a sort of home-made God.Owing to the fact he was a mute they were able to give him all the qualities they wanted him to have.Yes.But how could such a strange thing come about?And why?

A one-armed man came in and Biff treated him to a whiskey on the house. But he did not feel like talking to anyone.Sunday dinner was a family meal.Men who drank beer by themselves on weeknights brought their wives and little kids with them on Sunday.The highchair they kept in the back was often needed.It was two-thirty and though many tables were occupied the meal was almost over.Biff had been on his feet for the past four hours and was tired.He used to stand for fourteen or sixteen hours and not notice any effects at all.But now he had aged.Considerably.There was no doubt about it.Or maybe matured was the word.Not aged—certainly not—yet.The waves of sound in the room swelled and subsided against his ears.Matured.His eyes smarted and it was as though some fever in him made everything too bright and sharp.

He called to one of the waitresses：“Take over for me will you, please?I'm going out.”

The street was empty because of Sunday. The sun shone bright and clear, without warmth.Biff held the collar of his coat close to his neck.Alone in the street he felt out of pocket.The wind blew cold from the river.He should turn back and stay in the restaurant where he belonged.He had no business going to the place where he was headed.For the past four Sundays he had done this.He had walked in the neighborhood where he might see Mick.And there was something about it that was—not quite right.Yes.Wrong.

He walked slowly down the sidewalk opposite the house where she lived. Last Sunday she had been reading the funny papers on the front steps.But this time as he glanced swiftly toward the house he saw she was not there.Biff tilted the brim of his felt hat down over his eyes.Perhaps she would come into the place later.Often on Sunday after supper she came for a hot cocoa and stopped for a while at the table where Singer was sitting.On Sunday she wore a different outfit from the blue skirt and sweater she wore on other days.Her Sunday dress was wine-colored silk with a dingy lace collar.Once she had had on stockings—with runs in them.Always he wanted to set her up to something, to give to her.And not only a sundae or some sweet to eat—but something real.That was all he wanted for himself—to give to her.Biff's mouth hardened.He had done nothing wrong but in him he felt a strange guilt.Why?The dark guilt in all men, unreckoned and without a name.

On the way home Biff found a penny lying half concealed by rubbish in the gutter. Thriftily he picked it up, cleaned the coin with his handkerchief, and dropped it into the black pocket purse he carried.It was four o'clock when he reached the restaurant.Business was stagnant.There was not a single customer in the place.

Business picked up around five. The boy he had recently hired to work part time showed up early.The boy's name was Harry Minowitz.He lived in the same neighborhood with Mick and Baby.Eleven applicants had answered the ad in the paper, but Harry seemed to be best bet.He was well developed for his age, and neat.Biff had noticed the boy's teeth while talking to him during the interview.Teeth were always a good indication.His were large and very clean and white.Harry wore glasses, but that would not matter in the work.His mother made ten dollars a week sewing for a tailor down the street, and Harry was an only child.

“Well，”Biff said.“You've been with me a week, Harry. Think you're going to like it?”

“Sure, sir. Sure I like it.”

Biff turned the ring on his finger.“Let's see. What time do you get off from school?”

“Three o'clock, sir.”

“Well, that gives you a couple of hours for study and recreation. Then here from six to ten.Does that leave you enough time for plenty of sleep?”

“Plenty. I don't need near that much.”

“You need about nine and a half hours at your age, son. Pure, wholesome sleep.”

He felt suddenly embarrassed. Maybe Harry would think it was none of his business.Which it wasn't anyway.He started to turn aside and then thought of something.

“You go to Vocational?”

Harry nodded and rubbed his glasses on his shirtsleeve.

“Let's see. I know a lot of girls and boys there.Alva Richards—I know his father.And Maggie Henry.And a kid named Mick Kelly—”He felt as though his ears had caught afire.He knew himself to be a fool.He wanted to turn and walk away and yet he only stood there, smiling and mashing his nose with his thumb.“You know her?”he asked faintly.

“Sure, I live right next door to her. But in school I'm a senior while she's a freshman.”

Biff stored this meager information neatly in his mind to be thought over later when he was alone.“Business will be quiet here for a while，”he said hurriedly.“I'll leave it with you. By now you know how to handle things.Just watch any customers drinking beer and remember how many they've drunk so you won't have to ask them and depend on what they say.Take your time making change and keep track of what goes on.”

Biff shut himself in his room downstairs. This was the place where he kept his files.The room had only one small window and looked out on the side alley, and the air was musty and cold.Huge stacks of newspapers rose up to the ceiling.A home-made filing case covered one wall.Near the door there was an old-fashioned rocking-chair and a small table laid with a pair of shears, a dictionary, and a mandolin.Because of the piles of newspaper it was impossible to take more than two steps in any direction.Biff rocked himself in the chair and languidly plucked the strings of the mandolin.His eyes closed and he began to sing in a doleful voice：

I went to the animal fair.

The birds and the beasts were there，

And the old baboon by the light of the moon

Was combing his auburn hair.

He finished with a chord from the strings and the last sounds shivered to silence in the cold air.

To adopt a couple of little children. A boy and a girl.About three or four years old so they would always feel like he was their own father.Their Dad.Our Father.The little girl like Mick（or Baby?）at that age.Round cheeks and gray eyes and flaxen hair.And the clothes he would make for her—pink crêpe de Chine frocks with dainty smocking at the yoke and sleeves.Silk socks and white buckskin shoes.And a little red-velvet coat and cap and muff for winter.The boy was dark and black-haired.The little boy walked behind him and copied the things he did.In the summer the three of them would go to a cottage on the Gulf and he would dress the children in their sun suits and guide them carefully into the green, shallow waves.And then they would bloom as he grew old.Our Father.And they would come to him with questions and he would answer them.

Why not?

Biff took up his mandolin again.“Tum-ti-tim-ti-tee, ti-tee, the wedd-ing of the painted doll.”The mandolin mocked the refrain. He sang through all the verses and wagged his foot to the time.Then he played“K-K-K-Katie，”and“Love's Old Sweet Song.”These pieces were like the Agua Florida in the way they made him remember.Everything.Through the first year when he was happy and when she seemed happy even too.And when the bed came down with them twice in three months.And he didn't know that all the time her brain was busy with how she could save a nickel or squeeze out an extra dime.And then him with Rio and the girls at her place.Gyp and Madeline and Lou.And then later when suddenly he lost it.When he could lie with a woman no longer.Motherogod！So that at first it seemed everything was gone.

Lucile always understood the whole set-up. She knew the kind of woman Alice was.Maybe she knew about him, too.Lucile would urge them to get a divorce.And she did all a person could to try to straighten out their messes.

Biff winced suddenly. He jerked his hands from the strings of the mandolin so that a phrase of music was chopped off.He sat tense in his chair.Then suddenly he laughed quietly to himself.What had made him come across this?Ah, Lordy Lordy Lord！It was the day of his twenty-ninth birthday, and Lucile had asked him to drop by her apartment when he finished with an appointment at the dentist's.He expected from this some little remembrance—a plate of cherry tarts or a good shirt.She met him at the door and blindfolded his eyes before he entered.Then she said she would be back in a second.In the silent room he listened to her footsteps and when she had reached the kitchen he broke wind.He stood in the room with his eyes blindfolded and pooted.Then all at once he knew with horror he was not alone.There was a titter and soon great rolling whoops of laughter deafened him.At that minute Lucile came back and undid his eyes.She held a caramel cake on a platter.The room was full of people.Leroy and that bunch and Alice, of course.He wanted to crawl up the wall.He stood there with his bare face hanging out, burning hot all over.They kidded him and the next hour was almost as bad as the death of his mother—the way he took it.Later that night he drank a quart of whiskey.And for weeks after—Motherogod！

Biff chuckled coldly. He plucked a few chords on his mandolin and started a rollicking cowboy song.His voice was a mellow tenor and he closed his eyes as he sang.The room was almost dark.The damp chill penetrated to his bones so that his legs ached with rheumatism.

At last he put away his mandolin and rocked slowly in the darkness. Death.Sometimes he could almost feel it in the room with him.He rocked to and fro in the chair.What did he understand?Nothing.Where was he headed?Nowhere.What did he want?To know.What?A meaning.Why?A riddle.

Broken pictures lay like a scattered jigsaw puzzle in his head. Alice soaping in the bathtub.Mussolini's mug.Mick pulling the baby in a wagon.A roast turkey on display.Blount's mouth.The face of Singer.He felt himself waiting.The room was completely dark.From the kitchen he could hear Louis singing.

Biff stood up and touched the arm of his chair to still its rocking. When he opened the door the hall outside was very warm and bright.He remembered that perhaps Mick would come.He straightened his clothes and smoothed back his hair.A warmth and liveliness returned to him.The restaurant was in a hubbub.Beer rounds and Sunday supper had begun.He smiled genially to young Harry and settled himself behind the cash register.He took in the room with a glance like a lasso.The place was crowded and humming with noise.The bowl of fruit in the window was a genteel, artistic display.He watched the door and continued to examine the room with a practiced eye.He was alert and intently waiting.Singer came finally and wrote with his silver pencil that he wanted only soup and whiskey as he had a cold.But Mick did not come.

为什么？

这个问题始终在比夫的心里翻涌，悄无声息，如同血管里的血液一样。他思考着人、物和观点，于是便有了这个问题。午夜，漆黑的凌晨，正午。希特勒，以及战争的传闻。猪里脊肉的价格，啤酒税。他尤其认真思考着谜一样的哑巴。比如，辛格为什么会坐火车离开，而当问他去了哪里时，他为什么会假装听不懂？而且，为什么每个人都坚持认为哑巴就是他们想象的那样——而很有可能一切都是个奇怪的错误？辛格一天三次坐在屋子中央的桌子前。不管给他上什么，他都吃——卷心菜和生蚝除外。在一堆吵闹的声音中，他独自沉默着。他最喜欢吃煮软的绿色小利马豆，会把豆子整整齐齐地摞在叉子的齿尖上，还会用饼干蘸着豆子汤吃。

比夫也思考死亡。一件奇怪的事情发生了。一天，他翻腾浴室橱柜时，找出一瓶佛罗里达香水。他当时把爱丽丝剩余的化妆品送给露西尔时，漏掉了这瓶香水。他若有所思地把香水拿在手里。现在，爱丽丝已经去世四个月了——每个月都那么漫长，那么空虚，仿佛像过了一年似的。他几乎不曾想起她。

比夫拔开瓶塞。他光着上身站在镜子前面，把香水点了一些在他黑乎乎、毛茸茸的腋下。香味让他身体僵硬。他与镜子里的自己交换了一个极其秘密的眼神，站在那里一动不动。香水一下子带回了那些记忆，让他惊诧，并非因为这些记忆很清晰，而是因为这些记忆将所有那些漫长的岁月都汇集起来，完整地呈现出来。比夫搓着鼻子，侧身看着自己。死亡的边界。他心里感觉到了跟她曾经度过的每一寸光阴。现在，他们在一起的生命完整了，仿佛只有过去才可能完整。比夫猛然转身走开了。

卧室已经重新收拾过，现在归他一个人用了。以前，卧室里俗气、杂乱、单调。屋里拉了一根绳子，上面总是晾着袜子、有破洞的粉色人造纤维内裤。那张铁床油漆已经脱落，锈迹斑斑，上面放着带着脏兮兮的蕾丝花边的枕头。楼下跑上来的一只猫，骨瘦如柴，会弓起后背，凄惨地在污水桶上蹭痒痒。

他把这些都换掉了。他把铁床换成了一张可以当床的长沙发，地上铺了一块厚厚的红色小地毯。他还买了一块很漂亮的中国蓝的布挂在一面墙上，好遮住最明显的那几道裂缝。他打开壁炉，里面放满了松木。炉台上，放着一张巴比的小照片，还有一张彩色照片，里面有个穿天鹅绒的小男孩，两只手捧着一个球。角落里的一只玻璃盒子里，装着他收集来的各色宝贝——蝴蝶标本、一个珍稀的箭头、一块类似人的轮廓的奇怪石头。长沙发上铺着蓝色丝绸垫子，他还借了露西尔的缝纫机，做了暗红色窗帘。他喜欢这间屋子，既奢华又静谧。桌子上有一个小小的日本塔，上面有玻璃坠子，风吹过的时候就会发出奇怪的叮叮当当的音乐声。

这间屋子里没有什么东西能唤起对她的记忆了，但他会经常拔出那瓶佛罗里达香水的瓶塞，用瓶塞点到耳垂或手腕上。香水的味道与他缓慢的沉思交融，过去的感觉便在他体内弥散开来。这些记忆就像是在建造大厦一般，有序地搭建起来。在他存放纪念品的一个盒子里，他找到婚前拍的一些老照片：爱丽丝坐在一大片雏菊中，爱丽丝跟他一起在河里划船。在这些纪念品中，还有一支很大的骨簪，那是他妈妈留下的。小时候，他特别喜欢看妈妈梳理长长的黑发然后挽起来的样子。那时候，他觉得那些发卡是弯成了一个女人的样子，有时候便会像玩洋娃娃一样玩这些发卡。那时候他还有个烟盒，装满了碎布，他喜欢那些漂亮碎布摸上去的感觉，喜欢它们的颜色。他会一坐好几个小时，在厨房桌子底下摆弄这些碎布。但他六岁那年，他妈妈把碎布拿走了。她是个高大结实的女人，有男人一样的责任感。她是最爱他的。即便现在，他有时还会梦到她，而且他一直戴着她那只旧的结婚金戒指。

除了那瓶佛罗里达香水，他还在壁橱里发现了爱丽丝之前用的一瓶柠檬洗发水。有一天，他自己试了一下这瓶洗发水，结果一头露着几缕白发的黑头发显得特别蓬松浓密，很让他喜欢。他扔掉了那瓶预防脱发的头油，经常用那瓶柠檬洗发水洗头。他过去嘲笑爱丽丝心血来潮，现在他也如此了。为什么？

每天早晨，楼下的黑人男孩路易斯会给他送上来一杯咖啡，他可以在床上喝。他经常靠在枕头上坐一个小时，然后才起床穿衣。他抽根雪茄，望着阳光投在墙上的图案。陷入沉思时，他用食指在修长弯曲的脚趾中间来回移动。他回忆着往事。

从中午一直到凌晨五点，他一直在楼下工作，星期天则要工作一整天。生意在赔钱，很多时候都不景气。尽管如此，一到吃饭时间店里通常还是人满为患。他每天守在收银台后，能见到几百个熟人。

“你一直站在这里想什么？”杰克·布朗特问他，“你像是在德国的犹太人。”

“我有八分之一的犹太血统。”比夫说，“我妈妈的祖父就是从阿姆斯特丹来的犹太人，但就我所知，家里其他人都是苏格兰—爱尔兰血统。”

星期天的早晨，客人们无精打采地坐在桌前，店里有烟草的味道，还有报纸的沙沙声。角落雅座里的几个人在掷骰子，但他们的游戏也很安静。

“辛格呢？”比夫问，“今天上午你不去他那里吗？”

布朗特的脸阴下来，闷闷不乐，他把头向前一抬。他们吵架了吗？——但一个哑巴怎么吵架？不对，之前也发生过类似的事情。布朗特有时候四处转悠，表现得好像正在跟自己吵架一样，但很快他就会去找哑巴——他总是如此——然后，他们两人会一起进来，布朗特还一边说着话。

“你过着优越的生活，就站在收银机后面，站在那里伸开手。”

比夫并没有生气。他俯下身子，用胳膊肘支着身子，眯起眼睛。“我们俩好好谈谈吧。你想要的到底是什么？”

布朗特两只手一下拍在柜台上，他的手温暖、厚实、粗糙。“啤酒，再来一小包奶酪饼干，里面夹花生酱的那种。”

“我不是那个意思。”比夫说，“但好吧，以后再谈。”

这个人是个谜，变化无常。他依然疯狂地喝酒，但跟其他男人不一样，他不会被酒撂倒。他的眼眶经常通红，他还有个神经质的把戏：扭过头去，露出一副惊吓的表情。他的脖子很细，头又大又沉。他这种人，孩子见了会嘲笑，狗见了都会咬。然而，当别人嘲笑他时，他又很容易受伤——他发脾气，大声叫嚷，像个小丑，而且他总是怀疑有人在嘲笑他。

比夫若有所思地摇摇头。“来，”他说，“你为什么一直待在那个游乐场啊？你能找份比那个好的工作。我可以让你在这里做兼职。”

“老天！你就算把这个地方都给我，把锁、存货、酒桶都给我，我也不会一直站在那个钱箱子后面。”

他又来了，这真让人生气。他永远不会有朋友，哪怕只是跟别人相处都够呛。

“别胡说。”比夫说，“认真点。”

一个顾客过来递上一张钞票，他找了零钱。店里仍然很安静。布朗特坐立不安。比夫觉得他要离开，便想留住他。他伸手从柜台后面架子上拿下两根A-I雪茄，递给布朗特一根。他在脑子里小心翼翼地摒除了一个又一个问题，然后终于问道：“如果让你选择生活在哪个历史阶段，你会怎么选？”

布朗特用他湿漉漉的宽大舌头舔了舔胡子。“如果可以让你选择做个傻瓜或者永远不问问题，你选哪个？”

“够了。”比夫坚持道，“认真想想。”

他把头歪到一边，视线越过自己的长鼻子，向下盯着看。他喜欢听别人谈论这个问题。他会选择古希腊。穿着拖鞋在蓝色的爱琴海边散步，宽松的长袍系在腰间。孩子们，大理石浴室，还有在寺庙中的冥想。

“或许到秘鲁去，跟印加人生活在一起。”

比夫的眼睛扫视着他的全身，像是剥光了他的衣服。他看到布朗特的皮肤被太阳晒成了深红棕色，脸上光滑干净，手腕上戴着一个金镯子，镶着珍贵的宝石。布朗特闭上眼睛时很像印加人，等比夫再细看他时，这幅画面却消失了。那撮神经质的胡子跟他的脸很不搭，还有他抖动肩膀的样子，细细脖子上的喉结，松松垮垮的裤子。而且，不止这些。

“或者，也许是一七七五年前后。”

“生活在那个时候挺不错。”比夫表示同意。

布朗特不自在地在地上搓着脚，脸上一副粗鲁、不高兴的样子，他准备要走。比夫很警觉，要留住他。“告诉我——你到底为什么要到这个镇上来？”他立刻意识到这个问题很冒失，他对自己很失望。然而，这个男人居然到这样一个地方来，真是件很奇怪的事情。

“这是上帝的真理，我也不懂。”

他们安静地站了一会儿，两人都斜靠在柜台上。角落里掷骰子的游戏结束了。客人点的第一份晚餐是长岛鸭肉特色菜，已经给A.&P.商店的老板送了上去。收音机正好调到教堂布道和摇摆舞乐队演出频道的中间。

布朗特突然向前探过身子，闻着比夫的脸。

“香水？”

“剃须水。”比夫镇定自若地说。

他没法再留住布朗特了，这家伙准备要走，稍后这家伙会跟辛格一起回来，每次都是这样。他想让布朗特畅所欲言，这样就能搞清楚他的一些情况了，但布朗特从来不正儿八经地说话——他只跟哑巴说话。这真是件非常奇怪的事情。

“多谢你的雪茄，”布朗特说，“再会。”

“再会。”

比夫望着布朗特朝门口走去，迈着摇摇摆摆的步子，像水手一样。然后，他开始忙活眼前的事情。他望着橱窗里的陈设。当日菜单贴在玻璃上，还摆着一盘特色菜，装饰着配菜以吸引顾客，但样子看上去很糟糕，可以说让人倒胃口。鸭肉里的汤汁流进了蔓越莓酱里，还有一只苍蝇落在甜点上。

“嗨，路易斯！”他喊道，“把这东西从橱窗里拿走，给我那个红色的陶瓷碗，再拿些水果来。”

他摆放着水果，特别讲究颜色和位置。最后，装饰效果令他满意。他去了趟厨房，跟厨师聊了一番，又打开锅盖，闻闻里面的食物，却并不是真心在意这件事。这活儿以前是爱丽丝干的，他不喜欢。看到油乎乎的洗碗池由于底下的食物残渣而泛起泡沫，他的鼻子灵敏起来。他写下第二天的菜单和订单，很高兴终于可以离开厨房，重新站到收银机后面。

露西尔和巴比星期天过来吃午饭。这个小孩现在还不太好，头上仍然缠着绷带，医生说到下个月才能拆。一叠纱布盖住了原来的黄色卷发，让她的头看上去有些光秃秃的感觉。

“跟比夫姨夫打个招呼，宝贝。”露西尔鼓励道。

巴比烦躁不安地昂起头。“跟比夫姨夫打个招呼，宝贝。”露西尔接着加油打气。

露西尔想要脱掉巴比的礼拜日大衣，她挣扎了一番。“喏，你要听话，”露西尔不停地说，“你得把大衣脱下来，否则，再出去的时候你会得肺炎的。喏，你要听话。”

比夫控制了这个局面。他用一粒软糖哄着巴比，慢慢把大衣从她肩膀上脱了下来。在跟露西尔挣扎的时候，她的裙子已经走了样。他把裙子给她拽平，前面的上衣抵肩便端端正正了。他又给她重新系好腰带，用手指把蝴蝶结调整成恰当的形状，然后拍了拍巴比小小的后背。

“今天，我们有草莓冰激凌。”他说。

“巴塞洛缪，你可以当一个相当好的母亲。”

“谢谢。”比夫说，“这是对我的恭维。”

“我们刚去了主日学校和教堂。巴比，把你学的《圣经》里的话说给比夫姨夫听听。”

孩子向后退着，噘起小嘴。“耶稣哭了。”她终于说话了，声音里透露出的那种蔑视让这两个词听上去像是一件可怕的东西。

“想去见见路易斯吗？”比夫问，“他就在后面厨房。”

“我想见威利，我想听威利吹口琴。”

“好了，巴比，别跟自己较劲了。”露西尔不耐烦地说，“你很清楚，威利不在这里，威利被送到监狱里去了。”

“但路易斯，”比夫说，“他也会吹口琴。去跟他说，准备好冰激凌，然后给你吹一曲。”

巴比走向厨房，一只脚跟拖在地上。露西尔把帽子放在柜台上，眼里含着泪水。“你知道，我总是说如果把一个孩子收拾得干干净净、漂漂亮亮的，照顾得好好的，那么这个孩子一般都会可爱又聪明。但如果一个孩子又脏又丑，那么你也不要对他有太大期望。我想说的是，巴比没了头发，头上还缠着绷带，她觉得很丢人，这好像让她对什么都失去了兴趣。她不练习朗诵了——什么也不做，她感觉非常糟糕，我也管不了她。”

“如果你不对她要求那么严格，她会好的。”

最后，他把母女俩安排到窗边的一个雅座。露西尔点了份特色菜，给巴比点的是鸡胸脯肉，切得很细，还有小麦粥和胡萝卜。巴比玩弄着自己的食物，把牛奶洒到了小裙子上。他跟她们坐在一起，后来客流高峰期到了，他不得不起身去照料生意。

人们吃着饭。一张张嘴巴张开，填塞着食物。这是什么来着？不久之前他刚看过一句话，生命就是摄入、吸收营养和繁殖。屋里很挤，收音机里播放着摇摆舞乐队的音乐。

然后，他等的那两个人走了进来。辛格先进门，脊背挺直，穿着剪裁得当的礼拜日西装，布朗特紧跟在他身后。他们走路的样子触动了他。他们坐在惯常的那张桌子前，布朗特起劲地又说又吃，而辛格礼貌地注视着他。吃完饭，他们在收银机前停留了几分钟。后来他们出去时，他又一次注意到他们一起走路的样子，这让他停下来，充满疑问。这可能是什么？他脑海深处的记忆之门猛然打开了，让他大为震惊。以前，辛格有时候会跟那个大块头聋哑傻子一起走路去上班，就是给查尔斯·帕克制作糖果的那个懒散的希腊人。希腊人总是走在前头，辛格跟在身后。他从来没怎么注意过他们，因为他俩从来不来店里。但他为什么没有想起来呢？这么长时间以来，他一直在琢磨这个哑巴，却没想到这件事。看到了所有的景色，唯独没有看到三只正在跳华尔兹的大象。但这又有什么关系呢？

比夫眯起眼睛。辛格以前是什么样子并不重要，重要的是，布朗特和米克把他变成了一种“自产”的神。因为他是哑巴，他们便可以按照自己的喜好随意赋予他各种品质。是的，但怎么会发生这种奇怪的事情呢？为什么会这样？

一个独臂男人走了进来，比夫免费请他喝了一杯威士忌，但他不想跟任何人说话。周日午餐是家庭聚餐。一到周日，那些平日里独自喝啤酒的男人们都会把太太和小孩子一起带过来。他们放在后面的高脚椅子经常能派上用场。已经两点半了，尽管很多桌子还占着，但人们基本已经吃完了。比夫已经站了四个小时，非常疲倦。他以前可以连续站十四到十六个小时，并没有什么感觉。但现在他老了，老了很多。这一点毋庸置疑。或者，更确切地说，是成熟了。不是老了——肯定不是——还不老。屋里的声浪在他耳畔起起落落。成熟了。他的眼睛疼起来，体内有种炽热的东西，好像让眼前的一切都明亮刺眼。

他喊过一个女招待。“替我照看一下好吗？我要出去。”

因为是周日，街上空无一人。太阳明晃晃地照着，很通透，却并不暖和。比夫把大衣衣领竖起来。独自一个人走在街上，他觉得有些无所适从。风从河上吹过来，很冷。他应该转身回到餐馆，那里才是他应该待的地方。他要去的地方，跟他并没有什么关系。在过去的四个星期天，他一直这么干。他到那个街区去散步，希望也许能看见米克。这件事本身就有点——不太对。是的，是错的。

他在她家对面的人行道上缓缓走动着。上个星期天，她在门前台阶上看那些连环漫画。但这一次，他快速朝她家瞥了一眼，她不在那里。比夫把呢帽的帽檐向下压了压，盖住眼睛。也许，她过会儿会去咖啡馆。星期天的晚饭后，她经常过来买杯热可可，会在辛格坐的桌前逗留一会儿。星期天，她穿的衣服跟平日里穿的蓝裙子和毛衣不一样，她星期天穿的裙子是酒红色丝绸的，带着褪色的蕾丝领子。有一次她还穿了长筒袜——上面有的地方抽了丝。他总想为她做点什么，给她点什么东西，不只是一个圣代或什么甜点——而是一件真正的东西。这就是他想让自己做的——给她点什么。比夫的嘴巴僵硬起来。他没有做错什么事，但心里却感觉到一种奇怪的罪恶感。为什么？所有男人心里的那种阴暗的罪恶感，莫名其妙，说不清楚。

回家的路上比夫发现水沟里有一分钱，被垃圾遮住了一半。他节俭地捡起硬币，用手绢擦干净，扔进随身携带的黑色钱夹里。他回到餐馆时已经四点了，店里很冷清，里面一个顾客都没有。

五点左右，生意有了好转。他最近雇来做兼职的那个男孩早早就来了。男孩叫哈里·米诺维茨，跟米克和巴比住在同一个街区。当时有十一个人应报纸上的广告前来应聘，但哈里似乎是最佳人选。对于他的年龄而言，他发育得很好，干净整洁。面试时，比夫一边跟他说话，一边注意到了他的牙齿。牙齿总是很好的标示。他的牙齿很大，又白又干净。哈里戴眼镜，但这并不妨碍工作。他妈妈给街上的一个裁缝做缝纫的活儿，一个星期赚十块钱，哈里是独子。

“嗯，”比夫说，“你已经跟我干了一个星期，哈里。你觉得喜欢这份工作吗？”

“当然，先生，我当然喜欢。”

比夫转动着手上的戒指。“让我想想。你什么时候放学？”

“三点，先生。”

“嗯，这样，你还有几个小时的时间可以学习和娱乐。然后你到这里，从六点干到十点。这样的话，你有足够的时间睡觉吗？”

“足够了。我不需要那么多睡眠。”

“你这个年龄，孩子，需要九个半小时的睡眠，纯粹、健康的睡眠。”

他突然觉得很尴尬。也许哈里会觉得这个不关他的事，无论如何，的确如此。他转过身去，接着又想起什么事。

“你上职业学校？”

哈里点点头，用衣袖擦着眼镜。

“我想想。那里很多男生女生我都认识。阿尔瓦·理查兹——我认识他父亲，还有玛吉·亨利，还有一个叫米克·凯利的孩子——”他觉得耳朵像着火了一样。他觉得自己是个傻瓜，想转身离开，却还是站在那里微笑着，用大拇指按着鼻子。“你认识她吗？”他轻声问道。

“当然认识。我就住在她家隔壁，但在学校里，我是毕业班学生，她是新生。”

比夫把这点微不足道的信息牢牢地存进了大脑，等以后独自一人时便可以拿出来细细咀嚼。“这里的生意会冷清一阵子，”他匆忙说，“我交给你了。现在你知道该怎么做这些事情了。对于喝啤酒的客人，盯着点，记住他们喝了多少，这样你就不用去问他们或按照他们说的来结账了。找零的时候别着急，仔细留意周围的情况。”

比夫将自己关进楼下的房间里。这是他存放档案的地方，屋子里只有一个小窗户，外面是条小巷。屋子里面的空气有一种发霉的味道，而且非常冷。一摞摞报纸堆得很高，顶到了天花板。一个自制的文件柜占满一面墙，门口旁边放着一把老式摇椅，还有一张小桌子，上面有一把大剪刀、一本字典，还有一把曼陀林。因为有一摞摞的报纸，所以无论朝哪个方向走，最多只有两步的空间。比夫坐在摇椅上摇晃着，漫不经心地拨弄着曼陀林的琴弦。他闭上眼睛，用一种忧郁的声音唱起来：

我走到动物市场。

那里有鸟有兽，

还有月光下的老狒狒

正在梳理它红褐色的毛发。

他最后弹了一个和弦，余音在冰冷的空气中颤抖着，消散了。

要收养几个小孩，一个男孩，一个女孩，三四岁，这样他们就会把他当作亲生父亲。他们的爸爸。我们的父亲。小女孩像米克（或者巴比？）这么大就好。圆脸蛋，灰眼睛，亚麻色头发。他会给她做衣服——粉色双绉裙，抵肩或袖子上带着精致的衣褶，穿着丝袜和白色鹿皮鞋。冬天，给她穿一件红色天鹅绒的小外套，戴帽子和皮手笼。男孩要黑黑的，长一头黑头发，跟在他后面学着他的样子做事。到了夏天，他们三个会到墨西哥湾的小屋去，他会给孩子们穿上防晒服，慢慢领着他们走进绿色的浅水中。然后他慢慢变老，他们也就长大了。我们的父亲。他们会找他问问题，他会给他们答案。

为什么不呢？

比夫又拿起曼陀林。“塔姆——啼——提姆——啼——提，啼——提，彩色布娃娃的婚礼。”曼陀林弹奏着这段副歌。他唱完所有的歌词，用脚打着拍子。然后，他又弹了《凯——凯——凯——凯蒂》和《爱是一首老情歌》。这些曲子就像那瓶佛罗里达香水，让他想起很多。一切。第一年，他很幸福。而她似乎也很幸福，那时候，三个月里床在他们身下塌过两次。那时候他并不知道，她脑子里一直想的就是怎么省吃俭用，节约出五分或一毛钱。然后，他先是和里奥混到一起，之后又有别的女孩占据了她的位置，基普、玛德琳和卢。后来他突然失去了兴趣，再也无法跟女人同床了。老天！这样，一开始便似乎一切都完了。

露西尔一直明白整个情况。她知道爱丽丝是什么样的女人，也许她也知道他是什么样的男人。露西尔鼓励两人离婚，费劲全力想帮他俩解决难题。

比夫突然皱起眉头，手从琴弦上猛地拿了下来，一段音乐戛然而止。他全身紧张地坐在椅子上，然后他突然无声地大笑起来。是什么让他遭遇了这一切？啊，上帝，上帝，上帝！他二十九岁生日那天，露西尔请他看完牙医后顺便到她公寓里坐坐。他以为会给他一点小纪念品——一盘樱桃蛋挞，或者一件好衬衫。她在门口迎接他，捂上他的眼睛才让他进门。然后，她说去去就回。在寂静的房间里，他倾听着她的脚步声，等她走到厨房的时候他放了个屁。他站在屋子里，被蒙着眼睛，就那么放了个屁。然后，他猛然恐惧地意识到他不是一个人在这里。先是一阵窃笑，然后是哄堂大笑，他的耳朵都快聋了。就在那时候，露西尔回来了，解开了他的眼罩。她端着一个盘子，上面放了一块焦糖蛋糕。屋子里都是人，勒罗伊和他那伙人，当然还有爱丽丝。他真想找个地缝钻进去。他站在那里，挂着一张没有表情的脸，全身火烧火燎。他们戏弄着他，随后的一个小时过得几乎跟他母亲去世时一样糟糕——他感觉就是这样。后来，那天晚上他喝了一夸脱威士忌。之后的几个星期——天哪！

比夫冷冷地轻声笑起来。他又在曼陀林上拨弄了几个和弦，开始弹唱一首欢快的牛仔歌曲。他的声音是一种圆润的男高音，唱歌的时候他闭着眼睛。屋子里几乎黑了下来，潮湿的寒气沁入骨髓，他患风湿病的腿疼了起来。

最后他收起曼陀林，在黑暗中慢慢地摇着。死亡。有时候，他几乎可以在这间屋子里感受到死亡，就在他身边。他在椅子里前后摇晃着。他明白了什么？什么也没有。他要去哪里？哪里也不去。他想要什么？要知道。什么？一个含义。为什么？一个谜。

残缺的画面浮现在他的脑海中，像是散落了一地的拼图。爱丽丝在浴室里打着肥皂。墨索里尼的杯子。米克推着手推车里的婴儿。橱窗里的烤火鸡。布朗特的嘴巴。辛格的面孔。他觉得自己在等待着。房间里已经完全黑了下来。他听到路易斯的歌声从厨房传过来。

比夫站起来，扶住摇椅的扶手让它停止摇晃。他打开门，外面的走廊温暖而又明亮。他想起来，也许米克会来的。他整整衣服，把头发向后抹平，身上又恢复了温暖和活力。餐馆里一片嘈杂，啤酒大战和周日晚餐已经开始了。他亲切地朝年轻的哈里笑了笑，自己站到了收银台后面。他的目光像套索一样，只一眼便将房间里的情况尽收眼底。屋子里拥挤不堪，嘈杂声四起。橱窗里的那碗水果是一种有品位又有艺术性的展示。他望着门口，继续用老练的目光留意着房间里的情况。他很警觉，专注地等待着。辛格终于来了，用银色铅笔写下他得了感冒，只想要汤和威士忌。然而，米克却没有来。