CHAPTER XXV

Maria Silva was poor, and all the ways of poverty were clear to her. Poverty, to Ruth, was a word signifying a not-nice condition of existence. That was her total knowledge on the subject. She knew Martin was poor, and his condition she associated in her mind with the boyhood of Abraham Lincoln, of Mr. Butler, and of other men who had become successes. Also, while aware that poverty was anything but delectable, she had a comfortable middle-class feeling that poverty was salutary, that it was a sharp spur that urged on to success all men who were not degraded and hopeless drudges. So that her knowledge that Martin was so poor that he had pawned his watch and overcoat did not disturb her. She even considered it the hopeful side of the situation, believing that sooner or later it would arouse him and compel him to abandon his writing.

Ruth never read hunger in Martin’s face, which had grown lean and had enlarged the slight hollows in the cheeks. In fact, she marked the change in his face with satisfaction. It seemed to refine him, to remove from him much of the dross of flesh and the too animal-like vigor that lured her while she detested it. Sometimes, when with him, she noted an unusual brightness in his eyes, and she admired it, for it made him appear more the poet and the scholar—the things he would have liked to be and which she would have liked him to be. But Maria Silva read a different tale in the hollow cheeks and the burning eyes, and she noted the changes in them from day to day, by them following the ebb and flow of his fortunes. She saw him leave the house with his overcoat and return without it, though the day was chill and raw, and promptly she saw his cheeks fill out slightly and the fire of hunger leave his eyes. In the same way she had seen his wheel and watch go, and after each event she had seen his vigor bloom again.

Likewise she watched his toils, and knew the measure of the midnight oil he burned. Work! She knew that he outdid her, though his work was of a different order. And she was surprised to behold that the less food he had, the harder he worked. On occasion, in a casual sort of way, when she thought hunger pinched hardest, she would send him in a loaf of new baking, awkwardly covering the act with banter to the effect that it was better than he could bake. And again, she would send one of her toddlers in to him with a great pitcher of hot soup, debating inwardly the while whether she was justified in taking it from the mouths of her own flesh and blood. Nor was Martin ungrateful, knowing as he did the lives of the poor, and that if ever in the world there was charity, this was it.

On a day when she had filled her brood with what was left in the house, Maria invested her last fifteen cents in a gallon of cheap wine. Martin, coming into her kitchen to fetch water, was invited to sit down and drink. He drank her very-good health, and in return she drank his. Then she drank to prosperity in his undertakings, and he drank to the hope that James Grant would show up and pay her for his washing. James Grant was a journeymen carpenter who did not always pay his bills and who owed Maria three dollars.

Both Maria and Martin drank the sour new wine on empty stomachs, and it went swiftly to their heads. Utterly differentiated creatures that they were, they were lonely in their misery, and though the misery was tacitly ignored, it was the bond that drew them together. Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her people. But her amazement passed all bounds when he told her he had been on Maui, the particular island whereon she had attained womanhood and married. Kahului, where she had first met her husband,—he, Martin, had been there twice! Yes, she remembered the sugar steamers, and he had been on them—well, well, it was a small world. And Wailuku! That place, too! Did he know the head-luna of the plantation? Yes, and had had a couple of drinks with him.

And so they reminiscenced and drowned their hunger in the raw, sour wine. To Martin the future did not seem so dim. Success trembled just before him. He was on the verge of clasping it. Then he studied the deep-lined face of the toil-worn woman before him, remembered her soups and loaves of new baking, and felt spring up in him the warmest gratitude and philanthropy.

“Maria,” he exclaimed suddenly. “What would you like to have?”

She looked at him, bepuzzled.

“What would you like to have now, right now, if you could get it?”

“Shoe alla da roun’ for da childs—seven pairs da shoe.”

“You shall have them,” he announced, while she nodded her head gravely. “But I mean a big wish, something big that you want.”

Her eyes sparkled good-naturedly. He was choosing to make fun with her, Maria, with whom few made fun these days.

“Think hard,” he cautioned, just as she was opening her mouth to speak.

“Alla right,” she answered. “I thinka da hard. I lika da house, dis house—all mine, no paya da rent, seven dollar da month.”

“You shall have it,” he granted, “and in a short time. Now wish the great wish. Make believe I am God, and I say to you anything you want you can have. Then you wish that thing, and I listen.”

Maria considered solemnly for a space.

“You no ‘fraid?” she asked warningly.

“No, no,” he laughed, “I’m not afraid. Go ahead.”

“Most verra big,” she warned again.

“All right. Fire away.”

“Well, den—” She drew a big breath like a child, as she voiced to the uttermost all she cared to demand of life. “I lika da have one milka ranch—good milka ranch. Plenty cow, plenty land, plenty grass. I lika da have near San Le-an; my sister liva dere. I sella da milk in Oakland. I maka da plentee mon. Joe an’ Nick no runna da cow. Dey go-a to school. Bimeby maka da good engineer, worka da railroad. Yes, I lika da milka ranch.”

She paused and regarded Martin with twinkling eyes.

“You shall have it,” he answered promptly.

She nodded her head and touched her lips courteously to the wine-glass and to the giver of the gift she knew would never be given. His heart was right, and in her own heart she appreciated his intention as much as if the gift had gone with it.

“No, Maria,” he went on; “Nick and Joe won’t have to peddle milk, and all the kids can go to school and wear shoes the whole year round. It will be a first-class milk ranch—everything complete. There will be a house to live in and a stable for the horses, and cow-barns, of course. There will be chickens, pigs, vegetables, fruit trees, and everything like that; and there will be enough cows to pay for a hired man or two. Then you won’t have anything to do but take care of the children. For that matter, if you find a good man, you can marry and take it easy while he runs the ranch.”

And from such largesse, dispensed from his future, Martin turned and took his one good suit of clothes to the pawnshop. His plight was desperate for him to do this, for it cut him off from Ruth. He had no second-best suit that was presentable, and though he could go to the butcher and the baker, and even on occasion to his sister’s, it was beyond all daring to dream of entering the Morse home so disreputably apparelled.

He toiled on, miserable and well-nigh hopeless. It began to appear to him that the second battle was lost and that he would have to go to work. In doing this he would satisfy everybody—the grocer, his sister, Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month’s room rent. He was two months behind with his typewriter, and the agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine. In desperation, all but ready to surrender, to make a truce with fate until he could get a fresh start, he took the civil service examinations for the Railway Mail. To his surprise, he passed first. The job was assured, though when the call would come to enter upon his duties nobody knew.

It was at this time, at the lowest ebb, that the smooth-running editorial machine broke down. A cog must have slipped or an oil-cup run dry, for the postman brought him one morning a short, thin envelope. Martin glanced at the upper left-hand corner and read the name and address of the Transcontinental Monthly.His heart gave a great leap,and he suddenly felt faint, the sinking feeling accompanied by a strange trembling of the knees. He staggered into his room and sat down on the bed, the envelope still unopened, and in that moment came understanding to him how people suddenly fall dead upon receipt of extraordinarily good news.

Of course this was good news. There was no manuscript in that thin envelope, therefore it was an acceptance. He knew the story in the hands of the Transcontinental.It was“The Ring of Bells,”one of his horror stories, and it was an even five thousand words. And, since first-class magazines always paid on acceptance, there was a check inside. Two cents a word—twenty dollars a thousand; the check must be a hundred dollars. One hundred dollars! As he tore the envelope open, every item of all his debts surged in his brain—$3. 85 to the grocer; butcher $4. 00 flat; baker, $2. 00; fruit store,$5. 00; total, $14. 85. Then there was room rent, $2. 50; another month in advance, $2. 50; two months’ typewriter, $8. 00; a month in advance, $4. 00;total, $31. 85. And finally to be added, his pledges, plus interest, with the pawnbroker—watch, $5. 50; overcoat, $5. 50; wheel, $7. 75; suit of clothes,$5. 50 (60 % interest, but what did it matter?)—grand total, $56. 10. He saw, as if visible in the air before him, in illuminated figures, the whole sum, and the subtraction that followed and that gave a remainder of $43. 90. When he had squared every debt, redeemed every pledge, he would still have jingling in his pockets a princely $43. 90. And on top of that he would have a month’s rent paid in advance on the typewriter and on the room.

By this time he had drawn the single sheet of typewritten letter out and spread it open. There was no check. He peered into the envelope, held it to the light, but could not trust his eyes, and in trembling haste tore the envelope apart. There was no check. He read the letter, skimming it line by line, dashing through the editor’s praise of his story to the meat of the letter, the statement why the check had not been sent. He found no such statement, but he did find that which made him suddenly wilt. The letter slid from his hand. His eyes went lack-lustre, and he lay back on the pillow, pulling the blanket about him and up to his chin.

Five dollars for “The Ring of Bells”—five dollars for five thousand words! Instead of two cents a word, ten words for a cent! And the editor had praised it, too. And he would receive the check when the story was published. Then it was all poppycock, two cents a word for minimum rate and payment upon acceptance. It was a lie, and it had led him astray. He would never have attempted to write had he known that. He would have gone to work—to work for Ruth. He went back to the day he first attempted to write, and was appalled at the enormous waste of time—and all for ten words for a cent. And the other high rewards of writers, that he had read about, must be lies, too. His second-hand ideas of authorship were wrong, for here was the proof of it.

The Transcontinental sold for twenty-five cents, and its dignified and artistic cover proclaimed it as among the first-class magazines. It was a staid, respectable magazine, and it had been published continuously since long before he was born. Why, on the outside cover were printed every month the words of one of the world’s great writers, words proclaiming the inspired mission of the Transcontinental by a star of literature whose first coruscations had appeared inside those self-same covers. And the high and lofty, heaveninspired Transcontinental paid five dollars for five thousand words! The great writer had recently died in a foreign land—in dire poverty, Martin remembered, which was not to be wondered at, considering the magnificent pay authors receive.

Well, he had taken the bait, the newspaper lies about writers and their pay, and he had wasted two years over it. But he would disgorge the bait now. Not another line would he ever write. He would do what Ruth wanted him to do, what everybody wanted him to do—get a job. The thought of going to work reminded him of Joe—Joe, tramping through the land of nothing-to-do. Martin heaved a great sigh of envy. The reaction of nineteen hours a day for many days was strong upon him. But then, Joe was not in love, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he could afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had something to work for, and go to work he would. He would start out early next morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had mended his ways and was willing to go into her father’s office.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in fiery figures, burned the “$3. 85” he owed the grocer. He shivered, and was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of his back ached especially. His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached, the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache over his brows was intolerable. And beneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless “$3.85.” He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes, when the “$3.85” confronted him again.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent—that particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no more escape it than he could the “$3.85” under his eyelids. A change seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till “$2.00” burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was the baker. The next sum that appeared was “$2.50.” It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution. He owed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who was it? To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought the answer. After several centuries it came to him, easily, without effort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he turned his soul to the screen of torment under his lids. He had solved the problem; now he could rest. But no, the “$2.50”faded away, and in its place burned “$8.00.” Who was that? He must go the dreary round of his mind again and find out.

How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what seemed an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a knock at the door, and by Maria’s asking if he was sick. He replied in a muffled voice he did not recognize, saying that he was merely taking a nap. He was surprised when he noted the darkness of night in the room. He had received the letter at two in the afternoon, and he realized that he was sick.

Then the “$8.00” began to smoulder under his lids again, and he returned himself to servitude. But he grew cunning. There was no need for him to wander through his mind. He had been a fool. He pulled a lever and made his mind revolve about him, a monstrous wheel of fortune, a merry-go-round of memory, a revolving sphere of wisdom. Faster and faster it revolved, until its vortex sucked him in and he was flung whirling through black chaos.

Quite naturally he found himself at a mangle, feeding starched cuffs. But as he fed he noticed figures printed in the cuffs. It was a new way of marking linen, he thought, until, looking closer, he saw “$3.85” on one of the cuffs. Then it came to him that it was the grocer’s bill, and that these were his bills flying around on the drum of the mangle. A crafty idea came to him. He would throw the bills on the floor and so escape paying them. No sooner thought than done, and he crumpled the cuffs spitefully as he flung them upon an unusually dirty floor. Ever the heap grew, and though each bill was duplicated a thousand times, he found only one for two dollars and a half, which was what he owed Maria. That meant that Maria would not press for payment, and he resolved generously that it would be the only one he would pay; so he began searching through the cast-out heap for hers. He sought it desperately, for ages, and was still searching when the manager of the hotel entered, the fat Dutchman. His face blazed with wrath, and he shouted in stentorian tones that echoed down the universe, “I shall deduct the cost of those cuffs from your wages!” The pile of cuffs grew into a mountain, and Martin knew that he was doomed to toil for a thousand years to pay for them.Well, there was nothing left to do but kill the manager and burn down the laundry. But the big Dutchman frustrated him, seizing him by the nape of the neck and dancing him up and down. He danced him over the ironing tables, the stove, and the mangles, and out into the washroom and over the wringer and washer. Martin was danced until his teeth rattled and his head ached, and he marvelled that the Dutchman was so strong.

And then he found himself before the mangle, this time receiving the cuffs an editor of a magazine was feeding from the other side. Each cuff was a check, and Martin went over them anxiously, in a fever of expectation, but they were all blanks. He stood there and received the blanks for a million years or so, never letting one go by for fear it might be filled out. At last he found it. With trembling fingers he held it to the light. It was for five dollars.“Ha! Ha!” laughed the editor across the mangle. “Well, then, I shall kill you,”Martin said. He went out into the wash-room to get the axe, and found Joe starching manuscripts. He tried to make him desist, then swung the axe for him. But the weapon remained poised in mid-air, for Martin found himself back in the ironing room in the midst of a snow-storm. No, it was not snow that was falling, but checks of large denomination, the smallest not less than a thousand dollars. He began to collect them and sort them out, in packages of a hundred, tying each package securely with twine.

He looked up from his task and saw Joe standing before him juggling flat-irons, starched shirts, and manuscripts. Now and again he reached out and added a bundle of checks to the flying miscellany that soared through the roof and out of sight in a tremendous circle. Martin struck at him, but he seized the axe and added it to the flying circle. Then he plucked Martin and added him. Martin went up through the roof, clutching at manuscripts, so that by the time he came down he had a large armful. But no sooner down than up again, and a second and a third time and countless times he flew around the circle. From far off he could hear a childish treble singing: “Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around.”

He recovered the axe in the midst of the Milky Way of checks, starched shirts, and manuscripts, and prepared, when he came down, to kill Joe. But he did not come down. Instead, at two in the morning, Maria, having heard his groans through the thin partition, came into his room, to put hot flat-irons against his body and damp cloths upon his aching eyes.

第二十五章

玛丽亚·西尔瓦家境贫寒，了解穷困给人带来的种种不幸。穷困这个词，在露丝看来，指的只是一种不美好的生活环境。她对这个问题的了解仅限于此。她知道马丁一贫如洗，心里却把他的境遇跟亚伯拉罕·林肯、勃特勒先生及其他功成名就者的童年时代联系在一起。她虽然也知道穷困不是件叫人高兴的事，但是却以中产阶级的心理自我安慰地想道，穷困是有益处的，它是一种有力的鞭策，可以激励所有不甘堕落、不甘沉沦的苦人儿走上发迹的道路。所以，当她知道马丁穷得把手表和外套都送到了当铺时，并没有为之担心。她甚至认为这是充满了希望的一个方面，坚信这种情况早晚都会让他清醒过来，迫使他放弃写作。

露丝从未看到过马丁的饿相，但他的脸却消瘦了下去，双颊的微微凹陷变得愈来愈明显。实际上，她注意到了他脸上的变化，而且感到很满意。他似乎变得雅气了一些，身上的糟肉以及那种既叫她厌恶又引诱着她的野兽般的活力都减去了许多。有时两人在一起，她发现他的眼睛里闪射出一道令她倾心的异彩，那非凡的闪光给他增加了诗人和学者的风度——他希望自己能成为这两种人，同时这也是她的愿望。但在玛丽亚·西尔瓦的眼里，他那凹陷的双颊和燃烧的目光显示的却是另外一种情况，她天天观察这种变化，并以此判断他命运的起伏。她看到他披着外套走出家门，虽天气阴冷，但回来时却不见了外套；紧接着，她发现他的双颊略微丰润了些，眼里饥饿的火焰也熄灭了。她还看到他的自行车和手表也是这样不见了踪影；每一次过后，她都会看到他重新涌发出勃勃生气。

而且，她还注意到他在勤奋工作，知道他是怎样挑灯夜战。多么艰苦的工作啊！他们俩干的活儿虽然性质不同，但她知道他胜过自己一筹。她诧异地发现，他吃的东西愈少，工作的劲头反而愈大。有几次，她觉得他饥饿难熬时，就若无其事地送一块刚出炉的面包给他，并以开玩笑的口吻声称这面包要比他烘得好，尴尬地说些掩饰的话。她还会指派自己的一个刚学步的孩子送去一大罐热汤，但她心里却很矛盾，不知这样从自己的亲骨肉嘴里夺食应该不应该。马丁对此十分感激，因为他了解穷人家的生活，知道这是一种慈善行为——如果这个世界上还有慈善的话。

一天，玛丽亚把家里剩下的一些东西让孩子们吃了，用口袋中最后的一角五分钱打来一加仑的劣质酒。马丁走进厨房打水，被邀请坐下来同她一道喝酒。他为她的健康干杯，而她也为他祝酒。接下来，她祝他事业发达，马丁的祝酒词是希望詹姆士·格兰特能走上门来，把洗衣服的钱付给她。詹姆士·格兰特是个打短工的木匠，有时也拖拖账，这次欠了玛丽亚三块钱。

玛丽亚和马丁都空着肚子喝这刚酿出的酸酒，很快便上了头。他们是截然不同的两类人，在苦难之中却是一样悲惨凄凉，不过，他们在心里谁都没把这苦难当回事。玛丽亚听说他去过亚速尔群岛[1]，感到十分惊异，因为她是十一岁才离开那儿的。当得知他还到过夏威夷群岛时，她就更惊异了，她们全家离开亚速尔群岛后便是移居到了那里。然而，当他说自己去过毛伊岛[2]时，她便惊奇得无法形容了——正是在这座岛上，她步入青春期并嫁了人。而且，马丁竟两次光顾卡胡鲁伊港——她和丈夫初次相遇的地方！他搭乘过那些仍然存留在她记忆中的运糖船——啧，啧，这个世界可真小啊。还有瓦伊鲁哥村，那地方也留下了他的足迹！他认识种植园的总管吗？哈，他认识，还跟总管干过两杯酒呢。

他们一边缅怀往事，一边喝着未兑水的酸酒压饥。对马丁来说，前途并不十分暗淡。成功在他的面前扑闪着，眼看就要成为他的囊中之物。此刻，他端详着跟前这位劳累不堪的妇女那深刻着皱纹的面孔，回想起她的菜汤和刚出炉的面包，心中不由涌起极其强烈的感激和报恩之情。

“玛丽亚，”他突然喊叫起来，“你想要什么东西？”

她望望他，给弄得莫名其妙。

“如果你能如愿以偿，那么现在，就在这一刻工夫，你想要什么呢？”

“想要七双鞋，给孩子们每人一双。”

“你会得到的，”他宣布道，而她则庄重地点了点头，“但我指的是大愿望，不知你想得到什么大的东西。”

她眼睛里闪射出温厚的光芒，以为他在跟她玛丽亚开玩笑，而这种年头难得有人和她逗个乐子。

“好好想想。”她正要启口说话，他却劝告她道。

“好吧，”她说，“我仔细想过啦。我想要这幢房子，让它完全属于我，再不用交每月七块钱的房租。”

“你会得到的，”他向她保证说，“而且要不了多少时间。现在讲讲你的最大愿望吧。全当我是上帝，我告诉你，你想要什么就可以得到什么。说出你的愿望吧，我在听着呢。”

玛丽亚一本正经地思考了一会儿。

“你不怕我太贪心吗？”她警告地问。

“不，不，”他笑着说，“我不怕。请说吧。”

“这可是非常大的愿望啊。”她再次警告道。

“没关系，请你说吧。”

“那好——”她像小孩子样深深吸了口气，说出了她对生活最大的要求，“我希望能有一个奶牛场——一个地地道道的奶牛场。有成群的奶牛、大片的土地和丰盛的草场。我希望奶牛场设在圣莱安附近，因为我的姐姐住在那儿。我把牛奶卖到奥克兰去，赚取很多很多的钱。乔和尼克不用再牧牛，他们可以到学校上课，将来当工程师，到铁路上工作。是的，我想要一个奶牛场。”

她停下来望着他，眼睛里闪闪发光。

“你会得到的。”他即刻便做出了答复。

她点了点头，把嘴唇有礼貌地凑向酒杯，为赐给她礼物的人干杯，虽然她知道这样的礼物永远也拿不到手。他的心地是好的，她衷心感激他善良的意图，就仿佛对方把好意和礼物一道送给了她。

“对，玛丽亚，”他继续说道，“尼克和乔不用去卖牛奶，所有的孩子都上学去，而且一年四季都有鞋穿。那将是一流的奶牛场，所有的东西一应俱全。有住房、马厩，当然还有牛棚；要养鸡和猪，种蔬菜瓜果，凡此种种。奶牛数量多，赚的钱也多，可以雇一两个帮手。你什么都不用干，只招呼招呼孩子就行了。如果碰上好男人，你可以嫁给他，把奶牛场交他管理，而你舒舒服服地过日子。”

马丁对于未来许下了漫天大诺，但一转身却把自己仅有的一套像样的衣服送进了当铺。这一来，他简直陷入了绝境，因为他会因此和露丝断掉联系。他连件较差的能穿得出去的衣服都没有了；他虽然还能到肉铺和面包店去，甚至还可以偶尔去去姐姐家，但他绝不敢衣着寒碜地登摩斯府邸的门槛。

他继续写作，但心里却非常痛苦，几乎万念俱灰。他开始意识到第二场战斗已经失败，自己迫不得已还要出去找工作。找到工作，便会皆大欢喜——食品商、他姐姐、露丝，甚至连玛丽亚包括在内，都会心满意足，因为他欠玛丽亚一个月的房钱呢。他已经两个月没交打字机租赁费了，店方催他付钱，否则他就得把机子还回去。绝望的他准备低头认输，和命运暂时休战，以待将来东山再起，于是，他投考了铁路邮政处的公务员。他没想到，自己竟然考中了。工作算有了着落，但不知何时才会通知他上班去。

正当命运处于最低潮的节骨眼上，那台平稳运转的编辑机器出了毛病。一定是齿轮脱落了一个轮牙或者注油器里润滑油用干了，因为邮递员在一天早晨送来了一个又薄又小的信封。马丁扫了一眼信封的左上角，看到了《横贯大陆月刊》的刊名和地址。他怦然心跳，顿时感到头晕目眩，直想栽倒，双膝奇怪地抖动起来。他跌跌绊绊回到自己的房间，拿着仍未拆开的信封一屁股坐到了床上。直到这时他才明白，为什么有些人在接到惊人的好消息时会当场丧命。

毫无疑问，这次有好消息。那个薄信封里没装稿件，所以他的稿子被采用啦。他记得送往《横贯大陆月刊》的是一篇名为《嘹亮的钟声》的恐怖故事，足有五千字。由于一流杂志一贯是在采用稿件时立即付稿酬，信封里该附有支票。每个字两分钱，一千字就是二十块；那么支票的钱数肯定是一百块钱。天啊，一百块钱呀！拆信封的时候，他的脑海里浮现出他的每一笔欠款——欠食品商$3.85，肉铺$4.00，面包店$2.00，水果店$5.00，总共$14.85。另外，欠房租$2.50，预交一个月的房费$2.50，欠两个月的打字机租赁费$8.00，再预交一个月的租赁费$4.00，总共$31.85。最后还得加上向当铺赎东西的钱，外带利息——手表为$5.50，外套$5.50，自行车$7.75，一套衣服$5.50（利息是60%，可这又有什么关系呢？）——这几笔钱的总数是$56.10。一笔笔欠款变成闪光数字，历历如在眼前，经过一番加减，稿酬还剩下$43.90。还清每一笔债务、赎回每一件东西之后，他的口袋里还会有$43.90。这样一大笔叮当作响的钱哩。更令人欣慰的是，他还预交了一个月的打字机租赁费和房租呢。

想到这里，他抽出了那页用打字机打出的信函，把它铺展开。里面没有夹支票。他朝信封里瞧了瞧，又把信封放到亮光里照照，还是不相信自己的眼睛，于是用哆嗦的手急忙将信封一撕两半。仍然不见支票的踪影。读信的时候，他一目数行，匆匆掠过编辑对故事的赞誉之辞，想看看这封信的实质内容——为何没有附上支票？这方面的内容他未看到片言只语，看到的只是让他突然如坠冰窖的话。那封信从他的手里掉落下来。他眼中失去了光彩，躺倒在枕头上，拉过毛毯盖在身上，一直盖到下巴处。

《嘹亮的钟声》的稿酬是五块钱——五千字才卖五块钱啊！不是每字二分，而是每分十字呀！哼，编辑还把文章夸奖了一通呢。要等到故事刊载出来，他才能拿到支票。什么每个字的最低稿酬是两分钱，什么稿子一经采用便付钱，全是胡扯八道。这套骗人的鬼话使他误入歧途。当初要是知道这么回事，他绝不会投身写作。他会出外找工作——为露丝而苦干。他回想起最初试笔的那一天，一想到自己浪费了这么多的时间，全为了十个字一分钱的稿酬，他便感到心寒。报上宣扬的那些关于作家领取高稿酬的言论肯定也是弥天大谎。看来，他间接得知的那些情况都是无稽之谈，因为铁证就在眼前。

《横贯大陆月刊》的单本定价是两角五分钱，它那气势恢宏、富于艺术性的封面充分说明它是第一流的杂志。它既庄重又高雅，早在他出生之前便已发行，延续至今。杂志的封面上月月都印着一位世界著名作家的话，申明《横贯大陆月刊》的使命，而那位文学巨匠曾经就是在这本杂志上初露锋芒的。这样一本庄严、高尚、从上天获取灵感的杂志，竟然五千字只付五块钱的稿酬！那位伟大作家最近死于异国他乡——马丁记得他是穷困潦倒中殒命的——既然作家的稿酬如此“丰厚”，这也就不足为奇了。

唉，他看过报上的那套关于作家及稿酬的谎言，竟然上了钩，白白浪费了两年的时间。现在，他要吐出饵钩，从今往后再也不写一个字。他要满足露丝的愿望，满足大家的愿望，去找个工作干。此念一生，他想起了乔，想起了乔已前往无事可干的地方流浪，马丁羡慕得深深叹了口气。长期以来，每天写作十九个小时，这样的生命真够他呛。可是，乔并没有坠入爱河，并不肩负爱情的义务，故此可以无所事事、四方流浪。他马丁则必须去奋争，去工作。他打算第二天一大早就出外寻工作。他还要让露丝知道他已改弦易辙，愿意进她父亲的事务所工作。

五千字五块钱，十个字一分钱，这就是艺术的市场价格。他心里产生出深深的失望、上当和耻辱的感觉；合上眼皮，就可以看到自己欠食品商的那$3.85似火焰般熊熊燃烧。他不寒而栗，觉得骨头里发痛。他的腰和背钻心地痛，头也痛得难忍——天灵盖痛、后脑勺痛、脑仁痛，整个头都似乎要炸开；眉毛上方的部位更是痛得叫他受不了。眉毛下首的眼皮底下则残酷无情地燃烧着那个数字——$3.85。他睁开眼以求解脱，但屋里白亮的光线似乎要烧焦他的眼球，迫使他又闭上眼，再次面对那$3.85。

五千字五块钱，十个字一分钱——这一思想在他的大脑里扎了根，令他无法摆脱，就像他摆脱不了眼皮底下的$3.85一样。随即，后边的那个数字似乎发生了变化，他惊奇地看着它变成了另一个燃烧的数字——$2.00。啊，他知道那是欠面包店的钱，接着出现的是$2.50。

这下他可犯了难，用力地思考起来，仿佛在决断一个生死攸关的问题。他的确欠别人两块五，但债主是谁呢？这个专横和恶毒的世界命令他找出答案，于是他沿着大脑中无端无尽的长廊搜索，打开各种各样房间的门户，把自己所能记得和了解的零碎东西都抖搂了一遍，但终无结果。仿佛过了几个世纪之后，他才恍然大悟，不费吹灰之力得到了答案——这笔钱是欠玛丽亚的。他松了口大气，然后又把注意力转向眼皮底下那折磨人的银幕。他以为既然已找出了答案，自己总算可以获得安宁了。可是，在$2.50消失的地方，又出现了一个燃烧的数字——$8.00。债主是谁呢？他又得在消沉的大脑中搜索，寻找答案了。

这次寻找不知花费了多少时间。似乎过了很长很长时间，他被敲门声惊醒过来——玛丽亚跑来询问他是不是病了。他用一种连他自己都无法辨认的沉闷的声音说他没有病，只是在睡午觉。可他吃惊地发现夜幕已悄然潜入房间。信是在下午两点钟收到的，他这才意识到自己的确病了。

此刻，$8.00又开始在他的眼皮底下冒火焰，而他又得苦苦思索了。不过，这次他变聪明了，觉得没必要搜索枯肠地傻想，觉得自己刚才真是太愚蠢。他用杠杆拨动思想，让思想围着他旋转，像命运的巨大车轮、记忆的旋转木马以及智慧的滚动圆球。思想愈转愈快，最后把他卷入旋涡之中，使他在漆黑的混沌里飞转。

就这样，他非常自然地置身于一台轧液机旁，把上过浆的衣袖朝里填。正在朝里填的当儿，他留意到袖口上印着数字。他原以为这是做标记的新方法，但凑近一瞧，却看到一个袖口上有$3.85字样。他意识到这是食品商的账单，而轧液机的滚筒里上下翻腾的全是他欠的账单。他心生一诡计，觉得把那些账单都扔到地上，就不用再付账了。他想到做到，即刻把那些衣袖仇恨地揉作一团，抛到脏得出奇的地板上。衣袖聚成一堆，而每份账单都有一千个副本，可他偏偏只去寻找一个两块五的账单——那是他欠玛丽亚的。玛丽亚不会催他付钱，而他慷慨激昂地决定只还这一笔账；于是他开始在衣袖堆里寻找她的账单。他不顾一切地寻找，找了很长时间，直至旅馆里的那个肥胖的荷兰经理进来时，他还在寻找。荷兰佬满脸怒容，以响彻寰宇的洪亮嗓门叫嚷道：“我要从你的工资里扣除这些衣袖的钱！”望着那堆积成小山的衣袖，马丁知道自己必须干一千年的牛马活才能还清这笔债。唉，别无良策，只有杀死经理，放把火烧掉洗衣店。可是大块头的荷兰佬一把揪住他的后颈，将他凌空拎起，打破了他的如意算盘。荷兰佬拎着他在熨衣台、炉子和轧液机的上方摇来晃去，又把他拎到洗衣间，放在绞衣机和洗衣机的上空摇晃。马丁被摇得上下牙齿打架、头痛欲裂，他真不知荷兰佬哪儿来这么大的力量。

后来，他又回到了轧液机跟前，这次是一家杂志社的编辑从一边往机器里填袖口，而他在另一边接。每一个袖口都是一张支票，马丁怀着满脸的希望急不可耐地一张张检查，可看到的全是空白支票。他站在那儿接支票，足足接了有一百万年的光景，每一张都不轻易放过，生怕上面填有数字。最后，他终于找到了，用颤抖的手指拿到亮光处查看。原来是张五块钱的支票。轧液机另一端的编辑哈哈大笑。“你等着瞧，我要杀了你。”马丁说完，跑到洗衣间去寻斧子，结果发现乔在那儿给手稿上浆。他想让乔停下来，抢起斧子就劈。可那武器举到空中就不动了，原来马丁发现自己又回到了熨衣机旁，那儿飘着鹅毛大雪。不，那飘然落下的不是雪花，而是大面额的支票，最小的面额也不少于一千块。他把支票收集到一起，进行分门别类，一百张一叠，用细绳扎捆牢。

他边干边抬头望去，瞧见乔站在他面前，把熨斗、上过浆的衬衫以及手稿舞来弄去。乔还时不时伸手取过一叠支票，混进那些东西里一起舞弄。那些乱七八糟的东西转着大圈，穿过屋顶，消失在了空中。马丁抡斧向他劈去，可他抢过斧子，把它也抛进了那旋转的圈子里。后来，他索性拎起马丁，把他也抛了起来。马丁穿过屋顶，见到手稿就抓，所以待到落下来时，怀里已抱了一大堆手稿。但他脚刚一着地，便又升腾而起，就这样一圈、两圈地转个不停，数不清究竟转了多少圈。他听到远处有人在用孩子般的尖嗓门歌唱：“跟我一起跳华尔兹舞吧，威利，跳呀跳呀跳。”

他在由支票、上过浆的衬衫以及手稿组成的“银河系”中找回了那把斧子，准备一回到地面就杀死乔。可他悬在空中没能下来。夜间两点钟，玛丽亚透过薄壁听到他的呻吟声，来到他的房间，把热熨斗放在他身上，又取来湿布蒙住他发痛的眼睛。

* * *

[1]　位于葡萄牙以西，隶属葡萄牙。

[2]　夏威夷群岛中的第二大岛。