He was the same as those boys, but he was really not: he was different. He would never be one of them. He would never be someone who would run across a field while his mother called after him to come have a snack before he played so he wouldn’t get tired. He would never have his bed in the cabin. He would never be clean again. The boys were playing on the field, and he was driving with Brother Luke to the doctor, the kind of doctor he knew from his previous visits to other doctors would be somehow wrong, somehow not a good person. He was as far away from them as he was from the monastery. He was so far gone from himself, from who he had hoped to be, that it was as if he was no longer a boy at all but something else entirely. This was his life now, and there was nothing he could do about it.

他跟那些男孩一样，但其实并非如此：他不一样。他永远不会是那些人中的一员。他永远不会是那种跑过球场、同时母亲在后头喊他先过来吃些点心再打球才不累的男孩。他永远不会有小木屋里自己的床。他永远不干净了。那些男孩在球场上打球，而他则和卢克修士开车去看医生，根据他之前去看别的医生的经验，他知道这种医生有某些地方不对劲，总之不是好人。他离那些男孩好远，就像离修道院那么远。他离自己好远，离他原先期盼的自己好远，远得简直就好像他根本不再是一个男孩，而是完全不同的东西。现在这就是他的人生，而他完全无能为力。

　 At the doctor’s office, Luke leaned over and held him. “We’re going to have fun tonight, just you and me,” he said, and he nodded, because there was nothing else he could do. “Let’s go,” said Luke, releasing him, and he got out of the car, and followed Brother Luke across the parking lot and toward the brown door that was already opening to let them inside.

到了那家诊所，卢克凑过来抱着他。“我们今天晚上要好好开心一下，只有你和我。”修士说。他点点头，因为他没有别的选择。“走吧。”卢克说着，放开他。于是他下了车，跟着卢克修士穿过停车场，走向已经打开等着他们的那扇褐色门。

　 The first memory: a hospital room. He knew it was a hospital room even before he opened his eyes because he could smell it, because its quality of silence—a silence that wasn’t really silent—was familiar. Next to him: Willem, asleep in a chair. Then he had been confused—why was Willem here? He was supposed to be away, somewhere. He remembered: Sri Lanka. But he wasn’t. He was here. How strange, he thought. I wonder why he’s here? That was the first memory.

第一段记忆：一间医院病房。他睁开眼睛之前就知道这是医院病房，因为他闻得出来，也因为那种安静的特征（一种不是真正安静的安静）很熟悉。接下来他发现：威廉睡在一张椅子上。这让他很困惑，为什么威廉在这里？他应该在外地，在另一个地方啊。他也想起来，是斯里兰卡。但他不在那里。他在这里。好奇怪，他心想。不知道他为什么在这里？这是第一段记忆。

　 The second memory: the same hospital room. He turned and saw Andy sitting on the side of his bed, Andy, unshaven and awful-looking, giving him a strange, unconvincing smile. He felt Andy squeeze his hand—he hadn’t realized he had a hand until he felt Andy squeeze it—and had tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t. Andy had looked up at someone. “Nerve damage?” he heard Andy ask. “Maybe,” said this other person, the person he couldn’t see, “but if we’re lucky, it’s more likely it’s—” And he had closed his eyes and fallen back asleep. That was the second memory.

第二段记忆：同样的医院病房。他转头看到安迪坐在床边，没刮胡子，看起来很憔悴，给了他一个奇怪、勉强的微笑。他觉得安迪握紧了他的手（他原先都没意识到自己有手，直到感觉安迪握紧它），他试着回握，但没办法。安迪抬头看着某个人。“神经受损？”他听到安迪问。“或许吧。”另一个他看不到的人说，“但如果运气好的话，比较可能是……”然后他闭上眼睛又陷入沉睡。那是第二段记忆。

　 The third and fourth and fifth and sixth memories weren’t really memories at all: they were people’s faces, their hands, their voices, leaning into his face, holding his hand, talking to him—they were Harold and Julia and Richard and Lucien. Same for the seventh and eighth: Malcolm, JB.

第三、第四、第五和第六段记忆其实根本不算是记忆：是几个人的脸、他们的手、他们的声音，凑向他的脸，握住他的手，跟他讲话——有哈罗德、朱丽娅、理查德、吕西安。第七和第八段记忆也一样：马尔科姆、杰比。

　 The ninth memory was Willem again, sitting next to him, telling him he was so sorry, but he had to leave. Just for a little while, and then he’d be back. He was crying, and he wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t seem so unusual—they all cried, they cried and apologized to him, which he found perplexing, as none of them had done anything wrong: he knew that much, at least. He tried to tell Willem not to cry, that he was fine, but his tongue was so thick in his mouth, a great useless slab, and he couldn’t make it operate. Willem was already holding one of his hands, but he didn’t have the energy to lift the other so he could put it on Willem’s arm and reassure him, and finally he had given up.

第九段记忆又是威廉，坐在他旁边，跟他说他很抱歉，但他得离开了。说只去一阵子就会回来。威廉在哭，他不知道为什么，但那好像没什么稀奇，因为他们全在哭，不但哭，还跟他道歉，搞得他很困惑，因为他们没有做错什么事，这点至少他还知道。他想叫威廉不要哭，说自己很好，但嘴巴里的舌头很厚，这么大的一片却毫无用处，他根本使唤不了。威廉握着他一只手，但他没有力气抬起另一只手放在威廉的手臂上向他保证，最后只好放弃了。

　 In the tenth memory, he was still in the hospital, but in a different room, and he was still so tired. His arms ached. He had two foam balls, one cupped in each palm, and he was supposed to squeeze them for five seconds and then release them for five. Then squeeze them for five, and release them for five. He couldn’t remember who had told him this, or who had given him the balls, but he did so anyway, although whenever he did, his arms hurt more, a burning, raw pain, and he couldn’t do more than three or four repetitions before he was exhausted and had to stop.

在第十段记忆里，他还在医院，但在不同的病房，他还是很累，双臂疼痛，两只手掌各握着一个发泡橡胶球，他应该捏住五秒钟，再松开五秒钟。然后再捏住五秒钟，松开五秒钟。他不记得是谁叫他这样做了，也不记得是谁给了他那两个球，但他还是照做，虽然每次做，他的手臂都会更痛，一种破皮的灼痛。他顶多做三四轮，就筋疲力尽，不得不停止。

　 And then one night he had awoken, swimming up through layers of dreams he couldn’t remember, and had realized where he was, and why. He had gone back to sleep then, but the next day he turned his head and saw a man sitting in a chair next to his bed: he didn’t know who the man was, but he had seen him before. He would come and sit and stare at him and sometimes he would talk to him, but he could never concentrate on what the man was saying, and would eventually close his eyes.

某天晚上他醒来，往上方游出层层他记不清的梦境，意识到自己身在何处，以及为什么。接着他又睡着了，但次日他转头看到一名男子坐在床边的一张椅子上，他不知道这个人是谁，但是之前见过。他会坐在那里看着他，有时会跟他讲话，但他完全无法专心听那人在讲什么，最后总是闭上眼睛。

　 “I’m in a mental institution,” he told the man now, and his voice sounded wrong to him, reedy and hoarse.

“我在一个精神治疗机构里。”这回他告诉那名男子，他的声音听起来不对劲，尖利又沙哑。

　 The man smiled. “You’re in the psychiatric wing of a hospital, yes,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

那男人笑了。“没错，你在一家医院的精神科大楼，”他说，“你记得我吗？”

　 “No,” he said, “but I recognize you.”

“不记得，”他说，“但是我认得你。”

　 “I’m Dr. Solomon. I’m a psychiatrist here at the hospital.” There was a silence. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“我是所罗门医生，是这家医院的精神科医生，”他停顿一下，“你知道你为什么在这里吗？”

　 He closed his eyes and nodded. “Where’s Willem?” he asked. “Where’s Harold?”

他闭上眼睛点点头。“威廉呢？”他问，“哈罗德呢？”

　 “Willem had to go back to Sri Lanka to finish shooting,” said the doctor. “He’ll be back”—he heard the sound of paper flipping—“October ninth. So in ten days. Harold’s coming at noon; it’s when he’s been coming, do you remember?” He shook his head. “Jude,” the doctor said, “can you tell me why you’re here?”

“威廉必须回斯里兰卡拍片，”那医生说，“他会在……”他听到翻纸的声音，“十月九日回来。所以再过十天。哈罗德中午会过来；他向来是中午过来，你记得吗？”他摇头。“裘德，”那医生说，“你能告诉我你为什么在这里吗？”

　 “Because,” he began, swallowing. “Because of what I did in the shower.”

“因为，”他开口了，吞咽着，“因为我在淋浴间做的事情。”

　 There was another silence. “That’s right,” said the doctor, softly. “Jude, can you tell me why—” But that was all he heard, because he had fallen asleep again.

接下来是一段沉默。“没错，”那医生轻声说，“裘德，你能告诉我为什么……”但他只听到这里，因为他又睡着了。

　 The next time he woke, the man was gone, but Harold was in his place. “Harold,” he said, in his strange new voice, and Harold, who had been sitting with his elbows on his thighs and his face in his hands, looked up as suddenly as if he’d shouted.

下回他醒来时，那个人不见了，换成哈罗德坐在那个位置上。“哈罗德。”他说，用他奇怪的新声音。本来手肘撑在大腿上、脸埋在双手里的哈罗德忽然抬头看，好像他在大叫。

　 “Jude,” he said, and sat next to him on the bed. He took the ball out of his right hand and replaced it with his own hand.

“裘德。”他说，站起来坐到床沿。他从他右手拿走那个球，握在自己手里。

　 He thought that Harold looked terrible. “I’m sorry, Harold,” he said, and Harold began to cry. “Don’t cry,” he told him, “please don’t cry,” and Harold got up and went to the bathroom and he could hear him blowing his nose.

他觉得哈罗德气色好差。“对不起，哈罗德。”他说。哈罗德开始哭。“别哭，”他告诉他，“拜托别哭。”哈罗德起身走到浴室，他可以听到他在里头擤鼻子。

　 That night, once he was alone, he cried as well: not because of what he had done but because he hadn’t been successful, because he had lived after all.

那天晚上，只剩他一个人时，他也哭了：不是因为他所做的事，而是因为他没成功，因为他还活着。