Julia eventually leaves as well—she has never understood the appeal of American football—and after she goes, Harold pauses the game and looks over at him. “Is everything okay with you two?” he asks, and Willem nods. Later, when he too is going to bed, Harold reaches out his hand for his own as he passes him. “You know, Willem,” he says, squeezing his palm, “Jude’s not the only one we love,” and he nods again, his vision blurring, and tells Harold good night and leaves.
朱丽娅后来也离开了（她从来不懂美式橄榄球有什么好看的）。她走了之后，哈罗德按了暂停键，认真看着他。“你们两个之间还好吗？”他问，威廉点点头。稍后，他要去睡觉时，经过哈罗德身边，哈罗德伸手过来握住他的手。“你知道，威廉，”他说，捏捏他的手掌，“我们爱的不光是裘德一个人而已。”他又点头，觉得视线模糊，跟哈罗德道晚安后就离开了。
Their bedroom is silent, and for a while he stands, staring at Jude’s form beneath the blanket. Willem can tell he’s not actually asleep—he is too still to actually be sleeping—but is pretending to be, and finally, he undresses, folding his clothes over the back of the chair near the dresser. When he slips into bed, he can tell Jude is still awake, and the two of them lie there for a long time on their opposite sides of the bed, both of them afraid of what he, Willem, might say.
他们的卧室一片安静。他站在那里一会儿，凝视裘德盖着毯子的身影。威廉看得出他其实没睡着。他整个人太静止了，不可能真的在睡觉，只是假装而已。终于，他脱掉衣服，披在靠近抽屉柜的椅背上。他上床时，看得出裘德还醒着，两个人就这样躺在床上许久，害怕威廉可能会说的话。
He sleeps, though, and when he wakes, the room is more silent still, a real silence this time, and out of habit, he rolls toward Jude’s side of the bed, and opens his eyes when he realizes that Jude isn’t there, and that in fact his side of the bed is cool.
不过他还是睡了，醒来时，房间里更安静了，这回是真正的安静。出于习惯，他朝裘德那头翻身，这才发现裘德不在，而且那一边的床上是冷的，于是张开眼睛。
He sits. He stands. He hears a small sound, too small to even be named as sound, and then he turns and sees the bathroom door, closed. But all is dark. He goes to the door anyway, and fiercely turns the knob, slams it open, and the towel that’s been jammed under the door to blot out the light trails after it like a train. And there, leaning against the bathtub, is Jude, as he knew he would be, fully dressed, his eyes huge and terrified.
他坐起身，下床站起来。他听到一个小小的声音，小到根本不算是声音。他转身看着浴室门，关着，但是全暗。他还是走过去，用力转动门把，猛地拉开那道滑门，塞在门底下遮蔽光线的毛巾像一列火车般跟着被扯开。裘德在里面，斜靠着浴缸而坐，跟他预料的一样，全身衣服穿得好好的，眼睛睁大，充满害怕。
“Where is it?” he spits at him, although he wants to moan, he wants to cry: at his failing, at this horrible, grotesque play that is being performed night after night after night, for which he is the only, accidental audience, because even when there is no audience, the play is staged anyway to an empty house, its sole performer so diligent and dedicated that nothing can prevent him from practicing his craft.
“东西在哪里？”他气呼呼地说，他好想哀叹，好想哭：哭自己的失败，哭这场骇人、怪诞的戏表演了一夜又一夜，而他是唯一、意外的观众，因为即使没有观众，这场戏还是会在空荡的戏院内上演，唯一的演员勤勉而尽心地表演，没有什么能阻止他一遍又一遍地磨炼他的演技。
“I’m not,” Jude says, and Willem knows he’s lying.
“我没有。”裘德说。威廉知道他在撒谎。
“Where is it, Jude?” he asks, and he crouches before him, seizes his hands: nothing. But he knows he has been cutting himself: he knows it from how large his eyes are, from how gray his lips are, from how his hands are shaking.
“裘德，东西在哪里？”他问，蹲在他面前，抓住他的双手：里头什么都没有。但他知道裘德之前在割自己：从他眼睛睁得多大、嘴唇变得多灰、双手抖得多厉害，他就知道了。
“I’m not, Willem, I’m not,” Jude says—they are speaking in whispers so they won’t wake Julia and Harold, one flight above them—and then, before he can think, he is tearing at Jude, trying to pull his clothes away from him, and Jude is fighting him but he can’t use his left arm at all and isn’t at his strongest anyway, and they are screaming at each other with no sound. He is on top of Jude, then, working his knees into his shoulders the way a fightmaster on a set once taught him to do, a method he knows both paralyzes and hurts, and then he is stripping Jude’s clothes off and Jude is frantic beneath him, threatening and then begging him to stop. He thinks, dully, that anyone watching them would think this was a rape, but he isn’t trying to rape, he reminds himself: he is trying to find the razor. And then he hears it, the ping of metal on tile, and he grabs the edge of it between his fingers and throws it behind him, and then goes back to undressing him, yanking his clothes away with a brutal efficiency that surprises him even as he does it, but it isn’t until he pulls down Jude’s underwear that he sees the cuts: six of them, in neat parallel horizontal stripes, high on his left thigh, and he releases Jude and scuttles away from him as if he is diseased.
“我没有，威廉，我没有。”裘德说——他们都用气音说话，免得吵醒楼上的朱丽娅和哈罗德。接着，他还来不及想，就开始拉扯裘德，想把他的衣服脱掉。裘德则反抗着，左手臂完全不能用，总之目前状态有点虚弱，同时两个人无声地朝对方叫嚷。他在裘德上方，两边膝盖压着他的肩膀，这招是有回拍片时一个动作指导教他的，他知道这样可以让对手无法动弹，而且很痛。他开始脱掉裘德的衣服，裘德在他下方发狂似的，先是威胁，然后哀求他停止。他木然地想，任何看到这一幕的人，都会以为这是强暴，但他没打算强暴裘德，他提醒自己：他是想找到刮胡刀片。然后他听到了，瓷砖上一个金属发出了叮咚声，他用手指捏起刀片的边缘，往后一丢，又回头继续脱裘德的衣服，那残忍的效率连他自己都吓到了，直到他拉下裘德的内裤，这才看到刀伤；六道平行的水平线，就在左大腿很高的位置，于是他放开裘德，匆忙往后退开，好像他得了什么病。
“You—are—crazy,” he says, flatly and slowly, after his initial shock has lessened somewhat. “You’re crazy, Jude. To cut yourself on your legs, of all places. You know what can happen; you know you can get infected there. What the hell are you thinking?” He is gasping with exertion, with misery. “You’re sick,” he says, and he is recognizing, again as if Jude is a stranger, how thin he really is, and wondering why he hadn’t noticed before. “You’re sick. You need to be hospitalized. You need—”
“你——疯——了。”他平静而缓慢地说，一开始的震惊已经消退几分。“你疯了，裘德。这样割自己，还偏偏割在大腿上。你明知道会怎样，你明知道大腿会感染。你他妈的到底在想什么？”他吃力而悲惨地喘着气。“你病了。”他说。仿佛裘德又成了陌生人，他这才发现裘德有多瘦，搞不懂自己之前为什么没注意到，“你病了。你得去住院。你得……”
“Stop trying to fix me, Willem,” Jude spits back at him. “What am I to you? Why are you with me anyway? I’m not your goddamned charity project. I was doing just fine without you.”
“别再试着治好我了，威廉，”裘德气冲冲地回嘴，“我对你来说是什么？你为什么要跟我在一起？我不是你该死的慈善计划。我没有你也过得很好。”
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “Sorry if I’m not living up to being the ideal boyfriend, Jude. I know you prefer your relationships heavy on the sadism, right? Maybe if I kicked you down the stairs a few times I’d be living up to your standards?” He sees Jude move back from him then, pressing himself hard against the tub, sees something in his eyes flatten and close.
“是吗？”他问，“抱歉，我不够格当个理想的男朋友，裘德。我知道你比较喜欢你的伴侣跟你玩性虐待，对吧？或许我把你踢下楼梯几次，就符合你的标准了？”他看到裘德听了往后退，身体往后紧紧靠着浴缸，看到他的眼睛变得无神，然后闭上。
“I’m not Hemming, Willem,” Jude hisses at him. “I’m not going to be the cripple you get to save for the one you couldn’t.”
“我不是亨明，威廉。”裘德气呼呼地低声说，“我可不想当那个让你拯救的残废，只因为你救不了他。”
He rocks back on his heels then, stands, backs away, scooping up the razor as he does and then throwing it as hard as he can at Jude’s face, Jude bringing his arms up to shield himself, the razor bouncing off his palm. “Fine,” he pants. “Fucking cut yourself to ribbons for all I care. You love the cutting more than you love me, anyway.” He leaves, wishing he could slam the door behind him, banging off the light switch as he goes.
他起身站起来，往后退，捡起刮胡刀片，用尽全力丢向裘德的脸，裘德举起双臂挡住自己，那刮胡刀片击中他的手掌后弹开。“很好。”他喘着气说，“他妈的把你自己割烂好了，我才不在乎。反正你爱割自己胜过爱我。”他离开了，真希望能把门甩上，用力把电灯开关按熄。
Back in the bedroom, he grabs his pillows and one of the blankets from the bed and flings himself down on the sofa. If he could leave altogether, he would, but Harold and Julia’s presence stops him, so he doesn’t. He turns facedown and screams, really screams, into the pillow, hitting his fists and kicking his legs against the cushions like a child having a tantrum, his rage mingling with a regret so complete that he is breathless. He is thinking many things, but he cannot articulate or distinguish any of them, and three successive fantasies spool quickly through his mind: he will get in the car and escape and never talk to Jude again; he will go back into the bathroom and hold him until he acquiesces, until he can heal him; he will call Andy now, right now, and have Jude committed first thing in the morning. But he does none of those things, just beats and kicks uselessly, as if he is swimming in place.
回到卧室，他从床上抓起自己的枕头和一条毯子，整个人倒在沙发上。如果他能离开，他会的，但哈罗德和朱丽娅就在楼上，所以他没离开。他转身面朝下，埋在枕头里大叫，真正地大叫，然后对着靠枕握拳乱打、双脚乱踢，像个小孩在闹脾气，他的怒气中混合了一种全然的悔恨，严重到他喘不过气来。他同时想着很多事情，但无法清楚表达或区分任何一件，三段连续的幻想剧情迅速掠过他的心头：他要上车逃掉，再也不要跟裘德讲话了；他要回到浴室抱住他，直到他顺从，直到他可以治愈他；他要打电话给安迪，现在就打，然后明天一早送裘德去住院。但他什么都没做，只是徒劳地拳打脚踢，像在原地游泳似的。
At last, he stops, and lies still, and finally, after what feels like a very long time, he hears Jude creep into the room, as soft and slow as something beaten, a dog perhaps, some unloved creature who lives only to be abused, and then the creak of the bed as he climbs into it.
最后，他停下来，躺着不动，感觉过了非常久之后，他终于听到裘德蹑手蹑脚地走进房间，又轻又慢，像某种挨过揍的，或许是狗吧，某种不被喜爱的生物，活着只为了被凌虐，然后他听到他爬上床的吱呀声。
The long ugly night lurches on, and he sleeps, a shallow, furtive slumber, and when he wakes, it isn’t quite daylight, but he pulls on his clothes and running shoes and goes outside, wrung dry with exhaustion, trying not to think of anything. As he runs, tears, whether from the cold or from everything, intermittently cloud his vision, and he rubs his eyes angrily, keeps going, making himself go faster, inhaling the wind in large, punishing gulps, feeling its ache in his lungs. When he returns, he goes back to their room, where Jude is still lying on his side, curled into himself, and for a second he imagines, with a jolt of horror, that he is dead, and is about to speak his name when Jude shifts a bit in his sleep, and he instead goes to the bathroom and showers, packs his running clothes into their bag, dresses for the day, and goes to the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him. There in the kitchen is Harold, who offers him a cup of coffee as he always does, and as always since he began his relationship with Jude, he shakes his head, although right now just the smell of coffee—its woody, barky warmth—makes him almost ravenous. Harold doesn’t know why he’s stopped drinking it, only that he has, and is always, as he says, trying to lead him back down the road to temptation, and although normally he would joke around with him, this morning he doesn’t. He can’t even look at Harold, he is so ashamed. And he is resentful as well: of Harold’s unspoken but, he senses, unshakable expectation that he will always know what to do about Jude; the disappointment, the disdain he knows Harold would feel for him if he knew what he had said and done in the nighttime.
漫长而险恶的夜晚缓缓前进，他睡了，一种鬼鬼祟祟的浅眠。醒来时，天还没完全亮，但他穿上衣服和慢跑鞋出门，整个人精疲力竭，设法什么都不想。他跑步时，眼泪（不管是因为太冷或是因为其他的一切）间歇地模糊他的视线，他愤怒地擦干眼睛，继续往前跑，逼自己跑得更快，惩罚性地大口吸着气，感觉到冰冷的空气刺痛他的肺。他回来后，进入卧室，裘德还躺在床上蜷缩着身子，他忽然恐慌起来，一时间想象他已经死了，正打算喊他名字时，裘德在睡梦中动了一下。于是他到浴室冲澡，把运动服塞进他们的袋子里，换上今天的衣服，走出房间，悄悄关上门。他来到厨房，哈罗德已经在里面了，一如往常地想倒杯咖啡给他，他也一如往常（自从他和裘德在一起之后）摇摇头，不过眼前光是咖啡的气味（那种带着木头、树皮的暖意）就让他渴望极了。哈罗德不知道他戒掉咖啡的原因，只知道他就是不喝了。哈罗德总是说要设法把他拐回这条诱惑之路，平常他都会顺势开玩笑聊个几句，但今天早上他没有。他甚至羞愧得不敢看哈罗德。他也很生气：气哈罗德虽然没有说出口，但他感觉到那种坚定不动摇的期望，期望他总是懂得该怎么处理裘德；要是哈罗德知道他昨天夜里说了什么、做了什么，一定会对他很失望、很鄙视他。
“You don’t look great,” Harold tells him.
“你看起来气色不太好。”哈罗德告诉他。
“I’m not,” he says. “Harold, I’m really sorry. Kit texted late last night, and this director I thought I was going to meet up with this week is leaving town tonight; I have to get back to the city today.”
“我的确不太好。”他说，“哈罗德，真的很抱歉。基特昨天深夜传短信来，有个我本以为这个星期会碰面的导演今天晚上就要离开纽约了，我今天就得赶回去。”
“Oh no, Willem, really?” Harold begins, and then Jude walks in, and Harold says, “Willem says you guys have to go back to the city this morning.”
“啊不，威廉，真的？”哈罗德说。然后裘德走进来，哈罗德说：“威廉说你们今天早上得赶回纽约。”
“You can stay,” he says to Jude, but doesn’t lift his eyes from the toast he’s buttering. “Keep the car. But I need to get back.”
“你可以留下来。”他对裘德说，眼睛还是看着他正在涂奶油的吐司面包，“车子留给你。不过我得赶回去。”
