欧内斯特·海明威/Ernest Hemingway

　　欧内斯特·海明威（1899—1961），20世纪美国著名小说家，生于伊利诺斯州芝加哥市郊。他的作品风格独具魅力，在世界范围内产生了广泛影响。1926年发表的《太阳照样升起》是海明威获得声誉的第一部长篇小说，并成为“迷惘的一代”的代表作品。“一战”给海明威留下了难以愈合的心灵创伤，也为他创作举世名作《永别了，武器》提供了素材。1952年，中篇小说《老人与海》出版，轰动文坛，并使他获得了诺贝尔文学奖。

　　The door of Henry's lunchroom opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.

　　"What's yours?" George asked them.

　　"I don't know," one of the men said, "What do you want to eat, Al?"

　　"I don't know," said Al, "I don't know what I want to eat."

　　Outside it was getting dark. The streetlight came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.

　　"I'll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes," the first man said.

　　"It isn't ready yet."

　　"What the hell do you put it on the card for?"

　　"That's the dinner," George explained. "You can get that at six o'clock."

　　George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

　　"It's five o'clock."

　　"The clock says twenty minutes past five," the second man said.

　　"It's twenty minutes fast."

　　"Oh, to hell with the clock," the first man said. "What have you got to eat?"

　　"I can give you any kind of sandwiches," George said. "You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak."

　　"Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes."

　　"That's the dinner."

　　"Everything we want's the dinner, eh? That's the way you work it."

　　"I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver—"

　　"I'll take ham and eggs," the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

　　"Give me bacon and eggs," said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.

　　"Got anything to drink?" Al asked.

　　"Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale," George said.

　　"I mean you got anything to drink?"

　　"Just those I said."

　　"This is a hot town," said the other. "What do they call it?"

　　"Summit."

　　"Ever hear of it?" Al asked his friend.

　　"No," said the friend.

　　"What do you do here nights?" Al asked.

　　"They eat the dinner," his friend said. "They all come here and eat the big dinner."

　　"That's right," George said.

　　"So you think that's right?" Al asked George.

　　"Sure."

　　"You're a pretty bright boy, aren't you?"

　　"Sure," said George.

　　"Well, you're not," said the other little man. "Is he, Al?"

　　"He's dumb," said Al. He turned to Nick. "What's your name?"

　　"Adams."

　　"Another bright boy," Al said. "Ain't he a bright boy, Max?"

　　"The town's full of bright boys," Max said.

　　George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side-dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.

　　"Which is yours?" he asked Al.

　　"Don't you remember?"

　　"Ham and eggs."

　　"Just a bright boy," Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.

　　"What are you looking at?" Max looked at George.

　　"Nothing."

　　"The hell you were. You were looking at me."

　　"Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max," Al said.

　　George laughed.

　　"You don't have to laugh," Max said to him. "You don't have to laugh at all, see?"

　　"All right," said George.

　　"So he thinks it's all right," Max turned to Al. "He thinks it's all right. That's a good one."

　　"Oh, he's a thinker," Al said. They went on eating.

　　"What's the bright boy's name down the counter?" Al asked Max.

　　"Hey, bright boy," Max said to Nick. "You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend."

　　"What's the idea?" Nick asked.

　　"There isn't any idea."

　　"You better go around, bright boy," Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.

　　"What's the idea?" George asked.

　　"None of your damn business," Al said. "Who's out in the kitchen?"

　　"The nigger."

　　"What do you mean the nigger?""The nigger that cooks."

　　"Tell him to come in."

　　"What's the idea?"

　　"Tell him to come in."

　　"Where do you think you are?"

　　"We know damn well where we are," the man called Max said,"Do we look silly?"

　　"You talk silly," Al said to him. "What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen," he said to George, "tell the nigger to come out here."

　　"What are you going to do to him?"

　　"Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?"

　　George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. "Sam," he called. "Come in here a minute."

　　The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. "What was it?" he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.

　　"All right, nigger. You stand right there," Al said.

　　Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. "Yes, sir," he said. Al got down from his stool.

　　"I'm going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy," he said. "Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy." The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn't look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry's had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.

　　"Well, bright boy," Max said, looking into the mirror, "why don't you say something?"

　　"What's it all about?"

　　"Hey, Al," Max called, "bright boy wants to know what it's all about."

　　"Why don't you tell him?" Al's voice came from the kitchen.

　　"What do you think it's all about?"

　　"I don't know."

　　"What do you think?"

　　Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.

　　"I wouldn't say."

　　"Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn't say what he thinks it's all about."

　　"I can hear you, all right," Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. "Listen, bright boy," he said from the kitchen to George. "Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max." He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.

　　"Talk to me, bright boy," Max said. "What do you think's going to happen?"

　　George did not say anything.

　　"I'll tell you," Max said. "We're going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?"

　　"Yes."

　　"He comes here to eat every night, don't he?"

　　"Sometimes he comes here."

　　"He comes here at six o'clock, don't he?"

　　"If he comes."

　　"We know all that, bright boy," Max said. "Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?"

　　"Once in a while."

　　"You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you."

　　"What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?"

　　"He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us."

　　"And he's only going to see us once," Al said from the kitchen.

　　"What are you going to kill him for, then?" George asked.

　　"We're killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy."

　　"Shut up," said Al from the kitchen. "You talk too goddamn much."

　　"Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don't I, bright boy?"

　　"You talk too damn much," Al said. "The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in a convent."

　　"I suppose you were in a convent."

　　"You never know."

　　"You were in a kosher convent. That's where you were."

　　George looked up at the clock.

　　"If anyone comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them you'll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?"

　　"All right," George said. "What you going to do with us afterward?"

　　"That'll depend," Max said. "That's one of those things you never know at the time."

　　George looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A street-car motorman came in.

　　"Hello, George," he said. "Can I get supper?"

　　"Sam's gone out," George said. "He'll be back in about half an hour."

　　"I'd better go up the street," the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six.

　　"That was nice, bright boy," Max said. "You're a regular little gentleman."

　　"He knew I'd blow his head off," Al said from the kitchen.

　　"No," said Max. "It ain't that. Bright boy is nice. He's a nice boy. I like him."

　　At six fifty-five George said, "He's not coming."

　　Two other people had been in the lunchroom. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich "to go" that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.

　　"Bright boy can do everything," Max said. "He can cook and everything. You'd make some girl a nice wife, bright boy."

　　"Yes?" George said. "Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn't going to come."

　　"We'll give him ten minutes," Max said.

　　Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o'clock, and then five minutes past seven.

　　"Come on, Al," said Max. "We better go. He's not coming."

　　"Better give him five minutes," Al said from the kitchen.

　　In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.

　　"Why the hell don't you get another cook?" the man asked."Aren't you running a lunch counter?" He went out.

　　"Come on, Al," Max said.

　　"What about the two bright boys and the nigger?"

　　"They're all right."

　　"You think so?"

　　"Sure. We're through with it."

　　"I don't like it," said Al. "It's sloppy. You talk too much,"

　　"Oh, what the hell," said Max. "We got to keep amused, haven't we?"

　　"You talk too much, all the same," Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.

　　"So long, bright boy," he said to George. "You got a lot of luck."

　　"That's the truth," Max said. "You ought to play the races, bright boy."

　　The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass under the arc light and cross the street. In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.

　　"I don't want any more of that," said Sam, the cook. "I don't want any more of that."

　　Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.

　　"Say," he said. "What the hell?" He was trying to swagger it off.

　　"They were going to kill Ole Andreson," George said. "They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat."

　　"Ole Andreson?"

　　"Sure."

　　The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.

　　"They all gone?" he asked.

　　"Yeah," said George. "They're gone now."

　　"I don't like it," said the cook. "I don't like any of it at all."

　　"Listen," George said to Nick. "You better go see Ole Andreson."

　　"All right."

　　"You better not have anything to do with it at all," Sam, the cook, said. "You better stay way out of it."

　　"Don't go if you don't want to," George said.

　　"Mixing up in this ain't going to get you anywhere," the cook said. "You stay out of it."

　　"I'll go see him," Nick said to George. "Where does he live?"

　　The cook turned away.

　　"Little boys always know what they want to do," he said.

　　"He lives up at Hirsch's rooming house," George said to Nick.

　　"I'll go up there."

　　Outside the arc light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car tracks and turned at the next arc light down a side street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch's rooming house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.

　　"Is Ole Andreson here?"

　　"Do you want to see him?"

　　"Yes, if he's in."

　　Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor. She knocked on the door.

　　"Who is it?"

　　"It's somebody to see you, Mr. Andreson," the woman said.

　　"It's Nick Adams."

　　"Come in."

　　Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prizefighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.

　　"What was it?" he asked.

　　"I was up at Henry's," Nick said, "and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you."

　　It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Andreson said nothing.

　　"They put us out in the kitchen," Nick went on. "They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper."

　　Ole Andreson looked at the wall and did not say anything.

　　"George thought I better come and tell you about it."

　　"There isn't anything I can do about it," Ole Andreson said.

　　"I'll tell you what they were like."

　　"I don't want to know what they were like," Ole Andreson said. He looked at the wall. "Thanks for coming to tell me about it."

　　"That's all right."

　　Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

　　"Don't you want me to go and see the police?"

　　"No," Ole Andreson said. "That wouldn't do any good."

　　"Isn't there something I could do?"

　　"No. There ain't anything to do."

　　"Maybe it was just a bluff."

　　"No. It ain't just a bluff."

　　Ole Andreson rolled over toward the wall.

　　"The only thing is," he said, talking toward the wall, "I just can't make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day."

　　"Couldn't you get out of town?"

　　"No," Ole Andreson said. "I'm through with all that running around."

　　He looked at the wall.

　　"There ain't anything to do now."

　　"Couldn't you fix it up some way?"

　　"No. I got in wrong." He talked in the same flat voice. "There ain't anything to do. After a while I'll make up my mind to go out."

　　"I better go back and see George," Nick said.

　　"So long," said Ole Andreson. He did not look toward Nick."Thanks for coming around."

　　Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.

　　"He's been in his room all day," the landlady said downstairs. "I guess he don't feel well. I said to him: 'Mr. Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this', but he didn't feel like it."

　　"He doesn't want to go out."

　　"I'm sorry he don't feel well," the woman said. "He's an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know."

　　"I know it."

　　"You'd never know it except from the way his face is," the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. "He's just as gentle."

　　"Well, goodnight, Mrs. Hirsch," Nick said.

　　"I'm not Mrs. Hirsch," the woman said. "She owns the place. I just look after it for her. I'm Mrs. Bell."

　　"Well, goodnight, Mrs. Bell," Nick said.

　　"Goodnight," the woman said.

　　Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc light, and then along the car tracks to Henry's eating house. George was inside, back of the counter.

　　"Did you see Ole?"

　　"Yes," said Nick. "He's in his room and he won't go out."

　　The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick's voice.

　　"I don't even listen to it," he said and shut the door.

　　"Did you tell him about it?" George asked.

　　"Sure. I told him but he knows what it's all about."

　　"What's he going to do?"

　　"Nothing."

　　"They'll kill him."

　　"I guess they will."

　　"He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago."

　　"I guess so," said Nick.

　　"It's a hell of a thing."

　　"It's an awful thing," Nick said.

　　They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.

　　"I wonder what he did?" Nick said.

　　"Double-crossed somebody. That's what they kill them for."

　　"I'm going to get out of this town," Nick said.

　　"Yes," said George. "That's a good thing to do."

　　"I can't stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he's going to get it. It's too damned awful."

　　"Well," said George, "you better not think about it."

　　亨利家的小餐馆门被推开了，两个男人走进来，在柜台边坐了下来。

　　“你们想吃什么呢？”乔治问他们。

　　“我不知道。”其中一个人说道，“艾尔，你想吃什么？”

　　“我不知道，”艾尔说，“我不大清楚自己想吃什么。”

　　外面天色越来越暗，窗外的街灯映进屋来。坐在柜台边的那两个男人正看着菜单。而柜台的另一面，尼克·亚当斯正打量着他们。刚才他们进来的时候，尼克在同乔治聊天。

　　“我要一份烤猪里脊加苹果酱和土豆泥。”头一个人说。

　　“它们还没有弄好呢。”

　　“那你他妈的干吗把它写上菜单呢？”

　　“那是晚餐的菜谱，”乔治解释说，“六点钟的时候就能吃。”

　　乔治看了一下柜台后面墙上的钟。

　　“现在是五点。”

　　“钟指示的是五点二十分了。”第二个男的说。

　　“它快了二十分钟。”

　　“噢，真他妈的是个破钟，”第一个男的问，“那你们这儿还有什么吃的？”

　　“我们这儿有多种三明治，”乔治说，“你们可以吃火腿加蛋、熏肉加蛋、肝加熏肉或者牛排。”

　　“给我来份炸仔鸡饼，配上青豆、奶油生菜和土豆泥。”

　　“那是晚餐的菜。”

　　“我们要的样样都是晚餐的菜，呃？你们就是这样做生意的？”

　　“我们可以供应你们火腿加蛋、熏肉加蛋、肝……”

　　“我要火腿加蛋。”那个叫艾尔的人说道。他戴着圆顶礼帽，穿件黑大衣，胸前有一排纽扣。他的脸小而苍白，嘴巴紧闭着，围着丝巾，戴着手套。

　　“给我熏肉加蛋。”另一个人说。他跟艾尔体形差不多，面孔不同，穿得却像一对双胞胎。两人紧裹着大衣，双肘放在柜台上身子前倾歪坐在那里。

　　“有什么喝的啊？”艾尔问。

　　“银啤、淡啤酒、姜汁饮料。”乔治说。

　　“我问你们有什么好喝的？”

　　“就是我刚才说的那些。”

　　“这真是个销赃城，”另一个人说，“人们管它叫什么来着？”

　　“山高皇帝区——管勿着。”

　　“听过这种说法吗？”艾尔问他的朋友。

　　“没有。”他朋友说。

　　“你们这儿晚上干什么？”艾尔问，

　　“聚餐，”他朋友说，“他们都来这儿吃晚饭。”

　　“对。”乔治说。

　　“你认为对吗？”艾尔问乔治。

　　“当然。”

　　“你是个非常聪明的家伙，不是吗？”

　　“当然。”乔治答道。

　　“嗯，你不是。”另一个小个子说，“他是吗？艾尔？”

　　“他是个哑巴。”艾尔说，他转向尼克，“你叫什么？”

　　“亚当斯。”

　　“又是个聪明的家伙。”艾尔说道，“他不机灵吗？麦克斯？”

　　“这个城里都是些聪明人。”麦克斯说。

　　乔治把两个盘子放在柜台上，一盘火腿加蛋，一盘熏肉加蛋。他又放下两碟炸土豆片，然后关上了通往厨房的那扇门。

　　“哪盘是你的？”他问艾尔。

　　“你自己不记得啊？”

　　“火腿加蛋。”

　　“真聪明。”麦克斯说，他探身向前拿了火腿加蛋。两个人都戴着手套吃饭。乔治在一旁看着他们吃。

　　“你看什么？”麦克斯盯着乔治。

　　“没什么。”

　　“混蛋，你他妈的看我。”

　　“这小子可能只是想开个玩笑，麦克斯。”艾尔说道。

　　乔治笑了。

　　“你不能笑，”麦克斯对他说道，“你不能笑，听见了吗？”

　　“好吧。”乔治说。

　　“他说好的，”麦克斯转向艾尔，“他说好的，真是个好家伙。”

　　“噢，他是个思想家。”艾尔说。他们继续吃饭。

　　“柜台那边那个聪明的家伙叫什么了？”艾尔问麦克斯。

　　“嘿，那个聪明的小子，”麦克斯向尼克叫道，“你跟你朋友到柜台那边去。”

　　“什么意思？”尼克问道。

　　“没什么意思。”

　　“你最好过去，聪明的家伙。”艾尔说。尼克走到柜台后面去了。

　　“什么意思？”乔治问。

　　“没你事儿。”艾尔说，“谁在厨房里？”

　　“一个黑人。”

　　“什么黑人？”

　　“他是做菜的。”

　　“叫他进来。”

　　“什么意思？”

　　“叫他进来！”

　　“你以为你在哪儿？”

　　“我们当然知道在哪儿，”那个叫麦克斯的男子说道，“当我们是傻子吗？”

　　“你说的就是傻话，”艾尔对他说，“你干吗要跟他争辩？听着，”他对乔治说，“告诉那个黑鬼，让他到这儿来。”

　　“你们想要对他做什么？”

　　“没事儿。用用你的脑子，聪明的家伙。我们会对一个黑鬼做什么？”

　　乔治打开那扇通往厨房的小门，“萨姆，”他叫道，“你马上过来一下。”

　　门开了，那个黑人走了进来，“什么事儿啊？”他问。柜台边的那两个人看了他一眼。

　　“好的，黑鬼。你就站在那儿。”艾尔说。

　　萨姆，一个黑人，系着围裙站在那里，看着柜台边的那两个人，“好的，先生。”他说。艾尔从凳子上下来。

　　“我和这个黑鬼，还有那聪明的小子一起回厨房去，”他说，“回厨房，黑鬼。你跟他一起走，聪明的小子。”这个小个子跟在尼克和厨子萨姆的后面去了厨房。门随后被关上了。那个叫麦克斯的男人坐在乔治对面的柜台边。他没有看乔治，而是看着镶在柜台后面的那排镜子。亨利的这家小餐馆是由一个小酒吧改装而成的。

　　“噢，聪明的小子，”麦克斯看着镜子说，“怎么不说点什么呢？”

　　“这究竟是怎么回事？”

　　“嘿，艾尔，”麦克斯叫道，“这个聪明的小子想知道这是怎么回事。”

　　“你为什么不告诉他呀？”艾尔的声音从厨房传出来。

　　“你认为这是怎么回事呢？”

　　“我不知道。”

　　“你认为呢？”

　　麦克斯说话的时候也一直看着镜子。

　　“我说不上。”

　　“嘿，艾尔，聪明的小子说他说不上这到底是怎么回事。”

　　“我听到了，行了。”艾尔在厨房里说。他用一个番茄酱的瓶子把那个用来递盘子的窗口撑开些，“听着，聪明的家伙，”他从厨房里对乔治说，“站到吧台那边去。麦克斯，你往左边挪一挪。”他跟个摄影师似的好像要摆弄个漂亮的造型。

　　“跟我聊聊，聪明小子，”麦克斯说道，“你想一会儿会发生什么事情？”

　　乔治没有说话。

　　“我来告诉你，”麦克斯说，“我们要杀一个瑞典佬。你可认识个个大个子瑞典佬，叫奥利·安德烈森的吧？”

　　“认识。”

　　“他每天晚上都来这吃饭，对吧？”

　　“他有时候是来这儿。”

　　“他六点钟来这儿，对吧？”

　　“如果他来的话，是这个时间。”

　　“这些我们都知道，聪明小子，”麦克斯说道，“聊点别的吧。看过电影吗？”

　　“偶尔去看。”

　　“你应该多看看电影。对于像你这样聪明的小伙子来说，电影是个很不错的东西。”

　　“你们为什么要杀奥利·安德烈森？他曾经对你们做过什么吗？”

　　“他从来没有机会对我们怎么样。他从来没见过我们。”

　　“当然，他马上会跟我们见一次面的。”艾尔在厨房说。

　　“那你们为什么要杀他呢？”乔治问。

　　“我们为一个朋友而杀他。只是受人之托，聪明小子。”

　　“闭嘴！”艾尔在厨房嚷道，“你他妈的废话真多。”

　　“唔，我得让这个聪明小子高兴。不是吗？聪明小子？”

　　“你废话太多了，”艾尔说，“这个黑鬼和我的聪明小子会自娱自乐的。我把他们捆得跟修道院的那对女朋友一样。”

　　“我还以为你真进了修道院呢。”

　　“你懂个屁！”

　　“你原来就在一个清净的修道院，你原来就是在那儿。”

　　乔治抬头看看钟。

　　“如果有人进来，你告诉他们厨子不在，如果他们不走，你就跟他们说，你会亲自给他们做。懂了吗？聪明小子？”

　　“好吧，”乔治说，“那你打算怎么处置我们呢？”

　　“看情况吧，”麦克斯说，“这是一时还不能让你们知道的事情之一。”

　　乔治看着时钟，六点一刻了。临街的那扇门开了，一个市内电车司机走了进来。

　　“你好，乔治，”他说，“有晚饭吃了吗？”

　　“萨姆出去了，”乔治说，“他可能要半个钟头后才回来。”

　　“我还是去别处看看吧。”那个司机说。乔治看看时钟，六点二十了。

　　“好小子，真是聪明，”麦克斯说，“你可真是个地道的小绅士。”

　　“他知道我会要他的脑袋瓜子。”艾尔在厨房说道。

　　“不，”麦克斯说道，“不是这样的。聪明小子是好样的。他可是个好小子，我喜欢他。”

　　到六点五十五分了，乔治说，“他不会来了。”

　　这时小店已经来过两个人了。其中一个，乔治进了厨房为他做了一份火腿加蛋三明治，让他随手带走。在厨房，他看到艾尔把他的礼帽挂在后脑勺上，坐在便门旁的一张小凳子上，架子上搁着一支锯断了的散弹枪。尼克和那厨子背靠背倚在墙角，嘴里各塞着一条毛巾。乔治做了三明治，用油纸包好，装入袋子，拿了进来，那人付了钱走了。

　　“聪明小子什么都能干，”麦克斯说，“他能烧能煮，样样都行。你能让某个小姑娘成为幸福的妻子的，聪明小子。”

　　“是吗？”乔治说，“你们的朋友，奥利·安德烈森不会来了。”

　　“我们再给他十分钟。”麦克斯说。

　　麦克斯看着镜子和时钟。时针指向七点了，很快已经是七点过五分了。

　　“过来，艾尔。”麦克斯说，“我们还是走吧，他不会来了。”

　　“最好再等五分钟。”艾尔在厨房说。

　　五分钟还没到，一个人进来了，乔治解释说，厨子病了。

　　“你他妈的干吗不再找个厨子？”那个人问，“你不是在开餐馆吗？”他走出去了。

　　“出来，艾尔。”麦克斯说。

　　“这两个聪明的家伙和黑鬼怎么样了？”

　　“他们没事。”

　　“是吗？”

　　“当然。我们这就完事了。”

　　“我不喜欢这玩意儿，”艾尔说，“不爽，你太多废话了。”

　　“噢，他妈的，”麦克斯说，“我们总得乐一乐，不是吗？”

　　“总之，你说多了。”艾尔说。他从厨房出来。他在腰间插着那只锯断了枪筒的散弹枪，显得他紧绷的大衣格外鼓鼓囊囊。他用戴手套的手把上衣拉好。

　　“再见，聪明小子，”他对乔治说，“你运气真好。”

　　“这倒是真的，”麦克斯说，“你应该去赌赌赛马，聪明小子。”

　　他们走了出去。乔治透过窗户看见他们从弧光灯下走过去，穿过大街。他们穿着紧身大衣，戴着礼帽，就像是杂技团的。乔治回身穿过转门，进入厨房，给尼克和厨子松绑。

　　“我再也不想碰到这种事了，”厨子萨姆说，“我再也不想碰到这种事了。”

　　尼克站起来，他从来没被别人往嘴里塞过毛巾。

　　“说说，”他嚷着，“他妈的这是怎么一回事？”他想充好汉，装成满不在乎的样子。

　　“他们要杀死奥利·安德烈森，”乔治说，“他们打算趁他来吃饭的时候杀死他。”

　　“奥利·安德烈森？”

　　“是的。”

　　厨子用两只姆指摸摸嘴角。

　　“他们都走了吗？”他问道。

　　“走了，”乔治说，“他们现在都走了。”

　　“我不喜欢这事儿。”厨子说，“我一点都不喜欢这事儿。”

　　“听我说，”乔治对尼克说，“你最好去看看奥利·安德烈森。”

　　“好的。”

　　“你最好别插手这件事儿。”厨子萨姆说，“你最好别卷进去。”

　　“你不想去就算了。”乔治说。

　　“插手这事对你一点好处都没有，”厨子说，“你最好别管。”

　　“我要去看看他，”尼克对乔治说，“他住在哪里？”

　　厨子转身走了。

　　“小孩子也知道自己想干什么。”他说。

　　“他住在赫希的公寓里。”乔治对尼克说。

　　“我去那看看。”

　　外面的弧光灯映着光秃秃的树影。尼克沿着车轨向街上走去，在另一个弧光灯下转弯，走上另一条小街。这条小街上的第三栋房子就是赫希的公寓。尼克踏上两级台阶，按铃。一个女人来开门。

　　“奥利·安德烈森住在这儿吗？”

　　“你要见他吗？”

　　“是的，如果他在的话。”

　　尼克跟着这个女人上了楼梯，走到走廊尽头。她敲了敲门。

　　“谁啊？”

　　“有人要见你，安德烈森先生。”那个女人说道。

　　“我是尼克·亚当斯。”

　　“进来！”

　　尼克推开门，走进房间。奥利·安德烈森和衣躺在**。他曾经是个重量级的职业拳击手，他个子太高了，床显得有些小。他头枕在两只枕头上，并不看尼克。

　　“有什么事吗？”他问。

　　“我刚才在亨利的小餐馆里，”尼克说，“有两个人进来把我和那个厨子绑了起来，他们说他们要杀你。”

　　他说这话时显得有点愚笨。奥利·安德烈森一言不发。

　　“他们把我们关进厨房，”尼克继续说道，“他们打算等你来吃晚饭的时候杀死你。”

　　奥利·安德烈森看着墙壁，什么也没说。

　　“乔治觉得我应该到这儿来告诉你。”

　　“这种事情叫我有什么办法。”奥利·安德烈森说。

　　“我会告诉你他们长什么样子。”

　　“我不想知道他们长什么样，”奥利·安德烈森说，他望着墙壁，“谢谢你来告诉我。”

　　“没什么。”

　　尼克看着**这个大个子。

　　“你想要我去一趟警察局吗？”

　　“不，”奥利·安德烈森说，“去了也没什么用。”

　　“我能为你做点什么吗？”

　　“不了，也没什么。”

　　“也许，这只是一种恐吓吧。”

　　“不，这不仅仅是一种恐吓。”

　　奥利·安德烈森翻过身去，面向墙壁。

　　“唯一的问题是，”他向着墙壁说道，“我就是不能拿定主意出去一下。我整天躺在这儿。”

　　“你不能离开这个城市吗？”

　　“不，”奥利·安德烈森说，“我已经跑够了。”

　　他望着墙壁。

　　“现在什么办法都没有了。”

　　“你不能想办法了结这事吗？”

　　“不，我已经得罪别人了。”他无力地说道，“毫无办法。过会儿，我决定出去一趟。”

　　“我还是回去看看乔治。”尼克说。

　　“再见，”奥利·安德烈森说，他并没有看尼克，“谢谢你过来。”

　　尼克出去了。他关门的时候看见奥利·安德烈森和衣躺在**，望着墙壁。

　　“他整天待在房里，”女房东在楼下说，“我想他可能身体不好。我对他说，‘安德烈森先生，像这种秋高气爽的好日子，您应该出去散步啊。’可他好像不喜欢那样。”

　　“他不想出去。”

　　“他身体不好，真叫人难过，”那个妇女说，“他是个很和善的人。你知道他曾是个拳击手。”

　　“我知道。”

　　“只有从他的脸上，你才看得出来，”那个妇女说。他们就站在街边的门廊里说话，“他可真是和气。”

　　“好吧，晚安，赫希太太。”尼克说。

　　“我不是赫希太太，”那个妇女说，“这地方是她的，我只是替她看房子。我是贝尔太太。”

　　“哦，晚安，贝尔太太。”尼克说。

　　“晚安。”那个女人说。

　　尼克走在漆黑的大街上，到弧光灯下的拐角处，沿着车轨回到亨利的小饭馆。乔治在里头，就在柜台后面。

　　“你见到奥利了吗？”

　　“见到了，”尼克说，“他在自己房里，不想出去。”

　　那个厨子听到尼克的声音，打开厨房门。

　　“这种话我连听都不要听。”说着他又把门关上了。

　　“你告诉他了吗？”乔治问。

　　“当然。我跟他说了，其实他什么都知道了。”

　　“他打算怎么做？”

　　“没什么打算。”

　　“他们要杀他啊！”

　　“我想是的。”

　　“他一定是在芝加哥搅上了什么事情。”

　　“我想也是。”尼克说。

　　“是件麻烦事儿。”

　　“是件可怕的事。”

　　他们不再说什么了。乔治拿了一条毛巾，擦着柜台。

　　“我想知道他到底干了些什么？”尼克说。

　　“出卖了什么人吧，所以他们要杀他。”

　　“我打算离开这个城市。”尼克说。

　　“好吧，”乔治说，“这是件好事。”

　　“我真不忍心看他就这样待在房子里，明知要出事了却无能为力，这太可怕了。”

　　“噢，”乔治说，“你最好别想这件事了。”

　　心灵小语

　　拳击手看似强壮，然而对死亡却束手无策、无能为力，只能躺在小旅馆的**，等待死神降临；而两个杀手，连要杀之人都不认识就要去杀人。拳击手并无得罪他们之处，他们去杀人只是为了完成任务。主人公对这样的境况深恶痛绝。文中各个人物由于阅历和认识经历不同对此事反应也各不相同，主人公通过此次事件开始了对暴力的厌恶以及对死亡的无力感，最终他只想逃开，离得远远的。

　　W词汇笔记

　　muffler ['m?fl?] n. 围巾；头巾；消声器

　　例 We need to buy auto muffler, please contact us.

　　我们需要买汽车消声器，请与我们联系。

　　dumb [d?m] adj. 无言的；哑的

　　例 This piano has some dumb notes.

　　这架钢琴有一些键不响。

　　nigger ['niɡ?] n. 黑鬼（对黑人的蔑称）

　　例 Three little nigger boys walking in the Zoo.

　　三个黑人小男孩走进动物园里。

　　convent ['k?nv?nt] n. 女修道会（院）

　　例 There are also trees in the garden which is situated just off the convent building.

　　花园里还有树，花园就在女修道院的旁边。

　　S小试身手

　　他跟艾尔体形差不多，面孔不同，穿得却像一对双胞胎。

　　译____________________________________________

　　尼克站起来，他从来没被别人往嘴里塞过毛巾。

　　译____________________________________________

　　他说这话时显得有点愚笨。

　　译____________________________________________

　　P短语家族

　　The two men at the counter read the menu.

　　at the counter：在柜台上

　　造____________________________________________

　　Heleaned forward and took the ham and eggs.

　　lean forward：探身过去

　　造____________________________________________