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主题 : [转贴]断背山(小说,中文翻译及原文)
卡拉 离线
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楼主  发表于: 2006-02-08   

[转贴]断背山(小说,中文翻译及原文)

宋瑛堂译


他们生长在贫苦的小农场上,在怀俄明州的对角线两端──杰克.崔斯特住在蒙大拿州边界的闪电平原镇,恩尼司.岱玛老家则在犹他州边界附近的圣吉,两人皆为高中中辍生,是毫无前途的乡下男孩。两人的言谈举止皆不甚文雅,对艰苦生活安之若素。恩尼司由兄姐带大,因为小时父母开车途经死马路上唯一弯道,不慎翻车,双双身亡,留下现金二十四元以及双抵押的农场。十四岁那年他申请设限驾驶执照,得以从农场开车一小时到高中上课。他原本希望当「梭福摩」(二年级学生),觉得这称呼带有某种高贵气质,无奈小卡车尚未撑到第二年即告停摆,使他不得不投入农场工作。

一九六三年他认识杰克.崔斯特 ,当时恩尼司已与艾玛.比尔斯订婚。杰克与恩尼司皆自称正在存钱买一小块地;以恩尼司而言,他的存款总数是装了两张五元纸钞的菸草罐。那年春天,两人为生活所逼,从事任何工作都无所谓,因此分别至农牧就业中心报名中心将两人分类为牧人与营地看管人,安排他们至讯诺以北同一处牧羊农场。夏天的牧草地位於断背山高海拔无林带,隶属森林处。这是杰克.崔斯特上断背山的第二个夏天,而恩尼司则是首度上山。两人皆未满二十。

两人在空气污浊的小货柜屋办公室里见面,在散放文件的桌子前握手。桌上文件字迹潦草,胶木烟灰缸里的菸蒂满溢。软百叶窗歪斜,三角形的白光因此得以进入,工头的手伸进白光中。乔.阿吉瑞鬈发如浪,呈烟灰色,中分,对他们表达个人见解。

「森林处在配地上有指定扎营地。营地可以设在距离放羊吃草两哩的地方。被野兽拖走的情形很严重,晚上没人就近看守。我要营地看管人待在森林处指定的主营地,不过『牧羊人』」──他以手刀指向杰克──「偷偷在羊群里搭个三角形小帐篷,别离开视线范围,睡在里面。早晚餐在营地吃,不过一定得『跟羊群睡在一起』,百分之百,『不准生火』,千万『不能留下证据』。三角形小帐篷每早收好,以免森林处过来东张西望带几条狗去。去年夏天被拖走的几乎有百分之二十五。不希望再发生。『你,』」他恩尼司说,看著对方一头乱发、疤痕累累的大手、破烂的牛仔裤、缺钮扣的衬衫,「每礼拜五中午十二点,带著你下礼拜的单子和驴子到桥头,有人会开小卡车载用品过去。」

他们找到一间酒吧,灌了整个下午的啤酒。满头鬈发与爽朗爱笑的杰克似乎让人看了顺眼,但以他矮小的身材而言,臀部却有点分量,微笑时显露出暴牙,没有严重到张嘴可以构到瓶颈里的爆米花,却足以令人侧目。他向往牛仔竞技生涯,皮带系了较小型的牛仔扣环,但他的皮靴磨损见底,破洞已到无可修补的程度。他一心只想外出打拚,只要不留在闪电平原,任何地方都没问题。

具备鹰钩鼻与窄脸的恩尼司,仪容不甚整洁,肩膀前凸导致胸部稍微内凹如穴,瘦小的上泶罱ㄔ诳ǔ咝蔚拈L腿上,身体肌肉发达,行动敏捷,天生适合骑马与打斗。他的反射作用快到不寻常的地步,远视情况严重以致不喜欢阅读哈姆雷马鞍型录以外的读物。

哐蚩ㄜ囘B著唏R拖车行驶至小路开端,他们在森林处设置的平台上搭起大帐篷,也固定了厨房与餐盒。第一夜两人同睡营地,杰克已开始抱怨乔.阿吉瑞「跟羊睡不准生火」命令,只不过翌晨他不多话,乖乖为枣红母马置鞍。

清晨在琉璃橙色中破晓,底下有一条胶状淡绿衬托。煤灰色的巨大山影缓缓转淡,最後转为与恩尼司煮早餐营火冒出的烟同色。寒风变得和煦,聚集成堆的圆石与散乱的土块乍然抛出铅笔长度的阴影,底下大群梁木松形成灰暗的孔雀石板。

白天时,恩尼司往大山谷另一方眺望,有时候会见到杰克,小小一点在高地草原上行走,状若昆虫在桌布上移动;晚上杰克待在漆黑的帐篷里,将恩尼司视为夜火,是巨大黑色山影的一粒红色火花。

这天接近傍晚时,杰克慢条斯理走过来,喝下两瓶放在帐篷阴影处湿袋里冷藏的啤酒,吃了两碗炖肉,吃了四颗恩尼司硬如石头的软圆饼,一罐桃子,卷了一根菸,欣赏日落。

「上下班,我一天要花四个钟头哩,」他闷闷不乐地说:「过来吃早餐,回去赶羊,晚上把它们安顿好,回来吃晚餐,回去看羊,晚上有一半时间睡得不安不稳,经常跳起来意有没有郊狼。我有权利在这里过夜。阿吉瑞没权利逼我。」

「要不要交换?」恩尼司说。「放羊我可不在意。我也不在意到那边睡。」

「重点不是这个。重点是,我们俩都应该待在这个帐篷里。那个可恶的三角形小帐篷有尿骚味,甚至比猫尿更难闻。」

「想跟我换的话没关系。」

「先警告你哟,半夜可要起床十几次检查有没有郊狼。我很乐意跟你换班,可是我煮的东西很难吃。开罐头倒开得不错。」

「你的手艺不会比我更烂吧。说真的,我没关系的。」

两人以黄色煤油灯消磨了一小时的夜色。十时左右恩尼司骑上擅长走夜路的雪茄蒂,穿水亮点点的霜气走回牧羊地,带著吃剩的软圆饼、一罐果酱与一罐咖啡粉,供隔天充,省了一趟路,可以待到晚餐再回来。

「天刚亮就射中一头郊狼,」隔夜他告诉杰克,一面以热水泼脸,以肥皂揉出泡沫,希望剃刀仍利。杰克在一旁削马铃薯。「好大一条杂种。鸟蛋跟苹果一样大。我敢说一定吃掉了几头小羊。看样子连骆驼都吃得下去。热水你要不要?多得是。」

「全给你好了。」

「这样的话,我构得著的地方全要洗了。」他边说边脱下皮靴与牛仔裤(没穿衬裤,没穿袜子,杰克注意到),绿色洗澡毛巾啪啪打在身上,溅得营火滋滋作响。

两人围著火堆吃晚餐,气氛愉快,一人一罐豆子,同享炸马铃薯与一夸脱威士忌,背靠圆木坐著,靴底与牛仔裤铜铆钉发烫,你递我接地喝著威士忌,而薰衣草色天空的色彩褪尽,冷风下沉,两人继续喝酒抽菸,不时起身小便,火光使弧形流水反射出光点;继续添柴延续话题;聊聊马匹与牛仔竞技,驯牛比赛,摔出的外伤内伤;两个月前长尾鲨潜水艇失联,最後几分钟一定如何如何;彼此养过、熟识的狗;冷风;杰克老家父母苦撑的农场;恩尼司爸妈几年前过世後结束农场经营;哥哥住在讯诺,姐姐已婚,住在凯斯白。杰克说,他父亲几年前曾是风云一时的骑牛士,却守口如瓶,从未给过杰克只字
建议,杰克上场骑牛时,从未前去捧场,不过小时候父亲曾让他骑绵羊。恩尼司说,他有兴趣的骑术是多於八秒钟的骑乘,说得有点道理。杰克说,钱也很重要,而恩尼司不不赞同。两人尊重彼此看法,很高兴在无人现身之境有人相伴。恩尼司逆风骑马回羊群途中,四面一片变化莫测、醉意朦胧的月光,心想自己从未如此开心过,感觉可以伸手刨出月球白色的部分。

这年夏天期间,他们不断拔营,将羊群赶到别处牧草地;羊群与新营地的距离愈来愈远,晚上骑马回营的时间也愈来愈长。恩尼司安步当车,双眼睁开睡觉,但离开羊群的时数也不断延长。杰克以口琴吹出哀嚎粗浊的音乐。恩尼司的歌喉沙哑动人。

「回去看那堆臭羊太晚了,」恩尼司醉醺醺说。他四脚著地,冷风飕飕,月亮指出时间过凌晨二时。牧地石头闪现白绿,冷酷无情的风吹在草地上,刮得营火直不起腰,接著又隆一隆火,捧成黄丝绶带。

「这里多一条毛毯,我帮你铺在这里,你打个盹,天一亮你再骑马过去。」杰克说:「火势一小,会冻得你哎哎叫。最好进帐篷睡。」

「我大概不会有什么感觉。」然而他踉跄走在帆布下,脱下皮靴,在铺地布上打呼一阵子,之後牙齿互撞声吵醒了杰克。

「拜托老天爷,别再磨牙了,给我滚进来。床垫够大。」杰克以睡意惺忪的烦躁嗓音说床垫够大够暖,不一会儿两人的亲密程度显著加强。

无论是修补围篱或花钱,恩尼司的行事风格总是全速前进,当杰克抓住他左手过来碰勃的阴茎时,他连碰也不想碰,霍然推开对方的手,彷佛碰到热火一般,接著跪坐地上,松开皮带,拽下长裤,拖杰克过来,让他四肢著地,然後借助天然润滑液与些许唾液入他体内,从未做过却不需检索使用手册。两人默默进行,唯一声响只有几下骤然吸气声以及杰克憋气说,「要走火了……」随後静止,倒地,熟睡。

恩尼司在红色晨曦里清醒,长裤仍落在膝盖处,头疼欲裂,而杰克的臀部紧挨著他;两人绝口不提,却知道这年夏天接下来的时光将如何度过。去他奶奶的绵羊。

他们没料错。两人从未讨论性爱,只是顺其自然,起初只在晚上帐篷内办事,後来在烈蒸烤的光天化日之下,夜晚在营火照射之下,快速,粗鲁,大笑,闷哼,制造不少声,却一个字也不愿说,只有一次恩尼司说,「我才不是同性恋。」杰克也脱口而出,说,「我也不是。就这么一次。是我俩的事,别人管不著。」高山上,唯有他俩翱翔在欣快刺骨的空气中,俯视老鹰的背部,以及山下平原上爬动的车辆灯光,飘浮於俗事之上,远离夜半驯良农场犬的吠叫声。

他们自认隐形,殊不知乔.阿吉瑞某日以十乘四十二的双眼望远镜观看了十分钟。

初雪下得早,才八月十三日,已累积了一尺深,但不久後积雪迅速融化。隔周乔.阿吉派人上山通知他们下山,另有一场更大的暴风雪从太平洋直扑而来,因此两人收拾起猎物,赶羊下山,石头在脚跟边滚动,紫云由西推挤而来,降雪前夕的金属味逼著他们前进。高山上恶魔能量沸腾,覆上薄薄的碎云光,大风梳整青草,吹得受伤的高山矮曲树与细长岩片发出野兽般低鸣。下坡时,恩尼司感觉自己以慢动作下坠,垂直下坠,全回头的余地。

「明年夏天还来吗?」杰克在街上问恩尼司,一脚已踏上自己的绿色小卡车。阵阵迅风吹得寒冷无比。

「大概不来了。」尘土如云扬起,空气充满细沙而朦胧,他眯著眼睛。「我跟你说过,艾玛和我今年十二月结婚。想搞个农场。你呢?」他移开原本看著杰克下颔的视线。最後一天恩尼司对他用力挥拳,打得他瘀青。

「要是没有更好的机会出现,考虑回老爹的地方,冬天帮他忙,春天大概会去德州吧。如果徵兵令没到的话。」

「好吧,这样的话,那就後会有期了。」疾风吹得一只空饲料袋沿街滚动,最後夹在他的卡车底下。

「好,」杰克说。两人握手,彼此捶肩一下,随後两人站离四十尺之遥,不知道怎么办只好朝相反方向驶开。开不到一哩远,恩尼司感觉有人一手接一手拉出他内脏,一次一码长。他停车路边,在回旋而下的新雪之中想吐却吐不出东西。他感觉极为难过,花好长一段时间心情才逐渐平复。

断背山之後第四年夏天,六月间恩尼司收到杰克.崔斯特寄来的平信,是他四年来首度获得对方的音讯。

「朋友,老早就想写信给你。希望你收得到。听说你住在大河镇。我二十四日路过,希望能请你喝杯啤酒。可能的话请回信,让我知道到时候你会在。」

寄件地址是德州巧崔斯。恩尼司回信:「那还用说。」附上他在大河镇的地址。

当天早上晴朗炎热,中午前西方推挤过来几朵白云,卷动些许闷热的空气。恩尼司穿上称头的衬衫,白底粗黑条纹,不知道杰克几时抵达,因此乾脆请整天假,来回踱步,不时向下了望尘封苍白的马路。艾玛提议带朋友到刀叉餐厅共进晚餐,天气好热,不方便在家开伙,如果能找到人带小孩的话……但恩尼司说他不如自己跟杰克出去喝个醉。
他说,杰克不喜欢上馆子,一面回想起圆木上摇摇晃晃的罐头,肮脏的汤匙伸进伸出舀著冷豆子。

下午五、六时,雷声隆隆,熟悉的绿色老卡车开进来,他看见杰克下车,百经折磨的牛仔帽往後倾仄。一股灼热的悸动烫著了恩尼司,他站在楼梯歇脚处,走出家门後关上门。杰克一次两阶阔步上楼。两人抓住彼此肩膀,使劲拥抱,压得几乎断气,不住说著:娘养的,狗娘养的,随後,宛如插对钥匙转动锁制栓一般油然,两人四唇交接,力道
之强,杰克的门牙咬出了血,帽子掉落地板,短须摩擦出沙沙声,唾液泉涌,此时家门开,艾玛朝外观望数秒,看到恩尼司紧绷的肩膀,关上门,两人仍紧紧相扣,胸部、蹊、大腿、小腿皆密不透风,彼此踩住对方脚趾,最後为了呼吸而分开时,不轻易表感情的恩尼司说出他对爱马与爱女的昵称,小亲亲。

家门再度开启,艾玛站在狭窄的光线中。

他又能说什么?「艾玛,这位是杰克.崔斯特,杰克,这位是我太太艾玛。」他的胸口上下起伏。他嗅得到杰克──强烈熟悉的体味混杂有烟味、麝香汗味与青草似的微微甜,同时也闻到高山奔流的寒意。「艾玛,」他说,「杰克跟我,已经有四年没见面了。」彷佛可以解释一切。他很庆幸楼梯歇脚处光线闇淡,不必转身背对她,以防她瞧见胯下春秋。

「是啊,」艾玛压低嗓门说。她看见了她刚才看见的情景。她身後的客厅里,闪电将窗户照亮成挥舞的白床单,婴儿哭了起来。

「你有小孩啦?」杰克说。他抖动的手擦过恩尼司的手,电流在两人之间窜过。

「两个女儿,」恩尼司说。「艾玛二世和法兰芯。爱到不行。」艾玛的嘴唇抽动。

「我生了个儿子,」杰克说。「八个月大。跟你说,我在巧崔斯娶了个可爱的德州小妞,露琳。」从两人站立的地板震动情形来判断,恩尼司可以感觉到杰克发抖得多厉害。

「艾玛,」他说。「杰克和我要出去喝一杯。晚上可能不回家了,会一直聊一直喝。」

「是啊,」艾玛边说边从口袋取出一元纸钞。恩尼司猜太太准备叫他买包香烟,希望提醒他早点回家。

「幸会,」杰克说。他颤抖得像跑得筋疲力竭的马。

「恩尼司──」艾玛以苦情的嗓音说,但丈夫并未因此减缓下楼的脚步。他回头呼喊,
「艾玛,想抽菸,卧室那件蓝衬衫口袋有几根。」

他们开著杰克的卡车离去,买了一瓶威士忌,不到二十分钟双双住进午睡汽车旅馆开始震动床铺。几把冰雹摇得窗户哗哗响,随後下起雨来,湿滑的风不停撞击隔壁房间未关妥的门,整夜不停歇。

房间充满精液、香菸、汗水、威士忌的气息,也充满了旧地毯与酸乾草、马鞍皮革、粪便与廉价肥皂的臭味。恩尼司呈大字形躺著,力气用尽,全身湿透,大口呼吸,仍呈半勃起状态。杰克学鲸鱼喷水用力吐出白烟,说,「老天爷,一定是那段时间骑马,功夫才练得这么厉害。这件事不谈不行。我对天发誓,不知道我俩会再来──好吧,我的确知道。所以才来这里。我^_^本来就知道。一路开到时速表最高限度,就希望早点到
。」

「我不知道你死到哪里去了,」恩尼司说。「四年了。差不多准备忘掉你了。我猜那次揍了你一下,让你不高兴了。」

「朋友,」杰克说,「我跑去德州参加牛仔竞技。所以才遇见露琳。看看那张椅子。」

污脏的橙色椅子背後,他看见皮带扣环晶莹闪闪。「骑牛?」

「对。那年赚了^_^三千块。穷到没力。除了牙刷之外,全部不得不跟别的牛仔借。
德州走透透。一半时间躺在那辆贱车下面修理。我从来没想过会输。露琳?她家钱可多著咧。她老爸有钱。做农机买卖的生意。当然不肯让女儿动他财产的脑筋,而且他恨我
恨到骨子里,所以现在不太顺利,不过等到有一天──」

「往好的地方看,日子自然会过得愈来愈好。没加入陆军吗?」

「他们用不上我。我压坏了几节脊椎。还有压迫性骨折,臂骨这边,骑牛时不是老是用大腿来支撑吗?──每次骑牛,手臂就多弯一点。跟你说,骑完後痛得要死。断了一条腿。哎,时机歹歹,跟我爹那时代不一样了。以前是有钱人上大学,受训当邉订T。现在参加牛仔竞技,没钱去不成了。除非露琳老爸翘辫子,否则再怎么说也不肯给我一分
钱。现在我骑牛骑出心得了,永远不会被放在候补名单上。其他的原因还有。我想趁自己还能走路的时候退出。」

恩尼司将杰克的手拉来自己嘴边,吸了一口香菸,吐气。「你呀,我看还壮得像头牛似的。你知道吗,我坐在这里拚命想,我到底是不是──?我知道自己不是。我是说,我们两个都有老婆孩子,对不对?我喜欢跟女人搞,没错,可是耶稣老天啊,跟这个却没得比。我从没想到要找另一个男的,只不过肯定是想著你打了有一百次手枪了。你有跟
别的男人做过吗?杰克?」

「当然没有,」杰克说。杰克最近不打手枪,而且骑的不只是牛。「你也知道。断背山那段,你我都有很深的感触,绝对还没结束。我们非想想办法不行,看看接下来怎么办
。」

「那年夏天,」恩尼司说。「我们领到钱、分手之後,我肚子痛得很厉害,不得不靠边停车,想吐却吐不出来,还以为在杜柏瓦那餐厅吃坏肚子了。花了大概一年我才想通,
当初不应该让你从眼前走掉。想通了,太晚也太迟了。」

「朋友,」杰克说。「我们给自己捅出篓子了。非想办法不行了。」

「想得出办法才怪,」恩尼司说。「我是说啊,杰克,我花了几年的工夫建立起一个家。我爱两个女儿。艾玛呢?这不是她的错。你也有儿子和老婆,在德州有个家。你和我一见面成那副德性」──他摆头朝自己公寓的方向指去──「抓狂似地黏成一团,两人在一起的时候还像话吗?那种事情找错地方乱来,肯定死路一条。这事用砝K也绑不住。
我害怕得不得了。」

杰克说:「你听好。我在想啊,跟你讲算了,如果你和我一起弄个小农场来经营,养几头母牛和小牛做做小本生意,加上你的马,生活一定会很美满。」

「慢著、慢著。那样可行不通。我们没办法开农场。我自己有自己的家要顾,被自己的圈子套住,跑不掉了。以前,老家附近有两个老头,一起开农场,俄尔和瑞奇,每次老爸看见他们都不忘批评一两句。尽管他们是直来直往的老汉,还是被人当作笑柄。我那时才多大,九岁吧,有人发现俄尔死在灌溉圳里。有人拿了轮胎撬棒打他,勾住他,抓著他老二拖著走,拖到老二断掉,只剩一块血淋淋的烂肉。轮胎撬棒打得他全身像是烧焦的蕃茄一样,鼻子因为被拖在砂石上,拖到被磨平了。」

「你看到了?」

「老爸硬要我看。带我过去。我和哥哥。爸看了大笑。拜托,就我所知,那是他干的好事。要是他还活著,现在探头进房门看,绝对会回去拿他的轮胎橇棒。两个男的同居?
算了吧。我认为比较行得通的办法,是偶尔聚在一起,躲在鸟不拉屎的地方──」

「多久才算偶尔一次?」杰克说。「^_^四年一次吗?」

他们不再是年轻男子,前途不再无量。杰克从肩膀到臀腿鼓胀起来,恩尼司仍保持瘦如晒衣杆的身材。

年复一年,两人的足迹遍及高海拔草地与山地排水区,骑马远赴大角山脉、药弓山脉,走访加勒亭山脉、猫头鹰溪等南端,也到过布立杰—铁顿山脉、弗黎早等山脉,到过盐河山脉,多次深入风河区,也去过母山、乐壤弥山脉,却从未重返断背山。

一九八三年五月,他们在一串冰封的无名高地小湖间度过寒冷的几天,然後走到对岸冰雹河流域。

恩尼司说,他目前在讯诺的司道麦农场照顾母牛与小牛,当地有个女人在狼耳酒吧兼差,恩尼司对她有好感,但是两人苦无进展,而且她有些问题恩尼司不愿沾上边。杰克说他在巧崔斯搞上了附近农场主人的老婆,过去几个月来他外出时提心吊胆,唯恐不是被露琳枪毙,就是死在农场主人枪下。恩尼司笑了笑,说他活该。杰克说他过得还可以,但还是很想念恩尼司,有时候郁闷之余打小孩出气。

马儿在营火光线范围外的黑暗中嘶笑。恩尼司一手搂住杰克,拉他过来身边,说他一个月见自己女儿一次,小艾玛十七岁,生性害羞,高瘦如竹竿;法兰芯是个精力充沛的小不点。杰克悄悄将冰手伸入恩尼司双腿间,说他担心自己儿子得了阅读困难症之类的毛病,毫无疑问,看书时怎么看就是不对劲,已经十五岁了还几乎不识字。做爸爸的他认为显而易见,而可恶的露琳却不愿承认,假装儿子没问题,拒绝带他去看医生。^_^
答案是什么,他也不知道。钱是露琳的,发号施令的人也是她。

「我以前想生个儿子,」恩尼司边说边解开钮扣,「却一直生女儿。」

「儿子女儿我都不要,」杰克说。「可惜^_^全部心想事不成。到我手里的,全都不
是我想要的东西。」他没有起身,直接将枯木投进火坑,火星随著他们的实话与谎言飞起,灼烫的几粒火点降落手上脸上,并非第一次。两人滚进泥土中。有件事恒久不变:
他俩偶一为之的交合,电火灼烁,却因感受时光流逝而蒙上阴影,时间永远不够,永远不够。

一两天後,他们回到山径起点的停车场,恩尼司探头进杰克车窗,说出整星期憋著不说的话,表示他必须等到十一月咦呒倚蟆五_始喂冬季饲料前才有休假的机会。

「十一月。搞什么?不是说好八月见?我们不是说八月,说好九天、十天。天啊,恩尼司!干嘛不早说?你有^_^一整个礼拜,却一个字也没讲。而且,干嘛老找这种冷不拉咙奶鞖猓课覀儜 挠胂朕k法。我们应该往南走。应该找机会去墨西哥才对。」

「墨西哥?杰克,我这个人你也知道。我所谓的旅行,顶多是绕著咖啡壶找壶柄而已。
而且我整个八月都得开捆乾草机。杰克,开心一点嘛。

十一月可以打猎啊,打一头漂亮的麋鹿。我看能不能再向老罗借到小屋。那年我们玩得多开心。」

「你知道吗,朋友,这种情况我不满意也不能接受。你以前说走就走。现在要见你一面
,简直像晋见教宗一样难。」

「杰克,我不干活不行。以前我说辞就辞。你娶了个有钱的老婆,有份好工作。口袋空空的日子,不记得了吗?听说过子女抚养金吧?我已经付了好几年,还得付个好几年。
告诉你,这份工作我没办法辞。也没办法请假。……不然,你有更好的点子吗?」

「以前有过。」口气刻薄,充满指责意味。

恩尼司不发一语,缓缓直起上身,揉揉额头;拖车里有匹马在跺脚。他走向自己的卡车,一手搭在拖车上,说著只有马儿听得见的话,转身以审慎从容的步调走回来。

「杰克,你去过墨西哥吗?」想搞就去墨西哥。他听说过风言风语。现在他动手割开杰克内心的围篱,进入格杀勿论区。

「去过啊,怎么没有?你到底想^_^怎样?」多年来不断准备迎接此刻,来得迟而不期然。

「杰克,这件事我非跟你说一遍不行,而且我不是说著玩的,」恩尼司说,「我不懂的东西很多,万一懂了,可能小命也没了。」

「我看你听懂不懂,」杰克说:「而且我只说这么一次。告诉你,我们本来可以一起过不错的生活,好得不得了的生活。你却不愿意,恩尼司,结果我们现在只有断背山。所有东西都以断背山为基础。断背山是我们拥有的一切,^_^一切,如果你不知道别的
部分,我希望这一点你至少能懂。二十年来,我们在一起的次数,你给我算算看。量一量你套在我身上的狗绳有多长,再来问我有没有去过墨西哥,然後再告诉我,想得到却几乎永远摸不著会害我送掉小命。我有多难受,你根本一点概念也没有。我不是你。我没办法靠高海拔一年干炮一、两次过活。你对我太重要了,恩尼司,你这个贱货婊子养大的杂种。要是我知道怎么戒掉你就好了。」

宛若冬日温泉蒸腾而起的大团雾气,多年未曾出口的言语以及此刻难以出口的话──承认、宣布、羞惭、愧疚、恐惧──团团包围住两人。恩尼司彷佛遭子弹射中心脏,脸色灰白,皱纹深刻,露出苦笑,双眼紧闭,拳头紧握,双腿朝下凹陷,以膝盖著地。

「天啊,」杰克说:「恩尼司?」在他下卡车前,一面猜测是心脏病发或怒火难遏滥烧,恩尼司再度站起,如同衣架打直,打开上锁的车子,然後再度弯曲成原形。两人几乎将一切扭转至原位,因为两人所言并无新意。没有结束,没有开始,也没有解决任何事


断背山上那年遥远的夏天,其中一段令杰克回忆、渴望起来既难以压抑也无法理解。当时恩尼司朝他身後靠近,抱住他,以沉默的拥抱满足了某种共享而无关性爱的饥渴。

两人如此在营火前站立良久,火焰抛出微红光块,两具肉体的阴影结合为一根紧靠岩石矗立的梁柱。时间一分分流逝,由恩尼司口袋里的圆表滴答告知,由逐渐燃烧成炭的树枝点明。星光在营火上方层层热流中破浪前进。恩尼司的呼吸缓和寂静,悄声呓语,在点点火星中前後微微摆动,杰克则毗倚平稳的心跳上,低哼震动恰似微弱电流,令杰克以站姿入睡,而此睡非彼睡,而是昏沉失神之感。最後恩尼司挖掘出童年母亲在世时对他说的一段话,尽管生锈了,仍派得上用场。他说,「该上床了,牛仔。我该走了。好了,别学马儿站著睡啦,」说著摇摇杰克,推他一下,自己步入黑暗中。杰克听见他上
马时马刺颤动声,听到「明天见」,以及马儿颤抖的鼻息,马蹄磨石的声响。

那次睡意沉重的拥抱,後来在杰克记忆中凝结固化,成为两人分隔两地、刻苦难捱生活中唯一毫无造作、迷醉入魔、至福充盈的时刻。这段往事百毒不侵,甚至知道了以下这件事也难以动摇:恩尼司当时不愿面对面拥抱他,是不想看到或感觉到拥抱的对象是杰克。也许吧,他心想,他们从未发展出更进一步的关系。顺其自然,顺其自然吧。

事发後数月恩尼司才得知,因为他捎给杰克一张明信片,告诉他看来十一月才走得开,结果明信片被退回,盖上「身故」两字。他拨了杰克在巧崔斯的电话。先前他只致电杰克一次,是在艾玛与他离婚之後,当时杰克误解了打电话给他的原因,开车一千两百哩北上却空欢喜一场。不会有事的,杰克会接听,他非接听不可。然而接听的人不是他,
而是露琳。露琳说,谁呀?你是谁?恩尼司再度说明身分後,她以平稳的嗓音说,对,杰克在小路上开车,胎圈不知因何受损而漏气,换胎时发生爆炸,胎框炸到他的脸,打伤了鼻子与下颔,因此失去意识,朝天躺下,等到有人发现时,他早已溺死在自己的鲜血里。

不对,他心想,一定是有人拿轮胎撬棒打死他的。

「杰克以前常提到你,」她说。「你常跟他去钓鱼或是打猎,我知道。本来想通知你的,」她说,「可是我不确定你的姓名和地址。杰克把多数朋友的地址记在脑子里。太惨了。他才三十九岁。」

「下葬在你那边吗?」他想咒骂露琳让杰克死在土路上。

细小的德州口音循著电话线匍匐前行。「我们帮他立个碑。他以前说希望能火化,骨灰撒在断背山上。我不知道在哪里。所以照他的意思火化了,一半埋葬在这里,另一半寄给他爸妈。我本来以为断背山在他老家附近。不过我了解杰克,所谓的断背山可能只是他想像出来的地方,有蓝鸫歌唱,威士忌像泉水涌出。」

「有一年夏天,我们上断背山放过羊……」恩尼司说。他几乎无法言语。

「是嘛,他说那才是他最喜欢的地方。我以为他指的是喝酒的地方。上山去喝威士忌。
他酒喝得好凶。」

「他爸妈还住在闪电平原吗?」

「当然罗。一直住到老死为止。我从没跟他们见过面。葬礼时他们也不过来。你自己跟他们联络。要是能实现他的愿望,我猜他们会很感激你的。」

毫无疑问的是,她虽客套,细小的嗓音却冰冷如雪。

前往闪电平原途经荒凉乡野,路过十数个废弃农场,在平原上间隔八至十英哩,眼睛无神的房屋呆坐杂草中,兽栏衰颓。邮箱写著约翰.C.崔斯特。他家农场寒酸窄小,枝叶繁茂的大戟有占领成功之势。牲口距离太远,他无法看清状况如何,只知道是白头黑牛。棕色粉饰灰泥屋矮小,正面有道门廊,两上两下共四间房厅。

恩尼司与杰克的父亲坐在餐桌前。杰克的母亲身材粗大,动作小心,彷佛刚动过手术。
她说,「想喝杯咖啡吗?要不要来一块樱桃蛋糕?」

「谢谢你,夫人,请给我一杯咖啡,蛋糕暂时不必了。」

老父静静坐著,双手交握在塑胶桌布上,以愠怒、知情的神态直盯恩尼司。恩尼司从他身上看出,他这种人并非不常见,是硬要当整个池塘老大公鸭的类型。他从父母身上看不出杰克有太多相似之处,深吸一口气。

「我对杰克感到非常难过。难以形容。我好久以前就认识他了。我过来是想让你们知道,他妻子说他希望骨灰能撒在断背山,如果想让我带上山去,我会感到很光荣的。」

一片沉寂。恩尼司清清喉咙,却不再多说。

老人说,「断背山在哪里我知道。他以为自己太特别,老家贱坟地配不上他啊。」

杰克的母亲置若罔闻,说,「他生前每年回家,在德州结婚以後也照常回来,帮老爹在农场干活一个礼拜,修修门,割割草的。我把他的房间维持像他小时候的模样,我认为他很感激。你想上楼参观的话请别客气。」

老人开口生气地说,「这里找不到帮手。杰克以前常说,『恩尼司.岱玛,总有一天我要带他过来,好好整顿一下这个该死的农场。』 他有个半生不熟的点子,说你们两个准备搬过来,盖间小木屋,帮我管管这个农场,弄得像样一点。後来今年春天,他说有人愿意跟他过来,盖个房子,帮我管理农场,是他在德州经营农场的邻居。他准备跟老婆离婚,搬回这里住。他那时这样说的。不过杰克说归说,成真的点子不多。」

现在总算证实是轮胎撬棒了。他起身说,没错,我想参观杰克的房间,一面回想起杰克谈过父亲的往事。杰克割过包皮,老爸却没有;杰克察觉父子生理上的差异,是在一个激动的场合。他说,他当时三、四岁,上厕所总是晚一步,手忙脚乱想解开钮扣,拉起马桶座,而且马桶太高,往往导致尿液四溅。老爸对此很不高兴,这一次更是大发雷霆。「天啊,他揍得我惨兮兮,把我打得跌到浴室地板上,拿皮带抽我。我还以为会被他
打死。後来他说,『想知道尿得到处都是的感觉吗?我来教你,』 说著掏出来,尿得我全身都是,湿透透,然後丢给我毛巾,叫我擦地板,脱掉我的衣服,在浴缸里洗,也洗毛巾。我又哀嚎又哭得眼睛红肿。不过在他对著我浇水的时候,我看到他身上多了一小块我没有的肉。我发现自己像是割过耳尖或是烙印过,和老爸不一样。从此就没办法认
同他。」

杰克的卧房在陡峭的楼梯顶端,往上爬时有独特的韵律。他的房间狭小闷热,午後烈日从西方窗户攻进,打在靠墙的儿童窄床,沾有墨水的书桌以及木椅,床铺上方有座手工削制的木架,上面摆了一把BB枪。窗外面对的是往南延伸的砂石路,而恩尼司这时倏然想到,这是杰克童年唯一认得的一条路。床边墙上贴了一张古老的杂志相片,是某个黑发电影明星,肤色转为紫红。他听得见杰克的母亲在楼下打开水龙头装满开水壶,放在炉子上,低声问了老人一个问题。

杰克的衣柜空间狭窄,架了一根横向木杆,以串了绳子的褪色大花帘布开合,以隔开房其他部分。衣柜里挂了两件牛仔裤,熨出摺线,整齐摺叠好,放在铁丝衣架上方,衣柜底有一双磨损的包装工皮靴,他隐约有印象。衣柜北端墙壁有个小小的凹陷处,可稍微隐藏东西。这里挂著一件衬衫,因长久挂在铁钉上而僵硬。他从铁钉上取下衣服。是
杰克在断背山穿的旧衬衫。衣袖上的乾血是恩尼司的鼻血。在断背山最後一天下午,两人展现软骨功胡抓乱扭,杰克不慎以膝盖撞击恩尼司鼻子,血流不止,沾得两人身上血迹斑斑。杰克以袖子止住鼻血,然而恩尼司却忽然一跃而起,挥拳击昏好意疗伤的杰克
,让杰克如天使般平躺在野生耧斗花丛上,双翼合胸。

衬衫拿在手中感觉沉重,後来恩尼司才发现里面另有一件衬衫,衣袖小心穿过杰克衬衫袖子内部。这件是恩尼司的格子衬衫,很久以前误以为洗衣服时弄丢了,如今沾了泥土的衬衫,口袋裂了,钮扣掉了,被杰克偷来藏在自己的衬衫里,一对衬衫宛若两层皮肤,一层裹住另一层,合为一体。他以脸重压布料,慢慢以口鼻吸气,盼能嗅到微乎其微的烟味与高山鼠尾草,以及杰克咸中带甜的体臭,然而衬衫并无真正气味,唯有记忆中的气息,是凭空想像的断背山的力量。

断背山已成空影,硕果仅存的,握在他双手中。
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“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  -----  Henry David Thoreau
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沙发  发表于: 2006-02-08   
Brokeback Mountain*
By Annie Proulx

Ennis Del Mar wakes before five, wind rocking the trailer, hissing in around the aluminum door and window frames. The shirts hanging on a nail shudder slightly in the draft. He gets up, scratching the grey wedge of belly and pubic hair, shuffles to the gas burner, pours leftover coffee in a chipped enamel pan; the flame swathes it in blue. He turns on the tap and urinates in the sink, pulls on his shirt and jeans, his worn boots, stamping the heels against the floor to get them full on. The wind booms down the curved length of the trailer and under its roaring passage he can hear the scratching of fine gravel and sand. It could be bad on the highway with the horse trailer. He has to be packed and away from the place that morning. Again the ranch is on the market and they've shipped out the last of the horses, paid everybody off the day before, the owner saying, "Give em to the real estate shark, I'm out a here," dropping the keys in Ennis's hand. He might have to stay with his married daughter until he picks up another job, yet he is suffused with a sense of pleasure because Jack Twist was in his dream.

The stale coffee is boiling up but he catches it before it goes over the side, pours it into a stained cup and blows on the black liquid, lets a panel of the dream slide forward. If he does not force his attention on it, it might stoke the day, rewarm that old, cold time on the mountain when they owned the world and nothing seemed wrong. The wind strikes the trailer like a load of dirt coming off a dump truck, eases, dies, leaves a temporary silence.


They were raised on small, poor ranches in opposite corners of the state, Jack Twist in Lightning Flat up on the Montana border, Ennis del Mar from around Sage, near the Utah line, both high school dropout country boys with no prospects, brought up to hard work and privation, both rough-mannered, rough-spoken, inured to the stoic life. Ennis, reared by his older brother and sister after their parents drove off the only curve on Dead Horse Road leaving them twenty-four dollars in cash and a two-mortgage ranch, applied at age fourteen for a hardship license that let him make the hour-long trip from the ranch to the high school. The pickup was old, no heater, one windshield wiper and bad tires; when the transmission went there was no money to fix it. He had wanted to be a sophomore, felt the word carried a kind of distinction, but the truck broke down short of it, pitching him directly into ranch work.

In 1963 when he met Jack Twist, Ennis was engaged to Alma Beers. Both Jack and Ennis claimed to be saving money for a small spread; in Ennis's case that meant a tobacco can with two five-dollar bills inside. That spring, hungry for any job, each had signed up with Farm and Ranch Employment -- they came together on paper as herder and camp tender for the same sheep operation north of Signal. The summer range lay above the tree line on Forest Service land on Brokeback Mountain. It would be Jack Twist's second summer on the mountain, Ennis's first. Neither of them was twenty.

They shook hands in the choky little trailer office in front of a table littered with scribbled papers, a Bakelite ashtray brimming with stubs. The venetian blinds hung askew and admitted a triangle of white light, the shadow of the foreman's hand moving into it. Joe Aguirre, wavy hair the color of cigarette ash and parted down the middle, gave them his point of view.

"Forest Service got designated campsites on the allotments. Them camps can be a couple a miles from where we pasture the sheep. Bad predator loss, nobody near lookin after em at night. What I want, camp tender in the main camp where the Forest Service says, but the HERDER" -- pointing at Jack with a chop of his hand -- "pitch a pup tent on the q.t. with the sheep, out a sight, and he's goin a SLEEP there. Eat supper, breakfast in camp, but SLEEP WITH THE SHEEP, hunderd percent, NO FIRE, don't leave NO SIGN. Roll up that tent every mornin case Forest Service snoops around. Got the dogs, your .30-.30, sleep there. Last summer had goddamn near twenty-five percent loss. I don't want that again. YOU," he said to Ennis, taking in the ragged hair, the big nicked hands, the jeans torn, button-gaping shirt, "Fridays twelve noon be down at the bridge with your next week list and mules. Somebody with supplies'll be there in a pickup." He didn't ask if Ennis had a watch but took a cheap round ticker on a braided cord from a box on a high shelf, wound and set it, tossed it to him as if he weren't worth the reach. "TOMORROW MORNIN we'll truck you up the jump-off." Pair of deuces going nowhere.

They found a bar and drank beer through the afternoon, Jack telling Ennis about a lightning storm on the mountain the year before that killed forty-two sheep, the peculiar stink of them and the way they bloated, the need for plenty of whiskey up there. He had shot an eagle, he said, turned his head to show the tail feather in his hatband. At first glance Jack seemed fair enough with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable. He was infatuated with the rodeo life and fastened his belt with a minor bull-riding buckle, but his boots were worn to the quick, holed beyond repair and he was crazy to be somewhere, anywhere else than Lightning Flat.

Ennis, high-arched nose and narrow face, was scruffy and a little cave-chested, balanced a small torso on long, caliper legs, possessed a muscular and supple body made for the horse and for fighting. His reflexes were uncommonly quick and he was farsighted enough to dislike reading anything except Hamley's saddle catalog.

The sheep trucks and horse trailers unloaded at the trailhead and a bandy-legged Basque showed Ennis how to pack the mules, two packs and a riding load on each animal ring-lashed with double diamonds and secured with half hitches, telling him, "Don't never order soup. Them boxes a soup are real bad to pack." Three puppies belonging to one of the blue heelers went in a pack basket, the runt inside Jack's coat, for he loved a little dog. Ennis picked out a big chestnut called Cigar Butt to ride, Jack a bay mare who turned out to have a low startle point. The string of spare horses included a mouse-colored grullo whose looks Ennis liked. Ennis and Jack, the dogs, horses and mules, a thousand ewes and their lambs flowed up the trail like dirty water through the timber and out above the tree line into the great flowery Meadows and the coursing, endless wind.

They got the big tent up on the Forest Service's platform, the kitchen and grub boxes secured. Both slept in camp that first night, Jack already bitching about Joe Aguirre's sleep-with-the-sheep-and-no-fire order, though he saddled the bay mare in the dark morning without saying much. Dawn came glassy orange, stained from below by a gelatinous band of pale green. The sooty bulk of the mountain paled slowly until it was the same color as the smoke from Ennis's breakfast fire. The cold air sweetened, banded pebbles and crumbs of soil cast sudden pencil-long shadows and the rearing lodgepole pines below them massed in slabs of somber malachite.

During the day Ennis looked across a great gulf and sometimes saw Jack, a small dot moving across a high meadow as an insect moves across a tablecloth; Jack, in his dark camp, saw Ennis as night fire, a red spark on the huge black mass of mountain.


Jack came lagging in late one afternoon, drank his two bottles of beer cooled in a wet sack on the shady side of the tent, ate two bowls of stew, four of Ennis's stone biscuits, a can of peaches, rolled a smoke, watched the sun drop.

"I'm commutin four hours a day," he said morosely. "Come in for breakfast, go back to the sheep, evenin get em bedded down, come in for supper, go back to the sheep, spend half the night jumpin up and checkin for coyotes. By rights I should be spendin the night here. Aguirre got no right a make me do this."

"You want a switch?" said Ennis. "I wouldn't mind herdin. I wouldn't mind sleepin out there."

"That ain't the point. Point is, we both should be in this camp. And that goddamn pup tent smells like cat piss or worse."

"Wouldn't mind bein out there."

"Tell you what, you got a get up a dozen times in the night out there over them coyotes. Happy to switch but give you warnin I can't cook worth a shit. Pretty good with a can opener."

"Can't be no worse than me, then. Sure, I wouldn't mind a do it."

They fended off the night for an hour with the yellow kerosene lamp and around ten Ennis rode Cigar Butt, a good night horse, through the glimmering frost back to the sheep, carrying leftover biscuits, a jar of jam and a jar of coffee with him for the next day saying he'd save a trip, stay out until supper.

"Shot a coyote just first light," he told Jack the next evening, sloshing his face with hot water, lathering up soap and hoping his razor had some cut left in it, while Jack peeled potatoes. "Big son of a bitch. Balls on him size a apples. I bet he'd took a few lambs. Looked like he could a eat a camel. You want some a this hot water? There's plenty."

"It's all yours."

"Well, I'm goin a warsh everthing I can reach," he said, pulling off his boots and jeans (no drawers, no socks, Jack noticed), slopping the green washcloth around until the fire spat.

They had a high-time supper by the fire, a can of beans each, fried potatoes and a quart of whiskey on shares, sat with their backs against a log, boot soles and copper jeans rivets hot, swapping the bottle while the lavender sky emptied of color and the chill air drained down, drinking, smoking cigarettes, getting up every now and then to piss, firelight throwing a sparkle in the arched stream, tossing sticks on the fire to keep the talk going, talking horses and rodeo, roughstock events, wrecks and injuries sustained, the submarine Thresher lost two months earlier with all hands and how it must have been in the last doomed minutes, dogs each had owned and known, the draft, Jack's home ranch where his father and mother held on, Ennis's family place folded years ago after his folks died, the older brother in Signal and a married sister in Casper. Jack said his father had been a pretty well known bullrider years back but kept his secrets to himself, never gave Jack a word of advice, never came once to see Jack ride, though he had put him on the woolies when he was a little kid. Ennis said the kind of riding that interested him lasted longer than eight seconds and had some point to it. Money's a good point, said Jack, and Ennis had to agree. They were respectful of each other's opinions, each glad to have a companion where none had been expected. Ennis, riding against the wind back to the sheep in the treacherous, drunken light, thought he'd never had such a good time, felt he could paw the white out of the moon.

The summer went on and they moved the herd to new pasture, shifted the camp; the distance between the sheep and the new camp was greater and the night ride longer. Ennis rode easy, sleeping with his eyes open, but the hours he was away from the sheep stretched out and out. Jack pulled a squalling burr out of the harmonica, flattened a little from a fall off the skittish bay mare, and Ennis had a good raspy voice; a few nights they mangled their way through some songs. Ennis knew the salty words to "Strawberry Roan." Jack tried a Carl Perkins song, bawling "what I say-ay-ay," but he favored a sad hymn, "Water-Walking Jesus," learned from his mother who believed in the Pentecost, that he sang at dirge slowness, setting off distant coyote yips.

"Too late to go out to them damn sheep," said Ennis, dizzy drunk on all fours one cold hour when the moon had notched past two. The meadow stones glowed white-green and a flinty wind worked over the meadow, scraped the fire low, then ruffled it into yellow silk sashes. "Got you a extra blanket I'll roll up out here and grab forty winks, ride out at first light."

"Freeze your ass off when that fire dies down. Better off sleepin in the tent."

"Doubt I'll feel nothin." But he staggered under canvas, pulled his boots off, snored on the ground cloth for a while, woke Jack with the clacking of his jaw.

"Jesus Christ, quit hammerin and get over here. Bedroll's big enough," said Jack in an irritable sleep-clogged voice. It was big enough, warm enough, and in a little while they deepened their intimacy considerably. Ennis ran full-throttle on all roads whether fence mending or money spending, and he wanted none of it when Jack seized his left hand and brought it to his erect cock. Ennis jerked his hand away as though he'd touched fire, got to his knees, unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down, hauled Jack onto all fours and, with the help of the clear slick and a little spit, entered him, nothing he'd done before but no instruction manual needed. They went at it in silence except for a few sharp intakes of breath and Jack's choked "gun's goin off," then out, down, and asleep.

Ennis woke in red dawn with his pants around his knees, a top-grade headache, and Jack butted against him; without saying anything about it both knew how it would go for the rest of the summer, sheep be damned.

As it did go. They never talked about the sex, let it happen, at first only in the tent at night, then in the full daylight with the hot sun striking down, and at evening in the fire glow, quick, rough, laughing and snorting, no lack of noises, but saying not a goddamn word except once Ennis said, "I'm not no queer," and Jack jumped in with "Me neither. A one-shot thing. Nobody's business but ours." There were only the two of them on the mountain flying in the euphoric, bitter air, looking down on the hawk's back and the crawling lights of vehicles on the plain below, suspended above ordinary affairs and distant from tame ranch dogs barking in the dark hours. They believed themselves invisible, not knowing Joe Aguirre had watched them through his 10x42 binoculars for ten minutes one day, waiting until they'd buttoned up their jeans, waiting until Ennis rode back to the sheep, before bringing up the message that Jack's people had sent word that his uncle Harold was in the hospital with pneumonia and expected not to make it. Though he did, and Aguirre came up again to say so, fixing Jack with his bold stare, not bothering to dismount.

In August Ennis spent the whole night with Jack in the main camp and in a blowy hailstorm the sheep took off west and got among a herd in another allotment. There was a damn miserable time for five days, Ennis and a Chilean herder with no English trying to sort them out, the task almost impossible as the paint brands were worn and faint at this late season. Even when the numbers were right Ennis knew the sheep were mixed. In a disquieting way everything seemed mixed.

The first snow came early, on August thirteenth, piling up a foot, but was followed by a quick melt. The next week Joe Aguirre sent word to bring them down -- another, bigger storm was moving in from the Pacific -- and they packed in the game and moved off the mountain with the sheep, stones rolling at their heels, purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing them on. The mountain boiled with demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light, the wind combed the grass and drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone. As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.

Joe Aguirre paid them, said little. He had looked at the milling sheep with a sour expression, said, "Some a these never went up there with you." The count was not what he'd hoped for either. Ranch stiffs never did much of a job.


"You goin a do this next summer?" said Jack to Ennis in the street, one leg already up in his green pickup. The wind was gusting hard and cold.

"Maybe not." A dust plume rose and hazed the air with fine grit and he squinted against it. "Like I said, Alma and me's gettin married in December. Try to get somethin on a ranch. You?" He looked away from Jack's jaw, bruised blue from the hard punch Ennis had thrown him on the last day.

"If nothin better comes along. Thought some about going back up to my daddy's place, give him a hand over the winter, then maybe head out for Texas in the spring. If the draft don't get me."

"Well, see you around, I guess." The wind tumbled an empty feed bag down the street until it fetched up under his truck.

"Right," said Jack, and they shook hands, hit each other on the shoulder, then there was forty feet of distance between them and nothing to do but drive away in opposite directions. Within a mile Ennis felt like someone was pulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time. He stopped at the side of the road and, in the whirling new snow, tried to puke but nothing came up. He felt about as bad as he ever had and it took a long time for the feeling to wear off.


In December Ennis married Alma Beers and had her pregnant by mid-January. He picked up a few short-lived ranch jobs, then settled in as a wrangler on the old Elwood Hi-Top place north of Lost Cabin in Washakie County. He was still working there in September when Alma Jr., as he called his daughter, was born and their bedroom was full of the smell of old blood and milk and baby shit, and the sounds were of squalling and sucking and Alma's sleepy groans, all reassuring of fecundity and life's continuance to one who worked with livestock.

When the Hi-Top folded they moved to a small apartment in Riverton up over a laundry. Ennis got on the highway crew, tolerating it but working weekends at the Rafter B in exchange for keeping his horses out there. The second girl was born and Alma wanted to stay in town near the clinic because the child had an asthmatic wheeze.

"Ennis, please, no more damn lonesome ranches for us," she said, sitting on his lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around him. "Let's get a place here in town?"

"I guess," said Ennis, slipping his hand up her blouse sleeve and stirring the silky armpit hair, then easing her down, fingers moving up her ribs to the jelly breast, over the round belly and knee and up into the wet gap all the way to the north pole or the equator depending which way you thought you were sailing, working at it until she shuddered and bucked against his hand and he rolled her over, did quickly what she hated. They stayed in the little apartment which he favored because it could be left at any time.


The fourth summer since Brokeback Mountain came on and in June Ennis had a general delivery letter from Jack Twist, the first sign of life in all that time.

Friend this letter is a long time over due. Hope you get it. Heard you was in Riverton. Im coming thru on the 24th, thought Id stop and buy you a beer Drop me a line if you can, say if your there.

The return address was Childress, Texas. Ennis wrote back, you bet, gave the Riverton address.

The day was hot and clear in the morning, but by noon the clouds had pushed up out of the west rolling a little sultry air before them. Ennis, wearing his best shirt, white with wide black stripes, didn't know what time Jack would get there and so had taken the day off, paced back and forth, looking down into a street pale with dust. Alma was saying something about taking his friend to the Knife & Fork for supper instead of cooking it was so hot, if they could get a baby-sitter, but Ennis said more likely he'd just go out with Jack and get drunk. Jack was not a restaurant type, he said, thinking of the dirty spoons sticking out of the cans of cold beans balanced on the log.

Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack's big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis's straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other's toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, little darlin.

The door opened again a few inches and Alma stood in the narrow light.

What could he say? "Alma, this is Jack Twist, Jack, my wife Alma." His chest was heaving. He could smell Jack -- the intensely familiar odor of cigarettes, musky sweat and a faint sweetness like grass, and with it the rushing cold of the mountain. "Alma," he said, "Jack and me ain't seen each other in four years." As if it were a reason. He was glad the light was dim on the landing but did not turn away from her.

"Sure enough," said Alma in a low voice. She had seen what she had seen. Behind her in the room lightning lit the window like a white sheet waving and the baby cried.

"You got a kid?" said Jack. His shaking hand grazed Ennis's hand, electrical current snapped between them.

"Two little girls," Ennis said. "Alma Jr. and Francine. Love them to pieces." Alma's mouth twitched.

"I got a boy," said Jack. "Eight months old. Tell you what, I married a cute little old Texas girl down in Childress -- Lureen." From the vibration of the floorboard on which they both stood Ennis could feel how hard Jack was shaking.

"Alma," he said. "Jack and me is goin out and get a drink. Might not get back tonight, we get drinkin and talkin."

"Sure enough," Alma said, taking a dollar bill from her pocket. Ennis guessed she was going to ask him to get her a pack of cigarettes, bring him back sooner.

"Please to meet you," said Jack, trembling like a run-out horse.

"Ennis -- " said Alma in her misery voice, but that didn't slow him down on the stairs and he called back, "Alma, you want smokes there's some in the pocket a my blue shirt in the bedroom."

They went off in Jack's truck, bought a bottle of whiskey and within twenty minutes were in the Motel Siesta jouncing a bed. A few handfuls of hail rattled against the window followed by rain and slippery wind banging the unsecured door of the next room then and through the night.


The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, shit and cheap soap. Ennis lay spread-eagled, spent and wet, breathing deep, still half tumescent, Jack blowing forceful cigarette clouds like whale spouts, and Jack said, "Christ, it got a be all that time a yours ahorseback makes it so goddamn good. We got to talk about this. Swear to god I didn't know we was goin a get into this again -- yeah, I did. Why I'm here. I fuckin knew it. Redlined all the way, couldn't get here fast enough."

"I didn't know where in the hell you was," said Ennis. "Four years. I about give up on you. I figured you was sore about that punch."

"Friend," said Jack, "I was in Texas rodeoin. How I met Lureen. Look over on that chair."

On the back of the soiled orange chair he saw the shine of a buckle. "Bullridin?"

"Yeah. I made three fuckin thousand dollars that year. Fuckin starved. Had to borrow everthing but a toothbrush from other guys. Drove grooves across Texas. Half the time under that cunt truck fixin it. Anyway, I didn't never think about losin. Lureen? There's some serious money there. Her old man's got it. Got this farm machinery business. Course he don't let her have none a the money, and he hates my fuckin guts, so it's a hard go now but one a these days -- "

"Well, you're goin a go where you look. Army didn't get you?" The thunder sounded far to the east, moving from them in its red wreaths of light.

"They can't get no use out a me. Got some crushed vertebrates. And a stress fracture, the arm bone here, you know how bullridin you're always leverin it off your thigh? -- she gives a little ever time you do it. Even if you tape it good you break it a little goddamn bit at a time. Tell you what, hurts like a bitch afterwards. Had a busted leg. Busted in three places. Come off the bull and it was a big bull with a lot a drop, he got rid a me in about three flat and he come after me and he was sure faster. Lucky enough. Friend a mine got his oil checked with a horn dipstick and that was all she wrote. Bunch a other things, fuckin busted ribs, sprains and pains, torn ligaments. See, it ain't like it was in my daddy's time. It's guys with money go to college, trained athaletes. You got a have some money to rodeo now. Lureen's old man wouldn't give me a dime if I dropped it, except one way. And I know enough about the game now so I see that I ain't never goin a be on the bubble. Other reasons. I'm gettin out while I still can walk."

Ennis pulled Jack's hand to his mouth, took a hit from the cigarette, exhaled. "Sure as hell seem in one piece to me. You know, I was sittin up here all that time tryin to figure out if I was -- ? I know I ain't. I mean here we both got wives and kids, right? I like doin it with women, yeah, but Jesus H., ain't nothin like this. I never had no thoughts a doin it with another guy except I sure wrang it out a hunderd times thinkin about you. You do it with other guys? Jack?"

"Shit no," said Jack, who had been riding more than bulls, not rolling his own. "You know that. Old Brokeback got us good and it sure ain't over. We got a work out what the fuck we're goin a do now."

"That summer," said Ennis. "When we split up after we got paid out I had gut cramps so bad I pulled over and tried to puke, thought I ate somethin bad at that place in Dubois. Took me about a year a figure out it was that I shouldn't a let you out a my sights. Too late then by a long, long while."

"Friend," said Jack. "We got us a fuckin situation here. Got a figure out what to do."

"I doubt there's nothin now we can do," said Ennis. "What I'm sayin, Jack, I built a life up in them years. Love my little girls. Alma? It ain't her fault. You got your baby and wife, that place in Texas. You and me can't hardly be decent together if what happened back there" -- he jerked his head in the direction of the apartment -- "grabs on us like that. We do that in the wrong place we'll be dead. There's no reins on this one. It scares the piss out a me."

"Got to tell you, friend, maybe somebody seen us that summer. I was back there the next June, thinkin about goin back -- I didn't, lit out for Texas instead -- and Joe Aguirre's in the office and he says to me, he says, 'You boys found a way to make the time pass up there, didn't you,' and I give him a look but when I went out I seen he had a big-ass pair a binoculars hangin off his rearview." He neglected to add that the foreman had leaned back in his squeaky wooden tilt chair, said, Twist, you guys wasn't gettin paid to leave the dogs baby-sit the sheep while you stemmed the rose, and declined to rehire him. He went on, "Yeah, that little punch a yours surprised me. I never figured you to throw a dirty punch."

"I come up under my brother K.E., three years older'n me, slugged me silly ever day. Dad got tired a me come bawlin in the house and when I was about six he set me down and says, Ennis, you got a problem and you got a fix it or it's gonna be with you until you're ninety and K.E.'s ninety-three. Well, I says, he's bigger'n me. Dad says, you got a take him unawares, don't say nothin to him, make him feel some pain, get out fast and keep doin it until he takes the message. Nothin like hurtin somebody to make him hear good. So I did. I got him in the outhouse, jumped him on the stairs, come over to his pillow in the night while he was sleepin and pasted him damn good. Took about two days. Never had trouble with K.E. since. The lesson was, don't say nothin and get it over with quick." A telephone rang in the next room, rang on and on, stopped abruptly in mid-peal.

"You won't catch me again," said Jack. "Listen. I'm thinkin, tell you what, if you and me had a little ranch together, little cow and calf operation, your horses, it'd be some sweet life. Like I said, I'm gettin out a rodeo. I ain't no broke-dick rider but I don't got the bucks a ride out this slump I'm in and I don't got the bones a keep gettin wrecked. I got it figured, got this plan, Ennis, how we can do it, you and me. Lureen's old man, you bet he'd give me a bunch if I'd get lost. Already more or less said it -- "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. It ain't goin a be that way. We can't. I'm stuck with what I got, caught in my own loop. Can't get out of it. Jack, I don't want a be like them guys you see around sometimes. And I don't want a be dead. There was these two old guys ranched together down home, Earl and Rich -- Dad would pass a remark when he seen them. They was a joke even though they was pretty tough old birds. I was what, nine years old and they found Earl dead in a irrigation ditch. They'd took a tire iron to him, spurred him up, drug him around by his dick until it pulled off, just bloody pulp. What the tire iron done looked like pieces a burned tomatoes all over him, nose tore down from skiddin on gravel."

"You seen that?"

"Dad made sure I seen it. Took me to see it. Me and K.E. Dad laughed about it. Hell, for all I know he done the job. If he was alive and was to put his head in that door right now you bet he'd go get his tire iron. Two guys livin together? No. All I can see is we get together once in a while way the hell out in the back a nowhere -- "

"How much is once in a while?" said Jack. "Once in a while ever four fuckin years?"

"No," said Ennis, forbearing to ask whose fault that was. "I goddamn hate it that you're goin a drive away in the mornin and I'm goin back to work. But if you can't fix it you got a stand it," he said. "Shit. I been lookin at people on the street. This happen a other people? What the hell do they do?"

"It don't happen in Wyomin and if it does I don't know what they do, maybe go to Denver," said Jack, sitting up, turning away from him, "and I don't give a flyin fuck. Son of a bitch, Ennis, take a couple days off. Right now. Get us out a here. Throw your stuff in the back a my truck and let's get up in the mountains. Couple a days. Call Alma up and tell her you're goin. Come on, Ennis, you just shot my airplane out a the sky -- give me somethin a go on. This ain't no little thing that's happenin here."

The hollow ringing began again in the next room, and as if he were answering it, Ennis picked up the phone on the bedside table, dialed his own number.


A slow corrosion worked between Ennis and Alma, no real trouble, just widening water. She was working at a grocery store clerk job, saw she'd always have to work to keep ahead of the bills on what Ennis made. Alma asked Ennis to use rubbers because she dreaded another pregnancy. He said no to that, said he would be happy to leave her alone if she didn't want any more of his kids. Under her breath she said, "I'd have em if you'd support em." And under that, thought, anyway, what you like to do don't make too many babies.

Her resentment opened out a little every year: the embrace she had glimpsed, Ennis's fishing trips once or twice a year with Jack Twist and never a vacation with her and the girls, his disinclination to step out and have any fun, his yearning for low paid, long-houred ranch work, his propensity to roll to the wall and sleep as soon as he hit the bed, his failure to look for a decent permanent job with the county or the power company, put her in a long, slow dive and when Alma Jr. was nine and Francine seven she said, what am I doin hangin around with him, divorced Ennis and married the Riverton grocer.

Ennis went back to ranch work, hired on here and there, not getting much ahead but glad enough to be around stock again, free to drop things, quit if he had to, and go into the mountains at short notice. He had no serious hard feelings, just a vague sense of getting shortchanged, and showed it was all right by taking Thanksgiving dinner with Alma and her grocer and the kids, sitting between his girls and talking horses to them, telling jokes, trying not to be a sad daddy. After the pie Alma got him off in the kitchen, scraped the plates and said she worried about him and he ought to get married again. He saw she was pregnant, about four, five months, he guessed.

"Once burned," he said, leaning against the counter, feeling too big for the room.

"You still go fishin with that Jack Twist?"

"Some." He thought she'd take the pattern off the plate with the scraping.

"You know," she said, and from her tone he knew something was coming, "I used to wonder how come you never brought any trouts home. Always said you caught plenty. So one time I got your creel case open the night before you went on one a your little trips -- price tag still on it after five years -- and I tied a note on the end of the line. It said, hello Ennis, bring some fish home, love, Alma. And then you come back and said you'd caught a bunch a browns and ate them up. Remember? I looked in the case when I got a chance and there was my note still tied there and that line hadn't touched water in its life." As though the word "water" had called out its domestic cousin she twisted the faucet, sluiced the plates.

"That don't mean nothin."

"Don't lie, don't try to fool me, Ennis. I know what it means. Jack Twist? Jack Nasty. You and him -- "

She'd overstepped his line. He seized her wrist; tears sprang and rolled, a dish clattered.

"Shut up," he said. "Mind your own business. You don't know nothin about it."

"I'm goin a yell for Bill."

"You fuckin go right ahead. Go on and fuckin yell. I'll make him eat the fuckin floor and you too." He gave another wrench that left her with a burning bracelet, shoved his hat on backwards and slammed out. He went to the Black and Blue Eagle bar that night, got drunk, had a short dirty fight and left. He didn't try to see his girls for a long time, figuring they would look him up when they got the sense and years to move out from Alma.


They were no longer young men with all of it before them. Jack had filled out through the shoulders and hams, Ennis stayed as lean as a clothes-pole, stepped around in worn boots, jeans and shirts summer and winter, added a canvas coat in cold weather. A benign growth appeared on his eyelid and gave it a drooping appearance, a broken nose healed crooked.

Years on years they worked their way through the high meadows and mountain drainages, horse-packing into the Big Horns, Medicine Bows, south end of the Gallatins, Absarokas, Granites, Owl Creeks, the Bridger-Teton Range, the Freezeouts and the Shirleys, Ferrises and the Rattlesnakes, Salt River Range, into the Wind Rivers over and again, the Sierra Madres, Gros Ventres, the Washakies, Laramies, but never returning to Brokeback.

Down in Texas Jack's father-in-law died and Lureen, who inherited the farm equipment business, showed a skill for management and hard deals. Jack found himself with a vague managerial title, traveling to stock and agricultural machinery shows. He had some money now and found ways to spend it on his buying trips. A little Texas accent flavored his sentences, "cow" twisted into "kyow" and "wife" coming out as "waf." He'd had his front teeth filed down and capped, said he'd felt no pain, and to finish the job grew a heavy mustache.


In May of 1983 they spent a few cold days at a series of little icebound, no-name high lakes, then worked across into the Hail Strew River drainage.

Going up, the day was fine but the trail deep-drifted and slopping wet at the margins. They left it to wind through a slashy cut, leading the horses through brittle branchwood, Jack, the same eagle feather in his old hat, lifting his head in the heated noon to take the air scented with resinous lodgepole, the dry needle duff and hot rock, bitter juniper crushed beneath the horses' hooves. Ennis, weather-eyed, looked west for the heated cumulus that might come up on such a day but the boneless blue was so deep, said Jack, that he might drown looking up.

Around three they swung through a narrow pass to a southeast slope where the strong spring sun had had a chance to work, dropped down to the trail again which lay snowless below them. They could hear the river muttering and making a distant train sound a long way off. Twenty minutes on they surprised a black bear on the bank above them rolling a log over for grubs and Jack's horse shied and reared, Jack saying "Wo! Wo!" and Ennis's bay dancing and snorting but holding. Jack reached for the .30-.06 but there was no need; the startled bear galloped into the trees with the lumpish gait that made it seem it was falling apart.

The tea-colored river ran fast with snowmelt, a scarf of bubbles at every high rock, pools and setbacks streaming. The ochre-branched willows swayed stiffly, pollened catkins like yellow thumbprints. The horses drank and Jack dismounted, scooped icy water up in his hand, crystalline drops falling from his fingers, his mouth and chin glistening with wet.

"Get beaver fever doin that," said Ennis, then, "Good enough place," looking at the level bench above the river, two or three fire-rings from old hunting camps. A sloping meadow rose behind the bench, protected by a stand of lodgepole. There was plenty of dry wood. They set up camp without saying much, picketed the horses in the meadow. Jack broke the seal on a bottle of whiskey, took a long, hot swallow, exhaled forcefully, said, "That's one a the two things I need right now," capped and tossed it to Ennis.

On the third morning there were the clouds Ennis had expected, a grey racer out of the west, a bar of darkness driving wind before it and small flakes. It faded after an hour into tender spring snow that heaped wet and heavy. By nightfall it turned colder. Jack and Ennis passed a joint back and forth, the fire burning late, Jack restless and bitching about the cold, poking the flames with a stick, twisting the dial of the transistor radio until the batteries died.

Ennis said he'd been putting the blocks to a woman who worked part-time at the Wolf Ears bar in Signal where he was working now for Stoutamire's cow and calf outfit, but it wasn't going anywhere and she had some problems he didn't want. Jack said he'd had a thing going with the wife of a rancher down the road in Childress and for the last few months he'd slank around expecting to get shot by Lureen or the husband, one. Ennis laughed a little and said he probably deserved it. Jack said he was doing all right but he missed Ennis bad enough sometimes to make him whip babies.

The horses nickered in the darkness beyond the fire's circle of light. Ennis put his arm around Jack, pulled him close, said he saw his girls about once a month, Alma Jr. a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole length, Francine a little live wire. Jack slid his cold hand between Ennis's legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn't get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn't hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen wouldn't admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it. He didn't know what the fuck the answer was. Lureen had the money and called the shots.

"I used a want a boy for a kid," said Ennis, undoing buttons, "but just got little girls."

"I didn't want none a either kind," said Jack. "But fuck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way." Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time, never enough.

A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into the trailer, Ennis was ready to head back to Signal, Jack up to Lightning Flat to see the old man. Ennis leaned into Jack's window, said what he'd been putting off the whole week, that likely he couldn't get away again until November after they'd shipped stock and before winter feeding started.

"November. What in hell happened a August? Tell you what, we said August, nine, ten days. Christ, Ennis! Whyn't you tell me this before? You had a fuckin week to say some little word about it. And why's it we're always in the friggin cold weather? We ought a do somethin. We ought a go south. We ought a go to Mexico one day."

"Mexico? Jack, you know me. All the travelin I ever done is goin around the coffeepot lookin for the handle. And I'll be runnin the baler all August, that's what's the matter with August. Lighten up, Jack. We can hunt in November, kill a nice elk. Try if I can get Don Wroe's cabin again. We had a good time that year."

"You know, friend, this is a goddamn bitch of a unsatisfactory situation. You used a come away easy. It's like seein the pope now."

"Jack, I got a work. Them earlier days I used a quit the jobs. You got a wife with money, a good job. You forget how it is bein broke all the time. You ever hear a child support? I been payin out for years and got more to go. Let me tell you, I can't quit this one. And I can't get the time off. It was tough gettin this time -- some a them late heifers is still calvin. You don't leave then. You don't. Stoutamire is a hell-raiser and he raised hell about me takin the week. I don't blame him. He probly ain't got a night's sleep since I left. The trade-off was August. You got a better idea?"

"I did once." The tone was bitter and accusatory.

Ennis said nothing, straightened up slowly, rubbed at his forehead; a horse stamped inside the trailer. He walked to his truck, put his hand on the trailer, said something that only the horses could hear, turned and walked back at a deliberate pace.

"You been a Mexico, Jack?" Mexico was the place. He'd heard. He was cutting fence now, trespassing in the shoot-em zone.

"Hell yes, I been. Where's the fuckin problem?" Braced for it all these years and here it came, late and unexpected.

"I got a say this to you one time, Jack, and I ain't foolin. What I don't know," said Ennis, "all them things I don't know could get you killed if I should come to know them."

"Try this one," said Jack, "and I'll say it just one time. Tell you what, we could a had a good life together, a fuckin real good life. You wouldn't do it, Ennis, so what we got now is Brokeback Mountain. Everthing built on that. It's all we got, boy, fuckin all, so I hope you know that if you don't never know the rest. Count the damn few times we been together in twenty years. Measure the fuckin short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Mexico and then tell me you'll kill me for needin it and not hardly never gettin it. You got no fuckin idea how bad it gets. I'm not you. I can't make it on a couple a high-altitude fucks once or twice a year. You're too much for me, Ennis, you son of a whoreson bitch. I wish I knew how to quit you."

Like vast clouds of steam from thermal springs in winter the years of things unsaid and now unsayable -- admissions, declarations, shames, guilts, fears -- rose around them. Ennis stood as if heart-shot, face grey and deep-lined, grimacing, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, legs caving, hit the ground on his knees.

"Jesus," said Jack. "Ennis?" But before he was out of the truck, trying to guess if it was heart attack or the overflow of an incendiary rage, Ennis was back on his feet and somehow, as a coat hanger is straightened to open a locked car and then bent again to its original shape, they torqued things almost to where they had been, for what they'd said was no news. Nothing ended, nothing begun, nothing resolved.


What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis's pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis's breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you're sleepin on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never got much farther than that. Let be, let be.


Ennis didn't know about the accident for months until his postcard to Jack saying that November still looked like the first chance came back stamped DECEASED. He called Jack's number in Childress, something he had done only once before when Alma divorced him and Jack had misunderstood the reason for the call, had driven twelve hundred miles north for nothing. This would be all right, Jack would answer, had to answer. But he did not. It was Lureen and she said who? who is this? and when he told her again she said in a level voice yes, Jack was pumping up a flat on the truck out on a back road when the tire blew up. The bead was damaged somehow and the force of the explosion slammed the rim into his face, broke his nose and jaw and knocked him unconscious on his back. By the time someone came along he had drowned in his own blood.

No, he thought, they got him with the tire iron.

"Jack used to mention you," she said. "You're the fishing buddy or the hunting buddy, I know that. Would have let you know," she said, "but I wasn't sure about your name and address. Jack kept most a his friends' addresses in his head. It was a terrible thing. He was only thirty-nine years old."

The huge sadness of the northern plains rolled down on him. He didn't know which way it was, the tire iron or a real accident, blood choking down Jack's throat and nobody to turn him over. Under the wind drone he heard steel slamming off bone, the hollow chatter of a settling tire rim.

"He buried down there?" He wanted to curse her for letting Jack die on the dirt road.

The little Texas voice came slip-sliding down the wire. "We put a stone up. He use to say he wanted to be cremated, ashes scattered on Brokeback Mountain. I didn't know where that was. So he was cremated, like he wanted, and like I say, half his ashes was interred here, and the rest I sent up to his folks. I thought Brokeback Mountain was around where he grew up. But knowing Jack, it might be some pretend place where the bluebirds sing and there's a whiskey spring."

"We herded sheep on Brokeback one summer," said Ennis. He could hardly speak.

"Well, he said it was his place. I thought he meant to get drunk. Drink whiskey up there. He drank a lot."

"His folks still up in Lightnin Flat?"

"Oh yeah. They'll be there until they die. I never met them. They didn't come down for the funeral. You get in touch with them. I suppose they'd appreciate it if his wishes was carried out."

No doubt about it, she was polite but the little voice was cold as snow.


The road to Lightning Flat went through desolate country past a dozen abandoned ranches distributed over the plain at eight- and ten-mile intervals, houses sitting blank-eyed in the weeds, corral fences down. The mailbox read John C. Twist. The ranch was a meagre little place, leafy spurge taking over. The stock was too far distant for him to see their condition, only that they were black baldies. A porch stretched across the front of the tiny brown stucco house, four rooms, two down, two up.

Ennis sat at the kitchen table with Jack's father. Jack's mother, stout and careful in her movements as though recovering from an operation, said, "Want some coffee, don't you? Piece a cherry cake?"

"Thank you, ma'am, I'll take a cup a coffee but I can't eat no cake just now."

The old man sat silent, his hands folded on the plastic tablecloth, staring at Ennis with an angry, knowing expression. Ennis recognized in him a not uncommon type with the hard need to be the stud duck in the pond. He couldn't see much of Jack in either one of them, took a breath.

"I feel awful bad about Jack. Can't begin to say how bad I feel. I knew him a long time. I come by to tell you that if you want me to take his ashes up there on Brokeback like his wife says he wanted I'd be proud to."

There was a silence. Ennis cleared his throat but said nothing more.

The old man said, "Tell you what, I know where Brokeback Mountain is. He thought he was too goddamn special to be buried in the family plot."

Jack's mother ignored this, said, "He used a come home every year, even after he was married and down in Texas, and help his daddy on the ranch for a week fix the gates and mow and all. I kept his room like it was when he was a boy and I think he appreciated that. You are welcome to go up in his room if you want."

The old man spoke angrily. "I can't get no help out here. Jack used a say, 'Ennis del Mar,' he used a say, 'I'm goin a bring him up here one a these days and we'll lick this damn ranch into shape.' He had some half-baked idea the two a you was goin a move up here, build a log cabin and help me run this ranch and bring it up. Then, this spring he's got another one's goin a come up here with him and build a place and help run the ranch, some ranch neighbor a his from down in Texas. He's goin a split up with his wife and come back here. So he says. But like most a Jack's ideas it never come to pass."

So now he knew it had been the tire iron. He stood up, said, you bet he'd like to see Jack's room, recalled one of Jack's stories about this old man. Jack was dick-clipped and the old man was not; it bothered the son who had discovered the anatomical disconformity during a hard scene. He had been about three or four, he said, always late getting to the toilet, struggling with buttons, the seat, the height of the thing and often as not left the surroundings sprinkled down. The old man blew up about it and this one time worked into a crazy rage. "Christ, he licked the stuffin out a me, knocked me down on the bathroom floor, whipped me with his belt. I thought he was killin me. Then he says, 'You want a know what it's like with piss all over the place? I'll learn you,' and he pulls it out and lets go all over me, soaked me, then he throws a towel at me and makes me mop up the floor, take my clothes off and warsh them in the bathtub, warsh out the towel, I'm bawlin and blubberin. But while he was hosin me down I seen he had some extra material that I was missin. I seen they'd cut me different like you'd crop a ear or scorch a brand. No way to get it right with him after that."

The bedroom, at the top of a steep stair that had its own climbing rhythm, was tiny and hot, afternoon sun pounding through the west window, hitting the narrow boy's bed against the wall, an ink-stained desk and wooden chair, a b.b. gun in a hand-whittled rack over the bed. The window looked down on the gravel road stretching south and it occurred to him that for his growing-up years that was the only road Jack knew. An ancient magazine photograph of some dark-haired movie star was taped to the wall beside the bed, the skin tone gone magenta. He could hear Jack's mother downstairs running water, filling the kettle and setting it back on the stove, asking the old man a muffled question.

The closet was a shallow cavity with a wooden rod braced across, a faded cretonne curtain on a string closing it off from the rest of the room. In the closet hung two pairs of jeans crease-ironed and folded neatly over wire hangers, on the floor a pair of worn packer boots he thought he remembered. At the north end of the closet a tiny jog in the wall made a slight hiding place and here, stiff with long suspension from a nail, hung a shirt. He lifted it off the nail. Jack's old shirt from Brokeback days. The dried blood on the sleeve was his own blood, a gushing nosebleed on the last afternoon on the mountain when Jack, in their contortionistic grappling and wrestling, had slammed Ennis's nose hard with his knee. He had staunched the blood which was everywhere, all over both of them, with his shirtsleeve, but the staunching hadn't held because Ennis had suddenly swung from the deck and laid the ministering angel out in the wild columbine, wings folded.

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack's sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he'd thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack's own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one. He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands.


In the end the stud duck refused to let Jack's ashes go. "Tell you what, we got a family plot and he's goin in it." Jack's mother stood at the table coring apples with a sharp, serrated instrument. "You come again," she said.

Bumping down the washboard road Ennis passed the country cemetery fenced with sagging sheep wire, a tiny fenced square on the welling prairie, a few graves bright with plastic flowers, and didn't want to know Jack was going in there, to be buried on the grieving plain.


A few weeks later on the Saturday he threw all Stoutamire's dirty horse blankets into the back of his pickup and took them down to the Quik Stop Car Wash to turn the high-pressure spray on them. When the wet clean blankets were stowed in the truck bed he stepped into Higgins's gift shop and busied himself with the postcard rack.

"Ennis, what are you lookin for rootin through them postcards?" said Linda Higgins, throwing a sopping brown coffee filter into the garbage can.

"Scene a Brokeback Mountain."

"Over in Fremont County?"

"No, north a here."

"I didn't order none a them. Let me get the order list. They got it I can get you a hunderd. I got a order some more cards anyway."

"One's enough," said Ennis.

When it came -- thirty cents -- he pinned it up in his trailer, brass-headed tack in each corner. Below it he drove a nail and on the nail he hung the wire hanger and the two old shirts suspended from it. He stepped back and looked at the ensemble through a few stinging tears.

"Jack, I swear -- " he said, though Jack had never asked him to swear anything and was himself not the swearing kind.


Around that time Jack began to appear in his dreams, Jack as he had first seen him, curly-headed and smiling and bucktoothed, talking about getting up off his pockets and into the control zone, but the can of beans with the spoon handle jutting out and balanced on the log was there as well, in a cartoon shape and lurid colors that gave the dreams a flavor of comic obscenity. The spoon handle was the kind that could be used as a tire iron. And he would wake sometimes in grief, sometimes with the old sense of joy and release; the pillow sometimes wet, sometimes the sheets.

There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can't fix it you've got to stand it.

* From Close Range: Wyoming Stories by Annie Proulx.

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“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  -----  Henry David Thoreau
水做的鱼 离线
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板凳  发表于: 2006-02-08   
好像少了最后一段的翻译(没有逐一去比较)。

《断背山》,我们是买了碟片回家看的电影。放了一半(不知道是不是一半,到两人四年后重逢),老公实在看不下去,叫停。我也觉得很难接受电影的表现,而且女儿还和我们在一起。碟片搁在那里一放就是半个月,没有想过什么时候会再接着看下去。

我坦白,我是庸俗的人。我不知道这个故事想表达的是什么意思,虽然同性恋也是恋,我也同情他们,但很难想象去接受他们。
没有人是一座孤岛,可以自全。每个人都是大陆的一片,整体的一部分,……任何人的死亡都是我的损失,因为我是人类的一员。因此,不要问丧钟为谁而鸣,它就为你而鸣。
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地板  发表于: 2006-02-08   
鱼儿, 不是你一个人折磨想...
好多人, 都觉得庸长, 不能忍受....

获奖的影片, 不一定是最好的....
卡拉 离线
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地下室  发表于: 2006-02-28   
Re:[转贴]断背山(中文翻译另一版本)
《断臂山》中译稿
------------------------
断 背 山
Brokeback Mountain

原著:E. Annie Proulx
翻译:微雨寒梅

(上)

埃尼斯•德•玛尔不到五点就醒了,风摇晃着拖车,嘶嘶作响地从铝制门窗缝儿钻进来,吹得挂在钉子上的衬衣微微抖动。他爬起来,挠了挠下体和阴毛,慢腾腾地走到煤气灶前,把上次喝剩的咖啡倒进缺了个口儿的搪瓷锅子里。蓝色的火焰登时裹住了锅子。他打开水龙头在小便槽里撒了泡尿,穿上衬衣牛仔裤和他那破靴子,用脚跟在地板上蹬了蹬把整个脚穿了进去。

风沿着拖车的轮廓呼啸着打转,他都能听到沙砾在风中发出刮擦声。在公路上开着辆破拖车赶路可真够糟糕的,但是今天早上他就必须打好包,离开此地。农场被卖掉了,最后一匹马也已经运走了,前天农场主就支付了所有人的工钱打发他们离开。他把钥匙扔给埃尼斯,说了句“农场交给房地产经纪吧,我走了”。看来,在找到下一份活儿之前,埃尼斯就只好跟他那已经嫁了人的闺女呆在一起了。但是他心里头美滋滋的,因为在梦里,他又见到了杰克。

咖啡沸了。没等溢出来他就提起了锅子,把它倒进一个脏兮兮的杯子里。他吹了吹这些黑色的液体,继续琢磨那个梦。稍不留神,那梦境就把他带回了以往的辰光,令他重温那些寒冷的山中岁月--那时候他们拥有整个世界,无忧无虑,随心所欲……

风还在吹打着拖车,那情形就像把一车泥土从运沙车上倾倒下来似的,由强到弱,继而留下片刻的寂静。

他们都生长在蒙大拿州犄角旮旯那种又小又穷的农场里,杰克来自州北部边境的赖特宁平原,埃尼斯则来自离犹他州边境不远的塞奇郡附近;两人都是高中没读完就辍学了,前途无望,注定将来得干重活、过穷日子;两人都举止粗鲁、满口脏话,习惯了节俭度日。埃尼斯是他哥哥和姐姐养大的。他们的父母在“鬼见愁”唯一的拐弯处翻了车,给他们留下了二十四块钱现金和一个被双重抵押的农场。埃尼斯十四岁的时候申请了执照,可以从农场长途跋涉去上高中了。他开的是一辆旧的小货车,没有取暖器,只有一个雨刷,轮胎也挺差劲儿;好不容易开到了,却又没钱修车了。他本来计划读到高二,觉得那样听上去体面。可是这辆货车破坏了他的计划,把他直接铲回农场干起了农活。

1963年遇到杰克时,埃尼斯已经和阿尔玛•比尔斯订了婚。两个男人都想攒点钱将来结婚时能办个小酒宴。对埃尼斯来说,这意味着香烟罐里得存上个10美元。那年春天,他们都急着找工作,于是双双和农场签了合同,一起到斯加纳北部牧羊。合同上两人签的分别是牧羊人和驻营者。夏日的山脉横亘在断背山林业局外面的林木线上,这是杰克在山上第二次过夏天,埃尼斯则是第一次。当时两人都还不满二十岁。

在一个小得令人窒息的活动拖车办公室里,他们站在一张铺满草稿纸的桌子前握了握手,桌上还搁着一只塞满烟头的树胶烟灰缸。活动百叶窗歪歪斜斜地挂着,一角白光从中漏进来,工头乔•安奎尔的手移到了白光中。乔留着一头中分的烟灰色波浪发,在给他俩面授机宜。

“林业局在山上有块儿指定的露营地,可营地离放羊的地方有好几英里。到了晚上就没人看着羊了,可给野兽吃了不少。所以,我是这么想的:你们中的一个人在林业局规定的地方照看营地,另一个人--”他用手指着杰克,“在羊群里支一个小帐篷,不要给人看到。早饭、晚饭在营地里吃,但是夜里要和羊睡在一起,绝对不许生火,也绝对不许擅离职守。每天早上把帐篷卷起来,以防林业局来巡查。带上狗,你就睡那儿。去年夏天,该死的,我们损失了近百分之二十五的羊。我可不想再发生这种事。你,” 他对埃尼斯说--后者留着一头乱发,一双大手伤痕累累,穿着破旧的牛仔裤和缺纽扣的衬衫--“每个星期五中午12点,你带上下周所需物品清单和你的骡子到桥上去。有人会开车把给养送来。”他没问埃尼斯带表了没,径直从高架上的盒子里取出一只系着辫子绳的廉价圆形怀表,转了转,上好发条,抛给了对方,手臂都懒得伸一伸:“明天早上我们开车送你们走。”

他们无处可去,找了家酒吧,喝了一下午啤酒,杰克告诉埃尼斯前年山上的一场雷雨死了四十二只羊,那股恶臭和肿胀的羊尸,得喝好多威士忌才能压得住。他还曾射下一只鹰,说着转过头去给埃尼斯看插在帽带上的尾羽。

乍一看,杰克长得很好看,一头卷发,笑声轻快活泼,对一个小个子来说腰粗了点,一笑就露出一口小龅牙,他的牙虽然没有长到足以让他能从茶壶颈里吃到爆米花,不过也够醒目的。他很迷恋牛仔生活,腰带上系了个小小的捕牛扣,靴子已经破得没法再补了。他发疯似地要到别处去,什么地方都可以,只要不用待在赖特宁平原。

埃尼斯,高鼻梁,瘦脸型,邋里邋遢的,胸部有点凹陷,上身短,腿又长又弯。他有一身适合骑马和打架的坚韧肌肉。反应敏捷,远视得很厉害,所以除了哈姆莱的马鞍目录,什么书都不爱看。

   

卡车和马车把羊群卸在路口,一个罗圈腿的巴斯克人教埃尼斯怎么往骡子身上装货,每个牲口背两个包裹和一副乘具--巴斯克人跟他说“千万别要汤,汤盒儿太难带了”--背篓里放着三只小狗,还有一只小狗崽子藏在杰克的上衣里,他喜欢小狗。埃尼斯挑了匹叫雪茄头的栗色马当坐骑,杰克则挑了匹红棕色母马--后来才发现它脾气火爆。剩下的马中还有一头鼠灰色的,看起来跟埃尼斯挺像。埃尼斯、杰克、狗、马、骡子走在前面,一千多只母羊和羊崽紧跟其后,就像一股浊流穿过树林,追逐着无处不在的山风,向上涌至那繁花盛开的草地上。

他们在林业局指定的地方支起了大帐篷,把锅灶和食盒固定好。第一天晚上他们都睡在帐篷里。杰克已经开始对乔让他和羊睡在一起并且不准生火的指令骂娘了。不过第二天早上,天还没亮,他还是一言不发地给他的母马上好了鞍。黎明时分,天边一片透明的橙黄色,下面点缀着一条凝胶般的淡绿色带子。黑黝黝的山色渐渐转淡,直到和埃尼斯做早饭时的炊烟浑然一色。凛冽的空气慢慢变暖,山峦突然间洒下了铅笔一样细长的影子,山下的黑松郁郁葱葱,好像一堆堆阴暗的孔雀石。

白天,埃尼斯朝山谷那边望过去,有时能看到杰克:一个小点在高原上移动,就好像一只昆虫爬过一块桌布;而晚上,杰克从他那漆黑一团的帐篷里望过去,埃尼斯就像是一簇夜火,一星绽放在大山深处的火花。

一天傍晚杰克拖着脚步回来了,他喝了晾在帐篷背阴处湿麻袋里的两瓶啤酒,吃了两碗炖肉,啃了四块埃尼斯的硬饼干和一罐桃子罐头,卷了根烟,看着太阳落下去。

“一天光换班就要在路上花上四小时。”他愁眉苦脸地说,“先回来吃早饭,然后回到羊群,傍晚伺候它们睡下,再回来吃晚饭,又回到羊群,大半个晚上都得防备着有没有狼来……我有权晚上睡在这儿,乔凭什么不许我留下。”

“你想换一下吗?”埃尼斯说,“我不介意去放羊。也不介意跟羊睡一起。”

“不是这么回事。我的意思是,咱俩都应该睡在这里。那个该死的小帐篷就跟猫尿一样臭,比猫尿还臭。”

“我去看羊好了,无所谓的。”

“跟你说,晚上你可得起来十多次,防狼。你跟我换我很乐意,不过给你提个醒,我做饭很烂。用罐头开瓶器倒是很熟练。”

“肯定不会比我烂的。我真不介意。”

晚上,他们在发着黄光的煤油灯下了呆了一小时,十点左右埃尼斯骑着雪茄头走了。雪茄头真是匹夜行的好马,披着冰霜的寒光就回到了羊群。埃尼斯带走了剩下的饼干,一罐果酱,以及一罐咖啡,他说明天他要在外面待到吃晚饭的时候,省得早晨还得往回跑一趟。

“天刚亮就打了匹狼,”第二天傍晚,杰克削土豆的时候埃尼斯对他说。他用热水泼着脸,又往脸上抹肥皂,好让他的刮胡刀更好使。“狗娘养的。睾丸大得跟苹果似的。我打赌它一准儿吃了不少羊崽--看上去都能吞下一匹骆驼。你要点热水吗?还有很多。”

“都是给你的。”

“哦,那我可好好洗洗了。”说着,他脱下靴子和牛仔裤(没穿内裤,没穿袜子,杰克注意到),挥舞着那条绿色的毛巾,把火苗扇得又高又旺。  

他们围着篝火吃了一顿非常愉快的晚餐。一人一罐豆子,配上炸土豆,还分享了一夸脱威士忌。两人背靠一根圆木坐着,靴子底和牛仔裤的铜扣被篝火烘得暖融融的,酒瓶在他们手里交替传递。天空中的淡紫色渐渐退却,冷气消散。他们喝着酒,抽着烟,时不时地起来撒泡尿,火光在弯弯曲曲的小溪上投下火星。他们一边往火上添柴,一边聊天:聊马仔牛仔们的表演;聊股市行情;聊彼此受过的伤;聊两个月前长尾鲨潜水艇失事的细节,包括对失事前那可怕的最后几分钟的揣测;聊他们养过的和知道的狗;聊牲口;聊杰克家由他爹妈打理的农场;埃尼斯说,父母双亡后他家就散了,他哥在西格诺,姐姐则嫁到了卡斯帕尔;杰克说他爹从前会驯牛,但他一直没有声张,也从来不指点杰克,从来不看杰克骑牛,尽管小时候曾把杰克放到羊背上;埃尼斯说他也对驯牛感兴趣,能骑八秒多,还颇有点心得;杰克说钱是个好东西,埃尼斯表示同意……他们尊重对方的意见,彼此都很高兴在这种鸟不生蛋的地方能有这么个伴儿。埃尼斯骑着马,踏着迷蒙的夜色醉醺醺地驰回了羊群,心里觉得自个儿从来没有这么快乐过,快乐得都能伸手抓下一片白月光。

  

夏天还在继续。他们把羊群赶到了一片新的草地上,同时转移了营地;羊群和营地的距离更大了,晚上骑马回营地所用的时间也更长了。埃尼斯骑马的时候很潇洒,睡觉的时候都睁着眼,可他离开羊群的时间却越拉越长。杰克把他的口琴吹得嗡嗡响--母马发脾气的时候,口琴曾经给摔到地上过,不那么光亮了。埃尼斯有一副高亢的好嗓子。有几个晚上他们在一起乱唱一气。埃尼斯知道“草莓枣红马”这类歪歪歌词,杰克则扯着嗓子唱“what I say-ay-ay”(我所说的……),那是卡尔•帕金斯的歌。但他最喜欢的是一首忧伤的圣歌:“耶稣基督行于水上”。是跟他那位笃信圣灵降临节的母亲学的。他像唱挽歌一样缓缓地唱着,引得远处狼嚎四起。

“太晚了,不想管那些该死的羊了”埃尼斯说道,醉醺醺地仰面躺着。正是寒冷时分,从月亮的位置看已过了两点钟。草地上的石头泛着白绿色幽光,冷风呼啸而过,把火苗压得很低,就像给火焰镶上了一条黄色的花边儿。“给我一条多余的毯子,我在外面一卷就可以睡,打上四十个盹,天就亮了。”

“等火灭了非把你的屁股冻掉不可。还是睡帐篷吧。”

“没事。”他摇摇晃晃地钻出了了帆布帐篷,扯掉靴子,刚在铺在地下的毯子上打了一小会儿呼噜,就上牙嗑下牙地叫醒了杰克。

“天啊,不要哆嗦了,过来,被窝大着呢。” 杰克睡意朦胧,不耐烦地说到。被窝很大,也很温暖,不一会儿他们便越过雷池,变得非常亲密了。埃尼斯本来还胡思乱想着修栅栏和钱的事儿,当杰克抓住他的左手移到自己勃起的阴茎上时,他的大脑顿时一片空白。他像被火烫了似的把手抽了回来,跪起身,解开皮带,拉下裤子,把杰克仰面翻过来,在透明的液体和一点点唾液的帮助下,闯了进去,他从来没这么做过,不过这也并不需要什么说明书。他们一声不吭地进行着,间或发出几声急促的喘息。杰克紧绷的“枪”发射了,然后埃尼斯退出来,躺下,坠入梦乡。

埃尼斯在黎明的满天红光中醒来,裤子还褪在膝盖上,头疼得厉害,杰克在后面顶着他,两人什么都没说,彼此都心知肚明接下来的日子这事还会继续下去。让羊去见鬼吧!

  

这种事的确仍在继续。他们从来不“谈”性,而是用“做”的。一开始还只是深夜时候在帐篷里做,后来在大白天热辣辣的太阳下面也做,又或者在傍晚的火光中做。又快又粗暴,边笑边喘息,什么动静儿都有,就是不说话。只有一次,埃尼斯说:“我可不是玻璃。”杰克立马接口:“我也不是。就这一回,就你跟我,和别人那种事儿不一样。”山上只有他俩,在轻快而苦涩的空气里狂欢。鸟瞰山脚,山下平原上的车灯闪烁着晃动。他们远离尘嚣,唯有从远处夜色中的农场里,传来隐隐狗吠……他俩以为没人能看见他们。可他们不知道,有一天,乔•安奎尔用他那10*42倍距的双目望远镜足足看了他们十分钟。一直等到他俩穿好牛仔裤,扣好扣子,埃尼斯骑马驰回羊群,他才现身。乔告诉杰克,他家人带话来,说杰克的叔叔哈罗德得肺炎住院了,估计就要挺不过去了。后来叔叔安然无恙,乔又上来报信,两眼死死地盯着杰克,连马都没下。

八月份,埃尼斯整夜和杰克呆在主营里。一场狂风挟裹着冰雹袭来,羊群往西跑到了另一片草场,和那里的羊混在了一起。真倒霉,他们整整忙活了五天。埃尼斯跟一个不会说英语的智利牧羊人试着把羊们分开来,但这几乎不可能的,因为到了这个季节,羊身上的那些油漆标记都已经看不清了。到最后,数量是弄对了,但埃尼斯知道,羊还是混了。在这种惶惶不安的局面下,一切似乎都乱了套。

八月十三日,山里的第一场雪早早地降临了。雪积得有一英尺高,但是很快就融化了。雪后第二周乔捎话来叫他们下山,说是另一场更大的暴风雪正从太平洋往这边推进,他们收拾好东西,和羊群一起往山下走。石头在他们的脚边滚动,紫色的云团不断从天空西边涌来,风雪将至,空气中的金属味驱赶着他们不断前行。在从断云漏下的光影中,群山时隐时现。风刮过野草,穿过残破的高山矮曲林,抽打着岩石,发出野兽般的嘶吼。大山仿佛被施了法似的沸腾起来。下陡坡的时候,埃尼斯就像电影里的慢动作那样,头朝下结结实实地摔了一个跟头。

乔•安奎尔付了他们工钱,没说太多。不过他看过那些满地乱转的羊后,面露不悦:“这里头有些羊可没跟你们上山。”而羊的数量,也没有剩到他原先希望的那么多。农场的人干活永远不上心。

“你明年夏天还来吗?”在街上,杰克对埃尼斯说,一脚已经跨上了他那辆绿色卡车。寒风猛烈,冷得刺骨。

“也许不了。”风卷起一阵灰尘,街道笼罩在迷雾阴霾之中。埃尼斯眯着眼睛抵挡着漫天飞舞的沙砾。“我说过,十二月我就要和阿尔玛结婚了,想在农场找点事做。你呢?”他的眼神从杰克的下巴移开,那里在最后一天被他一记重拳打得乌青。

“如果没有更好的差事,这个冬天我打算去我爹那儿,给他搭把手。要是一切顺利,春天的时候我也许会去德州。”

“好吧,我想我们还会再见面的。”风吹起了街上的一只食物袋,一直滚到埃尼斯的车子底下。

“好。”杰克说,他们握手道别,在彼此肩上捶了一拳。两人渐行渐远,别无选择,唯有向着相反的方向各自上路。分手后的一英里,每走一码路,埃尼斯都觉得有人在他的肠子上掏了一下。他在路边停下车,在漫天席卷的雪花中,想吐但是什么都吐不出来。他从来没有这么难受过,这种情绪过了很久才平息下来。

十二月,埃尼斯和阿尔玛•比尔斯完婚,一月中旬,阿尔玛怀孕了。埃尼斯先后在几个农场打零工,后来去了沃什基郡罗斯特凯宾北部的老爱尔伍德西塔帕,当了一名牧马人。他在那一直干到九月份女儿出世,他把她叫做小阿尔玛。卧室里充斥着干涸的血迹味、乳臭味和婴儿的屎臭味,回荡着婴儿的哭叫声、吮吸声和阿尔玛迷迷糊糊的呻吟声。这一切都显示出一个和牲畜打交道的人顽强的生殖力,也象征着他生命的延续。

离开西塔帕后,他们搬到了瑞弗顿镇的一间小公寓里,楼下就是一家洗衣店。埃尼斯不情不愿地当了一名公路维修工。周末他在Rafter B干活,酬劳是可以把他的马放在那里。第二个女儿出生了,阿尔玛想留在镇上离诊所近一点,因为这孩子得了哮喘。

“埃尼斯,求你了,我们别再去那些偏僻的农场了,”阿尔玛说道,她坐在埃尼斯的腿上,一双纤细的、长满了雀斑的手环绕着他。“我们在镇上安家吧?”

“让我想想。”埃尼斯说着,双手偷偷地沿着她的衬衫袖子向上移,摸着她光滑的腋毛,然后把她放倒,十指一路摸到她的肋骨直至果冻般的乳房,绕过圆圆的小腹,膝盖,进入私处,最后来到北极或是赤道--就看你选择哪条航道了。在他的撩拨下,她开始打颤,想把他的手推开。他却把她翻过来,快速地把那事做了,这让她心生憎恶--他就是喜欢这个小公寓,因为可以随时离开。

断背山放牧之后的第四年夏天,六月份,埃尼斯收到了杰克•崔斯特的信,是一封存局候领邮件。

伙计,这封信早就写了,希望你能收得到。听说你现在瑞弗顿。我24号要去那儿,我想我应该请你喝一杯,如果可以,给我电话。

回信地址是德州的切尔里德斯。埃尼斯写了回信,当然,随信附上了他在瑞弗顿的地址。

那天,早晨的时候还烈日炎炎,晴空万里。到了中午,云层就从西方堆积翻滚而来,空气变得潮湿闷热。因为不能确定杰克几点钟能到,埃尼斯便干脆请了一整天的假。他穿着自己最好的白底黑色宽条纹上衣,不时地来回踱步,一个劲儿朝布满灰白色尘埃的街道上张望。阿尔玛说,天实在太热了,要是能找到保姆帮忙带孩子,他们就可以请杰克去餐馆吃饭,而不是自己做饭。埃尼斯则回答他只想和杰克一起出去喝喝酒。杰克不是个爱下馆子的人,他说。脑海中浮现出那些搁在圆枕木上的冰凉的豆子罐头,还有从罐头里伸出来的脏兮兮的汤匙。

下午晚些时候,雷声开始隆隆轰鸣。那辆熟悉的绿色旧卡车驶入了埃尼斯的眼帘,杰克从车上跳出来,一巴掌把翘起来的车尾拍下去。埃尼斯象被一股热浪灼到了似的。他走出房间,站到了楼梯口,随手关上身后的房门。杰克一步两台阶地跨上来。他们紧紧抓住彼此的臂膀,狠狠地抱在一起,这一抱几乎令对方窒息。他们嘴里念叨着,混蛋,你这混蛋。然后,自然而然地,就象钥匙找对了锁孔,他们的嘴唇猛地合在了一处。杰克的虎牙出血了,帽子掉在了地上。他们的胡茬儿扎着彼此的脸,到处都是湿湿的唾液。这时,门开了。阿尔玛向外瞥了一眼,盯着埃尼斯扭曲的臂膀看了几秒,就又关上了门。他俩还在拥吻,胸膛,小腹和大腿紧贴在一起,互相踩着对方的脚趾,直到不能呼吸才放开。埃尼斯轻声地,柔情无限地叫着“小宝贝”--这是他对女儿们和马匹才会用到的称呼。

门又被推开了几英寸,阿尔玛出现在细窄的光带里。

他又能说些什么呢。“阿尔玛,这是杰克•崔斯特,杰克,这是我妻子阿尔玛。”他的胸腔涨得满满的,鼻子里都是杰克身上的味道。浓烈而熟悉的烟草味儿,汗香味儿,青草的淡淡甜味儿,还有那来自山中的凛冽寒气。“阿尔玛,”他说,“我和杰克四年没见了。”好像这能成为一个理由似的。他目不转睛地盯着她,暗自庆幸楼梯口的灯光昏暗不明。

“没错。”阿尔玛低声说,她什么都看到了。在她身后的房间里,一道闪电把窗子照得好象一条正在舞动的白床单,婴儿开始哇哇大哭。

“你有孩子了?”杰克说。他颤抖的手擦过埃尼斯的手,有一股电流在它们之间噼啪作响。

“两个小丫头。”埃尼斯说,“小阿尔玛和弗朗仙。我爱死她们了。”

阿尔玛的嘴角扯了扯。

“我有一个男孩。”杰克说,“八个月大了。我在切尔德里斯娶了个小巧可爱的德州姑娘,叫露玲。”他们脚下的地板在颤动,埃尼斯能够感受到杰克哆嗦得有多么厉害。

“阿尔玛,我要和杰克出去喝一杯,今晚可能不回来了,我们想边喝边聊。”

“好。”阿尔玛说。从口袋里掏出一美元纸币。埃尼斯猜测她可能是想让自己带包烟,以便早点回来。

“很高兴见到你。”杰克说。颤抖得像一匹精疲力尽的马。

“埃尼斯。”阿尔玛伤心地呼唤着。但是这并没能使埃尼斯放慢下楼梯的脚步。他应声道:“阿尔玛,你要想抽烟,就去卧室里我那间蓝色上衣的口袋里找。”

他们坐着杰克的卡车离开了,买了瓶威士忌。20分钟后就在西斯塔汽车旅馆的床上翻云覆雨起来。一阵冰雹砸在窗子上,随即冷雨接踵而至。风撞击着隔壁房间那不算结实的门,就这么撞了一夜。

~to be continue~

发贴人: 微雨寒梅

发贴: 2005-09-23 13:54:44 断 背 山

Brokeback Mountain

原著:E. Annie Proulx 翻译:微雨寒梅

(下)

房间里充斥着精液、烟草、汗和威士忌的味道,还有旧地毯与干草的酸味,以及马鞍皮革,粪便和廉价香皂的混合怪味儿。埃尼斯呈大字型摊在床上,精疲力竭,大汗淋漓,仍在喘息,阴茎还半勃起着。杰克一面大口大口地抽烟,一面说道:“老天,只有跟你干才会这么爽。我们得谈谈。我对上帝发誓,我从来没指望咱们还能再在一起……好吧,我其实这么指望过,这就是我来这儿的原因,我早就知道会有这么一天。我真恨不得插上翅膀飞过来。”

“我不知道你到底去了什么鬼地方。四年了,我都要绝望了。我说,你是不是还在记恨我打你那一拳。”

“伙计。”杰克说,“我去了德克萨斯州,在那儿碰见了露玲。你看那椅子上的东西。”

在肮脏的桔红色椅背上,安尼斯看到一条闪闪发光的牛仔皮带扣。“你现在驯牛啦?”

“是啊,有一年我才赚了***三千多块钱,差点儿饿死。除了牙刷什么都跟人借过。我几乎走遍了德州每一个角落,大部分时间都躺在那该死的货车下面修车。不过我一刻也没想过放弃。露玲?她是有几个钱,不过都在她老爹手里,用来做农业机械用具生意,他可不会给她一个子儿,而且他挺讨厌我的。能熬到现在真不易……”

“你可以干点儿别的啊。你没去参军?”粼粼雷声从遥远的东边传来,又挟着红色的冠形闪电离他们而去。

“他们不会要我的。我椎骨给压碎过,肩胛骨也骨折过,喏,就这儿。当了驯牛的就得随时准备被挑断大腿。伤痛没完没了,就像个难缠的婊子。我的一条腿算是废了,有三处伤。是头公牛干的。它从天而降,把我顶起来,然后摔出去八丈远,接着开始猛追我,那家伙,跑得真他妈快。幸亏有个朋友把油泼在了牛角上。我浑身零零碎碎都是伤,肋骨断过,韧带裂过。我爹那个时代已经一去不复返了。要发财得先去上大学,或者当运动员。像我这样的,想赚点小钱只能去驯牛。要是我玩儿砸了,露玲她爹一分钱都不会给我的。想清楚这一点,我就不指望那些不切实际的理想了。我得趁我还能走路出来闯闯。”

埃尼斯把杰克的手拉到自己的嘴边,就着他手里的香烟吸了一口,又吐出来。“我过得也是跟你差不多的鬼日子……你知道吗,我总是呆坐着,琢磨自个儿到底是不是……我知道我不是。我的意思是,咱俩都有老婆孩子,对吧?我喜欢和女人干,但是,老天,那是另外一回事儿。我从来没有想过和一个男人干这事儿,可我手淫的时候总在没完没了地想着你。你跟别的男人干过吗?杰克?”

“见鬼,当然没有!”杰克说。“你瞧,断背山给咱俩的好时光还没有走到尽头,我们得想法子走下去。”

“那年夏天,”埃尼斯说,“我们拿到工钱各分东西后,我肚子绞痛得厉害,一直想吐。我还以为自己在迪布瓦餐厅吃了什么不干净的东西。过了一年我才明白,我是受不了身边没有你。认识到这一点真是太迟、太迟了。”

“伙计,”杰克说。“既然这样,我们必须得弄清楚下一步该干什么。”

“恐怕我们什么也干不了。”埃尼斯道。“听说我,杰克。我已经过了这么多年这样的生活,我爱我的丫头们。阿尔玛?错不在她。你在德州也有妻有儿。就算时光倒流,咱们还是不能正大光明地在一起,”他朝自己公寓的方向甩了甩脑袋,“我们会被抓住。一步走错,必死无疑。一想到这个,我就害怕得要尿裤子。”

“伙计,那年夏天可能有人看见咱们了。第二年六月我曾经回过断背山--我一直想回去的,却匆匆忙忙去了德州--乔•安奎尔在他办公室对我说了一番话。他说:小子,你们在山上那会儿可找到乐子磨时间了,是吧?我看了他一眼。离开的时候,发现他车子的后视镜上挂着一副比屁股蛋子还大的望远镜。”

其实,还有些事情,杰克没告诉埃尼斯:当时,乔斜靠在那把嘎嘎作响的木头摇椅上,对他说:“崔斯特,你们根本不该得酬劳,因为你们胡搞的时候让狗看着羊群。”并且拒绝再雇佣他。他继续说道:“是的,你那一拳真让我吃惊,我怎么也想不到你会打得这么狠。”

“我上面还有个哥哥K•E,比我大三岁。这蠢货每天都打我。我爹真烦透了我总是哭哭啼啼的。我六岁的时候,爹让我坐好,对我说:埃尼斯,有麻烦,要么解决,要么忍受,一直忍到死。我说,可他比我块儿头大呀。我爹说,你趁他不注意的时候偷偷动手,揍疼他就跑,甭等他反应过来。我依计行事。把他弄进茅坑里,或者从楼梯跳到他身上,晚上他睡觉的时候把枕头拿走,往他身上粘脏东西……这么折腾了两天之后,K•E再也不敢欺负我了。这件事儿的教训就是,遇上事儿,废话少说,赶快搞定。”

隔壁电话铃响了起来,一直响个不停,越来越高亢,接着又嘎然停止。

“哼,你甭想再打到我。”杰克说。“听着,我在想,如果我们可以在一起开个小农场,养几头母牛和小牛,还有你的马,那日子该有多滋润。我跟你说,我再也不去驯牛了,我再也不干那断老二的活儿了,我可不想把骨头都给拆散了。听见我的计划了吗,埃尼斯,就咱俩。鲁玲他爹肯定会给我钱,多多少少会给点……”

“不不不,这不是个好法子,我们不能那么干。我有自己的生活轨道,我不想捅娄子。我也不想变成我们有时候会看到的那种人。我不想死。以前,我们家附近有两个人--厄尔和瑞奇--开了爿农场。爸爸每次经过都要对他俩侧目而视。他们是所有人的笑柄,尽管俩人都又英俊又结实。我九岁的时候,他们发现厄尔死在灌溉渠里。是被人用轮胎撬棍打死的,他们拖着他的鸡巴满世界转,直到把那玩意儿给扯断了。他全身血肉模糊的,像一摊西红柿,鼻子都被打得稀巴烂。”

“你看见啦?”

“我爹让我看的,他带我去看的。我和K•E。我爹笑个不停。老天,他要是还活着,看见咱们这样,也会拿棍子把咱俩整死!两个男人一起过?不,我觉得咱俩倒是可以过段时间聚一次……

“多久一次?”杰克说。“***四年一次怎么样?”

“不,”埃尼斯说。忍着不去争辩。“我***想起你明天早晨就得走而我得回去工作就生气。但是,碰上麻烦,要么解决,要么忍受。操!我经常看着街上的人问自己,别人会这样吗?他们会怎么做?”

“在咱们俄怀明不能有这种事,要是真发生了,我不知道他们会怎么做,也许去丹佛。”杰克说。他坐起来,转过身。“我不想怎么着,操,埃尼斯,就几天。我们离开这,立刻走,把你的东西扔到我的后车厢,咱们动身到山里去。给阿尔玛打电话告诉她你要走了。来吧,埃尼斯,你刚把我干得够呛,现在你得补偿我。来吧,不会出事儿的。”

隔壁房间那空洞的电话铃再度响起,好像要应答它似的,埃尼斯拿起桌边的电话,拨通了家里的号码。

埃尼斯和阿尔玛之间,有什么东西正在慢慢腐烂。并没什么真正的矛盾,但距离却越来越远。阿尔玛在杂货店当店员。她不得不出来工作,这才能把埃尼斯赚的钱存下来。阿尔玛希望埃尼斯用避孕套,因为她怕再怀孕。但是他拒绝了,说你要是不想再给我生孩子我就不要你了。她小声嘟囔:“你要是能养得起我就生。”心里却在想,你喜欢干的那事儿可生不出孩子来。

她心里的怨怼与日俱增:她无意中瞥见的那个拥抱;他每年都会和杰克•崔斯特出去两三回,却从不带她和孩子们度假;他不爱出门也不爱玩儿;他老是找些报酬低,耗时长的粗重活干;他喜欢挨墙睡,一沾床就开始打呼;他就是没办法在县城或电力公司找份长期的体面差事;他使她的生活陷入了一个无底黑洞……于是,在小阿尔玛9岁,弗朗仙7岁的时候,她和埃尼斯离婚,嫁给了杂货店老板。

埃尼斯重操旧业,这个农场干干,那个农场呆呆,没挣多少钱,不过倒是挺自在。想干就干,不想干就辞职,到山里呆上一阵子。他只有一点点被背叛的感觉,不过也不是很在意。每次跟阿尔玛和她的杂货店老板以及孩子们一起过感恩节,他都会表现出轻松的样子。坐在孩子们中间,讲马儿的故事,说说笑话,尽量不显得像个失意老爹。

吃过馅饼后,阿尔玛把他打发到厨房里,一边刷盘子一边说自己担心他,说他应该考虑再婚。他看到她怀孕了。大约四五个月了,他估计。

“一朝被蛇咬,十年怕井绳。”他斜靠着柜橱说,觉得这房间好小。

“你现在还跟杰克•崔斯特出去钓鱼吗?”

“有时候会去。”他觉得她要把盘子上的花纹都擦掉了。

“你知道么?”她说。从她的声音里,他预感到有些不对劲。“我以前老是奇怪,你怎么从来没带一条半条鲑鱼回来过,你总是说你抓了好多啊。于是,在你又要出去钓鱼的前一天晚上,我打开了你的鱼篮子。五年前的价格签还在那儿挂着呢。我用绳子绑了根纸条系在篮子里。上面是这么写的:嗨,埃尼斯,带些鱼回来。爱你的阿尔玛。后来你回来了,说你们抓了一堆鱼,然后吃了个精光,记得不?我后来找了个机会打开篮子,看见那张纸条还绑在那儿,绳子连水都没沾过。”仿佛为了配合“水”这个词的发音似的,她拧开水龙头,冲洗着盘子。

“这也证明不了什么嘛。”

“别扯谎了,别把我当傻子,埃尼斯。我知道那是怎么回事儿。杰克•崔斯特是吧?都是那个下流的杰克,你跟他……”

她戳到了他的痛处,他一把抓住她的手腕。她的眼泪痛得涌出来,盘子掉在地上摔个粉碎。

“闭嘴!”他说,“管好你自己的事儿吧,你根本什么都不明白!”

“我要喊比尔了!”

“随你的便,你尽管喊啊。我要让他在地板上吃屎,还有你!”他猛地又一扭,她的手腕立刻火烧火燎地痛起来。他把帽子向后一推然后重重甩上了门。那天晚上他去了黑蓝鹰酒吧,通宵买醉,还狠狠打了一小架。

之后很长时间,他都没有去看自己的女儿。他想过几年她们就能明白他的感受了。

他们都已不再青春年少。杰克的肩膀和屁股上都堆满了肉。埃尼斯还像晾衣竿儿那么瘦,一年四季穿着破靴子、牛仔裤和衬衫,只有在天冷的时候才会加一件帆布外套。岁月使他的眼皮儿都耷拉下来,断过又接好了的鼻梁弯得像只钩子。

年复一年,他们跨越高原,穿过峡谷,在崇山峻岭之间策马放牧。从大角山到药弓山,从加勒廷山南端到阿布萨罗卡斯山,从花冈山到夜枭湾, 还有桥梁般的特顿山脉。他们的足迹直至佛瑞兹奥特山、费雷斯山、响尾蛇山和盐河山脉。他们还曾两度造访风河山。还有马德雷山脉、范特雷山、沃什基山、拉腊米山--但是再也不曾回过断背山。

后来,杰克的德州岳父死了。露玲接手了她爹的农牧机械生意,开始展示出经商的手腕儿。杰克稀里糊涂地挂了个经理的头衔,成日价在牲口和机械展销会之间晃荡来晃荡去。他有了些钱,不过都杂七杂八地花掉了。说话也带上了点儿德州口音,比如把“母牛”说成“木牛”,把“老婆”说成“捞婆”。他将前面的大牙给磨平了,镶了镶,倒也没多疼。还留上了厚厚的唇髭。

1983年5月,他们在几处结冰的高山湖泊边过了几天冷日子。接着便打算穿过黑耳斯图河。

一路前行。天气虽然晴好,水流却湍急幽深,岸边的湿地泥泞难走。他们辟出一条狭窄的道路,赶着马穿过了一片小树林。杰克的旧帽子上还插着那根鹰羽。他在正午的烈日下抬起头,嗅着空气里的树脂芬芳,还有干树叶和热石头的气味儿。马蹄过处,苦刺柏纷纷歪倒零落。埃尼斯用他那饱经风霜的眼睛向西了望,但见一团浓云将至未至。头上的青天依然湛蓝深邃,就像杰克说的,他都要淹死在这一片蔚蓝之中了。

大约三点钟,他们穿过一条羊肠小道,来到了东南面的山坡上。此处春日正暖,冰雪渐消。流水潺潺,奔向远方。二十分钟之后,他们被一头觅食的黑熊给吓了一跳。那熊朝他们滚过来一根圆枕木,杰克的马惊得连连后退,暴跳如雷。杰克喝道:“吁……”又拉又拽的费了好半天劲儿。埃尼斯的马也是又踏又踩又打响鼻儿,不过好歹还算镇定。黑熊倒给吓坏了,一路狂奔逃进森林。步履沉重,地动山摇。

茶褐色的河水,带着融化的积雪,汇成一股急流,撞击在山石上,溅起朵朵水花,形成漩涡逆流。河堤上杨柳微动,柳絮轻飏,好似漫天飞舞的淡黄色花瓣。杰克跳下马背,让马饮水。自己则掬起一捧冰水,晶莹的水滴从他指间滑落,溅湿了他的嘴唇和下巴,闪闪发亮。

“别那么做,会发烧的。”埃尼斯说道。接着又说:“真是个好地方啊。”河岸上有几座陈旧的狩猎帐篷,点缀着一两处篝火。河岸后面隆起一面草坡,草坡四周黑松环绕,地上还有一些干木头。他们默不做声地安营扎寨,然后把马牵到坡上去吃草。杰克打开一瓶威士忌,喝了一大口,又深深吐了口气,说道:“威士忌正是我两件宝贝之一。”然后把瓶子盖好,抛给了埃尼斯。

到了第三天,不出埃尼斯所料,那块雨云果然挟着风,夹着雪片,灰蒙蒙地从西面涌来。过了一个小时,风雪渐缓,化作了温柔的春雪,空气变得潮湿而厚重。夜更深更冷了,他们上上下下地搓着自己的关节,篝火彻夜不灭。杰克骂骂咧咧地诅咒着天气,拿根棍子翻动着火堆,一个劲儿地换台,直到把收音机折腾得没了电。

埃尼斯说他和一个在狼耳酒吧打零工的女人搞上了--他如今在西格诺给斯图特埃米尔干活--不过也没什么结果,因为那女的有的地方不太招他待见;杰克则说他近来和切尔德里斯公路边上一家牧场的老板娘有一腿。他估计总有那么一天,露玲或者那戴绿帽子的老公会宰了他。埃尼斯轻轻笑骂道“活该”。杰克又说他一切都还好,就是有时候想埃尼斯想得发疯便忍不住要拿起鞭子抽人。

马儿在暗夜的火光中嘶鸣。埃尼斯伸臂搂住杰克,把他拥进怀里。他说他大概一个月见一次女儿,小阿尔玛17岁了,腼腆害臊,长得跟他似的又瘦又高,弗朗仙则是个疯丫头。杰克把冰凉的手搁在埃尼斯大腿中间,说担心自家儿子有阅读障碍什么的,都已经十五岁了,什么都不会念。露玲硬是不承认,非说孩子没事儿--有钱顶个屁用。

“我曾经想要个小子,”埃尼斯边说边解开纽扣,“没想到上天注定是岳父命。”

“我儿子闺女都不想要,”杰克说,“操!这辈子我想要的偏偏都得不到。”他说着把一截朽木扔进了火堆里,火星子和他们那些絮絮叨叨的废话情话一起四下里飞溅,落在他们的手上、脸上。就这样,他们又一次滚倒在脏兮兮的土地上。这么多年以来,在他们屈指可数的几次幽会当中,有一点从来不曾改变:那就是时间总是过得太快,总是不够用,总是这样。

一两天之后,在山道的起点处,马匹都被赶上了卡车。埃尼斯要动身回西格诺去了,杰克则要回赖特宁平原看他爹。埃尼斯靠着车窗,对杰克说:他已经把回程推迟了一周,得等到十一月份冬牧期开始之前,牲口们都被运走之后,他才能再次出来。

“十一月?!那八月呢?咱们不是说好了八月份抽个十来天在一起的?老天爷,埃尼斯,你为什么不早点说,你***一个礼拜屁都不放一个!为什么我们非得挑那种冻死人的鬼天气啊?不能这样下去了,干吗不去南方?我们可以去墨西哥啊。”

“墨西哥?杰克,你知道的,我不能去那么远的地儿。我八月一整月都得打包,这才是八月份该干的事。听着,杰克,咱们可以十一月去打猎,逮它一头大麋鹿。我看看还能不能借到罗尔先生那个小屋子,咱们那年在那儿多开心。”

“嘿,伙计,我可***开心不起来。老是说来就来说走就走,你以为你是谁?”

“杰克,我得工作--以前我倒是可以拍拍屁股就走人。你有个有钱的老婆,有份好工作,你已经忘记当穷光蛋的滋味儿了。你知道养孩子有多难吗?这么多年来我不知道花了多少钱,以后还得花更多。让我跟你说,我不能扔掉这个饭碗。而且那时候我真走不开,母牛要产仔,且有得忙呢。斯图特埃米尔很麻烦,他因为我要迟回去一星期可没少为难我。我不怪他,我走后他连个囫囵觉都甭想睡。我跟他讲好了,八月份我不走--你能说出什么更好的法子来吗?”

“我从前说过。”杰克的声音苦涩,带着抱怨。

埃尼斯默然不语,缓缓站直身子,轻轻摸了摸自己的额头。一只马在车上跺脚。他走向自己的卡车,把手放在车厢上,说了些只有马儿才能听见的话,接着慢慢地走回来。

“你去过墨西哥了,杰克?”墨西哥那种地方他听说过,他要打破砂锅问到底,弄个水落石出。

“去过怎么着,有***什么问题吗?”这个话题时隔多年又再度被提起,有点儿迟,也有点儿突然。

“我总有一天得跟你说说这事儿,杰克,我可不是傻瓜。我现在是不知道你干了什么,”埃尼斯说,“等我知道了你就死定了。”

“来啊,你倒是试试看,”杰克说,“我现在就能跟你说:我们本来可以一起过上好日子,那种真正的好日子。但你不肯,埃尼斯,所以我们有的只是一座断背山,全部的寄托都在断背山。小子,要是你以为还有别的什么,那我告诉你,这就是***全部!数数二十年来我们在一起的日子,看看你是怎么象拴狗一样拴住我的。你现在来问我墨西哥,还要因为你想要干又不敢干的事儿杀了我?你不知道我过得多糟糕!我可不是你,我不愿意一年一两次在这种见鬼的高山上偷偷摸摸地干。我受够了,埃尼斯,你这个该死的狗娘养的,我真希望我知道怎么才能离开你!”

就象是冬天里突然迸发的热气流,这么多年来他们之间从不曾说出口的感受--名分,公开,耻辱,罪恶,害怕……统统涌上心头。埃尼斯的心被狠狠地击中了。他面如死灰,表情扭曲,闭上了眼睛。双拳紧握,两腿一软,重重地跪在地上。

“天啊,”杰克叫道,“埃尼斯?”他跳下卡车,想看看埃尼斯是心脏病犯了还是给气坏了。埃尼斯却站起身,像个衣架子似的,直挺挺地向后退去。他爬上卡车,关上车门,又蜷缩了起来--他们仍旧是在原地打转,没有开始,没有结束,也没有解决任何问题。

让杰克•崔斯特一直念念不忘却又茫然不解的,是那年夏天在断背山上埃尼斯给他的那个拥抱。当时他走到他身后,把他拉进怀里,充满了无言的、与性爱无关的喜悦。

当日,他们在篝火前静立良久,红彤彤的火焰摇曳着,把他俩的影子投在石头上,浑然一体,宛如石柱。只听得埃尼斯口袋里的怀表滴答作响,只见火堆里的木头渐渐燃成木炭。在交相辉映的星光与火光中,埃尼斯的呼吸平静而绵长,嘴里轻轻哼着什么。杰克靠在他的怀里,听着那稳定有力的心跳。这心跳仿佛一道微弱的电流,令他似梦非梦,如痴如醉。直到埃尼斯用从前母亲对自己说话时常用的那种轻柔语调叫醒了他:“我得走了,牛仔。你站着睡觉的样子好像一匹马。”说着摇了摇他,便消失在黑暗之中。杰克只听到他颤抖着说了声“明儿见”,然后就听到了马儿打响鼻的声音和马蹄得得远去之声。

这个慵懒的拥抱凝固为他们分离岁月中的甜蜜回忆,定格为他们艰难生活中的永恒一刻,朴实无华,由衷喜悦。即使后来,他意识到,埃尼斯不再因为他是杰克就与他深深相拥,这段回忆、这一刻仍然无法抹去。又或许,他是明白了他们之间不可能走得更远……无所谓了,都无所谓了。

埃尼斯一直都不知道杰克出了意外,直到数月之后,他寄给杰克的明信片被盖上“收件人已故”的戳记退了回来。于是他拨通了杰克在切尔德里斯的号码--这号码他只打过一次,那还是在和阿尔玛离婚之前。当时杰克误会了他的意思,驱车120英里匆匆赶来却一无所获。

没事儿的,杰克一定会听电话,他必须听--但是杰克并没有,接电话的是露玲。当他问起杰克的死因时,露玲说当时卡车轮胎突然爆裂,爆炸的碎片扎进了杰克的脸,撞碎了他的鼻子和下巴,把他砸晕了过去。等到有人发现时,他已经死在了血泊之中。

不,埃尼斯想,他肯定也是给人用棍子打死的。

“杰克常提起你,”她说。“你是他钓鱼的伙伴还是打猎的伙伴来着?你瞧,我不太清楚你的姓名和住址。杰克总喜欢把他朋友的地址记在脑袋里--出了这种事儿真可怕,他才39岁。”

巨大的悲伤如北方平原般笼罩住了他。他不知道这究竟怎么回事儿,到底是意外还是人为。血卡在杰克的嗓子里,却没人帮他翻一翻身。在狂风的低吼中,他仿佛听到钢铁刺穿骨头的声音,看到轮胎的金属圈砸碎了杰克的脸。

“他埋在哪儿?”他真想破口大骂:这娘们儿就让杰克死在了那样一条土路上。

那细细的德州口音从电话里传来:“我们给他立了块碑。他曾经说过死后要火化,然后把骨灰撒在断背山上,我也不知道那是什么地方。按照他的愿望,我们火葬了他。我留下了一半骨灰,另一半给了他家人,他们应该知道断背山在哪。但是,你也知道杰克,断背山大概只是他凭空想象的地方,一个蓝知更鸟声声吟唱,威士忌畅饮不衰的地方。”

“有一年夏天,我们在那里放羊。”埃尼斯几乎说不出话来。

“哦,他总说那是他的地盘。我还以为他是喝醉了,威士忌喝多了。他经常喝。”

“他的家人还住在赖特宁平原么?”

“是的,他们生生世世都住在那里。我从没见过他们,他们也没来参加葬礼。你要是能联系他们,我想他们会很高兴帮助杰克完成遗愿。”

她无疑是彬彬有礼的,但那细细的声音却冷如冰霜。

去赖特宁平原的路上要经过一座孤零零的村庄,每隔8到10英里就能看到一处荒凉的牧场,房子伫立在空荡荡的草堆中,篱笆东倒西歪。其中一个信箱上写着:约翰•C•崔斯特。农场小得可怜,杂草丛生。牲口离得太远,他看不清楚它们长得怎么样,只觉得都黑乎乎、光秃秃的。一条走廊,一幢褐色的泥房子,四个房间,上层两间,下层两间。

  

埃尼斯和杰克的老爹坐在厨房的餐桌旁。杰克的母亲,身形矮胖,步履蹒跚,好像刚做完手术。她说:“喝杯咖啡吧?要不吃块樱桃蛋糕?”

  

“谢谢,夫人。我要杯咖啡就好,我现在吃不下蛋糕。”

杰克他爹却一直闷声不响地坐着,双手交叠放在塑料桌布上,怒气冲冲地盯着埃尼斯,一副“我什么都知道”的模样。他相貌寻常,长得像池塘里的大头鹅。他从这两位老人身上找不到半丝杰克的影子,只好深深地叹了口气。

“对杰克的事,我难过极了……说不出的伤心。我认识他很久了。我来是希望你们能让我把杰克的骨灰带到断背山。杰克的太太说这是他的愿望。如果你们同意,我很乐意代劳。”

一片沉默。埃尼斯清了清嗓子,但什么也没说。

老爹开口了。他说:“我跟你说,我知道断背山在哪儿。他大概也知道自己不配埋在祖坟里。”

杰克的母亲仿佛没听到这话,说,“他每年都回来,即使结了婚又在德州安了家也还是那样,他一回来就帮他爹干活,整个星期都在忙,修大门啊,收庄稼啊,什么都干。我一直保留着他的房间,跟他还是个小男孩那会儿一模一样。要是你愿意,可以去他房间看看。”

那老爹生气地接口:“我看没必要。杰克老是念叨 ‘埃尼斯•德•玛尔’,还说‘我总有一天会把他带来,我们一起打理爹的农场’。他还有好多好多半生不熟的主意,都是关于你俩的。盖个小屋,经营农场,赚大钱……今年春天他带回另外一个人来,说是他在德州的邻居。他还说要和他那德州老婆分手回这儿来呢。反正他那些计划没一个实现的。”

埃尼斯现在知道了,杰克一准儿是给人打死的。他站起来,说‘我一定得看看杰克的房间’,说这话的同时想起了杰克和他爹之间的一件往事:杰克的阴茎是弯的,但他爹不是。这种生理上的不一致让做儿子的很是困扰。有那么三五次,杰克在厕所里待着不出来,解开裤子纽扣,估量着马桶和那玩意儿的位置,结果尿得满地都是。这可把他爹气坏了,简直是勃然大怒(杰克当时回忆说):“老天爷,他差点儿宰了我。把我往洗澡盆上撞,用皮带抽我,对我大吼:你想知道尿了一地是啥滋味吗?让我来告诉你!接着他就把那东西抽出来朝我身上尿,淋了我满头满脸。然后扔了块毛巾给我,让我擦干净地,又命令我把衣服脱了洗干净,还有毛巾,也得洗干净。从那时起,我突然发现我跟他不一样,那种不一样,就像缺了只耳朵或者烫了个烙印一样明显。从那之后,他就没再正眼看过我。”

陡峭蜿蜒的楼梯把埃尼斯带进了杰克的卧室。房间又小又热,下午的阳光从西窗倾泻进来,把一张窄小的男孩床逼进墙角。一张墨迹斑斑的桌子,一把木椅子,一杆双筒枪挂在床头手工制作的枪架上。窗外,一条碎石路向南延伸,他蓦然想起,杰克小时候就只认得这一条路。床边贴着一些从旧杂志上剪下来的照片,照片上那些黑头发的电影明星,都已经褪色发黄。埃尼斯听到杰克的妈妈在楼下烧开水、灌满水壶、又把它放回炉子,同时在和杰克的老爹小声儿嘀咕。

卧室里的衣橱,其实就是一个浅浅的凹槽,架着根木棍。一条褪色的布帘子把它跟整个房间隔离开来。衣柜里挂着牛仔裤,仔细烫过,并且折出笔直的裤线。地上放着双似曾相识的破靴子。衣橱最里面,挂着一件衬衣。他把衣服从钉子上摘下来,认出那是杰克在断背山时曾穿过的。袖子上已经干涸的血迹却是埃尼斯的--在断背山上的最后一天,他们扭打的时候,杰克用膝盖磕到了埃尼斯的鼻子,血流得他们两个身上都是,大概也流在了杰克的袖子上。但埃尼斯不能肯定,因为他还用它包过折断翅膀的野鸽子。

那衬衣很重。他这才发现里面还套着另外一件,袖子被仔细地塞在外面这件的袖子里。那是埃尼斯的一件格子衬衣,他一直以为是洗衣店给弄丢了。他的脏衬衣,口袋歪斜,扣子也不全,却被杰克偷了来,珍藏于此。

两件衬衣,就象两层皮肤,一件套着另一件,合二为一。他把脸深深埋进衣服纤维里,慢慢地呼吸着其中的味道,指望能够寻觅到那淡淡的烟草味,那来自大山的气息,以及杰克身上独特的汗香。然而,气味已经消散,唯有记忆长存。断背山的绵绵山峦之间,有一种无形的力量--它什么都没留给他,却永远在他心底。

最终大头鹅老爹也不肯把杰克的骨灰给他:“告诉你,他得埋在自家的祖坟里。”杰克的妈妈用削皮器削着苹果,对他说:“你可得再来啊。”

回去的路上,埃尼斯颠簸着经过村里的墓地。那只不过是一小块林间空地,松松垮垮地围着栅栏。有几座墓前搁着塑料假花。埃尼斯不知道杰克的墓是哪一座,不知道他被埋在这片伤心平原的哪个角落。

几个星期后的一个周六,他把斯图特埃米尔家那些脏毯子扔上卡车,拉到洗车处,用高压水枪冲洗。在工人们将洗干净的湿毯子往车上搬的空当儿,他走进了辛吉斯礼品店,开始忙着挑选明信片。

“埃尼斯,你这是找什么呢?”玲达•辛吉斯问他,顺手把用过的咖啡滤纸扔进了垃圾筒。

“断背山的风景明信片。"

“在弗里蒙特的那座?”

“不是,北面那座。”

“我没进这种明信片,不过我可以把它列在进货单上,下次给你进上一百张,反正我也得进点儿明信片。”

“一张就够。”

明信片到了,三十美分。他把它贴在自己车里,四个角用黄铜大头钉钉住。又在下面敲了跟铁钉,拿铁丝衣架把杰克和他的衬衣挂了起来。他后退几步,端详着套在一起的两件衬衣,泪水夺眶而出,刺痛了他的双眼。

“杰克,我发誓……”他说。尽管杰克从没要求过他发什么誓,杰克自己就不是一个会发誓的人。

从那时起,杰克开始出现在他的梦里。还像初次见面时那样,头发卷曲,微笑着,露出虎牙。他也有梦到那些放在枕木上的豆子罐头和从罐头里伸出来的汤匙柄。形状象卡通画,颜色也很怪异,使他的梦境显得又滑稽又色情。汤匙柄还会变成轮胎撬棍……一觉醒来,他有时伤心,有时高兴。伤心的时候枕头会湿,高兴的时候床单会湿……

他知道发生了什么事,却无法相信它。到如今已经回天乏力,于事无补,只好默默承受。

~the end~
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  -----  Henry David Thoreau
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