[FONT=宋体]chapter five
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. Today, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one lightly and are soon forgotten, but then - how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal. A denial heralded the thrice crowing of a cock, and an insincerity was like the kiss of Judas. The adult mind can lie with untroubled conscience and a gay composure, but in those days even a small deception scoured the tongue, lashing one against the stake itself. 'What have you been doing this morning?' I can hear her now, propped against her pillows, with all the small irritability of the patient who is not really ill, who has lain in bed too long, and I, reaching to the bedside drawer for the pack of cards, would feel the guilty flush form patches on my neck. 'I've been playing tennis with the professional, ' I told her, the false words bringing me to panic, even as I spoke, for what if the professional himself should come up to the suite, then, that very afternoon, and bursting in upon her complain that I had missed my lesson now for many days? "The trouble is with me laid up like this you haven't got enough to do, ' she said, mashing her cigarette in a jar of cleansing cream, and taking the cards in her hand she mixed them in the deft, irritating shuffle of the inveterate player, shaking them in threes, snapping the backs. 'I don't know what you find to do with yourself all day, ' she went on; 'you never have any sketches to show me, and when I do ask you to do some shopping for me you forget to buy my Taxol. All I can say is that I hope your tennis will improve; it will be useful to you later on. A poor player is a great bore. Do you still serve underhand?' She flipped the Queen of Spades into the pool, and the dark face stared up at me like Jezebel. 'Yes, ' I said, stung by her question, thinking how just and appropriate her word. It described me well. I was underhand. I had not played tennis with the professional at all. I had not once played since she had lain in bed, and that was a little over a fortnight now. I wondered why it was I clung to this reserve, and why it was I did not tell her that every morning I drove with de Winter in his car, and lunched with him, too, at his table in the restaurant. 'You must come up to the net more; you will never play a good game until you do, ' she continued, and I agreed, flinching at my own hypocrisy, covering the Queen with the weak-chinned Knave of Hearts. I have forgotten much of Monte Carlo, of those morning drives, of where we went, even our conversation; but I have not forgotten how my fingers trembled, cramming on my hat, and how I ran along the corridor and down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the slow whining of the lift, and so outside, brushing the swing doors before the commissionaire could help me. He would be there, in the driver's seat, reading a paper while he waited, and when he saw me he would smile, and toss it behind him in the back seat, and open the door, saying, 'Well, how is the friend-of-the-bosom this morning, and where does she want to go?' If he had driven round in circles it would not have mattered to me, for I was in that first flushed stage when to climb into the seat beside him, and lean forward to the wind- screen hugging my knees, was almost too much to bear. I was like a little scrubby schoolboy with a passion for a sixth-form prefect, and he kinder, and far more inaccessible. "There's a cold wind this morning, you had better put on my coat. ' I remember that, for I was young enough to win happiness in the wearing of his clothes, playing the schoolboy again who carries his hero's sweater and ties it about his throat choking, with pride, and this borrowing of his coat, wearing it around my shoulders for even a few minutes at a time, was a triumph in itself, and made a glow about my morning. Not for me the languor and the subtlety I had read about in books. The challenge and the chase. The sword-play, the swift glance, the stimulating smile. The art of provocation was unknown to me, and I would sit with his map upon my lap, the wind blowing my dull, lanky hair, happy in his silence yet eager for his words. Whether he talked or not made little difference to my mood. My only enemy was the clock on the dashboard, whose hands would move relentlessly to one o'clock. We drove east, we drove west, amidst the myriad villages that cling like limpets to the Mediterranean shore, and today I remember none of them. All I remember is the feel of the leather seats, the texture of the map upon my knee, its frayed edges, its worn seams, and how one day, looking at the clock, I thought to myself, 'This moment now, at twenty past eleven, this must never be lost, ' and I shut my eyes to make the experience more lasting. When I opened my eyes we were by a bend in the road, and a peasant girl in a black shawl waved to us; I can see her now, her dusty skirt, her gleaming, friendly smile, and in a second we had passed the bend and could see her no more. Already she belonged to the past, she was only a memory. I wanted to go back again, to recapture the moment that had gone, and then it came to me that if we did it would not be the same, even the sun would be changed in the sky, casting another shadow, and the peasant girl would trudge past us along the road in a different way, not waving this time, perhaps not even seeing us. There was something chilling in the thought, something a little melancholy, and looking at the clock I saw that five more minutes had gone by. Soon we would have reached our time limit, and must return to the hotel. 'If only there could be an invention', I said impulsively, 'that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again. ' I looked up at him, to see what he would say. He did not turn to me, he went on watching the road ahead. 'What particular moments in your young life do you wish uncorked?' he said. I could not tell from his voice whether he was teasing me or not. 'I'm not sure, ' I began, and then blundered on, rather foolishly, not thinking of my words, 'I'd like to keep this moment and never forget it. ' 'Is that meant to be a compliment to the day, or to my driving?' he said, and as he laughed, like a mocking brother, I became silent, overwhelmed suddenly by the great gulf between us, and how his very kindness to me widened it. I knew then that I would never tell Mrs Van Hopper about these morning expeditions, for her smile would hurt me as his laugh had done. She would not be angry, nor would she be shocked; she would raise her eyebrows very faintly as though she did not altogether believe my story, and then with a tolerant shrug of the shoulder she would say, 'My dear child, it's extremely sweet and kind of him to take you driving; the only thing is - are you sure it does not bore him dreadfully?' And then she would send me out to buy Taxol, patting me on the shoulder. What degradation lay in being young, I thought, and fell to tearing my nails. 'I wish, ' I said savagely, still mindful of his laugh and throwing discretion to the wind, 'I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls. ' 'You would not be in this car with me if you were, ' he said; 'and stop biting those nails, they are ugly enough already. ' 'You'll think me impertinent and rude I dare say, ' I went on, 'but I would like to know why you ask me to come out in the car, day after day. You are being kind, that's obvious, but why do you choose me for your charity?' I sat up stiff and straight in my seat and with all the poor pomposity of youth. 'I ask you, ' he said gravely, 'because you are not dressed in black satin, with a string of pearls, nor are you thirty-six. ' His face was without expression, I could not tell whether he laughed inwardly or not. 'It's all very well, ' I said; 'you know everything there is to know about me. There's not much, I admit, because I have not been alive for very long, and nothing much has happened to me, except people dying, but you -I know nothing more about you than I did the first day we met. ' 'And what did you know then?' he asked. 'Why, that you lived at Manderley and - and that you had lost your wife. ' There, I had said it at last, the word that had hovered on my tongue for days. Your wife. It came out with ease, without reluctance, as though the mere mention of her must be the most casual thing in all the world. Your wife. The word lingered in the air once I had uttered it, dancing before me, and because he received it silently, making no comment, the word magnified itself into something heinous and appalling, a forbidden word, unnatural to the tongue. And I could not call it back, it could never be unsaid. Once again I saw the inscription on the fly-leaf of that book of poems, and the curious slanting R. I felt sick at heart and cold. He would never forgive me, and this would be the end of our friendship. I remember staring straight in front of me at the windscreen, seeing nothing of the flying road, my ears still tingling with that spoken word. The silence became minutes, and the minutes became miles, and everything is over now, I thought, I shall never drive with him again. Tomorrow he will go away. And Mrs Van Hopper will be up again. She and I will walk along the terrace as we did before. The porter will bring down his trunks, I shall catch a glimpse of them in the luggage lift, with new-plastered labels. The bustle and finality of departure. The sound of the car changing gear as it turned the corner, and then even that sound merging into the common traffic, and being lost, and so absorbed for ever. I was so deep in my picture, I even saw the porter pocketing his tip and going back through the swing-door of the hotel, saying something over his shoulder to the commissionaire, that I did not notice the slowing-down of the car, and it was only when we stopped, drawing up by the side of the road, that I brought myself back to the present once again. He sat motionless, looking without his hat and with his white scarf round his neck, more than ever like someone medieval who lived within a frame. He did not belong to the bright landscape, he should be standing on the steps of a gaunt cathedral, his cloak flung back, while a beggar at his feet scrambled for gold coins. The friend had gone, with his kindliness and his easy camaraderie, and the brother too, who had mocked me for nibbling at my nails. This man was a stranger. I wondered why I was sitting beside him in the car. Then he turned to me and spoke. 'A little while ago you talked about an invention, ' he said, 'some scheme for capturing a memory. You would like, you told me, at a chosen moment to live the past again. I'm afraid I think rather differently from you. All memories are bitter, and I prefer to ignore them. Something happened a year ago that altered my whole life, and I want to forget every phase in my existence up to that time. Those days are finished. They are blotted out. I must begin living all over again. The first day we met, your Mrs Van Hopper asked me why I came to Monte Carlo. It put a stopper on those memories you would like to resurrect. It does not always work, of course; sometimes the scent is too strong for the bottle, and too strong for me. And then the devil in one, like a furtive peeping Tom, tries to draw the cork. I did that in the first drive we took together. When we climbed the hills and looked down over the precipice. I was there some years ago, with my wife. You asked me if it was still the same, if it had changed at all. It was just the same, but - I was thankful to realize - oddly impersonal. There was no suggestion of the other time. She and I had left no record. It may have been because you were with me. You have blotted out the past for me, you know, far more effectively than all the bright lights of Monte Carlo. But for you I should have left long ago, gone on to Italy, and Greece, and further still perhaps. You have spared me all those wanderings. Damn your puritanical little tight-lipped speech to me. Damn your idea of my kindness and my charity. I ask you to come with me because I want you and your company, and if you don't believe me you can leave the car now and find your own way home. Go on, open the door, and get out. ' I sat still, my hands in my lap, not knowing whether he meant it or not. 'Well, ' he said, 'what are you going to do about it?' Had I been a year or two younger I think I should have cried. Children's tears are very near the surface, and come at the first crisis. As it was I felt them prick behind my eyes, felt the ready colour flood my face, and catching a sudden glimpse of myself in the glass above the windscreen saw in full the sorry spectacle that I made, with troubled eyes and scarlet cheeks, lank hair flopping under broad felt hat. 'I want to go home, ' I said, my voice perilously near to trembling, and without a word he started up the engine, let in the clutch, and turned the car round the way that we had come. Swiftly we covered the ground, far too swiftly, I thought, far too easily, and the callous countryside watched us with indifference. We came to the bend in the road that I had wished to imprison as a memory, and the peasant girl was gone, and the colour was fiat, and it was no more after all than any bend in any road passed by a hundred motorists. The glamour of it had gone with my happy mood, and at the thought of it my frozen face quivered into feeling, my adult pride was lost, and those despicable tears rejoicing at their conquest welled into my eyes and strayed upon my cheeks. I could not check them, for they came unbidden, and had I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief he would have seen I must let them fall untouched, and suffer the bitter salt upon my lips, plumbing the depths of humiliation. Whether he had turned his head to look at me I do not know, for I watched the road ahead with blurred and steady stare, but suddenly he put out his hand and took hold of mine, and kissed it, still saying nothing, and then he threw his handkerchief on my lap, which I was too ashamed to touch.
第05章
幸好初恋的狂热不会发生第二次。那确实是种狂热；另外，不管诗人怎么描写，初恋同时又是一种负担。人们在二十一岁上缺乏勇气，因为琐碎小事而怕这怕那，无端担心。在那种年纪，一个人的自尊心很容易受到伤害，动辄生气，听谁说一句略微带刺的话就受不了。今天，我行将跨入中年。中年使人处于满足自得境界的保护之中。中年人也碰到日常的微不足道的烦恼，但他们几乎不感到什么刺痛，而且很快就会把烦恼置之脑后。但那时候情形就大不一样：别人无意之中说的一句话会久久忘不了，成为灼人的耻辱；一个眼色，回眸的一瞥，都可能打上永恒的标记；讨个没趣，那就意味着三夜失眠到鸡啼；言不由衷则像犹大的一吻①。成年人说说可以做到脸不改色心不慌，而在那种年纪，即使在区区小事上说句假话，舌头也会痛上老半天，使你受着炮烙般的苦刑——
①犹大：耶稣门徒，出卖耶稣者。据此，犹大的一吻常被后人用来比喻口出利剑。
“今儿上午你干什么来着？”我还能记起范-霍珀夫人当时的声音。她背靠枕头坐在床上，因为实在没有病，在床上又躺得太久，非常容易为点芝麻绿豆小事发脾气。我伸手从床头柜的抽屉里拿纸牌，由于心里有鬼，觉得脖子都涨红了。
“我在跟职业教练学打网球，”我一边说，一边因为自己信口胡诌而慌了神。要是那职业教练下午突然亲自跑来告状，说我好几天没去上课，那怎么办？
“事情糟就糟在我这么一躺倒，你没事干了，”她说着把香烟捻熄在一只盛洗涤香膏的瓶子里，然后，就以牌迷那种叫人看着讨厌的熟练手法，把牌分成三叠抽上抽下，啪啪出声地弹着纸牌的背面。
“谁知道你成天在干些什么！”她接着说。“你连一张素描也没有交来让我过目。要是真打发你上街，你难会忘了买我的塔克索尔牌香烟日来。我只希望你网球球艺进步，这对你今后有用。球艺糟糕的家伙最叫人受不了。你现在还发下手球吗？”她一抬手把黑桃皇后轻轻掷下，皇后奸恶地瞪眼望着我，那神气活像耶洗别①——
①古以色列王亚哈之妻，揽权无餍，把持恶政。后人常以其比喻阴毒奸恶之悍妇。
“是的，”我答道。她的问题刺痛了我。我想她用的词既公道又贴切，活龙活现地勾划出我的形象。是的，我做事确实偷偷摸摸①：我压根儿没去跟职业教练学打网球，从她卧床时起一次也没打过。到现在已两个多星期了。我真奇怪自己为什么一直把真相隐瞒着，干吗不告诉她每天早上我和德温特一起驾车出游，而且每天在餐厅里同桌吃午饭——
①范-霍珀夫人的问句是“Doyoustillserveunderhand？”，underhand一词在英语中有两个意思，第一义是“低手”，即范-霍珀夫人发问时使用的意义；第二义是“偷偷摸摸”。
“你必须朝近同处跑动，不然就甭想打好球，”她接着说。我接受她的意见，一面提心吊胆地说假话，一面把尖下巴的红桃“J”盖在她的皇后纸牌上面。
关于蒙特卡洛的好多事情我都忘了。我俩如何每天早上驾车去兜风，玩了哪些地方，甚至我俩谈论过什么，全都忘了。但是我没忘记自己如何以颤抖的手指胡乱把帽子往脑门上一覆，又如何在走廊里急跑，并且因为没有耐心等候慢腾腾的电梯而飞奔下楼，不待门役搀扶，擦着转门往外冲去。
他总是坐在驾驶座上，一边等我，一边看报。见到我来，他莞尔一笑，把报纸撂到后座，替我打开车门，问道：“嗨”，‘心腹朋友’今天早上感觉怎么样？爱上哪儿玩去？”可是对我说来，即便他开着车老在一个地方来回绕圈子也没关系，因为这时我正处于出游开始时最得意的心情中。登上汽车，坐在他身边的位置上，抱着双膝，曲身向着前面的挡风玻璃——这一切简直都是难以消受的幸福。我就像一个对六年级的级长崇拜得五体投地的小不点儿，而他呢，他比这样一个级长固然要和善一些，但却难以接近得多。
“今早上风大天冷，你最好穿我的上衣。”
这句话我还记得，因为那时我实在幼稚，穿着他的衣服竟觉得那么甜蜜，仿佛又成了那种替级长抱运动衣的小学生，能够把自己偶像的衣服围在脖子上，得意得要命。借他的上衣，把它技在我的肩头，那怕只有短短几分钟，这本身就是一种胜利，使我的早晨变得光明灿烂！
我在书上读到过，人们在谈情说爱时如何装出懒洋洋的娇态，弄得对方无从捉摸，我可不是这种人。什么欲擒故纵，唇枪舌剑，飞眼媚笑，这一套挑逗人的本事我全不会。我就坐在车里，膝上捧着他的地图，任由风吹乱我那一头平直难看的长发。我既从他的沉默中得到乐趣，又渴望听他说话。但是他说话与否对我情绪其实无关紧要；我唯一的敌人是仪表板上的时钟，它的针臂将无情地指向中午一点。时而向东，时而向西，我们在无数小村中穿行。这些村子就像附在岩石上的贝壳，遍缀地中海沿岸。今天我已记不起它们中间的任何一个。
我还能记起的仅仅是坐在汽车皮椅上的感觉，膝上地图纵横交错的图案，它的皱边和松散的装订线。我也记得，有一次我曾望着时钟思忖：“此时此刻，十一点二十分，一定要使它成为永久的记忆。”接着我就闭上眼睛，以使当时一刹那的经历更深地印进脑子。等我睁开眼，汽车正在公路上拐弯。一个披黑色围巾的农家姑娘向我们招手。现在我还记得她的模样：蒙着尘土的裙子，脸上带着开朗而友好的微笑。一秒钟之间，我们拐过弯去，再也看不见她了。农家姑娘已成过去，只留下一个记忆。
我当时多想返回去，重新捕捉那已逝去的一刻。但我马上又想到，即便真的回去，一切都已不是原样，甚至天空的太阳经过位置的移动也会不同于前一刻；那农家姑娘或许正拖着疲乏的脚步沿公路走去，经过我们面前，这一回不再招手，也许根本没看见我们。这种想法多少使人寒心，感到悲凉。再看看时钟，又过了五分钟。不一会儿，时间就要过尽，我们又得回旅馆去了。
“要是发明一种办法，能把记忆像香水一样装在瓶子里多好！”我脱口说道。“这样，记忆就永不褪色，常年新鲜。什么时候需要，只要随时打开瓶子，你就仿佛又回过头去重新体验那一刻。”我抬头望着他，看他会说些什么。他并不转过脸来，而是照样聚精会神看着前面的大路。
“在你短短的生活历程里，有哪些特别的时刻，你想重新体验？”他问。从他的话音里，我听不出是否含有嘲弄的意味。
“这个，我说不上来。”接着，我又不假思索地补充一句，犯了个愚不可及的大错：“我正想把此时此刻保存起来，永志不忘呢。”
“你是说今天这个日子难忘，还是算对我开车的一种恭维？”他笑着说，那神情活像一个挖苦人的兄长。我撅着嘴沉默着，突然痛苦地意识到横在两人中间的沟壑，他对我的仁慈恰恰扩大了这道鸿沟。
这时我才认识到自己无论如何不会向范-霍珀夫人提起这些日子上午的出游，因为她那种笑，同他方才的讪笑一样，会使我非常伤心。她听到这事不会大发雷霆，也不会傻了眼，倒是可能微微扬起眉毛，表示压根儿不信我的话。然后，她可能宽容地一耸肩说：“好孩子，他真是好心肠，带你坐车去玩。可是你敢说他不觉得无聊得要命吗？”接着，她会拍拍我的肩膀，打发我去买塔克索尔牌香烟。我不禁顾影自怜：一个年轻丫头毕竟低人一等。想着想着，我开始使劲咬手指甲。
“但愿我是个三十六岁上下的贵妇人，披一身黑缎子，戴一串珍珠项链，”因为对他方才的笑仍然耿耿于怀，我没好气地说。什么审时度势，全被我抛到九宵云外。
“如果你是这样一个人物，此刻你就不会和我一起在这辆车上！”他答道。“别咬指甲！你那指甲已经够难看了。”
“你也许会觉得我鲁莽无礼，可我还是要问，你为什么每天开车带我出来玩？很显然，你是可怜我，但干吗一定要选中我来接受你的恩赐呢？”
我挺直身子，坐在位子上，尽量表示出年轻姑娘那一丁点儿可怜的尊严。
他一本正经地回答：“我邀请你是因为你不穿黑缎子衣服，没戴珍珠项琏；另外，你也不是三十六岁。”因为对方不动声色，我不知道他是不是在心里窃笑。
“这真妙，”我说。“我情况你已经全知道了。我承认，我很年轻，生活里除了死去亲人，没有多少经历。而你呢？关于你的事，我今天知道的决不比我们第一次见面时更多。”
“那么，当时你都知道些什么呢？”他问。
“还不是说你住在曼陀丽。再有，嗯，再有就是，你失去了妻子。”啊，我总算把喉间骨鲠吐出来了。“你的妻子”这几个字好些天一直在我的舌尖上打转，这下子终于说出来了，而且说得那么自然，毫不费劲，仿佛提到她乃是世间最平常的事。你的妻子，一经说出口，这几个字在空中回荡，在我的眼前跳跃，而由于他默默听完我的话，始终不置一词，这几个字竟膨胀成了既丑恶又可怕的巨怪。这几个字本来绝不该说，自然更不该从我的嘴里说出。但这是既成事实，说出的话再也无法追回。诗集扉页上的题词和那个不同于众的斜体“R”这会儿又出现在我眼前，使我感到心里很不自在，浑身发毛。他决不会原谅我的，我们的友谊就此完了。
我还记得自己如何出神凝视着前面的挡风玻璃，对飞一般掠过的路景视而不见，那几个字犹在耳边回响。沉默之中，几分钟过去了，几分钟就意味着汽车又驶过好几英里的路程，我想，这一回什么都完了，再也不会一起坐车出游了。也许明天他就离开这里，而范-霍珀夫人则将病愈起床。一切还同从前一样，她带着我在平台上散步，而那边，旅馆仆役正把他的箱笼搬下楼来，经过行李专用电梯时，正好让我瞥见，箱笼上全是新贴上去的行李标签。接着便是忙乱的起程和无可换回的永别，初时还能听到他的汽车在拐弯时换档的声音，接着，连这一点儿声音也汇入车水马龙的喧闹之中，被融化了去，永远消失了。
我专心想象这一幕情景，甚至看到仆役收下他的小费，返身走进旅馆转门时对门房说了些什么。我只管胡思乱想，因此连车子正在逐渐减速也不曾觉得。直到车子在公路边停下，我才再次回到现实中来。他端坐不动，因为没戴帽子，脖子上又围了条白围巾，看上去特别像画框里的中世纪人物。在这明快的自然景色中，他显得格格不入。他应该出现在一座阴森可怕的大教堂的石阶上，大氅拖地；脚边，乞丐正拼命抢捡他撒下的金币。
在他身上已看不到仁慈而随和的挚友形象；嘲笑我咬指甲的那位兄长也不见了。他成了一个陌生人。我弄不明白自己为什么傍着他坐在汽车里。
他转过脸来对我说：“刚才你谈到一种发明，一种可以擒获记忆的办法。你还说，你希望在某一特定时刻回过头去体验往事。恐怕我的想法与你恰好相反。回忆全是辛酸的，我宁愿永远不去理会过去的一切。一年前发生的事整个儿改变了我的生活，我要把一生中到那时为止的一切统统忘记干净。那段生活已经告终，从我的记忆里抹去了。我的生活得从头开始。第一天见面时，你的那位范-霍珀夫人问我，为什么到蒙特卡洛来。那是因为我想借此把你希望能重新唤起的种种回忆统统隔断。当然，这样做不见得总能奏效，有时候，香水的气味太浓，瓶子关不住，熏得我受不了。再说，附在人身上的魔鬼就像探头探脑偷看别人隐私的家伙，老是想把瓶塞打开。我们俩第一次坐车出游时，爬上高山，俯瞰深谷，那就是因为魔鬼打开了瓶塞。几年前，我曾带我妻子到过那地方。你间我景色是否依旧，那地方有什么变化。一切都和以前一模一样，只是——我感恩不尽地发现——那座山丝毫不带任何个性特征，决不会使人想到上一回，她和我没有留下任何痕迹。这也许是因为那天你陪着我。你知道，你替我抹去往昔的影子，你的力量比灯红酒绿的蒙特卡洛要大得多。要不是你，我早就离开这儿，继续自己的行程，先到意大利，再去希腊，也许还得到更远的地方去。是你使我省去漫无目的东奔西走的麻烦。哼，让你刚才那种情教徒式一本正经的说教见鬼去吧！还有，你居然认为我是在做慈善好事！我邀请你是因为我需要你，需要你陪着我。如果你不相信，那么你此刻就可以下车，自己寻路回去。好吧，打开车门，下去！”
我呆呆地坐着，双手放在膝上，不知道他是不是真的要赶我下车。
“说吧，你准备怎么样？”他问。
要是早一两年遇上这种局面，我肯定会哭鼻子。小孩一发急，泪水总是一下子涌上眼眶。当时，我只感觉到泪水在眼睛里打滚，血直往脸上冲。在挡风玻璃上方的小镜子里，我突然看见自己那副尊容：两眼困惑慌乱，双颊绯红，长发散乱地披在宽边帽下。一副鬼样子！
“我想回家，”我差点哭出来。他默默地把车子发动起来，松开制动闸，掉过头往回驶去。
车在飞驰。我觉得它跑得太快，太不费力了、四下里寂寥的乡野无动于衷地注视着我们驶过。我们回到公路上的拐弯处，就是刚才我想把记忆封存起来的那个拐角。农家女已不知去向；周围的色彩也是一片惨淡。原来，它同任何一条公路上的任何一个拐角完全一样，每天有无数旅客驾车打这儿经过。它那迷人之处已随着我的好心情一起化为乌有。想到这里，我木然的脸突然因为激动而抽搐起来，成年人的自尊再也无法抵御低贱的泪水。泪水则因为最后得胜，欢快地涌上眼眶，又顺着双颊淌下。
我无法止住泪水，这是不由自主的事情。如果我到衣袋里会掏手绢，定会遭他发现。所以我只得听任泪水横流，让那咸味儿灼我的双唇，体验着极度的羞辱。我一直用泪眼盯着前面的路，因此不知道他是不是转过脸来看我。不过，突然间，他把手伸过来，抓住我的手，吻了一下，可仍然不说话。接着，他把自己的手帕扔在我怀里。我怕丢脸，不敢拿。[/FONT]
