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One box Swan Vesta matches partly used, overcoat left, he remembered. A smoker’s match, note well.
And in the safe flat, he thought relentlessly—tantalising himself, staving off the final insight—there on the table waiting for him, one packet of cigarettes, Vladimir’s favourite brand. And in Westbourne Terrace on the food-store, nine packets of Gauloises Caporal. Out of ten.
But no cigarettes in his pockets. None, as the good Superintendent would have said, on his person. Or not when they found him, that is to say.
So the premise, George? Smiley asked himself, mimicking Lacon—brandishing Lacon’s prefectorial finger accusingly in his own intact face—the premise? The premise is thus far, Oliver, that a smoker, a habitual smoker, in a state of high nervousness, sets off on a crucial clandestine meeting equipped with matches but not even so much as an empty packet of cigarettes, though he possesses quite demonstrably a whole stock of them. So that either the assassins found it, and removed it—the proof, or proofs, that Vladimir was speaking of, or—or what? Or Vladimir changed his stick from his right hand to his left in time. And put his right hand in his pocket in time. And took it out again, also in time, at the very spot where he could not be seen. And got rid of it, or them, according to Moscow Rules.
一盒用过的天鹅维斯塔牌火柴，在大衣左边口袋，他记得。一个抽烟的人用的火柴，记好了。
他不停地想——用这个想法来诱惑自己，阻止最终的洞察力发现真相——在安全公寓的桌子上有一包香烟在等着他，弗拉基米尔最喜欢的牌子。而在韦斯特伯恩排屋路的食品柜上，有九包高卢牌凯普罗香烟。十包里的九包。
但他口袋里没有香烟。那位好警司会说，他身上没有一根烟。或者就是说，他们发现他的时候没有。
那么推理的结论所依据的前提是什么，乔治？史迈利自问自答，模仿雷肯这位上司用手指着自己的脸，带有责难意味地问道——前提是什么？奥利弗，目前的前提是，一个抽烟的人，一个老烟枪，在高度紧张的状态下，带着火柴出发去参加一次重要的秘密会面，但身边连一包空烟盒都没有，尽管他显然拥有一大堆香烟。所以，要么是刺客发现了它，并把它拿走了——弗拉基米尔所说的证据，要么是什么？要么弗拉基米尔及时把手杖从右手换到了左手。又及时地把右手放进口袋。又及时地把它拿了出来，就在没人能看见他的地方。然后按照莫斯科规则把它扔掉了，或者是把它们扔掉了。
Having satisfied his own insistence upon a logical succession, George Smiley stepped cautiously into the long grass that led to the spinney, soaking his trousers from the knees down. For half an hour or more he searched, groping in the grass and among the foliage, retreading his tracks, cursing his own blundering, giving up, beginning again, answering the fatuous enquiries of passersby, which ranged from the obscene to the excessively attentive. There were even two Buddhist monks from a local seminary, complete with saffron robes and lace-up boots and knitted woollen caps, who offered their assistance. Smiley courteously declined it. He found two broken kites, a quantity of Coca-Cola tins. He found scraps of the female body, some in colour, some in black-and-white, ripped from magazines. He found an old running shoe, black, and shreds of an old burnt blanket. He found four beer bottles, empty, and four empty cigarette packets so sodden and old that after one glance he discounted them. And in a branch, slipped into the fork just where it joined its parent trunk, the fifth packet—or better perhaps, the tenth—that was not even empty: a relatively dry packet of Gauloises Caporal, Filtre and Duty Free, high up. Smiley reached for it as if it were forbidden fruit, but like forbidden fruit it stayed outside his grasp. He jumped for it and felt his back rip: a distinct and unnerving parting of tissue that smarted and dug at him for days afterwards. He said “damn” out loud and rubbed the spot, much as Ostrakova might have done. Two typists, on their way to work, consoled him with their giggles. He found a stick, poked the packet free, opened it. Four cigarettes remained.
乔治·斯迈利在确认自己的推理过程符合逻辑，感到满意了以后，小心翼翼地踏进了通往灌木林的长草丛中，膝盖以下的裤子都湿透了。他找了半个多小时，在草丛中和树叶间摸索，有时回到走过的地方，有时咒骂自己的失误，有时放弃，又重新开始，有时回答路人愚蠢的询问，那些人有的下流，有的过分殷勤。甚至还有两个来自当地佛学院的和尚，穿着藏红花长袍，脚蹬系带靴子，头戴针织毛线帽，表示愿意提供帮助。斯迈利婉言谢绝了。他找到两只破碎的风筝和一些可口可乐罐。他又找到一些从杂志上撕下来的女性人体图片碎片，有些是彩色的，有些是黑白的。他又找到一只旧跑鞋，黑色的，还有一条烧焦的旧毯子碎片。他又找到四个啤酒瓶，空的，还有四个空烟盒，又脏又旧，他看了一眼就把它们排除了。然后，在一根树枝上，就在树枝与主干相连的分叉处，他发现了第五包——或者也许更贴切地说是第十包——香烟，而且不是空的，是一包相对干燥的高卢牌凯普罗香烟，带过滤嘴的免税烟，放在高处。斯迈利伸手去拿，就像拿禁果一样，但它就像禁果一样够不到。他跳起来去拿，感觉后背撕裂了：一种明显的、令人不安的肌肉组织裂开的感觉，在之后的几天里他的后背一直钻心的痛。他大声说了声“该死”，然后揉了揉那个地方，就像奥斯特拉科娃在类似情况下会做的那样。两个打字员在上班的路上看到他，发出咯咯的笑声。这就是他能得到的安慰。他找到一根树枝，把烟盒勾下来，打开烟盒。里面还剩四根香烟。
And behind those four cigarettes, half concealed, and protected by its own skin of cellophane, something he recognised but dared not even disturb with his wet and trembling fingers. Something he dared not even contemplate until he was free of this appalling place, where giggling typists and Buddhist monks innocently trampled the spot where Vladimir had died.
They have one, I have the other, he thought. I have shared the old man’s legacy with his murderers.
Braving the traffic, he followed the narrow pavement down the hill till he came to South End Green, where he hoped for a café that would give him tea. Finding none open so early, he sat on a bench across from a cinema instead, contemplating an old marble fountain and a pair of red telephone-boxes, one filthier than the other. A warm drizzle was falling; a few shopkeepers had started lowering their awnings; a delicatessen store was taking delivery of bread. He sat with hunched shoulders, and the damp points of his mackintosh collar stabbed his unshaven cheeks whenever he turned his head. “For God’s sake, mourn!” Ann had flung at Smiley once, infuriated by his apparent composure after yet another friend had died. “If you won’t grieve for the dead, how can you love the living?” Sitting on his bench, pondering his next step, Smiley now transmitted to her the answer he had failed to find at the time. “You are wrong,” he told her distractedly. “I mourn the dead sincerely, and Vladimir, at this moment, deeply. It’s loving the living which is sometimes a bit of a problem.”
在这四根香烟背后，有一个半遮半掩的，用烟盒的玻璃纸保护起来的东西，他认出来是什么东西，却不敢用湿漉漉的，颤抖的手指去惊扰它。在他离开这个可怕的地方之前，他甚至不敢去想这个东西。傻笑的打字员和佛教僧侣无意之间践踏了弗拉基米尔死去的地方。
他想，他们有一个，我有另一个。我与杀害他的凶手分享了这位老人的遗产。
他不顾来往的人流和车流，沿着狭窄的人行道下了高坡，一直走到南安德格林公园，希望能在那里找到一家可以喝茶的咖啡馆。由于没有一家咖啡馆这么早开门，他只好坐在电影院对面的长椅上，看着一个古老的大理石喷泉和一对红色的电话亭。这两个东西一个比一个脏。正下着温暖的细雨，一些店主开始把遮阳篷放下来，一家熟食店正在送面包。他驼着背坐在那里，每当他转过头，防水布衣领上淋湿的地方就会刺痛他未刮的脸颊。“看在上帝的份上，哀悼吧！”安曾经在又一个朋友去世后气愤地对斯迈利说过，因为他故作镇定激怒了她。“如果你不为死去的人悲伤 你怎么会爱活着的人？” 斯迈利坐在长椅上，思考着下一步的行动。当时他回答不了安的问题，现在他可以对她说：“你错了，”他有点分神。“我真诚地悼念逝者，此刻也深深地悼念着弗拉基米尔。爱活着的人有时倒是个问题。”
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发表于 2024-6-1 07:22:48
