Smiley's People汉译78

agent124

第10章



The Free Baltic Library was on the third floor over a dusty antiquarian bookshop that specialised in the Spirit. Its little windows squinted down into a forecourt of the British Museum. Smiley reached the place by way of a winding wooden staircase, passing on his ponderous climb several aged handdrawn signs pulling at their drawing-pins and a stack of brown toiletry boxes belonging to a chemist’s shop next door. Gaining the top, he discovered himself thoroughly out of breath, and wisely paused before pressing the bell. Waiting, he was assailed in his momentary exhaustion by a hallucination. He had the delusion that he kept visiting the same high place over and over again: the safe flat in Hampstead, Vladimir’s garret in Westbourne Terrace, and now this haunted backwater from the fifties, once a rallying point of the so-called Bloomsbury Irregulars. He fancied they were all a single place, a single proving ground for virtues not yet stated. The illusion passed, and he gave three short rings, one long, wondering whether they had changed the signal, doubting it; still worrying about Villem or perhaps Stella, or perhaps just the child. He heard a close creak of floorboards and guessed he was being examined through the spyhole by someone a foot away from him. The door swiftly opened, he stepped into a gloomy hall as two wiry arms hugged him in their grip. He smelt body-heat and sweat and cigarette smoke and an unshaven face pressed against his own—left cheek, right cheek, as if to bestow a medal—once more to the left for particular affection.
自由波罗的海图书馆在四楼，楼下是一家专营宗教神灵类书籍的旧书店，灰尘积得很厚。从图书馆的小窗户往下看，可以看到大英博物馆的前院。斯迈利吃力地爬了四层螺旋式木头楼梯才到了这里，沿途经过了几块手写的陈旧招牌，上面固定的图钉都快掉了，还有一摞属于隔壁药店的棕色化妆品盒。爬到顶层时，他自己已经上气不接下气，于是明智地歇了一会才去按电铃。在等待恢复疲劳的过程中，一种强烈的幻觉突然向他袭来。他产生了一种错觉，觉得自己一直在重复造访同一个高处：汉普斯特德的安全公寓、韦斯特伯恩排屋路的弗拉基米尔住的阁楼，以及现在这个五十年代时很热闹，如今却人迹罕至的地方，这里曾经是所谓的布卢姆斯伯里非正规军（指第一章里提到的一些苏联流亡者的组织——译注）的集结地。在幻觉中，这些地方都是同一个地方，是检验他的个人品质的试验场，虽然还没有明确是哪些个人品质。幻觉过去了，他按了门铃，三短一长，想知道他们是否改变了信号，他觉得应该还没变；他仍在担心维廉，或者是斯黛拉，或者只是那个孩子。他听到地板发出嘎吱嘎吱的响声，猜想有人正在离他一英尺远的地方通过窥视孔检查他。门迅速打开了，他走进了阴暗的大厅，两只粗壮的手臂紧紧地抱住了他。他闻到了体味、汗水和香烟的味道，一张没有刮过胡子的脸紧贴着自己的脸——先左后右，好像在授予奖章——为了表达特别亲切，又亲了下左脸。

“Max,” Mikhel murmured in a voice that was itself a requiem. “You came. I am glad. I had hoped but I did not dare expect. I was waiting for you nevertheless. I waited all day till now. He loved you, Max. You were the best. He said so always. You were his inspiration. He told me. His example.”
“I’m sorry, Mikhel,” Smiley said. “I’m really sorry.”
“As we all are, Max. As we all are. Inconsolable. But we are soldiers.”
He was dapper, and hollow-backed, and trim as the ex-major of horse he professed to be. His brown eyes, reddened by the night watch, had a becoming droopiness. He wore a black blazer over his shoulders like a cloak and black boots much polished, which could indeed have been for riding. His grey hair was groomed with military correctness, his moustache thick but carefully clipped. His face was at first glance youthful and only a close look at the crumbling of its pale surface into countless tiny deltas revealed his years. Smiley followed him to the library. It ran the width of the house and was divided by alcoves into vanished countries: Latvia, Lithuania, and—not least—Estonia, and in each alcove were a table and a flag and at several tables there were chess sets laid out for play, but nobody was playing, nobody was reading either; nobody was there, except for one blonde, broad woman in her forties wearing a short skirt and ankle socks. Her yellow hair, dark at the roots, was knotted in a severe bun, and she lounged beside a samovar, reading a travel magazine showing birch forests in the autumn. Drawing level with her, Mikhel paused and seemed about to make an introduction, but at the sight of Smiley she betrayed an intense and unmistakable anger. She looked at him, her mouth curled in contempt, she looked away through the rain-smeared window. Her cheeks were shiny from weeping and there were olive bruises under her heavy-lidded eyes.
“马克斯，”米克尔喃喃说道，他说话像唱安魂曲一样。“你来了。我很高兴。我曾希望你来，但不敢奢望。但我一直在等你。我每天都等你来，直到现在。他爱你，马克斯。你是最棒的。他总是这么说，你给他以鼓舞。他告诉过我。你是他的榜样。”
“我很难过，米克尔，”斯迈利说。“我真的很难过。”
“我们都很难过，麦克斯。我们都一样。无法释怀。但我们是军人。”
他衣着整齐，背部凹陷，身材修长，有点他自称的前骑兵少校的样子。他那双因守夜而发红的棕色眼睛有些下垂，却让他显得更帅了。他肩上披着一件黑色外套，就像披着一件斗篷，脚上穿着一双擦得锃亮的黑色靴子，这双靴子确实可以用来骑马。他的灰发梳理得整整齐齐，一副军人的作派，胡子浓密，修剪得很仔细。他的脸乍一看很年轻，只有仔细观察，才会发现他那苍白的脸上有无数细小的皱纹，暴露了他的真实年龄。斯迈利跟着他来到图书馆。它与房子的宽度相等，被分割成一个个凹室，每个凹室是一个已经消失的国家：拉脱维亚，立陶宛，还有当然不能错过的爱沙尼亚。每个凹室里都摆放着一张桌子和一面旗帜，有几张桌子上还摆放着棋具，但没有人下棋，也没有人看书；房间里只有一个四十多岁的女人，穿着短裙短袜，骨架很大。她的头发是黄色的，发根是深色的，结成一个紧凑的发髻，她惬意地坐在一个俄式茶坎旁，正在看一本展示秋天的白桦林的旅游杂志。米克尔走进她，停顿了一下，似乎想做个介绍，但她一看到斯迈利，就明显露出强烈的愤怒之情。她看了看他，嘴角轻蔑地翘起，扭头透过被雨水打湿的窗户向远处望去。她的脸颊因为哭过而泛着光，低垂的的眼皮下有几道橄榄色的伤痕。

“Elvira loved him also very much,” Mikhel observed by way of explanation when they were out of her hearing. “He was a brother to her. He instructed her.”
“Elvira?”
“My wife, Max. After many years we are married. I resisted. It is not always good for our work. But I owe her this security.”
They sat down. Around them and along the walls hung martyrs of forgotten movements. This one already in prison, photographed through wire. That one dead and—like Vladimir—they had pulled back the sheet to expose his bloodied face. A third, laughing, wore the baggy cap of a partisan and carried a longbarrelled rifle. From down the room they heard a small explosion followed by a rich Russian oath. Elvira, bride of Mikhel, was lighting the samovar.
“埃尔维拉也非常爱他，”米克尔在他们离开她的耳边时解释道。“他就像是她的兄长，教导过她。”
“埃尔维拉？”
“我的妻子，马克斯。多年以后，我们结婚了。我拒绝过。这对我们的工作并不总是好事。但这是我欠她的，这样可以给她一份安全保障。”
他们坐了下来。他们周围和墙壁上挂着被遗忘的运动中的烈士。这个已被关进监狱，照片是隔着铁丝网照的。那个已经死了，和弗拉基米尔一样。他们把床单拉开，露出他血淋淋的脸。第三个人在笑，戴着游击队员的宽松帽子，扛着长管步枪。他们听到房间里传来一声轻微的爆炸声，紧接着是一句感情强烈的俄语咒骂声。米克尔的新娘埃尔维拉正在点茶坎。

“I’m sorry,” Smiley repeated.
Enemies I do not fear, Villem, thought Smiley. But friends I fear greatly.

They were in Mikhel’s private alcove that he called his office. An old-fashioned telephone lay on the table beside a Remington upright typewriter like the one in Vladimir’s flat. Somebody must once have bought lots of them, thought Smiley. But the focus was a high hand-carved chair with barley-twist legs and a monarchic crest embroidered on the back. Mikhel sat on it primly, knees and boots together, a proxy king too small for his throne. He had lit a cigarette, which he held vertically from below. Above him a pall of tobacco smoke hung exactly where Smiley remembered it. In the waste-paper basket, Smiley noticed several discarded copies of Sporting Life.
“He was a leader, Max, he was a hero,” Mikhel declared. “We must try to profit from his courage and example.” He paused as if expecting Smiley to write this down for publication. “In such cases it is natural to ask oneself how one can possibly carry on. Who is worthy to follow him? Who has his stature, his honour, his sense of destiny? Fortunately our movement is a continuing process. It is greater than any one individual, even than any one group.”
“我很难过，”斯迈利重复道。
敌人我不怕，维廉，斯迈利想。但朋友我可怕得很。


他们在米克尔的私人小房间里，他把那里称作自己的办公室。桌子上放着一部老式电话，旁边是一台雷明顿立式打字机，就像弗拉基米尔公寓里的那台一样。斯迈利想，肯定有人曾经买过很多这样的打字机。但最引人注意的是一把手工雕刻的高脚椅，椅腿是螺旋形的，形状类似大麦糖棒，椅背上绣着君主徽章。米克尔神气地坐在上面，膝盖和靴子并拢在一起，俨然一个小得不能再小的代理国王。他点燃了一支烟，从下面竖着拿着。在他的头顶上，萦绕着一缕烟雾，正是斯迈利记忆中的地方。在废纸篓里，史迈利发现了几张扔掉的《运动生活》（英国报纸，1859年创刊，1998年停刊，以赛马和赛狗的内容为特色——译注）。
“他是一位领袖，马克斯，他是个英雄，”米克尔说道。“我们必须努力从他的勇气和榜样中得到教益。”。他停顿了一下，好像期待斯迈利把这句话写下来发表一样。“在这种情况下，人们自然会问自己如何才能继续前进。谁值得追随他？谁有他那样的地位、荣誉和使命感？幸运的是，我们的事业是一个持续的过程。它比任何一个人，甚至比任何一个小组都要伟大。”。