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杭州 成都机票Chapter 18

It stirred up more memories than I ever would have believed. Writing about yourself seems to be a lot like sticking a branch into clear river-water and roiling up the muddy bottom. Well, you weren't writing about yourself, I hear someone in the peanut-gallery saying. You were writing about Andy Dufresne. You're nothing but a minor character in your own story. But you know, that's just not so. It's all about me, every damned word of it. Andy was the part of me they could never lock up, the part of me that will rejoice when the gates finally open for me and I walk out in my cheap suit with my twenty dollars of mad-money in my pocket. That part of me will rejoice no matter how old and broken and scared the rest of me is. I guess it's just that Andy had more of that part than me, and used it better. There are others here like me, others who remember Andy. We're glad he's gone, but a little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure. That's the story and I'm glad I told it, even if it is a bit inconclusive and even though some of the memories the pencil prodded up (like that branch poking up the river-mud) made me feel a little sad and even older than I am. Thank you for listening. And Andy: If you're really down there, as I believe you are, look at the stars for me just after sunset, and touch the sand, and wade in the water, and feel free. I never expected to take up this narrative again, but here I am with the dog -eared, folded pages open on the desk in front of me. Here I am adding another three or four pages, writing in a brand-new tablet. A tablet I bought in a store - I just walked into a store on Portland's Congress Street and bought it. I thought I had put finish to my story in a Shawshank prison cell on a bleak January day in 1976. Now it's late June of 1977 and I am sitting in a small, cheap room of the Brewster Hotel in Portland, adding to it. The window is open, and the sound of the traffic floating in seems huge, exciting, and intimidating. I have to look constantly over at the window and reassure myself that there are no bars on it. I sleep poorly at night because the bed in this room, as cheap as the room is, seems much too big and luxurious. I snap awake every morning promptly at six-thirty, feeling disorientated and frightened. My dreams are bad. I have a crazy feeling of free fall. The sensation is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. What has happened in my life? Can't you guess? I was paroled. After thirty-eight years of routine hearings and routine details (in the course of those thirty-eight years, three lawyers died on me), my parole was granted. I suppose they decided that, at the age of fifty-eight, I was finally used up enough to be deemed safe. I came very close to burning the document you have just read. They search outgoing parolees just as carefully as they search incoming 'new fish'. And beyond containing enough dynamite to assure me of a quick turnaround and another six or eight years inside, my 'memoirs' contained something else: the name of the town where I believe Andy Dufresne to be. Mexican police gladly cooperate with the American police, and I didn't want my freedom - or my unwillingness to give up the story I'd worked so long and hard to write - to cost Andy his. Then I remembered how Andy had brought in his five hundred dollars back in 1948, and I took out my story of him the same way. Just to be on the safe side, I carefully rewrote each page which mentioned Zihuatanejo. If the papers had been found during my 'outside search', as they call it at the Shank, I would have gone back in on turnaround ... but the cops would have been looking for Andy in a Peruvian seacoast town named Las Intrudres. The Parole Committee got me a job as a 'stock-room assistant' at the big FoodWay Market at the Spruce Mall in South Portland - which means I became just one more ageing bag-boy. There's only two kinds of bag-boys, you know; the old ones and the young ones. No one ever looks at either kind. If you shop at the Spruce Mall FoodWay, I may have even taken your groceries out to your car ... but you'd have had to have shopped there between March and April of 1977, because that's as long as I worked there. At first I didn't think I was going to be able to make it on the outside at all. I've described prison society as a scaled-down model of your outside world, but I had no idea of how fast things moved on the outside; the raw speed people move at. They even talk faster. And louder. It was the toughest adjustment I've ever had to make, and I haven't finished making it yet ... not by a long way. Women, for instance. After hardly knowing that they were half of the human race for forty years, I was suddenly working in a store filled with them. Old women, pregnant women wearing T-shirts with arrows pointing downward and the printed motto reading BABY HERE, skinny women with their nipples poking out of their shirts - a woman wearing something like that when I went in would have gotten arrested and then had a sanity hearing - women of every shape and size. I found myself going around with a semi-hard almost all the time and cursing myself for being a dirty old man. Going to the bathroom, that was another thing. When I had to go (and the urge always came on me at twenty-five past the hour), I had to fight the almost overwhelming need to check it with my boss. Knowing that was something I could just go and do in this too-bright outside world was one thing; adjusting my inner self to that knowledge after all those years of checking it with the nearest screwhead or facing two days in solitary for the oversight... that was something else. 一边写着,一边勾起我更多的回忆。撰写自己的故事,就好像把树枝插进清澈的河水中,翻搅起河底的泥泞。我听到有人说,你写的又不是自己的故事,你写的是安迪的故事,你在自己的故事中,只是个小角色。但是你知道,其实并非如此,里面的字字句句,其实都是我自己的写照。安迪代表了在我内心深处、他们永远也封锁不住的那个部分,当监狱铁门最后终于为我开启,我穿着廉价西装 、带着二十块钱走出监狱大门时 ,会感到欢欣鼓舞的那个部分。不管其他部分的我当时是多么老态龙钟、狼狈、害怕,那部分的我仍然会欢欣雀跃。但是我想,就那个部分而言,安迪所拥有的比我多很多,而且也比我懂得利用它。这儿也有不少人像我一样,他们都记得安迪。我们都高兴他走了,但也有点难过。有些鸟儿天生就是关不住的,它们的羽毛太鲜明,歌声太甜美、也太狂野了,所以你只能放它们走,否则哪天你打开笼子喂它们时,它们也会想办法扬长而去。你知道把它们关住是不对的,所以你会为它们感到高兴,但如此一来,你住的地方仍然会因为它们离去而显得更加黯淡和空虚 。我很高兴把这个故事写下来,尽管故事似乎没有结尾,然而故事勾起了往事(就好像树枝翻搅了河中的泥泞一样) ,不禁令我感到有点悲伤和垂垂老矣。多谢你肯耐心聆听这个故事。还有,安迪 ,如果你真的到了南方,请在太阳下山以后,替我看看星星、摸摸沙子、在水中嬉戏,感受完全自由的感觉。我从来没有想过这个故事还能继续写下去,但我现在坐在桌前再补充个三四页,这次是用新本子写的。这本子是我从店里买来的,是我走进波特兰国会街的一家店里买来的 。原本以为我在一九七六年一个阴沉的一月天,已经把这个故事写完了,但现在是一九七七年五月,我正坐在波特兰一家廉价旅馆的房间里,为这个故事添增新页。窗子是敞开的,不时传来外面车子的喧嚣声,震耳欲聋 ,也挺吓人的。我不断看着窗子,确定上面没有装铁栅栏。我晚上常常睡不好,因为尽管房租很便宜,这个床对我来说仍然太大,也太豪华了。我每天早上六点半便惊醒了,感到茫然和害怕 。我常做噩梦 ,重获自由的感觉就好像自由落体骤然下降一样,让人既害怕又兴奋 。我是怎么了?你还猜不到吗 ?他们批准我假释了。经过三十八年一次次的听证会和一次次驳回,我的假释申请终于获准了。我猜他们放我出来的主要原因是我已经五十八岁了,如此高龄,不太可能再为非作歹了。我差一点就把你们刚刚读到的故事烧掉。他们会详细搜查即将假释的囚犯,就好像搜查新进犯人一样仔细。我的“回忆录”中所包含的爆炸性资料足以让我再坐六到八年的牢,除此之外,里面还记载了我猜测的安迪的去处。墨西哥警察将会很乐意和美国警方合作,而我不希望到头来得牺牲安迪来换取自己的自由——另一方面,我也不想放弃这么辛苦写好的故事。这时候,我记起安迪当初是怎么把五百美金偷渡进监狱的,于是我把这几页故事以同样方法偷渡出去。为了保险起见 ,我很小心地重写了提到齐华坦尼荷的那几页。因此即使这篇故事被搜出来,我得回去坐牢,警察也会到秘鲁海边一个叫拉思因楚德的小镇去搜寻安迪。假释委员替我在南波特兰一家超级市场找了个“仓库助理”的差事——也就是说,我成为年纪很大的跑腿伙计。你知道,会跑腿打杂的人基本上只有两种,要不就是年纪很轻,要不就是年纪很大。但不管你属于哪一种 ,从来没有客人会正眼瞧你。如果你曾经在史布鲁斯超市买过东西,我说不定还曾经帮你把买好的东西从手推车中拿出来,放到车上……但是,你得在一九七七年三、四月间到那里买东西才碰得到我,因为我只在那里工作了一个多月。起初,我根本不认为自己能适应外面的世界。我把监狱描绘成外面社会的缩影,但完全没料到外面的世界变化竟然如此之大,人们走路和讲话的速度都变快了,连说话都更大声。我一时之间很难适应这一切,到现在还没有完全适应,就拿女人来说吧。近四十年的牢狱生涯,我几乎已经忘记女人占了世界人口的一半 。突然之间,我工作的地方充满了女人——老女人、怀孕的女人(T恤上有个箭头往下指着肚子,一行大字写着:“小宝宝在这儿”),以及骨瘦如柴、不穿胸罩、乳头隐隐凸出的女人(在我入狱服刑之前,女人如果像这样穿着打扮,会被当街逮捕 ,以为她是神经病)等形形色色的女人,我发现自己走在街上常常忍不住起生理反应,只有在心里暗暗诅咒自己是脏老头。上厕所是另一件我不能适应的事。当我想上厕所的时候(而且我每次都是在整点过后二十五分想上厕所),我老是有一股强烈的冲动,想去请求上司准我上厕所,我每次都忍得很辛苦才没有这么做,心里晓得在这个光明的外面世界里,想上厕所的话,随时都可以去。关在牢中多年后,每次上厕所都要先向离得最近的警卫报告,一旦疏忽就要关两天禁闭,因此出狱后,尽管知道不必再事事报告,但心里知道是一回事,要完全适应又是另外一回事了 。Chapter 34

My boss didn't like me. He was a young guy, twenty-six or -seven, and I could see that I sort of disgusted him, the way a cringing, servile old dog that crawls up to you on its belly to be petted will disgust a man. Christ, I disgusted myself. But ... I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to tell him. That's what a whole life in prison does for you, young man. It turns everyone in a position of authority into a master, and you into every master's dog. Maybe you know you've become a dog, even in prison, but since everyone else in grey is a dog, too, it doesn't seem to matter so much. Outside, it does. But I couldn't tell a young guy like him. He would never understand. Neither would my P.O., a big, bluff ex-Navy man with a huge red beard and a large stock of Polish jokes. He saw me for about five minutes every week. 'Are you staying out of the bars, Red?' he'd ask when he'd run out of Polish jokes. I'd say yeah, and that would be the end of it until next week. Music on the radio. When I went in, the big bands were just getting up a good head of steam. Now every song sounds like it's about fucking. So many cars. At first I felt like I was taking my life into my hands every time I crossed the street. There was more - everything was strange and frightening -but maybe you get the idea, or can at least grasp a corner of it I began to think about doing something to get back in. When you're on parole, almost anything will serve. I'm ashamed to say it, but I began to think about stealing some money or shoplifting stuff from the FoodWay, anything, to get back in where it was quiet and you knew everything that was going to come up in the course of the day. If I had never known Andy, I probably would have done that, but I kept thinking of him, spending all those years chipping patiently away at the cement with his rock-hammer so he could be free. I thought of that and it made me ashamed and I'd drop the idea again. Oh, you can say he had more reason to be free than I did - he had a new identity and a lot of money. But that's not really true, you know. Because he didn't know for sure that the new identity was still there, and without the new identity, the money would always be out of reach. No, what he needed was just to be free, and if I kicked away what I had, it would be like spitting in the face of everything he had worked so hard to win back. So what I started to do on my time off was to hitchhike a ride down to the little town of Buxton. This was in the early April of 1977, the snow just starting to melt off the fields, the air just beginning to be warm, the baseball teams coming north to start a new season playing the only game I'm sure God approves of. When I went on these trips, I carried a Silva compass in my pocket. There's a big hayfield in Buxton, Andy had said, and at the north end of that hayfield there's a rock wall, right out of a Robert Frost poem. And somewhere along the base of that wall is a rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. A fool's errand, you say. How many hayfields are there in a small rural town like Buxton? Fifty? A hundred? Speaking from personal experience, I'd put it at even higher than that, if you add in the fields now cultivated which might have been haygrass when Andy went in. And if I did find the right one, I might never know it because I might overlook that black piece of volcanic glass, or, much more likely, Andy put it into his pocket and took it with him. So I'd agree with you. A fool's errand, no doubt about it. Worse, a dangerous one for a man on parole, because some of those fields were clearly marked with NO TRESPASSING signs. And, as I've said, they're more than happy to slam your ass back inside if you get out of line. A fool's errand ... but so is chipping at a blank concrete wall for twenty-eight years. And when you're no longer the man who can get it for you and just an old bag-boy, it's nice to have a hobby to take your mind off your new life. My hobby was looking for Andy's rock. So I'd hitchhike to Buxton and walk the roads. I'd listen to the birds, to the spring runoff in the culverts, examine the bottles the retreating snows had revealed - all useless non-returnables, I am sorry to say; the world seems to have gotten awfully spendthrift since I went into the slam - and looking for hayfields. Most of them could be eliminated right off. No rock walls. Others had rock walls, but my compass told me they were facing the wrong direction. I walked these wrong ones anyway. It was a comfortable thing to be doing, and on those outings I really felt free, at peace. An old dog walked with me one Saturday. And one day I saw a winter-skinny deer. Then came 23 April, a day I'll not forget even if I live another fifty-eight years. It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, and I was walking up what a little boy fishing from a bridge told me was called The Old Smith Road. I had taken a lunch in a brown FoodWay bag, and had eaten it sitting on a rock by the road. When I was done I carefully buried my leavings, as my dad had taught me before he died, when I was a sprat no older than the fisherman who had named the road for me. Around two o'clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at the far end of it, running roughly northwest I walked back to it, squelching over the wet ground, and began to walk the wall. A squirrel scolded me from an oak tree. Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass and as smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For a long time I just looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason. The squirrel had followed me, and it was still chattering away. My heart was beating madly. When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside it - the joints in my knees went off like a double-barrelled shotgun - and let my hand touch it. It was real. I didn't pick it up because I thought there would be anything under it; I could just as easily have walked away without finding what was beneath. I certainly had no plans to take it away with me, because I didn't fed it was mine to take - I had a feeling that taking that rock from the field would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its satiny texture against my skin. 我的上司不喜欢我,他是个年轻人 ,二十六、七岁 。我可以看出在他眼中,我像只爬到面前乞怜、惹人厌的老癞皮狗,其实连我自己都厌恶自己。但是……我无法控制自己 ,我真想告诉他:年轻人,这是在监狱里过了大半辈子的结果。在牢里,每个有权的人都变成你的主子,而你就成为主子身边的一条狗。或许你也知道自己是一条狗,但是反正其他犯人也都是狗,似乎就没有什么差别了,然而在外面世界的差别可大了。但我无法让这么年轻的人体会我的感受。他是绝不会了解的,连我的假释官都无法了解我的感受。我每周都要向假释官报到,他是个退伍军人,有把大红胡子,一箩筐的波兰人笑话,每周见我五分钟,每次说完波兰人笑话后,他就问:“雷德,没去酒吧鬼混吧?”我答说没有,咱们便下周再见了。还有收音机播的音乐。我入狱前,大乐团演奏的爵士乐才刚刚开始流行,而现在每首歌仿佛都在谈性爱。路上车子这么多 ,每次过街时,我都心惊肉跳,捏一把冷汗。反正每件事都很奇怪,都令人害怕。我开始想 ,是不是应该再干点坏事,好回到原本熟悉的地方去。如果你是假释犯 ,几乎任何一点小错都可能把你再送进监牢。我很不好意思这么说,但我的确开始想,要不要在超市偷点钱或顺手牵羊,然后就可以回到那个安静的地方,在那里,至少一天下来,你很清楚什么时候该做什么事情。如果不是认识安迪的话,我很可能就这么做了,但一想到他花了那么大的工夫,多年来很有耐性地用个小石锤在水泥上敲敲打打,只是为了换取自由,我就不禁感到惭愧,于是便打消那个念头。或是你也可以说,他想重获自由的理由比我丰富——他拥有一个新身份,他也有很多钱。但是你也知道,这么说是不对的,因为他并不能确定新身份依然存在,如果他没有办法换个新身份,自然也拿不到那笔钱了 。不,他追求的单纯是那份自由。如果我把得之不易的自由随便抛弃,那无疑是当着安迪的面 ,唾弃他辛辛苦苦换回来的一切。于是我开始在休假时搭便车来到巴克斯登小镇,那是一九七七年四月初的事了 。初春的田野,雪刚刚开始融化,天气也刚暖和起来,棒球队北上展开新球季。我每次去的时候,口袋中都带着一个罗盘。我想起了安迪说的话:在巴克斯登镇北边有一大片牧草地,在牧草地的北边有一面石墙,石墙底部有一块石头,那块石头和缅因州的牧草地一点关系也没有,那是一块火山岩玻璃 。你会说,这还真是愚蠢的行为。像巴克斯登这样的乡下地方,会有多少牧草地?五十 ?一百 ?说不定比这还要多。即使我真的找到了,也不见得认得出来,因为我可能没有看到那块黑色的火山岩玻璃,或更可能的情况是,安迪把那块玻璃放进口袋里带走了 。所以我同意你的话,我这些举动还真是愚蠢行为,毫无疑问。更何况对一个假释犯来说,这趟旅行无疑是一大冒险 ,因为不少牧草地上都竖着“不许践踏”的牌子。你要是误踏进去一步,很可能吃不了兜着走 。我真傻,但是花了二十七年的光阴在混凝土墙中敲敲打打,也同样傻。不过既然我现在不再是监狱里那个什么都弄得到手的万事通,只是个跑腿打杂的人,有件事情做做 ,让我暂时忘掉出狱后的新生活也好,而我的嗜好就是寻找安迪藏钥匙的石头。所以,我经常搭便车来到巴克斯登 ,走在路上,听着鸟叫,看着潺潺流水,查看融雪后露出的空瓶子——全都是无法退瓶、没用的瓶子。我不得不遗憾地说,比起我入狱之前,现在的世界似乎变得挥霍无度——然后继续寻找那片牧草地 。路旁有不少牧场,大多数都立刻可以从名单中删除。有的没有石墙,有的有石墙,方向却不对。无论如何,我还是在那些牧草地上走走,在乡下走走很舒服 ,在这些时候,我才感受到真正的自由和宁静。有一次 ,有条老狗一直跟着我,还有一次 ,我看到了一头鹿。然后到了四月二十三日,即使我再活个五十八年,都永远忘不了这一天。那是个宜人的星期六下午,我走着走着 ,在桥上垂钓的男孩告诉我,这条路叫老史密斯路。这时已近中午了 ,我打开带来的午餐袋子 ,坐在路旁一块大石头上吃起来。吃完后,小心把垃圾清理干净 ,这是爸爸在我和那个男孩差不多年纪的时候教我的规矩。走到大约两点钟左右,在我左边出现一大片草地,草地尽头有一堵墙,一直往西北方延伸而去,我踩在潮湿的草地上,走向那堵墙。一只松鼠从橡树上唠唠叨叨地斥责我。距离墙端还有四分之一的路时,我看见那块大石头了。一点也不错 ,乌黑的玻璃,光亮得像缎子一样,是不该出现在缅因州牧草地的石头,我呆呆地看了很久,有种想哭的感觉。松鼠跟在我后面,依然唠唠叨叨。我的心则怦怦跳个不停。等我情绪稍稍平复后,我走向那块石头,蹲在它旁边,用手摸摸它 ,它是真的。我拿起石头,不是因为我认为里面还会藏着任何东西,事实上我很可能就这么走开了 ,没有发现石头下的任何东西。我当然也不打算把石头拿走,因为我不认为我有权利拿走石头,我觉得把这块石头从牧草地上拿走,不啻犯了最糟糕的盗窃罪。不,我只不过把石头拿起来 ,好好摸摸它,感觉一下它的质地,证明这块玻璃石头的确存在。Chapter 35I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it took a while for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to keep away the damp. My name was written across the front in Andy's clear script. I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy's friend before him. Dear Red, If you're reading this, then you're out. One way or another, you're out. And If you've followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. I think you remember the name of the town, don't you? I could use a good man to help me get my project on wheels. Meantime, have a drink on me - and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you. Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well. Your friend, Peter Stevens I didn't read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a need to get away from there before I was seen. To make what may be an appropriate pun, I was in terror of being apprehended. I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men's dinners drifting up the stairwell to me - Beefaroni, Ricearoni, Noodleroni. You can bet that whatever the old folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating tonight, it almost certainly ends in roni. I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and cried. With the letter there were twenty new fifty-dollar bills. And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice again - parole violation is my crime. No one's going to throw up any roadblocks to catch a criminal wanted on that charge, I guess - wondering what I should do now. I have this manuscript I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a doctor's bag that holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes. Wondering what I should do. But there's really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living or get busy dying. First I'm going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I'm going to buckle it up, grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I'm going to walk uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the bartender and ask him to bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniels - one for me and one for Andy Dufresne. Other than a beer or two, they'll be the first drinks I've taken as a free man since 1938. Then I am going to tip the bartender a dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave the bar and walk up Spring Street to the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus ticket to El Paso by way of New York City. When I get to El Paso, I'm going to buy a ticket to McNary. And when I get to McNary, I guess I'll have a chance to find out if an old crook like me can find a way to float across the border and into Mexico. Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to forget. I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope Andy is down there. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope. 我看着石头下的东西许久、许久,我的眼睛早就看到了,但是我的脑子得花一点时间,才能真正意识到是怎么回事。下面赫然放着一个信封,信封很小心地包在透明的塑胶袋中,以避免弄湿。上面写着我的名字,是安迪整齐的字迹。我拿起信封,把石头放回安迪和他已过世的朋友原先放置的地方 。亲爱的雷德:如果你看到这封信的话,那表示你也出来了。不管你是怎么出来的,总之你出来了。如果你已经找到这里 ,你或许愿意往前再多走一点路,我想你一定还记得那个小镇的名字吧?我需要一个好帮手,帮我把业务推上轨道。为我喝一杯 ,同时好好考虑一下。我会一直留意你的情况。记住 ,“希望”是个好东西,也许是世间最好的东西,好东西永远不会消逝的。我希望这封信会找到你,而且找到你的时候,你过得很好。你的朋友彼得·斯蒂芬我没有当场打开这封信。一阵恐惧袭来 ,我只希望在别人看到我之前尽快离开那里。回到自己房间以后,我才打开信来读,楼梯口飘来阵阵老人煮晚餐的香味——不外乎是些粉面类的食物,美国每个低收入的老人家晚上几乎都吃这些东西 。看完信后,我抱头痛哭起来,信封里还附了二十张新的五十元钞票。我现在身在布鲁斯特旅馆 ,再度成了逃犯——违反假释条例是我的罪名。但是我猜,大概没有警察会大费周章地设置路障,来逮捕这样一个犯人吧——我在想,我现在该怎么办?我手上有这份稿子,还有一个行李袋,大小和医生的医药包差不多大,所有的财产都在里面。我有十九张五十元钞票、四张十元钞票、一张五元钞票和三张一元钞票,还有一些零钱 。我拿一张五十元钞票去买了这本笔记本和一包烟。我还在想,我该怎么办?但毫无疑问,只有两条路可走。使劲活下去,或使劲找死。首先,我要把这份手稿放回行李袋。然后我要把袋子扣上,拿起外套走下楼去,结账离开这家廉价旅馆。然后,我要走进一家酒吧,把一张五元钞票放在酒保面前,要他给我来两杯威士忌,一杯给我自己,一杯给安迪 。这将是我从一九三八年入狱以来,第一次以自由人的身份喝酒。喝完后,我会给酒保一元小费,好好谢谢他 。离开酒吧后 ,我便走向灰狗巴士站,买一张经由纽约到艾尔帕索的车票。到了艾尔帕索之后,再买一张车票到麦克纳里 。等我到了麦克纳里后,我猜我会想想办法,看看像我这样的老骗子能否找机会跨过边境,进入墨西哥。我当然记得那个小镇的名字,齐华坦尼荷,这名字太美了,令人忘不了。我发现自己兴奋莫名,颤抖的手几乎握不住笔。我想惟有自由人才能感受到这种兴奋,一个自由人步上漫长的旅程,奔向不确定的未来 。我希望安迪在那儿。我希望我能成功跨越美墨边界。我希望能见到我的朋友,和他握握手。我希望太平洋就和我梦中所见的一样蔚蓝。我希望……

Chapter 1There's a guy like me in every state and federal prison in America, I guess - I'm the guy who can get it for you. Tailor-made cigarettes, a bag of reefer, if you're partial to that, a bottle of brandy to celebrate your son or daughter's high school graduation, or almost anything else ... within reason, that is. It wasn't always that way. I came to Shawshank when I was just twenty, and I am one of the few people in our happy little family who is willing to own up to what he did. I committed murder. I put a large insurance policy on my wife, who was three years older than I was, and then I fixed the brakes of the Chevrolet coupe her father had given us as a wedding present. It worked out exactly as I had planned, except I hadn't planned on her stopping to pick up the neighbour woman and the neighbour woman's infant son on the way down Castle Hill and into town. The brakes let go and the car crashed through the bushes at the edge of the town common, gathering speed. Bystanders said it must have been doing fifty or better when it hit the base of the Civil War statue and burst into flames. I also hadn't planned on getting caught, but caught I was. I got a season's pass into this place. Maine has no death penalty, but the district attorney saw to it that I was tried for all three deaths and given three life sentences, to run one after the other. That fixed up any chance of parole I might have, for a long, long time. The judge called what I had done 'a hideous, heinous crime', and it was, but it is also in the past now. You can look it up in the yellowing files of the Castle Rock Call, where the big headlines announcing my conviction look sort of funny and antique next to the news of Hitler and Mussolini and FDR's alphabet soup agencies. Have I rehabilitated myself, you ask? I don't know what that word means, at least as far as prisons and corrections go. I think it's a politician's word. It may have some other meaning, and it may be that I will have a chance to find out, but that is the future ... something cons teach themselves not to think about. I was young, good-looking, and from the poor side of town. I knocked up a pretty, sulky, headstrong girl who lived in one of the fine old houses on Carbine Street. Her father was agreeable to the marriage if I would take a job in the optical company he owned and 'work my way up'. I found out that what he really had in mind was keeping me in his house and under his thumb, like a disagreeable pet that has not quite been housebroken and which may bite. Enough hate eventually piled up to cause me to do what I did. Given a second chance I would not do it again, but I'm not sure that means I am rehabilitated. Anyway, it's not me I want to tell you about; I want to tell you about a guy named Andy Dufresne. But before I can tell you about Andy, I have to explain a few other things about myself. It won't take long. As I said, I've been the guy who can get it for you here at Shawshank for damn near forty years. And that doesn't just mean contraband items like extra cigarettes or booze, although those items always top the list. But I've gotten thousands of other items for men doing time here, some of them perfectly legal yet hard to come by in a place where you've supposedly been brought to be punished. There was one fellow who was in for raping a little girl and exposing himself to dozens of others; I got him three pieces of pink Vermont marble and he did three lovely sculptures out of them - a baby, a boy of about twelve, and a bearded young man. He called them The Three Ages of Jesus, and those pieces of sculpture are now in the parlour of a man who used to be governor of this state. Or here's a name you may remember if you grew up north of Massachusetts - Robert Alan Cote. In 1951 he tried to rob the First Mercantile Bank of Mechanic Falls, and the hold-up turned into a bloodbath - six dead in the end, two of them members of the gang, three of them hostages, one of them a young state cop who put his head up at the wrong time and got a bullet in the eye. Cote had a penny collection. Naturally they weren't going to let him have it in here, but with a little help from his mother and a middleman who used to drive a laundry truck, I was able to get it to him. I told him, Bobby, you must be crazy, wanting to have a coin collection in a stone hotel full of thieves. He looked at me and smiled and said, I know where to keep them. They'll be safe enough. Don't you worry. And he was right. Bobby Cote died of a brain tumour in 1967, but that coin collection has never turned up. I've gotten men chocolates on Valentine's Day; I got three of those green milkshakes they serve at McDonald's around St Paddy's Day for a crazy Irishman named O'Malley; I even arranged for a midnight showing of Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones for a party of twenty men who had pooled their resources to rent the films ... although I ended up doing a week in solitary for that little escapade. It's the risk you run when you're the guy who can get it. I've gotten reference books and fuck-books, joke novelties like handbuzzers and itching powder, and on more than one occasion I've seen that a long-timer has gotten a pair of panties from his wife or his girlfriend ... and I guess you'll know what guys in here do with such items during the long nights when time draws out like a blade. I don't get all those things gratis, and for some items the price comes high. But I don't do it just for the money; what good is money to me? I'm never going to own a Cadillac car or fly off to Jamaica for two weeks in February. I do it for the same reason that a good butcher will only sell you fresh meat: I got a reputation and I want to keep it. The only two things I refuse to handle are guns and heavy drugs. I won't help anyone kill himself or anyone else. I have enough killing on my mind to last me a lifetime. 我猜美国每个州立监狱和联邦监狱里,都有像我这样的一号人物,不论什么东西,我都能为你弄到手。无论是高级香烟或大麻(如果你偏好此道的话),或弄瓶白兰地来庆祝儿子或女儿高中毕业,总之差不多任何东西……我的意思是说,只要在合理范围内,我是有求必应;可是很多情况不一定都合情合理的。我刚满二十岁就来到肖申克监狱。在这个快乐小家庭中,我是少数肯痛痛快快承认自己干了什么的人。我犯了谋杀罪。我为大我三岁的太太投保了一笔数目庞大的寿险,然后在她父亲送我们的结婚礼物——一辆雪佛兰轿车的刹车上动了手脚。一切都正如我的计划,只是没料到她在半路上停下来载了邻居太太和她的小儿子,他们正一起下城堡山进城去。结果刹车失灵,车速越来越快,冲过路边树丛,撞上了一座内战纪念雕像的底座而轰然起火。旁观者说,当时的车速一定超过每小时五十英里。我也没料到自己居然会被逮住,但我却锒铛入狱,在这里长期服刑 。缅因州没有死刑,但检察官让我因三桩谋杀罪而逐一受审,最后法官判了我三个无期徒刑 ,数罪并罚 。这样一来 ,我在很长、很长一段时间内,都不可能有机会假释了。法官还在判决书上说我罪行重大,死有余辜。的确如此,不过现在这些事都已成过去。你可以去查查城堡岩的旧报纸档案,有关我的判决当时是地方报纸的头条新闻,与希特勒、墨索里尼以及罗斯福手下那些字母开头的特工人员的新闻并列,如今看来,实在有点可笑,也早已成为老掉牙的旧闻了。你问我,我改过自新了吗?我甚至不知道什么叫改过自新,至少我不晓得那在监狱里代表了什么意思,我认为那只是政客爱用的字眼,这个词也许有一些其他的含意,也许有那么一天 ,我会明白它的含意 ,但那是未来的事了……而监狱里的囚犯早就学会不要去多想未来。当年的我出身贫穷,但年轻英俊。我让一个富家女珠胎暗结,她出身卡宾街的豪华宅邸,漂亮娇纵、但老是闷闷不乐 。她父亲同意让我们结婚,条件是我得在他的眼镜公司工作,“靠自己的实力往上爬。”后来我发现,他真正的用意是要让我随时都在他的监控下,就像管着家里豢养的不太听话 、还会咬人的猫狗一样。我的怨恨经年累月,越积越深,终于出手造成了这种后果。如果再给我一次机会 ,我绝对不会重蹈覆辙 ,但我不确定这样是否表示我已经痛改前非了。不过,我真正想说的不是我自己的事,而是安迪·杜佛尼的故事 。但在我开始说安迪的故事之前,还得先说几件关于我的事情,反正不会花太多工夫。正如我刚才所说,差不多四十年来,在肖申克监狱里,我有办法帮你弄到任何东西。除了永远名列前茅的香烟和酒等违禁品之外,我还有办法弄到上千种其他东西,给这儿的人消磨时间。有些东西绝对合法,只是在这种地方不易取得,因为坐牢本该是一种惩罚。例如,有个家伙强暴了一个小女孩,还涉及几十件暴露的案子。我给他找了三块粉红色的佛蒙特大理石 ,他雕了三座可爱的雕像,一个婴儿、一个十二岁的男孩,还有一个蓄胡子的年轻人,他称这些雕像为“耶稣的三个不同时期”,现在这些雕像已经成为前任州长客厅中的摆设了。又或者,如果你是在马萨诸塞州北边长大的人,一定还记得这个人的名字——罗伯特·艾伦·科特。他在一九五一年,企图抢劫莫堪尼克弗市第一商业银行,结果那次抢劫演变成血腥事件,死了六个人,包括两个强盗、三名人质,还有一个年轻警察因为挑错时间抬起头来,而让子弹穿过眼睛。科特有收集钱币的嗜好。监狱自然不会准他将收藏品带进来,但靠着他母亲和洗衣房卡车司机的帮忙,我还是替他弄到了他想要的东西。我告诉他:你一定是疯了,才会想在这个满是盗贼的石头旅馆中收藏钱币。他看着我微笑说 :“我知道该把钱币藏在哪里,绝对安全,你别担心 。”他说得没错。直到一九六七年他死于脑瘤时,他所收藏的钱币始终没有现身过 。我试过在情人节设法为狱友弄到巧克力;在圣帕迪日为一个叫欧迈利的疯狂爱尔兰人弄到三杯麦当劳卖的那种绿色奶昔;我甚至还为二十个人放映过午夜场电影 ,片名分别是《深喉》和《琼斯小姐体内的魔鬼》(这些都是色情片,他们一起凑钱租片子)……虽然我因为这些越轨行动被关了一周禁闭,但要维持“神通广大”的英名,就必须冒这样的风险。我还能弄到参考书和黄色书刊、会让人发痒的粉末之类的恶作剧新奇玩意儿,甚至替被判长期徒刑的家伙弄到太太或女朋友的内裤……我猜你也知道这些人究竟如何度过如刀割似的漫漫长夜了。这些东西并非免费的,有些东西代价不菲。但我绝不是光为钱来干这些事。金钱对我又有何用呢 ?我既无法拥有一辆凯迪拉克,更不能在二月天飞到牙买加去度两个星期假 。我这么做的理由和市场一流肉贩非新鲜肉品不卖的理由是一样的,只是为了维持英名不坠罢了。只有两种东西,我绝对不碰,一是枪械,一是毒品。我不愿帮助任何人把自己或其他人杀掉。我心头上的杀戮已够多了,终我一生,我不想再干任何杀人的勾当。

Chapter 2

Yeah, I'm a regular Neiman-Marcus. And so when Andy Dufresne came to me in 1949 and asked if I could smuggle Rita Hayworth into the prison for him, I said it would be no problem at all. And it wasn't. When Andy came to Shawshank in 1948, he was thirty years old. He was a short neat little man with sandy hair and small, clever hands. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles. His fingernails were always clipped, and they were always clean. That's a funny thing to remember about a man, I suppose, but it seems to sum Andy up for me. He always looked as if he should have been wearing a tie. On the outside he had been a vice-president in the trust department of a large Portland bank. Good work for a man as young as he was, especially when you consider how conservative most banks are ... and you have to multiply that conservatism by ten when you get up into New England, where folks don't like to trust a man with their money unless he's bald, limping, and constantly plucking at his pants to get his truss around straight Andy was in for murdering his wife and her lover. As I believe I have said, everyone in prison is an innocent man. Oh, they read that scripture the way those holy rollers on TV read the Book of Revelations. They were the victims of judges with hearts of stone and balls to match, or incompetent lawyers, or police frame-ups, or bad luck. They read the scripture, but you can see a different scripture in their faces. Most cons are a low sort, no good to themselves or anyone else, and their worst luck was that their mothers carried them to term. In all my years at Shawshank, there have been less than ten men whom I believed when they told me they were innocent. Andy Dufresne was one of them, although I only became convinced of his innocence over a period of years. If I had been on the jury that heard his case in Portland Superior Court over six stormy weeks in 1947-48, I would have voted to convict, too. It was one hell of a case, all right; one of those juicy ones with all the right elements. There was a beautiful girl with society connections (dead), a local sports figure (also dead), and a prominent young businessman in the dock. There was this, plus all the scandal the newspapers could hint at. The prosecution had an open-and-shut case. The trial only lasted as long as it did because the DA was planning to run for the US House of Representatives and he wanted John Q Public to get a good long look at his phiz. It was a crackerjack legal circus, with spectators getting in line at four in the morning, despite the subzero temperatures, to assure themselves of a seat. The facts of the prosecution's case that Andy never contested were these: That he had a wife, Linda Collins Dufresne; that in June of 1947 she had expressed an interest in learning the game of golf at the Falmouth Hills Country Club; that she did indeed take lessons for four months; that her instructor was the Falmouth Hills golf pro, Glenn Quentin; that in late August of 1947 Andy learned that Quentin and his wife had become lovers; that Andy and Linda Dufresne argued bitterly on the afternoon of 10 September 1947; that the subject of their argument was her infidelity. He testified that Linda professed to be glad he knew; the sneaking around, she said, was distressing. She told Andy that she planned to obtain a Reno divorce. Andy told her he would see her in hell before he would see her in Reno. She went off to spend the night with Quentin in Quentin's rented bungalow not far from the golf course. The next morning his cleaning woman found both of them dead in bed. Each had been shot four times. It was that last fact that mitigated more against Andy than any of the others. The DA with the political aspirations made a great deal of it in his opening statement and his closing summation. Andrew Dufresne, he said, was not a wronged husband seeking a hot-blooded revenge against his cheating wife; that, the DA said, could be understood, if not condoned. But this revenge had been of a much colder type. Consider! the DA thundered at the jury. Four and four! Not six shots, but eight! He had fired the gun empty ... and then stopped to reload so he could shoot each of them again! FOUR FOR HIM AND FOUR FOR HER, the Portland Sun blared. The Boston Register dubbed him The Even-Steven Killer. A clerk from the Wise Pawnshop in Lewiston testified that he had sold a six-shot .38 Police Special to Andrew Dufresne just two days before the double murder. A bartender from the country club bar testified that Andy had come in around seven o'clock on the evening of 10 September, had tossed off three straight whiskeys in a twenty-minute period - when he got up from the bar-stool he told the bartender that he was going up to Glenn Quentin's house and he, the bartender, could 'read about the rest of it in the papers'. Another clerk, this one from the Handy-Pik store a mile or so from Quentin's house, told the court that Dufresne had come in around quarter to nine on the same night. He purchased cigarettes, three quarts of beer, and some dish-towels. The county medical examiner testified that Quentin and the Dufresne woman had been killed between eleven p.m. and two a.m. on the night of 10-11 September. The detective from the Attorney General's office who had been in charge of the case testified that there was a turnout less than seventy yards from the bungalow, and that on the afternoon of 11 September, three pieces of evidence had been removed from that turnout: first item, two empty quart bottles of Narragansett Beer (with the defendant's fingerprints on them); the second item, twelve cigarette ends (all Kools, the defendant's brand); third item, a plaster moulage of a set of tyre tracks (exactly matching the tread-and-wear pattern of the tyres on the defendant's 1947 Plymouth). In the living room of Quentin's bungalow, four dishtowels had been found lying on the sofa. There were bullet-holes through them and powder-burns on them. The detective theorized (over the agonized objections of Andy's lawyer) that the murderer had wrapped the towels around the muzzle of the murder-weapon to muffle the sound of the gunshots. Andy Dufresne took the stand in his own defence and told his story calmly, coolly, and dispassionately. He said he had begun to hear distressing rumours about his wife and Glenn Quentin as early as the last week in July. In August he had become distressed enough to investigate a bit. On an evening when Linda was supposed to have gone shopping in Portland after her tennis lesson, Andy had followed her and Quentin to Quentin's one-storey rented house (inevitably dubbed 'the love-nest' by the papers). He had parked in the turnout until Quentin drove her back to the country club where her car was parked, about three hours later. 啊,我的商品目录可说是无所不包,因此当安迪·杜佛尼在一九四九年来找我,问我能否把丽塔·海华丝丽塔·海华丝(RitaHayworth,1918—1987),二十世纪四五十年代好莱坞著名性感女星。弄进监狱时,我说没问题。确实没有任何问题。安迪在一九四八年到肖申克时是三十岁,他属于五短身材,长得白白净净,一头棕发,双手小而灵巧。他戴了一副金边眼镜,指甲永远剪得整整齐齐、干干净净,我最记得的也是那双手 ,一个男人给人这种印象还满滑稽的,但这似乎正好总结了安迪这个人的特色,他的样子老让你觉得他似乎应该穿着西装、打着领带的。他没进来前,是波特兰一家大银行的信托部副总裁。在保守的银行界,年纪轻轻就坐上这个位子,可说是前程似锦。尤其在新英格兰这一带,保守的风气更是十倍于其他地方;除非你是个精神委靡的秃头中年人,不时整整西装裤上的线条,惟恐不够笔挺,否则很难得到当地人的信任,让他们把钱存在你那里。安迪是因为谋杀了老婆和她的情夫而被关进来的。我相信我说过,监狱里每个犯人都声称自己无辜。他们只是碰上了铁石心肠的法官、无能的律师、警察的诬告,而成为受害者,再不然就是运气实在太坏了。尽管他们手按《圣经》宣誓,但却口是心非,像电视布道家那样信口开河而已。大多数囚犯都不是什么好人,无论对自己或对别人 ,都没什么好处,他们最大的不幸,就是被生到这世上来。我在肖申克的那些年中,尽管许多人告诉我他们是无辜的,但我相信其中真正无辜的人不超过十个,安迪·杜佛尼就是其中之一。不过我是经过了很多年才相信他的无辜,如果一九四七到四八年间,波特兰高等法院审判他的案子时我也是陪审团的一员,我想我也会投票赞成将他定罪。那是个轰动一时的案子 ,具备了所有耸动刺激的案子必备的要素。三位主角,一位是交游广泛的美丽名媛(已死),一位是当地的运动健将(也死了) ,被告则是著名的青年企业家,再加上报纸的渲染、对丑闻的暗示。检察当局认为这个案子几乎是铁证如山,而案子之所以还审了那么长的一段时日,是因为侦办此案的检察官当时正要出马竞选众议员,有意留给大家深刻的印象。这是一场出色的法庭秀,旁观的群众清晨四点钟就冒着零度以下的低温到法院排队,免得抢不到位子 。在这个案子里,安迪始终不曾抗议过由检察官提出的指控,包括安迪的太太琳达在一九四七年六月表示有意去学高尔夫球,她选了佛茂丘乡村俱乐部的课程学了四个月,教练叫格林·昆丁,是一名职业高尔夫球手。结果没有多久,琳达便和高尔夫球教练好起来了,到了八月底,安迪听说了这件事。于是安迪和琳达在一九四七年九月十日下午大吵一架,争论的导火线便是琳达的外遇。安迪供称琳达当时表示她很高兴安迪知道这件事,并说偷偷摸摸瞒着他约会,实在很不舒服,她要去雷诺城办离婚。安迪回答,要他一起去雷诺,门儿都没有,他们会先去地狱。琳达当晚即离家出走,到昆丁住处过夜,昆丁家就在高尔夫球场附近 。第二天早上,为昆丁清扫洗衣的佣人发现他们两人死在床上 ,每人各中四枪。最后一项事实对安迪最不利。怀抱着政治热情的检察官做了慷慨激昂的开场白和结论。他说安迪·杜佛尼不只是个因为妻子不贞而热血沸腾、急于报复的丈夫,如果是出于这样的动机,我们虽然无法原谅,却可以理解,但是他的报复手段实在太冷血了 。想象一下!他连珠炮般对着陪审团说:每人各射了四枪,不是射完手枪里的六发子弹就算了,而是总共射了八枪。把原先枪膛里的子弹射完后 ,停下来,重新装子弹,然后再一人补一枪 !第二天《波特兰太阳报》以斗大标题怒吼着 :给他四枪 ,她也四枪!路易斯登镇一家当铺的伙计作证说,他在案发两天前卖了一支点三八口径、有六发子弹的警用手枪给安迪·杜佛尼 。乡村俱乐部的酒保作证说九月十日晚上七点左右,安迪到酒吧来喝酒,在二十分钟内喝了三杯烈威士忌酒 ,当他从椅子上站起来时,他告诉酒保要去昆丁家,并说欲知后事如何,明天看报纸就知道了。还有一个距离昆丁家一英里远的便利商店店员告诉法庭 ,安迪·杜佛尼在当晚八点四十五分左右去过他的店。他买了香烟、三夸脱啤酒,还有一些擦碗布。法医证明昆丁和琳达是大约在晚上十一点到凌晨两点之间遇害的。检察官派出的探员作证时表示,昆丁家七十码外的地方有个岔道 ,九月十一日下午,他们在岔道附近找到三样物证:两个空啤酒瓶(上面有被告的指纹)、十二根烟蒂(是被告抽的牌子)以及轮胎痕迹(正是被告一九四七年出厂的普利茅斯牌车子的车胎印子) 。在昆丁住处的客厅中 ,有四条擦碗布扔在沙发上,上面有弹孔和火药灼伤的痕迹。警探的推论是,凶手把擦碗布包在枪口上来消音(安迪的律师对探员擅自推论提出强烈抗议)。安迪·杜佛尼也走上证人席为自己辩护 ,他很冷静、镇定、不带感情地述说自己的故事。他说早在七月底就听到太太和昆丁密切来往的事。八月底他悲苦到受不了了,开始调查。一天傍晚,琳达上完高尔夫球课以后,原本说要到波特兰购物 ,但他尾随琳达和昆丁却到了昆丁住的地方(媒体不可免俗地把这里冠上“爱巢”二字) 。他把车子停在附近 ,一直等昆丁驾车送琳达回俱乐部取车才离开,那是三小时以后的事了。Chapter 16

Prison time is slow time, sometimes you'd swear it's stop-time, but it passes. It passes. George Dunahy departed the scene in a welter of newspaper headlines shouting SCANDAL and NEST-FEATHERING. Stammas succeeded him, and for the next six years Shawshank was a kind of living hell. During the reign of Greg Stammas, the beds in the infirmary and the cells in the solitary wing were always full. One day in 1958 I looked at myself in a small shaving mirror I kept in my cell and saw a forty-year-old man looking back at me. A kid had come in back in 1938, a kid with a big mop of carrotty red hair, half-crazy with rem orse, thinking about suicide. That kid was gone. The red hair was half grey and starting to recede. There were crow's tracks around the eyes. On that day I could see an old man inside, waiting his time to come out. It scared me. Nobody wants to grow old in stir. Stammas went early in 1959. There had been several investigative reporters sniffing around, and one of them even did four months under an assumed name, for a crime made up out of whole cloth. They were getting ready to drag out SCANDAL and NESTFEATHERING again, but before they could bring the hammer down on him, Stammas ran. I can understand that; boy, can I ever. If he had been tried and convicted, he could have ended up right in here. If so, he might have lasted all of five hours. Byron Hadley had gone two years earlier. The sucker had a heart attack and took an early retirement. Andy never got touched by the Stammas affair. In early 1959 a new warden was appointed, and a new assistant warden, and a new chief of guards. For the next eight months or so, Andy was just another con again. It was during that period that Normaden, the big half-breed Passamaquoddy, shared Andy's cell with him. Then everything just started up again. Normaden was moved out, and Andy was living in solitary splendour again. The names at the top change, but the rackets never do. I talked to Normaden once about Andy. 'Nice fella,' Normaden said. It was hard to make out anything he said because he had a harelip and a cleft palate; his words all came out in a slush. 'I liked it there. He never made fun. But he didn't want me there. I could tell.' Big shrug. 'I was glad to go, me. Bad draught in that cell. All thetime cold. He don't let nobody touch his things. That's okay. Nice man, never made fun. But big draught.' Rita Hayworth hung in Andy's cell until 1955, if I remember right. Then it was Marilyn Monroe, that picture from The Seven Year Itch where she's standing over a subway grating and the warm air is flipping her skirt up. Marilyn lasted until 1960, and she was considerably tattered about the edges when Andy replaced her with Jayne Mansfield. Jayne was, you should pardon the expression, a bust. After only a year or so she was replaced with an English actress - might have been Hazel Court, but I'm not sure. In 1966 that one came down and Raquel Welch went up for a record-breaking six-year engagement in Andy's ceil. The last poster to hang there was a pretty country-rock singer whose name was Linda Ronstadt. I asked him once what the posters meant to him, and he gave me a peculiar, surprised sort of look. 'Why, they mean the same thing to me as they do to most cons, I guess,' he said. 'Freedom. You look at those pretty women and you feel like you could almost ... not quite but almost step right through and be beside them. Be free. I guess that's why I always liked Raquel Welch the best. It wasn't just her; it was that beach she was standing on. Looked like she was down in Mexico somewhere. Someplace quiet, where a man would be able to hear himself think. Didn't you ever feel that way about a picture, Red? That you could almost step right through it?' I said I'd never really thought of it that way. 'Maybe someday you'll see what I mean,' he said, and he was right. Years later I saw exactly what he meant ... and when I did, the first thing I thought of was Normaden, and about how he'd said it was always cold in Andy's cell. A terrible thing happened to Andy in late March or early April of 1963. I have told you that he had something that most of the other prisoners, myself included, seemed to lack. Call it a sense of equanimity, or a feeling of inner peace, maybe even a constant and unwavering faith that someday the long nightmare would end. Whatever you want to call it, Andy Dufresne always seemed to have his act together. There was none of that sullen desperation about him that seems to afflict most lifers after a while; you could never smell hopelessness on him. Until that late winter of '63. We had another warden by then, a man named Samuel Norton. The Mather brothers, Cotton and Increase, would have felt right at home with Sam Norton. So far as I know, no one had ever seen him so much as crack a smile. He had a thirty-year pin from the Baptist Advent Church of Eliot. His major innovation as the head of our happy family was to make sure that each incoming prisoner had a New Testament. He had a small plaque on his desk, gold letters inlaid in teakwood, which said CHRIST IS MY SAVIOUR. A sampler on the wall, made by his wife, read: HIS JUDGMENT COMETH AND THAT RIGHT EARLY. This latter sentiment cut zero ice with most of us. We felt that the judgment had already occurred, and we would be willing to testify with the best of them that the rock would not hide us nor the dead tree give us shelter. He had a Bible quote for every occasion, did Mr Sam Norton, and whenever you meet a man like that, my best advice to you would be to grin big and cover up your balls with both hands. There were less infirmary cases than in the days of Greg Stammas, and so far as I know the moonlight burials ceased altogether, but this is not to say that Norton was not a believer in punishment. Solitary was always well populated. Men lost their teeth not from beatings but from bread and water diets. It began to be called grain and drain, as in Time on the Sam Norton grain and drain train, boys.' The man was the foulest hypocrite that I ever saw in a high position. The rackets I told you about earlier continued to flourish, but Sam Norton added his own new wrinkles. Andy knew about them all, and because we had gotten to be pretty good friends by that time, he let me in on some of them. When Andy talked about them, an expression of amused, disgusted wonder would come over his face, as if he was telling me about some ugly, predatory species of bug that has, by its very ugliness and greed, somehow more comic than terrible. 对坐牢的人而言,时间是缓慢的,有时你甚至认为时间停摆了,但时间还是一点一滴地渐渐流逝。邓纳海在报纸头条的丑闻声浪中离开了肖申克。史特马接替他的位子,此后六年,肖申克真是人间地狱 。史特马在位时,肖申克医务室的床位和禁闭室的牢房永远人满为患。一九五八年某一天,当我在牢房中照着刮胡子用的小镜子时,镜中有个四十岁的中年人与我对望。一九三八年进来的那个男孩 ,那个有着一头浓密红发、懊悔得快疯了、一心想自杀的年轻人不见了。红发逐渐转灰,而且开始脱落,眼角出现了鱼尾纹。那天,我可以看到一个老人的脸孔很快会在镜中出现,这使我惶恐万分,没有人愿意在监狱中老去。一九五九年初,史特马也离开了。当时不少记者混进来调查,其中一个甚至以假名及虚构的罪状在肖申克待了四个月,准备再度揭发监狱里的重重黑幕 ,但他们还未来得及挥棒打击时,史特马已逃之夭夭。我很明白他为什么要逃跑,真的,因为如果他受审判刑 ,就会被关进肖申克服刑。真是如此的话,他在这里活不过五小时 。哈力早在两年前就离开了,那个吸血鬼因心脏病发而提前退休。安迪从来不曾受到史特马事件的牵连。一九五九年初,来了一个新的典狱长、新的副典狱长和新的警卫队长。接下来八个月,安迪回复了普通囚犯的身份。也是在那段时期,诺曼登成了他的室友,然后一切又照旧。诺曼登搬出去后,安迪又再度享受到独居的优惠。上面的人尽管换来换去,但非法勾当从未停息。有一次我和诺曼登谈到安迪。“好人一个,”诺曼登说。很难听懂他的话,因为他有兔唇和腭裂,说话时唏哩呼噜的。“他是好人,从不乱开玩笑 。我喜欢跟他住,但他不喜欢我跟他住,我看得出来。”他耸耸肩,“我很高兴离开那儿。那牢房空气太坏了,而且很冷。他不让任何人随便碰他的东西 ,那也没关系。他人很好,从不乱开玩笑,但是空气太坏了。”直到一九五五年,丽塔·海华丝的海报都一直挂在安迪的囚房内,然后换成了玛丽莲·梦露在电影《七年之痒》中的剧照,她站在地铁通风口的铁格盖子上,暖风吹来,掀起她的裙子。玛丽莲·梦露一直霸占墙面到一九六〇年,海报边都快烂了,才换上珍·曼斯菲,珍是大胸脯,但只挂了一年,便换上一个英国明星,名字好像叫海莎·科特,我也不确定。到了一九六六年,又换上拉蔻儿·薇芝的海报。最后挂在上面的是个漂亮的摇滚歌星,名叫琳达·朗斯黛。我问过他那些海报对他有什么意义?他给了我奇怪和惊讶的一瞥,“怎么?它们对我的意义跟其他犯人一样呀!我想是代表自由吧。看着那些美丽的女人,你觉得好像几乎可以……不是真的可以,但几乎可以……穿过海报 ,和她们在一起。一种自由的感觉。这就是为什么我总是最喜欢拉蔻儿·薇芝那张,不仅仅是她,而是她站立的海滩,她好像是在墨西哥的海边。在那种安静的地方 ,一个人可以听到自己内心的思绪。你曾经对一张照片产生过那样的感觉吗?觉得你几乎可以一脚踩进去的感觉 ?”我说我的确从来没有这样想过。“也许有一天你会明白我的意思。”他说。没错,多年后我确实完完全全明白他的意思……当我想通时 ,我想到的第一件事就是诺曼登当时说的话,他说安迪的牢房总是冷冷的。一九六三年三月末或四月初的时候 ,安迪碰到了一件可怕的事情 。我告诉过你,安迪有一种大多数犯人(包括我在内)所缺乏的特质,是一种内心的宁静,甚至是一种坚定不移的信念,认为漫长的噩梦终有一天会结束。随便你怎么形容好了,安迪总是一副胸有成竹的样子 ,大多数被判终身监禁的囚犯入狱一阵子以后,脸上都会有一种阴郁绝望的神情,但安迪脸上却从未出现过 ,直到一九六三年的暮冬 。那时我们换了一个典狱长,名叫山姆·诺顿。假如马瑟父子马瑟父子(IncreaseMather&CottonMather) ,父子俩均为十七世纪著名的公理教会牧师。有机会认识诺顿,一定会觉得十分投契,从来没有人看过诺顿脸上绽开笑容。他是浸信会基督复临教会三十年的老教徒,有一个教会发的襟章。他自从成为这个快乐小家庭的大家长以后,最大的创新措施就是让每个新进犯人都拿到一本《圣经·新约》。在他桌上有个小纪念盘,柚木上嵌的金字写着:“基督是我的救主”,墙上还挂了一幅他太太的刺绣作品,上面绣着:“主的审判就要来临。”这些字使我们大多数人都倒抽一口冷气,我们都觉得审判日早已来到,而且我们也都愿意作证:岩石无法让我们藏身,枯树也不会提供我们遮蔽 。他每次训话都引用《圣经》 。每次碰到这种人的时候,我建议你最好脸上保持笑容,用双手护住下体。医务室的伤患比史特马在位时少多了,也不再出现月夜埋尸的情况,但这并不表示诺顿不相信惩罚的效力。禁闭室总是生意兴隆,不少人掉了牙 ,不是因为挨打,而是因为狱方只准他们吃面包和喝水,导致营养不良。在我所见过的高层人士中,诺顿是最下流的伪君子。狱中的非法勾当一直生意兴隆,而诺顿却更是花招百出。安迪对内幕一清二楚,由于我们这时候慢慢成了好朋友,所以他不时透露一些消息给我。安迪谈起这些事情时,脸上总是带着一种半好玩、半厌恶的表情,好像他谈的是一些掠夺成性的丑陋虫子,它们的丑陋和贪婪,与其说可怕,不如说可笑。Chapter 17

It was Warden Norton who instituted the 'Inside-Out' programme you may have read about some sixteen or seventeen years back; it was even written up in Newsweek. In the press it sounded like a real advance in practical corrections and rehabilitation. There were prisoners out cutting pulpwood, prisoners repairing bridges and causeways, prisoners constructing potato cellars. Norton called it 'Inside-Out' and was invited to explain it to damn near every Rotary and Kiwanis club in New England, especially after he got his picture in Newsweek. The prisoners called it 'road-ganging', but so far as I know, none of them were ever invited to express their views to the Kiwanians or the Loyal Order of the Moose. Norton was right in there on every operation, thirty-year church-pin and all, from cutting pulp to digging storm-drains to laying new culverts on state highways, there was Norton, skimming off the top. There were a hundred ways to do it -men, materials, you name it. But he had it coming another way, as well. The construction businesses in the area were deathly afraid of Norton's Inside-Out programme, because prison labour is slave labour, and you can't compete with that. So Sam Norton, he of the Testaments and the thirty-year church-pin, was passed a good many thick envelopes under the table during his fifteen-year tenure as Shawshank's warden. And when an envelope was passed, he would either overbid the project, not bid at all, or claim that all his Inside-Outers were committed elsewhere. It has always been something of a wonder to me that Norton was never found in the trunk of a Thunderbird parked off a highway somewhere down in Massachusetts with his hands tied behind his back and half a dozen bullets in his head. Anyway, as the old barrelhouse song says, My God, how the money rolled in. Norton must have subscribed to the old Puritan notion that the best way to figure out which folks God favours is by checking their bank accounts. Andy Dufresne was his right hand in all of this, his silent partner. The prison library was Andy's hostage to fortune. Norton knew it, and Norton used it. Andy told me that one of Norton's favourite aphorisms was One hand washes the other. So Andy gave good advice and made useful suggestions. I can't say for sure that he hand-tooled Norton's Inside-Out programme, but I'm damned sure he processed the money for the Jesus-shouting son of a whore. He gave good advice, made useful suggestions, the money got spread around, and ... son of a bitch! The library would get a new set of automotive repair manuals, a fresh set of Grolier Encyclopedias, books on how to prepare for the Scholastic Achievement Tests. And, of course, more Erie Stanley Gardeners and more Louis L'Amours. And I'm convinced that what happened happened because Norton just didn't want to lose his good right hand. I'll go further: it happened because he was scared of what might happen - what Andy might say against him - if Andy ever got clear of Shawshank State Prison. I got the story a chunk here and a chunk there over a space of seven years, some of it from Andy - but not all. He never wanted to talk about that part of his life, and I don't blame him. I got parts of it from maybe half a dozen different sources. I've said once that prisoners are nothing but slaves, but they have that slave habit of looking dumb and keeping their ears open. I got it backwards and forwards and in the middle, but I'll give it to you from point A to point Z, and maybe you'll understand why the man spent about ten months in a bleak, depressed daze. See, I don't think he knew the truth until 1963, fifteen years after he came into this sweet little hell-hole. Until he met Tommy Williams, I don't think he knew how bad it could get. Tommy Williams joined our happy little Shawshank family in November of 1962. Tommy thought of himself as a native of Massachusetts, but he wasn't proud; in his twenty-seven years he'd done time all over New England. He was a professional thief, and as you may have guessed, my own feeling was that he should have picked another profession. He was a married man, and his wife came to visit each and every week. She had an idea that things might go better with Tommy - and consequently better with their three-year-old mi and herself - if he got his high school degree. She talked him into it, and so Tommy Williams started visiting the library on a regular basis. For Andy, this was an old routine by then. He saw that Tommy got a series of high school equivalency tests. Tommy would brush up on the subjects he had passed in high-school - there weren't many - and then take the test. Andy also saw that he was enrolled in a number of correspondence courses covering the subjects he had failed in school or just missed by dropping out. He probably wasn't the best student Andy ever took over the jumps, and I don't know if he ever did get his high school diploma, but that forms no part of my story. The important thing was that he came to like Andy Dufresne very much, as most people did after a while. On a couple of occasions he asked Andy 'what a smart guy like you is doing in the joint' - a question which is the rough equivalent of that one that goes 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?' But Andy wasn't the type to tell him; he would only smile and turn the conversation into some other channel. Quite normally, Tommy asked someone else, and when he finally got the story, I guess he also got the shock of his young life. The person he asked was his partner on the laundry's steam ironer and folder. The inmates call this device the mangier, because that's exactly what it will do to you if you aren't paying attention and get your bad self caught in it. His partner was Charlie Lathrop, who had been in for about twelve years on a murder charge. He was more than glad to reheat the details of the Dufresne murder trial for Tommy; it broke the monotony of pulling freshly pressed bedsheets out of the machine and tucking them into the basket. He was just getting to the jury waiting until after lunch to bring in their guilty verdict when the trouble whistle went off and the mangle grated to a stop. They had been feeding in freshly washed sheets from the Eliot Nursing Home at the far end; these were spat out dry and neatly pressed at Tommy's and Charlie's end at the rate of one every five seconds. Their job was to grab them, fold them, and slap them into the cart, which had already been lined with brown paper. But Tommy Williams was just standing there, staring at Charlie Lathrop, his mouth unhinged all the way to his chest. He was standing in adrift of sheets that had come through dean and which were now sopping up all the wet muck on the floor - and in a laundry wetwash, there's plenty of muck. So the head bull that day, Homer Jessup, comes rushing over, bellowing his head off and on the prod for trouble. Tommy took no notice of him. He spoke to Charlie as if old Homer, who had busted more heads than he could probably count, hadn't been there. 诺顿建立了一种“外役监”制度。你也许在十六、七年前看过这类报道;连《新闻周刊》都为此写过专题,听来似乎是狱政感化的一大革新。让囚犯到监狱外面伐木、修桥筑堤、建造贮藏马铃薯的地窖 。诺顿称之为“外役监”,而且应邀到新英格兰的每个扶轮社和同济会去演讲,尤其当他的玉照登上《新闻周刊》之后 ,更加炙手可热 。犯人却称之为“筑路帮派”,但没有一个犯人曾受邀到同济会或扶轮社去发表他们的观点。于是,从伐木、挖水沟到铺设地下电缆管道 ,都可以看见诺顿在里面捞油水 ,中饱私囊。无论是人员、物料,还是任何你想得到的项目 ,都有上百种方法可以从中揩油。但是诺顿还另辟蹊径 。由于监狱囚犯是廉价奴工,你根本没有办法和他们竞争 ,所以建筑业全都怕极了诺顿的外役监计划。因此,手持《圣经》、戴着三十年纪念襟章的虔诚教徒诺顿 ,在十六年的肖申克典狱长任内从桌底下收过不少厚厚的信封。当他收到信封后,他会出过高的价钱来投标工程,或根本不投标工程,或是宣称他的“外役监”计划已经和别人签约了。我只是觉得纳闷,为什么从来不曾有人在麻省某条公路上,发现诺顿的尸体塞在被弃置的雷鸟车后车厢中,双手缚在背后,脑袋瓜中了六颗子弹。总之,正如酒吧中播放的老歌歌词:我的天,钱就这么滚滚而来!诺顿一定非常同意清教徒的传统观念 ,只要检查每个人的银行账户 ,就知道谁是上帝最眷顾的子民。这段期间,安迪是诺顿的左右手和沉默的合伙人,而监狱图书馆就成了押在诺顿手中的人质。诺顿心知肚明,而且也充分利用这点。安迪说,诺顿最喜欢的格言就是,用一只手洗净另外一只手的罪孽。于是,安迪提供诺顿各种有用的建议。我不敢说他亲手打造诺顿的“外役监”计划,但是我很确定他为那龟儿子处理各种钱财 ,提供有用的建议。钱越滚越多,而……好家伙!图书馆也添购了新的汽车修理手册、百科全书,以及准备升学考试的参考书,当然还有更多加德纳和拉摩尔的小说。我相信这件事之所以会发生,一则是诺顿不想失去左右手,二则是他怕安迪如果真的出狱的话,会说一些不利于他的话。我的消息是在七年中这边弄一点、那边弄一点所拼凑出来的,有些是从安迪口中得知,但不是全部。他从来不想多谈这些事,我不怪他,有些事情我是从六七个不同的消息来源那儿打探来的。我曾说过囚犯只不过是奴隶罢了,他们也像奴隶一样,表面装出一副笨样子,实际上却竖起耳朵。我把故事说得忽前忽后,不过我会从头到尾把故事完整地说给你听,然后你也许就明白,为什么安迪会陷入沮丧绝望的恍惚状态长达十个月之久。我认为,他直到一九六三年、也就是进来这个甜蜜的地狱牢房十五年后,才清楚谋杀案的真相。在他认识汤米·威廉斯之前,我猜他并不晓得情况会变得那么糟糕。汤米在一九六二年十一月加入我们这个快乐的小家庭。汤米自认是麻省人,但他并不以此为荣。在他二十七年的生命中 ,他坐遍了新英格兰地区的监狱。他是个职业小偷,我却认为他该拣别的行业干,或许你也会这样想。他已经结婚,太太每周来探监一次。她认为如果汤米能够完成高中学业,情况也许会逐渐好转 ,她和三岁的儿子自然也会受益 ,因此她说服汤米继续进修,于是汤米便开始定期造访图书馆。对安迪而言,帮助囚犯读书已经成为例行公事,他协助汤米重新复习高中修过的科目(并不是很多),然后通过同等学力考试。同时他也指导汤米如何利用函授课程,把以前不及格或没有修过的科目修完 。汤米可能不是安迪教过的学生中最优秀的一位,我也不知道他后来到底有没有拿到高中文凭,但是这些都和我们要讲的故事无关。重要的是,汤米后来非常喜欢安迪,正如其他许多人一样。有几次谈话时,他问安迪:“像你这么聪明的人怎么会沦落到这种地方?”这句话就和问人家“像你这样的好女孩怎么会沦落到这种地方?”一样唐突 。但安迪不是会回答这种问题的人 ,微笑着把话岔开。汤米自然去请教别人,最后,他终于弄清楚整个事情,但他自己也极为震惊。他询问的对象是跟他一起在洗衣房工作的伙伴,名叫查理·拉朴 。查理因为被控谋杀,已经在牢里蹲了十二年。他迫不及待地把整个审判过程原原本本告诉汤米,那天把轧布机熨平的干净床单一条条拉出来塞进篮子里的动作,都不再像平日那么单调了。查理正讲到陪审团等到午餐后,才回到法庭上宣告安迪有罪,这时候机器故障的警笛响起,轧布机吱吱嘎嘎地停了下来。其他囚犯从机器的另一端把刚洗好的老人院床单一条条塞进轧布机里,然后在汤米和查理这一端每五秒钟吐出一条烫得平平整整的干床单,他们的工作是把机器吐出的床单一条条拉起来,折叠好以后放进推车里,推车里早已铺好棕色的干净牛皮纸。但是汤米听到警笛声后,只顾站在那儿发愣,张大嘴巴,下巴都要碰到胸口了,呆呆地瞪着查理。机器吐出的床单掉在地上,越积越多,吸干了地上的脏水,而洗衣房的地面通常都很潮湿肮脏 。工头霍姆跑过来大声咆哮,想知道哪里出了问题。但是汤米视若无睹,继续和查理谈话,仿佛打人无数的霍姆根本不存在似的。Chapter 18