走廊

走廊

The Corridor

Daniel开着N7路公交车一路往上山开向医院，开得像辆救护车似的——事后Ana心想，它其实也差不多就是了。他一个公交车站也没停。游泳池外候车亭里一个穿着反光夹克的男人向他招手，目瞪口呆地看着那辆绿色大巴呼啸而过，车厢内灯火通明，而车上却仅仅载着两位乘客。

Daniel drove the N7 up the hill to the hospital as if it were an ambulance, which, Ana thought afterwards, it more or less was. He did not stop at a single bus stop. A man in a reflective jacket waved at him from the shelter outside the swimming baths and watched, open-mouthed, as the big green bus thundered past with its interior lights blazing and only two passengers on board.

Jess坐在前排座位上，蜷起双膝，将外公折好的那些纸页平贴在胸口，仿佛生怕有人会试图从她手中抢走一样。她一直没有看它们。从Bridge Street出发后，她就一句话也没说。Ana坐在她身边，看着小镇在灰暗的晨光中滑过：集市广场、黑漆漆的市政厅，还有文具店橱窗里的那张海报，带着它绿色的门和那方温暖的方块灯光。KEEP THE LIGHT ON。

Jess sat in the front seat with her knees drawn up and her grandfather’s folded pages held flat against her chest, as though someone might try to take them from her. She had not looked at them. She had not said a word since Bridge Street. Ana sat beside her and watched the town slide past in the grey half-light: the market square, the dark town hall, the poster in the newsagent’s window with its green door and its warm square of light. KEEP THE LIGHT ON.

在医院门口，车还没完全停稳，Daniel就把车门打开了。“快去，”他说，“我把车开回车库，然后马上开车过来。给我打电话。不管发生什么，都给我打电话。”他看着Jess，脸上一反常态地全无笑意。“他是个硬朗的老头子，Jess。是我认识的人里最硬朗的。”

At the hospital entrance Daniel opened the doors before the bus had properly stopped. “Go,” he said. “I’ll take the bus back to the depot and come straight here in the car. Phone me. Whatever it is, phone me.” He looked at Jess, and for once there was no joke anywhere in his face. “He’s a tough old man, Jess. The toughest I know.”

他们在二楼找到了Michael，就在一条弥漫着消毒水和咖啡烧焦味的幽长走廊尽头。他正坐在紧闭的房门外的一把塑料椅上，身上还穿着在河边小道上穿的那身衣服，裤子的膝盖处沾着面粉，长外套叠好放在身旁的座位上。一见到她们，他猛地站起身来，动作太急，不得不伸手扶住了墙壁。

They found Michael on the second floor, at the end of a long corridor that smelled of disinfectant and burnt coffee. He was sitting on a plastic chair outside a closed door, still in the clothes he had worn on the river path, with flour on the knees of his trousers and his long coat folded on the seat beside him. When he saw them he stood up too quickly and had to put a hand on the wall.

“他还活着，”还没等她们开口问，他便抢先说道。这是最重要的第一件事，他说得就像溺水时向人抛出一根救生绳。“他还活着，睡着了，他们给他做了扫描。等八点钟主治医生来的时候，会好好跟我们谈谈。”

“He’s alive,” he said, before either of them could ask. That was the first thing, and he said it the way a man throws a rope. “He’s alive, he’s asleep, they’ve done a scan. They’re going to talk to us properly when the consultant comes in at eight.”

Jess在走廊中央定定地站着。有一瞬间，Ana以为她会走向他；她双肩的微倾姿态，极轻微地朝着靠墙站着的那位留着灰白胡子的修长身影倾斜。但那种冲动转瞬即逝。她在离他最远的一张椅子上坐了下来，把那些纸页放在膝头，凝视着那扇紧闭的门。

Jess stood very still in the middle of the corridor. For a moment Ana thought she might go to him; there was something in the angle of her shoulders that leaned, very slightly, towards the tall grey-bearded man by the wall. Then it passed. She sat down on the chair furthest from him, put the pages on her knee, and stared at the closed door.

主治医生在八点十分到了：一位步履利落、满头银发的女士，老花镜挂在一根细绳上，带着一种传递过无数坏消息却始终未能习以为常的人所特有的淡淡歉意。她把他们带进一间小房间，桌上摆着一盒纸巾，而在这三个月里已学会读懂英国房间陈设的Ana，立刻就明白了纸巾的用意。

The consultant arrived at ten past eight: a brisk, grey-haired woman with reading glasses on a cord and the faintly apologetic manner of someone who has given a great deal of bad news and has never got used to it. She took them into a small room with a box of tissues on the table, and Ana, who had learned in three months to read English rooms, understood at once what the tissues meant.

她解释说，这是中风，发生在大脑左侧，是由血栓引起的。他们已经给他服用了分解血栓的药物，而且给得很及时，这至关重要。但损伤是实实在在的。他的右臂和右腿非常无力。而且大脑中负责寻找词汇的部分受损了，所以尽管他能听懂别人对他说的大部分话，却几乎说不出话来。

It had been a stroke, she explained, on the left side of the brain, caused by a blood clot. They had given him medicine to break it down, and they had given it in time, which mattered enormously. But the damage was real. His right arm and leg were very weak. And the part of the brain that found words had been hurt, so that although he could understand a good deal of what was said to him, he could barely speak.

“我们称之为失语症，”她说，“词汇都在那里，在脑海深处，但通往它们的道路被阻断了。随着时间和康复治疗，其中的一部分道路可能会恢复。但有一部分可能无法恢复。再加上他的帕金森病，恐怕恢复过程会很慢，我也无法向你们保证能恢复到什么程度。”她透过镜片上方看着他们三人，“接下来的四十八小时最为关键。在那之后，我们就能知道得更多了。”

“Aphasia, we call it,” she said. “The words are there, inside, but the road to them is blocked. Some of that road may come back with time and therapy. Some of it may not. With his Parkinson’s as well, I’m afraid recovery will be slow, and I can’t promise you how far it will go.” She looked at the three of them over her glasses. “The next forty-eight hours matter most. After that, we’ll know a great deal more.”

Jess提出了各种疑问。Ana原本以为她会哭，可她没有，而是用平淡、审慎的声音，问出了一位工程师在审视一座受损桥梁时会问的问题：哪些可以修复，需要多长时间，他能做什么、不能做什么。Michael几乎一言不发。他双手交扣在两膝之间，双眼盯着那盒纸巾，却一张也没有抽取。

Jess asked the questions. Ana had expected her to cry, and instead she asked, in a flat, careful voice, exactly the questions an engineer might ask about a damaged bridge: what could be repaired, how long it would take, what he would and would not be able to do. Michael said almost nothing. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees and his eyes on the box of tissues, and he did not take one.

九点钟，在走廊里，他看了一眼手表，接着又看了一眼手机，Ana猛然一惊，意识到自己竟忘了今天是星期几。星期五。签字的日子。再过六个小时，两个姓Bell的男人本该各自手握一支笔，坐在Leeds的一间办公室里。

At nine o’clock, in the corridor, he looked at his watch and then at his phone, and Ana realised with a small shock that she had forgotten what day it was. Friday. The signing. In six hours, two men named Bell were supposed to be sitting in an office in Leeds with a pen each.

Michael走到走廊尽头的窗前，背对着她们在那里打了电话。Ana没能听清每一个字，但听到的已经足够了。他没有道歉，也没有长篇大论地解释。他的父亲在夜里中风了。他的父亲无论今天还是在很长一段时间内，都无法签署任何东西。而在这种情况下，他也绝不会签。

Michael walked to the window at the end of the corridor and made the call there, with his back to them. Ana could not hear every word, but she heard enough. He did not apologise and he did not explain at length. His father had had a stroke in the night. His father could not sign anything, today or perhaps for a long time. And neither, under the circumstances, would he.

等他走回来时，沉重地坐了下来。“她很通情达理，”他语气中带着一丝诧异，“Helen。她说今天早上除了我父亲，别的事都不重要，还说希望他能康复。她说合同有截止期限，如果错过了，那就是错过了。”他揉了揉脸，“然后她说她会再联系。我想这意味着她还没放弃。”

When he came back he sat down heavily. “She was kind,” he said, sounding faintly surprised. “Helen. She said nothing matters this morning except my father, and that she hoped he’d recover. She said the contract had a deadline, and that if it passed, it passed.” He rubbed his face. “Then she said she’d be in touch. Which I suppose means she hasn’t given up.”