一個(gè)人的朝圣

這是一個(gè)值得你在某個(gè)孤單的夜晚，靜下心來(lái)細(xì)細(xì)品讀，靜靜思考的故事。

主人公哈羅德·弗萊，六十歲，在釀酒廠默默干了幾十年，然后又默默退休，沒(méi)有升遷，也沒(méi)什么朋友。他跟隔閡很深的妻子住在英國(guó)的鄉(xiāng)間，生活平淡，感情麻木。一天早上，他收到一封來(lái)自二十年未聯(lián)系的老朋友奎妮的來(lái)信。她患了癌癥，寫(xiě)信告別。震驚、悲痛之下，哈羅德寫(xiě)了回信。在去寄信的路上，他由奎妮想到了自己的人生，不斷走過(guò)一個(gè)又一個(gè)郵筒，越走越遠(yuǎn)。最后，他從英國(guó)的最西南一路走到了最東北，橫跨整個(gè)英格蘭，僅憑著一個(gè)“unlikely”信念：只要他走，老友就會(huì)活下去！從他腳步邁開(kāi)的那一刻起，與他六百多英里旅程并行的，是他穿越時(shí)光隧道的另一場(chǎng)旅行。

人生應(yīng)該怎么過(guò)？或許沒(méi)多少人會(huì)好好思考這個(gè)問(wèn)題。特別是在退休的年齡，隨隨便便地打發(fā)時(shí)間，直至壽終正寢的那天，似乎無(wú)可厚非。甚至有些人，在三四十歲的年紀(jì)，就已經(jīng)守著一個(gè)自己并不怎么熱衷的崗位，扳著手指算起退休日期了，日復(fù)一日，甘心過(guò)著一成不變的日子。偶然看到這個(gè)故事的時(shí)候，我匆匆瀏覽了第一章，之后卻忍不住追看了第二章、第三章……然后陷入一陣恐慌，仿佛看到自己正慢慢落入無(wú)數(shù)人都走不出的陷阱，即將麻木平庸地度過(guò)自己的余生。生活的磨礪或許已然殘酷地展示了一個(gè)現(xiàn)實(shí)：我們資質(zhì)平庸，無(wú)法成為偉人。但即便如此，我們還得試著去主宰自己的人生：只要敢嘗試，我們總能活得跟以往不一樣！

Harold Fry took several sheets of 1）Basildon Bond from the sideboard drawer and one of Maureen’s rollerball pens. What did you say to a dying woman with cancer？ He wanted her to know how sorry he felt， but it was wrong to put In Sympathy because that was what the cards in the shops said after， as it were， the event； and anyway it sounded formal， as if he didn’t really care. He tried Dear Miss Hennessy， I sincerely hope your condition improves， but when he put down the pen to inspect his message， it seemed both stiff and unlikely. He 2）crumpled the paper into a ball and tried again. He had never been good at expressing himself. What he felt was so big it was difficult to find the words， and even if he could， it was hardly appropriate to write them to someone he had not contacted in twenty years. Had the shoe been on the other foot， Queenie would have known what to do.

It was time to stop worrying about expressing anything beautifully. He would simply have to set down the words in his head： Dear Queenie， Thank you for your letter. I am very sorry. Yours， Best wishes— Harold （Fry）. It was 3）limp， but there it was. Sliding the letter into an envelope， he sealed it quickly， and copied the address of St. Bernadine’s 4）Hospice onto the front. “I’ll nip to the postbox.”

It was past eleven o’clock. He lifted his waterproof jacket from the peg where Maureen liked him to hang it. At the door， the smell of warmth and salt air rushed at his nose， but his wife was at his side before his left foot was over the threshold.

“Will you be long？”

“I’m only going to the end of the road.”

She kept on looking up at him， with her moss-green eyes and her fragile chin， and he wished he knew what to say but he didn’t； at least not in a way that would make any difference. He longed to touch her like in the old days， to lower his head on her shoulder and rest there.“5）Cheerio， Maureen.” He shut the front door between them， taking care not to let it slam.

Spotting Harold， the next-door neighbor waved and steered his way toward the adjoining fence. Rex was a short man with tidy feet at the bottom， a small head at the top， and a very round body in the middle， causing Harold to fear sometimes that if he fell there would be no stopping him. He would roll down the hill like a barrel. Rex had been widowed six months ago， at about the time of Harold’s retirement. Since Elizabeth’s death， he liked to talk about how hard life was. He liked to talk about it at great length. “The least you can do is listen，”Maureen said， although Harold wasn’t sure if she meant“you” in the general sense or the particular.

“Off for a walk？” said Rex.

Harold attempted a 6）jocular tone that would act， he hoped， as an intimation that now was not the time to stop. “Need anything posted， old chap？”

“Nobody writes to me. Since Elizabeth passed away， I only get 7）circulars.”

Rex gazed into the middle distance and Harold recognized at once the direction the conversation was heading. He threw a look upward； puffs of cloud sat on a tissue-paper sky.“Jolly nice day.”

“Jolly nice，” said Rex. There was a pause and Rex poured a sigh into it. “Elizabeth liked the sun.” Another pause.

“Good day for mowing， Rex.”

“Very good， Harold. Do you 8）compost your grass cuttings？ Or do you 9）mulch？”

“I find mulching leaves a mess that sticks to my feet. Maureen doesn’t like it when I tread things into the house.” Harold glanced at his yachting shoes and wondered why people wore them when they had no intention of sailing.“Well， must get on. Catch the midday collection.”Wagging his envelope， Harold turned toward the pavement.

For the first time in his life， it was a disappointment to find that the postbox cropped up sooner than expected. Harold tried to cross the road to avoid it， but there it was， waiting for him on the corner of Fossebridge Road. He lifted his letter for Queenie to the slot， and stopped. He looked back at the short distance his feet had traveled.

The 10）detached houses were 11）stuccoed and washed in shades of yellow， salmon， and blue. Some still had their pointed fifties roofs with decorative beams in the shape of a half sun； others had slate-clad loft extensions； one had been completely rebuilt in the style of a Swiss 12）chalet. Harold and Maureen had moved here forty-five years ago， just after they were married. It took all his savings to pay the deposit； there had been nothing left for curtains or furniture. They had kept themselves apart from others， and over time neighbors had come and gone， while only Harold and Maureen remained. There had once been vegetable beds， and an 13）ornamental pond. She made 14）chutneys every summer， and David kept goldfish. Behind the house there had been a potting shed that smelled of fertilizer， with high hooks for hanging tools， and coils of twine and rope. But these things too were long since gone. Even their son’s school， which had stood a stone’s throw from his bedroom window， was 15）bulldozed now and replaced with fifty affordable homes in bright 16）primary colors and street lighting in the style of Georgian gas lamps.

Harold thought of the words he had written to Queenie， and their 17）inadequacy shamed him. He pictured himself returning home， and Maureen calling David， and life being exactly the same except for Queenie dying in Berwick， and he was overcome. The letter rested on the dark mouth of the postbox. He couldn’t let it go.

“After all，” he said out loud， though nobody was looking， “it’s a nice day.” He hadn’t anything else to do. He might as well walk to the next one. He turned the corner of Fossebridge Road before he could change his mind.

It was not like Harold to make a snap decision. He saw that. Since his retirement， days went by and nothing changed； only his waist thickened， and he lost more hair. He slept poorly at night， and sometimes he did not sleep at all. Yet， arriving more promptly than he anticipated at a postbox， he paused again. He had started something and he didn’t know what it was， but now that he was doing it， he wasn’t ready to finish. Beads of 18）perspiration sprouted over his forehead； his blood throbbed with anticipation. If he took his letter to the post office on Fore Street， it would be guaranteed next day delivery.

The sun pressed warm on the back of his head and shoulders as he strolled down the avenues of new housing. Harold glanced in at people’s windows， and sometimes they were empty， and sometimes people were staring right back at him and he felt obliged to rush on. Sometimes， though， there was an object that he didn’t expect； a porcelain figure， or a vase， and even a 19）tuba； the tender pieces of themselves that people staked as boundaries against the outside world. He tried to visualize what a passerby would learn about himself and Maureen from the windows of 13 Fossebridge Road， before he realized it would be not very much， on account of the net curtains. He headed for the quayside， with the muscles 20）twitching in his thighs.

The tide was out and 21）dinghies lolled in a 22）moonscape of black mud， needing paint. Harold hobbled to an empty bench， inched Queenie’s letter from his pocket， and unfolded it.

She remembered. After all these years. And yet he had lived out his ordinary life as if what she had done meant nothing.

He hadn’t tried to stop her. He hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even said goodbye. The sky and pavement blurred into one as fresh tears swelled his eyes. Then through them came the watery outline of a young mother and child. They seemed to be holding ice cream cones， and bore them like torches. She lifted the boy and set him down on the other end of the bench.

“Lovely day，” said Harold， not wanting to sound like an old man who was crying. She didn’t look up， or agree. Bending over her child’s fist， she licked a smooth path to stop the ice cream from running. The boy watched his mother， so still and close， it was as if his face was part of hers.

Harold wondered if he had ever sat by the quay eating ice cream with David. He was sure he must have done it once， although searching in his mind for the memory， he found it wasn’t readily available. He must get on. He must post his letter.

Office workers were laughing with lunchtime 23）pints outside the Old Creek Inn， but Harold barely noticed. As he began the steep climb up Fore Street， he thought about the mother who was so absorbed in her son she saw no one else. It occurred to him it was Maureen who spoke to David and told him their news. It was Maureen who had always written Harold’s name （“Dad”） in the letters and cards. It was even Maureen who had found the nursing home for his father. And it raised the question — as he pushed the button at the 24）pelican crossing — that if she was， in effect， Harold， “then who am I？”

He strode past the post office without even stopping.

哈羅德·弗萊從梳妝臺(tái)抽屜翻出幾頁(yè)巴斯?fàn)柕恰ぐ畹滦偶埡鸵恢盏膱A珠筆。該對(duì)一個(gè)罹患癌癥即將離世的女人說(shuō)些什么呢？他很想告訴她自己有多遺憾，但寫(xiě)上“深表同情”并不妥，因?yàn)槟蔷拖癫恍沂虑檎娴陌l(fā)生后商店里的慰問(wèn)卡上寫(xiě)著的話，而且那也感覺(jué)太正式，就像他其實(shí)并不那么在乎似的。他試著下筆：“親愛(ài)的軒尼斯小姐：真誠(chéng)希望你的身體早日康復(fù)”，但當(dāng)他擱下筆，回看自己寫(xiě)下的詞句，又顯得太呆板了，況且也不太可能發(fā)生。于是他把紙揉成一團(tuán)，重寫(xiě)。他從來(lái)都不太會(huì)表達(dá)自己。這個(gè)消息給他帶來(lái)的震撼太大了，實(shí)在很難用言語(yǔ)去形容；就算他有這個(gè)能力，向一個(gè)二十年沒(méi)聯(lián)系的昔日好友表達(dá)那些，好像也不太恰當(dāng)。如果換過(guò)來(lái)是他病了，奎妮一定會(huì)知道該怎么做。

不要再為措辭行文患得患失了，簡(jiǎn)簡(jiǎn)單單把心里的話寫(xiě)出來(lái)就好?！坝H愛(ài)的奎妮：謝謝你的來(lái)信。聽(tīng)到這個(gè)消息我真的很抱歉。你的朋友，祝好，哈羅德（弗萊）”。有點(diǎn)無(wú)力，但也只能寫(xiě)成這樣了。他迅速裝好信，封上信封，把圣伯納丁臨終關(guān)懷院的地址抄到上面。“我去寄封信，很快回來(lái)?！?/p>

已經(jīng)過(guò)了十一點(diǎn)。哈羅德從掛衣鉤上取下防水外套——莫琳要他把衣服掛在那里。他打開(kāi)門(mén)，一股溫暖、微咸的空氣撲鼻而來(lái)。他抬起左腳，剛要邁過(guò)門(mén)檻，妻子就已站到了他身邊。

“會(huì)去很久嗎？”

“到街尾就回來(lái)。”

她依然抬頭看著他，用她那雙墨綠色的眼睛，還有那個(gè)纖細(xì)的下巴。他希望自己知道該說(shuō)些什么，但卻事與愿違；至少?zèng)]有什么話能改變目前這種狀況。他渴望能像舊時(shí)那樣觸碰她，把頭靠在她的肩膀上，好好歇息一下。“待會(huì)兒見(jiàn)，莫琳?！彼⌒牡匕褍扇酥g的前門(mén)帶上，以免發(fā)出砰響。

住在隔壁的鄰居雷克斯看到哈羅德，便向他揮揮手，朝兩家相接的籬笆邊走來(lái)。雷克斯是矮個(gè)子，頭小腳大，中間挺著個(gè)圓滾滾的大肚子，時(shí)不時(shí)讓哈羅德?lián)娜绻恍⌒牡沟脑挘瑫?huì)像個(gè)水桶一樣骨碌碌滾到山下，停都停不下來(lái)。他的妻子伊麗莎白六個(gè)月前去世了，大約就在哈羅德退休那陣子。自此以后，雷克斯就愛(ài)談?wù)撋畹钠D難，一開(kāi)口就沒(méi)完沒(méi)了?！爸辽倌憧梢月?tīng)一聽(tīng)呀，”莫琳說(shuō)，不過(guò)哈羅德弄不清她說(shuō)的這個(gè)“你”到底是泛指所有人，還是只針對(duì)他一個(gè)。

“出來(lái)逛逛？”雷克斯問(wèn)。

哈羅德試著擺出一副希望能暗示出“我現(xiàn)在沒(méi)時(shí)間”的樣子，半開(kāi)玩笑地說(shuō)：“嘿，老朋友，有什么要寄的嗎？”

“沒(méi)人會(huì)寫(xiě)信給我。伊麗莎白走了以后，信箱里就只剩傳單了?！?/p>

雷克斯凝視著半空，哈羅德馬上意識(shí)到這段對(duì)話就要往某個(gè)方向發(fā)展了。他抬眼撇一下天，幾縷云飄在棉紙般的空中?！疤鞖庹婧??！?/p>

“是很好，”雷克斯應(yīng)道。一陣沉默。他重重嘆一口氣，打破沉默，“伊麗莎白最喜歡陽(yáng)光了。”又是一陣沉默。

“今天很適合除草啊，雷克斯?！?/p>

“是啊。哈羅德，你會(huì)把割下來(lái)的草制成肥料嗎？還是蓋在植物上護(hù)根？”

“用來(lái)護(hù)根的話，草葉會(huì)爛成一團(tuán)糟，黏在鞋底，莫琳可不喜歡我踩得一屋子臟?！惫_德低頭看看腳上的帆船鞋，奇怪為什么人們根本沒(méi)有出海的打算，卻還要穿著它們?！班?，我該走了。得在中午郵差收信前趕過(guò)去?！彼麚]揮手中的信封，轉(zhuǎn)身走向人行道。

有生以來(lái)第一次，哈羅德因?yàn)榘l(fā)現(xiàn)郵筒比自己的預(yù)期要早出現(xiàn)而感到失望。他還特地繞了點(diǎn)路，但郵筒已經(jīng)在那里了，在福斯橋路的轉(zhuǎn)角等著他。哈羅德將給奎妮的信舉到投信口，又停了下來(lái)，回頭看向走來(lái)的那段小路。

那一座座獨(dú)立住宅都用深淺不一的黃色、橙紅色和藍(lán)色粉刷涂抹過(guò)。有些房子還保留著五十年代的尖頂，一根根裝飾用的梁木圍成半個(gè)太陽(yáng)的形狀；有幾棟加蓋了掛貼石板墻面的小閣樓；還有一間完全按照瑞士風(fēng)格的小木屋來(lái)進(jìn)行重建。哈羅德和莫琳四十五年前剛結(jié)婚就搬到這里來(lái)了，光是房子的訂金就花光了哈羅德所有的積蓄，連買(mǎi)窗簾和家具的錢(qián)都沒(méi)有了。他們比較內(nèi)斂，這些年來(lái)鄰居們來(lái)來(lái)去去，只有哈羅德和莫琳一直留在這里。這里曾有過(guò)一些菜地，還有個(gè)別致的小池塘；一到夏天莫琳就會(huì)制作酸辣醬，而大衛(wèi)則會(huì)養(yǎng)金魚(yú)。屋子后面曾經(jīng)有個(gè)棚舍，里面掛著各種園藝工具，還有一卷卷麻線、繩索，總彌漫著一股肥料的味道。但這一切早已成過(guò)去。就連他們的兒子大衛(wèi)的學(xué)?！碗x他的臥窗一石之遠(yuǎn)——都已被鏟平，變成了五十間刷著鮮艷的紅黃藍(lán)三色的經(jīng)適房，連街燈也改成了喬治王朝時(shí)代的煤氣燈風(fēng)格。

哈羅德想到了寫(xiě)給奎妮的信，為那幾行蒼白無(wú)力的字而感到羞愧。他想像自己回到家里，聽(tīng)著莫琳呼喊大衛(wèi)的聲音；除了奎妮即將在貝里克郡離世之外，他的生活一如往昔。哈羅德突然間不能自持。信擱在黑幽幽的投信口。他卻沒(méi)法松手。

“反正，”雖然身邊沒(méi)有什么人看著，但他大聲說(shuō)道，“今天天氣真好?！彼](méi)什么別的事情要做。他大可以逛一逛，走到下一個(gè)郵筒再說(shuō)。趁自己還沒(méi)有改變主意，他拐過(guò)了福斯橋路的路口。

這樣沖動(dòng)可不像哈羅德，他自己也看得出來(lái)。自退休后，日子一天天過(guò)去，生活一成不變；只有腰身變粗了，頭發(fā)掉得更多了。晚上他睡得很差，有時(shí)整晚都睡不著。但是，另一個(gè)郵筒又比預(yù)期的更早出現(xiàn)在他眼前，他再次停下。他已經(jīng)開(kāi)始做了某些事情，雖然他還不知道是什么，但自己已經(jīng)在做了，而且并未打算停下來(lái)。細(xì)密的汗珠在他額頭上沁出，血管因期待而不安分地跳動(dòng)。如果他把信帶到福爾街那個(gè)郵局的話，這信肯定要第二天才能寄出了。

哈羅德繼續(xù)沿著新住宅區(qū)的大街走下去，溫暖的陽(yáng)光灑在他的頭上和雙肩。經(jīng)過(guò)別人的窗戶時(shí)，他都會(huì)往里瞥一眼，有時(shí)里面是空的，有時(shí)恰好有人，并且目光正好與他對(duì)上了，這時(shí)，他就有一種必須趕緊走開(kāi)的感覺(jué)。然而，有時(shí)，他也會(huì)看到意料之外的東西，比如一座瓷像、一個(gè)花瓶，甚至一個(gè)大號(hào)，本身柔弱，卻被人們用來(lái)隔絕外界的東西。他試著想象路人經(jīng)過(guò)福斯橋路13號(hào)時(shí)，會(huì)對(duì)他和莫琳有什么想法，突然他意識(shí)到那人不會(huì)了解到太多，因?yàn)榧依镅b著窗簾呢。他往碼頭方向走去，大腿上的肌肉開(kāi)始一抽一抽的。

潮退了，幾艘小船錯(cuò)落在坑坑洼洼的黑色河泥上，懶洋洋地，已經(jīng)褪了色。哈羅德蹣跚著走到一張空著的長(zhǎng)凳旁坐下，慢慢從口袋里抽出奎妮的信，然后打開(kāi)。

她還記得。過(guò)了這么多年，她還記得。而他卻一直平凡過(guò)活，好像她做的一切都沒(méi)有意義似的。

他沒(méi)有試著阻止她，也沒(méi)有追上去，甚至沒(méi)有道一聲再見(jiàn)。眼淚又再盈上他的眼眶，模糊了天空與眼前馬路的界限。透過(guò)淚眼，一位年輕母親和她孩子的模糊輪廓出現(xiàn)了。他們手中似乎握著雪糕筒，像舉著火炬一樣。她抱起小男孩，放到椅子另一頭。

“天氣真好，”哈羅德努力讓自己聽(tīng)起來(lái)不像一個(gè)正在哭的老人。她沒(méi)有抬頭，也沒(méi)有附和，只是把孩子的拳頭扳下來(lái)，輕輕地舔了一下，不讓雪糕滴下來(lái)。男孩看著他的母親，兩人離得那么近，動(dòng)也不動(dòng)，仿佛兩人已經(jīng)融為一體。

哈羅德努力回憶自己是否曾試過(guò)和大衛(wèi)在碼頭邊吃雪糕。他肯定應(yīng)該是有的，雖然他無(wú)法成功在腦海中搜尋出這一段回憶。他一定要把這件事做完，把信寄出去。

午休的上班族在古溪旅館外面拿著啤酒嬉笑，但哈羅德幾乎都沒(méi)有留意到他們。爬上福爾街陡峭的上坡路時(shí)，他腦子里全是剛才那位母親，她全心全意沉浸在和自己孩子的世界里，忽略了其他所有人。他突然想起一直以來(lái)都是莫琳把兩人的近況告訴大衛(wèi)，一直是莫琳在所有信件和卡片上替他署下“爸爸”兩個(gè)字，甚至連他老父親去的療養(yǎng)院也是莫琳找的。接著問(wèn)題出現(xiàn)了——他站在自控人行橫道前按下行人按鈕——如果一直都是她在做哈羅德該做的事，“那么，我是誰(shuí)？”

他就這樣走過(guò)了郵局，連停都沒(méi)有停下來(lái)。