W HILE I have no memory of the lies I told my parents about the trip with Hanna, I do remember the price I had to pay to stay alone at home the last week of vacation. I can’t recall where my parents and my older brother and sister were going. The problem was my little sister. She was supposed to go and stay with a friend’s family. But if I was going to be at home, she wanted to be at home as well. My parents didn’t want that. So I was supposed to go and stay with a friend too.
As I look back, I find it remarkable that my parents were willing to leave me, a fifteen-year-old, at home alone for a week. Had they noticed the independence that had been growing in me since I met Hanna? Or had they simply registered the fact that I had passed the class despite the months of illness and decided that I was more responsible and trustworthy than I had shown myself to be until then? Nor do I remember being called on to explain the many hours I spent at Hanna’s. My parents apparently believed that, now that I was healthy again, I wanted to be with my friends as much as possible, whether studying or just enjoying our free time. Besides, when parents have a pack of four children, their attention cannot cover everything, and tends to focus on whichever one is causing the most problems at the moment. I had caused problems for long enough; my parents were relieved that I was healthy and would be moving up into the next class.
When I asked my little sister what her price was for going to stay with her friend while I stayed home, she demanded jeans—we called them blue jeans back then, or studded pants—and a Nicki, which was a velour sweater. That made sense. Jeans were still something special at that time, they were chic, and they promised liberation from herringbone suits and big-flowered dresses. Just as I had to wear my uncle’s things, my little sister had to wear her big sister’s. But I had no money.
“Then steal them!” said my little sister with perfect equanimity.
It was astonishingly easy. I tried on various jeans, took a pair her size with me into the fitting room, and carried them out of the store against my stomach under my wide suit pants. The sweater I stole from the big main department store. My little sister and I went in one day and strolled from stand to stand in the fashion department until we found the right stand and the right sweater. Next day I marched quickly through the department, seized the sweater, hid it under my suit jacket, and was outside again. The day after that I stole a silk nightgown for Hanna, was spotted by the store detective, ran for my life, and escaped by a hair. I didn’t go back to the department store for years after that.
Since our nights together on the trip, I had longed every night to feel her next to me, to curl up against her, my stomach against her behind and my chest against her back, to rest my hand on her breasts, to reach out for her when I woke up in the night, find her, push my leg over her legs, and press my face against her shoulder. A week alone at home meant seven nights with Hanna.
One evening I invited her to the house and cooked for her. She stood in the kitchen as I put the finishing touches on the food. She stood in the open double doors between the dining room and living room as I served. She sat at the round dining table where my father usually sat. She looked around.
Her eyes explored everything—the Biedermeier furniture, the piano, the old grandfather clock, the pictures, the bookcases, the plates and cutlery on the table. When I left her alone to prepare dessert, she was not at the table when I came back. She had gone from room to room and was standing in my father’s study. I leaned quietly against the doorpost and watched her. She let her eyes drift over the bookshelves that filled the walls, as if she were reading a text. Then she went to a shelf, raised her right index finger chest high and ran it slowly along the backs of the books, moved to the next shelf, ran her finger further along, from one spine to the next, pacing off the whole room. She stopped at the window, looked out into the darkness, at the reflection of the bookshelves, and at her own.
It is one of the pictures of Hanna that has stayed with me. I have them stored away, I can project them on a mental screen and watch them, unchanged, unconsumed. There are long periods when I don’t think about them at all. But they always come back into my head, and then I sometimes have to run them repeatedly through my mental projector and watch them. One is Hanna putting on her stockings in the kitchen. Another is Hanna standing in front of the tub holding the towel in her outstretched arms. Another is Hanna riding her bike with her skirt blowing in her slipstream. Then there is the picture of Hanna in my father’s study. She’s wearing a blue-and-white striped dress, what they called a shirtwaist back then. She looks young in it. She has run her finger along the backs of the books and looked into the darkness of the window. She turns to me, quickly enough that the skirt swings out around her legs for a moment before it hangs smooth again. Her eyes are tired.
“Are these books your father has just read, or did he write them too?”
I knew there was a book on Kant and another on Hegel that my father had written, and I searched for them and showed them to her.
“Read me something from them. Please, kid?”
“I . . .” I didn’t want to, but didn’t like to refuse her either. I took my father’s Kant book and read her a passage on analysis and dialectics that neither of us understood. “Is that enough?”
She looked at me as though she had understood it all, or as if it didn’t matter whether anything was understandable or not. “Will you write books like that some day?”
I shook my head.
“Will you write other books?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you write plays?”
“I don’t know, Hanna.”
She nodded. Then we ate dessert and went to her apartment. I would have liked to sleep with her in my bed, but she didn’t want to. She felt like an intruder in our house. She didn’t say it in so many words, but in the way she stood in the kitchen or in the open double doors, or walked from room to room, inspected my father’s books and sat with me at dinner.
I gave her the silk nightgown. It was aubergine-colored with narrow straps that left her shoulders and arms bare, and came down to her ankles. It shone and shimmered. Hanna was delighted; she laughed and beamed. She looked down at herself, turned around, danced a few steps, looked at herself in the mirror, checked her reflection, and danced some more. That too is a picture of Hanna that has stayed with me.
我雖然不記得為了能和漢娜一起出游，我在父母面前都撤了哪些流，卻還記得為了在假期的后一周里能一個人留在家里所付出的代價。我的父母、哥哥和姐姐去哪里旅行，我已不記得了。問題是我的小妹，她應(yīng)該去一位女朋友家里，可是如果我留在家里的話，她也要呆在家里。我父母不想這樣，這樣一來，我也必須去一位朋友家里住。
回顧當(dāng)時的情況，我發(fā)現(xiàn)有一點非常值得注意，那就是我父母準(zhǔn)備讓我一個十五歲的男孩子獨自一人在家里呆上一周的時間。他們已注意到了我通過與漢娜的交往已經(jīng)變得獨立了嗎？或者他們只是注意到，盡管我生了幾個月的病，還是照樣跟上了功課并由此得出結(jié)論，認(rèn)為我比這之前他們所認(rèn)為的更有責(zé)任心，更值得信賴了嗎？當(dāng)時我有那么多的時間是在漢娜那里度過的，我也記不得了當(dāng)時我是否必須對此做出解釋。看來，我父母認(rèn)為我已經(jīng)恢復(fù)了健康，以為我想更多地和朋友在一起，一起學(xué)習(xí)，一起玩耍。此外，四個孩子就像一群羊，父母不可能把注意力平分在每個孩子身上，而是集中在有特別問題的孩子身上。我有問題的時間夠長的了，現(xiàn)在我身體健康并可以跟班上課，這已令我的父母感到輕松。
我想把妹妹打發(fā)到她的女朋友家里，以便我一個人留在家里。當(dāng)我問她想要什么時，她說要一條牛仔褲——當(dāng)時我們把牛仔褲叫做藍(lán)牛仔褲或斜紋工裝褲，一件市套衫和一件天鵝絨毛衣，這我能理解。牛仔褲在當(dāng)時還是很特別的東西，很時髦。此外，牛仔褲還把人們從人字型西服和大花圖案的服裝中解放出來。就像我必須穿我叔叔穿過的衣服一樣，我的妹妹也必須要穿我姐姐穿過的衣服?？墒牵覜]有錢。
"那就去偷把！"我的妹妹看上會沉著冷靜地這樣說到。
這件事容易得令你吃驚。我在試衣間里試穿了不同型號的牛仔褲，也拿了幾條我妹妹所穿的型號，把它們掖到又肥又寬的褲腰里就溜出了商店。那件布套衫是我在考夫豪夫店里偷出來的。有一天，我和妹妹在一家時裝店里，從一個攤位溜達(dá)到另一個攤位，直到找到了賣正宗布套衫的正確攤位為止。第二天，我急匆匆地邁著果斷的腳步，走過了這個經(jīng)銷部，抓起了一件毛衣，藏到了外套里，成功地帶了出去。在此之后的第二天，我為漢娜偷了一件真絲睡衣，但被商店的偵探發(fā)現(xiàn)了。我拼命地跑，費了九牛二虎之力才逃掉。有好幾年，我都沒有再踏入考夫豪夫商店的大門。
自我們一起出游，一起過夜之后，每晚我都渴望著在身邊感覺到她的存在，都渴望依偎在她懷里，都渴望著把肚子靠在她的*上，把胸貼在她后背上，把手放在她的*上，也渴望著夜里醒來時，用手臂去摸她，找她，把一條腿伸到她的一條腿上去，把臉在她肩上路路。獨自一人在家里呆一周就意味著有機(jī)會和漢娜在一起度過七個夜晚。
其中的一個晚上，我把漢娜邀請了過來并為她做了飯。當(dāng)我忙著做飯時，她站在廚房里。當(dāng)我把飯菜端上來時，她站在餐廳和客廳開著的門之間。在圓餐桌旁，她坐到了通常我父親所坐的位子上，朝四處打量。
她的眼神在審視著一切。畢德麥耶爾家具、三角大鋼琴、老式的座鐘、油畫、擺滿書的書架，還有放在餐桌上的餐具。當(dāng)我起來去準(zhǔn)備飯后甜食時，把她一個人留在了那兒。回來時發(fā)現(xiàn)她已不在桌邊坐著了。她從一個房間走到另一個房間，后她站在了我父親的書房里。我輕輕地靠在門框上，看著她。她的目光在布滿墻面的書架上漫游，好像在讀一篇文章。然后，她走到一個書架前，在齊胸高的地方用右手的食指慢慢地在書脊上移動，從一個書架移到另一個書架，從一本書移到另一本書。她巡視了整個房間。在窗前，她停了下來，在昏暗中注視著書架的反光和倒影。
這是漢娜留在我心目中的形象之一。我把它儲存在大腦中，可以在內(nèi)心的銀幕上放映，她總是那樣沒有變化。有時候，我很長時間都不想她，可是她總是讓我又想起她，這可能是我多次地、一遍又一遍地在內(nèi)。動的屏幕上非要放映、觀賞她不可。其中的一個情景是漢娜在廚房里穿長筒襪，另外一個情景是漢娜站在浴缸前張開雙手拿著浴巾。還有一個情景是漢娜騎著自行車，她的連衣裙隨風(fēng)飄舞。然后，就是漢娜在我父親書房里的情景。她穿著一件藍(lán)白相間的連衣裙，當(dāng)時人們稱之為襯衣裙。穿著它她看上去很年輕。她用手指摸著書脊走到了窗前，向窗外眺望?，F(xiàn)在她把身子轉(zhuǎn)向了我，她轉(zhuǎn)得太快了，以至于她的裙子有那么一瞬間把她的腿給纏住了，過了一會裙子才又平放下來。她的眼神看上去有些疲倦。
"這些書只是你父親讀過的呢還是也有他寫的？"
我知道父親寫過關(guān)于康德和黑格爾的書。我把兩本書都找了出來給她看。
"給我朗讀一段，你不愿意嗎，小家伙！"
"我……"我不愿意，可是我又不想拒絕她的請求。我拿出了父親的那本關(guān)于康德的書，給她朗讀了其中關(guān)于分析學(xué)和辯證法的一段。她和我都不懂。"夠了嗎？"
她看著我，好像她都聽懂的樣子或者說懂與不懂都無關(guān)緊要的樣子。"有一天你也會寫這樣的書嗎？"
我搖搖頭。
"你會寫其他書嗎？"
"我不知道。"
"你會寫劇本嗎？"
"我不知道，漢娜。"
她點點頭。然后，我們吃了飯后甜食就去了她那里。我非常想和她在我的床上睡覺，但是她不愿意。她在我家里感覺像個闖入者。她并沒有用語言表述這些，可是通過她的舉止可以看得出來，她站在廚房里或者站在開著的門之間，她從一個房間走到另一個房間，她在我父親的書房里摸著書，她和我坐在一起吃飯時的舉止，所有這些都表明了這一點。
我把那件真絲睡衣送給了她。睡衣是紫紅色的，細(xì)細(xì)的背帶，袒胸露背的式樣，一直拖到腳踝，質(zhì)地柔潤光滑。漢娜高興得眉開眼笑。她上上下下地打量著自己，轉(zhuǎn)過身來跳了幾步舞，對著鏡子看了一會自己在鏡中的形象，接著又跳起來。
這也是漢娜留在我腦中的一個形象。
As I look back, I find it remarkable that my parents were willing to leave me, a fifteen-year-old, at home alone for a week. Had they noticed the independence that had been growing in me since I met Hanna? Or had they simply registered the fact that I had passed the class despite the months of illness and decided that I was more responsible and trustworthy than I had shown myself to be until then? Nor do I remember being called on to explain the many hours I spent at Hanna’s. My parents apparently believed that, now that I was healthy again, I wanted to be with my friends as much as possible, whether studying or just enjoying our free time. Besides, when parents have a pack of four children, their attention cannot cover everything, and tends to focus on whichever one is causing the most problems at the moment. I had caused problems for long enough; my parents were relieved that I was healthy and would be moving up into the next class.
When I asked my little sister what her price was for going to stay with her friend while I stayed home, she demanded jeans—we called them blue jeans back then, or studded pants—and a Nicki, which was a velour sweater. That made sense. Jeans were still something special at that time, they were chic, and they promised liberation from herringbone suits and big-flowered dresses. Just as I had to wear my uncle’s things, my little sister had to wear her big sister’s. But I had no money.
“Then steal them!” said my little sister with perfect equanimity.
It was astonishingly easy. I tried on various jeans, took a pair her size with me into the fitting room, and carried them out of the store against my stomach under my wide suit pants. The sweater I stole from the big main department store. My little sister and I went in one day and strolled from stand to stand in the fashion department until we found the right stand and the right sweater. Next day I marched quickly through the department, seized the sweater, hid it under my suit jacket, and was outside again. The day after that I stole a silk nightgown for Hanna, was spotted by the store detective, ran for my life, and escaped by a hair. I didn’t go back to the department store for years after that.
Since our nights together on the trip, I had longed every night to feel her next to me, to curl up against her, my stomach against her behind and my chest against her back, to rest my hand on her breasts, to reach out for her when I woke up in the night, find her, push my leg over her legs, and press my face against her shoulder. A week alone at home meant seven nights with Hanna.
One evening I invited her to the house and cooked for her. She stood in the kitchen as I put the finishing touches on the food. She stood in the open double doors between the dining room and living room as I served. She sat at the round dining table where my father usually sat. She looked around.
Her eyes explored everything—the Biedermeier furniture, the piano, the old grandfather clock, the pictures, the bookcases, the plates and cutlery on the table. When I left her alone to prepare dessert, she was not at the table when I came back. She had gone from room to room and was standing in my father’s study. I leaned quietly against the doorpost and watched her. She let her eyes drift over the bookshelves that filled the walls, as if she were reading a text. Then she went to a shelf, raised her right index finger chest high and ran it slowly along the backs of the books, moved to the next shelf, ran her finger further along, from one spine to the next, pacing off the whole room. She stopped at the window, looked out into the darkness, at the reflection of the bookshelves, and at her own.
It is one of the pictures of Hanna that has stayed with me. I have them stored away, I can project them on a mental screen and watch them, unchanged, unconsumed. There are long periods when I don’t think about them at all. But they always come back into my head, and then I sometimes have to run them repeatedly through my mental projector and watch them. One is Hanna putting on her stockings in the kitchen. Another is Hanna standing in front of the tub holding the towel in her outstretched arms. Another is Hanna riding her bike with her skirt blowing in her slipstream. Then there is the picture of Hanna in my father’s study. She’s wearing a blue-and-white striped dress, what they called a shirtwaist back then. She looks young in it. She has run her finger along the backs of the books and looked into the darkness of the window. She turns to me, quickly enough that the skirt swings out around her legs for a moment before it hangs smooth again. Her eyes are tired.
“Are these books your father has just read, or did he write them too?”
I knew there was a book on Kant and another on Hegel that my father had written, and I searched for them and showed them to her.
“Read me something from them. Please, kid?”
“I . . .” I didn’t want to, but didn’t like to refuse her either. I took my father’s Kant book and read her a passage on analysis and dialectics that neither of us understood. “Is that enough?”
She looked at me as though she had understood it all, or as if it didn’t matter whether anything was understandable or not. “Will you write books like that some day?”
I shook my head.
“Will you write other books?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you write plays?”
“I don’t know, Hanna.”
She nodded. Then we ate dessert and went to her apartment. I would have liked to sleep with her in my bed, but she didn’t want to. She felt like an intruder in our house. She didn’t say it in so many words, but in the way she stood in the kitchen or in the open double doors, or walked from room to room, inspected my father’s books and sat with me at dinner.
I gave her the silk nightgown. It was aubergine-colored with narrow straps that left her shoulders and arms bare, and came down to her ankles. It shone and shimmered. Hanna was delighted; she laughed and beamed. She looked down at herself, turned around, danced a few steps, looked at herself in the mirror, checked her reflection, and danced some more. That too is a picture of Hanna that has stayed with me.
我雖然不記得為了能和漢娜一起出游，我在父母面前都撤了哪些流，卻還記得為了在假期的后一周里能一個人留在家里所付出的代價。我的父母、哥哥和姐姐去哪里旅行，我已不記得了。問題是我的小妹，她應(yīng)該去一位女朋友家里，可是如果我留在家里的話，她也要呆在家里。我父母不想這樣，這樣一來，我也必須去一位朋友家里住。
回顧當(dāng)時的情況，我發(fā)現(xiàn)有一點非常值得注意，那就是我父母準(zhǔn)備讓我一個十五歲的男孩子獨自一人在家里呆上一周的時間。他們已注意到了我通過與漢娜的交往已經(jīng)變得獨立了嗎？或者他們只是注意到，盡管我生了幾個月的病，還是照樣跟上了功課并由此得出結(jié)論，認(rèn)為我比這之前他們所認(rèn)為的更有責(zé)任心，更值得信賴了嗎？當(dāng)時我有那么多的時間是在漢娜那里度過的，我也記不得了當(dāng)時我是否必須對此做出解釋。看來，我父母認(rèn)為我已經(jīng)恢復(fù)了健康，以為我想更多地和朋友在一起，一起學(xué)習(xí)，一起玩耍。此外，四個孩子就像一群羊，父母不可能把注意力平分在每個孩子身上，而是集中在有特別問題的孩子身上。我有問題的時間夠長的了，現(xiàn)在我身體健康并可以跟班上課，這已令我的父母感到輕松。
我想把妹妹打發(fā)到她的女朋友家里，以便我一個人留在家里。當(dāng)我問她想要什么時，她說要一條牛仔褲——當(dāng)時我們把牛仔褲叫做藍(lán)牛仔褲或斜紋工裝褲，一件市套衫和一件天鵝絨毛衣，這我能理解。牛仔褲在當(dāng)時還是很特別的東西，很時髦。此外，牛仔褲還把人們從人字型西服和大花圖案的服裝中解放出來。就像我必須穿我叔叔穿過的衣服一樣，我的妹妹也必須要穿我姐姐穿過的衣服?？墒牵覜]有錢。
"那就去偷把！"我的妹妹看上會沉著冷靜地這樣說到。
這件事容易得令你吃驚。我在試衣間里試穿了不同型號的牛仔褲，也拿了幾條我妹妹所穿的型號，把它們掖到又肥又寬的褲腰里就溜出了商店。那件布套衫是我在考夫豪夫店里偷出來的。有一天，我和妹妹在一家時裝店里，從一個攤位溜達(dá)到另一個攤位，直到找到了賣正宗布套衫的正確攤位為止。第二天，我急匆匆地邁著果斷的腳步，走過了這個經(jīng)銷部，抓起了一件毛衣，藏到了外套里，成功地帶了出去。在此之后的第二天，我為漢娜偷了一件真絲睡衣，但被商店的偵探發(fā)現(xiàn)了。我拼命地跑，費了九牛二虎之力才逃掉。有好幾年，我都沒有再踏入考夫豪夫商店的大門。
自我們一起出游，一起過夜之后，每晚我都渴望著在身邊感覺到她的存在，都渴望依偎在她懷里，都渴望著把肚子靠在她的*上，把胸貼在她后背上，把手放在她的*上，也渴望著夜里醒來時，用手臂去摸她，找她，把一條腿伸到她的一條腿上去，把臉在她肩上路路。獨自一人在家里呆一周就意味著有機(jī)會和漢娜在一起度過七個夜晚。
其中的一個晚上，我把漢娜邀請了過來并為她做了飯。當(dāng)我忙著做飯時，她站在廚房里。當(dāng)我把飯菜端上來時，她站在餐廳和客廳開著的門之間。在圓餐桌旁，她坐到了通常我父親所坐的位子上，朝四處打量。
她的眼神在審視著一切。畢德麥耶爾家具、三角大鋼琴、老式的座鐘、油畫、擺滿書的書架，還有放在餐桌上的餐具。當(dāng)我起來去準(zhǔn)備飯后甜食時，把她一個人留在了那兒。回來時發(fā)現(xiàn)她已不在桌邊坐著了。她從一個房間走到另一個房間，后她站在了我父親的書房里。我輕輕地靠在門框上，看著她。她的目光在布滿墻面的書架上漫游，好像在讀一篇文章。然后，她走到一個書架前，在齊胸高的地方用右手的食指慢慢地在書脊上移動，從一個書架移到另一個書架，從一本書移到另一本書。她巡視了整個房間。在窗前，她停了下來，在昏暗中注視著書架的反光和倒影。
這是漢娜留在我心目中的形象之一。我把它儲存在大腦中，可以在內(nèi)心的銀幕上放映，她總是那樣沒有變化。有時候，我很長時間都不想她，可是她總是讓我又想起她，這可能是我多次地、一遍又一遍地在內(nèi)。動的屏幕上非要放映、觀賞她不可。其中的一個情景是漢娜在廚房里穿長筒襪，另外一個情景是漢娜站在浴缸前張開雙手拿著浴巾。還有一個情景是漢娜騎著自行車，她的連衣裙隨風(fēng)飄舞。然后，就是漢娜在我父親書房里的情景。她穿著一件藍(lán)白相間的連衣裙，當(dāng)時人們稱之為襯衣裙。穿著它她看上去很年輕。她用手指摸著書脊走到了窗前，向窗外眺望?，F(xiàn)在她把身子轉(zhuǎn)向了我，她轉(zhuǎn)得太快了，以至于她的裙子有那么一瞬間把她的腿給纏住了，過了一會裙子才又平放下來。她的眼神看上去有些疲倦。
"這些書只是你父親讀過的呢還是也有他寫的？"
我知道父親寫過關(guān)于康德和黑格爾的書。我把兩本書都找了出來給她看。
"給我朗讀一段，你不愿意嗎，小家伙！"
"我……"我不愿意，可是我又不想拒絕她的請求。我拿出了父親的那本關(guān)于康德的書，給她朗讀了其中關(guān)于分析學(xué)和辯證法的一段。她和我都不懂。"夠了嗎？"
她看著我，好像她都聽懂的樣子或者說懂與不懂都無關(guān)緊要的樣子。"有一天你也會寫這樣的書嗎？"
我搖搖頭。
"你會寫其他書嗎？"
"我不知道。"
"你會寫劇本嗎？"
"我不知道，漢娜。"
她點點頭。然后，我們吃了飯后甜食就去了她那里。我非常想和她在我的床上睡覺，但是她不愿意。她在我家里感覺像個闖入者。她并沒有用語言表述這些，可是通過她的舉止可以看得出來，她站在廚房里或者站在開著的門之間，她從一個房間走到另一個房間，她在我父親的書房里摸著書，她和我坐在一起吃飯時的舉止，所有這些都表明了這一點。
我把那件真絲睡衣送給了她。睡衣是紫紅色的，細(xì)細(xì)的背帶，袒胸露背的式樣，一直拖到腳踝，質(zhì)地柔潤光滑。漢娜高興得眉開眼笑。她上上下下地打量著自己，轉(zhuǎn)過身來跳了幾步舞，對著鏡子看了一會自己在鏡中的形象，接著又跳起來。
這也是漢娜留在我腦中的一個形象。