看不见的光

安東尼·多伊尔（Anthony Doerr， 1973—）是美国小说家，因其第二本小说《看不见的光》而获得广泛认同。这本小说是多伊尔花了十年时间写成的，故事构思巧妙，叙事引人入胜，获得了2015年的普利策小说奖。

《看不见的光》的故事背景发生在二战时期的法国，男女主人公分别是为了逃离当矿工的命运，学习他所热爱的科学知识而考进噩梦般的纳粹军校，成为了一名德国士兵的男孩沃纳，以及由于巴黎沦陷，与父亲逃到了其伯祖父所在的圣马洛，在战争中挣扎求生的法国盲女玛丽劳尔，小说讲述了二人截然不同却又互有交集的人生经历。在阅读这本小说的过程中，不知在哪一刻就明白了书名的含义，那些我们看不见的“光”指的大抵就是像沃纳和玛丽劳尔这样在黑暗的战争中依然怀抱着希望，努力活下来的平凡人。本期节选了小编觉得写得最美的一部分，男女主人公第一次相遇，也是最后一次见面，唯一一次的交集……

He is a ghost. He is from some other world. He is Papa， Madame Manec， Etinenne; he is everyone who has left her finally coming back. Through the panel he calls， “I am not killing you. I am hearing you. On radio. Is why I come.” He pauses， fumbling to translate. “ The song， light of the moon？” She almost smiles.

Marie-Laure slides to open the wardrobe. Werner takes her hand and helps her out. Her feet find the floor of her grandfathers room.

“Mes souliers，” she says. “I have not been able to find my shoes.”

The girl sits very still in the corner and wraps her coat around her knees. The way she tucks her ankles up against her bottom. The way her fingers flutter through the space around her. Each a thing he hopes never to forget.

Guns boom to the east; the citadel being bombarded again， the citadel bombarding back.

Exhaustion breaks over him. In French he says， “There will be a—a Waffenruhe. Stopping in the fighting. At noon. So people can get out of the city. I can get you out.”

“And you know this is true？”

“No，” he says. “I do not know it is true.” Quiet now. He examines his trousers， his dusty coat. The uniform makes him an accomplice in everything this girl hates. “There is water，” he says， and crosses to the other sixth-floor room and does not look at von Rumpels body in her bed and retrieves the second bucket. Her whole head disappears inside its mouth， and her sticklike arms hug its sides as she gulps.

He says， “You are very brave.”

She lowers the bucket. “What is your name？”

He tells her. She says， “When I lost my sight. Werner， people said I was brave. When my father left， people said I was brave. But it is not bravery; I have no choice. I wake up and live my life. Dont you do the same？”

He says. “Not in years. But today. Today maybe I did.”

Her glasses are gone， and her pupils look like they are full of milk， but strangely they do not unnerve him. He remembers a phrase of Frau Elenas： belle laide. Beautiful ugly.

“What day is it？”

He looks around. Scorched curtains and soot fanned across the ceiling and cardboard peeling off the window and the very first pale light of predawn leaking through. “I dont know. Its morning.”

A shell screams over the house. He thinks： I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours. But the shell detonates somewhere and the house creaks and Werner says， “There was a man who used that transmitter you have. Who broadcast lessons about science. When I was a boy. I used to listen to them with my sister.”

“That was the voice of my grandfather. You heard him？”

“Many times. We loved them.”

The window glows. The slow sandy light of dawn permeates the room. Everything transient and aching; everything tentative. To be here， in this room， high in this house， out of the cellar， with her： it is like medicine.

“I could eat bacon，” she says.“What？”

“I could eat a whole pig.”

He smiles. “I could eat a whole cow.”

“The woman who used to live here， the housekeeper， she made the most wonderful omelets in this world.”

“When I was little，” he says， “we used to pick berries by the Ruhr. My sister and me. Wed find berries as big as our thumbs.”

The girl crawls into the wardrobe and climbs a ladder and comes back down cluthing a dented tin can. “Can you see what this is？”

“Theres no label.”

“I didnt think there was.”

“Is it food？”

“Lets open it and find out.”

With one stroke from the brick， he punctures the can with the tip of the knife. Immediately he can smell it： the perfume is so sweet， so outrageously sweet， that he nearly faints.

The girl leans forward; the freckles seem to bloom across her cheeks as she inhales. “ We will share，” she says. “For what you did.”

He hammers the knife in a second time， saws away at the metal， and bends up the lid.“Careful，” he says， and passes it to her. She dips in two fingers， and digs up a wet， soft， slippery thing. Then he does the same. That first peach slithers down his throat like a rapture. A sunrise in his mouth.

They eat. They drink the syrup. They run their fingers around the inside of the can.

What wonders in this house！ She shows him the transmitter in the attic： its double battery， its old-fashioned electrophone， the hand-machined antenna that can be raised and lowered along the chimney by an ingenious system of levers.

Even a phonograph record that she says contains her grandfathers voice， lessons in science for children. And the books！ The lower floors are blanketed with them—Becquerel， Lavoisier， Fischer—a lifetime of reading. What it would be like to spend ten years in this tall narrow house， shuttered from the world， studying its secrets and reading its volumes and looking at this girl.

“Do you think，” he asks， “that Captain Nemo survived the whirlpool？”

Marie-Laure sits on the fifth-floor landing in her oversize coat as though waiting for a train. “No，” she says. “Yes. I dont know. I suppose that is the point， no？ To make us wonder？” She cocks her head. “He was a madman. And yet I didnt want him to die.”

In the corner of her great-uncles study， amid a tumult of books， he finds a copy of Birds of America. A reprint， not nearly as large as the one he saw in Fredericks living room， but dazzling nonetheless： four hundred and thirty-five engravings. He carries it out to the landing.“Has your uncle shown you this？”

“What is it？”

“Birds. Bird after bird after bird.”

Outside， shells fly back and forth. “We must get lower in the house，” she says. But for a moment they do not move.

California Partridge.

Common Gannet.

Frigate Pelican.

Werner can still see Frederick kneeling at his window， nose to the glass. Little gray bird hopping about in the boughs. Doesnt look like much， does it？

“Could I keep a page from this？”

“Why not. We will leave soon， no？ When it is safe？

“At noon.”

“How will we know it is time？”

“When they stop shooting.”

Airplanes come. Dozens and dozens of them. Werner shivers uncontrollably. Marie-Laure leads him to the first floor， where ash and soot lie a half inch deep over everything， and he pushes capsized furniture out of the way and hauls open the cellar door and they climb down. Somewhere above， thirty bombers let fly their payloads and Werner and Marie-Laure feel the bedrock shake， hear the detonations across the river.

Could he， by some miracle， keep this going？ Could they hide here until the war ends？ Until the armies finish marching back and forth above their heads， until all they have to do is push open the door and shift some stones aside and the house has become a ruin beside the sea？ Until he can hold her fingers in his palms and lead her out into sunshine？ He would walk anywhere to make it happen， bear anything; in a year or three years or ten， France and Germany would not mean what they meant now; they could leave the house and walk to a tourists restaurant and order a simple meal together and eat in silence， the comfortable kind of silence lovers are supposed to share.

他是一個幽灵。他来自另一个世界。他是爸爸，玛妮可夫人，艾蒂安;他是所有那些离开了她，最后又终于回来的人。他透过门板叫道：“我不是来杀你的。我听到了你说的话，在广播上。这就是我来到这里的原因。”他停了下来，磕磕绊绊地翻译着。“那首歌，《月光》？”她几乎要露出微笑。

玛丽劳尔推开衣橱。沃纳拉着她的手，扶着她走出来。她站在了她爷爷房间的地板上。

“我的鞋子，”她说道。“我找不到我的鞋子。”

女孩静静地坐在角落里，把外套裹着膝盖。她用脚踝抵着臀部的样子、她用手指摸索着周围的样子，他希望永远都不会忘记这些画面。

炮火击向东边;大本营又受到了轰击，大本营炮轰反击。

他感到筋疲力尽。他用法语说道：“会——会停火的。在中午的时候。那时，人们就可以逃出这个城市。我可以带你出去。”

“你确定这是真的吗？”

“不，”他说道。“我不确定。” 现在周围安静了下来。他检查了裤子和布满灰尘的外套。这套制服让他成为了这个女孩所憎恨的一切的帮凶。“这里有水，”他说道，并穿过六楼的另一间房取回了另一桶水，他没有看向她床上万伦坡的尸体。她把整个头都埋进水桶里，她用骨瘦如柴的手臂抱着水桶的边沿，大口地喝着水。

他说：“你很勇敢。”

她把水桶放了下来。“你叫什么名字？”

他告诉了她。她说：“沃纳，当我失明时，大家都说我很勇敢。当我爸爸离开时，大家都说我很勇敢。但这并不是勇敢。我别无选择。我只是一觉醒来，然后继续我的生活。难道你不是这样做的吗？”

他说。“已经好多年没有这样做了。但今天，今天我也许会这样做。”

她的眼镜弄丢了，双瞳像是装满了牛奶一般，但奇怪的是，这并没有使他感到害怕。他想起了艾琳娜夫人说过的一句：belle laide——美丽的丑陋。

“今天是星期几？”

他向四周望去。烧焦的窗帘，吹到天花板上的烟灰，窗户上剥落的纸板，黎明前第一丝微弱的光亮照了进来。“我不知道，现在是早上。”

一颗炮弹从房子上轰鸣而过。他想：我只想和她一直坐在这里。但那颗炮弹炸到了某个地方，房子吱吱作响。沃纳说：“有位先生曾用你的发射机广播关于科学的课程。小时候，我曾经和妹妹一起听过这些课程。

“那是我爷爷的声音。你听过他说话？”

“很多次。我们喜欢这些课程。”

窗户发出光芒。黎明时分，柔和的淡黄色光芒撒满整个房间。一切转瞬即逝;一切令人痛苦;一切前途未卜。在这里，这间房里，这间屋子的高处，地窖外面，和她一起：这就像是药效一般。

“我可以吃下培根，”她说。

“什么？”

“我可以吃下整头猪。”

他微笑道：“我可以吃下整头牛。”

“以前住在这里的女士，这里的女管家，能做出这个世界上最美味的煎蛋卷。”

“我小时候，”他说，“我们曾经在鲁尔河边摘浆果。妹妹和我。我们能找到像拇指那么大的浆果。

女孩爬进了衣橱，爬上一架梯子，回来时手里拿着凹陷的罐头。“你能看到这是什么吗？”

“上面没有标签。”

“我想本来就没有。”

“这是食物吗？”

“让我们打开来看看。”

他用砖头敲了一下，然后用刀尖划开。他立马就闻到了一股香甜的芬芳，馥郁的香气让他几乎昏倒。

女孩向前倾身，她吸了一口气，脸颊上的雀斑似乎要绽放开来。“我们一起分享，”她说道。“鉴于你所做的。”

他再次把刀敲进罐内，锯开金属，把盖子撬开。“小心，”他说道，并把罐头递给她。她把两根手指伸了进去，夹出一块湿润、柔软、粘滑的东西。然后他也这么做了。第一块桃子欢喜地冲进他的喉咙。他嘴里升起了日出。

他们吃着桃子，喝着糖浆，把手指伸进罐头里刮来刮去。

这间屋子多奇妙啊！她带他去看阁楼里的发射机：两个电池，老式的受送话器，通过精妙的控制杆装置可沿着烟囱上升及下降的手动机械天线。 她说的一张留声机唱片甚至记录着她爷爷的声音，给孩子听的科学课堂。还有那些书！楼下的几层楼都装满了书——贝克勒尔的、拉瓦锡的、费舍尔的——能读一生的书。在这座高耸狭窄的房子里住上十年，与世隔绝，探寻这座房子的秘密，阅读这里的书本，看着这个女孩，会是怎样一番光景？

“你觉得，”他问道，“尼摩船长能从漩涡中生还吗？”

玛丽劳尔裹着大衣坐在五楼的楼梯平台上，仿佛在等待火车。“不能，”她说。“能。我不知道。我想这就是意义所在，不是吗？勾起我们的好奇心？” 她抬起头。“他是个疯子。但就算这样我也不想他死。”

在她伯祖父的书房的角落里，他在一堆混乱的书中找到一本《美国鸟类》。这是一本重印本，没有他在弗雷德里克的客厅看到过的那本大，但却一样地光彩夺目：435页的雕版图。他把这本书拿到了楼梯平台上。“你伯祖父给你看过这个吗？”

“这是什么？”

“鸟。全是鸟。”

屋外，炮弹飞来飞去。“我们必须往楼下走，”她說道。但好一会儿，他们谁也没有动。

加利福尼亚鹌鹑。

普通塘鹅。

军舰鸟。

沃纳依然能想起弗雷德里克跪在窗子上，鼻子抵着玻璃的样子。灰色的小鸟在树枝上跳来跳去。很像，不是吗？

“我可以拿走一页吗？”

“可以。我们很快就要离开了，不是吗？什么时候会安全？”

“中午的时候。”

“我们怎么知道时间？”

“他们停火的时候。”

飞机过来了。几十架又几十架地飞过来。沃纳不由自主地颤抖起来。玛丽劳尔把他带到一楼，那里所有的东西都积了半英寸厚的烟灰。他把倒在路上的家具推开，拉开地窖的门。然后他们爬了下去。上空某处，三十架轰炸机投下炮弹。沃纳和玛丽劳尔感到地基在震动，听到河的那边响起了接二连三的爆炸声。

会不会有任何奇迹出现，让他可以这样继续下去？他们可不可以一直藏在这里直到战争结束？直到军队不再在他们头顶上走来走去，直到他们只需推开门，搬开石头，而房子已经变成海边的废墟？直到他可以牵着她的手，把她带到阳光下？为了实现这一切，他愿意走到任何地方，忍受任何痛苦;哪怕花上一年、三年、十年的时间，等到法国和德国不再是如今的模样;他们可以离开房子，散步到观光餐馆，点一份简单的食物，静静地一起吃，享受着爱人间那种舒服的沉默。