独奏鼓手

安·佩特里

The orchestra had a weeks engagement at the Randlert Theater at Broadway and Forty-second Street. His name was picked out in lights on the marquee1.

There had been a time when he would have been excited by it. Kid Jones—his name—danced and winked up there in the brassy sunlight. And at night his name glittered up there on the marquee as though it had been sprinkled with diamonds.

Now he just looked at the sign with his name on it， shrugged and went on inside the theater.

When it was time to go out on the stage， he took his place behind the drums， not talking， just sitting there. The orchestra started playing softly.

The long gray curtains parted. The high-powered spotlights flooded the stage with light. He could see specks of dust gliding down the wide beam of light. Under the bands of light the great space out front was all shadow. Faces slowly emerged out of it.

He hit the drum lightly. Regularly. A soft， barely discernible2 rhythm. A background. A repeated emphasis for the horns and the piano and the violin. The man with the trumpet stood up， and the first notes came out sweet and clear and high.

Kid Jones kept up the drum accompaniment. And he felt his left eyebrow lift itself and start to twitch as the man played the trumpet. It happened whenever he heard the trumpet. The notes crept up， higher and higher.

He wanted to cover his ears with his hands because he kept hearing a voice that whispered the same thing over and again. The voice was trapped somewhere under the roof—caught and held there by the trumpet. “Im leaving Im leaving Im leaving.” The sound took him straight back to the rain. He could see the beginning of the day—raw and cold. He was at home. But he was warm because he was close to her， holding her in his arms. The rain and the wind cried softly outside the window.

And now he felt as though he were floating up and up and up on that long blue note of the trumpet. It had stopped being music. It was that whispering voice： “Im leaving its the guy who plays the piano Im in love with him and Im leaving now today.” Rain in the streets. Heat gone. Everything gone. Everything you ever had. Its all there in the trumpet.

The last note stayed up in the ceiling. The spotlight shifted and landed on Kid Jones. The beam3 of white light struck the top of his head and turned him into a pattern of light and shadow.

He caressed4 the drums with the brushes in his hands. Then he made the big bass drum5 growl and pick up the same rhythm.

The Marquis6 of Brund， pianist with the band， turned to the piano. The drums and the piano talked the same rhythm. The piano was high， a little more insistent than the drums. The Marquis was turned sideways on the piano bench. The drummer and pianist were silhouetted7 in two separate brilliant shafts8 of light. The drums slowly dominated the piano.

The rhythm changed. It was faster. Kid Jones looked out over the crowded theater as he hit the drums. He began to feel as though he were the drums and the drums were he.

The drummer forgot he was in the theater. There was only he and the drums and they were far away. He was holding that girl who was his wife， who said， “Im leaving.” She had said it over and over again， this morning， while rain dripped down the window panes.

When he hit the drums again it was with the thought that he was fighting with the piano player. The drums leaped with the fury that was in him. The men in the band turned their heads toward him—a faint astonishment showed in their faces.

He ignored them. The drums took him away from them， took him back in time and space. He built up an illusion. It is cool and quiet in the deep track in the forest. The trees talk softly： “Im leaving Im leaving Im leaving.”

He couldnt help himself. He stopped hitting the drums and stared at the Marquis of Brund.

There was a restless， uneasy movement in the theater. He remembered where he was. He started playing again. The horn played a phrase. Soft and short. The drums answered.

He knew a moment of panic. He touched the drums lightly. They quivered and answered him.

And then it was almost as though the drums were talking about his own life. The girl with the round， soft body had been his wife and walked out on him， this morning， in the rain.

He forgot the theater， forgot everything but the drums. He had become part of the drums. They had become part of him.

He made the big bass rumble and reverberate9. He went a little mad on the big bass. Again and again he filled the theater with a sound like thunder. The sound seemed to come not from the drums but from deep inside himself. And the sound echoed and re-echoed far up under the roof of the theater.

When he finally stopped playing， he was trembling; his body was wet with sweat. He was surprised to see that the drums were sitting there in front of him. He hadnt become part of them. He was still himself. Kid Jones. Master of the drums. Greatest drummer in the world.

One kicked his foot. “Bow， whats wrong with you？”

He bowed from the waist， and the spotlight slid away from him， down his pants legs. The light landed on the Marquis of Brund， the piano player. The Marquis skin glistened like a piece of black seaweed. Then the light was back on Kid Jones.

He reached for his handkerchief and felt the powder and the sweat mix as he mopped his face. Then he bowed again. Since this morning you havent had any place to go. “Im leaving its the guy who plays the piano Im in love with the Marquis of Brund he plays such sweet piano Im leaving leaving leaving—” He stared at the Marquis of Brund for a long moment. At last he stood up and bowed again and again.

管弦乐队在百老汇和第四十二街交汇处的兰德勒特剧院有为期一周的演出。他的名字在遮檐招牌的灯光下显得格外醒目。

曾经一度他常会为此感到兴奋。基德·琼斯——他的名字——显示在上面，在黄铜色的阳光下闪烁舞动。到了晚上，他的名字则在那里的遮檐招牌上闪闪发光，仿佛上面镶满了钻石一般。

现在他只是看着上面写有他名字的招牌耸耸肩，走进了剧院。

到了上台的时候，他在鼓后面落座，没有说话，仅仅是坐在那里。管弦乐队开始轻声演奏。

长长的灰色帷幕拉开。大功率的聚光灯把舞台照得雪亮。他可以看见一粒粒灰尘顺着宽宽的光束滑下来。在光带的照耀下，前面的大片空间全是阴影。一张张脸慢慢地从里面露了出来。

他轻轻地敲起了鼓。带有节律。一种柔和的、几乎听不清的节奏。背景音响起。小号、钢琴和小提琴的反复重音。吹小号的站起来，第一串音符甜美、清晰、高亢地传来。

基德·琼斯继续击鼓伴奏。当那人吹小号时，基德感觉左眉毛抬起，开始抽搐。每当他听到小号声，这种事就会发生。音调慢慢升起，越升越高。

他想双手捂住耳朵，因为他总是听到一个声音在一遍又一遍地低声说着同样的话。那个声音被困在了屋顶下面的某个地方——被小号抓住并固定在了那里：“我要走了我要走了我要走了。”这个声音直接把他带回到了雨中。他可以看到这天的开始——天气阴冷阴冷的。当时他在家里。但是，他觉得温暖如春，因为他离她很近，把她搂在怀里。风雨在窗外轻声呼唤。

而现在，他覺得自己好像是随着小号的忧郁长音不断飘升。它已经不再是音乐，而是那个低语的声音：“我要走了是那个弹钢琴的家伙我爱上了他我今天就要走了。”雨落在街上。热气散去。一切都消失了。你曾经拥有的一切。这一切都在小号声里。

最后一个音符停留在天花板上。聚光灯转移，落在了基德·琼斯的身上。那束白光照在他的头顶，使他变成了光影的图案。

他用手中的刷子轻抚着鼓，然后让大低音鼓发出低鼾声，跟上乐队的节奏。

乐队的钢琴演奏家布伦德侯爵转向钢琴。鼓和钢琴发出同样的节奏。钢琴声高亢，比那鼓声更持久一点儿。侯爵在琴凳上侧转身体。鼓手和钢琴家的轮廓分别在两束明亮的光线中显现出来。鼓声慢慢地超越了琴声。

节奏变了。变得更快。基德·琼斯一边敲鼓，一边从拥挤的剧院望出去。他开始觉得自己就是鼓，鼓就是他。

鼓手忘了他是在剧院里。只有他和那些鼓，他们都远去了。他紧紧地抱着那个女孩，她曾是他的妻子，她说：“我要走了。”今天早上雨从窗玻璃上滴落时，她一遍遍地说着这句话。

当他再次击鼓时，他以为自己是在和钢琴师搏斗。鼓声随着他内心的火怒而跳跃。乐队里的人都把头转向他——他们的脸上流露出一丝惊讶。

他不理睬他们。鼓声把他从他们的身边带走，带他时空回转。他渐渐产生了一种幻觉。森林深处的小路凉爽而安静。树在轻声细语：“我要走了我要走了我要走了。”

他情不自禁，停止敲鼓，盯着布伦德侯爵。

剧院里骚动不安起来。他想起了自己身在何处，又开始演奏。号角吹响了一段乐句。柔和而简短。鼓声回应。

他感到一阵恐慌。他轻轻地碰了碰鼓。鼓微颤着回应。

那鼓声接下来几乎就像在谈论他自己的生活。那个身体圆润柔软的女孩曾是他的妻子，今天早上在雨中离开了他。

他忘了剧院，除了鼓声，什么都忘了。他成了鼓的一部分。鼓也成了他的一部分。

他使大低音鼓发出了低沉的隆隆声和回响。他疯狂地敲打着大低音鼓。一下又一下，让整个剧院充满了雷鸣般的声音。那声音似乎不是来自低音鼓，而是发自他的内心深处。那个声音在剧院的屋顶之下一次又一次地回响。

当他终于停止演奏时，他浑身发抖，全身是汗。他惊讶地发现那些鼓立在他的面前。他没有成为其中的一部分。他还是他自己——基德·琼斯。击鼓高手。世界上最伟大的鼓手。

有人踢了他的脚。“鞠躬啊，你怎么了？”

他弯下腰，灯光从他的身上滑去，从他的裤腿上滑落。灯光照在钢琴演奏师布伦德侯爵的身上。侯爵的皮肤像一片黑色的海藻，闪闪发光。随后，灯光又回到了基德·琼斯的身上。

他伸手去摸手帕，擦脸时感觉脸上的脂粉和汗水混在了一起。接着，他又鞠了一躬。从今天早上起，你就无处可去了。“我要走了正是那个弹钢琴的家伙我爱上了布伦德侯爵他钢琴弹得那么悦耳我要走了走了走了——”他盯着布伦德侯爵看了好一阵子。最后他站起来，鞠了一躬又一躬。  □