第7章 A Clean, Well-Lighted Place 一个干净明亮的地方

It was very late and everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the daytime the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the café knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

“Last week he tried to commit suicide,”one waiter said.

“Why?”

“He was in despair.”

“What about?”

“Nothing.”

“How do you know it was nothing?”

“He has plenty of money.”

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the café and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

“The guard will pick him up,”one waiter said.

“What does it matter if he gets what he's after?”

“He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago.”

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

“What do you want?”

The old man looked at him.“Another brandy,”he said.

“You'll be drunk,”the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.

“He'll stay all night,”he said to his colleague.“I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week.”

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the café and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.

“You should have killed yourself last week,”he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger.“A little more,”he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile.“Thank you,”the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the café. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

“He's drunk now,”he said.

“He's drunk every night.”

“What did he want to kill himself for?”

“How should I know?”

“How did he do it?”

“He hung himself with a rope.”

“Who cut him down?”

“His niece.”

“Why did they do it?”

“Fear for his soul.”

“How much money has he got?”

“He's got plenty.”

“He must be eighty years old.”

“Anyway I should say he was eighty.”

“I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?”

“He stays up because he likes it.”

“He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me.”

“He had a wife once too.”

“A wife would be no good to him now.”

“You can't tell. He might be better with a wife.”

“His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing.”

“Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him.”

“I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work.”

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

“Another brandy,”he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

“Finished,”he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners.“No more tonight. Close now.”

“Another,”said the old man.

“No. Finished.”The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip.

The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.

“Why didn't you let him stay and drink?”the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters.“It is not half-past two.”

“I want to go home to bed.”

“What is an hour?”

“More to me than to him.”

“An hour is the same.”

“You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home.”

“It's not the same.”

“No, it is not,”agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

“And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“No, hombre, only to make a joke.”

“No,”the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters.“I have confidence. I am all confidence.”

“You have youth, confidence, and a job,”the older waiter said.“You have everything.”

“And what do you lack?”

“Everything but work.”

“You have everything I have.”

“No. I have never had confidence and I am not young.”

“Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up.”

“I am of those who like to stay late at the café,”the older waiter said.“With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night.”

“I want to go home and into bed.”

“We are of two different kinds,”the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home.“It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the café.”

“Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long.”

“You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant café. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves.”

“Good night,”said the younger waiter.

“Good night,”the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It was the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

“What's yours?”asked the barman.

“Nada.”

“Otro loco mas,”said the barman and turned away.

“A little cup,”said the waiter.

The barman poured it for him.

“The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished,”the waiter said.

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.

“You want another copita?”the barman asked.

“No, thank you,”said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

时间很晚了，大家都已经离开了咖啡馆，只有一位老人坐在树叶遮住灯光的阴影里。白天街上尘土飞扬，但夜里露水使尘土沉落，老人喜欢坐到很晚，因为他听不见，现在到了夜里，静悄悄的，他感觉跟白天不一样。咖啡馆里的两名服务员知道老人有点儿醉了，尽管他是个好主顾，但他们知道，如果他喝得太醉，不付账就会离开，所以他们密切注视着他。

“上周他想自杀。”一位服务员说。

“为什么？”

“他感到绝望。”

“怎么回事？”

“没事儿。”

“你怎么知道没事儿？”

“他有好多钱。”

他们一块坐在靠近咖啡馆门墙边的桌旁，看着平台，那里的桌子都空无一人，只有老人坐在随风微微晃动的树叶的阴影里。一位女孩和一名士兵走过大街。街灯照在他衣领的铜号码上。那个女孩没有戴帽子，匆匆走在他身边。

“警卫队会把他抓走。”一名服务员说。

“如果他得到自己要找的东西，那有什么关系？”

“他现在最好从街上走开，警卫队会抓住他，他们才过去五分钟。”

坐在阴影里的老人用玻璃杯轻敲茶托，那个比较年轻的服务员朝他走过去。

“你要什么？”

老人看着他。“再来一杯白兰地。”他说。

“你会醉的。”服务员说。老人看着他。服务员走开了。

“他会待一整夜的，”他对同事说，“我现在困了，我从来没有三点钟前睡过觉。他应该上周就自杀的。”

服务员从咖啡里的柜台上拿了一瓶白兰地和另一只茶托，大步走向老人的桌子。他放下茶托，往玻璃杯里倒满了白兰地。

“你应该上周就自杀的。”他对老人说。老人用手指打了个手势。“再添点儿。”他说。服务员又向玻璃杯里倒酒，酒溢了出来，顺着杯脚流进了一叠茶托最上面的那只茶托。“谢谢你。”老人说。服务员把酒瓶拿回咖啡馆。他又和同事坐在桌边。

“他现在醉了。”他说。

“他夜夜都醉。”

“他为什么想自杀？”

“我怎么会知道。”

“他以前是怎么自杀的？”

“他是用绳子上吊。”

“是谁砍断绳子把他放下来的？”

“他的侄女。”

“为什么要把他放下来？”

“为他的灵魂担心。”

“他有多少钱？”

“他有好多。”

“他一定有八十岁了。”

“反正我想他有八十岁了。”

“我真希望他回家。我从来没有三点钟前上床睡觉。那是什么样的睡觉时间啊？”

“他因为不喜欢睡觉，所以他就不睡觉。”

“他孤独。我不孤独。我有妻子在床上等着我。”

“他以前也有过妻子。”

“现在妻子对他没有任何好处。”

“你不能这样说，他有妻子说不定会好些。”

“他的侄女照顾他，你说是她把他放下来的。”

“我知道。”

“我不想活那样老。老人都邋遢。”

“不一定，这个老人就很干净。他喝酒从不洒出来。即使现在喝醉，你瞧瞧他。”

“我不想瞧他。我真希望他回家。他根本不关心那些必须工作的人。”

老人从杯子上抬起头看看广场，又瞧瞧两个服务员。

“再来一杯白兰地。”他指着杯子说。那个行动匆忙的服务员走了过去。

“结束了。”他用省略句说，蠢人在对醉汉或外国人说话时就这样说。“今晚没了。关门了。”

“再来一杯。”老人说。

“不，结束了。”服务员一边用毛巾擦桌沿，一边摇摇头。

老人站起来，慢慢地数着那些茶托，从口袋里掏出一只装硬币的皮夹，付了酒钱，又留下半个比塞塔[31]小费。

那个服务员望着他沿街而行，只见一位上了年纪的老人走起路来一摇一晃，但不失体面。

“你为什么不让他留下来喝酒？”那个不慌不忙的服务员问道。他们正在关百叶窗。“还不到两点半。”

“我想回家上床睡觉。”

“一个小时算什么？”

“对他不算什么，对我却算什么。”

“不过是一个小时。”

“你自己说话像老年人一样，他可以买一瓶在家里喝。”

“那不一样。”

“是，是不一样。”那个有老婆的服务员赞成说。他不想有失公平。他只是有些匆忙。

“那你呢？不到通常时间就回家，你不怕吗？”

“你是想变着法骂我吧？”

“不是，老兄，只是开个玩笑。”

“不，”那个行动匆忙的服务员说着，拉下金属百叶窗，站了起来，“我有信心，我完全有信心。”

“你有青春，有信心，还有工作，”年长的服务员说，“你什么都有。”

“那你缺什么呢？”

“除了工作，什么都缺。”

“我有的一切，你也都有啊。”

“不，我从来没有信心，我也不年轻啊。”

“得了，别胡说了，锁上门吧。”

“我是那种喜欢在咖啡馆待得很晚的人，”年长的服务员说，“和所有那些不想上床睡觉的人一样，和所有那些夜里需要光亮的人一样。”

“我想回家钻进被窝。”

“我们属于两种人。”年长的服务员说。他现在穿好衣服要回家。“这不只是年轻和信心的问题，尽管那些东西都十分美好。每天夜里我都不愿意打烊，因为说不定会有人需要来咖啡馆。”

“老兄，通宵酒店有的是。”

“你不明白，这是一个干净舒适的咖啡馆，灯光明亮，而且现在灯光亮堂，还有树叶的影子。”

“再见。”年轻的服务员说。

“再见。”年长的服务员说。他关掉电灯，继续自言自语。当然要有灯光，但那个地方也必须干净舒适。你不想听音乐，你肯定不想听音乐。你也不能自信自尊地站在酒吧前面，尽管这都是为自信时刻准备的。他害怕什么？这不是害怕或恐惧，这是他再熟悉不过的虚无。一切都是虚无，人也是虚无。就这么多，需要的只是亮光，还有某种干净和整齐。有些人生活在其中，却从来没有感觉到，但他知道一切都是虚无，都是虚无，都是虚无。我们的虚无在虚无中，虚无是你的名字，你的王国也叫虚无，你将是虚无中的虚无，因为原来就是虚无。给我们这个虚无吧，我们日常的虚无，虚无我们，我们的虚无，因为我们虚无，我们的种种虚无，虚无我们，不进入虚无，而是把我们从虚无中解救出来，因此虚无。向充满虚无的虚无欢呼，虚无与你同在。他面带微笑，站在一个带有闪光气压咖啡机的吧台前。

“你要什么？”酒吧招待问道。

“虚无。”

“又一个疯子。”酒吧接待说着，转身走开。

“来一小杯。”那个服务员说。

酒吧接待为他倒了一杯。

“灯很亮堂，也很舒适，但酒台擦得不够干净。”服务员说。

酒吧接待看着他，但没有应声。夜太深了，不便交谈。

“你要再来一杯吗？”酒吧接待问道。

“不，谢谢你。”服务员说着，走了出去，他不喜欢酒吧和酒店。一个干净明亮的咖啡馆则是截然不同的一回事。眼下，他不再多想，而是要回家到自己的屋里去。他要躺在床上，最后，天亮时，他会进入梦乡。毕竟，他对自己说，这可能只是失眠，好多人一定都会失眠。