The Sojourner-1
The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories 作者：卡森·麦卡勒斯 投票推荐 加入书签 留言反馈
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THE TWILIGHT BORDER between sleep and waking was a Romahis m; splashing fountains and arched, narrow streets, the golden lavish city of blossoms and age-soft stone. Sometimes in this semi-sciousness he sojourned again in Paris, or war German rubble, or Swiss skiing and a snow hotel. Sometimes, also, in a fallow Geia field at hunting dawn. Rome it was this m in the yearless region of dreams.John Ferris awoke in a room in a New York hotel. He had the feeling that something unpleasant was awaiting him -- what it was, he did not know. The feeling, submerged by matinal ies, lingered even after he had dressed and gone downstairs. It was a cloudless autumn day and the pale sunlight sliced between the pastel skyscrapers. Ferris went into the -dostore and sat at the end booth o the window glass that overlooked the sidewalk. He ordered an Ameri breakfast with scrambled eggs and sausage.
Ferris had e from Paris to his fathers funeral which had taken place the week before in his home town in Geia. The shock of death had made him aware of youth already passed. His hair was reg and the veins in his now emples were pulsing and promi and his body are except for an incipient belly bulge. Ferris had loved his father and the boween them had once beeraordinarily close -- but the years had somehow unraveled this filial devotion; the death, expected for a long time, had left him with an unforeseen dismay. He had stayed as long as possible to be near his mother and brothers at home. His plane for Paris was to leave the m.
Ferris pulled out his address book to verify a number. He turhe pages with growing attentiveness. Names and addresses from New York,<mark></mark> the capitals of Europe, a few faint ones from his home state in the South. Faded, printed names, sprawled drunken ones. Betty Wills: a random love, married now. Charlie Williams: wounded in the Hurtgen Forest, unheard of since. Grand old Williams -- did he live or die? Don Walker: a B.T.O. in televisioing rich. Henry Green: hit the skids after the war, in a sanitarium now, they say. Cozie Hall: he had heard that she was dead. Heedless, laughing Cozie -- it was strao think that she too, silly girl, could die. As Ferris closed the address book, he suffered a sense of hazard, transience, almost of fear.
It was then that his body jerked suddenly. He was staring out of the window when there, on the sidewal<bdo></bdo>k, passing by, was his ex-wife. Elizabeth passed quite close to him, walking slowly. He could not uand the wild quiver of his heart, nor the following sense of recklessness and grace that lingered after she was gone.
Quickly Ferris paid his ched rushed out to the sidewalk. Elizabeth stood on the er waiting to cross Fifth Avenue. He hurried toward her meaning to speak, but the lights ged and she crossed the street before he reached her. Ferris followed. Oher side he could easily have overtaken her, but he found himself lagging unatably. Her fair brown hair lainly rolled, and as he watched her Ferris recalled that once his father had remarked that Elizabeth had a "beautiful carriage." She tur the er and Ferris followed, although by now his iion to overtake her had disappeared. Ferris questiohe bodily disturbahat the sight of Elizabeth aroused in him, the dampness of his hands, the hard heart-strokes.
It was eight years since Ferris had last seen his ex-wif<var></var>e. He khat long ago she had married again. And there were children. Duri years he had seldom thought of her. But at first, after the divorce, the loss had almost destroyed him. Then after the anodyne of time, he had loved again, and then again. Jeannine, she was now. Certainly his love for his ex-wife was long since past. So why the unhinged body, the shaken mind? He knew only that his clouded heart was oddly dissonant with the sunny, did autumn day. Ferris wheeled suddenly and, walking with long strides, almost running, hurried back to the hotel.
Ferris poured himself a drink, although it was not yet eleven oclock. He sprawled out in an armchair like a man exhausted, nursing his glass of bourbon and water. He had a full day ahead of him as he was leaving by plahe m for Paris. He checked over his obligations: take luggage to Air France, lunch with his boss, buy shoes and an overcoat. And something -- wasnt there something else? Ferris finished his drink and opehe telephone directory.
His decision to call his ex-wife was impulsive. The number was under Bailey, the husbands name, and he called before he had much time for self-debate. He and Elizabeth had exged cards at Christmastime, and Ferris had sent a carvi when he received the annou of her wedding. There was no reason not to call. But as he waited, listening to the ring at the other end, misgiving fretted him.
Elizabeth answered; her familiar voice was a fresh sho. Twice he had to repeat his name, but when he was identified, she sounded glad. He explained he was only in town for that day. They had a theater e, she said -- but she wondered if he would e by for an early dinner. Ferris said he would be delighted.
As he went from one e to another, he was still bothered at odd moments by the feeling that something necessary was fotten. Ferris bathed and ged ie afternoon, often thinking about Jeannine: he would be with her the following night "Jeannine," he would say, "I happeo run into my ex-wife when I was in New York. Had dinner with<var></var> her. And her husband, of course. It was strange seeing her after all these years."
Elizabeth lived in the East Fifties, and as Ferris taxied uptown he glimpsed at interses the lingering su, but by the time he reached his destination it was already autumn dark. The place was a building with a marquee and a doorman, and the apartment was on the seventh floor.
"e in, Mr. Ferris."
Braced for Elizabeth or even the unimagined husband, Ferris was astonished by the freckled red-haired child; he had known of the children, but his mind had failed somehow to aowledge them. Surprise made him step back awkwardly.
"This is our apartment," the child said politely. "Arent you Mr. Ferris? Im Billy. e in."
In the living room beyond the hall, the husband provided another surprise; he too had not been aowledged emotionally. Bailey was a lumbering red-haired man with a deliberate manner. He rose aended a weling hand.
"Im Bill Bailey. Glad to see you. Elizabeth will be in, in a minute. Shes finishing dressing."
Th<u>99lｉｂ?</u>e last words struck a gliding series of vibrations, memories of the other years. Fair Elizabeth, rosy and naked before her bath. Half-dressed before the mirror of her dressing table, brushing her fine, chestnut hair. Sweet, casual intimacy, the soft-fleshed loveliness indisputably possessed. Ferris shrank from the unbidden memories and pelled himself to meet Bill Baileys gaze.
"Billy, will you please bring that tray of drinks from the kit table?
The child obeyed promptly, and when he was gone Ferris remarked versationally, "Fine boy you have there."
"We think so."
Flat sileil the child returned with a tray of glasses and a cocktail shaker of Martinis. With the priming drinks they pumped up versation: Russia, they spoke of, and the New York rain-making, and the apartment situation in Manhattan and Paris.
"Mr. Ferris is flying all the way across the o tomorrow," Bailey said to the little boy who erched on the arm of his chair, quiet and well behaved. "I bet you would like to be a stowaway in his suitcase."
Billy pushed back his limp bangs. "I want to fly in an airplane and be a neerman like Mr. Ferris." He added with sudden assurance, "Thats what I would like to do when I am big."
Bailey said, "I thought you wao be a doctor."
"I do!" said Billy. "I would like to be both. I want to be a atom-bomb stist too."
Elizabeth came in carrying in her arms a baby girl.
"Oh, John!" she said. She settled the baby ihers lap. "Its grand to see you. Im awfully glad you could e."
The little girl sat demurely on Baileys knees. She wore a pale pink crêpe de e frock, smocked around the yoke with rose, and a matg silk hair ribbon tying back her pale soft curls. Her skin was summer tanned and her brown eyes flecked with gold and laughing. When she reached up and fingered her fathers horn-rimmed glasses, he took them off a her look through them a moment. "Hows my old dy?"
Elizabeth was very beautiful, more beautiful perhaps than he had ever realized. Her straight hair was shining. Her face was slowing and sere was a madonna loveliness, depe on the family ambiance.
"Youve hardly ged at all," Elizabeth said, "but it has been a long time."
"Eight years." His hand touched his thinning hair self-sciously while further amenities were exged.
Ferris felt himself suddenly a spectator -- an interloper among these Baileys. Why had he e? He suffered. His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile n supp nothing amidst the wreckage of the years. He felt he could not bear much loo stay in the family room.
He gla his watch. "Yoing to the theater?"
"Its a shame," Elizabeth said, "but weve had this e for more than a month. But surely, John, youll be staying home one of these days before long. Youre not going to be ariate, are you?"
"Expatriate," Ferris repeated. "I dont much like the word."
"Whats a better word?" she asked.
He thought for a moment. "Sojourner might do."
Ferris glanced again at his watch, and again Elizabeth apologized. "If only we had known ahead of time --"
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