漂在倫敦的日子

初次來到倫敦，初進一所名校，他沒有錢，沒有住所，沒有朋友，生活如一團亂麻。但艱難的生活讓他學到了人生重要的一課，他漸漸學會如何在這個大城市中生存下去……

I was in trouble. It was one of those deep underground stations with a passenger lift， the kind that used to have a booth inside for the guard. I flashed my pass to the man， and he frowned. “Show me that picture again，” he said. I did. He frowned harder. “They’re looking for that guy. They’re looking for you.” He pointed， glared， and then broke into a huge smile. But the fear had taken hold， a new， plunging， suffocating feeling I was becoming familiar with. The lift bumped to a stop at street level， and I threw myself out into the daylight. London was killing me.

This was the early autumn of 1985， and I’d just taken up a place at Chelsea College of Art. It was a big deal for Mabel Fletcher Technical College in Liverpool， where I’d studied my foundation course， and an even bigger one for my family and friends. Nobody had been anywhere near higher education or knew what to expect: least of all2) me， as it turned out. A few weeks in and I found myself sleeping on a dining table， armed with a saucepan， in a dank basement flat.

Because I had no idea what a hall of residence was， and because I was—and still am—a gifted procrastinator3)， I’d given scant thought to the practicalities of living in London on a grant4). I showed up at Chelsea on the first day of term with a suitcase， and a copy of Loot. I didn’t know anybody in London， not a soul. I didn’t get London. An innocent abroad. A dickhead5). Take your pick.

It was the worst possible start to a new life because， instead of getting to know my cool and confident fellow students， or making my mark6) with our esteemed painting tutors， I was flailing7) around trying to gain a toehold8) in the city. For the first few months I was homeless， of no fixed abode9)， living out of that suitcase10). Some of my fellow students were kind enough to let me flop11) on their sofas and floors; I bunked12) into halls， even resorting to sleeping in cold enamel13) baths when I couldn’t find anyone to let me into a room; one of those esteemed painting tutors took pity and let me stay with him and his family for a week.

When I found a basement flat in Notting Hill， I thought I’d cracked it. The landlord was eccentric: he kept the place subfusc14)， drank all day dressed in his black silk kimono15)， and seemed trapped in the 1960s. All very Performance， and I could handle that. But my bed consisted of a seething， mycotoxic16) mattress on the floor， there were no locks on the doors， and the landlord soon came snooping17) around， making excuses as to why he needed to gain entry. After a week of this， I did a runner18) one morning， caught the first Circle Line train， and sat orbiting London until everywhere began to open for the day.

Being skint19) and living from hand to mouth20) didn’t get in the way of my social life. I gravitated towards boozers21)， and learned how to get pissed22) for free. We crashed shop openings on the King’s Road or private views around Cork Street， me in my anorak23) or my dad’s outsized corduroy24) jacket. I was thrown out of many designer boutiques and galleries， but usually not before I’d got a drink.

Being skint didn’t get in the way of exploring the city， either. I became a walker. London seemed such a resonant， haunted city: I strolled along Cheyne Walk and thought of Whistler25); Dylan Thomas26) had lived round the corner from the art school; I used to see George Best27) outside the fire station every morning， waiting for a lift as he served out his driving ban. This was all time well spent.

Still， I wasn’t getting much work done. The whitewashed corridor space I’d been allotted at Chelsea gawped blankly back at me on the rare occasions I climbed into my boiler suit28) and thought about painting. Drinking made all my floundering29) and indoor camping tolerable， softening the floors and sofas I landed on. But instead of fending off loneliness and depression， it only fuelled and magnified them.

I remember one tutor， solicitous30) and concerned by my appearance， asking what was up. Reeling off31) my catalogue of woes， I mentioned how broke I was. He turned to the big studio window and said: “There’s plenty of rich women out there. Why don’t you marry one of them?”

As if they’d have had me. I noticed how people， afraid I’d hit on them32) for anything from somewhere to crash33) to a ciggie34)， would dive for cover. I don’t blame them. I stank. I developed pityriasis rosea35)， my skin erupting in angry lesions36). But the stuff people couldn’t see was worse. I experienced what I can only describe as “falling off the world” syndrome. Crossing over Albert Bridge， I’d panic at the sight of the “Troops must break step” sign; only the law of gravity was keeping my feet on the ground， and I might lose my grip at any moment. I imagined plummeting upwards， falling into grey skies and out into space. I collapsed once on the Piccadilly Line， crawling up the escalators and inching my way across the floor of the ticket hall at Holborn， coming to a halt before two black shiny boots. A policeman hoisted me up and half-carried me to St Bart’s， where I was put on a drip37)， given warm sugary milk and kept under observation. I remember the smell of clean sheets， and one of the nurses noticing I had odd socks on.

I’d gone from happy-go-lucky38) to paranoid39) wreck in six months， but eventually things began to turn around. I got part-time jobs， began to cut down on the benders40)， and found a quiet flat-share. Some semblance of orderly life worked wonders. There was no great mystery to it; simply a realisation that there’s a price to be paid for too much making it up as you went along.

London didn’t kill ME. It didn’t even spit me out41) at the end of art school， and I ended up staying for 13 years. Like any big city dweller that sticks it out long enough， I’d often catch glimpses of my younger self， this person that used to be me， all over the place， and still do. I’m surprised and grateful， given the condition I often found myself in back then， that these are only figurative hauntings.

Even today， the smell of linseed oil and turpentine42)， or the opening bars43) of “West End Girls，” is enough to rewind me to that time and place where I completely lost my balance. And maybe this works both ways.

I remember walking down the King’s Road one morning and realising I probably wasn’t a painter after all. I immediately felt lighter. I’d already started writing， badly， in fits and starts44)， and had taken to carrying slim volumes of poems around with me wherever I went. I was already surrounding myself with clues to my future， feeling my way forward， mostly blindly and unaware， but on this particular morning I arrived at the art school and was immediately collared45) by Jake， our doorman， and guardian of the threshold. “Hey， what have you got to smile about， Mister Farley?” he asked me， and I knew then that everything was going to be alright.

我遇到麻煩了。那是一個帶有乘客升降電梯的很深的地鐵站，里面設有保安亭的那種。我將乘車證向保安晃了晃，那家伙眉頭一皺，說：“讓我再看一下你的照片。”我乖乖地照做了。他的眉頭皺得更緊了：“他們在找照片上這小子。他們找的就是你。”他用手指著我，兩眼瞪著我看，然后突然滿臉綻開笑容。但恐懼卻已盤踞心頭，那是一種新近才有的突然落入水中、令人窒息的感覺——這種感覺我已漸漸熟悉。電梯咯噔一下停了下來，原來已升到地面。我趕緊跨出電梯，來到明亮的天空下。倫敦這地方簡直要命！

那是1985年初秋，我剛剛考入切爾西藝術學院。我曾在利物浦的梅布爾·弗萊徹技術學院學習基礎課程。相對于這個學院來說，能考入切爾西藝術學院是一件了不起的事情。對于我的家人和朋友來說，這更是一件了不起的事情。他們中沒有誰接受過高等教育，也不知道上大學到底意味著什么——而后來發生的事情表明，我對此更是一無所知。幾周后，我就住進了一間潮濕的地下室，睡在一張餐桌上，手里拿著一把平底鍋。

由于我根本就不知道大學宿舍是什么樣的，由于我當時——現在也一樣——是個做事極拖拉的人，所以我之前沒有充分考慮到在倫敦依靠補助金生活是一件多么不靠譜的事。開學第一天，我帶著一只手提箱和一本《掠奪》來到切爾西藝術學院。在倫敦，我舉目無親，連個鬼都不認識。我也不了解倫敦。我就像一個在國外游蕩的傻子(譯注：“an innocent abroad”的說法源自馬克·吐溫的The Innocents Abroad一書)，或者一個呆瓜。隨便你怎么叫吧。

以這種方式開始新生活真是糟糕透頂，因為我沒有去結識那些自信滿滿、酷斃了的新同學，也沒有去嘗試給我們尊敬的繪畫課老師留下好印象，而是滿大街晃蕩，試圖找到一處棲身之所。最初的幾個月，我無家可歸，居無定所，提著手提箱四處漂泊。有些好心的同學會讓我在他們家沙發上或者地板上湊合一晚。我在大廳里打過地鋪，在實在找不到人讓我進屋時，也曾在冷冰冰的瓷釉浴缸里睡過覺。有一位可敬的繪畫課老師見我可憐，曾讓我在他家待了一個星期。

當我在諾丁山找到一間地下室時，我還以為終于可以結束流浪的生活了。但那房東就是一個變態狂：他總是把整個地下室弄得昏暗無光，穿著一身黑色絲綢的和服，整天不停地喝酒，似乎被時光困在了20世紀60年代。這一切像極了行為藝術，不過我還能忍受。但也有我忍受不了的：我的床其實就是一張鋪在地板上的熱騰騰、長滿霉菌毒素的床墊；房門上沒有鎖，而房東很快就開始進來四處窺探，還為他為什么進我的房間找各種借口。就這樣過了一周，在一個早晨，我再也無法忍受，沒付房租就開溜了，上了第一班環線地鐵，坐在里面環游倫敦，直到所有的店鋪都開門迎接新的一天。

雖是一個吃了上頓兒沒下頓兒的窮光蛋，但這并未影響我的社交生活。我常和酒鬼們廝混在一起，學會了怎樣分文不花就喝個酩酊大醉。英皇大道上的商店開業，我們常常不請自來；科克大街上舉辦非公開展覽，我們也經常光顧。我常常穿著帶風帽的風雪衣或者我老爹的特大號燈心絨夾克。不知道有多少次，我被人從精品服飾店和美術館里給轟出來，但在被轟出來之前，我通常都能喝上一杯。

雖是一個窮光蛋，但這也未影響我去探索這個城市的魅力所在。我成了一個名副其實的漫步者。倫敦這座城市名人輩出，似乎特別容易引起共鳴：漫步在夏納步行街，我想到了惠斯勒；迪倫·托馬斯就曾在藝術學校附近的那個拐角處住過；每天早晨，在消防站外面，我都會看到喬治·貝斯特在那里等著搭順風車——那段時間正是他被禁止駕駛的時候。我的美好時光就是這樣度過的。

我的功課還是沒有完成多少。偶爾，我會穿上寬大的連衫褲工作服，想著作一幅畫，但卻只是對著切爾西藝術學院分配給我的那面刷得潔白的墻壁發愣，而墻壁也向我報以同樣茫然的眼神。酩酊大醉之中，一切掙扎和寄人籬下的痛苦我都能坦然承受，就連身下堅硬的地板和沙發都顯得柔軟了許多。只是，舉杯澆愁不但不能熄滅孤獨和憂愁，反而如火上澆油，更添一層愁。

我記得有一位熱心腸的老師，看到我狼狽的樣子，關心地問我怎么了。我開始向他吐苦水，歷數我的種種痛苦，告訴他我已不名一文。他轉身面向畫室寬大的窗戶，說：“外面富婆成堆。你干嗎不找一個？”

這話說的，好像她們都能看上我似的。我注意到，人們看到我，都是避之唯恐不及，生怕我會和他們搭訕，向他們借宿，問他們要煙抽，或者別的什么。我不怪他們。我一身的酸臭味，還得了玫瑰糠疹，紅腫之處宛如玫瑰怒放。但事實上我內心那些人們看不見的東西比外在更糟。我患上了一種我只能稱之為“跌至人生低谷”的綜合征。走過阿爾伯特大橋時，一看到上面那塊寫著“隊伍通過，請走亂步”的牌子，我都嚇得心驚膽戰；好像只有地心引力才能讓我站穩腳跟，我感到自己隨時都有可能失足墜落。我想象著自己垂直向上墜落，落入灰色的天空中，落入太空中。有一次，我在皮卡迪利地鐵線上再也支撐不住，倒了下去。我吃力地爬上自動扶梯，一寸一寸地艱難爬過霍爾本售票大廳，在一雙油光锃亮的黑色皮靴前停了下來。一位警察將我拽起，半拖半抱地將我送到圣巴特醫院。我在那里打了點滴，喝了點兒加糖的溫牛奶，然后留院觀察。我還記得那里干凈床單的氣味，那里的一個護士注意到我穿了兩只不一樣的襪子。

在短短六個月的時間里，我從一個無憂無慮的樂天派變成了一個偏執多疑的羸弱病人。但后來，情況終于有了好轉。我找到了兼職的工作，開始減少酗酒的次數，并且找到了一套安靜的合租房。生活似乎走上了正軌，這一變化產生了奇妙的效果。其實這其中也沒有什么神秘可言，只不過是我意識到，在人生的旅途上有太多的東西需要補償，而這是需要付出代價的。

倫敦并沒有置我于死地。它甚至沒在我從藝術學院畢業時將我趕出去，我在這里一待就是13年。在一個大城市待久了，我和任何一個堅持下來的人一樣，常常看到自己年輕時的影子，那個曾經的我奔波在城市的每一個角落。現在的我依然經常看到這種景象。考慮到那個時候我所處的環境，我非常驚訝同時也充滿感激地發現，這些在我腦海中揮之不去的一幕幕景象，如今只不過成了含有某種寓意的記憶。

即使在今天，亞麻籽油和松節油的氣味，或者《西區女孩》開頭的旋律，都足以把我帶回那個我完全失去平衡、摔倒在地的某個特定的時間和地點。或許倒過來說也一樣。

我還記得，一天早晨走在英皇大道上，我突然意識到自己也許根本不是做畫家的料。我立刻覺得輕松了許多。那時，我已開始寫作，不過寫得很爛，而且寫寫停停，一陣一陣的；還有，不管走到哪里，我都喜歡隨身攜帶幾本薄薄的詩集。那時，關于自己的未來，我已有了一些粗略的想法，一個人摸索著向前走，雖然大多時候都是盲目的、無意識的。但是，在那個特定的早晨，我剛到達藝術學院，就被杰克——我們的門房兼門衛——給攔住了，他問我：“嗨，法利先生，你到底在笑什么？”那時我就知道，一切都會好起來的。

1.Paul Farley：保羅·法利(1965～)，英國詩人、作家和廣播員

2.least of all：(多者之中)尤其，尤數

3.procrastinator [pr?(?)?kr?st?ne?t?(r)] n. 拖延者，拖拉者

4.grant [ɡrɑ?nt] n. 助學金

5.dickhead [?d?k?hed] n. 〈俚〉無能的人，蠢人，呆子

6.make one’s mark：留下深遠影響

7.flail [fle?l] vt. 顛簸，(胡亂地)擺動

8.toehold [?t???h??ld] n. (攀登時供腳尖站立的)小立足點，踏腳處

9.abode [??b??d] n. 住所，住處

10.live out of a suitcase：提著衣箱過日子；(因公等)總是旅居客地

11.flop [fl?p] vi. (躺下)睡覺或休息

12.bunk [b??k] vi. (在簡陋的地方)睡覺

13.enamel [??n?m(?)l] n. 瓷釉

14.subfusc [s?b?f?sk] adj. 暗淡的，單調的

15.kimono [k??m??n??] n. 和服，寬大晨衣

16.mycotoxic [ma??k?t?ks?k] adj. 霉菌毒素的

17.snoop [snu?p] vi. 窺探

18.do a runner：不給錢就走

19.skint [sk?nt] adj. 身無分文的，窮光蛋的

20.from hand to mouth：僅能糊口地

21.boozer [?bu?z?(r)] n. 狂飲者，酒鬼

22.pissed [p?st] adj. 醉的

23.anorak [??n??r?k] n. 帶風帽的厚夾克；風雪衣

24.corduroy [?k??(r)d?r??] n. 燈心絨

25.Whistler：惠斯勒(James Whistler， 1834～1903)，著名印象派畫家，出生于美國的馬薩諸塞州，在倫敦建立起事業，從此再未返回美國。

26.Dylan Thomas：迪倫·托馬斯(1914～1953)，英國詩人、作家

27.George Best：喬治·貝斯特(1946～2005)，北愛爾蘭著名職業足球運動員。他有酗酒的惡習，在1984年曾因酒后駕駛入獄三個月。

28.boiler suit：(連衫褲)工作服

29.floundering [?fla?nd?(r)??] n. 掙扎

30.solicitous [s??l?s?t?s] adj. 熱心的

31.reel off：滔滔不絕地講；一口氣說出

32.hit on sb.：與某人搭訕，與某人調情

33.crash [kr??] vi. 〈俚〉躺下睡覺；(在某處不花錢)過夜，住宿

34.ciggie [?s?ɡi?] n. 〈俚〉香煙

35.pityriasis rosea：玫瑰糠疹

36.lesion [?li??(?)n] n. 損害；身體上的傷害

37.drip [dr?p] n. 靜脈注射

38.happy-go-lucky：樂天的，無憂無慮的，隨遇而安的

39.paranoid [?p?r?n??d] adj. 類似妄想狂的

40.bender [?bend?(r)] n. 〈美俚〉飲酒作樂

41.spit out：吐出

42.turpentine [?t??(r)p?nta?n] n. 松節油

43.bar [bɑ?(r)] n. [音樂]小節

44.in fits and starts：間歇地

45.collar [?k?l?(r)] vt. 抓住……的領口