看不見的光

安東尼·多伊爾（Anthony Doerr， 1973—）是美國小說家，因其第二本小說《看不見的光》而獲得廣泛認同。這本小說是多伊爾花了十年時間寫成的，故事構思巧妙，敘事引人入勝，獲得了2015年的普利策小說獎。

《看不見的光》的故事背景發生在二戰時期的法國，男女主人公分別是為了逃離當礦工的命運，學習他所熱愛的科學知識而考進噩夢般的納粹軍校，成為了一名德國士兵的男孩沃納，以及由于巴黎淪陷，與父親逃到了其伯祖父所在的圣馬洛，在戰爭中掙扎求生的法國盲女瑪麗勞爾，小說講述了二人截然不同卻又互有交集的人生經歷。在閱讀這本小說的過程中，不知在哪一刻就明白了書名的含義，那些我們看不見的“光”指的大抵就是像沃納和瑪麗勞爾這樣在黑暗的戰爭中依然懷抱著希望，努力活下來的平凡人。本期節選了小編覺得寫得最美的一部分，男女主人公第一次相遇，也是最后一次見面，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， 1）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 grandfather’s 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 2）flutter through the space around her. Each a thing he hopes never to forget.

Guns boom to the east； the 3）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 4）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 Rumpel’s body in her bed and 5）retrieves the second bucket. Her whole head disappears inside its mouth， and her sticklike arms hug its sides as she 6）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. Don’t you do the same？”

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

Her glasses are gone， and her 7）pupils look like they are full of milk， but strangely they do not unnerve him. He remembers a phrase of 8）Frau Elena’s： belle laide. Beautiful ugly.

“What day is it？”

He looks around. Scorched curtains and 9）soot fanned across the ceiling and cardboard peeling off the window and the very first pale light of predawn leaking through. “I don’t know. It’s morning.”

A 10）shell screams over the house. He thinks： I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours. But the shell 11）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 12）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 13）omelets in this world.”

“When I was little，” he says， “we used to pick berries by the 14）Ruhr. My sister and me. We’d find berries as big as our thumbs.”

The girl crawls into the wardrobe and climbs a ladder and comes back down cluthing a 15）dented tin can. “Can you see what this is？”

“There’s no label.”

“I didn’t think there was.”

“Is it food？”

“Let’s open it and find out.”

With one stroke from the brick， he 16）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 17）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 18）slithers down his throat like a 19）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 20）ingenious system of levers.

Even a phonograph record that she says contains her grandfather’s voice， lessons in science for children. And the books！ The lower floors are blanketed with them—21）Becquerel， 22）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 23）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 don’t know. I suppose that is the point， no？ To make us wonder？” She cocks her head. “He was a madman. And yet I didn’t want him to die.”

In the corner of her great-uncle’s study， amid a 24）tumult of books， he finds a copy of Birds of America. A reprint， not nearly as large as the one he saw in 25）Frederick’s living room， but dazzling nonetheless： four hundred and thirty-five 26）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. Doesn’t 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.

他是一個幽靈。他來自另一個世界。他是爸爸，瑪妮可夫人，艾蒂安；他是所有那些離開了她，最后又終于回來的人。他透過門板叫道：“我不是來殺你的。我聽到了你說的話，在廣播上。這就是我來到這里的原因。”他停了下來，磕磕絆絆地翻譯著。“那首歌，《月光》？”她幾乎要露出微笑。

瑪麗勞爾推開衣櫥。沃納拉著她的手，扶著她走出來。她站在了她爺爺房間的地板上。

“我的鞋子，”她說道。“我找不到我的鞋子。”

女孩靜靜地坐在角落里，把外套裹著膝蓋。她用腳踝抵著臀部的樣子、她用手指摸索著周圍的樣子，他希望永遠都不會忘記這些畫面。