獨奏鼓手

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.

管弦樂隊在百老匯和第四十二街交匯處的蘭德勒特劇院有為期一周的演出。他的名字在遮檐招牌的燈光下顯得格外醒目。

曾經一度他常會為此感到興奮。基德·瓊斯——他的名字——顯示在上面，在黃銅色的陽光下閃爍舞動。到了晚上，他的名字則在那里的遮檐招牌上閃閃發光，仿佛上面鑲滿了鉆石一般。

現在他只是看著上面寫有他名字的招牌聳聳肩，走進了劇院。

到了上臺的時候，他在鼓后面落座，沒有說話，僅僅是坐在那里。管弦樂隊開始輕聲演奏。

長長的灰色帷幕拉開。大功率的聚光燈把舞臺照得雪亮。他可以看見一粒粒灰塵順著寬寬的光束滑下來。在光帶的照耀下，前面的大片空間全是陰影。一張張臉慢慢地從里面露了出來。

他輕輕地敲起了鼓。帶有節律。一種柔和的、幾乎聽不清的節奏。背景音響起。小號、鋼琴和小提琴的反復重音。吹小號的站起來，第一串音符甜美、清晰、高亢地傳來。

基德·瓊斯繼續擊鼓伴奏。當那人吹小號時，基德感覺左眉毛抬起，開始抽搐。每當他聽到小號聲，這種事就會發生。音調慢慢升起，越升越高。

他想雙手捂住耳朵，因為他總是聽到一個聲音在一遍又一遍地低聲說著同樣的話。那個聲音被困在了屋頂下面的某個地方——被小號抓住并固定在了那里：“我要走了我要走了我要走了。”這個聲音直接把他帶回到了雨中。他可以看到這天的開始——天氣陰冷陰冷的。當時他在家里。但是，他覺得溫暖如春，因為他離她很近，把她摟在懷里。風雨在窗外輕聲呼喚。

而現在，他覺得自己好像是隨著小號的憂郁長音不斷飄升。它已經不再是音樂，而是那個低語的聲音：“我要走了是那個彈鋼琴的家伙我愛上了他我今天就要走了。”雨落在街上。熱氣散去。一切都消失了。你曾經擁有的一切。這一切都在小號聲里。

最后一個音符停留在天花板上。聚光燈轉移，落在了基德·瓊斯的身上。那束白光照在他的頭頂，使他變成了光影的圖案。

他用手中的刷子輕撫著鼓，然后讓大低音鼓發出低鼾聲，跟上樂隊的節奏。

樂隊的鋼琴演奏家布倫德侯爵轉向鋼琴。鼓和鋼琴發出同樣的節奏。鋼琴聲高亢，比那鼓聲更持久一點兒。侯爵在琴凳上側轉身體。鼓手和鋼琴家的輪廓分別在兩束明亮的光線中顯現出來。鼓聲慢慢地超越了琴聲。

節奏變了。變得更快。基德·瓊斯一邊敲鼓，一邊從擁擠的劇院望出去。他開始覺得自己就是鼓，鼓就是他。

鼓手忘了他是在劇院里。只有他和那些鼓，他們都遠去了。他緊緊地抱著那個女孩，她曾是他的妻子，她說：“我要走了。”今天早上雨從窗玻璃上滴落時，她一遍遍地說著這句話。

當他再次擊鼓時，他以為自己是在和鋼琴師搏斗。鼓聲隨著他內心的火怒而跳躍。樂隊里的人都把頭轉向他——他們的臉上流露出一絲驚訝。

他不理睬他們。鼓聲把他從他們的身邊帶走，帶他時空回轉。他漸漸產生了一種幻覺。森林深處的小路涼爽而安靜。樹在輕聲細語：“我要走了我要走了我要走了。”

他情不自禁，停止敲鼓，盯著布倫德侯爵。

劇院里騷動不安起來。他想起了自己身在何處，又開始演奏。號角吹響了一段樂句。柔和而簡短。鼓聲回應。

他感到一陣恐慌。他輕輕地碰了碰鼓。鼓微顫著回應。

那鼓聲接下來幾乎就像在談論他自己的生活。那個身體圓潤柔軟的女孩曾是他的妻子，今天早上在雨中離開了他。

他忘了劇院，除了鼓聲，什么都忘了。他成了鼓的一部分。鼓也成了他的一部分。

他使大低音鼓發出了低沉的隆隆聲和回響。他瘋狂地敲打著大低音鼓。一下又一下，讓整個劇院充滿了雷鳴般的聲音。那聲音似乎不是來自低音鼓，而是發自他的內心深處。那個聲音在劇院的屋頂之下一次又一次地回響。

當他終于停止演奏時，他渾身發抖，全身是汗。他驚訝地發現那些鼓立在他的面前。他沒有成為其中的一部分。他還是他自己——基德·瓊斯。擊鼓高手。世界上最偉大的鼓手。

有人踢了他的腳。“鞠躬啊，你怎么了？”

他彎下腰，燈光從他的身上滑去，從他的褲腿上滑落。燈光照在鋼琴演奏師布倫德侯爵的身上。侯爵的皮膚像一片黑色的海藻，閃閃發光。隨后，燈光又回到了基德·瓊斯的身上。

他伸手去摸手帕，擦臉時感覺臉上的脂粉和汗水混在了一起。接著，他又鞠了一躬。從今天早上起，你就無處可去了。“我要走了正是那個彈鋼琴的家伙我愛上了布倫德侯爵他鋼琴彈得那么悅耳我要走了走了走了——”他盯著布倫德侯爵看了好一陣子。最后他站起來，鞠了一躬又一躬。? □