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第48章

carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第48章

小说: carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter 字数: 每页4000字

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big kitchen where Antonapoulos had cooked all their meals。 
Through the lighted window he watched a woman move back 
and forth across the room。 She was large and vague against 
the light and she wore an apron。 A man sat with the evening 
newspaper in his hand。 A child with a slice of bread came to 
the window and pressed his nose against the pane。 Singer saw 
the room just as he had left176 

it—with the large bed for Antonapoulos and the iron cot for 
himself; the big overstuffed sofa and the camp chair。 The 
broken sugar bowl used for an ash tray; the damp spot on the 
ceiling where the roof leaked; the laundry box in the corner。 
On late afternoons like this there would be no light in the 
kitchen except the glow from the oil…burners of the big stove。 
Antonapoulos always turned the wicks so that only a ragged 
fringe of gold and blue could be seen inside each burner。 The 
room was warm and full of the good smells from the supper。 
Antonapoulos tasted the dishes with his wooden spoon and 
they drank glasses of red wine。 On the linoleum rug before the 
stove the flames from the burners made luminous reflections 
—five little golden lanterns。 As the milky twilight grew darker 
these little lanterns were more intense; so that when at last the 
night had come they burned with vivid purity。 Supper was 
always ready by that time and they would turn on the light and 
draw their chairs to the table。 
Singer looked down at the dark front door。 He thought of them 
going out together in the morning and coming home at night。 
There was the broken place in the pavement where 
Antonapoulos had stumbled once and hurt his elbow。 There 
was the mailbox where their bill from the light company came 
each month。 He could feel the warm touch of his friend's arm 
against his fingers。 
The street was dark now。 He looked up at the window once 
more and he saw the strange woman and the man and the child 


in a group together。 The emptiness spread in him。 All was 
gone。 Antonapoulos was away; he was not here to remember。 
The thoughts of his friend were somewhere else。 Singer shut 
his eyes and tried to think of the asylum and the room that 
Antonapoulos was in tonight。 He remembered the narrow 
white beds and the old men playing slapjack in the corner。 He 
held his eyes shut tight; but that room would not become clear 
in his mind。 The emptiness was very deep inside him; and 
after a while he glanced up at the window once more and 
started down the dark sidewalk where they had walked 
together so many times。 
It was Saturday night。 The main street was thick with people。 
Shivering Negroes in overalls loitered before the windows of 
the ten…cent store。 Families stood in line be

177 
fore the ticket box of the movie and young boys and girls 
stared at the posters on display outside。 The traffic from the 
automobiles was so dangerous that he had to wait a long time 
before crossing the street。 
He passed the fruit store。 The fruits were beautiful inside the 
windows—bananas; oranges; alligator pears; bright little 
cumquats; and even a few pineapples。 But Charles Parker 
waited on a customer inside。 The face of Charles Parker was 
very ugly to him。 Several times when Charles Parker was 
away he had entered the store and stood around a long while。 
He had even gone to the kitchen in the back where 
Antonapoulos made the candies。 But he never went into the 
store while Charles Parker was inside。 They had both taken 
care to avoid each other since that day when Antonapoulos 
left on the bus。 When they met in the street they always turned 
away without nodding。 Once when he had wanted to send his 
friend a jar of his favorite tupelo honey he had ordered it from 
Charles Parker by mail so as not to be obliged to meet him。 
Singer stood before the window and watched the cousin of his 
friend wait on a group of customers。 Business was always 
good on Saturday night。 Antonapoulos sometimes had to work 
as late as ten o'clock。 The big automatic popcorn popper was 
near the door。 A clerk shoved in a measure of kernels and the 
corn whirled inside the case like giant flakes of snow。 The 


smell from the store was warm and familiar。 Peanut hulls were 
trampled on the floor。 
Singer passed on down the street。 He had to weave his way 
carefully in the crowds to keep from being jostled。 The streets 
were strung with red and green electric lights because of the 
holidays。 People stood in laughing groups with their arms 
about each other。 Young fathers nursed cold and crying babies 
on their shoulders。 A Salvation Army girl in her red…and…blue 
bonnet tinkled a bell on the corner; and when she looked at 
Singer he felt obliged to drop a coin into the pot beside her。 
There were beggars; both Negro and white; who held out caps 
or crusty hands。 The neon advertisements cast an orange glow 
on the faces of the crowd。 
He reached the corner where he and Antonapoulos had once 
seen a mad dog on an August afternoon。 Then he passed the 
room above the Army and Navy Store where178 

Antonapoulos had had his picture taken every pay…day。 He 
carried many of the photographs in his pocket now。 He turned 
west toward the river。 Once they had taken a picnic lunch and 
crossed the bridge and eaten in a field on Hie other side。 
Singer walked along the main street for about an hour。 In all 
the crowd he seemed the only one alone。 At last he took out 
his watch and turned toward the house where he lived。 
Perhaps one of the people would come this evening to his 
room。 He hoped so。 
He mailed Antonapoulos a large box of presents for 
Christmas。 Also he presented gifts to each of the four people 
and to Mrs。 Kelly。 For all of them together he had bought a 
radio and put it on the table by the window。 Doctor Copeland 
did not notice the radio。 Biff Brannon noticed it immediately 
and raised his eyebrows。 Jake Blount kept it turned on all the 
time he was there; at the same station; and as he talked he 
seemed to be shouting above the music; for the veins stood out 
on his forehead。 Mick Kelly did not understand when she saw 
the radio。 Her face was very red and she asked him over and 
over if it was really his and whether she could listen。 She 
worked with a dial for several minutes before she got it to the 
place that suited her。 She sat leaning forward in her chair with 
her hands on her knees; her mouth open and a pulse beating 


very fast in her temple。 She seemed to listen all over to 
whatever it was she heard。 She sat there the whole afternoon; 
and when she grinned at him once her eyes were wet and she 
rubbed them with her fists。 She asked him if she could come 
in and listen sometimes when he was at work and he nodded 
yes。 So for the next few days whenever he opened the door he 
found her by the radio。 Her hand raked through her short 
rumpled hair and there was a look in her face he had never 
seen before。 
One night soon after Christmas all four of the people chanced 
to visit him at the same time。 This had never happened before。 
Singer moved about the room with smiles and refreshments 
and did his best in the way of politeness to make his guests 
comfortable。 But something was wrong。 
Doctor Copeland would not sit down。 He stood in the 

179 

doorway; hat in hand; and only bowed coldly to the others。 
They looked at him as though they wondered why he was 
there。 Jake Blount opened the beers he had brought with him 
and the foam spilled down on his shirtfront。 Mick Kelly 
listened to the music from the radio。 Biff Brannon sat on the 
bed; his knees crossed; his eyes scanning the group before him 
and then becoming narrow and fixed。 
Singer was bewildered。 Always each of them had so much to 
say。 Yet now that they were together they were silent。 When 
they came in he had expected an outburst of some kind。 In a 
vague way he had expected this to be the end of something。 
But in the room there was only a feeling of strain。 His hands 
worked nervously as though they were pulling things unseen 
from the air and binding them together。 
Jake Blount stood beside Doctor Copeland。 'I know your face。 
We run into each other once be

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