He wants to tell me, she thought. Hewants me to ask him about what it was like for him — about how offended the tongue is, helddown by iron, how the need to spit is so deep you cry for it. She already knew about it, had seen ittime after time in the place before Sweet Home. Men, boys, little girls, women. The wildness thatshot up into the eye the moment the lips were yanked back. Days after it was taken out, goose fatwas rubbed on the corners of the mouth but nothing to soothe the tongue or take the wildness outof the eye. Sethe looked up into Paul D's eyes to see if there was any trace left in them.
"People I saw as a child," she said, "who'd had the bit always looked wild after that. Whatever theyused it on them for, it couldn't have worked, because it put a wildness where before there wasn'tany. When I look at you, I don't see it. There ain't no wildness in your eye nowhere.""There's a way to put it there and there's a way to take it out. I know em both and I haven't figuredout yet which is worse." He sat down beside her. Sethe looked at him. In that unlit daylight hisface, bronzed and reduced to its bones, smoothed her heart down. "You want to tell me about it?"she asked him.
"I don't know. I never have talked about it. Not to a soul. Sang it sometimes, but I never told asoul.""Go ahead. I can hear it.""Maybe. Maybe you can hear it. I just ain't sure I can say it. Say it right, I mean, because it wasn'tthe bit — that wasn't it." "What then?" Sethe asked.
"The roosters," he said. "Walking past the roosters looking at them look at me."Sethe smiled. "In that pine?""Yeah." Paul D smiled with her. "Must have been five of them perched up there, and at least fiftyhens.""Mister, too?""Not right off. But I hadn't took twenty steps before I seen him. He come down off the fence postthere and sat on the tub." "He loved that tub," said Sethe, thinking, No, there is no stopping now.
"Didn't he? Like a throne. Was me took him out the shell, you know. He'd a died if it hadn't beenfor me. The hen had walked on off with all the hatched peeps trailing behind her. There was thisone egg left. Looked like a blank, but then I saw it move so I tapped it open and here come Mister,bad feet and all. I watched that son a bitch grow up and whup everything in the yard.""He always was hateful," Sethe said.
"Yeah, he was hateful all right. Bloody too, and evil. Crooked feet flapping. Comb as big as myhand and some kind of red. He sat right there on the tub looking at me. I swear he smiled. My headwas full of what I'd seen of Halle a while back. I wasn't even thinking about the bit. Just Halle andbefore him Sixo, but when I saw Mister I knew it was me too. Not just them, me too. One crazy,one sold, one missing, one burnt and me licking iron with my hands crossed behind me. The last ofthe Sweet Home men.
"Mister, he looked so... free. Better than me. Stronger, tougher. Son a bitch couldn't even get outthe shell by hisself but he was still king and I was..." Paul D stopped and squeezed his left handwith his right. He held it that way long enough for it and the world to quiet down and let him goon.
"Mister was allowed to be and stay what he was. But I wasn't allowed to be and stay what I was.
Even if you cooked him you'd be cooking a rooster named Mister. But wasn't no way I'd ever bePaul D again, living or dead. Schoolteacher changed me. I was something else and that somethingwas less than a chicken sitting in the sun on a tub."Sethe put her hand on his knee and rubbed.
Paul D had only begun, what he was telling her was only the beginning when her fingers on hisknee, soft and reassuring, stopped him. Just as well. Just as well. Saying more might push themboth to a place they couldn't get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in thattobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut. He would not pry itloose now in front of this sweet sturdy woman, for if she got a whiff of the contents it wouldshame him. And it would hurt her to know that there was no red heart bright as Mister's combbeating in him.
Sethe rubbed and rubbed, pressing the work cloth and the stony curves that made up his knee. Shehoped it calmed him as it did her. Like kneading bread in the half-light of the restaurant kitchen.
Before the cook arrived when she stood in a space no wider than a bench is long, back behind andto the left of the milk cans. Working dough. Working, working dough. Nothing better than that tostart the day's serious work of beating back the past.
UPSTAIRS was dancing. A little two-step, two-step, make-a-new-step, slide, slide and strut ondown.
Denver sat on the bed smiling and providing the music.
She had never seen Beloved this happy. She had seen her pouty lips open wide with the pleasure ofsugar or some piece of news Denver gave her. She had felt warm satisfaction radiating fromBeloved's skin when she listened to her mother talk about the old days.
But gaiety she had never seen. Not ten minutes had passed since Beloved had fallen backward tothe floor, pop-eyed, thrashing and holding her throat. Now, after a few seconds lying in Denver'sbed, she was up and dancing.
"Where'd you learn to dance?" Denver asked her.
"Nowhere. Look at me do this." Beloved put her fists on her hips and commenced to skip on barefeet. Denver laughed.
"Now you. Come on," said Beloved. "You may as well just come on." Her black skirt swayed fromside to side.
Denver grew ice-cold as she rose from the bed. She knew she was twice Beloved's size but shefloated up, cold and light as a snowflake.
Beloved took Denver's hand and placed another on Denver's shoulder. They danced then. Roundand round the tiny room and it may have been dizziness, or feeling light and icy at once, that madeDenver laugh so hard. A catching laugh that Beloved caught. The two of them, merry as kittens,swung to and fro, to and fro, until exhausted they sat on the floor. Beloved let her head fall back on the edge of the bed while she found her breath and Denver saw the tip of the thing she always sawin its entirety when Beloved undressed to sleep. Looking straight at it she whispered, "Why youcall yourself Beloved?"Beloved closed her eyes. "In the dark my name is Beloved."Denver scooted a little closer. "What's it like over there, where you were before? Can you tell me?""Dark," said Beloved. "I'm small in that place. I'm like this here."She raised her head off the bed, lay down on her side and curled up.
Denver covered her lips with her fingers. "Were you cold?"Beloved curled tighter and shook her head. "Hot. Nothing to breathe down there and no room tomove in.""You see anybody?""Heaps. A lot of people is down there. Some is dead.""You see Jesus? Baby Suggs?""I don't know. I don't know the names." She sat up.
"Tell me, how did you get here?""I wait; then I got on the bridge. I stay there in the dark, in the daytime, in the dark, in the daytime.
It was a long time.""All this time you were on a bridge?""No. After. When I got out.""What did you come back for?"Beloved smiled. "To see her face.""Ma'am's? Sethe?""Yes, Sethe."Denver felt a little hurt, slighted that she was not the main reason for Beloved's return. "Don't youremember we played together by the stream?""I was on the bridge," said Beloved. "You see me on the bridge?" "No, by the stream. The waterback in the woods.""Oh, I was in the water. I saw her diamonds down there. I could touch them.""What stopped you?""She left me behind. By myself," said Beloved. She lifted her eyes to meet Denver's and frowned,perhaps. Perhaps not. The tiny scratches on her forehead may have made it seem so.
Denver swallowed. "Don't," she said. "Don't. You won't leave us, will you?""No. Never. This is where I am."Suddenly Denver, who was sitting cross-legged, lurched forward and grabbed Beloved's wrist.
"Don't tell her. Don't let Ma'am know who you are. Please, you hear?""Don't tell me what to do. Don't you never never tell me what to do.""But I'm on your side, Beloved.""She is the one. She is the one I need. You can go but she is the one I have to have." Her eyesstretched to the limit, black as the all night sky.
"I didn't do anything to you. I never hurt you. I never hurt anybody," said Denver.
"Me either. Me either.""What you gonna do?""Stay here. I belong here.""I belong here too.""Then stay, but don't never tell me what to do. Don't never do that.""We were dancing. Just a minute ago we were dancing together. Let's.""I don't want to." Beloved got up and lay down on the bed. Their quietness boomed about on thewalls like birds in panic. Finally Denver's breath steadied against the threat of an unbearable loss.
"Tell me," Beloved said. "Tell me how Sethe made you in the boat.""She never told me all of it," said Denver.
"Tell me."
他想对我开讲了，她暗忖道。他想让我去问问他当时的感觉———舌头让铁嚼子坠住是多么难受，吐唾沫的需要又是多么强烈、不能自已。那个滋味她早就知道了，在“甜蜜之家”以前待的地方她就一次又一次地目睹过。男人，男孩，小女孩，女人。嘴唇向后勒紧那一刻注入眼里的疯狂。嚼子卸下之后的许多天里，嘴角一直涂着鹅油，可是没有什么来抚慰舌头，或者将疯狂从眼中除去。
塞丝抬头朝保罗·D的眼中望去，看那里是否留下了什么痕迹。
“我小时候见过的那些人，”她说，“他们套过嚼子后看上去总是那么疯狂。谁知道他们因为什么给他们上嚼子，反正那一套根本行不通，因为它套上的是一种从前没有过的疯狂。我看你的时候，却看不见那个。你的眼睛里哪儿都没有那样的疯狂。
”
“有把它放进去的法子，就有拿出来的法子。两个办法我都知道，我还没想好哪种更糟呢。
”他在她身旁坐下。塞丝打量着他。在昏暗的日光里，他瘦骨嶙峋的古铜色面孔让她的心趋于平静。
“想跟我讲讲吗？
”她问他。
“我不知道。我从来没讲过。跟谁都没讲过。有时候唱唱，可我从来没跟谁讲过。
”
“说吧。我听得了。
”
“也许吧。也许你听得了。我只是不敢肯定我能说出来。我的意思是，能说得准确，因为并不是嚼子的问题———不是那么回事。
”
“那是什么呢？
”塞丝问道。
“公鸡，”他说，“路过公鸡时，我看见它们那样看着我。
”
塞丝笑了。
“在那棵松树上？
”
“对。”保罗·D同她一起笑了，“上边肯定落了有五只公鸡，还有起码五十只母鸡。
”
“‘先生’也在？
”
“一开始还没看到。可是我走了不到二十步就瞧见它了。它从栅栏上走下来，坐在木盆上。
”
“它喜欢那个木盆。
”塞丝说着，心中暗想：不好，现在停不下来了。
“可不是吗？像个宝座似的。知道么，是我把它从鸡蛋壳里提溜出来的。要不是我，它早憋死了。那一只老母鸡走开时，身后跟了一大群刚孵出的小鸡崽。就剩下这一个鸡蛋了。好像是个空壳，可后来我看见它在动弹，就把它敲开了，出来的就是‘先生’，脚有点瘸，一身的毛病。我眼看着那个狗崽子长大，在院子里横行霸道。
”
“它总是那么可恨。
”塞丝道。
“对，它倒是挺可恨的。又好斗又凶恶。曲曲弯弯的脚尽瞎扑腾。冠子有我巴掌那么大，通红通红的。它就坐在木盆上看着我。我敢发誓，它在微笑。本来我满脑子想的都是刚才看见的黑尔。
我根本就没想起来那个马嚼子。只有黑尔，还有在他之前的西克索，可是当我看见‘先生’的时候，我知道了，那里面也有我。不光是他们，也有我。一个疯了，一个卖了，一个失踪了，一个烧死了，还有我，舌头舔着铁嚼子，两手反绑在背后。也有我，最后一个‘甜蜜之家’的男人。
“‘先生’，它看起来那样……自由。比我强。比我更壮实，更厉害。那个狗崽子，当初自己连壳儿都挣不开，可它仍然是个国王，而我……”保罗·D停住了，用左手扼住右手。他就那样久久地攥着，直到它和世界都平息下来，让他讲下去。
“‘先生’还可以是、一直是它自己。可我就不许是我自己。就算你拿它做了菜，你也是在炖一只叫‘先生’的公鸡。可是我再也不能是保罗·D了，活着死了都一样。
‘学校老师’把我改变了。
我成了另外一样东西，不如一只太阳地里坐在木盆上的小鸡崽。
”
塞丝把手放在他的膝盖上摩挲着。
保罗·D才刚刚开始，他告诉她的只不过是个开头，可她把手指放上他的膝盖，柔软而抚慰，让他就此打住。也好。也好。再多说可能会把他们两个都推上绝境，再也回不来。他将把其余的留在它们原该待的地方：在他胸口埋藏的烟草罐里；那胸口，曾经有一颗鲜红的心跳动。罐子的盖子已经锈死了。现在他不会在这个甜蜜而坚强的女人面前把它撬开，如果让她闻见里面的东西，他会无地自容的。而知道他的胸膛里并没有一颗像“先生”的鸡冠一样鲜红的心在跳荡，也会使她受到伤害。
塞丝紧按劳动布和他膝盖嶙峋的曲线，摩挲着，摩挲着。她希望这会像平息自己一样平息他。
就像在昏暗的餐馆厨房里揉面团。在厨子到来之前，站在不比一条长凳的长更宽的地方，在牛奶罐的左后侧，揉着面团。揉着，揉着面团。像那样开始一天的击退过去的严肃工作，再好不过了。
楼上，宠儿在跳舞。轻轻的两步，两步，再跳一步，滑步，滑步，高视阔步。
丹芙坐在床上，笑着提供音乐伴奏。
她从来没见过宠儿这样快活。宠儿的嘴平时总是撅着，只是吃起糖来或者丹芙告诉她件什么事时才高兴地咧开。在聆听妈妈讲述过去的日子时，丹芙也曾经感受到宠儿通身发出的心满意足的温暖气息。但从未见过她快活。仅仅十分钟之前，宠儿还四仰八叉地倒在地板上，眼球突出，掐住自己的喉咙扭来扭去。现在，在丹芙床上躺了没几秒钟，她已经起来跳舞了。
“你在哪儿学的跳舞？
”丹芙问她。
“在哪儿都没学过。瞧我这一招儿。
”宠儿把拳头放在屁股上，开始光着脚蹦跶。丹芙大笑起来。
“该你了。来吧，”宠儿道，“你最好也来吧。
”她的黑裙子左右摇摆。
丹芙从床上站起来，觉得浑身变得冰冷。她知道自己有宠儿两个大，可她竟然飘了起来，好像一片雪花一样冰凉而轻盈。
宠儿一只手拉起丹芙的手，另一只放上丹芙的肩头。于是她们跳起舞来。在小屋里一圈又一圈地转着，不知是因为眩晕，还是因为一下子感到轻盈和冰冷，丹芙纵声大笑起来。这富于感染力的笑声也感染了宠儿。她们两个像小猫一样快活，悠来荡去，悠来荡去，直到疲惫不堪地坐倒在地。
宠儿把头靠在床沿上，上气不接下气；这时丹芙看见了那个东西的一端。宠儿解衣就寝的时候她总能看见它的全部。她直盯着它，悄声问：
“你干吗管自己叫宠儿？”
宠儿合上眼睛。
“在黑暗中我的名字就叫宠儿。”
丹芙凑近一些。
“那边什么样儿，你过去待的地方？能告诉我吗？”
“漆黑，”宠儿说，“在那里我很小。就像这个样子。”她把头从床沿上抬起来，侧身躺下，蜷成一团。
丹芙用手指遮住嘴唇。
“你在那儿冷吗？”
宠儿蜷得更紧，摇摇头。
“滚热。下边那儿没法呼吸，也没地方待。”
“你看见什么人了吗？”
“成堆成堆的。那儿有好多人，有些是死人。”
“你看见耶稣了吗？还有贝比·萨格斯？”
“我不知道，我没听说过这些名字。”她坐了起来。
“告诉我，你是怎么来这儿的？”
“我等啊等，然后就上了桥。我在那里待了一晚上，一白天，一晚上，一白天。好长时间。”
“这么长时间你一直在桥上？”
“不是。那是后来。我出来以后的事。”
“你回来干啥？”
宠儿莞尔一笑。
“看她的脸。”
“太太的？塞丝？”
“对，塞丝。”
丹芙觉得有点受伤害、受轻视，因为她不是宠儿回来的主要原因。
“你不记得我们一起在小溪边玩了？”
“我在桥上，”宠儿说，“你看见我在桥上了？”
“不，在小溪边上。后边树林里的小溪。”
“哦，我在水里。我就是在下面看见了她的钻石。我都能摸着它们。”
“那你怎么没摸？”
“她把我丢在后面了。就剩下我一个人。”宠儿说道。她抬眼去看丹芙的眼睛，也许皱了皱眉头。也许没皱。可能是她前额上细细的抓痕让情形看来如此。
丹芙咽了口唾沫。
“别，”她说，“别。你不会离开我们，是吗？”
“不会。永远不会。这就是我待的地方。”
突然，架着腿坐着的丹芙一下子探过身去，抓住宠儿的手腕。
“别跟她说。别让太太知道你是谁。求求你，听见了吗？”
“别跟我说该怎么做。永远永远也别跟我说该怎么做。”
“可我站在你一边呀，宠儿。”
“她才是呢。她才是我需要的。你可以走开，可我绝对不能没有她。”她的眼睛拼命大睁着，仿佛整个夜空一样漆黑。
“我没怎么着你呀。我从没伤害过你。我从没伤害过任何人。”丹芙说。
“我也没有。我也没有。”
“你要干什么呢？”
“留在这儿。我属于这儿。”
“我也属于这儿。”
“那就待着吧，可是永远别跟我说该怎么做。永远别这样。”
“我们刚才在跳舞。就一分钟以前，我们还在一起跳舞呢。咱们再跳一会儿吧。”
“我不想跳了。”宠儿起身到床上躺下。她们的沉默像慌乱的小鸟在墙上乱撞。终于，在这个无法承受的丧失带来的威胁面前，丹芙稳住了呼吸。
“给我讲讲，”宠儿说道，“给我讲讲塞丝在船上怎么生的你。”
“她从来没有从头到尾给我讲过。”丹芙说。
“给我讲吧。”