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鐗堢ぞ鎵�鏈墸讳笅杞藉悗璇峰湪24灏忔椂鍐呭垹闄ぁｅ鏋滃枩娆ⅲ昏璐拱姝ｇ増。
Norwegian Wood
1
I was 37 then； strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through
dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport。 Cold November
rains drenched the earth； lending everything the gloomy air of a
Flemish landscape： the ground crew in waterproofs； a flag atop a squat
airport building； a BMW billboard。 So … Germany again。
Once the plane was on the ground； soft music began to flow from the
ceiling speakers： a sweet orchestral cover version of the Beatles'
〃Norwegian Wood〃。 The melody never failed to send a shudder
through me； but this time it hit me harder than ever。
I bent forward； my face in my hands to keep my skull from splitting
open。 Before long one of the German stewardesses approached and
asked in English if I were sick。
〃No；〃 I said； 〃just dizzy。〃
〃Are you sure？〃
〃Yes； I'm sure。 Thanks。〃
She smiled and left； and the music changed to a Billy Joel tune。 I
straightened up and looked out of the window at the dark clouds
hanging over the North Sea； thinking of all I had lost in the course of
my life： times gone for ever； friends who had died or disappeared；
feelings I would never know again。
The plane reached the gate。 People began unfastening their seatbelts
and pulling luggage from the overhead lockers； and all the while I was
in the meadow。 I could smell the grass； feel the wind on my face； hear
the cries of the birds。 Autumn 1969； and soon I would be 20。
The stewardess came to check on me again。 This time she sat next to
me and asked if I was all right。
〃I'm fine； thanks；〃 I said with a smile。 〃Just feeling kind of blue。〃
〃I know what you mean；〃 she said。 〃It happens to me； too； every once
in a while。〃
She stood and gave me a lovely smile。 〃Well； then； have a nice trip。
Auf Wiedersehen。〃
〃Auf Wiedersehen。〃
Eighteen years have gone by； and still I can bring back every detail of
that day in the meadow。 Washed clean of summer's dust by days of
gentle rain； the mountains wore a deep； brilliant green。 The October
breeze set white fronds of head…high grasses swaying。 One long streak
of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue。 It almost hurt to
look at that far…off sky。 A puff of wind swept across the meadow and
through her hair before it slipped into the woods to rustle branches and
send back snatches of distant barking … a hazy sound that seemed to
reach us from the doorway to another world。 We heard no other
sounds。 We met no other people。 We saw only two bright red birds
leap startled from the center of the meadow and dart into the woods。
As we ambled along； Naoko spoke to me of wells。
Memory is a funny thing。 When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any
attention。 I never stopped to think of it as something that would make
a lasting impression； certainly never imagined that 18 years later I
would recall it in such detail。 I didn't give a damn about the scenery
that day。 I was thinking about myself。 I was thinking about the
beautiful girl walking next to me。 I was thinking about the two of us
together； and then about myself again。 I was at that age； that time of
life when every sight； every feeling； every thought came back； like a
boomerang； to me。 And worse； I was in love。 Love with
plications。 Scenery was the last thing on my mind。
Now； though； that meadow scene is the first thing that es back to
me。 The smell of the grass； the faint chill of the wind； the line of the
hills； the barking of a dog： these are the first things； and they e
with absolute clarity。 I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a
fingertip。 And yet； as clear as the scene may be； no one is in it。 No
one。 Naoko is not there； and neither am I。 Where could we have
disappeared to？ How could such a thing have happened？ Everything
that seemed so important back then … Naoko； and the self I was then；
and the world I had then： where could they have all gone？ It's true； I
can't even bring back her face … not straight away； at least。 All I'm left
holding is a background； pure scenery； with no people at the front。
True； given time enough； I can remember her face。 I start joining
images … her tiny； cold hand； her straight； black hair so smooth and
cool to the touch； a soft； rounded earlobe and the microscopic mole
just beneath it； the camel…hair coat she wore in the winter； her habit of
looking straight into my eyes when asking a question； the slight
trembling that would e to her voice now and then （as though she
were speaking on a windy hilltop） … and suddenly her face is there；
always in profile at first； because Naoko and I wer e always out
walking together； side by side。 Then she turns to me and smiles； and
tilts her head just a little； and begins to speak； and she looks into my
eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across
the pool of a limpid spring。
It takes time； though； for Naoko's face to appear。 And as the years
have passed； the time has grown longer。 The sad truth is that what I
could recall in 5 seconds all too soon needed 10； then 30； then a full
minute … like shadows lengthening at dusk。 Someday； I suppose； the
shadows will be swallowed up in darkness。 There is no way around it：
my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko
used to stand … where my old self used to stand。 And nothing but
scenery； that view of the meadow in October； returns again and again
to me like a symbolic scene in a film。 Each time it appears； it delivers
a kick to some part of my mind。 Wake up； it says。 I'm still here。 Wake
up and think about it。 Think about why I'm still here。 The kicking
never hurts me。 There's no pain at all。 Just a hollow sound that echoes
with each kick。 And even that is bound to fade one day。 At Hamburg
airport； though； the kicks were longer and harder than usual。 Which is
why I am writing this book。 To think。 To understand。 It just happens
to be the way I'm made。 I have to write things down to feel I fully
prehend them。
Let's see； now； what was Naoko talking about that day？
Of course： the 〃field well〃。 I have no idea whether there was such a
well。 It might have been an image or a sign that existed only inside
Naoko； like all the other things she used to spin into existence inside
her mind in those dark days。 Once she had described it to me； though；
I was never able to think of that meadow scene without the well。 From
that day forward； the image of a thing I had never laid eyes on became
inseparably fused to the actual scene of the field that lay before me。 I
can describe the well in minute detail。 It lay precisely on the border
where the meadow ended and the woods began … a dark opening in the
earth a yard across； hidden by grass。 Nothing marked its perimeter …
no fence； no stone curb （at least not one that rose above ground level）。
It was nothing but a hole； a wide…open mouth。 The stones of its collar
had been weathered and turned a strange muddy…white。 They were
cracked and chunks were missing； and a little green lizard slithered
into an open seam。 You could lean over the e