English Original
There was an ironic fragment of truth in what the lady said.
The dog only accepted Bill as a temporary companion, unable to comprehend that Bill's brother was never coming home. It continued waiting—for the familiar footfall, for the imminent return of a voice it knew and devotedly listened for. The dog regarded the present as a state of waiting. Its life was in suspension, a kind of 'this will have to be got through until everything returns to the way it really should be.' Its pointless patience was matched only by its growing detachment.
I sat with Bill for a couple of hours, and I ran out of tape. It was among the last times I visited him in his house, having left home myself—returning to Stoke only at holidays.
I accepted Bill's offer of a cup of tea before leaving. Snow lay on the ground outside, and temperatures had plunged. He showed me into the kitchen-cum-living area at the rear of his house, where I looked again at the collected fragments of his life.
The old radio with its bakelite casing and valves on a high shelf, the unsliced loaf on the table, the open fire with a butter dish nearby, and the photographs on the mantel.
Bill as a youngster,
Bill as a boy,
Bill's dog,
Bill's dog, lying in a dark yard more than half a century ago. Lying near a door. A narrow little yard.
"Typical of him, that was," Bill remarked when he saw me looking at the picture again.
"Old Bram, he lay out there every day, come whatever the weather, you know! He couldn't let go. Waited for Frank to come back. Waited until the day he died himself, that dog. He'd only move when I went and opened the back door, then he'd stroll in, and wait until he could go out and wait again."
Bill stood alongside me, picked up the little frame, and looked down his nose at it.
"Do us a favour and pass us me glasses," Bill asked. "It'd take me half the day to get over there to get them. My bloody feet are no good to me these days, particularly in this weather."
中文翻译
那位女士的话里，带着一丝讽刺的真实。
这只狗只把比尔当作一个暂时的伙伴，它无法理解比尔的兄弟永远不会回家这个事实。它继续等待着——等待那熟悉的脚步声，等待那个它认识并虔诚倾听的声音迫近的归来。这只狗将当下视为一种等待的状态。它的生命处于悬停之中，一种“必须熬过去，直到一切回归到真正应有的样子”的状态。它无意义的耐心，只有它与周遭一切日益增长的疏离感可以与之匹配。
我和比尔坐了几个小时，我的录音带用完了。这是我离开家后，仅有的几次去他房子里拜访他的经历之一——我只有在假期才回斯托克。
离开前，我接受了比尔喝杯茶的提议。外面地上有雪，气温已经骤降。他带我穿过房子，来到后部的厨房兼起居区，我再次审视着这个男人生活中收集的点点滴滴。
高架子上装着胶木外壳和电子管的老式收音机，桌上未切片的面包，燃着的炉火，旁边放着黄油碟，还有壁炉架上的照片。
年轻时的比尔，
男孩时的比尔，
比尔的狗，
比尔的狗，躺在半个多世纪前一个黑暗的院子里。躺在一扇门附近。一个狭窄的小院子。
“他就是这样，典型的他，”当比尔看到我又在看那张照片时插话道。
“老布拉姆，他每天都躺在那儿，不管什么天气，你知道的！他就是放不下。等着弗兰克回来。一直等到他自己死去的那天，那只狗。只有当我走过去打开后门时，他才会动，然后他会溜达进来，等着能再出去继续等待。”
比尔站在我旁边，拿起那个小相框，用鼻子对着它看。
“帮个忙，把我的眼镜递给我，”比尔请求道。“要我走过去拿，得花我半天时间。我这该死的脚现在不中用了，尤其是这种天气。”