she shook her head no and reached down to take off her shoes.
she pulled her dress up to the knees and rolled down her stockings.
when the hosiery was tucked into the shoes, sethe saw that her feet were like her hands, soft andnew. she must have hitched a wagon ride, thought sethe. probably one of those west virginiagirls looking for something to beat a life of tobacco and sorghum. sethe bent to pick up the shoes.
"what might your name be?" asked paul d.
"beloved," she said, and her voice was so low and rough each one looked at the other two. theyheard the voice first — later the name.
"beloved. you use a last name, beloved?" paul d asked her.
"last?" she seemed puzzled. then "no," and she spelled it for them, slowly as though the letterswere being formed as she spoke them.
sethe dropped the shoes; denver sat down and paul d smiled. he recognized the carefulenunciation of letters by those, like himself, who could not read but had memorized the letters oftheir name. he about to ask who her people were but thought better of it. a young coloredwomandriftin(was) g was drifting from ruin. he had been in rochester four years ago and seenfive women arriving with fourteen female children. all their men — brothers, uncles, fathers,husbands, sons — had been picked off one by one by one. they had a single piece of paperdirecting them to a preacher on devore street. the war had been over four or five years then, butnobody white or black seemed to know it. odd clusters and strays of negroes wandered the backroads and cowpaths from schenectady to jackson. dazed but insistent, they searched each otherout for word of a cousin, an aunt, a friend who once said, "call on me. anytime you get nearchicago, just call on me." some of them were running from family that could not support them,some to family; some were running from dead crops, dead kin, life threats, and took-over land.
boys younger than buglar and howard; configurations and blends of families of women andchildren, while elsewhere, solitary, hunted and hunting for, were men, men, men. forbidden public transportation, chased by debt and filthy "talking sheets," they followed secondary routes, scannedthe horizon for signs and counted heavily on each other. silent, except for social courtesies, whenthey met one another they neither described nor asked about the sorrow that drove them from oneplace to another. the whites didn't bear speaking on. everybody knew.
so he did not press the young woman with the broken hat about where from or how come. if shewanted them to know and was strong enough to get through the telling, she would. what occupiedthem at the moment was what it might be that she needed. underneath the major question, eachharbored another. paul d wondered at the newness of her shoes. sethe was deeply touched by hersweet name; the remembrance of glittering headstone made her feel especially kindly toward her.
denver, however, was shaking. she looked at this sleepy beauty and wanted more.
sethe hung her hat on a peg and turned graciously toward the girl. "that's a pretty name, beloved.
take off your hat, why don't you, and i'll make us something. we just got back from the carnivalover near cincinnati. everything in there is something to see." bolt upright in the chair, in themiddle of sethe's welcome, beloved had fallen asleep again.
"miss. miss." paul d shook her gently. "you want to lay down a spell?"she opened her eyes to slits and stood up on her soft new feet which, barely capable of their job,slowly bore her to the keeping room. once there, she collapsed on baby suggs' bed. denverremoved her hat and put the quilt with two squares of color over her feet. she was breathing like asteam engine.
"sounds like croup," said paul d, closing the door.
"is she feverish? denver, could you tell?""no. she's cold.""then she is. fever goes from hot to cold.""could have the cholera," said paul d.
"reckon ?""all that water. sure sign.""poor thing. and nothing in this house to give her for it. she'll just have to ride it out. that's ahateful sickness if ever there was one.""she's not sick!" said denver, and the passion in her voice made them smile.
four days she slept, waking and sitting up only for water. denver tended her, watched her sound sleep, listened to her labored breathing and, out of love and a breakneck possessiveness thatcharged her, hid like a personal blemish beloved's incontinence. she rinsed the sheets secretly,after sethe went to the restaurant and paul d went scrounging for barges to help unload. sheboiled the underwear and soaked it in bluing, praying the fever would pass without damage. sointent was her nursing, she forgot to eat or visit the emerald closet. "beloved?" denver wouldwhisper. "beloved?" and when the black eyes opened a slice all she could say was "i'm here. i'mstill here."sometimes, when beloved lay dreamy-eyed for a very long time, saying nothing, licking her lipsand heaving deep sighs, denver panicked. "what is it?" she would ask.
"heavy," murmured beloved. "this place is heavy.""would you like to sit up?""no," said the raspy voice.
it took three days for beloved to notice the orange patches in the darkness of the quilt. denver waspleased because it kept her patient awake longer. she seemed totally taken with those faded scrapsof orange, even made the effort to lean on her elbow and stroke them. an effort that quicklyexhausted her, so denver rearranged the quilt so its cheeriest part was in the sick girl's sight line.
patience, something denver had never known, overtook her. as long as her mother did notinterfere, she was a model of compassion, turning waspish, though, when sethe tried to help.
"did she take a spoonful of anything today?" sethe inquired. "she shouldn't eat with cholera.""you sure that's it? was just a hunch of paul d's.""i don't know, but she shouldn't eat anyway just yet.""i think cholera people puke all the time.""that's even more reason, ain't it?""well she shouldn't starve to death either, denver.""leave us alone, ma'am. i'm taking care of her.""she say anything?""i'd let you know if she did."sethe looked at her daughter and thought, yes, she has been lonesome. very lonesome.
"wonder where here boy got off to?" sethe thought a change of subject was needed.
"he won't be back," said denver.
"how you know?""i just know." denver took a square of sweet bread off the plate. back in the keeping room,denver was about to sit down when beloved's eyes flew wide open. denver felt her heart race. itwasn't that she was looking at that face for the first time with no trace of sleep in it, or that the eyeswere big and black. nor was it that the whites of them were much too white — blue-white. it wasthat deep down in those big black eyes there was no expression at all. "can i get you something?"
她摇头否认，又伸手去脱鞋。她把裙子提到膝盖，然后搓下长统袜。当她把袜子塞进鞋窠，塞丝看到她的脚像她的手一样，又软又嫩。她肯定搭了辆大车，塞丝想。大概是那种西弗吉尼亚的姑娘，来寻找比烟草和高粱的生活更胜一筹的东西。塞丝弯腰拾起鞋子。
“你叫什么名字？
”保罗·d问。
“宠儿。
”她答道，嗓门又低又粗，他们仨不禁互相看了看。他们先听见的是喉音———然后才是名字。
“宠儿。你有个姓吗，宠儿？
”保罗·d问她。
“姓？”她好像糊涂了。然后她说“没有”，又为他们拼写了名字，慢得好像字母是从她嘴里发明的。
塞丝失手掉了鞋子；丹芙坐下来；而保罗·d微笑起来。他听出了拼字母时那种小心翼翼的发音，所有像他一样目不识丁、只会背自己名字字母的人都那样念。他本想打听一下她的家人是谁，但还是忍住了。一个流浪的黑人姑娘是从毁灭中漂泊而来的。他四年前去过罗彻斯特，在那儿看见五个女人，带着十四个女孩从别处来。她们所有的男人———兄弟、叔伯、父亲、丈夫、儿子———都一个一个又一个地被枪杀了。她们拿着一张纸片到德沃尔街的一个牧师那里去。那时战争已经结束四五年了，可是白人黑人似乎都不晓得。临时搭伙的和失散的黑人们在从斯克内克塔迪到杰克逊的乡间道路和羊肠小径上游荡。他们茫然而坚定，相互打听着一个表兄、一个姑母、一个说过“来找我吧。什么时候你到芝加哥附近，就来找我吧”的朋友的消息。在他们中间，有些是从食不果腹的家里出逃的；有些是逃回家去；也有些是在逃离不育的庄稼、亡亲、生命危险和被接管的土地。有比霍华德和巴格勒还小的男孩；有妇孺之家组合和混合在一起结成的大家庭；而与此同时孤独地沦落他乡、被捕捉和追赶的，是男人，男人，男人。禁止使用公共交通，被债务和肮脏的“罪犯档案”追逐着，他们只好走小路，在地平线上搜寻标记，并且严重地彼此依赖。除了一般性的礼节，他们见面时是沉默的，既不诉说也不过问四处驱赶他们的悲伤。白人是根本不能提起的。谁都清楚。
所以他没有逼问那个弄破了帽子的年轻姑娘，她是从哪里、怎么来的。如果她想让他们知道，而且也能坚强地讲完，她会讲的。他们此刻想的是，她可能需要什么。在这个关键问题之外，每个人都藏着另一个问题。保罗·d发现她的鞋是崭新的，觉得蹊跷。塞丝被她那甜美的名字深深打动了；关于闪闪发光的墓石的记忆，使她备感亲切。丹芙，却在颤抖。她望着这个瞌睡美人，想得更多。
塞丝把帽子挂在木钉上，慈爱地转向那个姑娘。
“是个可爱的名字，宠儿。干吗不摘下你的帽子？让我来给大家做点吃的。我们刚从辛辛那提附近的狂欢节上回来。那儿什么都值得一瞧。
”
塞丝正在表示欢迎，宠儿笔直地嵌在椅子里，又一次进入了梦乡。
“小姐!小姐!”保罗·d轻轻摇了摇她。
“你想躺一会儿吗？
”
她把眼睛睁开一条缝，站起身来，勉强迈动柔嫩的、不胜重负的双脚，缓缓地走进起居室。一进屋，她就栽倒在贝比·萨格斯的床上。丹芙摘下她的帽子，把带着两方色块的被子盖上她的脚。她像个蒸汽机似的喘起气来。
“听着像哮吼。
”保罗·d说着关上门。
“她发烧吗？丹芙，你摸摸她烧吗？
”
“不烧。她冰凉。
”
“那么她在烧。发烧都是从热到冷。
”
“可能是霍乱。
”保罗·d说。
“是猜的？
”
“那么多水。明显的症状。
”
“可怜见的。这房子里没有什么能治她的病。她只能自己挺过去。那种病才可怕呢。
”
“她没病!”丹芙说道。她声音里的激动把他们逗笑了。
她一睡就是四天，只为了喝水才苏醒和坐起来。丹芙照料着她，看她酣睡，听她吃力地呼吸，而且，出于爱和一种膨胀的、要命的占有欲，像隐瞒个人缺陷一样掩饰宠儿的失禁。在塞丝去餐馆、保罗·d四处找驳船去帮忙卸货的时候，她偷偷地洗了床单。她把内衣煮了泡在上蓝剂里，祈求高烧退去，不留下任何损害。她照料得这样专心致志，竟忘了吃饭，忘了去那间祖母绿密室。
“宠儿？
”丹芙会小声地叫。
“宠儿？
”可是当那对黑眼睛张开一条缝时，她能说的也只是：
“我在这儿。我还在这儿。
”
有时候，如果宠儿睡眼蒙眬地躺上很长时间，一言不发，舔舔嘴唇，再深深地叹着气，丹芙就慌了。
“怎么啦？
”她会问。
“沉重，”宠儿嘟囔道，“这地方真沉重。
”
“你想坐起来吗？
”
“不，”那粗声粗气的声音说。
宠儿花了三天时间才注意到暗色被子上的橙色补丁。丹芙非常满意，因为这使她的病人醒的时间更长。她似乎完全被那褪了色的橙红色碎片吸引住了，甚至费劲地靠胳膊肘支撑着身体，去抚摩它们。这很快使她疲惫不堪，于是丹芙重新安排好被子，让它最有活力的那部分留在病姑娘的视线里。
耐心，这丹芙闻所未闻的东西，占据了她。只要她的妈妈不来干涉，她就是个同情体贴的楷模，可是一旦塞丝企图帮点忙，她就立即变得暴躁起来。
“她今天吃了什么东西吗？
”塞丝询问道。
“她得了霍乱，不该吃东西。
”
“你能肯定吗？只不过是保罗·d瞎猜的。
”
“我不知道，可不管怎么说，她现在就是不该吃东西。
”
“我以为得霍乱的人什么时候都在呕吐。
”
“那不吃就更有理由了，对吧？
”
“可她也不该活活饿死呀，丹芙。
”
“甭管我们，太太。我在照看她。
”
“她说过什么吗？
”
“她说了我会告诉你的。
”
塞丝看着女儿，心想：是的，她一直孤独。非常孤独。
“奇怪，‘来，小鬼’到哪儿去了？
”塞丝认为有必要换个话题。
“它不会回来了。
”丹芙说。
“你怎么知道的？
”
“我就知道。
”丹芙从盘子里拿起一块甜面包。
丹芙回到起居室，刚要坐下，宠儿的眼睛一下子睁圆了。丹芙感到心跳加快。倒不是因为她头一回看见这张脸睡意全无，也不是因为那双眼睛又大又黑，也不是因为眼白过分地白———白得发蓝。是因为在那双又大又黑的眼睛深处根本没有表情。
“我能给你拿点什么吗？”
