in ohio seasons are theatrical. each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance isthe reason the world has people in it. when paul d had been forced out of 124 into a shed behindit, summer had been hooted offstage and autumn with its bottles of blood and gold had everybody'sattention. even at night, when there should have been a restful intermission, there was nonebecause the voices of a dying landscape were insistent and loud. paul d packed newspaper under himself and over, to give his thin blanket some help. but the chilly night was not on his mind.
when he heard the door open behind him he refused to turn and look. "what you want in here?
what you want?" he should have been able to hear her breathing.
"i want you to touch me on the inside part and call me my name." paul d never worried about hislittle tobacco tin anymore. it was rusted shut. so, while she hoisted her skirts and turned her headover her shoulder the way the turtles had, he just looked at the lard can, silvery in moonlight, andspoke quietly.
"when good people take you in and treat you good, you ought to try to be good back. you don't...
sethe loves you. much as her own daughter. you know that."beloved dropped her skirts as he spoke and looked at him with empty eyes. she took a step hecould not hear and stood close behind him.
"she don't love me like i love her. i don't love nobody but her.""then what you come in here for?""i want you to touch me on the inside part.""go on back in that house and get to bed.""you have to touch me. on the inside part. and you have to call me my name."as long as his eyes were locked on the silver of the lard can he was safe. if he trembled like lot'wife and felt some womanish need to see the nature of the sin behind him; feel a sympathy,(s) perhaps, for the cursing cursed, or want to hold it in his arms out of respect for the connectionbetween them, he too would be lost.
"call me my name.""no.""please call it. i'll go if you call it.""beloved." he said it, but she did not go. she moved closer with a footfall he didn't hear and hedidn't hear the whisper that the flakes of rust made either as they fell away from the seams of histobacco tin. so when the lid gave he didn't know it. what he knew was that when he reached theinside part he was saying, "red heart. red heart," over and over again. softly and then so loud itwoke denver, then paul d himself. "red heart. red heart. red heart."to go back to the original hunger was impossible. luckily for denver, looking was foodenough to last. but to be looked at in turn was beyond appetite; it was breaking through her own skin to a place where hunger hadn't been discovered. it didn't have to happen often, becausebeloved seldom looked right at her, or when she did, denver could tell that her own face was justthe place those eyes stopped while the mind behind it walked on. but sometimes — at momentsdenver could neither anticipate nor create — beloved rested cheek on knuckles and looked atdenver with attention.
it was lovely. not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncriticaleyes of the other. having her hair examined as a part of her self, not as material or a style. havingher lips, nose, chin caressed as they might be if she were a moss rose a gardener paused to admire.
denver's skin dissolved under that gaze and became soft and bright like the lisle dress that had itsarm around her mother's waist. she floated near but outside her own body, feeling vague andintense at the same time. needing nothing. being what there was.
at such times it seemed to be beloved who needed somethingm wanted something. deep down inher wide black eyes, back behind the expressionlessness, was a palm held out for a penny whichdenver would gladly give her, if only she knew how or knew enough about her, a knowledge notto be had by the answers to the questions sethe occasionally put to her: '"you disremembereverything? i never knew my mother neither, but i saw her a couple of times. did you never seeyours? what kind of whites was they? you don't remember none?"beloved, scratching the back of her hand, would say she remembered a woman who was hers, andshe remembered being snatched away from her. other than that, the clearest memory she had, theone she repeated, was the bridge — standing on the bridge looking down. and she knew onewhiteman.
sethe found that remarkable and more evidence to support her conclusions, which she confided todenver.
"where'd you get the dress, them shoes?"beloved said she took them.
"who from?"silence and a faster scratching of her hand. she didn't know; she saw them and just took them.
"uh huh," said sethe, and told denver that she believed beloved had been locked up by somewhiteman for his own purposes, and never let out the door. that she must have escaped to a bridgeor someplace and rinsed the rest out of her mind. something like that had happened to ella exceptit was two men — -a father and son — - and ella remembered every bit of it. for more than a year,they kept her locked in a room for themselves.
"you couldn't think up," ella had said, "what them two done to me."sethe thought it explained beloved's behavior around paul d, whom she hated so.
denver neither believed nor commented on sethe's speculations, and she lowered her eyes andnever said a word about the cold house. she was certain that beloved was the white dress that hadknelt with her mother in the keeping room, the true-to-life presence of the baby that had kept hercompany most of her life. and to be looked at by her, however briefly, kept her grateful for therest of the time when she was merely the looker. besides, she had her own set of questions whichhad nothing to do with the past. the present alone interested denver, but she was careful to appearuninquisitive about the things she was dying to ask beloved, for if she pressed too hard, she mightlose the penny that the held-out palm wanted, and lose, therefore, the place beyond appetite. it wasbetter to feast, to have permission to be the looker, because the old hunger — the before-belovedhunger that drove her into boxwood and cologne for just a taste of a life, to feel it bumpy and notflat — was out of the question. looking kept it at bay.
so she did not ask beloved how she knew about the earrings, the night walks to the cold house orthe tip of the thing she saw when beloved lay down or came undone in her sleep. the look, whenit came, came when denver had been careful, had explained things, or participated in things, ortold stories to keep her occupied when sethe was at the restaurant. no given chore was enough toput out the licking fire that seemed always to burn in her. not when they wrung out sheets so tightthe rinse water ran back up their arms. not when they shoveled snow from the path to theouthouse. or broke three inches of ice from the rain barrel; scoured and boiled last summer'scanning jars, packed mud in the cracks of the hen house and warmed the chicks with their skirts.
all the while denver was obliged to talk about what they were doing — the how and why of it.
about people denver knew once or had seen, giving them more life than life had: the sweet-smelling whitewoman who brought her oranges and cologne and good wool skirts; lady joneswho taught them songs to spell and count by; a beautiful boy as smart as she was with a birthmarklike a nickel on his cheek. a white preacher who prayed for their souls while sethe peeled potatoesand grandma baby sucked air. and she told her about howard and buglar: the parts of the bedthat belonged to each (the top reserved for herself); that before she transferred to baby suggs' bedshe never knew them to sleep without holding hands. she described them to beloved slowly, tokeep her attention, dwelling on their habits, the games they taught her and not the fright that drovethem increasingly out of the house — -anywhere — and finally far away.
this day they are outside. it's cold and the snow is hard as packed dirt. denver has finished singingthe counting song lady jones taught her students. beloved is holding her arms steady whiledenver unclasps frozen underwear and towels from the line. one by one she lays them inbeloved's arms until the pile, like a huge deck of cards, reaches her chin. the rest, aprons andbrown stockings, denver carries herself. made giddy by the cold, they return to the house. theclothes will thaw slowly to a dampness perfect for the pressing iron, which will make them smelllike hot rain. dancing around the room with sethe's apron, beloved wants to know if there areflowers in the dark. denver adds sticks to the stovefire and assures her there are. twirling, her faceframed by the neckband, her waist in the apron strings' embrace, she says she is thirsty.
denver suggests warming up some cider, while her mind races to something she might do or say to interest and entertain the dancer. denver is a strategist now and has to keep beloved by her sidefrom the minute sethe leaves for work until the hour of her return when beloved begins to hover atthe window, then work her way out the door, down the steps and near the road. plotting haschanged denver markedly. where she was once indolent, resentful of every task, now she is spry,executing, even extending the assignments sethe leaves for them. all to be able to say "we got to"and "ma'am said for us to." otherwise beloved gets private and dreamy, or quiet and sullen, anddenver's chances of being looked at by her go down to nothing. she has no control over theevenings. when her mother is anywhere around, beloved has eyes only for sethe. at night, in bed,anything might happen. she might want to be told a story in the dark when denver can't see her.
or she might get up and go into the cold house where paul d has begun to sleep. or she might cry,silently. she might even sleep like a brick, her breath sugary from fingerfuls of molasses or sand-cookie crumbs. denver will turn toward her then, and if beloved faces her, she will inhale deeplythe sweet air from her mouth. if not, she will have to lean up and over her, every once in a while,to catch a sniff. for anything is better than the original hunger — the time when, after a year of thewonderful little i, sentences rolling out like pie dough and the company of other children, therewas no sound coming through. anything is better than the silence when she answered to handsgesturing and was indifferent to the movement of lips. when she saw every little thing and colorsleaped smoldering into view. she will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner platesand all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her beloved. the ciderjug is heavy, but it always is, even when empty. denver can carry it easily, yet she asks beloved tohelp her. it is in the cold house next to the molasses and six pounds of cheddar hard as bone. apallet is in the middle of the floor covered with newspaper and a blanket at the foot. it has beenslept on for almost a month, even though snow has come and, with it, serious winter.
it is noon, quite light outside; inside it is not. a few cuts of sun break through the roof and wallsbut once there they are too weak to shift for themselves. darkness is stronger and swallows themlike minnows.
the door bangs shut. denver can't tell where beloved is standing. "where are you?" she whispersin a laughing sort of way.
"here," says beloved.
"where?""come find me," says beloved.
在俄亥俄，季节更替富于戏剧性。每一个季节出场时都像个女主角，自以为它的表演是人们在这世界上生息的缘由。当保罗·d被迫从124号搬到后面的棚子里去的时候，夏已经被嘘下台，秋带着它那血与金的瓶子引起了大家的瞩目。甚至在夜晚，本该有个安闲的间歇，却仍没有，因为风景隐去的声音依旧动人而嘹亮。保罗·d把报纸垫在身下、盖在身上，给他的薄毯子帮点忙。可是他一心想着的并不是寒冷的夜晚。当他听见背后的开门声时，他拒绝转身去看。
“你到这儿来要什么？你要什么？
”他本来应该能听见她的喘息。
“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我，还要你叫我的名字。
”
保罗·d再也不用操心他的小烟草罐了。它锈死了。因此，当她撩起裙子、像那两只乌龟一样把头扭过肩膀的时候，他只是看着月光下银光闪闪的猪油罐头，平静地说话。
“好心人收留你、好好待你的时候，你应该想着报答才是。你不该……塞丝爱你，就像爱她自己的女儿。这你知道。
”
他说话的时候，宠儿撂下裙子，用空荡的眼睛望着他。她悄没声息地迈了一步，紧挨在他身后站着。
“她不像我爱她那样爱我。我除了她谁也不爱。
”
“那你到这儿来干什么？
”
“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我。
”
“回屋睡觉去。
”
“你必须抚摸我。进到我身体里。你必须叫我的名字。
”
只要他的眼睛定在猪油罐头的银光上，他就是安全的。可是一旦他像罗得的老婆那样发抖，娘们似的想回头看看身后罪恶的实体；一旦他对该诅咒的作祟者心生同情；一旦顾及到他们之间的交情，想要把它搂进怀里，那么，他同样也会迷失。
“叫我的名字。
”
“不。”
“求求你。你叫了我就走。
”
“宠儿。
”他叫了，可她没走。他没听见她又挪近了一步，他也没听见锈屑从烟草罐接缝处散落时发出的沙沙声。所以盖子松动的时候，他没有察觉。他只知道自己进入她的体内时，说着：
“红心。红心。
”一遍又一遍。先是轻轻地，而后响亮得吵醒了丹芙，也吵醒了保罗·d自己。
“红心。红心。红心。
”
回复最初的饥饿是不可能的。丹芙很幸运，光是看着别人就能顶饭吃。可是反过来被别人回看，却不是她的胃口承受得住的；它会穿透她的皮肤，直达一个饥饿尚未被发现的地方。这种事不必经常发生，因为宠儿很少正眼瞧她，即便瞧上一眼，丹芙看得出，自己的脸也不过是她眼睛略停一停的地方，眼睛后面的头脑仍在继续漫游。可有的时候———这种时刻丹芙既无法预料也无法创造———宠儿用指节拄着腮，关注地端详着丹芙。
那真可爱。不是被盯视，也不是仅仅被看见，而是被另一个人兴致勃勃、不加评点的眼睛拉进视野。把她的头发当做她自身的一部分，而不是当做一种材料或者一种样式，加以审视。让她的嘴唇、鼻子、下巴得到爱抚，就仿佛她是一朵让园丁流连不已的毛萼洋蔷薇。丹芙的皮肤在她的注视下溶解，变得像搂住她妈妈腰身的那件莱尔裙一般柔软、光艳。她在自己的躯体之外漂游，感到恍惚，同时也觉得紧张。别无他求。听之任之。
这种时候倒是宠儿看起来有所需要———有所要求。在她漆黑的大眼睛深处，在面无表情背后，有一只手掌平摊出来，在讨要着一个铜子儿；丹芙当然乐于施与，只要她知道如何给她，或者对她有足够的了解。但这了解并不得自宠儿对那些问题所作的回答，那些塞丝偶尔向她提出的问题：“你什么都不记得了么？我也一直不认识我的妈妈，可我见过她两回。你从来没见过你的妈妈么？他们是哪种白人？你一点儿都不记得了？
”
宠儿会挠着手背，说她记得一个属于她的女人，还记得自己从她身边被人抢走。除此以外，她记得最清楚的、不断重复的，是那座桥———站在桥上往下看。另外，她还记得一个白人。
塞丝认为这一点值得注意，也发现了更多的证据，支持着她曾经向丹芙透露过的结论。
“你是从哪儿弄到那条裙子和那双鞋的？
”
宠儿说是她拿的。
“从谁那儿？
”
沉默。更快地挠手。她不知道；她看见了，就拿了。
“哦。”塞丝应道，然后告诉丹芙，她相信宠儿曾经被某个白人关了起来，以满足他的私欲，从来不让出门。她肯定是逃到了一座桥之类的地方，将其余的一切从记忆中洗去。有点像艾拉的故事，不过那是两个男人———父子俩———而且艾拉记得一清二楚。有一年多，他们为了满足自己，一直把她锁在一间屋子里。
“你想象不出来，”艾拉说过，“他们俩对我干了些什么。
”
塞丝认为这就能说得通宠儿在保罗·d周围的表现了，她是那么讨厌他。
丹芙不相信塞丝的推测，也不表态，她垂下眼帘，只字不提冷藏室的事。她敢肯定，宠儿就是起居室里和她妈妈跪在一起的白裙子，是伴她度过大半生的那个婴儿以真身出场了。能够得到她哪怕短暂的注视，即使在其余时间里只当个注视者，也让丹芙感激涕零。再说，她有她自己的一系列与过去无关的问题要问。只有现在，才让丹芙感兴趣，可是她小心谨慎地不表露出想问宠儿那些事情的强烈欲望，因为如果她逼得太紧，她就可能失去那枚伸出的手掌讨要的铜子儿，因而失去那超越食欲的地方。最好去大吃大喝，去保留做一个注视者的权利，因为原来的饥饿———宠儿之前的饥饿，驱使她进入黄杨树丛和香水之中，只为尝尝一种生活的味道，品味它的坎坷与不平———已不在考虑之列了。宠儿的注视已将它置于绝境。
所以她没有问宠儿她是怎么知道耳环的，没有问冷藏室的夜行，还有宠儿躺下或解衣睡觉时她看见的那东西的一端。那注视，它来临的时候，往往正是丹芙专心致志的时候，她不是在解释事情，就是在参与做事情，要么就是当塞丝去餐馆时，她正在给宠儿讲故事打发时光。任何分派的家务活都不能扑灭仿佛时时刻刻在她心中燃烧的烈火。她们使劲拧床单、水顺着胳膊直流的时候不能；她们将积雪从小路上铲到厕所里的时候不能；砸碎雨水桶里三英寸厚的冰层时也不能；擦洗和烧煮去年夏天的罐头瓶子、往鸡窝的裂缝上抹泥和用裙子暖和鸡雏的时候还是不能；丹芙被迫一刻不停地说着她们正在做的事情———怎么做，为什么做。说着她从前认识和见过的人，讲得栩栩如生，比真人还真：送给她橙子、香水和上好的羊毛裙的香喷喷的白女人；教他们唱字母歌、数字歌的琼斯女士；跟她一样聪明、脸蛋上有块五分钢镚似的胎记的漂亮男孩；塞丝削着土豆而贝比奶奶奄奄一息时为她们的灵魂祈祷的白人牧师。她还给她讲了霍华德和巴格勒：床上属于他们的地盘（他们把上铺留给她）；还有，在她搬到贝比·萨格斯的床上之前，她从没见过他们不手拉着手睡觉。她慢条斯理地向宠儿描述他们，吊她的胃口，翻来覆去地讲他们的习惯、他们教她的游戏，却没有讲那将他们逼出家门的恐惧———随便去哪儿———和最终的远走高飞。
这一天，她们待在外面。天很冷，积雪就像夯实的土地一样硬。丹芙已经唱完了琼斯女士教给她的学生们的数字歌。丹芙从绳子上解下冻僵的内衣和毛巾，宠儿伸手接着。她把它们一件一件放到宠儿怀里，直到它们像一沓巨型扑克牌一样挨到了她的下巴。剩下的围裙和棕色袜子，丹芙自己拿着。她们冻得头晕眼花，赶紧回到屋里。衣物会慢慢地溶化、变潮，正好适于烙铁熨烫，熨衣的味道闻起来就像热雨。宠儿系着塞丝的围裙满屋跳舞，想知道黑暗里是否有花儿。丹芙往炉火里添着劈柴，向她肯定说，有。宠儿的脸上缠着领巾，腰里系着围裙带，她一边转圈一边说她渴了。
丹芙建议热点苹果汁，同时急忙寻思能做点什么或说点什么，好让这个舞星感兴趣和快活。丹芙现在是个阴谋家了，想方设法把宠儿留在身边，从塞丝离家上班一直到她该回来的钟点。到了这个钟点，宠儿就开始在窗前徘徊，接着开门出去，走下台阶，走到大路旁。阴谋明显地改变了丹芙。她原来什么活计都懒得做、讨厌干，现在则是又麻利又能干，甚至自觉增加塞丝留给她们的任务。什么都可以说成是“我们非干不可”和“太太说了让我们干”。否则宠儿会变得孤僻、恍惚，或者沉默寡言乃至闷闷不乐，而这样下去丹芙被注视的机会就要减少到零。她控制不了晚上的局面。只要她妈妈在周围的什么地方活动，宠儿的眼睛就只盯着塞丝一个人。到了夜里，在床上，什么都可能发生。在黑暗中，丹芙看不见她时，她可能想听个故事。要么她可能起来到保罗·d已经开始在里面睡觉的冷藏室去。她还可能默默地哭泣。她甚至可能睡得像块砖头，由于用手指吃糖浆和甜饼干渣，她的呼吸变得甜丝丝的。丹芙愿意转向她，如果宠儿脸朝她睡，她就能深深地吸进她嘴里甜甜的气息。否则，她就必须每隔一会儿爬起一次，越过她的身体去嗅上一鼻子。因为什么都 比最初的饥饿要好———那个时期，在整整一年美妙的小写i、馅饼面团一样滚出来的句子以及同其他孩子的相伴之后，就再没有声音了。什么都比寂静好；那个时期，她只能回答别人的手势，面对嘴唇的动作却毫无反应。那个时期，她能看到每一样细小的东西和色彩燃烧着跳进视野。而今，她情愿放弃最热烈的落日、盘子一般硕大的星星和秋天的全部血液，而满足于最暗淡的黄色，只要那黄色来自她的宠儿。
苹果汁罐子很沉，不过它从来就是那样，甚至空的时候也是。丹芙其实能够轻易地提起它，可她还是请宠儿来帮忙。罐子在冷藏室里，挨着糖浆和六磅像石头一样硬的切达干酪。地板中央有一张草荐床，床脚盖着报纸和一条毯子。它被睡了将近一个月了，尽管严冬早已随冰雪一道降临。
正是中午，外面相当亮；屋里却不然。几丝阳光从屋顶和墙壁挤进来，可是进来后就太微弱了，都不能单独成束。强大的黑暗将它们像小鱼一样吞噬。
门砰地合上。丹芙拿不准宠儿站在哪里。
“你在哪儿？
”她似笑非笑地悄声问道。
“在这儿呢。
”宠儿道。
“哪儿？
”
“来找我吧。
”宠儿道。
