My Long War

  One night, running down a street near the Harvard campus, I encountered a skunk. It was standing in front of someone’s house. I had never seen a skunk outside of a picture book. Its hair was soft and black, like a cat’s, with the bold white stripe. I stopped to look at it for a while, and the skunk allowed me to do this for several minutes before slinking into some bushes. Sometime after that, in the afternoon, a hawk began appearing on the Harvard campus, landing on the larger buildings and monuments like Memorial Hall. It was a large, muscular hawk, of the red-tailed variety, with wide wings, and it announced its presence with a shriek. I usually heard it while walking out of Widener Library at lunchtime. I felt as if I were the only person who noticed. The hawk’s cry was plaintive but edgy; perhaps he had lost his way. One day, when Widener was closed, the hawk followed me to the law school for a half-mile. The hawk soared past me a few times and landed on a steeple and gave out a cry. By the end of summer, he was gone.

In the library, the chairs are soft and full, a cafe serves French pastries, and at the front door a machine dispenses plastic bags to cover your umbrella when you come in from the rain. Across the yard is Memorial Hall, a gothic structure whose walls are adorned by plaques with the names of 136 Harvard students killed during the American Civil War. One of them was Robert Gould Shaw, who led one of the first black regiments. I saw the names, engraved in marble, when I first arrived at Harvard and took the guided tour. I went back several times after that, but each time I found the building closed.

One day, Ashley, the photographer, phoned. He asked me what I did in Cambridge, and when I told him, he was silent. Ash took the train up from New York, and we went into Widener Library together, and he took a photo of me at one of the long wooden tables, among my notebooks. We got drunk that night, and Ash slept on my couch. He left the next day.

VI.

When I was in Iraq, I might as well have been circling the earth from a space capsule, circling in farthest orbit. Like Laika in Sputnik. A dog in space. Sending signals back to base, unmoored and weightless and no longer marking time. Home was far away, a distant place that gobbled up whatever I sent back, ignorant and happy but touchingly hungry to know. And then I was back, back in the world with everyone else, but not returning all the way. Still floating like Laika among the regular people in the regular world.

For me, the war sort of flattened things out, flattened things out here and flattened them out there too. Toward the end, when I was still there, so many bombs had gone off so many times that they no longer shocked or even roused; the people screamed in silence and in slow motion. And then I got back to the world, and the weddings and the picnics were the same as everything had been in Iraq, silent and slow and heavy and dead.

I flew west to see Billy Miller’s mom and dad. I might have gone to Pearland, Tex., where his bedroom was, where his sister, Sabrina, was, and where his name was emblazoned on a plaque in town, but I wanted to see his grave. I flew to Little Rock, Ark., and then rented a car and drove north to Greenbrier, in the foothills of the Ozarks, and Susie and Lewis, his parents, met me there. The Millers were officially still living in Pearland, but since Billy was here, in the family cemetery, they had

taken to renting an apartment nearby. When I steered my Chevrolet Cobalt into the June Beene apartments, Susie walked out into the parking lot to make sure I got the right unit. She was wearing a bright red T-shirt with a Marine Corps insignia and Billy’s name sewn into it.

The Millers joked and smiled; they talked of Billy and his life, almost as if he were still there. Their good cheer was relentless. They did not flinch. I told them I thought about Billy everyday, about how he had taken a bullet for me and Ash. Stepped in front of us so we could get a photograph. “He was just doing his job,” Susie said. “He died doing what he wanted to do.” She was ready for that one. I gathered it was a construction, the cheerfulness was, a Potemkin thing, and building it had come at no small effort. Still, it made me sad, even a little frustrated.

We drove out to the cemetery and walked out to Billy’s grave. There was a tombstone made of rose granite, adorned by an American flag and a bouquet of plastic flowers. Onto the face of the granite the Millers had emblazoned a pair of photos of Billy — one solemn, the other smiling — which were protected by sliding metal covers the shape of teardrops. The cemetery dated back to the middle of the 19th century, and there were many former soldiers there, and in the back, some slaves. We ate catfish at a local restaurant. The Millers gave me a couple of magnetic stickers they had made up after Billy’s death, an American flag and a ribbon and a photo of Billy. “For your refrigerator or car or whatever,” Lewis said. I hugged Susie and promised her I would come back, Ashley and I both. Lewis led me through Conway in his truck and out to the Interstate.

 I pulled over right before I got onto the freeway to shake hands, and I looked back and waved one more time as I merged with the passing cars.

我的漫漫征途7

一天晚上，我从靠近哈佛大学的一条街上跑下来时，碰到了一只臭鼬。它站在一户人家前面。我只在书的封面上见过臭鼬。它的毛发很软很黑，像猫，带着粗粗的白色条纹。我停下来，观察了它一会，它也让我看了几分钟，然后逃进了灌木丛中。

那过后不久的一个下午，一只鹰出现在了哈佛校园里，它落在一个大型的像纪念馆一样的建筑上面。这是一直很大、很壮硕的鹰，红色的尾羽，宽大的翅膀。它尖叫一声，宣布自己登场。午餐时间，我从Widener图书馆出来时，经常会听到这么一叫。我感觉我是唯一觉察到这点的人。鹰的叫声很悲哀，也很尖利；也许它迷路了。一天，Widener图书馆关门后，这只鹰一直跟着我走了半英里，来到了法学院。有好几次它从我身边疾飞过去，落在一个尖塔上，然后大叫一声。在夏末时，它就消失了。

图书馆的座位很软，每次都做满了人。里面有一个咖啡馆卖法国馅饼。在图书馆前门，有一台机器分发塑料袋，以便你从大雨中跑进来时把伞放里面。穿过院子就是纪念馆了，哥特式建筑，墙上用金属板装饰着，上面刻着在美国内战中牺牲的136名哈佛学子。其中一个叫Robert Gould Show，他带领了第一批黑人军团。我第一次跟着导游到哈佛大学的时候，就看见了刻在大理石上的名字。之后，我回来看了几次，每次都吃了闭门羹。

一天，摄影师Ashley 来电话了。他问我在Cambridge做什么，我告诉他了，他沉默了一阵。Ash从纽约坐火车过来，我们一起去了Widener图书馆，他给我拍了一张照：我坐在一张长木桌旁，上面都是我的笔记本。那天晚上我们喝醉了，Ash睡在我的沙发上。第二天他就离开了。

驻在伊拉克，还不如坐在太空舱里，沿着离地球最远的轨道绕圈，像Sputnik（苏联的人造地球卫星  译者注）里的Laika（第一只被送上太空的狗，很快就死在飞船上  译者注）一样。太空狗。往基地发送信号，起锚了，失重了，也不用计算时间。家遥不可及，在一个很远的地方，把我送回去的一切都囫囵吞下，无知而快乐，永远不会满足。现在我回来了，和大家在一起，但不是所有的我都回来了。我仍然和Laika一样，漂浮在一个平凡世界，漂浮在平凡的人流中。

对我来说，战争把一切都扯平了，扯平了伊拉克的一切，美国的一切。直到最后一刻，我还在那，无数的炸弹炸了，无数次人们不再惊愕，不再愤怒；慢镜头里，人们无声地尖叫着。然后我到了人世间，一样的婚礼，一样的野餐，一切都和伊拉克一样，沉默，缓慢，沉重，笼罩的死亡的气息。

我飞到了西部，去看Miller的父母。也许我该去德州Pearland的，他的卧室在那，他的妹妹Sabrina在那，他的名字刻在小镇的纪念墙上，但是我还是想去看他的墓。我飞到了阿肯色州的Little Rock，然后租了一部车，往南开到了绿蔷薇，来到了Azarks的山脚下，Miller的父母Susie和Lewis过来接我。原则上Miller夫妇还是住在Pearland，但是因为Miller在这，在家族墓地里，于是他们在附近租了个公寓。我把蓝色的雪弗兰开进June Beene公寓的时候，Susie来到停车点，看我是不是停对位置了。她穿着一件鲜红的T恤，上面别的海军陆战队的勋章，勋章上刻着Miller的名字。

Miller夫妇有说有笑；他们谈论着Miller和他的生活，仿佛他还活着一样。他们兴高采烈的神情在我看来很无情。他们没有被打败。我告诉他们，我每天都在想Billy，想着他是怎么为我和Ash吃的子弹。他冲在前面，为的是我们能拍到照片。“他只是尽了自己的本职。”Susie说，“他是为自己想做的事情而死。”她对此已早有思想准备。我想这只是伪装，一些类似波将金村一类的东西。（波将金（Potemkin），原是俄皇叶卡捷琳娜二世的大将和宠臣。1787年女皇沿第聂伯河巡视。为了邀功起见，他下令把南方贫困肮脏的村子装扮成一片繁荣的模范村庄。后世就把这种为欺骗公众舆论而弄虚作假的“样板”称为“波将金村”。译者注），要伪装成这样，真是费力不小。这让我很难过，甚至有一点挫败感。

我们开车到了目的地，走向Billy的墓。一个由玫瑰色的花岗岩做成的墓碑，插着美国国旗和一束塑料花。Miller夫妇在花岗岩表面贴了两张Billy的照片——一张很严肃，一张微笑着——由类似泪滴状的软金属片固定着。这个公墓的历史可以追溯到19世纪中叶，很多士兵葬在这里。公墓后面，葬的是奴隶。我们在当地的一家参观吃了鲶鱼。Miller夫妇送给我几个磁贴，这是他们在Biller 死后做的，一个美国国旗，一条勋带，一张Billy的照片。“你可以贴在冰箱或者车上或者其他随便什么东西上面。”Lewis说。我拥抱了Susie，保证我会再来，Ashley和我都会来。Lewis开着大卡车把我带我通过了Gonway, 来到了州际公路旁。快到高速公路时，我把车开出来和他们握手。我又回过头来挥手再见，然后跟进了车流。

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