經典科幻文學:《 再見 多謝你們的魚》第12章1

There is, for some reason, something especially grim about pubs near stations, a very particular kind of grubbiness, a special kind of pallor to the pork pies.
Worse than the pork pies, though, are the sandwiches. There is a feeling which persists in England that making a sandwich interesting, attractive, or in any way pleasant to eat is something sinful that only foreigners do.
Make ‘em dry, is the instruction buried somewhere in the collective national consciousness, make ‘em rubbery. If you have to keep the buggers fresh, do it by washing ‘em once a week.
It is by eating sandwiches in pubs on Saturday lunchtimes that the British seek to atone for whatever their national sins have been. They’re not altogether clear what those sins are, and don’t want to know either. Sins are not the sort of things one wants to know about. But whatever their sins are they are amply atoned for by the sandwiches they make themselves eat.
If there is anything worse than the sandwiches, it is the sausages which sit next to them. Joyless tubes, full of gristle, floating in a sea of something hot and sad, stuck with a plastic pin in the shape of a chef’s hat: a memorial, one feels, for some chef who hated the world, and died, forgotten and alone among his cats on a back stair in Stepney.
The sausages are for the ones who know what their sins are and wish to atone for something specific.
There must be somewhere better, said Arthur.
No time, said Fenny, glancing at her watch. My train leaves in half an hour.
They sat at a small wobbly table. On it were some dirty glasses, and some soggy beermats with jokes printed on them. Arthur got Fenny a tomato juice, and himself a pint of yellow water with gas in it. And a couple of sausages. He didn’t know why. He bought them for something to do while the gas settled in his glass.
The barman dunked Arthur’s change in a pool of beer on the bar, for which Arthur thanked him.
All right, said Fenny, glancing at her watch, tell me what it is you have to tell me.
She sounded, as well she might, extremely sceptical, and Arthur’s heart sank. Hardly, he felt, the most conductive setting to try to explain to her as she sat there, suddenly cool and defensive, that in a sort of out-of-body dream he had had a telepathic sense that the mental breakdown she had suffered had been connected with the fact that, appearances to the contrary nonwithstanding, the Earth had been demolished to make way for a new hyperspace bypass, something which he alone on Earth knew anything about, having virtually witnessed it from a Vogon spaceship, and that furthermore both his body and soul ached for her unbearably and he needed to got to bed with her as soon as was humanly possible.
Fenny, he started.
I wonder if you’d like to buy some tickets for our raffle? It’s just a little one.
He glanced up sharply.
To raise money for Anjie who’s retiring.
What?
And needs a kidney machine.
He was being leant over by a rather stiffly slim middle-aged woman with a prim knitted suit and a prim little perm, and a prim little smile that probably got licked by prim little dogs a lot.
She was holding out a small book of cloakroom tickets and a collecting tin.
Only ten pence each, she said, so you could probably even buy two. Without breaking the bank! She gave a tinkly little laugh and then a curiously long sigh. Saying Without breaking the bank had obviously given her more pleasure than anything since some GIs had been billeted on her in the war.
Er, yes, all right, said Arthur, hurriedly digging in his pocket and producing a couple of coins.
With infuriating slowness, and prim theatricality, if there was such a thing, the woman tore off two tickets and handed them to Arthur.
I do hope you win, she said with a smile that suddenly snapped together like a piece of advanced origami, the prizes are so nice.
Yes, thank you, said Arthur, pocketing the tickets rather brusquely and glancing at his watch.
He turned towards Fenny.

一個關於車站旁酒館的相當殘酷的現實是，出於某些原因，那裏的豬肉派有一種極爲特別的慘白和骯髒。然而，比豬肉派更糟的是三明治。
似乎有這麼一種感覺糾結在英格蘭，那就是：把三明治做得有趣，誘人，或者用任何手段讓它變得好吃一些都是某種罪惡的事，只有外國佬才這麼幹。
“把它們弄乾一些，”這一指示被掩埋在了國家羣體意識的某處，“讓它們有點彈性。如果你必須讓那攤東西保持新鮮，那就得一週清洗一次。”
通過在星期六的午餐時間裏吃小酒館的三明治這種方式，不列顛人尋求着替國家贖罪（不管是什麼罪）。他們並不清楚那些罪孽是什麼，當然，他們也不想知道。罪孽不是那種讓人有興趣瞭解的東西。但是不論他們有怎樣的罪孽，他們通過逼自己吃下三明治來完全贖清了。
如果說還有什麼比三明治更糟的，那就是三明治旁邊的香腸了。鬱悶的管狀物填充着軟骨，漂浮在一片炙熱的苦海中，被一根廚師帽形狀的塑料針釘着：有人覺得那個塑料針是爲了紀念那些憎恨世界的已故廚師，他們被遺忘掉，只能在斯特普尼區的後樓梯與自己的貓終老。
而那些香腸是給那些知道自己的罪孽是什麼並願意通過一些特別的方式贖罪的人準備的。
“一定還有更好的地方，”阿瑟說。
“沒工夫了，”芬妮說着，瞥了一眼手錶。“我的火車在半小時後出站。”
他們在一張搖搖欲墜的小桌子旁坐下。桌上有幾隻髒兮兮的玻璃杯，還有幾個泡過水的上面印着笑話的杯墊。阿瑟給芬妮點了杯番茄汁，又給自己要了杯有氣泡的黃水。還有一些香腸。他不知道爲什麼要點香腸。他這麼做只是爲了在氣泡進入杯子的時候找點事幹。
酒保把阿瑟的找零泡在吧檯上的一攤啤酒裏，阿瑟還得謝謝他。
“好了，”芬妮一邊說着一邊瞅着表，“告訴我那些你必須告訴我的事。”
她的話聽上去可能（最好只是可能）充滿了極度的懷疑，阿瑟的心一沉。在一剎那間，他感到，芬妮變得冷淡而警惕了。他本來打算向她解釋清楚，通過某種離魂夢境他心靈感應到了她遭受的心靈崩潰，而這一崩潰來自於，看上去與事實相反，但地球確實已經被毀滅，只是爲了修一條阿瑟在地球上從未聽說過的星際通道，他在沃貢飛船上親自見證了這一切，而且，他的心靈和身體都難以抑制地渴望着她，並且他需要儘可能地像正常人一樣儘快與她同牀共枕。
“芬妮，”他開口了。
“您願不願意買幾張我們的彩票？就一小張。”
他猛地擡起頭。
“爲了給退休的安潔募捐。”
“啥玩意兒？”
“她需要一臺人工腎。”
一個有些僵硬瘦削的中年女人靠了過來，她穿着整潔的線衣，燙着整潔的捲髮，有着整潔的微笑，臉很有可能被整潔的小狗們舔過很多次。
她拿出一小本作爲彩票的某存包處的票子和一個鐵罐。
“只要十便士一張，”她說，“你也許甚至能買兩張。無需透支！”她咯咯地笑了一下，隨後發出了一聲好奇的長吁。說出“無需透支”這句話很明顯帶給了她自從戰爭時一些美國大兵在她那裏住宿以來從未有過的愉悅。
“呃，行，好的，”阿瑟說着，飛快地翻着口袋磨出了幾枚硬幣。
經過了一番令人惱火的磨蹭以及整潔的做作（如果有這種東西的話）之後，那個女人終於撕下了兩張票遞給阿瑟。
“我希望您會贏，”她的微笑很快地凝聚在了一起就像一件日本摺紙，“獎品非常好。”
“是的，謝謝你，”阿瑟說着，把彩票粗魯地塞進口袋裏然後瞥了一眼手錶。
他轉向芬妮。