双语小说阅读——《Ether-以太》 Part 4

 

 

Chap 11.
 

I’m getting ten minutes on the phone, and I don’t want to waste them. But beside Slim and Roy, I can’t think of anyone to call. Strangely, Slim spends the call talking about the Arawak language of Jamaica. Roy doesn’t pick up. I put down the receiver, at a loss.
 

“Hey, old man, how much time do you have left to waste anyway?” The line behind me is getting impatient.
 

I dial the familiar number without thinking. Like always, the phone rings three times before someone picks up. “Hello?”
 

“How are things, Mom?” I say.
 

“I’m well. How about you? Do you still get the headaches?” Through the receiver, I hear the scrape of a chair being dragged over. My mother sits down.
 

“I’m much better nowadays. And . . . and what about him?” I say.
 

“You never ask about him.” My mother sounds surprised.
 

“Ah. I was just wondering . . . ”
 

“He passed away last month,” my mother says calmly.
 

“Oh. Really?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Do you have anyone to take care of you?”
 

“Your aunt is with me. Don’t worry.”
 

“His grave . . . ”
 

“Is in the church cemetery. A long ways from your sister.”
 

“That’s good, that’s all I wanted to make sure. Then . . . have a good weekend, Mom.”
 

“Of course, and you too. Good-bye.”
 

“Bye.”
 

She hangs up. I rub the age spot on my right hand as if trying to wipe those memories away. My father, reeking of alcohol. My sister sobbing, my mother growing withdrawn and numb. The memories from my college breaks are far enough downstream in my life that they no longer seem so unbearable. “Old man, time is money! Tick-tock, tick-tock!” The person behind me taps at his wrist, imitating the tick of watch hands. I hang up the receiver and walk off.
 

For lunch, I end up sitting next to a red-haired guy with a man’s name tattooed on his face. His arms are garishly patterned, as if he were wearing a Hawaiian shirt. “That guy’s gay! Don’t go near him. And don’t let him grab your hand,” the Mexican who shared my cellmate had warned me—I’m guessing he meant well. I take my tray and move a bit aside.
 

Redhead scoots closer, smirking. “Want to share my goat milk pudding? I’m not a big fan of lactose.”
 

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say as politely as I can.
 

Redhead reaches over. I snatch back my hand as if jolted on a live wire, but he manages to grab it anyway. He grips my right hand tightly and tickles at my palm with a fingertip.
 

I can feel every hair on my body standing on end. “I don’t think I’d be very suited to this type of relationship. If you don’t mind . . . ” I struggle in vain. The bystanders are laughing raucously, smacking the dining tables like a drum.
 

The sensation becomes familiar. It’s finger-talking, the same abbreviations, rapid and precise. “If you understand, tell me.”
 

I calm down and give Redhead a careful lookover. He still wears the same stomach-turningly lecherous expression as before. I hook my finger and tell him, “Received.”
 

“Thank God!” His expression doesn’t change, but he writes an abbreviation for a strong exclamation. “I’ve finally found another one. Now, after lunch, go to the reading room. The philosophy section is against the east wall. No one ever goes there. On the bottom of the second shelf, between Hegel and Novalis, there’s a copy of the 2009 edition of Overview of the History of Philosophy. Read it. If you don’t understand how, pages 149 to 150 explain the basics. I’ll contact you afterward. For reasons of safety . . . I suggest you prepare to be thought of as gay. Now, hit me.”
 

“What?” I say, caught off guard.
 

Redhead leers with utmost lasciviousness and reaches for my ass. I flail out a fist and punch him in the nose.
 

“Ow!” The bystanders burst into laughter so loud the guards look our way. Redhead scrambles upright, a hand over his bleeding nose, and leaves cursing with his meal tray.
 

“What did I tell you?” My cellmate appears with tray in hand and gives me a thumbs up. “But you’ve got guts!”
 

I ignore him and stuff food into my mouth. Once I finish, I go to the reading room alone. On the bottom Philosophy shelf, between Hegel and Novalis, I find the clothbound 2009 edition of Overview of the History of Philosophy. I sign it out from the librarian and take it back to my cell. The Mexican isn’t back yet. I lie on my cot and flip open the heavy covers. I don’t see anything special. From a glance, it’s just a yawning pit of references and citations.
 

I flip to page 149, and see that someone’s replaced this page. In the midst of headache-inducing philosophy-related proper names is a sheet of yellowing paper clearly torn from another book. The front is covered with completely irrelevant medical information on joint protection, while the back is mostly methods of head massage and corresponding diagrams. At the bottom is a three hundred word simple overview of a newly invented type of low-error, high-efficiency Braille. However, the development of more practical visual surgery techniques had led to the decline of Braille, the book informed me. The new type of Braille was made obsolete before it was ever implemented.
 

Oh, of course. Braille. I shut the book and close my eyes. The outside covers only have the big embossed gold lettering, but on the inside cover, I find little bumps arranged in some sort of dense pattern. If you weren’t paying attention, they’d seem like some oversight in quality control left the paper unevenly textured. I refer to the instructions and slowly decipher the Braille. The information is heavily compressed; it takes me almost two hours to understand the text on the inside cover.
 

“The finger-talking gathering welcomes you, friend,” the unknown author greets. “You’ve certainly felt the changes, but you don’t understand them. You’re lost, angry, considered crazy by other people. Maybe you’ve bowed to the way things are. Maybe you’re still looking for the truth. You deserve the truth.”
 

I nodded.
 

“This was an enormous program. The secretly ratified 33rd Amendment allowed the formation of a Federal Committee for Information Security to filter and replace information that could pose a threat to social stability and national security. After lengthy test trials, a high-efficiency system called ‘Ether’ slowly came together. At first, Ether only functioned to automatically monitor the Internet through network and Wi-Fi equipment. All text, videos, and audio it considered to be subversive would be put through hacking, sampling, and semantic network analysis. Once it found the forum hosting it, Ether would infiltrate all related conversations on that server. Everyone except the poster would see an altered post. In addition, the poster would be recorded by the database. For example, if you posted the topic ‘Senatorial Luncheon,’ it would be flagged as harmful. Ether’s supercomputers had free legal rein to override all network firewalls, and would intercept the data packet at the interface and replace all keywords. Everyone else would see your topic as the uninteresting ‘KFC Super Value Lunch.’ This way, the federal government gained total control over the Internet. The tragedy is that most people never realized what had happened. They only pessimistically believed that the spirit of liberty was gradually disappearing on the Internet—exactly what the government wanted.”
 

I feel a chill at my back. The Mexican comes in at this time and throws his dirty towel on my stomach. “Buddy, you should join the group exercises now and then.”
 

“Shut up!” I yell with all my might. The Mexican looks blankly at me. His expression shifts from surprise and anger to fear. He looks away, afraid to meet my bloodshot eyes. My fingers move shakily across the flyleaf of Overview of the History of Philosophy.
 

“Following the success of Ether, the federal government’s control over radio, television, and print were a foregone conclusion. The few members of the media who refused to collaborate with the Information Security Bill were isolated using a technology from the same origin as Ether. Nanoelectronic technology had been used to tamper with data exchange, and the people in power soon realized that nanobots could similarly tamper with data exchange through visible light. Seven years after the enactment of the 33rd Amendment, they decided to release nanobots into the atmosphere. These tiny machines could remain suspended in air, using the silicon in soil and construction materials to self-replicate until the desired density was achieved. They were simple devices, activating once they reached the requisite density. They would detect subversive text—information in visible light waves—and subversive speech—information in sound waves—replace them with harmless data, and log their source. They could adhere to printed text and signs, polarizing light so that all observers beside the source would receive false optic data; they could alter the spread pattern of sound waves so all listeners except the source received false acoustic data. Since the source can receive the sound traveling through their bones, they’d hear the message they intended. These little demons floating the air made Ether omnipotent and omnipresent, like the mysterious substance undetectable to mankind that the philosophers said occupied all space—the original ether.”
 

I remember the psychiatrist’s words, “All I see is the advancement of society and democracy.” I clench my fists and grind my teeth hard enough to be audible.
 

“This is the era we live in, friends. Everything is a lie. The online forums are lying. The TV programs are lying. The person speaking across from you is lying. The protesters’ signs raised up high are lying. Your life is surrounded by lies. This is a golden time for the hedonists: no conflicts, no war, no scandal. When the conspiracy theorists are locked away in the mental hospitals, when the last revolutionaries fade away in front of their lonely computer screens, only our fragile and perfect tomorrow awaits. We will dance our stately, well-mannered waltz at the cliff’s edge, build our magnificent castle on quicksand.
 

“Who am I? I’m a nameless soldier, one of the criminals who created Ether. I’m not important. The important thing is that you should see these changes. You should know the truth. Now the truth is yours, and you can choose the path that lies ahead. Our fingers are our most precious resource, because in the next twenty years, within the range of foreseeability, nanobots won’t be able to deceive humanity’s sensitive sense of touch. If you make the choice, you can join the finger-talking gatherings through your mentor at any time, and enter the last and only resistance group under Ether’s omnipresent surveillance. You will enter the only truth left in this world of lies.
 

“The finger-talking gathering welcomes you, friend.”
 

I close the heavy covers. Thoughts and images are stringing themselves together in my mind. I’ve seen the truth, but I have even more questions now, and only whoever wrote these words can answer them. I brush my palm across the short gray bristles of my scalp, knowing I’ve already made my choice.
 

At dinner, when I see Redhead, I make a beeline for him and take his hand. The cafeteria is instantly in an uproar. We’re going to be the butt of every joke, but I don’t care. I write in his palm, “I’m in.”
 

His smile is full of stories. “Welcome. The first gathering is in two days during group exercises, northeast of the woodwork factory. Our internal publications are in the Philosophy section, second shelf, bottom layer, flyleaf of Nietzsche’s collected works. Right, there’s a flax-blonde, freckled young lady in the female wing who wants me to ask ‘the sexy old bald guy’ how he’s doing. I think I’m talking to the right person.”

I gape.
 

In that moment, I think of many things. I don’t think of how to change the world with our primitive method of communication, but of all the things my father left me. I thought my father’s beatings and curses had made me incapable of loving, but I’ve found that love is a piece of the human soul that can never be cut out, not just the tremble of hormones. I’d so hated my father, tried to reject every memory that included him year after year, but I’ve found that the child of an abusive father doesn’t have to stay broken. The pain at least is real. I hate lies, even well-meaning lies, more.
 

I need to do as I did twenty-three years ago. I need to shout as loudly as I can to the guy trying to control my life, “Fuck you!”
 

She gives me courage, flax-haired, blue-eyed her. I grip Redhead’s hand tightly, as if I can feel the warmth of her body through his skin. On our palms are written love and freedom, burning hot. Love and freedom, searing through the skin, branding the bone.
 

“I love you, Daisy—not you, don’t get the wrong idea.” Under countless eyes, I write it on Redhead’s palm.
 

“Of course.” Redhead is ready with his familiar, mischievous smirk.

第十一章

 

我有十分钟的电话时间，我不想浪费，可除了瘦子和roy之外，想不到还能打给谁。瘦子声音怪异地讲着牙买加的阿拉瓦语，roy没有接电话。我放下听筒，发着呆。 

 

“嗨，老爹，你在浪费所剩无几的生命。”后面排队的人不耐烦地开口。 

 

我无意识地拨了熟悉的号码。与往常一样，铃响三声之后，电话接通了：“你好？” 

 

“你好吗，妈妈。”我说。 

 

“我很好。你呢？头痛还出现吗？”听筒里传来拖动椅子的声音，对面的人坐下了。 

 

“最近好多了。……他呢？”我说。 

 

“你从不主动问起他。”母亲的声音有些诧异。 

 

“唔。我想……” 

 

“上个月他去世了。”母亲平静地说。 

 

“哦，是吗。” 

 

“是的。” 

 

“那么有人照顾你吗？” 

 

“你的姨妈陪着我，放心。” 

 

“他的坟地……” 

 

“在教区。距离你姐姐很远。” 

 

“那我就放心了。那么……周末快乐，妈妈。” 

 

“当然。也祝你愉快。再见。” 

 

“再见。” 

 

听筒传来忙音。我揉搓右手的丑陋色斑，试图把那些画面从眼前抹去，酒气熏天的父亲、哭泣的姐姐、变得无动于衷的母亲，大学时代回家看到的画面，如今因生命的流逝显得不再那么沉重。“老爹，时间宝贵啊，滴答滴答。”排队的人指指手腕，模仿秒针跳动。我挂好听筒，转身离开。 

 

午餐时我与一个红头发的家伙坐在一起，他的脸上刺着男人的名字，胳膊上花花绿绿，像穿着件夏威夷衫。“这家伙是个同性恋！别靠近他。别让他摸你的手。”与我分享房间的墨西哥人曾经告诫我，我想他是好意。我端着餐盘，挪开一些。 

 

红头发嬉皮笑脸凑了过来：“要分享我的羊奶布丁吗？我不是什么乳糖爱好者。” 

 

“谢谢，不必了。”我尽量礼貌。 

 

红头发伸手过来，我触电似地缩回手臂，但还是被他捉住了。他把我的右手紧紧握在掌心，指尖轻轻搔挠，让我感觉毛骨悚然的不适。 

 

“我想我不太适应这种关系，我说……”我尽量挣扎。旁边的人肆无忌惮笑了起来，鼓劲似的敲打餐桌。熟悉的感觉传来。那是手指聊天的讯息，一样的缩写方式，快速而准确，“如果你懂的话，反馈我。” 

 

我冷静下来，深深地看了红头发一眼。他还是一副令人反感的同性恋表情。我手指反勾，告诉他：“收到。” 

 

“天哪！”他表情不变，却写下代表强烈感情色彩的感叹词。“终于又找到一个了。”现在听我说，午餐后去阅读室，东边靠墙鸟不生蛋的哲学区域，第二个书架底层，在黑格尔与诺瓦利斯之间有一本2009版的《哲学史大观》，拿去看。如果不明白阅读方法，第149页到150页有简单说明。稍后我会再跟你联系，为了安全起见……我建议你做好变成同性恋的准备。现在，打我。” 

 

“什么？”我没反应过来。 

 

红头发带着真正同性恋才有的恶心笑容伸手去摸我的屁股，我挥起拳头，砸在他的鼻梁上。“噢！”围观者愉快地轰然大笑。狱警向这边看来，红头发从地上爬起来，捂着流血的鼻子，骂骂咧咧地端起餐盘离开了。“我说什么来着？”同屋的墨西哥人端着盘子出现，挑起大拇指：“不过你是个有种的老家伙。” 

 

我没理他，尽快把食物塞进口中。午饭后，我独自来到阅读室，在哲学书架底层、黑格尔与诺瓦利斯之间找到那本精装的2009《哲学史大观》，交给图书管理员登记，带回房间。墨西哥人还没有回来，我躺在上铺，翻开厚重的封皮。没什么出奇，这是一本空洞的哲学书籍，从密密麻麻的条目和引文名单就看得出来。我翻到149页。这页纸被人调换了，令人头痛的哲学名词中间，出现一张分明从其他书中撕下的泛黄纸页，正面是毫无意义的关节保健知识，背面是大段头部按摩方法和配图，末尾一段，用三百字篇幅简单介绍了一种盲文的读写方法，据称这是一种误码率很低、效率极高的新型盲文，但由于各种视觉与非视觉新技术手段给盲人带来的便利，盲文渐渐式微，新型盲文夭折在应用之前。 

 

哦，当然，盲文。我合上精装书，闭上眼睛。封面、封底只有烫金大字。在封面内页，我找到以一定方式排列的密集小圆点，如果不用心感觉，就像封装质量不佳带来的页面坑洼不平。我对照说明，慢慢地解读盲文信息。由于压缩率比较高，我几乎用去两个小时才明白封面内页携带的文本信息。 

 

“手指聊天聚会欢迎你，朋友。”不知名的撰写者在盲文中问候，“你一定察觉了那些变化，但你不明白，你迷茫、愤怒，甚至成为别人眼中的疯子。你也许屈服于现实，也许一直在寻找真相。你有权利得知真相。” 

 

我点点头。 

 

“这是一项庞大的计划。国会秘密通过第33条宪法修正案成立联邦信息安全委员会，对可能危害社会稳定和国家安全的信息进行过滤和替换，在漫长的尝试后一套高效率的系统逐渐形成，这个系统叫做‘以太’。最初，‘以太’是工作在互联网上、对互联网设备和移动互联网设备进行监控的自动化体系，它对一切被认定存在潜在威胁的文字、视频、音频进行数据欺骗，简单举例，语义分析接口认定一个讨论组中的有害主题，‘以太’对接入该讨论组所在服务器的所有相关会话发送欺骗信息，除发表者之外其他人看到的都是经过调制的讨论话题，同时，信息发送者被数据库记录。假如你发表名为‘参议员的午餐’的话题，被判定为有害信息，运行于巨型计算机上的、因法律体系而凌驾于所有网络防火墙之上的‘以太’在其他程序会话接入之前控制所有端口，将数据包中的相关字节替换，于是在别人眼里，你发表的话题变成无趣的‘kfc超值午餐’。以这种方式，联邦政府秘密地彻底控制了网络，可悲的是，绝大多数人并不知情。他们只是悲观地认为，革命精神在互联网上逐渐消失，——这也是联邦最愿意看到的情形。” 

 

我感觉后背发凉。这时墨西哥人走了进来，把脏毛巾丢在我的肚皮上，“老家伙，你应该偶尔参加一点集体活动。” 

 

“闭嘴！”我用尽全身力气叫嚷。墨西哥人愣了。他的表情由惊诧、愤怒变为逐渐恐惧，挪开视线，不敢看我充血的眼睛。我的手指颤抖着在《哲学史大观》扉页移动。 

 

“随着‘以太’的成功，联邦政府对广播、电视和纸质出版物的控制是顺理成章的结局，对部分不肯配合信息安全法案的媒体人士，与‘以太’同源的信息欺骗技术被用于隔离异见者。纳米微电子技术被用于信息欺骗，很快，权力者意识纳米机械在肉眼可见光范围内信息替换的潜力，第33条修正案颁布后的第七年，他们决定向空气中散播纳米微机械。这种微型设备悬浮在空气中，利用土壤和建筑材料中的硅进行自我复制，直至达到预定浓度，它们仅具有简单的机械结构，浓度达到规定程度后进入工作状态；它们会自动侦测具有潜在威胁的文字（可见光信号）和声音（音波信号），将之替换为无害信息，并将发布者记录在案。它们附着在印刷文本和标语牌表面，通过光偏振向除发布者之外的观察者发布欺骗光学信号；它们改变声波扩散形态，向除发布者之外的倾听者发布欺骗声学信号，当然，发布者本身因为骨骼的传导作用，听到的还是自己的原本想说的话。漂浮在空气中的小恶魔使‘以太’无所不能、无所不在，如同哲学家口中人类无法察觉却充满一切空间的神秘物质——‘以太’本身。”

 

“我看到的，是社会与民主的进步。”我想到心理医生的话，握紧拳头，牙齿咯咯作响。 

 

“这就是我们生活的时代，我的朋友。一切都是谎言。网络讨论组是谎言。电视节目是谎言。坐在你对面说话的人，说着谎言。高举的标语牌，刻着谎言。你的生活被谎言包围。这是享乐主义者的美好时代，没有争执、没有战斗、没有丑闻，当阴谋论者被关入精神病院，最后的革命者在孤独的电脑屏幕前郁郁而终，等待我们的是脆弱而完美的明天，彬彬有礼的悬崖舞者，建在流沙上的华美城堡。” 

 

“我是谁？我是无名小卒，参与编织‘以太’黑幕的罪人，我并不重要，重要的是你察觉到这一切变化、有权利得知真相，现在真相就在你手中，由你选择接下来的道路。手指是我们最珍贵的礼物，因为在可预见的二十年之内，纳米机械没有欺骗人类精密触觉的可能。若你下定决心的话，随时可以通过你的介绍人加入手指聊天聚会，加入‘以太’无所不在监视下唯一的、最后的反抗组织，加入虚假世界内的仅有的真实。” 

 

“手指聊天聚会欢迎你，朋友。” 

 

我合上厚重的封皮。一幕幕画面在脑海中串联起来。我看到了真相，却产生更多的疑问。这一切疑问，只有写下这些文字的人能够给予解答。我用手掌抚摸长出短短灰色发茬的头皮，知道自己早已作出选择。 

 

晚餐时，我见到红头发的同性恋者，径直走过去拉起他的手。餐厅里一片哗然，我们成为嘲笑的对象，但我视而不见，在他的手心写道：“我加入。” 

 

他露出一个内容丰富的笑容。“欢迎你。第一次聚会在两天后集体劳动时举行，木器厂东北侧。内部刊物在哲学第二书架的底层，尼采文集的扉页，每周更新。对了，女监区亚麻色头发、长着雀斑的小妞让我传达‘对性感光头大叔’的问候。我想，我没找错人。” 

 

我张大嘴巴。 

 

那一刻，我想了很多。我没有怎样想使用幼稚的交流方式给世界带来变化，而是想着父亲留给我的一切。我以为父亲的棍棒与责骂让我不懂得怎样去爱，但我发现，爱是人类无法割除的灵魂片段，而不止是荷尔蒙的颤抖；我如此憎恨我的父亲，以至于年复一年抗拒着有关他的所有回忆，但我发现，责打孩子的父亲未必不能养成健全的人格，疼痛起码是真实的，我更憎恨（即使是善意的）欺骗。 

 

我需要做的是像二十三年前一样，大声对那个用尽一切办法控制我人生的家伙喊出：“去你的！” 

 

她给予我勇气，有着亚麻色头发、蓝眼睛的她。我握紧红头发的手，彷佛透过他的皮肤，感觉到她的体温。我们的手心里，写着爱与自由。滚烫的爱与自由。烧破皮肤、镌刻在骨骼的爱与自由。 

 

“我爱你，黛西。——不是对你说，请别会错意。”众目睽睽中，我在红头发的手心写下。 

 

“当然。”红头发早有准备地以一个熟悉的、调皮的笑脸回答。