经典科幻文学:《 再见 多谢你们的鱼》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.

一个关于车站旁酒馆的相当残酷的现实是，出于某些原因，那里的猪肉派有一种极为特别的惨白和肮脏。然而，比猪肉派更糟的是三明治。
似乎有这么一种感觉纠结在英格兰，那就是：把三明治做得有趣，诱人，或者用任何手段让它变得好吃一些都是某种罪恶的事，只有外国佬才这么干。
“把它们弄干一些，”这一指示被掩埋在了国家群体意识的某处，“让它们有点弹性。如果你必须让那摊东西保持新鲜，那就得一周清洗一次。”
通过在星期六的午餐时间里吃小酒馆的三明治这种方式，不列颠人寻求着替国家赎罪（不管是什么罪）。他们并不清楚那些罪孽是什么，当然，他们也不想知道。罪孽不是那种让人有兴趣了解的东西。但是不论他们有怎样的罪孽，他们通过逼自己吃下三明治来完全赎清了。
如果说还有什么比三明治更糟的，那就是三明治旁边的香肠了。郁闷的管状物填充着软骨，漂浮在一片炙热的苦海中，被一根厨师帽形状的塑料针钉着：有人觉得那个塑料针是为了纪念那些憎恨世界的已故厨师，他们被遗忘掉，只能在斯特普尼区的后楼梯与自己的猫终老。
而那些香肠是给那些知道自己的罪孽是什么并愿意通过一些特别的方式赎罪的人准备的。
“一定还有更好的地方，”阿瑟说。
“没工夫了，”芬妮说着，瞥了一眼手表。“我的火车在半小时后出站。”
他们在一张摇摇欲坠的小桌子旁坐下。桌上有几只脏兮兮的玻璃杯，还有几个泡过水的上面印着笑话的杯垫。阿瑟给芬妮点了杯番茄汁，又给自己要了杯有气泡的黄水。还有一些香肠。他不知道为什么要点香肠。他这么做只是为了在气泡进入杯子的时候找点事干。
酒保把阿瑟的找零泡在吧台上的一摊啤酒里，阿瑟还得谢谢他。
“好了，”芬妮一边说着一边瞅着表，“告诉我那些你必须告诉我的事。”
她的话听上去可能（最好只是可能）充满了极度的怀疑，阿瑟的心一沉。在一刹那间，他感到，芬妮变得冷淡而警惕了。他本来打算向她解释清楚，通过某种离魂梦境他心灵感应到了她遭受的心灵崩溃，而这一崩溃来自于，看上去与事实相反，但地球确实已经被毁灭，只是为了修一条阿瑟在地球上从未听说过的星际通道，他在沃贡飞船上亲自见证了这一切，而且，他的心灵和身体都难以抑制地渴望着她，并且他需要尽可能地像正常人一样尽快与她同床共枕。
“芬妮，”他开口了。
“您愿不愿意买几张我们的彩票？就一小张。”
他猛地抬起头。
“为了给退休的安洁募捐。”
“啥玩意儿？”
“她需要一台人工肾。”
一个有些僵硬瘦削的中年女人靠了过来，她穿着整洁的线衣，烫着整洁的卷发，有着整洁的微笑，脸很有可能被整洁的小狗们舔过很多次。
她拿出一小本作为彩票的某存包处的票子和一个铁罐。
“只要十便士一张，”她说，“你也许甚至能买两张。无需透支！”她咯咯地笑了一下，随后发出了一声好奇的长吁。说出“无需透支”这句话很明显带给了她自从战争时一些美国大兵在她那里住宿以来从未有过的愉悦。
“呃，行，好的，”阿瑟说着，飞快地翻着口袋磨出了几枚硬币。
经过了一番令人恼火的磨蹭以及整洁的做作（如果有这种东西的话）之后，那个女人终于撕下了两张票递给阿瑟。
“我希望您会赢，”她的微笑很快地凝聚在了一起就像一件日本折纸，“奖品非常好。”
“是的，谢谢你，”阿瑟说着，把彩票粗鲁地塞进口袋里然后瞥了一眼手表。
他转向芬妮。