「還鄉」後記

2012年一月一日- 元旦日，星期天，清晨兩點，奎里諾輕悄無聲地離開朗巴度醫院。一年前回到瓦哈卡，他就知道會有這樣的結局。離開芝加哥、回到墨西哥，有誰會照顧這樣的殘障人？ "Willing and able"。奎里諾的家人和朗巴度醫院雖然願意、但是顯然無力救護他。

世界景氣不好，一般人卻還是興高采烈地慶祝新年。除夕夜，送舊迎新，有人開香檳，嘭！有人放鞭炮煙火，劈劈啪啪！ 有人對空開槍，砰砰砰。奎里諾的呼吸機盡職地吞吐，噗-吸，噗-吸。病房牆上的鐘不舍晝夜地踱步，滴-答，滴-答。母親和妻子，千年如一日地守著山頭白雲。二十四歲的奎里諾悄無聲息離開人世。

還鄉

–顧裕光 寫於2011年四月
載於世界副刊 2011年6月12日

去年耶誕節的前三天，奎里諾·歐黑達 Quelino Ojeda 搭乘專機，從芝加哥回到家鄉─墨西哥南方的小城瓦哈卡。飛機落地，他望著窗外，流下淚來。啊！回家了。

沒人聽過奎里諾·歐黑達的名字，他不是電影明星、熱門歌手，他只是個微不足道的小人物。兩年前，才十八歲的奎里諾告別雙親和剛懷孕的妻子，偷渡進入美國，輾轉來到芝加哥，打散工維生，省吃儉用，每兩星期按時匯一兩百塊錢回去養家。去年八月，他替二手包商修屋頂，不小心從四層樓上跌下，看來準是沒救了。

救護車把他帶到就近的醫院，芝加哥西南郊區的基督醫學中心 Christ Medical Center。美國法律規定，醫院急診室不得拒收任何病人，包括奎里諾這樣的邊緣人：沒有合法身份，沒有醫療保險，沒有固定工作。奎里諾住進急診室。

三個多月下來，醫師穩定了奎里諾的情况。他雖然還是不能自行呼吸，頸子以下的身軀不能動彈，但是可以有簡單的對話，左半身的手指和腳趾可以稍稍移動。下一步該是復健。根據法律和醫師道德規範，醫院應該把病人轉往「適當機構」做追踪治療。

說來簡單，但是奎里諾是非法移民，沒有保險，沒有政府醫療補助，絕無能力償付巨額費用，復健中心和療養院不像急診室，他們沒有法律義務、也不願意接收這樣的病人。醫院已經花了六十五萬美元在奎里諾身上，再也沒有餘力長期養人，但是送不出這燙手山竽。長痛不如短痛，醫院花六萬美元包了一架醫護飛機把奎里諾送回墨西哥。飛機在瓦哈卡落地，奎里諾禁不住哭了。兩年來他多想家、但是現在多麼不願意回來！回到貧窮的瓦哈卡，這個破碎的身體絕對沒有復元的希望了。

奎里諾的淚，在芝加哥掀起波瀾。

芝加哥有五十三萬墨西哥裔居民，數目之高在美國大城裡僅次於洛杉磯，他們表達最強烈的憤怒。「只因為他是無證勞工，醫院拒絕治療，把他像垃圾一樣扔出去。」「醫院沒有徵詢病人意願，就把他遣送出境是不合法的。」「醫院應該協商墨西哥駐芝加哥的領事館，共同謀求合理的解決方案。」

醫院發言人說，基督醫學中心把奎里諾從大家料定必死的情況救出來，「垃圾」一詞從何說起？既然沒有復健中心和療養院收人，退而求其次的「適當機構」是送他回家。院方雖無法律義務在送人之前諮詢墨西哥領事館，但承認在「情」字上說不過去而深為歉疚。

這樣婉轉的態度，竟讓許多人光火。「明明是非法入境，為甚麼要說無證？他來，沒有任何人的許可。送他回家，倒要看他臉色！」「我是合法納稅公民，生了病，醫生開單子照磁共振，還得花幾星期與健保公司周旋。他已經花了七十萬，這筆帳遲早轉嫁到我們頭上！難怪醫院和健保費一年比一年貴，有誰替我們說話？」「何苦雇專機送他回家？醫院該早早拔管，一了百了！」「修屋頂的包商為了省錢，雇用非法勞工。他在工地受傷，顯然是因為訓練或安全措施不足。合法勞工在工作場所受傷，可以申請職業安全與健康管理局 (OSHA) 的補助，不至於有奎里諾這樣的案例。這個包商該負擔全部醫療費用，看看以後還有誰敢雇非法！」

卻有人持相反意見。「美國的生活水準高，一部分原因是廉價外勞。這筆醫療費，該算是社會成本的一部份。」「七十萬不是小數目，但是美國花幾百億緊急救助經營不善的銀行，年復一年支援中東的獨裁政權，以色列的軍政府，國會議員的政治分肥，更不必提伊拉克和阿富汗這兩個無底洞。浪費時間討論外勞，真是見小失大！」

這些話—甚至某些偏激的意氣之見—都有相當道理。醫院既然叫作「基督醫學中心」，更難以推辭進一步的道德壓力。耶穌説過：「這些事你們做在我這弟兄中一個最小的身上，就是做在我身上了。」孤苦無助的人受難，如同耶穌受難，在這樣的前提下，任何人的疾苦，都是我們的責任。我們就是責無旁貸的「適當機構」，我們就是弟兄義不容辭的守護者。

是這樣嗎？那麼為什麼這個以基督徒為社會主流的超級強國有這麼多破碎的人、破碎的心？非基督徒就可以袖手旁觀嗎？甘地、金恩不再，誰可以當二十一世紀的道德良心表率？或是索性讓臉書和推特舉辦網路投票，又快又有娛樂價值：救？不救？立見分曉！

在醫院的時候，墨裔克魯茲夫婦常來探視，並權充翻譯。現在他們接洽律師，要和醫院打官司，控告醫院沒有諮詢病人意願就移動他。可不是又兜回原處了嗎！急診室不能不收他，醫院不能移動他，竟有這樣的道理。莫非克魯茲擺明了要錢？還是要醫院再把奎里諾接回來？

芝加哥紛紛嚷嚷，兩千三百英哩外，奎里諾靜靜地躺在病床上。回來之後，瓦哈卡的幾個醫院不是沒有空床，就是沒有設備。總算朗巴度小鎮的綜合醫院可以收他。朗巴度 (Maria Lombardo de Caso) 在山窩裡，離瓦哈卡六、七小時車程，綜合醫院只是一個簡單的平房，窮得可憐，連呼吸機的濾網都要清洗消毒，一用再用，「復健」也只限於護士幫他抬抬手腳。 話說回來，好歹有個病床、有個呼吸機幫他活命。奎里諾的兒子一歲半了，是在他離家之後出生的。他從芝加哥寄錢回家，奉養父母，照顧妻子，也希望兒子能有好一點的未來。七月間，媽媽買了個電冰箱，西爾斯公司的卡車送來，在小山村裡引起相當騷動。八月他摔傷了，沒有人再匯錢回來，冰箱空空如也，為了省電費，連插頭也拔了。小兒子的未來呢？「他是個好孩子」，奎里諾又落淚了，「但是現在誰來養他呢？」

回來幾個月了，父母妻子卻很少來看他。他們住的三四十戶人家的小村落，離朗巴度只有五十英哩直線距離，卻是隔了幾座山頭，得走到下一個村鎮才有公車，兩次轉車加上一整天的時間，才到得了醫院。這樣的長途跋涉，加上車票、旅館，雖是三等公車、廉價小客棧，他們還是負擔不起。

說來好笑，兩年前偷渡美國，在邊境折騰了兩三個星期，路上又花了一個月，總算到了芝加哥。摔傷之後，從芝加哥專機飛回瓦哈卡才不過五個鐘頭。那六萬美元專機費用，夠養他們一家大小一輩子。若是兩年前有人給他六萬，或是墨西哥政府能提供適當的教育和工作機會，他就不必兜芝加哥這個圈子，不必摔成殘障，不必浪費七十萬醫療費，不必躺在病床上一遍遍重覆回想那個出事的下午。

啊！去年那個八月的午後，芝加哥的藍天和白花花的陽光，就像現在的窗外一樣。從四層樓的屋頂上，清清楚楚地看到市中心的高樓，彷彿比家鄉的母親山脈還高呢。大片大片的玻璃窗反射盛夏午後的陽光，閃閃爍爍，無聲地哼著催眠曲，暖風像是妻子溫柔的手，輕撫他的胸膛。是汗、還是淚？他的眼睛花了...

有什麼用呢？不要去想它吧！奎里諾輕輕閉上眼睛。身旁的呼吸機盡責地吞吐著，發出貓兒打呼般的聲音。噗—吸—，噗—吸—，伴著它，奎里諾沈沈睡去。

附筆:
1. 奎里諾的名字 Quelino Ojeda Jimenez 造成一些困惑，許多報紙稱他 Quelino Jimenez，這是因為不了解源自西班牙的命名方式。

墨西哥人一般有前名 first name 和中間名字 middle name，這和美國一樣。不同的是、他們有雙姓。以奎里諾為例： Ojeda 是他父親的姓， Jimenez 則是母親的閨名 maiden name。一般人日常用「前名＋父姓」，或是「前名＋中名＋父姓」，正式些的場合用「前名＋父姓＋母姓」或是全套的「前名＋中名＋父姓＋母姓」。母姓，其實就是外祖父的姓。祖母或外祖母的姓傳不到第三代。

已婚婦女保留自己的名字，或去掉母姓、冠上夫姓，但在夫姓前加一個 de (即是英文的 of), 表示是夫家的人，她的名字是「前名＋中名＋父姓＋de 夫姓」。

2. 照片裡，奎里諾的爸爸 Raul Ojeda Sevilla 倚在門旁，媽媽 Honorina Jimenez de Ojeda 站在電冰箱前面。

3.  奎里諾的「無證外勞」受傷事故不是偶發事件，這樣的故事一再重複。墨西哥貧而賤，美國富而驕，雙方都沒有改革的意圖，這樣的鄰居怎麼處得好？請參閱附文《夢迴淚田》。

夢迴淚田 — 非法外籍農工的辛酸血淚

《經濟學人》周報，2010年底特刊

泰瑞莎·韋加的兒子才兩歲，一場狂洪夾帶垃圾、獸屍、疾病隨著河道席捲了她的家鄉—墨西哥南方的極端窮困的瓦哈卡州。男嬰開始嘔吐、下痢、發高燒。雖然醫生近在幾小時步行距離之內，泰瑞莎和她先生馬可沒錢看醫生，他們眼睜睜看著孩子死去。

泰瑞莎說，她和先生從此對一切改觀。當他們有了另一個男孩艾米尼，他們肯定知道一定要有錢應付急病。但是窮如瓦哈卡，只有在七月玉米收成時節有短季零工。泰瑞莎的弟弟菲利斯已經離鄉赴美，到加州果農園覓頭路。2005年，泰瑞莎和先生走投無路，決定跟進。

小艾米尼肯定不能耐過這路程，泰瑞莎和先生只好把他留下，交托給馬可的爸爸。艾米尼才只一歲，這是泰瑞莎最後一次見著他。二十六歲的憔脆的泰瑞莎另有困處：她懷有七月身孕。儘管如此，夫妻倆動身北上，屢踏津渡。

說「屢踏」，因為偷渡大多失敗，導致遣返和一試再試，這是幾乎所有「無證」農工的共同故事。邊界是個門檻，讓他們初次瞥見「北方」El Norte，北邊的樂土。

菲利斯說，對移民局和邊境官員─所謂的邊幹 la migra─而言，這僅是「獵鹿遊戲」。他夫妻倆和堂表兄弟六人，三次偷渡被逮遣返，第四次才成功，但是遭受邊幹的屈辱，至今傷痛猶存。

＊掠者獵場＊

有一次他們漏夜走過亞利桑州的沙漠，身上掛著帶鉤鐵絲網的割傷，無水可喝，卻遭邊幹伏襲。邊幹把他們綁起，大聲怒斥，丟上貨車，送入一個冰冷的牢房。他們在水泥地上睡了幾晚，直到邊幹逮夠了人，裝滿巴士，送回墨西哥。

另一次偷渡卻被墨西哥土匪圍襲，槍尖下搶盡他們的食物、剝光衣服。菲利斯·韋加一行說的是米西泰克方言，只懂一點西班牙話，完全不通英語，菲利斯太太和其他女眷不知土匪說些什麼，驚怕遭強暴。匪徒沒有施暴，但這一群人得赤身露體，在沙漠寒夜裡、無水無食、連夜奔走，到頭來還是被邊幹逮著。

崗薩樓·韋加─泰瑞莎的另一個親戚─和他懷有五月身孕的太太和兩個弟弟（當時一個七歲、一個十歲）踏上偷渡路。他背負所有的飲水和食物，兩個孩子還是吃盡苦頭。連走了兩夜一天，孩子只想睡覺，但是崗薩樓不讓他們在酷寒裡休息，怕他們醒不過來，又不能生火取暖，怕被邊幹看到。

看到在邊界巡邏的越野客貨車，他們忙不迭地往田溝裡躲。有次崗薩樓的太太的大肚子狠狠著地，摔個正著。最壞的一次，邊幹逮到他們，把崗薩樓痛揍一頓，並且威脅要把他的兩個弟弟帶走，幸好最後還是讓他們一家在一起。他說，冰冷的水泥地似乎也不錯。崗薩樓第五次偷渡終於成功。

如果能渡過邊界，下一個難題是富裕但毫不友善的美國大地。通常移民者會有家人開車來接他們，許多人的下一步是前往加州的農業村鎮。

1930年代沙塵暴在奧克拉荷馬、德州、阿肯薩州肆虐近十年，成千上萬逃荒農民(廣受歧視而被稱為拗客–Okies)奔往加州謀生。墨西哥移民農工，現在走的也是這條路。約翰·史坦貝克巨著《憤怒的葡萄》描述的周德(Joad)一家的逃荒遭遇，永遠印烙在美國人的靈魂深處，左派的拉丁人士更是永不厭倦的把加州的墨西哥農工與拗客相提並論。這樣的比較並沒有錯，過去的周德和現在的韋加，被同樣的需求驅動，被同樣的許諾吸引。農田裡從來沒有「求職求才中介站」，移民勞工全憑口耳相傳的小道新聞來找頭路，常常就像周德一樣，來對了地方，卻錯過時辰。菲利斯·韋加夫婦和另外兩人，搭順風車來到草莓產地奧斯那，生產季節已過，他們夜宿街頭，之後睡狗屋、別人的汽車。兩個月沒得洗澡、經常沒東西吃。天可憐見，終於找到摘草莓的工作，第一次有了進賬。

從乎此，他們投入廣大的無證勞工市場，鞏固了美國食物供應網。政府估計美國農工裡，超過80%是西班牙裔（其中多是墨西哥裔），且過半是非法外籍。但是羅博·威廉斯說（他是移民農工公道策略中心的主任，在法庭上代表農工），這些數字極具誤導力，因為它完全仰仗自我報告。據他估計，超過90%的農工是無證身分，一如韋加一家。

＊惡魔勞役＊

從史坦貝克以來，田裡的苦役沒什麼改變。草莓─韋加頭一個碰上的農作物─有個渾名，叫做魔鬼水果，因為採收者要整日彎腰摘取。「天熱不好」菲利斯·韋加說，可是「天冷更糟」因為讓背部的酸痛更難忍。更壞的是下雨或雨雪，滿田一片泥濘。最壞不過，是得了流感、還得下田採草莓。

每一農作物的收成，有它特有的苦楚，本刊記者親嘗其苦。八月某天，他仿照史坦貝克筆下的周德家人，到加州中部聖華清山谷採葡萄。他和一雙墨西哥兄弟、一對墨西哥夫婦結為一伍，收割葡萄、裝於大鐵盆裡、再不時傾倒進曳引機後面的拖車。

田間小道恰恰是曳引機的寬度，車子一來，這一小隊人馬得閃躲在葡萄藤下。他們終日在曳引機旁爬行，盡量避免被車輪輾過腳背。還是躲不過，沒幾個鐘頭，記者的小腿就被拖車上突出的金屬結構衝撞得血跡斑斑。同伴微微一笑，撩起褲管，小腿上亦遍是傷痕。

採葡萄的工人得半蹲半跪，扭曲身軀（低垂的葡萄最是苦煞人），肩膀和脖子立時苦不堪言。站起來伸伸筋骨，頭就插進噴滿農藥的葡萄籐裡。農工家庭有數不盡的難產和癌症病例。但是當溫度計升到一百度（約攝氏40度），可管不了葡萄籐裡有沒有農藥。葉子下的空氣溼悶沈滯有如蒸氣浴，可這是唯一的陰蔽。

正當熱浪幾乎淹沒了記者，墨西哥女人開始低聲吟唱，歌聲如微風輕撫，但是中暑在農田是司空見慣的事。2008年，一個才17歲、懷孕在身的墨西哥女孩兒瑪麗亞，昏倒在葡萄田，不過兩天就去世了。

＊朱門餓骨＊

史坦貝克小說中的男主角湯姆·周德發現，儘管農工成天收割、摘採食物，自己卻難得一飽。在收成季節之間，田裡沒有工作。就算有工可做，薪水也低得可憐。葡萄工一小時八塊錢，曳引機操作員說，他在墨西哥家鄉，一天只掙九塊錢。現在錢是多了，但是美國的生活費用可高哪！

在草莓季節，泰瑞莎·韋加和先生馬可一天可以各掙65塊錢，可是有了兩個女兒—四歲的露易莎和兩歲的瑪麗莎，泰瑞莎需要—她不顧一切地堅持—在上工的日子請人來看顧孩子，一天要五十塊錢哪。

剩下的錢，大部份用來付拖掛屋車的房租。屋車座落在華森莊，離史坦貝克故居薩里納斯只有一箭之遙。屋車雖殘破，泰瑞莎盡心打理。門裡掛著墨西哥守護神、聖母瓜達魯珮(Virgin of Guadalupe)的圖相。屋裡甚至有個小電視。

但是屋車沒有冷暖氣。這一天，下了場大雨，屋內滿是霉溼氣味。泰瑞莎說（她的弟弟菲利斯把她的米西泰克方言傳譯成西班牙話），兩個女孩兒一到冬天總是生病。一個檯子權充廚房，檯上沒有新鮮食物，只有一罐蛋白質營養粉。

扣除了生活費用，只剩下一點點餘錢，寄給墨西哥老家的親人：先生馬可年老失明的祖父母，泰瑞莎有糖尿病的爸爸，最要緊的、是兒子艾米尼，這是他兩人當初離鄉的原因。西聯匯款公司收取高額服務費，讓他們匯錢之後手頭更緊促。

貧困之餘，「無證」農工還得生活在陰影中。今天的墨西哥人和往年的拗客不同，周德家庭和韋加家庭不同。拗客窮困飢苦，處處受歧視，但是起碼他們是美國人、是白人（多是蘇格蘭、愛耳蘭後裔）。他們不會被遣送出境。

「最苦的是沒有自由，不能出門，」菲利斯·韋加說，「像是坐牢一樣。」與美國官方的任何接觸，可能導至遞解出境，由是與妻、子分離。菲利斯的兩個兒子—七歲的維多和四歲的冶素—在美國出生，是公民而不會、不能被遞解，可是他自己沒有身份。

這樣的焦慮蔓延到生活的每一角落。在農田裡，無證外勞從來不敢對雇主的虐待有所申辯。僅僅是從家裡到田裡這段路都提心吊膽：他們通常要開遠路去上工，可他們沒有駕照，儘量避免和警察打交道。菲利斯·韋加開車都在速限以下，在停車標誌一定完全停止。

他的堂兄弟崗薩樓曾三次被警察叫停，他認為是因為「我的膚色」。像是大多數瓦哈卡來的墨西哥土著，韋加一家人都黑矮粗壯。上次警察把他攔住，因為他的車胎「觸著馬路中線」。州郡鄉鎮的警察不能執行移民法律，那是聯邦政府的職權，但是他們可以沒收無照駕駛人的車輛。崗薩樓車子被沒收，還得付1580美元的罰款，再花1500元另買一車。幾年的辛苦積蓄就這樣泡湯了。

在史坦貝克的小說裡，「這些移民勞工，終日倉皇找頭路，挪東補西過日子，總是在找樂子，儘管是苦中作樂。」一群人興高彩烈地喧鬧。無證移民可不敢熱鬧，怕引人注意。

不上工的星期天，菲利斯·韋加上教堂，之後帶著兩個兒子到臨近的公園，除此之外，他不出門。他從不上電影院，也不去醫院，家裡有人生病，就用土方治療。他的姐姐泰瑞莎，也幾乎從來不讓女兒在外面玩。露易莎和瑪麗莎整天關在車屋裡，車屋底端的床墊，是全家的床，也是孩子的全部活動空間。

崗薩樓·韋加和妻、女（兩歲的黛安娜和十個月大的愛絲珮）住在只有一間房的屋子，屋內僅有一張床墊，一把椅子。崗薩樓偷渡的時候，太太懷著的就是黛安娜。他讓孩子在屋外玩，不友善的美國鄰居抱怨太吵，威脅要報警。「這是老套：他們有證件，我們沒有。」他嘆氣說道，現在只准黛安娜安安靜靜在家裡玩。

崗薩樓的兩個小弟─偷渡時才七歲和十歲─住在鄰近小鎮，他們整天讀書，因為崗薩樓告訴他們，最優秀的學生可能拿到證件，合法居留。他自己也知道這是一廂情願的想法，但起碼讓弟弟免於出去惹是生非。

這樣沒有享樂的生活，並不是沒有歡樂。韋加的孩子，是他們的喜悅。菲利斯的大兒子，七歲的維多，通三種語言：老家的米西泰克方言、西班牙話和英語，臉上那股淘氣勁兒，只有擁有合法身分的孩子才會有。他上附近一個公立小學，菲利斯以他自豪，又像任何中產階級的家長一樣，擔心班上學生太多，師資不良。

「我不怨恨美國人，」菲利斯說。「某些人有種族歧視，但是在墨西哥也有種族歧視。」他說在美國的合法拉丁移民，比一般白人還排斥他。

然而三個韋加家庭（泰瑞莎、弟弟菲利斯、堂兄弟崗薩樓）常覺得被社會厭恨。常有人用種族歧視的字眼詛咒他們，用不屑的眼光看他們，叫他們「溼背」，好像才游水渡過邊界。菲利斯說，今年（指2010年）自從亞利桑那州通過強硬的反移民措施，到處的人都好像更顯敵意。雖然桑州法案被聯邦法官勒令暫緩執行，法案本身將會判定非法移民為罪犯，並敕令當地警方執法。

反移民人士稱韋加一流「非法」，這詞兒通常意味著「罪犯」，但是非法居留（譯註：例如合法入境但逾期不歸）只是普通民法案件，非法入境卻是刑事案件，所以移民和他們的同情者用「無證件」或「無記錄」一詞。「他們認為我們是罪犯，但是我們帶著善意而來，我們都是上帝的子女，」菲利感嘆地撫摸掛在脖子上的十字架。

＊雞肋之爭＊

失業率高漲，許多美國人深信是因為這些外國人搶了他們的飯碗。今年夏天，農工公會做了一個實驗，推出一個「捲起袖子」活動，招募美國人下田工作。接下來三個月，三百萬人瀏覽了公會的網站，但是公會發言人瑪麗亞·馬區卡說，40%的回應是恐嚇信，例如：「我們可要不客氣了，且等著瞧，我們會好好整治這些畜牲。」

8600人表示對這些工作有興趣，公會的馬區卡小姐說，但是他們的條件可高哪：要高薪，健康保險，退休金，遷居補助和其他福利。到了九月下旬，參與「捲起袖子」活動的美國人，只有七個實際下田工作。

農工公會主席阿圖·瑞格斯說，這個實驗證實：美國農田工作─幾乎不受聯邦或州政府管轄─不是一般工作，而且美國人不肖為之。所謂的「外勞搶飯碗」毫無根據，只是用外勞做替罪羔羊，瑞格斯說，「我們的實驗證實這樣的謊言」。

記者提出這些問題：民怨、亞利桑那州的反移民法案、政風轉移。泰瑞莎、菲利斯和崗薩樓只能憂傷地默默點頭。他們覺得非法來到美國不是出於自願。若是回到當時，會做同樣選擇嗎？「若是能預知前途，絕不！」菲利斯說。他想了一會兒，改變了說法：他會做同樣的選擇，因為不管自己能不能拿到居留證，兩個兒子是美國公民，有朝一日可能成為律師、或是作家，自由自在地生活。

泰瑞莎·韋加在這群人裡最寡言少語，她黯然默認「夢想落空」。她聽說留在老家的兒子艾米尼情況並不順遂，時常生病。「他需要、但是得不到足夠的愛」，她說。但是她也改變心意。她忘不了頭胎的兒子，悲慘去世、只因她沒錢看醫生。沒錯，她願意再踏坎坷路。

像是韋加這樣的家庭會前仆後繼而來，不管邊界的牆有多高，直升機有多少。他們就像《憤怒的葡萄》裡的周德一家。史坦貝克說：「你怎麼能嚇阻任何人，他顧的不是自己的飢腸，而是子女的空腹？你嚇不了他，他已經走過了窮途末路。」

呆子

凱特•克里絲譚森, 2011年
顧裕光 譯


1995年五月，瓦哈卡正是雨季，沒有一個遊客。這是個頗有意思的小城，但男友約翰與我只是過客。我們旅館房間的陽台對著一個有花有鳥的庭院。每天下午，我們閒坐在市中心廣場旁邊廊柱下的咖啡座，和季雨耗著，一邊寫明信片，一邊喝著啤酒、吃辛辣的炒花生米。當地人來來往往一如往常過日子。傍晚，大教堂的廣場上音樂悠揚。置身於此，我們是遠地來的觀光客，就像是任何陌生過客。

星期六，我們去露天市集。狹窄的過道兩旁掛滿了木雕動物、羊毛地毯、手工編織的籃子、繡花女衫，昏暗中兩人分不出方向。我們買了木雕的鹿和老虎面具。在小吃攤，我們品嚐鮮綠色的牛尾湯，恍忽不知身在何時何處，彼此像是陌生人般地拘謹。

彷彿老天爺有個時間表，當我們正要結束午餐，祂卻下起大雨來。雨勢奔騰，把市場小販的蓬子打得七歪八倒。大家都停下來看雨。這兩個典型的紐約客，決定不為雨困，繼續上路。才一踏上走道，一個蓬子傾翻了，雨水當頭潑下。我倆呆呆對望，旁邊的瓦哈卡人全看著我們。

下 一瞬間，大家爆笑起來，笑得不可扼止，像是只有這樣的無可理喻的笑，才能搔著癢處。有幾個人幾乎笑得跌下椅子。約漢與我成了今天的免費娛樂，兩個沒耐心的美國佬， 只為了急於購物，等不及雨停， 淋成落湯雞。我們與眾同樂，笑自己真是傻得可以。這是來到瓦哈卡之後最樂味的一樁事。

雨停了，我們一身溼淥淥地繼續購買準備帶回家的禮物，用美國高中學的破碎西班牙話和小販討價還價，還試著說幾個笑話。最後我們來到賣地毯的攤位，婦人和她兩個十幾歲的女兒顯得又累又倦，擠不出一絲笑意，我翻弄毯子，希望找到看得上眼的東西，可以幫幫她們，但實在沒有喜歡的。

就在此時，我瞥見那塊小毯子，她們把一張寫了店名的紙用別針潦草釘在毯子上。這是一小方手織棉毯，淡紫和乳黃顏色、很簡單的圖案。我指著它、問價錢。她隨口説了個價，我記得大約合四十美元，對我而言還算得上合理，但是我知道她是獅子大開口，因為這只是一小塊用來掛店名的布，任誰也不會看上眼。

我勢在必得，這是整個攤位上最漂亮的東西。我轉身問約漢，「我該還價，是吧？不然她們會笑我。」約漢説，「算了吧，天晚了。」

我笑著把錢交給婦人，她們這下可認定了我是個呆子。

婦人盯著錢，回眼望我，又低頭看錢，再轉身對著女兒，讓她們看她手裡的錢，三人轟然大笑。這不是譏諷的笑，而是驚喜有人給了她們一筆意外之財。她們把小毯子用黃色粗紙包好、紮緊、交給我。約漢和我走出市場，步入下午的燦爛陽光，欣喜於我們豐盛的收獲。

那塊毯子成了我最喜愛的桌巾，可現在它存在儲藏室裡。十二年的婚姻之後，約漢與我在2008年分手。那個瓦哈卡的下午，像是掛在手鐲上的喜物，不時在心裡敲盪，提醒我生命是多麼地不可捉摸。生命，如同旅行，充滿了一連串不可預知的機遇。你別無它法，只能在困窘時儘興地、寬容地笑自己：又作了一次呆子。

————————————————————————————————————————————
附筆:  凱特•克里絲譚森，生於1962年，是美國新生代小說家。她的第四本小說《 偉人》，獲得 2008年國際筆協 / 福克納文學獎。她的散文、書評、小說經常刊載於紐約時報書評，威爾森季刊，華爾街日報，《 她》雜誌和其它刊物。

Playing the Fool in Mexico

By KATE CHRISTENSEN ..... Copyright ©2011 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved

In May 1995, it was the rainy season in Oaxaca; there weren't many tourists around. It's an interesting town, but my boyfriend Jon and I felt like the outsiders we were. Our hotel's balconies overlooked a flowery, bird-filled courtyard and we spent afternoons in a café tucked into a colonnade on the zocalo, waiting out rainstorms, writing postcards, drinking beer and eating spiced peanuts. We watched locals go about their days and listened to live music in the cathedral square at night. Through it all, we felt touristy, distant—as one can when visiting a strange place. On Saturday, we went to the open-air market. We got lost in narrow, dark aisles of stalls hung with carved animals, wool rugs, woven blankets, embroidered shirts. We bought hand-carved masks of a deer and a tiger. Sitting at a table among the food stalls, we ate oxtails in a bright green broth, still gripped by that displaced self-consciousness, a feeling of formality, even with each other.

As we were finishing our lunch, right on schedule, it started pouring. The rain was dense and loud, pooling in the tarps that covered the stalls. All the Mexicans stopped what they were doing and watched the waterfall. New Yorkers that we are, we decided to push on and stepped into the walkway. Just then, one of the tarps overflowed, dumping a load of water directly onto us. We looked at each other, then at all the Oaxacans standing there watching us.

All of us— the entire market, it seemed— burst into laughter, the kind of shared hilarity that's like an infectious itch that only hard laughter can scratch. A few people were almost falling down with mirth. Jon and I were the entertainment of the day, the impatient gringos too bent on their shopping to stay out of the rain. We laughed at ourselves with them for a long time. It was the most fun we'd had in that town so far.

The rain stopped and we continued on, wet-haired, buying presents, bartering in our high-school Spanish, trying to make jokes. We came to a blanket-seller's stall at the end of the day. She and her two teenaged daughters looked bored and sulky; business was terrible this time of year. I looked through their blankets, wanting to help by buying something, but I didn't see anything I liked.

Then I spied the small blanket they had pinned their signs on. It was a piece of hand- woven cotton, a simple pattern in lilac and cream. I pointed and asked the woman how much it was. She named a price; I remember it as the equivalent of $40, fair as far as I was concerned but, I could tell, exorbitant to her. It was just her utility cloth, not anything fancy at all.

I wanted it; it was the most beautiful thing in their stall. I turned to Jon and said, "I have to try to bargain, right? Otherwise they'll laugh at me." Jon said, "Just give it to them. It's the end of the day."

I turned to the woman and handed her the money, smiling, knowing they'd think I was a sucker, and not caring.

The woman stared at the money, stared at me, took the money, turned to her daughters, showed them the money, and all three burst out laughing. It wasn't mocking laughter. It was the dazed, joyful laughter of people who'd been given a windfall. They wrapped the blanket in brown paper and tied it and handed it to me. Jon and I walked out into the sunny afternoon, dazed ourselves with the unexpected windfall.

That blanket became my favorite tablecloth. It's in storage now. After 12 years of marriage, Jon and I separated in the fall of 2008. That afternoon in Oaxaca comes back to me like a charm on a bracelet, a bell maybe, ringing with a now-familiar truth: I can't ever control what happens. Life, like travel, is made up of a series of unexpected moments, in the face of which it's impossible to do anything but laugh at yourself, be as generous as possible, and appreciate the fact that sometimes you're going to look like a fool.

趕集日 Market Day

– 顧裕光 譯 ２010年十二月

大衛·赫伯特·勞倫斯 （D. H. Lawrence, 1885- 1930) 是20世紀重要的文學家，作品包括小說、散文、戲劇、詩歌。最為人熟知、也最具爭議性的，是他的幾部小說：《兒子與情人》（1913)，《戀愛中的女人》 （1920），和《查泰萊夫人的情人》（1928）。
這篇《趕集日》，是勞倫斯旅遊散文集《墨西哥的清晨》（192７）裡的一篇。

這是耶誕節前最後一個星期六。明年可一定有好運道，大家如此揣測。今年就要過去了。一早起風了，吹動著樹葉，朝陽從金色的雲層裡透出來，片刻間灑在中庭牆外的黃花上，灑在搖曳生姿的絣紅色的九重葛上，灑在怒放的艷紅的聖誕紅上。聖誕紅的花大而奪目，紅得不帶一絲污垢。墨西哥人叫它「聖夜」，耶誕夜花。一叢叢深紅花瓣，像是一群紅鳥抖擻羽毛，沐浴在晨風裡。用它來裝點耶誕，不用冬青漿果。耶誕節似乎該用紅花來作前導。

絲蘭樹高過屋頂，它也開花了，垂掛著手臂長的奶黃色鐘形花朵，像是一長串泡沫吹成的葡萄。蠟質的小鈴鐺一般的花朵，被風吹離枝梗，悄沒聲兒地飄落。

咖啡豆也轉紅了。玫瑰色的扶桑花在淡紅色的細嫩枝芽上隨風搖曳。

第二進庭院裡有一棵高瘦的刺槐，樹頂綻放著白色的手指狀的花朵，赤裸裸直逼藍天。這些手指一般的花，隨著樹梢在風中捲動，像是在空蕩的藍天裡畫圈圈。

早上顯得不安寧，雲層低掛，在天空磨蹭。萬物都動蕩不定，既如此，倒該像老鷹一樣出去兜幾個圈兒。

萬物都像是打一個圓心點縈迴：層雲、圍繞谷地的山脈、飛升的塵埃、龐大優美的加比朗白斑鳶、乃至於白樴樹如雪片般飄落的花瓣。連巨大聳立的管風琴仙人掌和燭台仙人掌，都像是緩緩繞著圓心盤旋、逼近。

說不準為什麼我們會採用直線式的思考，自然界可沒有一條直線。何苦奢言「正道」？遲早所有的航道都會橫轉，繞向圓心。太空是弧形的，宇宙是穹蒼裡的穹蒼，從一點到另一點的方法，是沿著必然無可避過的曲線，像是鳶鳥把巨翅末梢提升些許，彷彿是半個橢圓的弧線浮升在空中。如果我能作主，我會選擇順著弧線，繞向圓心。斬斫出來的直線，有違自然法則。

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灰煙像幽靈般地隨著谷地，沿路而來。谷底的乾草地像細嫩皮膚般地在陽光裡閃著黃赭色的微光，橫灑過群山暗影。黯藍色半透明的煙嵐，陰鬱地由駝峰般的山頭沈下。重重皺褶的墨西哥山脈，靜默不語。

遠處瓦亞帕山村的緩坡上，叢叢樹林有如湖泊。這是星期六，像是白色斑點的漢子，隨著健步的黑驢子，從駝峰間的山徑走下，婦人騎坐在驢背籐籃之間，只見她的頭上下點動。星期六，趕集日，所以一大清早，這一群白點般的人，如同田間的沙鷗，白樴樹上綻放的火花，趕起在山谷裡起伏的黃土坡地上。

他們穿著雪白的棉布衫，用印地安人的小碎步，跟著驢子，舉膝前行。女人高坐驢背上巨大的籐籃之間，嬰兒安穩地兜在她棕赭的胸脯前。女孩兒及踝的棉布長裙，沾了塵土，跟著驢子的快步，連奔帶跑。他們或是一家大小，或是成群結隊，或是單獨一人，潮水一般，赤腳無聲走下山來，走向市鎮。鎮上教堂的圓頂突破聳立的綠樹穹空，背對著黃土山坡。

一條筆直大路，出現在山谷和市鎮之間。你不會錯過那股高聳移動的塵煙，超越所有的人，不停步地趕向鎮上。塵煙幽靈般地趕過那串不起眼的黑色的畜牲、和白斑點似的人，往鎮上飛奔。

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山谷裡農村來的莊稼人，和從山巔來的印地安土著，帶著他們的土貨，如朝聖者一般，夾著塵沙，匆匆趕向鎮上。黑耳朵的驢子和快步的男人、婦女和男女孩童，邁著小蹄子遛步而行的驢子，兩個籐籃裝滿番茄和瓠瓜，兩個網籃裝滿氣球形狀的陶壺，兩捆乾淨利落砍下的薪材，香煙一樣紮得整整齊齊，兩個網袋的木炭。驢子騾子，一路走來，載滿的土貨顛打在細腿畜牲身側。一個小驢子空手跟在負重貨的母親身後，一個身著白衣涼鞋的男人，以印地安人輕悄快步跟上，腳步靈巧的女孩兒又跑了起來。

舉步向前，彷彿踏風疾行。牛車在步行者之間慢慢移動，堅實的車輪承載重負。緩行的牛低垂著頭，鼻尖幾乎觸地，牛頭左右搖晃，牛角擺盪像是扭動的蛇，實木枷軛像杓子般深深陷入頸項。向前，走在枯乾草地和高聳碧綠的管風琴仙人掌之間。走過岩石和白樴樹飄落的花朵，走過飛蓬般的野豆叢。漫天塵土，用比誰都快的速度沿路而來，一片混沌，再一次席捲掩沒了渺小的人影。

這些矮小的人是查波泰克族：身材短小，挺胸闊步，精力充沛地在塵土中前進。沈靜矮小，圓滾頭顱的女人赤腳奔走，繫緊繞過雙肩的藍披巾，多半有個嬰兒兜在裡面。男人的白布衫，白得讓大帽子下面的臉消失在黑影中。棉布衫下的黝暗，黑夜般的臉龐，迅捷無聲，以無限精力向市鎮前進。

許多山裡來的賽拉諾印地安人，直挺的肩膀，頭戴著過夜也沒脫下的錐形黑色小氈帽。有些從遠處來的，戴著黑帽，穿著黑色包腳涼鞋，昨天已經走了整天。明天打道回府，他們黑黝黝臉上的眼睛還會是一樣黑亮不馴。他們沒有即定目標，像天上飛鷹，沒有預設路線，閒散如雲。

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市場是個龐大的棚蓋建築，你從鄰街走過，市集裡發出異乎尋常的的鼎沸聲浪。這嘈雜的聲音雖大，你卻或許從沒注意過。這聲音像是世上所有的幽魂，聚在市場的灰暗角落，用啾啾鬼語互話。這聲音彷彿細雨，又像是風吹蕉葉。黝黑的印地安人，熙熙攘壤，壓低了聲音，用輕悄的腳步湧進市場。查波泰克方言的獨特音調，和西班牙話、米西泰克人的側耳細語相互交錯。

這是做買賣，但更要緊的是相聚交往。古老世界的人，發明了兩個理由來自由無拘地聚集：市集與宗教。亙古以來，這兩件寶讓人和平相聚。一把薪材，一方織巾，幾個雞蛋和蕃茄，就足以讓男女老少跋山越嶺而來。你買我賣，以物易物，交流兌換。比銀貨尤為要緊的，是人際的交接。

就為此，小販樂意和你為一兩個銅鈑討價還價。棚蓋市場的中心水池邊是花市：一叢叢紅、白、粉色玫瑰，雜色的康乃馨，罌粟花，飛燕草，嫩綠鵝黃的金盞花，含苞待放的聖母百合，紫羅蘭和幾株勿忘我。沒有熱帶花，只有山裡來的野百合和淡紫紅的蘭花。

「這一把天芥花多少錢？」

「 十五個銅鈑。」

「十個銅鈑。」

「十五。」

你放下櫻桃色的天芥花，走開。婦人倒不在意，這樣短短地交手讓她卯上了勁。

「粉紅的？」

「那紅色的，您？三十個銅鈑。」

「我不要紅的。那雜色的。」

「啊！」婦人抓了一把雜色的康乃馨，仔細地放好。「瞧！要不多些？」

「不要。多少錢？」

「一樣，三十個銅鈑。」

「這麼貴？」

「小姐，一點也不貴。您看這一把就要八個銅鈑。」她指著一小把垂頭喪氣的花。「好吧，二十五個銅鈑。」

「不！二十二。」

「瞧！」她抓起那一小把花，隨手加上三四朵。「這要兩個銀洋哪，小姐。」

這是公平交易。你帶走一叢芬菲的粉紅，賣花婦多了一個人際交接，和一個純然陌生人交會。不同的口音交織，不同的意願交錯。這是生命，銅鈑只是個楔子。

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攤子一路擺開，右手邊是葱翠的蔬菜，左手邊是麵包和甜餅。稍遠是乳酪、奶油、蛋、雞、火雞、肉類，另一頭是當地的毯子、女用披巾、裙子、襯衫、手帕。攤子底是涼鞋和皮貨。

賣披毯的小販窺見你，用烈鳥般地哨聲招呼你，「先生，先生，您瞧！」他奮力甩開一張耀眼的披毯，另一個販子吹更尖銳刺耳的口哨，吸引你去看他的披毯。披毯販子鋪開一地的毯子，點明了是狼門虎穴。你搖搖頭，趕緊脫身。

卻發現陷身在皮貨攤。

「先生，先生，您瞧！精織涼鞋，上等手工。您瞧瞧！」

這個胖皮貨販子跳起來，把一雙皮涼鞋握在胸前。涼鞋是用細條牛皮密織，最新的巴黎款式，但是對當地人而言，這是祖宗的老骨董。你把鞋子拿在手裡端詳，胖皮匠的胖太太在一旁打邊鼓，「上等手工，一點不馬虎！」

皮匠總把太太帶在身邊。

「多少錢？」

「二十塊錢。」

「二十！」你驚訝、憤慨地說。

「你出多少錢？」

你可不願回答，卻把鞋子湊近鼻子。皮匠望著太太，相對大笑。

「真嗆鼻！」你說。

「一點不嗆，先生！」兩人又笑得不可開交。

「可嗆得很！這不是美國皮貨。」

「這可是美國皮貨，您！一點不嗆，先生。一點不嗆。」他連哄帶騙，直到你不再相信自己的鼻子。

「可真嗆哪！」

「你出多少錢？」

「一毛不付，因為鞋子嗆鼻臭。」

你把鼻子湊近，再嗅一次，雖然很明顯地毫無必要。儘管你不願開價，皮匠夫婦樂得看你痛苦萬狀地嗅鞋子。

你搖搖頭，把鞋子放下。

「你願意付多少？」皮匠好興致地再問一遍。

你神情凝重地搖頭，走開。皮匠和太太對視，又不可扼止地笑起來。因為你說它嗆鼻，卻一而再地嗅這雙涼鞋。

鞋子嗆鼻，沒錯。當地人用人糞制革。當迪亞斯(Bernal Díaz)與高帝斯(Cortés)來到墨西哥，他們看到市場上一排排裝滿人糞的陶壺，皮匠仔細一一聞嗅，要挑最好的來開價。這景觀竟讓十五世紀的西班牙人臉紅。甚而如此，我的皮匠和他太太覺得這是最最令人開心的事，看我一聞再聞這雙涼鞋。萬物皆有其嗅，墨西哥涼鞋自不例外，何苦怪罪洋葱有葱臭。

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這一大群磕頭碰腦、靜默無聲的土著，有些是整齊敏捷，大多是衣衫襤褸，從骯髒稀薄的棉布衫裡透出棕赭的膚色。半開化的山地人，戴著錐形黑色小氈帽，骨碌碌地望著人。他們群集在帽攤，左試右試，久久不能決定。油亮青黑、濃厚稠密的頭髮，鳥羽一般地覆過額頭，讓人連想到青黑髮色的佛陀，臍中生蓮。

市集從早開到晚。當地的廉價小客棧，中庭外圍是狹隘的棚舍和窄小的房間，許多遠道而來的人家，睡在這樣的棚欄般的房裡，更多的人家在市場周圍席地而臥。百多隻驢子圈在中庭裡，垂搭著耳朵，以驢子萬古以來的耐心，比其它畜牲更能了解：迂迴長路不管通往何地，都必彎向同一個中心點，今夜打尖的處所。

夜色將臨，灰土路上儘是曖暗人影，無聲地催促空載的驢子和滿載的騾子，轉身歸回鄉野。他們欣然離鎮，望向仙人掌、皺褶的山脈、和村落的樹叢。在某個村子，他們會躺在樹下、或是傍著牆腳，打發一夜，明天就到家了！

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趕集的目的達到了。他們做了買賣，更要緊的，他們有了片時的接觸，觸及生命的向心力。他們曾是人類巨流的一部份，湧向市集，旋渦的中心。在這裡，他們感受到生命的匯聚，他們和遠地來的陌生人接肩磨腫，他們聽到陌生人的語音，他們甚至與異鄉人有所交接問答。

沒有目標，沒有目的，沒有任何一樣事物是恆久不移的，甚至於教堂的尖塔。教堂尖塔微微傾斜，尋求迴旋的弧線。土著被強有力的漩渦捲進市場。強大的外推力又把他們送回大荒。

短暫交會的火花，除此無它。火花也不存。促然的交融，是唯有的珍寶。得到了，又失去了，僅留下一線蛛絲馬跡。

沒錯，襯衫裡的手帕緊緊包著幾個銅鈑，也許還有幾個銀幣。但是它們也會消失，就像夜星在晨空裡消失，它們注定要消失。萬物注定要消失。所有的弧線消失於漩渦中，短暫地重新浮現，終又再度消失。

只有那純然無法觸摸的，才能有所引動。接觸、交流的火花，那是無法圈繫的。一去不回、千古不絕、無法拘留的、交會時綻發的光芒。

就像黃昏時分的星辰，跨在晝夜之間。就像殘照的星辰，介於太陽和月亮之間，不為任一所動。閃爍中天、向晚的星辰，只有在日夜交替時可見，卻比兩者更玄妙。

D. H. LAWRENCE

Market Day

From Mornings in Mexico, 1927, a collection of eight essays

"That is why they like you to bargain, even if it's only the difference of a centavo."

This is the last Saturday before Christmas. The next year will be momentous, one feels. This year is nearly gone. Dawn was windy, shaking the leaves, and the rising sun shone under a gap of yellow cloud. But at once it touched the yellow flowers that rise above the patio wall, and the swaying, glowing magenta of the bougainvillea, and the fierce red outbursts of the poinsettia. The poinsettia is very splendid, the flowers very big, and of a sure stainless red. They call them Noche Buenas, flowers of Christmas Eve. These tufts throw out their scarlet sharply, like red birds ruffling in the wind of dawn as if going to bathe, all their feathers alert. This for Christmas, instead of holly-berries. Christmas seems to need a red herald.

The yucca is tall, higher than the house. It is, too, in flower, hanging an arm's length of soft creamy bells, like a yard-long grape cluster of foam. And the waxy bells break on their stems in the wind, fall noiselessly from the long creamy bunch, that hardly sways.

The coffee-berries are turning red. The hibiscus flowers, rose-coloured, sway at the tips of the thin branches, in rosettes of soft red.

In the second patio, there is a tall tree of the flimsy acacia sort. Above itself it puts up whitish fingers of flowers, naked on the blue sky. And in the wind these fingers of flowers in the bare blue sky, sway, sway with the reeling, roundward motion of tree-tips in a wind.

A restless morning, with clouds lower down, moving also with a larger roundward motion. Everything moving. Best to go out in motion too, the slow roundward motion like the hawks.

Everything seems slowly to circle and hover towards a central point, the clouds, the mountains round the valley, the dust that rises, the big, beautiful, white-barred hawks, gabilanes, and even the snow-white flakes of flowers upon the dim palo-blanco tree. Even the organ cactus, rising in stock-straight clumps, and the candelabrum cactus, seem to be slowly wheeling and pivoting upon a centre, close upon it.

Strange that we should think in straight lines, when there are none, and talk of straight courses, when every course, sooner or later, is seen to be making the sweep round, swooping upon the centre. When space is curved, and the cosmos is sphere within sphere, and the way from any point to any other point is round the bend of the inevitable, that turns as the tips of the broad wings of the hawk turn upwards, leaning upon the air like the invisible half of the ellipse. If I have a way to go, it will be round the swoop of a bend impinging centripetal towards the centre. The straight course is hacked out in wounds, against the will of the world.

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Yet the dust advances like a ghost along the road, down the valley plain. The dry turf of the valley-bed gleams like soft skin, sunlit and pinkish ochre, spreading wide between the mountains that seem to emit their own darkness, a dark-blue vapour translucent, sombring them from the humped crests downwards. The many-pleated, noiseless mountains of Mexico.

And away on the footslope lie the white specks of Huayapa, among its lake of trees. It is Saturday, and the white dots of men are threading down the trail over the bare humps to the plain, following the dark twinkle-movement of asses, the dark nodding of the woman's head as she rides between the baskets. Saturday and market-day, and morning, so the white specks of men, like sea-gulls on plough-land, come ebbing like sparks from the palo-blanco, over the fawn undulating of the valley slope.

They are dressed in snow-white cotton, and they lift their knees in the Indian trot, following the ass where the woman sits perched between the huge baskets, her child tight in the rebozo, at the brown breast. And girls in long, full, soiled cotton skirts running, trotting, ebbing along after the twinkle-movement of the ass. Down they come in families, in clusters, in solitary ones, threading with ebbing, running, barefoot movement noiseless towards the town, that blows the bubbles of its church-domes above the stagnant green of trees, away under the opposite fawn-skin hills.

But down the valley middle comes the big road, almost straight. You will know it by the tall walking of the dust, that hastens also towards the town, overtaking, overpassing everybody. Overpassing all the dark little figures and the white specks that thread tinily, in a sort of underworld, to the town.

* * * * *

From the valley villages and from the mountains the peasants and the Indians are coming in with supplies, the road is like a pilgrimage, with the dust in greatest haste, dashing for town. Dark-eared asses and running men, running women, running girls, running lads, twinkling donkeys ambling on fine little feet, under twin baskets with tomatoes and gourds, twin great nets of bubble-shaped jars, twin bundles of neat-cut faggots of wood, neat as bunches of cigarettes, and twin net-sacks of charcoal. Donkeys, mules, on they come, great bundles bouncing against the sides of the slim-footed animals. A baby donkey trotting naked after its piled-up dam, a white, sandal-footed man following with the silent Indian haste, and a girl running again on light feet.

Onwards, on a strange current of haste. And slowly rowing among the foot-travel, the ox-wagons rolling solid wheels below the high net of the body. Slow oxen, with heads pressed down nosing to the earth, swaying, swaying their great horns as a snake sways itself, the shovel-shaped collar of solid wood pressing down on their necks like a scoop. On, on between the burnt-up turf and the solid, monumental green of the organ cactus. Past the rocks and the floating palo-blanco flowers, past the towsled dust of the mesquite bushes. While the dust once more, in a greater haste than anyone, comes tall and rapid down the road, overpowering and obscuring all the little people, as in a cataclysm.

They are mostly small people, of the Zapotec race: small men with lifted chests and quick, lifted knees, advancing with heavy energy in the midst of dust. And quiet, small, round-headed women running barefoot, tightening their blue rebozos round their shoulders, so often with a baby in the fold. The while cotton clothes of the men so white that their faces are invisible places of darkness under their big hats. Clothed darkness, faces of night, quickly, silently, with inexhaustible energy advancing to the town.

And many of the serranos, the Indians from the hills, wearing their little conical black felt hats, seem capped with night, above the straight white shoulders. Some have come far, walking all yesterday in their little black hats and black-sheathed sandals. Tomorrow they will walk back. And their eyes will be just the same, black and bright and wild, in the dark faces. They have no goal, any more than the hawks in the air, and no course to run, any more than the clouds.

* * * * *

The market is a huge roofed-in place. Most extraordinary is the noise that comes out, as you pass along the adjacent street. It is a huge noise, yet you may never notice it. It sounds as if all the ghosts in the world were talking to one another, in ghost-voices, within the darkness of the market structure. It is a noise something like rain, or banana leaves in a wind. The market, full of Indians, dark-faced, silent-footed, hush-spoken, but pressing in in countless numbers. The queer hissing murmurs of the Zapotec idioma, among the sounds of Spanish, the quiet, aside-voices of the Mixtecas.

To buy and to sell, but above all, to commingle. In the old world, men make themselves two great excuses for coming together to a centre, and commingling freely in a mixed, unsuspicious host. Market and religion. These alone bring men, unarmed, together since time began. A little load of firewood, a woven blanket, a few eggs and tomatoes are excuse enough of men, women, and children to cross the foot-weary miles of valley and mountain. To buy, to sell, to barter, to exchange. To exchange, above all things, human contact.
That is why they like you to bargain, even if it's only the difference of a centavo. Round the centre of the covered market where there is a basin of water, are the flowers: red, white, pink roses in heaps, many-coloured little carnations, poppies, bits of larkspur, lemon and orange marigolds, buds of madonna lilies, pansies, a few forget-me-nots. They don't bring the tropical flowers. Only the lilies come wild from the hills, and the mauve red orchids.

* * * * *

"How much this bunch of cherry-pie heliotrope?"

"Fifteen centavos."

"Ten."

"Fifteen."

You put back the cherry-pie, and depart. But the woman is quite content. The contact, so short even, brisked her up.

"Pinks?"

"The red one, Señorita? Thirty centavos."

"No. I don't want red ones. The mixed."

"Ah!" The woman seizes a handful of little carnations of all colours, carefully puts them together. "Look, Señorita! No more?"

"No, no more. How much?"

"The same. Thirty centavos."

"It is much."

"No, Señorita, it is not much. Look at this little bunch. It is eight centavos."—Displays a scrappy little bunch. "Come then, twenty-five."

"No! Twenty-two."

"Look!" She gathers up three or four more flowers, and claps them to the bunch. "Two reales, Señorita."

It is a bargain. Off you go with multicoloured pinks, and the woman has had one more moment of contact, with a stranger, a perfect stranger. An intermingling of voices, a threading together of different wills. It is life. The centavos are an excuse.

* * * * *

The stalls go off in straight lines, to the right, brilliant vegetables, to the left, bread and sweet buns. Away at the one end, cheese, butter, eggs, chicken, turkeys, meat. At the other, the native-woven blankets and rebozos, skirts, shirts, handkerchiefs. Down the far-side, sandals and leather things.

The sarape men spy you, and whistle to you like ferocious birds, and call "Señor! Señor! Look!" Then with violence one flings open a dazzling blanket, while another whistles more ear-piercingly still, to make you look at his blanket. It is the veritable den of lions and tigers, that spot where the sarape men have their blankets piled on the ground. You shake your head, and flee.

To find yourself in the leather avenue.

"Señor! Señor! Look! Huaraches! Very fine, very finely made! Look, Señor!"

The fat leather man jumps up and holds a pair of sandals at one's breast. They are of narrow woven strips of leather, in the newest Paris style, but a style ancient to these natives. You take them in your hand, and look at them quizzically, while the fat wife of the huarache man reiterates, "Very fine work. Very fine. Much work!"

Leather men usually seem to have their wives with them.

"How much?"

"Twenty reales."

"Twenty!" —in a voice of surprise and pained indignation.

"How much do you give?"

You refuse to answer. Instead you put the huaraches to your nose. The huarache man looks at his wife, and they laugh aloud.

"They smell," you say.

"No, Señor, they don't smell!" —and the two go off into fits of laughter.

"Yes, they smell. It is not American leather."

"Yes, Señor, it is American leather. They don't smell, Señor. No, they don't smell." He coaxes you till you wouldn't believe your own nose.

"Yes, they smell."

"How much do you give?"

"Nothing, because they smell."

And you give another sniff, though it is painfully unnecessary. And in spite of your refusal to bid, the man and wife go into fits of laughter to see you painfully sniffing.

You lay down the sandals and shake your head.

"How much do you offer?" reiterates the man, gaily.

You shake your head mournfully, and move away. The leather man and his wife look at one another and go off into another fit of laughter, because you smelt the huaraches, and said they stank.

They did. The natives use human excrement for tanning leather. When Bernal Díaz came with Cortés to the great market-place of Mexico City, in Montezuma's day, he saw the little pots of human excrement in rows for sale, and the leather-makers going round sniffing to see which was the best, before they paid for it. It staggered even a fifteenth-century Spaniard. Yet my leather man and his wife think it screamingly funny that I smell the huaraches before buying them. Everything has its own smell, and the natural smell of huaraches is what it is. You might as well quarrel with an onion for smelling like an onion.

* * * * *

The great press of the quiet natives, some of them bright and clean, many in old rags, the brown flesh showing through the rents in the dirty cotton. Many wild hillmen, in their little hats of conical black felt, with their wild, staring eyes. And as they cluster round the hat-stall, in a long, long suspense of indecision before they can commit themselves, trying on a new hat, their black hair gleams blue-black, and falls thick and rich over their foreheads, like gleaming bluey-black feathers. And one is reminded again of the blue-haired Buddha, with the lotus at his navel.

Market lasts all day. The native inns are great dreary yards with little sheds, and little rooms around. Some men and families who have come from far, will sleep in one or other of the little stall-like rooms. Many will sleep on the stones, on the earth, round the market, anywhere. But the asses are there by the hundred, crowded in the inn-yards, drooping their ears with the eternal patience of the beast that knows better than any other beast that every road curves round to the same centre of rest, and hither and thither means nothing.

And towards nightfall the dusty road will be thronged with shadowy people and unladen asses and new-laden mules, urging silently into the country again, their backs to the town, glad to get away from the town, to see the cactus and the pleated hills, and the trees that mean a village. In some village they will lie under a tree, or under a wall, and sleep. Then the next day, home.

* * * * *

It is fulfilled, what they came to market for. They have sold and bought. But more than that, they have had their moment of contact and centripetal flow. They have been part of a great stream of men flowing to a centre, to the vortex of the market-place. And here they have felt life concentrate upon them, they have been jammed between the soft hot bodies of strange men come from afar, they have had the sound of strangers' voices in their ears, they have asked and been answered in unaccustomed ways.

There is no goal, and no abiding-place, and nothing is fixed, not even the cathedral towers. The cathedral towers are slowly leaning, seeking the curve of return. As the natives curved in a strong swirl, towards the vortex of the market. Then on a strong swerve of repulsion, curved out and away again, into space.

Nothing but the touch, the spark of contact. That, no more. That, which is most elusive, still the only treasure. Come, and gone, and yet the clue itself.

True, folded up in the handkerchief inside the shirt, are the copper centavos, and maybe a few silver pesos. But these too will disappear as the stars disappear at daybreak, as they are meant to disappear. Everything is meant to disappear. Every curve plunges into the vortex and is lost, re-emerges with a certain relief and takes to the open, and there is lost again.

Only that which is utterly intangible, matters. The contact, the spark of exchange. That which can never be fastened upon, forever gone, forever coming, never to be detained: the spark of contact.

Like the evening star, when it is neither night nor day. Like the evening star, between the sun and the moon, and swayed by neither of them. The flashing intermediary, the evening star that is seen only at the dividing of the day and night, but then is more wonderful than either.