绿里奇迹(英文版)-第15部分

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　been；　Bitterbuck's　left　braid　was　smouldering　like　a　pile　of　wet　leaves。　
〃Never　mind　that　thing；〃　I　told　Brutal。　I　didn't　want　to　have　to　clean　a　load　of　chemical　slime　off　the　dead　man's　face　before　putting　him　in　the　back　of　the　meatwagon。　I　slapped　at　The　Chief's　head　（Percy　staring　at　me；　wide…eyed；　the　whole　time）　until　the　smoke　quit　rising。　Then　we　carried　the　body　down　the　twelve　wooden　steps　to　the　tunnel。　Here　it　was　as　chilly　and　dank　as　a　dungeon；　with　the　hollow　plink…plink　sound　of　dripping　water。　Hanging　lights　with　crude　tin　shades　…　they　were　made　in　the　prison　machine…shop　…　showed　a　brick　tube　that　ran　thirty　feet　under　the　highway。　The　top　was　curved　and　wet。　It　made　me　feel　like　a　character　in　an　Edgar　Allan　Poe　story　every　time　I　used　it。　
There　was　a　gurney　waiting。　We　loaded　Bitterbuck's　body　onto　it；　and　I　made　a　final　check　to　make　sure　his　hair　was　out。　That　one　braid　was　pretty　well　charred；　and　I　was　sorry　to　see　that　the　cunning　little　bow　on　that　side　of　his　head　was　now　nothing　but　a　blackened　lump。　
Percy　slapped　the　dead　man's　cheek。　The　flat　smacking　sound　of　his　hand　made　us　all　jump。　Percy　looked　around　at　us　with　a　cocky　smile　on　his　mouth；　eyes　glittering。　Then　he　looked　back　at　Bitterbuck　again。　〃Adios；　Chief；〃　he　said。　〃Hope　hell's　hot　enough　for　you。〃　
〃Don't　do　that；〃　Brutal　said；　his　voice　hollow　and　declamatory　in　the　dripping　tunnel。　〃He's　paid　what　he　owed。　He's　square　with　the　house　again。　You　keep　your　hands　off　him。〃　
〃Aw；　blow　it　out；〃　Percy　said；　but　he　stepped　back　uneasily　when　Brutal　moved　toward　him；　shadow　rising　behind　him　like　the　shadow　of　that　ape　in　the　story　about　the　Rue　Morgue。　But　instead　of　grabbing　at　Percy；　Brutal　grabbed　hold　of　the　gurney　and　began　pushing　Arlen　Bitterbuck　slowly　toward　the　far　end　of　the　tunnel；　where　his　last　ride　was　waiting；　parked　on　the　soft　shoulder　of　the　highway。　The　gurney's　hard　rubber　wheels　moaned　on　the　boards；　its　shadow　rode　the　bulging　brick　wall；　waxing　and　waning；　Dean　and　Harry　grasped　the　sheet　at　the　foot　and　pulled　it　up　over　The　Chief's　face；　which　had　already　begun　to　take　on　the　waxy；　characterless　cast　of　all　dead　faces；　the　innocent　as　well　as　the　guilty。　
6。　
When　I　was　eighteen；　my　Uncle　Paul　…　the　man　I　was　named　for　…　died　of　a　heart　attack。　My　mother　and　dad　took　me　to　Chicago　with　them　to　attend　his　funeral　and　visit　relatives　from　my　father's　side　of　the　family；　many　of　whom　I　had　never　met。　We　were　gone　almost　a　month。　In　some　ways　that　was　a　good　trip；　a　necessary　and　exciting　trip；　but　in　another　way　it　was　horrible。　I　was　deeply　in　love；　you　see；　with　the　young　woman　who　was　to　bee　my　wife　two　weeks　after　my　nieenth　birthday。　One　night　when　my　longing　for　her　was　like　a　fire　burning　out　of　control　in　my　heart　and　my　head　（oh　yes；　all　right；　and　in　my　balls；　as　well）；　I　wrote　her　a　letter　that　just　seemed　to　go　on　and　on　…　I　poured　out　my　whole　heart　in　it；　never　looking　back　to　see　what　I'd　said　because　I　was　afraid　cowardice　would　make　me　stop。　I　didn't　stop；　and　when　a　voice　in　my　head　clamored　that　it　would　be　madness　to　mail　such　a　letter；　that　I　would　be　giving　her　my　naked　heart　to　hold　in　her　hand；　I　ignored　it　with　a　child's　breathless　disregard　of　the　consequences。　I　often　wondered　if　Janice　kept　that　letter；　but　never　quite　got　up　enough　courage　to　ask。　All　I　know　for　sure　is　that　I　did　not　find　it　when　I　went　through　her　things　after　the　funeral；　and　of　course　that　by　itself　means　nothing。　I　suppose　I　never　asked　because　I　was　afraid　of　discovering　that　burning　epistle　meant　less　to　her　than　it　did　to　me。　
It　was　four　pages　long；　I　thought　I　would　never　write　anything　longer　in　my　life；　and　now　look　at　this。　All　this；　and　the　end　still　not　in　sight。　If　I'd　known　the　story　was　going　to　go　on　this　long；　I　might　never　have　started。　What　I　didn't　realize　was　how　many　doors　the　act　of　writing　unlocks；　as　if　my　Dad's　old　fountain　pen　wasn't　really　a　pen　at　all；　but　some　strange　variety　of　skeleton　key。　The　mouse　is　probably　the　best　example　of　what　I'm　talking　about　…　Steamboat　Willy；　Mr。　Jingles；　the　mouse　on　the　Mile。　Until　I　started　to　write；　I　never　realized　how　important　he　（yes；　he）　was。　The　way　he　seemed　to　be　looking　for　Delacroix　before　Delacroix　arrived；　for　instance　…　I　don't　think　that　ever　occurred　to　me；　not　to　my　conscious　mind；　anyway；　until　I　began　to　write　and　remember。　
I　guess　what　I'm　saying　is　that　I　didn't　realize　how　far　back　I'd　have　to　go　in　order　to　tell　you　about　John　Coffey；　or　how　long　I'd　have　to　leave　him　there　in　his　cell；　a　man　so　huge　his　feet　didn't　just　stick　off　the　end　of　his　bunk　but　hung　down　all　the　way　to　the　floor。　I　don't　want　you　to　forget　him；　all　right？　I　want　you　to　see　him　there；　looking　up　at　the　ceiling　of　his　cell；　weeping　his　silent　tears；　or　putting　his　arms　over　his　face。　I　want　you　to　hear　him；　his　sighs　that　trembled　like　sobs；　his　occasional　watery　groan。　These　weren't　the　sounds　of　agony　and　regret　we　sometimes　heard　on　E　Block；　sharp　cries　with　splinters　of　remorse　in　them；　like　his　wet　eyes；　they　were　somehow　removed　from　the　pain　we　were　used　to　dealing　with。　In　a　way　…　I　know　how　crazy　this　will　sound；　of　course　I　do；　but　there　is　no　sense　in　writing　something　as　long　as　this　if　you　can't　say　what　feels　true　to　your　heart　…　in　a　way　it　was　as　if　it　was　sorrow　for　the　whole　world　he　felt；　something　too　big　ever　to　be　pletely　eased。　Sometimes　I　sat　and　talked　to　him；　as　I　did　with　all　of　them　…　talking　was　our　biggest；　most　important　job；　as　I　believe　I　have　said　…　and　I　tried　to　fort　him。　I　don't　feel　that　I　ever　did；　and　part　of　my　heart　was　glad　he　was　suffering；　you　know。　Felt　he　deserved　to　suffer。　I　even　thought　sometimes　of　calling　the　governor　（or　getting　Percy　to　do　it　…　hell；　he　was　Percy's　damn　uncle；　not　mine）　and　asking　for　a　stay　of　execution。　We　shouldn't　burn　him　yet；　I'd　say　It's　still　hurting　him　too　much；　biting　into　him　too　much；　twisting　in　his　guts　like　a　nice　sharp　stick。　Give　him　another　niy　days；　your　honor；　sir。　Let　him　go　on　doing　to　himself　what　we　can't　do　to　him。　
It's　that　John　Coffey　I'd　have　you　keep　to　one　side　of　your　mind　while　I　finish　catching　up　to　where　I　started　…　that　John　Coffey　lying　on　his　bunk；　that　John　Coffey　who　was　afraid　of　the　dark　perhaps　with　good　reason；　for　in　the　dark　might　not　two　shapes　with　blonde　curls　…　no　longer　little　girls　but　avenging　harpies　…　be　waiting　for　him？　That　John　Coffey　whose　eyes　were　always　streaming　tears；　like　blood　from　a　wound　that　can　never　heal。　
7。　
So　The　Chief　burned　and　The　President　walked　…　as　far　as　C　Block；　anyway；　which　was　home　to　most　of　Cold　Mountain's　hundred　and　fifty　lifers。　Life　for　The　Pres　turned　out　to　be　twelve　years。　He　was　drowned　in　the　prison　laundry　in　1944。　Not　the　Cold　Mountain　prison　laundry；　Cold　Mountain　closed　in　1933。　I　don't　suppose　it　mattered　much　to　the　inmates　…　wars　is　walls；　as　the　cons　say；　and　Old　Sparky　was　every　bit　as　lethal　in　his　own　little　stone　death　chamber；　I　reckon；　as　he'd　ever　been　in　the　storage　room　at　Cold　Mountain。　
As　for　The　Pres；　someone　shoved　him　face…first　into　a　vat　of　dry…cleaning　fluid　and　held　him　there。　When　the　guards　pulled　him　out　again；　his　face　was　almost　entirely　gone。　They　had　to　ID　him　by　his　fingerprints。　On　the　whole；　he　might　have　been　better　off　with　Old　Sparky　。。。　but　then　he　never　would　have　had　those　extra　twelve　years；　would　he？　I　doubt　he　thought　much　about　them；　though；　in　the　last　minute　or　so　of　his　life；　when　his　lungs　were　trying　to　learn　how　to　breathe　Hexlite　and　lye　cleanser。　
They　never　caught　whoever　did　for　him。　By　then　I　was　out　of　the　corrections　line　of　work；　but　Harry　Terwilliger　wrote　and　told　me。　〃He　got　muted　mostly　because　he　was　white；〃　Harry　wrote；　〃but　he　got　it　in　the　end；　just　the　same。　I　just　think　of　it　as　a　long　stay　of　execution　that　finally　ran　out。〃　
There　e　for　us　in　E　Block；　once　The　Pres　was　gone。　Harry　and　Dean　were　temporarily　reassigned；　and　it　was　just　me；　Brutal；　and　Percy　on　the　Green　Mile　for　a　little　bit。　Which　actually　meant　just　me　and　Brutal；　because　Percy　kept　pretty　much　to　himself。　I　tell　you；　that　young　man　was　a　genius　at　finding　things　not　to　do。　And　every　so　often　（but　only　when　Percy　wasn't　around）；　the　other　guys　would　show　up　to　have　what　Harry　liked　to　call　〃a　good　gab。〃　On　many　of　these　occasions　the　mouse　would　also　show　up。　We'd　feed　him　and　he'd　sit　there　eating；　just　as　solemn　as　Solomon；　watching　us　with　his　bright　little　oilspot　eyes。　
That　was　a　good　few　weeks；　calm　and　easy　even　with　Percy's　more　than　occasional　carping。　But　all　good　things　e　to　an　end；　and　on　a　rainy　Monday　in　late　July　…　have　I　told　you　how　rainy　and　dank　that　summer　was？　…　I　found　myself　sitting　on　the　bunk　of　an　open　cell　and　waiting　for　Eduard　Delacroix。　
He　came　with　an　unexpected　bang。　The　door　leading　into　the　exercise　yard　slammed　open；　letting　in　a　
flood　of　light；　there　was　a　confused　rattle　of　chains；　a　frightened　voice　babbling　away　in　a　mixture　of　English　and　Cajun　French　（a　patois　the　cons　at　Cold　Mountain　used　to　call　da　bayou）；　and　Brutal　hollering；　〃Hey！　Quit　it！　For　Chrissakes！　Quit　it；　Percy！〃　
I　had　been　half…dozing　on　what　was　to　bee　Delacroix's　bunk；　but　I　was　up　in　a　hurry；　my　heart　slugging　away　hard　in　my　chest。　Noise　of　that　kind　on　E　Block　almost　never　happened　until　Percy　came；　he　brought　it　along　with　him　like　a　bad　smell。　
〃e　on；　you　fuckin　French…fried　faggot！〃　Percy　yelled；　ignoring　Brutal　pletely。　And　here　he　came；　dragging　a　guy　not　much　bigger　than　a　bowling　pin　by　one　arm。　In　his　other　hand；　Percy　had　his　baton。　His　teeth　were　bared　in　a　strained　grimace；　and　his　face　was　bright　red。　Yet　he　did　not　look　entirely　unhappy。　Delacroix　was　trying　to　keep　up　with　him；　but　he　had　the　legirons　on；　and　no　matter　how　fast　he　shuffled　his　feet；　Percy　pulled　him　along　faster。　I　sprang　out　of　the　cell　just　in　time　to　catch　him　as　he　fell；　and　that　was　how　Del　and　I　were　introduced。　
Percy　rounded　on　him；　baton　raised；　and　I　held　him　back　with　one　arm。　Brutal　came　puffing　up　to　us；　looking　as　shocked　and　nonplussed　by　all　this　as　I　felt。　
〃Don't　let　him　hit　me　no　mo；　m'sieu；〃　Delacroix　babbled。　〃S'il　vous　plait；　s'il　vous　plait！〃　
〃Let　me　at　im；　let　me　at　im！〃　Percy　cried；　lunging　forward。　He　began　to　hit　at　Delacroix's　shoulders　with　his　baton。　Delacroix　held　his　arms　up；　screaming；　and　the　stick　went　whap…whap…whap　against　the　sleeves　of　his　blue　prison　shirt。　I　saw　him　that　night　with　the　shirt　off；　and　that　boy　had　bruises　from　Christmas　to　Easter。　Seeing　them　made　me　feel　bad。　He　was　a　murderer；　and　nobody's　darling；　but　that's　not　the　way　we　did　things　on　E　Block。　Not　until　Percy　came；　anyhow。　
〃Whoa！　Whoa！〃　I　roared。　〃Quit　that！　What's　it　all　about；　anyway？〃　I　was　trying　to　get　my　body　in　between　Delacroix's　and　Percy's；　but　it　wasn't　working　very　well。　Percy's　club　continued　to　flail　away；　now　on　one　side　of　me　and　now　on　the　other。　Sooner　or　later　he　was　going　to　bring　one　down　on　me　instead　of　on　his　intended　target；　and　then　there　was　going　to　be　a　brawl　right　here　in　this　corridor；　no　matter　who　his　relations　were。　I　wouldn't　be　able　to　help　myself；　and　Brutal　was　apt　to　join　in。　In　some　ways；　you　know；　I　wish　we'd　done　it。　It　might　have　changed　some　of　the　things　that　happene