A Man Who Had No Eyes

11 A Man Who Had No Eyes

By Mackinlay Kantor

A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr.Parsons emerged from his hotel.

He was a blind beggar，carrying the traditional battered cane，and thumping his way before him with the cautious，half⁃furtive effort of the sightless.He was a shaggy，thick⁃necked fellow；his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets，and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging.He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulders.Apparently he had something to sell.

The air was rich with spring；the sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt.Mr.Parsons，standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack⁃clack approach of the sightless man，felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.

And，thought Mr.Parsons，he was very glad to be alive.A few years ago he had been more than a skilled laborer；now he was successful，respected，admiredInsuranceand he had done it alone，unaided，struggling beneath handicapsAnd he was still young.The blue air of spring，fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery，could thrill him with eagerness.

He took a step forward just as the tap⁃tapping blind man passed him by.Quickly the shabby fellow turned.

“Listen，guv’nor.Just a minute of your time.”

Mr.Parsons said，“It’s late.I have an appointment.Do you want me to give you something ”

“I ain’t no beggar，guv’nor.You bet I ain’t.I got a handy little article here，”he fumbled until he could press a small object into Mr.Parson’s hand，“that I sell.One buck.Best cigarette lighter made.”

Mr.Parsons stood there，somewhat annoyed and embarrassed.He was a handsome figure with his immaculate gray suit and gray hat and Malacca stick.Of course the man with the cigarette lighters could not see him“But I don’t smoke，”he said.

“Listen.I bet you know plenty people who smoke.Nice little present，”wheedled the man.“And，mister，you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out ”he clung to Mr.Parsons’sleeve.

Mr.Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket.He brought out two half dollars and pressed them into the man’s hand.“Certainly.I’ll help you out.As you say，I can give it to someone.Maybe the elevator boy would”He hesitated，not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive，even with a blind peddler.“Have you lost your sight entirely ”

The shabby man pocked the two dollars.“Fourteen years，guv’nor.”Then he added with an insane sort of pride “Westbury，sir.I was one of’em.”

“Westbury，”repeated Mr.Parsons.“Ah，yes.The chemical explosionthe papers haven’t mentioned it for years.But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in”

“They’ve all forgot about it.”The fellow shifted his feet wearily.“I tell you，guv’nor，a man who was in it don’t forget about it.Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge，and that damn’gas pouring in at all the busted windows.”

Mr.Parsons coughed.But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one dramatic reminiscence.And，also，he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr.Parsons’pocket.

“Just think about it，guv’nor.There was a hundred and eight people killed，about two hundred injured，and over fifty of them lost their eyes.Blind as bats”he groped forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr.Parsons’coat.“I tell you，sir，there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war.If I had lost my eyes in the war，okay.I would have been well took care of.But I was just a workman，working for what was in it.And I got it.You’re damn’right I got it，while the capitalists were making their dough They was insured，don’t worry about that.They”

“Insured，”repeated his listener.“Yes.That’s what I sell”

“You want to know how I lost my eyes ”cried the man.“Well，here it is ”his words fell with bitter and studied drama of a story often told，and told for money.“I was there in C shop，last of all the folks rushing out.Out in the air there was a chance，even with buildings exploding right and left.A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away.And just when I was about there，crawling along between those big vats，a guy behind me grabs my leg.He says，‘Let me past，you’Maybe he was nuts.I dunno.I try to forgive him in my heart，guv’nor.But he was bigger than me.He hauls me back and climbs right over me Tramples me into the dirt.And he gets out，and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me，and flame and stuff.”He swallowed—a studied sob—and stood dumbly expectant.He could imagine the next words Tough luck，my man.Damn tough.Now，I want to“That’s the story，guv’nor.”

The spring wind shrilled past them，damp and quivering.

“Not quite，”said Mr.Parsons.

The blind peddler shivered crazily.“Not quite What do you mean，you”

“The story is true，”Mr.Parsons said，“except that it was the other way around.”

“Other way around ”he croaked unamiably.“Say，guv’nor”

“I was in C shop，”said Mr.Parsons.“It was the other way around.You were the fellow who hauled back on me and climbed over me.You were bigger than I was，Markwardt.”

Theblindmanstoodforalongtime，swallowinghoarsely.Hegulped “Parsons.By God By God I thought you”And then he screamed fiendishly “Yes.Maybe so.Maybe so.But I’m blind I’m blind，and you’ve been standing here letting me spout to you，and laughing at me every minute I’m blind ”

People in the street turned to stare at him.

“You got away，but I’m blind Do you hear I’m”

“Well，”said Mr.Parsons，“don’t make such a row about it，MarkwardtSo am I.”

瞎眼人

【美】麦金利·坎特

帕森斯先生从他所住的旅馆里走出来的时候，一个乞丐从大街上走了过来。

这是个盲丐，拿着一根常见的手杖，手杖已经磨损得很厉害了。他拿手杖探着路，像所有盲人一样小心翼翼。他是一个长满粗毛的粗脖子的家伙，上衣的翻领和口袋附近油渍麻花的，手无力地张开握着手杖。他的肩上挂着一只黑色的袋子，显而易见，他有东西要卖。

空气里弥漫着春天的气息。太阳暖洋洋的，在黑色的柏油马路上洒下了点点金光。帕森斯先生站在他所住的旅馆前，注意到嗒嗒的手杖点地的声音由远而近，心中骤然升起对天下所有盲人怜悯之情。

然而，帕森斯先生转念一想，庆幸自己活着就好。几年前，他只不过是一个技术工人，而现在却是受人尊敬和羡慕的……保险业……他单枪匹马干了起来，没人帮助，一个人在困难中奋斗……而他还年轻。春季里蓝蓝的天空，记忆中那来自微波荡漾的池塘和茂密的灌木丛的清新气息，都会激发他的热情。

当那个盲人的拐杖嗒嗒声在他身边响起时，他向前迈了一步，衣衫褴褛的盲人乞丐迅速转过身来。

“听着，先生，我只占用您一分钟。”

帕森斯先生说：“来不及了，我有一个约会。想让我给你点儿什么吗？”

“我不是乞丐，先生。我向您保证我不是。我这儿有些轻巧的小玩意儿，”他从背后的黑包摸出一件东西塞到了帕森斯先生手里，“我卖这个，一美元一个，最好的香烟打火机。”

帕森斯先生站在那里，有点儿恼火和尴尬。他身着一尘不染的灰色套服，头戴同色礼帽，拿着马六甲的拐杖，器宇轩昂，相貌堂堂。当然，那个卖香烟打火机的人看不到他……“可我不抽烟啊，”他说。

“听着，我敢打赌你认识不少抽烟的人，这是件挺不错的小礼物嘛，”那人甜言蜜语地诱导着他。“还有，先生，你不介意帮助一个穷人摆脱困境吧？”他拉了拉帕森斯先生的袖子。

帕森斯先生叹了口气，在自己的背心口袋里摸索着，取出两个半美元，塞到乞丐的手里。“当然，我会帮你。像你所说的，我把它送给别人，也许那个管电梯的小伙子会喜欢。”他迟疑了一下，不想让别人认为自己爱追根问底，即便是面对一个盲人小贩。（但他还是问了）“你彻底失明了吗？”

衣衫褴褛的乞丐把美元放进口袋。“十四年了，先生。”然后他又用一种狂热的自豪感又加了一句，“韦斯特伯里，先生，我是受害者之一。”

“韦斯特伯里，”帕森斯先生重复道。“啊，是啊，化学品大爆炸……报纸已经多年不提了，当时它却被认为是最大的灾难之一，在……”

“他们已经彻底忘了。”那人疲惫地倒换着双脚。“可是我跟您说，先生，谁遭遇过谁就不会忘记。我看到的最后情景是C栋大楼在滚滚浓烟中腾空而起，该死的气体从所有破裂的窗户中灌了进来。”

帕森斯先生咳了一下，但盲人小贩却沉浸在对往事栩栩如生地描绘之中，不仅如此，他正琢磨着帕森斯先生口袋里也许还有两个半美元。

“想想看，先生，108人死亡，约200人受伤，其中有50多人失明，像蝙蝠一样完全瞎了……”他向前摸索着，脏兮兮的手放在帕森斯先生的外套上。“我跟您说，先生，在战争中也没有这么糟糕。我要是在战争中失明，那没什么，政府会照顾我。但我只不过是一个工人，为了工作而工作，而我也确实有了报酬，我瞎了。却偏偏碰上了，你看我偏偏碰上了这事儿，您说得太他妈的对啦，是我遭了殃，而那些有钱人却赚啦！他们没什么损失。他们有保险，他们不用发愁。他们……”

“保险，”听他说话的帕森斯先生重复道。“是的，我现在卖的正是……”

“你想知道我是怎么失明的吧？”乞丐喊道，“好的，是这样的！”他的话语带着痛苦，以及讲故事时常有的刻意的戏剧化的风格，看得出，这是个精心编制的故事，已经讲过多次了，而且是为了讨钱才讲的。“我当时就在C栋大楼里，是最后那拨冲出去的。尽管大楼左右爆炸声不断，但跑到大楼外面就有希望，好多人跑了出去，脱险了。我在那些大桶间爬行，正要到门口时，一个家伙从后面抓住了我的腿。他说，‘你！让我过去。’也许他疯了，我不知道他是谁。在我心里我试着宽恕他，先生。可他块头比我大，把我拽了回来，还从我身上爬过了去！把我踩到了泥里，他却出去了。我躺在那儿，所有的有毒气体，还有火焰、木头以及其他东西从四面八方向我倾斜下来……”他哽咽了一下——是装出来的——然后默默地站着，他甚至可以预料到对方会有的反映：不幸，太不幸了，我的老兄，现在我想要……“就是这么个过程，先生。”

湿润的春风哀鸣着吹过来，令人浑身发抖。

“不完全是这样。”帕森斯先生说。

盲人乞丐发了疯似地颤栗着：“不完全是这样？你什么意思？你……”

“故事是真的，”帕森斯先生说，“但有个细节恰好相反。”

“恰好相反？”他气急败坏地叫起屈来，“先生，就算……”

“我当时就在C栋大楼，”帕森斯先生说，“恰恰相反，你就是那个把我拽回来并从我上面爬过去的人，你块头比我大，马克沃德。”

乞丐呆立了半晌，哑着嗓子抽抽搭搭地说：“帕森斯，上帝在上！上帝在上！我还以为你……”然后，他又阴阳怪气地喊道：“不错，你说得对，你说得对。可我瞎了！我瞎了，而你却站在这里让我给你讲爆炸的全过程，分分钟都在嘲笑我！我瞎了啊！”

街上的人转过头来盯着他们看。

“你出去了，我却瞎了！你听到没有！我……”

“好吧，”帕森斯先生说，“不要大呼小叫啦，马克沃德……我也瞎了。”