删不掉的录音

It’sbeenaboutthreemonthssincethingsended,andforthemostpart,Itrytooidthe1）remnantsofhim.Ithrewouthisoldtoothbrush.Idon’tgotoourforitebarwherewehadourfirstdate.WhenIhetobeinhisneighborhood,Irefusetowalkdownhisstreet.Idon’tlistentotheradioonSundays,becausethat’ssomethingwewoulddotogetherandnowthesoundofourforiteannouncer’svoice2）makeyskincrawl.

Butforsomereason,Ijustcan’tdeletethisonedigitalfile.ThisstupidreminderofathingIdon’tevenrememberinthefirstplace.

Wespentourlastweekendwanderingaroundthecity.Itwasoneofthosegloriousspringweekendswhereyoufinallystarttoletyourselfbelievethatthewarmerweatherisheretostay.IrememberstandingatthecrosswalkonPrinceStreetwaitingforthelighttochange,hisarmswrappingaroundmelikeaheyknitwoolsweaterinwinter.WewalkedallthewaytoBrooklynBridgeParkandsatoppositethesparklingEastRiver,laughingatthetoddlerswiththeir3）fauxhawksandtheirleatherhightops.Wewenttoaconcert.Westoppedintoaedyshow.Wevowedtodomoreandtoseemore.Wefoundthatamazingbarwherethetapshadmetalpipeorhandles.Icanstilltastethatdark,chocolatybeerwithjustahintofcherryswirlingonmytongue.

I’veheardpeoplesaythatwhenyou’reabouttodie,yourwholelifeflashesbeforeyoureyes.Butthisdeathwasofathing,notaperson.AndthememoriesrushinginwerewhatIwasleftwiththatfollowingSaturdayafternoonwhenhewalkedintomyapartment,kissedmeonthemouth,satmedownonmybed,andwithmyhandsinhis,toldmeitwasover.

ItwaorethanIcouldprehend.Somedays,itstillis.Ifindmyselfsearchingforhimonthesidewalkandinmymind.AndonceIstart4）rummagingthroughthoseoldmicrofilmsofmemory,it’shardtomakemyselfstop.

Suddenly,Iremembertherecording.

Imakedocumentary-styleradiopieces,andampronetorecordingsoundalot―notalwayswithfancygear,sometimesjustwithanapponmyphone.AndIrecordalot,alwayswithanambitiousplanthatonedayI’lldosomethingwithit.Iusuallydon’t.Butforme,tohitrecordistofeelalive,tobemovedtocapturethetimesandplaceswhenIamhappyandinspired―somuchsothatIwanttotakethemomenthomewithme,sothatlater,Icangothroughmycherishedcollectionslikeshinypebblesbroughthomefromtheplayground.Afewweeksbeforethebigbreakup,Idecidedto5）taketheplungeandupgradetheoperatingsystemonmyiPhone.Iwasannoyedbecausethieantclearing36）gigabytesofvaluablepodcastspace,ortheothersoundfilesIhadclutteringthecorners―themotherI’dfollowedthroughtheEuropeangalleryatthe7）Met,tryingtodiscussarttheorywithheryoungdaughtersinfrontof8）Mosand9）Renoirs；aparticularlybeautiful10）buskeronthe2train；a11）snippetofconversation,mostlyfilledwithlaughter,frommygrandfather’sbirthdaycelebrationlastyear（itwasalittlelate,thefamilywasalittledrunk）.Noneofthesefilesarerecordedparticularlywell―youcanbarelyheartheactionabovethejumbled12）ambientnoiseandthesoundthatclumsyfingers,surprisedtoberecording,makewhentheygripamicrophone.Callmesentimental,callmeasoundhoarder,buttheselittlebundlesofonesandzerosbringailetomyface.

SoI’mcarefullybingthroughmyportablecataloguetodeterminewhatIcouldlivewithout,andthat’showIfoundit：34secondsofsomethingcalled“drewdogbeach.”Ipressedplay.

Whatyou’rehearingmightnotsoundlikemuch,butforme,listeningtothiscliptransportetoaplacewithweightanddimensionandcolor.It’ostlymetryingtogetmymicrophone-shyboyfriendtotalk,totellmewhathefeelsinthiomentwhentherelationshipisnewandeverythingseemsrightandbeautiful.He’slaughingatmebecauseI’mbeingridiculous,althoughhewasalwaysamanoffew,well-chosenwords.Andthenthere’sthekiss.Heprobablykisseetogetmetostoptryingtomakehimtalk.Iguessitworked,becausethat’swheretherecordingcutsoff.Butit’sasoundsosweet,andsogenuine.Inaninstant,Iellsaltwater,grass,andhisshampoo.IfeelskinandthelatesummerairandthefeelingofnotbeingafraidtobepletelymyselfinfrontofsomeoneIcareabout.

Butthethingis；Iheabsolutelynomemoryofthisevenhappening.Idon’tremembertakingthisrecording.Idon’trememberbeingthere.Drewdogbeach?Igeitthatname,butIhenoideawhatitmeans.Thefilehasadateonit,butIwouldn’theneededthattoknowit’sascenefromearlyinourrelationship.ItwaslatesummerandDrewandIwouldtakenightwalksalongtheHudson,thesoundofcrickets13）reverberatingallthewaytothe14）Palisades.Itwasahabitthatstartedonourfirstdate.Weleftthebar,dizzyonsouraleandnerves,andheadedforthewater,fumblingatexpressinghowwewerefeelingwithourwordsandourlimbs.Butsomethingstuck,andthingsweregood.Ourriverwalkscontinuedthroughthewinter.We’dstandonthepier,huddledindown,watchingdriftsofsnowmakeripplingpatternsinthewindbeforedisappearingofftheledgeandintotheangry,graywater.It’shardtothinkofnow,butitwasahappytime.SoIrememberwhatitfeltliketobeinthose34secondsofsound.Buttheactualexperienceisgonefrommymemory.Andtolistentoit,toberemindedofsomethingIlostandmiss,is15）agony.

I’vebeengraspingat16）shredsofwhatIdorecall,tryingtosolvethemysteryofhowthissoundbiteevenexists.LatelymylineofquestioninghasturnedfromhowdoIheittowhyamIsingit.Isthisrecordingagift,asouvenirofatimethatIloved?OrisittheretoremindmethatI’mstillsad?IfIdeleteit,willIbefreeofthiemorythatIdon’tactuallyhe?

UntilIdecide,itsitsonmyphone,ahandprintincement,evidencethatweexisted.MaybeonedayIwillbebreenoughtoeraseit,thecementmeltingintosand,thehandprintblurringintherisingtide.

恋情告终,一切尘埃落定至今已近三个月.我做过很多努力,想要消除他留下的痕迹.我扔掉了他的旧牙刷,不去我们最爱的酒吧――那里是我们第一次约会的地方.必须去他居住的那片街区时,我避免走过他所住的那条街道.我不在周日听广播,因为那是我们过去常常一起做的事,而如今,我俩最喜欢的那个主持的嗓音让我毛骨悚然.

但是出于某种原因,我就是无法做到将这段手机中的录音删掉.一开始,我甚至对其毫无印象,但它却成为了一个讨厌的提醒,让我回忆起那件事.

那是我们在一起的最后一个周末,当时我俩就在这个城市漫步.那是某个明媚的春日周末,那种时候,你终于开始相信天气确实要转暖,不会再冷起来了.我记得,当时站在王子街的人行横道上,等着交通灯转换颜色,他的手臂环抱着我,就像冬日里一件厚重的羊毛针织衫.我们一路走到布鲁克林大桥公园,然后坐在波光粼粼的东河对面,被蹒跚学步的孩子们头上的仿莫霍克发型和高帮皮靴逗得哈哈大笑.我们去看了一场音乐会,驻足观看了一个喜剧表演.我们发誓要做更多的事情,看更多的东西.我们发现了一家令人惊艳的酒吧,那里的龙头把手是用金属管子做的.现在我还能感觉到那浓稠的巧克力味啤酒,带着一丝樱桃香停留在舌尖上的味道.

我曾听过有人说,人临死前的那一瞬间,整个人生会匆匆闪过眼前.但此刻的逝去不是人,而是.纷涌而至的是在那之后的周六下午,在我被遗弃后留给我的那一切.那天,他走进我的公寓,亲吻我的双唇,让我坐在床边,抓住我的双手,然后告诉我说一切都结束了.

那时他的话超出了我的理解能力.如今有些时候,仍然如是.我发现自己在找寻他的身影,在人行道上,以及脑海之中.一旦开始四处翻找那些记录着回忆的旧缩影胶卷,我就很难让自己停下来.

突然间,我想起了这段录音.

我制作纪实风格的广播片段,常常忍不住录下声音片段――未必是用什么高级器材,有时候仅仅是用一个手机应用程序.我录了很多,暗暗藏着雄心壮志,期望有一天能用这些声音来做点什么.我通常没有这么做.但是对我而言,按下录音键就是去感受自己真切地活着,为捕捉那些我感到快乐和怀有灵感的时间和地点而感动――这些感受强烈到让我想将这些瞬间带回家,以便日后能够重温这些宝贵的,就像是从运动场上带回家的闪亮小石头一般.

这次痛彻心扉的分手发生之前的几周,我决定冒险一试,将我的苹果手机上的操作系统升级.这是件恼人的事,因为这意味着得从宝贵的播客空间,或是其它随意存放在角落里的声音文件中清理出3个G――在大都会艺术博物馆欧洲画廊里我一直尾随的那位母亲,她在莫奈和雷诺阿的作品前尝试着与她年轻的女儿们交流美学；地铁2号线列车上一个特别漂亮的街头艺人；一小段大多充斥着欢笑声的对话片段,录制于我祖父去年的生日会上（当时天色有点晚了,一家人都醺醺欲醉）.这些片段没有哪个是录得特别好的――勉强才能从混乱的噪音中听得出发生了什么事,还有抓话筒时那些笨拙的手指擦过听筒的杂音,也被不小心录了进去.你可以笑我多愁善感,或者说我有声音囤积癖,但是这些由一串串0和1编码而成的小片段总能让我露出笑颜.于是,我仔细梳理了一番随身目录,想看看哪些是我可以舍弃的,然后我找到了这个：一段历时34秒的录音,命名为“德鲁狗狗海滩”.我按下了播放键.

也许对你来说,这段录音听起来没什么,但是对我而言,聆听这段声音将我带回了一个地方,有分量有维度有色彩.录音里面大多是我在让那个羞于面对话筒的男朋友发言,让他诉说那一刻自己的感受,那时候我俩刚开始恋爱,一切似乎都那么顺利,那么美好.他在笑话我滑稽的模样,尽管他一直是那种少言寡语、字斟句酌的人.然后是亲吻的声音.他很可能是以这个吻来让我停下来,不再逗他说话.我猜那个吻奏效了,因为录音到此戛然而止.但是这段录音如此甜蜜,如此真实.刹那间,我嗅到了海水、草地,还有他洗发水的味道.我感受到皮肤的碰触、夏末的空气,还有那种不惧怕在某个我在乎的人面前完全呈现自我的感觉.

但是情况是,我甚至对这件事全无印象.我不记得曾录过这段录音,也不记得曾去过那个地方.德鲁狗狗海滩?我给它取了这个名字,但是不知道这是什么意思.这个文件上标有时间,但是无需查看时间,我就能知道这是在我们恋爱初期发生的一段场景.那是夏末时候,德鲁和我会在晚上沿着哈德逊河边散步,去往帕利塞兹州际公园的一路上,蟋蟀的叫声此起彼伏.这个漫步的习惯,从我们第一次约会就开始了.我们离开酒吧,带着喝完酸啤酒的微醺,走向河边的路上,拙劣地用语言和肢体表达着彼此的感受.

但有些事就停顿在了这里,一切都好.我们的沿河漫步持续了整个冬天.我们站在码头上,依偎着一起向下走,看着雪花在风中飘落翻飞,然后消失在岩壁之下,落向狂怒的灰色水流.现在想起来十分困难,但是那段时光确实非常快乐.所以我记得在那34秒的声音中所能感受的一切,但那段真实的经历却回忆不起来了.聆听这段录音,然后被迫回忆起那些我已经遗忘、失去的东西,是件十分痛苦的事.

我一直努力想要抓住脑海里确实能够回忆起来的那些碎片,尝试着解开谜团,搞清楚这段录音片段到底是如何产生的.近来,我的一系列疑问已经从我是如何把它录下来,转变成了为何我要保存它.这份录音是一份礼物吗?一份我所钟爱的一段时光的纪念品?或者它的存在是要提醒我,我的悲伤依旧?如果把它删掉,我能否从这段我根本记不起的回忆中解脱出来呢?

在我做下任何决定之前,它就那样留存在我的手机里,像是一个结实的水泥手印,一个我们存在过的证据.也许有一天我会有足够的勇气把它删掉,那时候水泥就会融化成沙子,手印就会被上涨的潮水冲刷得模糊斑驳.