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米奇·阿尔博姆（Mitch Albom），美国著名畅销书作家、专栏作家、电台主持人、电视评论员，此外还是活跃的慈善活动家。迄今为止，阿尔博姆已出版九部畅销著作，包括《相约星期二》（Tuesdays with Morrie）、《你在天堂遇到的五个人》（The Five People You Meet in the Heaven）、《一日重生》（For One More Day）等。
《相约星期二》是米奇·阿尔博姆的第一部作品，一经出版便在美国引起轰动，曾连续四十周被列入图书销售排行榜。本书讲述的是一个真实的故事：在作者迈出大学校门十五年后，偶然得知他的老教授莫里·施瓦茨身患重病，时日无多，于是他们相约每个星期二到莫里家里见面，在以后的十四个星期里，他们谈论了许多人生课题—遗憾、死亡、家庭、感情……而这本书的出版本身也是一个美丽的故事，原先作者并没有写这本书的打算，但莫里的治疗花了许多钱，他的家属欠了不少债，于是米奇决定写出这本书，所有的报酬都用来偿还老人遗留的债务。对于作者米奇·阿尔博姆而言，与恩师“相约星期二”的经历无疑是一个重新审视自己、重读人生必修课的机会。这门人生课震撼着作者，也藉由作者的妙笔，感动了整个世界。
It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie’s house. I took in little details， things I hadn’t noticed for all the times I’d visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade of the house. The 1）pachysandra plants， the low shrubs. I walked slowly， taking my time， stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened beneath my feet.
Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well. This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time， which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping， not when there were people he could talk with.
“He wants you to come visit，” Charlotte said，“but， Mitch…”
Yes？
“He’s very weak.”
The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow， observant manner， as if seeing them for the first time.
Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant， she had a 2）drawn look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.
How’s he doing？ I said.
“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to think about it. He’s such a sweet man， you know？”
I knew.
“This is such a shame”
Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping， even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her 3）straighten up， noticing all the bottles of pills lined up on the table， a small army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking 4）morphine now to ease his breathing.
I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup， vegetable cakes， tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn’t chewed food like this in months， we both knew that， but it had become a small tradition. Sometimes， when you’re losing someone， you hang on to whatever tradition you can. I waited in the living room， where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their father’s guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.
I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually， I heard a door open and close， then Charlotte’s footsteps coming toward me.
“All right，” she said softly. “He’s ready for you.”
I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot， then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair， her eyes on a book， her legs crossed. This was a 5）hospice nurse， part of the twenty-four-hour watch.
Morrie’s study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom， and there he was， lying in bed， under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his 6）aphorism “When you’re in bed， you’re dead” began anew inside my head.
I entered， pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top， and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small as a child.
Morrie’s mouth was open， and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me， he tried to speak， but I heard only a soft grunt.
There he is， I said， 7）mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty till.
He exhaled， shut his eyes， then smiled， the very effort seeming to tire him.
“My…dear…friend…” he finally said.
I am your friend， I said.
I’m not…so good today…”
Tomorrow will be better.
He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets， and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.
“Hold…” he said.
I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close， a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshaven， the small white 8）whiskers looking so out of place， as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else？
Morrie， I said softly. “Coach，” he corrected. Coach， I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts， inhaling air， exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of 9）ointment.
“You…are a good soul.” A good soul.
“Touched me…” he whispered. Moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach？
“Ahh？”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my hand weakly， keeping it on his chest.
“This...is how we say...good-bye…”
He breathed softly， in and out. I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.
“Love...you，” he rasped.
I love you， too， Coach.
“Know you do...know...something else…”
What else do you know？
“You...always have…”
His eyes got small， and then he cried， his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his 10）tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears， as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing approached normal again， I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired， so I would be back next Tuesday， and I expected him to be a little more alert， thank you. He snorted lightly， as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.
I leaned in and kissed him closely， my face against his， whiskers on whiskers， skin on skin， holding it there， longer than normal， in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.
Okay， then？ I said， pulling away.
I blinked back the tears， and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor： he had finally made me cry.
“Okay， then，” he whispered.
Morrie died on a Saturday morning.
His 11）immediate family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo， he got to kiss his father good-bye， and Jon was there， and of course Charlotte was there and Charlotte’s cousin Marsha， who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his “unofficial” memorial serve， the poem that 12）likened him to a “tender 13）sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a 14）coma two days after our final visit， and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead， he hung on， through a tough afternoon， through a dark night.
Finally， on the fourth of November， when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen， the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing. And he was gone.
I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments， no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it， the way he had been haunted by his mother’s death-notice telegram or by his father’s corpse in the city 15）morgue.
I believe he knew that he was in his own bed， that his books and his notes and his small 16）hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely， and that is how he went.
The funeral was held on a damp， windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth， close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.
Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend， Charlotte kept this gathering small， just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie’s brother， David， who still walked with a limp from his childhood 17）polio， lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the grave， 18）as per tradition.
At one point， when Morrie’s ashes were placed into the ground， I glanced around the cemetery. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot， trees and grass and a sloping hill.
“You talk， I’ll listen，” he had said.
I tried doing that in my head and， to my happiness， found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands， saw my watch and realized why.
It was Tuesday.
天气又湿又冷，我踏上了莫里家的门阶。我注意到一些小细节，一些以往来访时从未注意过的地方—山的轮廓、房子的石墙立面、富贵草、低矮的灌木丛。我慢慢地走着，不慌不忙，踩着脚下潮湿的枯叶走去。
前一天，夏洛特打电话告诉我莫里的状况不太好了。这是她的表达方式，意思是莫里快不行了。莫里取消了所有的预约，大多数时间都在睡觉，这不像是他会做的事。他从来都不喜欢睡觉，尤其是当有人能跟他聊天时。
“他希望你能过来看看，”夏洛特说，“但是，米奇……”
嗯？
“他很虚弱。”
门廊的台阶，前门的玻璃。我慢慢地、专心致志地观察着这一切，仿佛是第一次见到这些东西。
康妮过来应的门。她平时欢快的面容此刻显得忧心忡忡。她向我轻声问好。
他怎么样了？我说道。
“不太好。”她咬了咬下唇。“我不愿去想这事儿。他是多好的一个人啊，你知道的，不是吗？”
我知道。
“真叫人遗憾。”
夏洛特来到了客厅，给我一个拥抱。她说莫里还在睡觉，尽管现在已经是早上十点了。我们走进了厨房。我帮她收拾收拾。我注意到桌子上摆放着一排药瓶，宛如一列头戴白帽，身穿棕色塑料装的士兵。我的老教授如今得靠服用吗啡来保持呼吸畅顺。
我把带来的食物放进冰箱—汤、蔬菜蛋糕、吞拿鱼沙拉。我为此向夏洛特说了声抱歉。莫里已经有好几个月不吃这样的食物了，我们都知道这点，但这已成为了一个小传统。有时，当你快要失去一个人之际，你就会牢牢抓住那些可以保留的传统。
我在客厅等着，泰德·科佩尔就是在这里第一次对莫里进行采访的。我拿起桌上的报纸来看。两个明尼苏达州的孩子在玩他们父亲的手枪时互相射中了对方。在洛杉矶的一条小巷子里发现了一个婴儿被埋在垃圾箱里。
我把报纸放下，凝视着空荡荡的壁炉，用鞋子轻轻地敲着硬木地板。最后，我听到门开了又关的声音，然后夏洛特的脚步向我走近。
“好了，”她轻声说道。“他准备好了，在等你。”
我起身走去我们熟悉的地方，然后，我看到了一个陌生的女人坐在走廊尽头的一张折叠椅上，她翘着脚在看书。这是安养院一名二十四小时值班护士。 莫里的书房没有人。我感到很疑惑。然后我犹豫着回过头，去卧房，他就在那里，躺在床上，身上盖着一张毯子。我只见过一次他是这副模样—他在做按摩的时候—而他的警句开始在我脑海里回响：“卧躺在床，便是死人。”
我走了进去，脸上硬挤出一个微笑。他穿了件类似睡衣的黄色上衣，胸部以下盖着一张毯子。他的身体萎缩得这般厉害，我差点以为他少了哪个部位。他瘦小得像个孩子。
莫里的嘴巴张开着，皮肤紧紧贴着脸上的颊骨，脸色苍白黯淡。当他的目光转向我时，他试图开口说话，但我只听到轻轻的哼哼声。
你在这儿，我说道，尽我所能地装出一副兴奋的样子。
他呼了口气，闭上眼睛，然后露出一个微笑，似乎这是个费劲的动作。
“我……亲爱的……朋友……”他终于说出话来。
我是你的朋友，我说道。
“我今天……感觉不太好……”
明天会好点的。
他又呼了口气，竭力地点点头。他在毯子下费力挣扎，我意识到他在努力把手伸出来。
“握住……”他说道。
我把毯子拉了下来，握住他的手指，用手掌包住它们。我倾身靠近他，离他的脸只有几英寸远。这是我第一次见他没刮胡子，那些小小的白色须头看起来是那么的碍眼，就好像有谁把盐整齐地撒在他的脸颊和下巴上似的。他的胡子还有着生命力，但他身体的其他地方都在衰竭，怎么会这样呢？
莫里，我轻声说道。“教练，”他纠正我。
教练，我改口道。我感到一阵战栗。他说话短促，猛吸着气，吐字急促。他的声音又细又尖，身上闻起来有一股药膏的味道。
“你……是个好人。”好人。
“摸摸我……”他呢喃道。把我的手放在他的心头。“这里。”
我感到喉头梗塞。教练？
“嗯？”
我不知道该怎么说再见。
他轻轻地拍着我的手，放在他的胸膛上。
“我们……就这样说……再见……”
他轻轻地呼吸，吸气、呼气。我能感觉得到他胸腔的起伏。然后他直直地看着我。
“爱……你，”他粗声说道。
我也爱你，教练。
“知道你……知道……还……”
你还知道什么？
“你……总是……”
他的眼睛眯了起来，哭了，他的脸像个不懂泪腺功能的婴儿一般扭曲着。我紧紧地拥抱了他几分钟。我揉着他那松弛的皮肤，抚摸着他的头发，把一只手掌放到他脸上，感觉到了皮肉下的骨头以及那像是从滴管挤出的极小滴的湿润的眼泪。
当他的呼吸再次趋于平缓后，我清了清嗓子，说我知道他累了，所以我下个星期二再过来，我期待他到时能精神点，谢谢。他轻轻地呼哧一声，很像是笑声，但听来还是那么令人悲伤。
我俯下身子，紧紧地亲着他，我们脸贴着脸、胡须贴着胡须，皮肤贴着皮肤，一动不动，时间比平常都要长久，我希望这能带给他哪怕一秒钟的快乐。
就这样，再见？我说道，准备离开。
我眨着眼睛忍住眼泪，他看见我的面容后，咂了咂嘴唇，扬起了眉毛。我视之为这位亲爱的老教授心满意足的一刻：他最终还是让我哭了。
“就这样，再见，”他低声说道。
莫里在一个星期六的早上去世了。
他的亲人都在屋子里陪着他。罗伯从东京赶了回来，与他的父亲吻别。乔恩也在那里，当然还有夏洛特和她的表妹玛莎，玛莎在那次非正式的葬礼上写的那首诗使莫里深受感动，那首诗把莫里比作一棵“温柔的红杉”。他们轮流睡在莫里的床边。在我们最后一次见面的两天后，莫里就陷入了昏迷。医生说他可能随时都会离开。然而，他仍然在坚持着，他熬过了一个艰难的下午，熬过了一个黑暗的夜晚。
最后，在11月4日那天，当那些莫里爱的人刚离开房间一会儿—去厨房拿咖啡，这也是他昏迷后第一次没有人在他的身边—他就停止呼吸了。
他就这样走了。
我相信他是有意以这样的方式离世的。我相信他不想有这么令人寒战的时刻，他不想有人目睹他断气的样子并为此感到痛苦，就像他为看到那份通知他母亲死亡的电报和市太平间里父亲的尸体而感到痛苦一样。
我相信他知道他就在自己的床上，知道他的书、他的笔记和他的小木槿都在身旁。他想要安静地离去，而这也正是他离去的方式。
葬礼在一个潮湿、起风的早晨举行。草地湿漉漉的，天空是牛奶的颜色。我们站在土坑的旁边，近得足以听到池水拍打着塘边的声音，还能看到鸭子抖落羽毛的情形。
虽然有成百上千的人想来参加，但是夏洛特并没有铺张，来参加的只有一些亲朋好友。阿克塞尔罗德拉比朗读了几首诗。按照习俗，莫里的弟弟—大卫，举铲将泥土洒向墓穴，小儿麻痹症使他落下了跛脚的后遗症。
当莫里的骨灰下葬时，我朝墓地四周看了看。莫里说得没错。这里确实是个不错的地方，树木、青草、还有一个斜坡。
“你说，我听。”他这么说过。
我试着在脑海里这样做，让我感到快乐的是，我发现那想象的对话几乎没有违和感。我低头看着双手，看到了我的手表，明白了这是为什么。
今天是星期二。
《相约星期二》是米奇·阿尔博姆的第一部作品，一经出版便在美国引起轰动，曾连续四十周被列入图书销售排行榜。本书讲述的是一个真实的故事：在作者迈出大学校门十五年后，偶然得知他的老教授莫里·施瓦茨身患重病，时日无多，于是他们相约每个星期二到莫里家里见面，在以后的十四个星期里，他们谈论了许多人生课题—遗憾、死亡、家庭、感情……而这本书的出版本身也是一个美丽的故事，原先作者并没有写这本书的打算，但莫里的治疗花了许多钱，他的家属欠了不少债，于是米奇决定写出这本书，所有的报酬都用来偿还老人遗留的债务。对于作者米奇·阿尔博姆而言，与恩师“相约星期二”的经历无疑是一个重新审视自己、重读人生必修课的机会。这门人生课震撼着作者，也藉由作者的妙笔，感动了整个世界。
It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie’s house. I took in little details， things I hadn’t noticed for all the times I’d visited. The cut of the hill. The stone facade of the house. The 1）pachysandra plants， the low shrubs. I walked slowly， taking my time， stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened beneath my feet.
Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well. This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time， which was unlike him. He never cared for sleeping， not when there were people he could talk with.
“He wants you to come visit，” Charlotte said，“but， Mitch…”
Yes？
“He’s very weak.”
The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a slow， observant manner， as if seeing them for the first time.
Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant， she had a 2）drawn look on her face. Her hello was softly spoken.
How’s he doing？ I said.
“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to think about it. He’s such a sweet man， you know？”
I knew.
“This is such a shame”
Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still sleeping， even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her 3）straighten up， noticing all the bottles of pills lined up on the table， a small army of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking 4）morphine now to ease his breathing.
I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup， vegetable cakes， tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn’t chewed food like this in months， we both knew that， but it had become a small tradition. Sometimes， when you’re losing someone， you hang on to whatever tradition you can. I waited in the living room， where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota children had shot each other playing with their father’s guns. A baby had been found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.
I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually， I heard a door open and close， then Charlotte’s footsteps coming toward me.
“All right，” she said softly. “He’s ready for you.”
I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot， then saw a strange woman sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair， her eyes on a book， her legs crossed. This was a 5）hospice nurse， part of the twenty-four-hour watch.
Morrie’s study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to the bedroom， and there he was， lying in bed， under the sheet. I had seen him like this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his 6）aphorism “When you’re in bed， you’re dead” began anew inside my head.
I entered， pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama-like top， and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small as a child.
Morrie’s mouth was open， and his skin was pale and tight against his cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me， he tried to speak， but I heard only a soft grunt.
There he is， I said， 7）mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty till.
He exhaled， shut his eyes， then smiled， the very effort seeming to tire him.
“My…dear…friend…” he finally said.
I am your friend， I said.
I’m not…so good today…”
Tomorrow will be better.
He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with something beneath the sheets， and I realized he was trying to move his hands toward the opening.
“Hold…” he said.
I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside my own. I leaned in close， a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had seen him unshaven， the small white 8）whiskers looking so out of place， as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else？
Morrie， I said softly. “Coach，” he corrected. Coach， I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts， inhaling air， exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of 9）ointment.
“You…are a good soul.” A good soul.
“Touched me…” he whispered. Moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach？
“Ahh？”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my hand weakly， keeping it on his chest.
“This...is how we say...good-bye…”
He breathed softly， in and out. I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he looked right at me.
“Love...you，” he rasped.
I love you， too， Coach.
“Know you do...know...something else…”
What else do you know？
“You...always have…”
His eyes got small， and then he cried， his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his 10）tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears， as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing approached normal again， I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired， so I would be back next Tuesday， and I expected him to be a little more alert， thank you. He snorted lightly， as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.
I leaned in and kissed him closely， my face against his， whiskers on whiskers， skin on skin， holding it there， longer than normal， in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.
Okay， then？ I said， pulling away.
I blinked back the tears， and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear old professor： he had finally made me cry.
“Okay， then，” he whispered.
Morrie died on a Saturday morning.
His 11）immediate family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo， he got to kiss his father good-bye， and Jon was there， and of course Charlotte was there and Charlotte’s cousin Marsha， who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his “unofficial” memorial serve， the poem that 12）likened him to a “tender 13）sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a 14）coma two days after our final visit， and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead， he hung on， through a tough afternoon， through a dark night.
Finally， on the fourth of November， when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen， the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing. And he was gone.
I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments， no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it， the way he had been haunted by his mother’s death-notice telegram or by his father’s corpse in the city 15）morgue.
I believe he knew that he was in his own bed， that his books and his notes and his small 16）hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely， and that is how he went.
The funeral was held on a damp， windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth， close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.
Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend， Charlotte kept this gathering small， just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie’s brother， David， who still walked with a limp from his childhood 17）polio， lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the grave， 18）as per tradition.
At one point， when Morrie’s ashes were placed into the ground， I glanced around the cemetery. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot， trees and grass and a sloping hill.
“You talk， I’ll listen，” he had said.
I tried doing that in my head and， to my happiness， found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands， saw my watch and realized why.
It was Tuesday.
天气又湿又冷，我踏上了莫里家的门阶。我注意到一些小细节，一些以往来访时从未注意过的地方—山的轮廓、房子的石墙立面、富贵草、低矮的灌木丛。我慢慢地走着，不慌不忙，踩着脚下潮湿的枯叶走去。
前一天，夏洛特打电话告诉我莫里的状况不太好了。这是她的表达方式，意思是莫里快不行了。莫里取消了所有的预约，大多数时间都在睡觉，这不像是他会做的事。他从来都不喜欢睡觉，尤其是当有人能跟他聊天时。
“他希望你能过来看看，”夏洛特说，“但是，米奇……”
嗯？
“他很虚弱。”
门廊的台阶，前门的玻璃。我慢慢地、专心致志地观察着这一切，仿佛是第一次见到这些东西。
康妮过来应的门。她平时欢快的面容此刻显得忧心忡忡。她向我轻声问好。
他怎么样了？我说道。
“不太好。”她咬了咬下唇。“我不愿去想这事儿。他是多好的一个人啊，你知道的，不是吗？”
我知道。
“真叫人遗憾。”
夏洛特来到了客厅，给我一个拥抱。她说莫里还在睡觉，尽管现在已经是早上十点了。我们走进了厨房。我帮她收拾收拾。我注意到桌子上摆放着一排药瓶，宛如一列头戴白帽，身穿棕色塑料装的士兵。我的老教授如今得靠服用吗啡来保持呼吸畅顺。
我把带来的食物放进冰箱—汤、蔬菜蛋糕、吞拿鱼沙拉。我为此向夏洛特说了声抱歉。莫里已经有好几个月不吃这样的食物了，我们都知道这点，但这已成为了一个小传统。有时，当你快要失去一个人之际，你就会牢牢抓住那些可以保留的传统。
我在客厅等着，泰德·科佩尔就是在这里第一次对莫里进行采访的。我拿起桌上的报纸来看。两个明尼苏达州的孩子在玩他们父亲的手枪时互相射中了对方。在洛杉矶的一条小巷子里发现了一个婴儿被埋在垃圾箱里。
我把报纸放下，凝视着空荡荡的壁炉，用鞋子轻轻地敲着硬木地板。最后，我听到门开了又关的声音，然后夏洛特的脚步向我走近。
“好了，”她轻声说道。“他准备好了，在等你。”
我起身走去我们熟悉的地方，然后，我看到了一个陌生的女人坐在走廊尽头的一张折叠椅上，她翘着脚在看书。这是安养院一名二十四小时值班护士。 莫里的书房没有人。我感到很疑惑。然后我犹豫着回过头，去卧房，他就在那里，躺在床上，身上盖着一张毯子。我只见过一次他是这副模样—他在做按摩的时候—而他的警句开始在我脑海里回响：“卧躺在床，便是死人。”
我走了进去，脸上硬挤出一个微笑。他穿了件类似睡衣的黄色上衣，胸部以下盖着一张毯子。他的身体萎缩得这般厉害，我差点以为他少了哪个部位。他瘦小得像个孩子。
莫里的嘴巴张开着，皮肤紧紧贴着脸上的颊骨，脸色苍白黯淡。当他的目光转向我时，他试图开口说话，但我只听到轻轻的哼哼声。
你在这儿，我说道，尽我所能地装出一副兴奋的样子。
他呼了口气，闭上眼睛，然后露出一个微笑，似乎这是个费劲的动作。
“我……亲爱的……朋友……”他终于说出话来。
我是你的朋友，我说道。
“我今天……感觉不太好……”
明天会好点的。
他又呼了口气，竭力地点点头。他在毯子下费力挣扎，我意识到他在努力把手伸出来。
“握住……”他说道。
我把毯子拉了下来，握住他的手指，用手掌包住它们。我倾身靠近他，离他的脸只有几英寸远。这是我第一次见他没刮胡子，那些小小的白色须头看起来是那么的碍眼，就好像有谁把盐整齐地撒在他的脸颊和下巴上似的。他的胡子还有着生命力，但他身体的其他地方都在衰竭，怎么会这样呢？
莫里，我轻声说道。“教练，”他纠正我。
教练，我改口道。我感到一阵战栗。他说话短促，猛吸着气，吐字急促。他的声音又细又尖，身上闻起来有一股药膏的味道。
“你……是个好人。”好人。
“摸摸我……”他呢喃道。把我的手放在他的心头。“这里。”
我感到喉头梗塞。教练？
“嗯？”
我不知道该怎么说再见。
他轻轻地拍着我的手，放在他的胸膛上。
“我们……就这样说……再见……”
他轻轻地呼吸，吸气、呼气。我能感觉得到他胸腔的起伏。然后他直直地看着我。
“爱……你，”他粗声说道。
我也爱你，教练。
“知道你……知道……还……”
你还知道什么？
“你……总是……”
他的眼睛眯了起来，哭了，他的脸像个不懂泪腺功能的婴儿一般扭曲着。我紧紧地拥抱了他几分钟。我揉着他那松弛的皮肤，抚摸着他的头发，把一只手掌放到他脸上，感觉到了皮肉下的骨头以及那像是从滴管挤出的极小滴的湿润的眼泪。
当他的呼吸再次趋于平缓后，我清了清嗓子，说我知道他累了，所以我下个星期二再过来，我期待他到时能精神点，谢谢。他轻轻地呼哧一声，很像是笑声，但听来还是那么令人悲伤。
我俯下身子，紧紧地亲着他，我们脸贴着脸、胡须贴着胡须，皮肤贴着皮肤，一动不动，时间比平常都要长久，我希望这能带给他哪怕一秒钟的快乐。
就这样，再见？我说道，准备离开。
我眨着眼睛忍住眼泪，他看见我的面容后，咂了咂嘴唇，扬起了眉毛。我视之为这位亲爱的老教授心满意足的一刻：他最终还是让我哭了。
“就这样，再见，”他低声说道。
莫里在一个星期六的早上去世了。
他的亲人都在屋子里陪着他。罗伯从东京赶了回来，与他的父亲吻别。乔恩也在那里，当然还有夏洛特和她的表妹玛莎，玛莎在那次非正式的葬礼上写的那首诗使莫里深受感动，那首诗把莫里比作一棵“温柔的红杉”。他们轮流睡在莫里的床边。在我们最后一次见面的两天后，莫里就陷入了昏迷。医生说他可能随时都会离开。然而，他仍然在坚持着，他熬过了一个艰难的下午，熬过了一个黑暗的夜晚。
最后，在11月4日那天，当那些莫里爱的人刚离开房间一会儿—去厨房拿咖啡，这也是他昏迷后第一次没有人在他的身边—他就停止呼吸了。
他就这样走了。
我相信他是有意以这样的方式离世的。我相信他不想有这么令人寒战的时刻，他不想有人目睹他断气的样子并为此感到痛苦，就像他为看到那份通知他母亲死亡的电报和市太平间里父亲的尸体而感到痛苦一样。
我相信他知道他就在自己的床上，知道他的书、他的笔记和他的小木槿都在身旁。他想要安静地离去，而这也正是他离去的方式。
葬礼在一个潮湿、起风的早晨举行。草地湿漉漉的，天空是牛奶的颜色。我们站在土坑的旁边，近得足以听到池水拍打着塘边的声音，还能看到鸭子抖落羽毛的情形。
虽然有成百上千的人想来参加，但是夏洛特并没有铺张，来参加的只有一些亲朋好友。阿克塞尔罗德拉比朗读了几首诗。按照习俗，莫里的弟弟—大卫，举铲将泥土洒向墓穴，小儿麻痹症使他落下了跛脚的后遗症。
当莫里的骨灰下葬时，我朝墓地四周看了看。莫里说得没错。这里确实是个不错的地方，树木、青草、还有一个斜坡。
“你说，我听。”他这么说过。
我试着在脑海里这样做，让我感到快乐的是，我发现那想象的对话几乎没有违和感。我低头看着双手，看到了我的手表，明白了这是为什么。
今天是星期二。