疑罪從無
地道英文
作者：by Tobias Wolff
拜厄斯·沃爾夫（Tobias Wolff），1945年出生於美國阿拉巴馬州的伯明翰市，是蜚聲美國的短篇小說家及回憶錄創作大師，被文學界譽為美國的“契訶夫”，現任美國斯坦福大學人文學科教授。沃爾夫曾在上世紀八十年代憑借短篇小說榮獲三次歐·亨利獎；2006年獲得福克納筆會獎；2009年3月4日，憑借《我們的故事開始了》一舉奪得美國傑出短篇小說獎。沃爾夫的短篇小說時常發表在《華盛頓郵報》、《紐約客》、《格蘭特》、《時尚先生》等著名文學雜誌上，充分展露了他非凡的創作天賦。
在沃爾夫的文字世界裏，那些影響了我們的主人公及其發生在他們身上的故事將不會消失，他（它）們靜靜地呆在某個時間的轉角、記憶的轉角，故事的開始和結束都在同一個地方。此次的短篇小說節選《疑罪從無》，亦是如此：美國先生馬爾龍在羅馬出差辦事途中，遭遇了一次偷竊，慶幸的是，扒手在偷竊過程中哮喘發作，犯罪未遂，反為馬爾龍所救。糟糕的雷雨天氣、哮喘病發作的扒手、事業家庭兩不順的中年男子馬爾龍、歧視吉普賽人的刻薄司機，所有的故事都將隨著馬爾龍的一時善意——送扒手回家——而進入高潮。而馬爾龍這位美國先生的一時善意有沒有得到相應的回報呢？
故事將結束在它開始的地方，讀者朋友們，你們猜到結局了嗎？
He leaned down to the 1）pickpocket. The 2）heaving and 3）gasping had stopped， but he was still making a show of his breathlessness.
“That’s better，” Mallon said. “Can you stand up？ Try to stand up. Here，” he said， and gripped the pickpocket’s arm and forced him upright until he saw his face for the first time. It was a round dark face with a small round mouth， lips as full and tender—looking as a girl’s. Despite the sheen of sweat on the puffy cheeks， the vanity of the pencil-line mustache， the 4）sparse 5）streaks of hair plastered across the damp forehead， Mallon had an impression of dignity； dignity， and dignity offended. As the pickpocket labored for breath， he gazed up at Mallon with his dark eyes. “How could you？” they asked.
Mallon might have said，“Because you tried to steal from me.” But he was still conscious of the flush of joy he’d felt when his blow 6）struck home—when he knew he’d hurt the man. It lingered in the faint tingling of his skin， an edgy sense of 7）buoyancy， vitality. Where that joy came from he couldn’t say， but he knew that its roots were deeper than some clumsy failed larceny.
Fat drops of rain began to patter on the 8）awning.
“How are you？” Mallon said. “Can you walk？”
The pickpocket turned away as if insulted by the hypocrisy of Mallon’s concern. He leaned against the store window with both hands， and his head sank lower as his shoulders rose and fell. A grayhaired woman inside the store rapped on the glass and made a shooing motion. When the pickpocket ignored her， she rapped harder and kept rapping. He really was a little man： she glared down at him like a 9）schoolmarm scolding a guilty child.
“I have to go，” Mallon said. “I’m sorry.” He looked up at the sky. He would have liked to call Silvestri， to tell him that he was on his way， but his cell phone was back at the hotel and there was no public telephone in sight. “I’m sorry，” he said again， and stepped into the rain and walked quickly up the street.
One of the 10）ubiquitous Bangladeshi umbrella 11）hustlers was working the corner， and Mallon had just shelled out seven euros when he heard a woman shouting. He didn’t want to look back but did. It was the woman from the shop， pushing and batting the pickpocket away from the window while he hunched and covered his head like a boxer trying to get through the last seconds of a round. Mallon slipped his billfold back into his jacket pocket and took the umbrella that the Bangladeshi had opened for him. He hesitated， then turned back.