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拜厄斯·沃尔夫（Tobias Wolff），1945年出生于美国阿拉巴马州的伯明翰市，是蜚声美国的短篇小说家及回忆录创作大师，被文学界誉为美国的“契诃夫”，现任美国斯坦福大学人文学科教授。沃尔夫曾在上世纪八十年代凭借短篇小说荣获三次欧·亨利奖；2006年获得福克纳笔会奖；2009年3月4日，凭借《我们的故事开始了》一举夺得美国杰出短篇小说奖。沃尔夫的短篇小说时常发表在《华盛顿邮报》、《纽约客》、《格兰特》、《时尚先生》等著名文学杂志上，充分展露了他非凡的创作天赋。
在沃尔夫的文字世界里，那些影响了我们的主人公及其发生在他们身上的故事将不会消失，他（它）们静静地呆在某个时间的转角、记忆的转角，故事的开始和结束都在同一个地方。此次的短篇小说节选《疑罪从无》，亦是如此：美国先生马尔龙在罗马出差办事途中，遭遇了一次偷窃，庆幸的是，扒手在偷窃过程中哮喘发作，犯罪未遂，反为马尔龙所救。糟糕的雷雨天气、哮喘病发作的扒手、事业家庭两不顺的中年男子马尔龙、歧视吉普赛人的刻薄司机，所有的故事都将随着马尔龙的一时善意——送扒手回家——而进入高潮。而马尔龙这位美国先生的一时善意有没有得到相应的回报呢？
故事将结束在它开始的地方，读者朋友们，你们猜到结局了吗？
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.
The pickpocket was out on the sidewalk now， in the rain. The woman stood just under the awning with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Excuse me， 12）signora，” Mallon said， coming up to them. “This man isn’t well. He needs to rest a moment.”
“I know these people，” she said. “We don’t want them here.”
The rain fell in sheets， ran down the pickpocket’s shiny 13）scalp and face， down his leather jacket. Strings of water hung like a fringe from the 14）hem of the jacket， dripping onto the sagging pants and 15）dainty shoes.
“Here，” Mallon said， and offered him the umbrella， but he only looked at Mallon with his hurt dark eyes and then lowered his head again. Mallon bumped him in the shoulder with the handle of the umbrella. “Go on—take it！” he said.
And finally， with a beaten， unwilling look， the pickpocket did. He stood between Mallon and the signora， panting softly， holding the umbrella at a careless angle. He seemed 16）oblivious of the water sliding down it onto his back； he seemed unable to move. So， too， the signora， steadfast in her icy pose. Mallon stepped under the awning， not so much to get out of the rain as to break free of this 17）tableau.
And that was when he saw a taxi round the corner with a light glowing on its roof. It was absurd to hope for an empty cab in rain like this， most likely the driver had simply forgotten to turn it off， but Mallon ran out waving his arm and the cab veered sharply to the curb， sending a comber of water over his shoes. He opened the door but couldn’t help looking back. The pickpocket had lowered the umbrella to the ground upside down and was leaning on the shaft， head low， neck bared to the sky. The signora kept her post.
“Wait，” Mallon said to the driver.
He went back and grabbed the pickpocket’s sleeve and pulled him to the cab. “Get in，” Mallon said， and took the umbrella and pushed him into the back seat. He leaned inside. “O.K.， where do you live？” “No Gypsies！” the driver said. He was twisted around， scowling at the pickpocket.
“Gypsy？ Look， he’s not well. I’ll pay，”Mallon added.
The driver shook his head.
“No Gypsies. He was a thick-shouldered guy with a long blue jaw， a hawkish beak， and heavy black eyebrows. His shaved head was blue with 18）stubble. Get him out，”he said. Mallon was thrown by his anger and the dissonant paleness of his eyes， and before he could reply the driver seized the pickpocket’s jacket and gave him a shake.“Out， you！”
“No，” Mallon said. He closed the umbrella and slid onto the seat next to the pickpocket. “He needs to go home，” he said. “I’ll come along.”
The driver stabbed a finger at Mallon. “Out.”
Mallon looked at the driver’s nameplate： Michele Kadare. “It’s the law，” he said， bluffing. “If you don’t take us， 19）Signor Kadare， I’ll report you and you’ll lose your license. Believe me—I am quite serious.”
The driver fastened those pale eyes on Mallon. The 20）windshield wipers 21）rasped against the glass. The driver turned and put his hands on the 22）steering wheel. His meaty fingers were white and hairless as chalk. He raised his eyes to the 23）rearview mirror and he and Mallon exchanged stares.
“O.K.， Mr. American，” he said. “You pay.”
他冲着那个扒手俯下身去。那扒手的种种急呼速喘早已停下，却仍装出一副透不过气来的样子。
“好多了，”马尔龙说道。“站得起来吗？试着站起身来。站这儿，”他边说边抓紧了那个扒手的手臂并迫使其站得笔直，直到此时他才第一次看到了那个扒手的脸。那是一张黝黑的圆脸，嘴巴小小圆圆的，嘴唇既丰满又柔嫩——看起来像是一个女孩儿的嘴巴。他那肿胀的脸颊上汗湿莹莹，洋气的铅笔胡，湿漉漉的前额贴着几撂发丝。尽管如此，马尔龙还是感觉到那个扒手有一丝尊贵；尊贵，掺杂着被冒犯的尊贵。那个扒手吃力喘息的同时，还用他乌溜溜的眼睛紧紧盯着马尔龙。“你怎么可以这样？”那双眼睛问道。
马尔龙可能会说：“因为你想偷我东西。”但他仍感觉到自己因击中那扒手致其受伤的那丝快慰。那种欢乐弥留于马尔龙的肌肤感触中，轻浮跃动的一股锐感。那种快乐来自于哪里他不知道，但是他知道那原因不只是那笨拙的偷盗败笔。
大滴的雨水开始拍打雨篷。
“你怎么样？”马尔龙问道。“你能走路吗？”
那个扒手把脸转到了一边，仿佛在马尔龙假意的关心之下受到侮辱一般。他用双手靠在商店的橱窗上，肩膀随喘息起伏，脑袋垂得更低了。一个头发花白的妇人在店里面敲了敲窗玻璃，做了个“嘘”的手势。那扒手并没有理会她，她敲得越发的凶，不停地敲着。他的确是一个小个儿男人：那妇女朝他恶狠狠地瞪下来，就好像一个女教师在斥责一个犯了错的小孩儿。
“我得走了，”马尔龙说。“对不起。”他抬头看着天空。他应该给西尔维斯特里打个电话，告诉人家他正在路上，但是他的手机落在了酒店里，而且眼前也没有公共电话。“对不起，”他又说了一遍，然后走进雨里，快速走向街道的另一头。
一个那种无处不在的孟加拉卖伞小贩，正在那转角卖着伞。马尔龙刚给他付完七欧元，就听到了一个女人的大叫。他不想回过头看，但还是看了。是刚才那商店里的女人，推搡、拍打着那个扒手，让其远离橱窗，而那个扒手弯腰弓背以手挡护着脑袋，就像拳击手试图熬过一个回合的最后几秒钟。马尔龙把他的钱夹子放进了夹克口袋，并接过那个孟加拉人为他撑开的雨伞。他犹豫了一下，然后掉头往回走。
那个扒手现在已经在商店外面的人行道上了，在雨里。那个女人只是双手叉在胸前站在雨篷下面。
“打扰一下，夫人，”马尔龙边说边走近他们，“这男子不舒服，需要休息片刻。”
“我知道这种人，”她说。“我们不想让他们呆在这儿。”
雨一大片一大片地浇下来，落到了那个扒手光亮的头皮和脸上，滑下他的皮夹克。那夹克下沿挂着成串像花边坠穗般的雨水，滴在那松垂的裤子和精致的鞋子上。
“这儿，”马尔龙说着，而后递给他那把伞，但他只是用他那痛苦的乌溜溜的眼睛看着马尔龙，然后再次垂下了他的头。马尔龙用伞柄碰了碰他的肩膀。“来——拿着！”马尔龙说道。 最终，带着一个被打败、不情愿的神情，那扒手接过了伞。他站在马尔龙和那个妇人的中间，轻喘着，随意歪撑着那把伞。他似乎忘了雨水正从伞上滑到他的背上；他似乎不大能动。那位妇人，同样也一动不动，冷冰冰地站着。马尔龙走到雨篷下，与其说是为了躲雨，不如说是为了打破这个僵局。
就在这时，马尔龙看到拐角处一辆顶上亮着灯的出租车。在这样的雨中期待一辆空出租车的出现是荒唐的，很有可能那个司机只是忘了关掉空车标灯，马尔龙挥着胳膊跑出来，而那辆出租车旋即驶靠向路边停下，溅起一滩水漫过他的鞋子。他打开车门却忍不住回头看。那个扒手把伞颠倒着丢到了地上，靠在柱子上，低着头，脖子光光地对着天空。那位夫人则坚守着她的岗位。
“等等，”马尔龙对司机说道。
他走回去，抓住那个扒手的袖子，将其拽到了出租车旁。“上车，”马尔龙说，然后拿上雨伞，把那个扒手推到了后座。马尔龙在车里倾着身子。“好了，你住在哪儿？”
“我不载吉普赛人！”那司机说。他转过身，忿忿地瞪着那个扒手。
“吉普赛人？看，他不大舒服。我会付钱的。”马尔龙补充道。
那个司机摇了摇头。
“不载吉普赛人。这厚肩膀的家伙，长下巴胡茬青青的，鹰钩鼻，眉毛浓黑，剃了头，发茬青青的。让他滚下车，”司机说道。马尔龙被那司机的怒火和不搭调的淡泊眼神给搞懵了，在他还没来得及回句话的时候，那司机已经拽住了扒手的夹克并摇了一下他。“你，下车！”
“不，”马尔龙说。他合上雨伞并坐到那个扒手旁边的座位上。“他得回家，”马尔龙说。“我会一起跟着。”
那司机冲马尔龙竖起了中指。“下车。”
马尔龙看着那个司机的工牌：米歇尔·卡达雷。“法律规定的，”马尔龙唬弄着说道。“如果你拒载，卡达雷先生，我会举报你，而你将会失去你的执照。不是唬你，我是说真的。”
那个司机用暗淡的双眼死死地瞪着马尔龙。雨刮器擦着玻璃发出刺耳的声音。那个司机转过身并将双手放到了方向盘上。他肉肉的手指很白且没有什么汗毛，像粉笔一样。他举目瞧了瞧后视镜，并与马尔龙互瞪了几眼。
“好吧，美国先生，”那个司机说。“你来付钱。”
在沃尔夫的文字世界里，那些影响了我们的主人公及其发生在他们身上的故事将不会消失，他（它）们静静地呆在某个时间的转角、记忆的转角，故事的开始和结束都在同一个地方。此次的短篇小说节选《疑罪从无》，亦是如此：美国先生马尔龙在罗马出差办事途中，遭遇了一次偷窃，庆幸的是，扒手在偷窃过程中哮喘发作，犯罪未遂，反为马尔龙所救。糟糕的雷雨天气、哮喘病发作的扒手、事业家庭两不顺的中年男子马尔龙、歧视吉普赛人的刻薄司机，所有的故事都将随着马尔龙的一时善意——送扒手回家——而进入高潮。而马尔龙这位美国先生的一时善意有没有得到相应的回报呢？
故事将结束在它开始的地方，读者朋友们，你们猜到结局了吗？
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.
The pickpocket was out on the sidewalk now， in the rain. The woman stood just under the awning with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Excuse me， 12）signora，” Mallon said， coming up to them. “This man isn’t well. He needs to rest a moment.”
“I know these people，” she said. “We don’t want them here.”
The rain fell in sheets， ran down the pickpocket’s shiny 13）scalp and face， down his leather jacket. Strings of water hung like a fringe from the 14）hem of the jacket， dripping onto the sagging pants and 15）dainty shoes.
“Here，” Mallon said， and offered him the umbrella， but he only looked at Mallon with his hurt dark eyes and then lowered his head again. Mallon bumped him in the shoulder with the handle of the umbrella. “Go on—take it！” he said.
And finally， with a beaten， unwilling look， the pickpocket did. He stood between Mallon and the signora， panting softly， holding the umbrella at a careless angle. He seemed 16）oblivious of the water sliding down it onto his back； he seemed unable to move. So， too， the signora， steadfast in her icy pose. Mallon stepped under the awning， not so much to get out of the rain as to break free of this 17）tableau.
And that was when he saw a taxi round the corner with a light glowing on its roof. It was absurd to hope for an empty cab in rain like this， most likely the driver had simply forgotten to turn it off， but Mallon ran out waving his arm and the cab veered sharply to the curb， sending a comber of water over his shoes. He opened the door but couldn’t help looking back. The pickpocket had lowered the umbrella to the ground upside down and was leaning on the shaft， head low， neck bared to the sky. The signora kept her post.
“Wait，” Mallon said to the driver.
He went back and grabbed the pickpocket’s sleeve and pulled him to the cab. “Get in，” Mallon said， and took the umbrella and pushed him into the back seat. He leaned inside. “O.K.， where do you live？” “No Gypsies！” the driver said. He was twisted around， scowling at the pickpocket.
“Gypsy？ Look， he’s not well. I’ll pay，”Mallon added.
The driver shook his head.
“No Gypsies. He was a thick-shouldered guy with a long blue jaw， a hawkish beak， and heavy black eyebrows. His shaved head was blue with 18）stubble. Get him out，”he said. Mallon was thrown by his anger and the dissonant paleness of his eyes， and before he could reply the driver seized the pickpocket’s jacket and gave him a shake.“Out， you！”
“No，” Mallon said. He closed the umbrella and slid onto the seat next to the pickpocket. “He needs to go home，” he said. “I’ll come along.”
The driver stabbed a finger at Mallon. “Out.”
Mallon looked at the driver’s nameplate： Michele Kadare. “It’s the law，” he said， bluffing. “If you don’t take us， 19）Signor Kadare， I’ll report you and you’ll lose your license. Believe me—I am quite serious.”
The driver fastened those pale eyes on Mallon. The 20）windshield wipers 21）rasped against the glass. The driver turned and put his hands on the 22）steering wheel. His meaty fingers were white and hairless as chalk. He raised his eyes to the 23）rearview mirror and he and Mallon exchanged stares.
“O.K.， Mr. American，” he said. “You pay.”
他冲着那个扒手俯下身去。那扒手的种种急呼速喘早已停下，却仍装出一副透不过气来的样子。
“好多了，”马尔龙说道。“站得起来吗？试着站起身来。站这儿，”他边说边抓紧了那个扒手的手臂并迫使其站得笔直，直到此时他才第一次看到了那个扒手的脸。那是一张黝黑的圆脸，嘴巴小小圆圆的，嘴唇既丰满又柔嫩——看起来像是一个女孩儿的嘴巴。他那肿胀的脸颊上汗湿莹莹，洋气的铅笔胡，湿漉漉的前额贴着几撂发丝。尽管如此，马尔龙还是感觉到那个扒手有一丝尊贵；尊贵，掺杂着被冒犯的尊贵。那个扒手吃力喘息的同时，还用他乌溜溜的眼睛紧紧盯着马尔龙。“你怎么可以这样？”那双眼睛问道。
马尔龙可能会说：“因为你想偷我东西。”但他仍感觉到自己因击中那扒手致其受伤的那丝快慰。那种欢乐弥留于马尔龙的肌肤感触中，轻浮跃动的一股锐感。那种快乐来自于哪里他不知道，但是他知道那原因不只是那笨拙的偷盗败笔。
大滴的雨水开始拍打雨篷。
“你怎么样？”马尔龙问道。“你能走路吗？”
那个扒手把脸转到了一边，仿佛在马尔龙假意的关心之下受到侮辱一般。他用双手靠在商店的橱窗上，肩膀随喘息起伏，脑袋垂得更低了。一个头发花白的妇人在店里面敲了敲窗玻璃，做了个“嘘”的手势。那扒手并没有理会她，她敲得越发的凶，不停地敲着。他的确是一个小个儿男人：那妇女朝他恶狠狠地瞪下来，就好像一个女教师在斥责一个犯了错的小孩儿。
“我得走了，”马尔龙说。“对不起。”他抬头看着天空。他应该给西尔维斯特里打个电话，告诉人家他正在路上，但是他的手机落在了酒店里，而且眼前也没有公共电话。“对不起，”他又说了一遍，然后走进雨里，快速走向街道的另一头。
一个那种无处不在的孟加拉卖伞小贩，正在那转角卖着伞。马尔龙刚给他付完七欧元，就听到了一个女人的大叫。他不想回过头看，但还是看了。是刚才那商店里的女人，推搡、拍打着那个扒手，让其远离橱窗，而那个扒手弯腰弓背以手挡护着脑袋，就像拳击手试图熬过一个回合的最后几秒钟。马尔龙把他的钱夹子放进了夹克口袋，并接过那个孟加拉人为他撑开的雨伞。他犹豫了一下，然后掉头往回走。
那个扒手现在已经在商店外面的人行道上了，在雨里。那个女人只是双手叉在胸前站在雨篷下面。
“打扰一下，夫人，”马尔龙边说边走近他们，“这男子不舒服，需要休息片刻。”
“我知道这种人，”她说。“我们不想让他们呆在这儿。”
雨一大片一大片地浇下来，落到了那个扒手光亮的头皮和脸上，滑下他的皮夹克。那夹克下沿挂着成串像花边坠穗般的雨水，滴在那松垂的裤子和精致的鞋子上。
“这儿，”马尔龙说着，而后递给他那把伞，但他只是用他那痛苦的乌溜溜的眼睛看着马尔龙，然后再次垂下了他的头。马尔龙用伞柄碰了碰他的肩膀。“来——拿着！”马尔龙说道。 最终，带着一个被打败、不情愿的神情，那扒手接过了伞。他站在马尔龙和那个妇人的中间，轻喘着，随意歪撑着那把伞。他似乎忘了雨水正从伞上滑到他的背上；他似乎不大能动。那位妇人，同样也一动不动，冷冰冰地站着。马尔龙走到雨篷下，与其说是为了躲雨，不如说是为了打破这个僵局。
就在这时，马尔龙看到拐角处一辆顶上亮着灯的出租车。在这样的雨中期待一辆空出租车的出现是荒唐的，很有可能那个司机只是忘了关掉空车标灯，马尔龙挥着胳膊跑出来，而那辆出租车旋即驶靠向路边停下，溅起一滩水漫过他的鞋子。他打开车门却忍不住回头看。那个扒手把伞颠倒着丢到了地上，靠在柱子上，低着头，脖子光光地对着天空。那位夫人则坚守着她的岗位。
“等等，”马尔龙对司机说道。
他走回去，抓住那个扒手的袖子，将其拽到了出租车旁。“上车，”马尔龙说，然后拿上雨伞，把那个扒手推到了后座。马尔龙在车里倾着身子。“好了，你住在哪儿？”
“我不载吉普赛人！”那司机说。他转过身，忿忿地瞪着那个扒手。
“吉普赛人？看，他不大舒服。我会付钱的。”马尔龙补充道。
那个司机摇了摇头。
“不载吉普赛人。这厚肩膀的家伙，长下巴胡茬青青的，鹰钩鼻，眉毛浓黑，剃了头，发茬青青的。让他滚下车，”司机说道。马尔龙被那司机的怒火和不搭调的淡泊眼神给搞懵了，在他还没来得及回句话的时候，那司机已经拽住了扒手的夹克并摇了一下他。“你，下车！”
“不，”马尔龙说。他合上雨伞并坐到那个扒手旁边的座位上。“他得回家，”马尔龙说。“我会一起跟着。”
那司机冲马尔龙竖起了中指。“下车。”
马尔龙看着那个司机的工牌：米歇尔·卡达雷。“法律规定的，”马尔龙唬弄着说道。“如果你拒载，卡达雷先生，我会举报你，而你将会失去你的执照。不是唬你，我是说真的。”
那个司机用暗淡的双眼死死地瞪着马尔龙。雨刮器擦着玻璃发出刺耳的声音。那个司机转过身并将双手放到了方向盘上。他肉肉的手指很白且没有什么汗毛，像粉笔一样。他举目瞧了瞧后视镜，并与马尔龙互瞪了几眼。
“好吧，美国先生，”那个司机说。“你来付钱。”