Lions and Tigers and Bears

Bill Buford

So I thought I'd spend the night in Central Park, and, having stuffed my small rucksack with a sleeping bag, a big bottle of mineral water, a map, and a toothbrush, I arrived one heavy, muggy Friday evening in July to do just that: to walk around until I got so tired that I'd curl up under a tree and drop off to a peaceful, outdoorsy sleep. Of course, anybody who knows anything about New York knows the city's essential platitude—that you don't wander around Central Park at night—and in that, needless to say, was the appeal: it was the thing you don't do. And, from what I can tell, it has always been the thing you don't do, ever since the Park's founding commissioners, nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, decided that the place should be closed at night. Ogden Nash observed in 1961:

If you should happen after dark

To find yourself in Central Park,

Ignore the paths that beckon you

And hurry, hurry to the zoo,

And creep into the tiger's lair.

Frankly, you'll be safer there.

Even now, when every Park official, city administrator, and police officer tells us that the Park is safe during the day,

they all agree in this: only a fool goes there at night.

Or a purse snatcher, loon, prostitute, drug dealer, murderer—not to mention bully, garrotter, highway robber.

I arrived at nine-fifteen and made for the only nocturnal spot I knew: the Delacorte Theatre.

Tonight's show was The Taming of the Shrew.

Lights out, applause, and the audience began exiting.

So far, so normal, and this could have been an outdoor summer-stock Shakespeare production anywhere in America,

except in one respect: a police car was now parked conspicuously in view, its roof light slowly rotating.

The police were there to reassure the audience that it was being protected;

the rotating red light was like a campfire in the wild, warning what's out there to stay away.

During my first hour or so, I wandered around the Delacorte, reassured by the lights, the laughter,

the lines of Shakespeare that drifted out into the summer night.

I was feeling a certain exhilaration, climbing the steps of Belvedere Castle all alone,

peeking through the windows of the Henry Luce Nature Observatory, identifying the herbs in the Shakespeare Garden,

when, after turning this way and that, I was on a winding trail in impenetrable foliage, and, within minutes, I was lost.

There was a light ahead, and as I rounded the corner I came upon five men, all wearing white T-shirts, huddled around a bench.

I walked past, avoiding eye contact, and turned down a path, a narrow one, black dark, going down a hill, getting darker, very dark.

Then I heard a great shaking of the bushes beside me and froze.

Animal? Mugger? Whatever I was hearing would surely stop making that noise, I thought.

But it didn't. How can this be?

I'm in the Park less than an hour and already I'm lost, on an unlighted path,

facing an unknown thing shaking threateningly in the bushes, and I thought, Shit! What am I doing here?

And I bolted, not running, exactly, but no longer strolling—and certainly not looking back—turning left, turning right, all sense of direction obliterated,

the crashing continuing behind me, louder even, left, another man in a T-shirt, right, another man,

when finally I realized where I was—in the Ramble.

As I turned left again, I saw the lake, and the skyline of Central Park South.

I stopped. I breathed. Relax, I told myself. It's only darkness.

About fifteen feet into the lake, there was a large boulder, with a heap of branches leading to it.

I tiptoed across and sat, enjoying the picture of the city again, the very reassuring city.

I looked around. There was a warm breeze, and heavy clouds overhead, but it was still hot, and I was sweating.

Far out in the lake, there was a light—someone rowing a boat, a lantern suspended above the stem.

I got my bearings. I was on the West Side, around Seventy-seventh.

The far side of the lake must be near Strawberry Fields, around Seventy-second.

It was where, I realized, two years ago, the police had found the body of Michael McMorrow, a forty-four-year-old man (my age),

who was stabbed thirty-four times by a fifteen-year-old.

After he was killed, he was disemboweled, and his intestines ripped out so that his body would sink when rolled into the lake—a detail that I've compulsively reviewed in my mind since I first heard it.

And then his killers, with time on their hands and no witnesses, just went home.

One of the first events in the park took place 140 years ago almost to the day: a band concert.

The concert, pointedly, was held on a Saturday, still a working day, because the concert, like much of the Park then, was designed to keep the city's rougher elements out.

The Park at night must have seemed luxurious and secluded—a giant evening garden party.

The Park was to be strolled through, enjoyed as an aesthetic experience, like a walk inside a painting.

George Templeton Strong, the indefatigable diarist, recognized, on his first visit on June 11, 1859, that the architects were building two different parks at once.

One was the Romantic park, which included the Ramble, the carefully "designed" wilderness, wild nature re-created in the middle of the city.

The other, the southern end of the Park, was more French: ordered, and characterized by straight lines.

I climbed back down from the rock. In the distance, I spotted a couple approaching.

Your first thought is: nutcase?

But then I noticed, even from a hundred feet, that the couple was panicking:

the man was pulling the woman to the other side of him, so that he would be between her and me when we passed.

The woman stopped, and the man jerked her forward authoritatively.

As they got closer, I could see that he was tall and skinny, wearing a plaid shirt and black horn-rimmed glasses;

she was a blonde, and looked determinedly at the ground, her face rigid.

When they were within a few feet of me, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

I couldn't resist: just as we were about to pass each other, I addressed them, forthrightly: "Hello, good people!"

I said. "And how are you on this fine summer evening?"

At first, silence, and then the woman started shrieking uncontrollably—"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"—and they hurried away.

This was an interesting discovery. One of the most frightening things in the Park at night was a man on his own.

One of the most frightening things tonight was me.

I was emboldened by the realization: I was no longer afraid; I was frightening.

Not everyone likes the Park, but just about everyone feels he should.

This was at the heart of Henry James's observations when he visited the Park, in 1904.

The Park, in James's eyes, was a failure, but everyone, as he put it, felt the need to "keep patting the Park on the back."

By then, the Park's founders had died, and the Park, no longer the domain of the privileged, had been taken over by immigrants.

In fact, between James's visit and the nineteen-thirties, the Park might have been at its most popular, visited by ten to twenty million a year.

The Park in fact was being destroyed by overuse, until 1934, when the legendary Robert Moses was appointed the Park's commissioner.

Moses was responsible for the third design element in the Park—neither English nor French, neither Romantic nor classical,

but efficient, purposeful, and unapologetically American.

He put in baseball diamonds, volleyball courts, and swimming pools.

He even tried to turn the Ramble into a senior citizen's recreation center, but was stopped by the protesting bird-watchers.

The irony was that by the end of the Moses era the Park was dangerous.

In my new confidence I set out for the northern end of the Park.

Near the reservoir, a gang of kids on bicycles zoomed across the Eighty-fifth Street Transverse, hooting with a sense of ominous power.

A little later, there was another gang, this one on foot—about a dozen black kids, moving eastward, just by the running track.

I kept my head down and picked up my pace, but my mind involuntarily called up the memory of the 1989 incident,

in which a young investment banker was beaten and sexually assaulted by a group of kids on a rampage.

Around Ninety-fifth Street, I found a bench and stopped.

I had taken one of the trails that run alongside the Park's West Drive, and the more northern apartments of Central Park West were in view.

I sat as residents prepared for bed: someone watching television, a woman doing yoga, a man stepping into the shower.

Below me was the city, the top of the Empire State Building peeking over the skyline.

George Templeton Strong discovered the beauty of Central Park at night on July 30, 1869, on a "starlit drive" with his wife.

But tonight, even if it weren't clouding over, there'd be no stars.

Too much glare. The Park is now framed, enveloped even, by the city,

but there was no escaping the recognition that this city—contrived, man-made, glaringly obtrusive,

consuming wasteful and staggering quantities of electricity and water and energy—was very beautiful.

I'm not sure why it should be so beautiful; I don't have the vocabulary to describe its appeal.

But there it was: the city at night, viewed from what was meant to be an escape from it, shimmering. I walked and walked. Around one-thirty, I entered the North Woods, and made my way down to what my map would later tell me was a stream called the Loch.

The stream was loud, sounding more like a river than a stream.

And for the first time that night the city disappeared: no buildings, no lights, no sirens.

I was tired. I had been walking for a long time.

I wanted to unroll my sleeping bag, out of view of the police, and fall asleep.

I was looking forward to dawn and being awakened by birds.

I made my way down a ravine. A dirt trail appeared on my left. This looked promising.

I followed it, and it wound its way down to the stream.

I looked back: I couldn't see the trail; it was blocked by trees.

This was good. Secluded. I walked on. It flattened out and I could put a sleeping bag here.

This was good, too. Yes: good. There were fireflies, even at this hour,

and the place was so dark and so densely shrouded by the trees overhead that the light of the fireflies was hugely magnified;

their abdomens pulsed like great yellow flashlights.

I eventually rolled out my sleeping bag atop a little rise beside the bridle path by the North Meadow,

and then I crawled inside my bag and closed my eyes.

And then: snap! A tremendous cracking sound. I froze, then quickly whipped round to have a look: nothing.

A forest is always full of noises.

How did I manage to camp out as a kid? Finally, I fell asleep.

I know I fell asleep because I was awake again.

Another branch snapping, but this sound was different—as if I could hear the tissue of the wood tearing.

My eyes still closed, I was motionless. Another branch, and then a rustling of leaves.

No doubt: someone was there. I could tell I was being stared at; I could feel the staring. I heard breathing.

I opened my eyes and was astonished by what I saw.

There were three of them, all within arm's reach. They looked very big.

At first I didn't know what they were, except that they were animals.

Maybe they were bears, small ones.

Then I realized; they were—what do you call them?

Those animals that Daniel Boone made his hat out of.

They weren't moving; I wasn't moving. They just stared, brown eyes looking blankly into my own.

They were obviously very perplexed to find me here.

Suddenly, I was very perplexed to find me here, too.

"Imagine this," one of them seemed to be saying. "A grown man sleeping out in Central Park!"

"Obviously, not from New York."

"Hi, guys," I muttered. I said this very softly.

My voice startled them and they scurried up the tree in front of me.

Then they stopped and resumed staring. And then, very slowly, they inched farther up.

They were now about forty feet directly above me, and the tree was swaying slightly with their weight.

It was starting to drizzle.

I heard a helicopter, its searchlight crisscrossing the path only ten feet away.

So maybe there were bad guys.

I looked back at the raccoons. "Are there bad guys here?" I asked them.

It was stupid to speak. My voice startled them and, directly overhead, one of them started peeing.

And then, nature finding herself unable to resist, it started to pour.

But not for long. The rain stopped. And I fell asleep.

I know I fell asleep because the next thing I heard was birds. A natural, naturally beautiful sound.

狮子、老虎和熊

比尔·比福德

就这样，我打算在中央公园过夜，于是便往背包里塞了一个睡袋、一大瓶矿泉水、一张地图和一支牙刷，在七月份一个极其闷热潮湿的周五傍晚赶到了这里。我打算四处游荡，走累了就在树下蜷作一团，在野外睡个安稳觉。当然，凡是了解纽约的人都知道有关这座城市的一句老话——你夜晚不能在中央公园闲逛——不用说，往往不能做的事情反而更诱人。据我所知，早在近150年前，这座公园创建时期的主管人员就做出决定，公园在夜里应该关闭，从那时起，这就成了你不能做的事情。奥格登·纳什在1961年评论到：

天黑离公园，

切莫再流连；

幽径虽迷人，到处有陷阱。

快去动物园，

钻进老虎洞，

诸君听我劝，此处最安全。

即使是现在，每位公园管理人员、城市管理者和警察都告诉我们，中央公园白天是安全的，

他们都同意下列观点：只有傻瓜才会在夜晚去那里。

否则就是个抢劫犯、疯子、娼妓、毒品贩子、杀人犯——更不用说恶棍、勒杀犯和勒索犯了。

我在九点十五分到达中央公园，走向我所知道的唯一一处有夜间活动的场所：德拉科特剧院。

今天晚上演出的剧目是《驯悍记》。

不一会儿，灯光灭了，观众一阵掌声，然后他们开始退场。

到目前为止，一切正常，这和美国其他任何地方在室外上演的一场莎士比亚戏剧没什么两样，

只有一点不同：一辆警车此时引人注目地停在人们的视野中，车顶的灯缓缓地旋转着。

警察呆在那里是让观众放心，剧场正在受到保护；

旋转的红灯就像野外的篝火，警告那些在这里游荡的人或动物不要靠近。

在来到公园一个小时左右，我徜徉在德拉科特剧场周围，舞台的灯光、观众的笑声，

还有回荡在仲夏夜的莎士比亚诗句，这些都让我感到安心。

我有一种心旷神怡的感觉，独自一人爬上了眺望台城堡的台阶，

透过窗户从亨利·卢斯天文台向外窥视，在莎士比亚花园里辨认着草本植物。

我转来转去，突然走到了一条密不透风的树叶遮蔽的羊肠小道上，在几分钟内我竟然迷路了。

前面有灯光，当我拐过街角时，我遇见了五个人，他们都穿着白色的T恤衫，围在一条长凳旁。

我走过他们，避免目光接触，转向一条黑暗狭窄的小路，走下一座山丘，我越走路越黑，简直漆黑一片。

这时，我听到身边的灌木丛中传来一声很响的摇动声，我呆住了。

是动物，还是抢劫犯？我想，不管我听到的声音是什么，肯定会很快停止的。

不过，声响并没有停下来。怎么会这样呢？

在公园里还没有呆上一个小时就迷路了，走在一条没有路灯的小道上，

面对着来路不明的家伙在树丛中威胁地摇晃着，真讨厌！我在这里干什么呢？

我快速离开，确切地说并不是在跑，但也绝不是漫步——当然没有回头——左拐右拐，所有的方向感都消失得无影无踪，

在我身后的灌木丛里一直响着哗啦声，声音越来越大，左边又出现了一个身穿T恤衫的人，右边还有一个人，

这时我终于意识到自己在什么地方了——漫步园。

我又向左拐时，看到了湖，看到了中央公园南部的天际线。

我停下了脚步。喘了口气。我自言自语着，放松。就只是天黑而已。

离湖岸大约15英尺的地方有一块巨石，有一簇藤条通向它。

我踮起脚尖走过去，坐下来，再次欣赏着城市美丽的景色，这是一座让人感到快慰的城市。

我向四周望去。和煦的微风迎面吹来，浓密的乌云在头顶密布，天气依然闷热，我已经汗流浃背了。

在湖中远处有一处亮光——有人在湖上划船，一盏灯笼悬挂在船尾。

我终于辨清了方向，我位于西侧，在第七十七街附近。

湖远处的另一侧一定是草莓地，在第七十二街附近。

我想起来，两年前，就在那里，警察发现了迈克尔·麦克莫罗的尸体，他44岁(和我同岁)，

被一个15岁的少年扎了34刀。

他遇害后还被开膛，他的肠子被拽了出来，以便尸体能沉到水里，自从我第一次听到这件事，我就不由自主地回想这个细节。

由于杀害他的凶手有充足的时间，而且没有目击者，凶手们竟然不慌不忙地回家了。

公园里最初发生的重大事件之一大约发生在140年前的今天：一场音乐会。

音乐会故意安排在一个星期六举行，当时星期六仍然是工作日，因为它和公园的许多方面一样，目的是排除这座城市里那些野蛮和缺乏教养的人。

那时，夜晚的公园肯定是既豪华又幽静——像一场规模盛大的花园晚会。

当初，人们漫步穿过公园，欣赏公园美景，犹如在画中散步。

乔治·坦普尔顿·斯特朗是一位从不间断写日记的人，他在1859年6月11日首次造访公园时承认，建筑师同时建造了两座风格炯然的公园。

一座是浪漫主义的，包括漫步园，精心设计的荒野，在市内再造的野外自然风光。

另一座在中央公园南端，更具法兰西风格，井然有序，直线排列。

我从岩石上爬下来，看到远处一对男女走了过来。

你的第一个念头是：疯子？

不过，即使在100英尺外，我也能看出，这对男女恐慌不安，

男人把女人拉到一边，这样一来我们擦身而过时他就位于我和女人之间。

这位女人停下了脚步，那男人不由分说把她往前一拽。

当他们两个走近时，我看到他又高又瘦，穿着一件花格的衬衫，戴着黑色的角边眼镜；

她是个金发女郎，面色紧张，两眼死死地盯着地面。

在距离我只有几步远时，他伸手抓住了她的手臂。

我实在难以控制，就当我们要擦肩而过时对他们说：“你们好，好心人！”

我还打招呼说：“你们在这夏日良宵过得好吗？”

起初，没人搭腔，紧接着那女人不由自主地尖叫起来——“哦，上帝！哦，上帝！”——他们慌忙跑开了。

这是一个有趣的发现。夜晚在中央公园里，最令人恐怖的事情莫过于独行的男人。

今天夜里最吓人的就是我。

想到这，我顿时胆子大了起来：我用不着害怕，我就很令人害怕了。

并非每个人都喜欢中央公园，而只是差不多每个人都感到应该喜欢它。

这是亨利·詹姆斯于1904年游览中央公园时发表的评论的主要内容。

在詹姆斯看来，中央公园是个败笔，然而，正如他所指出的，每个人又感到需要“不断地赞美这座公园”。

当时，公园的创建者均已辞世，公园也不再是特权人物的领地，已经被外来移民接管了。

事实上，从詹姆斯的游览到20世纪30年代期间，可能是公园的鼎盛时期，每年有一两千万人来访。

实际上，公园由于被过度使用而遭到破坏，直到1934年，传奇式人物罗伯特·摩西被任命为公园的主管，这种现象才停止。

摩西负责公园第三种风格的设计工作——既不是英式，也不是法式；既不是浪漫的，也不是古典的,

而是卓有成效、目的明确、不折不扣的美国式公园。

他兴建了棒球场、排球场和游泳池。

他甚至试图把漫步园变成老年人娱乐中心，但由于遭到喜欢观察野鸟的人们的抗议而停建了这一工程。

具有讽剌意味的是，到了摩西时代末期，中央公园竟成了个危险的去处。

随着我的信心大增，我开始走向公园的北端。

在靠近水库的地方，一帮孩子骑着自行车飞驰穿过第85街交汇处，他们喊叫着，显示出一种令人感到不祥的力量。

稍后，又来了一伙，他们步行——大约有十几个黑人孩子，只是沿着供人跑步的小路向东而行。

我始终低着头，加快了脚步，但头脑中不由自主地浮现出1989年所发生事件的场面，

那次一位年轻的投资银行家遭到一伙横冲直撞的少年的毒打，并受到性侵犯。

在第95街附近，我发现一条长椅，便停了下来。

我是沿着一条在公园西路延伸的小道走来的，中央公园北侧更多的公寓住宅便映入眼帘。

我坐到长椅上，此时居民们在铺床准备就寝：有人在看电视，一位妇女在练瑜珈,一个男人正要去淋浴。

这座城市就在我的脚下，帝国大厦的顶端耸立在天际间。

乔治·坦普尔顿·斯特朗于1869年7月30日夜与妻子在“星光闪烁下驱车”途中发现了中央公园之美。

不过今天夜里，即使没有乌云密布，也不会有星辰了, 因为灯光太炫目了。

这公园现在已被城市框在中间，甚至可以说被城市紧紧襄在里面了，

但无法否认这座城市——虽是经过雕琢、人工打造、灯火辉煌，

近乎浪费地消耗着数量惊人的电力、水力和能源，但它是异常美丽的。

我不能确定它为什么这么美，我也难以找到恰当的词来描绘它的迷人之处。

但现实就是这样：从远离城市的公园来看，这座城市的夜晚的确光焰四射、璀璨夺目。

我在不停地走着，走着。大约1点半时，我进入了北部的树林，一路走下去，来到我后来从地图上得知叫做洛赫的一条溪流。

这条溪流水声很大，听起来更像一条大河。

这天夜里城市第一次从视野里消失了；没有建筑物，没有照明，也没有警报声。

我不停地走了这么久，实在太疲劳了。

想打开睡袋，在警察的视线之外睡上一觉。

我在期待黎明，盼望着被小鸟叫醒。

我顺着一个深谷往下走。在我的左侧出现了一条土路。这地方看起来不错。

我顺着这条土路走下去，它蜿蜒而下通到溪边。

我回头一看，已无法看到这条路，因为它已被树木遮盖了。

这个地方好极了。又僻静。我又往前走，小道平缓了，我可以在这里铺上睡袋了。

这个地方也不错，是挺好的甚至在这个时辰还有萤火虫，

这个地方太黑了，头上又被茂密的树木掩蔽起来，使得萤火虫的亮度大大加强了，

它们的腹部有节奏地跳动着，发出的黄光活像手电筒中的光。

我终于在靠近北部草地的马道旁的一个小土包顶上打开了睡袋，

钻了进去，合上眼睛。

这时，突然传来“啪”的一声！这是什么东西折断发出的巨大声响。我愣住了，随即急速转身一看，什么东西也没有

树林里总是充满了噪音。

我小时候是怎么设法在外露营的呢？最后，我睡着了。

我知道我睡着了是因为我又醒了。

又有一根树枝“啪”地折断了，不过这次的声响与上次不同——我仿佛能听到木材组织撕裂的声音。

我仍然闭着眼睛，一动也不动。又有一根树枝折断了，随后是一阵树叶的簌簌声。

毫无疑问，那里有人。我可以说正被人盯着，我能感觉到这种目光，我听到了喘息声。

我睁开眼睛，不禁为眼前的一切大吃一惊。

共有三只，都近在咫尺。它们看上去挺大。

起初，我不知道它们是什么，只知道是动物。

也许是熊，是小熊。

这时候，我想起来了——你能管它们叫什么呢？

丹尼尔·布恩戴的皮帽子正是用这种动物做的。

它们不再挪动，我也丝毫不动。它们只是盯着我，棕色的眼睛茫然地望着我的眼睛。

很显然，它们对于在这儿发现我感到十分困惑。

忽然间，我也对发现我自己在这儿感到不可思议了。

“想象一下，”其中一个好像在说，“一个成年人竟然露宿在中央公园！”

“他显然不是纽约人。”

“喂，伙计们。”我低语道，我说话声音很轻。

我的声音吓了它们一跳，它们急忙爬到我前面的树上。

然后它们停了下来，继续盯着我，然后非常缓慢地一点一点往上爬。

它们此时就在我头上40英尺高的地方，树干在它们的压力下微微摆动起来。

天开始下起了毛毛雨。

我听见一架直升机的轰鸣声，机上的探照灯交叉着照在距我约10英尺远的小道上。

也许有坏家伙。

我扭头看看浣熊。“这里有坏家伙吗？”我问它们。

我真蠢，不该讲话。我的声音又让它们受惊了，一个家伙竟然在我的头顶上撒起尿来。

紧接着，大自然也实在憋不住了，下起了大雨。

可是没过多久，雨停了。我睡着了。

我知道我睡着了，因为接下来我听见了鸟鸣。一种自然天成、美妙动听的声音。

Key Words:

lair   [lɛə]

n. 野兽的巢穴，躲藏处

appeal    [ə'pi:l]     

n. 恳求，上诉，吸引力

n. 诉诸裁决

platitude ['plætitju:d]   

n. 陈词滥调，陈腐

curl  [kə:l]

n. 卷曲，卷发，年轮，漩涡，[足]曲线球

wander   ['wɔndə] 

vi. 徘徊，漫步，闲逛，迷路，蜿蜒

impenetrable [im'penitrəbl] 

adj. 不能穿过的，不可理喻的

reassure [ri:ə'ʃuə] 

v. 使 ... 安心，再保证，重拾(信心等)

exhilaration    [ig.zilə'reiʃən] 

n. 高兴，兴奋

applause [ə'plɔ:z]  

n. 鼓掌，喝彩，赞许

ramble    ['ræmbl]

v. 漫步，漫谈，漫游 n. 漫步，闲谈，蔓延

suspended           

adj. 悬浮的；暂停的，缓期的（宣判）

indefatigable  [.indi'fætigəbl]      

adj. 不知疲倦的

forthrightly          

adv. 直率地；言行坦诚地

frightening     ['fraitniŋ]

adj. 令人恐惧的，令人害怕的

irony      ['aiərəni] 

n. 反讽，讽剌，讽剌之事

contrived       [kən'traivd]    

adj. 人为的，做作的

rampage ['ræm.peidʒ] 

v. 狂暴地乱冲 n. 暴怒，狂暴行为

reservoir ['rezəvwɑ:]    

n. 水库，蓄水池，积蓄，储藏

meadow ['medəu]

n. 草地，牧场

motionless     ['məuʃənlis]   

adj. 不动的，静止的

perplexed      [pə'plekst]     

adj. 困惑的，不知所措的

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