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The Beauty and the Yak

by Gerhart A. Drucker

    The beautiful scenery of the mountainous country of Nepal attracts many tourists. In this story, what struck the author was not the scenery but the miserable life of a young girl. Who was she? What happened to her? What did the narrator do for her? Read the following story to find out.

    The entrance door of Mr. Chom Gom Chombi's house in Kumjung, Nepal, is so low that even I, standing barely five feet two inches tall, had to stoop while stepping from bright daylight into the smelly darkness of the straw-covered ground floor, where abundant yak manure left no doubt as to the identity of its tenants. Then I banged my forehead against a beam. A curse died on my lips, because we were in a deeply religious Buddhist region and I didn't want to offend the gentle Gautama or his followers.

    When my eyes accommodated to the darkness, three yaks took shape, who were chewing their afternoon snack without paying the slightest attention to me. These usually docile and good-natured Central Asian cattle, who carry fierce-looking horns, play a vital role in the Himalayan economy. People use them as beasts of burden, weave their hair into fabrics, drink yak milk or churn it to butter, eat yak meat, and gather the yak droppings as an excellent fuel.

    For a moment, while my forehead was still throbbing, I stopped to think back to the events of the past few days. Our party of four old-timers, of whom I, at seventy-one, was the oldest, had convened a week earlier in Kathmandu, the capital, and had met our journey leader Nancy Jo there. She is a young American woman who lives in Nepal and speaks the language fluently. For each of us senior citizens it was the first visit to the kingdom of Nepal, which boasts twelve of the world's sixteen highest peaks, including Mt. Everest. These peaks all straddle the boundary between Nepal and China or Nepal and India.
    After two days of sightseeing in Kathmandu we boarded an eighteen-seat royal Nepalese airplane for the romantic forty-minute flight to Luka (9286 ft.), the starting point of all approaches to Everest from the south. From there, three days of magnificent trekking through great scenery had brought us to the village of Kumjung, where we were scheduled to spend the night at the home of our chief Sherpa's uncle － that is the house I had just entered.

    A wooden stairway, equipped with the luxury of a handrail, led upstairs. The steps were worn and slippery; complete darkness concealed the uppermost steps and the landing. Reaching there I didn't know which way to turn, till voices coming from my left indicated the proper direction. I groped my way to a door, opened it, and instantly began to cough. What smoke! It seemed that the Sherpas knew little, and cared less, about ventilation. A wood fire was burning in the kitchen stove, yet I didn't see a chimney. Daylight filtered in dimly through a dirty window. In the haze I saw two of my trek mates and some of our crew gathered around the stove, helping themselves to boiled potatoes from a huge pot. Our host, a wiry man of approximately my own age, welcomed me, while his wife, a quiet elderly woman with thick glasses, stayed in the back round, together with two women members of our crew. I quickly washed up, then joined the boiled potato feast.
    While I was sitting there, munching a delicious potato and trying to get used to the smoke, I felt a pair of eyes resting on me. Looking up, I saw a girl of great beauty, perhaps seven or eight years old, whose big black eyes seemed to take in the scene with curiosity and, I thought, sadness. She was wearing a brown wool scarf over her head, a gray pullover, and a brownish, ankle-length skirt. The others completely ignored her. Our eyes met, I smiled, but she didn't return my smile.
    I finished my potato, ate another, chatted with my trek mates, and for a long time listened to our host who claimed to have discovered the bones of the legendary Yeti (Abominable Snowman), of which he had shown what he called part of the skull on a lecture tour all over the United States. Eagerly I looked at his photos from that trip, yet every few minutes I glanced back at the beautiful child who was standing there, with an unchanged puzzled and sad expression in her eyes.
    Curiosity gripped me; who was this girl? Why did the others pretend she didn't exist? I asked our head Sherpa, who spoke English fluently.

    "She's an orphan," he informed me. "Her name is Pasang Puti. My uncle and aunt took her in a year ago, after her mother died. Her job is to take care of the yaks."

    "Where is her father?" I asked, perhaps unwisely.

    After a moment's silence the Sherpa shrugged his shoulders and answered: "Nobody knows anything about him."

    So that's why the others treated her like an outcast! I couldn't suppress one more question: "Does she go to school?" There was a school in Kumjung, and another one in nearby Kunde.

    "She never went to school," the Sherpa answered.

    Once more I looked at Pasang Puti. Poor girl, I thought. Without any schooling and without a father in a society where family ties are all-important, she seemed destined to remain a yak-maid all her life. My thoughts returned to my own children, whom I had raised, and to each of whom I had given a good start in life. And then, no doubt, breaking every rule of Sherpa etiquette, I walked over to Pasang Puti, picked her up, put her on my knee, and sang Austrian songs to her, just as I had done, years earlier, to my own children.

    That night sleep confused me; I twisted and turned uncomfortably in my sleeping bag, which I had rolled out on a hard bunk in the room close to the kitchen. The stale air smelled of smoke and unwashed humanity. In the middle of the night nature's call compelled me to visit the outhouse, a task that involved descending the insecure stairs and going across yak territory. I climbed out of my sleeping bag. By the feeble shine of my near-dead flashlight I saw that our entire crew was sleeping on the floor, body next to body, practically blocking access to the door. Gingerly stepping over each sleeper, like a forest hiker over fallen tree trunks, I reached the hall. At this moment my flashlight went completely dead, and neither shaking or cajoling could revive it.

    Groping in black darkness, holding the flashlight in my left hand, I found the top of the handrail with my right hand and promptly banged my wrist hard on a board. I held onto the rail with a feeble grip and began, by touch, to descend the treacherous steps which were caused to become all the more slippery by my wool socks. On the fourth step down I slipped, fell, and was just barely able, with my right hand, to check my slide. I tried to struggle back on my feet, in vain. There I was lying on my back, on the stairs, with a feeble one-hand grip keeping me from sliding all the way down. Then my flashlight banged against a step and, miraculously, the light sprang back to life. Horrified, I saw that a yak was standing at the foot of the stairs, his head lowered, his menacing horns pointing straight at me. If I could no longer hold on to the handrail, those horns would spear me. I shouted at the yak, but he didn't move. What had started as a walk at night to the outhouse had turned into a life and death adventure!

    At that moment my flashlight's beam framed the silhouette of a child, Pasang Puti. She approached the yak and hit him with a stick; the beast walked away. Then the girl came up the stairs, helped me to my feet, guided me to the outhouse, and afterwards escorted me back to my bunk. Later I learned that the girl often came to the ground floor in the middle of the night to check her yaks, which were her world, while the household's humans treated her like a leper.

    Next morning, before leaving with my mates to continue our trek, I told our host how the yak girl had helped me, perhaps saved my life. "She's a lovely and brave girl," I said. "If she were under my care, I wouldn't treat her like an outcast, and I'd certainly send her to school."

    "No clothes," he answered, defensively.

    My budget was tight, yet I handed him a $20 bill. "This is for Pasang Puti," I told him. "Please send your wife with her to buy school clothes."

    My party and I spent the next two weeks trekking through one of the world's most spectacular regions. On the way back we stopped once more at the uncle's house in Kumjung. I didn't see Pasang Puti and asked about her.

    "She must be on her way home from school," our host answered. Soon she arrived, wearing a pretty blouse and skirt outfit. Her eyes sparkled when she saw me, and a big smile dimpled her cheeks. I requested our host to ask her what she'd learned at school that day.

    "About the United States and how they elect a president there; and of course more reading. We'll start writing next month."

    Then my trek mates and our crew came, and soon a boiled potato gathering was in full swing. Pasang Puti participated, a happy, friendly child.

    A thought flashed through my mind; I'd adopt Pasang Puti! After arranging everything in the U.S. I'd come back to Nepal and fetch her. I kept this plan completely to myself. Next morning, just as she was getting ready to leave for school, I hugged her for a moment. Soon afterwards my party and I started out on the final section of our trek, via Namche Bazaar and Lukla to Kathmandu, the trek's end point.

    At the U.S. embassy in Kathmandu I learned that grave obstacles would make an adoption almost impossible; I realized that it had been wishful thinking from the beginning. How could I, an old man living alone, and always busy, singled-handedly raise a girl not yet ten? Perhaps my daughters could have helped me, but they had their own careers to pursue. In the end, nothing came of my adoption plan, and I've never again seen Pasant Puti. But friends of mine, who took the same Nepal trek a year later and who also spent a night in Kumjung at the uncle's house, reported to me that "my" Pasang Puti had appeared happy, that her folks were treating her well, and that she was attending school.

    (1 322 words)

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课文一

漂亮的小女孩与牦牛

杰哈德•A•德鲁克

    尼泊尔，这个多山的国度，以其美丽的景色吸引了众多游客。在这个故事里，打动作者的不是风景，而是一个小女孩的痛苦生活。她是谁？在她身上发生了什么事？叙事者是怎样帮助她的？请阅读下面故事，寻找问题的答案。

    在尼泊尔的昆坰，茨翁•贡•茨翁比先生的房门很低，甚至像我这样身高只有5英尺2的人,从明亮的室外迈进昏暗的室内时，也得弯下腰。屋内的地上铺了草，有许多牦牛粪，一看便知房客们的身份。接着，我的前额撞上一根横梁。一声咒骂没有出口，因为我们是在一个笃信佛教的地区，我不想冒犯高贵的乔达摩或他的追随者。

    双眼适应了黑暗后，3头牦牛露出形体，它们正在咀嚼着下午的草料，毫不在意我的存在。这些中亚牛性情温顺，头上长着可怕的犄角，在喜玛拉雅地区的经济中起着重要作用。人们用牦牛驮运重物、用它们的毛编织衣服、喝牦牛奶、用牦牛奶制奶油、吃牦牛肉，并把牦牛粪当 作上好的燃料。

    我的额头还在阵阵作痛，于是我停下来一会儿，回想着过去几天中发生的事情。我们一行4个老年游客中，数我年纪最大，已经71岁。一个星期前，我们来到尼泊尔首都加德满都，与负责我们这次旅行的南希•乔见面。南希是个年轻的美国女子，住在尼泊尔，能讲一口流利的当地方言。我们这些老人都是第一次游览尼泊尔王国。这个国家引以为荣的是这里有世界16大高峰中的12座，珠穆朗玛峰也在其列。所有这些险峻的峰峦都坐落在尼中或尼印边界上。

    在加德满都观光了两天之后，我们登上一架尼泊尔皇家18座飞机，经过40分钟的浪漫飞行，来到海拔9286英尺的卢卡——珠穆朗玛峰南麓所有通向主峰的道路起点。我们从那里出发，在美景如画的山地愉快地旅行了3天，来到昆坰，并计划在夏巴族头人的叔叔家——就是我刚进的那所房子——过夜。

   木质楼梯居然还装有扶手，直通楼上。 一段楼梯踏板已经破损，溜滑的；最上面的几级踏步和楼梯口的过道完全笼罩在黑暗中。到了那里，我不知该往哪边走，直到有声音从左边传来，指明正确的方向。我摸索着走到一扇门前，开了门，立刻咳嗽起来。烟雾真浓！看来夏巴人几乎不知道，更不关心如何通风。厨房的炉火中木头烧得正旺，屋里却不见烟囱。肮脏的窗户透进了一道昏暗的日光。昏暗中，只见我的两个旅伴和几个同行者聚在炉前，正动手从一口大锅里拿煮土豆吃。我们的主人与我年龄相仿，瘦削而结实，对我表示欢迎。他的妻子，一个上了年纪的女人，戴着厚厚的眼镜，沉默寡言，还有几个与我们同行的女士，呆在外围。我匆匆地洗了洗，也来到锅边吃煮土豆。

    我坐在那儿大口吃着香喷喷的土豆，一边竭力适应屋里的浓烟，这时感到有双眼睛在注视我。抬头寻去，只见是个非常漂亮的小女孩，约有七八岁，乌黑的双眸透着好奇，带着一种我认为是忧郁的眼神，似乎要将周围发生的一切都摄入眼底。她头上围着一条褐色毛围巾，身着一件灰色羊毛套衫,一条盖过脚踝的淡褐色长裙。其他人都对她视而不见。我们的目光相遇时，我对她笑了笑，但她并未还以微笑。

    我吃完一个土豆，接着吃第二个，和同伴们聊天，听主人大讲特讲他发现传说中可怕的雪人骸骨的经历，以及他到美国演讲，展示他所称的部分雪人头盖骨的那次旅行。我兴味十足地看着那次旅行中他拍摄的相片。然而，每隔几分钟，我总要回头看看那个秀气的小女孩。她站在一旁，眼神中总是带着困惑和忧伤。

    我完全被好奇心攫住了：这女孩是谁？为什么其他人假装她不存在的样子？我向操一口流利英语的夏巴族头人打听。

    “她是个孤儿，”他告诉我，“叫帕桑•普蒂。一年前她妈妈死后，我叔叔婶婶收养了她，现在她帮着看牦牛。”

 
    “她爸爸在哪儿？”我又问，也许问得不明智。 

    沉默了一会儿，这个夏巴人耸耸肩，回答说：“大家对他一无所知。”

    难怪别人都把她当流浪儿看待！我按捺不住好奇心，又接着问：“她上不上学？”在昆坰有所学校，附近的孔德也有一所。

    “她从未上过学，”夏巴人回答说。

    我又看了看帕桑•普蒂，心想，这可怜的女孩。她没有受过任何教育，在一个家庭关系占重要地位的社会里，又没有父亲的呵护，也许命中注定她要放一辈子牦牛了。我的思绪回到自己的孩子们。我养育她们，为她们每个人提供良好生活 的开端。接着，无疑我打破了夏巴人礼节上的一切清规戒律，走到帕桑• 普蒂身边，把她放在膝头，唱奥地利歌给她听——就像多年前我对自己的孩子们做的那样。

    那天晚上，我睡觉不好。我睡在靠近厨房的房间里，把睡袋铺在一张又窄又硬的床上。我在睡袋中辗转反侧，很不舒服。浑浊的空气充斥着一股烟味，以及人们久未洗澡身上发出的难闻气味。半夜时分，我感到便意，为此，我将不得不去户外上厕所。为此，我得走下颤悠悠的楼梯，还要穿过牦牛圈。我爬出睡袋。借着电池将要用尽的手电筒灯光，我看见我们一行人挨个睡在地上，几乎把通向门边的路堵死了。就象林中的步行者跨过横卧的树干那样，我蹑手蹑脚地跨过每一个熟睡的旅伴，来到大厅。就在这时，我的手电筒灭了，无论如何摆弄，就是不亮。





    我左手拿着手电筒，在黑暗中摸索着往前走，右手摸到楼梯扶手时，手腕重重地撞到了一块木板。我无力地抓住扶手，摸索着走下晃悠悠的楼梯，由于穿着毛袜子，脚下更滑了。刚走下四级，我就滑了一跤，幸而右手抓着扶手，才算没有滑下楼去。我竭力挣扎着站起来，却没有成功。只得仰面朝天躺在楼梯上，一手虚弱地抓着扶手免得再滑下去。手电筒在楼梯上碰了一下，这时竟突然奇迹般地亮了。惊恐之中，我看到一头牦牛正站在楼梯口，低着头，犄角正对着我。如果我抓不住扶手，这对犄角就会把我刺穿。我冲着那头牦牛喊叫，它却纹丝不动。半夜上厕所竟成了一场生死攸关的历险。

     就在这时，手电照到了一个孩子的轮廓，是帕桑•普蒂。只见她走向牦牛，用一根棍子打它，牦牛走开了。接着，她走上楼梯，扶我站起来，还领我去厕所，然后又陪我回到床边。事后，我才知道，这个女孩半夜常到楼下查看牦牛。这些牦牛就是她的世界，而这一家人却都象对待麻疯病人那样待她。

    第二天一早，与旅伴们继续旅行前，我告诉主人这个看牦牛的小女孩帮助我的经过，并说她可能还救了我的命。“她真是个又可爱又勇敢的女孩，”我说，“如果我是她的监护人，我决不会象对流浪儿那样待她。我一定要供她上学。”

    “她没有衣服，”他的回答，听起来象是在辩解。

    我手头并不宽裕，但我还是给了他一张20美元的钞票。我告诉他：“这钱是给帕桑•普蒂的。请让你妻子陪她去买上学穿的衣服吧。”

    此后的两星期里，我和同行人在世界上景致最壮观的一个地区旅行。返程途中，我们又在昆坰那位大叔家稍事停留。我没见到帕桑•普蒂，于是就问起她。

    “现在她一定在放学回家的路上，”主人回答说。不久她就到家了，身穿漂亮的衬衫裙子套装。看到我时，她双眼闪着兴奋的神情，微笑着，脸上现出两个小小的酒窝。我请主人问她，那天在学校里学了些什么。

    “有关美国的事儿，还有他们怎样选举总统。当然，还读了些东西。从下个月起，我们就要学写作了。”

    旅伴们和随行的人们随后也都到了，不久，我们又聚集在一起热热闹闹地吃煮土豆。帕桑•普蒂也加入到我们中来，显得十分开心、十分友善。

    我脑海中突然闪出一个念头；我要收养帕桑• 普蒂！在美国安排好一切后，我一定要来尼泊尔接她。但是，我没有对任何人提起这个计划。第二天早上，帕桑•普蒂准备上学时，我拥抱了她一会儿。随后不久，我们一行就踏上旅行的最后一段行程，取道那姆齐•巴扎和卢卡，到达旅行的终点加德满都。

    从驻加德满都的美国大使馆那里，我了解到有几个大障碍使我不可能收养帕桑•普蒂；我意识到这个计划从一开始就是个一厢情愿的想法。我，一个独居的老人，又总是忙忙碌碌，怎么可能独立抚养一个不满10岁的女孩呢？也许我的女儿们能帮我，但她们都有自己的事业。我的收养计划最终化为泡影，而我也没能再见到帕桑•普蒂。一年后，我的一些朋友到尼泊尔旅游，也在昆坰那位大叔家过了一夜，他们告诉我，“我的”帕桑•普蒂看上去很幸福，家里人对她都很好，而且还在上学。

    返回

Text 2

A New Future for Dorah

by Bronwen Jones

    Dorah will be four in April. When she was seven months old, the house in which she lived caught fire. The heat destroyed her hands and face. At the end of 1997 doctors in South Africa recommended that her eyes should be removed to prevent infection. Was this necessary? asked The Times. Was there a surgeon somewhere who could save Dorah's eyes?

    Today, thanks to the generosity of our readers, Dorah has a very different future. The plea for medical assistance to allow her to keep her sense of light and dark has attracted interest from many eminent doctors. It has also raised £76 000 in donations － people wrote from as far a field as Australia and New York.

    The most likely option now is that Dorah will come to London in the spring and that the first of several operations will take place to rebuild her eyelids. Richard Collin, a consultant surgeon at Moorfields Eye Hospital, has offered his skills for free, and the hospital fees of £6 500 for the first two operations will be met by donations.

    Mr Collin has yet to examine Dorah, but he was optimistic after Sky TV shot medical footage of her injuries. If the initial assessment on Dorah is good, she will have the first operation immediately. This will use skin from elsewhere on her body, probably her legs, to create a curtain over the eyes. She will be in hospital for 10 days, followed by six weeks' convalescence to allow the scars to heal. During this time Dorah's eyes could be tested to see how much sight she has.

    Many Times readers have offered Dorah accommodation, but she may need to remain in London to have her other needs assessed at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children, or possibly East Grinstead, where the Victoria Hospital has a specialized unit in plastic surgery. The second operation, to divide her new eyelids, would take two to three days in hospital.

    Then Dorah would fly home to South Africa for six months. Her scar tissue would heal and she would have daily treatment with eye drops and cream. After this, she would return to the UK for a third operation to try to raise the eyelids by attaching a muscle from behind the eyes to the lids. In this, or a fourth operation, Mr. Collin would try to thicken the eyelids by adding tissue and more skin.

    Because Dorah's case is so unusual, none of the procedures or time estimates will be confirmed until she arrives here, and securing permission for her to travel involves much red tape in South Africa. Events took an even more unexpected turn when I found Dorah's mother, Margaret Mokoena, living in a squatter camp. I had been told by hospital administrators and by a reporter who had visited the camp that Margaret was only 14 when Dorah was born. When I finally met her, I realized that one never knows the truth until one has ascertained it for oneself.

    Margaret is now 26. She left school with the education level of a 12-year-old because there was no money to pay for fees, uniform and transport. She grew up in a dysfunctional home, with a drunken father who abused her mother so badly that she walked out seven years ago. Margaret has not heard from her since.

    Her father's other wife stabbed Margaret's father in the chest a year ago － he died. Margaret was raised mainly by her frail grandmother, Violet, on whose monthly state pension of R 470 (£53) the family survived. Margaret said that if ever she secured part-time work tilling the maize fields, the men in the family spent her earnings on alcohol. Even Dorah's father － who has shown no interest in her since she was injured － beat Margaret. She has burn scars on her right arm where he hit her with an iron.

    From this horrific background a quietly spoken, thoughtful young woman has emerged. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she has had only one child and has no intention of finding another male partner. She has no positive role models to encourage her to do so.

    How she lost contact with her child is a story steeped in the attitudes of the apartheid era that still affect so much of South African society. Margaret has little self-confidence; she curtseyed when we met.

    The blaze in which Dorah was injured started when a candle fell from its holder. The cardboard used to cover the hut quickly caught fire. Margaret was at a neighbour's home fetching water for Violet, who was sick. "I came back and flames were coming through the roof," she whispers. "I looked inside and when the flames seemed lower over the bed, my brother and I grabbled the mattress and pulled Dorah out. She was so badly hurt that I was scared to touch her."

    An ambulance tour of hospitals followed through the night, with rejection and referral at every turn. When eventually Dorah was taken into the intensive care unit of the Far East Rand Hospital, Margaret was told to go home.

    She had been separated from her baby before, when Dorah was born two months premature. "I think it was because I was so badly beaten by my child's father. They kept her in an incubator for two weeks."

    Margaret was also used to being bullied by hospital officials, who always thought they knew best. She had neither the language skills nor confidence to argue with them. And she had no money.

    The visits were occasional, but on one occasion she was told her child had been transferred and that no one could give her a contact number for the hospital. Margaret was told to go to the magistrate's court to sign papers to allow Dorah to become a ward of court, although she did not understand the terminology.

    "I did not go to court. But I did not know what to do. I had no money for lawyers."

    But Margaret understood that Dorah had been adopted and that her maternal rights had been removed. I took her to be reunited with Dorah.

    I cannot easily find words to express the feeling of the two of them being together again. This was not a bad mother who did not care about her child. It was a bad or indifferent society that did not try hard enough to keep them together. A society that looked at them in terms of what they could not do or did not have, and judged them thus.

    How wide can a smile be when a mother holds the child that she has been separated from for two years? How soft can a look of contentment be as Dorah's arms wrap around her mother's neck and hold her tight?

    Lumps in the throat cannot convey the joy of seeing such an injustice righted at last. Of seeing Margaret cover Dorah's neck and ears with little kisses, cradling her, singing to her softly.

    I cannot pretend Dorah knew who her mother was. At the "handover" she clung to me － she knows my voice, my hair, my perfume. But I had at last used the words "your mother" when talking to her before the meeting. She knew I was the mother of her playmate Tristan. Now I told her that this was her mother. I believe that she understands. This reunion is only the first milestone on a long road for mother and child, but it is a remarkable one in South Africa.

    In addition to finding the best medical solution for Dorah, the task is to find the best and swiftest way to educate her mother to care for her. So when people asked what they could do, I requested early-childhood development videos, the easiest way to give information to barely literate nursing assistants in institutions such as the one in which Dorah lives.

    Some people asked if children could help. I suggested that they send toys specially tailored to Dorah's needs. Until now, Dorah has spent most of her life in a cot, and is far behind where she should be. But with the many hours that my son Tristan, 7, his friend Thobeka, also 7, and I have spent playing with Dorah, we have every belief that she is an intelligent child with much potential.

    One of the most exciting responses has been from Passmores Secondary School, in Edmonton, North London, where pupils are working on a frame from which scented and textured objects will hang. This will allow Dorah to smell a bag of herbs, or crackle a bag of Cellophane

    They are also stitching a Dorah-size play rug that combines interesting textures, and are recording a story on tape that goes something like this: "One day Dorah went for a walk. The gravel path was rough on her feet" － they will glue gravel pieces on card for Margaret to place beneath Dorah's feet. "She found a flower in the garden. Its petals were soft like satin" － there will be satin ribbon for Dorah to feel.

    But for now I have this enormous feeling of hope for Dorah. I can only smile as I see the soft curves of Margaret's profile and see Dorah's dreams reflected there.

    (1543 words)   TOP

课文二

多拉的新未来

布朗温•琼斯

    4月份多拉就满4岁了。在她7个月的时候，她住的房子着了火，高温毁坏了她的双手和面容。1997年岁末，南非当地的医生建议切除她的双眼以防止感染。这有必要吗？《时代》杂志对此提出质疑。有没有医生能够挽救多拉的双眼？ 

    今天，多亏我们广大读者的慷慨捐赠，多拉有了一个非常不同的未来。为让她保持对光明和黑暗的感觉而寻求医学援助的请求，受到许多著名专家的关注。我们还筹措了76000镑的捐款——连远在澳大利亚和纽约的读者也给我们来信。

    现在最可能的选择，就是春季多拉到伦敦做眼睑修复的第一次手术。理查德•科林，莫尔菲尔德眼科医院的会诊医生，愿意免费做手术，最初两次住院费用6500镑将由捐款支付。

    科林先生还没有给多拉作检查，但是，在看过天空电视台拍摄的多拉伤势的医学片后，他还是持乐观的态度。如果前期诊断的情况还好的话，手术就可以立即进行，把她身上其它部位的皮肤——很可能是大腿上的皮肤——移植到眼睛上，造一个眼帘。她将住院十天，接着有6个星期的康复期，使伤口愈合。在此期间将测试多拉的眼睛，看她有多少视力。 

    许多《时代》杂志的读者都愿意为多拉提供住处，但多拉可能得留在伦敦，在大奥蒙德街道儿童医院，或者在东格林思戴德（那儿有维多利亚医院一个专门的整形外科室），对其它需求作出诊断。第二次手术是分开她的眼帘，要在医院两到三天的时间。

    然后，多拉就乘飞机回到南非，在家待6个月。她的伤口组织会慢慢痊愈，每天还要滴眼药水和眼药膏。之后，她将再次到英国做第三次手术，把眼睛里层的肌肉固定到眼皮上，加厚眼皮。在这一次，或者第四次手术中，科林先生将在眼皮上增加皮肤组织和皮肤，加厚眼皮。

    因为多拉的病例非同寻常，所以任何手术方案和时间安排只有在她到了伦敦以后才能定夺，何况在南非办理准许她来英国的手续也非常繁琐。当我找到多拉的母亲——住在政府公地居住区的玛格丽特•莫卡娜时，事情发展得出人意料。医院的行政人员和一位到过居住区的记者告诉我，玛格丽特生下多拉时只有14岁。直到终于见到她时，我才意识到，如果不亲自证实，永远不会知道事 情的真相。

    玛格丽特现在26岁了。由于没钱付学费、校服和交通费，她辍学了，只有12岁的文化水平。她在一个不正常的家庭中长大——父亲酗酒，整天谩骂母亲，七年前母亲因不堪忍受离家出走。从此，玛格丽特再也没有她的音信。

    一年前，她父亲的另一个妻子拿刀刺进了他的心脏——他死了。玛格丽特主要由祖母维尔丽特抚养长大，就靠她每月的政府补助470元（53英镑）过活。玛格丽特说，要是她在玉米地里干零活的收入稳定了，家里的男人们就拿她挣的钱买酒喝。甚至多拉的父亲——他不仅在多拉受伤后从未对她表示过兴趣——还殴打玛格丽特。她右臂上有灼伤的疤痕，那是他用熨斗打的。

    在这悲惨的背景中，一个娴静、善解人意的年轻女子长大了。不象其他同龄人，她只生了一个孩子，她也不打算再找一个伴侣，没有可以仿效的榜样鼓励她这么做。

    她与孩子失去联系，深受种族隔离时期偏见的影响，这些偏见至今仍然深刻地影响着南非社会。玛格丽特缺乏自信，我们见面时，她行了屈膝礼。

    烧伤多拉的这场火灾是由烛台上掉下来的蜡烛引起的。很快，遮盖小木棚的硬纸板就着火了。当时玛格丽特正到邻居家为生病的维尔丽特取水。“当我回来时，火已经烧到了屋顶，”她低声说道。“我朝屋里看，一看到床上的火苗低一些，我就和哥哥抓住床垫，用力把多拉拖了出来。她伤得很重，我都不敢碰她。”

    那天晚上，救护车拉着他们跑了无数家医院，每一家都拒绝接受治疗，推给下一家。最后，多拉被远东瑞德医院的特护病房接收了。玛格丽特却给打发回去了。

    玛格丽特也曾被迫与孩子分开过，那时多拉早产了两个月。“我想，那可能是我被她爸爸毒打的缘故吧！孩子在恒温箱里待了两个多星期。”

    玛格丽特也习惯了那些自以为是的医院行政人员的欺负。她既不善言辞，也没有信心与他们理论，而且她也没钱。 

    她只能偶尔去看看孩子。但是，有一次，她被告知孩子转院了。没有人告诉她医院的联系电话。地方法院通知她去签字，要她同意多拉接受法庭监护，尽管她不懂法律术语。

    “我没去法庭。但是我也不知道该做什么。我没钱请律师。”

    但是，玛格丽特明白，多拉已经被别人收养，自己做母亲的权利被剥夺了。于是，我带她去和多拉团聚。

    我很难用言语描述母女俩重逢的情景。这不是一个不关心孩子的坏妈妈，是这个社会没有道德，没有怜悯心，没有尽力让她们骨肉团聚。这个社会只看到她们无能为力，一无所有，并且也断定她们是如此。

    当一位母亲抱着自己阔别两年的孩子时，她笑得多么开心啊！多拉搂着妈妈的脖子，搂得紧紧地，一脸满足的神情多么温馨啊！

    我的嗓子哽住了：看到不公正得到了纠正，看到玛格丽特温柔地吻着多拉的脖子、耳朵，摇着她，轻轻地哼着歌——我无法表达出内心的欣喜之情。

    我不能假装说多拉知道自己的妈妈是谁。“交接”时她紧紧贴着我——她辨得出我的声音，头发和香水味。但是，见面前跟她谈话时，我还是用了“你的妈妈”这几个字。她知道我是玩伴特里思坦的妈妈。现在我告诉她，这位是她的妈妈，我相信她明白。这次团聚仅仅是母女俩漫长人生道路上的第一个里程碑。但是，在南非它是了不起的里程碑。

    除了为多拉找到最佳医疗方案外，还要用最好，最快的方法教多拉的母亲学会照料多拉。所以，当人们问能做点什么时，我就请他们提供儿童早期教育的录象带，这是培训在医学研究所（多拉所在的是其中之一）工作的几乎文盲的护理人员最简便易行的方法 。

    有人问孩子们能帮上什么忙。我建议他们专门送些适合多拉的玩具。直到现在，多拉大部分时间都是在婴儿床上度过的，智力远远滞后于实际年龄。不过，在我、我7岁的儿子特里思坦和同龄小伙伴索贝佳陪伴多拉不少时间后，我们深信，她是个很有潜力的聪明孩子。

    最鼓舞人心的一个答复来自帕思莫里思中学。它位于伦敦北部的爱德蒙顿，那儿的学生们正在做一个架子，上面可以挂满散发着香味、 不同质地的物品。这个架子可以让多拉闻到装在袋子里的药草的香味，或是拍打装满玻璃纸的小袋子。

    他们还在缝制一条跟多拉一样大小的游戏毯，上面编织着有趣的图案；他们在录制一个故事，内容大致如下：“一天，多拉出去散步。她的小脚丫踩在石子路上硌得生疼”——他们就把小石头粘在卡片上，让玛格丽特放在多拉的脚板下。“在花园里，她看见一朵花。花瓣象软缎一样”——他们要拿一截缎带给多拉摸。

    但是，目前我对多拉的未来抱有极大的希望。看到玛格丽特曲线柔和的侧影，看到了多拉的梦想在那里得到反映，我不能不感到欣慰。

    (1543 个单词) 返回