小说《吉儿》第一章节选

原著：凯伦•亚波斯基（美国）
汉译：惠兰

谨以此书献给：史蒂文，本和莉莉

第一章《吉儿》页面广告缩水10%！
                     ——摘自《广告》杂志，2004年第10期

这一切，发生在一个普通的工作日。午后十分钟，电梯停在8楼，我刚好喝完最后一滴可乐。我忘了带门卡。安检时，除了没做腔体搜查，其他部位都被查了个遍。现在，用脚踢着一个复印纸盒，看着它慢慢抵开玻璃门，我大大地松了口气。先前，8楼是没有前台的。因此如果没有复印纸盒，我就得叫人帮我开门。这本来嘛，也不是什么天大的事。不过，每次进办公室，我喜欢尽量不惊动他人。但这事实上不可能。因为，我进办公室必须进行的“走步”，不可能不被人注意。

因为门的设计方式，如果想要走进办公室的话，我就得跟通道两侧几乎所有的下属打招呼才行。我真的不想费力地去打么多么招呼。别误会我：不是我不喜欢他们，事实上，我对多数人都没有恶感。但是，我来到办公室，想实实在在干点儿活，本身就够烦的了。而眼下这个必须的“走步”程式，让人烦上加烦。

想不麻烦，就必须在别人没来之前进办公室。这等于是说，要赶在早上9点之前。想想看，早上9点之前。这有多么荒谬。这简直不可思议。当然，我可没说过绝对反对早起，可我有铺天盖地的业务、聚会、晚间电视直播访谈，有各种各样各类各式各等的事情要忙。而我做这些事的目的，全都是为了让杂志的PR红火。外加我那可爱的失眠症，我绝对需要在早上多睡些时。

为了尽量显得优雅，我喜欢把“走步”想像成走红地毯。这跟参加奥斯卡名流们的那种走法一样。不停步子。边说话边走过等在两边的人。如果不这样做，就没有办法进入庆典。但是，他们又都很有礼节，快乐地挥着手、微笑着。只有在需要摆姿势或是应对采访时，才简短地停留一刻。

现在，我脸上带着走红地毯一般的微笑，推开玻璃门，准备“走步”。当我接近办公室汪洋般的隔间时，我开始想像同事们收音机里剌耳的声音，就像管弦乐队美妙的声浪；头上的日光灯简直就是舞台的聚光灯。我让我的嗅觉相信：自己走过之处，并不是廉价的难闻的午餐的味道，而是法国名贵高档香水的余味儿。而眼前的光盘、书籍，以及过期的杂志堆，都变成了象牙柱。只有那幅贴在会议室附近墙上的、被墨水笔弄得脏兮兮的布兰妮•斯比尔的招贴画，总在我的想像里，提醒我保持脸上走红地毯时的那种微笑。

其实我心里清楚，所有这些，都是我自己极端任性的想像。但是，错觉让人愉快。难道不是么？它能给我一幅装出来的面孔。潜意思是：哇噻，吉儿真是让人感觉良好。酷毙了！这说明，微笑背后，一切尽在掌控中。而此刻，我特别需要这种面孔。是的，副主编最近跳槽了。没有她，我的事多了很多。自然，我也少了一个我与下属之间的挡箭牌。

这不，预料之中的轰炸说来就来：

 “吉儿！今天有时间看我写的样本么？”

 “吉儿！你觉得把这篇文章放在三月这期的‘玩笑’栏目里，效果怎样？”

 “吉儿！你有没有时间看看我的版式呀？晚上要开印。”

我边走边微笑，回答的语速像在打机关枪。“没问题。你好。把材料给剀西。嗯，不错。很‘搞笑’。晚些吧，我保证看。”

我像伊丽莎白女王一样对他们挥手。这种自我陶醉的想象，对忘却这层楼里的杂乱无章十分有效。当勒斯特姆传媒最初买下我们的时候，把我们安排在15层楼；和《时尚》杂志在一起。可惜好景不长。当初从《时尚》杂志雇员们永无休止的厌恶的表情，我就已经知道好景不长了。他们不可能忍受我们的纹身、身上的廉价穿孔、五花八样的头式，以及惯常的不修边幅。果然，我还没回过神来，我们就被踢到楼下去了。被塞进自助餐厅的一个角落里，夹在供餐员和收银员之间。如此一来，《吉儿》在勒斯特姆王国的地位就不言而喻了。

再有几步路就到办公室。轰炸又来了：

“吉儿，你真的要我打电话给凯蒂•汉生的人，告诉她我们不想用她做封面了吗？真的么？”

这让我停住脚步，极不情愿地被拽回了现实。这次是罗莎丽欧，娱乐栏目的编辑。“是的，真的！”我尖刻地回答。

“可是她的专集刚在排名榜上位居第一。”她半犹豫地请求到，“你曾说过，我们必须考虑一个能吸引大众的封面。”

我看着罗莎丽欧，她蓝色的头发乱成一堆。在所有我知道的人中，她应该最懂我的心思了。她是个典型的都市女孩——还在广播电台当过DJ。我的天，连她都这样。我猜她一定是误解了我上个星期的话。

“我的意思是要找珍妮弗•安尼斯顿那种类型的名人。”我解释到，“绝对不是一个低廉的模仿秀的获奖者。要让凯蒂•汉生上我们的封面，除非加上一段封面解说：“凯蒂•汉生出丑的十个理由。”　　
　　
我边说边走进办公室，这时一个毛茸茸的东西擦了擦我的脚踝。我停下，弯腰下去抱起努格斯，照片部编辑凯拉的狗。我对此毫无办法，因为凯拉每天都把狗带来上班，人事部曾为此写过好几封威胁信，但都没用。无奈，我只好把努格斯当作我办公室的吉祥物。我把狗抱起来，凑着我的脸，期待着一个吻。可她只是不友好地对我叫了两声而已。我叹了口气，把狗放回地上。不管我多么费力地尝试，这狗就是不喜欢我。

我的助理凯西见我来了，立即来了精神。我进办公室时，脸上的表情告诉她：别让任何人进来；她也最好不要加入那群如从地狱来的康茄舞队一样吵吵嚷嚷、追着要我办事的人的行列。凯西很懂事，不管情况如何紧急，在我没有完全定下神之前，她通常不会给我找事儿。不过，从她脸上焦急的表情，我知道她有什么很紧要的，多半是不愉快的消息要告诉我……

附：英文原文

1
Jill’s Ad Pages Suffer 10% Decline
—AdAge, October 2004

It started like any typical workday. At about ten minutes
past noon, I chugged the last drops of my Diet Coke just as
the elevators opened onto the eighth floor. I had forgotten my
ID and had already been subjected to everything but a cavity
search by building security. So I was relieved to see that the
usual box of copy paper was propping the glass door open.
The eighth floor didn’t have a receptionist, so if the box of
copy paper wasn’t there, I’d have to call someone to let me
in. Not a big deal, but I liked to keep my arrival into the office
as inconspicuous as possible. Which, in actuality, was impossible.
It was impossible due to “the walk.”

Because of the layout of the floor, there was no way for me
to get to my office without being accosted by nearly every
staffer along the way. Not that I had anything against my
staffers—most of them I really liked. But “the walk” was just
a ritual that made the act of getting to my office, and then actually
getting some work done, an even longer, more drawn-
out, time-consuming process than it already was.

I suppose I could avoid the problem by getting into the office
before anyone else. Which meant before 9 A.M. Which
was completely, absolutely out of the question. It’s not that I
was a total diva about early mornings; it’s just that after benefits,
parties, and late-night live television interviews—all to
keep the magazine’s PR profile up—combined with my lovely

 
2 Karen Yampolsky

insomnia problem—I needed a few extra hours of sleep in the
morning.

So to deal with “the walk” as graciously as possible, I sometimes
liked to picture it as a “red-carpet” kind of walk. Celebrities
who arrive at the Oscars, for example, don’t stop and
chat with every person waiting on the sidelines. Otherwise they
would never make it into the ceremony. But they oh so nicely
blow them off, cheerfully waving and smiling, stopping only to
offer a brief pose or sound bite.

So I put on my best red-carpet smile, pulled open the glass
door, and started “the walk.” As I approached the sea of cubicles,
I imagined the alt-funk blaring from a staffer’s radio
to be sweeping orchestra strings. I pictured the unflattering
fluorescents to be bright spotlights. And instead of must,
dust, and rotting lunches, I tricked my nose into believing that
the stench in my trail was some A-lister’s expensive French
parfum. The cluttered stacks of CDs, books, and back issues
became ivory pillars, lining the way. But the Sharpie-defiled
Britney Spears poster plastered near the conference room . . .
that always stayed in the picture, ensuring that my red-carpet
smile stayed in place.

I know it’s all a terribly egotistical fantasy, but the illusion
amused me. And it gave me my game face—the jeez-Jill-is-sopleasant-
and-cool-and-in-control visage behind the smile. I
needed it so much more now, since our managing editor recently
had jumped ship. Without her, I had a lot more work
and . . . one less barrier from the accosters.

Their barrage began.

“Jill! Will you be able to look at my copy today?”

“Jill! What do you think of this as a ‘Hoax’ for the March
issue?”

“Jill! Do you think I’ll be able to get your approval on this
layout? It ships tonight.”

I sailed on, smiling, responding in rapid fire. “Heeeeey. Hi.
Leave the copy with Casey. Yeah, good ‘Hoax.’ Later, I pro

 
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 3

mise.” I practiced my Queen Elizabeth wave. The fantasy
was especially useful in making the utter crappiness of the
floor melt away. When Nestrom Media first bought us, we
moved to the fifteenth floor, sharing it with Fashionista magazine.
But that didn’t last long. I could tell by the fashionistas’
consistently disgusted scowls that they couldn’t bear
our tattoos; piercings; cheap, multihued haircuts; and general
slovenliness for long. Before I knew it, we were being kicked
downstairs, shoved in a corner behind the cafeteria, between
the supply guy and the check-cashing lady. Now it couldn’t
be any clearer where Jill fit into the hierarchy of the Nestrom
magazine empire.

Just a few more feet to go. And the onslaught continued.
“Jill! Do you really want me to call back Katy Hanson’s people
and tell her we’re not interested in having her on a cover?
Really?!”

That one stopped me in my tracks, snapping me right into
reality. It came from Rosario, the entertainment editor. “Yes,
really!” I snapped.

“But her album just hit number one,” she halfheartedly
pleaded. “And you said we had to start thinking a little bit
more mass appeal for the covers.”

I looked at Rosario, her blue hair matted in all directions.
She of all people should know better, I thought. She was a
downtown girl—a dj, for crying out loud. I guess she misunderstood
me in last week’s meeting. “I meant someone more along
the lines of a . . . Jennifer Aniston,” I explained. “Definitely not
a cheesy reality show winner. The only way that Katy Hanson
would end up on one of our covers would be via a cover line
reading 10 REASONS WHY KATY HANSON BLOWS.

With that, I continued making my way to my office when I
felt a furry presence brush my ankle. I stopped again and
stooped to pick up Ruggles, Kyra the photo editor’s dog. I had
no choice but to make Ruggles the office mascot since Kyra
brought her in every day, despite more than a few threatening

 
4 Karen Yampolsky

letters from HR. I held the Yorkie to my face, expecting a kiss.
But she just yipped at me. I sighed before I tossed her back on
the floor. No matter how hard I tried, that dog just didn’t like
me.

Casey, my assistant, perked up when she saw me approach.
I gave her my best don’t-let-anybody-in look when I reached
my office. She knew better than to join the conga line from
hell trailing after me, and she usually waited for me to get settled
before she confronted me with anything, no matter how
urgent. I could tell by her exasperated expression, though,
that she had some really pressing, and probably unpleasant,
news…