金尼斯迈克尔·比奇

JenningsMichaelBirch

Lifewithoutafriendisdeathwithoutawitness。

—Sanishroverb

EvenbeforeIfinisheddialing，IsomehowknewIdmadeamistake。Thehonerangonce，twice—thensomeoneickeditu。

“Yougotthewrongnumber!”ahuskymalevoicesnaedbeforethelinewentdead。Mystified，Idialedagain。

“Isaidyougotthewrongnumber!”camethevoice。Oncemorethehoneclickedinmyear。

HowcouldheossiblyknowIhadawrongnumber?Atthattime，IworkedfortheNewYorkCityPoliceDeartment。Acoistrainedtobecurious—andconcerned。SoIdialedathirdtime。

“Hey，demon，”themansaid。“Isthisyouagain?”

“Yeah，itsme，”Ianswered。“IwaswonderinghowyouknewIhadthewrongnumberbeforeIevensaidanything?”

“Youfigureitout!”Thehonedslammeddown。

Isatthereawhile，thereceiverhanginglooselyinmyfingers。Icalledthemanback。

“Didyoufigureitoutyet?”heasked。

“TheonlythingIcanthinkofis。。。nobodyevercallsyou。”

“Yougotit!”Thehonewentdeadforthefourthtime。Chuckling，Idialedthemanback。

“Whatdoyouwantnow?”heasked。

“IthoughtIdcall。。。justtosayhello。”

“Hello?Why?”

“Well，ifnobodyevercallsyou，IthoughtmaybeIshould。”

“Okay。Hello。Whoisthis?”

Atlast，Ihadgotthrough。Nowhewascurious。ItoldhimwhoIwasandaskedwhohewas。

“MynameisAdolfMeth。Im88yearsold，andIhaventhadthismanywrongnumbersinonedayin20years!”Webothlaughed。

Wetalkedfor10minutes。Adolfhadnofamily，nofriends。Everyonehehadbeenclosetohaddied。Thenwediscoveredwehadsomethingincommon:hedworkedfortheNewYorkCityPoliceDeartmentfornearly40years。Tellingmeabouthisdaysthereasanelevatoroerator，heseemedinteresting，evenfriendly。IaskedifIcouldcallhimagain。

“Whywouldyouwannadothat?”heasked，surrised。

“Well，maybewecouldbehonefriends。Youknow，likeenals。”

Hehesitated。“Iwouldntmind。。。havingafriendagain。”Hisvoicesoundedalittletentative。

IcalledAdolfthefollowingafternoonandseveraldayslater。Easytotalkwith，herelatedhismemoriesofWorldWarIandII，theHindenburgdisasterandotherhistoricalevents。Hewasfascinating。Igavehimmyhomeandofficenumberssohecouldcallus。Hedid—almosteveryday。

Iwasnotjustbeingkindtoalonelyman。TalkingtoAdolfwasimortanttome，becauseI，too，hadabiggainmylife。Raisedinorhanagesandfosterhomes，Ineverhadafather。Gradually，Adolftookonakindoffatherlyimortancetome。Italkedaboutmyjobandcollegecourses，whichIattendedatnight。

Adolfwarmedtotheroleofcounselor。WhilediscussingadisagreementIdhadwithasuervisor，Itoldmynewfriend，“IthinkIvehaditwithhim。”

“Whatstherush?”Adolfcautioned。“Letthingscooldown。WhenyougetasoldasIam，youfindoutthattimetakescareofalot。Ifthingsgetworse，thenyoucantalktohim。”

Therewasalongsilence。“Youknow，”hesaidsoftly，“IamtalkingtoyoujustthewayIdtalktoaboyofmyown。Ialwayswantedafamily—andchildren。Youretooyoungtoknowhowthatfeels。”

No，Iwasnt。Idalwayswantedafamily—andafather。ButIdidntsayanything，afraidIwouldntbeabletoholdbackthehurtIdfeltforsolong。

Oneevening，Adolfmentionedhis89thbirthdaywascomingu。Afterbuyingaieceoffiberboard，Idesignedabiggreetingcardwithacakeand89candlesonit。IaskedallthecosandmyOfficeCommissionertosignit。Igatherednearlyahundredsignatures。Adolfwouldgetakickoutofthis，Iknew。

Wedbeentalkingonthehoneforfourmonthsnow，andIthoughtthiswouldbeagoodtimetomeetfacetoface。SoIdecidedtodeliverthecardbyhand。

IdidnttellAdolfIwascoming。Ijustdrovetohisaddressonemorningandarkedthecaruthestreetfromhisaartmenthouse。AostmanwassortingmailinthehallwaywhenIenteredthebuilding。HenoddedasIcheckedthemailboxesforAdolfsname。Thereitwas。Aartment1H，some20feetfromwhereIstood。

Myheartoundedwithexcitement。Wouldwehavethesamechemistryinersonthatwehadonthehone?Ifeltthefirststabofdoubt。Maybehewouldrejectmethewaymyfatherrejectedmewhenhewentoutofmylife。ItaedonAdolfsdoor。Whentherewasnoanswer，Iknockedharder。

Theostmanlookedufromhissorting。“Noonesthere，”hesaid。

“Yeah，”Isaid，feelingalittlefoolish。“Ifheansweredhisdoorthewayheanswershishone，thismaytakeallday。”

“Areyouarelativeorsomething?”

“No，justafriend。”

“Imreallysorry，”hesaidquietly，“butMr。Methdieddaybeforeyesterday。”

Died?Adolf?Foramoment，Icouldntanswer。Istoodthereinshockanddisbelief。Then，ullingmyselftogether，Ithankedtheostmanandsteedintothelate-morningsun。Iwalkedtowardthecar，misty-eyed。

Then，roundingthecorner，Isawachurch，andalinefromtheOldTestamentleaedintomymind:Afriendlovesyouatalltimes。Andeseciallyindeath，Irealized。Thisbroughtamomentofrecognition。Oftenittakessomesuddenandsadturnofeventstoawakenustothebeautyofasecialresenceinourlives。Now，forthefirsttime，IsensedhowverycloseAdolfandIhadbecome。Ithasbeeneasy，andIknewthiswouldmakeiteveneasierthenexttime，withmynextclosefriend。Slowly，Ifeltawarmthsurgingthroughme。IheardAdolfsgrowlyvoiceshouting，“Wrongnumber!”ThenIheardhimaskingwhyIwantedtocallagain。

“Becauseyoumattered，Adolf，”Isaidaloudtonoone。“BecauseIwasyourfriend。”

Ilacedtheunoenedbirthdaycardonthebackseatofmycarandgotbehindthewheel。Beforestartingtheengine，Ilookedovermyshoulder。“Adolf，”Iwhisered，“Ididntgetthewrongnumberatall。Igotyou。”

没有朋友的人生就如同没有见证的死亡。

——西班牙谚语

号码还没拨完，我就发现自己打错了。电话铃响了一声，两声——然后有人接起来了。

“你打错了！”一个沙哑的男声说道，之后是电话挂断的声音。我很迷惑，于是又拨了过去。

“我说你打错电话了！”那个声音回答道。电话又一次在我的耳边挂断。

他怎么知道我打错了？当时，我正在纽约市警署工作。一个警察通常职业性地充满警惕性和好奇心。于是我第三次拨了那个电话。

“嗨，伙计，”那个人说，“又是你吧？”

“是的，又是我，”我回答说，“我很奇怪，我还没说话，你怎么就知道我打错了呢？”

“你自己想去吧！”电话猛地被挂断了。

我坐了一会儿，漫不经心地拿着电话筒，又把电话打了过去。

“你弄明白了吗？”他问。

“我唯一能想到的原因就是……从来没人给你打过电话。”