“Hell yes, I been. Where’s the fuckin problem?” Braced for it all these yearsand here it came, late and unexpected. 

   “I got a say this to you one time, Jack, and I ain’t foolin. What I don’t know,”said Ennis, 

   “all them things I don’t know could get you killed if I shouldcome to know them.”        “Try this one,” said Jack, 

   “and I’ll say it just one time. Tell you what, wecould a had a good life together, a fuckin real good life. You wouldn’t do it,Ennis, so what we got now is Brokeback Mountain. Everthing built on that.It’s all we got, boy, fuckin all, so I hope you know that if you don’t neverknow the rest. Count the damn few times we been together in twenty years.Measure the fuckin short leash you keep me on, then ask me about Mexicoand then tell me you’ll kill me for needin it and not hardly never gettin it. Yougot no fuckin idea how bad it gets. I’m not you. I can’t make it on a couple ahigh-altitude fucks once or twice a year. You’re too much for me, Ennis, youson of a whoreson bitch. I wish I knew how to quit you.”Like vast clouds of steam from thermal springs in winter the years of thingsunsaid and now unsayable -- admissions, declarations, shames, guilts, fears-- rose around them. Ennis stood as if heart-shot, face grey and deep-lined,grimacing, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, legs caving, hit the ground onhis knees. 

   “Jesus,” said Jack. 

   “Ennis?” But before he was out of the truck, trying to guessif it was heart attack or the overflow of an incendiary rage, Ennis was back onhis feet and somehow, as a coat hanger is straightened to open a locked carand then bent again to its original shape, they torqued things almost to wherethey had been, for what they’d said was no news. Nothing ended, nothingbegun, nothing resolved. 

   What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help norunderstand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis hadcome up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying someshared and sexless hunger.They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossingruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against therock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis’s pocket, from thesticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layersabove the fire.(在交相辉映的星光与火光中)  Ennis’s breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a littlein the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrationsof the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that wasnot sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up arusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died,said,  “Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you’re sleepin on yourfeet like a horse,” and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness.Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words “see you tomorrow,”and the horse’s shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone. (他们在篝火前静立良久，红彤彤的火焰摇曳着，把他俩的影子投在石头上，浑然一体，宛如石柱。只听得埃尼斯口袋里的怀表滴答作响，只见火堆里的木头渐渐燃成木炭。在交相辉映的星光与火光中，埃尼斯的呼吸平静而绵长，嘴里轻轻哼着什么。杰克靠在他的怀里，听着那稳定有力的心跳。这心跳仿佛一道微弱的电流，令他似梦非梦，如痴如醉。直到埃尼斯用从前母亲对自己说话时常用的那种轻柔语调叫醒了他：“我得走了，牛仔。你站着睡觉的样子好像一匹马。”说着摇了摇他，便消失在黑暗之中。杰克只听到他颤抖着说了声“明儿见”，然后就听到了马儿打响鼻的声音和马蹄得得远去之声。) 

   Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment ofartless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face toface because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. Andmaybe, he thought, they’d never got much farther than that. Let be, let be .

   Ennis didn’t know about the accident for months until his postcard to Jacksaying that November still looked like the first chance came back stampedDECEASED. He called Jack’s number in Childress, something he had doneonly once before when Alma divorced him and Jack had misunderstood thereason for the call, had driven twelve hundred miles north for nothing. Thiswould be all right, Jack would answer, had to answer. But he did not. It wasLureen and she said who? who is this? and when he told her again she saidin a level voice yes, Jack was pumping up a flat on the truck out on a backroad when the tire blew up. The bead was damaged somehow and the force ofthe explosion slammed the rim into his face, broke his nose and jaw andknocked him unconscious on his back. By the time someone came along hehad drowned in his own blood.No, he thought, they got him with the tire iron. 

   “Jack used to mention you,” she said. 

   “You’re the fishing buddy or thehunting buddy, I know that. Would have let you know,” she said, 

   “but Iwasn’t sure about your name and address. Jack kept most a his friends’addresses in his head. It was a terrible thing. He was only thirty-nine years old.”The huge sadness of the northern plains rolled down on him. He didn’t know which way it was, the tire iron or a real accident, blood choking down Jack’sthroat and nobody to turn him over. Under the wind drone he heard steel slamming off bone, the hollow chatter of a settling tire rim. 

   “He buried down there?” He wanted to curse her for letting Jack die on thedirt road.The little Texas voice came slip-sliding down the wire. 

   “We put a stone up.He use to say he wanted to be cremated, ashes scattered on Brokeback Mountain. I didn’t know where that was. So he was cremated, like he wanted,and like I say, half his ashes was interred here, and the rest I sent up to hisfolks. I thought Brokeback Mountain was around where he grew up. But knowing Jack, it might be some pretend place where the bluebirds sing and there’s a whiskey spring.”