The Dogs of Babel

　　一個謎樣的女人、一個思念亡妻的男人、一段永無法喚回的燦爛時光……
　　這隻學說話的狗，將如何說出他們愛情的謎底？

　　一個女人從蘋果樹上墜落身亡。這到底是意外或自殺？無人知曉。唯一的目擊者，是她心愛的狗「蘿麗」。女人的丈夫是個語言學家， 哀傷又困惑的他，思念妻子卻無從得知她的死因，他決定以自己畢生的研究，教導「蘿麗」開口說話，讓牠說出事情的真相……

　　這個男人和這隻狗，將會用何種方式找到他們的共通語言，建立起他們之間那座語言的「巴別塔」？然而，當真相逐漸被揭露時，會帶給男人何等的震撼？在那陽光燦爛的回憶背後，又是何等景象讓人無法直視？

國外媒體好評

　　『 這部小說有著不可臆測的魔力，它能將讀者帶往未知而驚奇的境地！你必定會為它動容，然後甘心接受它給予你的一切邏輯，並且無從抵抗地被這個故事擺弄，隨它歡喜、傷悲、起伏……』──【紐約時報書評】

　　『 一個女人從樹上墜落致死，死因不明，唯一的目擊者竟是她的狗……如此吸引人的開場，帶出了這個動人故事……學講話的狗、如謎一般的人物、精采的轉折，在在都讓讀者無法移開目光。』──【出版家週刊】

　　『這是一本很罕見的小說……除了古老的神話、鬼魅的精靈所營造出的奇特氛圍，還有心靈治療、塔羅牌等素材；其中，人與狗的互動情感著實令人心動……而當你隨著主角探究出事情的真相時，更會感到一種椎心的痛楚……』──倫敦【Time Out 週刊】

　　『卡洛琳．帕克斯特的第一本小說── 一部具原創性、充滿靈性的小說……既是陽光燦爛的回憶場景不斷，在在又是令人鼻酸的真相浮現。作者也展現了高度的敘事技巧，讓讀者一展頁就無法闔書；在她天衣無縫的佈局之下，我們也慢慢窺見了在男女主角看似完滿的幸福婚姻裡面，教人無法負荷的殘酷事實與悲哀……這的確是一本關於愛的深度書寫。』 ──【西雅圖時報】

　　『你一開始閱讀，便會發現這是一本危險的書；在它緊密的結構中有一切足以令你著迷的元素：愛情、懸疑、奇幻，以及讓讀者絕不會失望的閱讀滿足感。』──【紅皮書雜誌】

　　本書中譯本《巴別塔之犬》由「寶瓶文化」出版。

　　When his wife dies in a fall from a tree in their backyard, linguist Paul Iverson is wild with despair. In the days that follow, Paul becomes certain that Lexy’s death was no accident. Strange clues have been left behind: unique, personal messages that only she could have left and that he is determined to decipher. So begins Paul’s fantastic and even perilous search for the truth, as he abandons his everyday life to embark on a series of experiments designed to teach his dog Lorelei to communicate. Is this the project of a madman? Or does Lorelei really have something to tell him about the last afternoon of a woman he only thought he knew? At the same time, Paul obsessively recalls the early days of his love for Lexy and the ups and downs of life with the brilliant, sometimes unsettling woman who became his wife.

作者簡介

卡洛琳．帕克斯特

　　畢業於美利堅大學創作研究所。大學畢業後，曾經在書店工作三年，而後才全心投入創作。她的作品散見於「北美評論」、「明尼蘇達評論」、「夏威夷評論」、「新月評論」。《巴別塔之犬》是她正式出版的第一部小說，甫一出版即引起熱烈迴響，有書評家說她具有強烈的阿言德風格：霧氣濃重的鬼魅深夜、古老的民間傳說、給予人如夢般的閱讀歷程；更有書評家讚許她是美國新生代作家之中最耀眼的一位。卡洛琳．帕克斯特現今與丈夫及兒子住在華盛頓特區。

Chapter One
Here is what we know, those of us who can speak to tell a story: On the afternoon of October 24, my wife, Lexy Ransome, climbed to the top of the apple tree in our backyard and fell to her death. There were no witnesses, save our dog, Lorelei; it was a weekday afternoon, and none of our neighbors were at home, sitting in their kitchens with their windows open, to hear whether, in that brief midair moment, my wife cried out or gasped or made no sound at all. None of them were working in their yards, enjoying the last of the warm weather, to see whether her body crumpled before she hit the ground, or whether she tried to right herself in the air, or whether she simply spread her arms open to the sky.

I was in the university library when it happened, doing research for a paper I was working on for an upcoming symposium. I had an evening seminar to teach that night, and if I hadnt called home to tell Lexy something interesting Id read about a movie shed been wanting to see, then I might have taught my class, gone out for my weekly beer with my graduate students, and spent a few last hours of normalcy, happily unaware that my yard was full of policemen kneeling in the dirt.

As it was, though, I dialed my home number and a man answered the phone. ＂Ransome residence,＂ he said.

I paused for a moment, confused. I scanned my mental catalog of male voices, friends and relatives who might possibly be at the house for one reason or another, but I couldnt match any of them to the voice on the other end of the line. I was a bit thrown by the phrase ＂Ransome residence,＂ as well; my last name is Iverson, and to hear a strange man refer to my house as if only Lexy lived there gave me the strange feeling that Id somehow, in the course of a day, been written out of my own lifes script.

＂May I speak to Lexy?＂ I said finally.

＂May I ask whos calling?＂ the man said.

＂This is her husband, Paul. Iverson.＂

＂Mr. Iverson, this is Detective Anthony Stack. Im going to need you to come home now. Theres been an accident.＂

Apparently Lorelei was the one responsible for summoning the police. As our neighbors returned home from work, one by one, they heard her endless, keening howl coming from our yard. They knew Lorelei, most of them, and were used to hearing her bark, barrel-chested and deep, when she chased birds and squirrels around the yard. But theyd never heard her make a sound like this. Our neighbor to the left, Jim Perasso, was the first to peer over the top of our fence and make the discovery. It was already dark out - the days were getting shorter, and dusk was coming earlier and earlier each day - but as Lorelei ran frantically between the apple tree and the back door of the house, her movements activated our backyard motion-sensor lights. With every circle Lorelei made, shed pause to nudge Lexys body with her nose, stopping long enough to allow the lights to go out; then, as she resumed her wild race to each corner of the yard, the lights would go on again. It was through this surreal, strobelike flickering that Jim saw Lexy lying beneath the tree and called 911.

When I arrived, there was police tape marking off the backyard gate, and the man I had spoken to on the phone met me as I walked across the lawn. He introduced himself again and took me to sit in the living room. I followed him dumbly, all my half-questions stalled by the dread that seemed to have stopped the passage of air through my lungs. I guess I knew what was coming. Already, the house felt still and bare, as if it had been emptied of all the living complexity that had been there when I left. Even Lorelei was gone, having been sedated and taken away by animal control for the night.