At dawn, if the beach is low tide, I can hear the seagulls as soon as I open my eyes.On bad mornings, I always feel like I'm dead, and the birds are pecking at my heart.Then I closed my eyes and squinted for a moment, and when I awoke again the tide was coming up the beach, as fast as the shadows falling on the hills as the sun goes down.Before long, the first waves will start hitting the retaining wall of the platform below my ledge.From time to time great shocks rose from the breakwater, pouring into the most secret lanes of my body.boom!The waves hit the breakwater, and I began to look like a lonely drifter in a cargo ship floating on the dark sea.

In fact, I had woken up, lying alone in bed at the dismal hour of the twenty-fourth morning after my wife's escape.That night, I will celebrate the twenty-fourth night, and I will be alone.That might have turned out to be pretty good timing.Days and nights after this incident, whenever I was thinking hard, trying to find a clue for those terrible things, I tried to clear the dense fog of memory, and recalled that on the twenty-fourth night, I would do or do something. Nothing happened. However, in the end, I still didn't remember what I did after getting up.It could be the same day as any other day.There is a joke about a man seeing a new doctor for the first time.When the doctor asked him what he did every day, he opened his mouth and said, "I get up, I brush my teeth, I vomit, I wash my face..." At this time the doctor asked, "Do you vomit every day?"

"Oh, of course, doctor," replied the patient, "don't other people throw up?" I am that person.Every morning, after breakfast, I don't go to light a cigarette.The most I can do is put the cigarette in my mouth and prepare to throw up.The stench of my lost wife haunts me. For twelve years, I have been trying to quit smoking.As Mark Twain said - who doesn't know that now? - "Quitting smoking is nothing special. I've quit a hundred times." I used to feel like I was saying that because I did quit ten times on ten different occasions, and once One year, once for nine months, and once for four months.I quit smoking again and again, a hundred times over the years, but I still smoked again.Because, in my dreams, sooner or later, I always strike a match, light a cigarette, and with that first puff, I inhale all my longings.I feel that I am firmly nailed to this desire.The gang of demons trapped in my chest, screaming loudly, take another big gulp.Change your habits!

So I know what it's like to be addicted.A beast bites my throat and they writhe in my lungs.For twelve years I wrestled with that beast, and sometimes I beat it away.I usually prevail at great loss to myself and to others.Because when I don't smoke, I get pretty bad tempered.My reflexes are where the match was struck, and my brain tends to forget all about the knowledge that keeps us calm (at least, if we're Americans).The pain of not smoking made it possible for me to rent a car and drive it, never paying attention to whether it was a Ford or a Chrysler.This can be seen as a prelude to ending smoking cessation.Once, I was a non-smoker, and I took a long drive with a girl named Madeline whom I was passionately in love with, to meet a married couple who were thinking about having their last wife-swapping weekend.We let them have a good time.When I came back, Madeleine and I had a quarrel and I broke the car.Madeleine's internal organs were badly wounded.I started smoking again.

I used to say, "It's easier to kill yourself than to quit smoking." But I doubted that was true. Just last month, twenty-four days ago, my wife slipped away.Just twenty-four days ago.This gave me a new understanding of smoking addiction.Giving up love may be easier than quitting smoking.And yet, when you wave goodbye to that entangled mixture of love and hate—ah, that headache-inducing sure-fire elixir, that entanglement of love and hate! — I say, ending your marriage is as much work as quitting nicotine, because I can tell you that after twelve years, I've come to hate those filthy things as much as I hate the goddamn them wife.Even the first puff of a cigarette in the morning (the satisfaction it gave me was once the reason I would never throw it away for the rest of my life. This reason is hard to get rid of) now brings me coughing fits.There is no joy left but the addiction, which remains a stamp on the very bottom of your psyche.

This is the case with my marriage since Patti Lahren is gone.If I had loved her when I knew of her horrific flaws—even when we were smoking like a pair of happy devils, putting out the notion that we might get lung cancer decades from now, I would always have loved her. I thought that some unexpected night Patti Lahren was going to be the end of me, but even if it was, I liked her.Who knows?Love drives us crazy.That was a few years ago.For the first year or two, we have been trying to break the habit.The animosity between husband and wife grows with the seasons until the old love is exhausted.I started hating her, hated that morning cigarette, and eventually I actually quit that one.Only after twelve years did I finally feel that I had broken free from the greatest addiction of my life.This continued until the night she left me.Losing my wife, I discovered that night, was also a terribly painful journey.

Before she left, I didn't smoke a cigarette for a whole year.Because of this, Patty Lahren and I would probably fight over anything, but I ended up not even smoking Camels.Not much hope, however.Two hours after she drove away, I took another coffin nail from Patty's half-pack of cigarettes.After two days of ideological struggle, I finally started to twitch again.Because she is gone, I begin each day with a turmoil in my soul.Gosh, the waterfall of pain is about to swallow me up.Along with this unsatisfactory habit came every bit of old love between me and Patti Lahren gnawing at my heart.Every cigarette tasted like an ashtray in my mouth, but it wasn't the tar I was inhaling but my own charred flesh.It was the smell of smoking mixed with a lost wife.

As I said earlier, I can't remember how I passed the twenty-fourth day.What I remember best is that I yawned as I tried to smoke that first cigarette, then swallowed hard.After a while, after 4 or 5 o'clock, I was able to smoke peacefully sometimes, cauterizing the wounds in my life (not taking myself seriously) with the smoke.How I longed to see Patty Laren.During those twenty-four days, I tried to see no one, stayed home, didn't wash often, and drank like our blood flowed with bourbon instead of water.Myself, to use a bad word, was a slob. If it was summer, others might easily see how pitiful my situation is, but now it is late autumn, the sky is always gray, and there is no one in the town.On those short November afternoons, you can take a bowling ball and throw it down the one-way street of our narrow Main Street (a veritable New England side street) without even a pedestrian or a car. Can't touch it.The town has returned to its original appearance.If you measure it with a thermometer, it's no surprise that it's colder (because the Massachusetts side of the coast is not as cold as the rocky mountains west of Boston by a thermometer).It's just the combination of the icy sea breeze and the bottomless cold.The bottomless cold exists in the reclusive heart of the novel of gods and demons.Or, indeed, it was hidden in a seance.To be honest, Patty and I went to a séance at the end of September, and the results were disturbing.The seance was short but eerie, and at the end there was another frenzied scream.I suspect that part of the reason I am now alone without Patty Laren is that, at that very moment, something invisible and undeniably repulsive had attached itself to our marriage.

It's been a week since she left, and the sky never changes.The November sky was cold and gloomy, and the same from day to day.The world before your eyes is grey.In summer, the population can reach 30,000, and double that on weekends.Looks like Cape Cod cars are coming onto the four-lane state highway.At the end of the road is the beach where we live.Provincetown was as bright and colorful as St. Terpez then, but on a Saturday night it was as dirty as Ile de Gournay.But in autumn, when everyone left, the town returned to its original appearance.Now, the population is not increasing day by day like before, jumping from 30,000 to 60,000 all at once, but has dropped to the lowest limit: 3,000.You might say that the actual number of inhabitants must have been only thirty men plus thirty women on an otherwise empty afternoon, and they were all in hiding.

You probably won't find another town like this in this world.If you're allergic to crowds, the overpopulation can suffocate you in the summer.On the other hand, if you can't bear the torment of loneliness, you will have a terrible taste in the long winter.Less than fifty miles south and west of here lies Martha's Vineyard, which has seen the mountains grow and weather, heard the sea's ebb and flow, and has seen forests and swamps grow and die.Dinosaurs have passed through Martha's Vineyard, their bones pressed deep into the bedrock.The glaciers came and went, sucking the island north and pushing it south like a ferryboat.Fossils in Martha's Vineyard are 10 million years old.The North Cape of Cape Cod was formed 10,000 years ago by strong winds and waves.In terms of geological time, it was less than a night's work.That's where my house sits, and I live on that land, where a narrow, rolling scrub-covered sand dune spirals up to the top of Cape Cod.

Maybe that's why Provincetown is so beautiful.It was conceived in the night (for it was sworn that Provincetown was born in a dark storm), and its sandy shoals still shone at dawn with a wet fragrance, the fragrance It is peculiar to the primordial lands which for the first time consecrated themselves to the sun.Over the years, artists have flocked to capture Provincetown's alluring splendor.It has been likened to the lagoons of Venice, or to the swamps of Holland.But once the summer is over, most of the artists are gone.The gray New England winter puts on its long dirty underclothes, gray as my mood, and comes here to patronize us.At this time, people will think that this land is only 10,000 years old, and their souls have no foundation.We don't have the fossilized remains of the old Martha's Vineyard to inhabit every soul, indeed, there is no hiding place for our souls.Our souls fluttered with the wind, flying crookedly towards the two long streets in our town.These two long streets are like two old maids strolling to church, hunched over the bay. If this is a fair example of what I was thinking on the twenty-fourth day, it is clear that I have been in a state of introspection, depression, depression and restlessness.I haven't seen the wife you love and hate for twenty-four days.No doubt it's fear that keeps you attached to her as tightly as you are to the cigarette butt you're addicted to.I started smoking again, how I hated the smell of cigarettes. I seemed to go out into town that day, and then back again, to my house—her house—which Patty Laren had bought with money.At the end of the gray afternoon, I walked three miles alone along Commercial Avenue, but I can't remember who I talked to or how many people drove past me , Ask me to take their car.No, I remember walking to the end of the town, to the point where the last house meets the beach.The English Puritans who emigrated to America landed there.Yes, they landed here, not at Plymouth. I've been thinking about this over and over for days.The bluffs of Cape Cod were the first land the Pilgrims saw after crossing the Atlantic.On the back shore of Cape Cod, the turbulent waves hitting the shore can roll up more than ten feet high at the most violent time.Even on a calm day, the danger is very great.Relentless tides will bring boats ashore and smash them to pieces in the shallows.It's quicksand, not shore rocks, that engulfs your boat on Cape Cod.How much the Puritans must have been afraid to hear the restless roar of the waves.Who would dare to dock in a boat like theirs?They turned the boat and headed south, and the white desert beach was the same, unforgiving, not like a bay at all, but just an endless stretch of sand.So they tried sailing north again.But one day they discovered that the coast bent to the west, continued to the southwest, and even turned to the south afterward.What tricks is the mainland playing?Now, they sailed east again, counting from sailing north, the ship has completed three directions.Were they circling a bay of the sea?They rounded a small cape, found shelter from the wind and dropped anchor.It is a natural harbor, indeed, it is like the earholes in people's ears, protected by nature.There they lowered the sampan and rowed to shore.The landing was commemorated by a plague.The swamps on the edge of the town were saved from the ravages of the sea only by the front dams of the breakwaters.That's where the road ends, as far as tourists can drive their cars on Cape Cod.There, all he could see was the place where the Puritans landed.After they landed, the gloomy weather lingered for a long time, and they refused to leave for a long time, and they found that there was little game and not much arable land here, so they only stayed for a few weeks, and they sailed westward again, Across the bay to Plymouth. Yet here, on Cape Cod, they made their first landing with all the horror and ecstasy of discovering a new land.Although it is a new continent, its history is less than 10,000 years old.It's just a pile of loose sand.How many ghosts of Indians must have howled around them in the first dark nights of their arrival on land. Whenever I walked into the verdant swamp on the outskirts of town, I thought of the Pilgrims.Near the swamp, the beach on the shore is very flat, and you can see the ships on the horizon at a glance, and you can even see the row of half-masts stretching out of the horizon.The bridges of the fishing boats are one after the other, which looks like a caravan driving on the beach.If I'd had a few extra drinks I'd have laughed, because not fifty yards from where the first Pilgrims caught the plague—the birthplace of America—was the entrance to the big motel.The motel was by no means prettier, if not uglier, than the other large motels.People named this hotel "Inn" to pay respect to those Puritans.Its asphalt parking lot, the size of a football field, also pays homage to the first Puritans. No matter how hard I think, that's all I can think of about the twenty-fourth afternoon.I went out and walked across town, thinking about the geology of our coast, imagining what the first Pilgrims did, and laughing at the Provincetown Inn.Afterwards, I thought I might have walked home.I was lying on the sofa, melancholy always haunting me.During these twenty-four days, I always stared at this wall for a long time.But really, I think about it, it's something I can't ignore, and that night I got into my little Pokemon and drove up High Street, and I drove slowly like I was afraid of that night I will become a little child.The sky was full of fog, and I didn't stop the car until I reached Wangfutai Restaurant.There, not far from the Provincetown Inn, was a little black pine board house, the foundations of which were lapped gently by the rising tide.This should also be a kind of breathtaking charm of Provincetown.I haven't noticed, not only my house - her house! —but most of the houses on the bay side of Commercial Street float like sailing ships at high tide, when the embankment below their foundations is half submerged in the sea. Tonight, the sea is filled with such a tide.The water rose limply, as if we were in the tropics here, but I knew the sea was cool.Behind the perfect window in this dark room, the fire in the fireplace is beautiful enough to be printed on a postcard.The chair I'm sitting on smells like winter is coming because it has a shelf of the kind people used in study rooms a hundred years ago: a big round oak board joined by hinges When you want to sit, you just need to lift the board up. After you sit down, it returns to its original shape and is supported under your right elbow. You can use it as a drinking table. Wangfutai Restaurant may have been opened just for me.On lonely evenings in the fall, I like to conceit myself into fantasizing that I'm a modern-day tycoon-style pirate with a lot of money, opening this little shop just for fun.I may seldom visit the big restaurant over there, but this paneled lounge and little bar with waitresses is just for me.Privately I wonder what right anyone else has to be here.In November, it is not difficult to maintain this illusion.Usually, the night is quiet, and most of the diners are white people from Brewster, Dennis, and Orleans, and they are elderly and not bad.They come out of the house looking for some excitement.They found that the very act of risking their car and driving thirty or forty miles to Provincetown was enough to excite them.The echoes of summer have not made our bad name any better.Those who had been at the top of the ivory—that is, every white retired professor and retired corporate executive—seemed to have no desire to linger in the bar.They walk towards the restaurant.I was wearing a dungaree jacket, and people turned to the dinner table just by looking at me. "Don't drink it here, my dear," their wives would say, "drink it with your meal. We're all going to starve!" "Yeah, honey," I'd mutter to myself, "I'm starving." During those twenty-four days, the lounge of Wangfutai Restaurant became the main tower of my castle.I sat by the window, staring at the fire, watching the tide; and after four bourbons, ten cigarettes, and a dozen cheese biscuits (that was my supper!), I felt I was the worst It should be considered a wounded nobleman living by the sea. In return for a life of pathos, self-pity, and despair, I got drunk and my imagination returned to me.However unbalanced they may be under this protection, they come back after all.In this room, submissive waitresses make me drunk.No doubt she was afraid of me, even though the most provocative thing I said was, "Another bourbon, please." But I knew why she was upset.She worked in the bar, and I worked in the bar for many years.She thinks I'm a dangerous person, and I respect her opinion.My good manners epitomize this.In my days as a waiter, I also kept an eye out for customers like me.They never give you trouble, but if they do, your house will be a pile of rubbish. I don't think I'm that kind of person.But how can I say that the waitress didn't take good care of me in such a mood of eager anticipation?She gave me as much attention as I wanted, everything I needed.The manager is a young and well-spoken young man.He is determined to keep the small shop in the style of the founding period.We have known each other for many years.As long as my wealthy wife is here with me, he'll make me a great representative of the local aristocracy, no matter how rowdy Patti Lahren may be drunk: riches are worth it!Since I was alone, he greeted me when I came in, said goodbye when I went out, and it was clear that he was the boss who decided to leave me here completely alone.As a result, very few people came to the lounge.Night after night, I can drink as much as I like, and I can be as drunk as I like. Until now, I admit that I am a writer.But I haven't written anything new since that first day.More than three weeks have passed and I still haven't written a single word.We might think that it's no fun to see someone's situation as the butt of a mocking joke.But know that when the circles close, mockery becomes a dungeon too.While I was in the throes of nicotine, one last successful quit made me quit writing.Quitting smoking took away my ability to write, I couldn't even write a paragraph.Therefore, after quitting smoking, I had to start learning to write again.Now that I have achieved such achievements, I cannot smoke again after quitting smoking, lest I extinguish the sparks of inspiration in literary creation.Or was it because Patty Lahren was gone? These days, I always bring a notebook with me when I go to Wangfutai Restaurant.When I was drunk, I added a line or two to the original words.It turned out that those words were written when I was in a better mood.Sometimes, when the sightseer and I share an aperitif in the same room, my compliments on the witty remark, or my taunts that now sound as dull as the old drinking buddy's wheel talk, may sound Wacky and exuberant, almost like a dog barking (without regard to the decency of the lounge).It doesn't care if there are people around, anyway, it calls for you to see, making you restless. I was very drunk, frowning over notes I couldn't make out, and then, when I saw those alcohol-filled twists and turns turned into a readable essay, I would laugh out loud with joy, can this be said that I am pedantic in front of people? "Oh, yes," I muttered to myself, "this is called research!" I've just come up with part of the title, which is a real title, and it's pretty loud as a book title: "In Our Wilderness—A Study of Men of Sanity," by Tim Madden.Now, it's time to explain my name. Is "On Our Wilderness—A Study of Men of Sanity" by Mike Madden, or Tim McMadden, or double Mike Madden?I giggled.My waitress, that poor, overly alert girl, turned and glanced at me. I was literally giggling.I was reminded of those corny jokes about my name again.The respect and love for my father was born spontaneously in my heart.Ah, the sour and sweet taste of loving your parents.It's as pure as eating sour candy balls when you were five.Douglas "White Dough" Madden - Big Madden to his friends and to his only son, me - once called me Little Mac or Mike Mike, after a while Called me Double Mike, called me Tumi, and finally called me Tim again.As I sipped my drink and pondered the morphological meaning of my name, I giggled.In the journey of my life, every time I change my name, something happens—if only I could remember those things. Now, I'm trying to come up with the first set of phrases in my head for my first essay (what a title! "In Our Wilderness—A Study of Mentally Mentally," by Tim Madden).I should say a few words for the Irish and explain why they drink so much.It might have something to do with testosterone.The Irish probably have more testosterone than other men.My father was like that.The rush of testosterone makes them hard to manage.Hormones will most likely require alcohol to dissolve. I sat there with a pen in my hand and took a sip of bourbon that nearly pissed my tongue off.I'm not ready to swallow it.This title is pretty much everything that pops into my head from day one until today.I can only meditate on the waves.On this cold November night, the churning waves outside the lounge window bore a strong resemblance in some ways to the raging waves in my head.My train of thought runs dry.I am deeply disappointed by the poverty of my drunken imagination.It's no different than trying to understand the true relationship of the universe just now, but your vocabulary can't keep up. At that moment, I noticed that I was no longer alone in my little world at Wangfutai Restaurant.Not ten feet away from me, a blond woman who looked exactly like Patti Lahren was sitting with her male companion.If I can't find another explanation for my sensitive instincts, then it's obvious that she came in with the kid.The kid was well-dressed, in tweed and flannel, with a gray beard and a red face, and he looked like a lawyer.Yes, that woman sits with her handsome man.They had wine on the table, so they were bound to have a chat (in a shameless tone, at least hers was shameless enough).five minutes?ten minutes?I could tell they had figured me out, but for some reason they had the audacity to ignore me.I don't know if the one in tweed and flannel has some real kung fu. He doesn't look like a martial arts master, but a tennis player; Never made them unhappy (except that their mansion was stolen); let alone whether they were dismissive of this body with torso, head, and limbs lying next to them.I don't know much about all of this, but at least one thing is clear to me, and that's the woman talking like I don't exist.What an insult at this troubling hour! It didn't take long for me to understand.From the way they talked, I deduced that they were Californians.They behave like loose, careless New Jersey tourists who patronize a Munich bar. My brain was like an elephant hobbled, bouncing here and there, as my attention was absorbed in the heavy mental activity that only depressed people experience.Finally, I climbed out of my rugged self-absorbed dunes and looked at them.Now I saw that their indifference to me was neither because of their arrogance and self-confidence, nor because they were simply ignorant, but on the contrary, because they were acting.It's just a set of appearances.That man has long been alerted that he must not take it lightly with people who stare at them like me, because if I don't get it right, I will cause them real trouble.And the woman, as I reckoned, must think that she must act like a slut if she doesn't behave like an angel, or it's too unbearable.You can choose any of them.She is rushing forward.She wants to piss me off.She wanted to test the mettle of her handsome man.This woman is no ordinary substitute for my Patty Laren. But let me describe the woman.She is well worth watching.She is younger than my wife, in her forties, but how much she resembles my wife!There used to be a porn star named Jennifer Wells, a woman who looked just like her.She has a pair of plump, tall and asymmetrical big breasts—one nipple facing east and one nipple facing west—a deeply sunken navel, a round belly of a woman, charming and elastic Buttocks.Among the crowd who bought tickets to enjoy the beauty of Jennifer Wells, many people were aroused to lust.Anyone who wants to be a blonde is a real blonde. Right now, my new neighbor's face is as stunning as porn star Jennifer Wells'.Her slightly upturned charming nose and her high-pout little mouth all look so self-willed and arrogant, and they are no different from what is indispensable in sex life.Her nostrils flaring, her fingers -- the feminist movement can pull itself together! —with a cheeky silver-grey nail polish that complemented her grey-blue eyelids.A real beauty!An unfashionable stunner.The kind of guy most West Coast millionaires love.Santa Barbara?La Jolla?Pasadena?Wherever she was, she must have come from the land of bridge.A well-dressed blonde is perfect for a place like this, as perfect as mustard on pastrami.Self-governing California has crept into my soul. I really don't know how to describe this insult, it's like putting a swastika on the outside of the office of the Jewish Appeal Federation.This blond made me think of Patti Lahren immediately, just by looking at her, and I wanted to beat her up.How to fight?I do not know either.But at the very least, they must be told not to be so complacent. So, I listened carefully.She is a woman who dresses well from head to toe and likes to drink.She can drink cup after cup.Scotch, of course.Chevas Rega. "Chevis," she called them. "Miss," she called the waitress, "give me another chevre. Add some more gems." She called the ice cubes gems, ha, ha. "Of course, you're killing me," she said to her male partner, her voice loud and confident, as if she could judge the sex drive below her ass by the amount of alcohol she drank.What a power plant.Some sounds are like tuning forks that resonate with the hidden strings in our hearts.That's the kind of voice she speaks.It's rude to say that, but no doubt anyone would do something for a voice like that.There was always hope that the wet little relative beneath the sweet talk would offer the same for you to possess. Patty Laren had that voice.Every time she gets a martini on her lips, she turns vicious (of course she insists on calling a martini a martinis). "It's the gin," she said, with a feverish, husky voice that suggested she was on fire, "it's the gin that made me want to die. Yes, that's right, asshole." In such banter she also Wraps you in so tenderly, like, oh my god, even you, asshole, you'd be quite comfortable around her.But at that time, Patty Laren belonged to another kind of wealth, 100% derivative wealth.Her second husband, Meeks Wadley Shelby III (whom she tried to persuade me to kill him at one point), was an old Tampa millionaire.She fucked him up enough, not that she broke with him or anything, but that her divorce lawyer helped her out, and in doing so, the old Tampa rich man's financial foundation was completely shaken.Her divorce attorney was like a full-bodied cannonball (I used to imagine so painfully that there was a time when, every night, he might have been rubbing her belly, but people don't get away from being so dedicated. Divorce Lawyer at the top of the list—and the lawyer's performance as evidence is enough to show that it's still worth it).Even though Patti Lahren was full-grown, strong, feral, and, in those days, as strong as a spice-pot, he hammered that "hardness" out of her personality. Delicate flowers and plants.He gave her intensive training (he was one of the first to use a VCR for a show) and taught her how to put on a timid, jittery look on the witness stand so that the judge's eyes would become—forgive me ! —a fat old judge in a state of fascination.Before the trial was over, her marital lapses (her husband was a witness) were the first mistakes of a decent woman who had been bullied and cornered.每位前来作证的旧日情人对她所进行的起诉都被视为再一次令人不快的尝试，他们的目的大概就是要抚慰她那颗被丈夫弄得破碎了的心吧。帕蒂可能会像个出色的高中啦啦队队长——一个从北卡罗来纳州某乡镇来的、个子不高、上了年纪的乡巴佬——那样开始她新的生活旅程，不过，此时，在她准备与沃德利离婚（与我结婚）时，她已拥有一些社会所崇尚的斯文和优雅了。妈的，她的律师同她在举止上简直就像伦特与方坦，他俩竟能在证人席上来回传着一碗汤。住在佛罗里达海岸的那个老富翁，他的一个子嗣的基本财产就这样给夺走了一份儿。这便是帕蒂渐渐富有起来的缘由。 然而，越听望夫台酒家里的那个女人谈话，我就越感到她和帕蒂殊非同类。帕蒂的智慧是决不掺假的——这便是她能在愚昧和野蛮之间所必然忍受的一切。这个正在改变我今晚生活的金发女人，在才智方面大概还差点劲儿，但她真应该有些。她的举止如同连着金钱。要是万事顺遂，她可能会在她旅馆的房间门口迎接你，只戴着一副长到肘部的白手套（穿着高跟鞋）。 “说呀，说你厌烦了。”现在我听清楚了。“在一对迷人的男女决定去旅行时，发生这样的事是可以预料的。这些天，我们一直待在一块，这会让我们害怕丢掉幻想。告诉我，是不是我错了。” 显然，她对他如何回答是不大感兴趣的，相比之下，她更有兴趣的倒是，她让我知道，他们不但没结婚，而且，谁都可以估计到，这只不过是一次短暂而又有限制的放纵罢了。他们之间的关系随时都有可能告吹。那位穿花呢法兰绒的就像一头还没宰掉的野兽，替换他一宿问题不大。这个女人会用一种身势语，她身段的扭动暗示出，第一宿你将受到热烈的欢迎——只是过些天后，你才会碰上麻烦。但是第一宿却是由主人来开销。 “没有，我没厌烦。”穿花呢法兰绒的用最低的嗓音告诉她，他根本没有一丝一毫的厌烦。他那沉闷的音调，好像灌入听觉装置中的噪声，令你突然感到迟钝，就想睡觉。不错，我认为，他肯定是个律师。他那自信而有节制的举止便包含了某些东西。他正对着法官席讲述一条法规，督促法官别推掉这个案子。哄哄她吧！ 然而，她的正文却是吵闹与喧哗！“不，不，不，”她说，轻轻地摇了摇杯中的冰块，“我们来这儿是我的主意。你是想去波士顿，既然这样，我说，我的幻想也在吸引着我。你不介意吧？当然，你不会。才过门儿的新妈使爸爸迷恋得发狂。如此等等，”她说着，停下来，呷了一口切维斯，“可是，亲爱的，我有这个恶习。我不能忍受满足。一旦我感到满足了，一切就都会对我说：'再见了，亲爱的！'况且，我只要看起地图来就废寝忘食，这你知道，朗尼。人家都说女人看不懂地图。我就能。在堪萨斯城，老早以前在——等会儿，我想起来了——在1976年，我们那个代表团，只有我，一个从杰丽福特公司来的女人，能看懂一张把车子从旅馆开到杰丽福特公司总部的地图。 “所以，是你错了。让我看看波士顿及其郊区的地图吧。当你听出我话语里的那种腔调时，当我说'亲爱的，我想看看这个地区的地图'时，你就注意了吧。那意思是，我大脚指头痒痒了。朗尼，从五年级起我就开始学地理”……——她以品评的目光斜睨了一下她杯子中正在溶化的宝石块——“我过去常常盯着新英格兰地图上的科德角不放。它向前探伸，活像个pinkie。你知道小孩儿们把pinkie当成什么吗？那是他们的小手指头，离他们近的那个。所以我想去瞧瞧科德角的顶端。” 我必须说，我还是不喜欢她那位朋友。他有一张保养得挺富态的脸，给人一种感觉，就好像是他在睡觉时，他的钱里也还会长出钱来。一点也不，一点也不，他告诉她，把他的色拉油滴在她那已经拨起的小小的遗憾之中，我俩都想到这儿来，这是千真万确的，等等，等等。 “不，朗尼。我不给你任何选择。这件事我说了算。我说，'我想去这个地方，普罗文斯敦。'我可不许你有反对意见。于是我们就来了这儿。这是幻想之中的幻想。你烦透了。你想今晚就开车赶回波士顿。这地方的人都跑光了，对吗？” 就在这时——千真万确——她死死地瞅了我一眼：要是我接受了它，那她这一眼就是最热情的欢迎；要是我没有回应，那它就成了最辛辣的嘲弄。 我说话了，我对她说，“那就是你相信地图的原因吧。” 这句话奏效了。因为我记得我和他们坐到了同一张桌旁。我最好还是承认，我的记忆力真他妈的完蛋。能回想起来的，我就记得十分清楚——有的时候！——但我常常不能把整晚所发生的事儿串起来。所以再想一次还是我与他们坐在了一起。一定是他们请我过去的。他甚至是在笑。他名叫伦纳德·潘伯恩·朗尼，潘伯恩是加利福尼亚共和党中显达人家的姓。毫无疑问——她也不叫詹妮弗·韦尔斯，而叫杰西卡·庞德。庞德和潘伯恩——现在，你能明白我为什么要憎恶他们了吧？他们的举止做派是从电视连续剧中的人物那儿学来的。 实际上，我开始诚心诚意地为她寻开心了。我想，这可能是因为我有好多天没同任何人说话了吧。现在，沮丧或者，不不，一些埋藏在我心底的饶有风趣的幽默看上去都很平常了。我开始讲几个关于科德角的故事。我选择的时间十分恰切，讲起来也生动活泼。当时，我精神饱满得一定就像个被长期监禁好不容易才获准到狱外逛上一天的囚犯。我与庞德谈得如此投机，几乎使我忘掉了心中的抑郁。不久我便发现，她对物质财产特别感兴趣。碧绿草坪之上的、配有高高的铸铁大门的豪华住宅令她激动不已，满脸放光，其亮度决不亚于房地产商将真正的买主领到合意的房子前面时脸上所放出的那种红光。当然，没一会儿我就猜到了真相。在她那与生俱来的钱堆上，杰西卡自己又摞上了一份儿。在加利福尼亚，她确实是个颇有成就的乡间房地产商。 对她来说，普罗文斯敦一定太让人失望了。我们所能奉献的建筑物是地方土造的，但它们稀奇古怪：外面安有木梯的旧鱼棚子——科德角的盐盒子。我们只能为游客提供居室大小的空间。租出去一百个房间，就会有一百个人站在阶梯外头。普罗文斯敦对任何一个找寻豪华住所的人来说，都无疑颇似十字路口边上那二十根电线杆子，东一根西一根的乱七八糟。 可能是我们这地方在地图上的优美形状欺骗了她：科德角那突出的部分绕着它自己卷曲着，活像中世纪拖鞋的大脚指头！她可能以为科德角随处都是一片片草坪，而她真正看到的呢，却是由板子盖起来的下等酒吧与如此狭窄的单道主街，实在太窄了，要是路边停放着一辆车的话，你开过时可得憋住气，希望你那辆租来的轿子别让什么东西给刮了。 很自然地，她向我问起了我们镇子上最壮观、给人印象最深的房子。它坐落在一个小山丘上，是座五层高的法国式城堡——在我们镇子上算是绝无仅有了——四周围着铸铁做的高高的栅栏。主建筑离大门很远。我可说不好现在谁住那儿，也不清楚是他自己的还是他租的。以前我曾听说过那人的名字，不过现在却记不得了。想将这些对陌生人解释清楚是很不容易的。但在冬季，普罗文斯敦人喜欢“猫冬”。要认识新来的人并不比从一个岛旅游到另一个岛困难。此外，我那些穿着过冬衣服（蓝色粗布工作服，靴子及风雪大衣）的熟人没有一个走出过大门口。我想，我们那座壮观的城堡当下的主人一定是个家资殷富的怪家伙吧。于是，我就拽出了一个我最了解的有钱人（实在是个巧合，这人便是帕蒂·拉伦那来自坦帕的前夫）来搪塞。我将他由北而南移到普罗文斯敦，尔后再把那座城堡借给他。我不想失掉得以与杰西卡小姐待在一起的机会。 “噢，那个地方，”我说，“是米克斯·沃德利·希尔拜三世的。他一个人住那儿。”我停顿一下，“过去我们认识。我们同时在埃克塞特读过书。” “噢，”杰西卡停了好一会儿，“你看我们能否去拜访他一次？” “眼下他不在。他很少待在镇子里。” “太扫兴了。”她说。 “你不会喜欢他的，”我告诉她，“他是个相当古怪的家伙。在埃克塞特时，他违反着装规则，把系主任都给气疯了。我们必须穿夹克，系领带，可沃德利呢，这个老家伙却穿得像救世军的王子似的。” 我的话语里一定包含了一线希望，因为她开始愉快地笑了起来，但我记得，就在我开始要把更多的故事讲给她听时，我极为强烈地感到，我不该再讲下去了——恰如一股莫名其妙的烟味，毫无理性可言——知道吗，有时我认为，我们大家其实都同广播电台差不多，有些故事是不能播出的。还是让我们这样想吧，当时我有个十分明确的指令，要我自己别再说下去（我知道自己不会理睬这个指令。对一个迷人的金发女人有多少话要说啊！）。这时，就在我考虑下句话该说什么的时候，米克斯·沃德利·希尔拜三世的身影穿过岁月的雾霭浮现到我的眼前，明亮、清晰得就像刚从造币机中滚出来的硬币一般。沃德利，瘦骨嶙峋，身穿一条丝光卡其布衬裤与一件用晚餐时才穿的外套，脚蹬一双浅口无带皮鞋。每天，他就穿着这些去上课（令一半老师感到惊恐万状）。他西服的缎子翻领已褪色、磨损得够呛，他那紫色的袜子与紫红色的蝴蝶结都十分显眼，简直像贝加斯里的霓虹灯广告牌。 “上帝呀，”我对杰西卡说，“以前我们都喊他'怪小子'”。 “你可得对我讲讲他，”她说，“请讲啊。” “我也不知道，”我回答道，“他的一生有好多恶劣、卑鄙的插曲。” “噢，快讲给我们听吧。”潘伯恩说。 我根本用不着别人怂恿。“这应该归咎于他父亲，”我说道，“父亲对他影响相当大。他已去世了。米克斯·沃德利·希尔拜二世。” “你是怎么把他们区分开的？”潘伯恩问。 “噢，人们总是喊父亲米克斯，喊儿子沃德利。根本混不了。” “啊，”他说，“他俩像吗？” “不太像。米克斯是个体育棒子，而沃德利就是沃德列。在沃德利小的时候，阿姨总把他的手绑在床上。这是米克斯的命令。他以为这样就能阻止沃德利手淫。”我看了看她，像是说，“这是我不大敢讲的细节。”她冲我笑笑，我觉得这一笑的意思是，“我们是坐在火旁闲聊。你就讲吧。” 我讲了起来。我极其认真地胡编乱扯，把米克斯·沃德利·希尔拜三世的青少年时代详详细细地讲了一遍，从未停下来去责备自己厚着脸皮把故事发生的地点从海湾岸边的豪华住宅一下子搬到了这儿的小山北面那座法式高楼。但我这是在对庞德和潘伯恩讲。他们才不在乎故事到底发生在哪儿呢，我这样安慰自己。 我接着往下讲。米克斯的妻子，沃德利的母亲体弱多病。米克斯找了个情妇。还是沃德利在埃克塞特读一年级的时候，他母亲去世了。不久，他父亲娶了他那个情妇。他们两人谁都不喜欢沃德利。沃德利也不喜欢他们。由于他们把他们那幢房子第三层的门锁上了，沃德利就决定闯进那间屋子。然而，直到读最后一年他被学校轰出埃克塞特之后，他才有较多的时间待在家里，寻找他父亲与其新妇出去一宿不回来的机会。在那对老家伙彻夜不归的头一个夜晚，顺着大楼墙外的装饰线脚，他成功地从地面爬到了第三层，然后从窗子钻了进去。 “我赞成这么干，”杰西卡说，“那间屋里有什么？” “他发现，”我告诉她，“墙角有个笨重的三角架，三角架上支着个很大的老式取景相机，上面蒙了块黑布。在图书馆所常用的那种大桌子上，摆着五本红色的精制犊皮纸剪贴簿。这都是些特殊的色情照片集。其中就有呈现米克斯同他情妇性交场面的深棕色巨幅照片。” “现在做了他妻子的那位吗？”潘伯恩问道。 I nodded.就像他儿子所描述的那样，第一批照片可能摄于沃德利刚刚出生时。在后面几本剪贴簿里，他父亲与其情妇变得老了一些。沃德利的母亲死后一两年，父亲新婚之后不久，另外一个人在照片里出现了。 “他就是那幢房子的经管人，”我说，“沃德利告诉我，他每天都与沃德利全家一块用餐。” 这时，朗尼拍起手来喝采。“真令人难以置信。”他说。后面几张照片所呈现的场面是，房产经管人正同米克斯的妻子性交，而米克斯则坐在离他们五英尺远的地方读报纸。这对情人不断地变换着位置，米克斯却一直在读他的报纸。 “谁是摄影师？” “沃德利说是男管家。” “这是一幢什么样的房子啊！”杰西卡惊叹道，“只有在新英格兰才会发生这种事儿。”这句话逗得我们痛痛快快地大笑了一通。 我没添上那个男管家在沃德利十四岁时诱奸了他这件事。我也没主动说出沃德利对这件事的陈述：“在我的整个余生中，我一直努力夺回我对我直肠的产权所有。”和杰西卡交尾时，那笔小财产一定会蛮不错的。可我还未拿到它，所以我得谨慎点儿。“十九岁时，”我说，“沃德利结婚了。我想其目的在于让他父亲惊慌失措。米克斯是个铁杆反犹主义者，而新娘呢，恰恰是犹太人。她碰巧也长了个大鼻子。” 他俩听得那么津津有味，这倒让我感到后悔，我不该说下去的，可现在没法停下来了——我也有讲故事的人所有的那种残忍，况且下一个细节又十分重要。“那个鼻子，”我说，“正像沃德利所描述的那样。够得到她的上嘴唇，看上去她像是在呼吸着从嘴里吐出的臭气。可能因为沃德利讲究吃喝的缘故吧，这副样子倒能激起他不可言状的性欲。” “噢，但愿有个好点的结局。”杰西卡说。 “这个，倒也难说。”我说道，“沃德利妻子是个有教养的人。因而，当她发现他收集了不少色情照片时，灾祸降临到沃德利头上。她销毁了那些照片。而后她又把事情搞得更糟。她想方设法去诱惑沃德利的父亲。结婚五年后她成功地使米克斯感到满足，为儿子和儿媳办了桌酒席。沃德利喝了个酩酊大醉，当天深夜，他用蜡台把妻子的脑袋砸开了花。她一下子就给砸死了。” “噢，不，”杰西卡说，“这一切都发生在山上那幢房子里吗？” "Ok." “法律对这事儿是怎么处理的？”潘伯恩问道。 “这个啊，你们要是相信的话，他们并没有用精神不正常来替他辩护。” “那他得蹲上一阵子了。” “确实如此。”我不打算告诉他们，我和沃德利，不但一块到埃克塞特读的书，并且又在同一个监狱见了面。 “在我听来，好像是父亲在策动他儿子作案。”朗尼说。 “我想，你是对的。” “那当然！要是以精神不正常为托词，被告一方就得把那些剪贴簿拿到法庭上来。”朗尼攥了一下手指，而后又把它们往外伸了伸。“所以，”他说，“沃德利把一切都揽到了自己身上。不过，蹲监狱对他又会有什么好处呢？” “每年一百万美元，”我答道，“他每蹲一年，就会有一百万美元存进托管基金管理所，加之在父亲死后，他还可以与继母分享父亲的房地产。” “你知不知道他们是不是真的给了他那笔钱？”朗尼问道。 Jessica shook her head. “我看这种人说话不会算数。” I shrugged. “米克斯给了，”我告诉他们，“因为沃德利偷走了那些剪贴簿。相信我说的吧，米克斯死后，继母仍然承认那笔交易。米克斯·沃德利·希尔拜三世一出狱就成了个大富翁。” 杰西卡说：“我喜欢你讲故事的方法。” 潘伯恩点头称是。“真是千金难买呀。”他说。 她显出很高兴的样子。到这陌生的地方游玩似乎总算有了几分钟美妙的时光。“沃德利，”她问道，“他打算再住进那幢房子吗？” 我正犹豫，不知对此说什么才好，这时，潘伯恩回答了：“当然不会。我们这位新朋友说得够明白的了。” “喂，伦纳德，”我说，“一旦我要用个律师时，你可得提醒我去雇你。” “你说了吗？” 我不想咧嘴笑笑说，“是说了几句。”相反，我说，“说了，一个字也没落。”然后把杯中酒一饮而尽。无疑，伦纳德已问过谁拥有那笔房地产这一问题了。 想起来了，接着我又孤孤零零一人坐在那儿了。他们去了餐厅。 我记得，我一边喝着，一边写着，一边注视着海浪。写好的观察资料，我塞进口袋一些又撕了一些。撕纸的声音回荡在我的心中。我高兴得在心里唱起歌来。我想，外科医生该是地球上最最幸福的人了。把人切开又能为此拿到报酬——那才真叫幸福呢，我告诉自己。这个想法令我希望杰西卡·庞德再次回到我身边。要是她知道了我这个想法，她定会高兴得大叫起来。 我能记起的是，当时我写了篇很长的笔记，这是第二天我在口袋里找到的。天知道是怎么回事，我为它选了这么个标题：《识别》。“在我心中，伟大这个或然概念总是同谋杀离我最近的那个无耻小人的欲望携手并行的。”接着，我在后一句话下面画上一横：“人贵有自知之明。” 然而，越读这个笔记，我越是感到，似乎我把自己固定在那坚不可摧的傲慢中了。自斟自饮时，这种傲慢可能是最让人满意的神色。一想到杰西卡·庞德与伦纳德·潘伯恩就坐在离我不足一百英尺的桌旁，十分明显他们正处于危险的边缘，我就感到如醉如痴，我开始沉思冥想起来——必须挑明，我并未认真地策划什么，而只不过是把它当作晚间为了消遣所玩的更有趣的花样罢了——干掉他俩实在太容易了。想想看！二十四天没见帕蒂·拉伦，我就成了这么一种人！ 以下是我的推理。一对露水夫妇，哪一个在加利福尼亚某地都有相当显赫的地位。他们决定一块儿去波士顿逛逛。他们仔细推敲了他们的计划。他们可能把这计划告诉了一两位挚友，也可能对谁都没说。但由于他们头脑发热开车来了普罗文斯敦，坐在租来的小汽车里，因而罪犯只需——要是这一行动真的付诸实践的话——把他们的小汽车开上一百二十英里，回到波士顿，然后将它丢在大街上。假定尸体被掩埋得没留任何痕迹，那么，就是事发了，这对男女失踪一事也只能是在数周之后才会引起那些地方报界的关注。到那时，望夫台酒家里的人还有谁能想起他们的模样来呢？甚至，处理这一事件时，警察在分析了小汽车的位置之后也会认为，他们是回到了波士顿后遇难的。我生活在这惊险而又动人的剧情说明的逻辑中，美滋滋地呷着酒，为我有任意把玩他们的力量而欣喜。这种力量是从上述那些想法中汲取到的。然后……然后……记住的只有这么多了，那天晚上发生的别的事儿我全都忘掉了。第二天早晨，我就再也不能把这些事儿串起来以使自己得意一通了。 我搞不清我是否又同庞德和潘伯恩在一块喝起来。我想，很有可能我独自一人狂饮了一会儿，然后钻进车里，开回家去。假如真是这样，我肯定一回去就睡了，尽管醒来时我所看到的一切都证明，那根本就不可能。 我也有另一个剧情说明，它确实要比梦幻清晰不少，尽管过去我可能梦到过这件事。那就是，帕蒂·拉伦回来了，我们吵得一塌糊涂。现在我看见了她的嘴。但她说了些什么我却一句也想不起来。难道这事儿本身就是一场梦？ 而后，我又特别清晰地感觉到，杰西卡和伦纳德吃完饭后确实又回到了我的桌旁。我邀他俩来我家（帕蒂·拉伦家）做客。我们坐在起居室里，他们专心致志地听我讲着。我似乎还记得这些。然后，我们又开车出去兜了一圈，但是，如果我开的是我那辆波其牌车的话，我就不可能把他们两人都拉上。也许，我们是分坐两辆车。 我也记得，我是一个人回来的。那条狗相当怕我。它是条很大的拉布拉多狗，可当我走到近前时，它溜了。我坐在床边，临躺下前再写上几笔。我就记得这些。我睡眼蒙眬地坐着，迷迷瞪瞪地盯着笔记本。接着，我又醒了几秒钟（或者一个小时），读了读我所写下的那行字：“绝望是当我们心中的生命死亡时我们所体验到的那种情感。” 这便是我睡前的最后一次思考。但是，这些剧情说明没一点儿是真的——因为第二天清晨醒来时，我发现胳膊上有个从未有过的刺花纹。

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Notes: