Chapter 10 chapter Ten

When she awoke, Min was setting breakfast on the balcony.At half past eight, the brand new sun sprinkles the world with brand new sunshine.Min and I sat at the balcony table and ate breakfast looking out at the sparkling sea.Eating toast and eggs and drinking coffee.Two white birds flew towards the sea from the hillside as if gliding.Somewhere nearby came the sound of a radio, and the announcer was rapidly reading the news in Greek. There is still a strange numbness from jet lag in the center of my head.It is also for this reason that there is no way to distinguish the line between reality and semblance of reality.I am having breakfast on this small Greek island with a beautiful older woman whom I met for the first time yesterday.This woman loves Sumire, but does not feel sexual desire; Sumire loves this woman, and can feel sexual desire; I love Sumire, and has sexual needs; Sumire likes me, but does not love, and does not feel sexual desire; I can be in other Anonymous women feel sexual desire, but not love.It is indeed very complicated, just like the plot of existential drama.Everything comes to an end here, and there is nowhere for anyone to go.There is no other choice.Sumire disappeared from the stage alone.

Min poured coffee into my empty cup.I say thank you. "You like Sumire, right?" Min asked me, "That is, as a woman." I spread butter on the slice of bread and nodded slightly.The bread was cold and hard and took time to pull apart.I looked up and added: "I'm afraid this is not a choice." We continued to eat breakfast in silence.After the news on the radio, Greek music came out.When the wind blows, the bougainvilleas sway with the wind.Staring at it, there are countless white waves jumping in the bay. "After thinking about it for a while, I plan to go to Athens as soon as possible today." Min peeled the fruit and said, "I'm afraid the phone won't solve the problem. It's better to go directly to the consulate for an interview. As a result, maybe the people from the consulate will be brought here, It’s also possible to wait for Sumire’s parents to come with them when they arrive in Athens. Anyway—if possible—I’ll ask you to stay here. First, the police on the island may have something to look for, and second, there’s a possibility that Sumire will return in a flash. Yes. Is it okay to ask for this?"

I said it's okay. "I'll go to the police station to inquire about the search process, and then rent a small boat to Rhodes. It will take time to go back and forth, so I have to find a hotel in Athens. It will only be two or three days." I nod. After peeling the orange, Min carefully wipes the blade with a napkin. "By the way, have you met Sumire's parents?" I said I never saw one. Min let out a long sigh—as long as the wind blowing through the end of the world. "Then, how to explain it?" I also understand her confusion.How can the unexplainable be explained!

I take her to the port.Min carried a small travel bag for a change of clothes, a pair of leather shoes with a slightly higher heel on her feet, and a MILASCHOH satchel on her shoulder.I went to the police station with her to listen to the situation.I presume to be Min's relative who occasionally travels nearby.The clues are still zero. "But don't worry!" They said brightly, "There is no need to be so frightened. Well, the island is full of peace. Of course, it does not mean that there is absolutely no crime. Some people are jealous, some are drunk, and there are political quarrels. It’s the same everywhere in the world. But it’s all fighting, and there hasn’t been a single serious crime against foreigners in the past fifteen years.”

Maybe it is.But now it's Sumire that something really happened, and we can't explain it to them. "There is a big stalactite cave on the north side of the island. If you get in there in a daze, it will be very difficult for Uncle to get out." They said, "Because it is as complicated as a maze inside. But it is far away from here, and Miss can't get out no matter what. Yes." I asked if there was any possibility of drowning in the sea. They shook their heads: "There is no strong current in this area. Besides, the weather this week has been pretty good, and the sea hasn't lost its temper. Many fishermen go out to fish every day. If Miss swims and drowns, someone must find out."

"What about a well?" I asked. "Can't imagine a deep well somewhere that you fell into while walking?" The police officer shook his head: "No one digs a well on this island, because there is no need for it. Water gushes out everywhere automatically, and there are a few springs that never dry up. Besides, the rock is so hard, digging a hole is not easy." Walking out of the police station, I said to Min, "If possible, I'd like to visit the beach on the other side of the mountain that you two go to every day in the morning." She bought a simple map of the island at a newsstand, marked the route, and reminded that it would take about forty-five minutes to walk one way, and it was better to wear sturdy shoes.Then she walked to the pier, speaking half French and half English, and quickly negotiated the rent with the man who drove the taxi. "I hope everything goes well," she said to me when we parted.But that look said something else.Things can't be all smooth sailing, she knows that, and so do I.The boat engine started, she pressed her cap with her left hand, and waved her right hand at me.After the dinghy she was in disappeared off the harbour, I felt like a few small parts had been ripped out of me.I wandered wistfully around the port, bought a pair of dark sunglasses at the gift shop, and climbed the steep stone steps back to the villa.

As the sun rises, so does the heat.I put on a half-sleeved cotton shirt over my swimsuit, put on sunglasses and light sneakers, and walked along the narrow and dangerous mountain road to the beach.It was a big mistake not to wear a hat, but it was too late to regret it.After climbing the hill for a while, my throat became more comfortable.I pause to take a sip of water and apply the suntan lotion Min lent me to my face and arms.There is a layer of snow-white floating dust on the road surface, and it will fly around when the strong wind blows.From time to time, he passed by villagers leading donkeys.They greeted me loudly: "Karimela!" I responded with the same greeting.Pronunciation is generally good, I think.

There are dense trees on the mountain, all of which are very short and twisted.On the rocky slopes, goats and sheep sauntered back and forth, their neck bells jingling.It is mainly children and old people who look after the livestock.When I passed by, they first glanced sideways, and then raised their hands slightly as if to express something.I also waved my hand.Indeed, it was impossible for Sumire to wander alone in such a place.There is nowhere to hide, but to be seen by others. There was no one on the beach.I took off my half-sleeve shirt and swimsuit, and dived into the sea naked.The water is comfortable, clear and transparent.After swimming to the bay, I swam a good distance.The stones on the bottom of the sea are all visible.A large sailboat is parked at the entrance of the bay. After the sail is lowered, the tall mast sways like a huge metronome.But there seemed to be no one on deck.As the wave recedes, it leaves behind only the depressing rustling of countless pebbles.

After swimming for a while, I returned to the beach and lay naked on the towel, looking up at the blue sky.Seabirds circled above the bay in search of fish and shrimp, and there was not a single cloud in the sky.After lying down for about thirty minutes, I dozed off in a daze.At this time, there was not even a single visitor on the beach.Before I knew it, my mood calmed down strangely.Compared with visiting alone, this beach is so quiet and beautiful, and there is something reminiscent of a certain way of death.I put on my clothes and rushed to the villa along the same mountain road.The heat is getting worse.While moving my legs mechanically, I speculated what Sumire and Min were thinking when they walked this way.

It is possible for them to think about their own sexual desires, just as I sometimes think about my own sexual desires when I am with Sumire.It's not hard for me to imagine Jin Jin's mood when Min is by her side - she inevitably pushes Min's naked body in her mind, wishing to hug her as soon as possible.There are expectations, excitement, disappointment, confusion, and timidity.The heart swells and contracts.Everything seems to be sunny and beautiful, but also seems to be lost, and finally there is nothing to do. I climbed to the top of the mountain, took a breath, drank some water, and started to descend.When I could see the roof of the villa, I remembered Min's words——After coming to the island, Sumire began to be bored in the room and write something.What did Sumire write?Min said nothing more about it, and I didn't ask.However, there may be clues to her disappearance hidden in what Sumire wrote.Why didn't I realize this?

Back at the villa, I immediately went to Sumire's room, turned on the laptop, and activated the hard drive.Didn't find anything decent.Nothing more than transactional, and all related to Min's business: expense account, address book, schedule for the trip to Europe.Nothing of her personal nature.Use the "Menu" to bring up "Recently Used Files", but no records are left on it.It probably disappeared on purpose.Sumire didn't want others to look at it casually.If so, she should copy what she wrote on a floppy disk and stash it somewhere.It was hard to think that Sumire would go missing with the floppy disk, not to mention that the pajamas didn't even have a pocket. I look in the desk drawer.There are a few floppy disks, but all of them are copies of the existing content of the hard disk, or other work materials.Didn't find anything interesting about it.I sat at the table and thought: If I were Sumire, where would I hide the floppy disk?The room is small, and there is no place to hide things at all.And Sumire is extremely neurotic when it comes to other people reading what she has written.The red suitcase, of course.This is the only box in the room that is locked. The brand-new red suitcase was as light as empty, and there was no sound when it shook, but the four-digit combination lock was locked.I tried every number Sumire might have used: her birthday, her address phone number, her zip code... none of it worked.Of course.A number that anyone could guess could not be used as a password. The password should be a number that Sumire knew by heart but had nothing to do with her personal information.I pondered for a long time, and suddenly a thought came to my mind: I might as well try using my out-of-city telephone number in Guoli City: 0425.The lock snapped open. There is a small black cloth bag stuffed in the compartment inside the case.Unzip the zipper, inside is a small green-faced diary and a floppy disk.I checked the diary first, it was her usual handwriting, but there was nothing interesting on it: where did I go, who did I meet, the name of the hotel, the price of gasoline, the dinner recipe, the name of the wine brand and the tendency of its taste, that is it.Moreover, the words are almost connected together in a boring way, and there are more blank pages without writing anything. It seems that writing a diary is not something Sumire is good at. The floppy disk has no name, only the date written in Sumire's unique font on the label: August 19XX.I plugged the floppy disk into the computer and opened it. There were two files on the menu, both of which had no titles, only numbers 1 and 2. I took a slow look around the room before opening the file.On the closet was Sumire's blouse, her goggles, her Italian dictionary, her passport, and her ballpoint pen and mechanical pencil in the drawer.Outside the window in front of the desk, a gentle rocky slope stretched out.A very black cat was walking on the wall of the next house.The unadorned, square room was enveloped in the silence of the afternoon.Close your eyes, you can still hear the sound of sea waves washing against the uninhabited beach in the early morning.I opened my eyes again, this time pricking up my ears to the real world.heard nothing. The icon flashed twice, and the file opened with a "click". File 1 "When a man is shot, he bleeds" Now, as a long-talking temporary conclusion of fate (does fate really have a conclusion other than temporary? This is an interesting question, but let’s not talk about it here), on this Greek island, a An island whose name I hadn't even heard of until recently.The time...it was just past four in the morning, and of course it was not yet dawn.Sober goats are sinking into a smooth, intensive sleep.The olive trees that line the fields outside the window will continue to suck for a while the deep, nourishing darkness.There is a month as usual.Yue crouched coldly on the ridge of the roof like a sullen priest, holding out the sterile sea with both hands. I love this moment more than any other, anywhere in the world.This moment is mine alone.And I'm at my desk writing this article.Soon the dawn will break, and the new sun will suddenly poke its face out from the top of the mountain like a Buddha born from his mother's armpit (right or left?).After a while, the resourceful Min will also quietly open his eyes.At six o'clock we will have a simple breakfast, and after eating, we will go over the mountain to the beautiful coast.Before such a day begins, I'm (rolling up my sleeves) ready to get this thing over with. If you don't count a few long letters, I haven't written an article purely for myself for a long time, so I have no confidence in whether I can write it to the end smoothly.But in retrospect, the so-called "smoothly write to the end" confidence is so, has it never happened once in my life!I just couldn't help writing. Why can't I stop writing?The reason is clear: in order to think about something, that something must first be put into words. It has been like this since childhood.Whenever there is something I don't understand, I pick up the words scattered under my feet one by one and piece them together into articles.If the article is not helpful, it will be disassembled and spelled in another form.After so many repetitions, I was finally able to think about things like ordinary people.For me writing was neither too much trouble nor too much to bear, and I wrote obsessively like other children pick up beautiful pebbles and acorns.I write article after article with paper and pencil as naturally as I breathe, and think. Maybe you will say—maybe not to say—it takes so much time to think about the problem one by one every time, wouldn't it take time to come to a conclusion?It actually took time too.When I was in elementary school, people around me thought I might be "mentally retarded".I couldn't keep pace with the other kids in the class. The sense of incompatibility caused by this error has been alleviated a lot by the time I graduated from elementary school.I kind of learned how to get myself in tune with my surroundings.But the discrepancy itself lingered like a silent snake in the grass until I dropped out of college and cut off my association with decent people. Here are the propositions: I routinely affirm myself in writing right? yes! So, so far I've written a fair amount of articles, on a daily basis—almost every day.It's like being alone and relentlessly mowing the grass that continues to grow wild on a vast pasture at breakneck speed.Cut here today, cut there tomorrow... and when I returned a week later, the grass grew back to its original state, lush and rustling. However, after meeting Min, I almost stopped writing articles.Why is this? K's theory of creation=communication is very convincing.On one side of things, this statement may not be bad.But I don't think so.Uh, think more simply, simply, simply. That said, I'm afraid I've stopped thinking—by my own definition, of course.I clung to Min like a pair of overlapping spoons, and I was rushed to a certain place (it should be said to be an inexplicable place) together with her, and I felt that it was not bad. Or rather, it was necessary for me to travel as lightly as possible in order to be inseparable from Min, and even the basic operation of thinking became a burden to me.That's all there is to it. No matter how tall the pasture grass grows, it has nothing to do with me (huh!).I just lie in the grass with a grunt, look up at the sky, admire the flowing white clouds, and entrust my fate to the white clouds, and gently entrust my heart to the breath of the watery green grass, and to the whisper of the wind from outside the sky.Even the difference between what I know and what I don't know doesn't matter to me anymore. No, no, that doesn't really matter to me, it must be described more accurately, accurately, accurately. In retrospect, even if I know (thought to know) things, I treat them as things I don’t know and treat them in the form of articles—this is the original rule of my writing.Once you start thinking, "Oh, I know this, I don't need to spend time writing it," that's the end of your life.I probably won't get anywhere.Specifically, if I'm relieved that I know someone so well that I don't need to think about them, I (or you) could be totally betrayed.Behind everything we think we know a lot, there is an equal amount of unknown factors lurking. What is called understanding is usually nothing but the sum of misunderstandings. This is a small way for me to know the world (please don't spread it). "Knowing" and "not knowing", in fact, are inherently inseparable like Siamese twins, existing as chaos.Chaos, chaos. Who can tell the difference between the sea and the projection of the sea?Or distinguish between rain and desolation? This is how I resolutely gave up the distinction between knowing and not knowing.This is my starting point.A different idea might be a lousy starting point.But people—yes—always have to start somewhere, don't they?In this way, everything—concept and genre, subject and object, cause and effect, me and my knuckles—is bound to be grasped as indistinguishable.Speaking of which, all the powders were scattered on the kitchen floor, salt and pepper and flour and jasmine powder and all mixed together. Me and my knuckles... well, by the time I realized it, I was sitting at my computer snapping my knuckles again.Shortly after quitting smoking, I picked up this bad habit again.I clicked the root joints of the five fingers of my right hand first, and then clicked the left one.If I don't brag, I can make my joints squeak like hell—the ominous sound of snapping something's neck with my bare hands.In terms of the loudness of the voice, it is no less than the boys in the class since elementary school. Not long after entering college, K whispered to me that it was not a stunt worth admiring, at least it is not appropriate for a girl of a certain age to cluck her knuckles in front of people.That way, he looked almost like Rot Reynia from "From Russia With Love."So why didn't anyone else remind me of this before?I think it makes sense, and I tried my best to correct this problem.I really like Roth Rainier, but I don't want to be seen that way.Unexpectedly, after quitting smoking, I accidentally slapped my knuckles against the table subconsciously.Boom boom boom boom boom.My name is Bond, James Bond. Back to the original topic.There is not much time, no time to go round and round.Don't care about Rot Rhena now.No time for metaphors.As I said before, "knowledge (I think I know)" and "not knowing" in me co-exist unavoidably.Most people put a screen between the two temporarily, because it is comfortable and convenient, but I simply removed the screen.I can't help it, I hate screens, that's who I am. But if I'm allowed to use the Siamese twins metaphor again, it's that they don't always get along, don't always try to understand each other.It would be better to say that the opposite is more the case.The right hand does not know what the left hand wants to do, and the left hand does not know what the right hand wants to do.We are so at a loss, lost ourselves... and then collided with something, "pass"! What I want to express here is that if people want "knowledge (self-knowledge)" and "unknownness" to coexist peacefully, then they must adopt clever countermeasures accordingly.And the so-called countermeasure—yes, that’s what it is—is thinking.In other words, it is to firmly connect and fix yourself in place.Otherwise, we are bound to run into the absurd and punishing "runway crash". Given that. So, in order to truly avoid thinking (lying on the field, looking at the white clouds in the sky, listening to the sound of grass jointing) and avoid collisions ("pass"!), what should people do?Disaster?No no, purely from a theoretical point of view, it is very simple. C'est simple.dream!keep dreaming!Enter the dream, never come out, live in it forever. In dreams you don't have to discriminate things, not at all.Because there is no such thing as a boundary at all.Therefore, collisions rarely occur in dreams, and even if they occur, they are not accompanied by pain.But the reality is different.Reality is grim.Reality, reality. In the past, when Sam Peckinberg's "The Wild Companions" was on stage, a female reporter raised her hand at the press conference and asked, "Why on earth should there be a lot of bloodshed?" The voice of the question was stern.Actor Jannest Bognerin replied with a puzzled look: "Remember, madam, when a man is shot he bleeds." The movie was shot during the height of the Vietnam War. I like this line.This is probably the root of reality.Things that are indistinguishable are accepted as indistinguishable, including blood.Shooting and bloodshed. Remember, when you are shot, you bleed. That's why I keep writing articles.I was conceived in this realm, in this nameless realm as the outskirts of everyday, continuous thinking—with the nameless name of understanding floating in the overwhelming amniotic fluid of repelling understanding. eye fetus.This is probably the reason why my novels are so hopelessly long that they cannot be finished.I have not yet been able to support a supply line commensurate with its size, technically or morally. But this is not fiction.How should I put it, in short, it is just an article, and there is no need for a clever ending. I just think aloud.Here, there is no such thing as a moral responsibility on me.I...well, just thinking.I haven't thought about anything for a long time, and I probably won't think about anything for a while.But anyway, at this moment, I am thinking, thinking until dawn. Having said that, it is impossible to rule out the vague doubts that appear every time like a shadow.Could it be that I was pouring time and energy into useless things?Could it be that I carried a heavy bucket and rushed to the place where the continuous rain made everyone helpless?Shouldn't I give up my superfluous efforts and simply commit myself to the natural river?conflict?What does conflict refer to? Put another way. Oh—how would you put it another way? Got it! Instead of writing this messy article, it would be better to crawl back into the warm bed and think that Min masturbates perfectly, isn't it?Exactly. I really like the curve of Min's buttocks and her snow-white hair.But her pubic hair was a perfect contrast to the white hair, jet-black and impeccably shaped.Her buttocks wrapped in little black briefs are also very sexy.I can't help but imagine the T-shape of fur that's as jet-black as the briefs. But I'd better stop thinking about it.I definitely don't want to.I'm going to slam ("click") this rambling sexual delusion and focus on writing this.Cherish the precious time before dawn.It's someone else somewhere else who decides what works and what doesn't.But right now I have no interest in that kind of person, not even a cup of barley tea. right? Yes. So go ahead! It has been said that dreaming (whether actual or fabricated) into fiction is a dangerous endeavor, although the ability to reconstruct the irrational integrity of dreams in words is limited to gifted writers.I don't dispute that either.However, I still want to talk about dreams here, about the dream I just had.I'm going to record that dream here as a fact about myself.I'm just a warehouse clerk doing his job and has little to do with literariness (yes). To tell the truth, I have had dreams similar to this several times so far.The details vary and the setting varies, but the pattern remains the same, and the quality (both depth and length) of the pain felt upon waking from the dream is also generally the same.There was always a recurring theme there, like a night train always blowing its horn before a detour in poor visibility. Sumire's dream (This part is described in the third person. Because I think it is more accurate) Sumire climbed the long spiral staircase to meet her mother who died long ago.Mother should be waiting for her at the top of the ladder.Mother told Sumire something.That was an important fact related to Sumire's future survival, and Sumire had to know it no matter what.And Jin was afraid of seeing her mother.Because I have never seen the dead, and I don't know what kind of person my mother is.Maybe she has hostility or malice towards Sumire (for reasons Sumire can't imagine).But can not see.For Sumire, this is the first and last chance. The ladder is very long.No matter how you climb, you can't reach the top.Sumire was out of breath and crawled quickly.not much time.Mother couldn't wait in this building forever.Sumire's forehead was dripping with sweat.Finally, the ladder has reached the top. At the top of the stairs is a wide platform.The front was blocked by a wall, a solid stone wall.A round hole like a ventilation hole was opened at exactly the same height as the face.The hole is not big, about fifty centimeters in diameter.Sumire's mother was aggrieved and stuck in the hole, as if being forced in with someone's feet forward.Sumire understood in her heart: the allotted time has passed. Mother was lying in this small space with her face facing this side, looking at Sumire's face as if she was about to confide something.Sumire could tell at a glance that this person was her mother, who gave her life and body.But somehow, the mother is different from the mother in the family photo.Real mothers are beautiful and young.Jin thought that that person was not her real mother after all, I was deceived by my father. "Mom!" Sumire shouted decisively.It felt like a floodgate had opened in my chest.However, at the same time Sumire shouted, the mother shrank into the hole as if being pulled into a huge vacuum from the opposite side.Mother opened her mouth and said something loudly to Sumire, but the words failed to reach Sumire's ears due to the inexplicable whistling wind from the cave.In the next moment, the mother was dragged into the darkness of the cave and disappeared. Looking back, the stairs were gone too.It is now surrounded by stone walls.A door appeared where there had been stairs. Turn the knob and push in. It was empty.She is at the top of the tower.Looking down, it's dizzyingly high.There are many small planes in the sky.The plane is a single-seater simple plane, made of bamboo and balsa wood, anyone can make it.Behind the seat is a fist-sized engine and propeller.Sumire shouted for help to the pilots flying in front of her, begging them to save her, but the pilots ignored her completely. Sumire thought that no one could see her because she was wearing this kind of clothes.She was wearing the generic white coat she wears in hospitals.She takes off her clothes and is naked.Nothing was on under the white coat.The coat he took off was thrown outside the door.The gown is like a soul that has broken free from the shackles and is swaying in the wind, fleeing to the distance.The same wind caressed her limbs, shaking her pubic hair.Before I knew it, all the small planes flying around just now turned into dragonflies.There are colorful dragonflies everywhere in the sky.Their large spherical eyes glow in all directions.The sound of flapping wings grew louder and louder like a radio turning up the volume, and soon turned into an unbearable roar.Sumire knelt down on the spot, closed her eyes, and covered her ears. Wake up here. Sumire really remembered all the details of this dream, and could even draw it directly.Only the face of the mother who was sucked into the black hole and disappeared could not be remembered.The key words from the mother's mouth also disappeared in the illusory blank.Sumire bit the pillow tightly on the bed and cried a lot. "The barber no longer digs holes" After this dream, I made a big decision.My hard-working pickaxe finally started tapping on the hard rock mass, "Boom!" I planned to express clearly to Min what I needed.We cannot allow this state of restlessness to continue forever.I can't dig a half-deep hole in the backyard and whisper "Min, I love you" like a cowardly barber.If I do that, I shall keep losing, and all dawns and all evenings shall plunder me little by little.My existence will soon be chipped into the river piece by piece, reduced to "nothing". Things are as transparent as crystal.Crystal, crystal. I want to hug Min, want to be hugged by her.I have given away many, many precious things, and there is nothing more to give.It is not too late.For this I had to have sex with Min, had to get inside her.I also want to invite her to enter my body, like two greedy, slippery snakes. What if Min doesn't accept me? Then, I'm afraid I'll have to swallow the facts again. "Remember, when you are shot, you bleed." Must bleed.I had to sharpen my sharp knife and stab it in the dog's throat. right? Yes.

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