Chapter 41 39. Immortal City

Yossarian left without permission from his superiors and flew to Rome with Milo on his plane.On the plane, Milo shook his head reproachfully, smacked his lips reverently, and told him priestly that he was ashamed of him.Yossarian nodded, and Milo went on to say that Yossarian was making a fool of himself by walking backwards with the gun slung behind his hip and refusing to fly any more missions.Yossarian nodded.Milo added that this practice was a betrayal of his own squadron, embarrassing his superiors and putting Milo in an extremely embarrassing situation.Yossarian nodded again.Milo added that the officers and men had begun to complain.It seemed strange that Yossarian was thinking only of his own safety, while men like Milo, Colonel Cathcart, Lieutenant Colonel Korn, and ex-Private First Class Wintergreen were all fighting to win the war. Fair enough.People who had flown seventy missions were complaining too, because they had to fly the full eighty.The danger is that some of them might also sling their guns and start walking backwards.Morale was getting low, all Yossarian's fault.The country is at the juncture of life and death, but he has the audacity to abuse traditional rights such as freedom and independence, thereby endangering these rights themselves.

Milo babbled endlessly, and Yossarian sat in the co-pilot's seat, nodding his head and trying not to listen to him.Yossarian's thoughts were full of Nately's whore, and Kraft, Orr, Nately, Dunbar, Kidd Sampson, McWatt, and the people he'd met in Italy, Egypt, and North Africa. The poor, stupid, diseased people who have been there.He knew that there were such people in other parts of the world.Snowden and Nately's whore's little sister also troubled his conscience.Yossarian felt that he understood now why Nately's whore thought he was responsible for Nately's death, why they had killed him.Why shouldn't she?It was a man's world, and unnatural disasters of every kind befell her and all the others younger, for which every one of them had every right to condemn him and all the others older , as she herself, even in her grief, was to blame for all the artificial sufferings that befell her little sister and all the other children.Someone has to do something sometime.Every victim is a perpetrator, and every perpetrator is a victim.Somebody has to step up at some point and break that damned chain of tradition that threatens all.In some parts of Africa, young boys are still stolen by adult slave traders and sold for money.Those buyers disembowel them and eat them.Yossarian wondered how these children could have been subjected to such savage mutilation without showing any sign of fear or pain.He decided that this was due to their particularly strong endurance.Otherwise, he thought, the custom would have died out long ago, because, he felt, no man's desire for wealth or immortality, however strong, would make them trade the suffering of their children for these.

Milo said Yossarian was making trouble.Yossarian nodded again.Milo said Yossarian wasn't a good member of the team.Yossarian nodded and listened to Milo tell him that if he didn't like the way Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn were running the group, then what he should have done was leave for Russia instead of staying here and making trouble.Yossarian was about to say that Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn, and Milo could all go to Russia if they didn't like him making waves here, but he held back.Colonel Cathcart and Lieutenant Colonel Korn had been good to Yossarian, Milo said, and hadn't they given him a medal and promoted him to captain after the last mission to bomb Ferrara?Yossarian nodded.Didn't they feed him and give him his monthly military pay?Yossarian nodded again.Milo was sure they would be lenient if he went to them and apologized and agreed to fly eighty missions.Yossarian said he would think about it.Yossarian held his breath and prayed to God for a safe landing as Milo dropped the plane's wheels and slid down toward the runway.Ridiculous, how could he have developed such an aversion to flying?

After the plane landed, he saw that Rome was in ruins.The airfield had been bombed eight months earlier.On both sides of the airport entrance, you can see piles of flat-topped white rubble piled up by bulldozers, and the barbed wire fence around the airport has also been pulled down by bulldozers.All that remains of the amphitheater is the ruins, and the Arch of Constantine has collapsed.The flat of the prostitute in Nately had collapsed walls and shattered windows.The whores are gone, only the old woman is left there.She was wrapped in a sweater and skirt layer by layer on the left and right, and a dark scarf was covering her head.She folded her arms across her chest and sat on a wooden chair next to the electric stove, boiling water in a battered aluminum pot.She was talking aloud to herself when Yossarian entered.At the sight of him, she sobbed.

"Let's go," she whimpered before he could ask a question.She rocked sadly back and forth in the creaking chair as she hugged her arms. "gone." "Who's gone?" "All gone. All the poor young girls gone." "Where did you go?" "Outside. All turned out into the street. They're all gone, all the poor young girls are gone." "Who was driven away? Who did it?" "It's the tall nasty soldiers with their stiff white caps and sticks in their hands. And our gendarmes. They drive them out with sticks and don't even let them wear coats. Poor girls .They just put them all out in the cold."

"Did they arrest them?" "They drove them away, they just drove them away." "If they didn't arrest them, why did they drive them away?" "I don't know," sobbed the old woman, "I don't know. Who will take care of me? Who's going to take care of me now that all those poor young girls are gone?Who will take care of me? " "There's got to be a reason for it," Yossarian said stubbornly.He pounded hard with one fist on the palm of the other. "They can't just break in and drive everyone out." "No reason," whimpered the old woman, "no reason."

"Then what right do they have to do that?" "Catch-22." "What?" Yossarian froze in horror.He felt pain like pinpricks all over his body. "What did you say?" "Catch-22." The old woman repeated, shaking her head. "Catch-22. Catch-22 says they have the right to do anything and we can't stop them," "What the hell are you talking about?" Shouted at her, "How did you know it was Catch-22? Who the hell told you it was Catch-22?" "It was the soldiers with the stiff white hats and the sticks. The girls were crying. 'What did we do wrong?' Extrapolation. 'Then why did you kick us out?' asked the girls. 'Catch-22,' said the soldiers. They just said over and over 'Catch-22, second Catch-22. What does that mean, Catch-22? What's Catch-22?"

"Didn't they show you Catch-22?" Yossarian asked.He stomped around annoyed. "Didn't you ask them to read it?" "They didn't have to show us Catch-2+," replied the old woman. "The law says they don't have to do that." "What law says they don't have to do that?" "Catch-22." "Oh, damn it!" cried Yossarian viciously. "I'll bet it doesn't exist." He stopped and looked sullenly around the room. "Where is that old man?" "Not anymore," said the old woman sadly.

"Not here?" "Dead," said the old woman to him.She nodded terribly sadly, and waved her palm again towards her head. "Something broke in here. One minute he was alive, the next minute he was dead." "But he can't die!" Yossarian cried.He wanted to stick to his point of view, but of course he knew it was true, that it was logical, that it was factual: the old man was on the same path as most people. Yossarian turned and went out and walked ploddingly around the apartment, peeping all the rooms sullenly, pessimistically and curiously.All the glass products were smashed by the soldiers with sticks.Curtains and sheets torn into strips were thrown on the floor in a mess.

Chairs, tables and dressers were all overturned.Everything that could be smashed was smashed.The devastation was as clean as the savage Vandals could go.All the windows were broken, and cloud-like darkness poured into every room through the broken panes.Yossarian could picture the heavy, thumping footsteps of the tall military policemen in their stiff white helmets, the vicious delight with which they thrashed, the hypocrisy of them. The cold so-called sense of justice and dedication.All the poor young girls are gone.Everyone was gone except this old woman in layers of baggy brown and gray sweaters and a black scarf.She too will be gone soon.

"Going on," she said sadly before Yossarian came back, before he could speak, "who's going to take care of me now?" Yossarian ignored her question. "Nately's girlfriend—has anyone heard from her?" he asked. "Gone," "I know she's gone. Has anyone heard from her? Does anyone know where she is?" "gone." "And her little sister, how is she?" "Let's go." The old woman's voice didn't change. "Do you know what I'm talking about?" Yossarian asked sharply.He looked closely into her eyes, trying to see if she was conscious when she spoke to him.He raised his voice. "How's the little sister, the little girl?" "Go, go," replied the old woman, annoyed by his questioning, shrugging her shoulders angrily.Her low whimpers grew louder. "Kicked out with the others, into the street. They wouldn't even let her wear her coat." "Where has she been?" "I do not know I do not know." "Who's going to take care of her?" "Who's going to take care of me?" "She doesn't know anyone else, does she?" "Who's going to take care of me?" Yossarian threw some money on the old woman's lap--it was ridiculous, how much wrongdoing could be undone by leaving money--and strode out of the apartment.As he descended the stairs, he cursed Catch-22 viciously in his mind, even though he knew there was no such thing as a Catch-22.Catch-22 didn't exist, he was sure of that, but what good was that?The problem is that everyone thinks it exists, and what's worse is that it has no real content or text for people to laugh at, refute, accuse, criticize, attack, amend, hate, abuse, spit at, tear to shreds , trampled underfoot or burned to ashes. It was cold and dark outside, and the air was filled with a lifeless mist that seeped everywhere, covering the rows of houses of rough stones and the plinths of monuments.Yossarian hurried back to Milo to admit his mistake.He knowingly lied that he was sorry, and promised Milo that if Milo would use all his influence in Rome to help find out where Nately's whore's little sister was, then Colonel Cathcart told him to come back again. He flies as many missions as he likes. "She's a little virgin of twelve, Milo," he explained anxiously. "I want to find her now before it's too late." Hearing his request, Milo smiled generously. "I have a twelve-year-old virgin right here that you're looking for," he said with a broad smile. Her parents were very strict, and she never slept with a man until—” "Milo, I mean a little girl!" Yossarian interrupted impatiently. "Don't you understand? I'm not trying to sleep with her. I'm trying to help her. You have a daughter, too. She's a baby, and she's alone in this city, and she's got no one to take care of her. I'm going to Protect her from harm. Don't you understand what I'm saying?" Milo finally understood, and was deeply moved. "Yossarian, I'm proud of you," he exclaimed, excitedly. "I'm really proud of you. You don't know me when I see that you're not always preoccupied with sex." What a joy. You're a man of honor. Of course I have a daughter. I know exactly what you're talking about. We've got to find that girl. Don't worry. Come with me, even if you turn the city upside down , we want to find that girl too. Come on!" Yossarian arrived at police headquarters in Milo Minderbinder's speedy M&M command car to meet with a police commissioner.The man was dark-skinned, with two thin mustaches, and his jacket was open, looking sloppy.He was flirting with a pudgy woman with warts and a double chin when they walked into his office.Seeing Milo, he was overjoyed, bowed and bowed to Milo servilely, as if Milo was some high-ranking official. "Ah, Marquis Milo," he exclaimed enthusiastically, and without looking at him pushed the stout woman with a displeased face out the door. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? If I had known, I would have given you a great banquet. Come in, come in, Marquis, why have you not been with us for so long?" Milo knew that there was not a moment to waste. "Hello, Luigi," he said, nodding hastily, almost rudely. "Luci, I need your help. My friend is looking for a girl." "A girl, Marquis?" Luigi asked.He scratched his face with his hands and thought for a moment. "There are so many girls in Rome. It wouldn't be very difficult for an American officer to find a girl." "No, Luigi, you don't understand. A little virgin of twelve, and he must find her right away." "Oh, well, I see," Luigi said comprehendingly, "it might take a while to find a virgin. But there are a lot of young country girls at the bus terminal who come to town looking for work, and if he's in If you wait there, I—" "Luji, you still don't understand." Milo interrupted the police commissioner irritably and roughly. The latter couldn't help blushing, jumped up and stood at attention, and buttoned his uniform indiscriminately. "The little girl is a friend, an old friend of the family. We're going to help her. She's a baby. She's somewhere in the city right now, alone. We have to get her out of harm's way before she gets hurt." Find her. Do you understand now? Luigi, this matter is extremely important to me. I have a daughter as old as this little girl. Nothing in the world is more important to me right now than getting this poor child out of the way early. For something important, would you like to help?" "Yes, Marquis, now I understand," said Luigi, "I'll do what I can to find her. But I don't have anyone here tonight. All the people are busy fighting illegal tobacco tonight. It's a deal." "Illegal tobacco business?" Milo asked. "Milo," Yossarian called faintly.His heart sank, and he knew then that it was all over. "Yes, Marquis," said Luigi, "the illegal tobacco business is so profitable that the smuggling is almost impossible to control." "Is the profit of illegal tobacco trading really so high?" Milo asked with great interest.He raised his rust-coloured eyebrows greedily, and sucked air straight into his nostrils. "Milo," Yossarian called to him, "listen to me, will you?" "Yes, Marquis," replied Luigi, "the illegal tobacco trade is very profitable. The smuggling has caused a public outrage, Marquis, and it is a disgrace to the country." "Is that true?" Milo said with a ecstatic smile, striding obsessively towards the door. "Milo!" Yossarian yelled, running impulsively to stop him. "Milo, you must help me." "Illegal tobacco business," Milo explained to him with epileptic greed, shrugging him off stubbornly and walking out. "Let me go, I have to smuggle tobacco illegally." "Stay here and help me find her," Yossarian pleaded. "You can smuggle tobacco tomorrow." However, Milo didn't hear his plea at all.He rushed out in big strides, although it was not considered ferocious, but he couldn't stop it.His head was sweating profusely, his eyes gleamed, his lips twitched, and his mouth was drooling, as if he had fallen deep into some blind complex. He moaned quietly, as if in some instinctive, vague sense of pain."Illegal tobacco, illegal tobacco," he repeated over and over again, and Yossarian saw at last that there was no reason to be with him and resignedly made way for him.Milo rushed out like a fired bullet.The police commissioner unbuttoned his uniform again and looked at Yossarian contemptuously. "What are you still doing here?" he asked coldly, "Are you waiting for me to arrest you?" Yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, graveyard-like street. As he passed the hall, he passed the stout woman with warts and a double chin entering the door.There was no sign of Milo outside at all.There was no light in any of the windows.The empty sidewalk formed a steep incline that continued for several blocks.He could see, at the top of the long cobbled slope, a broad avenue brightly lit.Police headquarters was almost at the bottom of the slope, the yellow light bulbs at the entrance gnawing like wet torches in the damp night.There was a cold drizzle in the air.He walked slowly up the slope, and after a while he came to a quiet, comfortable and inviting restaurant.There were red velvet curtains on the windows of the restaurant, and a sky-blue neon sign beside the door that read: "Tony's Restaurant, Food and Wine, Do Not Enter." For a moment, the words on the sky-blue neon sign made him Slightly surprised.In this uncannily deformed world he lived in, nothing unusual ceased to seem outlandish.The tops of the buildings that lined the street were all sloped in strange, surreal proportions, so that the street itself looked sloped.He turned up the collar of his warm woolen coat and let it wrap tightly around him.The night was damp and cold.A boy in a thin shirt and thin torn trousers came out of the darkness with bare feet.He has black hair, he needs a haircut, and he needs shoes and socks.He was sickly, pale, and miserable.He walked on the wet sidewalk.The slight sucking sound of his feet in the rain puddles sounded horrible.Yossarian was so moved by the boy's horrific poverty that he sympathized with him from the bottom of his heart, and he longed to punch the boy's pale, miserable, sickly face into bloom, to punch him. He came out of the world because seeing the boy reminded him of all the pale, miserable, sickly-faced children who lived in Italy on the same night, all of them in need of haircuts and shoes and socks.The boy also reminded Yossarian of the crippled, of the men and women who were hungry and cold, of the silent, submissive, devout mothers who sat outdoors on that same night with tense eyes, careless in the cold rain. Bare breasts, breastfeeding babies from frozen animal breasts.cows.Just at this time, a nursing mother walked slowly with a baby wrapped in black rags.Yossarian would have liked to have punched her all over his face, too, for she reminded him of the boy in the thin shirt and thin trousers and all the chilling, jaw-dropping misery in the world.In this world, except for a handful of despicable and shameless people who are good at power and politics, all other people are not given enough food and fair treatment.What an abominable world this is!He wondered, even in his own prosperous country, how many people were starved of food, how many houses had airy walls, how many husbands were drunk, how many wives were beaten, how many Children are bullied, abused, and abandoned.How many families are starving and unable to afford food?How many are heartbroken?On that same night, how many suicides and how many people lost their minds?How many profiteers and shopkeepers are ecstatic?How many winners became losers, how many winners became losers, how many rich became poor?How many smart people are actually downright stupid?How many happy endings are actually full of unhappiness?How many honest men are really liars, how many brave men are cowards, how many loyal men are traitors, how many saints are immoral, how many men in positions of power sold their souls to the devil for a few pennies?And how many have no soul at all?How many straight narrow paths are actually crooked?How many of the best families are really the worst, and how many good people are really bad?If you add them all up and subtract them from the total, you're left with maybe the kids, or an Albert Einstein, plus somewhere An old fiddler or sculptor.Yossarian walked alone, in great pain.He felt as if he were cut off from the world.He couldn't stop thinking about the sick-faced, barefoot boy.It wasn't until he turned the corner onto the avenue that he finally got the hideous image of the boy out of his mind.On the avenue, he came across a Confederate soldier lying on the ground convulsing.It was a young lieutenant with a small, pale, boyish face.Six soldiers from different countries pressed down on different parts of his body, trying to calm him down.He gritted his teeth, yelled and moaned incoherently, and kept rolling his eyes. "Don't let him bite his tongue off," a short sergeant next to Yossarian advised wisely.Another soldier immediately rushed forward to join the melee, and he pressed hard on the lieutenant's convulsed face.Suddenly, this group of people achieved their goal, and the lieutenant who was firmly pressed down by them froze all of a sudden.But they lost their minds instead, you look at me, I look at you, no one knows what to do with him.Their savage faces were all tensed, and they all showed a look of demented panic. "Why don't you lift him up and put him on the hood of that car?" drawled a corporal standing behind Yossarian.This seemed to make sense, so the seven soldiers lifted the young lieutenant, and while still holding down his twitching parts, carefully laid him flat on the hood of a nearby parked car.But with him on the hood, they looked at each other nervously again, wondering what to do with him next. "Why don't you take him off the hood of that car and put him on the ground?" the corporal behind Yossarian drew back.That seemed like a good idea, too, so they started lifting him back onto the sidewalk.Before they could put him in place, a jeep with red spotlights flashed by.In the front seat of the jeep were two gendarmes. "What happened?" the driver called. "He's having a convulsion," replied a soldier who was holding the young lieutenant's leg. "We're trying to calm him down." "Very well. He's under arrest." "What should we do with him?" "Arrest him!" cried the gendarme.He laughed hoarsely at the joke he had made, bent over it, and drove away in the jeep. Only then did Yossarian realize that he did not have a leave certificate, and he cautiously walked past the group of strangers, toward the place ahead where low voices came from the dark night. Every half a block along the wide, rain-soaked boulevards, low, curving street lamps flickered eerily through the brown smoke.From the window above his head he heard an unfortunate woman pleading, "Please don't, please don't." A dejected young woman in a black raincoat, with strands of dark hair hanging down her face, walked away with drooping eyelids past.Outside the doors of the Ministry of Public Affairs on the next block, a drunken young soldier backed a drunken girl onto a fluted Corinthian column while his three drunken companions held drinks between their legs. Bottle, sitting on a nearby step watching the two of them. "Please don't," begged the drunken girl, "I'm going home now, please don't." Yossarian turned to look at them as one of the seated soldiers cursed defiantly and grabbed a bottle of wine. The bottle was thrown at Yossarian.The wine bottle didn't hurt him, but fell into the distance and shattered with a muffled sound.Yossarian walked away listlessly with his hands in his pockets. "Come on, baby," he heard the drunken soldier urging resolutely, "it's my turn now." "Please no," pleaded the drunken girl, "please no." At the next bend, From the depths of a narrow, crooked street, and out of the dark, dark shadows, came the mysterious, distinct sound of snow shoveling.The rhythmic, creepy slow sound of the shovel scraping against the concrete gave him goosebumps as he walked down the sidewalk and through the mouth of the sinister alley.He hurried forward until the tormenting cacophony was far behind.He knew where he was now, and if he kept going he would soon reach the dry fountain in the middle of the boulevard, and seven blocks further on, the officers' apartments.Suddenly he heard the howling of animals from the eerie darkness ahead.The street lights at the corner had been extinguished, and the entire half of the street was shrouded in darkness, everything looked blurry and crooked.On the other side of the crossroads a man is beating a dog with a stick, just as the man in Raskolnikov's dream was beating the horse with a whip.Yossarian tried hard to be neither able nor listen, but could not.The dog was tied by an old white and brown rope. It wailed and screamed hoarsely and terrified. Hit it with a stick.A small crowd is watching.A pudgy woman came up and begged for his hand. "Mind your own business," cried the man stiffly, raising his stick as if to beat her with it.The woman was ashamed, and retreated timidly and wretchedly.Yossarian picked up his pace and almost ran away.The night was full of horrors of every kind.He thought to himself that if Jesus walked around the world after he came, he would feel exactly the same way a psychiatrist would feel when he walked through a mental ward full of madmen, or a burglar who walked through a cell full of thieves.Even if a leper appeared at this time, no one would think he was ugly!Around the next corner, a man was savagely beating a young boy, while a group of adults watched apathetically, and no one intervened.A sense of déjà vu sickened Yossarian, and he backed away hastily.He was sure he had witnessed something similar to this horror sometime before.Is it a memory illusion?This ominous coincidence shocked him and filled him with doubt and panic.The scene was very similar to what he had seen on the previous block, although the specific characters in it seemed quite different.What is going on in this world?Will a pudgy woman stand up and beg the man to stop?Would the man raise his hand and hit her to scare her away?No one moved.The boy kept crying, as if immersed in pain.The man slapped him loudly and hard on the head again and again, knocking him to the ground, then grabbed him violently, and knocked him down again.No one in the sullen, shrunken onlookers seemed to care about the beating-dizzy boy, and no one was willing to stand up and stop him.The boy was at most nine years old.A sallow-faced woman was crying while holding a dirty dishcloth.The boy was skinny, he needed a haircut, and blood was gushing from both his ears.Yossarian hurried across the wide avenue to the other side, far away from the sickening scene, only to find some human teeth under his feet.On the glistening rain-washed pavement, these teeth are scattered around pools of ethereal, bloody spattering raindrops like pointy fingernails you poke at me and I point at you .The floor was littered with fragments of molars and incisors.He tiptoed around the eerie ruins and came to a door.Inside the doorway a soldier was weeping with a wet handkerchief over his mouth.He stood staggeringly, with two soldiers beside him supporting him.They waited solemnly and anxiously for the military ambulance.But when it finally came over with flashing amber fog lights, it didn't stop in front of them, but kept going a block ahead.There, an Italian civilian with a few books clashed with a group of plainclothes policemen with handcuffs and batons.The screaming, struggling civilian was originally a dark-skinned man, but now his face was white with fear.His eyes fluttered nervously and desperately like a bat's wings as many tall policemen grabbed him by the limbs and lifted him up.His book was withdrawn all over the place. "Help!" he screamed as officers carried him to the open back door of the ambulance and dumped him in the car.His throat choked with excitement. "Police! Help! Police!" The car door was closed and tied, and the ambulance sped away, and it was a humorless irony that he should absurdly shout for help when the police surrounded him.Yossarian smiled wryly at the futility and absurdity of this cry for help.Then, he suddenly realized that the cry for help had more than one meaning.He realized with horror that this might not be a cry for help to the police, but a warning bravely raised from the grave by a dying friend.He was calling out to those other than the policemen with batons and pistols, and some other policemen with batons and pistols, to come and support him. "Help! Police!" the man yelled, probably loudly warning others of the danger.Thinking of this, Yossarian tiptoed away from the policeman and nearly tripped over the foot of a stout woman of forty.As the woman crossed the intersection in a panic, she glanced furtively and maliciously back at an eighty-year-old woman who was following her.The old woman had thick bandages wrapped around her ankles, and she was chasing after her, but she couldn't catch up. The old woman staggered forward, gasping for breath, upset, Anxiously talking to himself.The nature of the scene is unmistakable: it is a chase.The woman in front has managed to cross half of the wide avenue, while the old woman in the back has not yet stepped off the sidewalk.When the woman turned her head to look at the struggling old woman behind her, she showed a malicious, mean, and gloating smile, vicious but full of suspicion.Yossarian knew that if the beleaguered old woman cried out, he would step up to her aid.He knew that if she let out a single scream of pain calling for his help, he would pounce on the burly woman ahead and hand her over to the gang of police officers nearby.但是，那老妇人悲伤而苦恼地嘟囔着，甚至看也没看他就走了过去。不一会，前面的那个女人消失在越来越深的黑暗之中，撇下那老妇人一个人孤零零地、茫然不知所措地站在大路中间，拿不准该走哪条路。约塞连因为自己没能给她任何帮助，羞愧得不敢多看她一眼，急匆匆转身离开了。他一边垂头丧气地逃走，一边鬼鬼祟祟、心慌意乱地回头看，唯恐那老妇人现在会跟着他走。他暗自感谢飘洒着毛毛细雨、没有光亮、几乎伸手不见五指的漆黑夜幕，因为它正好把他给遮掩了起来。一帮帮……一帮帮警察——除了英国，别处全都在一帮帮、一帮帮、一帮帮的暴徒掌握之中。到处都在一帮帮手持警棍的暴徒控制之下。 约塞连外套的领子和肩膀全都淋透了。他的袜子潮湿冰冷。前面的一盏路灯也灭了，玻璃灯泡给打碎了。建筑物和面容模糊的人影无声无息地从他身旁一一闪过，好像是浮在某种恶臭扑鼻、永无尽头的浪潮之上一去不复返地漂走了。一个高个子僧侣走了过去，他的脸被一块粗糙的灰色蒙头斗篷包得严严实实，甚至连眼睛都藏在里面。前面传来脚踩在泥水里走路发出的扑哧扑哧的声响，他真怕这又是一个赤脚的男孩。他与一个瘦削枯槁、表情忧郁的男人擦肩而过。那人穿着件雨衣，面颊上有一个星状的伤疤，一侧的太阳穴上有一块凹陷的、表面光滑的残缺处，足有鸡蛋般大小。一个年轻女人穿着咯吱作响的草鞋突然出现了。她的整张脸丑陋不堪，一大片烧伤留下的粉红花斑伤痕刚刚脱痴，皱皱巴巴地从脖颈向上伸展，经过双颊，一直延伸到眼睛上面，真是可怕极了！约塞连吓得浑身哆嗦，不敢抬头多看一眼。不会有人爱上这个女人的。他感到懊丧。他渴望跟某个他会爱上的姑娘睡觉，那姑娘会抚慰他，使他兴奋，然后把他哄睡着。一帮手持警棍的家伙正在皮亚诺萨岛上等着他。所有的姑娘都走了。伯爵夫人和她的儿媳已经失去了魅力；他已经老了，没有兴趣玩乐了，也没有时间玩乐了。露西安娜走了，也许死了；即使没死，大概也快了。阿费的那个丰满的浪荡女人连同她那枚下流的浮雕宝石戒指一起消失了。达克特护士嫌他丢人，因为他拒绝执行更多的战斗飞行任务，会引起公愤。这附近他认识的姑娘就只剩下军官公寓里的那个相貌平平的女佣，没有一个男人曾经跟她睡过觉。她的名字叫米恰拉，但男人们给她起了不少下流的绰号。当他们用悦耳的讨好声调叫她的这些绰号时，她高兴得格格傻笑，因为她不懂英语，还以为他们是在奉承她，是在善意地和她开玩笑呢。每当她看到他们胡作非为时，她的内心便充满了喜悦。她是个快活、纯朴、手脚勤快的姑娘。她不识字，只能勉强写下自己的名字。她的头发直直的，看上去就像因受潮而腐烂的麦秆。她的皮肤灰黄，眼睛近视，从来没有男人跟她睡过觉，因为他们谁也不想跟她睡觉，只有阿费例外。就在这同一个晚上，阿费强奸了她，然后用手捂住她的嘴，把她按在衣橱里关了将近两个小时，直到响起宵禁的汽笛才住手。此时她若是到外面去便是违法的了。 然后，他把她从窗户里扔了出去。约塞连赶到时，她的尸体仍然躺在人行道上，四周围了一圈板着面孔、手举暗淡提灯的邻居。 约塞连彬彬有礼地往圈里挤，邻居们一面给他让出一条路，一面目光狠毒地盯着他。他们怨愤地指着二楼的窗户，严厉地轻声指责着。看到那具摔得血肉模糊的尸体，那种可怜的、血淋淋的惨景，约塞连吓得浑身战栗，心扑通扑通直跳。他闪身钻进门厅，冲上楼梯、进了公寓房间，看到阿费正心绪不宁地来回踱着步，脸上带着一种外强中干、略显不自在的笑容。阿费心不在焉地玩弄着自己的烟斗，看上去有点心烦意乱。不过，他向约塞连保证说，一切全都正常，没有什么可担心的。 “我只强奸了她一次，”他辩解道。 Yossarian was startled. “可你杀了她，阿费！你杀了她！” “唉，强奸了她之后，我不得不这么干，”阿费态度极为傲慢地回答道，“我不能让她到处去讲我们的坏活，对吧？” “可你干吗要去碰她呢，你这个愚蠢的杂种？”约塞连叫道，“你要是需要姑娘，难道不能到大街上去找一个来吗？这座城市里到处是妓女。” “哦，不，我不能，”阿费吹嘘道，“我一辈子没有花钱干过这种事。” “阿费，你疯了吗？”约塞连几乎说不出话来了。“你杀了一个女人。他们会把你关进监狱的！” “噢，不，”阿费强挤出一个笑容回答道，“不会把我关起来的。 他们不会把好心的老阿费关进监狱的。不会因为杀了她就把我关起来的。 " “可你把她从窗户扔了出去。她的尸体还在街上躺着呢。” “她没有权利躺在那儿，”阿费回答道，“已经过了宵禁时间了。” “笨蛋！你难道不知道你干了什么事吗？”约塞连真想抓住阿费那毛毛虫般柔软的肥实肩膀使劲摇晃几下，好叫他清醒清醒。“你谋杀了一个人。他们就要把你关进监狱了。他们甚至可能会绞死你的！” “噢，我可不认为他们会这么做，”阿费回答道。他开心地抿嘴笑了笑，不过看得出来，他越来越紧张了。他用粗短的手指笨拙地摆弄着烟斗，无意识地把烟丝全部抖落出来了。“不，长官。他们不会绞死好心的老阿费的。”他又格格地笑了起来。“她不过是个女佣人。我可不认为他们会因为一个下贱的意大利女佣人的死而大惊小怪的。现在每天都要死掉成千上万的人呢。你说呢？” “你听！”约塞连几乎是高兴地叫了起来。他竖起耳朵听远处哀鸣般的警笛声。是警车的警笛声。然后，几乎在刹那之间，警笛声越来越响，变成一种嘈杂刺耳、气势汹汹的曝叫。这曝叫盖过其它一切声音，似乎从四面八方撞入室内，把他们团团围住。约塞连看到，阿费的脸上没有一点血色。“阿费，他们是来抓你的。”为了能让阿费在一片警笛声中听见，他可着嗓子叫喊。他的心底涌起一阵同情。“他们是来逮捕你的，阿费，你难道不懂吗？你不能害死另一个人而逍遥法外，即便她是个下贱的女佣人也不行。你难道不明白吗？你不懂吗？” “噢，不，”阿费说。他勉强挤出一丝笑容，干巴巴地哈哈一笑。 “他们不是来逮捕我的。不会逮捕好心的老阿费的。” 突然间，他面呈病容，瘫坐在椅子上。他表情呆滞，浑身哆嗦，两只又粗又短、肌肉松弛的手在膝盖上抖个不停。汽车在门外刹住了，聚光灯随即射向窗口，车门砰地关上，警笛尖叫起来。有人刺耳地大声喊叫着。阿费吓得脸色发青。他机械地摇着脑袋，脸上浮现出一种古怪而生硬的微笑，声音微弱而空洞地一遍遍重复着，他们不是来抓他的，不是来抓好心的老阿费的，不，长官。甚至当有人脚步沉重地冲上楼梯，跑过楼梯平台时，甚至当有人使足劲在门上用拳头猛捶了四下，差点把他们的耳朵震聋时，他仍然在努力使自己相信，这些人不是来抓他的。随后，公寓房间的门被猛地推开，两个粗野强壮的大块头宪兵冲进房间。他们的目光冷冰冰的，肌肉发达的下巴绷得紧紧的，显得十分严厉。他们大踏步穿过房间，逮捕了约塞连。 他们是因为约塞连未持有通行证便呆在罗马而逮捕他的。 他们因擅自闯入而向阿费道歉，随后便一边一个夹住约塞连，把铁铐般的手指伸到他的腋下牢牢掐住，将他带了出去。下楼梯时，他们一句话也没有说。外面车门紧闭的汽车旁边，还有两个身材高大、戴着硬邦邦的白色钢盔的宪兵正在等着他们。他们把约塞连推到汽车后座上，汽车立刻轰呜着穿过雨雾朝警察所开去。宪兵们把他锁在一间四面都是石头墙壁的牢房里关了一夜。到了黎明时分，他们递给他一只桶解小便，接着便开车把他押送到飞机场。 在那儿的一架运输机旁边，另外有两个手持警棍、头戴白色钢盔的膀大腰圆的宪兵正在等着他们。他们到达时，飞机的引擎已经发动起来了，绿色的圆柱形整流罩表面上，渗出的水汽凝聚而成的小水珠微微颤动着。那些宪兵互相之间也不说一句话，甚至连头也不点一下。约塞连从来没有看见过这么冷冰冰的面孔。飞机直接飞往皮亚诺萨岛。在简易跑道上，还有两个沉默不语的宪兵正在等着他们。现在，一共有八个宪兵了。他们准确地遵行着无声的命令，列队分别进入两辆汽车。汽车轰呜着奔驰而去。他们穿过四个中队的驻地，来到大队司令部的大楼前面。在那儿的停车场上，另外有两个宪兵正在等着他们。这样，当他们转弯走向大楼人口时，一共有十个高大强壮、意志坚强、沉默不语的宪兵严严实实地簇拥着他。他们在煤渣路上迈着整齐的步伐，脚下发出嘎吱嘎吱的声响。 约塞连觉得，他们似乎走得越来越炔。他惊恐不安起来。这十个宪兵中的任何一个看上去都力大无比，一拳就可以把他打死。他们只需把他们宽阔的、强健的、巨石般的肩膀朝他身上猛劲挤压过去，即刻就能叫他断气。他没有任何救自己性命的办法。当他们紧紧排成两行，把他夹在中间快步往前走时，他甚至弄不清楚是哪两个宪兵把手伸到他的腋下牢牢掐住的。他们的脚步越来越快。当他们果断而有节奏地疾步走上宽阔的大理石楼梯，来到上面的楼梯平台时，约塞连觉得自己好像是脚离了地在飞似的。在楼梯平台处，另外有两个表情冷酷、令人难以捉摸的宪兵正在等着他们。这两个宪兵领着他们以更快的速度沿着长长的、悬在宽阔门厅上方的楼厅往前走。在暗色的瓷砖地面上，他们的脚步轰然作响，犹如一阵令人肃然起敬的、节奏越来越快的鼓声回荡在空荡荡的大楼中央。当他们走向卡思卡特上校的办公室时，他们前进的速度更快，步伐更整齐了。他们把他推进办公室时，约塞连以为自己这回死定了，吓得两只耳朵里嗡嗡直响。在卡思卡特上校办公桌的一角，科恩中校正舒舒服服地仰坐着。他和蔼可亲地笑着朝约塞连打了个招呼，然后说道： “我们要送你回国啦。”