Chapter 16 16. Harold, the surgeon and the famous actor

Harold didn't want to stay in Bath for too long, Exeter had shown him that the city would wear down his willpower to move towards his goal.He wanted to resole the shoes, but the cobbler had something to do at home, so he would open at noon.While waiting, Harold chose another present for Queenie and Maureen.The scorching sun was like a thick steel plate pressing down on the courtyard of the monastery church, making people's eyes hurt, so he had to cover it with his hands. "Would you please line up?" Harold turned his head and saw some foreign tourists, all wearing canvas sun hats, coming here to visit the city of Bath with a Roman atmosphere.The tour guide is an English girl who should have just turned twenty years old, with a delicate face and a trembling voice of the lower class.Harold was about to explain that she wasn't part of a tour group when she confessed to him that it was her first time leading a tour group. "They didn't seem to understand what I was saying." Her voice sounded like Maureen's when she was young. Uncannily similar, Harold couldn't move his feet.The girl's lips trembled, as if she was about to cry at any moment, and Harold would be in trouble.He leaned back as much as possible, trying to walk into another group of tourists who were about to finish their tour, but every time he was about to succeed, he couldn't help but think of his wife in a blue coat when he was young, and he couldn't bear to let this young man down.Two hours later, after the tour guide finished, Harold bought some postcards and mosaic key rings in the gift shop, both of which were shared by Maureen and Queenie.He told the female guide that she explained the part about the holy hot springs very well, and that the Romans were really smart.

The young tour guide moved his nose, as if smelling something unpleasant, and asked him if he was interested in going to the nearby Bath public baths, where not only can you enjoy the beautiful scenery of the whole city, but you can also enjoy first-class bathing services. Terrified, Harold almost ran away.He had showered and washed his clothes with great care, but the collar of his shirt was still ripped and there was dirt under his fingernails.He bought tickets and rented towels only to realize that he didn't have swimming trunks, so he had to leave and find the nearest sports store, which turned out to be the most expensive day he had ever been out.The shopping guide brought him a pile of bathing suits and goggles, Harold explained to her that he was a hiker, not a swimmer, and she tried to sell him Compass waterproof covers and a series of special sweatpants.

When leaving the sports shop, the sidewalk was packed with people.Harold was pushed against a bronze Victorian statue in a top hat. "We're waiting for the superstar," a woman next to him explained, flushed from the heat, "and he's signing a book. If he could just look at me, I think I'd pass out." It was difficult to even see the superstar, let alone meet his eyes.He doesn't look tall, surrounded by a wall of bookstore workers in black uniforms.The crowd screamed and applauded, and the photographers tried to raise their cameras and flash their lights.Harold thought, what does it feel like to live to such an achievement?

The woman next to her goes on to say that her dog, also named after the superstar, is a spaniel.She wished she could tell him that later.She had read everything about him in magazines and knew him like a friend.Harold leaned against the bronze statue to try to get a better look, but the bronze statue poked him hard in the ribs and told him hoarsely to get away.The pale sky was bright, and Harold's neck was suddenly sweating, his armpits were wet, and his shirt was sticking to him. When Harold returned to the bathing place, there were already a group of young women playing in the water. He didn't want to disturb them, so he took a quick steam and left.At the pump room, Harold asked if he could bring a copy of holy water, said to be good for health, to a very good friend in Berwickshire, and the staff filled him with a bottle and overcharged him for losing his ticket A fee of five pounds.It was already afternoon, and it was time for Harold to hit the road.

In the bathroom, Harold suddenly found that the actor who was signing the new book was standing beside him. He was wearing a leather jacket, leather pants, and a pair of stiletto cowboy boots.He stared at his reflection in the mirror, pulling the skin on his face taut, as if checking for something missing.From up close his hair is very dark.Not wanting to disturb the actor, Harold dried his hands and pretended to be thinking of something else. "Don't tell me you have a dog named after me," the actor said, staring at Harold suddenly. "I'm not in the mood today."

Harold replied that he didn't have a dog, and that he was bitten many times by a Pekingese named Qing Ke when he was a child.Maybe such a name is not so appropriate in terms of political stance, but the aunt who raises a dog never troubles herself because of other people's feelings. "Then my son wanted a puppy and I was still too scared to say no. I regret it now. I've been hiking lately and I've seen some really nice puppies." The actor turned his head and continued to focus on his reflection in the mirror, and then complained about naming the puppy, as if Harold hadn't mentioned his son at all. "People come to me every day and tell me what kind of dog they have, and now they just give the dog my name, as if I should be happy. These people don't understand anything."

Harold agreed with his mouth, but he felt in his heart that it really valued his performance.For example, he couldn't think of anyone calling his dog Harold. "It took me years and years of really hard work, a full season in Pitlochry, but the last period drama became famous and everyone in the country thought it was creative to name their dog my name. You Did you come to Bath to buy my book?" Harold admitted otherwise.He described Queenie's situation in the simplest terms, and he didn't think it necessary to mention how the nurses in the nursing home would applaud when they saw him arrive.The actor seemed to be listening, and then asked Harold again if his book was ready, as if Harold wanted him to sign it.

Harold agreed, thinking it might be a good gift too, as Queenie had always loved reading.He was about to ask the actor if he would mind waiting for him to hurry and buy a copy when the actor spoke again. "Forget it, it's all rubbish, I didn't write a word in it, I didn't even read it. I'm just a junkie who sleeps around with women. Last week I gave a woman oral sex and went down to find out she had That guy. They don't put that stuff in books." "Indeed." Harold looked towards the door. "All the talk shows come to me, all the magazines want to interview me, everyone thinks I'm a nice guy, but they don't know anything. I'm like two people. Now you're probably going to tell me you're a reporter Alright." He chuckled, but his gestures reminded him of David's recklessness and indifference.

"I'm not a reporter, I'm not made to be a reporter." "Tell me again, why are you walking to Bradford?" Harold whispered a few words about Berwickshire, compensation, etc. But he was still flustered by the star's sudden confession, and he tried hard not to show it. "How do you know this woman is still waiting for you? Do you have a message from her?" "Message?" Harold repeated when he heard it.This is actually procrastinating. "Did she tell you that she wants you to do this?" Harold opened his mouth, tried several times, but couldn't speak. "What did you say?" the actor asked again.Harold touched the tie on his chest with his fingertips: "I sent her a postcard, I know she is waiting for me." Harold laughed, and the actor laughed too.He hoped the actor was convinced, because he really didn't know how else to express it.For a while, the actor seemed to agree, but suddenly his honey-colored face became gloomy, as if he had eaten something that tasted wrong: "If I were you, I would find a car quickly."

"What?" "What a fool on foot." Harold's voice trembled. "The walk was the key so she survived. John Lennon was bedridden and my son had a poster of him on his wall." "John Lennon and Yoko Ono and the media coverage of the world. Who do you have? You have yourself, bit by bit, moving to Berwickshire. What if she doesn't hear from you? Maybe they don't at all I just forgot to tell her." The actor frowned and lowered the corners of his mouth, as if trying to figure out the meaning of this wrong decision, "I lent you the car and my driver. You should be there tonight."

The bathroom door was opened and a man in shorts walked to the toilet.Harold waited patiently for him to finish.He wants the actor to understand that ordinary people can try extraordinary things, which cannot be explained logically.But all he could think about was a car bound for Berwick.The actor was right, Harold had left a message, sent a postcard, but no one could be sure she actually believed him to be serious, or even that she had actually received the message.He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. "I didn't spoil your fun, did I?" said the actor.His voice suddenly softened, "I told you I was an asshole." Harold shook his head but didn't look up, hoping the man in shorts didn't hear. The man walked between Harold and the actor to wash his hands, and suddenly started laughing, as if remembering a very personal incident: "I must tell you, my wife named our dog after you." Harold turned and walked down the street. There is a thick layer of white clouds in the sky, pressing down on the entire city, as if it wants to squeeze out the vitality of the city.Bars and cafes were placed on the road, and people drinking and shopping only wore vests, and their skin was dark red after not seeing the sun for months.Harold put his coat on his arm, still kept raising his hand, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.The catkin seeds hang in the air like flying insects.Harold went to the cobbler's, but the door still didn't open.The shoulder straps of his backpack were soaked with sweat, and he didn't know what to do next. Maybe go to a monastery for a while.He wanted it to be cooler and enlighten him, but there was a music rehearsal and it was closed to tourists.Harold sat down in a small shadow and glanced at the bronze statue, until a child suddenly cried out, and the bronze statue waved her suddenly, and handed her a candy.Harold came to a small tea shop and found that he could afford a small pot of tea here. The waitress frowned and said, "We don't serve drinks in the afternoon, you can only order Regency Bath milk tea." But Harold had already sat down, so he had to order a glass of Regency Bath milk tea. The tables here are so crowded that you can almost see the steam rising from it.The customers in the store sat with their legs stretched out, fanning the wind with the over-plastic menu in the store.When the drink was served, Harold saw a small spoonful of clotted cream nestled in a puddle of fat."Enjoy slowly," said the waitress. Harold asked her if she knew the shortest way to Stroud, and she shrugged. "May I ask you to share a table with other customers?" She finished speaking in a declarative tone, and then greeted a man standing at the door, signaling him to sit opposite Harold.The man sat down apologetically and pulled out a book.His face was clean-shaven, his hair was cropped short, and the collar of his white shirt was open, revealing a perfect V-shape of brown skin.He troubled Harold to pass the candy, and asked him if he liked Bath.He said he was American and his girlfriend was having a Jane Austen experience here.Harold wasn't quite sure what it was, but he hoped it wouldn't involve the star.There was silence, and Harold was relieved that he didn't need another chance meeting in Exeter.Putting aside his consideration for others, he very much wishes to have a wall around him to separate him at this moment. Harold drank the milk tea but couldn't eat the plate of scones. He felt dull and bored, just like the years after Queenie left the brewery.He's just a emptiness in a suit, sometimes talking, sometimes hearing the people around him talking, getting in and out of the car every day, coming home from work, but not really communicating with anyone else.The manager who took over after Nabil's departure said Harold should move to behind-the-scenes work until retirement, such as organizing paperwork.What an odd suggestion.So Harold got a special desk, a computer, and a badge with his name on it, but no one ever approached him.He covered the scones with a napkin and accidentally met the man's gaze. "It's too hot to eat," said the man.Harold immediately regretted it after agreeing.Now the man opposite seemed to want to continue the conversation. "Bass looks fine," he said, closing the book. "Are you on vacation?" Harold reluctantly explained the story, passing where he could be succinct.He didn't mention the girl at the gas station and her faith in saving his aunt, but he did mention that he had traveled to the Lake District after his son left Cambridge, though he wasn't sure how far he had traveled.He didn't move for weeks after he got home that time. "Will your son join you?" the man asked.Harold said no, and asked what Americans did for a living. "I'm a surgeon." "I met a Slovakian woman who was also a doctor, but she could only find work here as a cleaner. What kind of doctor are you?" "Oncology." Harold felt the blood in his body speed up, as if he accidentally started running wildly. "My God," he said, and it was obvious neither of them knew what to do next. "My God!" The doctor shrugged and smiled apologetically, as if wishing he had done something else.Harold looked around for the waiter, but she was busy getting water for a customer.Harold, dazed from the heat, wiped his forehead with his hand. The oncologist said, "Do you know what kind of cancer your friend has?" "I'm not sure, she wrote that there was nothing more she could do, that's all." Harold felt completely exposed to the doctor's Under his scrutiny, it was as if a doctor was probing his skin inch by inch with a scalpel.He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.Why doesn't the waiter hurry up? "Is it lung cancer?" "I really don't know." "Can I see that letter?" Harold didn't want to show him, but he already held out his hand.Harold reached into his trouser pocket to find the envelope, adjusted the tape on the reading glasses, but his face was too wet, so he had to fix the reading glasses with his hand, wiped the table with his sleeve with the other hand, and then wiped it again with a handkerchief. After one pass, the pink letter paper was opened and smoothed.Time seemed to have stood still. When the surgeon reached out and gently moved the letter over, Harold's fingers were still lingering on it. While the doctor read the letter, Harold read Queenie's words again.He felt he had to protect the letter, and he could do that by keeping it out of his sight.His eyes fell on the postscript: "There is no need to reply." Behind it was a crooked stroke, as if someone was writing with his left hand and accidentally drew it. The doctor leaned back in his chair and sighed: "What a touching letter." Harold nodded.He put the reading glasses back in his shirt pocket and dried his face. "And it's so neat," he said. "Queenie is always so meticulous. You should see her desk." Then he smiled.everything will get better. The oncologist said, "But I thought the nurse was doing it for her." "What?" Harold's heart stopped. "It's impossible for her to still have the strength to sit at the desk and type. People in the nursing home should have typed for her. But she can still write the address clearly, which is already very good. It can be seen that she really worked hard." Doctor There was a smile, obviously comforting, and the smile was firmly fixed on the doctor's face, as if it had been forgotten there or misplaced. Harold took the envelope back.The truth fell to the bottom of his heart like a heavy stone, and everything around him seemed to disappear.No longer sure whether he felt hot or cold, he fumbled to get out his reading glasses again and finally saw what was wrong.How could it not have been discovered?The childish, crooked, comically staggered handwriting, like the scrawled curve at the bottom of the letter paper, is a clumsy signature. It's Queenie's handwriting.It has come to this point.Harold tried to put the letter back into the envelope, but his hand trembled so much that it jammed halfway through. He had to pull out the letter and stuff it again.After a long time, the oncologist asked, "Harold, how much do you know about cancer?" Harold yawned and forced back the emotion on his face.Gently and slowly, the doctor explained the cause and process of tumor formation to him, without rushing or hesitating.He explained how some cells divide uncontrollably, forming abnormal malignant tissue.There are as many as two hundred types of cancer in the world, each with different causes and symptoms. He described the difference between stage one cancer and stage two cancer, and why different tumors require different treatments.He explained that even if a new tumor spreads to other parts, it will still be exactly the same as the original tumor. For example, breast cancer cells that spread to the liver will not look like liver cancer cells, but will be stage II breast cancer cells that grow in the liver.Once it spreads to other organs, the condition can get worse.Once cancer cells start to spread, treatment becomes more difficult.For example, if the cancer had spread to her lymphatic system, the end would not be far off, although the affected immune system might collapse more quickly from a minor infection. "Even a cold," he said. Harold listened without moving. "I'm not saying there's no cure for cancer. If surgery fails, there are other treatments. As a doctor, I would never tell a patient that there's no cure unless I'm 100 percent sure. Harold, you You have a wife and son at home, and if I may, I'd say you look very tired. Is this trip really necessary?" Harold, who had nothing to say, stood up.He picked up his coat, but one of the sleeves was out of alignment, and he managed to put it on with the help of the doctor. "Good luck," he held out his hand, "please let me check out, it's all I can do." For the rest of the day, Harold paced the streets, not knowing where he was going.He needs someone to share his belief, to make him believe it too, but he doesn't seem to have the energy to even speak.He finally got the soles replaced and bought a new box of tape to use with Stroud.He stopped for a coffee to go and briefly mentioned Tiberic, but didn't say how or why he planned to go.No one told him what he wanted to hear, no one said it to him, and everyone would applaud because, Harold, it was the best idea we'd ever heard.You must persist.Harold tried to talk to Maureen, but worried about taking her time.He felt like he was uttering the simplest words wrong, asking the same platitudes he asked every day, so the conversations only brought him more pain.He told her he was doing a good job, and took the courage to imply that some people on the road had expressed their doubts, hoping that Maureen would laugh and say that those doubts should be ignored.But all she said was, "Yes, I understand." "I don't even know if she's—" The words came by themselves again. "Is she—what?" "Still waiting." "I thought you knew?" "I'm not sure." "Have you ever stopped at any other Slovak lady's house?" "I met a surgeon, and a very famous actor." "My God," Maureen said with a smile, "I'm going to tell Lake about this." Si.” A bald, pudgy man in a flowered skirt hobbled past the phone booth, and people on the street slowed down, pointing at him and snickering.The hem of the skirt hung over his protruding belly, and he had a large bruise around his eye from a recent beating.Harold wished he hadn't seen him, but if he did, there would inevitably be a time when he couldn't get him out of his mind, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. "Are you sure you're all right?" Maureen said. There was another silence, and he was suddenly afraid that he was going to cry, so he hurriedly told Maureen that there were people waiting on the phone and that he was leaving.There was a red glow in the western sky, and the sun began to slant westward. "Bye bye then," Maureen said. For a long time, he sat on a pew close to the monastery, trying to figure out where to go next.Harold felt as if he had taken off his coat, his shirt, his skin, his muscles, even the most ordinary things weighed him down.The creaking sound of a clerk pulling the awning up was etched in Harold's head.He looked at the empty street, he didn't know anyone, he couldn't go anywhere, but suddenly he saw David, at the other end of the road. Harold stood up, breathing so fast that he could feel the gas moving in and out of his mouth.It couldn't be his son, he couldn't be in Bath.But looking at the hunched figure striding forward, the black coat on his body was blown up by the wind and opened like wings, with a cigarette in his mouth, Harold knew that it was David, and they were going to meet.His body shook so badly that he had to reach out and hold on to the bench. Even from this distance, Harold could see that David had grown his hair long again.Maureen would be glad to see it, she cried so badly the day David shaved his head.His gait was still shaky, with long strides, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his head lowered as if to avoid people in his path.Harold yelled, "David! Davy!" The distance between them could not have been more than fifty feet. His son wobbled in surprise, as if tripping or losing his balance.Maybe he was drunk, but it didn't matter, Harold would buy him a coffee, or whatever he liked.They can have a meal or not.They can do whatever his son wants. "David!" he yelled as he began to walk slowly towards him.Step by step, gently, show yourself without any malice.After a few more steps, he stopped. He thought of David who came back from the Lake District, skinny, with his head propped on his neck looking for balance, his whole body rejecting the outside world, his only interest was to slowly consume himself. "David!" he called again, louder this time, trying to get him to look up.He saw his son's gaze, and there was no smile in it.David stared blankly at his father, as if he wasn't there, or that he was just part of the street, with no sign of recognition at all.Harold's stomach began to churn, and he prayed that he would not collapse.It wasn't David, it was someone else, the son of another man.For a while, he convinced himself that he would see his son on the other side of the street.The young man made a sharp turn suddenly and walked away with brisk steps.Harold was still watching, waiting, to see if he would turn, to see if it was David's face.But he didn't look back. This is more painful than not seeing my son for twenty years.It's like lost and found, and lost again.Harold returned to his bench outside the monastery, knowing he must find a place to spend the night, but he couldn't move. At last he settled down in a stuffy room near the station.He looked out the window at the road, and he rolled up the window to get some fresh air, but there was a steady stream of cars, trains coming and going screaming.From the other side of the wall came a voice speaking a foreign language, who was supposed to be yelling into the phone.Harold lay down. The bed was so soft that no one knew how many strangers had slept in it.Hearing the unintelligible foreign language on the other side of the wall, he suddenly became frightened, stood up, and walked around the room, only feeling that the wall was too close, the air was too scorching, and the cars and trains outside the window were rushing vigorously in the direction they were going . The past cannot be changed.Cancer that cannot be operated on cannot be cured.He thought of the people he had seen, their pain, their struggles, so he felt the loneliness of being human again.He thought of the stranger in women's clothing and the wound on his head.He thought of David's graduation day, and the months that followed, as if he were dreaming with his eyes open.Too much, too much, can't go on. Just after dawn, Harold was already standing on the A367 national road, but he neither looked at the compass nor flipped through the guidebook.It takes all his strength to lift one foot in front of the other.It wasn't until three girls on horseback asked him for directions to Shepton Mare that he realized he'd spent the whole day heading in the wrong direction. He sat down on the side of the road and looked at a green field illuminated by small yellow flowers.He couldn't remember the name of this flower, and he didn't want to take out the plant encyclopedia in his bag to look it up.In fact he has already spent too much money.After three weeks' walk, Kingsbridge was still nearer to him than Berwick.The first swallow swooped down and rose again, playing games in the air like a child. Harold wondered if he would be able to stand up again.