On a June day in the twentieth century, a young man set off from Ayutthaya, heading north all the way, on foot to a place he had only heard of but had never been to.The place is called Edgewood, which may be a town or just a place.The man's name was Smoky Barnaby, and he was going to Edgewood to get married; he walked instead of hitchhiking because it was a condition of his going there. Although he set off from his residence in the city early in the morning, it was not until nearly noon that he took a deserted footpath, crossed the bridge, and came to the towns with names but no clear boundaries on the north bank of the river.He spent the afternoon traversing these Indian-named places, often unable to keep up with the constant, overbearing traffic in a straight line; he went from district to district, looking into alleys and shops.Although there are children on bicycles, there are very few pedestrians, even among the locals; he can't help but wonder what life is like in these places (seems extremely marginalized to him), although the children are pleasant enough .

Formal commercial avenues and residential blocks gradually become messy, just like the outer trees of a large forest will become more and more sparse; weedy wastelands begin to intersperse like forest glades; Unhealthy woods and messy pastures, the standing notice stated that the site can be converted into an industrial park.Smoky turned the last words over and over in his mind, for he did seem to be in such a place: an industrial complex, between desert and farmland. He stops at a bench where people can catch a bus from "somewhere" to "somewhere."He sat down, put down the small bag on his back, and produced the sandwich he made (another condition) and the colored route map sent by the gas station.He wasn't sure if there was a prohibition on using a map in the conditions, but the directions to Edgewood were unclear, so he spread out the map anyway.

All right.This blue line seemed to be the pitted asphalt and gravel road he had just walked on, with deserted brick factories on both sides.He turned the map so that the line ran parallel to the bench like the road in front of him (he was never good at reading maps) and found his destination at the far end on his left.The name Edgewood wasn't really printed on it, but it was somewhere here, between the five towns marked by the least prominent marks in the legend.So myself.There's a big double red line going down there, proudly attached to the interchange entrance, but he can't go that way.Nearer there was a thick blue line (Smoky always felt that all the traffic going south into the city took the blue line, and all the traffic going out of the city took the red line, like the vascular system), and there were branch lines like small blood vessels leading to the small roads along the way. town.The much thinner straight blue line he is currently on is one of the branch lines; 80% of the commercial activities will shift here, Tool City, Food City, Furniture World, Carpet Village.Well...but there was also a barely noticeable thin black line not far away, and he could divert from there.He had thought it was a dead end, but no, it went on and on and on, as if at first glance the cartographer had forgotten it among the tangled lines, but it became clear in the open country to the north, and drove straight to a place Smoky knew. town, which is very close to Edgewood.

Just go this way, it looks like a sidewalk. He measured how far he had traveled with his fingers on the map, and then measured how far he had to go (much farther than the distance before), then put his backpack on his back, put his hat on one side to keep out the sun, and set out on the journey again . He didn't think about her much when he walked on the road, although she had been in his heart since falling in love with her two years ago.The room where they had first met often came to his mind, sometimes with the same terror as then, but usually with joy and happiness.He often thought of George Mouse, glass in hand, pipe in mouth, introducing him to his two tall cousins: herself, and the shy sister behind her.

The house of the Moss family in the city was the last house in the whole building, and everything happened in the study on the third floor.The mullioned windows were covered with cardboard, and the dark carpet in the doorway, bar and walkway between the windows was faded.That's the room. She is tall. She was nearly six feet tall, a few inches taller than Smoky, and her sister, who had just turned fourteen, was already as tall as him.Their little dresses were short and sparkling.She was wearing red, her sister was wearing white, and the long stockings wrapped around her long legs were shining brightly.It was strange how shy they were, though they were so tall, especially the younger sister, who smiled but refused to shake Smoky's hand, as she turned and hid behind her sister.

What a slender giantess.My sister glanced over at George as he made a suave introduction.She has a green smile and a head of rose gold wavy hair with just the right curls.George said her name was Delly Alice. He took her hand and looked up. "." he said, and she laughed.Her sister laughed too, and George Mouse bent over and patted him on the knee.Smoky didn't know what was funny, so he just looked at everyone with a pure and stupid smile, and never let go of his hand. It was the happiest moment of his life. Before he met Daili Alice Drinkwater in that study, his life had not been particularly happy, but it was just right for this pursuit.He was the only child of his father and step-wife, and his father was nearly sixty years old when he was born.When his mother found out that the Barnaby family's wealth had already been wiped out by his father, she regretted that she should not have married in, let alone had a child, and left bitterly.This was a tragedy for Smoky, for the most distinctive of all relatives was the mother.Although he was only a child when she left, when he was old, of all his blood relatives, he could easily recall her face.Smokey himself inherited most of the nihility of the Barnaby family, and only a small part of his mother's sense of concreteness: in the eyes of those who knew him, it was a real temperament, a sense of existence, shrouded in a faint Joyo's sense of non-existence.

The Barnabys were a big family.His father and his wife had five children, all of whom lived in the suburbs of some unknown cities in the states starting with I.Smoky's friends in the big cities never could tell the cities apart, and Smoky himself sometimes did.Since the children recognized that the father had a lot of property, and it was never clear what he intended to do with it, the father could visit the children's house at any time.Since his wife left, he decided to sell the house where Smoky was born, and took the young boy, several unnamed dogs and seven special boxes for books, and took turns boarding with other children.Barnaba is a man of knowledge, but his field of specialization is too remote and rigid, which did not help him create many topics, nor could he improve his innate sense of anonymity at all.His older children regarded those boxes of books as a nuisance, as his socks got mixed up with theirs in the laundry.

(Later, when Smoky used to go to the toilet, he tried to figure out which state, which city, and what kind of house his half-brothers and sisters lived in. Maybe it was because when they used to go to the toilet at their house, He thinks he's the most mediocre, so mediocre that he's almost invisible; anyway, he'll sit there switching his siblings and nephews in his mind, trying to match each face with a certain front porch or a certain lawn .So in his old age he finally figured it all out, and took a monotonous pleasure out of it, like a crossword puzzle, and even the same doubts in his mind—in case the word he guessed was not the answer designed by the author. What? Only he'll never find the answer in next week's paper.)

Barnaby didn't become depressed because of his wife's departure, he just became more featureless.To his older children, the father was first integrated into their lives and then disappeared, seemingly less and less aware of his presence.His concrete content was his knowledge, and he had only imparted it to Smoky.Since the father and son lived in no fixed place, Smoky had never attended a regular school, and by the time a state government that started with I learned of Smoky's experience with his father over the years, he had already passed the age for compulsory schooling.In this way, sixteen-year-old Smoky knew classical and medieval Latin, Greek, a little old-fashioned mathematics, and played a little violin.He hadn't read much except his father's leather-bound classics, but he could recite two hundred lines of Virgil's verse with some accuracy and write it in perfect italics.

His father died that year, and it seemed that he was exhausted because he had imparted all his knowledge to his son.After that, Smoky wandered for several years.It was difficult for him to find a job, because he had no so-called education; finally he learned to type at a poor business school (in hindsight, he thought it should be located in South Bend), and became a clerk.He lived for a while in the suburbs of three different cities, each with the same name, and relatives in each place called him by different names, such as his own name, his father's name, Smoky, etc., because In the end, this name is too suitable for his characteristics, and it has been used ever since it was called.At the age of 21, an unknown savings bank handed over to him an inheritance from his father, so he took a bus to the big city, and immediately forgot the city where his relatives lived, and even the people .Years later, he would have to match their faces with the lawn one by one to recall the memory.As soon as he reached Ayutthaya, he was so grateful that he threw himself into it like a drop of rain falling into the sea.

The house he lived in was originally a vicarage attached to the old revered but also damaged church behind it.From his window he could see the cemetery annexed to the church, where all men with Dutch names were laid to rest.Every morning, he was woken up by the sudden sound of a train, and then he went to work, never being able to sleep through the rumble of Midwestern trains like he used to. He worked in a large white room, and all kinds of small sounds echoed to the ceiling in a strange way.If someone coughs, the ceiling itself seems to be full of apology, covering its mouth and coughing.Smoky is there every day with a magnifying glass to examine the lines of tiny printed words, carefully examine each name and the telephone address behind it, and then follow the names, telephone numbers, and addresses on the stacks of cards that are delivered to him every day. Compare and mark with a red pen if there is any discrepancy. The names meant nothing to him at first, as featureless as phone numbers.A name only becomes conspicuous when the letters are misordered (which is an inevitable accident), and then when the computer makes stupid mistakes, and it is Smoky's job to find them. (In Smoky's view, the odds of a computer being wrong are less impressive than its grotesque follies; for example, a computer can't tell when the abbreviation "St." stands for "street" and what doesn't. Time stands for "Holy," so when you tell it to bring those abbreviations back, it tends to conjure up "Seventh Holy Grill" and "Wan Street Church" without batting an eye.) But over the course of a few weeks, every night Smoky Wandering around the big city, walking from one neighborhood to the next (with the knowledge that most people don't go out after dark), he has become familiar with these environments and their boundaries, hierarchies, bars and porches.Because of this, the names that appeared in front of me through the magnifying glass also began to have faces, ages, and mentality.The people on the bus, the train, the candy store, the people yelling at each other in the corridors of the tenements, the people who stare dumbfounded at the scene of a car accident, the people who argue with the waiters or shopgirls and the waiters and shopgirls themselves , all pierced through the fragile pages. The "book" itself has become more and more like a magnificent epic about the big city, full of events, tragedies and deceptions, capricious and dramatic.He found widows with old Dutch surnames living on the avenue who managed estates left by their husbands, sons who all called "Steel" or "Eric" or something, worked as interior designers, lived in Bohemian Quarter.He had also read about a large family that lived in a dingy block he had passed, with names that sounded a lot like Greek, and whenever he found them in the roster, they kept growing. Addition and subtraction (in the end he decided they were gypsies).He found that some men's wives or teenage daughters have private phones dedicated to lovers, while men use their company phones freely.He became suspicious of the people who wrote only their initials and middle names, because he found that they were all bill collectors, or lawyers with the same office address as their home address, or city law enforcement officers who part-time sold used furniture.He found that nearly every Singleton and every single Singletary lived in a black urban area up north, where the men were all named after presidents and the women were all named after jewels (pearls, Hongbao, Opel, Zhuer), followed by a "wife" triumphantly.He imagined them living in a small apartment, huge, tanned, raising many well-groomed children on their own.He knew them all: the proud locksmith with several A's in his shop sign, and finally that old scholar named Archimedes Chiziandouti living alone (reading a Greek newspaper in his humble apartment).Whenever a tiny name and number emerged from under his magnifying glass, like a flotsam swept up by the tide, telling its own story, Smoky would listen, look at the card, find a match, and turn the card over , Move the magnifying glass to the next story.The proofreader sitting next to him let out a groan.The ceiling also coughed.Then the ceiling laughed loudly, causing everyone to look up. A new young man just laughed. "I just found out," he said, "that there's a 'Noisy Bridge Club and Gun Club' here." He laughed a little, and Smoky was surprised that the silence hadn't quieted him. "Didn't you understand?" He turned to Smoky. "That bridge is going to be loud!" Smoky laughed suddenly, and they laughed up to the ceiling, where they shook hands. His name was George Mouse, and he always wore slacks and wide suspenders. Every day when he got off work, he would put on a huge woolen cape, and then he would pull his long black hair out of the collar and talk to girls. Same.He had the same heels, and his eyes were very much like his: deep, compelling, humorous.George was fired within a week (to the relief of everyone in the white room), but by then he and Smoky had hit it off and become best friends. With George as a friend, Smokey led a somewhat dissolute life, drinking and taking drugs.George transforms his way of dressing and speaking into the big city style, and introduces him to "horses".Before long, Smoky's Plain was wrapped in a layer of packaging, like a transparent man wrapped in bandages; no one kept bumping into him, no one sat on his lap on the bus, Not a word of apology (he thinks this happens because most people don't even notice him). At least he exists in the eyes of the Maus family, and apart from his new hat and new outfit, he is more grateful to George for introducing him to this characteristic and enthusiastic family.The Moss family built a row of buildings when they first came to the big city, and most of them still belong to them, and they live in the last one.Sometimes Smoky would sit there for hours, watching them argue, laugh, party, run out in bedroom slippers, attempt suicide, make rowdy reconciliations without anyone noticing his presence, but then Uncle Ray or Fred Lowndes or Mum would look up in surprise and say, "Here is Smoky!" and he would smile. "Have you any cousins ​​in the country?" Smoky asked George once.They were drinking Royal Coffee in George's favorite old hotel bar, waiting for a snowstorm to pass.Turns out he did. "They're very religious." George winked at him, and led him away from the giggling girls to meet their parents, Dr. and Mrs. Drinkwater. "I'm not practicing," said the doctor.His face is wrinkled and shaggy, and although he doesn't smile, he exudes a certain critter-like cheerfulness.He is not as tall as his wife.Mrs. Drinkwater shook Smokey's hand, begging him to call her Sophie, her fringed silk shawl quivering.And she is not as tall as her daughter. "The Dyers are tall," she said, gazing upward as though she could see them all there.She gave her surname to her two tall daughters, Alice Dale Drinkwater and Sophie Dale Drinkwater, but only herself That's all.A child had nicknamed Alice Dale Delly Alice when she was a child, and she got used to it, so they are now Delly Alice and Sophie, without Other names, but anyone could tell they were of Dyer blood.Everyone turned to look at them. Whatever their religion, there was apparently no dogma forbidding them to smoke a pipe with Franz Maus (who sat at their feet because they took up the whole sofa) and drink the rum punch their mother brought , or cover their mouths and grin (should be laughing at their own intimate conversations rather than mocking Franz's stupidity), and don't shy away from showing a pair of slender legs under sparkling dresses when they cross their feet. Smoky continued to wait and see.Although George Mouse had taught him to be as big a city man as not to be afraid of women, he kept watching.After being at a loss for a while, he finally forced himself to step across the carpet towards them.He desperately wanted not to be a spoiler, (George was always telling him, "For God's sake, don't be a spoiler!") so he sat down at their feet with a stiff smile on his face Weird, as if it would break at the touch (and he did, because when Delly Alice turned to look at him, the sensation of having her see it made him dizzy).He used to swirl the glass between his thumb and forefinger, shaking the ice cubes quickly to chill the drink.Now his old habit was falling into place again, so the ice cubes in the glass rattled like a bell for everyone's attention.Everyone fell silent. "Do you come here often?" he said. "No," she said quietly, "not in Dacheng very often. Only once in a while, when Dad has business or . . . other things." "He's a doctor." "Not really, not anymore. He's a writer now." She was smiling, and Sophie beside her started giggling again, so Delly Alice went on talking, as if trying to see her own seriousness. How long can the expression last. "He wrote animal stories, stories for children." "Oh." "He writes one a day." He looked at her smiling eyes, which were as clear and brown as a wine bottle.He started to have weird feelings. "It shouldn't be a very long story." He swallowed as he spoke. What happened?Of course he was in love, it was love at first sight.He had been in love before, and it was love at first sight every time, but he had never felt like this—as if something inside him was relentlessly expanding. "His pseudonym is Sanders," said Dailee Alice. He pretended to be trying to remember the name, but he was really thinking about why he felt so weird.The swelling had spread to his hands by now; they lay heavy on his plaid legs, and he looked at them.He intertwined his clumsy fingers. "It's not easy," he said, and both girls laughed, and Smoky laughed too.The feeling made him want to laugh.It couldn't be because of smoking, because when he smoked, he felt light and almost transparent.This time it was the exact opposite.The more he looked at her, the stronger this feeling became, and the more she looked at him, the more he felt... what?There was a quiet moment, when they just looked at each other like that, and it dawned on Smoky that it wasn't just that he had fallen in love with her at first sight, she had fallen in love with him at first sight too.The combination of the two conditions has the effect that his sense of non-existence has been healed.Not just to cover it up like George Mouse, but to heal it completely.That's what it feels like.It was as if she had injected cornstarch into him: he had begun to thicken and form. He descended the narrow back stairs to the only working bathroom in the whole house, and stood looking into the large stained mirror. Ok.Who would have thought?The face in the mirror stared out at him, looking familiar and like seeing him for the first time.It was a calm round face, the way Santa Claus should have looked when he was young: a little serious, with a dark mustache, a round nose, and crow's feet around the eyes, although he was not yet twenty-three years old .On the whole, it is a cheerful face, the eyes are still a little ignorant and hesitant, a little pale and empty, he guesses that this vacancy will never be filled.But enough is enough.In fact it was a miracle.He nodded and smiled at his new self, glancing back one more time before leaving. As he was going up the back stairs, he suddenly turned the corner and met Delly Alice who was going downstairs.He no longer had the stupid smile on his face now, and she no longer giggled.Both of them slowed down when they approached, she barely squeezed past him sideways, instead of continuing to go downstairs, she turned her head to look at him.At this time, Smoky Base was one step above her, and the height of their heads was just right for kissing scenes.So he kissed her, his heart pounding with fear and ecstasy, his head buzzing with intense certainty.She responded, as if her own sense of certainty had been confirmed, and through her hair, her lips, and her long arms around him, Smoky's little treasure trove of wisdom had since been added to a treasure of great value. At this moment, there was a sound from the stairs above, which startled them both.It was Sophie, standing there with her eyes wide open and biting her lip. "I'm going to the toilet," she said, and danced past them with light steps. "You're leaving soon, aren't you?" said Smoky. "Tonight." "When will you be back?" "I have no idea." He hugged her tightly again, and the second hug was calm and firm. "I was scared just now," she said. "I know," he said, ecstatically.God, she is so tall.If there are no stairs for him to raise, how can he handle her? As Smoky had grown up out of favour, he had always thought that women picked their mates according to laws he knew nothing about, either by whim like a king, or by personal taste like a critic.He has always believed that whether a woman chooses him or someone else is fate, an immediate result that cannot be avoided.So he courts them like a sycophant waiting to be noticed.And late that night, as he stood on the front porch of the Moss house, he discovered that was not the case.They (at least hers) were filled with the same passions and doubts, shy and lustful as I was.And the moment the two were about to embrace, her heart was pounding like mine, I know it. He lingers on the front porch for a long time, ruminating on this precious knowledge, sniffing the wind from the ocean (which doesn't happen often in big cities).He could smell the tide mingling with shore and debris, sour and salty, bittersweet.Only then did he realize that the big city was an island after all, a very small island. an island.If you lived there, you could forget such basic facts for years.But the truth is in front of you, surprising but true.He walked down the street from the front porch, his whole body solid as a statue, his footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. Her address was "Edgewood, that's it," George Mouse said, and they didn't have a phone.Smoky had no choice but to sit down and, with an obsession almost extinct from the world, prepare to communicate his love by letter.His thick love letters were sent to this place in Edgewood, and often he wrote another one before they got an answer, so their letters would meet in the post office, as were all true love letters.She kept all the letters and tied them with a lavender ribbon.As a result, many years later, her grandson found the stack of love letters and read the incredible passion of the older generation. "I found a park," he wrote in angular black writing, "and on a post at the entrance there is a sign saying 'Mouse Drinkwater Stone 1900'. Are you referring to you? There is a small four-season pavilion and statues in the park. All the trails have nine bends and eighteen turns. There is no way to go directly to the center. It's very late in the summer there (you don't notice it in the city unless you're in a park), it's kind of old and dusty, and the park is small; but everything reminds me of you." As if there was something that wouldn't remind him of her. "I found a stack of old papers," she wrote, mailed at the same time as his (two delivery truck drivers still waving in their blue cabs when they met on a morning mist highway ), "There are comics in it, describing a dreaming boy. The comics are his dreams, his 'dreamlands'. The dreamlands are beautiful, and the palaces and processions keep collapsing and disappearing, either getting too big or When you look closely, it becomes something else, you know, like real dreams, but all of them are beautiful. Aunt Claude said she kept them because the author, Mr. Stone, used to be a building in a big city Teacher, like George's great-grandfather and my great-grandfather! They were architects. Dreamland was very 'academic'. Mr. Stone was a drunk (so Aunt Claude said). The boy in the dream was always Sleepy and surprised. He reminds me of you." They were reserved at first, but then became more direct, so that when they finally reunited in the bar of the old hotel (with snow falling outside the window), both wondered if something had gone wrong and their letter was Not all of them were sent by mistake, they were sent to the bewildered and nervous stranger in front of him.This feeling passed for a while, but for a while they still used to write long speeches like letters (because they only knew this way of communication).The snow turns into a blizzard, and Café Royal gets colder.Now a word from her fell into his, and a word from him fell right in the middle of hers, and they spoke at last, ecstatically, as if they had been the first to discover the secret. "Won't your family feel... er... boring all the time you've been out there by yourself?" Smoky asked after a while of practice. "Bored?" she was surprised.She never seemed to have had such thoughts. "No. It's not just us." "Oh, I don't mean... who are they?" "Who?" "Those who... are with you." "Oh. Well, there used to be a lot of farmers. Scottish immigrants first. Macdonalds, McGregors, Browns. There aren't as many farms these days, but there are some. There are a lot of people there now who should They are all our relatives. You know this kind of thing." Actually he doesn't know.They both fell silent at the same time, then spoke at the same time, and fell silent again at the same time.Smoky said: "Is the house big?" she smiles. "Very big." The brown eyes looked watery in the light. "You'll like it. Everybody likes it, even George, and he says he doesn't like it." "why?" "He gets lost all day long." Smoky couldn't help laughing.George, a pathfinder, who often travels through the dark streets, gets lost in an ordinary house.He tried to remember if he had mentioned the city and country mouse joke in one of his letters.She said, "Can I tell you something?" "Of course." He didn't know why his heart beat faster. "I've known you since we met." "What's the meaning?" "I mean I recognized you." She dropped her bushy rose-gold eyelashes, stole a quick glance at him, and then looked around the dimly lit bar, as if afraid to be heard. "I've heard of you." "George said it." "No no. A long time ago, when I was little." "Heard of me?" "Well, not quite. Or it was, but I didn't realize it until I met you." She leaned forward, leaning against the checked tablecloth, her elbows folded. "I was nine, or ten. It rained a lot. Then one morning I went to the 'park' to walk Spark--" "what?" "Spark is our old dog. And 'Park' is, you know, the area around. There's a breeze and it feels like the rain is about to stop. We're all soaked. Then I look west and there's There was a rainbow. I remember what my mother said: When there is a rainbow in the west in the morning, the weather will be wonderful." He could well imagine her then: wearing a yellow raincoat and wellies, her hair thinner and curly than it is now.He didn't know how she knew which side was west, and he himself still mistook the direction even now. "It's a rainbow, but it's bright, and it looks like it's going to... there, you know, not far away. I can see the meadows, sparkling and stained with colors. The sky widens Yeah, you know, it's the feeling of sunshine after a long rain, everything seems to be getting closer. The end of the rainbow is very close, and I just want to walk over and stand in the middle, and then look up and get all covered in color .” Smoky laughed. "I'm afraid it will be difficult," he said. She smiled too, then lowered her head and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, an action that seemed heartwarmingly familiar to him. "Of course," she said, "it never seems to get there." "You mean you—" "Every time you think you are getting there, it will run farther and move its position; if you run over at this time, you will find that it has moved back to its original position. I ran exhausted and sweated, but a little Not even close. But do you know what to do when—" "Turn around and walk away," he said, surprised to hear himself answer that, but sure that was the answer. "Of course. It's not that easy to actually do, but—" "No, I don't think so." He stopped smiling. "—but as long as the method is correct—" "No, wait," he said. "—If it is correct, then..." "Listen, rainbows don't really touch the ground," said Smoky, "no, really not." "Not 'here,'" she said. "Now listen to me. I let Spark lead the way. I let it choose, because it doesn't care, and I do. Just take a step, turn around, and guess what." "I can't guess. Are you covered in color?" "No. It's not like that. When you're outside you see the color inside; so, inside—" "You see it's full of color outside." "That's right. The whole world is full of colors, like candy—no, like rainbows. It's all colors as far as the eye can see, as soft as light. You'll want to run and explore. But you won't take a step Dare to step out, because that step may be wrong-so you just keep looking and looking. Then you think: I finally got here." She was lost in thought. "Finally." She repeated softly. "So," he began, swallowed, and continued, "what have I to do with this? You just said someone told you..." "It's Spark," she said, "or someone like it." She was staring at him, so he tried to put on an expression of amused listening. "Spark is a dog," he said. "That's right." She seemed unwilling to continue.She picked up the spoon, looked at her tiny reflection upside down on the concave surface, and put it down. "Or someone like it. Well, it doesn't matter." "Wait," he said. "Only lasted a minute. As we stood there, I thought..." She was careful not to look at him, "—I think Spark said..." She looked up at him. "Is it hard to believe?" "Oh, yes. It's really hard to believe." "I thought not. At least not to you." “为什么对我不会？” “因为，”她单手托腮，神情有些难过，甚至有点失望，令他完全说不出话，“因为你就是斯帕克提到的那个人。” 可能只是因为他已经完全词穷了，所以在那一刻（或者应该说，那一刻之后的下一刻）史墨基脱口说出了他苦思了一整天的困难问题（或敏感提议），措辞甚至没有修饰。 “好啊。”她说，依然托着腮，但脸上已浮现一个崭新的笑容，就像早晨出现在西边的彩虹。因此当他们借着大城灯火形成的假曙光看出外头干爽的雪已经堆得老高，甚至堆上他们的窗台时，他们就只是缩在干爽的床单下聊天（旅馆的暖气系统竟因突来的寒冷而出故障了）。他们还没合过眼。 “你在说什么？”他说。 她笑了，脚趾贴在他的身上。他有种古怪的感觉，有点晕眩，奇怪的是他打从青春期之后就不曾有过这种感觉了，但它确实存在：感觉自己充盈无比，饱满得连手指尖和头皮都在发麻（检查一下可能甚至还在发光）。任何事情都是可能的。“只是在假装，对吧。”他说。她笑着翻过身，两人的身体紧紧交缠。 假装。小时候，每当有人发现埋在地下的东西（一个棕色瓶子的颈部，一把生锈的汤匙，甚至是一块留有古老钉痕的石头），他们就会说服自己此物年代久远。打从乔治·华盛顿还在世的时候就有了。甚至更早。它不仅神圣，而且价值连城。他们靠集体意志相信这是真的，但也心照不宣：像在假装，但又不同。 “你看吧？”她说，“一切都是注定的。而且我那时就知道了。” “但是为什么？”他说，既狂喜又痛苦，“你怎能如此确定？” “因为这是个'故事'。而'故事'是会成真的。” “但我不知道这是故事。” “置身故事里的人是不会知道的，没有例外。但故事就是存在。” 小时候的某个冬夜，他第一次见识到月晕现象。当时他寄住在一个同父异母的兄长家，这位兄长是个半吊子信徒。他抬头盯着那个巨大、冰冷、几乎横过半个夜空的光环，渐渐确定这是世界末日的征兆。他在位于郊区的院子里兴奋地等待寂静的夜晚分崩离析，但心底却又明白不会发生这种事，知道这世界没有任何事情不对劲，也不会有任何像这样的惊奇。那天晚上他梦见了天堂：天堂是座黑暗的游乐场，狭小又沉闷，只有一座铁打的摩天轮永无休止地旋转，外加一排死气沉沉的摊位供信徒作乐。他醒来时松了一口气，从此以后再也不相信自己的祷告，反倒毫无怨怼地替哥哥念了祷词。只要她开口，他也愿意跟着她祷告，乐意之至，但据他所知她根本不祷告。反之，她要求他同意一件事，偏偏这件事是如此古怪、如此不见容于他熟知的这个普通世界、如此……他笑了出来，啧啧称奇。“这简直是童话故事。”他说。 “可能吧，”她困倦地说，把手伸到背后拉过他的手，让他环抱住自己，“可能吧，你要这么说的话。” 他知道他若想前往她去过的那个地方，他就必须相信；知道他若相信就必定到得了，即便它不存在，即便它是假的。他的手沿着她修长的身躯往下滑，结果她轻轻出了个声，往他身上紧紧贴过去。他努力唤起那份荒废已久的古老意志。倘若她真的去过那个地方，那么他绝对不想被抛下；他只想永远像现在这样跟她紧紧相依。 艾基伍德的一个五月天，黛莉·艾丽斯来到树林深处。有一道瀑布从高耸的岩壁间倾泻而下，在底部凿出一座深潭，而她就坐在潭边一块滑亮的岩石上。水流毫不止息，从裂隙间冲进水塘里，喃喃说着话，内容不断重复，但总是充满乐趣。尽管全都听过了，但黛莉·艾丽斯还是侧耳倾听。她看起来就像汽水瓶上的女孩画像，只是没那么纤细，也没有翅膀。 “鳟鱼爷爷，”她对着水潭说，接着又说了一次，“鳟鱼爷爷。”她等了等，没有任何响应，因此她拿起两颗小石子丢进冰凉光滑的水里。石子互相撞击，在水中形成了一种宛如遥远枪响的声音，比在空气里缭绕得更久。此时有一条巨大的白色鳟鱼从岸边某个长满水草的洞里游了出来，是个白子，没有斑点也没有条纹，粉红色的大眼睛十分严肃。瀑布造成的阵阵涟漪让它的身影抖动不已，巨大的眼睛似乎不断眨动或泛着泪光（鱼会哭吗？她已不止一次这么问自己了）。 唤起它的注意后，她开始诉说自己秋天的大城之行：她在乔治·毛斯家认识了一位男子，并且立刻明白（或者说至少是很快决定）他就是多年前斯帕克的预言中她会“找到或创造出来”的那个人。“你冬眠的时候，”她害羞地说，一边用手轻抚石英岩的纹理，面带微笑却不直视它（因为谈论的是她的爱人），“我们，呃，我们又见了一次面，而且定了终身——你知道——”她看见它抖了一下鬼魅般的尾巴，知道这个话题令人痛苦。她在冰凉的岩石上伸展她修长的身躯，托着下巴、眼神明亮地用一些闪亮亮的模糊词汇描述了史墨基这个人，但这条鱼似乎还是缺乏兴致。她不予理会。那个真命天子必定是史墨基，不可能是别人。“你不觉得吗？你不同意吗？”接着更小心地问：“他们会满意吗？” “不知道。”鳟鱼爷爷阴郁地说，“谁猜得透他们心里在想什么呢？” “但你说过……” “我只是信差，女孩。别期望从我这里知道更多。” “好吧。”她决定豁出去了，“我不会一直等下去。我爱他。生命短暂。” “生命，”鳟鱼爷爷哽咽似的说，“很漫长。太漫长了。”它小心翼翼地转动鱼鳍，然后尾巴一摆，游回了它的藏身处。 “还是告诉他们我来过吧。”她对着它的背影大喊，声音几乎被瀑布声掩盖，“告诉他们我尽了本分。” 但它已经走了。 她写信给史墨基：“我要结婚了。”害他站在信箱旁一阵心寒，直到意识到她指的就是他。“克劳德姑婆已经用牌仔细算过了，每一部分都算过一次，日子必须是仲夏那天，而你必须照做。拜托拜托，务必非常小心地按照这些指示进行，否则我不知道会有什么后果。” 就是因为这样，史墨基才会用这种方式踏上前往艾基伍德的路：徒步而不搭车，用旧的而不是新的背包装他的结婚礼服，携带自制而不是买来的食物，且必须找到或求得一个过夜的地点，不得花钱住宿。 他不知道工业园区竟会突然转变成乡间。时值傍晚，他已经转向西方，脚下的道路也变得老旧磨损，像只旧鞋般补着颜色深浅不一的沥青。道路两侧都是田野和农场。他走在既不算道路也不算农场的树篱下，不时有层层阴影落在身上。路边常有的丛丛杂草在水沟边和篱笆旁摇曳，茂密而蓬乱，覆着尘土，是人类和车辆的朋友。他听见的车声愈来愈少。那些嗡嗡的引擎声总是随着上下坡忽大忽小，接着突然轰隆一声从旁狂飙而过，惊诧、强劲、迅速，让杂草狂乱地猛抖一阵，随即再次减弱成一阵遥远的嗡嗡声，终至消失。然后就只剩下唧唧虫鸣和他自己的脚步声。 有很长一段时间他都在爬坡，但此时他已来到顶端，看见一片辽阔的仲夏田野。他脚下这条路从中穿越，行经草原、牧野，绕过长着树木的丘陵，先是消失在一座山谷里（山谷旁有一座小镇，教堂尖塔刚好从一片绿意中冒出来），接着又再次出现，成一道纤细的灰色线条，朝青翠山峦蜿蜒而去。此时太阳刚好在圆滚滚的云朵伴随之下落入山坳。 就在这时候，有个女子在遥远的艾基伍德的门廊上翻出了一张名叫“旅途”的大牌。牌面上有个“旅者”，背着背包、手持坚实的拐杖；还有“太阳”，尽管它要起要落从来都不是自己决定。翻出来的一张张纸牌旁放着一个碟子，有一根咖啡色的香烟躺在里头冒着烟。她移开碟子，把“旅途”放进所属的位置，然后又翻了另一张牌。这回是“主人”。 当史墨基抵达第一座起伏平缓的山丘脚下时，道路开始向上攀升。他置身一片阴影之中，太阳已经下山。 整体而言，他宁愿找个地方睡觉也不想去求人借宿，因此他带了两条毯子。他甚至想过要找一座谷仓过夜，就像书里的旅人一样（他的书），但他路过的谷仓似乎不只是“私有财产”而已，还物尽其用，挤满了大型动物。事实上，随着暮色渐浓、田野朦胧，他已经开始有点寂寞，因此当他在山脚下看见一间小屋时，他朝篱笆走了过去，一边思忖该如何提出那个他认为铁定很奇怪的要求。 那是栋白色小屋，周围种满了一丛丛长青植物。绿色的两截门旁的花架上长着刚绽放的玫瑰。漆成白色的石头标示出门前小径。逐渐转暗的草坪上有一只小鹿吃惊地盯着他看，一动不动。有小矮人盘腿坐在蘑菇上，再不然就是抓起宝物溜走。大门上挂着一块粗糙的告示牌，上面烙着“朱尼珀寓”等字样。史墨基解下门闩、打开大门，寂静中于是响起一阵小小的铃铛声。两截门的上半截打开后，黄色灯光流泻而出。一个女人的声音说：“是敌是友？”接着是一阵笑声。 “朋友。”他说着朝门走去。空气里有一股不可能错认的杜松子酒味道。门里的女子是那种中年可以维持很久的人，史墨基看不出她的确切年纪。她稀疏的头发可能是灰色也可能是棕色，戴着猫眼形状的眼镜，微笑着露出假牙。她交叉的双臂丰腴且长着雀斑。“噢，我可不认识你。”她说。 “我想知道，”史墨基说，“走这条路是不是可以前往一座名叫艾基伍德的城镇呢？” “我没法告诉你，”她说，“杰夫？你可以告诉这位年轻人艾基伍德要怎么去吗？”里面的人说了一个他听不到的答案，接着她开了门。“进来吧，”她说，“待会儿就知道了。” 房子小巧整洁，塞满了东西。有一只垂垂老矣的长毛狗在他脚边嗅来嗅去，哈哈喘着气。他撞上一张竹编电话桌、碰到一个放装饰品的柜子、踩上一张小地毯，然后从一道狭窄的拱门跌进客厅，里面弥漫着玫瑰、桂油香水和去年冬天残余炉火的味道。杰夫放下报纸，把他穿着拖鞋的脚从垫子上抬起来。“艾基伍德？”他咬着烟斗问道。 “艾基伍德。有人告诉我要这样走。” “你搭便车吗？”杰夫薄薄的嘴唇像一条鱼般张开，吐出一阵烟。他怀疑地端详着史墨基。 “不，我其实是走路来的。”壁炉上方挂着一个画框。里头写着： “我要去那里结婚。” 啊……他们似乎这么说。 “好吧。”杰夫站起来，“玛吉，把地图拿来。” 那是一张乡村地图之类的东西，比史墨基的精细得多。他知道的那些城镇如星座般排列在上面，轮廓清晰，但还是没有艾基伍德。“应该就在这些城镇附近。”杰夫取来一根粗短的铅笔，发出“嗯”的一声，然后说：“咱来瞧瞧。”接着就以那五座城镇的中心点勾勒出一颗五角星。他用铅笔敲了敲五角星中央那个五边形，然后对史墨基扬了扬浅棕色的眉毛。史墨基猜测这是种古老的读图技巧。他发现有条若隐若现的路横过那个五边形，跟他刚才走过的这条路相连，而这条路的终点就在田溪这边。“嗯哼……”他说。 “我大概只能告诉你这么多了。”杰夫说着再次卷起地图。 “你打算走一整夜吗？”玛吉问。 “哦，我带了铺盖。” 玛吉看着他绑在背包上的那两条不甚舒适的毯子，噘起了嘴。“我猜你应该一整天都没吃东西吧。” “哦，我有……你知道……三明治，还有一个苹果……” 厨房里堆满了一篮篮鲜艳得难以置信的水果，有蓝葡萄、红褐色的苹果和状似丰臀的水蜜桃。玛吉从火炉上端来一盘又一盘热腾腾的菜肴，全部吃完后，杰夫又在红宝石色的小酒杯里斟了香蕉烈酒。这就对了：他不再婉拒他们的招待，于是玛吉“整理好长沙发”，让史墨基裹着一条咖啡色的印第安毛毯睡在上头。 朱尼珀一家人离开后，他并没有立刻睡着，而是躺在沙发上环视房间。房里只有一盏直接插在插座上的夜灯亮着，形状是一幢长满玫瑰的小屋。他借着这光线看见杰夫的槭木椅子，他总觉得上面那种橘色的扶手垫看起来很好吃，像光滑的硬糖果。他看见波纹状的窗帘在带有玫瑰气息的微风中飘动。他听见那只长毛狗在睡梦中发出叹息。他又发现了另一个画框。虽然无法确定，但他觉得上面写着：

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Notes: