Chapter 6 I

After John Drinkwater's death in 1920, Violet could not accept, or even believe, the fate that the cards pointed out to her: she would live alone for another thirty years.For a long time she lived in seclusion in the upstairs room.That year she suddenly lost her appetite for most of the food, and her elf-like slender figure became even thinner as a result, and her thick dark hair was grayed prematurely, making her look old and fragile at first glance.But she didn't actually age, and for years to come her skin was as smooth as ever, and her watery, dark eyes were the same as when John Drinkwater first met her last century , full of cub-like innocence.

It was a great room facing many directions.In one of the corners was a small half-domed space (only a half-circle on the inside, but a full circle on the outside), with windows, where she had placed a large chaise longue with buttons.And then there was her bed, with its gauze curtains, velvet quilt, and ivory lace trimmings with which her mother, whom she had never met, had adorned her own unhappy new bed.The huge crimson mahogany desk was piled high with John Drinkwater's papers, which she had intended to tidy up, perhaps publish (he loved publishing), but ended up letting them sit in the gooseneck-shaped The pile continued under the brass lamp.And the cracked vaulted suitcase in which the documents had been brought and would be stuffed back in after many years.By the fire were a few velvet armchairs in torn thread, the pile frayed but still comfortable.There were also some small things—silver and tortoiseshell combs and brushes, painted music boxes, her strange deck of cards.In the memory of her children, grandchildren and visitors, these small things are the main items in the room.

With the exception of August, none of Violet's children complained about their mother's retirement.Anyway, she was always in a trance, and she was absent-minded every day, so this seemed to be just a natural continuation of the trance state.Except for August, they all loved her deeply and unjudgmentally, and rushed to bring her simple meals (which she usually didn't eat), light fires, read her letters, and tell her the latest news . "August found a new use for his Ford," Auberon said as he went through his photos with her. "He took off a wheel and strapped Ezra Meadows' saw to the Up there, when you start the engine, that saw turns and you can use it to cut wood."

"Hope they don't drive too far," said Violet. "What? Oh, no." He laughed, imagining the image in her mind of a Ford Model T with gears racing through the woods, chopping down trees along the way. "No, that wagon is built on a pile of logs, so only the wheels turn, not the wagon. It's just for sawing, not driving." "Oh." She stretched out her slender hand to touch the teapot to see if it was still hot. "He's smart," she said, as if she meant something else. It was a clever idea, but it wasn't August's idea.He had read about the practice in an illustrated mechanical magazine and persuaded Ezra Meadows to give it a try.As a result, it turns out that the operation is harder than the description in the magazine, because you have to climb up and down in the driver's seat to adjust the speed of the saw; Li yelled at each other with Ezra: What?What did you say?Besides, August had no interest in sawing wood.But he loved his Ford, and would let it do anything it could do, like bump along a railroad defiantly or spin around a frozen lake like it was on four wheels.Although Ezra was skeptical at first, at least he didn't scoff at Henry Ford's classics like his family or the Flowers.They built a lot of work in Ezra's yard, and more than once drew their daughter Amy out of the house while she was doing housework.Once, with a rag in hand, she stared absently at a white-spotted black tin frying pan, and another time she had flour on her hands and on her apron.The conveyor belt of the saw snapped and crackled wildly.August cut off the engine.

"Okay, Ezra, look here. Look at that pile of wood." The pile of fresh yellow wood was rough cut, with brown scorched marks from the saw in places, exuding the sweetness of resin and pastry. taste. "If you hand saw it, I'm afraid it will take you a week to saw that much weight. What do you think?" "still alright." "What do you think, Amy? Not bad?" She smiled, looking a little shy, as if he was complimenting her. "It's all okay," Ezra said, "Come on in, you bastard." This was said to Amy, and her expression immediately changed into a wounded arrogance, which in August's eyes was the same as that just now. As sweet as a smile.She shook her head and walked away, deliberately walking slowly so as not to look like she was being chased away.

Without a word Ezra helped him put the Ford's wheels back on.August thought it was an ungrateful silence, but it might also have been because the farmer was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would have to talk about payment.He needn't have worried about that, because August, unlike the youngest son in all the old stories, knew he couldn't be overwhelmed by an impossible task (sawing hundreds of feet of wood in one afternoon). Ask him to marry his beautiful daughter to him. August drove back along the familiar road, kicked up familiar dust along the way, and strongly felt how similar his car was to this deep summer (although others felt that the two were contradictory).He adjusted the throttle a little and threw the straw hat on the seat next to him.In the evening, if the weather was fine, he intended to go fishing in places he knew.He felt a sudden burst of joy, as he had often felt these days: the first time when he first bought the car, when he lifted the batwing-shaped hood and saw the engine and drivetrain, and his own Organs are as simple as they are functional.He feels that his perception of the world can finally be fully applied in life: the real world and his perception of the world are one.He calls this feeling "growing up."It does feel like growing up, but in moments of ecstasy, he can't help wondering if he's turned into a Ford, or Ford himself, because August doesn't think there's any tool or person in the world that can be so calm and determined And perfect; so capable and self-sufficient.If he could become Ford, what more could he ask for?

Everyone seemed bent on sabotaging his plans.He told Pop (he only called him Pop when he was alone or with Amy, never in front of John) that what the area needed was a gas station that filled people up and repaired and sold Fords , and spread out the printed matter he got from Ford, showing how much capital it would take to set up a dealership (he didn't propose to act as an agent himself, he knew he was only sixteen, which was too young, but as long as he could add oil, repair I am very happy to repair the car).As a result, his father just smiled and didn't even think about it for five minutes.He sat there nodding his head as August explained, simply because he loved his son and liked to pamper him.Then he said, "Do you want to have your own car?"

Oh, of course I would.But Auguste knew that although he made this proposal with the same rigorous attitude as an adult, he was still treated like a child.His father was definitely interested in weirdly childish things, but now he was smiling, as if August's proposal was just a child's crazy wish, and therefore only going to buy a car to appease him. But he was not appeased.Dad didn't understand at all.The situation was different before the war, when everyone was ignorant.Go for a walk in the woods, make up a story, say you saw something if you wanted to.But now there is no excuse.Now knowledge is there waiting for you, real knowledge, knowing how the world works, how to operate it.That's right, it's the operation. "The operator of the Model T Ford will find it easy and convenient to start the car. The way it works is this..." So August absorbs this knowledge, both reasonable and appropriate, to cover his crazy and chaotic childhood, It's like putting a dust jacket on over your clothes and buttoning it all up.

"What you need is fresh air," he told his mother that afternoon. "I'll take you for a drive. Come on." He took her hand and tried to pull her from the couch.Although she held out her hand, they both knew she was not going to get up, and definitely not going for a ride, because the same thing had happened several times before. "You can dress warmer, and with the road conditions around here, it's impossible to go faster than fifteen miles per hour..." "Oh, August." "Stop 'oh, August' with me," he said, allowing his mother to sit beside her but refusing to let her kiss her on the cheek. "You know there's nothing wrong with you, I mean, It’s not really a problem. You’re just playing melancholy.” He obviously has brothers and sisters, but he, the youngest son, has to talk to his mother with a straight face, as if trying to persuade a sullen child.This annoyed him, but she didn't mind it.

"Tell me about the sawing," she said. "Is little Emmy here?" "She's not young anymore." "Yeah, yeah, she's pretty big indeed. She's so pretty." He guessed that his face should be red, and she should have seen it too.He felt embarrassed, he felt obscene: for his mother to find out that he was attracted to a girl.There are very few girls he doesn't like, and everyone knows the truth: even his sisters know when he casually mentions that he might stop by the Meadows' or Flower's at night. Smiling, help him tear loose threads from his collar and comb his mother's thick and unkempt hair. "Listen, Mom," he said a little assertively, "listen to me. We talked about gas stations, and dealerships, before Dad... you know... died. He didn't quite agree, but that It was four years ago, I was young. Can we talk again? Auberon thinks it's a great idea."

"real?" Auberon made no objection, but then again, when Auguste discussed the matter with him, he was hiding in his red-lit darkroom, talking through the door. "Of course. You know, it won't be long before everybody has a car. Everybody has one." "Oh, my God." "You can't escape the future." "Yes, it is indeed impossible." She looked out the window at the sleeping afternoon, "That's right." She realized a certain meaning, but it was not the meaning he wanted to express.He took out his watch and looked at it, trying to bring her back to reality. "All right, then," he said. "I don't know," she said.She looked at his face, but not to understand or to communicate, but as if it were a mirror: so blank, so dreamy. "I don't know, dear. I think if John doesn't agree..." "That was four years ago, Ma." "Really, it's four..." She tried to remember, and took his hand again, "He loves you the most, August, you know? I mean he loves each of you, but... Oh, don't you think he knows the situation best? He must have thought it all through, he's thought it all out. Oh no, honey, if he doesn't agree, then I shouldn't change his decision, really. " He stood up suddenly and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Okay, okay. Just don't blame him, that's all. You don't like the idea at all, you have a fear of simple things like cars, and you never want me to have anything anyway." "Oh, August," she said, and put her hand over her mouth. "Okay," he said, "then I'll tell you, I'm going to leave." There was a sudden choke in his throat, which was unexpected to him, who expected to feel only rebellion and victory. "Maybe to Ayutthaya. I don't know." "What do you mean?" Her voice was weak, like a child beginning to grasp something terrible. "What do you mean?" "Oh, seriously." He circled beside her. "I'm an adult now. What do you think? Do you think I'm going to hang around in this room forever? Oh, I won't." Any twenty-year-old could have said that, and any normal person would have this displeasure.So when he saw the shocked and helpless painful expression on her face, he suddenly felt confused and frustrated, and this feeling was churning like magma.He rushed to her chair and knelt down in front of her. "Mom, Mom," he said, "what's the matter? What's the matter?" He kissed her hand, but bit her like an angry bite. "I'm just terrified..." "No, no, just tell me what's scary about it. Wanting to go to the next level, wanting to become...becoming normal, what's so scary about it? What's wrong with it—" The magma had already erupted, and he couldn't think about it now. Restrained, and unable to refrain, "—what's wrong with Timmy Willie going to the big city? Her husband lives in the big city, and she loves him. Is the house so nice that no one can wish to leave? Even married Can't you?" "The house is so big. The big city is so far away..." "Well, then what's wrong with Auberon wanting to join the army? The war broke out and everyone went to the army. Do you want us all to be your babies forever?" Violet didn't speak, but there were bean-sized teardrops trembling on her eyelashes, like a child.She suddenly missed John very much.She can pour out to him all the unspeakable opinions and all kinds of knowledge and blind spots she feels, and even if he can't really understand, he will still listen.From him she could get advice, warnings, concepts, smart choices that she would never make herself.She stroked August's tangled, frizzy hair that no comb could untangle, and said, "But you know it, honey, you know it. You remember it, don't you? You remember it, don't you?" He groaned and laid his face on her lap as she continued to stroke his hair. "And the cars, August—what will they think? The noise, the stench. The—the arrogance. What will they think? What if you drive them away?" "No, Mom, please stop talking." "They were brave, August, you remember when you were a kid, when the wasp appeared, you remember how brave that little guy was. You saw it too. If... if it angered them, there's no guarantee they wouldn't To make some, oh, some terrible plans...they're capable of it, you know they are." "I was just a kid then." "Did you forget it all?" she said, not as if addressing him, but as if she was asking herself, questioning a strange thing she had just observed. "Have you all forgotten? Is that so?" Did Timmy forget it too? You all forgot?" She held August's face up and examined it carefully. "August? Have you forgotten, or...you can't, you can't forget, if you forget..." "What if they don't mind?" August said frustrated. "What if they don't mind at all? How can you be so sure they do? They have their own world, don't they?" "I have no idea." "Grandpa said..." "Oh my God, August, I don't know." "Okay," he said, breaking away from her, "then I'll ask. I'll ask their permission." He stood up. "If I get their consent, then..." "I don't think they can." "Well, what if?" "How can you be sure? Oh, don't go, August. They might lie. No, promise me you won't. Where are you going?" "go fishing." "August?" After August left, tears welled up in her eyes again.She impatiently wiped the hot tears from her cheeks.The tears came because she couldn't explain: everything she knew couldn't be said, couldn't find the right words, and when she tried to describe it, it sounded like a lie or something stupid.They were brave, she told August.They might lie, she said.But none of this is true.They are not brave, nor are they capable of lying.This kind of thing is only true when you tell a child, like you tell a child "grandpa is gone", but in fact grandpa is dead, and no more grandpa will come or go.And the child said: Where did grandpa go?That's when you'll come up with an answer that's slightly less true than the first answer, and so on.But what you said to him was sincere, and he got it, at least as much as you did. It's just that her kids aren't kids anymore. Over the years, she has been trying to turn what she knows into a language that John can understand, an adult language, like a net for catching wind, capturing all "meaning", "intent" and "determination" .Oh, what a great man!To the extent that intelligence, tireless concentration, methodical mind, and attention to detail work, he can understand almost everything. But there is no "meaning," nor "intent," nor "determination."Seeing them that way is like trying to do things looking in a mirror: no matter how hard you try, your hand will do the opposite, move farther away instead of closer, left instead of right, forward instead of back.She sometimes felt that thinking about them was just what it was: looking at herself in the mirror.But what does that mean? She does not want her children to remain children forever.The country seemed to be full of people who were in a hurry to grow up, and though she had never felt like growing up herself, she didn't want to stop others from growing up.She was simply afraid: her children would be in danger if they forgot what they had known as children.She was sure of that.What danger?How could she warn them? There was no answer, not a single one.Everything that the mind and language can express, becomes more specific according to the way the question is asked.John once asked her: Do elves really exist?There is no answer.So he continued to work hard, asking more detailed, more tactful, and more specific and precise questions, but there was still no answer, only more and more complete questions.Auberon once said that life also evolves in this way, growing limbs, organs, and joints, operating and existing in more and more complex, but also more and more simple and unique ways, until the problem of perfection is finally understood I have no answer myself.That's all.This is the final version, and John died without waiting for the answer. Yet she did know something.On the dark red mahogany desk lay John's black typewriter, bony and hard-shelled like an ancient crustacean.For August, for all of them, she should tell what she knew.She went to the typewriter, sat down, and put her fingers on it thoughtfully, like a pianist, as if about to strike a soft, mournful, barely audible nocturne.Then she realized there was no paper on the typewriter.It took her a while to find the paper, and when the note was rolled onto the platen of the typewriter, it looked small and shrunken, as if unable to withstand the pounding of the keys.But she still typed these words with two fingers: —and then type the words that my grandfather wrote on those messy notes below: What now?She rolled the paper back and wrote: She thought about this sentence for a while, and then added directly below: What she meant was that they didn't care at all, that their concerns had nothing to do with us.If they send gifts (which they do), if they arrange a wedding or an accident (which they do), if they wait and see (which they do often), none of it is based on a desire to help or harm humanity.Their reasons concern only themselves—if they have any.She sometimes felt like they had no reason at all, like stones or seasons. She rested her chin on this point, said "no", then carefully deleted "created" and wrote "born" above, then deleted "born" and wrote "created" above, But I found that it was the same after changing it.completely useless!Whenever she had a certain thought about them, she found that the opposite was also true.One blank space, she sighed, and wrote: Does she mean it?What she wants to express is that it is impossible for two people to pass through the same door.She also wanted to express that a door disappears forever once someone walks through it, making it impossible to come back through the same door.She meant that two doors could not lead to the same place.But she found an asterisk on the top row of the keyboard (she didn't know that typewriters had asterisks), so she added an asterisk after her last sentence, which became this: Then write below: The little note was full, so she pulled it out and read it.She found it very much like the summaries of certain chapters in the last edition of Rural Architecture, stripped of long explanations and abstractions, bare and thin, but of little added help.Slowly she crumpled the paper, thinking that she knew nothing, but knew this: her own fate and everyone else's was waiting for them here, (but why couldn't she tell how she knew? ) so they must stick to this place and not leave it.She guessed she would never leave again.This is the door, the biggest door, whether it is intentional or coincidental, it is just located at the border or junction of the "other side", and will eventually become the last door to the "other side".This door will remain open for a long time, and after a while, it must be opened with a key.But one day, that door will close forever, it won't be a door anymore, and she doesn't want anyone she loves to be locked out by then. The "fisherman" said: "The south wind will blow flies into the fish's mouth, but the bait that August is firmly tied to the fishing line seems to be unable to blow into the fish's mouth."Ezra Meadows was sure the fish would bite when it was about to rain, old MacDonald always insisted they wouldn't; and August found it was both and neither.As the air pressure changes (John's paradoxical barometer says "change"), bugs and mosquitoes descend like dust on the water's surface, and schools of fish eat them instead of August dangling over their heads Dangling Jack Scott and Alexandra hooks. Maybe he wasn't paying enough attention when fishing.He is trying to see or notice some kind of clue or message, but is not trying to or actually seeing or noticing.While trying to remember how such clues or messages usually came up in the past and how he interpreted them, he also tried to forget that he had "forgotten".He also had to try not to have the idea that he was "really crazy" and that he was only doing it for his mother.These thoughts spoil what is possible.A kingfisher appeared on the surface of the water, giggling, iridescent in the sun, and the stream below was lost in the twilight.I'm not crazy, August thought. There is one thing in common between fishing and this thing: no matter where you stand on the bank of a stream, there always seems to be a perfect spot down there, a spot you've always wanted to be, right by the rapids by the rocks , or behind that piece of wicker.Even after thinking about it, you have realized that the so-called perfect spot is actually where you were standing a few minutes ago, realizing that you just stood there looking longingly at where you are now, wishing that you could stand on this long road like you are now. In the shade, but the feeling still won't go away.Just as August realized this, and realized that he had been sitting here and looking at that mountain, something grabbed his line and almost pulled the rod out of his dazed grasp. August was as startled as the fish.He reeled in awkwardly, tugged, and finally caught it and put it in the net.Ye Ying gradually disappeared into the blurred night, the fish looked at him with a kind of dull surprise (all caught fish have this expression).August removed the hook, inserted his thumb into its bony mouth, and snapped the fish's neck cleanly.He pulled out his thumb, which was covered in mud and cold fish blood.Without thinking, he put his thumb in his mouth and sucked.At this time, the kingfisher attacked again with a chuckle, glanced at him, flew across the water, and stopped on a dead tree. August put the fish in the creel, went to the bank and sat down to wait.He was pretty sure the kingfisher wasn't laughing at the world, but at him, a sarcastic, spiteful laugh.Well, maybe he's ridiculous.The fish was less than seven inches long, not even enough for breakfast.so what?So what? "If I had to eat fish for a living," he said, "I'd grow a beak." "If no one talks to you," Kingfisher said, "you shouldn't. There are still polite things in this world, right?" "Feel sorry." "I have to be the first to speak," said the kingfisher, "and then you try to guess who is talking to you. Then you find it's me, then you look at your thumb and your fish, and then you realize it's because you tried Only with fish blood can we understand the voices of all things, and only then can we start talking." "I have no intention of..." "Let's just take it for granted!" said Kingfisher, in a grumpy and impatient tone.August thought the sound matched its bristling head feathers, thick neck, and fierce, irritating eyes and beak: it was the kingfisher's sound.It really is a god kingfisher! "Speak to me now," said the Kingfisher, "say, 'Oh! Bird!' and make your request." "Oh! Bird!" said August, spreading his arms imploringly. "Tell me: Can we open a gas station in Tin Creek and sell Fords?" "certainly." "what?" "Of course!" It's really inconvenient to talk to a bird in this way.It was sitting on a dead tree, and the conversation distance was no different than any ordinary kingfisher, so August could only imagine the bird was a kingfisher-like figure sitting on the bank of the stream beside him. , has a body shape that is more suitable for conversation, and is cross-legged like August.It works well to think that way.Anyway, he had doubted whether the kingfisher was really a kingfisher. "Okay," said Kingfisher, still bird-like, so he could only look at August with one eye at a time, and that eye was bright, bright, and cold, "that's it?" "I... I guess so. I—" "Ok?" "Well, I thought I'd be dismissed. There's noise and smell, after all." "Absolutely not." "Oh." "Besides," Kingfisher said, there seemed to be a noisy laughter hidden in his voice, "since you are here, and I am here, you might as well make a wish along the way." "what?" "Oh, any wish. It depends on what you want most." Before he made that ridiculous request, he thought he was already making a wish, but he suddenly felt hot and gasped, realizing that he hadn't actually made a wish yet, and he still had one more chance to make a wish.He blushed. "Oh," he stammered, "at Tianxi...there...there is a farmer, a farmer, and he has a daughter..." "Yes, yes," Kingfisher said impatiently, as if he knew exactly what August wanted, and impatiently listened to his detailed explanation, "but let's talk about the price first, and then talk about the return." "cost?" The kingfisher tilted its head and changed its posture, looking at August and then at the stream or the sky, as if trying to think of a very sharp word to express its annoyance. "The price," it said, "the price, the price. It's none of your business. Call it a favor, if you will. Don't get me wrong about returning a property, which I'm pretty sure was unintentional." It fell into your hands. I mean—" at this moment Kingfisher showed a momentary hesitation (or fear) for the first time,"—I mean a pack of cards, playing cards. Very old playing cards .in your hands." "Violet's?" August said. "Exactly." "I'll ask her." "No no. She thinks the cards are hers, you see. So why. Don't let her know." "You want me to steal?" Kingfisher was silent.For a moment it vanished entirely, but it could have been only because August's attention was no longer fixed on imagining its image, but drifted away to the great event he had been commissioned to carry out. The kingfisher seemed calmer when it reappeared. "Have you reconsidered what you want in return?" Its tone was almost reassuring. Actually there is.Before even thinking about how they were going to accomplish this wish, he realized that he could actually woo Amy himself, and once he realized that, he didn't want her so strongly (he had vaguely anticipated What would happen if I got her—or anyone—for myself).But which could he choose?Is it possible to get... "All of them," he whispered. "all?" "Anything I want." His shame would never have allowed him to say that if it wasn't for a sudden, terrible desire to overwhelm him. "I want to harness their power." "Deal." Kingfisher cleared his throat, looked away, and smoothed his feathers with his black claws, as if he was happy that this dirty deal had been concluded. "There's a pond in the woods above the lake, and there's a rock jutting out of the water. Put the cards in their own bags and boxes, put them there, and take the gifts you find there. Hurry up. Goodbye." The night had darkened, but the air was clear, heralding a storm.The haze of sunset is gone.The stream was pitch black, and the gurgling water made bright ripples on the surface of the water.The kingfisher is shaking its feathers on a dead tree, ready to sleep.August waited on the shore for a while, then returned to the place where he started along the path in the night, and packed up to go home.He opened his eyes wide, but he turned a blind eye to a beautiful dusk that was approaching a storm. The strange and expectant feeling in his heart made him feel slightly sick. Violet's cards were in a velvet bag, once brightly colored, now a dull rose.The box originally contained a set of Crystal Palace silver coffee spoons, but it had been sold during the years when she and her father were nomads.The cover uses different wood collages to depict the patterns of the queen and the palace of the past. Every time I want to take these quirky oval playing cards painted or printed centuries ago, I feel very happy every time I take them out of this perfectly sized box. Strange, like pulling back the curtain on an old theater to reveal something terrible. horrible.Well, maybe not always scary, or usually not, but sometimes when she pulls out a "rose" or a "ribbon" or some other shape, she gets scared: afraid of finding something she doesn't want Known secrets, such as her own death or something more horrific.The image style on the big card is weird and menacing, and the imitation brushwork is drawn with fine black lines, which is baroque German style.But even so, the secrets they reveal are usually not terrible, or even called secrets: just vague abstractions, some objections, claims, resolutions, as common and unspecific as people's proverbs.At least that's how their doom should have been explained, John and his card-solving friends had told her. But they don't all understand the cards, and although she only understands the Egyptian Tarot deck and solution (before learning this method, she usually just turned them over and stared at them, sometimes for hours ), she still often wonders if she can find a more inspiring, simpler, and effective way to use it. "That's it." She said and lifted a card carefully, "Five of Wands." "New possibilities," Nora said. "New friends. Unexpected developments." "Okay." The Five of Wands was put into its place, and Violet used a horseshoe-shaped array this time.The cards were randomly divided into six piles, and she turned out a big card from another pile: it was "Athlete". This is where it gets difficult.Violet's cards are the same as ordinary cards, with a set of twenty-one major arcana (also known as the great card), but her major card (person, place, thing, concept) is completely different from the general arcanum.So when she turns up "Package" or "Traveler" or "Convenience" or "Variety", or runs an "Athlete" card, she has to take a leap to guess what it means in the whole deck.Over the years, she had deduced the significance of these great cards by the way they fell among the chalice, sword, and scepter, and had been able to tell (or seem to have been able to tell) whether their influence was good or bad.Although she was getting more and more sure, she still couldn't be sure.Big names like Death, Moon, and Judgment are significant and clear, but how should athletes interpret them? Like all the characters in her cards, this athlete has a muscular body that is not human, and poses in an absurdly haughty pose, standing with his feet spread out and his fists on his waist.He looks really overdressed, with bows on his knees, sash on his jacket, and a wilting wreath on his wide-brimmed hat, but the thing on his shoulder is definitely a fishing rod.He was carrying something like a fish creel and some cumbersome things she couldn't understand, and a dog that looked like Spark was lying sleeping at his feet.The person who named this card "The Athlete" is the grandfather, and below the figure is written in capital Roman letters: Fisherman. “所以了，”瓦奥莱特说，“有人会有新的经验、快乐时光，或到户外冒险。真不错。” “谁？”诺拉问。 “应该说'什么人'。” “好啦，什么人？” “看我们这次是帮什么人算的啊。我们刚才决定过人选吗，还是这只是在练习？” “既然结果这么好，”诺拉说，“就当作是在帮某个人算的吧。” “奥古斯特。”可怜的奥古斯特，他应该会遇上好事。 “好吧。”但瓦奥莱特还来不及翻下一张牌，诺拉就说：“等等。我们不该开玩笑。我的意思是，倘若不是打从一开始就在算奥古斯特，万一翻出一张很坏的牌怎么办？大家难道不会担心它成真吗？”她望着那混乱的牌阵，第一次对它们的力量感到恐惧。“是不是一定会成真？” “我不知道。”瓦奥莱特停止发牌。“不，”她说，“对我们而言不见得。我猜它们会预言可能发生在我们身上的事。但——呃，我们受到了保护，对吧？” 诺拉没说话。她相信瓦奥莱特，也相信瓦奥莱特确实以她不懂的方式去了解这个“故事”，但她从来不觉得自己受到保护。 “有些一般性灾难，”瓦奥莱特说，“纸牌如果预测出来的话，我是不会相信的。” “你还纠正我的文法！”诺拉笑着说。瓦奥莱特也笑了，翻开下一张牌：圣杯四，逆。 “疲倦、恶心、嫌恶，”诺拉说，“痛苦的经历。” 楼下响起刺耳的门铃声。诺拉跳起来。 “会是谁呢？”瓦奥莱特说着把牌全部扫在一起。 “噢，”诺拉说，“我不知道。”她慌忙跑到镜前，把她浓密的金发迅速拨整齐，理了理衬衫。“有可能是哈维·克劳德，他说过可能会过来归还一本我借给他的书。”她停下动作叹了口气，仿佛很懊恼被打断。“我最好去看看。” “是啊，”瓦奥莱特说，“你去看吧。我们改天再算。” 但一星期后诺拉又想上课时，瓦奥莱特打开放牌的抽屉，却发现那副纸牌不见了。诺拉坚称自己没拿。也不在其他任何瓦奥莱特有可能心不在焉乱放的地方。她翻箱倒柜，大半抽屉被她拉了出来，纸张和盒子散了一地。最后她困惑、有点惊恐地在床缘坐下。 “不见了。”她说。 “你要我怎样都行，奥古斯特，”埃米说，“怎样都行。”他把头靠在自己弯起的膝盖上，说：“老天，埃米。老天爷，我真抱歉。” “噢，别这样说，奥古斯特，这很不好。”她泪眼迷蒙，脸庞就像他们眼前那片收割过的十月玉米田。有乌鸦在那儿寻找玉米，忽而飞起，忽而在其他地方降落。她握住奥古斯特的手，自己的双手已因收割作物而皴裂。他俩都在发抖，一方面是寒冷，一方面是情境令人心寒。“我在书上读过，人会相爱一段时间，然后就不再相爱了。我始终不懂为什么。” “我也不知道，埃米。” “我会永远爱你。” 他抬起头，内心充满忧郁和温柔的悔意，似乎自己也变成了雾气、变成了秋天。他曾经热爱着她，但却是等到提分手的时候，他的爱才突然变得这么纯粹。 “我只想知道为什么。”她说。 他无法告诉她主要是基于行程的安排，其实跟她没什么关系，他只是还有其他急迫无比的事要办而已（老天爷，急急急）……他选择于黎明时分，在这丛褐色的欧洲蕨下方跟她碰面（因为这段时间她家人才不会发现她不在），目的就是跟她分手，而他所能想到的唯一一个可接受且高尚的理由就是他已经不爱她了。因此犹豫了许久、冷冷地吻了她很多次后，他说出口的就是这个理由。但当他这么做，她却是如此勇敢、如此忍让，滑落脸颊的泪水是如此苦咸，以致他觉得自己这么说似乎只是为了看看她有多美好、多忠诚、多温顺，只是为了以悲伤和迫近的失落感刺激他自己那逐渐萎缩的感情。 “噢，别这样埃米，埃米，我从来无意……”他抱住她，她并未抵抗，但也不敢向前，因为片刻前他才说过自己已经不想要她。结果面对她的羞涩、她那双害怕又充满希望的大眼睛，他弃械投降。 “你不该这样的，奥古斯特，如果你已经不爱我。” “别这样说，埃米，别这样说。” 他自己也快哭了，仿佛真的再也不会见到她似的（但他现在已经明白自己终究必须，也会继续跟她见面）。在窸窣作响的落叶上，他跟她一起进入了爱情悲伤甜蜜的新领域，治愈了他在她身上造成的可怕伤害。 爱情的地形似乎无边无际。 “下星期天？奥古斯特？”她还很害羞，但已经有了信心。 “不。下星期天不行。但……明天吧。或者今晚。你可不可以……” “可以的，我会想办法。噢，奥古斯特。好甜蜜。” 她跑过田野，一边擦拭着脸蛋，将头发夹好。她已经出来太久，身处险境，但她快乐无比。这就是我最后的下场，他内心的最后一丝反抗意志这么想：连爱情的结束都只是刺激了爱情而已。他朝另一个方向走去，来到他停车的地方。车上挂着一条装饰用的松鼠尾，如今吸饱了水汽，垮垮地挂在那儿。他发动车子，试图不去思考。 天杀的，他到底该怎么办？ 取得那个礼物后，他本以为自己见到埃米·梅多斯时之所以会浑身震颤，只是因为确定自己的欲望终于要获得满足了。但不论确不确定，他为了她还是搞得自己像个白痴：他冒险找上她父亲，撒了危险的谎，差点被拆穿，他在她家附近寒冷的地方等了好几个小时，只为等她抽身（他苦涩地意识到自己只是得到驾驭女人的力量，却没办法控制她们的处境）。而尽管埃米答应他提出的每一个计划，配合他夜间的幽会、他的密谋、顺应他每一项要求，但就连她这些毫不羞耻的行为都未能解除他的无力感：他根本没有掌控全局，反之，他受到一种比以往更强烈的欲望支配，根本不像是自发的，反而像是被恶魔附了身。 几个月下来，他驾着福特往返于五座城镇之间，感觉愈来愈肯定：他虽然驾着福特，但受到驾驭的人却是他自己，受制、被改变，完全无力反抗。 瓦奥莱特没问他为什么放弃了在田溪盖加油站的想法。他不时对她抱怨说到最近的加油站一趟，就几乎耗光了他加的油，听起来却不像一种暗示或辩论，事实上他似乎整个人都变得不好辩了。她认为他这种仿佛另有烦恼的憔悴气息可能暗示着他正在进行某种更不可思议的计划，但又觉得不是这样。每当他静静在家休息时，神情跟声音里总会透露罪恶似的疲倦感，她希望他不是在偷偷干什么坏事。铁定是发生了什么事。纸牌应该能告诉她答案，但纸牌已经不见了。他八成只是恋爱了，她心想。 That's right.倘若瓦奥莱特没选择把自己关在楼上的房间里，就会知道自己的小儿子受到多少女孩青睐，艾基伍德周围的五座城镇无一幸免。女孩们的父母略有耳闻；女孩们自己私下也会谈论。只要瞥见奥古斯特的T型车，挡风玻璃上插着一根有弹性的杆子、顶端那条鲜艳时髦的松鼠尾在风中飘扬，就表示她们要坐立难安一整天、翻来覆去一整夜了，早上醒来枕头上还泪迹斑斑。她们不知道其实奥古斯特的日子没比她们好过到哪里去。她们怎猜得到呢？她们的心都给他了。 他没料到会这样。他听说过大情圣卡萨诺瓦，但没读过他的事迹。他把状况想象成后宫那样，苏丹只须专横地拍个手，他看上的佳丽就会温顺地上前接受临幸，就像在杂货店，丢下一枚一角硬币就会得到一杯巧克力苏打。他惊愕地发现自己对埃米疯狂的欲望虽然丝毫未减，却也深深爱上了弗劳尔家的大女儿。爱欲色欲熏心之下，他只要不是跟埃米在一起、只要不是想着尚不满十四岁的小玛格丽特·朱尼珀（怎会这样？），他就想她想个不停。他慢慢学到了所有为情所困的恋人都会学到的事：爱情必然能够迫使爱情发生，也许除了蛮力以外，只有爱情能办到这点，前提是恋人必须像奥古斯特这样，坚信爱情只要够强烈，必能获得回报（这就是他得到的可怕礼物）。而奥古斯特的爱情确实也够强烈。 当初，他带着满心的羞愧用颤抖的手把纸牌放在池塘岸边的岩石上，试图对自己否认这是他母亲最珍贵的东西。接着拿起了放在那儿的礼物，只是一条松鼠尾，八成不是什么礼物，可能只是猫头鹰或狐狸吃剩的早餐。他那时简直疯了。他完全是基于一份浓厚而纯真的希望将松鼠尾绑在他的福特汽车上，不寄予任何期待。但他们信守了诺言。噢，是的，他即将成为一本爱情大全，还附有注脚（他座位底下有一件女用内衣，他甚至想不起是谁脱下的）。但当他把那撮飞舞的松鼠毛挂在挡风玻璃上，从杂货店开往教堂、从一座城镇开往另一座城镇时，他终于明白自己对女人的魅力从来都不是得自于它：他之所以能够控制女人，实则是因为女人控制了他。 弗劳尔一家人通常会在周三来访，为瓦奥莱特带来大捧大捧的鲜花，让她插在房里。尽管瓦奥莱特面对这么多被攀折下来缓缓凋零的鲜花，总觉得有些羞愧和罪恶，她还是试着对弗劳尔太太的绿拇指表达欣赏崇拜之情。但他们这回却是周二前来，而且并未带花。 “请进，请进。”瓦奥莱特说。他们一反常态，害羞地站在她卧室门口。“要来点茶吗？” “噢，不用了，”弗劳尔太太说，“只要说几句话。” 但他们坐下后，却是一段漫长又尴尬的沉默，只是互相交换眼色，似乎无法直视瓦奥莱特。 弗劳尔一家人是战后过来的，接收了麦格雷戈先生的老房子，弗劳尔太太说是为了“逃离”大城。弗劳尔先生在大城里曾经有钱有势，但究竟是什么地位却不清楚，钱是怎么赚来的就更神秘了。这不是因为他们刻意隐瞒，而是他们似乎觉得这种日常俗事很难聊得清楚。他们曾跟约翰一起加入神智学学会，两人都爱煞了瓦奥莱特。跟约翰一样，他们的生活里也充满了无声的戏剧、充满了模糊但令人兴奋的征兆，显示人生其实跟一般人想的不一样。他们把人生视为一张巨大乏味的帘幕（令瓦奥莱特讶异的是这种人竟然还不少，而且很多都朝艾基伍德而来），他们很肯定这张帘幕随时会升起，揭露一番精致绝美的景象。而尽管帘幕始终未曾升起，他们还是很有耐心，在演员就位时兴奋地注意着每一个小动作，拉长耳朵倾听那无法想象的场景变换。 他们跟约翰一样认为瓦奥莱特是演员之一，或至少在幕后工作。但她却完全不当自己是这么回事，结果他们反而愈发觉得她神秘又令人着迷。周三来看过她后，他们就可以静静聊上一个晚上，然后抱着恭敬机警的态度展开一整个礼拜的生活。 但这天却不是周三。 “这跟幸福有关。”弗劳尔太太说。瓦奥莱特困惑地瞪着她看了一会儿，之后才重新理解这句话：“这跟'幸福'有关。”幸福是他们大女儿的名字。老二和老三分别叫“喜乐”和“精神”。他们的名字出现时也会有同样的困扰：我们的喜乐今天不在；我们的精神回来时一身泥泞。弗劳尔太太交握着双手，抬起眼睛（此时瓦奥莱特才发现她已经哭红了眼）：“幸福怀孕了。” “噢，天啊。” 弗劳尔先生蓄着少年般细细的胡子，宽大敏感的额头总让瓦奥莱特联想起莎士比亚。他开口说话，但声音很小、很不直接，因此瓦奥莱特得倾身向前才能听到。她听出了重点：幸福说她怀孕了，孩子的爹是瓦奥莱特的儿子奥古斯特。 “她哭了一整夜。”弗劳尔太太说，自己的眼眶也泛起泪水。弗劳尔先生解释了，或者他试图解释。他们并非相信世俗的耻辱或名节那套东西，毕竟他们自己的婚约也是在立下誓言或举行典礼之前就已经完成了，精力的绽放总是好事一桩。不：重点是奥古斯特……呃……似乎跟他们有不同的理解，也可能他比较懂，但不管怎样，说白了就是他们认为奥古斯特伤透了这女孩的心，虽然她说他说过爱她。他们不知道瓦奥莱特是否了解奥古斯特的想法，或者——或者她是否知道这男孩打算怎么处理这件事（这句话满载着粗俗误谬的意义，但终究说出了口，当的一声，就像从他口袋里掉出来的那块马蹄铁）。 瓦奥莱特动了动嘴巴，仿佛试着回答，但却说不出答案。她镇定下来。“他若爱她，”她说，“那么……” “他有可能是爱她没错，”弗劳尔先生说，“但他说——她说这是他说的——他还另有其人，一个……呃，比她有优先权的人，一个……” “他跟别人有婚约了，”弗劳尔太太说，“而那女孩也……呃。” “埃米·梅多斯？” “不不，不是这个名字。叫什么名字来着？” 弗劳尔先生咳了咳。“幸福也不是很确定。可能有……不止一个。” 瓦奥莱特只能说：“噢，天哪，噢，天哪。”她深深感受到他们的惊骇，知道他们勇敢地克制自己不去谴责，却不知该如何回答。他们满怀希望地看着她，希望她能说出一句话，让这一切也能符合他们观察到的那出戏。但她终究只能挤出一个绝望的微笑，小声说道：“呃，我猜这也不是史上第一次。” “不是第一次？” “我是说，不是第一次。” 他们一阵惊喜。所以她确实知道了：她知道这有先例可循。会是什么呢？吹着笛子散播精子、让灵魂化为肉身，降凡。What?一种他们完全没概念的东西？是的，比他们所能想象的更加闪亮奇异。 “不是第一次，”弗劳尔先生说，扬起了眉毛，“是啊。” “这个，”弗劳尔太太几乎是在耳语，“是不是'故事'的一部分？” “是什么？噢，是的。”瓦奥莱特说着陷入深思。埃米怎么了？奥古斯特在搞什么鬼？他哪来的狗胆，竟敢伤女孩子的心？她一阵惊恐。“只是我不知道会这样，我从没料到……噢，奥古斯特。”她说着低下头。这是他们造成的吗？她怎么知道？可以问他吗？她可以从他的答案里得知真相吗？ 看她这么手足无措，弗劳尔先生倾身向前。“我们绝对、绝对、绝对无意增加你的负担，”他说，“我们并非……并非认为……并非无法确定这没事。幸福并不怪他，我的意思是事情不是那样。” “不，”弗劳尔太太说，轻轻按住瓦奥莱特的手臂，“我们什么也不要。不是那么回事。一个新灵魂总是一份喜悦。我们会照顾她。” “也许，”瓦奥莱特说，“以后会清楚些。” “肯定会的，”弗劳尔太太说，“毕竟这是……这是故事的一部分。” 但瓦奥莱特已经明白以后并不会更清楚。故事。是啊，这是故事的一部分。但她突然有所领悟，就像傍晚时分独自在房里看书或工作的人一样，只觉得眼前的东西愈来愈模糊、愈来愈难看懂，结果一抬头就发现黄昏已至，那就是眼前愈来愈模糊的原因。但距离下一次天亮还很久，此时只会愈来愈暗。 “拜托，”她说，“喝点茶。我们点灯吧，你们再坐一会儿。” 她听见——他们听见——外头有一辆车稳定地朝房子哒哒驶来。接近车道时，它放慢了速度（声音就像蟋蟀一样清楚而规律），仿佛改变心意似的换了挡，随即继续哒哒前进。 故事有多长？她曾问过。而昂德希尔太太说了：必须等到你、你的孩子和孙子全都长眠地下，故事才会说完。 她握住台灯线，但没立刻将灯点亮。what did she do这是她的错吗？因为她不相信故事能有这么长？Yes.她打算改变。如果时间够，她会尽可能修正一切。时间一定够的。她拉下台灯线，让窗户变成黑夜、让房间变成房间。 奥古斯特带玛格丽特·朱尼珀去看的那个巨大月亮已经升起了，但他们却没看它的攀升过程。奥古斯特坚称这是收获之月，还在路上对玛吉唱了一首关于这月亮的歌，但尽管它呈琥珀色，巨大无比、看似丰硕，这却不是收获之月（下个月的才是），现在只是八月的最后一天而已。 月光照在他们身上。现在他们可以好好欣赏了，但奥古斯特已经晕眩满足得什么事也做不了，甚至无力去安抚在他身旁静静哭泣的玛吉，说不定她是喜极而泣呢，谁知道。He couldn't speak.他猜想自己是不是除了邀请和提议之外，什么话也说不出口了。也许他若一直不说话……但他知道他会开口的。 玛吉在月光下举起一只手，轻抚他刚开始留的胡子，又哭又笑。“真帅。”她说。他被她摸得皱起鼻子，像只兔子。她们为什么老爱乱搓他的胡子、弄得上下颠倒？他是不是该干脆把胡子刮了，让她们没办法再乱玩？她嘴唇红润，周围的肌肤因为亲吻和哭泣而发红。她贴在他身上的皮肤跟他想象的一样柔软，只是他没料到会缀满粉红色的雀斑，但纤细白皙的大腿上倒是没有，赤裸裸地搁在沾满汗水的皮椅上。敞开的衬衫里，她的胸部小巧、看起来很新，有着尚未定型的大大乳头，似乎刚刚发育成形。私处的毛发是金黄色，僵硬而细小，像一个点。老天爷，他见识过多少私密之处。他强烈感受到解放后的肉体有多么怪异。这些东西应该要藏起来的，这些弱点、这些怪东西、这些跟蜗牛的身体或触角一样柔软的器官，暴露在外实在是太可怕了。他想把那些如彩带般挂在车子周围的漂亮白色贴身衣物再穿回她身上，但这样想的同时再次硬了起来。 “噢。”她说。由于匆匆忙忙就被开了苞、该想的事情太多，她八成没注意到他是多么饥渴。“你总是一结束就马上再来吗？” 他没回答，因为这跟他无关。不如去问问在鱼钩上挣扎的鳟鱼想要继续挣扎还是停止。交易就是交易。但他确实猜不透为什么第二次似乎通常比第一次困难：虽然男人已经更熟悉女人、女人多少也学会了基本技巧，但两人却比较无法契合，膝盖跟手肘尴尬地碰来碰去。这一切都无法阻止他在交欢的同时更加爱她，但他本就不预期如此。她们是如此各异其趣：身体、乳房、气味各不相同，他不知道她们竟然这么有个人色彩，如此充满个性、各有不同的面孔与声音。他领教过太多种个性。他知道太多了。他爱欲和性知识交加，大声呻吟，紧紧抱着她。 很晚了，爬上天空的月亮已经缩小，变得寒冷白亮。那些步伐是多么悲伤啊。她再次流下眼泪，却似乎不是真的哭泣，似乎是种自然的分泌，也许是因为月亮的缘故。她忙着穿上衣服，虽然献给他的东西已经拿不回来了。她平静地对他说：“我很高兴，奥古斯特，能有这唯一的一次。” “什么意思？”这声音粗哑得像只野兽，根本不像他。“唯一的一次？” 她用手掌抹去眼泪，看不到自己的吊袜带。“因为这样我就能永远记得这一次了。” "No way." “至少能记得这个。”她把裙子往空中一抛，十足利落地让它落在自己头上。她扭动一下，它就像一面窗帘般盖住了她的身体，那是最后的一幕。“奥古斯特，不要，”她往门边一缩，紧紧交握着双手，拱起了肩膀，“因为你不爱我，而这没关系。不。我知道萨拉·石东的事。大家都知道。没关系。” "Who?" “你敢说谎就试试看。”她警告地看着他。他别想用谎言和粗糙的否定破坏这一切。“你爱她。那是事实，你自己也知道。”他沉默不语。那是事实。他内心产生一种他无从控制、只能旁观的剧烈冲击。那声音让他几乎听不见她说话。“我再也不会跟其他任何人做这件事，再也不会。”她耗尽了勇气，嘴唇开始颤抖，“我会搬去杰夫家住，我永远不会再爱上别人，只会永远记得现在。”杰夫是她善良的哥哥，一个专门栽培玫瑰的园丁。她别过头去。“现在你可以送我回家了。” 他送她回家，一个字也没多说。 内心满是噪声的感觉跟空虚很像。他空虚地看着她下车，看着她渐行渐远，粉碎了月光下的树影也被它们粉碎。她没回头，她就算回头也不会让他看见。他空虚地从阴暗而令人震颤的十字路口驶离。空虚地往家里开去。他离开铺着闪亮圆卵石的灰色道路，冲过水沟、爬上边坡、驾着勇猛无惧的福特转上一片未收割过的银白田野，继续前进，但这种感觉却不像是抉择，只是空虚而已。这份空虚逐渐被一份决心填满，而这份决心感觉也很空虚。 汽车没油了。他塞住气门、再次发动，逼它再走一小段路，但引擎还是熄了。倘若十英里内有家天杀的加油站就太方便了。他在逐渐寒冷的车子里坐了一会儿，想象着自己的最终目的地，但又不是真的在思考。他确实想过玛吉会不会认为他这么做是为了她（这是最后一个一闪即逝的低俗想法）。好吧，就某种角度而言，他只要在口袋里放些石头（一些沉重的石头），然后放轻松就好。让流水洗净一切。那份空虚的决心所造成的如雷声响就像瀑布冷冷的水声，仿佛已经传入耳中，他不禁猜想自己是不是除了这个声音以外再也听不到其他声音了。他希望不是这样。 他下了车，取下那条松鼠尾。应该将它送还回去，也许这样他们就会把他当初支付的代价退还给他。他穿着他那花花公子的真皮皮鞋，跌跌撞撞地朝树林走去。 “妈？”诺拉惊愕地说，拿着一组空的杯盘在大厅里停下脚步，“你起来做什么？” 瓦奥莱特站在楼梯上，诺拉完全没听见她下楼的声音。她衣着整齐，穿着一套诺拉很多年没看她穿过的衣服，但却神情恍惚，仿佛在梦游。 “还是没有奥古斯特的消息？”她说，仿佛已经很肯定不会有消息。 “没有，没有消息。” 两个星期前，一位邻居说他看到奥古斯特的福特汽车被丢在一片田野里受风吹雨打。犹豫了很久后，奥伯龙建议瓦奥莱特报警，但她完全没办法把事情朝这个方向去想，所以他怀疑她根本没听到：奥古斯特的命运不可能因为警察而改变，甚至不可能由警察来发现。 “是我的错，你知道，”她小声说，“不管发生了什么。噢，诺拉。” 瓦奥莱特跌倒似的突然坐下，诺拉连忙冲上楼梯。她拉住瓦奥莱特的手臂想扶她起身，但瓦奥莱特只是捏了捏诺拉的手，仿佛需要安慰的人是诺拉。诺拉在她身旁坐下。“我错得真离谱，”瓦奥莱特说，“笨得离谱、错得离谱。结果现在就变成这样。” “不，”诺拉说，“你是什么意思？” “我没看出来，”瓦奥莱特说，“我以为……你听好了，诺拉。我要到大城去。我要去看提米和亚历克斯，在那儿长住一阵子，看看宝宝。你要一起来吗？” “当然，”诺拉说，“只是……” “好吧。还有，诺拉，你那位年轻人。” “什么年轻人？”她望向别处。 “亨利。哈维。你可能以为我不知道，但我知道。我认为——我认为你们应该——应该照你们的意思做。我若说过什么话让你以为我不希望你们……呃，其实没那回事。你们想怎么做就怎么做。嫁给他，搬走……” “但我不想搬走。” “可怜的奥伯龙，我猜现在是太迟了——他错过了战争，而且……” “妈，”诺拉说，“你在说什么？” 她安静了一会儿。接着：“是我自己的错，”她说，“我没想过。但若知道一点点或猜到一点点，就很难不去——不去帮忙，不去试着修正它；很难不害怕、不去做一些小事，噢，只是些微不足道的小事——来阻挠它发生。但事实却不是这样，对吧？” "I have no idea." “不是这样的。你看，”她把苍白纤瘦的手紧紧交握在一起，闭上眼睛，“这毕竟是个故事。只是它比我们想象的，我们能够想象的，更长、更奇怪。所以你必须，”她睁开眼睛，“你我必须做的就是忘记。” “忘记什么？” “忘记有个故事正在发生。否则——噢，你看不出来吗，倘若我们什么都不知道，我们就永远不会插手、不会把事情搅得一团乱了。但我们确实知道一些事，只是知道得还不够，所以我们会猜错、卷入其中，必须靠一些很奇怪，很……的方法来修正——噢，亲爱的可怜的奥古斯特，最臭最吵的加油站都比这个好，我知道一定会的……” “但特殊命运那一大堆的