Chapter 10 I

Twenty-five years have passed. One night in late autumn, George Mouse stepped out from the window of his study on the third floor of his city mansion and onto a small covered bridge.The covered bridge connects his window to the old kitchen of an adjoining tenement house.The abandoned kitchen was dark and cold, and under the light of the lantern, the breath of George Mouse was very obvious.Rats and mice scrambled away as he passed, and he heard the rustling of their toes, but saw nothing.Without opening the door, he stepped straight up the hall (there hadn't been a door panel in years), and walked carefully down the stairs, because the treads were either completely missing or rotted and loose.

Downstairs was full of light and laughter, and people came and went from apartment to apartment with shared dinners, saying hello when they saw him.Children chased and played in the hallway.But the ground floor is very dark and unused except for storage.George held his lantern aloft, and looked from the dark corridor to the outer door, and saw that the great bar was bolted, and that the chain and all the locks were safe.He went around the stairs to the door leading to the basement and produced a large bunch of keys.One of them was specially marked, as black as an old copper coin, and opened the ancient lock in the basement.

Every time he opened the basement door, George wondered if he should get a nice new padlock.The old lock was no more than a toy, like an old man's hand, and anyone could easily break it.But he always thinks that changing a new lock will only lead to other people's speculation, and once people become curious, it is enough to bump their shoulders on the door, regardless of whether it has a new lock or not. Well, they've all become very deliberate about keeping out the idlers, etc. He made his way down the stairs more cautiously, who knew what was lodged among the rusty pipes, old pots, and incredible debris down below.He once stepped on something big and limp and dead and almost broke his neck.At the foot of the stairs, he hung up the lantern, and went to a corner to bring in an old box, for he had to step on it to reach a high rat-proof cabinet.

As Aunt Claude had predicted years ago, he got the gift (from a stranger, and it wasn't money), but it took him a long time to learn the origin of the gift.Even before he knew it, he'd been secretive about it, because he'd been raised on the streets and the nosy, youngest kid in the family.George seems to have strong, musky weed on hand at all times, everyone loves and wants some of it, but he's unwilling (and unable) to introduce them to his suppliers (who are actually long dead) .He would entertain everyone for a few puffs and keep everyone happy, and his pipes in the house were always full.But although after a few cigarettes, he would sometimes look around at the stunned guests, feel a little guilty of his own complacency, and wish he could tell his big ridiculous and amazing secret, but he didn't say it, and he didn't tell anyone. Did not say.

The reason why George can find out where this huge gift came from is because Smoky accidentally revealed something to him. "I read somewhere," said Smokey (that was his customary preface), "about fifty or sixty years ago, that your part was a Middle Eastern one, with a lot of Lebanese, candy shops and such. Overtly selling marijuana. You know, with toffee and crushed sesame honey candies. You can get a bunch of them for a nickel. Big chunks, huge chunks, like chocolate bars." They really do look like chocolate bars...George felt like a cartoon mouse who was suddenly woken up by a hard stick.

Henceforth, whenever he came downstairs to fetch goods from his secret storage room, he imagined himself to be a Levantine with a goatee, a hooked nose, and a cap, who was actually a covert sodomite, free of charge. Treat the olive boy on the street to baklava.He'd drag the old trunk awkwardly and climb up (pretending to pull up the ragged hem of his nightgown) and flip open the crate with the cursive lettering. Not much left, time to order. Beneath a thick sheet of silver foil lay stacks of goods.Each layer is separated by a piece of yellow oil paper.Those strips are also tightly wrapped in the third oil paper.He took two out, thought about it, and put one back reluctantly.Although years ago, when he discovered what these things were, he exclaimed how they could be used up, he knew that they were not inexhaustible.He covered the layer of oiled paper and the silver foil paper one by one, put the thick lid on again, and stuffed back the old deformed nails one by one, and then blew on it to make the dust even.He climbed down from the box and studied the strip carefully by the light of the lantern, for he had seen it under electric light the first time.He carefully peeled off the wrapping paper.It was as dark as chocolate, about the size of a playing card, and about an eighth of an inch thick.Embossed with a spiral imprint, registered trademark?stamp?Mystery symbols?He still can't be sure.

He pushed the stepping box back into place in the corner, picked up the lantern, and climbed the stairs again.In his cardigan pocket was a brick of marijuana that was probably a hundred years old and still undiminished—George Mouse had long ago determined that.The taste may be even better, just like an old red wine gets better with age. He was about to lock the cellar door when there was a knock at the street door, and he let out a cry, so sudden and without warning.He waited for a while, hoping it was just a lunatic knocking on the door, and left in a while.But the knock came again.He walked to the door, listened quietly, and heard someone cursed in frustration outside.Then someone let out a low growl, grabbed the iron bar on the door and began to shake it.

"It's useless, it's useless." George said aloud, and the other party stopped shaking. "Okay, then you open the door." "What did you say?" It was George's habit, when he didn't know how to answer, he would pretend that he didn't understand the question. "Open the door!" "Look, you know I can't just open the door like that. You know the mood of society right now." "Okay, listen. Can you tell me which one is number two hundred and twenty-two?" "Who is asking?" "Why does everyone in this city answer a question with another question?"

"what?" "Why can't you just open the door and talk to me like a goddamn normal person?" The two were silent.The terrible intensity of frustration in that cry touched George's heart, so he listened at the door for a while longer to see what would happen next.Behind that solid door, he secretly delighted in feeling safe. "Please," the man said, and George could hear him suppressing a rage to be polite, "can you tell me where to find the Mouse House or George Mouse? Or at least tell me if you know." "Yes," said George, "I am." Dangerous as it was, it was unlikely that even the most desperate creditor or attorney would be out at this late hour. "Who are you?"

"My name is Auberon Barnabe. My father..." But then the lock and bolt rattled and creaked, drowning out his voice.George reached into the darkness and pulled the man on the threshold into the hall.Quickly and deftly he closed, locked, and bolted the door again, and held up the lantern to gaze at his cousin. "So you're that little baby," he said, with a sort of morbid pleasure in noticing how inappropriate it was for the tall young man.The shaking lantern made his expression look ever-changing, but the face itself didn't change much, it was a thin and tense face.In fact, he was a little stiff and indifferent, as lean and strong as a pen, wearing black clothes that fitted him very well.Just angry, thought George.He smiled and patted his arm. "Hey, how's everyone? How's Elsie and Lacey and Tilly... what's their name? Why did you come here?"

"Father wrote to you," said Auberon, as if he did not want to waste his energy answering these questions, if his father had already said it in his letter. "Oh really? Oh, you know what the postal system is like too. Look, look. Come on. We don't have to stand in the lobby. It's fucking cold in here. Want some coffee and something to eat ?” Smoky's son shrugged impatiently. "Watch out for the stairs," said George.In this way they walked through the apartment with a lantern, across the small covered bridge, and back to the worn carpet under the feet of Auberon's parents when they first met. On the way George picked up a battered kitchen chair with only three and a half legs. "Did you run away from home? Sit down." He pointed to a dilapidated high-back chair. "My parents know I'm away, if that's what you're asking," said Auberon, with a slightly condescending tone, but that's understandable, George thought.Then he ducked back into the chair, for George had hoisted the broken chair over his head with a groan and frantic expression, and smashed it against the stone hearth with a contorted face.The chair rattled to pieces. "Do they agree?" asked George, throwing the chair fragments into the fire. "Of course," said Auberon, lifting his feet and tugging at the knees of his trousers, "he wrote, and I told you. He asked me to come and see you." "Oh yes. Did you walk here?" "No." The tone was a little contemptuous. "And you came to Ayutthaya to..." "Make a career out of it." "Aha." George hung a teapot over the fire, and took down a bottle of precious contraband coffee from the bookcase. "Any ideas?" "Not yet, not yet. It's just..." George made a humming sound to encourage him to continue, while preparing the coffee pot and taking out the unsuitable cup and plate set. "I thought, I wanted to write, or be a writer." George raised an eyebrow.Auberon lay awkwardly in his high-backed chair, as if these confessions were slipping out of his mouth, and he was trying to hold them back. "I have considered entering the entertainment industry." "Then it's a mistake for you to run to the east bank." "what?" "The entertainment industry is all concentrated in the sunny and golden West Coast," George said.Auberon hooked his right foot firmly to his left calf and refused to respond.Rummaging in bookcases and drawers, fumbling in pockets, George wondered how this ancient desire had come to Edgewood.It's strange how young people are full of hope and fall in love with this dying industry.When he was young, when the last poets were talking about seclusion and fireflies flying to their dewy forest glens, boys at twenty-one were all poets... At last he found What he was looking for: a gift shop sword-shaped letter opener, encrusted with enamelled enamel, that he had picked up in an abandoned apartment many years ago and had since sharpened to perfection. "It takes a lot of ambition to get into showbiz," he said, "and drive, and there are a lot of losers." He poured water into the coffee pot. "How do you know?" Auberon snapped back, as if he had heard this grown-up wisdom many times before. "Because," said George, "I don't have those qualities in me, and because of that, I didn't fail in that area, so I got certified. The coffee is filtered." The boy didn't even smile.George put the coffee pot on a tripod with jokes written in Pennsylvania Dutch slang.Then he took out the biscuits in the iron box, most of which were broken.He also took the brown marijuana brick out of his sweater pocket. "Would you like to try it?" he said, showing the brick to Auberon, feeling no reluctance. "I think it's the best Lebanese." "I don't do drugs." "Oh, aha." George calculated accurately, and with his Florentine-style letter opener, cut off a small corner, forked it with the point of the knife, and dropped it into the glass.He sat there stirring his coffee with a knife, watching his cousin, Auberon puffing on his coffee with pure concentration.Ah, it's good to be old and gray-haired like this, having learned not to ask for too much and not to ask for too little. "So," he said, pulling the knife out of the coffee to find that the marijuana had almost dissolved, "tell me about your history." Auberon said nothing. "Come on, tell me." George eagerly drank the fragrant drink, "Tell me some news about my hometown." It took him a while to ask questions, but Auberon did say a few words and confided anecdotes as the night wore on.That's enough for George.After finishing his coffee with spiked coffee, he listened to Auberon tell his whole life, including amusing details, odd connections, pain, and even magic.He found himself looking into the closed mind of his cousin, like a curled and compartmented nautilus cut through it. He left Edgewood early in the morning and woke up before dawn, just as he had planned; he had the same ability as his mother to wake up when he wanted.He lit a lamp and it was another hour or two before Smoky went down to the basement to start the generator.There was a quivering tension around his diaphragm, as if something was trying to break free or flee.He knows that there is a saying called "butterflies flying around in the belly", but people like him have never responded to this idiom.He'd been tense, just as he'd had goosebumps or panic attacks, and he'd been excited more than once, but he'd always thought these were unique experiences of his own, never knowing that they were so common that they had names.Based on this ignorance, he wrote poems about these strange sensations and typed them.Once in his neat black suit, he carefully packs the pages of poetry into his green rucksack, along with his other clothes, his toothbrush, what else?An old Gillette razor, four bars of soap, a copy of "Brother North Wind's Secret", and the will materials to be handed over to the lawyer. He walked through the sleeping house, seriously imagining that this was the last time he would do it, and that he would be on a journey into the unknown.In fact the house seemed restless, tossing and turning in a half-dream, opening its eyes in surprise as he passed.There is a cold light like water on the long corridor, and the virtual rooms and halls look very real in the dark. "You don't seem to be shaved," said Smokey uncertainly when Auberon entered the kitchen. "Would you like some oatmeal?" "I don't want to wake everyone up with water. I'm afraid I won't be able to eat." Smoky continued with the old wood-burning stove.When I was a child, one thing always surprised Auberon: I saw my father go to bed at home at night, and I saw him at the school desk the next morning, as if Smoky could transform, or there was two him.One morning when he finally got up early enough to see his father, with his tousled hair and a plaid nightgown, getting up for school, he felt as if he had caught a wizard.But Smoky always made his own breakfast.Although that shiny white induction cooker had stood unused for years in the corner like a proud old butler in involuntary retirement, and although Smoky was not good at making fires (as he is not at many things), he Still maintaining this habit, he just has to get up early to start work. Auberon was beginning to grow impatient with his father's patience, so he bent over the stove, and within a few moments the flames were ablaze.Smoky stood behind him with his hands in his pockets watching, and presently they were sitting face to face, enjoying their porridge, and coffee, a present from George Mouse in the big city. They sat for a while with their hands on their laps, looking not into each other's eyes but into the coffee cups side by side, like brown eyes from Brazil.Then Smoky coughed apologetically, got up and took a bottle of brandy from the high cabinet. "It's a long way to go." He said and mixed some wine with his coffee. Smoky? Yes.George could see that Smoky had probably developed some sort of emotional tangle over the past few years, which sometimes all it took was some strong drink to untangle.It's really not a problem, just a mouthful, so that he can ask Auberon if the money is really enough, if he has the addresses of his grandfather's agents, if he has the address of George Maus, the legal documents of the inheritance Have you brought everything... yes, you have it all. After the doctor's death, his stories continued to appear in the Metropolitan Evening Gazette, and George would even read them before reading the jokes.In addition to these stories, which were kept until his death, the doctor left behind a messy, tangled business of thorns, with lawyers and attorneys chasing his intentions, and probably not for years to come. result.Auberon was particularly interested in these delicate matters, because the doctor had indicated that there was something left for him that would allow him to live and write without any worries for a year.Ashamed to say it, the doctor wanted his grandson (and best friend in later life) to continue writing these little adventures, but Auberon was at a disadvantage in that regard - he would have to make up his own stories, It's not like doctors have experienced it personally for many years. Finding out that he could talk to animals was a little awkward, which George could easily imagine.No one knows how long the doctor's belief has been brewing, but some adults remember the first time he claimed that he had this ability, he was a little shy and uncertain, and everyone thought it should be a joke. Joke, but then again, doctor jokes are never very funny, probably only a few million children.Later he switched to metaphors or puzzles: recounting conversations with salamanders or tits with enigmatic smiles, as if inviting family members to guess why he said what he said.Finally he gave up trying to hide it: the facts he'd heard from his correspondents were too interesting to tell. Since all this happened when Auberon's consciousness gradually matured, he only felt that his grandfather's ability was becoming more and more stable, and his ears became more and more sensitive.When they went for a walk in the woods once, the doctor finally stopped pretending that the animal conversations he heard were fabricated and admitted that he was just telling what he heard, and the result was a lot easier for both of them.Auberon had never liked the game of "pretend" very much, and doctors didn't like lying to children.He said he couldn't figure it out himself, perhaps simply because of his long-standing love for animals.In any case, he could understand only some of the animal languages, the small ones with which he was most familiar.He knew nothing about bears, elk, rare and fantastic cats, solitary predators with long wings.They may look down on him, or be unable to speak, or not talk about trivial things, in short, he has no way to tell. "What about the insects?" Auberon asked him. "Some can, but not all," the doctor said. "Where are the ants?" "Oh, ants are all right," said the doctor. "Of course." So he took his grandson's hand, squatted next to a newly discovered yellow anthill, and happily translated for him the mindless jargon spoken by the ants in the anthill. By this time Auberon was asleep, curled up under a blanket in the popping lover's chair.Anyone who wakes up so early and travels so far using so many modes of transportation must do the same.But tic George Mouse had always loved dizzying psychic powers, so he watched the boy and continued to slyly sense his story. Auberon's cereal was completely untouched, but he was out of coffee.Though Auberon was taller than he was, Smoky walked out the gate with his father's shoulders.At this moment, Auberon found that it was impossible for him to leave without saying goodbye.All three of his older sisters came to see him off: Lily and Lucy were walking up the drive arm in arm; Lily carried her twins one in front and one behind; Tessie also appeared at the end of the drive on her bicycle. He might have expected this to happen, but he didn't want them to see him off at all.This was simply the last thing he wanted to happen, because whether it was parting or meeting people, or someone coming, as long as my sister was present, it would definitely seem like a formal ending.Besides, how the hell would they know it was this morning?He had only told Smoky late last night, and had sworn him to secrecy.A familiar anger rose in his heart, but he didn't know it was called anger. "Hi hi," he said. "Let's say goodbye," Lily said.Lucy switched the twins on Lily's chest, adding: "There's something for you." "Yes? Alright." At this moment, Tessie turned the bicycle neatly in front of the stairs and got off the bicycle. "Hey hey," said Auberon again, "you brought the whole county?" Of course there was no one else, and there was no need of anyone but them. Tessie, Lily, and Lucy were always difficult to tell apart in the Edgewood neighborhood, perhaps because their names were so similar, or perhaps because they were always seen and acted together in the community.But their appearance is actually very different.Tessie and Lily inherited the appearance of their mother and grandmother, tall, big-boned, and strong like a pony, but Lily did not know who inherited it, with thin and straight blond hair, like the gold thread spun from straw by the princess in the story, but Tessie had rose-blond curls, just like Alice.As for Lucy, she was entirely Smoky's, the shortest of the sisters, with Smoky's dark curly hair, his cheerful, perplexed face, and his round eyes, which had even a touch of Smoky's natural commonness.But on the other hand, Lucy and Lily are the best fits: they are the kind of sisters who can finish each other's conversations, and feel each other's pain even from a distance.For several years, the two of them produced a series of seemingly pointless jokes: one of them would ask a stupid question with a serious face, at which point the other would deliver an even stupider answer with the same seriousness, and then The two of them would number the joke, serious from beginning to end.In all, they made up hundreds of them.Perhaps because, as the eldest daughter, Tessie did not take much part in their games, she was dignified by nature, fond of solitude, and devoted to a few hobbies: the alto recorder, raising rabbits, riding fast cars.Tessie, on the other hand, was priestess, with the two younger sisters as her assistants, in all stratagems, plans, and ceremonies concerning the grown-up world. (All three of them had one thing in common: they all had only one eyebrow, running from the outside of the left eye, across the bridge of the nose, to the outside of the right eye. Of the children of Smoky and Alice, only Auberon had not inherited it.) Auberon's memory of his sister is their mysterious game: birth, marriage, love, death.He was regarded as a "baby" by them since he was very young, and he was constantly chased by them between imaginary bathrooms and imaginary hospitals, a living doll.Then he was made to play the "groom," and then when he was finally old enough to lie there motionless, he played the "dead," and they waited on him.It's not just a game: as they get older, all three sisters seem to have developed an intuition for the meaning of scenes and actions in everyday life, for understanding the opening and closing of the lives of those around them.No one seemed to tell them that the youngest Byrds were marrying Jim Jay in Whitefield (they were four, six, and eight years old), but they were wearing jeans and holding bouquets when the couple took their vows. Wildflowers appeared outside the church, kneeling dignifiedly on the church steps. (The wedding photographer, who was outside waiting for the couple to show up, snapped a photo of the three babies on a whim, which later won a photography award. It seemed staged. In a way, Indeed.) The three of them learned female red at a very young age, and as they got older, their skills became more and more sophisticated, and they also learned more difficult and complicated skills in turn: weaving, silk embroidery, and wool embroidery.Tessie first learned from Aunt Claude and Grandma, and then passed what she learned to Lily, and Lily passed it on to Lucy.They would often sit together, expertly needle and thread (usually in a polygonal piano room, where there was sunshine in all seasons), and discuss impending deaths, engagements, partings, and births (whether or not) of people they knew. Announce).They tie knots, they cut threads, they know it all, and it turns out that there is no wedding or death they don't know about, and they almost always attend.Without them, the ceremony would have seemed incomplete, as if it hadn't been approved.Now that their only brother was about to set off to meet his fate and the lawyer, they absolutely had to show up. "Here." Tessie said as she took out a small package wrapped in ice blue wrapping paper from the bicycle basket, "Here, open it after arriving in the big city." She kissed him lightly. "Take it," Lily said, handing him a present as well, wrapped in mint green paper, "unwrap it when you think about it." "Take it," said Lucy.Her wrapping paper is white. "Open it when you want to go home." He gathered the packages together, nodded awkwardly, and packed them into the duffel bag.The girls said nothing more about the parcel, but sat with him and Smoky for a while on the front porch.The porch was full of fallen leaves that had not been cleaned, piled up under the wicker chairs (Smoky thought it was time to put the wicker chairs in the basement, which was originally Auberon's job. Suddenly he felt a chill, a sense of foreboding, or Lost, but he thinks it's just the gloomy November fog).The young and independent Auberon, who had thought he had a chance to escape the house in silence, no one nagging, no one to heed, sat primly with them and watched the dawn come.Then he patted his knees, stood up, shook his father's hand, kissed his sister, promised to write a letter, and finally walked south on the fallen leaves, preparing to stop the bus at the intersection.Four people stood on the front porch watching him go, but he didn't look back. "Oh," said Smoky, remembering his trip to the Big City when he was about Auberon's age, "he'll have some experience." "It was a lot of experience," Tessie said. "It will be fun," said Smoky, "probably, probably. I remember--" "Have fun for a while," Lily said. "It's no fun," said Lucy, "but at least it will be at first." "Dad," Tessie said, seeing Smoky shaking, "for God's sake, you shouldn't be sitting outside in your pajamas." He stood up and pulled his dressing gown tight.I'm afraid I'll have to put away the front porch furniture this afternoon before the summer chairs get ridiculously snow-covered. George Mouse shifted focus, watching Auberon from a recess in the old stone wall across the old pastures and taking the short cut to Field Creek.The field mouse hiding in the hollow chewed the grass stalks and watched melancholy as the human came towards it, crunching hundreds of huge twigs and dead leaves.Ah, look how clumsy their big feet are!Those feet with shoes are bigger and harder than the brown bear's feet in the distant memory!But fortunately they only have two feet, and they rarely come near its home, so the field mouse has a slightly friendly view of humans compared to the cow that destroyed his homeland (the giant beast in the eyes of the field mouse).As Auberon drew nearer, the field mouse was startled when he came within a short distance of its hiding place.This man was the same boy who had come with the doctor, all grown up.The doctor was friends with Vole's great-great-grandfather, and Vole had seen the boy when he was a little mouse, and the doctor was writing the memoirs of Vole's great-great-grandfather, while the boy lay his hand on his dirty knee and stared intently at Vole's home.Now that memoir is not only known to generations of field mice, it is even famous throughout the world!The field mouse suddenly had the feeling of seeing his family, so he put aside his natural shyness and poked his head out of the hole in the wall, trying to say hello. "My great-great-grandfather knew doctors before," it yelled.But the guy kept going. The doctor can talk to animals, but his grandson doesn't seem to be able to. When Auberon stood at the intersection, the golden leaves on the ground were ankle-deep, Smoky dazed in front of the blackboard with chalk, and stopped between nouns and predicates. The students in the audience couldn't help but wonder why he suddenly stopped talking .Meanwhile, Delly Alice lay under her patterned sheet (yes! George Mouse marveled at the breadth and depth of her telepathic powers), dreaming of her son Auberon, who had settled in the Great City Call and update her. "I was a shepherd in the Bronx for a while," said the mysterious voice out of reality, "but in November, I sold the sheep." As he described, she seemed to see the words in his mouth. The Bronx: Green coastal hills with short grass, clear and windy hill air, and damp clouds below.She seemed to be in the scene, following the thin footprints and black feces, along the rutted road to the pasture, her ears were full of their humming, and she kept smelling their dampness in the foggy morning. smell of wool.So vivid!When he described it, she seemed to really see her son standing on the headland with a walking stick and looking out at the ocean, then at the stormy west, and then across the river at the dark woods on the island in the south, guessing... When autumn came, he changed his fur coat and leggings, put on a neat black suit, exchanged the shepherd's crook for a walking stick, and the dog Spark (a very good collie, Auberon could have used it with the sheep) sold together, but he couldn't bear it) and set off together along the Harlem River until they reached a point where they could cross it (near 137th Street).The very old ferryman had a beautiful, dark-skinned great-granddaughter, and a gray flat-bottomed ferry that rattled and rattled.Auberon stood at the bow of the ferry as it floated down the ropes to the dock on the opposite bank.He paid the money, and the dog Spark jumped ashore before him, and then he stepped into the Black Forest without looking back.It was evening, the sun looked cold and forlorn (he caught glimpses of it now and then, a pale yellow light behind a gray cloud), and he almost wished it would be night soon. After entering the depths of the woods, he withdrew this wish.He had somehow turned in the wrong direction between St. Nicholas Park and Cathedral Parkway and found himself climbing up a rocky plateau overgrown with lichen.The giants, tangled in roots and clinging to the rocks, grunted and giggled at him as he passed, squeezing their faces out of the twilight.Standing on a high rock, panting, he watched the sun set through a gap in the trees.He knew he was far from the city, but it was dark and cold, and how many warnings had he heard not to spend the night in this place?He felt very small.In fact he has been getting smaller and smaller.Spark noticed this, but said nothing. There are many creatures that do appear in the night.Auberon started walking foolishly, only to stagger, luring the creatures closer, revealing a thousand eyes in the surrounding darkness.Auberon Calm down, don't let them see your fear.He clenched his crutches tightly, looked straight ahead, and walked towards the city center with difficulty.He was walking, but not in the correct way.He once accidentally looked up at the giant trees (he must have been much smaller) staring up at the huge trees that were pressing against the night sky, stared open-mouthed, and then quickly lowered his eyes because he didn't want to appear like a stranger, like someone who didn't know what was going on.But he couldn't help sneaking glances at the creatures around him who looked at him, some of them smiled, some knew it, and some didn't care at all. He struggled to get out from between a pile of fallen trees, not knowing where Spark had gone.He could actually climb onto the dog's back and speed up his progress.But Spark had begun to look down on his suddenly small owner, so he ran to Washington Heights alone to try his luck. He is alone.Auberon thought of the three presents his sister had given him.He took Tessie's present from his rucksack, and with trembling fingers he unwrapped the ice-blue wrapper. A two-in-one pen flashlight appeared, with one end for lighting and one end for writing.It works really well, and it even has a small battery: he flips the switch, and the flashlight comes on.A few snowflakes drifted into the light; a few faces receded close.By this light he found himself standing before a small door in the woods, and his journey was over.He knocked once and knocked again. George Mouse shuddered greatly.Mind reading was too exhausting, and the effect of his medicine had begun to wear off, and he felt a little ashamed.It's fun, but man, look what time it is!In a few hours he will have to get up to milk the cows.The swarthy Sylvie was definitely not going to get up (she probably hadn't come home, unless he guessed wrong).He retracts his weed-flabby limbs, feeling comfortably tired (the journey is long).He regained feeling in his limbs and got up.他现在做这种事已经有点太老了。他确认奥伯龙身上盖了足够的毯子，拨了拨炉火，然后拿起台灯走回自己凌乱的卧室，一路疯狂打着哈欠，已经大抵忘记自己刚才透过奥伯龙的眼睛看见什么了。 同一时间，几个街区外的一座小公园对面，一辆又一辆安静的古董大车在爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔形状狭长的都市宅邸门前停下。每辆车都有一名乘客下车，随即开到别的地方去等待主人。每个访客都按了霍克斯奎尔家的门铃、等人接待进屋；每个人都一根手指一根手指地脱下手套（因为实在太合手了）；每个人都把手套放在帽子里交给用人，有些人还披着白色围巾，从脖子上取下时发出轻微的唰唰声。他们聚集在霍克斯奎尔的主楼层，这层楼绝大部分的空间都由书房占据；每个人坐下时都跷起了腿。他们低声交谈了几句话。 当霍克斯奎尔终于进来时，他们纷纷站了起来（虽然她示意他们不必多礼），然后再次坐下。每个人重新跷腿时，都理了理长裤膝盖。 “我想现在可以宣布，”其中一人开口，“这场吵桥棍棒与枪支俱乐部的会议正式开始。来谈新生意吧。” 爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔等待他们发问。今年她正逐渐逼近她能力的高峰期，身材骨感、发色铁灰，言行举止精明从容得如同一只凤头鹦鹉。就算还没成为后来那个令人生畏的人物，此时的她也已威风凛凛；她身上的一切（从她暗褐色的鞋子到戴着戒指的手）都暗示着她的力量——至少吵桥棍棒与枪支俱乐部还清楚她具有什么力量。 “当然了，”另一个会员一边说，一边对着霍克斯奎尔微笑，“新业务是关于罗素·艾根布里克，那个讲师。” “您有什么想法呢？”第三个会员问霍克斯奎尔，“您的印象如何？” 她像福尔摩斯一样，两手的指尖碰在一起。“可以说他表里一致，也可以说他表里不一。”她的声音精准干脆得如同一张羊皮纸，“他比电视上表现的还聪明，但没那么大气。他煽动的热情是真实的，但我总觉得不会持久。他有五颗星落在天蝎座，跟马丁·路德一样。他最爱的颜色是撞球桌上的绿色。他有一双湿润的棕色大眼睛，像牛一样，眼神里有虚假的怜悯。他身上藏着迷你扩音器，能放大他的声音，很昂贵但不大合用。他长裤底下穿的是及膝长靴。” 他们消化着这些信息。 “他的个性呢？”其中一人问。 “很可鄙。” “举止呢？” "This..." “他的野心呢？” 她有一片刻答不上来，但这些有权有势、在吵桥棍棒与枪支俱乐部的掩护下集结起来的银行家、委员会主席、官僚全权代表和退休将领最想知道的就是这个答案。这个敏感、任性、逐渐衰老的共和国正历经一场堪称永久性的社会与经济大萧条。身为共和国的秘密守护者，这群人对任何有魅力的人物、传道者、士兵、探险家、思想家或恶棍都极度关切。霍克斯奎尔很清楚自己的建议已经铲除了不止一个这样的人物。“他没兴趣当总统。”她说。 其中一个会员发出声音，背后的含意是：他若没兴趣当总统，那他其他的野心就没什么好紧张的了；而倘若他有意，那他就会变得无助，因为多年以来，那些虚位总统的任期向来是这个俱乐部唯一关切的事，不论人民或总统怎么想。那是个从喉咙里发出来的简短声音。 “很难精确描述，”霍克斯奎尔说，“一方面，他这么自以为重要似乎很可笑，而且他的目标太过远大，简直像是上帝的目标，完全不必当一回事。另一方面呢……他常号称自己'出现在纸牌里'，而且经常流露一种暗藏天大秘密似的表情。这种口号很老掉牙，然而不知为何（我恐怕说不出为什么），我觉得他所言属实，他确实在纸牌里，在某副纸牌里，只是我不知道是哪一副。”她环视缓缓点头的听众，为自己令他们困惑感到有点抱歉，但她自己也很困惑。她曾假扮成记者跟罗素·艾根布里克一起旅行了几个星期，在旅馆里和飞机上与他共处（艾根布里克那些一脸凶相的追随者轻轻松松就看穿了她的伪装，但却看不穿任何更深层的东西）。但比起她第一次听到他的名字且笑出声来的时候，她现在反而更难针对他的个案提出建议。 她手按着太阳穴，小心翼翼地穿越非常整齐的新厢房。这是她几星期前才为她的记忆之屋添上的新侧翼，用来容纳她对罗素·艾根布里克的调查资料。她知道他本人应该要出现在哪个转角、哪个楼梯口、哪些交叉点。但他却不愿现身。她可以在普通记忆或“自然记忆”里唤起他。她可以看见他坐在当地火车上一扇满是雨水的车窗前，滔滔不绝地说话、红色的胡子抖来抖去、眉毛像腹语演员的傀儡般忽而扬起忽而放下。她可以看见他在心荡神驰的广大听众面前高谈阔论，眼中带有真泪，也从听众那儿博得了真正的爱慕。她可以看见他又结束了一场没完没了的演讲，赶往另一场女性俱乐部的聚会，把蓝色的咖啡杯盘组放在膝盖上摇得咔啦咔啦作响，而他面容严峻的门徒则分散在他周围，每个人都拿着自己的杯盘和蛋糕。讲师，他们坚持这么称呼他。他们总会早一步抵达，安排讲师出场的事。讲师要站在这里。这房间只有讲师能使用。必须有车接送讲师。坐在后方听演讲时，他们的眼睛从来不曾泛起泪光，脸孔总是跟他们穿着黑袜子的脚踝一样平静而毫无表情。这一切画面都是得自自然记忆，还有在她的记忆之屋里巧妙建造的一个智慧之堂，一切都应该在这里凝聚出某种微妙的新意义。她预期自己能拐过一个大理石转角就发现他在那里，落在视野中央，突然现身、突然暴露身份，而她会发现自己其实一直都知道，只是先前并不晓得自己知道。运作方式应该是这样才对，向来都是这样。但现在俱乐部的人正一声不响、一动不动地等着她表态。出现在列柱间和瞭望台上的却只有那些衣着整齐的门徒，每个人都拿着一个供她辨识身份的东西：火车票根、高尔夫球棍、紫色油印纸、尸体。“他们”是够清晰了，但“他”却不愿现身。然而是的，整个厢房都是他，毋庸置疑；而且很冷，意味深长。 “那些演讲呢？”一个会员说，打断了她的调查。 她冷冷地看着他。“老天爷，”她说，“全部的演讲内容你们都有了。这种事难道还要交给我？你不识字吗？”她顿了一下，猜不透她这份轻蔑是否只是为了掩盖自己无法完成调查的事实。“当他说话时，”她的语气和蔼了些，“他们都会倾听。至于他说些什么你们都知道。那种为了触动每个人的心而设计的古老方程式。希望，一份无穷的希望。常识，或者堪称常识的东西。可以让人放松的风趣机智。他能催泪，但很多人都能。我认为……”这是她所能想到最接近的定义，但其实还差很远：“我认为他要不就是比不上人类，要不就是超越人类。我认为我们面对的不是一个人，而是一种地形。” “我懂。”一个会员说道，拂了拂泛着珍珠光泽的灰胡子，它跟他的领带颜色一样。 “你不懂，”霍克斯奎尔说，“因为连我都不懂。” “把他解决掉吧。”另一人说。 “但他散播的讯息，”另一个会员从他饱满的公文包里抽出一叠纸，“我们并不反对。稳定。警觉。接受。爱。” “爱是吧。”另一人说，“任何东西都会堕落。已经没什么可行的了，什么东西都会擦枪走火。”他声音因绝望而颤抖。“世上没有比爱更强烈的力量了。”他爆出古怪的啜泣。 “霍克斯奎尔，”有人平静地说，“边桌上是不是有醒酒瓶呢？” “其中一个是玻璃的，装有白兰地。”霍克斯奎尔说，“另一个不是玻璃，里面装黑麦酒。” 他们用一杯白兰地安抚这位会员，然后宣布会议结束，无限期延期。霍克斯奎尔将继续执行任务，而新业务也还没解决。他们离开了她家。自从他们暗中支撑的这个社会开始病态地枯萎崩解以来，他们从来没有这么困惑过。 送走客人后，霍克斯奎尔的仆人站在大厅里，忧郁地望着从门上那块玻璃透进来的微光，苍白的黎明似乎已经到来。她暗暗抱怨自己的处境、自己的屈从，这种夜半的短暂意识几乎比完全没有意识还糟。那灰色的曙光持续增强，似乎让那一动不动的仆人变了色，灵活的眼神也因此消失。她举起一只手，是埃及人那种祝福或告别的手势；双唇紧紧闭上。当霍克斯奎尔在上楼途中从她身边走过时，天已经亮了，而这位石女（霍克斯奎尔都这么称呼这尊古老的雕像）已再次变回了大理石。 在狭长高耸的屋子里，霍克斯奎尔爬上了四段楼梯（这样的每日运动能让她强健的心脏持续跳动到很老很老），来到顶楼的一扇小门前。楼梯在这儿突然变窄然后停止。她可以听见门后庞大机械稳稳运转的声音，沉重的砝码一英寸一英寸往下落、擒纵装置发出空洞的咔嚓声。她的心灵已经受到安抚。她打开门。彩色的微弱日光从里头倾泻而出，各个球体所发出来的声响也变得清楚，像轻风吹在光秃秃的树枝上所发出的咔啦声。她瞄了瞄自己正方形的旧腕表，弯身进入房间。 买下这栋都市宅邸前，霍克斯奎尔就已经知道它配有一座“宇宙光学仪”或“世界剧场”，像这样完整且多少还能运转的正品，全世界只有三台。想到她的房子顶上有这样一座铁打的巨大法宝可以呈现出她心灵的星空，她就觉得十分有趣。但她却没想到它竟是如此美丽又实用；启动之后，她就以思考已久的方法对它做了一些调整。她对宇宙光学仪的设计者所知不多，因此不知道他设计这东西是为了何种用途（八成只是为了娱乐）。但她补足了他不知道的东西，因此现在她弯身穿过那扇小小的门时，不只是进入一个细密复杂、运转精准、由彩色玻璃和锻铁打造的宇宙。事实上，当她踏入时，还能呈现出世界年代表上的实时时刻。 老实说，尽管霍克斯奎尔已针对这个宇宙光学仪进行了修正，让它能准确呈现出外面真实天空的状态，但它还是不够精准。打造者就算知道，也不可能让这么大一台靠嵌齿和齿轮运转的机器，呈现出宇宙在黄道带上缓慢的后退，也就是所谓的“分点岁差”——这场浩大旅程，难以想象地漫长，必须再过两万年，春分点才会再次对上白羊座的第一度：为了方便，传统占星学都把这个点视为固定的，因此刚买下她这宇宙光学仪时，霍克斯奎尔发现它也是固定的。不，时光的真实写照就是变动不已的星空本身，其完美的影像都存在爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔强大的意识中。她很清楚时间：她周围这具机器终究只是个粗糙的仿制品，虽然是够漂亮的了。确实非常漂亮，她心想，在中央的绿色豪华座椅上坐下。 她在温暖的冬阳下放松自己，凝望着上空（到了中午，这颗玻璃蛋内部就会变得酷热难耐，设计者当初似乎也没考虑到这点）。蓝色的金星和橘色的木星呈三分位相，每只彩绘玻璃球都依循自己的轨道运行于南北回归线之间。镜面的月亮刚刚没入地平线，带有细细圆环的乳灰色土星正要升起。土星在上升宫，很适合她现在必须进行的冥想。咔嚓：黄道带转了一度，天秤座女士从南方海面上升起（穿着那套用漂亮铅玻璃镶成的新艺术风格衣袍，她看起来有点像，天秤上装着一把东西，霍克斯奎尔总觉得很像是一串肥美的马拉加葡萄）。真正的太阳正透过她灼灼发光，因此看不清她的五官。外头无云的蓝天里当然也一样，完全被太阳遮蔽、不复可见，但当然还是在那里，就在太阳的强光后面，当然，当然……她的思绪已经开始有条理，就像均匀的天光在宇宙光学仪的色彩和度数记号下呈现出井然秩序。她感觉自己内心的世界剧场开启了大门，舞台总监用拐杖在台上敲了三响，示意拉开帘幕。她以星象为基础的人工记忆再次开始运转，将罗素·艾根布里克这个问题的各个组件摊在她眼前。她蓄势待发，觉得自己靠特殊能力处理的任务中从来没有一个这么怪异。或者说从来没有一项任务对她而言这么重要，需要她走这么远、探这么深、看这么广、想这么多。 在纸牌里。Ok.她就来瞧瞧。

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