Chapter 16 III
Hawksquill was not sure at first whether he fell into the center of the earth, the bottom of the sea, the flames, or the air when he performed his skills.Russell Eigenblick would tell her later that he often experienced the same confusion in his sleep, and that perhaps these four places, the four corners of the world, were his hideouts.Of course, the old rumors say he's on the mountain, but no, he's in the sea.The Sicilians thought he was hiding in Mount Etna, and Dante said he was in the vicinity of Paradise, but (if the hatred persisted) he might as well consign him to Hell with his grandson.
Hawksquill had discovered a lot since taking on the mission, but never like this.She had begun to speculate a little about Russell Eigenbrick, but could hardly put her knowledge into a form that could be understood by the Club of Clubs and Guns.Now they are urging her to make a decision about the lecturer almost every day.Eigenblick's power and charisma have grown so much that it won't be long before he can be eradicated without a trace (if he must be eradicated).Before long, I'm afraid even eradicating him will become impossible.They raised Hawksquill's salary, and said in a roundabout way that they might hire someone else.Hawksquill ignored it entirely.She's not being lazy, she now spends nearly all her waking hours and many of her sleeping hours chasing down everyone or anything who claims to be Russell Eigenblick, in her own memory like a restless ghost. Wandering around the house, chasing erratic pieces of evidence deeper and deeper, sometimes even using powers she didn't want to use, she found herself in completely unfamiliar locations.
Now she found herself at the top of a staircase.
Whether she had just climbed up or was coming down, she could not remember afterwards, but it was a long flight of stairs.At the top is a room.The wide door, studded with brass, stood wide open.There was originally a boulder blocking the door, but judging from the traces of dust on the ground, the stone should have been removed not long ago.She could vaguely see a long banquet table in the room, the overturned glasses and messy chairs were covered with a layer of old dust, and there was a smell of a dirty bedroom in the room, but there was no one in it.
She was about to step into the dilapidated door to investigate, but found a petite and beautiful figure dressed in white sitting on the stone, with a golden hairnet covering her head, trimming her nails with a knife.Not knowing which language to speak to this man, Hawksquill raised his eyebrows and pointed to the interior of the room.
"He's not here," said the man, "he's up."
Hawksquill considered asking the other person a question or two, but before she could say it, she understood that this person would not answer her questions, because he (or she) was only a symbol of the sentence: he is not here, he is up up.She turned and walked on (the stairs, the door, the message and the messenger all slowly fading from her consciousness like fleeting images in a passing cloud), wondering where she might find answers to this mass of new problems. The answer, or the question of deriving her pile of new answers in reverse.
Hawksquill wrote long ago in her long marbled folder: "The difference between the old worldview and the new worldview is this: the old worldview was structured in time, but the new worldview The conceptual world is based on space.
"Looking at old ideas through new ones, you see the absurd: oceans that never existed, worlds that allegedly fell apart and then were rebuilt, a mass of missing trees, islands, mountains, and eddies. But The ancients were not idiots with a poor sense of direction, but what they saw was not the earth. When they mentioned the four corners of the world, of course they did not mean four real places, but four states that were repeated in the world, each with a Arranged in the same time intervals: summer solstice, winter solstice, vernal equinox, autumnal equinox. When they refer to the seven spheres, they don't mean the seven spheres in space (until Ptolemy foolishly tried to present it), they mean It is the trajectory drawn by the stars over time: time, the vast seven-story mountain range, where the sinners described by Dante wait for eternity. Plato once described a river that surrounds the earth. If we understand it from the perspective of new concepts, It should be half in the air and half through the center of the earth, but in fact Plato was referring to the river (time) that Heraclitus could not step into twice. Just shake a lamp in the dark, and Can draw a bright pattern in the air, as long as the same movement continues, the pattern will not disappear. Similarly, the universe maintains its shape through repetition: the main body of the universe is time. And how should we think about it? This subject, how to manipulate it? It should not be seen in the way we see extension, relationship, color and shape (those qualities are spatial). Nor by measuring and exploring. No. It should be seen in the way we see Persistence, repetition and change: see it through memory."
Knowing this well, Hawksquill didn't mind at all that her gray-haired head and limp limbs didn't change position when she was fugue, but stayed in the astro-optical instrument on the top floor of her house in the big city. On the soft chair in the center.The flying horse she summons to take her away is not really a flying horse, but the giant star map that appears above her head, and she is not really "carrying away".But the true magician's greatest skill (perhaps her only skill) is to see these distinctions without making them, and to translate time into space with unerring precision.The old alchemists were telling the truth: that's it, it's that simple.
"Let's go!" said the voice of memory once she settled down and memory's hand took the reins.They soared into the air, flapping their gigantic wings through time.Hawksquill thought as they traveled through slice after slice of time, and then her steed swooped without hesitation at her command, causing her memory to gasp.Where she landed was either the southern skies beneath the world or the clear dark southern waters, where all the old times rested: beautiful.
Pegasus stepped on the sandy beach with its silver hooves, and then lowered its huge head.Its mighty wings, which once swelled like a curtain, now drooped and rustled over the everlasting grass.There it gnawed on the grass to recover its strength.Hawksquill dismounted, patted its huge neck, whispered that she would be back, and followed a trail of footprints in the sand.Each of these footprints was longer than her height, left on this sandy beach at the end of the golden age, long since fossilized.The sky is calm and windless, but the huge forest she stepped into has its own breath, but it may also be "his" breath, the long and regular inhalation and exhalation of his eternal sleep.
He occupied the entire valley, and she stopped advancing when she reached the entrance. "Father," she said, her voice breaking the silence.The old giant eagle took off with heavy wings, and then landed sleepily. "Father," she said again, and the valley moved.The gray boulders were his knees, the long gray vines were his hair, and the thick roots clinging to the cliff were his fingers.His milky eyes opened, a shimmering stone, the Saturn of her cosmic optics.He yawned: the inhalation was like a storm that sent leaves flying wildly and her hair, and when he exhaled it was like a gust of wind blowing from a bottomless cave.
"Daughter," he said, in a voice that sounded like the earth.
"I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, Father," she said, "but I have a question and only you know the answer."
"Then ask."
"Is a new era about to be born? I don't see why, but it seems to be."
Everyone knows: when the ancient father was overthrown by his son and banished here, the eternal golden age ended.Then came time and all the troubles that came with it.What is less well understood is why the young, loose gods put this new gadget in the hands of their fathers (probably because they were afraid or ashamed of what they had done).Their father had slept on Ogygie and cared nothing, and all the years that had passed since then had accumulated on the island like fallen leaves.Whenever the oldest god dreamed of innovation or change, moved his heavy limbs, smacked his lips, scratched at his rocky hip muscles, a new age was born, and all weights and measures were reset with the throbbing universe. Surely, the Sun will also be born in a new sign.
So the unpredictable and scheming young gods planned to blame their old father for the disaster.Over time, Kronos, who ruled the Eternal Age of Pleasure, became the old meddling Kronos with scythe and hourglass, father of chronicles and clocks.Only his real children know the truth, along with some adopted children, including Ariel Hawksquill.
"Is there a new era about to start?" She asked again, "If so, then it really came early."
"A new era?" Father Time said in a very deep voice, "No. It will take many, many years." With a flick of his hand, several years accumulated on his shoulders were swept away by him.
"Then," said Hawksquill, "who is Russell Eigenblick, if he is not the King of the New Age?"
"Russell Eigenbrick?"
"That man with the red beard. That lecturer. That terrain."
He lay back again, the rock rumbling beneath him. "He's not some new age king," he said, "just a megalomaniac, an invader."
"Intruder?"
"He's their fighter, that's why they woke him up." His milky eyes narrowed again. "Sleeping for a thousand years, what a lucky guy. Called up now to face conflict."
"Conflict? Fighter?"
"Daughter," he said, "didn't you know there was a war?"
War... She'd been looking for a word to cover all this mess of facts and oddities about Russell Eigenbrick, and the random disturbances he'd caused around the world.Now she's found the word: it's blowing into her consciousness like a gust of wind, knocking down buildings, startling birds, knocking leaves off trees, sweeping laundry off clotheslines, but at least the wind is finally in the same direction.War: Global, Millennium, Absolute War.Jesus, she thought, he's been talking about it in every speech he's given lately, but she's been thinking it's just a metaphor.Just a metaphor! "I don't know, father," she said, "I'm just now knowing."
"It has nothing to do with me," said the old man, yawning. "They once asked me to let him sleep, and I said yes. It was about a thousand years ago, plus or minus a century at most... They are my children's children after all." , related by in-laws...I'll help as much as I can. It doesn't matter. I don't have much to do here anyway."
"Who are they, father?"
"Uh-huh." His large, hollow-eyed eyes were closed.
"Whose fighter is he?"
But he had put the huge head back on the boulder pillow, and there was a snoring sound from the huge throat.The bald eagles that flew up screaming landed on the cliff one after another.There was a rustling sound in the windless forest.Hawksquill walked reluctantly back to the beach.Her steed raised its head (even it fell asleep).Ok!no solution anymore.We must rely on thinking to solve this matter, it must be possible! "Weary people don't want to rest," she said, jumping on the horse neatly, "Go! Hurry up! Don't you know that war has broken out?"
When she lifted off, she thought to herself: Who would sleep for a thousand years?Which descendant of the god of time will declare war on mankind, what is the purpose, and what is the hope of success?
By the way, who is that blond child sleeping curled up on Father Time's lap?
The child rolled over and had a dream: of what he had seen the day before he fell asleep.As she dreamed, she took apart the bright and dark tapestry of dreams and adapted them to her liking, while these plots came true in another place.She dreamed that her mother woke up and said, "What?" and that one of her fathers was walking down the Edgewood lane.Dreamed that Auberon was secretly in love with a Lilac that he made up.Dreamed of an army of clouds, led by a man with a red beard (she was almost woken up by him).Turning over and over, her lips parted and her heart beating slowly, she dreamed that at the end of her journey she was swooping down through the air, traveling at dizzying speed along a smooth, iron-gray river.
The terrifying red sun was sinking into the mist in the west, and the complex shapes of smoke and jets' contrails formed the virtual army just now.Lilac kept her mouth shut: the horrible squares, the squalid buildings, and the harsh noises made her speechless.The storks flew in, and Mrs. Underhill seemed to grow unsure in these square valleys, and they turned east and then south.Seen from above, thousands of people are nothing like one or two: a mass of undulating hair and hats, occasionally a bright scarf blown back.From time to time there was a puff of heat in the street, and the crowd disappeared into clouds of mist and then never appeared again (at least it seemed to Lilac), but there were always countless others in their place.
"Remember these landmarks, boy," Mrs. Underhill called over her shoulder to Lilac, over the noise. "That burning church. Those arrow-like railings. And that beautiful house." .You'll come again, yourself." At this point a cloaked figure broke away from the crowd and walked towards the beautiful house, but Lilac didn't find it beautiful at all.At Mrs. Underhill's direction, the stork stopped above the house, grunted, and placed her red paws among the weather-beaten rubble of the roof.They looked toward the middle of the block just in time to see the cloaked figure coming out the back door.
"Remember him now, my dear," said Mrs. Underhill. "Who do you think he is?"
In his cloak, arms akimbo and a sombrero, he was a black shadow to Lilac.Then he took off his hat and shook out his long black hair.He turned clockwise, nodding and looking around the roof, a bright smile on his swarthy face. "Another cousin," said Lilac.
"Uh, yes, what else?"
He put his fingers to his lips thoughtfully, and stomped dirt in the untidy garden. "I give up," Lilac said.
"Why, it's your other father!"
"Oh."
"It's your biological father. He's going to need your help, just like your other father."
"Oh."
"He's planning some improvements," said Mrs. Underhill with satisfaction.
George measured out the size of the garden with his feet.He climbed on the board fence and looked out at the even more cluttered yard of the neighbor next door.He said, "Damn it! That's great!" and rubbed his hands together.
Lilac smiled as the stork stepped onto the edge of the roof for take-off.George laughed too, spreading his black cloak like a stork's white wings, and drawing it back around him.There was something indescribable about him that pleased Lilac, and she decided that if she had to choose one of the two to be her father, she would choose him too.And she did choose him now, like a lonely child who always knows who is from the same country as him.
"There's no choice," said Mrs. Underhill, "only responsibility."
"Give him a present!" she cried to Mrs. Underhill. "A present!"
Mrs. Underhill said nothing (the child was coddled enough), but as they glided down the run-down street a row of bare trees sprung up on the pavement. Thin saplings, all arranged equidistantly.Anyway, the street is ours, Mrs. Underhill thought, at least it's ours, and what's a farm without a line of trees blocking the road in front of it?
"Go to that door now!" she said, and they flew north of the city, and the cold city disappeared beneath them. "You should be sleeping, there!" She pointed to an old building ahead.It must have been tall, maybe even towering over everything, but it is no longer majestic.It was originally made of white stone, but it is not white now. It is carved with all kinds of faces, women's portrait columns, birds, and animals, but now it is as black as a miner, dripping with dirty tears.The center of the building is some distance away from the street, and the wing rooms on both sides form a dark and damp patio, into which many taxis and people enter.The flanks joined at high altitude, forming a great arch, big enough for a giant to pass beneath: and the three of them did pass, the stork no longer flapping its wings, but gliding obliquely into the dark courtyard, precise correct.Mrs. Underhill yelled, "Be careful! Bend down! Bend down!" and Lilac lowered her head and felt a cloudy air rush out of it and blow into her face.She closes her eyes.She heard Mrs. Underhill say, "Come on, old girl, almost there, you know where the door is." The light grew brighter behind her eyelids, the sounds of the city died away, and they were back elsewhere.
She dreamed this way, and it happened, and the sapling grew, like some dirty little urchin, left unattended, with spiky branches.Their trunks grow thicker and thicker, causing the sidewalks below to bulge.With broken kites and candy wrappers, broken balloons and sparrow nests stuck on their heads, they don't care; they push past their fellows for daylight and shake dirty snow on passers-by year after year.They keep growing, their bodies are full of knife marks, their branches are jagged, and dogs often defecate and defecate beside them, but they can't die anyway.One warm March night, Sylvie returned to Old Order Farm at dawn and looked up at their branches, only to find a full bud growing at the tip of each branch.
Although the man who had brought her back was pestering him, she bade him good night and found the four keys needed to enter Old Order's farm and the folding bedroom.He would never believe this crazy story, she thought with a smile, would never believe that she stayed up all night because of a chain of crazy but innocent (almost innocent) events.He wouldn't punish her severely, he would only be glad that she returned safely, and she hoped he wasn't too worried.She just gets run around sometimes, and that's it, and everyone's kindly invited, and most of them seem to be nice people.It's a big city, and on the nights of the full moon in March, people always party late into the night, and, hey, one thing always leads to another... She opened the door into the farm and climbed up the silent building.When she reached the corridor leading to the folding bedroom, she took off the high heels she had danced all night and tiptoed to the door.She quietly opened the lock like a thief, and looked inside.Auberon was lying on the bed, a vague figure in the faint morning light, but somehow she was sure he was just pretending to be asleep.
Because the fold-out bedroom and attached kitchenette are so small, Auberon had to create a virtual study inside if he wanted some peace and solitude.
"A what?" asked Sylvie.
"A virtual study," he said. "Okay. Look at this chair." He found an old all-in-one school desk and chair in the dilapidated premises of Old Order Farm, with a cabinet under the seat Allow students to place books and paper. "For now," he carefully placed the chair, "let's pretend I have a study in this bedroom. This chair is in the study. Although in fact there is nothing but this chair, but... ..."
"what are you saying?"
"Will you listen to me first?" Auberon began angrily. "It's very simple. Back in my hometown, Edgewood, we have a bunch of virtual rooms."
"I don't doubt that." She stood with her arms akimbo, a wooden spoon in one hand, a bright kerchief on her head, and earrings dangling between locks of dark curls.
"The idea is that—" Auberon said, "when I say, 'I'm going into my study, baby,' and I sit down in this chair, it means I'm in another room. I The door will close. I'm alone in there. You can't see me or hear me because the door is closed. And I can't see you or hear you either. Got it?"
"Uh, all right. But how?"
"Because that virtual door is closed, and..."
"No, I mean why do you need this virtual study? Why can't you just sit there?"
"Because I prefer to be alone. You see, we have to make three rules: whatever I do in my virtual study, you can't see it, so you can't comment or have any thoughts or…"
"Jesus. What are you going to do?" She smiled and made a rude gesture with the spoon. "Hey." While equally private and indulgent, what he's planning to do is actually a daydream (though he definitely wouldn't describe it that way).He wants to talk to his own soul, think, deduce, and maybe write down the results, because there must be sharpened pencils and blank paper in front of him.But he knew that he would probably just sit there playing with his hair, sucking his teeth, scratching his head, trying to catch the dust floating in his sight, and muttering some writer's sentence again and again, in short, like a quieter Neuropathy.He may also read newspapers.
"Think, read, write, don't you?" said Sylvie affectionately.
"Yes. You know, I have to be alone sometimes..."
She stroked his cheek. "Because you're thinking, reading, and writing. Yeah baby. No problem." She stepped back, looking at him with interest.
"Now I'm going into the study," said Auberon, feeling suddenly stupid.
"Okay. Goodbye."
"I closed the door."
She waved the spoon.She was about to say something again, but he rolled his eyes, and she went back to the kitchen.
In his study, Auberon rested his chin on the rough surface of the old desk.Someone carved a dirty word there, only to have it changed to "book" in all seriousness.Mostly it was inscribed with the tip of a compass, compasses and protractor.When he started attending his father's elementary school, his grandfather gave him an old pencil case, leather that snapped shut and had weird Mexican designs on it, one of which was a naked woman you could touch with your fingers Imagery breasts, touch the leather nipples.There are pencils with a pink eraser attached to the end. If you remove the eraser, you can see the bare end of the pencil.There is also a diamond-shaped gray eraser, one half for pencils and the other rougher half for rubbing off paper, designed for ink.There were some black pen barrels, like Aunt Claude's cigarettes, with cork ends, and some nibs in iron cases.There is also a compass and a protractor.An angle can be bisected, but not thirds.He pretended to be a compass with two fingers and moved them across the table.When the little yellow pencil on the compass is used up, the compass will fall to one side and cannot be used anymore.He could write a story about those long school afternoons, May, or rather the last day of May, with hollyhocks growing outside and vines creeping in through open windows; and the smell from the toilet.that pencil case.Mama West Wind and Gusts of Breeze.Those long afternoons...he could have titled this story "The Procrastinator." "Procrastinators," he said aloud, then glanced at Sylvie to see if she heard.Just in time to catch her glancing at him as well, before going back to her own work as if nothing had happened.
Procrastinators, procrastinators... He tapped his fingers on the oak tabletop.What is she doing in there?Do you make coffee?She boiled a large pot of water, sprinkled a large amount of coffee grounds in it, and threw in the morning coffee grounds.A strong aroma of hot coffee filled the air.
"You know what you're supposed to do?" she stirred the kettle. "You should try to make money writing the script. It's really getting ugly now."
"I..." He opened his mouth, then turned his head pretendingly.
"Ouch, ouch." She tried her best to hold back a smile.
George had said that those TV shows were written on the West Bank.But what does he know?The real difficulty lies in this: through Sylvie's meticulous retelling, he has realized that he will never be able to come up with the strange and (for him) inconsistent passion scenes in the movie.But as far as he knows, the horrific sorrows and great pains, accidents and gains in the play are all portrayals of real life. How much does he know about life and human beings?Perhaps most people are just as stubborn and willful as those on TV, dominated by ambition, blood, desire, money and fanaticism.In the field of writing, human beings and life are not his strong point anyway.His forte as a writer is...
"Boom boom boom," said Sylvie, standing in front of him.
"Ok?"
"May I come inside?"
"Can."
"Do you know where my white suit is?"
"In the closet?"
She opened the toilet door.They nailed a rickety hanger to the tiny toilet door, where they kept most of their clothes. "See if it's hanging under my coat," he said.
It was there.It was a white cotton suit with a jacket and a skirt. It was actually an old nurse uniform with a name tag on the shoulder.But Sylvie had the genius to transform it into a stylish and stylish outfit: she had good taste, but poor sewing skills.More than once, he wished that he had a lot of money for her to squander, that would definitely be a wonderful thing.
She looked at the suit critically.
"Your coffee is almost overcooked," he said.
"Huh?" She was cutting off the name tag on her shoulder with a pair of small pointed scissors, "Oh, damn it!" She rushed to turn off the fire.Then she picked up the suit again.Auberon returned to his study.
His forte as a writer is...
"I wish I could write," said Sylvie.
"Maybe you can," said Auberon. "I bet you can write. No, I mean it." She snorted contemptuously. "I bet you can write." He knew with the certainty of a lover that there was almost nothing she couldn't do, and that almost anything was worth doing. "What do you want to write?"
"I bet I can come up with a better plot than the one in the movie." She lifted the pot of hot coffee to the bathtub (at Old Order Farm, the bathtub in every apartment is smooth and unembarrassing. place in the center of the kitchen), and filter the coffee through a cloth into a larger pot in the bathtub. "That's not touching, you know? It's not touching." She began to undress.
"Can you tell me." Auberon helplessly gave up the virtual wall and virtual door between him and Sylvie, "What are you doing?"
"I'm dyeing," she said quietly, her round breasts bobbing slightly as she moved.She picked up the white suit, looked at them one last time, and stuffed them into the pot of coffee.Auberon suddenly realized, and laughed heartily.
"Some sort of light brown," said Sylvie.She grabbed the little sock-shaped cotton filter (el colador, male) from the dish rack by the sink—she used it to make strong Spanish coffee—and asked him to look at it.It had become a rich beige, a color he had often found beautiful himself.She began to stir the pot of coffee slowly with a long-handled spoon. "The color I want," she said, "is two shades lighter than my skin. Coffee milk."
"Pretty," he said.Coffee splashed on her brown skin.She wipes away the coffee and licks her fingers.She scooped up the clothes with both hands on the spoon, looked at them, and tightened her breasts.The clothes were dark brown already, darker than her complexion, but it faded with every wash (he could see what she was thinking).She put the clothes back in the pot, and with one finger quickly brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear, and continued stirring.Auberon has never been able to decide when she is more fascinating to him: when she has his attention on him, or when she is preoccupied with other things (such as now).He couldn't write a story about her, because that would have to become a chronicle of her activities, down to the last detail.But in fact he didn't want to write anything else.Now he was standing in the doorway of the small kitchen.
"I have an idea," he said. "Those soap operas need writers all the time." "We can work together."
"what?"
"You're in charge of thinking up the plot, starting with the current plot (just make it better than them), and then I'm in charge of writing it."
"Really?" she said, uncertain but interested.
"I mean, I'll write it, you'll edit it." Oddly enough (he moves closer), he's actually proposing it to lure her into bed.He couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for lovers to stop trying to trick each other into bed.never stop?Maybe never.Maybe the bait will get smaller and more perfunctory.Maybe just the opposite.What does he know?
"Okay." She said decisively. "But," she smiled mysteriously, "I might be very busy, because I have a job coming soon."
"Hey! Awesome!"
"Yes. That's what this suit is for, if there's any more to it."
"Oh my god, that's awesome. What job?"
"Well, I wasn't going to tell you, because I'm not sure yet. I have to do an interview first. It's in the film industry." She suddenly felt ridiculous, so she laughed.
"Being a star?"
"It's not so fast. No one is a star on day one. Later." She moved the wet brown clothes to the corner of the bathtub and poured out the cold coffee. "I met a guy who was like a producer or a director. He needed an assistant, but not necessarily a secretary."
"Oh? Really?" Where did she meet the producer and director without telling him?
"It's like a recorder and assistant."
"Hmm." Sylvie was more alert than him in this regard, and should be able to tell whether the "producer"'s proposal was real or just a trick to pick up girls.He thought it sounded suspicious, but he said something encouraging anyway.
"So," she said, turning the cold water to maximum, rinsing the now-brown suit, "I've got to get dressed up to meet him, or at least look my best..."
"You are always beautiful."
"No, I mean it."
"In my opinion, you are beautiful now."
She gave him a fleeting but brilliant smile. "So we'll be famous together."
"Of course," he moved closer, "and it's going to make a lot of money. Then you'll be a film expert, and we'll be a team." He put his arms around her. "Let's form a team."
"Oh. I have to get this done."
"it is good."
"It will take a while."
"I can wait. I'll watch."
"Oh baby, I'm so embarrassed."
"Well. That's good." He kissed her neck and smelled the faint smell of sweat on her body.She let him kiss her, his wet hands stretched over the tub. "I'll get the bed down," he whispered, part threat, part promise of sweet treats for her.
"Hmm." She watched him carry out this task, although her hands were in the water, her mind was no longer on the clothes.The lowered bed suddenly filled the room, much like a bed, yes, but also like a fully loaded ship: just coming through that wall, waiting for them to board.
But in the end, Sylvie didn't go to the film industry interview after all. I don't know if it was because she began to doubt whether the producer was real or not, or because she didn't want to go out in the warm and cold March, or because she didn't want to go out. A suit of stained clothes is never satisfactory (no matter how many times it has been washed, it still smells like stale coffee).Auberon encouraged her in every possible way, and even bought a related book for her reference, but it only seemed to make her more depressed.Those shining visions are gone.She fell into a daze that made Auberon nervous.She slept late under the quilt, with Auberon's coat over the top; when she finally got up, she pulled a sweater over her pajamas and thick socks, Hanging out in a tiny apartment.She would open the refrigerator door and stare irritably at a box of moldy yogurt, unnamed leftovers in foil, or a flat bottle of soda.
"Damn it," she said, "there's nothing in it."
“哦？是这样吗？”他在虚拟书房里说道，口气中带着浓浓的讽刺，“我猜一定是坏了。”他站起来，伸手拿外套。“你想吃什么？”他说，“我去买。”
“不，宝贝……”
“我也得吃东西呀，你知道吧。而且冰箱又不会自己长食物。”
“好吧。来点好吃的。”
“好吃的什么？我可以买点麦片……”
她挤了个鬼脸。“要'好吃'的。”她伸出双手、抬起下巴强调自己的愿望，但却没给他任何答案。他出门去，外头刚刚下起了雪。
一关上门，西尔维就感觉一阵忧郁来袭。
她很惊奇奥伯龙这个被一家子姊姊和阿姨带大的幺子竟然会这么体贴、这么甘于承担两人的家务、这么不爱发牢骚。白人真奇怪。观察她的亲朋好友与街坊邻居，一个丈夫的主要家务就是吃喝、揍人、打牌。但奥伯龙竟然这么“好”。这么体贴别人，又很聪明：在这个已经瘫痪的古老福利国家里，那些官方表格跟数不清的文件都难不倒他。而且他从不吃醋。刚交往时，她曾疯狂迷恋上第七圣酒吧那个俊俏黝黑的服务生利昂，而且还放纵了一阵子，每天晚上都僵硬地躺在奥伯龙身边，感到罪恶又害怕，直到他慢慢从她口中套出这个秘密。结果他只说他不在乎她跟别人怎样，只要她跟他在一起时快乐就好：这种男人你上哪儿去找？她看着水槽上方结着雾气的镜子自问。
这么好。这么善良。而她是怎么回报他的？瞧瞧你自己，她想。眼睛下面已经有了眼袋。日渐消瘦，不久后（她对着镜子警告似的举起一根小指头）你就会变成这样：形销骨立，而且一个子儿也没拿回家，对自己、对他都无啥用处，只是个白痴。
她要工作。她会努力工作、把他为她所做的一切都偿还给他，回报他那令人窒息、源源不绝的“好”。全数奉还。that's it. “我他妈的去帮人洗碗吧，”她说着，却从肮脏的水槽里那一小堆碗盘前转开，“我不如去卖淫……”
她的天命就是要她沦落至此吗？她一脸苦涩地搓着自己瘦得吓人的手臂，像只困兽一样在床和火炉间来回踱步。原本应该放她自由的东西却束缚着她，逼她在贫困中等待它的降临，这种一天撑过一天的贫穷跟她成长过程中那种漫长无望的贫穷不一样，但终究是贫穷。她已经厌倦了，厌倦厌倦厌倦！她眼中泛起自怜的泪水。该死的天命，为什么不能拿它去交换一段好日子、一点自由、一些乐趣？倘若不能把它扔掉，为什么连拿它去换取一点东西都不行？
她带着充满怨气的决心爬回床上。她拉起棉被，谴责地瞪着前方。她已经明白：她的天命虽然还在遥远的未来沉睡着，但已经跟她紧紧交缠，注定甩不掉了。但她也厌倦了等待。除了里面有奥伯龙之外（但并不脏乱，奥伯龙甚至不是同一个奥伯龙），她对这份天命的其他特征都一无所知，但她打算现在就把它找出来。It's now. “好，”她说，“好吧。”然后在被窝里交叉起双臂，态度变得严峻。她不要再等了。她决定找出自己的天命然后展开它，不成功便成仁。她打算使尽力气把它硬是从未来里拖出来。
与此同时，奥伯龙慢慢走到了夜猫市场。 （很惊讶星期天其他的店竟然都没开，生活闲散的穷人周末都做什么？）他踩过刚落下来的新雪，这些不久就会开始转变成污黑的冰泥了。he is very angry.虽然他才温柔地跟西尔维吻别，而且十分钟后回到家时也会再次温柔地亲吻她，但他心里其实怒火中烧。为什么她连承认他脾气好、个性开朗都不愿意？难道她认为每次都要把满肚子的不悦压抑成一个柔和的答案很容易吗？而他这些努力又得到了什么认同？他也可以偶尔揍揍她的。他还真想好好给她一拳，让她安静点、看看他的耐心已经受到了多大的考验。噢，老天，这种事只是想想都觉得可怕。
他领悟到所谓的快乐（至少是他的快乐）就像一个季节，而西尔维就是那个季节里的天气。他内心有千百个声音在讨论这件事，但却束手无策，只能等待改变。他的快乐有如这个季节，漫长、轻佻、瞬息万变，忽而内敛忽而外放——跟往年的春天一样，但毕竟还是春天。他很确定这点。他踢了湿漉漉的雪堆一脚。certainly.
他在夜猫市场那少数几样昂贵的商品之间徘徊，拿不定主意，这地方是因为周日和深夜都还开着才得以勉强经营下去。最后他挑了两种异国果汁来满足西尔维的热带口味（顺便弥补刚才在心里揍了她一拳），但他掏出皮夹时却发现里面没钱。这还真是笑死人了。他在收银员眼皮下（眼里储存着严厉的审判）翻遍了口袋，内袋、外袋都找过一次，最后虽然必须放弃其中一瓶果汁，但总算凑足了零钱。
他打开折叠式卧房的门，帽子上和肩膀上都还沾着雪。“现在是怎样？”他发现西尔维又回到了床上，“睡午觉吗？”
“别吵我，”她说，“我在思考。”
“思考是吧。”他把湿淋淋的纸袋拿进厨房里，忙了一会儿才弄出一点汤和饼干，但西尔维却不愿意吃。事实上，他那天几乎都没办法让她再次开口，因此他想起她家族里的疯狂基因，不禁开始害怕。他温柔耐心地跟她说话，但她的灵魂却像见了鬼似的不断逃避他。
因此他只是坐在那儿（他的虚拟书房已经搬到了厨房里，因为房间已经被床占据，而且床上有人），思考着还能怎么宠爱她，却又想着她有多么不知感恩。她则躺在床上挣扎，时而沉沉睡去。时序又回到冬天。乌云在他们头顶上集结，雷电交加，北风阵阵，冷雨直下。
“等等，”昂德希尔太太说，“等等。这里有个地方出了错，少了样东西。你们没感觉到吗？”
“有啊。”聚集在此的其他人说。
“冬天到了，”昂德希尔太太说，“这没错，接着……”
“春天！”大家齐声大喊。
“太快了，太快了。”她敲了敲太阳穴。只要找得到漏掉的那一针在哪里，就可以进行修补，她有这样的能力。但这么漫长的路上，那一针到底是漏在哪里？还是说……这其实还没发生？她带着珠光宝气、坚毅果敢的恶棍般的沉着优雅，审视着从未来展开的漫长故事。“帮帮我，孩子们。”她说。
“好的。”他们纷纷响应。
问题就在这里：倘若他们想找的东西是在未来，那就轻松了。难找的是那些已经发生过的事。对那些长生不死（或几乎永生）的人而言，事情就是这样：他们知道未来，但过去在他们眼里是一片黑暗。只要穿过今年这扇门，就是万古的过去，一片无边的黑暗，只零星点缀着几点肃穆的光。如同索菲用她的纸牌刺探陌生的未来，隔着一片薄膜摸索着即将发生的事物，昂德希尔太太也如瞎子摸象般摸索着过去，想找出是哪里出了错。“有一个独子。”她说。
“一个独子。”他们附和着，绞尽脑汁。
“然后他来到了大城。”
“然后他来到了大城。”他们说。
“然后他坐在那里。”伍兹先生补充。
“就是这个，对吧，”昂德希尔太太说，“他坐在那里。”
“游手好闲、不负责任，只想为爱情而死。”伍兹先生把长长的手掌放在骨瘦如柴的膝盖上，“有可能这个冬天会一直持续下去，没完没了。”
“没完没了。”昂德希尔太太说，眼中泛起一滴泪水，“没错没错，看来确实是这样。”
“不、不。”他们也看出这点，齐声说道。冰冷的雨打在小小的窗户上，如同忧伤的泪水；树枝在无情的狂风里猛烈摇晃，田鼠被绝望的红狐狸咬走。“快想、快想！”他们说。
她再次敲敲太阳穴，但没有人回答。她站起身，他们纷纷向后退开。“我只是需要一点建议而已。”她说。
山上那座结冰的水塘刚刚融化，边缘还镶着锯齿状的碎冰。昂德希尔太太站在其中一块突出的尖冰上，往水里面召唤。
鳟鱼爷爷从黑暗的池底浮上来，因为充满睡意而呈现呆滞状态，还冷得忘了要生气。
“别吵我。”它说。
“快回答，”昂德希尔太太严厉地说，“否则你就有苦头吃了。”
“什么啊？”它说。
“那个大城里的孩子，”昂德希尔太太说，“你那个曾孙。他整天无所事事、不尽责任，只想为爱而死。”
“爱情吗？”鳟鱼爷爷说，“世上没有比爱更强大的力量了。”
“他不跟着其他人前进。”
“那就让他跟随爱情吧。”
“嗯哼。”昂德希尔太太说，接着又说：“嗯嗯嗯哼。”她用一只手撑着另一只手的手肘，另外那只手再托着下巴。“好吧，也许他该拥有一个配偶。”她说。
“是啊。”鳟鱼爷爷说。
“给他找点麻烦、维持他的兴致。”
"yes."
“男人单身不好。”
“不。”鳟鱼爷爷说，但是这个字从一条鱼口中说出来，就很难判断它究竟是认同还是不认同。“现在让我睡吧。”
“没错！”她说，“当然，给他找个配偶就对了！我之前是在想什么？这就对了！”她愈说愈大声。鳟鱼爷爷吓得慌忙潜入水下，而当昂德希尔太太用震耳欲聋的声音大嚷“没错！”时，她脚下那块冰也一英寸一英寸融化。
“爱情！”她对其他人说，“不是在过去、不是在未来，是现在！”
“爱情！”他们纷纷大嚷。昂德希尔太太掀开一口镶着黑铁的拱顶箱子，在里面东翻西找。她找到了想要的东西，利落地把它用白纸包好，绑上红白相间的细绳，在绳子末梢滴了一点蜡以防松开，取出笔和墨水，写好一张收件标签，三两下就完成一切动作。“让他跟着爱情走吧。”包裹弄好后她说，“这样他就会来了。管他愿不愿意。”
“啊……”他们齐声说道，随即开始散去，一边低声交谈着。
“你一定不会相信的，”西尔维从折叠式卧房的门冲进来对奥伯龙说，“我有工作了！”她出去了一整天，脸颊被三月的风吹得红通通，眼神明亮无比。
“嘿。”他笑了，既惊奇又高兴，“你的天命？”
“去他的天命。”她说着把那套用咖啡染过色的衣服从衣架上扯下来，扔向垃圾桶。“不能再找借口了。”她说。她取出工作鞋、运动衫和围巾。她把鞋子狠狠往地上一放。“得穿暖一点，”她说，“我明天开始上班。不能再找借口了。”
“明天是个好日子，”他说，“愚人节。”
“正是我的日子，”她说，“我的幸运日。”
他笑着把她抱起来。四月到了。在他的怀抱里，她有了一种既宽心又害怕的感觉：因为躲过了一场危险而宽心，但又害怕那场危险再次降临。她在他的臂弯里感到很安全，但她也知道这份安全感有多脆弱，因此她眼中泛起泪水。“宝贝，”她说，“你最棒了，你知道吗？你真的、真的是最棒的。”
“但告诉我、告诉我，”他说，“你做的是什么工作？”
她咧嘴一笑，给了他一个拥抱。“你一定不会相信的。”她说。
Notes:
Notes: