Chapter 19 II

The earth continued to circle, pushing the little park where Auberon was into summer for another three days.Warmer days are coming more and more often, and although they can't match the regular progress of the earth, the temperature has gradually stabilized and is relatively stable, and summer will soon enter.But Auberon, so absorbed in the park, barely noticed it.He's still wearing a coat.He had long since ceased to believe in spring, so a little warmth could not convince him that spring had arrived. Go on, go on. The difficulty has always been: you have to think about the matter in the right way, and come to a mature conclusion that covers all aspects, that is, "objectivity."He knew she could have left him for a thousand reasons, for his faults were as many as the stones that paved the paths, as intractable as the blossoming hawthorn tree.After all, there is no mystery in the end of love, only love itself is mysterious.It is great indeed, but it is as real as the grass, as natural and inexplicable as the flowers and the leaves and their growth.

No, it was just a sad mystery that she had left him, and it was crazy and annoying that she had disappeared.How could she leave nothing behind?He wondered if she had been kidnapped and murdered; wondered if she had planned her disappearance on purpose, just to confuse him to the point of madness, but why did she drive him mad?Unable to bear it, indeed, he once raged wildly at George Mouse: Speak, you son of a bitch!Where the hell is she?What did you do to her?It turned out that he saw his own madness through the genuine terror on George Mouse's face."Okay, okay, you calm down," said George, fumbling for a baseball bat in his utility room.No, it's true that Auberon was not very sane when he was looking for Sylvie, but that's not surprising, is it?

After four glasses of gin at the Seventh Holy Bar, he kept thinking that she was among the people coming and going outside.And after drinking the fifth cup, he even felt that she was sitting on the high chair beside him.What else can he do but go crazy? He went to Haarlem, Spain, and he seemed to see her on every street corner, wearing a triangle vest, pushing a stroller, chewing gum on a crowded porch, all of them were dark-skinned beauties, but But no one is her.Finally he gave up.In those distinctive but identical streets, he couldn't remember exactly which houses she took him to.She could be in any living room painted aqua green, watching him pass through the plastic lace of the curtains, in any room with the blue light of the television set and a few orange candles.A worse experience is to check out prisons, hospitals, and madhouses: each place is apparently assimilated by its inhabitants, who kick him from villain to lunatic to stroke patient, and finally not even at all. He still didn't know whether it was intentional or purely accidental.If she's in one of the communal cells... no.If only a lunatic would choose to believe that she wasn't there, then he would rather be a lunatic.

He would also hear someone calling him in the street.Soft and ashamed, or happy and relieved, or in a brutal tone.At this time, he would stop abruptly, stand motionless in the endless crowd, look left and right, and look around the avenue, even if he couldn't see her, he would not move, for fear that she would lose him.Sometimes he would hear the call again, more urgently, but he still couldn't see a shadow, so after waiting a long time he had to go on, stop and go, keep looking back, and had to say aloud to himself that it wasn't She, that voice wasn't even calling his name, forget it.At this time, curious passers-by will secretly watch him and talk to himself.

He must have looked like a psycho, but whose fault was it the damn day?He's just trying to stay "rational" and doesn't want to be obsessed with illusions.He tried to resist, he did try, but in the end he surrendered.God, it must be hereditary, it is a bad gene like color blindness, it just passed on to him... Well, that's all over now.He was no longer interested in whether the park and mnemonics could reveal her whereabouts.He wasn't in the park for that.Because the statues, the trees, and the walkways seemed receptive to his story, he expected and believed that if he gave them the pain of the past year (no hope or sinking, no loss, no inexplicable hallucinations), he would someday recall What will start will not be that long search, but these criss-cross paths that seem to go inward, but always lead out.

Not the Spanish Haarlem area, but the wire basket outside the fence, stuffed with a Chevrolet beer bottle, a mango pit and a Spanish daily newspaper, the word "kill" still appeared on the headlines as usual. Not the old Order Farm, but the old bird house on a pole, where noisy residents come and go, competing to build their nests. Not the Seventh Holy Grill, but a bas-relief of Dionysus, or satyrs, or those satyrs with goats in the lower half, almost as drunk as their chief gods. Not the weird pressure of his innate, lingering craziness, but the plaque on the gate: Mauss, Drinkwater, Stone.

Not the fake Sylvie who harassed him when he was drunk and defenseless, but the little girls who were jumping rope or playing games.They were always whispering and sneaking suspicious glances at him, the same group each time, but different each time, maybe just because they were wearing different clothes. Not the seasons on the street, but the seasons of this gazebo. Not her, but this park. Go on, go on. He later realized that the cold pity of the bartender was like that of the priest: universal, impersonal; compassionate to all and almost harmless to no one.They sit firmly in the midst of communion and communion recipients (smiling and making ceremonial and consoling gestures with glasses and rags), and they gain not so much love, trust, and dependence as control these things.It is best to please them.Say hello out loud, then tip well enough to be tactful.

"Please give me a gin, Victor, I mean Siegfried." Jesus, that solvent!A whole summer afternoon is dissolved in it.His father once showed a rare enthusiasm for science, so he did a demonstration experiment at school, putting a blue-green substance (copper?) into a glass of clear acid solution until the substance disappeared completely, even a Not a speck of residue to be seen.Where did that thing go?Where did that July go? The Seventh Holy Bar is a cool cave, as bleak as any burrow.As the eyes are used to the darkness, the bright white air outside the window looks even more blank and dazzling.He saw a group of people passing by the window, blinking in the scorching sun, with sad faces, and their clothes were as short as possible.The blacks were gray and shiny, the whites were tanned, only the Spaniards were radiant, but even they looked tired and haggard from time to time.The heat is absolutely lingering, like the chill in winter.Every season is wrong here, the days of endless possibility, magic, and sweetness are only two days in the spring and maybe a week in the fall.

"Hot enough for you?" said Siegfried.He takes the place of Auberon's first friend Victor at Seventh St.Auberon had never liked being friends with this burly fool named Siegfried.He felt in him an unclerical cruelty, and even seemed a little pleased to see the weaknesses of others, which cast a cloud of schadenfreude over his service. "Yes," said Auberon, "yes, it's hot enough." Somewhere in the distance came several shots.Auberon figured the way to keep himself from being haunted was to use them as fireworks.You never see a dead man on the street anyway, or you're as unlikely to see a dead man on the street as you are to see a dead rabbit or bird in the woods.They must be disposed of. "It's pretty cool in here," he said with a smile.

Siren blaring, heading somewhere. "There's a problem," said Siegfried, "the parade." "procession?" "Russell Eigenbrick. Had a big event. Don't you know?" Auberon waved. "Jesus, where have you been? Do you know of any arrests?" "have no idea." "Some guy with guns and explosives and printed matter. They got caught in a church basement. A church group, plotting an assassination or something." "They want to kill Russell Eigenbrick?" "God knows? Maybe they're his men. I forgot. But he's in hiding, only there's this parade today."

"For him or against him?" "Who knows?" Siegfried turned and left.If Auberon wanted to know the details, he would find a newspaper himself.The bartender was just chatting, and he would rather be doing something else than being questioned by Auberon.Auberon continued drinking in embarrassment.The people outside were moving fast in twos and threes, looking back from time to time.Some were yelling, others were laughing. Auberon looked away from the window.He secretly counted his money, thinking about what to do with the rest of the evening and night.Before long he'll have to downgrade his bar-drinking status from this cozy establishment to something below average, brightly lit, undecorated, with a dirty plastic bar and sallow-faced elderly patrons staring at mirrors stuck in front of them Look at the ridiculously cheap price list.Old books call this kind of shop "Little Cup Tavern".and then?Of course he could drink by himself, and have a good swig: but definitely not at Old Order Farm, not in a folding bedroom. "Have another drink," he said calmly, "when the opportunity arises." He decided not to search that morning, but it wasn't the first time.He decided not to rush forward in pursuit of those illusory clues.If she doesn't want to be found, you won't find her.He once shouted in his heart: But what if she wants to be found?What if she's just lost?What if she's looking for you at the same time you're looking, what if you almost ran into each other yesterday, what if she's sitting somewhere nearby, like a park bench or a porch, somehow Just can't come back to you?In case she's thinking right now, "He's never going to believe this crazy story (whatever it is), I just have to find him." Lonely tears rolled down her brown cheeks ...but those are all old fashioned.He knows very well that this "crazy story" is just his obsession, once a shining hope, but over time, it has reached a burning point, burned into shame, and is not even a motivation.Because of this, he was able to snuff it out. He brutally extinguished this obsession and came to the Seventh Holy Bar.Take a day off! There was only one thing left to decide, and with the help of the gin, he would decide today.She never existed!She is just an illusion!It will be hard at first to convince yourself how sensible this is, but it will get easier and easier. "Never existed," he muttered. "Never, never, never." "What?" said Siegfried, a guy who usually doesn't hear simple requests for consecutive cups. "The storm," said Auberon, for at that moment there came a sound, either of cannon or of thunder. "It will cool the weather down," said Siegfried.No wonder it made a difference to him, thought Auberon, since he'd been hiding in this cave for the summer anyway. In addition to the rumble of thunder, there is a more rhythmic bass drum coming from the distant city center.The crowds on the street became turbulent, and people were pushed forward by some big event that was coming, looking back frequently, but maybe they were the pioneers of this event.The police car rushed into the intersection of streets and avenues, blue lights flashing.Auberon was pleased to see the group of people advancing down the street swaggering in the middle of the road.Some wore the loose colored shirts of Eigenbrick supporters, while others in tight suits, dark glasses and what looked like but probably weren't hearing aids in their ears were talking to sweaty The police gesticulated and discussed the matter.A band marches north, playing conga, echoed by distant bass drums, surrounded by laughing Latinos and blacks and photographers.Their rhythm forced those coordinators to speed up their hands and feet.The men in suits seemed to be in command of the police, who, despite being heavily armed, looked bewildered.The thunder came again, more clearly than before. Ever since he came to Metropolis, or since he started spending a lot of time staring at people, Auberon had discovered that humans (at least humans in Metropolis) were of those types.Not by appearance, social status, or race, although those qualities that could be called physical, social, or racial do help to classify people.Exactly how many types he could not say, nor could he describe accurately, and he could not even remember them unless he had a living example before him.But he found himself saying to himself all day long: "Ah, that guy is that type of person." It didn't help him find Sylvie at all, because no matter how unique and personal she was, she still vaguely belonged. He is of a certain type, so wherever he goes, a person of her type may become her shadow to torture him.Many of them didn't even look like her at all.But they were her kind, and they caused him far more pain than those "Hoven" or "Linda" who resembled her on the surface, for example, now they are holding the strong arms of their boyfriends or husbands, dancing and following Kang The girls who marched down the street with the eggplant band.Behind them appeared a larger group of people who seemed to have a lot of status. It was a group of well-dressed women and men marching shoulder to shoulder, big-breasted black women in pearls and glasses, men in simple flat hats, many scrawny and stooped.He had never been able to figure out why black women who were so obese grew old and still had stern, chiseled, resolute, strong, weather-beaten faces, traits usually found in skinny people.They used long poles to pull a flag as wide as the street, with half-moon-shaped ventilation holes dug in it to prevent the flag from being blown away by the wind.The words are spelled out in sequins on the banner: "Church of Ten Thousand Streets." "That's the church," said Siegfried.In order to watch the excitement, he moved the cup to the window to wipe it. "That's the church they caught those guys." "Is there a bomb?" "They're so brave." Since Auberon still didn't know whether the bombers arrested in Wan Street Church supported or opposed the protagonist of the parade, and he didn't know whether the parade was launched to support or oppose him, so he guessed What Gefried said may be true. The Ten Thousand Streets Church delegation was mostly decent poor folk, but there were also one or two Eigenblick adherents who marched with them, and a man with earphones staring at them.They were surrounded by media, some on foot, some in location vehicles, in addition to heavily armed cavalry and curious crowds.The Seventh Holy Bar seemed to be a tidal pool, and the tide was rising, so two or three people squeezed in through the door, bringing in the heat of the heat and the smell of sweat from the parade.With high-pitched whistles and low muffled grunts, they complained about the heat and ordered beers. "Here, take it." One of them held out a yellow palm to Auberon, and stuffed him with something. It was a little note, like the kind you stuff in a Chinese fortune cookie.Half a sentence was badly printed on it, but part of it had been blurred by the sweat of the man's hand, so Auberon could only make out the word "message".The other two were comparing similar notes, laughing and wiping the beer foam from their lips. "what does this mean?" "You'll have to find out for yourself," the man said cheerfully.Siegfried puts a drink in front of Auberon. "Maybe you'll get a prize just for getting the right answer. Lotto or something, huh? They're being given out all over town." Indeed, Auberon spotted outside a troop of clowns or mimes with painted faces in white, gait-dancing behind the Ten Thousand Streets Church delegation, performing simple stunts, firing toy pistols, and taking off battered hats Salute while sending these little notes among the crowd jostling around.Everyone takes it, and the children even clamor for more. Everyone studies and compares it carefully.If no one took them, the clown threw them into the growing breeze.A clown honked his whistle, which was faintly heard from the bar. "What is it?" said Auberon. "God knows," said Siegfried. A band began to play amidst the clang of brass instruments, and suddenly the streets were filled with bright silk banners, striped and starred, crackling in the gusts before the thunderstorm.The crowd cheered loudly.Some flags have double eagles with two flaming hearts in their breasts, some with roses in their beaks and myrtle in their claws, long swords, arrows, lightning bolts and a cross or crescent on top , or both, bloody, radiant, or blazing.They seemed to flutter to the beat of military music, and the band wore not band uniforms but top hats, tuxedos and batwing cardboard collars.Ahead of them was a dark blue banner trimmed with gold, but it disappeared from sight before Auberon could see what was written on it. The guests in the bar came to the window one after another. "What's up? What's up?" Mummers and clowns move around the line, handing out little notes, dodging grabbing hands as deftly as they do somersaults.At this time, Auberon was drunk and as excited as everyone else, but not only because of the flag-raising activity itself, but also because he had no idea what the frenzy was for.More people stormed the Seventh Holy Bar, so for a moment the music turned louder.The quality of that band was not good, and the tone was out of tune at all, but the drums at least maintained the rhythm. "Christ," said a haggard man in a rumpled Brazilian suit and a straw hat, "Christ these people." "Go and see," said a black man.More came in, blacks, whites, other races.Siegfried looked stunned and repulsed.He had expected it to be a peaceful afternoon.Suddenly there was a loud rattling noise, which covered up their ordering drinks.A helicopter came outside, flew straight down the street with a screeching noise, swayed, circled, pulled up again, lingered, and set off gusts of wind on the street.People cling to their hats and run wildly in circles like fowl on an eagle.There was a meaningless rasp from the helicopter, repeating meaningless words, only in ever-increasing tones.The people on the street yelled back, and the helicopter turned cautiously and flew away.People cheered loudly and hissed the departing dragon. "What did they say, what did they say?" the guests asked each other. "Perhaps," said Auberon to himself, "they were warning them that it was going to rain." It was indeed going to rain, but they didn't care.More conga dancers came, almost drowned by the crowd, and everyone sang to their beat, "Let it fall, let it rain; let it fall, let it rain." There were fights, mostly just pushing each other Pushing back and forth, the female friend screamed, and passers-by hurriedly pulled the disputants away.The march seemed to turn into a group culture that turned into a riot.But at this time there was an urgent horn, and the brawlers were separated by several black luxury cars with rapidly fluttering pennants hanging from the bumpers of the cars.Many men in suits and sunglasses followed closely beside the car, looking around sullenly, obviously not here to play.The scene darkened ominously and quickly, and the harsh, cloudy orange light of the evening sky flicked out like an arc lamp.The sun must have been blocked by dark clouds.Even the neat hairstyles of the bodyguards in suits were blown to pieces by the stronger wind.The band has stopped playing, and only the solemn drums are left like an elegy.The crowd huddled around the car curiously, and possibly a little angrily.They were warned not to come near.Black wreaths hung from some of the cars.Is it a funeral?Nothing could be seen through the black glass of the car window. The guests at the Seventh Holy Bar fell silent, perhaps out of respect or out of dissatisfaction. "The last best hope," said the man in the straw hat mournfully, "the last best hope for God's sake." "It's all over," the other man said, taking a swig of his drink, "it's all over, just the yelling." The car was gone, the crowd trailing behind, the drums beating like fainting heartbeats.Then, when the band played again downtown, there was a thunderclap and everyone in the bar ducked their heads before looking at each other and laughing, embarrassed that they should have been startled.Auberon drank his fifth gin in one gulp, satisfied with himself."Let it fall, let it rain," he said, and pushed the empty glass towards Siegfried with more authority than usual. "Continued Cup." Suddenly it began to rain.The bean-sized raindrops splashed on the big window first, and then poured down, making a hissing sound all the way, as if the city was boiling hot in the rain.Rain washed away a dark pane of glass, obscuring the parade.Now there seemed to be a group of people following the black RV, as if they had encountered some kind of obstacle.Wearing hole-pocketed hoods or welder-like protective masks, and carrying clubs or batons, it's hard to tell if they're part of the march or part of another hostile activity.The Seventh Saint Bar was quickly filled with people sheltering from the rain.One of the mummers or clowns bowed in, the white makeup beginning to come off his face, but he seemed to perceive some of the greetings as hostile, so he bowed out again. Thunder, rain, sunsets engulfed in stormy darkness.Under the glare of the street lights, the crowd pushed through the rain-poured streets like a wave.There's broken glass, yelling, commotion, sirens, like war.People in the bar rushed out to watch the excitement or participate in it, and those who had seen enough outside ran to the bar.Auberon stayed calmly and happily in his high chair, raising his glass with his orchid fingers.He smiled beamingly at the sad man in the straw hat beside him. "Drunk," he said, "literally. I mean as drunk as a drunk. You know what I mean." The man sighed and turned his head away. "No, no, no," Siegfried yelled, waving his hands to stop, because a group of Eigenbrick's supporters rushed in, their colorful shirts soaked by the rain were tightly stuck to their bodies, Holding a wounded man: the man's face is covered with blood.They ignored Siegfried, and the crowd murmured to let them in.The man beside Auberon stared at them unabashedly, muttering something inwardly.Someone cleared a table, knocked over a drink, and the injured were helped to a chair. They left him to rest and rushed to the bar.The man in the cap was squeezed somewhere.A look of not wanting to sell them alcohol seemed to flash across Siegfried's face, but he restrained himself after all.One of them climbed onto the stool next to Auberon, a petite man with someone else's colored shirt draped over his back.Another stood on tiptoe and raised his glass to toast: "To this revelation!" Many voices echoed, agreeing or disagreeing.Auberon turned to the man beside him and said, "What revelation?" She turned to Auberon, shaking with excitement, wiping the rain from her face.She had cut her hair and it was cut short like a boy's. "It's a revelation," she said, handing him a small note.Not wanting to keep her out of sight again, fearful that she would disappear if he looked away, Auberon held the note in front of his almost blind eyes.The note read: It's not your fault. In fact he had two Sylvies before him, one for each eye.He covered one eye with his hand and said, "Long time no see." "Yeah." She smiled and looked around her companions, still shaking, completely absorbed in their excitement and pride. "So where have you been?" said Auberon. "Where have you been? By the way." He knew he was drunk, so he had to try to be as calm as possible when he spoke, lest she see it and think him ashamed. "Nowhere," she said. "I guess—" he started, on the verge of saying "I guess you wouldn't have told me if you weren't the real Sylvie," but was interrupted by more toasts and the sound of people coming and going, So he just said, "I mean, if you're hallucinating." "What?" said Sylvie. "I said, how are you doing!" He felt his head dangling on his neck, so he stopped it quickly, "Can I buy you a drink?" She laughed out loud: Ai The folks of Gambrick don't have to pay to drink tonight.One of her companions came up and kissed her. "Let the city fall!" he shouted in a hoarse voice, no doubt all day long, "Let the city fall!" "Hey!" she replied, agreeing not so much with his ideas as with his enthusiasm.She turned to Auberon, lowered her eyes, held out a hand towards him, was about to explain everything to him...but no, she just took a sip from his glass (looking up at him), and then Putting down the wine glass, showing a disgusted expression. "It's gin," he said. "It tastes like toner," she said. "Uh, it's not really good to drink," he said, "it's good to drink for you." He found that there was a characteristic banter between the two of them in his voice, but because they hadn't heard each other for so long, it felt like hearing An old song or a taste of a food you haven't had in a long time.It's good for you, yes.Remembering how unpredictable her temperament was, he drank another drink and looked at her with delight, while she looked with delight at the joy around her. "How is Mr. Qian?" he said. "He's fine." She didn't look at him.He shouldn't ask about such things, but he desperately wants to know her heart. "But are you happy?" She shrugged. "Very busy." She showed a slight smile, "Busy little girl." "Uh, I mean..." He paused.The last gleam of reason in his head told him not to talk too much, to be cautious, but then it went out. "It's okay," he said, "I've been thinking about it a lot lately, you know, uh, you can probably guess, about us, about you and me. Then I figured out that basically it doesn't really matter , it's all right, really." She looked at him with her chin resting, absorbed but absent, as she always was when he was giving a speech. "You're taking the next step, that's all, right? I mean things change, life changes, how can I complain? I can't argue with that." Suddenly it was crystal clear : "It's as if I knew you at a certain stage in your development, like the chrysalis or larvae. But then you metamorphose. Become another person, like a butterfly." That's right: she's already The layer of transparent chrysalis faded away, that is, the girl he was familiar with and he had touched.He kept this shell (he also kept many empty shells from locusts when he was a child), and it was all she left him, all the more precious because of its fragility and perfect symbol of abandonment.Meanwhile, out of his sight (which can only be imagined inductively), she has grown wings and gone, not just to another place, but to become something else. She wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to say: Huh? "What stage?" she said. "Some early stages," he said. "What word did you say?" "Larva," he said.Thunder rumbled, the eye of the storm had passed, and it rained heavily again.Could it be just old hallucinations before him?Or is it really her?This kind of thing must be cleared up immediately.Besides, how could it be her body that impressed him the most?And is this the body of her soul, or the soul of her body? "It's not important, it's not important." He said, his voice was full of joy, and his heart was full of sweetness of human kindness.He forgave her everything just for her existence, no matter what kind of existence it was. "unimportant." "Look, this is really..." She raised his glass to him, and took a cautious sip. "It's really out of fashion, you know." "Form is emptiness, and emptiness is form," he said, "people only know so much, and..." "I have to go to the bathroom," she said. The last thing he clearly remembered was her return from the bathroom, although he didn't expect her to.When he saw her come back, he felt the same ecstasy as when she turned her head just now.He forgot that he had denied her existence three times, had decided to convince himself that she never existed.That would have been absurd anyway, because she was here, and once out in the rain he could kiss her: her rain-drenched skin must have been icy cold, her nipples as firm as unripe fruit, but He imagined that she would be hot all over. Some spells are permanent, keeping the world under its spell for a long time.Some spells are short-lived and wear off quickly, returning the world to its original state.Alcohol is notoriously short-lasting. Auberon woke up suddenly at dawn after being in a coma as if dead for several hours.He realized right away that he really should die, that death was the only state for him, but he knew he wasn't dead."No, oh my God, no," he said softly in a rough voice, but the drunkenness was gone, even sleepiness was gone.No, he's still alive, in this sad world.His eyes widened, and he saw that the ceiling of the folded bedroom was covered with protruding patches of plaster like a crazy map.He didn't have to look to know that Sylvie wasn't around. But there was someone lying next to him, wrapped in a damp sheet (it was hot as hell, Auberon's neck and forehead were covered with sweat).There is another person in the corner of the folding bedroom, talking to him, the voice is soft and confident: "Oh, that wine, sleeping for a long time in the depths of the cool cellar, exuding the smell of flower gods and green countryside ..." The voice came from a small red plastic radio, already antique, with "Silver Sound Plate" written in bas-relief in script.Auberon never knew it was still working.It was a black voice, as smooth and silky as any radio jockey, black but cultured.God, there are blacks everywhere, Auberon thought, overwhelmed by a sense of strangeness that travelers sometimes feel when they are in a different place and find it full of strangers. "Go! Go! I will fly to you, not in the carriage of Dionysus and his party, but on the invisible wings of poetry..." Auberon slowly got up from the bed like a disabled person.Who the hell is this guy lying next to him.He saw muscular brown shoulders, and the sheets slowly rose and fell with his breath.He is snoring.God, what have I done.He was about to lift the sheet when the guy moved himself, sniffed, and stretched out a nice leg, a slender calf covered with curly dark hair.A man, yes, without a doubt.Auberon cautiously opened the bathroom door, took out his coat, and put it on his naked body, feeling disgusted by the clammy lining of the coat against his skin.In the kitchen, he opened the cupboard with trembling, skinny hands.The cupboards were empty and dusty and looked a little creepy.In the last cabinet he found a bottle of Donna Mariposa rum, with a little bit of amber liquid left.His stomach quivered, but he took the wine out anyway.He came to the door, glanced back at his new friend who was still sleeping on the bed, and walked out of the room. He was sitting on the stairs in the hallway, with the bottle of rum in his hands, staring blankly at the stairwell.He misses Sylvie, misses being comforted, with a burning thirst, so he opens his mouth and leans forward in a position where he wants to scream or throw up.But there were no tears in his eyes.All the life fluid in him has dried up, he is an empty shell, and so is the world.And there was a man lying on the bed.他有点吃力地扭开朗姆酒瓶盖，把瓶身上贴有标签的那一侧转到外面去，把那烈火般的酒倒进干渴的喉咙。我在黑暗中倾听。济慈的诗句从门缝底下溜进来，谄媚地传入他耳中。在这一刻，死亡显得富足无比。富足：他喝光朗姆酒，站起身，喘着气吞下苦涩的泡沫。在你悠扬的安魂曲中成为一个醉鬼。 他盖上空瓶，把它留在楼梯上。他在走廊底端那张漂亮的桌子上方的镜子里瞥见了一个凄凉的身影。“凄凉”这个词真是铿锵有力。他转开目光。他进入折叠式卧房，像行尸走肉，干荒的尸身在朗姆酒的作用下暂时获得动力。现在他可以说话了。他来到床边。躺在那儿的人已经踢掉了被子。确实是西尔维没错，只是变成了男人，而且不是幻觉：眼前这淫荡的男孩可是货真价实。奥伯龙摇摇他的肩膀。西尔维的头滚到了枕头上。一双深色的眼睛睁开片刻，看见奥伯龙，接着又闭上。 奥伯龙弯身向前，对着他的耳朵低语。“你是谁？”他小心翼翼地慢慢说。这家伙也许听不懂我们的语言。“你叫什么名字？”那男孩翻了个身醒来，用手揉了揉脸，仿佛想把那份跟西尔维的神似给抹去（但抹不掉），然后用刚睡醒那种沙哑的声音说：“嘿。怎么啦？” "What's your name?" “嘿，嗨。老天爷。”他往枕头上一躺，咂了咂嘴，像个孩子般用指关节揉揉眼睛。他毫不害臊地在自己身上东抓抓、西摸摸，仿佛很高兴自己的身体就在手边。他对奥伯龙露出微笑，说：“布鲁诺。” "Oh." “你记得吧。” "Oh." “我们一起从那家酒吧出来。” “噢。噢。” “老天你喝得还真醉。” "Oh." “记得吗？你甚至没办法……” “噢。不、不。”此时布鲁诺正带着情谊大方地看着他，依然搔抓着自己。 “你说等一等，”布鲁诺笑了，“那是你说的最后一句话，老兄。” “是哦？”他不记得这些事，却感受到一种奇异的懊悔，差点笑出来也差点哭出来，因为他在西尔维还是西尔维的时候让她失望了。“不好意思。”他说。 “嘿，别这样。”布鲁诺大方地说。 他想离去。他知道自己应该离去，也想拉起自己敞开的外套。But he can't.倘若他就这么走开，倘若放弃这最后之觞，那么昨夜残留在杯底的最后一点魔力也会跟着消失，这也许就是他所能拥有的全部了。他盯着布鲁诺坦然的脸孔，比西尔维还单纯可爱、没有什么激情的痕迹，但倒是像西尔维说的一样充满刚强之气。友善：用这个词来形容布鲁诺就对了。奥伯龙早已干涸的眼眶里泛起了酝酿已久的滚烫泪水。 “你是不是有个妹妹？”他说。 "Yes, I have." “你该不会，”奥伯龙说，“刚好知道她在哪里吧？” “不知道。”他自在地挥了挥手，那动作简直是她的翻版，“一个月没看到她了。她都到处跑。” “是啊。”他还真想抚摸布鲁诺的头发。只要片刻就好，那样就够了。然后闭上他发烫的眼睛。这个想法令他一阵晕眩，因此他往床头板上靠去。 “一只不折不扣的飞蛾。”布鲁诺说。他带着一种不自觉的倦怠感往床上一躺，好让奥伯龙也有空间。 "A what?" “一只飞蛾。我说西尔维。”他笑着把大拇指勾在一起，用手掌做出翅膀的样子。他让它飞舞了一下，然后对奥伯龙露出微笑，鼓动翅膀示意要奥伯龙跟随它。 音乐已停。 由于确知布鲁诺跟他妹妹一样睡着了就像个死人，因此奥伯龙也不刻意保持安静。他翻箱倒柜，把自己的东西全部拿出来，丢得到处都是。他摊开他那皱巴巴的绿色帆布袋，把他的诗作和其余的研究作品、他的刮胡刀和肥皂都装进去，然后把塞得下的衣物统统放入。他把仅存的钱也都塞进口袋。 走了、走了，他心想。死了、死了；空了、空了。但不论什么样的咒语都无法在这里召唤出她的身影，哪怕是最苍白、最虚幻的一缕幽魂，因此他只剩一个选择：逃离。get away.他在房间两端走来走去，仓促地翻查着抽屉和柜子。刚才遭到滥用的老二在他走动的同时晃来晃去，最后他终于套上四角裤和长裤，但就算隐藏了起来，它却还是怨怼地发烫着。刚才那件事比他原本预期的还费力。噢算了，算了。他把一双袜子塞进帆布袋的一个小隔间里，结果在那儿找到了一件他遗留的东西，包在包装纸内。他把它掏出来。 是他离开艾基伍德到大城来闯荡那天莉莉送给他的礼物。一个小礼物，包在白色的包装纸内。想起来时就把它打开吧，莉莉是这么说的。 他环视折叠式卧房。It's empty.或说它本来就是这个样子。布鲁诺躺在那张遭到亵渎的床上，七彩外套挂在绒布椅上。一只老鼠从厨房的地板上窜过，接着又躲了起来，但也可能只是个短暂的幻觉（他真的已经落到这般田地了吗？他觉得好像是）。他拆开莉莉的小礼物。 结果是某种小型仪器。他大惑不解地用湿黏颤抖的手拿着它反复端详了好一会儿，才领悟到这是什么：是个计步器。是那种可以挂在腰带上的轻便机种，可以随时显示你走了多远。 小公园里人愈来愈多。 他之前怎都不知道爱情会这样？怎么都没有人告诉他？倘若早点知道，他就不会谈恋爱了。至少不会这么喜滋滋地一头栽入。 为什么像他这样一个智商不低、出身也不错的年轻人会如此一无所知？ 当他离开老秩序农场、踏上在暑气与颓废中散发恶臭的大城街道时，他甚至可以想象自己其实是在逃离西尔维，并非只是往一些更不温暖的方向继续搜寻她的踪影。克劳德姑婆曾说过醉鬼都是靠喝酒来逃避烦恼。倘若这句话可以套用在他身上（他确实已耗尽全力想变成一个醉鬼），那么为什么他喝干一瓶酒时，往往会在瓶底、在克劳德姑婆口中那个醉鬼获得解脱的地方看见西尔维？ 好吧，继续吧。当然了，秋天是收获的季节，是一束束捆在一起的小麦、是矍铄的果实。远方是北风哥哥模糊的身影，鼓着脸颊、竖着两道剑眉，步步进逼。 那个手持镰刀、收割丰硕麦穗的女孩是不是就是春天里拿着小铲子栽下幼苗的那个女孩？而那个蜷缩在堆满收获的土地上，侧着脸沉思的老者又是谁？说到冬天…… 十一月时，他们三人（他、西尔维和弗雷德·萨维奇）曾经坐在公园长凳上漂浮在天色渐暗的城市里，紧紧挨在一起但还颇为舒适。弗雷德是他流浪汉生涯的导师，那一季他开始跟西尔维一样常出现在奥伯龙面前，只是他的存在比西尔维真实。他每动一下，就算只是举起手中的白兰地，塞在外套里的报纸就会噼啪作响。他们一起唱歌、背诵酒鬼的诗词： “鹰老头进城了。”弗雷德·萨维奇说。 "What?" “冬天。”西尔维说，把两手夹在腋下。 “该搬动这把老骨头了。”弗雷德·萨维奇一边喝酒，外套一边发出噼啪声响，“应该把这袋冷飕飕的老骨头搬到佛罗里达去。” “对极了。”西尔维说，仿佛终于有人说出一句合理的话。 “鹰老头不是我朋友。”弗雷德·萨维奇说，“你得搭灰狗巴士才能逃离那家伙。费城、巴尔的摩、查尔斯顿、亚特兰大、杰维特、圣彼特、迈阿密。你看过鹈鹕吗？” 他没看过。西尔维倒是从小就懂得召唤这些黄昏时分出现在加勒比海的军舰鸟，既突兀又美丽。“是啊是啊。”弗雷德·萨维奇说，“它们嘴巴的容量比肚子还大，会咬下胸前的羽毛，用胸口的血喂食小鸟。它胸口的血。噢，佛罗里达。” 弗雷德那年秋天休了假，但也可能是从此退休。他确实在奥伯龙最需要帮助的时候出现在他身边，跟他第一次引导奥伯龙前往佩蒂、史密洛东与鲁思律师事务所那天所承诺的一样。奥伯龙并不质疑这份保佑，也不质疑大城施予的任何庇护。他已经把自己完全交付给大城，而他发现这座城市就像个严格的女主人，只要是毫无保留完全服从于她的人，她就仁慈以待。他慢慢学会了这点。他向来是个讲究的人，还曾为了西尔维变得更加讲究，现在却邋遢污秽，大城的尘土已经永久渗进他体内。尽管喝醉时他会走好几个街区寻找公厕（少之又少且危险无比），但除了这些罕见的特定时刻，他根本不在意厕所这档子事。到了秋天，他的帆布袋已成了一块无用的破布，活像包尸体用的，再也装不下一个流浪汉的家当。因此他跟大城里其他秘会成员一样开始使用购物纸袋，还套了两层来增加强度，以堕落的外表来彰显他的诸多伟大特质。 于是他就这样过日子，以杜松子酒麻痹自己、露宿街头。街道时而暴动四起、时而静得像座墓园，但看在他眼里始终空荡荡。他从弗雷德和弗雷德的前辈那儿听说“流浪汉秘密共和国”的伟大时代已经过去了。当时的下百老汇区有君王和智者，大城里到处可见只有他们的成员才看得懂的秘密文字，醉鬼、吉卜赛人、疯子和哲学家的阶级就跟执事、司事、神父和主教一样稳固。当然，都过去了。现在不管加入什么企业，你都会发现它的辉煌时代已经过去，奥伯龙心想。 他不必乞讨。佩蒂、史密洛东与鲁思律师事务所会付钱给他，一方面是因为他本应继承这笔钱，另一方面则是为了把这浑身恶臭的家伙打发走——他知道这点，因此他开始故意以最肮脏难看的姿态出现在那里，通常还带着弗雷德。但这些钱已经够一个酒鬼买东西吃了，也够他买条棉被以防自己在喝得烂醉时冻死（他一些朋友的朋友据说就发生过这种事），此外也可以买杜松子酒。他从来不喝讨厌的红酒，这点他倒是很自豪。虽然他似乎只有喝下透明火热的杜松子酒时才会看到西尔维（像个火精般浮现），但还是拒绝降格喝红酒。 他跷着的膝盖开始变冷。他不知道自己为什么是从膝盖开始冷，他的脚趾和鼻尖都还没感受到寒意。“灰狗巴士是吧。”他说着改跷另一条腿，“我可以提高价钱。”他问西尔维：“你想去吗？” “当然想。”西尔维说。 “当然想。”弗雷德说。 “我是在跟……我刚才不是在跟你说话。”奥伯龙说。 弗雷德轻轻圈住奥伯龙的肩膀。他向来小心善待他朋友身边的幽灵。“好吧，她当然想去。”他睁开黄色的眼睛凝视着奥伯龙，奥伯龙始终无法确定他这种眼神究竟是凶残还是善良。“况且，”他微笑着说，“她又不需要车票。” 奥伯龙混沌的记忆里有许多断层与空白，后来最令他困扰的一点就是他记不得自己究竟有没有去佛罗里达。根据记忆术，有几棵参差不齐的棕榈树、一些漆成粉红色或蓝绿色的灰泥或水泥砖建筑物，还有桉树的味道。但如果他记得的就只有这些，那么就算它们显得既真实又不动如山，也大有可能只是幻觉或他记得的照片而已。他对鹰老头的记忆也是这么鲜明：横扫辽阔的大道、蹲踞在公园守门人戴着手套的手腕上、嘴边的羽毛结着霜花、锐利的趾爪掐进你的五脏六腑。但奥伯龙并没有冻死，而他认为在大城街头熬过一个冬天无疑比棕榈树和百叶窗更加令人记忆深刻。好吧：他那时心不在焉：唯一真正吸引他的东西就是那些亮着红色霓虹灯吸引流浪者的孤岛（他得知那些灯只有红色的），还有一个又一个透明如水的扁形瓶子，里头有时会有奖品，就像儿童吃的盒装麦片。他只清楚记得一件事：冬天结束后就不再有奖品出现了。他已经瓶底朝天。只剩渣滓可以喝，因此他把渣滓也喝了。 他怎么会在旧终点站里？难道他刚刚才搭火车从阳光明媚的佛罗里达回来吗？还是只是巧合？他眼花缭乱，看到的东西大多变成了三个，不久前还尿湿了自己的一条裤管。三更半夜里，他踏着坚定的步伐走下坡道与隧道（但他没有目的地，只是他的脚步若不果断就会摔个狗吃屎，走路这档子事可是比大多数人想的还复杂）。一个假修女包着肮脏的头巾、眼神机警地拿着一只杯子向他讨钱，目的是讽刺大过期待（奥伯龙很久以前就已经发现这家伙其实是男扮女装）。He moves on.从来不曾安静过的终点站此刻就跟往常一样安静，为数不多的旅人和迷途者给了他一个很大的铺位，但他只能眯起眼睛瞪着他们才能恢复视焦，每个人都变成三个人实在是太多了。喝酒的好处之一就是可以把人生简化成这些单纯的事物：看路、走路、举起酒瓶对准脸上那个名为嘴巴的洞，光是它们就占据了你全部的心思。仿佛又回到了两岁。所有的想法都很单纯。还有个虚构的朋友陪你聊天。他停下脚步，因为他已经碰上了一面堪称坚固的墙。他站在那儿休息，心里想着：“迷失”。 一个单纯的想法。只有一个单纯的想法而已，其余的人生与时间就是一大片朝四面八方延伸、既平板又单调的灰色平面，意识则像一团巨大肮脏的毛球般将它填得满满的，只剩那样一个想法，像一道受到保护的火焰般燃烧着。 “什么？”他猛然从墙壁前退开，但根本没有人对他说话。他环顾四周：是个拱顶的十字交叉口，四条走廊在此交会。他站在其中一个角落里。肋架拱顶的交会线一路延伸到地面，形成了一种看似隙缝或狭长开口的东西，但其实只是砖缝而已。感觉上似乎只要面对这条缝，就可以看进去…… “你好？”他对着黑暗低语，“你好？” no respond. “你好。”他提高音量。 “小声一点。”她说。 "what?" “把声音放低，”西尔维说，“现在不要转过来。” “你好。你好。” “嗨。很棒吧？” “西尔维。”他低语。 “好像你就站在我身边一样。” "Yes," he said. “是的。”他低语。他把自己的意识推进这片黑暗里，意识紧缩了起来，片刻之后才又张开。 "What?" he said. “噢，”她低声说道，在黑暗中顿了一下，“我想我要走了。” “不，”他说，“不，不会的，不会的。为什么？” “噢，我丢了工作，你明白吧。”她低语。 "Work?" “一艘渡轮上的工作。那个人很老很老了。他人很好，但是好无聊。成天来来去去……”他感到她微微退开。“所以我可能要走了。天命在召唤我。”她自嘲地说，想用轻松的语气逗他开心。 “为什么？”他说。 “小声点。”她耳语道。 “你为什么要对我做出这种事？” “哪种事，宝贝？” “好吧，你天杀的干吗不一走了之算了？你怎么不直接离开、别来烦我？去去去。”他停下来侧耳倾听。一片空寂。他猛然一阵恐慌。“西尔维？”他说，“你听得到吗？” "Can." “哪里？你要去哪里？” “噢，往里面去。”她说。 “往哪个里面去？” "here." 他抓住冷冷的砖块来稳住自己，膝盖摇摇晃晃，一下弯一下直。 "here?" “越往里面去，”她说，“就越大。” “天杀的，”他说，“天杀的，西尔维。” “这里面很奇怪，”她说，“跟我预期的不一样。但我学到了很多事。我应该会习惯吧。”她顿了一下，寂静填满了那片黑暗。“但我很想你。” “噢，老天爷。”他说。 “所以我要走了。”她的低语声已经变弱。 “不，”他说，“不、不、不……” “但你刚才说……” “噢，老天，西尔维。”他两腿一软，重重地跪了下来，依然面对着那片黑暗，“噢，老天。”他把脸朝那不存在的空间挤过去，又说了一些话，一会儿道歉、一会儿悲凄地乞求着，尽管他已不再知道是为了什么。 “不，听着，”她有些尴尬地耳语，“我觉得你很棒，真的，我始终这么认为。别说这些了。”这时他哭了起来，无法理解对方也无法被理解。“况且我非走不可。”她说。她的声音已经变得微弱而遥远，注意力也开始转移。“好啦。嘿，你真该看看他们给我的东西……听着，宝贝。祝福你。要乖哟。再见。” 后来开始有人经过，有早班车乘客和前来为他们俗丽的店面开门的男子。奥伯龙还待在原处，已经昏迷了很久，像做了坏事的男孩般面对着墙壁跪在角落里，脸塞在一扇不通往任何地方的门缝内。基于大城人那份古老的礼貌或冷漠，没有人打扰他，但有些人经过时还是惋惜或恶心地对着他摇了摇头：一个实体教训。 跟西尔维的最后一丝关系也斩断了后，他坐在小公园里，脸上也挂着泪水。他终于在终点站里醒来时，还维持相同的姿势，当时的他不晓得自己怎么会在那里，但他现在记得了。记忆之术让他想起了一切，全部，看他要怎么处置都行。 你不知道的事。只要经过妥善整理，你不知道的事就会神奇地从你知道的事情当中自动浮现；或者应该说，那些事你一直都知道，但却不晓得自己知道。他每在这儿度过一天就朝真相迈进了一步。每天晚上，当他躺在迷途羔羊收容所内辗转难眠、在同伴们的叫嚣声与做噩梦的惊呼声中细细探索这些记忆时，他就愈发接近自己不知道的真相：那一个失落的简单事实。好吧，他现在知道了。他眼中的拼图已经完整。 他被诅咒了。that's it. 很久以前，他遭受了一个诅咒，他知道何时开始，却不清楚原因。是个令他生命残缺的魔咒：他将一辈子寻寻觅觅，但他的追寻将永远徒劳无功。基于某些他们自己的理由，他们诅咒了他（谁知道为什么？可能只是出于恶意，八成是这样没错，再不然就是想惩罚他的顽固，但惩罚也没用，因为他将永远不会悔改）：他们偷偷把他的脚给装反，然后将他送上寻觅之路。 现在他知道了。这件事是发生在莱拉克消失的那片树林深处，也就是他心碎地呼求她留下的时候。从那一刻起他就成了一个寻觅者，但不知为何，他那双寻寻觅觅的脚却始终循着错误的方向。 他曾在树林深处寻找莱拉克的踪影，但当然是没找到。他当时八岁，接下来也只能不断长大，虽然他万般不愿意。他还能期待什么？ 他成了特务，探索着他不知道的秘密。但不管他怎么探索，秘密始终没有解开的一天。 他追求西尔维，但他找到的那些路径虽然看似通往她芳心深处，其实却都恰恰相反。试图触及镜中那个对着你微笑的女孩，你的手就会在冷冷的镜面上碰到自己。 好吧：都结束了。那场好久以前开始的寻觅在此结束。他把外高祖父建造的这座小公园改造成一个象征，跟克劳德姑婆纸牌里任何一张大牌或爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔记忆之屋里任何一间拥挤的厅堂一样完整而充满意象。这座公园就是西尔维的脸、西尔维的心、西尔维的身体，就像那种古老的图画：用各式水果拼成一张脸，每道皱纹、每根睫毛、脖子上的每个褶子都是由水果、谷类和食物构成的，写实得仿佛可以随时拿来吃。他已经摒除了灵魂中的一切幻想、把所有缠人的鬼魅都抛置于此、卸除了醉意的恶魔以及他与生俱来的癫狂。基于某些她个人的理由，西尔维已经离开了，此刻正在某处生活、追逐着她的天命。他希望她快乐。他已经靠着本身的力量和记忆之术解除了自己的诅咒，可以自由离去了。 他坐在那儿。 那个星期，碰巧有一棵树正在抖落它叶片般的花朵或种子（他外公应该会知道这是什么树，但他不知道）。圆圆的银绿色小点洒遍整座公园，仿佛上百万元的十分硬币。微风大肆挥霍地把它们成堆扫向他，在他一动不动的脚边堆积起来、填满了他的帽缘和大腿，仿佛他只是公园里另一个可以堆积垃圾的设备，就像他屁股下的长凳和他观赏的凉亭。 最后他终于起身，感觉沉重无比，仿佛还处于某种麻痹状态。他已经看完冬天，因此他又绕回春天，也就是他开始的地方、他现在的位置。一年的轮回。冬天是年迈的时间之父，拿着镰刀与沙漏，破烂的斗篷和胡子被阵阵狂风吹起，脸上有个恶心的表情。他羸弱的脚边跟着一条瘦骨嶙峋、淌着口水的狗或狼。绿色的钱币从他们前方飘过、卡在浮雕上。奥伯龙站起身时，也有绿色的钱币从他身上窸窣滑落。他知道转角后方的春天是什么样子，因为他已经看过了。除了在这里不断绕圈子，突然好像做什么事都没意义了。他所需的一切都在这里。 北风哥哥的秘密。仅仅十步之遥。冬天到了，春天就在后方不远处。他向来认为这句话说反了。不是应该说“冬天到了，春天就在不远的前方”吗？前方：你若顺着季节前进，先是冬天到了，接着春天就在不远的前方。“对吧？”他大声自言自语。前方，后方。弄错的人八成是他，除了他之外，没有人会从这种古怪又无用的个人角度看待事情。倘若冬天到了……他绕过凉亭的转角。春天就在不远的前方，后方……就在这时候，有人绕过了另一边的转角，从春天转进夏天。 “莱拉克。”他说。 已经绕过半个转角的她回头瞥了他一眼。这一眼的眼神是如此熟悉，但他已经好久没看到了，因此他感觉一阵晕眩。这种眼神传达的是“噢！我正要走就被你逮到”，但却又不是这个意思，只是种略带害羞的媚态而已，他向来知道这点。他周围的公园变得不真实，仿佛正静静被吹散。莱拉克转向他，双手交握在前方晃来晃去，光着脚小步前进。她并未长大（当然），还是穿着那件蓝色连衣裙（当然）。“嗨。”她说，迅速拨开脸上的发丝。 “莱拉克。”他说。 她清清喉咙（她已经很久没开口了），说：“奥伯龙。你不觉得你该回家了吗？” “家。”他说。 她朝他跨了一步，再不然就是他朝她跨了一步。他对她伸出手，但也可能是她对他伸出手。“莱拉克，”他说，“你怎么会跑到这里？” "here?" “你离开以后，”他说，“你去了哪里？” "leave?" “拜托，”他说，“拜托。” “我一直都在这里。”她微笑着说，“傻瓜。移动的人是你。” 一个诅咒；只是一个诅咒。it's not your fault. “好吧，”他说，“好吧。”他握住莱拉克的手想把她举起来，却行不通，因此，他把两只手交握成马镫的形状，弯下腰。她把她没穿鞋子的小脚踩在他掌心、双手按着他的肩膀，就这样让他抬起来。 “这里面还真挤。”她边挪进来边说，“这些人是谁？” “没关系，不重要。”他说。 “好了。”适应了之后她说，声音已经变得微弱，较像是他的声音。毕竟、毕竟，这一直都是他的声音。“现在咱要去哪里？” 他掏出老太婆给他的钥匙。跟进门的时候一样，要离开这座公园也得用钥匙打开锻铁大门。“回家吧，我想。”奥伯龙说。在小径上玩游戏、摘蒲公英的小女孩们抬起头，看着他自言自语。“我想是回家吧。”