Chapter 41 Section 39

I drove around the foundry twice, looking for signs of the Germans' former presence here.My car drives past rows of houses.They were built on steep hills, wooden houses with narrow fronts and asphalted roofs climbing up.My car drove past the car terminal in the beating rain.It took me a while to find the motel, a bungalow on a concrete pillar of the elevated road.It's called "The Parkway Motel." Short pleasures, harsh measures. This is an abandoned area, the warehouses and light industrial factories in this area have been spray painted in a mess.There were no cars in front of the motel, and there were nine or ten rooms inside, all dark.I first drove around three times to observe the place carefully.Then I parked on the gravel under the elevated road a block away.I ended up walking back to the motel.These are the first three steps in my plan.

Here's my plan: Drive in front of this place a few times; park some distance away from this place; walk back; find Mr. Gray, real or not; shoot him three times in the stomach, hurt him the most level of pain; wipe the fingerprints off the weapon; place the weapon in the dead man's limp hand; find a crayon or lipstick and scribble a vague suicide note on the full-length mirror; take all of the dead's " Dale' pills; slipped back into the car; drove to the highway entrance; headed east toward Blacksmiths; parked on the old road by the river; parked Stover's car in Treadwy In old man's garage; closing the garage door; walking home in rain and fog.

so pretty.My mood was heavy and light again.I act with conscious awareness.I watched every step I took individually.As each individual step is completed, the course of the action, its components, and its relation to other things, becomes clear to the eye.Big drops of rain fell on the ground.I saw new things I had never seen before. An aluminum canopy is placed over the entrance to the reception room.The grooves in the door were lined with letters made of small pieces of plastic that spelled out a sentence.That sentence is: NU MISH BOOT ZUP KO. It’s really inexplicable, but it belongs to the profound inexplicable.I walked along the wall, looking into the window.Here's my plan: Stand with your back against the wall on the window ledge; turn your head and look into the room out of the corner of your eye.Some of the windows were left open, others had shutters or dusty curtains.I could make out the vague outlines of chairs and beds in the darkened room.Trucks rumbled overhead.The lights in the penultimate room flickered and were the faintest.I stood on the window ledge and listened.I turned my head and looked in from the corner of my right eye.There was a man sitting in a low armchair, looking up at the flickering lights.I feel like I'm part of a web of events.I am well aware of the exact nature of all events.As I move toward intense, destructive violence, I get closer and closer to the actual state of things.The rain fell in big drops, and the ground shone brightly.

It occurred to me that I needn't knock, the door would be open.I grabbed the handle, carefully unscrewed the door, and slipped softly into the room.How easy it is to be sneaky.Everything will be easy.I stood in the room, aware of what was there, noticing the tone of the room, the suffocating atmosphere.The information came to me, slowly, more and more content.It was a man, of course, sitting sprawled in a low-legged chair.He wears Hawaiian shirts and Budweiser pants.Plastic slippers dangled on his feet.Chunky chairs, crumpled beds, woven rugs, worn dressers, dull green walls and cracked ceilings.The TV dangled from a metal hanger, pointing down at him.

He spoke first, but his eyes never left the flickering lampshade. "Are you sad or depressed?" I stand with my back against the door. "You're Mink," I said. He finally looked up at me, a big, friendly guy with a nondescript face and slumped shoulders. "What kind of a name is Willie Mink?" I said. "It's a first name and a last name, like anyone's name." Does he speak with an accent?His face was awkward and sunken, with a prominent forehead and chin.He was watching TV with no sound. "Several of these steady-footed mouflon sheep have been fitted with radio transmitters," he said.

I can feel the stress of things and the tension of situations.So much is going on.I feel that the brain cells are actively moving along the neural pathways. "You came here, of course, to get some 'Dale'." "Of course. What else?" "What else? Eliminate fear." "Remove fear. Clean up system networks." "Cleaning up the system network. That's why they're coming to me." Here's my plan: go in anonymously; gain his confidence and wait for the moment when he's off guard; draw out the Zumwalt automatic; shoot him three times in the stomach, wounding him for the longest period of pain. long; put a pistol in his hand to signify the suicide of a lone man; scribble half-intelligible words on the mirror; leave Stover's car in Treadwell's garage.

"By being here, you agree to a certain pattern of behavior," Mink said. "What behavior?" "Rooms behave. The key to rooms is that they are in them. No one should be in a room unless they understand that. People behave one way in a room and another in the street, in a park, in an airport. A type of behavior. Entering a room is consent to a certain type of behavior. By inference, this type of behavior should be the type of behavior in the room. This is different from the standards of parking lots and beaches. It is the room's The point. Anyone who does not understand this should not enter the room. There is an unwritten agreement between the person who enters the room and the person who is entered by others-this is different from the amphitheater, outdoor swimming pool, etc. Yes. The purpose of the room derives from its unique quality. The room is inside, it is different from the lawn, pasture, field, orchard, and everyone in the room must agree to this."

I totally agree, it makes sense and is unassailable.If not to find out, see for sure, and aim, what am I doing here?I heard a noise: faint, monotonous, white. "When you're making the jersey you're going to wear in your program," he says, "you start by asking yourself: What kind of sleeves do you need?" He had a flat nose and skin the color of a domestic peanut.What does a spoon face look like?Is he a man, a man, an Indonesian, a Nepalese, a man, a Dutchman?Is he a composite?How many people come here to ask for "Dai Leer"?Where is Suriname?How is my plan going?

I carefully observe the palm prints on his baggy shirts, the repeated Budweiser logo on the fabric of his Bermuda shorts.Shorts are too big.Eyes half closed.The hair was long and stood up like spikes.He spread his arms and legs lazily, in the pose of a stranded airline passenger, someone who has long been worn down by the endless wait and the hum of the airport.I started to feel sorry for Babette.This lingering man, now a mediocre illicit drug dealer—spike-like hair on the verge of madness in a dead motel—had once been her last hope for refuge and tranquility. Cracking, tearing, whirling blobs sounded in my ears.This is an augmented reality.Intense and transparent at the same time.Surface glitter.The rainwater is shaped like spheres, drops, and splashes, beating the roof.Close to violence, close to death.

"Displeasure caused by emotional stress may require a specially prescribed diet," he said. Of course, he wasn't always like this before.He used to be a project manager, breezy and aggressive.Even now, I can still see the residual shrewdness and wisdom in his face and eyes.He reached into his pocket, took out a handful of white pills, and threw them in the direction of his mouth.Some go into the mouth, some fly off elsewhere.Disc shaped pills.The end of fear. "If I could call you Willie, I'd ask: where did you come from?" He was lost in thought, trying to remember something.I wanted to reassure him, to let him talk about himself, about "Daylle."This is an important part of my plan.My plan was this: turn my head and look into the room; reassure him; wait for the moment when he is off guard; Leer"; get off on River Parkway; close garage door; walk home in rain and fog.

"I wasn't always what you see now." "That's exactly what I was thinking." "I was doing important work. I was smug. I was so busy. Death without the fear is just a normal thing. You can live with a death like this without incident. I watched the American Television Academy English. I had my first American sex experience in San Harbor, Texas. Everything they said was true. I wish I could remember." "You're saying that, as far as we know, there is no death without a fear factor. People have to adjust to it and accept that it's coming." "'Della' failed miserably. But its success is sure to come. Maybe now, maybe never. The heat from your hands will really make the golden coating stick to the stencil." "You're saying that eventually there will be an effective drug, a cure for fear." "Then there was a bigger death. Much more effective in terms of product. That's something the scientists who wash their overalls with 'Woollet' soap don't understand. Not that I'm standing tall at 'Sovereign County Gym' On top, what is a personal view of fighting death." "Are you saying that death adapts? It evades our efforts to reason with it?" This point is equivalent to what Murray once said.Murray said: "Imagine your opponent getting punched in the stomach, and you watch him bleed in the dust. He dies, you live." The abdomen was slammed, almost dead, and the almost metal bullet hit the flesh with a bang.I watched Mink swallow more pills, licking them like candy.Staring at the flickering lampshade, he threw the pill in his face.waves, rays,.I saw new things I had never seen before. "It's only between you and me," he said, "that I eat it like candy." "That's exactly what I thought." "How much do you want to buy?" "How much do I need?" "I see you as a stocky white man in your fifties. Does that speak to your distress? I see you as a man in a gray jacket and light brown trousers. Tell me, How accurate am I. What you have to do is convert Fahrenheit to Celsius." There was a moment of silence.Objects began to glow red: squat chairs, worn dressers, crumpled beds.The bed has casters.I thought: This is the gray man who tormented me, the man who stole my wife.Did she push the bed he was sitting on and spin around the room while he sat on the bed and threw the pills into his mouth?Did they each recline on the side of the bed with one arm stretched down like a paddle?Did they turn the bed when they made love?Pillows and sheets in a messy pile on a bed on little wheels that pivot?Look at him now, his face glows red in the dark, his teeth bared in an old look. "I've almost forgotten," he said, "the time I was in this room before I was falsely dismissed. There was a woman in a ski mask whose name I can't remember now. American style sexual experience, and I tell you, that's how I learned English." The air is filled with extrasensory substances.The closer to death, the closer to second sight.Incomparably strong.I took two steps closer to the center of the room, my plan beautiful.Step by step: first gain his trust; pull out the "Zumwalt" automatic pistol; shoot three bullets in his abdomen, causing him extreme pain in the abdomen; clean the finger marks on the weapon; write on the mirror and the wall about ecstatic rhetoric of suicide; took his stock of Dale's; sneaked back into the car; drove to the highway entrance; headed east to Blacksmiths; parked Stover's car in Treadwyer in my garage; walking home in rain and fog. He swallowed more pills, many of which landed on the crotch of his Budweiser pants.I take a step forward.The flame-retardant carpet was strewn with broken "Dai Leer" pills, trampled on and crushed.He tossed a few pills at the lampshade.The lamp set had walnut veneer and silver trim.That picture is amazing. “I’m going to take the metal tube of golden yellow paint right now,” he said, “and I’m going to use a palette knife and unscented turpentine to thicken the paint on the palette.” I remembered what Babette had said about the side effects of the drug.I wanted to test it out, so I said, "The plane is falling." He took one look at me, gripped the armrests on both sides of the chair, his eyes showing the first signs of pain. "The plane is plummeting," I said, uttering each word with crisp authority. He kicked off his slippers and curled himself into the crash position, head as far forward as possible, hands crossed behind his knees.He hastily transformed himself into that like a child or a clown; his upper and lower body flexed like two foldable parts and did it automatically.Interesting.The drug not only caused its users to confuse words with what they referred to, but also made them act in a somewhat stylized way.I watched him slump there, trembling.Here's my plan: scan the rooms out of the corners of my eyes like this; go in unannounced; make him tremble with fright; shoot him three times in the stomach to open him up to the max; get out on the river road; close the garage door. I took another step toward the center of the room.Mink seemed to grow more and more alive as the picture on the TV jumped, wobbled, and turned into a mess.The true nature of events, the actual state of things.Finally, he freed himself from his tight curls and stood up gracefully, clearly defined in the hustle and bustle.White noise everywhere. "Contains iron, niacin, riboflavin. I learned English on the plane. It's the international language of aviation. Why are you here, white man?" "Come to buy something." "You're very white, you know that?" "That's because I'm dying." "This thing will heal you." "I'm still going to die." "But that's okay, the result is the same. These playful dolphins have been equipped with radio transmitters, and their distant roaming may tell us something." I move on in consciousness.Objects glowed red, and a secret life rose from within them.Rainwater slapped the extended domed roof, splashing fine droplets.For the first time, I understood what rain really is.I understand what wet means.I learned about the neurochemistry of my own brain, the meaning of dreams (warning scraps).There was great stuff everywhere, sloshing, sloshing across the room.Rich and dense.I believe in anything.I am a Buddhist, a believer, a layman of Dakhe.The only thing I'm sad about is Babette, that she should have to kiss that shovel-shaped face. "She was wearing a ski mask so she couldn't kiss my face, which she said was un-American. I told her that the room was inside. Don't go into the room without accepting that. It's different than being Emerging coastlines, continental plates, that's the key. Or you can eat natural grains, vegetables, eggs and no meat, fish, fruits. Or eat fruits, vegetables, animal protein, no grains, milk. Or eat A lot of soy milk to get vitamin B12, eat a lot of vegetables to regulate insulin release, but no meat, fish, fruit. Or eat white meat, but no red meat. Or eat vitamin B12, but no eggs. Or eat eggs, but no Eat grains. The practical combinations are endless.” Now I am ready to kill him.However, I do not want to abandon the originally planned arrangement.The plan was meticulous and meticulous.Driven by that place several times; walked to the motel; turned head and scanned the rooms out of the corners of the eyes; found the alias Mr. Gray; entered unannounced; gained his trust; walked slowly; made He trembled; waited for the moment when he was off guard, pulled out his . long; put a weapon in the victim's hand to suggest the stereotypical, predictable suicide of a motel resident; scribble a few crude words on the wall with his own blood to justify his deathbed confusion. took his stock of Dale's; sneaked back into the car; took the highway to Blacksmiths; parked Stover's car in Treadwell's garage; shut the door; in rain and fog Walk home. I stepped forward out of the shadows, into the flickering range of lights, trying to make myself visible.Mink looked at the lampshade.I put my hands in my pockets and grasped the weapon.I said softly to him: "A burst of bullets." I put my hands in my pockets. He sprang to the floor and started crawling towards the bathroom, looking back; childlike, pantomime clown; he used the principle of image enhancement, but still showed the real horror inside, palpable cowering fear .I followed him into the bathroom, past the full-length mirror where he must have posed with Babette; his scruffy organ, dangling like that ruminant thing. "Continuous shooting." I whispered. He wrapped his arms around his head, clamped his legs, and tried to squat and wriggle behind the toilet.Then I appeared at the door.I knew I was emerging, seeing myself from Mink's point of view, feeling inflated and threatening to him.Time to tell him who I am.This is part of my plan.Here's my plan: tell him who I am, and make him understand why I'm going to die a slow, painful death.I say my name and explain my relationship to the woman in the ski mask. He put his hands between his groin, trying to hide himself under the tank behind the toilet.The noise in the room has the same intensity on all frequencies.There are voices everywhere.I pulled out the "Zumwalt" automatic pistol.Strong and nameless emotions pounded against my chest.I understand who I am in the web of meaning.Big drops of rain fell on the ground, making the ground glow and shimmer.I saw new things I had never seen before. Mink raised a hand from between his groin, reached into his pocket, grabbed more pills, and tossed them into his open mouth.His face appeared at the end of the white room, a white hum, the inner surface of a sphere.He sat up, ripping open his shirt pocket for more pills.His fears are good to look at.He said to me, "Have you ever wondered why these four out of thirty-two teeth are causing so much trouble? I'll come back to you in a minute." I fired this gun, this weapon, this pistol, this firearm, this automatic.The gunshots added to the reflected sound waves, snowballing louder and louder in the white room.I watched blood spurt from the victim's abdomen in a delicate arc.I marveled at the rich color and felt the process of non-nucleated cells forming the color.The flow dwindled to drips of blood, which spilled all over the tile floor.I see something beyond words.I understand what red is.I look at it for its key wavelength, brightness, and purity.Mink's pain is beautiful and intense. I fired a second shot—just to fire a shot, to relive the experience, to hear the sound waves layer upon layer through the room, to feel the violent bounce through my arm.The bullet hit him, entering the right hip bone.A smear of purple blood appeared on his shorts and shirt.I stopped and looked at him.He fell between the toilet and the wall, one slipper was missing, and only the whites of his eyes remained.I tried to see myself from Mink's point of view: looming, tall, protruding, gaining vitality, storing life points.But he was completely screwed, and he couldn't have any more opinions. Things are going well.I'm happy to see how things are going so well.Trucks rumbled overhead.The shower curtain smelled of moldy plastic film.Rich and intense.I approached the man who had fallen there, careful not to step on the blood, not to leave a tell.I took out the handkerchief, wiped the weapon, put it in Mink's hand, carefully removed the handkerchief, painstakingly pressed his bony fingers one by one on the gun handle, and deftly inserted his index finger into the trigger. In the ring.A little foam came from the corner of his mouth.I stepped back to examine the scene left over from that momentous moment, the scenes of atrocities and solitary deaths that took place on the shadowed fringes of society.Here's my plan: take a few steps back; look at the horrors; make sure everything is in place. Mink's eyes protruded from their sockets on his skull, and they flickered for a moment.He raised one hand, pulled the trigger and hit me on the wrist.The world collapsed from within, and all those vivid structures and connections were buried under piles of ordinary things.I am disappointed.Hurt, surprised, disappointed.What is going on in the higher energies through which I carry out my plan?The pain was increasing, and blood was pouring from the forearm, wrist, and hand.I staggered back, watching blood drip from my fingertips.I am troubled and confused.Colored stars appeared at the edges of my field of vision, familiar flying particles.Multi-dimensional, super-sensory, all became a mess before my eyes, a dizzying pile of clutter, meaningless. "This can represent some kind of prominent edge of hot air," Mink said. I looked at him.still alive.There was a pool of blood in his arms.In terms of the restored normal order of matter and sensation, I felt I was looking at him, seeing him as a human being for the first time.Once again the old follies and eccentricities of mankind flowed through me: sympathy, remorse, compassion.But before I can help Mink, I have to do some basic rescue work on myself.Again I took out my handkerchief, and managed, with my right hand and teeth, to fasten it tightly on my left wrist over the bullet hole, or between the wound and the heart.Then, not quite knowing why, I sucked on the wound for a while before spitting out the blood.The bullet penetrated very shallowly into the flesh, then turned and flew out.I grabbed his foot with my good, uninjured hand and dragged him across the bloodstained tile floor; the gun still in his fist.There are redemptive things to do here.Dragging his feet across the tiled floor, through the pill-spattered rug, through the gate, and out into the night.The thing is huge, majestic, and scenic.Is it better to commit a bad deed and then try to redeem it with a noble deed, than to live a life of mediocrity consistently?I know I feel kind and virtuous as I drag this mortally wounded man through the dark and empty streets, dignified with blood on my hands. The rain has stopped.I was shocked to see so much blood left behind us.Mostly his blood.The pavement pattern is striped.An interesting cultural site.He feebly raised his hand and swallowed more of the "Dailey" pills.The hand with the gun dragged. We get in the car.Mink's legs kicked involuntarily, while his body rolled and twisted a little like a fish.He was starved of oxygen, so he made a constant feeble gasp.I decided to try mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration.I leaned over him, pinched his nose between my thumb and forefinger, and managed to bring my face down onto his.The awkwardness and obnoxious intimacy involved in the gesture make it nobler, grander, more generous in these circumstances.I kept trying to get close to his mouth so that I could blow strong air into his lungs.I purse my lips into a funnel shape.He watched me leaning down, maybe thinking he was going to be kissed.I tasted the mockery in it. All around his mouth was regurgitated froth mixed with Dale, pills chewed in half, little bits of polymer.I transcend anger to feel great and selfless.This is the key to the mystery of selflessness, or so it seems to me when I kneel before the wounded in the litter-strewn street below the highway and give rhythmic blows and mouth-to-mouth resuscitations.Go beyond loathing, forget the loathsome body, embrace it in its entirety.After several minutes like this, I felt that he was awake and breathing normally.I continued to work on top of him, our mouths almost touching. "Who shot me?" he said. "You fired it yourself." "Who shot you?" "You fired it too. It was in your hand." "What am I doing this for?" "You're out of control and you're not responsible. I forgive you." "Who are you?" "A passerby, a friend. It doesn't matter." "Some centipedes have eyes and some don't." With great effort and many failed attempts, I finally got him into the back seat of the car, where he slumped and moaned.It is now impossible to know whether it is his blood or mine that is on my hands and clothes.Compassion in my heart soared.I start the car.It was a throbbing pain in my arm, not so burning now.I drove with one arm through the empty streets, searching for a hospital.Iron City Maternity Hospital.Mother of Mercy.Mercy and goodwill.I'll take anything they offer, even an emergency room in the worst part of town.With all kinds of knife wounds, bullet holes going in and out, blunt force wounds, trauma, overdoses, severe insanity, at the end of the day, this is where we should be.The only means of transport are a milk van, a van, and several heavy trucks.The sky began to brighten.We came to a place with a cross neon tube above the gate.It was a three-story building that might have been a church, a daycare, the international headquarters of some tight-knit youth movement. There's a wheelchair ramp there, which means I can drag Mink to the door without banging his head on the concrete steps.I got him out of the car, grabbed his slippery feet, and moved up the ramp.He put one hand on his abdomen to stop the bleeding.The hand with the gun trails behind.It's dawn.There is a sense of expansiveness in this moment, a solemn pity and compassion.I shot him and made him believe he had shot himself; yet now I felt that I was giving both of us the power to link our destinies together and actually lead him to safety. , brings honor to all of us.It never occurred to me that a man's attempt at atonement might prolong the euphoria he felt when he sinned.For this crime, he is now seeking to make amends. I rang the bell.After about a few seconds, someone appeared at the door.An old woman, a nun, dressed in black and wearing a black veil, leans on a cane. "We've been shot," I said, raising my wrists in the air. "We've seen a lot of things like that here." She replied flatly with a regional accent, turning around and going back inside. I dragged Mink through the door.The place looked like a specialist hospital, with waiting rooms, booths with curtains, and doors labeled X-RAY and EYE TEST.We follow the old nun to the trauma room.The orderlies came out, two pudgy men with the bodies of sumo wrestlers.They lifted Mink to a table and tore his clothes with clean, well-trained movements. "The actual income after deducting the price increase factor." He said. More nuns arrived, all of them respectable, speaking German to each other.The sound of their clothes as they walked.They brought blood transfusion equipment, carts on wheels brought trays of shiny paraphernalia.The first nun we meet approaches Mink and takes the gun from him.I watched her throw it into a desk drawer where there were already about ten pistols and half a dozen knives.There is a picture on the wall, the picture is in heaven and holding hands.Heaven is a bit of a cloudy place. Here comes the doctor, an elderly man in a crappy three-piece suit.He spoke German to the nuns, then examined Mink, who was wrapped in a sheet. "Nobody knows why the seabirds come," Willie said. I slowly fell in love with him.The first nun took me to a small room to treat my wounds.I offered her an account of the shooting, but she didn't seem interested.I told her it was an old gun and the bullets were useless. "Such a violent country." "Have you been in a German town long?" I said. "We are the last generation of Germans here." "Who are the people who live here now?" "Basically no one lives here," she said. More nuns walked by, heavy prayer beads dangling from their girdles.I think they're a sight to behold, a uniformed presence that makes people in airports smile. I asked the nun's first and last name.Sister Hermann Marie.To win her over, I told her that I knew a bit of German—that's how I used to treat medical personnel of any kind, at least in the beginning, when my fear and distrust overwhelmed me and tried to gain favor. I've always done this before any hope. "Gut, besser, best." I said. A smile appeared on her wrinkled face.I counted to her in German, pointing to objects and saying their names in German.Nodding happily, she cleaned the wound and wrapped my wrist with sterile gauze.I don't need a splint, she said, and she told me the doctor would prescribe an antibiotic.We count to ten together. Two more nuns appeared, emaciated and old.The nun who nursed me said a few words to them, and the four of us had a lovely childlike conversation.We talked about colours, various clothes, body parts in German.I felt more at home with the German-speaking crowd than with the Hitler academics.Is there some innocence in reciting these names that pleases God? Sister Hermann Marie gives final care to the gunshot wound.From my chair, I can clearly see the painting of Kennedy in Paradise with the Pope.I have a hidden reverence for this painting in my heart.It makes me feel good and lifts my mood.The president is still in good spirits after his death.There is a radiance to the pope's approachability.Why can't it be true?Why not advance in time, against a layer of fuzzy cumulus clouds, and have them meet and shake hands somewhere?Why can't we all meet in a cloudless world, beautiful and refreshed, as in some epic poem about changing gods and ordinary people? I said to the nun who took care of me, "What does the church say about heaven today? Is it still the same heaven as in the painting?" She turned away and glanced at the painting. "Do you think we're stupid?" she said. I was taken aback by the intensity of her answer. "If it's not the abode of God and angels, the resting place of the souls of those who are saved, what is heaven, according to the Church?" "Saved? Who's saved? Here's a fool who comes here to talk about angels. Show me angels! Please! I want to see." "But you're a nun. Nuns believe in these things. Every time we see a nun, it's wonderful and gratifying to be reminded that there are still people who believe in angels, saints, all the traditional things. .” "You're so stupid as to believe that?" "The key question is not what I believe. It's what you believe." “这倒是真的。”她说，“没有信仰的人需要有信仰的人。他们拼命需要有人相信什么。但是，给我看一个圣人。给我看看哪怕圣人身上的一根毛也行。” 她俯身向我，她呆板的脸罩在黑面纱里。我开始担忧起来。 “我们在这儿照料有病和受伤的人。仅此而已。你要谈论天堂，你就必须另找一个地方。” “别处的修女穿女装了。”我通情达理地说，“你们这儿仍然穿老式的制服。修女服、面纱、沉重的靴子。你们一定相信传统。原来的天堂和地狱、拉丁式的弥撒。教皇是永远不会犯错误的。上帝用六天创造了世界。伟大古老的信念。地狱是燃烧的湖泊，那儿有长着翅膀的恶魔。” “你流着血从街上来到这儿，还告诉我要花六天时间创造宇宙？” “第七天上帝休息。” “你还要谈论天使？在这儿？” “当然在这儿。还能到别的地方去谈论吗？” 我感到沮丧和困惑，几乎叫嚷起来。 “为什么不是在世界末日到天空中去打仗的军队？” “为什么不？你为什么是一个修女？为什么你们要把那幅画挂到墙上？” 她往后退了两步，眼睛里充满了鄙夷的快乐神情。 “那是为了别的人，不是为了我们。” “但那是滑稽可笑的。什么别的人？” “所有别的人。别的一辈子相信着我们仍然相信的人。我们在这世界上的任务，是去相信没有人会认真地当回事儿的东西。完全彻底摈弃这类信仰，人类就会毁灭。这就是我们为何在这儿的缘故。一小撮人，去体现古老的事物、古老的信仰。魔鬼、天使，天堂、地狱。如果我们不佯装相信这些东西，世界就会坍塌。” “佯装？” “当然是佯装。你当我们都傻了？从这儿滚出去。” “你不相信有天堂？一个修女？” “如果你不相信，为什么我应该相信？” “假如你相信，也许我会相信。” “假如我相信了，你就用不着相信了。” “一切古老的糊涂观念和胡说八道。”我说，“信仰、宗教、永恒的生命，伟大古老的人类骗术。你是否在说，你们并不认真对待它们。你们的奉献只是一种佯装而已。” “我们的佯装就是一种奉献。有人必须显得好像相信。假如我们宣称真正的信念、真正的信仰，我们的生命不会就此少一点儿认真。由于信仰从世界上畏缩退却了，人们就觉得有人相信就更为必要了。山洞中眼光野蛮的人，穿黑衣的修女，不开口说话的僧侣。只剩下我们这些人来相信：傻瓜、孩子们。已经摈弃信仰的那些人必须相信我们。他们肯定自己不相信是正确的，但是他们明白信仰不应该全部消失。没有一个人相信时，就什么都完了。永远必须有一些有信仰的人。傻瓜、白痴、那些听得见声音的人、那些用舌头说话的人。我们就是你们的疯子。我们贡献自己的生命来使你们的无信念成为可能。你们肯定自己是正确的，但是你们不要每个人都像你们那样思想。没有傻瓜，就没有真理。我们是你们的傻瓜、你们的疯女人，黎明起身祈祷、点燃蜡烛、向塑像祈求健康长寿。” “你们都已长寿，也许这管用。” 她发出格格的笑声，露出非常老的牙齿，差不多透明了。 “很快就不会了。你们将失去你们的信仰者。” “这么多年来，你们一直不为任何事情祈祷吗？” “为这个世界，蠢货。” “什么都没有生存下来吗？死亡就是结局吗？” “你想知道我相信什么或我佯装相信什么吗？” “我不想听这种事情。这是可怕的。” “但是真实。” “你是一个修女。像一个修女那样行事！” “我们发誓。贫困、贞操、服从。严肃的誓言。严肃的生活。你们没有我们，就不能生存。” “你们中间总归有些人并不是在假装，而是真的相信。我知道有这样的人。多少世纪的信仰不能在几年中就这样消失了。有很多研究这些课题的领域。天使学，就是研究天使的神学分支，研究天使的科学。伟大的思想家们思考这些事情。如今有许多伟大的思想家。他们还在思考，还在相信。” “你居然抓住一个人的脚拖着从街上来到这里，还谈论住在天上的天使。从这儿滚出去。” 她用德语说了些什么话，我没有听懂。她又说了起来，话稍为长一些，同时把脸向我贴过来，话变得更加刺耳，口水更加多，喉音更加重。对于我的懵懂，她的眼睛里流露出一种可怕的惬意。她是在向我喷洒德语，词汇的暴风雨。当她继续进行演讲时，她变得越来越亢奋。一种强烈的兴奋进入她的话音中。她的话说得越来越快，越来越富有表现力。血管在她眼睛里和脸上变得活跃起来。我开始发现一种抑扬顿挫的声音、一种有韵律的节奏。我认定她是在背诵什么东西。连祷文、颂歌、教义问答。可能是诵读《玫瑰经》时数念珠的奥秘。用藐视的祷告来奚落我。 令人尴尬的是，我觉得它动听极了。 当她的声音变得微弱时，我离开了小房间，四处游荡，直到我找到那位老医生。“Herr Doktor.”我叫喊道，觉得自己像电影里的某个人。他调响了他的助听器。我拿到了我的药方，询问威利·明克是否还行。他不行，至少一段时间里还不行。但是，他也不会死，这一点就使他胜过我了。 驾车回家的一路上平安无事。我将车停在斯托弗家的车道上。后座上沾了血。方向盘上也有血，挡泥板和门把手上血更多。人类文化行为和发展的科学研究，人类学。 我上了楼，对孩子们观察了一会儿。全都睡着了，他们在梦中摸索前进，眼睛在紧闭的眼睑下快速转动。我上床躺在芭比特身旁，和衣而睡，但是脱了鞋子。我知道这样子她就不会奇怪了。但是我的头脑仍然在剧烈运转，我无法入睡。过了一会儿，我下楼到厨房去，沏了一杯咖啡坐着，感到了手腕上的疼痛，加快的脉搏。 现在已经无事可做了，只有等待明天日出，那时天空就会发出青铜钟似的声响。

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Notes: