Chapter 20 The third cloud of the unknown

I have always had a knot in my heart.In my inner structure, there is a certain distance, a certain degree of separation.I think it's similar to my father's.Sometimes I try to fade it, sometimes I think about it, sometimes I say, to hell. I should tell my wife, I said in my heart.I told her, don't abandon me.I told her there was an Italian word or a Latin word that explained everything.Later, I said that word to her. She said, what does this explain?Then, she replied, nothingness. Here, the word for nothingness is lontananza (distance), which must mean distance or remoteness.However, as I use it, as I interpret it, the word has a definite, clear meaning, and it signifies the calculated distance that the gangster—the gangster of a criminal group, a man of manufacture—has.Once you're made, you don't need constant outside influence.You've got it all, you've been forged, you've been bred, you're a solid Roman wall.

I'm in Los Angeles, thinking about these things.People say that seeing Los Angeles is only half of it.Maybe, that's one reason I think about my dad, and another reason is that assumption my brother Matt keeps emphasizing, that constant saying: Daddy Jamie lives somewhere in Southern California, using the usual Pseudonym. I told him that the Jamie who used his name was dead and we were the ones who used aliases. However, what is uncanny—contradictory—is this scene: I am standing in a fenced-in field, surrounded by a slum of small bungalows.I looked up at the spire of this strange, gigantic structure.It's called Watt Tower, and it expresses someone's naive anarchist ideal.The longer I watch, the more things I think about Jamie.Home-painted surfaces throughout the structure including towers, birdbaths, faux fountains, ornate pillars, ornate trinkets.Green 7-up drink bottles, blue magnesia lotion bottles, colorful tile fragments, all of these things are inlaid with cement.The entire complex - including the gates and decorations - was the work of a single man.The man was an Italian immigrant from somewhere around Naples, probably illiterate.He left his wife and family, maybe they left him - I'm not sure about that.Narratives about this man are almost blank, and the date of birth is unknown.It took him 33 years to complete this masterpiece of art, using materials including steel bars, pottery, pebbles, shells, soda bottles, steel wire mesh and so on.All the materials were assembled by hand, using 3,000 bags of sand and cement.In those days he hung from a tower, maybe ninety feet in the air, on the rope that glasswashers use to work aloft.He was dressed in tattered overalls, a dusty top hat, and his face was browned by the sun.He wore a headlamp to work at night, and the glass crusted his hands and arms, and the glass powder got in his eyes.A record player below plays Caruso.

Jamie is unconventional, palmistry and able to predict future events based on his own flesh and blood.But, according to my brother, he looked at his hand one day and it was blank.Did he turn into a runaway weirdo?Can I imagine him as a runaway eccentric?In a sense, I can say this.He neither washed nor changed his clothes, was unkempt, and talked to himself in the street.One day, on a whim, he created an unconventional, messy artwork with cement and steel wire mesh used to make chicken coops. This is a contradictory thing.On the night Jamie went out to buy cigarettes, his future was over.In my imagination, here he is, at this very moment, emerging, half present, in an alternate reality, basking in the sunshine of Los Angeles and enjoying the Mediterranean climate.Why is this?

I wandered among several tall towers, three tall and four short, with a network structure.I saw him use Delft pottery and fused glass for the entrance arch, with mother-of-pearl inlaid in the mud brick surface.Despite the discarded nature of the materials, their seeming ease, and the dominance of pure intent, this man was unmistakably a master builder.The whole place has a structural unity that feels like recurring themes and deft use of craftsmanship.Also, if Sabato Rodia is indeed his real name, there are initials all over the Tower. SR is engraved on the archway, just like the graffiti text that represents the name of the gang on the street outside.

I'm trying to understand the strength of Jamie's display here, and I picture him: somewhere, in a room the size of a shoebox, ragged and grunting, holding a pencil sharpener Cut pears, be free, be responsible for nothing, be responsible to no one.Jamie alive and well.At this time, I thought of one thing.It happened when I was about eight years old, and the memory of it clarifies the connection between the two.My father was standing across the street, watching two young men—two inexperienced hands—build bricks for a gatepost in front of someone's modest house.He watched first, then offered advice, gesticulating and explaining in his broken English so they could understand him.Later, he decided to do it himself.He handed the short jacket to the person next to him, pulled up the ink line, repositioned it, grabbed the trowel, smoothed the mortar, and laid the bricks accurately and swiftly.I didn't know he could do something like that, and now I don't think my mother knew either.I crossed the street, feeling a faint sense of pride in my heart.Surrounded by middle-aged and elderly people, I have never seen them so happy.Before their eyes, a man in a white shirt and tie was very skillfully doing the work of a bricklayer.

After completing the tower, Sabato Rodia gave up the land and the masterpiece of art on it.He left Watt, he said, he left here to face death elsewhere.What he left behind was the swirling noise of a free soul, a cathedral of jazz, a work of power.For me, it caused a vibration deep inside me, making me feel like my ghost father lived within the walls there. The hostess brought over cooled forks for my favorite salad.Big Sims was munching on a cheeseburger made with three types of cheddar cheese, each specified on the menu.On the wall of the restaurant, a gap left by the earthquake the day before was exposed.As Sims laughed, I saw his mouth full of shiny shredded cheese.

Sims heard the screech and screech of the test planes at Edwards Base.They have aircraft that can eject from the edge of space and return to the ground, he said. We were at Mojaves Springs, a convention center just outside of Los Angeles.Recently, I started working for a waste control company.The company is known in the industry as Wizards.My attitude here is similar to that of a college freshman attending a school orientation, hoping to adapt to the language and customs here.My informal advisor was Simeon Biggs, a landfill engineer who had been with the company for four or five years.Representatives of several waste companies attended the meeting in Mojaves Hot Springs.We share the room with a smaller, more purposeful group.The group consisted of forty married couples who were on a trip to swap sexual partners and then discuss how they felt after the swap.We're the junkies, they're the hipsters, and they make us feel uncomfortable.

"That ship has been at sea, sailing from port to port, for almost two years," Sims said. "What did you say? No one wants to accept this shipment?" "Going to one country after another." "How toxic is the cargo?" "I've heard a rumor," he said. "Of course, it's not my job. It's in a back room somewhere in our company office in New York. It's called the Flying Freedom, and it's a ghost ship." "I think terrible material is often dumped on LDC soil." I just learned that LDC means less developed country in the language used by banks and other global entities.

"It's the small countries where people of color live. Yes, it's a disgusting business that keeps getting bigger and bigger. Those countries charge huge fees, possibly as much as their GNP, before accepting a toxic shipment Four times as much. What happens after acceptance? We don’t want to know.” "All right. But why is this cargo unacceptable? What was on board? Why don't we know?" "Maybe, we're trying to avoid some embarrassment," Sims said. When the earthquake happened, some colleagues and I were standing in the reception suite of the conference affairs group, holding drinks in our hands, and staring slowly at the world around us.There were murmurs and groans from the people in the suite, and I tried to control my expression, waiting for the situation to become clear.It was a mild earthquake, a little over a magnitude 5, which we later learned was a magnitude 5.4.When we sat down to lunch and noticed a crack in the wall of the restaurant, I justified the panic I felt when the earthquake struck.

"What do you think, is it drugs? Masquerading as toxic waste? I've heard rumors, too." "Tell me about it," Sims said. He sat across the table, with a fleshy face, a stocky body, a protruding lower lip, and oddly small, lobeless, round ears like those of troublemakers. "I'd like to hear your version," he said, with a hint of condescending resignation in his voice. "One theory is that it contained heroin, which is nonsense. Another theory is that it contained 20 million pounds of ashes from incinerators in the New York area, mainly highly toxic industrial waste, including arsenic, Copper, lead, mercury."

"Er Ying," Sims agreed, taking a big bite of beef roasted over mesquite wood. Sims and I observed a slight hesitation as four couples sat down at a nearby round table.We hope to be entertained, with a little sarcasm in our looks.These, of course, were spouse swappers, conspicuously dressed, and presented as third parties.One by one, their bodies leaned back as the waiter came to pour the water. "They paused for lunch. I respect that," Sims said. "I've heard news about that cargo ship." "That ship has been changing its name, have you heard?" "No, I haven't heard of it." "When it left a pier on the Hudson River, the ship had a name, I don't know what it was called at the time. However, three months later, it changed its name on the coast of West Africa. Then they changed it again, and that time it was Changed somewhere in the Philippines." "I heard that there was a lot of heroin on the ship. But why is it being shipped from the United States to the Far East? It's really incomprehensible." "No, no idea," Sims said, "but it's connected to another rumor. You know that one?" "I have no idea." "Manipulated by gangsters." He likes to say this, and after saying these words, his eyes bulge slightly. "What was manipulated by the gang?" "That company owns the boats we charter. That gangster is heavily involved in land-based waste transport. Why not waste, waste shipping, other waste-related businesses?" "There's a word in Italian," I said. "Maybe, it's not just a shipping company. Maybe, it's our company. We're controlled by gangsters. They're a silent partner. Or, they completely control our company." He likes to go on like this, not because he believes it, he doesn't believe it at all, but wants me to believe it, or wants me to accept the idea.That way, he can satirize me.With a grim smile on his face, he would scoff at any superficial notions that could be shielded in the name of a creed of personal conspiracy. "There's a word in Italian called dietrologia, which means the science behind something. A dubious activity. The science behind an activity." "They need science like this, I don't." "Neither do I. I'm just telling you." "I'm an American, watching ball games," he said. "The science of the Dark Forces. They apparently think this science is sound enough to have a name." "If someone needs this science, I will try to tell them that we have real science, hard science, science that does not require imagination." "I'm just telling you the word. I agree with you, Sims. Still, the word exists." "There's always words, and maybe a museum. It's called the Dark Forces Museum, and they have ten thousand blurry pictures. Maybe, the Mafia destroyed them all?" At this point, Sims laughed out loud, revealing the shredded cheddar cheese in his mouth. I glance at the round table.Two women were smoking, two others were wearing cowboy waistcoats with studs.One was nearsighted and looked down at the menu, the other had an accent I couldn't identify.All the women were elaborately dressed, with necklaces, bracelets, brooches, beaded earrings, and hammered faces designed—by Beating faces—jewelry.A woman talks about her baby while chewing on carrot sticks. "Do you understand Italian?" he asked. "I learned it for a while, at school, and then I taught myself, intensively, so I know a little bit of German and Italian." "My wife is German," he said. "I met it when I was stationed in Germany." "A smug American soldier." "Probably so. I'm in the Air Force, though." "Does she speak German at home?" "A little bit. Well, a lot." "Do you understand?" "I better understand," he said. Several men wore lapel-collared printed shirts that were unbuttoned to expose their chests.They were covered in hair, certainly not in the protest style of the 60s.They bared their chests, wore sideburns like brushes, and wore Hollywood hairstyles.Real hair like that resembles a poor-taste wig, a carpet surface that feels wetted with drool and sorted out. Big Sims called for the bill. "But we like our jobs, don't we, Nick? What does it matter whose boat we use?" "I love my job." "I love my job." His blazer was too big for the back of the chair, obscuring the palm fronds above it.He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and a black tie with a tie clip shaped like a Turkish or Arab machete. He turned his head to me, his eyes bulging. "Wanna go to a Dodgers game?" "No." I said. We've been told the night before that the situation with regard to the ship's scrap is highly classified and that it's no surprise that the situation with the ghost ship is merely elusive rumor.It comes from junk archaeologist Jesse Datwyler.About an hour after the quake, he addressed the congregation about rubbish, not-for-the-day roast squab and Zen-like greens. During the cocktail hour, the room we were in trembled with a primal alertness on everyone's faces.Just before we got back to normal, that look aroused a feeling—everyone had a wave of panic at the fear just shown, at the sudden earthquake that we hadn't noticed.As the breeze wafts through the reception suite, such looks are transmitted on the faces of those sipping vodka cocktails, forming an ironic bond among the executives. After paying the bill, we saw Datwyler in the lobby.Sims stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and literally tucked his head under his armpit, feigning a series of harsh blows to his shaved head.The two seemed to be old acquaintances, and the three of us agreed to drive to a landfill designed by Sims another day to see the huge project being implemented. A man and a woman walked through the hall, and I watched the figure of the woman carefully.Perhaps, it was the way she walked that caught my eye.She was beaming, looking warily at the ground, wiggling her hips, popping her butt like a character out of a B-movie, living on a budget and downing copious amounts of gin.I went to the bulletin board near the turnstile to check the schedule of events, including registration times and coffee breaks.Licensing law, nuclear waste storage, all these topics and speakers are marked in white letters, and the hours are 10am-12am, 2pm-5pm, after dinner and into the night.At this time, I thought of the couples I met just now, and thought of the arrangement between them. Wizards has an internal strategy for the future.The future of waste.That's the name we gave to that meeting in the desert.The conference touches the entire industry, but our company provides the driving force.We are the frontrunners, driven and ready to understand what this topic really means on every level. I was in my early forties and was hired by a company in the uninspiring job of a speechwriter and public relations assistant.I am ready to explore new things and embrace new beliefs. Corporations are large, frightening institutions.They grab you, transform you, distort you, manipulate you.They do this without overt persuasion, by smiling and nodding, giving voices a collective twist.One starts at the entrance of the corridor and by the end of the corridor one has already accepted the overall philosophy of the company, the company's Weltanschauung (world view).The seriousness of the word I use, which has many meanings, and somewhere in its deep meaning there is a whisper of mystical thought, seems perfectly suited to the subject of waste. Together with Big Sims, I ran along trails used by hikers—backpackers in sturdy boots—and then followed the equestrian trails into the mountains.Wearing sunglasses and big-tongued hats, we ran on the rocky red sand road.Sims didn't stop talking, and kept chanting, walking through the low vegetation in the desert, and I struggled to follow behind him. "You know, it's funny to say. I got the job four years ago. It's a good job, good pay, good benefits. If I die from overwork, my wife can be well cared for. But, I found out—you Did you see that, Nick? From my first day on the job, all I saw was trash. I was an engineering student, not trash. I thought, I could go to Tunisia and build roads. I had A romantic idea, listen to me, of myself in a safari suit, building roads all over the world. I ended up with this nice job, a real job, a job that matters. Landfill matters. The problem I have is that this job follows me like a shadow. The garbage problem sticks to me. Last week, I went to a new restaurant, a brand new place, which was supposed to be nice. But I found that I What I saw was food crumbs left on other people's plates, leftovers. I saw cigarette butts in ashtrays. When we came out into the wild—” "What you see is rubbish everywhere, because it's everywhere." "However, I have never seen these things before." "You are now enlightened and should be grateful," I said. We run on slate and tuff, and our sneakers become thin, fragile things.The trails were littered with the excrement of rented horses.We were out of breath, talking while running.Sweat was running down Sims' face as I tried to keep up with his pace.Must catch up, keep running, show that I can talk while running, show that I can run, can catch up with his pace.Sweat trickled down his body, his shirt clinging to his back. "We went outside and waited there. The guy brought our car up. That's when I looked into the alley and saw something odd. It was a circled place with A barred place, basically like a cage, fenced on three sides and at the top, wrought iron bars, with a big padlock on it." He paused as he spoke, words sucked from his chest. "I had to take a few steps back and into the alley. Before I could see what it was, a stench hit my face. Inside the cage were bags of garbage, food waste in plastic bags, piled up Day and night of restaurant trash." As he ran, he looked at me. "Why do they put the trash in the cage?" I asked. He looks at me. "Prevent homeless people in the park from coming out and eating that stuff." We turned back and ran back toward a group of rose-coloured stucco buildings gleaming in the sun.He has the strong body of a retired boxer, still retains his stamina, fat stores and mineral fuel, and runs with a powerful stride.He has a lot of calories to burn, a lot of sweat to shed. "Why don't restaurants let animals eat garbage?" "Because it's their property." Five fighter jets flew in tight formation above us, flying low, their deafening roars echoing across the valley.Sims raised a thumb towards the sky, as if to mark what flashed through my mind. I kept seeing my own face from the night before: when a magnitude 5 earthquake shook the room, bringing the stresses into balance. We strode across the golf course, towards the guest rooms of the villas, and saw the flow of well-dressed people.They seemed to be drawn with soft colored chalk, talking and laughing in twos and threes.With the finish line ahead, I felt a sense of relief. "Talk about the ship again?" he said. "Is the registered nationality of that ship Liberia?" "It was at the beginning of the voyage. It's Panama, I hear." "Is it possible? To change the nationality of a cargo ship's registry during a voyage?" "I don't know, it's not my area of ​​concern," Sims said. "However, there are many aspects to the rumors about that ship. Besides what it transports, who is the owner? Where is it going?" "Okay, what else?" "Is it an ordinary cargo ship? Is there anything confusing at this point?" "If it carries goods, but it's not a cargo ship, what kind of ship is it?" "Remind me sometime so I can teach you a lesson about silt." He was laughing as he ran, bouncing and bop in his steps, elbows raised, fingers snapped, and sprinted forward.A competitive impulse surged in my heart, a spiritual compulsion to avoid the shame of failure, and I couldn't help but speed up the pace of catching up. Interestingly, later, Datwyler also mentioned such things: old drunkards and runaway children slipped into the alley, looking for leftovers of bread and beef in the garbage.He said it differently, though, with a touch of '60s rebel drama. At dusk, the three of us drove east for half an hour to the landfill.Some roads are marked off as military restricted areas, and Sims have special permits that allow them to cross during certain hours.This is a special arrangement made by Wizards and an intermediary company that has a good relationship with the Pentagon, which saves us the trouble of time-consuming detours. Construction workers are off work.We stood before a great pit in the ground, a man-made pit five hundred feet deep and about a mile in diameter.Bulldozers that have stopped working can be seen everywhere on the dirt road with ladder after ladder.A huge film shone brightly, covering most of the sloping bottom.The polyethylene fiber film is light blue and flutters in the wind.I was taken aback by the sight in front of me, a large notched bowl wrapped in artistic plastic, the first material symbol I saw.The scale of the project is quite large, perhaps even giving it a sense of grandeur.In the afterglow of the setting sun, there are soaring eagles with red tails, and the yucca grass that grows in spring stands there, like wishful sticks.In a sense, this dense film is aesthetically pleasing in a strange way, a preventive device, a system of gas control.The pit it covers can hold thousands of tons of garbage a day, the garbage you and I throw away, and bury it in the desert.I listened to Sims spit out the long list of numbers, how much methane could be recovered, how many homes could be lit by the electricity generated, and I felt an uncanny thrill in my heart, deeply supportive of this company and the work it does . Sims narrates to both of us, but mainly to Jesse Datwyler.Of the three of us, Datwyler was the daydreamer and waste theorist, with ideas that reverberated throughout the industry.Sims loves the subject, talking it out and gesticulating with his hands, showing how to dispose of plastic sheets and layers of soil, how to shred tires, how to mix chemicals with kiln dust.I haven't seen these things myself, but it's easy to imagine what they mean to Sims.The project is a very satisfying combination of technology and traditional craftsmanship.Dust got into their mouths, and there was a pungent smell around them. The workers worked hard in such an environment. Datwyler stood on the edge of the pit, looking down. "How to dispose of toxic waste?" "We pool them up and isolate them. However, we don't forget to have a computerized record of them. If we need them, we can find the relevant information." "How do you dispose of nuclear bomb waste?" "We planned to dispose of the bomb waste, so we hired Nick." I saw Sims' eyes light up, and said deadpan, "I have experience with public relations." Datwyler's jaw tilted, suggesting that he might have taken a slightly sarcastic attitude to the claim.He dissented from the line, exuding shrewd confidence.The outsider tries to muddy the waters by poking fun at every complacent rule of belief.He seemed to have new ideas and new tools.He was clean-shaven, with a very bushy moustache, and he was a guy with definite control.He employs an athletic trainer, has a good credit rating, and wears a black turtleneck sweatshirt and designer jeans.I think he might as well be a mate swapper if his bald head isn't considered. "I'll tell you what I've seen here, Sims. A vision of the future, and this is the last thing left. The more toxic the waste, the more tourists are willing to pay for it. The purpose is to see it. But , I think you should not circle such places, you can only circle the most toxic places. Doing so will make it appear grander, more ominous and magical. However, basic household waste should be placed in the manufacturing In those cities with garbage. You should put the garbage in broad daylight so that people can see it and pay attention to it. Don’t hide your garbage disposal facilities, you should build a building out of waste. You should design gorgeous buildings to recycle garbage, Let people collect their garbage, do it themselves, and send it to where the garbage disposal machines are. People must know how their waste is disposed of. Toxic waste, chemical waste, nuclear waste, all send here, turn this place into a For a faraway landfill of nostalgia. Can bus people to visit here and print postcards, I guarantee it will make money." Sims wasn't sure he'd like the idea. "What kind of nostalgic feeling?" "Don't underestimate people's ability to form complex desires. Nostalgia for forbidden substances of civilization, nostalgia for traditional industries and traditional conflicts." Datwyler had been a fringe character in the 1960s, a trash guerrilla who stole trash from the homes of famous people and analyzed it.With the help of a personal assistant, he published articles on those contents, a parody of the Comintern Manifesto, and the underground press was hungry for stuff like that.His campaign culminated in an apparent culmination of his arrest for grabbing trash in the backyard of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover in Northwest Washington.That's what people remember, and it's the first thing that comes to mind when I first hear the name Jesse Datwyler.In the chronicles of the era, he gained a fleeting reputation among busgirls, bomb makers, loafers, hallucinogen dealers and lost children. A bird flew over the big pit, it was a finch or a wren, urged by the setting sun, it passed at a very fast speed. As the amount of waste landfilled slowly increases, the city will be built on top of it, raising it little by little over years, Datwyler said.Whether in a room or in a landfill, waste either accumulates in layers or spreads in all directions.However, garbage has its own momentum, it is aggressive, it fills every available space, dictates architectural patterns, and changes ritual systems.It breeds rats, it breeds paranoia, and people are forced into an organized response.This means that people must master effective processing methods, form social structures, mobilize workers, managers, porters, and waste pickers, and put them into practice one by one.Build civilizations, advance history... He is well versed in the topic and speaks in a stand-up style, eloquent, focused and relevant.He's a lobbyist researching crap, looking for book deals and documentary opportunities.I don't think he cared if the audience was just the two of us or as many as half a million. "You get it, everything we're seeing is going backwards," he said. Civilization does not arise when people swing hammers and knock hunting scenes on bronze doors, or when people sit under a starry night and whisper philosophical truths.Garbage is a derivative of the rise of civilization. It stinks, is swept away, and is forgotten.No, the trash came first, inspiring a response, civilizing itself in self-defense.People had to find ways to throw away their trash, had to learn how to use what they couldn't throw away, and had to learn how to regenerate what they couldn't use.Garbage can counterattack, pile up, and spread around, forcing people to form a rigorous logic for systematic exploration of reality, forming science, art, music, and mathematics. The sun was setting. "You really believe that?" I asked. "I definitely do. I teach it at UCLA. I take students to the dump and make them understand the plight of their civilization. Consume or die. That's what our culture demands ...it ends up dumping. We create a lot of garbage and then face the problem of what to do with it. The problem is not only technical but also emotional and spiritual. We let garbage affect us and control our thinking. We create garbage first , and then create a system to deal with the waste.” The clouds floating over the edge of the crater began to light up, and the sky was still as light blue as it was at noon.However, the inside of the pit soon became dark, and the edge of the huge plastic film was blown up by the wind, making a creepy sound, and drifted towards the clouds outside the pit.The sky turned indigo at this time, and faint clouds still appeared, and the light and shadow and the movement of the clouds formed a gradient change.We stood there watching for a while, then turned and went back to the car.Datwyler sat in the middle of the back row and spoke provocatively about our dumping of garbage on land sacred to the Indians, about the pioneering position of Wizards in the industry.In his view, the company was as blatantly lustful as any traditional company. We drove onto a deserted road. "You're after the relevant rumors, Sims? About the ship." "That's beyond my concern." "That ship was cruising the world looking for an opportunity to dump some horrible substance." "I was thinking of another aspect," Sims said. "Think about it. I hear it's going back, back to America." "You know more than we do." Sims doesn't like to say that. "What do we know, Nick?" “我们不是60年代出身的人，我们是四五十年代出生的人。” “我们知道的东西很有限。”西姆斯说。 “我们对任何事情都了解不多。” “过去我们收听电台的消息，”西姆斯说，“我们知道孤胆骑侠与印第安人唐托的故事。” “很老的故事。”我说。 “那匹名叫赛尔弗（银色）的马奔跑时发出震耳欲聋的蹄声。” “那是一匹烈马，跑起来快如闪电。” “这就是我们知道的事情，杰西。” “一路上尘土飞扬。” “令人赞叹不已的骏马赛尔弗。” 他模仿传统电台脱口秀主持人，使用了富于变化的男中音。 “别人觉得你们滑稽可笑，”德特威勒说，“我敢打赌，你们不知道唐托的坐骑叫什么名字。你知道吗，西姆斯？你知道那个白人的坐骑的名字，为什么不知道那个印第安人的？” 我不喜欢德特威勒，但是愿意听他神侃。可是，西姆斯不愿意，希望用另外一种办法制服他，这时显得不太友好。对，他确实不知道那个印第安人的坐骑，也许这让他稍感恼怒。 杰西依然滔滔不绝。 “废物危险的程度越高，吸引人的力量就会越大。这是一块遭受辐射的土地，在下一个世纪将会被人奉为神圣之地，其方式与印第安人现在对这片土地的崇拜不相上下。这里将成为钚国家公园，白人神灵的最后栖息地。游客到这里参观时必须头戴防毒面罩，身穿防护服装。” 我问：“那个印第安人的坐骑叫什么名字？” “童子军，对吧？我觉得非常意外，深感震惊。这是深层次的文化缺陷，你们这些家伙。它是唐托的坐骑，你们应该知道这一点。” 他俯身面向我们，说话带刺。 “一艘船上装着数千桶工业废料。也许，装的是中央情报局的海洛因？我本人可能会相信这一点。知道为什么吗？因为很容易相信这一点。如果不信，那才叫愚蠢。两位知道我们了解的东西。” “我们知道什么呢？”西姆斯问。 直升飞机形成编队，大约有十架或者十二架，正对着我们飞来。体积庞大的攻击运输两用直升飞机，灯光四射，仿佛是狂躁天使。它们掠过我们的头顶，发出轰鸣，狂风抽吸我们车里的空气，让我们觉得软弱无力，连忙低头躲避。 “一切事情都是相互关联的。”杰西说。 我并非完全不喜欢自己以前的工作，那时的主要工作是为企业总裁们撰写讲话稿。那些人面色红润，头发银白，一个个挺着受过手术蹂躏的高鼻子，是这个或者那个行业的巨头。他们往往酷爱运动，常常乘坐公司的飞机，到加拿大的人迹罕至的湖泊去，在这片大陆上最后未遭破坏的地方垂钓。我和一位名叫麦克亨利的总裁有过一次这样的旅行。他待人和蔼，举止得体，实际上拥有若干家与政府关系密切的软件公司。他的两个孙子也在那个湖畔。他们两人长着白色眉毛，穿着羽绒背心，已经做好了进行血腥运动的准备。我站在那里，欣赏着眼前的景色：那座湖畔别墅坐落在高大挺拔的雪松树下，房顶上烟囱矗立，门廊里摆放着原始风格的家具，典型的边远地区静修场所。我望着别墅，心里在某个层面上有一种怅然若失的感觉。它可能是自己过去生活中的某件东西，某种在时光倒流中出现的征兆。那些房间没人使用，刻意打造的乡土风格，天花板很高，散发着樟脑丸的气味。客房的床上铺着厚毯子，摸起来沙沙作响，那上面有大学徽章——那东西我从来没有得到过，但是不知何故却出现在自己记忆的边缘。两个男孩摆弄猎枪，一副驾轻就熟的模样，让你觉得他们好像天生就会。他们是小孩，我是成年人，然而我记得，自己当时要向他们——约翰诺和托德——讨教。不过，我没有和他们一起去追捕猎物，大部分时间待在门廊里，为麦克亨利撰写讲话稿。不过，我从那个孩子身上看到了人生长在那样环境中所过的生活，看到了那样的生活是如何与一个人应该拥有的东西相称的。金钱构成的世界、直立的体态、清晰的表达、床上的徽章，还有对与生俱来的权利和可以利用的历史的认识。晚餐时，我们聊到了他俩的学业和运动。无忧无虑的年轻时光，最佳意义上的俭朴的年轻时光，青涩未退，身体健康，充满活力，这些东西让我觉得愉悦。我还有第二种愉悦，想象自己迈出他们那样的有力步伐，体会享受这种活动时的怡然心境：上午的温暖阳光照在胳膊上，兴致勃勃地抛出钓钩，然后伸手抚摸小船的粗糙木料，无忧无虑，优哉游哉。我觉得，自己身上有什么东西被激发出来，内心深处冒出某种带着棱角的东西。即便如此，我也能够在席间闲聊时把它压制下去，把它送进用漂亮卵石砌成的壁炉里，让它消失在悸动的火焰中。 我在展览场地里四处走动，时而记笔记，时而向周围的人自我介绍。两英亩大的地方摆放了许多东西：起重机、抓斗、牵引设备，还有重型压捆机使用的液压装置。那些垃圾车体积庞大，然而看似玩具，油漆透亮，一尘不染，似乎尚未做好开展肮脏工作的准备。 我站在一个水门牌破碎机模型旁边，与一名销售人员讨论技术问题，了解信息，一边谈话，一边记录。这时我看见，一个女人坐在一排新型计算机产品前，穿着紧身斜纹棉布上衣，挎着一个饰有缎子贴花绣的女用手提包。她肯定不是干我们这一行的人。 她抬起头来，朝我这个方向看，我立刻明白她是谁了。一两天以前，要么那以前的什么时候，我曾经看见她和丈夫并肩从大厅走过，脚下穿着高跟鞋，在闲逛者和行李员组成的人流中，非常引人注目。现在，她站在那里，两眼盯着我，可能被什么东西给逗乐了。 我们在游泳池畔喝咖啡。时间是上午10点，游泳池管理员和园艺工人在旁边游荡，可能听到我们的谈话内容。 “在那些废品机械中，以这种方式打发上午时光，真叫人觉得奇怪，朵娜。” 我们仅仅告诉了对方名字。 “换一种节奏。”她说。 “从哪一种换？” “从哪一种换？从待在这里现在做的事情换。” 她坐在桌子晒不到太阳的一侧，伸手端咖啡时两手闪闪发光。遮阳伞边沿在微风中荡起，阳光时而照在她热情的脸庞上。 “你有受到限制的感觉？” 她的脸上飘过勉强的笑容。 “你觉得议程限制太死？” 她长着满头黑发，听到她不喜欢的说法，嘴唇噘起，佯作端庄，表示异议。 "Where is your husband?" “在某个地方坐着，喝着血玛丽酒。” “你怎么知道他现在不是和谁的妻子做爱呢？” “也许他现在正和谁的妻子做爱。” “这就是你待在这里的原因吧。” "Completely correct." 她的目光一瞟，投向正在阳台上检测滑门的那个维修人员。 “他们干那种事情的时候，你干吗不待在那里呢？他和另外一个女人在床上，却不让你看？你肯定可以向审查委员会申诉。” “天气不错。请安静点。” “天气一直不错的。” “喂，你叫什么来着？”她淡淡地说，调侃的口气中带着一种漫不经心的复杂讽刺——嘲笑她自己和我，嘲笑游泳池和枣椰树。 “朵娜，我喜欢你的嘴巴。” “那是过度咬合造成的。” “性感。” “我听人这样说过。” “假如你我决定……怎么样？也许，你必须要自己喜欢的类型？” “昨天，巴里发现你两眼直愣愣地盯着我。我没有看见，他看见了。昨天用晚餐时，他还特地把你指出来，让我看你的样子。” “他是不是觉得，你和我？” “我们断定我们知道你是干什么的。你推销那种冰蓝色的韦尔瓦须后水。” “你是干什么的呢？” “我们在这里参加由两个交换配偶俱乐部组织的聚会。” “不，不会吧？你长着这么迷人的嘴巴和眼睛。” 她看着那个维修人员反复推着滑门。 “你提问，我可以回答你。你想知道我是干什么的？如果你过分好问，我会让你闭嘴的。” 她的目光不时转向不远的地方。 “不喜欢交际，和陌生人上床。” “有什么矛盾之处？”她说，脸上露出温馨的笑容，眼光没有看我，扫过卡布奇诺牛奶咖啡表面的泡沫。“实际上，你对我们抱着一点敌意，对吧？” “不是这么一回事。” “而且，我知道是什么原因。因为我们公开这样做。” “这是生意，为什么不应公开呢？”我说。“我们都是生意人，在这里建立联系，扩展可能的业务范围。” “对，没错，你敌视我们。” 这些是电影场景，色调略微简略，也许连续镜头随手拈来，偶然出现的动作让画面显得模糊。首先是展览场地里的无语瞬间，角色身处卡车之中，在那里交换眼神。接着是游泳池畔的交谈，使用了特写镜头和停顿，两人与对话之间似乎缺乏联系。整个场景弥漫着一种上午的倦怠感，背景是常见的鸟语花香，修建树篱的园艺工人的动作不乏节奏，漂亮的绿松石在背景中闪闪发光。 长焦镜头暗示某种压缩，半露半藏的焦虑不仅出现这个瞬间里，而且弥漫在那一天，那一周，那个时代中。 后来，场景转为室内，转为我的房间里。她脱去牛仔衣裤——主要原因是它们太小——以后，穿着衬衣和三角裤，坐在床上，两腿伸向踏脚板。我拉过一把椅子，坐在旁边，摆出咨询的姿势，一只手握着她的脚踝。 在直接照射的灯光下，她并不像刚才那么漂亮，两只眼睛抹了化妆水，流露出一丝悲伤，大腿上有一大片淤血，像是一个从房顶上落下的茄子。可是，我喜欢她注视我的样子，那目光中带着好奇，还有一点挑战的意味。这个模样让我跃跃欲试，急于对事件进行重新定位，让它变得融洽，真实。 “你讨厌公开进行这一事实，无法容忍我们到这里来，表达出来，付诸行动，表演出来。我们在晚餐时说到了这一点。” “你和巴里。” “我们玩了一场游戏。” “你们两人，你和巴里。” “我们研究餐厅的人。你不觉得他擅长这种事情？我们猜测他们有什么习惯，有什么秘密，最喜欢什么，最后到穿什么样的内衣、内裤。” “你们猜到我穿什么内裤吗？” “实际上猜到和你在一起。” “你们不可能想到这么远。” “对，因为我们觉得，还有更重要的事情，比如说，你讨厌我们。” 我看着她，听她说话，希望确定她的口音和举止，把她定位在某个工业小城里。也许，她是天主教徒，住在一幢摇摇欲坠的房子里，在生活枯燥的河边长大成人。 “你知道我喜欢你什么吗？你让我想要表现进攻性，显示一点肆无忌惮的样子，”我说，“哪怕坐在这里，我也故态复萌，一分钟倒退一英里。” "What does that mean?" “它的意思是，我这辈子全部有趣的事情都出现在年轻的时候。” “如果你干我，那会是带着仇恨的行为。这就是你想要做的？这就是你所说的进攻性的意思吗？” “不。你想要什么？你在我的房间里，衣服脱了一半。” “也许，这是巴里想要的。” “让你和一个讨厌你的男人上床？” “我们在这里是为了扩展自我。” “那么，这是为了他。” "Maybe." “执行一项命令。” “不，分享幻想，实施幻想。” “巴里为你做些什么呢？” “哥们，这不关你的事。”她说这句话时带着人们常在乡村酒吧里听到的那种鼻音。 我不愿很快理解她的动机。也许，她到这里来根本不是为了满足性欲，而是为了得到附属资料，得到那种充实体验的补充材料。我们可以聊到性交，但是并不付诸实施，她会高兴地回去见她的交换伴侣。我看着她大腿上的伤痕，想到她可能是她丈夫的代理人，在这里的目的不过是遵命行事，然后回去向他一一汇报，不禁深感沮丧。那个叫巴里的老兄通过电话，向退休人员推销房地产，以便赚钱谋生，有时候可能写好了供她表演的脚本。我想俯身吻她，她非常老练地耸了耸肩，把脸转开。那动作非常简略，不带个人痕迹，我仅仅触到她的额头外侧。 “也许，你对我的看法并不全错，朵娜。也许我觉得，把某些东西公布于众可能会造成损害。” “说下去。我们对建设性批评一直很感兴趣。” “不过，我觉得你并不想听到这一点。这完全是我的一己之见。” “哦，我愿意听。” “我可能会出丑的。” “出就出吧。我希望听你说说。” 她取下手表，放在床上。这时，我涌起一阵冲动，想要和她做爱，几乎顾不上带着幽怨的性交易可能带来的不适了——可以让这种交易脱离那些交换配偶者的公开炫示，在我自己的房间中进行。我不知道自己说话的口气多么愚蠢，不知道自己显得多么认真，不知道了解她的这些个人情况之后，自己究竟可能会放弃什么。 “说下去，我们对有益的看法总是洗耳恭听。”她说。 我俯身亲吻，她这次没有躲开，反应不瘟不火，暗示我们两人之间还有障碍。 “很久以前，我阅读了一本书，书名叫《未知之云》，是一位不知姓名的神秘论者撰写的。我记不清作者是哪个年代的人，可能是14世纪吧，就是黑死病暴发的那一段时期。对，他就是在那段岁月里撰写这本书的。一位神父给了我这本书，那就是僧侣对我生命的影响。他促使我读了那本书，过了这么多年，我已经忘记了其中的大部分内容。不过我觉得，它让我把上帝视为一种力量。上帝是这种力量的基础，所以它使人们看不到上帝。我记得书中的一个句子。” “精妙的书名。” “我记得书名，记得其中的一个句子。” 我没有继续她的话头，让她说的那些字眼在我的脑海里浮现出来，逐渐成形。我用一只手握着朵娜的脚踝，感觉到一种半推半就的意味。我需要那样的态度，以便去克服我们两人之间的不一致性。管他妈的，我心里想，碰碰运气吧。 “这个句子出现在开头部分，给我感觉是，我直接面对作者。我不知道他是干什么的，也许是诗人。在我想象中，他是具有诗人气质的神父。'稍停片刻，你这个可怜的懦弱者，估量一下自己吧。'瞧，这就是我那时的状态，仿佛被一语击中，处于一种停顿和估量的状态。我那时二十岁，没有我的同伴们聪明，渴望在世上找到自己的位置。我读了这本书，开始觉得，上帝是一个秘密，一个没有照明的隧道，没有尽头。这就是我做出的可怜尝试，希望去理解在面对上帝的广大时自己感到的空虚。这就是上帝让我尊敬的地方。他保留他的秘密，我试图通过他的秘密，通过他的未知性，来理解上帝。也许，我们可以通过爱的祈祷，通过灵视，或者通过迷幻药来认识上帝。可是，我们无法通过智性来认识上帝。《未知之云》阐述了这一点。于是，我学会了如何尊重秘密具有的力量。我们通过上帝的非造性来感悟上帝。我们是制造的，创造的，上帝是非造的。我们怎么可能去理解这样的存在者呢？我们不知道他，无法确认他。然而，我们珍视上帝具有的否定性。你明白吗，我们这些可怜的懦弱者。我们试图形成一种纯粹的意图，让自己依附在上帝这个理念之上。《未知之云》建议我们围绕一个词语来形成这样的意图。更确切地说，围绕一个单音节词。这一点让我深感兴趣。于是，我开始全神贯注地寻找那个词语，那个音节。这不乏浪漫，上帝的神秘性不乏浪漫。有了这个词语，我就可以排除干扰，逐渐靠近上帝的无法认知的自我。” “什么样的词语呢？” “我寻找，我思考，我认真对待。我那时年轻。” “爱情可以算一个。不过，这不适合你，你太感伤了。”她说。 “帮助可以算一个。不过，即便对懦弱者来说，这个词语也稍显可怜。我认为，这是语言造成的问题，需要找到一个纯粹的词语，一个没有引申意义和细微变化的词语。我当时想到了意大利语中表示帮助这个意义的词语。我们——我弟弟和我——惹父亲生气时，父亲就会说这个字眼。他会先鼓掌，然后摆动双手，眼睛往上一翻，嘴里冒出Aiuto（救命）这个词。他父亲或者爷爷可能也是这样说的。Aiuto（救命），一个可以渗透黑暗的词。” “音节太多了。” “音节太多，而且太滑稽。他说出这个词的主要目的是让我们发笑，用笑声转移我们的注意力。也许，我父亲知道二十个意大利词语，我不知道确切数字。他生在美国，也许他能够比较流利地说那种语言，我真的不知道。不过，他说了这个词语，那方式就像一部三幕话剧，慢吞吞的，声音低沉，仿佛是一个服了毒药的公爵。救——命——。我们听了哈哈大笑。在某个意义上，他也是在调侃他的祖国，调侃那里的老式习俗。这是一个发音响亮、意义深奥的词语，不过我无法使用它。” 奇妙的是，她这时伸出手来，抓住我的一只手，让它沿着她的大腿内侧移动，挪到她两腿的交叉处，不偏不倚，就像放在杯子里。然后，她调整姿势，以便让自己舒服，仿佛是一个孩子，准备听人讲故事。 “你父亲现在在什么地方？” "died." "Where's your brother?" “下落不明。” 她等着我继续说下去。 “可是，我知道，我不在英语中寻找，这个做法是正确的。后来，我发现了一个词语，它似乎具有纯粹的意图，具有我从自己的人生经历中了解和感觉的某种东西。一个祈祷用语，声音悦耳，发自本能，包含五个音节。不过，那又怎么样呢？三个词语，五个音节。不过，我觉得，自己找到了这个短语。它出自另外一位神秘论者之口，一个西班牙人，圣人若望。在那个冬天里，这个短语让我带着赤诚的心灵，慢慢进入黑暗，进入上帝的秘密。我反复念着，反复念着，反复念着。Todo y nada（万事皆虚无）。” “Todo y nada。” “对，它让你想到什么呢？它在你的生活中表示什么意义呢？它描述什么呢？” “性爱，”她不假思索地回答，“最棒的性爱。Todo y nada。” “没错，完全正确。” “那么，你究竟想说什么呢？” “我并不是说，性爱是我们的神圣性，请记住这一点。我只是说，性爱是我们拥有的一个秘密，它接近一种升华状态。我们分享它，男女双方在一定程度上安静地分享它，在一定程度上平等地分享它，让它变得有力，神秘，值得庇护。” “你的意思是，不要把它置于大庭广众之下。然而，你这样看的原因在于，你依然是一个不乏浪漫的人，也许与你二十岁时状态完全一样。如今，性爱已经不再那么隐秘了。秘密不复存在。你知道性爱对大多数人来说意味着什么。” 她把她的手放在我的手里，轻轻地改变她的盆骨位置，以接触我的手掌。 “性爱是你能够得到的东西。对某些人来说，对大多数来说，性爱是他们可以得到的最重要的东西，无需考虑自己生来是否富有或者聪明，无需考虑自己是否要以偷窃为生。这是生活可以给予你的东西，它让你与人平等，甚至比人更好。这是你无需在大学苦读六年就能得到的东西。而且，它既不是宗教，也不是科学，然而你可以探索它，更好地认识自己心灵深处的世界。” 她稍停片刻。没错，离开了游泳池畔的阳光，她的脸庞失去了刚才那种淡定色彩，失去赋予她骨骼分明的轮廓的闪光动感，在这里确实显得没有什么格调。可是我觉得，这让她表情更严肃，显得更有韵味，更有影响力。我追寻真实时间，抱着诚实的态度，解读面前这个女人。 “不管怎样说，存在着各种各样的公开的性行为，”她说，“色情作家描写性爱场景。” “独自。他们独自描写，读者独自阅读。” “怎样才能见到有类似兴趣的人呢？” “我不知道。悄悄地，秘密地。” “照你这么说，就像犯罪分子那样？不过，我们并不是犯罪分子。我们希望有自己的联盟，开会时摆放着点心和小餐巾。美国有太多的孤独，太多的秘密。让它们释放出来吧，把它们公布于世吧。你别这么细看我，你看得太仔细了。” “如果不这样看，我怎么了解你呢？” “你不了解我，你不想了解我。我们在这里的沙漠之中。” “《未知之云》中还有一个句子。可是，我只能想起它的片段，说的是充满渴望的爱恋形成的锋利冲击。” “听起来很色情。” “你是很色情，你的朋友们也很色情。你们自己还办了杂志，对吧？你们的做法与任何企业类似，与实实在在的企业类似，与殡葬业类似。不同之处在于，你们展现阴毛，而且还通过邮寄方式传递家庭影片。” 她的脑袋一扬，嘴巴噘起，一副假装的自以为是的样子。 “听我说，这与淫秽无关。尽管我坐在这里，一个陌生男人坐在这里，把手放在我的阴户上。不管你相信还是不相信，我不是淫秽的人。”她哈哈大笑起来，声音非常响亮，略微有些狂野。她的臀部开始扭动，摩擦让她发出了嗷嗷的呻吟声。那种声音既是戏仿，但也不乏认真。 “这可不是什么陌生男人的手。” “别看着我。” “我看谁呢？” “我来到这个偏僻地方，可不是为了让人分析的。” “你让我再度堕落。这并不是第一次，不过是很长时间中的第一次。就是这一点让你变得不安全了。” “什么让你变得不安全呢？” “你不分对象地滥交，我可不是这样的。” “你以为自己区分对象？什么使你区分对象呢？我甚至连你的名字也记不住。” 我告诉她我的名字，姓名全称。她说，这听起来是假的。 “还有呢，我需要更多的信息，”她说，“刚才你说了你过去的情况，懦弱，可怜。” "right." “阅读关于上帝的书籍。” "right." “与神父交谈。” "right." “那么，你的罪孽是什么呢？你的秘密是什么呢？什么东西让你处于可怜状态呢？” 她的眼神中本来包含着质疑，然而却没有心领神会的意味。她被逗乐了，脑袋略微偏斜——不是蔑视，而是不愿承认她感到惊讶的可能性。后来，这些全都不复存在，她的脸上呈现出一种不那么纯粹、不那么明显的好奇。 我把手缩回来，坐在床上，两个胳膊交叉，抱在胸前，脑袋偏斜，表现出一种后退的姿态，一种面对神秘的自卑，一个地位卑贱的年轻男人的样子。 “我在教养所里待过。” “教养所。” “我们是这样称呼它的，青少年教养中心。他们把我送到那里去，待了一段时间。我出来以后，去了耶稣会在北明尼苏达州经营的一个小居民点。那里专门培训有过坎坷经历的孩子和具有罕见特性的孩子。” “你进教养所的原因是？” “开枪杀人。我开枪杀了一个男人。” “杀死了？” “杀死了，那时我只有十七岁。无论法律上怎么判定，直到今天我也无法确定那个意图是明确表达的，还是间接表达的。也许，那就是绝望之中的一个偶然行为？” “这么说，你考虑了许多。” “我试过，断断续续地。我保留了那个瞬间，尽量去分析它，清楚地考虑它的组成部分。可是，有那么多动机和潜在可能性，令人头晕目眩。那么多如果这样，那会怎么样的之类的念头。” "What does it mean?" “怎么说呢，在某个点上，我的手指已经开始扣动扳机。在心理活动的某个微小点上，在手指运动的某个微小点上，我大概可能会问自己：那又是怎么样的呢？其实，我并不确定。或者对自己说，干吗不这样做，看一看会出现什么情况吧。” "What does that man do?" “那人是干什么的。他既不是我的敌人，也不是我的对手，可以说有点像是朋友。他有时帮助我出去，一个年龄比我大的人。我觉得他对我根本没有什么影响，唯一不同的是，他有一支猎枪。” 这时，我突然产生一个灵感，于是不假思索地用歹徒的声音说： “换句话说，我让他从日历上消失了。” 这种声音我妻子没有听到过，这段往事我从来没有告诉她。这非常不可思议，让我深感内疚。不过，这一点那时我并未感觉到。后来，我回到凤凰城，那种内疚感便出现了。当然，我对四面墙壁摆满书籍的房间，对用来祈祷的土耳其地毯，对浴室里摆放时装杂志的篮子是没有内疚感的。 朵娜鼻塞。她半夜游泳着凉，那就是我们谈了好一阵的话题。我们聊到了夜晚的情况，聊到了带着寒意的空气，聊到了餐厅的饭菜。 后来，她脱去连裤袜，递给了我。我把它们抛到床上，然后脱去自己的衣裤。 我觉得，房间里弥漫着一种疏离的气息，觉得她可能旁观她自己的体验，从一个角度亲历这一时刻，以某种未来心态进行记录。可是，她这时把我拉倒在床上，抓起一把头发，拽着我亲吻起来。她的身体散发着热度，一种类似狂风的饥渴脉动。我们两人紧紧搂着，扭在一起，施加力量，既没有空出手来抓住对方，身体也没有压住对方。我们想要更多的拥抱和控制，那是一种一一对应的身体接触。后来，我抬起头来，发现她的身体非常娇小，在床上一丝不挂，与在酒店大厅里见到的那个带着电影氛围的女人相比，简直判若两人。现在，她更真实，展现出已被挖掘出来、受到性欲驱动的自我。我觉得自己和她非常接近。尽管她这时闭上眼睛，把她的自我隐藏起来，我觉得自己终于了解了她。 我念着她的名字。 完事之后，我们觉得自己被掏空了，就像用勺子舀过的番石榴。我们的肢体疼痛，我非常口渴，仿佛身处沙漠，我们在