Chapter 22 Section 3

Strictly speaking, there were not many people in the nightclub. There were seven guests including Sims and me.There were four people on the bandstand, a saxophonist with a goatee, and three musicians leaning over to accompany them. I don't know what this is, it could be Long Beach, Santa Monica, or somewhere in the suburbs that I can't remember the name of.This was the third nightclub we both visited that night, and my sense of direction was all but lost.That night, the big Sims didn't speak much, with a serious expression and a firm attitude. He walked out of the room with half a glass of wine in his hand, as if he was a man entrusted with a mission in an epic.

"Hey Sims, come home, okay? You don't like music, and I don't want to see you cranky." "Good music, music." "But I don't think you need to take me to see any scenery. Go home. I'll stay a little longer and take a taxi back." "go home." "Go home, yes. But tell me first, who are you mad at?" "Not anger. If you look at it that way, it's anger," he said. An old waiter brought our drinks.With a wad of cotton stuffed up his nostrils, he wore a T-shirt that read: Monday Night Football at Roy Early's Power Stadium.It wasn't Monday and we weren't there.

I asked, "What happened?" "What's the matter? What's the matter at home?" "You and Greta had a fight." "Don't mention it," he said, "just finish it in one gulp." "These guys played well." "It's music, let's drink it," he said. "You have a knot in your heart." "Actually, we never quarreled." "You two never quarreled, and neither did Marianne and I. So when this happens—" "Hold it." "I feel a knot in my heart, it's heavy." "We never fucking fight."

"We never fight. Marianne and I. Go home and have a good talk with her. I'll get a cab. Can I get a cab here?" "Your hair is a little gray," he said. "You're a little bald on the top of your head." "My hair is about to fall out, but yours is only a little white." The baritone instruments hit three-dimensional notes, we drank a few half-glasses, and the drummer beat a furious beat.Amidst the noise, amidst the wider dislocations of the unfamiliar night, I tried to make sense of what Sims was saying. "Seriously, go home. I'm fine. I like these guys, the music is masculine."

"Black music," he said. "Masculine, free-spirited music." "Black music. You like it for a reason you like it, I like it for a reason I like it. I'll show you a picture of my house some other day. Great picture, I don't know the exact date it was taken, around the 1950s 1990s. Charlie Parker, in a white suit, in a nightclub somewhere. Great great great photo." "A nightclub in New York." He glanced at me. "Do you know that nightclub?" "Great photo," I said. "Wait a minute, you know that nightclub? A nightclub in New York."

"He was wearing a white suit and shoes I can't remember what they were called." Somehow, I think about how our expressions change, how we spot signals in other people's eyes, and how anxious I am.However, such signals also tell me that I should avoid other people's eyes until I have an opportunity to understand my surroundings.Amidst the whistles and complaints that rang out here, we both seemed to agree that if we had the same faces as these people, we would be spared any harm. "Is it okay to hail a cab here? Go home and make up with her. You'll both be thinking wild things if this is delayed for ten hours."

"go home." "Go home. What's the name of Parker's shoes? I can't remember. Tell her you're worried. Don't make it worse. Old-fashioned two-tone shoes." He looked at me, up and down. "Let's go to a game another day. You'll be back in a few months, right? Let's go to a game." "I don't want to watch the game." "Let's go to the game," he said. We both drank our drinks and left the nightclub.Within fifteen minutes, we were sitting in another nightclub and heard the loud sound of trumpets.Four musicians wore Turkish felt hats and Arab men's jackets, playing trumpets in unison, and a drummer sang loudly with a shrill voice.

We ordered drinks and listened for a while.At this point, Sims approached me. "It's happened twice since I've been here. They pull out their guns. My life hangs on the crooked finger of some cop, either because of my resemblance to a suspect or because of my car tail lights No light. He got out of the car and asked me to get out of the car. He said, I want you to get out of the car right away. I got out of the car. He said, I want you to put your hands on the roof of the car, palms spread. But, I stared at He stared at him, and he stared at me, and we stared at each other with murderous intent in our eyes. In one sense, it was very confusing, and in another sense, it was very natural."

I nodded and waited for him to continue.He sat there very gravely, looking into the glass. "You want to be my friend, you have to hear me out," he said. Pacific jazz album jackets adorn the walls.We turned our heads to look at the bandstand and felt the power of the music.This kind of jazz has texture, deep and subtle, as if telling people about life and death. I told him, "Yes, yes, my hair is a little gray. But I don't understand why it's worse than going completely bald? It's your own destiny." "That's what I mean." "What do you mean? A little gray hair is not the worst thing that can happen to a man."

"Let's go, shall we?" "why?" "There is another place." "I love this place." "I let you know something, right? You have to accept that," he said. "I'm here and you're not." "Fine. You should go home, though. Tell her you're sorry." "I want you to know about us." "what?" "We never fight." "We never quarrel either. Our friends quarrel." "That's why I feel bad inside." "I was listening to you." "Then let's go."

The next location is in downtown Los Angeles.Downtown Los Angeles - The name has a mysterious life that I can't quite decipher.The band was taking a break, and the room was filled with thick smoke. "I used to play the trumpet. You know that?" "Are you still blowing?" "A handful of old trumpets bought at a pawnshop and thrown away." "But you still have." "Throw it away," he said. "But you stayed, and you are still here." "Throw it away." "You didn't keep it?" "Why stay? It's too ugly." "Something worth keeping. An old trumpet? They're not called saddlebacks, by the way, and saddlebacks aren't the two-tone shoes I just said." "Sounds like music is dead and buried." "Stupid. You should have left it." "Wait a minute. Am I stupid?" "Stuff worth keeping. People collect stuff like that. Used trumpets, great collection." "Wait a minute." "Big mistake, Sims." "I'm stupid?" The pianist came first, followed by the bassist.The drummer wears a turban and sunglasses. "That ship is back," he said, "did you know that?" "have no idea." "On the coast of San Francisco." "Who told you these things?" "Do you know what the rumors are? No one told you, you just heard it." "Have you heard anything about the ship's cargo?" "That's a different story," Sims said, raising his voice like a used car dealer, a braggart.I laughed out loud. "That's interesting, the best thing about rumors." Finally the trumpeter came in, a tall, thin man with a gold necklace, a missing middle front tooth, and sandals, all in vacation attire. "Some say it's heroin. Some say it's the CIA shipping heroin to fund some covert operation. But we don't believe it, you and me." "Because we are responsible people." "And, we were right," Sims said, "because the cargo on board wasn't heroin, it wasn't toxic chemicals. It wasn't industrial embers, it wasn't heroin." "what is it then?" "It's a confusion of words. That's what it is." "Which word?" "You know what people call heroin? It's called scag, it's called horse, it's called H, it's called smack, it's called this, it's called that. What else is it called, Nick?" "It's called shit." "Got it, it's not heroin, it's shit." At this time, our minds were sharp and our vision was clear.Talked and drank all night, and it was one of those very clear-headed times. "I'm right about one thing. Rumors suggest it's no ordinary ship." "Sludge boat, this proves the rumors are correct." "It was loaded with processed garbage." "It's been sailing from port to port for almost two years." We listened to the music, the sound of the cash register being used from one end of the bar, and the flickering of a radio or television from some room in the back. "Tell her you're sorry. Go home, Sims." "Perhaps she should have told me so." "Tell her first." "Perhaps I'm not the one to feel guilty. Have you thought about it? Who caused it?" "It's okay, it's stupid." "This is the second time." He said, holding out two fingers to me. We walked out of that nightclub and into another.There are small tables and zebra prints on the walls.There were a lot of people, some in aviator glasses, some in silver shirts. "He's wearing a white suit." "right." "The tenor sings." "right." "His eyes look out of the frame, out of the frame." "He's wearing white trousers and brown shoes, two-tone shoes, not saddlebacks." "I didn't ask what shoes it was. I didn't care what shoes he was wearing." "I'm just talking." "I'm not interested in what shoes he's wearing." "That shoe has a name, and I'm wondering what it is." "Go and think elsewhere." "A nightclub in New York," I said. "You know? I don't know. Is it a picture of me? We were talking in my house?" The waiter brought the wine. "Listen, go home, tell her you're sorry, then take a shower and go to sleep." He looked at me and pursed his lower lip. "There are other things." "What is it?" I asked. "The judge issued an order, a restraining order, strictly forbidding them to dump that muck, because there were bodies buried in it," said Sims, taking a sip of his wine, and pulling a cigar from his pocket. "Whose body?" "Whose body. Whose body do you want? Whose body is that? I heard that it belonged to some gangster. It was executed by shooting and a hole was punched in the head." Jazz trio, plus a singer.With her red hair and copper skin, she rests a microphone on her sequined lap as her backers cue the lyrics. "We never fight. Our friends fight," I said. After a set of tracks is over, a burst of tiredness hits us, which makes people feel bored.Sims blows a puff of smoke over my shoulder.I put an ice cube in the wine, played with one finger, and watched it go up and down. "There's a guy I met once. I didn't know him. I met him once. When I was young," I said, "he came to the pool room." "what are you talking about?" "It's about the man buried in the mud." "A gang member. Who is he?" "I was young, in middle school. I only talked to him that once. But my father knew him long ago, and he told me about it. Badalatu told me, not my father. Tell me. They are friends, they are acquaintances, they met somewhere." "You mean Badalatu? His name is Mario. I saw him once on TV," he said. "They put him in a regular car and took him to stand trial. There was a The detective put his hands on his head to keep his head from hitting the roof of the car. I'm sitting here wondering why the police are so careful to protect the criminals from getting their heads hurt? Recently, when the criminals got into the car, the police Take special care to protect the prisoner's head with his hands." "You suddenly started nagging." "He was always photographed on the court steps, he was the king of the court steps." "You're right, let's go." I said. "Your father knew him. That means—what?" "It means he knows him." "In other words, I have to show respect. When I mention his name, I should be respectful. The guy runs a criminal group, doing drugs, racketeering and other illegal activities. Murder, attempted murder, and whatnot trick." "Shipping waste," I said. "Possibly. Why not? I have to respect him because he was good to your father." "You're right, let's go," I said. "I didn't say I wanted to leave. I didn't want to leave." "Tell her you're sorry and take a shower," I told him. Half an hour later, we were in the last nightclub of the night.There was an air of desperation about performing blues there.The bartender there was like the old bartender in the previous two or three nightclubs, similar in appearance.He was dressed in standard receptionist attire, which I thought looked a lot like the receptionist in the football T-shirt.We've seen that guy in three or four previous nightclubs--never mind the first one.The man was wearing a T-shirt with a wad of cotton stuffed up his nostril. "This place reminds me of one thing. You know, people are always like, where were you when something happened? Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated? Well, remember that blackout ? This place reminds me of the big blackout in the Northeast." "Should I ask where you were?" he said. "Thirty million people were affected." "I was in Germany and had no idea what was causing it. What was it?" "Nobody remembers. Thirty million people, not one person remembers." "But you remember where you were at the time." "You asked me where I was. I was in a bar, like this," I said, "dead soul, sad jazz, palm trees painted on the walls." "There are no palm trees painted on the walls of this place." "None is better, more like some. All of a sudden, the lights go out." "They made a movie based on it. I was in Germany," he said. "Maybe, there wasn't jazz in that other place. Maybe, there was, and then it stopped. They had a policy on jazz that became a no-jazz policy. If you think about it, it's probably the same thing. " He's not the same guy we met three or four times ago.That's not to say who he looks like.He resembled the taxi driver I had met earlier in the day—or the day before.The guy said, "Light a Lucky Strike, it's time for a smoke." They put me in that patrol car, or maybe they called it a radio van back then.Anyway, the car was green and white, and the cop who drove it was smoking a cigarette—he shouldn't be doing that, and a police officer in uniform should not be smoking.I remember being amazed by the gesture of an officer holding out his hands to pick up the smoke that filled between his knees.I shot a guy and thought I was going to be put into a control system.The rules there are strict and constant.The other thing I remember is being stuffed into that police car and no one put a hand on my head.For obvious reasons, they didn't do it then, it was a practice that came later -- let the felon get in the car with his hand out to protect him from hitting his head. Of course, that happened in the East.After coming to this place, I often hear the word east.However, it seems to me that this is not a marker for geographical location at all, but only for time.It is a term related to time, a term related to the density of being and experience.It is camouflaged, it is smoking time, the time for the vagaries of smoke to emerge as the site of some sort of stable arrangement.When people use the word, they're talking about the way they were before they moved here, the way the world was, not just the way New Jersey or South Philly was.Perhaps, what they are talking about is the way their parents or grandparents did before they migrated here.In some personal theory of relativity, things still exist the way they do, it's some shifting psychological level.Perhaps, it existed during a time when other men and women came here in this way.Those people come here in a Conestoga wagon - in middle school we learned the word Conestoga wagon, an Eastern word that comes from that wagon The name of the place of origin. The hall was almost empty and they were playing the blues. "Peace her well," I said, "go home and talk to her, be good. You know that saying? Be good. St. Louis black kids use that. You know, Sims?" "They come here for the census." "Yes, so what?" "My mother told me to hide." "why?" "Why. That's a good question. I didn't know why then. She felt, and I didn't know what she was thinking. I hid. Two men stood in the doorway with clipboards in their hands. She said, Come in, hide." let's go." "Hiding." "She said hide. I don't know what I was thinking, I don't know what she was thinking." "That's just the census." "Don't just talk about the census." "You tell me my hair is a little gray. I should know why it's worse than going completely bald." "Because I've had it, my family has had it," he said, "and I should bald, and I will. She said, hide." "Hiding." "Do you trust the census, Nick?" He sat there with his tie loose and his jacket rumpled.He relighted the dead cigar, and a pink streak appeared above the protrusion of his lower lip. "What do you want me to say? Yes, I believe it. No, I don't." "I want you to say, you believe." "I could sense we were going to get into some kind of tough topic." "What do you believe in?" he asked. "I trust the census. Why not?" He glanced at me with a pleasant look in his eyes. "you believe." "Why don't you believe it?" "You believe the numbers, for example, that there are only 25 million black people in the United States." "Why don't you believe it?" "So, you believe it." "If that's a real number, then it's a real number." "And you think it's impossible for them to compress the actual numbers." "Wait a minute." "You don't think they can." "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." "Think about it." He took off his shirt with his hands, and in the way of a big man, he pulled up the shirt with both hands, took it off, shook it a few times, with a bit of elegance, his chest heaving and falling. "Sims, it's just you and me." "Just imagine." "We - you and I - don't have a vocabulary that could mean a theory of dark powers, something that causes activity, remember? We neither accept the word nor the plausibility of the theory. Do you remember That conversation?" "That's another conversation. I said it when I was talking here. Think about it." "However, you and I should tell the truth. We swim against the current, Sims. The prevailing practice is to avoid the big and irresponsible. We are the responsible people. We are sure of this and don't believe that anything is ruining our lives Secret power." "A power outage in one place affected 30 million people. And yet, they say, there are only 25 million black people in a country this big." "If that's a real number, then it's a real number." "That's all you can say. In fact, we are confronted with a situation that requires - to use your term - a careful investigation." "Go ahead and investigate carefully." "You're willing to accept that number." "Twenty-five million. Yes, why not?" "You don't think the number is too small." "Twenty-five million is not too small. Twenty-five million." I said. "Don't you think that number is completely underreported?" "Why do you say careful investigation is my word?" "Because you used it." "So it became my word?" "I don't use that word, you do." "I trust the number. It's believable to me." "You don't think anyone might worry that if the real numbers come out, white people will feel powerless and black people will feel empowered. Black people will say, hey, we should have more of these, we should have more of that, we should A little more than others." "You and I should tell the truth," I said. "You don't think that number is understated, not understated by 40?" "We can't allow ourselves to indulge in cheap, random fantasies, Sims." "Vulgar, casual." "Am I right? You and I should be telling the truth. We don't believe there's something organized and evil behind the scenes, and we have to make a theory out of it." "You don't think white people are going to get very frustrated and feel threatened by -- I hate to say it -- the real numbers." Without thinking, he blurted out. "You think the Census Bureau is hiding 10 million black people," I said. "It's not hiding people, it's hiding numbers. It's easy to do that." "However, the numbers are huge and difficult to manipulate. It's obvious, and maybe it's the mothers," I said. "Ten million mothers told their children to hide, hide," I said. A smile flickered across Big Sims' face, a reflexive smile, but his eyes didn't shine. "Let's face it," he said. "what is the problem?" "We have a right to know population numbers." "You do know." "I don't know. This number is very dangerous. How much threat does the real number make you feel? Let me remind you, you can weigh it yourself." "Okay, let me think about it." "Tell me the truth, you don't think there's any truth in what I'm saying." "Really delusional. That's the only real thing I see on this subject." He seemed to like it, sitting there comfortably, looking to one side, with some seriousness in his cheerfulness, examining what might be in the nature of human communication, what makes it predictable. I admired the blues trumpeter playing.He was young, in a battered jacket, with African black skin, the saturated black of a man somewhere on the continent, the complexion of some nomadic tribe in the desert.In terms of movement and stance, though, I saw him spit in the middle of a riff.He was a local, from somewhere downtown, dressed in a generic way, and walked with a shuffling. "Charlie Parker in a white top at a nightclub in New York," I said. "How many times have I heard you mention New York tonight?" "And, I know the kind of shoes he wears." "I don't care what kind of shoes he wears." "casual shoes." "I don't care what kind of shoes he wears." "Not saddle shoes, they're called loafers." "I don't care what they're called." "Listen, here's what you're supposed to do," I told him. "Go home and say you're sorry. Get some bubbly in the tub, take a shower, and sleep." Ten minutes later, we were standing outside the nightclub, waiting for the car to be pulled over.Sims reached out and grabbed my shoulders. I don't know how to deal with it. He bulged my eyes and smacked my forehead.I don't know if it was an impulsive behavior after a night of drinking.The two of us spoke hoarsely, with smoke coming from our throats, and we were almost passed out from drunkenness.His actions either declared the evening officially over, or were intentional in some way. I broke free from his hands, headbutted him, grabbed his shoulders with both hands, and hit his forehead with my head.I looked at him with great interest and repeated the action just now. Of course, that movement felt painful, throbbing, bang.That impact was a blow, a head-to-toe shock, a jolt of electricity through the back of the head, into the neck and shoulders. Such impacts put people face to face, eyes bulging, creating a kind of confrontational space with no wiggle room, no other points of contact.The hostility that can be expressed reaches a certain amount and fills the whole field of vision of a person.The other party stared and glared, his eyes aggressive.It was, perhaps, a gesture of concealment, a sleepy-eyed attack, with drooping eyelids and silence. I'm taller than Sims, but not as muscular, and I've never used my head as a weapon before, attacking like a medieval man. I hit it just above his nose, from top to bottom, and it hurt him so much.I could see that, my bump must have made his head buzz. He shook me all over, and the force of hitting me was so great that I took two steps back, dizzy, staggered, and broke free from his hands.The guy had already pulled up the car and was standing by watching. Painful sensations ran through my body like electricity, and I felt numb and dizzy, and everything around me seemed to shrink. That's how we were, dizzy, blurred vision, just the impact, staring and aching. He slams into me again, and I jerk my head back and take a step back, trying to lessen the force of the impact.He looked up, his eyes blazing with anger. Pain is just another form of information. We both attacked again, once each.The guy was watching with the car keys in his hand. In the hotel room, I stood in front of the sink and looked in the mirror.Leaning forward with my hands on the wall, I saw the bruises and bruises on my forehead, and the color of wine around the frozen blood.I wash the wound with cold water and go to bed.However, as soon as my head touched the pillow, I felt dizzy, so I had to sit in a chair for an hour to let the feeling gradually ease. That feeling kept coming back in my head, and I was trying to understand it, to understand the vibration.Our faces are reflected on the ice in the glass, sometimes blurred, sometimes clear.It doesn't reflect my own feelings, it just allows me to understand the trigger points hidden in what I experience, the deep holes and sudden changes that form the state of existence. We ran forward, through smoke-filled hollows, past houses lined with new narrow roads, and into tree-lined terrain.The place was silent, and the roof was covered with white dust, which looked like a layer of tinder, giving people the feeling of burning at the slightest touch.Maybe not, I might be designing my own documentary scene. "Have you heard anything about the body in the mud?" "They couldn't find the body. It was just another decoration," he said. "The main problem was the ship itself." "what is the problem?" "A ship that has been at sea for two years, changing names and crews, is perhaps another story. Recently, that ship completed another voyage, coast to coast. The silt was brought to California to be used as a Chemicals are handled like normal sea cargo." We walked along the picturesque avenues of the city, and there was something decadent about it, an air of incongruity contained within a palpable sense of regret. "Look, Sims, here's the thing." "Let's run," he said. "I don't know. I'm so small in front of people like you. I know, I shouldn't have said that." "Love your kids, don't you?" "Of course I do." "Run, then," he said. "Sometimes I think, as long as I like them, I almost feel like an imposter at times. Fuck, it's always made me uncomfortable." The two of us stood in the kitchen in our shorts, unwilling to move, worried that we might stain something with the sweat we had just run for a few miles, either over rolling hills or scorching pavement.Greta poured us water.She has brown hair, long hands, and a skinny body, almost bony, like an X-ray image of a X-ray, with prominent features almost unobstructed. "Like it here?" I asked. "I feel like I'm at the end of the world. We've lived here for four years, and every morning I wake up and I have to think about where I am. It's far away from everything," Greta said. "With our backs," Sims said, "a very wide sea." My son, just five years old, sat at the kitchen table with his breakfast cereal bowl and a large spoon in front of him.His name was Loyal Branson Biggs, and he was quiet, handsome, with a natural pretty face, and he totally captivated me.I talked to his parents, but kept looking at him.Because looking at him, they both looked at him.I remind them that children can surprise them at any moment. "What's wrong with your face?" Greta asked me. I watched Loial stir the milk with a spoon. "Well, that's actually a good question." "What's the answer?" "Well, I got into a fight with someone in the elevator, right in the hotel. Visible scars? I thought it was gone. Hit two drunks, one black, one white." I could feel a chuckle in Sims in his Reeboks. "Nick goes first," he told her. "Really?" She faced him, but her eyes were on the child who was having breakfast.All three of us looked at the kid. "They said he got a little bit of gray hair, and he got mad," Sims said. Greta is sending her kids to school and then going to the school where she teaches.The school backs to the sea, where she teaches chemistry three days a week. Sims and I stand at our respective places drinking water. "Are you two still angry?" I asked. "She's still angry, and I'm fine." "I'm going to fly." I told him. He took a shower, got dressed, and drove me to the hotel.I took a quick shower, got dressed, grabbed my travel bag, and headed back to the car.A man on the side of the highway, right on the embankment, nodded into his car radio.He was sitting on the grass with something across his lap.Sims said it was a rifle, I said it was a pair of crutches, one of those metal crutches with a forearm brace.It took me a few seconds to realize that Sims was joking - that's just the language used on the highway. I think Southern California is so much fun.The plane is flying experimentally, the system errors frequently, the cars are everywhere, the smoke is full, it's like hell, the woman's origin is unknown, the street gangs are rampant, and their activities are blatant.I was there on business, and after the first visit, I kept my trip as short as possible.The peculiarity of this place sneaks in harmless remarks and leads to feelings of alienation. After I shot George Manza, I began to understand the nature of the feeling.They stuffed me into a police van loaded with smoking cops and sent me to upstate New York, a place that displayed the eccentric character of the penal system.There's a miniature golf course, nine holes, complete with turrets and windmill caricatures.You know, we're a bunch of young offenders, and maybe the trainers think we're comfortable with golf balls and holes among those childish shapes and bright colors.I didn't know that, didn't know it then, and don't know it now.But my buddies and I were all D-class felons, E-class felons, some who broke necks, and some who stole at night.We have different races, different creeds, all kinds of people, and some people shout at night.We used to walk past the dingy windows, looking relaxed, at the layout of the yard below: cycle paths, tunnels, and small lakes covered with shiny turf—we call it California. For me, Phoenix is ​​better.I need a private life.If people's senses are exposed to the broad daylight, if the strong emotions in people's hearts and things that can be kept in a small room are all exposed to white light, they become large and fixed, and people cannot be in harmony with the environment. How can a person have a private life when the sky is separated? I walked in the door and Marianne asked me, "What's the matter with your face?" 我走进房间，听到了这样的声音：小孩在玩耍，收音机播送着新闻和交通信息，电话铃声响个不停，洗碗机循环注水。 我笑着，吻了吻她，她抓起电话。孩子在后面大声说话，我们的孩子和邻居的孩子在一起，正在玩着莱妮设计的游戏——这一点我是从他们发出的尖叫判断出来的。莱妮搞了一些恶魔游戏，它们会形成富于刺激的痛苦和羞辱场面。 “你的头发怎么啦？” “理了，喜欢吗？”她回答说，依然和谁在电话上交谈。“你的脸怎么啦？” 我走进门，看见光线洒在冰冷的墙壁上，让地毯颜色凸显出来——杏黄色、紫红色、炫目的黄宝石色。 第二天晚上，或者是第三天晚上，我向玛丽安坦白了在莫哈维斯温泉与朵娜之间发生的事情。我觉得自己必须告诉她。这样做是为了我们两人，为了挽救我们的婚姻。当时，她在床上看书。在那之前，我极度痛苦，不知道应该选择什么时候开口。后来，我突然说话，不再犹豫。我没有告诉她我向朵娜说了些什么，也没有告诉她朵娜出现在那家酒店的原因。不过，她也没有追问。我站在扶手椅旁边，手里拿着衬衣，觉得她没有做出什么强烈反应。她知道，这是一个孤立事件，我与陌生人在酒店里邂逅，萍水相逢，已经结束。我告诉她，我觉得必须向她解释清楚。我告诉她，自己难以启齿，然而隐瞒真相更是难上加难。She nodded.我觉得，她没有做出什么强烈反应，只是听我陈述，没有追问其他的事情。房间里有一种使用策略的氛围，有一种对感觉的敏感性。我站在扶手椅旁边，等着她翻动书页，然后我可以脱衣睡觉。 那天之后的第一个空闲的周六，第一个我不去办公室上班的周六，我们带着孩子，驱车向南，去看一处古老的废墟。 我们带上防晒霜和饮用水，带水是玛丽安的主意。那地方只有低矮的沙漠植物，温度非常高。 莱妮站在前排座后面，有时候把肘部放在玛丽安和我之间，身体前倾，对着挡风玻璃，指出路上其他人愚蠢的开车动作。她对这样的行为非常愤怒，她的这个习惯熄灭了我自己的怒火，熄灭了玛丽安的怒火，让我们原谅这样的驾驶行为。 杰夫比莱妮小两岁，只有六岁，喜欢蜷伏在后排座位上，身体蜷作一团，侧向车门，完全与周围的东西分离开来，用这样的姿势来做白日梦。 他坐在长着青草的高速公路边，腿上横着一根金属拐杖，车辆从几码之外的地方飞驰而过。即使那不是步枪，他究竟在那里干什么呢？ 那处废墟已有六百多年时间，主要建筑是单体的，附近有几个分散的遗迹，是附近某处墙体的痕迹。我们冒着中午之前的灼热，听那里的一名工作人员讲解，几分钟以后便一个个散开——其实，其他地方也没有什么可看的东西。 我看着一个牌子上面的说明，发现杰夫没戴帽子，正在追一只地松鼠。我没有作声，心里说，好小子，别说我们没有警告你。后来，我心里一软，把他叫过来，掏出汽车钥匙，递给他。看着他懒散的样子，自己心生怜悯，放宽心态，表达爱意。这是举手之劳，看似微不足道，然而却不易做到，非常之难。我叫他过来，给他钥匙，知道他会感到高兴。我要他拿上帽子，锁闭车门，把钥匙还给我。他转身离开，高高兴兴走向汽车。 我漫步返回主体建筑，站在十来个游客中间，听那个工作人员讲解。那个女人身材矮胖，不时挠着胳膊，告诉我们说，这座建筑有三层，顶部的图画依稀可辨，没人知道它的用途。我发现，自己对起到保护作用的遮雨篷很感兴趣，超过了这座古老建筑本身。工作人员说，建筑完工大约一百年以后遭人遗弃，建筑和整个定居点都被遗弃，目前尚未找到确切原因，这成为那个族群消失之后留下的疑案之一。可是，我自己却仔细观察了那个起到保护作用的遮雨篷。它的巨大柱子倾斜着，高度大约七十英尺，整个房顶由格子结构的框架支撑。 莱妮走过来，站在我旁边，几乎可以说靠在我的臀部上。那方式显示，她觉得非常无聊。 工作人员说到了几个原因，解释那些沙漠居民为什么会突然消失。她提到了洪水、干旱、外族入侵。不过她说，这全是猜想，没人知道事实的真相。 我想到了杰西·德特威勒，那位垃圾考古工作者，很想知道他是否会提出那些人放弃定居点的原因是垃圾。他们自己制造的垃圾越来越多，把他们包围起来，他们失去了生活和呼吸的空间。从某种意义上说，这种想法是有道理的，或许可以解答那些具有浪漫色彩的居民留下的疑案之一。这个答案就在我们的面前。 很快，我自己也变得像西姆斯了，要么眼里看到的全是垃圾，要么把垃圾与什么情景结合起来。 我让莱妮去找弟弟，看一看他用车钥匙干了些什么。后来，我们动身回家，就像几个没有看到雕像流泪的衣衫褴褛的朝圣者。 我们上车十分钟之后，玛丽安开始哭起来。她在开车，脸色不错，可是却轻声哭泣。莱妮从她站立的地方往后退了一步，坐在靠窗的座位上，两手放在大腿上。杰夫看着车外的风景。 我问：“要我开车吗？” 她摇了摇头，表示否定。 我说：“让我来开吧，我开。” 她示意不用，执意自己开。那是她想干的事情。 我们驶入一条小路，两旁长着巨形仙人掌和野花，巨形仙人掌上有刻痕，是在上面筑巢的小鸟留下的。后来，我们到了州际公路，汇入飞奔的车流之中。 不知对方姓名，没有考虑后果。这就是萍水交欢的约定。可是，我给她说了自己的姓氏，那不是什么漫不经心的做法，对吗？那是一场邂逅中的古怪做法，我喜欢与她取得联系，平定她的呼吸，让她没有呼吸，是的。朵娜身上有某种东西，让我说不清，道不明。后来，我有了内疚感，觉得玛丽安就在我的身边，在黑暗中安睡。 我俩不喜欢对方，这种感觉通常出现在晚上外出玩乐之后开车回家的路上。我们厌倦对方的样子和声音，厌倦对方说话的语调，甚至厌倦最细小的动作。你已经看过它一千次了，它非常简略，然而告诉你许多含义，让它们一览无余。其实，那是错误的。当我们——玛丽安和我——有这种体验时，我觉得原因是这样的：我们已经让意义消耗殆尽，让两人之间的亲和力消耗殆尽。晚上出去玩乐引起这样的感觉。不过，我们其实没有耗尽任何东西，还有尚未度过的时光，尚未讲述的事情，尚未完成的事情。玛丽安就是在这些方面觉得自己受到了冷落。 玛丽安出生在大十镇，在安全环境中长大，处处受到保护，没有受到社会习气的侵蚀，感情未因此遭到剥夺——一方面享有特权，一方面遭到剥夺，这样的情形具有美国特征。她看电视时遇到这样的场景会皱起眉头：本地发生了犯罪案件，街道上躺着尸体，死者亲友悲痛不已，疑犯潜伏隐藏。玛丽安甚至不愿看到侦探按着疑犯的脑袋，把他塞进没有警方标记的汽车。那是一种暴力，给精神带来损害。可是，她希望听我的故事，我的事情，无论涉及多么强烈的场面都无所谓。 对于过去，我有自己的考虑，带着私念，心存戒备。我不知道应该采用什么样的方式让玛丽安了解那些岁月。而且，我觉得，保持缄默是审判你的罪行时你所接受的条件。 她提到她母亲，两年前的今天，她母亲去世了。我给孩子重复了她的说法，孩子们心里稍稍平静一点。我伸过手去，从莱妮那里弄到一片口香糖。两年前的今天发生的事情，玛丽安肯定知道。但是，我们当时不知道，我不知道。我没有探问这件事情，现在感到一丝宽慰，孩子们也是如此。不管怎样说，还是有一个原因，至少这不是父母刻意掩饰的滑稽表演，至少这不是孩子们假装一无所知的事情。 她露出灿烂的笑容，脸上眼泪依然。我觉得，那笑容是面部肌肉的一种抽搐，不过也是真实的笑容，里面包含着她母亲的影子。 过了片刻，孩子们开始唱歌。 我心里稍感宽慰，应该说有点高兴了。在此之前，我坐在那里冥思苦想，时而觉得自责，时而心里在想，也许她一直另有新欢。我怎么知道自己不在家时究竟发生了什么事情呢？ 孩子们正唱着：“墙上摆着九十九个啤酒瓶，九十九个啤酒瓶。如果落下一个瓶，还有九十八个啤酒瓶。墙上摆着九十八个啤酒瓶，九十八个啤酒瓶。” 她看了我一眼，目光转向道路。孩子们继续唱歌，从九十八一直倒数到一。玛丽安抓着方向盘，一边哭泣，一边开车。