Chapter 24 Section 1

It's summer time spent on the roof, with a drink or a feast.A wrought-iron table sits in the wedge-shaped garden, its four curved legs showing signs of oxidation.Climbing the chimneys may be French roses, the color called maiden blush.Sometimes, on the long flagstone-paved terrace, under the shade of birch trees planted in copper vats, a dozen or so people would chat and laugh at night.Their voices drifted over the cool soup, to the skylights in the roof, to the vaults and tanks.Sometimes Clara had lunch with an old friend on the roof, sitting on a beach chair, eating takeout from a Chinese restaurant, snapdragons smelling of butter in the sun.

This is Clara Sachs' summer on the roof.Above the grid of feverish streets, she discovers a hidden city.There are two indications of going or not going on the street signal lights.Ten million heads moving up and down, floating above the wavy line of taxi stripes, each with a different brainwave.It is true that the streets are full of personalities, with people going in different directions, but you have to go up to the roofs to see what is preserved in the stone and the brass.As she looked around, there were densely packed vents and antennas on the roof.Suddenly, an unexplainable strange gesture stood out.An angel with butterfly wings hides under a cornice on Bleecker Street; a small house with white clapboards on top of an office building reveals something mysterious; a fantastic decorative head features Easter Island Art style, affixed to the four corners of a tower block in Midtown.She finds inspiration in the things that come from the hands of unknown craftsmen.In the distance are the steel cables of the bridge, and the sound of rumbling resounds in the sky from time to time; however, it is not a real thunderstorm.

She's fifty-four now, let that number roar in your head.She is fifty-four years old, between two projects, invisible in the city, waiting to return to the work site to create, shape, modify, build. The World Trade Center building is under construction and has already stood tall, with two towers and several cranes at the top, and working elevators are moving rapidly upwards on the outside of the building.She can see it wherever she goes.She ate, drank a glass of wine, and went to the railing—or the terrace.It's where it usually appears, jutting out at the end of the funnel-shaped Manhattan island.One evening, on the roof of an exhibition building, a man stood beside her drinking.She thought he was about sixty years old, a large man with a broad jaw, but well maintained, confident, steady, elegant, a European who seemed to be well-to-do.

"Although it's clearly two towers," she said, "I think it's one, not two separate. It's one, right?" "I think, very scary stuff, but you have to face it." "Yeah, gotta face it." The two had nothing to talk about for a while, and stood on the terrace, facing the sad scene around them together.She felt uncomfortable sharing the same aesthetic judgment as a stranger and drawing superficial conclusions.Later, she felt that when he moved his body, he seemed to make a sound, his attitude was serious, and his intention was determined, which meant to change the subject.Still looking at the two towers, he whispered to her, whispered, "I like your work, you know?"

"yes?" "Very agree." Some nights, the air was so humid that the door could not be closed without leaning on one's shoulder and pressing against it.Bridges are out of shape, sidewalks are cracked, and streets are strewn with trash.She had to work hard and talk earnestly with the door before it closed. She likes the night of lightning and thunder, the air is filled with a kind of static electricity, bright light flashes, and thunder comes, forming a huge invisible pulse.It's raw, soft, slow, and you can almost read its rhythmic structure.Sometimes she stood at a table on the higher terrace, to which an awning was fastened.There was a crisp sound, like a gunshot—and she turned to the striped Cinzano awning to see the edge of an umbrella snapping in the breeze.

Clara felt her happiness in a deliberate way, keeping it close to her.She feels blessed, having received good reviews for her latest creation; feeling good after suffering from back pain and insomnia; regaining sanity after a bout of blues; , start saving again.She stood behind the patio railing, peaceful, happy, in the best shape she hadn't been in years—that's what they said. It coincided with Nixon's fall, though unlike her friends, she didn't appreciate it.Nixon reminded her of her father, another worn-out old man.The gait and demeanor of the two are somewhat similar, sometimes dejected, looking pained, distant from others, and looking like a loser.

Standing behind the terrace railing, she saw the zigzags, the rosettes, the little urns on the railings, the antique fruit decorations, the scroll brackets supporting the balconies, and wondered who had carved those stones so vividly Those nuances are represented.She felt that they must be immigrants, most likely Italian sculpture craftsmen, those unknown artists in their early years were buried under the blue sky. She is not used to being recognized in public.This happens sometimes, but very infrequently.The situation of being recognized made her feel as if she were in a small room surrounded by mirrors, and someone else was measuring her.Except for friends, people often don't know her identity.She was invisible most of the time, and no one in the market at the end of the street knew her name.In the shopping area, young people passing by will ignore her vague figure, thinking that she is an inconspicuous middle-aged woman, and ordinary people—yes, ordinary men—will at best regard her as Just look at it as an ordinary woman.

That's not the problem.She is neither alone nor unloved.Yes, in the deeper sense of the word love, she was unloved, but that didn't matter.She had had enough love, full of pain, unforgettable, hard to let go.Those marriages had contained rancour, and she had had trouble finding reliable solitude from them.Learning how not to be seen is a curious experience, a supportive form of self-awareness. Miles Letterman came to her often that summer.There was something about Miles that made her think he was a leftover character, but she got used to it and grew to like him.He is buoyant, frank, and largely ungrateful, ignorant of the cover-ups that destroy so many budding romances.

She wore ruched gowns and chino skirts with delicately trimmed hems. She was standing on the roof of a factory building.The dinner party was held there, probably as a fundraiser for a small troupe.Fifty people drinking unchilled wine in paper cups, pleading that we need drama. Standing near the balcony railing, she chatted with a woman she didn't know and learned that the building she was facing was called the Fred F. French Building.It was about ten blocks to the north, a slightly older tower built of many parts in the middle and topped with a mosaic. She wanted to hear what the man had to say, but couldn't concentrate.That name glowed in her mind, that spark buried deep in her soul, and it took a full forty years to emerge.

Fred F. French.She should have told Miles about that funny, grotesque past.She hopes to fully integrate into it, and then carefully consider and perfect the details, one by one.Roschel, who likes boys, sits in the backseat with the horny boy.Of course, she was also in it, Clara Sachs, without the letter X.She remembered how she walked and talked at the same time.The feeling was real, and so was she, in a way she had forgotten how to use. She looked through the tall windows of the attic and saw the fire stairs winding around the outside of the building.This was the main scene she saw, a black metal structure crossing repeatedly in the sky above the back street.She wondered, could those clues tell her anything?

The attic is spacious and stilted, pleasant and memorable.She thought to herself that the attic could be dangerous, not that it was dangerous in a fire.She has to watch out for ego sneaking in and has to ask herself, if you were working in a low loft somewhere, would you see that in a more authentic way?She tries to reduce her work to people, even if it doesn't have a human image.She is wary, wary of ego, heroes, heights, and scale. That's eloquence on display from the roof.You can admire but don't imitate. Her daughter was here, and they walked to the Cast Iron District, had lunch at a restaurant called Greenwich Village, and did some shopping.The whole process was painful, being with Teresa always made her feel miserable.Teresa strikes a dispossessed pose, an austere attire that appears stubborn.She was overweight and dressed in a very ugly way, as if to say, Dad likes me the way I am, but Mom doesn't.My mother thought, I could be better looking, I could be smarter, I could meet people who were better looking and smarter. She heard those crisp sounds, looked up, saw the Cinzano awning, and realized it was tassels snapping in the river wind. Teresa was twenty-five, but she didn't look grown up, she lacked outline.For Clara, the worst part of this meeting was sitting in the attic talking, or waiting for the silence to be broken.She found that her daughter originally wanted to add sugar to her tea, but she didn't put it in her place. "You should go and see Papa," Teresa said. Her words came out as an act of provocation, a form of condemnation that had little to do with coming all the way to the Bronx by train. "This is not a good idea, please believe me." "I can't believe that the two of you live in the same city and haven't met once." "Frankly, I could live on the same street as him. It's not a question of where to live, you know? There's no benefit in seeing each other, and he knows that, and I know that." What she didn't reveal was the fact that Teresa knew it too. "Why do you want to gain benefits? Why do you always talk about benefits?" "It's been so many years, Teresa. What's the point?" Then there was silence again, save for the tinkling of tea sets and the sound of trucks on the unloading platform in the street.The trucks had metal fenders on the sides and no company name on the body. "You don't even eat low-calorie desserts, do you?" Clara looked at the fire stairs outside the window, at the back of the gray building, and the shiny iron parts, rust, and peeling bricks came into her eyes one by one. "Is he okay?" Clara asked. "What? He's not bad. He won't move into the new building. The one he lives in is getting worse." Everywhere they went were black plastic bags of rubbish.The strike has lasted seven days, with several incidents of violence and the near death of an individual porter.There were mountains of rubbish, as many as fifty bags in some places, and Teresa kept silent about it.She lives in Vermont, what can she say?However, she uses the garbage problem against her mother.Trash is another form of condemnation passed between the two of them.There was a hundred bags of garbage in one corner, and the stench was so hot that it enveloped the whole body, like a weather system, making people breathless. In the attic, Teresa said: "He's been listening to the opera all summer, all summer, until the end of the summer and the start of school. He wants Aunt Laura to move in with him. How can I, Laura? It's not that she's old, after all, she's just shaking a little. But I think she wants to live alone." Clara could hear her daughter's drawl, the same old mispronouncement of vowels.Teresa seems to have grown up slurring vowels in an exaggerated way and speaking with a bum accent.Her parents were lucky enough to escape that inflection and pronunciation.Yes, that's the word, escape.It was strange for Clara to hear the harsh accents of the street thugs so close to her, as if the young girl in front of her only had to take a step back to enter the depths of street life and express her views on loyalty and conviction as they did up. For many years, she has been reducing the color in her works.For a while, she worked with asphalt and architectural paint.She likes to use clam shells brought back from Maine more than a decade ago to create paints for her paintings.However, there aren't many colors left to mix right now.Color, she felt, should be stopped. On her way to the market, she passed another new gallery on the way.There are galleries and shops now, but those wrought-iron shop fronts are safe from damage.That's the main problem, there are old factories where immigrants make buttons and clothes, where women and girls work eighteen hours a day.She bought a box of sugar cubes at the market in case she forgot.Ten months passed, and Teresa appeared before her again. Art with the heroic moment, American art, art that emphasizes the present, art that dismisses the past, she cannot emulate.She can keep a respectful distance from them, or even envy them, but she will not touch them herself.She makes no strong gestures, no masturbating ostentatious gestures of independence. She called her friend Esther Winship.Winship was always advising those who painted or sculpted, intimidating weak-minded artists into accepting what she called a sound strategy, a plan of definite action.In fact, it is Esther himself who really needs to benefit from it.Esther always dressed as a lady boss, with pearl necklaces and pinstriped suits.There are fewer and fewer painters in her hands, and she is very sad when she is under the pressure of the landlord to urge rent.Clara told Esther on the phone: "Hey, listen to me, if you invite me to the country, I can start working again." "Don't talk about the country. I'd like you to invite me to the Bronx." "What's in the Bronx?" "There's a guy who does graffiti painting. He paints on trains, subways, whole trains, every car. I want you to hire him and give him a chance to show his art. But first I have to find him. " "How do you show his art?" "I can provide him with a wall." Clara had to admit in her heart that she liked Esther's tone of voice.Perhaps, this is the first step, and then she will say, I can provide him with a building, a block.That's the way Esther wants to express it.If a man could talk like this, he would live longer and sleep better.I can offer him a train of a hundred carriages. "Why do you want me to help you find him?" "I don't know his name, I only know the author mark he left behind, Moonman 157." "Sounds familiar." "You've seen it, everybody's seen it. That lad is a real doodler." She loves the tanks she sees from the roof.They were here and there, made of old brown wood with tops like coolie hats.They are often made on site in a similar way to barrels, using metal rings to join planks with grooved surfaces.Of course, the water tanks on the Petronas Towers in the distance are different, which is a model of mass production.Such things come out of the production line continuously, each one is exactly the same, placed in the supermarket, marked with the price of the day. Miles was younger than Clara, perhaps eight or nine years younger, and even younger in appearance, with no responsibilities, no real work to do.He had left her with the impression of a pleasant, unconcerned man, who appeared by her side by chance, was almost always late, and seemed indifferent to almost everything. He usually wears jeans and lizard boots.He had bad skin, but he had a beautiful hooked nose and his hair was brushed back.He lives in a one-and-a-half apartment on the Upper West Side, where he keeps a large collection of movies, as well as bits and pieces left over from his life, all in boxes—that kind of thing is a kind of messy state of mind that people like It is a form of expression, so people are unwilling to discard it and keep it.He works part-time at a film distribution company and sometimes produces — or co-produces — documentaries.He works over the phone, which doesn't work well and often doesn't work.He also arranges film review work for the Film Association. He can see many things, collect film posters and stills, and can recite the titles of films made by the most unpopular directors.The more unpopular the director, the more valuable the relevant knowledge.It's always been a badge of honor in this industry. This summer, he's been scrambling to raise funds for a documentary about a woman suffering from a celebrity disease.The woman, who lived in Norman, Illinois, was exhibiting certain symptoms, either through some queer neurohypnotism, or under the influence of something like that.They are similar to the symptoms that Elizabeth Taylor had at a certain time, and John Wayne, Jackie Onassis or other stars, including a feeling of exhaustion like a cold, herpes simplex, cancer symptoms and debilitating. This is a modern disease.Doctors, funded by the sleazy tabloids, are studying her.If the film can be shot smoothly, Miles hopes to use these simple and resounding words as the title of the film - "Normanel Illinois". Her hair was draped over her two cheeks, swaying randomly, it can be said that she was basically unmanaged, and the lower end seemed to have been cut with a knife, and the part where it was separated was obviously gray and white.Her eyes are relatively wide apart and slightly bulging, with eyebrows slanted toward the temples.She was a little shy—not shy, but reluctant to show herself.Anyone who had seen her on the roof that summer would have thought twice before going up to strike up a conversation. Lightning often appeared that summer, and she often drank red wine.That Bordeaux wine is deep red in color, like lion's blood.Standing on rooftops and terraces, she wondered why she didn't know these buildings had been there for so long. She liked a sculpture of a biplane atop a building downtown, probably an old postal plane, full-scale, complete with landing strips and indicator lights.She liked a stepped pyramid atop a building on Wall Street, the mechanical steel spiral of the Chrysler Building, the south wall of the Pierre Hotel.That wall was like some kind of careful analysis of an aerial view of Paris, only multiplied and raised up there. She found that she rarely looked beyond the confined space to see what stood before her, rarely saw the novelty of the basic feeling that the monotony of life in the city contained.If she was undisturbed by signs, street lamps, taxis, scaffolding, her own tainted mind busy compiling data, undisturbed by crowds—lunchers, bus riders, bikers, Without the distraction of a messenger-carrier—undisturbed by all the consciousness flowing down the gutters of Manhattan, she could look beyond the street to the turquoise tiles on some terracotta wall, above the lintel. Carved winged beast. Clara talked to her body, reminding herself how to get there before she got up from her chair to get a spoon in the kitchen.In such situations, she needs to orient her body, tell herself where she is, and sometimes look back as if she is still sitting in that chair. Her mouth is pouty, too prominent, and slightly tilted, good at telling asides.Her voice had a very interesting cadence, a little deep and a little hoarse. I was with my friend Roschel, who taught me how to smoke. On the roof of a tall building with fruit trees and runner beans, she and some friends were drinking.They saw a woman jogging on the roof of an office building and found the sight amusing.The jogger was covered in sweat, and in the distance were medieval turrets and chimneys, and the Hudson River flowed slowly beside Manhattan. Clara, with her long neck, wears a necklace with an amulet from North Africa, a talisman that wards off evil spirits and was given to her by her second husband, Jason, when they divorced. Miles had a stylish deck of Italian cards and taught her a game called Scopa.After dinner somewhere, they played until late at night.Her bed was placed under the tall windows of the attic, from which the fire stairs criss-crossed and descended into the alley. Floor slabs, burlap, and ropes of varying lengths were stacked in the corners.He asked her, what is the floor for? She asked a former student to collect the materials for her.She taught sculpture for a number of years, and one of the students went to abandoned buildings, small shipyards, glass factories and the like, to the suburbs, deep into garages and bowling alleys.Once, he brought back a dozen pillows from a closed hotel. I don't know how many people's heads had slept on them, and they had turned gray.The presence of such things in the room is sad and creepy. "Living and working under one roof, don't you care?" "That's a problem," she said. "But why don't you just throw them away? There's so much stuff in here that you can't get away from it. They're everywhere, and you work here and have to watch them all the time." "I'm lying here with someone, in my own quarters." "I know, but I don't work there. The best I can do is call, and that's what I do. We're reviewing a movie you'll like. Next week, I'll call you." "Okay. Watch a movie." She loves to swim and goes to exercise every day, invisible in the water, lap after lap, swimming back and forth in the pool is comforting.This kind of action is monotonous, similar to the rote memorization of elementary school students, and has the effect of restoring the body and mind. "Summer has a unique charm that makes people feel like they own the city." "I love going to Sagaponack, but before Esther invites me there, she wants me to show her around the Bronx." One day she found out what was going on with the poker game she and Miles were playing.The pair of cards they used was very expensive, with Jack and the Emperor printed on it in a very detailed, ominous, minimalist character.The game was called Skopa, and it was the same game she had seen the boys play on her roof.At that time, she and Albert had not yet divorced, and the boys were students of Albert himself, and several of Bronzini's as well.Of course, they played a regular deck of rags, which they called a straight win. "What's there to see in the Bronx?" he asked. "She's looking for a boy who does graffiti." "Drawing graffiti." "Yes, how should I put it, this kind of thing is everywhere." "Let me know when you find it," Miles said. "why?" "I have always wanted to shoot a film, follow a boy day and night with the camera, and go into the paint store, go to the station, and get on the train with him." "Even if you haven't started yet, listening to your tone of voice, it seems that the film has already been filmed." "The filming hasn't started yet," he said. "How are things going at Norman Illinois?" "It's going well, funding is being sought. However, she's sick right now." "Of course she's sick. That's what she is, isn't it?" "I mean, really sick, nothing else," he said. But while she's busy with her projects, laps of swimming are much more effective at rejuvenating her body and mind.She doesn't like swimming so much in her free time.Swimming lap after lap is an added bonus to hard work, the intervals necessary to complete an octave. Esther made an opinion, and Clara listened attentively.In this case, there should be an element of accommodation.Esther is usually arrogant, and Clara is a little unthinking and spouts.However, she actually needed to hear Esther's opinion.Esther would say a number of useless things, but Clara needed to know that someone was there to hold her space, to take the time, to mention her name, to deliver the sporadic compliment from some hidden source into her ear . This practice doesn't always help.Clara heard the compliments, and found them flat, useless to her, and badly repeated.When she heard criticism of her in the press, rumors and gossip spread in private, she had to worry that their opinion might be right: that what she herself was doing was superficial, lacking courage, and could refused to consider. "It's Darwin's dog-eat-dog scene," Esther liked to say, and kept saying it.She never tired of it, knowing that such words would terrify people like Clara. She liked the floorboards stacked in the corner, striped, brown, almost water-soaked dark brown, like the wooden towers on top of the houses.Most of those tanks were directly exposed to the sun and rain, and some were housed in exquisite cathedral-like structures adorned with pointed arches and large flying eagles. People stopped saying wow, that was awesome.They said no.Clara wondered if Esther had any insights she could draw on? She saw her friend Ashie Green on TV.It was her new friend, young and competent, who appeared on a late-night talk show on the local cable station.She looks beautiful - you are beautiful, Clara thought.She was well dressed in an old tuxedo and a red bow tie. Miles called, and she met him in an old sail loft downtown.The film team he was a part of showed unpopular films, most of which, for one reason or another, couldn't be shown in theaters.Those screenings are fluid, depending on where Miles can find a suitable venue. Fifty or sixty people were here to watch Robert Frank's "Asshole Blues," about the Rolling Stones' American tour. Clara sat in the dark, eating yogurt from a carton with a spoon.She found that, recently, wherever she went, she saw Mick Jagger's mouth.Maybe, it's Westworld's corporate logo, the mouth pursed, slightly askew, following her down the street.She loved watching him dance on stage, strutting with excitement.However, she found that the mouth was a separate thing from the body, almost added for effect. "I think everything that people have eaten in the last 10 years is reflected in that mouth," she told Assi, who was sitting next to her. She likes the pale blue light the film uses, a hazy light, a tunnel light that suggests an unreliable reality.In fact, it is very easy to believe what you see.So it's not unreliable, it's a subversive reality, corrosive and destructive, a wonderful tunnel blue. "You have to interpret that mouth as if it were irony," Assi said. Someone snorting cocaine backstage or in a tunnel, someone sitting in a room, someone sleeping on a plane, giving people the feeling of the edge of time.Some half-spoken sentences, a cigarette in someone's mouth, someone not yet ready to act.She loves the sweeping sound, loves the fly-by film, loves the way the sound is handled, bouncing off the tiled walls, bouncing off the locker room and the hollow brick walls of the gym walkway . One person said: He often filmed me in a bad way. She also found his mouth a comically exaggerated mimetic feature, entirely ironic, a sort of talking anus from the anti-comedy of the '60s.In a way, all those jeers and taunts that people show, all those half-sentences that people mumble, come from the same bodily channel. Assi said: "I saw them in San Francisco, the tour in the film. It should have been two or three years ago." Throw the hotel TV off the balcony. The interview is slurred, the content of the interview is obscured, the simplest serious question rehearsed is forgotten, then reconsidered, and then forgotten again.That tour consisted of a series of reviews.A man and a woman having sex on a plane; the mouth chewing, glued and ripped open; Mick's movement in concert is so eye-catching, holding a handheld mic close to his mouth, like abstract expressionism A woman with several mouths described by the painter De Koning. The camera pans to a group of people in the corridor.Some of them sat together, two of them slept soundly together, or died.Their deaths may go unnoticed.The endless noise of a touring show is tiresome—the aisle and the stage extending into the auditorium appear in the picture. Assi said: "I went to the show and saw a bodyguard. Maybe, I can see him in these shots. A black man with two words written on his T-shirt: Rolling Stones, safe. These two words appeared In that case, you know, it means a whole different thing." Clara loved that blue glow in the tunnel, and the lackluster parts: people with cameras in their hands, filming lackluster scenes.The sound was lost in the tiles of the roof. One person said: I hate those sons of a bitch, I hate those half-and-nothing fools. Someone asked: Which state are we in? The inarticulate drug dealers were lying on the bed, a man and a woman, with their four eyes half-closed, staring at the needle stuck obliquely in her arm. Someone said: How did you come up with the idea to shoot such a scene? Someone said: I never thought of shooting such a scene. Oh, it's Indiana. Mick stood in the room with his mouth open, gargling, spitting, and licking ice cream cones.This footage shows the gelatinous red, glowing body.This, Clara said to herself, is why everyone loves rock music, which presents a higher level death halo in the form of a backlight. The headache medicine produced by the Excedrin Company was shown on the TV, which was significantly more effective than the commonly used aspirin. "He followed me," Assi said, "into this very long passage. He said, Brown Sugar, you wait for me, I have something you want to see here. Hey, Brown Sugar. I turned around. Nothing to do Denial, that was - you know - very stupid. He didn't take it out, he reached out and grabbed it." Two white men appeared in the room, one of whom said in a black accent: Let the brothers touch their heritage.A second white man puts a needle in his arm, and the white man speaking with a black accent says: On 137th Street and Lennox Avenue, the grave of an unknown drug dealer.He said it was made from discarded needles from top to bottom. Someone said: I was on LSD and they took my kids away. Where is my room key? There is an aisle, catwalk, pale blue lights, and then the opening of the stage.Then there was a blinding white glare and a prehistoric roar. You kiss his ass? No.Just took a photo with him. Someone said: People from the government came and took my child away. A naked woman caresses herself on a bed in a hotel room, caresses her pussy with one hand, then puts her hand in her mouth to lick.Axi stopped talking and snorted: "Yes." Repeated masturbation actions, ecstatic pornographic images. Clara found it interesting that she was the only woman in the film who didn't look like a girl.She finds it interesting that in this film all the women are either girls or become girls.The men and women in the film do the same things: take drugs, have sex, take pictures.But men have always been men and women have become girls, except for this pussy fondling and finger licking woman.In this type of film, the point of the sound is to create the atmosphere, so the audience can't hear what she is saying at all. 我不在乎——这是在圣迭戈经常见到的情景。 阿西一边讲述她的经历，一边在荧幕上寻找她当时见过的那个人。 “还有，我想说一件事情，你听我说吧，以便让他意识到他脑袋中的那些念头完全是想入非非。嘿，红糖。可是，就我们几个处在这个回荡着巨响的地方，混杂的声响在我们上方嘶吼，红糖，他就是红糖，红糖。” “就是我们现在看到的这场音乐会？”克拉拉问。 “我不知道是不是同一天晚上，可是节目相同，城市相同，那个杂种乐队的成员也相同，一个个面容憔悴，腰缠万贯，同他们的黑人保镖前呼后拥。” 那个夏季在房顶上度过，闪电划过灰蒙蒙的天空，空气中充斥着英雄的意味。狭窄的角落里竖立着椭圆形的神灵雕像，两尊带有基座的法老雕像分立在空调左右。她喜欢在第五大道上看到的饰有美人鱼的柱子。那些神秘的雕塑造型奇特，她想不起它们究竟出自哪个神话故事。它们主要分布在下城，有的在古老银行大厦的顶上，有的在护墙上，有的在缩进的外墙上，其中有穿着长袍的神使，还有立法者或者武士，形形色色，数不胜数。 一个星期天，街道上热浪袭人，死气沉沉。那个绅士重新出现在一处房顶上，就是她曾经交谈过的那个欧洲人。他抬起头来，目光穿过铁丝网，望着没有完工的世贸中心。 对呀，喂，我们又见面了。 他告诉她，她很想知道的那些带着崇拜神情的雕像，那些佩戴着流线形头饰的雕像，叫作金融巨人。它们的名称非常贴切，不乏忧郁色彩，仿佛测度出30年代的大萧条给下面街道带来的影响。她猜想，那幢大厦就是那一段时间修建的。 “听这名称，像是某种秘密的共济会教团。” “也许吧，”他说，“不过，我觉得，所有金融活动都是秘密进行的。” 她看见，那些雕像四周的建筑材料全是花岗石和石灰岩，心里相信了这个说法。后来修建的大楼窗户透明，用的是玻璃幕墙和经过阳极化处理的铝材，办公室里完全没有显示人的不同爱好的痕迹。也许，地下室是例外部位，无数缩微照相机在那里飞速运转，每秒钟处理十亿张支票。 他说，他名叫卡罗·斯特拉瑟，住在公园大道，带着业余爱好者的笨拙和激情，收集艺术品。那幢公寓楼是一幢古老的农家房舍，在阿尔勒附近。他到阿尔勒去思考问题。 她禁不住问：“你思考些什么呢？” 他回答：“金钱。” She laughed. “有时候，我感到疑惑，金钱究竟是什么。”她说。 “对，不错，完全正确。这正是我思考的问题。我告诉你我想些什么。它涉及所有的思潮和准则，变得非常深奥。那是一种更高层次的智慧，像光一样飞快闪过。” 他穿着非常考究，经过精心打扮，风度翩翩，举止得体。她一身斜纹棉布衣装，脚穿旧凉鞋，心里有一点自惭形秽的感觉，不过并不厉害。这个人增强了她自己的偏爱，其实和他谈话让她觉得无拘无束，心情愉快。 海湾里的船只在雾中航行发出警号，他们听到后停下话头，侧耳倾听。那声音带有让人敬畏的成分，滚滚而过，在狭窄的街道中回响，产生共鸣，形成一种类似风琴的效果，在空气中膨胀。钟楼里的鸽子闻声起飞，翅膀发出噼噼啪啪的声音。 他问及绘画的事情，她做出了前所未有的回应，耐心解释，细致分析。即便在过去面对学生时，这样的情景她往往也尽量避免。她发现自己热衷解释，非常投入，这时才意识到，她的做法简直堪称毫无保留。 “路易斯·内凡尔森曾经告诉我，她看着一张画布或者一块木头，觉得它一片空白，质朴，纯洁。无论她在上面涂抹什么，无论她在画面上增添多少色彩，形成什么意象，最根本的一点是，要让它回到原本状态。这是一个发人深省、令人震撼的观念。” 克拉拉无法将这一观念应用于她自己的创作活动之中，不过喜欢反复提及它。她喜欢这个理念：一位著名艺术家被自己的行为震撼。 “我有一件内凡尔森的小型作品，”他说，“一件小雕塑，我几年以前买的。今天，你给了我一个理由，让我以不同方式欣赏它，这将是一件令人感到愉快的事情。” “有一次，我到她的工作室去，她让我看了一件黑色雕塑，一件上了黑色的木雕。我谈到那色彩，谈到材质。她看着那东西说：'不过，它既不是黑色的，也不是木头的。'她认为，现实是肤浅的，虚幻的，稍纵即逝。我们两人在这一点上差异很大。” 后来，迈尔斯来了，卡罗·斯特拉瑟很有礼貌地加入了另外一帮人。他们有七八个人，围着一张摆放着奶酪、水果和葡萄酒的桌子。酒是狮血波尔多，水果是李子。夜空湛蓝，雷声隆隆，给人枯燥和虚假的感觉。 她站在别人的厨房里，切着一个柠檬，明白手里握着的刀可能会滑移，可能会伤着自己。结果真是如此。 这样的时间以微秒计算，漫长，缓慢，核心中充满信息。她知道自己会伤着手，但是没有停下动作。脑海中闪过的情形出现了，她割伤了自己的手指，看着鲜血从刀锋下流出，慢慢地流向指关节。 她看见有人在进行日光浴。他们无所顾忌，占据了主导地位。一个身披毯子的女人躺在露台上，旁边摆放着一壶冰茶、一个饰有花朵图案的儿童用玻璃杯，还有一本克拉拉没有看到封面的平装本图书。他们有的在石头露台上，有的在人字形房顶上，有的在灼热的沥青表面上。那场面仿佛在说，我在这里。在一座塔楼的侧面，悬挂着一个窗户清洁工所用的装置，上面空无一人。她看见，一面砖砌的墙壁表面闪着红光，在一定程度上被光线点燃了，砖头与光线几乎融为一体。经过烘烤的黏土展现出某种强烈的美，远远超过她原来的想象。那位老妇人躺在凉椅上，旁边散落着星期天出版的报纸，构成一幅似曾相识、令人振奋的画面：她手里握着一个反射镜，放在下巴下面，神态从容，面对日光的烘烤，脑袋呈棕色，仿佛是木乃伊的头部。 她看见鲜血从切口流出，注意到自己手指上的皱纹和涡纹，听到隔壁房间传来了一阵音乐。那是艾斯特的丈夫杰克在播放他喜欢的40年代的爵士乐老曲子，把客人们赶上房顶。 下面的街道上，堆放着用同样大小的黑色塑料袋装起来的垃圾。她步行回家，路过一个大垃圾堆，它淹没了整个消防栓，覆盖了半个公共汽车站牌。她发现，路人全都采取视而不见的态度。 在下城的一个房顶上，举行了一个晚餐聚会。迈尔斯·莱特曼迟到了。他手里拿着一盒黑色香烟，是她喜欢的那种，大号，特醇，慢燃型。另外，他还拿来一袋大麻，他管它叫卜，那是大约二十年前他在哈莱姆一家酒吧里听到的名称。 他们在一幢新建大楼的房顶上，大楼有四十层，高高矗立，俯瞰公园里的那座储水池。他们在房顶上站了一会儿，观看在夜色中跑步的人。在昏暗的灯光下，那一大批人围着储水池跑，让迈尔斯觉得，他们类似一部日本恐怖影片中的逃命人群。他有一个与逃离的人群相关的创意，希望就此搞一本画册。他收集了不知名影片的宣传剧照，比如，望着某种令人敬畏的东西仓皇逃命的亚洲人。 他们站在房顶上，目光越过公园，投向远处的建筑物。它们的名称像是远洋巨轮的船名，有贝雷斯福特、庄严、埃尔多拉多，还有安松尼娅、圣雷莫。 逃命的人群里总是有怀抱婴儿的母亲，总是有乳峰凸起的妇女，总是有伸手遮挡空中的某种恐怖之物的男人。 迈尔斯望着围绕储水池跑步的人群，觉得这幢俯瞰公园的四十层楼建筑高耸入云，壮观宏伟，改变了这里的小气候，形成的下行气流非常强大，足以让走过的人跌倒在地，应该有一个新名字。 歌德泽拉大厦，他觉得人们应该这样称呼它。 通常，引领重操旧业的是女性。当你又听说某位作家复出文坛，某位画家以令人喜欢的方式东山再起，那通常是由于女性对此表现出特别的兴趣，即便主角是男性。通常，话题涉及的艺术家是女性，但即使是男性——人们擅长讨论被人遗忘的生活，克拉拉说。 克拉拉正和阿西·格林交谈。当然，阿西并不需要被谁重新认识。阿西有点小气，但是身上有很多优势，年轻，聪明，雄心勃勃，性格随和。她不时采用一些并置手法，将它作为一种与自己的讽刺性对话。这种策略可以给她提供帮助，以便面对将要成为名人的前景。 阿西在芝加哥长大，父母都是教师。根据她自己的说法，她最初学习铅笔和钢笔素描，接着学习西印度群岛拼贴画，尽可能采用老一套的表现方式。后来，她认识了街头帮派组织黑石帮的一个成员，随即坠入爱河。不久，她离开了那个人，去了洛杉矶，与一位社会学教授结婚，进入卡尔艺术学校学习。最后，她与那位教授离婚，单身从事绘画工作。 克拉拉第一次见到阿西的作品时就赞不绝口，这话传到当时还在沿海的阿西耳朵里。现在，阿西到了东部，在布鲁克林某处与人共用创作室，从事绘画创作，暂时住在切尔西酒店。 “你呢？”阿西问。 “我吗？我得先创出一片天地，然后才谈得上担心失去它。可是打拼并不容易，我一直都在付出，付出。” “家庭。”阿西说。 “不错，我毁掉了一个家，离开了，然后又回来了。有一段时间，我带着自己的女儿。她和她父亲一起生活好一些，这我理解。但是，那种分离让我备受煎熬，非常难过。当然，我们都很难过。周末或者节假日什么的，她会到我这里来。他陪着她坐地铁来，送她到我家门口，他不想见到我。” “这对他有什么影响？” “他到时来接她。我不能一直送下楼，只能到第一层的楼梯口。那时，我住在一幢东倒西歪的破楼里，我们两人有约在先，我把她送到第一层的楼梯口，让她自己走下去，以免让他看见我。这对他有什么影响？我不知道，可能是某种灾难性后果吧。” “可是，你们两人在电话里交谈。” “我们在电话里交谈，使用单音节词语，就像两个间谍在传递密码信息。那是满怀仇恨的事情。不过，她长大一些以后，那种做法停止了，我说的是电话。我女儿和我自己安排。阿尔伯特永远消失了。” "What about her?" “特雷萨并不恨我，也许这更糟糕。我觉得她恨她自己，觉得她是那段失败婚姻的组成部分。我们还是别谈这事儿吧。” “我们出去走一走吧。” “我们步行走过大桥。你从来没有这样做过？” “我是新来的，女士。这你可别忘了。” 阿西创作的最佳作品是黑石帮系列画中的一幅。画面上是芝加哥冬天的景象，年轻人穿着带有兜帽的宽松无领长袖运动衫，闷闷不乐，无所事事，充满暴力。他们有的面对装有铁条的窗户，有的坐在雪地里的一张破旧沙发上。克拉拉认为，这些绘画作品在一个方面绝对带有现代主义的特征。画面上的人物似乎是用相机拍摄的，有的明显摆出了姿势，有的处于没有察觉的状态，有的故意表现出不屑一顾的神态。他们的身后是正在修建的房屋，一个男子眼睑下垂，戴着一顶保暖抓绒帽，穿着一件太空棉涤纶面料上衣，手里握着一把插有弹夹的步枪。由此可见，阿西匠心独具，让整个画面沿着子弹夹的弧形，以难以形容的方式飘浮，从而证明照片式画面是虚假的。 艾斯特的客人纷纷走上房顶，逃离公寓房间中电唱机播放的摇摆音乐。艾斯特的丈夫也来到房顶上——如果让他单独待上二十秒钟，他那样的人会慢慢融化。 克拉拉喜欢街对面的那个小庙，它在顶楼正面，凹槽柱之间是嵌壁式窗户。小庙里是否真的有人居住呢？ 她感觉良好，庆幸自己改变了生活方式。现在，她睡眠良好，节省开支，而且重新与朋友们见面。 “她在读什么呢？”有人问，说的是站在露台上的那个女人。她一只手端着酒杯，另一只手拿着一本平装书。 “看来像是在房间里找到的侦探小说，”杰克说，“大量说教，有人在夏天就读这样的东西。”他叫杰克·马歇尔，一个身材高挑、精心打扮的家伙，在百老汇做报刊广告工作，给人随时可能倒下毙命的感觉。这样的人大量抽烟，酗酒，睡眠不足，生活节奏混乱，咳嗽时发出响亮的痰液声音。克拉拉觉得，见到他们让人不禁猜想这样的人什么时候会认真工作。 她在指头上贴了一片创可贴，等着迈尔斯把她的香烟拿上来，因为他比她可靠一些。 她暂时从杰克那里找了一支。 这时，克拉拉开始注意到街道上的行人，注意到人们的交谈方式。他们大声说话，有的突然高叫，有的发出威胁，有的一边走，一边做出手势。于是，街道有了一种中世纪末期的质感。这也许意味着，人们得从头再来，学习如何在疯狂的人群中生活下去。 “你来一口卜卜吧，克拉拉。” “你不能沾上它，走远点。” “我不想沾上它，只是想舔一舔。”杰克说。 “我很想知道街道对面的那座庙宇里有什么。有人住在里面吗？” “住在那个小小的希腊式庙宇里？依我看，那是一间办公室。” “我喜欢在那里工作。” “做进出口生意。” “我两样都喜欢。” “我也可能喜欢。不过，我想舔一舔。”他说。 阿西长着一张椭圆型脸蛋，额头突出，头发略带一点肉桂色。如果她坐在公共汽车过道的另外一侧，你每隔一站都会偷偷地瞟一眼。这也许是因为她的嘴巴——它粗犷，俏皮，稍稍有一点歪斜。她的表情不断变化，让她的笑容有一种意外的效果，就像不期而至的新闻，那样的嘴型可能被称为嘲笑。 “我离开丈夫的原因不是为了绘画，”她告诉克拉拉，“我离开他的原因是，我不想和他一起生活了。” "what is the problem?" “他是男人。”阿西说。 在大桥中央，克拉拉注意到，身边这个年轻女人仔细观察着桥上的动静，观察骑车和跑步的人，观察他们的穿着，观察他们是干什么的，观察他们一起形成的某种展示自我的行为。阿西说，与芝加哥的人不同。在芝加哥，人们在湖畔汗流浃背地跑步，一心只想着抖落办公室工作形成的薄膜，抖落反常的遮蔽物。这里的薄膜是他们所处的环境，是视野之中的清新天际。阿西似乎愿意接受这样的东西。 “现在，你到了这里，也许会长期待下去，重新开始的感觉肯定非常强烈。” “也许，我本来很久以前就可以重新开始了。除了我之外，没有谁知道。” “你担心结果吗？” “和他分手？这是必然的。如果不分手，我才会担心的。” “你丈夫怎么想？” “你说的是他？”阿西问。 “我不知道。他怎么想？他知不知道你有女性恋人？” “他其实喜欢女同性恋者。我告诉了他这一点。我说，詹姆斯，我会给你寄一些这方面活动的快照，宝贝。” “你是恶棍。”克拉拉说。 “恶棍的女人，黑帮女人。他们在洛杉矶就是这样叫我的。你知道，就因为我画了那些反映黑石帮的作品。他们觉得，我虽然出生中产阶级家庭，但是却参加了黑帮。” “很好。他们叫我口袋女士。” 两人哈哈大笑，过了大桥，来到布鲁克林一侧。阿西在距离引桥不远的一间库房里搞创作，不想过早展示她正在创作的作品。两人在仓库里转了一圈。墙上挂着一张印有玛丽莲·梦露照片的日历，是那位金梦小姐早年拍摄的美女照片，俯拍的，全身裸体，躺在柔软光滑的血红色床单上。 “这东西挂在这里，肯定有什么作用，对吧？” “没错，那是我观看的东西。”阿西说。 “并且思考的东西。” “我自己正在弄的东西，一点一点地弄。” “有意思。不过，我听说，你正在画完全不同的作品。” “哦，是吗？你听到什么了？” 克拉拉手臂一挥，指着远处的墙壁。在那里，有的油画布摆放在一个矮架子上，有的固定在画架上，有的覆盖着她刚才看到的图画用纸。那些纸张贴在没有完成的作品上，用作变换颜色的标记。 “我听说，你正在搞一个关于黑豹的系列作品。” 阿西露出鄙视的笑容，动作缓慢，显得刻意。 “哦，是吗？怎么说呢，你知道吗？那也是我听说的东西。” 克拉拉觉得，这应该是一个后画家时代。这是一位创作热情很高的年轻女人，这位黑人女性以宽容的笔触表现黑人男性，但是也带着某种严格的批评态度。神气活现的黑帮，这种文化几乎表现出王子式傲慢，当然也有带着明显威胁的不祥之兆。阿西以外科手术的方式，深入考察了年轻男人，把握他的喜怒无常的神态，寻找孤独的痕迹，用细致的笔触一一表现出来。 她俩折返，重新来到桥上。 “他们现在还这样叫你吗？口袋女士？” “现在这样叫的人少多了，”克拉拉说，“我们当中还有些人这么叫。我们收集废品，把它们积攒起来，用于艺术创作，听起来比实际情况高尚一些。这只是一种更仔细地观察事物的方式。我现在还在这样做，不过更深入一些罢了。” “这不是我的做法。也许我觉得，不需要什么语境。你明白我的意思吗？” “我想还行吧。” “从一定程度上说，我有所理解。你把自己的作品从尘封的肮脏画室里拿出来，放进博物馆里。那里墙壁雪白，挂着古典作品，你的作品在那样的语境中变为一种充满力量的东西，变为一种论点。它实际上是什么呢？从旧工厂窗户上取下的玻璃，还有捡来的粗麻布。也许，它变得很有哲学意味。” 两人到了大桥的另外一端，阿西还想走一段，克拉拉几乎挪不动脚步了。她们望着停泊在南街那边的老帆船。克拉拉觉得，阿西对她的作品持漫不经心的态度，心里略略有些不快。这时，她试图排除这样的感觉，排除这种迟到的失望之情。她先是推迟了自己的反应，然后试图掩饰它。 “我那时是典型的女孩子，”阿西说，“总想让自己快快长大。现在，我觉得自己已经到了成年人阶段，真的。这座城市是一座嘀嗒作响的大钟，让我感到紧张，不过我已经做好了准备。” 克拉拉最为欣赏的是阿西使用油彩的方式。阿西驾轻就熟，信手涂抹，底色饱满，肌肉处理成漂亮的棕色，皮肤层次丰富，画面上还有深浅不一的灰色。天空呈淡灰绿色，画面表现的总是芝加哥的冬季。那些黑帮成员的形象与他们的地盘，与褪色的砖墙和覆盖薄冰的窗户非常协调。从这个意义上说，他们可能是翁布里亚的某座教堂壁画上的长着橄榄色皮肤的男子的兄弟。这些画作说明，阿西具有16世纪意大利艺术家那种沉静和严肃的目光。 她正在电话里和艾斯特·温希普交谈。 艾斯特问：“哎呀，为什么呢？” “因为那样更容易，更快捷。” “可是，我已经三十年没有坐过地铁了。” “好。我希望有这种高人一等的感觉。” 她俩搭乘的是戴尔大街线。火车里外都有涂鸦，给克拉拉刺眼和压抑的感觉。她不喜欢在列车上做标记这个做法。这是自我的浪漫故事，是穷孩子炫示幻想的行为，目的是获得虚荣。 “我觉得，天气会变得非常闷热，”艾斯特说，“我觉得，坐在座位上会窒息的。” 她用很低的声音耳语，担心被人听到，产生误解，把它当作冒犯之辞。在地铁里，语言与其他场合中的情况不同，带有一种可能引起激烈反应的特征。 “这是空调的作用。”克拉拉低声回应。 “我完全晕了。” 艾斯特喜欢以脱离现实的方式说愚蠢的话，这样做可以把她密封在更安全的参照框架里。 火车进入布朗克斯区，过了两站之后，开始有人上车，另外一辆列车进站停靠。克拉拉觉得有什么东西碰了一下自己的肋骨。那是艾斯特在用肘部提醒她，旁边的列车就是他——那个月球人——画的，每一节车厢从车顶到车底都喷涂着他的名字和街道号码。克拉拉不得不承认，这个孩子深谙此道，懂得如何形成效果。列车摇摇晃晃，驶入这个样子陈旧、颜色单调的车站，仿佛一片经过装饰的奇观丛林。那些字母和数字颜色鲜艳，一一跃入人的眼帘，形成一种关系。它们交织在一起，盘根错节，仿佛是经过漫画处理、瞪大眼睛的猿人，热烈舞蹈，大汗淋漓，激情四射——银白、蓝色、红色与一些霓虹灯闪射出来的绿色交相辉映。 艾斯特紧闭的嘴里传出低语。 “那就是他，那就是他，那就是他。” 没错，那是他创作涂鸦作品的地铁列车，但是她俩没有找到那个年轻人。艾斯特曾经问过一名撰写了关于涂鸦作者报道的记者，打听月球人的地址。月球人没有告诉那名记者真实姓名和地址，只说了年龄——十六岁。她们手上的地址是从另外一个孩子那里得到的，那个孩子自称是月球人手下的工作人员。两个女人翻出写有地址的纸条，走过一个区域。那里到处都是经过焚烧的房屋，大片街区全被纵火的人夷为平地，远处还有仍在燃烧的房屋。她俩驻足观看。三四幢房屋散发着淡淡的烟雾，既看不见消防车，也看不见站在警戒线后面的焦急的人群，只有几个过路的人。看来，这里平常是有人居住的。她俩默默地看着，觉得难以理解，无法相信。它仿佛是纪录片中的场景：在遥远的地方发生了帮派争斗，将军们烹煮对手的肝脏，然后保存在塑料口袋里。整个场景完全笼罩在奇异的氛围之中。 后来，艾斯特问：“这就是你曾经住过的地方？” “不是。我住在北面，离这里一英里。” “尽管如此，我还是应该向你表达更多的敬意。” “谢谢你，艾斯特。不过，那时的情况不是这样的。” “尽管如此，我应该对你更好一些。” “你已经够好了。”克拉拉说。 她俩明白，不能长时间站在这里。她们走到第一百五十七大街，寻找那个年轻人的住址，结果发现根本没有这个门牌号码。 她们走进两家小酒馆，在柜台上打听。 有人说：“穆尼，穆尼是干什么的？”有人说：“什么样的摩门教徒？这里可没有什么摩门教徒。” 她俩用西班牙语解释说：“不，不，不，不，是月球人一百五十七。”接着，她俩用手比划喷涂动作，嘴里说：“涂鸦，涂鸦。” 艾斯特身上穿着一件猎装，那模样就像某个电视网的记者，正在寻找藏在烟雾弥漫的山林之中的叛乱分子。她让人觉得那些人真的可能指责她。 “你今天晚上就像一个中国小女孩。”迈尔斯说。 “詹森曾经叫我中国佬。” 她低声说，让自己尽量低调。有的人喜欢张扬，她却变得越来越低调，或多或少淡出人们的视线。假如迈尔斯不在这里，要过多久那个招待才会注意到她？ “詹森。我认识一个名叫詹森的。” “詹森是我第二个丈夫。詹森·瓦诺维尔。” 他们两人在桑树街的一家餐厅里品尝海鲜。迈尔斯喜欢这个地方的原因是，一名歹徒曾在这里毙命，头部中弹。那两个杀手来自另外一个家族，也许他自己的家族，也许是外地的家族。 “你老是提及我不认识、从未听说过的人。你提到他们的口气让人觉得，”她说，“我应该知道你在说谁。其实，我根本不可能知道。” "Yes, I know that." “人们从我身边匆匆而过，没有留下什么印象。” “我只是觉得，如果我知道什么人，听我说话的人借助某种技巧，也应该知道这个人。”她说。 迈尔斯感冒了，他总是感冒。这种状态不被注意，似乎理所当然。他一声长一声短地咳嗽，两眼矇眬，认识他的人完全没有注意到这一点。这是没有规律的生活带来的结果，他饥饱不匀，四处奔波，睡眠不足，健康状况总体不良。 他环顾四周，寻找熟悉的人，看到几个腰圆背阔、身穿套装、可能互相认识的男子。 “我原来头发短一些，看上去更像中国人。”她说。 "What does he do?" “做过市场分析工作，用自己和别人的钱进行高风险投资。航海，驾帆船。有一次，我俩航行了几个星期，那是我们婚姻生活中最棒的事情。我们两人同在一条双桅纵帆船上时，一切都没有问题。他有一条双桅纵帆船，他叫它高端金融号。” “你在船上？” “我俩知道，我们必须合作，必须住在狭窄的空间里。我们轮流驾驶，轮流做饭，共用船头，装载设备，盘绕缆绳，整理物品。没错，我在船上。我们遵守规矩。我们尊重帆船和自然。在船上那一阵，我们的婚姻相当不错。” 他俩上了阁楼，看到街道上停着一辆超市购物推车。汽车从它旁边绕过，一个男人从装卸平台的阴影里出来，嘴里低声念着献给耶稣的祈祷。 他俩一边分享大麻，一边看着电视上播出的尼克松挥手告别的新闻。 “阿西告诉我，她在一次聚会上问一个男的，男人真的想从女人那里得到什么。那个男的回答说，口交。阿西说，你们也可以从男人那里得到。” “六个月之内，阿西将会死于名气太大，”迈尔斯说，“她将在走出一家迪斯科舞厅时遭人枪杀。” 她还没有重新开始工作，然而那一时刻正在慢慢到来。在她的身体中有某种东西在萌动，某种需要她处理和具体化的东西，其实是更深层的东西，某种牵动整个身心的东西。她可以独自坐在阁楼上，小心谨慎地对待它。 “对，就在走出一家迪斯科舞厅时，”她说，“如果那样，你会带我到那里去跳舞的。” 母亲领着克拉拉和她最好的朋友罗舍尔到市中区去。她们在时报广场附近的那家自助餐厅用午餐。在餐厅临街的彩色玻璃窗户上，牛奶从一条古铜色小鱼的嘴里流出来。她们看见，日场观众三三两两地进入剧场，母亲议论那些女士头上的帽子。她们在橱窗里寻找更漂亮的帽子。母亲领着她俩，大踏步走进豪华酒店，走进漂亮的写字楼，让她俩看大厅里的装饰和版画，看电梯