Chapter 28 Section 5

At first, the room was empty, and then someone came, put things on the table, and removed the magazines and comic books that had been there.The man first arranged the china bowls, crocks, and bouquets, and then put back some comic strips on the table, but only comic strips with a certain luxurious color.After a while, some people came and chatted occasionally, not all of them knew each other, and sometimes it was a little awkward.Later, more and more people entered the room, the conversation became easier, and the expressions on people's faces became more natural.In one corner, Clara was chatting with someone, partly aware that the atmosphere in the room was friendly, lighthearted, and natural.Isn't this one of those things that I didn't expect, but might be surprised by?If it is expected, there are some things that are still surprising-the details of contact, the movement of eyes, the state of waving hands, the smiles of acquaintances when they meet, and the life topics that drove the conversation just now.This vibe becomes an energy that travels among the guests like an angel walking around, making stories told, rumors spread, flirtations and misinterpretations offered.Even though people drink alcohol differently now than they used to, it's basically part of history.So you can't say it's the gin that makes them look happy and act natural, but that it's the encouragement of others.

It's summer time on the roof, summer time with lightning in the sky.She saw, in a roaring flash, the cumulus clouds turning white.The weather forecast said there might be rain, but it was rarely raining.In one corner of the room, she talks to a man.The man complained that some people keep dogs in small apartments.She took the elevator up to the roof as the guests started to leave.Said a young man, "I'm half dazed"—I'm half dazed.There was also a man in a beautiful bow tie, a painter, whom Clara knew.Clara felt that no one cared about keeping dogs in small apartments, but when everyone did, the puppies suddenly ran out of doorways and windows.Maybe one day you'll relentlessly stop doing it and ignore the dogs, those Siberian puppies that live in tiny apartments with no elevators.

She saw, on the roof of an office building, a woman was jogging, with beads of sweat on her face, and there were many chimneys in the distance.Three or four people stood on the terrace with drinks and watched with the same pleasant eyes.The woman runs along the track, alone on the roof of a thirty-story building.The sight looked beautiful: the woman walking briskly, the setting sun glistening on the glass walls, the chimneys of the power plant towering down the river, belching toxic fumes. She and Miles walked across Times Square.He asked her to stop and admire a custom sedan parked on a no-stop road outside a topless pinball parlor.Painted rose and lavender, with iron grilles protecting the side windows—the owner had a real urban sense of humour.Tourists raised their cameras and took turns standing in front of the cars, posing and snapping snapshots.There are also some young devotees of Krishna, shaved heads, holding bells, pale faces, wearing ocher-colored robes and high-top sneakers, jumping up and down reverently.

Ashie Green plays the role of the granny, mostly verbalized, referring to Clara using the word child, accusingly.Oh boy, don't do such a foolish thing. They were in a bar in Soho. "That's impossible," Clara said. "Marrying a man like Miles is something a woman wouldn't even think about." "Whether you want it or not, a woman like this won't marry." "Let's talk about his advantages." "What I'm talking about is the advantages." Assi said. "I don't see it that way, Miles is fine. But if you're trying to have a lasting relationship, or a binding relationship, that's stupid. It's not going to work from your perspective, or from his perspective. to this point."

"Let's use the term cohabitation." "Yes," Clara said, laughing, "that's the only way to say it." "Listen, my overall take is that he's been a little bit evasive." "Looks like he's not ready yet," Clara said.The more things Miles is not responsible for, the stronger her liking for the man becomes. "You see, there's always the possibility of a plot," she said, laughing again. "He felt that a lot of things were directed at him, so he was defensive and a little withdrawn. However, it was not a problem, there was no major problem between him and me. We got along well."

She felt like things were getting out of hand.A large coffee cup slipped from his hand and hit the kitchen counter.She couldn't find the set of cutlery she had just bought for eating veal.She looked around for a spare key to the downstairs room. There were only two places where the key could be placed, and nowhere else.She didn't see it in either place, though.Standing at one end of the attic, staring at the opposite window, she wondered if the fire staircase—the black staircase leading to the alley behind the house—could enlighten her. "You're crazy, kid," Assi said in the bar.

For a while, she used household paint, the kind you use to paint heat sinks.She loves rough surfaces, chipped paint on metal surfaces, puttyed window frames, and the texture of plaster.She used an adhesive mixture of chalk and linseed and applied it to the weathered wood.It took her years to realize how these things connected to her life, to her working-class ethos, to her dented sidewalks, to her asphalt roof and, of course, to being painted green first. It was later painted black to link the fire stairs.In fact, the sidewalk was paved with beautiful bluestone slabs, and some of the slate corners were broken and fine particles appeared.She discovers how sprayed paint, in drops or trickles, later becomes an element of memory.Silver powder paint on the heat sink, and the paint my father bought to paint the dining chairs.A newspaper with an upside-down chair and white paint splatters on the ink-stained page lay on the old linoleum.

At Esther and Jack's house, she sipped the wine and listened to Jack speak in a kind, husky voice.She liked his voice and the jokes he told.Somehow old Jack is still alive, rosy-cheeked, gray-haired, shaking a cigarette in his hand, almost forgetting your name.Jack liked to tell crude jokes, which Esther hated and Clara kind of liked.One can't help but love old-fashioned jokes like these, about goofy prototypical characters and involving tons of dialect.However, their meanings are cryptic and require the cooperation of obedient people.In the jokes Jack tells, everything stays the same.

Sometimes, she finds that she applies the paint to remove it, and she scrapes it with the kitchen utensils—she loves the paint marks after scraping. The scope of what she does is small, and the goal is a little bit small.She resolutely adopts an attitude of neither plague nor fire, and regards a thing with family characteristics as a group of works.Now, she was beginning to wonder if she wanted to be like her father, guaranteeing herself a life away from her laurels? Albert used to tell her in a slightly didactic tone about the Italians he had met, about his growing up in Harlem and the Bronx, about his origins in Calabria in southwestern Italy. Asia's legacy.These things tend to be wary of certain kinds of success.As immigrants, those people need protection, sons, daughters, and other relatives from the harshness of American culture.Their English is broken, and their heads are full of stories of leaving their hometown. Besides their relatives, who else can they count on?When he was thirteen, he came home one day and saw his father huddled together on the sofa, with the sadness typical of southern Italians.The mother's eyes were darkened and bags under her eyes drooped, and her betrayal made her feel disheartened.The father, completely helpless, with a bowed spine, a forty-year-old who looked like an eighty-year-old, glanced at his mother with the same sadness on his face.They looked at Albert's report card that had just been sent.Albert thought he had failed the exam, failed all subjects, the best D, and the dreaded F, and was expelled from school.However, the opposite is true, right?The report card is a row of A, with cute little gold stars on the side.Young Bronzini finally understood why his parents suffered: they—the shop clerk and his wife—didn't want to lose him, to the glamorous outside world that began a few blocks away from somewhere. Start from a place of flux.

Even now, Clara does not agree with Albert's mentality.She sat in the attic, knowing that she would not be negatively affected by a certain kind of success.Not about other people's success, but about her own success.She didn't trust that kind of success, and felt ashamed.She needs to be true to her past, even if it means that, first of all, her father will disappoint her, and she herself will be associated with many small failures.My father collected those failures as if they were faded souvenirs.She thought of the stereoscopic films he kept of the Grand Canyon and of the West, of the inaccessible spaces he photographed with his stereo cameras.She remembered the image vividly—the Hopi Indian scout standing on a cliff somewhere.No matter what she's photographing with a stereo camera, whether it's the colorful desert or Zion National Park, her own success has been modest, and her unobtrusive, understated style is exactly who she defines herself as.

Assi had a glass of tequila, and Clara drank plain white wine, as usual.If red wine is served with dinner around 6, she likes to start with a glass of white wine in the afternoon.Not too bad a way to while away a dead afternoon in a dimly lit pub. "Can you tell me what kind of work you're going to do?" Assi asked. "I'm going to go to Sagaponack and hide." "Hide. Don't go there if you want to hide. You should hide here." "It depends on what you want to avoid." "Get to work, start now. What are you sitting here waiting for?" Assi said, "Looking at me won't lead to anything." It was so humid that the door had to be pushed on the shoulder to close.She heard a loud crackling sound from the roof of the nearby house, and then she saw the striped awning, the Cinzano awning, and knew it was just the wind blowing the awning's canvas. Clara talks about her early years of painting.She worked hard, and what she drew was in many ways like a miniature version of hell.However, those works later gradually revealed the characteristics of late Bohemia, with the flavor of pastel painting.Later, she made herself remember those traits in a more rigorous way. "Back then, there were men, I mean male painters, famous men, who looked at us in that way, as if we were stupid little things hoping to be famous. In the eyes of those people, we were always students, wearing stockings. schoolchildren. That’s about it at best,” she said. “Tell me about your creation.” "what?" "The other day, I praised you in public. I was talking to a lady who was researching young painters, and I told her whose works she should pay attention to. But, in return?" "It's not the first time, and I want you to know, it's very important to me." "Don't say that. In return," Clara said, "you have to tell me what you're going to do. If I'm sitting here expressing my admiration for someone who's doing art, you can at least say Tell me what are you doing?" The corner of Assi's mouth curled up slightly, revealing a trace of ridicule.She looked at Clara, drank the wine in her glass in one gulp, and let out a long sigh, as if she had heard a sarcastic remark. "Well, you remember that calendar you saw in my studio with a picture of Marilyn Monroe on it?" "of course I remember." "You know what can happen when you start creating. Sometimes, creating begins with a series of misunderstandings." "It's always like that when I start out." "I thought, I worked, I sketched, I did small oil paintings, I did large charcoal drawings, and finally it dawned on me. That wasn't the Marilyn I wanted, it was a fake Marilyn. I wanted a packaged look .I don’t want Monroe, I want Mansfield. I draw people with protruding lips and breasts. I mean, my problem is obvious, and it’s stuck with me for a long time.” "Have I seen any Jayne Mansfield movies?" "No one has seen it. It doesn't matter. Her appearance in the film is unbearable," Assi said. "There are other Marilyns. On the one hand, there are many Marilyns on the other hand. , at the moment of Marilyn's death, all the attractive and sexy women have gone with her. People seem to prohibit such women in a philosophical sense. Jayne lived only five years longer than Marilyn. In about four years Half the time, she was depressed, exhausted, and beaten up by her husband — whoever it was — and was drinking heavily every day except for her roles in exploitation films.” "You're talking too far. White women," Clara said. "Jane is a white whale. I threw away a lot of lofty preaching to finally get my current opinion on this painting. I'm experimenting with different colors now and would like to hear your opinion." "no problem." "Because you are someone I trust." "It takes a lot of work to invent a false compliment," Clara said, "so I don't want to do it." That afternoon, footage of Nixon waving goodbye appeared on television.He's clutching Ike's wrist like in a newspaper clipping from the 1950s, and he's twitching one hand above his head in a sudden, jerky, weird movement.Standing in a helicopter parked on the White House lawn, he gave a final waving goodbye, raising both arms and making a two-V gesture with his fingers.It reminds me of that photo in a newspaper clipping in the late 1960s: he is elated, with his hands raised in a triumphant pose, his body writhing with resentment—look, I’m still alive today, You bastards. Miles persuaded her to go to Bloomingdale's and help pick out a gift for his mother.To own an object from outside Toledo, to own one from Bloomingdale's, would have made his mother excited, even a little embarrassed, in blissful chagrin a feeling of.The two walked around the department store for a long time, and there were a variety of products as far as they could see, and there were all kinds of perfumes and skin care products in beautiful spherical bottles.Clara eventually found two items, a batik calico top, and a pair of Persian-style slippers.Later, the pair walked through the menswear section, which was decorated in a fall-inspired setting, with tables and display stands and racks of outdoor tops and wool sleeping bag cushions."Wait a minute," Miles said. She wondered, what happened?He reached out and grabbed her arm—wait a minute, look, don't talk.Later, she understood what he meant.Eight or nine black kids, perhaps eventually growing to a dozen or so, mostly teenagers, though some under ten, moved among the racks of coats and sweaters.At this time, she saw a security guard coming from another area, and a call came from the walkie-talkie.The younger children tried to hide, and some of them hid behind the dressing mirror, looking a little ridiculous, with their two eyeballs turning furtively, looking around.They must be feeling the pressure now, feeling that they are being closely watched.One of them grabs a jacket, very quickly, and the other says something.Then, they all gathered in front of a display stand.One by one they grabbed things and ran, the jackets flew off the hangers and the hangers fell to the floor.They grabbed the clothes beside them. Some had two or three pieces in their hands, while others only had one piece. Two or three children competed for the same piece of clothing, and then ran towards different exits.Two security guards came running quickly, and another guarded the main exit.The customer stood motionless, with a defensive look on his face, neutral in the midst of the chaos.A child was caught by security.Clara felt that the other children had avoided the security guards and rushed out of the store separately. Their steps were so fast that the sleeves of the stolen clothes flapped in all directions. Then Miles said, "Leather." The voice sounded very happy. "They take the subway to 59th Street, go down the escalator into the store, run into one place, grab whatever they can get their hands on, and get out of here and take a dozen or so exits, which is pretty awesome," he said. "Security probably caught one or two, maybe three at the most," he said. He said: "Attention, they didn't take windbreakers, they didn't take warm clothing, they didn't take clothes with hoods, they didn't take down vests. They only had leather, and all they took were leather clothes." His voice was melodious, full of admiration tone. Asi leaned forward, with a drained wine glass in front of him. "How old is he?" "I don't know. Seventeen, eighteen? I think, I don't want to know that," Clara said. "Seventeen years old is considered an adult." "I was teaching children to paint, part-time. I had a child, two or three years old. That was enough for me. My husband's mother was bedridden. Maybe, she died, and of course my husband died too. gone." "That juvenile delinquent came at you. What was he wearing? Top pants?" "I don't know who jumped at whom. All I know is that the two of us are in an empty room next door to the one where his mother died." Assi's eyes puffed up in a playful expression, his mouth opened wide. "Perhaps you're right. Seventeen is an adult," Clara said. "It's not a child's thing. It's not sexual initiation, there's no tenderness at all. He doesn't need special instruction. And, you say he A juvenile delinquent, that's right. But it doesn't do it justice to use that term to describe what he ended up doing." She cast her eyes on Park Avenue, where the cornices of the buildings stretched up to the Central Tower, with the arches, the bells, and the roofs of the floodlights.She hasn't been sleeping well lately, and someone is standing next to her, looking at the same thing.She went in and watched the news on TV with Nixon waving goodbye. Esther Winship's apartment suite is deliberately low-key, beige, close to white, and the beautiful big sofa will not deform when sitting on it.There are several dark brown carpets with long hair on the ground.There are very few photos hanging on the walls.The photos Esther chose were not eye-catching, to the point where they could be ignored.The decoration style of this apartment is outstanding, full of tension and cutting-edge, which seems to make Jack lost in it. Esther said, "You know, I'm not giving up. I've sent people to the scene." "What are you doing?" "Looking for the Moonman." "I thought we'd forgotten about it. Listen, doesn't anyone have a graffiti display?" "He didn't attend." "I think it's good that you didn't find him." "Why, dear?" "You'd sign him and ditch me." Esther liked this and laughed, her voice very old and hoarse, as if she'd just drank brine.Clara found herself having a strange attitude towards graffiti authors.Esther should be blaming the graffiti on the subway cars, making them unrecognizable and ugly, like traveling dumpsters.Esther is dressed in well-crafted clothes, her face is meticulously made up, and her jewelry clicks lightly.In Clara's mind came a thought that had come up many times before: Esther, her manager, friend and rival. "Of course, that's sheer nonsense." "Tell me, when are you going?" Clara asked. "To where I live?" "So I can stop the mail." "You have been invited, do you understand? We will all go. The time has been confirmed, and it will be next Friday." "I like to stop the mail," Clara said. She should have defended the graffiti writers, the daring teenagers who smeared train cars with lightning-fast movement during Monday's rush hour. The weather forecast said it might rain, but it didn't.The trash is there, in black plastic bags of the same size.The stains were seeping out and the trash had started coming out of the pockets.On the way to the swimming pool, she passed the dump, looked, and wasn't looking for mice.She used to swim almost every day, but recently she went there less often, only once a week.The practical purpose is to reduce work stress, restore normal rhythm, and form a pleasant and regular lifestyle after long hours of work and solitude. The plums are juicy and tender this summer.She loved the water towers on the roofs of houses in the twilight, fixed to columns and trestles, like little accessories of urban architecture.She likes things that don't last long, like dowels and crossbars.The striped, aged wood joins together to form a less-than-sturdy stair structure. In a small roof garden, there is a marble statue.It was a cheap copy of an Acropolis sculpture, a man without arms or head, with only a stump of one leg, a broken penis, and bits of bird droppings on his left breast.Clara thought to herself, why is he so sexy?It was here that she saw the man three times over a period of about seven weeks.His name was Carlo Strasser, he wore very nice Italian leather shoes, he had a hobby collection, or something.She recalled that he had a farmhouse near Arles. It turned out that the host had always wanted to invite the two of them to dinner.It turned out that Carlo was engaged in solid-state electronic technology, often traveled to Hong Kong and Taiwan, and once flew to Mexico City to watch a football match. "Actually, I'm supposed to be in Düsseldorf today," he said in a funny tone as he said the name of the city, "but I think, you know, life is short and I've been flying too much lately .” "Also, you can contact me by phone." "Yes, I can use the phone to discuss with the people over there." The brownstone roofs around them had skylights and ventilation ducts with pivoting roofs, and new metal railings stretched out from the roofs to keep thieves out. In the middle of the night, she woke up from a dream and found that she was in her attic, but she felt that she was somewhere else—not any other place, but a place that did not belong to her.After so many years, she always felt that she was in a strange space when she woke up, still in a dream.This space is very high and spacious, with tall pillars and tall windows, all of which are scenes seen in previous dreams.It's not exactly a nightmare.Sometimes she dreamed of a little girl standing on the edge of a room.Sometimes a little girl dreams of that room, but she herself is not in the room.The room was surreal, empty on one side with no walls, and the little girl was standing there.Sometimes the furnishings in dream rooms were called chairs, curtains, and beds, but they were nothing like what she had seen, unsupported.She tossed and turned in bed, waking Miles. The two of them went to the Fulton Fish Market and Miles took some pictures.It was 4:00 in the morning, and a row of huge swordfish was laid out on the sidewalk.The misplacement calls to mind the epic depiction of these gigantic sea creatures stranded on the streets of New York.Later, the pair spotted an all-night diner and went in for some bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee. Miles wants to chat about Assie Green. "That's what she's making. You know what she's doing, right? A set of paintings about the Black Panther Party, throwing more dirty water on black males." She didn't interrupt him. "You vastly overrate her work by a factor of two. Her stuff is all show stuff, not much better than rubbish. You'll have to take another look. Her stuff is superficial and it's all pandering, pandering White people's idea that black people are terrible." Clara realized that in her praise of Assi's work, she had been waiting for someone to disagree.For a moment, Miles' vision resides in her gut, mixed with a dollop of egg yolk and rye bread. "You know how it works. She gets what she wants from you, approval, popularity and stuff. Then she goes about bribing other people." Clara sat there, silent, in a strange state of thought.She wanted him to go on, rightly or wrongly, to get his point across.She found him very narrow-minded, but thought he might have something to say about Assi's creations.His artistic instincts were very useful to her, which was naturally one of the factors that kept the two of them together.He once stood in front of one of Clara's works, expressed his opinion in a carefully worded language, and often expressed his admiration for the creation she was engaged in. "She likes those slippers," he said. "She likes those slippers. What are we talking about? Oh, it's your mother." "She likes those slippers." "She likes those slippers. Well, I'm glad." Perhaps, the question can be said in this way.He's completely wrong about Assi's work, however, maybe she hopes he's right. In Sagaponack, she put the travel bag in the guest room, and then followed the signs on the map to visit the painters there.They painted in cottages, in white-painted studios, in restored potato warehouses.She acts alone most of the time.Esther was busy on the phone, connecting with landlords and lawyers, and Clara borrowed her car. During dinner, Jack felt dizzy and lay on the sofa.The events of that evening revolved, in part, around him. She stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in and rush to the beach, warm and comfortable. She called Miles, who was leaving for Norman, Illinois, the next day. She meets a sculptor.The capillaries were clearly visible on the face of the man, an Englishman whose wife was dying.She talked with him for a long time, the discussion was very intense, and she felt that their works exposed their weaknesses bit by bit.They reassure each other that no matter how unique their work may be, they contain many common elements.She hugged him goodbye as she left. Esther asked, "You've been looking hot lately, you know that?" "Who said this?" "Old Jack." Clara tends to grow weary of old Jack and then take his side, speaking up for him in sympathetic tones, showing that Jack has a point.She found him humorous first, then tiresome, sometimes pathetic.However, he liked Esther very much, and he didn't shy away from showing it openly, regardless of who heard it.He told the usher and the concierge that Esther was ecstasy in bed.Esther knew that there was no way to shut him up, maybe she didn't want to shut him up in the first place.They both needed to speak out about the drama.Otherwise, how could their lively behavior continue? Something flew out of her hand.She was standing on someone else's deck and the glass slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.She was driving Esther's car alone, talking to herself about turning left or right, and then telling herself to stop at a red light. Myers said by phone: "Whenever Henry Kissinger gets sick, a woman a thousand miles away might get sick too. People think it's not that weird at all. We mortals could be sick in any way." Get sick." It's windy, and it carries a slight late-summer scent that probably won't stop for a while.Esther said: "It's like a tramontana (a cold dry north wind)." For some reason, Clara thought of Albert at this time.Perhaps it is not surprising that Albert likes to use Italian to describe the different kinds of winds that blow from the Alps and the coast of Africa. Whatever foreboding skepticism the Englishman's sculptures expressed, she frankly didn't like them. "Well, honestly, you look good." On those nights, the warm wind was blowing, the sky was high and the air was crisp, people were shaking, and whispers burst out.The curve of a man's jaw, his hair, the way he holds his glass. "Of course, Jack was like a kid sometimes. That night, he didn't feel well, so he stayed on the couch," Esther said. "He wanted to be with someone else." "He's the oldest kid. But if he dies in my care, I'll be instantly torn to pieces." She liked them both and told them this before leaving.She stayed here for four days and nights, a busy itinerary, sharing food and conversation.On a clear day, they went together to the edge of the dunes and looked at the potato fields.She spoke to them from the heart. She felt good to be alive.Later, she took the train back, lying in the spacious seat, almost invisible to others.She smoked a cigarette and felt like returning home, all she thought about was home.At home, everything around her is prominent, which makes her re-examine herself. Her father used to say that the best part of the journey was the return journey. But how many opportunities did they have to travel back then?Not many times, and each time is short.Rent a small lakeside bungalow and share it with another family.God said that being with other people shouldn't feel crowded, her mother said.Let's hurry back before someone steals the note we left for the milkman. One day, as Clara's mother was about to send the clothes for dry cleaning, she found a business card in his coat.It just had his name on it, no company name, and it was spelled Sax, so I asked him, what's going on? He explained that it was for travel convenience.He might meet someone on the train, so he can leave such a business card for him. That's not what I asked, her mother said.Never mind that such a trip is strictly speaking something I don't want to talk about. So, what are you asking? I'm asking about how the name is spelled.The name Sachs was not difficult to write, her mother said. He explained that it was not a question of hard writing or hard writing. Her mother asked, what do the three letters sax mean?What does it mean?Does this mean that you are changing careers?We've got a jazz player in the family who keeps changing his name? He said, this is a trivial matter, don't take it to heart. Her mother retorted that it wasn't such a small thing as you said. He said it was a trivial matter that the two names were pronounced the same.I just changed the spelling.In this way, if you meet someone who is accustomed to a simple name on the train, it will be easier to recognize.If you pay attention, most people who run businesses use simple names. Sachs is simply the name.Her mother said the name wasn't hard to remember, unless you were talking about a train full of people with brain problems. Her mother's maiden name was Solovejcik. He said it wasn't a question of the difficulty of the name, it was the sound of the letters, the whole question was the letters c and h. Her mother asked, What's the whole problem? Later, her father made a sound that she will never forget.Since then, she has thought about it many times over the years.He made a sound.It was a rasping sound from the inside of the throat, very loud and full of rancor.At first, she thought he printed that card because he didn't want to be mistaken for German.Later, she decided that the reason he printed those cards was because he didn't want people to know that he was Jewish. people on the train.The businessman, with his business card in his pocket and a razor in his travel bag, sat in a luxury train compartment and left New York's Grand Central Station. How unbelievable it is. The letters c and h, with their fricatives, signify broad meaning, guttural history and culture, strong smells and accents in the aisle.From these two letters, from this point to the unknown x, to the mark of Mr. Anonymous, what a distance he wishes to cross! The reason this change inspires Clara's allegiance is that it has little practical significance and exposes a psychological distortion of a certain kind of pain and suffering. Her father started out as a cashier in a department store.Later, he represented the insurance business, and in order to earn a little commission, he haunted the boring parts of the Bronx all the year round.他在黑人聚居区奔波，与经营洗衣店的中国人打交道，与刚刚下船、来自世界各地的移民打交道。有一段时期，他搞喷印业务，在磨砂玻璃门上喷印公司名称，然后用黑貂毫笔涂上金色颜料。那工作他做得很好，不过十分讨厌。 他说，就是一张名片而已。我没有到法院去申请改变姓氏。在我的墓碑上，你们可以按照自己的想法，刻上常用的拼法。 她母亲问，你能演奏乐器，我怎么不知道呢？ 当克拉拉与阿尔伯特的离婚已成定局时，克拉拉把姓氏从布龙齐尼改回萨克斯，特别注意使用了字母x。假如有一天她要以艺术家的身份在公开场合露面，她就会使用这个签名。
“对，嗯，也许这一点没错。十七岁就算成年人了，”克拉拉说，“我问过自己这问题是否非常重要，超过了我愿意承认的限度。” “换句话说，它是否给你指明了一条出路？” “它是否指出了一条出路？” “那时，我不想考虑这样的事情。” 阿西不想再喝了，克拉拉还有半杯葡萄酒。她们聊了一个下午，在灯光幽暗、空荡荡的酒吧里度过死气沉沉的时光。 “那时，他自己也不想过多考虑。我觉得，他心里相当清楚，在我的印象中显得四平八稳。我的第二任丈夫驾驶帆船，但是没有那么四平八稳。我不知道我干吗会提起这件事情。” 她笑了起来，喝了一小口。 “他喝添加利杜松子酒，我是说詹森。每次到缅因州去，他都会带上一瓶添加利杜松子酒——我觉得有时候是两瓶。我们可以忘记苦艾酒，但是不能忘记杜松子酒。那时，我喜欢去那里，不过有时常常以非常超脱的心态感到疑惑。” “怎么会那样呢？” “我那时觉得，我要嫁给这样一个男人：他像那个人那样说话，像那个人那样思考。我怎么会产生那种念头呢？” “而且，还喜欢喝添加利杜松子酒。”阿西说。 她们聊到其他事情，聊到工作。 “瞧，玛丽莲讨厌自己的生活。可是，杰恩喜欢自己的生活。”阿西说。“她天生就过玛丽莲的生活。她住在粉红色宫殿里，里面有一个规模不小的动物园。结果，那位身价跌落的性感女王的名气越来越大，越来越大。最后，她成为世界上最上镜的女人。” "How did she die?" 阿西低下头，现出了双下巴，用南方警长的口气说话。 “可——可怕的车祸，与吉玛·迪安的命运类似。” “你在画那个受伤严重的女人？” “没有，我希望画一位活灵活现、咄咄逼人的杰恩。这是一个肉感的假冒金发女郎，浑身魅力四射。杰恩这个女人非常迷人，能量巨大。” “任何时候你愿意展示它，我都想看一看。”克拉拉说。这时，阳光离开了附近的一幢大楼，照到了大街上。 “你考虑得太多了，”阿西说，“你考虑自己没有创作的东西，因为内心深处觉得，自己应该加以证明。我觉得，你心里总是在证明。而且，你还担心自己已经创作出来的作品是否成功，心里总是患得患失，考虑自己造成的损害。如果我实话实说，孩子，你应该让自己相信你的作品非常优秀，完全有其自身的价值。” 她们结了账。 阿西两手抓着克拉拉的双肩，用力挤压，就像一位身体强壮的母亲。酒吧招待员把找回的零钱递给她们。 在萨加波纳克，艾斯特身穿猎装，手持电话。 她问克拉拉：“谁给你剪的头发？他们把那个剪你头发、犯下滔天罪行的谋杀犯逮起来没有？” 在某个人家里，克拉拉与一个女人交谈，后来发现对方是自己早年见过的一位画家，住在濒临东河的工厂里。那时，离婚之后的克拉拉也住在那里。那地方的浴室是临时搭建的，没有炉子，每月房租五十美元。克拉拉在那里见过一些搞绘画和雕塑的人。他们使用可以找到的材料进行创作。那一条老街上铺着石块，也许那些石块曾被用作压舱物。那一帮搞艺术的人有时在房顶上聚会，三四个绘画的，其中有一对夫妇，带着两个小孩，还有一条替别人饲养的小狗。两个女人记得，克拉拉害怕边沿位置，所以从不坐在房顶的斜坡上。那个位置铺着沥青油毡，朝着房顶边沿。从那里可以看到海上通道，看到新的作品。从房顶往北看，在房顶与大桥之间，是高楼林立的商业中心。 刮起了大风，昼夜不停。杰克说：“我可以确定，就是那个名字叫什么来着的人。他曾经和那个纸袋女人结婚，简直是大丑闻。她是纸袋继承人，用餐时我就坐在她旁边。这是——我的天哪——二十五年以前的事情。艾斯特知道我说的是谁。那是一件大丑闻。艾斯特，过来帮帮忙吧。” 杰克有一个特点，没有喝醉时会像醉鬼一样语无伦次，好端端的事情被他说成一团乱麻，仿佛出自烂醉如泥的酒鬼之口。 在唐人街的一间狭窄的地下室里，他们两人吃着非常可口的宽面条，那东西名叫炒粉。小餐馆里摆放着塑料桌子，菜单上溅满污渍，没有销售酒类的许可证。迈尔斯嘴里衔着一根带有薄荷味的牙签。 “我想让你看一部片子，你看过以后会讨厌我的。” “你说的不会是诺曼尔吧？”她问。 “我们在诺曼尔拍了十一个小时的片子。她——我说的是那个女人——精力旺盛，简直取之不尽，用之不竭。她就是那样的人，仿佛是一条物理定律，不过我不知道片子的效果如何，可能不怎么好。” “不过，与此同时——” “另外这部片子你也不会喜欢，不过你应该看一看，不看不行。” 他在一些方面对克拉拉表示尊从，有时方式微妙，有时却不尽然，会以委婉方式提出自己的观点。他知道，他不可能说服她，于是讨论某些题目，测试她的力量。这样的做法可能使她恼怒，不过也未必如此。有时候，他考虑周到，随身携带她喜欢的那种香烟，和她交谈，帮助她度过这段创作休眠期，这段让她稍感绝望的时期。 他感冒了，症状似乎没有消失，声音嘶哑，药物作用让他泪眼矇眬。他们看了阿西的作品之后，三人一起去了一家迪斯科舞厅。克拉拉看着迈尔斯和阿西一起跳舞，觉得他俩非常般配。他们之间的爱意从来没有消失过，此情此景让她觉得不可思议。也许，这并没有什么让她觉得稀奇。灯光激荡，音乐震天。 依然是在房顶上面的夏日时光。她坐在切尔西区一幢大楼顶上，躲在葡萄架下的阴影中。她身边是红色的立柱和架子——雪松木格子经过日晒雨淋，已经变为浅灰色。 一位诗人朝她走来，踩着房顶上的薄石板，从另外一侧朝她走来。 他说：“他们写下了玛丽这个名字。” 葡萄架前端挂着繁茂的藤叶，她不知道那是本地的什么品种的葡萄。她的目光穿过藤叶之间的缝隙，看见一架飞机在空中留下的烟雾，留下英文Marie（玛丽）字样。 房顶南面是世贸中心大楼。从她的角度看，双子塔楼仿佛是联体双胎，腰部被一架起重机连接起来。 在这幢大楼的房顶上，用木头和泥土修建了五层阶梯，柱子矗立，托梁横搭，葡萄藤蔓从围着铁条的废旧威士忌酒桶中生长出来。眼前的情景让她深受鼓舞。她和其他三个人一起，坐在桌子旁边，一边品尝烤干酪辣味玉米片，一边喝着调制的桑格里酒——其他人喝的是这种酒，克拉拉喜欢喝没有调制的葡萄酒。 夜空深蓝，模糊不清的雷声从东面的什么地方传来，显得粗哑，近乎虚假。下面是城市街道形成的坐标方格。在那里，一名男子砍下了情人的脑袋，装在一个盒子，带着它上了驶往皇后区的火车。 不要忘记酩酊大醉、坐在铸铁椅子上的那个诗人，不要忘记带着过度关注的神情、不停为他拍照的那个矮个子女人。 克拉拉看见那架飞机留下的烟雾逐渐变淡，飘散。在房顶另外一侧，一只猫沿着露台行走。那是一只走失的流浪猫，来自楼下小巷中的后花园。她不知道它为什么会出现这里，没有谁知道。不过，这时她脑海里浮现出这样的画面：她母亲满脸怒色，一个邻居手里拎着一只样子特别的鞋子，一名男子拎着一只高跟鞋。物品、情景、记忆，互不相关的状态交织起来。 甚至还有在被毒化的空气中飘浮的一个女人的名字。 迈尔斯领她去了一间影像艺术工作室。可以说，这里算不上什么工作室，只是几个房间而已，里面摆满了设备和电视机。那些搞影像艺术的人就住在这里。客人开始出现。有的人已经到了，其他人陆陆续续到来。空气中弥漫着强烈的气味，那是许多人卷制和吸食大麻之后留下的气味。这里的氛围类似于播放午夜影片之前的情形，只不过这一群人的特点更为突出——这些人两眼放光，对自己的预期持谨慎态度。 大多数人坐在地板上。一个房间里摆放了几把折叠椅，还有一张沙发。房间角落里，有些人站在一起。不过，大多数坐在布满汽水污迹和难以名状的污物的地板上。这套房子的房间里到处都摆放着电视机，一台一台地叠起来。其他的电视机分别摆在电视柜上，柜子上面放着几本《电视指南》。有的电视机带有天线，有几台装有桃花心木做的控制面板。那些电视机大小不一，有进口的微型机，也有家用的豪华大屏幕电视机。 一个房间里竖立着一面电视墙，大概一共有一百台电视机，尺寸完全相同，重叠起来，从地板一直垒到了天花板。 克拉拉和迈尔斯站在一个角落里。到达这里之前，她早就得知在这里可能看到什么样的情况。无论她心怀多少疑虑，她都得亲眼看一看。所以，她开始便让自己以超脱的态度来看待这次活动。 这次活动很少见，很奇特，将要放映的是一段走私而来的八毫米家庭影片，长度大约二十秒，可能比二十秒稍长一点。这段片子叫泽普鲁德影片，民间几乎没有人看过。 当然，这次活动具有一种特征，一种特殊强度构成的刺激。不过，如果那些出席者觉得自己有幸到场，他们心里也有某种浮动不定的恐惧，带着吸食毒品后的迷幻形成的感觉，对60年代进行一种解读。 片子开始在一个房间里放映，其他房间没有放映。画面模糊，剧烈抖动，是用一台超级8型摄影机拍摄的家庭电影。总统乘坐的轿车从街头驶来，画面受到太阳光照的影响，不太清晰。总统的脑袋出了画面，接着重新出现，最后是突然出现的致命枪击产生的巨大力量。子弹击中总统的脑袋，房间里的人发出一声惊呼，最后是另外一片噢的叫声。五秒钟后，后面的那个房间传来噢的惊呼，每次的呼叫完全相同，仿佛是脱口表达的难以置信的看法。坐在地板上一个女人转过脑袋，两手捂住面孔。你瞧，这段影片被封杀了这么多年，提供的是全新的东西。画面上是广为人知的那处头部枪伤，观众不得不设法接受它带来的冲击。受到枪击的是美国总统；除此之外，他们还得设法接受这一冲击：子弹带着致命意图，高速射出，对人的头部造成了重创。皮开肉绽，头骨裂开，这是一种可怕的揭示。 噢，糟糕，子弹是从前面射来的，对吧？ 这是另外的一个问题，那个连续镜头从第三百一十三个画面开始，再现了当时的所有情景。迈尔斯会说，你知道吗，在这个谋杀案的某个位置上，肯定有13这个数字。 她的背痛毛病复发，夜里难以入睡，有时候坐在椅子上也疼痛难忍。他们建议她去学瑜伽，给她讲喝草药茶、接受保健按摩的好处。 她和艾斯特一起，去医院探视接受心脏手术后处于康复期的杰克·马歇尔。艾斯特认为，探视病人的做法是从古埃及人开始的。古埃及人探视病人之前要化妆，让自己镇静，携带书本、字谜和鲜花，还要邀请一名吟诵经文的祭师同行。 艾斯特看来并不知道医院里的情况。她小心翼翼地挪动脚步，避开病房门，似乎害怕看到里面的什么情景，害怕染上什么疾病，显得非常在意。她对问病求医这样的事情保持超脱态度，探视病人是对她的心态的一种挑战。 杰克说，导尿管是英语语言中最肮脏的字眼。 他们建议说，她应该食用全麦面包，用温水泡澡，应该到芬兰去，接受一位专攻腰背疾病的医生的治疗。 初秋，她去上城，如期出席了阿西画展的开幕仪式。阿西身穿一件白色亚麻上装，头上缠着用闪光装饰片装饰的束发带，显得赏心悦目。作品上画着乳房、心脏形状的屁股，形成一种喧嚣的视觉冲击。一个女人的身体、贴身的礼服、圆润的嘴巴、高挺的乳房，这些全都变为带有政治意义的信条。 克拉拉觉得，这里没有什么让自己觉得舒服的东西。如果说女人罹患了让自己肌体残缺的疾病，有人可以痊愈，有人没能如愿，那么，这些画作炫耀这一点，赞美这一点，把它展现在观众面前。阿西让她自己的观点出现在画面构成中，出现在表现的视角中，出现在奇怪的身体特征中，出现在偏斜的硕大屁股中，出现在乳房与身体之间关系的这种偏差中。杰恩从捷豹车里侧身出来，艳光四射，膝盖和凹凸明显的臀部几乎要从裙子中蹦出来了。 这幅作品提出的问题是，如何使用具有力量的绘画线条？在这里，一个女人生活在男性欲望的官僚主义需求之外，生活在繁文缛节的仪式和好色之徒的控制之外。 阿西使用了偏离正常的色调，使用了肉色，完全是非流行的。她采用了大量沙土色、琥珀色，画了一朵遭到火烧的玫瑰。每一张油画布的顶端都有一根晒黑的条纹，有一丝悲凉，一点磨损。整个画面稍显模糊，有的地方出现重影，颜色重复，这是点睛之笔。展现在观众眼前的是盲目模仿的杰恩，是经过复制的女神。非原创特征赋予她更强大的力量。 他们一起去了一家迪斯科舞厅。她看着迈尔斯和阿西一起跳舞，觉得他俩非常般配。当然，她心里有一点醋意。半分钟之后，阿西开始与另外一个女人跳舞，她的感觉出现了变化，这时已经不是醋意，而是忌妒了。 她看着他们两人在摇摆的灯光下穿梭，看见他们两人的脸上闪烁着兴奋的光亮，被完全吸引住了，心里既羡慕又妒忌。那个女人穿着牛仔裤，脚下是平底凉鞋，头发搭在肩上，缕缕卷起，呈螺旋形状。克拉拉觉得她是某位外交官的女儿。两人的外貌非常相配，眼睛流露出狂热的亮光，带着某种不经意的狂放和优雅。她意识到自己内心的反应，不禁大吃一惊。 阿西脱颖而出，名气如日中天，才华展露无遗，表现出自由的感觉，方式强调自我。阿西需要所有这一切，也许会得到这一切。在灯光的映照下，她的身体呈现出条纹状光斑，上衣飞扬，音乐震动四壁。 有趣的是，艾斯特并不是在开玩笑。除了像人们所说的那样，带着一份宗教的虔诚，聆听一年一度的圣诞午夜弥撒，杰克已经多年不进教堂了。尽管如此，艾斯特还是作了安排，让来自演员礼拜堂的某个神父在那里露面。 他们围坐在一起，聊着百老汇演出中所用的曲调。杰克非常虚弱，既不唱歌，也不说笑，就像一块已被捣碎、摊开的小牛肉。艾斯特出去抽烟之前一直抓着杰克的手。她曾经戒烟，后来复吸。那位神父和她一起出去，克拉拉给杰克调整了一下枕头。 那天晚上的聚会结束时，克拉拉与阿西拥抱。克拉拉之夜就此结束的原因是，那个地方音乐简直让人头疼病发作，克拉拉不得不尽快离开。她拥抱时告诉阿西，展览很棒，接着说完了可以想到的所有祝福之辞。她很不情愿地向朋友表达爱意，举止之间充满细微变化，包含许多意犹未尽的东西，带着某种让人难受的感觉。 她决定和迈尔斯一起到洛杉矶去。迈尔斯用来拍摄诺曼尔·伊利诺斯的经费即将告罄，急于从住在洛杉矶的一个以色列黑帮分子那里获得资金。也许，他说了两个人，一个是以色列人，另一个是黑帮分子，这一点她不确定。不过，她决定去。她并不喜欢去，但是觉得自己应该摆脱目前这种没有目标的状态，摆脱这种难以界定的心理状态。她不确定她自己究竟处于其中的哪一种状态。 那位诗人坐在铸铁椅子上喝酒，就是那位参加房顶聚会的罗马尼亚访客。一个没人认识的女人拍摄了七卷影片，一言不发地离开，这究竟怎么一回事呢？ 她在那里待了三天。她在那里没有什么具体的目的，所见所闻也没有什么重要意义。不过，在这三天中，有人提及了瓦特塔。克拉拉多年以前知道了那些塔，觉得自己可能有时间去看，可是后来就忘记了。所以，她觉得这次或许应该去看一看。 在逗留期间，她接到从纽约打来的电话，那个人希望看到对阿西画展的评论。最先刊出的评论负面的居多，言辞激烈，态度严厉。克拉拉给一些人打电话，他们告诉她，坊间的评价甚至更糟。 他们刻意控制表达过程中使用的字眼，言谈中低声描述，听话的人根据对方欲言却止的停顿，理解其中的言外之意。 他们等待她做出明确反应，这使她感觉非常糟糕。他们等待她遵从惯例，恰到好处地表示欣喜之意。 这是她在离开洛杉矶前一天出现的情况。最后一天，她去看瓦特塔。迈尔斯把她送到那里，表示一小时之后来接她。她不知道应该看些什么，不知道一件地方色彩如此浓重的东西居然具有这样的史诗品质。她知道的情况是，那个人是移民，使用他可以找到的任何材料，单凭一己之力，辛辛苦苦地干了多年，在难以想象的漫长岁月中坚持不懈地进行创作。 她围着那些震撼人心的建筑转了一圈，不时伸手抚摸那些色彩鲜艳的表面。她喜欢用水泥镶嵌起来的突起门垫形成的图案，喜欢那些捣碎的绿色玻璃，喜欢嵌在拱门上的瓶底，喜欢较高的那座塔上的花饰窗格的旋转原子图案，喜欢用小卵石和贝壳粘接起来的南墙。 她不知道那地方究竟是用来做什么的。也许，它是一座游乐园，一座庙宇，她说不出别的用场；也许，它是印度德里的一座市场；也许，它是意大利街道上的一个场景；也许，它是一个充满顿悟的地方。对，这就是它的用场。 野猫不停跑过，它们的身影四处可见，有的在阳光下睡觉，有的伸出爪子抚弄身体。它们是流浪猫，来自灼热的街道，来自少数民族聚居区。柱子上镶嵌着破碎的玻璃、被人扔掉的镜子碎片、破碎的瓷砖。在前门上方，他用姜汁饮料罐子修建了拱门。她看到这些，觉得身上产生了一种静电。 她感觉到身体之中的静电，感觉到内心深处的精神。那种愉悦以近乎无助的方式表现出来，就像一个小姑娘，身体靠在最好朋友的肩膀上，全然无助地笑着。这样的感觉让她浑身无力，眼前的情景和感受让她浑身无力。她伸手抚摸，按压，抬起头来，目光穿过最高的那座塔下的支柱。这个人拥有如此美妙的独到艺术见解，也许很可能为这样的独立性而孤军奋斗。这时，她希望离开这里，不需要再待下去了。一个小时已经足够了，她站在入口处，脑袋里嗡嗡作响，等待迈尔斯的到来。 那天晚上，她不停地打电话，希望找到阿西。她忙了一个小时，把许多人都叫醒了。迈尔斯拖着吃力的步伐，走进来，站在那里，脱去靴子，伸手擦拭，重复擦拭。 她说：“你看一看吧，你的袜子颜色和地毯的完全相同。这肯定意味着应该离开了。” 他给她讲了那个下午的情况。他在一个排干了水的游泳池畔待了一个下午，在那里遇到了一名男子。那人给迈尔斯描述了他如何佯装落水，制造出虚假的自杀场景，最后设法让自己人间蒸发，没有留下任何破绽。 “你说得太快了。”她说。 一个名叫杨克尔的人说，那个以色列人腰缠万贯。有人假装死亡，我假装活命。 她再次给住在纽约的一些人打电话，发现阿西要么去了什么地方，要么根本不想说话。 迈尔斯很想说话。迈尔斯垂头丧气，步履艰难，不过同时也精力旺盛，极度烦躁。原因也许是咖啡因、高速公路上的交通，也许是吸食了什么管控药品。在处理公务之余，他们在三天中也干了其他事情。他们住在一套借来的公寓房里。他必须早起，为诺曼尔项目奔忙。在他的疲倦状态与充满活力的神经之间，存在这样一种空间。他们两人以令人信服的方式，用性交来填补它。他们反复做爱，交谈。他们感觉极棒，或者说，她感觉极棒——她不确定他的感受。他精神紧张，稍显焦躁，带着他天生的感冒。他说话时，情绪处于复调状态，大起大落，非常急切。他做爱时，情绪强烈，冷漠。那不是冷漠，而是无所寄托，给她一种做爱至上的感觉：除了性交行为之外，其他的东西均不存在。他们活着就是为了两人之间的爱抚，为了听到鼻腔呼气的声音。后来，他睡着了，她接着也睡着了。第二天上午，他们差一点错过了航班。 从空中俯瞰会有什么感觉？西部广袤，辽阔，盆地、山峰一一映入眼帘。你几乎可以确定大地上究竟有什么矿物，确定崎岖不毛之地上的那些页岩。这种景色非常宏大，具有大自然不吝赋予的美丽，让人从内心里叹服，觉得自己不知道自然所用的语言，不知道那些地层构造和层层山峦的名称。 她父亲曾经拍摄了印第安民族中的霍皮人——究竟是霍皮人，还是纳瓦霍人？——的照片。用他的观景大师牌立体相机，拍摄了站在大峡谷边上的一名观察兵，然后制成了幻灯片。他坐在厨房里，通过手握装置摆弄那些幻灯片。他管它叫伟大的西部，它过去伟大，现在伟大，看一看吧。他还拍摄了骑在骡子背上、沿着小道走下大峡谷的旅行者的立体幻灯片，管它叫大峡谷的柔软暮色披风。那就是他记忆中的西部印象，完全无法触及的西部。他坐在厨房里，那里的光线好一些。 她不了解西部，以前从未在这么好的天气状态下飞越西部。它显得年轻，没有受到人类活动的影响，具有我们从未见过的世界所具有的奇特性。从飞机上俯瞰，它并不属于我们，连绵不断，崭新，奇特。我们还没有在那里设立定居点。 这时，克拉拉想起了自己的身份，于是把目光从飞机窗口移开。尽管她并不总是相信她是搞雕塑的，搞艺术的。当有人说她不是搞艺术的，她相信他们的判断。 她想到了她从事的工作，想到油灰和废品组成的歪斜画面，对韵游戏的押韵，想到了锈蚀的钢铁和填塞的棉絮。她希望产生重新工作的强烈欲望，希望觉得灵感突然出现。那是一种值得信赖的感觉，全新的感觉，让她对眼睛观察不到的生活产生新的感悟。 克拉拉给许多人打电话，寻找阿西的踪迹，几天之后与她取得了联系。阿西感到痛苦，精神紧张，不想开口说话。然而，克拉拉和她交谈。克拉拉善于与人沟通，曾经以这种方式与特雷萨——她的执意感觉不快的女儿——谈过一千次。 那天晚上，她俩一起吃饭，聊了更多事情。克拉拉控制着整个过程，又是劝导，又是鼓励。她精于此道，迫切希望提供帮助，而且确实也提供了帮助。 招待员站在那里，嘴里念着当天的特色菜的名称。街道的另外一端出现了火灾，也许是错误的火灾警报。经过放大的声音从一辆卡车中传来，淹没了周围的其他声音。白天渐渐变短，街道开始呈现出一种中世纪的情景。穿着奇异的女人出现了，头上裹着围巾，就像图阿雷格人。她们住在废弃的汽车里，神色警惕，默默无语。她们之中有的在地铁里跳舞，乞求路过人施舍零钱，有的拥有自己的广播节目——在街道上，她们跟在你身后，给你讲述纽约的无尽灾难，你根本不需要什么收音机。 过了片刻，有人站起来，四处走动。他们没有离开，几乎没有人离开。电影片断重复播放，观众离开自己所在的角落，开始四处走动，有的去其他角落，有的站在电视墙前面。他们就像游客，在某个小型私人藏品陈列室里穿行。在泽普鲁德博物馆里，一件藏品永久展示，就是那一段使用家用摄影机拍摄的大约二十秒钟长的影片。它一直播放，没有间断。 它一直播放，没有间断。影片因为阳光而显得模糊，掌握国家权力的人乘车而过，他的身边站着自信的妻子。这段影片中出现了许多人，带有生日影片的特征。 有的人坐在地板上，手里传递大麻，眼睛盯着电视机，露出一种后天获得的敬畏神色。汽车过来了，开枪了。令人吃惊的是，在他们的文化中存在这样的力量：它们超乎他们想象，让他们吸毒引起的恐惧感显得非常庸俗，毫无用处。 在有些电视机上，影片以正常速度播放，在其他电视机上，以慢动作播放。那辆汽车驶入榆树街，经过了高速公路标识。那个脑袋移出画面，接着重新出现，枪声突然响起。 在不同的屏幕上出现了那段连续镜头的不同阶段，观众的目光可以从泽普鲁德影片第二百三十九个画面一下跳回到第一百八十五个，跳到头部中弹的画面，跳到开始的画面。在电视墙上，情节和画面形成各种组合。电视墙是一种游戏图板，由对角线、垂直线和其他元素构成，表现基本命运的塔罗牌关联，共时镜头以X组合方式出现。无论电视墙的数学表达是什么，同时出现了一百个图像。汽车过来了，开枪了。克拉拉可以确定，即便这不是那段影片的组成部分，在图书仓库标识的上方，也有一个赫兹租车的标识——她在照片上见过它，以前忘了，现在