Chapter 35 Section 7

If you don't know the surrounding area, you may walk into this place - a graveyard bar under the approach bridge.If you didn't look closely, you'd mistake it for a place that never closes, like those bars on Eighth Avenue called Red Roses or White Roses or Talking Stones or something.Plumbers, garment workers, spectators from the racetracks, insomniacs from nowhere frequented such establishments, some wanting a sandwich and a beer, some whiskey and a beer.This place, however, is in a different category entirely, actually out of time, called Frankie's Tropical Bar, on New York's Lower East Side.I went in and saw Jeremiah Sullivan.I was talking about the cemetery, and lo and behold, Sullivan looks very bad.

"Am I not mistaken?" I said, "Hello, Jerry." "Nick Xie? Where did you come from?" I said, "Hello, Jerry. What's this place?" "I know where I am. Where are you? I hear from you often, now in California, now in Arizona. I saw your mother three or four years ago. We haven't seen each other for many years. Fifteen years?" I said, "I'm here for a week on a research project for an institution in the Midwest. What about you?" "Don't pretend to be sedated. It's been almost fifteen years, and life goes by so damn fast. What would you like to drink?"

"What are you drinking?" "Don't ask," he said. "I'll just drink and don't ask." He looked around for the bartender, but the guy wasn't there.A man with a bandaged head sat on the other side of the bar, throwing coins into a shot glass.Two women sat on stools not far from where Jerry stood.You might think they were women who lived nearby.But they were neither attractive, nor accosting, nor caring about what other people said—they were old and pretty. We chatted about the details of our respective whereabouts and work.Later, Jerry gave details of the people we had known in those days.Perhaps, he saved the information for use on such an occasion.He was potbellied, his trousers were wrinkled, and his tie hung low over his shirt.

"Are you married, Nick?" "No." "Anyone you like?" "No. I saw a woman in Chicago recently. No reply, though. I'm not a man for marriage. I don't look like I'm going to start a family. I don't feel much about marriage, or even think about it." "Dream your dreams. I'm married. I have two children. I could have shown you the pictures, but you never want to see them." The bartender showed up and I ordered a large, full cocktail.It was almost dusk, and the light was getting darker.On the wall behind the bar, there is an unfinished mural of a palm leaf.On the beams, a Mexican-style sombrero dangles in the wind.Jerry said that it used to be a jazz bar, but it closed down shortly after it opened.They dropped jazz, and the clientele changed.He found himself a repeat customer here.Before returning home from get off work, he said, he needed an hour alone to have a drink and think.

He's right, I don't want to see pictures. "I'm thirsty," he said. "My father looked like an old man at thirty-five." "It's just that in your eyes, you were just in elementary school at that time. The adults all look very old." "No, he's really old, senile. Nice to see you, Nick. I thought of you, I've been there, it used to be very busy, and now it's empty." We went to grammar school together, and we used to hang out with the nuns a lot.Later, Jerry transferred to a Catholic school and I transferred to a public school.We rarely meet each other, occasionally in the cinema lobby, maybe buy each other a bottle of Coke or something.He had his friends and I had mine, and there was an uncanny separation between the two of us, not unfriendly, but the difference was deep.To a certain extent, it is the differences between different types of schools, which in turn have also changed in habits and practices.Beyond that, there are certain irreconcilable things, different ways of life, different friends, different futures.

"You've been away for too long, really long. Maybe, you should consider whether you can come back," he said. "Live here? Forget it. No, I'd like to be somewhere else." "Elsewhere. What's there elsewhere?" "There are things you've never heard of." "How good is it if I've never heard of it?" he asked. We used to call him Jumping Jerry.When he walked, his head bounced and his body twisted from time to time.I noticed that he still does, but with glasses and a school ring on his finger. I didn't tell him about me and the Jesuits.He would be so interested in that experience that I couldn't get out of it for hours.I told him about the project I was working on, and told him that the purpose of the project was to change the traditional way of teaching in schools.I work as a freelance partner for a behavioral research institute in Evanston, Illinois, visiting schools in ghettos and urban fringes, primarily New York and Philadelphia.

"You are teaching." "I've taught, I've taught, and I'll probably go back to my old job," I said. "Sooner or later. Teach high school, civics, and English. I hope to teach Latin, though." He was interested in that too, which he should have found amusing, but thought it would be interesting to teach Latin.For a while, Jerry had hoped to be a priest, and used to say the word priest.Perhaps, he wished to join the Irish Christian Brothers.Jerry had a strange look on his face when he heard that I wanted to teach Latin, thinking of the Nick he had known, and the Nick he had heard about since.What would it be like for such a person to teach Latin in a classroom?

"Did you go to see your mother?" "I went yesterday." I replied. "She still lives in No. 611?" "Still there." "I'd like to go back and have a look," he said. "I ate in Arthur Street. I walked around there and took my kids to the zoo." "Look at the situation now. That place is slowly disappearing." "There used to be a lot of people there, it was very crowded. Maybe, it's just what I remember? Those nights in the summer. It was great. Nice to see you, Nick. I'll have another drink, and you'll have another."

I hope to drink the first glass and leave.Maybe leave without finishing the drink.A chance meeting like this, if you stay an extra five minutes, can ruin your evening and your mood the next day. He kept fiddling with the cup. A man sat alone at a table, muttering under his breath.That kind of talking to himself is an adverse reaction after taking drugs, so that he is followed no matter where he is.They recorded his thoughts and used guide dogs to monitor him.They do the same on buses and subways. "Jerry, you should go home and play with your children. When you're fifty or sixty, you can come here and reminisce about the old days."

However, he doesn't want to go home.He wished to tell the fate of many souls connected, of those who lingered in their minds.Some died, some married, and some moved to Jersey City.The boy with five sisters who became a safe-breaker; the handball player who became a chiropractor; the brash blonde who married a professional boxer from Puerto Rico in fifth grade. "We should go there, Nick. I mean it. Take the subway and we'll be there in forty-five minutes. We can eat at Mario's. I'll make a few phone calls and ask some old folks. They'll be very happy , meet us there. I mean it. Come on, drink this drink and go."

He spoke in an urging tone, defensively, a little angry, and half drunk.He was excited by the plan and sullen in advance.He was worried that I wouldn't buy it, that he wouldn't go to the Bronx, that I might be indifferent to seeing old friends.He already sensed that I might say no directly. "Come on, really. Let's take the subway. We'll meet Lofaro. Meet the old neighbors. They'll be very glad to see you, Nick." I don't want to spoil his interest, and I don't want to give him the feeling that I stay out of it and I am superior.Jerry knew that I had been in the penitentiary, and was somewhat ignorant of neighborhood affairs and gossip.Here I am, wearing a tweed jacket, working a job I like, looking to do well, quit smoking, drinking moderately, befriending a sexy woman with a mellow voice, and maybe criticizing her a lot.Take a look at him, by contrast.The good-natured Catholic boy of yesteryear is now flabby, old and unwilling to come home—his wife and two children live in Jackson Heights, Queens.He never left his cigarettes, smoking one after another, his eyes were already black from drinking.He worked for the radio station and used the telephone to sell commercial time.It's all for one reason - he didn't kill someone. "We've got to do this," said Jerry. "We'll take a cab—I'll pay for it." A man named Jörg started talking to the bartender.Jörg wears a headband and looks like a sexually deranged.I don't think these people are strictly regulars here.They are denizen (foreign residents).For some unknown reason, the word denizen is of late Latin origin with a deep meaning.That's who they are.These troubled souls work hard to find their place in society.It slowly dawned on me that Jerry had come here, to be with these kinds of people, to get a break from his self-pity, from all the painful aspects of real life.They spoke to him in voices of a sort of fanciful monophonic chant.The voice chattered, expressing neither the usual meaning nor strict intonation.It comes from the depths of their hearts, not from the way he can live with his own words. The lights were dim and flickering. Jerry and I were chatting, a woman was with Jörg, and the bartender was discussing the perfect serving temperature for beer.Suddenly, the lights began to dim, flickering, and finally went out. Jerry said: "It was a whim. I called a few times and found a few people. What's the name of that person, Ali. My friend, listen to me, you have no right to refuse such a thing." At this time, all the lights were extinguished. The man on the other side of the bar stopped flipping coins into his shot glass. Someone asked: "Why did the lights go out?" We sipped cocktails, Jerry and I. The barman asked, "Do you know why?" Someone started talking loudly in the toilet and we could hear it from our seats. The bartender said, "Looks like the whole block is out from here." The first voice said, "Why did the lights go out?" "They must be fixing the fault that caused the short circuit," said the bartender. "I don't have any candles here." The voice in the toilet is getting louder and more anxious. An older woman said something to another woman, and it was the first time they both spoke. Jerry and I sipped cocktails. "Do you know why?" the bartender asked. Jörg was speaking in Spanish at this time. The bartender brought a candle from the back room of the bar and put it between two bottles on the shelf below the mural. The woman with Jörg also spoke Spanish, but badly, talking to the man in the bathroom. The bartender made his way to the door. "I thought Ali died in North Korea." "That's Vigiano. Died in North Korea." "Stepped on a land mine, I think." "That's Mike. Stepped on a mine. Vigiano." The two old women were silent again, having adapted to the darkness, sitting there drinking. "You've been telling me that for years." "Casualties of the wrong war you speak of." "Maybe, it's a just war, wrong people." "Let's go out," he said, "I want to see what's going on outside." "I'm not going to continue to feel sorry for Ali." "I think, the whole block is out. Ali is selling fish at his father's stall, which is in the market. Let's go find him. I'll call him." The two of us came to the sidewalk with wine glasses in hand.There was a power outage in this neighborhood, the whole area was out.It was after five o'clock, it was dark, and the traffic lights on the street went out.We could hear car horns blaring above us from the entrance to the bridge to the west. People were coming out of shops, out of apartments, out of locksmiths, grocery stores and cash exchanges.They stand together and start chatting.We looked east along the tenement-built street and saw the East River, a ribbon shimmering and forming something soft, a visual whisper behind the bulky dark silhouette in the foreground. "Did the power go out in Brooklyn? I think Brooklyn has a power outage." "Brooklyn definitely has a blackout." People were talking and looking up from time to time.They looked at the sky towards Midtown, trying to see the top of Manhattan Island.Of course, it was blocked by clusters of tall buildings.However, people are still looking up at the sky, some are pointing, some are talking. I walked into the bar, put the glass on the table, and left some money near the glass.There was still someone in the toilet, speaking Spanish, anxious, talking about his mother, or someone else's mother.I figured he either couldn't find the toilet paper or the deadbolt.Such issues expatriate residents often have to contend with. Later, standing in the door of the bar, I saw Jerry and the bartender talking on the street, with three or four other people, about twenty yards from the bar.Their figures are illuminated by the lights of passing cars from time to time, and each of them is emotional.They were thrilled by the widespread blackout, and they were thrilled by the power involved.Sometimes they were talking and sometimes they were pointing. I walked in the opposite direction of the street.After half a block, I walked across the street, through an archway under the bridge, and into a waste dump.It was littered with household garbage, battered cars and piles of rubble dumped by construction workers.At the northern end of the passage, I could see the tall silhouettes of Midtown against the night sky.I heard the car horns getting louder and louder, one after another, echoing each other.Rush hour traffic grinds to a halt like dead dinosaurs.I stepped out to the other end of the passage, barely moving cars with their headlights on, rivers of light illuminating the path beneath my feet and accompanying me across the street. He was back in New York, back in the womb of consciousness, and gave a show at Carnegie Hall to an audience of nearly three thousand.Standing on the large stage, he looked over the orchestra, across the two floors of boxes, and landed on the top balcony.There, people stood in the aisles, blocking the exits. Lenny Bruce speaks loudly. "New York, New York. Twice we shout. Once to lure them out of Kansas, once to their graves." The audience stands up. "New York, New York. It's like a priest preaching in Latin. Inexplicable words, inexplicable words. He said it twice because he was talking about shit and urine and corruption. He wanted to make sure you understood him." His people were all there, the A&R rock band from the Buller Building, his fellow comedians who worked toilets all over Jersey City, the ushers who were actors, would-be actors, and part-actors, and the hostesses. Stock taxi drivers.Bald men from the Upper West Side with rough-hewn side locks and pained faces.There came their wives, some with curly hair, some with cursing words, some with stubborn opinions, some with naked bodies, some with fat faces, and some with unbridled laughter. Lenny wore a carefully pressed white body-fitting top over a dark brown turtleneck shirt.The man seemed to be reminding himself that he was indestructible. It was midnight, and it was pouring rain outside.Yet it was packed with musicians, folk entertainers, fashion magazine writers, and a host of pale, clothed bodies riddled with pinholes.Quite a few empty-hearted people have just taken dimethyltryptamine.The fast-acting synthetic psychedelic drug was developed by NASA and initially given to men on the moon.Whether we like it or not, they were sent to the moon and brought back safely. He looked up and down first, and looked around. "It's been a crazy, stressful, sick week. We're exhausted, we're almost dead in the fire of a nuclear war. But now, but now, just now." His eyes swept across the rows of slender columns, down the third story, to the faces that appeared above the railing at the top of the hall.Spotlights mounted on the side walls shone on the faces of the young men, making their faces glow slightly. "We're all screwed!" He took a step forward, like a rap dancer, and stood there laughing, mouth open, hands held up, fingers spread. "Now, they've saved us. Guys from Ivy Leagues wearing twill suits and black ribbed socks. They're so long they go down to your knees. So when they're crossing their legs on TV We can't see the weird white calf between the sock and the hem of the trousers. The skin in that spot is pale and very vulnerable. The legs of powerful people tend to be hairless, which makes them feel weak inside. Feminine. So, they always need to make sure that the socks they wear are of sufficient length. It is for this reason that garter belts are also a delicate thing. No, oh yes, they saved us, it was them. The Russians agreed to dismantle the missiles in Cuba and stop building missile bases there. Khrushchev retched, the smell of potatoes came out of his mouth. He took a hot bath to relax himself, as if he had just A plastic bag full of corn lifted from a hot pan." Lenny's teenage fans are on the scene.They were devout men from Brooklyn and Queens who wrote down his performances verbatim, based on tapes of live performances.However, they used secretly recorded bootleg tapes.The boys from the Bronx jumped and ran along Center Avenue, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lenny.Lenny is a magical figure in their eyes, a master of the art who reveals the very truth that they admire very much. "They wore horn-rimmed glasses and plain hair, but they saved us. They were trained at thousands of banquets to know how to deal with this missile crisis. Right at the banquet table, no Wrong. Banqueting is the crowning achievement of Western civilization, not a work of art in a second-rate museum, not a tome in a library where loafers from the street pollute the men's room. Forget those places, forget Eton Learn the playing field. The most important thing is the seating arrangement at the banquet, and we have a head start on this. These people have been tested in the most brutal conditions, and they have survived with gritted teeth. At the banquet, very huge strength Things happen, and crucial events unfold. Think about it, those parties are held on the Northeast Corridor of the American rail system. Your mother once said, honey, socialize with different people. When she said this , her voice was a little anxious, with a hint of fear. She knew that it was either to socialize with people or die. We had the upper hand on this point. These people grew up to be on such occasions. Show your skills. That's right, trained for a thousand banquets, starting in adolescence. Sitting next to adults, sitting next to people you've never met, forced to find a conversation. Think about it, you guys, tell your kids this What a sadistic state of mind it takes. Find something to talk about. Some people don't make it, and some give up halfway and get sent to forestry school. Where they work with roots and leaves all day, their faces Grow fur and have complex relationships with animals. Others, however, are very, very different. Others sing marches, masturbate, marry their cousins, become tough, strong Do you know they were very strong men when they shaded the windows and played bridge with their wives. The sun gave them migraines. They twisted their handkerchiefs while they talked. Remember Aunt Towa sitting there twisting her handkerchief Right? She said stand up straight. She said talk to people. Go try it? Try it for me, baby." This evening, the performance was very long, lasting three hours without a break.The reason the show is so long is because they've just come through a crisis and need to indulge themselves, it takes so long.Also, the reason the show was so long was that Lennie couldn't stop talking.He stood at the entrance of the stage, raised his head, looked at the beautifully decorated ceiling, and looked at the resplendent boxes.He knew in his heart that this was a palace of art, where Casals, Heifetz and Toscanini once performed on stage.This gave him great motivation.The reason the show lasted so long was also that he, who had been terrified all week, was now relieved, quick-witted, and willing to spend the night at the show. Pop disc jockey here.Often late at night, they spoke in hoarse sarcasm and played jazz records.In the orchestra pit sat the socialites, and that place was called the nave, not the usual seats.People are tired of normal comedy, want to be challenged, to be bashed, to hear their well-meaning opinions presented, as free-flowing chitchat after dinner. Lenny took off the microphone from the stand and expressed his blessings to all the audience. "Let me tell you a little-known story that happened this week. The President called the Pope." The audience's eyes were expectant.However, this made him feel a little unhappy—tonight, he was not in the mood to talk about the Pope. "Yes, the two of them have been in secret contact throughout this week. Don't believe the nonsense about the separation of church and state, the two are stuck together." The Pope's topic will definitely make people laugh, and Lenny doesn't need to be here The icing on the cake. "The Pope owns submarines, do you know? Pope Paul, if you ask, I'll send them to you. We'll kill 'em, son of a bitch. Your Majesty. I'm surprised to hear you say that. You have your own." Submarine fleet?" Lenny lost interest and turned to sermons and exhortations, his thoughts on patriotism, communism, the personal income tax, women with cigarette butts stuck in their pussies and puffing out round smoke rings.The audience applauds every time he utters a hilarious line or flashes of wit.At this time, he will say, thank you, please don't do this, please, don't let me get carried away. "I've always known this, I've known it since I was a kid. I'm as depraved as they are. I grew up here. The police here are not straight, and I'm not straight. The politicians here talk, and I'm a better lie than they are. I Thinking of committing suicide on a TV show so people sleep with the face of a dead sinner in their head." They saw the bleary-eyed dandy, saw the lively little boy, heard him speak in a hoarse voice, hoarse, trying to make his mother laugh.They heard the deranged stand-up performer spouting incoherently.They saw that the fellow was in a trance, loafing, listless, rambling.They see this word-hunter, this sociophilosopher, this self-proclaimed legal expert, this self-deprecating Jew, this preacher of Christian morality, this commentator on race. “Last night, I flew in from Miami, got a taxi, and went straight to the Apollo Theater. I was there with a few friends, and I was doing a nightly show because I loved that scene. After the show, I came out and I With a suitcase, a garment bag. It was late, it was cold, and we couldn't find a taxi. The taxi wouldn't go to Harlem. So, we started wandering the streets. On the corner of a street In the movie, we see an old man rapping to three people. He is about a hundred years old, preaching to three poor souls, like the character in the Hyde Park speaker corner. The difference is that he has grown A black face." Lenny imitated the voice of the street preacher, and it worked surprisingly well.Although he started out by imitating the way other people speak, with a German accent, recreating the voices of Cagney and Bogart to perfection, and although he updated frequently, imitating the lobbying voices of his contemporaries, it was not actually fashionable to do so.White burlesque actors don't usually mimic black voices over the years, do they? "The old man took out a bill and held it by the edge. It was crumpled and older than he was. He glanced at it and said, Legal Custodian, he said, that's a name. I gotta Admittedly, I wouldn't use that term for paper money myself. He said we see machines printing bills in large format, like capping bottles on a conveyor belt, very fast. They print, print, Printed. But my question is, what happened to the printed bills? I didn't see any of them, what about you?" Lenny stood under the hanging curtain, imitating the old man's voice, bending slightly, wearing a white Italian suit and black camping boots with small colored circles on the black upper. "He said, on that day, at that moment. He was standing there in a rumpled black jacket with biking clips on his ankles. I said, I would give everything I owned. Leave it to him. Please understand what I mean. It's not out of pity, it's not out of charity, it's not some old Christian bullshit. It's out of appreciation, out of gratitude to him. So late, in such a place, can hear him speak in that voice. Because this is New York, New York. The reason I say New York twice is that the situation was very tense at that time. The United States and the Soviet Union were evenly matched. Think about it Think, the old man is still performing there with a clip on his trousers. That man is an actor, that is an art he has been doing for decades. I stand there and listen to him perform. It is funny to say that I hear my own voice , or rather, I see myself. In my imagination, I see myself listening to an old man like him at twelve or thirteen. That's his voice, his show time. On that day , that moment. He held the bill in his hand and said that when that moment comes, the world will be divided into two parts, those who can understand the Gospel, and those who cannot." He paused, and there was silence in the hall.Lenny seemed half lost in reverie, half in speculation.Perhaps, the audience is starting to feel uncomfortable, because he can't seem to get him to stop imitating the old man's voice, as if the old man's voice is intertwined with his own.Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, the intertwining of the two voices seems inevitable.Maybe the old man was alone in the room sometimes, talking unintentionally in Lennie's voice, hearing the music in his head at some level, the sound of Lennie playing the flute.Perhaps it seemed inevitable that Lenny would use the old man's voice to express the old man's meaning. "Later, he looked at us, at the side we were standing on. On our side there was a black man, a white man, two white women, and one of them had been standing on the street waiting for a taxi. The old man looked Looking at us, looking up and down, as if he knew what we were doing. He turned his head and continued to face the original audience, facing the three lost people in the street, three lost people living in a lost world. I said The Lost Lands of America are right here, right here in America. He started rapping again, and the three of them continued to stand there and listen." Lenny imitated the old man's voice for a long time, and had to pause again after the end in order to return to the stage and face the audience in the hall again. "I really wanted to give him a pocket full of clothes, a box full of medicine, a house in the Hollywood Hills. The few of us only listened to it for eight or nine minutes, maybe not that long. A taxi pulls up and we leave. I'm not going back because somehow I just don't want to go back, that scene made me rush away. And his life, the songs he raps. I should say something about Poland The light bulb joke." The audience finally laughed. "I should stand here and tell you a joke about Chinese hospitality." He told a joke about Chinese hospitality, which made the audience laugh.He told a couple of jokes about the movie, which the audience clearly enjoyed.He told his usual jokes in polo suits, suede shoes and mustache.They laughed, but he was unhappy.There was a rather biting sarcasm in his old jokes, which only made them happier and him more depressed.They were laughing, and his heart was bleeding, feeling really bad.He should have been happy, excited.However, he couldn't do it.They all survived a very perilous week; he was exhausted, flying from coast to coast to play at the four clubs he was scheduled to play.Now, the crisis has passed, and he is safe and sound, appearing in the music hall.So he should stand here and lead them in the chanting, "We're not going to die! We're not going to be done! We're not going to be done!" It's a joyous prayer, but also ironic, because this is New York , New York, we wanted it to be upbeat and ironic. He felt that they were going to be finished, so he repeated this sentence: We will not be finished! However, after he said that, he immediately put everything behind him.There were other, deeper, more nebulous questions—questions of everything, of nothingness, of himself. "Tonight, I come here to receive from you an unprecedented friendship. Please love me more than anyone you have ever loved before, whether it is sunny or raining, it will never change." There was unabashed pleading in Lennie's eyes. "Whether you are a parent, a child, or a lover, I hope to bathe myself in love." Please go back to your seat, please go back to your seat, please go back to your seat. The show material upset him, and the audience's laughter made him feel worse than the jokes he told.Those laughs hit his heart and made him deeply depressed.He more or less turned to something he was thinking about before the missile crisis.He was in Los Angeles at the time, sitting on a can—that position gave him intelligence and clarity. In fact, he had brought up the subject in a casual way this evening.The audience feedback he elicited seemed to show interest and discouragement. He decided to play on the spot. Ok.In a brothel in the poorest part of San Jose, lived an illiterate, sad-eyed virgin.She has a special knack that has nothing to do with sex itself.how to say?It's a small trick.Men spent half their salaries buying tickets, and a modest basement room was packed.The girl's skin was delicate, smooth as silk, and with a pure expression, she took off her clothes and unbuttoned her pants.She took a lighted cigarette from the brothel owner and stuffed the filter into her vagina.The eyes of the men present were wide open. It was a long Wrigley with filters.Then she contracted her labia muscles, or something, sort of like smoking vaginally, and moved the cigarette away, puffing out a stream of smoke rings.The men were panting and flushed.A round smoke ring emerges from the thick pubic hair, floats upwards, and slowly spreads out, maintaining its shape. Strictly speaking, Lennie's audience was not panting like the men in the brothel, and there was a commotion in the hall, followed by nervous laughter. Someone explained the girl's talents religiously.They felt that it was an omen, a sign from heaven, that the end of the world was coming.上帝选择一个没有文化、营养不良、非常可怜的穷孤女，让她向世人传达一条非常深奥的信息。那些圆圈从她子宫里出来，是希腊字母Ω，表示世界末日，这难道不可能吗？有的人说，记者、科学家和神父纷纷赶到那家妓院，希望亲眼见证。他们说，她喷出的圆圈不是希腊字母Ω。无论那些圆圈多么像希腊字母Ω，它们其实是英语中的字母O。那些人说，那个姑娘真的能够喷出希腊字母Ω，让它们看上去像U形，像阴道开口的两端，那么，他们就会相信圣迹了。 这就是伦尼·布鲁斯使用的表演素材。这就是那些观众来这里的目的，对吧？还有谁会使用这种素材呢？如果它显得令人恶心，那就更好了。如果你个人觉得它带有侮辱性，你可以起身离开。拉着你只会玩字谜游戏的丈夫躲得远远的。 一天晚上，一位富有的美国鳏夫与几个朋友一起，出现在表演现场。那个姑娘露出自豪的神情，两眼盯着他的面孔。后来，她把香烟的过滤嘴插进阴道，喷出两个烟圈，一个大的套着一个小的，接着在小的烟圈里又加上一个烟圈。她的庸俗表演让那个百万富翁觉得非常震撼，心里暗暗产生了兴趣。后来，他每天夜里独自一人到场观看表演，没过多久便爱上了那个姑娘。没错，他爱上她的清澈明亮的眼睛，爱上她那肉嘟嘟的双膝，爱上她浓密的阴毛。他下定决心要让她脱离那种悲惨生活。他花费大量金钱，可以说是从妓院老板手里把她买了下来，带回自己俯瞰哈德森河的山顶豪宅。他请来许多医生、培训师、心理学家和营养师，看着姑娘学有所成，健康成长，能讲四种语言，并且表现出吹奏双簧管的天赋。 伦尼讲到这里停顿下来，说明故事的结尾——他要说出的点睛妙语——部分，让人回想起姑娘原来的经历。尽管文明教化对她产生了巨大影响，那个姑娘的行为显示了一个令人震惊的老习惯具有的顽固力量。 伦尼后来说：“哦，对了，请等一等。我们得回过头去看一看。重操旧业的不是那个姑娘，而是那个美国人。想一想吧，他那种人对自己所做的任何事情都持怀疑态度。他开始质问自己。她究竟是一个心灵扭曲的儿童，还是一个具有艺术天赋的孩子？她究竟是让男人上床后便锒铛入狱的祸水妞，还是一个守身如玉的圣洁女？换言之，他把她带回家里，给她提供良好教育，不让她接触香烟，他这样做是否犯下了可怕的错误？他开始回忆自己在圣何塞市度过的那些非常疯狂的夜晚。”伦尼提到圣何塞时，发出了浓重的喉音。“没错，就是在她表演的那家妓院的臭气熏天的地下室里度过的那些夜晚。傻瓜，还是承认了吧，你毁掉了一种具有异国风情、手法青涩、震撼人心、非常怪异的变态表演，用一只令人觉得乏味的双簧管取而代之。顺便说一句，她每天都吹奏那种乐器。不管怎样说，双簧管只是长支箭牌香烟的替代品，是被正常化的东西，是用于演出的东西。” 伦尼侧身站着，一只手握着话筒，另一只手抚摸着下巴。 “他满怀渴望，想要看到烟圈从她的阴部，从她的大腿之间冒出来的情景，先是她细长的两腿之间的香烟，然后是缓缓升起的圆圈。当年，他把她从妓院老板手里赎出来时，她很快就能让烟圈缠绕成串了。那要么是神圣的三位一体的象征，让人想起圣父、圣子、圣灵，要么是百龄坛啤酒的标识——纯度、质感、醇香。无论那些烟圈表示什么，诸位都可以想象一下他当时的兴奋状态。” 伦尼抬头看了一眼舞台侧翼，若有所思。 “两人在厚厚的草坪上举行了一场没有香烟的结婚仪式。新婚之夜，她依然是处女之身，穿着睡衣，站在房间西面的窗户前。他走进去，穿着宽松裤和晚间便服，手里拿着装有香烟的烟斗，一支没有点燃的长支箭牌香烟。” 然而，伦尼心里没有把握，不知道这个段子该如何收场。 “他从烟斗里取出香烟，伸手递给她，目光扫视她睡衣下面若隐若现的胴体。她后退一步，满脸惊恐。她说，你肯定疯了。她用四种语言表达了这个意思。她表达任何意思几乎都要使用四种语言，这个习惯已经开始让他心生厌恶了。” 这时，伦尼灵机一动，想到一个更深奥、更有挑战性的主意。 “等一等，听我说。那个百万富翁是我虚构的人物，对吧？我们把他塞进故事之中，因为我们需要一个腰缠万贯、性格软弱的慈善家，需要一个做事体面的傻瓜。他脑子里有自我欺骗的幻想，最后却表现出藏在灵魂深处的堕落。他是我们杜撰出来的，现在让我们实话实说吧。” 他意识到观众流出失望的神情。他们希望听到新婚之夜那一幕，听到睡衣、闺房，听到他随心所欲编造的结尾。这类似于他讲述的狼孩故事。那个男孩在狼群中长大成人，在森林中被人发现，经过教育和培养，最后获得了麻省理工学院的优等学位。大学毕业一个星期之后，他在街上飙车，惨死在另外一辆汽车的车轮之下。 “让我们实话实说吧，”他说，“他并没有把那个姑娘从变态的生活中拯救出来。她把客人给她的少得可怜的现金积攒起来，依靠自己的力量，逃离了那家妓院。她搭乘飞机，到了纽约这个人欲横流的地方，希望找到她母亲。她母亲没有死，原来的说法是我随口杜撰的。” 糟糕，他让观众觉得非常扫兴。他可以感觉失望的情绪漫延开来，影响到坐在廉价票区域的观众。那里的年轻拥趸们趴在栏杆上，渴望听到一个下流的结尾，听到某种使人恶心的圆满结尾。 “她也从未在妓院待过，”伦尼说，“她根本没有脱下裤子，根本没有从阴部喷出的什么烟圈。其实，她没有在圣何塞居住过，真的。” 伦尼喜欢说圣何塞这个城市的名字。没错，他正在解构自己讲述的故事。他知道观众这时已是满头雾水，但是心里却不能责怪他们。 “让我们还原她的生活吧。她和我们一样，也是真实的人。你搭乘地铁，到南布朗克斯区去吧。她就住在那里，与靠收集废品为生的母亲住在一起。姑娘刚刚出落，男人便开始注意她了。她母亲来去无踪，无缘无故地消失，悄声无息地回来。电话公司切断了她家的电话，房东常常上门催租，后来把驱逐令贴在门口。你见不到房东，因为房子归一家公司，名叫XYZ地产，公司的邮箱在格陵兰岛上。姑娘在无人居住的场所藏身，出没于迷宫一般的背街小巷。她母亲又消失了，她担心房东会把自己抓起来。让我们还原她的生活吧，让我们给她一个真实名字吧。” 可是，他没有说她的名字，他无法想到任何合适的名字，想不到真实的名字。这时，他话锋一转，说起了流传已久的笑话。他讲了一个关于丈母娘的笑话，观众哈哈大笑。真的，这笑话非常滑稽。他讲了一个关于犹太人的笑话，效果更佳，引起观众的强烈反应，大厅里笑声四起。他慢慢地转向种族、两性、宗教方面的话题，言语滑稽，带有攻击性。伦尼在这天晚上表演的节目结束了，全场响起热烈的掌声和笑声，站在顶层的那帮青少年兴奋地大声叫喊。他穿着傻乎乎的白色上装，站在大舞台上，显得渺小，带着懊悔。最后，他转过身，朝着侧翼走去。 几个小时之后，我还没有停下脚步。我路过自己住宿的酒店，继续朝前走，到了时报广场附近一幢难以形容或归类的建筑物前。在那里，他们将会给我一支蜡烛，领我进门，到楼梯井前。可是，我希望继续前行。在那个地方，我只需爬五层楼梯，然而我希望走进夜色之中，亲眼看一看那东西。 我看见亮着下班信号灯的出租车，不过人们还是打开车门，钻了进去，因为那些出租车停在交通信号灯前，既无法避开，也无法加速离开。我竖起短上装衣领，朝东走了一阵，在城市图书馆附近看见了一大群人。这时，我才意识到，那里是公交车站。那里有六七百人，肯定有那么多，聚集在一起，在一定程度上也不算太乱，沿着人行道站立，队伍一直延伸到图书馆台阶上。他们冒着从第五大道吹来的寒风，等着公共汽车出现。 我没有穿外套，外套留在伊利诺斯州的埃文斯顿市了。我埋着头，俯身向前，看见有人步行走过皇后区大桥，八九个人一排，一行大概有五十人，正在接管大桥。队伍后面是一长串慢慢行驶的汽车，后面还有大批步行回家的人。 就在这个时候，我脑海里出现了这个念头，心里不禁一阵懊悔。 在第七十大街，我找到一家点着蜡烛的餐厅，坐下来用晚餐。顾客很多，需要拼桌，餐厅的人安排我和其他三人坐在一起。当然，席间只有一个话题，至少有一阵如此。我们很想知道这次停电究竟涉及多大范围，是否是人为破坏造成的。有人——他系着蝴蝶结领结，是一名图书编辑——说，这是希区柯克早期拍摄的一部影片名称，主演是西尔维亚·西德尼。那个人一口气说了影片中其他演员的名字。那部影片开始时的场景就是停电。许多人排队等着就餐，所以我们没有点甜食和咖啡。我在附近的一家酒吧里喝了一杯酒，心里说，杰里——杰里·萨利文——的预见是正确的。这让我心里涌起懊悔，一阵内疚。今天晚上，我们——杰里和我——应该去布朗克斯区。我们步行去，不用争抢出租车。长途步行，穿过漆黑、寒冷的城市，这样做有点疯狂，有点煽情。 可是，我后来觉得那做法有些愚蠢，行了，算了吧。我俩可能在半途失去兴趣，可能与抢掠的人，与行凶抢劫的人发生冲突，也许会感到疲倦，杰里可能会感到疲倦。如果这样，会出现什么样的结果呢？ 一名男子手持卷起的杂志，站在那里指挥交通。他身材有点肥胖，可是步履轻盈，转动迅速，努力疏通第八十六大街上乱作一团的车流。他耸了耸肩，没有理睬周围响成一片的汽车喇叭声音，不停地比划着交通信号。他穿着带有绒毛领子的轻便外套，手里的指挥棒闪闪发光，让人纷纷驻足观看。无论围观的人如何评价，他的动作认真，灵巧，蕴含着巨大的热情，感染了街道上的人们。 我心里想，步行穿过曼哈顿，进入布朗克斯区，这在一定程度上也算一个壮举，一个不错的选择。在这个非常特殊的夜晚，世界面临分崩离析，我们可以一直走到原来居住的那个街区。我们可以把它视为一种姿态，一种回忆之举。然而，当我们在凌晨两点到达那里之后，下一步该怎么办呢？ 有的电台配有备用电源，没有中断播音。有人一边走，一边听半导体收音机。有人裹着头巾，出售手电筒和蜡烛。在成千上万的公寓窗户里闪着微弱的烛光。在小杂货店门外，许多人排起了长队，等着购买蜡烛。街道拐角处，电话亭也排起了长龙。 电网失去了作用。What does this mean?相互连接的整个系统崩溃了。也许，连接不够紧密。西尔维亚·西德尼在黑暗之中。 从某个角度看，整个城市的霓虹灯全部关闭，呈现出饱受困扰的轮廓，显得深不可测。今天晚上，可以看到一大片天空。公园里的亭台楼阁似乎被压扁了，变为一种深色天鹅绒，遭到了蚀刻，死气沉沉，缺乏让夜晚产生脉动的静电。 我听到了鼓声，敲击的声音，不是断断续续的，也许是手鼓的声音，沉闷，飘忽，从公园里传来。 在这里，我觉得陌生。我对曼哈顿的了解仅仅在街道层面上，并不完整。我心里出现些许孤立感。这个地方有许多需要认识的东西，有许多突然出现的炫示，有一种难以理解的心态和伪装，超过南非的德兰士瓦省的某种方言。这些因素让我感到害怕。每个人都知道同样的七种东西。可是，你可能必须花上几年时间才能读完清单。到了那时，数字可能完全变了，你可能需要了解整个清单。 他们在第九十大街那里走出公园。一队嬉皮士正在举行烛光游行，有的吹着长笛，有的敲着大鼓和手鼓，大约五十人，一边走，一边高呼口号。一名男子伸出的舌头上竖立着一根钢针，一个女人的脖子上缠绕着一条大蛇。一股烟雾发出刺鼻的气味，那是某种相同性质的不正当行为产生的气味。一路同行的还有小孩，以及背在背上、放在吊索中的婴儿。游行的人喊声嗡嗡的，不太清晰，带着鼻音。我觉得，他们喊的是炸弹这两个字。那种感应共鸣带着祈祷的严肃意味，被人一再重复。不过，他们的胸前和背上携带着婴儿，肯定不会高喊预示不祥的字眼，对吧？ 也许，杰里的建议是正确的，我无权拒绝。他勇敢建议步行到布朗克斯区去。刚才，我错过了机会，没有响应这个很好的主意，内疚感油然而生。 我看着游行的人沿着公园边缘朝南行进。街道上汽车少了，开始变得越来越暗，一种奇怪的平静开始慢慢降临，让人心生恐惧。究竟有多少人被困在地铁里，被困在拥挤不堪的电梯里，万分焦急，等待救援呢？怀疑、瘫痪的可能性总是存在，这就是隐含在依赖电力的城市之中的危险，这城市会停止运行而冷却，让人全然无助，身处伸手不见五指的黑暗之中。在这种情况下，人们可能和我现在一样，心里开始怀疑整个城市究竟是如何运行的。 我往东走，进入第九十六大街。街道上空空荡荡，死气沉沉，商店关门，公交车站没人等候，电话亭里不见人影。自我不复存在，眩晕也不复存在，整个城市失去了飞快旋动的活力。一辆没有名称的轿车朝着相反方向行使，这时停在街道中央。开车的人把脑袋伸进大风之中，大声问我。 我问：“你说什么呀？” “你到哪里去？我拉你去，价格便宜。” 我看着他，庆幸自己离开了杰里。假如和他在一起，就会面对危险，就会听他唠叨废话。我是无法忍受他的废话的。我上了车，告诉那个家伙自己住的酒店。如果电话能用，我希望在房间里给玛丽安——玛丽安·鲍曼——打电话，告诉她这里发生的事，询问他们那里了解的情况。 汽车仪表板上有一个洞，那里应该是安装收音机的地方。不过，我还是问那个家伙听到什么消息没有。 “全部停电了，整个缅因州都停了。还有马萨诸塞州的波士顿，还有宾夕法尼亚州，我妹妹住在那里。加拿大的安大略省也停了，这次停电影响的地方非常多。” 我身体倚在靠背上，看着街道从身旁闪过，借着月光，观察可以看见的东西。 我俩在三年之后结婚，我们的女儿生于1970年。就在那一年，在玛丽安居住的大十镇，一小批激进分子引爆了装在小车里的农用肥料和燃油，破坏了威斯康星大学的陆军数学研究所。一人死亡，五人受伤。 两年后，我们有了一个儿子。child.我坐在这个罗马尼亚人——也许是希腊人——的车里，未来发生的事情对我来说非常遥远。在某个地方，在另外一个国度的烟雾弥漫的厨房中，身为父亲让人心里产生一阵隐约的懊悔。在幻象般的曼哈顿岛上，只有为数不多的流浪汉参加骚动，夜色浓重，周围漆黑一片。后来的这几十年并非完全没有希望的，不过显得遥远。也许，真的没有希望。 我透过希腊人驾驶的满是灰尘的车窗，可以见到过去的情景一幕一幕地浮现出来。不过，我无法召唤未来，甚至无法想象未来的粗线条轮廓，无法想象这个世界的阳光明媚的星期天。 在剩下的这一段路上，我们两人默默无言。 那个夜晚，到处一片黑暗。你站在时报广场附近的人行道上，可以感觉到夜色在逐渐扩展。一阵警笛声从半英里之外传来。 我看到，酒店大堂里的桌子上摆着一溜蜡烛。大堂空无一人，烛光照在四周高高的墙壁上。一个酒店员工从某个房间里出来。 “我可以送你上楼，不过——” "no need." “我送上楼的客人很多，记不清数字了。” “我只需要一支蜡烛就行了。” 酒店员工手里握着一把手电筒，说话时不停地比划，电筒的灯光划过狭小的大堂。 “我爬楼梯时，背部可能受了一点伤，”他说，“不过，我点燃了这些蜡烛，你们可以使用。可能有的人到店里来，没有带火柴。” 我端起一支蜡烛，顺着楼梯，到了第五层。我进了房间，径直到了窗户前，希望从那里看到夜晚的情形。 我没有给玛丽安打电话。我心里有一种孤独感，没有更贴切的词语来表达当时的心境。然而，孤独一词表示的状态是我从来不愿承认、总是可以摆脱的东西。其实，有时候，甚至这也并不是适当的途径。我没有给她打电话的原因是，我不愿让步，不愿眼睁睁地看着夜色变得越来越浓重。