Chapter 15 fifteen

15 The sky finally cleared.In the foggy weather, I have long forgotten what a sunny day is like, and now I remember it.A sunny day is hot sunshine—it's five o'clock in the afternoon, but it's still like noon.I jumped far out of the jeep, carefully avoiding the metal body so as not to get burned, and walked on the tarmac with my feet on it.I could smell the smell of distiller's grains from a distance, even if I couldn't see anything in the middle of the night, I knew I was home when I smelled this smell.This rancid smell actually has a refreshing effect.After smelling it, I am not sleepy again.

There is a sun umbrella at the entrance of the parking lot of my dormitory, and a girl is lying on a deck chair under the umbrella, wearing sunglasses, a ponytail, and a bright bikini, with her little tanned feet on the coffee table.I handed her the parking fee and my boundless envy in exchange for a thin piece of paper—this is a receipt, and theoretically it can be reimbursed at the company.But the reimbursement procedure is really annoying.When I walked across the small bridge, there were dense sheets of thin paper floating on the water below, and I threw the one in my hand down.The water in this river is milky white and smells of distiller's grains and rice washing water.This stream of water flows through a winery, or soy sauce factory, in short, some smelly little factory; An eye-piercing smell meant that someone was peeing here.The purpose of building this kind of city gate is to make people pee inside.The door opening is facing a Korean barbecue restaurant, which is dazzlingly white in the sun.Behind the barbecue shop, the entire hillside is full of beeches, maple trees, and small concrete houses.All the leaves were covered in black powder and were slimy - there seemed to be oil on the leaves.The beech is the red-leaved tree in Xiangshan, but I have never seen it turn red; in autumn, the mountain is the color of eggplant.There are also frequent power outages here.

For all this—this kind of dormitory, wages, and having to go to work in long clothes every day, whether it is worthwhile or not is still a question.What I wear now is far from long clothes and trousers.When I was paying in the parking lot just now, I saw myself clearly in the reflection of the girl's sunglasses.The things I wear include: a tie, a pair of very long knitted underwear, the inside is bulging, and a wide groin and black hair are exposed from the ends of the underwear-and a pair of toasty leather shoes , long clothes and trousers tied into a bundle on the back with a belt; and a plastic ice box in his hand.When the woman gave me the receipt, there was a smile on the corner of her mouth, which shows that not everyone else dresses like this when they get off work.The corners of her mouth are loose, and the skin on her neck is also loose, not very young anymore.But that doesn't stop me from admiring her.Watching the parking lot is, of course, superior to what I'm doing now.

My house is in the deepest part of the yard, and I have to walk a long winding mountain road to get there.This is a concrete bungalow, and when you enter the foyer from the front, you will see another door leading to the backyard.The two doors are exactly the same, even the windows beside the door are exactly the same.When I wake up in the morning, I rush to work, but I often find myself walking into the backyard.The backyard is full of walnut trees, and the walnuts fall to the ground year after year, and the green shells crack and spread on the ground, finally turning the ground black.As for walnut nuts, I swept it into the corner and made a pile.The back wall of this courtyard is set into the mountain and made of large blocks of city bricks, which have been weathered and turned into hard sponges.But it doesn't look like this wall is left over from ancient times.My verdict: It's a disgusting fake antique - black moss all over the walls.Under the shade of the trees, my backyard was pitch black.After all, this is always my own home.Whenever I feel bored, I think how much better I finally have a home of my own.I don’t know if you’ve seen a house looking at the parking lot—the kind of building with a square head and square brains, with rubbed bricks facing each other.There is a window facing the entrance of the parking lot. The sash is drawn horizontally. There is a double-drawer table under the window. Behind the table is the best place to be dazed. It is easy to be mistaken for a pay toilet.The house stood alone and resembled a lighthouse.

At dusk, I went outside the door, stretched a few times in the afterglow of the setting sun, hung the shutters on the window, came back to the house, locked the door in the dark, and walked into the inner room—this one. The house is very bright.Brilliant sunlight shines through the high ventilation windows, illuminating the entire ceiling.As you know, there is a huge bed in this room.My teacher is wearing a short leather jacket and lying on the bed.Her arms are raised upwards, forming a W shape with her head, her left hand is clenched into a fist, her right hand is holding a small leather bag, and a scarf is tied around her neck—the teacher is smiling.Her feet stick out of the bed in boots.In fact, she is the sleeping Snow White.

I sat down next to her, the bed collapsed and the teacher leaned towards me.I reached out to help her take off her boots, lay down gently, pulled the quilt over myself, and stared at the ceiling with wide eyes—it was getting dark little by little.The next morning, I will put on the boots for the teacher and go to work outside... The teacher will sleep for a thousand years, and this process will continue for a thousand years.Nothing ever happened between us - although that thing was always upright.This incident cannot be written in a novel because it is divorced from life.By today's standards, life is hypodermic injections.But that's not real life.What is real life?I can't remember again.I have written this story eleven times, and I can remember every word of it.But whether it is true or not, I can't remember!

I'm at home, taking off my panties and unpacking my waist.The women with small feet in the old days must have untied their foot wraps with the same euphoria in the secret room.The thing was freed and bounced into the air.I'm having double trouble right now: I can't sleep, and I'm always straight.I still thought I had a fever, but when I went to the infirmary to take my temperature, it was always thirty-six degrees five—that thing standing in the air was really ugly.In school, I was a gifted student, and in the company I was a genius.Do you know what a trick of genius is?That is to always do only one thing.If there are many things to do, then arrange them in order and do them one by one.In the company just now, the sequence is: 1. Finish my novel; 2. Tell Brown what a real novel is.Now the sequence is: 1. Self-blasphemy; 2. Finish the novel; 3. Tell Brown what the real novel is.Before that, I'm looking for one thing.The order became again: 1. Find that thing; 2. Self-defeating... Such a man, naked, rummaging through the house, is really weird... But I went to find it anyway, and lifted it from the bed Pulled out from underneath.After digging through the broken cardboard box, I found the original draft.The printer paper had turned dark yellow, and was bad and brittle, which was not the case for the later manuscripts: this suggests that the earliest manuscripts were made of wood pulp, and the later ones were made of synthetic paper.This manuscript is also accompanied by identification materials: many experts have affirmed its value, so it can pass.

Now a new story has to go through such procedures before it can be published and put on the screen—that’s how society treats a story with such caution.On each page of the printed paper, there are words written in red ink: true.Below are the signatures and date.It was my teacher who signed the manuscript.In order to publish the book, the company submitted the manuscript to her for review, and she approved it as true.In fact, it is not true.Whether it is true or not, these red handwriting make me high.If the heroine of the novel is Cleopatra, no one will sign it, and the novel will not be published.Worse still: the manuscript cannot excite me without these red handwritings.

As you know, everything we write must have "life" as its basis.The "life" I live by is the teacher's signatures—signatures that bring her into my story.Don't think it's easy: who wants to be scribbled over and over again.The teacher made great sacrifices for me.Then I looked everywhere for the teacher, but I couldn't find her again—she must have been hiding.But these signatures say she does love me—and it is the kindness contained in those signatures that sustains the story and keeps me writing it over and over again, eleven times in a row.