Chapter 10 Chapter Three The Poet's Self-blasphemy (2) (2)

This game of love no longer gave him any pleasure; it was just a screen behind which he was torturing himself, desperately commanding his body to obey.Constantly touching, caressing, kissing, it was a painful struggle, a completely silent painful struggle, Jaromil didn't know what to say, he felt that any words would only draw attention to his shame.The girl was also silent, for she too might be beginning to feel that something disgraceful was happening, and wondered whether it was his fault or hers.Either way, something was happening that she wasn't prepared for, afraid to say. Exhausted at last by this terrible pantomime, they collapsed on the pillows, trying to fall asleep.It's hard to tell how long they've been asleep, or whether they're actually asleep or just pretending to be so they can't look at each other.

Jaromil dared not look at her when they got up in the morning; she looked painfully beautiful, made all the more beautiful by his failure to possess her.They went into the kitchen, made breakfast, and tried to have a casual conversation. Finally she said, "You don't love me." Jaromil began to assure her that this wasn't true, but she interrupted him: "No, it's useless, I don't want to hear your excuses. Facts speak louder than words, everything was clear last night. You don't love me very much. You saw it yourself." Jaromil wanted her to believe that his failure had nothing to do with the level of his love, but then he changed his mind.The girl's words gave him an unexpected opportunity to cover up his embarrassment.It was a thousand times easier to bear the accusation that he didn't love her than to accept that something was wrong with his body.So he stared at the floor without saying a word, and when the girl repeated the accusation he said in a deliberately uncertain, unconvincing tone: "Don't be silly, I do love you."

"You're lying," she said, "you love someone else." This is even better.Jaromil bowed his head and shrugged sadly, as if acknowledging the truth of her assertion. "If it's something false, it means nothing," she said gloomily. "I told you, I don't know how to take things like this lightly. I can't stand the idea of ​​just being someone else's stand-in." Although the night he just spent was full of pain, Jaromil still had a chance to successfully relive an evening.So he said, "No, you're not fair. I do love you. I love you very much. But there's something I should tell you. It's true, I have another woman in my life. That woman loves me, but I Did something wrong to her. It's like a black ghost oppressing me now. There's nothing I can do about it. Please understand me. It's not fair for you to stop seeing me because I don't love anyone but you."

"I didn't say I don't want to see you again. But I can't stand any other woman, not even a ghost. Please understand me! For me, love is everything, it's absolute. In love, I don't know what A compromise." Jaromil looked at the girl's face in glasses, and the thought of losing her made him ache; she seemed very close to him, seemed to understand him.However, he couldn't risk telling her the truth.He had to pretend to be a man with a doomed ghost on his head, a man torn in two and worthy of mercy. "You talk about absolute love," he said, "but doesn't that mean understanding the other person first, loving everything about him—even his ghost?"

The argument was so strong that the girl said no more.Jaromil felt that maybe all was not lost yet. He hadn't shown her his poetry yet.He'd been waiting for the painter to make good on his promise to publish his poems in some avant-garde magazine so he could dazzle her with the credits of the type.But he desperately needs his poetry to help him now.He firmly believes that as soon as a girl reads his poems (especially the poem about the old couple), she will understand and be moved.He was wrong.Perhaps she felt that she should offer her young friend some honest criticism.But her casual and practical comment destroyed him anyway.

What about that strange mirror in which he had found his extraordinary in her passionate admiration?In all the mirrors, all he saw now was his immaturity squinting and grimacing, which was unbearable.Just then he remembered the name of a famous poet who, illuminated by the brilliance of a member of the European avant-garde, was involved in some local eccentricity.Although he did not know him and had never met him, Jaromil was seized by a kind of blind faith, like simple-minded believers in the senior pastor of their church.He sent his poems to the poet, along with a humble, earnest letter.His fantasies that he would get a friendly, appreciative letter back landed like a solace on his dates with the girl, who were getting less and less (she claimed she was during exams, rarely time), increasingly unpleasant.

He's thrown back to a time in the past (not too far in fact) when talking to any woman seemed difficult and required preparation.He now prepares days in advance of each appointment, sometimes spending all night in imaginary conversations.In these inner dialogues, the image of "another woman" (whose existence the girl expressed doubts about) appears more mysterious and clearer.She encouraged Jaromil with the splendor of her experience, she aroused jealous interest, she explained the reasons for his physical failure. Unfortunately, she only appeared in imaginary conversations, and as soon as Jaromil and the girl began to have an actual conversation, she quietly and quickly disappeared. The girl had lost interest in this hypothetical rival, unexpectedly. Just like when he first mentioned her.This made Jaromil uncomfortable.She ignored all of Jaromil's little hints, rehearsed slips of the tongue, attempts to express his sudden silence, steeped in memories of another woman.

On the contrary, she talked to him about university affairs (oh, all very pleasant things), and she described several classmates so vividly that Jaromil felt that they were more real than his own characters.They were back in the situation they had been in when they first met: he was a shy young man again, and she was a learned stone girl.Only sometimes (Jaromil liked and longed for such moments) she would suddenly become melancholy, or say some sad, nostalgic words.Jaromil tried in vain to connect them with his own words, because the girl's sorrow was addressed only to her heart, and she did not want to communicate with Jaromil's feelings at all.

What is the cause of her sorrow?Who knows; maybe she's bemoaning a love that's dying before her eyes; maybe she's missing someone else.Who knows; once, a moment of mourning was so intense (they had just finished watching a movie, walking back down a quiet, dark street) that she rested her head on his shoulder. God!This has happened once in the past!He was walking in the park with a girl he met from dance class.The gesture of the head, which had awakened him so violently, had the same effect now: he was excited!Totally, truly excited!Only this time he wasn't ashamed - on the contrary, quite the opposite!This time, he desperately hoped that the girl would notice his excitement!

But her head rested sadly on his shoulder, staring blankly into the distance through her glasses. Jaromil's awakened state persists triumphantly, proudly, visibly, and he longs for it to be perceived, to be appreciated.He wanted to grab the girl's hand and put it where she could feel him as a man, but it was just an impulse and he knew the idea was crazy and it wouldn't help.Then it occurred to him that if he stopped and held her tight, her body would feel his virility awaken. But when she sensed from his slowing down that he wanted to stop and hug her, she said: "No, no, let's not..." She said it so sadly that Jaromil obeyed without a word.The thing between his thighs - the puppet, the clown - was like an enemy tormenting and taunting him.And just like that, Jaromil walked on with a strange sad head on his shoulder and a strange mocking clown between his thighs.

Perhaps he believed it, and deep sorrow and a longing for consolation (the famous poet had not yet replied) justified the extraordinary measures.In short, Jaromil decided to pay a surprise visit to the painter.As soon as he entered the corridor, he knew from the noise that the painter was receiving many guests, and he wanted to say sorry and leave.But the painter warmly invited him into his studio and introduced him to his guests—three men and two women. Jaromil felt his cheeks flush under the gaze of the five strangers, but at the same time he felt honored, because the artist introduced him by saying that he had written some excellent poems, and his tone showed that these guests had listened. Said about him.It's a pleasant feeling.As he sat in his armchair and looked around the studio, he noted with satisfaction that both of the women present were far more beautiful than his bespectacled friend.The self-confidence with which they crossed their legs, the grace with which they flicked ash, the beauty with which they combined learned terms with common expressions into strange sentences—Jaromil felt like It was in the elevator that carried him up steeply, to the glorious heights, away from the anguished voice of his stone girl. One of the women turned to him and asked in a soft voice what kind of poems he wrote. "It's just... poetry," he said embarrassedly, shrugging. "Excellent poem," interrupted the painter, and Jaromil bowed his head.Another woman looked at him and said in an alto voice: "The way he sits there reminds me of that painting by Latour, Rimbaud surrounded by Verlaine and his gang. A child among the men. Rimbaud looked thirteen when he was eighteen. And you," she pointed at Jaromil, "looked like a child." (We cannot refrain from noting that this woman bows to Jaromil with a cruel tenderness, just as the sisters of Rimbaud's teacher Isemombard - those famous lice-catchers - bow to the French poet , and when he had wandered long he sought refuge with them, and they bathed him, and desmeared him, and rid him of his lice.) "Our friend had this good fortune—a rather fleeting good fortune—to be no longer a child, but not yet a man," said the painter. "Adolescence is the most poetic age," said the first woman. "You will be amazed," retorted the painter with a smile, "to see such perfect and mature poetry written by this immature, innocent chap." "Indeed." One of the men nodded, indicating that he was familiar with Jaromil's poems and agreed with the painter's compliment. "Are you going to publish them?" asked the woman with the bass voice. "In this age of positive heroes and Stalin's arrests, it's not very conducive to such things," replied the painter. This remark about the positive hero turned the conversation back to what had been going on before Jaromil came.Jaromil was familiar with the subject and could join the conversation without difficulty, but he didn't listen to what they had to say; he looked thirteen, he was a child, a virgin.These words kept echoing in his head.Of course, he knew that no one wanted to humiliate him, and that the painter especially genuinely liked his poetry—but that only made things worse; what poetry did he care about at a time like this?He would have sacrificed his mature stanza a thousand times if it would have given him his own maturity.He would trade all his poems for one night with the same woman. The debate became heated.Jaromil wanted to leave, but he was so depressed that he found it difficult to think of suitable words to say goodbye.He was afraid to hear his own voice; he was afraid it would tremble or hiss, revealing his immaturity and thirteen again.He longed to become invisible, to tiptoe away, to a place far away where he could sleep and wake up ten years later with a mature face and manly wrinkles. The woman with the alto voice turned to him again: "My God, boy, why are you so quiet?" He grunted that he'd rather listen to someone talk than talk himself (though he wasn't listening at all).He felt that his recent experience with his girlfriend was inescapable of escaping the verdict pronounced on him, a verdict confirmed yet again by his virginity (as everyone must have seen, he had never possessed a woman) which he carried like a badge of shame. . As he found himself the object of attention again, he became painfully aware of his face, a sense of dread crept in, and he felt that his facial expression was his mother's smile!He recognized it clearly, that sickly, poignant smile; he felt it cling to his lips.Can't get rid of it.He felt his mother clinging to his head, she spinning around him like a cocoon around a larva, robbing him of his true self. He was sitting among a group of adults, hidden by his mother's face, pulled by her arm from a world he sought, a world that made him feel—gradually but definitely—his hateful childish.This feeling was so painful that Jaromil desperately wanted to throw his mother's face off and break free.He tried desperately to join the discussion. They were arguing about issues that were hotly debated by all artists at the time.Czech modern art has always claimed to be faithful to the communist revolution; but when the revolution came, it declared itself fully conformed to a program of popular realism, and modern art was dismissed as a deformed product of bourgeois decadence. "This is our dilemma," said one of the guests, "should we turn our backs on the art we grew up with, or the revolution we celebrate?" "It's a poor question," said the painter. "To dig out dead academic art, to create a revolution on the assembly line that politicians arrest, is not only a betrayal of modern art. It's a betrayal of the revolution itself. Such a revolution does not want to To change the world. Quite the opposite: to preserve the most reactionary spirit in history—the spirit of bigotry, discipline, dogma, orthodoxy, and conventionality. There is no dilemma. As true revolutionaries, we cannot approve of such a betrayal of the revolution. " Jaromil could easily formulate the painter's point of view, and he was perfectly familiar with its logic, but he hated playing the role of the teacher's favorite, the role of a boy eager to win approval.He was filled with the desire to rebel.He turned to the painter and said: "You like to quote Rimbaud's maxim: absolute modernity is necessary. I am all for it. But absolute modernity is not something we have seen for half a century, but something that shocks and astonishes us. Surrealism is not absolutely modern at all—it has been around for about twenty-five years. No, modern events are revolutions in progress. Your failure to understand it proves that it is really new." They interrupted him. "Modern art is a movement against the bourgeoisie and the bourgeois world." "Yes," said Jaromil, "but if modern art persists against the contemporary world, it will meet its own destruction. Modern art must anticipate that this revolution will create its own culture - fact Actually, modern art would have liked to do the same." "This is how I understand you," said the woman with the contralto voice, "that Baudelaire's poems are published in the second-rate newspapers, that all modernist literature is banned, and that the Cubist paintings in the National Gallery are to the cellar, and you are not disturbed by it?" "Revolution is violence," retorts Jaromil, "that is a well-known fact. Surrealism, above all other movements, realizes that the old buffoons must be ruthlessly kicked off the stage, but it does not feel it, itself It has also become stale and useless." Jaromil's humiliation and anger made him express his opinion in a vicious tone, or so he thought.But as soon as he uttered the first words, something puzzled him: he heard the painter's characteristic, authoritative tone again in his own voice, and he couldn't stop his right arm from moving like a painter's. Gesture gesture in the air.In fact, this is a strange debate between the painter and himself, between the grown-up painter and the childhood painter, between the painter and his rebellious shadow.Realizing this, Jaromil felt even more humiliated; so his words became more and more sharp.To avenge his tutor for the gesture and tone of voice that made him a captive. Twice the painter responded to Jaromil's outburst with lengthy replies, but the third time he answered only with stern eyes.Jaromil knew that he would never be a guest in the painter's studio again.The woman with the contralto voice broke the painful silence at last (but now she spoke not with the emotion of Isemombard's sisters bending over Lanbo's lice-ridden heads, but with sadness and disappointment ): "I haven't read your poetry, but from what I've heard, it's unlikely that your poetry will be appreciated by this regime, a regime you defend so vehemently." Jaromil thought of his last poem, Two Old Men and Their Last Love.It began to dawn on him that his favorite poem would never be published in an age of songs of joy and poetry of propaganda and agitation.To abandon it now would be sacrificing his most precious possession, his only treasure. Yet there is something more precious than his poems, something he has never possessed, which he wants with all his heart: his manhood.He knows that it can only be won by acts of bravery; and if that bravery means he will be alone, he will abandon his girlfriend, his painter friend, even his poetry - well; he is determined to be bold .He said: "Yes, I know that my poems are useless to this revolution. I am sad because I love them. Unfortunately, my feelings do not say they are useful." There was another silence, and then a man said, "It's horrible." He was literally shaking, as if chilled to the bone.Jaromil felt that his words aroused horror in those present, and they all looked at him as if he symbolized the destruction of everything they loved, everything that made life worth living. It's sad, but also beautiful: at this moment, Jaromil feels more than just a child. Mamen read the poems that Jaromil had quietly placed on her desk, through which she tried to gain insight into her son's life.But, oh, the poems are neither clear nor forthright!Its reality was dubious, full of riddles and hints; Mama guessed that the son's mind was full of women, but she had no way of knowing what his relationship to them was. One day, she opened the drawer of his desk, searched around, and finally found his diary.She knelt on the floor and turned it over excitedly.Most of the records are very concise and cryptic, but it is very clear to her that her son is in love.He called his lover only with one capital letter, so Mama couldn't tell who she was.On the other hand, he described certain incidents in detail with a passion.So much so that Mama felt disgusted: the date they first kissed, how many laps they walked around the park, the date he first touched her breasts, the first date he touched her ass. Then, Maman turned over a date written in red letters and decorated with many exclamation marks. The record below the date read: Tomorrow!tomorrow!Ah, Jaromil, you old fellow, you bald old conservative, when you read this many years from now, remember that on this day the real history of your life began! Impatiently Maman searched her memory for any notable connection with this day, and at last she recalled that it was the week of her trip to the country with her grandmother.She also remembered that when she came back, she found her best bottle of perfume opened on the bathroom shelf.She asked Jaromil, and he said in embarrassment: "I was just playing around." How stupid she was!She recalled that Jaromil wanted to be a perfume inventor as a child, and she was moved.So he just scolded him softly: "You're too old for such things!" But now it's all very clear: the bottle of perfume belonged to a woman who slept with Jaromil that night, in the That night, he lost his virginity. She imagined his nakedness; she imagined the nakedness of the woman lying next to him, the woman's body that had been sprinkled with her perfume and thus smelled like herself.A nauseating feeling ran through his body.She glanced at the diary again and saw that the entries were interrupted on the day marked with an exclamation point.How typical—for a man, once he's slept with a woman, it's over, she thought with disgust, her son seemed to make her sick. For several days she deliberately avoided him.Later she noticed that his face was tired and pale; she was sure it was caused by excessive lovemaking. It was a few more days before she started noticing.Jaromil's face looked not only tired, but also sad.This discovery drew her to him and gave her hope: the girls wounded, she told herself, but the mothers comforted; there were many girls, but only one mother, she told herself.I must fight for him, I must fight for him, she repeated in a low voice, and from then on she began to guard him like a vigilant, loving tigress. He passed the graduation exam and bid farewell to his classmates of eight years with nostalgia.Official maturity seemed to lie before him like a desert.One day he found out (totally by accident, from a guy he'd met at a party at the dark-haired man's apartment) that the stone girl was in love with one of his colleagues. He had a date with the girl; she told him she was going on vacation in a few days; he took her address.He said nothing of what he had heard, for he was afraid to put it into words; he feared it would only hasten their rupture; at least she continued to see him as a friend; he clings to her desperately, willing to throw away all self-respect; All in the hope that their dying love might be rekindled. The girl left the city, but Jaromil faced a scorching summer that stretched before him like a long, suffocating tunnel.A letter (sorrowful, pleading) addressed to the girl drifts into this tunnel and disappears without a trace.Jaromil remembered the telephone receiver hanging on the wall of his room.Ah, this object of surreal art now has real meaning: a microphone that is not connected, a letter that does not answer, a conversation that no one listens to... All summer, women floated on the sidewalks in cool dresses, pop songs poured out of open windows into the hot streets, streetcars were packed with people in towels and bathing suits, cruise ships rolled their way to Mordau, heading south, to mountains and forests... Jaromil was abandoned, only his mother's eyes followed him and kept her promise.But it’s also painful—a pair of eyes constantly poking into his solitude, stripping him of its covering.He couldn't bear his mother's eyes, nor could he bear her questioning.He kept running away from home.Come back late at night and go to bed right away. We have already mentioned that Jaromil was not born for masturbation, but for great love.In these days, however, he masturbated himself with madness and despair, as if he wanted to punish himself for this vile and disgraceful act.The night of self-blasphemy was followed by a throbbing day, but Jaromil almost felt relieved, because the headache prevented him from thinking about the beauty of women in summer dresses, and lessened the erotic allure of the singing in the street. Drowsy, insensible state helped him get through the long days. No reply was received from the girl.If only there was at least one letter from someone else, if only there was something that could break through the void!If only the famous poet to whom Jaromil had sent his poems had written him at least a few lines!Just a few words of praise! (Yes, we did. Jaromil would trade all his poems for the confidence that he is a mature man. But let's go further: if people don't see him as a man, then only one This incident will give him some consolation—at least he should be considered a poet.) Again he wished to get in touch with the famous poet.Not in the way of an ordinary letter, but in a brutally poetic way.One day, he left home with a sharp knife.He walked back and forth in front of a payphone for a long time, and when he was sure no one was looking at him, he went into the booth, cut off the receiver, and tried to steal one every day until he got twenty. Receiver (during this time, neither the girl nor the poet heard from).He put these receivers into a case, bound it up, wrote the name and address of the famous poet on it, and his own name on the corner.Excited, he took the package to the post office. When he came back from the post office, someone tapped him on the shoulder.He turned around and it turned out to be his old school friend, the janitor's son.Jaromil was delighted to see him (any event is welcome in his drab desert); he talked gratefully, and when he learned that his old schoolmate lived nearby, he So he tried to get him to invite himself to visit by the way. The janitor's son no longer lives with his parents in the school building but has an apartment of his own. "My wife isn't home right now," he explained to Jaromil as they walked into the hallway.Jaromil was surprised to hear that his old friend had married. "Oh, really, I've been married for over a year," he said in a pompous, smug tone.Jaromil felt a surge of jealousy. They sat down, and Jaromil saw a crib with a baby on the far side of the room.He realizes that the old friend is already the father of the family, and he is still a masturbator. His friend took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard.Poured two glasses full.Jaromil suddenly thought that there was no such refreshing food in his own room, because his mother would frown at it. "What are you doing these days?" Jaromil asked. "I'm with the police," said the janitor's son, and Jaromil remembered the day he had been sick at home, listening to the excited crowd on the radio.The police were the powerful arm of the Communists, and his old friend might have been with the revolutionary masses at the time, while he—Jaromil—was at home with his grandmother. Yes, it turned out that his friend had been carrying out important tasks in the street all those days.He speaks of it cautiously but proudly.Jaromil felt the need to make his friend understand that they shared political beliefs.He told him about the rally at the dark-haired man's apartment. "The Jew?" said the janitor's son dryly. "If I were you, I'd be on my guard! That's a real queer!" The janitor's son constantly puzzled him, he always seemed to be one step ahead, and Jaromil was desperate to find common ground.He said sadly, "I don't know if you heard that. My father died in a concentration camp. It really shook me, and now I understand that the world must change, radically. I know I Where is the location." The janitor's son finally nodded in agreement; they talked for a long time, and when discussing their future, Jaromil suddenly declared, "I want to go into politics." He was surprised by his own words; they rushed out as if without thinking , seems to have determined Jaromil's entire life path arbitrarily. "Naturally," he went on, "my mother wanted me to study aesthetics, or French, or God knows what, but I couldn't possibly like that. These things have nothing to do with life. Real life—is what you put into it." the kind!" As he prepares to leave his friend's room, he feels the day filled with a decisive epiphany.He had sent off a package of twenty telephone receivers only a few hours earlier, considering it a bold, eccentric act, a challenge to a famous artist, a futile and fruitless wait. A symbolic message, a plea to the voice of the poet. But the ensuing conversation with an old schoolmate (he concluded that the timing was more than accidental) gave his poetic act the opposite meaning.It was not a gift, nor an earnest entreaty; no, he proudly returned to the poet all his vain waiting for a reply.Those severed receivers were his faithful severed heads, and Jaromil sent them back mockingly, like a Turkish sultan returning the heads of Crusader captives to a Christian commander. At last it all became clear.His whole life has been spent waiting in an abandoned telephone booth, listening to a malfunctioning receiver, and there is only one way to save him: get out of this abandoned telephone booth as soon as possible! "Jaromil, what's the matter with you?" This familiar and friendly question brought tears to his eyes; he was ashamed, and Mamen continued, "It's okay, I understand you. You are my child! I know everything about you, Even though you don't trust me anymore." Jaromil looked away in shame.She continued, "Don't think of me as your mother, think of me as a friend who is older than you. Maybe you would feel better if you told me what bothered you. I could see Something's bothering you." She added softly, "I know, it has something to do with some girl." "Yes, Mom, I feel sad," he admits, as this cordial, tear-drenched atmosphere of mutual understanding surrounds him with nowhere to go. "But I don't want to talk about it "I see. I don't want you to tell me everything right now. I just want you to talk to me when you want to. Look, it's a beautiful day. I've got an appointment with some friends to go boating. Come with us, Come with us! Going out and having fun will do you a lot of good!" Jaromil didn't want to go, but he couldn't think of any excuse.Also, he was so tired and frustrated that he didn't have enough energy to say no, so before he knew what happened, he found himself on the deck of a pleasure boat with four women. These ladies were all about Mamen's age, and Jaromil provided them with a rich topic; they expressed surprise that he had already finished high school; they declared that he looked like his mother; when they heard that he had decided to study politics They all shook their heads at school (they agreed with Maman that it was not the right career for such a sensitive young man), and of course they asked him jokingly if he had found a girlfriend.Jaromil gradually developed a secret dislike for them, but he saw that Maman was having a good time, and he kept a polite smile on her face. The boat docked next to a pier, and the women and their young escort went ashore to a bank full of half-naked people, looking for a spot to bask in the sun.Only two of them had bathing suits; the third stripped down to her pink panties and bra, revealing her white body (showing off her underwear without shame—perhaps she felt The pudility of the chaste cover).Maman claims she just wants to get her face tanned, squinting and tilting her head toward the sky.All four women agreed.It was time for their young lads to undress, bask in the sun, and go swimming.Maman even remembered to bring Jaromil's swimming trunks. The sound of pop music wafting from a nearby restaurant made Jaromil feel uneasy; tanned boys and girls in only their bathing suits walked past, Jaromil felt as if they were all staring at him ; their eyes burned him like a flame; he tried desperately not to let people know that he was with four middle-aged women.But the women were eager to claim him, acting like a big mother with four chattering heads.They insisted that he go swimming. "But there's no place to change," he objected. "Nobody's going to look at you, fool. Just wrap you up in a towel." The fat woman in pink panties coaxed him. "He's shy." Maman laughed, and the other women laughed too. "我们得尊重他的感情，"玛曼说，"来吧，你可以在这后面换衣服，没人会看见你。"她展开一条白色的大毛巾，它可以挡住其他游泳者的好奇，不让他们看见雅罗米尔。 他往后退，玛曼跟着他。他不断后退，她继续展着毛巾追赶他，以致她看上去象一只展开白翅膀的大鸟潜步追踪它的食物。 雅罗米尔继续往后退，接着他突然转过身来，拔腿就跑。 那几个女人吃惊地瞧着。当雅罗米尔绕过那些赤裸的年轻躯体，渐渐从视野中消失时，玛曼仍然伸展着手臂，举着那条白色的大浴巾。