Chapter 16 Chapter fifteen

The two post offices that Low knew and approved of entrusting Beardsley Postmaster as delivery addresses were: the Gas Post Office and the Elphinstone Post Office.The next morning, we went to the previous one and had to wait in a short and slow line for our mail.The calm Luo carefully watched the photos of the criminals on display.Handsome Brian Bryanski, along with Anthony Bryan, and Tony Brown, with hazel eyes and fair skin, were waiting to be kidnapped.As if that wasn't enough, a worried-eyed elderly man is guilty of mail fraud, and he's also accused of being deformed and hunchbacked.A picture of a gloomy Sullivan was accompanied by a warning that it was dangerous if identified as carrying a gun.If you want to make a movie of my book, just let one of the faces here melt into mine.Also, there is a vague snapshot of a missing girl, aged fourteen, wearing a pair of brown shoes when she disappeared, rhyming poems.

Please inform Sherif Buhler. I forgot the contents of my letter; as for Dolly's, it was her grade report and--a strange-looking envelope.I opened the latter cautiously, wanting to know the contents inside.I decided I was getting a sneak peek, but she didn't seem to mind, just ran towards the newsstand near the exit. "Dolly-Lo: Yes, the show was a success. All three hounds lay down quietly, I think Cutler took a little Ecstasy, and Linda knew all your lines. She was fine, she was Flexible and in control, but lacking the relaxed vibrancy of a sensitive spirituality, mine—and the author's magic—Diana's charm, but like last time, there was no author to applaud us, but The frightful lightning storm outside interrupted the delicate thunder on the stage again. Oh dear, life has indeed gone with the wind. It's all over, school, the play, Roy's mess, mother's delivery (our baby, Ah, didn't survive!), it all seemed so long ago, even though, in fact, I still had the paint on my face.

"We're going to New York the day after tomorrow, and I don't think I can help them go to Europe. I've got worse news for you. Dolly-Lo! If, and when you get back to Beardsley, I Might not come back yet, my father made me and a man and another, one you know who you know, the other is not the one you think you know, go to Paris for a year, he and Fulbright Watching us nearby. As expected, the poor poet stammers at the slightest bit of French nonsense in the third act.do you remember?Don't forget, Shimana, to tell your lover how beautiful the lake is, because you must let him take you there.Lucky beauty!Let him take you -- what a tongue twister!Well, dear, Lolikins.

Your poet sends you heartfelt love and heartfelt greetings to your protector.Your Mona.Another: For some reason, my letters are strictly controlled. So better wait until I write to you from Europe. "(As far as I know, she never wrote again. The letter had a mysteriously dangerous tone, but I was too tired to analyze it today. I later found it preserved in a travel book, listed here Right out for reference. I’ve read it twice.) I looked up from the letter and was about to--Luo is gone, I can’t see her anymore. Just as I was fully focused on Mona’s mystery, Luo shrugged and looked Gone." "You see--" I asked a hunchback who was sweeping near the entrance. He saw it, old pervert. He thought she had met a friend, and he sprinted out. I sprinted too. Get out. I stopped - she didn't. I kept running and stopped. Finally it happened. She was gone for good.

In the years that followed, I often wondered why she wasn't gone forever that day. Is it because of those new summer dresses she locked in my car?Is it immature somewhere in the master plan?Come to think of it all, is it because, anyway, it might be necessary for me to send her to Elphinstone--the secret destination?All I know is that at the time I was pretty sure she had left me for good.The lavender mountains hazy surrounding half of Gas City, in my opinion, seem to be crowded with Lolitas panting, climbing, laughing, and panting until they melt into the sea of ​​clouds.On a steep slope in the foreground of a cross street, there is a huge "W" piled up of white stones, which looks like the initial letter of "Sorrow".

I had just emerged from the new and beautiful post office, which was situated between a dormant movie theater and a row of indomitable poplars.Nine a.m. mountain time.The street in front of you is "Main Street".I walked past its shady side and gazed at the opposite side: what gave beauty to everything was the frail and young summer morning, the glittering glass all around, the timid and even stupefied atmosphere of the scorching midday.I crossed the street and kept looking along a long street: pharmacies, real estate, fashion, auto parts, coffee shops, sporting goods, real estate, furniture appliances, joint sales departments, vacuum cleaners, grocery stores.Sir, sir, my daughter is gone.

conspired with a detective; fell in love with a fraudster.Take advantage of my dedicated help.I checked all the stores carefully.I pondered and wondered in my mind whether I should ask each of the few pedestrian travelers.I don't.I sat for a while in the parked car.I searched the park to the east.I walk to fashion stores and auto parts stores.I had a sudden strong urge to laugh at myself, and said to myself--a sneer--that I'm crazy to suspect her like this, she'll be here in a minute. really. I turned my head and brushed away her hand on my sleeve, she had a timid, stupid smile on her face.

"Get in the car," I said. She obeyed, and I continued to wander the streets, wrestling with nameless battles in my mind, figuring out how to deal with her duplicity. At this moment, she left the car and came to me again.My hearing gradually adjusted to the tone of the Lowe station, and I understood that she was telling me that she had just met an old girlfriend. "Really? Who?" "A Beardsley girl." "Okay. I know every name in your group. Alice Adams? "This girl is not in my group." "Okay. I have a list of all the students here. Tell me her name."

"She's not from our school. She's a Beardsley girl." "Okay. I've got the Beardsley address book too. We'll start with Brown." "I only know her first name." "Mary or Jane?" "No—Dolly, like me." "This is a deadlock," (Haidilaoyue). "Okay. Let's start from another angle. You were missing for twenty-eight minutes. What did the two Dories do?" "We went to a pharmacy." "Where are you eating-" "Oh, only had two Cokes." "Careful, Dolly. We can check, you know."

"At least, she drank. I had a glass of water." "Very well. Is that there?" "certainly." "Okay, come on, let's go and torture that idiot soda shop." "Wait. Now that I think about it, it's probably a bit farther than here—around the corner." "That's all right, come on. Come in. All right, let's see." (Opens a chain-linked phone book.) "Excellent funeral service. No, not yet. Here, the apothecary Retail. Yam's. Larkin's Pharmacy. And two more. Seems like this is where all the gas cold drinks come from -- at least as far as the business district is concerned. Well, let's check them all out."

"Damn it," she said. "Law, roughness won't do you any good either." "Okay," she said, "just you can't frame me. Well, we didn't drink soda. We just talked and looked at the clothes in the window." "Which? Like the one over there?" "Yes, the one over there, for example." "Oh Lo! Let's take a closer look." It was really beautiful to see.A handsome young man was vacuuming a carpet over which stood two wooden mannequins who looked as though they had just been damaged by a high wind.Among them, one was completely naked, without a wig, and without arms. Its relatively small stature and smiling demeanor suggest that it must have looked (and would look like) a Lolita-sized girl in costume in the past. But now it's all gender ambiguous.Next to it stands a taller veiled bride, quite intact except for a missing arm.On the ground, at the feet of the two women, where the guy was struggling to crawl around with the vacuum cleaner, were three slender arms and a pair of blond wigs.Two of the arms happened to be twisted together in a gesture that seemed to express a clasped hand in terror and prayer. "Look, Lo," I said quietly. "Take a good look. Isn't that a great symbol for something? But—" I continued as we walked back—"I was forewarned. Here (cautiously open the slot), and on this cardboard, I've written down our boyfriend's license plate number." In fact, I was as stupid as a donkey and didn't remember it at all.Only the first and last letters were recorded, and the six numbers receded like an amphitheater behind a tinted glass so dark that it obscured the series in the middle, but transparent enough to reflect the The symbols come -- a capital "P" and a "6".I have to go into these details (details themselves are of interest only to professional psychologists), or else the reader (ah, even when he swallows my draft, I can see that he is blond-bearded, rose-colored) lips, scholar leaning on the medallion on his crutch) or at least not able to comprehend what the shock I experienced when I found out that "P" had got the pannier of "B" and "6" had been completely destroyed nature.Other smudges showed the hasty back-and-forth of a pencil eraser, and a few figures were swiped and rewritten by a child's hand, and the result was a mess without logic.All I knew was the name of the state--the one adjoining Beardslis in the state. I didn't say anything.Put the cardboard back, close the glove chute, and drive out of the gas.Lo dug out a few joke books from the backseat, and then, in a white sports shirt with one brown arm poking out the window, lost himself in the adventures of someone's arrow in the middle or country clown.Two or four miles beyond the gas, I turned into the shade of a picnic field, and the morning sun had poured its light on an empty table; Lo looked up and ate with a half-smile; Without saying a word, she slapped her palm with the back of her hand, and the palm hit her hot and hard cheekbone with a crackling sound. Then there is remorse, the heart-piercing tenderness when crying for atonement, the humble love, and the despair of emotional repair.In the velvet canopy, at the Mirana motel (Mirana!) I kissed the yellow soles of her long-toed feet, I sacrificed myself...but all in vain.Both of us are doomed.I immediately started a new round of persecution. On a street outside Gas... oh, I'm sure it's not a hallucination. On a street in Gass, I caught a glimpse of the Aztec red convertible, or its twin.It contained not Trapp, but four or five rambunctious young men of various sexes—blame I didn't say anything, it was a whole new situation after the gas.For a day or two, I was wildly confident that we were no longer and hadn't been followed; then I became morbidly sensitive that Trapp had changed tactics, that he was driving a cab, and was still on us. A protean Proteus on the highway, moving from one car to another with bewitching ease.This technique does imply the existence of a garage dedicated to "stage cars", but I could never find out what car he was using.At first, he seemed to pick the Chevrolet category, starting with a "Campus Cheese" convertible, moving on to "Blue Horizon," before disappearing into "Grey Wave" and "Grey Driftwood."Soon he switched to another make of car, and through a bleak, eerie, picturesque rainbow of shadows, I found myself trying to make out our Blue Dream Melmo one day. the faint difference between the "Old Blue Crown" and the "Old Blue Crown" he rented; however, those two gray cars had always been his favorites, and I was stuck in horrific nightmares trying in vain to pinpoint the ghosts, such as the Kremlin. Risler's Seashell Grey, Chevrolet's Grey Lie, Dodge's French Grey... I must never lose sight of his moustache and his open shirt--or his bald head and broad shoulders--that Made me delve into all the cars on the road--fronts, backs, sides, coming, passing, every car in the jumping sun: the quiet car of the vacationer, with a box in the rear window" Gently stroking "type toilet paper; a speeding old car full of pale children and a prying shaggy dog, a bent fender; a young warrior's Tudor saloon full of suits; the wide family trailer weaving ahead to the bubbling rage of the Indian procession behind; It was closer by the young male driver; a car with an overturned boat on its roof... a gray sedan overtook us. We drove into the mountains, between "Snow" and "Champagne," on an almost imperceptible slope, and it was here that I saw Detective Paramore Trapp clearly again.The gray fog that followed us thickened, gathering in the small area of ​​a "Main Blue" sedan.Suddenly, as if the car I was driving echoed the beating of my heart, we started rocking from side to side, and something else made a hopeless clack-crack-crack under our seats. "Your tires are blasting, sir," said cheerful Lo. I stopped the car abruptly - on the edge of a cliff.She folded her arms and planted her feet on the dashboard.I got out of the car and looked at the right rear wheel.The bottom of the tire is limp and ugly.Trapp also stopped about fifty yards from us.His distant face was like a blissful oil spot.This is my chance.I stepped up to him--had the bright idea to ask him for a jack, even though I had one.He stepped back.My toe poked on a rock - a feeling like a lot of people laughing.Then a gigantic truck happened to appear eerie from behind Trapp and whizzed past me--and that's when I heard its convulsive horn screech.Instinctively, I looked back - and saw my own car creeping away.I can always make out the comical look of Lo at the helm, and the car is actually moving - though I remember I've turned off the engine, just not the brakes; I sprint to the mournful machine, and it finally stops down.At this critical moment, I finally realized that in the past two years, Xiaoluo didn't have enough time to learn elementary driving.When I pulled the door, I was fucking convinced she started the car to stop me from running towards Trapp.But her trick didn't work, because he turned away while I was chasing her.I rest for a while. Lo asked if I should thank her - the car started moving by itself and, - getting no response from me, she pored over the map again.I got out of the car again, and started the "eyeball judging," as Charlotte used to say.Perhaps, I have gone crazy. We continue our eccentric trip.After passing a lonely barren land, we kept driving up to a slope and I found that we followed the big truck that overtook us.Now it is grunting and chirping to go up an arched slope, but it can't get through.A small rectangle of glossy silver paper—the gum wrapper—flew out the front and into our windshield.It occurred to me that if I did go mad it might end in murder.In fact--said the haughty grim Humbert to the insane Humbert--it might be wise to make some preparations--in order to take advantage of the spell of madness when it does fall.Section 20 By promising Lolita to study acting, I, the infatuated fool, allowed her to develop her art of deceit.Now it seems.She learns more than answers to questions like: What is the basic conflict in "Hedda Gabler," or what part of "Under the Linden" is the climax, or analyzing "The Cherry Orchard" What was the main mood of the play; what I really learned was how to betray me; and now, I regret that I used to witness her doing those sensory acting exercises in our living room in Beardsley, when I always chose the best. The best way to view her strategically is as a hypnotized object or a shaman in a occult ritual, making all sorts of feigned complex expressions, simulating hearing a moan in the dark, or having a first-time encounter with a new young stepmother. To meet, to taste something she abhorred like skim cheese, or to smell the weeds in a lush orchard, or to caress fantasy entities with her smooth, slender, girlish little hands.Among my piles of confessions, there is also a mimeograph note, which reads: "Tactile skills. Imagine you pick up and hold: a ping pong ball, an apple, a sticky date, a flannel fluffy new tennis ball, a hot potato, an ice cube, a kitten, a A puppy, a horseshoe, a feather, and a torch. Use your fingers to pinch the following imaginary objects: a loaf of bread, a stretchy eraser, a friend's aching temple, a swatch of velvet, a rose petal. Suppose you are a blind girl.Run your hands over the faces of: a Greek youth, Cyrano Santa Claus, a baby, a laughing faun, a sleeping stranger, your father. " How clever she was in weaving these delicate spells, in her ecstatic and obligatory dreamlike performances!On dangerous nights in Beardsley, I also let her dance for me on the promise of treats or gifts; The moves were more like the jumps of a football cheerleader, but I still enjoyed her half-grown limbs.All of this was nothing compared to the indescribably rapturous longing her tennis balls aroused in me--a teetering on the edge of order and light that seemed other-worldly. The groggy feeling. Despite her age, with her apricot limbs and thirteen-year-old tennis clothes, she looked more nymphet than ever!Noble gentlemen! And if the afterlife doesn't make her just right, as it did in the Colorado summer resort between Snow White and Elphinstone, the next life won't be what it wants: Loose boyish white shorts, slender waist, apricot belly, white corset, its straps looped around her neck and tied in a dangling knot behind her, leaving her panting naked. Her youthful, charming apricot-yellow shoulder blades, revealing her beautiful and delicate bones in puberty; her smooth, thinning back.Her hat has a white top.Her racket cost me a small fortune.Idiot, triple idiot!I can film her!I could have her in front of me right now in the screening room of my pain and despair! She always relaxed for a moment before serving, and often slapped the ball once or twice, or stamped her foot on the ground, with an air of ease, never caring about the score, always happy, which she seldom was in the dark life at home.Her tennis balls are the highest point I can imagine a young creature taking the art of pretense, though I dare say that for her tennis balls are the geometry of underlying reality. The grace of her every move merges with the crisp sound of her strokes. As soon as the ball came into her control, it somehow became whiter and more elastic, and she hit the ball accurately, as if she was sucking the ball into the racket, and she was so calm and unhurried.Her posture was absolutely first-rate indeed—without any utilitarian purpose.Edusa's sister, Electra Gold, once I sat on a wobbly hard bench and watched Dolores Haze play (and get beaten) with Lynda Hall , a wonderful young trainer said to me: "Dolly has a magnet in the middle of her racquet gut, but heck, why is she so polite?" Ah, Electra, what does it matter if you have that virtue? !I remember watching the first game and being drenched in an almost painful agitation of assimilation into beauty.My Lolita always raises her bent left knee at the start of the serve, and with the sun behind her back, there is a space between her feet, between her armpits, between her smooth arms and the backswing racket. Seconds full of vital webbed balance, her silver teeth gleaming, she smiled at the little ball thrown into the majestic and magnificent high sky, which she created with her own hands, so that her golden whip The sharp "beep" when it fell on the ball echoed endlessly. Her serve is beautiful, fast, and full of youthful vigor. The arc is elegant and beautiful. Although the ball is as fast as flying, it bounces back easily. During the long and beautiful flight, there is no twisting or falling. I could have immortalized all her gestures, all her charms on film, and today I groan in frustration.That's way more important than the snapshot I burned!Her volley is as closely related to her serve as the last stanza of a poem is to a three-stanza rhyme; for she, my darling, her quick, nimble, white-shoeed feet trained to move like arrows, Brilliant. There's no choice between her forehand and her backhand, and they're both on par--I'm still faintly thrilled by the crisp echo of the shot and Electra's scream.Dolly's great game is the fast block, taught in California by Ned Letam. She liked acting more than swimming, and swimming more than tennis, she liked swimming; only I insisted that if I hadn't destroyed something in her -- which I hadn't, I found out then! --She will aspire to win in her prime, and she will become a true women's champion.Dolores, with two rackets under her arm, at Wimbledon.Dolores signed "Dromedary" on the back.Dolores turned pro.Dolores played a women's champion in a movie. Dolores and her sullen, humble, quiet husband-coach, Humbert Sr. There was no fallacy, no deceit in the spirit of her game -- except for one person who thought her sincere indifference to the outcome of the game was a nymphet in disguise.She is so cruel and cunning in daily life, but she shows innocence, frankness and kindness towards rankings. There is always a shortcut to victory.Despite her petite stature, once she catches the rhythm of back-and-forth shots, and as long as she can direct that rhythm, she can occupy half of the 1,053-square-foot field with ease; but any sudden attack, any tactical mutation from her opponent , can make her helpless.In a tie-breaker, she serves her second serve, which is - usually - even stronger and more skillful than her first (for she doesn't have all the taboos of a cautious winner), and she'll shake it There was a loud jerk towards the net guy-rope - and the ball flew out of the field.Her well-honed one-hand smash was overwhelmed by an opponent who seemed to have four legs and was wielding a curved oar.Her dramatic drive and graceful low arc landed straight at his feet.She throws soft balls into the net again and again—pleasurably feigned panic, like a ballet dancer, with her hair tied high on her forehead.Her virtue and killing power were all drained, and she couldn't even beat me out of breath and my old school lob. I think I am especially susceptible to the magic of movement, and when playing chess with Gaston, I see the board as a pool of clear water, with strange shells and tricks revealed on the smooth bottom of the squares; It's just swamps and squid.Likewise, my first tennis lessons with Lolita--before she came to fruition through the great training in California--stay in my mind like a depressive memory--and not just because she expressed love for every piece of advice I had. That determined and bitter resentment—and because the precious symmetry of the court did not bring her inner harmony, but was instead disorganized by the clumsiness and idleness of this angry child I had mistaught.Everything is different now, and on that day, in the pristine air of Fighter City, Colorado, in the wonderful grounds at the foot of the steep stone stairs to the Fighter Hotel (where we were staying that night), I felt like I Should be freed from the nightmare of betrayal that lurked beneath her innocence, her soul, her virtue. She hits the ball very hard and flat, with her usual effortless sweep, she gave me many low balls--the rhythm is harmonious and clear, almost simplifying my footwork into a circle without running left and right--hit Well-behaved people know what I mean. My big serve was taught by my father, who learned it from his old friends, the big champions De Kage or Borman; if I really want to trouble her, this serve will definitely make her choke.But why should I be mad at such a clear baby?Did I mention she has eight vaccination scars on her bare arms?Did you ever say I love her hopelessly?Did you say she was only fourteen? A curious butterfly flew by and landed among us. Two people in tennis shorts, a red-haired guy who is about eight years younger than me, his calf is pink from the sun, and the other is a tired black woman with a sad mouth and hard eyes. Two years older, I don't know where it got out.Like pious novices, their racquets were sheathed and in wooden clips, as if they were holding not a natural and stretched extension of special brawn, but a hammer or a shotgun or an auger, Or like my own sins.They sat very disrespectfully on a bench by the side of the court where I kept my clothes, and then began to freely express their appreciation for the fifty or so rounds that Lo naively helped me hang on to—until there was an interruption, She was out of breath, and the fore ball went out of the court, so she gradually melted into a charming laughter, my golden baby. At that time, I felt thirsty, so I walked towards the drinking water place; a "red hair" came running over, and asked us to play mixed and doubles with a look of humility. "I'm Bill Meade," he said. "This is Fay Page, the actress. Maffey Talking--" he added (pointing with his ridiculous racket clipped to Fay, who was already talking to Lolita).I was about to reply, "Sorry, but one by one" (because I hate getting my filly into a fight with a greenhorn), when a particularly melodious shout distracted my attention: a waiter ran down the restaurant The steps are coming towards the field, while gesturing to me.Sorry, I have an urgent call -- too urgent actually, the line is waiting for me.certainly.I put on my clothes (heavy pistol in the inside pocket) and told Lo I'd be back in a minute.She picked up a ball - in that Continental way, one of the tricks I taught her - and smiled - and she smiled at me! Following the boy up to the restaurant, an eerie calm made my mind erratic.In American terms, retribution, sickness, death, eternity all appear in a repulsively meaningless form, and this is what it is.I gave her to the novice, but it doesn't matter now.Of course, I will fight.Oh, I'm going to fight.Better to destroy everything and never surrender to her again.Yes, what a rise. At the counter, a stern, Roman-nosed man hands me a note.I thought to myself that his past might be cryptic, and he specialized in rewarding investigations.The phone was still disconnected.The note reads: "Mr. Humbert. Calling from the Head of Bouldsley (sic!) School. Summer House - Bouldsley 2-8282. Please call back immediately. VERY IMPORTANT." I went into the phone booth, took a few pills, and after nearly twenty minutes of battling the ghost in the atmosphere, the problem-solving quartet became audible: Soprano, Beardsley No Such Number; Alto, Pra Miss Tate was on her way to England; Tenor, Beardsley School hadn't called; Bass, they couldn't have done it because nobody knew I was in Fighter City, Colorado that day.After my pursuit, the Roman nose had no choice but to check whether there was a long-distance call.absolutely not.It can only be a call from an automatic dial in this city, pretending to be a long-distance call.I thank him.He said: easy to say.I visited the Myrley man's quarters, had a strong drink at the bar, and started on my way back.As soon as I went down the first flight of stairs, I saw that the tennis court far below looked like a slate scribbled by schoolchildren, and Lolita, gilded with gold, was playing doubles there.She was like a wonderful angel among three terrible fools.One of them, her partner, jokingly slapped her behind with a racket when changing positions.He has a prominent round head and wears brown trousers that don't match his jacket.A sudden moment of commotion - he sees me, drops the racket - mine! -- walked quickly up the hill.Wagging his wrists and elbows in a playful imitation of early airplanes, he scrambled his legs up the road, where his gray sedan was waiting.In a blink of an eye he and his gray were gone.When I came down, the remaining three were packing up, picking up balls. "Mr. Meade, who is that man?" Bill and Fay, both looking dazed, shook their heads. The impudent intruder broke in to play doubles, didn't he, Dolly? Dolly.The handle of my racket was still warm and disgusting.Before going back to the hotel, I led her into a path covered with fragrant shrubs and flowers like smoke, and I was just about to unleash a simmering cry and beg her, with the most humiliation, to clarify all that was lingering around me. and then I suddenly found that we were right behind the Meads—matched people, you know, who always met in a very lyrical way in old-fashioned comedy.Both Bill and Fay were laughing weakly—we were finally their secret laughing stock.But it really doesn't matter! As if it really didn't matter, obviously, assuming that life was spinning in its usual merry way, Lolita said she wanted to change into a bathing suit and spend the rest of the afternoon in the pool. What a day.Lolita!