Chapter 13 13/14/15

13 The next morning I walked towards the monastery.The sun, which was alive and well yesterday, was shining golden, but today I don’t know which hole it is hiding in.Everything is shrouded in thick fog.Overnight, the whole island seemed to be covered with a layer of soup foam.I was wearing blue jeans, a red jacket, and a deeply incongruous crimson baseball cap that I found in the utility room at home with “Carolina Gamecock” emblazoned on the front.I held the brim of my hat low on my forehead and let my ponytail emerge from the hole in the back of the hat.I walked down the same trail I had walked two days before in search of my mother.I smelled the thick, rustic smell of the marshes brought on by the fog, which reminded me of Brother Thomas.His face appeared in my mind, and I felt a strange throbbing in my heart.I'm going to see Father Dominique.It would be all right if I happened to bump into Brother Thomas, but, I told myself, I wouldn't try to avoid him.Of course, I have no idea what to say to Dominic after meeting him.I began to think of several different strategies for asking Dominique about my mother's severed finger.What if I went to Dominique and told him the truth about it and he went back and told my mother?I didn't take this into account.In that case, any progress I had made with her would be wiped out immediately.She'll probably let me pack and go home again.Before I left the house, I sat my mother in front of the TV and watched Julia Child's old taped cooking show.Mother was very fond of Julia Child.I mean, she loves her.She said to me, "Do you think Julia Child is Catholic? She must be, right?" My mother always copied her recipes, especially the ones that used shrimp.If she wanted to cook prawns according to Julia's recipe, all she had to do was send a monk to the creek with a net.The monks hand-wove fishing nets—6-by-8-foot nets—for sale not just in the Bowl, but in antique and tackle stores along the coast of the East Coast.I saw it in a store once when Hugh and I were vacationing on the Cape Cod peninsula.There is a Bible verse printed on the fishing net packaging label: "Cast your net." The scripture comes from the Gospel of John, and I believe that is what is said on the label, so people must obey God's command to buy fishing nets. "It's a sneaky pitch, isn't it?" Hugh commented.The fishing net was listed at seventy-five dollars.As I walked, I recalled the monks sitting on the manicured lawn in the monastery quad, weaving fishing nets, beside them lay bundles of cotton thread and buckets of lead weights, their callused hands carelessly and gracefully moving. Dance back and forth.I used to think hand-weaving fishing nets had to be the weirdest way monks made a living on earth, but two years ago Dee told me there was a "cool monastery" out west that sold movie stars hay to feed their llamas .We had a great deal of discussion about which abbey had the more extraordinary, or more profitable, way of making a living.Feeding the llamas was even better, we decided.

Of course, weaving fishnets is fancier than making fudge or rhubarb jelly.Mike used to be a good net caster. He grabbed the edge of the fishing net with both hands, bit the upper end with his teeth, and threw the fishing net like a flying saucer.The net flew into the air, and then, with a loud splash, fell back into the stream, splashing like smoke rings on the water.He pulled up the fishing net vigorously and shook it, and our feet were covered with wriggling silver shrimp.When I walked out of the last grove, I looked towards the houses where the monks lived. The red tiles on the roof were faintly pink in the dim light.I realized that I was expecting to see the shadow of Brother Thomas—hoping that there would be a crack in the viscous morning and that he would come out as unnoticed as in the garden.When I approached the gate of the rose garden, I thought of my mother's fingers buried there, and I shuddered all over.I suddenly remembered something that I hadn't thought of for many years.Mother and her magic talisman.My mother regularly ordered these from a Catholic supply catalog when I was a teenager.I thought of them as charms on bracelets, except that they were all dismembered human parts—soles, heart, ears, upper body, head, and palms.At last I guessed that they were sacrifices, prayers made by the supplicant in the form of his suffering.When my mother thought she was suffering from cataracts, she placed an eye talisman in front of Sinara's statue;I couldn't help but wonder if she wanted her finger to be the final magic talisman.I circled from the back of the church and walked along a tree-lined road to the reception room at the main entrance of the monastery.The reception room is located in a small house.The porch was covered by a sloping roof, with yellow honeysuckle hanging from the eaves.A bald monk stood inside the door, with two unkempt eyebrows, crookedly pressing on a pair of black-rimmed glasses.I walked past him toward what the monks called the gift shop, and he nodded at me.I glanced briefly at the store's display of hand-cast fishing nets, then turned a small creaking shelf to examine the rosary beads and saint plaques hanging from it.I saw a stack of teal-covered booklets, picked one up, and was surprised to find that it was the same booklet that Kate said she had printed—A Mermaid Tale.I turned the book to the first page: "According to the "Golden Legend: The History of the Sages", in 1450, a beautiful Celtic mermaid named Essienola swam to the coast of Cornwall, A Benedictine monastery had just been built there. She removed her fish tail and hid it among the rocks, and then she went on foot to explore the vicinity and found this monastery where men lived. She made many secret visits— "This is the story about our mermaid chair," said a voice, and I looked up from the book to see the bald monk standing in front of me, his arms folded tightly on his chest. , as if to immobilize himself.Around his neck was a huge wooden cross, and there were traces of saliva on either side of his mouth. "A pamphlet written by one of our monks. Quite fanciful stuff, I'm afraid." "Yes, I've always liked that story," I said to him, realizing I hadn't heard it in ages.Much of the story has now been blurred. "If you're here for a guided tour, I'm afraid you've just missed the time and there won't be another one until three in the afternoon, although frankly I don't find the guided tours particularly appealing. Just a bunch of 'Here is the chapel where the monks pray, here is the net house where the monks weave their nets, and over there is the laundry room where the monks wash their socks.'" I thought he was joking, but when I laughed, he brought a few gave me an annoyed look. "No," I said, "I'm not here for a guided tour." I pulled out a ten-dollar bill I'd stuffed in my jeans pocket earlier, and bought the booklet. "The author, Father Dominique—where can I find him?" I said, "I want him to sign me." "Sign the book?" He shook his head. If the book is signed, we won't be able to live with him. It's hard for us to live with him now." Once again, I'm not sure if he means it; he smells sour and unpredictable. well. "He's in the library, I think," he said, "that white stucco building next door to the church. The library is open to visitors, but not all. You'd be surprised where people go. Yesterday , while we were having lunch, a woman walked into the cafeteria. She took a picture of the salad bar!" I was amused that a woman trespassed, and I was amused that he was offended by it, but, In fact, what amuses me even more is the fact that a salad bar has popped up in the Abbey.I don't know if that was my mother's idea.This is unbelievable in her new situation. "I know which places are off limits," I told him. "My mother's Neil DuBois. My name is Jessie. I used to come here when I was a kid." I don't know why I told him; Not a warm and friendly person.I even wondered why he was sent to the reception room among so many monks.Perhaps this is one of the plots to deter tourists."We're sorry for the trouble she's had," he said, sounding like a pre-recorded message on an answering machine. "So, are you...?" "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Father Sebastian. I'm Priest here." I struggled to recall the order of the monastery.At the head, I'm pretty sure, was the vice-principal, the one who, as my mother said, made sure that the monks of the monastery kept their discipline and practiced hard.I wandered to the library to find Father Dominique, and I felt a sudden wave of timidity.What am I doing?My steps slowed until I stood there dumbfounded, completely bewildered.I wondered if I should go home and give Hugh a call. "On reconsideration, you've got to deal with the mother thing," I'd say. "I don't have guts—bellies, I don't have any body parts I need."

I looked behind the church and saw the footpath leading to the edge of the swamp.I followed the path to a long stone bench under an oak tree.coward.I didn't sit down on the stone bench, but sat down on the ground, and I sat there, looking at the misty creek, which flowed like blood, and then took a sharp turn into the bay .After my father died, I used to come here a lot when I was sad or confused.I called out my name towards the swamp, and listened to it spread out on the water, and the beach silt grass seemed to be singing it, and sometimes, the wind would lift it up like a seagull, and bring it to the big place in the distance. maritime.I called, and called over and over again—"Jessie."I had the pamphlet I had just bought in my hand, and I turned the pages to the passage I was reading when Father Sebastian interrupted me. "...suspecting that Essinola was not an ordinary woman but a mermaid, the abbot was so alarmed by her presence that he hid by the water's edge and waited. He witnessed Essinola swim to the shore, take off her and hid it in a hollow in the cliff. When she walked towards the monastery, the cunning abbot took out the fish tail and stuffed it into his cassock. He kept the fish tail in the church. In a hidden box under the seat. Losing her tail, the poor mermaid could no longer return to the sea, and soon the wildness of her body disappeared. Essinola converted to the holy religion, and finally became the saint Sinara."

When my father used to tell me this story, he always spoke of Esseanora's "tragic fate"—losing her fish tail, with a halo of helplessness—and I had a feeling, though Just reading between the lines, Dominique felt much the same way my father did.And, frankly, the fact that Father Dominique wrote the story already made me uneasy. " An interesting footnote to this legend says that after her conversion Essinola still misses the sea and her former life, and she sometimes even visits the monastery at night, looking for her fish tail.There are different opinions on whether she finally found her own tail.One way of saying is that she not only found the tail, but also put it on at any time to return to her old life. However, she always came back and put the tail back in the dean's box. "

I thought of my mother and her obsession with the Virgin Sinara, and I couldn't relate that to what I was reading.Sinara is a saint, desperate to find a way back to her evil life.It never occurred to me how illogical this is. "Some scholars have pointed out that the appearance of the story of Saint Cynara is to help people abandon the joy of the flesh and pursue the joy of the Holy Spirit. But is it also to emphasize the same importance of the two?" The same the importance?I didn't expect him to write something like this - as a monk.I closed the book—snap it, I should say.There was another burst of tension in my heart.The dew on the grass soaked my jeans.I stood up, and as soon as I turned around, I saw Father Dominique walking towards me along the path.He stopped on the other side of the stone bench.He had the straw hat on, and Kate was right—it had come loose in places.The shape of the straw hat looks like a bird's nest, which is ridiculous. "Boom, boom," he said, eyes full of joy.I hesitated.So, he remembers me. "Who is it?" I said in embarrassment, but I couldn't stop playing. "Buzz." "Which Buzz?" "Which Buzz do you think?" he said, and then he laughed loudly.Laughing like this for a small joke seems a little too much. "I don't think I've seen you since you were growing up. Do you remember me?" "Of course I do, Father Dominique," I said, and I... I was just—"

"You're reading my little book, and from the way you close it, I'm not sure you enjoy it." He laughed out loud, letting me know he was joking, but, it made me feel awkward disturbed. "No, no, I like it very much." Neither of us spoke for a while.I looked away and looked into the swamp, embarrassed.The tide is ebbing, and the exposed mudflats are delicate, soft, smooth and smooth.I saw the burrows of many hibernating fiddler crabs, the tips of their claws looming above the ground. "Father Sebastian said you were looking for me. I believe you wanted me to sign your book." "Hey. Yes, that's right. Can you?" I handed him the book, and it was It was a little lie, but now it has become true.Sorry, I don't have a pen. "He took a pen out of his black chest. He scribbled something on the title page of the book, and then, handed it back to me. He said: This place is lovely, isn't it?" Yes...very cute." The endless grass behind us swayed in the breeze, and he alternately shifted his body's center of gravity from one foot to the other under the robe, as if he was a part of the grass. The root blade of grass is trying to coordinate with everyone. "So, how is our Nair?" he asked.His question surprised me.That strange intonation when he said "our Neil," and something in the tone of his voice.Her name came out of his mouth very softly.Our Neil.our. "Her hand is healing," I said, "and that's the real problem." I was about to touch my forehead with my finger, but I tapped my own chest, feeling so appropriate, as if I fingers are giving me some sort of hint.

"Yes, I reckon, our hearts will make us do some strange and amazing things," said Father Dominique.He tapped his chest with his knuckles, and I felt he was talking about his inner impulse.He had already taken off his straw hat, and now he was sorting out the straw stalks on the straw hat.I remember that when the monks brought my father's shipwreck that day, he stood by the fireplace in the same posture, with a straw hat in his hand, watching the planks of the ship burn. "Did you know she called that severed finger the 'point finger'?" I asked.He shook his head, his face - such an old and kind face - changed slightly, and several muscles twitched.I hesitated.At this point, something pops into my mind—a guess, a feeling—and I don't know whether to say it or not. "What if she cut off her fingers to relieve some terrible guilt?" He looked away from my face.he knows.A silent valley appeared between us.I seem to remember hearing the sound of a swarm of insects buzzing and flying.The sound seemed to go on for a long time. "Why did she do that?" I said.He pretended I was just talking.yes, why? ""No, I'm asking you.Why is she doing this? ""Did your mother say something that made you think I knew her motives? ’” she said, unable to say why. "He sighed, crossed his fingers, and let go. I'm sure he's making some kind of decision." Jess, I can imagine how confusing this is for you, but I don't know anything. can not tell you.I wish I could, but I can't. ""Did she say anything to you in her confession?" "It seemed a little out of the blue, it never seemed to occur to him. He leaned towards me with a gentle, understanding look on his face, as if to make a gesture of affection. I even felt for a moment that he might pull Take my hand." I mean, it might not be a good thing for your mother if we get too far into it.I know it's probably the opposite of what you're thinking - people are fed all sorts of propaganda these days that we have to dig out every bit of our poor history and study it to death, but, personally, it's Not always the best policy.Nair wants to keep her inner secrets to herself.Maybe we should respect what she means. "He pursed his lips and had a distressed, pleading look on his face." Jessie, I need you to believe me.Trust your mother. "I was about to argue with him, but he put his hand on my cheek, and a simple, tolerant smile appeared on his face. I don't know why, but I didn't pull away. We stayed like that for a while, and then he turned and walked toward the church, fiddling with his battered straw hat and putting it on his head as he went.

14 I sat on the bench with my back to the swamp until Father Dominique disappeared.What happened just now?He looked so sincere.sincere.Jessie, I need you to trust me.It seems like I should trust him.After all, he is just an old monk who likes to play knock-knock.Everyone likes him.Most importantly, Kate trusted him, and Kate Bowles was no fool.It seemed impossible to fool that woman.I looked up in bewilderment. Two ospreys were flapping their wings and making a great arc in the mist.What if Father Dominique was right?I wonder if my mother's motives are going to add insult to injury?My eyes fell on The Mermaid Tale tucked against my lap on the bench.I turned the book to the title page.In his distinctive slanted handwriting, he wrote: "Which buzz do you think it is?"

Then, he initialed his name.I looked at his signature and gradually realized - I don't trust him.I didn't trust him.I knew in my heart that I should trust him, that my mother and Kate had a complete trust in him, but I couldn't do it.I glanced at my watch.It was just after eleven o'clock.I'm due to go back and make my mother's lunch soon, however, I suddenly feel the urge to sneak into the church and have a look at the mermaid chairs.The last time I saw the Mermaid chair was about twenty-five years ago, before I left home for college.Even though Mike and I spent a lot of childhood climbing up and down chairs, I've always associated chairs with my father - I guess because he was the one who first brought me to them The man who went there, he told me the story of the chair, which he loved almost as much as his boat.Mother, however, did not want to touch the edge of the chair.It hasn't always been that way.She had no problem with chairs until her father died.Year after year, my father was one of the people who carried the mermaid chair from the church to the ferry dock two miles away in a "fishing boat blessing" ceremony, and my mother encouraged him to do so.The monks usually choose pious believers, but Joseph Dubois is a true pagan, but he can always use rhetoric to get this job.He said he just believed in blessing the shrimp boats; he didn't care who did the blessing--Saint Cynara, God, the monks, or the dog named Max.However, I think things are not that simple.My mother loved the side of the Virgin Cynara, and my father loved the other side of her—Essinola's life as a mermaid.There are circular iron rings on the armrests of the chairs, and the sticks can pass through them. Every April, on the evening of the Feast of the Virgin Sinara, four men lift up the sticks and carry the mermaid chairs on their shoulders. They pass through the gate of the monastery. , passing the island's shops, carrying chairs from the church to the pier with great fanfare, as if they were carrying the throne of Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen, or the bier of a Greek god.I remember Mike and I strutting beside my father all the way, very cocky—"smug," my mother said—and the islanders poured out of their homes to follow us, forming a long line on the trail. An undulating, colorful procession like sending a bride.At this moment, as I walked towards the church, I recalled those festive processions, and recalled the abbot sitting in the mermaid chair on the edge of the pier, saying prayers and raising his hands for God's blessing.

About forty trawlers, not only from Egret Island but also from Cory Ranwell and Pleasure Hill, passed in front of the pier in festoons.As the night deepens, the water melts.After the fishing boats have been blessed and the mermaid chairs are ceremoniously sprinkled with sea water, the islanders will throw "mermaid tears"—pearl-colored pebbles—into the bay to commemorate the departure of the mermaid saint from the sea. sorrow.Then, the whole island gathers around tables in Max's coffee shop to eat fried and boiled shrimp.Between the fishnet house and the church was a meadow where the monks used to spread their nets on wooden trestles and treat them with a potion that stinks of copper to keep them from rotting.The wooden frame was gone, but I saw a monk in a cassock on the grass, throwing a bright yellow tennis ball at Max.His back was towards me, but I noticed that he was tall and slender, with dark hair.Max bounced back to pick up the ball, and the monk bent down and patted its head.That was Brother Thomas.I walked up to him and he turned around, with a look on his face that seemed utterly amused when he recognized me.Tennis ball in hand, he walked towards me, Max following behind him. "I didn't mean to interrupt your game," I said, and for some reason I didn't want to laugh, but I couldn't help it.When I saw him, I felt a surge of great joy in my heart. "I was just killing time with Max, waiting to attend prayers and mass," he said.We fell into a silence for a while, I looked away and looked in the direction of the woods, and when I turned around, I found him looking at me with a smile on his face.I remembered the dream I had, the two of us floating on the sea in a raft.For the past two days, that scene kept replaying in my mind—his hood fell back to reveal his face, his hands touched my cheeks and reached out to my back.Thinking of this in his presence made me feel self-conscious.It was as if my thoughts were revealed.

I quickly lowered my eyes and looked down at the ground. I saw his leather boots protruding from under his cassock, and they were covered with dry mud of the swamp. "My work boots," he said, I'm Friar Egret Roost. ""what are you? "He laughed. Brother Egret Roost," he repeated. "What's that?" "We're paid by the state to look after the egret colony—it's a nature reserve—so the Abbey appointed someone to go there every day." "You don't weave nets with the others Is it?" "No, thank God. I'm clumsy with my hands, and, besides, I'm the youngest monk here, so I got this outdoor job." Max sat and waited patiently. "One more time," Thomas told him, tossing the ball into the air.We watched as Max ran full speed into the fog. "What the hell do monks at Egret Roost do?" I asked. "He counts birds—not just egrets, but pelicans, herons, ospreys, basically all birds. In spring and summer, he counts and measures egret eggs, inspects nests and juveniles, things like that things. It's not a busy season right now." I smelled a scent on him.I realized it was grape jelly. "So you watch birds." He smiled slightly. "Mainly this, but I also do other things - inspect oyster beds, collect water samples, do whatever needs to be done. The Department of Natural Resources handed me a checklist." With the ball in his mouth, Max Bouncing over, Thomas took the ball back and tucked it into his chest. "Max usually goes out on the boat with me," he added, stroking the dog's back. "I can see that you enjoy the job," I said. "Honestly, I sometimes think that the only reason I'm here is because I can go to the creek." "I see what you mean. I grew up on the creek. My brother and I love Birds. We used to go to the egret colony to watch the male egrets do their courtship dance." Without thinking, I blurted out.If I hadn't gasped and let that little hoarse sound of surprise come out of my throat when I realized I'd said something wrong, it would be nothing, nothing at all, I'd just said something stupid about birds.I had a fever in my neck, and my face suddenly turned red. He must have noticed that our contact has already made me happy.I wanted to turn around and run away, like Max did.He stared at me intently.I'm sure he read my mind, but he was kind enough to try to smooth things over for me.He said, "Yes, I've seen it many times. They flick their beaks and stretch their necks. It's very beautiful." In fact, for the last five minutes, I have been flicking my beaks and stretching their necks. grow my neck. "I've told you what I do," he said, "so what do you do?" I stood there trying to look tall and decent.I don't know what to say, who I am or what I do.what have i doneRunning chores for Hugh?Draw a scene in a small box and put something in it?No, I can't even say I'm still doing that.Also, Dee has grown up and left home, so I can no longer say in the lighthearted way I used to say: I am a stay-at-home mom. "I said, 'You know, I was just going to see the mermaid chair.I shouldn't have delayed you. ""You didn't delay me at all.Come on, I'll go with you.Unless you want to be alone. ""Ok. "I said. I knew he had sensed the change in my attitude, but somehow he persisted. Did he want to stay with me, or was it just out of politeness? He took me by the elbow and led me up the path to the church, a common little gesture he used in front of my mother, but when he put his hand on my coat, I I felt an electric current pass through my body.The church was empty and silent.We walked slowly among the choir seats in the nave, around the chancel, into the narrow cloister behind the amphitheatre, and stopped before the arches of a chapel.The mermaid chairs are placed on a dais covered with a deep claret rug.I noticed that the carpet was frayed to the point where it was just thread.In the wall behind the chair was a narrow skylight through which a musty, sawdust-like light fell on the chair.I walked over and put my hands on the back of the chair.The chairs are carved with intricate patterns of Celtic knots.The arms of the two chairs, carved to look like mermaids, were still painted green, gold, and red, though the sheen had faded considerably since I last saw them.I didn't expect that when I saw the chair, I would be so touched, and my eyes immediately filled with tears.My dad used to sit in this chair, slap his knees, and let me climb into his lap.I pressed my face against his coarse corduroy jacket and whispered, "Are you praying?" Because that's what you do when you're sitting in a chair.You pray for many things, often impossible things, but your prayers should be answered.Before my mother developed that strange distaste for chairs, she used to sing me a rhyme, a song familiar to every child on the island.Sit in a chair and say a prayer, Holy Maiden Sinara, and an answer will be given to you tomorrow. My father whispered back, "Yes, I'm praying, but don't tell your mother. She'll go on and on." "What are you praying for?" "Praying for you." I sat up straight, flattered.My dad is praying for me, and whatever he is praying for - it will come true.what are you praying for "He tapped my nose with the tip of his finger." Pray you'll always be my spinner girl. "I noticed that Brother Thomas was still lingering at the door, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to stay or leave. I gently stroked the wood-carved mermaid's hair, and then, her wings." I still don't know why she has wings, "I Say, "I've never heard of a mermaid with wings.Do you know why? "He took it as an invitation, which I meant, and walked to the other side of the chair, into the dim, dusty light from the window. shined a light." People here believe that she is half a sea siren.Sirens have both fish tails and wings. "Her wings made me suddenly think of feathers, of courtship dances." However, I thought sirens were bad things. "" You are probably thinking about how they lured sailors to the rocks in the "Odyssey" epic, but they were originally sea nymphs.They bring divine oracles from the depths.They are quite like angels, but instead of coming from heaven, they come from the sea.These oracles are said to enlighten the soul and heal the sick—so sirens aren't always bad. "I must have looked surprised to see how familiar he was with it," he said with a slight grin. "I'll take over from Brother Beede sometimes; he's in charge of the tour guides here." "I heard a shuffling in the corridor, just outside the door of the chapel, and I turned my head, expecting to see some monk come in, but, there was no one, and we went on talking about chairs for a while. He told me that he likes that they have both wings and fish tails, because it means they can exist in two completely different worlds, they belong to the sky and the sea, and he envies that. He gushed Goes on and on and on, but I don't think he's just blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. , pretending to be engrossed in the mermaid—the whole enigma of the wings and fish tail—while I knew in my heart that he was still staring at me." Do you believe the legend about sitting in a chair and praying and getting answers? ? "I asked." In terms of efficacy, I don't believe it. ""You don't sit on a chair and pray like the tourists, can I understand that? ""I should say, I pray in other ways. ""In what way? "I asked, and realized as soon as I said it, how abrupt it sounded. I am sure I have never asked anyone about their prayer life." Thomas Merton once wrote that the bird was his prayer, I guess, I feel the same way.My prayers are most sincere when I am in the swamp.That was the only prayer that resonated in my soul.soul.The word echoed in my mind, and I wanted to figure it out—as I often do, what it was.People talk about it all the time, but does anyone really know what it means?有的时候，我想象它是一个在人的身体中燃烧的指示灯——从人们称作上帝的那个无形空间中掉出来的一点火种。或者，它是一块湿软的物质，比如一块黏土或一个牙齿模型，上面积累着一个人的经历——无数幸福、绝望、恐惧和美好瞬间的刻痕。我很想向他请教这个问题，但是，我们头顶上钟楼里的钟敲了起来。他走到走廊里，然后，朝我转回身来，甚至从那么远的地方，我也能够看到他眼里的蓝色光芒。 “我虽然不坐在美人鱼椅子上祈祷，但是，我要说明一点，这并不意味着它缺乏神力。”钟声又响起来。他朝我微笑着，将两只手插进藏有马克斯的网球的胸幅里，然后走开了。 15 托马斯修士离开之后，我在美人鱼椅子上坐下来。椅子很硬，很不舒服；有人说，它是用一整块桦木制成的，我觉得这说法不足信。我将自己的脊背靠到椅背上，感到脚尖离开了地面。在教堂的另一侧，修士们咏唱起来。我听不出他们唱的是不是拉丁语。他们的声音如波浪般涌过来，充满了这拱形的礼拜堂。我的思绪一定盘旋到了天花板上，同声一齐在那里回荡了一会儿，因为我突然感到自己的注意力被猛地拉回到身体里。我察觉到，我的身体被唤醒了，充满了活力。我感到自己好像正在奔跑，但是，我纹丝未动。我周围的一切似乎都燃烧起来，开始呼吸——颜色、边角，以及斜照在我肩膀上的斑驳光线。我把两只手放在椅子扶手上，正好在美人鱼的背部曲线与鱼尾融汇交接的地方。我的手指上下左右移动着，直到我把两条硌硌棱棱的木雕鱼尾巴像缰绳一样紧紧地握在手中。我心中有一种感觉，我想让自己停下来，同时又想让自己自由驰骋。我对托马斯的感情一直含糊不清。我一直让这感情像船底的浊水一样在心中搅动，但是，此时此刻，我坐在美人鱼椅子上，感到所有的渣滓都沉到了水底，一切变得清晰起来。我想要他，心中的渴望近乎疯狂。当然，当这念头一出现在我的脑海中，我便立刻感到一阵回肠荡气的震撼，一股彻心透骨的恶心，然而，在心灵的召唤面前，我的羞耻却显得那么微不足道。好像什么东西冲破了一堵墙。我想起了马格里特的那幅油画，一节火车头风驰电掣地从壁炉里冲出来。应答轮唱的赞美诗歌声在空中回荡。我让自己慢慢地深吸一口气，等待美人鱼椅子名副其实地做点什么，创造一个奇迹，让我心中那不可遏制的情感平息下去。然而，我的欲望似乎变得更加强烈了。我提醒自己，我渴望得到的那个人并不是休。我甚至不认识他，确实如此。但是，我觉得自己很了解他。了解他内心深处最隐秘的东西。好多年前，当我遇到休的时候也是这样。仿佛久逢知己。爱上休，宛如患了一场疯病。我被他吞噬了，几乎相思成疾，无法集中精力做任何事情，而且无药可治，虽然我也没想去治。当你坠入爱河的时候，你是身不由己的。你的心随心所欲。它拥有自己的自主权，像一个独立王国。空气中烟气氤氲，中世纪的歌声正在回荡。我想象托马斯站在唱诗班座位里，那种被吞噬的感觉涌上心头，心中的渴望不能自制。最糟糕的是，我感觉到我正在将自己交给这一切，交给那即将来临的事情。交给一场大欢喜，交给一次大劫难。当我意识到这一点的时候，我吓了一跳，我这么说还是轻的。我完全没有想到自己还会爱上任何人。刚才，当托马斯询问我的情况时，我无法回答，我现在想，是不是因为我的自我意识正在崩溃。我回到海岛上，一切都分裂瓦解了。I close my eyes.stop.stop.我并没有想去祈祷，但是，当我睁开眼睛的时候，我忽然想到这也许就是一个祈祷，我心中一时间充满了童稚般的希望，好像无论那是一种什么样的神力，都会答应我的请求。然后，一切都会停止。所有的感情，一切，我就会得到解脱了。就会安全了。当然，我并不真正相信这个。坐在椅子上，做一个祈祷——这太天真幼稚了。然而，甚至托马斯也说这椅子具有神力，虽然他并不相信这一点。它确实有。I feel it now.我感觉到了一种将事物拆开来的力量。如果那才是椅子的真正神力——将你拆开来的神力？如果它能够捕捉到你心中最隐秘的感情禁果，并将它们抖搂出来，那该怎么办呢？I stand up.我没有勇气在修士们面前穿过教堂走出去，所以，我在回廊里乱摸乱撞了一会儿，开错了好几道门，终于找到了圣器收藏室里那扇通往教堂外面的门。我疾步穿过修道院的方庭，潮湿的空气扑面而来。浓雾非但没有消散——早些时候淡薄了一些，露出过一缕阳光——空气已经变成了浓汤。我穿过院墙的豁口走进了母亲的后院，我停住脚步，站在那天晚上托马斯送我们回家时我曾经逗留过的那个位置。我把手平放在墙垛上，凝视着墙灰和墙灰上被海风侵袭出来的那些小洞洞。在院子的对面，夹竹桃丛在风中摇曳，一片绿色依稀难辨。他是一位修士，我心想。想让自己相信，这一点将会拯救我。 托马斯修士