Chapter 6 5

------------------ 5 The heavy snow that had been falling all day finally turned into light snow, so I started to clean the snow in front of the door.The evening sun poured down through the gaps in the clouds, turning the white snow into a golden yellow.As I waved the shovel, I felt a sense of tranquility in my heart.Suddenly, I heard the sound of a strange car driving from Soski's house.The car stopped, and I hurriedly hid behind a hillock and looked out through a gap in the bushes. I found the sheriff's car parked at the intersection leading to my house, and my heart pounded.I lay down on the snow, and saw the fat deputy chief jump out of the car with a piece of paper in his hand. He observed the road for a while, shook his head, and began to walk up the crotch-deep snow with difficulty. .I hoped that this law enforcement officer would also be defeated like other visitors, but this little chubby was very stubborn.Seeing that he was approaching my house, I hurried back into the woods.

"Listen, Viveka," I said breathlessly, "here comes a deputy sheriff." Vivica's eyes widened. "Well, don't panic. If he's looking for me, just say I'm not home. You haven't seen me for a long time. Weeks!" "What did you do?" "Nothing. Really nothing. You see I can't keep standing here and explaining to you. He'll be here soon," I slapped her quickly on the cheek, and hurried down to the basement to fill her with potatoes and The big turnip buried itself. near.near.I heard the Deputy Chief lumbering up the steps.There was an urgent knock on the door.Vivica opened the door—too quickly, I think, especially when an unexpected stranger knocked.

"I want to see Neil Nudelman," gasped the deputy sheriff. "He's not here." Vivica said firmly. "Do you know when he'll be back?" "I... don't know... haven't seen him in a few weeks... I think he may have gone to the West Coast." Her words were convincing. "What happened?" "Here's the arrest warrant." "What?" Viveka almost lost his breath. "Call us at this number as soon as he comes back?" the deputy sheriff handed her a business card. "But what has he done?" "Just notify us." The law enforcement officer said and walked down, and then looked back with disgust at the place he had just trudged up.

After the deputy sheriff left I dusted off my clothes and went upstairs to see Vivica. "I think I deserve an explanation," said Vivica angrily, her face flushed from lying down.Swedes have an innate respect for the law for historical reasons, which is annoying. "Nothing really, just a little misunderstanding, I guess it was Gentz." I explained to her how I had unfortunately damaged a little bit of Gentz's room while I was changing in the hapless window. Is Goobswell on the Crash about Goobswell's collapse or my own impending collapse? Recently, my sleep has become worse, and the nightmare finally came, which was vivid and terrifying.For example, last night I dreamed that I had parasites, and someone opened my intestines for me to see.It is full of squids the size of a five-cent steel hammer, with hundreds of hairy feet.Crawl everywhere.When I woke up, I found that my stomach hurt badly.

I got out of bed, drank three cups of coffee, and struggled to get a picture of myself in the mirror.I stared straight into my own eyes in the mirror, and what I saw was creepy.What it is?I went back to Viveka and bent down for her to examine my eyes. "What can you see in my eyes?" I asked her. "Despair." She said as if she already knew. despair.Can others see it in my eyes too?Or is it just her who can see it?They must be able to see it too.There are even others.indifferent.It cannot be otherwise.It's the best defense against emotional vulnerability, the narcotic to fill the vacuum when hope is gone.

happy day.I have a job, but better yet I have an income.Hallelujah, praise God.Thank you Lord Jesus.Special thanks to Brazer Bernard Kaufman for sending the humblest and most incompetent of men a job at the last minute.I prostrated myself on the ground, chanted the scriptures, and drew the Star of David on my navel.Well, maybe not a real job, but one that pays.temporary?Of course, but is this the most important thing?A man dying of kidney failure, cancer, and a weak penis must learn to be grateful for even the slightest bit of relief, I've been reminded from the moment I started writing for Blazer Kaufman Myself.Two dollars a page is two dollars a page.Yes, this is selling my reputation, but this is an extraordinary period, and I must do everything possible to support my children.

It was the respected Mr. Z who I had known for many years who introduced me to Blazer Kaufman. Mr. Z, the only illiterate literary agent in New York City, must have had black lungs, for they kept sending phlegm up his throat.He's always coming up with weird, unique, and worthless ideas about publishing (he wanted me to write a cookbook called The Famous Last Supper), but he's got a heart of gold and is well-received. Dear people. Yes.Brother Kaufman.We met at the Huzhou restaurant in lower Manhattan, he was puffing on a golden cigarette holder, with a diamond ring on his little finger, and I was sitting bent over the table stuffing my mouth with sweet and sour beef dumplings, spring rolls dipped in butter and sausage.It was Brother Kaufman's money anyway, and I sucked my guts out while he talked about his literary accomplishments.He has published two books—one on how to get and destroy firms, and one on how he himself became a millionaire at the expense of his former partners.As he spoke I surreptitiously picked up the last few scraps of the snow-white linen tablecloth and put them into my mouth without anyone looking.

“Have you ever read Thinking of Heaven, Going to Hell?” he said, referring to a box of typed papers sitting between the Katoff salad dressing and the veal carnitas. I leaned on the back of the chair, wiped my chin, stared at the ceiling, scratched my scalp with my hands, and pretended to be thinking. "I once looked through this book with great interest." I said, looking into his eyes.I haven't read it exactly, but my answer is not wrong.I've read it, though it's sloppy—but of course, where there's money there's interest.If you don't believe me, you can ask any bank.

① English interest is both "interest" and "interest". "Huh?" He looked anxiously at me and asked, "Could it be that he saw it?" Ok.right.Ah-mmm.Yeah... I looked at Bernard Kaufman and wondered if I could handle it.Kaufman is in his fifties, with a clean shaven beard, and his skin is still tanned in this winter. His suit is well cut, his tie is imported silk, and his leather shoes are shiny.But regardless of all these appearances for the time being, Kaufman has a well-nourished face that never worries. The kind of self-confidence that can be seen at a glance tells you that he knew it from the moment the amniotic fluid was successfully pushed into his mother's vagina He was destined to control a major advertising company of his own and to monopolize the real estate business.Some people, like me, are always on tenterhooks.while others, like Mr. Kaufman, like Mandel and his lovely wife, lived their lives unscathed, blissfully leaving the pain of the world behind.I envy them.real.

I sat across the table from Kaufman, looking into his face, procrastinating to ask.His eyes were clear and blue, and he was determined and confident.I have been worn down to the point where he still has the fine lines.When I was tortured by hard thinking, he was so open-minded and leisurely.He has effortlessly owned companies that others have worked so hard for.He took over the entire business without spending a penny of capital - his face was a guarantee of credibility, and he was enough to make doubtful bankers keep their precious money out of their pockets. Bernie (we already call each other nicknames - it's a democracy anyway) has everything he wants and the best things in the world.His impeccable demeanor puts me to shame; he's not at all Jewish.However.However.However, there is one thing that is not satisfactory.Although he was superior in the stock market, he could monopolize the pork or chicken market, he could make money out of nothing, but he never achieved his last goal, to become a famous writer.A trifle, I'm afraid.But he had to be a writer.Although he has conquered the world of the strong, he has not yet reigned supreme in the arts, and that is why we are sitting here; and that, to the accompaniment of the muffled German polka of a brass band, has given me the opportunity to I almost swelled my stomach.

"Have you considered rewriting it yourself?" I said in a deliberate circle. "Well, I can rewrite it myself, but I am currently busy with the creation of two novels. I would rather continue to work on the unfinished work than to stop and go back to the past." "Yes, to do unfinished work." I nodded understandingly.More fiction!Proof that this guy is a total goldmine.Nudelman, for God's sake, be careful what you say.Lie a little bit.So you think his novels are a bunch of shit?Who are you, why do you point fingers?Maybe it's another Joyce or Shakespeare sitting across from you, or Malamud with the diamond ring on his little finger, Isaac Singer in disguise as a gentleman.Talk about 'talent'.Everyone has 'talent'.Even Hitler had a certain flair. "Do you still enjoy sweets?" asked the herald who came to clear the table. "No, we just want coffee." Kaufman waved him away. "What do you have?" I interrupted without losing the opportunity.it is good.Apple strudel sounds good.Thin-crust apple strudel?Maybe it would be better with some ice cream on top.Though I should watch the calories.Ah, wish I could sneak some of it home to Vivica in my pocket.She likes good food best. "Well," Kaufman said, turning to me, "what do you think? I want you to answer me honestly. Mr. Z tried to recommend you to me." "I was kind of hooked on it. Read it with great interest." I almost bit my tongue off.interest?Go on, don't stop.Talk about talent. "Talent, no doubt," I said, watching him.Mr. Kaufman's face lit up like the Christmas tree. "Mr. Z said the book should be a little more exciting, it should be a little more elegant, and small changes are needed here and there," he said before adding: "Nevertheless, if you think you need major changes, of course you can." .As long as it is suitable for publication. I can revise myself, but I am too busy," Mr. Kaufman went on to admit that he is now forgetting to sleep and eat to write.He sat at his desk and wrote, and wrote, and wrote every minute he didn't have when he wasn't creating vaginal deodorant commercials or buying and selling corporate deals. "It's crazy," he laughed to himself, and I was suddenly terrified.If Mr. Bernard Kaufmann, the author of "Think Hell, Go to the Lobby" without even a complete sentence, is convinced that he is a writer, maybe... maybe I, I am "writing" with the same illusion .Kaufman went on to describe the symptoms of his obsession—the mind constantly thinking about the plot of the story, the eyes observing life all the time, the midnight sleep troubled by various thoughts, and the notebook on the bedside table ready to record at any time.Have I been kidding myself all these years? So what?It's a fucking big deal.But still can't solve the problem of raising children.Money, money.To seize the opportunity. "Do you think it can be published?" Mr. Kao asked.He was confident a minute ago.aha!It seems that he is still a little guilty. "As it is now?" I asked.He nodded. "No." Hey!It was such a joy to be able to tell the truth. "What if you fix it up?" "I can't promise anything. I don't want you to have unrealistic hopes. I think if we can do some... some arrangements... structural... modify the sentences... adjust the storyline... ..." "Okay. Okay. Okay." He smiled. "I think, well, if it starts with Pete lying naked in his..." Two yuan per page is two yuan per page, a total of 40 yuan, and I can live a comfortable life for two months.When I got home, I stared out the window and figured.In the distance, three fawns could be clearly seen walking up the slope through Soski's field.A deer is lame, thanks to me and my broken gun.It will limp all winter long, and it will continually show the human error of my folly. I have a plan.Five pages a day, a half-hour maximum—wish I could do it in less time.Spending two and a half or three hours every morning working for Blazer Kaufman and three hours in the afternoon writing my own book.I had barely finished three pages for Bernie when the thoughts began to fluctuate.How can I get the four hundred yuan? At the beginning of our story, Pete Miller, alias Bernie Kaufman, is standing naked in front of Sylvia, an East End call girl kneeling on the floor licking his penis.With her right hand fingering his asshole and her left clutching (as he said it) his balls, Pete's cock slid into her mouth with a load of hot cum that came out so fast she couldn't catch it Swallow it. "Oh, Pete, Pete," she cried in ecstasy the moment he ejaculated.Sylvia begged him for more of that luscious dew as she greedily licked the sticky thing. All this is not only ridiculous but also physically impossible.I used to be a physicist.How could she talk with a mouthful of stuff in her mouth?How could she "lick his nectar" with her mouth full?As long as she sticks her tongue out, the contents of her mouth flow out. I'm calling Bernie.The counterparty pays. "Go ahead and do whatever you want with it." He gave me free rein. "all?" "All of them," he said.He also explained that he was already working on the outline of the fourth novel and had no time to attend to the details of this book. I went back to the story at his carte blanche.I guess, maybe it's just this kind of novel that can sell for a good price, who knows.Did Blazer Kaufman really know the novel market well?Maybe the book will be on the New York Times bestseller list and become the go-to read for the Book of the Month Club.Of course he can't do worse than what I did... I even wonder if I have begun to believe the lies I made up. As I delved deeper into To Hell, To Heaven, I began to see how the story unfolded.Pete Miller, a businessman and shrewd driller, has made his fortune three times, intending to travel to one ocean and two continents, and all the whores who hang out with him refuse to take his money like lovely Sylvia, because Pete It's an amazing kind.Fiery genitals can not only pierce the hymen but also break the heart (hey, there's a title! "Heart and Hymen"), and that's where his downfall begins.His wife, who sits at home all day picking weaves, will find out about his exploits and threaten to leave him; while he spends his days in ecstasy, his partners will eat their shared property; his kingdom will collapse, It wasn't until the last moment that Pete understood what had happened, how his corruption was leading to his undoing.The result of the story is that Pete has returned home, returned to his wife, and is busy using the beautiful, traditional, first posture to echo his wife's singing "Strong, Pete. Hard, Pete." It's not interesting, but it's so interesting.The sentences are of course not in English, and the behavior is ridiculous, but the point is - it's 397 pages.God, how can I get this done? This afternoon, when I picked up Liv and Magnus from the school bus, I checked the mailbox. From a stack of receipts, I found an airmail envelope with colorful Chinese stamps.I can't wait to open the envelope. Goobsville, New York 1 Nudelman Hill Road Mr. Neil Nudelman Dear Mr. Nudelman, Your letter to Mr. Mao Zedong has been received, thank you for your interest in our country.It is with regret that I inform you that our beloved Chairman passed away two years ago. People's Committee for Letters and Calls fourth deputy minister Wei Fenghua I read and re-read this depressing content, and finally decided to cheer myself up by glancing at the newspaper in Maud's letterbox.I'm sure Mrs. Soski—she only reads jokes and accident reports—wouldn't mind me taking a quick glance at her paper.I pulled the newspaper out of her mailbox, opened the first page, and there, on this page, was a large photo of Martin Genz staring at me. Renowned child psychologist dies I anxiously scanned the contents of the article.Distinguished professor at Goublesville University.He died of a heart attack last night at the age of 60.The University District and the entire town were shocked by his unexpected death.His mother will escort his coffin to the family cemetery in Schwabing, Germany for burial.no flowers.The families would like to express their deep gratitude to the donors of the Willam Schnittler Foundation for the research on the development trend of deformed children. I heard the children calling me to hurry up, but I couldn't move. I stood there with a newspaper in my hand. Martin Genz's photo froze me... Heart attack, I muttered, I thought of the blood vessels on the side of his forehead bouncing so forcefully that day when I vented through his window.My heart twitched, felt it start to pound... maybe his death was all due to my stupidity that day, and it bothered me.One logical thought told me that since he was about to die of a heart attack, a little anger (he deserved it) wouldn't make much difference, while another thought reminded me that if it weren't for me and my hapless temper, he Probably still alive and well today... Then, the third thought, which is inevitable, said to me that Genz is gone, Mummy has gone to Schwabing, and his charges and signed arrest warrants may be Failed...which means I'm off the hook. Poor Gentz, I thought, trying to forget his sudden death by following the children happily snowballing.Even if Martin Gentz ​​was obnoxiously pompous, he was still a human being, a living human being who wished to live.Should I go to the library and borrow one of his books to read?