Chapter 45 Cannot be separated from concrete in Oceanic Walls or Bunkers

By doing this, I wanted to do Shi Mu, the owner of the onion cellar, a favor.But he couldn't forgive my tin drum solo for turning his high-paying guest into a babbling, carefree, elated, trouser-wetting and therefore crying-no onion Crying child. Oscar managed to understand him.Could it be that he is afraid of my competition?Because more and more guests push aside the traditional tear-jerking onion, call Oscar, call his tin, call me, because I can spell on my tin drum to manifest any guest - no matter how old he is —— childhood. Until then, Shimu had limited himself to indefinite layoffs of the women who ran the washrooms.Now he fired us, his musician, and brought in a standing violinist who, if he wasn't demanding, could be treated like a gypsy.

-------- ① Standing violinist, generally refers to the chief violinist of an entertainment light music band, who plays while standing and directs the band.Sometimes also refers to a violinist playing standing. However, after we were turned away, many guests, including the most generous ones, threatened to break with the Onion Cellar.Within a few weeks, Shi Mu had to compromise.The standing fiddler came three times a week, and we played three times a week, but at a higher rate of twenty marks a night.In addition, as we got more and more tips, Oscar opened an account in the bank, happy to be able to earn interest.

The good times didn't last long, and this savings book soon became my helper in a difficult situation, because death came and took away our boss, Ferdinand Schmuel, and took away our jobs and wages. As I said before, Shi Mu beat sparrows.Sometimes he would take us with him, in his Mercedes, and let us watch him play mahjong.Although there were occasional quarrels over my drums, and Klepp and Scholer, who were on my side, suffered for it, the relationship between Schmuel and his musicians remained friendly until death, as mentioned above. Let's get in the car.Shi Mu's wife sat in the driver's seat as in the past.Klepp sat beside her.Shi Mu sat between Oscar and Schole.He kept the small-bore rifle in his lap, and sometimes stroked it.We drove until we were not far from Kaisersvelt.The banks of the Rhine are lined with trees.Shi Mu's wife stayed in the car, opening a newspaper.Klepp bought raisins in advance and ate at regular intervals.Before Schole became a guitarist, he studied a certain department in college and could recite several poems about the Rhine.The Rhine also shows its most poetic side, carrying, besides ordinary barges, the swaying autumn leaves towards Duisburg despite the fact that it is summer according to the calendar.If Schmud's small-caliber rifle was also silent, then the afternoon near Kaiserswert could be called a quiet afternoon.

Klepp wiped his fingers with the grass after eating the grapes.At this time, Shi Mu also finished playing.He added a twelfth, as he said, still twitching sparrow to the eleven chilled plumages lined up in the newspaper.The shooter had already wrapped his catch—for reasons unknown, Shi Mu always took what he shot home with him.At this time, a sparrow landed on the root of a tree washed by the river near us. It was so eye-catching, and its color was so gray. Such a standard sparrow specimen made Shi Mu irresistible, and he only shot a dozen at most in one afternoon. He hit the thirteenth sparrow.Shi Mu really shouldn't have done this!

He put the thirteenth with the twelve and we went back and found Mrs Schmuel sleeping in the black Mercedes.Shi Mu got into the car first and sat in the front seat, Klepp and Schole got into the car after and sat in the back seat.I should have gotten on the train, but I didn't, and said I still wanted to go for a walk and take the tram back by myself and leave me alone.So, they drove to Dusseldorf.There was no Oscar in the car, and out of caution, he didn't go up. I followed slowly.I don't need to go far.Due to road construction, a detour was opened.The detour passes through a gravel pit.In a gravel quarry at a depth of about seven meters below a road mirror, a black Mercedes lay with its wheels turned upside down.Workers at the gravel pit had pulled the three wounded and Shi Mu's body out of the water.The accident ambulance is on the way.I climbed down to the pit, and after a while, the shoes were full of gravel, and I expressed condolences to the injured.Despite the pain, they still asked this and that, but I didn't tell them that Shi Mu was dead.He stared blankly in amazement at the sky, three-quarters obscured by dark clouds.Newspapers containing the afternoon's catch were thrown out of the car.I counted, and there were only twelve sparrows, but I couldn't find the thirteenth one. I was still looking for it when the accident ambulance drove into the gravel quarry.

Shimu's wife, Klepp and Scholer suffered only minor injuries: a few bruises and broken ribs.When I later visited Klepp in the hospital to inquire about the cause of the accident, he told me an astonishing story: their car was driving slowly through the gravel quarry on a rutted bypass road when suddenly a Hundreds—if not hundreds of them—sparrows flew darkly from the hedges, bushes, and fruit trees, covering the Mercedes, hitting the windshield, and terrified Shi Mu's eyes. wife.The sparrow's power alone caused the accident and Shi Mu's death.Believe it or not, Klepp's statement is up to you.Oscar was skeptical anyway.On the day Shi Mu was buried in Chengnan Cemetery, he didn't even count the sparrows among the tombstones like he did a few years ago when he was a stonemason and engraver.Wearing a borrowed top hat, I joined the funeral procession and followed the coffin.In the Ninth District, I saw Konev the mason, with an assistant I didn't know, erecting a diacid stele for a double-chambered tomb.When Boss Sheng Shi Mu's coffin passed by Konev and was being carried to the new tenth district, he didn't recognize me, probably because I was wearing a top hat.He rubbed the back of his neck, making it inferred that his boils were either ripe or overripe.

Another funeral!I have led readers to so many cemeteries, what can I do?I have said somewhere else that funerals always remind one of other funerals, so I will not report on Schmud's funeral and Oscar's recollections of it as it went on.Fortunately, Shi Mu went underground normally, and nothing unusual happened.But I don't want to be unaware that after the funeral--as the widow of the deceased was hospitalized, so that everyone was at liberty--I was accosted by a gentleman who called himself Dr. Diusch. Dr. Diusch is in charge of a concert office.But the concert management office was not set up by him.In addition, Dr. Dusch introduced himself as a former guest of The Onion Cellar.I never noticed him.And he was there when I turned Shimu's guests into inarticulate, carefree little children.He told me from the bottom of his heart, yes, under the influence of my tin drum, Diusch himself returned to his happy childhood.Now, he's going to show me and my - as he puts it - "gift".He had full power to sign me a contract, a high-salary contract, and I could sign it on the spot.In front of the crematorium, Sugar Leo, known in Düsseldorf as Sabel Wilhelm, in white gloves, waits for the mourners.Dr. Dusch took out a piece of paper, which stipulated that I should take on the obligation of huge remuneration in the name of "Oscar the Drummer" to undertake all solo programs in the Grand Theater, and to sing solo on a stage facing 2,000 to 3,000 seats. foot play.I do not want to sign on the spot, Diusch is very sad.I used Shi Mu's death as an excuse, saying that Shi Mu had a very close relationship with me when he was alive, how can I find another new boss in the cemetery, but I am willing to consider this matter, and maybe take a trip, Call on him when you get back—Mr. Dr. Diusch, if possible, will sign what he says is a contract of employment.

I did not sign the cemetery, however, and Oscar had to ask for an advance due to financial insecurity.After leaving the cemetery, on the square where Dr. Dusch parked, I took the money in an envelope and his business card from him secretly, and stuffed them into my pocket. So I went on a trip and found a traveling companion.I would have preferred to go on the trip with Klepp, but he's still in the hospital, not allowed to laugh because he has four broken ribs.I would also like Maria to be my traveling companion. The summer vacation is not over yet, so I can take little Kurt with me.But Maria was still hanging out with her boss, Stanzel, the man who made Kurt Jr. call him "Daddy Stanzel."

In this way, I went on a trip with the painter Lankers.The reader knows that Lankers is the sergeant Lankers, who is also the man who is temporarily engaged to Muse Ulla.With the advance money and my passbook in my pocket, I went to visit him in the studio of Lankes, a street painter in Sittard, hoping to meet my former colleague Ulla at his place, because I wanted to travel with the muse . I found Ulla at Painter.At the door, she revealed to me that they had become engaged fourteen days earlier.She couldn't stay with little Hans Klages anymore, so she had to break off the engagement again.She asked me if I knew Hans Klages Jr.

Oscar didn't know Ulla's fiancé, expressed regret, and then put forward his generous travel proposal, but watched another good show: Before Ulla could agree, the painter Lankers intervened, expressing himself To be Oscar's traveling companion, slapped Muse Long-Legs several times for not wanting to stay at home, and shed tears over it. Why did Oscar not object?Since he was going to travel with the Muse, why didn't he protect the Muse?The more beautifully I imagined my travels beside the long-legged, light-haired Ulla, the more I dreaded living too closely with the muse.One must keep one's distance from the Muse, I thought to myself, otherwise wouldn't the kisses of the Muse become the order of the day?So, I'd rather travel with Lankers the painter, because when the muse tried to kiss him, he beat her.

There wasn't a long discussion about our travel destinations.We're only considering Normandy, and want to see the bunkers between Caen and Cabourg.We met there during the war.The only trouble is getting a visa.However, Oscar didn't want to mention anything about applying for visas. Lankers is a miser.His paints were cheap or begged, and the grounds of his canvases were poorly painted, but he spent a lot of money on them, and when it came to dealing with banknotes or coins, he was always penny-pinching.He never bought cigarettes, but smoked all the time.His meanness is systemic.How do you say this?Let's look at this example: If someone gives him a cigarette, he will take out a ten-fenny copper plate from his left trouser pocket, let it air out, and then put it in his right trouser pocket.As the time of day changes, there are more or less "sliding" copper plates in this way, but the total number is quite a lot.He smoked very diligently, and once he confided to me when he was in a good mood: "I smoke about two marks a day." The ruined piece of land in Wersten that Lankers bought about a year ago was bought with the cigarettes of his acquaintances near and far, or more precisely, with the cigarettes of other people. I'm going to Normandy with this Lankers.We take an express train.Lankers himself would have liked to take someone else's car, but I paid for the train ticket and asked him to travel, and he had to give in.From Caen to Cabourg, we have left the bus.Aspen all the way, behind the woods is a pasture bounded by hedges.Brown and white cows make the land look like a poster for milk chocolate.The traces of war damage are still vivid. If it is an advertising picture, it should not be painted.However, every village, including Bavent, the small village where I lost Roseweta, still bears the marks of war damage, which is unsightly. Starting from Cabourg, we walked along the beach towards the mouth of the Orne River.It didn't rain.At Le Homme, Lankers said: "We're home, boy! Give me a cigarette!" He was always leaning forward as he moved the coins from one pocket to the other. The wolf's head was already on one of the countless unspoiled bunkers among the dunes.He stretched out two long arms, holding a rucksack, an easel for field use and a dozen canvas frames in his left hand, holding me with his right hand, and pulling me towards the cement.A small box and a drum are Oscar's luggage. We cleaned Dawra Seven of the quicksand and filth of shelter-seeking couples, put a crate in, hung our sleeping bags, and made it a habitable space.On the third day of our stay on the Atlantic coast, Lankers brought back a large cod from the beach.It was given to him by the fishermen.He drew their boat and they stuffed him this cod. Since we still refer to the bunker as Daura Seven, it's not surprising that Oscar thought of Sister Dorothea again when he opened the fish.Fish liver and milt poured out and landed on his hands.I faced the sun and scraped the scales of the fish, and Lankes took this opportunity to draw a watercolor painting with a wave of the colored pen.The August sun was standing upside down on the cement dome of the bunker.I started by stuffing the garlic cloves into the belly of the fish.Where I used to fill with cod liver, milt and offal, I filled it with onions, cheese and thyme.Instead of throwing out the cod liver and milt, I stuffed both delicacies down the fish's throat and plugged it with lemon.Lanx snooped around.He went into bunkers at Dawra IV, Dawra III, and beyond, scooping up whatever he could.He brought back wooden planks and larger pieces of cardboard.The cardboard he will use to paint, and the wooden planks he will use to make the fire. Such a fire we could easily maintain throughout the day, for every two paces the beach was inserted with feather-light dry logs washed up by the sea, casting shadows that moved with the daylight.I set part of the iron balcony railing that Lankers had dismantled from an abandoned beach house on top of red-hot charcoal.I greased the fish with olive oil and set it up on hot rusty iron that was also greased.I squeezed lemon juice over the sizzling cod and let it slowly -- because fish can't be forced -- become a delicacy. We used several empty barrels, spread a piece of tar paper folded in several layers, and set up our dining table.Forks and tin plates are what we bring with us.Lankers, like a seagull famished at the sight of an eel, circled around the cod that was leisurely ripening.In order to distract him, I took out my drum from the bunker, put it on the sea sand, and beat it against the wind, constantly changing, inducing the sound of the waves and the noise of the rising tide: Bebra Frontline Troupe visits the bunker.From Kashube to Normandy.Felix and Kitty, two acrobats, tied their bodies into knots on the bunker, and then untied them. Like Oscar beating a drum against the wind, they recited a poem. The time is coming: "...Fish on Friday with poached eggs... We are approaching the Biedermeier fashion!" reads Kitty with a Saxon accent.Bebra, my wise Bebra, and Captain Propaganda nod; Rosweta, my Mediterranean Laguna, take up the food basket, on the cement, on top of Daura Seven, lay out the food; Sergeant Lanks also eats white bread, drinks chocolate, and smokes Captain Bebra's cigarettes... "Good boy, Oscar," the painter Lankers called me back from my reverie. "If only I could draw like you beat a drum! Give me a cigarette!" I stopped drumming, gave my traveling companion a cigarette, and tasted the fish, which was good: bulging eyes, soft, white, and loose.Slowly, I squeezed the juice from the last slice of lemon onto the charred and half-cracked cod skin, leaving no stone unturned. "I'm hungry!" Lankers said.He bared his long, waxy fangs and beat his fists against his chest under his checkered shirt like a monkey. "Head or tail?" I asked him to consider as I moved the fish to a piece of parchment that had been spread over tar for a tablecloth. "Which end do you suggest I want?" Lankers snuffed out the cigarette, leaving the butt behind. "As a friend, I would say: Please use the fish tail. As a chef, I would recommend you to eat the fish head. My mother, who is a good fish eater, would say: Mr. Lankers, please use the fish tail, you will be satisfied .Doctors always advise my father..." "I'm not interested in what the doctor said." Lankers doubted my words. "Dr. Horace always advised my father to only eat the head of cod." "Then I'll eat the fish tail! I noticed it, you want to give me something that doesn't taste good!" Lankers was still suspicious. "It's better this way. Oscar knows how to taste fish heads." "I see that what you want to eat is the fish head, well, the fish head is mine!" "You are so difficult, Lankers!" I want to end this conversation. "Okay, the head is yours and the tail is mine." "What, boy, did I play tricks on you?" Oscar admitted that he was played by Lanx.I know that he only feels good when he eats the fish in his mouth and at the same time is sure that I have been tricked by him.I call him a scheming old dog, a lucky guy, a lucky Sunday born.We started with cod. -------- ① German superstition that children born on Sunday are lucky. He took the head and I picked up what was left of the lemon and squeezed the juice onto the white flesh that had been cut open at the end, leaving no stone unturned.A few cloves of garlic as soft as butter fell out of the fish. Lanx sucked on the fishbone between his teeth, staring at me and the fish's tail. "Let me taste your fish tail." I nodded.He took a bite, still hesitating, until Oscar also took a bite of the fish head, comforting him and saying: The one he got was even better. We drank Bordeaux with our fish.I think there is a fly in the ointment, it would be nice if the coffee cup was filled with white wine.Lankers reassured me by recalling that when he was a sergeant on Dawra 7, he drank red wine until the invasion began: "Boy, we were all drunk, and here we went. Co Valski Kcherbach and Shorty Jungithold didn't even notice that it was going on here. They're dead, they're all lying in the same cemetery over there in Kaburg. Over there, in Arromanche S, the British, and in our part, the Canadians in great numbers. Before we could hang up our suspenders, they arrived and said: How are you?" -------- ① English: How are you? Then, with his fork upside down, he spat out the fishbone and said, "I met Herzog in Kaburg today, that cranky guy. You knew him too, when you came here to visit. He was a lieutenant." Of course Oscar remembered Lieutenant Herzog.Leaving the fish behind, Lankers told me that Herzog came to Kaburg every year, with maps and surveying instruments, because the bunker kept him awake.He'll come to us too, at Daura Seven, to measure. We're still eating the fish—the fish slowly revealing its skeleton—and Lieutenant Herzog arrives.He was wearing yellow khaki knee-length trousers and tennis shoes, with rounded calves and taupe chest hair that grew outside his unbuttoned linen shirt.Naturally we sit still.Lankers made an introduction, calling me his comrade and friend Oskar, and Herzog a former lieutenant. The retired lieutenant immediately set out to investigate Dora Seven.He was on the outside of the concrete first, with Lanx's permission.He fills out forms and carries a periscope with him, with which he flirts with wild vistas and rising tides.He gently stroked the gun ports of the Daura Six next to us, as if showing affection to his wife.When he was about to inspect Daura 7, the interior of our vacation cabin, Lankers forbade him to enter: "Boy, Herzog, I don't know what you want to do here around the concrete! It was realistic back then, but now It has already passed ①." -------- ①French, meaning "past". Lankers loves to say the word "passe".I always divide the world into the real and the past.However, the retired lieutenant believes that nothing has become the past, and the calculation problems have not been eliminated. In the future, everyone must repeatedly explain whether they have fulfilled their responsibilities in front of history.So, he is now going to inspect the interior of Daura Seven: "Do you understand what I mean, Lankers?" Herzog's shadow is already cast on our fish and our table.He wanted to step over our heads and enter the bunker. The cement pattern above the entrance of the bunker can still be seen as the workmanship of Sergeant Lanx. Herzog couldn't get past our table.Lankers used the fork from the bottom up, no, he didn't use the fork, but punched, knocking the retired lieutenant Helzog down on the dune.Lankers shook his head again and again, deeply regretting that our grilled fish feast was interrupted.He stood up, grabbed the lieutenant by the linen shirt on his chest, dragged him aside, and threw him down the dune leaving a neat trail.We can no longer see him, but we can still hear his voice.Herzog picked up the measuring tools that Lankers threw away, cursed and walked away.He had conjured up all the ghosts of history that Lankers had just thought belonged to the past. "He wasn't so ignorant when people thought he was a crank. If we hadn't been so drunk and fired, who knew what would have happened to the Canadians." I had to nod in agreement, because at low tide the day before, I had picked up a Canadian Army uniform button that told the truth among seashells and empty crab shells.Oskar kept the button in his wallet and felt as lucky as if he had picked up a rare Etruscan coin. Herzog's visit, though short, evoked many memories: "Do you still remember, Lankers, when our frontline theater troupe came to visit your cement and had breakfast on the top of the bunker, blowing a little bit like today? The wind suddenly came half a dozen nuns, picking crabs among Rommel's asparagus. You, Lankers, cleared the beach by order, and you did it with a murderous machine gun." Lanx recalled, while sucking on the fishbone.He even remembered the names: Sister Sholastika, Sister Agnetham.He listed them all.He pictured to me the novice, with a rosy face surrounded by lots of black.He painted it so vividly that the ever-present image of my nurse, Sister Dorothea, was half obscured, though not entirely lost.A few minutes after he had made this description, a vision arose--which no longer surprised me too much, so I failed to take it as a miracle--a young nun, Floating in the direction of the castle, over the dunes, I can see her rose color and the many blacks around it. She carried a black umbrella, like the kind that old gentlemen carry around, to keep out the sun.She wears dark green celluloid shades in front of her eyes, similar to the kind of protective glasses worn by Hollywood production executives.Someone in the dunes called her.It seems there are many nuns around. "Sister Agnetham!" cried a voice.Another voice called, "Sister Agnetham, where are you?" Sister Agnetta, the little girl answered over the more and more clearly exposed skeleton of our cod, "Here, Sister Sholas Tikka. There's not a breath of wind here!" Lankers sneered, and nodded his wolf head proudly, as if he had invited this Catholic parade, and there seemed to be nothing that would surprise him at all. The young nun is watching us, standing on the left side of the bunker.The rosy face, the two round nostrils, and the slightly protruding teeth were otherwise impeccable.She spit out: "Oh!" Lanx didn't move his upper body, only turned his neck and head: "Sister, are you here for a walk?" The answer came quickly: "We come to the seaside once a year. It's the first time I've seen the ocean. The ocean is so big!" Nobody would dispute that.To this day, I still think her description of the ocean is the most apt description. With a gesture of hospitality, Lankers picked a piece of fish from my share and handed it over: "Would you like some fish, Mom? It's still warm." His fluent French surprised me.Oscar also spoke a foreign language: "You're welcome, Mum. Today is Friday." Although I hinted that eating fish today was not against their strict rules, I failed to persuade the girl, who was cleverly concealed in her nun's robes, to join us for lunch. "Have the two of you lived here all this time?" She wanted to know out of curiosity.She thought our bunker was pretty, but kind of funny.Regrettably, the dean and five other nuns, holding black umbrellas and wearing green sunglasses, crossed the dunes and entered the picture.Agnetta left in a hurry in fright. I could hear from Dongfeng's embellished speech flow that she was severely reprimanded and then taken away in the middle.Lankers is dreaming.He put the fork upside down in his mouth and stared at the group of wind blowing above the dunes: "This is not a nun, it is a sailboat." "Sailboats are white," I reminded him. "These are black sailboats." It was hard to argue with Lankers. "Left outboard is the flagship. Agnetta, a fast Corvette light cruiser. Favorable sailing wind, wedge formation, from spinnaker to sternsail, foremast, thirdmast and mainmast, All sails are up, sailing towards the horizon towards England. Imagine this: early tomorrow morning, the British soldiers wake up, look out of the window, and guess what they see? Twenty-five thousand nuns, up to the mast The tops are covered with flags. Behold, the deck of the first ship is in sight..." "A new religious war!" I spoke for him.In my opinion, the flagship should be called the "Maria Stuart" or the "De Valera", and the "Don Juan" would be better.A new and more agile Almada came to avenge Trafalgar.The battle cry was: "Kill all the Puritans!" There was no Nelson in the British barracks this time.The invasion can begin: Britain is no longer an island! -------- ① "Almada" is the Spanish fleet sent by Philip II to attack England in 1588, also known as the Armada. ②In 1805, the British Admiral Nelson defeated the combined Spanish and French fleets here. Lankers felt that such conversations were too political. "Now they're driving away, the nuns!" he reported. "No, it should be sailing away!" I corrected. Well, regardless of whether they sailed away or were propelled by steam, the fleet was drifting in the direction of Cabourg anyway.They held umbrellas to block the sun.There was only one person, who fell behind, walked a few steps, bent down, straightened up, and fell down again.The remaining ships of the fleet, cruising slowly against the wind in order to remain in the frame, head towards the burnt-out set of the original seaside hotel. "The ship may not have been able to get it up, or the oars may have been broken." Lankers continued to speak the sailor's language. "Isn't that a fast Corvette? Isn't it an Agnetta?" Whether it was a Corvette or a frigate, it was Sister Agnetta anyway.She approached us, picking up shells and throwing them away. "What are you picking, sister?" Lankers could actually see clearly what she was picking. "Shells!" she pronounced the word peculiarly, crouching down again. "Can you choose this? This is the property of the world." I support the novice nun Agnetta: "You are confused, Lankers, shells are never human property." "It's seaside property, too, and it's property after all, and a nun is not to have it. A nun should be poor, poor and poor! Am I wrong, sister?" Sister Agnetta smiled with her protruding teeth. "I only picked a few shells. For the kindergarten. The children really like to play with shells. They haven't been to the seaside yet." Agnetta stood at the entrance of the bunker, and cast the nun's gaze into the bunker. "Do you like our little house?" I flattered her.Lankers was more blunt: "Take a look at this villa! You don't need to pay for it, Mom." Under her durable skirt, her lace-up shoes scraped the ground and even kicked up some sand, which was blown away by the wind and sprinkled on our fish.A little unsure, hazel eyes survey us and the table between us. "Of course not." She wanted to draw us into disagreeing with her statement. "Don't say that, sister!" The painter cleared all obstacles for her and stood up. "The view from the bunker is amazing! Standing behind the firing holes, you can see the whole beach." She was still hesitating, the shoes must have been filled with sand.Lankers reached out to the bunker entrance.His cement patterns cast dark shadows. "The inside is also very clean!" The artist's action may be to invite the nun into the bunker. "Only for a while!" he said clearly.With a flash of her body, she entered the bunker.Lankers wiped his hands on his trousers, which is a typical gesture of a painter.Before he went in by himself, he threatened: "You are not allowed to touch my fish!" fish? !Oscar has had enough.He withdrew from the table, at the mercy of the exaggerated din of the ancient warrior, the sandy wind and the tide.I moved my drum with my foot and started drumming, looking for a way out of this concrete field, world of bunkers, and vegetables called Rommel asparagus. I tried it first with love, but without much success.I once loved a sister too.I'd say a nurse rather than a nun.She lives behind a milky glass door in Zeidler's apartment.She is beautiful, but I have never seen her.There is a coconut fiber rug between us.The corridors of Zeidler's apartment were too dark.So, I felt the coconut fibers more clearly than Sister Dorothea's body. The subject quickly fell to the coco fiber rug.I try to break down my early love for Maria into rhythms and let the creepers that grow as quickly as cement grow.Sister Dorothea again, she blocked the way of my love for Maria.The smell of carbolic acid is blowing from the sea, seagulls in nurse uniforms are beckoning, and the sun like a red cross necklace is shining on me. Oscar was so happy that his drumming was interrupted.Abbot Solastika returned with her five nuns, tired-looking, holding her umbrella at one side, and asked desperately: "Have you ever seen a young nun? Our young novice? The child is so young. This is the first time the child has seen the ocean. She must be lost. Where are you, Sister Agnetham?" What else can I do?I had no choice but to watch the fleet blown away by the wind blowing from behind towards the mouth of the Orne River, Arromanches and Winston Port.Back then, the British imposed artificial harbors on the sea there.If they all come, we won't be able to accommodate them in our bunker.I also had a flash of an idea to let the painter Lankers receive their visits, but then, friendship, boredom and evil thoughts simultaneously ordered me to point my thumb towards the mouth of the Orne River.The nuns obeyed my thumb, and gradually turned into six smaller and smaller black holes drifting away on the sand dunes, and the sad "Sister Agnetta, Sister Agnetta!" The shouts made them move faster and faster, and finally turned into grains of sand. -------- ①An artificial port composed of ships used by the Allied forces in Normandy in 1944. Lankers walked out of the bunker first.Typical painter's actions: he wiped his hands on his trousers, lazily came to the sun, asked me for a cigarette, stuffed the cigarette into his shirt pocket, and jumped at the cold fish . "This kind of thing makes people hungry," he explained suggestively, snatching the tail that belonged to me. "She must be very unhappy now." I complained to Lankers, and I was quite proud of using the word "unfortunate". "Why? She has no reason to be unhappy." Lankers could not imagine that the way he dealt with people could make people unhappy. "What's she doing now?" I asked, but I meant to ask something else. "She's mending." Lanx gestured with a fork. "Her nun's gown is a little torn and is being mended." The sewing girl comes out of the bunker.She opened her umbrella and hummed something, but I believe I could hear her nervousness: "From your bunker, it's such a wild view! You can see the whole beach, and the sea." She stood still before the ruins of our fish. "Can I?" We both nodded at the same time. "The sea breeze makes people hungry." I chimed in.She nodded, took our fish with red, gapped hands that reminded of heavy labor in a monastery, put it in her mouth, and ate it solemnly and nervously, thinking, as if she chewed nothing but fish. Besides, there was the enjoyment she got before eating the fish. I looked at her under the nun's hat.She left the reporter's green sunglasses in the bunker.Beads of normal size lined the smooth forehead under the brim of her white starched hat, which had the brow of a Madonna.兰克斯又想向我要烟，可是方才他要去的那一支还没有抽呢。我把整包烟扔给了他。他把三支插在衬衫口袋里，第四支叼在唇间。这时，阿格奈塔姆姆转过身去，扔掉雨伞，跑——这时我才看到她赤着脚——上沙丘，消失在海涛的方向上。 “让她跑吧！”兰克斯像是在预言，“她也许回来，也许不回来。” 我只安稳地待了片刻，盯着画师的香烟，随后登上地堡，远眺海潮以及被吞没了大半的海滩。 “怎么样？”兰克斯想从我这儿知道点什么。 “她脱掉了衣服。”除此之外，他从我这儿再也打听不到什么了。 “她可能想去游泳，清凉一下。” 我认为涨潮时游泳是危险的，而且刚吃完东西。海水已经没及她的膝盖，她渐渐被淹没，只剩下滚圆的后背。八月底的海水肯定不太暖，看来她并没有被吓住。她游起来了，灵巧地游着，练习着各种姿势，潜水破浪而去。 “让她游吧！你给我从地堡上下来！”我回头看去，只见兰克斯伸开四肢在抽烟。太阳下，鳕鱼的骨架泛着白光，独霸餐桌。 我从水泥上跳下来时，兰克斯睁开画师的眼睛，说：“这真是幅绝妙的画：下潜的修女。或者：涨潮时的修女。” “你这个残忍的家伙！”我嚷道，“她要是淹死了呢？” 兰克斯闭上眼睛：“那么，这幅画就取名为：淹死的修女。” “假如她回来了，倒在你的脚下呢？” 画师睁开眼睛谈了他的看法：“那么，就可以把她和这幅画叫做：倒下的修女。” 他只懂得非此即被，不是头即是尾，不是淹死即是倒毙。他夺走我的香烟，他把中尉扔下沙丘，他吃我的那份鱼，让一个本来是被奉献给天国的女孩去看地堡内部，当她还在向公海游去的时候，他用粗糙的、块茎状的脚在空中作画，随即标好尺寸，加上标题：下潜的修女。涨潮时的修女。淹死的修女。倒下的修女。两万五千个修女。横幅画：修女在特拉法尔加。条幅画：修女战胜纳尔逊爵士。逆风时的修女。顺风时的修女。修女逆风游七。抹上黑色，许多黑色，溶化的白色和冷蓝色：进犯，或者：神秘，野蛮，无聊——战时他的水泥上的旧标题。我们回到莱茵兰后，画师兰克斯才把所有这些画真正画下来，有横幅的，有条幅的。他完成了全部修女组画，找到了一个强烈渴望得到修女画的艺术商。此人展出了四十三幅修女画，卖了十七幅，买主有收藏家、企业家、艺术博物馆以及一个美国人，使得评论家们把他这个兰克斯同毕加索相比较。兰克斯用他的成就说服了我，奥斯卡，把那个音乐会经纪人丢施博士的名片找出来，因为不仅兰克斯的艺术，我的艺术也在叫喊着要吃面包：是时候了，该把三岁鼓手奥斯卡在战前和战争时期的经验，通过铁皮鼓变成战后时期丁当响的纯金了。