Chapter 5 Chapter Four

For more than 50 years, Camargue has not missed a day without missing his mother. He did not know what his mother looked like, nor what her present name was; but he had always harbored the hope that she must still be alive somewhere in the world.Over time, the image of the mother has changed from one shape to another, from one look to another, and there are so many looks that Camargue can no longer stick to one.His mother's swimming is also his own swimming, and no matter how hard he tries, every day he is many people: almost every moment a new person, a stranger, and it takes a lot of effort for him to identify.Nevertheless, whenever he sees his mother, he can recognize her; because although he does not remember her height or appearance, he must know that it is her mother just by her expression or that, because that expression is also there. In him, perhaps, the habit of turning the head slightly, with the right finger resting on the right eyebrow, as if thought weighed on the right side; Others keep their distance, like all people who have suffered from the rejection of their first love.If my father hadn't destroyed the last memory of her at home, he might be able to picture his mother now.

What makes him most desperate is the absolute blankness of his mother's imagination. When Camargue was ten or eleven years old, on Christmas Eve, when he was still living in Tucuman (Tucumán, a city in northern Argentina.), he found his father burning all the photos, clothes and letters left by his mother.As early as a few months ago, his father had forbidden him to mention his mother's name, to draw a portrait of his mother, or to use her as a topic when writing essays in school.In this way, the mother quickly left his memory; the mother became a vague figure to whom Camargue spoke quietly, without getting an answer from her.Before that, he had seen his mother so infrequently that as a teenager he couldn't tell whether the memories of her in his head were imaginary or real.Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he struggled to find his mother in the nurse's cap and white apron and the rubber gloves she always wore on her hands.He said, I am my mother.As soon as I see you, I know who I am.

My mother works in a tuberculosis hospital. Because she is always on night shift, she often sleeps in the daytime until late in the afternoon before getting up.The rest of the time, she writes notes and doesn't care about cooking and cleaning, or about her son.Camargue sat happily beside his mother, admiring the beautiful mother.From time to time she glanced at her son; Camargue and his mother exchanged glances.So, the mother shook her head and said again and again: "Cat, my kitten." Her gentle appearance is still missed by Camargue.The voice, he no longer remembered; but the lost tenderness was like a leg or an ear cut off—the hearing is weakened in the presence of others.

Before dawn, when the mother returned from the hospital, the first thing she did was go into the Camargue room and feel her son's head.More than once Camargue waited all night for this moment of caresses, falling asleep for fear of missing his mother's caresses. He listened to the sound of his mother pushing back the curtains, to the soft steps of her footsteps across the hall, through the small parlor, towards his bed.Camargue pretended to be asleep.He had already learned to pretend to be asleep so skillfully that he could stop his eyes and enjoy his mother's caress forever; his breathing could be so peaceful and peaceful that he had never reached this level even when he actually fell asleep.As soon as he heard the rustling sound of his mother's apron getting closer, he became excited; as soon as he smelled that his mother still smelled of disinfectant even after taking a shower, his heart beat wildly.Then his whole being was ready for his mother's very soft touch: she touched his head with her hands so smooth and so soft that it seemed only the fingers were rustling.

One morning, unable to restrain his curiosity, he decided to look at his mother's gentle hands.He was terribly saddened and terrified to discover that his mother was wearing hospital gloves.Then he knew that the gloves had always been in his mother's hands.Has been blocking the mother's hands from touching his head.Could it be that the placenta was also used to prevent him from contacting his mother before he was born?Could it be that the placenta is there to differentiate the mother's body rather than to protect him? and after?Was the mother also wearing gloves when she brought the nipple to his mouth for the first time?That morning, he wished strongly that his mother would die, that death would take to another world all that was not her caress.But then he began to think this way: his mother's caressing attitude should still be affirmative; he concentrated all his hatred on those gloves.The mother never left the gloves.Before going to bed, she washed her hands with alcohol and put her gloves in a heated machine like the old barbers used to sterilize scissors and combs.

A few days later, Camargue got into a fight with two classmates, and his scalp was cut and his face was covered with blood.His clothes were also torn, and he cried and ran all the way home.My mother was sitting in an armchair in the living room, flipping through a magazine with gloves on.Camargue asked his mother: "Mama, can I hug you? Can I kiss you?" With that said, he opened his arms and rushed over.His mother looked him up and down, unhappily, and pushed him firmly aside.She said, "Kitten, don't even try to touch me! Don't you know? No matter how much I wash my hands, bathe, and wash my clothes, I always have sick people's breath on me! It's okay for me, but the things that touch me People are contagious."

Camargue then thought: She should not touch her father, even though they shared a bedroom and a bed.Every time he saw his parents sleeping in bed, they were sleeping on their sides, with their backs facing each other, separated by a rolled-up comforter.As a child Camargue was not very interested in his father, who was rarely at home either. My father was a sound engineer and worked in a radio station, making special sound effects for broadcasting novels.He used a split coconut shell to imitate the sound of horses' hoofs; he used a cylinder filled with coarse salt to shake to imitate the footsteps of lovers walking on the dead leaves in autumn.He brags in front of his wife that for him there are no sounds that cannot be reproduced: the rubbing of textiles, the rustle of the wind in the woods, the footsteps of troops parading, the sound of a tennis match.

Sometimes Camargue thought he was living in a ghost.By fifth grade, when he came home from school, the house was always empty; with nothing to do, he would go over and over again.The teachers wrote congratulatory letters to him, but no one at home read them.His only food was boiled beans made for him by a neighbor's wife, and the three pots of vegetables had been kept on the coal stove until they were delivered.Camargue let the dishes cool down and ate a little from time to time. One January morning, this icy life was changed forever. Camargue watched Jules that night.Verne (Jules. Verne (1828-1905), French writer, founder of modern science fiction. His main works include the famous trilogy "Captain Grant's Daughter" (1868), (1870) and (1875 ) etc.); he slept so late that he was entangled in his dreams even among the victims of the mysterious island and the songstress who had risen from the castle in the Carpathians, when he heard a sound coming from his parents' bedroom sobbing.He came to the bedroom door with bare feet and only a pair of ragged shorts; he found his father sitting on the edge of the bed, beating his forehead with a piece of paper.The love he had reserved for his father for several years suddenly surged into his heart like a huge wave; he tried his best to restrain himself, let the heat wave pass, and did not go up to hug and kiss his father, because both father and mother believed that feelings were dirty nails that should be worn Put on gloves.

"What does your mother think she is?" his father said to him. "She slept with a physiotherapist in the hospital. I have been patient for several years. Now, she is not satisfied with this, and she simply lives with him." "So, she's not coming back?" "Didn't you hear? She abandoned us both!" Camargue has always thought that only women are offended, based on the stories he saw in movies and novels: the husband is unfaithful and rude, and finally abandons his wife.It never occurred to him that the opposite would happen in real life.If his mother left with another man, he probably didn't care as much as his father.But why did she run away without her son?What happened to his Camargue to his mother?

He never complained; he was obedient, studied hard, ironed his own clothes, and tried not to be seen when he cried.Then why did you leave him behind?damn it!Women are nothing! To add to his distress, his mother left the hospital gloves in the warmer when she left.Those empty gloves reminded him of his mother's caresses, never again.At the same time, it occurred to him that those hands, now without gloves, might be caressing someone else's head, not his. A few months later, while rereading Verne's Captain Grant's Daughter, Camargue discovered a letter from his mother in the second volume.It can be seen from the font: she wrote in a hurry. "Little Cat: I can't take this home anymore. Forgive me! I know you'll be fine. Goodbye!" He almost showed the letter to his father, but was afraid that his father would snatch it away.He hid the letter in his trouser pocket, but the day the laundry was washed in hot water at home, the letter was crumpled to pieces.

The only place where the mother could hide was Buenos Aires, because the capital was a never-ending mirror where life was confounded and repeated.When Camargue was fifteen, the People's Radio hired his father to create sound effects for Les Armés de France, a radio play that reproduced the story of Zorro.One Sunday in winter, after selling the few remaining furniture, the father and son took a train called "Tucumán" through the desert of Santiago del Estero and the salt pans of Córdoba, arriving in the middle of the night. Buenos Aires.The radio station sent a taxi to the Retiro train station, and the driver had an order to take them for a drive in the streets of the city center before taking them to their dormitories.All the buildings were brightly lit; from underground came the roar of trains.People giggled through the streets, munching on pizza.Some streets sloped toward the dark side of the Rio de la Plata.It was late at night, but the light leaking from every window was so strong that Camargue felt that the sun might come out at any moment. The room that the radio station rented for the father and son, near Retiro, used to be a clinic for an old brothel.In a space of forty-eight square meters, there are a bunk bed, a bathtub for bathing and washing dishes, and a stinking Primus kerosene stove.Downstairs lived women who swayed in the corridors every afternoon in skimpy skirts and the smell of powder that attracted rats.They were celebrating almost every day, playing music at maximum volume; Camargue only dared to protest once, and the women laughed at him.That night one of the women knocked on the door of his house and asked Camargue to look after her son; so saying, he delivered the child, barefoot and in pajamas, into his hands.Early the next morning, she took the sleeping child away. In the afternoon, she came again, with her skirts open, to repay him for his help. But as soon as Camargue saw the gray and white spots of scabies on the fine hair between her legs, he lost his desire at once. During those few years, the most important thing for him was to grow up quickly and finish his studies so that he could live away from his father.Sometimes in the library, sometimes in the garden square, he was always reading.In this way, it took him four years to complete the five-year middle school courses; he spent another four years to complete the university and master's degree courses, and completed the MA thesis. Camargue didn't miss a single film at the film club screenings; he studied French in order to read the dogmatic essays of the French film critic André Bazin in Cahiers Cahiers.He rose to prominence by defending the terse language of Travels in Italy at a midnight seminar hosted by the "Filmmakers" Club; Roberto.Rossellini (Robert. Rossellini (1906-1977), a famous Italian film director. His "Rome, Undefended City" and "Partisans" attracted the attention of movie audiences all over the world to the Italian Neorealism movement. "Voyage to Italy" he directed and starred the famous actress Ingrid Bergman.) It was during the shooting of this film that Ingrid began to be lost.Bergman's love.The results of Camargue's speech allowed him to publish any opinion piece in the club's monthly journal.He published two articles in the United States. René-Clair (1898-1981), a French film script writer and director, has filmed films in France, Britain and the United States successively. His main works include "Sleeping Paris", "Scene Asking the Song", "Soul Returns to the West", etc.), Let.Renoir (③ Jean. Renoir (1894-1979), a famous French film director, has directed (disillusionment, "clothed beasts), "rules of the game" and other classic films.) and Fritz Lange (Fritz. Lange (1890-1976), a film director born in Vienna. His films show fate and people must fight against the arrangements of fate, and are known as masterpieces of films. Representative works include "Fury", "You Only Live Once ", etc.) and other articles on the use of lethal effects in directors' works.The article that changed the course of Camargue's life was for Ruzino."Sensation" by Visconti - An ode to.The article caught the attention of an editor at the Journal, and the result was that the editorial office provided Camargue with an office, health insurance, and a salary of sixteen hundred pesos a month—almost as much as his father Nana' Cascayal got paid for his radio play.Today these stories of good luck seem unlikely to be true; but in those days the aging press had been scrambled by the age of censorship, and editors looked around for talented young men to feed the editorial staff. Oxygenates the blood. Since Camargue entered the editorial department of the "Journal", good luck has followed. On the afternoon when the drama critic fell ill at home due to hepatitis, Sacha Guitry (Sacha Guitry (1885-1957), French playwright, whose main works include "Daddy is always right), "Liar "The Story" and so on. ) died.Since the news arrived after people were off work, the newsroom was empty.The editor on duty then asked Camargue if he dared to write the obituary.It is difficult to have a second chance like this.Camargue dug tenaciously and assiduously into the archives, and an hour later came a five-hundred-word elegy: he described Guitry as a playwright so outdated that people thought he had passed away Woolen cloth.Perhaps for this reason, Camargue suggested in the article, the dead man was a double, or an imitator; the only secret of the real Guitry's immortal performance was in this double. The editor-in-chief of Le Journal liked the article so much that another week later, he asked Camargue to write a review ,) Comedy articles, because at this time the French "National Popular Theater" came to Buenos Aires to perform these plays.Camargue praised the plays, and he offered a perceptive view of the love labyrinths woven around the court of Louis XV, arguing that the history of the French Revolution should be rewritten in terms of these comedies. No professional critic has ever considered anything other than the first performance.Camargue, on the other hand, has more than enough time and energy to accomplish a great deal.The image of his mother was firmly fixed in his mind. Le Journal's certificate opened the doors of hospitals, sanatoriums, and nursing homes for the Camargue; he spent several weeks traversing them one by one, looking for a fifty-year-old man in a pleated skirt and rubber gloves. women.More than once, he thought he had found his mother.In these cases, he would spend hours on end investigating whether a nurse in the tuberculosis hospital had ever had a son named Kitten.Many people have already forgotten everything about the past, even forgetting that memories should be recalled.Still, Camargue did not lose hope: one day some woman would look at him in surprise, then open her arms and ask him, "Why didn't you come to me sooner, cat?" (In the Journal of Buenos Aires, the Camargue published five consecutive reports on the shelter for elderly women. Five days in October: Monday to Friday; the reports revealed for the first time Extremely corrupt behavior by the administrators of women’s shelters. The food calories of those elderly women averaged less than 80 calories per day; there were no mattresses or blankets on the beds; there was only one bathroom for 60 people living in eight; there was no cotton wool or gauze in the infirmary , disinfectant, analgesic; if someone falls ill, there is no one to take care of them, so they have to get up and cook by themselves. Not to mention the urination and defecation all over the floor. The third and fifth reports were published in the "Daily" No. One edition; it was later compiled into a book entitled "Abandoned", which became a classic; together with "Massacre" and "EFE Spanish Handbook for Urgent Use", it was used as a textbook by the University Journalism Department.) Although Camargue tried every means to find out the whereabouts of his mother in asylums and hospitals, although he checked and checked the list of unknown corpses one by one in the morgue and cemetery, although he carefully studied the city government accident register and the previous ones. He still wouldn't throw in the towel on the list of paychecks for women who had served at the convent. At that time, typesetting was still used in newspapers, and it was still 20 years before computer laser phototypesetting technology was widely used. It took the patience of the enlightened sects of the Middle Ages to guess the biography hidden behind each name, to compare photographs in the archives with the hazy images of memory.Or, like Camargue, in a quagmire of fixed ideas.In the face of countless painful experiences, he is not timid.Just when he had been through a string of failures, he finally thought that his mother would probably cling to the bourgeois habits anyway; he thought she would live in some poor house on the outskirts of Palermo, married or widowed.He walked through every avenue in Buenos Aires: Corridi, Guatemala, Fitz.Roy, Almenia, Soria.He visited several meat and vegetable markets near the Triangle Green, which at that time was called Serrano Junction, or Lacedo Corner, and was later renamed Julio.Cortázar square; he surveyed the photographer's complex on Guruchaka Street and the Masonic club on Uriart Street.At any moment, he thought, he might see his mother on the sidewalk, drinking a cold drink and talking to the neighbors.More than once when night fell, he hid in a tavern that was said to be owned by a Frenchman; if it was near the end of dinner time, tango singers would come in, and they would use their tired voices to make people eat beans and vegetables. , drink whiskey and stay in the tavern happy customers. Camargue sat by the window to see if his mother would pass by.Maybe at some point the glint of the glove would light up his eyes and show him that it was his mother. When he invited Reina.Remis ate in order to continue discussing Robert. The tavern was the first thing that came to his mind when he read Mitchum's obituary.It was Tuesday, so there should be no one in the tavern, but he still ordered the female secretary to reserve a table under the spiral staircase in the middle of the tavern; he also asked the female secretary to call Reina.Address of Remis Tavern. He had a vague sense of panic in the face of Reina, a feeling that brought him back to a certain remote embarrassment in his boyhood; and that night he had at the same time a sense of soul-washing freedom, probably due to his wife Bren Da and his twin daughters are far from his life, and now the three of them are flying over the Paraguayan capital Asunción or the Mato Grosso swamps in Brazil; or he has a premonition that his mother is nearby , "Kitten, I won't delay any longer." Hey, it's strange how Reina can make him feel flustered!Her body was the exact opposite of what he liked: she was not plump at all, with a small mouth, an oversized jaw, thick ankles, and seemingly small breasts. Camargue usually walked with a hunchback, protruding lower lip, and a contemptuous expression, like a portrait drawn by Dante; when he saw that Reina was already sitting at the bottom of the spiral staircase, he tried his best to stand up and walked over. .She wore a wide lace skirt and gave the impression of a harmless country girl.Two small candles were already lit on the table.The atmosphere is warm and peaceful.There was an open space in the middle of the tavern, where sometimes an accordion and violin duo played; sometimes it was some imitation Edith.Biaf (Edit. Biaf (1915-1963). Famous French singer.He has sung in Latin America. ) by a female singer.Camargue ordered a bottle of French wine without consulting Reina. He said to the waiter, "I want onion soup too. I don't know what Ma'am wants." Reina hesitated for a moment, as if she didn't understand any subtle and special hints on the menu, and finally said, "It's the same. I want the same." Reina seemed uncomfortable and pleased at the same time, and she didn't know how to hide her discomfort.She drank water in quick sips, as ignorant as a bird.Her hands are very broad and her fingers are too short.Her whole charm lies in her consistent free expression, although she is sometimes intimidated, but she still insists on it afterwards; her charm also lies in the galaxy-like moles on her chest.Her charm lies above all in the fact that there is always a sensual fragrance about her, as if a ray of light or a soft, sweet fragrance follows her like a shadow.She stood up and timidly asked where the bathroom was.When Camargue saw her ascend the spiral staircase, he observed her legs and noticed a white spot on the thick ankle, and a seductive mole inside the silk stockings.Camargue thought again: Reina is not beautiful, but a little haughty.Still, she exudes a raw sensuality, an irresistible animality. As soon as she got back to the dinner table, she said: "The politics team was really busy tonight. People kept calling. The editors all stood up and discussed quietly in the hallway.Nobody wants to say anything out loud.Everyone is proud of the secrets they hold. " Her tone was honest, simple, and cautious.A vixen scouts out the secrets of the forest. "That's no secret. Everyone knows that the president's son has millions of dollars in a bank in São Paulo. He's only twenty-one, he doesn't have a job, and he pays for all the racing cars. You Where do you think the money came from?" Reina guessed: "Is it from smuggling weapons?" "That's what we think. There is evidence that the president's son has a lot of stocks and savings. But it is still not clear where he got so much money. When people see the headlines tomorrow, they will definitely count a fortune Account." "Are you going to publish it all in the newspaper? Then the president will definitely have a heart attack." "The president already knew. We reminded him ourselves. To excuse himself, he threatened us with prosecution. I said to him at the time: Just sue! It would be worse for him! We have evidence." "Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, the government will be gone. When everyone reads the president's news, no one will read my Robert Mitchum obituary." "Reina, there are all kinds of readers. You don't think there's a whole lot of readers who buy papers just for the obituaries." "To read the obituary? No, no, I never thought about it that way. It's a matter of course. Here we are living a normal life, just like Saint Teresa said, we are dead because we are not dead." The waiter came and went to pour wine for them.The tavern was more crowded than usual.They had to talk in low tones.Camargue criticized her bluntly: "Reina, why did you make up the story of the twin saviors? What does the savior have to do with Robert Mitchum? You know? Such a bad move will sacrifice your job! " "I told you: I misunderstood it. I regret it. I beg your pardon." "There can be no misinterpretation in making news! There can only be malicious and good intentions. Why do you do this? There must be a deeper reason, not just an oversight." "I can't tell. Two years ago, I went to Mexico. I traveled alone, with a backpack, in a bus. One morning, I arrived in Tenan Sintra, a small village ten minutes from the provincial capital, Puebla.Originally, I wanted to see the pyramids in Cholula, but the bus went astray and came to such a deserted place.There are no people: no pharmacies, no cafes, no handicraft shops.A desert.I entered the church, which was so full of hangings and offerings that there was not a single vacant room.All kinds of scenes of life that are lacking outside the church are available inside the church, all on the reliefs on the walls.There are groups of characters from religious stories, groups of angels adorning the bows of ships, and many Madonnas.Each Virgin holds in her arms not just one Christ Child, but two. Several Virgins had four breasts on their breasts.Walking out of the church, I went to the entrance, and a guide sold me a copy of the Gospel written by the Valentinians.So, I came up with the idea of ​​writing an article about the twin saviors. I heard that during the filming of "Night of the Hunter" an actor was reading Valentine's books, so I kindly thought it must be Mitchum.I didn't expect to be a director. wishful thinking. (, English. wishful thinking.) Sometimes, history is not what it should be, but what it is. "Perhaps you have a point, but the papers are about the present!"This is the whole story? " "If there is any other reason, I don't know. Perhaps I thought you would read this article, and I was trying to get your attention." When the waiter came to serve them, Camargue watched Reina silently. Beneath the crust of cheese and bread, the broth billows with heat. "Reina, you wasted my time. Don't make an example!" Watching her, he ate the soup with the spoon carefully, not spilling a drop. "I've learned my lesson. There won't be a next time." "Where are your parents?" Camargue asked. "What do your parents do?" "My mother does the laundry, cooks, cleans the house. She's a total victim. My father, I don't know.How does he live?He has a mechanical repair shop twenty kilometers away from this place.Rarely come here, never in Buenos Aires.He doesn't like reading, he doesn't like watching movies, he doesn't like me.The only thing that can make him emotional is the horse. "He has horses?"This is expensive. " "No. He had one when he was a boy. The horse broke its leg and had to be shot. From then on, there was only the desire to keep horses. Now, every Sunday, he goes to Longtians' house." The stud farm, where the horses belong to other people, but he can ride them. He rides for hours. Sometimes, I accompany him to ride. However, we don’t talk. We quarrel when we talk.” “You sure aren’t An easy daughter." "I am not easy to deal with? It is my father who is not easy to deal with. No matter what I do, he is not satisfied. He always has new demands on you. He hopes that I will grow like a rose, but it turns out to be a little daisy. " Several waiters lifted a wooden platform to the center of the tavern, and placed two high stools on the platform.Camargue saw two long-haired men with pomade standing beside the counter in the distance.They were as pale as talcum powder. Camargue said: "See? Time to go. It's a tango duet: accordion and singer. Everyone's talking, and they're going to show their white ass faces." Wooden tables and benches are illuminated by lights.The accordionist began to fiddle with the instrument.Pulled a few chords.It was a melancholy tune that didn't sound like any classic.It expresses too few things, and it is chaotic. Perhaps it is for this reason that I come to this place to perform, so that this singer can fill in the blank. "It's all so weird," Reina said. "It's like I guessed what's coming next." "Maybe something is going to happen?" "I'm talking about music. I heard it before it came. It doesn't mean anything, but it sounds like weeping." The singer moved the bench to the intersection of light circle and shadow, hiding the stiff arm and toothless mouth. His round head cast a shadow on the wall.Camargue hastily snapped his fingers and asked the waiter to bring the bill; but it was too late: the accordion brought a string of music.It is the melody of the middle plate, using a soft pedal, and it uses the twelve-tone system to mix together fragments of several famous tango pieces. The singer said: "I remember, I remember dreaming of distant foreign countries when I was a child. It's so beautiful!" Camargue stood up. He said: "Let's go, Reina! These sentimental strippers are giving me a headache." Reina also stood up.She was mesmerized by the lights, by the absurd rhythms of the accordion, by the energy with which the singer talked about her life. The singer said: "Paris! The first time I came into contact with these two words, my heart burned. The first commandment: From now on, you must not love any other city except Paris. The second commandment: You must not have a reason How beautiful it is! At that time Paris was Victor Hugo, Mimi Pinçon, Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), France Famous painter, whose main works include "Red Mill - Glutton", "Circus Director", etc.)'s "Les Miserables" is Paul' Verlaine (Paul. Verlaine (1844-1896), Famous French poet.)’s axe wine, is Moulins. The heart of Rouge. I was still young, and I dreamed of dancing tango in Paris.” The accordion played the melody of "The Seamstress".Reina was already in tears. "Let's go!" said Camargue.He made his way to the counter, walking across the now packed tavern. It's late at night, the traffic has dwindled, and the avenue looks longer, when in the dim shadows, there are happy "ladyboys", old guys who drive their cars and poke their heads out in the warm air looking for a sexual partner , they are casting nets to the "fish schools" at night; they are men and women who want to make love on the spot, and they are entangled together; at the same time, the "little train" (referring to the oven) of frying dried fruits Shaped like a locomotive. ) lingering at home, offering hopelessly the coals and ashes of roasting almonds and chestnuts. It was the end of winter, but already it seemed to be the beginning of summer.Winter was yesterday, but it seems that the day after tomorrow has come. In the fragile night, everything is broken.Is mother in there too?Camargue is now sixty years old, and my mother is probably ninety-two.The past was shattered in his heart one by one.Only Reina's body fragrance still lingers in her heart, as incorruptible as the sun. "Go and have a cup of coffee, will you?" Camargue asked Reina. "I'm not sleepy. How about you?" He and she were about to cross the street, and he put his arms around Reina's slender waist.He was aware at once that she trembled; then he saw her tense.It's an inaccessible body that faces high tides before going to sea. "I'm sleepy. If you don't mind, I'm going home." "I see you off." "No. I can take a taxi. I live far away, in the San Telmo district." In the Camargue's car, a group of cats already occupied the seats.They are polishing their sharp toenails, and they are all good at using their toenails to convey expressions on the fur; their toenails are greedy, and no matter how hard their love is, they can't satisfy those greedy toenails. Camargue called the cats "Daddy's little bitches" when he saw the neon lights flashing over them at night.Whores, then and now, are wrapped in velvet and fake fox fur scarves, with shiny nylon shorts covering their genitals at the ready.They're offering a service: a lick?Take a sip?Threesome Mambo?They walked away from the car slowly, perhaps arrogantly.Camargue raised the glass windows and extinguished the flames of temptation.He thought to himself: These bees and butterflies can't live for a few nights.For them, yesterday is another day, and pain is the only healthy part of their bodies.Once he crosses the cat's boundary line, he enters the decent, confident night that's his night. 雷伊娜也属于这个夜晚。Is not it?他看见她悄悄在哭。 “有什么事吗？”他问她。 "No," she said. “难过。来了又过去了。” “女人总是难过。”他说。“有时有道理。有时没道理。 男人则相反，我们从来没时间难过。 ““你们不知道什么叫损失。 " 汽车驶人“七月九日”大街。人们正在走出电影院、剧院，这一天好像要开始而不是结束。卡马格绕过方尖碑，把汽车停靠在一家麦当劳门前。城市的这个部分是如此不同，它不属于任何时代：这里好像是时间迷失了自我，无止境地迷失了自我。在广告照明的下方，巨大的镜子在张望，反映出仅仅是自身的空白。卡马格在雷伊娜膝盖上轻轻拍了一巴掌，仿佛是个老练的猎人。 他说：“雷伊娜，你最好在这里下车。看见吗？四面八方都有出租汽车。” 她说：“看见了。这个钟点有很多出租车。” 今天就到此为止了。跟在后面的三辆汽车不得不刹车，狂怒地按喇叭。雷伊娜下了车，没有回头。二话没说，没有半点怨言。在麦当劳门前喧闹的流氓立刻向她围拢过来。她迅速躲开了他们的包围，登上第一辆从身边经过的出租汽车，沿着科连特斯大街向东方驶去。卡马格跟在她后面，直到红灯拦住了他的去路为止。 《总统有神秘的幻觉》是第二天《先驱者报》的通栏标题。卡马格确信这家对手报纸关于总统之子在圣保罗银行存款的丑闻是不会刊登一个字的。即使他们也做了调查，也要尽量掩盖真相的。近两年来，总统用种种好处喂饱了他们：允许他们搞纵向发行，在巴塔哥尼亚为豪华旅行团划定猎场和渔场。他在分析对方的沉默，而不是这个比较惹人注意的标题所产生的戏剧性效果。在一个曾经由巫师和算卦先生治理的国家里，“神秘的幻觉”就是一块磁石。那家报社肯定吩咐过长驻奥利沃斯（总统的居住地。）的记者们要更多地关注总统的内心活动。现在有可能没人再理会一个二十一岁的傻瓜青年在一个幽灵般的账户里存人的七百万美元了。 人们会说，那肯定搞错了；或者说，那笔钱是别人的。总统的神秘幻觉会占据人们的视野。 据《先驱者报》说，总统取消了与德国企业家们的晚宴，夜里十点钟回卧室看电视。他放的是一九九五年录制的关于卡洛斯。萨利纳斯。德。格尔塔里（卡洛斯。 萨利纳斯。德。 ~ （1948——），墨西哥政治家。 1988——1994年任墨西哥总统。 ) 的记录片。看后，总统十分沮丧。他对送晚饭的管家说：“看看：仇恨和嫉妒对一个伟大人物能干出什么事情来吧！”影片上，萨利纳斯胡须浓密，眼窝发黑，躺在蒙特雷城一张破旧的床上，房间尽头挂着墨西哥国旗。他卸任后没过几个月，他哥哥就被控犯有杀人罪和侵吞公款罪。萨利纳斯为了恢复家族和他本人执政时的名誉，不得不采取绝食的手段。此前，他敲开了一个忠实女性的大门，她名叫罗莎。科罗那多，他请求她收留。不久，她家里挤满了记者。他对电视台的记者说：“我要绝食。这些做法是对我的侮辱。我要自杀。”绝食持续了不到二十四小时，因为继任的总统立刻派遣几位使者前来蒙特雷城，宣布解除对萨利纳斯的全部指责：在他执政期间，墨西哥忍受的种种痛苦与总统无关！阿根廷总统看到萨利纳斯垂头丧气地离开了蒙特雷，那样子比以往更糟糕、更孤独，仍然身穿着来到时那件黑皮夹克，不由得在奥利沃斯痛哭起来。《先驱者报》那个废话连篇的记者说道：“总统感到不公正的十字架迟早会落到每个好人头上。”他还说：“总统感到在这个多灾多难的世界里，总会有一颗孪生的救世主心灵。他走到阳台上向外望去，觉得在花园的树林里有一道白光。那时是夜里十一点钟。他看见一棵柠檬树问有耶稣基督失明后的形象在浮动。总统仅仅来得及说：啊，我的上帝！我的上帝啊！我们的主耶稣基督漂浮在空中，仅仅盖着一块遮羞布，与蒙难图一样，他低垂着头部，露出痛苦的表情。突然，基督张开了双臂，在深夜透明的空气里向上升腾，总统清晰地辨认出耶稣受难的疤痕：长矛在肋部留下的伤口、从荆棘冠冕上流下来的血痕、被钉子刺穿的手脚。一股天上传来的力量使得总统跪倒在地，与此同时那道白光渐渐消失在云彩里。总统念了一声'天上的父啊，保佑我们！'和一声'万福马利亚'。总统还在为刚才的幻觉所激动，就打电话给总统府的神父，请求神父陪同他去看那棵显示神迹的柠檬树。二人在那棵树下发现了一个金制耶稣受难像，上面有一些血迹。 虽然是七月，那棵树上开满了柠檬花朵，仿佛萤火虫一样闪闪发光。 " 卡马格想：这只能是恩索炮制的作品。这伪善的语言与恩索写给《日报》的文章如出一辙。他不去揭露有人在圣保罗银行的存款，而是偏偏从后方发动进攻。现在谁会嘲笑经过总统府神父亲眼作证的天上幻象呢？既然基督亲自显现在总统面前，那是因为世界末日临近了，或者基督认定总统是清白的。恩索的这个计谋让卡马格的行动受阻。 上午八点左右，广播电台宣布：总统前往潘帕草原的一处修道院闭门思过。他随身带着那个金制的耶稣受难像，把治理尘世的种种困难留给了他的弟弟，参议院的议长。 电视新闻记者打算直播那棵神圣的柠檬树，可是总统府的警卫不允许任何人人内。甚至连最多疑的记者都在说，总统经历了这样一次超自然的体验之后，目前惟一理智的做法就是现在做的事情：祈祷和退隐。 上午九点左右，这个消息已经重复了又重复，其次数之多使得任何现实的光芒都黯然失色了。人们为拉迪迪和特莱莎。德卡尔塔修女哭泣的祭坛被遗忘了；乌纳彭贝反对消费社会的书信被遗忘了；红色高棉对垂死挣扎的波尔布特的审判被遗忘了；科索沃的种族大屠杀被遗忘了；胡安'曼努埃尔。法昆多在新加坡银行的存款被遗忘了。闭门思过的总统占据了所有的频道。电视摄像镜头跟随总统到本笃会教堂的门口，修道院院长和十名修士在入口处恭候。大草原的景色被抹上一道白光，这道微弱的光线比世界上一切光线都来得早。院长张开双臂，上前迎接总统。但是，总统躲开了这兄弟般的问候，连忙跪倒在地，亲吻院长的双手。随后，教堂的所有入口都关闭了。镜头于是对准了教堂钟楼上的十字架和没有云彩的天空。这场面由亲政府的频道放映了一遍又一遍。 上午十点钟之前，卡马格已经设计好了反攻计划，他不安地承认有大量薄弱环节。他知道不该做的事情，但是没有看清哪些是应该做的事情。比如，现在刊登胡安'曼努埃尔。法昆多在圣保罗花天酒地的照片就不合时宜，因为这会在读者心里留下轻率报复的印象，读者的心已经被神秘的幻象感染了。尽管《日报》已经找到三位不相信基督显现并且责备总统府神父不应该急急忙忙承认神迹的主教，报社不能对这样一个消息表示无所谓：人们的热情已经被相信超自然的神迹现象点燃了，而不是怀疑什么。即使坚持刊登那七百万美元存入新加坡银行的消息也是没有用处的：丑闻还没有开始就已经变成一缕青烟了。 卡马格一走进编辑部，立刻召集各组责任编审开紧急协商会议。政治组已经做了不寻常的调动，派出了一名摄影记者和两名文字记者前往那座本笃会修道院，它全名叫圣塔。马利亚。德。洛斯托尔多斯。不可能从那些信徒口中掏出任何东西，因为对于笃信纯洁、清苦和服从的信徒来说，还要加上少言寡语。惟一的机会就是等候总统某个亲友访问修道院。总编室的编审已经查出这座修道院的历史以及修士们的常规。他拿出几张照片给大家看：饭厅、内院、禅房和一座圣母像——他们崇拜的主要对象。卡马格说，如果咱们把所有这些材料都公布出去，那就是在给总统的闹剧锦上添花。我们在用他没有的好品质美化他：虔诚、禁欲、谦卑、纯洁。但是，回避这个消息也不行。昨天我们掌握了主动权，今天要尽量防守。 卡马格把椅子向后推了一下，把双脚放在写字台上。 他的声音缓慢下来。在思考的时候，他的下巴是放松的，说起话来一字一顿。 他说，我需要一个清醒的头脑，一个突如其来的预感鼓动他说出这句话来。把雷伊娜'雷米丝叫来！ 这个姑娘可以把整个扭曲的神学纠正过来。 雷伊娜早晨微不足道的样子，令人心疼。她戴着一副黑框圆形眼镜，显得嘴巴更小，下身穿了一条肥大的灯心绒裤子，上身是一件从某个处理柜台上买来的紧身女衫。有时她很有魅力，有时好像要消失了似的，一块橡皮就能擦掉她的身躯。需要目不转睛地盯住她，才能知道她在那里。 她在卡马格的写字台一旁找了个座位，低着头，双手放在膝盖上。但是，他刚一开口说话，消失的感觉就消散了。 卡马格问她：“你怎么看那个神秘的幻象？我们正在讨论怎么让它转到正题上来。” 她敏捷地回答说：“不可能有什么幻象。这是瓜熟蒂落。即使总统说过他看见了圣母马利亚，或者某个使徒，或者什么天使，那这种显现也是值得怀疑的，但却是可能的。 借助耶稣基督，他变得野心勃勃或者愚昧无知了。基督只能在荣耀的状态下重新出现，那就意味着世界末日的来临。 如果不是这样，那就是骗子，就是魔鬼，或者是救世主的孪生兄弟。这里谁有《圣经》？一本《新约全书》！“带着怀疑的态度，卡马格从写字台上放下双脚，转身从书柜里拿出一本耶路撒冷出版的《圣经》。雷伊娜抬起头来，没有片刻的犹豫。她用舌尖舔舔铅笔头，从《传道书》到《帖撒罗尼迦前书》划出三节，又加上《马太福音》一整章。 她说：“请注意马太的话。基督第二次来到，用希腊话叫做Pamsia，此前应该有战争、饥荒和地震。到此为止，那位有眼力的人可能有道理，因为无论多少，那一切都降临在我们身上了。但是，马太在引用基督的话时还提醒说，会有假先知、假基督来制造第二次再来的幻象。对于这一点，马太是很有顾虑的。请注意看第二十四章！他说，不要信那些宣布基督已经在旷野里讲道的人，或者说基督在家家户户走来走去的人。因为当基督真的降临时，天空会打开，到处充满了光明，咱们大家都能看到。在《使徒行传》中，保罗说得更加雄辩有力。他说，我们将知道基督会再来的，因为天使会吹响上帝的号角，基督会在所有应该复活的人们陪同下降临。 总统府里发生的一切并不是这样的，对吗？总统在那棵柠檬树上看到的，就算他真的看见了什么，那也是幻象。要不然就是他在撒谎。否则就是魔鬼出现在他眼前了。 随便哪个学习神学的新手都能比我说得更清楚。让我感到奇怪的是没有更多的主教表示抗议。john.保罗二世也没有从罗马发出怨言。 " 国际部的编审说：“我想无论今天还是明天他们都不会抗议的。卷进这个舞蹈里的人是天主教国家的元首。这不算问题。他们会把它当成外交问题处理。他们首先想弄明白为什么会出这种事。” 卡马格说：“咱们可没有那么多时间。就算教皇肯说话，等到他说话时，总统早已经拉到两三百万张轻信他的人的选票了。在马上举行的选举中，他就会获胜了。 咱们还得继续在腐败的泥坑里游泳。 " “如果你们觉得合适的话，我可以去修道院，设法让院长开口。”雷伊娜建议道。“我是个女的，他会不假思索地回答我的问题。” 政治组的编审说：“院长不见任何人。要求会见的人已经有七十个了。” “我可以在明天晨祷时突然截住他。” “就算他肯接待你，那也太晚了。”卡马格固执地说道。 “我今天就需要一些东西。” “惟一的机会是晚祷：唱圣歌，读一章《使徒行传》，唱赞美圣母马利亚和圣母颂。根据时间表，这些在几点举行？” “下午七点。”政治组编审报告说。 “时间是富余的。''雷伊娜说。”如果一个小时后出发，我四点钟可以到达那里。““首先你得说服我：为什么你比任何人都能更好地完成这个任务？''卡马格说道。”其次，还需要看看你怎么进修道院。军队已经封锁了全部通道。““有修道院的地图吗？有那座教堂的放大了的照片吗？” “有一张地图。”政治组编审说道。他在写字台上展开一张地图。修士们的座位设在最大祭坛的两侧。与祭坛相对的是四把摆开的跪椅。椅子后面是信徒们坐的板凳。在前庭，有三个小祭坛或者神龛，上面都有编号。 “关于跪椅有什么说明吗？” “是专门留给保护教堂的贵妇人及其家属的座位'。 这是全部说明。“雷伊娜继续说道：“你们看见了吧，应该查一查那位保护教堂的贵妇人是谁。 还有谁跟她一起参加晚祷仪式。不论戒备多么森严，院长是不会把那位夫人关在门外的。 " “假如这位夫人还活着又住在教堂附近，那这主意不坏。”卡马格说道。“我们给你提供后勤支援。其余的事就发挥你的想象力吧！，，”确切地说，是即兴发挥。我是个有条理的人。不善于即兴发挥。“卡马格打开几台电视机，吩咐编审们可以走了。 他对雷伊娜说：“你留下！学一学即兴发挥。我来给你上课。咱们一起进入这个故事里去。” 他吩咐新闻台上的编辑们找出那位保护教堂的夫人来，设法弄到她的电话号码。 她还活着的可能性不大。这片修道院的土地是一九四八年赠送给圣本笃会教团的，几乎有半个世纪之久了。雷伊娜转过身去，聚精会神地看着电视屏幕。她的颈部长而美，刚刚洗过的黑发垂在肩膀的一侧，露在外面的细细汗毛好像是别的女人过去在她身上的影子。 官方电视频道的镜头从一架直升机上俯瞰修道院周围的荒原、土著人居住的茅舍，有时还有摄影师们在烈日下来来去去的镜头。播音员用低沉的声音说话；轻柔的音乐背景是巴赫的3 号组曲。播音员说：“总统把自己幽禁在阿根廷潘帕草原上最有象征意义的村落里。在给他指定的禅房里。只有一张简单的帆布床、一个床头桌、一个耶稣受难像和一个洗脸盆。上午十点，做过念珠祈祷之后，他要求院长允许他同修士们一道做面包。他接受少数摄影记者记录下这个场面。请你们看看这张具有历史意义的照片吧！阿根廷国家元首挽起衣袖，双手伸进面粉堆和盐水里。下一步，总统还要帮助修士们烤面包；出炉后，还要去这块温柔土地上最穷的居民中分发面包。” “他们事先早都准备好了。”雷伊娜头也不回，继续看着屏幕说道。 ''包括播音员正在朗读的温柔台词。 ““你觉得怎么样：咱们是个垂死的国家，现在却把时间浪费在这出喜剧上。 " 直升机在苜蓿地和磨房之间盘旋一圈，飞过一片破败的平房上空，先是在一座空荡荡的火车站上停留片刻，随后停在一个干巴巴的方形广场上，广场四周有旧式马车和破旧的汽车通过。播音员说道：“这是一块神圣的土地，是一块注定显示大荣耀的土地。有三千多定居在潘帕草原的印第安人生活在巴托洛美。米特雷（巴托洛美。米特雷（1821——1906），阿根廷军人、政治家和作家。曾任阿根廷总统。） 将军于一百四十年前捐献的肥沃庄园里。距离我们现在看到的这个广场三公里的地方，有个叫做'团结'的庄园，一九一九年，阿根廷历史上的一位杰出人物就诞生在那里，她就是爱娃。庇隆，为穷人利益而斗争的旗手。爱娃在那里学会走路、读书、写字，了解了世界上的不公正现象。在你们看到的右边有三个教室的学校里，爱娃念完了一年级和二年级，随后全家迁居到了胡宁（阿根廷北古一省。）。所有这些历史都是具有象征意义的，对吗？我们的总统在基督超自然幻象的启示下，来到爱娃。庇隆开始她走向荣耀和牺牲道路的地方，为阿根廷人民的福祉祈祷……” “卡马格博士，请您关掉声音。”雷伊娜说道。“让人恶心。您听见了他们在说肥沃庄园了吗？您去过那里吗？看到过那是什么土地吗？六十平方公里的土地上全是沙土，中间有些沼泽。几乎没有牲畜。三十岁的印第安人看上去像七十岁。” 直升机继续向修道院方向飞行，修道院四周种满了鲜花，看上去像一幅完美的画卷。上方是教堂耸立的地方，向左延伸二十米远，是一座高窗建筑，里面大概有餐厅。右侧向下延伸二十米，是接待新来的修士的禅房。雷伊娜仔细研究了整个情况。她推测，晚祷之后，可能有列队游行，黑色圣母像会从幔帐下通过。 卡马格情绪乐观地研究了送来的档案材料。的确，可以有所作为。不错，那位保护教堂的贵妇人已经去世，但是她的一个女儿还保留着原来的特权，每年还给修士们大量慷慨的馈赠。卡马格在给那位女士打电话时，还没有想好请她提供哪类帮助。他对雷伊娜说，现在咱们开始上即兴发挥课。 他的声音缓慢而有疑问，与他那张热情的面孔不和谐。 幸运的是那位女士就在布宜诺斯艾利斯；更幸运的是她也觉得政治上反复利用基督做文章是胡闹。她说，我认识院长。他是个圣徒，因此是无辜的。我不明白他怎么会落人这种陷阱的。是的，当然，我会提供力所能及的一切帮助，但是无论如何我去不了修道院。卡马格博士，您想想吧：在这么大热天里旅行五个小时会怎么样吧！我不知道您是不是了解修道院六公里的地方位于卡兰萨的阿索台地区有我庄园的主体建筑。那个家里有我两个女佣。从现在到十一月中旬，她俩绝对不开房间的窗户。如果您派来的人不在乎那里不舒适的条件，他们可以住在那里，我一点问题没有。可能连洗澡的热水都没有。what!如果出差的是个妇女，那这事情办起来就容易多了。我可以给院长打电话，告诉他：去修道院的是我的表妹，是黑色圣母的虔诚信徒，刚刚从欧洲回来。当然，要请院长把她安置在家属跪椅上。 为了更保险，我再写封信，您看怎么样？一个小时之内，行，用不了一个小时，一切都解决了。 “雷伊娜，事情就是这样的。”卡马格说道。“有时牺牲～聪敏才智不如运气及时。” “那我去穿身合适的衣裳。” “一身黑衣裳：裙子要长过膝盖，黑色披巾。你有个好处：总统不认识你。他还会不停地盯着你。他肯定在那里呆腻了。你会是他在两天里见到的惟一女人。你知道：他可是个贪婪的家伙。” “如果他肯献殷勤，我不会让他泄气的。但愿他开口讲话。” 银屏上显示两队朝圣的信徒手举点燃的蜡烛在面对卢汉（阿根廷布宜诺斯艾利斯省中北部城市。濒临卢汉河。传说1630年有人用牛车运送圣母像经此城原址，牛车陷入泥中不得行走，后即在此址建教堂，谓圣母愿停驻于此。居民以此为中心。 日益增多，遂成城市。现有一新哥特式大教堂将原教堂环抱。每年5 月21日圣餐日吸引大批朝圣者前来。）大教堂的广场上环绕排队。另一端，在旅游大巴士旁边，卡马格认出那些信徒是社会福利机构的卡车把他们运去的。政府每时每刻都在给它的神秘马戏增添新节目，增添出人意外的杂技。有些朝圣者跪着前进；有些人让蜡烛倾斜，用滚烫的蜡油烫自己的双手。广场上早已经挤满了出售沾过圣水的总统府柠檬树的假枝叶。 “雷伊娜，你得出发了。”卡马格说道，声音温柔得让他自己感到陌生。“如果有什么不合适的地方，一定呼我的手机。无论如何要打电话过来！” 他把手机号码写在一张黄色的纸片上。雷伊娜站起来，她身体柔和的曲线经过银屏光线的照射显得格外突出。 卡马格心里想：应该看看那身廉价的衣服里面有什么！看看这女人脑袋里面有什么！