Chapter 6 chapter Five

He admired the woman's naked body for a long time, the light had shifted position, the transparent honey color of the evening had turned into darkness.All the sounds have gone away; all I can hear is the rumbling sound of my own stomach and intestines, and the electric vibration of my own breathing.Sometimes, when she was lying on her side, an animal hoarse sound rose from her throat, incongruous with her regal expression: presumably it was a hereditary complaint of women lost in the past and suddenly returning.Just now, he admired her nudity as he wished, she showed everything naked in front of his eyes, he could take a leisurely look at her pubic bone and ribs, and check her warm hollows near her breasts; The firm belly—the result of calisthenics—came down to the legs, which were thinner than he had guessed because she was sitting then, with moist veins on her legs, ready to be gently stroked.

The woman slept with her mouth open; if he held the lamp close to her mouth, he could admire her rosy tongue.At this moment, he couldn't resist the temptation to stretch his hands to his pussy lips, where there was a soft clitoris, just to part the wet pubic hair, to explore that area, to sow seeds, to quench the thirst of days.He spreads her legs awkwardly, which is visible in the picture, he caresses her, sticks his nose and tongue into that warm nest, that never-satisfying warm land; Erect nipples: it's strokes that make them protrude, make the double constellation appear; he can't help letting out a triumphant sigh despite the incongruity of his own thin body exposed on the screen.The woman was now at last entirely his; the docile position in which she slept was a sign of his power to do with her; more than once he had felt the temptation to tattoo her, to leave a scar on her, An indelible imprint was branded on her body: it explained how many times he had entered her body, and explained that as long as he wanted to, he could admire her body countless times, just like playing with a thing.

The reality in the image has such weight that his senses seem to have moved again to the room in the Via Guangfu instead of staying with him in the video room of the house in Via San Isidro, next to the long A corridor full of geraniums.Now, he doesn't want to come back here more and more.The rooms here feel endless, one after the other; the deadly solitude of the bedroom makes him sleepless; The two-inch big color TV replays and can't do it over there, can't get close to her image or the flesh that is more and more his, the armpits, the protruding chest and the hollow between the legs, and at the same time he can hear her voice. The endless breathing sound, because he managed to make the six-channel audio play the woman's breathing sound, and he made the image freeze or zoom in at the same time, if it wasn't there, he couldn't go deep into the maze of thick hair, as if there was no As the keeper of the compass enters the forest, he would have left the abode long ago if her image, replayed thousands of times, could not always be in his sight.

He flew twice to Chicago and Traverse City to see his daughter Anhela, lying helplessly on a blood transfusion table; beside her, candles like sacrificial offerings, medicine bottles and syringes, he didn't want to remember those insults Sexual names, but those names echoed in his memory all the time: Cedar Rabiner, Venkristina, Silk Famida, Prednisone, Thiopurine.After only a few hours at his daughter's bed, he felt the woman slipping away from him as soon as he was away from Argentina: he needed to know immediately what she was up to, or to sit down in front of the TV; her image.But in Chicago and Traverse City, he had no moments alone.The editors of the newspaper made at least ten or twelve calls to him every day.His ex-wife, Brenda, peered at him with lamb-like eyes, pretending to see nothing and nothing.Anhela said: "Father, my bones ache all over." His bones also ached, and his whole body was trembling because he longed to hug the sleeping woman, longed to inject his sexual desire into her body, longed to smell the smell from every crevice of her body. The subtle breath that emanates; ah!The woman is panting, ah!As soon as he touched her skin, she bowed her waist.He listened dryly to her soft voice calling him; she was nine thousand kilometers away from the Taihu Lake region of the United States, where night had fallen and his daughter was dying.

Now, he had turned her over.He let the images move forward slowly and looked at them one by one. He wanted to guess what was inside her body, how much spiritual space there was behind the physical boundary that he could not pass through, and what memories were hidden in the brain that avoided the camera. Pain and happiness.He freezes on the mole on her leg, stops at a barely visible rose-colored blotch that runs down the spine and down the back; , when the woman stretched, it looked as if her leg muscles were shaking.The results of the rapid advance of the images were not good, awakening a feeling of unreality in his mind, as if a bird that should not have come broke his dream, and although he stretched out his hands to touch the woman, he knew in his heart that she was not there There, knowing that the body was only a picture drawn by light, breathless, tasteless; he knew that one day he should tell her all about what he did with the pictures and how they affected him.

The idea of ​​taking advantage of her to videotape her while she slept had been running around in his mind for over a week.If the filming is successful, he will project a life-size image on a large television screen in the house.The camera he will use is only a little bigger than a fist, and it will run almost silently, but it will record for hours, like Andy Warhol (Andy. Warhol (1929-1987) , American artist, film producer. One of the initiators of the pop art movement in the 1960s. His main works include the films "Chelsea Girls", "Eat", "Blue Movie", etc.) of the same length , to film a whole night of complete sleep; however, unlike Warhol, he does not use passive lenses, but a natural force that captures her every breathing movement and the change of every sweat pore, which should be Hungry shots of the woman slowly devoured.For this, he needs her to be asleep.Getting into her unit was no problem: he copied several keys.He planned to put her into a deep sleep so that she would not be aware of what was going on around her.

He told a doctor he knew well that he had a problem with insomnia; that, in order to recover, he wished to sleep all day, say, from midnight on Saturday to four o'clock on Sunday afternoon.The doctor first advised him to take a sedative, a drug that relaxes the muscles and relaxes the mind.However, he refused. He told the doctor that he had used the sedative before and it was worse: instead of reducing the anxiety, it was driving him mad.A sleeping pill, yes, that's what he needed.After a moment of hesitation, the doctor replied, then take phenobarbital!If you don't take the right dose, you wake up with a headache and nausea.I don't want you to sue me.He insisted: I need sleeping pills!After all, it’s just a one-time use.The doctor said, I am not worried that your liver will have adverse reactions.What worries me is that this drug will affect your heart muscle.In any case, no more than two slices!Do not take more than 200 mg before going to bed.Never drink: don't touch a drop!The stomach is clean and the effect is better.He asked the doctor: What will happen if you take it three times?What would happen to me if I wanted to pass out and forget everything, say, drink six hundred milligrams?The doctor said to him, you won't die, but it will take a lot of effort to stand up.You'll be dizzy, sleep like you're drugged, and definitely vomit.There is not much difference in the effect of the medicine, but the consequences will definitely make you suffer.You won't really try it, will you?He replied, why experiment with this?

He knew that the woman never left the workplace before eleven o'clock at night; if she came home early, it was because she needed to prepare dinner, which was between eight and nine o'clock.That way, he would have enough time to get into her unit and get ready to shoot the video.A few months ago, a man and a woman who had no house to live in slept at the entrance of the building adjacent to the building where the woman lived—below the curved balcony, in front of an early-closing laundry and dyeing shop. The man and woman spread out the cardboard and tattered blankets so freely and marked out space for themselves with such tenacious possessiveness that they had to jump over them to get to the woman's unit door.If it was winter, the city government would send trucks to take them to the shelter, but the couple who had no house still came back to live here.Maybe this dark, filthy sleeping den in the city was the only place where they both felt that it was their place, that they were alive.

On the night he chose to shoot the video, the man and woman also blocked his passage.The man was under forty years old, which was not in harmony with the helpless state of his life. The man's arms are strong, his eyes are stubborn and rude, his eyes are always swollen, and he looks so disappointed in observing the world, the depth of which may have existed long before he came to this world.Whether male or female, the teeth have fallen out.The female has a few lower front teeth left; the male has a ridiculous canine left that distorts the lip somewhat.The woman had been ill for weeks; the man was awake almost all night, tending and comforting her.The woman was much older than the man, but definitely not like his mother.Men don't look like women at all.She was covered with scabs: one was on the shoulder blade, unhealed, like another mouth.One night, the man ran out to find an ambulance; since the ambulance staff did not allow him to follow the woman to the hospital, he stood there waiting for dawn, as if the dawn of dawn could change the reality and restore reality to the way it was the day before.God knows where the poor man and woman found the strength to come back here a few weeks later and sleep on the garbage bed again.That same night, he entered the woman's apartment with a gram of phenobarbital divided into four packets, and as usual no one saw him enter the building.

According to his calculations, in order to achieve the effects of deep sleep—as the doctor said—as after anesthesia, he would have to dissolve six hundred milligrams of sleeping pills in each drink.Even if she only takes one sip, the dosage of sleeping pills should not be lower than 600 mg.He already knew what she drank: orange juice before bed.He had studied her habit carefully.The woman had a carton of orange juice that was three-quarters drunk, and she always shook it several times before drinking it.According to his estimate, there was less than a cup of orange juice left in the paper can.

He thought it unlikely that the woman would open a new can of drink.He used a harmless white powder to do several experiments in the room he rented opposite: if he added drugs, he saw how the orange juice would taste and thicken. No difference was found.Sometimes, there will be powder residue on the bottom of the cup.But even if she found these residues, she would never guess that they were a drug. Now he doesn't need to turn on the lights.Know this unit like the back of your hand. All he had to do was cover the door of the refrigerator ajar, and the leaking light was enough.He poured the phenobarbital into an orange juice can, shaking the liquid vigorously.Although he had crushed the pills beforehand until there was no roughness left, a few white specks floated tenaciously in the foam.For this, he was prepared: he brought a fine line filter.He poured the orange juice through a strainer into a slotted container, filtered it, and poured it back into a paper can.He shook again.Suddenly, he wanted to hide in the closet, where there was enough space to observe the reaction of the drug. After all, he had brought everything he needed: a charged video camera and two extra tapes.Although he had repeatedly felt the temptation to hide and peep, he rejected the idea: because the woman might be looking for something in the closet and find him.Or she might have an unexpected drug reaction and pass out or yell; he wouldn't want to be there if that happened. Finally, he mixed three packets of phenobarbital with orange juice, two hundred and fifty milligrams more than needed.The filtered residue plus the powder that may have settled at the bottom of the tank is just the full dose. He rinsed the used container carefully, dried it with the rag he had brought, and took one last look at the can of orange juice.The foam is settling, and the medicine is melting better than expected.Before he left, he couldn't resist the temptation, so he turned on the flashlight and peeked at the things in the drawer.Inside were new notes the woman had written for her thesis.The dissertation has been in the works for a few weeks; but the language is more concise and hurried now: "Around the birth of Jesus, there were a large number of prophets and sages in Palestine who foretold the coming of the Savior or the Son of God. Most of them were illiterate peasants. They called the people Rebelling against Roman rule, people thought they were saints or sages. They risked their lives when they contacted God to heal the world or pray for rain. Jesus was one of thousands of saints, and his teachings and Among the ancient Jewish sects of precepts, baptisms, and nationalism are all connected. Not much originality at all. I often think: What is the special reason for the name of Jesus to enter history above its peers? I can only find one answer: Jesus owes his immortality to words.The apostles who evangelized wrote down what Jesus said and did; they organized a community of evangelists that made Protestants feel part of a supreme being.The Sect of Precepts also tried to become immortal through writing, but when their scriptures were discovered in Qumran (Qumran. The area on the northwest coast of the Dead Sea. Ancient books of the Sect of Precepts were found in a cave there in 1947.), There is no place for them in history, because Jesus has already occupied all the space in the annals of history. " It didn't displease him that the woman had such bold ideas or simply dared to read bold questions; but what did displease him was that she was wasting her time.No one would publish such a disastrously thought-provoking paper. At the same time, to his surprise, the office paper she used was all computer-printed, with neat fonts, all in the Times New Roman 12 font, while the notes about Jesus were in green. written in a ballpoint pen, like the green pen Neruda used to write poetry; and to his surprise, the woman wrote the last page and penciled it over again that confused him the first time he checked the drawer. Sentence: "The extreme of arrogance is self-importance as the Son of God." Then he thought: there should be something else in her unit, because she has been behaving strangely in recent days.Her movements in front of the mirror are slower and more suggestive; sometimes she walks from room to room absent-mindedly, as if lost.If there was anything, it was in the study: photographs, downloaded letters, magazine cutouts, everything that might reveal her secrets would be kept there.Besides, it never crossed her mind that someone was watching.She feels she is safe.Except for the part-time cleaning staff, no one came into her house.She only reserves this space for herself and does not receive visitors.It should be investigated: whether such solitude is voluntary, whether it is genuinely pleasant, or just a faux pas. The Please See article in the second drawer was gone.But, among the scraps of paper—much less today—he found two printed messages that caught his attention.The woman downloaded the two messages from the Internet, presumably because she needed to read them again.The first message comes from a review editor in Bogota. The letter was addressed to her, absolutely right, and it said: "Darling, since you want to do this, it is in Rio. I book Copacabana (①A district in the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. With twists and turns and spectacular and four Kilometer-long beaches are famous.) The Palace Hotel, or the Caesar's?Kiss you, kiss you. "Her reply was half an hour later" Honey: I miss you.I choose the king.I don't know what life is like without you.It seems that I don't quite know who I am, where I am, and what time it is.Do I want to get that feeling back?Am I someone else since I'm yours?Is it too late?You make me so happy!It's a pity that thousands of mountains and rivers prevent you from seeing my stupidity. This is an ironclad proof that love brings happiness to people.Let's meet at Calais airport.The pain of love suffocates me.kiss you. "Despite his anticipation of a similar situation, feelings of anger and humiliation still welled up in him. The tone of her letter was more brazen than that of the Columbia editor, and it was obvious: for the editor was just a casual in life. It's just a few nights of romance; it's a matter of life and death for this woman. I've been someone else since I was yours. What a shame!The editor just whistled and said the name of a random hotel, and the woman would run to that hotel like a bitch in heat.The more he read these two messages, the angrier he became, not with the woman, but with himself.Is that how she repays him?He has spent one sleepless night after another!He had inspected her nudity repeatedly through a Bushnell telescope!He was guarding her from a distance, watching every subtle change of her breathing!He had seen it happen for a long time: sooner or later she would betray him.He found this intolerable.He could prevent her from going to Rio if he wanted to. He has the power and the means.After careful consideration, he decided to let things develop naturally.He allowed her to travel on business.But not according to her wishes.Not what the Columbia editor hoped.He was going to brand her and make her hurt.He wanted to destroy her and had figured out how to do so. Now, he had to finish what he had done.Before closing the door of the unit, he double-checked that everything looked like the woman had left.She was an unorganized woman, but any object that moved was a reminder that someone had been there.He pressed the elevator button to see if anyone was walking around.Rarely meet people.The building is newly built and has almost no occupants. When he was about to walk out of the building, he ran into the man and woman sleeping on the street.The two were spreading out their belongings: a pillow without a pillow, damp clothes, blankets, Styrofoam sheets.He wanted to avoid them, but their bodies blocked his way.The two ignored his presence and continued chatting in a distant language.He could not understand a word. Dajte mi vlno. He thinks the woman is saying: Put down my wine!The voice sounded like dialogue from a movie whose title he couldn't remember. The man's eyes full of gum suddenly turned to him, and due to missing teeth, the voice he made was laborious and distorted: "Do you have any cigarettes?" The woman seemed to be scolding the man from the depths of the dark den.Her voice was hoarse and weak, as if it came from her chest instead of her throat: "Dodite kmeni." God knows what she was going to do! For a moment, he hesitated, wanting to go around them.However, he found a five-peso bill and handed it to the man: "Use it to buy a pack of cigarettes." With that, he stepped onto the sidewalk. After reading that dreadful letter to the Columbia editor, he would have liked to see the woman across the window lying there like the beggar woman, panting and scratching at the same scabs Wow! But, now he had to wait for her to come back from get off work.Surely there won't be too long a delay.Sitting in the shadows of his rented room on Guangfu Street, slowly adjusting the Bushnell binoculars, he felt suffocated by anger, suffocated by powerlessness, who did that silly bitch think she was!That ghost!That stinking shit!How dare she treat me like this!She couldn't imagine who it was hurting! He no longer had the slightest qualm about mixing phenobarbital with his orange juice.If he had been sane then, he would have put a gram or two of phenobarbital in it, and she would have slept forever.However, I will never let her die peacefully!That son of a bitch has no right to die in peace.It's me who decides how she dies!Let her clearly feel my punishment for her!Make her regret what she's doing! Otherwise, don't even think about living in peace!At this time, the lights in the corridor in the opposite building came on.Is she the one who came back? I quickly picked up the binoculars and aimed at the moving figure.However, her appearance was too short, she had already turned to the right, and I didn't have time to spot her.She turned to the side with the elevator.It might rain tonight.When it rained, the humidity was high, and a mercury-like mist covered her windows, and I couldn't look at her as much as I wanted. Finally, the woman turned on the light in the room.She has taken off her coat: that's what I guessed.She is taking off her boots. What about that sweatshirt?Not taking it off for now.To take it off your head while standing in front of a mirror, to shake your hair back and forth, in waves.The hapless bitch was quite happy.Does she have a sense of shame?and this?It was the first time she had worn a dressing gown over her bra and bloomers.She wiped off her make-up, reached into the refrigerator, took out the can of orange juice, and shook it.Ah, that's exactly what I was hoping to see. She opened the cupboard, looking for a cup.But, suddenly, she got impatient and drank straight from the paper can.She had done this twice before.As soon as she felt that she was alone, she assumed a helpless look. Is it a hiccup?Feel the smell of phenobarbital powder?God knows!She didn't drink it all up.She raised her neck and turned the paper can upside down again.all right.She seemed excited.She unbuttoned her dressing gown, fanned it like a fan, and jumped up to find the record.It was like this every night.She would rather have the sores of music than the flames of television.She is looking in the mirror.Stretch gracefully.She sang.she is singingShe raises her arms in triumph, and something burns on her tongue, a sad love waiting for her in the distance, or just a sleepy vertigo that walks into her body, and I see her sleepiness in her eyes.you're tired right?Is love or your eyes tired?I'll go, I'll go, you wait for me!wait for me! Now that she was the prey of his gaze once again, helpless across the telescope, he wanted to smell her.All he needed was the call of her feral smell, and immediately he crossed the street, passed the couple sleeping on the street again, and entered her room again, this time to strip her naked, film her, and show her body lines Disassembled into countless pieces, then assembled at will in his own TV.He would strip her naked and dress her again, wash the orange juice jar, and throw it in the trash before he left.The next afternoon, he would take the images to the video room next to the Geranium Corridor of the house on Via San Isidro, and spend the next few hours listening to the sound of her guts churning, the story he loved and hated. The sound of breathing, the trembling sound like electric current.