Chapter 7 Part IV, verses 25-29

This sounds very strange, but I'm here to announce The whole world seems to have gone half mad, This new disease that everyone curses It is the oil that hovers in the mind. I once saw a man whose clothes were stained with imprint of free soil But he doesn't care what he wears: Beneath the smudge is oil. Excerpt from OIL Wells: Oil, Oil Four miles from Whitcomb.Candles shimmered from the cottage windows.There was a smell of wet leaves, forest fires, and the sweet smell of cattle in the air. It was December 14, 1918, 33 days after Armistice Day.Tom finally came to the port of Rotterdam in the Netherlands by walking and hitchhiking.He boarded a steamer and arrived at Southampton Docks.At this time, he is a free person with nowhere to go but home.

He quickened his pace.He suddenly felt a strong desire to see his father again, to hear his slow but warm voice.No matter how many lies that filled the main house, Jack Cleary wouldn't shut out his only son. Tom walked faster and faster until at last he was almost running.He quietly came to his father's cabin, knocked lightly on the door, and then pushed the door open.However, it was not Jack's strong figure sitting by the fire, but a stranger: an old man with white hair.The stranger turned from his chair to look at him. "Who? Who's there? Come in, boy, I can't see your face."

"Where is my dad? He...? Where is my dad?" "Clearly, my God! Tom Cleary! We all thought you were dead!" Tom recognized the stranger.That was old Bertie Johnson, who had a caravan and had been the village hauler all through Tom's teens. "No, Bod, I'm alive and well. Where's my father? He's moved, hasn't he? Can't he be a first-class gardener?" The first-class gardener lived in the best row of four rows of cabins, and Jack had long longed to live in one day. "Moving, Tom, so to speak. He is with the Lord now, and may the Lord bless his soul."

"Dead? My father died?" The news was unbelievable.Tom sank down on the straw chair by the table.When he was in prison, he imagined the possible changes in the family countless times.He imagined anger, love, forgiveness, hostility, even the long-delayed court-martial.But it never occurred to him. For several minutes he sat there in silence, too shocked to cry.Old Johnson groped for a moment in the cupboard and brought out bread, a plate of pork gravy, and a bowl of apples and nuts.His movements are quiet and polite. "What's going on?" asked Tom at last. "What happened? I can't believe it..."

Johnson sat down beside Tom and put his hands on the table.Although not riding, his hands still held the reins tightly, as if he were leading his horse through the night. "Because of the flu. As if the war wasn't bad enough, God sent the flu. It took your father, Jonah Hinton of Tyrold ​​Farm, old Maggie Mendes' beautiful daughter Jenny Mendes, let alone..." Johnson listed the names of the dead.Tom knew there had been flu epidemics, but the list of names was unbelievable. "I can't believe it. My dad! My dad is out of everyone!" "He didn't suffer too much," said the old man softly. "One week he was digging in the kitchen yard and the next week he was in the graveyard...but you're right, boy Well, it wasn't the flu that killed him, it was grief."

"He thought I was dead?" "We all thought so, we all thought so." "I wrote to him." "You were captured?" "right." "In prison?" "right." "There must be something wrong, I think." "I wrote not once, but twice. Everyone else got a letter back." And food, Tom would have liked to add.There is still a chance of survival. "He's not a good letter writer, your father, but he ain't gonna leave you there. He thinks you're dead, man, I swear." Bertie Johnson fell silent.A flash of inspiration came to Tom's mind, and he remembered that the village postman usually left the servants' letters at the porter at the garden gate.If the Montagues had decided that Tom was better off dead, nothing could be simpler than intercepting the letters and destroying them.No wonder Jack Cleary believed he had lost his only son.

Tom stared at the brazier for a long time, trying to make sense of it.But his loss was so great that he felt nothing but shock.He stood up unsteadily. "Bertie, I'm leaving. Listen, there's something for you. Promise I won't tell anyone, okay? Anyone. I don't want anyone to know I've been back. Just let them think I'm dead. Here's There's no one left, there's no one left for me. Promise me, Bod." Bod opened his mouth to say something, but Tom couldn't even catch him.There was also bread and gravy on the table.Tom tore the bread in half and dunked his half into the gravy bowl that would be his supper tonight.He took an apple and put it in his pocket. "Don't tell anyone, promise me."

The old man nodded.Tom didn't know what it meant, if there was any expression on his face. "Promise me, Bod." "I promise." Tom is gone.He headed north along the open road. The village lawns were covered with crosses: crosses made of oak, each topped with flowers from Pamela's greenhouse.Soon, of course, a stone monument will be erected in honor of Whitcomb's bright-faced children who never returned.But every village in Scotland needs a monument like this, so the stonecutters are busy. The church service is over.Mourners gather and disperse.These crosses stand quietly in a light rain in December. 13 crosses.One - which has more flowers than the others - bears the inscription "Lieutenant Thomas Cleary, Cross, 1893-1916".

＊＊ After a dreary lunch in silent memory, Sir Adam called Alan to his study. "Listen, boy, I have some good news for you." Sir Adam took some papers from a drawer and pushed them towards his son. "The good news is that I've assigned the rights to the oil production land to your name. Just sign here." Alan sighed, feeling a wave of quiet joy.land use rights.Land titles honor Tom more than wooden crosses and stone monuments.Of course, the chances of success are slim.But Tom's spirit doesn't care about failure.The important thing is that Allen worked hard, and the important thing is that he did his best.And Alan had to rely on everything he had learned from Tom: bravery, passion, tenacity, charisma, wit.

"Thank you, Father, I just can't tell you how much it means." "You don't have to tell me, boy. I'd love to give you some more money, but frankly, I can't. The war isn't doing my economy any good--nothing. Of course, you'll Your pocket money, but I can't give you anything else, except a little from Guy's share. I talked to him about it, and he said no. I don't think he's very generous, but It's probably his right." "Of course, I understand." "So I can give you the right to use the land. As for the money for drilling...I'm afraid I can't give you anything."

"It doesn't matter. All I want is land rights, not money." "But you will find that if you don't have money in your pocket, it's extremely difficult to succeed with land rights alone." "Definitely is." "And Lottie, my dear son—she might not like marrying a poor man very much. Did it occur to you that such an arrangement might affect her?" Allen shrugged.He thought of the village lawns: the oak crosses covered with flowers; the names of the dead; the dreadful December rains. "I must own the land, father. I must." "For Tom?" "Yes, for Tom." "You promised him?" "I did make a promise to him, my most solemn promise, shortly before his death. But even if I didn't make a promise, it was an agreement between us many years ago. I can't break the contract." "Do you know how unfavorable the situation is?" "Know." "Old Darcy was almost bankrupt, and we always thought he had no money in his pocket." "I know." "Have you made up your mind?" "Exactly." "You stubborn fool." Allen smiled slightly.Coming from Sir Adam's mouth, it was actually a compliment. Liverpool. It was one of the largest ports in Europe, and Tom encountered children in rags; the smell of piss and the stench of poverty—poverty that four years of war had failed to solve. Tom walked quickly across the street to the pier.He quickly found what he was looking for.An American freighter, the Steamer Calloway, had just landed, with seven hundred and fifty cows mooing in the hold; and two thousand sheep bleating hopelessly on the upper deck.Tom ran up the plank and told the captain that he would work for them.The broad American face looked him up and down, noting his officer's uniform, his crosses, and how old and worn it was. "You want to bind the cattle?" The American's voice was full of disbelief. "Yes, yes, sir." "Have you ever been on a boat before?" "No, but I've worked with animals." The American wiped his chin with the back of his hand, stood beside the boat and spit into the murky water.He laughed and said, "Is that why your king gave you a medal? ... Oh no, I'm sorry. I mean nothing. Of course, we need people. Two cows went crazy last night, and now we are Four people are bleeding profusely in the infirmary." "Thank you." The American paused, seemingly staring at Tom's uniform and medals. "Listen, mate, you might have to change your coat. These cows are purebred American. They probably won't have much respect for His Majesty's livery, and on top of that, some of the cows have seasickness, so It's not very hygienic on deck right now." The smell from the boat suggested that the American's statement was rather reserved. Tom gritted his teeth and shook his head. "No more coats, eh?" Tom shook his head again, feeling angry and ashamed at his poverty. "Damn... damn it." The American thought for a moment, reached into his pocket and took out some money: there were notes, there were coins, there were dollars, there were pounds.He rummaged through the change and gave Tom some British currency. "Get a coat and get back as fast as you can. We've been delayed two days crossing, so we've got to get these cows off the deck as fast as possible." ＊＊ Tom took the money and bought himself a thick woolen coat.He sold the uniform for a shilling, but removed the medals before selling it. "Down at home, sir?" asked the shopkeeper. "That's all right. Things will get better." He had a begging look on his face, and Tom knew what to ask him. "Do you have any children?" he asked, "Son...?" "Two of them, good lads. One got shot in Mons, but not badly, thank God, sir. The other was a miner, sir. He couldn't get away, though he begged—" Tom escaped from the shop.He would never hear the word "war" again, but it popped up all over the country.The breath of war hangs over Britain like a dark cloud.It clings to everything like the smell of soot.He put on his new coat and hurried back to the boat. Unloading the herd is incredible.The deck was littered with the solid and liquid excrement of four hundred seasick cows.It was dangerous manual work to strap them around their bellies, lead them out of the hatch, and get them ten by ten safely to the pier. Working with Tom were eight strong, strong Americans who had done the job before.It took Tom a while to follow their steps, but he learned quickly and quickly became a vital member of the team.After all the cattle were unloaded on the deck, they spent another day cleaning the barn, washing the deck, and mopping the walls.By the end of the day, the deck smelled of sea water, and sounds echoed in the metal hall. His American partner approached Tom with a roll of money. "We usually pay once per voyage, but I will pay you by the day, you are a second-level cattle mover." He handed out some money. "I don't want money, sir, I want a boat." "By boat? Damn it," the American spat. "We're not that kind of boat. We bring cattle in, we don't take anything out. We don't need people for that." Tom said nothing, just met his eyes.The American spit again. "Oh shit, ok. I'm not paying you, but you can come with us if you want. But immigration in New York won't let you enter the U.S. empty-handed. You have to prove to them that you can sustain yourself livelihood." Tom remained silent. "Damn it, man, you're asking too much. Well, you can come and go with us a few times and make yourself some money. My father left this bloody port when he was eighteen and never came back. You know why." He spit. As the steamboat sailed away on the evening tide, Tom gazed at the gray England fading beyond the horizon.Except for unloading a few times, Tom never set foot in England again. Ellen and Lottie were alone in the living room of her father's big house on Berkeley Square.The room was very old-school: depressing heavy colours, too much trim, too many fabrics.Lottie herself seemed out of tune with this.She is very slender and not heavy at all.Her auburn hair was pinned back with bobby pins.She wore a very simple outfit that sagged under the weight, almost boyish, from the shoulders to six feet below the knees.She wore no jewelry except a gold watch on her wrist and a string of pearls around her neck.Although normally she is lively, fearless, relaxed and lively, but today she is quiet and anxious. "My father could be very brutal," she said. Allen was also very nervous.He stood up, sat down again, took Lottie's hand and stroked it for a moment, then put her hand down again, and lit a cigarette. "But he must care about you. For sure. There's no way he wouldn't." She snatched a cigarette from his hand and took a puff, "My God, you men smoke these things," she took a cigarette from her bag, and after Alan lit the cigarette, she deeply Take a deep breath. "Well, if he doesn't get horrible, I don't know why your hands are shaking." "No." "There is." Allen jumped up again and paced the room. "I won't beg him." "My dear, he must have made up his mind by now. I don't think that whatever you say will make the slightest difference." "I don't understand how you can be so calm." "Oh, Alan, you fool." Her voice was small, and Ellen realized that she was as worried as he was. "I'm sorry, honey, it's just—" Just what, Lottie will never know.The door opened to either side, and a footman signaled to Ellen that Lottie's father - Egham Dunlop - was ready to see him. Ellen squeezed Lottie's hand, she squeezed him back, and Ellen walked out. ＊＊ "It's a damn bad thing, this war." The banker was silver-haired, but still muscular and confident in his authority.There is a large map hanging on the wall of the study, where as long as Dunlop and his partners have business, there are thumbtacks.There are six pins in Australia, fourteen in Latin America, eight in Africa, and more pins in Europe and North America than Alan can count. "Yes," said Ellen, "no other girl has worked as hard as Lottie, but nevertheless, sir, you must be glad you don't have any sons in France." "Huh? What did you say?" Dunlop looked confused. "You're talking about war, sir, and the bloodshed of war." "Huh? No. I say, massacre is bad enough, but our fellow men give birth to new powers all the time. I mean money, something irreplaceable." "Sorry, I don't…" "In 1914. Britain invested overseas as much as the United States, France, Germany, Italy and Russia combined. We didn't just rule the world, we owned the world. Now? Gone. Gone. All. Everything was sold to buy a few goddamn guns, and the British government is already in debt to the Americans. In debt, you understand! In debt!" Allen took a deep breath.It wasn't the best start to what he wanted to say, although it was hard for him to believe that Dunlop didn't know why Allen asked to see him alone. "If I may, sir, there is something I would like to discuss with you." "Okay, okay, of course." "I think, as you may know, Lottie and I are deeply in love with each other, really deeply in love." "Hmm." Dunlop's snort could mean a thousand things, or nothing at all.Allen couldn't tell from his demeanor what was the best way to go.He continued with difficulty. "I think you should be aware of my financial situation, sir, and at the same time I'm not going to . "Well, yes, your financial situation. Are you the firstborn?" "No, sir, I have a brother, Guy." "what!" It was definitely a bad "ah!", and Allen was already starting to wince inside, but he continued. "My father has sorted out his affairs and has graciously arranged for some... some assets to be handed over to me." "Ok." "The main asset—indeed, the only real asset—is the intangible asset, which is not less valuable, and may even be very valuable." "yes?" "I own the tenure to drill for oil in Persia. The tenure covers the southwestern corner of Persia, within a hundred miles of where the British Persian Company has discovered large quantities of oil. I cannot boast of owning the richest oil-rich land, but the geology Scientists tell me my prospects are not hopeless." "Have you started drilling yet?" "No sir, I need to raise money." "You don't have enough funds of your own?" "Not at all, sir, not enough." "Have you started raising funds yet?" "No, sir." "Within your so-called land use rights, have you found even a plate of oil?" "No, sir." "In plain English, you're asking if I'd like to marry you my only daughter?" "Yes, sir. We love each other dearly, and I promise to do everything in my power to make her happy." "Do everything within your means? If I understand you correctly, you have no income and no real prospects. What do you think would be within your means? Let her have a place to live? Let her have Things to eat?" Allen's face turned pale. "My father will give me a small allowance, sir. It's not much, but we won't starve. I believe—" "Starvation? Starvation? You want to marry my only daughter and promise me you won't starve her! My answer is no. Absolutely no. You can't marry her. You have to disown her. You need to get out of here immediately, I tell you." ＊＊ A footman ran out to find Alan's hat, so Alan was not sent out of the house until a minute later.Alan felt humiliated and angry, but worse, the thought of having to leave Lottie drove him to death. Lottie immediately understood his expression. "Oh dear, bad news, isn't it?" "He flew into a rage. He was only interested in money." "Alan, dear, what must have happened to you was terrible." He reached out and took her chin and lifted her head until they looked into each other's eyes. "Lottie, dear, do you really understand what that means?" "That meant we had to elope and live in the attic from now on," she whispered. "I've always wanted to live in the attic." Allen shook his head, "You know, I can't let you do that." "I do not mind." "My dear, there are plenty of women in the world who know how to live on five pounds for a week, but you're not one of them." "I can learn. No one thought I could be a nurse, but I turned out to be pretty good." "You're a perfect nurse, the best nurse ever, but living on a weekly wage with nothing, buying cheap meat, doing your own laundry, knitting your own socks, cleaning like a maid... I won't let you be Like that. Don't even think about it. "I have jewels and we can sell them." "and then?" Allen's voice was relentless, but firm.He had seen enough in the war to know what it was to be poor.It was a hard life, relentless and hard.Allen would never allow himself to drag Lottie down like this. "Oh dear!" she whispered.She was begging him to change his mind, but she knew he wouldn't. Allen stood up, "I should go." "Oh, stay, please! Don't just leave me like this." "Your father has kicked me out." "Oh dear!" They could hear him stomping his feet in the study, where it was clear Alan's time was very limited.The butler was already standing by the door, twirling Allen's hat in his hand, and the deputy butler and the first-class valet stood behind him, like a pair of well-dressed bodyguards. Ellen and Lottie embrace and kiss passionately. "I'll wait for you, honey. Go dig for oil till you're as rich as Croesus. I'll always be here." "Don't say that," Alan's voice suddenly became harsh. "Don't fight your father and ruin your life. You are a free woman. If you don't understand this, then my departure will be meaningless. You must find your own happiness. You must find true love, marriage and happiness." "I believe in you. If only one person had the chance to succeed, it would be you." Allen smiled.He adored this woman.He longed to make love to her; longed to explore every part of her body with his hands.When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and unfeeling. "It's a sweet thing to say, but remember what we're talking about. It's oil, an industry determined by man and God. If I dig a well in the right place, I've made it. If I'm off by a hundred feet and I'm probably going to get nothing. I think your father was at least right about my financial prospects. I'm broke now and probably always will be. Goodbye, I lover. Goodbye." "Take off your shirt, please." "what?" "Please take your shirt off before you climb those steps." The immigration officer said all the words in one breath without any change in tone. "Please take off your shirt before climbing those steps." He pointed to a section of fifteen wooden steps that led nowhere.An impatient doctor in a blue uniform gave Tom a dull look, then returned his gaze to the sports news in the newspaper.Tom took off his coat, shirt and tie, and ran up and down the steps.His pulse barely accelerated.After five months moving cattle on a cattle ship across the Atlantic, he was almost back to his pre-capture fitness.The doctor looked curiously at the fuchsia mark around Tom's shoulder - his first gunshot wound - and the other faint scars - either from shrapnel at the front or from prison hurt. "You've had some injuries, huh?" "a little." "fight?" "War. There is no problem now." He shook his shoulders to show the flexibility of his shoulders.In fact, although his shoulder is fine, his injured leg has never fully recovered.Although he can walk on the leg for a day, the dark red wound hurts from time to time, especially when he twists the leg or puts all his weight on it. "What about epilepsy? Ever had tuberculosis?" "No." The doctor nodded, "Okay, put on your shirt." The immigration officer stamped Tom's card, "Go to the Office of Public Examination. Exit here, turn right, turn right again, and get in line. Next!" Tom went out.Behind him, a limping Polish immigrant tries to hide his panting after climbing the steps. "Okay. Come down. Give me the card. Next!" The immigration officer pointed the Pole in another direction, and the Pole shed bitter tears in disappointment. The public scrutiny room was packed.A long group of people moved forward slowly in the long room.A sign on the wall stated what kind of people were not allowed to enter: "All idiots, imbecile, mentally retarded—" Tom glanced at half of the sign as he passed.Most of the would-be immigrants were poorly dressed.Men predominate, and the mix of voices and accents makes Tom think more of prison. "Psychopaths; alcoholics—" A few secretly gnawed at the food in their pockets: hard biscuits and fried pork, with the usual strong smell of cheese or sausage.There was smoke in the air. "Beggar; beggar; vagrant—" Tom was better dressed than average, but no one could have guessed that he had grown up in the 12-bedroom Whitcomb estate and had a noble uncle.He shuffled forward, feeling the same combination of hope and fear as everyone else in the room felt. After queuing for three hours, he finally stood at the front of the line.A door slammed open in front of him, and an immigration officer waved him on.He went into a cabin with an American flag and a Keystone poster.Two men in uniform sat behind a simple wooden desk, before a stack of forms, half blank and half filled out. "card." Tom took out the card. "Do you speak english?" "Say, sir. I'm English." "Yeah." One of them snorted, as if Tom was being very rude, but their pens both drew boxes on the corresponding forms.A battered, leather-bound Bible sits like a paperweight on top of a stack of blank forms.The official who opened the door seemed to be in charge of all the procedures, and he thrust the book into Tom's hands. "Can you tell me what this is?" "The King James Bible, sir." "Please hold the Bible in your left hand and raise your right hand, can you swear that you will answer all questions honestly?" Tom complied. "I swear I'll tell the truth." Then the questioning began.All kinds of questions came like a cannonball, and the pen with the answer was like a crazy dance of bureaucrats.Tom hated the rudeness of his interlocutors—he disliked any situation where he was at a disadvantage—but he kept his face and tone calm when he answered. "Country of Citizenship?" "date of birth?" "Country and place of birth?" "What ship did you take when you landed?" "Do you have any money?" "Any gold, silver, jewelry or other valuables?" "Put your money on the table, please." "Please count the money." "Forty-eight dollars. Very well, you can put your money away." "Do you speak English or other languages ​​and dialects?" "You will? Then please read the article on this card." The first few sentences of the American Declaration of Independence are printed on the card. Tom read these few sentences in rhythm, especially when he read "all men are created equal". Emphasized the tone. "Do you have anywhere to go in New York or anywhere else in America?" "Please state the address and your relationship to the resident." Luckily Tom had prepared the question so gave the name and address of a former crew member whose wife had a boarding house in Connecticut. "Do you have any hope of employment in the United States?" Tom hesitated. "I ask you if you have any hope of employment? Work?" Tom continued to hesitate. "Do you have any means of earning money or are you going to beg for a living?" Tom shook his head at last. "No, sir. I can make ends meet." "Hmm, so how are you going to do that?" the immigration officer spoke to Tom as if he was about to become an idiot, imbecile, or mentally handicapped. A small smile appeared on Tom's face. "I'm an oilman," he said firmly. "I'm here to drill for oil." The two immigration officers looked at each other and smiled. "Yeah, you've got $48 in your pocket. I think that's enough to buy an oil well, probably somewhere nice in Texas." The other grinned, nodded, nodded, and laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd heard since President McKinley was assassinated. "Or Pennsylvania," he said, "think there. There should be enough wells in Pennsylvania. Ha! Forty-eight!" Their banter immediately angered Tom. "I'll make enough money before I go drilling," he said. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking. Do you have any hope of employment?" Tom gritted his teeth.As it happened, he had hope of employment.He had done well on the cattle ship, had already had an offer, and the captain had invited him to go back to work when he had the papers.He told the two officials the information they needed, and the two jotted down all the information. During the process, the two kept nudging each other, winking at each other, or exclaiming, or bursting out laughing—— "Oilman!" "Huh!" "Forty-eight!"—this made Tom extremely angry.Then the questioning continues. "Are you willing to abide by the laws and constitution of the United States?" "Yes, sir." "Have you ever committed any moral crime?" "Are you a polygamist or believe in or advocate polygamy?" "Are you an anarchist, a Bolshevik, or a member of any group that advocates the overthrow of the American government?" "Yes, sir, I am a colonel in the Red Army, have three wives, and am very interested in choir boys."—Tom almost replied.In fact, he bit his tongue and replied, "No." "Have you ever been arrested?" Tom paused.The two pens trembled and stopped.Two pairs of eyes fell on his face.Tom felt a pang of irritation.Why the fuck is he telling people he tried to break out while he was in prison?What the hell do these pale clerks know about those hungry years and over-burdened prisons?How much do you know about the good American who shouted "Freedom! Freedom!" before being shot dead by German bullets?How much do you know about Tom's heavy-footed surrender and re-arrest? "No, sir," he answered, "I was caught fighting in Europe, that's all." The two pens hesitated for a moment.This is a not so innocent answer.This beautiful stack of blank forms prefers clean answers. "You fought the Germans?" "Yes, sir. We have some very good American troops stationed near us, if I may say so. Very good." That's a good answer, even though the US didn't enter the war until 7 months after Tom was captured. "Waiting for Uncle Sam to rescue you, huh?" The senior official shook his head, then drew a box in the "Not Arrested" column.His subordinates also followed suit. Then there is a series of questions to determine whether Tom is an idiot, imbecile or mentally handicapped. "You have fifteen oranges. After you give five to others, how many are left? You give five more, how many are left? Apples cost 10 cents each, and oranges cost 25 cents each. Six apples and 6 oranges, which one is more valuable?" Tom passed the test successfully. The senior official nodded to the official in charge of the various procedures, who handed Tom a card saying "Admission Cleared."He said in a quick and impatient tone, "Welcome to America Please hurry up next move!" ＊＊ Tom's whole body relaxed when he got the card, he didn't realize how nervous he was.Everything in the past began to slip from his shoulders.In the United States, as long as he has not committed a crime within five years, he can and will become a U.S. citizen.He felt dizzy.How simple.All the intricacies of name, birth, lineage, legacy and that Alan Gay vs. Alan Tom rivalry were gone.Tom had come to a country where no one cared.It's that simple, it seems impossible. He took that precious card—"Admission Cleared"—and entered the last line to the immigration kiosk.The immigration officer took his card and took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Please pay 8 yuan, poll tax." Tom handed him 8 dollars. "full name?" "Thomas Albert C—" Tom paused. “就是托马斯·阿尔伯特？还是托马斯·阿尔伯特什么？哪一个？啊？”又深吸一口香烟。烟灰洒到面前的文件上。那人的衬衫袖口因为成日地抹擦烟灰而变成了灰色。 So be it.是时候扔掉最后一块多余的石头了。克瑞里这个名字和蒙塔古这个名字死死地纠缠在一起。现在，汤姆哪个也不想要。他在上面干了六个月活的运牛船，卡洛威号汽船，这个名字他很喜欢——而且发音接近克瑞里，所以不会让他父亲或是他自己蒙羞。汤姆用坚定的语气说出自己的决定，“我的名字叫托马斯·阿尔伯特·卡洛威，先生。” “汤姆·卡洛威，欢迎来到美国。” “把马匹系好，行李装好。不，不要收帐篷和石头工具。快点！” 汤姆的命令用波斯语说出来和用英语说出来一样的不容置疑。他的作战经验教会了他冷静的头脑和快速的决定，这是其它东西无法教给他的。他才26岁，可他说话时带着陆军元帅般的自信。他的人马立即听命。 “把马拴好。快点。那边。拴到那个灌木丛上。” 艾伦在说话的时候注意保持着冷静和镇定。他非常清楚，没有什么比指挥官的恐慌更能让人恐慌。他走在人群中，下着简短的命令，指导着地质装备（在波斯语里他称之为“石头工具”）的打包工作。等他满意地看到打包工作开始起步之后，他漫不经心地走到鞍囊边，拿出他的军用手枪，然后把枪套挂到腰带上。 他们正扎营在一个杂树丛生的小山丘上，山丘脚下是一个很浅的湖泊。湖泊为晚上的烧火做饭提供了水和足够的树枝。他们已经来了两天，没有碰到任何人。连夏天过来的牧羊人都把羊群赶到低处去过冬了。然后，其中一个人飞奔过来，大惊失色地说，“盖什凯部落的人来了。四十个人。一个远征队。” 其它马夫开始备马准备立刻逃窜，但艾伦大叫着让他们安静下来。一个拥有四十人的突击队很容易就能追上八匹驮着行李的疲倦小马。逃跑只会引发追赶，而追赶则很容易导致悲剧。 “咖啡，阿默德。把水放到火上。” “咖啡，aqa？”“aqa”是波斯语里的“先生”，艾伦手下的人一直这么称呼他。很显然，艾伦对热饮的突然需求让这可怜的男孩困惑不解。 “咖啡，阿默德，咖啡，咖啡，咖啡。候赛因，你干嘛站在那儿？火快灭了。过去帮帮忙。” 虽然很困惑，但他们还是很顺从地过去烧水，而波斯人对咖啡的喜爱迅速战胜了残留的恐惧。等到可以听见马蹄声越来越近时，水已经烧开，咖啡已经泡好。候赛因是马夫中最聪明、最勇敢的一个，他走近艾伦。 “我已经准备好了，先生，”他低声说道。 艾伦垂下眼光，发现候赛因已经从一个鞍囊中拿出一个撤去封套的弹药箱。候赛因拿出他们的第二把手枪，正打算在艾伦身边趴下开始战斗。 “把那该死的枪给我，”艾伦用英语呵斥道，然后语气稍为缓和地用波斯语重复一遍，“我们不打算战斗。” 候赛因看上去垂头丧气，可已经没有时间去争辩。一群骑着马的部落汉子就像浪潮一样从山顶涌下来，并立刻围住艾伦的营地。并没有四十个人——差不多十五人——但人人都拿着步枪，而且他们的马匹跟艾伦的小马也不是同一个级别的。 “Salaam，”艾伦对这些新来者礼貌而从容的弯了弯腰以示问候，“你看，我已经把你们的咖啡准备好了。” 他们驱着马四处转了转。他们绕着小小的营地转着圈，彼此谈笑着。他们说着一种带有浓厚口音的部落方言，艾伦没法听懂。大多数人都带着刀，要么是别在腰带上，要么是别在帽子上，而且人人都不是羞于用刀的样子。虽然艾伦表面上看上去非常镇定，可他知道他的生命就掌握在这些人手上，他们目无王法，只知打劫、偷窃和血拼。 艾伦低声对候赛因说，“给他们倒一些咖啡。要表现得就像他们是我们邀请来的客人。”候赛因开始去倒咖啡，打骂着他们一队人中年纪最小的阿里，因为他没有把杯子擦干净。 “我只有八个杯子，不过我邀请你们中的七个人和我一起喝咖啡。” 艾伦坐下，他的手枪可以很明显地被这些人看见，但他自己则完全没有在意的样子。这些汉子有了更多的动作，发出更多的笑声。然后其中终于有一个人骑马上前，跳下马——一个可怕的大汉——然后把缰绳扔给另一个人照看。他非常高，站得笔直，长着乱糟糟的胡子，眼睛上带着眼罩——这是一个晒着高原阳光、在马背上度过大部分时间的人。 “我叫穆罕默德·埃默里，”他弯了弯腰说道，“这些是我的手下。” ＊＊ 埃默里和两个副手坐下喝着咖啡。艾伦叫人端上noql——一种裹着糖的杏仁糖果，当地的波斯人对此简直爱不释手——气氛开始活跃起来。虽然如此，但其他人始终坐在马背上，手指搭在武器上，有六七个人跳下马，开始有系统地检查艾伦的所有物。艾伦的手下坐在一起，不时瞪一眼这些新来者。有一次，其中一人开始检查装着艾伦铺盖卷的鞍囊，正当他抓过工具和私人文件时，十四岁的阿里跳起来，尖叫一声开始攻击那人，跳到他的背上用拳头敲打着他。那人把阿里从背上摇下来，然后一脚把他踹开。有片刻气氛充满了危险的紧张，然后那人哈哈大笑，开始检查另一个包。 咖啡喝完之后，艾伦叫人送上吃的。一般情况下，这一小队人马过着非常简朴的生活：主食吃米饭和面包，偶尔会换成他们从路过的村子里买来的鸡蛋、番茄、甜瓜、山羊奶酪和杏仁。不过幸运的是，今天他们刚好带了两只肉鸡，可以马上食用。一心想当主角的候赛因粗声粗气地对身边的其他人下着命令，并负责准备一顿在他们力所能及的范围内所能提供的最好的晚餐。 本来，埃默里的话题完全集中在几件事上：步枪，马匹，战争，血拼，盖什凯部落临驾于所有人之上。艾伦点头表示同意，将礼貌的主人这一角色扮演得尽善尽美。他仍然不清楚埃默里的意图，可他猜想，主要的选择有：要么是武装抢劫，要么是暴力的武装抢劫。 鸡肉和大米送了上来，配料用的是葡萄干和酸乳酪，还摆上了番红精。汉子们大口吞食着，在盘子边缘留了一圈米饭，这是非常礼貌的波斯习俗。埃默里的好奇心终于忍不住了。 “Farangi？”他问道。 严格说来，这个词指的是法国人，但对波斯人来说它可以指代任何一个从欧洲来的人。艾伦点点头，“我是英国人，”他解释说。 “啊，是嘛……”埃默里的注意力早就放在了艾伦那些还没来得及完全收好的测量装备上。“英国人……你是来修铁路的？” 艾伦笑起来。他的国籍所带来的联想真是非常奇怪。 "no." “公路？” "no." 埃默里顿了顿，好奇和怀疑两种表情在他脸上交战，“你在绘制地图？你是个税务员？” “不，不，不，哪个都不是。” 埃默里顿了顿，用舌头从牙缝里剔出一小块鸡肉，然后将它吐到灰烬上。“你是来买地毯的，”他终于断言，非常确定自己终于找到了正确的答案。 “不。石油，我在寻找石油。” 埃默里严肃地点了点头，然后转向他的副手，三人开始非常快速地交谈，显然是想弄明白艾伦的意思，以及确认他说的是不是实话。最终，埃默里叫一个手下拿件东西过来。那人在一个鞍囊里摸索了一会儿，拿着一个非常古旧的煤油灯（生锈的那一面刻着“阿米蒂奇有限公司，利兹市”）走过来。油瓶是空的，但气味仍在。 “石油？”埃默里问道，“点灯用的石油？” “对。听说过英国波斯石油公司吗？他们在苏雷曼和阿巴丹一带工作。” 埃默里点点头，但艾伦怀疑他是用点头掩饰自己的一无所知。 “我觉得扎格罗斯山脉可能会有石油，所以我过来寻找。如果我能找到石油，那这儿的每个人都会变得很有钱，非常有钱。” “你已经找到石油了吗？” "No." “可你已经找到了一些……一些石油的迹象，没有？” "No." "Nothing at all?" 艾伦张开手，做了一个波斯人表示什么都没有的动作，“什么都没有。” 他说的是事实。自从离开英国和洛蒂以后，艾伦在扎格罗斯已经呆了好几个月，他穿过高山和深谷，对这一地带的地质概况已经有了无人可敌的了解。这是一项巨大的工作，还需要很多个月才能完成。可到目前为止，他的所有努力全都一无所获——甚至没有线索表明这一带可能会有些什么。到目前为止，他的所有工作只证明了他是在浪费时间。 他们又交流了很长时间。 艾伦已经开始习惯他们那带有浓厚口音的方言，甚至在他们语速很快的情况下也能听懂一点。很明显，他们听说过这个巨大的企业正在北方崛起，可他们所有人都倾向于把这当成是幻想。然后他们的声音低了下去。这三个首领正在讨论着什么，而且很小心地把艾伦排除在他们的商谈之外。奇怪的是，艾伦突然想到了埃格汉姆·邓洛普，以及他评价艾伦的经济、能力和前景的方式。他感到一种想和洛蒂重聚的迫切渴望和一种深深的孤独。先是汤姆，然后是洛蒂…… 三个首领的对话终于告一段落。埃默里站起来。他身材高大，而且站得笔直，“过来。” 这不是邀请，这是命令。