Chapter 14 Part V Sections 57-61

Speculation was all the rage, rich and poor, high and low, everyone for oil And excited: The love for gold will continue to heat up, We learn of war, talk of peace, But best of all, it deserves your attention The "I dug the oil" moment. Excerpt from Frank Wilder: "I Got the Oil" The year is 1929. The year's oil record is "Happy Days Are Here Again," and the melody seems to capture the spirit of the age.People have never been so free.The economy has never been so prosperous.The stock exchange has been bullish.Life is wonderful. But on the other side of the earth, there are clouds hanging on the horizon.A communist demonstration in Berlin resulted in the deaths of more than three dozen people.Germany's far-right parties are increasingly mobilizing.In the Soviet Union in the East, Stalin eliminated the hostile forces that opposed his rule, and the largest country in the world is becoming a one-man dictatorship.Terrorism in the Balkans, riots in India, unrest in Europe.

Clouds on the horizon. ＊＊ Outside a big white house in Chesey, a man in a new black suit hesitated.He matched the house number on the door with the piece of paper he was holding, then went to the door and knocked heavily.It's eight fifteen in the morning. The housekeeper was sick, and the deputy housekeeper was very busy, so it was a maid who came to open the door.The door for servants had to be rounded to the back, and whoever knocked so rudely at breakfast time deserved a stern reprimand.The maid had opened her mouth to reproach, but she saw a gentleman standing on the steps.His face was chestnut, and his beard would have made a bank clerk look like a pirate—but anyway, his attire spoke of his social class, and the maid's stern reprimand was nothing more than: "Good morning, sir , is there anything I can do for you?"

"It does, girl," said the man, "if this is the home of Ellen Montague and his wife." "Yes, sir." "what!" The man raised his foot and was about to go in, but the maid hurriedly stopped him. "Excuse me, sir, the family is having breakfast. Maybe you'd like to wait a while in the library? And, who should I tell . . . " "No, girl, no, it's all right, the dining room is downstairs, I suppose? I don't think Mr. or Mrs. Montague would mind an old rascal and an unexpected visitor like me." He winked at the maid, then walked across the palatial drawing room to the stairs.The maid trotted after him, very excited.Technically she should have stopped him, but there was an unexpected kindness in the gentleman's demeanor, despite his savage appearance.The man led the way, and the maid hurriedly followed behind.

＊＊ East Texas. It is a small village of sandy soil, rolling hills dotted with sweet maple and pine trees, and fields in the valleys growing dwarf corn and sun-softened sweet potatoes.This is a difficult land to succeed in.On a hot summer day, even the chickens gaze at the horizon, longing for a little change in life. The name of the village is Overton, which means nothing.It's a small town on the main Missouri-Pacific railroad that doesn't even have a decent road.On the edge of the village—or rather outside it—there was a hut in the shade of a tree.This is a small wooden dilapidated house, it looks like there are only two rooms.

A few shirts hang on a clothesline behind the house.Men's shirts, not too clean.You might guess that there are no women in the house, but there are indications that it hasn't always been that way.One shirt had barely noticeable stitching under the armpit.The stitches are fine, neat and smooth.No man could sew such stitches, and certainly not the man who washed these shirts. There is one other thing.There is a photo on the windowsill.It was a picture of Tom, but not him alone.There were two other people in the photo: Rebecca Louie, squinting in the sun, with her baby, about six months old, on her arm.Tom put an arm around Rebecca.She tilts her head and smiles at something off camera.The snapshot doesn't look great, and the red dust from Texas has passed through the windows covering picture frames and photos.However, if you look closer, you can still see Tom and Rebecca's hands.They have rings on their hands, wedding rings.But this photo speaks of the past.Now, in the hut, it exudes nothing but pathos.Sadness and loneliness.

It looked and smelled like a wasted life. ＊＊ And what about Guy? What happened to Guy, the eldest son and heir of the Whitcomb estate? His military career seemed to have come to a standstill.His staff work during the war would have allowed him to rise to a higher position, but peacetime was less polite.He was first sent to manage a detachment of British troops in the African colonies, but was transferred back to England unexpectedly soon.There have been some reports in the media that speculate that this is because of his inability to manage the force in a strong and decisive manner.Guy's own account of events—so far as he bothers to mention—blames cowardly soldiers, poor traffic, bad weather, and half a dozen other things that don't go our way.He's now a lieutenant colonel at the Sandhorst Army Academy, so perhaps things didn't turn out so badly.

When it comes to Guy's life back home, he often surprises his more orthodox younger brother with his lifestyle.Parties, dances and extravagance.Just last year, Guy surprised the family by announcing that he was engaged to an American woman named Dorothy Carter, whom he quickly married three months later.No one wanted to say it, but his new wife seemed downright boring, and not the type of girl Guy usually had a crush on. Is Guy happy? Well, maybe.Alan wasn't too close to him, and Guy didn't confide in his parents much.Either way, Guy seems to have settled down, which is at least a good thing.

The man stopped in front of the restaurant and turned to the maid.He winked at her, and put his index finger in front of his lips, then tiptoed and walked gently to the door. The door was ajar, and the man could see the room through the crack.Inside was a man, his wife, and two children, a boy and a girl, about five and six years old.The man was having a lively discussion with the little boy about the various benefits of boiled eggs, and whether it was better to eat the thing or spread it everywhere with a jam spoon. The man outside the door watched for a moment, then slammed the door open.

"Good morning, good morning, good morning!" he shouted, "Do you have Uncle George's fish ball rice?" "George!" Allen and Lottie shouted in surprise at the same time. Ellen was the first to hug him. Lottie was slower than him, but her embrace was much longer, so she won the final victory.Her relative slowness was explained when she stood up: her high belly gave her five months' worth of reasons for caution. "My God, George, we thought you wouldn't be back for another fortnight at least." "Ha, I flew back, can you believe it? No more steamboats on the Red Sea or those goddamn Turkish trains. Straight back: Abadan - Baghdad - Tiberias - Athens - Genoa - Amsterdam--London. Came back last night, in a damned storm--forgive me, dear, forgive me--but it's not home till I bang on your door."

Lottie got up and tried to attend to George's breakfast, but the two men protested strongly and forced her to sit down again, and it was Ellen at last who ordered tea, fish ball rice, bacon, kidneys, eggs, sausages, pickled Fish, tomatoes, mushrooms, more tea, another plate of butter and jam, and a blackberry jam made from fruit picked in the kitchen garden at Whitcomb Estate. Ellen and Lottie tell George about the new developments in their family.Little Eliza is full of life, has loved riding horses, and is a favorite in the classroom.Little Tommy was a menace to everything within reach of his destructive hands, but was also seen as a babe and a cutie.A third baby was due in four months; this pregnancy was less sensational than the previous two; and their world was, by all accounts, as happy and harmonious as it could be.

Then they paused.A nanny came in to pick up little Tommy, who gave her guest a disapproving look.It's weird enough for a family to have breakfast together like this, but it's downright indecent to have an unexpected guest at the breakfast table when kids are around... Ellen and George looked at each other, and Lottie noticed their gaze. "Oh, don't be so stupid, you two," she said. "Of course you're in a hurry to talk about business, and of course you should hurry before you two blow up like big balloons. , pipes, robbers and bombings, you should know very well that I will follow you, not to miss a word." The two laughed, and they spent the next three hours at the breakfast table talking about every detail of the company's current state.Allen named the company the Allen Soup Oil Company—after its two spiritual founders: Allen and Tom. The business has flourished since Alan and George burned the last of their possessions eight years ago to provide the boiler with its last significant flame.Egham Dunlop walks the talk.Allen carefully assessed the amount of funding needed.Dunlop inquired about the market conditions.Then, fingers crossed, they hit the stock exchange for a jaw-dropping £2.5 million. They used the first tranche of funding to drill further wells a mile or so from Emory II.Every well they dug (this time using state-of-the-art American drilling rigs that were nothing compared to the speed of the original pioneers) yielded oil.They hadn't even mapped the entire extent of the field, but they knew it must be no less than nine miles long and no less than two miles wide.They built huge reservoirs in the mountains to store the oil they first pumped.Meanwhile, two dozen road engineers, hired from the British and Indian armies, began surveying the pipeline's route down the mountain.They marked the route with steel poles and cloth flags.Then, when the first pipes came from Glasgow, they bought eleven hundred mules and hired enough men.Those nine-inch pipes were shoved, tugged, pulled, and cursed by hands and mules to get them into place.Mohammad Emery, with a Qashqah team, generously offered to protect the new route from bandits—that is, from himself.Allen and Reynolds negotiated with him wittily and patiently, eventually agreeing to pay two dozen tribal men with rifles to guard the pipeline, and (more importantly) give Mohammad Emery a percent of the Allen Soup Oil Company The ownership of the three, and forever for the entire Qashqai tribe. On a more personal occasion, Allen rode up to Emery's tent and presented him with a small gold model of the drilling rig with the inscription: Mohammad Emery II, in English and Persian. The growing company did not neglect its other responsibilities.It built schools and hospitals at both ends of the pipeline.In the first year, the hospital on the other side of Shiraz cured nearly 6,000 trachoma patients, performed 200 operations to remove white miasma, removed 3,500 tonsils, and began a long Project: Complete eradication of water-borne diseases such as dysentery and cholera.Schools are also thriving, teaching basic literacy and numeracy to children and technical skills and hygiene to adults.At the school in Shiraz, there were forty-two students under the age of ten in the literacy class—plus Ahmad, who thought "it's no fucking use to be this goddamn illiterate." A refinery was also built on the coast of the Persian Gulf.There has been widespread opposition to the idea in London.Although the British Persian Petroleum Company did the same, many people thought it was crazy to build the most complex and important industrial facilities of the new company in the most desolate countryside of Persia. Allen, the company's managing director and major shareholder, listened to all the arguments and dismissed them all.He told Reynolds privately, "God put the oil in Persia, George, not England. If we don't give the Persian people something in return, we're damned." The young company quickly developed into a large company.Of course, they still have their own fun.Explosions, floods, plagues, riots, and fires are all a big part of the game.But now the oil keeps coming out.They moved 200,000 barrels the first year, 400,000 the next year, and this year, in their fifth year of operation, they're on track to hit 2 million barrels.They have already started looking for further sources of oil.Iraq is their best option.Other countries in the Middle East were also targeted. Alan and George were talking.Lottie sat there embroidering, stitching in a trance, half listening to the conversation of her two favorite men, and half listening to the little life growing in her belly.Leftovers from breakfast had been cleaned up.Tea gave way to coffee.The silver cruet that had been taken by the maid was brought back so that Reynolds could put the salt, pepper, and mustard shakers all on the table to explain some of the new intricacies of cooling towers in the refinery constitute. Life is good; extremely happy, in fact.Will it -- can it -- go on like this? The evening sun streams through the canopy of the pine trees.In the clearing beyond the rig, a pig-nosed skunk trotted slowly through the bushes, gave the laborers a long, haughty look, and ran forward, convinced that whatever the humans were doing Nothing would touch its happiness as a skunk. This is a Saturday afternoon, and everyone usually finishes work early.They lifted another length of drill pipe from the well, unscrewed it, piled it aside, and looked up.Just then they saw an old Ford, a vintage car, its black sides all covered in the brick-red dust of the area.A man got out of the car and came up to Tom. Tom spat the tobacco juice on the ground, wiped his hands, and went to meet the man. "Are you doing well?" the man asked slowly. "Not bad," said Tom. "Two hundred and fifty feet this week, which is pretty good progress considering Tuesday's dip." "It would be better if there was no subsidence." "It would be better if instead of scrap metal we used drilling equipment, and instead of cattlemen we used drillers." "Never heard a good driller blame his tools like you do." "That's because you've never seen a good driller and don't know what they're supposed to look like. Of course, that was before me." "Yes, all right. If you want to work for Rockefeller, then you can work for Rockefeller. Although they won't give you anything." Tom spat again and walked away.He took his jacket from the mottled grass next to the borehole, shook it of dust, insects and pine needles, and put it on.He whistled, and a dirty little white dog, wagging its tail cheerfully, darted from where she slept to meet her master.Tom leaned over to let her lick, a big smile of welcome on his face.The smile made him look a little younger.He looked more like the man who disembarked and walked up to Ellis Island than the man who suffered a fiasco at Signal Mountain. The man in the Ford pulled out a bulging leather wallet and a red book, and counted some money. "Hey, little one. Are you still in charge here? Forty-five dollars." He held out the money and Tom took it. "I'm trying to get you a better boiler," said the man. "There's nothing harder than drilling a well without the right pressure." "You could try buying some fuel. We've been using new wood, and the damn thing just smokes, but doesn't catch fire." "Well, that's one of the joys of being independent, right? I'm meeting a guy from Houston next week. This guy and a couple of interested investors, maybe. I said, if some more money is raised , we can continue to dig this hole.” "How much are you going to sell, Teach?" said Tom. "You've sold more than a hundred per cent, and a lot of it to me." "We'll get the oil out, and no one will complain. Not even you, friend." The conversation should end here.Tom got his wages for the week.Titch Harrelson went to pay the others.But Harrelson was in no rush to walk up to the workers waiting for their paychecks. "Of course, if you want to surpass these investors in Houston, I can let you join before them and give you a special ratio." "forget it." "Now's the time to invest. We're not more than a thousand feet away from the honeysuckle layer, and there's plenty of oil in the honeysuckle layer, I think." "That's right, another thousand feet and we'll be down to the honeysuckle layer, full of salt water and dashed hopes." "If you want to live on your salary for the rest of your life, that's your business. As I said, I have plenty of investors." "right." Tom had heard that talk before.Sponsor, talker, seller.Lies, promises, fantasies.He felt a familiar mix of emotions.He was tired of the gap between the hundreds of dollars and the reality of a few cents.He's worked on more than a dozen independent Wildcat wells over the past few years, and all of them have this, worn out equipment, local farmers hired to do the heavy lifting, and projects always on the brink of financial collapse.The common sense in the business is that you have to drill forty-five wildcat wells for one to come out, and that's the risk the whole business faces.Independent well diggers are at greater risk because they don't have the money to buy the best drilling sites, and because they often run out of money before they dig deep enough.In this part of East Texas, there is no sign of oil at all.Not at all.Someone dug a few wildcat wells, but found nothing.When the guys from the big oil companies see such an oil well, they pat their asses and promise to drink as many barrels as they can if the well produces oil. But Tom's distaste had another source.he himself.He knows the risks.He knows the pitfalls.But again and again, he couldn't resist the temptation.Maybe this new well will yield big results.Maybe this new sponsor, the geologist, really has a lot of potential.So time and time again, Tom spent money he didn't have on useless receipts for useless businesses.Sometimes he works for months with paper instead of money.In California, he became known as "The Only Man to Lose Everything at Signal Mountain," a newspaper headline of the day.He is desperate to make a comeback.Every well is a new beginning.Maybe this time, maybe, just maybe... Harrelson paid off the farmer drillers.Three dollars a day is really cheap, but for these impoverished areas, if there is no rain, there will be no good harvest, and doing something useful for three dollars a day is better than holding dust and praying for rain And it's better not to get a penny. Harrelson walked over to Tom again, stuffing his wallet into his pocket. "A ride with you?" "No, no need." "What cheers you up? Hey, how about you come over tomorrow and have some chicken with me and Mrs. Holling? She keeps saying she hasn't seen you in ages." Mrs. Holling owned the land they drilled.Harrelson depended on her shamelessly and lied to her endlessly.Tom guessed they had slept together, but couldn't be sure.Although Mrs. Holling's husband was dead, Harrelson had a wife and a home a hundred and thirty miles away in Dallas. "It's okay, I already have arrangements." "You have a fart, how could you have—an educated person in this shit? Still haven't found that wife of yours, I guess?" "No." "Damn it. Mrs. Holling's got a great impression of her. Listen, don't delay. See you tomorrow, about six o'clock." "Okay, okay." "And, hey, listen, I wasn't thinking about the sinking well. It happens to anyone. Listen, I feel sorry for you. I owe it to you. Before I went to Houston I'm going to give you some more shares before I help you guys. Give you another half a percent, no money, nothing, free. Don't, don't say anything. It's yours. You deserve it. Jump in the car .I'll take you back." The little thing jumped into the car with a cry, and Tom followed.He never bought a car.Never came close to this level.The suspension on this Ford was designed for giants with iron asses.Tom was knocked so hard that his head almost hit the windshield.Another half a percent is a nice thing to do.In theory (he knew the well had been sold at least two hundred percent), Tom now owned ten percent.If there is oil there, he will own ten percent.His luck had been so bad for so long that it was time for a change.The car got stuck in a very nasty pothole.The engine stalled.Harrelson looked out at the road.He didn't try to restart the engine.Tom realized he had turned off the engine on purpose. "Damn it, damn it!" Tom knew he should answer, but he didn't speak.Harrelson waited a moment, then continued without Tom asking a question. "Oh shit, mate, I just realized I might be talking too fast. I just promised Ed Manninger I'm never giving away shares for free again. Of course, I don't care about that. but he made me write a written guarantee. I'm afraid the half-a-half percent I just gave you is legally invalid." silence. "I'm really sorry, Tom. I should have thought about it before I said it." silence. "But I'm telling the truth about tomorrow's dinner. Chicken. You'll get tired of eating pork and polenta." silence. Then: "How much?" That's what Tom asked. "Oh, you don't have to pay as much as those guys in Houston. I mean, you're so important to this whole business. That's why I regret yelling at you for a stupid oil well sinking." "How much?" "Just say two hundred—damn, no, never mind, never mind, one hundred and fifty. Thirty a week, five weeks. You've got to pay it all before we get the oil." "I can't live on fifteen dollars a week, Teach." "Hey, you don't have to. Didn't I treat you to a chicken dinner?" silence. In the closing darkness, a large gray bird fluttered heavily across the path in front of them.In the distance, they could hear a freight train with a thousand wheels rattling towards them through the night. "Ok." "Then thirty yuan a week, paid in five weeks." "I say fine." silence. "From now on, my friend. I can only put it on paper with the down payment. And I promised the boiler man a thirty-dollar advance on Monday." Tom hated himself as he took crumpled, greasy dollars out of his pocket.He divided them into two piles and handed the larger pile to Harrelson. The van was so close to them now that it sounded like a thunderous rumble. night. Allen lay on the ground with his face pressed against the ground.The ground was muddy, and he could feel the wet mud on his mouth and seep into his nose.Overhead the night sky was screaming in pain.The air was solidified by artillery fire, and bullets strafed the surrounding horizon. Allen crawled forward on his toes and elbows.In his right hand he held a pistol, which he was careful not to get muddy.His left hand touched something, and these things had a moist feeling that was different from other things.Allen knew what it was like: a head, an arm, a human body.He didn't want to look, but a flurry of German bullets passed over his head, and he caught a glimpse of some broken body parts, then quickly looked away, looking ahead. Tom is there.Just a hundred yards ahead of him. Tom, who is extremely brave, extremely impulsive, and extremely disobedient to the written orders of his superiors, is walking through the barbed wire. Doesn't he understand that he will never succeed?Allen wanted to rush forward to pull him back, but he knew that as long as he stood up, he would die.He kicked his legs and tried to crawl forward, but he found himself stuck in a muddy nightmare.He was shouting something, or he thought he was shouting, but the words were blocked by the mud in his mouth, or maybe the gunfire had deafened him. Ahead of him, Tom's figure stood up beyond the barbed wire.He is shooting.Single-handedly attack the German front.He's crazy.War drove him crazy.Just as Allen was watching, his figure fell down.Not suddenly, but slowly, slowly.It looked like he was falling into something.Allen stood up and ran to him. The voice was deafening. The sky is torn apart. ＊＊ He woke up. Lottie was awake, stroking his brow anxiously.As Ellen's eyes opened and came into focus, her gaze softened and her anxiety dissipated. "Sorry honey, am I yelling?" "yes." "Dream again." "I know." "I'm so sorry. Maybe I should sleep in my dressing room. The last thing a woman in your position needs is—" "My dear, please don't be so stupid." "I'm serious, you need all night—" "I need a husband who is not a fool." Lottie sat up on the bed, and straightened the pillow behind Allen so that he could sit up too. "Your dreams are getting more frequent, and the dreams are getting worse." "They didn't—" "Yes, there is, at least judging from the frequency of shouting." "But, those were just dreams. As soon as I woke up, I felt—" "Maybe, but I don't just love you in your waking hours. I've had enough of you ignoring this." Allen rubbed his eyes.The dream hadn't completely receded, and it was still lingering in his mind.A nameless terror, those terrible gunfire, death everywhere, Tom fell like a shadow to the ground.He looked around the room: the heavy curtains with their red tassels, Lottie's things gleaming silver on the dressing table, the pictures of the children, of Lottie with her parents, of Ellen and George in Persia.With two worlds vying for control, the world of day begins to gain the upper hand.But Allen knew that as soon as he fell asleep, the scramble would start again, and the war would return.He didn't tell Lottie, but he dreamed about the war every night now, only he didn't always wake up screaming. "It's not indifference, my dear," he said, "it's just that there's nothing to be done about it, that's all." "Probably not, but we haven't tried." Allen looked at her.Her skin was smooth and rosy from pregnancy, and the misty look in her eyes showed that part of her attention was always distracted elsewhere.He brushed a short auburn hair aside from her face and raised an eyebrow. "I have a doctor's name here," she said, "who studied with Dr. Freud in Vienna, but he wasn't pushy at all. A friend of mine met him and said he was very helpful and very kind." Understanding." "What's his name?" "Westfield. I think John. He has an infirmary in Harley Street." Allen nodded. "A doctor? A psychiatrist, I guess? I don't know, I really don't think—" "Honey, you're an idiot." "I'll go if I feel like there's going to be any real—" "Why are men so brave in some ways and so cowardly in others? If it doesn't work, just stop going." Allen swallowed.His white hair was stained to his scalp from the sweat of his dream.The idea made him uncomfortable, so he didn't want to go.If he's being perfectly honest, he'll admit that there are times, even during the day, when he feels unreasonably out of sorts.Even on the morning Reynolds happily broke into his house, Allen felt that way.For the most part, he was very happy to see Reynolds, and extremely excited about the progress Allen Soup was making in Persia, but he still had a strange sense of detachment, a weary lucidity about everything.To Reynolds, to Alan Tang, to Oil, even to Lottie. "Okay, you're right, I'm going to see him, but I'm also moving to the locker room to sleep. I don't want to bother you." "I will miss you." "I will miss you too." Lottie nodded.Allen kissed her, watched her lie down, and then gently walked to the single bed in the dressing room next door.He climbed into bed, turned off the light, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep. His mouth was covered with mud.Mouth is full of bitter fishy smell.He raised his eyes.Not far ahead, Tom was crawling towards the enemy camp with a clear purpose. Ten years wasted. Tom wasn't kidding himself.There are many ways to be successful.You can make money.You can create a business.If your career fails, you can always find love, start a family, and live contentedly. But Tom failed in every way and every field.He had watched the rise of the Allen Soup Oil Company in Persia and hated it.He read the stories of other people's success in America and hated them equally.No matter where he goes, he always sees happy families and loving couples, which also makes him hate it. For more than a decade after the war, Tom had accomplished nothing but failure. ＊＊ Back to that day in April 1922.Tom sat penniless on the steps of the Long Beach courthouse.He had two dollars, some change, and a cute little white dog.He felt desolate and miserable.Then came the voice: "Tom? Is that you?" That's Rebecca.She paid off her debts in Wyoming and moved west to Los Angeles.After paying off her debts, she started all over again, working as a typist in some Hollywood studios.She saw about Tom in the paper--the headline called "The Only Man Who Lost Everything at Signal Hill."She set off at once to find him. It was a shock to see her.She is still so familiar.Olive skin, thin, angular.Tom (despite all his previous suspicions) found her attractive, though not pretty.Until he looked into her eyes.They were unlike any woman Tom had ever known.The eyes were black, sensitive, and piercing, but without hostility.Tom recognized her eyes at once, as if he had seen them only yesterday. She had come as a friend, but when Tom bought her lunch for a good part of his two dollars and a half, they began to develop into lovers.Months passed.They lived together.They slept together.They are almost happy. But Tom found it nearly impossible to settle down.Just after he was one step away from becoming a millionaire, he was reduced to working as a low-level driller.He lived in a one-bed room, paid for by his whore lover, and his old brother was managing director of the youngest and most dynamic oil company in the world.The land on which he had drilled the well--Aunt Hershey's twenty-seven acres--had made the Faris brothers count-count-count-millionaires.Tom blamed himself endlessly for his bad luck.He is angry with the whole world and full of revenge.He loathed Rebecca's satisfaction.He loathes her. Tensions arise. He spends way too much money on idiotic oil speculation.He drinks outside.Occasionally (only occasionally) he slept with a woman other than Rebecca. So it's all over -- or it should be.But one evening in the spring of 1923, about a year after they met on the courthouse steps, Rebecca broke the news for him.She is pregnant.Shocked but conscientious, Tom begged her to marry him immediately, and he did so gracefully, even graciously.They were married quickly and quietly, and their baby — Mitchell — was born six months later. Mitchell was a sturdy little fellow with powerful lungs and the dark hair of his parents.Tom likes "Giant Mickey" very much, but his affection for his son can't make up for the tension between him and his son's mother.Tom always felt that there was still a difference between a forced union and a real union, so his fooling around with women became more and more frequent.Meanwhile, his job went from bad to worse.Throughout the business in California, Tom was known by the nickname "Twenty Seventy Acres," or simply "Twenty Seven."Every time he hears that name, he fights the person who said it.He used his fists, a wine bottle, and once even an iron rod.在十二个月的时间内，他被加利福尼亚标准石油公司解雇两次，联合石油公司解雇两次，壳牌公司和海湾公司各解雇一次。 这个不平静的家庭搬到了得克萨斯，希望汤姆能够远离他的名声，然后安定下来。绰号不再有人叫起，但汤姆仍然发现安定的生活是不可能的。他走到哪儿都能听到艾伦越来越成功的消息，这让他痛苦不堪。当艾伦在英国过着优越生活的时候，要他过一种充满简单得失的简单生活，这是不可能的。甚至连艾伦给公司取的名字——艾伦汤；艾伦和汤姆——在汤姆看来都像是刻意的污辱。他着迷般地关注艾伦汤公司的发展消息，而他所听到的一切又将他进一步推向愤怒和自我厌恶。 他离开了大公司，宁可给那些小人物干活。他拿的钱更少，浪费的却更多。每次失败都引发下一次尝试。每次尝试都直接导向下一次失败。 丽贝卡带着米切尔搬走了两次。第一次她只走了五个星期，第二次走了八个月。两次她都搬到一个农场主的寡妇那儿去住，汤姆在墨西哥湾沿岸地区的油田上工作的时候这个寡妇对丽贝卡很好。她住在那儿，帮帮老太太的忙，照顾着一天天长大的孩子。 两次，汤姆都在愤怒的坐立不安和从他那破碎的家庭中挽救出一些有价值的东西的希望之间犹豫不定。尤其是第二次，在那漫长的八个月时间里，他到处乱跑，找到工作，又丢掉工作，把资金投进最无聊甚至是欺骗性的石油计划。他开始过量酗酒，在走私酒吧里跟人打架，而他打架的对象都是拳头巨大的得克萨斯牛仔，他们的每一拳都不可小视。但这两次，汤姆最终都对他的自我毁灭感到厌恶。两次他都爬到丽贝卡那儿求她回来，保证改过自新，并恳求她再多点耐心。两次她都回心转意了。 但就在两个月前，随着汤姆的改过自新又一次泡汤，丽贝卡的耐心终于用完了。她又一次离开了他，这是“绝对的最后一次”。她想把米奇从他父亲身边拯救出来。她想让米奇为自己的父母感到骄傲，而不是感到羞耻。汤姆又是一个人了，痛苦而绝望。 十年被浪费的光阴。 ＊＊ 车子把汤姆丢在脏兮兮的院子里，喇叭嘟嘟地响了一声表示“再见”，然后正准备掉头开进夜色。然后，一种突然的冲动让汤姆跳到车前，迫使哈勒尔森停下车。 “天啊，朋友，你别那么跳出来，我差点撞上你了。” “一个问题。就一个问题，蒂奇。你答应给那锅炉工一些钱。你什么时候答应的？” “锅炉工？谁管呢？他什么也不是。你把这些事都交给我，我会——” “告诉我，什么时候？” “这没什么大不了，就是刚才。就是我下来给你和那帮工人发工资之前。” "How much?" “拜托，老兄！这算什么？你担心那锅炉工想分走我们的一部分利润？” “别再废话。” “天啊！他说要两百，但肯定拿不到这些。我们什么都还没谈妥。嘿——好好休息一晚上，明天见，好吗？” “好的，”汤姆空洞地回答。 汽车又嘟了一声，然后消失在夜色中。在汤姆身后，小屋里空空荡荡，而里面本该有一个很好的妻子和一个健康的睡着了的孩子。汤姆没有理由走进去。他没有理由去做任何事。 "Ok?" “嗯？”艾伦附和道，“你要检查我吗？” "right." “我该脱掉夹克吗？” “如果你喜欢的话。” “你不需要听听我的心什么的吗？” “需要，但不是用听诊器来听。”艾伦看上去很是困惑，韦斯特菲尔德加快步伐结束神秘，“这是你第一次看心理医生，我猜？” “我在战争期间见过一些神经科专家，但不像这样。” “你既有一点紧张又在想你是不是上当了？” “对，”艾伦笑了笑，开始放松。 “对，嗯，有时我自己也会这么想……我会检查你，或者这么说，我会请你检查你自己，你的心。我们所做的一切就是谈话。你会想，谈话能带来什么改变呢，这我无法明确地回答你。我只能告诉你，对我的一些病人来说，我们的小小谈话带来了彻底的改变。我希望你也能如此。” 艾伦点点头，“虽然如此，”他说，“我并不确定自己真的有问题。在我醒着的时候，我的状态极佳。我努力工作，我有个很棒的家庭，我的生活很快乐。” 韦斯特菲尔德在哈利街的医务所装修得就像一位上流人士的客厅。他让艾伦选择躺在躺椅上或是坐在扶手椅上。艾伦毫不犹豫地坐在了椅子上。从百叶窗外传来哈利街道上的车流声。 “还有呢？”韦斯特菲尔德说，“你非常快乐，有个很棒的家庭，可你却来看心理医生。” “还有……”艾伦叹气，“那些只是梦，但是——” 韦斯特菲尔德猛摇着头打断他，“不，不，不，别说'只是'，别说'只是'。我们相信——确切地说，弗洛伊德博士和他的追随者们相信——梦境可以反应出我们潜意识中的自我。自我比我们更强大，更自然，没有那么开化，但是更加激情。我是一个研究梦境的医生。请告诉我你的梦，但不要把它们描述成'只是'梦。” 艾伦深吸一口气，开始讲述。他讲到这些梦是什么时候开始的。霍乱，然后是疟疾。充满幻觉的夜晚。每日的谵妄。梦境就从那时开始，然后一直到现在，开始是偶然几次，现在是每夜都有。整个晚上，每个晚上。在他述说的时候，这种经历的强烈程度多多少少通过他的话语自我流露出来。他身体前倾，手指紧紧抓着椅子的扶手。 “在白天的时候，请告诉我，你有没有什么不适的感觉？耳鸣，战栗，害怕亮光或是突然的声响？” "No." “有没有你无法解释的紧张或是焦虑？” "No." “突然的兴奋？无端的愤怒？这一类的经历？” 艾伦犹豫了不到一秒钟的时间，然后说，“一点都没有。” “没有？你听上去并不确定。” “嗯……不是我能明确解释的。有时候我会有一种迟钝的感觉，原因我也不明白。这儿有一种疼痛的感觉。”艾伦指了指心脏部位。 “迟钝——或者说是悲伤？” 艾伦正准备说不是，这时他突然感到一阵与他试着描述的感觉相类似的情绪，只是更强烈一些。它确实像是悲伤。“对，可能是。我以前真的从来没有这样想过。” “确实……请继续，你正在跟我讲述你的梦境。” 艾伦又说了一些他的梦。它们以前仅仅是关于战争，现在却变成了汤姆。整个晚上，每个晚上。韦斯特菲尔德询问着艾伦跟汤姆的关系，在艾伦解释的时候他的浓眉越挑越高。 “在这些梦里，汤姆死了吗？” "I think so." “我问的不是这个问题。我问他死了没有。你有没有看到他死。” “我看到一阵枪弹。我看到他倒下去。” '你看到他死了吗？ " 艾伦沉思着。这是个奇怪的问题，但可能梦境医生的职业义务就是表现得很奇怪。随着他的沉思，答案慢慢浮进脑海，水晶般透明，就像是下降的照明弹突然放出的光亮。 “没有。很奇怪，他一个晚上差不多要死上百回，但我从来没亲眼看到他死……没有，不是的，他从来没死。在我的梦里，他总是垂死，而不是死掉。我不知道为什么，这没有道理。”艾伦坐回去。 韦斯特菲尔德猛点着头。他的头发是栗子色的，脸型很像松鼠的脸，一对浓眉在他的鼻子上方连成一线。他不停地点着脑袋时就像是哈利街玩具店出售的那种点头玩具。 "very good." “你能明白吗，医生？” “哦，是的。记住，你的潜意识是一种自然而幼稚的动物。一个被枪弹扫射的人一定会死，这种逻辑对它来说没有太大的意义。你的潜意识是在试着告诉你它不接受汤姆的死。现在不接受。可能自从汤姆失踪那天晚上以来没有一刻接受过。所以你才会做梦。” “所以我们必须让这个动物成长起来，接受现实。” “哦，不。” "No?" “远非这样。潜意识不会成长，但它会跟你对话，只要你容许。在梦里跟你对话，它总是这样的。” 艾伦摸了一下头发，然后用手抚摸着嘴巴的上面，就像从前他留着胡子时那样。他有多年没有这样做过了。这是个过去的动作，战争时期的动作。韦斯特菲尔德让他大吃一惊，但他很高兴。他不太说得出为什么，但一种孩子气的兴奋开始涌上心头。 他坐直身。 “医生？”他说，“我是……我是说，你……听着，我一直认为饱受弹震症之苦的人是最糟糕的情况。我手下的一些最优秀的士兵也都等了这种病，我自己也曾经有过非常严重的神经疲惫。但是如果你认为——” “不是弹震症，不是。” "you sure?" “听着，蒙塔古，我一见到一个像你这种岁数的人走进这间咨询室，我的第一反应就是弹震症。我几乎都已经认定了。在大战期间，我们的士兵被送进一种无法忍受的状态。从平实的、医学的角度来说：无法忍受。所以我才会问你有没有耳鸣、战栗、害怕大声。” “嗯，这些我都没有，谢天谢地。” “对，你是应该。” “应该……” “应该谢天谢地。如果一个人的意识已经被战争摧毁，那我或其他任何人都没有办法。一点办法都没有。有些时候我认为死去的那些人更加幸运。” 汤姆以前就经历过紧张的感觉。当他第一次踏上通往前线的泥泞的遮泥板时。当他第一次冒着敌军的炮火爬进无人地带时。当他和死去已久的朋友米奇·诺加德策划逃跑时。当他踏足埃利斯岛想要入境美国时。 但他从来没经历过这种感觉。他紧张到了极点。嘴里发干。两手冒汗。他刚把手在法兰绒裤子上擦干，它们马上又会变得汗渍渍。这是个周日的下午，按照得克萨斯南部的标准来说是个凉爽的下午，汤姆穿了件黑西装，还体面地戴着黑帽子，打着黑领带。 他往上走到农舍的门前。这是上个世纪繁荣时期留下来的较大的两层楼建筑，但白漆已经开始剥落，露出来的木板都已经风化易碎。 汤姆敲敲门。 一个女仆应了门，把他带进一间满是天鹅绒和蕾丝的客厅，让他坐在一张女性化的小沙发的边缘上煎熬着。他把帽子在两手间绞着，直到帽沿被扭得不成形状，帽顶被捏得软不塌塌。然后传来脚步声，门被打开了。 “啊！卡洛威先生！” 是那个老太太，农场主的寡妇，她在丈夫死了二十多年后仍然一身黑色。 “埃尔维克太太，下午好。”汤姆站起身，不自在的就像一个站在老板妻子面前的低级搬牛工。 “我想你是过来说服丽贝卡跟你一起回家的，”她用一种恶意的方式说出“家”这个词，这种方式暗示着汤姆称作“家”的地方是大多数体面人会称作粪坑的地方。 “对……不……不完全是。我想见见她。” “你应该提前打个电话。” “我是应该那么做。我很担心，也许……” “你担心她不想见你，这一点都不奇怪。” 埃尔维克太太像小鸟一样点着头，稍微环顾了一下屋内，好像是在检查汤姆有没有弄脏地毯或是偷走瓷器。“请在这儿等着。” 她出去了。 Half an hour passed.壁炉架上放着一个镀金的钟，汤姆靠数着嘀哒声来维持他那本就不多的镇定沉着。然后又传来一阵脚步声。汤姆站起来。脑袋一阵发晕。The door opened.是丽贝卡。 她穿着一件黑色的衣服，袖口和领口是白色的。这衣服使她看上去很严厉，而她进门时摘掉的金边眼镜则加深了这种感觉。 “贝卡！” “汤姆！你不该来的。”丽贝卡的声音并不是很冷酷，但是很低沉很谨慎，就像已经下定的决心。“我跟你说过不要来。”她仍站在那儿。 “我知道，亲爱的，我……”汤姆的声音低下去。他的妻子仍然站在那儿。她让他等了半个小时。挫败感已经在折磨着他，“我可以走。” “不，你已经来了，”丽贝卡坐下，但离他很远，一点都没有要跟他进行身体接触的意思，“很抱歉让你等了这么久。我有个客户。” “客户？” 这个词在这种环境下听起来很奇怪。汤姆惟一知道的丽贝卡的客户并不是埃尔维克太太所欢迎的那种。而且，丽贝卡那身让她看起来像是清教徒的打扮也不是能够吸引嫖客的那种。 她莞尔一笑，“不是那种。我以前帮我父亲记过帐。我父亲和他的一些朋友。我学习了一下美国的记帐方式，然后就登广告寻找客户。”她耸耸肩，就好像这是一种非常普通的才能。“我很惊讶地发现附近有这么多农场和其他行业的帐目全都是一团糟。能帮助他们是件很快乐的事。” 汤姆张大嘴看着她，想起八年前他在丽贝卡那空荡荡的公寓里发现的帐本。但他从来不知道她的记帐水平能够好到让她赖以为生。“我怎么一直都不知道？你从没说过。” “你从没问过，”她回答说，语气中带着几分严厉，“你觉得因为你想隐瞒你的过去，所以你也不能询问我的过去。我不想跟你说一些你不想听的事情。” 短暂而艰难的沉默。 "Sorry." 沉默又持续了片刻。 然后是：“也许你说的对，汤姆。也许你最好还是走吧。” 汤姆的帽子真是不该带进门。它在接下来半分钟内所遭受的蹂躏简直无法形容。汤姆在指间纽绞着它。它到达这间屋子的时候是一个崭新的帽子。它离开的时候将变成一个贬值的废品。 “听我说完，亲爱的。这次，我保证……见鬼，贝卡，我想你不会信得过我的保证。” “不太信得过。” “所以没有保证。” "OK." “我只是想告诉你我在哪儿，我在干什么。”