Chapter 18 Part VI Sections 74-78

It's all about "deceitful liars" And "Lies and Sinners" "R Ascal and Slick" "Extrusion and Fraud" "Exploitation and bribery" Then "take them and leave with you". Excerpted from "Well-Known Oil Companies" E. Prulibus Orlen June 1932.The Great Crash brought about the Great Depression.Reserve prices fell.Prices are weak.Dictatorships are powerful and democrats fearful. Meanwhile, the oil industry has gotten tricky.This is nothing new.It has always been that way, and it always will be.That's why the oil industry is interesting.

＊＊ "Hello, George? What have you brought me today?" "Good morning, man... Hey, hey, my God, I'm not as young as I used to be." George Reynolds entered, sinking gratefully into a chair.At the age of 63 this year, he is almost ready to leave the desert and the mountains and stay in the UK forever.His stake in the Allen Township Oil Company made him a wealthy man.He doesn't care much about money, but Ellen is happy to see him retire comfortably. "My God, is there a thing called tea in this wretched country?" he asked. Allen grinned and ordered a cup of tea for each of them through the intercom on the table. "It's just in cups and trays," he apologized. "No Russian teapots. No hookahs. No sherbet."

"Uncivilized savage civilization. Next time you could tell me you didn't kill a sheep for me." Allen's smile didn't fade, but the warmth from Reynolds reminded him of last night's dinner.He and Lottie spent a long time with Guy and Dorothy.Their conversation was awkward and cold.Guy drank so much that for most of the evening Lottie and Alan were forced to talk to each other as if the master wasn't there.By the time the last horrid morsel of the meal had finally been forcibly swallowed, Alan and Lottie were finally able to say their goodbyes, and Guy sent his brother to the door.

"I guess I should tell you that Dorothy is going to leave me. We'll get a divorce first, and then she'll go back to America. Stupidest thing. Marry her, I mean. I apologize for tonight. You must be disgusted." .me too." On the way back, Ellen and Lottie discussed in whispers in the car whether a bad marriage was better than no marriage at all.Now, after seeing Reynolds, Allen realizes that married status isn't the most important thing: the person is.A good man like Reynolds has peace of mind in any circumstance.And with someone as flawed as Guy...peace seemed far from him in any case.

"Listen now," Reynolds said, pulling a long telegram from his pocket, "I think this is good news. Mussolini broke up his oil contract with Shell and wants another A company that is 'dedicated to strengthening the fascist transformation of the Italian state,' whatever that means. Clearly, it shows that Mussolini is tired of being at the mercy of Shell, and now he wants to work with a company small enough to be Dealing with companies at his mercy." Allen paused.For a moment the world seemed to stand still.There was a second or two of complete silence. "The Italian government canceled its deal with Shell?" he said dreamily.

"right." "Are they looking for new suppliers?" "right." "They found us?" "Yes. There are other companies." Allen began to breathe; he had been holding it since Reynolds mentioned the telegram.His breathing was rough, as though his lungs were still ravaged by war. He was extremely excited and slightly surprised.Allen Township's crude oil production is huge, originally mainly from Persia, but now also increasingly from Iraq.It refines as much of its own crude as it can, but even so its refineries are struggling.But refining isn't the weakness, selling is.British Persia, Shell, Mobil - they all have huge global sales networks.Allen Soup Oil tried hard to sell oil, but ended up selling it at a discount.Signing a big deal with the Italian would mark a huge breakthrough in the company's short history.

"Gasoline?" he asked. "Yes, but not just this." "What else?" "Everything. Like, 'Petroleum distillate with high octane content that may be suitable for flying non-commercial aircraft,'" Reynolds quoted again from the cable before handing it to his boss. "I Guess they mean they want us to fuel their dirty military planes." "We'll tell him to look elsewhere for jet fuel. He's welcome to buy gas, but I'm not going to help him fly his bomber." But Alan's hand trembled with eagerness as it reached out to answer the telegram.He watched it over and over, getting more and more excited, and then he looked up.Fire danced in his pale eyes.His hand unconsciously clenched into a fist, crumpling the telegram into a ball.He tapped his hand lightly on the table.

"We've got to win this contract, George," he said. Tom wore thick leather boots and a pair of goggles.They stood outside under the sweet maple, for it was stuffy and oppressive in the refinery's small office.A greasy breeze blew through the trees. "See now?" said the young assayer. "This is going to be sold as gasoline. It shouldn't burn unless we raise the temperature another forty or fifty degrees." A tray of fuel sits on top of the furnace, next to which an industrial metal thermometer measures the temperature.In the back, the pipes and cooling towers of this dilapidated little refinery rise up to the pristine sky.

"You may have to stand back, Mr. Calloway. I don't want—" too late. The plate of fuel ignited, flames and smoke leapt up.The young assayer knew what was coming, but he was taken aback nonetheless.He jumped back, tripped over a table leg, and fell to the floor, bringing down the table and the fuel pan.Burning gasoline splashed on his legs and mixed with dust and pine needles on his pants.The flames began to rise upwards.There was shouting and screaming all around, though in the chaos it was hard to tell who was shouting, let alone what they were shouting about.Two pimple-ridden lab assistants began to slap the burning leg feebly.

Tom was faster than them, not only faster, but better. He took off his jacket and jumped towards the screaming assayer.There was a pimple kid in the way, and Tom pushed him aside like a herd horse shrugging off a novice, then wrapped the leg in his coat and held it tight until the flames were smothered.Cowardly at his awkwardness in front of the boss, the assayer pulled his legs away and muttered thanks under his breath. Tom ignored his thanks and the leg.Gasoline flames have a nasty habit of re-igniting as soon as they are given oxygen.Tom helped the assayer to a bucket of water and dipped him in.The man tried to crawl out, but Tom held him back. "You stay in there until we get a doctor. Understand?"

"Understood, sir. Thank you, sir. Sorry, sir." "Can you take your pants off?" "Yes, sir." "Then take off your pants." The man complied.His leg was burned, but not seriously.He will be fine. Tom turned to find the company's chief operating officer looking at him, laughing so hard that he couldn't straighten up. "Checked out the quality of the fuel, huh? Maybe we should put this in the ad, 'Burn through the pants, but spare the owner.' What do you think?" Tom spat. "Any news, Lyman?" Lyman Bader, the company's chief operating officer, waved a telegram. "Great news, my friend—to say the least, if I'm not getting the damn thing wrong, it's good news." Tom named his company the Norgard Oil Company in honor of his friends from the POW camp.It's quite an homage. The Norgard Petroleum Company has developed rapidly and has a large scale. They dug wells of various yields and Tom would go down as one of the richest men in history.The great black field—no other name fits it—stretches from Upsher County in the north to the northeast corner of Cherokee County in the south.The field is forty-five miles long and five to twelve miles wide: more than 140,000 acres of golden liquids.Of course, the 21,000 acres that Tom leased were not entirely on the oil fields.A lot of his land is too far east, no matter how many wells are drilled, every one is a waste well.But the larger portion was as sweet and rich as a Rockefeller daydream—fifteen thousand acres, stretching all the way to Overton and beyond, with oil under every inch, beautiful oil. His dream has come true. Not only true.better than real.True to true. But Tom is more mature than he was at Signal Hill.Mature and wiser.He remembers Mitch Norgard telling him in prison, "It's not enough to find the oil, Tom, it's all about turning it into dollars." Tom owns a large piece of land, but he still has to be careful, because one mistake can lose everything. The important thing is to come first.He hired a team of lawyers to settle various claims against Harrelson.He settled these claims as quickly as possible, quickly and generously.By the time the dust settled, he had undisputed title to all fifteen thousand acres of producing oil and owed (including a million to Harrelson) about three million. Three million in debt, and he has nothing in his pocket. Tom doesn't care. Anyway, anyway, he got the money.It's very simple.He owns 15,000 acres of the richest land in the world, and the bank is eager to lend him a loan.Rebecca took care of the accounts and Tom took care of the rest.He erected the rig like sowing corn.Within a few months, his production exceeded 50,000 barrels a day.Fifty thousand barrels and the corresponding income. Meanwhile, the world around me went crazy.What used to be farming towns have all become low-level boomtowns on a scale that even Signal Mountain can't match.Farmers became pimps, cattlemen became wildcat drillers.Corn is rotting in the fields because no one has time to harvest the crops. But Norgard's warning echoed in Tom's ears—Norgard's warning and Tom's own experience. One day, when oil prices were still firm and the oil mania was still rising, Tom yelled a pause. "Pause?" Rebecca asked in surprise. "Our money can still dig nine more wells. When I arrange the next loan, I can dig more." Tom bent down and kissed her beautiful forehead. "Pause, no more wells. We should start selling." "For sale?" Rebecca frowned. "Are you kidding me, I guess?" He smiled at her.The way she talks sometimes sounds like an immigrant who has just arrived by boat.Part of it was her accent, which hadn't changed in all the years Tom had known her.Partly because of her English, she has always had a weird use of formal and sometimes archaic language. He bent his knees and whispered, "Think about Wyoming." "Wyoming?...Ah!" There was a sudden realization in her eyes, "Then when do you want to sell it?" she whispered. "Tomorrow, we start tomorrow." He did. He sold quietly and quickly.He sells land.He sells leases.He sells rigs.He sold out. He sold out at a time when the market was still strong, when people were still thinking about getting the oil out of the ground as quickly as possible.He sold it for a good price.In fact, because the oil mania was still so strong, he sold it for crazy prices. But the oil tide continued to flood.When it gets too flooded, the market starts to crash.In 1926, Tom remembered, a barrel of crude oil in West Texas cost a whopping $1.85.Four years later, when he dug up the giant black field, the price was still around a dollar a barrel.By the middle of the next year, the market was so saturated that the price dropped to fifteen, six, and sometimes two cents a barrel.In Wyoming, oil prices plummeted because there was no way to get oil from the wells to the market.In Texas, the price of oil plummeted because there was more oil than the world could use up. "What's the next step?" Rebecca's question is simple.Tom's answer was equally blunt. "We bought, of course." Tom didn't spend his life in the oil business trying to sell it all when the price dropped.So after selling, he bought it immediately.He buys refineries.He buys pipelines.He buys manufacturers of drilling equipment.He buys gas stations. In fact, by this time, mid-1932, the Norgard Oil Company was investing heavily in all aspects of the oil business, the only thing it wasn't doing was making oil.At the same time, because the oil producers are losing ground, they pump the oil out of the ground at an average cost of 80 cents a barrel and sell it for an average of 15 cents a barrel.With Rebecca's strong support, Tom is making money fast. ＊＊ Tom slapped the pine needles off his trousers.To be honest, not wearing a coat in this weather is a relief.He went deeper into the shade to read the telegram.It was exactly the same telegram as Allen had seen, in the same awkward English. "Considering the incompetence of the previous contractor (Shell Oil Company), the Fuel Secretariat under the Ministry of Industry and Foreign Trade invites tenders for a new contractor..." Lyman Bader watched Tom read the telegram quietly, and then spat tobacco juice on the ground, "Do you think all Italians are like this?" Tom shrugged. "Should we care?" The telegram literally fell from the sky.It was the answer to the prayers of an oilman -- especially one with East Texas oil flooding his doorstep.Tom was so excited his hands were shaking with eagerness. "Hey, there's no way they're doing that. This gang is a bunch of kittens if that's what they've been doing all along. 'Flying non-commercial planes' - oh my!" Around the time Tom started selling drilling rigs, he met Lyman Budd, who was wandering around Houston as a hired driller.After a night of drinking together, their friendship became strong again, and Tom offered and Bud accepted the chief operating officer job at Norgard Oil. Tom sat on the ground and pointed to the teapot-shaped refinery he had recently bought for two hundred dollars from its bankrupt owner. "Do you think we can fix her?" he asked. "We can fix anything," Bud, "but I don't see the need for it." Tom nodded. "Well, tear it down or burn it. Whichever is cheaper." Bud grunted in agreement.The local refining industry had a glut of equipment—and much of it was of low quality, like the pile of junk in front of them—so it became profitable to buy equipment just to keep it closed. "Italian," Bud said, "how do we do it?" Tom watched it over and over, getting more and more excited, and then he looked up.Fire danced in his dark blue eyes.His hand unconsciously clenched into a fist, crumpling the telegram into a ball.He tapped his left hand lightly with his right hand. "We have to win this contract, Lehmann," he said. Allen didn't give up.He has not forgotten. He hired an American detective agency called Pinkerton and asked them to search the continental United States in search of his lost brother.So far, they have not gained anything, but there is not a day when Allen does not think about it, although he has never thought that the two may be reunited after so many years. One day the news came. It came by cable from New York at breakfast time. "Tell target to find more details and follow. Pinkerton".Allen's face flushed with excitement. "Tom!" he cried, "at last!" and he pushed the telegram off the table in front of Lottie. "I've found him!" Lottie looked up after reading the telegram, "My dear, congratulations! Such good news!" Allen had already stood up and rang the bell, "Yes, that's right, isn't it? I'll go right away." "This is the past? Where are you going?" "Huh? To New York, of course. I'll take the next boat." A servant came in, and Allen told him to pack a piece of luggage and book a ticket for the next boat bound for New York.Lottie waited quietly while Ellen spoke.The servant is out. "Dear?" If Allen was alert, he should be able to hear the warning tone.But he didn't. "Ok?" "Did you forget something?" "Oh, my God, yes! I better tell Reynolds where I'm going. He's busy with the Italian oil contract." Lottie's voice tightened. "There's a fundraiser at the hospital tomorrow night. There's Tommy's birthday party in two days. Our Tommy." The meaning of the warning was obvious, but Alan still didn't listen.Since Lottie's hospital was fully completed, his worst fears had come true.She spent less and less time with her family; more and more time in the hospital.This change made Alan feel very uncomfortable.It was one thing for a young, unmarried Lottie to care for the seriously wounded in a time of national crisis; quite another for a wife and mother to do the same in peacetime London.He does not like the smell of war and suffering.He did not like the thought of Lottie in the ward.He tried to be polite, but it turned out that no one could be fooled. "Oh..." Alan's tone was contemptuous, "A fundraiser again? Really? I'm sure you can handle it. I'll bring Tommy some presents from America." "Or you could wait a few more days. You haven't even spoken to the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Wouldn't it be more appropriate—" The restaurant door was opened again.It was Ellen's valet who had brought the timetable for the ferry from Southampton.Allen scanned it quickly. "If I set off now, I should be able to catch the Caroline. I'll be in New York in no time." "Honey, you have a life here too. I really need you at my fundraiser, you know that. And little Tommy—" Allen didn't listen, "I'm sorry, honey, I have to go now. I'll call you from the pier if I have time." "Alan!" But it's too late. Ellen had gone, leaving Lottie sitting at the table, pale with rage.He felt guilty afterwards.Guilty enough to hastily write her a letter at Southampton and post it before sailing.So guilty that he bought Tommy a silly little gift and sent it back with the letter. But he was not guilty enough to delay his departure.Not so guilty as to overshadow his excitement at the prospect of finally finding Tom... ＊＊ Seven days later. Allen came to New York in a long journey, and there were still traces of sea water on his coat.Pinkerton Detective Senior Detective Peter Oswald smiles at his guest. "It can be seen that you are not wasting any time," he said. "No, of course not," Allen said. "This news is too important." Oswald touched an old scar on the bridge of his nose, "I think you mean the telegram we sent you." "right." "Well, actually, that telegram shouldn't have been sent, strictly speaking." "You didn't find him?" Allen felt a gray and cold disappointment, like a big wave on the Atlantic Ocean. "No, that's not it, we found Tom Cleary for you, that's right, it's just..." "Ok?" "Well, we did a good job. It's pretty good. We didn't just find one Tom Cleary. We found six." "Six?!" Pinkerton Detective Agency really did go too far.They found an unemployed and destitute Tom Cleary in a shed near Albuquerque.They found Tom Cleary, a wealthy apple farmer in Washington state.They found Tom Cleary, father and son, who ran a modest shrimping business in North Carolina.Just the other day they found two more Tom Clearys, one in Chicago and the other a Canadian, now working in Portland, Oregon, in the manufacture of illegal documents. "Will any of them be...? Will any of them be my Tom Cleary?" Oswald touched the scar again. "So they shouldn't have sent that telegram. The only one who matches the birth and upbringing details you gave was that Cleary shrimper in North Carolina, that young guy, that son." Allen nodded.He has heard the meaning behind the words.He said in a hollow voice, "I get it, but that can't be who I'm looking for because..." The detective nodded, "Yes, we sent someone to investigate. His father is fine. We found out that it was a true father-son relationship." "Is it possible that your people are mistaken? Don't you need to send someone over there? Check it out?" "It's not necessary at all. We sent our best people over there, and this is a normal investigation for us. Sorry." Allen nodded.He had spent more than fifty-five thousand dollars with the Pinkerton detective agency so far.They advertise.They check the phone book.They check electoral registers and police records.They've run through the oil industry from Canada to Mexico.Sometimes it was as if they had passed all of America through a fine sieve—even so, to no avail. Allen was utterly devastated.He thought of home and Lottie.He hurt her, hurt his son, and what did he get in return?Nothing in return.Again he saw Tom's image melt into shadows before him.He wondered if he would ever see Tom again in this lifetime. He said in a hollow voice, "So there's nothing left to do? Nothing at all?" Oswald shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I have to say there's nothing I can do. Unless..." Allen looked up abruptly. "Huh? Unless?" "Should be somewhere along the road," Budd said as his DeSoto's front right wheel slammed into a pothole and seemed to take a long time to make up his mind to climb again. come out. "Man, I'm glad we're driving your car!" said Tom. "Yeah, but the company's going to pay - hell! - fees, including - my God, can you see that rock? - money for a damn new hanging." "Two new axles are needed, I must say, but I never see any expenditures for that in the company booklet." "Ah!" Bud bellowed his hatred for this dusty Oklahoma trail trying to disguise itself as a highway.The Wichita Mountains loomed in front of them as black rolling hills.A breeze rustled through the dry grass. "Who the hell would drill a well in a place like this?" They drove in silence, the only sound being the violent bumping of the car and Bud's swearing under his breath.Tom sat thinking of Rebecca.He has now become a real family man.He likes to visit his oil factory, but otherwise, he likes to stay at home.Stay home with her.Who ever thought he would become like this?The prodigal son turned back.The thought made him smile slightly. The trail finally flattened out and the road conditions improved. "Going all the way to meet a lousy Italian!" Bud said. "Are you sure he speaks Italian?" "No, friend, his name seems to be Marineri, he speaks Swedish, and eats... I don't know, whatever the hell they eat in Sweden. Venison. "And he's solid, isn't he?" "I told you, he's not your average Italian. He's the most skilful driller I've ever seen." "Lyman, please! I don't want him to refill my well, I just want to know if he will play me for a fool." They came to a fork with no signs on either side.Bud slammed on the brakes angrily and grabbed the map from the backseat. "He's honest, I told you." "Okay, this is very important." Bud spat out the car window, then reached for a pack of cigarettes.A thick layer of off-white dust fell on his head, face and shoulders.Right where he picked up the cigarette case, a black mark was left on the dashboard. "Okay, buddy, I'll tell you how I know he's being honest. In exchange, maybe you can tell me why you suddenly need an Italian." He lit his cigarette, then tossed the match through the window into the dust . "Back in 1925, we were digging a newly invented electric well in Oklahoma. No boilers. No steam. Just electricity. We hated this thing. I mean, it was unlucky. It looked It doesn't look right, it doesn't sound right. The well is owned by some stupid New York consortium, they probably read it from a book. There was a gas spill at 3,000 feet. We gotta put the blowout Fitting in place, and moving fast. We were a little freaked out, but all went well. Then the engine slipped. It was hot. Sparks came out. Big blue sparks crackling in the air. We looked like idiots Sparks. And then - bang! - at the worst possible moment, the gas all came out. It was spectacular. Oil, mud, water, gas. I've seen oil wells blow up before, but this one was nothing short of sensational ’” He spat. “Should still use steam. Bang-boom-and-down-hell.” "Well," Tom snorted, reaching for Bud's cigarette, "but Marinelli survived, didn't he? I don't need a pile of Italian-speaking charcoal." "Yeah, he's all right. He was on fire and I ran back and dragged him out. Don't know why, I did that anyway. That's how I know he's honest. He owes me his life. These Catholics A disciple will always remember this kind of thing.” "Very well," said Tom, with a dark gleam in his eyes, "you saved his life, and he remembers." "right." Bud continued to wrestle with the map angrily, but Tom patted him on the shoulder and pointed.Farther down the valley, towering among the stunted oaks is definitely the shape of a wooden oil rig. "That must be Marinelli, over there." "You haven't told me why you wanted an Italian," Bud said, starting the car. "I have a job for him to do." "What kind of job?" But Tom shook his head.He won't say any more, not yet. But one thing he knew: Not many companies could meet the demands of that Italian contract.Among the competitors, Norgaard Petroleum Company is in the leading position.So is Allen Soup Oil.Tom and Alan go head-to-head.Tom and Alan vying for supremacy. Tom smiled again, only this time it wasn't a warm smile.That smile was cruel, cruel even.If it's a game, he has to win. Ellis Island. Maybe now they've cleaned it up.Maybe now they've gone to the North Atlantic to borrow a gust of sea wind and let it howl through the halls and walls and corridors of the old immigration building until the whole place is as bright as if it's been washed by sea water and sea salt, until all the smells of the past are gone. Clear forever. Maybe. More likely not.More likely the air of the place still smells of hope and tension; poverty and aspirations; old oppressions that have been abolished; the stench of pork sausages, hard biscuits and black European tobacco. Allen walked stiffly down the corridor, feeling out of place and embarrassed.He still remembered his argument with Lottie, and he almost felt he had to find Tom to prove her wrong.He finally found the right door: it read "James F. Galston, Immigration Archivist."Allen raised his hand and knocked on the door. Galston was a sly little man with piercing eyes and a nervous mouth. "Yes, of course, come in. Do you mind closing the door? No, don't worry about it. On second thought, forget it... No, it's better to close it, I think. Yes, close it. That's it. Yes, very good .” Galston's office was a cardboard cabin with a small window with an iron sash.The window frames were corroded so badly by the sea wind that the glass rattled whenever it was windy outside. "Would you like coffee? I can have Miss Jennings in the lobby bring you some—" "No thanks, I'm fine." "Hey, sit. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Sit! I don't want you standing." Allen pulled the dilapidated little folding chair by his side and removed some documents on it.The chair was covered in a damp, sticky substance that belonged to the ocean.Allen sat down.In fact, Galston's staccato speech calmed him down, and he became less hasty and more methodical. "Maybe I should tell you why I'm here," he said smoothly. "You know, I got your name from a detective named—" "Oswald, yes. Peter Oswald. Of course. Pinkerton Detective Agency, yes. Lots of work for them. If I could. Help them. A bunch of good guys." "Yes, I spoke to Peter Oswald. I'm looking for a man whose English name is Tom Cleary. I believe he came to Ellis Island, around the end of 1918, More likely sometime in 1919. Picton Detective Agency was not able to locate him based on his real name, so we think he must have changed his name, and most likely while entering the US. Now I wonder It's—" "Yes, yes, I understand, common thing. Look up. British man, eh? 1918 entry, maybe 1919, add 20 years too. Don't want to be too restrictive. Unless you can be sure .Yes. I mean, for sure. Is there a DOB?" "what?" "DOB?" "I do not--" "Hey, sorry, shouldn't have said that. DOB, date of birth, technical vocabulary. It's used here a lot. Do you have it, DOB?" "Date of birth?" Allen couldn't help chuckling.Date of birth is easy.It's always been simple. August 23, 1893.It was his own date of birth; his and Tom's; the unusual twins at Whitcomb Park.Allen told Galston the date in the same calm tone as before. "Ok, ok, good. We have a date of birth. British male. Pseudonym. Time of entry, but vague, but at least a bit. It's going to be a lot of inquiries, yes, a lot of inquiries. Did Oswald Mentioned...? I mean, like...that's a huge query." Galston's nervousness had become high.He found a broken matchstick in the rubbish on the desk, and fiddled with something brown between his front teeth, fiddling nervously with his other hand at the leg of his trousers.He looked like a frightened starling.Allen looked at him in amazement for a second or two.Maybe taking bribes is a culture and they are better at dealing with it in Persia than in America.Allen covered his grin with his hands and said, "I understand this goes beyond the call of duty. Of course, I will reward you well for your efforts." "Yes, yes, thanks. That's a good statement. You're very forthright." "How much money do you think is appropriate for this case?" Galston's heartbeat accelerated slightly, entering a slow nine hundred minutes.He ground the matchstick hard until part of it broke in the gum, but his right hand was too busy fiddling with his trousers to care about the splinters in his mouth.Sweat was dripping from his brow, although the room wasn't even warm enough. Then Alan's gaze moved upwards, and he saw it.Just behind Galston's shaky shoulders.Through the little window that rattled the sash.Just beyond the wide waters where the bitter Hudson meets the frigid Atlantic.The Statue of Liberty, holding the torch high, looks at Europe, promising a new future and new hope. All of a sudden, Alan realizes that Tom saw this too.He didn't know what caused Tom to leave Europe.He didn't know why Tom had changed his name, changed his nationality, avoided his most sincere friend who had been and probably would remain.Allen just knew that Tom had passed through this port, knew that he had seen this scene, and knew that he had put this promise of freedom in his heart. "Five hundred dollars should probably be enough," his voice was distant, his focus still on the scene outside the window. "Five hundred? Five hundred...five...do you want...?" Allen smiled slightly.In Galston's way of speaking, that meant absolute agreement—and not surprising, since Alan probably paid more than five times more. But he doesn't care.He didn't even look at Galston, he was completely mesmerized by the magnificent statue of the goddess.At that moment, he knew for the first time, and was 100 percent sure, that Tom was alive and that he, Alan, was going to find him. Bud got kicked on the sole of his boot.He blinked awake and saw Tom and Marineri, who had become good friends, smiling down at him. "Hey, guys!" He swiped the ants away from his pant leg with his hat, "Did you fix something?" 马里奈里咧开嘴。他的脸上满是疤痕。任何一个搞石油的人都会马上认出那是被一场石油大火给烧的。他的白牙在他红黑交错的脸上显得很怪异，很不协调。“不，不，不是什么事，我们搞定了所有事。 汤姆正站在德索托车旁，从后座拂着灰色的俄克拉荷马尘土。“我们该走了，莱曼。我们得顺便去趟吉安弗朗科那儿。” “你要跟我们一起回去？”莱曼惊讶地说。让一个人这么快就答应放弃工作、家庭和家人，就算按照汤姆的标准，这也够快的。 “不，不，不跟着你们。不是一路都跟着。只到铁路。” “铁－－路——？”莱曼模仿着马里奈里的发音，“铁路？你们哪个能告诉我这是怎么回事？” 马里奈里又大笑起来，转头看着汤姆，汤姆点点头。 “我要去度假，”他说，“去罗马。我住在一家大饭店里。我举办一些盛大的宴会。我交一些朋友。” 巴德已经完全糊涂了。他看着汤姆，对他的老板捉弄他的方式有点生气。“你找一个意大利人就是为了让他去度假？” 汤姆笑道，“在意大利，莱曼，一位好朋友就是一位健谈的朋友。对吧，吉安弗朗科？” 就在那一刻，巴德第一次明白了他的老板在做什么。他的老板是个天才。他可能是个阴险的混蛋，但绝对是个天才。 跟这样一个人来投标意大利合同，他们几乎是赢定了。 “我确定蒙塔古夫人说她在西侧等你，先生，”护士长说，“也许她指的是截肢病房。” 护士长快步走着，寻找洛蒂。艾伦跟在后面。 洛蒂的医院已经全面运行。曾经被抛弃的工厂大楼现在一片忙碌。这儿散发出干净床单和医用酒精的气味，还有从泰晤士河吹进来的新鲜空气的气息。 艾伦追在护士长后面看了一间又一间病房。大多数病房都是留给参加过大战的退伍军人：那些曾经满足过英国军队无止境征兵需求的脸色苍白的孩子们。他们之中有些人在战争时期被截肢了，现在正准备安装假肢。还有另一些人在治疗眼睛、耳朵、肺部和喉部受到的创伤。还有患上弹震症的幸存者，他们的痛苦得到了认真的治疗，这对有些人来说还是第一次。十多年前英国军队已经尽最大能力照顾了这些人，但这种需求是无尽的，而军队的医疗预算不是无尽的。 “也许还是应该在东侧，”护士长说。 艾伦慢慢地跟在后面。她又错了。洛蒂不在东侧，不在西侧，也不是两侧之间的任何一个病房里。当他们最终找到她时，她正在一间藏在北面的肺部病房里。 “原来你在这儿！”护士长说。 她的口气有一丝牵强。艾伦看了她一眼，刚好看到两个女人脸上闪过的神情。艾伦明白了。这个捉迷藏的游戏是事先早就安排好的。这是洛蒂为了确保让艾伦——终于能够——第一次好好地看看她的医院。 “真对不起，”护士长走了之后，洛蒂说，“我说的绝对是北面。很清楚，我敢肯定。” “这我很确定，”他的口吻中带着一丝讽刺。 洛蒂瞪着他，然后从他身边挤进一间写着“亚麻制品”的小屋。屋里满是木头架子，上面堆满了医院的各种亚麻制品：床单，枕套，围裙，手术服，帽子，衣物，绷带。洛蒂把自己的围裙叠好，放到一边。艾伦靠在架子上，闻着干净衣物发出的浆味。洛蒂转过身，但没有离开小屋。当她开口时，声音里带着警告的意味。 “你以前从没看过这家医院。我们已经全面运行了五个月，可你从来没有好好看过。” 他张开嘴，“我一直——” “当然，你一直都很忙。我也是。这儿每个人都是。世界上每个人都是。但你还是可以来一趟。” “对……嗯，它看上去很有效率。确实让人印象深刻。”艾伦摆弄着从上方垂下来的一条围裙的白带子。 “哦，别像个言不由衷的笨蛋！” "what?!" “如果你不喜欢它，你就应该说出来，而不是像某些让人厌恶的市政视察官那样说话。” “嗯，我当然很喜欢它。我——” “真的吗？”洛蒂火了，“那你为什么从来不过来看看？好好看看，我是说。为什么等你真的来了，你又用那种方式说话？“ “嗯，可能我是不喜欢它！”艾伦喊道，“也许我是不喜欢！这家医院非常好，可这些天我从来见不着你的面儿。你总是忙。总是奔到这儿奔到那儿。有时我觉得你好像已经完全离开了家。” “我离开了，是吗？我？你有你的石油业，你的国外行程，你对一个十五年不见的兄弟的没完没了的担忧，而我是离开的那个，是吗？” 洛蒂把手放到头上。她仍然戴着她巡视病房时喜欢戴的白色护士帽。她用力把帽子拽下来，无意中扯下了一根发卡，一缕赤褐色的长发披了下来，离她的肩膀大概一两英寸距离。她愤怒地把它挥开。这个动作让艾伦想起了他十一年半前爱上的那个女孩。 “对不起，”他说。 "why?" “因为刚才的叫喊。我并不——” “哦，拜托！有那么一会儿我还以为你要说出什么有理智的话呢。” 艾伦的怒火又烧了起来。他张开嘴，但她挥手让他闭嘴。 “我对你的叫喊一点都不在乎，”她截住他的话头，“我介意的是这几个月你的不叫喊。如果你对什么事感到烦燥，你就应该说出来。” “嗯，我想我是的，”他说，突然看到了一丝光亮，突然希望也许洛蒂正打算妥协，“我是说你一直都忙得不可开交。我当然很尊重你在这儿的工作，但是——” “没有但是。如果你尊重它，那就接受它。我不会放弃。我要在这儿工作，绝不放弃。” 艾伦咽了口口水，“这是你的最终决定？” “当然是。是时候你接受这个事实了：你在战争时期爱上的那个女人正是现在忙于这家医院的那个女人。” “很多事都已经改变了。” “真的吗？是吗？看看那儿。”洛蒂抬手指着小屋外面的世界。“战争对那些人来说还没有结束。甚至对你来说也没有结束。你的那些梦。你觉得自己必须追逐可怜的汤姆·克瑞里的幻影。想知道你为什么憎恨我的医院吗？” “我不憎恨它。” “原因就是你仍然深陷在战争之中。你没有逃脱。而且你也无法逃脱，除非你承认这一点。” 汤姆从丽贝卡身上滚到一边。他气喘吁吁，大汗淋漓。她仍然半闭着眼睛，胳膊搂着他裸露的后背。丽贝卡让他全然出乎意料的一点就是她在做爱中享受到的极大快乐。汤姆从来没有见过哪个女人像她这样全身心地投入。他几乎有点忌妒她的这种极度快乐。 他摸索着烟。现在，卧室是他惟一的抽烟场所，虽然丽贝卡并不经常抽烟，但欢爱之后对她来说也同样是个例外。他给两人都点上烟。 她睁开眼，撑起身子。她的头发在枕头上形成一个黑色而且乱成一团的光环。她的胸部毫不妞怩地露在被单外面。她拿过烟，但没有马上就抽。她凝视着她的爱人，然后抬起头又一次性感地吻在他的双唇上，她的手紧紧环在他的脖子后面。她又一次满足地叹口气，然后倒回床上。 十年前在加利福尼亚的时候，在他们最初几个星期的做爱过程中，汤姆总是坚定地拒绝询问丽贝卡关于她以前床上搭档的事。但他从来无法忘掉这一想法。她跟上百个男人上过床，甚至有可能是上千个。这种想法折磨着他。当他和她做爱时，他会像个杂技演员一样翻云覆雨，希望她能告诉他他是最棒的，没有人像他这样做爱。她没有说过这种话。他们的欢爱对汤姆来说开始变得痛苦，而丽贝卡满足的表情看上去则僵硬而死板。 然后汤姆终于忍无可忍了。他直接地问了她。她很愤怒。“做爱？做爱？我没跟任何人做过爱。在那些年里。一次都没有。那是性交。我会收钱。我甚至想不起来有哪个夜晚对我来说具有什么意义。”她告诉他不要再把性当作某种卧室体操，而他也慢慢地平静下来。他们的欢爱比以前要好，但从来没有真正达到高潮，直到他们在埃尔维克太太的那间小屋里度过那些美好的夜晚。从那以后，欢爱就一直很美妙。有时很快，有时很慢，有时激情，有时温柔，有时充满了如此之多的欢笑，以至于他们从床上摔了下去，并无可救药地躺在地上哈哈大笑。 他们沉默地抽着烟。丽贝卡看着汤姆。汤姆想着工作和那份萦绕在他心头的意大利合同。巴德的人——马里奈里——已经在罗马定居下来。汤姆给了他足够的钱让他住在一家高级饭店里，举办奢侈的宴会，而且他已经结交了工业和对外贸易部以及燃料秘书处的好朋友。马里奈里已经挖掘出大部分有关艾伦汤石油公司预定竞标价格的细节。汤姆现在正全神贯注地想着如何更进一步。 对任何投标来说，具有全部决定性的因素就是出价。所有石油商都知道他们得低于前任承包商壳牌石油公司的价格。问题是，低多少？汤姆估计大多数美国竞争者出的价都会比壳牌的价格低两到三分钱。价值百万的问题（而且，事实上，这个问题的价值远远多于这么多钱）就是艾伦汤公司会出价多少。这个问题让汤姆紧张。虽然他一只手搭在丽贝卡的肩后，但他心不在焉，他的触碰也很生硬。 “你是头坏透了的死猪，”丽贝卡沉思地说，“我想我永远都不应该再跟你睡觉。” "what?" “你在想着工作。” “工作？” “别否认，不然我会咬你一口。” “我刚才是在想着工作。你说的对。” "I know." "How do you know?" “一切，关于你的一切。比方说——”她用食指和中指夹着香烟递到嘴边。她的姿势稍微有些变化，变得更像男人，她刻意地模仿着丈夫，但她的嘴角仍然因为欢爱而松驰，眼神也很柔和。“如果你这么抽烟，那表示你仍然在回味着做爱。”她把姿势摆了片刻给汤姆看，然后就换了一个姿势。她坐得更直一些。她的眼睛眯起，眼神锐利。她用拇指和食指拿着烟，另外三个手指则弯起。她深深地吸了一口，然后以一种快速而打发的姿势弹了弹烟灰。“如果你这么抽烟，那表示你在想着工作，而且是工作不顺利的时候。” 汤姆笑了起来。他在妻子的眼里总是透明的。“对，我们在意大利有一桩大买卖。如果拿到手，会值很多钱。”他挠着鼻子。 丽贝卡突然更加专心地看着他。她的身上也散去了欢爱后那种朦胧的余韵。“还有其他事。工作，还有其他事。这不仅仅是钱的问题，是吧？” “嘿，拜托！这——” “你挠了你的鼻子。这是你的逃避动作。比如说，每次只要我问起你在英国的过去，你就会这么做。你会给我一个什么也没说的答案，然后你会挠挠鼻子，换个话题。”