Chapter 19 Part VI Sections 79-83

"I just want to win this deal. Texas has more oil than we know what to do with, and the Italians want to buy a lot. This deal will put Norgard ahead." His nose was itching uncomfortably again, And he had to restrain himself from raising his hand to scratch. Rebecca still studied him with her eyes.Then she put her hands on his chest and massaged lovingly, one last stroke from his collarbone down between his legs. "Why don't you talk about it?" she said. "I mean, your past. It's in the past. Whatever the past is, it doesn't affect who you are now."

"No." She met his gaze, "I used to be a prostitute, you know. I was in debt. I watched my brother die of tuberculosis. I left my parents on another continent and I feared for their safety What the hell do you think you're going to scare me by saying it?" "It doesn't scare you. I just don't want to say it." "I think you're desperate to say it. I think your past burns inside of you every moment." "And I think you're wrong." "If you win that Italian deal, who cares? You know, it won't make a difference."

"It's going to make us a ton of money, and that's the difference." "I don't mean that. I mean, whatever it is that bothers you so much, it won't make a difference." "Nothing bothers me," cried Tom, knowing he wasn't telling the truth. "I'm not bothered at all." "Your past doesn't leave you. It's inside you. You can't escape it." "I'm not on the run. I'm just trying to win a deal, please." Rebecca looked annoyed.She finished her cigarette quickly and put it out. "Will you win?"

Tom nodded. "It's going very well. We've had a great sale. Now it's just a matter of making sure we get the best price." He didn't mention Marineri, the leak from Rome, the To his spies in the heart of Italy. Rebecca sat up and pushed her hair back around her head so hard that the skin on her forehead and around her ears was pulled taut.Then she put her hands down, shook her hair out, and lay back on the bed.She turned sideways and started teasing Tom's nipples with her tongue and mouth.When she bit him, she bit him so hard that he was right between pleasure and pain.

"It's in your heart," she said, "whatever it is, it's in your heart." "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Allen turned his head.His ability to remember people is not very good, but this face is not the kind that can be easily forgotten.It was red and black, with scars all over its face, almost certainly the result of an oil fire on some oil well long ago. "It's beautiful," Alan agreed, trying unsuccessfully to find the name of the face. "Smoking?" asked Oil Fire, holding out a cigarette case. "No, thanks."

A banquet is being held behind the two of them.The Italian Fuel Secretariat hosted the feast for the many foreign oilmen in the city.Allen was the most senior of the oilmen present, and rumors and intrigues swirled around him throughout the evening.The Italian oil contract called for a final bid within days, and Allen still hadn't decided what to offer. "Oil Fire" lit a cigarette for himself, imitating Allen's posture and leaning on the balcony.Before them Rome shone golden in the last light of night. "It's crazy," said the Italian, pointing his thumb at the ballroom behind him, "too crazy for me."

Allen smiled and agreed. "You speak good English. And you're an oilman. I guess that means you've been in America." "No, well, I'd love to go, that's the home of oil, isn't it?" "Well, I've had some success in Persia myself, but I see what you mean." The banquet was still so noisy, and Allen had no intention of going in.When the Italian lit another cigarette, Allen accepted one too.The two leisurely continued discussing the dinner, the guests, and the oil—the inevitable talk of oil. "Air," said Oil Fire, "the next big market for oil. Soon after Charles Lindbergh, passengers will pay to fly across the Atlantic. No, really! I believe it!"

Allen laughed and disagreed, but the Italian -- clearly passionate about aviation -- stuck to his guns. "So you must be very proud of Marshal Balbo," Allen said, referring to the latest public demonstration of Italian aerobatics. "Ten seaplanes, all the way from here to South America! And only six dead." "Bah! Six people! Is it worth it?" Allen laughed again, and changed the subject, "You seem to have a good relationship." "Oh no! I have some money. I like to entertain. I have some good friends." Allen nodded, seemingly uninterested, but in fact he had long noticed that Italian officials fawned on the "oil fire" like bees around nectar.

Ellen thought of Lottie.They had been to Rome shortly after their marriage.It was a time of ecstasy.But now, it seems unlikely that there will be such a two-person world.No matter how unreasonable he is, he just wants the old Lottie back.He didn't want her running the hospital -- much less changing clothes in those horrible surgery wards.He leaned against the wrought iron of the balcony railing, feeling the hard metal at his waist, the cold air against his face. "Oilfire" still spouts, lists his friends, and boasts of his connections. Allen listened with only half of his mind.In the room behind him, there was no doubt that government officials were being bribed, state secrets were being circulated, and private deals were being made.Allen shook his head to wake himself up.He still has work to do.

"I might need a little help making friends," Allen said carefully. "Ah, is it?" "Friends who ensured that Allen Soup's bid would be met with due consideration." "That's right, that's right." "But it needs to be done carefully. If word gets out, our chances are worthless." "Yeah, yeah, look, maybe I can help..." The night turned into late night.An arrangement is made.Money changes hands, promises abound. “Oil Fire”—Gianfranco Marineri, as his real name was called—was extremely helpful; extremely perceptive of Allen's needs.

By the time Allen went to bed that night, he felt satisfied that he had done all he could to ensure his success.He felt that he was almost certain to win. 5:30 p.m. Texas time.The day was September 19, 1932. In the offices of the Norgard Petroleum Company, the day is drawing to a close.But, today is not an ordinary day.Today is no ordinary day.Today, the Italian government will announce the results of the tender, and the entire company waits with bated breath. First, it's still a bureaucracy.The Italian government will make the announcement through their embassy in Washington.A little trouble with the telegraph system there suggested that everything would be delayed.Lyman Bader was on the phone all day, as if doing so would get the word out a little faster. At 5.31pm, though, his patience finally paid off.The telegraph began to rattle, and the magic letters began to pour out. Bud tore the telegram off the telegraph, took a quick glance, and ran. He runs fast, he runs wild.He ran to Tom's office, sliding like a child far out on the polished parquet floor, grabbing the wall at the corner to push himself faster.He bumped into a stenographer and almost knocked her over, but he put out his hands to catch her, and when she regained her balance, he kissed her hard on the surprised forehead before shooting again. He ran to Tom's office door and rushed in. "We got it, we got it!" he yelled. Tom saw what he meant at once.Joy and relaxation rushed through his body and mind like a flood. "We got the contract? We got it?" "Don't worry, friend, this shit is for you. I haven't read it yet." "But you're laughing," said Tom, trying in vain to catch the magic telegram. Bud snorted with delight. "Well," he admitted, "maybe I glanced. I just saw 'we're happy' a little bit." Tom went to catch the telegram again, and succeeded this time.Marineri told Tom that Allen Soup's bid would be three or four cents less than Shell's price, and Tom, just to be sure, offered six cents less.It's not too much of a surprise to win the contract, but it's still a nice way to end the day.Bud slammed the intercom button on Tom's desk for "champagne, wine, whiskey, cake, and a damn whole troupe of can-can dancers." He spun around the room, Alone, I was dazzled by happiness. Tom read the telegram intently, trying not to be influenced by him. It was 11.36pm UK time when Lyman Budd was prancing around Tom's office like a puppy. Allen held a dinner party at home that evening.The banquet is drawing to a close.The servants yawned secretly.The kitchen has fallen into silence.The street lamps on the asphalt outside the house were muddy in the rain.Most of the guests had gone back, taking their fur coats, their cars, and their chatter.The rest are saying goodbye.Everyone except Guy, who is still hanging around. "Aren't you tired?" Allen said, wishing his brother would leave. "Not tired tonight." "But you've been standing there for so long!" Guy is no longer an officer in the Royal Army.He has lost hope of further promotion.His next job might be to spend an extended period of time in a combat zone, perhaps East Africa or Northeast India.Guy hated this kind of work, so he made arrangements to find himself a high civilian post in the War Department. "I'm used to it," Guy said. "Billards?" "Okay, okay, maybe just one game, and then I really have to..." They went into the pool room with cigarettes and brandy, and Guy set the balls. "A penny for a shilling?" "Can't you play without money?" Allen's level is very average, but Gay is a good player.He generally plays for the money, and generally wins.There is a strong urgency in his playing for money, and this urgency is intolerable for Allen.Guy shrugged and flicked the ball all over the table.The glaring green countertop, the dimness around it, and the snapping balls all had an almost hypnotic effect.When Guy was done, he stood up and wiped the top of the club with chalk. "I'm sorry to drag you here. I know you're sleepy." "Yes, because we'll be very busy in the office tomorrow." He said it veiled.The Italian government should have announced the results of the tender today, but their embassy was closed before the telegraph problem could be fixed.They promised a message in the morning, and Allen—and the whole of Allen Soup Oil—waited with bated breath. "There's something I want to talk to you about." "yes?" Allen was surprised.He and Guy were not close, and never had been.He could hardly think of a time in the past ten years when his brother felt so desperate to talk to him. "I heard—well, I heard from my driver, if you must know—that he overheard a conversation that you were looking for... for Tom." Guy said Tom's name. A man like this was known to Allen but hardly at all to Guy himself. Allen was even more surprised.Suppressing a trace of his annoyance at the talkative servant, he said, "Your chauffeur is quite right. I'm looking for Tom." "Tom's dead. He's dead in France." Gay stared at his brother stiffly and said these words, then he bent down and hit three balls in quick succession, winning first with two elegant balls in a row Doubled the score and then scored a very difficult goal. Allen was even more annoyed. "Tom is alive. He is not dead. He was wounded and then captured. He stayed at the Hötterst prisoner-of-war camp near Düsseldorf until the end of the war. He left the camp in 1918 and returned to the to England." Guy licked his lips, which were dry again immediately after licking. "He's in England? How do you know?" "I didn't say he was in the UK. I said he came back here. Then he left for the US and has been living there under a different name. I know that because I found out." Something in what Allen said made Guy relax a little.He pointed out that it was Allen's turn.Allen hit a bad shot and set up an easy combo for Guy.Gay hit two balls and then a well-judged safety put Allen out of the scoring. "If he changes his name and lives in the United States, it seems to indicate that he is eager to disappear." "Yes, but this is two-sided, disappear." "What the hell do you mean?" "I mean if I had anything to do with it, he wouldn't be gone for much longer." "He's using a fake name and could live anywhere in the United States. It's not going to—" "I'll find him." "It's not easy." "I said I would find him." Allen suddenly realized that he was very angry.He never forgave Guy for recommending Tom for that mission that terrible night of war.He had always held in his mind that Guy was responsible for Tom's death; that he was indistinguishable from the murderer.Controlling his emotions, he said in a calmer voice, "I will have a list of people who entered the United States through Ellis Island at the relevant time in a moment. I have a good lead. I will find him." Guy nodded.It was Allen's turn to hit, but he bent down again and hit the ball all over the table.His movements are exceptionally easy.Despite his age, Guy was still a handsome man.The tux fit his shape and face, which was never the case with Allen.Allen ran a finger into his shirt collar, where a loose button rubbed against his neck. "Maybe it's best to let it be. He wants to go. If he wants to find you it's easy." "Come on, Guy! We're talking about Tom. Tom! You really think I'm not going to find him when I know he's alive?" "Whatever he might have done? Whatever made him hide?" "What the hell do you mean?" "Do you remember what I told you when you came to see me in the hospital in Amiens? The time I got shot in the leg?" Allen shrugged.He is very angry.He knew Guy would invent some stilted excuses for Tom's murder.At this time, he doesn't care. "I don't care at all," he said. "Do you remember where I was when I got shot?" "In the trenches, I remember you said. There was a battle going on, I remember." "Then how did I get shot in the leg?" There was a brief silence when Allen pondered this question.He then backed away, and as he backed off, his cue hit the lights hanging above the pool table.A huge brass lamp began to swing heavily on the table.Allen reached out to hold it steady, but, because he never took his eyes off Guy, he couldn't reach the lamp, which continued to swing. "how?" "I know why he disappeared. I wanted to tell you then." Allen found a chair and sat down without taking his eyes off Guy for a moment. "What?" he said again. "I was running back from the front that day. The Germans blew up the telephone exchanges, and our correspondents kept dying. The staff didn't know what was going on, so they sent me over there to have a look." Allen nodded.He knows all this. "While coming back, I bumped into Tom running from the other side. You and him just...you just found out..." "You just let me find him in bed with Lisette. You can tell the truth. It doesn't hurt me anymore. Not anymore." "The truth?" Guy smiled slightly. "The truth? That's fine, if you want to hear it. Tom shot me. He was mad at me—I can't say I blame him—but you and I Knows your goddamn twin as well. He has no scruples. Not at all. He yells at me, hits me, then shoots me. He puts his goddamn gun in my head because I hit him hand, that's why-" Alan listened, a cold anger building up in his heart, "It's not true, I don't believe you. He wouldn't do that. He's irascible, but he would never—" "You don't have to believe me," said Guy bitterly. "I know how you'll react when it comes to that bloody servant's son. Just wait a minute. My briefcase is in the living room." Guy goes out.Allen closed his eyes and wiped his face.After he closed his eyes, everything returned.Slippery chalky ground.Exploding shells.Pale green smoke.Alan realized that he had seen what Guy described in his dream.Not once, but hundreds of times.He had never been able to see the faces of these people clearly in his dreams, so he never understood its importance.Allen's new knowledge disgusted him. Guy came in again, a piece of paper in his hand. "There were witnesses. I took their names. You and your excellent detective skills will find them, I have no doubt. I think you will find them and confirm everything." Allen took the paper as if he was sleepwalking.He looked at the names blankly.Privates Hempliswaite, Jones and Callaher.Team and company details. "That's why Tom disappeared," Guy said. "He knew he was going to be court-martialed. He knew there was only one possible outcome for him. So I recommended him for that mission. Either way he Definitely. I think it would be better for everybody, including Tom himself, if he died a hero. There's nothing honorable about being put to death by the firing squad. I'm sorry, man, but that's the way it is." Time: 5:39 p.m. Texas time. There was a pause in Lyman Budd's yelling, and Tom could at last concentrate on reading the telegram. "To Mr. Thomas Calloway, following an invitation from the Fuels Secretariat under the Ministry of Industry and Foreign Trade..." Tom blinked.His eyes flicked across the telegram, trying to find the substance.here. "We are pleased to inform you that we fully accept your offer for lubrication products and hereby announce that..." Tom stopped, blinked, and looked again.Lubricating products?He forced himself to read every letter of the telegram.Nothing about oil.etc.No.wrong. "We appreciate your oil bid, but we can only reject it." Reject? Lyman Bud caught a glimpse of the boss's face.He fell silent.The world suddenly became very quiet. "bad news?" Tom didn't answer.Bud took the telegram and read it silently.The English above is terrible, but the meaning is clear. They lost. They lost contracts for the supply of gasoline, fuel oil, and kerosene, which accounted for more than ninety-nine percent of the value of the entire contract.They only won one paltry little contract: the supply of lubricants.The profits they make from the lubricants are not enough to cover their expenses in bidding. But that's not the worst. The worst part is this.The telegram said, "Norgaard Petroleum Company must work closely with the following oil supply company: Allen Towne Oil Company." It was there, in black and white.Tom lost.Allen won.This is the worst outcome in the whole world. Tom sat at the table like a statue.He knows the feeling.It was the most familiar feeling in his life.That's Alan.That was the Montague family.That's Signal Mountain.That was a failure.The only difference this time is that there is someone to blame. "That bastard," he whispered, "that bloody bastard." Time: 9.12am London time. Instead of going to the office, Allen went to the Italian embassy in London.A few bureaucratic moves delayed things for a while, but he eventually got valuable news from Rome. He won. He won contracts to supply oil, kerosene and fuel oil.This is a huge win. Allen Soup has been a significant oil producer for a long time, but relatively weak in terms of sales.This situation will change overnight.This contract will elevate Alan Tang to the ranks of the top international oil companies.The sales side of Allen Soup will be as strong as the production side.Much work remains to be done to consolidate this victory.Profits from this contract will be reinvested to complete the transformation of Allen Soup.But Allen isn't worried about the hard work.At this time, he didn't worry about anything. Standing beside Allen, George Reynolds glanced at the telegram, then stuffed it into his jacket pocket indifferently. "Oh?" Reynolds said impatiently. "Oh, buddy?" "Oh what, George?" Allen strolled out happily. "I said we'd win, right?" ＊＊ Later in the day, at 6.17pm London time.More aptly, it was bath time for the younger members of the family at a large white house in Chelsea. Polly splashed contentedly in the suds-laden water, while Lottie washed with all her strength and determination where she needed washing.Allen, who had just come home from get off work, stopped by the door.For a woman of Lottie's wealth and upbringing to take charge of the children's baths herself was a violation of social norms.But Lottie liked to do it, and if she liked to do it, she would do it. "dad!" Carefree, nearly three-year-old Polly smiled up at her father. "Hello, Paul!" He ruffles her hair and pretends to splash her with water.she screamed.He takes his hand away. "Come again, come again!" she cried.He pretended to splash her with water.she screamed. Allen smiled at his wife and said, "Hello." She smiled back, "Hello, honey." "Again!" cried Polly. "Just today, isn't it?" said Lottie. Allen nodded. "Huh?" Polly found a small piece of pumice and was trying to see if she could get it up her nose. "No, honey," said Lottie, taking the pumice stone and giving her a sponge in exchange. Alan finds himself trying to get Lottie's full attention, but realizes it's impossible.He waited a moment while Polly clamored for the toy. "We got it," he said, "and we won." "Oh great, good job." Polly's next game was to fill the sponge with water and squeeze it onto the floor.Lottie took the sponge and tried to turn Polly's interest on a model wooden tanker that George Reynolds had made for little Tommy some years before. "You don't sound very interested. This is the most important news for Allen Soup since we found oil." Lottie straightened up, "Really? Then how interested are you in what I value?" "Do you want to know how we won?" "I guess you're going to tell me." "We found out that a competitor had planted a spy in Rome." Lottie couldn't help being interested, "Don't tell me you also decided to plant spies to investigate them? This is not like you!" "No, at least not strictly speaking, I let them investigate me. I can take advantage of that." But this time, with Lottie busy taking care of Polly again, Ellen once again felt cheated by his wife's attention.At the same time, he also knew that her complaint was justified.When Lottie talked about the news about the hospital, Allen answered in the same extremely indifferent way at best. After a moment, Allen said, "This is big news for us, you know. I'm sorry I haven't been... I guess I was a little rude to you when you talked about the hospital." Lottie sat up again, "Yes, you are." "Sorry." "Is it the one that's sorry - but you'll continue to be rude, or the one that you've seen your mistakes - and learned to love the hospital I love?" Allen made a grimace, "It's more like the former one, maybe." To his surprise, Lottie leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, "It's progress either way, Mr. Savage. So tell me, how did you catch that spy? You Caught him sending out codes with a vanity mirror?" "not like this." Allen laughed.In fact, things are very simple. Allen knows the importance of this oil contract, so he has been very vigilant since he arrived in Rome.Allen had become suspicious as early as Marineri followed him onto the balcony.This suspicion was further confirmed when Marinelli knew everything about the American pilots, but failed to discover that Allen had referred to General Balbo as Marshal Balbo, fourteen seaplanes as ten, and five as missing. Six people died.Then, when Marineri—who claims to have never been to the United States—immediately understood what Allen meant by "worthless," all of Allen's remaining uncertainty evaporated. From that moment on, things became easier. Allen allowed himself to receive "help" from Marineri.He asked the Italian for his opinion on the offer.Marineri is happy when prices are two to three cents below Shell's.When he was four or five points down, he became very anxious.The Italian became extremely disturbed when Allen offered to lower the price by six cents.From his reaction it was easy to guess that his employers (whoever they were) were going to bid five or six cents less than Shell's price.So Allen told him he was going to pay three cents less, but in fact his bid was seven cents less. Even at this rather desperate price, Allen Soup has enough cheap oil to make a very high profit per barrel. "Daddy! Daddy!" Polly writhed annoyedly in the tub.She's the center of the universe, not oil, and she thinks it's time her dad gave her the adoration she so clearly deserved. "Now it's my turn to—" Ellen and Lottie looked at each other.Their differences haven't gone away, but something has changed.When Allen smiled, she smiled back, not only with her mouth but also with her eyes. "Daddy! Daddy!" Allen walked to the tub.Polly smiled broadly with delight.Worship is about to begin. "In the name of Allah, the Merciful and the Merciful..." They were in a small plane that was now caught in a strong crosswind that made the modern metal structure sway and sway with every gust of wind.Obviously, it is impossible to do Muslim head prostration in this situation, so the man next to Tom can only tap his head into his clenched fist, while his left hand runs along the prayer book on his knee. The words in the book moved. The plane shook again, and was in a state of weightlessness that made people feel suspended in the air. Tom leaned over and looked out the window.He saw the flat plastered roofs of the ancient city of Tehran.He saw the desert in the distance.He saw some gardens, which were strangely verdant and green, though they were surrounded by dust.He saw a railway, unfinished and unstarted, leading straight into nothingness.Rebecca wants him to face the past, doesn't she?Well, now he was doing it, though in a way she didn't know about—or, if she knew, she wouldn't approve of. The plane bumped again. The man next to Tom couldn't find where he was reading, and sat down again, "In the name of Allah . . . " God, Tom thought, is it that bad?Someone must have dropped a basket of limes in the back of the plane, because two dozen little green limes bounced down the center aisle, hitting passengers' legs, and two even slammed into the driver's seat through the open door. cabin. God!Tom is not religious at all.Any inclinations he had in this direction had been shattered by his war experience, but the plane journey would change something for him.Outside the window, a runway exposed to strong winds was approaching them at an alarming speed.There flashed by the window plastered houses, figures in robes, an ox cart, a sudden glimpse of telegraph wires howling in the cold wind - and then the plane landed, too fast and turbulent, but at last It was a landing, still a successful landing. Tom breathed out the breath he had been holding.For the first time in his life, he was in Persia, the country of his childhood dreams. The package arrived by courier from New York. Allen knew what was inside, and he tore the package open.Inside were thirty sheets of cheap letter paper glued together, each scrawled crookedly in Galston's nervous handwriting.Name.Contents and names: twenty-five entries per page, multiplied by thirty pages, a total of seven or eight hundred names.Each name: British male, place of entry at Ellis Island, date of entry in 1919 or 1920. Abbott, Abrams, Ackerley, Adams, Adkins, Ahshed...all the way to Arden, Yaxley, Yates, Young, Zimer. Next to each name, there are scrawled notes.Say next to the first name, "Abbott-James-88-1.6.19-Kansas City, Kansas-Magnificent." The first number represented what Galston said was the date of birth, although annoyingly it was only the year.Because most of the immigrants were in their twenties at the time, there were many names with a date of birth after 1893. The next three columns represent the date of entry, the destination in the United States, and the name of the disembarking vessel.Allen tried to think of a way to use the data, but couldn't.In Allen's view, Tom could have arrived at Ellis Island any time in 1919; he could have gone anywhere in the United States; and he could have arrived by any ship.While Galston had done a great job, Allen guessed the information was useless. Then only the name remains.Seven or eight hundred names, if you speculate, about fifty or more of them were born in 1893.If Tom had changed his date of birth for a year or two, there would have been more names.But Allen had better clues. self-esteem. Whatever happened between August 1916 and Tom's arrival in America in 1919, Allen could not believe that he would lose his self-respect.If Tom was still alive, Allen could be sure that his Christian name would still be Tom.It might be Timothy or Trevor or Terrence, but most likely the same old Tom.So is his last name.Cleary is Tom's last name.This is his father's last name.Alan couldn't imagine Tom becoming a Jones or a Smith or a Robinson: that would be too much like absconding. So Allen turned to column C.Cabot, Caffin, Kabir, Cairns, Calloway, Campbell... One of the names caught his attention: "Calloway - Thomas - 93 - 6.12.19 - New Haven, Connecticut City—Callaway." Allen stared at the paper.Near the top of that column there is a man born in 1893 whose given name is Thomas and whose surname begins with C. After a long pause, Allen checked the rest of the list.There are twelve names beginning with T and C.Of these, five had the Christian name Thomas.Of the five, only Tom Calloway was born in 1893. Hope began to grow eager and strong.He flipped back to Galston's scribbled notes to Calloway—and noticed that Galston had inadvertently copied his last name twice, once as the surname and once as the ship of the landing vessel. name.Allen's first reaction was disappointment.If Galston got that wrong, he probably got the last name wrong, and he probably got the date of birth wrong too.Maybe Allen should double-check all the T's and C's to make sure nothing goes wrong. Then a flash of inspiration came to his mind. that boat!Galston was right.Whoever Thomas Calloway was, it was a pseudonym, a name borrowed from his landing ship.This coincidence is too big.Allen found a Thomas, born in 1893, with a different last name beginning with a C.Allen stared at the paper, and kept staring. Sixteen years after losing his twin, Allen finally found him. It has been 13 years since Tom entered the United States, and it has been 8 years since he became a U.S. citizen.He respects the Stars and Stripes (very happily).He pays his taxes (very reluctantly).With the exception of the Eighteenth Amendment (the one outlawing the import, manufacture, and sale of alcohol), he has always followed the Constitution.He was a loyal American citizen in every sense of the word.A U.S. citizen and a Republican. Kings and monarchs disgusted him.The King of England once sent him to die.The Kaiser of Germany once tried to starve him to death.如果世界上所有的君王都在一夕之间变成普通人：擦鞋匠，石油钻井工人，旅行推销员，乞丐，那汤姆会非常开心的。 However. 一位国王身上总有一些东西会不由自主地威慑到他人。一位国王会让他头晕目眩，让他的心跳稍微加快，让他浑身局促不安。 汤姆也有这样的感觉。他现在就有这样的感觉。因为他正站在一位国王面前。 让平克顿侦探社去搜寻汤姆·卡洛威将是世界上最简单的事情。搜寻并找到。只是艾伦还没有这么做。正如他还没有把自己的发现告诉洛蒂一样。not yet. 他要先做另外一些事。 ＊＊ 车站里充斥着尖锐的汽笛声。白色蒸汽和黑色烟雾徘徊在房顶周围。鸽子尖叫着飞扑而下。 艾伦走上站台，走向一名铁路搬运工。那是个饱经风霜的矮壮男子，身上散发出烟草和煤炭的气息，但这给他带来一种说不上来的亲切感。艾伦立刻认出那是个曾经加入英国军队并在法国苦战过的人。 “乔治·亨普利斯维特？”艾伦说，“我想找一位——” “就是我，亨普利斯维特。” 搬运工有所保留地说出答案，就好像人们一般应该掏钱才能拥有知道的特权。艾伦突然感到一阵紧张。他带着盖伊给他的那些名字去过陆军部。陆军部确认了盖伊所给出的团队和连队编制。很不幸，卡拉赫已经在1918年的德军大进攻中牺牲，但亨普利斯维特和琼斯还活得好好的，而且艾伦不费什么劲就查出了他们的下落。今天他来找亨普利斯维特，第二天他会去找琼斯。 “嗯，先生？” “早上好，亨普利斯维特，我的名字叫艾伦·蒙塔古，我来是想问你一个问题，这个问题牵扯到1916年发生在战壕里的一起事件。你可以毫无保留地告诉我一切。这件事不牵扯到任何官方调查或质询。这纯粹是个私人问题，我所希望的就是你能够诚实地回答我的问题。” “好的，先生。”亨普利斯维特的声音立刻变得泰然自若、绝不提供任何情况——这是任何一个二等兵在被任何一名军官问及敏感问题时的说话方式。艾伦立刻认出这种熟悉的步兵抵制态度，但仍继续说了下去。 “这起事件是在1916年8月发生的。它牵扯到两个人。蒙塔古少校和克瑞里先生。你知道我指的是谁吗？” 亨普利斯维特掉头看着地面，扯了一下嘴角。 “我再一次向你保证你所说的话不会用于任何官方目的。我说过，这是私人事件，没别的。” 亨普利斯维特暗自掂量着风险，但眼里没有透露出任何情绪。 “而且，如果你的答案对我有所帮助的话，你将会得到五英镑。” 亨普利斯维特咧开嘴，“克瑞里先生，”他说，“汉普郡燧发枪团的中尉是吧？他不就是跟矮子哈德威克和博比·斯廷森一起玩完的那个可怜的家伙吗？对德国机枪哨位发动的愚蠢到家的突袭。” “正是——”听到汤姆的名字在这种情境下被提起，艾伦心头涌上一种强烈的情绪。——“还有当时的蒙塔古少校，他是我哥哥。现在我想知道的是你有没有看到什么……什么不同寻常的事发生在他们两个身上。” “也许我看到了，先生，那得看你是什么意思。” “亨普利斯维特，我知道他们可能有过争执，甚至可能还开过枪。我再强调一下，这跟军事法庭无关。你跟我说的任何话都不会外传。” 亨普利斯维特点点头，掂量着艾伦的话，看看能不能找出不利于自己的地方，结果没能找出。他清了清嗓子，“嗯，先生，是这样的，那天德国鬼子对我们发起了进攻。我正准备把我的刘易斯枪架上战壕，因为原本呆在那个哨位上的乔治·戴维斯，有一个弹片刚好扎进他的屁眼——对不起，先生，可弹片就扎在那儿，外面露着两英寸，里面扎着四英寸——他四处乱蹦，结果他的枪整个被泥给堵上了。那儿还有其他两个家伙，琼斯和卡拉赫，我想——已经有阵子了，先生，所以我也说不准——正在铲着战壕里的土。我想，他们都喊它摄政大街，虽然那其实只是一条战壕。不管怎样，他们正在铲着土，那儿的胸墙被一颗炸弹炸塌了——” “是吗？”艾伦知道他应该顺着亨普利斯维特的话往下听，因为那样的话他更有可能得出真相，可他几乎按捺不住自己的不耐烦。但是，他很感谢亨普利斯维特那惊人的记忆力和意识流般的回忆。 “先生，总之，这个时候，蒙塔古少校，应该是你哥哥，他沿着战壕跑过来。电话线全都被炸得稀巴烂，先生，请原谅我的用辞，而且那一天不停地有通信员牺牲。该死的齐射式攻击，所以战壕里才变得这么一团糟。不管怎么说，上头肯定也都急得团团转。所以少校才会跑到那儿，很有可能。” “对，对，我知道。” 一辆火车开到他们身边，带着嘶嘶的蒸汽和刹车的哀鸣，然后就是车门和人群的嘈杂声。艾伦想换个安静点的地方，但亨普利斯维特就像脚底生根一样站着不动。 “确实，先生，没错，”他说，无视着身边的火车，“嗯，你哥哥，他差点撞上了克瑞里先生。我自己并没有认出那名中尉，不过约翰尼·琼斯老早就认识克瑞里，是个好人，他总这么说，那次任务真是该死的遗憾，如果你问我的话——去的总是好人，先生，没有不敬的意思——他说那绝对是克瑞里，他对天发誓。他们吵得很厉害。你哥哥和克瑞里，我是说。我不知道是为了什么，当时不停地有炮弹落下来，而且我那该死的刘易斯枪还卡在护墙上了，墙上伸出来的那些见鬼的钉子，清楚得就像昨天才发生一样。当时我还在想，保不准我还没来得及把那该死的枪搞定，就会有颗炮弹在我身后爆炸。” “不管怎样，我站在那儿试着把枪弄下来，但也顺便看了看他们会不会吵得很凶，这时，见鬼——原谅我，先生——克瑞里抽出他的枪，对着蒙塔古少校开了一枪——就是你哥哥，先生——砰，射在腿上。在我看来他原本想把子弹射到别的什么地方。”亨普利斯维特轻轻拍拍了额头中间，“就这些。克瑞里跑向前线，蒙塔古嘴里大喊着该死的谋杀，往另外一个方向走去……” 亨普利斯维特用他那种无法效仿的方式说完故事。艾伦越来越震惊地听他说完。当然，他还会去找约翰·琼斯，但他已经确定，那个人只会确认亨普利斯维特描述中的主要情况。汤姆打了盖伊一枪。冷血地。在没有任何挑衅的情况下。盖伊没有对汤姆动手。他甚至都没有碰自己的枪，更别说拨枪了。 那天晚上，艾伦坐在回去的火车上想着汤姆·克瑞里/卡洛威，他曾经形影不离的双胞胎。这个人，他现在对从前的另一半是如此的漠不关心，他在美国住了十五年都没有费心——一次都没有——发给艾伦一个消息告诉他自己还活得好好的。这个人，他能够对双胞胎的哥哥开枪。这个人，他的阴暗已经盖过了他的光芒。 艾伦感到无尽的哀伤。他觉得一段远古的友谊好像已经化为乌有。取而代之的只有失落。 凉亭里没有椅子，只有地毯和坐垫。波斯王四肢伸开坐在二十多只坐垫上，坐垫是用丝绸和丝绒做的，上面的绣花精美绝伦，珠宝闪闪发光。留给汤姆的坐垫也很多，但他不敢把腿伸出，而且他也不知道怎么样才能坐得要么舒服要么威严。波斯王傲慢地看着汤姆，看出了他的不自在，但毫不关心。他身材高大强壮，充满军人气概，比他周围大多数的随从都要高出整整半个头，甚至是一个头。 “卡洛威？”波斯王说。他旁边的口译员毫无意义地重复了一遍。 "Yes, Your Majesty." “诺加德石油公司？”波斯王说到这些陌生的音节时口音非常浓厚，汤姆几乎无法听懂。 "Yes, Your Majesty." 波斯王哼了一声，吸着他有而汤姆没有的冰冻果子露。虽然波斯王态度傲慢，但他以前其实只是波斯哥萨克旅的一名普通军官。他先是升为了上校，然后，他在1921年带领了一支三千人的部队进入德黑兰。他逮捕了一些政要，委任了自己的首相，然后，等了适当的时间之后，他加冕成为波斯王，这是全世界最古老的君主制。他强硬、坚定而果断。汤姆想，如果换一种生活，他会成为相当不错的石油商。 “好吧？”波斯王很不客气地说，“你想要什么？” 汤姆听说过很多东方的礼仪。如果你想告诉你的对手，他是个下等贱人的名声恶臭的儿子，你很想刮下他的舌头，除非他把欠你的两个Kran和一个Abassi还给你——那首先你得颂扬他的先祖，称赞他的好客。如果你是来恭维一位国王的话，那真是天助你也…… “陛下，我们在美国经常听说你们王国的美丽和你们土地的富饶，尤其是石油，那……”汤姆的天花乱坠提前嘎然而止。他擦了一下额头，觉得很不自在。他从前学过的波斯课程都被忘到了脑后的某个地方。他没法找到想用的词。不管怎么说，艾伦一直是天生的语言学家。汤姆只是个发音不清、说着英语、全部美国化的石油商。 波斯王又哼了一声，看上去很不耐烦。 汤姆又重试了一次：这次是美国版本。“陛下，我们很希望能够在此钻探石油。我们认为还能找到很多很多石油。我们会快速钻井，快速输送，快速出售。我们会为您的国库做出大笔贡献。” “我们的用地权已经出售了。” "Yes, Your Majesty." “你知道。” "Yes, Your Majesty." “卖给英国波斯公司和另一家公司。艾伦汤。” “确实，先生。” “那你为什么还来？” 汤姆看着波斯王，希望能够找出他有可能打算违背协议的迹象。没有这种迹象。一阵山风吹起帐篷的一角。汤姆瞥见一片丝绸和一只女子的脚。他希望能够走出帐篷。他希望能够见见那个女子的脸，冲她微笑，对她调情。在逐渐现代化的波斯，女子都摘去了面纱。男子穿着长袍时会带着软呢帽。一种不顾一切控制了汤姆。 “陛下，艾伦汤公司付给您的并不够多。他们这是在抢劫——把您当傻子耍，可以这么说。您拥有一些很好的油田，先生，我们诺加德公司会为开采石油给足价钱。” 这番演讲的翻译工作有些困难。汤姆得先把“抢劫”和“当傻子耍”这些术语翻成更常用一点的英语，口译员才能明白他的意思。口译员们结结巴巴地翻译时，波斯王的脸色沉得就像天边的雷雨。 然后他们翻译完了。帐篷里出现了片刻的寂静。山泉沿着大理石水道汨汨流下，穿过凉亭，流向后面的花园。汤姆不知道自己是会因为冒犯而受到鞭笞还是会因为诚实而得到感谢。从什么地方传来女子的笑声，但很快就停住了。小鸟在后面的山上鸣唱。 然后，沉默终于被打破了。波斯王再次开口。他说的话非常简短，不需要太多的翻译。只有两个字。 “多少？” 艾伦到家的时候已经是午夜时分。他的司机弗格森九点半的时候在曼彻斯特火车站接到他，但艾伦不想直接回家。他先去了俱乐部，然后就开着车一条街一条街地逛着。等到弗格森把他在前门放下时，早已是深夜了。 "Good night, sir." “晚安，弗格森。很抱歉让你弄到这么晚。” “没关系，先生。晚安。” 艾伦拿出钥匙，转向屋门。弗格森坐回司机座，正启动引擎准备离去。艾伦突然灵光一闪，又匆匆跑回劳斯莱斯旁边。他敲着窗户。 "gentlemen?" “听着，弗格森，你不会刚好知道怎么冲可可吧？” “可可，先生？” “对，蒙塔古夫人喜欢喝这玩意儿，可我一点都不知道该怎么冲。我只是不想吵醒厨房的人。” “好的，当然，先生。我很乐意……” 几分钟后，他们来到楼下。艾伦对自己的厨房简直陌生得无药可救。他不知道牛奶在哪儿，可可粉在哪儿，煤炭在哪儿。弗格森依次找到每样东西，然后开始热一锅牛奶。