Chapter 10 chapter eight

1 I went back to my house in Rue Catina, walked slowly up the stairs, and stopped at the first staircase to rest.The old women were still sitting on the floor outside the toilet door gossiping as usual, carrying fate in the wrinkles of their faces as others carried it in the palms of their hands.None of them made a sound as I walked by. I thought to myself, if I knew their language, they would tell me something about what happened when I was in that Foreign Legion hospital on the road to Xinyuan.In the watchtower or somewhere in the field, I lost the key, but I had sent a message to Feng Er, and she must have received it, if she had stayed here.This "what if" just shows how uncertain I am.I haven't heard from her in the hospital, but she has trouble writing French and I don't know Vietnamese.I knocked on the door and it swung open: everything looked exactly as before.I looked at her carefully, she asked me how I was, touched my splinted leg again, and brought her shoulder to let me lean on it, as if a person could lean on such a delicate little tree very safely. Like a sapling.I said, "I'm happy to be home."

She told me she missed me, and that was, of course, what I wanted to hear: she always told me what I wanted to hear, like a coolie answering your questions, unless there was an accident.And at this time I was waiting for that unexpected thing to happen. "How do you spend your days?" I asked. "Oh, I used to go see my sister. She got a job with the Americans." "She got a job, didn't she? Did Pyle help?" "It's not Pyle, it's Joe." "Who is Joe?" "You know him. It's the Economic Commissioner." "Oh, that Joe, of course I know him."

He is a man you will never forget.To this day, I can't say what he was like, except that he was fat, and his powdered, clean-shaven face, and his big laugh, and besides, I Can't remember anything--except they called him Joe.There are people in the world whose names are always shortened. With Feng'er's support, I lay down on the bed. "Have you seen any movies?" I asked. "There's a very funny film showing at the Catina Grande." Then she told me the details of the film, and I looked around the room for one of those white envelopes. Because that could be a telegram.Since I didn't ask, I believe she may have forgotten to tell me.The telegram might have been sitting on the desk next to the typewriter, or on the wardrobe, or maybe, just to be on the safe side, in the drawer of the little cabinet where she kept so many kerchiefs.

"The postmaster—I think he was the postmaster, but maybe he was the mayor—followed them home. He borrowed a ladder from the baker and climbed into Corinne's window, but, you see, Corinne had followed François to the next room, and he had not heard Madame Bompierre coming.As soon as she came in, she saw him climbing on top of the ladder, and thought..." "Who is Madame Bompierre?" I asked, turning my head to look at the wash-basin where she sometimes puts the reminder note between the perfume bottles. "I told you, it's Corinne's mother. She's looking for a husband, because she's a widow..."

She sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand inside my shirt. "The film is hilarious," she said. "Kiss me, Feng'er." She is not good at flirting.At this time, she immediately did as I asked and continued to tell her movie story.Like this, she'd pull off her pants as soon as I asked, and make love to me without asking.When the matter was over, she resumed the story of Mrs. Bompierre and the embarrassment of the postmaster. "Is there a telegram for me?" "Have" "Why don't you give it to me?" "You can't just work. You have to lie down and get some rest."

"It might not be my job this time." She brought me the telegram, which I found open.The telegram was as follows: "Please send 400 words of background information, talking about the impact on the military and political situation after Delater's departure." "Not bad," I said. "It's work. How did you know? Did you open this telegram?" "I thought it was your wife. I hope it's good news." "Who translated for you?" "I took it to my sister to see." "If it's bad news, will you leave me, Feng'er?"

She ran her hand over my chest and wanted me to believe that she didn't realize that what I wanted this time was for her to say a word, however untrue it might be. "Would you like to have a smoke? You have a letter too. I think it may be from her." "Have you taken it apart and looked at it?" "I will not open your letter. The telegram is public. The clerk of the telegraph office has read it." The letter was placed among the many hoods.She carefully took it out and put it next to the bed.I recognize the handwriting on the envelope. "If this was bad news, would you...?" I knew full well it would be nothing but bad news.

A telegram can mean a moment of generosity: a letter can only be an explanation, an excuse... So I stopped in the middle of the question, because it would be dishonest to ask her to make a promise that could not be kept. "What are you afraid of?" Feng'er asked me.I said to myself, "I'm afraid of loneliness. I'm afraid of press clubs and sit-up rooms. I'm afraid of Pyle." "Make me a brandy soda," I said.I read the beginning of the letter, "Dear Thomas," and the end, "Your dear Helen," and waited for the brandy. "Did she write it?"

"Yes." Before reading this letter, I began to think about whether I should lie to Feng'er after reading the letter, or tell her the whole truth. dear thomas, I am not surprised to hear from you and know that you are not alone there.You're not one to live alone for long, are you?You get a woman as much as your clothes get dust.Perhaps I would have felt more sympathy with your case, if I had not felt that you would find comfort easily upon your return to London. I don't think you'll believe me, but the reason I hesitated to telegraph you with a simple "no" was because I thought of that poor girl.We are always more affected than you are.

I took a sip of brandy.What I didn't realize was that the trauma between men and women was exposed in this way after so many years.I was careless - I didn't choose my words well - and I caused Helen's wound to bleed again.Who can blame her for digging my scars to get revenge?When we are unhappy, we inevitably hurt others. "Is it bad news?" Feng'er asked. "A little harsh," I said. "But she has the right to..." I read on. I always thought you loved Annie more than you loved the rest of us, until you packed up and went. Now, you seem to be planning to lose another woman, because I can see from your letter that you don't really expect a "satisfactory" answer. "I've done my best" - is that what you think?What would you do if I telegraphed you saying "yes"?Are you really going to marry her? (I had to write "she" - you didn't tell me her name.) Maybe you will.I suppose, like the rest of us, you are getting old and don't like living alone.I myself sometimes feel lonely.I guess Annie has found another partner.It is finally time for you to leave her behind.

She can accurately find dry scars.I took another sip of brandy.A bloody question——this sentence suddenly came to my mind. "Let me burn a bag of cigarettes for you," Feng'er said. "Anything goes," I said, "anything goes." That's one reason why I should say "no". (We don't need to talk about religious reasons, because you still don't understand and don't believe that.) Marriage doesn't stop you from leaving a woman, does it?It just slows the process down a bit.If you've lived with this girl as long as I have, it's even more unfair to her.You're going to bring her back to England, and leave her here as a stranger without relatives.How cruelly abandoned she will feel when you leave her.I think she doesn't even eat with a knife and fork, does she?I speak harshly because I have her interests first, not mine. But my dear Thomas, I also have your interests in mind. I feel bad all over.I haven't heard from my wife for a long time.I forced her to write this letter.I can feel her pain in every line.Her pain hit mine: we were back in our old routine of hurting each other.How nice it would be to love without hurting—loyalty alone is not enough: I was faithful to Anne, and yet I hurt her.The damage is done in the very act of possession: we are all too small in our bodies and minds to possess another without complacency, or to be possessed without shame.In fact, in a way, I'm glad my wife punched me again—I'd forgotten her pain for far too long.This is the only kind of compensation I can give her.Unfortunately, innocent people are always involved in any conflict.No matter where, there is always a voice crying out from a watchtower. Feng'er lit the opium lamp. "Will she let you marry me?" "I don't know yet." "Didn't she say so in her letter?" "When she speaks, she speaks slowly." I thought to myself, "How smug you are, you're detached, you're a reporter, not an editorial writer. What a mess you've created behind the scenes. There's another kind of war that's far more innocent than this. Even with mortar fire , causing less damage." If I go against my deepest beliefs and say "yes", will that actually do you any good?You said that the newspaper wanted to transfer you back to England. I know how much you hate coming back, and you will try to delay it.I can see you drinking too much and getting married again.The first time we ever seriously tried—you and I tried—we failed.For the second time, no one will work so hard again.You said that if you lose this girl, your life will be over.You've said it to me verbatim before--I can show you the letter, I've got it--and I think you've written it to Anne.You say we always try to tell each other the truth, but, Thomas, your truth is always temporary.What good is it in arguing with you, or trying to make sense to you?It's easier to act in accordance with my beliefs--you'll think that's unreasonable--and I'll just write to you and tell you: I don't believe in divorce: my religion also forbids me to divorce, so my answer is, Thomas , no - no. There was half a page of the letter before "Your dear Helen", and I did not read any further.I think that half page is about the weather and news of a dear old aunt of mine. I have no reason to complain, such a reply is expected.There is a lot of truth in this letter. I wish she hadn't spent so much time talking to herself when she wrote this letter, because thinking about these things hurts me and hurts hers too. "Can't she say it?" Almost without hesitation, I said, "She hasn't made up her mind. There is hope." Feng'er laughed out loud. "You talk of hope with such a morose face." She fell asleep at my feet, burning opium for me, like a dog over a crusader's grave.I wondered what I should say to Pyle.After I had taken four bags of opium, I felt better prepared for the future.I told Feng'er that there was hope—my wife was talking to a lawyer.Any time from now on I will receive a telegram of my liberation. "That doesn't matter much. You can make an agreement," she said.I heard her sister's voice from her mouth. "I have no savings," I said. "I can't beat Pyle." "Don't worry. Things are unexpected. There is always a way," she said. "Sister said you could take out a life insurance premium." I thought to myself how realistic she is, neither downplaying the importance of money nor making any big and binding statements about love.I don't know how Pyle can stand this kind of hard heart in the long run, because Pyle is a romantic character, but of course, in his case, a monetary solution would be a good solution, and there is no need to be tough. When there is tension, the toughness may soften, like a muscle that is not used.Rich people always have it right and wrong. That evening, before the shops in Rue Catina closed, Feng Er went to buy three more silk kerchiefs.Sitting on the bed, she showed me the silk kerchiefs, admiring the bright colors so loudly that she filled the room with her singing voice, then carefully folded the silk kerchiefs and placed them with a dozen others. Moonp in the drawer as if she were laying the groundwork for a modest agreement.I, too, laid out an absurd basis for my agreement: that very night, with the dubious lucidity and foresight that opium had given me, I wrote a letter to Pyle. This is how I wrote it--I found this letter again the day before, in York Harding's "Missions in the West" book.Pyle must have been reading this book when my letter arrived.Perhaps, he used the letter as a bookmark and stopped reading it. "Dear Pyle," I wrote (on one occasion it occurred to me to write "Dear Alden," because, after all, it was a pretty important, life-related letter, with Other letters that tell a lie just to make a living are different): "Dear Pyle, I've been meaning to write to you in the hospital to thank you for that night. You did save me from an uncomfortable end. Now, I rely on a Cane walks - my leg is clearly broken in a proper place, and my bones are not yet sufficiently aged to be brittle. Sometime we must have a party to celebrate." (Writing "Celebrating" My pen stopped writing this word. Then, like an ant running into an obstacle, I took another detour.) "I've got another thing to celebrate, and I know you're interested in this I will also be very happy, because you often say that Feng'er's interests are what we both care about. When I came back, I found a letter from my wife saying that she had more or less agreed to divorce me, so you don't have to replace Feng'er anymore. Don't worry about it."—a hard remark, though I didn't feel it when I wrote it until I read it again, but by then it was too late to change it.If I blot out that sentence, I might as well tear up the letter altogether. "Which silk scarf do you like best?" Feng'er asked. "I love the yellow one." "Yes. The yellow one. Go to the hotel and post this letter for me." She looked at the address on the envelope. "I can send it directly to the American Legation. That saves a stamp." "Better mail it for me." Then I lay down, finished my opium, and thought lightly, "Now, at least she won't leave me until I go. Maybe, tomorrow, after a few more puffs of opium, I'll be back." I will figure out a way to stay here." 2 Ordinary life goes on--it saves many people from wasting their minds in vain.Just as a man cannot be constantly terrified during an air raid, so under the siege of everyday affairs, of chance encounters, of objective worries, etc., one can completely forget one's personal anxieties for hours at a time.The thought of leaving Indochina next April, with the loss of Feng Er and the bleak future, was disturbed by the many telegrams received and sent every day, the large number of press releases from the Vietnam News Agency, and the illness of my assistant.My assistant was an Indian named Dominguez (his family had come to Vietnam from Goa via Mumbai).He usually attends the insignificant press conferences on my behalf.He has eyes and ears, and all gossip and gossip tunes depend on him to pay attention.He also sent my telegrams to the telegraph office and the censorship office.He relied on Indian businessmen, especially those in the north, Haiphong, Nam Dinh and Hanoi. He had his own private intelligence network, which benefited me a lot.I think he knew more precisely about the distribution of Viet Minh forces in the Tokyo Delta than the French high command. And unless the information we got has become news, we never use it, and never forward any information to the French intelligence agencies, so he has the trust and friendship of several Viet Minh underground personnel hiding in the Saigon-Elevation area .The fact that he's Asian -- though named Dominguez -- certainly helps him a lot. I like Dominguez a lot.Whereas other people have pride and pride and expose them like skin diseases and are very sensitive, Dominguez's pride is hidden, I think, suppressed to the minimum possible for a person.In your daily contact with him you met only gentleness, humility, and a love of truth: it was only by marrying him that you discovered his pride.Maybe truth and humility often go hand in hand, and many lies come from our pride and conceit—in my profession, the pride and conceit of a reporter always makes him want to publish a better news report than others. Mingus helped me not to mind that sort of thing—withstanding all those telegrams from across the country asking me why I didn't cover so-and-so or why I didn't send out a story like some other reporter who A report I know is untrue. Now, now that Dominguez is sick, I realize how much I owe him—what, he even takes care of keeping my car well-stocked, yet he never says a word, or It was a look that interfered with my private life.I believe he was a Roman Catholic, but I have no proof other than his name and place of origin.From his conversation, I only know that he may have worshiped Krishna, or that he may go to the Badu Caves every year to pierce his flesh with a wire ring. Now that he is ill, it seems to me like a This boon has given me a break from the torment of my personal worries. Now it's me who has to go to those tedious press conferences and limping to my table at the Continental to chat with my colleagues , but I am not as good as Dominguez in distinguishing fact from false reports, so I used to go to him every evening to discuss what I heard. Sometimes, an Indian friend of Dominguez was also there There, sitting next to his narrow iron bed. Dominguez lives with others in a rough side street near Gallieni Avenue. He always sits upright on the bed, legs crossed, It makes you feel that you are not visiting a sick person, but being received by an Indian maharaja or monk. Sometimes he has a severe fever and sweats all over his face, but his mind is always clear. It is as if his illness is As in the other man. His landlady always keeps a jug of fresh lime juice beside him, but I never see him take a sip—maybe it's an admission of his own thirst, of his own health. be sick. Of the days I went to see him, there is one day that I remember particularly well.I've long since stopped asking about his illness, lest it sound like reproach.I went and he was always very concerned about my health and apologized for having to climb so many stairs.Then he said, "I want you to meet a friend of mine. He has a piece of news that you should listen to." "yes?" "I've written down his name, because I know you can't remember those Chinese names. Of course, we can't use this news. He has a warehouse at Mito Wharf, which stores scrap iron." "Is it important?" "Could be significant." "Can you give me an overview first?" "I'd still like you to listen to him. There's something strange, but I don't quite understand it." Sweat trickled down his face, but he let it flow, as if the drops were alive, Inviolable—the Hindu influence was so strong in him that he would never take the life of a fly.He said, "What do you know about your friend Pyle?" "Not many. We met by chance, that's all. I haven't seen him since last time at Xinyuan." "What does he do?" "A member of the economic delegation, but there are many evils covered up in the economic delegation. I think he is interested in local industry-I guess he has a connection with a large American company. I don't like the way they do it, on the one hand. Let the French fight, and at the same time crowd out the business of the French." "The U.S. Legation was entertaining some congressmen visiting from Washington that day, and I heard Pyle speak. They asked him to brief the congressmen." "God bless Congress," I said, "he hasn't been in this country six months." "The other day, he was talking about the old colonial countries - Britain and France, and how neither of you can hope to win the confidence of the Asians. This is a great opportunity for the US to come in now, with a clean slate." "And what about Hawaii, Puerto Rico," I said, "and New Mexico?" "Later, a congressman asked him the old question, asking if the present government here had any hope of defeating the Viet Minh. Pyle said a third force could defeat it. A third force can be found anywhere, except communism , you can always find a third force without colonialism—he calls it the nationalist force, you just need to find a leader to protect him from being used and threatened by the old colonial powers , that's it." "It's all in York Harding's book," I said. "He read Harding's book before he came here. He talked about it the first week he was here.So far, he hasn't learned anything new. " "He may have found his leader," Dominguez said. "Would that matter?" "I don't know. I don't know what he's up to. But you better go talk to my friend at the Mito dock." I went home to the Rue de Catena, left a note for Feng Er, and drove up the port as the sun went down.On the quays, beside the moored steamers and gray naval craft, all the tables and chairs were set out, and the little portable stoves were all lighted up and burning brightly.On the Boulevard Somme, the barber was busy under a tree, and the fortune-teller crouched against the wall with blackened cards.When you reach the embankment, you seem to be in another city, and the work seems to have just begun, instead of gradually stopping with the daylight.It was like driving into a pantomime theater: the long, tall Chinese signs, the brilliant lights, and the extras took you into the sides of the stage.When we got there, everything suddenly became darker and quieter.One such side passage brought me again to the pier and to the many sampans.Many warehouses gaped open in the dark, and there was no one around. It was with much difficulty that I found the place almost by accident.The warehouse door was open.With the light of an old-fashioned electric lamp, I can see a lot of broken copper and iron piled there, strangely shaped, just like things written by Picasso: bed frames, bathtubs, garbage cans, car bonnets, showing old lines everywhere under the light color to come.I walked along a narrow road among these metal storage yards, calling out to Mr. Zhou, but no one answered.At the end of the warehouse, a staircase led up to what I thought might be Mr. Zhou's house—I was apparently directed to the back door.I figured Dominguez had a reason for telling me to go through his back door. Even the stairs were lined with rubbish.These scrap metals might be useful someday in this jackdaw's nest house. Walking up the stairs is a large room, where the whole family sits and lies, like a tent that can be dismantled at any time: there are small teacups everywhere, and many cardboard boxes filled with unidentifiable things, and There are some fiberboard suitcases tied with rope.An old lady is sitting on a big bed, there are two boys and two girls, and a doll is crawling on the floor, three middle-aged women in brown old-fashioned shirts and pants, and two old men in blue silk gowns My son is playing mahjong in a corner.They didn't pay any attention to me coming into the room. They played mahjong very quickly, and they knew what each card was as soon as they touched it.Except for the mahjong player, no one in the room paid attention to me, only a hunter jumped on a cardboard box, and a thin dog came and sniffed it and then walked away. "Is Mr. Zhou at home?" I asked.Two women shook their heads, still no one paid me any attention, only one woman rinsed a teacup and poured me a cup of tea, still hot, from a teapot inside a satin-lined Tea Sense.I sat down at the foot of the bed, next to the old lady, and a girl brought me tea: it was as if I had been absorbed into the group, with cats and dogs—maybe the cats and dogs Like me, my son broke in by accident for the first time.That kid crawled over from the ground and pulled my shoelaces, but no one scolded him: Orientals don't scold children.On the wall hung three advertising calendars, each featuring a rosy-cheeked girl in brightly colored Chinese clothing.There is also a large mirror with the words Cafde la Paix inexplicably written on it-maybe, it got caught in these scraps of iron by accident: I felt that I was caught in it too. I slowly sipped the bitter green tea, shifting the stemless, scalding cup from one palm to the other so as not to burn my hands, wondering how much longer I would have to wait.I tried once, speaking to the family in French, asking when Mr. Zhou would be home, but no one answered me: they probably didn't understand French at all.When the tea in my hand was finished, they filled my cup again and went on to their respective tasks: a woman was ironing, a girl was sewing, two boys were reviewing their lessons, The old lady looked at her feet, a pair of little old Chinese feet—the cat lay on the cardboard box, the dog stared at the cat. It was only now that I began to realize how hard Dominguez worked to make ends meet. A very thin Chinese man entered the room: he didn't seem to take up any space in the room: his body was like the greaseproof paper that divides biscuits in a tin box.The only solid things on him were his striped flannel jacket and trousers. "Are you Mr. Zhou?" I asked. He looked at me with the indifferent stare of an opium smoker: sunken cheeks, dollish wrists, little girl's arms—it would take years of sickness and bags of opium to dry him out into this. I said, "My friend Mr. Dominguez said you have something to show me. Are you Mr. Zhou?" Oh, yes, he said, he is Mr. Zhou, and then waved his hand very politely, asking me to sit down again.I could see that the purpose of my coming to him had disappeared between the smoke passages in his head.Shall I have a cup of tea?It was a great honor for me to come to see him.Another cup of tea was poured on the ground, another cup of hot tea was poured for me, and it was handed to me piping hot—this is the torment of tea.I complimented him on the prosperity of his family. He looked around in slight surprise, as if he had never seen this before. "My mother," he said, "my wife, my sister, my uncle, my younger brother, my children, my aunt's children." The hairy child has crawled away from my feet and is lying on his back now On the ground, kicking and screaming.I thought to myself, I don't know whose child this is.The people in this room were either too young or too old to see who was the right age for that little one. I said, "Mr. Dominguez told me it was important." "Ah, Mr. Dominguez. How is Mr. Dominguez?" "He had a fever." "It's the season to get sick." At this point, I don't even believe he remembers who Dominguez is. He began to cough, and two buttons were missing from his jacket, and when he coughed the skin on the inside of the jacket tensed like a native leather drum. "You should see a doctor yourself," I said.At this moment, a newcomer entered—I didn't hear him enter.He was a young man in a neat suit.He said in English, "Mr. Zhou has only one lung." "I'm sorry to hear that..." "He smokes one hundred and fifty bags of opium a day." "That sounds like a lot." "The doctor said that smoking is not good for him, but Mr. Zhou feels much better after smoking." I grunted to show that I understood what he meant. "Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Mr. Zhou's supervisor." "My name is Fowler. Mr. Dominguez called me. He said Mr. Zhou had something to tell me." "Mr. Zhou has a very bad memory. Would you like a cup of tea first?" "Thank you, I've already had three glasses." This question and answer sounds like a sentence in a foreign language phrasebook. The manager of Mr. Zhou took the teacup in my hand and handed it to a girl. After she poured the remaining tea on the ground, she filled another cup. "This pot of tea is not strong enough," he said, taking the teacup, tasting it himself, rinsing it carefully, and filling it from the second teapot. "Is this better?" he asked. "much better." Mr. Zhou cleared his throat, but only to spit a mouthful of phlegm into an enamel spittoon painted with pink flowers.The doll rolled between the tea legs, and the cat jumped from a cardboard box onto a suitcase. "Perhaps it would be better for you to talk to me," said the young man. "My surname is Hang." "I don't know if you'd like to tell me..." "Let's go down to the warehouse," Mr. Hang said. "It's quieter there." I held out my hand to Mr. Zhou, and he let my hand rest between his palms, looking a little dazed, and then looked around the crowded room, as if wondering how to settle me.As we walked down the stairs, the sound of mahjong tiles tumbling like gravel gradually faded.Mr. Hang said, "Be careful. The last level is empty." Then, he lit the way for me with a flashlight. We're back in between those bed frames and bathtubs.Mr. Hang led the way and walked along a side aisle.After walking about twenty paces, he stopped again, pointed his flashlight at a small iron bucket and said, "Do you see this?" "How about this bucket?" He turned it over and pointed out the logo to me, "Dioracleton." "I still don't understand." He said, "I used to have two of these iron barrels here. They were collected from Mr. Fan Wenmao's garage together with other scraps. Do you know Mr. Fan?" "No, I don't know." "His wife is a relative of General Thai." "I still don't quite understand...?" "Do you know what this is?" Mr. Hang asked, stooping, and picked up a long, sunken thing that, like a celery stalk, glowed the color of chrome in the light of his flashlight. "It could be something on the bathtub." "It's a mold," Mr Hang said.He was clearly a tiresome doctrinal gentleman. He paused again, allowing me to show that I still didn't know anything. "Do you understand what I mean by mold?" "Oh, of course I understand, but I still don't understand what you mean..." "This mold is made in the United States. Dioracoton is a trade name in the United States. Now you understand?" "To be honest, I still don't understand." "There was something wrong with the mould. So they threw it away. But it shouldn't have been thrown out with the scrap iron—nor was the bucket. It was a mistake. Mr. Fan's steward himself been here. I couldn't find the mold at the time, but I made him take the other bucket back.I said I only have that bucket here.He told me he needed these buckets to store chemicals.He didn't ask about the mold, of course--that would have given away too much--but he searched long and hard.Later, Mr. Fan went to the American Legation to find Mr. Pyle. " "Your intelligence work seems to be doing pretty well," I said.I still can't imagine what's going on here. "I asked Mr. Zhou to contact Mr. Dominguez." "You're saying you've established some kind of correspondence between Pyle and General Tay," I said. "Some sort of minor dealing. It's not news at all. Everybody does intelligence work here." Mr. Hang bumped the black lacquered iron bucket with his heel.The sound echoed between the iron bedsteads.他说道，"福勒先生，您是英国人。您是中立的。您一向对我们大伙全都很公正。要是我们有些人对不论任何一方抱有强烈的感情，您也能同情他们。" 我说，"如果您是在暗示您是共产党人，或是一个越盟人员，那么请您别担心，我并不感到大吃＿惊。我是不问政治的。" "要是西贡这地方发生了什么不愉快的事，人家都会责备我们。我的委员会希望您保持一种公正的看法。这就是我为什么领您来看这些东西的缘故。" "戴奥拉克通是什么？"我说。"听起来就像是一种炼乳。" "它有些东西和牛奶相同。"杭先生用手电筒照照铁桶里面。铁桶底上有一点儿白粉，像一层灰尘。"这是美国的一种塑料，"他说。 "我听见传说，说派尔正在输入制造玩具的塑料。"我拿起那个模子看看，心里竭力揣测它的形状。这并不是它制成后的样子：这是镜子里的形象，是颠倒的。 "并不是制造玩具，"杭先生说。 "看起来像是标杆的零件。" "样子很不寻常。" "我看不出它可以做什么用。" 杭先生转过身去。"我只希望您记住您所看见的这玩意儿，"他说，一面退回到那堆破铜烂铁的黑影里去。"也许将来有一天您会觉得有理由把这写出来。不过您决不要说您在这儿看见过这只桶。" "这个模子也不能提吗？"我问。 "尤其是不能提这个模子。" 3 和一个人家所谓的救过自己性命的人别后初逢，这可不很轻松。我住在外籍兵团医院时并没有见过派尔。他的失踪和沉默，虽然很容易解释（因为他比我更容易感到窘困），有时候却无端地使我不安，因此每天晚上，在我吃的安眠药使我平静地入睡以前，我常会想象到他走上我的楼梯，敲我的房门，睡到我的床上去。在这件事上，我对他不大公平，因此在其他较正式的义务之外，我还增加了一种内疚感。 还有，我想我那封信也是一个过失。（是哪些古代的祖先给了我那种愚蠢的良心的？在他们那个旧石器时代里，他们奸淫杀戮，当然不会有这种良心。） 有时候我心里盘算着，我该不该请我的救命恩人吃一顿饭，还是该请他到大陆酒店的酒吧间去会一次面，喝一杯酒呢？这是一个不寻常的社交问题，取决于一个人对自己生命的评价。一顿饭和一瓶酒，还是一杯双份威士忌？——这个问题使我烦恼了好几天，后来还是由派尔自己解决了。他来了，我的房门关着，他隔着门在外边大声叫我，那天下午很热，我早晨练习那条负伤的腿练习得太累了，所以睡得很熟，没有听见他敲门。 "托马斯，托马斯。"他的喊声闯进了我的梦里。我正梦见自己走下一条空荡荡的长街，寻找一个拐弯的地方，始终没有找到。那条路像自动收报机上的纸带一样干篇一律。要是他的喊声没有打断它的话——它会继续下去，永不改变——一它起初像岗楼上传来的痛苦呻吟，接着突然又像是对我个人在说话，"托马斯，托马斯。" 我压低声音说道，"滚开，派尔。别走近我。我不要人来救我。" "托马斯。"他使劲儿在敲我的门，我躺在床上装病，仿佛我又回到了那片稻田里，他是一个敌人。突然，我认识到敲门声停了，有人正在外面低声说话，另有个人在回答。悄悄话是危险的。我听不出谈话的人是谁。我小心地下了床，拄着手杖走到另一间房的门口。也许是我走得太急，他们听见了我走动的声音，因为门外忽然静下去了。寂静就像植物长出卷须那样：它似乎在房门下面生长，把叶子伸进我站着的那间房里来。这是一种我不喜欢的寂静，我一下把门拉开，打破了那片寂静。凤儿站在走道里，派尔双手搭在她的肩上：从他们的姿态看来，他们可能刚在接吻。 "怎么，进来呀，"我说，"进来。" "我没法让你听见我的声音，"派尔说。 "起初，我是睡着了，后来我是不想受到人打扰。但是现在，我已经受到打扰了，那就进来吧。"我用法语跟凤儿说道，"你在哪儿找到他的？" "就在这儿。在走道里，"她说。"我听见他敲门，所以我就跑上楼来想让他进房。" "坐下吧，"我对派尔说。"你要喝杯咖啡吗？" "不要，我也不想坐下，托马斯。" "那我可得坐下啦。这条腿站着很累。你收到我的信了吧？" "不错。我真希望你没有写那封信。" "why?" "因为那是一大篇谎话。我以前一直信任你，托马斯。" "碰上涉及到女人的事情时，你任何人都不应该信任。" "那么，在这件事以后，你也就不必信在我了。等你出门去，我就偷偷溜到这儿来，写一些信，就用打字机打的信封寄信。也许我这个人也成熟老练起来啦，托马斯。"不过他的声音里带着哭声，他看来比以前更年轻了。"不撒谎，你就不能胜过我吗？" "不成。这是欧洲人表里不一的地方，派尔。我们缺少补给品，不得不另想办法弥补。不过我一定是做得很笨。你怎么看出那些是谎话的？" "是她姐姐说的，"他说。"她如今在替乔工作。我方才刚见到她。她知道他们已经调你回国啦。" "哦，这件事，"我宽慰地说。"这件事凤儿也知道啦。" "还有你太太的那封信呢？凤儿也知道吗？她姐姐也看过那封信啦。" "她怎么会看过？" "昨儿你出去啦，她上这儿来找凤儿。凤儿把那封信给她看了。你骗不了她。 她会读英文。 " "我明白啦。"这时候可没有理由跟任何人发脾气——非常明显，是我自己不好。凤儿拿那封信给她姐姐看，大概只是想炫耀一下——并不是表示她不信任我。 "你咋儿晚上就知道这一切了吗？"我问凤儿。 "yes." "我注意到你咋儿晚上不大多说话。"我摸摸她的胳膊。"你很可能大为生气，可是你是凤儿——你从不会大生气的。" "我得多想想，"她说。我也记得我半夜醒来，从她不均匀的呼吸上就知道，她并没有睡着。我曾经伸手去摸摸她，问她一Lecaucne man？"她刚到卡蒂纳街来的时候，常常做恶梦，但是昨儿晚上我提到恶梦，她曾经摇摇头：她翻过身去，背对着我，我把我一条腿移过去挨着她——这是想和她亲热的第一个动作。就连那时，我还是没有注意到有什么地方出了毛病。 "难道你不能解释一下吗，托马斯，为什么……" "的确，事情已经够清楚了。我要留住她不放。" "不论她受到多大牺牲，都要这样做吗？" "Of course." "那可不是爱啊。" "也许不是你的恋爱方式，派尔。" "我想要保护她。" "我可不。她不需要保护。我要她在我身边成要她睡在我床上。" "违背她的意愿吗？" "违背她的意愿，她就不会留下来，派尔。" "在这件事以后，她不会再爱你了。"他的想法就这么简单。我回过身，想找凤儿。她已经走进睡房去，正在把我刚睡过的床罩拉拉平。接着，她就从书架上取下一本她的画册来，在床上坐下，仿佛对我和派尔的谈话不大关心似的。我看得出来那是一本什么书——英国女王画册。我从颠倒着的方向可以看见女王的御用马车正驶向威斯敏斯特大教堂去。 "爱情是西方的用语，"我说。"我们用这个词儿是为了情感上的原因，或是为了来掩饰我们对一个女人的着迷。这儿的人并不受到着迷的苦恼。你感情上会受到伤害的，派尔，要是你不小心的话。" "要不是为了你这条腿，我早就狠狠揍你一顿了。" "你应该感激我——当然，还有凤儿姐姐。现在，你可以放手追她，没有什么顾忌了——在某些方面，你是很有顾忌的，是吗，碰上与塑料无关的时候。" "塑料？" "上帝在上，希望你明白你在这儿干些什么事。哦，我知道，你的动机是好的，它们总是好的。"他显得有点儿迷糊、有点儿猜疑。"但愿你有时候也有几个不好的动机。那么你也许就会对人稍许多理解一点儿。这句话对你的国家也适用，派尔。" "我要让她过一种体面的生活。这地方——有臭味。" "我们烧香来消除臭味。我猜想你会给她一台大冰箱，还给她本人一辆汽车和一架最新式的电视机以及……" "还生下许多孩子，"他说。 "聪明伶俐的年轻美国公民，随时可以作证。" "你又给她什么呢？你并不打算带她回国。" "不错，我没有那么残酷。除非我有钱，可以替她买一张回越南来的船票的话。" "你不过是把她当作一个使人舒服的、发泄性欲的工具，到你走的时候，就撤下了事。" "她是人，派尔。她自己能作出决定。" "根据假证据吧。而且她还是个孩子。" "她已经不是孩子啦。她比你坚强得多。你知道那种刮不出痕迹的漆吗？那就是凤儿。她可以活得比我们十来个人都长。她会变老，仅此而已。她会受到生孩子、饥饿、寒冷、患风湿病这种种痛苦，但是她决不会像我们这样受到思前想后，受到心神不宁的痛苦——她不会给刮伤，她只会腐朽。"但是就在我大发议论，看着风儿翻阅画册时（这是一页王室家庭图片，上面有安妮公主），我心里也知道我和派尔一样，也在编造出一个人物来。凤儿其实就是她那么个人。尽管我信口胡扯，实际上她也像我们其余的人一样，吓得要命。她只是没有表达的才干，就是这么回事。 我还记得折磨着我的那第一个年头，当时我非常热情地想了解她。曾经恳求她把她心里所想的告诉我，并且曾经对她的沉默无语乱发脾气，把她吓得了不得。就连我的肉欲也成了一种武器，仿佛把刀剑刺进这个受害人的身子，她就会失去控制，开口说话似的。 "你讲够了吗？"我对派尔说。"你已经知道所有可以知道的事啦。请你走吧。" "凤儿，"他叫了一声。 "派尔先生，什么事？"她正在细看温莎堡，这时候抬起脸来问。她在这时刻这样正式地称呼他，听起来很可笑，也很使我放心。 "他欺骗了你。" Jene compren dspas． " "哦，滚开，"我说。"滚去搞你的第三势力、约克·哈定那套以及民主的任务吧。滚去玩你的塑料去。" 后来，我不得不承认，他确实不折不扣地执行了我的"指示"。