Chapter 6 noblewoman (2)

The illustrated magazines that the young people hid under their mattresses never escaped Manuela's eyes, despite all the options, but judging by the fraying of the pages with the bright and provocative title "The Frivolous Marquise", little Palière For a while there seemed to be a preference for such books. We chatted, laughed, and chatted for a while, completely immersed in the peace of old friendship.I cherish those good times, thinking that one day if Manuela fulfills her dream and returns to her hometown, I will be left here alone, alone, old and infirm, and never again. Twice a week, like-minded friends can treat me like a basement queen, and it hurts my heart.I also often think with horror when the only friend in my life who understands me but never asks for anything leaves me, leaving me, an unknown woman, wrapped in the shroud of forgetting, in the depths of abandonment. Buried me in the pit, what should I do then?

There was a sound of footsteps in the hall, and then we clearly heard a familiar voice, the sound of a man pressing the elevator button.It was an old elevator with black bars and double doors, stuffed with padding and planks.If there was enough space, there would have been a waiter sitting in it in years past.I recognize the footsteps, they are the footsteps of Pierre Arden, the food critic who lives on the fifth floor, a terrible fellow who squints whenever he stands on the threshold of my concierge eyes, as if I were living in a dark cave, even though he saw the opposite. Oh yes, I also read his famous comments.

“I don’t understand what he’s writing about.” Manuela told me that, for her, a good roast is a good roast, nothing more. His comments were also unintelligible.It is sympathetic to see a prose like his being wasted through blindness, spending pages in dizzying narrative style on a single tomato - for Pierre Arden's comment on diet is like storytelling, that's all He should be regarded as a genius-and the premise of this description is that he has never "seen" or "cleared" what a tomato looks like. What a sad and fearless spirit.Can anyone be gifted and blind at the same time with regard to all things themselves?I often ask myself this question when I see him walk past me with his haughty nose up.It seems to be ok.Some people can't understand what makes things have inner life and breath from thinking, but spend their whole life discussing people and things. People seem to be mechanical, while things seem to have no soul. Then rely on subjective inspiration to talk nonsense.

As if on purpose, the footsteps stopped suddenly and turned around. That's right, Arden started knocking on the door. I stood up, deliberately shuffling my feet, which fit perfectly inside a pair of loafers that fit the concierge image that only the baguette and beret together could challenge the conformist image of the concierge.In doing so, I knew I had pissed off the master, I knew I was singing the praises of the impatience of a big predator, and because of that, I opened the door slightly on purpose and put my nose in, and at the moment I wished I had His nose is red and shiny. "I'm waiting for the package from the courier," he said to me, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils tensed. "If the package arrives, can you give it to me right away?"

This afternoon, Mr. Arden wore a polka-dot scarf around his noble neck, but this scarf did not suit him, because his thick hair like a lion's mane and the light and fluffy scarf showed the lightness of a tutu Hazy, but lacking the masculinity that men usually pride themselves on, and the scarf reminds me of a story that almost makes me laugh out loud whenever I think about it.That's the story of the Legrandin scarf.In a French writer named Marcel ie Marcel Proust (1871-1922), authored. --In the works of the author of the translation annotation, there is a well-known concierge Legrandin, who is arty and thus caught in a dilemma between two worlds, one is the world in which he lives and the other One is the world he wants to enter.In the end, hope turns to misery, enslavement to arrogance for this tragic figure who wants to be famous, and his scarf expresses his inner ups and downs.Therefore, in the Place de Combray, I don’t want to greet the narrator’s parents, but when I meet them by chance, I deliberately let the silk scarf flutter in the wind, so as to avoid red tape, which shows my depressed mood.

Pierre Arden was familiar with Proust's work, but he had no sympathy for the concierge's situation.He cleared his throat impatiently. I'm reminded of his question: "Would you give it to me right away (package from the messenger—the rich don't go through the post office)?" "Okay," I said, breaking my record for brevity, partly because of his brevity and partly because he didn't say "Please."To me, conditional questions are not polite enough.