Chapter 2 Chapter One

(one) The coffee grinder behind me hissed like an angry viper, with something sinister and ominous.I think maybe most of the sounds of our time have this taste: the deafening, frightening sound of jet jets whizzing past our heads; ; and those heavy vehicles passing by on the ground even shook the houses in which people lived... Besides, although many appliances used in households may be quite convenient to use, they seem to carry a warning The meaning of the dish-dishwasher, refrigerator, pressure cooker, whining vacuum cleaner... all seem to say to people: "Be careful! I am a monster under your control, but if one day you can't control me..."

It's a dangerous world—yes, a dangerous world. I stir the fizzy drink in front of me and it smells so good. "What else would you like? How about a banana bacon sandwich?" I find it odd to have those two together in a sandwich, the banana reminds me of my childhood—and occasionally a drink with sugar and liqueur; as for the bacon, I always think it should be eaten with eggs.But since it’s here, it’s safe, and when we arrive in Charles, we can only do as the Romans do, and eat according to the way Charles people eat, so I agreed to have a delicious banana smoked meat sandwich.

Although I lived in Charles—that is, I had rented a furnished apartment here for the past three months—everything was new to me.I'm writing a book on Mongolian architecture, but for this purpose it makes no difference to me whether I live in Hampstead, Brunsbury, Streisand or Charles.I paid no attention to everything around me except what I was doing, and lived in my own world. But on this particular evening, I suddenly felt a sense of boredom that all writers experience. Mongol architecture, Mongol emperors, the way of life of the Mongols—and the interesting questions it all raised—suddenly became like dust.What is all this?Why should I bother studying these?

I flipped through the first few pages and looked at what I had written and thought it was all just as bad and not interesting at all.Who said that "history is nothing but nonsense"?Henry Ford?So true. I pushed the manuscript away in annoyance, stood up and looked at my watch.It was almost eleven o'clock in the evening, and I tried to remember whether I had eaten dinner. From the feeling in my body, I guessed that I hadn't.What about lunch?I did, but it was a long time ago. I looked in the refrigerator and there was a small piece of dry beef tongue, but it didn't whet my appetite at all, so I walked up the Royal Mile and finally walked into this coffee with "House of Lucci" hanging high in the window shop.Now, as I wait for my banana and bacon sandwich, I think about the evil, the ominousness, and the impact of all the sounds in modern life.

These sounds, I think, have something in common with my early memories of pantomime.David Jones emerges from a closet in a cloud of fog!A floor trap of sinister force, challenging someone with a name like "Good Fairy Diamond" who wields a seemingly invulnerable cane and sings "Good Man" in a flat voice In the end we must win", which leads to a "song of the moment", which has nothing to do with this pantomime. It occurred to me that perhaps evil must impress more than justice, because it must attract attention!You have to be scary and challenge people!It is an unstable force challenging a stable force, and in the end, a stable and permanent force always wins.Steady and constant strength can overcome the monotonous, flat voice of "Good Fairy Diamond", the rhymed lines, and even the irrelevant line "There is a winding path, along the side of the mountain, to the place I love Old Town".Although those weapons seem ridiculous and useless, they will definitely defeat the enemy. The end of the pantomime is all the same. The actors participating in the performance are arranged on the stairs according to the importance of the role. She will not be the first to come out to call the curtain, and only appear side by side with her opponent in the play, the "devil king" (now it is no longer the scary fire-breathing monster, but an ordinary person in a red tights).

The sound of the coffee machine rang in my ears again, and I beckoned the waiter for another cup of coffee.My sister always blamed me for not caring about the things around me, saying that I "only live in my own world".So, I am now paying attention to the surrounding area.Almost every day there was news about what happened in Charles's coffee shop in the newspapers, and I just took this opportunity to judge the life of modern people for myself. It was quite dark in the shop, so it was impossible to see clearly.The customers are almost all young people.I think they are probably the so-called "unusual generation".It seemed to me that those girls were just as dirty as girls are these days, and always overdressed.A few weeks ago, I went out to have a meal with some friends. The girl sitting next to me was about 20 or so. It was very hot in the restaurant, but she was wearing a yellow jumper, a black skirt, and black wool socks. , her face was constantly sweating, the sweater smelled of sweat, and her hair seemed to have not been washed for a long time.According to my friend, she is a charming girl, I don't think so!My only reaction was to throw her hard into the tub, give her a bar of soap, and tell her to wash herself off!I think this only shows how out of date I am, perhaps because of living abroad for a long time.I can't help thinking of those Indian women with beautiful black hair, colorful wraps, and the moving demeanor of swaying when they walk...

A scream interrupts my recollection, and the two young ladies at my next table had an argument, which the young man accompanying them tried unsuccessfully to settle. Suddenly, they screamed at each other again, one girl slapped the other, and the one who was slapped grabbed the former's hair like two hysterical madwomen.Of the two, one has fluffy red hair and the other has long, blond hair. I just heard them swearing at each other non-stop, but I didn't know what they were arguing about.Guests at other tables were also screaming and jeering. "Yes! Hit her hard, Luer." The owner behind the bar, a skinny, Italian-looking guy with a short beard (I think he's probably Luke), stepped forward and said in a perfect Cockney accent:

"Okay, that's enough—stop it—stop it—wait until the whole street is full of people watching, and the police will come to make trouble. Do you hear me, stop!" But the blonde just grabbed the redhead's hair angrily and screamed, "You're a bitch who only steals men!" "You're the bitch!" Lu Qi and the two embarrassing flower protectors pulled them apart forcefully.The blond held a handful of red hair in her hands and held it up triumphantly for a moment before throwing it to the ground in disdain. At this moment, the door was pushed open, and a police officer in a blue uniform stood at the door and asked majestically:

"How is this going?" A young man immediately replied: "Just kidding." The shopkeeper also said, "Yeah! It's just a joke between friends." He quickly kicked the hair on the floor under the nearest table. The two enemies smiled at each other pretending to be friendly. The officer looked at everyone suspiciously. "We're going," said the blond sweetly. "Come on, Doug." It so happened that several other people were leaving, and the police officer watched them leave gravely.From his expression, it can be seen that this time it will be fine, but he will pay special attention to these people.He walked out slowly.

The redhead's male companion paid the bill. Lu Qi said to the girl who was arranging her turban, "Are you okay? Luer really shouldn't treat you so much, I pulled your hair up by the roots." "It doesn't really hurt much," the girl said lightly, smiling at him, and then said, "I'm sorry for causing you trouble, Lu Qi." After they left, there were no other customers in the store, and I fumbled in my pocket for change. "She really has the spirit of a sportsman." Lu Qi said, looking at her back with admiration.He took the broom and swept the red hair behind the counter.

"It must hurt," I said. "If it were me, I would have shouted out a long time ago." Lu Qi said, "But Tang Mi really has the spirit of a sportsman." "You know her very well!" "Well, she comes here almost every night. Her name is Donmasina Tuckerton, but she's called Tommy Tucker around here. She's rich, and her father left her Her inheritance, but you know what she does all day? Moves to a crappy old house over the Wensworth bridge, and hangs around with a bunch of people. I bet at least Half of them are rich people, they can get whatever they want, as long as they want, they can live in the Tourist Hotel, but those people prefer to live this kind of life, um——I really don’t understand!” "If it were you, it would definitely not be like this?" "Oh, of course, I'm a sensible person!" Lu Qi said, "To be honest, I just made some money." I got up and was about to leave. By the way, I asked what they were arguing about just now. "Oh, Tang Mi hooked up with that other girl's boyfriend. But I won't lie to you, that kind of man is really not worth fighting for." "But the other girl doesn't seem to think so," I said. "Oh, Luer is a very romantic girl." Lu Qi said in a tolerant tone. I don't think Romantic should behave like this, but I didn't say anything more. (two) About a week later, an obituary in The Times caught my attention: Ms Tuckerton (full name Don Masina Ann Tuckerton), died in her twenties on 2nd October at Ferruffy Nursing Home, of the late Kellington Park, Amberley, Surrey The only daughter of lawyer Thomas Tuckerton.Choose an auspicious day to hold a family sacrifice, and make a sincere speech with a flower basket. Poor Tommy Tucker, no one will send flowers to her funeral, nor enjoy Charles' "exciting" life.I suddenly felt pity for girls like her, but I couldn't help reminding myself, how do I know that my views are correct?who am iWhat right do they have to say that they are throwing their lives away?Maybe a quiet academic career like mine, a life isolated from the world, is a waste of life!Touch your conscience, does "I" lack a little stimulation?What a strange idea!In fact, of course, because I don't like thrills.But maybe I should give it a try?The idea was both foreign and unattractive to me. I forgot about Tommy Tucker for a moment, looking at the mail I received today. The principal one was from my cousin, Sister Rose Desper, asking me to do her a favor.I was really not in the mood to write this morning, so I took that as an excuse to put work aside for now. I walked to the Royal Mile and took a taxi to the house of a friend, Mrs. Aridan Oliver. Mrs. Oliver is a famous detective novelist.Her housekeeper, Millie, is smart and capable, and can shield her from all troubles from the outside world. I raised my eyebrows and asked her silently, and Millie nodded vigorously. "You'd better go straight up, Mr. Mark," she said. "She's in a bad mood this morning. Maybe you can help her." I went up the stairs, knocked lightly on the door, and walked in without waiting for an answer from inside.Mrs. Oliver's studio was quite large, and the walls were covered with wallpaper of birds in the tropics roosting in the tops of the trees.Mrs. Oliver was walking up and down, talking to herself, apparently a little frantically.His eyes swept across the room blankly, looking out of the window, and from time to time, he seemed to close himself in pain for a while and meditate. "But," said Mrs. Oliver to herself, "why didn't that idiot tell people right away that he saw the parrot? Why didn't he? He must have seen it! But he spoiled everything by saying it. Surely Is there any way... there must be..." Moaning, she frantically ran her fingers through the short gray hair and tugged. When she suddenly spotted me, she concentrated and said to me, "Hey, Mark, I'm going crazy," and continued talking to herself. "And Monica, the more I try to make her better, the more obnoxious she becomes... What a stupid girl... and a poser! Monica... Monica? I think it must be Bad name. How about Nancy? Would it be better? Joan? Too many people are called Joan, and so is Anne. Where's Susan? I already have a character named Susan. Lucia? Lucia? Lucia? I can already "see" what she looks like: red hair, turtleneck... how about black tights? Must wear black socks anyway." But thinking of the parrot made Mrs. Oliver walk sullenly again.After a while, she carefully took off the glasses, put them into the cases, and then put them into a enamel box with a Chinese fan in it, and said with a deep sigh: "I'm so glad it was you." "you are too polite." "You know, anyone could come to my place, maybe a stupid woman who wanted me to do a bazaar, maybe a guy who came to talk about Millie's insurance card, but Millie wouldn't take that thing—or, maybe It's the plumber (if it's true, I'm lucky). Otherwise, someone wants to interview me and ask me embarrassing and ridiculous questions, and the same old questions: When did you start Thinking about writing? How many books have you written? How much money have you made? Etc. I really don't know how to answer, so I always look like a fool. The parrot thing is driving me crazy." "Can't decide on something?" I said sympathetically, "I think I'd better go away." "No, don't go, you'll make me feel better anyway." I accepted the dubious compliment. "Would you like a cigarette?" Mrs. Oliver asked half-heartedly. "I don't know where there are cigarettes in the house. Look in the typewriter drawer." "I have, thanks, how about one? Oh, yes, you don't smoke." "Nor drink," said Mrs. Oliver. "I wish I would. Like those American detectives, there's always a little cigarette and liquor in the desk drawer, and it seems that with these things, any problem can be solved. You know, Mark." , I really don’t understand how someone can get away with killing someone. I think the crime is obvious once the murder is done.” "Nonsense, you have written many such novels." "Fifty-five at least," said Mrs. Oliver. "Murder is easy. It's not easy to cover it up. I mean: Why did you come here? You're so far from me. " "That's hard to say." "Well, let the facts prove it," said Mrs. Oliver vaguely. "You can express your opinion. When B was killed, there were five or six people present at the same time. Everyone had a motive for killing him. That's not a very common situation—unless B is really such a nuisance that no one cares if he was murdered or not, and by whom." "I understand your problem," I said, "but since you've dealt with this subject successfully fifty-five times, of course you'll have no problem this time." "I keep telling myself so," said Mrs. Oliver, "but I can't believe it, and it pains me." She grabbed hold of her hair and tugged violently. "Don't do that," I yelled, "you'll pull out your hair by the roots." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Oliver; "the hair is very strong. But when I was fourteen I had the measles and I had a high fever, and the hair really fell out on my forehead. It was ugly. It took six months to grow back, Terrible for a girl of that age. Yesterday I was in the nursing home to see Marie de la Fontaine, and I suddenly recalled it, because her hair was falling out like I was then. She said that when she got better One point, to make a wig and put it on the forehead. I think it's okay, the hair is unlikely to grow back in the sixty years old." “I saw a girl whose hair was pulled out by the roots one night,” I said, aware of the worldly pride in my voice. "What strange place have you been?" said Mrs. Oliver. "Charles' Coffee Shop." "Oh, Charles!" said Mrs. Oliver, "I'm sure all sorts of weird things happen in that place. The Beatles, the Satellites... I never write about those people because I think it's safer to talk about what I know." .” "For example?" "People who travel, people who stay in hotels, people who go to parish councils—the salesmen, people who attend music festivals, girls who go shopping, committee members, working women, men and women who travel the world on foot..." She paused to catch her breath. "It seems that the subject matter is already very rich." I said. "But you might as well take me to one of Charles's coffee shops someday, so that I can see things," said Mrs. Oliver eagerly. "Okay, how was tonight?" "Not tonight, I'm busy writing a book, or I can't write, and I'm in a bad mood. That's the most annoying thing about writing-in fact, it's annoying at any time except when the ideas are flowing and the inspiration is constant. Tell me , Mark, do you think it is possible to kill people with a remote control?" "What do you mean? Press a button and emit a death ray?" "No, no, I'm not talking about science fiction," she said after a moment's hesitation, "I mean witchcraft." "Make a wax figure and put pins on it?" "Wax figures are out of date," said Mrs. Oliver contemptuously, "but in places like Africa or the West Indies, there are really strange things that happen a lot, and many people can tell you about the strange things, and the natives just curl up like that for no reason The earth is dead, voodoo or spells or something...Anyway, you know what I mean." I say this kind of thing is now mostly due to the effect of suggestion, and the victim has heard that the sorcerer has pronounced his death sentence-the rest is all the effect of his own subconscious. Mrs. Oliver snorted disdainfully. "If anyone suggests to me that I am doomed to die some day, I shall gladly see his hopes dashed!" I laughed. "You have a very Western skepticism." "So you think it's really possible?" "I don't know enough about this to be sure. How did you come up with this? Are you going to write a book about 'killing with hints'?" "No, to be honest, old-fashioned rat poisoning or arsenic poisoning is more than enough for me, or add a little blunt weapon. I always try to use bullets as much as possible. It's too complicated. But you come Not to talk about my book." "Not really—my cousin Roda Despar is having a church fair—" "Here it goes again!" said Mrs. Oliver. "Do you know what happened last time? I arranged a game of 'find the murderer' and it turned out to be a real dead body. I've never forgotten that scene." !" "You're not going to arrange a 'hunt for the murderer' this time. Just sit in your tent and sign your book—five shillings a time." "Oh—" said Mrs. Oliver suspiciously: "that's all right. I'm really not going to preside over the ceremony? Say something ridiculous, or wear a big hat?" I promise I will never ask her to do that. "And it'll only take an hour or two," I coaxed her. "After that, there will be cricket fights—no, I don't think there will be this season, maybe there will be children's dancing or a masquerade—" Mrs. Oliver gave a cry, and interrupted me. "By the way!" she cried, "it's the cricket! Of course! He saw the cricket jumping up through the window... so distracted he forgot to mention the parrot! It's very kind of you to come, Mark! You are too Bravo!" "I don't understand--" "That's enough for me," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's rather complicated, and I don't want to waste time explaining it. I'm glad you came, and now I want you to go at once—at once." "Of course, but the garden party—" "I'll think about it, leave me alone now. Where the hell did I put my glasses? Really, some things just disappear for no apparent reason..."