Chapter 6 Chapter Six

The flower stand on the wallpaper is too thin, but the roses hanging on it are too heavy; in addition, some of the wallpaper is peeled off, and it will flap up and down when the wind blows.It wasn't obvious where the wind was coming from because the small windows were not only locked, but looked as if they had been installed here straight out of the factory in the early 2000s and had never been opened.A swinging mirror on a chest of drawers may seem comforting at first glance, but it's not.The mirror can be turned 360 degrees easily, but it is too blurry to reflect anything.A cardboard calendar from last year was stuck to the mirror, folded in four to control random rotation, but apparently doing nothing to increase clarity.

Two of the four drawers on the cabinet will open, the third won't open because it doesn't have a handle, and the fourth won't open because it doesn't want to be opened at all.The red crepe paper hanging from the black iron fireplace has turned brown in color over time.Hanging above is a half-naked Venus comforting a nearly naked Cupid.In this weather, Grant thought, if the cold hadn't eaten into his bones, the engraving wouldn't have spared him. He looked down the small window and saw the small harbor where a row of fishing boats slammed against the jetty idly in the gray sea; the gray rain beating on the cobblestones reminded him of the wood burning in the fireplace in Knuth's living room.He casually thought that maybe going to bed was the way to warm himself up as quickly as possible, but one more look at the bed made him dismiss that idea immediately.The bed was as thin as a plate, covered with a white honeycomb cotton coverlet that looked more like a plate.In a corner stood a square of neatly folded turkey-red quilt suitable for a baby's cradle, bearing the finest set of brass doorknobs Grant had ever had the pleasure of seeing before.

Hotel Grada, the gateway to Tinan'o Island. He went downstairs and fiddled with the smoking fire in the living room.Someone threw his lunch of potato skins into the stove, so no matter what he tried, he couldn't do it.He couldn't help getting angry and rang the bell with all his might.A wire somewhere in the wall crackled wildly, but the bell didn't ring.He entered the hall only to hear the wind come in under the front door, making a "whoosh! whoosh!"; never had he - not even at the best of Scotland Yard - shouted so desperately that he had to be answered.A young lady emerged from behind the counter and glared at him.Her face looks like the Virgin Mary, and her legs are as long as her upper body.

"What are you yelling about?" she asked. "No, I'm not roaring, that sound you hear is my teeth chattering. In my country, the fire in the living room is designed to give off heat, not to consume waste." She looked at him for a moment, as if to translate his words into a more intelligible language, and then walked past him to examine the fire. "Oh! My God!" she said, "It won't work, it's useless, you sit down first, and I'll get you some fire." She walked away and came back with a shovel to scoop up almost most of the sparks in the kitchen.Before he had time to clear the residue and vegetables from the stove, the lady poured the coals down.

"I'll get you some hot tea right away to keep you warm," she said. "Mr. Todd is down at the wharf with the ship's stuff right now, and he'll be right back." She comforted, as if the room would be warmed up as soon as the owner of the restaurant appeared.Grant took it for granted that she was apologizing for the lack of a formal welcome at the hotel. He sat watching the fire the kitchen had brought lose its spark as it began to spread to the pile of potato skins.He tried with all his might to get the wet, black mass out, to give the fire some air, but the mass stuck there and wouldn't budge.He watched the light of the fire fade away, and only a few red lights flitted across the black charcoal as the moving wind sucked the air from the house into the chimney.

He wanted to put on a windbreaker and walk in the rain, it should be a pleasant thing.But thinking about having hot tea to drink later, he still decided not to go out. After watching the fire for nearly an hour, the tea still hadn't come, but the boss, Mr. Todd, came back from the pier, followed by a boy in a blue sweater, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with large cardboard boxes.He welcomed it, saying that there were usually no guests at this time of year, so when he saw Grant disembark, he thought maybe he was going to stay at someone's house on the island, come here to collect songs or something.

His tone of "collecting songs" is so distant that it verges on the verge of commentary, so Grant concludes that the boss is not local. When Grant asked him, Mr. Todd said, no, he wasn't from here.He also had a nice little business hotel in the lowlands, but this one was more to his taste.Seeing the surprised expression on the guest's face, he added: "To tell you the truth, Mr. Grant, I'm tired of those people who keep knocking on the counter; you know, people who can't seem to wait a minute. Not here. Someone wants to knock on the counter, today, tomorrow, next week, the same for these islanders. I also feel like going crazy once in a while, just when there is something waiting to be done, but most days here are quiet and laid-back. I Your blood pressure has dropped." He noticed the fire, "This fire that Katie-an made for you is awful, you'd better come to my office and keep warm."

At this point Katie Ann put her head in through the door and said that she had been busy boiling water all this time, because the fire in the kitchen wasn't strong enough, and would Mr. Grant mind having afternoon tea with afternoon tea? Grant didn't mind. Grant asked the boss for a drink as she walked away to prepare her afternoon meal. "When my predecessor was in business, the magistrate canceled the license, and I haven't got it back! I plan to apply again next time, so I can't sell you alcohol now. In fact, there is no half license on this entire island, but If you come to my office, I'd love to buy you a whiskey."

The boss's office is small and the heat is almost suffocating.Grant savored the oven-like taste with satisfaction, and drank the cheap straight whiskey that the boss gave him.He took a chair and sat down, then stretched out to the flames in front of him. "Then you're not an authority on the island!" said Grant. Mr. Todd smiled. "In a way I am," he said narrowly, "but probably not in the way you say." "Who should I ask if I want to know about this place?" "Well! There are two authorities, Father Heslop and Reverend McKay. On the whole, it might be better to ask Father Heslop."

"You think he is more learned?" "No, as far as erudition is concerned, they are equal. But two-thirds of the island's inhabitants are Catholics, and if you go to the priest, you will only offend one-third of the island's population, not two-thirds. Of course Well, the Presbyterian third is more difficult to deal with, but purely in terms of numbers, you'd better go to Father Heslop. Anyway, better to see Father Heslop! Heretic, so people on both sides see me as an outlier. However, Father Heslop is in favor of my application for a license, while Reverend McKay is firmly against it."

He smiled again, and filled Grant's glass again. "I think the priest would rather these things be sold openly than privately." "That's right, that's it." "Has a man named Charles Martin ever lived here?" "Martin? No, not during the time I've been running. But if you want to see the lodging book, it's on the lobby table." "If the traveler doesn't stay in a hotel, where is he likely to stay? A rented room?" "No, no one rents out rooms on the island, and the houses on the island are too small. They probably lived with Father Hyslop or a priest. "Katian came to announce that his tea was ready in the sitting room, by which time Grant's once-frozen blood was flowing freely, and he was hungry. He was looking forward to his first meal in the 'little oasis of civilization in a savage world. It won't be salmon or trout, because he's had too much for the last eight or nine days, but he won't mind if it happens to be a piece of grilled finfish, which would be nice with local cream However, he would prefer to eat lobster, because this island is famous for lobster, and if he really fails, fresh fish dipped in oatmeal and fried are also good. To his amazement: his first meal on the happy island consisted of slices of orange smoked salmon hastily marinated in Aberdeen, bread made in Glasgow, oatcakes baked in a factory in Edinburgh, And not reheated, jam produced in a factory in Dundee, plus Canadian cream.The only local produce was a flat thing like Scotch pudding, tasteless or aromaless, crisp and white. The unshaded lamp in the drawing room was less appetizing than the gray afternoon light, so Grant had to flee to his own dyingly cold little room.Asked the hotel for two bottles of hot water, and suggested to Katie that since he was the only guest in the hotel, she should bring him the quilts from other rooms.She did the unconventional thing with true Celtic glee, piled all the quilts on his bed, and then choked on laughter herself. Grant lay in bed with five thin quilts over his coat and a Barbary waterproof, and pretended it was a good English eiderdown.As his body gradually warmed up, he was soberly aware that the whole room was permeated with a cold that was about to freeze the blood in his body.It was a ridiculous thing again, and suddenly he started laughing.He lay there laughing and laughing, as if he hadn't laughed in a year.Laughed until tears flowed, laughed until he was too tired to laugh anymore, and then lay exhausted, feeling very peaceful and happy, under the five various quilts. He thought that laughter must have a great impact on human endocrine, because a feeling of happiness surged through him like a wave of vitality. Especially if you are making fun of yourself, the effect may be more obvious.Make fun of the absurdity between yourself and the world. Going to the Paradise of Southern Europe, but first arriving at the Grada Hotel, this matter itself is completely absurd.Even if this hotel is the only thing the island can provide him, he still thinks the trip is worthwhile. He no longer cared that the room was lifeless and the blanket was not warm.He lay looking at the wallpaper of big roses and wished Lola could see it too.He remembered that he hadn't changed to the newly decorated room in Knuckle that had been his all along.Is Lola waiting for another visitor? Is it possible that the girl she recently introduced him to will live under the same roof as him? So far he has been happily away from the female crowd, every night in Knu Very peaceful family gathering.Did Lola say nothing, waiting for him to show interest? Lola had been rather chagrined that he might miss the opening of Moymore's new synagogue; Attending, is she waiting for a guest to attend the ceremony? This bedroom should not be reserved for Mrs. Kentallan, because she came from Angas and will leave that afternoon.So what was she going to do with the rest of the room when she was redecorating the bedroom? He was thinking about this little question before he went to sleep, and it wasn't until the next morning that he began to realize that he hated the closed window because it was what made the room so uncomfortable. Not ventilated, not because of airtightness. He washed himself with the two pints of lukewarm water Katie An had brought him, and went downstairs cheerfully.He felt like he was on top of the world.He ate with relish the Glasgow bread that had been out for a day longer than yesterday, oatcakes from Edinburgh, jam from Dundee, cream from Canada, and some sausages from the British interior.He no longer expects, he is ready to experience, ready to accept real existence. Despite the cold, wet weather and the thin quilt, he was pleased to find that his rheumatism had been cured, perhaps because he no longer had to find subconscious reasons not to go fishing.The wind howled in the chimneys and the sea sprayed from the breakwaters, but the rain had stopped.He put on his Barbary jacket, walked around the harbor in the opposite direction, and walked towards the store.There are only two shops in the row of houses in front of the harbor, one is a post office and the other is a supplier.These two stores provide all kinds of items needed by the residents of the island; the post office is also a book and newspaper store, and the suppliers are mixed grocery stores, iron dealers, pharmacies, cloth shops, shoe stores, tobacco stores, china stores, and boat shops. various functions.Bundles of cotton for curtains or dresses stood on shelves next to biscuit tins, and hams hanging from the roof were sandwiched between rows of knitted underwear.Grant noticed that today there was a large plate of twopenny loaves, which, if the label on the side was not mistaken, were from Auburn.A pile of bread crumbs fell off the side of the bread, which looked soft and inconspicuous, as if it had been randomly poured into a thick cardboard box. There was a slight smell of kerosene, but at least it could change the taste outside of Glasgow bread. . There was a group of people from the fishing boats in the harbor, and a short, round man in a black raincoat, who was obviously a priest.This is really a lucky thing.He felt that even the third of the Presbyterian Church would find it difficult to dislike him because of his chance encounters with priests in public places.He squeezed sideways to the priest, and together they waited for the fisherman in front of him to pay, and then they began to chat.It was the priest who spoke first, and there were five witnesses present.Furthermore, Father Heslop deftly brought Donken Tavish, the shopkeeper, into the conversation, and from the fact that Father Heslop referred to him as Tavish, rather than Donken, Grant speculates that the store owner Dong is not a priest's people.So Grant was happy to pick out kerosene-flavored bread and margarine among these islanders, because none of them would start a deadly war over which side he belonged to. He stepped into the storm outside the shop with Father Heslop, and walked home with him.Or it should be said that they fought the strong wind together, could only stagger forward a few steps at a time, and had to raise their voices when they spoke to drown out the crackling of the strong wind blowing their clothes.Grant was luckier than his companion in that he didn't wear a hat, but Father Heslop was not only shorter, but also had a streamlined figure suitable for surviving in the storm, without any edges and corners at all. It's good to get out of the strong wind and into the quiet of the house with the warm coal fire. "Molago!" shouted Father Heslop towards the far end of the room, "be good and bring me and my friend some tea, and maybe some round cakes." But Morago, like Katian, is not baked.The biscuits she brought were limp from the island's humidity.The tea is great though. Knowing that he was the subject of Father Heslop's curiosity, as everyone on the island was about him, he volunteered that he had been staying with relatives in Scotland to fish, but had stopped because of a shoulder discomfort.At the same time, he has always been fascinated by the things of the island, especially the "singing sand" of Grada, so he took this opportunity to have a look, maybe there will be no such opportunity in the future.He thought Father Heslop should be familiar with these "sands"? Oh! Yes, of course Father Heslop knew about these sands. He had been on the island for fifteen years.These sands are on the west side of the island, facing the Atlantic Ocean.It's quite close to here, and Grant can walk there in the afternoon. "I'd rather wait for good weather. It's better in the sun, isn't it?" "But at this time of year, you're probably waiting weeks for a nice day in the sun to enjoy." "I thought spring would come to the island earlier?" "Oh! I think that's just the wishful thinking of those who write books. This year is my sixteenth spring in Grada, and I haven't encountered it coming early. Spring is the same as the islanders here." He said Added with a smile. They talked of the weather, of the winter storms (which, according to Father Heslop, are nothing but westerlies in comparison to-day. , they also spoke of the biting humidity and occasionally idyllic summer days. Why this seemingly unattractive place had captured the imagination of so many people, Grant really wanted to know. Well, maybe partly because they always saw the place in midsummer; and maybe those who came were disappointed but wouldn't admit it to themselves or to friends who didn't come with them.So they compensate themselves by exaggerating.However, Father Heslop's personal opinion is that most people come here to escape from their own lives subconsciously, and after they come, they only look at the scenery they have imagined in advance.These islands are very beautiful through their eyes. Grant thought for a moment, then asked if he knew a man named Charles Martin who was interested in singing sand. No.Father Heslop said that as far as he could remember, he never knew a man named Charles Martin, that he had been to Gradda Grant didn't know. He left the priest's, stepped into the storm, and followed the wind all the way back to the hotel like an old drunkard stumbling around.There was an indistinguishable smell of hot food in the empty hall, and the wind howled in from under the door, singing like a choir.But there was a decent fire in the living room.Facing the screams of the wind in the corridor and the roar of the wind blowing down the chimney, he ate beef from South America, carrots canned in Lincolnshire, potatoes from Murray, milk pudding packaged in North London, and I Canned fruit from the Forsham Valley.Now, he was no longer restricted by the magic power, and gratefully ate all the food in front of him.Even though Grada did not give him spiritual pleasure, it gave him a great appetite physically. "Kathian, you never bake round cakes?" asked Grant as he told himself when to drink tea. "You want round cakes?" she said in surprise. "I can bake you some if you want. But we were going to have cakes from the bakery for you to go with your tea, and biscuits and gingerbread. Or you Would you rather have a round cake?" Thinking of "cakes from the bakery," he immediately eagerly spoke of baking round cakes. "Then," she said kindly, "of course I'll bake you a round cake." He walked for an hour along the depressing earth-gray road, through the depressing earth-gray desolation.Although the right side is shrouded in a mist, it can still be seen that it is a hillside, and the visible height is only there.Everything around me was as stifling as being in a swamp on a wet January day.Often the wind would blow from the left and send him round and round, out of the way, and then he would have to struggle back, half amused and half exasperated.In the distance there were scattered farmhouses huddled against the ground like hats, with no windows or signs of habitation. Ropes were used to hang stones from the roofs of some farmhouses to protect against strong winds.All houses have no fences, no garages, no gardens or groves.This is the most primitive way of life, everything within the four walls is under the barn door, within the slats. Then, the wind suddenly smelled salty. In less than half an hour he was there, without warning, across a great wet green meadow, which must be blooming in summer. The large meadow looked as if it stretched to the horizon and was part of this flat, endless world of gray swamps.He had intended to walk down to the end of the horizon, so he was surprised to see that the horizon was just ten miles away at sea.In front of you is the Atlantic Ocean. Although it is not beautiful, its vastness and simplicity are unforgettable. The green sea water was filthy and broken, roaring all the way to the beach, and then burst into white in an instant.To the left or to the right, one long stretch of breaking waves and white sand as far as the eye can see.There is only green sea and sand in this world. Standing there watching, he remembered that the nearest land was America.Facing the vastness of the world, he felt the incredible feeling of the insignificance of human beings that he never had since he stood in the desert of North Africa. The appearance of the sea was so sudden, and its violence so irresistible, that he froze there for a while, and then suddenly woke up. It was the sand here that brought him to the edge of the western world in a March day. . These are the singing sands. Nothing sings today but the wind and the Atlantic.Together they create a Wagnerian turmoil, no less physically shocking than strong winds and sea waves.The whole world is a crazy din of grays and whites and wild noises. He walked along the fine white sand to the water's edge, and let the rough waves beat him.Being close to the sea gave him an inexplicable feeling, which melted his sense of insignificance and uneasiness, and made him feel the superiority of human nature.He turned his back to the sea almost contemptuously, like a child who is not polite but tries to express himself.He felt warm, alive, in charge, with admirable intelligence and a satisfying sense of perception.He walked back toward the sand, irrationally confident that he was a human being.As he turned his back to the desolate, salty sea breeze, he found the air from the land soft and warm, like opening a door.He went on walking across the grass without looking back, the wind chasing him along the flat swamp, but it was no longer in his face and there was no salt in his nostrils.Now his nostrils were filled with the sweet smell of damp earth, the smell of growing things. He is very happy. He finally went downhill towards the harbor, looked at the misty mountains, and decided in his heart: he must come to climb this mountain tomorrow. He was famished when he got back to the restaurant, so he was happy to have two local homemade foods for afternoon tea.One is the round cake baked by Katian, and the other is a kind of thin cake called slisi ke. He knows this is an ancient delicacy. Beef can be appetizing.But as he ate the first course, he kept smelling a smell that reminded him more of his happy days in Scotland than Slyshack.The pungent yet delicate scent echoed in his mind, arousing nostalgic feelings in him. He didn't know what it was until he cut his knife into the round cake Katian had baked.The tortilla was so yellow with so much baking soda that it was almost inedible.He salutes Katiean with regret for the memories they bring up (the whole plate of soda-scented yellow roti, served on the farmhouse kitchen table for the farmhands to drink with tea: oh! Tinan Ou!), who buries two Catian rounds in the sparkling coals under the hob for Glasgow bread. This night, he neither stared at the wallpaper like the night before, nor fell asleep without remembering the closed windows.