Chapter 6 Chapter 4 Octopus · 1

1 Norman set off on Sunday. On the day he left, Rossi's work hadn't been fully settled yet, and he was making preparations.Norman also took the 11:05 Continental Express.He didn't decide to do it to save a few bucks; it was to slip into Rose's head without knowing it.Norman didn't want to admit how hard her sudden departure had hit him.He tried to convince himself that all the worries and anxieties were about that credit card and nothing else.But he knew very well in his heart: the real reason was that he hadn't found any clues so far; he didn't even have a hunch.

He had been familiar with Rose's every thought, and even all of her dreams, through the years of their marriage, and it was driving him mad for such a sudden and utter change.Although he didn't admit it publicly, he didn't completely cover it up either. What he couldn't tolerate was that her plan had been brewing for weeks or months, or even a year, and he didn't know anything about it!If he had known the real reason for her departure, in other words, if he had known how much that drop of blood on the sheet had affected her; he would have been relieved long ago.Of course, it is also possible to be more disturbed.

He once wanted to hide the real situation of the search for his missing wife and implement the tracking plan as a detective, but later realized that this impulse was really unwise.Sobered by a phone call from Oliver Robbins, he decides to hide both identities, imagining himself as Rose, imitating her way of thinking.It all started when she stepped into the car she was in.He carried his short-distance travel bag, strode into the car, stood behind the driver and looked into the aisle. "Brother, can you go inside a little?" "Would you like to have a broken nose?" Norman replied without hesitation.The guy behind him never said another word.

He took a moment to consider which seat (she) he was sitting in.She won't sit in the back all the time, and Rose, who is too picky, will never choose a seat near the toilet unless the other seats are full; Norman's good friend Oliver Robbins (his and Rose's ticket from him) assured him that the 11:05 bus was never full.She will not sit near the wheels, because it is too bumpy; she will not sit in front, because it is too eye-catching.Only the center left seat is the best for her.She is left-handed.People often mistakenly think that they will make choices at will. In fact, any choice is not random. Generally, people always choose the side that is convenient for them subconsciously.

During his years as a police officer, he came to believe in telepathy.It's a bit difficult, but possible.The key is not to get the roles wrong, or you will fail.Like a small animal that can burrow, you have to find a way to enter the mind of your prey, and you have to listen carefully for the sound of brain waves (not pulse); Not her mind.When you find this kind of thing, you can take a shortcut - you can follow the prey's thinking track all the way until one night when she is unprepared, you slam the back door open...or hide in the bed Underneath, stab it hard with the knife prepared in advance, and with the squeaking sound of the mattress, the poor worm died.

"Attack when you are unprepared." Norman sat on the chair she might have sat in, muttering in a low voice.He admired his voice, so as the car slowly pulled out of the narrow driveway and headed west, he said to himself again silently: "Do it when you are not prepared." It's been a long trip, but Norman loves it.Twice along the way he went to the bathroom at a break point, he didn't really need to go, but he knew she would because she couldn't possibly use the toilet in the car, she's a fussy person, and her kidneys are like that weak.It might have been inherited from her late mother, who thought Norman was a bastard who could never wait to run past the lilac bushes before he pissed.

When the car drove to the second rest point, he saw several people smoking around the ashtray at the corner of the platform.He stared helplessly for a while, then left again.He longed for one, but Rose didn't have the appetite.He got a few stuffed animals, because Rose liked that kind of crap, and got some detective novels from the shelf by the platform door, because she loved to read that kind of nonsense sometimes.He didn't know how many times he had told her that the real policeman was definitely not the one described in this garbage book, and she always agreed with him—since he said so, it must be true— —but she's still reading this shit.Rose probably visited this shelf, picked up the book, hesitated for a moment, and put it back. She didn't want to spend five yuan on three hours of entertainment. This is not surprising, because she has too little money and too many problems to solve many.

He ate his salad and forced himself to read before heading back to the car.Soon the car was on the road again, and the fields opened up before his eyes as he got farther to the east.At this time, the driver reminded everyone to turn back the time on the watch by one hour, and he did so, not because he gave in (he didn't care about the time zone difference, and he would use his own time for the next thirty days), but because Luo Silk would do that.He opened the book and put it down wearily when he read about a priest who had found a dead body in his garden. "While you're not prepared," he said.

He got out of the car early the next morning, stood outside the car door, stared at the huge echoing coach station, and tried to judge the appearance of those whores, cigarette butt pickers and beggars by the standard of Rose rather than the police. At the same moment when human nature was at its lowest ebb, she got off the same car, entered the same long-distance bus station, and saw the same scene. He stood watching the echoing gigantic structure, drowning in its looks, smells, smells, and sensations. who am I?he asked himself. Rose Daniels, he replied. how do i feel now Small.lost.fear.Things couldn't get any worse, and I'm terrified.

A dreadful thought came to his mind: Could she touch someone she shouldn't have, out of fear and panic?It's entirely possible.This kind of place is like a free border area for some bad guys, what if that guy takes her to a dark corner to rob and murder?It was useless to say it couldn't be; he was a cop and he knew it could happen.If that fool sees that gum ring on her finger... He took a few deep breaths and concentrated on thinking: Suppose I were Rose, what should I do now.If she was really murdered, she had to go, and there was nothing he could do.But what he couldn't stand the most was that she had escaped him in this way, and let some stupid guy take what should belong to him, Norman Daniels!

It's okay, he told himself.Do what you have to do, and from now on, you will walk, talk and think like Rose. With his wallet in his hand (the purse imaginary Rose's), he walked slowly out of the coach station.The crowd surged like a tide, some were pulling suitcases with their hands, some were carrying cardboard boxes on their shoulders, the lady put her arms around her boyfriend's waist, and the man put his arm on the woman's shoulders... At this moment, a man approached a man with a belt The child's woman ran over, and the man picked up the child and threw it up. The little boy shrank into a ball in shock and joy. I was terrified—everything was so foreign, I was terrified, Norman told himself.What can I do in a place like this, who can I trust? He walked on the large tiled floor, listening carefully for the echo of his footsteps, trying to see things through Rose's eyes, to feel the environment with her skin.A group of children are having fun in the arcade.She looked at the payphone booth, who could she call?She has no friends or family—not even her old aunt in Providence, Texas.She looked at the door leading out, maybe she wanted to get out of here, find a place on the street where she could spend the night, and shut out this dangerous world.Thanks to his credit card, she has enough money to find a room, but will she do it? No, he felt she would not do that.I don't want to go to a motel room at three o'clock in the morning and be kicked out at noon because it's not worth it.I can totally stay up late when I have to.Of course there were other reasons for my stay: it was a strange city, and there were still two hours before dawn.I've seen a lot of TV shows, read a lot of detective novels, and married a cop, so I know what happens when a woman goes out alone in the middle of the night.I will wait until dawn. But how should I pass the time? The feeling of hunger in his belly gave him an idea. Yes, I have to eat, the last car break was at six o'clock in the evening, and I'm starving now. There is a cafeteria not far from the ticket window. Norman walked in that direction, stepped over the body of the homeless, and tried his best to restrain the strong desire, so as not to kick those bastards with hair ties on their heads to leave. His nearest steel chair leg.Lately he has had to fight this urge more and more frequently.He hates homeless people, they are like pigs and dogs.He hated their wailing for forgiveness and their stupid excuses.Someone touched him, asked if he had spare change, and Norman resisted the urge to punch him with traditional Indian punches.He succeeded, and said softly, "Get away from me, please," because she might say so. He was about to get the roast and fried eggs when it occurred to him that she never eats them unless he insists on her eating them (it doesn't matter what you eat, the important thing is who decides in the game of life ).He had to order some cold food, a disgusting cup of coffee and half a grape sleeve that looked like it came to America on the Mayflower ocean liner in 1620.The food cleared him up and he felt better immediately.After eating, he subconsciously took out a cigarette and habitually took out a lighter from his shirt pocket. Just as he was about to light it, he suddenly let go.Rose doesn't smoke, so she's not subject to this desire.After a few minutes of deep meditation, the burning desire was finally suppressed, and he knew he could do it. He came out of the cafeteria, tucking into his shirt with his free hand.Then he saw a large circular advertisement in blue and white with the words "Travel Assistance" written on it. Suddenly, a white light flashed in Norman's mind. I'd love to check out the cabin under the ad, maybe there's something for me. Of course I will.Where else can you go? He walked sideways to the door of the hut, first walked quietly, then turned around and returned, and carefully observed the staff inside from all angles.This is a Jewish naive guy with a slender neck, about fifty years old, who looks very similar to a friend of Bambi's, nicknamed the Trumpeter, and has a certain degree of danger.He was reading a newspaper (Norman recognized it as the Prada) and looked up from time to time to glance casually into the bus station. If Norman was still Rose, Trumpeter would have seen him. But now Norman is himself again, Agent Daniels sent out on surveillance missions in the field and blending in with the scene. He's been arcing back and forth behind the cabin all the while (in this place where no one suspects you as long as you are not standing still), and though out of sight of the Trumpeter, his voice can be heard. At a quarter past four, a weeping woman came in from Travel Assistance.She told Trumpeter that she had boarded the Continental Express from New York and that her purse had been stolen while she was sleeping.The woman went on and on and used up so much of the Trumpeter's Kleenex that he finally found her a hotel for a night or two until her husband sent money. If I were your husband, ma'am, I'd send the money myself, Norman thought, continuing to hang around the back of the cabin.And I'll kick your butt a few times first to see if you still get sick in the future. When the trumpeter called the hotel, he told him his name was Peter Slovik.For Norman, that was enough.When the Jew explained to the lady the directions to the hotel, Norman left the cabin and went to the payphone box, where the two telephone books had not been soiled, torn, or taken, and he would have It is possible to call his police station and get the information he needs, but he would rather not do that.Based on his observations of the Jewish naive who read the Prada newspaper, he thought the phone was dangerous and would invite unnecessary trouble.He found three Sloviks, only one named Peter. Norman tore off the page with Trumpeter's address, walked out of the tall coach station, and came to the taxi stand.At the front was a white driver, and Norman asked him if there were any hotels in the city that accepted cash and were cockroach-free.The driver thought for a few seconds, then nodded and said, "Only the White Rock Hotel. It's clean, cheap, takes cash, and never asks." Norman opened the back door and got in the car. "Let's do it," he said. 2 On Monday morning, when Rosie followed a red-haired lady with long legs like a fashion model into the studio of Block C of the recording office, Rabbi Lefferts was waiting for her as he said, and he seemed to be in Jiekou was so kind and kind when he persuaded her to read aloud.Rhoda Simmons, a woman of about forty, was also kind to her, and she would be her future director.director!How could such a strange word be associated with Rosie McClendon, who had never even tried classroom acting.Recording engineer Curtis Hamilton, despite busy adjusting the console, was only able to shake her hand briefly and tokenly, and was very friendly to her.Rosie joins the rabbi and Ms Simmons for coffee, which she makes neatly and with poise, before the sails are ready (the rabbi uses that word for starting work).However, when she stepped through the double soundproof doors and came to the small recording studio with an entire glass wall, a feeling of panic immediately took hold of her, as if she was about to be crushed to pieces by some kind of thunderous force.She almost threw away a stack of photocopied materials that Rhoda called lines in her hand.She felt again what she had felt when she saw a red car in Westmoreland and was mistaken for Norman's red Sandra. She saw them looking at her from the other side of the glass, even that stern little Curtis Hamilton was looking at her—their faces were distorted and erratic through the glass wall, and there seemed to be nothing between them. It is through water, not through air.She thought that this is what the goldfish saw from the water when people bent over the edge of the fish pond to look in.Then she thought: I absolutely can't.In the name of God, what the hell is wrong with me that I think I can do it? There was a click that almost made her jump. "Ms. McLandon?" It was the recording engineer's voice. "Would you please sit at the microphone and let me adjust the sound?" She didn't know if she could do it.She seemed to grow on the ground, and she didn't even know if she could move her feet.She felt that the microphone in front of her looked like a terrible poisonous snake in the future world.Even if she struggles to walk over, she won't be able to utter a word when she sits down. Rosie seemed to see everything she had carefully built crumble; The indifference of girlfriends even includes Anna herself. I can't keep the old job for you, she heard Anna say in her mind, you know very well that there are always new people coming in at the sisters' house, and people are constantly coming and going, and only the newcomers have priority.Rossi, why are you so stupid?With such a low status, why do you think you are going to be a lifelong artist?She seems to see herself being rejected for a job as a waitress at a downtown coffee shop, not because she looks bad, but because she smells bad—she's broken, humiliated , completely lost all hope. "Rosie?" It was Rabbi Lefferts' voice. "Please sit down, Kurt needs to adjust his voice." He didn't know, not all those men knew, only Rhoda Simmons knew, at least she had doubts about her.She pulled a pencil stuck in her hair and scribbled absently on a card in front of her.Her eyes were not on the card, but on Rosie.She frowned. Like a drowning man trying to find anything to support on the surface of the water, Rosie suddenly found himself remembering the painting.She actually hung it where Anna suggested—by the living room window, where the original tenant had left a picture hook.It's really a perfect place, especially at night, when the sun is setting in the green of Bryant Park, you can look out for a while, then go back to the painting, and then enjoy the park again The two things go together perfectly.She didn't know why it was so perfect, but it was.If she lost the house, the painting would be gone too. Impossible, it has to hang there, she thought.It should have been hanging there! At least now she could move her feet.She walked slowly to the table, put the lines on the table, and sat down.The lines are an enlarged version of the novel published in 1951.She felt that she was about to fall, as if someone had put a nail in her knee and now it had been pulled out. Rosie, you can do well, a deep voice reassured her.You read it so well on the corner of the rental store, you can certainly read it here too. She was not surprised to find that she was not at all persuaded by the voice.What surprised her was actually her other thought: the woman in the painting is not afraid, and the woman in the rose red skirt is definitely not afraid of such a trivial thing. Of course, this kind of thinking is ridiculous. If the woman in the painting is real, she should have lived in ancient times, when comets were considered bad omens; What is it.If that woman lived to this day and walked into this room with glass walls and cold light and a steel snake protruding from the only drawer, she would run out screaming, or immediately fainted. But Rosie had a feeling that the blond woman in the pink tutu had never fainted in her life, and that the puny recording studio would never make her scream. That deep voice inside her said again, as if you think she really exists, that voice sounded a little nervous.Are you sure your approach is wise? If it's going to get me through, that's all for now.She answered the voice. "Rosie?" Rhoda's voice came through the microphone, "How do you feel?" "I'm fine," she said.She was relieved to find that her voice was still the same, only a little hoarse, "I'm just a little thirsty and scared." "There's water and juice in the cooler to the left of the table," Rhoda said. "A little bit of fear is normal and will pass." "Rosie, can you tell me something?" Curtis said, wearing a pair of headphones and adjusting the readings on a row of dials. Thanks to Rose Maid, the woman of the same name in a rose red skirt, the horror and panic are finally over.From the effect point of view, as long as I recall that oil painting, it is better than shaking in a rocking chair for fifteen minutes before. No, it's not her role, but your own efforts, her inner voice is telling her.You won, at least for now, little sister, you did.No matter what happens, please remember who is the real Rosie here and who is Rosie himself. Curtis told her, "Please say something, anything." She was really at a loss.Her gaze shifted to the lines before her.The first page was a copy of the cover, showing a hulking man with a beard threatening a thin woman who was getting dressed with a knife. "The book I'm going to read next is called The Octopus," she said in what she hoped would be a normal voice. "It was published in 1951 by Lion, a small publishing company. Although the book The name of the author written on the cover is...is that much enough?" "That's fine for now," Curtis said, connecting power from his workbench to his swivel chair. "One more time, I need to adjust the audio. By the way, your voice is very good. " Rhoda said, "Yes, that's great." Rosie thought her tone of relief didn't sound like a director's. Encouraged, Rossi spoke into the microphone again. "The cover says it's written by Richard Racine, but Mr Lefferts, the rabbi, says it's actually written by a lady named Christina Bell. It's an entire series of audiobooks called The Woman Who Can Disguise, and I got the job because the lady reading Christina Bell's novels got a..." "All right," said Curtis Hamilton. "My God, she sounds like Liz Taylor in Butterfield Episode VIII," Rhoda Simmons said, clapping. The rabbi nodded.He looked happy and grinned. "Rhoda will always help you, but we'd be happier if you were as good as you were when you read The Dark Passage to me outside the store in Liberty City." To avoid banging her head against the corner of the table, Rosie bent down and poured a glass of water from the water cooler.She found her hands shaking as she turned the switch. "I'll do my best, I promise you." "I know you will," he said. Rosie said to herself, think of the girl with the same name on top of the hill.Think about it, she stands there fearlessly, neither afraid of the approaching danger in her world, nor afraid of facing the unknown in my world.Although she doesn't have a weapon in her hand, she is not afraid. You don't need to look at her expression, just look at the posture behind her.she has... "Everything is ready," Rosie whispered, a smile on her face. The rabbi leaned against his side of the glass and said, "Excuse me, I didn't catch you." "I mean it's all set," she said. "The pitch is fine," Curtis said, turning to Rhoda, who was laying a facsimile of the novel next to a stack of blank paper. "Professor, you can start when you are ready." "Okay, Rosie, let's show them how to do it beautifully," Rhoda said, "This book is the novel "Octopus" by Christina Bell, commissioned by Audio New Concepts, Directed by Rhoda Simmons, narrated by Rosie McClendon. Tape out now, taping about to begin..." Oh my God, I can't, thought Rosie again, shrinking the image that had emerged from her imagination to a brilliantly bright halo, and as the armband worn by the woman of the same name became clearer and clearer, The spasms in her muscles were also gradually subsiding. "Chapter One." "Naira didn't realize she was being followed by a man in an old gray coat until she was between the traffic lights and the rubbish-filled intersection. A path opened wide to her left like a dying man. The old man's mouth was stuffed with food. It was very late at this time, and she heard the sound of steel shoes hitting the ground behind her, and the sound was getting closer. A huge dusty hand stretched out to the dark place. night sky..." 3 At a quarter past seven that night, Rosie used her key to a small second-floor room on Ivy Avenue.The city came a little earlier this summer, and she was tired and hot, but very happy.She carried a basket of vegetables on her arm, and a roll of yellow advertising paper was exposed outside the basket. It was an advertisement for a summer dinner concert held by the Sisters' House.Rosie passed by the sisters' home and went in to tell everyone how her day's work was going (her mind was full of fresh content related to today's work), and when she left, Robin St. James asked if she could By the way, take some advertisements and put them at the shopkeeper next door.Rosie, trying to keep herself from getting overly excited about having a neighbor, promised to bring as many as she could. "You're such a lifesaver," Robin said.This year she's in charge of ticket sales, and she doesn't want to hide that things aren't going well. "If anyone asks you, Rosie, just tell them there are no truant boys here, and we're not a lot of lesbians. Tickets probably won't sell well." That's why. Okay?" "No problem." Although Rosie answered her, she thought in her heart, I absolutely can't do this kind of thing.She couldn't imagine giving a lesson about sisters' homes to a shopkeeper she'd never known. But she thought, I can say this, they are all beautiful women, she turned on the electric fan in the corner, opened the refrigerator and put a few things in.When she was done, she exclaimed, "No, I'm talking about the ladies, and they're all beautiful ladies." Yes, it sounds much nicer to say that.For men, especially those over forty, for some reason, the word "lady" sounds much more comfortable than "woman".From Rosie's point of view, the fuss and fuss and haggle over words some women seem to be foolish.But the thought immediately brought back memories of how Norman talked about the prostitutes he had caught; Miss").He never called them women either.He called them girls, girls this, girls that.Only now did she realize how much she hated the word at the back of her throat.Girl, it looks like you're trying to keep yourself from throwing up. Forget about him, Rosie, he's not here.He will not find here in the future. This simple thought filled her with joy, wonder, and gratitude.Someone had told her—probably in the treatment room—that the euphoric feeling would pass sooner or later, but she found it hard to believe.She was alone, she had escaped the clutches, she was free. Rosie closed the refrigerator door, turned, and looked around her room.There was not much furniture, no ornament of any kind except her paintings, but there was nothing here that she would not boast and boast of with self-satisfaction.Norman Daniels has never seen a beautiful cream color on the walls; Norman Daniels has never pushed her from this chair to keep her "fit"; Norman Daniels has never It's impossible to laugh at the news without watching the news with this TV, or to cheer the reruns of the home video show.And the most important thing is that she doesn't have to sit in any corner and cry to remind herself that if she feels sick in her stomach, she must vomit in the apron.It's all because he's not here now.He will not be here in the future either. "I'm alone..." Rosie murmured, and hugged herself tightly, with joy in her heart. She walked across the room to the painting, and the rosy skirt of the blond woman seemed to glisten in the late spring sunlight.Because she's a woman, Rosie thought.She's not a lady, and she's not even a girl.Standing proudly on the top of the hill, she looked fearlessly at the ruins of the temple below and the fallen statues of the gods... Gods?But there's only one statue on it... isn't there? No, she saw two statues—one was peacefully looking at the approaching thunderstorm in the clear sky, and the other was watching the grassy path. You can even see the eyebrows, one eye socket and one earlobe on the stone statue the white curve, and nothing else can be seen.She hadn't noticed this other statue before, but there were probably many things in this painting that she hadn't noticed, many tiny details... ...these are all nonsense!The style of this work is actually very simple and clear. "Yes, exactly," Rosie whispered. She found herself reminded of the story Cynthia told. In the vicarage where she lived, there was an oil painting called De Soto Looking West.How to explain that she admired the oil painting like watching TV, and watched it for hours?And she also saw the river flowing? "It must be fake, she can't see the river flowing," Rosie said, opening the window to let the spring breeze blow in and fill the room.From the playground in the park came the faint voices of the little ones, the older ones playing baseball. "By the way, it must be fake. This is a kid's trick. I played it when I was young." She put a stick in the slit and propped the window up with it.If you don't, it will only turn on for a short while, then turn off with a snap.She began to look at the painting again.She was dismayed to see, and quite sure, that the folds of the rose-red skirt had changed, that they had changed places.These folds have changed position because the woman in the short skirt has changed the angle. "You must be crazy if you think so," Rosie said to herself, her heart pounding. "Pure daydream. You know it can't happen." She knew, but she still bent down and observed carefully.Her eyes stayed on the spot under the skirt for about thirty seconds, holding her breath so that the oil painting would not be blocked by the fog on the glass.Finally, she let out a breath of relief, letting the air out of her lungs feel comfortable.She was sure that the creases in the rose red skirt hadn't changed in the slightest.It has been wonderful and terrifying.After a tense, long day, her imagination conjured up this prank to play tricks on her. "Yeah, but I've finally made it through," she told her eponymous girl in a tutu.She is used to talking to her loudly.This might be an odd behavior, but so what?Did it hurt anyone?No one can know.The girl's back is turned to the audience, making it even more believable that she is really listening. Rosie went to the window and put her hands on the sill and looked out.Across the street, jubilant kids were playing baseball, concentrating on every pitch.Just below her window, a car was pulling into the driveway.There had been a time when she was terrified whenever a car drove up, felt Norman's fist and the Academy ring swinging at her, the words "Loyalty, Service, Public Interest" on the ring getting bigger and bigger, Until it fills the whole world... Those days are finally over.Thank God. "I actually feel like I've done more than just complete a job," she said of the painting. "I think I've done a great thing. The rabbi thinks so too. But I have to convince Rhoda. She didn't like me when I first went because I was hired by the rabbi, you understand?" she said. Looking back again, I stared at the figure in the portrait like a friend, trying to judge from her face whether these thoughts were convincing, but the girl in the portrait was still looking at the temple at the foot of the mountain, continuing to express herself The back of that is left to the people to judge. "You know what, us little sisters can be mean sometimes," Rosie said with a laugh. "But I think my charm finally got her. We've only done fifty pages, and I'm feeling better and better, and all those old books aren't too thick. I'm sure I can finish this Wednesday afternoon. This book, you want to know what is the most wonderful thing? I made almost a hundred and twenty dollars a day--not a week, but a day--and three of Christina's novels, if Rabbi and Rhoda both If you give it to me, I—" She shut her mouth suddenly and looked at the portrait with wide eyes, unable to hear the faint shouts of children across the street, or the sound of footsteps on the stairs.She is observing some objects farther to the right of the portrait—the curve of the eyebrows has not changed, the eyeballs have disappeared, and the contours of the ears have disappeared.She suddenly had an epiphany.My judgment just now was not completely correct—there was no second stone statue before. Before I went to the company to record "Octopus", the stone statue did not appear in the painting. The wrinkle on the skirt of the woman with the same name changed its position. Illusions created by the subconscious mind in order to support false impressions.不过那种幻觉毕竟对她发生了作用。 “画像变大了一点，”罗西说。 不，并不完全如此。 她举起手，在空中比划着镜框的尺寸，断定它同原来一样，仍然占据着三英尺高两英尺宽的墙面。她还在镜框里面看到了同样的白色衬垫物。究竟什么是最重要的？ 第二尊石雕像从来就不在那里，这才是至关重要的。That's about it. 罗西突然觉得头晕，胃里一阵恶心。她紧紧闭上双眼，按摩着额角即将爆发头痛的那个部位。当她睁开双眼时，眼前仍是她最初看到的那幅画像，而不是孤立的几个部分：神庙遗址，倒在地上的雕像，玫瑰红短裙，举起的左手，它们用一个整体的内在的声音召唤着她。 现在她看到了更多的东西。她几乎肯定这决不是幻觉，而是不折不扣的现实。油画不仅仅是变大了一点，她看见每一边都大了许多……上边和下边的尺寸都增大了。而且好像电影放映师发现用错了焦距，正在从三十五毫米的窄银幕调整到七十毫米的宽银幕上。现在你不仅能够看到克林特·伊斯特伍德，还能看到他周围的牛仔。 你这个傻瓜，罗西。油画并没有变大。 are not there?那你怎么解释第二尊石雕像？她断定它一直存在，其所以直到现在才看到它，那是因为…… “因为现在右边多出了一些东西，”她咕哝着，眼睛睁得滚圆，不知道这其中包含着灾难还是奇迹。“左边也多了一点，还有——” 突然，身后响起一阵紧张的敲门声，那声音又急又轻，似乎连成了一片。罗西匆匆转过身，感到自己似乎是在水底作业，或者在做慢动作。 她没有锁门。 敲门声又响了起来。她想起刚才在窗口看到一辆小巧玲珑的汽车开进了车道，是单身旅行者从赫斯或艾维斯公司租到的那种汽车。她脑海中所有那些和油画有关的想象都被绝望和服从的黑色基调取代了。诺曼终于找到了她。虽然花了一点时间，但是他终于办到了。 她回忆起上次和安娜谈话的内容。安娜问她假如诺曼真的出现她该么办。她说，锁好门，拨打911。可是她忘了锁门，也没有安电话。多么可怕而又富有讽刺意味。起居室的墙角有一个可以使用的电话插座，她今天中午刚刚去了一趟电话公司，交纳了预付金。负责接待她的女士给她一张白卡片，上面写着她的电话号码，罗西将它塞进皮包就离开了。其实她还经过了一个电话机专卖店，但是仍然打算抽时间去湖滨市场买一台，这样就可以省下十块钱。现在，都怪那该死的十块钱…… 门外沉默下来了。但是当她从底下的门缝往外看时，看见了皮鞋的形状，黑色发亮的皮鞋。他不再穿警服了，但仍穿那种坚硬的黑皮鞋。她能够证明它的坚硬程度，因为在他们共同的岁月中，它曾经多次在她的小腿、腹部和臀部，留下过伤痕。 敲门声又响了起来。敲了三次，每次三下：砰砰砰，停顿；砰砰砰，停顿；砰砰砰。 这天早晨在录音棚里由于过度惊慌面差点儿窒息时，她想起了油画上的同名女人，她站在郁郁葱葱的小山顶上，不畏惧近在咫尺的暴风骤雨，不害怕荒凉废墟中出没的鬼魂、侏儒或者四处游荡的流氓恶棍，她丝毫没有惊慌失措。从她的背后，从她若无其事举起的左手，甚至（罗西确信不疑）从她若隐若现的胸部，都可以看出这样的自信。 毕竟我和她不同，我害怕他——如此地害怕，以至于差点尿在了裤子里——但是我不会就这样等着你来抓我的，诺曼。对上帝起誓，我决不。 她试着回忆格特，肯肖曾经给她做过示范的摔跤术，抓住凶猛对手的上臂，然后突然转身。她焦急地回忆着具体的动作要领，却什么也想不起来。她脑海中只有诺曼龇牙咧嘴地一步步逼近，紧挨着她谈一谈的情景。 紧紧地挨着她。 那只菜篮仍然在厨房的柜台上放着，上面露出了黄色的野餐会广告。她已经将容易变质的食品放进了冰箱，篮子里还有几样精心挑选的罐头食品。她挪动着像木头一样毫无知觉的双腿，走到厨房柜台前，把手伸进了菜篮。 三声更加急促的敲门声；砰砰砰。 “来了。”罗西说。她听到自己的声音惊人地冷静。她从菜篮里挑出了一样最大的家伙：一个两磅重的调味外罐头。她紧紧地抓住它，迈开僵硬的双腿，往门口走去。“来了，请等一下，我这就开门。” 4 罗西在市场上购物时，诺曼·丹尼尔斯吸着香烟，身穿内衣躺在白石旅馆的床上，目光呆滞地看着天花板。 他曾像许多男孩一样偷着吸父亲的蓓尔美尔牌香烟，抓住了便挨一顿打，吸烟的习惯就是这样养成的。如果在位于闹市区的州立49号公路拐弯处偷着吸烟，就不会遭此待遇。你可以弯腰靠在奥布瑞维尔杂货店和邮局门外的电话亭上，竖起夹克衫的领子，把香烟挂在下嘴唇上。“够帅的，宝贝儿，你是一堆最酷的垃圾4”当你的朋友开着他们的旧车驶过你身边时，他们怎能知道你经常像老鹰捉小鸡一样对你老爸的食品柜来一番彻底的清扫，否则你就得有足够的勇气，去杂货店买一盒自己的香烟，老格里高利会哼着鼻子说，回家吧，等你长出了胡子再来。 吸烟在他十五岁时变成了一项重要的活动，而且是非常重要的活动。它足以弥补所有那些他想要而又没有的东西（例如汽车，甚至一辆像他朋友开的那种旧捷洛普车，引擎安在仪表盘上，车灯包了一圈白色塑料钢，减震器用一卷破铁丝固定住）。十六岁时他摆脱了控制，一天吸两包，每天早上发出只有真正的烟民才会发出的干咳声。 在他和罗丝结婚三年后，她的全家——父亲，母亲，十六岁的弟弟，被同时撞死在49号公路上。当天下午他们刚从飞乐采石俱乐部游泳回来，一辆运砂车掉头时，像捻死窗户上的苍蝇一样撞倒了他们。后来在离撞车现场三十码外的一个下水道里找到了老麦克兰登的脑袋，他的嘴大张着，一只眼睛里溅满了脏东西（当时丹尼尔斯是个警察，一般来说警察会经常听到这类事情）。丹尼尔斯一点也没有为他们感到难过，事实上，他反而在事故发生后感到幸灾乐祸。像老麦克兰登这种爱管闲事的杂种终于得到了应有的下场。麦克兰登经常爱问他女儿一些不该问的问题。至少罗西已经不再是麦克兰登的女儿了。从法律上讲，她是诺曼·丹尼尔斯的妻子。 他猛吸了一口香烟，吐出三个烟圈，看着它们向天花板上慢慢飘去，变成了一团烟雾。窗外，汽车喇叭声响个不停。他来到这个城市还只有半天，已经开始讨厌它了。它太大了，有那么多藏身之处。不过这算不了什么。由于事情进展顺利，要不了多久，克雷格·麦克兰登那位刚愎自用的小女儿罗丝的头就会被挤进坚硬的墙壁之中。 奥布瑞维尔几乎所有的人都出席了麦克兰登的葬礼。从一开始丹尼尔斯就咳个不停，他非常讨厌人们回头注视的目光，那比任何实际的谴责还要糟糕。丹尼尔斯由于难堪而面红耳赤，恼羞成怒（但仍然在不停地咳嗽），他用一只手捂着嘴，推走仍在哭泣的妻子，匆匆忙忙离开了教堂。 走出大门以后，他咳嗽得更凶了，以至于不得不弯下腰来，用双手撑着膝盖等待着这场发作过去。他通过水汪汪的眼睛看见，有三另两女甚至等不到短短半小时葬礼结束就急于出来吸一支，他突然决定，该告别吸烟生涯了。他知道这种阵发性咳嗽可能是夏季过敏症引起的。But it doesn't matter.吸烟毕竟是个该死的习惯，是宇宙间最愚蠢的习惯。 当他回到家，发现信用卡失踪，接着又发现罗丝出走了以后，那一天，实际上是当天晚上，他不再强迫自己做任何不愿意做的事情。他到山下的24商店里买了十一年来的第一盒香烟，他就像杀人犯回到犯罪现场一样，又找回了自己所熟悉的老牌子。 最初几口令他头晕，吸到只剩烟蒂时，他觉得马上就要呕吐，晕倒，甚至发作一场心脏病，也许三种病同时爆发。直到现在，他已经恢复到一天两盒的烟量，早上起床时又发出了那种撕心裂肺的干咳声，就像他从来没有中断过一样。 没有关系，他正在经历着一种紧张的生活。人们在这种情况下往往容易恢复过去的老习惯。人们都说，一种习惯——特别是吸烟喝酒这类坏习惯——就像是一根拐杖。假如你是个瘤子，用拐杖又有什么不好？如果让他照顾罗西（注意，如果非正式离婚，可以用这个名字称呼她），他会扔掉所有的拐杖。 这一次他将永远照顾她了。 诺曼掉头看着窗外。天正在黑下来，但是还没有完全黑透。到了该出发的时候了，他不想在约会中迟到。他在电话机旁那只已经很满的烟灰缸上捏碎了香烟之后，把腿搭在床边，开始穿衣服。 不用太着急，这种工作太惬意了。他用掉了所有的倒休日，当他去请假时，哈德威中尉很痛快地答应了。诺曼猜测这是由于两个原因：第一，报纸和电视台都选他为本月风云人物；第二，哈德威中尉不喜欢他，他曾经两次唆使纪律警察以过度使用武力追究他的责任。毫无疑问如果他能离开一段时间，他将会十分乐意。 “今天晚上，你这婊子……”诺曼乘电梯下楼时低声地说。除了那面疲劳过度的旧镜子里反射出来的影像以外，电梯里只有他自己。“就在今天晚上，假如我走运的话。我感到运气不错。” 一辆出租车开上了车道，诺曼超过了它们。出租车司机保持着良好记录，他们能记住违章者的面孔。不行，还是搭汽车保险一些。他打算乘公共汽车。他疾步向十字路口的汽车站走去，很想知道所谓的“运气不错”是不是自欺欺人。他发现并非如此。他知道他正在逐步靠近，他知道这一点。因为他找到了进入她头脑里的方法。 走绿色路线的那种公共汽车拐过十字路口，开到诺曼身边。他上了车，付了车费，坐在靠后面的座位上——今晚他不必充当罗丝，真开心！他从窗口上欣赏着一闪而过的街边景色、啤酒广告、餐厅广告、山谷啤酒、比萨薄饼、性感女孩。 你不属于这里，罗丝，当汽车开过一个叫做“大众厨房”的餐厅时诺曼想到。“地道堪萨斯城牛排”，橱窗里血红色的霓虹灯上这样写着。你不属于这里，不过没关系，我已经来了，我来带你回家。无论如何我会带你去一个地方。 错综复杂的霓虹灯和深天鹅绒色的天空使他回想起过去的好时光，那时他的妻子还没有变得这样古怪和不可思议，她还有点幽闭恐怖症，例如觉得四面的墙壁正在变得越来越小，要把她囚禁起来等等。当霓虹灯亮了的时候，娱乐便开始了，这是他在二十多岁时过的一种比较简单的生活。你找到一处亮着霓虹灯的地方，悄悄溜进去。那些好时光一去不复返了。但是大多数警察——大多数好警察，都知道如何在天黑以后人不知鬼不觉地溜进去。怎样溜进霓虹灯后面，以及如何收取街头贿赂，一个警察如果不懂得这些，他就干不长。 他一直在观察街上闪亮的广告，判断自己现在是不是已经接近卡罗来纳大街。他站起身，走到汽车前边，并抓紧了车顶的扶手。汽车终于停在了一个路口，门打开后，他走下了汽车，一言不发地消失在黑暗之中。 他从旅馆的书架上买了一份市内交通图，六元五角钱。这价钱简直蛮横无理，不过问路可能会付出更高的代价。有人总是能够记住问路者的面孔，有时能记五年以上，他们有着十分惊人的记忆力。这都是真的，所以最好不要问路，除非发生什么不愉快的事情。也许什么事情也不会发生，不过你最好遵守游戏规则。 按照地图所示，卡罗来纳大街与汽车站西边四个街区远的比奥迪区相交。想想看，在温暖的夜晚享受一次美妙的步行乐趣！比奥迪区是旅行救援处的犹太男孩居住的地方。 丹尼尔斯慢慢地走着，双手放在裤兜里，真正悠闲自得地在马路上闲逛。他表情茫然，反应迟钝，没有任何迹象证明他的注意力全部都集中在黄色警告牌上。他把过去的每辆汽车和每个行人都分了类，尤其是那些对他特别留意或正在注意着他的人。幸运的是没有这样的人，好极了。 当他接近号手的房间后，从门口走过去两次，仔细观察车道里面的汽车以及正面窗户里的灯光。窗帘拉开了，但透明窗纱是关着的。透过窗纱他看见柔和的彩色亮点，那应该是电视机。号手在上面，他在家看一台小小的电视机，也许在去汽车站之前正在用力嚼着一两根胡萝卜，去那里帮助更多愚蠢得不值得帮助的女人，或者糟糕得不值得帮助的女人。 号手没有戴结婚戒指，他的长相看上去就像是一个壁橱，诺曼觉得很奇怪，但与其看起来顺眼，不如更安全些好。他慢慢走上车道，往号手那辆四五年车龄的福特车里看了看，想找到任何能够说明他不是一个人单身生活的证明。他没有发现任何这样的东西。 非常满意。他又往住宅区的路上前后看了一遍，没有看见一个人。 你没有面具，他想。你甚至连套在脸上的尼龙长丝袜都没有，诺米，什么都没有，是吗？ 是的，都没有。 你忘记了，对吗？ 哦……实际上，他并没有忘记。他有个想法，明天早上当太阳升起时，这个世界上会少了一个犹太天真汉，因为有时甚至在这样美好的住宅区里也会有肮脏的垃圾。人们破门而入，大多数时间是举行老式舞会，跳那种摇摇摆摆的舞，很难对付，但他们真的如此。脏事因此而发生。脏事发生在所谓的好人身上，而不是坏人身上，这似乎很难令人相信。例如，读《普拉达报》的犹太天真汉帮助女人离开她们的丈夫。你怎能容忍这类垃圾，用这种办法管理一个社会可不行。如果每个人都这样做事，社会便无法存在。 这是一种无法控制的行为。虽然多数心灵痛苦的人并没有犯过帮助罗丝的错误，但是……这个人帮助了她，诺曼就像知道自己叫诺曼一样对此十分肯定。这个人帮助了他的妻子。 他数着步子，迅速地朝周围看了看，然后按响了门铃。他等候了一会儿，又按了一次门铃。已经训练得能够抓住任何一点杂音的耳朵终于听到了正在逼近的脚步声。不是啪嗒啪嗒地，而是扑通扑通地走来。号手只穿了袜子，没有穿鞋。好惬意。 “来了，来了。”号手喊道。 The door opened.号手伸着头向门外看，他的大眼睛在角质镜架后面游动。 “请问有事吗？”他问。他的外衣没有系上衣扣，他让它敞着，露出里面的条纹体恤衫，和诺曼的体恤衫款式相同。突然他觉得这太过分了，它好像是压断了老骆驼细长脊梁骨的最后那根稻草，他愤怒得要发疯了。这个人居然穿了一件和他一样的衬衫！一件白人穿的衬衫！ “是的。”诺曼说。一定是他的脸上或是声音里，或者两者都可能泄露了什么，使斯洛维克警觉起来。他睁大了棕色的眼睛，开始往后退，并伸手去拉门，打算把他关在门外。如果他真这样想的话，那就太晚了。诺曼迅速进屋，一把抓住斯洛维克的衬衣，将他推到房子里面。诺曼抬起一只脚，从身后一脚踢上了大门，其优雅的程度不亚于金·凯利在一个叫做MGM的音乐剧中的表演。 “是的，我想我是有事。”他又说了一遍。“希望和你有关，蠢货。我要问你几个问题，几个非常不错的问题，你最好向你的大鼻子犹太上帝祈祷，让你想出能让我满意的回答。” “滚出去！”斯洛维克喊道，“要不我喊警察了！” 诺曼·丹尼尔斯暗自发笑，把斯洛维克转过去，攥住他的左手往后面抬起，一直扭到能够着疲骨伶仃的右肩胛骨为止。斯洛维克开始尖叫。诺曼摸到他的两腿中间，捏住了睾丸。 “住口，”他说，“马上给我住口，否则我会像揪葡萄一样把它揪下来。你还能听见掉下来的声音。” 号手不喊了。他喘着气，偶尔露出一两声强压着的啜泣声，不过诺曼容忍了。他将他赶进了起居室里，看样子他是用终端桌上放着的那个遥控器打开电视机的。 他像推手推车一样把他的新朋友推到厨房，然后松开手放下他。“靠着冰箱站起来。”他说，“我想把你的屁股和肩胛骨打个稀巴烂，如果你敢离开一寸，我会撕破你的嘴。听明白了吗？” “听……听……听明白了。”号手说，“你……你……你是谁？”他看上去仍然很像班比的朋友号手，但是现在他听上去活像树林里一只该死的猫头鹰。 “艾尔文·瑞·利文，国家广播公司新闻社记者。”诺曼说，“我休假日就是用这种方式消遣。”他拉开柜台上的抽屉，一边找东西一边用眼角盯着号手。他想他不会逃跑的，但必须估计到一切可能性。一旦这个人的恐惧超过了一定程度，他会变得像龙卷风一样难以预料。 “什么……我什么都不知道……” “你什么都没必要知道。”诺曼说，“这件事的乐趣就在于此，号手。你除了回答几个简单问题以外，什么该死的事情也没必要知道。所有的事都由我来处理。我是专家。只要你把我当成专家就行了。” 他在第五个和最下面一个抽屉里找到了他要找的东西：两只印花的微波炉手套，很可爱。正是那个穿着讲究的犹太天真汉从犹太微波炉里取出犹太清洁食品时所希望戴的那种。诺曼戴上手套，匆匆回到抽屉拉手那里，擦掉所有可能留下的指纹。然后将号手带回起居室，拿起遥控器，在衬衣上来回地擦了几下。 “我们面对面地谈一谈，号手。”诺曼边说边行动起来。他的嗓音变得模糊了，听起来更像人的声音。诺曼发现自己由于愤怒而变硬起来，他并不惊讶。他把遥控器扔到沙发上，转过身面对着斯洛维克。他穿着白人穿的那种衬衣站在那里，低垂着肩膀，眼泪在角质镜架后面哗哗地流个不停。“我想紧挨着跟你谈谈，过来，离近点儿。你不相信我吗？最好相信，号手。你他妈的最好还是相信我。” “求求你，”斯洛维克悲哀地呻吟着，向诺曼伸出发抖的双手，“请你不要伤害我。你找错人了——无论你想找谁，你找的那个人不是我。我帮不了你。” 后来斯洛维克却帮了他很大的忙，那是当他们来到地下室以后。诺曼开始咬人了，为了压过他的尖叫声，诺曼不得不把电视机开到最大音量。不管是在斯洛维克尖叫的时候还是不尖叫的时候，它都帮了不少忙。 消遣结束了，诺曼在厨房洗涤槽下面找到了垃圾袋。他把微波炉手套和他自己的衬衣放进其中一只垃圾袋里，因为公开场合已经不能再穿了。他要拿走垃圾袋，找个地方扔掉它。 楼上号手的卧室里，他只找到一件能包住尸体的大号衣服，那是一件褪了色的芝加哥公牛队大汗衫。诺曼把它放在床上，然后走进号手的浴室，打开号手的淋浴开关。在等待凉水变热时，他看了看号手的药品柜，发现里面有一瓶止疼片，便倒出了四片。他感到牙齿和下巴疼得厉害，整个脸的下半部粘满了血浆、毛发和小块皮肉。 他走进浴盆，拿起号手的爱尔兰喷头，提醒自己这玩意儿也得扔进垃圾袋内。实际上他并不知道这种预防措施到底有没有用，因为他不知道自己究竟在楼下会客室里留下了多少法庭证据。他变得阴郁起来。 他洗着头，唱了起来：“青藤缠绕玫瑰……青藤缠绕玫瑰……你游荡在何方……如今无家可归……谁在缠绕着你……丰满野性的玫瑰？” 他关上淋浴开关，走出了浴室，在洗涤池上雾气蒸腾的镜子里照了照那张憔悴的。魔鬼般的脸。 “我行，”他无精打采地说，“我当然行，我就是那个说到做到的人。” 5 比尔·史丹纳举起空出来的那只手，继续在门上敲着。他在心里谴责自己过分紧张了——他通常对女人并不那么紧张——这时听见她回答了一声：“来了，我就来，请稍等一下，这就开门。”听不出有厌倦的声音，感谢上帝，他并没有把她从浴室里弄出来。 不过，我究竟到这儿来干吗？当脚步声逐渐离近时，他又一次问自己。这很像那一类甚至连汤姆·汉克斯都不怎么演的思想肤浅的爱情喜剧。 It's very possible.但是它改变不了一个事实：上个星期来过商店的那位女士的形象已经牢牢地留在了他的心里。随着时间流逝，她给他留下的印象不仅没有消失，反而更加清晰了。有两件事可以确定：这是他一生中第一次向一位不相识的女人献花；自打十六岁以来，他还从来没有在跟人约会时感到这样紧张过。 当脚步声从门的另一边传来时，比尔发现手中的雏菊花束中有一朵高出了许多，便匆忙调整，这时门开了。在抬头的一刹那间，他看见那位想用假钻石换劣制艺术品的女人站在门口，手里拿着一大桶类似调味计一类的重磅罐头举在头顶，目光里充满了杀机。她看起来一触即发，打算先发制人，在意识到这不是她期望的那个人以后，她呆呆地站在那里，完全僵住了。比尔后来想到，这是他一生中最不寻常的时刻。 他们两人在春藤大街二层楼上罗西的房门口遥遥相望：他怀抱着从海琴斯大街附近商店里买来的一大束春天的花朵，她在头顶上高举着两磅重的调味汁罐头，虽然僵持的时间顶多只有短暂的两三秒，对他来说却显得那样长久。它足以使他体验到了苦恼、沮丧、不安、惊讶，甚至相当奇妙的感受。看到她的姿势没有如他所料发生任何改变，使本来就烦恼的事情变得更糟。她并不算漂亮，连中等也算不上，但是在他的眼里却非常美丽。她嘴唇的模样和下巴的线条能让他的心脏停止跳动，灰蓝色眼睛上长长的眼睫毛使他眩晕。他血压升高，脸颊滚烫。他太清楚这些感觉象征着什么，既感到着迷，又不太满意。 他满怀希望地笑着向她递上了鲜花，眼睛仍然留意着那只举过头顶的罐头。 “休战？”