Chapter 8 Chapter 5 Crickets · 1
1
After getting off work on Wednesday afternoon, Rosie walked into the hot tea restaurant surrounded by the bustling crowd.She bought a cup of tea and some snacks, sat down at the dining table by the window, watched the continuous flow of people pass by the window, and carefully tasted the taste of black tea and cookies.Most of the street at the moment is filled with office workers who have just come off work and are hurrying home.The hot tea restaurant hadn't been on Rosie's commute since she left the White Rock Hotel, but she came here without even thinking about it.She misses the many good times she spent sipping hot tea with Boer here. So far, she has not found a good place to replace this place, so she naturally returns to the hot tea restaurant, a place she is familiar with and trusts.
Rosie finished recording "Octopus" around two o'clock and was looking for a purse under the table to leave when Rhoda's voice came from the microphone: "Rosie, do you need a break before another novel starts?" She had wanted so much, and believed she could go on to record three more Bear Racine volumes, and now she finally got it.An indescribable excitement and joy welled up in her heart.
Immediately afterwards, the recording of the first two chapters of the thriller and horror novel "Murder the Future" began.At about four o'clock break, Rhoda asked her to go with her to the ladies' bathroom.
"I can't help but want a cigarette, but it's the only place in the whole building where smoking is allowed, and it's incomprehensible. Modern life is rubbish, Rosie."
Rhoda lit a Capri in the bathroom.She took two cool breaths, and then placed it on the joint in the middle of the pool familiarly.She sat with her legs crossed, her right foot over her left, and looked thoughtfully at Rosie.
"I like your hairstyle very much," she said.
"Thank you." Rossi stroked her hair unconsciously.It was done last night at a beauty shop on impulse. Fifty yuan was too expensive for her, but she couldn't restrain that strong desire.
"You know what, the rabbi wants to sign a contract with you."
Rosie frowned, then shook her head: "No, I don't know. What are you trying to say?"
"The rabbi looks a bit like the old man on the patent membership card, he's been in the audiobook business since 1975, so he knows your worth. He knows you better than you do. You seem to appreciate it he?"
"Of course I should be grateful to him." Rossi replied stiffly.She didn't like this way of talking; it reminded her of Shakespearean tragedies of people stabbing their friends in the back and immediately passing out, waking up pretending to be innocent, and explaining their innocence in long monologues. How helpless it is.
"Don't let feelings get in the way of your vital interests." Rhoda said, carefully flicking the ash into the sink, unscrewing the cold water pipe and flushing it down. "I don't know your story, and I don't want to know, but I know you were paid $104 a day recording Octopus, which is outrageous, you know, you sound like little Elizabeth Very rare, Tyler. Besides, you're alone now, and you're not quite used to celibacy, and you seem innocent and timid in every way. Do you understand what I mean?"
Rossi didn't quite know.She felt that Rhoda must have thought her too immature.She didn't want Rhoda to know her true thoughts. "Yes, of course I do."
"Okay, for God's sake, don't fool me. I don't want a piece of the Rabbi's pie, or a piece of your cake, me and Curtis are just here to cheer you on. Rabbi Although he also thinks so, but he is different from us, and the rabbi is also thinking about his own wallet. Audio books are still a new business, and its history is similar to that of movies. Now we have just completed the journey from silent to audio Half way. Do you see what I mean?"
"I understand a little bit."
"When the rabbi listens to you read The Octopus, he's already thinking about Mary Pickford. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. And that's why you Met him. Legend has it that Ryan Turner was discovered by scouts in a grocery store. Rabbi also created a myth in his mind: he found the search in the rental store of his friend Steiner. Rosie of old postcards."
"Is that what he said about me?" A warm current surged into her heart, and she immediately fell in love with the rabbi.
"Well, it doesn't really matter where he met you or what you were doing at the time. The truth is you're brilliant, Rosie, and you're really talented, like a natural for this kind of work. But , even if the rabbi finds you, it doesn’t mean he can control your life. Don’t be obedient to him.”
"He never thought of it that way." Rosie felt agitated and flustered at the same time, the anger at Rhoda's cynicism quickly overwhelmed by a burst of joy and excitement.She's sure she's going to have a good time, and if the rabbi does sign her up, it will last longer.Rhoda would naturally give her a warning, and she doesn't live in such a small room far away from the urban area. People who live in this kind of simple residence do not have the basic conditions to maintain their personality and dignity. For example, if you park your car in the driveway on, and the radio will be stolen.Rhoda has a husband who works as an accountant, lives in a suburban villa, drives a 1994 silver Nissan, and has Universal and American cards.What is even more enviable is her Blue Cross card and bank deposits. If she cannot work due to illness, she can still withdraw the deposits.Rosie could imagine that people with such things were invariably good at telling others what to do.
"Maybe he really didn't think about it that way," Rhoda said, "but Rosie, you're like a little gold mine, and anyone who finds a gold mine becomes someone else. Even Rabbi Good people like this are no exception."
Now, Rosie stared out the window, slowly sipped her hot tea, and recalled the afternoon.Rhoda extinguished the cigarette with the hose, threw it in the ashtray, and came back to her. "I know that in your current situation, the most important thing is to have a secure job. In fact, I have often cooperated with the rabbi since 1982. I know he is not bad, but I still want to remind you that the two birds in the forest It's better to have a bird in hand, and don't let the bird fly away. Do you understand what I mean?"
"do not understand."
"That is to say, only sign a contract with him for six books, and don't be greedy for more. From 8 am to 4 pm, I come to work at the recording company every day, with a weekly salary of 1,000 yuan."
Rosie's eyes flicked across her face as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs by a vacuum cleaner, and she felt insecure. "A thousand yuan a week? Are you crazy?"
"Go ask Kurt Hamilton if I'm crazy," Rhoda said calmly. "Listen, it's not just about the sound quality, it's about the volume. What you get paid for Octopus It's 104 yuan a week, and everyone I've worked with is more than 200 yuan a week. To be honest, your voice is simply amazing, and the most incredible thing is that your breathing is just right. Since you If you don't sing, how can you control your breathing so skillfully?"
A nightmarish scene appeared before Rosie's eyes: her kidneys were swollen like a bulging hot water bottle, she was holding the corner of her apron, and she was sitting in a corner praying to God.She wanted to vomit because her kidney seemed to have been stabbed with a long sharp stick, and she could only control her breathing slowly to coordinate it with the pounding heartbeat.She listened anguishedly to Norman making a sandwich for him in the kitchen, singing "Daniel" or "Maria, take your letter" in the voice of a bar tenor.
"I don't know what it is," she told Rhoda. "I didn't even know what breathing control was before I met you. It's probably innate."
"Girl, you must cherish your talent and never abuse it." Rhoda said, "We should go back now; otherwise Kurt will think we are holding a mysterious religious ceremony here."
Just as she was getting ready to wrap up her day, the rabbi called from her office in town, congratulated her on completing the recording of "The Octopus," and, though she didn't specifically mention the signing, invited her to dinner at noon on Friday while discussing Click on "Business Arrangement".Rosie agreed, and she hung up, feeling a little dazed.She remembered Rhoda's accurate assessment of Rabbi Lefferts: he was indeed a little like the little old man on some kind of loyalty card.
By the time she hung up the microphone in Curtis's private office and went back to the studio to get her purse, Rhoda was gone, probably in the ladies' bathroom for one last cigarette.Kurt is marking the tape.He looked up, looked at her with a smile and said, "Rosie, you did a great job today."
"Thank you."
"Rhoda said that the rabbi wants to sign a contract with you."
"She said so," agreed Rosie, nodding, "and I think she's right. I've got to touch the wood with my hand, and keep the luck out of my hands."
"If you want to make a deal with a rabbi, you have to know one thing first." Kurt put the tape cassette on the upper shelf, which was already filled with tape cassettes that looked like white papers. "If you only got five hundred bucks for recording 'The Octopus', the rabbi treated you so unfairly. You saved the record company seven hundred bucks. You see what's going on, don't you?"
Of course she understood, and now she was sitting in the hot tea restaurant, thinking about the glorious future that had happened one after another in recent days.She has friends, a place of her own, and more work waiting for her when she wraps up her Christina Bell stint.And she was about to sign a contract that meant a thousand dollars a week, far more than Norman.If the contract can really be signed, it will be too exciting.May this all be true.
Oh, and one more thing.She has another date on Saturday...a full day if you count the Indigo Girls' live concert that night.
Rosie raised her eyebrows, and a bright smile finally appeared on her serious face. She really wanted to hug herself tightly, but she didn't think it was very elegant.After eating the last bite of snacks, I glanced out of the window again.She really wanted to know how so many good things happened to her alone, and how she wished this was real life: when a woman really stepped out of the cage, she turned to the right and suddenly found that she Already stepped into heaven.
2
Pol Hayward was half a block away from the Hot Tea Restaurant.She doesn't plan to go home directly, the restaurant is not far away, just walk a little further.She didn't wear the white hotel hostess work suit, she changed her clothes after get off work, and she wore a pair of red slacks on her legs, and she was crossing the road with more than twenty pedestrians at the same time.She worked overtime this evening, thinking for no reason that Rosie must have gone to the hot tea restaurant.This is probably a woman's intuition.
She cast a quick sideways glance at the lumbering figure beside her whom she had seen a few minutes before at the newspaper counter at the White Rock Hotel.He would have been one of the interesting types of men if he had only looked at his appearance and not paid attention to his eyes (which had nothing in them).As they walked out on the sidewalk, he cast a quick glance at her, and she shivered with the expressionless emptiness of his gaze.
3
Rosie suddenly wanted another cup of tea. She got up and walked towards the buffet counter.It never occurred to her that Pole would come here because it was long after get off work time.Probably out of some kind of female intuition, Pohl really came.
4
The bitch next to him was kind of cute, Norman thought, she was wearing red slacks and a tiny ass.He took a step or two back, baby, let me take a closer look.But when he took a step back, he found that she had turned and walked into a small restaurant.Norman peeked in from the window of the restaurant and found that there was nothing that could arouse his interest. He saw a group of unattractive old women greedily drinking coffee and Hot tea, and a couple of posturing bartenders who walk like gays.
Old ladies must like them, Norman thought.A gay gait will get them a fat tip, so they're happy to look that way.How else can an adult walk?They can't all be gay.
He glanced uninterestedly into the restaurant through the glass. Most of the customers at the table were wearing blue jeans.He noticed that a woman much younger than the other customers had just left her window seat and made her way to the buffet counter at the end of the cafe.He scanned her buttocks quickly with his eyes (in fact, he always pays attention to this part first when he sees any woman under the age of forty, he just wants to judge whether she is the type of woman he likes) .
Rose's hip used to be like that, too, he thought.That was before she gave up being strict with herself, and her buttocks gradually turned into a big dustpan.
He saw from the window that the young woman in the restaurant had beautiful blond hair, much prettier than Rosie's, and it didn't remind him of Rosie's hair at all.Rosie, who Norman's mother often called a "cub scout," rarely worked on her hair, and Norman didn't care for her because of her dull, squirrel-colored hair. Report any fantasies.Usually she always tied a rubber band around the back of her head like a horse's tail.If she's going out to dinner or to the movies, she can at most use an elastic like the one she buys at the grocery store and tie it around once more.
Norman took a quick look at the woman in the hot tea restaurant.She doesn't have brown skin.She was a slender-humped blonde with neither a ponytail nor a headband, but a carefully braided blond tress that fell gracefully down her back.
5
Rosie turned from the cash machine with a cup of steaming black tea.The most exciting thing of the day was seeing Pol Hayward in front of her, which surprised her even more than hearing Rhoda tell her that she could earn a thousand dollars a week and excited.When Pol first saw Rosie, he didn't recognize her at all.When she reacted quickly, her eyebrows were raised high and her eyes were round.She grinned widely, not so much laughing as she was yelling, making the restaurant, which was already not very spacious and only six or seven steps away, appear even more crowded.
"Rosie? Is that you? Oh my God!"
"It's me," Rosie said with a smile, her face flushed with excitement.She felt the eyes of people turning to meet them.At this time, Rossi found another miracle happened to herself: she no longer minded other people's eyes.
They sat in the same old place by the window where they used to sit, each with a cup of hot tea, and Rosie even asked Pol to order her a dessert, even though she had lost ten pounds since coming to the city , and intend to maintain the current body shape as much as possible.
Pole kept muttering that she couldn't believe what she was seeing.Luo Yin thought she was actually flattering her.Pole kept looking from her eyes to her hair, as if trying to figure out how it all happened.
"You look five years younger," she said. "It's marvelous, Rosie, you're beautiful enough to tempt a man to commit a crime!"
"I paid fifty dollars to turn me into Marilyn Monroe," Rosie replied with a smile.After her conversation with Rhoda, paying for her hair no longer felt like a luxury to her.
"Where are you..." Pohl was about to ask, but stopped again, "You changed your hairstyle according to the oil painting, right? Your hair is exactly the same as that of the woman in the oil painting."
Rosie thought her face would turn red, but she didn't, she just nodded. "I like this hairstyle, so I want to try it." She hesitated for a moment, then said, "I still can't believe that I dyed my hair. This is the first time in my life that I changed the color of my hair. "
"For the first time... I absolutely don't believe it!"
"real."
Pole bent down, as if planning a conspiracy, and whispered to her quietly: "That kind of thing finally happened, am I right?"
"What are you talking about? What finally happened?"
"You must have met an interesting man!"
Rosie opened her mouth wide, then closed it again.When she opened it again, she still couldn't think of what to say, and it seemed that there was nothing to say; then she burst into laughter from the bottom of her heart.She laughed until tears flowed.Pol laughed too.
6
Rossi took out the keys.She didn't need to open the front door of 897 Ivy Avenue, which was open until eight o'clock every night.She found a key to the letter box, and the tape on the front read: Ms. Roe MacLandon.Tell everyone unequivocally that she belongs in this place.Yes, she has become a part of it.There was nothing in the mailbox but an advertisement.After walking up to the second floor, she found another key and used it to open the door of her room.The key belonged to her, and besides her, the building superintendent had another one.She had walked the full three miles from the city home and was exhausted.Today, she was a little restless with excitement, and at the same time needed more time to think about the problem. In addition, she wanted to continue dreaming those half-done dreams, so she didn't take the car.The two cookies had already been completely digested on the way, and the excessive excitement did not reduce her appetite, but made her hungry.She recalled whether she had ever had such happiness in her life, and the conclusion was no.Happiness from the heart spreads all over the body. Although the feet are tired, the body and mind feel extremely relaxed.She has walked so many roads, and her kidneys have never hurt!
When Rosie entered the room (she hadn't forgotten to lock the door this time), she started giggling again.Pol knew about her so-called "interesting man," and she forced Rosie to admit part of it—after all, she had decided to take Bill to the Indigo Girls concert on Saturday night, when the girls from the House of Sisters could see him ; but when she defended that she never changed her hair color and hairstyle for his sake (actually she was telling the truth), she saw Pol roll his eyes teasingly at her, winking and making fun of her , which annoyed her... but she also tasted something sweet.
She opened the window to let in the bustling sounds of the park along with the damp breeze of late spring and early summer.She approached the small dining table where the flowers Bill had given her on Monday night lay under a cardboard box, wilted, but she would not throw them away.At least until Saturday.Last night she dreamed of him, dreaming that she was riding a motorcycle, sitting behind him.He drove faster and faster, and suddenly she seemed to say a terrible and wonderful word, it was a magic word, she couldn't remember what it was, it was meaningless anyway, similar to tick or Quack, but it became a moving word in the dream, and it was powerful.A voice buzzed repeatedly in her ear: Unless you really want to say the word, don't say it aloud.She remembered thinking about that phrase over and over as they sped along a country road.On the left side of the road is a hill, and on the right side is a blue lake with golden sunlight shining on the surface of the lake.There was a lush forest on the hill ahead, and she knew that there was a ruin of a temple at the end of the hill.You mustn't say it unless you're going to vouch for it with your whole body and soul.
She said the word; it burst from her mouth like a strong current.Bill's Harley left the road in an instant, the front wheels still spinning but six feet above the road, and she saw their shadows move to her feet.Bill turned the handrail, and they rose suddenly, flying high into the blue sky, disappearing from the densely-covered road without a trace.At this moment, she woke up from her dream, and the quilt was crumpled up on the bed.She was panting heavily in shock, and her body continued to tremble because of some kind of heat hidden in her body. Although invisible to the naked eye, it was still as strong as the sun's rays during a solar eclipse.
She doubted that even after trying all the magic words they wouldn't be able to fly, but she figured she'd find a way to keep the flowers a little longer, and maybe the secret lay in one of the pages of that book.
She bought the book when Elaine dreamed of getting her hair done. The title of the book is simple but elegant: (Ten Styles of Self-Changing Hairstyles). "These styles are nice," Elaine told her. "Of course, in my opinion, you should always go to a professional barber for your hair, but if your time or money situation prevents you from doing it once a week, you don't want to Dial 800 for that shoddy door-to-door service that keeps you from looking in the mirror and committing suicide, this book offers a face-saving middle ground. For Christ's sake, please promise me that if you are invited to the country If you want to dance in the club, you must come to me first."
Rossi sat down and turned to the third style, the classic braid... the designer explained that it was also called the French braid.She flipped through black-and-white photos of a model demonstrating the whole process of braiding.After reading the last page, she began to loosen her braids, familiarizing herself with every link while undoing them.It is much easier to loosen than to braid.It took her forty-five minutes and a lot of cursing to get her braids into something more or less the same as when she emerged from Elaine's dream the night before.Regardless, this book is well worth the money.Pole's shrieks of astonishment and embarrassment in the hot tea restaurant should also be considered her price.
After all this, she thought of Bill Steiner (she never felt too far away from him), and she wondered if he liked her braids, and her hair dyed blond; Did you really notice these changes in her, even any of them.She also wondered if she would have sighed unhappily and frowned if he hadn't noticed.Of course she would.Would he not only notice the changes, but react as violently as Pohl (e.g., let out a scream)?Even as described in a love novel, he hugged her into his arms...
As she looked for a comb in her purse, she resumed her little daydream of Bill tying a velvet headband under her braids on Saturday morning, without really needing to explain why he carried one with him. A velvet headband, because it's nothing more than a little pipe dream at the kitchen table.Then her thoughts were disturbed by a faint voice from far away in the kitchen: chirp-chr-chr.
a cricket.The sound didn't come from within Bryant Park, it came from much closer.
Chirp - chirp.Chirp - chirp.She searched under the wash with her eyes and found something dancing.She stood up, opened the cupboard, and took out a mixing cup from it.She walked softly across the room, stopped in the living room, picked up the ad from the chair, and knelt down beside the bug, which was hopping toward the south corner of the wall where she planned to put the TV.If she had had enough time and energy before moving, she would have bought one.Finding a bigger room doesn't seem like a pipe dream anymore.
That's a cricket, how did it jump to the second floor?It seemed like a secret, but it was indeed a cricket.Now she understood why.She also finally understood why the sound of crickets was still so clear when she was about to fall asleep.It must have been hidden in the cuff of Bill's trousers, carried into the room by his steps.In addition to flowers, he also brought her another small gift.
You hear more than one cricket at night.The very special voice that had been missing for a long time in the depths of the heart-the voice of reason suddenly began to speak again.Its voice seemed strange and hoarse.You hear crickets all over the field, maybe all over the park.
Go away, she thought comfortably, holding the brewing cup in her hand, drove the little cricket to the corner, and at the moment it just jumped up, caught it accurately with advertising paper, and immediately poured it into into the cup.The sound of one cricket became a chorus of many crickets in my mind, that's all.Don't forget, it's time to sleep.I was already dreaming vaguely.Rosie held up the concoction glass with the jumping cricket in it, and covered the mouth of the glass with the ad so it couldn't jump out.She took the cup to the window, uncovered the advertising paper, and lifted the concoction cup into the air, so that insects could jump from a much higher place than here without getting hurt. She remembered being on a TV show about nature. seen.
"Come on, sweet little thing," she said, "be a brave little boy and go on dancing, see the park across the road? There's so tall grass, so much dew, and so many The female cricket—"
She stopped suddenly.The little cricket hadn't come in Bill's cuff, because he was wearing jeans when he took her out to dinner on Monday night.She began to recall the situation at that time, and a large amount of information came back to her mind clearly.Oxford shirt and Levi's jeans with no cuffs.She still remembered that he looked pleasing to her eyes, and she felt relieved that the person wearing it would not take her to some imaginary place and stare at her intently.
Blue jeans with no cuffs.
So where did this little thing come from?
What does it matter?If the cricket wasn't hiding in Bill's pant leg, it must have been in someone else's pant leg, and popped out when he got upstairs—thanks for a free ride, man.Then jump into her room again.It made her think of unpleasant unexpected guests.
As if to agree, the cricket suddenly jumped out of the mixing cup and jumped into the night sky.
"I wish you a pleasant journey and sincerely welcome you back as a guest," Rossi said.
When she took the cup back, a gust of wind blew in, and the advertisement in her hand wobbled to the ground.As she bent to pick up the ad, her outstretched hand froze an inch from it.She saw two other crickets.Both are dead.They lay near the sink, one on its stomach, the other on its back, its legs stretched out.
One cricket she could understand and accept, but why three, and in a room on the second floor?How, exactly, should this be explained?
That's when Rosie saw something in the gap between two sinks not far from the dead cricket.She knelt down, took out her hand from the gap and raised it to her eyes.
It's a clover flower.A small pink clover flower.She looked at the gap, then at the two dead crickets, and then slowly let her eyes wander to the cream-colored wall...and then to the painting hanging by the window.At last her eyes fell on Rose Maid (that is, Rose Red, a very nice name) standing on the top of the hill, and the pony gnawing the grass behind her.
Rosie felt her heart beat dull and violent like a muffled drum.She bent over the painting, peering through the layers of shadows, the pony's nose looming over the surface.Then she observed the strokes more carefully. Under the pony's nose is a piece of green grass mixed with grass green and olive green. It seems to be layered. It is obviously done by the painter from top to bottom. The surface of the green grass is indistinct. Glittering pink spots.That's a clover flower.
Rosie looked at the little pink flower in the palm of her hand, then reached out to the painting for comparison.The color is exactly the same.She suddenly raised her hand to her mouth, and blew on the oil painting without hesitation.How she wished to see this pink flower penetrate the surface of the oil painting and enter the world created by that unknown painter sixty or seventy years ago, or even a hundred years ago.
Of course, nothing happened.The little pink flower touched the glass on the surface of the oil painting (the Rabi once said on the day he met her that usually few people use a glass frame to cover the oil painting), it bounced like a paper ball made of thin paper Falling gently to the ground.Maybe the painting was magical, but the glass that covered the painting certainly wasn't.
So how did the cricket jump out of the painting?Did you really think that's how it all happened?Did the cricket and the clover flower come out of the painting?
God, help me, she thought.She had an idea that if someone walked out of the room with her it would be ridiculous, or darkened entirely, but now everything was as she imagined it would be: the cricket really came from the house in the pink tutu. Jumping out of the grass at the feet of the blonds, they went from Rose Maid's world to Rosie McClendon's.
How did they come out?Could it be seeping through the glass frame?
No, of course not.It's stupid to think so, but—
With trembling hands she unhooked the painting from the wall hook and placed it upside down on the kitchen counter.The charcoal writing on the cardboard on the back of the painting was even more blurred than before; if she hadn't seen the words Rose Mead at first, she would never have recognized it now.
With a mood of hesitation and panic' (she may have been in a panic state, but she didn't realize it before that's all), she touched the cardboard, and there was a rattling sound inside.It was so loud.She touched the edge of the frame with her hand again, and she felt something—it was actually something...
She swallowed, feeling her throat was dry and sore, as if a fire had ignited in her throat.She opened the counter drawer, and with a hand that didn't seem her own, she took out a paring knife, carefully aiming the blade at the brown cardboard.
Don't do it!Reason screamed.Rosie, you never know what's in there!
She raised the point of the knife, aimed it horizontally at the cardboard, thought for a moment, and put it down again.She held up the painting and looked near the edge of the frame, and she felt her hands shaking violently.It didn't surprise her to see a quarter-inch-wide slit along the edge of the frame.She put the painting back on the counter, grabbed the painting with her right hand, and again with her left hand—her clever hand—took up the paring knife and pointed the blade at the cardboard.
Come on, Rosie.Reason wasn't screaming this time, it was moaning.Please don't do it, just let it sit there.What a stupid suggestion.Had she followed its first suggestion, she would still be living, or rather dying, with Norman.
She scratched down with the tip of the knife until it reached the obvious bulging place.Six or seven crickets tumbled and rolled down on the counter, four were dead, one was struggling helplessly, and the sixth jumped up and down on the counter and then into the pool.Immediately afterwards, a few pink clover flowers fell out, and some grass clippings... and half a withered brown leaf.Rosie picked up the last object and looked at it curiously.This is an oak leaf.She is almost sure.
Rosie ignored the voice of reason and continued cutting the cardboard cautiously.As she pulled the cardboard, more rustic matter fell out: some ants (most dead, with three or four still wriggling), a plump bee carcass, a few daisy petals, It's the kind of flower that you pluck from the very middle of the bush while singing does he love me and doesn't he love me...and a few transparent white hairs.She holds them up to the sun, her right hand still gripping the canvas.She felt a tremor behind her, as if a huge beast's hoof had crawled up her spine.If you put it under a veterinarian's microscope, she knows what you'll see: These hairs are on a horse's back.Or more accurately, it fell from a shaggy foal.A foal that had just been gnawing grass in another world.
I must be crazy, she thought calmly.This is not the voice of reason, but her own voice, which represents her core thoughts and her own views.它并没有歇斯底里，也并非愚昧无知，它的话既合理又冷静，还包含着些许好奇心。
她并不相信自己真的疯了，她割开了做底衬用的硬纸板，结果从油画和硬纸板之间掉出来一大堆青草、毛发和活生生的昆虫。这难道还有什么可怀疑的吗？几年前她在报纸上看过一篇故事，一位妇女在一幅家族肖像的背面发现了股票证；和她相比，发现几只昆虫就显得太一般了。
但是它们仍然活着，三叶草仍旧那样芬芳，青草也还是那样翠绿，罗西，这些事又该怎么解释？虽然树叶已经枯萎，但你是知道的——
她想那是被风吹落以后变枯萎的。画面上是盛夏，但是你甚至能在那片草丛中发现有五月的树叶。
所以我再重复一遍：我一定是疯了。那些材料就在这里，青草。昆虫，还有毛发，它们掉落在厨房的柜台表面，撒得到处都是。
这是一堆材料。
不是梦境也不是幻觉，而是实实在在的材料。
还有别的，一件她不愿正视的事情。这幅油画对她说过话。虽然不是大声说，但是自从买了它以后，它就一直在对她说话。油画的背面写着她的姓名，只是改头换面，拼写不同罢了，昨天，她花了远远超过自己支付能力的一大笔钱做了一个发型，使她看上去就像油画上的那个女人。
突然她果断地把刀刃插进镜框后面的纸板，沿着镜框的边沿由下而上地划动起来。如果她感觉到有阻力，她一定会停下来——因为她只有这一把水果刀，她不希望折断刀刃——但是紧紧捏着镜框的那只手已经支撑不住了。她拉开上面的纸板，用空着的那只手扶住玻璃，使它不至于掉下来，然后取下玻璃放在一边。又有一只蟋蟀啪嗒一声掉在了柜台上。她取出油画，把它拿在手里，去掉镜框和纸板以后，油画大约长三十英寸，高十八英寸。罗西用手指在早已凝固的颜料上面轻轻地触摸着，她能感觉到细微的层次差别，还能看到艺术家用画笔精心创作的痕迹。那是一种有趣而不安的、但是并非超自然的感觉；她的手指并没有穿透画布的表面，进入到另一个世界中。
Then the phone rang.她昨天已经买来了电话机，接好了插头，并把它调整到了最大音量。它突然爆发出的那种尖锐刺耳的颤音吓得罗西大叫了一声，她跳了起来，僵硬的手指差点戳破了画布。
她把画布放在厨房柜台上，冲出去接电话，希望能听到比尔的声音。果真如此的话，她会邀请他来这里看看她的油画，以及油画里捧出来的各种各样的小东西。那些材料。
"Hello."
“你好，是罗西吗？”不是比尔，是位女士的声音。“我是安娜·史蒂文森。”
“哦，是安娜！你好，你怎么样？”
水池中不断地发出唧——唧的声音。
“我近来不太好，”安娜说，“实际上是非常不好。发生了一件极其不愉快的事情。这件事我必须告诉你。也许它和你一点关系都没有——我诚心诚意地希望如此，但是仍然存在着这种可能性。”
罗西坐了下来，这时她所感觉到的那种害怕一点也不同于在油画背面的硬纸板里发现了蟋蟀的感觉。“怎么啦，安娜？发生什么事了？”
在安娜对她讲述的过程中，罗西心中的恐惧在逐步升级。安娜说完后，问罗西是否需要暂时回到姐妹之家，来这里过夜。
“我不知道，”罗西麻木地说，“我需要想一想。我……安娜，现在我必须打一个电话。我会给你回电话的。”
她没有等安娜回答就挂上了电话，拨通411，问了电话号码后，又拨。
“自由之城。”一个苍老的声音说。
“你好，请找史丹纳先生。”
“我就是史丹纳。”略带沙哑的声音回答道，听上去很滑稽。罗西有些迷惑，她忽然想起他和父亲共同经营这家商店。
“比尔，”她说。她的嗓子又干又疼，就像里面着起了大火。“我找的是比尔……他在这里吗？”
“小姐，请稍等。”当电话放下时传来一阵沉闷的金属滑动声，从远处传来：“比利！有位女士找你！”
罗西闭上了眼睛。她听见水池中传来似乎非常遥远的蟋蟀声：唧——唧。
漫长而无法忍受的等待。一滴眼泪从她左边的眼睫毛上滴落下来，滚到了脸颊上，接着右边也滚落了一滴。一支古老的乡村歌曲飘进她了的心中：“比赛开始了，我们仍旧为你骄傲……痛苦留在了心中……”她擦掉了眼泪。她这一生里擦掉过许许多多的眼泪。假如印度人关于肉体能够再生的说法是正确的话，她再也不愿意回忆起这一生是怎样度过的。
终于有人拿起了电话。“喂，你好？”她似乎是在梦中听到了这个声音。
“你好，比尔。”这绝对不是一种正常的声音，也不仅仅是一般的耳语，它更像是一种略带沙哑的耳语。
“我听不见。”比尔说，“夫人，请你大声一点好吗？”
她不想大声说话。现在她只想突然挂掉电话，但是她不能这样做。因为假如安娜的分析是对的，就意味着罗西正在被一个家伙一步步紧逼着，那个家伙迟早会发现比尔，那时他将遇到麻烦，而且是非常严重的麻烦。她清理了一下嗓子，又试了一遍：“比尔吗？我是罗西。”
“罗西！”他高兴地喊了一声，“嗨，你好吗？”
他的声音真挚自然，毫不装腔作势。这使事情更加糟糕。她感到好像有一把尖刀在她的内脏中上下搅动。 “星期六我不能和你一起出去了，”她很快地说着，眼泪不断地从眼睫毛下面渗出来，吧嗒吧嗒掉落得越来越快了，'我绝对不能跟你出去，那天我一定是疯了，以为我可以跟你一起去。 "
“你当然能！罗西，看在基督份上，你到底在说些什么？”
他的声音听上去惊慌失措，并不像她所想象的那样，他一点儿都没有生气，但那声音里透着真正的恐慌。惊慌失措会使事情更加糟糕。她无法容忍。
“别给我打电话，也别来找我。”她告诉他。突然，她好像清楚地看见了诺曼，他站在大雨瓢泼的大楼对面，大衣领子立了起来，路灯模模糊糊照亮了他的下半个脸，有点儿像理查德·莱辛小说中那个凶狠野蛮的恶棍。
“罗西，我不明白——”
“我知道，实际上这样更好。”她的声音有些颤抖，断断续续地继续说着，“离我远一些，比尔。”
她迅速挂上了电话，目光在上面停留了一会儿，让自己痛痛快快地哭出了声音。她用手背把放在膝盖上的电话机推开，机座掉在了地上，话筒发出了嗡嗡的声音，听起来很像星期一晚上催她进入梦乡的蟋蟀的合唱声。她突然无法忍受，感到那声音如果再持续三十秒钟，自己的脑袋就会立即裂成两半。她走到墙根，蹲在地上，一把揪下了电话插头。
她想站起来，两条腿却直打哆嗦，几乎要支撑不住身体了。她干脆坐在地板上，手捂着脸，让眼泪在脸上自由自在地流淌着。她已经没有任何选择余地。
安娜一遍又一遍地说，她并不能最后确定，甚至请罗西也不要就此断定她的怀疑。但是罗西却完全可以肯定，这件事正是诺曼干的。诺曼就在这里，他已经失去了健全的心智。诺曼杀害了安娜的前夫，彼得·斯洛维克，而且正在四处寻找她。
7
他透过餐馆的橱窗玻璃往里面看时，只需再过四秒钟就能遇上他妻子的目光，但是被他错过了。在离开热茶餐馆五个街区远的地方，诺曼转身走进一家叫做“五元店”的打折商店，商店的广告牌上写着：“本店所有商品一律不超过五元！”广告语印在一幅做工拙劣的亚伯拉罕·林肯的肖像画下面，林肯长满大胡子的脸上露出了微笑。对于诺曼来说，这幅肖像画酷似一个曾经被他逮捕的勒死妻子和四个孩子的家伙。准确地说，这个商店离自由之城租赁抵押店只有几步之遥。他买了一副遮阳镜和一只棒球帽，打算今天伪装一下自己的外表。
作为一名有十年经验的老牌侦探，诺曼坚信伪装这种玩意儿只有在侦探电影、夏洛克·福尔摩斯探案故事以及万圣节狂欢这三种情况下才派得上用场；在白天尤其不起作用，化装就是化装，伪装就是伪装，一眼就能被人识破。他最新结识的朋友彼得·斯洛维克最终向他承认说，他把他那位流浪街头的妻子罗西送进了新时代的妓院——一个叫做姐妹之家的地方。这里的姑娘们对鬼鬼祟祟地围着这座城堡晃悠的捕食者特别敏感，对于这些女孩儿来说，妄想狂不仅仅成为了一种生活方式，它已经完全变成了一门艺术。
棒球帽和墨镜使他实现了这一目的——他为这个黄昏所计划的一切，用他当侦探后第一个搭档戈登·萨特维特的话来说，就是“玩儿一个小游戏”。戈登也喜欢强制他的年轻助手，每当需要伪装之前都告诉他们说，现在来做一种叫做“旧胶鞋”（意为老侦探）的游戏。戈登臃肿不堪，身上发出臭味，不停地嚼烟叶，是个长了一口大黄牙的酒囊饭袋，诺曼从第一眼看见他时就鄙视他。戈登当过二十六年警察，九年侦探，但是他始终没有找到过感觉。而诺曼找到了。他讨厌跟这种人谈话，但有时必须跟他谈，甚至在黑暗中进行侦察时还要与他配合。他工作时有一种特别的感觉，多年来这种感觉一直伴随着他。它使他顺利地完成各种案子，并使他得到提拔，这些案子把他变成了一个媒体争相报道的“有出息的家伙”。就像对所有有组织犯罪的调查那样，在那次调查中，调查人员一直追踪的主要线索慢慢消失了，而这件缉毒案与其他案子的区别就在于，诺曼是这件案子的负责人，这也是从事警察生涯以来第一宗由他负责的案子。在找不到线索的情况下，他毫不犹豫地做了所有警察都不可能或者不愿意做的事情：他选择了直觉，把他的前程全部托付给了这种感觉，一切都按照直觉的启发去做，毫不畏惧地勇往直前。
对于诺曼来说，世界上不存在什么“小游戏”，只有多声部合唱。当你感到困惑时，去找跟这个案子有关系的一切地方，把你的内心全部打开，甚至不要放弃任何似乎没有价值的琐碎想法，以及大量不成熟的假设，在你这样做的时候，你就好像坐在一只慢慢划动着的船舱里面放长线钓大鱼，不停地重复着扔出去、收回来的过程，等待着鱼儿上钩。有时什么收获也没有。有时你只能钓到一根树枝或一只旧胶靴，或者连饿极了的烷熊都不肯吃的某种鱼。
但是，有时你也能钓到很好吃的鱼。
他戴上棒球帽和墨镜，拐上了哈里森大街，直奔杜汉大街而去。徒步旅行三英里去寻找姐妹之家不是件难事，诺曼可以用这段时间来清理一下自己的头脑。当他到达251号的门口时，脑子里面应该像一张白色印相纸，随时准备记录任何一个外来的影像，让它们跟自己的预想吻合起来。
花了不少钱买来的那张地图就放在他的后裤兜里，他始终没有拿出来使用过。来到这座城市还不到一个星期，他已经把地形、方位清清楚楚地印在了心里，甚至比罗西还要清楚，这种能力不是经过训练得到的，它是一种天赋。
昨天早上一觉醒来，他就感到手、肩膀和腹股沟都疼痛难忍，下巴疼得张不开嘴，醒来后的第一个哈欠使他经受了极度的痛苦。他极其震惊地意识到，他对彼得·斯洛维克——那个城市犹太男孩的所作所为可能是个错误。错误到底有多严重，现在还很难说清，因为在斯洛维克的房子里发生的一系列事情构成了他的污点，当他站在白石旅馆报刊柜前时，他觉得不应该有关于那件事的报道。自从十几岁起，小心翼翼地保护自己已经不言而喻地成为他生活中严格遵守的信条。
他在报刊柜买了一份报纸，在乘电梯回房间去的路上浏览了一遍。没有任何关于彼得·斯洛维克的消息，但是诺曼感到令他宽慰的消息并不多。号手的尸体不一定这么快就被发现，并在一大早出版的报纸上刊登出有关消息，他很有可能仍然躺在诺曼藏匿的那个地方。由于尸体已经相当模糊，他在离开之前曾经对它进行了一番修饰，然后才塞进了地下室的热水器后面。但是像号手这种终日从事公益性活动并有着许多磁铁般靠得住的朋友的人，不会长期不露面而不为人发现。有人会担心，还有人会去他那个小而舒适的耗子洞里寻找他，最终将会在热水器后面有令人不快的发现。
今天早晨的报纸在都市新闻第一版上刊登着昨天早晨所没有的新闻，一行赫然醒目的标题写着：城市社会工作者在家中惨遭杀害。按照文章所述，旅行救援处只不过是号手的一项业余活动……而且他的生活并不困难。按照报纸上的说法，他有一个非常富有的家庭，他凌晨三点钟在长途汽车站送那些离家出走的妻子们去那所叫做“姐妹之家”的妓院。对于诺曼来说仅仅证明了一件事——这个人如果不是工资太低，那就一定是位性机能失调者，无论如何，他是个典型的空想社会改良主义狂人，整肾忙于拯救世界，以至于没有时间为自己换件裤头。旅行救援处，救世军，拨打求助电话，波斯尼亚解救中心，俄罗斯救助协会，还有两三个“妇女事业会”。报纸上没有详细列出最后这几个机构的名称，但是诺曼已经知道了其中的一个，那就是姐妹之家，也就是那个女同性恋者的乐园。星期六号手有一个纪念性服务活动，报纸称它为“纪念大会”。可敬可畏可悲的耶稣呵！
他还从报纸上获悉，斯洛维克的死亡可能与他服务过的某一个机构……其实和任何机构都没有关系。警察将会检查他的私生活（他们总是想象，像号手这样有一个活动出租房屋的人应该有自己的私生活），而且他们也不会忽略目前越来越多见的“无动机谋杀”的可能性，也可能这只是一个偶然路过的精神变态者，找一个房间进来，只是为了找些东西磨磨他那发痒的牙齿。
以上这些消息没有任何一条透露关于姐妹之家的婊子们。对于这一点，诺曼如同对自己的名字一样知道得一清二楚。由于工作关系，他对于临时住处和避难所有着丰富的经验。住在姐妹之家里的女人们表现出极端的小心。Be careful?见鬼去吧。现在智力障碍这个词已经有了新的标准。
诺曼昨天在图书馆里泡了一整天，他找到了许多与姐妹之家有关的东西。最有意思的是，安娜·史蒂文森在1973年以前曾经是号手的夫人，跟他离婚后，又恢复了婚前的姓名。假如你不熟悉女同性恋者婚配礼仪的话，这看起来纯粹像是杂乱无章的巧合。他们成双成对地出入，但是很少能够同甘共苦，共驾一辆车，这种婚姻一般不能持续太久，因为一个总是往左，另一个总是往右。他们不知道一个简单的真理：被一个共同的政治理想促成的婚姻往往是不能正常运转的。
号手的前妻并没有把姐妹之家的地址选在破旧不堪的女子避难所附近，那里贴着这样的警句：“女人说给女人听。”一年前的《星期日增刊》上发表的一篇文章说，史蒂文森女士已经打消了那种“男性不仅实行性别歧视，而且愚昧透顶”的想法，在这个题目下还引用了一位名叫格特·肯肖的女人的话。“男人们并不是我们的敌人，除非他们证明自己是。”她说，“但是假如他们仇视我们，我们必将仇视他们。”报纸上登了一幅她的照片，是个又黑又胖的老杂种，她使诺曼隐隐约约想起了芝加哥橄榄球队的黑人球星——“冰箱”威廉·派里。“你总想打败我，宝贝儿，我会拿你当蹦床跳的。”他经常这样喃喃自语。
那家伙虽然有趣，却和这事无关。这个城市里有一些男人和女人专门负责介绍并安排人们到这个地方来，它大约由其中一个女同性恋者，而不是某个委员会管理。有一点他可以肯定，她们现在的处境和那个隐蔽的对手完全一样，彼得·斯洛维克之死使双方都处于高度警戒的状态。她们不像警察那样擅长于推测，除非有事实能够证明她们是错的，她们会坚持认为斯洛维克谋杀案和她们有关系，特别是他生命中的最后八个月或六个月里他所介绍过的那个人。罗西的姓名已经从纷乱的头绪中显露了出来。
真不明白，你究竟为什么要这么做？he asked himself.以上帝的名义，为什么要这样做？要知道用别的办法也可以找到你所要找的东西。因为你毫无疑问是个警察。为什么要使他们害怕？那篇文章中提到的那个黑胖子，格特什么的，很可能正站在那该死的会客室窗口，用望远镜观察着每一个走过这里的人。
答案就在这里。但是在他马上就要接近它的时候又偏离了它，由干线索太模糊以至于总是看不清楚。他杀害小号手和勒死穿浅褐色紧身短裤的红发妓女都是出自一个同样的原因——有某样东西从他的内心爬了出来，迫使他非这样做不可。那样东西现在越来越频繁地出现了，他不愿想它。最好别想。这样更安全些。
这时候，他已经到达了目的地；野猫宫殿就在面前，251号正对着他。
诺曼迈着悠闲的步伐，从容不迫地穿过马路，走到杜汉大街双号那边，他知道任何监视者都不会惧怕一个远远地走在马路对面的家伙。他忍不住想象到，那个监视者一定是报纸上登出了照片、长得像只黑桶的家伙，左手提着一只实用的大工作包，右手举着一只高分辨率的野外望远镜。他稍稍放慢了脚步，提醒自己方万不可大意，她们的红色警报已经亮了。
这是一座用白色线条装饰的建筑，不完全属于维多利亚式风格，它讲述了世纪之交一位富有寡妇的故事。这座建筑从正面看好像很窄，但是诺曼正是在跟它差不多的那种住宅里长大的，他几乎可以肯定，它横跨了整个街区，和后边的大街相连。
由于到处都是这些该死的婊子们，诺曼提醒自己千万要小心一些，不要改变这种从容悠闲的步伐，不要在第一眼看到它的时候就把它吞下去，而是要一小口一小口地品味。到处都有他妈的婊子。
indeed so.到处都是婊子。
他感到怒火开始在脉搏中燃烧，随后心中出现了他所熟悉的、所有那些他无法用语言表达的形象的总代表：那张信用卡。她胆大包天竟敢偷走的那张绿色信用卡。它的形象总是在离他不远的地方摇晃着，它代表了他生活中所有的恐惧和强制性，代表了他的全部仇恨。有时，当他躺在床上想睡觉时，母亲那张苍白无力的、狡黠的面孔，或者父亲的声音便进入了梦境：“过来，诺米。我有事要告诉你，最好我们两人靠近点谈一谈。”这就意味着一顿毒打。假如你的运气好，遇到他喝醉了，他的手就会伸进你的裤裆中。
这些又有什么关系，现在惟一重要的是街对面那座建筑，他必须把握住这惟一的机会，每分每秒都不能浪费。
他已经来到了那座建筑的大门口。它有一个美丽的草坪，很窄，而且很深。沿着门廊两边修建的两块漂亮的花圃中，一朵朵春天的花蕾正在含苞欲放。每一块花床中各有一个爬满了长春藤的金属柱，顶部有一个黑色塑料圆筒，圆筒周围的长春藤经过了定型修剪。诺曼知道那里面隐藏着两台摄像机，可以从不同角度拍出大街两个方向的影像。如果室内现在有人在监视，她只能看到一个头戴棒球帽、鼻子上面架着一副墨镜的小老头，弯腰勾背地在两个显示器之间走来走去，像黑白照片一样清晰，他那六英尺三英寸的个头在粗心大意的监视者看来要矮得多。
大门的顶端还有一台摄像机，门上没有钥匙孔，因为复制一把钥匙极其容易，如果手头有现成的工具，撬锁也不是一件很难的事。不对，他发现了一个密码锁，他猜测后院肯定还会有更多的摄像机。
当诺曼走过房门时，他冒着被监视者怀疑的危险最后又扫视了一眼庭院。庭院的菜园中，有两个穿短裤的野猫正在往地面上插一根长长的细棍，他猜想是番茄架。其中一个有着橄榄色的皮肤，脑袋后面扎着又长又黑的马尾辫，精力十分旺盛，大约有二十五岁左右；另一个更年轻一些，可能还不到二十岁。她的头发染成了两种颜色，左耳贴了一块邦迪，身穿一件无袖荧光衬衫，左边二头肌上还刺着纹身。诺曼看不清那个纹身是什么内容，但是根据他多年来当警察的经验，很可能是某个摇滚组合的名称，或者罂粟花的图案。
诺曼想象自己突然不顾摄像机的存在，冲过大街，抓住那个打扮成摇滚歌星模样的小野猫；看到自己的大手在那细细的脖颈周围抚摩，直到停在她的下巴底下。“罗丝·丹尼尔斯，”他向旁边那个精力充沛并扎着和罗丝一样的马尾辫的人说，“把这只母猫给我立刻带走，否则我会像拧小鸡一样拧断她的脖子。”
这才叫过瘾。不过几乎可以肯定，罗西已经离开了这里。他在图书馆的调查结果证明，自从1973年利奥和杰西卡·史蒂文森建立了姐妹之家以后，约有三千多名妇女利用过这个机构提供的服务。她们住在这里的平均时间是四个星期，然后很快就转移到其他机构中，变成一只繁殖后代的种马或者传播疾病的蚊蝇。离开这里时，代替毕业证书的是每人一只硬梆梆的人造阴茎。
不过，罗丝肯定早已走了，她的女同性恋伙伴为她找到了一份卑贱的工作，还为她找了一个过夜的地方。街对面那座建筑里的婊子们一定知道她在哪里，那个史蒂文森的文件夹里肯定会有她的住址，花园里的那个婊子可能还在那只野猫的窝里喝过红茶，煮过童子军式的晚餐，其他人则听去过的人仔细描述她们在一起时的情形。女人天生就是这样。你只有杀了她，才能让她彻底住口。
花园里那个梳着摇滚歌星发型的年轻人忽然抬起头看见了他，向他招了招手，着实吓了他一大跳。他感到糟透了，因为她好像在嘲笑他，而且那两个人都像是在嘲笑他，她们排成一队站在女子同性恋城堡的窗口，嘲笑这个能使半打大富商破产，却不能制止自己老婆偷走那只该死的信用卡的侦探诺曼·丹尼尔斯。
他的手攥成了一只拳头。
控制自己！诺曼·丹尼尔斯的理智尖声尖气地告诫他。她可能是对所有的过路人，甚至有可能是在对一条迷路的小狗挥手！她可能就是这种人！
Yes.不错，结论必然如此。诺曼举起一只手，劈向空中，算是一个简单的回答。他甚至努力挤出了一个微笑，结果又一次引发了嘴角肌肉的剧烈疼痛。随着那个热辣辣的野猫转过身继续做她的工作，诺曼的笑容迅速消退，他匆匆离开，心脏咚咚乱跳。
诺曼努力把思维集中在目前急需解决的问题上：怎样才能从她们中间孤立出其中一个婊子来，最好是那个领头的；他就不会碰巧找来一个什么忙也帮不了的蠢货。怎么才能跟她谈一谈？但是眼下他用理性解决问题的能力似乎正在消失。他举起手，抚摩着下巴上的关节。他以前也这样伤害过自己，但从来没有如此严重过，他究竟对号手做了些什么？报纸上并没有说，但是下巴和牙齿的剧痛都向他暗示，那一定是非同寻常的。
他们要是抓住我麻烦可就大了，他对自己说。他们把我留在他身上的痕迹拍了照片，他们还有我的唾液标本……还有……我可能还留下了其他体液。这些日子他们一定做过各式各样稀奇古怪的实验，把所有找得到的东西都拿来做了实验，我甚至在自己不知道的情况下已经变成了嫌疑犯。
一点不假，不过他们抓不住他。他在白石旅馆登记的名字是阿尔文·多德，来自纽哈文，在万不得已的情况下，他可以出具一张带照片的驾驶执照，它足以证明自己的身份。假如这里的警察打电话向家乡的警察询问他的去向，他们会说诺曼由于有功而受到表彰，现正在离中西部一千英里以外的犹他地区国家公园野营度假。他们甚至告诉这里的警察别做蠢事，诺曼·丹尼尔斯是一个心地善良而且有着辉煌前途的家伙。他们当然也不会泄露温迪·亚洛的故事……但愿如此。
不会的，或许他们发现不了。不过这只是时间早晚的问题。
问题在于，他并不顾及晚一些又会怎样，他现在只能顾眼前了。怎么找到罗丝，和她严肃地谈一次话。送她一份礼物，就是那张信用卡。它再也不会出现在垃圾筒里了，也不会出现在男同性恋者的钱夹里了。她必须向他保证不再丢失或者扔掉它。他要让她放在一个最保险的地方。
他的思绪又回到了信用卡上，近来一直如此。无论睡着还是醒着，好像那片小小的塑料卡片变成了神秘的绿色河流，他的一部分思想汇入了这条主流之中。现在所有的思想都已经流动起来，在汇入绿色主流以后就融为一体，难分彼此。那个难以回答的重要问题又出现了：她大胆到竟敢拿走它的地步，到底这是为了什么？她完全可以离开他，即使他不能理解她的出走，他也能够理解她把这个阴谋藏在她那颗卑鄙而丑恶的心里那么久，是因为她害怕他不原谅她或者杀死她。但是这不能解释她为什么胆敢偷走他的信用卡，拿走属于他的东西，像一个小孩偷偷爬上豆茎，偷走了熟睡巨人的金豆子……
诺曼一点也没有意识到自己在做些什么，他把左手食指放在嘴里使劲地咬着。的确很疼，而且疼得厉害。可是这一次他一点儿也没有感觉；他深深地陷入了沉思之中。他的两根食指上各有一层厚厚的骨痴，他一感到紧张就咬食指，这是他儿时留下的一个很老的习惯。开始他还在轻轻地咬着手指，随着继续思考，浅绿色信用卡在他心里逐渐加深着颜色，直到最后变成了在暮色中看到的那种接近冷杉树的黑色，已经一点也没有最初的石灰色了。这时手指上的骨痴已经开始支撑不住尖利的牙齿，手上和嘴里流满了鲜血。他的牙齿咬进了伤口中间，津津有味地欣赏着疼痛的感觉，在皮与肉之间挤压着，品尝着鲜血的滋味，它又威又浓，味道跟号手的鲜血差不多，当他咬破皮下软组织时——
“妈妈，那个人为什么使劲咬自己的指头呀？”
“别担心，咱们走吧。”
这一段对话使他清醒。他好像突然从短暂而深沉的梦中醒来，那双呆滞的眼睛看见，有个女人带着一个三岁的孩子从他身旁匆忙走开，她飞快地拉着那孩子，简直要跑起来。当那女人回头时，诺曼从她的目光中看到的是恐惧。
他究竟在做些什么？
他低头看着自己的左手食指，它的两边各有一个很深的、仍然在流血的月牙痕迹。这些日子以来，他一直想狠狠地咬一顿，去去那些霉气，把它们咬下来再咽进肚里。这已经不是第一次咬了，也不是第一次吞咽了。
这是一条狗屎大街。他从后裤兜中掏出手绢，包在流血的