Chapter 45 Chapter 44

He's breaking down--babe, don't you know that?It's a piece by Huey Pianosmith, now... come to think of it.The door of memory opened suddenly, making him tremble.Huey Piano Smith's tune!He remembered its tune.Ah - ah - ah - ah, da... all - all - all - all ... ah - ah - ah - ah.Brilliant and talented, that's what the public says about Huey Piano Smith. "Fuck public opinion!" he said. "Huey Piano Smith is out of our time!" A few years earlier, Johnny Rivers had recorded a Huey song called "Rocky Pneumonia and Boogie-Wookie Flu."Larry Underwood can still vividly recall that tune.This song is a perfect match for the current situation.Damn, Johnny Rivers did a great job!Huey is fucking awesome! "

"Fuck it!" Larry thought again.He looked terrible—pale and frail, stumbling up the New England highway like a ghost. "Let me go back to the 60s!" That's right, it was the 1960s, that era! Mid 60s, late 60s. "The Charm of Flowers". "Say No to Drugs for Gene".Andy Warhol, wearing pink-rimmed glasses and carrying a Brillo guitar, strummed "The Creature Returning from Yorba Linda" on the velvet floor.Norman Spinrad, Norman Mailer, Norman Thomas, Norman Rockwell and old Norman Bates of the Bates Myrtle family, eh-ah-ah.Dylan broke his neck.Barry McGuire sings that "Night of Destruction" at the top of his lungs!Diana Ross touched every white kid in America... All these bands were great bands, Larry thought vaguely, take me back to the 60's, fuck it The 80's!When rock music began to appear, the 1960s had been defeated like the last battle of the Khan's army.Semen, hippies, drugs.Glass Slack sang loudly on the plane, Norman Mailer played lead guitar, and Norman Bates Sr. played drums.The Beatles.Who are they?Ah, death...

His feet went limp, and his head hit the ground heavily. The whole world was spinning, and it was dark. After a while, it reappeared in front of me in a piece of broken light.He wiped his temples with his hands and got some blood foam.Not too serious.Fuck it, that's what they used to say in the mid-'60s of glory and glory.For a whole week, he had nightmares every day, often waking up at the moment when he was about to blurt out a scream.If you scream loudly and wake up with your own screaming, you will be even more frightened and disturbed. Another dream of going back to the Lincoln Tunnel.There was a person following behind him, it wasn't Rita, it was a devil, showing a ferocious smile, following behind him on tiptoe.The man in black isn't a walking zombie; he's scarier than a zombie.Larry tripped over the unseen corpse.Those dead bodies seemed to be lying in a car.He knew that those cars had places to go, but everyone happened to be squeezed together in the crowded traffic, and finally caused a traffic jam with no way to escape.These dead bodies were staring out of the car with bulging, glass-ball-like eyes, staring straight at him with infinite nostalgia for the world.Looking at them, he felt an uncontrollable panic.He ran involuntarily.That black devil, a man with magic, can see him clearly in the dark like wearing a pair of infrared glasses, so what's the use of running?After a while, the man in black began to whisper to him: "Come here, Larry, come here, let's be together. Larry..."

He felt that the man in black was breathing against his shoulder, and when he was struggling to wake up from his sleep, he would feel that the scream was sticking to his throat like a hot bone, and he could not vomit quickly; Or was shouting from its mouth, loud enough to wake the dead. During the day, the figure of the man in black disappears.He shows up on time every night.During the day, what tormented him was solitude, an irresistible solitude that gnawed at his nerves tirelessly like a mouse or a weasel.During the day, Rita always appeared in his mind.Lovely Rita.He went through his mind as he looked into her eyes, torn apart like an animal tortured to death by fright and pain, the mouth he had once kissed and now filled with foul-smelling pale green vomit. Over and over again, her beautiful figure in the past reappeared.She died so easily, and "that night, in the same sleeping bag, they were..." And now, he's...

He is breaking down.Is it not?That's what's happening to him.Little by little he was breaking down. "I'm falling apart," he lamented. "Oh, I'm going crazy!" The waking part of his brain was still saying "this could be true".But now, what is suffering him most is heart failure.After Rita's accident, he dared not ride a motorcycle anymore.This is essentially a mental disorder.He had recurring images of himself losing control of his car on the highway and ending up in a ditch.Since then, he has had to walk.How many days has he been gone? 4 days? 8 days? 9 days?he does not know.It may have been the 90th day since 10 o'clock this morning, and it was almost 4 o'clock, and the sun was burning down on him, but he was not wearing a hat.

He couldn't remember how many days ago he fell into a ditch while riding a motorcycle.Not yesterday, and maybe not the day before yesterday (maybe, maybe not), but what does it matter?Anyway, the car was broken, the gearbox was broken, the throttle handle was crooked, and the clutch cable fell off.Like a runaway wild horse, with its front wheels up and its rear wheels on the ground, it flew over a section of embankment near Highway 9 due east of Concord, rolled and fell.He remembered that the place where his motorcycle had been destroyed might be called Gosville, but that didn't matter at all.The truth was, the car was useless to him.Don't dare to exceed 15 miles per hour.Even at 15 mph, his mind would picture him falling off the handlebars and breaking his skull, or taking a dead-end corner and slamming into an overturned truck, becoming a The phantom of a ball of fire.After a while, the damn overheat light came back on, and of course, it was already on.He seemed to be able to see a few neat little characters printed on the plastic casing above the little red light bulb - "Coward".When he went from taking motorcycle riding as a natural thing to actually enjoying the crazy feeling of riding a bike, the feeling of the wind brushing his cheeks and the earth brushing six inches under his feet , where has a period of time elapsed?Yes, when Rita was with him, before Rita turned into a zombie with a mouth full of stinky green vomit and eyes torn out, he enjoyed the thrill.

So he drove his motorcycle over the embankment and fell into a weedy creek.Then he looked at it with a sort of wary terror, as if it would charge up for no reason and throw him over.Come on, he thought, come on, hold on, you vampire.After waiting for a long time, the motorcycle still did not move forward.It roared for a long time, and the roar gradually sank in the valley.The rear wheels idling uselessly, the hungry drive chain devouring the fall leaves and throwing up brown, choking dust.Blue smoke belches from the chrome exhaust.He couldn't help thinking far away, thinking that if there was something supernatural attached to the car body, righting the car, making it rush out of the sinking place, and smashing him hard on the ground...or if he came back one afternoon He heard the roar of the engine and saw his motorcycle—that nasty motorcycle roaring towards him from the highway at a speed of 80 kilometers per hour, but it didn't get stuck in a mud ditch and couldn't move.Bending over the handlebars was the man in black, that cold-faced man.Sitting in the backseat of the car, the girl in wide silk trousers fluttering in the wind was Rita Blackmore, with a complexion as white as chalk, eyes narrowed into slits, and hair as thick as winter cornfields. Dry and withered.Then, the motorcycle started smoking, rattling, and eventually stalled.He looked down at it, feeling sad, as if he had hurt not the motorcycle but a body part.

Without a motorcycle, he felt helpless in the face of the silence around him. Only the motorcycle was his only weapon to challenge the silence.Silence is more terrifying than the fear of death or being seriously injured in an accident.He has been on foot ever since. He passed several small towns along Highway 9.There is a motorcycle shop in the small town, and on the right handle of the car displayed in the showroom, the car key is hanging brightly.If he stared at them for a long time, he would clearly see him lying on the road with a pool of blood on his body.The colors of the scene are so vibrant, so frighteningly gorgeous, it's like a scene from a horror movie starring the terribly scary and terribly charming Charles Bond - the kind of guy dying under the wheels of a gigantic truck. Shots or gigantic, nameless, fat-bellied bedbugs, horrifying shots of guts shattered and blood flying.

Yet he went on walking, pale and trembling, in the frightening silence.Tiny beads of sweat seeped from between his nose and lips and in the dimples of his temples.He went on. He had visibly lost weight—how could it not?Walk forward without stopping every day, from sunrise to sunset.At night, he couldn't sleep again.At four o'clock in the morning, he would be awakened by a nightmare, then light his colemanite lamp, curl up beside it, and wait for the sun to rise.Only then did he dare to walk.He went on, and only when it was almost too dark to see the way, he pitched his tent furtively and hastily like a fugitive.After the tent was set up, he would lie awake for a while, like a junkie's nervous euphoria after two grams of cocaine.Oh baby, shake, shake, spin.He was like a cocaine addict, he hadn't tasted much, he had never had a craving for the drug.Cocaine does not increase one's appetite, and fear does not increase one's appetite.Larry hadn't touched cocaine in a long time since that party in California long ago.But he was often restless.The chirping of birds in the woods would also make him twitch.He was also scared out of his wits by the noises of some small animals when they were being devoured by larger ones.He gradually lost weight and became skinny.His haggard face, with his long, ring-wrapped beard, was striking.The beard was tawny, with a golden reddish tint, a shade lighter than the hair.The eye sockets are deeply sunken, and two eyes are shining in the eye sockets, like two small animals that have fallen into two identical traps and are on the verge of despair.

"I'm broken." He moaned again under his breath.He was also horrified by the desperation expressed in the feeble lament.Is he really at the end of his rope and desperate?Is he still the same Larry Underwood who set middleweight boxing records and dreamed of being the Elton John of his day? ...oh my God, how Jerry Gratcia would laugh at him knowing...and now the once-mighty guy is terrified and crawling somewhere in southeastern New Hampshire , crawling, as slowly as a king snake crawls.This is who he is now.Of course that Larry Underwood has nothing to do with this crawling coward now... this...

He tried to remember, but failed. "Oh, what the hell," he said, half laughing, half weeping. A small winding white New England farmhouse loomed like a beautiful mirage on a knoll about 200 yards beyond the road.Green walls, green trim, green roofs.Below is the green lawn, which looks a little messy.At the bottom of the lawn, a small stream was babbling.He could hear the gurgling and splashing of the brook, the water rushing in.A stone wall meanders along one side of the creek, probably a courtyard wall.Thick and dense elms leaned against the walls.All he wanted was to get there at his "world-famous crawling coward's slow pace" and sit in the shade to rest for a while.This is what he has to do.Then, when he feels... feels better all over, he'll put his feet out, soak for a while in the stream, and take a few swigs of it.He might smell bad, so what?Who would smell him now that Rita was dead? Is she still lying in that tent now?he thought gloomily.Is the body already swollen?Attracted a lot of flies?What is she doing in hell?Golfing at Pam Spearance with Bob Hope? "Lord, this is horrible," he whispered, before crawling across the road.When he finally reached the shade, he felt that he should indeed take off his shoes, but it seemed to take some effort.He exhausted all his strength, turned his head and glanced surreptitiously at the road he came from, to make sure that the motorcycle was not rushing towards him. The temperature in the shade was only 15 degrees, and Larry took a long breath, feeling a sense of relief and relief.He put his hand on the back of his neck, where the sun was burning hot all day, and there was a slight pain.He drew his hand back again.The sun is shining?Put some lidocaine on it.Fuck all the fuck out, get these things out of the sun.Burning, baby, hot burning.Watts.Remember that place called Watts?The carnival in memory.A complete carnival for all mankind, a carnival that will last a lifetime. "Man, you are mad!" he said, resting his head on the thick trunk of the elm, and closing his eyes.The sun shone through the leaves, and the spots of light swayed on the eyelids, red and black.The sound of water, gurgling and rushing, is so lovely and gentle.In a minute, he will go to the stream, drink a few sips of water, and wash his body.1 more minute. He is sleepy. The minutes passed quickly, and his doze gradually turned into the first deep sleep in days, undisturbed by dreams.His hands rested loosely in his lap, his emaciated chest heaved and his beard rimmed his face, the weather-beaten face of a lone homeless man fleeing an unbelievable massacre. .Gradually, the wrinkles on the scorched face began to stretch smoothly.Unknowingly, he turned his body around, like a small aquatic animal hiding in the shady soil and estivating.The sun gradually went down. The dense bushes by the stream swayed a few times, as if something was passing through it quietly, stopped for a while, and then moved again.After a while, a boy appeared, naked and wearing only shorts.His whole body was tanned maroon, only the two suspenders on the waistband of his shorts were glaringly white. There were marks of being bitten by mosquitoes and sand fleas on his body, some of which were new and most of them were old scars.He holds a butcher knife in his right hand.The blade was about a foot long, and the blade was already serrated, and it shone brightly in the sun. He approached the elms and the stone wall with a slight stoop, and stood behind Larry.His eyes, as blue as a pool of sea water, rolled gently in the corners of his eyes.The eyes were expressionless and slightly fierce.The knife was raised in his hand. A woman's cut-off, gentle but firm - "No!" He turned to face her, bowed his head, and listened to her.The knife was still held in his hand.That expression was both puzzled and disappointed. "Let's see," the woman said. The boy paused, looked at the knife and then at Larry, then at his knife with a wistful expression.He went back the way he came from. Larry woke up. When he woke up, Larry's first feeling was that he was comfortable.The second feeling is very hungry.The third sense is that something is wrong with the sun - it looks like it turned around the sky and came back.The fourth feeling is that he has to—excuse the expression—piss like a racehorse. He stood up, listening to the crackling sound of muscles stretching as he stretched.He realized he didn't just sleep for a short while; he slept through the night.He looked down at his watch and understood why the sun was in the wrong position.It's 9:20 in the morning.Hungry.There must be something to eat in Dabai's house.Canned soup and maybe marinated steak.His stomach started to growl. Before getting up, he knelt by the river, took off his clothes, and splashed water on his body with his hands.He noticed how thin he was getting—he didn't have the strength to hit tennis balls anymore.He got up, dried himself with his shirt, and put on his trousers.Two large rocks protruded from the surface of the creek.He crossed the stream by stepping on stones.On the other side of the creek, he froze in astonishment, staring motionless in the direction of the dense bushes.The fear, the fear that had haunted him before he woke up, flared up like an exploding pine knot, and then retreated quickly.It might be a squirrel, or a marmot, or a fox.There will be nothing else.He turned away again indifferently, and began to walk across the lawn towards the Great White House. Halfway, a thought popped up in his head like a bubble, and then exploded with a bang.The idea came to him by chance and quietly, but its suggestion stunned him as death. The idea is: why don't you ride a bike? He stood in the middle of the lawn, at this point equidistant from the creek and the house, dumbfounded at the simplicity of the thought.He's been walking since he drove his Harley into a ditch.Walking, walking that wears him out, plus the torment of the sun or something so close to it that it doesn't make a difference, he's going to die eventually.He could have ridden a bicycle if he liked.He can ride slower, not much faster than he can run.That way, he might be on the beach by now, have chosen his summer house and parked his car. He couldn't help laughing, lightly at first.In the silence around him, he startled himself with his laughter.Laughing uncontrollably when no one else is around to laugh at you is a sign that your mind is starting to scramble.However, the laugh sounds so heartfelt and sincere, so fuck your sanity.He loves this way of laughing, undisguised, letting things take their course.He stood there with his hands on his hips, his head thrown back, facing the sky, laughing like a bull at his astonishing stupidity. Behind him, in the thickest bushes by the creek, a pair of blue-green eyes kept watching everything that happened here.They kept watching Larry as he walked at last down the lawn to the white house, laughing and shaking his head now and then.They watched him go up the steps, knocked on the door only to find it was ajar and disappeared inside.After that, there was another shaking in the grass, and there was a small sound that Larry heard but ignored just now.The boy came out, still shirtless and wearing shorts, brandishing the butcher knife. Then another hand reached out and stroked his shoulder.The boy stopped immediately.The woman appeared—tall and straight, and she didn't seem to have touched the bush at all.Her thick hair, brilliant black with pure white, is striking and stunning.Her hair was braided and fell from one shoulder to her high breasts.When you look at this woman, you will first notice her height, and then your eyes will be drawn to her hair, which makes you dreamy and makes you believe that you can feel it with your eyes. Shiny and glossy texture.If you are a man, you can't help but imagine that long hair falling on the pillow in the moonlight.You will imagine her charming posture when she is lying on the bed.In fact, she has never been in the arms of a man.She is pure.She is waiting.She had dreams.When she was in college, a band called "God" once walked into her heart.Now she is wondering again, is this man a member of the band? "Wait a minute," she said to the boy. She turned the boy's pained face to her own calm and serene face.She knew what was causing the boy such pain. "The house will be all right. Why would he destroy the house, Joe?" "When he goes, we have to follow him." He shook his head viciously. "Yes. We had to. I had to." She felt the feeling grow stronger.He might not be that guy, but even if he isn't, he's connected to a clue she's been looking for for years and is now closing in on the mystery. Joe—that was not his real name—raised his knife furiously, as if to drive it into her breast.She didn't make any reaction to defend herself or try to escape, and his knife gradually lowered.He turned around and stabbed the knife towards the house. "No, you can't," she said, "because he's alone, and he's going to lead us to..." She was speechless.She meant other people.All she had to say was that he was a human being.He will lead us to the others.But she wasn't sure that was what she meant, or that if it was, there was nothing else in her words.She immediately felt that she was facing a choice between two paths.She began to wish they had never seen Larry.She tried to reassure the boy again, but he stepped aside angrily.He looked up at the white house with anger and jealousy in his eyes.After a while he slipped back into the bushes and glared at her accusingly.She followed him to make sure he was all right.He lay down, curled up like a baby, with the knife upside down on his chest.He put his thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes. Nadina went back to the edge of the small pond where the stream formed, and knelt down.She scooped up a handful of water, took a few sips, then sat down and looked at the house.Her eyes were calm and peaceful, and her face was very much like Raphael Maria. Late in the afternoon, as Larry was biking along a tree-lined section of Highway 9, a green reflective road sign loomed ahead.He stopped the car to read the sign, and was a little surprised.He was entering a resort in Maine, the sign said.He could hardly believe it; he must have walked a considerable distance in half daze, half fear.He was about to get on his bike and start again when a sound—from the woods or just overhead—made him turn his head instantly.Nothing but Highway 9 that connects to New Hampshire, still so desolate. After stopping in that white house--where he ate some cornflakes, squeezed some cheese out of a tin, spread it on stale biscuits, and made breakfast--he had the feeling that he was being watched and followed. a feeling of.He heard some noises, and even saw some movement from the corner of his eye.In this strange environment, his whole body was full of vigilance.Any tiny or even insignificant situation will arouse his vigilance; those slight or even just make him have a vague premonition - the feeling of being "surveilled" will make him endlessly tense.This feeling didn't frighten him as much as the others.It doesn't strike him as a hallucination or a delirious figment.If someone is watching him and hiding away, it's probably because they're afraid of him.If they were still terrified of poor, emaciated old Larry Underwood, too timid to drive his motorcycle at 20 mph, he had nothing to worry about. Now, with his legs straddled on the bike he took out from a sporting goods store four miles east of the White House, he yelled in a clear voice, "If anyone's around, why don't you come out. I won't hurt you." no answer.He stood by the signpost on the highway, watching, waiting.A small bird chirped and flitted through the air.Nothing else happened.After a while, he pushed the car and continued on. At 6 o'clock in the evening, he arrived in a small town in North Berwick.The town is located at the intersection of Highway 9 and Highway 4.He decided to camp here and continue heading towards the sea tomorrow morning. There is a small shop at the intersection of 9 and 4.He pulled a six-pack of beer from the store's power-out freezer.It was a "Black Mark" he'd never tasted—probably a local brand.He also took a large package of Humpty Dumpty's Vinegar Chips and two tins of Strong Moor's Beef Stew.He put these things in his bag and walked out the door. Across the street is a restaurant.At the moment when he came out of the store, he suddenly saw two figures flashing away, retreating from the restaurant and disappearing.It could also be that his eyes were blurred for a while, but he didn't think so.He wanted to cross the highway to see if he could get them out of hiding: Well, well, game over, boy.But he didn't.He knew what it was like to be afraid. Instead, he took a short walk down the highway, pushing his bike with his backpack dangling from the handlebars.He saw the brick courtyard wall of the school, with a row of trees behind it.He scavenged enough wood from the groves to start a decent fire.The fire was set in the middle of the school's asphalt-paved playground.Nearby is a small river that runs through a textile factory and runs under the highway.He cools his beer in the river and warms a can of beef stew in a can, then sits on a swing in the playground, swinging around while eating from a Boy Scout cookout, Cast a long shadow across the faded circles of the basketball court. He began to wonder why he didn't feel the slightest fear of his stalker - he was sure someone was following him now.At least two people, possibly more.Naturally, he began to wonder why he had been feeling good these days, as if some bad toxins had been flushed out of his nerves since getting enough sleep that day.Is it really necessary to rest?That's all, no other reason?It seems too simple. Logically, he thought, if the stalkers had attempted to harm him, they would have managed to do so.They could have shot him in the dark, or at least shot him with their weapons, to force him to surrender.They've already taken what they wanted too...but logically again (and it's good for him to think logically because all thinking is cluttered with fear these days), he what Is it worth what those people want?In the current state of affairs, everyone can get whatever they want because there is hardly anyone left.Why go to the trouble of stealing, killing, and buying something you used to dream of sitting in your house with your Sears catalog when you can pick it up from the window of any store in America? Risking your life?You just smash the window, walk in, and grab it. You can get anything right now, except no one with you.Larry clearly understood that the most lack of companions was now.The real reason he wasn't afraid was that he knew that those were the people who needed company the most.Sooner or later, their desire will overcome their fear.He can wait until this time.Conversely, acting prematurely will scare them off like a flock of quail, and things could get worse.Two days ago, if he saw someone, he would probably sneak away too.Because he was a bit disoriented at the time and couldn't do anything else.So, he now has to wait.He really wanted to meet other people very badly.Later, he actually saw it. He walked back to the small river to wash the rice bowls.He fished six cans of beer out of the water and returned to the swing. With a "snap", he pulled the pull ring of the first can of beer, and raised the beer in the direction where he saw the figure just now. "It tastes great!" Larry said, and drank half of it in one gulp. When the 6 cans of beer were finished, it was already 7:30 and the sun was about to set.He kicked the embers out of the campfire and gathered all the firewood.Half drunk and feeling fine, he rode his bike onto Route 9.After riding about a quarter of a mile, he found a house with a screened porch, parked the car on the lawn, took out his sleeping bag, and used a screwdriver to pry open the porch door. He looked around again, hoping to see him or her or them—they continued to follow him, he felt it—but the street was empty, deserted.He shrugged and went inside. It was still early, and he hoped to lie awake at least for a while.But obviously, he had some drowsiness.After lying down for 15 minutes, he fell asleep, breathing slowly and evenly.The rifle rests in the right hand. Nadina was tired.This day seemed to be the longest of her life.Twice she felt sure of being spotted, once near Stratford, and once on the Maine-to-New Hampshire highway line, when he looked back and yelled.For her, she didn't care if he found out.This man is not as crazy as the man who passed by the white house 10 days ago.It was a soldier with a gun, grenades and belts.He was laughing wildly, yelling, and threatening to knock out a balls called Lieutenant Morton.They hadn't seen Lieutenant Morton, and if he was still alive, it was lucky for him not to be here.Joe was also afraid of the soldier, which in this case was probably a good thing. "Joe?" She looks around. Joe is gone. Her drowsiness was gone in an instant.She pushed the blanket aside and stood up, frowning at the pain in her body.How long has it been since you have ridden your bike for so long?Probably not for long.They have been making unremitting efforts, trying to find a way that is not near or far from him.If they followed too closely, he would spot them, and it would upset Jo.If they got too far from him, he might turn off Route 9 and turn into another road, so they might lose their target, which would upset her.It never occurred to her that Larry might ride back and follow them.Fortunately (for Joe at least), it never occurred to Larry to do that either. She kept telling herself that Joe would come to understand that they needed this man...they needed more than him.They cannot be alone.If there is no one else, they will likely die alone.Joe would get used to the thought.Joe had lived in a vacuum for a long time before.Others have gotten into the habit of living with other people. "Joe," she called again, softly. He might have been as silent as a Viet Cong guerrilla drilling through the bushes, but her ears had grown used to his movements for nearly three weeks.There is still moonlight tonight.She heard the slight scuffing of the ground and the clatter of footsteps on the gravel, and she knew where he was going.Ignoring the pain in his body, he followed him closely.It is now 10:15. Their bicycles are stored in a shed behind the restaurant.Went through the grocery store and camped in North Berwick Gowell, (if you want to call the two blankets on the grass a "camp").The man they're following has dined on the school grounds down the street, ("If we go there, I'll bet he'll give us his supper, Joe," she said tactfully, "It's hot..., don't they smell uncomfortable? Doesn't it smell much better than a big sausage?" Joe's eyes widened, shooting a lot of white light, and he was malicious in Larry's direction waved the knife in his hand), and then he rode into a house with a screened porch.She guessed from the way he was riding that he might be a little drunk.He is now sleeping in the hallway of his room. She quickened her pace, and from time to time small stones hurt the blisters on her feet, causing her to frown.There is a house on the left.She crossed the lawn that led out to the fields in front of the house.她赤裸的小腿不时刮着沾满露水的青草，扑面是一股芳草的清香。这使她思考起她和男孩如果在满月而不是现在这种月亏的情况下，穿过这样的草地所需的时间。她感到下腹部一股胀起的激情，她确确实实地感到两只乳房像性器官一样饱满而挺胀。月光使她感到了有些醉意，脚下的青草，带着夜中的露水，湿漉漉地打在小腿上，也让她不能自控。她明白，如果男孩要和她做爱的话，她会把贞节献给他。她像印第安人穿玉米地一样飞快地跑着。他是否会占有她？现在又有什么关系呢？ 她跑得更快了，跳过一块在夜色像冰一样闪着光的水泥路。 乔就站在那里，站在那个男人正在睡觉的走廊边缘。他那白色的短裤在夜色中非常醒目。事实上，男孩子的皮肤非常黑，以致于第一眼望去，你会认为只有那个短裤悬挂在空中，或是被威尔小说中的隐形人穿着。 乔来自爱普瑟姆，她就是在那儿遇到了他。纳迪娜来自爱普瑟姆东南部约十五英里的南巴恩斯特德小镇。当时她正在寻找其他健在的人，不愿意离开自己的家。她以家为中心，四处寻找健在的人。圈子越走越大。她只找到了乔。当时他被某种动物咬了一口，神志不清，发着高烧。从伤口判断，可能是老鼠或是松鼠的。他坐一家房屋前的草坪上，上身赤裸，只穿一条短裤，手中拿着屠刀，像石器时代的原始人或是濒临死亡却杀气十足的俾格米人。她以前有过对付感染的经验。她把男孩带进屋子。他就一个人吗？她想可能是这样，却不敢确定，除非乔告诉她。她找到了一家诊所，那里有抗感染药、抗菌药和绷带。她不知道哪一种抗菌药有用。她知道如果弄错的话，可能会致男孩于死地，但如果不治疗，他也会死亡。咬的伤口在脚踝上，肿得像自行车内胎。幸运总是与她相伴。三天之后，伤口消了肿，恢复了正常大小，烧也退了。男孩于是信任她。显然，他不相信任何人，只有她是个例外。她常常在早晨醒来，他常常会紧搂着她。他们曾到那个白房子里去过。她叫他乔，但这不是他的名字。在她执教生涯中，任何不知道名字的女孩，她总是叫她们简。不知道名字的小男孩，她总叫他们乔。那个士兵路过这里，狂笑着大叫着，怒骂着一个叫莫顿的中尉。乔曾想冲上前去，用刀子杀死他。现在这个男人……她不敢从男孩的手上取下刀子，因为这是乔的护身符。这样做，可能会使男孩与她为敌。他睡觉时，手中一直摸着刀子。有一天晚上，她想把刀子从他手中拔出来，只是想看一看她是否能够这样做而并不是真正夺下刀子。他立刻惊醒了，一动也不动。转瞬又很快睡着了。第二天，那双碧蓝色的类似中国人的眼睛，惊疑不安地望着她，露出几分暴戾之气。他低声咆哮着，将刀子抽了回来。 现在他正要举起刀子，放下，又举起。他一边从喉咙里发出低低的咆哮声，一边向着纱窗捅了过去。他可能正要冲进门去。 她跟在他身后，没有刻意放轻脚步，但他没听见。乔正沉陷在自己的世界中。刹那间，她一把攥住他的手腕，顺着逆时间方向掰了过来。 乔发出咝咝的喘气声，拉里·安德伍德从睡梦中略微惊醒，转了个身，又安静下来。刀子掉在他们之间的草坪上，锯齿状的刀锋在月光下反射出银色光芒，宛若亮丽的雪花。 他气愤地望着她，目光中透露出责备和不信任的神情。纳迪娜毫不妥协地回瞪着他。她指了指他们来的路。乔充满恶意地摇了摇头。他指了指纱窗和屋子中睡袋里裹着那个黑影。他明明白白地做了一个可怕的手势——将大拇指卡在喉结上。之后，他咧嘴笑了。纳迪娜以前从没有见他笑过，他的笑使她有些毛骨悚然。如果那排洁白的牙齿被锉成尖尖的话，没有比它更凶蛮的了。 “不，”她轻轻地说，“否则我就会弄醒他。” 乔看起来吃了一惊。他飞快地摇了摇头。 “那么跟我回去睡觉。” 他低下头看了看刀子，然后再一次向着她举了起来。至少那股凶气现在没有了。他不过是一个被人抛弃的小孩，他想要他的衬裤或是那条从他婴儿时代就一直与他相伴、现已没有多少毛的旧毛毯。纳迪娜隐约地觉得这是使他放弃刀子的时候，可她只能坚决地摇着头表示“不”。之后会是什么样子？他会尖叫起来吗？在那个精神错乱的士兵离去之后，他曾大声尖叫。一声又一声地尖叫，含糊不清的、高声的尖叫，充满了恐惧和愤怒的尖叫。她难道想与睡袋里的这个男人在这种刺耳的尖叫声中相识？ “你跟不跟我回去睡觉？” 乔点了点头。 “没事了，走吧。”她平静地说道。他迅速地弯下腰，把刀子捡了起来。 他们一同走了回去。他充满信赖地趴在她身旁。刚才的那段插曲已经过去了，至少暂时过去了。他手揽着她，睡着了。她感觉到了腰间的一股疼痛，比刚才疼得更厉害了，范围也更广。这是女人的经痛，对此她毫无办法。她感到困了。 第二天的早上，她醒了过来——她没有戴手表——感到浑身冰凉、僵硬和一阵心悸。她突然担心乔会狡猾地等她睡着，然后悄悄地溜回那个男人的屋子里，趁他睡着的时候，切断他的喉咙。乔的胳膊没搂在她身上。她感到自己应对这个孩子负起责任。她总是觉得自己应对那些与这个世界有些格格不入的小孩子负有责任。而在他想加入到这个世界中时，她不会再让他漂泊流浪。视生命为儿戏是不可饶恕的罪过。没有外援，她不敢单独与乔长时间呆在一起。就仿佛与一只脾气乖戾的狮子呆在一个笼子里。乔像狮子一样，不能说话（或是不愿说话）。他只会从他那已失去童音的喉咙中发出低低的咆哮声。 她坐了起来，看见男孩仍躺在她的身边。他睡着的时候，把手抽了回去。This is the case.他像胎儿一样蜷曲着身子，拇指放在嘴中，手握着刀把。 她再一次感到全身困倦，起来到草地上小便之后，又躺回毯子中。第二天清晨，她不敢确信她在夜里曾醒来过，还是只在梦中梦到自己醒来。 如果我做梦的话，拉里想，肯定都是好梦。他记不起来梦见的是什么。他感觉找回了原来的自己，他想今天的天气肯定不错。今天就能见到大海了。他卷起睡袋，绑在车子的后架上，又回头取背包……他一下子呆住了。 与走廊的台阶相连的是一截水泥小路，小路的两旁长着高密的青草。路右面紧靠着走廊的一侧，沾着露水的青草被人踩倒了。露水蒸发后，青草会直立起来，但现在青草上面留下的是一行脚印。他是在城市中长大的，没有在森林中生活过，但他想，你得装作视若无睹，不要想通过脚印来了解来过这里的两个人：一个大人和一个小孩。夜里，他们曾走近纱窗，偷偷地看他。想到这里，他不禁打了个冷战。他不喜欢这种偷偷摸摸的方式。 他想，如果他们不很快现身，我就要设法逼他们出来。正是这种想法，使他重新找回了自信。他迅速地背上背包，启程上路。 到中午时，他已到了威尔斯的美国1号公路。他抛了一枚硬币，硬币落地时是背面朝上。硬币亮闪闪地丢在泥土中。他没有理会硬币，继续沿着1号公路向南拐。20分钟后，乔发现了它。他目不转睛地看着它，好像它是催眠师的法器一样。他把硬币放进嘴中，纳迪娜又逼着他吐了出来。 走了两英里之后，拉里第一次见到了大海——它好像一只巨大的碧蓝色的动物，今天有些懒散而迟缓。它与太平洋或是长岛所在的大西洋完全不同。那些海洋看起来有些洋洋自大，同时不知怎的，也有些驯服温顺。而这片海水颜色很深，是那种与钴的颜色相近的深蓝色。海浪接连不断地冲击着陆地，拍打着岩石，在空中激起像蛋白一样浓浓的泡沫，四处溅落。浪涛咆哮着，不停地冲击着海岸，发出隆隆的轰鸣声。 拉里把自行车停好，朝着大海走去。心中有一股说不清的激动和兴奋。他费尽艰辛来到了大海旁。这里是最东端。这里是陆地的尽头。 他穿过一片湿软的土地。鞋子在趟过四周环水的小丘和芦苇丛生的地方时，发出咯吱咯吱的响声。空气中弥漫着一股涨潮时那种富饶的、浓厚的气息。当他走近陆岬时，薄薄的陆地渐渐消失了，露出光秃秃的花岗岩陆基——花岗岩，这才是缅因州最后的真实。海鸥惊起，鸣叫着，哀号着。蓝天将海鸥洁白的颜色衬托得格外清楚。他从没有见过一个地方有这么多的鸟。不禁想，尽管这些海鸥的颜色是那么洁白，却是以吃腐肉为生的。接下来的想法是几乎无以言状的兴奋，在他开口说出之前，这个念头已经在他的大脑中完全成形：过会儿赶潮肯定是一件非常有趣。 他继续向前走，鞋子在阳光烤晒的岩石上沙沙作响。绝大多数时候，岩石四面的缝隙中溅落了许多浪花，湿漉漉的。缝隙中长满了藤壶。海鸥吃完肉后吐出的贝壳像枪榴弹爆炸后四溅的飞片一样遍布岩石四周。 片刻之后，他站在了裸露的陆岬上。海风猛烈地刮在身上，将他浓密的头发从前额吹到后面。他抬起头，脸迎着海风，迎着那浓重又新鲜洁净、充满咸盐味道的大海的气息。拍击在海岸的浪花，闪着玻璃般光泽的蓝绿色，缓缓地向前移动。当浪涛下面露出浅浅的水底时，波涛明显地形成坡形。浪尖先是吐出一圈白色的泡沫，之后形成凝乳般的浪峰。最后，像最初时一样，它们猛地、自杀般地向海岸的岩石一头撞去，撞得自己粉身碎骨，也撞掉了陆地上一块极其微小的边角。当海水被迫挤进几千年蚀刻出的半淹没在水中的岩石沟壑时，发生一阵隆隆的、如咳嗽般的轰鸣声。 他先左转过身，又转向了右边，极目四望，到处都是类似的场景……卷浪，波涛，浪花，无休无止的蔚蓝色，与天际相连。这幅壮丽的情景不由得使他静气屏息。 他现在位于陆地的尽头。 他坐下，双脚垂在岸边，感到一种心灵的震颤。他坐了约半个小时或者更长。海风激起了他的食欲，他在背包里摸索着，寻找午饭。他大口大口地吞吃着。四溅的浪花打湿了蓝色的牛仔裤。他感到如沐浴般的清爽。 他穿过湿地，走了回去，盘踞脑中的仍是最初那种念头：那些叫声应该是海鸥的叫声。他甚至准备抬起头来，仰视天空。忽然，他心中猛地一震，突然意识到这是人的尖叫。是呐喊声。 他向下望去，看到一个小男孩穿过公路，健步如飞地迎着他跑来。他手持一把长长的屠刀，他上身赤裸，只着一个短裤，胳膊上布满了被刺藤划破的伤痕。在他的身后，一位姑娘正从公路的另一侧的灌木丛和荨麻丛中钻出来。她脸色苍白，眼中满是担忧的神情。 “乔！”她叫道，然后就跟在他身后跑，仿佛男孩的行为很令她伤心。 乔继续向前跑，没有理会她的叫喊。他的赤脚在沼泽地中溅起薄薄的泥水。他脸上凝结着那种紧张的、凶手般的笑容。屠刀在他手中高高地举起，在阳光下闪闪发光。 拉里想，他要来杀我！这种念头使他目瞪口呆。这个孩子……难道我做过什么对不住他的事情？ “乔！”那个姑娘叫喊着，声音尖锐、忧虑又充满绝望。乔继续向前跑，与他的距离更近了。 拉里突然想起来他的步枪丢在自行车上了，这时，男孩尖叫着冲他扑了过来。 当男孩的挥刀劈来，在空中划了一个长长的、大弧角的弧形时，他几乎要瘫在地上。他向旁边退了几步，不假思索地抬起右脚，湿漉漉的黄色工作靴一脚踹在男孩肚子上。这时他才感到有些怜悯：男孩根本就弱不禁风……他瘦得像根细麻杆。他看起来气势汹汹，根本就不堪一击。 “乔！”纳迪娜叫了起来。她被一个小沙丘绊倒，一下子跪在地上，白色上衣上溅满了泥水。“不要伤害他。他只是个孩子！求您，不要伤害他！”她支起身，挣扎着站起来。 乔仰面躺在地上。整个身形展成一个Ｘ形——双手张开成一个Ｖ字，双脚张开呈一个倒置的Ｖ字。拉里向前跨了一步，脚踩在男孩右腕上，牢牢地将攥刀的手钉在泥地里。 “把刀子放开，孩子！” 那个男孩咝咝地喘着粗气，嘴里发出像火鸡一样“咕噜咕噜”声和“咯咯咯”之声。他的上嘴唇紧紧绷着，露出一口白牙。那双与中国人相似的眼睛火辣辣地瞪着拉里。脚踩在男孩的腕上，就像踩着一只受伤但仍十分凶狠的蛇。他能感觉到男孩试图抽出他手，根本就不在乎这样做可能会使他皮肤流血、肌肉受伤甚至骨头折断。他猛地半坐起来，试图要伸嘴咬拉里那只裹在牛仔裤里的腿。拉里踩在男孩手腕上的力气更大了，乔发出一声尖叫——不是因疼痛而叫，而是一种挑战之声。 “把刀放下，孩子！” 乔继续反抗。 如果不是浑身沾满泥浆、气喘吁吁，因极度担心而站立不稳的纳迪娜最终赶来的话，这场僵持将会一直持续下去，直至或是乔把刀子放下或是拉里把乔的手腕踩折。 纳迪娜没有来得及看拉里一眼，她一下子跪了下去。“把刀子放开！”她轻声地但非常坚决地说。脸上满是汗水，却十分沉着。她握住刀子，刀子离乔扭曲变形的脸只有数寸之遥。他突然像狗一样咬住了她，继续反抗。拉里一脸严肃，他努力保持身子平衡。如果男孩现在挣开的话，他可能会把那个姑娘撞倒。 “把……它……放下！”纳迪娜说道。 男孩咆哮着。唾液从紧咬的牙齿间流了出来。右颊上沾了一道泥浆，像一个问号。 “我们会离开你，乔。我将离开你。我会和他一起走。除非你听话。” 拉里感到他脚下的那只胳膊的肌肉又紧绷起来，之后放松了。男孩用一种伤心责备的眼神瞪着姑娘。当他的目光转移到拉里身上时，拉里能感觉到里面那种忌妒的神情。尽管他身上已是汗流浃背，在这种目光注视下依旧感到心中有凛凛寒意。 她继续平静地跟他说话。没有人会伤害他。没有人会离开他。如果他把刀子放下的话，所有的人都将是他的朋友。 拉里渐渐地感觉到脚下的那只手慢慢松开了，最终把刀子扔在一边。男孩静静地一动不动地躺在地上，仰望着天空。他已经妥协了。拉里把脚从乔的腕上抽出来，迅速地弯下腰，拾起那把刀子。他转过身，用力把刀子向着陆岬方向甩出。刀片旋转着，在阳光下闪着光芒。乔用一种奇特的眼神盯着刀子的路线，他发出了一声长长的、充满痛苦和不满的叫声。刀子在岩石上弹了一下，发出轻微的“啪”的一声，掠过水面，掉进了海里。 拉里回过头来看着他们。姑娘正盯着乔的右胳膊。拉里靴子底上华夫饼似的纹路，深深地嵌在了男孩的胳膊上，变成一团愤怒的、似要叫喊出来的红色。她那双黑色的眼睛又抬起来注视着拉里的脸。眼光中充满哀怜。 拉里感觉到那套自我辩解的话似乎要脱口而出——我不得不这样做。听着，姑娘，这不是我的错，他想要杀我——因为他认为自己能从那双哀怜伤心的眼神中读到这样的判决：你做得也够狠的。 但最终他一句话也没说。情况就是这样，他是被男孩逼出来的。看着那个男孩——他现在已坐了起来，身子蜷缩在双膝上，孤零零地坐着，一只拇指含在口中——拉里不禁怀疑是否真是这个男孩一手造成了刚才的场景。然而，情况也可能产生更坏的结局——他们中的其中一个人被砍伤甚至被杀死。 于是他一句话也没有说，迎着那个姑娘温柔的眼神，他想：我想我可能已经变了。不管怎么样。我不知道变化了多少。他想起了巴里·格里格对他谈起过的一个来自洛杉矶名叫乔里·贝克的节奏吉它手的一些事情。这名吉它手总是非常守时，从没有错过一场排练，或是搞砸过一次录音。他之所以最吸引你，不是因为他是一名节奏吉它手，也不是像安格斯·扬或爱迪·万·哈伦那样的自我炫耀，而是他超人的才华。有一次，巴里说，乔里·贝克曾是一个名叫“斯巴克斯”乐队的主力队员。每个人都看好这个乐队，认为其将与“极其相似”乐队和“成功”乐队齐驱并驾。他们能弹出一种类似早期的“信念”乐队所奏出的那种重金属吉它摇滚乐。绝大多数的作词和所有的作曲都是由乔里。贝克填写和创作的。后来，一次车祸撞断了他的骨头，在医院里注射了大量的麻醉剂。出院后，正如约翰·普里恩的歌中所唱的那样，他变得心灰意冷，吸毒成瘾。从杜冷丁到海洛因他都尝过，被捕过许多次。过了一段时间之后，他变成了一个在格雷宏德车站双手颤抖、日渐削瘦，整日无所事事闲逛的街头瘾君子，完全变成了另一个人。后来，不知何故，过了18个月后，他戒了毒，一直没有再吸。他改变了许多。他不再是“极其相似”乐队和“成功”乐队以及其他所有乐队的主力队员了，但他仍总是非常守时，不错过任何一场排练或是搞砸任何一次录音。他不爱讲话，但左胳膊上的一排排针眼消失了。巴里·格里格说过这样一句话：他展示了他的另一面。that's it.没有人能告诉你，你希望成为什么样的人物和你事实上正在成为什么样人物之间的关系。没有人能勾画出在你堕落时那种忧伤和孤独的情形。没有任何变化轨迹图。你不过……在展示你的另一面。 或者你没有展示。 我不知怎的就已经变了，拉里糊里糊涂地想，我也展示了我的另一面。 她说：“我叫纳迪娜·克罗斯。这是乔。很高兴能遇见你。” “拉里·安德伍德。” 他们握了握手，这场戏剧性的相见使他们彼此微微一笑。 “我们到那边公路上再谈吧。”纳迪娜说。 他们开始肩并肩地向前走，走了几步之后，拉里回头向后看了看乔。乔正跪坐于地，吮吸着他的拇指，显然没有注意到他们已经走了。 “他会跟来的。”她轻轻地说。 “你确信？” “我敢保证。” 当他们走上高速公路的砾石路肩时，她被绊了一下，拉里抓住了她的胳膊。她感激地看了看他。 “我们能坐一会儿吗？”她问。 "certainly." 他们于是在人行道上面对面地坐了下来。过了一小会儿，乔跟了上来。他低头望着自己的赤脚，慢慢地向前走。他在离他们不远处坐了下来。拉里警惕地看了他一眼，又转过头去看纳迪娜·克罗斯。 “你们就是一直跟踪我的两个人。” “你怎么知道的？哦，是的，我想你已经察觉到了。” “多少时间了？” “已整整两天了。”纳迪娜说道。“我们就住在爱普瑟姆的白房子里。”看到他疑惑的表情，她补充道：“在小溪边。你在石墙边睡着了。” He nodded. “昨天晚上在我睡着的时候，你们两个过来监视我。可能要看看我是不是头上长角或是屁股上有根红尾巴吧。” “那是乔，”她轻轻地说，“当我发现他不见了的时候，我就跟着他过来了。你怎么知道的？” “露水使你们留下了痕迹。” “哦！”她仔细地看了看他，察看他的反应。尽管拉里非常想低下头，也看看她，但最终他的视线没有落下来。“我不想让你生气。” “乔是他的真实名字吗？” “不，只有我这样叫他。” “他就像电视节目《国家地理》中的一个野人。” “是的，非常像。我是在一栋房子前的草坪上发现他的——那栋房子可能是他家的房子，那个地方叫罗克威——当时他正生着病。他不会说话。他只能大声咆哮和低声哼哼。在今天早晨之前，我一直管着他。但我……你看，我有些累了……而且……”她耸了耸肩。她外罩上的泥浆已经干了，像一团团中国的方块字。“我最初给他穿衣服。但除了短裤之外，他把其他衣服都脱掉了。最后，我也不想再试了。他根本就不在乎蚊子的叮咬。”她停顿了一下，“我想我们与你一起走。我想，在现在这种情况下，这不该羞于出口的吧。” 拉里在想，如果他要是告诉她关于那个想与他一起走的最后一个女人的故事，她会有何想法。但他永远不会说。这段插曲已深埋在他的心底，即使这个女人问也不会说。他不会像一个在客厅谈话中聊起受害者名字的凶手一样，急于道出丽塔的名字。 “我不知道我要去哪儿，”他说，“我从纽约来，我已走了很远的路。我计划在海边找到一幢房子，一直住到10月份或者更晚些时候。可是我走的越长，越渴望遇到其他人。我走得越远，所有的一切越令我感到恐惧。” 他的表情很难受，似乎只有讲出丽塔或是他在噩梦中遇见的黑衣人，他才会感到好受些。 “很多时候，我一直担惊受怕。”他小心翼翼地说道，“因为只有我一个人。我相当多疑。就好像我预计印第安人会向我突然扑过来，割下我的头皮。” “换句话说，你停下来找房子，希望能找到其他人。” “是的，可能是这样。” “你找到了我们，这真是一个惊喜。” “我确实相信你们找过我。可是，纳迪娜，那个男孩真让我担心。我不得不时时警惕。他的刀子不在了，可是这个世界上处处都有刀子，时时都在等待着他去拾。” "yes." “我不想说话残忍……”他把话又咽了回去，希望她能接着他的话说，可是她根本就一声不吭，只是用那双深沉的眼睛望了望他。 “你想过没有要离开他？”他的话终于出口了，像一块硬邦邦的石头，很不客气……但难道让一个十多岁的精神病小男孩把他们杀死，使情况变得更坏，这就对嘛？这就公平了么？他告诉过她，他说话很残忍。他想，他说的话是够残忍的。然而，他们现在就处于这样一种残忍的环境中。 这时，乔那双古怪的海蓝色眼睛盯住了他。 “我不能这样做，”纳迪娜平静地说，“我了解现在这种危险，我知道这种危险可能主要是针对你。他有些忌妒。他害怕你在我眼中，会成为比他重要的人。他可能想方设法……设法除掉你，除非你能和他做朋友，或是至少使他相信你并不打算……”她的话渐渐变低了，下面的话有些含糊不清。“如果我们留下他，无疑是致他于死地。我不会这么做。许多想杀死更多人的人现在都已经死了。” “如果他在一天夜里切断我的喉咙，你就会这样做了。” 她埋下了头。 拉里说：“如果昨天晚上你没跟过来，他可能已把我杀了。是不是这样？”他的声音非常轻，只有她能听清（他不知道正在一旁注视他们的乔是否听到了他们谈论的话题）。 她柔声地说道：“事情可能会这样。” 拉里大笑：“圣诞节的幽灵，走还是留？” 她抬起头：“我想跟你一起走，拉里。但我不会扔下乔。你得拿主意。” “这件事可真不容易。” “这些天的日子本来就不怎么容易。” 他想了一会儿。乔坐在公路的路肩上，望着他们。在他们的身后，大海无休无止地拍击着岩石，击打海水在陆地上冲击出的暗壑，隆隆作响。 “好吧，”他说道，“我想你的心太软会造成危险的，可是……就这样。” “谢谢你，”纳迪娜说道，“我将会对他的行为负责。” “如果他真杀死我的话，对我将是最大的解脱。” “在我的余生中我会永远感到内疚和不安。”纳迪娜说道。她突然想到，她那些关于生命神圣的话可能在不久的某一天会必然地、不可避免地变成对她的一种嘲讽。这种念头犹如一阵寒风，使她浑身一阵哆嗦。“不，”她对自己说，“我不会害死他的。不会这样。永远不要这样。” 那天晚上，他们在威尔斯公共海滩上柔软的沙滩上宿了营。拉里在海藻滩上燃起了篝火。海藻滩上还残留着以往涨潮时的痕迹。乔坐在另一侧，远离他和纳迪娜，往火里填着小树枝。偶尔，他会把一根粗大的枝条插进火堆中，直到它像火把一样燃起来的时候才抽出来，高高地举起。火把像一支燃着的生日蜡烛。他们起初还能看清他，后来看到的就只是一团移动的火把，随着他的狂蹦乱跳在风中上下飞舞。海风渐渐起来了，温度比前几天都要低。拉里模模糊糊地记起，就在那次超级流感像一列高速的货运列车一样袭击纽约之前，在他突然发现母亲奄奄一息的那天下午，下起了一阵雨。他记起了电闪雷鸣，白色的雨幕狂野地击打着公寓的情景。他浑身抖了一下，风从篝火中卷起一团火星，盘旋着升到星光点点的夜空中。灰烬升得更高，在空中忽隐忽现，隐约闪烁。他想，现在距秋天虽然还有一段时间，却已不像在6月的那一天时——在他发现他的妈妈一动不动地躺在地板上，神志不清的那一天——那样遥远。他浑身抖了一下。北面远处的沙滩上，乔的火把在空中时起时伏。这使他感到孤独和全身的寒意——孤零零的火把在漫无边际的黑暗中时隐时现。浪涛拍岸，涛声轰鸣。 “你要不要弹一曲？” 她的声音使他惊得要跳起来，低下头，看到那只吉它盒正躺在他们身旁的沙滩上。当他们闯进一家大房子寻找晚餐时，发现了这把斜靠在乐器室“斯迪威”钢琴上的吉它。他往背包里装了足够多的罐头，以补充他们这些天所吃光的食物。冲动之下，他也把这只吉它盒装了进去，当时甚至没有看一看盒子里装的是什么——在这样豪华的房间发现的，肯定错不了。自从那次在玛利布伊的狂欢晚会之后，他就一直没有再弹过吉它。那已是6个星期之前的事了。是另外一个世界的事。 “好，我弹。”他说着，同时发现心里真的想弹，不是为了她，而是因为在某些时候，弹琴能使感觉变得好些，使你的神经感到轻松舒缓。当你在沙滩上点起一堆篝火的时候，总有人想要弹起吉它。这已经是颠扑不破的真理了。 “让我们看一看里面是什么。”他说道，打开了盒子。 他曾预料里面会是一件很好的东西。打开时，里面的物品仍使他感到一阵惊喜。这是一把“吉布森”12弦琴，一件非常精美的乐器，很可能是专门定做的。拉里对吉它的鉴赏力并不很专业，所以他还不敢确定这是一把专门定做的琴。他不知道嵌有回纹雕饰的盒子是真正的含珠之蚌。他只是看到了篝火在琴身上反射出桔红色的光泽。他让琴身正对着篝火的焰光，使光泽变得更亮。 “它很漂亮。”她赞叹道。 “的确很漂亮。” 他拨了一下琴弦，很喜欢它的音色。尽管声音有些发空，调子也不很准，音色却比六弦琴要饱满和丰富得多。声音和谐，毫不尖锐刺耳。这就是钢弦吉它的优点，你会听到悦耳的低音。琴弦是“黑钻石牌”的，镀着一层漆，略显浮华，但声音还是相当朴实醇厚的。当你换和弦时，声音有些生硬。他微微地笑了，想起了巴里·格里格对这些平板吉它琴不屑一顾的神情。他一直把这些琴称为“昂贵的骗子”。可爱的老巴里，他还希望等他长大之后成为史蒂夫·米勒一样的人物呢。 “你在笑什么呢？” “旧时光。”他说道，感到一阵难过。 他用耳朵听了听音，把音调校准，心中仍在想着巴里、约翰尼·麦考尔和韦恩·斯图克这些人。当他正要结束校音时，她轻轻拍了一下他的肩膀，他抬起了头。 乔站在火堆旁，手中持握着那只火把。火已经灭了。那双奇异的眼睛一动不动地看着他，带着一股着迷的神情，嘴巴张得大大的。 他非常安静，如此安静必是他在陷入自己心中的遐思。纳迪娜说，“音乐有一种魅力……” 拉里开始在吉它上弹出一种非常浑放的旋律，那是在他十几岁的时候，他从艾来克特拉民歌集锦中选出的一首古老的忧伤之曲。他想，可能是由柯纳、雷和格洛韦尔最早创作的。当他认为自己找到了准确的旋律时，琴声开始在沙滩上自由地响起，伴随着他的歌声……他的歌声总是比他的琴声要棒得多。 “你看见我从遥远的地方走来， 我将把黑夜变成黎明， 因为我在这里 我从故乡走来，走了很远， 当你听到落在我黑瘦身躯上的巴掌声时， 你就会知道我的到来。 " 小