Chapter 3 Chapter two

Holmes awoke, panting.He raised his eyelids, looked around the study, and cleared his throat.Then, taking a deep breath, he saw the faint sunlight slanting in from the west window: the light cast on the neat floor—like the hands of a clock moving slowly, just touching the hem of the Persian rug under his feet—told He, the current time is exactly 5:18 in the afternoon. "Are you awake?" asked Mrs. Monroe, the young housekeeper.She was standing beside him with her back to him. "Wake up." He replied.He stared at her thin figure—her long hair pulled into a tight bun, a few dark brown curls falling down her slender neck, the belt of her tan apron tied behind her hip.From a wicker basket on the study table she took several bundles of letters (letters with foreign postmarks, and various small parcels and large envelopes), and, following the weekly ordering instructions, began to sort them by size. pick.

"You made that sound again in your nap, sir. That gasping sound—it's there again, just as it was before you went. Shall I get some water?" "I don't think it's necessary yet." He picked up two crutches absently. "Then it's up to you." She continued to organize—letters on the left, parcels in the middle, large envelopes on the right.During his time abroad, the usually empty desk had been filled with rickety stacks of letters.He knew that there must be strange gifts sent from afar.There will be interview requests from magazines or radio stations, and calls for help of all kinds (lost pets, stolen wedding rings, missing children, and all kinds of other nonsense that's best left alone).And, of course, there would be unpublished manuscripts: lurid, misleading novels based on his past, self-righteous studies of criminology, a sample book of suspense stories.There were flattering letters, too, asking him to say a few words about an upcoming novel, to leave a compliment or two for them to print on the cover, or, if possible, to help write an introduction.He generally seldom responded to these letters, and never accommodated any requests from journalists, writers, and reputation-seekers.

Still, he usually scans the contents of each letter and checks the status of each package.Summer or winter--one day a week, he would sit at the table with the fire burning in the fireplace, tear open the envelope, give a quick glance at its contents, crumple up the letter, and throw it into the flames.All the gifts will be carefully selected and put into wicker baskets for Mrs. Monroe to give to charities in the town.But if any one of the letters said something particularly interesting, no flattering compliments were needed, as long as it happened to express a common interest in something he was interested in-for example, how to raise a queen bee from the eggs of worker bees, The health benefits of royal jelly, or new discoveries in the cultivation of ethnic minority culinary spices such as sansanthoxylum (an exotic plant widely distributed in nature, which he believes, like royal jelly, can slow down the body of the elderly. and mental atrophy)—then the letter would have a good chance of escaping being incinerated, of going into his coat pocket, and by the time he sat down at his desk in the attic, he would have rediscovered it. Take it out and think carefully.Sometimes these lucky letters lead him elsewhere: to a spice plantation next to an abandoned abbey near Worthing, for example, where a strange hybrid of burdock and red grass thrives; or At a certain bee farm outside Dublin, due to the warm weather of the season, the hives were shrouded in moisture, so the honey in that batch had a little sour taste, but it was not difficult to drink; and he just went to The place I passed was a small Japanese town called Shimonoseki, where there are unique dishes made of Fujisan pepper, as well as delicious miso soup and natto. This eating habit seems to make the local people live particularly long ( During the years he lived alone, his main pursuit was to find records and first-hand knowledge about these life-prolonging foods).

"This pile of messy things is enough for you to work on." Mrs. Monroe said while nodding to the mountain of mail.She put the empty wicker basket on the floor, and turning to him again said, "There's more, you know, in a locker out in the hall—those boxes are just everywhere." "Very well, Mrs. Monroe," he said sternly, hoping only to stop her chatter. "Should I bring in all the others, or wait until you're done with this pile?" "Wait a minute." He glanced toward the door, signaling her to leave quickly with his eyes.But ignoring his look, she paused, straightened her apron, and went on: "It's a frightful amount—in that hall locker, you know—I can't tell you how many."

"I see. I think, for now, I'll just concentrate on dealing with this pile in front of me." "I don't think you're ever going to be busy, sir. If you need help—" "I can handle it - thank you." This time, he cast his eyes firmly on the door again, and turned his head away. "Are you hungry?" she asked again, stepping tentatively on the Persian rug and out into the sun. He frowned, which stopped her from moving forward, but when he sighed and spoke again, his expression softened a lot. "Not at all hungry," he replied. "Are you going to eat tonight?"

"I think I still need to eat." He suddenly imagined the picture of her scrambling in the kitchen, either dumping the garbage on the dining table, or dropping bread crumbs and good cheese slices on the floor, "Are you still going to do that? Isn’t it delicious sausage pudding?” "Didn't you already tell me that you don't like it?" Her tone sounded a little surprised. "I don't like it, Mrs. Monroe, I really don't like it—at least I don't like the taste of it when you make it. But after all, your shepherd's pie is still very good."

She frowned and began to think, but her expression became relaxed. "Oh, well, there's a little beef left over from the roast on Sunday, which I can use--but I know you'd prefer mutton." "Leftover beef is also acceptable." "Then let's make shepherd's pie," her tone suddenly became urgent, "and, I want to tell you, I have packed all the luggage you brought back. Only the strange dagger, I don't I know what to do, so I put it next to your pillow. Be careful not to scratch yourself." He sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut so that she would completely disappear from his sight. "That's called a nine-inch five-point knife, dear, thank you for your concern—I don't want to be stabbed to death in my own bed."

"Who would have thought that." He reached into his coat pocket with his right hand and groped with his fingers for the half-smoked Jamaican.But to his disappointment, he probably left the cigar somewhere else (maybe he lost it when he got off the train, when the cane slipped from his hand and he stooped to pick it up—the cigar The cigars probably fell out of their pockets onto the platform at that moment, where they were trampled to the ground). "Maybe," he muttered, "or, maybe—" He searched in another pocket, listening to Mrs. Munroe's footsteps from carpet to wooden floor, and then across the porch (seven steps, enough to get her out of the study).His hand held a cylindrical pipe (it was almost the same length and diameter as the half-remained Jamaican cigar, but from its weight and firmness, he immediately judged that it was not a cigar).He opened his eyes, and there was a transparent glass vial in his open palm, which contained two dead bees—they overlapped each other, their legs entangled with each other, as if they were going to die together in an intimate embrace.

"Mrs. Monroe—" "What's the matter?" she replied, turning around in the corridor and hurrying back. "What is this—" "Where's Roger?" He put the glass bottle back in his pocket. She walked into the study, the same seven steps she had taken when she left. "What did you just say?" "Where's your son—Roger—the others? I haven't seen him yet." "But, sir, he was the one who brought your luggage into the house, don't you remember? Later, you asked him to wait for you at the bee farm, and you said you wanted him to check the situation there."

A look of bewilderment flitted across his pale, unshaven face, the kind of bewilderment that always cast a shadow in his mind whenever he felt his memory fading again (what else was Have I forgotten? Is there anything else that has slipped away like the sand in my hand? Is there anything else I can be sure of?), but he still tries to put these worries aside, because every now and then Find a reasonable explanation for the confusion. "Oh, sure, yes yes. I'm so tired from this trip, you see, I haven't slept much. Has he been waiting long?" "Waited a while, didn't even drink tea--but I don't think he minded at all. I can tell you he's been nicer to those bees than to his own mother since you're gone."

"Really?" "Unfortunately, but true." "Okay then," he took the crutches away, "then I think, I can't let that child wait any longer." Leaning on crutches, he got up slowly from the armchair and walked towards the door, silently counting every step he took, one, two, three—he ignored Mrs. Monroe's nagging behind her (“ Would you like me to go with you, sir? You can go by yourself, huh?").Four steps, five steps, six steps.He trudged on, unwilling to imagine her frowning at the moment, not to mention that she had found his Jamaican cigar the moment he left the room (she stooped in front of the armchair and pulled it out of the cushion. The foul-smelling cigar is pinched and thrown into the fireplace).Seven steps, eight steps, nine steps, ten steps--eleven steps into the corridor, four steps more than Mrs. Menglu took, and two steps more than he usually took. As he gasped at the front door, he came to the conclusion—he was justified in his slowness: he had just returned from an expedition halfway around the world and hadn’t eaten his usual breakfast every morning—Tu Toast with royal jelly.Royal jelly is rich in vitamin B, as well as a large amount of sugar, protein and some organic acids, which are necessary for him to maintain good health and energy; he is sure that without the nourishment of royal jelly, his body and memory will be affected. But as soon as he walked outside, the earth under the evening sun immediately lifted his spirits.Surrounded by lush plants, the shadows under the trees also made him temporarily forget the trouble of amnesia.Everything here is the same as it has been for decades—including him, of course.He walks the garden paths with ease, past wild daffodils and spice gardens, deep purple buddha and curling eel thistle, breathing in the aromas of every plant.A breeze blew, and the surrounding pine trees swayed gently, and he listened to the rustling sound of his shoes and crutches against the gravel path.He knew that if he looked back at this moment, he would see his cottage cottage hidden behind four large pines—the rose-covered front door and window lattice, the carved sun shades over the windows, the brick exterior. The mullions between the blocks have been concealed by dense pine branches and needles.At the end of the path ahead, there is a whole lawn covered with rhododendrons, laurel and azalea, and behind the lawn, a row of oak trees towers.And behind the oak tree—every two beehives are arranged in a vertical row is his apiary. In a few moments he was inspecting the hive with young Roger--Roger was eager to show him how well the bees had been cared for during his absence.He shuttled from hive to hive without a hood and with his sleeves rolled up.He explained that Holmes had gone to Japan in the first part of April, a few days after the swarm had been settled, and since then the bees had completely hollowed out the beeswax bottoms of the frames, built new combs, and Each hexagonal honeycomb is filled with honey.In fact, Holmes was delighted to find that the boy had reduced the number of frames in each hive to nine, thereby giving the bees ample room to reproduce. "Excellent," said Holmes. "You take such good care of these little things, Roger, and I appreciate your hard work here." He took the little glass bottle out of his pocket, and with a Pinch it between his index finger and thumb, and hand it to Roger as a reward. "This is for you," he watched as Roger took the glass bottle and looked at the contents curiously. "This is a medium-sized bee endemic to Japan—or, we can call it Japanese bee for short, what do you think?" "thank you, sir." The boy smiled at him—and he, looking into Roger's beautiful blue eyes and patting the messy blond hair on top of the boy's head, smiled too.They stood together facing the hive, and for a long, long time they said nothing.Such silence had always satisfied him in the apiary; and from the way Roger stood relaxed beside him, he believed, the boy was as contented as he was.Although he didn't like children very much, he inevitably developed a fatherly affection for Mrs. Monroe's son (he often wondered how such a nagging woman could give birth to such a promising son. of?).But even at this age, he found that he still couldn't express his true feelings, especially when facing a fourteen-year-old boy who lost his father.Roger's father was a British soldier who died in the Balkans. Holmes believed that Roger should miss his father a lot.In any case, when dealing with housekeepers and their children, one should maintain a certain amount of emotional self-restraint—anyway, it is enough to stand with this child like this, when they look at the hive in front of them and shake When I quietly felt the subtle changes in nature from afternoon to evening, the silence between the two of them was already worth a thousand words. Presently Mrs. Monroe was standing on the garden path and called Roger to help in the kitchen.So the two reluctantly walked back across the lawn, at a leisurely pace, stopping to watch a blue butterfly circle among the fragrant rhododendrons.At last, before dark, they entered the kitchen, and the boy's hand rested lightly on his arm—the same hand that had carried him through the gate of the farmhouse, up the stairs safely, into the attic study, and finally Let go (climbing the stairs wasn't that hard for him yet, but he was grateful to the kid whenever Roger used him as a crutch to help him up the stairs). "After dinner is ready, do you need me to pick you up?" "If you don't mind the trouble, of course it's fine." "No problem, sir." So he sat down at the table and waited for the boy to help him down the stairs again.During the waiting period, he also kept himself busy for a while. He checked the notes he had written before the trip, and the torn pieces of paper were written in scribbled and obscure words like passwords—mainly dextrose, More soluble in water than dextrose - he himself had forgotten what that meant.He looked around and saw that Mrs. Monroe had taken it upon herself to tidy up his room again while he was away.The books that had been scattered on the floor were now neatly stacked and the floor was swept, but Mrs. Monroe followed his explicit instructions—nothing was dusted.He was getting more and more irritable and just wanted to smoke a cigarette.He pushed the notebook aside and opened the drawers, hoping to find a Jamaican cigar, or even a cigarette.But after searching and finding nothing, he had to give up and go back to the letters he was interested in.He took a letter from Mr. Meiqi Minki. Meiqi sent many letters before. I decided to come to Kobe as a guest.Needless to say, I look forward to showing you the many temple gardens in this part of Japan, and- But this letter also made him unable to understand: not long after he started reading it, his eyes slowly closed, and his chin gradually drooped to his chest.In his sleep, he would not feel the letter slipping from his fingers, nor would he hear the breathless sound coming from his throat.And when he wakes up, he won't remember the marigold bush he once stood on, and he won't remember the dream that brought him back to the flower bush again.He woke up with a start, only to see Roger bending over him.He cleared his throat, stared at the boy's slightly embarrassed face, and asked hoarsely and uncertainly, "Am I asleep?" The boy nodded. "oh oh--" "Your supper will be ready soon." "Okay, dinner will be ready soon." He muttered to himself, getting his crutches ready. As before, Roger carefully helped Holmes up from his chair, escorted him out of the study, and walked with him down the corridor and down the stairs into the dining-room.In the dining room, Holmes finally left Roger's gentle support and walked forward by himself.In front of him was a huge Victorian-style gilded oak dining table, on which Mrs. Monroe had set a table for him. "When I have finished eating," said Holmes to the boy, without turning his head, "I should like to discuss with you some matters concerning beekeeping—I wish you would tell me that during my absence, all the What happened. I believe you can report clearly in detail." "Of course not." The boy replied.He stood at the door and watched Holmes sit down after placing his cane by the table. "Very well," said Holmes, gazing at Roger, who was standing across the room. "I'll meet you in the study in an hour, will you? Provided, of course, that your mother's shepherd's pie didn't kill me." "Okay, sir." Holmes reached for the folded napkin, shook it out, and tucked one corner under his collar.He sat upright in the chair and took a moment to arrange the tableware neatly.Then, with a sigh through his nostrils, he placed his hands symmetrically on either side of the empty plate. "Where is that woman?" "Come, come, come." Mrs. Monroe's voice came suddenly.She appeared suddenly behind Roger, holding a plate of her steaming dinner. "Stand aside, son," she said to the boy, "you're doing a disservice." "Sorry." Roger moved his slender body to let her in.After his mother passed by and hurried to the table again, he took a slow step back—and another step, and another step—until at last he had slipped out of the dining room.But he knew he couldn't dawdle, or his mother would tell him to hurry back to the house, or maybe tell him to help clean up in the kitchen.In order to avoid this misfortune, he must escape quietly while she was serving Holmes, and disappear before she could leave the restaurant and call his name. But the child did not rush to the apiary as his mother thought, nor did he go to the study to prepare for the question about beekeeping that Holmes was about to ask him. The only room you can enter: the attic study.In fact, during the weeks of Holmes's overseas travels, Roger often stayed here for hours at a time.At first, he just took all kinds of ancient books, dusty papers and scientific journals off the shelves and sat at his desk to rummage through them.When his curiosity was satisfied, he would carefully put them back on the bookshelf, making sure they looked as if they were intact.Sometimes, he even pretended to be Holmes, leaning on the chair in front of the desk, with his fingertips aligned, staring at the window, imagining that he was smoking a cigarette. Naturally, his mother didn't know about his transgression, because if she found out, she would definitely not allow him to set foot in this house again.But the longer the boy stayed in the attic study (at first he was only tentative, and only dared to put both hands in his pockets), the more daring he became-he rummaged through the things in the drawers , shook out the letter paper from the opened envelope, and respectfully picked up the pen, scissors and magnifying glass that Holmes usually used.Then he started flipping through stacks of handwritten notes on his desk.He was careful not to leave any marks on the paper, and at the same time he was trying to decipher the meaning of Holmes's notes and unfinished passages, but he could not understand most of them-perhaps because Holmes often scribbles meaningless words, or perhaps because what he writes is indeed obscure.But Roger still studied every page carefully, expecting to discover some secrets or uniqueness of this once famous man who is now only obsessed with beekeeping. In fact, Roger had a hard time finding anything new about Holmes.It seems that in this man's world there are only clear and powerful evidence, indisputable facts and detailed observations of external things, but few words about his own thoughts.However, among the piles of notes that were scribbled randomly, the boy finally found a really interesting thing that was buried at the bottom—a manuscript called "The Glass Luthier", which was very short and unfinished. The pages inside are all held together with a rubber band.The boy noticed right away that this manuscript was different from the other notes on the table. It was carefully written, and the handwriting was easy to read. Text covered up by ink droplets.What he saw next aroused his great interest, because it was easy to understand, and even had some intimate meaning-it recorded a period of Holmes' early life.To Roger's chagrin, the manuscript came to an abrupt end after only two chapters, leaving the ending an unsolved mystery.Still, the boy turned it out over and over again, poring over it, hoping to uncover some new discovery that had been overlooked before. Now, as during the weeks Holmes had been away from home, Roger sat nervously at his desk again, deftly pulling the manuscript out from under a pile of seemingly chaotic but orderly materials.Soon, he untied the rubber band and put it aside, and the manuscript paper was neatly placed under the light of the desk lamp.He started to study from the back to the front, first quickly skimming the contents of the last few pages.He was sure that Holmes had simply not found the opportunity to finish it.Then, he started over again.As he read, he leaned forward, turning page after page.If he could concentrate and not be distracted, he believed he might be able to finish the first chapter tonight.He only looked up when his mother called his name aloud; she was outside, calling him in the garden downstairs, looking for him everywhere.And when her voice disappeared, he buried his head again.He reminded himself that time was running out—less than an hour before he was due to go to the study, and he had to hide the manuscript in the same state as it started.Before that, he still has a little time.He traced the words Holmes wrote on the paper with his index finger, his blue eyes blinked constantly, and his eyes were extremely focused.His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.Those words and phrases once again outlined familiar pictures in his mind.