Chapter 17 Chapter Sixteen

As John described in many of his short stories, I often violated principles and did not always behave impartially in my investigations.For example, I asked Mr. Keller for a photo of his wife, not out of real need.To be honest, the case was settled before we left Portman's on Thursday night, and I would have told Mr. Keller what had happened if the woman's face hadn't been haunting my mind.However, I want to delay the announcement of the results, I know, I still have a chance to see her from a better angle.That photo is also what I want out of my own selfishness, and I am even willing to keep it forever as a reward for this case.As I sat alone by the window that night, the woman roamed easily in my mind—she held up her parasol, shielding her snowy skin from the sun—while her shy face in the photograph Look at me on my lap.

Days passed, and I hadn't had the chance to devote myself fully to her.During that time I was entrusted with an extremely important case by the French government, which occupied all my energies - the theft of an onyx paperweight from the desk of a diplomat in Paris, which was eventually found hidden in the theater room of London's West End. under the floor.But even as busy as I was, the image of her lingered in my mind, and it became more and more dreamy; she was seductive and disturbing.Of course, all of this is pretty much just my own wishful thinking, and of course I realize it's my fantasy, not reality, but I can't resist the complicated urges that come up in me when I'm having this silly daydream—it's For the first time, I felt that the tender feelings in my heart can surpass rational thinking.

So, the following Tuesday, I put on a disguise for myself.I seriously thought about what kind of character would be most suitable for the unique Mrs. Keller.In the end, I decided to pose as Stephen Peterson, an unmarried, middle-aged bibliophile with a gentle, even slightly effeminate personality; he was short-sighted, wore glasses, wore a well-worn checked coat, and was always nervous and habitual. He smoothed his messy hair with his hands, and absently pulled off his blue wide tie. "Sorry to bother you, miss." I narrowed my eyes and looked at my image in the mirror, thinking about what the first sentence I should say to Mrs. Keller should be polite and reserved . "Excuse me, miss, can I bother you—"

I adjusted my tie, thinking that this man's passion for plants could be matched by her love for anything that blooms, and I tousled my hair, assuring that he must have an unrivaled obsession with Romantic literature.After all, he is a book lover, and he prefers the comfort brought by books to ordinary interpersonal communication.But deep down, he was also a loner, and as he got older, he began to think about the importance of finding a stable partner.To this end, he learned the mystical technique of palmistry, but more as a way of dealing with others than as a means of predicting the future; Man, he will still feel the fleeting warmth of his hands touching for many months afterwards.

However, I couldn't imagine how it would be possible to hide in a character I'd created—indeed, when I thought back to that afternoon, I didn't feel connected to what happened.It was Stephen Peterson who walked into the setting sun that day, with his head bowed and shoulders hunched, walking cautiously and leisurely toward Montague Avenue.His aimless appearance is a bit pitiful, passers-by will not give him a second look, his existence is insignificant.To those who pass him by, he is just an ordinary person who is forgotten in a blink of an eye. He made up his mind to complete his task and arrive at Portman's bookstore before Mrs. Keller.He walked into the bookstore and passed the counter silently.As usual, the shop owner was holding a magnifying glass, leaning his face to the book, reading the book seriously, completely unaware of Stephen who was close at hand.And it wasn't until he walked slowly down an aisle that he began to suspect that the store owner might also have a hearing problem, because whether it was the creaking of the hinges on the door as it opened or the sign that said "Open" when it closed. The sound of the collision with the glass did not seem to disturb the old man.So, through the fine dust flying in the faint sunlight, he continued walking along the aisle full of bookshelves.He found that the more he walked in, the darker the light became, until finally, everything in front of him was shrouded in shadow.

He went to the stairs, climbed the seven steps, and crouched there so that he could see Mrs. Keller clearly when she came in without attracting attention.Then, everything happened in sequence as if arranged: the mournful sound of the glass piano was heard upstairs, and it was the boy's fingertips sliding across the piano bowl; a few minutes later, the door of the bookstore opened, and Mrs. Keller was like Every Tuesday before that, as on Thursday, she came in from the street with her parasol tucked under her arm and a book in her gloved hand.She ignored the shopkeeper—and the shopkeeper ignored her—and drifted into the aisle, pausing now and then to look at the bookshelves, to stroke the spines of books as if she couldn't help it.For a while, he could see her, but only from her back; he watched her slowly walk into a dark corner, becoming more and more blurred.At last he saw her put a book back on the top shelf, and after replacing what seemed to be a random selection, she finally disappeared completely from his sight.

You are not stealing books, he said to himself, no, actually, you are borrowing books. After she disappeared, he could only speculate on her exact location - it must be close, yes, he could smell her perfume; it must be somewhere in the dark nearby, maybe she only stayed there for a short time. Just a few seconds.At this moment, a situation happened that was completely expected by him, so he was not surprised, but his eyes didn't get used to it for a while: a dazzling white light suddenly lit up behind the bookstore, instantly illuminating the aisle, but it disappears as quickly as it appears.He walked down the steps quickly, and the white light seemed to still remain in his pupils. He knew that Mrs. Keller was in that white light.

He walked along the narrow aisle between the two rows of bookshelves and smelled the strong scent of her perfume.In the shadow of the last wall, he stopped.He stood facing the wall, his eyes adjusting to the light around him.He said in a low voice, "It's here, it's here, that's right." The faint music of the glass organ came to his ears clearly.He glanced to the left—the crooked stacks of books, and to the right—more books.And right in front of him was the place where Mrs. Keller had disappeared—the back door of the bookstore. The closed door was surrounded by the white light that dazzled him just now.He took two steps forward and pushed open the door.He tried to control himself not to chase her.The moment the door was pushed open, the light shone into the bookstore again.But he hesitated, not daring to cross the threshold.He narrowed his eyes carefully, and saw that the gazebo trellis outside formed a closed corridor, and then he took a slow step.

Her perfume is quickly overshadowed by more intense notes of tulips and daffodils.He forced himself to go to the end of the corridor, and through the ivy-covered fence, he saw a small carefully cultivated garden-thick bushes, evergreens and roses carefully trimmed to form a natural wall. The barrier; the owner has painstakingly created a perfect oasis in central London, barely visible from Ms Skimmer's window.The old man should have spent several years planning carefully according to the climate conditions of different locations in the backyard before his eyesight deteriorated: in the place where the sun is blocked by the roof, the owner planted various broad-leaved plants to embellish the dark place ; and elsewhere, evergreen digitalis, geraniums, and lilies.

A cobbled path winds its way to the center of the garden, ending in a small square lawn surrounded by a boxwood hedge.On the lawn, there was a little bench next to a huge earthenware urn, painted a patina; and sitting on the bench was Mrs. Keller, with her parasol on her knees, Holding the book in both hands, sitting in the shadow cast by the building, the sound of the glass piano from the upstairs window is like a mysterious breeze floating into the garden. Of course, he thought, of course she was here reading.She raised her gaze from the book, turned her head sideways, and listened to the music carefully.At this moment, the music stopped for a moment, and then a smoother and more skilled piano sounded.He knew that it was Mrs. Skimmer who had taken Graham's place at the glass harp, and that she was showing the boy the correct way to play it.When her nimble fingers played beautiful notes on the piano bowl, there was a quiet atmosphere in the air.He carefully looked at Mrs. Keller from a distance, and watched the subtle changes in the expression on her face: she opened her mouth slightly, breathed lightly, her stiff body relaxed more and more, and her eyes slowly closed; Her deep inner peace emerges with the music, but only for a fleeting moment.

He couldn't remember how long he had pressed his face against the grille to look at her, and he too was fascinated by everything in the garden.But his concentration was finally interrupted by the creak of the back door, followed by a violent cough as the shopkeeper hurried across the threshold.The old man, in soiled overalls and brown gloves, walked up the aisle with a watering can in one hand.Soon he would pass a figure standing tensely against the fence and into the garden.As usual, he probably wouldn't notice the intruder in the garden either.Just when the last note of the glass harp disappeared, he just walked to the flowerbed, and the watering can suddenly fell from his hand and turned sideways on the ground, almost all the water in the pot flowed out. Now it was all over: the glass harp fell silent; the old shopkeeper, stooping by the rose-bed, fumbled here and there on the lawn for the jug that had fallen from his hand.Mrs. Keller put away her things, stood up from the bench, and walked towards the old man with the leisurely pace he was already familiar with.She bent down before his outstretched arms, and her shadow fell on him, but the innkeeper was completely unaware of her ghostly presence.She straightened the watering can, and the owner quickly grabbed its handle and coughed again.Then, like the shadow of a cloud passing lightly over the ground, she made her way towards the little iron gate at the back of the garden.She turned the key in the keyhole, and pushed the door just wide enough to pass people—the door creaked as it opened and closed, but he felt that she never appeared in the garden Never, not even a bookstore.In his mind she blurred at once, like the last notes on Ms. Skimmer's keys, gone. However, instead of chasing her, he turned and passed the bookstore and returned to the street.Before dusk, he was already on the stairs to my apartment.All the way, he scolded himself for being a moment of weakness for staying in the garden when she disappeared.It wasn't until later, when I took off Stephen Peterson's outfits and neatly folded them into a chest of drawers, that I seriously thought about the character's indecision.I was thinking, why would such a knowledgeable and understanding man be fascinated by a woman who is too ordinary?From Mrs. Keller's docile appearance, there is really nothing extraordinary or shocking about her.Perhaps, then, it was the loneliness of his lifelong companionship to books—the long hours spent alone in which he devoted himself to studying the various modalities of human behavior and thought, but instead, when he was called upon to act, He didn't know what to do. I want to encourage him, you must be strong.You must think better than me.Yes, she's real, but she's also a fiction, made up by you out of your own desire.In your lonely world, you choose the first face that catches your eye.You know it yourself, it could be anyone else but her.After all, my dear friend, you are a man; she is only a woman, and there are thousands of others like her scattered throughout this great city. I have all day to plot the best course of action for Stephen Peterson.I decided that the following Thursday, he would stay outside Portman's and watch her enter the store from afar.Then he would go to the alley behind the shopkeeper's garden and wait patiently, out of her sight, for the back door to finally open.My plan came true the next afternoon: about five o'clock, Mrs. Keller came out the back door, parasol held aloft in one hand, book in the other.She started to walk forward, and he followed at a distance.Although he sometimes wanted to close the distance between the two, there was always something that made him dare not act rashly.He could see the pins in her thick black hair and her hips that turned up slightly.From time to time she stopped and looked up at the sky, and he had a chance to catch a glimpse of the beauty at this time—the beautiful curve of the jaw, the smooth skin that was almost transparent.She seemed to be mumbling, muttering, but making no sound.After she finished speaking a few words, she would continue to look forward and walk forward.She crossed Russell Square, walked Guildford Street, turned left at Gray's Inn Road, crossed the intersection with King's Cross, walked for a while in an alley, and soon left the pavement and walked along Tracks move forward next to St Pancras station.This was a directionless and roundabout route, but judging from her firm steps, he didn't think she was wandering around casually.Finally, she finally passed through the big iron gate of the "Physical and Botanical Society" park, and the time at this moment was from afternoon to evening. He followed her into the high red brick wall, only to find a stark contrast between the world inside the wall and the world outside the wall: outside, there is a wide main road full of traffic, crowded with vehicles going in all directions, pedestrians on the sidewalk One after another; but once through the iron gate, there are towering olive trees, winding gravel paths and patches of vegetables, herbs and flowers. In the center of the 6.4 acres of lush pastoral scenery, stands 177 The Great House bequeathed to the Society by Sir Philip Sloane in 2009.In the shade of the trees, she turned the parasol lazily, and walked on; she left the main road and turned into a narrow path, past bluebrier and belladonna, then horsetail and feverfew—she walked from time to time. Pause to caress those little flowers, talking to himself as before.He followed her, and although he realized that there were only the two of them on this path, he was still unwilling to shorten the distance between them for the time being. They continued to walk past the irises and red chrysanthemums one after the other.The path suddenly turned behind a tall hedge, and he lost sight of her for a moment, only seeing the parasol still floating high above the hedge.Then the parasol disappeared, and the sound of her footsteps ceased.When he turned the corner, he realized that he was very close to her: she was sitting on the bench at the fork of the lane, with the folded parasol on her knees, and a book open.Soon, he knew, the sun would sink below the garden walls, and all would be darkened.You must act now, he said to himself.Right now, while there is still light. He straightened his tie, walked towards her nervously, and said, "Excuse me." He asked her what book she was holding, and politely explained that he is a book collector and loves reading very much. Always interested in books that other people read. "I've only just started watching." She watched warily as he sat down beside her. "That's great," he responded enthusiastically, as if trying to hide his embarrassment, "this is really a good place to enjoy new things, isn't it?" "Yes." She replied calmly.Her eyebrows were thick, even bushy, which gave her large blue eyes a serious air.She seemed slightly offended—was it his sudden presence, or was it the inherent reserve of a discreet, reserved woman? "Can you lend me a look?" He nodded at the book.She hesitated for a moment, then handed him the book.He pressed the page she just turned with his index finger and looked at the spine: "Ah, Menshov's "Autumn Vespers". Very good, I also like Russian writers very much." "Oh," she said. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of his fingers slowly tapping on the cover of the book. "This edition of the book is very good, and the binding is exquisite." When he returned the book to her, she looked at him for a long time.He was surprised to see that her face was oddly asymmetrical—the eyebrows were raised and the smile was forced, just like the ones he had seen in the pictures.Then she stood up and reached for the parasol. "Excuse me, sir, I have to take my leave." She didn't think he was attractive, otherwise, how could she explain her behavior of leaving just after sitting down? "Sorry, I disturbed you." "No, no," she said, "that's not the case at all. It's really late, and I have to go home." "Okay," he said. There was an otherworldly quality in her blue eyes and white skin, and even in all her mannerisms—she moved slowly when she left him, and the whole figure floated away like a ghost on the path .Yes, he was sure, something purposeless, yet poised and mysterious.She moved further and further away from him, eventually skirting the hedge.As the dusk grew heavier, he felt lost.It shouldn't have ended so suddenly; he should have been interesting, special, maybe even familiar to her.So what is he lacking?Why was she so eager to leave him when every cell in his body was being pulled by her?And why, when she obviously found him annoying, he still followed her to catch up?He couldn't explain, and couldn't figure out, why the mind and body diverge at this moment: He knew it shouldn't be like this, but he couldn't make a decision rationally. Behind the hedge, though, there was another chance of redemption waiting for him—she didn't rush off as he thought she would, but squatted beside a bush of irises, her gray skirt hanging down on the gravel. .She put the book and the parasol on the ground, and held a large gorgeous flower in her right hand, she didn't notice his approach, and she didn't see his figure passing by her in the increasingly dim light .He stood beside her, watching intently as her fingers gently pinched the slender leaves.And just as she withdrew her hand, he found a worker bee flying onto her glove.She didn't shrink back, didn't shake the bee off, and didn't crush it to death, but looked at it carefully, with a slight smile and reverent expression on her face, and she muttered to herself full of emotion.The worker bees stayed on her palm, not leaving in a hurry, nor piercing their thorns into her glove, as if they were also looking at her.What an interesting exchange, he thought, he had never seen anything like it before.Finally, when she finally felt it was time to let the little creature go, she put it back into the flower it had flown from when it came, and reached for the parasol and the book. "Iris means rainbow," he stammered, but she wasn't surprised.She stood up and looked at him calmly.He seemed to hear the trembling desperation in his own voice, but he couldn't stop himself from saying, "It's easy to understand, because irises come in many colors—blue, purple, white, yellow—like these —and pink, orange, brown, red, and even black. Did you know that they are very tenacious. As long as there is enough light, they can grow in deserts or Grow in the far cold north." Her dazed expression softened, and she walked on, but left enough room around her for him to walk beside her.He told her everything he knew about Iris, and she listened carefully: Iris is the rainbow goddess of ancient Greece, the messenger of Zeus and Hera, and her duty is to guide the souls of dead women and take them to Paradise——so, the ancient Greeks would plant purple irises on women’s graves; the ancient Egyptians would use irises as decorations on the scepter of the monarch to symbolize faith, wisdom and bravery; the ancient Romans would use irises Homage to the goddess Juno and use it in purification rites. "Perhaps, you already know that the iris is the city flower of Florence. If you have been to Tuscany, Italy, you must have noticed that there are countless purple irises growing under the olive trees there, and you will smell them. It smells fragrant, much like the scent of violets." She looked at him now with focused and fascinated eyes, as if this sudden encounter brought a bright spot to the ordinary afternoon. "It seems really interesting to hear you say it," she said, "but I've never been to Tuscany, not even Italy." "Oh, you must go and see, my dear, you must. There is nothing more beautiful than the hills there." After speaking, he suddenly didn't know what to say.He was afraid that his words had dried up, that he had nothing more to tell her.She turned her gaze away and looked ahead.He wished she would say something, but he was sure she wouldn't.Not knowing whether it was out of frustration or impatience with himself, he decided to let go of his heavy thoughts and speak directly for the first time, without thinking about the meaning of what he said. "I thought—may I ask you—why you're interested in irises?" She took a deep breath of the warm spring air, but shook her head for some reason. "Why am I interested in irises? I've never thought about it." She took another deep breath, smiled, and finally said, "I think it's because it thrives in the harshest conditions Right, isn't it? The vitality of irises is very tenacious. When one flower withers, another one will replace it. From this point of view, although the life of the flower is short, it is endless, and the surrounding environment is Good or bad, it probably doesn't affect them that much. Does that answer your question?" "more or less." They came to the point where the path met the main road.He slowed down, looked at her, and when he stopped, she stopped too.He looked at her face.What on earth was he trying to tell her?In the dim light and shadow of the dusk, what aroused his despair again?She stared into his unblinking eyes, waiting for him to continue. "I have a talent," he heard himself say, "and I'd like to share it with you if you let me." "What ability?" "Actually, it's more like a hobby, but it benefits other people more than it benefits me. You see, I'm kind of an amateur palm reader." "I do not quite understand." He held out a hand to her and showed her his palm: "I can predict the future from here, and it's a little bit accurate." He explained that by looking closely at the palm of any stranger, he could decipher whether he or she The future progress of her life-whether she can find true love, whether she can have a happy marriage, how many children she will have in the end, what kind of mental troubles she will have, and whether she can live a long life and so on. "So, if you'd give me a few minutes, I'd be happy to show you what I can do." He felt that in her eyes, he must be a wily scoundrel.She had a puzzled expression on her face, he thought she would politely refuse him, but she didn't—still with a puzzled expression, she squatted down, put the parasol and book at her feet, and then stood up to face with him.She took off her right glove without hesitation, stared at him intently, and stretched out her hand with her palm up. "Then help me take a look," she said. "no problem." He held her hand, but in the dim light of the evening, it was difficult for him to see clearly.He bent down to take a closer look, but all he could see was the fair skin of her palm—a snow-white complexion that was also dimmed in the shadows of dusk.There are no distinctive features on the palm, no obvious palm lines, and no deep grooves, only smooth and white skin.The only thing he could tell from her palm was that it still lacked depth.To the naked eye, it is flawless, without any trace of experiencing the vicissitudes of life, as if she was never born in this world.He thought it should be an illusion caused by the light.It's just an illusion caused by light.But a voice from the back of his mind disturbed his thoughts: This woman would never be an old lady, never wrinkled and shambling from room to room. But her palm still clearly displayed other messages, including both the past and the future. "Your parents are gone," he said. "Your father died when you were very young, and your mother died very recently." She didn't move or answer.He spoke again of her unborn child, of her husband's concern for her.He told her that with someone who loved her deeply, she would find hope again and the joy of life again. "You believe you belong to a greater power, and you're right," he said, "a benevolent power, like God." There, in the shadow of the park and the flowering trees, she found the definitive answer she was looking for.She was free there, away from the bustling streets, away from the danger of death lurking everywhere, away from the crowd that stalked forward and left their long, blurred figures behind.Yes, he could see it in her skin, she felt at her most alive and safe when she was out in nature. "It's too dark now for me to say much more, but I'd be happy to help you look at it another day." Her hands began to tremble, and she shook her head in panic, pulling her hand back unexpectedly, as if burning her fingers. "No, I'm sorry," she replied in a panic, squatting down to pack her things, "I have to go, I really have to go. Thank you." She turned around quickly and hurried along the main road, as if he was not around at all.But the warmth of her palms still lingered in his hands, and the scent of her perfume still wafted in the air.He didn't call her, nor did he follow her.She should have left alone.He would have been foolish to have expected anything else from her that night.He thought, it would be best to watch her drift away, further and further away.However, what happened next made him unable to believe it; he has been convinced since then that the truth of the matter is not what he remembers, but what he should have imagined.For, before his very eyes, she suddenly disappeared down the aisle, into the whitest cloud.The glove she used to hold the bee before stayed, like a fallen leaf, falling in an instant.Surprised, he runs to the spot where she disappeared and bends down to pick up the glove.When he returned to Baker Street again, he began to question the accuracy of his memory, for even the glove had vanished like a phantom—it had slipped from his hand and was never to be found again. Soon, Stephen Peterson disappeared, as did Mrs. Keller and her gloves. When he moved his body, changed his facial makeup, took off and put away his clothes, he withdrew from the world forever.When he quit completely, I felt like a heavy weight was lifted from my shoulders.But I'm not satisfied, because this woman still haunts me.Whenever I brood over a matter, I can't sleep for days, ruminating on the evidence, analyzing it from every possible angle.And when Mrs. Keller took over my mind, I thought I might not be able to rest for a while. That night, I wandered around the house in my baggy blue nightgown.I collected all the pillows from the bed, the cushions from the sofa and chairs, and made an oriental sleeping couch out of them in the living room.I lay down on it with a freshly opened pack of cigarettes, matches, and the picture of the woman.In the flickering lights, I finally saw her.She came out of the ethereal blue smoke, held out her hands to me, and stared at me.I sat motionless, with a smoking cigarette in my mouth, watching the light shine on her soft face.Her appearance seemed to dissolve all the complicated emotions that troubled me; she came, she touched my skin, and I fell into a deep sleep easily in front of her.After a while, I woke up and found that the spring sun had already illuminated the whole room.I had finished smoking all the cigarettes, and the smoke was still floating near the ceiling—but apart from the confused and slightly sad face in the photo, there was no trace of her anywhere in the room.