dk.solesurvivor-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


s　a　perpetually　labouring　machine　with　no　purpose　but　the　continuation　of　its　own　existence；　romanticized　and　cherished　by　countless　poets　but　incapable　of　knowing　human　passion；　pain；　and　promise。
　　He　believed　that　he　must　learn　to　accept　the　cold　mechanics　of　Creation；　because　it　made　no　sense　to　rail　at　a　mindless　machine。　After　all；　a　clock　could　not　be　held　responsible　for　the　too…swift　passage　of　time。　A　loom　could　not　be　blamed　for　weaving　the　cloth　that　later　was　sewn　into　an　executioner's　hood。　He　hoped　that　if　he　came　to　terms　with　the　mechanistic　indifference　of　the　universe；　with　the　meaningless　nature　of　life　and　death；　he　would　find　peace。
　　Such　acceptance　would　be　cold　fort；　indeed；　and　deadening　to　the　heart。　But　all　he　wanted　now　was　an　end　to　anguish；　nights　without　nightmares；　and　release　from　the　need　to　care。
　　Two　newers　arrived　and　spread　a　white　beach　blanket　on　the　sand　about　twenty　feet　north　of　him。　One　was　a　stunning　redhead　in　a　green　thong　bikini　skimpy　enough　to　make　a　stripper　blush。　The　other　was　a　brunette；　nearly　as　attractive　as　her　friend。
　　The　redhead　wore　her　hair　in　a　short；　pixie　cut。　The　brunette's　hair　was　long；　the　better　to　conceal　the　munications　device　that　she　was　no　doubt　wearing　in　one　ear。
　　For　women　in　their　twenties；　they　were　too　giggly　and　girlish；　high…spirited　enough　to　call　attention　to　themselves　even　if　they　had　not　been　stunning。　They　lazily　oiled　themselves　with　tanning　lotion；　took　turns　greasing　each　other's　back；　touching　with　languorous　pleasure；　as　if　they　were　in　the　opening　scene　of　an　adult　video；　drawing　the　interest　of　every　heterosexual　male　on　the　beach。
　　The　strategy　was　clear。　No　one　would　suspect　that　he　was　under　surveillance　by　operatives　who　concealed　so　little　of　themselves　and　concealed　themselves　so　poorly。　They　were　meant　to　be　as　unlikely　as　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　had　been　obvious。　But　for　thirty　dollars'　worth　of　reconnaissance　and　the　libidinous　observations　of　a　horny　fourteen…year…old；　their　strategy　would　have　been　effective。
　　With　long　tan　legs　and　deep　cleavage　and　tight　round　rumps；　maybe　they　were　also　meant　to　engage　Joe's　interest　and　seduce　him　into　conversation　with　them。　If　this　was　part　of　their　assignment；　they　failed。　Their　charms　didn't　affect　him。
　　During　the　past　year；　any　erotic　image　or　thought　had　the　power　to　stir　him　only　for　a　moment；　whereupon　he　was　overe　by　poignant　memories　of　Michelle；　her　precious　body　and　her　wholesome　enthusiasm　for　pleasure。　Inevitably；　he　thought　also　of　the　terrible　long　fall　from　stars　to　Colorado；　the　smoke；　the　fire；　then　death。　Desire　dissolved　quickly　in　the　solvent　of　loss。
　　These　two　women　distracted　Joe　only　to　the　extent　that　he　was　annoyed　about　their　inpetent　misidentification　of　him。　He　considered　approaching　them　to　inform　them　of　their　mistake；　just　to　be　rid　of　them。　After　the　violence　in　the　lavatory；　however；　the　prospect　of　confrontation　made　him　uneasy。　He　was　drained　of　anger　now；　but　he　no　longer　trusted　his　self…control。
　　One　year　to　the　day。
　　Memories　and　gravestones。
　　He　would　get　through　it。
　　Surf　broke；　gathered　the　foamy　fragments　of　itself；　stole　away；　and　broke　again。　In　the　patient　study　of　that　endless　breaking；　Joe　Carpenter　gradually　grew　calm。
　　Half　an　hour　later；　without　the　benefit　of　another　beer；　he　was　ready　to　visit　the　cemetery。
　　He　shook　the　sand　out　of　his　towel。　He　folded　the　towel　in　half　lengthwise；　rolled　it　tight；　and　picked　up　the　cooler。
　　As　silken　as　the　sea　breeze；　as　buttery　as　sunlight；　the　lithe　young　women　in　the　thong　bikinis　pretended　to　be　enthralled　by　the　monosyllabic　repartee　of　two　steroid…thickened　suitors；　the　latest　in　a　string　of　beach…boy　Casanovas　to　take　their　shot。
　　The　direction　of　his　gaze　masked　by　his　sunglasses；　Joe　could　see　that　the　beauties'　interest　in　the　beefcake　was　pretence。　They　were　not　wearing　sunglasses；　and　while　they　chattered　and　laughed　and　encouraged　their　admirers；　they　glanced　surreptitiously　at　Joe。
　　He　walked　away　and　did　not　look　back。
　　As　he　took　some　of　the　beach　with　him　in　his　shoes；　so　he　strove　to　take　the　indifference　of　the　ocean　with　him　in　his　heart。
　　Nevertheless；　he　could　not　help　but　wonder　what　police　agency　could　boast　such　astonishingly　beautiful　women　on　its　force。　He　had　known　some　female　cops　who　were　as　lovely　and　sexy　as　any　movie　star；　but　the　redhead　and　her　friend　exceeded　even　celluloid　standards。
　　In　the　parking　lot；　he　half　expected　the　men　in　the　Hawaiian　shirts　to　be　watching　his　Honda。　If　they　had　it　staked　out；　their　surveillance　post　was　well　concealed。
　　Joe　drove　out　of　the　lot　and　turned　right　on　Pacific　Coast　Highway；　checking　his　rear…view　mirror。　He　was　not　being　followed。
　　Perhaps　they　had　realized　theft　error　and　were　frantically　looking　for　the　right　man。
　　
　　From　Wilshire　Boulevard　to　the　San　Diego　Freeway；　north　to　the　Ventura　Freeway　and　then　east；　he　drove　out　of　the　cooling　influence　of　the　sea　breezes　into　the　furnace　heat　of　the　San　Fernando　Valley。　In　the　August　glare；　these　suburbs　looked　as　hot　and　hard…baked　as　kiln…fired　pottery。
　　Three　hundred　acres　of　low　rolling　hills　and　shallow　vales　and　broad　lawns　prised　the　memorial　park；　a　city　of　the　deceased；　Los　Angeles　of　the　dead；　divided　into　neighbourhoods　by　gracefully　winding　service　roads。　Famous　actors　and　ordinary　salesmen　were　buried　here；　rock…'n'…roll　stars　and　reporters'　families；　side　by　side　in　the　intimate　democracy　of　death。
　　Joe　drove　past　two　small　burial　services　in　progress：　cars　parked　along　the　curb；　ranks　of　folding　chairs　set　up　on　the　grass；　mounds　of　grave　earth　covered　with　soft　green　tarps。　At　each　site；　the　mourners　sat　hunched；　stifled　in　their　black　dresses　and　black　suits；　oppressed　by　heat　as　well　as　by　grief　and　by　a　sense　of　their　own　mortality。
　　The　cemetery　included　a　few　elaborate　crypts　and　low…walled　family　garden　plots；　but　there　were　no　granite　forests　of　vertical　monuments　and　headstones。　Some　had　chosen　to　entomb　the　remains　of　their　loved　ones　in　niches　in　the　walls　of　munal　mausoleums。　Others　preferred　the　bosom　of　the　earth；　where　graves　were　marked　only　with　bronze　plaques　in　flat　stone　tablets　flush　with　the　ground；　so　as　not　to　disturb　the　park　like　setting。
　　Joe　had　put　Michelle　and　the　girls　to　rest　on　a　gently　rising　hillside　shaded　by　a　scattering　of　stone　pines　and　Indian　laurels。　Squirrels　scampered　across　the　grass　on　milder　days　than　this；　and　rabbits　came　out　at　twilight。　He　believed　that　his　three　treasured　women　would　have　preferred　this　to　the　hard　scape　of　a　mausoleum；　where　there　would　not　be　the　sound　of　wind…stirred　trees　on　breezy　evenings。
　　Far　beyond　the　second　of　the　two　burial　services；　he　parked　at　the　curb；　switched　off　the　engine；　and　got　out　of　the　Honda。　He　stood　beside　the　car　in　the　hundred…degree　heat；　gathering　his　courage。
　　When　he　started　up　the　gentle　slope；　he　didn't　look　toward　their　graves。　If　he　were　to　see　the　site　from　a　distance；　the　approach　to　it　would　be　daunting；　and　he　would　turn　back。　Even　after　an　entire　year；　each　visit　was　as　disturbing　to　him　as　if　he　had　e　here　to　view　not　their　burial　plots　but　their　battered　bodies　in　a　morgue。　Wondering　how　many　years　would　pass　before　his　pain　diminished；　he　ascended　the　rise　with　his　head　down；　eyes　on　the　ground；　slump…shouldered　in　the　heat；　like　an　old　dray　horse　following　a　long…familiar　route；　going　home。
　　Consequently；　he　didn't　see　the　woman　at　the　graves　until　he　was　only　ten　or　fifteen　feet　from　her。　Surprised；　he　halted。
　　She　stood　just　out　of　the　sun；　in　pine　shadows。　Her　back　was　half　to　him。　With　a　Polaroid　camera；　she　was　snapping　photographs　of　the　flush…set　markers。
　　'Who're　you？'　he　asked。
　　She　didn't　hear　him；　perhaps　because　he　had　spoken　softly；　perhaps　because　she　was　so　intent　upon　her　photography。
　　Stepping　closer；　he　said；　'What're　you　doing？'
　　Startled；　she　turned　to　face　him。
　　Petite　but　athletic…looking；　about　five　feet　two；　she　had　an　immediate　impact　far　greater　than　her　size　or　her　appearance　could　explain；　as　though　she　were　clothed　not　merely　in　blue　jeans　and　a　yellow　cotton　blouse　but　in　some　powerful　magnetic　field　that　bent　the　world　to　her。　Skin　the　shade　of　milk　chocolate。　Huge　eyes　as　dark　as　the　silt　at　the　bottom　of　a　cup　of　Armenian　espresso；　harder　to　read　than　the　portents　in　tea　leaves；　with　a　distinct　almond　shape　suggesting　a　touch　of　Asian　blood　in　the　family　line。　Hair　not　Afro…kinky　or　in　cornrows　but　feather…cut；　thick　and　naturally　straight　and　so　glossy　black　that　it　almost　looked　blue；　which　seemed　Asian　too。　Her　bone　structure　was　all　out　of　Africa：　smooth　broad　brow；　high　cheekbones；　finely　carved　but　powerful；　proud　but　beautiful。　She　was　maybe　five　years　older　than　Joe；　in　her　early　forties；　but　a　quality　of　innocence　in　her　knowing　eyes　and　a　faint　aspect　of　childlike　vulnerability　in　her　otherwise　strong　face　made　her　seem　younger　than　he　was。
　　'Who　are　you；　what're　you　doing？'　he　repeated。
　　Lips　parted　as　if　to　speak；　speechless　with　surprise；　she　gazed　at　him　as　though　he　were　an　apparition。　She　raised　one　hand　to　his　face　and　touched　his　cheek；　and　Joe　did　not　flinch　from　her。
　　At　first　he　thought　he　saw　amazement　in　her　eyes。　The　extreme　tenderness　of　her　touch　caused　him　to　look　again；　and　he　realized　that　what　he　saw　was　not　wonderment　but　sadness　and　pity。
　　'I'm　not　ready　to　talk　to　you　yet。'　Her　soft　voice　was　musical
　　'Why're　you　taking　pictures　。　。　。　why　pictures　of　their　graves？'
　　
　　Clutching　the　camera　with　two　hands；　she　said；　'Soon。　I'll　be　back　when　it's　time。　Don't　despair。　You'll　see；　like　the　others。'
　　An　almost　supernatural　quality　to　the　moment　half　convinced　Joe　that　she　was　an　apparition；　that　her　touch　had　been　so　achingly　gentle　precisely　because　it　was　barely　real；　an　ectoplasmic　caress。
　　The　woman　herself；　however；　was　too　powerfully　present　to　be　a　ghost　or　a　heatstroke　illusion。　Diminutive　but　dynamic。　More　real　than　anything　in　the　day。　More　real　than　sky　and　trees　and　August　sun；　than　granite　and　bronze。　She　had　such　a　pelling　presence　that　she　seemed　to　be　ing　at　him　though　she　was　standing　still