sk.misery-第46部分

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d　her　of　his　intention　to　do　away　with　Holmes。　Her　indignant　reply　had　e　by　return　mail：　〃Kill　that　nice　Mr　Holmes？　Foolishness！　Don't　you　dare！〃　Or　there　was　the　case　of　his　friend　Gary　Ruddman；　who　worked　for　the　Boulder　Public　Library。　When　Paul　had　dropped　over　to　see　him　one　day；　he　had　found　Gary's　shades　drawn　and　a　black　crepe　fluff　on　the　door。　Concerned；　Paul　had　knocked　hard　until　Gary　answered。　Go　away；　Gary　had　told　him。　I'm　feeling　depressed　today。　Someone　died。　Someone　important　to　me。　When　Paul　asked　who；　Gary　had　responded　tiredly：　Van　der　Valk。　Paul　had　heard　him　walk　away　from　the　door；　and　although　he　knocked　again；　Gary　had　not　e　back。　Van　der　Valk；　it　turned　out；　was　a　fictional　detective　created　…　and　then　uncreated　…　by　a　writer　named　Nicolas　Freeling。
　Paul　had　been　convinced　Gary's　reaction　had　been　more　than　false；　he　thought　it　had　been　pretentiously　arty。　In　short；　a　pose。　He　continued　to　feel　this　way　until　1983；　when　he　read　The　World　According　to　Garp。　He　made　the　mistake　of　reading　the　scene　where　Garp's　younger　son　dies；　impaled　on　a　gearshift　＇ever；　shortly　before　bed。　It　was　hours　before　he　slept。　The　scene　would　not　leave　his　mind。　The　thought　that　grieving　for　a　fictional　character　was　absurd　did　more　than　cross　his　mind　during　his　tossings　and　turnings。　For　grieving　was　exactly　what　he　was　doing；　of　course。　The　realization　had　not　helped；　however；　and　this　had　caused　him　to　wonder　if　perhaps　Gary　Ruddman　hadn't　been　a　lot　more　serious　about　Van　der　Valk　than　Paul　had　given　him　credit　for　at　the　time。　And　this　had　caused　another　memory　to　resurface：　finishing　William　Golding's　Lord　of　the　Flies　at　the　age　of　twelve　on　a　hot　summer　day；　going　to　the　refrigerator　for　a　cold　glass　of　lemonade　。　。　。　and　then　suddenly　changing　direction　and　speeding　up　from　an　amble　to　an　all…out　bolt　which　had　ended　in　the　bathroom。　There　he　had　leaned　over　the　toilet　and　vomited。
　Paul　suddenly　remembered　other　examples　of　this　odd　mania：　the　way　people　had　mobbed　the　Baltimore　docks　each　month　when　the　packet　bearing　the　new　installment　of　Mr　Dickens's　Little　Dorrit　or　Oliver　Twist　was　due　（some　had　drowned；　but　this　did　not　discourage　the　others）；　the　old　woman　of　a　hundred　and　five　who　had　declared　she　would　five　until　Mr　Galsworthy　finished　The　Forsyte　Saga　…　and　who　had　died　less　than　an　hour　after　having　the　final　page　of　the　final　volume　read　to　her；　the　young　mountain　climber　hospitalized　with　a　supposedly　fatal　case　of　hypothermia　whose　friends　had　read　The　Lord　of　the　Rings　to　him　nonstop；　around　the　clock；　until　he　came　out　of　his　a；　hundred　s　of　other　such　incidents。
　Every　〃best…selling〃　writer　of　fiction　would；　he　supposed；　have　his　own　personal　example　or　examples　of　radical　reader　involvement　with　the　make…believe　worlds　the　writer　creates　。　。　。　examples　of　the　Scheherazade　plex；　Paul　thought　now；　half…dreaming　as　the　sound　of　Annie's　mower　ebbed　and　flowed　at　some　great　echoing　distance。　He　remembered　getting　two　letters　suggesting　Misery　theme　parks；　on　the　order　of　Disney　World　or　Great　Adventure。　One　of　these　letters　had　included　a　crude　blueprint。　But　the　blue…ribbon　winner　（at　least　until　Annie　Wilkes　had　entered　his　life）　had　been　Mrs　Roman　D。　Sandpiper　III；　of　Ink　Beach；　Florida。　Mrs　Roman　D。　Sandpiper；　whose　given　name　was　Virginia；　had　turned　an　upstairs　room　of　her　home　into　Misery's　Parlor。　She　included　Polaroids　of　Misery's　Spinning　Wheel；　Misery's　Escritoire　（plete　with　a　half…pleted　bread…and…butter　note　to　Mr　Faverey；　saying　she　would　be　in　attendance　at　the　School　Hall　Recitation　on　20th　Nov。　inst。　…　done　in　what　Paul　thought　was　an　eerily　apt　hand　for　his　heroine；　not　a　round　and　flowing　ladies〃　script　but　a　half…feminine　copperplate）；　Misery's　Couch；　Misery's　Sampler　（Let　Love　Instruct　You；　Do　Not　Presume　to　Instruct　Love）；　etc。；　etc。　The　furnishings；　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper's　letter　said；　were　all　genuine；　not　reproductions　and　while　Paul　could　not　tell　for　sure；　he　guessed　that　it　was　the　truth。　If　so；　this　expensive　bit　of　make…believe　must　have　cost　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　thousands　of　dollars。　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　hastened　to　assure　him　that　she　was　not　using　his　character　to　make　money；　nor　did　she　have　any　plans　in　that　direction　…　heaven　forbid！　…　but　she　did　want　him　to　see　the　pictures；　and　to　tell　her　what　she　had　wrong　（which；　she　was　sure；　must　be　a　great　deal）。　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　also　hoped　for　his　opinion。　Looking　at　those　pictures　had　given　him　a　feeling　which　was　strange　yet　eerily　intangible　…　it　had　been　like　looking　at　photographs　of　his　own　imagination；　and　he　knew　that　from　that　moment　on；　whenever　he　tried　to　imagine　Misery's　little　bination　parlor　and　study；　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper's　Polaroids　would　leap　immediately　into　his　mind；　obscuring　imagination　with　their　cheery　but　one…dimensional　concreteness。　Tell　her　what　was　wrong？　That　was　madness。　From　now　on　he　would　be　the　one　to　wonder　about　that。　He　had　written　back；　a　brief　note　of　congratulations　and　admiration　…　a　note　which　hinted　not　at　all　at　certain　questions　concerning　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　which　had　crossed　his　mind：　how　tightly　wrapped　was　she？　for　instance　…　and　had　received　another　letter　in　return；　with　a　fresh　slew　of　Polaroids。　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper's　first　munication　had　consisted　of　a　two…page　handwritten　letter　and　seven　Polaroids。　This　second　consisted　of　a　ten…page　handwritten　letter　and　forty　Polaroids。　The　letter　was　an　exhaustive　（and　ultimately　exhausting）　manual　of　where　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　had　found　each　piece；　how　much　she　had　paid；　and　the　restoration　processes　involved。　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　told　him　that　she　had　found　a　man　named　McKibbon　who　owned　an　old　squirrel…rifle；　and　had　gotten　him　to　put　the　bullet…hole　in　the　wall　by　the　chair　while　she　could　not　swear　to　the　historical　accuracy　of　the　gun；　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper　admitted；　she　knew　the　caliber　was　right。　The　pictures　were　mostly　close　detail　shots。　But　for　the　handwritten　captions　on　the　backs；　they　could　have　been　photos　in　one　of　those　WHAT　IS　THIS　PICTURE？　features　in　puzzle　magazines；　where　maxiphotography　makes　the　straight…arm　of　a　paper…clip　took　like　a　pylon　and　the　pop…top　of　a　beer…can　like　a　Picasso　sculpture。　Paul　had　not　answered　this　letter；　but　that　had　not　deterred　Mrs　Roman　D。　（〃Virginia〃）　Sandpiper；　who　had　sent　five　more　（the　first　four　with　additional　Polaroids）　before　finally　lapsing　into　puzzled；　slightly　hurt　silence。
　The　last　letter　had　been　simply；　stiffly　signed　Mrs　Roman　D。　Sandpiper。　The　invitation　（however　parenthetically　made）　to　call　her　〃Virginia〃　had　been　withdrawn。
　This　woman's　feelings；　obsessed　though　they　might　have　been；　had　never　evolved　into　Annie's　paranoid　fixation；　but　Paul　understood　now　that　the　wellspring　had　been　the　same。　The　Scheherazade　plex。　The　deep　and　elemental　drawing　power　of　the　gotta。
　His　floating　deepened。　He　slept。
　
　
　10
　
　He　dozed　off　these　days　as　old　men　doze　off；　abruptly　and　sometimes　at　inappropriate　times；　and　he　slept　as　old　men　sleep　…　which　is　to　say；　only　separated　from　the　waking　world　by　the　thinnest　of　skins。　He　didn't　stop　hearing　the　riding　mower；　but　its　sound　became　deeper；　rougher；　choppier：　the　sound　of　the　electric　knife。
　He　had　picked　the　wrong　day　to　start　plaining　about　the　Royal　and　its　missing　n。　And；　of　course；　there　was　never　a　right　day　to　say　no　to　Annie　Wilkes。　Punishment　might　be　deferred　。　。　。　but　never　escaped。
　Well；　if　it　bothers　you　so　much；　I'll　just　have　to　give　you　something　to　take　your　mind　off　that　old　n。　He　heard　her　rummaging　around　in　the　kitchen；　throwing　things；　cursing　in　her　strange　Annie　Wilkes　language。　Ten　minutes　later　she　came　in　with　the　syringe；　the　Betadine；　and　the　electric　knife。　Paul　began　to　scream　at　once。　He　was；　in　a　way；　like　Pavlov's　dogs。　When　Pavlov　rang　a　bell；　the　dogs　salivated。　When　Annie　came　into　the　guest　bedroom　with　a　hypo；　a　bottle　of　Betadine；　and　a　sharp　cutting　object；　Paul　began　to　scream。　She　had　plugged　the　knife　into　the　outlet　by　his　wheelchair　and　there　had　been　more　pleading　and　more　screaming　and　more　promises　that　he　would　be　good。　When　he　tried　to　thrash　away　from　the　hypo　she　told　him　to　sit　still　and　be　good　or　what　was　going　to　happen　would　happen　without　the　benefit　of　even　light　anesthesia。　When　he　continued　to　pull　away　from　the　needle；　mewling　and　pleading；　Annie　suggested　that　if　that　was　really　the　way　he　felt；　maybe　she　just　ought　to　use　the　knife　on　his　throat　and　be　done　with　it。
　Then　he　had　been　still　and　let　her　give　him　the　injection　and　this　time　the　Betadine　had　gone　over　his　left　thumb　as　well　as　the　blade　of　the　knife　（when　she　turned　it　on　and　the　blade　began　to　saw　rapidly　back　and　forth　in　the　air　the　Betadine　flew　in　a　spray　of　maroon　droplets　she　seemed　not　to　notice）　and　in　the　end　of　course　there　had　been　much　redder　droplets　spraying　into　the　air　as　well。　Because　when　Annie　decided　on　a　course　of　action；　she　carried　it　through。　Annie　was　not　swayed　by　pleas。　Annie　was　not　swayed　by　screams。　Annie　had　the　courage　of　her　convictions。
　As　the　humming；　vibrating　blade　sank　into　the　softweb　of　flesh　between　the　soon…to…be…defunct　thumb　and　his　first　finger；　she　assured　him　again　in　her　this…hurts…Mother…more…than…it…hurts　Paulie　voice　that　she　loved　him。
　Then；　that　night　。　。　。
　You're　not　dreaming；　Paul。　You're　thinking　about　things　you　don't　dare　think　about　when　you're　awake。　So　wake　up。　For　God's　sake；　WAKE　up！
　He　couldn't　wake　up。
　She　had　cut　his　thumb　off　in　the　morning　and　that　night　she　swept　gaily　into　the　room　where　he　sat　in　a　stupid　daze　of　drugs　and　pain　with　his　wrapped　left　hand　held　against　his　chest　and　she　had　a　cake　and　she　was　bellowing　〃Happy　Birthday　to　You〃　in　her　on…key　but　tuneless　voice　although　it　was　not　his　birthday　and　there　were　candles　all　over　the　cake　and　sitting　in　the　exact　center　pushed　into　the　frosting　like　an　extra　big　candle　had　been　his　thumb　his　gray　dead　thumb　the　nail　slightly　ragged　because　he　sometimes　chewed　it　when　he　was　stuck　for　a　word　and　she　told　him　If　you　Promise　to　be　good　Paul　you　can　have　a　piece　of　birthday　cake