Chapter 2 1 club

I admit that on that windy, snowy, bitingly cold night, I dressed faster than usual; it was December 23rd, 1970, and I'm sure the rest of the club probably did as well. .On snowy nights like this, New York taxis are notoriously difficult to wait, so I called a radio taxi; I called at 5:30 and asked for a cab to pick me up at 8. say what.Ellen and I have lived in this apartment complex on East Fifty-eighth Street since 1946.At 7:45, I was already downstairs waiting for a taxi. Five minutes after the scheduled time, the taxi was still missing. I couldn't help pacing up and down impatiently.

At 8:10, the taxi finally arrived. I got into the car. I was so happy to escape the cold wind. I was so happy that I forgot to lose my temper because the taxi was late. The driver deserved it.The cold front that swept down from Canada yesterday was not a cover-up; the biting cold wind whistled and whined outside the car windows, occasionally drowning out the sound of the radio in the car, and made the car shake uncontrollably.Many shops are still open, but last-minute shoppers are barely visible on the sidewalks, and passers-by who remain on the street look uncomfortable, almost grimacing. It had been snowing intermittently throughout the day, and now it began to snow again; at first it was thin flakes, but soon it was falling more and more violently, and the street ahead was covered with a gale of snow.When I got home that night, I was even more disturbed by the thought of a New York night mixed with snow and taxis, but of course I had no way of knowing that at the time.

On the corner of Second and Fortieth Streets, a large golden Christmas bell rolled ghostly across the intersection. Bad weather, the driver said, tomorrow there will definitely be more than 20 unidentified corpses waiting to be claimed, one by one drunkards frozen into popsicles and street vagrants. I guess so! The taxi driver mused, "Oh, it's good to be relieved like this, he said, it can save a little welfare money for the government, right? Your Christmas spirit is amazing! The driver thought for a while and said: Do you also belong to that kind of passionate liberal? I refuse to answer questions that might trap me in injustice.I said, and the driver snorted, as if wondering how I keep running into smart-ass guys like this, but didn't speak again.

He dropped me off at Second and Thirty-fifth Streets, and I had to walk half a block to get to the club, with my gloves on and my hat on my head, bent forward against the howling wind go.Not long after, I felt that the vitality in my body was greatly shrunk, leaving only a faint blue flame like a gas stove.People who are seventy-three years old always have a sharper and deeper sense of cold; I should be in front of the fire or at least the electric heater at home.Seventy-three-year-olds no longer remember what it means to be excited, it's more like talking about it in an academic report.

The gust of wind and snow just now stopped a little, but the dry snowflakes like sand still hit my face.I'm glad to see that the steps leading to the door of 249B are covered with sand, of course Stephen made it. He knows that the body of the elderly does not change from lead to gold like alchemy, but the joints of the whole body become fragile like glass, thinking of these When it happened, I felt that God probably liked to joke. Stephen came to answer the door shortly, and I went in, down a mahogany-panelled corridor, through a double door that was ajar, and into the library-bar.It was a dark room, and the occasional flicker of light was the light of the lamp; the oak parquet floor reflected the fire, and the birch sticks burning in the huge stove could be heard crackling and peeling, and the whole room was warm. Of course, there is nothing better than a warm fire to welcome guests.The rustling of papers in my ear was cold and impatient, it must be Yohanson flipping through the "Wall Street Journal"; after ten years, I can still feel his presence just by the way he reads the stock market .Interesting, on the other hand, is also amazing.

Stephen helped me take off my coat, muttering about the bad weather, and the radio was predicting heavy snowfall until tomorrow morning. I echoed how bad the weather was, and looked back at the big, high room; the snowy night, the roaring fire, and the ghost stories.Did I say blood boiling is a thing of the past for a seventy-three year old?Maybe it was, but I felt a sudden warmth in my chest and it wasn't from the fire or from Stephen's usual polite welcome. I think it's because it's McCarron's turn to tell the story. For ten years, I'd been reporting to this brownstone building at 249B East Thirty-fifth Street intermittently, almost regularly.I privately think of it as a gentlemen's club, in a tradition that predated feminism.But even now, I'm not sure if that's the case, or how the club was formed in the first place.

There were thirteen members in our club the night McCarran told the story of the breathing method, but on that snowy night with howling winds, only six of us showed up.I remember some years when the club had only eight permanent members, and some years there were twenty, maybe more. I'm guessing Stephen probably knows how the club got started I'm so sure because he's been there since the first member and I don't know exactly how long I'm sure Stephen must be older than he looks much.He speaks English with a bit of a Brooklyn accent, but other than that, he is precise and impeccable, comparable to a well-trained British butler; Part of it, and his smile is more like a locked and bolted door, it is difficult to see the mystery inside.I've never seen the club's records, if there were any, and never got a receipt for my dues because I never paid my dues, and the club secretary never called me. No club has a secretary, 24 East Thirty-fifth Street Nine B didn't have a phone either, and the club, if it really was a club, never had a name.

The first time I went to a club (that's all I can call it), it was George.Mr. Waterhouse invited me.Since 1951, I have been working in Mr. Waterhouse's law firm, one of the three largest law firms in New York; my development in the firm, although stable, has been extremely slow .I'm a hard worker, hard working but not talented enough to stand out from others; I've seen some people who started at the same time as me rise to the top, and I still climbed slowly step by step.And I'm not really surprised by all of this. Waterhouse joked with me occasionally, and we went to the firm's dinner each October, but other than that, there was nothing to do.In the autumn of 1960s, one day in early November, he paid a surprise visit to my office.

That alone was unusual enough that I couldn't help but think both the bad (I got fired?) and the good (maybe I got an unexpected promotion?) that his visit was confusing.Waterhouse was leaning against the doorway, the Phi Beta Kappa badge pinned to his vest glowing softly, he was talking about inconsequential things, I was waiting for him to finish his jokes, and directly Cut to the case at hand, ex: about Casey's case or we have to look into the mayor's appointment of Sokawitz but he doesn't seem to want to do that at all.He glanced at his watch and said he had a good time talking to me and now he has to go.

I was still confused, and then he came back and said in passing: I go to a local club or something almost every Thursday night, it's mostly old people, but some people are good people to talk to .If you're into wine tasting, there's a nice cellar door and the occasional good story; how about checking it out some evening?Be my guest. I stammered some answers and until now I am not sure what I said, completely confused by his invitation; With a pair of cold blue eyes under thick gray eyebrows, he knew that this was by no means a coincidence.If I don't remember exactly how I answered it, it's because it suddenly occurred to me that this suggestion, though vague and inexplicable, was what I'd been waiting for him to say.

Ellen's reaction that night was both angry and funny.I've been with Waterhouse for about fifteen years and it's clear I can't rise to anything better than the mid-level position I'm in now, she thinks it's the firm's new trick to appease senior staff and save money on gold watches cost. A group of old folks telling wartime stories and playing poker, she said.After a night like this, they think you should be content to sit on the bench at the company, googling papers until they give you a pension and send you on your way, and I guess, I chilled two beers for you.Then she kissed me, and I think she saw something in my face, after all these years together, she could see right through my heart. A few weeks passed, and nothing happened; and it was certainly strange whenever I thought of Waterhouse's strange proposals, which I did not see more than a dozen times a year, and which we met socially almost every day. There are only three times a year at most, including the dinner hosted by the firm in October. I think I may have misunderstood the meaning in his eyes. Maybe he really just mentioned it casually and soon forgot it. regret.Then one evening, he came up to me; although he was nearly seventy years old, his shoulders were still broad and thick, with the air of an athlete; I was putting on my coat with my briefcase under my legs.He said: If you still want to go to the club and drink, why not go tonight? me very good.He stuffed a piece of paper into my hand.This is the address. He was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps of the club that night, and Stephen opened the door for us.The wine at the club was as good as Waterhouse said; he wasn't going to introduce me at all. I thought it was because he was snobby, but then I didn't think so. But two or three people offered to introduce themselves to me. One of them was McCarron, who was already sitting around at that time; he stretched out his hand, and I squeezed it hastily, his skin was dry and rough, almost like tortoise skin.He asked me if I could play bridge and I said no. Good fucking stuff.he said.This fucking game has replaced much intellectual after-dinner chatter this century.After speaking, he walked to the dark library, which was full of rows of tall bookshelves. I looked around to see where Waterhouse was, but he was nowhere to be seen.I was a little restless and out of place, so I strolled over to the fire; believe I said before, the fire was enormous, and especially in New York it seemed even more colossal, because a New Yorker like me who lived in an apartment Well, it’s really hard to imagine where such a large fireplace came from. The average person’s fireplace is good enough for popcorn and toast, but the fireplace at 249B East 35th Street is big enough to roast a whole cow.The fireplace had no mantel, but was covered by a solid arch of stone; in the center of which was a crack, and between which was a slightly protruding keystone, which was just level with my eyes, though dimly lit. , I can still see the words engraved on the stone without difficulty: the story itself is the protagonist, not the storyteller. Your wine, David.said Waterhouse beside me, and I gave a start; he hadn't deserted me, after all, but had gone off somewhere to get his drink.You drink whiskey and soda, don't you? yes thank you mr waterhouse Call me George, he said.Just call George here. OK, George.I said, though I still think it's kind of crazy to call people by their first names.these are cheers.he said. We drink. Stephen was in charge of the bartending, and he made great drinks, and he always liked to say that bartending is a small skill, but it is very important. By the power of whiskey, I no longer feel so out of place. (I stood in front of the closet for this date for half an hour, not knowing what to wear, and finally settled on dark brown trousers and a barely matching tweed jacket, secretly hoping that I would see A group of people can’t dress in tuxedos, bomber jackets, or jeans, but I’m not too outrageously dressed in terms of clothing.) New social situations always make people pay attention to every detail of etiquette; After drinking a glass, I desperately want to be sure I haven't neglected any etiquette. Am I supposed to sign the guest book?I asked. He looked a little surprised.We don't have that kind of thing.he said.At least I don't think we have.He looked around the dark and quiet room; Yohansson was flipping through his Wall Street Journal, and I saw Stephen coming from the other side of the room. He was wearing a white coat and looked like a ghost.George put his glass down on the end table, then threw a stick into the fire, and sparks rushed up the black neck of the chimney. what does that mean?I asked, pointing to the writing on the keystone.do you know? George Hua read it carefully, as if he was seeing these words for the first time. (The story itself is the protagonist, not the storyteller.) I probably know.He said.If you come back later, you'll probably get it; well, you'll get it then.Enjoy it, David. He walks away.Although it seemed a little strange that he left me alone here to fend for myself when I was not familiar with the place, but I did enjoy the night.First, I have always liked reading, and there are many interesting books to read here; I walked slowly along the bookshelves, under the dim light, laboriously inspected each book, and sometimes took out one or two books to browse, during which I also Pause for a moment, standing by the narrow window, looking out at the Second Avenue intersection.As I stood there, looking out the frosted glass, watching the traffic lights at the intersection go back and forth, first from red to green to yellow, then back to red, I suddenly had a strangely eccentric but very gratifying sense of peace, This feeling did not come suddenly, but seemed to sneak into my heart.Oh, yes, I can hear everyone saying: You are so beautiful, everyone just needs to look at the traffic lights, and there will be a sense of peace. Well, even if I'm talking nonsense, I don't mind if you think so, but I still feel it; it brings back, for the first time in years, my childhood winter nights on a farm in Wisconsin.On a winter night, I was lying on the second floor in a room with air leaks. The cold wind outside the house was howling with the dry sand-like snow. I was wrapped tightly in two layers of quilts, and my body felt warm. There were a few law books on the shelf, but each one was rather odd, The Results of Twenty Dismemberment Cases Under English Law was one of the titles I remembered, The Case of Pets was another.I opened the book, and sure enough, it was a legal treatise on pet-related cases (this one was about American law) ranging from domestic cats who inherited large estates to ocelots that broke their collars and severely bit the postman. There is also a set of Dickens's works, a set of Defoe's works, Tropp's works are even more innumerable, and a set of novels with a total of eleven books by Schwery. It says that the publisher is Stirham Book Company. I have never heard the name of the author or the publisher. The first novel "They Are Our Brothers" was published in 1911, and the last novel This "The Reef" was published in 1935. Two rows down from Schweri's novel, there is a large folio book, which is a detailed guide for teaching constructive toy fans how to assemble toys. Next to it, is another folio book, which contains famous scenes from famous movies. Each photo occupies a full page, and the next page contains prose poems, some of which describe the film scenes in the same spread, and some are poems inspired by the film scenes.This is not a great idea, but some of the poems are written by famous authors, including Frost, Moore, Stevenson, Erica.Joan, wait; halfway through the page, I found a song by Akinon.Williams' poem, next to the famous photo of Marilyn Monroe holding her skirt on the iron grating cover of the underground tunnel.The title of the poem is <Bell>: ◇ skirt shape we will say is the shape of a bell Two legs are bell tongues ◇ There are some similar lines below; it's not too bad a poem, though certainly not his best.I feel entitled to this criticism because I've read quite a bit of Williams over the years, though I don't recall him writing this poem about Marilyn Monroe.Since then I have been looking for the source of this poem, but I have never been able to find it, but of course it doesn't matter.Poems are not like novels or legal discourses, but like leaves blown by the wind. If someone publishes a "Complete Works of ×××", it must be full of lies.Poetry has a way to disappear. This is the charm of poetry and one of the reasons why poetry can be passed down for a long time, but Stephen came up to give me a second whiskey (I had now sat down alone, buried in Pound), which was as good as the first; and as I drank slowly, I saw two members present Grissom and Stan (Stan had been dead six years when McCarron spoke about the breathing method) walked out through a door only a meter high, rather like the one through which Alice jumped down the rabbit hole.They left the door open, and it wasn't long before I heard the banging of pool balls. Stephen walks past me and asks if I want another drink, and I can't say it, regretting it.He nodded and said, "Very well, sir.The expression on my face didn't change, but I had a vague feeling that I seemed to make him very happy. After a while, I looked up from the book with startled laughter; someone threw a bag of chemical powder into the fire, and the flames were mottled for a moment.I think again about my childhood but my mood is never wistful or sentimental or nostalgic, and I feel the need to emphasize that; I think about how I used to do this when I was a kid too, but my memories are vivid and pleasant, with no regrets Element. I saw almost everyone pulling up chairs and sitting in a semicircle before the fire; Stephen brought out a large plate of steaming sausages.Stan emerges from the rabbit hole and introduces himself quickly but cheerfully; Grissom is still playing pool and listening to the sounds as practice. I hesitated for a moment, then joined everyone.Stuart told a story that was uncomfortable to listen to, and I'm not going to repeat it here, but if I told you the story was about a man who drowned in a phone booth, you'd probably know what I mean. After Situ, who is now dead, said: You should save the story for Christmas.Then there was a burst of laughter, and of course I didn't know what was funny; at least not then. Then George told the story; I would never have dreamed of him in a thousand years.He is a top student at Yale University, with silver hair and a neat three-piece suit, he is the number one person in a well-known law firm; and this George.Waterhouse went so far as to tell the story of a schoolteacher who was trapped in a toilet.It was at the back of the school, and when she went to use it that day, they were hauling it away for the New England Nostalgia Fair at the Prudential Center in Boston.When the truck hoisted the toilet up, the female teacher didn't say a word, Waterhouse said, because she thought it was too scary and too embarrassing.But that's not the story I'm going to tell tonight when the truck is driving onto Highway 128 during rush hour.Stephen didn't know when he took out another bottle of brandy. This wine was not only good, it was a wonderful wine, and everyone raised their glasses. After a while, everyone began to say goodbye; it was not too late, it was not yet midnight, but I noticed that for people who are about to enter the sixty mark, the definition of late is getting earlier and earlier.I saw Stephen help Waterhouse put on his coat, and I took it as a sign that he was going to leave, and it was strange that he walked away without saying a word (he looked really Like a sneak, if I hadn't looked up from the book in time, I wouldn't have seen him), but compared with other things that happened that night, it was not too strange. No sooner had he stepped out of the door than I followed; and Waterhouse looked round to see me, as if surprised that I had followed him, as though he had been startled awake from a doze.Take a taxi together?he asked, as if we had just met by chance in a deserted street. Thanks.I said; I thought my tone of voice should have made it clear that I wasn't just thanking me for taking a taxi with me, but he nodded as if I meant more than that.A taxi with flashing empty lights came slowly. On this windy and rainy New York night, most people probably couldn't find a taxi even if they searched all over Manhattan Island; As luck would have it, he beckoned to the car. The sound of the taxi meter ticking in the warm car; I told him that I loved his stories, and that I hadn’t laughed so hard or so well since I was eighteen, was true, not true. flattering. oh?you are too polite.His tone was polite and cold, and my heart went cold, and I felt a heat in my cheeks; sometimes I don't have to hear a slam to know that the door has been closed. When the car drove to the front of the building where I lived, I thanked him again, this time he was more humane.Thank you for coming as promised despite such a hasty invitation, he said, if you like, you are welcome to come again at any time, you don't have to wait for someone to invite you, we don't pay attention to politeness at 249B.Stories are available on Thursdays, but the club is open every day. So I'm a regular member? I really want to ask this question, the question almost blurted out, it seems that I need to ask it clearly; I think about it, and think twice in my mind (this is a lawyer's occupational disease), to see if the wording is appropriate or maybe my question is too abrupt Waterhouse then ordered the driver to drive, and the car sped off toward the park.I stood on the side of the road for a while, the hem of my coat slapping my calf, thinking: He knew I was going to ask that question, he knew, so he deliberately asked the driver to drive the car away without waiting for me to ask.Then I told myself that the idea was ridiculous and even paranoid, but it was true; I could laugh at myself as much as I liked, but it didn't change the basic truth. I walked slowly towards the door and walked into the house. When I sat on the bed and took off my shoes, Ellen was half asleep; she rolled over, and with a questioning sound in her throat, I told her to go back to sleep. She made another indistinct sound, clearer this time: How is it? I hesitated for a while, and half the button of my shirt was unbuttoned, knowing that if I told her, I would never go there again. Fortunately, I said, a group of old people, telling anecdotes during the war. I'll just say it? Not bad though, I might go again, maybe it will help me with my work at the firm Office, she sarcastically said softly, you are such a useless old man. each other each other.I said, but she had fallen asleep again.I undressed, showered, dried off, put on pajamas and instead of going to bed (it was past one o'clock) as usual, I put on a bathrobe and drank another beer; Drinking, looking out the window and meditating.Drinking too much alcohol at night is considered excessive for me, and my head is a bit buzzing, but I don't feel uncomfortable, and I don't feel dizzy like a hangover. The idea I had just now when Ellen asked me how the evening was was as absurd as the ones I had when Waterhouse's car drove away, and if I had told her I had been at the boss's club It's fun, what's wrong?Even if something is wrong, who will know?No, the more I thought about it, the more absurd and paranoid I became, just like the random thinking just now, but the voice in my heart told me that every part was as true as before. I bumped into Waterhouse the next day in the corridor between the counting room and the reading room; bumped into ?Passing by is more correct!He nodded to me without saying a word, as he had done for years. My stomach hurts all day, and that's the only reason I believe last night wasn't a dream. Three weeks passed, and then four, five weeks, and Waterhouse never invited me again.I must be doing something wrong, out of place, I tell myself.This kind of thinking makes me very disappointed and depressed. I guess that in time, maybe I will not feel so uncomfortable, because all the disappointments will gradually fade away and disappear without a trace.But I always think back to that night in the strangest moments: the quiet and peaceful atmosphere and the strong fragrance of books under the lonely lamps in the library, the absurd story of Waterhouse, and the lingering smell from the narrow shelves. Strong leather smell; but most of the time, I think of myself standing in front of the narrow window, staring at the wine glass in my hand from green to yellow to red, thinking of the peace I felt at that time. During those five weeks, I went to the library to borrow four volumes of Williams' poems (I have three others, and I have already read and searched carefully), one of which is called "The Complete Poems of Williams"; I reviewed a few poems I liked in the past, but I couldn't find a poem named <钟>. On this trip to the New York Public Library, I also looked for Schwery's works along the bibliographic cards of the fiction category, but found nothing.The closest search result was someone named Ruth.The woman writer of Shvili once wrote a mystery novel. (You are welcome to come back anytime, without waiting for someone to invite you) But of course I was still waiting for the invitation, my mother taught me not to trust the polite words that people come and play anytime; I do hope for a hint, even if it's a casual one: David, come over someday?Hope we didn't bore you too much.It will be all right. But when even this small wish could not be fulfilled, I began to seriously consider the possibility of going again whether he was invited or not.After all, sometimes when people say please feel free to play this sentence, they are very sincere, and what mother said may not always be right. (no need to wait for others to invite) Anyway, that's how it happened; on December 10th of that year, I found myself again in the tweed jacket and dark brown trousers, and found a dark ocher tie, and I remember my heart beating that night as if Usually more obvious. Waterhouse finally surrendered and invited you again?Ellen asked, to that pigsty again, with a bunch of male chauvinistic pigs? That's right.I said, thinking it was probably the first time I'd lied to her in decades, and then I remembered that when she asked me how I was doing after the last party, I didn't tell the truth, just said it was an old man talking about a wartime anecdote . Well, maybe you really are going to be promoted.She said that, though she hadn't hoped for anything, she was kind, without irony. Stranger things have happened.I kiss her goodbye. When I went out, she smiled and made two pig calls. That night, I sat in the taxi for a long time; the weather was cold, there was no wind, and the sky was full of stars.I felt like I was getting so small in the cab, like seeing a kid in New York City for the first time.The car parked in front of the yellow-brown building, I was full of excitement, but this kind of simple excitement seems to be the easiest life quality to disappear unconsciously, and it will be regained when we are almost old When you comb your hair, you will always feel a little surprised, just like when you comb your hair after many years of gray hair, you will be surprised to find one or two black hairs on the comb. I paid the fare, stepped out of the car, and headed for the four steps to the door; as I climbed the steps, my excitement froze to apprehension (a feeling most familiar to older people) what the hell I was doing here ah? The gate was thick inlaid oak, and it seemed to me as impenetrable as a city gate.I couldn't see the doorbell, I couldn't find the knocker, there was no CCTV camera under the dark overhang, and of course Waterhouse wasn't there waiting to show me in.I stopped at the door and looked around; East Thirty-fifth Street seemed suddenly darker, colder, and more menacing, and the tawny buildings looked mysterious, as if hiding some secret that they didn't want to be known, and every door The windows are like its eyes. Maybe someone is plotting a murder behind one of the windows, I thought, with a tingle down my spine, plotting or committing murder. At this time, the door opened suddenly, and Stephen stood at the door. I'm relieved, I'm not a particularly imaginative person, at least I'm not usually, but the thought that just crossed my mind is horrifying, as if I knew it was going to happen, and if I hadn't caught Stephen's eyes first, I would have Will babble to him!It seemed he didn't know me, not at all. And so my horrible sixth sense kicked in again, and I could predict every detail of the evening: three hours in a quiet bar, three or four whiskeys, to dilute my uninvited embarrassment Feeling; Who told me not to listen to my mother's advice, and now I am humiliating myself, and I deserve it. I saw myself coming home slightly drunk, not too shaky; I saw myself sitting in a taxi instead of looking at the street scene with the excitement and anticipation of a child; and I heard myself say to Ellen: (The more It's getting boring. Waterhouse still tells the same old story and they play red dots, a dollar a dollar, you believe it? Go again? Maybe, but I doubt it.) So there it is, except I feel very humiliated other than that. I saw so much in Stephen's cold eyes; then his eyes warmed up, and he smiled slightly: Mr. Edley!Come in and give me the coat. I walked in, Stephen closed the door firmly, walked into the warm room, and fully felt the difference between the inside and the outside of the door!Stephen took my coat and walked away. I stood in the hall for a while, looking at my figure against the glass corner post. A man of sixty-three years old, with a thin face that will soon look like a middle-aged man; but I I am quite satisfied with it. I slipped into the library. Yohanson was reading the Wall Street Journal, and McCarron and Andrew sat face to face and played chess by another light.McCarran had always been haggard, with a razor-thin nose; Andrew was a big, sloping-shouldered, irritable man with a long, bushy ginger beard that covered his vest.The two faced each other and looked at the black and white chess pieces of ivory and ebony, which looked like Indian totems: eagle and bear. Waterhouse was there, too, facing that day's New York Times; he glanced up, nodded to me without surprise, and buried himself in the paper again. Stephen brought me a glass of whiskey without asking. I took the wine and went to the bookshelf, and saw the alluring and confusing set of green books again. From that night on, I began to read Schweri's first work "They Are Our Brothers"; I have read every single one of his books since, and I am convinced that those eleven novels are the best books of the century. That night, toward the end of the party, another story was told.Stephen was walking around with a brandy in his hand. After the story was finished, everyone stood up one after another, ready to leave.Stephen stood in the doorway leading into the corridor, and asked in a low but cheerful voice: So who's going to tell the story at Christmas? Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked around. Some talked in low voices, and some burst out laughing. Stephen, who was smiling but still serious, clapped his palms twice, as if a primary school teacher was telling a group of mischievous students to quiet down.Come on, who wants to tell a story? Andrew cleared his throat.I thought of a story, but I don't know if it's appropriate, I mean I don't know Very good.Stephen interrupted, and there was another burst of laughter. Many people patted Andrew on the shoulder kindly. Soon the members left one by one, and the hall was swept into a gust of cold wind. Then Stephen came to me as if by magic, with my coat in his hand.Good night, Mr. Edley, you are always welcome. Are you really going to party on Christmas Eve?As I asked, I buttoned my buttons, feeling a little disappointed that I didn't hear Andrew's story, but we had already planned to drive to her sister's house for Christmas. Stephen showed a surprised and funny expression.Of course not, he said, everyone should spend Christmas Eve with the family, whatever the other nights, but that night should be with the family, don't you? certainly. 我們都是在耶誕節之前的星期四聚會，其實那天晚上也是一年中大家來得最齊的一次。 他沒有用會員兩個字是不經意的疏忽？抑或靈巧地避開這個字眼？ 客廳裡一直都有許多人講故事，艾德利先生；各種故事都有，從好笑的到可悲的，從諷刺的到感傷的都有。不過在耶誕節之前那個星期四，說的都是神祕故事，一向都是如此，至少就我記憶所及總是這樣。 這至少使我瞭解第一次來時聽到的一些話，也就是為什麼大家都說司徒該把故事留到耶誕節再講。還有許多疑問一直在我腦中盤旋不去，但我看出史蒂芬審慎的眼神，倒不是警告我他不會回答問題，而是警告我最好連問都不要問。 艾德利先生，還有什麼事嗎？ 此刻大廳中只剩下我們兩人，其他人都已離開，驀地走廊好像陰暗許多，史蒂芬的一張長臉也更加蒼白，嘴唇更紅了。壁爐中的木柴爆出一陣火花，一時之間，光可鑑人的地板映著紅光，我彷彿聽見某個我還沒去過的房間裡，傳出東西滑動的碰撞聲。我不喜歡這種聲音，一點也不喜歡。 沒有，我說道，聲音有些不穩，我想沒事了。 那麼，晚安。史蒂芬說道，我跨出門檻，聽見身後的門沉重地闔上，緊跟著是上鎖聲，之後我朝著第三大道的燈光走去。我沒有回頭看，有點害怕回頭看，好像唯恐這麼做，就會看到什麼怕人的魔鬼亦步亦趨地跟在我後面，或是目睹什麼最好不要揭開的祕密，我走到轉角，看見一輛計程車，便舉起手來。 又聽了幾個戰時故事？那晚愛倫問我；她捧著一本馬盧的書躺在床上，那是她唯一心愛的作家。 一、兩個，我說著掛起外套，多半時間裡，我都在看書。 當你沒有在大發議論的時候，是不是？ Yes, that's right. 你聽聽這個：我第一眼看見泰瑞．藍諾士的時候，他正醉倒在一輛勞斯萊斯裡，愛倫讀道，他相貌年輕，不過頭髮卻已花白；你看他的眼睛就知道他醉得一塌糊塗，否則乍看之下，他和一般身穿晚禮服、流連賭窟、揮霍無度的年輕人沒有兩樣。真好，是不是？This is 《漫長的告別》，我說著脫下鞋子，每過三年，你都會唸一段給我聽，這就是你的生活，周而復始，總是一再重複。 她朝我皺皺鼻子，學著豬叫。 Thanks.I said. 她又回到書上，我走到廚房去喝我的啤酒，等我回來時，她已把《漫長的告別》癱在床上，仔細打量我。大衛，你會不會加入這個俱樂部？ 大概會如果有人邀請的話。我覺得不安，也許我又對她撒了謊，如果真有東三十五街二四九號Ｂ的會員資格這種東西的話，那麼我已經是會員了。 我很高興，她說道，長久以來，你一直需要一些東西，我想連你自己都沒有察覺這點，不過我看得出來。我參加了救濟會、女權委員會，還有劇院會，你也需要一些東西，我想你需要可以跟你一起邁入老年的朋友。 我走到床前在她身邊坐下，拿起《漫長的告別》，那是一本重新出版的平裝本，我還記得一九五三年愛倫生日時，我曾經送給她一本原版精裝本。我們老了嗎？I ask her. I think so.她說著，對我粲然一笑。 我把書放下，摸著她的胸部。連這樣也不行了？ 她十分淑女風範地拉起被子然後又咯咯笑著，用腳把被子踢至床下。 耶誕節前的星期四終於來臨了。那天晚上和其他晚上沒什麼兩樣，只有一件是明顯不同。出席的人比較多，大概有十八位，而且有一股強烈而難以言喻的興奮氣氛；尤漢生只隨便瞄了一眼報紙，就加入麥卡朗、畢格曼與我的談話。我們坐在靠窗處，談談這、說說那，最後才熱烈討論一個話題：戰前的汽車。 如今我才想到還有第三件例外的事史蒂芬釀了可口的蛋酒，酒並不烈，不過由於其中的甜酒與香料，喝下去喉嚨會辣得發燙；蛋酒盛在如冰雕般美麗的玻璃盆中。大家幾杯黃湯下肚後，嗓門也越來越大。 我望了望通往撞球檯的小門，看見華特豪斯與司徒把棒球卡堆成像海獺帽一樣，兩人大聲笑著。 人群聚了又散，散了又聚，時間越來越晚到了平常大家紛紛離開的時候，我看見安德魯手拿個紙袋坐在火爐前，隨即把它丟進爐內，也沒打開封口；不一會兒，七彩繽紛的火焰開始舞動，然後才恢復為原來的黃色，這時大家把椅子拉近，我可以看見安德魯背後拱心石上的字： （故事本身是主角，而不是說故事的人。） 史蒂芬靜悄悄穿過我們中間，拿起空酒杯，注入白蘭地，一聲聲耶誕快樂響起，這時我才頭一次在這裡看到給錢的動作這裡十塊，那裡五十，我看得很清楚，還有一張是百元大鈔。 謝謝你，麥卡朗先生尤漢生先生畢格曼先生史蒂芬有禮貌地悄聲道謝。 我在紐約住了許久，深知耶誕節是一年一度的小費大典；一點小意思給肉商，一點給麵包店和燭臺店，至於門房、管理員、清潔女工就更別提了，與我同階層的人個個都覺得這是一種陋習。但那天晚上，我卻看不出任何人吝於付出，每個人都心甘情願，甚至熱心十足地掏出錢來。突然之間，我莫名其妙地想到（在二四九號Ｂ時似乎經常如此）：在冷冽的倫敦耶誕節早晨，《小氣財神》中的小男孩對著施顧己大喊：什麼？和我一樣大的那隻火雞嗎？而樂翻天的施顧己咯咯笑著說：好孩子！好孩子！ 我在皮夾裡摸索著，在愛倫的照片後面總是夾著一張五十塊鈔票，以備不時之需。史蒂芬替我倒白蘭地時，我手不抖、心不顫地把鈔票塞進他手裡雖然我並不富有。 耶誕快樂，史蒂芬。I said. 謝謝你，先生，你也一樣。 他倒好酒拿著謝禮走開了。安德魯的故事正講到一半，我四下瞧瞧，看到一個模糊僵直的男人身影，史蒂芬安靜地站在門邊。 各位大概已經知道我是律師。安德魯啜了一口白蘭地，清清喉嚨，又喝了一口之後才說，這二十二年來，我一直在公園大道的法律事務所執業；可是在當律師以前，我只是一個小小的法律助理，在華盛頓特區的法律事務所工作。七月的一個晚上，公司要求我留晚一點，把法律案件的傳票索引編好再走，這部分跟故事無關；不過不久有個男人走了進來這個人是當時最著名的參議員，後來還幾乎當上總統。他的襯衫上滿是血跡，兩隻眼睛整個凸出來。 我必須見喬瑟。he said.各位知道喬瑟．伍茲就是我那個事務所的老闆，他是華盛頓最具影響力的律師之一，也是這位參議員的密友。 他好幾個小時以前就下班了。I answer.我可以告訴你們，當時我真是害怕極了他的樣子好像剛剛離開車禍現場似的，也可能是剛剛經過一場廝殺；不知怎麼搞的，一看他的臉我在報紙與電視上看過他的臉孔看見他臉上一道道凝結的血塊，半個臉頰斷斷續續抽著筋，狂亂的眼神看到這些，使我更害怕。我可以打電話給他我已經在摸索著話筒，只想盡快把這個燙手山芋丟給別人，然後我朝他身後望去，可以看見他踩在地毯上的血腳印。 我要跟喬瑟說話。他又說道，彷彿根本沒聽見我剛才的話。我車裡有個東西我用槍射它，也用刀子刺它，可是還是殺不死它，它不是人類，我怎麼殺，都殺不死它！ 他開始吃吃笑著然後變成放聲大笑最後是聲嘶力竭的尖叫；我終於接通伍茲先生，請他盡快過來一趟時，他仍然尖叫個不停 我不打算說完安德魯的故事，老實說，我不確定自己敢不敢說這個故事，我只消告訴你，聽完故事之後的幾個星期，我不斷作夢，你就知道故事有多恐怖了。有一次我和愛倫用早餐時，她問我為什麼半夜突然喊叫：他的頭！他的頭還在土裡頭說話！ 我想大概是作噩夢吧！我說道，醒來就忘了。 但我立刻低頭瞪著咖啡杯，我想這次愛倫知道我在扯謊了。 第二年八月的一天，我在閱覽室工作時，接到華特豪斯的電話，問我可不可以到他辦公室走一趟。我到那兒的時候，看見兩位董事卡登與艾芬翰也在，我腦中迅速閃過不祥的念頭，我一定做了什麼蠢事了。 這時卡登走過來對我說：大衛，喬治認為應該升你為資淺合夥人，我們也都同意。 你或許會覺得自己好像最老的資淺員工，艾芬翰露齒笑道，不過，這也是必經的過程，如果幸運的話，耶誕節以前，你就可以成為正式合夥人了。 那天晚上我沒有再作噩夢。愛倫和我出去吃了一頓豐盛的晚餐，也喝了許多酒，然後又去了一家好幾年都不曾去過的爵士樂酒吧，聽藍調黑人樂手吹喇叭，一直到凌晨兩點才回家。第二天早晨醒來時，我們的頭在痛、胃在翻滾，卻依然難以置信竟會發生這等好事，我的年薪一下子提高了八千，經過這麼多年的等待，我們好像驟拾鉅款一樣意外。 那年秋天，事務所派我赴哥本哈根出差六週，回來後得知經常出席二四九號Ｂ聚會的韓若翰因為癌症而不幸過世，韓若翰太太驟失依靠，境況非常可憐，於是俱樂部發起捐款；大家推選我負責收集所有捐款都是現鈔再將其轉換為銀行支票，總數超過一萬元。我把支票交給史蒂芬，我猜他大概把支票寄給韓若翰太太了。 巧的是，韓若翰太太正好是愛倫劇院會的會員；一段日子之後，愛倫告訴我韓若翰太太接到一張沒有署名的一萬零四百元支票，票根上只短短寫著：令夫生前好友敬贈。 這是不是你有生以來所見過最奇怪的事情？愛倫問我。 不是最奇怪的，我說道，不過也算名列前茅了；愛倫，還有沒有草莓？ 時間一年一年過去，我在二四九號Ｂ的樓上發現許多房間一個寫字間、一間臥室供賓客偶爾留宿之用（不過由於我聽過的碰撞聲也許是想像的我個人還是寧願住好一點的旅館），一間設備完善的小健身房、以及一個三溫暖浴室，另外還有一個狹長的房間，和建築物等長，裡面有兩個保齡球道。 那些年裡，我重新把施維里的小說讀了一遍，還發現了一個天才橫溢、足以媲美龐德和史蒂文斯的詩人，名叫羅森。照他三本詩集的封底介紹來看，他生於一九二四年，死於義大利西岸海港安其歐；三本詩集都是由斯德罕圖書公司出版。 我記得我還挑了一個明媚的春天下午，專程跑到紐約公立圖書館查詢過去二十年來的《出版家名冊》，這種名冊一年出版一本，跟大城市裡的工商分類電話簿差不多大小。我猜我大概把圖書管理員煩透了，不過我仍然鍥而不捨，每一冊都仔細查過，儘管名冊中原本應該列出全美大大小小出版商的名字，可是我怎麼也找不到斯德罕圖書公司的名字。一年以後也許兩年我恰巧跟一位古書商談起來，問他有沒有聽過這個出版商，他說從來沒有。 我原本也想問史蒂芬，但一看見他眼中警告的神情，便又作罷。 多年來也聽了不少故事，滑稽的、愛情的、恐怖的故事，沒錯，還有一些戰爭故事，不過沒有一個故事符合愛倫的想像。 杜傑曼的故事我記得最清楚說的是第一次世界大戰結束前四個月，一個美軍作戰基地遭德軍砲火直接命中，官兵全部陣亡的經過，只有杜傑曼一個人劫後餘生。 美國將軍卡魯德一向視部下生命如草芥，他所負責的作戰行動已經造成一萬八千名官兵死傷，早已是大家公認的瘋子。有一回敵方砲擊時，他正站在一張作戰圖前面，向部下解釋又一次瘋狂至極的伏擊行動。這個伏擊行動註定會像卡魯德其他的作戰計畫一樣，走上相同的厄運，成功製造出新的寡婦。 砲擊停止之後，杜傑曼兩眼昏花，耳朵也聾了，他的鼻子、耳朵與眼角都流著血，下體也因砲擊的劇烈震盪而腫脹；隨後當他正想找路走出幾分鐘前還是作戰總部的屠場時，撞見卡魯德的屍體。他望著將軍的屍體，然後開始又叫又笑，他自己被砲彈震聾的耳朵什麼也沒聽見，卻讓醫務兵知道散落的瓦礫碎片中還有生還者。 卡魯德並沒有在一轟之下身首異處或斷胳臂斷腿至少一次大戰的軍人心中想到不得全屍而亡的情況，都是沒了手、沒了腿、眼睛瞎了、肺裡吸滿毒氣等；他說卡魯德將軍的死相倒沒有那麼慘，如果他的母親看到他，還是一眼就能認出他來。可是那張作戰圖 砲擊之時，卡魯德指著的那張作戰圖 那張圖不知怎地竟印在他臉上，杜傑曼瞪著他臉上那張死亡面具，卡魯德的眉骨正好在布列塔尼島的岩岸上，萊茵河彷彿藍色疤痕般奔流在他的左頰上，下巴則印著世上最佳的釀酒勝地薩爾區彷彿劊子手的套索般繞著他的喉嚨，凸出的眼球則印上了凡爾賽三字。 這是一九七幾年的耶誕節說的故事。 我還記得其他幾個故事，不過都不是我在這裡真正想說的重點，其實連杜傑曼的故事都不是重點不過那是我在二四九號Ｂ所聽到的第二個耶誕故事我實在忍不住要說出來。今年感恩節過後的星期四，當史蒂芬拍掌問誰要講耶誕故事時，麥卡朗說道：我想我有一個故事可以講，現在不說，以後就不能說了，因為過了不久，上帝就會叫我永遠開不了口。 從我去二四九號Ｂ這麼多年，從沒有聽麥卡朗講過故事。或許這就是為什麼我那麼早就叫好計程車的原因，也是為什麼當史蒂芬替我們六個冒著大風雪來聽故事的人端蛋酒時，我會覺得那麼激動又興奮；有這種感覺的人並非只有我一個，我看見其他人也面帶興奮。 又老又乾的麥卡朗坐在爐火旁的大椅子上，粗糙的手裡握著一袋粉末。他把紙袋丟進去，我們注視火焰瘋也似地變換著顏色，最後才恢復到原來的黃色火焰；史蒂芬端白蘭地酒給我們，我們給他酬謝金。在這一年一度的大典中，有一回，我曾聽見零角子鏗鏘有聲地從施者手中移至受者手裡，也有一回我目睹幾十張百元大鈔塞進史蒂芬手中，但在這兩種不同的情形下，史蒂芬悄然道謝的聲音完全一樣，毫無差別待遇。我隨華特豪斯到二四九號Ｂ已經十年了，儘管外面的世界變幻無常，這裡卻一成不變，史蒂芬好像永遠不會老，一天也不曾老去。 史蒂芬退回陰影中，然後即是一陣闃然寂靜，連壁爐裡水分逸出木柴的颼颼聲都清晰可聞。麥卡朗專心望著爐火，我們也都追隨他的目光；那天晚上的火焰似乎分外猛烈，我覺得爐火的景象幾乎讓我目眩神迷我猜想我們的老祖宗山頂洞人也曾在寒風呼嘯的冬夜裡，對著洞裡的爐火心神恍惚。 之後，麥卡朗的身子稍稍前傾，眼睛仍望著爐火，他把兩手交叉夾在膝蓋間，開始說故事。