Ether-以太
1.
All of a sudden, I’m thinking about an evening from the winter when I was twenty-two.
A pair of pretty twin sisters sat to my right, chattering away; at my left sat a fat boy clutching a soft drink that he kept refilling. My plate contained cold chicken, cheese, and cole slaw. I don’t remember how they tasted, only that I’d reached for the macaroni and dropped some on my brand-new pinstripe trousers. I spent the entire second half of the meal wiping at the crescent-shaped stains on my trousers as the chicken cooled in my plate, untouched. To hide my predicament, I tried to strike up a conversation with the twins, but they didn’t seem very interested in college life, and I wasn’t knowledgeable about ponytail-tying techniques.
The dinner seemed to last forever. There was one toast after another, and I would raise my long-stemmed glass with whomever was standing, and drink my apple juice, perfectly aware that no one was paying attention to what I did. What was the banquet for, anyway? A wedding, a holiday, a bumper crop? I don’t recall.
I sneaked peeks at my father, four tables away. He was busy chatting and drinking and telling dirty jokes with his friends, all his age, with the same thick whiskers and noses red from too much alcohol. He didn’t glance at me until the banquet was over. The fiddler tiredly packed his instrument, the hostess began to collect the dirty dishes and glasses, and my inebriated father finally noticed my presence. He staggered over, his bulky body swaying with every step. “You still here?” he slurred. “Tell your ma to give you a ride.”
“No, I’m leaving on my own.” I stood, staring at the ground. I scrubbed at the stain on my trousers until my fingers were numb.
“Whatever you want. Did you have a good time talking with your little friends?” He looked around for them.
I said nothing but clenched my fists, feeling the blood rush to my head. They weren’t my friends. They were just kids, eleven or twelve years old, and I was about to graduate from college. In the city, I had my friends and my accomplishments. No one treated me like a little boy there, seating me at the children’s table, pouring apple juice into my long-stemmed glass in the place of white wine. When I walked into restaurants, a server would promptly take my jacket and call me mister; if I dropped macaroni on my trousers, my dining companion would wet a napkin and gently wipe it clean. I was an adult, and I wanted people to talk to me like one, not treat me like a grade schooler at some village banquet.
“Fuck off!” I said at last, and walked off without looking back.
I was twenty-two that year.
I open my eyes with effort. The sky is completely dark now, and the neon lights of the strip club across the street fill the room with gauzy colors. The computer screen flashes. I rub my temples and slowly sit up on the sofa. I down the half glass of bourbon resting on the coffee table. How many times have I fallen asleep on the sofa this week? I ought to go online and look it up: what does holing up at home in front of a computer and falling into dreams of bygone youth mean for the health of a forty-five-year-old single man? But the headache tells me I don’t need a search engine to know the answer. This aimless way of life is murder on my brain cells.
Roy sends me a pained smiley.
I close the chat window and sign into a few literary and social network sites, hoping for something interesting to read. But just as my online friend said, everything seems to grow duller by the day. When I was young, the Internet was full of opinion, thought, and passion. Exuberant youths filled the virtual world with furious Socratic debate, while the brilliant but misanthropic waxed lyrical about their dreams of a new social order. I could sit unmoving in front of a computer screen until dawn as hyperlinks took my soul on whirlwind journeys. Now, I sift through front pages and notifications and never find a single topic worth clicking on.
The feeling is at once sickening and familiar.
On a social media site I frequent, I click the top news article, “Citizens gather at city hall to protest hobbyist fishermen’s inhumane treatment of earthworms.” A video window pops out: a gaggle of young people in garish shirts, beers in their left hands and crooked signs in their right, standing in the city square. The signs read “Say NO To Earthworm Abuse,” “Your Bait Is My Neighbor,” “Earthworms Feel Pain Just Like Your Dog.”
Did they have nothing else to do? If they really wanted to march and protest, couldn’t they have found an issue actually worth fighting for? My headache is returning in force, so I turn off the monitor. I flop onto the worn brown couch and tiredly shut my eyes.
1，
我忽然想起22岁那年的冬天午后。我的右边坐着一对非常漂亮的双胞胎姐妹，叽叽喳喳聊着天，左边坐着一个胖家伙，抱着瓶碳酸饮料不停给自己续杯，我的碟子里是冷掉的鸡肉、乳酪和切碎的甘蓝，如今我已经记不得那些食物的味道，只记得夹通心粉的时候掉了一些在我崭新的条纹长裤上，整个宴席的后半段，我一直在擦拭长裤上新月形的污痕，留鸡肉在盘子里渐渐变冷。为掩饰尴尬，我试图与双胞胎姐妹找个话题聊聊，但她们似乎对大学生活不感兴趣，我也不懂得马尾辫的几种绑法。
这场宴会显得极其漫长，一个又一个人站起来无休无止地举杯致辞，我一次又一次随他们举起高脚杯，啜饮苹果汁，明知没有任何人会注意到我的举动。宴会的主题是什么？婚礼、节庆还是丰收？我记不清。那时我无数次隔着四张桌子偷偷看我的父亲，他忙于与同样年纪、长着浓密胡须和酒糟鼻的朋友们聊天喝酒，说着粗鲁的笑话，直到宴会结束都不曾向我投诸一线目光。乐师疲惫地将小提琴装进琴匣、主妇开始收拾狼籍杯盘，醉醺醺的父亲终于发现我的存在，摇晃着庞大的身躯走来，嘟囔着说：“你还在啊？叫你妈来开车。”
“不。我自己回去。”我站起来盯着地面说，用力揉搓长裤上的污迹直到手指发白。
“随便。跟你的小朋友们聊得好吗？”他四处张望。
我没有回答，握紧拳头，感觉血液向头部聚集。他们不是我的朋友。他们只是孩子而已，十一二岁的小孩，而我已经二十二岁，即将从大学毕业，在城市里，我有我的朋友和骄傲，在那里，没有人拿我当孩子看待、把我安排在一桌儿童中间、在我的高脚杯中倒满甜苹果汁而不是白葡萄酒，在我走入餐馆的时候，侍者会殷勤地接过我的外套叫我一声“先生”，若不小心将通心粉掉在长裤上，我的女伴会温柔地用湿巾擦去污迹，我是成年人了，我想要成年人的话题，而不是在愚蠢的乡村宴会中被当做学龄儿童对待。
“……去你的！”我终于说，然后头也不回地走掉。
那年我二十二岁。
我努力睁开眼睛，天色已经完全暗了，屋子笼罩在对街脱衣舞俱乐部的霓虹灯光芒中。起居室里只有电脑屏幕闪闪发亮。我揉着太阳穴，从沙发上缓缓坐起，端起咖啡桌上的半杯波旁威士忌一饮而尽。这是本周第几次在沙发上睡着了？我应该上网查查，四十五岁的单身男人在周日下午窝在家里独自上网直至进入一场充满闪回童年经历梦境的睡眠是否有益于身心健康，但头痛告诉我不必打开搜索引擎就能知道：这种无聊的生活在谋杀我的脑细胞。
喂，在吗。液晶屏幕上roy说。
在。我从烟灰缸上找到半截雪茄，弹掉烟灰，划火柴点燃，斜字。
你知道吗，他们开了一个讨论组专门讨论如何用肉眼分别蓝鳍金枪鱼与马苏金枪鱼生鱼片。roy说。
你参加了吗？我吐出一口瑞士机制雪茄充满草腥味的烟雾。
没有，我觉得这个比前一个讨论组更无聊，你知道的，“硬币自然坠落正反面概率长期观察”小组。roy打出表示无奈的符号。
可是你参加那个小组来着。
是的，我连续十五天、每天抛硬币二十次，然后将测试结果反馈给讨论组。
后来呢？
越来越趋近常数呗。roy给我一个苦笑。
你们根本就知道这是必然结果啊。我说。
当然，可网络如此无聊，总得找点事干呢。roy说。要不要一起参加“肉眼分别蓝鳍金枪鱼与马苏金枪鱼生鱼片”小组？
免了，我宁肯去看看小说。雪茄快烧完了，我拿起威士忌酒杯，呸呸吐出嘴里苦涩的唾液。
小说、杂志、电影、电视都让我发疯。总有一天，我会被无趣的世界杀死。roy打了个大大的句号，下线了。
我关掉对话框，登陆几个文学和社交网站想找感兴趣的文章看，但正如从未谋面的网友roy所说，一切正向着越来越无趣的方向发展，在我年轻时，网络上充满观点、思想与情绪，热血的年轻人在虚拟世界展开苏格拉底式的激烈辩论，才华横溢的厌世者通过文学表达对新生活的渴望，我可以在电脑屏幕前静坐整个晚上，超链接带领我的灵魂经历一次又一次热闹的旅行。如今，我浏览那么多网站头条与要闻，没有找到一个值得点击的标题。
这种感觉令人厌恶，又似曾相识。
我点开常去的社区网站头条新闻“民众在市政府前游行示威抗议钓鱼者对蚯蚓的不人道行为”：视频窗口弹出，一群穿着花花绿绿衣衫的年轻人左手拎着啤酒右手举着歪歪扭扭的牌子站在市政广场，标语牌上写着“坚决反对切断蚯蚓”、“你的鱼饵是我的邻居”、“蚯蚓和你家的狗一样会感觉到痛”。
他们没有其他事情可干了吗？就算游行示威，不能找个更有意义的话题吗？我的头痛袭来，于是关掉显示器，倒在棕色的旧沙发里，疲惫地闭上眼睛。
2.
In the scheme of an enormous aggregation of resources like this city, a low-income, forty-five-year-old bachelor is utterly insignificant. I work three days a week, four hours a day, and my main duty is to read welfare petitions that meet basic requirements and pick the ones I empathize with most. In an age where computers have squeezed people out of most employment opportunities, using my “emotional intuition” to approve or reject government welfare requests is practically the perfect job, no training or background knowledge required. The Department of Social Welfare thought some measure of empathy was needed beyond the rigid rules and regulations to select the few lucky welfare recipients (from petitions that had already passed the automated preliminary checks, of course), and therefore invited individuals from all strata of society—including failures like me—to participate in the process. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, I take the subway from my rented apartment to the little office I share with three coworkers in the Social Welfare Building. I sit in front of the computer and stamp my e-seal on petitions I take a liking to. The quota varies day to day, but my work typically ends after thirty stamps. I use the remainder of the time to chat, drink coffee, and eat bagels until the end-of-shift bell rings.
Today’s a Monday like any other. I finish my four hours of work and swipe my card to leave. I walk toward the subway station, not far away, the gray granite edifice of the Social Welfare Building behind me. The performer is there at the subway entrance as usual, a one-man band whose repertoire consists of ear-splitting trumpeting accompanied by a monotonous drumbeat. As always, he glares at me balefully as I approach, perhaps because I haven’t given him a cent these few years. It makes me uncomfortable. The trumpet begins, the sound of a cat scratching at a glass pane. My lingering headache from yesterday begins to stir. I decide to turn away and catch the subway one station up.
The ground is still wet from the drizzle earlier this morning. Ponytailed youths whiz by me on skateboards. Two pigeons perch on a coffee shop sign, cooing. The storefront windows reflect me: a thin, balding middle-aged man in a yellow windbreaker that used to be fashionable, with a brandy nose just like my father’s. I rub my nose and can’t help but think of the father I haven’t seen in so long. More precisely, I haven’t seen him since the banquet when I was twenty-two. My mother sometimes mentions him in her calls: I know that he still lives at the farm, that he’s raising cows, that he’s kept a few apple trees to brew hard cider, even though alcohol had destroyed his liver, and the doctors say that he’ll never drink again till science can cure his liver cancer.
To be honest, I don’t feel a bit of sorrow for him. Although my red nose and big-framed body are all inherited from him, I’ve spent my adult years trying to escape his shadow, trying to prevent myself from turning into a fat, selfish, bigoted old drunkard like him. Today, however, I find that the only thing I’ve successfully avoided is the fat. The greatest achievement of his life was marrying my mother. I don’t even have anything close to that.
“Stop right there!” A shout cuts short my self-pity. Several figures in black hoodies are sprinting my way, dodging and weaving through traffic. Two cops waving police batons stumble past braking cars in hot pursuit. One blows his whistle; the other is shouting.
The drivers’ curses and the blaring of horns fill the air. I press myself against the coffee shop window. Keep out of trouble. In my mind’s eye, I see my father’s cigar-yellowed teeth flash amidst his whiskers.
The people in black hoodies knock over the trash bin by the street. They run past me—one, two . . . a total of four people. I pretend I don’t see them, but I notice that they’re all wearing canvas shoes. They’re all young. Who hasn’t worn dirty canvas shoes in their youth? I look down at my own feet, encased in dull brown leather lace-ups. The surface of my shoes is covered in creases from long wear, like the wrinkles on my forehead I try valiantly to ignore when I look in the mirror.
Suddenly, someone’s hand blocks my view of my feet. He’s reaching into the pocket of my windbreaker, pulling out my right hand. I feel strange tickling sensations—he’s drawing something on my palm with his finger. Surprised, I raise my head. In front of me is the fourth person in black, small and thin, his eyes covered by his hoodie. He rapidly sketches something out on my palm, then pats my hand. “Do you understand?”
“Hurry!” the other three people in hoodies are hollering. The fourth person tosses a glance back at the steadily nearing police and leaves me to run after his friends. The cops are right behind, puffing and panting. “Stop right there!” one of them shouts hoarsely. The other has his whistle in his mouth, blowing raggedly. I’m certain they turn and look at me as they pass by, but they don’t say anything, only run into the distance, waving their batons.
The pursuers and the pursued turn the corner at the flower shop and leave my sight. On the damp street, the cars begin to move again, the pedestrians weaving among them as if nothing has happened. But the warmth of a stranger’s fingertip still lingers on my right hand.
2，
四十五岁贫穷单身汉在城市这个庞大资源聚合体中显得无足轻重，我每周工作三天，每天工作四个小时，主要职责是“在满足条件的申请书中挑选出个人情感认同的”，在计算机抢走大部分人类饭碗的今天，在政府部门以“个人情感”因素审批特殊贫困津贴的申请书几乎是份完美的工作，它不需要任何培训背景或知识储备，当局认为在自动审核通过的众多特殊贫困津贴申请书中挑选幸运者应当适度体现冰冷规章制度之外的人情味，故聘请社会各阶层人士——包括我这样的失败者——参与此项工作，每周一、三、五的上午我从租住的公寓乘坐地铁来到社会保障局那间小小的、与三名同事共享的办公室，坐在电脑前，把电子印章盖在屏幕中比较顺眼的申请书上，名额时多时少，通常盖三十个印章后我的工作就结束了，余下的时间可以找人聊聊天喝喝咖啡吃两个百吉饼，直到下班铃打响。
与此前无数个周一相同，我完成四个小时的工作，打卡后离开社会保障局的灰色花岗岩大楼，走向不远处的地铁站。地铁站门口通常有个单人乐队的表演者在单调鼓声中吹着刺耳的小号，经过身边的时候那个阴郁的表演者总盯着我的眼睛——或许是因为几年来我没给过他一分钱——让我感到不快。猫抓玻璃一样的小号声果然响起，让我昨天尚未痊愈的头痛蠢蠢欲动，我决心向反方向走一个街区，去上一个地铁站搭地铁。
上午下了一点小雨，地面湿润，扎辫子的滑板少年飞速掠过，两只鸽子站在咖啡馆的招牌上嘀嘀咕咕。橱窗映出我的影子：身穿过时的黄色风衣的瘦削半秃中年人，长着一个与我父亲一摸一样的酒糟鼻子。我摸摸鼻子，不禁想起我久未谋面的父亲，准确地说，自从二十二岁的宴会后就再未见面的父亲。母亲给我的电话中有时会谈起他，我知道他还住在农场，养着一些牛，留着几颗苹果树用来酿酒，但酒精毁了他的肝，医生说他没办法再喝酒了，直到科学家们发明肝癌的治疗方法。说实话我并不感觉悲伤，尽管我的红鼻子和宽大的骨架完全继承了他的血统，但我整个后半生都在逃避父亲的影子，避免自己成为那样自私、狭隘与嗜酒的肥胖老头，——如今我发现，唯有避免肥胖这一点，我做到了。他人生最大的亮点是娶到了我母亲。我连这一点亮点都没有。
“站住！”一声大喝打断我的自怨自艾。几个穿着黑色连帽衫的人越过车流向这边快速跑来，两名警察挥舞警棍跌跌撞撞穿过刹停的汽车追赶着，一名警察吹响哨子，另一人大声喊叫。
驾驶员的叫骂声与汽车鸣笛声响成一片。我将身体贴近咖啡馆的橱窗。别惹麻烦。父亲络腮胡子中因劣质雪茄而泛黄的牙齿在眼前闪现。穿黑色连帽衫的人撞倒路边的垃圾桶，从我身边跑过，一个、两个，一共四个人，我装作毫不在意，但发现他们都穿着帆布鞋。是年轻人。谁年轻时没有穿过脏兮兮的帆布鞋呢。我低头看看自己脚上暗淡无光的棕色系带皮鞋，鞋面因长时间穿着产生一道道褶皱，像我照镜子时极力回避的额头的皱纹。
忽然有人伸出手挡住望着脚面的视线，探进风衣兜里拉出我的右手，我感觉手心传来滑稽的瘙痒——那人用手指在我掌心画着什么图案。我惊诧地抬起头来，停在我面前的是第四个黑衣人，身材矮小，兜帽罩住眼睛，他迅速地在我手中画着什么，然后拍拍我的手掌说：“你明白吗？”
“快点！”三个连帽衫在呼唤，第四个人回头望一眼越追越近的警察，丢下我向伙伴们飞奔而去。警察气喘吁吁地追来，“站住！”其中一个声音嘶哑地喊道，另一个口中含着哨子，吹出断断续续的哨音。我确信他们越过我的时候扭头看了我一眼，但两位警官没有说什么，挥舞警棍跑远。
逃的人和追的人转过花店所在的街角，不见了。潮湿的街道上汽车开始移动，行人穿梭，彷佛什么都没有发生过，只有我的右手，残留着陌生人指尖的温度。
3.
“The usual?” the waitress in the diner below my apartment asks me. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Yeah—” I say automatically—“wait, add smoked salmon to the order.” The waitress, who already turned and started walking, makes an OK sign over her shoulder.
“Did something happen? You changed your order.” Slim is a coworker at the Social Welfare Building, and my only acquaintance close enough to call a friend. He has the ability to sniff out the pheromones other people give off without fail. In the five minutes since he’s sat down, he’s identified a middle-age virgin, a pair of gay paramours, an aging housewife desperate enough to bed the pizza boy, a debauched teenager buying beer with his big brother’s ID card, and a sexually fulfilled paraplegic.
“For real, though, how would someone in a wheelchair have a fulfilling sex life?” I pick up my beer glass and take a sip.
“The higher the paralysis goes, the more likely he’s impotent.” Slim gestures at his own spine with a long, crooked arm. “Anyway, what about you? You’ve met the one, haven’t you? She’s a blonde, right?” His grayish eyes gleam with the pleasure of prodding at my privacy.
“Stop kidding. I ran into some demonstrators this afternoon. You know, the sort of hooligans you see crying out on the news for earthworms’ rights.” I shake my head. “Thanks,” I say, taking the plate from the waitress. A meatball sandwich with pickles on the side—my dinner, forever and always.
“Kids with too much time.” Slim shakes his head. “Speaking of which, did you know . . . the word ‘potato’ comes from the Arawa language of Jamaica.”
Dimly, I think his voice sounded strange just then, when he was saying the second half of his sentence, as if something got stuck in his throat or the cold beer caused a relapse of my tinnitus. “No, I didn’t know. Not that I’m interested in some language no one speaks anymore.” I stick a slice of pickle in my mouth.
Slim widens his eyes in surprise. “You don’t care about this?”
His voice is back to normal. It was tinnitus, then. I should go see a doctor, if I haven’t reached my health insurance coverage limit this year. “I don’t give a damn,” I say with my mouth full.
“Fine, then.” He lowers his head and toys with his beer glass. The waitress brings his dinner to the table, and passes me my smoked salmon as well.
“Seriously, you two should go out and have some fun. Go to the strip club or something.” The waitress looks at our expressions, frowns, and leaves.
Slim and I wordlessly turn our heads toward the gaudy club front across the street. I take two fries from his plate and stuff them into my mouth, then push my smoked salmon toward him. “Have you felt that we haven’t had any interesting topics to talk about lately?” I say.
“You’re feeling it too?” Slim exclaims. “Beyond the sex lives I’ve sniffed out, I can barely find anything to talk about. I’ve found conversations so boring these last few years.”
“Maybe we’re just getting old?” I unhappily retrieve my right hand from the plate of fries. There’s a noticeable age spot on the back of my hand. It appeared just recently, awkward like the stain on my trousers the year I was twenty-two.
“I’m only forty-two! Jimenez was forty-one when he won the Welsh Open!” Slim cried, waving a French fry wildly. “The drudgery of work is making us this way. It’ll all be different once we retire. Don’t you agree, old buddy?”
“I sure hope so,” I answer distractedly.
3，
“照旧吗？”我公寓楼下那间餐馆的女侍应皮笑肉不笑地问我，“当然。”我不假思索地说，“……等等，再加一份腌熏三文鱼。”已经转身走开的女侍应从肩头比划一个ok的手势。
“有什么事发生吗？鉴于你会更改你的食谱。”我唯一可以称得上朋友的熟人、同样在社会保障局工作的瘦子带着不讨人喜欢的笑容问。瘦子有一种特质，能准确嗅出每个人身上分泌的荷尔蒙味道，落座后的短短五分钟里，他已经鉴定出一个老处女、一对男同性恋、一个饥渴到可以跟送披萨小弟上床的中年怨妇、一个纵欲过度的用哥哥身份证买到啤酒的高中生和一个性生活和谐的残疾人。
“说真的，一个坐轮椅的人怎么可能性生活和谐？”我端起杯子喝口凉啤酒。
“瘫痪的部位越高，阳痿的可能性越高。”瘦子用长而弯曲的手臂在自己的脊椎上比划着。“而你呢，一定遇到了一个令人心动的姑娘。她是金发对吗？”他的灰眼珠带着窥探隐私的愉悦光芒。
“扯淡。我下午碰到示威游行，你知道，视频中那些呼吁给蚯蚓人道主义关怀的小痞子。”我摇摇头，——“谢谢。”我接过女侍应递来的盘子，肉丸三明治配腌黄瓜，万年不变的晚餐食谱。
“无聊。”瘦子摇摇头。“说起来，你知道吗……‘马铃薯’这个词来源于牙买加的阿拉瓦语。”
我恍惚觉得他说后半句话的时候声音有点奇怪，仿佛嗓子里哽了块什么东西，或许是凉啤酒让我的耳鸣复发了。“不知道。我也没兴趣学习一种已灭亡的语言。”我把腌黄瓜送进嘴里。
瘦子有些惊异地睁大灰眼睛：“你没兴趣谈这个话题？”
他的声音正常了。是耳鸣。我得去看看医生，如果今年医疗保险没有超额的话。“完全没兴趣。”我嘴里含着食物嘟囔着。
“好吧。”他失望地低下头，把玩着啤酒杯。女侍应将他的晚餐放在桌上，又将我的腌熏三文鱼递给我，“说真的，你们两个有空的话得出去玩玩。比如脱衣舞俱乐部什么的。”她扫了一眼我们脸上的表情，撇撇嘴，走开了。
我和瘦子扭头看看街对面灯红酒绿的俱乐部，没做声。我伸手从他盘子里拿出两根薯条塞进嘴里，将腌熏三文鱼向他那边推了推，“你有没有觉得我们最近聊天缺乏有趣的话题。”我说。
“你也有这个感觉？”瘦子惊奇道，“除了我的性能力鉴定之外，几乎找不到任何可以谈论的东西了。我也是这一两年发现聊天变得没趣起来。”
“也许是我们都老了？”我不情愿地缩回拿薯条的右手，手背上有一块显眼的色斑，刚出现没多久，——就像二十二岁那年长裤上的污迹，令人难堪。
“我刚四十二岁！西蒙尼斯四十一岁才赢得威尔士公开赛！”瘦子叫道，右手的薯条在空中飞舞，“一定是单调的工作让我们变成这样，等退休以后一切都会不同，对吗老兄？”
“但愿如此。”我心不在焉地回答。
4.
I drink two more bottles of cold beer tonight. Waves of dizziness assault me once I’m through my apartment door. I make for my bedroom and collapse on the bed without bothering to shower.
The sheets smell strangely earthy. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t changed them in so long, but on the bright side, the smell makes me think of the farm when I was little—not the farm that reeked of my father’s animal stench, but from before he started drinking, before he started abusing my mother. I’m thinking of the tranquil, peaceful farm where my mother, my sister, and I lived.
I remember my older sister and me playing in the newly built granary, airy and filled with the clean fragrance of earth and fresh-cut wood. Sunlight spilled in through the little loft window, accompanying the smell of the cookies my mother baked.
When we got tired from running, we sat down with our backs against the wall. My sister pulled my right hand over. “Close your eyes,” she told me. I obediently shut my eyes, the sunlight glowing dusky red on the inside of my eyelids. My palm tickled. I giggled and tried to pull my hand back. “Guess what word I’m writing.” My sister was laughing too, her finger scritching around on my palm.
I thought a bit. “I don’t know. Write slower!” I complained. My sister wrote the word again, more slowly.
“ ‘Horse?’ ” I slowly answered, looking at her.
“That’s right!” My sister laughed and ruffled my hair. “Let’s play again! If you can get five words right, I’ll let you ride my pony for two days.”
“Really?” I excitedly closed my eyes.
My palm started to tickle again. I barely held back my giggles. “It’s . . . ‘crow’ this time?”
“That was ‘road,’ dumb-butt!” My sister flicked my nose, laughing, and jumped to her feet. “First one there gets the biggest frosted cookie!”
“Wait for me—”
I stretch out an arm. I open my eyes to fluorescent lighting and the ceiling, one corner stained with water. The family living above me forgot to turn off their bath tap again. I’ll get the apartment managers to teach them a lesson this time, I think, realizing that I’d woken up from my dream of childhood. My shirt smells sour from alcohol after a day of wear. My neck and back ache from my awkward sleeping position. It takes me five minutes to sit up, look at the alarm clock, and see that it’s only one in the morning.
I feel better after a shower and a few glasses of water, but I don’t feel like sleeping anymore. I put on pajamas and sit on the living room couch. I flick on the TV; as usual, there’s nothing interesting at all on the late night shows. As I flip through the channels, I notice the ugly blotch on my right hand again. I scrub at it with my left hand, even though I know something like that can never be rubbed off.
The sudden faint itching on my palm makes me shiver. Wait, what’s this feeling? I—I recognize it from the dream, my sister scrawling childish character on my hand . . .
Today at noon, the stranger in the black hoodie wasn’t tracing some mysterious symbols or gang signs on my palm.
He was writing. No, she was writing. The stranger was a woman. The black hoodie had hidden her other features, but that slender finger couldn’t have belonged to a man. What had she written?
I frantically dig out pencil and paper and set them on the coffee table. I try with all my might to recall what I felt. The last word had been written by my sister before . . . yes, it’s “ROAD.”
I write “ROAD” on the sheet of paper.
There was another word in front of it. She had written it quickly, very quickly. From my long years approving petitions, I’ve found that people will write words with pleasant associations that way, fast and fluid, words like “smile,” “forever,” “hope,” “fulfillment.” She’d written a short word, standing for something good, with two vowels . . . aha! “EDEN.” That’s right, the garden of paradise.
I write “EDEN” before “ROAD.”
Even before those words had come a string of numbers, Arabic numerals. She wrote them twice over for emphasis. I wrinkle my brow, carefully recalling every movement of her fingertip. 7, 2, 9, 5? No, the first number traced the outside edge of my palm, so there should have been another bend at the end. It was 2, then. 2, 8, 9, 5. I check my recollections again. That’s it.
I write “2895” on the left.
The paper reads “2895 Eden Road”
I flop down in front of the computer, open up a map site, and enter “2895 Eden Road.” The page shows Eden Road to be on the other side of the city from me, far from the downtown area and the slums near the financial center. But Eden Road doesn’t have a 2895. The building numbers end at 500.
I rub my temple, translating each number back to a sensation on my skin, a tingling line traced on my palm. I stare at my hand. 2, 8, 9, that was right. 5 . . . oh, of course, it could have been an “S.” I type in “289S Eden Road,” and the map site shows me a four-story apartment building halfway down Eden Road. It’s at the outskirts of the city, forty-five kilometers from here. “Got it!” I triumphantly smack my keyboard and leap to my feet, only to fall back on my ass, dizzied by the blood rushing into my head.
What would I find there? I haven’t a clue. But I do know that in the forty-five years I’ve lived by the book, I’ve never had an adventure where a woman in a black hoodie left me a contact address in a cloak-and-dagger manner —well, my path never seemed to cross with the ladies at all, loser that I am. Something interesting has finally appeared in my dull and listless life. Whether driven by the urging of my hormones, as sharp-nosed Slim would say, or my aroused curiosity, I decide to put on a windbreaker and go to 289S Eden Drive to find something new.
Don’t make trouble, kid. As I prepare to leave, I see my father in the mirror opposite the door, his belly bulging, a bottle of gin in hand.
Oh, fuck you. I stride out the door like I did twenty-three years ago.
To be continued...
4，
这天晚上，我多喝了两瓶凉啤酒，打开公寓门之后感觉一阵阵眩晕，没顾上洗澡，直接走进卧室倒在床上。床单有一股奇怪的泥土味道，不知是不是因为太久没换，可从好的方面说，这种味道让我想起小时候的农场，——不是充斥着父亲浓重体味的那个农场，是他酗酒并开始虐待母亲以前我、姐姐和母亲安宁生活的平静农场。记得我和姐姐在新建的谷仓中玩耍，空荡荡的谷仓里充满新鲜木料和泥土的清香，阳光从阁楼的小窗户洒进来，带着妈妈烘焙饼干的味道。
跑累了，我们倚着墙壁坐下来，姐姐把我的右手拉过去，“闭上眼睛。”她说。我听话地闭上眼睛，阳光在眼皮上烙出红晕。手心痒痒的，我咯咯地笑了起来，想抽回手掌，“猜猜我写的是什么字。”姐姐也笑着，手指在我掌心搔动。“我猜不出来……写慢一点啦。”我想了想，抱怨道。姐姐于是慢慢地重新写了一遍。
“马？”我看着她，迟疑道。
“对了！”姐姐哈哈大笑，揉着我的头发，“再来再来。猜对五个字的话，我的那匹小骟马让给你骑两天。”
“真的？”我惊喜地闭上眼睛。
手心又痒了起来，我忍住没有笑出声。“这次是……‘叫’？”
“是‘道’啦小笨蛋！”姐姐笑着弹我的鼻子，然后蹦起来跑了出去，“谁先回去，谁吃大块的奶油曲奇饼哦！”
“等等我……”
我伸出手臂，睁开眼睛，看到被霓虹灯照亮的天花板，天花板角落有一滩水迹。楼上那家人又忘记关浴缸水龙头了，这次得让公寓管理员狠狠地教训他们，我想着，发现自己刚从童年的梦中醒来。穿了一整天的衬衣泛出酒精的酸味，脖子和后背因别扭的睡姿而生疼。我花了五分钟从床上坐起来，看看闹钟，现在刚刚凌晨一点。
起床冲澡、喝了两杯水后感觉好些，但再没有睡意，我穿上睡衣坐在起居室沙发上，打开电视，深夜节目同往常一样，没有任何令我感兴趣的东西。换台的时候，我看到右手上那块丑陋的色斑，不由自主用左手搓着，尽管谁都知道那玩意儿没可能用手指搓掉。忽然来自手心的微微痒意令我打了个寒颤。等等。这种感觉是什么？刚刚梦境中出现过的、姐姐在我手中写出的稚嫩字符……
今天中午、穿黑色连帽衫的人在我手心画出的并不是什么符号。
他在我掌心写字。不，她在我掌心写字。她是一个女人，黑色连帽衫遮住了性别特征，但她纤细的手指不可能属于男人；她写了些什么？
我忙乱地翻出纸和笔铺在咖啡桌上，尽力回忆手心的触感。中间的一个字是姐姐写过的……没错，这是一个“道”字。
我在纸正中写下“道”。
前面是一个词，她写得很快，非常快。在长期审核申请书的工作中我发现人们遇到象征美好幸福的词组通常写得很快，并且连笔，比如微笑、永恒、梦想、满足。她写的是一个短词，词性是正面的，有两个原音……等等！是伊甸。没错，耶和华的乐园。
我在纸左边写下“伊甸”。
后面是一串数字，阿拉伯数字，这串数字她写了两遍，我皱起眉头，细心地回忆她手指的每一道运动轨迹。7、8、9、5？不，第一个数字划过我的小鱼际部位，象征末尾有一个折弯，那么是2。2、8、9、5，没错。两遍，确认。
我在纸右边写下“2895”。
纸上写着“伊甸道2895”。
显然这是一个地址。我扑到电脑前，打开地图网站，输入“伊甸道2895”，页面显示伊甸道在我所在城市的另一端，远离闹市区与金融中心的贫民窟。然而伊甸道并没有2895号，准确地说，门牌号到500号就结束了。
我揉着太阳穴。数字一个个化为皮肤的触觉，在我的掌心画出酥麻的痕迹，我盯着掌心。2、8、9，没有错误。5……哦当然，也可能是一个s。我输入“伊甸道289s”，地图锁定了一栋四层高的公寓楼，位于伊甸道的中央，整个城市的边缘，距离我45公里远的地方。“是了！”我兴奋地一拍键盘站起来，又因头部充血的眩晕跌坐回去。
那里有什么？我不知道。但我知道在四十五年循规蹈矩的生涯里，并没有任何穿黑色连帽衫的女士用极其隐秘的方式给我留下联系地址的离奇经历，——或者说，我根本是一个没有女人缘的失败者。无趣的人生里，终于出现了一点有趣的事情，无论是荷尔蒙的驱动（如同嗅觉敏锐的瘦子所说）还是好奇心勃发，我都决定穿上风衣，去伊甸道289s寻找一些不曾有过的经历。
别惹麻烦，小子。出门前我在穿衣镜里看见父亲挺着大肚子、手中拎着琴酒的瓶子说。
去你的吧。我同23年前一样大步走开。
未完待续...
本小说作者——张冉； 中文版来源于网络，英文版来源于Clarkesworld Magazine 官方网站。
Clarkesword Magazin: 科幻小说杂志（月刊），2006年10月创刊，该杂志获得过三次雨果最佳半专业杂志奖（Hugo Award for Best Semiprozine).杂志的官网每个月都会发布几篇免费的小说，并配上语音，用引人入胜的小说同时练习阅读和听力，让备考不再无聊。
Clarkesword Magazin: 科幻小说杂志（月刊），2006年10月创刊，该杂志获得过三次雨果最佳半专业杂志奖（Hugo Award for Best Semiprozine).杂志的官网每个月都会发布几篇免费的小说，并配上语音，用引人入胜的小说同时练习阅读和听力，让备考不再无聊。
