"Come over and take potluck, Bob," she said. He sensed loneliness. But—hell's boiling pots, she made him feel cluttered2!
"I'm afraid I can't," he evaded3. "Commitments. But take it easy, huh? Go visit someone, go have a cup of espresso, don't sit home and nest on your troubles. I'll see you soon."
He poured himself a small drink after hanging up and tossed it off. Then he changed into his darkest suit and got the car rolling. Personally, he would not have placarded a loss on his clothes, but Bruce's parents were from the Old World.
As he hummed along the freeway and over the great double span of the bridge (Bruce must have been carried dead in the opposite direction, wedged in a corner so the tollgate guard would think him merely asleep; doubtless the police were checking the memories of all night shift men) Kintyre rehearsed the career of the Lombardis. Bruce was the only one he had really known, though he had been over there for dinner a few times. The parents had been very respectful, innocently happy that their son should be friends with a Doctor of Philosophy. His mother made good pasta....
There wasn't much to remember. Angelo Lombardi was a Genoese sailor. Chronic4 hard times were not improved when his son Guido came along. Nor did he see much of his young wife. (Did Maria's years of being mostly alone in a dingy5 tenement6, with nobody to love but one little boy, account for what Guido had become?) In 1930 the family arrived as immigrants at San Francisco. Here Angelo worked in the commercial fishing fleet; here Bruce and the daughter were born; here he saved enough money to buy his own boat; here he lost it again in a collision—by God, yes, it had been a collision with Peter Michaelis' single craft. Feeling the years upon him, Angelo used the insurance money to start a restaurant. It had neither failed nor greatly prospered7: it gave him a living and little more.
Yet Angelo Lombardi had remained a man with hope.
Kintyre turned off at the first ramp8, twisted through the downtown area, and got onto Columbus Avenue and so to North Beach. Hm, let's see—a minor9 street near the Chinatown fringe—uh-huh.
The sky was just turning purple when he stopped in front of the place: Genoa Café set in a two-story frame building perpetrated, with bays and turrets10, right after the 1906 fire. It was flanked by a Chinese grocery store, full of leathery fragrances11, and a Portuguese12 Baptist mission. A sign on the door said closed. Well, the old people would be in no mood for discussing the various types of pizza tonight.
Yellow light spilled from the upper windows. Kintyre found the door to the upstairs apartment and rang the bell.
A street lamp blinked to life, a car went by, a grimy urchin13 watched him impassively from a doorway14 across the road. He felt much alone.
He heard feet coming down the stairs, a woman's light quick tread. Expecting Maria Lombardi, he took off his hat and bowed in Continental15 style when the door opened. He stopped halfway16 through the gesture and remained staring.
Morna, he thought, and he stood on the schooner's deck as it heeled to the wind, and she was grasping the mainmast shrouds17 with one hand, crouched18 on the rail and shading her eyes across an ocean that glittered. Her yellow hair blew back into his face, it smelled of summer.
"Yes?"
Kintyre shook himself, like a dog come out of a deep hurried river. "I'm sorry," he stammered19. "I'm sorry. You startled me, looked like someone I used to—" He pulled the chilly20 twilight21 air into his lungs, until he could almost feel them stretch. One by one, his muscles relaxed.
"Miss Lombardi, isn't it?" he tried again. "I haven't seen you for a couple of years, and you wore your hair differently then. I'm Robert Kintyre."
"Oh, yes. I remember you well," she said. Her mouth turned a little upward, its tautness22 gentling. "Bruce's professor. He spoke23 of you so often. It's very kind of you to come."
She stood aside to let him precede her. His hand brushed hers accidentally in the narrow entrance. Halfway up the stairs, he realized he was holding the fist clenched24.
What is this farce25? he asked himself angrily. Nothing more than straight blonde hair, worn in bangs across the forehead and falling to the shoulders. Now in the full electric light he could see that it wasn't even the same hue26, a good deal darker than Morna's weather-bleached mane. And Corinna Lombardi was a mature woman—young, he recalled Bruce's going over to the City last month for her twenty-second birthday party—but grown. Morna would always be thirteen.
Corinna had been nineteen when he saw her last, still living here and working in the café. That was at a little farewell dinner the Lombardis had given him, before he departed for his latest year in Italy. They had wanted him to look up Angelo's brother Luigi, the one who had made a success in the old country as a secret service man. Kintyre had visited Luigi a few times, finding him a pleasant sort with scholarly inclinations27, most interested in his brilliant nephew Bruce, with whom he corresponded.
At any rate, Kintyre had had too much else to think about to pay much attention to a quiet girl. By the time he returned, as Bruce told him, she had left home after a spectacular quarrel with her parents. That was soon repaired—it had only been a declaration of independence—but she had kept her own job and her own apartment since then.
The rambling28 of his mind soothed29 him. At the time he did not realize that, down underneath30, his mind was telling itself about Corinna Lombardi. It decided31 that she had few elements of conventional prettiness. She was tall, and her figure was good except that the shoulders were too wide and the bust32 too small for this decade's canons. Her face was broad, with high cheek-bones and square jaw33 and straight strong nose; it had seen a good deal of sun. Her eyes were greenish-gray under heavy dark brows, her mouth was wide and full, her voice was low. She wore a black dress, as expected, and a defiant34 bronze pin in the shape of a weasel.
Then Kintyre had emerged on the landing, and Angelo Lombardi—thickset, heavy-faced, balding—engulfed his hand in an enormous sailor's paw. "Come in, sir, please to come in and have a small glass with us."
Maria Lombardi rose for the Doctor of Philosophy. Her light-brown hair and clear profile told whence her children had their looks; he suspected that much of the brains had come from her too. "How do you do, Professor Keen-teer. We thank you for coming."
He sat down, awkwardly. Overstuffed and ghastly, the living room belonged to a million immigrants of the last generation, who had built from empty pockets up to the middle class. But families like this would eat beans oftener than necessary for twenty years, so they could save enough to put one child through college. Bruce had been the one.
"I just came to express my sympathy," said Kintyre. He felt himself under the cool green appraisal36 of Corinna's eyes, but could not think of words less banal37. "Can I do anything to help? Anything at all?"
"You are very kind," said old Lombardi. He poured from what was evidently his best bottle of wine. "Everyone has been so kind."
"Do you know what his room was like, the past half of a year, Professor?" asked Maria. "He never invited us there."
I rather imagine not, thought Kintyre wryly38. "Nothing unusual," he said. "I'll bring you his personal effects as soon as I can."
"Professor," said Lombardi. He leaned his bulk forward very slowly. The glass shivered in his fingers. "You knew my son so well. What do you think happen to him?"
"I only know what the police told me," said Kintyre.
Maria crossed herself. She closed her eyes, and he did not watch her moving lips; that conversation didn't concern him.
"My son he was murdered," said Lombardi in an uncomprehending voice. "Why did they murder him?"
"I don't know," insisted Kintyre. "The police will find out."
Corinna left her chair and came around to stand before the men. It was a long stride, made longer by wrath39. She put her hands on her hips40 and said coldly:
"Dr. Kintyre, you're not na?ve. You must know murder is one of the safest crimes there is to commit. What's the actual probability that they'll ever learn who did it, when they claim they haven't even a motive41 to guide them?"
Kintyre couldn't help bristling42 a trifle. She was tired and filled with grief, but he had done nothing to rate such a tone. He clipped off his words: "If you think you have a clue, Miss Lombardi, you should take it to the authorities, not to me."
"I did," she said harshly. "They were polite to the hysterical43 female. They'll look into it, sure. And when they see he has an alibi—as he will!—they won't look any further."
Maria stood up. "Corinna!" she exclaimed. "Basta, figliolaccia!"
The girl wrenched44 free of her mother's hand. "Oh, yes," she said, "that's how it was with the policeman too. With everybody. Don't pick on the poor cripple. Haven't you been enough of a jinx to him? Don't you see, that's exactly what he thinks! That's why he killed Bruce!"
An inner door opened, and a man entered the room. He was thirty years old, with a strong burly frame turning a little fat. He was good-looking in a dark heavy-lipped way, his hair black and curly, his eyes a restless rusty45 brown, nose snubbed and jaw underslung. He wore tight black trousers with a silver stripe, a cummerbund, a white silk shirt open halfway down his chest; he carried a cased guitar under one arm.
"Oh," he said. "I thought somebody'd come. Hello, Doc."
"Hello, Guido," said Kintyre, not getting up. He had nothing personally against Bruce's older brother, who had been quite a charming devil the few casual times they met. However—"He who does not choose the path of good, chooses to take the path of evil," said Machiavelli's Discourses46: and Guido had been an anchor around more necks than one.
"Don't get in a bind47, kitten," he said to his sister. "I could hear you making with the grand opera a mile upwind."
She whirled about on him, shaking, and said: "You could let him get cold before you went back to that club to sing your dirty little songs."
"My girl, you speak the purest B.S., as Bruce would have been the first to tell you." Guido smiled, took out a cigarette one-handed and stuck it in his mouth. "I was out of town the whole weekend, just when the cats go real crazy. If I don't make with it tonight, the man will ignite me, and what good would that do Bruce?" He flipped48 out a book of matches, opened it and struck one, all with the same expert hand.
Corinna's gaze went from face to face, and a beaten look crept into it. "Nobody cares," she whispered. "Just nobody cares."
She sat down. Lombardi twisted his fingers, looking wretched; Maria folded herself stiffly into a chair; Guido leaned on the doorjamb and blew smoke.
Kintyre felt, obscurely, that it depended on him to ease the girl. He said: "Please, Miss Lombardi. We don't mean that. But what can we do? We'd only get in the way of the police."
"I know, I know." She got it out between her teeth, while she looked at the floor. "Let George do it. Isn't that the motto of this whole civilization? Someday George isn't going to be around to do it, and we'll have gotten too flabby to help ourselves."
It paralleled some of his own thinking so closely that he was startled. But he said, "Well, you can't declare a vendetta49, can you?"
"Oh, be quiet!" She looked up at him with a smoldering50 under her brows. "Of course I don't mean that. But I know who must have done it, and I know he'll have some kind of story, and no one will look past that story, because he seems like such a pathetic case. And he isn't! I know Gene35 and Peter Michaelis. They got what was coming to them!"
"Too much!" roared Lombardi. "Now you be still!" She ignored him. Her eyes would not release Kintyre's.
"Well?" she said after a moment.
He wondered if it was only her misery51 which clawed at him, or if she was always such a harpy. He said with great care: "Well, in theory any of us could be guilty. I might have done it because Bruce was—going around with a girl I used to know. Or Guido here—jealousy? A quarrel? I assume we have merely his word he was out of town on Saturday and Sunday. Shall we also ask the police to check every minute of his weekend?"
The man in the doorway flushed. "Dig that," he said slowly. "So you're going to—"
"Nothing of the sort," rapped Kintyre. "I was trying to show how a private suspicion is no grounds for—"
Guido took a long drag on his cigarette, snuffed it in a horrible souvenir ashtray52, and left without a word. They heard his footfalls go down the stairs.
"Niente affatto, signor." Kintyre stood up. "All of you are worn out." He essayed a smile at Corinna. "You were echoing some of my own principles. We pessimists54 ought to stick together."
She did not even turn her face toward him. But her profile was one he could imagine on Nike of Samothrace, the Victory which strides in the wind.
"Corinna!" said Maria. Her daughter paid no attention.
Kintyre took his leave in a confusion of apologies. When he stood alone on the dusky street, he whistled. That had been no fun.
But now it was over with. He could let things cool down for a week or so, then deliver Bruce's possessions, and say farewell with an insincere promise to "look you up soon, when I get the chance." And there would be an end of that.
But he had thought for a heartbeat she was Morna come home to him.
His fingers were wooden, hunting for a cigarette; he dropped the pack on the sidewalk before getting one out. He could feel the first onset56 of the horror, moving up along the channels of his brain.
Sometimes, he thought with a remnant of coolness, sometimes distraction57 could head off the trouble. If he could get involved in something outside himself, and yet important to himself, so that his whole attention was engaged, the horror might retreat.
He yanked smoke into his lungs, blew it forth58, tossed the cigarette to the paving and stamped on it. Then he went into the grocery. There was a public phone on the wall, he leafed through the directory until he found the name.
Michaelis Peter C.
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收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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fragrances
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| n.芳香，香味( fragrance的名词复数 )；香水 | |
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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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17
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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tautness
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| 拉紧，紧固度 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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appraisal
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| n.对…作出的评价；评价，鉴定，评估 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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38
wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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40
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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41
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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42
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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44
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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45
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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46
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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47
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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48
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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49
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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50
smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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52
ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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53
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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54
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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55
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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56
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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57
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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