nothing changed, altered or varied1. There were no plants in the room to climb or die. I saw no insects. Sleet2 struck the window with sparse3 fragile impact and all demolition4 in the area was halted by weather. Time did not seem to pass as much as build, slowly gathering6 weight. This was the sole growth in the room and against it hung the silence, peeled back to reveal the white nightmares voiced on the floor below. I tried to remember places and things. Rain on the runway of the international airport. Rain on the simulated hamlet. Rain in the terminal province. Rain at vespers in the heliport near the river. Rain in the abstract garden. Rain in the boots of the bitch in Munich. Rain on the nameless moor7. I returned to the radio, to watching the firehouse, to becoming fixed8 in place. The artist sits still, finally, because the materials he deals with begin to shape his life, instead of being shaped, and in stillness he seeks a form of self-defense, one that ends with putrefaction9, or stillness caught in time lapse10. But I wasn't quite at that point in my career. I dreamed a return to the old palaces, the great jaded11 hulks of rock 'n' roll, boarded up but still standing12, as far as I knew, in this city and that, always on the edge of comatose13 slums.
A man came to see me. He was wrapped in a double-breasted suit and high tight shirt collar. His custom-styled hair was rigid14 and thick, sprayed into place and fitted trimly over his forehead — a work of Renaissance15 masonry16, it seemed. He stood in the doorway17, coat over his arm, earnest hand waiting to be taken.
"Who are you?"
"ABC," he said.
"Forget it."
"Nothing big or elaborate. An abbreviated18 interview. Your televised comments on topics of interest. Won't take ten minutes. We're all set up downstairs. Ten minutes. You've got my word, Bucky. The word of a personal admirer."
"Positively19 never."
"I've got a slot on the local mid-morning news. In case you didn't catch the face. I do youth events and youth personalities20. Sure, it's the same old commercial brainwash that we've all been fighting against but on the other hand the only way we can get exposure for certain voices is to slip them into little scheduling cracks here and there. It's a question of easing the pressure the different slots exert on each other and then slipping in there with the visionaries, the prophets if you will, the authentic21 non-bullshit voices. Ten minutes of televised question and answer. Frankly22 I've been researching hell out of you."
"No."
"I haven't done this kind of massive research since I've been in the glamour23 end of the business. I used to be in the ass5 end. But there's a softening24 in the market as old faces crumble25 and new slots become available. I'm trying to fill some of these slots with youth-oriented con-ceptuals. Bucky, just your unrehearsed comments on the rumors26, the whereabouts, the future plans if any. What I'm making is really a small demand on your time. Frankly it barely qualifies as a demand, considering the demands I'm accustomed to making."
"Maybe later in the decade."
"Your power is growing, Bucky. The more time you spend in isolation27, the more demands are made on the various media to communicate some relevant words and pictures. We make demands on you not because we're media leeches28 of whatever media but frankly because proportionate demands are being made on us. People want words and pictures. They want images. Your power grows. The less you say, the more you are. But this is an obvious truism of the industry and I didn't come down here to present my credentials29 as some kind of theorist or moneychanger in ideas. I'm an on-camera entity30. I do my thing and go to black. It's a complicated way to live. Let me tell you in ten words or less what I've got downstairs."
"Can it wait?"
"I've got camera and I've got sound," he said. "They're down there in the street. Cameraman, soundman, both top people, artists if you will. We'd like to do the interview directly in front of the building. We do a vertical31 pan down the building right to you and me. We're standing there in the sleet. I'm holding an umbrella over both of us as we talk."
He looked at my hands and then my face, as if checking flesh tones and textures32 to measure against his camera's passion, the nibbling33 skills of its enormous jaws34.
"Come back when I'm not here," I said. "It'll be easier. You can do whatever you want."
"I'm really anxious to fill those slots, Bucky. Your power grows. I hate to think of all those slots going unfilled. What'll we put in there? We've used clips of rock festivals absolutely everywhere but in the Okefenokee Swamp and I'm sure that's next with everybody either getting typhoid or ripped apart by alligators35."
"That's an interesting shirt you're wearing."
"This shirt I'm wearing? This shirt is a knit concept. Higher neckband than the average knit. Treble-button cuffs36. Strong coloration. Snug37 body-fit. It's a Scandinavian import and it totals out at twenty-two ninety-five. Take a look at my face."
"Why?"
"Take a look at my face. Go ahead, a close look. Now what do you see?"
"I don't know," I said.
"You see healthy pores. You see pores that aren't clogged38. How do I do it, right? I've got a facial-aid skin machine. This is a device for cleansing39 pores of all the pollutants40 in the air. It blasts pollutants right out of the holes in the face. Why do I take the trouble, right? Listen, I'm on camera an average of three minutes total every day of the week six days a week. That tells you everything. The heat. The lights. The tension. The sweat. The tight close-ups. Now it begins to make sense, right? The skin machine. The accessory pore-brush. The clear gel peel-away mask. The deep dissolving nonaller-genic soap. I make it my business to communicate a crisp image. Do you want me to tell you how I knew you were here?"
"No."
"Somebody talked," he said. "Somebody's pushing. Somebody's trying to get you out of here. But meanwhile it's time for me to get back uptown. Shame to waste that slot. God bless, despite everything. So long now. See you soon. Peace."
"War," I said.
I listened to the radio. Announcers took turns reciting the same news reports. Each man gave way to the next man in the series until a cycle was completed. Wording was altered only slightly and vocal41 tones remained consistent all through the hour. Out of a nest of static came a new voice now, fantastic and savage42, beautiful to my ear, churning with gastric43 power.
"Lissen what I say, bay-bee, this be Doo-Wop here, bop and groove44, yow yow yow, lissen what I say but no do what I do, boogie with your footie, ay chihuahua, stone gold monster music, down and round, popping at my console, Doo-Wop bay-bee, lissen and live, stone gold number eight, Bad Jasper Brown with Mama Mama Mama, jive and dive, Doo-Wop bopping your dead head, yow you) yow, stone gold eight, mama mama what's it all mean, Bad Jasper, cut me down."
Hanes visited then. His exemplary fatigue45 made him appear even younger than he was, stylish46 boy of the boulevards, intelligent and frail47, ever ready to renounce48 even his own spectral49 pleasures, a voluptuary indulging himself in the idea of restraint. He was carrying a Macy's shopping bag.
"Regrets et cetera," he said. "She was just beginning to accept me as a person. She even said she might eventually learn to like me. I have no reason to believe it wouldn't have worked out — Opel and I working together."
"Did you come for the package?"
"There's a corpo on the steps outside."
"Must be recent," I said.
"His head's been bashed."
"We need Florence Nightingale to come back and tell us how to deal with these matters."
"I may get an eight-track stereo cartridge50 recorder. What kind do you recommend I get? It's the one thing my music system's missing. Don't let money interfere51 with your line of thought. I may very soon be in a position to afford pretty much the best."
"I'm not up on things," I said.
"You're missing a lot. There's a lot going on. It's all under the surface, of course. Surface events are practically nil52. But that doesn't mean nothing's going on. Incidentally you were seen in three different cities in England day before yesterday. And you're buried in an unmarked grave in rural Montana. As opposed to urban Montana, I guess."
"The rumors are getting a little sloppy53."
"Poetic54 is the word according to Globke. But things keep going. Things haven't let up at all. The press is still having the dry heaves over your disappearance55. The underground press. The radical56 press. The trade press. The straight press. The revolutionary press."
"It can't be much of a disappearance. ABC was here this morning. Do you want the package or not?"
"Do I want the package or not? Well now that's not the easiest question to answer. I do want the package, yes. But what do I want to do with it? Now that's something else. I've been given a plane ticket and certain instructions. But there are other courses I might pursue. These people known as Happy Valley aren't necessarily prepared to understand every little nuance58 of the situation. I mean presumably the thing is up for bidding. It's a free market, isn't it? There are subtleties59. Maybe somebody is prepared to bid on this product. There are nuances. There are ambiguities60. Life itself is sheer ambiguity61. If a person doesn't see that, he's either an asshole or a fascist62."
"But you'll take the package with you."
"Absolutely," he said. I'll do that absolutely. In fact I leave on vacation in a matter of hours. Point or points unknown. Globke will have to get along without me for the next few weeks. Actually I haven't made my big decision yet. I want to wait till the last minute. This flight or that. I may choose to take my seat at the negotiating table with Dr. Pepper. Or I may decide to deal on my own. Straight salary gets to be boring, tax structures being what they are. So who knows? I may risk all."
"Florence Nightingale and a whole lot of bandages."
He raised the shopping bag.
"Here, take this," he said.
"What is it?"
"It's the product."
The package he took from the shopping bag looked the same as the one in the trunk. Brown wrapping paper. Brown gummed tape. Same size. Roughly the same weight. Hanes displayed his amusement by putting his hand to his face and gazing into the middle distance.
"Opel," I said.
"Very good. Excellent. I didn't think you'd know. She gave it to me when I was last here. You were sleeping the sleep of the innocent. She told me to call it the product. I don't normally approve of private jokes. But in this case, two people I've admired — why not? Apparently63 she was going to leave it here for you to find once we were on our way to Pepperland. She had no intention of coming back here, as you may or may not know. When we finished with Dr. Pepper she planned to head directly for Spain. Eventually you'd find the package and that would be the end of the little joke. But when the courier turned out to be an old acquaintance, namely myself, she thought it would be a nice idea to embellish64 the joke by having me deliver the goods. I have no idea what's in there and don't intend to ask. To be opened when the Glob begins to menace. Her words. When the Glob begins to menace."
"Whatever it is, it's my birthday present."
"Happy birthday," he said. "But I want you to know I'm disappointed you don't have any advice for me on what kind of cartridge recorder to get. I love to get advice from people at the top of a particular professional heap. Any kind of advice from such people I find is worth listening to."
"Any kind at all?"
"Absolutely," he said.
"Be willing to die for your beliefs, or computer printouts of your beliefs."
"That's nearly a very interesting remark," Hanes said.
I opened the trunk, gave him the original package and replaced it with Opel's gift. That night there was a woman in the hall when I went down the stairs. She was in the process of opening the door to the first floor apartment. Her galoshes, with shoes inside them, were set against the wall, dripping snow, and she stood in bare feet and sorted through the keys in her handbag. She was a short compact woman whose ankles seemed to have a special density65. I nodded to her — the kind of greeting exchanged by men confined in submarines for long periods.
"I'm the woman downstairs," she said. "Up-on-three told me there was a new person. You're not noisy, that's for sure. If it's too cold, hit the pipes. Micklewhite. Downstairs from you."
"Right."
"I been here it seems like a hundred years. My husband used to be the super. But he died of complications. I take care of sending up the heat. If you get cold, hit twice on the pipes. My kid inside isn't normal. Don't worry if you hear noises."
"It doesn't get very loud."
"My husband had all kinds of cockamamie ideas. First off he wanted to sell the kid to a carnival66. But who'd buy him? They wouldn't be able to sell enough tickets for all the trouble it takes to take care of him. Then he wanted to rent him out to colleges where they have doctors and nurses studying in there. I put the kibosh on that. I said you're dreaming. I said nobody wants to look at this kid. I said the only thing to do is leave him here and keep the door closed."
"What's his name?" I said.
"His name? He don't have a name. We never figured he'd live past four months with a head like his head. But did we get fooled. Did we get stuck with a lemon. My husband, he figured make the best of it. Find an interested party and either sell the kid outright67 or lease him by the month. Carnivals68, they have seasons. Take him, bring him back, take him, bring him back. You should have seen that s.o.b. He used to work out schemes and plans and arrangements, left and right. I said hooey. I said you're dreaming. I said you'll have to go to the booby hatch to find an interested party. He wanted to take out ads, my husband. Carnivals, they have special newspapers. He kept working out plans and more plans and more plans until the day he keeled over. You should have seen him keel over. It was just after the second operation. Tessie was here, the candy store's daughter. We watched him keel right over. I told Tessie I said I bet it's complications. But he had big plans. You should have seen him talk. He was only this big but he had a mouth on him like a power saw. I'll tell you what he was because you wouldn't guess it if you saw him. He was a horse pervert69. He went to the track rain or shine. Him and the chink from the Bronx, they went to the track in blizzards70 with their hats down over their ears. He lost thirty, forty simoleons on the average every time they went. The chink had winners left and right. The chink knew the scratch sheet, he knew the smart money, he knew the track, he knew the weather, he knew the animals. My husband, he didn't know shit from Shinola. He'd starve himself half to death to save enough money to give it to a horse. But don't mind my mouth. I talk and talk and never know what's coming out. It's loneliness, that's all it is. It's living with someone that can't form a word."
I tried to remember what I was doing on the stairs. I had my lumber71 jacket on but I didn't know where I was headed. I stayed outside the building for a while. A man in a long coat stood in the alley57 between Lafayette and Broadway. When I went back upstairs it was quiet everywhere. No bowel72 sounds in the plumbing73 and little of Fenig tracing his way to productivity. The man from ABC had left his card on the table. Although I'd never seen him on television I was able to recall almost every detail of his appearance. He possessed74 that high gloss75 common to interchangeable celebrities76, to the male secretaries of important female executives, to lawyers with connections in show business. His clothes had seemed extremely tight, equipped with hidden straps77, and he hadn't changed expression for the course of his visit. Television. Maybe it was all a study in the art of mummification. The effect of the medium is so evanescent that those who work in its time apparatus78 feel the need to preserve themselves, delivering their bodies to be lacquered and trussed, sprayed with the rarest of pressurized jellies, all to one end, a release from the perilous79 context of time. This is their only vanity, to expect to dwell forever in hermetic sub-corridors, free of every ravage80, secure as old kings asleep in sodium81.
I undressed for the first time in two days, getting into bed naked and weak, unfamiliar82 with my own body. Fenig began then, taking long and desperate strides, and the soft boy below, Micklewhite's carnival meat, cried four tunes83 in the making of a dream.
收听单词发音 |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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alligators
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| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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pollutants
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| 污染物质（尤指工业废物）( pollutant的名词复数 ) | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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gastric
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| adj.胃的 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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nuance
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| n.(意义、意见、颜色)细微差别 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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62
fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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63
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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64
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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65
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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66
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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67
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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68
carnivals
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| 狂欢节( carnival的名词复数 )； 嘉年华会； 激动人心的事物的组合； 五彩缤纷的颜色组合 | |
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69
pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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70
blizzards
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| 暴风雪( blizzard的名词复数 )； 暴风雪似的一阵，大量（或大批） | |
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71
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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72
bowel
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| n.肠(尤指人肠)；内部，深处 | |
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73
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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74
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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75
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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76
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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77
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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78
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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79
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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80
ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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81
sodium
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| n.（化）钠 | |
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82
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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83
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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