It has been two whole days since Padma stormed out of my life. For two days, her place at the vat1 of mango kasaundy has been taken by another woman - also thick of waist, also hairy of forearm; but, in my eyes, no replacement2 at all! - while my own dung-lotus has vanished into I don't know where. A balance Mas been upset; I feel.cracks widening down the length of my body; because suddenly I am alone, without my necessary ear, and it isn't enough. I am seized by a sudden fist of anger: why should I be so unreasonably3 treated by my one disciple4? Other men have recited stories before me; other men were not so impetuously abandoned.
When Valmiki, the author of the Ramayana, dictated5 his masterpiece to elephant-headed Ganesh, did the god walk out on him halfway6? He certainly did not. (Note that, despite my Muslim background, I'm enough of a Bombayite to be well up in Hindu stories, and actually I'm very fond of the image of trunk-nosed, flap-eared Ganesh solemnly taking dictation!)
How to dispense7 with Padma? How give up her ignorance and superstition8, necessary counterweights to my miracle-laden omniscience9? How to do without her paradoxical earthiness of spirit, which keeps - kept? - my feet on the ground? I have become, it seems to me, the apex10 of an isosceles triangle, supported equally by twin deities11, the wild god of memory and the lotus-goddess of the present... but must I now become reconciled to the narrow one-dimensionality of a straight line?
I am, perhaps, hiding behind all these questions. Yes, perhaps that's right. I should speak plainly, without the cloak of a question-mark: our Padma has gone, and I miss her. Yes, that's it.
But there is still work to be done: for instance: In the summer of 1956, when most things in the world were still larger than myself, my sister the Brass12 Monkey developed the curious habit of setting fire to shoes. While Nasser sank ships at Suez, thus slowing down the movements of the world by obliging it to travel around the Cape13 of Good Hope, my sister was also trying to impede14 our progress. Obliged to fight for attention, possessed15 by her need to place herself at the centre of events, even of unpleasant ones (she was my sister, after all; but no prime minister wrote letters to her, no sadhus watched her from their places under garden taps; unprophesied, un-photographed, her life was a struggle from the start), she carried her war into the world of footwear, hoping, perhaps, that by burning our shoes she would make us stand still long enough to notice that she was there ... she made no attempt at concealing16 her crimes. When my father entered his room to find a pair of black Oxfords on fire, the Brass Monkey was standing17 over them, match in hand. His nostrils19 were assailed20 by the unprecedented21 odour of ignited boot-leather, mingled22 with Cherry Blossom boot-polish and a little Three-In-One oil ... 'Look,
Abba!' the Monkey said charmingly, 'Look how pretty -just the exact colour of my hair!'
Despite all precautions, the merry red flowers of my sister's obsession23 blossomed all over the Estate that summer, blooming in the sandals of Nussie-the-duck and the film-magnate footwear of Homi Catrack; hair-coloured flames licked at Mr Dubash's down-at-heel suedes and at Lila Sabarmati's stiletto heels. Despite the concealment24 of matches and the vigilance of servants, the Brass Monkey found her ways, undeterred by punishment and threats.
For one year, on and off, Methwold's Estate was assailed by the fumes25 of incendiarized shoes; until her hair darkened into anonymous26 brown, and she seemed to lose interest in matches.
Amina Sinai, abhorring27 the idea of beating her children, temperamentally incapable28 of raising her voice, came close to her wits'end; and the Monkey was sentenced, for day after day, to silence. This was my mother's chosen disciplinary method: unable to strike us, she ordered us to seal our lips. Some echo, no doubt, of the great silence with which her own mother had tormented29 Aadam Aziz lingered in her ears - because silence, too, has an echo, hollower and longer-lasting than the reverberations of any sound - and with an emphatic30 'Chup!' she would place a finger across her lips and command our tongues to be still. It was a punishment which never failed to cow me into submission31; the Brass Monkey, however, was made of less pliant32 stuff. Soundlessly, behind lips clamped tight as her grandmother's, she plotted the incineration of leather -just as once, long ago, another monkey in another city had performed the act which made inevitable33 the burning of a leathercloth godown ...
She was as beautiful (if somewhat scrawny) as I was ugly; but she was from the first, mischievous34 as a whirlwind and noisy as a crowd. Count the windows and vases, broken accidentally-on-purpose; number, if you can, the meals that somehow flew off her treacherous35 dinner-plates, to stain valuable Persian rugs! Silence was, indeed, the worst punishment she could have been given; but she bore it cheerfully, standing innocently amid the ruins of broken chairs and shattered ornaments37.
Mary Pereira said, 'That one! That Monkey! Should have been born with four legs!' But Amina, in whose mind the memory of her narrow escape from giving birth to a two-headed son had obstinately38 refused to fade, cried, 'Mary! What are you saying? Don't even think such things!' ... Despite my mother's protestations, it was true that the Brass Monkey was as much animal as human; and, as all the servants and children on Methwold's Estate knew, she had the gift of talking to birds, and to cats. Dogs, too: but after she was bitten, at the age of six, by a supposedly rabid stray, and had to be dragged kicking and screaming to Breach39 Candy Hospital, every afternoon for three weeks, to be given an injection in the stomach, it seems she either forgot their language or else refused to have any further dealings with them. From birds she learned how to sing; from cats she learned a form of dangerous independence. The Brass Monkey was never so furious as when anyone spoke40 to her in words of love; desperate for affection, deprived of it by my overpowering shadow, she had a tendency to turn upon anyone who gave her what she wanted, as if she were defending herself against the possibility of being tricked.
... Such as the time when Sonny Ibrahim plucked up his courage to tell her, 'Hey, listen, Saleem's sister - you're a solid type. I'm, um, you know, damn keen on you ...' And at once she marched across to where his father and mother were sipping41 lassi in the gardens of Sans Souci to say, 'Nussie auntie, I don't know what your Sonny's been getting up to. Only just now I saw him and Cyrus behind a bush, doing such funny rubbing things with their soo-soos!' ...
The Brass Monkey had bad table manners; she trampled42 flowerbeds; she acquired the tag of problem-child; but she and I were close-as-close, in spite of framed letters from Delhi and sadhu-under-the-tap. From the beginning, I decided43 to treat her as an ally, not a competitor; and, as a result, she never once blamed me for my preeminence44 in our household, saying, 'What's to blame? Is it your fault if they think you're so great?' (But when, years later, I made the same mistake as Sonny, she treated me just the same.)
And it was Monkey who, by answering a certain wrong-number telephone call, began the process of events which led to my accident in a white washing-chest made of slatted wood.
Already, at the age of nearlynine, I knew this much: everybody was waiting for me. Midnight and baby-snaps, prophets and prime ministers had created around me a glowing and inescapable mist of expectancy45 ... in which my father pulled me into his squashy belly46 in the cool of the cocktail47 hour to say, 'Great things! My son: what is not in store for you? Great deeds, a great life!' While I, wriggling48 between jutting49 lip and big toe, wetting his shirt with my eternally leaking nose-goo, turned scarlet50 and squealed51, 'Let me go, Abba! Everyone will see!' And he, embarrassing me beyond belief, bellowed52, 'Let them look! Let the whole world see how I love my son!'... and my grandmother, visiting us one winter, gave me advice, too: 'Just pull up your socks, whatsitsname, and you'll be better than anyone in the whole wide world!' ... Adrift in this haze53 of anticipation54, I had already felt within myself the first movings of that shapeless animal which still, on these Padmaless nights, champs and scratches in my stomach: cursed by a multitude of hopes and nicknames (I had already acquired Sniffer and Snotnose), I became afraid that everyone was wrong - that my much-trumpeted existence might turn out to be utterly56 useless, void, and without the shred57 of a purpose. And it was to escape from this beast that I took to hiding myself, from an early age, in my mother's large white washing-chest; because although the creature was inside me, the comforting presence of enveloping58 soiled linen59 seemed to lull60 it into sleep.
Outside the washing-chest, surrounded by people who seemed to possess a devastatingly61 clear sense of purpose, I buried myself in fairy-tales. Hatim Tai and Batman, Superman and Sinbad helped to get me through the nearlynine years.
When I went shopping with Mary Pereira - overawed by her ability to tell a chicken's age by looking at its neck, by the sheer determination with which she stared dead pomfrets in the eyes - I became Aladdin, voyaging in a fabulous62 cave; watching servants dusting vases with a dedication63 as majestic64 as it was obscure, I imagined Ali Baba's forty thieves hiding in the dusted urns65; in the garden, staring at Purushottam the sadhu being eroded66 by water, I turned into the genie67 of the lamp, and thus avoided, for the most part, the terrible notion that I, alone in the universe, had no idea what I should be, or how I should behave. Purpose: it crept up behind me when I stood staring down from my window at European girls cavorting68 in the map-shaped pool beside the sea. 'Where do you get it?' I yelped69 aloud; the Brass Monkey, who shared my sky-blue room, jumped half-way out of her skin. I was then nearlyeight; she was almostseven. It was a very early age at which to be perplexed70 by meaning.
But servants are excluded from washing-chests; school buses, too, are absent. In my nearlyninth year I had begun to attend the Cathedral and John Connon Boys'
High School on Outram Road in the old Fort district; washed and brushed every morning, I stood at the foot of our two-storey hillock, white-shorted, wearing a blue-striped elastic71 belt with a snake-buckle, satchel72 over my shoulder, my mighty73 cucumber of a nose dripping as usual; Eyeslice and Hairoil, Sonny Ibrahim and precocious74 Cyrus-the-great waited too. And on the bus, amid rattling75 seats and the nostalgic cracks of the window-panes, what certainties! What nearlynine-year-old certitudes about the future! A boast from Sonny: 'I'm going to be a bullfighter; Spain! Chiquitas! Hey, toro, toro!' His satchel held before him like the muleta of Manolete, he enacted76 his future while the bus rattled77 around Kemp's Corner, past Thomas Kemp and Co. (Chemists), beneath the Air-India rajah's poster ('See you later, alligator78! I'm off to London on Air-India!') and the other hoarding79, on which, throughout my childhood, the Kolynos Kid, a gleamtoothed pixie in a green, elfin, chlorophyll hat proclaimed the virtues80 of Kolynos Toothpaste: 'Keep Teeth Kleen and Keep Teeth Brite! Keep Teeth Kolynos Super White!' The kid on his hoarding, the children in the bus: one-dimensional, flattened81 by certitude, they knew what they were for. Here is Glandy Keith Colaco, a thyroid balloon of a child with hair already sprouting82 tuftily on his lip: 'I'm going to run my father's cinemas; you bastards83 want to watch movies, you'll have to come an' beg me for seats!' ... And Fat Perce Fishwala, whose obesity84 is due to nothing but overeating, and who, along with Glandy Keith, occupies the privileged position of class bully85: 'Bah! That's nothing! I'll have diamonds and emeralds and moonstones! Pearls as big as my balls!' Fat Perce's father runs the city's other jewellery business; his great enemy is the son of Mr Fatbhoy, who, being small and intellectual, comes off badly in the war of the pearl-tcsticled children ... And Eyeslice, announcing his future as a Test cricketer, with a fine disregard for his one empty socket86; and Hairoil, who is as slicked-down and neat as his brother is curly-topped and dishevelled, says, 'What selfish bums87 you are! I shall follow my father into the Navy; I shall defend my country!' Whereupon he is pelted88 with rulers, compasses, inky pellets ... in the school bus, as it clattered89 past Chowpatty Beach, as it turned left off Marine91 Drive beside the apartment of my favourite uncle Hanif and headed past Victoria Terminus towards Flora92 Fountain, past Churchgate Station and Crawford Market, I held my peace; I was mild-mannered Clark Kent protecting my secret identity; but what on earth was that? 'Hey, Snotnose!' Glandy Keith yelled, 'Hey, whaddya suppose our Sniffer'11 grow up to be?' And the answering yell from Fat Perce Fishwala, 'Pinocchio!' And the rest, joining in, sing a raucous93 chorus of 'There are no strings94 on me!' ... while Cyrus-the-great sits quiet as genius and plans the future of the nation's leading nuclear research establishment.
And, at home, there was the Brass Monkey with her shoe-burning; and my father, who had emerged from the depths of his collapse95 to fall, once more, into the folly96 of tetrapods ... 'Where do you find it?' I pleaded at my window; the fisherman's finger pointed97, misleadingly, out to sea.
Banned from washing-chests: cries of 'Pinocchio! Cucumber-nose! Goo-face!'
Concealed98 in my hiding-place, I was safe from the memory of Miss Kapadia, the teacher at Breach Candy Kindergarten, who had, on my first day at school, turned from her blackboard to greet me, seen my nose, and dropped her duster in alarm, smashing the nail on her big toe, in a screechy99 but minor100 echo of my father's famous mishap101; buried amongst soiled hankies and crumpled102 pajamas103, I could forget, for a time, my ugliness.
Typhoid 'attacked me; krait-poison cured me; and my early, overheated growth-rate cooled off. By the time I was nearlynine, Sonny Ibrahim was an inch and a half taller than I. But one piece of Baby Saleem seemed immune to disease and extract-of-snakes. Between my eyes, it mushroomed outwards104 and downwards105, as if all my expansionist forces, driven out of the rest of my body, had decided to concentrate on this single incomparable thrust... between my eyes and above my lips, my nose bloomed like a prize marrow106. (But then, I was spared wisdom teeth; one should try to count one's blessings107.)
What's in a nose? The usual answer: 'That's simple. A breathing apparatus108; olfactory109 organs; hairs.' But in my case, the answer was simpler still, although, I'm bound to admit, somewhat repellent: what was in my nose was snot.
With apologies, I must unfortunately insist on details: nasal congestion110 obliged me to breathe through my mouth, giving me the air of a gasping111 goldfish; perennial112 blockages113 doomed114 me to a childhood without perfumes, to days which ignored the odours of musk116 and chambeli and mango kasaundy and home-made ice-cream: and dirty washing, too. A disability in the world outside washing-chests can be a positive advantage once you're in. But only for the duration of your stay.
Purpose-obsessed, I worried about my nose. Dressed in the bitter garments which arrived regularly from my headmistress aunt Alia, I went to school, played French cricket, fought, entered fairy-tales... and worried. (In those days, my aunt Alia had begun to send us an unending stream of children's clothes, into whose seams she had sewn her old maid's bile; the Brass Monkey and I were clothed in her gifts, wearing at first the baby-things of bitterness, then the rompers of resentment117; I grew up in white shorts starched118 with the starch119 of jealousy120, while the Monkey wore the pretty flowered frocks of Alia's undimmed envy ... unaware121 that our wardrobe was binding122 us in the webs of her revenge, we led our well-dressed lives.) My nose: elephantine as the trunk of Ganesh, it should, I thought, have been a superlative breather; a smeller without an answer, as we say; instead, it was permanently123 bunged-up, and as useless as a wooden sikh-kabab.
Enough. I sat in the washing-chest and forgot my nose; forgot about the climbing of Mount Everest in 1953 - when grubby Eyeslice giggled124, 'Hey, men! You think that Tenzing could climb up Sniffer's face?' - and about the quarrels between my parents over my nose, for which Ahmed Sinai never tired of blaming Amina's father: 'Never before in my family has there been a nose like it! We have excellent noses; proud noses; royal noses, wife!' Ahmed Sinai had already begun, at that time, to believe in the fictional125 ancestry126 he had created for the benefit of William Methwold; djinn-sodden, he saw Mughal blood running in his veins127... Forgotten, too, the night when I was eight and a half, and my father, djinns on his breath, came into my bedroom to rip the sheets off me and demand: 'What are you up to? Pig! Pig from somewhere?' I looked sleepy; innocent; puzzled. He roared on. 'Chhi-chhi! Filthy128! God punishes boys who do that! Already he's made your nose as big as poplars. He'll stunt129 your growth; he'll make your soo-soo shrivel up!' And my mother, arriving nightdressed in the startled room, 'Janum, for pity's sake; the boy was only sleeping.' The djinn roared through my father's lips, possessing him completely: 'Look on his face! Whoever got a nose like that from sleeping?'
There are no mirrors in a washing-chest; rude jokes do not enter it, nor pointing fingers. The rage of fathers is muffled130 by used sheets and discarded brassieres. A washing-chest is a hole in the world, a place which civilization has put outside itself, beyond the pale; this makes it the finest of hiding-places. In the washing-chest, I was like Nadir131 Khan in his underworld, safe from all pressures, concealed from the demands of parents and history ...
... My father, pulling me into his squashy belly, speaking in a voice choked with instant emotion: 'All right, all right, there, there, you're a good boy; you can be anything you want; you just have to want it enough! Sleep now ...'
And Mary Pereira, echoing him in her little rhyme: 'Anything you want to be, you can be; You can be just what-all you want!' It had already occurred to me that our family believed implicitly132 in good business principles; they expected a handsome return for their investment in me. Children get food shelter pocket-money longholidays and love, all of it apparently133 free gratis134, and most of the little fools think it's a sort of compensation for having been born.
'There are no strings on me!' they sing; but I, Pin( cchio, saw the strings.
Parents are impelled135 by the profit motive136 - nothing more, nothing less. For their attentions, they expected, from me, the immense dividend137 of greatness.
Don't misunderstand m;:. I didn't mind. I was, at that time, a dutiful child. I longed to give them what they wanted, what soothsayers and framed letters had promised them; I simply did not know how. Where did greatness come from? How did you get some? When?... When I was seven years old, Aadam Aziz and Reverend Mother came to visit us. On my seventh birthday, dutifully, I permitted myself to be dressed up like the boys in the fisherman picture; hot and constricted138 in the outlandish garb139, I smiled and smiled. 'See, my little piece-of-the-moon!'
Amina cried cutting a cake covered with candied farmyard animals, 'So chweet! Never takes out one tear!' Sandbagging down the floods of tears lurking140 just beneath my eyes, the tears of heat discomfort141 and the absence of One Yard Of Chocolates in my pile of presents, I took a slice of cake to Reverend Mother, who was ill in bed. I had been given a doctor's stethoscope; it was around my neck. She gave me permission to examine her; I prescribed more exercise. 'You must walk across the room, to the almirah and back, once a day. You may lean on me; I am the doctor.' Stethoscoped English milord guided witchmoled grandmother across the room; hobblingly, creakingly, she obeyed.
After three months of this treatment, she made a full recovery. The neighbours came to celebrate, bearing rasgullas and gulab-jamans and other sweets. Reverend Mother, seated regally on a takht in the living-room, announced: 'See my grandson? He cured me, whatsits-name. Genius! Genius, whatsitsname: it is a gift from God.' Was that it, then? Should I stop worrying? Was genius something utterly unconnected with wanting, or learning how, or knowing about, or being able to? Something which, at the appointed hour, would float down around my shoulders like an immaculate, delicately worked pashmina shawl? Greatness as a falling mantle142: which never needed to be sent to the dhobi. One does not beat genius upon a stone ... That one clue, my grandmother's one chance sentence, was my only hope; and, as it turned out, she wasn't very far wrong. (The accident is almost upon me; and the children of midnight are waiting.)
Years later, in Pakistan, on the very night when the roof was to fall in on her head and squash her flatter than a rice-pancake, Amina Sinai saw the old washing-chest in a vision. When it popped up inside her eyelids143, she greeted it like a not-particularly-welcome cousin. 'So it's you again,' she told it, 'Well, why not? Things keep coming back to me these days. Seems you just can't leave anything behind.' She had grown prematurely144 old like all the women in our family; the chest reminded her of the year in which old age had first begun creeping up on her. The great heat of 1956 - which Mary Pereira told me was caused by little blazing invisible insects - buzzed in her ears once again. 'My corns began killing145 me then,' she said aloud, and the Civil Defence official who had called to enforce the blackout smiled sadly to himself and thought, Old people shroud146 themselves in the past during a war; that way they're ready to die whenever required. He crept awa?past the mountains of defective147 terry towels which filled most of the house, and left Amina to discuss her dirty laundry in private ... Nussie Ibrahim - Nussie-the-duck -used to admire Amina: 'Such posture148, my dear, that you've got! Such tone! I swear it's a wonder to me: you glide149 about like you're on an invisible trolley150!' But in the summer of the heat insects, my elegant mother finally lost her battle against verrucas, because the sadhu Purushottam suddenly lost his magic. Water had worn a bald patch in his hair; the steady dripping of the years had worn him down. Was he disillusioned151 with his blessed child, his Mubarak? Was it my fault that his mantras lost their power? With an air of great trouble, he told my mother, 'Never mind; wait only; I'll fix your feet for sure.' But Amina's corns grew worse; she went to doctors who froze them with carbon dioxide at absolute zero; but that only brought them back with redoubled vigour152, so that she began to hobble, her gliding153 days done for ever; and she recognized the unmistakable greeting of old age. (Chock-full of fantasy, I transformed her into a silkie -'Amma, maybe you're a mermaid154 really, taking human form for the love of a man - so every step is like walking on razor blades!' My mother smiled, but did not laugh.)
1956. Ahmed Sinai and Dr Narlikar played chess and argued -my father was a bitter opponent of Nasser, while Narlikar admired him openly. 'The man is bad for business,' Ahmed said; 'But he's got style,' Narlikar responded, glowing passionately155, 'Nobody pushes him around.' At the same time, Jawaharlal Nehru was consulting astrologers about the country's Five Year Plan, in order to avoid another Karamstan; and while the world combined aggression156 and the occult, I lay concealed in a washing-chest which wasn't really big enough for comfort any more; and Amina Sinai became filled with guilt157.
She was already trying to put out of her mind her adventure at the race-track; but the sense of sin which her mother's cooking had given her could not be escaped; so it was not difficult for her to think of the verrucas as a punishment... not only for the years-ago escapade at Mahalaxmi, but for failing to save her husband from the pink chitties of alcoholism; for the Brass Monkey's untamed, unfeminine ways; and for the size of her only son's nose. Looking back at her now, it seems to me that a fog of guilt had begun to form around her head - her black skin exuding158 black cloud which hung before her eyes. (Padma would believe it; Padma would know what I mean!) And as her guilt grew, the fog thickened - yes, why not? - there were days when you could hardly see her head above her neck!... Amina had become one of those rare people who take the burdens of the world upon their own backs; she began to exude159 the magnetism160 of the willingly guilty; and from then on everyone who came into contact with her felt the most powerful of urges to confess their own, private guilts. When they succumbed161 to my mother's powers, she would smile at them with a sweet sad foggy smile and they would go away, lightened, leaving their burdens on her shoulders; and the fog of guilt thickened. Amina heard about servants being beaten and officials being bribed162; when my uncle Hanif and his wife the divine Pia came to call they related their quarrels in minute detail; Lila Sabarmati confided163 her infidelities to my mother's graceful164, inclined, long-suffering ear; and Mary Pereira had to fight constantly against the almost-irresistible temptation to confess her crime.
Faced with the guilts of the world, my mother smiled foggily and shut her eyes tight; and by the time the roof fell in on her head her eyesight was badly impaired165; but she could still see the washing-chest.
What was really at the bottom of my mother's guilt? I mean really, beneath verrucas and djinns and confessions166? It was an unspeakable malaise, an affliction which could not even be named, and which no longer confined itself to dreams of an underworld husband ... my mother had fallen (as my father would soon fall) under the spell of the telephone.
In the afternoons of that summer, afternoons as hot as towels, the telephone would ring. When Ahmed Sinai was asleep in his room, with his keys under his pillow and umbilical cords in his almirah, telephonic shrilling167 penetrated168 the buzzing of the heat insects; and my mother, verruca-hobbled, came into the hall to answer. And now, what expression is this, staining her face the colour of drying blood? ... Not knowing that she's being observed, what fish-like flutterings of lips are these, what strangulated mouthings? ... And why, after listening for a full five minutes, does my mother say, in a voice like broken glass, 'Sorry: wrong number'? Why are diamonds glistening169 on her eyelids? ...
The Brass Monkey whispered to me, 'Next time it rings, let's find out.'
Five days later. Once more it is afternoon; but today Amina is away, visiting Nussie-the-duck, when the telephone demands attention. 'Quick! Quick or it'll wake him!' The Monkey, agile170 as her name, picks up the receiver before Ahmed Sinai has even changed the pattern of his snoring ... 'Hullo? Yaas? This is seven zero five six one; hullo?' We listen, every nerve on edge; but for a moment there is nothing at all. Then, when we're about to give up, the voice comes. '... Oh ... yes ... hullo ..." And the Monkey, shouting almost, 'Hullo?
Who is it, please?' Silence again; the voice, which has not been able to prevent itself from speaking, considers its answer; and then, '... Hullo... This is Shanti Prasad Truck Hire Company, please?...' And the Monkey, quick as a flash: 'Yes, what d'you want?' Another pause; the voice, sounding embarrassed, apologetic almost, says, 'I want to rent a truck.'
?feeble excuse of telephonic voice! ?transparent171 flummery of ghosts! The voice on the phone was no truck-renter's voice; it was soft, a little fleshy, the voice of a poet... but after that, the telephone rang regularly; sometimes my mother answered it, listened in silence while her mouth made fish-motions, and finally, much too late, said, 'Sorry, wrong number'; at other times the Monkey and I clustered around it, two ears to earpiece, while the Monkey took orders for trucks. I wondered: 'Hey, Monkey, what d'you think? Doesn't the guy ever wonder why the trucks don't arrive?' And she, wide-eyed, flutter-voiced: 'Man, do you suppose ... maybe they do!'
But I couldn't see how; and a tiny seed of suspicion was planted in me, a tiny glimmering172 of a notion that our mother might have a secret - our Amma! Who always said, 'Keep secrets and they'll go bad inside you; don't tell things and they'll give you stomach-ache!' - a minute spark which my experience in the washing-chest would fan into a forest fire. (Because this time, you see, she gave me proof.)
And now, at last, it is time for dirty laundry. Mary Pereira was fond of telling me, 'If you want to be a big man, baba, you must be very clean. Change clothes,'
she advised, 'take regular baths. Go, baba, or I'll send you to the washerman, and he'll wallop you on his stone.' She also threatened me with bugs173: 'All right, stay filthy, you will be nobody's darling except the flies'. They will sit on you while you sleep; eggs they'll lay under your skin!' In part, my choice of hiding-place was an act of defiance174. Braving dhobis and houseflies, I concealed myself in the unclean place; I drew strength and comfort from sheets and towels; my nose ran freely into the stone-doomed linens175; and always, when I emerged into the world from my wooden whale, the sad mature wisdom of dirty washing lingered with me, teaching me its philosophy of coolness and dignity-despite-everything and the terrible inevitability176 of soap.
One afternoon in June, I tiptoed down the corridors of the sleeping house towards my chosen refuge; sneaked177 past my sleeping mother into the white-tiled silence of her bathroom; lifted the lid off my goal; and plunged178 into its soft continuum of (predominantly white) textiles, whose only memories were of my earlier visits. Sighing softly, I pulled down the lid, and allowed pants and vests to massage179 away the pains of being alive, purposeless and nearly nine years old.
Electricity in the air. Heat, buzzing like bees. A mantle, hanging somewhere in the sky, waiting to fall gently around my shoulders ... somewhere, a finger reaches towards a dial; a dial whirs around and around, electrical pulses dart180 along cable, seven, zero, five, six, one, The telephone rings. Muffled shrilling of a bell penetrates181 the washing-chest, in which a nearlynineyearold boy lies uncomfortably concealed ... I, Saleem, became stiff with the fear of discovery, because now more noises entered the chest: squeak182 of bedsprings; soft clatter90 of slippers183 along corridor; the telephone, silenced in mid-shrill; and - or is this imagination? Was her voice too soft to hear? - the words, spoken too late as usual: 'Sorry. Wrong number.'
And now, hobbling footsteps returning to the bedroom; and the worst fears of the hiding boy are fulfilled. Doorknobs, turning, scream warnings at him; razor-sharp steps cut him deeply as they move across cool white dies. He stays frozen as ice, still as a stick; his nose drips silently into dirty clothes. A pajama-cord - snake-like harbinger of doom115! - inserts itself into his left nostril18. To sniff55 would be to die: he refuses to think about it.
... Clamped tight in the grip of terror, he finds his eye looking through a chink in dirty washing ... and sees a woman crying in a bathroom. Rain dropping from a thick black cloud. And now more sound, more motion: his mother's voice has begun to speak, two syllables184, over and over again; and her hands have begun to move. Ears muffled by underwear strain to catch the sounds - that one: dir?
Bir? Dil? - and the other: Ha? Ra? No - Na. Ha and Ra are banished185; Dil and Bir vanish forever; and the boy hears, in his ears, a name which has not been spoken since Mumtaz Aziz became Amina Sinai: Nadir. Nadir. Na. Dir. Na.
And her hands are moving. Lost in their memory of other days, of what happened after games of hit-the-spittoon in an Agra cellar, they flutter gladly at her cheeks; they hold her bosom186 tighter than any brassieres; and now they caress187 her bare midriff, they stray below decks ... yes, this is what we used to do, my love, it was enough, enough for me, even though my father made us, and you ran, and now the telephone, Nadirnadirnadirnadirnadirnadir... hands which held telephone now hold flesh, while in another place what does another hand do? To what, after replacing receiver, is another hand getting up? ... No matter; because here, in her spied-out privacy, Amina Sinai repeats an ancient name, again and again, until finally she bursts out with, 'Arre Nadir Khan, where have you come from now?'
Secrets. A man's name. Never-before-glimpsed motions of the hands. A boy's mind filled with thoughts which have no shape, tormented by ideas which refuse to settle into words; and in a left nostril, a pajama-cord is snaking up up up, refusing to be ignored ... And now - ?shameless mother! Revealer of duplicity, of emotions which have no place in family life; and more: ?brazen188 unveiler of Black Mango! - Amina Sinai, drying her eyes, is summoned by a more trivial necessity; and as her son's right eye peers out through the wooden slats at the top of the washing-chest, my mother unwinds her sari! While I, silently in the washing-chest: 'Don't do it don't do it don't do!' ... but I cannot close my eye. Unblinking pupil takes in upside-down image of sari falling to the floor, an image which is, as usual, inverted189 by the mind; through ice-blue eyes I see a slip follow the sari; and then - ?horrible! - my mother, framed in laundry and slatted wood, bends over to pick up her clothes! And there it is, searing my retina - the vision of my mother's rump, black as night, rounded and curved, resembling nothing on earth so much as a gigantic, black Alfonso mango! In the washing-chest, unnerved by the vision, I wrestle190 with myself... self-control becomes simultaneously191 imperative192 and impossible ... under the thunderclap influence of the Black Mango, my nerve cracks; pajama-cord wins its victory; and while Amina Sinai seats herself on a commode, I ... what? Not sneeze; it was less than a sneeze. Not a twitch193, either; it was more than that. It's time to talk plainly: shattered by two-syllabic voice and fluttering hands, devastated194 by Black Mango, the nose of Saleem Sinai, responding to the evidence of maternal195
duplicity, quivering at the presence of maternal rump, gave way to a pajama-cord, and was possessed by a cataclysmic - a world-altering - an irreversible sniff. Pajama-cord rises painfully half an inch further up the nostril. But other things are rising, too: hauled by that feverish196 inhalation, nasal liquids are being sucked relentlessly197 up up up, nose-goo flowing upwards198, against gravity, against nature. Sinuses are subjected to unbearable199 pressure ... until, inside the nearlynineyearold head, something bursts. Snot rockets through a breached200 dam into dark new channels. Mucus, rising higher than mucus was ever intended to rise. Waste fluid, reaching as far, perhaps, as the frontiers of the brain ... there is a shock. Something electrical has been moistened.
Pain.
And then noise, deafening201 manytongued terrifying, inside his head!. ... Inside a white wooden washing-chest, within the darkened auditorium202 of my skull203, my nose began to sing.
But just now there isn't time to listen; because one voice is very close indeed.
Amina Sinai has opened the lower door of the washing-chest; I am tumbling downdown with laundry wrapped around my head like a caul. Pajama-cord jerks out of my nose; and now there is lightning flashing through the dark clouds around my mother - and a refuge has been lost forever.
'I didn't look!' I squealed up through socks and sheets. I didn't see one thing, Ammi, I swear!!'
And years later, in a cane204 chair among reject towels and a radio announcing exaggerated war victories, .Amina would remember how with thumb and forefinger205 around the ear of her lying son she led him to Mary Pereira, who was sleeping as usual on a cane mat in a sky-blue room; how she said, 'This young donkey; this good-for-nothing from nowhere is not to speak for one whole day.'... And, just before the roof fell in on her, she said aloud: 'It was my fault. I brought him up too badly.' As the explosion of the bomb ripped through the air, she added, mildly but firmly, addressing her last words on earth to the ghost of a washing-chest: 'Go away now, I've seen enough On Mount Sinai, the prophet Musa or Moses heard disembodied commandments; on Mount Hira, the prophet Muhammad (also known as Mohammed, Mahomet, the Last-But-One, and Mahound) spoke to the Archangel. (Gabriel or Jibreel, as you please.) And on the stage of the Cathedral and John Connon Boys' High School, run 'under the auspices206' of the Anglo-Scottish Education Society, my friend Cyrus-the-great, playing a female part as usual, heard the voices of St Joan speaking the sentences of Bernard Shaw. But Cyrus is the odd one out: unlike Joan, whose voices were heard in a field, but like Musa or Moses, like Muhammad the Penultimate, I heard voices on a hill.
Muhammad (on whose name be peace, let me add; I don't want to offend anyone)
heard a voice saying, 'Recite!' and thought he was going mad; I heard, at first, a headful of gabbling tongues, like an untuned radio; and with lips sealed by maternal command, I was unable to ask for comfort. Muhammad, at forty, sought and received reassurance207 from wife and friends: 'Verily,' they told him, 'you are the Messenger of God'; I, suffering my punishment at nearlynine, could neither seek Brass Monkey's assistance nor solicit208 softening209 words from Mary Pereira. Muted for an evening and a night and a morning, I struggled, alone, to understand what had happened to me; until at last I saw the shawl of genius fluttering down, like an embroidered210 butterfly, the mantle of greatness settling upon my shoulders.
In the heat of that silent night (I was silent; outside me, the sea rustled211 like distant paper; crows squawked in the throes of their feathery nightmares; the puttering noises of tardy212 taxi-cabs wafted213 up from Warden214 Road; the Brass Monkey, before she fell asleep with her face frozen into a mask of curiosity, begged, 'Come on, Saleem; nobody's listening; what did you do? Tell tell tell!'
... while, inside me, the voices rebounded215 against the walls of my skull) I was gripped by hot fingers of excitement - the agitated216 insects of excitement danced in my stomach - because finally, in some way I did not then fully36 understand, the door which Toxy Catrack had once nudged in my head had been forced open; and through it I could glimpse -shadowy still, undefined, enigmatic - my reason for having been born.
Gabriel or Jibreel told Muhammad: 'Recite!' And then began The Recitation, known in Arabic as Al-Quran: 'Recite: In the Name of the Lord thy Creator, who created Man from clots217 of blood ..." That was on Mount Hira outside Mecca Sharif; on a two-storey hillock opposite Breach Candy Pools, voices also instructed me to recite: Tomorrow!' I thought excitedly. 'Tomorrow!'
By sunrise, I had discovered that the voices could be controlled - I was a radio receiver, and could turn the volume down or up; I could select individual voices; I could even, by an effort of will; switch off my newly-discovered inner ear. It was astonishing how soon fear left me; by morning, I was thinking, 'Man, this is better than All-India Radio, man; better than Radio Ceylon!'
To demonstrate the loyalty218 of sisters: when the twenty-four hours were up, on the dot, the Brass Monkey ran into my mother's bedroom. (It was, I think, a Sunday: no school. Or perhaps not - that was the summer of the language marches, and the schools were often shut, because of the danger of violence on the bus-routes.)
'The time's up!' she exclaimed, shaking my mother out of sleep. 'Amma, wake up: it's time: can he talk now?'
'All right,' my mother said, coming into a sky-blue room to embrace me, 'you're forgiven now. But never hide in there again ...'
'Amma,' I said eagerly, 'my Ammi, please listen. I must tell you something.
Something big. But please, please first of all, wake Abba.'
And after a period of 'What?' 'Why?' and 'Certainly not,' my mother saw something extraordinary sitting in my eyes and went to wake Ahmed Sinai anxiously, with 'Janum, please come. I don't know what's got into Saleem.'
Family and ayah assembled in the sitting-room219. Amid cut-glass vases and plump cushions, standing on a Persian rug beneath the swirling220 shadows of ceiling-fans, I smiled into their anxious eyes and prepared my revelation. This was it; the beginning of the repayment221 of their investment; my first dividend - first, I was sure, of many ... my black mother, lip-jutting father, Monkey of a sister and crime-concealing ayah waited in hot confusion.
Get it out. Straight, without frills. 'You should be the first to know,' I said, trying to give my speech the cadences222 of adulthood223. And then I told them. 'I heard voices yesterday. Voices are speaking to me inside my head. I think - Ammi, Abboo, I really think - that Archangels have started to talk to me.'
There! I thought. There! It's said! Now there will be pats on the back, sweetmeats, public announcements, maybe more photographs; now their chests will puff224 up with pride. ?blind innocence225 of childhood! For my honesty - for my open-hearted desperation to please - I was set upon from all sides. Even the Monkey: 'O God, Saleem, all this tamasha, all this performance, for one of your stupid cracks?' And worse than the Monkey was Mary Pereira: 'Christ Jesus! Save, us, Lord! Holy Father in Rome, such blasphemy226 I've heard today!' And worse than Mary Pereira was my mother Amina Sinai: Black Mango concealed now, her own unnameable names still warm upon her lips, she cried, 'Heaven forfend! The child will bring down the roof upon our heads!' (Was that my fault, too?) And Amina continued: 'You black man! Goonda! ?Saleem, has your brain gone raw? What has happened to my darling baby boy - are you growing into a madman - a torturer!?'
And worse than Amina's shrieking227 was my father's silence; worse than her fear was the wild anger sitting on his forehead; and worst of all was my father's hand, which stretched out suddenly, thick-fingered, heavy-jointed,
strong-as-an-ox,to fetch me a mighty blow on the side of my head, so that I could never hear properly in my left ear after that day; so that I fell sideways across the startled room through the scandalized air and shattered a green tabletop of opaque228 glass; so that, having been certain of myself for the first time in my life, I was plunged into a green, glass-cloudy world filled with cutting edges, a world in which I could no longer tell the people who mattered most about the goings-on inside my head; green shards229 lacerated my hands as I entered that swirling universe in which I was doomed, until it was far too late, to be plagued by constant doubts about what I was for.
In a white-tiled bathroom beside a washing-chest, my mother daubed me with Mercurochrome; gauze veiled my cuts, while through the door my father's voice commanded, 'Wife, let nobody give him food today. You hear me? Let him enjoy his joke on an empty stomach!'
That night, Amina Sinai would dream of Ramram Seth, who was floating six inches above the ground, his eye-sockets filled with egg-whites, intoning: 'Washing will hide him ... voices will guide him' ... but when, after several days in which the dream sat upon her shoulders wherever she went, she plucked up the courage to ask her disgraced son a little more about his outrageous230 claim, he replied in a voice as restrained as the unwept tears of his childhood: 'It was just fooling, Amma. A stupid joke, like you said.'
She died, nine years later, without discovering the truth.
收听单词发音 |
1
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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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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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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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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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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abhorring
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| v.憎恶( abhor的现在分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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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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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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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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preeminence
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| n.卓越,杰出 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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48
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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49
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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51
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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53
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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55
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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59
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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60
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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devastatingly
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| adv. 破坏性地，毁灭性地，极其 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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66
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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68
cavorting
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| v.跳跃( cavort的现在分词 ) | |
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yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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72
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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75
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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76
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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78
alligator
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| n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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79
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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80
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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81
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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82
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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83
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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84
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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85
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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86
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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87
bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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88
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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89
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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91
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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92
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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93
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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94
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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95
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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96
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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97
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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98
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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99
screechy
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| adj.声音尖锐的，喜欢尖声喊叫的 | |
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100
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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101
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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102
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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103
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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104
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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105
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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106
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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107
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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108
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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109
olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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110
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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111
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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112
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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113
blockages
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| n.堵塞物( blockage的名词复数 )；堵塞，阻塞 | |
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114
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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115
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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116
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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117
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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118
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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120
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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121
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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122
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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123
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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124
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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126
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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127
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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128
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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129
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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130
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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131
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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132
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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133
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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134
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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135
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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137
dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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138
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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139
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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140
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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141
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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142
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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143
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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144
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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145
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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146
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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147
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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148
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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149
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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150
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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151
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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152
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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153
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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154
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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155
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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156
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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157
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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158
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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159
exude
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| v.(使)流出，(使)渗出 | |
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160
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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161
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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162
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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163
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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164
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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165
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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167
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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168
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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169
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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170
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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171
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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172
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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173
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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174
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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175
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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176
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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177
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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178
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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179
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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180
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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181
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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182
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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183
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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184
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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185
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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187
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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188
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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189
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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191
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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192
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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193
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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194
devastated
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|
| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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195
maternal
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|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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196
feverish
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|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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197
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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198
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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199
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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breached
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| 攻破( breach的现在分词 )； 破坏，违反 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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clots
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| n.凝块( clot的名词复数 )；血块；蠢人；傻瓜v.凝固( clot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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adulthood
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| n.成年，成人期 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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