To tell the truth, I lied about Shiva's death. My first out-and-out lie -although my presentation of the Emergency in the guise1 of a six-hundred-and-thirty-five-day-long midnight was perhaps excessively romantic, and certainly contradicted by the available meteorological data. Still and all, whatever anyone may think, lying doesn't come easily to Saleem, and I'm hanging my head in shame as I confess ... Why, then, this single barefaced2 lie?
(Because, in actuality, I've no idea where my changeling-rival went after the Widows' Hostel3; he could be in hell or the brothel down the road and I wouldn't know the difference.) Padma, try and understand: I'm still terrified of him.
There is unfinished business between us, and I spend my days quivering at the thought that the war hero might somehow have discovered the secret of his birth - was he ever shown a file bearing three tell-tale initials? - and that, roused to wrath4 by the irrecoverable loss of his past, he might come looking for me to exact a stifling6 revenge ... is that how it will end, with the life being crushed out of me by a pair of superhuman, merciless knees?
That's why I fibbed, anyway; for the first time, I fell victim to the temptation of every autobiographer7, to the illusion that since the past exists only in one's memories and the words which strive vainly to encapsulate them, it is possible to create past events simply by saying they occurred. My present fear put a gun into Roshanara Shetty's hand; with the ghost of Commander Sabarmati looking over my shoulder, I enabled her to bribe8 coquette worm her way into his cell... in short, the memory of one of my earliest crimes created the (fictitious) circumstances of my last.
End of confession9: and now I'm getting perilously10 close to the end of my reminiscences. It's night; Padma is in position; on the wall above my head, a lizard11 has just gobbled up a fly; the festering heat of August, which is enough to pickle12 one's brains, bubbles merrily between my ears; and five minutes ago the last local train yellow-and-browned its way south to Churchgate Station, so that I did not hear what Padma said with a shyness cloaking a determination as powerful as oil. I had to ask her to repeat herself, and the muscles of disbelief began to nictate in her calves13. I must at once record that our dung-lotus has proposed marriage, 'so that I can look after you without going to shame in the eyes of the world.'
Just as I feared! But it's out in the open now, and Padma (I can tell) will not take no for an answer. I have been protesting like a blushing virgin14: 'So unexpected! - and what about ectomy, and what was fed to pie-dogs: don't you mind? - and Padma, Padma, there is still what-chews-on-bones, it will turn you into a widow! - and just think one moment, there is the curse of violent death, think of Parvati - are you sure, are you sure you're sure ... ?' But Padma, her jaw15 set in the concrete of a majestically16 unshakeable resolve, replied: 'You listen to me, mister - but me no buts! Never mind all that fancy talk any more.
There is the future to think of.' The honeymoon17 is to be in Kashmir.
In the burning heat of Padma's determination, I am assailed18 by the demented notion that it might be possible, after all, that she may be capable of altering the ending of my story by the phenomenal force of her will, that cracks - and death itself- might yield to the power of her unquenchable solicitude19 ... 'There is the future to think of,' she warned me - and maybe (I permit myself to think for the first time since I began this narrative) - maybe there is! An infinity20 of new endings clusters around my head, buzzing like heat-insects ... 'Let us be married, mister,' she proposed, and moths21 of excitement stirred in my guts22, as if she had spoken some cabbalistic formula, some awesome24 abracadabra25, and released me from my fate - but reality is nagging26 at me. Love does not conquer all, except in the Bombay talkies; rip tear crunch27 will not be defeated by a mere28 ceremony; and optimism is a disease.
'On your birthday, how about?' she is suggesting. 'At thirty-one, a man is a man, and is supposed to have a wife.'
How am I to tell her? How can I say, there are other plans for that day, I am have always been in the grip of a form-crazy destiny which enjoys wreaking29 its havoc30 on numinous31 days... in short, how am I to tell her about death? I cannot; instead, meekly32 and with every appearance of gratitude33, I accept her proposal. I am, this evening, a man newly affianced; let no one think harshly of me for permitting myself - and my betrothed34 lotus - this last, vain, inconsequential pleasure.
Padma, by proposing a marriage, revealed her willingness to dismiss everything I've told her about my past as just so much 'fancy talk'; and when I returned to find Picture Singh beaming in the shadow of a railway bridge, it rapidly became clear that the magicians, too, were losing their memories. Somewhere in the many moves of the peripatetic35 slum, they had mislaid their powers of retention36, so that now they had become incapable37 of judgment38, having forgotten everything to which they could compare anything that happened. Even the Emergency was rapidly being consigned39 to the oblivion of the past, and the magicians concentrated upon the present with the monomania of snails40. Nor did they notice that they had changed; they had forgotten that they had ever been otherwise, Communism had seeped41 out of them and been gulped42 down by the thirsty, lizard-quick earth; they were beginning to forget their skills in the confusion of hunger, disease, thirst and police harassment43 which constituted (as usual) the present. To me, however, this change in my old companions seemed nothing short of obscene.
Saleem had come through amnesia44 and been shown the extent of its immorality45; in his mind, the past grew daily more vivid while the present (from which knives had disconnected him for ever) seemed colourless, confused, a thing of no consequence; I, who could remember every hair on the heads of jailers and surgeons, was deeply shocked by the magicians' unwillingness46 to look behind them. 'People are like cats,' I told my son, 'you can't teach them anything.' He looked suitably grave, but held his tongue.
My son Aadam Sinai had, when I rediscovered the phantom47 colony of the illusionists, lost all traces of the tuberculosis48 which had afflicted49 his earliest days. I, naturally, was certain that the disease had vanished with the fall of the Widow; Picture Singh, however, told me that credit for the cure must be given to a certain washerwoman, Durga by name, who had wet-nursed him through his sickness, giving him the daily benefit of her inexhaustibly colossal50 breasts. 'That Durga, captain,' the old snake-charmer said, his voice betraying the fact that, in his old age, he had fallen victim to the dhoban's serpentine51 charms, 'What a woman!'
She was a woman whose biceps bulged52; whose preternatural breasts unleashed53 a torrent54 of milk capable of nourishing regiments55; and who, it was rumoured57 darkly (although I suspect the rumour56 of being started by herself) had two wombs. She was as full of gossip and tittle-tattle as she was of milk: every day a dozen new stories gushed58 from her lips. She possessed59 the boundless60 energy common to all practitioners61 of her trade; as she thrashed the life out of shirts and saris on her stone, she seemed to grow in power, as if she were sucking the vigour62 out of the clothes, which ended up fiat63, buttonless and beaten to death. She was a monster who forgot each day the moment it ended. It was with the greatest reluctance64 that I agreed to make her acquaintance; it is with the greatest reluctance that I admit her into these pages. Her name, even before I met her, had the smell of new things; she represented novelty, beginnings, the advent65 of new stories events complexities66, and I was no longer interested in anything new.
However, once Pictureji informed me that he intended to marry her, I had no option; I shall deal with her, however, as briefly67 as accuracy permits.
Briefly, then: Durga the washerwoman was a succubus! A bloodsucker lizard in human form! And her effect on Picture Singh was comparable only to her power over her stone-smashed shirts: in a word, she flattened69 him. Having once met her, I understood why Picture Singh looked old and forlorn; deprived now of the umbrella of harmony beneath which men and women would gather for advice and shade, he seemed to be shrinking daily; the possibility of his becoming a second Hummingbird70 was vanishing before my very eyes. Durga, however, flourished: her gossip grew more scatological, her voice louder and more raucous71, until at last she reminded me of Reverend Mother in her later years, when she expanded and my grandfather shrank. This nostalgic echo of my grandparents was the only thing of interest to me in the personality of the hoydenish72 washerwoman.
But there is no denying the bounty73 of her mammary glands74: Aadam, at twenty-one months, was still suckling contentedly75 at her nipples. At first I thought of insisting that he be weaned, but then remembered that my son did exactly and only what he wished, and decided76 not to press the point. (And, as it transpired77, I was right not to do so.) As for her supposed double womb, I had no desire to know the truth or otherwise of the story, and made no inquiries78.
I mention Durga the dhoban chiefly because it was she who, one evening when we were eating a meal composed of twenty-seven grains of rice apiece, first foretold79 my death. I, exasperated80 by her constant stream of news and chit-chat, had exclaimed, 'Durga Bibi, nobody is interested in your stories!' To which she, unperturbed, 'Saleem Baba, I have been good with you because Pictureji says you must be in many pieces after your arrest; but, to speak frankly81, you do not appear to be concerned with anything except lounging about nowadays. You should understand that when a man loses interest in new matters, he is opening the door for the Black Angel.'
And although Picture Singh said, mildly, 'Come now, capteena, don't be rough on the boy,' the arrow of Durga the dhoban found its mark.
In the exhaustion82 of my drained return, I felt the emptiness of the days coating me in a thick gelatinous film; and although Durga offered, the next morning, and perhaps in a spirit of genuine remorse83 for her harsh words, to restore my strength by letting me suckle her left breast while my son pulled on the right, 'and afterwards maybe you'll start thinking straight again', intimations of mortality began to occupy most of my thoughts; and then I discovered the mirror of humility84 at the Shadipur bus depot85, and became convinced of my approaching demise86.
It was an angled mirror above the entrance to the bus garage; I, wandering aimlessly in the forecourt of the depot, found my attention caught by its winking87 reflections of the sun. I realized that I had not seen myself in a mirror for months, perhaps years, and walked across to stand beneath it. Looking upwards88 into the mirror, I saw myself transformed into a big-headed, top-heavy dwarf89; in the humblingly foreshortened reflection of myself I saw that the hair on my head was now as grey as rainclouds; the dwarf in the mirror, with his lined face and tired eyes, reminded me vividly90 of my grandfather Aadam Aziz on the day he told us about seeing God. In those days the afflictions cured by Parvati-the-witch had all (in the aftermath of drainage) returned to plague me; nine-fingered, horn-templed, monk's-tonsured, stain-faced, bow-legged, cucumber-nosed, castrated, and now prematurely91 aged92, I saw in the mirror of humility a human being to whom history could do no more, a grotesque93 creature who had been released from the pre-ordained destiny which had battered94 him until he was half-senseless; with one good ear and one bad ear I heard the soft footfalls of the Black Angel of death.
The young-old face of the dwarf in the mirror wore an expression of profound relief.
I'm becoming gloomy; let's change the subject... Exactly twenty-four hours before a paan-wallah's taunt95 provoked Picture Singh into travelling to Bombay, my son Aadam Sinai made the decision which permitted us to accompany the snake-charmer on his journey: overnight, without any warning, and to the consternation96 of his washerwoman wet-nurse, who was obliged to decant97 her remaining milk into five-litre vanaspati drums, flat-eared Aadam weaned himself, soundlessly refusing the nipple and demanding (without words) a diet of solid foods: pulped98 rice overboiled lentils biscuits. It was as though he had decided to permit me to reach my private, and now-very-near, finishing line.
Mute autocracy99 of a less-than-two-year-old infant: Aadam did not tell us when he was hungry or sleepy or anxious to perform his natural functions. He expected us to know. The perpetual attention he required may be one of the reasons why I managed, in spite of all indications to the contrary, to stay alive ...
incapable of anything else in those days after my release from captivity100, I concentrated on watching my son. 'I tell you, captain, it's lucky you came back,' Picture Singh joked, 'otherwise this one would have turned us all into ayahs.' I understood once again that Aadam was a member of a second generation of magical children who would grow up far tougher than the first, not looking for their fate in prophecy or the stars, but forging it in the implacable furnaces of their wills. Looking into the eyes of the child who was simultaneously101 not-my-son and also more my heir than any child of my flesh could have been, I found in his empty, limpid102 pupils a second mirror of humility, which showed me that, from now on, mine would be as peripheral103 a role as that of any redundant104 oldster: the traditional function, perhaps, of reminiscer, of teller-of-tales ... I wondered if all over the country the bastard105 sons of Shiva were exerting similar tyrannies upon hapless adults, and envisaged106 for the second time that tribe of fearsomely potent107 kiddies, growing waiting listening, rehearsing the moment when the world would become their plaything. (How these children may, in the future, be identified: their bimbis stick out instead of in.)
But it's time to get things moving: a taunt, a. last railway-train heading south south south, a final battle ... on the day following the weaning of Aadam, Saleem accompanied Picture Singh to Connaught Place, to assist him in his snake-charming. Durga the dhoban agreed to take my son with her to the dhobi-ghat: Aadam spent the day observing how power was thrashed out of the clothes of the well-to-do and absorbed by the succubus-woman. On that fateful day, when the warm weather was returning to the city like a swarm108 of bees, I was consumed by nostalgia109 for my bulldozed silver spittoon. Picture Singh had provided me with a spittoon-surrogate, an empty Dalda Vanaspati can, but although I used this to entertain my son with my expertise110 in the gentle art of spittoon-hittery, sending long jets of betel-juice across the grimy air of the magicians' colony, I was not consoled. A question: why such grief over a mere receptacle of juices? My reply is that you should never underestimate a spittoon. Elegant in the salon111 of the Rani of Cooch Naheen, it permitted intellectuals to practise the art-forms of the masses; gleaming in a cellar, it transformed Nadir112 Khan's underworld into a second Taj Mahal; gathering113 dust in an old tin trunk, it was nevertheless present throughout my history, covertly114 assimilating incidents in washing-chests, ghost-visions, freeze-unfreeze, drainage, exiles; falling from the sky like a piece of the moon, it perpetrated a transformation115. O talismanic116 spittoon! O beauteous lost receptacle of memories as well as spittle-juice! What sensitive person could fail to sympathize with me in my nostalgic agony at its loss?
... Beside me at the back of a bus bulging117 with humanity, Picture Singh sat with snake-baskets coiled innocently on his lap. As we rattled118 and banged through that city which was also filled with the resurgent ghosts of earlier, mythological119 Delhis, the Most Charming Man In The World wore an air of faded despondency, as if a battle in a distant darkroom were already over ... until my return, nobody had understood that Pictureji's real and unvoiced fear was that he was growing old, that his powers were dimming, that he would soon be adrift and incompetent120 in a world he did not understand: like me, Picture Singh clung to the presence of Baby Aadam as if the child were a torch in a long dark tunnel. 'A fine child, captain,' he told me, 'a child of dignity: you hardly notice his ears.'
That day, however, my son was not with us.
New Delhi smells assailed me in Connaught Place - the biscuity perfume of the J.
B. Mangharam advertisement, the mournful chalki-ness of crumbling121 plaster; and there was also the tragic122 spoor of the auto-rickshaw drivers, starved into fatalism by rising petrol costs; and green-grass-smells from the circular park in the middle of the whirling traffic, mingled123 with the fragrance124 of con-men persuading foreigners to change money on the black market in shadowy archways, From the India Coffee House, under whose marquees could be heard the endless babbling125 of gossips, there came the less pleasant aroma126 of new stories beginning: intrigues127 marriages quarrels, whose smells were all mixed up with those of tea and chili-pakoras. What I smelled in Connaught Place: the begging nearby presence of a scar-faced girl who had once been Sundari-the-too-beautiful; and loss-of-memory, and turning-towards-the-future, and nothing-really-changes... turning away from these olfactory128 intimations, I concentrated on the all-pervasive and simpler odours of (human) urine and animal dung.
Underneath129 the colonnade130 of Block F in Connaught Place, next to a pavement bookstall, a paan-wallah had his little niche131. He sat cross-legged behind a green glass counter like a minor132 deity133 of the place: I admit him into these last pages because, although he gave off the aromas134 of poverty, he was, in fact, a person of substance, the owner of a Lincoln Continental135 motor-car, which he parked out of sight in Connaught Circus, and which he had paid for by the fortunes he earned through his sales of contraband136 imported cigarettes and transistor137 radios; for two weeks each year he went to jail for a holiday, and the rest of the time paid several policemen a handsome salary. In jail he was treated like a king, but behind his green glass counter he looked inoffensive, ordinary, so that it was not easy (without the benefit of a nose as sensitive as Saleem's) to tell that this was a man who knew everything about everything, a man whose infinite network of contacts made him privy138 to secret knowledge... to me he provided an additional and not unpleasant echo of a similar character I had known in Karachi during the time of my Lambretta voyages; I was so busy inhaling139 the familiar perfumes of nostalgia that, when he spoke23, he took me by surprise.
We had set up our act next to his niche; while Pictureji busied himself polishing flutes141 and donning an enormous saffron turban, I performed the function of barker. 'Roll up roll up - once in a life-time an opportunity such as this - ladees, ladahs, come see come see come see! Who is here? No common bhangi; no street-sleeping fraud; this, citizens, ladies and gents, is the Most Charming Man In The World! Yes, come see come see: his photo has been taken by Eastman-Kodak Limited! Come close and have no fear - PICTURE SINGH is here!'...
And other such garbage; but then the paan-wallah spoke: 'I know of a better act. This fellow is not number-one; oh, no, certainly not.
In Bombay there is a better man.'
That was how Picture Singh learned of the existence of his rival; and why, abandoning all plans of giving a performance, he marched over to the blandly142 smiling paan-wallah, reaching into his depths for his old voice of command, and said, 'You will tell me the truth about this faker, captain, or I will send your teeth down your gullet until they bite up your stomach.' And the paan-wallah, unafraid, aware of the three lurking143 policemen who would move in swiftly to protect their salaries if the need arose, whispered to us the secrets of his omniscience144, telling us who when where, until Picture Singh said in a voice whose firmness concealed145 his fear: 'I will go and show this Bombay fellow who is best. In one world, captains, there is no room for two Most Charming Men.'
The vendor146 of betel-nut delicacies147, shrugging delicately, expectorated at our feet.
Like a magic spell, the taunts148 of a paan-wallah opened the door through which Saleem returned to the city of his birth, the abode149 of his deepest nostalgia.
Yes, it was an open-sesame, and when we returned to the ragged150 tents beneath the railway bridge, Picture Singh scrabbled in the earth and dug up the knotted handkerchief of his security, the dirt-discoloured cloth in which he had hoarded151 pennies for his old age; and when Durga the washerwoman refused to accompany him, saying, 'What do you think, Pictureji, I am a crorepati rich woman that I can take holidays and what-all?', he turned to me with something very like supplication152 in his eyes and asked me to accompany him, so that he did not have to go into his worst battle, the test of his old age, without a friend... yes, and Aadam heard it too, with his flapping ears he heard the rhythm of the magic, I saw his eyes light up as I accepted, and then we were in a third-class railway carriage heading south south south, and in the quinquesyl-labic monotony of the wheels I heard the secret word: abracadabra abracadabra abracadabra sang the wheels as they bore us back-to-Bom.
Yes, I had left the colony of the magicians behind me for ever, I was heading abracadabra abracadabra into the heart of a nostalgia which would keep me alive long enough to write these pages (and to create a corresponding number of pickles153); Aadam and Saleem and Picture Singh squeezed into a third-class carriage, taking with us a number of baskets tied up with string, baskets which alarmed the jam-packed humanity in the carriage by hissing154 continually, so that the crowds pushed back back back, away from the menace of the snakes, and allowed us a measure of comfort and space; while the wheels sang their abracadabras to Aadam's flapping ears.
As we travelled to Bombay, the pessimism155 of Picture Singh expanded until it seemed that it had become a physical entity156 which merely looked like the old snake-charmer. At Mathura an American youth with pustular chin and a head shaved bald as an egg got into our carriage amid the cacophony157 of hawkers selling earthen animals and cups of chaloo-chai; he was fanning himself with a peacock-feather fan, and the bad luck of peacock feathers depressed158 Picture Singh beyond imagining. While the infinite flatness of the Indo-Gangetic plain unfolded outside the window, sending the hot insanity159 of the afternoon loo-wind to torment160 us, the shaven American lectured to occupants of the carriage on the intricacies of Hinduism and began to teach them mantras while extending a walnut161 begging bowl; Picture Singh was blind to this remarkable162 spectacle and also deaf to the abracadabra of the wheels. 'It is no good, captain,' he confided163 mournfully, 'This Bombay fellow will be young and strong, and I am doomed165 to be only the second most charming man from now on.' By the time we reached Kotah Station, the odours of misfortune exuded166 by the peacock-feather fan had possessed Pictureji utterly167, had eroded168 him so alarmingly that although everyone in the carriage was getting out on the side farthest from the platform to urinate against the side of the train, he showed no sign of needing to go. By Ratlam Junction169, while my excitement was mounting, he had fallen into a trance which was not sleep but the rising paralysis170 of the pessimism. 'At this rate,' I thought, 'he won't even be able to challenge this rival.' Baroda passed: no change. At Surat, the old John Company depot, I realized I'd have to do something soon, because abracadabra was bringing us closer to Bombay Central by the minute, and so at last I picked up Picture Singh's old wooden flute140, and by playing it with such terrible ineptitude171 that all the snakes writhed172 in agony and petrified173 the American youth into silence, by producing a noise so hellish that nobody noticed the passing of Bassein Road, Kurla, Mahim, I overcame the miasma174 of the peacock-feathers; at last Picture Singh shook himself out of his despondency with a faint grin and said, 'Better you stop, captain, and let me play that thing; otherwise some people are sure to die of pain.'
Serpents subsided175 in their baskets; and then the wheels stopped singing, and we were there: Bombay! I hugged Aadam fiercely, and was unable to resist uttering an ancient cry: 'Back-to-Bom!' I cheered, to the bewilderment of the American youth, who had never heard this mantra: and again, and again, and again: 'Back! Back-to-Bom!'
By bus down Bellasis Road, towards the Tardeo roundabout, we travelled past Parsees with sunken eyes, past bicycle-repair shops and Irani cafes; and then Hornby Vellard was on our right - where promenaders watched as Sherri the mongrel bitch was left to spill her guts! Where cardboard effigies176 of wrestlers still towered above the entrances to Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium! - and we were rattling177 and 'banging past traffic-cops with sun-umbrellas, past Mahalaxmi temple - and then Warden178 Road! The Breach179 Candy Swimming Baths! And there, look, the shops ... but the names had changed: where was Reader's Paradise with its stacks of Superman comics? Where, the Band Box Laundry and Bombelli's, with their One Yard Of Chocolates? And, my God, look, atop a two-storey hillock where once the palaces of William Methwold stood wreathed in bougainvillaea and stared proudly out to sea ... look at it, a great pink monster of a building, the roseate skyscraper180 obelisk181 of the Narlikar women, standing182 over and obliterating183 the circus-ring of childhood ... yes, it was my Bombay, but also not-mine, because we reached Kemp's Corner to find the hoardings of Air-India's little rajah and of the Kolynos Kid gone, gone for good, and Thomas Kemp and Co. itself had vanished into thin air ... flyovers184 crisscrossed where, once upon a time, medicines were dispensed185 and a pixie in a chlorophyll cap beamed down upon the traffic. Elegiacally, I murmured under my breath: 'Keep Teeth Kleen and Keep Teeth Brite! Keep Teeth Kolynos Super White!' But despite my incantation, the past failed to reappear; we rattled on down Gibbs Road and dismounted near Chowpatty Beach.
Chowpatty, at least, was much the same: a dirty strip of sand aswarm with pickpockets186, and strollers, and vendors187 of hot-channa-channa-hot, of kulfi and bhel-puri and chutter-mutter; but further down Marine188 Drive I saw what tetrapods had achieved. On land reclaimed189 by the Narlikar consortium from the sea, vast monsters soared upwards to the sky, bearing strange alien names: OBEROI-SHERATON screamed at me from afar. And where was the neon Jeep sign? ... 'Come on, Pictureji,' I said at length, hugging Aadam to my chest, 'Let's go where we're going and be done with it; the city has been changed.'
What can I say about the Midnite-Confidential Club? That its location is underground, secret (although known to omniscient190 paan-wallahs); its door, unmarked; its clientele, the cream of Bombay society. What else? Ah, yes: managed by one Anand 'Andy' Shroff, businessman-playboy, who is to be found on most days tanning himself at the Sun 'n' Sand Hotel on Juhu Beach, amid film-stars and disenfranchised princesses. I ask you: an Indian, sun-bathing?
But apparently191 it's quite normal, the international rules of playboydom must be obeyed to the letter, including, I suppose, the one stipulating192 daily worshipping of the sun.
How innocent I am (and I used to think that Sonny, forcep-dented, was the simple one!) - I never suspected that places like the Midnite-Confidential existed! But of course they do; and clutching flutes and snake-baskets, the three of us knocked on its doors.
Movements visible through a small iron eye-level grille: a low mellifluous193 female voice asked us to state our business. Picture Singh announced: 'I am the Most Charming Man In The World. You are employing here one other snake-charmer as cabaret; I will challenge him and prove my superiority. For this I do not ask to be paid. It is, capteena, a question of honour.'
It was evening; Mr Anand 'Andy' Shroff was, by good fortune, on the premises194.
And, to cut a long story short, Picture Singh's challenge was accepted, and we entered that place whose name had already unnerved me somewhat, because it contained the word midnight, and because its initials had once concealed my own, secret world: M.C.C., which stands for Metro195 Cub68 Club, once also stood for the Midnight Children's Conference, and had now been usurped196 by the secret nightspot. In a word: I felt invaded.
Twin problems of the city's sophisticated, cosmopolitan197 youth: how to consume alcohol in a dry state; and how to romance girls in the best Western tradition, by taking them out to paint the town red, while at the same time preserving total secrecy198, to avoid the very Oriental shame of a scandal? The Midnite-Confidential was Mr Shroff's solution to the agonizing199 difficulties of the city's gilded200 youth. In that underground of licentiousness201, he had created a world of Stygian darkness, black as hell; in the secrecy of midnight darkness, the city's lovers met, drank imported liquor, and romanced; cocooned202 in the isolating203, artificial night, they canoodled with impunity204. Hell is other people's fantasies: every saga205 requires at least one descent into Jahannum, and I followed Picture Singh into the inky negritude of the Club, holding an infant son in my arms.
We were led down a lush black carpet - midnight-black, black as lies, crow-black, anger-black, the black of 'hai-yo, black man!'; in short, a dark rug - by a female attendant of ravishing sexual charms, who wore her sari erotically low on her hips206, with a jasmine in her navel; but as we descended207 into the darkness, she turned towards us with a reassuring208 smile, and I saw that her eyes were closed; unearthly luminous209 eyes had been painted on her lids. I could not help but ask, 'Why...' To which she, simply: 'I am blind; and besides, nobody who comes here wants to be seen. Here you are in a world without faces or names; here people have no memories, families or past; here is for now, for nothing except right now.'
And the darkness engulfed210 us; she guided us through that nightmare pit in which light was kept in shackles211 and bar-fetters, that place outside time, that negation212 of history... 'Sit here,' she said, 'The other snake-man will come soon. When it is time, one light will shine on you; then begin your contest.'
We sat there for - what? minutes, hours, weeks? - and there were the glowing eyes of blind women leading invisible guests to their seats; and gradually, in the dark, I became aware of being surrounded by soft, amorous213 susurrations, like the couplings of velvet214 mice; I heard the chink of glasses held by twined arms, and gentle brushings of lips; with one good ear and one bad ear, I heard the sound of illicit215 sexuality filling the midnight air ... but no, I did not want to know what was happening; although my nose was able to smell, in the susurrating silence of the Club, all manner of new stories and beginnings, of exotic and forbidden loves, and little invisible contretemps and who-was-going-too-jar, in fact all sorts of juicy tit-bits, I chose to ignore them all, because this was a new world in which I had no place. My son, Aadam, however, sat beside me with ears burning with fascination216; his eyes shone in the darkness as he listened, and memorized, and learned ... and then there was light.
A single shaft217 of light spilled into a pool on the floor of the Midnight-Confidential Club. From the shadows beyond the fringe of the illuminated218 area, Aadam and I saw Picture Singh sitting stiffly, cross-legged, next to a handsome Brylcreemed youth; each of them was surrounded by musical instruments and the closed baskets of their art. A loudspeaker announced the beginning of that legendary219 contest for the tide of Most Charming Man In The World; but who was listening? Did anyone even pay attention, or were they too busy with lips tongues hands? This was the name of Pictureji's opponent: the Maharaja of Cooch Naheen.
(I don't know: it's easy to assume a tide. But perhaps, perhaps he really was the grandson of that old Rani who had once, long ago, been a friend of Doctor Aziz; perhaps the heir to the supporter-of-the-Hummingbird was pitted, ironically, against the man who might have been the second Mian Abdullah! It's always possible; many maharajas have been poor since the Widow revoked220 their civil-list salaries.)
How long, in that sunless cavern221, did they struggle? Months, years, centuries? I cannot say: I watched, mesmerized222, as they strove to outdo one another, charming every kind of snake imaginable, asking for rare varieties to be sent from the Bombay snake-farm (where once Doctor Schaapsteker...); and the Maharaja matched Picture Singh snake for snake, succeeding even in charming constrictors, which only Pictureji had previously223 managed to do. In that infernal Club whose darkness was another aspect of its proprietor's obsession224 with the colour black (under whose influence he tanned his skin darker darker every day at the Sun 'n'
Sand), the two virtuosi goaded225 snakes into impossible feats226, making them tie themselves in knots, or bows, or persuading them to drink water from wine-glasses, and to jump through fiery227 hoops228 ... defying fatigue229, hunger and age, Picture Singh was putting on the show of his life (but was anyone looking?
Anyone at all?) - and at last it became clear that the younger man was tiring first; his snakes ceased to dance in time to his flute; and finally, through a piece of sleight-of-hand so fast that I did not see what happened, Picture Singh managed to knot a king cobra around the Maharaja's neck.
What Picture said: 'Give me best, captain, or I'll tell it to bite.'
That was the end of the contest. The humiliated230 princeling left the Club and was later reported to have shot himself in a taxi. And on the floor of his last great battle, Picture Singh collapsed231 like a falling banyan232 tree... blind attendants (to one of whom I entrusted233 Aadam) helped me carry him from the
field.
But the Midnight-Confidential had one trick left up its sleeve. Once a night - just to add a little spice - a roving spotlight234 searched out one of the illicit couples, and revealed them to the hidden eyes of their fellows: a touch of luminary235 Russian roulette which, no doubt, made life more thrilling for the city's young cosmopolitans236 ... and who was the chosen victim that night? Who, horn-templed stain-faced cucumber-nosed, was drowned in scandalous light? Who, made as blind as female attendants by the voyeurism237 of light-bulbs, almost dropped the legs of his unconscious friend?
Saleem returned to the city of his birth to stand illuminated in a cellar while Bombayites tittered at him from the dark.
Quickly now, because we have come to the end of incidents, I record that, in a back room in which light was permitted, Picture Singh recovered from his fainting fit; and while Aadam slept soundly, one of the blind waitresses brought us a congratulatory, reviving meal. On the thali of victory: samosas238, pakoras, rice, dal, puris; and green chutney. Yes, a little aluminium239 bowl of chutney, green, my God, green as grasshoppers240... and before long a puri was in my hand; and chutney was on the puri; and then I had tasted it, and almost imitated the fainting act of Picture Singh, because it carried me back to a day when I emerged nine-fingered from a hospital and went into exile at the home of Hanif Aziz, and was given the best chutney in the world... the taste of the chutney was more than just an echo of that long-ago taste - it was the old taste itself, the very same, with the power of bringing back the past as if it had never been away ... in frenzy241 of excitement, I grabbed the blind waitress by the arm; scarcely able to contain myself, I blurted242 out: 'The chutney! Who made it?' I must have shouted, because Picture, 'Quiet, captain, you'll wake the boy... and what's the matter? You look like you saw your worst enemy's ghost!' And the blind waitress, a little coldly: 'You don't like the chutney?' I had to hold back an almighty243 bellow244. 'I like it,' I said in a voice caged in bars of steel, 'I like it - now will you tell me where it's from?' And she, alarmed, anxious to get away: 'It's Braganza Pickle; best in Bombay, everyone knows.'
I made her bring me the jar; and there, on the label, was the address: of a building with a winking, saffron-and-green neon goddess over the gate, a factory watched over by neon Mumbadevi, while local trains went yellow-and-browning past: Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd, in the sprawling245 north of the town.
Once again an abracadabra, an open-sesame: words printed on a chutney-jar, opening the last door of my life ... I was seized by an irresistible246 determination to track down the maker247 of that impossible chutney of memory, and said, 'Pictureji, I must go ...'
I do not know the end of the story of Picture Singh; he refused to accompany me on my quest, and I saw in his eyes that the efforts of his struggle had broken something inside him, that his victory was, in fact, a defeat; but whether he is still in Bombay (perhaps working for Mr Shroff), or back with his washer-woman; whether he is still alive or not, I am not able to say... 'How can I leave you?'
I asked, desperately248, but he replied, 'Don't be a fool, captain; you have something you must do, then there is nothing to do but do it. Go, go, what do I want with you? Like old Resham told you: go, go quickly, go!'
Taking Aadam with me, I went.
Journey's end: from the underworld of the blind waitresses, I walked north north north, holding my son in my arms; and came at last to where flies are gobbled by lizards249, and vats250 bubble, and strong-armed women tell bawdy251 jokes; to this world of sharp-lipped overseers with conical breasts, and the all-pervasive clank of pickle-jars from the bottling-plant... and who, at the end of my road, planted herself in front of me, arms akimbo, hair glistening252 with perspiration253 on the forearms? Who, direct as ever, demanded, 'You, mister: what you want?'
'Me!' Padma is yelling, excited and a little embarrassed by the memory. 'Of course, who else? Me me me!'
'Good afternoon, Begum,' I said. (Padma interjects: 'O you - always so polite and all!') 'Good afternoon; may I speak to the manager?'
O grim, defensive254, obstinate255 Padma! 'Not possible, Manager Begum is busy. You must make appointment, come back later, so please go away just now.'
Listen: I would have stayed, persuaded, bullied256, even used force to get past my Padma's arms; but there was a cry from the catwalk - this catwalk, Padma, outside the offices! - the catwalk from which someone whom I have not been willing to name until now was looking down, across gigantic pickle-vats and simmering chutneys - someone rushing down clattering257 metal steps, shrieking258 at the top of her voice: 'O my God, O my God, O Jesus sweet Jesus, baba, my son, look who's come here, arre baba, don't you see me, look how thin you got, come, come, let me kiss you, let me give you cake!'
Just as I had guessed, the Manager Begum of Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd, who called herself Mrs Braganza, was of course my erstwhile ayah, the criminal of midnight, Miss Mary Pereira, the only mother I had left in the world.
Midnight, or thereabouts. A man carrying a folded (and intact) black umbrella walks towards my window from the direction of the railway tracks, stops, squats259, shits. Then sees me silhouetted260 against light and, instead of taking offence at my voyeurism, calls: 'Watch this!' and proceeds to extrude261 the longest turd I have ever seen. 'Fifteen inches!' he calls, 'How long can you make yours?' Once, when I was more energetic, I would have wanted to tell his life-story; the hour, and his possession of an umbrella, would have been all the connections I needed to begin the process of weaving him into my life, and I have no doubt that I'd have finished by proving his indispensability to anyone who wishes to understand my life and benighted262 times; but now I'm disconnected, unplugged, with only epitaphs left to write. So, waving at the champion defecator, I call back: 'Seven on a good day,' and forget him.
Tomorrow. Or the day after. The cracks will be waiting for August 15th. There is still a little time: I'll finish tomorrow.
Today I gave myself the day off and visited Mary. A long hot dusty bus-ride through streets beginning to bubble with the excitement of the coming Independence Day, although I can smell other, more tarnished263 perfumes: disillusion264, venality265, cynicism ... the nearly-thirty-one-year-old myth of freedom is no longer what it was. New myths are needed; but that's none of my business.
Mary Pereira, who now calls herself Mrs Braganza, lives with her sister Alice, now Mrs Fernandas, in an apartment in the pink obelisk of the Narlikar women on the two-storey hillock where once, in a demolished266 palace, she slept on a servant's mat. Her bedroom occupies more or less the same cube of air in which a fisherman's pointing finger led a pair of boyish eyes out towards the horizon; in a teak rocking-chair, Mary rocks my son, singing 'Red Sails In The Sunset'.
Red dhow-sails spread against the distant sky.
A pleasant enough day, on which old days are recalled. The day when I realized that an old cactus-bed had survived the revolution of the Narlikar women, and borrowing a spade from the mail, dug up a long-buried world: a tin globe containing yellowed ant-eaten jumbo-size baby-snap, credited to Kalidas Gupta, and a Prime Minister's letter. And days further off: for the dozenth time we chatter267 about the change in Mary Pereira's fortunes. How she owed it all to her dear Alice. Whose poor Mr Fernandes died of colour-blindness, having become confused, in his old Ford268 Prefect, at one of the city's then-few traffic lights.
How Alice visited her in Goa with the news that her employers, the fearsome and enterprising Narlikar women, were willing to put some of their tetrapod-money into a pickle firm. 'I told them, nobody makes achar-chutney like our Mary,'
Alice had said, with perfect accuracy, 'because she puts her feelings inside them.' So Alice turned out to be a good girl in the end. And baba, what do you think, how could I believe the whole world would want to eat my poor pickles, even in England they eat. And now, just think, I sit here where your dear house used to be, while God-knows what-all has happened to you, living like a beggar so long, what a world, baapu-re! And bitter-sweet lamentations: O, your poor mummy-daddy! That fine madam, dead! And the poor man, never knowing who loved him or how to love! And even the Monkey... but I interrupt, no, not dead: no, not true, not dead. Secretly, in a nunnery, eating bread.
Mary, who has stolen the name of poor Queen Catharine who gave these islands to the British, taught me the secrets of the pickling process. (Finishing an education which began in this very air-space when I stood in a kitchen as she stirred guilt269 into green chutney.) Now she sits at home, retired270 in her white-haired old-age, once more happy as an ayah with a baby to raise. 'Now you finished your writing-writing, baba, you should take more time for your son.'
But Mary, I did it for him. And she, switching the subject, because her mind makes all sorts of flea-jumps these days: 'O baba, baba, look at you, how old you got already!'
Rich Mary, who never-dreamed she would be rich, is still unable to sleep on beds. But drinks sixteen Coca-Colas a day, unworried about teeth, which have all fallen out anyway. A flea-jump: 'Why you getting married so sudden sudden?'
Because Padma wants. No, she is not in trouble, how could she, in my condition?
'Okay, baba, I only asked.'
And the day would have wound down peacefully, a twilight271 day near the end of time, except that now, at last, at the age of three years, one month and two weeks. Aadam Sinai uttered a sound.
'Ab...' Arre, O my God, listen, baba, the boy is saying something! And Aadam, very carefully: 'Abba...' Father. He is calling me father. But no, he has not finished, there is strain on his face, and finally my son, who will have to be a magician to cope with the world I'm leaving him, completes his awesome first word: '... cadabba.'
Abracadabra! But nothing happens, we do not turn into toads272, angels do not fly in through the window: the lad is just flexing273 his muscles. I shall not see his miracles.... Amid Mary's celebrations of Aadam's achievement, I go back to Padma, and the factory; my son's enigmatic first incursion into language has left a worrying fragrance in my nostrils274.
Abracadabra: not an Indian word at all, a cabbalistic formula derived275 from the name of the supreme276 god of the Basilidan gnostics, containing the number 365, the number of the days of the year, and of the heavens, and of the spirits emanating277 from the god Abraxas. 'Who,' I am wondering, not for the first time, 'does the boy imagine he is?
My special blends: I've been saving them up. Symbolic278 value of the pickling process: all the six hundred million eggs which gave birth to the population of India could fit inside a single, standard-sized pickle-jar; six hundred million spermatozoa could be lifted on a single spoon. Every pickle-jar (you will forgive me if I become florid for a moment) contains, therefore, the most exalted279 of possibilities: the feasibility of the chutnification of history; the grand hope of the pickling of time! I, however, have pickled chapters. Tonight, by screwing the lid firmly on to ajar bearing the legend Special Formula No. 30; 'Abracadabra', I reach the end of my long-winded autobiography280; in words and pickles, I have immortalized my memories, although distortions are inevitable281 in both methods. We must live, I'm afraid, with the shadows of imperfection.
These days, I manage the factory for Mary. Alice - 'Mrs Fernandes' - controls the finances; my responsibility is for the creative aspects of our work. (Of course I have forgiven Mary her crime; I need mothers as well as fathers, and a mother is beyond blame.) Amid the wholly-female workforce282 of Braganza Pickles, beneath the saffron-and-green winking of neon Mumbadevi, I choose mangoes tomatoes limes from the women who come at dawn with baskets on their heads.
Mary, with her ancient hatred283 of 'the mens', admits no males except myself into her new, comfortable universe... myself, and of course my son. Alice, I suspect, still has her little liaisons284; and Padma fell for me from the first, seeing in me an outlet285 for her vast reservoir of pent-up solicitude; I cannot answer for the rest of them, but the formidable competence286 of the Narlikar females is reflected, on this factory floor, in the strong-armed dedication287 of the vat-stirrers.
What is required for chutnification? Raw materials, obviously -fruit, vegetables, fish, vinegar, spkes. Daily visits from Koli women with their saris hitched288 up between their legs. Cucumbers aubergines mint. But also: eyes, blue as ice, which are undeceived by the superficial blandishments of fruit - which can see corruption289 beneath citrus-skin; fingers which, with featheriest touch, can probe the secret inconstant hearts of green tomatoes: and above all a nose capable of discerning the hidden languages of what-must-be-pickled, its humours and messages and emotions ... at Braganza Pickles, I supervise the production of Mary's legendary recipes; but there are also my special blends, in which, thanks to the powers of my drained nasal passages, I am able to include memories, dreams, ideas, so that once they enter mass-production all who consume them will know what pepperpots achieved in Pakistan, or how it felt to be in the Sundarbans ... believe don't believe but it's true. Thirty jars stand upon a shelf, waiting to be unleashed upon the amnesiac290 nation.
(And beside them, one jar stands empty.)
The process of revision should be constant and endless; don't think I'm satisfied with what I've done! Among my unhappinesses: an overly-harsh taste from those jars containing memories of my father, a certain ambiguity291 in the love-flavour of 'Jamila Singer' (Special Formula No. 22), which might lead the unperceptive to conclude that I've invented the whole story of the baby-swap to justify292 an incestuous love; vague implausibilides in the jar labelled 'Accident in a Washing-chest' - the pickle raises questions which are not fully164 answered, such as: Why did Saleem need an accident to acquire his powers? Most of the other children didn't ... Or again, in 'All-India Radio' and others, a discordant293 note in the orchestrated flavours: would Mary's confession have come as a shock to a true telepath? Sometimes, in the pickles' version of history, Saleem appears to have known too little; at other times, too much ... yes, I should revise and revise, improve and improve; but there is neither the time nor the energy. I am obliged to offer no more than this stubborn sentence: It happened that way because that's how it happened.
There is also the matter of the spice bases. The intricacies of turmeric and cumin, the subtlety294 of fenugreek, when to use large (and when small) cardamoms; the myriad295 possible effects of garlic, garam masala, stick cinnamon, coriander, ginger296 ... not to mention the flavourful contributions of the occasional speck297 of dirt. (Saleem is no longer obsessed298 with purity.) In the spice bases, I reconcile myself to the inevitable distortions of the pickling process. To pickle is to give immortality299, after all: fish, vegetables, fruit hang embalmed300 in spice-and-vinegar; a certain alteration301, a slight intensification302 of taste, is a small matter, surely? The art is to change the flavour in degree, but not in kind; and above all (in my thirty jars and ajar) to give it shape and 'form - that is to say, meaning. (I have mentioned my fear of absurdity303.)
One day, perhaps, the world may taste the pickles of history. They may be too strong for some palates, their smell may be overpowering, tears may rise to eyes; I hope nevertheless that it will be possible to say of them that they possess the authentic304 taste of truth ... that they are, despite everything, acts of love.
One empty jar ... how to end? Happily, with Mary in her teak rocking-chair and a son who has begun to speak? Amid recipes, and thirty jars with chapter-headings for names? In melancholy305, drowning in memories of Jamila and Parvati and even of Evie Burns? Or with the magic children... but then, should I be glad that some escaped, or end in the tragedy of the disintegrating306 effects of drainage?
(Because in drainage lie the origins of the cracks: my hapless, pulverized307 body, drained above and below, began to crack because it was dried out. Parched308, it yielded at last to the effects of a lifetime's battering309. And now there is rip tear crunch, and a stench issuing through the fissures310, which must be the smell of death. Control: I must retain control as long as possible.)
Or with questions: now that I can, I swear, see the cracks on the backs of my hands, cracks along my hairline and between my toes, why do I not bleed? Am I already so emptied desiccated pickled? Am I already the mummy of myself?
Or dreams: because last night the ghost of Reverend Mother appeared to me, staring down through the hole in a perforated cloud, waiting for my death so that she could weep a monsoon311 for forty days ... and I, floating outside my body, looked down on the foreshortened image of my self, and saw a grey-haired dwarf who once, in a mirror, looked relieved.
No, that won't do, I shall have to write the future as I have written the past, to set it down with the absolute certainty of a prophet. But the future cannot be preserved in a jar; one jar must remain empty ... What cannot be pickled, because it has not taken place, is that I shall reach my birthday, thirty-one today, and no doubt a marriage will take place, and Padma will have henna-tracery on her palms and soles, and also a new name, perhaps Naseem in honour of Reverend Mother's watching ghost, and outside the window there will be fireworks and crowds, because it will be Independence Day and the many-headed multitudes will be in the streets, and Kashmir will be waiting. I will have train-tickets in my pocket, there will be a taxi-cab driven by a country boy who once dreamed, at the Pioneer Cafe, of film-stardom, we will drive south south south into the.heart of the tumultuous crowds, who will be throwing balloons of paint at each other, at the wound-up windows of the cab, as if it were the day of the paint-festival of Holi; and along Hornby Vellard, where a dog was left to die, the crowd, the dense312 crowd, the crowd without boundaries, growing until it fills the world, will make progress impossible, we will abandon our taxi-cab and the dreams of its driver, on our feet in the thronging314 crowd, and yes, I will be separated from Padma, my dung-lotus extending an arm towards me across the turbulent sea, until she drowns in the crowd and I am alone in the vastness of the numbers, the numbers marching one two three, I am being buffeted315 right and left while rip tear crunch reaches its climax316, and my body is screaming, it cannot take this kind of treatment any more, but now I see familiar faces in the crowd, they are all here, my grandfather Aadam and his wife Naseem, and Alia and Mustapha and Hanif and Emerald, and Arnina who was Mumtaz, and Nadir who became Qasim, and Pia and Zafar who wet his bed and also General Zulfikar, they throng313 around me pushing shoving crushing, and the cracks are widening, pieces of my body are falling off, there is Jamila who has left her nunnery to be present on this last day, night is falling has fallen, there is a countdown ticktocking to midnight, fireworks and stars, the cardboard cut-outs of wrestlers, and I see that I shall never reach Kashmir, like Jehangir the Mughal Emperor I shall die with Kashmir on my lips, unable to see the valley of delights to which men go to enjoy life or to end it, or both; because now I see other figures in the crowd, the terrifying figure of a war-hero with lethal317 knees, who has found out how I cheated him of his birth-right, he is pushing towards me through the crowd which is now wholly composed of familiar faces, there is Rashid the rickshaw boy arm-in-arm with the Rani of Cooch Naheen, and Ayooba Shaheed Farooq with Mutasim the Handsome, and from another direction, the direction of Haji Ali's island tomb, I see a mythological apparition318 approaching, the Black Angel, except that as it nears me its face is green its eyes are black, a centre-parting in its hair, on the left green and on the right black, its eyes the eyes of Widows; Shiva and the Angel are closing closing, I hear lies being spoken in the night, anything you want to be you kin5 be, the greatest lie of all, cracking now, fission319 of Saleem, I am the bomb in Bombay, watch me explode, bones splitting breaking beneath the awful pressure of the crowd, bag of bones falling down down down, just as once at Jallianwala, but Dyer seems not to be present today, no Mercurochrome, only a broken creature spilling pieces of itself into the street, because I have been so-many too-many persons, life unlike syntax allows one more than three, and at last somewhere the striking of a clock, twelve chimes, release.
Yes, they will trample320 me underfoot, the numbers marching one two three, four hundred million five hundred six, reducing me to specks321 of voiceless dust, just as, all in good time, they will trample my son who is not my son, and his son who will not be his, and his who will not be his, until the thousand and first generation, until a thousand and one midnights have bestowed322 their terrible gifts and a thousand and one children have died, because it is the privilege and the curse of midnight's children to be both masters and victims of their times, to forsake323 privacy and be sucked into the annihilating324 whirlpool of the multitudes, and to be unable to live or die in peace.
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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stifling
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autobiographer
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| n.自传作者 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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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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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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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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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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abracadabra
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| n.咒语，胡言乱语 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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27
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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28
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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29
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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30
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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31
numinous
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| adj.庄严的，神圣的 | |
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32
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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33
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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34
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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35
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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36
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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37
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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38
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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39
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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40
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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41
seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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42
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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43
harassment
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| n.骚扰，扰乱，烦恼，烦乱 | |
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44
amnesia
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| n.健忘症，健忘 | |
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45
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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46
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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47
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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48
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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49
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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51
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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52
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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53
unleashed
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| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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55
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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56
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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57
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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58
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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59
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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60
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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61
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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62
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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63
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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64
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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65
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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66
complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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67
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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68
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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69
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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70
hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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71
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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72
hoydenish
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| adj.顽皮的，爱嬉闹的，男孩子气的 | |
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73
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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74
glands
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| n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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75
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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76
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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77
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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78
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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79
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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81
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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82
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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83
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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84
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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85
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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86
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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87
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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88
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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89
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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90
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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91
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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92
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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93
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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94
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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95
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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96
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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97
decant
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| v.慢慢倒出 | |
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98
pulped
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| 水果的肉质部分( pulp的过去式和过去分词 )； 果肉； 纸浆； 低级书刊 | |
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99
autocracy
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| n.独裁政治，独裁政府 | |
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100
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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101
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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102
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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103
peripheral
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| adj.周边的，外围的 | |
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104
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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105
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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106
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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108
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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109
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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110
expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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111
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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112
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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113
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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114
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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115
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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116
talismanic
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| adj.护身符的，避邪的 | |
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117
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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118
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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119
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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120
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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121
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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122
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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123
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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124
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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125
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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126
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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127
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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128
olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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129
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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130
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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131
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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132
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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133
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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134
aromas
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| n.芳香( aroma的名词复数 )；气味；风味；韵味 | |
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135
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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136
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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137
transistor
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| n.晶体管，晶体管收音机 | |
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138
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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139
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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140
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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141
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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142
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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143
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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144
omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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145
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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146
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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147
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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148
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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149
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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150
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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151
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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153
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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154
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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155
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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156
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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157
cacophony
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| n.刺耳的声音 | |
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158
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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159
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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160
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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161
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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162
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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165
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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166
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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167
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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168
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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169
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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170
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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171
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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172
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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174
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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175
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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176
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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177
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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178
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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179
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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180
skyscraper
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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181
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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182
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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183
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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184
flyovers
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| n.立交桥，高架公路( flyover的名词复数 )；（单机或编队）低空飞行 | |
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185
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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186
pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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187
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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188
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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189
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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190
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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191
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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192
stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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193
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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194
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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195
metro
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| n.地铁；adj.大都市的；(METRO)麦德隆(财富500强公司之一总部所在地德国，主要经营零售) | |
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196
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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197
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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198
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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199
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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200
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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201
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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202
cocooned
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| v.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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204
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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205
saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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206
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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207
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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208
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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209
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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210
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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212
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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213
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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214
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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215
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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216
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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217
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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218
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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219
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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220
revoked
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| adj.[法]取消的v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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222
mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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224
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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225
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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226
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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227
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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228
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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229
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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230
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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231
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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232
banyan
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| n.菩提树，榕树 | |
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233
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
spotlight
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| n.公众注意的中心，聚光灯，探照灯，视听，注意，醒目 | |
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235
luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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236
cosmopolitans
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|
| 世界性的( cosmopolitan的名词复数 )； 全球各国的； 有各国人的； 受各国文化影响的 | |
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237
voyeurism
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| n.窥阴癖者 | |
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238
samosas
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| n.萨莫萨三角饺( samosa的名词复数 ) | |
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239
aluminium
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| n.铝 (=aluminum) | |
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240
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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241
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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242
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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244
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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245
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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246
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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247
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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248
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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249
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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250
vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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251
bawdy
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| adj.淫猥的，下流的；n.粗话 | |
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252
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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253
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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254
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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255
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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256
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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257
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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258
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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259
squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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260
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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261
extrude
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| v.挤出；逐出 | |
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262
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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263
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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264
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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265
venality
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| n.贪赃枉法，腐败 | |
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266
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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267
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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268
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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269
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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270
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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271
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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272
toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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273
flexing
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| n.挠曲，可挠性v.屈曲( flex的现在分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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274
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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275
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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276
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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277
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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278
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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279
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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280
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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281
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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282
workforce
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| n.劳动大军，劳动力 | |
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283
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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284
liaisons
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| n.联络( liaison的名词复数 )；联络人；（尤指一方或双方已婚的）私通；组织单位间的交流与合作 | |
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285
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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286
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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287
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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288
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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289
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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290
amnesiac
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| 记忆缺失的，（引起） 遗忘（症）的 | |
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291
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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292
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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293
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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294
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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295
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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296
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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297
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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298
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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300
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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301
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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302
intensification
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| n.激烈化，增强明暗度；加厚 | |
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303
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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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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305
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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306
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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307
pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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308
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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309
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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310
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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311
monsoon
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| n.季雨，季风，大雨 | |
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312
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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313
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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314
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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315
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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316
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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317
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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318
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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319
fission
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| n.裂开；分裂生殖 | |
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320
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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321
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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322
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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323
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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324
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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