Chapter 15

　　Moving back home from college brought a kind of stupor to my daily life, and my nights became a waking dread. If I wasn't pounding out yet another imitation on the piano, I was behind the bar, tending to the usual crowd with demons of their own. I had fallen into a routine at Oscar's when the strangest of them all arrived and ordered a shot of whiskey. He slid the glass against the rail and stared at it. I went on to the next customer, poured a beer, sliced a lemon, and came back to the guy, and the drink was sitting undisturbed. He was a pixy fellow, clean, sober, in a cheap suit and tie, and as far as I could tell, he hadn't lifted his hands from his lap.
　　"What's the matter, mister? You haven't touched your drink."
　　"Would you give it to me on the house if I can make that glass move without touching it?"
　　"What do you mean, 'move'? How far?"
　　"How far would it have to move for you to believe?"
　　"Not far." I was hooked. "Move it at all, and you have a deal."
　　He reached out his right hand to shake on it, and beneath him, the glass started sliding slowly down the bar until it came to a halt about five inches to his left. "A magician never reveals the secret to the trick. Tom McInnes."
　　"Henry Day," I said. "A lot of guys come in here with all sorts of tricks but that's the best I ever saw."
　　"I'll pay for this," McInnes said, putting a dollar on the bar. "But you owe me another. In a fresh glass, if you please, Mr. Day."
　　He gulped the second shot and pulled the original glass back in front of him. Over the next several hours, he suckered four people with that same trick. Yet he never touched the first glass of whiskey. He drank for free all night. Around eleven, McInnes stood up to go home, leaving the shot on the bar.
　　"Hey, Mac, your drink," I called after him.
　　"Never touch the stuff," he said, slipping into a raincoat. "And I highly advise you not to drink it, either."
　　I lifted the glass to my nose for a smell.
　　"Leaded." He held up a small magnet he had concealed in his left hand. "But you knew that, right?"
　　Swirling the glass in my hand, I could now see the iron filings at the bottom.
　　"Part of my study of mankind," he said, "and our willingness to believe in what cannot be seen."
　　McInnes became a regular at Oscar's, coming in four or five times a week over the next few years, curiously intent on fooling the patrons with new tricks or puzzles. Sometimes a riddle or complicated math game involving picking a number, doubling it, adding seven, subtracting one's age and so forth, until the victim was right back where he'd started. Or a game involving matches, a deck of cards, a sleight of hand. The drinks he won were of small consequence, for his pleasure resulted from the gullibility of his neighbors. And he was mysterious in other ways. On those nights The Coverboys performed, McInnes sat close to the door. Sometimes between sets he'd come up to chat with the boys, and he hit it off with Jimmy Cummings, of all people, a fine example of the artless thinker. But if we played the wrong song, McInnes could be guaranteed to vanish. When we started covering The Beatles in '63 or '64, he would walk out each time at the opening bars of "Do You Want to Know a Secret?" Like a lot of drunks, McInnes became more himself after he'd had a few. He never acted soused. Not more loquacious or morose, merely more relaxed in his skin, and sharper around the edges. And he could consume mass quantities of alcohol at a sitting, more than anyone I have ever known. Oscar asked him one night about his strange capacity for drink.
　　"It's a matter of mind over matter. A cheap trick hinged upon a small secret."
　　"And what might that be?"
　　"I don't honestly know. It's a gift, really, and at the same time a curse. But I'll tell you, in order to drink so much, there has to be something behind the thirst."
　　"So what makes you thirsty, you old camel?" Cummings laughed.
　　"The insufferable impudence of today's youth. I would have tenure now were it not for callow freshmen and the slippery matter of publication."
　　"You were a professor?" I asked.
　　"Anthropology. My specialization was the use of mythology and theology as cultural rituals."
　　Cummings interrupted: "Slow down, Mac. I never went to college."
　　"How people use myth and superstition to explain the human condition. I was particularly interested in the pre-psychology of parenting and once started a book about rural practices in the British Isles, Scandinavia, and Ger-many."
　　"So you drink because of some old flame, then?" Oscar asked, turning the conversation back to its origins.
　　"I wish to God it was a woman." He spied the one or two females in the bar and lowered his voice. "No, women have been very good to me. It's the mind, boys. The relentless thinking machine. The incessant demands of tomorrow and the yesterdays piled up like a heap of corpses. It's this life and all those before it."
　　Oscar chewed on a reed. "Life before life?"
　　"Like reincarnation?" Cummings asked.
　　"I don't know about that, but I do know that a few special people re-member events from the past, events from too long ago. Put them under a spell, and you'd be amazed at the stories that come out from deep within. What happened a century ago, they talk about as if it were just yesterday. Or today."
　　"'Under a spell'?" I asked.
　　"Hypnosis, the curse of Mesmer, the waking sleep. The transcendent trance."
　　Oscar looked suspicious. "Hypnosis. Another one of your party tricks."
　　"I've been known to put a few people under," said McInnes. "They've told tales from their own dreaming minds too incredible to believe, but with such feeling and authority that one is convinced that they were telling the truth. People do and see strange things when they're under."
　　Cummings jumped in. "I'd like to be hypnotized."
　　"Stay behind after the bar is closed, and I'll do it."
　　At two in the morning after the crowd left, McInnes ordered Oscar to dim the lights and asked George and me to stay absolutely quiet. He sat next to Jimmy and told him to close his eyes; then McInnes started speaking to him in a low, modulated voice, describing restful places and peaceful circumstances in such vivid detail that I'm surprised we all didn't fall asleep. McInnes ran a few tests, checking on whether Jimmy was under.
　　"Raise your right arm straight out in front of you. It's made of the world's strongest steel, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot bend it."
　　Cummings stuck out his right arm and could not flex it; nor, for that matter, could Oscar or George or I when we tried, for it felt like a real iron bar. McInnes ran through a few more tests, then he started asking questions to which Cummings replied in a dead monotone. "Who's your favorite musician, Jimmy?"
　　"Louis Armstrong."
　　We laughed at the secret admission. In his waking life, he would have claimed some rock drummer like Charlie Watts of the Stones, but never Satchmo.
　　"Good. When I touch your eyes, you'll open them, and for the next few minutes you'll be Louis Armstrong."
　　Jimmy was a skinny white boy, but when he popped open those baby blues, the transformation came instantaneously. His mouth twisted into Armstrong's famous wide smile, which he wiped from time to time with an imaginary handkerchief, and he spoke in a gravelly skat voice. Even though Jimmy never sang on any of our numbers, he did a passing fair rendition of some old thing called "I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You," and then, using his thumb as a mouthpiece and his fingers as the horn, blatted out a jazz bridge. Normally Cummings hid behind his drums, but he jumped up on a table and would be entertaining the room still, had he not slipped on a slick of beer and fallen to the floor.
　　McInnes raced to him. "When I count to three and snap my fingers," he said to the slouching body, "you'll wake up, feeling refreshed as if you have slept soundly each night this week. I want you to remember, Jimmy, that when you hear someone say Satchmo, you'll have the uncontrollable urge to sing out a few bars as Louis Armstrong. Can you remember that?"
　　"Uh-huh," Cummings said from his trance.
　　"Good, but you won't remember anything else except this dream. Now, I'm going to snap my fingers, and you'll wake up, happy and refreshed."
　　A goofy grin smeared on his face, he woke and blinked at each one of us, as if he could not imagine why we were all staring at him. Upon serial questioning, he recalled nothing about the past half-hour.
　　"And you don't remember," Oscar asked, "Satchmo?"
　　Cummings began singing "Hello, Dolly!" and suddenly stopped himself.
　　"Mr. Jimmy Cummings, the hippest man alive," George laughed.
　　We all gassed Cummings over the next few days, working in "Satchmo" now and again until the magic words wore off. But the events of that night played over in my imagination. For weeks afterward, I pestered McInnes for more information on how hypnosis worked, but all he could say was that "the subconscious rises to the surface and allows repressed inclinations and memories free play." Dissatisfied with his answers, I drove over to the library in town on my days off and submerged myself in research. From the sleep temples of ancient Egypt through Mesmer and on to Freud, hypnosis has been around in one form or another for millennia, with philosophers and scientists arguing over its validity. A piece from The International Journal of Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis settled the debate for me: "It is the patient, not the therapist, who is in control of the depth to which the imagination reaches the subconscious." I tore the quote from the page and tucked it into my wallet, reading the words now and again as if repeating a mantra.
　　
　　
　　Convinced that I could manage my own imagination and subconscious, I finally asked McInnes to hypnotize me. As if he knew the way back to a forgotten land, McInnes could tap into my repressed life and tell me who I was, where I came from. And if it was merely truthful and revealed my German roots, the story would be derided by anyone who heard it as a fantastical delusion. We had all heard it before: In a former life, I was Cleopatra, Shakespeare, the Genghis Khan.
　　What would be harder to laugh off or explain was my life as a hobgoblin in the forest—especially that awful August night when I became a changeling and stole the boy away. Ever since my time with the Days, I had been carefully erasing every vestige of the changeling life. It could be dangerous if, under hypnosis, I would not be able to recall anything about Henry Day's childhood prior to age seven. My mothers tales of Henry's childhood had been so often repeated that I not only believed she was talking about me, but at times thought I remembered that life. Such created memories are made of glass.
　　McInnes knew my halt-story, what he had gathered from hanging around the bar. He had heard me talk about my mother and sisters, my aborted college career. I even confessed to him my crush on Tess Wodehouse one night when she came round with her boyfriend. But he had no clue about the other side of my tale. Anything I accidentally divulged would have to be rationalized away. My desire for the truth about the German boy trumped my fear of being unmasked as a changeling.
　　The last drunk staggered away for the night, and Oscar closed the cash register and hung up his apron. On his way out, he threw me the keys to lock the doors while McInnes turned off all the lights except for a lamp at the end of the bar. The boys said their good-byes, and McInnes and I were alone in the room. Panic and apprehension clawed at me. Suppose I said something about the real Henry Day and gave myself away? What if he tried to blackmail me or threatened to expose me to the authorities? The thought crossed my mind: I could kill him, and nobody would even know he was gone. For the first time in years, I felt myself reverting to something wild, an animal, all instinct. But the moment he began, panic subsided.
　　In the dark and empty bar, we sat across from each other at a small table and listening as McInnes droned on, I felt made of stone. His voice came from a distance above and beyond me, and he controlled my actions and feelings with his words, which shaped my very existence. Giving in to the voice was a bit like falling in love. Submit, let go. My limbs were pulled by tremendous gravity, as if being sucked out of space and time. Light disappeared, re-placed by the sudden snap of a projected beam. A movie had begun on the white wall of my mind. The film itself, however, lacked both a narrative and any distinct visual style that would allow one to draw conclusions or make inferences. No story, no plot, just character and sensation. A face appears, speaks, and I am scared. A cold hand wraps around my ankle. A shout is followed by discordant notes from the piano. My cheek pressed against a chest, a hand hugging my head close to the breast. At some conscious level, I glimpsed a boy, who quickly turned his face from me. Whatever happened next resulted from the clash of inertia and chaos. The major chords were altogether ignored.
　　The first thing I did when McInnes snapped me out of the trance was to look at the clock—four in the morning. As Cummings had described the sensation, I, too, felt curiously refreshed, as if I had slept for eight hours, yet my sticky shirt and the matted hair at my temples belied that possibility. McInnes seemed totally worn and wrung-out. He pulled himself a draft and drank it down like a man home from the desert. In the dim light of the empty bar, he eyed me with incredulity and fascination. I offered him a Camel, and we sat smoking in the dead of morning.
　　"Did I say anything revealing?" I asked at last.
　　"Do you know any German?"
　　"A smattering," I replied. "Two years in high school."
　　"You were speaking German like the Brothers Grimm."
　　"What did I say? What did you make of it?"
　　"I'm not sure. What's a Wechselbalg?"
　　"I never heard of the word."
　　"You cried out as if something terrible was happening to you. Something about der Teufel. The devil, right?"
　　"I never met the man."
　　"And the Feen. Is that a fiend?"
　　"Maybe."
　　"Der Kobolden? You shrieked when you saw them, whatever they are. Any ideas?"
　　"None."
　　"Entführend?"
　　"Sorry."
　　"I could not tell what you were trying to say. It was a mash of languages. You were with your parents, I think, or calling out for your parents, and it was all in German, something about mit, mit—that's 'with,' right? You wanted to go with them?"
　　"But my parents aren't German."
　　"The ones you were remembering are. Someone came along, the fiends or the devils or der Kobolden, and they wanted to take you away."
　　I swallowed. The scene was coming back to me.
　　"Whoever or whatever it was grabbed you, and you were crying out for Mama and Papa and das Klavier."
　　"The piano."
　　"I never heard anything like it, and you said you were stolen away. And I asked, 'When?' and you said something in German I could not understand, so I asked you again, and you said, 'Fifty-nine,' and I said, 'That can't be. That's only six years ago. 'And you said, clear as a bell, 'No ... 1859.' "
　　McInnes blinked his eyes and looked closely at me. I was shaking, so I lit another cigarette. We stared at the smoke, not saying a word. He finished first and ground out the butt so hard that he nearly broke the ashtray.
　　"I don't know what to say."
　　"Know what I think?" McInnes asked. "I think you were remembering a past life. I think you may have once upon a time been a German boy."
　　"I find that hard to believe."
　　"Have you ever heard of the changeling myth?"
　　"I don't believe in fairy tales."
　　"Well ... when I asked you about your father, all you said was, 'He knows.'" McInnes yawned. Morning was quite nearly upon us. "What do you think he knew, Henry? Do you think he knew about the past?"
　　I knew, but I did not say. There was coffee at the bar and eggs in a miniature refrigerator. Using the hot plate in the back, I made us breakfast, settling my wayward thoughts by concentrating on simple tasks. A kind of hazy, dirty light seeped in through the windows at dawn. I stood behind the counter; he sat in front on his usual stool, and we ate our scrambled eggs and drank our coffee black. At that hour the room looked worn and pitiful, and McInnes's eyes tired and vacant, the way my father had appeared the last time we met.
　　He put on his hat and shrugged into his coat. An awkward pause between us let me know that he would not be coming back. The night had been too raw and strange for the old professor. "Good-bye, and good luck."
　　As his hand turned the knob, I called out for him to wait. "What was my name," I asked, "in this so-called former life of mine?"
　　He did not bother to turn around. "You know, I never thought to ask."

    从学校搬回家后，我整天都精神恍惚，夜晚成了可怕的失眠。平日里，我不是在钢琴上敲打一段别人的曲子，就是在吧台后面照应那些常客，他们个个心怀鬼胎。

　　我在奥斯卡酒吧开始按部就班地干活时，他们中间最古怪的那个就来了，叫上一杯威土忌。他把玻璃杯靠着吧台栏杆滑过去，两眼直盯。我走到下一个顾客身边，倒上一杯啤酒，切一片柠檬，再回到那个家伙那里，他的酒一点都没动。他像个精灵，干净，冷静，穿廉价西装，打领带，我发现他的手一直没有从腿上抬起来过。

　　“怎么啦，先生? 你酒都没碰。”

　　“如果我不碰这杯子就让它移动，这杯酒你会不会让我免费喝? ”

　　“你是什么意思，‘移动’? 移动多远? ”

　　“移动多远才能让你相信? ”

　　“不用远，”我上钩了，“只要它动，你就赢了。”

　　他伸出右手朝它摆动，玻璃杯就在他眼皮底下的吧台上慢慢滑动，滑到距离他左手十来公分处停下。“魔术师从不透露魔术的秘法。我叫汤姆·麦克伊内斯。”

　　“我叫亨利·戴，”我说，“很多来这里的家伙都会玩把戏，但这是我见过最好的。”

　　“这杯酒我来付账，”麦克伊内斯说着，在吧台上放下一个美元，“但你还欠我一杯。换个干净杯子吧，如果你高兴的话，戴先生。”

　　他喝掉第二杯，把原先那杯放回自己身前。此后几小时，他用同一种把戏喝了四个人的酒，但却从不碰第一杯威士忌。整个晚上他都在白喝酒。十一点左右，麦克伊内斯起身回家，那杯酒留在吧台上。

　　“嗨，麦克，你的酒。”我叫住他。

　　“我不碰这东西，”他边说边穿上雨衣，“我强烈建议你也不要喝。”

　　我把杯子举到鼻下闻了闻。

　　“沉了东西，”他拿出一块藏在左手心里的小磁铁，“但你是知道的，对吧? ”

　　我晃了晃手里的玻璃杯，才发现底部的铁屑。

　　“这是我对人类研究的一部分，”他说，“研究我们在多大程度上愿意相信看不到的东西。”

　　麦克伊内斯成了奥斯卡酒吧的常客，后来几年，他每周都来四五次，特别喜欢愚弄那些会耍新把戏和出难题的顾客。有时候他出一个谜语，或玩一个复杂的算术游戏：选一个数字，乘上2 ，加上7 ，减去自己的年龄等等，最后那个倒霉蛋发现又得到了第一个数字。还有一个游戏和火柴、纸牌、手法有关。他赢来的酒并不足道，因为他的乐趣在于看到旁人轻易地受骗上当。其他地方他也让人捉摸不透。

　　“封面男孩’’晚上表演时，麦克伊内斯就坐在门边。有时候在两曲之间，他会过来和男孩们聊天，所有人中，他和卡明斯相处得最好，卡明斯是朴实思想家的优良典范。但假如我们演奏的曲子不对头，麦克伊内斯一定会消失。我们弹63或64年“甲壳虫乐队”的曲子时，他每次听到《你想知道一个秘密吗?>的前奏，就会走人。和众多醉鬼一样，麦克伊内斯多喝几杯后就会更加自在，但他从不撒酒疯，也不会喋喋不休或举止古怪，他只是放松自己的外表，但棱角却更露锋芒。

　　他能一口气喝下很多酒，这点比我知道的任何一个人都厉害。一天晚上奥斯卡问他，怎会有如此与众不同的酒量。

　　“这关系到对事物的看法。差劲的把戏靠的是小秘密。”

　　“那大概是什么呢? ”

　　“我不是很清楚。这是一种天赋，说真的，同时也是一种诅咒。

　　不过我告诉你，要喝下这么多，必定有口渴的原因。”

　　“那么是什么让你口渴呢? 老骆驼。”卡明斯大笑。

　　“现在的年轻人脸皮厚得叫人忍无可忍。要不是那帮初出茅庐的一年级生，还有非得发表作品的麻烦事，我现在还在任教呢。”

　　“你是个教授? ”我问。

　　“搞人类学。我的专业是研究神话学和神学里的文化仪式。”

　　卡明斯插嘴说，“说慢点，麦克。我没上过大学。”

　　“研究人们怎么运用神话和迷信来解释人类的状况。我特别感兴趣的是生育之前的心理状态，曾经写过一本关于大不列颠爱尔兰、斯堪的纳维亚和德国的乡村习俗的书。”

　　“那么你喝酒是为了旧日激情? ”奥斯卡问道，又把问题兜了回去。

　　“我求上帝让我这样是为了女人。”他看了一下酒吧里的一两位女性，压低声音说，“不，女人一直对我很好。是因为头脑，孩子们。

　　这台无情的思想机器。未来和过去不断的企求就像一堆尸体摞在那里。那是今生的生命，还有所有之前的生命。”

　　奥斯卡含着簧片问：“生命前的生命? ”

　　“就像重生? ”卡明斯问。

　　“那个我不知道，但我知道有几个特别的人记得以前的事，很久以前发生的事。

　　给他们下咒，你就会惊讶地听到他们内心深处的故事。一个世纪前的事，他们说起来就像发生在昨天和今天一样。”

　　…下咒’? ”我问。

　　“催眠术，麦斯默的咒语，神志清醒的睡眠。超验的昏睡状态。”

　　奥斯卡面露怀疑，“催眠术。又是你在聚会上玩的把戏。”

　　“大家知道我催眠过几个人。”麦克伊内斯说，“他们说出自己梦见的故事，简直不可思议，但他们有那么一种感觉和权威，让听的人相信他们说的是真话。被催眠的人会做出奇怪的事来，也会看到奇怪的事。”

　　卡明斯插话说：“我想被催眠。”

　　“酒吧关门后待着别走，我来给你做。”

　　凌晨两点，众人都走后，麦克伊内斯让奥斯卡把灯光打暗，叫乔治和我保持肃静。他坐在吉米身边，让他闭上眼睛。随后麦克伊内斯开始用一种低沉、刻意的声音跟他说话，用生动的细节描述着安静的地方和幽静的环境，我奇怪的是我们居然都没有睡着。麦克伊内斯做了几道测试，检查吉米是否已被催眠。

　　“抬起你的右臂，在身前举平。这是用世界上最坚硬的钢铁制成的，无论你怎么试，都弄不弯它。”

　　卡明斯伸出右臂，没法把它弯过来，而且，无论乔治还是我来试，它都确实像一根真正的铁条。麦克伊内斯又做了几个测试，接着开始提问，卡明斯则用呆板单调的声音回答。“吉米，谁是你最喜欢的音乐家? ”

　　“路易斯·阿姆斯特朗。”

　　我们窃笑起来。在清醒的时候，他会说是某个摇滚乐鼓手，诸如滚石乐队的查理·沃兹，但绝不会说沙奇摩。

　　“好。我碰到你的眼睛时，你就睁开眼，之后几分钟之内你就是路易斯·阿姆斯特朗。”

　　吉米是个瘦削的白种男孩，但当他瞪大那双淡蓝色的眼睛时，样子顿时变了。

　　他的嘴扭曲成阿姆斯特朗著名的大嘴笑，不时地用一条想像出来的手帕去擦嘴，用沙哑的声音说话。虽然吉米从未在我们任何一个面前唱过歌，这时他却唱起一首老歌《你死了我高兴，你这坏蛋》，而且唱得还不错。接着，他把拇指当做吹口，其他手指当做喇叭，吹出一段爵士曲中的过渡乐句。平日里，卡明斯总是待在他的爵士鼓后面，但此刻他竟然跳上桌子，要为寂静的房间演奏一曲，可他在一摊啤酒上滑了一下，摔到了地上。

　　麦克伊内斯跑到他身边。“我数到三，打个响指，”他对那具懒洋洋的身体说：“你就醒过来，觉得精神倍爽，就像这一周里你每晚都睡得很好。我要你记住，吉米，当你听到某人说沙奇摩时，你就会情不自禁地想和路易斯·阿姆斯特朗一样唱上几句。能记住吗? ”

　　“唔……呼。”卡明斯精神恍惚地说。

　　“好，但除此之外，你不会记得这个梦中的其他事情。现在，我要打响指了，你要醒来了，心情愉快，精神倍爽。”

　　他脸上展开一抹傻笑，醒过来朝我们每个人眨巴眼睛，好似没法设想我们为何都眼睁睁地望着他。问了他一系列问题，他对之前半小时全无记忆。

　　“难道你也不记得了，”奥斯卡问，“沙奇摩? ”

　　卡明斯开唱道：“哈哕，多莉! ”然后突然自己住了口。

　　“吉米·卡明斯先生是这世上最伟大的嬉皮士。”乔治大笑。

　　后来几天，我们都不时用“沙奇摩”捉弄卡明斯，直到这个词的咒力慢慢消退。

　　那晚的情景一次次在我眼前重现，此后几周，我缠着麦克伊内斯打听催眠术是怎样产生作用的，但他只说“潜意识浮现后，受压抑的倾向和记忆被释放”。我对他的回答不甚满意，就在白天休息时去了镇上的图书馆，泡在那里查找。从古埃及的沉睡神殿到麦斯默到弗洛伊德，催眠术已经在不同的形式下历经千年，哲学家和科学家们对其有效性争论不休。《国际临床和实验催眠术》杂志中的一篇文章为我了结了这段公案：“控制想像进入潜意识的深度的不是临床医学家，而是患者。”我把这页上的这句话撕了下来，藏进口袋，像吟诵咒语一般，时时念叨着。

　　相信自己可以掌控自己的想像和潜意识后，我终于请麦克伊内斯来给我催眠。

　　他好像知道如何返回那片被遗忘的土地，探入我被压抑的生命，告诉我我是什么人，来自何方。假如这故事是真的，而且揭示了我的德国血统，任何一个听到的人都会嗤之以鼻，把它当作天马行空的幻想。我们都曾听人说过：前世我是克娄芭、莎土比亚、成吉思汗。

　　难以一笑了之也难以解释清楚的是我在森林里的妖怪生活——尤其是那个可怕的八月夜晚，我变成换生灵偷走了那个男孩。自从我在戴家生活后，我小心谨慎地抹去所有换生灵的痕迹。危险的是，在催眠状态下，我没法想起亨利·戴七岁之前的任何事。我母亲无数次讲起亨利·戴的童年往事，弄得我不仅相信她说的是我自己，有时还觉得自己记得那时的生活。但这种创造出来的记忆犹如玻璃制成。

　　麦克伊内斯知道我一半的经历，他是从酒吧里零零星星打听来的。他听我说起过我的母亲和妹妹，我中断了的学业。我还告诉他，某晚泰思·伍德郝斯携男友来时，我对她突如其来的钟情。无论我有怎样的心血来潮，都会被理性慢慢驱走。我害怕暴露换生灵的身份，但我更渴望知道德国男孩的真相。

　　最后一个酒鬼摇摇晃晃地回家睡觉了，奥斯卡关了收银机，收起他的围裙。他出去时，把钥匙甩给我，叫我锁门。麦克伊内斯关了所有的灯，只在酒吧一头留了一盏。男孩们告别离去，麦克伊内斯和我单独留在房间里。惊慌和忧虑抓挠着我的心。万一我说出了真亨利·戴的什么事，而把我自己暴露了可怎么办? 如果他来敲诈我，或威胁要去当局告发我可怎么办? 我一时想到，我能杀了他，无人会知道他死了。多年来我第一次觉得自己回归野性，又变回了一头动物，本能勃发。但他一开始催眠，我的恐惧就平息了。

　　在黑沉沉、空荡荡的酒吧里，我们面对面坐在一个小桌子上，我听着麦克伊内斯低沉的说话声，觉得自己好像是石头做成的。他的声音从高远处飘来，用言语控制了我的动作和感觉，把我变成各种形态。听从那个声音的感觉有点像坠入爱河。

　　屈服，放松。我的四肢仿佛被时空吸走一般，被巨大的重力拉直了。灯光消失了，代之而起的是“啪”的一下打亮的投影光束，我脑中的白墙上开始放一场电影。

　　但是这部电影却缺少叙述环节和清晰的视觉风格，没法让我承前启后地理出头绪。没有故事，没有情节，只有人物和感觉。一张脸出现了，说着话，我吓了一大跳。一只冷手抓住了我的脚踝。钢琴发出不谐和的乐音，紧跟着一声大叫。我的脸靠在一个胸口上，一只手抱着我的头靠近乳房。在某个看得清楚的环节上，我瞥见一个男孩飞快地把脸朝我转开。接下来发生的事在惯性和混乱中碰撞，主旋律完全被忽视了。

　　麦克伊内斯打响指让我从浑噩状态中醒来时，我第一件事就是看钟——凌晨四点。正如卡明斯描述的感觉那样，我也感到出奇地精神，好像已经睡足八个小时，但我脏兮兮的衬衫和额角上乱糟糟的头发否定了这个可能。麦克伊内斯仿佛筋疲力尽，他给自己倒了一杯酒，喝得像个从沙漠回来的人。在空酒吧昏暗的灯光下，他用难以置信和异常激动的眼光打量着我。我递给他一支“骆驼”，我们坐着吸烟，时间已是凌晨。

　　“我说了什么事吗? ”我终于问。

　　“你懂德语吗? ”

　　“略知一二，”我回答说，“高二时学的。”

　　“你就像格林兄弟一样讲着德语。”

　　“我说了什么? 你听出了什么? ”

　　“我不确定。Wechselbalg ①是什么? ”

　　“我从没听过这个词。”

　　“你大叫着好像发生了什么可怕的事。和Teufel有关。是魔鬼，对吗? ”

　　“我没见过那个人。”

　　“还有Feen。是一个敌人吗? ”

　　“大概吧。”

　　“Kobolden呢? 你看到它们就尖叫起来，不知道它们是什么东西。有印象吗? ”

　　“没有。”

　　“Entfihrend? ”

　　“抱歉。”

　　“我不知道你想说什么。语言混杂在一起。我想，你是和你父母在一起，或者在呼唤你的父母，而且都是用德语说的，什么mit ，mit ——那是‘和’，对吗?

　　你想和他们一起去? ”

　　“但我父母不是德国人。”

　　“你记得的父母是德国人。别的人来了，不是敌人就是魔鬼，或者是Kobolden，他们想把你带走。”

　　我吞了口唾沫，又想起了那个情景。

　　“不知道是谁或什么东西抓走了你，你大叫着妈妈爸爸，还有Klavier 。”

　　“是钢琴。”

　　“我从来没有听过这种事，你说你被偷走了。我就问，‘什么时候? ’你用德语说了什么，我没听懂，我又问了一遍，你说是59年，我说‘不可能。。那只是六年前。’你又说了，说得非常清楚，‘不……1859年。

　　麦克伊内斯眨着眼，细细打量我。我在发抖，于是又点了一支烟。我们看着烟，什么都没说。他吸完第一支，用力按灭烟头，烟灰缸差点被他弄破。

　　“我不知道说什么好。”

　　“知道我怎么想吗? ”麦克伊内斯问，“我觉得你是想起了前生。

　　我想你也许以前是个德国孩子。”

　　“我觉得不可思议。”

　　“你听说过换生灵的神话吗? ”

　　“我不相信神话故事。”

　　“嗯……我问到你父亲时，你只是说‘他知道’。”麦克伊内斯打了个哈欠，天快亮了。“你觉得他知道什么，亨利? 你觉得他知道过去吗? ”

　　我知道，但我没说。酒吧里有咖啡，小冰箱里有鸡蛋。我用里间的平底锅做早饭，把心神集中到简单的工作上，让纷乱的情绪平静下来。一缕朦胧、昏暗的晨光穿过窗子。我站在柜台后面，他坐在前面的老座位上，我们吃着炒蛋，喝着黑咖啡。

　　当时，房间看起来乱七八糟，麦克伊内斯双眼疲惫茫然，就像我和父亲最后一次碰面时他的样子。

　　他戴上帽子，穿上外套。我们尴尬地沉默了片刻，我知道，他不会再回来了。

　　这一晚对这位老资格的教授而言太惊心动魄，也太离奇古怪了。“再见，祝你好运。”

　　他转动门把时，我大声叫住他。“我的名字是什么，”我问，“在我所谓的前生? ”

　　他连头都没回，“哦，我没想过要问。”