Chapter 21

　　I am the only person who truly knows what happened in the forest. Jimmy's story explained for me the mystery of the drowned Oscar Love and his miraculous reappearance several days later. Of course, it was the changelings, and all the evidence confirmed my suspicion of a failed attempt to steal the child. The dead body was that of a changeling, an old friend of mine. I could picture the face of the next in line but had erased their names. My life there had been spent imagining the day when I would begin my life in the upper world. As the decades passed, the cast of characters had shifted as, one by one, each became a changeling, found a child, and took its place. In time, I had come to resent every one of them and to disregard each new member of our tribe. I deliberately tried to forget them all. Did I say a friend of mine had died? I had no friends.
　　While gladdened by the prospect of one less devil in the woods, I was oddly disturbed by Jimmy's account of little Oscar Love, and I dreamt that night of a lonely boy like him in an old-fashioned parlor. A pair of finches dart about an ironwork cage. A samovar glistens. On the mantelpiece sits a row of leather-bound books gilded with Gothic letters spelling out foreign tides. The parlor walls papered crimson, heavy dark curtains shutting out the sun, a curious sofa covered with a latticed needlework throw. The boy is alone in the room on a humid afternoon, yet despite the heat, he wears woolen knickers and buttoned boots, a starched blue shirt, and a huge tie that looks like a Christmas bow. His long hair cascades in waves and curls, and he hunches over the piano, entranced by the keyboard, doggedly practicing an etude. From behind him comes another child, the same hair and build, but naked and creeping on the balls of his feet. The piano player plays on, oblivious to the menace. Other goblins steal out from behind the curtains, from under the settee; out of the woodwork and wallpaper, they advance like smoke. The finches scream and crash into the iron bars. The boy stops on a note, turns his head. I have seen him before. They attack as one, working together, this one covering the boy's nose and throat, another taking out the legs, a third pinning the boy's arms behind his back. From beyond the closed door, a man's voice: "Was ist los?" A thumping knock, and the door swings open. The threshold frames a large man with outrageous whiskers. "Gustav?" The father cries out as several hobgoblins rush to restrain him while the others take his son. "Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!"
　　I could still feel the anger in their eyes, the passion of their attack. Where is my father? A voice pierces the dream, calling "Henry, Henry," and I awaken to a damp pillowcase and twisted sheets. Stifling a yawn, I yelled downstairs that I was tired and that this had better be good. My mother shouted back through the door that there was a telephone call and that she was not my secretary. I threw on my bathrobe and headed downstairs.
　　"This is Henry Day," I grunted into the receiver.
　　She laughed. "Hi, Henry. This is Tess Wodehouse. I saw you out in the woods."
　　She could not imagine the reasons for my awkward silence.
　　"When we found the boy. The first one. I was with the ambulance."
　　"Right, the nurse. Tess, Tess, how are you?"
　　"Jimmy Cummings said to give you a call. Would you like to meet somewhere later?"
　　We arranged to meet after her shift, and she had me write down directions to her house. At the bottom of the page, I doodled the name: Gustav.
　　
　　
　　She answered the door and stepped straight out to the porch, the afternoon sunlight stippling across her face and yellow sundress. Out of the shadows, she dazzled. All at once, it seems in retrospect, she revealed what I grew to adore: the asymmetrical mottling of the colors in her irises, a blue vein snaking up her right temple that flashed like a semaphore for passion, the sudden exuberance of her crooked smile. Tess said my name and made it seem real.
　　We drove away, and the wind through the open window caught her hair and blew it across her face. When she laughed, she threw back her head, chin to the sky, and I longed to kiss her lovely neck. I drove as if we had a destination, but in our town there was no particular place to go. Tess turned down the radio, and we talked away the afternoon. She told me all about her life in public school, then on to college, where she had studied nursing. I told her all about parochial school and my aborted studies in music. A few miles outside of town, a new fried-chicken joint had opened recently, so we bought ourselves a bucketful. We stopped by Oscar's to steal a bottle of apple wine. We picnicked on a school playground, abandoned for the summer except for a pair of cardinals on the monkey bars, serenading us with their eight-note song.
　　"I used to think you were the strangest bird, Henry Day. When we were in elementary school together, you might have said two words to me. Or anyone. You were so distracted, as if you heard a song in your head that no one else could hear."
　　"I'm still that way," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm walking down the street or am quiet by myself, I play a tune, imagine my fingers on the keys, and can hear the notes as clear as day."
　　"You seem somewhere else, miles away."
　　"Not always. Not now."
　　Her face brightened and changed. "Strange, isn't it? About Oscar Love, that boy. Or should I say two little boys, alike as two pins."
　　I tried to change the subject. "My sisters are twins."
　　"How do you explain it?"
　　"It's been a long time since high school biology, but when an egg divides—"
　　She licked her fingers. "Not twins. The drowned boy and the lost boy."
　　"I had nothing to do with either one."
　　Tess swallowed a sip of wine and wiped her hands with a napkin. "You are an odd one, but that's what I liked about you, even when we were children. Since the first day I saw you in kindergarten."
　　I sincerely wished I had been there that day.
　　"And when I was a girl, I wanted to hear your song, the one that's playing in your head right now." She leaned across the blanket and kissed me.
　　I took her home at sunset, kissed her once at the door, and drove home in a mild euphoria. The house echoed like the inside of an empty shell. The twins were not home and my mother sat alone in the living room, watching the movie of the week on the television. Slippers crossed on the ottoman, her housecoat buttoned to the collar, she saluted me with a drink in her right hand. I sat down on the couch next to the easy chair and looked at her closely for the first time in years. We were getting older, no doubt, but she had aged well. She was much stouter than when we first met, but lovely still.
　　"How was your date, Henry?" She kept her eyes on the tube.
　　"Great, Mom, fine."
　　"See her again?"
　　"Tess? I hope so."
　　A commercial broke the story, and she turned to smile at me between sips.
　　"Mom, do you ever ..."
　　"What's that, Henry?"
　　"I don't know. Do you ever get lonely? Like you might go out on a date yourself?"
　　She laughed and seemed years younger. "What man would want to go out with an old thing like me?"
　　"You're not so old. And you look ten years younger than you are."
　　"Save your compliments for your nurse."
　　The program returned. "I thought—"
　　"Henry, I've given this thing an hour already. Let me see it to the end."
　　
　　
　　Tess changed my life, changed everything. After our impromptu picnic, we saw each other every day of that wonderful summer. I remember sitting side by side on a park bench, lunches on our laps, talking in the brilliant sunshine. She would turn to me, her face bathed in brightness, so that I would have to shade my eyes to look at her, and she told me stories that fed my desire for more stories, so that I might know her and not forget a single line. I loved each accidental touch, the heat of her, the way she made me feel alive and fully human.
　　On the Fourth of July, Oscar closed the bar and invited nearly half the town to a picnic along the riverbank. He had arranged the celebration in gratitude to all of the people who had helped in the search and rescue of his nephew, for the policemen and firemen, doctors and nurses, all of Little Oscar's schoolmates and teachers, the volunteers—such as myself, Jimmy, and George—the Loves and all their assorted relatives, a priest or two in mufti, and the inevitable hangers-on. A great feast was ordered. Pig in a pit. Chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs. Corn and watermelon trucked in from down south. Kegs of beer, bottles of the hard stuff, tubs of ice and sodas for the youngsters, a cake specially made in the city for the occasion—as big as a picnic table, iced in red, white, and blue with a gold THANK YOU in glittering script. The party began at four in the afternoon and lasted all night. When it became dark enough, a crew of firemen shot off a fireworks display, fading sparklers and candles popping and fizzing when they hit the river. Our town, like many places in America at the time, was divided by the war, but we put Vietnam and the marches behind us in deference to the celebration.
　　In the languorous heat. Tess looked delicious that evening, a cool smile, and bright lights in her eyes. I met all of her coworkers, the well-heeled doctors, a bevy of nurses, and far too many firemen and policemen, baked tan and swaggering. After the fireworks, she noticed her old sweetheart in the company of a new girl and insisted that we say hello. I could not shake the sensation that I had known him from my former life.
　　"Henry, you remember Brian Ungerland." We shook hands, and he introduced his new girlfriend to us both. The women slipped away to compare notes.
　　"So, Ungerland, that's an unusual name."
　　"German." He sipped his beer, stared at the women, who were laughing in an overly personal way.
　　"Your family from Germany?"
　　"Off the boat long time ago. My family's been in town for a hundred years."
　　A stray string of firecrackers went off in a rat-a-tat of pops.
　　"Came from a place called Eger, I think, but like I said, man, that was another life. Where are your people from, Henry?"
　　I told him the lie and studied him as he listened. The eyes clued me in, the set of the jaw, the aquiline nose. Put a walrus mustache on him, age Ungerland a few decades, and he would be a dead ringer for the man in my dreams. The father. Gustav's father. I shook off the notion as merely the odd conflation of my stressful nightmares and the anxiety of seeing Tess's old beau.
　　Jimmy Cummings crept from behind and nearly scared the life out of me. He laughed at my surprise and pointed to the ribbon hanging around his neck. "Hero for a day," he shouted, and I couldn't help but break into a broad grin. Little Oscar, as usual, appeared a bit dumbfounded by all the attention, but he smiled at strangers who tousled his hair and matrons who bent to kiss him on the cheek. Filled with good cheer, the warm evening passed in slow motion, the kind of day one recalls when feeling blue. Boys and girls chased fireflies in crazy circles. Sullen long-haired teens tossed a ball around with red-faced crew-cut policemen. In the middle of the night, when many had already headed for home, Lewis Love buttonholed me for the longest time. I missed half of what he said because I was watching Tess, who was engaged in animated conversation with her old boyfriend beneath a dark elm tree.
　　"I have a theory," Lewis told me. "He was scared, right, out all night, and he heard something. I don't know, like a raccoon or a fox, right? So he hides out in a hole, only it's real hot in there and he gets a fever."
　　She reached out and touched Ungerland on the arm, and they were laughing, only her hand stayed there.
　　"So he has this real weird dream—"
　　They were staring at each other, and old Oscar, oblivious to the end, marched up and joined their conversation. He was drunk and happy, but Tess and Brian were staring into each other's eyes, their expressions real serious, as if trying to communicate something without saying a word.
　　"I personally think it was just some hippies' old camping ground."
　　I wanted to tell him to shut up. Now Ungerland's hand was on her biceps, and they were all laughing. She touched her hair, nodded her head at whatever he was saying.
　　"... other kid was a runaway, but still you have to feel sorry ..."
　　She looked back my way, smiled and waved, as if nothing had been happening. I held her gaze a beat and tuned in to Lewis.
　　"... but nobody believes in fairy tales, right?"
　　"You're right, Lewis. I think your theory is dead-on. Only explanation possible."
　　Before he had the chance to thank me or say another word, I was five strides away, walking toward her. Oscar and Brian noticed my approach and wiped off the grins from their faces. They stared at the stars, finding nothing better to look at. I ignored them and whispered into her ear, and she coiled her arm around my back and under my shirt, tracing circles on my skin with her nails.
　　"What were you guys talking about? Something funny?"
　　"We were talking about you," Brian said. Oscar looked down the barrel of his bottle and grunted.
　　I walked Tess away from them, and she put her head on my shoulder without glancing back. She led me into the woods, to a spot away from the crowd, and lay down in the tall grass and ferns. Voices carried in the soft, heavy air, but their proximity only made the moment more exciting. She slipped out of her shorts and unbuckled my belt. I could hear a group of men laughing down by the river. She kissed me on the stomach, roughly pulled off my shorts. Someone was singing to her sweetheart somewhere far away, the melody on the breeze. I felt slightly drunk and very warm all of a sudden, and thought for an instant I heard someone approaching through the trees. Tess climbed on top of me, guiding us together, her long hair hanging down to frame her face, and she stared into my eyes as she rocked back and forth. The laughter and voices trailed away, car engines started, and people said good-bye, good night. I reached beneath her shirt. She did not avert her gaze.
　　"Do you know where you are, Henry Day?"
　　I closed my eyes.
　　"Do you know who you are, Henry Day?"
　　Her hair swept across my face. Someone blew a car horn and raced away. She tilted her pelvis and drove me deep inside.
　　"Tess."
　　And I said her name again. Someone threw a bottle in the river and broke the surface. She lowered herself, resting her arms, and we lay together, hot to the touch. I kissed the nape of her neck. Jimmy Cummings shouted, "So long, Henry" from the picnic area. Tess giggled, rolled off me, and slipped back into her clothes. I watched her dress and did not notice that, for the first time in ages, I was not afraid of the forest.

    惟有我真正知道林中发生了什么事。吉米的故事向我解释了奥斯卡·拉甫怎会溺死数日后再度奇迹般地出现。当然，那是换生灵，所有的证据都证明了我的猜疑：他们没有成功地偷走孩子。死者是换生灵，是我的一个老朋友。我能想起排在下一位的脸，但想不起他们的名字。我在那里的时候，整天想着总有一日我会在上面的世界中开始新生活。几十年过去了，那些人都一个接一个地走了，每个都成了换生灵，找到一个孩子，取代了对方的位置。慢慢地，我开始憎恨他们每个人，漠视队伍里的新成员。我故意忘记他们。我有没有说过我的一个朋友死了? 我没有朋友了。

　　在为森林中少了一个魔鬼而高兴的同时，我也因吉米对奥斯卡·拉甫的描述而莫名地不安起来。那天晚上，我梦见一个像他那样的孤独男孩待在一间老式的客厅里。一对小雀儿在铁笼子里蹦跳。一只俄式茶壶闪闪发亮，壁炉架上放着一排皮面装订的书，烫金的外国书名是用哥特字母拼成的。客厅贴着深红色的墙纸，厚重的深色窗帘挡住了阳光，一只造型奇特的沙发上披着格子花样的针织沙发罩。在一个潮湿的下午，男孩顶着酷热穿着羊毛灯笼裤和扣靴，浆直的蓝衬衫，还戴了一条很像圣诞节领结的大领带。他披着一头鬈曲的长发，朝钢琴倾着身子，全神贯注在琴键上，固执地弹着一首练习曲。他身后来了另一个孩子，同样的头发和身材，但全身赤裸，踮着脚悄悄走近。钢琴手无视于这等威胁，继续弹奏。其他妖精从窗帘后面，从靠背长椅下，从木制家具和墙纸边像一股轻烟似的冒出来。小雀儿尖叫着碰撞铁笼。男孩在一个音符上停下，回转头来。

　　我曾经见过他。他们同心协力发动攻击，一个按住男孩的鼻子和喉咙，另一个抓住他的腿，还有一个把男孩的双手反绑在背后。关闭的门后传来男人的声音：

　　“Was ist los?" 随着“砰砰”的敲门声，门打开了，门框里出现一个身材高大、络腮胡子的男人。“Gustav? ”几个精灵扑过去按住他，另外几个擒住他的儿子，父亲大叫道：“Ich erkenne dich!Du willst nur einen Sohn!”（这几句德文的意思分别是：”怎么了？。；“古斯塔夫? ”；“我认得你，你只能是我的儿子！”）我仍然能感受到他们眼中的愤怒，攻击的劲头。我的父亲在哪里? 一个声音刺穿梦境，叫道：“亨利，亨利。”我睁眼看到湿漉漉的枕套和乱糟糟的床单。我闷声打了个哈欠，朝楼下喊道我累了，想好好休息。母亲也在门外喊道有人打电话来，还说她可不是我秘书。我披上睡衣，冲下楼去。

　　“我是亨利·戴。”我对着话筒咕哝了一声。

　　她笑起来：“你好，亨利。我是泰思·伍德郝斯。我在树林里看到你了。”

　　她肯定无法想像我为何尴尬地沉默下来。

　　“我们找到那个孩子的时候。那第一个孩子。我在救护车边上。”

　　“对了，那个护士。泰思，泰思，你好吗? ”

　　“吉米·卡明斯说要给你打个电话。过一会儿你想在哪里见个面吗? ”

　　我们商量好她下班后见面，她让我记下她家地址。在纸页底端，我草草写上“古斯塔夫”这个名字。

　　她出来开门，走到门廊上，下午的阳光落在她脸上和黄色的背心裙上。从阴影处看去，她光芒四射。突然之间，仿佛回顾往事，她显露出我爱慕的特征：虹膜的色调斑驳不均，右侧太阳穴上蜿蜒着的青筋犹如热情洋溢的旗语在忽闪，她的嘴角一扬，笑得灿烂无比。泰思叫了我的名字，这使它像是真的。

　　我们驾车离开，从打开的车窗里吹进来的风把她的头发甩到脸上。她笑起来时，头往后仰，下颌朝天，我真想吻她可爱的脖子。我们像是有目的地开着车，但我们镇上没有特定的地方可去，泰思把收音机音量调小。下午我们就散步。她告诉我她在教会学校的生活，接着是上大学，学的是护理专业。我告诉她我在公立学校里的事，还有我中断的音乐学业。镇外几公里处有家新开张的炸鸡连锁店，我们就去买了一桶，然后在奥斯卡酒吧门口停下，进去偷了一瓶苹果酒。我们在一所学校的运动场上野餐，夏天已离我们而去，但还有一对红雀站在吊杆上，对我们唱着八音小夜曲。

　　“我以前以为你是个怪人，亨利·戴。我们一起念小学时，你大概就跟我说过两句话，或者你跟别人也是一样。你看起来失魂落魄的，好像在听着你头脑里的曲子，而别人都听不到。”

　　“我现在还是那样，”我告诉她，“有时候我在路上走，或一个人静悄悄的，就会来上一段，想像着手指落在琴键上，然后清清楚楚地听到音符。”

　　“你像是在别的地方，几公里外。”

　　“不是一直这样。不是现在。”

　　她的脸灿烂起来，表情变了。“奇怪，不是吗? 关于奥斯卡·拉甫，那个孩子。

　　或者我该说，跟两颗钉子一样像的两个小男孩。”

　　我想换个话题，“我的妹妹是双胞胎。”

　　“你怎么解释这件事? ”

　　“还是高中学的生物，很长时间了，当一个卵子分裂成……”

　　她舔了舔手指，“不是双胞胎。是淹死的男孩和失踪的男孩。”

　　“我跟这两个都没关系。”

　　泰思抿了一口酒，用餐巾擦着手。“你是个怪人，但我就是喜欢你这点．其军当转们还都是孩子时。从我第一天在幼儿园看到你开始。”

　　我真心诚意地希望那天是我在那里。

　　“我还小的时候，就想听你的歌，那首在你头脑里的歌。”她从毯子上靠过来，吻了我。

　　傍晚，我送她回家，在门口吻了她一下，然后心情愉快地开车回去了。屋子就像一个空壳似的发出回声。双胞胎不在家，母亲独自坐在起居室里，看电视里播放的每周电影。拖鞋叠在长凳上，家居服的纽扣扣到领子，她抬起右手的饮料，跟我打了个招呼。我坐在安乐椅边上的沙发里，这么多年来第一次细细打量她。我们无疑都长大变老了，但她老得厉害。她比我们初见时发福了不少，但仍然漂亮。

　　“亨利，你的约会怎么样? ”她仍然看着电视机说。

　　“挺好，妈，不错。”

　　“还会再见她吗? ”

　　“泰思? 我希望会吧。”

　　一个商业广告打断了电影，她喝着饮料，转过头朝我微笑。

　　“妈，你有没有……”

　　“什么，亨利? ”

　　“我不知道。你有没有觉得孤单呢? 比如你自己也可以去约会。”

　　她大笑起来，看上去年轻了好多岁。“哪个男人会想和我这样的老家伙出去呢?”

　　“你不是很老。而且你的样子比年龄要小十岁呢。”

　　“把恭维话留给你的护士吧。”

　　这个想法又来了，“我想……”

　　“亨利，我已经看了一个小时了。让我看到底吧。”

　　泰思改变了我的生活，改变了一切。自从野餐时毫无准备的事情发生后，那个烂漫的夏季，我们每天见面。我记得我们并肩坐在公园长凳上，腿上放着午餐，在明媚的阳光下说话。她会朝我转过身来，脸庞沐浴在亮光中，我不得不用手搭了凉棚去看她。她把她的事说给我听．我越听越想听。这样就可以了解她，一点都不忘记。我喜欢每次无意间的触碰、她身上的热量，她使我感觉自己活着并且完全活得像个人类。

　　七月四日，奥斯卡关了酒吧，请了镇上将近半数的人去河边野餐。他安排了庆祝活动，为了向所有在这次搜寻和营救侄子的行动中帮过忙的人们表示感谢。参加的人有警察和消防员，医生和护士，所有小奥斯卡的同学和老师，还有志愿者——比如我、吉米和乔治——拉甫一家和各门亲戚，一两个穿着便服的牧师，还有不可避免的来蹭饭的人。一场盛宴办起来了，土坑烤猪，鸡肉，牛肉饼，热狗，从南边运来的玉米和西瓜，小桶装的啤酒，瓶装烈性酒，给年轻人用的冰块和汽水，专为大宴群宾而去市里订制的蛋糕，它和野餐桌一样大，上面浇着红色、白色和蓝色的奶油，还写着闪光的金字“感谢您”。

　　聚会下午四点钟开始，搞了一整个晚上。天完全黑了以后，一队消防员放起了烟花，散落的火花和蜡烛碰到河面发出劈啪声和嘶嘶声。

　　当时，我们的镇子和美国其他很多地方一样，在战争这个问题上意见分歧，但我们为了庆典，将越南和进军抛之脑后。

　　在让人无精打采的大热天里，那个晚上泰思光彩照人，脸上挂着酷酷的笑容，眼里闪着明亮的光芒。我见到了她的所有同事，有钱的医生，一大帮护士，还有好多消防员和警察，都晒得黑不溜秋，走路大摇大摆。放完烟花，她看到她的前男友正和新女友在一起，她坚持说我们过去问个好。我总觉得我在前世认得他，我没法甩开这种感觉。

　　“亨利，你还记得布瑞恩·安格兰德吧。”我们握了手，他把新女友介绍给我们。两个女人溜到一边去交换意见了。

　　“哦，安格兰德，真是个少见的姓。”

　　“德国姓。”他啜着啤酒，看着那两个女人，她们非常自如地谈笑。

　　“你的家族是从德国来的? ”

　　“很久以前乘船来的。我的家族在镇上住了一百年了。”

　　一串刚才没放的鞭炮随着清脆的劈啪声爆开了。

　　“来自一个叫埃格尔的地方，我想，但要我说，伙计，那可是上辈子了。你的家族是从哪来的，亨利? ”

　　我撤了谎，他听我说话时，我打量着他。那双眼睛让我有所触动，还有这下巴的形状和鹰钩鼻子。如果在安格兰德嘴边加两绺粗长的胡须，再加上几十年的岁数，他可不就是我梦中那个男人? 那位父亲。古斯塔夫的父亲。我撇开了这个念头，只把它当做是我做噩梦的紧张情绪和看到泰思的旧情郎共同造成的幻觉。

　　吉米·卡明斯从后面悄悄挨上来，差点吓掉了我的魂。他笑我这么吃惊，指着自己脖子上悬挂的绸带。“今日英雄。”他大喝一声，我也忍俊不禁。小奥斯卡和往常一样，在众目睽睽下有点杲呆的，但每当有陌生人抚摸他的头发或主妇们弯腰吻他的脸时，他也朝他们微笑。这个暖意融融的夜晚充满欢情，慢慢地过去了，人们在情绪低落时就会想起这种日子。男孩女孩们开心地绕着圈追萤火虫，郁郁寡欢的长发少年和一队红脸膛警察在传球。到了半夜，很多人已经回家，路易斯·拉甫硬拉着我听他说话，但我有一半没听进去，因为我一直看着泰思，她正在一株阴暗的榆树下和她前男友热烈地交谈。

　　“我有个想法，”路易斯对我说，“他被吓坏了，对的，整个晚上在外面，又听到了什么声音。我不知道，比如浣熊或者狐狸，对吧? 所以他藏到了洞里，那里面太热了，他发了烧。”

　　她伸手碰了安格兰德的胳膊，他们哈哈大笑，但她的手还放在那里。

　　“所以他就做了那个稀奇古怪的梦……”

　　他们盯着对方直瞧，一直没有看到的大奥斯卡走上前来加入他们的谈话。他喝得醉醺醺的，兴高采烈，但泰思和布瑞恩凝视着对方的眼睛，表情严肃，好像在沉默中交流着什么。

　　“我个人认为那不过是以前某些嬉皮士驻扎的营地罢了。”

　　我想让他住口。现在安格兰德的手放在她胳膊上，他们都在笑。

　　她摸了摸头发，无论他说什么她都点头。

　　“……另一个孩子是离家出走，但你还是感到难过……”

　　她朝我这边看来，微笑着挥手，好像什么都没发生。我接到她的目光，心扑通一跳，回头听路易斯说话。

　　“……但没有人相信仙灵故事，对吗? ”

　　“你说得对，路易斯。我想你的想法是完全正确的。这是惟一可能的解释。”

　　他还没来得感谢我或者说些别的，我已经迈开五步远了，朝她走过去。奥斯卡和布瑞恩看到我过来，就把脸上的笑容抹去了。他们望着星星，找不到更好的东西来看。我不理睬他们，在她耳边小声说话，她把胳膊搭在我背上，伸进我衬衫底下，用指甲在我皮肤上划圆圈。

　　“你们在谈什么? 有趣的事情? ”

　　“我们在谈你。”布瑞思说。奥斯卡低头看着他酒瓶的瓶颈，咕哝了一句。

　　我带着泰思走开，她把头靠在我肩膀上，再没有回头看一眼。她带我走进树林，来到一处远离大家的地方，躺倒在茂密的青草和蕨叶上。轻柔而又沉重的空气中传来话语，但这只会让这一刻更加兴奋。

　　她脱下短裤，解下我的腰带。我听到一伙人在河那边大笑。她吻着我的肚子，粗鲁地脱下我的短裤。远处，有人对她的心上人唱着歌，悦耳的音调飘在风里。突然间，我有微醺之意，周身发热，有那么一刻，我以为听到有人从树林中走来。泰思爬到我身上，引导着我们，她的长发垂下来衬着脸庞，她前后摇摆，看着我的眼睛。笑声和话语渐渐消失，汽车发动了，人们互道再见、晚安。我伸手探入她的衬衫，她没有转开视线。

　　“你知道你在哪里吗，亨利·戴? ”

　　我闭上眼睛。

　　“你知道你是谁吗，亨利·戴? ”

　　她的头发扫过我的脸。有人按了汽车喇叭，开走了。她翘起臀部，让我更加深入。

　　“泰思。”

　　我又念了一遍她的名字。有人往河里扔了一个瓶子，水面打破了。她伏下身，放下胳膊，我们躺在一起，肌肤火烫。我吻了她的后颈。吉米·卡明斯从野餐处大叫一声：“再见，亨利。”泰思咯咯直笑，从我身上滚下来，穿起衣服。我看着她穿衣，却没有想到，这么多年我第一次没有害怕森林。