Foreword
Foreword
by Mark Easterbrook
There are two methods, it seems to me, of approaching this strange busi-ness of the Pale Horse. In spite of the dictum of the White King, it is diffi-cult to achieve simplicity. One cannot, that is to say, “Begin at the begin-ning, go on to the end, and then stop.” For where is the beginning?
To a historian, that always is the difficulty. At what point in history doesone particular portion of history begin.
In this case, you can begin at the moment when Father Gorman set forthfrom his presbytery to visit a dying woman. Or you can start before that,on a certain evening in Chelsea.
Perhaps, since I am writing the greater part of this narrative myself, it isthere that I should begin.
前言
前言
马克•伊斯特布鲁克
在我看来，开始讲述关于灰马酒店的这件怪事有两种方法。要想做到言简意赅着实不容易，也就是说，你很难像白王 [1] 所说得那样，“从最初开始，一直到最后，然后就此打住”。毕竟，究竟哪儿才算得上是最初呢？
对于一个历史学家来说，确定一段特定的历史在整个历史长河中到底始于何时，向来都是难点所在。
就这件事而言，你可以从戈尔曼神父自他的住处动身去探望一个濒死的女人开始，或者从更早些时候在切尔西 [2] 的某个晚上说起。
鉴于本书的大部分都是由我亲自执笔，或许我应该把后者作为整个故事的开端吧。
[1]英国童话作家刘易斯•卡罗尔的童话作品《爱丽丝漫游奇境记》中的人物。
[2]以前英格兰大伦敦地区下辖的一个自治市，现在是肯辛顿-切尔西区的一部分。
One Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative（1）
One Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I
The Espresso machine behind my shoulder hissed like an angry snake.
The noise it made had a sinister, not to say devilish, suggestion about it.
Perhaps, I reflected, most of our contemporary noises carry that implica-tion. The intimidating angry scream of jet planes as they flash across thesky; the slow menacing rumble of a tube train approaching through itstunnel; the heavy road transport that shakes the very foundations of yourhouse… Even the minor domestic noises of today, beneficial in actionthough they may be, yet carry a kind of alert. The dishwashers, the refri-gerators, the pressure cookers, the whining vacuum cleaners—“Be care-ful,” they all seem to say. “I am a genie harnessed to your service, but ifyour control of me fails….”
A dangerous world—that was it, a dangerous world.
I stirred the foaming cup placed in front of me. It smelt pleasant.
“What else will you have? Nice banana and bacon sandwich?”
It seemed an odd juxtaposition to me. Bananas I connected with mychildhood — or occasionally flambé with sugar and rum. Bacon, in mymind, was firmly associated with eggs. However, when in Chelsea, eat asChelsea does. I agreed to a nice banana and bacon sandwich.
Although I lived in Chelsea—that is to say, I had had a furnished flatthere for the last three months—I was in every other way a stranger inthese parts. I was writing a book on certain aspects of Mogul architecture,but for that purpose I could have lived in Hampstead or Bloomsbury orStreatham or Chelsea and it would have been all the same to me. I was ob-livious of my surroundings except for the tools of my trade, and the neigh-bourhood in which I lived was completely indifferent to me, I existed in aworld of my own.
On this particular evening, however, I had suffered from one of thosesudden revulsions that all writers know.
Mogul architecture, Mogul Emperors, the Mogul way of life—and all thefascinating problems it raised, became suddenly as dust and ashes. Whatdid they matter? Why did I want to write about them?
I flicked back various pages, rereading what I had written. It all seemedto me uniformly bad—poorly written and singularly devoid of interest.
Whoever had said “History is bunk” (Henry Ford?) had been absolutelyright.
I pushed back my manuscript with loathing, got up and looked at mywatch. The time was close on eleven p.m. I tried to remember if I had haddinner… From my inner sensations I thought not. Lunch, yes, at the Athen-aeum. That was a long time ago.
I went and looked into the refrigerator. There was a small remnant ofdesiccated tongue. I looked at it without favour. So it was that I wanderedout into the King’s Road, and eventually turned into an Espresso CoffeeBar with the name Luigi written in red neon light across its window, andwas now contemplating a bacon and banana sandwich whilst I reflectedon the sinister implications of present-day noises and their atmosphericeffects.
All of them, I thought, had something in common with my early memor-ies of pantomime. Davy Jones arriving from his locker in clouds of smoke!
Trap doors and windows that exuded the infernal powers of evil, challen-ging and defying a Good Fairy Diamond, or some such name, who in turnwaved an inadequate-looking wand and recited hopeful platitudes as tothe ultimate triumph of good in a flat voice, thus prefacing the inevitable“song of the moment” which never had anything to do with the story ofthat particular pantomime.
It came to me suddenly that evil was, perhaps, necessarily always moreimpressive than good. It had to make a show! It had to startle and chal-lenge! It was instability attacking stability. And in the end, I thought, sta-bility will always win. Stability can survive the triteness of Good Fairy Dia-mond; the flat voice, the rhymed couplet, even the irrelevant vocal state-ment of “There’s a Winding Road runs down the Hill, To the Olde WorldTown I love.” All very poor weapons it would seem, and yet thoseweapons would inevitably prevail. The pantomime would end in the wayit always ended. The staircase, and the descending cast in order of senior-ity, with Good Fairy Diamond, practising the Christian virtue of humilityand not seeking to be first (or, in this case, last) but arriving about halfwaythrough the procession, side by side with her late opponent, now seen tobe no longer the snarling Demon King breathing fire and brimstone, butjust a man dressed up in red tights.
The Espresso hissed again in my ear. I signalled for another cup of cof-fee and looked around me. A sister of mine was always accusing me of notbeing observant, not noticing what was going on. “You live in a world ofyour own,” she would say accusingly. Now, with a feeling of conscious vir-tue, I took note of what was going on. It was almost impossible not to readabout the coffee bars of Chelsea and their patrons every day in the news-papers; this was my chance to make my own appraisal of contemporarylife.
It was rather dark in the Espresso, so you could not see very clearly. Theclientele were almost all young people. They were, I supposed vaguely,what was called the offbeat generation. The girls looked, as girls alwaysdid look to me nowadays, dirty. They also seemed to be much too warmlydressed. I had noticed that when I had gone out a few weeks ago to dinewith some friends. The girl who had sat next to me had been abouttwenty. The restaurant was hot, but she had worn a yellow wool pullover,a black skirt and black woollen stockings, and the perspiration poureddown her face all through the meal. She smelt of perspiration-soaked wooland also, strongly, of unwashed hair. She was said, according to myfriends, to be very attractive. Not to me! My only reaction was a yearningto throw her into a hot bath, give her a cake of soap and urge her to get onwith it! Which just showed, I suppose, how out of touch with the times Iwas. Perhaps it came of having lived abroad so much. I recalled withpleasure Indian women with their beautifully-coiled black hair, and theirsaris of pure bright colours hanging in graceful folds, and the rhythmicsway of their bodies as they walked….
I was recalled from these pleasant thoughts by a sudden accentuation ofnoise. Two young women at the table next to me had started a quarrel.
The young men who were with them tried to adjust things, but withoutavail.
Suddenly they were screaming at each other. One girl slapped theother’s face, the second dragged the first from her chair. They fought eachother like fishwives, screaming abuse hysterically. One was a tousled red-head, the other a lank-haired blonde.
What the quarrel was about, apart from terms of abuse, I did not gather.
Cries and catcalls arose from other tables.
“Attagirl! Sock her, Lou!”
The proprietor behind the bar, a slim Italian-looking fellow with side-burns, whom I had taken to be Luigi, came to intervene in a voice that waspure cockney London.
“Nah then—break it up—break it up—You’ll ’ave the whole street in in aminute. You’ll ’ave the coppers here. Stop it, I say.”
But the lank blonde had the redhead by the hair and was tugging furi-ously as she screamed:
“You’re nothing but a man-stealing bitch!”
“Bitch yourself.”
Luigi and the two embarrassed escorts forced the girls apart. In theblonde’s fingers were large tufts of red hair. She held them aloft gleefully,then dropped them on the floor.
The door from the street was pushed open and Authority, dressed inblue, stood on the threshold and uttered the regulation words majestic-ally.
“What’s going on here?”
Immediately a common front was presented to the enemy.
“Just a bit of fun,” said one of the young men.
“That’s all,” said Luigi. “Just a bit of fun among friends.”
With his foot he kicked the tufts of hair adroitly under the nearest table.
The contestants smiled at each other in false amnesty.
The policeman looked at everybody suspiciously.
“We’re just going now,” said the blonde sweetly. “Come on, Doug.”
By a coincidence several other people were just going. Authoritywatched them go grimly. His eye said that he was overlooking it this time,but he’d got his eye on them. He withdrew slowly.
The redhead’s escort paid the check.
“You all right?” said Luigi to the girl who was adjusting a headscarf.
“Lou served you pretty bad, tearing out your hair by the roots like that.”
“It didn’t hurt,” said the girl nonchalantly. She smiled at him. “Sorry forthe row, Luigi.”
The party went out. The bar was now practically empty. I felt in mypocket for change.
“She’s a sport all right,” said Luigi approvingly watching the door close.
He seized a floor brush and swept the tufts of red hair behind the counter.
“It must have been agony,” I said.
“I’d have hollered if it had been me,” admitted Luigi. “But she’s a realsport, Tommy is.”
“You know her well?”
“Oh, she’s in here most evenings. Tuckerton, that’s her name, Thomas-ina Tuckerton, if you want the whole set out. But Tommy Tucker’s whatshe’s called round here. Stinking rich, too. Her old man left her a fortune,and what does she go and do? Comes to Chelsea, lives in a slummy roomhalfway to Wandsworth Bridge, and mooches around with a gang all do-ing the same thing. Beats me, half of that crowd’s got money. Could haveany mortal thing they want; stay at the Ritz if they liked. But they seem toget a kick out of living the way they do. Yes—it beats me.”
“It wouldn’t be your choice?”
“Ar, I’ve got sense!” said Luigi. “As it is, I just cash in.”
I rose to go and asked what the quarrel was about.
“Oh, Tommy’s got hold of the other girl’s boyfriend. He’s not worth fight-ing about, believe me!”
“The other girl seemed to think he was,” I observed.
“Oh, Lou’s very romantic,” said Luigi tolerantly.
It was not my idea of romance, but I did not say so.
第一章 马克·伊斯特布鲁克的笔述（1）
第一章 马克•伊斯特布鲁克的笔述
1
我身后的那台意式浓缩咖啡机发出咝咝声，好像一条愤怒的蛇。这种响动即便称不上如魔鬼一般，里面也带着一股邪恶劲儿。我想，兴许时下我们身边充斥的各种声音中都蕴含这种意味。喷气式飞机掠过天空时发出令人恐惧的愤怒呼啸；地铁列车从隧道中缓缓驶来时伴随着充满危险的隆隆低吼；笨重的运输车辆来来往往时让你的房子恨不得连地基都跟着一起摇晃……即使如今那些小型家居用品，尽管可能会为生活带来便利，但它们所产生的噪声也依然挟带着某种令人警觉的东西。洗碗机、电冰箱、高压锅、呜呜作响的真空吸尘器——似乎无一不在告诉人们：“小心点儿，我可是个妖怪，你要是管得住我，我就任凭你调遣，不过一旦你控制不住我的话……”
一个危险的世界——没错，这就是个危险的世界。
我搅动着摆在我面前的杯子中的泡沫。它闻起来香气四溢。
“您还想要些什么别的？美味的香蕉培根三明治怎么样？”
这种搭配给我的感觉挺奇怪。香蕉让我想起我的童年时光——那时把它们用糖和朗姆酒腌渍之后烤着吃。而培根在我心目中则是和鸡蛋紧密联系在一起的。不过，既然身在切尔西，也就入乡随俗，尝尝他们的吃法吧。我同意来一份美味的香蕉培根三明治。
虽说我住在切尔西——或者应该说，过去的三个月里我在这里拥有一套带家具的公寓——但对于这个地区而言，在各方面我都还是个生人。我正在撰写一本与莫卧儿 [1] 建筑的某些方面相关的书，不过就这个目的而言，无论我是住在汉普斯特德，布鲁姆斯伯利，还是斯特里特姆，或者切尔西，其实都是一样的。除了写书需要的东西之外，我对身边的其他事物毫不在意，对我住所周围的邻里也漠不关心。我只活在自己的世界里。
然而在这个特别的夜晚，我遭遇了所有写书人都熟知的那种突如其来的厌恶感。
莫卧儿人的建筑，莫卧儿人的皇帝，莫卧儿人的生活方式——以及由它们引出的一切令人着迷的疑问，仿佛倏忽之间就化为了尘土。这些事究竟有什么要紧的？而我又为什么想要写它们呢？
我往回翻阅前面的书稿，重读自己所写的内容。所有这些在我看来都一样糟糕透顶——简直写得一无是处，让人完全提不起兴趣。是谁曾经说过“历史都是些胡说八道”来着（是亨利•福特吗？）——绝对让他说中了。
我嫌恶地推开自己的手稿，站起身来看了看表。眼看就晚上十一点了，我试着回想我是否已经用过了晚餐……从内心里我觉得还没有。午饭肯定吃过，就在雅典娜俱乐部。不过那也是很久以前的事情了。
我走过去打开冰箱瞧了瞧，还剩下一小块干牛舌。看着它我一点儿食欲都没有。于是我就出来游荡，走上了国王路，最后拐进了这家窗户上挂着红色霓虹灯，门面写着“路易吉”的咖啡馆。此时我正一边盯着一份香蕉培根三明治，一边思索着当今生活中种种嘈杂所蕴藏的险恶意味，以及它们对周遭产生的影响。
我想，所有这些都与我早年间对于圣诞童话剧的记忆有相通之处。戴维•琼斯 [2] 在层层烟雾中从他的箱子里钻出来！活板门窗里透着股地狱般的邪恶力量，仿佛在向善良的仙女黛蒙德（或者其他哪个类似名字的仙女）下战书，而仙女则一边挥舞着手中不伦不类的魔法棒，一边用平淡的声音念念有词，说着最终胜利一定属于好人之类的鼓舞人心的套话。
接着总会奏起一首口水歌，实际上歌曲和童话剧的故事内容压根儿就是风马牛不相及。
我突然想到，也许邪恶总是要比善良给人留下的印象更深刻。因为它必须有所展示，必须让人大吃一惊，必须要向善良发出挑战！这是动荡向稳定发起的攻击。而我觉得最后的胜利终将属于稳定。稳定能够使好仙女黛蒙德那一套老掉牙的把戏得以长存，包括那平淡的声音，那押韵的语句，甚至也包括像“一条山间小路蜿蜒下行，通往我心爱的老沃德镇”这样毫不相干的台词。这些玩意儿看上去是那么苍白无力，但是有了它们就能战无不胜。童话剧总是会以一成不变的方式收尾，演员们按照角色的主次依序来到楼梯之上，扮演好仙女黛蒙德的演员则会充分体现出基督徒的谦逊美德，并不抢先（或者在这种情况下，走在最后）出场谢幕，而是会与此前她在剧中的死对头肩并肩一起出现在队伍中间。
此时的他也已经不再是刚才那个怒火三丈、咆哮不已的魔王，而只是个穿着红色紧身服的男子罢了。
咖啡机再次在我耳边咝咝作响。我抬手又叫了一杯，然后环顾四周。我有一个姐姐总批评我，说我不善于观察，丝毫不关心周围发生的事情。她会语带责备地说：“你就活在你自己的世界里。”于是眼下，带着一种刻意，我开始关注起我的身边。每天的报纸上都会有切尔西的咖啡馆和它们那些老主顾的消息，你无法视而不见；这便成了我的机会，可以对现代生活做出自己的评判。
这家意式咖啡馆里灯光昏暗，让人很难看清周围的情况。客人几乎是清一色的年轻人。我隐隐猜测他们应该就是所谓的“反传统一代”。姑娘们就跟如今我所见到的其他诸多女孩子一样，显得脏兮兮的，而且看上去穿得实在太多了。几个星期以前我外出和一些朋友吃饭的时候就发现了这一点。当时坐在我旁边的女孩子年纪大约二十岁，餐馆里很热，她却穿着一件黄色的羊毛套衫，一条黑色的裙子，还有黑色的呢绒长袜。整顿饭的时间里，汗水不停地从她的脸上往下淌。她身上散发着一股被汗水浸透了的羊毛味儿，再有就是脏了吧唧的头发透出的那股浓烈的馊味儿。按照我朋友的说法，这姑娘相当迷人。我可是一点儿没觉得！我对她唯一的反应就是迫切地想把她扔到澡盆里，给她一块肥皂，逼着她赶快洗个热水澡！我想，这样的反应恰好说明了我是多么落伍于时代吧。也许都是我长期旅居国外的结果。我总是会高兴地回想起印度的妇女，她们乌黑的长发漂亮地绾起，色彩纯正亮丽的纱丽以优雅的皱褶裹住身体，走起路来左右轻摆，摇曳生姿……忽然间，一阵喧哗把我从愉快的思绪中拽了回来。我邻桌的两名年轻女子争执起来。
跟她们在一起的小伙子试图进行劝解，不过丝毫不起作用。
两个人突然就开始了高声对骂。其中一个女孩打了另外那个一记耳光，后者则一把把前者从椅子里揪了起来。两人尖叫着厮打在一处，夹杂着恶语相向，像两个泼妇一般。其中一个人留着乱蓬蓬的红头发，另一个则有着一头又长又直、了无光泽的金发。
除去那些辱骂之词，我实在听不出来她们究竟是为了什么争吵。这时从其他桌旁也响起了起哄的叫声和嘘声。
“好样儿的，卢！狠狠地揍她！”
吧台后面的老板是个留着连鬓胡子的瘦削男人，外表看着像意大利人，我心里认定他就是路易吉。他用一种纯正的伦敦东区口音发话了。
“够啦——都给我住手——快住手——你们就快把整条街的人都招来啦。非得把警察也惊动了不可。我说，别打啦。”
但是那个金发姑娘的手里依然抓着红发姑娘的头发，一边愤怒地撕扯一边破口大骂：“你就是个只会偷男人的婊子！”
“你才是婊子。”
路易吉在两个尴尬的护花使者的帮助之下，强行将两个女孩拉开，金发女郎的手里还攥着一大把红色的头发。她得意地高高举起头发，然后扔在了地上。
临街的门被推开了，一名身穿蓝色制服的警官站在门口，威风凛凛地抛出他的执法词。
“这里出什么事儿了？”
转瞬间，一条共同阵线就在敌人面前建立起来了。
“只是随便玩玩儿。”其中一个小伙子说。
“没错儿，”路易吉接道，“不过是朋友之间的小打小闹。”
他机灵地用脚把那一把头发踢到了最近的桌子底下。两个对手则虚情假意地相视一笑。
警官满腹狐疑地看着每个人。
“我们正好要走了，”金发女郎甜甜地说，“来吧，道格。”
说来也巧，其他几个人也正准备离开。警官一脸严肃地目送他们离去。他的眼神仿佛在说：这次可以就这样睁一眼闭一眼，不过他已经盯上他们了。紧接着他也缓缓地踱了出去。
红发女郎的男伴付了账单。
“你还好吧？”路易吉对这个正在整理头巾的女孩说，“卢对你下手够狠的，居然把你的头发像那样连根拔起来了。”
“其实不疼。”女孩若无其事地冲他笑了笑，“抱歉给你惹麻烦了，路易吉。”
他们俩随即也离开了。此时此刻，店里已经空了。我伸手到口袋里摸零钱。
“她还真是随和大度啊。”路易吉看着门关上的同时，赞许地说道。他抓起扫帚，把那把红头发扫到了柜台后面。
“肯定特别疼。”我说。
“要是换成我，早就大喊大叫了。”路易吉也承认，“不过她，汤米，还真是个挺能忍的人。”
“你跟她熟吗？”
“哦，她几乎天天晚上都来这儿。她姓塔克顿，你要是想知道全名的话，她叫托马西娜•塔克顿。不过这附近的人都叫她汤米•塔克。她富得流油，老爹给她留了一大笔钱，可她都干了些什么？搬来切尔西，住在去往旺兹沃思桥半道上的一所破房子里，整天和一帮人无所事事，到处闲逛。我真搞不懂，那帮人当中一半都很有钱。他们想要什么就能有什么，愿意的话住豪华酒店都不在话下。但他们看上去就喜欢过这种日子。唉，我是真的搞不懂。”
“若是你，你不会这样？”
“嘿，我可是个理智的人！”路易吉说道，“事实上，我才刚刚赚了点儿钱。”
我起身准备要走，顺口问了问他刚才的争吵究竟是因为什么。
“哦，汤米抢了另外那个女孩的男朋友。不过相信我，他根本就不值得她们为他打架。”“看起来另一个女孩觉得他值得。”我评论道。
“哦，卢可是个非常浪漫多情的女孩儿。”路易吉很宽容地说。
这可不是我心目中的浪漫多情，不过我没说出口。
One Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative（2）
II
It must have been about a week later that my eye was caught by a namein the Deaths column of The Times.
TUCKERTON. On October 2nd at Fallowfield NursingHome, Amberley, Thomasina Ann, aged twenty, onlydaughter of the late Thomas Tuckerton, Esq., of Carring-ton Park, Amberley, Surrey. Funeral private. Noflowers.
第一章 马克·伊斯特布鲁克的笔述（2）
2
差不多一个星期之后，《泰晤士报》讣闻栏里的一个名字吸引了我的注意力。
托马西娜•安•塔克顿，已故的萨里郡安伯利卡灵顿公园的托马斯•塔克顿先生的独女，十月二日逝于安伯利的法洛菲尔德疗养院，终年二十岁。私人葬礼，鲜花恳辞。
One Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative（3）
III
No flowers for poor Tommy Tucker; and no more “kicks” out of life inChelsea. I felt a sudden fleeting compassion for the Tommy Tuckers oftoday. Yet after all, I reminded myself, how did I know that my view wasthe right one? Who was I to pronounce it a wasted life? Perhaps it was mylife, my quiet scholarly life, immersed in books, shut off from the world,that was the wasted one. Life at secondhand. Be honest now, was I gettingkicks out of life? A very unfamiliar idea! The truth was, of course, that Ididn’t want kicks. But there again, perhaps I ought to? An unfamiliar andnot very welcome thought.
I dismissed Tommy Tucker from my thoughts, and turned to my corres-pondence.
The principal item was a letter from my cousin Rhoda Despard, askingme to do her a favour. I grasped at this, since I was not feeling in the moodfor work this morning, and it made a splendid excuse for postponing it.
I went out into King’s Road, hailed a taxi, and was driven to the resid-ence of a friend of mine, a Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.
Mrs. Oliver was a well- known writer of detective stories. Her maid,Milly, was an efficient dragon who guarded her mistress from the on-slaughts of the outside world.
I raised my eyebrows inquiringly, in an unspoken question. Milly nod-ded a vehement head.
“You’d better go right up, Mr. Mark,” she said. “She’s in a mood thismorning. You may be able to help her snap out of it.”
I mounted two flights of stairs, tapped lightly on a door, and walked inwithout waiting for encouragement. Mrs. Oliver’s workroom was a good-sized room, the walls papered with exotic birds nesting in tropical foliage.
Mrs. Oliver herself, in a state apparently bordering on insanity, wasprowling round the room, muttering to herself. She threw me a brief unin-terested glance and continued to prowl. Her eyes, unfocused, swept roundthe walls, glanced out of the window, and occasionally closed in what ap-peared to be a spasm of agony.
“But why,” demanded Mrs. Oliver of the universe, “why doesn’t the idiotsay at once that he saw the cockatoo? Why shouldn’t he? He couldn’t havehelped seeing it! But if he does mention it, it ruins everything. There mustbe a way…there must be….”
She groaned, ran her fingers through her short grey hair and clutched itin a frenzied hand. Then, looking at me with suddenly focused eyes, shesaid, “Hallo, Mark. I’m going mad,” and resumed her complaint.
“And then there’s Monica. The nicer I try to make her, the more irritat-ing she gets… Such a stupid girl… Smug, too! Monica… Monica? I believethe name’s wrong. Nancy? Would that be better? Joan? Everybody is al-ways Joan. Anne is the same. Susan? I’ve had a Susan. Lucia? Lucia? Lu-cia? I believe I can see a Lucia. Red-haired. Polo-necked jumper… Blacktights? Black stockings, anyway.”
This momentary gleam of good cheer was eclipsed by the memory of thecockatoo problem, and Mrs. Oliver resumed her unhappy prowling, pick-ing up things off tables unseeingly and putting them down again some-where else. She fitted with some care her spectacle case into a lacqueredbox which already contained a Chinese fan and then gave a deep sigh andsaid:
“I’m glad it’s you.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“It might have been anybody. Some silly woman who wanted me toopen a bazaar, or the man about Milly’s insurance card which Milly abso-lutely refuses to have—or the plumber (but that would be too much goodfortune, wouldn’t it?). Or, it might be someone wanting an interview—ask-ing me all those embarrassing questions which are always the same everytime. What made you first think of taking up writing? How many bookshave you written? How much money do you make? Etc. etc. I never knowthe answers to any of them and it makes me look such a fool. Not that anyof that matters because I think I am going mad, over this cockatoo busi-ness.”
“Something that won’t jell?” I said sympathetically. “Perhaps I’d bettergo away.”
“No, don’t. At any rate you’re a distraction.”
I accepted this doubtful compliment.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Mrs. Oliver asked with vague hospitality.
“There are some somewhere. Look in the typewriter lid.”
“I’ve got my own, thanks. Have one. Oh no, you don’t smoke.”
“Or drink,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wish I did. Like those American detect-ives that always have pints of rye conveniently in their collar drawers. Itseems to solve all their problems. You know. Mark, I really can’t thinkhow anyone ever gets away with a murder in real life. It seems to me thatthe moment you’ve done a murder the whole thing is so terribly obvious.”
“Nonsense. You’ve done lots of them.”
“Fifty-five at least,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The murder part is quite easy andsimple. It’s the covering up that’s so difficult. I mean, why should it be any-one else but you? You stick out a mile.”
“Not in the finished article,” I said.
“Ah, but what it costs me,” said Mrs. Oliver darkly. “Say what you like,it’s not natural for five or six people to be on the spot when B is murderedand all have a motive for killing B—unless, that is, B is absolutely madlyunpleasant and in that case nobody will mind whether he’s been killed ornot, and doesn’t care in the least who’s done it.”
“I see your problem,” I said. “But if you’ve dealt with it successfully fifty-five times, you will manage to deal with it once again.”
“That’s what I tell myself,” said Mrs. Oliver, “over and over again, butevery single time I can’t believe it, and so I’m in agony.”
She seized her hair again and tugged it violently.
“Don’t,” I cried. “You’ll have it out by the roots.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Hair’s tough. Though when I had measlesat fourteen with a very high temperature, it did come out—all round thefront. Most shaming. And it was six whole months before it grew properlyagain. Awful for a girl—girls mind so. I thought of it yesterday when I wasvisiting Mary Delafontaine in that nursing home. Her hair was coming outjust like mine did. She said she’d have to get a false front when she wasbetter. If you’re sixty it doesn’t always grow again, I believe.”
“I saw a girl pull out another girl’s hair by the roots the other night,” Isaid. I was conscious of a slight note of pride in my voice as one who hasseen life.
“What extraordinary places have you been going to?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
“This was in a coffee bar in Chelsea.”
“Oh Chelsea!” said Mrs. Oliver. “Everything happens there, I believe.
Beatniks and sputniks and squares and the beat generation. I don’t writeabout them much because I’m so afraid of getting the terms wrong. It’ssafer, I think, to stick to what you know.”
“Such as?”
“People on cruises, and in hotels, and what goes on in hospitals, and onparish councils — and sales of work — and music festivals, and girls inshops, and committees and daily women, and young men and girls whohike round the world in the interests of science, and shop assistants—”
She paused, out of breath.
“That seems fairly comprehensive to be getting on with,” I said.
“All the same, you might take me out to a coffee bar in Chelsea some-time—just to widen my experience,” said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.
“Any time you say. Tonight?”
“Not tonight. I’m too busy writing or rather worrying because I can’twrite. That’s really the most tiresome thing about writing — thougheverything is tiresome really, except the one moment when you get whatyou think is going to be a wonderful idea, and can hardly wait to begin.
Tell me, Mark, do you think it is possible to kill someone by remote con-trol?”
“What do you mean by remote control? Press a button and set off a ra-dioactive death ray?”
“No, no, not science fiction. I suppose,” she paused doubtfully, “I reallymean black magic.”
“Wax figures and pins in them?”
“Oh, wax figures are right out,” said Mrs. Oliver scornfully. “But queerthings do happen—in Africa or the West Indies. People are always tellingyou so. How natives just curl up and die. Voodoo—or juju… Anyway, youknow what I mean.”
I said that much of that was attributed nowadays to the power of sug-gestion. Word is always conveyed to the victim that his death has been de-creed by the medicine man—and his subconscious does the rest.
Mrs. Oliver snorted.
“If anyone hinted to me that I had been doomed to lie down and die, I’dtake a pleasure in thwarting their expectations!”
I laughed.
“You’ve got centuries of good Occidental sceptical blood in your veins.
No predispositions.”
“Then you think it can happen?”
“I don’t know enough about the subject to judge. What put it into yourhead? Is your new masterpiece to be Murder by Suggestion?”
“No, indeed. Good old-fashioned rat poison or arsenic is good enoughfor me. Or the reliable blunt instrument. Not firearms if possible. Firearmsare so tricky. But you didn’t come here to talk to me about my books.”
“Frankly no—The fact is that my cousin Rhoda Despard has got a churchfête and—”
“Never again!” said Mrs. Oliver. “You know what happened last time? Iarranged a Murder Hunt, and the first thing that happened was a realcorpse. I’ve never quite got over it!”
“It’s not a Murder Hunt. All you’d have to do would be to sit in a tentand sign your own books—at five bob a time.”
“We- e- l- l- l,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. “That might be all right. Ishouldn’t have to open the fête? Or say silly things? Or have to wear ahat?”
None of these things, I assured her, would be required of her.
“And it would only be for an hour or two,” I said coaxingly. “After that,there’ll be a cricket match—no, I suppose not this time of year. Childrendancing, perhaps. Or a fancy dress competition—”
Mrs. Oliver interrupted me with a wild scream.
“That’s it,” she cried. “A cricket ball! Of course! He sees it from the win-dow…rising up in the air…and it distracts him—and so he never mentionsthe cockatoo! What a good thing you came, Mark. You’ve been wonderful.”
“I don’t quite see—”
“Perhaps not, but I do,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s all rather complicated, andI don’t want to waste time explaining. Nice as it’s been to see you, what I’dreally like you to do now is to go away. At once.”
“Certainly. About the fête—”
“I’ll think about it. Don’t worry me now. Now where on earth did I putmy spectacles? Really, the way things just disappear….”
第一章 马克·伊斯特布鲁克的笔述（3）
3
没有人会给可怜的汤米•塔克送花，她也不会再享受到切尔西生活的“刺激”。对于如今这些跟汤米•塔克情况类似的女孩子，我的心里突然泛起了一阵怜悯之情。不过归根结底，我还是要提醒自己，我怎么能知道我的观点就是正确的呢？我是什么人，如何能够断言那样的生活就是虚度光阴呢？也没准儿我这种整日沉浸于书本之中，与外部世界几乎隔绝的波澜不惊的学者生活，才真的是浪费生命呢。这是种二手的生活。扪心自问一下，我从这样的生活中得到什么刺激了吗？一个极其陌生的念头！当然，事实上我并不想要那种刺激。不过话说回来，也许我应该去寻求一些呢？这真是个既陌生又不太招我喜欢的想法。
我心里不再去想汤米•塔克，转而去处理我的信件。
最重要的一封信是我表姐罗达•德斯帕德写给我的，信里请求我帮她一个忙。我抓住了这个机会，因为这个早上我正好没有工作的心情，这封信给了我一个绝好的推迟工作的借口。
我出门到国王路上，叫了一辆出租车，让它载我到我的一个朋友——阿里亚德妮•奥利弗太太家去。
奥利弗太太是一位知名的侦探小说作家。她有个用人叫米莉，是个既能干又警觉的女人，负责替她的女主人挡住外界的一切烦扰。
我抬抬眉毛，询问地看着她。米莉热烈地点点头。
“马克先生，你最好直接上去。”她说，“她今天早上心情不好，也许你能帮帮她，让她打起精神来。”
我爬上两段楼梯，轻轻敲了敲房门，没等里面的回答就径直走了进去。奥利弗太太的工作室相当宽敞，墙上贴着各种珍奇鸟类在热带雨林中筑巢的壁纸。奥利弗太太本人则显然处于一种接近疯狂边缘的状态之中，一边在屋子里踱来踱去，一边喃喃自语。她漠不关心地瞟了我一眼，然后继续在屋子里踱着步。她目光茫然，一会儿扫过四壁，一会儿望望窗外，一会儿又会闭上眼睛，如头疼发作一般。
“但为什么，”奥利弗太太仰天发问，“为什么那个白痴没有立刻说他看见了那只凤头鹦鹉呢？为什么他不该说？他不可能看不见它啊！但是假如他真说了，那一切就都完蛋了。
一定有办法……一定有……”
她一面呻吟，一面把手指伸进她的灰色短发中，恼怒地紧紧抓着。然后，她突然定睛看着我，说道：“嗨，马克。我要疯掉了。”紧接着就又开始抱怨起来。
“还有这个莫妮卡。我越想把她塑造得好点儿吧，她就越招人烦……蠢到家的姑娘……还挺自以为是！莫妮卡……莫妮卡？我认为是名字起得不好。南希？这个会不会好点儿？
琼？叫琼的太多了。安妮也一样。苏珊？我已经有一个苏珊了。露西娅？露西娅？露西娅？我觉得我脑子里已经有露西娅的模样了。红头发，圆翻领套头衫……黑色紧身裤？至少也得是黑色长袜。”
这种兴高采烈转瞬即逝，一想起那个凤头鹦鹉的问题，奥利弗太太就又开始闷闷不乐起来，一边踱着步，一边心不在焉地把东西从桌子上拿起来，再把它们放到别的地方去。
她带着几分小心地把她的眼镜盒放到一个漆盒里，那里面已经放了一把中国扇，然后她长叹一声说道：“我很高兴是你来了。”
“你太客气了。”
“真说不准有什么人会登门造访。不是某个想要让我开义卖会的蠢女人，就是那个来找米莉卖保险卡而米莉还死活不想要的男人，要么就是修管道的工人（不过要真是他可就谢天谢地了，对吗？）。或者也可能是什么人想做一次采访——问我一大堆让人尴尬的问题，而且每次都一样。最初是什么促使你想要开始写作的？你已经写了多少本书？你写书赚了多少钱？等等，等等。我从来都不知道该怎么回答这些问题，让我看起来就像个傻子一样。不过这些都无所谓啦，因为我想我已经快要疯了，就是为了凤头鹦鹉这点儿事。”
“是不是有些想法还不成熟？”我同情地说道，“也许我最好还是先回去。”
“不，别走。你在这儿好歹还能让我分分心。”
我接受了这句听上去有些不明不白的恭维。
“你想抽烟吗？”奥利弗太太以一种不咸不淡的殷勤口吻问道，“记得屋子里哪儿有些烟来着，去打字机的盖子那儿找找。”
“不麻烦了，我自己带着呢。给你一支。哦，对了，你不吸烟的。”
“也不喝酒，”奥利弗太太说，“我倒希望我能喝点儿。就像那些个美国侦探，总在他们的抽屉里放上些黑麦威士忌，随喝随拿。看上去这样就可以使所有问题迎刃而解。你知道的，马克，我真的想不明白，在现实生活中，一个人犯了谋杀罪怎样才能够逍遥法外。在我看来，从你杀人的那一刻起，你的罪行就昭然若揭了。”
“那可是胡说。你自己就写了好多那样的小说。”
“至少有五十五部了。”奥利弗太太说，“关于谋杀的部分写起来其实轻松简单，真正难的是怎么把罪行掩盖起来。我的意思是说，凭什么让人看起来就应该是除了你之外的任何人？明摆着就是你嘛。”
“不过最后写完的时候可不是这样啊。”我说。
“是啊，随你怎么说吧。”奥利弗太太阴沉沉地说道，“但最让我绞尽脑汁的就是，让五到六个人同时出现在某人被谋杀的现场，而且每个人还都具备杀人的动机，这太不合常理了——除非这个死者实在太招人讨厌，在这种情况下，没有人会在意他是否被杀掉，大家也丝毫不关心是谁干的。”
“我明白你的难题了。”我说，“不过既然你已经成功地解决了五十五次，想办法再来一次也不在话下。”
“我也是这么跟自己说的，”奥利弗太太说，“一遍一遍地告诉自己，但每一次我都没法相信，也正因如此我才无比痛苦。”
她又一次揪着自己的头发用力撕扯。
“别这样，”我叫道，“你会把头发连根拔出来的。”
“瞎扯，”奥利弗太太说，“头发结实着呢。不过我十四岁的时候出麻疹发高烧，头发还真的掉过，就在前额这片儿，太丢人了。后来用了整整六个月才又重新长好。这对小姑娘来说太可怕了——女孩子们就在意这个。昨天我去疗养院探望玛丽•德拉方丹的时候想起这件事来。她也掉头发，跟我那时候一样。她说等她好点儿以后，可能非得弄个假发来戴不可。我也觉得，等你到了六十岁，头发真不一定会再长出来了。”
“那天晚上我就看见一个女孩儿把另一个女孩儿的头发连根拔出来了。”我说道。我自己都能感觉出自己的语气中微微带着的那种见过世面的得意之情。
“你上什么稀奇古怪的地方去了？”奥利弗太太问道。
“在切尔西的一家咖啡馆里看到的。”
“哦，切尔西！”奥利弗太太说道，“我相信那儿什么怪事都会有。披头族 [3] 啊，斯普特尼克 [4] 啊，还有广场上那些垮掉的一代啊。我不太写他们的事儿，因为我怕用词不当。我想还是写我自己比较熟悉的事情更稳妥。”
“比如说？”
“出门旅行的人啊，住旅馆的人啊，医院里发生的事，教区会议上讨论的事——还有作品的销售——还有音乐节、逛商店的姑娘们，各种委员会、家庭妇女、为了科学目的而徒步周游世界的青年男女，以及商店售货员——”
她停下来，有点儿上气不接下气。
“看起来接下去可写的题材很丰富啊。”我说。
“话虽如此，哪天你还是应该带我出去，去一趟切尔西的咖啡馆——让我开开眼界也好啊！”奥利弗太太眼巴巴地说道。
“时间由你，今晚怎么样？”
“今晚不行。我太忙了，得忙着写书，要么就是因为写不出来干着急。那真是写书过程中最烦人的一件事情——不过话说回来，每件事都很烦人，除了灵感迸发，觉得你所想到的是个绝妙的点子，并且迫不及待地要把它写出来的那一刻之外。告诉我，马克，你认为有可能通过远距离遥控来杀人吗？”
“你说的远距离遥控是指什么？按个按钮，然后发出一道致死的放射线？”
“不，不，不是说科幻小说。我想，”她迟疑了一下，“我真正想说的是巫术。”
“弄个蜡人，再扎上大头针？”
“哦，蜡人这一套已经过时了。”奥利弗太太轻蔑地说，“不过还是会有怪事发生——比如在非洲或者西印度群岛。人们通常会这么给你讲，那些土著人是如何就那样蜷成一团然后死掉啊，还有伏都教 [5] 或者西非土著的符咒之类的……不管怎么说，你应该能明白我的意思。”
我跟她说，很多这类事情现如今都归因于暗示的力量。巫医会向受害者传达信息，说他注定会死——剩下的事情就全都是他自己的潜意识在起作用了。
奥利弗太太对此嗤之以鼻。
“若是有人暗示说我注定要在某一刻躺倒死去，我会非常高兴地看着他们的愿望落空。”
我哈哈大笑。
“你骨子里头就充满了那种西方的怀疑论精神，不容易接受暗示啊。”
“那么你觉得这种事是可能发生的了？”
“我对这个问题不太了解，所以也没法判断。你怎么会想起这些？难道你正在写的大作就是关于暗示杀人的吗？”
“不，还真不是。对我来说，写些老派的鼠药或者砒霜下毒就足够好了，或者保险点儿的就用钝器。反正尽可能不用枪，用枪太复杂。不过你今天来不是为了和我探讨我的书吧？”
“老实说，不是——实际上是我表姐罗达•德斯帕德要举行一次教会的游乐会，然后——”
“别再提这个了！”奥利弗太太说，“你知道上次出什么事儿了吗？我安排了一场猎凶游戏，结果一上来就冒出来一具真的尸体 [6] 。我永远都忘不了那一幕！”
“这次活动没有什么猎凶游戏。需要你做的只是坐在帐篷里，在你自己的书上签名——签一本五先令。”
“呃——好吧，”奥利弗太太半信半疑地说，“那还可以。真的不需要我去主持开幕式？
或者去说些傻话？再或者戴顶帽子什么的？”
我向她保证，她说的所有这些都不需要她去做。
“而且也就进行一两个小时而已，”我好言哄劝道，“结束之后还会有一场板球比赛——不对，我想不应该是在一年当中的这个时候。也许是孩子们的舞蹈。要不就是化装舞会的服装选秀——”
奥利弗太太尖叫一声打断了我的话。
“这不就结了，”她叫道，“一个板球！当然了！他从窗户里看见的……飞向半空中……这让他分了心——于是他就一点儿没提那只凤头鹦鹉！马克，你来得太好了。你实在是太棒了。”
“我没太明白——”
“也许你不明白，但我明白。”奥利弗太太说，“这事儿说来话长，我不想浪费时间去解释了。刚才我看见你真高兴，而现在我想让你做的是离开，立刻。”
“没问题，不过关于游乐会的事——”
“我会考虑的。现在别烦我。我到底把眼镜放到哪儿去了？真是的，有时候东西就是会无缘无故地消失……”
[1]莫卧儿帝国是成吉思汗和帖木儿的后裔巴卑尔自阿富汗南下入侵印度建立的帝国，统治时间在一五二六至一八五八年间。“莫卧儿”意即“蒙古”。
[2]欧洲传说中的传奇人物，他的箱子代表死亡。
[3]披头族（Beatnik），上世纪五六十年代媒体中对于“垮掉的一代”（Beat Generation）的刻板印象。
[4]斯普特尼克一号（Sputnik）是一九五七年十月四日前苏联发射升空的人类第一颗人造卫星，由此开启了美苏之间的太空竞赛。前文披头族（Beatnik）一词即受此卫星名字的启发得来。
[5]又称巫毒教，起源于非洲西部的原始宗教，糅合了祖先崇拜、万物有灵论、通灵术等，目前也盛行于西印度群岛地区。
[6]指阿加莎•克里斯蒂的另一部作品《死者的殿堂》。