It Is a Love Story

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:10:38

I arrived at Saint James Square at noon. The square was almost empty. It was a blistering July day, and I felt tired and dizzy, for the sun was already hurting my eyes. I walked across the square, my foot steps sound weird and vacumm in the midday silence. The Lushy Raccoon Cafe was not THe Lushy Raccoon Cafe was not difficult to find. A dismal little place, seemed to fall apart at moment, and it did not fall apart because it had not decided which way to fall. I pushed the door open, it squeaked noisily. It was dark inside, and I had to stand still for some time before I could recognize something moving like poorly fermently bread behind the counter. It was the bar tender, half asleep. The place was heating like a stove. Looking around, I saw that I was the only customer in the bar. I picked up a window seat, dark as anywhere else, for the windows were covered with dust at least three inches thick. It was the first time I ever set foot in a bar like that in ten years, or maybe twenty years, who knows? I took out the letter again. It was the shorted letter I have ever read: "twelve o'clock, Lush Raccoon. St. James Square." Who can this man be? Or maybe it is a woman? The letter was typed, and there was no signiture. Just then, I heart the big clock on the square strike twelve, muffled twelve, muffled and very distant. (TO BE CONTINUED BY ANYONE WHO IS INTERESTED)

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:11:05

The door opens. It is an old wooden door. On each side of the door, a great handle glitters in a sort of strange light after years of touching. The glittering light makes a great difference in the darkness of the background. I look around and cannot find out the source of the light from which it reflects the glittering rays. I can guess it has at least ten years of history of being there. I stare at the door with great attention. It seems he is a big figure and he is trying to hide his face from being seen, for what I have seen first is his feet other than the upper part of his body. It is a large boot, with a good appearance of quality and dignity. But I can see there is a small patch on the head of the boot, maybe just at the position where his big toe stays. Although the patch is done with great care and patience, it cannot escape my eyes. Years of experience as a private detective makes me very sensitive on such details. The boots move slowly, as if walking on the ice plain of a spring river. The bar has a low threshold, so the boots can move quietly without making any noise. Or maybe the great noise of the squeaking door has overridden it. It just crawls on the floor, like a big cobra approaching his prey in south America jungles. The left foot comes in. Then the right. Now I can see most of the part of his legs, but his face still remains hidden from me. My heart beats faster. From the style of his feet moving, I can guess he is not very old, for people older than fifty never have the ability to make his movement so accurately. Slowly, he turns his face to me. My hand moves to the gun in the right pocket of my jacket.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:11:24

The gun is there, in its usual place. When I touch it a chill runs down my spine. I forget to load the bullets! Last night just before I go to bed I unloaded my gun, and I was in such a hurry this morning. It is a mistake. Surely it is. A biggest mistake I have ever made in my whole life. The man turns to me. He is a big man about 6 feet 1. His nose and mouth are hidden in a bunch of moustach and beard, so heavy that he look almost wild. He wears a ragged jacket that must be unwashed ever since it has been a piece of cloth. He smells of ginger ale and rough tobacco. And for a moment I notice his hairy hands. He has a big ring of a scull on the middle finger of his right hand. I nod to him. No answer. The man does not seem to see anything. He is gazing at me with that strange expression on his face that upset me. I don't know him. I can swear I have not seen a face like that ever. Then I see that he is not looking. He is not looking at me, or at anything. He merely stares. He stands there, staring. Suddenly he totters, and his face grows pale. He falls to the seat opposite to mine, He is drunk, I think. But he is not drunk. He is dead.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:12:09

I stare at his face. So pale. I cannot imagine it can be a face of a human being. It must be the color of a kind of fine fibre. It reminds me of that mysterious guy in the novel of a French writer. I read it when I am still a boy, living in that village of my grandmother. He was jailed by a wrong case and stayed there for many years. After he was released he turned pale, just like the guy in front of me. Until I reached my twenties, a face of that kind often haunted in my dreams. I just cannot forget it, as if I cannot forget my first kiss, although they are so different. But the degree is the same, except one is bitter and the other is a sweet one. And now, a face of that kind is in front of me, sitting opposite to me, gazing at me. But he is dead! There is still not any other customers in the bar. The attendant puts his head on the arms at the counter. He falls asleep at last, I think. I try to bring myself from my own experience to the reality. I try to fortify my alertness. This is an important ability to be a professional detective. Never mix yourself into the case, although you can judge it from your experience. I can remember my experience of dealing with my first case. At that time my girl had just left me and gone with another guy. I could not get her out of my mind. So I lost. I lost my first case. I almost lost my life upon that merciless murderer, the only reason of which was that her face is similar to my girl's in such a tremendous degree. This time I must not repeat my failure again. I have confidence in myself. I have grown out of my juvenile stage now. Ten years of experience of being a detective ensures that. I move my sight across this guy's body and at last I rest it on the upper left pocket of his jacket. It projects a little. I take out my gloves and wear them. I extend my hand to that pocket. It is really strange, because my own experience haunts again. I remember the time when I pulled eggs from the bird nest when I was young. The fear of meeting snake in the nest is so vivid to me, even now. What is the matter? I said to myself. It has been years since I acted like this. I pull it out. It is a letter, in a sort of black ink. I have not even any time to notice the strange handwriting before I was caught by the first line. "I am a sinner", it reads.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:12:26

Collect by yourself! A voice says. It is a strange's voice, void and harsh and cracked, seems to come from a remote height, if not from the hell down below. I sit still, then I realize it is my own voice. The bar is dark and silent like a grave. I hear my heart beating inside, voilent and very irregular as if it is going to leap out at any moment. My breath grows heavy and a eerie dizziness gets into my head. I catch hold of my chair. It is no use, the chair is rickety, so instead, I rest my head on the table. A comfortable chill runs through me. Something has stiken me before I have time to know what it is. I feel a sickening throb underneath my ribs. Is it what people call a "sink of heart"? It is as if something has gone down and touched and stirred in the most secret part my body, a part that I have been so carefully concealing throughout the years that I almost forget its existence. I open the letter again, and I know what happens. It is the handwriting of the letter. It is a woman's handwriting, and even if I were burnt to ashes, even if I were too old to read, even if I had lost my eyesight so that I could only touch the paper with my hands, I would still know who has written it. It is her, the girl who has given me my first kiss. The letter is clearly written in haste, for the ink scatters everywhere, and for several parts in the letter, the paper is ripped by pen nib. The letter paper is ordinary, with five pennies you can buy a sheet at any stationary shop. I carefully fold it and put it in my wallet. What I am to do next?

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:13:41

It was impossible to stay in the bar any longer. I looked around. The barman was still fast asleep. It surely was an errie scene with a dirty big man lying stone cold in front of me and nobody noticing anything unusual. It was unreal, as if in a dream. I stood up, carefully balancing the chair. Still it made a little rasping sound. I froze. nothing happened. The barman's snoring was smooth and even as ever. Something was not right. I knew. I went over to the counter, hand in my right pocket. I have no bullets, but the pistle may come handy when I wanted to knock somebody on the head. Darkness was all around, and behind it I smelt evil, and danger, and fear, in my own breath. My shoes clicked ominously on the worn wooden floor. The barman was still snoring. It was a long sleep, for him. A heap of something began to reveal itself from behind the counter. It was a man, or so it used to be, for now it was but a lifeless corpse. A gramophone was silently whirling at its side. A faint light shimmered as it whirled. I should have known that the time I entered the bar! A large invisible hand had taken hold of my throat. What is it? What do they want? I dashed towards the door. Just as i was about to open it, I heart a rustling sound behing.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:14:02

It was a cat, a black cat. I could see the rolling eyeballs and wildly scattered apple of that alert animal across the darkness. I hated that kind of animal. When I was eight, there was such a grimalkin in Betty's. Betty was a good woman and she always braised eggs for me when I dropped on her. But I remembered clearly I had to share the delicious egg with that cat and she often had the big part. "It will make her quiet and then we can have time to fun", Betty told me. I understood her, for I was a good boy then. Betty was really a warm-hearted granny, but I hated her cat. It is that mammal who had robbed over fifty percent of my nourishing childhood. I walked down the street. The gentle breeze of late September stroked my face, just like her hands. Yes, her hands! I jerked to the pocket of my jacket and pulled out of the letter. "I am a sinner", it read. That was the first sentence and the last sentence. I looked around and found an automatic beverage seller near the corner of the street. I threw two coins into the machine and got a tin of Angle Kiss, hehe, the kind I liked best. In fact, any sort of liquid can do the job, but I preferred this one, why not? I got out my handkerchief and dipped it into the tin. Then carefully I let the little drops trickled down to the paper. A minute later, the paper was wet and emitted that kind of familiar scent, the scent of Angle Kiss! Igniting my cigarette lighter and parching the paper with great care, I could recognize the words of the letter one by one. It was from her. All were her familiar words and styles! Dear Oliver, You are reading what I am writing now. And thank to God you have not forgotten our old tricks to marinate letter with alum and conceal our sweet words from your wicked father. We have resonance. I am sure of that. But what I am going to tell you is far from that. It is a long story.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:14:21

"We had our time, Oliver, and sweet memories, though thus saying, I still wonder if you bore grudges to what I have done to you; if your bitterness has gone, leaving room for pardon and forgiveness. But I am not begging your forgiveness, I am begging you to believe me. When I left you five years ago, Oliver, I told you I loved another man. This is not true. I never did love another man in my life except you, but leaving you was my only choice then. Remember I told you that I had no father, and that my father died long ago? That was also not true. I had a father, and he was a living all the time. Remember a man called Uncle John often visited me, and brought me flowers and gifts? That was him, that was my father. There is something you don't understand, Oliver. My father was a navy officer during the War. He was a colnel. He and his men were sent to Mediteranian on a highly confidential mission in 1944, but their ship was ambushed and torpedoed. My father was the only man to survive. It was not an accident, as the men in the Navy Department said, it was plotted. Shortly after my father's return to the navy, he was captured for no reason at all, and was imprisoned. The press said he committed treason and was sentenced to death, but I knew it was not the case. ( Do you still remember the famous case of Dellsworth? he was my father). The night before his exusion, he escaped. He got himself a false name, and he'd always come to visit me in disguise. I was the only one in this world he could trust. but this did not last long. They soon traced him down, and what was worse, they knew I wasw his daughter. We left in great hurry. I lost everything, everything, including you. We drifted from place to place all these years. They---I mean the men who have been puesuing us---were a large and orgnised group. They were wicked people, and they were very persiverent. All these years I have been missing you, and this makes a silly mistake. I keep one of your letters, but I lost it a few days ago. They got it. It had your adress and signiture. Do you know what i mean? Sam is our best friend, and we sent him to you. Come, Oliver, you are our only help. Besides, you are now their prey. Who is coming? I hear footsteps in the corridor. It does not sound like my father's ... " The letter had no ending.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:14:34

It was almost dusk. A wind blew up from opposite the Square and it chilled me. I turned my collar to the encroaching damp. My mother used to say night damp was the worst thing you ever have for your health. I believe her, she was always right. I dodged into a road-side shop and bought myself a bottle of scotch. Scotch always helps when your are chilled, and sometims, when you are afraid. I was afraid, yes. It was not that I was afraid of death or what ever. Life meant little to me since my mother passed away six months ago. God bless her soul. She was the kindest woman ever born to this world. I was afraid of loneliness, of the hostility that enveloped me and choked me. And now the world was receding into unpalpable remoteness, a wasteland where you can neither understand nor be understood. But stop now, sentimentality was dangerous. I began to walk, and I walked fast. I was thinking before I knew what about, and where about. A cab slided soundlessly past. I did not hail it. The night air did me good. I even did not stop when I passed a weapon shop to reload my empty gun. I was urged by some nameless anxiety I knew not what. Before I was aware I found myself in a little ravine extending to the hills. And I knew where I was heading for. I was going to her house, just a little high up there on the ridge. It was an empty house now, but empty houses always tell you more than any people do. A pale moon was rising, tinged with a light shade of red. And through the interweaving branches night birds were giving off lonely cries. I walked in silence. Faint cracks of dead leaves broke the silence occasionally. I now arrived at an open place among the woods, and from there I could see her house clearly from a distance. The moon was right above it, and the house was set in contrasting shadows that made it look ghastly. I paused for a second. For a moment I believed I saw a confiture of a young woman standing at the protruding balcony of the second floor. But when I looked again it was gone. It must be my hullucination of Soso (for Soso was her name), I thought, and moved on, feeling colder than ever.

quantum · 发表于 27.6.2003 16:14:46

Wind chills. A voice murmured. Tree leaves trembled in frisson. Tree leaves fell in silence. Something moved. Nothing moved. It was the moon, its shimmer was weaving all kinds of hullucinations before me. I kept steady. I was near the house now. I stopped behind some bushes, squated down, and waited. All was in silence, even birds had ceased chirping. I took out the bottle of Scotch, unsrewed it and took a deep draft. Then I stood up, and walked towards the front door. It was pale in the moon light as a tomb stone. The door was unlocked, and I pushed it open, it made no sounds. Before entering my eyes fell to something shinning, half buried in dust. It was a copper button, and with a scull on it. I picked it up and put it into my own pocket. I remembered the big man in the coffee and his ring. Sam was here, and maybe it was here he got fatally wounded. Dust was everywhere in the house, and a stale, muddy smell choked me. I took out my zippo and lit it. Everything, furnitures, lamps, sheets, were covered with at least one inch thick of dust. No one had been here for a long time. Spider webs shimmer in corners, and they were intact. Nothing stirred, not even a mouse. Only the shadows of things flickered on the wall like monsterous giants. I saw half a sick of candle on the stove at the far end of the room, and I walked across to fetch it, for the kerosine in my zippo was running out. The moment I touched the candle blood curdled inside me. It was still warm! Just then, I heard something cracked behind me. It was from a 0.38 revolver, I was sure.

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It Is a Love Story

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