八夜谈

作者：微博/扶他柠檬茶

镜背的月亮

1

在等他来的时候，不知道为什么，我想起了一句话。
它出自某位诗人的遗言——“不要倒扣银镜，月色流淌殆尽。”
但不可思议的是，它里面有四个母音，刚好和这个月城市里失踪的人数一样。

我的模特迟到了，距离约定时间迟到了一个小时零七分。假如这座宅邸的管家没有给古董钟上发条，他实际迟到的时间就可能更久。
理智在告诉我 ，不要根据马戏团的宣传图去选择模特。但看见嘉年华海报上那张令人发笑的脸，理智就得先靠边站了。没有哪个摄影师能拒绝这张脸。
在迟到两个小时后，家仆带着今日的模特从侧门进入了宅邸。 老仆人的脸上很不耐烦。他对我抱怨说，迟到是因为马戏团演出的返场节目反复进行了三四次，回来的路还遇到了巡警的盘查。
一个很细的声音从他背后传出来：“是五次。”
次。”
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我记得自己年轻的时候，那种刻薄和苛刻尚浮于表面的时候，很喜欢看平民受召进入贵族宅邸室内的表现。
裘克几乎是这些反应的集合体。作为马戏团的哭脸小丑，他因为滑稽的长相，被我召入官邸，那张脸此刻卸掉了妆，带着长时间演出后的疲惫，可神情灵活生动，所有的情绪，都被这张奇异的脸放大了。
他的眼睛真的很大，像某种小型犬湿漉漉的无害。听说今天盘查的巡警看见他的眼睛，就大笑着放行了。
“所以巡警怀疑的人不是我，是您的管家。”裘克说，“这个城里失踪了不少人，就在这一个月里，而老管家全程板着一张凶脸，看上去这一个月都用失踪者当下午茶。”
关于最近城市的失踪案，人们还有另一种说法——因为嘉年华里的马戏团。他们猜测，马戏团绑架居民，把正常人变成畸形，作为小丑演出。
裘克迫不及待地解释：“不是这样的，我从来没听说过有这种事。马戏演出需要天赋，不是随便什么人都可以胜任的……”
我在遮光布后调整底片的位置，他的絮絮叨叨被隔绝在外。
“也不是只有马戏团有这种传闻。在贵族中，不也是有类似的传说吗？比如某位用少女鲜血沐浴的女爵，相信这样能永葆青春？”他说，“您看起来很年轻，也许也是用了类似的保养方法。”
2
储藏底片的箱子受潮了，这是个小地方，新的相机底片需要去城里的拍摄馆采购。
等待底片收集的时间，城里又多了几件失踪案。我的马车甚至会在半途被拦下，虽然巡警看清车上的纹章后会立刻放行。古老家族的纹章，最大的作用就是这个。
到了夜晚，路上就宵禁了，只有远处河对岸的嘉年华灯火通明。

裘克有时在中午过来——“喧嚣”马戏团的演出是分日夜两场的，夜场通宵，演员们会一觉睡到下午。
他很兴奋地走进官邸花园的铁门，一瘸一拐的脚步很轻快——他天生就有腿部畸形，不用模仿就能掌握令人发笑的走路姿势。这个在马戏团里长大的年轻人，没有外界的朋友，受邀来到这座贵族官邸，是他第一次和外界产生联系。

他坐在模特的椅子上，让我对着他的脸给照片上色。管家丢给他一本我的作品集打发时间，裘克翻到某一页，神色忽然兴奋起来。
我让他不要乱动。
裘克的手指轻轻点着照片：“他们很像我的父母。”
“哦？你有父母？”
我不太清楚。谁知道马戏团的小丑是怎么长大的？说不定是团长去热带雨林捡回来的。
但他只是傻傻笑着，没有当回事：“他们也是马戏团的演员，现在跟着其他马戏团在巡演。”
裘克期待地看着我，他很想多拿到些当模特的报酬。马戏团演员的职业寿命很短，年迈后收入减少，需要提前在手里留不少钱。他会定期给父母预留的代理人汇钱。
说起父母，他眉飞色舞起来：“小丑天赋是他们遗传给我的，我靠着它成了这里最受欢迎的小丑，我父母来信让我再等几年，等钱攒够了，就可以一家人找个小地方住下来。”
“所以你给他们汇去了多少？”一直在门口等着的管家忍不住开口问。
裘克说，十分之九。毕竟钱攒得越快，距离一家人重逢的日子也就越近。
管家耸了耸肩，好像说了一句同情他的话。

他很喜欢那张夫妇的合影，据说上面两个人的长相，和马戏团团长描述的一模一样。
这个可怜虫根本没见过自己的父母。管家猜测，他一出生就被卖给了马戏团。

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在第四次见面的时候，巡警和他一起来到了我的宅邸。
“是这样的，大人……”他并不确定我的爵位，迟疑了很久，“我送哭泣小丑过来的，他在桥头被几个混混缠上了。他长得太滑稽了，我一眼就认出来了。”
他抬了抬帽子，打算告辞，但最后看了我一眼。
“我总觉得您长得很眼熟，在我小时候，您的家族也有一位老爷来过这儿的官邸。”
“也许是我的祖辈。”
“我那时替父亲送柴火来这，见过他走上马车……你们长得真像。”

失踪案高发，加上针对马戏团的流言，深夜前往嘉年华的居民少了，裘克的收入也少了很多。
雪上加霜的是，他已经不能算“最受欢迎”的小丑了。一对杂耍夫妇取代了他的位置。
我用仅存的底片给他拍摄侧面：“早上出城的时候，在城门口看到了他们的海报。那个人长得可不像个小丑。”
“瑟吉是笑脸小丑。”
“什么意思？我平时没时间看马戏。”
“他负责英俊潇洒，让淑女们喜欢。我负责滑稽，让人们笑。其实没有什么……”他想起了什么，失落地转开头，“女孩子们都会喜欢他。”
——我记得那个瑟吉的油漆海报，他是和一名舞女被画在一起的。裘克说，那就是娜塔莉，瑟吉的妻子。

3
平心而论，把裘克和瑟吉摆在一起，确实是很残酷。听说本地名门贵族的女性都会偷偷收藏瑟吉的画像，重金收购他替换下来的招贴海报，购买视野最好的嘉年华座位。
和俊美相比，滑稽一文不值。
我有些想去看马戏，但是，贵族的双脚踏入那？至少不该和平民混坐在一起，闻着野兽的体味。
裘克有一阵子没来了，自从上次被我叱喝出去。他一瘸一拐地出去，狼狈兮兮的——他不该和我开那个玩笑。
“如果您再年长些，我会怀疑您就是那个最早的小丑，你们俩的名字一样，都叫约瑟夫。”

-
在收到我送去礼物的两天后，裘克来了。
满脸是伤，那双眼睛也被反衬得格外的大。

他安静了一些，没有像以前那样絮絮叨叨。听说他和瑟吉打了一架，为了女人。
“您不知道他怎么对娜塔莉的。我是说，我对娜塔莉没有非分之想，只是朋友……或者说我把她当朋友了。”
我大致明白了，总而言之，在我的记忆中，爱上有夫之妇大多没有好下场。
为有夫之妇出头，则更是一种诡异的行为，除了尴尬和别人的窃窃私语，他什么都得不到。
“你现在这个可怜的表情很好，我想拍下来。”
“您想拍多久都可以。我这段时间不需要演出了。”
我想也是。他的脸被揍得像地中海的航线图。
“大人，我能看下那些照片吗？”他低头说，“那对夫妇的合影，您只有一张吗？真是神奇，那些照片看上去有些年岁了，可您却这么年轻……”

我让管家将所有的作品集搬了出来。我会将它们随身携带，跟着我来往各地的家族宅邸。
裘克在里面寻找关于那对夫妇的合影，可惜只有三五张，照片背后手写的时间大概是十年前。
“我父母最后给我寄信也是十年前……希望我寄些钱过去……”
“你能把脸再抬高一点吗，光线太暗了。”
“好的。我听团长说，我上半张脸像母亲，下半张脸像爸爸，合在一起就很滑稽……”
“不要说话。你的脸看起来没那么滑稽了。”我说，“这是最后一次拍摄了。我就要离开这里了。”
“好的。”他抬起头，不说话了，但眼里全是泪水。

他离开的时候，夜色已经很深了。我让管家准备一辆客用的马车送他。
我留他说了几句话：“其实还有一些没洗出来的底片，关于这对夫妇的。我想你会有兴趣。”
他还在哭泣，边哭边点头。
“感谢您……我是第一次和马戏团之外的人……”那张一塌糊涂的脸，努力把话说得口齿清晰，“我以前不会敢那样做，和瑟吉打成一团，为了保护娜塔莉……我想，我至少和马戏团外的人说过话，我不是没有胆子的人了……”
“至少你在一个有夫之妇面前逞英雄了。”我实在不知道怎么评价这种行为。
“可是她没有看我，她只是站在瑟吉身后，担心他的脸……我知道那是她的丈夫，可是我……没有人管过我的脸……”裘克的哭声被夜风给卷得粉碎，“我给父母写了信……这些年我给他们写了很多信，他们也许太忙了，没有回我……”
“也许只是因为这是买断的生意，他们把你卖给了马戏团，等你长大后定期汇钱就行。”
“——是托付！不是卖！”他的语气第一次尖利起来，“团长和我保证了他们没有卖掉我，只是暂时把我托付给了他……”
声音旋即低微下去，只剩下抽泣。

“对不起，大人。我……我很期待那些底片……”他颤抖着转身上了马车，“祝你夜晚愉快……”

4
我准备离开这座小城，是在一个暴雨的夜里。当管家告诉我裘克来了的时候，我反而没什么意外。
他浑身都湿透了，脸上用布罩着，低头坐在锦缎面的沙发上。他以前一点都不敢将这沙发弄脏，但今天浑然不在意了。
那张脸面目全非，像是被什么烧灼了一样——听说是因为那场斗殴，瑟吉怀恨在心，把他的粉彩换成了腐蚀物质。

“我得到那些底片了……还有一些字条……”像开满了红色鲜花的脸上，那双眼睛抬起看我。“这太有趣了……太有趣了……”
他说话的声音很轻，如果嘴巴的幅度再咧得大些，可能会扯出白骨来。
那是一套十张的底片，记录了夫妇的尸体从新鲜到腐烂的过程。十年前，我来到这处官邸度夏时，他们随马戏团巡演，成为了我的模特。
成为我模特的人，在最后一次拍摄时，都会将生命留给我——到目前为止，只有裘克是例外。
“就像一些传闻中那样，某些贵族，掌握着一些……永生的方法。”我在他对面入座，端详那张血肉模糊的脸，“是诅咒、是祝福，或者一种黑魔法……但不重要，对我来说，它很好用。” 人们为了模特的酬劳进入我的宅邸，最早是雕塑模特，然后是油画，如今是摄影。
尸体被掩埋在花园里，随身物品都留在地下室。这对夫妇的随身物品很少，只是里面有一份契约，我和底片一起送给了裘克。
“将这个孩子以双方同意的价格卖给喧嚣马戏团，达成一致后永不反悔。”

他丢开那份契约，紧紧攥住底片，笑个不停。
“那为什么不把我带走？”他完全抬起头，烛火照亮了脸上的血肉，“我什么都失去了。”
“我不想要什么都没有的生命。你可以带着生命离开这。”我递给他一把金币，“然后保管好它。我有些后悔把你叫出马戏团，你应该一辈子都待在那。”
“当个小丑？”
“你比那个瑟吉适合多了。我如果还有底片，就会把你现在的脸保留在相框里，然后去看你的演出，坐在视野最好的位置里，散场后重金买下你的招贴海报。”
“我现在的脸？”
“你现在的脸。”

他拿起一面摆在案几上的镜子，仔细看着镜子中的那片血肉。镜子过了很久才被放下，倒扣在桌上。所有的光芒流淌殆尽，流进他的眼里，让那双眼睛熠熠生辉。

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管家告诉我，他离开了，还撞见了花园里埋尸体的园丁。
暴雨把泥土冲刷开了，这些日子，城市里失踪的人都露了出来，不得不重新掩埋。但那些都无所谓了，裘克没有带走我的任何秘密，他只带走了一把花园里的锯子。

次日破晓，我们的马车离开了这座小城。桥的那头，嘉年华一片焦黑，入口被封锁了，到处都是巡警和侦探。
他们说，昨夜喧嚣马戏团在月亮河边举行最后一场巡演，但一个人带着锯子和火油，杀掉了帐篷里的所有人。
唯一幸存下来的只有一个红头发的舞女，我从车窗看见她在河边的倒影。和裘克比起来，那真是一张无趣的脸。

英文版

The Moon Behind the Mirror

While I was waiting for him, a verse kept running through my mind.

"The loons wail in the midst of monsoon—the upturned mirror reflects the looming moon"... these were the last words of a forgotten poet.

Funny enough, the poem has four words with the same rhyme... and four people had gone missing this month.



The subject of my photo session was an hour and seven minutes late. Maybe even longer, depending on whether the butler had remembered to wind up the antique clock.

I had told myself not to choose a subject based solely on what I'd seen on the circus poster. But, once I saw that tragic yet hilarious visage, reason went out of the window. No photographer could resist the charm of that face.

Finally, my subject was escorted by the butler from the mansion's side entrance—two hours late.

The old butler had "impatience" written all over his face. The subject explained his tardiness for his many encores after the last performance, three or four to be exact, and he'd been stopped and questioned by the police afterward.

A faint voice came from behind him, "It's five encores."



As a younger man, I enjoyed looking stern and aloof, watching commoners who'd been called into the mansion squirm before me.

And now, here was Joker, squirming in front of me. As a classic tramp clown—a sad-face—he'd been summoned to my mansion because of his comical looks. He wore no makeup, save for the extreme fatigue after a long show. Any emotion accentuated his strange face, making him look eerily energized.

His large, fawn-like eyes were watery and harmless. The police detective who'd questioned him had apparently just smiled and let him go as soon as he'd seen those big eyes.

"It's not me the coppers suspect—it's your old butler," suggested Joker wryly. "A lot of people have gone missing in this town, just in the past month. That butler's got a mean face—he's probably been serving up these missing people for afternoon tea all month."

About these cases of missing persons in the town—there's another story going around—people think it's got something to do with the circus. They reckon the circus kidnaps them and turns them into freaks to perform as clowns.

Joker was champing at the bit, "Nonsense, what a load of old rubbish. Being a circus performer requires a great deal of talent—not just anyone can do it, you know..."

His ravings were cut off as I went under the dark cloth to adjust the position of the lenses.

"These types of rumors are not exclusive to the circus. Wasn't the nobility familiar with similar legends? Baroness said to bathe in the blood of young girls, believing it would prolong her youth." he said. "You look very young. Perhaps you've also used such skincare methods."



Unfortunately, the box where I kept my glass plates had gotten damp, so I needed to procure some more. There was a new photographic atelier in the town square where I could purchase some.

While I was waiting for my glass plates to be prepared, news came of more missing person cases. My carriage was even stopped at a junction, although the patrolman let us go at once seeing the heraldic coat of arms on the door. That is the power which the nobility has.

A curfew was set in place at night. The only sign of life was the circus lights, still shining in the distance across the river.


Sometimes Joker came over at midday, as the "Hullabaloo" circus performed matinee and evening shows, and the evening show played from dusk until dawn. After the show, the performers would sleep through the day until late into the afternoon.

I'd watch him hobble over the garden gates in a jolly pace, excited at the thought of our appointment. This was no act—he was born with deformed legs. He could make people laugh by walking.

This young man, who'd grown up in the circus, had no friends aside from his fellow circus freaks. This was his first time in a mansion and the first time he'd had any meaningful contact with the outside world.



He sat in the posing chair and asked me to tint the picture so the colors matched his face. The process could be lengthy, so the butler gave him a copy of my portfolio to help pass the time. Joker flipped through it then stopped at a particular page. He suddenly looked very excited.

I told him to be careful with the pictures.
Joker's fingers tapped gently on the photo. "They look just like my parents," he said.
"Oh? You have parents?"

Who knew how circus clowns came to be? Maybe they were picked from a clown-tree by the ringmaster.

But he just giggled and took the conversation lightly. "They're circus performers too, on tour with other circuses," said Joker.
Joker looked at me with anticipation, clearly wanting more money for his services. Circus performers have a short career span and need to make as much money before retirement. Also, he'd send money to his parents on a regular basis.

Speaking of his parents, he raised his eyebrows and said, "My talent for clowning was a gift given by them, and I've been hugely popular. My parents want me to keep working for a few more years, and we'd live in a small cottage when we saved enough money."

"How much money have you sent them?" the butler, who had been waiting by the door, couldn't help but ask.

"Nine out of ten paychecks," said Joker, "After all, the faster I send the money, the sooner I'll reunite with my family."

The butler shrugged as he muttered something sympathetic to him.


Joker loved the couple's photo, and it was said that the two people in it looked exactly as the ringmaster had described.

The poor idiot had never even met his parents. The butler guessed that he'd been sold to the circus at birth.



-


At our fourth meeting, he came to my mansion with a policeman.

"Here's how it went, my... my Lord..." The policeman wasn't sure of my title and hesitated before speaking. "Some hooligans were hassling him on the bridge. Fortunately, I recognized his absurd face straight away, so I brought him over here myself," he said.

He tipped his hat to signal his departure but then paused to stare at me.

He said, "You look so familiar, my Lord. When I was a kid, a nobleman from your family was also at this mansion."

"That would be my grandfather."
"I was delivering firewood for my dad. I saw him walking up to our wagon... You look so much alike."



Together with the disappearances and the rumors, fewer and fewer visited the circus. Joker's income dwindled.

To add insult to injury, he was no longer regarded as "the most popular clown in town." A vaudeville couple had taken his place.

I used the last of the glass plates to photograph his profile. "I saw the new poster on the way out of the town this morning. The guy doesn't look much like a clown."

"Sergi is a Harlequin."
"And what is that? I'm not familiar with circus attractions."

"He's strapping and dashing, and the ladies love him. I'm the funny guy who makes people laugh. It's nothing special..." He remembered something and turned his head away in dismay, "all the girls fall in love with him."

I thought about the poster of Sergi, where he was pictured with a redheaded dancer. "That's Natalie, Sergi's wife," said Joker.



To be fair, it was cruel to pair Joker with Sergi. Noblewomen around the district would secretly collect Sergi's portraits, pay a good sum for his posters, and reserve the best seats at the circus.

Compared with good looks, funny is worthless.

I wanted to visit the circus, to experience it first hand, but it would not have been proper for someone like myself to associate with peasants in such a manner, with the stench of animals in the air, no less.

Joker hadn't returned to the mansion since I'd scolded him. He'd limped off, woefully out of shape—he really shouldn't have played that joke on me.

"If you were older, I'd suspect that you were the first clown because the two of you share the same name, Joseph."



Two days after receiving the gift I'd sent, Joker reappeared.

His face was covered in bruises, and his big eyes looked larger than ever.



But he was subdued. I'd heard that he and Sergi had got into a fight over a woman.

"You have no idea how he treats Natalie. I mean, I don't have any improper feelings for her. We're just friends... at least I treat her like a friend."

Ah, I faintly recall that falling in love with a married woman always ends in disaster.
Standing up for a married woman is an even stranger thing to do, prompting embarrassment for the people concerned and snide comments from everyone else.

"You've got such a wonderfully pathetic look on your face today. I have to capture it."
"Take as many as you want. I'm not performing for the time being."
I guessed as much. His face was bruised and bloodied, blotchy like a road map of the Mediterranean.
"My Lord, may I see those pictures," he said, looking down, "Do you have other pictures of that couple? It's amazing, those pictures look so old, yet you are so young..."


I asked the butler to bring in all my portfolios. I carry them with me on my travels between the family estates.
Joker searched eagerly for pictures of the couple, but there were only a few of them, and the handwritten date on the back suggested they were taken a decade ago.
"The last letter my parents sent me was also ten years ago... they wanted me to send some money..."
"Can you tilt your face a little higher? The light's too dim."
"Yes, Sir." "The ringmaster says the top half of my face resembles my mother and the bottom half looks like my father; put together it produces a very comical effect..."
"Be quiet. Your face doesn't look funny now," I said. "This is my last photo session with you. I'm leaving after this."
"Okay..." he said, looking up quietly; his eyes were full of tears.


It was late in the night when he left. I asked the butler to send him home with a guest carriage.

I said, "I have some leftover glass plates of the couple that needed processing. Would you be interested?"

He nodded in tears.

"Thank you... for letting me speak to you, to someone from outside the circus..." his twisted face struggled to articulate his words, "Fighting with Sergi to protect Natalie—I'd never thought I could muster that kind of courage before... I don't feel so gutless anymore..."

"And playing the hero in front of a married woman," I said. I have no words for this kind of behavior.

"But she couldn't even look at me. She just cowered behind Sergi, more concerned about him... I know he's her husband, but I... no one ever cared about my face..." The night breeze swallowed Joker's sobs, "I wrote to my parents... I've written them a lot over the years. They've probably just been too busy to write back..."

"Maybe I'm just a business arrangement to them. They sold you to the circus—then they waited for your money."

"— it was an agreement! Not a sale!" his tone sharpened for the first time, "The ringmaster promised they didn't sell me. They simply entrusted me to his keeping..."

His voice shrank to a whimper, then finally a sob.



"Pardon my manners, my Lord. I... I am looking forward to seeing those glass plates..." he shuddered and turned to the carriage, "I bid you good night."





It was a stormy night, and I was ready to leave town. When the butler told me that Joker had arrived, I was more than a little surprised.

He was soaked to the skin, and his face was covered with a cloth. He sat down with his head lying on the expensive brocade couch. He'd been cautious about touching the couch before, but today he couldn't care less.

His face was completely disfigured as if it had been burned. It was because of the fight; Sergi had held a grudge and mixed Joker's pastel makeup with acid.



"I got those glass plates... attached with notes ..." those eyes on a face full of red flowers lifted to look at me. "This is most interesting... interesting..."

He spoke so softly, barely opening his mouth. His lips would have split apart if he did.

It was a set of ten glass plates documenting the couple's corpses as they decomposed. Ten years ago, when I came to this mansion for the summer, they'd toured with the circus and modeled for me.

Those who model for me give me their lives on their last session—so far, the only exception has been Joker.

"Yes, the rumors are true. Certain nobles do hold the secret of immortality," I took a seat across from him and examined his bloodied face, "a curse, a blessing, or a kind of black magic ... it doesn't matter, it works well for me."

People came to my mansion because I paid them well, at first as sculpture models, then for paintings, and now for photography.

Their bodies were buried in the garden, and their belongings were stored in the basement. The couple had very few belongings, just for papers—a deed, and I gave it to Joker along with the glass plates.

"The child will be sold to the Hullabaloo Circus for a mutually agreeable price. The agreement cannot be canceled once reached."


Clutching the glass plates, he tossed the papers aside and couldn't contain his laughter.

"You should've taken me too!" he said. He raised his head, and the candlelight illuminated his face. "I've lost everything," he said.

"I detest a life with nothing to live for—it's worthless." I gave him a handful of gold coins, "For your trouble. But I must confess... I rather regret taking you out of the circus. You should have stayed there for the rest of your life."

"As a clown?"
"You are much more suited to that than Sergi. If I have my lenses with me, I will print your image, then go to your show, sit in the best seats, and buy your posters after the show."

"Of my face as it is now?"

"Your face, as it is now."



He picked up a mirror on the table and carefully studied the piece of flesh and blood that looked back at him. After some time, he placed the mirror face down. The reflected light flowed in his eyes and shined back at me.



The butler told me he'd left and bumped into the gardener burying bodies in the garden.

Heavy rains had washed away the mud, and the town's missing people had unearthed and needed to be reburied. But it matters not, for Joker didn't take any of my secrets, only a saw from the garden.



The next day dawned, and our carriage left the small town. At the other end of the bridge, the circus was scorched black, and the entrance had been blocked off. The police were everywhere.

The Hullabaloo Circus performed their last by the Moon River—a man with a saw and a can of kerosene had killed everyone in the tent.

The only person who survived was a redheaded dancer. I caught a glimpse of her by the riverside through the carriage window. Ugh—what a dull face she has. It's no match for the Joker.

粉红面纱

1
我在火车上见到了菲利普。
他坐在我对座，穿着三分旧的灰法兰呢西装。我第一眼看的不是他的脸，是他拿着早报的手，那双手比寻常人要来得更宽大和艳丽，像开在北方的山茶花一样，是充满血色的。
一双属于优秀蜡像师的手。身为学徒的我一看便知。

菲利普在归乡的旅途上。
在此之前，他发布了颅相学研究的论文集，并举办了个人作品的巡回展出，那些蜡像作品随他前往世界各地，博得无数惊叹。我作为一名蜡雕学徒，也是他的追随者之一。
“不过这次我中途结束了巡展。我的妹妹病了，她发了一封电报给我……”他说起自己返乡的理由，“家庭医生应该会好好照顾她，直到我回去。她总是嫌草药茶太苦……”
“也许她根本没有生病。”我想起我的姐姐为了喝蜂蜜水而装病的事。“她只是想念你了，找个借口骗你回去。”

我们说笑了许久。看起来，他也觉得，这或许是妹妹的恶作剧。


2
三个月后，我告别了叔叔一家，前往菲利普的蜡像艺术廊当高级学徒工。
他还在为了妹妹穿丧服——她的惨案在当时震惊全市。人们至今还会议论，当菲利普匆忙返乡、推开宅邸大门、在倒满蜡的浴缸里看见妹妹时，他脸上的究竟是什么表情。
凶手也并未归案，城市里人心惶惶，也有传言说他逃去了乡下——那是个会对无辜少女下手、将她丢进蜡液里活活闷死的恶徒；甚至在作案后，还模仿女性的口吻，给远方的菲利普发了电报，诱使他回家看见这种惨状……
当我来到艺术廊时，一位贵族正在验收预定的蜡像，他的随从将蜡像端进棕木匣子里。客人离别时还向菲利普致意，为他妹妹的死感到遗憾。

我和另外的四名学徒住在艺术廊后方的工坊里，二楼是居住区，一楼是工作区。菲利普从不会去二楼，只会在一楼查看我们的工作。
或许是我自作多情，他对我格外照顾。用他的话来说，自己是个很念旧的人。
“您还穿着丧服，已经六个月了。”我提醒他。
他弯着身子，调整蜡像鼻子的角度：“我穿着它，让你们觉得不安了吗？”
不仅是学徒，也有些客人在议论他的丧服。他的面容本身就很深邃，配上纯黑丧服，若是在深夜看到，会让人以为自己看见了一尊即将活过来的蜡像。
对，菲利普会在深夜来到工坊。

大部分蜡像作品的精加工都由学徒们在白天完成。菲利普深夜独自过来，在工坊的内室待到深夜，替一些贵客加工那些神秘的定制作品。
我问过他关于定制作品。菲利普对我笑了笑，抹掉刮刀上的残蜡：“那些是养活我们的东西，价值不菲，都是贵族喜欢的收藏……公开它们也许会惹麻烦，你懂的，这些东西，往往涉及风俗法和宗教法的灰色区域。我还不想上宗教法庭。”
是圣女和狮鹫的春宵一度？是小丑骑着国王？我只能这样猜测。

后来有个好奇的年轻学徒，用了撬锁功夫，偷偷撬开了匣子上的锁。
没人知道他看见了什么，这个年轻人被吓坏了，瑟瑟发抖了一夜，第二天就背上行李，离开了艺术廊。

3
唯独有一个客人公开了他定制的蜡像。那个爵爷在自己的一处城堡中展示了它们——十二个为一组，与菲利普从前的细腻风格截然不同。
它们像活的，活在生与死的边界里，保持着痛苦死去瞬间的绝望神色。
我想象不出，什么样的天才能做出它们。只有菲利普。
他把这个系列命名为罪徒，这些蜡像个个看上去都罪孽深重。据他说，他用上了许多颅相学的研究成果——人是否会犯罪，是先天决定的，可以通过测量颅骨比例来预测。
我实在按捺不住好奇，想窥视他的制作过程。那间内室从未让学徒进入过，我只能趁着他进入房中之后，从锁眼中窥视。
然而什么都看不清。硬要说的话，我看见了什么暗红色的东西，像是有人把充血的眼球贴在里面的锁眼上，用力在往外看。

自从那些蜡像被公开，菲利普就更加深居简出。围绕他的非议很多，教会将之评价为恶魔的产物。
王室经过短暂的更替，人们也在新旧法条之间摇摆，如果旧的风俗法令卷土重来，菲利普真的可能被送上火刑柱。
“那你记得在旁边画素描，把我受刑死的面容记录下来。”他居然还有心情说笑，“这是一个很好的出道作品，你会名震四方。”

那一年，我负责在工坊和他的住处之间传信，替他和外界联络。他仍然没脱下丧服，宅邸中的一切笼着黑纱。
隐居的这段时日，他看着神容精神了许多。许多暴徒曾经包围过他的宅邸，称他和他的妹妹是“女仆私生子”、“乱伦的恶徒”……玻璃窗几乎每天都被弹弓打碎。
这噩梦般的日子持续了一年，这座城市才重新恢复了秩序。
我去通知他这个消息，菲利普还在客厅里画铅笔稿，他的眼睛更加明亮，像是有一团火：“把蜡锅烧起来，恶徒系列有新的灵感了——粉色恶徒。”
草稿上，许多人在纸上挣扎。粉色的蜡液裹着他们多毛的皮肤，把一切都变得光滑。

我突然意识到他的小小报复心——这个一直穿丧服、有些捉摸不透的老师，不知为何，显得有些可爱了起来。

4 新上任的市长是菲利普的拥趸，收购过不少他的作品。他亲自来找菲利普，希望艺术廊能协助装扮城市花园舞会的布置。
“这座城市的犯罪率在今年降到了谷底，说真的，骤降了九成。所以我们打算解除宵禁，重新开始夜晚舞会……”他把公园的地图展示给菲利普，“市政打算订购三十具蜡像，我想了想，主题是古希腊的海洋历史？”
“或者英雄主义。”菲利普微笑附和，在合同上签了字。
“没错！英雄主义，普罗米修斯和阿波罗之类的……”
“只是会有很昂贵的预付定金。阿波罗的战车会使用金蜡……”

我敢说，没有哪家蜡像工坊收过那么巨额的定金——我们最后收到了六十具古希腊英雄的蜡像订单，每一具都按照两倍比例做成巨人……
每个学徒都陷入了激动，只有我的老师，还是那种如蜡像的神情，调整着草图。

那真的是个疯狂的夜晚。半个城市的人都聚在舞会现场，簇拥那些巨大的蜡像。还有巡警，骑着马的巡警，他们骑在马上，想和蜡像比比身高。
这些巡警还在为了犯罪率骤跌而困惑，甚至试图在狂欢舞会上找到几个人间蒸发的逃犯。

但狂欢和我无关，我打算借助这座空城做一些事，一直想做、却没勇气去做的事。鸡尾酒、香水、烟花，催生出我对那间内室的向往——

我想潜入内室，看我的老师是怎么做出那些惊世骇俗的作品的。

5
材料柜里很狭窄。玫瑰精油、硝粉、水银……
我的神智勉强从酒精中浮起来，在半夜的守候中，我一直躲在内室的材料柜中，等待菲利普进来。
我喝醉了，醉徒才会做出这个愚蠢的决定，如果他不回来呢？如果他决定和满城狂欢的人群一样，彻夜饮酒呢？
——然后，我听见了门锁的响声。那个穿丧服的人来了。

只是，他不是一个人来的。
菲利普还架着一个人进来。那人似乎喝醉了，烂醉如泥，被半拖着拽进来。
那是他的朋友吗？但菲利普把他丢在地上，去升起蜡锅下的柴火。白蜡很快冒出沸腾的气泡，虽然没有沸水那样热烈，但蜡像师都知道，它比水更为滚烫。
我的呼吸粗重起来，凑近了材料柜的缝隙，想看得更清楚——他是怎么做出那些作品的？那种介于生死之间，完美展现绝望的面容？

菲利普把地上的醉汉拖起来。我不太确定自己看清了，也许我也在烂醉——他把那个人固定在工作台上，然后开始在他身躯上喷蜡定型。他的身体很快被一层一层厚厚的蜡壳包裹，像深埋在被子里。
酒精是麻醉剂，但不彻底，皮肤被剖开时，这具身体仍然重重抽动了起来。那人的关节被全部固定住，包裹他身体的蜡壳已经开始凝固。
惨叫被闷在了厚重的粉蜡之下，三条放血管同时处理醉汉过于火热的血液，很快，新进入他身体的蜡就取代了他的血管和内脏。
火焰光芒之下，菲利普笑着看我冲出材料柜，夺门而出。工作台上，男人的面容已经被完美保存了下来，凝结在生死之间。

我逃出工坊，没有人理会我的呼救，全城都在狂欢，鸡尾酒甜美的气息弥漫上空。
酒精被火焰熏蒸——城市公园失火了，喝醉的人们点燃了蜡像，几十具蜡像变成了巨大火把，几乎吞噬整片夜空……
火舌中，那些蜡像渐渐融化，里面隐藏的真实尸骨带着粉色的蜡，倾泻一地。

英文版

The Rosy Veil
1

I first met Philippe on a train.

He was sitting across from me, wearing a worn, gray flannel suit. The first thing I noticed was his hands holding the morning paper. They were large yet beautiful, like the gentle camellias that bloom north.

They were a pair of hands that belonged to an artist, a sculptor in wax. Being an apprentice, I could tell at a glance.



Philippe was on his way back home.

Some time ago, he'd published a collection of papers on cranial phrenology and toured an exhibition of his wax figures around the world. He attracted numerous admirers. As an apprentice wax carver, I was a great fan.

"But I've had to cut short my tour this time. My younger sister has fallen ill. She sent me a telegram..." he told me, "I know the family doctor will look after her until I get back. Though she does complain about the herbal tea he gives her..."

"Maybe she's not sick." I remembered my own sister faking illness just so she could drink honey water. "Maybe she just misses you and wants you to come home."



We had a long and pleasant conversation in this manner. And, by the end, he agreed that maybe his sister was just playing a prank.




2

Three months later, I bid my uncle's family farewell and took a position as a senior apprentice at Philippe's Art Gallery.

He was in mourning for his sister—the tragedy of her death had shocked the whole city. People gossiped about how Philippe must have felt when he found his sister in the bathtub filled with wax on his return home.

The killer was still on the loose, and the city was in a panic. There were rumors that the culprit had fled to the countryside and that it was a woman... The telegram was full of feminine phrases. The killer might have sent it to lure Philippe back home. It was hard to imagine anyone killing an innocent girl by suffocating her in a bath of liquid wax alive.

When I arrived at the gallery, a nobleman was inspecting some wax figures he reserved. A servant was packing them up in a brown wooden box. The man paid his respects to Philippe as he parted, voicing his regret at the death of his sister.



I lived with four other apprentices in the workshop behind the art gallery. We had a living area on the second floor and our workshop on the first floor. Philippe never went up to the second floor, but he would often oversee our work in the workshop.

I always thought he took a bit of a shine to me, but perhaps I'm just being sentimental. But, as he said himself, he was a very sentimental person.

"You're still in mourning. It's been six months." I commented one day.

He bent over the wax figure, making a tiny adjustment, and replied, "Does it bother you?"
It wasn't just us apprentices who noticed. Some of the visitors at the gallery were also beginning to talk about his attire. With his pale face, deep-set features, and black mourning clothes... if you saw him late at night, you'd think he was one of his own wax figures come to life.

Philippe was in the habit of coming to the workshop late at night.



The apprentices applied most of the finishing touches to the waxworks during the day. Late at night, Philippe would shut himself up in the inner room of the workshop, sometimes until dawn, working away on those mysterious custom pieces for his distinguished clients.

I once asked him about his commissioned pieces. Philippe smiled as he wiped the wax residue from his scraper, "Those commissions feed us. They're worth a lot of money. Some of these nobles like to build up collections of... they have very particular tastes. We'd get into terrible trouble if these things got out. A lot of people would find them... blasphemous."

Was a hierophant committing bestiality with a griffin? Or was the jester riding the king like a pony? I assumed it must be something like that.



Some time after this, a curious young apprentice managed to pick the lock of one of the boxes holding a commissioned piece.

No one knows what he saw. The young man was traumatized, he shivered all night, and the next day he packed his bags and left without a word.



3

Only one client ever let the public see the pieces he'd commissioned from Philippe. He was nobility, of course. The figures were on display in one of his castles. He paraded them in a group of twelve; they were of a very different style to Philippe's former work, contrary to his exquisite touch.

These figures looked as if they existed on the threshold between life and death. They each seem tortured as if they were experiencing a painful death at that very moment.

I couldn't imagine what kind of genius could create such work. Only Philippe.

He named the series The Sinners. Each wax figure looked as if it had committed a thousand sins. According to Philippe, the work was based on his research into cranial phrenology, in which a person's likelihood of committing a crime is predetermined. This science maintains that a person's criminal probabilities can be predicted by measuring cranial proportions.

I was inquisitive about all of this. I wanted to get a closer look at his creative process. The workshop's inner room was not accessible to the apprentices, and all I could do was peer through the keyhole once he'd gone inside.

Yet, I couldn't see anything—except once. I saw something hideous and red, like someone's bloodshot eye looking at me from the other side of the keyhole.
After those wax figures had been made public, Philippe locked himself away in that inner sanctum. There was a lot of criticism. The church labeled his works a sacrilege.

The royal family underwent a coup, and the people felt lost between the old and new regimes. If the old laws were reinstated, Philippe was at risk of being executed.

"If this happens, you must sketch from the sidelines. I want my face recorded as I die from torture." Then he joked. "It'll be a fantastic debut—you'll be famous the world over."



During that year, I was in charge of passing messages between the workshop and his residence, where he was being kept under house arrest. I was his connection to the outside world. He still wore his mourning clothes, and everything in the mansion remained under black shrouds.

During this period of seclusion, he seemed to return to his old self. He looked relaxed, even. Once, an angry mob surrounded his house, shouting horrendous insults about Philippe and his sister. The windows were smashed daily.

This nightmare lasted a whole year until the city was brought back to order.

I went to inform him of the news. Philippe was in the living room sketching, his eyes bright as if a flame burned deep within. "Stoke up the fire, melt some wax... I've got the inspiration for a new Sinners series—The Rosy Sinners."

The sketches showed men writhing in agony. Philippe had tinted the sketches pink to smooth out all their vile imperfections."


He suddenly sounded vindictive and cynical. This teacher, my mentor, who had been in mourning for well over a year, was now showing a sadistic side.

4

As luck would have it, the newly appointed mayor was a big fan of Philippe's, buying many of his pieces. He approached Philippe in person, hoping that the Art Gallery would design the decorations for the first Ball in the City Garden.

"The city's crime rate has hit rock bottom this year—it's dropped by ninety percent! We've decided to lift the curfew and restart the nightly balls..." He showed Philippe the map of the park, "The city wants to order thirty wax figures, and I've been thinking about the theme of ancient Greek maritime history. What do you think?"

"Greek heroism." Philippe nodded as he signed the contract.

"Exactly! Heroism, like Prometheus and Apollo and all that..."

"It will be expensive, and I'll need a deposit. Apollo's chariot will require gold-infused wax..."



It was incredible. No waxwork exhibition had ever cost so much—we ended up with an order for sixty wax figures of ancient Greek heroes, each one twice the size of a regular man. They were giants...

All of us apprentices were caught up in the excitement. Philippe remained unruffled, forever tweaking his sketches with his now-familiar wax-like appearance.



The Ball was a rager. Half the city gathered at the site—they'd flocked to those huge wax figures. The patrolmen on horseback tried to compare their height with the imposing statues.

The police were still baffled by the plummeting crime rate. They'd stepped up their search for vanished fugitives, but none came to light.



I was trying to ignore all the revelry; I had other ideas in mind. There was something I wanted to do, but I'd never worked up the courage. The heady mix of cocktails, perfume, and fireworks had fueled my desire to get into that inner room.



I was desperate to see how my teacher created those amazing figures.

5

The cupboard was crammed with sculpting supplies. Rose essential oil, nitrate powder, mercury...

Hidden in the cupboard, I barely managed to keep my head straight from the alcohol. It was my private midnight vigil as I waited for Philippe to appear.

I am drunk out of my mind. You'd have to be blind drunk to do something so stupid. What if he didn't come back? What if he decided to drink all night like the crowds in the city?

—then I heard the sound of a key in the lock. The man in mourning entered his inner sanctum.



But he wasn't alone.

He was half-carrying a man. The man seemed drunk, as drunk as a skunk, as Philippe dragged him in.

Was it a friend of his? Philippe dumped the man on the floor and stoked up the fire under the wax pot. The white wax soon bubbled up to the boil, hotter than boiling water.

I felt as if I'd stopped breathing. I maneuvered myself to get a better look through the gap in the cupboard door—how did he make those pieces?! That twisted expression froze at the moment between life and death...



Philippe pulled the drunk up from the floor. I wasn't sure what I saw next... my eyesight was blurred from drunkenness. Philippe heaved the man on the workbench then began spraying the liquid wax on his torso. The man's body was soon covered in a thick crust of wax.

Alcohol was acting as an anesthetic but not completely… the body jerked violently as the pain shot through his nervous system. The wax shell that encased the man's body began to solidify as if it had been set in stone.

His screams were smothered beneath a thick layer of wax. Three tubes were fixed to the body to drain the man's blood and replace it with liquid wax colored a grisly pink.

Philippe smiled in the glow of the fire as he watched me run out of the cupboard and out of that hellish room. Lying on the workbench, the man's agonizing visage has been preserved at that moment between life and death.



I stormed out shrieking, yet no one heeds my cries for help. The whole city was in a frenzy, indulging in alcohol.

The alcohol in the air fanned the flames of the torches throughout the City Garden, setting the exhibition ablaze. The drunken mob ignited the wax figures, turning them into torches that illuminated the night sky...

The wax figures melted into a grotesque sludge of bones and flesh emulsified with bright pink wax.

刻着她的名字

1

有人很坚信，当皇后的脑袋和脖子分家后，她被草草丢进一口木箱子里，然后投入了行刑场边上的万人坑。

过去几个月发生的事，某种意义上来说可真是缺乏美感——贵族们被愤怒的平民当街杀死或者架上刑场，人们在北岸挖了个巨大的坑，用来埋葬那些骤增的尸体。这个坑像是个河流边的暗红溃疡，至今还没有消炎的迹象。

国王和皇后被砍掉脑袋后就被丢在这个坑里，一伙盗墓贼盯上了它们。随便从这两位大人的尸体上搜刮出来什么都行，这种人的骨头都是黄金做的。

微冷的夜里，那个红头发的女人拢紧了肩上的披风，将刚才收到的钱放进腰袋里。

仍有一两个盗墓贼用怀疑的眼神看她，怀疑这是个女骗子——她自称曾在宫廷当过侍女，能替他们认出皇后的遗体。

“她的遗体很好辨认，一定抓着面镜子在照。”她用那种自言自语的口气嘀咕，“不会有比她更自恋的女人了。她有一枚奥地利工艺的宝石戒指，我在替她收拾梳妆台的时候见到的，里面居然刻着‘M’——她自己名字的首字母。”

2

国王和皇后的婚后生活，实在算不上多么琴瑟和鸣。有某种神奇的传言甚至在宫廷里蔓延，说国王是性无能。

而皇后呢？她每天沉迷茶会、舞会、观剧、赌钱。在亲王妃成为宫廷女官、成为她的密友后，她也只是更疯狂地沉迷茶会、舞会、观剧、赌钱。

有不少人觉得亲王妃是个可笑的存在。她留在宫廷里陪伴皇后，替皇后忙前忙后，昏天黑地地筹办舞会，用尽手段把账目变得好看些……为了宫廷账目不出现赤字，传说她还卖掉了自己的钻石首饰替皇后填补。

她没有皇后那么丰艳动人。亲王妃是清瘦的，妆面和打扮都干干净净，甚至朴素，不知道是不是私下为皇后变卖了太多东西导致的。

“就像那条胳膊一样瘦。”她指着盗墓贼从坑里拽出来的残肢，“甚至比那还要瘦。她为了替皇后筹备舞会，可以三天三夜不吃饭。”

男人们笑起来：“我们也经常几天吃不上饭。”

“我不知道亲王妃在想什么……其实皇后根本不喜欢她。”她回忆起艳后的眼睛，像蓝宝石一样，剔透、冰冷、漠然的美丽眼睛，“皇后不在乎任何人，只在乎她自己的享乐。”

“皇后会给她金山银山！”

“不知道，但她倒是为皇后变卖了许多首饰，最后还为皇后掉了脑袋。”

在革命发生前，亲王妃曾经随众人离开过。贵族们抛弃了国王和皇后，任由他们被囚禁和审判。

但在后来，她为了皇后回来了。结果就是先一步受审——没有结果的审判。

“所以她真的不怎么聪明，也许和皇后一样，脑子有些问题。”她坐在路边，疲惫地笑了，“还好她们都死了。服侍两个脑子有问题的女人，我都不知道怎么熬过来的。”

3

随着一声小小的欢呼，一件带血的晨衣被他们从坑里挑了出来。那是皇后被砍头时的打扮。

侍女揉了揉困倦的眼睛：“我可没法确定这是不是她的裙子，这样的裙子，她至少有几百条。”

有个男人笑了：“那她可真该死。”

“该死吗？最后判处她和国王死刑的那场审判……我不喜欢她，但她的罪名究竟是不是该死……”

“你可真是个在宫廷里吃点心的小姐，起初我还怀疑你是不是骗子，现在我觉得你肯定是宫里的侍女。”他把那件绸缎晨衣卷了卷，丢到拉车里，“我的三个孩子都饿死了，你居然还在纠结她该不该掉一颗脑袋。”

她微微觉得有些发凉。夜风越来越大，不像这个季节的风。男人们还在挖着那个万人坑，从里面丢出一具具的尸骸。

这太难受了。她想说些可笑的事情缓解死寂，于是又说起了亲王妃。

“那个女人不知道在想什么……她是个寡妇，你们知道吗？她成为寡妇后才进的宫，我怀疑她把皇后当成了什么寄托……太可笑了。”她装出歇斯底里的样子，“皇后生育第一胎的时候，居然是她第一个冲进产室的。她像个疯子，扑在皇后身上哭个不停，好像那也是她的孩子。”

这起了些作用，至少让男人们哄堂大笑。他们催促她：“再说一些！”

“还有……皇后的信都由她代笔，皇后自己可没什么学识……为了让那些字像是皇后写的，据说她只用无名指夹着羽毛笔写字……”

忽然，盗墓贼中爆发了一阵欢呼，显然有大发现——头目举起自己从坑里挖出来的东西，暗淡的灯火下，它仍然散发着火焰般的光芒……

“是那枚戒指，皇后万岁！上面刻着‘M’！”他们说，“后面还跟着两个字母‘TL’！我们的皇后名字可真长！”

但M.T.L不是皇后名字的缩写，而是亲王妃的。

4

是的，她透过锁眼，看到过那可笑的一幕——皇后和亲王妃在房中，像是两个装成大人模样的孩子，神色严肃、神圣地，看着一枚戒指。

大部分人只瞥见过戒圈里的M，以为刻的是皇后的名字。但这个自我主义的女人，戴着刻着另一个女人名字的戒指。

是因为亲王妃为她变卖过自己的首饰吗？也许只是因为这个。皇后才不是个心思多么细腻深远的女人，她想弥补自己的密友，就用一个刻着名字的戒指；她想和密友相伴，就昏天黑地举办舞会和茶会。

天上下起了雨。男人们加快手脚，他们好似已经看见棺材残破的盖子——它被摔得稀巴烂，所以里面的东西散得到处都是。

她看着地上的积水，想起皇后房中的水镜——皇后喜欢看自己水中的倒影，她的倾慕者中有一位知名的占星师，他称，皇后的美貌将在镜中永存。

“她的脑袋落地后，我可看不出那有什么美貌。”盗墓贼们回忆行刑的那日，“她们看上去都差不多——那个亲王妃被人当街大卸八块之后，我也看见她被挑起来的脑袋了。”

那时的皇后已经被关入了囚室，人们把亲王妃的脑袋挑起来，送到窗台边给她看。

“从那之后，她就不太正常了，我是说皇后。”

“这女人好像一直都不太正常。”

“是另一种不正常……其实她被关在囚室里的时候，一直都很平静。”她说，“我去探望她，给她送用品和衣物，她还是老样子，冷漠地应对所有人……但她看见亲王妃的脑袋后，就彻底不正常了。”

他们模仿她之前歇斯底里的样子：“是这样？”

她摇头：“不，她写自己的教名，倒过来写。”

在囚禁处的壁纸上，皇后开始写血字——将教名逆着写，这种被视为将自己卖给魔鬼的行为。

当她被带走处决的时候，整个屋子被密密麻麻写满了血名。

“她只能向那种东西乞求奇迹，也许乞求亲王妃的复活，也许报复杀害她的凶手……谁知道呢。杀她们的是很多个人。”

她低喃着。只是，已经没人听她说话了。

盗墓贼们抬出了那口破烂棺材，兴奋地将它撬开——

棺材是空的。

侍女看着地上的积水发呆。

忽然，从这面水镜里，她看到一个熟悉的人出现在自己的身后……

沾着血污、有些褪色的金发，冷漠的、像宝石般的眼睛……

宛如项链一般的伤口，在女人的脖子上是那么醒目。

她看到的最后一幕，是原该死去的身影朝自己奔来。雨夜落出的水镜里，这片乱葬坑很快恢复寂静，只有几具新的尸体滚落坑中，发出雨点似的轻响。

新的小姐

1

女仆克拉又打碎了一瓶白麝。

这所宅子属于著名的皇室调香师薇拉·奈尔，为了让薇拉小姐保持嗅觉的敏锐，宅中必须做到极致的干净无尘。

在调香师的家里，白麝很常见，被密封在褐色的玻璃瓶里。她只是想用掸子扫去玻璃瓶上的灰，那玻璃瓶就从架子上翻了下来。

旁边的老女仆扯着她的头带把她揪出去，扯着她去见女管家：“这是第五次了！是她打碎的，和我们其他人可没关系。”

女管家扣掉了她之后十几天的工钱。克拉哭个不停，等其他人都走了，她还蹲在楼梯旁啜泣。

一个人从楼上下来，头发在阳光下泛着避光玻璃般的茶色光泽。克洛伊含着眼泪看她：“薇拉小姐……”

薇拉·奈尔指了指她：“有时间的话，来闻一下我的新香。”

克拉跟着女主人上了楼，接过她的丝绸手绢擤了擤鼻子，发出很可笑的声音。

夜里，克拉躺在阁楼的卧室里，和老女仆说着今天的事。薇拉很少让别人去她工作的房间，更不用说让女仆闻自己的新作品。

“我觉得薇拉小姐对我们很好。”她小声说。

老女仆翻过身：“因为你的名字很像克洛伊小姐。”

“克洛伊小姐？”

“薇拉小姐的妹妹，她们是双胞胎。”

克拉想了很久：“我没见过她。”

“因为她失踪了。”

2

宅邸中在为薇拉准备今年的生日舞会。各界名流都会参加，每个人都想讨好这位调香师，从她手里弄到足以蛊惑国王的香气。

克拉又打碎了几套瓷器，被老女仆用鸡毛掸子抽赶去了楼梯下面。她经常蹲在这里哭，楼梯下的蜘蛛都快认识她了。

她没有事情做得好，从出生开始就笨手笨脚。当薇拉叫她去试闻新香时，还紧张地打碎了两个水晶香精瓶。

“无所谓，”薇拉用绣花高跟鞋把碎片踢到墙角，“你本来就不适合做这些事。你应该试试当克洛伊。”

克拉细声细气地问：“当克洛伊小姐？”

“先改掉这种掐着嗓子说话的样子。”她让女佣抱出几条有些年份的裙子，替克拉换上，“换上她的裙子，化好妆，在今天的舞会上坐在我的身边，当一天我的克洛伊。”

薇拉替她喷上香水，那香味是她的成名之作“忘忧之香”，克拉瞬间觉得自己的魂灵都要随着香味漂浮了起来。她只记得这句话——“当我的克洛伊”。

薇拉牵着她的手，她感觉自己在出手汗，粗糙的手指被汗水弄得黏黏糊糊的，但又不敢将汗擦在礼服上。

大厅中满是宾客，当薇拉与她手拉手出场时，所有人的目光都投向了克拉。薇拉介绍她：“这是我的妹妹克洛伊。”

克拉刚一坐下，就有许多人围了上来，与她行吻手礼。她的手汗沾染在这些达官贵人的手上，但没人露出厌恶的眼神，每个人都说：“您的汗水如香水般芬芳，克洛伊小姐。”

有人请她跳舞，但她都不敢答应。直到薇拉牵起她的手，带她走到舞池中间。这支舞是今夜她们俩唯一的一支舞，除此之外，薇拉没有答应其他的邀约。

幻梦般的舞会结束了。深夜，克拉躺在阁楼的小床上，无论如何都睡不着。

“睡吧，克拉，睡吧。明天你要把一片狼藉的大厅地板擦干净。”老女仆劝她。

克拉睁着眼睛，看着屋梁的蛛网。

“不，我叫克洛伊。”

3

舞会那夜后，克洛伊经常坐在楼梯上，靠着拖把发呆。她不再被叫克拉，别人都叫她“克洛伊”；没人催促她干活，只有老女仆偶尔抱怨两句。

“你真该庆幸薇拉小姐的好心肠，如果今天你服侍的是真正的克洛伊小姐，一定早就被赶出去了。”

真正的克洛伊，据说是个性格古怪苛刻的人。她除了调香，对其他人事物都没兴趣，不管是谁打扰了她，她都会让对方“滚出去”——对名门淑女来说，可真是太粗鲁了。

而薇拉小姐从不那样说话。她是真正的淑女。

下午茶之后，薇拉又让她去花园里，陪自己蒸馏玫瑰香油。

巨大的蒸馏器不断涌出水雾，薇拉的眼睛在雾后显得模糊不清。很少有人说得清她的性格，老一批的仆人说，薇拉小姐是个淑女；新的仆人都觉得，她像个冷漠疏离的鬼魂。

克洛伊盯着她看，直到那双眼睛从雾后看过来：“你在看什么？我的妹妹。”

浓烈的玫瑰香味弄得人头晕，克洛伊扶着蒸馏器，坐在那堆玫瑰花上。她抬起头，眼睛被蒸汽熏得发红：“我不知道该怎么做才能更像她……”

“你已经很像了，你的样子，头发，粗鲁的口音，”薇拉在她面前跪下，摘掉她的女仆头巾，“只要你发誓永远不背叛我，你就可以成为奈尔家族的养女。你无法想象，我有多希望我的克洛伊能回来。”

——很快，奈尔家族多了一名养女克洛伊，她随着薇拉出入宫廷，安静坐在一旁，就算偶尔开口，也是故意掐细的、尖尖的嗓音。

薇拉不喜欢妹妹和别人说话，妹妹像是珍稀的香料，所有的香味都应该锁在水晶瓶里，不能流泻出去。

她一直安静地坐在那，人们给她起了个外号，叫“哑巴紫椋”。直到那天，克洛伊在宫中认识了一位男爵，别人才知道这位常穿紫红色衣裙的淑女是会说话的。

他叫做克雷格·奈尔，是薇拉的堂亲，也是上一任家族店铺的管理人。男爵准备将所有的生意交给薇拉，所以从威尼斯赶回来。

4

他们在宫廷的香水沙龙上见过一面，之后，男爵就要回到威尼斯了。但仅仅是那一面，就让克洛伊心神动摇。

尽管她知道薇拉不喜欢看自己和别人来往，但克雷格是她们的堂叔，她不认为薇拉的独占欲会引申到这个男人。

老女仆对克洛伊还是那副样子，早上凶巴巴地轰她起床，将她的胸衣狠狠收紧。克洛伊被勒得惨叫，但被她喝止：“当小姐就是得这样，不然就别在我面前装小姐！”

克洛伊尖叫：“我喘不过气来——我还要去看克雷格先生的信！女仆说他来信了！”

克雷格从威尼斯给这可怜的女孩来了些“家书”，与她说了一些两姐妹的往事。

比如真正克洛伊的古怪性格，以及她在调香上的惊人天赋；比如薇拉从前的平平无奇，与某天才华的突然绽放……当然，还有克洛伊的失踪——薇拉声称，妹妹在大雪夜里走失。这是一场令她心碎的悲剧，但也只让她一个人的心碎了。

毕竟，没人喜欢那个性格古怪的克洛伊。

克洛伊换好了裙子，提着裙摆从楼梯上跑下，去书房取新的信。

当她推开书房门，却发现薇拉已经坐在了里面。女人的手中紧紧攥着揉皱的信纸，然后把它们丢进了壁炉里。

“这是背叛，克洛伊不会和这些男人交往。”她的声音是冰冷的。

“你怎么确定她不会？她只是在太年轻的时候在雪地里走失了！”

“这是背叛！”

薇拉的尖叫声第一次传出书房，这所宅子的仆人们都停下手里的活，他们从未听见女主人这样失声尖叫。

“克洛伊不会这么对待我！她不会背叛自己的姐姐！”她冲着克洛伊冲过来，扯下女孩脖子上的首饰，“给我脱掉所有克洛伊的东西，然后滚出去！”

那是许多事情的起点或是终点。

克洛伊被轰回了阁楼上，没收了所有的华服和首饰，重新换回女仆的衣服。

这场恶战足足持续了两个礼拜，女仆每日在阁楼崩溃哭泣，女主人则把自己关在工作室里。直到有一天，克洛伊在睡梦中被喊醒——她能闻见薇拉身上浓重的酒味。

夜晚的工作室里点着灯火，薇拉揽着她的肩膀让她坐下。

“调香师不能喝酒……我的酒量很差，甚至忘了想和你说什么……克洛伊，闻一下这瓶香水吧，我所有要说的话都在里面。”

克洛伊颤抖着拿起水晶瓶，轻轻嗅了嗅——出乎她意料的是，一开始并没有闻到味道。

就像是一瓶水。然后某种东西从水里涌了出来，爬进鼻腔，沿着鼻道钻入脑中。它已经不能算是香味，而是某种气的触感。

她几乎把瓶子摔在地上，可是那股味道命令她的手抓紧瓶子，继续渴求那种香气。

“这是‘忘忧’最初的调香，”薇拉按住她的手，取回了香水，“国王都会听命于它。”

“它和……和其他的‘忘忧’不一样……”

“当然不一样，‘薇拉的灵魂’在里面。一整个、完好的、活生生的薇拉的灵魂。”她念起自己的名字，声音听上去像是变了个人，“薇拉的灵魂……”

克洛伊终于从那种香味中回过神：“为什么你的灵魂会在里面？”

她尖细的声音惊醒了醉酒的女人——薇拉的醉意突然褪去，死死地瞪着她。

“滚出去。”她说。

5

克洛伊重新成了小姐。

姐妹俩的关系发生了微妙的变化——薇拉做了让步，她不再禁止妹妹和其他人交往。像鸟飞出笼子，克洛伊穿着华服出入各种沙龙，和上流社会的男士们传递情书。

她不再害怕和薇拉争吵，事实上，她们之前几乎每天都会大吵一架，持续了一个多月。之后，薇拉终于因为精疲力竭而退步，不再对她和别人交往表示愤怒。

贵族们都对克洛伊的嗓音感兴趣，那种细细尖尖、像小女孩的声音。晚宴舞会上，她的声音像雀飞的紫椋，在人群中闪烁。

薇拉坐在沙发上，被贵妇们簇拥讨好。她们从天鹅绒匣子里取出一支一支的新香水，奇异的香味交织在周围，每个人都愿意对这香味的主人言听计从。

被赞美环绕，她却面无表情，只是看着舞池里的克洛伊。

下一支舞曲要开始了。她站起身，喊了妹妹的名字。

“克洛伊，”她朝女孩伸出手，“陪我跳一支舞吧。”

然而没有任何回应。克洛伊的目光只是扫过她身上，便握住了另一个男人的手，步入舞池深处。

舞会持续了大半夜，疲惫的人渐渐散去。克洛伊在卧室里换上睡袍，沉沉睡下了。

当她听见门被推开的声响时，甚至困得没法睁眼——几名仆妇拽住她的胳膊，将她从卧房拖出去。她的尖叫声被头上套的麻袋遮掩，被用力推上马车。

6

克洛伊忘记自己被囚禁了多久。

她被关押的地方，是奈尔家族在乡下的古宅，每隔一段时间，门上的铁锁会发出声响，然后，薇拉将带着工作箱走进房间。

克洛伊没法打起精神，她的身体像个面团——为了防止她逃跑，她的饮食中被加入了大量的药物。

“你真的是薇拉小姐吗？”她颤抖着问，“我在这间房间的地板下面发现了一本日记……封皮上写着薇拉的名字……”

薇拉点头：“这间房间从前是薇拉的房间……对，是我的房间。”

“我看了那本日记……我不觉得你是薇拉小姐。”她伸手拂去面前的气味，“薇拉”的工作箱里装满了新的香水，她强迫克洛伊不断嗅闻那种味道，那种如触感般的香味，好像无数只小蜘蛛，密密麻麻爬进少女的脑子里，让她失去所有思考的能力，“薇拉担心她那个不受欢迎的妹妹，她想先以自己的身份发表妹妹的香水作品……”

“——然后再向大众公布香水的真正作者，让克洛伊的才华得到承认。”“薇拉”抬头，对她露出僵硬的微笑，“我知道。我看过那本东西。”

克洛伊呆呆地看着她，“忘忧”剥夺了她质问的话语。

“她真的在雪地里走失了吗？”

“薇拉”没有回答她，而是让她嗅闻浓度更高的香水。意识、思绪都像被抽入一个漩涡之中。香气织就的黑暗里，一个陌生的声音在低语：“我不会让任何人偷取我的作品。”

在一个清晨，因为仆人的疏忽大意，克洛伊用最后的力气逃出囚禁处。雾蒙蒙的晨光充斥着硕大的旧宅中，追逐着她逃窜的脚步。

她被几名男仆追赶，跌跌撞撞躲入了一扇门后——她没想到门后就是向地下室的台阶，整个人翻了下去。

但是台阶下却不是冰冷的地面，而是一片香味的海洋。这间地下室被无数的防腐香料填满，她的脚尖踩不到底，那些香料淹过了她的脸庞，吃下了这具虚弱的身躯。

在光线消失之前，克洛伊看见身旁的干花里出现了一张脸——干燥的脸，但如果它充满水分，会和“薇拉”一模一样。

它睡得很熟，不知在这堆防腐香料里睡了多久。它知道关于它的传闻吗？“在雪地里走失”……

但是，不重要了。克洛伊即将陪着它长眠，这会是一场美梦。

英文版

The New Lady
Chapter 1

Clara the maid smashed another bottle of white musk.

This mansion belonged to the prominent royal perfumer, Vera Nair. It had to be kept spotless to protect Miss Vera's sense of smell.

White musk was sealed in brown glass bottles, a common sight in a perfumer's home. It had fallen off the shelf when she tried to dust the bottles.

Agnes, the senior housemaid, grabbed hold of her and dragged her to the housekeeper. "That's the fifth time she'd broken something. Nothing to do with me!" cried Agnes.

The housekeeper fined Clara half a month's salary. She huddled in a corner by the stairs when everyone else had gone, crying to herself.

Someone appeared atop the stairs — her glossy brown hair shone like darkened glass in the sunlight. Clara gazed at her with tears in her eyes, "Miss Vera..."

Vera Nair said simply, "Try my new fragrance... if you so wish."

Clara followed her mistress upstairs, taking the silk handkerchief Vera handed her, and blew her nose, making a squealing noise.

Later that night, Clara lay in her attic bedroom, talking to Agnes about the events of the day. Vera rarely admitted anyone into her studio, let alone a servant, to sample her work.

I think Miss Vera is very nice to us, Clara whispered.

Agnes turned over, saying, "That's only because your name sounds like Miss Chloe's."
Miss Chloe?
Miss Vera's twin sister.
Clara thought for a moment, then remarked, "I've never seen her around."
She'd gone missing.

Chapter 2

This year, Vera decided to hold her birthday party in the mansion. Celebrities from all walks of life were eager to court favor with the perfumer, desperate to get the first sniff of her new perfume that could bewitch the king.

In her nervous excitement, Clara smashed yet another set of china and was again exiled by Agnes to the corner under the staircase. She became quite accustomed to squatting there and crying like a child—even the spiders became good friends with her.

She had always been a clumsy child and felt she wasn't competent at anything. When Vera asked her to try the new fragrance, she was so nervous that she broke two crystal bottles on the spot.

"Don't worry," Vera said, kicking the broken shards away with her embroidered high heels, "You're just not cut for doing that sort of thing. Why don't you try being Chloe instead?"

Clara whispered, "Being Miss Chloe?"

"Stop talking like that," instructed Vera. She then ordered the other maids to dress up Clara in some vintage dresses. "Put on the dress and makeup," she told Clara, "Sit by my side at the ball and be my Chloe for the day."

Vera spritzed Clara with an entrancing perfume, her most famous creation "Euphoria." Clara felt as if her soul had left her body, carried away by the aroma. "Be my Chloe." The words lingered in Clara's mind.

Vera took her hand. Clara felt awkward and sweaty, became conscious of her rough skin and unkempt nails—trembling at the idea of wiping her sweat on the beautiful dress she'd been given.

The ballroom was full of guests. When Vera came out, leading Clara by the hand, all eyes were on her. Vera introduced Clara, "This is Chloe, my younger sister."

As soon as Clara sat down, people swarmed around her, wanting to kiss her hand. Though her hands were hot and sticky, no one noticed the slightest bit. Everyone flattered her, "You simply smell gorgeous, Miss Chloe, just like perfume."

A gentleman invited her to dance, but she dared not accept his invitation, nor any of the others that followed. Vera led Clara to the center of the dance floor and performed a dance. Vera didn't dance with anyone else the whole evening.

The ball came to an end. Later that night, Clara lay in her attic room, unable to fall asleep.

"Go to sleep, Clara. You must clean the ballroom floor first thing in the morning." Agnes instructed her.

Clara stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling above.

No, my name is Chloe.

Chapter 3

After that night, Clara often sat on the stairs, leaning against her mop in a daydream. She was no longer Clara—everyone called her "Chloe" instead. No one bothered her about working again, except for the occasional grumble from Agnes.

"Miss Vera is very kind, but you would've been kicked out long ago if the real Miss Chloe were here."

The real Chloe was said to be an eccentric, mean-spirited person. She had no interest in anything other than perfume. If anyone dared to disturb her work, she would scold them out—she was not ladylike at all.

Miss Vera was the complete opposite—she was a real lady.

After teatime, Vera asked Clara, or Chloe as she now was, to accompany her to the garden for distilling rose essential oil.

The large still emitted a cloud of mist, enveloping Vera. There were many different opinions about Vera's character. The senior servants thought of her as a lady, while the junior staff members thought of her as cold and detached.

Clara stared at Vera until she returned her gaze, "Something on my face, sister?"

The pungent rosy scent had a stupefying effect. Clara raised her head, her eyes red with steam, "What should I do to be more like her..."

You're doing a marvelous job—the way you look, your hair, your funny accent. Vera knelt in front of her and removed Clara's headscarf, "Swear never to betray me, and the Nair family will adopt you. I only wanted my Chloe back."

Clara was soon adopted into the Nair family as Chloe. She followed Vera everywhere and sat quietly by her side wherever she went. When she occasionally spoke, it was with a thin, high-pitched voice.

Vera didn't like her new sister speaking with others. To her, Chloe was a rare perfume kept in a crystal bottle; not even a whiff should escape.

She always sat quietly and was soon nicknamed the "Silent Starling." Many thought she was a mute until the day a baron came to visit.

The baron's name was Craig Nair; he was Vera's cousin-uncle and managed the family business. The baron had just returned from Venice, wanting to hand over the business to Vera.

Chapter 4

Chloe met the baron at the perfume salon before his return to Venice and became obsessed with him at first sight.

She knew that Vera didn't like her socializing with others, but Craig was their cousin-uncle—she didn't think Vera would mind.

Agnes still behaved to Chloe as she always had, prodded her awake in the morning, and yanked her corset tight when she was dressing her. Howling in pain as Chloe was squeezed into the dress, "That's what you have to do to be a lady," snapped Agnes, "So stop fussing about!"

"I can't breathe!" complained Chloe. "Leave me be! I want to read Baron Craig's letter. The maid said he's written again."

Craig had sent her letters from Venice, recounting stories about the twin sisters.

The real Chloe had been a very eccentric character, but she owned an amazing talent for creating perfume. The story went that the once mediocre Vera had suddenly become the more talented sister, outshining her sister... Then there was the story of Chloe's disappearance—Vera claimed that her younger sister had gotten lost in a snowstorm one night, never to find her way home. The tragedy had broken Vera's heart; she was the only one who had ever truly loved Chloe, so she said.

After all, nobody liked the eccentric Chloe.
After changing her dress, Chloe went to the study for Baron Craig's latest letter.
She pushed open the study door to find Vera already sitting there. Chloe saw the crumpled letters clutched in Vera's hand just as she was throwing them into the fireplace.

You betrayed me! Chloe would never fall in love with this man, with any man! Vera's tone was cold and harsh.

How can you be so sure? She was so young when she disappeared. You don't know what her life would've been.

You betrayed me!

The servants in the hall could hear Vera screaming from the study; they had never heard their mistress scream in such a manner.
Chloe would never have treated me like this! She would never have betrayed her sister! Vera rushed at Chloe and tore the jewelry from the girl's neck. "Take off Chloe's things and get out!"
That was the beginning, and the end, of an era between the two women.
Chloe was simply Clara again. She was sent back to the attic to put on her maid's attire—with all her fancy clothes and jewelry stripped clean.
This angry stand-off between them lasted two weeks. Clara cried in the attic every day while Vera locked herself in her studio. Then, one night, Clara awoke to find Vera standing over her, reeked of alcohol.
The lights were ablaze in the studio. Vera took Clara by the shoulders and made her sit down.
Perfumers mustn't drink; it destroys their delicate sense of smell... What a terrible drunk I am. I can't even remember what I wanted to say to you... Chloe, smell this perfume—everything I have to say is in it.
Clara trembled as she picked up the crystal bottle and gave it a gentle sniff—to her surprise, she couldn't smell anything.
It could've just been a bottle of water. Then something sprang out of the bottle and into Clara's nose. Whatever it was, she felt as if it was drilling into her brain. This thing was beyond just a scent—it was noxious gas.
She almost dropped the bottle, but the strange scent commanded her to keep hold of it. She was intoxicated by the aroma, caught in a kind of trance.
This is the original "Euphoria," said Vera as she retrieved the bottle from Clara's hand. "Even the king will obey its command."
It's not the same as... the other "Euphoria"...
No. It's very different. You see... "Vera's soul" is in it. Yes, a living soul is caught within, like a genie in a bottle. Her voice sounded different when she uttered her name, "Vera's soul..."
Clara finally snapped out of her trance, "Why is your soul in there?"
Her high-pitched voice startled Vera. Sobering up quickly, she glared at her.
"Get out," she barked.

Chapter 5

Shortly after this evening, Clara became Miss Chloe again.

There was a subtle change in the relationship between the women—Vera made concessions and she no longer forbade Chloe from meeting with other people. Like a bird let out of a cage, Chloe visited the most fashionable salons wearing expensive clothes. She spent her time exchanging love letters with men from the highest tiers of society.

She was no longer afraid of arguing with Vera. They argued more and more, every day, it seemed. Gradually, Vera became tired of all the fighting and stopped getting angry at Chloe with the men she was seeing.

They were all captivated by her, and her thin, high-pitched voice sounded like a little girl's. At galas, her voice flitted over the crowd like a soaring bird.

Meanwhile, Vera would sit on the sofa, surrounded by ladies trying to amuse her. One by one, these women took the new perfume from its velvet box and enveloped themselves in the strange scent. Each of them became a servile to the master of the scent.

They loved Vera, they praised her incessantly, but there she sat, poker-faced, staring at Chloe on the dance floor.

Before the orchestra began the next dance, Vera stood up and beckoned her sister over.
"Chloe!" she held out her hand, "Dance with me."
Chloe ignored her, looking straight past Vera as she was whisked around the dance floor by another man.

The ball lasted most of the night. As the guests tired themselves out, they gradually left. Chloe went straight to her bedroom and fell right asleep.
She was vaguely aware of the sound of the door being opened, but she was too sleepy to open her eyes. Several servants restrained her and dragged her out of the room. She screamed as a sack was pulled over her head and she was shoved into a carriage.

Chapter 6

Chloe lost track of how long she had been held captive. Her mind wandered ceaselessly... she could no longer be sure who she was. Then, she gradually realized she was Clara—always had been.

She was imprisoned in the Nair family country estate. Every once in a while, the key would creak in the lock on the door, and Vera would enter, carrying a little box.

Clara was sluggish and dull. Her body felt like a lead weight—her food was being drugged to prevent her from escaping.

"Are you really Miss Vera?" she asked, trembling. "I found a diary with Vera's name on it under the floorboards..."

Vera nodded, "This room used to be Vera's room... my room."

Vera spritzed in Clara's face a new perfume in the box, forcing Clara to inhale it. Clara tried to waft the scent away, "I read that diary...I don't think you are Miss Vera," she stuttered. The new fragrance had an almost tactile scent and created a tingling sensation, as if a cluster of tiny spiders were crawling into Clara's cranium, stripping away her ability to think. "In the diary, Vera seems worried about her sister," Clara continued drowsily, "She advised Chloe to launch the perfume anonymously at first, in case it was badly received..."

—then reveal herself as the creator of the perfume once it was clear that the public recognized her talent. Vera, or this woman who called herself Vera, gave a stiff little smile, "I know. I read that bit too."

Clara stared at her blankly. "Euphoria" had nearly stripped her ability to speak.

Was she... really lost in the snowstorm?

Vera ignored her, holding a bottle of toxic perfume closer to the girl's nose. Clara's thoughts whirled in her head, and the strange scent enveloped the room in darkness. An unsettling voice whispered, "No one will ever steal my work."

One fateful morning, Clara mustered the last ounce of courage and managed to escape, thanks to a careless servant who hadn't locked the door properly. She sprinted through the fog-shrouded estate, seeking a way out.

Several footmen gave chase. Looking for a place to hide, she pulled open a door—but didn't expect it to lead straight down to the basement. She fell head-first down the steep flight of stairs.

She did not hit the ground hard as she thought but was submerged in a sea of fragrance. The basement was filled with herbal perspectives, with dried plants and flowers hanging all over. Clara couldn't feel the floor beneath her feet as the fragrances flooded over her, eating away at her flesh.
As the light faded, a shriveled visage emerged from amongst the dried flowers—its skin deprived of moisture, but Clara could recognize it as Vera.
This face, this thing, was sleeping soundly... who knew how long it had been asleep of embalming spices? "Lost in the snow, they say." There had been no snow, only this fog, this deadly vapor.
But nothing mattered anymore. Clara would now join this sleeping thing. Sweet dreams at last, she thought.

白沙街报案记录

1

伍兹探长抽掉了第六支烟。夜晚的值班室，地板上全是烟头。

电话响了。助理警探接了起来。

“白沙警署。”

“救救我！我是贝克，在白沙孤儿院，救救——”

伍兹看见年轻人直接挂掉了电话。相同的电话此前收到过很多个，都是那个声音细软的小女孩。

助理曾经去孤儿院问过院长，那名体型高大、长相狰狞的院长——助理不想惹麻烦，让对方在回执上签了保证书就回来了。

“如果那个看上去好像卡西莫多的院长真的虐待孩子呢？”伍兹把冷掉的烟头放在嘴里嚼了嚼再吐掉，“走吧，我想活动活动身子。”

-

孤儿院的院长对两名警探的到来非常不耐烦。这个人的坏脾气和丑陋是整个白沙街都知道的，一直有人传说这个残疾的毁容怪人用孩子做布丁，来治疗自己的眼睛。

伍兹对传闻没兴趣，他只是随便走进几个孩子的卧室，把他们拉起来检查——没有什么可怕的伤，就算有，也是小孩子之间玩闹留下的小伤痕。

伍兹问他关于“贝克小姐”的事，院长几乎暴跳如雷：“是她！又是她！”

“我能见见她吗？”

“这个小混账把另一个孩子绑成稻草人，还把稻草点燃了，现在在关禁闭！”他说，“不许、任何人、见她！”

2

伍兹有时候会想起妻子和女儿，她们死于一场教堂大火。

夜晚巡逻时，他会经过火灾后的废墟，不知为何，这个地方似乎仍然保留着大火炙烤过之后的余温。

那天，一个和平时没有任何不同的夜晚，伍兹独自去夜巡。当他经过废墟时，一个孩子的人影朝他飞奔过来。

那是个穿着白裙子的女孩，虽然裙子脏兮兮的近乎于棕色——她扑到伍兹身上：“救救我！”

这个声音很熟悉。伍兹不会记错，他听过她的许多个报警电话。

“我是丽莎·贝克，先生，求你救救我……”

孩子的话还没说完，后方就有人提着灯火追来——院长带着人气喘嘘嘘地爬上山坡，朝着她走过来；丽莎害怕地躲到伍兹身后：“他又会把我关在那个黑色的房间里……”

院长咆哮：“那是因为你的脑子有问题！”

伍兹挡在两者之间。他看见丽莎的胳膊上伤痕累累：“我得把你们都带回去。你需要好好解释一下她身上的伤。”

院长声称这个伤是丽莎自己从楼梯上滚下来导致的。他口干舌燥地和警察们解释了一夜，警告他们别相信孩子的昏话，尤其是丽莎这种臆想症儿童——这种年纪的孩子才分不清想象和现实。

“我不能让你把她带回去。”伍兹拒绝让他和丽莎一起回孤儿院，“说真的，先生，你说话的暴躁样子，让我不是那么放心这个孤儿院。我们需要等天亮，等医生来做鉴定……”

——但天亮后，先来的不是医生，而是得到消息的报社记者。

有不少人早就觉得孤儿院有些问题，尤其是那个狰狞的院长。记者们从丽莎身上找到了突破口，无数的闪光灯对准她身上青紫的伤，然后在第二天裹着刺激的报纸标题——《卡西莫多的儿童地狱——白沙街孤儿院的虐待事件》。

也有人把伍兹比喻成儿童的守护者，这个故事变成了正义的探长击败了邪恶的孤儿院长，再搭配居民口中的传闻，甚至声称在孤儿院地下室找到了院长烹煮儿童的坩埚……

一个月后，声名狼藉的院长宣布放弃孤儿院。教会接手了它。

3

白沙街关于孤儿院的报案仍然在继续。在五月六日、五月九日，孤儿院都来过电话——院长还在孤儿院外徘徊，负责人担心他的目的，希望伍兹过来警告这个人。

六月三日，又有一个报案电话，不过是火灾，孤儿院有几个孩子点燃了稻草，烧坏了院子的一角。

伍兹巡逻时如果经过孤儿院，会去探望丽莎。孩子的身上没有再出现过新伤，她的个子很小，就算长大也会是个娇小的姑娘。这很像伍兹的女儿，朋友从前觉得，他抱着他女儿，就好像抱着只猫。

丽莎很喜欢他，每次伍兹刚刚走进孤儿院的院子，她就会不知从哪飞奔出来，扑进他怀里。

也许自己可以领养她。

下次再去孤儿院时，他和负责人谈了这件事。作为信用良好的警探，他完全可以领养这个孩子。

那个眉目和蔼的嬷嬷听完他的诉求，认为还需要再给孩子一些时间。

“贝克小姐从前的家庭很不幸，经历了非常可怕的事。听说她的父亲在破产后，把自己连同工厂一起烧了。她也许还无法立刻加入新的家庭，需要神的引导。”

“看起来她很活泼。”

“伍兹先生，这只是表象。贝克小姐的内心还是很脆弱，这种脆弱有时候看上去不太正常……但也不会像从前孤儿院长说的那么过分。”嬷嬷送他到院子门口，经过那片被烧的地方，“这个孩子还很喜欢恶作剧，看看她对院子做的事。”

-

很快，嬷嬷的话就得到了验证，新的恶作剧出现了——伍兹又在半夜值班时收到了丽莎的报警电话。

“这次又是什么事？”

“她们在对我做奇怪的事情……”

伍兹挂了电话，揉了揉眉头。但是，电话很快又打了过来。

“这次是真的——以前我确实只想开个小玩笑，但这次是真的！救救我！”

伍兹把那个刚被抓的小偷丢给助理审问，前往白沙孤儿院。

不过这又是个老套的恶作剧。当他赶到孤儿院时一切正常，嬷嬷带他去了丽莎的卧室——她睡得很熟。

就算伍兹拧了把她的脸，孩子也没有被惊醒；他拿着出警的回执，去二楼的办公室找负责人签字。

夜深了，但办公室的灯还亮着。伍兹看见负责人有些臃肿的身影在灯影下摇晃，和谁在打电话。

“百分之三十……不，百分之三十五吧？我知道那边精神病院的补贴比孤儿院高多少……对，只要再凑够一个，凑够十五个精神病人……儿童病人的补贴双倍，我都知道……”

4

伍兹觉得丽莎最近变了，应该怎么说呢，像是更温顺、柔和，或者说呆滞。

不像从前那么机敏，和她说话时都要愣一愣才会回过神。也许是天气，或者是教会孤儿院太过无聊——小孩子总是多变的。

但是，如果伍兹说起收养她的计划，那双呆滞的眼睛里就会有些变化。

虽然收养计划再度延后了——本来预计本月一号办理手续，但负责人谈起丽莎的心理状态，认为她的情况有些加重。

原来只是“这个年纪特有的臆想症”，但随着上周的事件，升级成了“极度危险的攻击性精神分裂”。

“她趁着室友熟睡时，把稻草盖在那孩子身上，划了火柴……伍兹先生，你没法想象那孩子的样子。”

“所以你们能治好她吗？”

“也许再有几个月，贝克小姐就会好转。你的收养许可不得不延后了，不过我知道你很有耐心，对吗？”

-

深夜，白沙警署又接到了一起报警电话。他以为是丽莎的恶作剧，但另一头却传来了一个粗糙的声音——这个人像头野兽似的喘着粗气：“我找到证据了！”

——是前任院长的声音。

“你得和我一起去孤儿院，我找到他们虐待孩子的证据了！精神病院的补贴更高，为了拿那些补贴，他们准备把孤儿院申报成精神病院！”男人的声音语无伦次，“要十五人才能申请，他们打算把正常的孩子弄疯去充当病人！”

伍兹赶到孤儿院的时候，院长的身影正在围墙边。他走过去，揉了揉眉心：“请不要再接近孤儿院了，先生。”

“我、从没有、虐待过她！”男人咆哮了起来，“我绝不会看错教会那些人做的事，他们用电击器！我不会看错——我在战场上丢掉了一颗眼睛和半张脸，但还剩下一颗！”

看在男人掏出的二等功勋章的份上，他勉强同意为了“卡西莫多”先生去孤儿院一趟。夜里的楼里没有灯火，漆黑一片。

不过当他走过楼下的时候，能看见丽莎趴在二楼的窗户上，期待地等着自己。

现任院长耐心地接待了他。她听说了他的来意，不以为然地摆摆手：“这比孩子的话还要可笑。”

“他说他在院子北面的地下入口那边见到了……”

“你是警探，你应该让那个可怕的残疾人远离孤儿院，免得他吓到孩子！”

“那么可否让我检查那间地下室？”

院长的表情僵在了那。伍兹意识到有什么事不对劲。

他再次强调：“我需要检查那间地下室。”

“那里什么都没有。”

“那就让我检查。”

老妇人和蔼的脸上又恢复了那种笑容。她依然没有同意，这似乎已经暗示了什么。

“你们想把孩子申报成精神病，去申请更高的津贴？！”他站了起来，身躯将椅子都带倒了，“我会把这件事报告给市长！你们全都得上绞刑架！”

“——包括你，伍兹先生。”

她没有惊惧，仍是用那种柔和的嗓音劝他冷静。

“想想吧，如果你真的把这件事汇报上去……那你就不再是从‘卡西莫多’手里拯救孩子的英雄警探了。”她起身走到他身边，“说明你造成了他的冤案，你冤枉了一个退伍士兵，他还在战场上没了眼睛和半张脸……如果记者知道所有的事，他们会怎么说呢？”

她拉起伍兹的手：“是你赶走了之前的院长，是你相信了丽莎·贝克的话……真的，再仔细考虑一下，如果你曝光这件事，声名狼藉的将会是谁？”

伍兹的动作停滞了，他离门口只有一步之遥。只要迈出那一步，他就会给市长助理去电话，救出所有的孩子……

然后，女人说的话，将他的脚步彻底拉住。

“丽莎已经确定疯了，带有严重攻击性的精神病，确诊文件就在我的办公桌上。如果没有我们这个疯人院，她该怎么办？”她问，“你救了她之后，打算收养她吗？你真的想收养一个疯子？伍兹，确诊精神疾病的文书可无法伪造，她确实已经疯了。”

伍兹呆呆地望着老妇人，她还在劝他，譬如他值得收养一个更好的孩子，更乖巧、温顺，而不是一个喜欢玩火的小疯子……

-

半个小时后，丽莎看见伍兹走过楼下。她对他挥手，但男人没有抬头看二楼，而是径直走出了孤儿院，消失在了夜色里。

5

在孤儿院被改造成精神病院的前夕，伍兹最后去了那一趟。

那是复活节，孩子们可以彻夜不睡，在院子里活动。丽莎一个人呆在后院角落，怔怔对着花丛里的稻草人坐着。

伍兹坐了过去。孩子等他开口，但他摸口袋摸了很久，只摸出一粒糖果。

丽莎接过它：“你什么时候带我走？”

伍兹觉得喉头有些发干，他的喉结滚动了一下：“也许要以后。我可能会被调去……很远的地方，今天是来和你道别的。”

女孩望着他的眼睛，就这样定定望着，看了许久。她伸出手，盖在警探粗糙而温暖的手背上。

“我明白了。”丽莎拉起他的手指，带他走到花园深处的一个秘密所在，那里摆着孤儿院里的破旧桌椅和餐具，不知是孩子们从哪里偷来的，在花园里布置了一个办家家酒的地方，“那你能最后演一次我的爸爸吗？”

伍兹坐了下来，那把破椅子对他来说太窄小了，让男人的身躯很滑稽地卡在扶手之间。

丽莎从那个脏兮兮的小茶壶里给他倒茶，虽然是办家家酒，但那竟然真的有茶——虽然冷了，颜色还很奇怪，带着些难以辨认的花叶。

“那，伍兹先生，你是我爸爸，我是你女儿，我应该也姓伍兹，我叫哪个伍兹？”

他拿起破了口的茶杯放到唇边，浅浅地喝了一口。伍兹想起自己的女儿，她也喜欢把奇怪的东西放到热茶里。

“艾玛，”他说，“你现在叫艾玛·伍兹。”

他又喝了一口那种茶。不知为什么，男人感觉自己的手在打颤，眼神也是。

“艾玛，这是什么茶？”

她说出一个对于这个年纪过于复杂的单词：“颠茄。”

“颠……什么？”

“颠茄。我在花园的角落找到的。”她爬到他身上，将茶杯倾斜到他嘴边，倒入更多颠茄水，“以前爸爸的工厂角落里会长这种东西，工人们必须把它找出来拔掉，才能避免羊被它毒死。”

伍兹仿佛沉入了很深的水底——他感觉有人把什么东西像被子似的盖在自己身上，很蓬松、很暖和。那种温暖近乎于灼热，仿佛是那座失火的教堂，他也在那，和火中的家人紧紧相拥在一起。……

——当前院的人们看见火光赶来时，地上的东西已经焚尽了。由于被稻草包裹着，男人被烧得非常彻底。

而它上面伏着一个小小的身子，她恨不得将整个人都埋在这团焦黑里，汲取它残余的温暖。

英文版

The White Sand Street Report
1

Inspector Woods stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette. The night shift at the station was always littered with cigarette butts.

The phone rang and cut the silence in half. A detective sergeant answered.

"White Sand Police Station, how can I —"

"Help! I'm at the White Sand Orphanage. My name is Lisa Beck, I —"

Inspector Woods watched as his sergeant hung up almost immediately. They've been receiving similar calls, all from the little girl with the thin, reedy voice.

The detective sergeant had gone to question the orphanage director a number of times. The director was a strange, taciturn man, an ex-army officer who had suffered disfiguring injuries in combat. To some, he was a figure of fun — and fear. The children had nicknamed him Quasimodo. The detective sergeant didn't want to be bothered with it more than he had to. He just wanted to fill in the police report and have done with it.

"What if that orphanage director really is abusing the kids?" pondered Inspector Woods as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Let's take a walk."

-

At the orphanage, the director was very curt with the two police officers. His bad temper was well-known around the White Sand Street area. There were countless rumors… the favorite was that he chopped up the naughtiest children and ate them, hoping it would cure his damaged eye.

Woods wasn't interested in the stories. He made his rounds through some of the kids' rooms and took a look at some of the children — there were no unspeakable injuries, just the odd bruise or scratch, most likely caused by petty squabbles.

Woods asked the director about Lisa Beck. He immediately lost his temper, "It's her! Again!" he spluttered.

"Can I see her?" asked Inspector Woods.

"She's a monster! She tied another child up with straws like a scarecrow and set fire to him. She's been put in solitary confinement!" said the director, "No one can see her!"

2

Woods sometimes thought about his wife and daughter. They had died in a church fire some years back.

Occasionally he'd pass the charred ruins of the church. That was all he had left of his family now. As he stared at the blackened stones, he imagined he could feel the heat of the fire that had taken them from him. In spite of himself, he wished he'd been there with them. But it was just a fleeting thought, a feeling more than anything else.

One night, Woods was passing by the old church in more of a hurry than usual — he was tired and wanted to get home. Suddenly, a small figure darted out of the ruins.

It was a little girl in a white dress, though it was blackened with dirt. She ran to Woods and grabbed at his legs to stop him, "Help me!"

The voice was thin and reedy… unmistakably familiar.

"My name is Lisa Beck, sir, please help me…"

The child had barely finished her sentence when someone appeared behind her. It was the director of the orphanage, followed by a posse of orderlies. He gestured towards the girl, "Don't let her escape." Lisa tried to hide behind the inspector, "He'll put me in that black room again…" she cried.

"Because you're a danger to the others!" growled the director.

Woods held onto Lisa. There were bruises on her arms. "You'd better come down to the station with me, all of you, so you can explain these injuries."

The director claimed that the bruises on Lisa's body were the result of her falling down some stairs. Dry-mouthed and impatient, he tried to warn the officers not to believe anything that child said, especially a delusional hypochondriac like Lisa, who could not distinguish fantasy from reality.

"I can't let you take her back." stated Woods, "Frankly, sir, the way you're acting does not fill me with confidence in either you or the orphanage. We'll have to wait for the doctor to come and assess Lisa's injuries…"

But the doctor wasn't the first to show up. A newspaper reporter had got hold of the story.

There had long been the suspicion that something was wrong at the orphanage. People were exceedingly distrustful of the director. After all, he was an outsider. With Lisa, the journalists thought they'd found a breakthrough at last. Photographs of her bruised body were splashed all over the front pages. "Quasimodo's Hell House" screamed the headlines.

Inspector Woods was hailed as the conquering hero who had defeated the evil Orphanage Director. Some of the less reputable papers even described a cauldron used for cooking children had been found in the basement…

A month later, the disgraced director was forced to announce that the orphanage was being taken over by the church.

3

But the alarming reports from the White Sand Street Orphanage continued to flood in. On May 6 and May 9, there were two separate calls from the orphanage. The former director of the orphanage was found loitering in the vicinity on both occasions. The new director hoped that Inspector Woods would give him a few words of warning.

Then, on June 3, a report of a fire came in: some children had set fire to a pile of straws in the corner of the yard.

If he was passing the orphanage, Woods would often visit Lisa. Though she had received no new injuries, she was small and somewhat feeble-looking. In some ways, she reminded Woods of his daughter. Friends had joked that his daughter was so small that he'd had to pick her like a little kitten.

Lisa began to look forward to the inspector's visits. When he walked into the orphanage yard, she would come flying out and jump into his arms.

He idly began to think that… maybe he could adopt her.

The next time he visited, he talked to the new director about it. He was a respectable police detective with a good income and was perfectly capable of looking after a child.

The new director, a pleasant-looking woman, listened politely to his request but recommended that he give Lisa more time.

"Lisa Beck had a terrible past. After Lisa's father went bankrupt, her father locked himself in his factory and set fire to it. A child needs time to overcome such a trauma, along with God's guidance, of course."

"But she looks so happy."

"Mr. Woods, you only see what's on the surface. Lisa is still very fragile inside. That kind of trauma could cause irreversible damage to one's psyche…" said the new director as she walked him to the gate, past the burned area of the yard. "But, the child is still fond of mischief. Look what she's done to the yard."

-

The new director's words echoed through the inspector's mind when another alarm call from Lisa came in the middle of the night.

"What's happened this time?"

"They're hurting me, they're hurting me…"

Woods hung up and rubbed his head. The phone rang again almost immediately.

"I'm telling the truth this time — it was a joke before, but this time it's real! Please come quickly!"

Woods left the thief he'd just apprehended to his sergeant and headed for the White Sand Orphanage.

But it looked like the same old story. When he arrived, everything was normal. The new director promptly showed him to Lisa's room — where the girl was sound asleep.

Even when Woods gently tilted her face towards him, the child did not wake up. He went up to the director's office to discuss the call with her so he could fill in his report.

It was late, but the lights in the office burned brightly. As he approached, Woods saw the new director in the flickering lamplight, talking to someone on the phone.

"Thirty percent… no, it is thirty-five percent, I assure you. The subsidies for a mental institution are much higher than for an orphanage. If an institution registers 15 of its residents as showing signs of mental illness, and then double that amount for child patients. Double, yes… "

4

Woods felt that Lisa had changed. She was more docile, her spirits dull and listless.

She was certainly not her quick-witted self. Even her speech seemed slow and her thoughts hard to untangle. Maybe it was the weather or that the orphanage had become less lively under the patronage of the church.

But if Woods mentioned his plans to adopt her, a light sparked in her dull eyes.

The adoption process had been held up again. The inspector had expected everything to go through at the beginning of the month. However, the new director still had concerns about Lisa's "delicate mental state" and was even worried the child's condition had become more aggravated of late.

Lisa had initially been recorded as having a "hypochondriacal disorder characteristic of her age," but after recent events, the director explained, Lisa had started to show "aggressive schizophrenic tendencies."

"She covered a fellow pupil with straws while he was asleep and then set the poor boy on fire. Mr. Woods, this boy, now has life-changing injuries. We cannot take this incident lightly."

"But can't you do anything to help her?"

"Time, Mr. Woods. The child needs time. Your adoption process will have to be suspended for the duration. I'm sorry, but it's in Lisa's best interests. You understand, don't you?"

-

Shortly after, the White Sand Police Station received another late-night call. Inspector Woods prepared himself for another one of Lisa's pranks, but instead, he heard the gruff, agitated voice of a man, "I've got evidence!"

It was the former director of the orphanage.

"You've got to come to the orphanage right now. I've found evidence they're abusing the children! The subsidies for mental institutions are higher, so they're going to declare the orphanage a mental hospital!" The man's voice was barely coherent, "All they need is to register fifteen residents as mentally ill. They're going to take perfectly healthy kids and turn them insane!"

The director was waiting at the fence when Woods arrived. Taking a calm tone, the detective said to him, "Please don't approach any closer, sir."

"I never touched that girl!" snarled the man in response, "I wouldn't speak out unless I was 100% certain. They've been using the electroshock machine on the children. I may have lost an eye and half my face in the war, but I know what I saw!"

Inspector Woods reluctantly accompanied the former director, who had even brought the second-class medal he'd won for bravery as proof of his standing as a man of honor.

The building was in complete darkness. Woods saw Lisa crouching by the first-floor window as they walked past the stairs, waiting for him.

The new director received the detective patiently. She knew of Woods's so-called investigations and waved her hand in disbelief: "It is utterly ridiculous. Not even a child would concoct such a story."

"The former director claims that there is an underground entrance on the north side of the courtyard…"

"For a policeman, you're not doing a very good job. You need to keep that man away from the orphanage before he scares the children!

"I would like to see the basement."

The new director's expression froze. The detective realized that something was wrong.

Woods pressed her: "I need to check that basement."

"There is nothing there." replied the new director, after a slight pause.

"Then let me see for myself."

The woman smiled, "Then you will need a search warrant."

"I know what's going on," the inspector gambled, "You want to declare the child mentally ill to get higher subsidies." He stood up, knocking his chair over, "I'm going to report you to the mayor. This place will be shut down! And you'll lose your job."

"— and so will you, Mr. Woods."

She was not at all frightened and still spoke in her soft, measured voice.

"Think about it. If you report us… what does that do to your reputation? No longer will you be the heroic detective who saved the kids from 'Quasimodo'." She got up and walked over to him, "You'll be the inept inspector who got it all wrong, the man who destroyed the life of a wounded soldier who'd served his country honorably. What would the press say then?"

She took Woods' hand in her own, "It was your investigation. You were the one who wanted to believe the words of a mentally unstable girl… I would think very carefully about your next move if I were you, Mr. Woods."

Woods stopped short — one step away from the door. Just one more step from calling the mayor's assistant and saving all the children…

But the woman's words had given him a reality check.

"Lisa is very ill. She is schizophrenic with aggressive tendencies, and the confirmation papers are on my desk. She needs to stay where she can be cared for — in this asylum." The new director then asked, "What do you think you can do for her? Will you adopt her after you've "saved her" from our clutches? A diagnosis of mental illness can not be faked, Inspector, least of all by a child."

Woods stared blankly at the woman. Now she was suggesting that he could adopt another child, one who had not been tarnished by such an early tragedy, a better child, not like this girl who liked to play with fire…

-

Half an hour later, Lisa saw Inspector Woods walking through the hall of the orphanage. She waved at him, but instead of stopping, the detective walked straight out of the orphanage and disappeared into the night.

5

On the eve of the orphanage's conversion into a mental institution, Woods made one last trip there.

It was Easter. The children had been allowed to stay up and play in the yard. Lisa was alone in the corner, sitting with a scarecrow she'd made, surrounded by flowers.

Woods sat down next to her. He felt in his pockets and pulled out a bar of chocolate for her.

Lisa took it, "When are you taking me home?"

Woods felt a little dryness in his throat, "Maybe later." he said, "I am being transferred to another police station… somewhere quite far away. So I've come to say goodbye."

The girl looked into his eyes for a long time. She carefully placed her small hand on top of his large hand.

"I see." Gently slipping her hand into his, Lisa led the inspector to a secret place, deep in the overgrown area of the garden. The place was arranged with broken tables and chairs and tableware thrown out from the orphanage over time. "Can you pretend to be my dad one last time?"

Woods sat down on one of the broken children's chairs. He could hardly fit in it, and Lisa thought he looked funny.

Lisa poured some "tea" from a dirty little teapot and handed him a cup. It looked like muddy water, with a few strangely colored flowers and leaves floating in it.

"So, Mr. Woods, if you're my dad and I'm your daughter, what would you name me?"

He raised the chipped cup to his lips and took a tiny sip. Woods thought of his daughter, who had also liked to hold imaginary tea parties in the garden.

"Emma," he said, "you are now called Emma Woods."

He took another sip of tea. His hands started to feel tingly. Then the feeling spread through his whole body.

"Emma, what kind of tea is this?"

She uttered a word, a word that should have been too difficult for a child of her age: "Belladonna."

"Bella… what?"

"Belladonna. It grows in the corner of the garden." She clambered onto his lap and lifted the teacup to his mouth, pouring the belladonna mixture down his throat. "It used to grow in the corner near my dad's factory too. The workers had to pull it out to stop the sheep from getting poisoned by it."

Woods felt as if he was falling deep into an abyss. Someone was covering him with something. He felt as if he were being buried in warmth. But then it changed, to a searing heat… he felt as if he was in that church, clinging to his family, as the building burned all around them…

When someone finally noticed smoke billowing out of the garden, the chairs and table were smoldering. In the midst of the ashes were the charred remains of a corpse.

Next to the corpse, a tiny body crouched, embracing what was left of the man's body. It looked as if it was trying to draw the last traces of warmth from its embers.

神迹降临

1

米尔在车站点了支烟。烟灰和地上蕨类的残骸混杂，雪白灰烬飘在叶面的浮水上。

水上的灰震颤起来——他抬头，一辆枫叶色的福特车在前面停下，车上的人示意他上车。

“你还记得那吗？”前往湖景度假村的路上，沃特轻声问他，“没什么改变，只是我父亲退休了，我成了新的管理员。”

米尔觉得，这个人和小时候也没什么差别，说话声音和流水般的轻。

小时候的回忆很模糊，他只记得玩伴沃特，和终年笼罩湖面的水雾。在童年某次溺水事故后，米尔被送往城市的教会医院治疗，之后就留在了城里，住在舅母家中。

“我在城市里听过一些这里的传闻，好像有孩子失踪了，还有个小说家住在这里写作，结果被发现房间里全是血？”他看了眼左边的风景，空气中，水雾浓度已经肉眼可见的上升。

警察没法在这种雾气里搜捕他的——米尔决定先暂时忘掉那个被自己打碎了下巴的可怜人。

这是个被怪事缠绕的湖景度假村，儿童失踪、集体失踪、发疯的作家……多一个奇怪的人，并没有什么关系。

沃特给他安排了住处，是一间套房，虽然老旧，但打扫得很干净。米尔原先的住处已经废弃了，被丢在水边，等待腐朽。

他扑在不太柔软的床上，深深松了口气。米尔不知道警察会不会、什么时候会找来。疲惫感是那么强悍，以至于他只眨了眨眼就睡着了……

再睁开眼，似乎是下午五点。昏黄的夕光落在天花板上，在上面形成了一簇蕨类的狰狞影子。

房门被推开了，沃特站在门外，提醒他晚饭时间到了。

蕨类的影子不见了。

2

度假村在淡季没有多少客人。沃特每天的工作，就是去湖上收集游客们留下的空船。

很多人不会把观光船栓好，只要晚上的风大那么一些，湖面上就会飘满空船。

米尔轻松地划起船桨。这种事让他感到安心，至少，警察不会追到湖心来。

沃特俯身，抓起那些飘在水上的浮绳，将船只推向岸边。某种熟悉的曲调从他口中哼出来，米尔觉得在哪听过。

“黄衣之主、黄袍神、水神，很多个名字。这片湖泊是黄衣之主的宴会地之一。”他轻轻甩掉手上的水，把最后一条船推往岸边，“——本地的一种信仰，我们的父母也是教徒。”

他不记得自己有跟着父母参加过什么礼拜或者祷告。沃特摇头：“我们都参加过的，米尔。我们坐着船到湖心，那就是祷告。”

米尔嗤之以鼻。

“你不记得了。这很正常，不过很多人会在长大后回来，再回到这片湖面上，去看自己的命运。”他引导米尔看向水面，“——水能昭示万物的命运。”

他们的脸在水中摇曳破碎。米尔觉得自己看起来像是煎坏的松饼：“你是指那些在外面失业或者破产的人，崩溃时看见的幻觉吗？”

没有回答——下一秒，无法分辨是从背后来的推动力，抑或是某种来自湖水的拉扯，他翻入水中。

-

梦境是诡谲的，他梦见自己用婴儿蜷缩姿势，睡在沃特的怀抱里。

那人一身潮湿的黄袍，苍白指尖在他的额头划动……

他梦见一场水下盛宴。很多孩子沉入水底，没有人挣扎。

——剧烈的头痛在脑中乱撞，他醒了。

沃特就在旁边，他的脸还带着重影……谢天谢地，他的打扮很正常。

“你溺水了。天啊，你一声不吭就栽下去了……”一杯温热的花草茶被他塞进米尔手里，“不过度假村的医生说你不会有事的，也许只是眩晕症。”

也许是吧。

窗外有许多灯火，似乎在举办宴会。那是三年一度的“湖景先生”选拔赛，在附近的上流社区中参与度十分之高。

他们在窗边，看那些打扮得体的富裕男女聚会，结伴在湖边散步。这些人大多带着孩子，毕竟，在那些社区里，没有孩子会显得奇怪。

每个人胸口都别着蕨类造型的别针，包括沃特。这似乎是选拔赛期间的风俗。

“你想要一个吗？”沃特微笑着问他。

米尔耸肩：“我和他们不是同一类的动物。他们都牵着孩子呢，最好的装饰品。”

“你想有个孩子？”

“等我坐完十几年过失杀人罪的牢吗？是的。”

沃特并不害怕，反而低低笑出了声，又替米尔倒了杯花草茶：“你很快就会有。”

“孩子？”

“不，胸针。”

3

这是一场漫长的狂欢。在第二个礼拜，米尔还是被沃特引荐着加入了其中。

好像减肥的人在几个月之后破戒，吃下第一口奶油蛋糕——他立刻沉沦了，在三个月的隐姓埋名、惶惶不安之后，这场狂欢让他脑子里炸开了一场烟花。

沃特带他穿梭在人群中。湖边的餐桌上，是取之不尽的热带水果和葡萄酒，人们手拉手歌舞、拥吻，当他们来到湖边，便跪在湖水边，亲吻倒影……

他们歌唱着那种旋律，这些人都是黄衣信徒——米尔不清楚，是因为附近社区的居民都是黄衣的信徒，或者说，黄衣信徒们聚集成了社区。

和沃特的歌声比起来，他们的歌声都显得略带粗糙。

他忘了自己喝了多少酒。沃特没有阻止他，但他希望这人能阻止一下——他喝醉后容易失去自控能力，比如打碎闹事客人的半张脸。

“你真的不喝了吗？”那人端着斟满的酒杯，挽住他的胳膊，“还没到后半夜呢。”

“我再喝下去，接下来就会因为那个男人用了条纹领带，和他打起来了。”

“所以你想、喝我、吗……”因为酒精，沃特的脸和声音都开始扭曲摇晃，“亲吻、沃特……”

米尔觉得这是自己酒醉后的幻觉，但当沃特拉着他来到湖边，他才意识到误会了——那人拉着他跪在水边，和亲吻倒影的信徒一样，俯身亲吻水。

说实话，这感觉很糟糕——水的气味带着怪异的腥臭，好像有东西在里面腐败发酵了。在那种气味中，他眼中的倒影摇晃凌乱，最后变成了沃特的样子。

他转头看跪在旁边的沃特，那人也在看他，湿润的嘴唇上，挂着饱满的笑意。

-

第二天，他们发了高烧。也许是生水的缘故，他在城市里待太久了，没法接受喝未经处理的水。

作为两个健康的成年人，病状只持续了三天——整个度假村的客人都围着他们嘘寒问暖，莫名热情地照顾两人。

沃特让他习惯。“信徒社区都是这样的，人们有大家庭的观念，会互相帮助。城里就不是了，我听说那是个冷漠的地方。”

当两人第一次有力气走出房间时，房外等满了欢欣的人群。人们欢呼尖叫着拥抱他们，歌舞着走向湖畔码头。

“你是新的湖景先生！”有人在米尔的耳边喊，“黄衣之主承认了你！”

是吗？太好了，太荣幸了……虽然不明白这究竟意味什么……

他脑袋昏昏沉沉的，也许是这些天喝下的药茶在起效。沃特紧紧拉着他的手，他们的手都和烙铁一样烫。

码头边的水面上飘满了船，每条船上都坐着身穿黄衣的孩子。人们推着米尔坐上最后一条空船，但沃特被留在了岸上。

“这是在做什么？是庆祝仪式吗？”他问左右的人，“为什么？”

人们将船的绳子解开，将它踢向湖心：“庆祝你完成了你的使命。”

人的命运在水中交汇、相融。

唾液、汗水……所有的体液、细胞，都会在水中相遇，在水中孕育一切。

船群飘向湖心，宛如被一个漩涡缓缓拉近……没有孩子惊慌失措，他们都安静地注视着湖心，就像当年的米尔与沃特。

……然后会发生什么？

然后会发生的事，他回忆起来了——随着第一艘小船的侧翻。

伴随岸上的歌咏声，小船接二连三地翻入水中。他们都是奉献给神的牺牲，被他们的父母用来讨好湖中的神明。

只是他和沃特当年幸存了下来，是黄衣之主让他们在盛宴后回到了人间。

水昭示命运。他们就已经被神明决定了命运——那他们的命运是什么？

米尔回过神，他已经落水了，和周围的孩子们一起沉入水中。一种近乎于“声音”的东西，通过水波涌入意识……

“神明将借他的灵魂而显灵。”

“神明将借你的血肉而显灵。” 一个留下作为召唤神明的容器。

一个沉入水底，作为喂养初生神体的养分。

米尔抓住离自己最近的两个孩子，拼命挣扎着游回水上。水面近了，他几乎能看见雾气下的日光……

就在他即将浮上水面的瞬间，船桨的黑影砸了下来，将他狠狠砸回水中。

4

米尔听见沃特的哀求声。那人浑身湿透，因为刚刚从水中将他拖上来。

“……我会坚持到神体出现……无论多少次……”

他听不懂沃特和人群的交涉。有人发现他苏醒了，于是拎着船桨走到他身边，再次狠狠给了他一下。

-

沃特带他回到了那间套房里，照顾他的外伤。

透过窗户，能看见人们在空地上建造一间正方形的新屋。那就是黄衣教徒们的教堂，也是新神体降临的“圣坛”。

米尔觉得，他们被疯子绑架了——喝葡萄酒喝到脑子烧掉的人把孩子沉入水里，让幸存下来的两个男人为神弄出个新的身体。

可沃特沉溺其中。他严厉纠正米尔：“幸存下来的祭品，也就是我们，是神的使者。我们有传承神体的责任。”

“让神出现做什么？他能给你们什么？变成银行家吗？”

“——是真实，世界的真实。”对方淡蓝色的眼眸中闪动着坚定的欢欣，“‘未知’是人类塑造的谎言，黄衣之主的降临会揭开所有的‘未知’——未来的命运，无论个体的还是国家的……”

“我们会在水里看见所有人的八十岁？”

“没错。还有整个世界的终局与初生……我们会疯掉，这相当于承受了人类感知的极限，但是，这比活在未知的恐惧里要好多了……”他紧紧握住米尔的手，“我会让神体降临的……他们同意让你离开，但我希望你能留下来见证……”

米尔挣扎着下床，开始收拾自己少得可怜的行李。他选择离开。

他问沃特的意思。那人很平静：“我也许会死在降神仪式里。如果幸存，我会去找你。”

“你也许找不到我。”

“我会有办法的……对了，需要我开车送你去车站吗？步行的话要走整整一天……”

他没有理睬那人如水般轻柔的声音，摔门离去。

-

下一次再得到沃特的消息，已经是三个月之后。送到米尔手中的是一封讣告信，告诉他在半个月前的中午，沃特死于心脏病突发。

那时候，他正在一家农场当季节工，这份工作不需要身份。因为时间太久，通缉令也在街头被撤下。

米尔搭上了一辆顺风车。他想回去看看，至少看见那个人的墓碑——他也很担心黄衣信徒的墓葬模式，如果是水葬，也许连墓碑都不会有。

湖景度假村比以前衰败了许多，因为失去了管理员。客房的外墙爬满了青苔，所有的窗上都爬满了蛛网。

湖边有人伫立，在雾气中像稻草人那样，呆呆地面朝湖面。无论问他们什么，这些人都毫无反应。

除了那个正方形的湖边木屋，没有其他的光源。

米尔刚靠近了些，就听见里面传来的嘶哑歌咏声。传闻古老王朝的主人听见黄衣之主的话语前，都在睡梦中听过这段旋律。

那么，有多少个王朝的主人曾听过黄衣之主的预言——“你的王朝即将腐烂，溃败为尘土”？

他问过沃特这个问题。

“全部。”那个人回答他，“古往今来，每一个王朝与国度。”

我们终将变成尘土。

——米尔推开了教堂的门。浓重的腥味从里面汹涌而来，室内的教徒身披黄袍，痴迷地看着中间地上被铁钉钉住四肢的青年。那个人仿佛已经感受不到痛苦，只是微微张开嘴，像鱼一样艰难呼吸。

他的身体还在继续被用来降神——从他血脉中汹涌而出的第一具神体似乎带有缺陷，它盘踞在冰冷的水池中，如同卵一般毫无反应。

于是，信徒们钉住了他的四肢，强迫他继续制造神体。但是只诞生了更多的残次品，连神性都不具有的、单纯的蠕虫。

沃特的身躯上，能看见蓝红的血管脉络。他的皮肤是湿润的，米尔伸手碰触，能摸到潮湿的露水。

没有信徒阻挠他，这些人都仰头歌唱。直到米尔用斧头把他们像木桩一样，一个接一个砍翻在地，歌声才暂时宁静下来。

他踏过血水，在沃特身边坐下。血海涌向那个盛放最初神体的水池，不知道为何，米尔并不觉得它恶心，反而有种久别重逢的安心。

仿佛就该这样，他、沃特、它……三个游离在世界之外的气泡，紧紧依偎。

“我想我走不掉了。”他似乎感应到什么即将到来，于是轻轻伏在那具瘦骨嶙峋的身体上——血水汇满水池，神体发出满足的呢喃，“这里到车站要走整整一天。”

那对干裂、苍白的嘴唇颤动了一下，不知是真的发出了声响，还是一声幻听。

“所以，你想，吻水吗？”

是的，我想吻水。

我想求水收留我，我想消融在水里。

血池中，昏黄的神明汹涌而起，那具由纠缠扭曲的蕨类所组成的神体遮蔽天地，撑满湖上的天雾。在它下方，两具相依的身躯，无声被细小的蕨所缠绕吞噬。

温暖的银链

——修女嬷嬷，您会来采访我，说实话，我真是意外又激动。

1

在距离十六岁生日还有六个月的时候，我犯了一个错误。在上学的路上，我把母亲留给我的纯银吊坠弄丢了。

我回忆那天上学路上发生的事——在路口，两个醉醺醺的酒馆少年拦住了我，用奇怪的口音说着醉话；接着，那个头发和枯草似的女孩子不知道从哪里窜了出来。

“小洗衣妇！”他们笑着啐她。她恶狠狠地骂了一句我听不懂的脏话，把手里木盆中的东西朝他们泼去，不知道是排泄物还是什么，男人们狼狈地逃散了。

我犹豫着要不要谢她，可她钻进小巷里，不见了。

跟她一起不见的，还有我的银吊坠项链。

那个女孩子就是艾米丽。

……我需要抽支烟休息一下。抽烟对情绪焦虑有帮助。一位精神科医生最近在《名医》上发表了论文。他在红磨坊举办的手术简直是艺术，三百人围观他小斧头凿开患者额叶……

抱歉！我很容易滔滔不绝。

如果父亲在就会制止我了，他最厌恶滔滔不绝的女人。他托人脉让我去大学城的医学部旁听时，还和院长说“你可以把我女儿莉迪亚的嘴巴缝起来”……

总之，我第二天又去了那个路口，想碰碰运气，看能不能再撞见她。

我撞见她了，她和那天一样，慌慌张张抱着木盆冲出来，朝路上倒秽物。

我们对了个眼神。她的眼睛好像两只心虚的雀鸟，在我脸上腾挪扑闪。

“我的项链……”

“我正打算还给你呢！小姐！”她突然变了表情，满脸堆笑，那张稚嫩的脸上带着让人难以抗拒的、熟练的谄媚，“来吧！来我家里取！”

我难以描述我接下来看到的。

艾米丽硬是把我拽回了家。那是个“洗衣妇家庭”——所谓的洗衣妇就是……

抱歉！这场访谈是给福利院的孩子们看的，不该谈那个“H”开头的词的……

她们正在给艾米丽意外怀孕的“姐姐”处理掉肚……什么？这个也不能说吗？

可是，修女，在我的专业词汇里……好吧，我会配合的，我也希望能用自身的经历，激励孤儿院里的女孩们。

我到了艾米丽的家，女人们正努力把可怜女孩肚子里的“血块”弄出来。

我的银项链正处于一个很难描述的地方。那是种偏门的方法，用银器置入……从专业角度来说叫严重排异。艾米丽偷我的项链，就是为了让姐姐排出某些东西。

——她把我拉回家，原本想让我帮忙烧开水的。

我做了什么？我可是琼斯医生的女儿，尽管距离十六岁生日还有六个月，但我仅凭一把裁缝剪刀，替女人解决了问题。

2

一名医生的成材需要无数病人的奉献。我虽然替艾米丽的姐姐解决了问题，不过那把粗糙的剪刀还是让她留下了后遗症，没办法从事“洗衣妇”的工作了。

艾米丽在那个路口蹲守我，与我纠缠许多天，控诉我把她姐姐变成了一个熟过头、漏汁水的番茄。

——由于姐姐失去工作能力，其他女人正盘算着卖掉她，让她现在就去工作。

我从零花钱里拿出了一部分来雇她，让她帮我抄写拉丁语作业。我对金额很心虚，可只要能不当洗衣妇，她愿意用一枚硬币抄写五十页的拉丁文草药学。

我有了艾米丽这个关系不错的朋友，虽然她曾经把母亲的项链塞进姐姐的肚子里，但，“Homo homini lupo”，年少的女孩子们黏在一起的速度，比阳性词的变形还要快呢。

父亲成天泡在诊所里，并不反对我多个女伴。

我学会很多街头俚语，她学会了很多拉丁语。女仆们都不喜欢艾米丽，因为她们要为了她多准备一份下午茶司康。

“那个小洗衣妇学拉丁语做什么？用拉丁语揽客吗？”

白天，她有时会带我去码头，看那些来自东方的货船。一路上，她哼着自己编的歌谣，那些歌由拉丁新词组成。

海风从堤坝卷来，打着补丁的粗布白裙子拍打着我的裙子，绸缎在粗布之下不堪一击。

那天夜里，在她学会最后一个单词之后，我们疲惫地伏在书案上，玩着街头的把戏——用蘸着墨水的绣花针，在虎口上刺下彼此的名字。

修女，你能看到这个印记吗？它很模糊了，但是刺的是艾米丽。

嬷嬷，接下来的内容，我希望你不要写入访谈里。它不会给与孩子以激励，它只是艾米丽的阴影。

——我们撞见了我父亲抛尸。

从海堤回来的深夜，我们撞见了我父亲，琼斯医生真正的生意——他表面是医生，同时利用诊所这个便利，为街头帮派成员们处理尸体。

嬷嬷，你的表情很惊讶？不过许多医生都有不可告人的秘密，有人从盗墓者手里买尸，有人非法交易药物……

父亲在礼帽下的表情还是那样宽和慈悲。他相信我们会为他保守秘密。

接着，在三天后，我再也没有见过艾米丽。她也许太害怕了，躲了起来。

3

我有罪吗？嬷嬷。我知道这是访谈而不是告解，可我觉得我无罪。

我比这世上的许多圣徒都来的高洁呢。

艾米丽失踪后，我替她照顾着洗衣妇之家的女人们。她们虽然彼此称母女或姐妹，实际上大多没有血缘关系。

你没法想象那些女人的身子，上面什么都有——作为医生，你知道身上少个玩意儿不算什么，可如果到处都在多长东西，那可麻烦了。

但在她们眼里，最麻烦的东西还是……那种“血块”。我替她们处理，以免她们再突发奇想，把银餐具摆进肚子里。

就这样，我对女人的身子、女人的病、女人的肚子，飞快地熟悉了起来。

十八岁，我进入了医学院，是那唯一的女学生。

这可不是令人愉悦的经历……嬷嬷，我那时候想和你一样去修道院。直到快修完学位了，院长都在说，“琼斯小姐，如果你在阅读《名医》期刊时有拼写阅读障碍，你的同学都很乐意给予你援助。”

我继承了诊所，许多病患走进来，先问我医生在哪；当他们知道现在我就是琼斯诊所的医生时，大部分人立刻就会离开；留下的人大多因为失血严重到无力离开。

就在诊所快倒闭的时候，“洗衣妇”们成了我的天使。

——她们为我带来了那位贵妇客人。

有些洗衣妇在黑市里售卖巫药，据说可以永葆青春，引得贵妇们成为自己的客人。其中一位贵妇，她需要处理一个“血块”……它不是来自于她的丈夫。

……需要我等你祈祷完吗，嬷嬷？

宗教和法令都不允许她们从血块的束缚下解放，那些黑市的ciarlatano则会害她们血流成河、死在肮脏的桌板上……

于是，洗衣妇们带她找到了我。

如果“血块手术”可以和其他手术一样收费表演，我的手术观众一定可以从红磨坊排满香榭！——干净、无痛、无痕，就算是查士丁尼皇帝，也看不出他那位风尘王后的受孕痕迹！

那位贵妇给我介绍来了两位客人，两位客人又介绍来了六位……她们迫切需要解决肚子里的麻烦，她们出手阔绰，她们为我带来更多的贵妇客人。

我的预约从圣诞排到夏令节，我的名字，被这座城市的贵妇在圣餐后咏颂。

4

调查？调查对我而言已经是家常便饭了。

不过，手里拿着大把的现金，我可以在城市各处开设临时的诊所。警方到现在都没有查清我的所有秘密诊所。

修女，你的脸色不好。你觉得，你今天看到的莉迪亚·琼斯，和你想象中的那个女医生不一样，是吗？

我确实经常去孤儿院和教会做义诊，孩子，他们纯洁的笑脸，能抵挡对我所有的怀疑。

警方至今为止没有抓到过我的现行。洗衣妇们遍布大街小巷，警察还在三个街区外，她们就已经通过口哨声给我提醒了。

我得到了金钱、尊重、祝福、信任，那些我从前想都不敢想的东西……不，这和那些名门淑女受到的尊重可不一样，我很清楚，大部分人们只是尊重她的肚皮。

不过，警方的调查越来越紧……我需要新的金主。和我的父亲一样，为了钱，我和帮派联手了。

……修女嬷嬷，你的脸色很差，需要嗅盐吗？我可以等你祈祷完。我想你不会把这篇访谈拿去给孩子们看了。

帮派给我带来了不少的生意。我替他们治疗成员、处理尸体。

还有女人。帮派也会送女人过来。

抱歉，我又想抽支烟了。法国的一位精神科医生说……啊，我说过了吗？抱歉……抱歉……

我确实很窘迫，警方的调查越来越紧，我打算换一座城市生活，不过手里的英镑不多了。和你的会谈结束后，我还需要想办法弄些钱。

三天前，帮派送来一个女人。她的脸已经惨不忍睹了，也许是接客时感染了什么，长了东西又被割掉了……就这样反反复复的，那张脸上只能看见五个大小不等的洞。

他们应该一直暴力对待她的脸，充血很严重，有骨头错位的痕迹。

她和我差不多大，但身上有很深的怀孕和流产的痕迹，多次。

……她的虎口上有个模糊的刺青，刺着“莉迪亚”。

……

我认不出她了。我不知道，也许是我的父亲害怕她走漏消息，把她带去给了帮派吧……

……我的艾米丽。我让她睡了，一些颠茄，一些杏仁提取物……它们能让人昏昏欲睡，陷入永恒宁静的安眠。

修女，我给您的红茶里也有它们。

那可真是个梦幻般的夜晚。我留她沉睡，愿她无痛无苦。

我打算去国外了，不过路途遥远，我还需要些路费，以及新的身份。“莉迪亚”这个名字，明天开始就会消失在世界上；我打算改名，用她的名字，艾米丽·黛儿……听起来不像个医生？这不重要，这可是世界上最好听的名字。

睡前故事

1

和以往的每个礼拜三一样，好心肠的克利切老爷亲自为孩子们说睡前故事。

他躺在孤儿院的床上，被两个孩子一左一右挨着。这张床对他而言太小也太脆弱了，床架发出怪异的尖叫。但他身边的姐弟俩完全不在意，紧紧依偎着他。

今天的绘本还是《精灵森林》。破破烂烂的书页略有松脱，证明它已经被反反复复说过许多遍了。没有孩子提出“听腻了”，他们都等着克利切把它再讲一遍。

但是他说腻了，当他把开头念出来的时候，一种巨大的厌烦感涌了上来。

人类的青年在森林里迷了路，误入了精灵的国度。精灵的公主叫……

“——玛奇塔塔。”姐姐已经能背出故事中所有的人物了。

克利切抖掉了纸张间的蛀虫：“不，她叫玛丽亚，至少今天夜里，精灵公主叫做玛丽亚。”

“那男主角呢？”

“叫‘猪猡’。”他恶狠狠地笑了，“他是个玻璃工匠学徒，是个手脚不干净的小毛贼，长着猪耳朵和猪尾巴，大摇大摆走进了精灵的家。”

那可是座不错的庄园，克利切想。药品商人的小庄园，种着葡萄和苹果，养着他的妻子和女儿。

她叫玛丽亚，精灵公主玛丽亚。猪猡只是只猪猡，因为送货而踏入了庄园。他怀抱着一箱玻璃药瓶，在台阶前等待女仆打开侧门；而玛丽亚正走过台阶，他看见她，怀里的箱子落在地上，玻璃瓶碎了一地。

“再然后呢？”弟弟追问，“猪猡和精灵在一起了吗？”

是的。他们在一起了，奇妙的一见钟情，毕竟他年轻时有一张堪称俊美的脸，以及对爱情的赤胆衷肠。

猪猡拉着精灵公主，在深夜逃离了城堡，登上了叶子编成的小船，漂流到河的另一侧。

她不在乎他的贫穷、他的偷窃史、他的平凡无奇。精灵和猪猡私奔，在乡间教堂举办了私密婚礼，栖身于农户。从此，她学着用公主的双手来谋生。

2

“她坚持不了的。”姐姐说，“精灵公主的手就像绸缎。”

“不，你们没法想象一个高尚如玛丽亚的存在！”克利切的声音微微颤动起来，“她厌恶那些权贵，那些靠着穷人血肉生活的富人。她宁可在纺室里劳作，也不怀念从前那浑浑噩噩的虚伪生活……”

但那双绸缎般的手迅速伤痕累累，玛丽亚在缺乏食物的季节患上了肺病。

为了治疗费用，猪猡决定冒险回到精灵的国度，想办法从精灵森林里弄些金子——那可是富饶的精灵森林，凭借他的小聪明，简直遍地是金子。

猪猡第一天找到了牙仙留下的宝贝，一箱碎掉的彩色玻璃。牙仙把它丢在街角，无人问津。

猪猡第二天修好了那些彩色玻璃，或者说让它们看上去像是被修好了。

猪猡第三天找到了精灵商人，他对商人说，这是从另一个精灵国度来的珍奇玻璃品，里面有女巫的眼泪与国王的尿。

精灵商人收取了那批玻璃，他和其他的精灵不同，并没有赶猪猡走人，而是用那双细长的眼睛仔细打量着他的耳朵与尾巴。

“跟我来吧，让我带你见见精灵中的贵族。”他微笑着递给猪猡一杯葡萄酒，“你一定能满足那位大人的要求。到时候你能得到更多的精灵黄金，足以让一个女巫施法，替你消除掉这对猪耳朵。”

猪猡第四天来到了精灵贵族的地下沙龙，在猩红天鹅绒的帷幕后坐着精灵伯爵，那是这片森林的主人。

“精灵伯爵有诏令，密寻珍宝人海中，若问珍宝何模样，金发雪肤正青春。”克利切哼了一段诡异的童谣，把现编的歌词硬塞了进去，“金发如金肤胜银，金山银山归猪猡，满载而归告公主，无人再见千金宝。”

——一袋黄金就是定金，猪猡接受了伯爵的委托，在精灵国度的边缘，替他寻找符合要求的“珍宝”。

有时是金色，有时是黑色，有时喜欢带着光点的红色，有时又喜欢圆润到无法飞上天空的……

农家有大把大把的“沧海遗珠”，为什么从农家寻找，而不是精灵国度里那些用来寻欢作乐的地方呢？也许因为贵族们喜欢没有杂质的珍宝吧。

3

玛丽亚的病很快好了起来。女巫收下黄金，用一瓶魔法药水恢复了她的呼吸。

猪猡让她继续休养，无需急着再去纺布。可细心的公主发现，在她生病期间，家里不但没有落魄，反而看上去富裕了不少。

“我们应该请个女仆，隔壁的小爱丽就不错，虽然她的手指总是脏兮兮的，”他说，“这样你就不需要做家务了，你的手应该像丝绸，只能和珠宝搭配在一起。”

孩子忽然开口，打断了他：“那猪猡告诉公主自己的工作了吗？他替伯爵寻宝，赚了很大一笔钱。”

“他只告诉公主，自己找了份兼职玻璃工的活计。天啊，你们真的够烦人的，闭上嘴，继续听吧。”

——故事到这里，应该结束了，那会是个美好的结局。猪猡收手不干了，公主怀孕了，他们将有自己的孩子，过上越来越富裕的生活……

但就在差不多的月份，农场主的夫人也怀孕了。猪猡在田里劳作，看夫人坐在减震马车上经过田边，她打着白蕾丝的伞，穿着绸缎礼服。黑皮肤的仆人拉来用橡木桶装着的冰替她降温解暑，炎炎烈日下，她连一滴汗都没有。

猪猡想让公主也过上那种生活。

他重新进了城，想找精灵商人重新弄点活。

城门口很热闹，绞刑架边，精灵们正在处死一个罪恶深重的青年精灵——那可真是滔天的罪恶！他对精灵伯爵不敬，声称伯爵绑架凌辱了他的未婚妻，为了报仇，精灵变成了恶魔，闯入了伯爵的城堡。

绞刑架的抽板被抽开时，青年在人群中见到了猪猡。猪猡被认了出来，青年尖叫着：“是他！那个魔鬼！他窃取了我的至宝！”

不过他的声音被绞索勒死了，只留下可笑的尾音。

猪猡失魂落魄走在夏季暴雨的街巷上。他从来没想过自己会害死一个人。在他看来，自己只是把贫民家中的珍宝带给了贵族，那些珍宝会被好好对待，不是吗？比起草甸与牛棚，珍宝被贵族们放在金色的宝盒和鲜红的天鹅绒上，才是更好的归宿……

从工艺品店里，他为妻子买了一把白蕾丝的遮阳伞。钱包里还剩下许多沉甸甸的金币，但猪猡觉得它们是那么令人恐惧，金币碰撞的声音，像是青年精灵被绞死时的尾音。

在路过一个乞儿面前时，他把剩下的金币丢给了她。金币落地发出沉沉响声，惊醒了昏沉的乞儿；她惊愕地抓起钱袋，连声对他说着好话。

“真是个好心肠的老爷，您是个慈善家！”

4

“猪猡一直对公主瞒了下去吗？公主会知道他做的事吗？”

“公主也许会知道。”克利切已经不再看书了，怔怔看着黑暗的窗外，“猪猡也无法再为精灵伯爵服务了。伯爵要的珍宝越来越离奇……。”

猪猡不愿再和疯子伯爵纠缠下去，带着钱离开了精灵森林，回到了乡下的家。但他最害怕的事情发生了——家里空空如也，公主消失了。

仿佛一场漫长的美梦，在寒夜中被惊醒。也许她对他绝望了，比如知道了他的“寻宝游戏”，比如对他的平凡感到厌烦……

猪猡开始了孤独的生活。

他一个人在乡间住着，无所事事。农田荒芜了，他又跟着货运马车进入了精灵森林，想从精灵的身上或是家里弄些钱，重操旧业，当个小偷。

可能是太久没有偷过东西，他很快被精灵们抓住。他以为自己会被抓去投喂恶魔，但有人赎了他。

这个好心人就是精灵商人。

“商人对猪猡说，伯爵还有一笔‘货款’没有结清，一笔很大的货款。”他的声音愈发低落，孩子们已经听不清了，弟弟甚至已经挨着他入睡了，“……于是他从精灵监狱赎回了猪猡，让猪猡跟着自己去地下沙龙，最后见伯爵一面……”

“那……哈欠……他拿到钱了吗……哈欠……”

“他……”

克利切清了清嗓子，又唱起那首童谣。

“伯爵慷慨赐金币，称是付给珍宝与附赠，然而宝从何处来？来自猪猡乡间屋……”

没有回应，没有人在听。两个孩子都已昏沉入睡。

夜风拍打玻璃。克利切自言自语，说着无人在意的故事：“他让人带走了我的玛丽亚，欺骗她说，我在城里摔断了腿……她怀着身孕……”

他记得自己拿起短刀冲向天鹅绒的帷幕，哀嚎着，尖叫着。然而，一口硕大的箱子横在他的面前……

里面是玛丽亚的一束金发。金发之下，是金币，层层叠叠、耀眼闪烁的金币……

足够买下许多猪猡一生的金币。

猪猡丢掉了手里的刀，选择了金币。他亲吻伯爵的戒指，接过了新的需求单。

5

在离开卧室前，姐姐醒来了。她呢喃着问起没听完的故事，克利切告诉她，结局很无聊——精灵贵族死于饮酒过度，猪猡失去了主人，于是回到故乡，过上了富裕的单身生活。

人们叫他“慈善家”，认为这是个好心肠的大老爷，他会开设孤儿院，为孤儿们讲睡前故事，没有人知道他的来历，甚至有人觉得这是个圣徒。

他熄灭烛火，关上了孩子卧室的门，在黑暗中走出孤儿院。已经有人等候在孤儿院的门口，手里拿着等待他签署的文件。

“明天一早你们就能带他们走。”克利切接过文件，再三确认上面的金额，“天啊，竟然能换那么多的钱……不用明天了，把孤儿院的牌子换掉吧，直接换成精神病院。”

“里面有多少个孩子？”

“足够你们向市长申请津贴了，精神病人——尤其是精神病儿童可是很稀少的，我相信那些在他们身上进行的实验可以造福更多的人类。”

“对，所以市长秘书想确认，里面有多少个可能是疯子的孩子？”

克利切把文件还给他，用一种看傻子的眼神注视着他。

“全部都可以是。”他说，“你想要多少个疯孩子，我就能给你多少疯孩子。”

作者：网易第五人格手游 https://www.bilibili.com/read/cv18130361/?spm_id_from=333.999.collection.opus.click 出处：bilibili