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小说 - 幻象
小说 - 幻象
错觉
一本小说
然后我向天堂大喊，
问：“命运要指引什么灯
她的孩子们在黑暗中跌跌撞撞？
而且——“盲目的理解！”天堂回答道。
奥马尔·海亚姆
第 1 章
十年后
秋日的午后，太阳比前几天更早地躲了起来，一阵冷风吹得公园里的游客们瑟瑟发抖。杰克和亚当看着他们的儿子玩耍。两个孩子追着其他孩子跑，爬上单杠，骑着旋转木马头晕目眩，平衡木，在弹性操场上跳上跳下。
亚当说：“改变一下体力活动对他们有好处。”
“没错，在我他们这么大的时候，我父母费了好大劲才让我戒掉电视，而现在，我们几乎不可能让他戒掉那些该死的电子游戏和智能手机，”杰克说。
“我明白你的意思；他放学后一进家门，还没做作业，就跑上楼去玩他的 Xbox，”亚当说。
“一切都还好吗，亚当？”杰克问道。
“为什么？我看上去不太好吗？”亚当回答道。
“其实不是，你最近似乎心事重重。你的生日快到了，加油吧，哥们。”
随着太阳逐渐沉入毒葛树后，天空变得越来越暗，风也越来越大，雨滴刺痛着冰冷的皮肤，让人感觉更加疼痛。
“来吧，伙计们。该回家了。”杰克大叫一声，挥手示意两个男孩回家。
“孩子们一定饿了；我知道我也饿了，”亚当说。
亚当、杰克和两个男孩坐在车里。
“系好安全带，伙计们，”杰克看着镜子里的后座乘客说道。
“我们晚餐吃披萨吗？”两个孩子异口同声地说出了他们最喜欢的食物。
“你们一周吃几次披萨？你们在学校吃的披萨不够吗？你们今天午餐可能吃披萨了，不是吗？”杰克问孩子们。
他的儿子回答道：“学校的披萨吃起来就像加了酱汁的纸板一样。”
它的味道就像纸板一样，因为这就是他们在学校给你吃的，”亚当笑着说。
“不要披萨；今晚我们要吃真正的食物，”杰克说。
几个小时后，吃完晚饭，孩子们跑上楼准备睡觉，他们的父母则在吃完丰盛的晚餐后在客厅里休息。
“亲爱的，孩子们睡着了吗？”Shiva 问她的丈夫。
“我希望如此；我把他们俩放在床上，给他们读了一个恐怖故事，让他们也做噩梦，”杰克笑着说。
“他们在公园活动后一定很累了，”凯特说道。
“你知道我们很幸运我们的孩子相处得很好；这让我们的生活轻松多了，”杰克评论道。其他人点头表示同意。
头晕目眩的凯特、杰克和亚当手里端着酒杯，舒适地坐在火炉边。
“正如你们所知，Shiva 是当晚的主角，”亚当宣布道。
“是的，我们知道。给寿星准备的特色表演是什么？”杰克问妻子。
“伙计们，系好安全带，”Shiva 有条不紊地说道。
“相信我，亲爱的，我了解你，你做的任何事情都不会让我们感到害怕，”凯特笑着说。
“等着吧，伙计们；她今晚有真正的惊喜。快来吧，Shiva，快来解开谜团吧；焦虑正在折磨我们，”亚当喊道。
希瓦 (Shiva) 走到房间后面，站在大电视屏幕旁边。
亚当用遥控器关掉了电视。
希瓦小心翼翼地走到客厅的角落，站在离观众尽可能远的地方，深吸一口气，凝视着观众的眼睛。
“CG Jung 说过：‘除非你让潜意识变成意识，否则它将指导你的生活，而你称之为命运。’”Shiva 说道，“我想读一个你一生中从未想过会听到的故事。我真心希望这些书页能照亮我们生命中最黑暗的日子；也许这是我们所有人都需要一劳永逸地听到的故事，”她继续说道。
然后，她小心翼翼地从沙发垫下面取出一封信封，在焦虑的观众注视下，从一个黄色、破旧的马尼拉信封中抽出一叠纸。
当看到希瓦手中破烂的信封时，杰克和凯特突然愣住了。
“这是……”亚当无法将问题问完。
“哦！天哪，”凯特难以置信地叹了口气。
“这就是我所想的那样吗？”杰克问道。
“你……Shiva，你没有……”Kate 的声音变得颤抖。
没人指望能再次看到这个信封。他们根本不知道该如何应对即将发生的事情。
“如果亚当不想让我读这些页面，我就不会读，甚至不会打开信封，”希瓦说。
“我认为我们都应该看看这些页面的内容。如果不知道发生在我身上、发生在我们所有人身上的事情，我们怎么能继续我们的生活呢？还有什么比现在、今晚更好的时间呢？”亚当镇定下来后给予祝福。
“我知道你现在看到我手里的这个信封时在想什么。我比亚当更认同你的保留意见。也许我们应该把我们生命中的这一章保留下来，把它压抑在我们心灵最黑暗的迷宫里，也许不。我已经为自己争论了好几年，我不能再因为这个秘密而心存愧疚，所以我决定把这个幽灵公之于众，我很高兴亚当同意了。我唯一的希望是我们最终能理解我们这么长时间以来所经历的一切。” Shiva 的话在房间里回荡。
第 2 章
现在
大楼里的每位员工都能感受到龙卷风的低沉怒火。嘶嘶声从窗户缝隙中传来。灯光闪烁，电源断电，电脑关机。亚当把手指从键盘上拿开，向窗外望去。办公室窗户不远处的一棵巨大的雪松颤抖着，树叶飞散，树枝倒在地上。天空突然变暗，他害怕大自然的狂暴。停车场里一个巨大的垃圾箱被神奇地抬离地面几英寸，然后随着一声爆炸声猛烈地压回原位。几分钟后，大冰雹以令人毛骨悚然的节奏击中窗玻璃。
“我们地区有雷雨天气！请所有人立即离开办公室前往地下室，”区域经理通过公共广播系统发出警告。
所有员工迅速离开办公室和隔间，朝出口走去。亚当冲出去时按下了手机上的一个按钮。
“你还好吗，亲爱的？”
“是的，你呢？”他的妻子回答。
“我没事。办公室停电了。等天气平静下来，我今天就早点走。”
“在我们地区，情况还没有那么糟糕，”凯特说道。
“活动一结束我就给你打电话，”亚当说。
“再见，爱你。”
亚当点击手机上的一个应用程序并观看当地的天气频道。
“普吉特湾地区有 200 所房屋严重受损，数千所房屋停电。据估计，华盛顿州西部各县的阵风速度最高可达每小时 80 英里。”
十分钟后，大楼恢复供电。灯光重新亮起，电脑重新启动。员工们回到工作区。
艾普莉走过亚当的办公室，在门框处停下。亚当坐在办公桌后面，盯着显示器。
“我想知道我丢失了多少数据，”他评论道。
“我们真是躲过了一劫，不是吗？”艾普瑞尔说道。
“跟我说说看。我亲眼见证了它的威力，它把垃圾箱从地上掀了起来；垃圾箱重达数百磅。我以为它会把整栋建筑从地基上扫下来，”亚当评论道。
“这也把我吓坏了；感谢上帝，一切都结束了。”一名员工说道。
“我刚刚在新闻上听说一场风暴已经袭击了西雅图地区，”办公室接待员 April 说道。
“一秒钟也不早。我不敢相信西雅图的天气如此恶劣；我从来没有见过这样的天气。”亚当深吸了一口气。
“全世界的天气模式都变了。今年夏天我们经历了创纪录的高温，然后是山林大火，现在又发生了这种糟糕的天气。我感觉我还在德克萨斯，”迈克尔在亚当办公室对面的隔间里说道。
“气候变化很棘手，我们最好习惯它。看来我们将长期处于这种困境之中，”亚当说。
另一名员工评论道：“愚蠢的人类终于毁了这个地球。”
“嘿，你的生日快到了，对吧？”艾普瑞尔问亚当。
“几周后。”
“老婆今年还有计划再去旅行吗？”
“但愿不会像去年那样。”亚当笑着说。“赌博是双输的，尤其是对我而言，”他继续说道。
“你们俩今年为什么不去巴哈马旅游呢？网上有很多游轮套餐。”
“这个主意不错。最终的花费会比去一趟罪恶之城还便宜。”迈克尔笑着说。
“赌场知道如何榨干你的可支配收入，”亚当笑着说。
艾普莉向亚当展示了手机里的一张照片，“伙计们，看看这个。”
“这不是埃舍尔的作品吗？”亚当一边说，一边眯着眼睛看着那幅两只手互相画着的图画。迈克尔伸长脖子仔细看这幅作品。
“是的，它与埃舍尔的作品概念相同，但这幅画是在埃舍尔出生前几百年绘制的，”艾普瑞尔说。
“哦，这很有趣，”亚当说。
“我们在生活中描绘自己，”迈克尔评论道。
“不管你信不信，这张照片在暴风雨过后就出现在我的手机上。它是自动出现在屏幕上的，”April 说。
“如果这不是埃舍尔的作品，那是谁的作品？”迈克尔问道。
“这是一位不知名的艺术家的作品。说明文字说，这是从古代不知名艺术家的作品集中选取的。”April 说道。
“凯特会很有兴趣看这个；她对这类东西很感兴趣。我会在网上查找这位艺术家，”亚当说。
“我已经搜索过网上资料，没有找到任何关于这件艺术品的信息，这件艺术品没有签名，也没有关于艺术家的信息，”April 说道。
“无限循环，真是一个神秘的概念，”亚当若有所思地评论道。
“这就是循环逻辑。这种逻辑的前提是合理的，但结论却不一定合理，反之亦然，”迈克尔说。
“嗯，我会去书店买这本书；这是一个有趣的话题，值得今晚和朋友们一起探讨，”亚当说。
他拨通了家里的电话，由凯特接听。
“我会晚一点回家。”
“多晚才算晚？记住，今晚我们有客人。沙拉和招待是你的责任。”
“是的，我知道。”
亚当一边打电话一边离开办公室，走出大楼。当他走到车旁时，外面仍在下着倾盆大雨，车上已经覆盖着树叶和灌木丛。停车场上堆满了破损的垃圾袋、树叶和掉落的树枝。
“暴风雨把这里的一切都搞乱了，”亚当在电话里说道。
“汽车损坏了吗？”凯特问道。
“好像不用了，半个小时后我就到家了。”
“你没说为什么吗？”
“今天，我们的接待员给我看了一张有趣的照片。”亚当一边开车一边用扬声器说道。
“什么照片？”
“你看过埃舍尔的那幅两只手互相画着的艺术作品吗？”
“是的。”
“这幅作品有着类似的概念，但艺术家是在埃舍尔出生几百年前画出来的。”
“您说这位艺术家的名字是什么？”
“这幅作品没有签名，也没有任何关于艺术家的信息，但我发誓我能看出这幅画上的一些字符？”
“把照片发短信给我，”凯特说。
“我现在不在办公室，而且我也不知道怎么查。我会顺便去书店买这本书。April 说这本书有很多类似的作品。这些作品将是我们今晚谈话的一个很好的主题。”
“April 是谁？”这个问题让 Adam 觉得很无害。妻子问这样的问题从来都不是无害的，Adam 知道这一点。
“我们的接待员，”他有些慌乱。
“什么字母？”凯特问。
“你说什么字母？我没说任何关于字母的事情，”亚当吃惊道。
“你刚才说了有关艺术品上的字母的事情。”凯特澄清道。
“哦，你指的是图画上的人物。今晚你看到这幅画的时候我会告诉你的。Shiva 可能更清楚他们是什么。”
“亚当，你太兴奋了。把你的激情留到周末吧。你需要照顾我……”
我保证你今晚会有精彩的表现。”
凯特说道：“我希望这是一场持久的演出。”
“当然，超过五分钟；这是我向你保证的。说真的，凯特，在中世纪居然有人想到了这样的概念，这真是令人印象深刻。”
“好吧，先生；只是不要太迟。Shiva 和 Jake 七点钟就到。说到神秘主义，请记住，今晚那些困惑的生菜、被施了魔法的大葱、神秘的蘑菇和被施了魔法的樱桃番茄都在等着你，让你用你那奇异的沙拉酱来揭开它们模糊的命运。”
“哈哈，非常有趣，”亚当说。
“你需要多制作一些神奇的调料；我们的量不够。”凯特说道。
“哦，该死，我把这事全忘了。我们有足够的大蒜、花生酱和香菜吗？”
“让我看看。”
凯特走到食品储藏室并检查冰箱。
“是的，是的，是的，很快再见，”她回答道。
“爱你。我不会迟到，最多半小时。”
亚当按下手机上的挂断键，将手机放进衬衫口袋。几分钟后，他驶入购物中心，停好车，走进书店，走到柜台前，那里站着一位年轻女子。
“我可以帮你吗？”
解释了他在办公室看到的照片。
“嗯。我去数据库里查一下。”
搜索未得到结果。
“抱歉，先生。我找不到任何包含不知名艺术家作品的书名，不过我们去书店后面的艺术区吧。有些在售的书可能有古代艺术的图片。”
“不用担心。我会自己去看看的。谢谢你的帮助。”
“欢迎光临，先生。希望您能找到您要找的东西。”
亚当走到书店后排的过道上。他翻阅了几本书和几把扇子，最后看到了《未被发现的艺术》。他翻阅着书页，发现了一张小图片，上面画着他今天看到的那幅作品，说明文字表明，这幅作品是在中世纪创作的。这幅作品没有描述、标题或创作者的名字。亚当拿起这本书，走回柜台时，他注意到一本大开本的书，书名是《1950 年至 2000 年纽约市警察局犯罪现场照片》。
这本书的独特性和书名吸引了他的注意力，因此他停顿了几秒钟，凝视着这本书的封面照片。当他浏览书页时，他意识到自己没有时间看图片，于是他拿起这本书，走到收银台付款。
“您找到您要找的东西了吗？”柜台后面的同一名年轻女子问道。
“是的，这个我也要。”
“这本犯罪照片书现在正在清仓，打七五折，应该是最后一本了，几乎是免费的，”书商微笑着说道，“你想怎么付？”她继续说道。
亚当打开钱包，用现金买了这些书。
店员对这些商品进行结账。
“您要一个书包来装您的书吗？”
“不，谢谢。”
“收据？”
“不用了，我想我不会归还它们。”他微笑着。
“祝您周末愉快，先生。”
“你也是。”
亚当离开书店，上了车，把书扔到副驾驶座上，然后回家了。凯特在厨房里，她的丈夫走了进来。
“这是天堂的香气，”亚当走进屋子时喊道。
“这是夏多布里昂牛排，”凯特大声回答道。
亚当走进厨房，妻子往杯子里倒酒。然后她从冰箱里拿出一瓶啤酒，递给丈夫，丈夫回以热情的吻。
“你找到你要找的书了吗？”凯特问道。
“是的，事实上，我确实这么做了，但是现在我们上楼吧；我有一个惊喜给你。”他喝了一口啤酒，一边抚摸着她的身体，一边说出这些淫秽的话。
“我在这里有很多工作要做。”
“来吧宝贝，我有点麻烦了。”
“晚餐在烤箱里；我必须在十分钟内把它拿出来。”
“我早就把它拔出来了，你知道的……”
“你不是承诺过会表现出色吗？”
"You know I never last that long. The average is three to seven minutes, and if you don't believe me, look it up; please, please, please." He begs.
"You have no shame, do you?"
"Why should I be ashamed of wanting my wife?"
"Performing in one-act play is what you should be ashamed of. Next time you go to the bookstore, buy a popup book on Kamasutra; maybe you will learn a thing or two on how to please your wife in bed…" Kate wags her index finger at her husband.
"Ten minutes is longer than average," Adam pleads in agony.
"Yeah, for squirrels."
"This is your final warning, woman; satisfy my miserable urges right now, or I have no choice but to violate myself watching you right here and right now."
"Don't ruin your appetite; save for tonight, honey."
She loses the argument and walks upstairs. Adam tussles to undress her as she barely gets a chance to step into the bedroom.
"I told them to be here at seven," Kate says.
Adam looks at his watch.
"It's only six thirty."
"They're on their way… Oh! Hmm! What about dressing…" She utters the words with her legs up in the air.
The entire whimsical affair lasts less than five minutes.
"Adam, you broke another record," the wife says as she composes herself and returns to the kitchen.
When the doorbell sounds, Kate is in the kitchen, and Adam is collapsed on the sofa.
"Would you open the door?" Kate shouts.
"Yeah, I got it."
Adam leaps off the sofa, tucks in his shirt, and fists his fingers through his hair.
"Do I look decent?" he asks his wife.
"Zip up!" Kate screams, stretching her neck to inspect her husband.
Adam zips up his pants and staggers to open the door.
"Hey, guys. Come on in," he greets the guests.
"Excuse me for a second; my hands are not clean, working on dressing…"
Adam then runs to the bathroom and, a few moments later, comes back, shakes hands with Jake, and kisses Shiva. Guests walk into the living room.
"What are you cooking, girl? The aroma is heavenly!" Jake hollers.
"I'm starving," Shiva says.
Kate walks out of the kitchen and hugs her friends. Adam sprints into the kitchen. "I need a few minutes to make the dressing, guys. I'll be right out," he shouts from the kitchen.
"You should either give us a bottle of your exotic dressing tonight or reveal your secret recipe," Shiva shouts back. "I tried to make it a couple of times based on Kate's version of your recipe, and the result was not satisfactory; well… how do I articulate it without being rude…" she grinned.
"Being politically correct is not your strong suit, dear," Jake tells his wife.
"Well, Kate doesn't exactly know all the secrets, though," Adams shouts from the kitchen.
"She sure acted like she knew what the hell she was talking about, and I wasted a lot of fresh ingredients as a result, not once but twice," Shiva grumbles.
"Do you see, guys, how my husband behaves? After years of being a beautiful and faithful wife, he still has secrets. God only knows what else he's hiding from me," Kate grins as she sets up the table with Shiva's help.
"Adam's recipes are artistic creations wrapped in mystery. It takes time and effort for the laymen to discover them," Shiva sarcastically comments.
A few minutes later, the table is set, and all four are seated. Adam pours wine into glasses. Kate serves the salad.
"Shiva will be rewarded for her sycophantic compliment by a bottle of my exotic dressing," Adam declares.
"Why don't you give her your recipe?" Kate asks.
"Oh no, my dear; my secrets go to the grave with me."
"Hmm, Chateaubriand; I love this dish," Shiva says.
"Did you guys know that Chateaubriand was an author and a diplomat who worked for Napoleon?" Jake asks.
"Was he a chef, too?" Shiva asks.
"No, but this dish was prepared for him by his chef. That's where the name comes from."
After dinner, four friends sit in the living room.
"Oh boy! I overstuffed myself tonight," Jake says.
"Me too; I have to do an extra cardio tomorrow," Shiva says. "It was perfect, thank you guys," she continues.
“Coffee, anyone?" Kate asks.
Shiva reaches inside her purse and fishes out a small bottle of Irish Cream.
"I almost forgot. Jake brought this tonight to enhance our coffee experience.
"Thanks, Jake, but we have some Bailey's Irish Cream," Kate says.
"But this is not Bailey's, my dear. This is authentic coffee liquor from Costa Rica. I found it in the World's Market," Jake says.
"Thanks, Jake," Adam says.
“Kate said you have a surprise for us tonight, Adam. We're so excited," Shiva says.
Adam picks up the art book off the shelf, flips through the pages, and shows the image he'd seen in the office to his guests.
"Two hands of the same man, each drawing the other, I've seen similar concepts in Escher's work," Shiva comments.
"Yes, I have Escher's rendition of this concept too, but this obscured artist did this more than five hundred years ago," Adam says.
"Really? That's interesting to know," Shiva pensively remarks.
"And he must have been from your part of the world, too," Adam says.
"Hmm. Let me see." Shiva scoots over closer to Adam and carefully examines the picture.
"Why would you say that?" Shiva asks Adam.
"Adam's right; the artist scribbled something next to these two hands," Kate says while pointing at the characters written between the two hands of the drawing.
"Maybe he signed his work," Jake says.
"I cannot make out what it is," Adams says.
"Look, look carefully!" Shiva says.
"Look at what?"
"These look like Persian alphabets in cursive," Shiva says.
"Can you make out what they are?" Adam asks.
"I can see three characters," Jake says.
"Don't these characters look like Arabic alphabets?" Jake asks his wife.
"Arabic and Persian languages share the same alphabets except four extra ones in Persian. Shouldn't you know that by now? How many years have we been married?" Shiva gripes.
"Oh! Sorry, honey."
Shiva focuses on the engraved curves of characters on the drawing.
"The straight line on the right must be an A," Kate says as she has the Persian alphabet on her laptop, trying to match any of those characters with the ones on the artwork.
"Now look at the middle character," Shiva says.
"Doesn't it look like the "greater than" symbol on the keyboard?" Jake says.
"Yes, it does. It's a D in the Persian alphabet." Shiva continues.
"And the last letter on the left is an M," Kate says.
"The artwork is signed MDA in Persian? What does that mean?" Jake asks.
"These characters form the name Adam in Persian," Kate says.
"But Adam has four letters," Adam says.
"We write it with only three. The D character has an accent we don't use, so in Persian, Adam is written with three letters."
"And the letters are backward," Jake says.
"We write from right to left," Shiva says.
"The artist signed his name Adam." And she writes in Persian below the picture to make her point.
"Do you think the artist signed his name? Was his name Adam?" Adam asks.
"Isn't that a nice coincidence?" Jake says.
"Adam in Farsi means human, but it has another meaning," Shiva says.
"What else does it mean?" Adam asks.
"In addition to the name of the infamous jerk Adam who ruined Eve's life, of course, Adam means man or human," Shiva chuckles.
"This is so fascinating," Kate says.
"People write their destinies," Shiva says.
"That's what my coworker said this morning when he showed this artwork to us, too," Adam says.
"Here you go again. My wife is shifting into her eerie mode," Jake says.
"You're right, Shiva; perhaps things happen for a reason unknown to us," Kate confirms Shiva's point.
Adam is quiet. He looks a little pale. "Isn't it a little strange that this artwork suddenly appeared on a coworker's phone after the power outage today?" he asks.
"I believe we are here on earth for a reason, and there is a purpose to our lives," Shiva remarks.
"Didn't you come home with two books in your hand, Adam?" Kate asks her husband to change the subject.
"Yes, but the other book is depressing. I don't want to ruin the night."
"We're already in the Twilight Zone tonight. Bring it on, my friend," Jake says.
"Are you all sure?"
"Hell yeah, let's see what you've got," Shiva says.
Adam grabs the other book he bought today.
"This is a book of dead people. Are you guys still interested?"
"Corpses always go well with liquored coffee. Long live death!" Shiva raises her glass and toasts.
All raise their glasses. "Long live death!" They chant before bursting into laughter.
"What possessed you to buy this book, Adam?" Jake asks.
"The title caught my eye. Besides, it was shelved right next to the art book I was looking for. It must have been misplaced because I found the other one in the clearance section, but this one wasn't on sale. I paid full price for it."
"Destiny, my dear, destiny. Maybe you meant to buy this book," Kate is tipsy.
Adam sits down and opens the large book titled: "Crime Scene Photographs of the New York City Police Department from 1950 to 2000". He reads the title out loud.
Shiva is stunned seeing the book in Adam's hand.
"These vintage black and white snapshots of the victims seem more like paintings than photos. Don't you think so, Shiva?" Kate asks.
"Yeah, they're all mystical renditions of ended lives," Shiva responds while trying to avoid looking at the book.
"Dear, you haven't looked at the victims yet, and you're already spooked out?" Jake asks his wife.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Shiva says.
Adam flips through pages showing crime victims of each year and stops at the crime scene photo of the year 1963.
"Why did you stop at the year 1963 victim?" Shiva asks Adam.
"This is the year he was born," Kate says.
"Maybe we should do this later, not tonight," Shiva's voice rattles.
"What about exploring the unknown? Walking in the dark side? Don't these things interest you anymore?" Jake asks his wife.
"Shut up, Jake. This is not the time to joke," Shiva shrieks in an intimidating tone.
Adam's gaze is fixated on the body of the victim on the floor. The crime victim is facing down with his right hand stretched out. The caption reads: "This picture was taken from the second floor of an apartment building from where he plummeted to his demise."
"Look!" Adam shouts with a trembling voice.
"Look at what?" Jake asks.
"Look at the date of the murder. It's on April 12, 1963, my exact birthday."
"What a weird coincidence, a perfect spoiler for a lovely evening." Shiva tries to lighten up the mood as she attempts to grab the book off Adam's hands.
"It's weird, alright. Well, enough deaths and coincidences for one night. Let's watch a funny movie," Kate says while snatching the book off her husband's hand and slamming it shut.
"Funny movie? Who cares about funny movies? I'm just warmed up to see more dead people," Jake says.
"Jacob! Shut the hell up." Shiva screams at her husband.
"Why?"
"Just shut up. Excuse me, everyone. I have to go to the bathroom."
Shiva limps out of her chair and sprints out of the room to the bathroom. She splashes water on her face and watches herself in the mirror.
"Oh! God, what have I done?" She weeps in agony. "What have I done," she cries out the rasping words.
Others in the room are silent. Jake and Kate watch Adam melting in their presence.
Shiva wipes her tears and mops her nose. Her makeup is ruined; black tears are running down her cheeks as terror has captured her entire being.
"Is Shiva alright, Jake?" Adam asks.
"I don't know what came over her so suddenly," Jake answers.
Kate walks to the bathroom and knocks on the door.
"Shiva, are you OK?"
"Just give me a minute. I'll be out." She utters the rasping words, not knowing how to face Adam.
"Let me know if you need anything?" Kate asks.
Chapter 3
5 Years Earlier
"Honey, remember to keep your mouth shut while you're in his office; behave, you hear me?" Jake says.
"I solemnly swear to keep my mouth shut…" Shiva takes a vow of silence with her right hand in the air.
"I'm not kidding; control your temper; otherwise, you'll blow it," Jake cautions his wife.
"You know how difficult it is for me to keep my mouth shut when I should?" Shiva grins.
"Once and for all, get it into your thick skull. Publishers don't give a rat's ass about your idealism. You're going there to sign a lucrative book deal not to preach and certainly not to pick a fight with the publisher,"
"You're an idiot. I don't know why I love you," Shiva kisses her husband.
"You love me because I have everything you lack; I'm the personification of your deficiencies."
"And what are those deficiencies?"
"Reason and sanity, especially when they're needed the most. Honey, I don't want you to lose this chance; remember, a well-known publisher is flying you in and winning and dining you because they're interested in your writing craft, not your idealism. Your altruism is irrelevant if no one reads your writing, right? It would help if you got published first," Jake reasons.
"What a predicament; I should believe in something and write another; otherwise, I can't make a living in this damn world," Shiva gripes.
"You're a good writer, and you should do everything you can to get published; that should be your priority. You're not going to New York City to make a point; you're going to that meeting to close a deal and sign a contract, that's all. When you go to that meeting, stay calm and try not to insult the publisher. Is that too much to ask?"
"I'll do my best." Shiva sighs.
"If you exercise discretion, we will enjoy a supplement to our income," Jake comments.
"I said I would do my best not to offend anyone; what else do you want me to say?"
"Do you want me to go with you to that meeting? You can introduce me to the publisher as your emotional support animal.
"Don't be ridiculous, Jake."
"Random House is one of the largest and most prestigious publishers in the world, and they're showing interest in your work; that's a great opportunity. Most writers kill to get to the point you're in now."
"I get the point. I have no intention to mess up this opportunity."
"I'll keep my fingers crossed," Jake's apprehension is returned by a smirk from his wife.
"Oh! I'm not too fond of this smirk on your face. It means you disagree with a word I just said."
Shiva's wider smirk affirms her previous one.
"I know you will do whatever you want to do. I don't know why I bother to talk to you."
Shiva gives a passionate kiss to her husband before getting out of the car at the airport gate.
The flight to New York City is, and Shiva is prepared to alleviate the boredom. She watches a movie on her iPad, listens to music for an hour, and spends a few hours reading C G Jung's writing on collective consciousness, archetypes, Personality type INFJ's shadow, and the existence of God. When the plane finally lands late afternoon, she takes a cab to the hotel and checks in. When she changes her time on her watch, she realizes it's too late to go out for a walk. After settling in the room, she walks down to the hotel restaurant for dinner and goes to bed early that night.
The following day, she takes a hot shower and dresses up more formally than usual. She takes the elevator to the lobby, where the complimentary breakfast table is set up, pours a cup of coffee, and sits in the secluded section. She then opens her purse and removes a small container filled with her homemade sour cherry jam; she methodically spreads cream cheese on one half of the fresh New York-style bagel and smothers the other half with cherry jam, then carefully mates the two halves with a delicate force fantasizing of her lovemaking of the night before and takes a lustful bite. After breakfast, she walks outside and hails a cab in the sea of yellow cabs in the streets of Manhattan. One stops at her feet; she hops in and gives the address to the driver. The bustling streets of New York and the active life of people in this city always fascinate her.
She arrives at the destination and waits for half an hour, checking her email and reading the news on her phone, and reviews her email exchanges with the publisher she was about to meet. The time passes faster than expected, and she attributes that to the new electronic gadgets. She's called into the office. Shiva walks in, shakes Mr. Shuster's hand, and anxiously waits for the publisher's gambit.
The well-dressed publisher in his sixties has a copy of her manuscript printed on his desk. It seems to the writer that every other file, manila envelope, and a pile of papers is intentionally stacked up on the two sides of the desk to showcase her manuscript in the middle. There is nothing between the two but her writing.
"Did you have a good flight? How was your hotel room?"
"It was a wonderful trip, and I had a great time last night, thank you."
"Is this your first trip to this wonderful city?"
"I've been here once before as a young girl, but it was a long time ago. I don't remember much."
"This city has a lot to offer if one can find a decent place to live at a reasonable price and parking spot, of course," he chuckles.
Shiva returns a faint smile.
"I am sorry I couldn't get you approved for a two-night stay…"
"No worries, I prefer to come back in the future with my husband and stay a week or two."
"Hopefully, you'll come back soon for a book signing," he smiles.
"Let's hope so. That would make my husband a happy camper."
"I liked your novel, and I think it has great potential. It's well written. I'm especially intrigued by the way you see the world. Your vision is bizarre and twisted yet fascinating; it keeps readers enthralled. Your ghostly characters have unique perspectives on life…"
"Then why do I get this vibe that there is "but" coming up next?" Shiva interjects.
"You're intelligent enough to see what I'm getting at."
"It wouldn't sell the way it is. Is that what you are trying to say?"
"Don't jump to conclusions, my dear; I didn't say that."
"Then I don't know what you're getting at."
"We're in the publishing business; it's a business after all. We have to protect our interest, too."
"Mr. Shuster, would you get to the point, please?"
"I need to hook you up with a good editor,"
"What for?"
"To guarantee your commercial success."
"Mr. Shuster, I appreciate your interest in my work, but I'm afraid I don't understand where you're going with this, and I have a flight to catch in a few hours. So, would you please tell me exactly what the problem is?"
"There is a delicate balance I have to maintain between the originality and marketability of a novel. We flew you in because I liked your writing, and we're willing to invest in your work. You need to work with us so we can polish it a little."
"How polished would you like to see it, Mr. Shuster?" Shiva snarls.
"Enough to get a good return on our investment and get you thousands of readers, tens or even hundreds of thousands."
"I cannot make drastic modifications to my novel without compromising the integrity of the novel. I made this point clear to you in my emails."
"Don't get me wrong, I don't see anything wrong with the structure; I loved it. But I'm not an average reader. We must have the average readers in mind in publishing. Readers are the ones who pay for books. People are not into reading open-ended stories. Your novel doesn't offer a full resolution. It's a little too vague, too abstract to appease mainstream readers."
"I have no problem with making some modifications as long as the essence of what I wrote stays intact."
"I don't think you need to butcher your work, but a little makeover doesn't hurt."
"My novel is not a melodrama, and I will not turn it into one."
"Melodrama has a negative connotation. I want to make it more publishable. We will all get what we want; we all benefit, you, us, and readers."
"Would you be clearer about what you plan to do with my book?" Shiva is losing her temper.
"Well, I'll assign a very talented editor to work on your novel, but before investing time in this project, we need to have a contract signed so you give us full authority…"
"So I wouldn't have a say in what is published under my name?"
"We're the publisher. We make necessary adjustments to make the project successful."
"I am willing to work with your editor, but I should approve what the final draft would look like."
"But that's not how we operate. The only time you get to publish what you write just the way you wrote it is when you're a renowned author."
"And to become a renowned author, I must go with the flow and write whatever sells?"
"Well, that's one way of looking at it, but we don't see it that way. We both need to work together to guarantee a favorable outcome for all parties involved, " Mr. Shuster shrugs.
"Maybe I'm better off writing a damn book on spiritual healing or a quick guide on how to please a bed partner?"
"Plenty of those on bookstore shelves, and they sell, but we have our niche in that market. We're looking for powerful novels that sell. Look at it this way: you're emotionally and intellectually attached to your work, and we're financially interested in it. That's why we need to work together; it's that simple."
"I just can't change the structure of my novel to fit the market's needs; it won't be my novel."
"Mainstream readers are the bread and butter of our business."
"With all due respect and discretion, screw your bread and butter, I don't write what an audience wants me to write, that's all there's to it."
"Well, I shared our perspective with you, and I hope you reconsider. The offer is still on the table, but not for a long time."
"I don't think I can let you do whatever you want with my writing in exchange for money; I'm sorry."
Shiva furiously snatches her manuscript off the desk and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
She leaves the building, cursing the publisher, and aimlessly wanders in busy streets. When she calms down and stops talking to herself, she walks into a crowded bakery shop and orders a cup of coffee and an Almond Danish. She pays for her order and sips her coffee; then, she walks outside to the patio and sits at the only available table. She lights up a cigarette and inhales deeply to clear her head.
A few minutes later, an older man dressed in shabby clothes appears by her table.
"May I sit here; all other chairs are taken?" the man asks.
"Certainly," Shiva responds while scanning the tables on the patio to verify his claim.
The man sits.
"I appreciate it. I won't bother you," the man says.
Shiva smiles.
"And I won't say a word unless you initiate a conversation," he grins.
"It's too late for that," Shiva remarks as the man takes a bite of his sandwich.
"Forgive me for being rude. I'm not having a good day," Shiva says.
"It's too early to call it a bad day, don't you think?"
"I just screwed up a great opportunity; my husband was right; I have a knack for screwing things up."
"What did you mess up today, if you don't mind telling me?"
"I just blew a sure contract on publishing my book with a prestigious publishing house."
"Dealing with publishers is a daunting task."
"Do you work with them too?"
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Are you a writer?"
"No, not exactly."
"So, how are you involved with these bastards?"
"I used to be a crime scene investigator, and years later, I became a detective."
"That's an interesting line of work."
"Yes, it was. You get to see bizarre things in this business."
"People like you should write. You never run out of stories to tell."
"That's true, but not all stories should be told," the man pensively comments.
"So, how are you associated with publishers then?"
"Well, for a long time, I had a large collection of photographs of crime scenes that caught the attention of a publisher. He offered to publish some of them in a book, and since I had experience in the field, he asked me to select the photos for publication."
"What kind of book is it?
"It's a book of Crime Scene Photographs of the New York City Police Department. I'm supposed to select only one murder victim each year and write a short caption."
"Pictures of crime victims?"
"Well... They are not necessarily crime victims. Police investigators categorized them as such because some were mysteries."
"What's your selection criteria?" Shiva enthusiastically asks. "There must have been tons of victims to choose from, especially in this city," she chuckles.
"You're right about that. I was personally involved in many of those investigations and knew about so many others. Most of these photos are now in the public domain. I know the details of some cases because of my job."
"Do you investigate these cases further before making recommendations to the publisher?"
"For most of them, yes, I already have. I cannot disclose any details of murder investigations if they're not on public record, even though I'd love to. I prefer to choose more intriguing ones because I know the tragic circumstances of those cases."
"This is so cool. You have all the qualifications to become a true crime writer."
"This publisher is more interested in the victims of mysterious cases for obvious reasons."
"Yeah, I know all about that; they sell better. I bet that was what the publisher told you, right?"
"That's exactly what he said."
"You're making money off dead people; that's a good gig," Shiva grins.
"To me, sometimes the simplest cases were the most mysterious ones and vice versa."
"How so?"
"Death is so mystifying to me, but I admit some deaths were more puzzling than others. I couldn't wrap my head around them."
"I have a confession to make: I make money off dead people too, at least I try," she grins. "The damn publisher says my novel lacks full resolution. Isn't that absurd? What could be more final than death? How can death be open-ended? I have no clue," she drones.
"A tale of an ambiguous death or death after an ambiguous life, these two lack final resolutions, in my opinion. These two are mysteriously intertwined, you see; that makes them open-ended allegories, I believe."
"It's ironic. Most writers write without having a real story to tell, and you're sitting on a trove of untold tales, and you don't write."
"It's a bizarre sentiment to have, but sometimes I feel I was in a way involved or how should I say instrumental or even in a way responsible for some of those deaths I investigated," the man says.
“这简直是胡说八道。你总是在事后才见到受害者；他们已经没有生命迹象了。而我，却要为受害者的死亡负上很大的责任。我写了一些阴谋诡计，目的是谋杀无辜的人。如果我们其中有一个人应该感到内疚，那一定是我，而不是你。”
“我知道我这样想很荒谬，但奇怪的是，我可能帮了忙……”
“哦！事实并非如此；你不对任何人的死亡负责；相信我吧。”
“而今天，我对选择一张照片感到很矛盾。”
“选择最令人费解的案件的受害者。这不是出版商喜欢的吗？”
“这就是我想做的事情，但我却在某一年的受害者身上遭遇了失败。”
“那一年有什么特别的吗？”
“挑选 1963 年的受害者让我感觉很奇怪。”
“如果你要选择达拉斯的受害者，我会建议选择肯尼迪遇刺案。没有人的死比他的死更神秘。”
“不幸的是，他不是在纽约被暗杀的，”该男子笑着说。
“无论如何，肯尼迪的死讯已经被广为宣传，这是个双关语。此外，书中的肯尼迪照片会分散人们对其他受害者的注意力。这对其他人不公平，不是吗？” Shiva 笑了。
“那也是。”
“先生，如果您对选择受害者有顾虑，那就让我来帮您吧。我在这方面很有天赋，因为我在小说中毫无悔意地夺走了那么多人的生命。让我来为您做这些肮脏的工作吧。”
男人打开一个装满 1963 年谋杀案受害者照片的大文件夹，把照片散落在桌子上。其中一张照片立刻吸引了 Shiva 的注意：受害者的尸体旁边有一个小物体，略微超出了粉笔轮廓。她迅速拿起那张照片，递给了男人。
“这就是你的幸运受害者。”
“为什么是这个？”男人问。
“这张照片与其他照片有所不同。我敢打赌，尸体旁边的这个小物件一定意义重大；它背后有着一些历史，可能还能解开他死亡的谜团。”
“我希望照片上的那个小点能帮助我调查他的死因，但事实并非如此。无论如何，你帮了我大忙，年轻的女士；非常感谢你。他的死现在由你来承担。”男人脸上露出病态的微笑。
“没关系。我很乐意承担这个责任。和你这次有趣的谈话是我一天中最开心的事。你缓解了我的愤怒和沮丧。这是我的联系方式。请保持联系。我们将来可以互相帮助。我可以利用你的洞察力。”
“我希望只收取象征性的费用，”那名男子狡猾地补充道，并给了她自己的联系方式。
“当然，我要赶飞机。我最好回酒店房间收拾行李。”
“很高兴见到你，Shiva，”那名男子从名片上读出了她的名字。
第四章
30年前
周六下午的巴特里公园挤满了游客和参观者，一名手持彩色扩音器的导游走进公园，威严地为一大群外国游客引路。
“埃利斯岛原名牡蛎岛，因纽约殖民者塞缪尔·埃利斯而得名。埃利斯岛位于哈德逊河口，曾是移民进入美国的主要入境口岸。
“每年有多少移民来这里？”一位日本游客问道。
“埃利斯岛移民的高峰期是 1907 年，共处理了超过一百万移民，”导游解释说。
一名小贩提着一个装满手表、袖扣、太阳镜和打火机的手提箱。他的脖子和肩膀上还挂着一台相机。一名非洲游客走近他。
“闪亮的手表，”非洲人挑选了一块并用浓重的口音评论道。
“先生，这是一款精美的钟表，是正品的复制品。”
男人用力地在耳边摇晃着手表，“我想确保指针不会掉下来；分针有点抖，”游客笑着说。
“先生，如果你这样摇我，我的手也会掉下来。”小贩抱怨道。
“我付五美元。”
“不，先生，你看，标价是 30 美元。”他指着正在讨价还价的顾客的标签。
“十块钱，我买两个。”
“两块四十五元，这是我能给出的最低价。”
那人付了二十美元，“好吗？”他问。
小贩难以置信地摇摇头，“好吧，成交。”
另一名男子从游客队伍中分离出来，走近同一个商贩。
“这些手表真他妈的烂，”他指着陈列柜里的手表。
“您说什么？”公园小贩回答道。
一个小女孩迅速走近这两名男子。
“不，爸爸。在美国不要说这个词；这个词是假的。请原谅我的父亲；他知道一些英语单词。”
“而且他也没有在正确的语境中使用它们，”这位小贩笑着说。
“这些手表是假货吗？”小女孩问。
“假货这个词太难听了，小姐。这些都是正品的复制品。一块劳力士要几千美元，而这块美丽的表你只要 30 美元。”
“如果你认为我父亲会花 30 美元买这个，那你就大错特错了。我父亲以前画青蛙，然后把它们当作大众甲壳虫在波斯集市上卖。”这个八岁女孩面带微笑地说道。
买家用波斯语对湿婆说了些什么。
“我爸爸愿意每人出十美元，他买十块手表。”小女孩说道。
“如果你拿十个，我就以每个 12 美元的批发价卖出去。”
“一百美元买十个，这是最终报价，”Shiva 反驳道。
“但是你在提出提议之前没有问过你爸爸吗？”
“我认识我爸爸。100 美元买 10 个，我们成交吗？”
The vendor points at the pile of watches and says: "Which ones do you like?"
Shiva's father selects ten of the shiniest ones and concludes the transaction.
"Haggling is in our blood," the young girl grins.
"He must love these watches. Does he collect them?" the vendor asks.
"Oh! No, He's not buying them for himself. He would never wear a fake watch. He's taking them back to our country as souvenirs for his employees."
The park vendor grabs his camera and takes a few snapshots of the tourists in the park.
"Do you mind if I take a picture of you and your father?"
"Not at all," Shiva responds, holding her father's hand and posing for the camera.
"Those with visible health problems or diseases were sent home. All immigrants were asked about their occupation and the amount of money they carried with them. Some unskilled workers were rejected outright because they were considered likely to become a public charge. About two percent of all immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island were denied admission to the U.S. The Island was sometimes known as The Island of Tears because of those who were not admitted after the long transatlantic voyage." The tour guide's voice echoes in his megaphone.
"Only two percent were rejected? Only two percent of immigrants is what we should've admitted if you ask me," the vendor whispers to himself while lighting a cigarette. He sits beside a water fountain and opens his small suitcase, still filled with souvenirs. He looks at his competitors, who are closing deals quicker than he could ever have. As he sets up his camera to take more snapshots, a young man walks by his suitcase and, after taking a glance at the merchandise, suddenly stops.
"How much is this lighter?" he points at the lighter with AA engraved on its case.
"This is an original Zippo, ten bucks. They don't make this style anymore, a vintage souvenir to last a lifetime."
"I'm interested because of the initials. My kid brother has no middle name. His initials are AA. I don't know if he smokes, though," the buyer chuckles.
"This should get him started," the vendor grins. "10% off regular price because you have a unique brother," he offers.
A customer reaches for his pocket.
It's getting darker. The park has lost its affinity, and most tourists have already disappeared.
The vendor slams his suitcase shut and leaves the park after a good business day.
Chapter 5
Present Day
Shiva hastily dabs makeup on her face and nudges the bathroom door ajar.
"Jake! I don't feel well, would you please come here?" she hollers.
"Coming, honey."
Jake rushes to the bathroom.
"Come in," Shiva whispers to her husband.
"What's going on?"
"Get in."
Jake gets inside the bathroom, and she locks the door.
"Let's go home," she says.
"Now?"
"Right now, Jake now."
"What is it with you tonight? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think I have." She wipes her tears.
"What the hell is wrong?"
"I'm sick." Shiva gasps for air.
"Why are you sobbing?"
"I can't... I can't tell you, not now and not here."
"OK, calm down." Jake takes a deep breath.
"Just hold me tight and help me out of here, please. Don't say a word."
"I don't know anything; what will I say?"
"Just take me home."
"You're scaring us."
Jake holds Shiva's arm, and they return to the living room.
"Sorry guys, but we have to leave. She doesn't feel well,"
Adam looks pale. He is holding his head with one hand, leaning over the sofa, and holding the coffee table with the other.
Shiva looks down to avert Adam's gaze.
"Wait. Jake, please take this damn book out of here. We had enough drama for one night," Kate says.
"Yeah, sure. I don't know what is happening tonight," Jake says.
"I don't know either. Sorry guys," Kate says as she slams the crime photo book shut and hands it over to Jake as they leave.
"Your husband and my wife are going cuckoo tonight. It must be the damn coffee liquor," Jake says, and Kate smiles.
"I'll find out what the hell just happened here. Sorry again for this freak show," Jake says as they leave.
"Yeah, call me when you feel better, Shiva," Kate says.
Jake and Shiva walk to their car parked in the driveway. Jake helps his wife sit in. He gets in, throws the book in the back seat, and drives.
"Would you fill me in, please?" Jake asks.
"Just drive out of here."
"You want to go home?"
"No, just drive for a while. I don't know what I want to do."
"What the hell happened back there?"
"You won't believe it even I told you. I can't believe it myself."
"Believe what? Tell me something, anything. Does it have anything to do with this book?"
"I'm not sure, honey."
"Did you see anything in the book?"
"Yeah. No, nothing like that."
"Why are you so freaked out? Anything I need to know?"
"I was involved."
"Involved in what?"
"I picked out that photo for the victim of 1963, the one in the book.
"How, where, why, when?"
"On my trip to New York. The trip I took to meet with the publisher five years ago."
"Why Adam was freaked out like that? What did that photo have anything to do with Adam?"
"I have a headache; my head's exploding."
"You're driving me crazy. Talk, woman, say something."
"The picture of the victim of the year 1963 who died on the same year Adam was born..."
"Yeah, then what?"
"I was the one who picked it out for the book five years ago. Isn't that strange?"
"Yes, it is a weird coincidence, but what does it have anything to do with Adam?"
"Adam's birthday is April 24, 1963; the exact date that victim died."
"You're nuts," Jake says.
"What do you mean I'm nuts? Don't you find it extremely bizarre?"
"There are a few nuts named after people like Filbert and Hazel. The nut association of America should name a nut after you, Shiva, the Persian nut."
"But the pistachio is the Persian nut."
"Believe me, you deserve the title, you're more qualified than the damn pistachio."
"Didn't you see how Adam was fixated on that photo?"
"Yes, I saw how he went berserk. I don't blame him for getting thrown off a little about all this, but you did not kill anybody, and Adam is not dead, and that's all there is to it. The whole thing is a series of weird coincidences, but we shouldn't let it ruin our night."
"A series of coincidences never happen by coincidence."
"Alright, let's go home and forget all about this charade already. We need to get some sleep." Jake drives back home.
The following day, Kate calls Shiva and puts her on speaker while searching on the net.
"Are you OK, Shiva?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about last night," Shiva says.
"The damn book and the artwork ruined our evening," Kate says.
"Jake says the whole thing is a series of bizarre coincidences," Shiva says.
"What else could it be?"
"I… Is Adam OK?" Shiva cautiously asks.
"Whatever it was, it hit Adam hard. No, he's not OK. Something happened to him last night that I cannot understand."
"Let me come over to talk; we will sort it out."
"What's going on?" Kate's voice rattles, "Is there anything else I need to know?
"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. I'll be there shortly."
Shiva grabs the car key and darts out of the house.
"Where're you going?" Jake asks.
"To Kate's"
"I'll go with you."
"Ok, Harry up."
Shiva drives.
"I don't think you should tell them about your involvement with the photo selection," Jake suggests in the car.
"They're our friends. They need to know."
"They need to know what? That you picked out a picture five years ago in New York? What does that piece of information have to do with anything anyway?"
"We need to get to the bottom of this?"
"Get to the bottom of what?"
They arrive at their destination.
"Jake, bring the book with you," Shiva orders her husband.
Kate, watching the street through the window, rushes to the door and opens it before they knock.
"What is going on, Shiva? Why did you bring this damn book back?"
"Where is Adam?" Jake asks.
“他一大早就出门了，没告诉我。昨晚他一夜没合眼。我从来没见过他这样。Shiva，你有什么事要告诉我吗？”
“他打电话了吗？”Shiva 问道。
“他把手机放在咖啡桌上了；他总是忘记带手机。我很担心。”
亚当漫无目的地在城里开车。他的思绪飞驰，无数的画面涌入他的脑海。两只手互相拉扯，犯罪现场的照片，躺在地上的死者，购买犯罪现场登记册，他的出生日期，还有许多其他想法瞬间涌入他的脑海；他再也无法理解任何事情。他陷入了紧张性精神错乱的状态，一种怪异的恍惚状态，失去了对汽车的控制。他闯了红灯，差点撞上进入十字路口的汽车。迎面驶来的车辆急转身，避免了事故的发生。鸣笛声和汽车的旋转让他回过神来；他猛踩刹车，汽车嘎吱嘎吱地停了下来。亚当的手不受控制地颤抖着，粘在方向盘上。
一辆警车闪着警灯，拉响警笛，停在他身后。警官从巡逻车里出来，走近这位鲁莽司机的汽车。亚当吓呆了。警官走到他的车旁，示意司机把车窗摇下来。亚当紧张地按下按钮，车窗摇了下来。
“请出示驾照和登记证。”警官问道。
亚当打开手套箱，掏出保险卡；他的手明显在颤抖，无法从后口袋里掏出钱包。警官检查文件时注意到他的异常状态。
“没关系，先生，我现在不需要看你的驾照。你还好吗，先生？”
“是的，警官。”
“你刚刚闯了红灯。”
“我很抱歉。我不知道发生了什么事。”
“先生，您喝酒了吗？”
“现在是早上十点，警官，当然不是。”
“你要去哪儿？”
“家。”
“你开车不安全。你差点造成了致命事故。你可能会害死自己和他人。”
“我明白。”
警官写了传票。
“你确定你没事吗？”
“我很好，警官。”
“你能安全开车回家吗？还是需要打电话叫人来接你？”
“警官，我住的地方离这儿不远。”
“请出示你的驾照。”
亚当伸手到后兜里，掏出驾照，并将其递给他。
警察看了看亚当驾照上的地址。
“这就是我要做的。我要给你开一张传票，然后护送你到你的住处，确保你平安回家。可以吗？”
“谢谢。”
警官开了罚单，并把文件还给了亚当。亚当慢慢开车回家，后面跟着一辆警车。他把车开进车道，走到门口。警官下车跟着他。凯特打开车门。希瓦和杰克冲出门。
“发生什么事了？”凯特问警官。
“女士，我觉得您的丈夫感觉不太好。他刚刚在繁忙的十字路口闯了红灯。”
“亚当，你还好吗？”杰克问道。
“我很好。”
“确保他今天不会开车去任何地方，否则，他就会进监狱。”警官命令道。
“是的。他会待在家里。我很感谢你的帮助，警官。”
警官离开了现场。亚当走进来，看到杰克手里的书。他从杰克手中夺过书，疯狂地翻阅，然后停在了 1963 年的受害者面前。
“告诉我，Shiva；告诉我这本书和我的丈夫之间发生了什么事；不管是什么，告诉我。”Kate 擦干了眼泪。
湿婆不敢说话。
“昨晚你们走后，我在网上搜索了这本书。我什么也没找到，甚至连一个参考资料都没有，”亚当说。
“你也查过亚马逊了吗？”Shiva 问道。
“是的，什么也没找到，好像这本书从来没有出版过。我还去了书店，和他们谈过，”亚当说。
“他们说了什么？”Shiva 问道。
亚当说：“他们没有这个名字的书的记录。”
凯特看着这本书的封底。
“你看，这本书没有 ISBN，也没有条形码！”Shiva 在幻觉中说出了这句话。
“今天早上我去了巴诺书店，和卖这本书给我的书商聊了聊……”
“然后呢？”杰克问。
“她记得我，但她说我昨天只买了一本书，而不是两本。”
凯特注意到一张纸的一角从书页中露出来，便把它拉了出来。
“这是收据。昨天下午卖出了一本书，那是一本不知名艺术家的作品集。”她一边检查收据一边说道。
Shiva 和 Jake 也检查了收据。
“但我昨天下午从同一家书店买了这本书。我买了两本书，我发誓。”亚当双手抱头。片刻之后，他打开《犯罪现场》这本书，翻到 1963 年受害者的那一页，盯着面朝下躺着的受害者的尸体。
“这张照片到底有什么特别的？这个人去世那年和你出生那年。”Shiva 说道。
“不仅是同一年；他就在我出生那天去世了，”亚当说。
“我敢打赌，你出生的那一天，死了成千上万的人；这有什么大不了的？我们的出生日期不是我们独有的。我敢打赌，在我出生的那一刻，死了很多人，”杰克争辩道。
“杰克说得有道理；我们终有一天会出生和死亡，而一年只有 365 天。” Shiva 淡化了这种巧合，但内心深处，她无法原谅自己在这件肮脏的事情中所扮演的角色。
“为什么只有这名受害者的死亡日期准确，而其他人的死亡日期却不准确，而我的出生日期恰好是这个日期？这又是一个巧合吗？”亚当指着书中的受害者问道。“当然，这些不可能都是纯粹的巧合，”他继续说道。
“现在轮到你了，Shiva。这张照片和你有什么关系？”Kate 严厉的话语中充满了威胁。
“你们还记得五年前我去纽约见一位出版商，商讨出版我的小说的事吗？”
“是啊，那又怎么样？”凯特问道。
“离开出版商办公室后，我在一家咖啡店里遇到了一位老人，他是一名退休警察，正在写一本书。”
“什么书？”凯特问。
“这本书。”
“你为什么要写这本书？”亚当问道。
“这跟他有什么关系？”
“他为这本书挑选了很多照片……”
“然后呢？”凯特问。
“他不确定该为 1963 年选择哪张照片。”
“然后呢？”
“而我……”
“你啥？”
“我为他挑选了这个。”
房间陷入一种可怕的寂静。
“那个男人告诉你关于这张照片的任何事情了吗？”亚当问道。
“并不真地。”
“哦！天哪！”凯特叹了口气。
“看看这张照片，”亚当指着受害者的照片尖叫道。“看看他，看看受害者。”
杰克、凯特和希瓦走近一点，以便更仔细地看清这张照片。
“你在说什么？我们看不到他的脸。”杰克说。
“该死的，是我。我就是照片里的那个人，”亚当的声音中充满了恐惧。
“你疯了吗？怎么会这样？”杰克问道。
“亚当，你吓到我们了，”希瓦说道。
“这些事件都不是巧合，你不明白吗？”
“你是什么意思，受害者就是你，亚当？”凯特问道。
”亚当指着受害者尸体旁边的那个小模糊点。”
每个人都仔细地看着这张照片。
“你看到了吗？你知道那是什么吗？”
“不，是什么事？”凯特问道。
“尸体旁边的地板上放着我的打火机。那是我八岁的时候，伊森从纽约带给我的。”
“你怎么会知道的？”Shiva 问道。
“理智点，亚当。这个人被谋杀的日期和你的出生日期相同，这是一个奇怪的巧合。Shiva 为这本书挑选这张照片是另一个奇怪的巧合，但不要再给我们编造更离奇的故事了。”杰克说。
“我警告你，先生，把这些胡言乱语留给我吧。我是个悬疑小说作家，就连我也编不出这么荒诞的故事，”Shiva 胡言乱语，不相信她所说的话。
亚当用颤抖的手指指着照片。
“我甚至能看见打火机外壳上的‘AA’字母缩写。”
“我家里的某个地方还放着这个打火机。”
“你有放大镜吗？”Shiva 问 Kate。
“是的，让我去拿。”
“不，我们这样做吧，”杰克用手机拍下照片，然后把镜头对准尸体所在的位置。他们都把焦点对准了那个地方。
“看上去像是 AA，”凯特说道。
“我会向你们证明，这是我的尸体的照片。”
亚当冲出房间，来到阁楼，疯狂地清空了每个装满旧照片、小摆设、零碎物品的盒子，最后找到了他哥哥在他很小的时候从纽约带给他的打火机。打火机里还充满着液体，因为亚当对吸烟从不感兴趣。他记得在学校向朋友炫耀过它，但从未将它用于它的预期用途。他冲回客厅，先在怀疑的观众面前炫耀打火机，然后把打火机放在照片上的位置旁边。
他自信地宣称：“这是我的 Zippo 打火机。”
“如果这么多年过去了你仍然留着打火机，那它怎么会和死去的人在一起呢？”Shiva 问道。
“我无法解释，我不知道。我无法解释这一点，但有一件事我很确定。”
“什么？”凯特问。
“我出生的那天我就死了。”
凯特晕倒在沙发上。
“现在，你们都相信我了吗？”亚当问道。
“这些并不是纯粹的巧合；它们不可能是巧合，”Shiva 说。
“你是说所有这些事件都有某种联系吗？
他们怎么会这么做？是谁做的，为什么做的，目的是什么？”杰克问道。
“你怎么解释这一切？我不知道，但你没有死。那天你没有死，这本书里的受害者也不是你，”凯特说。
“我认识一个人，他也许能帮我们解决这个问题。”Shiva 建议道。
“他是谁？你怎么认识他的？他怎么能帮我们解决这种事？”杰克问道。
“这家伙是谁？”凯特问道。
“让我打几个电话安排一次会面；如果有人能帮忙，那就是他，”希瓦说。
一周后，亚当和希瓦去一家二手书店见安吉尔；他们在一间
岛上读书。
“抱歉我迟到了；你知道西雅图的交通有多糟糕，”希瓦亲吻了安吉尔的脸颊后说道。然后，她向大家介绍了亚当。
“我知道你正在经历许多令人困惑的事情，”安吉尔告诉亚当。
“我已经三个星期没去上班了。我无法集中注意力。我身上发生了一些超出逻辑的事情。Shiva 非常崇拜你。她说你不是典型的心理学家，”Adam 说。
“她说得对。我想让你知道，我本质上并不是一名心理学家。虽然我有心理学博士学位，但我并不把它当做职业。”
“相信我，我对治疗不感兴趣；无论如何那不是我需要的。”
“是的，Shiva 告诉了我关于那本艺术书、受害者的照片和其他事情。你说得对；你不需要治疗。但有时，在最难以解释的事件背后，有一种逻辑，如果你可以这样称呼它的话。”
“我认为发生在我身上的事情是我那些怪异梦境的实现。过去几年里，我经常做那些我无法解释的梦。”
“梦境从来都不是无害的；它们是我们心灵的门户。你越是将它们带入意识的光芒中，你就越了解自己是谁，以及为什么你会以这种方式看待世界并做出反应，”安吉尔说。
“你觉得这些奇怪的事件怎么样？我没有妄想；我没有编造它们。其他人见过这本书、这幅艺术品、在我生日当天死去的受害者打火机上的姓名首字母；它们都是真实的。我仍然保留着我哥哥从旅行中带给我的打火机。一本没有 ISBN、没有条形码的书，一本我从 Barnes & Noble 买的书，书商否认卖给我。这本书我一开始甚至都没有想找。我在找一本包含那天早上同事手机上出现的艺术品的书；这就是我去书店的原因。Shiva 参与了这场骗局，我们最好的朋友，我认识她很多年了，就是五年前在纽约碰巧遇到一位退休警察调查员的人，她让她选择一名受害者。她从数百张照片中挑选了那张。这一切怎么可能是偶然的呢？”
“不，我不认为所有这些都是巧合，也不是幻想。这些事件是真实发生的，超出了你的想象，也超出了你的控制范围。”
“你说的‘本身’是什么意思？你是说他能以某种方式改变这些事件吗？”Shiva 问道。
“与普遍看法相反，梦境和现实并不是两个截然不同的概念；它们是同一种现象。它们本质上是相互交织的，并不断相互转化。人们下意识地将两者分开，以使自己的生活更易于管理和理解，就像任何其他社会可接受的规范一样。社会规范和法律定义了什么是真实的，什么是虚假的，就像它定义了理智一样。梦境和我们所谓的现实是同一概念的两种表现形式；它们由同一种材料构成，它们的界限只是任意的，”安吉尔说。
“我也这么认为。我不认为我们真正了解我们存在的真正层面；它比我们看到的要复杂得多。”Shiva 补充道。
“这就是为什么这么多人求助于宗教，让他们的心灵在深不可测的经历中得到安宁。这是对上帝的信仰的支柱，”Shiva 说。
“宗教的观点过于简单化了同一个概念。事实上，我们生活在梦想中，无论我们是否意识到，梦想都在影响着我们。我们越是解读梦想，就越是挑战物质存在的现实。这就是我们的命运，”安吉尔说。
“命运？那是什么意思？”亚当问道。
“这个词是从阿拉伯语传入英语的。Kismet 在英语中的意思是命运，但它的意思是份额。你在生活中的份额是你应得的和得到的，但这并不意味着你无法控制你的 Kismet。你得到你想要的；这就是你的份额，你的命运。让我给你讲一个富有的投资银行家和他的所谓幸运之夜的故事。
“恭喜你，格兰德先生！我们听说了你在股票上取得成功的消息，一周前你购买了 100 万股，今天涨幅几乎翻了一番。”保安冷笑着，为投资银行家打开了厚重的玻璃门。
格兰德回头喊道：“谢谢你，罗杰。记住，没有什么是随机的。每件事的发生都是有原因的。”他整理了一下昂贵西装的翻领，沿着昏暗的小巷走向他的奔驰车。他听到一声枪响，低下头，扑倒在地，躲在车后面。他听到另一声枪响。
“我的新车被打得满是弹孔。”格兰德觉得这实在是无法忍受。他想也没想地探出头来，挥舞着手臂，“别，别开枪！”
又一声枪响刺破黑暗，回荡在他耳中。他看着自己刚刚修好的车闪闪发光，不忍心把它当做自己的避难所。他慌乱地跑向一辆驶来的出租车，挥舞着双手命令它停下来。出租车发出一声可怕的吱吱声，猛地停了下来。
出租车司机把头探出车窗，“先生，你疯了吗？”他用浓重的印度口音尖叫道。然后他下了车，车门敞开着，冲向百万富翁。他们又听到了一声枪响。两人都跳到车前躲了起来。
“你干嘛拦我？难道你没看到有人在向你开枪吗？你是在找死吗？”司机怒吼道。
“一个疯子无缘无故朝这边开枪。”格兰德几乎尖叫起来。“脱掉你的衬衫，”他命令道。
“现在不是做爱的时候，先生！我不关心你的怪异性幻想。我们正处于危机之中！”
“我现在需要一件白衬衫，我愿意付给你 100 美元。”
“太好了，先生，我太荣幸了。你愿意出多少钱买我的裤子？我听说过很多有钱人的色情游戏。”出租车司机会意地笑了笑。
“我对你没兴趣，该死的！我需要一件白衬衫。”司机挣扎着脱下衬衫时，银行家从钱夹里抽出一张崭新的 100 美元钞票。
“我今晚不打算死。至少不会以这种方式死去，”格兰德先生宣称。
富翁挥舞着白衬衫，大声吼道：“你到底想要干什么？”
又有一颗子弹朝他飞来，子弹穿透了白衬衫，衬衫像受伤的鸟一样乱飞。巷子里回荡着一个声音：“没什么，先生。这只是一次随机射击，不是针对个人。”
“随机射击？”银行家尖叫道。“这不是随机射击。如果你开车经过我身边，随意向我开枪，那就算是随机射击了！”
赤裸上身的出租车司机警告道：“先生！我认为与一个拿着枪朝您开枪的人争论是不明智的。”
格兰德无视移民顾问的劝告。
“你想干什么？如果你对我没什么意见，那我们就友好地解决这个问题吧。一张崭新的一百美元钞票可以吗？”
格兰德从司机手里夺过钱，把衬衫扔回给他。“交易取消，”他说。
司机抓住了他的外套一角，回应道：“交易时我的衬衫上没有弹孔。所有交易一经确认。不予退款。你拿走了我的衬衫；现在我要拿走你的外套。”
“你疯了吗，花800美元买一件羊绒大衣，却换了一件又臭又烂的衬衫？你这个该死的外国人，你的工商管理学位是从哪里获得的？”
两名男子正在为一件外套打架，这时枪手的声音响起：“那边到底发生什么事了？我们正在枪战，你们两个却为了一件外套打架？”
出租车司机回头对枪手说：“都是这个男人的错。他先是让我陷入生死攸关的危机，现在又要骗我。”此时，出租车司机已经把格兰德先生的羊绒大衣脱了一半。
“你是谁？”枪手询问。
“克里希纳·斯瓦米，为您服务。我是阳光出租车公司最好的司机。”
格朗脱下外套，从出租车的遮蔽处出来，朝巷子里喊道：“你一次又一次地开枪，却每次都没打中我。你知道为什么吗？因为我今晚不应该这样死去？”
随后，格兰德先生满怀信心地朝路对面的车走去。当他走到马路中间时，一辆卡车突然拐进黑暗的小巷，撞到了他。
格兰德先生被抛到空中，落在人行道上，手里仍紧握着那张一百美元的钞票。鲜血从他的嘴角流下。他勉强睁开眼睛，最后一次凝视着坐在他旁边的克里希纳那温柔的眼睛。出租车司机用他的羊绒大衣盖住百万富翁，说道：“先生，您说得对。今晚死于子弹不是您的命运。”
司机回到自己的车里，坐进去，打开了乘客侧车门。枪手从黑暗中走出来，坐在乘客座位上。
枪手说：“令人惊奇的是，他知道他不会死于我的子弹。”
“是的，没有多少人有幸知道他们是怎么死的。但如果他今晚没那么幸运的话，他可能还活着！”克里希纳说。
载着两名男子的出租车疾驰而去，消失在黑色的小巷里。
***
“就像这个故事里所发生的一样，绝大多数人都在不知不觉中扮演着重要的角色，实现自己的命运，得到自己应得的一份，这就是他们的命运，就像我们故事里的格兰德先生一样，”安吉尔说。
几天后，凯特去了希瓦家。
“在与你的朋友安吉尔交谈后，亚当更加执着于弄清楚到底发生了什么；他现在相信自己是神圣阴谋的受害者。他一直在谈论自己的命运，”凯特说。
“至少他的外语水平有所提高，”Shiva 笑着说。
“安吉尔是心理学家吗？”凯特问道。
“是的，他受过训练，而且非常有成就；当他从哈佛大学获得博士学位时，他是班级的毕业生代表。他曾担任临床心理学家几年，”Shiva 解释道。
“你为什么一直说他是？”
“嗯，他出事了，”Shiva 说。
“他怎么了？”
“我不知道所有细节，他也从未谈论过这件事，但几年前，他突然辞去了医生的职务。我听说有一天晚上他参与了一起随机枪击事件。”
“他是受害者吗？”
“不，从某种意义上来说，他就是枪手。”Shiva 沉思地回答道。
“你认为像他这样的人可以帮助亚当吗？”凯特问道。
“我不认为他开枪打人；也许那只是一场梦。不管那是什么，事后他已经改头换面了。他称那是一种顿悟。我只知道，在那次改变人生的经历之后，他再也没有实践过心理学。他的一些朋友和家人认为他精神崩溃了，有些人认为那天晚上他被附身了。他不再是以前那个他了，这是肯定的，但他没有疯。他现在从一个非常不同的角度看待一切，别人无法理解，我向你保证他不是一个罪犯，”希瓦说。
“无论他是谁，他都给亚当留下了深刻的印象，”凯特说。
“我认识他很久了，大多数时候我都不明白他在说什么，但考虑到我们经历的事情的特殊性，如果有人能帮忙，那就是他。他对事件有独特的见解，与其他人不同。他认为人们在无意中对实现他们的命运起了作用，我相信他。”Shiva 说。
“那你在纽约遇到的那位退休调查员呢？就是那个请你为这本书挑选照片的人？你还记得他还告诉你什么吗？”凯特问道。
“他没有问我，也没有以任何方式暗示我，他想让我选择那一年的照片；这让整个遭遇变得异常怪异；我是自愿的。”
“你记得他还谈论过其他什么事吗？”
“嗯，他讲了很多我当时不太理解的事情，但是现在……”
“比如什么？”
“他说死亡不是结束，而是一个新的开始；我不认为他在谈论来世。当我问还有什么比死亡更终结时，他说：‘模糊的死亡和模糊的人生交织在一起，难以区分；两者都没有最终的解决方案，一个变成了另一个，’”
“这基本上就是安吉尔告诉你的，对吧？”凯特问道。
“是的，现在我觉得两只手互相写字是对生命和死亡的一种诠释；它们互相写字，”凯特说。
“我越回想那天我们的会面以及讨论的话题，就越觉得我们所经历的事情在某种程度上与我们的过去有关。”Shiva 沉思地说道。
“你是说，亚当说自己是照片中的受害者，这话从某种奇怪的角度讲，有道理吗？这可能吗？”凯特说。
“我什么都不知道了，但是我对整件事感觉不太好。”
“那么，这个人还谈到了其他什么吗？有什么可以帮助我们解开这个该死的谜语的吗？”
“他又说了一句让我印象深刻的话……”
“那是什么？
“他说有些故事最好不要讲。”
“他给你他的联系方式了吗？”亚当问道。
“我没有要求，但我把我的给了他，”Shiva 说道。
“我们应该找到他。他是这起案件的关键人物，”凯特说道。
“我也这么认为；在他的帮助下，我们也许能够找到一些问题的答案，”Shiva 说。
第六章
“女士们，先生们，欢迎搭乘从西雅图飞往纽约的 222 航班直飞航班。”空姐抑制住机上的闲聊声。
“请系好安全带，将所有行李固定在座位下方或头顶行李架中。请关闭所有个人电子设备，包括笔记本电脑和手机。飞行期间禁止吸烟。感谢您选择美国航空。祝您旅途愉快。”
“凯特坐在 Shiva 旁边。亚当和杰克坐在过道对面。
“你认为我们必须在纽约呆多久？”凯特问希瓦。
她回答道：“只要我们需要。”
“非常感谢你们帮助我们。我觉得我一个人没法解决这一切麻烦。”凯特说道。
“不用谢我。我已经是这件怪事的重要部分了。这该死的命运在坑害我们所有人，这让我很生气，”Shiva 说道。
“这些都没有任何意义。我不怪亚当失去理智，”凯特说道。
“亚当可能并不是这个精心策划的阴谋的唯一受害者；我想我们都是，”希瓦说。
“后天是亚当的生日，”凯特说。
“我们将在大苹果城庆祝。”
“我已经很久没去纽约了，”杰克告诉亚当。
空乘人员将她的车停在了他们这一排。
“先生，您想喝点什么？”
“请给我一杯健怡可乐。”亚当说。
“您呢，先生？”
“来杯啤酒吗？”杰克说。
“国产的还是进口的？”
“无论你的购物车里有什么，
“我两种都有，而且啤酒不是免费的。”
“哦，我不知道。”
“国产是五美元，进口是七美元，”
“既然如此，就用国产的吧。”
服务完这两名男子后，空乘人员转向过道另一边的 Shiva 和 Kate。
“女士，您想喝点什么？”
“我们也需要休假。相信我，Shiva 和你一样为这件事疯狂，”杰克说。
“那天晚上，我读了希瓦写的一篇短文，叫做《我》。你读过吗？”亚当问杰克。
“是的，这是她早期的作品之一。说实话，我没看懂，”杰克回答道。
亚当从口袋里掏出两页纸并给杰克看。
“几天前我读过它，我觉得我应该和 Shiva 谈谈这件事。我需要和 Kate 换座位，和你的妻子坐在一起，”Adam 说。
“请便吧，伙计。既然如此，我就坐在你妻子旁边，让你们两个笨蛋去搞清楚到底发生了什么。我当然不明白这一切，”杰克说。
亚当与凯特换座位，坐在了希瓦旁边。
“这是什么？”Shiva 指着亚当手中的文件问他。
“这是你前段时间写的，你的一篇短篇小说，我念给你听，然后我们再聊聊。”
“是哪一个？”Shiva 问道。
“它叫做‘我’。你还记得你到底写了什么吗？”亚当说道。
“虽然不是每个字，但我记得我写在里面的要点。当然，你知道，我写的东西主要是我潜意识的产物。我真的无法控制发生的事情。有时，我怀疑我是不是写这篇文章的人。我的大多数短篇小说都是这样的。”
“让我读一下，然后我们再讨论一下，”亚当说。
“我洗耳恭听。”
“揭露‘我’的真实身份是一项艰巨的任务。”尽管这看起来荒诞而令人困惑，但这是我不得不做的一项紧迫任务。如何保持安全距离来揭露‘我’的真实身份是我的困境。我的存在完全归功于写作，当我写作时，“我”在台前和幕后。“我”是作者和文本，当我处于创造力的巅峰时，我会表达“我”，每次这样做都不可避免地会自证其罪。这是我的使命的自我毁灭性质，也是我存在的关键。
当我清醒时，我无法面对“我”的现实，所以在晚上，经过几个小时痛苦的失眠，当我陷入恍惚状态时，我会在梦中思考“我”。只有在那种精神错乱的状态下，“我”才会出现。当虚构和现实变形时，也许有可能揭示“我”的秘密，因为它控制着我最私密的欲望，支配着我的每一个行为。完成如此特殊任务的唯一方法是抓住平凡现实的点点滴滴，用幻想的神秘灵丹妙药精心打磨它们。在那迷雾中，我可能能够描绘“我”。即便如此，“我”也可能塑造我的思想，形成我的想象力，书写我的梦想。
“我”在幻想中物化，保护我免受现实世界的对抗。“我”知道我是多么脆弱和无助。我不知道！我写得越无拘无束，我就越快与“我”融合。我越深陷幻想，“我”就越容易成为我。哦！所有的界限都模糊了。我仍然在确定谁在写谁。
昨晚，我半夜惊醒，浑身冒冷汗，真希望再也睡不着了；我睁开双眼，只为凝视黑暗深处，紧紧抱住枕头，仿佛它是我唯一的救星，擦去额头上冒出的死亡之珠。我裹在湿透的床单里，松了一口气，感谢上天赐予我苏醒，我感觉到它就在我身边。我焦急地逃离了噩梦，躲进了清醒的角落，而“我”也在那里。无论我逃到哪里，海市蜃楼都以我能想象到的死亡速度跟随着我。
我绝望地奔向夜晚的街头，迷失在茫然的迷宫中，讽刺的是，我发现自己正在跟随“我”。
最后，我在一条死胡同里停了下来，大口喘着气，鼓起勇气，凝视着它那双锐利的眼睛，痛苦地哀求道：
“我怎样才能脱离地狱？我怎样才能度过今晚极度痛苦的自我毁灭？”
“通过明天写下你的噩梦，”“我”回答道。
“你所写的关于在睡眠中体验不同维度的事情和我所经历的很相似，”亚当读完文章后评论道。
“我们每个人的性格中都有阴影，潜意识中存在着一种我们自己都不知道的不同性格。阴影会增强我们性格中的特质。阴影会将我们的核心特质、我们的每一种恶习和美德发挥到极致。在各种情况下，我们可能像天使，也可能像恶魔。这完全取决于我们的生活环境和精神状态。有时，我们无法在内心解决善与恶之间的冲突，”Shiva 说。
“你真的了解自己的影子吗？”亚当问道。
“我正在尽可能多地了解自己内心的黑暗，这是获得平静的永恒追求。这是我获得救赎的唯一途径。我要告诉你一个秘密，这是我没有告诉我丈夫的秘密，”Shiva 说。
亚当说：“我会保守你的秘密。”
希瓦打开平板电脑并打开了她的一本短篇小说。
“你读过我的这个故事吗？”
亚当看着《预感》这个标题，说道：“嗯，我不这么认为。”
“现在读这个故事，我想告诉你一些事情。自从我写了这个故事以来，有些事情一直困扰着我。”她把平板电脑推到他的腿上。
“再来一杯吗？”坐在吧台上的男人给身旁的美女递了一杯酒。
“啊，我想没有，我有点醉了。”女人说道。
“这就是星期五晚上的意义所在，”他笑着说。
“你是想灌醉我吗？”陌生美女一边把玩着手中的空酒杯，一边诱惑的说道。
“我很享受和你在一起的时光，并且我会尽一切努力来延长这种快乐。”
“哼。那我为什么这么怀疑你的意图呢？”她冷笑道。
“那是因为你太愤世嫉俗了。我喜欢女人的这种特质。”
“你还喜欢女人的什么方面？”
“智慧是我最喜欢的美德。这听起来可能有些陈词滥调，但这是事实。”然后他向酒保示意，又点了两杯同样的酒。
“让我看看我理解得是否正确。周五晚上你在酒吧里半醉半醒，只对我的智力感兴趣？显然，我的乳沟没起作用。”
他咧嘴笑了。
“你是做什么的？”她问。
“我是商人。”
“你除了赚钱和泡妞还会干什么？”
“我有时会读书。”
“嗯。你读什么书？”
“真实的犯罪故事，我对犯罪心理很着迷。”
“真有趣，我写的是犯罪故事。”
“你写小说。你有犯罪心理，这对于一个女人来说很可爱，但真实的犯罪和虚构的故事之间有很大的区别。”
“但我很擅长；我可以让读者相信他们正在读的是真实的犯罪故事。”
“这不一样，亲爱的。小说永远无法复制现实。”
“定义真实，”她挑剔地说。
“发生的是现实，正在发生的也是现实。”该男子解释道。
“我的犯罪行为首先发生在我的想象中，所以它们是真实的。现实是一个感知问题，而不是时间问题。我想象犯罪如何发生，受害者心甘情愿地与我合谋实施我的阴谋。最后，谜题的每一部分都神奇地拼凑在一起。过去、现在或将来时态对现实没有影响。”她为自己的创作辩护。
“嗯。你对写作很热衷，对吧？”他含糊不清地在她耳边低语。他几乎能尝到她的耳垂。
“没有激情的人生不是人生。”当她转动手中半空的酒杯时，她用一缕头发轻轻抚摸着他的脸。
“你给了我灵感；我也想写作。”她的气味让他疯狂。
“肯定是酒精在作怪。”
“我会写作；我有故事要讲。”
“请记住，当你想象一个事件时，你已经让它发生了。现实与虚构之间的界限很模糊；大多数人没有意识到或欣赏这一点。我写的真实犯罪情节只有在阅读时才会被发现。
“也许我应该从写浪漫诗歌开始。”
“你是一个浪漫的男人还是只是想赢得我的芳心？
“我看起来难道不浪漫吗？”
“我现在无法根据你的话做出合理的判断；在这样的环境下，所有男人都会变得浪漫，但大多数人身上没有一根浪漫的骨头。对他们来说，浪漫是一种有用的工具，可以服务于他们的骨头。”她会意地笑了笑。
“好吧好吧，我放弃了。你误解我的意思了；并不是所有的事情都是胡闹，亲爱的，你知道的。
“但写诗很棒；这是一个很好的开始，”她说。
“太晚了，我放弃写诗了。我试图用细腻的文字表达我的感受，但你却打消了这个念头。既然你心术不正，那我就表达我阴暗的一面吧。写一张不祥的纸条怎么样？这样的文字能吸引你吗？”
“你这么拼命只是为了追求我吗？我已经被你追求了。”
“我要写一封遗书，写一个跌入谷底的人的遗言。”
“你有没有想过结束自己的生命？”
“不，其实不是。无论以什么标准衡量，我都是一个成功的人，我并不后悔。”
“那你为什么要从结尾开始你的文学创作呢？”
“因为死亡是如此的终结，所以对我来说，死亡的神秘性是诱人的。”
“这就是我克服死亡恐惧的方法，通过写作直到死亡。”她笑了。
“而我们每个人在生活中都会有悲伤。写这样的信是我表达绝望的一个方式。你不这么认为吗？”
“用心写作，最终会触动读者的心。”
“你会批评我的写作吗？”
“你不会是想骗我去约会吧？”她正盯着他那双充满欲望的眼睛。
“我们在智力层面上相通了？”他举起酒杯，干杯。
“我给你一周时间，让你把心声写在纸上，怎么样？我下周五晚上再来。我们就当是我们的文学约会吧。”
她抓起钱包，转了半圈，准备离开，“我们可以去一个更私密的地方讨论你的文学作品，”她建议道。
“谢谢你的饮料。”她离开了酒吧里那个眼花缭乱的男人。
接下来的周五晚上，大雨倾盆。当她走到酒吧时，他正坐在停着的车里等她。她坐在车里，他开车驶过阴暗潮湿的街道，两人没有说话。然后，他驶入一个空无一人的停车场，停了下来。
“我还是不知道你的名字。”他的话与雨水拍打引擎盖的狂野旋律交织在一起。
“你的第一次写作经历怎么样？”她笑着问。
“非常奇特。我从来不敢像在这里这样表达我的真实感受。我感觉我一生都被困在一座我自己建造的监狱里，没有出路。”他把信给她看。
“你只是不知道如何解脱自己。我很高兴我能给你启发，并向你展示一条摆脱困境的方法，而你从未意识到自己身陷其中。”她温柔地触摸着他的手。
“这是一份最后的遗言，是一次拼命的尝试，试图向那些从未愿意倾听的人讲述一个故事。遗憾的是，有时我们必须付出如此巨大的代价才能获得一点关注。”他坦言。
然后他打开了杂物箱，掏出一把手枪。“今晚我甚至还带着装满子弹的枪，以便真正捕捉绝望灵魂的心态。”
当她听着他读着他的遗言时，他轻轻地把左轮手枪抵在自己的太阳穴上，说道：“你认为他会这样结束自己的生命吗？”
她暂停阅读，将自己的手指放在他的手指上，扣动了扳机。
“是的，我想是的。这就是我写犯罪故事的方式。”
随后，她擦掉了指纹，下了车，逃离了犯罪现场。
“这一切都是你编造的，对吧？”亚当问湿婆。
她回答道：“有时我不认为我这么做了，但我没有证据表明我这么做了。”
“你在这个故事中提到的很多内容我都很熟悉。杰克告诉我你对人格阴影很感兴趣，以及它有时会占据主导地位并充当人格。你有可能写出真实的罪行，那些你自己犯下的罪行吗？”亚当问道。
“正如我所说，我没有找到任何证据。通常，我的故事中没有名字或识别参考。有时，我感觉自己正在经历我的梦想。你现在所经历的一切似乎只是我的又一次经历，但这一次，一切都非常真实，我们都在经历它；这一切都不在你的脑海中；这一切都不是我的幻想。我们可以证实事件，我们有确凿的证据，但我们无法在这些事件之间找到逻辑联系。我觉得我们都在参与阴谋；我们在某种程度上是实现你命运的同谋，”Shiva 说。
“我们必须结束这场噩梦，”亚当说。
“我们怎样才能找到我遇到的那个人？”Shiva 自言自语道。
“也许我们可以找到拍摄这张照片的摄影师，”凯特说。
***
几个小时后，杰克站在租车公司的柜台前，把信用卡放在柜台上，签好文件，然后拿了钥匙。他们开车去了酒店，两对夫妇进了房间。安顿好房间后，杰克和希瓦走到亚当和凯特的房间，杰克敲了敲门。
“门开着，进来吧。”凯特大声喊道。
杰克和希瓦走进来坐在沙发上。亚当坐在床上。
“我们从哪里开始呢？”亚当问。
“今天太晚了，什么事也做不了。我们出去玩吧。”凯特建议道。
“我们将在晚餐时讨论下一步行动，”杰克说。
“我认为这是个好主意，”Shiva 说。
“你们走吧，玩得开心。我宁愿留在这里，”亚当说。
“不，你不会的。你会和我们一起出去，你会玩得很开心！就是这样，先生！”他的妻子命令道。
“来吧，让我们咬一口这个大苹果，”杰克笑着说。
“你是从 T 恤上把它弄下来的吗？”Shiva 笑着说。
“不，亲爱的，这是从去酒店的出租车保险杠贴纸上看到的。”他回答道。
“哦，这个还不错。来吧，伙计们，我们走吧。我饿死了。”Shiva 说。
经过三十分钟的等待后，餐厅女主人将四人引导至他们的餐桌，几分钟后，服务员出现在他们的餐桌旁点菜。
“我试图找到五年前在纽约遇到的那位前警察，”希瓦说。
“出版商不知道怎样找到他吗？”亚当问道。
“不，他们不知道摄影师是谁。他们派了一名工作人员搜索公共记录，”希瓦说。
“你遇到的那个男人对你撒了谎？”凯特问道。
“我不这么认为；他没有理由撒谎。一定是出版公司的工作人员联系了他，”Shiva 回答道。
亚当没有动他的盘子。
“来吧亲爱的，吃点东西。明天我们还有重要的事要做。”凯特说。
“您的心理学家朋友，安吉尔，您是怎么认识他的？”亚当问湿婆。
很久以前，我的一个朋友把他介绍给我认识。他会演奏多种乐器；他是一位艺术家、多产作家、诗人，还会说多种语言。他的知识超越了他所受的正规教育。你很幸运能让他和你说话。他不善与人相处，但在我告诉他你的遭遇后，他表现出了与你交谈的兴趣。他有帮助吗？”Shiva 问道。
亚当说：“他说人们与他们的同谋者合作来实现他们的命运。”
“这些都没有任何意义。也许你需要寻求专业的帮助，我的意思是真正的帮助，”杰克说。
“告诉他什么？告诉他他在一本书里看到了自己的尸体。他出生那天就死了，”凯特说。
“他需要什么样的专业帮助？也许是一名驱魔人。”Shiva 笑了。
“此外，Shiva 的参与并不是 Adam 的想法。这件事发生在五年前，Adam 没想到这一点，”Jake 说道。
“最让我困扰的是导致我们陷入这种境地的一系列事件。也许所有这些线索和迹象都出于某种原因将我们引向某个方向，”Shiva 评论道。
“这就是安吉尔建议的。他给我讲了一个有同样结局的故事，”亚当说。
“但我们谈论的是你的生活。如果你在这个迷宫里徘徊受伤了怎么办？”凯特说。
“损害已经造成了，你知道的。亚当再也不会恢复正常了，除非……”Shiva 评论道。
“除非什么？”杰克问他的妻子。
“听着！我们现在都是这件事的一部分；我们都被耍了。我们都是复杂拼图的碎片，我的意思是我们所有人，”希瓦说。“我们必须以某种方式解开这个谜；这就是我所知道的一切，”她继续说。
***
第二天，Shiva、Kate 和 Adam 坐在酒店房间的桌子旁。Jake 拿起电话拨号。
“你好，”电话另一端的声音说道。
“亚历克斯，这是杰克。”
“杰克？克拉克高中的杰克·皮特曼？”
“就是这个。”
“很高兴收到你的来信，老兄。你还和那个波斯辣妹保持着婚姻关系吗？”
“已经八年了，而且还在继续。亚历克斯，我让你说话时要小心点。”
“你怎么能让她留住这么久呢？这真是个难题；她太聪明了，你比不了她。”
“她也能听到你说话，笨蛋。我的一个朋友和他的妻子也在听你说话。”
“大家好，”亚历克斯向大家打招呼。
“嘿，亚历克斯。你还是单身吗？”希瓦喊道。
“哪个有理智的女人会嫁给我这样的男人？”亚历克斯轻笑道。
“你说得对，你这个麻木不仁的混蛋，”杰克说道。
“那么，你们什么时候来纽约的？”亚历克斯问道。
“昨天下午。听着，我打电话不是想听你夸我老婆，你这个笨蛋。你还在警察局工作吗？”
。
“我现在是一名中尉。”
"I have a huge favor to ask you."
"Shoot," Alex says.
"I can't explain it over the phone; how about meeting tomorrow morning," Jake says.
"Sure, you know where I am at, don't you?"
"No, how do I know?"
"The first precinct."
"We'll look you up online and meet you tomorrow."
"Come at 10 a.m. and text me when you're in the main lobby; I'll come down to meet you guys."
Inside the New York City Polic Department in the main lobby, Kate, Adam, Jake, and Shiva sit in the waiting area. The light on a door blinks green, and it loudly clicks.
Alex walks in, greets all four, and escorts them inside a room.
"This is the Forensic Imaging Unit. This unit handles all digital, audio, and video evidence turned in by Crime Scene Investigators," Alex explains.
Alex sits behind a computer and searches all crime scene investigations of 1963. Adam opens the book and shows it to Alex.
"Here are the archived photos of 1963 in New York City," Alex says.
"Can you search for a specific date?" Kate asks.
"Sure, that narrows the scope, too."
"Try April 12, 1963."
Alex scrolls through hundreds of pictures on the screen while looking at the picture in the book.
"I don't see any crime scene photo like what you have here. Did you guys contact the publisher?" He asks.
"Yes, they have no information of how they got this picture or who gave it to them," Shiva says.
"Maybe his death was not classified as a crime," Alex comments.
"Now I remember. The man I met said something about some photos not being crime-related," Shiva says.
"Well, I just went through hundreds of murder investigations for April 1963 and found no evidence of such crime ever being committed, at least as shown in this book. Do you happen to have an address, a name, or any other identifier? I can look it up," Alex comments.
"So far, we know nothing more than what this picture tells us," Shiva says.
"As far as the New York City police department is concerned, this photo was not registered as evidence of any criminal investigation, and if his death was not crime-related, there is no reason for this picture to be in our database," Jake says.
"Just to be sure, I checked all five boroughs' local subfolders, too; nothing that resembles this particular picture, not even close."
"Is there anywhere else we can search for photos?" Jake asks.
"There's one more possibility we may explore," Alex says.
"What's that?"
"What I can check here on this system is the official records of murder investigations only."
"What do you mean?" Kate asks.
"Well. These are only criminal cases, the ones that are concluded."
"Do you keep a record of non-crime-related deaths too?" Shiva asks.
"Yeah, as a matter of fact, we do. Sometimes, we call them obsolete cases."
"What are those?" Adam asks.
"The police department keeps its investigation knickknacks for a long time. Those are pieces of evidence the investigators could not link to any specific crime investigation, and the department head decided not to waste our resources to digitize them, but we still archive them. Believe it or not, we still have thousands of boxes full of those junks in our basement."
"Can we search these files?" Shiva asks.
"Why not? That's why we don't throw them away. Come with me." Alex chuckles.
Alex ushers the four guests through long corridors, and they take the elevator downstairs and enter an old, dimly lit, musty basement filled with boxes, mostly on shelves, and some piled up on the ground.
"I can't stay with you guys, but be my guest and spend as much time as you need. Remember, you cannot take anything with you. When you're done, text me, and I'll escort you out. Let's see, it is 11 O'clock now. How many hours do you guys need?"
"A few hours. We'll call you by two for sure. Thank you so much." Adam shakes Alex's hand.
"You bet, buddy. I hope you find what you're looking for. This case must be so important to get you all so excited. You never know; maybe you can unravel a mystery for us, too."
"Believe me, we are trying to decipher a mystery," Kate says.
For hours, Adam, Jake, Kate, and Shiva searched through boxes of old reports and files marked April 1963. Kate finally opens a folder and finds the same picture as the book's.
"Look, guys. I found the same photo. There are more pictures of the same victim," she says.
They are more clear pictures of the lighter by the body, but the victim is facing down in all photos.
"Damn, this guy is hiding his face in all these photos just to tick us off," Shiva says.
"Look! This picture has a name and address on the back." Jake shouts as he examines one of the pictures.
"This is either the victim's name or the photographer's name," Shiva says.
"And that's the only lead we have so far," Jake says.
As they go through the files in other manila folders, Jake finds a photo of a man and a young girl posing in front of the Statue of Liberty.
"Shiva, look, this girl looks like you," Jake excitedly shouts.
The other three turn to the photo Jake has in his hand.
"Oh, my God..." Shiva screams.
"What happened, honey?"
Kate, Adam, and Jake look at the picture in Shiva's hand.
"What is it, Shiva? Do you recognize this picture?" Adam asks.
"The little girl in the picture is me. This is a picture of me and my dad when we visited New York City the first time; I was eight then," Shiva says.
"Yeah, it is you and your dad; I've never seen this picture before," Jake hardly utters these words.
“你记得拍了这张照片吗？”凯特问道。
“现在我看到这张照片，是的，我记得。当时公园里有一个卖相机的小贩。爸爸从他那里买了一堆手表，然后他拍了这张照片。”Shiva 回答道。
“为什么？他是摄影师吗？他把照片卖给你了吗？”杰克问道。
“不，我不知道他为什么拍照。我爸爸肯定没有要求他拍照。”
希瓦 (Shiva) 用她的手机拍下了这张照片。
“这是你第一次看到这张照片吗？”亚当问湿婆。
“是的。卖家不是摄影师。他说摄影是他的爱好。他保留了这张照片，但它为什么在这堆里？”
四个人面面相觑，不知道该说什么好。
“我无法相信这些事情会发生在我们身上，”希瓦说道。
凯特若有所思地咬着嘴唇。亚当懒洋洋地趴在箱子上。
“不管他是谁，我们都必须找到他，”杰克说。
“怎么了？这么多年过去了？”凯特问道。
“亚历克斯也许能帮忙，”亚当建议道。
凯特用手机拍下了照片背面的文字。杰克打电话给亚历克斯，请他帮忙寻找一个叫查尔斯·坎宁安的人。
四个朋友又翻遍了几个箱子，没有找到与他们寻找的东西有关的东西。他们回到亚历克斯的办公室，几分钟后，他们离开大楼，回到他们的车上。杰克开车。
“它叫山景城，是纽约州北部一家州立养老院，”杰克说。
“我查了一下，大约需要两个小时的车程，”凯特说。
Mountain View Retired Living 的大厅装饰着古老的家具。杰克和希瓦走向柜台。
“我们来拜访查尔斯坎宁安先生，”杰克告诉接待员。
“他在等你吗？”
“没有，女士。”
“他在 209 房间。但我需要先给他打电话。你能坐下吗？”
“当然。”
接待员拿起电话拨打电话。
“您有访客，坎宁安先生。”
“有访客吗？”杰克和希瓦能听到 209 房间的男人说话的声音。
“有四个，先生。”
“你确定吗，苏珊？”
“是的，先生，他们都来看望您了。”
“他们到底是谁？”
“您和坎宁安先生有亲戚关系吗？”接待员询问来访者。
“也不是，但必须见他；这是生死攸关的问题，”凯特一边走向柜台一边说道。
“在我看来，他们都是好人。你想在
“大堂？”接待员在电话里说道。
“不用，叫他们进来。”
一名工作人员陪同宾客。四位游客跟随她穿过长长的走廊。
“坎宁安先生在这里住了十五年，你们是他的第一批访客。”工作人员说道。
“没有家人或者朋友吗？”
“我没看见过。”
“他们来到 209 房间，门半开着。他们走进一间小房间，角落里有一张床，一张小圆桌和两把椅子，床边有一个带锁的柜子。一位七十多岁的男子坐在吱吱作响的扶手椅上，向窗外张望。员工离开了房间。
“煎肝、土豆泥、煮青豆。这就是我们昨晚吃的。还有比这更糟糕的晚餐吗？”坎宁安抱怨道。
“我也不喜欢吃炸肝，”杰克说。
“你们是谁？”老人问道。
“说来话长，先生，”凯特说道。
希瓦 (Shiva) 向大家介绍了坎宁安 (Cunningham)，但只字未提他们来访的原因。
“我们知道你们这里的餐饮服务很差。你想吃什么午餐？”杰克斯问道。
“你请客？”
“您说对了，先生。我们都饿坏了。”Shiva 说道。
“先生，您有什么特别想要的吗？”杰克问坎宁安。
“只要是像样的饭菜就可以了。”
“亚当和我会去吃午饭。我看到路上有一家烧烤店。”杰克说。
“哦，他们的食物太完美了。”
“坎宁安先生，我们能把我们的妻子托付给您吗？”杰克斯咧嘴笑道。
“我最多给你四十五分钟，如果你不带着烤排骨回来，我就把这两个女士当午餐吃了；我饿死了。”主持人笑了。
杰克和亚当离开了。希瓦坐在床上，凯特坐在桌子后面。
“几周前，我丈夫在西雅图买了一本书，里面有一张死人的照片，从此以后，一切都乱套了。我不想告诉你我们是如何找到你的，长话短说，我们来这里就是为了了解这张照片背后的故事，先生，”凯特说。
“这张照片跟我有什么关系？”
“我们今天早上搜索了纽约市警察局的档案，找到了该场景的更多照片。其中一张照片的背面写着你的名字。”希瓦说。
希瓦向坎宁安展示了她 iPhone 上拍摄的现场照片。
“哦！天哪！我知道事情还没完。这张照片怎么会出现在那本书里？”坎宁安喘着气说。
“相信我，你对这件肮脏的事情了解得越多，这个谜团就会变得越复杂，”Shiva 说道。
“坎宁安先生，我们对这种情况完全感到困惑，不知道如何帮助我的丈夫。”
“你确实是我们唯一的希望，”Shiva 说道。
杰克和亚当回来了，一手拿着装满烧烤、炸洋葱和热气腾腾的面包卷的盒子，另一手拿着大杯可口可乐。
“感谢上帝，你回来了。我还以为你抛弃了你的妻子，为了我而离开了呢，”坎宁安笑着说。
“你以为我们从西雅图飞过来只是为了带你们两个美丽的女士吗？”杰克斯笑着说。
“很抱歉花了这么长时间；这里已经人满为患了，”亚当说道。
“是的，现在是午餐时间。通常，游客都会从那里买食物给住在这里的父母和祖父母吃。今天对我来说是第一次。”
他们一起吃了午饭，没有说一句话。午饭过后，亚当翻开书，翻到 1963 年受害者的那一页。
“先生，您认得这张照片吗？”
“她刚刚给我看了这张照片。我不知道这张照片是怎么出现在这本书里的？”
“这张照片是你拍的吗？”亚当问道。
“你能告诉我们关于这张照片的什么信息？”Shiva 问道。
“你能把手提箱从床底下拉出来吗？”坎宁安问杰克。
从床底下拉出一个布满灰尘的旧手提箱。坎宁安打开公文包，取出一个马尼拉信封。
“这个信封已经积尘数十年了。我从来没想过我会有机会向任何人讲述它的故事，但我知道总有一天我会这么做的。”
“那一天就是今天；请告诉我们。我需要知道，”亚当问道。
“对我来说，我如何得到这个文件夹比它的内容更令人费解。”
“这个信封和书中的图片有某种关联吗？”Shiva 问道。
“我不知道，我不知道。”
四位客人面面相觑。亚当试图触摸信封。坎宁安把手缩了回来。
“我可以看看这个信封吗？”亚当问道。
“不。”
“我们来到纽约是为了寻找一些我们不知道存在的东西。我们不知道我们在寻找什么。你是我们最后的希望。”凯特恳求道。
“我告诉你我是如何得到这个文件夹的，而且我提前告诉你，它被诅咒了。”
四位来访者坐了下来，女的坐在床上，男的坐在椅子上。房间里陷入一片寂静。
“我本质上一直都是一个流浪者，一个没有家、没有稳定工作、没有家人、没有女人、也没有任何前途的人。
我年轻时，从一个城市搬到另一个城市，住在任何能找到足够收入的工作的地方。我做过县里很多地方的所有低薪工作。我在餐馆当过洗碗工、餐馆服务员或服务员；我做过庭院工作、维修、搬运和维修；你能想到的，我都做过。虽然我总是能勉强维持生计，但我从来没有能保住一份工作超过一两年。我并不是一个流浪者，从来没有要求过施舍，也从来没有做过违法的事，尽管有时我很想这么做。好吧，也许我没有足够的勇气去违法。”
第七章
30年前
查尔斯·坎宁安 (Charles Cunningham) 提着一袋杂货，跟着一位老妇人走进大楼，来到二楼。女房东打开公寓门走了进去。坎宁安跟着她进去，环顾了一下房子。自从他踏进大楼以来，木质底座就吱吱作响，他们走进厨房时，地板听起来像是在破裂。他打开炉灶门，打开炉灶和风扇，然后走进浴室，冲马桶，打开淋浴水龙头；一切似乎都正常。
“一间卧室，配备所有设施。每月一百美元，第一月和最后一月的租金，以及一个月的预付押金，”她说。
“公用设施？”
“每月十美元。租金必须在五号之前支付。晚一天，你就必须支付五美元的罚款，如果你晚了一周，你就会被驱逐。你将失去你的押金和最后一个月的租金。”
“你的管理很严格，不是吗？”查尔斯假笑道。
“你对此有意见吗？”女房东咆哮道。
坎宁安看了看他的购物袋里面，然后把袋子倾斜过来让女房东看。
“你想让我在里面看到什么？”年长的女人问道。
“如你所见，我这里有价值超过五美元的食品杂货。你知道这说明了什么吗？”
“并不真地。”
“这证明了我的经济稳定性，女士。”
“现在我印象深刻，”这位女士说道。
“我认为我们的开局不太顺利……”
“我看你有一种令人不安的幽默感，我不喜欢这种感觉。”女房东说，“那么，你想要这个地方吗？”
“我可以毫无问题地履行我的财务义务。”
“每次听到房客这么说，我都恨不得能拿到五分钱。在我看来，你是个爱开玩笑的人，而且不是什么好人。别想逗我开心，按时付房租。我不想惹麻烦，也不喜欢拖欠房租，就这样。”
“我将接替这个位置。”
“你打算什么时候搬进来？”
“我已经这么做了。”
坎宁安把杂货放在桌子上，伸手到后兜里，掏出一叠小额钞票，开始数数。
“好吧，你现在就支付按比例分配的租金和上个月的全部租金以及押金。”
“我不想惹麻烦，先生，我是认真的。”
是的，女士。”
她给了新房客两把钥匙。
“欢迎来到梦想公寓，坎宁安先生，”她在离开前说道。
巴特里公园
30年前
The day the young man purchases a Zippo lighter with "AA" initials engraved on its case for his kid brother, Cunningham goes home early and, the same night, goes to bed earlier than usual; the clock shows 10.25. When he wakes the following day and peers out the window, he notices rain is pouring down. He makes a pot of coffee and, unlike other days when he goes to work, stays home and drinks several cups. Two hours later, he finishes the entire pot.
He hears a knock, gets up, walks to the door, and opens it to face a Well-dressed man.
"Sorry to bother you, sir. Do you know where your next-door Neighbor is," the man asks.
"I lived here for a few years and never seen anyone in that apartment."
"Hum, that's queer. I have a package for your Neighbor. It's important to deliver it to him."
"Be honest with you, I don't think anyone lives there."
"May I come in?"
"Sure. But as I said, I didn't know I had a neighbor. I guess you're out of luck."
The man walks in, sits in the kitchen, and notices the camera.
"Are you a photographer?"
"Not really, photography is my hobby. I'm a street vendor."
"I bet you're not in favor of rain, are you?" the stranger chuckles.
"Affirmative, rain means no business."
"I believe I can turn your luck today and make your day a profitable one?"
"Hum, you do?"
The stranger opens a leather briefcase, pulls out a folder, and puts it on the table.
"Would you like to make some cash?"
"I don't believe in quick cash, especially if it comes from a stranger."
"I don't blame you, but there's nothing illegal about this business proposition."
The man peels five crisp one hundred dollar bills from his money clip and spreads them on the folder.
"All you have to do is to give this package to your Neighbor whenever he comes back. That's all I want you to do."
This is more than what I can make in two months."
"Just deliver this package to its rightful owner, the one who's intended to receive it and no one else."
Cunningham is speechless by receiving such a generous offer; he asks no questions to ruin such a lucrative deal. The stranger leaves Cunningham's apartment without saying another word.
"What the hell just happened here?" Cunningham talks to himself loudly.
First, he swiftly rolls the bills and hides the money inside the metallic bedpost. He then picks up the package and methodically examines it. The envelope is not sealed correctly, and touching it assures him that it contains nothing but a bunch of papers. Rain is pouring.
Chapter 8
Present Day
Adam takes out the lighter from his pocket and shows it to Cunningham.
"Is this the lighter you sold to that tourist?"
"Yes, it looks the same one I sold. I'll be darned. When these two ladies told me about your story, I was shocked, but this freaks me out."
“你看过这个文件夹吗？”Shiva 问道。
“一开始不是。我提前拿到了一大笔钱，却只做了我做过的最简单的工作。那时候，五百美元可以花很多钱；记住，我们说的是六十年代，当时你可以花大约 4,000 美元买一辆全新的汽车，而一加仑汽油要花四分之一美元。”
“你还记得那个男人来看你的日期吗？”亚当问道。
“不，我不记得具体日期了。”
“那是 1963 年吗？”Shiva 问道。
“是的，是的，就是肯尼迪遇刺的那一年。”
“是 4 月 12 日吗？”亚当问道。
“不，不，我永远不会忘记；不是那一天。而是在那之前大约一周。”
“4 月 12 日呢？那天发生了什么事？”Shiva 问道。
“在那笔利润丰厚的交易之后，我没有去公园；我休息了一个星期，不仅是为了送货，也是为了享受我通常买不起的奢侈品。毕竟，我就是靠做这些事情挣钱的。4 月 12 日清晨，我听到走廊木地板上传来脚步声。我冲到门口，打开门，希望看到我的邻居，我把头伸出门外看看发生了什么，结果我看到一个男人正在用钥匙打开我隔壁公寓的锁。”
“你好，邻居。”
“你好。”
“我以为你是我的隔壁邻居。”
“这个单元空置；我们之间没有邻居，”该男子说道。
“我也这么想。”
“这样更好，噪音小，晚安，”邻居说。
“晚安。”我关上了门。
第二天，我煎了几个鸡蛋，烤了两片面包，喝了一杯黑咖啡，然后点燃了第一根香烟，这对我来说总是最愉快的一支烟。我打开窗户，凝视着街道，听到走廊里传来脚步声，我冲了出去。一个女人跟着女房东走出了一间公寓。女房东锁上门后，那个女人就走了。
“早上好。”
“今天不给游客买纪念品吗？”女老板问。
“我在等人。”
“我的隔壁邻居怎么总是不在家呢？”
“我不知道，我不会偷窥我的房客。”
她撒了谎，这是事实。
她大声喊道：“这就是我所说的好房客。”
“他经常旅行吗？”
“我不知道。我没有在走廊里看到他。”
“我也是。他怎么付房租？”
“月初一，有人从我门下塞了一张支票。”
“你知道他的名字吗？”
“我无权向您提供该信息。”
“我明白了。再见。”
“再会。”
我回到屋里，再次拿起信封，走进厨房，检查包裹。和女房东说完这些话后，我终于忍不住好奇心大发雷霆；我必须弄清楚到底发生了什么。我在储藏室里装满小玩意的小盒子里搜了搜，找到了两个发夹，小心地把它们弄直，以防被撬开和打开。我走到大厅，撬开锁，手里拿着信封，闯进隔壁邻居的公寓，四处看看发生了什么事。公寓的家具和我自己的一样简陋。书架上放着几本书，炉子上放着一个咖啡壶，未整理的床边放着一双破旧的鞋子，浴室里放着几条毛巾。没有个人物品、信件或照片来辨认我从未见过的邻居。然后我听到了脚步声；有人上楼了。
我慌乱地冲出去，关上门，跳进自己的房间；我几乎喘不过气来，因为我在关着的门后偷听。然后我打开门，看到一个男人跑上楼，匆忙进入隔壁的公寓，砰地一声关上门，但门又打开了，因为锁被人动了手脚。我走出自己的住处，站在邻居的公寓外面，亲眼目睹那个男人疯狂地翻找公寓。虽然有时他不在我的视线范围内，但我能听到他在空荡荡的公寓里翻找东西。当那个男人空手跑出公寓时，我手里拿着文件夹跟着他，在到达楼梯顶部之前追上他。
“我有一个包裹给你，”我大声喊道，伸出手把信封递给他。
“这就是你要找的东西吗？”我喊道。
陌生人转过头，一言不发地从我手中夺过信封。当他突然转身冲下楼梯时，他失去了平衡，头部猛烈地撞在铁艺栏杆上，发出一声爆炸声，他的躯干每走一步都摔倒一次，然后跌倒在门厅。当那具毫无生气的尸体落地时，信封从他手中飞出。几个邻居被这场骚动吓了一跳，冲出门外，从栏杆上望去，只见地上有一具死尸，头上和嘴里都在喷血。我冲下楼去帮忙，检查我的邻居，他的脸上已经满是鲜血。唉，为时已晚。信封被扔出了邻居的视线，她正在二楼看着这可怕的一幕。
“打电话报警！”我大喊。
“我已经这么做了；他们正在路上，”一位邻居说道。
我捡起信封，把它藏在夹克里，然后迅速回到公寓，小心地擦去指纹，把它藏在床上的枕套里。然后我拿起相机走出去，站在栏杆旁，给我死去的邻居拍了几张照片。
一位邻居抱怨道：“先生，现在不是拍照的时候。”
“还有更好的事情可做吗？”我狡猾地回答道。
三十分钟后，两名穿制服的警察和一名调查员赶到。一名警察搜查了该男子的口袋。另一名警察环顾四周，在受害者的口袋里找到了一个打火机。他用手帕捡起证据，小心翼翼地把它放进一个塑料袋里。两名警察跟着女房东来到受害者的公寓。侦探与目睹悲剧的每一位邻居交谈。然后他朝我走来。
“你看到他从楼上摔下来了吗？”
“我确实这么做了，先生。”
“你叫什么名字？”
“查尔斯·坎宁安。”
“您是做什么的，坎宁安先生？”
“我是做销售的。”
“你卖什么？
“给游客的纪念品。”
“在哪里？”
在炮台公园。”
“您在这间公寓住了多久了？”
“大约两年。”
“死者是你的隔壁邻居吗？”
“我相信如此。”
“你这是什么意思？他是你的邻居吗？”
“我不确定；我今天之前从未见过他；我只是看到了他的尸体……”
“你在这里住了两年，没见过你的隔壁邻居吗？”
“确实如此，先生。”
“你见过其他邻居吗？”
“我有时在走廊里见到他们。”
“你跟他们打招呼了吗？”
“我要跟他们打招呼吗？好吧，如果我心情好的话，我会打招呼的。”
“如果你从未见过他，你怎么知道他是你的邻居？”
“嗯，我听到有人上楼，然后我听到他在我隔壁公寓里的脚步声，我相信二楼的每个人都听到了关门的声音。”
“你看到究竟发生了什么事吗？”
“当我走出公寓时，我看到那个男人从他的公寓跑出来，当他到达第一个台阶时，他滑倒了，摔下了楼梯。”
“他是在跑步还是在走路？”
“当然是跑了。”
“他在躲避某人吗？”
“我不知道。我没看见其他人。”
“你记得他在他的公寓里呆了多久吗？”
“不会超过几分钟。
“你怎么知道只过了几分钟？你看过钟了吗？”
“这似乎只是一段短暂的时光。”
“你出去和他谈话了吗？”
“不，先生。我说过，我不认识他。”
“房东太太说你前几天在询问你的邻居，是吗？”
“是的。”
“为什么？”
“因为我很好奇为什么这个单位还空着，仅此而已。”
“你问过房东你邻居的名字了吗？”
“也许吧，但我不确定。”
“是的，坎宁安先生。我再问你一遍，你确定你没见过他吗？”调查员狡猾地问道。
“我唯一一次见到他是在他从楼梯上摔下来的时候。”
“你怎么知道从楼上摔下来的人是你邻居？”
“我告诉过你我不知道；我只是假设他是我的邻居。”
调查员对他听到的内容并不满意，而我则很紧张。毕竟我隐瞒了很多信息。
“他只是摔倒死了。就那样，哈？”
“我所看到的正是如此。”
“你说他很着急，你知道为什么吗？”
“我不知道，警官，”我回答道，努力保持冷静。
“只有你看见他摔倒吗？”
“我不知道，这个问题你应该问其他邻居，我把我看到的都告诉你了，我是嫌疑人吗？”
调查员故意忽略了我的问题，因为他肯定感觉到了我的焦虑。
在他待在公寓的那段短暂时间里，你听到什么了吗？他一个人待着吗？”
“我相信他是一个人。但我不确定。”
一名警官走到调查员身边，在他盯着我的时候在他耳边低声说了些什么。
“先生，公寓的门锁被撬了。”
“有东西丢失吗？”侦探问。
“这间公寓几乎空了。”
“回答我的问题。还有什么遗漏吗？”
“看来并非如此，先生。”
“坎宁安先生，您每天都上班吗？”
“无论下雨还是下雪都不能。”
“你的房东说你最近一个多星期都没去上班。这段时间我们遇到了一些阳光明媚的日子。”
“我……我几天都不想工作了，就是这样。卖东西给外国人并不像想象的那么容易。”
“一位邻居说，她在他摔下楼前听到了一段对话。你跟他说了什么吗？”
“不。”
“那人摔倒前有跟你说些什么吗？”
“没有。一切都发生得太快了。我听到他走向公寓的脚步声。我听到门砰地关上，当我走到走廊想看看发生了什么事时，他跑向楼梯，然后我亲眼目睹他摔倒了。”
“邻居说你拍了死者的照片，为什么？”
“我有时会拍摄有趣的人和奇异的事件。
这是我的爱好侦探，这是犯罪吗？”
“一个人坠落而亡有什么有趣的呢？
“这很值得注意，不是吗？”
侦探以为我会有不同的回答。他停顿了一下，询问了我一会儿。
“我不能让你拿走这些照片；这是正在进行的调查的证据。”
“但是我还没有冲洗胶卷。”
“好吧，那我就没收你相机里的胶卷。坎宁安先生，你介意我们参观一下你的公寓吗？”
“为什么？我和这件事无关。我已经把我知道的一切都告诉你了。”
“那你就不用担心了，坎宁安先生。这是警方调查谋杀案的常规做法。”
“你为什么把他的死称为谋杀？他从楼梯上摔下来了。我看到他了。”
"I stand corrected, sir. We don't know yet if it was a murder or just an accident; that's why we'll investigate."
"If it helps your investigation, why not."
ushered the detective inside my place.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cunningham. I appreciate it."
"Go ahead. I don't have anything to hide."
The investigator noticed the pack of cigarettes on the table, and with the tip of his pen, he nudged its lid open. The box had two cigarettes inside. Standing behind the detective, I suddenly noticed two straightened pins by the coffee pot. I casually walked closer to the kitchen.
"I still have some coffee left in the pot. Would you like a cup?" I delicately slid the pins under the coffee maker as I poured a cup.
"No thanks. I can't sleep at night even without coffee."
"You must have a stressful job."
The detective gazed at the coffee pot. I added a teaspoonful of sugar to my coffee, started stirring and, sipped. The closet door was not completely shut. I stealthily looked at the brass bedpost, hoping this tormenting interrogation would end. The investigator returned to the living room and took the camera off the shelf. I followed him.
"The film Mr. Cunningham," he said.
"Do I get my pictures back?"
“We'll develop the pictures in our lab. After the investigation is over and if there is no value to those photos, you may claim them."
"But the roll is not all used yet."
"I cannot let you have the roll of film, sir."
I carefully and, under the investigator's gaze, removed the roll from the camera and handed it over.
"Well, Mr. Cunningham, please don't leave the city for a few days. We'll contact you if we need more information. And here it is, my card. Don't hesitate to contact me if you remember anything else about your Neighbor, anything at all."
"I sure will, detective."
The body was removed, and the initial investigation was concluded before I decided to get out to get some fresh air and buy a pack of cigarettes. I saw the two police officers leaving my next-door apartment. I felt guilty as I passed by the next-door apartment. The investigator and two officers walked behind me downstairs until we all reached the foyer. I left the building, and the investigator and two officers stood by the cruise car. The investigator lit up a cigarette and deeply inhaled.
"I didn't have a good feeling about this entire affair. I knew the detective sensed something was off about me and my responses. Before I got too far away from them, one officer ran after me."
"This is one mysterious death; we'd like you to come downtown first thing in the morning," he told me.
The following day, I was sitting at the desk filled with papers. The detective took a puff of his cigarette.
"Mr. Cunningham, did you tell us everything you knew last night?"
"Yes, everything I knew."
The detective opened his desk drawer, pulled out the lighter, and placed it on the desk.
"Last night, we fingerprinted the crime scene and your apartment, and now we're puzzled."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Why in the world are your fingerprints all over the dead man's lighter? Do you recognize this lighter?"
"I do, sir."
"How so?"
"As I told you, I'm a vendor in Battery Park.
I've recently sold two lighters with 'AA' on their cases, the only pair I had with only two initials."
"Do you remember to whom you sold those two lighters?"
"One I remember was to a tourist who said his kid brother had the same initials."
"When was that?"
"I would say a couple of weeks ago."
"And the other one?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you sell it to the victim by any chance?"
"I may have."
I opened my briefcase and paraded a variety of lighters just like the one the victim had.
"You see, detective, I sell souvenirs," I told the detective.
Present Time
"Do you remember anything about the victim in your apartment building?" Adam asks.
"I looked at him for a moment, and it was dark. When he fell, his face was covered with blood; I couldn't see much."
"Was the victim me?" Adam asks.
"Are you asking me if you were the man who fell downstairs and died more than thirty years ago?"
"Did you ever find out who the man was?" Shiva asks.
"No. and I didn't want to know."
"Why didn't you tell the investigator the truth about the envelope?" Jake asks.
"How could I explain any of that without incriminating myself? The stranger's visit, a large amount of money he paid me to deliver this envelope to my next-door Neighbor, the breaking and entering into the victim's apartment, and the lighter police found in his pocket with my fingerprints on it. How could I possibly explain all that? It was bad enough that I was the only person of interest in a suspicious death investigation."
Kate shows the victim's pictures to Mr. Cunningham.
"Did you take all these photos yourself?"
"As I said before I took these pictures, he is the dead man in my apartment. But who he was, I have no clue."
"You never claimed your pictures, did you?"
"After this sordid affair, I was too scared to walk by the police station, let alone ask them for my pictures. I don't think the investigator was ever convinced I had nothing to do with the falling of the victim, but they had no evidence to connect me to his fall. I won't ask you how in the world you got these photos. This entire situation is so bizarre that I don't have the desire to figure it out."
"Did the cops investigate you more?" Shiva asks.
"They sure did. For more than a month, I was going back and forth to the police station. But I did not change a word of my story. It was too late to tell the whole truth unless I had a plan to commit suicide."
"You never became curious to find out what had happened?" Kate asks.
"To snoop around a case like that, hell no. I was lucky not to be accused of pushing the victim downstairs. Besides, if he were in any way related to mobs, sooner than later, I would've ended up floating in a river. I was not that stupid."
"So you decided to keep the envelope forever? You never cared to see what was inside the damned package?" Adam asks.
"For years, this envelope and the entire saga spooked me so much that I decided on more than one occasion to throw this envelope away or burn the damn thing, but for some weird reason, I could not bring myself to do that. After a few years, I finally dared to peek inside this envelope."
"What's in it?" Adam asks.
All four guests stare at Cunningham's lips.
"I only read the title on top of the first page; it must be a story of a sort."
"What is the title?" Adam asks.
"Illusion."
"Did you read any of it?" Shiva asks.
"I had a premonition that all those events were somehow related, and I was just a piece of a big puzzle, and now I know for a fact that was the case."
"We're all pieces of this puzzle," Shiva says.
"Can you take us to that apartment?"
"No, I want no part of this anymore. I'll give you the address if you wish. The building is left intact exactly as it was thirty years ago."
Shiva types the address on Google Maps on her cell phone as Cunningham gives the address.
"I don't think you should go there," Cunningham warns his guests.
"I need to know the whole story," Adam says.
"Maybe you shouldn't," Cunningham says.
"You're right, sir. I don't think we should probe this matter further either," Kate says.
"I can't just let it haunt me for the rest of my life," Adam says.
"Not every story should be told," Cunningham says.
Shiva, Kate, and Jake nod.
"You need to let it go before it's too late, Mister," Cunningham says.
"I need to know what is in this envelope. If it's a story, I must read it."
"Maybe you have more compelling reasons to probe this matter further, but not me. I give this envelope to you because deep inside, I believe you're the rightful owner, but please don't open it here in my presence, and don't ever contact me again."
Cunningham stretches his hand to give the envelope to Adam, but Kate snatches the file before it touches Adam's hand.
"Give it to me?" Adam orders his wife.
"No."
"I said give me the envelope."
"I won't let you touch this, Adam." Kate shrieks.
"Don't give it to him, Kate," Shiva says.
"We came here to figure this thing out."
"Not anymore. We know enough not to pursue this anymore," Kate says.
"Don't you see, logic and reason have nothing to do with what we all went through so far, nothing," Shiva says.
Kate gives the folder to Shiva.
"I will destroy it today," Shiva says.
"Let's all go back to the city and enjoy the night. Tomorrow, we'll all go back," Jake says.
"You'll never hear from us again, Mr. Cunningham. That's a promise," Kate says.
Shiva shows the photo Cunningham took of her with her father in the park when she was eight.
"You may not remember me, Mr. Cunningham, but we met in Battery Park about thirty years ago. And most likely, you don't remember taking this picture. This is a beautiful picture. Thank you so much for capturing a beautiful moment," Shiva kisses the host.
"You saved my husband. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart," Kate says while hugging Cunningham.
Visitors leave Cunningham's room. Before they leave the facility, Kate walks to the management office and talks to the administrator.
"I would like to give you this check for Mr. Cunningham's expenses. Please send it for him however he wishes," Kate leaves a generous reward, and they depart.
few hours later, they are in a Persian restaurant in downtown Manhattan.
"Believe it or not, this restaurant has been here in operation for more than thirty years?" Shiva remarks.
"Really? Have you been here before?" Kate asks.
"The first time I ate here was with my father when I was about eight years old during the same trip we visited Elis Island, the same trip on which Cunningham took our picture."
Kate and Shiva order a variety of Persian cuisines. A man in the back of the restaurant is eyeing them and smoking a waterpipe as they have dinner.
"I love this food. This Kabob is almost as delicious as the Kabob your mother makes," Jake says to his wife.
"You better wish she doesn't hear this insensitive comment of yours," Shiva chuckles.
"Oh! No. I don't want any trouble, dear. I know how proud of her cooking skills she is."
"We also have a Persian artifacts store behind the restaurant," the waiter informs the customers as he refills their mint-flavored yogurt drink.
"Tonight is Adam's birthday. Let's celebrate."
After dinner, the four visitors walk to the store adjacent to the restaurant to browse. Tables and shelves are inundated with ancient Persian coins, spears, swords, stamps, and handwritten writs of kings, and walls draped with silk Persian rugs and miniature paintings. On one table, there is a backgammon board open with all the pieces set. The price tag is $750."
"Shiva, look at this backgammon," Jake says.
"Yeah, it's exquisite," Shiva says.
“问题是她找不到可以挑战她的选手，”杰克对亚当和凯特说道。
柜台后面的男人走近了。
他问希瓦：“女士，您是一名优秀的球员吗？”
“我从我父亲那里学到了这项运动。我不记得看到他输给任何人。”
“我父亲也认为他是最棒的，”店长说。“我喜欢看我父亲输掉比赛。你想挑战他吗，女士？”他问希瓦。
“如果我的妻子在这场游戏中打败了你的父亲怎么办？”
“那么你就可以以半价把这盘精美的手工西洋双陆棋带回家。”
“真的吗？”Shiva 很兴奋。
“您的晚餐由我们免费提供。”
“希瓦，这就是你一直在寻找的挑战，”杰克说道。
“在纽约吃四人晚餐？光是这个就花费一百多美元。”凯特评论道。
“准确地说，是一百二十美元，税和小费前，”商店经理笑着说。
“如果你打败了这位先生的父亲，我就给你买一套西洋双陆棋。”杰克怂恿她。
“你父亲现在在这里吗？”Shiva 问商店经理。
“他总是做好了准备，这不是双关语，”商店经理说道。
“如果她输了怎么办？”凯特问道。
“我不会的，”Shiva 说。
“如果她这么做了怎么办？”杰克问道。
“那么你就给你可爱的妻子买全价的西洋双陆棋，晚餐我请客。你觉得怎么样？”
“你确定你能打败他吗？我们谈论的是 750 美元，”杰克问他的妻子。
“是啊，你这个贱人。”
“好的，先生。我们接受挑战，”杰克对店长说。
商店经理拜访了他父亲。
“爸爸，出来吧。我又找到一个受害者了。”他笑着说。
“在这场比赛中，我们希望免费享用果仁蜜饼和热大吉岭茶。”凯特加大了赌注。
“成交。爸爸，请你出来吧。这位女士将在西洋双陆棋比赛中打败你。”
一位身穿传统波斯长袍、手指上转动着宗教念珠的老人走到柜台。
“去给我拿茶来。”他命令儿子拿茶来。
“是的，父亲。”
“那么，你们当中谁是挑战者？”
“萨拉姆，我的名字是湿婆。”
“你好，你好吗？”该男子用波斯语向挑战者打招呼。
“你准备好失去我的亲爱的吗？”
“她已经准备好踢你了……”
“闭嘴。”Shiva 阻止他侮辱这位老波斯人。
游戏开始。Shiva 和她的对手掷骰子并依次移动棋子。
凯特和亚当在商店里逛。杰克一边看比赛一边享用果仁蜜饼和热茶。老人命令儿子拿水烟斗。杰克抽了一口，然后咳嗽起来。凯特找到了一本奥玛·海亚姆的诗集。老人注意到凯特手里拿着这本书。
奥玛·海亚姆说道：
我们是傀儡，命运是操纵者
这不是比喻，而是事实，真诚的
在这个舞台上我们表演了一会儿
我们一个接一个地回到虚无之箱中。”
年长男子朗诵。
杰克喜欢看比赛，喜欢吃果仁蜜饼，最后，他全额为妻子买了一套手工制作的西洋双陆棋。晚餐后，杰克在安静的街道上开车，在破旧的梦想公寓前停下，把车停在街对面。乘客们下了车，站在漆黑的大楼前。一阵微风轻抚着来访者。梦想标志在风中摇曳。希瓦手里拿着信封。
“你们不好奇这个信封里是什么吗？”亚当问道。
“这个故事的曲折之处是我们永远无法解开的，”凯特说。
一阵微风突然将《幻觉》的几页纸从撕碎的旧信封里吹了出来。Shiva 设法抓住了故事的其余部分，追着飞来的书页跑去，然后短暂地消失在黑暗中。当她回来时，她两手空空。
“Shiva，信封怎么了？” Adam 问道。
“凯特说得对。再插手这件事已经没有意义了。你难道没有发现我们探索得越多，这个故事就越黑暗吗？”
十年后
湿婆打开信封，发现了“幻觉”，这是一篇她从来不敢阅读的寓言，直到今晚十点，她才一字不差地背诵了现在的文本，和十年前她发现的完全一样。
“……幻觉；一个神秘的创造物，一个由我们生活中反复无常的作者写下的令人困惑的寓言。这是一个充满了许多难以预测的令人费解的转折的寓言。这是一个我们永远不知道自己是作者还是主角的故事。我们旅程唯一可以确定的是结局，而结局永远不会像旅程本身那样令人着迷……”
这时，Shiva 停下来并深吸了一口气。
“这个故事并没有就此结束。我自己还没有读过结局。十年前的那个晚上，在那栋建筑前，一阵风吹走了这个故事的几页，我确实去找过那些页面，但没有找到。所以，我决定把这个信封藏起来，结束我们走向死亡的忧郁之旅，拯救亚当的理智，”希瓦说。
“你为什么不当晚就把信封扔掉？”亚当问道。
“我告诉你原因，因为她是个波斯疯子。你们两个太了解 Shiva 了，不会相信她会放过这样一个秘密。那天晚上，当她空手而归时，我知道她在搞什么鬼，但我宁愿放过它。我从来没有问过她关于那个信封的事，我们也再也没有向你们提起过。”杰克说。
“杰克是对的。这个谜题太令人困惑、太黑暗、太引人注目了，我根本无法放下；我就是无法放下。我们经历了这么多却没有得到解决，这让我发疯了。我把《幻觉》的残页留着以后再读，现在我知道它不应该读到最后。现在，我知道那些被飞走的书页是我们故事的结局。”希瓦说。“嗯；生活是用来体验的，而不是用来理解的，”她继续说。
然后，湿婆将信封扔进了燃烧的壁炉，幻觉的诱人火花在空中爆炸，让房间里的每个人都着迷。
结束。
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