pzb.drawingblood-第18节

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eleventh　year。　It　reminded　him　that　he　had　hardly　any　tapes　in　the　car。　He'd　left　his　music；　books；　and　movies　for　Eddy；　since　he　could　always　get　more。　But　he　should　have　brought　a　few　for　the　road。　He'd　stop　and　get　some　later；　when　his　thoughts　quieted　down　enough　to　make　listening　worthwhile。
　　He　was　already　sick　of　wearing　his　new　hat；　so　he　chucked　it　into　the　back　and　raked　a　hand　through　his　hair。　It　was　tangled；　dirty；　and　felt　like　it　was　standing　up　at　fifteen　different　angles。　So　much　the　better　for　that　popular　Edward　Scissorhands　look。
　　A　few　miles　out　of　New　Orleans；　90　wound　past　an　enclave　of　Vietnamese　restaurants　and　stores；　an　exotic　little　Asian　village　set　down　in　rural　Louisiana；　nurtured　by　the　bounty　of　the　rivers；　lakes；　and　bayous。　Though　Eddy　was　Korean；　the　sight　made　him　think　of　her；　gave　him　an　empty　feeling　somehow。　He'd　eaten　dinner　at　her　parents'　house　in　Kenner　once；　had　been　served　oyster　pancakes　and　a　wonderful　concoction　of　rice；　fresh　greens；　seaweed；　raw　fish；　and　hot　sauce　heaped　in　a　giant　glass　bowl　and　called　fea…dup…bop。　Zach　kept　hearing　it　as　fetus　of　Bob；　but　that　hadn't　lessened　his　appetite。　Once　Eddy's　mom　saw　he　loved　the　turbo…hot　sauce；　she　kept　plying　him　with　increasingly　fiery　tidbits　and　condiments　until　he　was　munching　whole　the　deadly　little　red　peppers　she　minced　into　her　kimchee。
　　It　was　then；　he　guessed；　that　the　Sungs　had　decided　their　daughter　just　might　be　able　to　marry　an　American。　Not　that　they　had　much　to　say　about　any　of　Eddy's　actions　…　though　they　believed　she　was　a　cocktail　waitress　at　the　Pink　Diamond；　or　pretended　they　did…and　not　that　Eddy　expected　Zach　to　marry　her。
　　He　felt　a　twinge　of　unease　that　was　as　close　to　guilt　as　he　ever　got。　He　knew　perfectly　well　how　different　Eddy　had　wanted　their　friendship　to　be。　But　it　was　impossible　for　him。　Loving　someone　was　okay；　and　fucking　someone　wasn't　bad　either。　But　if　you　did　both　with　the　same　person；　it　gave　them　too　much　power　over　you；　it　let　them　plunge　their　shaping　hands　into　your　personality；　gave　them　a　share　of　your　soul。
　　He　had　grown　up　watching　his　father　change　his　mother　from　a　sickly…scared　but　harmless　creature　into　a　sadistic　bitch　with　twisted　knives　for　fingers　and　a　spitting；　shrieking　mouth。　A　mouth　full　of　broken　teeth；　to　be　sure…but　all　the　pain　she　had　taken　from　her　husband　she　gave　back　to　her　son；　a　gift　wrapped　in　cruel　words；　signed　in　blood。
　　And　his　parents　had　loved　each　other；　in　whatever　mutually　parasitic　way　they　were　capable　of。　He　had　watched　their　heart…ripping　fights　and　sodden　reconciliations；　heard　their　anguished　lovemaking　through　the　thin　walls　of　many　cheap　apartments　too　often　not　to　believe　that　somehow　they　were　passionately　in　love；　or　had　been　once。
　　There　had　never　been　room　for　him。　Zach　sometimes　thought　that　if　he　had　not　been　born；　the　two　of　them　might　have　managed　a　kind　of　happiness　together；　Joe　with　his　broken…backed　dreams　and　his　fierce　intelligence　tamped　down　by　liquor；　Evangeline　with　her　bruises　and　black　eyes　and　always…hungry　loins。　If　only　his　mother　had　managed　to　scrape　up；　pun　most　certainly　intended；　the　cash　for　the　abortion　she　often　wished　aloud　that　she　had　had。　If　only　his　father's　rubber　hadn't　broken…and　how　many　times　had　Joe　taunted　him　about　that　damn　rubber？　The　thing　was　practically　a　Bosch　family　heirloom。
　　In　the　too…silent　darkness　Zach　punched　at　the　buttons　of　the　radio；　twisted　the　tuning　knob。　Frizzly　static　greeted　him；　then　a　spurt　of　jazz。　A　ripple　of　piano　and　tympani；　a　trembling；　exalting　alto　saxophone。　He　disliked　the　Dixieland　jazz　he　had　heard　all　his　life；　as　he　did　Cajun　music　and　indeed　anything　with　accordions　or　brass　in　it；　anything　that　sounded　like　growing　up　in　New　Orleans。　Such　music　twisted　barbs　into　his　memory；　ran　too　deeply　into　his　blood。
　　But　this　wasn't　New　Orleans　stuff。　Kansas　City；　maybe；　it　sounded　less　frenetically　cheerful；　exotic　somehow；　musing　and　dreaming。　He　left　it　on。
　　After　the　Vietnamese　enclave；　the　highway　passed　through　an　interminable　stretch　of　beach　cabins　with　cute　names　（Jimmy's　Juke　Joint；　Li'l　Bit　O'Heaven；　Moon　Mansion　replete　with　a　big　plywood　ass　shining　in　his　headlights）　and　private　driveways　that　went　straight　down　to　the　dark　water　on　either　side。　This　was　the　beginning　of　bayou　country；　and　there　was　very　little　solid　land。　Zach　pondered　the　name　of　his　own　imaginary　cabin…Hacker　Hideaway？　Outlaw　Asylum？　No：　Bosch's　Blues。　Check　all　Uzis　and　Secret　Service　badges　at　the　door。
　　Gradually　the　cabins　grew　sparser　and　shabbier；　some　were　bereft　even　of　their　names；　or　bore　signs　with　the　words　and　crude　bright　illustrations　worn　away。　Then　they　were　gone；　and　the　road　was　empty；　straight；　flanked　by　dark　expanses　of　water　and　woods　and　shadow。　He　crossed　a　bridge　that　arced　high　above　the　water；　saw　moonlight　shimmering　on　the　surface　like　pale　jewels。
　　The　radio　station　never　faded　out；　though　Zach　thought　he　drove　fifty　miles　or　more；　past　bland　green　vistas　and　ugly　stretches　of　consumerland；　K…marts　and　QuikStops　and　fast…food　charnelhouses　shut　down　against　the　night。　In　one　of　these　towns　a　fried　human　ear　had　been　found　in　a　box　of　takeout　chicken；　like　some　cannibalistic　remake　of　Blue　Velvet　by　way　of　Colonel　Sanders。　Zach　remembered　reading　the　story　in　some　tabloid　out　of　Baton　Rouge　and　wishing　he'd　thought　it　up　himself；　wondering　if　it　were　true　or　whether　there　was　another　prankster　out　there　somewhere；　creating　urban　mythology　in　giant　digital　strokes。　The　same　song　seemed　to　keep　playing　over　and　over；　as　if　the　DJ　had　set　the　CD　on　infinite　replay　and　gone　to　sleep。　The　sax　wailed　and　sobbed。　The　piano　dreamed　behind　it。
　　At　last　he　reached　the　Gulf　Coast　and　began　his　meandering　trek　along　it。　The　little　coastal　towns　shut　down　after　ten；　there　was　only　the　long　deserted　stretch　of　white　beach　broken　by　marinas　and　piers；　and　beyond　it　the　black　expanse　of　the　Gulf　of　Mexico。
　　His　parents　had　brought　him　here　once；　when　he　was　ten　or　so。　Zach　remembered　smelling　the　salt　air　as　they　drove　down；　imagining　the　blissful　caresses　of　the　sand　and　water。　In　reality　the　sand　had　had　an　unpleasantly　powdery　feel；　like　ordinary　playground　dirt；　there　had　been　a　scum　of　pollution　at　the　water's　edge；　a　pale　brown　froth　that　ebbed　and　flowed　with　the　waves。　It　smelled　faintly　of　dead　fish；　engine　sludge；　chemicals　gone　bad。
　　But　out　past　the　beach　the　water　was　the　color　of　new　denim；　and　felt　so　good　on　his　parched；　abused　skin。　He　had　ducked　his　head　beneath　the　surface；　seal…like；　and　hadn't　stopped　swimming　out　to　sea　until　his　father's　harsh　hands　grabbed　him　by　the　hair　and　wedged　the　back　of　his　swim　trunks　up　the　crack　of　his　scrawny　ass。
　　The　car　swerved　slightly　to　the　right。　Zach　caught　it　at　once；　but　the　memories　were　starting　to　hypnotize　him；　to　pull　him　toward　the　water。
　　A　town　marker　flashed　by。　PASS　CHRISTIAN；　pronounced　not　like　〃Christian；〃　Zach　knew；　but　like　a　girl's　name：　CHRISTIE…ANN。　He　was　already　in　Mississippi；　and　hadn't　even　noticed。　Fine　old　Southern　mansions　loomed　sepulchrally　along　the　left　side　of　the　road；　shrouded　in　ghostly　curtains　of　Spanish　moss　and　the　giant　knurled　oaks　that　had　hung　on　through　a　hundred　hurricane　seasons　or　more。　The　beach　on　the　right　was　pure　white；　shining。
　　Zach　hooked　a　left　off　the　highway　and　headed　for　Pass　Christian's　downtown；　such　as　it　was。　A　man　was　pissing　against　a　wall　outside　the　Sea　Witch　Tavern。　A　dim；　tempting　blue　light　burned　somewhere　deep　in　the　bar；　like　a　siren　luring　travelers　to　a　watery　grave。　The　other　buildings　were　dark　and　still。
　　After　driving　several　blocks；　Zach　came　upon　a　lone　convenience　store　called　Bread　Basket；　its　neon　flickering　fitfully；　flooding　its　little　patch　of　town　with　erratic　dead　white　light。　There　were　no　cars　in　the　parking　lot；　but　Zach　saw　a　clerk　nodding　at　the　register；　blond　head　drooping　over　the　Slim　Jims　and　Confederate　lighter　displays。
　　As　he　parked　the　car；　the　jazz　tune　finally　ended。　He　heard　a　guttural　voice　as　of　a　DJ　roused　from　long　and　peaceful　slumber。　〃Uh。　Yeah。　That　was；　uh　。　。　。　'Laura'　by　Charlie　Parker　。。。　a　whole　buncha　times　。　。　。〃
　　The　inside　of　the　store　assaulted　his　corneas　like　an　acid　vision　after　the　calm　silver　and　charcoal　of　the　night。　Zach　observed　that　the　clerk　had　been　not　napping；　but　studying　with　rapt　attention　a　magazine　spread　out　on　the　countertop。　It　was　open　to　a　black…and…white　photograph　of　a　lanky；　bare…chested；　feral…faced　boy　who　looked　a　lot　like　the　clerk　himself。
　　〃C'n　I　help　you？〃　A　plastic　nametag　was　pinned　to　the　lapel　of　the　boy's　blue　polyester　store　jacket。　LEAF。　Hippie　parents　would　do　the　damndest　things。
　　〃Yeah。　Can　I　smell　your　coffee？〃
　　〃Huh？〃
　　〃Your　coffee。〃　Zach　waved　at　the　coffee　machine　and　its　trappings　against　the　opposite　wall。　〃Can　I　just　smell　it？〃
　　〃Sure　。。。　I　guess。〃　Leaf　glanced　down　at　the　photo　again；　then　unhurriedly　closed　the　magazine。　It　was　an　old　issue　of　GQ。　〃If　you're　lookin'　for　Hawaiian　Kona；　though；　you're　out　of　luck。　It's　just　evil　ole　homebrew。〃
　　〃That's　okay。　I　don't　actually　want　to　drink　any。〃　Zach　crossed　to　the　coffee　maker；　pulled　the　p