p&c.brimstone-第53部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


tly　from　cranks；　of　course…this　was　thePost　；　after　all…but　still　he　couldn't　recall　a　bigger　reaction　to　a　story。　The　whole　business　of　the　golden　ratio　and　the　way　everything　fitted　so　neatly　with　the　historic　dates；　the　aura　of　mathematics…for　an　ignorant　person；　it　had　all　the　ring　of　hard　scientific　fact。　And；　Harriman　had　to　admit；　itwas　a　bit　uncanny　how　the　dates　just　happened　to　fall　in　line　like　that。　
　He　passed　the　Metropolitan　Club；　glimpsing　the　marvels　of　old　New　York　money　within。　That　washis　world　in　there；　or　rather；　the　world　of　his　grandparents。　Although　he　was　approaching　the　age　where　he　could　start　expecting　the　first　of　several　prestigious　club　invitations　（arranged　by　his　father）；　he　worried　that　his　current　position　at　thePost　would　be　an　impediment。　He　needed　to　get　back　to　theTimes　；　and　fast。　
　This　was　the　story　that　could　do　it。　
　Ritts　loved　him…at　least　as　much　as　that　reptile　could　love　anyone。　But　a　good　story　was　like　a　fire。　It　needed　to　be　fed。　And　this　one　was　already　guttering。　He　sensed　Ritts's　good　favor　could　fade　as　quickly　as　it　came；　leaving　him　and　his　big　new　raise　unfortably　exposed。　He　needed　a　development；　even　if　it　was　manufactured。　That　was　what　he　hoped　this　return　visit　to　Cutforth's　building　might　provide。　His　earlier　pieces　had　already　swelled　the　ranks　of　the　Bible…thumpers；　devil　worshipers；　Goths；　freaks；　satanists；　and　New　Agers　who　now　gathered　daily　along　the　fringes　of　Central　Park　opposite　the　building。　There　had　already　been　a　couple　of　fistfights；　some　name…calling；　a　few　visits　by　New　York's　finest　to　break　things　up。　But　it　was　all　disorganized。　All　reactions　needed　a　catalyst　and　this　was　no　exception。　
　He　was　nearing　68th　Street。　He　could　already　see　the　gatherings　of　freaks　on　the　park　side　of　Fifth　Avenue；　each　in　its　own　little　clump。　He　sidled　up　to　the　milling　groups；　elbowing　his　way　through　the　ring　of　rubberneckers。　Nothing　much　had　changed　from　the　last　time　he　was　there；　except　the　crowd　had　swelled。　A　satanist　in　black　leather；　clutching　a　Bud；　was　hurling　curses　at　a　New　Ager　in　hemp　robes。　There　was　the　smell　of　beer　and　pot；　not　unlike　a　rock　concert。　At　the　far　end；　a　man　in　faded　jeans　and　a　Black　Watch　plaid　short…sleeved　shirt　was　speaking　to　a　rather　large　crowd。　Harriman　couldn't　hear　what　he　was　saying；　but　of　all　the　acts　going　on　in　this　circus；　his　seemed　to　be　the　biggest。　
　Harriman　peeled　out　of　the　group　of　onlookers　and　inserted　himself　back　in；　much　closer　to　the　man。　He　was　preaching；　that　much　was　clear；　but　he　looked　normal；　and　his　voice；　instead　of　cracking　at　the　edge　of　hysteria；　sounded　calm；　educated；　and　reasonable。　Even　as　he　spoke；　the　crowd　around　him　was　swelling。　A　lot　of　onlookers　were　attracted　by　what　he　was　saying；　and　even　some　satanists　and　Goths　were　listening。　
　〃This　is　an　amazing　city；〃　the　man　was　saying。　〃I've　been　here　just　twenty…four　hours；　but　I　can　already　safely　say　there's　nothing　else　on　earth　like　it。　The　tall　buildings；　the　limousines；　the　beautiful　people。　It　dazzles　the　eye；　it　surely　does。　This　is　my　first　time　in　New　York　City。　And　you　know　what　strikes　me　most；　more　than　the　glitter　and　the　glamour？　It's　thehurry　。　Look　around　you；　friends。　Look　at　the　pedestrians。　Look　how　fast　they　walk；　talking　into　their　phones　or　staring　straight　ahead。　I've　never　seen　a　thing　like　it。　Look　at　the　people　in　the　taxis　and　buses　as　they　pass…even　when　they're　not　moving；　they　seem　to　be　in　a　rush。　And　I　know　what　they're　all　so　busy　with。　I've　been　doing　a　lot　of　listening　since　I　arrived。　I've　probably　listened　to　a　thousand　conversations　already；　most　of　them　one…sided；　because　people　on　this　Manhattan　Island　seem　to　prefer　talking　into　cell　phones　than　talking　to　real　people；　face…to…face。　What　are　they　busy　with？　They're　busy　withthemselves　。　With　tomorrow's　big　meeting。　With　dinner　reservations。　With　cheating　on　their　spouses。　With　backstabbing　a　business　associate。　All　sorts　of　plans　and　schemes　and　stratagems；　and　none　of　them　any　more　foresighted　than；　say；　next　month's　trip　to　Club　Med。　How　many　of　all　these　busy　folk　are　busy　thinking　thirty；　forty　years　ahead…to　their　own　mortality？　How　many　of　these　folks　are　busy　making　their　peace　with　God？　Or　thinking　of　the　words　of　Jesus　in　Luke：Verily　I　say　unto　you；　This　generation　shall　not　pass　away；　till　all　be　fulfilled　？　Precious　few；　I'd　guess。　If　any。〃　
　Harriman　looked　more　closely　at　the　preacher。　He　had　sandy　hair；　neatly　cut；　a　good…looking　all…American　face；　well…developed　arms；　trim；　neat；　clean…shaven。　No　tattoos　or　piercings；　no　metal…studded　leather　codpiece。　If　he　had　a　Bible；　it　wasn't　in　evidence。　It　was　as　if　he　was　talking　to　a　group　of　friends…people　he　respected。　
　〃I've　done　something　else　since　reaching　New　York；〃　the　man　went　on。　〃I've　visited　churches。Lots　of　churches。　I　never　knew　one　city；　no　matter　how　big；　could　boast　so　many　churches。　But　see；　friends；　here's　the　sad　thing。　No　matter　how　many　people　were　thronging　the　streetsoutside　；　I　found　every　one　of　these　churches　empty。　They're　starving。　They're　perishing　from　neglect。　Even　St。　Patrick's　Cathedral…as　beautiful　a　Christian　place　as　I've　ever　seen　in　my　born　days…had　only　a　sprinkling　of　worshipers。　Tourists？　Yes；　indeed；　by　the　hundreds。　But　of　the　devout？　Less　than　the　fingers　on　my　two　hands。　
　〃And　this；　my　friends；　is　the　saddest　thing　of　all。　To　think　that…in　a　place　of　so　much　culture；　so　much　learning　and　sophistication…there　can　be　such　a　terrible　spiritual　emptiness。　I　feel　it　all　around　me　like　a　desert；　drying　the　very　marrow　of　my　bones。　I　didn't　want　to　believe　what　I　read　in　the　papers；　the　awful　stories　that　brought　me　here　to　this　place　almost　against　my　will。　But　it's　true；　my　brothers　and　sisters。　Every　last　word　of　it。　New　York　is　a　city　devoted　to　Mammon；　not　God。　Look　at　him；〃　and　he　pointed　to　a　well…dressed　twenty…something　passing　by　in　a　pinstripe　suit；　yakking　into　a　phone。　〃When　do　you　suppose　was　the　last　time　he　thought　abouthis　mortality？　Or　her？〃　He　pointed　to　a　woman　with　bags　from　Henri　Bendel　and　Tiffany's；　climbing　out　of　a　cab。　〃Or　them？〃　His　accusing　finger　aimed　at　a　pair　of　college　students；　walking　hand　in　hand　down　the　street。　〃Or　you？〃　His　finger　now　swiveled　across　the　crowd。　〃How　long　sinceyou　thought　about　your　own　mortality？　It　may　be　a　week　away；　ten　years；　or　fifty…but　it's　ing。　As　sure　as　my　name　is　Wayne　P。　Buck；　it's　ing。　Are　you　ready？〃　
　Harriman　shivered　involuntarily。　This　guy　wasgood　。　
　〃I　don't　care　if　you're　an　investment　banker　on　Wall　Street　or　a　migrant　worker　in　Amarillo；　death　has　no　prejudice。　Big　or　small；　rich　or　poor；　death　will　e　for　us　all。　People　in　the　Middle　Ages　knew　that。　Even　our　own　forebears　knew　that。　Look　at　old　gravestones　and　what　do　you　see？　The　image　of　winged　death。　And　like　as　not　the　wordsmemento　mori　：　'remember；　you　will　die。'　Do　you　think　that　young　fellow　ever　stops　to　think　about　that？　Amazing：　all　these　centuries　of　progress；　and　yet　we've　lost　sight　of　that　one　fundamental　truth　that　was　always；always　the　first　thought　of　our　ancestors。　An　old　poet；　Robert　Herrick；　put　it　like　this：　
　　　
　〃Our　life　is　short；　and　our　days　run　
　As　fast　away　as　does　the　sun；　
　And；　as　a　vapour　or　a　drop　of　rain　
　Once　lost；　can　ne'er　be　found　again。〃　
　　　
　Harriman　swallowed。　His　luck　was　holding。　This　guy　Buck　was　a　personal　gift　to　him。　The　crowd　was　swelling　rapidly；　and　people　were　shushing　their　neighbors　so　they　could　hear　the　man's　quiet；　persuasive　voice。　He　didn't　need　a　Bible…Christ；　he　probably　had　the　whole　thing　in　his　head。　And　not　only　the　Bible…he　was　quoting　metaphysical　poets　as　well。　
　He　carefully　reached　over　to　his　shirt　pocket　and　pressed　the　record　button　on　his　microcassette　recorder。　He　didn't　want　to　miss　a　word。　Pat　Robertson　with　his　Pan…Cake　makeup　couldn't　hold　a　candle　to　this　guy。　
　〃That　young　man　isn't　stopping　to　think　that　every　day　he　spends　out　of　touch　with　God　is　a　day　that　can　never；　ever　be　reclaimed。　Those　two　young　lovers　aren't　stopping　to　think　of　how　their　deeds　will　be　held　accountable　in　the　afterlife。　That　woman　loaded　with　shopping　bags　most　likely　never　gave　a　thought　to　thereal　value　of　life。　Most　likely　none　of　them　evenbelieve　in　an　afterlife。　They're　like　the　Romans　who　stood　blindly　aside　while　our　Lord　was　crucified。　If　they　ever　do　stop　to　think　about　the　afterlife；　they　probably　just　tell　themselves　that　they'll　die　and　be　put　in　a　coffin　and　buried；　and　that's　it。　
　〃Except；　my　brothers　and　sisters；　that　isnot　it。　I've　held　a　lot　of　jobs　in　my　life；　and　one　of　them　was　a　mortuary　assistant。　So　I　speak　to　you　with　confidence。　When　you　die；　that　isnot　the　end。　It　is　just　the　beginning。I've　seen　what　happens　to　the　dead　with　my　own　eyes。　〃　
　Harriman　noticed　that　the　crowd；　though　growing　all　the　time；　had　fallen　utterly　silent。　Nobody　seemed　to　move。　Harriman　realized　he；　too；　was　almost　holding　his　breath；　waiting　to　hear　what　the　man　would　say　next。　
　〃Perhaps　our　important　young　man　with　the　cell　phone　will　be　lucky　enough　to　be　buried　in　the　middle　of　winter。　That　tends　to　slow　things　down　a　piece。　But　sooner　or　later…usually　sooner…the　dinner　guests　arrive。　First　e　the　blowflies；Phormia　regina　；　to　lay　their　eggs。　In　a　fresh　corpse；　there's　a　population　explosion　of　sorts。　That　kind　of　population　growth…we're　talking　half　a　dozen　generations　here…adds　up　to　tens　of　thousands　of　maggots；　always　moving；　always　hungry。　The　larvae　themselves　generate　so　much　heat　that　those　at　the　center　must　crawl　out　to　the　edges　to　cool　before　burrowing　back　in　again　to　the　task　at　hand。　In　time…lapse　photography；　it　all　bees　a　boiling；　churning　storm。　And；　of　course；　the　maggots　are　only　the　first　arrivals。　In　time；　the　fragrance　of　deposition　brings　a　host　of　others。　But　I　see　no　reason　to　trouble　you　with　all　the　details。　
　〃So　much；　my　friends；　for　resting　in　peace。　
　〃Perhaps；　then；　our　young　fellow　with　the　cell　phone　might　decide　cremation　is　the　way　to　go。　This　leaves　no　corpse　behind　to　be　violated；　over　slow　years；　by　the　beetles　and　the　worms。　Surely　cremation　is　a　quick；　a　dignified　end　to　our　human　form。　Aren't　we　told　as　much？　
　〃Then　let　me　be　the　one　to　tell　you；　my　brothers　and　sisters；