波波小说

第13部分（第1页）

empty　　house；　　occasionally　　leaning　　toward　　the　　candlestick；　　in　　the　　flickering

light　of　the　dim　candle；　I　y　beloved’s　angry

letters；　　the　　somersaults　　they　　turned　　trying　　to　　deceive　　me　　and　　their　　hip…

swinging　right…to…left　progression。　Abruptly；　those　shutters　would　open　before

my　　eyes；　　and　　my　　beloved’s　　face　　and　　her　　sorrowful　　smile　　would　　appear。　　And

when　　I　　saw　　her　　real　　face；　　I　　forgot　　all　　of　　those　　other　　faces　　whose　　sour…cherry

mouths　had　increasingly　matured　and　ripened　in　my　imagination。

In　　the　　middle　　of　　the　　night　　I　　lost　　myself　　in　　dreams　　of　　marriage：　　I　　had　　no

doubts　about　my　love　or　that　it　was　reciprocated—we　were　married　in　a　state

of　　great　　contentment—but；　　my　　imaginary　　happiness；　　set　　in　　a　　house　　with　　a

staircase；　　was　　dashed　　when　　I　　couldn’t　　find　　appropriate　　work　　and　　began

arguing　with　my　wife；　unable　to　make　her　heed　my　words。

I　knew　I’d　appropriated　these　ominous　images　from　the　section　on　the　ills

of　marriage　in　Gazzali’s　The　Revival　of　Religious　Science；　which　I’d　read　during

my　nights　as　a　bachelor　in　Arabia；　at　the　same　time；　I　recalled　that　there　was

actually　advice　on　the　benefits　of　marriage　in　that　same　section；　though　now　I

could　remember　only　two　of　these　benefits：　first；　having　my　household　kept　in

order　（there　was　no　such　order　in　my　imagined　house）；　second；　being　spared

the　guilt　of　self…abuse　and　of　dragging　myself—an　even　deeper　sense　of　guilt—

behind　pimps　leading　me　through　dark　alleyways　to　the　lairs　of　prostitutes。

The　thought　of　salvation　at　this　late　hour　brought　masturbation　to　mind。

With　a　simple…minded　desire；　and　to　rid　my　mind　of　this　irrepressible　urge；　I

retired　to　a　corner　of　the　room；　as　was　my　wont；　but　after　a　while　I　realized　I

couldn’t　jack　off—proof　well　enough　that　I’d　fallen　in　love　again　after　twelve

years！

This　struck　such　excitement　and　fear　into　my　heart　that　I　walked　around　the

room　nearly　atremble　like　the　flame　of　the　candle。　If　Shekure　meant　to　present

herself　at　the　window；　then　why　this　letter；　which　put　the　opposite　belief　into

play？　Why　did　her　father　call　for　me？　As　I　paced；　I　sensed　that　the　door；　wall

and　　squeaky　　floor；　　stuttering　　as　　I　　myself　　did；　　were　　trying　　to　　creak　　their

responses　to　my　every　question。

I　looked　at　the　picture　I’d　made　years　ago；　which　depicted　Shirin　stricken

with　　love　　upon　　gazing　　at　　Hüsrev’s　　image　　hanging　　from　　a　　branch。　　It　　didn’t

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embarrass　me　as　it　would　each　time　it　came　to　mind　in　subsequent　years；　nor

did　it　bring　back　my　happy　childhood　memories。　Toward　morning；　my　mind

had　　mastered　　the　　situation：　　By　　returning　　the　　picture；　　Shekure　　had　　made　　a

move　in　an　amatory　chess　game　she　was　masterfully　luring　me　into。　I　sat　in

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