dk.coldfire-第2节
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p songs and occasional rhyming television ads for dog food； underarm deodorant； or steel…belted radial tires。 Only a few summer classes were under way。
Another instructor assumed responsibility for Louise's kids； so she and Holly could talk。
They sat at a redwood picnic table on the playground； after Holly checked the bench to be sure there was no dirt on it that might stain her white cotton dress。 A jungle gym was to their left； a swing set to their right。 The day was pleasantly warm； and a breeze stirred an agreeable fragrance from some nearby Douglas firs。
〃Smell the air！〃 Louise took a deep button…popping breath。 〃You can sure tell we're on the edge of five thousand acres of parkland； huh？ So little in of humanity in the air。〃
Holly had been given an advance copy of the book； Soughing Cypress and Other Poems； when Tom Corvey； the editor of the Press's entertainment section； assigned her to the story。 She had wanted to like it。 She enjoyed seeing people succeed…perhaps because she had not achieved much in her own career as a journalist and needed to be reminded now and then that success was attainable。 Unfortunately the poems were jejune； dismally sentimental celebrations of the natural world that read like something written by a Robert Frost manque； then filtered through the sensibilities of a Hallmark editor in charge of developing saccarine cards for Grandma's birthday。
Nevertheless Holly intended to write an uncritical piece。 Over the years she had known far too many reporters who； because of envy or bitterness or a misguided sense of moral superiority； got a kick out of slanting and coloring a story to make their subjects look foolish。
Except when dealing with exceptionally vile criminals and politicians； she had never been able to work up enough hatred to write that way…which was one reason her career spiral had spun her down through three major newspapers in three large cities to her current position in the more humble offices of the Portland Press。 Biased journalism was often more colorful than balanced reporting； sold more papers； and was more widely mented upon and admired。 But though she rapidly came to dislike Louise Tarvohl even more than the woman's bad poetry； she could work up no enthusiasm for a hatchet job。
〃Only in the wilderness am I alive； far from the sights and sounds of civilization； where I can hear the voices of nature in the trees； in the brush； in the lonely ponds； in the dirt。〃
Voices in the dirt？ Holly thought； and almost laughed。
She liked the way Louise looked： hardy； robust； vital； alive。 The woman was thirty…five； Holly's senior by two years； although she appeared ten years older。 The crow's…feet around her eyes and mouth； her deep laugh lines； and her leathery sun…browned skin pegged her as an outdoors woman。 Her sun…bleached hair was pulled back in a ponytail； and she wore jeans and a checkered blue shirt。
〃There is a purity in forest mud；〃 Louise insisted； 〃that can't be matched in the most thoroughly scrubbed and sterilized hospital surgery。〃
She tilted her face back for a moment to bask in the warm sunfall。
〃The purity of the natural world cleanses your soul。 From that renewed purity of soul es the sublime vapor of great poetry。〃
〃Sublime vapor？〃 Holly said； as if she wanted to be sure that her tape recorder would correctly register every golden phrase。
〃Sublime vapor；〃 Louise repeated； and smiled。
The inner Louise was the Louise that offended Holly。 She had cultivated an otherworldly quality； like a spectral projection； more surface than substance。 Her opinions and attitudes were insubstantial； based less on facts and insights than on whims…iron whims； but whims nonetheless…and she expressed them in language that was flamboyant but imprecise； overù blown but empty。
Holly was something of an environmentalist herself； and she was dismayed to discover that she and Louise fetched up on the same side of some issues。 It was unnerving to have allies who struck you as goofy； it made your own opinions seem suspect。
Louise leaned forward on the picnic bench； folding her arms on the redwood table。 〃The earth is a living thing。 It could talk to us if we were worth talking to； could just open a mouth in any rock or plant or pond and talk as easily as I'm talking to you。〃
〃What an exciting concept；〃 Holly said。
〃Human beings are nothing more than lice。〃
〃Lice？〃 〃Lice crawling over the living earth；〃 Louise said dreamily。
Holly said； 〃I hadn't thought of it that way。〃
〃God is not only in each butterflyGod is each butterFly； each bird； each rabbit； every wild thing。 I would sacrifice a million human lives…ten million and more！…if it meant saving one innocent family of weasels； because God is each of those weasels。〃
As if moved by the woman's rhetoric； as if she didn't think it was ecofascism； Holly said； 〃I give as much as I can every year to the Nature Conservancy； and I think of myself as an environmentalist； but I see that my consciousness hasn't been raised as far as yours。〃
The poet did not hear the sarcasm and reached across the table to squeeze Holly's hand。 〃Don't worry； dear。 You'll get there。 I sense an aura of great spiritual potentiality around you。〃
〃Help me to understand。 。 。 。 God is butterflies and rabbits and every living thing； and God is rocks and dirt and water but God isn't us？〃 〃No。 Because of our one unnatural quality。〃
〃Which is？〃 〃Intelligence。〃
Holly blinked in surprise。 〃Intelligence is unnatural？〃 〃A high degree of intelligence； yes。 It exists in no other creatures in the natural world。 That's why nature shuns us； and why we subconsciously hate her and seek to obliterate her。 High intelligence leads to the concept of progress。 Progress leads to nuclear weapons； bio…engineering； chaos； and ultimately to annihilation。〃
〃God。 。 。 or natural evolution didn't give us our intelligence？〃 〃It was an unanticipated mutation。 We're mutants； that's all。
Monsters。〃
Holly said； 〃Then the less intelligence a creature exhibits。 。 。〃
〃。 。 。 the more natural it is；〃 Louise finished for her。
Holly nodded thoughtfully； as if seriously considering the bizarre proposition that a dumber world was a better world； but she was really thinking that she could not write this story after all。 She found Louise Tarvohl so preposterous that she could not pose a favorable article and still hang on to her integrity。 At the same time； she had no heart for making a fool of the woman in print。 Holly's problem was not her deep and abiding cynicism but her soft heart； no creature on earth was more certain to suffer frustration and dissatisfaction with life than a bitter cynic with a damp wad of passion at her core。
She put down her pen； for she would be making no notes。 All she wanted to do was get away from Louise； off the playground； back into the real world…even though the real world had always struck her as just slightly less screwy than this encounter。 But the least she owed Tom Corvey was sixty to ninety minutes of taped interview； which would provide another reporter with enough material to write the piece。
〃Louise；〃 she said； 〃in light of what you've told me； I think you're the most natural person I've ever met。〃
Louise didn't get it。 Perceiving a pliment instead of a slight； she beamed at Holly。
〃Trees are sisters to us；〃 Louise said； eager to reveal another facet of her philosophy； evidently having forgotten that human beings were lice； not trees。 〃Would you cut off the limbs of your sister； cruelly section her flesh； and build your house with pieces of her corpse？〃 〃No； I wouldn't；〃 Holly said sincerely。 〃Besides； the city probably wouldn't approve a building permit for such an unconventional structure。〃
Holly was safe： Louise had no sense of humor…therefore； no capacity to be offended by the wisecrack。
While the woman prattled on； Holly leaned into the picnic table； feigning interest； and did a fast…backward scan of her entire adult life。 She decided that she had spent all of that precious time in the pany of idiots； fools； and crooks； listening to their harebrained or sociopathic plans and dreams； searching fruitlessly for nuggets of wisdom and interest in their boobish or psychotic stories。
Increasingly miserable； she began to brood about her personal life。 She had made no effort to develop close women friends in Portland； perhaps because in her heart she felt that Portland was only one more stop on her peripatetic journalistic journey。 Her experiences with men were； if anything； even more disheartening than her professional experiences with interviewees of both sexes。 Though she still hoped to meet the right man； get married； have children； and enjoy a fulfilling domestic life； she wondered if anyone nice； sane； intelligent； and genuinely interesting would ever enter her life。
Probably not。
And if someone like that miraculously crossed her path one day； his pleasant demeanor would no doubt prove to be a mask； and under the mask would be a leering serial killer with a chainsaw fetish。
Outside the terminal at Portland International Airport； Jim Ironheart got into a taxi operated by something called the New Rose City Cab pany； which sounded like
