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In the area of the red brick house in the south of new york West District, the vast majority of residents are as turbulent as time, constantly moving and rushing around. Because they are homeless, it can be said that they have hundreds of homes. They move from room to room from time to time, and they are always so fickle-at home, emotionally and intellectually. They sang the popular song "Home, Sweet Home" with jazz tunes; All the belongings were packed in cartons and left; The decoration on the wide-brimmed hat is their vine; The crutches are their fig trees.

There are hundreds of such residents in this area, and the stories that houses in this area can tell are naturally hundreds of thousands. Of course, most of them are boring; However, it is strange that one or two ghosts can't be found in the aftermath of so many homeless passers-by.

One evening, after dark, a young man lingered in these dilapidated red brick rooms and rang the doorbell from door to door. In front of the twelfth house, he put the empty hand luggage on the steps, and then wiped the dust off the brim and forehead. The doorbell is very weak, as if it had reached the depths of a distant and empty house.

This is the twelfth doorbell he rang. The landlady answered the door when the bell rang. Her appearance reminded him of an annoying maggot who ate too much. It has eaten nuts into an empty shell, and now it is looking for a tenant to fill the space.

The young man asked if there was a room for rent.

"Come in," said the landlord. Her voice came from her throat, squeaking like fur on her throat. "There is a back room on the third floor, empty for a week. Want to see it? "

The young man followed her upstairs. A ray of light from somewhere lightened the shadow in the corridor. They walked quietly, the carpet under their feet was tattered, and even the loom that made it might curse that it was not their own product. It seems to be vegetated, degenerating into lush and moist lichens or mosses in this dirty and dark air, covering the ground until it reaches the stairs, and it sticks like organic matter when stepping on it. There is an empty niche on the wall at the corner of the stairs. There may be flowers and plants inside. If so, those flowers and plants have died in the dirty air. Icons may have appeared in the niches, but it is not hard to imagine that demons of all sizes in the darkness have already dragged the saints out and dragged them into the evil abyss of the next room.

"This is it," said the landlord, still in that rude voice. "The room is very good, seldom free. There are some very special people living here this summer-they never get into trouble and pay rent in advance on time. Tap water is at the end of the corridor. Sprouse and Mooney lived for three months. They perform light comedies. Miss Breta Sprouse-maybe you've heard of her-oh, that's just a stage name-is on that dresser, and her marriage certificate is still hanging and framed. This is the gas switch. Look, this closet is also very spacious. Everyone likes this room. It has never been empty for a long time. "

"Have you lived in many theaters here?" The young man asked.

"They come here and go there. Many of my tenants work in the show business. By the way, sir, theaters are all concentrated in this area, and actors never stay in one place for long. Many people have lived here. They come here and go there. "

He rented a room and paid the rent in advance for a week. He said he was tired and wanted to stay at once. He counted the rent. She said that the room had already prepared the rules, even towels and water were ready-made. When the landlord walked away, he asked the question on his lips for the thousandth time.

"There is a girl-Miss Ouasina-Miss eloy Ouasina-do you remember this person among the tenants? She sings mainly on the stage. She is white and tender, of medium build, slim, with golden red hair and a mole on her left eyebrow. "

"No, I can't remember the name. Performers change their names as quickly as rooms. They come and go, and no one can say for sure. No, I can't remember the name. "

No. Never was. For five months, I have been asking questions and denying the answers. I spent a lot of time asking theater managers, agents, drama schools and choirs during the day. In the evening, he was caught in the audience to look for it. He went to the theater where the famous actor was going to perform, and also to the dirty concert hall. He is even afraid of finding the person he wants most in that place. He has a crush on her and is bent on finding her. He is sure that this big city surrounded by water must have locked her in a corner since she disappeared from home. But this city is like quicksand. The position of sand is changeable and there is no foundation. The fine particles floating in the upper layer today will be covered with mud and clay tomorrow.

The guest room greeted the new guests with crocodile tears, like a fake smile piled up on a prostitute's face, blushing and withered, so-so. The shabby furniture, tattered silk sleeve sofa, two chairs, a cheap pier glass with a window width of one yard, one or two gold-plated photo frames and a copper bedstead in the corner all show a specious comfort.

The guest is lounging in the chair, and the guest room is like a suite in the Tower of Babel in Babylon. Although he was confused, he tried to classify the tenants who had lived here and told him in detail.

The floor is covered with variegated carpets, like a rectangular tropical island, full of flowers, surrounded by a rolling sea of dirty mats. On the wall with gray white paper, there are pictures of homeless people wandering around-Huguenot Lovers, First Quarrel, Wedding Breakfast and Beauty by the Spring. The style of the fireplace forehead is elegant and solemn, but the outside is crooked, pulling up a gaudy curtain, like the belt used by Amazon women in ballet. There are some odds and ends left on the forehead of the stove, which are abandoned by people trapped in the guest room when the sail of fortune carried them to the new dock-one or two cheap vases, photos of actresses, medicine bottles and incomplete playing cards.

Gradually, the password pen became clear and recognizable, and the meaning of the tiny traces left by the people who lived in this room became complete and tangible.

The carpet in front of the dressing table has been ground to hemp yarn, indicating that groups of beautiful women have stepped on it. The small fingerprint on the wall shows that the little prisoner tried to find sunshine and air here. Splash stains, like the shadow of a bomb explosion, are the witness that a cup or bottle with its contents was smashed on the wall. The name "Mary" was carved on the mirror with a glass drill. It seems that the guests in the guest room-perhaps driven by the gorgeous indifference in the guest room-

Zeng was so angry that he vented his anger in this room. The furniture was chipped and worn; The sofa was deformed by the protruding spring and looked like a terrible monster slaughtered in a painful twisted spasm. Another more powerful commotion cut off a large piece of marble fireplace. Every piece of wood on the floor forms an inclined plane, and it seems to scream because of its unique sadness. Incredibly, those who put all this malice and harm on this room are actually those who once called it home; However, perhaps it is this repeated deception, blind homesickness and resentment against the false patron saint that ignited their anger. A thatched cottage-as long as it belongs to us-will be cleaned, decorated and cherished.

The young people in the chair let these thoughts linger in my mind, at the same time, flesh and blood, vivid sounds and smells floated from the building. He heard snickering and lewd and indulgent laughter from a room; From other rooms came the sound of cursing alone, the clatter of dice, lullabies and sobs; Someone upstairs is playing the banjo with great interest. I don't know where the door slammed; Overhead trams rumble by from time to time; There is a cat whining on the fence behind. He breathed the smell of the house. This is not a smell, but a damp smell, like the musty smell of the mixture of linoleum and rotten wood evaporated in the cellar.

He was just resting there. Suddenly, the room was filled with the strong fragrance of mignonette. It comes with the wind, clear and unmistakable, fragrant and vivid, almost as vivid as visiting guests. The young man couldn't help shouting, "What? Dear? " It seems that someone is calling him. Then he jumped up and looked around. The strong fragrance came to the nose and wrapped him in it. He stretched out his arm to embrace the fragrance. In an instant, all his feelings were messed up. How can people be absolutely aroused by fragrance? It must be that voice that woke him up. Is this the voice that touched and comforted him?

"She lives in this room," he said loudly, and leaned forward to find anything, because he was sure that he could identify anything that belonged to her or that she had touched. Where did this sweet-scented osmanthus fragrance, which she loves and is unique to her, come from?

The room was cleaned so-so There are five or six hairpins scattered on the thin dresser tablecloth-all things used by female friends, quiet and feminine, but they don't mean any mood or time. He didn't think about it carefully, because these things obviously lack personality. He rummaged through the dresser drawers and found an old handkerchief that had been discarded. He put it on his face, and the strange smell of heliotrope flowers was pungent. He threw his handkerchief on the floor. In another drawer, he found several buttons, a play, a pawnbroker's business card, two leftover marshmallows and a dream interpretation book. There is a black satin bow used by a woman in the last drawer. He was suddenly stunned, hanging between ice and fire, between excitement and disappointment. However, the black satin bow is just a common decoration for women who are solemn and elegant but have no personality characteristics, and it can't provide any clues.

Then he looked around the room, sniffing around like a hunting dog, scanning the wall, carefully looking at the corner of the arched carpet on the ground, rummaging through the fireplace and table, curtains and door curtains, and the rickety wine cabinet in the corner, trying to find a visible sign that he had not found yet, proving that she was in the room, beside him, around him, opposite him, above him, tightly.

He replied loudly again, "I'm here, dear!" " "Then he turned around, dumbfounded, indifferent, because he was still unable to detect the shape, color, affection and open arms in the fragrance of osmanthus. Oh, my God, where did this smell come from? Since when does perfume have the power to summon? So he's been groping around.

He dug through the cracks and corners of the wall and found some bottle stoppers and cigarette butts. He disdains these things. But once, he found a half-smoked paper cigar in the folded carpet. His face was livid and he cursed hard, stomping on it with his heel. He sifted the whole room from one end to the other and found many boring and shameful records left by tourists. However, he found no trace of the woman he was looking for. She may have lived here, and her ghost still seems to wander here.

Then he remembered the landlady.

He ran downstairs from the haunted room and came to the door with a glimmer of light.

She answered the door and came out. He tried to control his excitement.

"Please tell me, madam," he pleaded, "who lived in that room before I came?"

"Yes, Sir. I can say it again. As I said, I used to live in Sprouse and Mooney. The actress Miss Breta Sprouse later became Mrs Mooney. My house has always had a good reputation. Their marriage certificates are all hung up, and they are also framed and hung on nails-"

What kind of woman is Miss Sprouse?-I mean, what does she look like?

"Oh, Sir, black hair, stout, smiling face. They moved away a week ago, last Tuesday. "

"Who lived before them?"

"Hey, there is a single man who works in the transportation department. He left without paying my rent for a week. Before him, it was Mrs Claude who lived with her two children for four months. It used to be Mr Doyle, and his son paid the rent. He lived for six months. That was a year ago, and I don't remember it before. "

He thanked her and climbed back to his room. This room is lifeless. The fragrance that once injected vitality into it has disappeared, and the fragrance of osmanthus has disappeared, replaced by the stale, stale and stagnant smell of moldy furniture.

When hopes were dashed, he suddenly felt that his confidence was exhausted. He sat there staring blankly at the yellow light of the hissing gas lamp. Little by little, he went to the bed, tore the sheets into long strips, and then stuffed the strips into every gap around the doors and windows with a blade. When everything was in order, he turned off the gas lamp, but turned it on again, and finally lay in bed gratefully.

As usual, it's Mrs McCool's turn to get a can of beer tonight. She brought back wine and sat down with Mrs. Purdy for an underground tryst. This is a place where landlords gather together and maggots run rampant.

"I rented out the back room on the third floor tonight," said Mrs. Purdy with a round of wine. "The tenant is a young man. He went to bed two hours ago. "

"Wow, it's good for you, Mrs. Purdy," said Mrs. McCool enviously. "It's a miracle that you can rent out that kind of house. Did you tell him? " When she said this, she whispered, her voice hoarse and full of mystery.

"The furniture is in the room," Mrs. Purdy said in her most creepy voice, "just to rent it out. I didn't tell him, Mrs. McCool. "

"Yes, we just live by renting a house. Your business is right, madam. Who would rent this room if they knew that someone had killed himself in bed? "

"Of course, we must live," said Mrs. Purdy.

"Yes, madam, it's true. I just cleaned the back room on the third floor for you a week ago. That girl killed herself with gas-how lovely her little face is, Mrs. Purdy. "

"Yes, they say she is beautiful," said Mrs. Purdy, agreeing and criticizing. "It's just that the mole on the edge of her left eye eyebrow is not good-looking. Have another drink, Mrs. McCool. "