Wine and Gun

I didn't know how to answer him, I did think for a while, thinking about how to give him an appropriate answer.

"If you do believe that I was one of the best in the behavioral analysis department, then at least believe what I said."

In the end, all I can say is this. That might sound arrogant, but we all know I'm right.

"If your suspicions are correct, then I will surely see something before you. If you are convinced that you have seen something that I have never seen, then I beg you not to be reckless and think about it, you may be It was a mistake."

Note:

[1] Jackson Pollock (1912-1956): American painter, master of abstract expressionism, also recognized as the first contributor to the establishment of a leading position in the international art circle for American modern painting to get rid of European standards.

Lavender Mist: Number One

(PS: Olga doesn't like Jackson Pollock, and I myself, from an aesthetic point of view, think Pollock is not bad - I really don't like Marc Chagall)

Chapter 30 Lida and the Swan 01

Albarino wasn't surprised when he heard the rain coming across the porch.

There was no sound of the door being opened - the more likely reason is that his door was not locked at all. When you know that someone will try their best to get in even if they break the door, you might as well just give the door to the door. The other party opens.

He sat in the armchair at the end of the room, the fire from the fireplace was very weak, but it was still burning slowly, and there was a mix of rosin in the air and the fresh and bitter acidity of white wine. He neither looked back nor stood up, feeling the other person's gaze like a knife swiping across the exposed skin on his wrist resting on the arm of the chair.

"Good evening," he said to the pianist.

——This time is October 30, 1:25 in the morning.

so caught,

Overwhelmed by the bào force that descended from the sky,

Has she ever absorbed the wisdom of the gods,

Haven't put her down by the beak of indifference?

The wind swept the room into a dank, cold shower, reminiscent of the night Albarino was released from federal prison and Herstal showed the body of Bob Langdon to police. The rain still doesn't look like it's going to stop, as always is in autumn in Westland.

Herstal touched the door with his heel, with a slight click. Albarino was still sitting at the end of the room, and he could only see the small warm glow that the fire gave him. Herstal was right. Albarino really likes the type of fireplace. ——With this faint light, he was able to look at the layout of the room.

Herstal had checked the relevant information before and learned that Albarino bought the land after his parents died and sold their original house in Westland. Suburban land was relatively cheap, and the roughly three or four acres surrounding the house—including a small but mostly overgrown wilderness of forest surrounding Westland—were legally It belongs to Albarino.

It was one of the best places Herstal could think of to throw a corpse, and Albarino didn't look like someone who would be reckless enough to throw a large corpse out. All in all, the story Albarino told before is still true: his land is probably not visited by other creatures except for animals such as suburban láng, foxes and hares and squirrels, and Albarino's house is so lonely. Standing in the wilderness, connected to the main road by a poorly maintained private driveway.

This is a two-story house with no features. Maybe there is a basement. The white paint on the exterior walls has faded and peeled off. It looks like the kind of house that people who have no pursuit of life will live in. But the interior looks quite neat, with no traces of the designer, and it looks like it has been slowly pieced together from many practical and comfortable parts - a second-hand sofa that looks so soft that it can almost swallow people, and it has been used more than once. Lacquered wood floors, oddly-tasting wallpaper, and bookshelves that look like they're handcrafted—"traces of human life," I should say.

It’s not hard for Herstal to imagine Albarino repairing the house, buying furniture, and even painting the walls himself, secretive, private, and strangely vulnerable. So it should be clear to both of them that Albarino's intrusion into Herstal's impersonal apartment was not what the night meant.

And the invaded was still calm, Albarino was holding his goblet, and his mind seemed to be more on the faint golden wine inside.

Then, he said kindly: "This is the new white wine brewed by Paso San Maro last year, and it was not aged in oak barrels - such young wines are still sold more locally in Spain. It's hard to find anywhere else, and it took me a while to get this bottle."

——His implication is very obvious: do you want to try it?

"I didn't know you liked Spanish wine." Herstal's tone still sounded cold, and of course he completely ignored his suggestion.

"It's just a habit," Albarino seemed to laugh softly, at least, the yīn shadow of the throbbing flames sketched the illusion of a smile on his face, "When my father was alive, he would get such a bottle every year, he felt that It's very memorable."

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