The Open Window Zhang Bao 2018.9.13

"My aunt is coming downstairs soon, Mr. Nuttel," said a self-righteous girl of fifteen, "and you must bear with me in the meantime." ”

Franton Nuttel was eager to correct her, and felt that the niece should be properly complimented before her aunt arrived.

Privately, he was more skeptical than ever that a formal visit to a barrage of complete strangers would help his neurotherapy.

"I know what will happen," said his sister as he prepares to move to this rural retreat, "you will be buried there, and you will face the ghosts of the underworld, and your nerves will become worse than ever." I'll write letters of introduction to everyone I know to introduce you to them. I have the impression that some people are still very good. ”

Franton was curious to know Mrs. Sapton, and from the letter of introduction he learned that she lived in the Nice district.

"Do you know a lot of people here?" the niece asked after a moment of silence.

"I don't know anyone. Frankon said. "You know, my sister lived here four years ago, at the rect's place, and she wrote me a letter of introduction, introducing some of the people here. ”

The tone of his last sentence showed great regret.

"So, you know almost nothing about my aunt?" the conceited girl continued.

"Only her name and address," the respondent admitted calmly. He wondered whether Mrs. Supton was married or widowed. Because there is an indefinable thing in the room that seems to imply that there are men living here.

"Her tragedy happened three years ago," said the girl, "and that started when your sister did." ”

"Her tragedy?" asked Franton, feeling how could there be a tragedy in this peaceful and peaceful country?

"You might wonder why we leave the windows open so wide on October afternoons," said her niece. She pointed to a large French window that opened onto the lawn.

"It's a very warm time of year, but what does this window have to do with tragedy?"

"One day three years ago, her husband and her two younger brothers went out of this window and started a day of hunting. But when they went, they never returned. When people walked through a swamp to the side of their favorite shooting range, they didn't find the three of them, and they all said they must have been swallowed up by the dangerous swamp. It was a horrible wet summer, and you know, in the last few years, all those safe places have suddenly disappeared. Their bodies have never been found. That's the most frightening thing. The girl's conceited tone vanished, and the sentences became a little stumbling. "The poor aunt always thought they would come back someday, and they walked into that window with the brown beagle who got lost with them, as before. That's why the windows are left open until dusk every night. Poor dear aunt, who used to tell me how they got out, her husband with a white raincoat on his arm, and her brother Ronnie singing 'Bertie, why do you want to be restrained?' because he always made fun of her, which she said made her feel a little nervous. You know, sometimes I almost have a feeling of fear for such a peaceful and calm night, and they all come in through the window. ”

She shuddered. When her aunt appeared in the house in a hurry, apologizing for her late arrival, Franton felt a sense of relief.

"I guess Vera would have made you interesting, wouldn't she?" she said.

"She's really funny. Frankon said.

"I hope you won't mind leaving the window open," said Mrs. Supton briskly, "my husband and brothers go straight home after the hunt, as they always do." They're going to hunt sandpipers in the swamp today, so they're going to make a mess of the bad carpet in the house, just like you guys, aren't they?"

She chatted with great interest about hunting, the scarcity of birds, and the hunting of pheasants in winter. For Franton, it was all terrible. He tried his best, but only partially succeeded in turning the subject to a less terrible one, and he realized that the attention of the hostess was not on him, and that her gaze always swept past him and fell on the open window and the lawn outside. It was an unfortunate coincidence that he should not have been here on this tragic anniversary.

"The doctors asked me to have a total rest, not to get agitated, not to do any strenuous physical exercise," declared Franton, who, with a general delusion, complete strangers and casual acquaintances eager to know the tiniest details of the disease, as well as its causes and treatments, were not quite in agreement on the matter of diet.

"No?" said Ms. Sapton, but her words were replaced by a yawn at the last minute. Then, she suddenly became alert, but didn't notice what Franton said.

"They're finally back!" she shouted, "just in time for tea, and they looked like they were covered in mud." ”

Franton trembled slightly, and turned his face to his niece, meaningful.

The girl stared out the window, her eyes full of fear.

Under the cold onslaught of a nameless fear, Franton sat down in his rickety seat and turned to look in the same direction.

In the deep twilight, three figures walked across the lawn towards the window. They all had guns under their armpits, and one of them had a white raincoat over his shoulder. A tired brown hound followed. They silently walked towards the house, and then a hoarse young voice shouted from the twilight, "I say, Bertie, why do you want to be restrained?"

Franton hurriedly grabbed his cane and hat, the hall door, gravel driveway, and front door looming in his hot-headed escape. A cyclist crashed into a fence to avoid a collision with him.

"Here we are, dear," said the man in a white raincoat through the window, "it's pretty muddy, but mostly dry." When we came up, who fled?"

Mrs. Sappton said, "An unusual man, his name is Mr. Nuttel, who only talks about his condition, and when he saw you coming, he left in a hurry, without saying a word or saying hello. People would think he had seen a ghost. ”

"I think he saw the spaniel," said the niece calmly, "and he told me that he was very afraid of dogs." Once, he was chased by a pack of wild dogs to a cemetery on the banks of the Ganges River and had to spend the night in a freshly dug grave. The wild dogs barked and laughed wildly above his head, scaring almost anyone.

Playing this kind of short and romantic game has always been her forte.