飄塵
試著告訴讀者，生活是多樣的。每一個活著的人，在多元化的人生時空裏， 扮演著某種角色，向著不同的方向展現著自己的千姿百態，書寫著與眾不同的生 命華章。
哦，上帝！尤塞瑞恩感到他們都在往下墜落時，他尖叫起來，可卻發不出聲音。哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！他尖聲哀求著。飛機急速下墜，使他開不了口。他頭抵著艙頂，身體處於失重狀態，晃來晃去。後來，赫普爾設法奪回了操縱杆，在一片瘋狂猛烈的高射炮的火網中拉平了飛機。那高射炮的火網就象是大峽穀的懸崖峭壁，他們剛剛從裏麵爬出來，此刻又得逃命了。幾乎就在同時，砰的一聲，飛機艙蓋上的有機玻璃被打了個洞，有拳頭那麽大的。閃閃發光的碎片四下飛濺，尤塞瑞恩感到兩頰一陣刺痛，但沒有流血。
“怎麽回事？怎麽回事？”他喊了起來，可卻聽不見自己的聲音，禁不住渾身劇烈地顫抖起來。他的對講機裏寂靜無聲，他被這嚇得要死。他趴跪在地上，害怕得要命，一動也不敢動，活像一隻中了圈套的老鼠，呆在那裏，大氣不敢出一下。後來，他終於瞥見自己耳機上那圓柱形的插頭一閃一閃地在眼前晃蕩，於是趕緊用顫抖的手指將其重新插回到插孔裏，此時高射炮火在他四周砰砰作響，並形成了一朵朵蘑菇狀的雲煙，他驚恐萬狀地一再尖叫著：“啊，上帝！ 啊，上帝！”
尤塞瑞恩把插頭插回到對講機的插孔，他聽見聲音。 他聽到多布斯在哭泣。
“救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯嗚咽著喊道，“救救他，救救他。”
“救救誰、救救誰呀？”尤塞瑞恩朝他回叫著，“救誰呀？”
“轟炸員，是轟炸員，”多布斯喊道，“他那裏沒有回答。快去救轟炸員，快去救轟炸員。”
“我就是轟炸員，”尤塞瑞恩大叫著口答道，“我就是轟炸員。我沒事，我沒事。”
“那就快去救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯哭喊道，“救救他，救救他吧。”
“救誰呀，救誰？”
“救那個報務員兼炮手，”多布斯哀求著，“快救救我們的報務靈兼炮手吧。” “
我冷。”對講機裏，斯諾登啜泣著，聲音微弱，他接著發出了痛苦的哀求，“請救救我吧，我好冷啊。”
尤塞瑞恩匍匐著，通過了爬行通道，爬進了彈艙，然後又爬進飛機的尾艙，斯諾登受了傷，躺在尾艙的地板上，沉浸於一片黃色的日光裏，快要凍死了。在斯諾登的身旁，是那個新來的尾炮手，他直挺挺地躺在那裏，昏死了。
多布斯是世界上最差勁的飛行員，這點他自己也知道。這個小夥子原本身強力壯，可如今身體卻垮了。他使出了吃奶的勁兒，想說服他的上司相信他不再適合駕駛飛機了。可是他的上司都不聽他的。就在宣布六十次飛行次數的當天，多布斯偷偷地溜進了尤塞瑞恩的帳篷。當時奧爾正好出去找墊圈了，他向尤塞瑞恩吐露了他暗殺卡思卡特上校的陰謀。他要尤塞瑞恩幫他。
“你是說咱倆把他給幹掉？”尤塞瑞恩不讚成。
“沒錯。”多布斯麵帶樂觀的微笑。尤塞瑞恩這麽快就領會了他的意圖，更使他受到了鼓舞。“咱們就用那枝盧格爾手槍把他給斃了。這槍是我從西西裏帶回來的，誰也不知道我有這家夥。”
“我想我不能這麽幹。”尤塞瑞恩在心裏默默地掂量了一番，說道。
多布斯感到驚訝：“為什麽不能？”
“你瞧，對我來說，最能讓我開心的事就是有一天這個狗娘養的趕上墜機，跌斷他的脖子，或摔死他。要不就是能看到另外的什麽人把他一槍給斃了。但我想我不能去殺他。”
“可他會殺你，”多布斯爭辯道，“其實，這都是你告訴我的，說他不停地讓咱們去打仗，讓咱們去死。”
“可我想我不能殺了他。他也有活著的權利。” “可他老想剝奪你我的生存權利，隻要他這麽做，那他就無權再活。你這是怎麽了？”多布斯大惑不解。“我以前老是聽到你和克萊文傑為這事爭個不休。可現在你瞧瞧克萊文傑怎麽樣了。 他死在了那團雲朵裏。”
“你別嚷好不好？”尤塞瑞恩嘴裏發著“噓──”的聲音，示意他小聲點。
“我沒嚷！”多布斯喊的聲音更高了，他心裏充滿了狂熱，希望進行一場革命。此時的他，淚涕交加，深紅色的下唇顫抖著，濺著起沫的淚涕。“咱們這個大隊裏，肯定有將近一百個人完成五十五次飛行任務，卡思卡特卻又把這數目提高到了六十次。像你這樣的至少還有一百人，還要再飛上幾次才滿五十五次。要是我們讓他一直這樣提高飛行次數，他就會把咱們全部給害死。我們一定得先把他給除掉。”
尤塞瑞恩毫無表情地點了點頭，沒有表態。“你認為咱們幹了這事以後能逃脫？”
“我把一切都計劃好了。我──”
“看在耶穌基督的分上，別這麽大聲。”
“我沒嚷，我已經──” “你別嚷了，好不好？”
“我把一切都計劃好了，”多布斯小聲地說，一麵用手緊緊地抓住奧爾的吊床邊，不讓兩手晃動，由於用力，他的指關節都發白了。“星期四早上，乘他從山上那所該死的農舍返回的時候，我悄悄地穿過樹林，溜到公路的那個急轉彎處，藏在樹叢中。他的車到了那兒非減速不可，而我呆在那裏能清楚地看到公路兩頭的動靜。弄清確實沒有其他人在附近，我就把一根大木頭推到公路上去，等他的車子過來，他的吉普車一停下，我就從樹叢裏走出來，用我的那枝盧格爾手槍對著他的腦袋開火，把他打死。然後我就把槍埋起來，再穿過樹林返回中隊，像其他人一樣，去忙活自己的事。這樣幹會出什麽差錯呢？”
尤塞瑞恩聚精會神地聽著他講的每一個環節。“我打哪兒能插得上手呢？”他迷惑不解地問。
“這事沒你的幫助我幹不了，”多布斯解釋道，“我需要你對我說聲‘就這麽幹吧’。”
尤塞瑞恩覺得他的話難以置信。“你要我做的就是這個？就要我對你說聲‘幹吧’？”
“我隻需要你做這個，”多布斯回答，“你隻要說聲幹，那後天我就獨自一人把他的腦漿給打出來。”由於感情激動，他的聲音越來越急，此時又變得響亮起來。“既然咱們幹了，那我也想在科恩中校的腦袋上也來上一槍。不過如果你不反對的話，我倒想饒了丹比少校。這以後我還想殺掉阿普爾比和哈弗邁耶。幹掉阿普爾比和哈弗邁耶之後，我還要殺麥克沃特。”
“麥克沃特？”尤塞瑞恩叫道，嚇得幾乎跳起來。“麥克沃特是我的朋友。你幹嗎要對麥克沃特下手？”
“我不知道，”多布斯坦白說，一臉的慌亂和尬尷。“我隻是想既然咱們要幹掉阿普爾比和哈弗邁耶，那咱們不妨也把麥克沃特給幹掉。你不想殺麥克沃特，是嗎？”
尤塞瑞恩采取了堅定的立場。“你瞧，假如你不再將這事在這整個島上亂嚷嚷，假如你堅持隻幹掉卡思卡特上校，那我還可能感興趣。可如果你想搞一場屠殺，那你還是把我忘掉的好。”
“好吧，好吧。”多布斯竭力安撫尤塞瑞恩。“隻殺卡思卡特上校一人。我應該去幹嗎？對我說聲‘幹吧’。”
尤塞瑞恩搖了搖頭。“我想我不能叫你去幹。”
多布斯激動得像要發狂。“我願意做點讓步，”他強烈地懇求道，“你不必對我說‘幹’。你隻要對我說一聲這是個好主意就行了。 行嗎？這是個好主意嗎？”
尤塞瑞恩還是搖頭。“要是你不告訴我，就直接動手把這事給幹了，那倒是個好主意。可現在太晚了。有關這事我對你沒什麽好說的。給我點時間，沒準我會改主意的。”
“那會來不及的。”
尤塞瑞恩仍一個勁地搖頭，多布斯不禁失望。他坐了一會，滿臉沮喪，然後突然跳了起來，拖著沉重的腳步走了出去。 他又起了一陣衝動，想去說服丹尼卡醫生支持自己。他的臀部在轉身時撞到了尤塞瑞恩的臉盆架，把它給撞翻了，腳又絆在了奧爾還沒做好的電爐絲上。丹尼卡醫生不耐煩地連連點頭，以此抵擋住了多布斯的咆哮和指手劃腳的指責，然後打發他到醫務室去把他的症狀說給格斯和韋斯聽。到了那裏，他剛一開口說話，格斯和韋斯就立即在他的牙床上塗滿了龍膽紫溶液。接著他倆又將他的腳趾也塗紫了。當他再次張嘴想要抗議時，他們又將一粒腹瀉劑塞進了他的喉嚨，把他打發走了。
多布斯的情況比亨格瑞·久要糟。亨格瑞·久不做噩夢的時候，至少還可以執行飛行任務。多布斯幾乎和奧爾一樣糟糕。奧爾看上去總是樂嗬嗬的，時常像發神經似的咯咯地傻笑，那長得歪歪扭扭的齙牙不住地顫動著，活像一隻發育不全、齜牙裂嘴的雲雀。 上級已準許他前往開羅休假，同去的還有米洛和尤塞瑞恩。他們去那裏是采購雞蛋，可是米洛卻買了棉花。米洛在黎明時分起飛趕往伊斯但布爾，飛機裏裝滿了具有異國情調的有柄帶腳的煎鍋和青裏透紅的香蕉，連飛機的炮塔裏都塞得滿滿的。奧爾是尤塞瑞恩遇到過的長得最難看的怪人之一，可他也挺吸引人的。他的臉粗糙，凸凹不平，淡褐色的眼睛從眼眶中暴出來，活像一對褐色的半粒子彈頭。他有一頭雜色相間，波浪式的濃密頭發，傾斜向上直到頭頂，像一頂抹了油的帳篷。他幾乎每次上天都要出事，不是被擊落墜入水中，就是引擎被人打中。那天他們的飛機起飛後是向著那不勒斯出發的，可不曾想到卻在西西裏降落了。一路上奧爾像個瘋子似的使勁地拉尤塞瑞恩的胳臂，要他在那裏降落去找那個鬼精的、會抽雪茄的年僅十歲的皮條客。 這皮條客有兩個十二歲的處女姐姐，她們在市區的一家旅館門口等候著他們。那家旅館有一間房專供米洛使用。尤塞瑞恩毅然地從奧爾身邊走開，獨自向遠方眺望著。此時他眺望到的不是維蘇威火山，而是埃特納山，眼神裏既透著幾分關注，也透著幾分迷茫。 他心裏納悶，他們為什麽不去那不勒斯而到西西裏。此時的奧爾欲火難熬。他一個勁地傻笑著，結結巴已地嚷個不停，懇求尤塞瑞恩同他一道跟著那個一肚子鬼主意、年僅十歲的皮條客去找他那兩個十二歲的處女姐姐。其實，她們既不是處女，也不是他姐姐。她們實際上已有二十八歲了。
“同他去吧。”米洛簡潔地給尤塞瑞恩下達了指令。“別忘了你的使命。”
“好吧。”想到自己的使命，尤塞瑞恩歎了口氣，終於讓了步。“可至少先讓我試試找間旅館，這樣在完事之後我就可以好好地睡上一夜了。”
“你可以和那些姑娘好好地睡上一夜，”米洛用同樣狡黠的語氣答道，“隻要別把你的使命給忘了就行了。”
可那一夜尤塞瑞恩和奧爾根本就沒睡。他們發現自己和那兩個自稱十二歲實際上已二十八歲的妓女同擠在一張床上。弄了半天那兩個妓女原來是兩個油膩膩、長著一身肥肉的女人。她倆夜裏就是不讓他們睡覺，吵著要交換搭檔。尤塞瑞恩不一會就迷迷糊糊的了，根本沒注意到那個擠在他身上整整一夜的胖女人頭上裹著一條米色頭巾。第二天早上，那個一肚子鬼心眼、嘴裏叼著古巴雪茄的十歲皮條客突然像個畜牲似的說翻臉就翻臉，一把扯下了那條頭巾。頓時，女人的那顆醜陋的奇形怪狀的光禿禿的頭顱便一覽無遺地暴露在了西西裏的光天化日之下。那姑娘帶著女性特有的憤怒，一麵用尖厲刺耳的聲音大叫著，一麵拖著肥胖的身子搖搖擺擺地追趕著那個十歲的一肚子壞水的皮條客，那情形甚是滑稽。原來，這女人曾陪德國人睡過覺，為此，那些複仇心重的鄰居們便把她的頭給剃得亮光光的，幾乎露出了骨頭。她那嚇人的、顏色蒼白且受到了極大冒犯的頭皮，環繞著她那張同樣古怪的黑肉瘤似的臉，十分可笑地上下滑動著，活像一塊經過漂白但卻仍然汙穢不堪的東西。尤塞瑞恩以前從未見過如此光禿禿的腦袋。那個小皮條客用一根手指高高地挑起那塊頭巾，讓它轉個不停，像舉著一件戰利品似的。他始終在離她的手指頭幾英寸的地方蹦著，跳著，讓她夠不著，引得她在廣場上團團轉，幹著急，把在廣場上看熱鬧的人逗得大笑，有人還嘲笑地指著尤塞瑞恩。這時，米洛急匆匆地大步走來。一臉的嚴厲，他咂起嘴唇，對眼前這個傷風敗俗、輕薄無聊、不成體統的場麵深表不滿。米洛堅持立即離開這裏前往馬耳他。
“可我們困得要命，”奧爾嘀咕道。
“那隻能怪你們自己。”米洛自認自己很有道德，故而這樣訓斥他倆。“要是你們呆在旅館裏過夜，不和這些淫蕩的女人鬼混，那麽你們今天就會和我一樣有精神了。”
“是你要我們跟她們走的，”，尤塞瑞恩用責備的口氣反駁道，“而且我們也找不到旅館房間。隻有你一人能弄到房間。”
“那也不能怪我呀，”米洛傲慢地解釋說，“我哪裏知道鷹嘴豆上市時，會有那麽多的買主湧到這城裏來呀？”
“你當然知道，”，尤塞瑞恩指責道，“這就是為什麽我們不去西西裏，而跑到那不勒斯來的原因。你他媽的可能已經把整架飛機都塞滿了鷹嘴豆。”
“噓噓噓──！”米洛神情嚴厲地向他發出警告，一麵意味深長地朝奧爾瞥了一眼。“別忘了你的使命。”
當他們來到機場準備飛往馬耳他時，飛機的彈艙、後艙和尾艙，以及炮塔射手座艙的大部分地方已統統塞滿了鷹嘴豆。 尤塞瑞恩這趟飛行的使命就是分散奧爾的注意力，不讓他知道米洛在哪兒買雞蛋，盡管奧爾也是米洛的辛迪加聯合體的成員之一，而且同別的成員一樣，他也擁有自己的股份。尤塞瑞恩感到自己的這一使命很可笑，因為人人都知道，米洛在馬耳他用七分錢一個的價格買下雞蛋，然後再以五分錢一個的價錢賣給辛迪加聯合體的食堂。
“我就是不信任他。”米洛像母雞抱窩似的一動不動地坐在飛機裏，一麵衝著坐在後麵的奧爾點了點頭，奧爾則像一根纏結在一起的繩子，蜷縮著躺在很那排裝滿了鷹嘴豆的筐子上，竭力想使自己睡著，那樣子很受罪。
“我情願在我買雞蛋時他不要在邊上轉悠，將我的生意秘密全打聽去。你還有什麽不明白的嗎？”
尤塞瑞恩坐在他身旁副駕駛的坐位上。“我不明白，你在馬耳他花七分錢買來的一個雞蛋，為什麽又用五分一個的價賣掉呢？”
“我這樣做是為了弄點賺頭。”
“可你怎樣才能有賺頭呢？你每個雞蛋反倒要賠二分錢呢。”
“我在馬耳他按每個四分二厘五的價將雞蛋賣給那兒的人，然後再按每個七分錢的價將雞蛋從那些人的手中買進，這樣我就賺了三分二厘五。當然，我是不賺錢的，賺錢的是咱們的聯合體。大夥人人有份。”
尤塞瑞恩覺得自己開始有點明白了。“你按每個四分二厘五的價將雞蛋賣給那些人，而他們再按每個七分錢的價把雞蛋賣給你，這樣他們每個雞蛋就淨賺二分七厘五。是這樣嗎？你幹嗎不把雞蛋直接賣給你自己，省得再經他人之手買回這道手續呢？”
“因為這個‘他人’就是我自己，”米洛解釋說，“我將雞蛋賣給我自己時，我每個蛋可賺三分二厘五。我再把蛋從我的手裏買回時，我每個又可賺到二分七厘五。這樣每個雞蛋一共可賺到六分錢。我把它們照每個五分錢的價賣給食堂時，每隻蛋隻不過少賺二分錢而已。這就是我如何以七分錢一隻買進，五分錢一個賣出還能賺到錢的原因。我在西西裏收購雞蛋時，每隻蛋隻要付老母雞一分錢就行了。”
“在馬耳他，”尤塞瑞恩糾正道，“你是在馬耳他買的雞蛋，而不是在西西裏。”
米洛得意洋洋地哈哈大笑起來。“我可不是在馬耳他買的雞蛋，”他帶著一種暗自得意的神態承認道，這可同他平日顯出的那副既勤奮又清醒的樣子相違背，尤塞瑞恩還是第一次看到他的這種神態。“我在西西裏一分錢一個買來，然後在馬耳他悄悄地以每個四分五厘的價格轉手，為的是別人到馬耳他來買雞蛋時，蛋價能上揚到七分錢一個。”
“既然馬耳他的蛋價這麽貴，那人們幹嗎要上那兒去買蛋？” “因為他們總是這麽幹。” “他們為什麽不去西西裏買雞蛋呢？”
“因為他們從來沒有那麽幹過。”
“我實在不懂，你為什麽要將雞蛋按五分一個的價賣給食堂，而不賣七分一個呢？”
“因為要是這樣一來，我的食堂就不需要我了。七分錢一個的雞蛋任何人都能買到。”
“他們為什麽不越過你，而直接去馬耳他以每個四分二厘五的價格從你的手裏將雞蛋買下呢？”
“因為我不會將蛋賣給他們的。” “你為什麽不賣給他們？”
“因為那樣的話就沒有什麽賺頭了。作為中間商，我這樣做至少能讓我自己能有點賺頭。”
“這麽說，你的確為你自己賺了錢，”尤塞瑞恩斷言道。
“我當然賺了。不過賺到的錢全歸咱們的辛迪加聯合體。人人部有份。你難道不明白？我賣給卡思卡特上校的紅色梨形番茄也是如此。”
“你是買，不是賣，”尤塞瑞恩糾正道，“你不是將紅色梨形番茄賣給卡思卡特上校和科恩中校。你是從他們的手上買番茄。”
“不對，是賣，”米洛糾正尤塞瑞恩道，“我用了個假名字，在皮亞諾薩島所有的市場上拋售番茄，這樣卡思卡特上校和科恩中校各自也用了個假名，以每個四分的價錢將番茄全部買進，第二天我再以辛迪加的名義按每個五分的價格將番茄買回來。他們每個番茄賺一分錢，而我每個賺三分五厘錢，這樣每人都有了賺頭。”
“你們每人都賺了，隻有辛迪加不賺。”尤塞瑞恩對此嗤之以鼻。 “辛迪加出五分錢買進一個番茄，而你每個隻花了五厘錢。這樣辛迪加怎麽能贏利？”
“隻要我能賺到錢，辛迪加也就賺到了錢，”米洛解釋說，“因為人人有份。隻要咱們的辛迪加能得到卡思卡特上校和科恩中校的支持，那他們就會像這次這樣派我出差。再過大約十五分鍾，當我們在巴勒莫降落時，你就會看到咱們能賺到多少錢了。”
“在馬耳他，”尤塞瑞恩糾正他說，“我們正在往馬耳他飛，而不是朝巴勒莫。”
“不對，我們是在朝巴勒莫飛，”米洛回答道，“在巴勒莫有一個苣菜出口商，我要和他談幾分鍾，因為我有一批發了黴的蘑菇要運到伯爾尼去。”“
米洛，你是怎麽幹的？”尤塞瑞恩麵帶既驚訝又欽佩的笑容問，“你的飛行計劃單上填的是一個地方，可後來你卻飛到另外一個地方去了。指揮塔上的人就從不找你的麻煩？”
“他們都屬於咱們的聯合體，”米洛說，“他們都明白凡是對咱們聯合體有利的事，對國家也是有利的，因為隻有這樣才會讓美國大兵們賣力氣。再說指揮塔上的那些人也是有份子的，這就是他們為什麽要千方百計地給咱辛迪加聯合體幫助的緣故。”
“我也有份嗎？” “人人都有份。”
“奧爾也有份？” “人人都有份。”
“亨格瑞·久呢？他也有份嗎？”
“人人都有份。”
“呸，活見鬼。”尤塞瑞恩心裏在罵，有生以來，有關股份的主意還是第一次在他的腦子裏留下了深刻的印象。
米洛將臉轉向尤塞瑞恩，眼睛裏隱約閃出一絲圖謀不軌的神色。 “我有一個主意，可以穩穩當當地從聯邦政府那裏騙得六千美元。 到時咱倆平分，各得三千元，並用不著擔任何風險。你有興趣嗎？”
“沒興趣。”
米洛十分激動地望著尤塞瑞恩。“這就是我喜歡你的原因，”他大聲地說，“你很誠實！在我認識的人中間你是唯一能讓我信賴的人。 也就是這個原因，我希望你能給我更多的幫助。昨天在卡塔尼亞大街，當你同那兩個蕩婦一起溜走的時候，我真感到失望。”
尤塞瑞恩盯住米洛，感到大惑不解，簡直不敢相信他的話。“米洛，可是你叫我同她們走的呀。難道你不記得了？”
“那不是我的過錯，”米洛一本正經他說，“以往是在我們進城後，我才設法將奧爾給甩掉。而這次到巴勒莫，情況就大不一樣了。 當我們在巴勒莫著陸後，我要你同奧爾立即就跟著姑娘離開機場。”
“跟著什麽姑娘？” “我事先已發過無線電報，同一個四歲的小皮條客安排好了，為你和奧爾找了兩個八歲大的、有著一半西班牙血統的處女。他將在機場的一輛交通車上等你們。你倆一下飛機就立即上那輛車。”
“不行，”尤塞瑞恩說，“我隻想去個地方睡上一覺。” 米洛立刻發火了，臉都漲成了豬肝色，細長的鼻子在兩道黑眉毛之間痙孿地顫動著，唇上那抹不對稱的赤黃色的小胡子像一根□燭發出的暗淡、細弱的火焰。“尤塞瑞恩，別忘了你的使命。”他提醒尤塞瑞恩，語氣還算恭敬。
“讓使命見鬼吧！”尤塞瑞恩滿不在乎地答道，“讓辛迪加也見鬼去吧，管它有沒有我一份呢。我也不想要什麽八歲大的處女，哪怕她們有一半的西班牙血統。”
“這我不怪你。不過這些所謂的八歲大的處女實際上是三十二歲。她們並不是真的有一半西班牙血統，隻不過是有三分之一的愛沙尼亞血統。” “我一點也不稀罕什麽處女。”
“她們其實連處女也不是，”米洛用勸告的口氣繼續說道，“我為你選定的那個女人曾嫁過一個上了年紀的教師，不過時間不長，那男的隻在星期天才同她睡覺，所以她幾乎就同一個沒破了身子的姑娘差不多。”
然而，奧爾也同樣瞌睡得要命，所以當他們驅車離開機場駛進巴勒莫時，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾仍一邊一個坐在米洛的身旁。他們發現在巴勒莫的旅館裏仍然沒有他倆的房間。更重要的是，他們還發現米洛竟是那裏的市長。
對米洛的古怪的、令人難以置信的歡迎從機場就開始了。在機場上忙碌著的平民百姓們認出了米洛，都恭恭敬敬地停下手上的工作，目不轉睛地看著他，一邊還做著頗有節製的動作，嘴裏還說著奉承話。米洛要來的消息已先於他本人傳到了城裏，所以當他們乘坐著敞篷小卡車疾駛而來時，城郊早已擠滿了歡呼的人群。尤塞瑞恩和奧爾大惑不解，所以作聲不得，隻好緊緊地擠在米洛的身邊以求平安無事。
卡車進城後放慢了速度，朝著市中心緩緩駛去，這期間，人們的歡呼聲越來越響。男童女童們都用不著上學了，而是穿著新衣，排列在大街的人行道兩旁，手裏不住地揮舞著小旗子。對此，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾驚訝得一句話也說不出來。大街上人山人海，歡聲雷動，空中到處懸掛著繪有米洛肖像的旗幟。米洛在肖像上的樣子是穿著當地農民常穿的那種黃褐色的圓領襯衫，唇上蓄著一抹不齊整的小胡子，兩隻眼睛一大一小，正用一種無所不知、無所不曉的目光凝視著人群。他那審慎而又慈祥的臉上露出一副寬厚、睿智、嚴謹而又剛毅的神色。體弱無力的病人從窗口向他送來一個又一個的飛吻。圍著圍裙的店主們站在狹窄的店堂門口欣喜若狂地歡呼不已。無數大號嘀嘀嗒嗒地吹得震天響。到處都有人給擠倒，被踩死。一些抽抽噎噎的老婦女圍著緩緩而行的卡車拚命地你推我搡，競相去摸米洛的肩膀，或握他的手。米洛和善而又不失風度地接受著這場喧鬧的慶祝。他用很優美的動作朝每一個人揮手作答，並且還很慷慨地大把大把地朝著歡樂的人群拋去飛吻，就像在散發包著錫紙的赫爾希牌巧克力一樣，一排排朝氣蓬勃的少男少女臂挽著臂，蹦蹦跳跳地跟在他的後麵，一麵扯著嘶啞的嗓門，直瞪著兩眼，極敬慕地一遍又一遍地喊著： “米一洛！米一洛！米一洛！”
現在既然自己的秘密已被人知道了，米洛也同尤塞瑞恩和奧爾一樣鬆弛下來了，他不禁顯得洋洋得意，感到無比的自豪，同時也顯得有點羞答答的。他的雙頰也變得紅潤起來。米洛早被選為巴勒莫的市長──同時也是附近的卡裏尼、蒙雷阿萊、巴蓋裏亞、泰爾米尼、伊梅雷塞、切法利、米斯特雷塔和尼科西亞的市長── 因為是他給西西裏島帶來了蘇格蘭威士忌。
尤塞瑞恩感到很驚奇。“難道這兒的人這麽喜歡喝蘇格蘭威士忌？”
“他們連一滴都不喝，”米洛解釋道，“蘇格蘭威士忌可貴了，而這裏的人都很窮。”
“既然沒人喝，那你為什麽要將酒運到西西裏來？”
“為的是定出一個價錢來。我把酒從馬耳他運到這裏來，然後經我轉手再替別人賣給我，這樣賺頭就大了。我在這裏開創了一個新興行業。今天，西西裏已是世界上第三大蘇格蘭威士忌酒的出口基地了。這就是他們為什麽要選我當市長的原因。”
“既然你是這麽一個大人物，那你給我們在旅館裏弄間房怎麽樣？”奧爾用疲倦、含糊的聲音十分不恭地咕噥道。
米洛很歉疚地作出了反應。“我正打算辦這件事呢，”他允諾道，“實在抱歉，我忘了事先應用無線電替你倆在旅館裏訂兩個房間。隨我來辦公室吧，我馬上就跟我的副市長說一聲。”
米洛的辦公室是一家理發店，他的副市長是一個矮胖的理發師。他一張嘴就是滿口的奉迎，親熱的問候，兩片嘴皮子上掛滿了白沫，就像他在杯子裏攪個不停的肥皂沫──他這是在準備替米洛刮臉。
“維托裏奧，”米洛懶洋洋地仰麵躺在維托裏奧的一張理發椅上問，“我不在的這陣子情況怎麽樣啊？”
“大夥很難過，米洛先生，很難過。不過現在你回來了，大夥就都又開心了。”
“我在納悶呢，怎麽有這麽大群大群的人。這旅館怎麽都住滿了？”
“米洛先生，這一來是因為有那麽多的人從別的城市趕來看您，二來是因為所有朝鮮薊的買主都到咱們城來參加拍賣。”
米洛的一隻手像隻老鷹似的筆直地騰空而起，一把抓住維托裏奧的修麵刷。“朝鮮薊是什麽東西？”他問。
“朝鮮薊，米洛先生？朝鮮薊是一種非常好吃的蔬菜，不管在哪兒都受歡迎。趁您在這兒的期間，您真該嚐嚐它的味道，米洛先生。 我們這兒種的朝鮮薊是世界上最好的。”
“真的？”米洛問，“今年朝鮮薊賣什麽價？”
“看樣子它今年能賣個好價錢。因為收成很不好。”
“這是真的嗎？”米洛若有所思地問，突然就走得不見人影了。 他從椅子上溜下來的動作是那麽快，以至於他剛才圍在身上的條紋圍布在他離開了一兩秒鍾後才落地。等尤塞瑞恩和奧爾跟在他的後麵衝到理發店門口時，米洛已消失得無影無蹤了。
“下一位？”米洛的副市長殷勤地嚷嚷道，“下一位誰來？”
尤塞瑞恩和奧爾垂頭喪氣地從理發店走了出來。他倆被米洛拋棄了，無家可歸，隻得艱難地在狂歡的人群裏穿行著，徒勞地尋找著一個能睡覺的地方。尤塞瑞恩已是精疲力竭了。他的腦袋一陣一陣地隱隱作痛，渾身乏力。他對奧爾很惱火，那家夥不知在哪裏找到了兩隻山楂果，在走路的當兒一直塞在腮幫子裏。後來被尤塞瑞恩發現了，硬是讓他吐了出來。後來奧爾又找到兩顆七葉樹果子，又偷偷地將它們塞到嘴巴裏，結果又一次被尤塞瑞恩察覺了。尤塞瑞恩再次抓住他，要他把山楂果從嘴裏弄出來。奧爾咧嘴笑著，回答說那不是山楂果而是七葉樹果，並且它們不是在他的嘴裏，而是在他的手上。可是，因為他嘴裏含著七葉樹果，他說的話尤塞瑞恩連一個字也沒聽懂，尤塞瑞恩卻死活要他將果子吐出來。此時奧爾的眼中閃出了狡猾的光芒。他用指關節使勁地磨擦著腦門，就像個醉鬼一樣，一麵樣子下流地嘿嘿笑個不停。
“你還記得那個姑娘嗎─？”他止住笑問，緊接著又下流地嘿嘿地笑了起來。“有一次在羅馬的那個公寓裏，那個姑娘用鞋子揍我的腦袋，當時我和她都一絲不掛，你還記得嗎？”他臉上帶著狡猾的期待神情問道。他等待著，直到尤塞瑞恩戒備地點了點頭。“如果你讓我把七葉樹果放回嘴裏，我就告訴你她為什麽要揍我。這個交易怎麽樣？”
尤塞瑞恩點了點頭，於是奧爾便源源本本地給他講了那個離奇故事，告訴他在內特利的妓女的公寓裏，那個赤身裸體的妓女為什麽要用鞋子揍他的腦袋。可是尤塞瑞恩還是一個字沒聽懂，因為那兩顆七葉樹果又回到了奧爾的嘴裏。尤塞瑞恩被他的這一詭計氣得大笑了起來。然而，當黑夜降臨時他倆實在無計可施，隻好去了一家肮髒的小飯館，吃了一頓乏味的晚飯，然後搭上一輛便車回到了機場。他們就睡在機艙內涼冰冰的金屬地板上，輾轉反側，哼個不停，受罪得要命。這樣過了還不到兩個小時，他們就聽到了卡車司機衝著他們大喊大叫的聲音，原來他們運來了許多箱朝鮮薊。那些司機將他倆從飛機上趕到地麵，以便讓他們往飛機上裝貨。這時天又下起了大雨，等到卡車開走時，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾已被淋得透濕，渾身的雨水直往下滴。兩人無奈，隻好又重新擠進機艙，將身子縮成一團，像兩條正在發抖的魚那樣擠在裝滿了朝鮮薊的搖搖晃晃的板條箱的角落裏。黎明時分，米洛將這些朝鮮薊空運到了那不勒斯，將其換成了肉桂、丁香、香草豆和胡椒莢，當天又把這些東西趕運回南方的馬耳他。結果到了馬耳他，他們又發現米洛原來還是那裏的副總督。在馬耳他，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾仍然弄不到房間。米洛在馬耳他成了米洛·明德賓德少校爵士，並在總督府裏有一間極大的辦公室。 他的那張桃花心木的辦公桌也是碩大無比的。在橡木板壁的一塊嵌板上兩麵交叉的英國國旗下，懸掛著一張極其醒目的米洛·明德賓德少校爵士身穿英國威爾士皇家明火槍手製服的大幅照片。 照片上，米洛唇上的小胡子經過了修剪，細細的一抹，他的下巴像是經刀刻斧鑿過的一樣，雙眼像利刺那樣尖銳，米洛已受封為爵士，並被委任為威爾士皇家明火槍團的少校，還被任命為馬耳他的副總督，因為他在馬耳他開創了雞蛋生意。米洛慷慨地表示讓尤塞瑞恩和奧爾睡在他的辦公室裏厚厚的地毯上過夜。可是他剛離開不久，就來了一個全副武裝的警衛，用刺刀頂著他們，將他倆趕出了這座大樓。這時他倆已是筋疲力盡，隻得乘出租車回到機場。那司機脾氣大得要命，在車錢上還宰了他們一刀。他倆又鑽進機艙去睡覺，這一次機艙裏到處塞的都是黃麻袋，裏麵裝滿了可可和新磨的咖啡，隻隻麻袋都被撐漏了，散發出一股股濃烈的氣味，以至兩人不得不跑出機艙，趴在飛機的起落架上大吐特吐起來。第二天一大早，米洛就乘專車來到機場，整個人顯得精神煥發，立即就起飛前往奧蘭，到了奧蘭，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾還是找不到旅館房間，而米洛又搖身一變成了那兒的代理國君。在那座橙紅色的王宮裏，有一處專供米洛支配的住所，可是尤塞瑞恩和奧爾卻不能隨同他進宮，因為他倆是信仰基督教的異教徒。在王宮門口，他倆被手持彎刀、身材魁梧的柏柏爾族警衛給攔住，被趕走了。奧爾患了重感冒，又流鼻涕又打噴嚏。尤塞瑞恩那寬闊的脊背也彎了下來，疼得要命。他真想把米洛的脖子給擰斷，可怎奈他是奧蘭的代理國君，他的身體是神聖不可侵犯的。事實還表明：米洛不僅是奧蘭的代理國君，他同時還是巴格達的哈裏發，大馬士革的伊瑪目和阿拉伯的酋長。在那些落後的地區，米洛既是穀物之神，也是雨神和稻米之神，因為在那些地方，這些神靈仍受到愚昧而又迷信的人們的崇拜。說起在非洲叢林深處，米洛突然變得很謙虛起來了，他暗示說在那裏到處都可見到他那留著小胡子的巨大的臉部石雕，那些石雕的麵孔俯視著無數個被人血染紅了的原始的石頭祭壇。他們一行的足跡所到之處，人們都要朝著米洛熱烈歡呼。他去了一個又一個城市，每到一處都要受到英雄凱旋式的歡迎。最後他們來到了開羅，就是在那裏，米洛壟斷了市場上所有的棉花，可這時世界上誰也不需要棉花，這使得他一下子就瀕於破產的邊緣。事情的起因是這樣的，那天在開羅，尤塞瑞恩和奧爾終於在旅館裏找到了房間。他們終於有了柔軟的床鋪、蓬鬆的枕頭、漿洗幹淨的被單，也有了盥洗室，裏麵還有供他們掛衣服的衣架，另外還有水可以洗澡。尤塞瑞恩和奧爾將他門那散發著難聞的惡臭的身體浸泡在一隻盛滿了滾燙的熱水的大盆裏，直到將渾身的皮膚泡得通紅。洗完澡，他倆隨著米洛出了旅館，來到一家很講究的飯館，先是吃了鮮蝦開胃口，然後又吃了些切得小小的肉片。飯館的前廳有一架可自動記錄證券行市的收報機，當米洛向侍者領班打聽它是啥機器時，它恰好在劈劈啪啪地打出埃及棉花的最新行情。米洛從來連想都沒想過，世上竟有證券行情自動收報機這種奇妙無比的機器。
“真的？”當侍者領班結束了他的解釋時，米洛不禁叫出了聲。
“現在埃及棉花賣什麽價？”侍者領班告訴了他，米洛立即就將市場上的原棉統統買了下來。
然而米洛買下的埃及棉花倒並不怎麽讓尤塞瑞恩感到害怕，真正讓他感到擔心的是當地市場上的一串串青裏透紅的香蕉。米洛是在他們驅車進城時發現這些香蕉的。事實證明他的擔心是有道理的，因為當夜十二點以後，米洛將他從熟睡中搖醒了，將一個剝了一半皮的香蕉硬塞到他的嘴裏。尤塞瑞恩給噎得差點沒哭出來。
“嚐一嚐。”米洛催促著，一麵拿著那根香蕉緊跟著尤塞瑞恩那張痛苦不堪的臉轉來轉去。
“米洛，你這個雜種，”尤塞瑞恩用呻吟般的聲音說道，“我要睡覺。”
“把它吃了，然後告訴我好不好吃，”米洛堅持道，“別告訴奧爾，這是我送給你的。我剛才也給他吃了一根，收了他兩個皮阿斯特。”
尤塞瑞恩隻好順著他，吃了那根香蕉，告訴他味道不錯，便又合上了雙眼。然而米洛卻又把他搖醒了，要他立刻以最快的速度穿好衣服，因為他們馬上就要飛離這裏到皮亞諾薩島去。 “你和奧爾必須立即把香蕉裝上飛機，”米洛解釋說，“那人說在搬弄這一串串香蕉時得留神，別讓蜘蛛鑽進去。”
“米洛，我們不能等天亮再飛嗎？”尤塞瑞恩懇求說，“我得睡一會才行。”
“它們爛起來可快啦，”米洛回答說，“我們一分鍾也耽擱不起。 想想吧，咱們中隊在家的那些人要是吃到這些香蕉，該有多高興啊。”
然而，中隊的那些人卻連香蕉的影子也沒見著。這是因為在伊斯坦布爾，香蕉是賣方的市場，而在貝魯特,茴香籽卻是買方市場，所以米洛拋售了香蕉，買下茴香籽，將其運往班加西。六天以後，他們又馬不停蹄地趕回皮亞諾薩島，這時,奧爾的假期也結束了。他們的飛機上裝滿了從西西裏購來的上好的白皮雞蛋，可米洛卻說這些雞蛋是從埃及買來的，並且僅以四分一個的價錢賣給了食堂。這樣一來,那些已加入辛迪加聯合體的指揮官全都懇求米洛立即趕回開羅，再多弄些青裏透紅的香蕉到土耳其賣掉，在那裏再多買些班加西急需的茴香籽。於是，好處人人有份兒。
第二十二章 Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22: MILO THE MAYOR
Summary
On the mission to Avignon, Snowden, the radio-gunner, lay dying in the back of Yossarianós plane.
The day the number of missions is raised to sixty, Dobbs asks for Yossarianós assistance to kill Cathcart. Yossarian objects to Dobbsós plan. Dobbs believes that the colonel will get the men killed if they allow him to keep raising the number of missions. Dobbs only wants Yossarian to give him the go-ahead to kill Cathcart, but Yossarian refuses.
Yossarian is flying in Orrós plane when it comes down in Sicily instead of in Naples. There they are met by Milo who is busy conducting business for his syndicate. Milo buys eggs in Sicily for one cent and then creates a market for these eggs in Malta, before finally selling them to the mess hall in Pianosa at five cents. Milo announces grandly that "whatós good for the syndicate is good for the country." He asks Yossarian if he is interested in making money by cheating the federal government out of six thousand dollars. Yossarian is not interested.
Milo uses Yossarian and Orr to help in the transport of goods. They fly to Palermo, where Milo gets a tremendous reception from the citizens. Milo has been elected mayor of Palermo, and of many other cities in Sicily because he has brought the scotch industry to Sicily. In Malta, Milo is assistant governor-general because he has brought the egg trade there. Milo is also vice- shah of Oran, the caliph of Baghdad, the imam of Damascus, and the sheik of Araby. Graven images of his face are worshipped in some regions of Africa. While in Cairo, Milo buys up all the Egyptian cotton available. He also buys green red bananas in Cairo which he sells in Istanbul, and caraway seeds in Beirut which he sells in Bengazi. Miloós plane arrives in Pianosa six days later with a load of eggs from Sicily.
Notes
The chapter begins with a vivid description of the events leading up to Snowdenós death. Dobbsó plan to kill Cathcart is totally irrational. There is a growing feeling of hatred of the squadron commander, Cathcart, among the men. Instead of feigning illness and entering the hospital, Dobbs wants to take a more direct route. He sees Cathcart as the enemy, as the man who endangers their lives. Yossarian sees the futility of Dobbsós mission. Even if the colonel is killed, it is quite possible that some other self- serving officers will take his place.
The reminder deals with Miloós business dealings in the Mediterranean. Milo makes use of American planes and soldiers to make profits for his syndicate, which Milo says will be beneficial to all the soldiers in Pianosa. Milo is an opportunist, always the first to know what is in demand in a particular market. His dealings bring him fame and money. He holds positions of power in different countries.
Milo the Mayor
That was the mission on which Yossarian lost his nerve. Yossarian lost his nerve on the mission to Avignon because Snowden lost his guts， and Snowden lost his guts because their pilot that day was Huple， who was only fifteen years old， and their co-pilot was Dobbs， who was even worse and who wanted Yossarian to join with him in a plot to murder Colonel Cathcart. Huple was a good pilot， Yossarian knew， but he was only a kid， and Dobbs had no confidence in him， either， and wrested the controls away without warning after they had dropped their bombs， going berserk in mid-air and tipping the plane over into that heart-stopping， ear-splitting， indescribably petrifying fatal dive that tore Yossarian's earphones free from their connection and hung him helplessly to the roof of the nose by the top of his head.
Oh， God！ Yossarian had shrieked soundlessly as he felt them all falling. Oh， God！ Oh， God！ Oh， God！ Oh， God！ he had shrieked beseechingly through lips that could not open as the plane fell and he dangled without weight by the top of his head until Huple managed to seize the controls back and leveled the plane out down inside the crazy， craggy， patchwork canyon of crashing antiaircraft fire from which they had climbed away and from which they would now have to escape again. Almost at once there was a thud and a hole the size of a big fist in the plexiglass. Yossarian's cheeks were stinging with shimmering splinters. There was no blood.
'What happened？ What happened？' he cried， and trembled violently when he could not hear his own voice in his ears. He was cowed by the empty silence on the intercom and almost too horrified to move as he crouched like a trapped mouse on his hands and knees and waited without daring to breathe until he finally spied the gleaming cylindrical jack plug of his headset swinging back and forth in front of his eyes and jammed it back into its receptacle with fingers that rattled. Oh， God！ he kept shrieking with no abatement of terror as the flak thumped and mushroomed all about him. Oh， God！
Dobbs was weeping when Yossarian jammed his jack plug back into the intercom system and was able to hear again.
'Help him， help him，' Dobbs was sobbing. 'Help him， help him.'
'Help who？ Help who？' Yossarian called back. 'Help who？'
'The bombardier， the bombardier，' Dobbs cried. 'He doesn't answer. Help the bombardier， help the bombardier.'
'I'm the bombardier，' Yossarian cried back at him. 'I'm the bombardier. I'm all right. I'm all right.'
'Then help him， help him，' Dobbs wept. 'Help him， help him.'
'Help who？ Help who？'
'The radio-gunner，' Dobbs begged. 'Help the radio-gunner.'
'I'm cold，' Snowden whimpered feebly over the intercom system then in a bleat of plaintive agony. 'Please help me. I'm cold.' And Yossarian crept out through the crawlway and climbed up over the bomb bay and down into the rear section of the plane where Snowden lay on the floor wounded and freezing to death in a yellow splash of sunlight near the new tail-gunner lying stretched out on the floor beside him in a dead faint.
Dobbs was the worst pilot in the world and knew it， a shattered wreck of a virile young man who was continually striving to convince his superiors that he was no longer fit to pilot a plane. None of his superiors would listen， and it was the day the number of missions was raised to sixty that Dobbs stole into Yossarian's tent while Orr was out looking for gaskets and disclosed the plot he had formulated to murder Colonel Cathcart. He needed Yossarian's assistance.
'You want us to kill him in cold blood？' Yossarian objected.
'That's right，' Dobbs agreed with an optimistic smile， encouraged by Yossarian's ready grasp of the situation. 'We'll shoot him to death with the Luger I brought back from Sicily that nobody knows I've got.'
'I don't think I could do it，' Yossarian concluded， after weighing the idea in silence awhile.
Dobbs was astonished. 'Why not？'
'Look. Nothing would please me more than to have the son of a bitch break his neck or get killed in a crash or to find out that someone else had shot him to death. But I don't think I could kill him.'
'He'd do it to you，' Dobbs argued. 'In fact， you're the one who told me he is doing it to us by keeping us in combat so long.'
'But I don't think I could do it to him. He's got a right to live， too， I guess.'
'Not as long as he's trying to rob you and me of our right to live. What's the matter with you？' Dobbs was flabbergasted. 'I used to listen to you arguing that same thing with Clevinger. And look what happened to him. Right inside that cloud.'
'Stop shouting， will you？' Yossarian shushed him.
'I'm not shouting！' Dobbs shouted louder， his face red with revolutionary fervor. His eyes and nostrils were running， and his palpitating crimson lower lip was splattered with a foamy dew. 'There must have been close to a hundred men in the group who had finished their fifty-five missions when he raised the number to sixty. There must have been at least another hundred like you with just a couple more to fly. He's going to kill us all if we let him go on forever. We've got to kill him first.' Yossarian nodded expressionlessly， without committing himself. 'Do you think we could get away with it？'
'I've got it all worked out. I-'
'Stop shouting， for Christ's sake！'
'I'm not shouting. I've got it-'
'Will you stop shouting！'
'I've got it all worked out，' Dobbs whispered， gripping the side of Orr's cot with white-knuckled hands to constrain them from waving. 'Thursday morning when he's due back from that goddam farmhouse of his in the hills， I'll sneak up through the woods to that hairpin turn in the road and hide in the bushes. He has to slow down there， and I can watch the road in both directions to make sure there's no one else around. When I see him coming， I'll shove a big log out into the road to make him stop his jeep. Then I'll step out of the bushes with my Luger and shoot him in the head until he's dead. I'll bury the gun， come back down through the woods to the squadron and go about my business just like everybody else. What could possibly go wrong？' Yossarian had followed each step attentively. 'Where do I come in？' he asked in puzzlement.
'I couldn't do it without you，' Dobbs explained. 'I need you to tell me to go ahead.' Yossarian found it hard to believe him. 'Is that all you want me to do？ Just tell you to go ahead？'
'That's all I need from you，' Dobbs answered. 'Just tell me to go ahead and I'll blow his brains out all by myself the day after tomorrow.' His voice was accelerating with emotion and rising again. 'I'd like to shoot Colonel Korn in the head， too， while we're at it， although I'd like to spare Major Danby， if that's all right with you. Then I'd murder Appleby and Havermeyer also， and after we finish murdering Appleby and Havermeyer I'd like to murder McWatt.'
'McWatt？' cried Yossarian， almost jumping up in horror. 'McWatt's a friend of mine. What do you want from McWatt？'
'I don't know，' Dobbs confessed with an air of floundering embarrassment. 'I just thought that as long as we were murdering Appleby and Havermeyer we might as well murder McWatt too. Don't you want to murder McWatt？' Yossarian took a firm stand. 'Look， I might keep interested in this if you stop shouting it all over the island and if you stick to killing Colonel Cathcart. But if you're going to turn this into a blood bath， you can forget about me.'
'All right， all right，' Dobbs sought to placate him. 'Just Colonel Cathcart. Should I do it？ Tell me to go ahead.' Yossarian shook his head. 'I don't think I could tell you to go ahead.' Dobbs was frantic. 'I'm willing to compromise，' he pleaded vehemently. 'You don't have to tell me to go ahead. Just tell me it's a good idea. Okay？ Is it a good idea？' Yossarian still shook his head. 'It would have been a great idea if you had gone ahead and done it without even speaking to me. Now it's too late. I don't think I can tell you anything. Give me some more time. I might change my mind.'
'Then it will be too late.' Yossarian kept shaking his head. Dobbs was disappointed. He sat for a moment with a hangdog look， then spurted to his feet suddenly and stamped away to have another impetuous crack at persuading Doc Daneeka to ground him， knocking over Yossarian's washstand with his hip when he lurched around and tripping over the fuel line of the stove Orr was still constructing. Doc Daneeka withstood Dobbs's blustering and gesticulating attack with a series of impatient nods and sent him to the medical tent to describe his symptoms to Gus and Wes， who painted his gums purple with gentian-violet solution the moment he started to talk. They painted his toes purple， too， and forced a laxative down his throat when he opened his mouth again to complain， and then they sent him away.
Dobbs was in even worse shape than Hungry Joe， who could at least fly missions when he was not having nightmares. Dobbs was almost as bad as Orr， who seemed happy as an undersized， grinning lark with his deranged and galvanic giggle and shivering warped buck teeth and who was sent along for a rest leave with Milo and Yossarian on the trip to Cairo for eggs when Milo bought cotton instead and took off at dawn for Istanbul with his plane packed to the gun turrets with exotic spiders and unripened red bananas. Orr was one of the homeliest freaks Yossarian had ever encountered， and one of the most attractive. He had a raw bulgy face， with hazel eyes squeezing from their sockets like matching brown halves of marbles and thick， wavy particolored hair sloping up to a peak on the top of his head like a pomaded pup tent. Orr was knocked down into the water or had an engine shot out almost every time he went up， and he began jerking on Yossarian's arm like a wild man after they had taken off for Naples and come down in Sicily to find the scheming， cigar-smoking， ten-year-old pimp with the two twelve-year-old virgin sisters waiting for them in town in front of the hotel in which there was room for only Milo. Yossarian pulled back from Orr adamantly， gazing with some concern and bewilderment at Mt. Etna instead of Mt. Vesuvius and wondering what they were doing in Sicily instead of Naples as Orr kept entreating him in a tittering， stuttering， concupiscent turmoil to go along with him behind the scheming ten-year-old pimp to his two twelve-year-old virgin sisters who were not really virgins and not really sisters and who were really only twenty-eight.
'Go with him，' Milo instructed Yossarian laconically. 'Remember your mission.'
'All right，' Yossarian yielded with a sigh， remembering his mission. 'But at least let me try to find a hotel room first so I can get a good night's sleep afterward.'
'You'll get a good night's sleep with the girls，' Milo replied with the same air of intrigue. 'Remember your mission.' But they got no sleep at all， for Yossarian and Orr found themselves jammed into the same double bed with the two twelve-year-old twenty-eight-year-old prostitutes， who turned out to be oily and obese and who kept waking them up all night long to ask them to switch partners. Yossarian's perceptions were soon so fuzzy that he paid no notice to the beige turban the fat one crowding into him kept wearing until late the next morning when the scheming ten-year-old pimp with the Cuban panatella snatched it off in public in a bestial caprice that exposed in the brilliant Sicilian daylight her shocking， misshapen and denudate skull. Vengeful neighbors had shaved her hair to the gleaming bone because she had slept with Germans. The girl screeched in feminine outrage and waddled comically after the scheming ten-year-old pimp， her grisly， bleak， violated scalp slithering up and down ludicrously around the queer darkened wart of her face like something bleached and obscene. Yossarian had never laid eyes on anything so bare before. The pimp spun the turban high on his finger like a trophy and kept himself skipping inches ahead of her finger tips as he led her in a tantalizing circle around the square congested with people who were howling with laughter and pointing to Yossarian with derision when Milo strode up with a grim look of haste and puckered his lips reprovingly at the unseemly spectacle of so much vice and frivolity. Milo insisted on leaving at once for Malta.
'We're sleepy，' Orr whined.
'That's your own fault，' Milo censured them both selfrighteously. 'If you had spent the night in your hotel room instead of with these immoral girls， you'd both feel as good as I do today.'
'You told us to go with them，' Yossarian retorted accusingly. 'And we didn't have a hotel room. You were the only one who could get a hotel room.'
'That wasn't my fault， either，' Milo explained haughtily. 'How was I supposed to know all the buyers would be in town for the chick-pea harvest？'
'You knew it，' Yossarian charged. 'That explains why we're here in Sicily instead of Naples. You've probably got the whole damned plane filled with chick-peas already.'
'Shhhhhh！' Milo cautioned sternly， with a meaningful glance toward Orr. 'Remember your mission.' The bomb bay， the rear and tail sections of the plane and most of the top turret gunner's section were all filled with bushels of chick-peas when they arrived at the airfield to take off for Malta.
Yossarian's mission on the trip was to distract Orr from observing where Milo bought his eggs， even though Orr was a member of Milo's syndicate and， like every other member of Milo's syndicate， owned a share. His mission was silly， Yossarian felt， since it was common knowledge that Milo bought his eggs in Malta for seven cents apiece and sold them to the mess halls in his syndicate for five cents apiece.
'I just don't trust him，' Milo brooded in the plane， with a backward nod toward Orr， who was curled up like a tangled rope on the low bushels of chick-peas， trying torturedly to sleep. 'And I'd just as soon buy my eggs when he's not around to learn my business secrets. What else don't you understand？' Yossarian was riding beside him in the co-pilot's seat. 'I don't understand why you buy eggs for seven cents apiece in Malta and sell them for five cents.'
'I do it to make a profit.'
'But how can you make a profit？ You lose two cents an egg.'
'But I make a profit of three and a quarter cents an egg by selling them for four and a quarter cents an egg to the people in Malta I buy them from for seven cents an egg. Of course， I don't make the profit. The syndicate makes the profit. And everybody has a share.' Yossarian felt he was beginning to understand. 'And the people you sell the eggs to at four and a quarter cents apiece make a profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when they sell them back to you at seven cents apiece. Is that right？ Why don't you sell the eggs directly to you and eliminate the people you buy them from？'
'Because I'm the people I buy them from，' Milo explained. 'I make a profit of three and a quarter cents apiece when I sell them to me and a profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when I buy them back from me. That's a total profit of six cents an egg. I lose only two cents an egg when I sell them to the mess halls at five cents apiece， and that's how I can make a profit buying eggs for seven cents apiece and selling them for five cents apiece. I pay only one cent apiece at the hen when I buy them in Sicily.'
'In Malta，' Yossarian corrected. 'You buy your eggs in Malta， not Sicily.'
Milo chortled proudly. 'I don't buy eggs in Malta，' he confessed， with an air of slight and clandestine amusement that was the only departure from industrious sobriety Yossarian had ever seen him make. 'I buy them in Sicily for one cent apiece and transfer them to Malta secretly at four and a half cents apiece in order to get the price of eggs up to seven cents apiece when people come to Malta looking for them.'
'Why do people come to Malta for eggs when they're so expensive there？'
'Because they've always done it that way.'
'Why don't they look for eggs in Sicily？'
'Because they've never done it that way.'
'Now I really don't understand. Why don't you sell your mess halls the eggs for seven cents apiece instead offor five cents apiece？'
'Because my mess halls would have no need for me then. Anyone can buy seven-cents-apiece eggs for seven cents apiece.'
'Why don't they bypass you and buy the eggs directly from you in Malta at four and a quarter cents apiece？'
'Because I wouldn't sell it to them.'
'Why wouldn't you sell it to them？'
'Because then there wouldn't be as much room for profit. At least this way I can make a bit for myself as a middleman.'
'Then you do make a profit for yourself，' Yossarian declared.
'Of course I do. But it all goes to the syndicate. And everybody has a share. Don't you understand？ It's exactly what happens with those plum tomatoes I sell to Colonel Cathcart.'
'Buy，' Yossarian corrected him. 'You don't sell plum tomatoes to Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. You buy plum tomatoes from them.'
'No， sell，' Milo corrected Yossarian. 'I distribute my plum tomatoes in markets all over Pianosa under an assumed name so that Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn can buy them up from me under their assumed names at four cents apiece and sell them back to me the next day for the syndicate at five cents apiece. They make a profit of one cent apiece. I make a profit of three and a half cents apiece， and everybody comes out ahead.'
'Everybody but the syndicate，' said Yossarian with a snort. 'The syndicate is paying five cents apiece for plum tomatoes that cost you only half a cent apiece. How does the syndicate benefit？'
'The syndicate benefits when I benefit，' Milo explained， 'because everybody has a share. And the syndicate gets Colonel Cathcart's and Colonel Korn's support so that they'll let me go out on trips like this one. You'll see how much profit that can mean in about fifteen minutes when we land in Palermo.'
'Malta，' Yossarian corrected him. 'We're flying to Malta now， not Palermo.'
'No， we're flying to Palermo，' Milo answered. 'There's an endive exporter in Palermo I have to see for a minute about a shipment of mushrooms to Bern that were damaged by mold.'
'Milo， how do you do it？' Yossarian inquired with laughing amazement and admiration. 'You fill out a flight plan for one place and then you go to another. Don't the people in the control towers ever raise hell？'
'They all belong to the syndicate，' Milo said. 'And they know that what's good for the syndicate is good for the country， because that's what makes Sammy run. The men in the control towers have a share， too， and that's why they always have to do whatever they can to help the syndicate.'
'Do I have a share？'
'Everybody has a share.'
'Does Orr have a share？'
'Everybody has a share.'
'And Hungry Joe？ He has a share， too？'
'Everybody has a share.'
'Well， I'll be damned，' mused Yossarian， deeply impressed with the idea of a share for the very first time.
Milo turned toward him with a faint glimmer of mischief. 'I have a sure-fire plan for cheating the federal government out of six thousand dollars. We can make three thousand dollars apiece without any risk to either of us. Are you interested？'
'No.' Milo looked at Yossarian with profound emotion. 'That's what I like about you，' he exclaimed. 'You're honest！ You're the only one I know that I can really trust. That's why I wish you'd try to be of more help to me. I really was disappointed when you ran off with those two tramps in Catania yesterday.' Yossarian stared at Milo in quizzical disbelief. 'Milo， you told me to go with them. Don't you remember？'
'That wasn't my fault，' Milo answered with dignity. 'I had to get rid of Orr some way once we reached town. It will be a lot different in Palermo. When we land in Palermo， I want you and Orr to leave with the girls right from the airport.'
'With what girls？'
'I radioed ahead and made arrangements with a four-year-old pimp to supply you and Orr with two eight-year-old virgins who are half Spanish. He'll be waiting at the airport in a limousine. Go right in as soon as you step out of the plane.'
'Nothing doing，' said Yossarian， shaking his head. 'The only place I'm going is to sleep.' Milo turned livid with indignation， his slim long nose flickering spasmodically between his black eyebrows and his unbalanced orange-brown mustache like the pale， thin flame of a single candle. 'Yossarian， remember your mission，' he reminded reverently.
'To hell with my mission，' Yossarian responded indifferently. 'And to hell with the syndicate too， even though I do have a share. I don't want any eight-year-old virgins， even if they are half Spanish.'
'I don't blame you. But these eight-year-old virgins are really only thirty-two. And they're not really half Spanish but only one-third Estonian.'
'I don't care for any virgins.'
'And they're not even virgins，' Milo continued persuasively. 'The one I picked out for you was married for a short time to an elderly schoolteacher who slept with her only on Sundays， so she's really almost as good as new.' But Orr was sleepy， too， and Yossarian and Orr were both at Milo's side when they rode into the city of Palermo from the airport and discovered that there was no room for the two of them at the hotel there either， and， more important， that Milo was mayor.
The weird， implausible reception for Milo began at the airfield， where civilian laborers who recognized him halted in their duties respectfully to gaze at him with full expressions of controlled exuberance and adulation. News of his arrival preceded him into the city， and the outskirts were already crowded with cheering citizens as they sped by in their small uncovered truck. Yossarian and Orr were mystified and mute and pressed close against Milo for security.
Inside the city， the welcome for Milo grew louder as the truck slowed and eased deeper toward the middle of town. Small boys and girls had been released from school and were lining the sidewalks in new clothes， waving tiny flags. Yossarian and Orr were absolutely speechless now. The streets were jammed with joyous throngs， and strung overhead were huge banners bearing Milo's picture. Milo had posed for these pictures in a drab peasant's blouse with a high collar， and his scrupulous， paternal countenance was tolerant， wise， critical and strong as he stared out at the populace omnisciently with his undisciplined mustache and disunited eyes. Sinking invalids blew kisses to him from windows. Aproned shopkeepers cheered ecstatically from the narrow doorways of their shops. Tubas crumped. Here and there a person fell and was trampled to death. Sobbing old women swarmed through each other frantically around the slow-moving truck to touch Milo's shoulder or press his hand. Milo bore the tumultuous celebrations with benevolent grace. He waved back to everyone in elegant reciprocation and showered generous handfuls of foilcovered Hershey kisses to the rejoicing multitudes. Lines of lusty young boys and girls skipped along behind him with their arms linked， chanting in hoarse and glassy-eyed adoration， 'Milo！ Mi-lo！ Mi-lo！' Now that his secret was out， Milo relaxed with Yossarian and Orr and inflated opulently with a vast， shy pride. His cheeks turned flesh-colored. Milo had been elected mayor of Palermo-and of nearby Carini， Monreale， Bagheria， Termini Imerese， Cefalu， Mistretta and Nicosia as well-because he had brought Scotch to Sicily.
Yossarian was amazed. 'The people here like to drink Scotch that much？'
'They don't drink any of the Scotch，' Milo explained. 'Scotch is very expensive， and these people here are very poor.'
'Then why do you import it to Sicily if nobody drinks any？'
'To build up a price. I move the Scotch here from Malta to make more room for profit when I sell it back to me for somebody else. I created a whole new industry here. Today Sicily is the third largest exporter of Scotch in the world， and that's why they elected me mayor.'
'How about getting us a hotel room if you're such a hotshot？' Orr grumbled impertinently in a voice slurred with fatigue.
Milo responded contritely. 'That's just what I'm going to do，' he promised. 'I'm really sorry about forgetting to radio ahead for hotel rooms for you two. Come along to my office and I'll speak to my deputy mayor about it right now.' Milo's office was a barbershop， and his deputy mayor was a pudgy barber from whose obsequious lips cordial greetings foamed as effusively as the lather he began whipping up in Milo's shaving cup.
'Well， Vittorio，' said Milo， settling back lazily in one of Vittorio's barber chairs， 'how were things in my absence this time？'
'Very sad， Signor Milo， very sad. But now that you are back， the people are all happy again.'
'I was wondering about the size of the crowds. How come all the hotels are full？'
'Because so many people from other cities are here to see you， Signor Milo. And because we have all the buyers who have come into town for the artichoke auction.' Milo's hand soared up perpendicularly like an eagle and arrested Vittorio's shaving brush. 'What's artichoke？' he inquired.
'Artichoke， Signor Milo？ An artichoke is a very tasty vegetable that is popular everywhere. You must try some artichokes while you are here， Signor Milo. We grow the best in the world.'
'Really？' said Milo. 'How much are artichokes selling for this year？'
'It looks like a very good year for artichokes. The crops were very bad.'
'Is that a fact？' mused Milo， and was gone， sliding from his chair so swiftly that his striped barber's apron retained his shape for a second or two after he had gone before it collapsed. Milo had vanished from sight by the time Yossarian and Orr rushed after him to the doorway.
'Next？' barked Milo's deputy mayor officiously. 'Who's next？' Yossarian and Orr walked from the barbershop in dejection. Deserted by Milo， they trudged homelessly through the reveling masses in futile search of a place to sleep. Yossarian was exhausted. His head throbbed with a dull， debilitating pain， and he was irritable with Orr， who had found two crab apples somewhere and walked with them in his cheeks until Yossarian spied them there and made him take them out. Then Orr found two horse chestnuts somewhere and slipped those in until Yossarian detected them and snapped at him again to take the crab apples out of his mouth. Orr grinned and replied that they were not crab apples but horse chestnuts and that they were not in his mouth but in his hands， but Yossarian was not able to understand a single word he said because of the horse chestnuts in his mouth and made him take them out anyway. A sly light twinkled in Orr's eyes. He rubbed his forehead harshly with his knuckles， like a man in an alcoholic stupor， and snickered lewdly.
'Do you remember that girl-' He broke off to snicker lewdly again. 'Do you remember that girl who was hitting me over the head with that shoe in that apartment in Rome， when we were both naked？' he asked with a look of cunning expectation. He waited until Yossarian nodded cautiously. 'If you let me put the chestnuts back in my mouth I'll tell you why she was hitting me. Is that a deal？' Yossarian nodded， and Orr told him the whole fantastic story of why the naked girl in Nately's whore's apartment was hitting him over the head with her shoe， but Yossarian was not able to understand a single word because the horse chestnuts were back in his mouth. Yossarian roared with exasperated laughter at the trick， but in the end there was nothing for them to do when night fell but eat a damp dinner in a dirty restaurant and hitch a ride back to the airfield， where they slept on the chill metal floor of the plane and turned and tossed in groaning torment until the truck drivers blasted up less than two hours later with their crates of artichokes and chased them out onto the ground while they filled up the plane. A heavy rain began falling. Yossarian and Orr were dripping wet by the time the trucks drove away and had no choice but to squeeze themselves back into the plane and roll themselves up like shivering anchovies between the jolting corners of the crates of artichokes that Milo flew up to Naples at dawn and exchanged for the cinnamon sticks， cloves， vanilla beans and pepper pods that he rushed right back down south with that same day to Malta， where， it turned out， he was Assistant Governor-General. There was no room for Yossarian and Orr in Malta either. Milo was Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in Malta and had a gigantic office in the governor-general's building. His mahogany desk was immense. In a panel of the oak wall， between crossed British flags， hung a dramatic arresting photograph of Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in the dress uniform of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. His mustache in the photograph was clipped and narrow， his chin was chiseled， and his eyes were sharp as thorns. Milo had been knighted， commissioned a major in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and named Assistant Governor-General of Malta because he had brought the egg trade there. He gave Yossarian and Orr generous permission to spend the night on the thick carpet in his office， but shortly after he left a sentry in battle dress appeared and drove them from the building at the tip of his bayonet， and they rode out exhaustedly to the airport with a surly cab driver， who overcharged them， and went to sleep inside the plane again， which was filled now with leaking gunny sacks of cocoa and freshly ground coffee and reeking with an odor so rich that they were both outside retching violently against the landing gear when Milo was chauffeured up the first thing the next morning， looking fit as a fiddle， and took right off for Oran， where there was again no room at the hotel for Yossarian and Orr， and where Milo was Vice-Shah. Milo had at his disposal sumptuous quarters inside a salmon-pink palace， but Yossarian and Orr were not allowed to accompany him inside because they were Christian infidels. They were stopped at the gates by gargantuan Berber guards with scimitars and chased away. Orr was snuffling and sneezing with a crippling head cold. Yossarian's broad back was bent and aching. He was ready to break Milo's neck， but Milo was Vice-Shah of Oran and his person was sacred. Milo was not only the Vice-Shah of Oran， as it turned out， but also the Caliph of Baghdad， the Imam of Damascus， and the Sheik of Araby. Milo was the corn god， the rain god and the rice god in backward regions where such crude gods were still worshiped by ignorant and superstitious people， and deep inside the jungles of Africa， he intimated with becoming modesty， large graven images of his mustached face could be found overlooking primitive stone altars red with human blood. Everywhere they touched he was acclaimed with honor， and it was one triumphal ovation after another for him in city after city until they finally doubled back through the Middle East and reached Cairo， where Milo cornered the market on cotton that no one else in the world wanted and brought himself promptly to the brink of ruin. In Cairo there was at last room at the hotel for Yossarian and Orr. There were soft beds for them with fat fluffed-up pillows and clean， crisp sheets. There were closets with hangers for their clothes. There was water to wash with. Yossarian and Orr soaked their rancid， unfriendly bodies pink in a steaming-hot tub and then went from the hotel with Milo to eat shrimp cocktails and filet mignon in a very fine restaurant with a stock ticker in the lobby that happened to be clicking out the latest quotation for Egyptian cotton when Milo inquired of the captain of waiters what kind of machine it was. Milo had never imagined a machine so beautiful as a stock ticker before.
'Really？' he exclaimed when the captain of waiters had finished his explanation. 'And how much is Egyptian cotton selling for？' The captain of waiters told him， and Milo bought the whole crop.
But Yossarian was not nearly so frightened by the Egyptian cotton Milo bought as he was by the bunches of green red bananas Milo had spotted in the native market place as they drove into the city， and his fears proved justified， for Milo shook him awake out of a deep sleep just after twelve and shoved a partly peeled banana toward him. Yossarian choked back a sob.
'Taste it，' Milo urged， following Yossarian's writhing face around with the banana insistently.
'Milo， you bastard，' moaned Yossarian， 'I've got to get some sleep.'
'Eat it and tell me if it's good，' Milo persevered. 'Don't tell Orr I gave it to you. I charged him two piasters for his.' Yossarian ate the banana submissively and closed his eyes after telling Milo it was good， but Milo shook him awake again and instructed him to get dressed as quickly as he could， because they were leaving at once for Pianosa.
'You and Orr have to load the bananas into the plane right away，' he explained. 'The man said to watch out for spiders while you're handling the bunches.'
'Milo， can't we wait until morning？' Yossarian pleaded. 'I've got to get some sleep.'
'They're ripening very quickly，' answered Milo， 'and we don't have a minute to lose. Just think how happy the men back at the squadron will be when they get these bananas.' But the men back at the squadron never even saw any of the bananas， for it was a seller's market for bananas in Istanbul and a buyer's market in Beirut for the caraway seeds Milo rushed with to Bengasi after selling the bananas， and when they raced back into Pianosa breathlessly six days later at the conclusion of Orr's rest leave， it was with a load of best white eggs from Sicily that Milo said were from Egypt and sold to his mess halls for only four cents apiece so that all the commanding officers in his syndicate would implore him to speed right back to Cairo for more bunches of green red bananas to sell in Turkey for the caraway seeds in demand in Bengasi. And everybody had a share.
