Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

The Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley by Valerian

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He had to turn the page forward to sort out the ins and outs.Who are these characters, where did they come from, where did they go, and why did one die while the other lived.

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Search keywords: Protagonist: Gaspar Stanley, Jason Coleman┃Supporting actors: Maud Gibson, Danny Marcel, Arthur Ferguson┃Others:

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The Testimony of Mr. Jasper Stanley

1.

Jason is dead.

It was the first thing they told Stanley, after he woke up.A gloomy single ward, with two policemen guarding the door, rusted iron bars on the windows, and from where he lay he could see only a cloudy sky, like dusty glass, like the St. Malo seaside. In the windows of an old house, Jason tried in vain to wipe the dust off with newspaper, creating a small sandstorm in the dirty sunlight.The gun lay on the table between them, dust falling slowly, almost lazily, on the black metal.

The agent in charge of the interrogation was a small man in a gray suit, with his hair pulled back tightly.Like some kind of waterfowl, she waded cautiously through the swamp with her webbed paws, examining Stanley as if she were a shellfish stuck in mud, occasionally pecking at the outer hard shell with her beak to ensure that the mollusk inside still alive.Stanley didn't seem to notice her, and if he had, the agent would have given as little attention to it as a chair or a glass.Together they form a bleak sketch, the shadows of the bars moving slowly, elongating, fading as the daylight fades away.For some reason, a faded Tuberculosis Awareness Day poster dated six years ago hangs on the peeling plaster wall of the ward.Stanley stared at it for a long time, as if the two flattened lobes were the only real thing in his long sleepwalking state.

He sleeps a lot, but doesn't dream.The morphine was like an impermeable, heavy canvas, covering his consciousness layer by layer, making them whisper and wriggle under the weight.Several times Stanley thought he heard the rustling of newspapers against the window, and when he opened his eyes the nurse was sticking a needle into the back of his bruised hand.The window panes of the ward were transparent and clean, and it was a sunny day.

Jason died, repeating the sentence in his head, dismembering words and syllables and putting them back together.Stanley understood the matter step by step, as if he caught a glimpse of the ending of a novel by accident, and he had to turn the page forward to sort out the ins and outs.Who are these characters, where did they come from, where are they going, why one is dead and the other is alive; why the living one is in the hospital bed, and why is there a bird-like agent waiting beside the hospital bed.

"Mr. Stanley," said Mizutori, she is not a main character and therefore has no name, Stanley just needs to remember her occupation, agent, the person who asked the question, "Can you tell me what happened? Coleman's Who has the notes?"

He listened intently to his breathing, the expansion and collapse of his lungs.His splinted right hand was in pain, as was the back of his head, and the doctor had stopped giving him morphine since the day before yesterday.Stanley held his relatively intact left hand up to his eyes, studying the protruding knuckle and the pinhole on the inside of the wrist, a dark bruise shaped like a spilled cup of coffee.

"Mr. Stanley, can you hear me?"

"Saint-Malo," he said hoarsely, his vocal cords rubbing dryly against each other like unoiled hinges, and he wondered if he could cough up some rust.

"Is it a place name, Mr. Stanley?"

"Yes," Stanley put down his hand, turned his head, and took a serious look at the clam-beating water bird for the first time. Her pen hovered over the notebook hesitantly, "No."

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Saint-Malo is six summers in total, the piss-smelling ships of the Breton Ferry Company, the Ile de l'Eau and the Ile de Petit Bey, the gray stone steps exposed at low tide, the rows of stakes hammered into the sand , seaweed, salt, sparkling cider, squeaky hotel floors, sudden rainstorms and curtains of fog.The summer on this side of the Manche Strait is pale and weak, as if wrapped in filter paper and squeezed.The innkeeper was a jovial Irishman who first crossed the Channel 17 years ago and never returned.Stanley both feared and liked him, feared because the curly-haired middle-aged man was as tall and strong as a brick wall, with a voice as loud as a foghorn; loved because the wall was always emitting yeast, grenadine, and The smell of barbecue.He rampages like a buffalo between the kitchen and the patio, delivering kiel on the rocks and raspberry ice cream in colorful paper cups.While the adults were killing time on the patio, Stanley and Jason ran barefoot across the sun-warmed flagstones, wearing only shorts, chasing a tattered soccer ball.The innkeeper's twins often joined the fray, two red-haired girls in identical cotton dresses.When they talked privately, it was an odd sort of French laced with English—and very occasionally, a few Gaelic words.That never got in the way of the game, with kids jostling each other in the deserted narrow alley behind the fish market and squealing with excitement as the football rolled limply across the chalk line.

Jason was two years older than Stanley, a full shoulder taller than him. Although this gap has gradually narrowed, it was still very impressive at the time.Jason's parents, Mr and Mrs Coleman, work in a bank.Originally planned for a holiday in Marseilles in the summer of 1979, but ultimately unable to do so because of a protracted rail strike, they bought ferry tickets instead and joined other complaining British families with children in a crowded fishmongers' hall. Landing on the pier-the port at that time was not crowded by various private sailing ships.They were put in the guest room next door to the Stanleys.Meetings are inevitable. There are only these two rooms on the top floor of the hotel, both facing the beach. The narrow balconies are close together, and you can touch the opposite railing with your hands.For Stanley, his childhood summers were forever bound to creaking floors and window sills covered in dried seagull droppings.

Six summers, 1979 to 1985, when Stanley recalls, he always remembers the year when he went fishing first.His mother woke him up at four in the morning and put a stiff raincoat on him over a gray woolen vest, like armor. "It's cold outside, Gaspar," said Mrs. Stanley, more of a complaint than a concern, that the place and the temperature were an offense to herself, and she must remind her husband constantly: when he While she had cheerfully gone along with Mr. Coleman's proposal and paid a deposit to rent the fishing boat, she had privately expressed her strong disapproval.

"Wear these boots," mother instructed. Stanley kicked off the leather shoes obediently and put on the rain boots. "Don't run around on the boat. If you are swept away by the waves, no one can rescue you."

"Mr. Tredo says the waves are light today," interrupted my father.

"Of course he said that, didn't he?" Mother replied sharply, "otherwise how would you agree to charter his boat. 'The sea is calm, sir!'" She imitated the accent of the owner of the fishing boat, and put the backpack on again. The zipper was unzipped, as if to check that the half-dozen sandwiches were still inside. "I'm going to get seasick whether the waves are big or small," she added.

"You looked fine when you got on the ferry."

"I'm surprised you noticed, John."

The way my mother said "John" like it was a curse.Stanley kicked the edge of the bed with his wellies.

"We can watch the sunrise from the boat," my father finally said, as if that was the solution to everything, and he put on his new hat, and the ears protruding from the sides looked ridiculous, "Gaspar, don't make any noise. "

He stood up, floorboards creaking in protest, and made his way to the door.The Stanleys filed out of the guest room, Gaspar Stanley last, staring at his mother's dark blue headband.The raincoat hindered his movement, and the boy swayed awkwardly like a penguin.

The Colemans and their son waited in the front hall, canvas bags of fishing gear at their feet.Jason was also wearing a kid's raincoat, and if the plastic made Stanley look like a penguin, Jason wore it like an old lampshade.The kids exchanged glances, and Jason nodded solemnly at him, and Stanley had no choice but to nod along, as if entering into some kind of bilateral agreement that made them silent partners in the folly of adults.

Mr. Tredo's fishing boat emerged from the mist covering the pier. A large light bulb hung beside the hatch leading to the pilothouse, and the light was diluted in the thick fog. "Very early, very early," greeted the Breton fisherman in his soiled shirt, twisting his hat, his English geysering with a splash of phrase every time, " Head west today, fish."

"I hope it won't be too rough today," said Mrs. Stanley.

"Not much." Mr. Tredo gestured, defending the Atlantic Ocean behind him. "The sea is gentle."

The boys ran around the deck, their wellies banging and banging on the deck, and finally slipped to the stern and leaned over the dark water, the rail against their bellies.When the engine started, the whole ship trembled and shook slightly