飘尘
试着告诉读者，生活是多样的。每一个活着的人，在多元化的人生时空里， 扮演着某种角色，向着不同的方向展现着自己的千姿百态，书写着与众不同的生 命华章。
哦，上帝！尤塞瑞恩感到他们都在往下坠落时，他尖叫起来，可却发不出声音。哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！他尖声哀求著。飞机急速下坠，使他开不了口。他头抵著舱顶，身体处于失重状态，晃来晃去。后来，赫普尔设法夺回了操纵杆，在一片疯狂猛烈的高射炮的火网中拉平了飞机。那高射炮的火网就象是大峡谷的悬崖峭壁，他们刚刚从里面爬出来，此刻又得逃命了。几乎就在同时，砰的一声，飞机舱盖上的有机玻璃被打了个洞，有拳头那么大的。闪闪发光的碎片四下飞溅，尤塞瑞恩感到两颊一阵刺痛，但没有流血。
“怎么回事？怎么回事？”他喊了起来，可却听不见自己的声音，禁不住浑身剧烈地颤抖起来。他的对讲机里寂静无声，他被这吓得要死。他趴跪在地上，害怕得要命，一动也不敢动，活像一只中了圈套的老鼠，呆在那里，大气不敢出一下。后来，他终于瞥见自己耳机上那圆柱形的插头一闪一闪地在眼前晃荡，于是赶紧用颤抖的手指将其重新插回到插孔里，此时高射炮火在他四周砰砰作响，并形成了一朵朵蘑菇状的云烟，他惊恐万状地一再尖叫著：“啊，上帝！ 啊，上帝！”
尤塞瑞恩把插头插回到对讲机的插孔，他听见声音。 他听到多布斯在哭泣。
“救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯呜咽著喊道，“救救他，救救他。”
“救救谁、救救谁呀？”尤塞瑞恩朝他回叫著，“救谁呀？”
“轰炸员，是轰炸员，”多布斯喊道，“他那里没有回答。快去救轰炸员，快去救轰炸员。”
“我就是轰炸员，”尤塞瑞恩大叫著口答道，“我就是轰炸员。我没事，我没事。”
“那就快去救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯哭喊道，“救救他，救救他吧。”
“救谁呀，救谁？”
“救那个报务员兼炮手，”多布斯哀求着，“快救救我们的报务灵兼炮手吧。” “
我冷。”对讲机里，斯诺登啜泣著，声音微弱，他接着发出了痛苦的哀求，“请救救我吧，我好冷啊。”
尤塞瑞恩匍匐著，通过了爬行通道，爬进了弹舱，然后又爬进飞机的尾舱，斯诺登受了伤，躺在尾舱的地板上，沉浸于一片黄色的日光里，快要冻死了。在斯诺登的身旁，是那个新来的尾炮手，他直挺挺地躺在那里，昏死了。
多布斯是世界上最差劲的飞行员，这点他自己也知道。这个小伙子原本身强力壮，可如今身体却垮了。他使出了吃奶的劲儿，想说服他的上司相信他不再适合驾驶飞机了。可是他的上司都不听他的。就在宣布六十次飞行次数的当天，多布斯偷偷地溜进了尤塞瑞恩的帐篷。当时奥尔正好出去找垫圈了，他向尤塞瑞恩吐露了他暗杀卡思卡特上校的阴谋。他要尤塞瑞恩帮他。
“你是说咱俩把他给干掉？”尤塞瑞恩不赞成。
“没错。”多布斯面带乐观的微笑。尤塞瑞恩这么快就领会了他的意图，更使他受到了鼓舞。“咱们就用那枝卢格尔手枪把他给毙了。这枪是我从西西里带回来的，谁也不知道我有这家伙。”
“我想我不能这么干。”尤塞瑞恩在心里默默地掂量了一番，说道。
多布斯感到惊讶：“为什么不能？”
“你瞧，对我来说，最能让我开心的事就是有一天这个狗娘养的赶上坠机，跌断他的脖子，或摔死他。要不就是能看到另外的什么人把他一枪给毙了。但我想我不能去杀他。”
“可他会杀你，”多布斯争辩道，“其实，这都是你告诉我的，说他不停地让咱们去打仗，让咱们去死。”
“可我想我不能杀了他。他也有活着的权利。” “可他老想剥夺你我的生存权利，只要他这么做，那他就无权再活。你这是怎么了？”多布斯大惑不解。“我以前老是听到你和克莱文杰为这事争个不休。可现在你瞧瞧克莱文杰怎么样了。 他死在了那团云朵里。”
“你别嚷好不好？”尤塞瑞恩嘴里发著“嘘──”的声音，示意他小声点。
“我没嚷！”多布斯喊的声音更高了，他心里充满了狂热，希望进行一场革命。此时的他，泪涕交加，深红色的下唇颤抖着，溅着起沫的泪涕。“咱们这个大队里，肯定有将近一百个人完成五十五次飞行任务，卡思卡特却又把这数目提高到了六十次。像你这样的至少还有一百人，还要再飞上几次才满五十五次。要是我们让他一直这样提高飞行次数，他就会把咱们全部给害死。我们一定得先把他给除掉。”
尤塞瑞恩毫无表情地点了点头，没有表态。“你认为咱们干了这事以后能逃脱？”
“我把一切都计划好了。我──”
“看在耶稣基督的分上，别这么大声。”
“我没嚷，我已经──” “你别嚷了，好不好？”
“我把一切都计划好了，”多布斯小声地说，一面用手紧紧地抓住奥尔的吊床边，不让两手晃动，由于用力，他的指关节都发白了。“星期四早上，乘他从山上那所该死的农舍返回的时候，我悄悄地穿过树林，溜到公路的那个急转弯处，藏在树丛中。他的车到了那儿非减速不可，而我呆在那里能清楚地看到公路两头的动静。弄清确实没有其他人在附近，我就把一根大木头推到公路上去，等他的车子过来，他的吉普车一停下，我就从树丛里走出来，用我的那枝卢格尔手枪对著他的脑袋开火，把他打死。然后我就把枪埋起来，再穿过树林返回中队，像其他人一样，去忙活自己的事。这样干会出什么差错呢？”
尤塞瑞恩聚精会神地听著他讲的每一个环节。“我打哪儿能插得上手呢？”他迷惑不解地问。
“这事没你的帮助我干不了，”多布斯解释道，“我需要你对我说声‘就这么干吧’。”
尤塞瑞恩觉得他的话难以置信。“你要我做的就是这个？就要我对你说声‘干吧’？”
“我只需要你做这个，”多布斯回答，“你只要说声干，那后天我就独自一人把他的脑浆给打出来。”由于感情激动，他的声音越来越急，此时又变得响亮起来。“既然咱们干了，那我也想在科恩中校的脑袋上也来上一枪。不过如果你不反对的话，我倒想饶了丹比少校。这以后我还想杀掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶。干掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶之后，我还要杀麦克沃特。”
“麦克沃特？”尤塞瑞恩叫道，吓得几乎跳起来。“麦克沃特是我的朋友。你干吗要对麦克沃特下手？”
“我不知道，”多布斯坦白说，一脸的慌乱和尬尴。“我只是想既然咱们要干掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶，那咱们不妨也把麦克沃特给干掉。你不想杀麦克沃特，是吗？”
尤塞瑞恩采取了坚定的立场。“你瞧，假如你不再将这事在这整个岛上乱嚷嚷，假如你坚持只干掉卡思卡特上校，那我还可能感兴趣。可如果你想搞一场屠杀，那你还是把我忘掉的好。”
“好吧，好吧。”多布斯竭力安抚尤塞瑞恩。“只杀卡思卡特上校一人。我应该去干吗？对我说声‘干吧’。”
尤塞瑞恩摇了摇头。“我想我不能叫你去干。”
多布斯激动得像要发狂。“我愿意做点让步，”他强烈地恳求道，“你不必对我说‘干’。你只要对我说一声这是个好主意就行了。 行吗？这是个好主意吗？”
尤塞瑞恩还是摇头。“要是你不告诉我，就直接动手把这事给干了，那倒是个好主意。可现在太晚了。有关这事我对你没什么好说的。给我点时间，没准我会改主意的。”
“那会来不及的。”
尤塞瑞恩仍一个劲地摇头，多布斯不禁失望。他坐了一会，满脸沮丧，然后突然跳了起来，拖著沉重的脚步走了出去。 他又起了一阵冲动，想去说服丹尼卡医生支持自己。他的臀部在转身时撞到了尤塞瑞恩的脸盆架，把它给撞翻了，脚又绊在了奥尔还没做好的电炉丝上。丹尼卡医生不耐烦地连连点头，以此抵挡住了多布斯的咆哮和指手划脚的指责，然后打发他到医务室去把他的症状说给格斯和韦斯听。到了那里，他刚一开口说话，格斯和韦斯就立即在他的牙床上涂满了龙胆紫溶液。接著他俩又将他的脚趾也涂紫了。当他再次张嘴想要抗议时，他们又将一粒腹泻剂塞进了他的喉咙，把他打发走了。
多布斯的情况比亨格瑞·久要糟。亨格瑞·久不做噩梦的时候，至少还可以执行飞行任务。多布斯几乎和奥尔一样糟糕。奥尔看上去总是乐呵呵的，时常像发神经似的咯咯地傻笑，那长得歪歪扭扭的龅牙不住地颤动著，活像一只发育不全、龇牙裂嘴的云雀。 上级已准许他前往开罗休假，同去的还有米洛和尤塞瑞恩。他们去那里是采购鸡蛋，可是米洛却买了棉花。米洛在黎明时分起飞赶往伊斯但布尔，飞机里装满了具有异国情调的有柄带脚的煎锅和青里透红的香蕉，连飞机的炮塔里都塞得满满的。奥尔是尤塞瑞恩遇到过的长得最难看的怪人之一，可他也挺吸引人的。他的脸粗糙，凸凹不平，淡褐色的眼睛从眼眶中暴出来，活像一对褐色的半粒子弹头。他有一头杂色相间，波浪式的浓密头发，倾斜向上直到头顶，像一顶抹了油的帐篷。他几乎每次上天都要出事，不是被击落坠入水中，就是引擎被人打中。那天他们的飞机起飞后是向着那不勒斯出发的，可不曾想到却在西西里降落了。一路上奥尔像个疯子似的使劲地拉尤塞瑞恩的胳臂，要他在那里降落去找那个鬼精的、会抽雪茄的年仅十岁的皮条客。 这皮条客有两个十二岁的处女姐姐，她们在市区的一家旅馆门口等候著他们。那家旅馆有一间房专供米洛使用。尤塞瑞恩毅然地从奥尔身边走开，独自向远方眺望着。此时他眺望到的不是维苏威火山，而是埃特纳山，眼神里既透著几分关注，也透著几分迷茫。 他心里纳闷，他们为什么不去那不勒斯而到西西里。此时的奥尔欲火难熬。他一个劲地傻笑着，结结巴已地嚷个不停，恳求尤塞瑞恩同他一道跟著那个一肚子鬼主意、年仅十岁的皮条客去找他那两个十二岁的处女姐姐。其实，她们既不是处女，也不是他姐姐。她们实际上已有二十八岁了。
“同他去吧。”米洛简洁地给尤塞瑞恩下达了指令。“别忘了你的使命。”
“好吧。”想到自己的使命，尤塞瑞恩叹了口气，终于让了步。“可至少先让我试试找间旅馆，这样在完事之后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，”米洛用同样狡黠的语气答道，“只要别把你的使命给忘了就行了。”
可那一夜尤塞瑞恩和奥尔根本就没睡。他们发现自己和那两个自称十二岁实际上已二十八岁的妓女同挤在一张床上。弄了半天那两个妓女原来是两个油腻腻、长著一身肥肉的女人。她俩夜里就是不让他们睡觉，吵著要交换搭档。尤塞瑞恩不一会就迷迷糊糊的了，根本没注意到那个挤在他身上整整一夜的胖女人头上裹著一条米色头巾。第二天早上，那个一肚子鬼心眼、嘴里叼著古巴雪茄的十岁皮条客突然像个畜牲似的说翻脸就翻脸，一把扯下了那条头巾。顿时，女人的那颗丑陋的奇形怪状的光秃秃的头颅便一览无遗地暴露在了西西里的光天化日之下。那姑娘带著女性特有的愤怒，一面用尖厉刺耳的声音大叫著，一面拖著肥胖的身子摇摇摆摆地追赶著那个十岁的一肚子坏水的皮条客，那情形甚是滑稽。原来，这女人曾陪德国人睡过觉，为此，那些复仇心重的邻居们便把她的头给剃得亮光光的，几乎露出了骨头。她那吓人的、颜色苍白且受到了极大冒犯的头皮，环绕著她那张同样古怪的黑肉瘤似的脸，十分可笑地上下滑动著，活像一块经过漂白但却仍然污秽不堪的东西。尤塞瑞恩以前从未见过如此光秃秃的脑袋。那个小皮条客用一根手指高高地挑起那块头巾，让它转个不停，像举著一件战利品似的。他始终在离她的手指头几英寸的地方蹦著，跳着，让她够不着，引得她在广场上团团转，干着急，把在广场上看热闹的人逗得大笑，有人还嘲笑地指著尤塞瑞恩。这时，米洛急匆匆地大步走来。一脸的严厉，他咂起嘴唇，对眼前这个伤风败俗、轻薄无聊、不成体统的场面深表不满。米洛坚持立即离开这里前往马耳他。
“可我们困得要命，”奥尔嘀咕道。
“那只能怪你们自己。”米洛自认自己很有道德，故而这样训斥他俩。“要是你们呆在旅馆里过夜，不和这些淫荡的女人鬼混，那么你们今天就会和我一样有精神了。”
“是你要我们跟她们走的，”，尤塞瑞恩用责备的口气反驳道，“而且我们也找不到旅馆房间。只有你一人能弄到房间。”
“那也不能怪我呀，”米洛傲慢地解释说，“我哪里知道鹰嘴豆上市时，会有那么多的买主涌到这城里来呀？”
“你当然知道，”，尤塞瑞恩指责道，“这就是为什么我们不去西西里，而跑到那不勒斯来的原因。你他妈的可能已经把整架飞机都塞满了鹰嘴豆。”
“嘘嘘嘘──！”米洛神情严厉地向他发出警告，一面意味深长地朝奥尔瞥了一眼。“别忘了你的使命。”
当他们来到机场准备飞往马耳他时，飞机的弹舱、后舱和尾舱，以及炮塔射手座舱的大部分地方已统统塞满了鹰嘴豆。 尤塞瑞恩这趟飞行的使命就是分散奥尔的注意力，不让他知道米洛在哪儿买鸡蛋，尽管奥尔也是米洛的辛迪加联合体的成员之一，而且同别的成员一样，他也拥有自己的股份。尤塞瑞恩感到自己的这一使命很可笑，因为人人都知道，米洛在马耳他用七分钱一个的价格买下鸡蛋，然后再以五分钱一个的价钱卖给辛迪加联合体的食堂。
“我就是不信任他。”米洛像母鸡抱窝似的一动不动地坐在飞机里，一面冲著坐在后面的奥尔点了点头，奥尔则像一根缠结在一起的绳子，蜷缩著躺在很那排装满了鹰嘴豆的筐子上，竭力想使自己睡著，那样子很受罪。
“我情愿在我买鸡蛋时他不要在边上转悠，将我的生意秘密全打听去。你还有什么不明白的吗？”
尤塞瑞恩坐在他身旁副驾驶的坐位上。“我不明白，你在马耳他花七分钱买来的一个鸡蛋，为什么又用五分一个的价卖掉呢？”
“我这样做是为了弄点赚头。”
“可你怎样才能有赚头呢？你每个鸡蛋反倒要赔二分钱呢。”
“我在马耳他按每个四分二厘五的价将鸡蛋卖给那儿的人，然后再按每个七分钱的价将鸡蛋从那些人的手中买进，这样我就赚了三分二厘五。当然，我是不赚钱的，赚钱的是咱们的联合体。大伙人人有份。”
尤塞瑞恩觉得自己开始有点明白了。“你按每个四分二厘五的价将鸡蛋卖给那些人，而他们再按每个七分钱的价把鸡蛋卖给你，这样他们每个鸡蛋就净赚二分七厘五。是这样吗？你干吗不把鸡蛋直接卖给你自己，省得再经他人之手买回这道手续呢？”
“因为这个‘他人’就是我自己，”米洛解释说，“我将鸡蛋卖给我自己时，我每个蛋可赚三分二厘五。我再把蛋从我的手里买回时，我每个又可赚到二分七厘五。这样每个鸡蛋一共可赚到六分钱。我把它们照每个五分钱的价卖给食堂时，每只蛋只不过少赚二分钱而已。这就是我如何以七分钱一只买进，五分钱一个卖出还能赚到钱的原因。我在西西里收购鸡蛋时，每只蛋只要付老母鸡一分钱就行了。”
“在马耳他，”尤塞瑞恩纠正道，“你是在马耳他买的鸡蛋，而不是在西西里。”
米洛得意洋洋地哈哈大笑起来。“我可不是在马耳他买的鸡蛋，”他带著一种暗自得意的神态承认道，这可同他平日显出的那副既勤奋又清醒的样子相违背，尤塞瑞恩还是第一次看到他的这种神态。“我在西西里一分钱一个买来，然后在马耳他悄悄地以每个四分五厘的价格转手，为的是别人到马耳他来买鸡蛋时，蛋价能上扬到七分钱一个。”
“既然马耳他的蛋价这么贵，那人们干吗要上那儿去买蛋？” “因为他们总是这么干。” “他们为什么不去西西里买鸡蛋呢？”
“因为他们从来没有那么干过。”
“我实在不懂，你为什么要将鸡蛋按五分一个的价卖给食堂，而不卖七分一个呢？”
“因为要是这样一来，我的食堂就不需要我了。七分钱一个的鸡蛋任何人都能买到。”
“他们为什么不越过你，而直接去马耳他以每个四分二厘五的价格从你的手里将鸡蛋买下呢？”
“因为我不会将蛋卖给他们的。” “你为什么不卖给他们？”
“因为那样的话就没有什么赚头了。作为中间商，我这样做至少能让我自己能有点赚头。”
“这么说，你的确为你自己赚了钱，”尤塞瑞恩断言道。
“我当然赚了。不过赚到的钱全归咱们的辛迪加联合体。人人部有份。你难道不明白？我卖给卡思卡特上校的红色梨形番茄也是如此。”
“你是买，不是卖，”尤塞瑞恩纠正道，“你不是将红色梨形番茄卖给卡思卡特上校和科恩中校。你是从他们的手上买番茄。”
“不对，是卖，”米洛纠正尤塞瑞恩道，“我用了个假名字，在皮亚诺萨岛所有的市场上抛售番茄，这样卡思卡特上校和科恩中校各自也用了个假名，以每个四分的价钱将番茄全部买进，第二天我再以辛迪加的名义按每个五分的价格将番茄买回来。他们每个番茄赚一分钱，而我每个赚三分五厘钱，这样每人都有了赚头。”
“你们每人都赚了，只有辛迪加不赚。”尤塞瑞恩对此嗤之以鼻。 “辛迪加出五分钱买进一个番茄，而你每个只花了五厘钱。这样辛迪加怎么能赢利？”
“只要我能赚到钱，辛迪加也就赚到了钱，”米洛解释说，“因为人人有份。只要咱们的辛迪加能得到卡思卡特上校和科恩中校的支持，那他们就会像这次这样派我出差。再过大约十五分钟，当我们在巴勒莫降落时，你就会看到咱们能赚到多少钱了。”
“在马耳他，”尤塞瑞恩纠正他说，“我们正在往马耳他飞，而不是朝巴勒莫。”
“不对，我们是在朝巴勒莫飞，”米洛回答道，“在巴勒莫有一个苣菜出口商，我要和他谈几分钟，因为我有一批发了霉的蘑菇要运到伯尔尼去。”“
米洛，你是怎么干的？”尤塞瑞恩面带既惊讶又钦佩的笑容问，“你的飞行计划单上填的是一个地方，可后来你却飞到另外一个地方去了。指挥塔上的人就从不找你的麻烦？”
“他们都属于咱们的联合体，”米洛说，“他们都明白凡是对咱们联合体有利的事，对国家也是有利的，因为只有这样才会让美国大兵们卖力气。再说指挥塔上的那些人也是有份子的，这就是他们为什么要千方百计地给咱辛迪加联合体帮助的缘故。”
“我也有份吗？” “人人都有份。”
“奥尔也有份？” “人人都有份。”
“亨格瑞·久呢？他也有份吗？”
“人人都有份。”
“呸，活见鬼。”尤塞瑞恩心里在骂，有生以来，有关股份的主意还是第一次在他的脑子里留下了深刻的印象。
米洛将脸转向尤塞瑞恩，眼睛里隐约闪出一丝图谋不轨的神色。 “我有一个主意，可以稳稳当当地从联邦政府那里骗得六千美元。 到时咱俩平分，各得三千元，并用不着担任何风险。你有兴趣吗？”
“没兴趣。”
米洛十分激动地望着尤塞瑞恩。“这就是我喜欢你的原因，”他大声地说，“你很诚实！在我认识的人中间你是唯一能让我信赖的人。 也就是这个原因，我希望你能给我更多的帮助。昨天在卡塔尼亚大街，当你同那两个荡妇一起溜走的时候，我真感到失望。”
尤塞瑞恩盯住米洛，感到大惑不解，简直不敢相信他的话。“米洛，可是你叫我同她们走的呀。难道你不记得了？”
“那不是我的过错，”米洛一本正经他说，“以往是在我们进城后，我才设法将奥尔给甩掉。而这次到巴勒莫，情况就大不一样了。 当我们在巴勒莫着陆后，我要你同奥尔立即就跟著姑娘离开机场。”
“跟著什么姑娘？” “我事先已发过无线电报，同一个四岁的小皮条客安排好了，为你和奥尔找了两个八岁大的、有著一半西班牙血统的处女。他将在机场的一辆交通车上等你们。你俩一下飞机就立即上那辆车。”
“不行，”尤塞瑞恩说，“我只想去个地方睡上一觉。” 米洛立刻发火了，脸都涨成了猪肝色，细长的鼻子在两道黑眉毛之间痉孪地颤动著，唇上那抹不对称的赤黄色的小胡子像一根□烛发出的暗淡、细弱的火焰。“尤塞瑞恩，别忘了你的使命。”他提醒尤塞瑞恩，语气还算恭敬。
“让使命见鬼吧！”尤塞瑞恩满不在乎地答道，“让辛迪加也见鬼去吧，管它有没有我一份呢。我也不想要什么八岁大的处女，哪怕她们有一半的西班牙血统。”
“这我不怪你。不过这些所谓的八岁大的处女实际上是三十二岁。她们并不是真的有一半西班牙血统，只不过是有三分之一的爱沙尼亚血统。” “我一点也不稀罕什么处女。”
“她们其实连处女也不是，”米洛用劝告的口气继续说道，“我为你选定的那个女人曾嫁过一个上了年纪的教师，不过时间不长，那男的只在星期天才同她睡觉，所以她几乎就同一个没破了身子的姑娘差不多。”
然而，奥尔也同样瞌睡得要命，所以当他们驱车离开机场驶进巴勒莫时，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔仍一边一个坐在米洛的身旁。他们发现在巴勒莫的旅馆里仍然没有他俩的房间。更重要的是，他们还发现米洛竟是那里的市长。
对米洛的古怪的、令人难以置信的欢迎从机场就开始了。在机场上忙碌著的平民百姓们认出了米洛，都恭恭敬敬地停下手上的工作，目不转睛地看着他，一边还做著颇有节制的动作，嘴里还说着奉承话。米洛要来的消息已先于他本人传到了城里，所以当他们乘坐著敞篷小卡车疾驶而来时，城郊早已挤满了欢呼的人群。尤塞瑞恩和奥尔大惑不解，所以作声不得，只好紧紧地挤在米洛的身边以求平安无事。
卡车进城后放慢了速度，朝著市中心缓缓驶去，这期间，人们的欢呼声越来越响。男童女童们都用不着上学了，而是穿着新衣，排列在大街的人行道两旁，手里不住地挥舞著小旗子。对此，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔惊讶得一句话也说不出来。大街上人山人海，欢声雷动，空中到处悬挂著绘有米洛肖像的旗帜。米洛在肖像上的样子是穿着当地农民常穿的那种黄褐色的圆领衬衫，唇上蓄著一抹不齐整的小胡子，两只眼睛一大一小，正用一种无所不知、无所不晓的目光凝视著人群。他那审慎而又慈祥的脸上露出一副宽厚、睿智、严谨而又刚毅的神色。体弱无力的病人从窗口向他送来一个又一个的飞吻。围著围裙的店主们站在狭窄的店堂门口欣喜若狂地欢呼不已。无数大号嘀嘀嗒嗒地吹得震天响。到处都有人给挤倒，被踩死。一些抽抽噎噎的老妇女围著缓缓而行的卡车拼命地你推我搡，竞相去摸米洛的肩膀，或握他的手。米洛和善而又不失风度地接受著这场喧闹的庆祝。他用很优美的动作朝每一个人挥手作答，并且还很慷慨地大把大把地朝著欢乐的人群抛去飞吻，就像在散发包著锡纸的赫尔希牌巧克力一样，一排排朝气蓬勃的少男少女臂挽著臂，蹦蹦跳跳地跟在他的后面，一面扯著嘶哑的嗓门，直瞪著两眼，极敬慕地一遍又一遍地喊著： “米一洛！米一洛！米一洛！”
现在既然自己的秘密已被人知道了，米洛也同尤塞瑞恩和奥尔一样松弛下来了，他不禁显得洋洋得意，感到无比的自豪，同时也显得有点羞答答的。他的双颊也变得红润起来。米洛早被选为巴勒莫的市长──同时也是附近的卡里尼、蒙雷阿莱、巴盖里亚、泰尔米尼、伊梅雷塞、切法利、米斯特雷塔和尼科西亚的市长── 因为是他给西西里岛带来了苏格兰威士忌。
尤塞瑞恩感到很惊奇。“难道这儿的人这么喜欢喝苏格兰威士忌？”
“他们连一滴都不喝，”米洛解释道，“苏格兰威士忌可贵了，而这里的人都很穷。”
“既然没人喝，那你为什么要将酒运到西西里来？”
“为的是定出一个价钱来。我把酒从马耳他运到这里来，然后经我转手再替别人卖给我，这样赚头就大了。我在这里开创了一个新兴行业。今天，西西里已是世界上第三大苏格兰威士忌酒的出口基地了。这就是他们为什么要选我当市长的原因。”
“既然你是这么一个大人物，那你给我们在旅馆里弄间房怎么样？”奥尔用疲倦、含糊的声音十分不恭地咕哝道。
米洛很歉疚地作出了反应。“我正打算办这件事呢，”他允诺道，“实在抱歉，我忘了事先应用无线电替你俩在旅馆里订两个房间。随我来办公室吧，我马上就跟我的副市长说一声。”
米洛的办公室是一家理发店，他的副市长是一个矮胖的理发师。他一张嘴就是满口的奉迎，亲热的问候，两片嘴皮子上挂满了白沫，就像他在杯子里搅个不停的肥皂沫──他这是在准备替米洛刮脸。
“维托里奥，”米洛懒洋洋地仰面躺在维托里奥的一张理发椅上问，“我不在的这阵子情况怎么样啊？”
“大伙很难过，米洛先生，很难过。不过现在你回来了，大伙就都又开心了。”
“我在纳闷呢，怎么有这么大群大群的人。这旅馆怎么都住满了？”
“米洛先生，这一来是因为有那么多的人从别的城市赶来看您，二来是因为所有朝鲜蓟的买主都到咱们城来参加拍卖。”
米洛的一只手像只老鹰似的笔直地腾空而起，一把抓住维托里奥的修面刷。“朝鲜蓟是什么东西？”他问。
“朝鲜蓟，米洛先生？朝鲜蓟是一种非常好吃的蔬菜，不管在哪儿都受欢迎。趁您在这儿的期间，您真该尝尝它的味道，米洛先生。 我们这儿种的朝鲜蓟是世界上最好的。”
“真的？”米洛问，“今年朝鲜蓟卖什么价？”
“看样子它今年能卖个好价钱。因为收成很不好。”
“这是真的吗？”米洛若有所思地问，突然就走得不见人影了。 他从椅子上溜下来的动作是那么快，以至于他刚才围在身上的条纹围布在他离开了一两秒钟后才落地。等尤塞瑞恩和奥尔跟在他的后面冲到理发店门口时，米洛已消失得无影无踪了。
“下一位？”米洛的副市长殷勤地嚷嚷道，“下一位谁来？”
尤塞瑞恩和奥尔垂头丧气地从理发店走了出来。他俩被米洛抛弃了，无家可归，只得艰难地在狂欢的人群里穿行著，徒劳地寻找著一个能睡觉的地方。尤塞瑞恩已是精疲力竭了。他的脑袋一阵一阵地隐隐作痛，浑身乏力。他对奥尔很恼火，那家伙不知在哪里找到了两只山楂果，在走路的当儿一直塞在腮帮子里。后来被尤塞瑞恩发现了，硬是让他吐了出来。后来奥尔又找到两颗七叶树果子，又偷偷地将它们塞到嘴巴里，结果又一次被尤塞瑞恩察觉了。尤塞瑞恩再次抓住他，要他把山楂果从嘴里弄出来。奥尔咧嘴笑着，回答说那不是山楂果而是七叶树果，并且它们不是在他的嘴里，而是在他的手上。可是，因为他嘴里含著七叶树果，他说的话尤塞瑞恩连一个字也没听懂，尤塞瑞恩却死活要他将果子吐出来。此时奥尔的眼中闪出了狡猾的光芒。他用指关节使劲地磨擦著脑门，就像个醉鬼一样，一面样子下流地嘿嘿笑个不停。
“你还记得那个姑娘吗─？”他止住笑问，紧接著又下流地嘿嘿地笑了起来。“有一次在罗马的那个公寓里，那个姑娘用鞋子揍我的脑袋，当时我和她都一丝不挂，你还记得吗？”他脸上带著狡猾的期待神情问道。他等待著，直到尤塞瑞恩戒备地点了点头。“如果你让我把七叶树果放回嘴里，我就告诉你她为什么要揍我。这个交易怎么样？”
尤塞瑞恩点了点头，于是奥尔便源源本本地给他讲了那个离奇故事，告诉他在内特利的妓女的公寓里，那个赤身裸体的妓女为什么要用鞋子揍他的脑袋。可是尤塞瑞恩还是一个字没听懂，因为那两颗七叶树果又回到了奥尔的嘴里。尤塞瑞恩被他的这一诡计气得大笑了起来。然而，当黑夜降临时他俩实在无计可施，只好去了一家肮脏的小饭馆，吃了一顿乏味的晚饭，然后搭上一辆便车回到了机场。他们就睡在机舱内凉冰冰的金属地板上，辗转反侧，哼个不停，受罪得要命。这样过了还不到两个小时，他们就听到了卡车司机冲著他们大喊大叫的声音，原来他们运来了许多箱朝鲜蓟。那些司机将他俩从飞机上赶到地面，以便让他们往飞机上装货。这时天又下起了大雨，等到卡车开走时，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔已被淋得透湿，浑身的雨水直往下滴。两人无奈，只好又重新挤进机舱，将身子缩成一团，像两条正在发抖的鱼那样挤在装满了朝鲜蓟的摇摇晃晃的板条箱的角落里。黎明时分，米洛将这些朝鲜蓟空运到了那不勒斯，将其换成了肉桂、丁香、香草豆和胡椒荚，当天又把这些东西赶运回南方的马耳他。结果到了马耳他，他们又发现米洛原来还是那里的副总督。在马耳他，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔仍然弄不到房间。米洛在马耳他成了米洛·明德宾德少校爵士，并在总督府里有一间极大的办公室。 他的那张桃花心木的办公桌也是硕大无比的。在橡木板壁的一块嵌板上两面交叉的英国国旗下，悬挂著一张极其醒目的米洛·明德宾德少校爵士身穿英国威尔士皇家明火枪手制服的大幅照片。 照片上，米洛唇上的小胡子经过了修剪，细细的一抹，他的下巴像是经刀刻斧凿过的一样，双眼像利刺那样尖锐，米洛已受封为爵士，并被委任为威尔士皇家明火枪团的少校，还被任命为马耳他的副总督，因为他在马耳他开创了鸡蛋生意。米洛慷慨地表示让尤塞瑞恩和奥尔睡在他的办公室里厚厚的地毯上过夜。可是他刚离开不久，就来了一个全副武装的警卫，用刺刀顶著他们，将他俩赶出了这座大楼。这时他俩已是筋疲力尽，只得乘出租车回到机场。那司机脾气大得要命，在车钱上还宰了他们一刀。他俩又钻进机舱去睡觉，这一次机舱里到处塞的都是黄麻袋，里面装满了可可和新磨的咖啡，只只麻袋都被撑漏了，散发出一股股浓烈的气味，以至两人不得不跑出机舱，趴在飞机的起落架上大吐特吐起来。第二天一大早，米洛就乘专车来到机场，整个人显得精神焕发，立即就起飞前往奥兰，到了奥兰，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔还是找不到旅馆房间，而米洛又摇身一变成了那儿的代理国君。在那座橙红色的王宫里，有一处专供米洛支配的住所，可是尤塞瑞恩和奥尔却不能随同他进宫，因为他俩是信仰基督教的异教徒。在王宫门口，他俩被手持弯刀、身材魁梧的柏柏尔族警卫给拦住，被赶走了。奥尔患了重感冒，又流鼻涕又打喷嚏。尤塞瑞恩那宽阔的脊背也弯了下来，疼得要命。他真想把米洛的脖子给拧断，可怎奈他是奥兰的代理国君，他的身体是神圣不可侵犯的。事实还表明：米洛不仅是奥兰的代理国君，他同时还是巴格达的哈里发，大马士革的伊玛目和阿拉伯的酋长。在那些落后的地区，米洛既是谷物之神，也是雨神和稻米之神，因为在那些地方，这些神灵仍受到愚昧而又迷信的人们的崇拜。说起在非洲丛林深处，米洛突然变得很谦虚起来了，他暗示说在那里到处都可见到他那留著小胡子的巨大的脸部石雕，那些石雕的面孔俯视著无数个被人血染红了的原始的石头祭坛。他们一行的足迹所到之处，人们都要朝著米洛热烈欢呼。他去了一个又一个城市，每到一处都要受到英雄凯旋式的欢迎。最后他们来到了开罗，就是在那里，米洛垄断了市场上所有的棉花，可这时世界上谁也不需要棉花，这使得他一下子就濒于破产的边缘。事情的起因是这样的，那天在开罗，尤塞瑞恩和奥尔终于在旅馆里找到了房间。他们终于有了柔软的床铺、蓬松的枕头、浆洗干净的被单，也有了盥洗室，里面还有供他们挂衣服的衣架，另外还有水可以洗澡。尤塞瑞恩和奥尔将他门那散发著难闻的恶臭的身体浸泡在一只盛满了滚烫的热水的大盆里，直到将浑身的皮肤泡得通红。洗完澡，他俩随著米洛出了旅馆，来到一家很讲究的饭馆，先是吃了鲜虾开胃口，然后又吃了些切得小小的肉片。饭馆的前厅有一架可自动记录证券行市的收报机，当米洛向侍者领班打听它是啥机器时，它恰好在劈劈啪啪地打出埃及棉花的最新行情。米洛从来连想都没想过，世上竟有证券行情自动收报机这种奇妙无比的机器。
“真的？”当侍者领班结束了他的解释时，米洛不禁叫出了声。
“现在埃及棉花卖什么价？”侍者领班告诉了他，米洛立即就将市场上的原棉统统买了下来。
然而米洛买下的埃及棉花倒并不怎么让尤塞瑞恩感到害怕，真正让他感到担心的是当地市场上的一串串青里透红的香蕉。米洛是在他们驱车进城时发现这些香蕉的。事实证明他的担心是有道理的，因为当夜十二点以后，米洛将他从熟睡中摇醒了，将一个剥了一半皮的香蕉硬塞到他的嘴里。尤塞瑞恩给噎得差点没哭出来。
“尝一尝。”米洛催促著，一面拿著那根香蕉紧跟著尤塞瑞恩那张痛苦不堪的脸转来转去。
“米洛，你这个杂种，”尤塞瑞恩用呻吟般的声音说道，“我要睡觉。”
“把它吃了，然后告诉我好不好吃，”米洛坚持道，“别告诉奥尔，这是我送给你的。我刚才也给他吃了一根，收了他两个皮阿斯特。”
尤塞瑞恩只好顺著他，吃了那根香蕉，告诉他味道不错，便又合上了双眼。然而米洛却又把他摇醒了，要他立刻以最快的速度穿好衣服，因为他们马上就要飞离这里到皮亚诺萨岛去。 “你和奥尔必须立即把香蕉装上飞机，”米洛解释说，“那人说在搬弄这一串串香蕉时得留神，别让蜘蛛钻进去。”
“米洛，我们不能等天亮再飞吗？”尤塞瑞恩恳求说，“我得睡一会才行。”
“它们烂起来可快啦，”米洛回答说，“我们一分钟也耽搁不起。 想想吧，咱们中队在家的那些人要是吃到这些香蕉，该有多高兴啊。”
然而，中队的那些人却连香蕉的影子也没见著。这是因为在伊斯坦布尔，香蕉是卖方的市场，而在贝鲁特,茴香籽却是买方市场，所以米洛抛售了香蕉，买下茴香籽，将其运往班加西。六天以后，他们又马不停蹄地赶回皮亚诺萨岛，这时,奥尔的假期也结束了。他们的飞机上装满了从西西里购来的上好的白皮鸡蛋，可米洛却说这些鸡蛋是从埃及买来的，并且仅以四分一个的价钱卖给了食堂。这样一来,那些已加入辛迪加联合体的指挥官全都恳求米洛立即赶回开罗，再多弄些青里透红的香蕉到土耳其卖掉，在那里再多买些班加西急需的茴香籽。于是，好处人人有份儿。
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.
