• Honorarium
• Brandon Taylor (bio)

Vasek was not familiar with the famous poet's work, but he had been asked if he would be willing, for a small honorarium, to play a brief selection at the open and close of the memorial service.

Yes, he said, partly because he hoped that by doing it, he might make himself available to other such requests, and also because it was the department head who asked him, directly, after a private lesson one foggy Tuesday in mid-September. Ezra, his instructor, laughed and clapped him on the back after she departed.

"You're a natural politician," Ezra said, and Vasek could only shake his head in cold wonder at the remark, which was at once a compliment and an insult.

Vasek met his friend Martine for coffee downtown. They sat under the heating lamps at the grocery store cafeteria, watching as workers dragged and stacked the metal patio furniture, then drew tarps over the tables and locked them. Across the courtyard, the lights of the library were soft and gold, and from where they sat, Vasek and Martine could see children running back and forth, their [End Page 68] little heads floating by the window. It was cooler than it had any reason to be in September, and Martine shivered despite the heating lamps. She had gotten soaked in the rain earlier in the day and had failed to sufficiently dry herself. Her hair was still damp and her clothing had a cold, clear smell.

The cafeteria was loud but muted, as if all the noise somehow canceled itself out, leaving only the impression of volume. Occasionally, someone dragged a table or a chair across the stone tiles, and there was a screeching, crying sound that Vasek felt in his body, discord like a jolt to the nerves. Martine's coffee was exceptionally dark and thick, and he kept looking at it while she sipped. It deposited a creamy foam on her upper lip, which she licked away.

"If the weather's going to be shit, I wish it would make up its mind about the kind of shit it's going to be," she said. "It's getting out of hand."

"It's bad for the strings," he said.

"What an exceptionally normal response."

"It can't be good for the clay either," he said. "Or, I guess, maybe not. Maybe you guys have sophisticated HVAC over there. I know we do for our practice rooms."

"No," she said. "Actually, it's pretty low-tech in our neck of the woods. But we do keep some humidifiers plugged in."

"Yeah. It's different though. You take violins through the world. The clay just stays."

"That much is true," she said with a shrug. "But it's not the clay I'm worried about. I just get so anxious this time of the year. How do you dress, you know? For a blizzard? For constant rain? For thunderstorms? Tornados? Hurricanes?"

"Hurricanes? In Iowa. That I would pay to see."

"No, you wouldn't. You would flee, or you should, anyway."

Martine laughed, but Vasek stared down into the dark surface [End Page 69] of his coffee. His fingers were warmer than they had been when moving through the fog, which now sat like a solid thing in the center of town. It was true that there were no hurricanes in Iowa, but the odds of one trekking this far inland from the Gulf seemed like something that might be goaded into reality just by virtue of its impossibility. It always seemed somehow to him that things that were unlikely to occur had the greatest chance of happening, but he also knew that he felt that way because he had seen too many movies and read too many books. He considered himself part of a narrative, and it was difficult not to believe that his circumstances, no matter how unremarkable, were somehow extraordinary.

"I'm doing a memorial service," he said.

"Oh? Who died?"

"I don't know them. Some poet. They died. Recently."

"We all gotta die sometime, I guess."

"Yeah, well, I was asked to play at the service. Two things, short. Barely...

• 酬金
• 布兰登·泰勒（生物）

瓦塞克对这位著名诗人的作品不熟悉，但有人问他是否愿意为一个小的酬谢金，在追悼会的开场和闭幕时做一个简短的选择。

是的，他说，部分原因是他希望这样做可以使自己对其他这样的请求有所帮助，并且是因为在9月中旬一个有雾的星期二的一次私人课程之后，系主任直接问他。她的教练埃兹拉（Ezra）离开后笑了起来，拍了拍他的背。

以斯拉说：“你是个天生的政治家。”瓦瑟克对此感到震惊。

瓦塞克遇见了他的朋友马丁（Martine），在市区喝咖啡。他们坐在杂货店食堂的暖气灯下，看着工人拖拉和堆放金属露台家具，然后在桌子上画防水布并将其锁上。整个院子里，图书馆的灯光柔和而金色，从他们坐的地方，Vasek和Martine可以看到孩子们来回奔跑，[End Page 68]小头漂浮在窗户旁边。天气比9月份要凉爽，尽管有暖气灯，马蒂恩还是瑟瑟发抖。那天早些时候她被雨淋湿了，未能充分干燥自己。她的头发仍然湿润，衣服上散发出凉爽，清澈的气味。

自助餐厅响亮却无声，好像所有的噪音都以某种方式抵消了，只留下了体积的感觉。有时，有人在石砖上拖着桌子或椅子，瓦瑟克在他的体内感觉到一种刺耳的，哭泣的声音，就像神经的震颤一样不和谐。马丁娜的咖啡特别黑而浓，他she饮时一直看着。它在她的上唇上沉积了奶油状的泡沫，她舔了舔。

她说：“如果天气会变得很糟，我希望它能下定决心。” “它失控了。”

他说：“这对弦乐不利。”

“这是非常正常的反应。”

他说：“这对粘土也不是一件好事。” “或者，我想也许没有。也许你们那里有先进的HVAC。我知道我们为我们的练习室做。”

“不，”她说。“实际上，这在我们的脖子上是技术含量很低的技术。但是我们确实插上了一些加湿器。”

“是的。不过不一样。你把小提琴带遍世界。黏土就留了下来。”

“那是真的，”她耸耸肩说。“但这不是我担心的黏土。一年中的这个时候我感到非常焦虑。你知道怎么穿衣服？为了暴风雪？为了持续降雨？为了雷暴？龙卷风？飓风？”

“飓风？在爱荷华州。我愿意花钱去看看。”

“不，你不会。无论如何，你会逃走，或者你应该逃走。”

马丁（Martine）笑了起来，但瓦塞克（Vasek）凝视着咖啡的深色表面[第69页完]。他的手指比雾中移动时的手指更温暖，雾在镇中心像固体的东西一样坐着。的确，在爱荷华州没有飓风，但是由于没有可能性，一个人从海湾向内陆徒步旅行的可能性似乎可以变成现实。在他看来，总是不太可能发生的事情发生的可能性最大，但他也知道他有这种感觉，因为他看了太多的电影，看了太多的书。他认为自己是叙事的一部分，很难不相信他的处境，无论多么不那么引人注目，在某种程度上都是非同寻常的。

他说：“我正在追悼会。”

“哦？谁死了？”

“我不认识他们。一些诗人。他们死了。最近。”

“我想我们都会在某个时候死去。”

“是的，好吧，我被要求参加这项服务。两件事，简而言之。勉强地……