In his last four years he had seen any number of bedrooms like this, dotted round the city like crime scenes, rooms where you  were never more than six feet from a Nina Simone album, and though he‘d rarely seen the same bedroom twice, it was all too familiar. The burnt out nightlights and desolate pot plants, the smell of washing powder on  cheap,  ill-fitting  sheets.  She  had  that  arty  girl‘s  passion  for  photomontage  too;  flash-lit snaps  of college  friends  and  family  jumbled  in  amongst  the  Chagalls  and  Vermeers  and Kandinskys, the Che Guevaras and Woody Allens and Samuel Becketts. Nothing here was neutral, everything displayed an allegiance or a point of view. The room was a manifesto, and with a sigh Dexter recognised her as one of those girls who used "bourgeois‘  as a term of abuse. He could understand why "fascist‘ might have negative connotations, but he liked the word "bourgeois‘  and all that it implied. Security, travel, nice food, good manners, ambition; what was he meant to be apologising for?

 

He watched the smoke curl from his mouth. Feeling for an ashtray, he found a book at the side of the bed.  The Unbearable Lightness of Being, spine creased at the "erotic‘ bits. The problem  with  these  fiercely  individualistic  girls  was  that  they  were  all  exactly  the  same. Another  book:  The  Man  Who  Mistook  His  Wife  for  a  Hat.  Silly  bloody  fool,  he  thought, confident that it was not a mistake he would ever make.

At  twenty-three,  Dexter  Mayhew‘s  vision  of  his  future  was  no  clearer  than  Emma Morley‘s. He hoped to be successful, to make his parents proud and to sleep with more than one woman at the same time, but how to make these all compatible?  He wanted to feature in magazine  articles,  and  hoped  one  day  for  a  retrospective  of  his  work,  without  having  any clear notion of what that work might be. He wanted to live life to the extreme, but without any mess or complications. He wanted to live life  in such a way that if a photograph were taken at random, it would be a cool photograph. Things should look right. Fun; there should be a lot of fun and no more sadness than absolutely necessary.

It wasn‘t much of a plan, and already there had been mistakes. Tonight, for instance, was bound  to  have  repercussions:  tears  and  awkward  phone-calls  and  accusations.  He  should probably  get  out  of  here  as  soon  as  possible,  and  he  glanced  at  his  discarded  clothes  in preparation for his escape. 

 

过去的四年里，这样的卧室他见得多了，它们犹如一处处罪案现场，星罗棋布在城市各处。环顾房间六英尺之内你一定找得到妮娜·西蒙的专辑。尽管雷同的房间他从未见过，但对其中的一切都再熟悉不过：烧坏的夜灯灯泡，凋零的盆栽，散发出洗衣粉味道的大小不合的廉价床单。她也怀有文艺女青年对蒙太奇照片的热情—大学同学和亲人们的快照同夏加尔、维梅尔、康定斯基的作品以及切·格瓦拉、伍迪·艾伦、萨缪尔·贝克特的肖像拼接在一起。这个地方没有中立的元素，一切都在宣示某个信念，表达某种立场。房间就是一道宣言，德克斯特读懂了它的寓意：对她这种女孩而言，“中产阶级”这样的词汇是一种侮辱。他不由叹了口气，他可以理解“法西斯”为何是个贬义词，却喜欢“中产阶级”这个词从内涵到外延的一切。有保障的生活、旅游美食、良好的教养、勃勃雄心，莫非他还要为拥有这些而抱歉？

 

 

    他望着嘴里吐出的缭绕烟圈，伸手去摸烟灰缸，却在床边发现了一本书。《不能承受的生命之轻》，“情色”部分的书脊处已折出了皱痕。这些激烈的个人主义女青年的共同症结就在于，她们是一个模子刻出来的。还有一本书，《错把妻子当帽子》。蠢透了的傻瓜，他想着，确信这样的错误自己决不会犯。

 

 

    二十三岁的德克斯特·梅休对自己未来的设想并不比爱玛·莫利描述的更清晰。他想成功，想让父母为他自豪，并能同时和不止一个女人上床。然而这一切如何和谐并存？他希望能上杂志，有朝一日办出个人事业回顾展，至于是什么事业，他一片茫然。他想享受生命，活出极致，但不愿承受任何麻烦和纠缠。他理想的生活应该是，无论何时被抓拍，都无可挑剔；一切都该光鲜体面；还要有乐趣，一定要欢乐满满，除非万不得已，否则绝不要一丝哀愁。

 

 

    这算不上什么规划，况且已经出了差错。比如今夜，一定会引起余波：哭哭啼啼、恶言相向的电话、彼此的责难……大概该尽快离开此地。于是他瞥了一眼脱甩在各处的衣物，准备逃离。