‘What?’ said Ford.

“什么？”福特问。

A thin, ill-looking man wearing something baggy and Italian was walking up the stairs past them, lighting a cigarette, and had stopped, suddenly.

说话的是个病恹恹的瘦子，他穿着身松松垮垮的意大利名牌，一边走路一边点着香烟，正巧楼梯上跟他俩擦肩而过，然后突然莫名其妙地停下来。

‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Him.’

“不是你。”他说，“他。”

He looked straight at Arthur, then seemed to become a little confused.

他直愣愣地盯着阿瑟，似乎有些糊涂了。

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I think I must have mistaken you for someone else.’ He started on up the stairs again, but almost immediately turned round once more, even more puzzled. He stared at Arthur.

“请原谅，”他说，“我想我肯定是认错人了。”他继续上楼梯，但几乎立刻就又转过身来，比刚才还要迷惑，他睁大眼睛盯着阿瑟。

‘Now what?’ said Ford.

“又怎么了？”福特问。

‘What did you say?’

“你说什么？”

‘I said, now what?’ repeated Ford irritably.

“我说，又怎么了？”福特好不耐烦的重复道。

‘Yes, I think so,’ said the man and swayed slightly and dropped the book of matches he’d been carrying. His mouth moved weakly. Then he put his hand to his forehead.

“没错，我想是的。”那人微微晃了晃，手里的火柴盒也掉到了地上，他的嘴唇虚弱无力的颤抖着，然后他伸出一只手抚摸自己的前额。