Work 003
Installation, Performance, 2017
Inspired by Some Rain Must Fall by Michel Faber
003号作品
装置，行为，2017
本作受米歇尔.法柏《雨必将落下》启发
Some Rain Must Fall
The key turning in the lock, Nick got home after work.
Frances Strathairn, working in front of her computer, glanced at the computer’s top right corner. 7：20, he’s on time.
“Hello!” Nick shouted while changing his shoes.
“Hello!” Frances went on with her work on computer.
“How was your day?” Nick came into the study and kissed her on the lips.
My relationship with this man is in crisis, Frances reminded herself, kissing him on the lips. There is no doubt about it.
But of course there was doubt.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I’m exhausted. Maybe fish and chips.”
“Oh, again. ” Frances suddenly felt oppressive, as if the room was to burst.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite get it. Can we? ”
“Ye–s—-”.
Exhausted, she collapsed on the sofa and ate her meal. It was a variety show on TV, with cans’ laugh now and then. Nick was in the next room.
They needed life to go on, with a maximum of fuss.
“Where is the exhibition catalouge? I’ve put it on the end table. Don’t clear away my stuff anymore! It feels terrible when something is missing.” She shouted at the next door. “Also”, she added，“Stop collecting these bottles. They are rubbish. Our rooms are too packed. It is irritating. They are binding me and dragging me to the floor. It’s too much! I will throw them away one day! Every piece of them!”
“What’s up? Dear?” Mike asked calmly, taking off his ear phones. “Anything I can for you? ”
Rather, she wanted him to change.
“Let’s go to bed,”she sighed.
The next night, though, she stayed up.
“How long, do you think?’” he asked, just to make sure whether he could be roused during the sleep.
“As long as it takes,” she replied.
As with everything, he was fine about having to sleep on his own; well-behaved, well-behaved, well-behaved. She wished he would haul her up to the bedroom and fuck her. It would be inconsiderate and inconvenient, God yes: she had no time for sex tonight. She needed some sleep, of course. And yet she longed for him to knock her off course, or at least dare to try.
Don’t you realise our relationship is in crisis! She felt like yelling to him, which was such an absurd impulse that she laughed out loud.
He stood there, naked above the waist, a spray of glistening water-drops across his ribcage, a glow cast over his contours by her reading lamp. Her breath caught with the pain of soon not being with him anymore, because she would push him away, make sure he would never come back.
“Come here,” she murmured. He obeyed.
She would make love to him fast, here on the couch, then get on with her work. Undressing, she told herself that the exhibition proposal had to be ready by tomorrow. But she still could not make up her mind what color to use for the wall, pink, powder-blue or just white. She slid her rear over the edge of the couch to let Nick get inside her from where he was kneeling. Right now Frances had to admit that her clitoris wasn’t getting enough friction, and her back was being repeatedly stabbed by a metal zip on one of the cushions.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she said.
After orgasm, drunk with endomorphins, she drifted off to sleep, nestled against his arm, without briefs.
At breakfast, Frances hugged Nick from behind. In a bath robe after shower, he was making a coffee. She leant against his back, reading for his private parts. Nick turned his head, smiling at her. Looking into each other, they were in the most intimacy these days.
How come I felt asleep last night, like those trashy men? Lots of women complained about men in the sentiment column.
Three days passed. Then four days. Nothing happened on the fifth day, it’s incredible. Only that It was raining.
As the rain dimmed the skies outside, the fluorescent strip-light took over. The rain was thrashing down absurdly now, as if in fury, raging violently at the window and the broken flowerpots. Luckily there was no wind.
Frances loved wind.
“I want to divorce, Nick,” Frances rehearsed in her mind, imagining her tone and intonation, and, to have a better and real taste of pain, pictured herself to be everyone she knew who had divorced, including those celebrities. In her mind she tried to make everything clear and specific, ignoring no detail, like the furniture, the smiling faces in the photos on the mantel over the fireplace, the thickness of the carpet, and whether they crossed their arms or refused to look in the eye when they held their head in hands… It’s all despair. What had put the two that could not have been more intimate into such a hopeless situation? What kind of separate life would they have after brokeup? Nothing mattered. The rain softened now with lingering pain.
All she wanted was a clean start.
Nick was mad at the mess in the kitchen. On the saucepan for the salmon yesterday were plates for the hamburgers the day before, with blood-red ketchup and almost transparent mayonnaise. There were also three or four glasses with knives, forks and tea spoons inside.
Mesmerised by his violent display, she followed the sweep of his big hands, longing for him to hit her, batter her to the floor. But even in anger he was hopelessly, infuriatingly safe, like the routine supper.
“Zip your damned lip!” Frances yelled her her sharp woe.
After they’d finished arguing, they stripped the bed, turned up the central heating and went out to Rotherey’s only restaurant, a combination hotel and snooker hall which also did Indian.
The pair by the window, observing others around without talking to or looking at each other, must have been married for over five or even ten years. The couple to the left of the bar counter, holding each other’s hands over the table and talking endlessly, might be young love, for not more than three months. For Frances and Nick, this classification game is an effective weapon to kill the silence before their order arrived.
The restaurant was busier on a Friday evening. Their order was not ready yet when they have covered all the tables in their game. Frances began to fiddle with the candles on the table.
“I want to die, Nick.”
She cried and cried, keeping sobbing.
The lamb korma arrived. Frances took away her hands. Clearing her throat, she asked, “ What will we have for supper tomorrow?”
“Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.”
—Zhu Tian
adapted from Some Rain Must Fall by Michel Faber
雨必将落下
门锁转动，尼克下班到家了。
弗朗西斯.斯特雷泽恩正在书房的电脑前工作。瞄了一眼电脑的右上角，7：20，准点。
“你好？”尼克在走廊一边换鞋一边冲里屋喊。
“你好。”弗朗西斯继续着电脑上的工作。
“今天怎么样？”尼克进来书房，吻了吻弗朗西斯的嘴唇。
“毫无疑问，我和这个男人的关系快完了。”弗朗西斯提醒自己，同时吻了下他的嘴唇。
疑问自然还是有的。
“今天晚上吃什么？”
“我很累，就简单地吃点鱼和薯条吧。”
“又是鱼和薯条。”弗朗西斯突然觉得沉闷，仿佛房间里的气压瞬间升高了。
“你说什么？我没听见。可以吗？”
“可——以——。”
她累坏了，倒在沙发上吃了饭，电视上播放着充满罐头笑声的综艺节目。尼克在隔壁。
他们的日子还得继续下去，带着最大限度的忙乱继续下去。
“我放在茶几下面的展览目录哪去了？你不要再收拾我的东西了！找不到东西让我很不爽。”她冲隔壁的尼克吼道，“还有，你不要再收集这些瓶瓶罐罐的垃圾了。家里东西太多了，这让我很烦躁。我感觉每一样东西都在束缚着我，死死地拉着我沉在地面。我快受不了了！有一天我会把所有的东西统统都扔掉。所有！”
“你这是怎么了，亲爱的？”尼克摘下耳机，平静地说，“我能帮你什么吗？”
其实她觉得，需要改变的是他。
“我们睡吧。”弗朗西斯叹口气说。
第二天晚上，她在熬夜工作。
“你觉得还要多久？”尼克问道，只是想知道自己睡着后会不会被吵醒。
“等我看完。”弗朗西斯回答。
尼克是什么都无所谓的，也无所谓自己一个人睡。他很好，真的很好，一直都很好。她希望尼克把她拖进房里，然后操她。那样很粗鲁也会很不方便————她今晚可没时间做爱。当然，多少还得睡一会儿————但是她期待他来粗暴地打乱自己的工作，至少有胆量试试。
“你难道没意识到我们的关系快完了吗？”她心里冲着他吼，这股荒谬的冲动让她忍不住笑出声来。
他站在那里，裸着上身，胸膛缭绕着一层闪烁的水雾，阅读台灯的光勾勒出他身体的轮廓。她的呼吸夹带着疼痛，因为很快就要和他分离了，她要推开他，推开自己，离开眼下这个安稳的居所和生活。这让她感到一阵胸闷。
“到这儿来。”她低声说。他顺从地走过去。
她要和他快速地做个爱，就在这张沙发上，然后继续她的工作。裸着身子，她想着明天必须得把展览方案确定了，但她还在犹豫墙壁的用色应该是粉红还是粉蓝或者干脆不动保留纯白。她把臀部滑向沙发边缘，好让跪着的尼克进入身体。此刻，弗朗西斯不得不承认，她的阴蒂没有得到足够的摩擦，靠垫上的拉链又一次次地刺到背脊。
“我们去卧室吧。”她说。
高潮过后，在内吗啡肽的作用下，她贴着他的手臂，没来得及穿上内裤就滑入了睡梦中。
早餐的时候，弗朗西斯主动从后面拥抱了刚洗过澡穿着浴袍的尼克。他在冲咖啡，弗朗西斯靠着他的背，手下意识地伸向他的下体，尼克转头对她微笑。这种四目相接的对视，是这些天来他们最为亲密的交流。
她昨天怎么就睡着了？搞得好像那些没用的男人似的，她时常在情感专栏里看到女人们抱怨这些男人。
第三天，第四天。不可思议的是，到了第五天仍旧没什么特别的事发生。只有一件事：下雨了。
窗外的雨水使天空暗淡了下来，各家的灯陆续亮起来。
雨开始疯狂地落下来，像是出于暴怒，嘈杂地敲打着窗玻璃和院子里裂成两半的花盆。幸好没有风。
弗朗西斯喜欢风。
“我想要离婚，尼克。”弗朗西斯在心里重复想象着自己说出这句话时的语气和语调。为了更真实地体会到那种痛，她甚至逐个想象自己是她所知道的那些已经离了婚的人，包括一些名人。她想象得尽量具体，连那些人家里的家具摆设、壁炉上摆放着的照片里的笑容、地毯的厚度和他们是交叉捧着双臂还是抱着头无法直视都小心体会。无法猜测的绝望。是什么让两个曾经互相吸引的人之间的关系走到这样的绝境，又要如何去想象这之后双方的人生将以一种什么样的状态独立存在，但已毫无关系。雨势已经减弱，只留下它带来的损伤在持续。
她想要一个干净的开始。
尼克在为一片狼藉的厨房发火。昨天煎过三文鱼的平底锅叠着前天盛汉堡的盘子，上面残留着血红的番茄酱和已经变透明的美乃滋，旁边摞着三四个杯子，杯子里插着刀叉小茶勺。
她被他粗暴的样子吸引了，目光追随着他巨大的手掌掠过的弧线，渴望他侵犯她，把她摔倒在地上，殴打她。但即使处在愤怒之中，他也不具有伤害性，毫无希望，让人恼怒。一如每天重复的晚饭菜单。
“你他妈的闭嘴！”弗朗西斯带着尖锐的悲哀狂叫起来。
争吵结束后，他们掀下床单，打开暖气，出门去了家附近的一家餐厅，那里也是酒吧和台球室，还做印度菜。
靠窗那对一直在安静地观察别桌客人互相不说话也不对视的，结婚肯定超过五年甚至十年以上；右边吧台附近，越过桌面拉着手看着对方有说不完话的，应该刚开始恋爱还没超过三个月。这个分类游戏是弗朗西斯和尼克用来打发等待食物到来之前沉默时光的法宝。
这是周五晚上，餐厅的客人比平常要多一些。等他们讨论完每一桌客人的可能性关系后，他们点的菜还没送上来。弗朗西斯开始用手指玩起桌子上的蜡烛。
“尼克，我想死。”
她哭了很久，持续不停地啜泣。
羊肉咖喱和蔬菜炖饭来了，弗朗西斯把手放下，清了清嗓子：
“明天晚上我们吃什么？”
“Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.
有些雨必将落下，有些日子必将惨淡。“
——朱田
改编自米歇尔.法柏《雨必将落下》