rl.thebourneidentity-第4部分
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e did a week ago？' 'Of course。'
'Your eyesight's perfectly normal； you have no need of glasses。〃
'I didn't think I did。'
Then why is there evidence of prolonged use of contact lenses about your retinas and lids？' 'I don't know。 It doesn't make sense。' 'May I suggest a possible explanation？' I'd like to hear it。'
'You may not。' The doctor returned to the window and peered absently outside。 'Certain types of contact lenses are designed to change the colour of the eyes。 And certain types of eyes lend themselves more readily than others to the device。 Usually those that have a grey or bluish hue； yours are a cross。 Hazel…grey in one light； blue in another。 Nature favoured you in this； often no alteration was required。' 'Required for what？'
'For changing your appearance。 Very professionally； I'd say。 Visas； passports； driver's licences … switched at will。 Hair： brown； blond； auburn。 Eyes … can't tamper with the eyes green； grey； blue？ The possibilities are far…ranging； wouldn't you say？ All within that recognizable category in which the faces are blurred by repetition。'
The man got out of the chair with difficulty； pushing himself up with his arms； holding his breath as he rose。 'It's also possible that you're reaching。 You could be way out of line。' The traces are there； the markings。 That's evidence。' 'Interpreted by you； with a heavy dose of cynicism thrown in。 Suppose I had an accident and was patched up？ That would explain the surgery。'
'Not the kind you had。 Dyed hair and the removal of clefts and moles aren't part of a restoration process。'
'You don't know that！' said the unknown man angrily。 'There are different kinds of accidents； different procedures。 You weren't there； you can't be certain。'
'Good！ Get furious with me。 You don't do it half often enough。 And while you're mad； think。 What were you？ What are you？'
'A salesman。。。 an executive with an international pany； specializing in the Far East。 That could be it。 Or a teacher。。。 of languages。 In a university somewhere。 That's possible； too。' 'Fine。 Choose one。 Now！'
'I。。。 I can't。' The man's eyes were on the edge of helplessness。 'Because you don't believe either one。' The man shook his head。 'No。 Do you？' 'No；' said Washburn。 'For a specific reason。 Those occupations are relatively sedentary and you have the body of a man who's been subjected to physical stress。 Oh； I don't mean a trained athlete or anything like that； you're no jock； as they say。 But your muscle tone's firm； your arms and hands used to strain and quite strong。 Under other circumstances； I might judge you to be a labourer； accustomed to carrying heavy objects； or a fisherman； conditioned by hauling in nets all day long。 But your range of knowledge； I daresay your intellect； rules out such things。'
'Why do I get the idea that you're leading up to something？ Something else。'
'Because we've worked together； closely and under pressure； for several weeks now。 You spot a pattern。' 'I'm right then？' 'Yes。 I had to see how you'd accept what I've just told you。 The previous surgery； the hair； the contact lenses。'
'Did I pass？'
'With infuriating equilibrium。 It's time now； there's no point in putting it off any longer。 Frankly； I haven't the patience。 e with me。' Washburn preceded the man through the living…room to the door in the rear wall that led to the dispensary。 Inside； he went to the er and picked up an antiquated projector； the shell of its thick round lens rusted and cracked。 'I had this brought in with the supplies from Marseilles；' he said； placing it on the small desk and inserting the plug into the wall socket 'It's hardly the best equipment； but it serves the purpose。 Pull the blinds； will you？'
The man with no name or memory went to the window and lowered the blind； the room was dark。 Washburn snapped on the projector's light； a bright square appeared on the white wall。 He then inserted a small piece of celluloid behind the lens。
The square was abruptly filled with magnified letters。
Die Bank Gemeinschaft
11 Bahnhofstrasse。 Zurich。
Zero…seven…seventeen…twelve…zero…fourteen…twenty…six…zero。
'What is it？' asked the nameless man。
'Look at it。 Study it。 Think。'
'It's a bank account of some kind。'
'Exactly。 The printed letterhead and address is the bank； the handwritten numbers take the place of a name； but insofar as they are written out； they constitute the signature of the account holder。 Standard procedure。'
'Where did you get it？'
'From you。 This is a very small negative； my guess would be half the size of a thirty…five millimetre film。 It was implanted …surgically implanted … beneath the skin above your right hip。 The numbers are in your handwriting； it's your signature。 With it you can open a vault in Zurich。'
They chose the name Jean…Pierre。 It neither startled nor offended anyone； a name as mon to Port Noir as any other。
And books came from Marseilles； six of them in varying sizes and thicknesses； four in English； two in French。 They were medical texts； volumes that dealt with the injuries to the head and mind。 There were cross…sections of the brain； hundreds of unfamiliar words to absorb and try to understand。 Lobes occipital and temporal； the cortex and the connecting fibres of the corpus callosum； the limbic system … specifically the hippocampus and mamillary bodies that together with the fornix were indispensable to memory and recall。 Damaged； there was amnesia。
There were psychological studies of emotional stress that produced stagnate hysteria and mental aphasia； conditions which also resulted in partial or total loss of memory。 Amnesia。
Amnesia。
There are no rules；' said the dark…haired man； rubbing his eyes in the inadequate light of the table lamp。 'It's a geometric puzzle； it can happen in any bination of ways。 Physically or psychologically … or a little of both。 It can be permanent or temporary； all or part。 No rules！'
'Agreed。！ said Washburn； sipping his whisky in a chair across the room。 'But I think we're getting closer to what happened。 What I think happened。'
'Which was？' asked the man apprehensively。
'You just said it： 〃a little of both〃。 Although the word 〃little〃 should be changed to 〃massive〃。 Massive shocks。'
'Massive shocks to what？'
'The physical and the psychological。 They were related； interwoven … two strands of experience； or stimuli； that became knotted。'
'How much sauce have you had？'
'Less than you think； it's irrelevant。' The doctor picked up a clipboard filled with pages。 'This is your history … your new history … begun the day you were brought here。 Let me summarize。 The physical wounds tell us that the situation in which you found yourself was packed with psychological stress； the subsequent hysteria brought on by at least nine hours in the water； which served to solidify the psychological damage。 The darkness； the violent movement； the lungs barely getting air； these were the instruments of hysteria。 Everything that preceded it … the hysteria … had to be erased so you could cope； survive。 Are you with me？'
'I think so。 The head was protecting itself。'
'Not the head； the mind。 Make the distinction； it's important We'll get back to the head； but we'll give it a label。 The brain。'
'All right。 Mind； not head。。。 which is really the brain。'
'Good。' Washburn flipped his thumb through the pages on the clipboard。 These are filled with several hundred observations。 There are the normal medical notes … dosage； time； reaction； that sort of thing … but in the main they deal with you； the man himself。 The words you use； the words you react to； the phrases you employ … when I can write them down … both rationally and when you talk in your sleep and when you were in a。 Even the way you walk； the way you talk or tense your body when startled or seeing something that interests you。 You appear to be a mass of contradictions； there's a subsurface violence almost always under control； but very much alive。 There's also a pensiveness that seems painful for you； yet you rarely give vent to the anger that pain must provoke。'
'You're provoking it now；' interrupted the man。 'We've gone over the words and the phrases time and time again。。。'
'And we'll continue to do
