After a disgusting Sunday spent emptying rubbish bins behind a pub in Taunton, and finding nothing, no raffle ticket, no telephone number, Arthur tried everything he could to find Fenchurch, and the more things he tried, the more weeks passed. He raged and railed against himself, against fate, against the world and its weather. He even, in his sorrow and his fury, went and sat in the motorway service station cafeteria where he’d been just before he met her. It’s the drizzle that makes me particularly morose. Please shut up about the drizzle, snapped Arthur. I would shut up if it would shut up drizzling. Look… But I’ll tell you what it will do when it shuts up drizzling, shall I? No. Blatter. What? It will blatter. Arthur stared over the rim of his coffee cup at the grisly outside world. It was a completely pointless place to be, he realized, and he had been driven there by superstition rather than logic. However, as if to bait him with the knowledge that such coincidences could in fact happen, fate had chosen to reunite him with the lorry driver he had encountered there last time. The more he tried to ignore him, the more he found himself being dragged back into the gravitic whirlpool of the man’s exasperating conversation. I think, said Arthur vaguely, cursing himself for even bothering to say this, that it’s easing off. Ha! Arthur just shrugged. He should go. That’s what he should do. He should just go. It never stops Raining! ranted the lorry driver. He thumped the table, spilt his tea, and actually, for a moment, appeared to be steaming. You can’t just walk off without responding to a remark like that. Of course it stops raining, said Arthur. It was hardly an elegant refutation, but it had to be said. It rains… all… the time, raved the man, thumping the table again, in time to the words. Arthur shook his head. Stupid to say it rains all the time… he said. The man’s eyebrows shot up, affronted. Stupid? Why’s it stupid? Why’s it stupid to say it rains all the time if it rains the whole time? Didn’t rain yesterday. Did in Darlington. Arthur paused, warily. You going to ask me where I was yesterday? asked the man. Eh? No, said Arthur. But I expect you can guess. Do you. Begins with a D. Does it. And it was pissing down there, I can tell you. You don’t want to sit there, mate, said a passing stranger in overalls to Arthur cheerily. That’s Thundercloud Corner that is. Reserved special for old Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head here. There’s one reserved in every motorway caff between here and sunny Denmark. Steer clear is my advice. ‘Swhat we all do. How’s it going, Rob? Keeping busy? Got your wet-weather tires on? Har har. He breezed by and went to tell a joke about Britt Ekland to someone at a nearby table. See, none of them bastards take me seriously, said Rob McKeena. But, he added darkly, leaning forward and screwing up his eyes, they all know it’s true! Arthur frowned. Like my wife, hissed the sole owner and driver of McKeena’s All-Weather Haulage. She says it’s nonsense and I make a fuss and complain about nothing, but, he paused dramatically and darted out dangerous looks from his eyes, she always brings the washing in when I phone to say I’m on me way home! He brandished his coffee spoon. What do you make of that? Well… I have a book, he went on, I have a book. A diary. Kept it for fifteen years. Shows every single place I’ve ever been. Every day. And also what the weather was like. And it was uniformly, he snarled, ‘orrible. All over England, Scotland, Wales I been. All round the Continent, Italy, Germany, back and forth to Denmark, been to Yugoslavia. It’s all marked in and charted. Even when I went to visit my brother, he added, in Seattle. Well, said Arthur, getting up to leave at last, perhaps you’d better show it to someone. I will, said Rob McKeena. And he did. 在那個整天都在倒空一家湯頓酒館的垃圾桶卻一無所獲——沒有彩票，沒有電話號碼——的噁心的週日之後，阿瑟嘗試了一切能做的去尋找芬琪詩，而他嘗試的越多，耗過去的日子就越多。 他陷入了暴走狀態，他罵自己，罵命運，罵這個世界還有這個世界的天氣。他甚至，在極度悲憤之中，跑到了那個在初次邂逅她之前他所在的高速路餐館。 “就是這毛毛雨讓我特別鬱悶。” “請閉嘴不要再扯毛毛雨了。”阿瑟很不爽地說。 “只要能讓毛毛雨閉嘴我就閉嘴。” “嘿......” “但是我會告訴你當毛毛雨閉嘴之後會怎麼樣。要我說麼？” “不。” “滔滔不絕（注1）。” “啥？” “雨會滔滔不絕地下。” 阿瑟的視線越過咖啡杯，凝視着外面恐怖的世界。這是個完全沒有意義的地方，他意識到，他開車到這兒來與其說是出於邏輯倒不如說是憑迷信。然而，就好像命運打算讓他明白世間可以有怎樣的巧合似的，命運選擇讓他和上一次碰見的大卡車司機再次相會。 他越想無視掉那個司機，就越發現自己被拖回了那個傢伙惱人的談話漩渦中。 “我覺着，”阿瑟含糊地說，暗地裏詛咒自己爲何還要費心說這句話，“你需要放鬆。” “哈！” 阿瑟只是聳聳肩。他該撤了。這纔是他該做的事。他早就該撤了。 “雨從來就沒停過！”大卡車司機咆哮着。他重重地敲着桌子把茶濺了出來，而且那些茶事實上還冒了一會兒熱氣。 你可不能在這種情況下不迴應點什麼就一走了之。 “雨當然會停。”阿瑟說。這很難稱得上是一個優雅的反駁，但這是必須說的。 “雨......一直......在下。”那個人吼着，再次撞着桌子，說一個字兒撞一下。 阿瑟搖搖頭。 “說雨一直在下是愚蠢的......”他說。 那個人的眉毛橫了起來，被惹着了。 “愚蠢？爲什麼愚蠢？爲什麼當雨整天在下的時候說雨一直在下是愚蠢的？” “昨天沒有下。” “在達林頓下了。” 阿瑟謹慎地打住了話頭。 “你是不是要問我昨兒在那兒？”那個人問，“嗯？” “不是。”阿瑟說。 “但我估計你要問。” “隨你。” “是以達字開頭的地名。” “隨便。” “那裏可是淋透了，我可以負責任地告訴你。” “你可不想坐在那個位置，夥計，”一個完全陌生的過路人對阿瑟快活地說，“那裏是‘雷雨雲之角’”。專門爲‘雨點總是不停落我腦袋上’老傢伙保留的。在此地和陽光燦爛的丹麥之間的每個高速路餐館裏都有這麼一個保留角落。我建議你躲得遠遠的。我們都這麼幹。羅勃，日子過得咋樣？還忙着哪？換上雨天輪胎啦？哈哈~~” 他說完馬上就閃人了，跑到鄰桌跟某人講起一個關於布瑞特·埃卡蘭（注2）的笑話來了。 “瞧見沒有，那幫混蛋沒一個拿我當回事的。”羅勃.麥克基納說。“但是，”他湊過身來瞪大了雙眼，陰暗地補充道，“他們都知道這是真的！” 阿瑟皺起了眉頭。 “就像我老婆，”麥克基納全天候貨運公司的唯一老總兼司機小聲說道。“她說我就是整天大驚小怪無病呻吟全是廢話，不過，”他做作地停頓了一下，從眼中射出了危險的目光，“當我打電話說在回家路上時她總是會趕緊把外面晾的衣服收起來！”他揮舞着自己的咖啡勺。“你怎麼看這個？” “這個嘛......” “我有本書，”他繼續說着，“我有本書。一本日記。保留了十五年。記載了我去的每一個地方。每一天。以及天氣是什麼樣的。而情況總是一樣的，”他咆哮着，“爛。我去過的英格蘭，蘇格蘭，威爾士的每個地方。歐陸的全境，意大利，德國，來來回回地去丹麥，還有南斯拉夫。全部都標在上面。甚至當我去看我的兄弟，”他加了一句，“在西雅圖。” “好吧，”阿瑟說着，最後決定起身離開，“也許你該把那玩意兒展示給別人看看。” “我會的。”羅勃.麥克基納說。 然後他這麼做了。
