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the hunger games-饥饿游戏(英文版)-第6部分
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If Iˇm going to cry； now is the time to do it。 By morning； Iˇll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face。 But no tears e。 Iˇm too tired or too numb to cry。 The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else。 So I let the train rock me into oblivion。
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me。 I hear Effie Trinketˇs voice； calling me to rise。 ¨Up； up； up！ Itˇs going to be a big； big； big day！〃 I try and imagine； for a moment； what it must be like inside that womanˇs head。 What thoughts fill her waking hours？ What dreams e to her at night？ I have no idea。
I put the green outfit back on since itˇs not really dirty； just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor。 My fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I think of the woods； and of my father； and of my mother and Prim waking up； having to get on with things。
I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesnˇt look too bad； so I just leave it up。 It doesnˇt matter。 We canˇt be far from the Capitol now。 And once we reach the city； my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway。 I just hope I get one who doesnˇt think nudity is the last word in fashion。
As I enter the dining car； Effie Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee。 Sheˇs muttering obscenities under her breath。 Haymitch； his face puffy and red from the previous dayˇs indulgences； is chuckling。 Peeta holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed。
¨Sit down！ Sit down！〃 says Haymitch； waving me over。 The moment I slide into my chair Iˇm served an enormous platter of food。 Eggs； ham； piles of fried potatoes。 A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled。 The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week。 Thereˇs an elegant glass of orange juice。 At least； I think itˇs orange juice。 Iˇve only even tasted an orange once； at New Yearˇs when my father bought one as a special treat。 A cup of coffee。 My mother adores coffee； which we could almost never afford； but it only tastes bitter and thin to me。 A rich brown cup of something Iˇve never seen。
¨They call it hot chocolate；〃 says Peeta。 ¨Itˇs good。〃
I take a sip of the hot； sweet； creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me。 Even though the rest of the meal beckons； I ignore it until Iˇve drained my cup。 Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold； which is a substantial amount； being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff。 One time； my mother told me that I always eat like Iˇll never see food again。 And I said； ¨I wonˇt unless I bring it home。〃 That shut her up。
When my stomach feels like itˇs about to split open； I lean back and take in my breakfast panions。 Peeta is still eating； breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate。 Haymitch hasnˇt paid much attention to his platter； but heˇs knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning a bottle。 Judging by the fumes； itˇs some kind of spirit。 I donˇt know Haymitch； but Iˇve seen him often enough in the Hob； tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor。 Heˇll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol。
I realize I detest Haymitch。 No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance。 It isnˇt just that weˇve been underfed and lack training。 Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it。 But we rarely get sponsors and heˇs a big part of the reason why。 The rich people who back tributes either because theyˇre betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with。
¨So； youˇre supposed to give us advice；〃 I say to Haymitch。
¨Hereˇs some advice。 Stay alive；〃 says Haymitch； and then bursts out laughing。 I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember Iˇm having nothing more to do with him。 Iˇm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes。 He generally seems so mild。
¨Thatˇs very funny；〃 says Peeta。 Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitchˇs hand。 It shatters on the floor； sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train。 ¨Only not to us。〃
Haymitch considers this a moment； then punches Peeta in the jaw； knocking him from his chair。 When he turns back to reach for the spirits； I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle； barely missing his fingers。 I brace myself to deflect his hit； but it doesnˇt e。 Instead he sits back and squints at us。
¨Well； whatˇs this？〃 says Haymitch。 ¨Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year？〃
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen。 He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw。
¨No；〃 says Haymitch； stopping him。 ¨Let the bruise show。 The audience will think youˇve mixed it up with another tribute before youˇve even made it to the arena。〃
¨Thatˇs against the rules；〃 says Peeta。
¨Only if they catch you。 That bruise will say you fought； you werenˇt caught； even better；〃 says Haymitch。 He turns to me。 ¨Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table？〃
The bow and arrow is my weapon。 But Iˇve spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well。 Sometimes； if Iˇve wounded an animal with an arrow； itˇs better to get a knife into it； too； before I approach it。 I realize that if I want Haymitchˇs attention； this is my moment to make an impression。 I yank the knife out of the table； get a grip on the blade； and then throw it into the wall across the room。 I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick； but it lodges in the seam between two panels； making me look a lot better than I am。
¨Stand over here。 Both of you；〃 says Haymitch； nodding to the middle of the room。 We obey and he circles us； prodding us like animals at times； checking our muscles； examining our faces。 ¨Well； youˇre not entirely hopeless。 Seem fit。 And once the stylists get hold of you； youˇll be attractive enough。〃
Peeta and I donˇt question this。 The Hunger Games arenˇt a beauty contest； but the best…looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors。
¨All right； Iˇll make a deal with you。 You donˇt interfere with my drinking； and Iˇll stay sober enough to help you；〃 says Haymitch。 ¨But you have to do exactly what I say。〃
Itˇs not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all。
¨Fine；〃 says Peeta。
¨So help us；〃 I say。 ¨When we get to the arena； whatˇs the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone 〃
¨One thing at a time。 In a few minutes； weˇll be pulling into the station。 Youˇll be put in the hands of your stylists。 Youˇre not going to like what they do to you。 But no matter what it is； donˇt resist；〃 says Haymitch。
¨But 〃 I begin。
¨No buts。 Donˇt resist；〃 says Haymitch。 He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car。 As the door swings shut behind him； the car goes dark。 There are still a few lights inside； but outside itˇs as if night has fallen again。 I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol。 The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts。 It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels。 This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today。 Since the rebels had to scale the mountains； they were easy targets for the Capitolˇs air forces。
Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds along。 The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky； and my chest tightens。 I hate being encased in stone this way。 It reminds me of the mines and my father； trapped； unable to reach sunlight； buried forever
in the darkness。
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the partment。 We canˇt help it。 Both Peeta and I run to the window to see what weˇve only seen on television； the Capitol； the ruling city of Panem。 The cameras havenˇt lied about its grandeur。 If anything； they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air； the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets； the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal。 All the colors seem artificial； the pinks too deep； the greens too bright； the yellows painful to the eyes； like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 12。
The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city。 I step away from the win59 dow； sickened by their excitement； knowing they canˇt wait to watch us die。 But Peeta holds his ground； actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd。 He only stops when the train pulls into the station； blocking us from their view。
He sees me staring at him and shrugs。 ¨Who knows？〃 he says。 ¨One of them may be rich。〃
I have misjudged him。 I think of his actions since the reaping began。 The friendly squeeze of my hand。 His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim 。 。 。 did Peeta put him up to that？ His tears at the station。 Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice…guy approach had failed。 And now the waving at the window； already trying to win the crowd。
All of the pieces are still fitting together； but I sense he has a plan forming。 He hasnˇt accepted his death。 He is already fighting hard to stay alive。 Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark； the boy who gave me the bread； is fighting hard to kill me。
5
R…i…i…i…p！ I grit my teeth as Venia； a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows； yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it。 ¨Sorry！〃 she pipes in her silly Capitol accent。 ¨Youˇre just so hairy！〃
Why do these people speak in such a high pitch？ Why do their jaws barely open when they talk？ Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if theyˇre asking a question？ Odd vowels； clipped words； and always a hiss on the letter s 。 。 。 no wonder itˇs impossible not to mimic them。
Venia makes whatˇs supposed to be a sympathetic face。 ¨Good news； though。 This is the last one。 Ready？〃 I get a grip on the edges of the table Iˇm seated on and nod。 The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk。
Iˇve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still havenˇt met my stylist。 Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems。 This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin； turning my nails into uniform shapes； and primarily； ridding my body of hair。 My legs； arms； torso； underarms； and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff； leaving me like a plucked bird； ready for roasting。 I donˇt like it。 My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable。 But I have kept my side of the bargain with Haymitch； and no objection has crossed my lips。
¨Youˇre doing very well；〃 says some guy named Flavius。 He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth。 ¨If thereˇs one thing we canˇt stand； itˇs a whiner。 Grease her down！〃
Venia and Octavia； a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green； rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin。 Then they pull me from the table； removing the thin robe Iˇve been allowed to wear off and on。 I stand there； pletely naked； as the three circle me； wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair。 I know I should be embarrassed； but theyˇre so unlike people that Iˇm no more self…conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet。
The three step back and admire their work。 ¨Excellent！ You almost look like a human being now！〃 says Flavius； and they all laugh。
I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am。 ¨Thank you；〃 I say sweetly。 ¨We donˇt have much cause to look nice in District Twelve。〃
This wins them over pletely。 ¨Of course； you donˇt； you poor darling！〃 says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me。
¨But donˇt worry；〃 says Venia。 ¨By the time Cinna is through with you； youˇre going to be absolutely gorgeous！〃
¨We promise！ You know； now that weˇve gotten rid of all the hair and filth； youˇre not horrible at all！〃 says Flavius encouragingly。 ¨Letˇs call Cinna！〃
They dart out of the room。 Itˇs hard to hate my prep team。 Theyˇre such total idiots。 And yet； in an odd way； I know theyˇre sincerely trying to help me。
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe。 But this Cinna； my stylist； will surely make me remove it at once。 Instead my hands go to my hairdo； the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone。 My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged。 My mother。 I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car； never thinking about retrieving them； of trying to hold on to a piece of her； of home。 Now I wish I had。
The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters。 Iˇm taken aback by how normal he looks。 Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed； stenciled； and surgically altered theyˇre grotesque。 But Cinnaˇs closecropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown。 Heˇs in a simple black shirt and pants。 The only concession to selfalteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand。 It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes。 And； despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions； I canˇt help thinking how attractive it looks。
¨Hello； Katniss。 Iˇm Cinna； your stylist；〃 he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitolˇs affectations。
¨Hello；〃 I venture cautiously。
¨Just give me a moment； all right？〃 he asks。 He walks around my naked body； not touching me； but taking in every inch of it with his eyes。 I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest。 ¨Who did your hair？〃
¨My mother；〃 I say。
¨Itˇs beautiful。 Classic really。 And in almost perfect balance with your profile。 She has very clever fingers；〃 he says。
I had expected someone flamboyant； someone older trying desperately to look young； someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter。 Cinna has met none of these expectations。
¨Youˇre new； arenˇt you？ I donˇt think Iˇve seen you before；〃 I say。 Most of the stylists are familiar； constants in the everchanging pool of tributes。 Some have been around my whole life。
¨Yes； this is my first year in the Games；〃 says Cinna。
¨So they gave you District Twelve；〃 I say。 Newers generally end up with us； the least desirable district。
¨I asked for District Twelve；〃 he says without further explanation。 ¨Why donˇt you put on your robe and weˇll have a chat。〃
Pulling on my robe； I follow him through a door into a sitting room。 Two red couches face off over a low table。 Three walls are blank； the fourth is entirely glass； providing a window to the city。 I can see b
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