American literary giant: 1974

Capote continued, "Mr. Lynn, Hannibal is truly an unforgettable monster. How did he come to be? Every monster has a real-life prototype, right?"

Lynn remained silent, for there was a sharp edge to Capote's voice, a confidence that held its own.

Although they said flattering things, they were actually disdainful in their hearts.

Yes, no one will truly endorse a Chinese-American taxi driver based on a variety show or a sales report. Especially not Truman Capote—a man who spent half his life drinking and dining with New York's elite and living his life like a work of art.

In his eyes, Lynn was probably no different from the bartender who stored guests' coats at the entrance of the lounge.

Lynn politely raised his glass: "Thank you, Mr. Capote. Let's keep in touch sometime."

He just wanted to get rid of this troublesome guy as soon as possible.

But Capote clearly wasn't going to let him off the hook. His short frame leaned forward half an inch, his small, dark, agate-like eyes looking up at Lynn from below:

"Mr. Lynn, you haven't answered my question yet. Where did your Hannibal come from?"

Lynn smiled and said, "I've answered this question many times. It comes from the back seat of a taxi."

"The back seat... is interesting."

Capote took a sip of wine.

"So, since you've read my 'Cold-Blooded,' you know I also write about murderers, right?"

"Of course. Perry Smith, the Kansas family murderer."

"It took me six years to write this book." Capote tapped his index finger lightly on the marble surface of the bar. "Six years."

"And you, it only took you six months. Doesn't that mean you're a genius?" Capote's tone sounded like he was genuinely happy for Lynn.

"I never said that The Silence of the Lambs was better than your In Cold Blood."

"No, no, no, we're not discussing who's good or bad," Capote shook his head. "We're discussing the issue of genius, the issue of talent."

Lynn frowned.

He didn't know why Capote was making things difficult for him in this situation.

Out of distrust?

Is it due to the instinctive contempt of literary fundamentalists for popular writers?

Or perhaps it stemmed from something more personal—a kind of jealousy that even Capote himself might not be willing to admit: Why should something written by a taxi driver in six months stand alongside his six years of hard work on the sales charts?

But Lynn didn't want to expose Capote's little trick; he knew that maintaining decorum was essential at such drinking parties.

Lynn paused for a moment, then said, "Mr. Capote, how about we have a drink and chat about Hollywood gossip, Nixon jokes, and the ladies of New York? Instead of literature, what do you say?"

Capote chuckled softly, raised his glass, and gave Lynn a toast from afar.

"Mr. Lynn, I think we'll meet again soon if there's a chance."

"Um."

"You're a smart person."

"Thanks."

"By the way," Capote's tone suddenly turned serious, "I have a piece of advice for you, from someone who debuted thirty years before you."

"Please speak," Lynn said impatiently, raising her eyelids slightly.

"Don't play all your cards at once. New York is a cannibalistic city; it lifts you up to the sky, then pushes you off a cliff when you're at your most triumphant."

"I see."

"I've seen many geniuses who become famous overnight. New York doesn't lack smart people, it lacks—"

Capote stopped, his small eyes fixed on Lynn.

"What's lacking are people who can keep shining."

"Do you hope I won't perish so quickly?"

"I don't know that," Capote said. "I just want you to be prepared."

He suddenly changed the subject, as if casually mentioning a completely unrelated trivia:

"Oh, and if you have time, go buy a Florida newspaper."

Lynn was taken aback.

A Florida newspaper? What does that have to do with me?

Lynn's patience ran out: "Mr. Capote, I think we might as well speak frankly."

"It's nothing. Enjoy the party tonight." Capote shook his head, his innocent smile returning, and raised his glass:

"Respect to China, respect to the lamb, respect to the murderer."

He then walked with sturdy steps to a young woman in a swallowtail dress, seemingly having already forgotten the conversation he had just had.

Lynn picked up the glass of champagne, which had already dried up, and took the last sip.

"What did Capote talk to you about?"

It was Thompson's voice. He had somehow appeared beside Lynn, his thick fingers holding the ever-burning cigar.

"It's nothing. He said I'm a smart person, and then told me to go buy a Florida newspaper."

Thompson paused his cigar in his mouth. He glanced sideways at Lynn.

"Then you're finished."

"Finished?"

"When Capote says someone is smart, he means they've already started figuring out how to destroy you." Thompson exhaled a puff of smoke, which slowly rose, transforming into a thin, grayish-blue veil in the light of the crystal chandelier. "As for the Florida newspapers—"

"What's wrong?"

Thompson didn't answer; he just patted Lynn on the shoulder.

"Go home and get a good night's sleep," he said. Then he left, the smell of his cigar trailing behind him.

After Thompson left, Lynn stood alone and forlorn at the bar.

Occasionally, a few glamorous and sexy women would drift through the crowd, carrying slender champagne glasses, adorned with expensive jewelry, their bodies shimmering under the reflection of crystal chandeliers, and flashing carefully practiced smiles as they gently raised their glasses to Lynn.

Congratulations, darling.

After saying that, she continued to float forward, her skirt drawing bright arcs under the lights, heading towards someone more important deeper in the lounge.

It seems that no one is really talking about his book.

They were discussing sales figures, copyright, film and television adaptation fees, and profit expectations for the next quarter. To them, *The Silence of the Lambs* wasn't a story, but a string of numbers.

Lynn silently put down her wine glass.

He felt his brain begin to tear apart, as if the man named Hannibal had barged in.

Everything is so fucking boring and meaningless.

Champagne, jewelry, and fancy apple pie—that's not what Lynn wants at all.

He put the empty champagne glass back on the bar and turned to walk towards the door.

All he wanted to do now was buy a Florida newspaper and see what Capote was hiding.

------

The afternoon of the day after the party ended.

Lynn stopped as he passed a newsstand on Sixth Avenue.

Do you have any newspapers from Florida?

"Which one?" The shopkeeper, a Mexican man, was chewing gum.

"Whatever, let me see the ones from the last few days."