倫敦塔里的集雨人巴爾薩澤·瓊斯開始收集雨水沒(méi)多久，就分辨出了六十四種雨，并將每一種都記錄在案；他還買來(lái)成堆的香水瓶保存雨水，記錄下雨的時(shí)間和日期，以及雨水的確切種類；他去大英圖書館，尋找一切有關(guān)雨的記載；他發(fā)現(xiàn)了一種不同的雨，這種雨只是1892年在科倫坡下過(guò)一次，是世上最罕見(jiàn)的一種雨。最后，一個(gè)裝滿雨水標(biāo)本的手提袋出現(xiàn)在了倫敦地鐵失物招領(lǐng)處的柜臺(tái)上……

伴著一絲雨水的氣息，故事在瓊斯夫婦倆的工作地點(diǎn)——倫敦塔內(nèi)的動(dòng)物園和倫敦地鐵失物招領(lǐng)處展開了。文中一群有趣的出場(chǎng)人物和他們的故事漸漸勾勒出夫婦倆的生活與情感問(wèn)題：兒子死后，丈夫一滴眼淚也沒(méi)流，只是無(wú)法控制地收集起雨水并繼續(xù)塔內(nèi)的日常工作。這個(gè)男人是不是根本不愛(ài)兒子，不愛(ài)她？作者朱莉婭·斯圖亞特（Julia Stuart）以細(xì)膩、奇異、幽默的筆調(diào)和視角將這對(duì)日漸冷漠相對(duì)的夫婦帶回了彼此身邊。

Standing on the battlements in his pajamas， Balthazar Jones looked out across the Thames where Henry III’s polar bear had once fished for salmon while tied to a rope. The Beefeater failed to notice the cold that pierced his dressing gown with deadly precision， or the wretched damp that crept round his ankles. Placing his frozen hands on the ancient parapet， he tilted back his head and inhaled the night. There it was again.

The undeniable aroma had fluttered past his capacious nostrils several hours earlier as he lay sleeping in the Tower of London， his home for the last eight years. Assuming such wonderment was an oasis in his usual gruesome dreams， he scratched at the hairs that covered his chest like freshly fallen ash and descended back into ragged slumber. It wasn’t until he rolled onto his side， away from his wife and her souk of competing odours， that he smelt it again. Recognising instantly the exquisite scent of the world’s rarest rainfall， the Beefeater sat bolt upright in the darkness， his eyes open wide like those of a baby bird.

The sudden movement of the mattress caused his wife to undulate for several seconds like a body drifting at sea， and she muttered something incomprehensible. As she turned away from the disturbance， her pillow fell into the gap between the head of the bed and the wall， one of the many irritations of living within circular walls. Balthazar Jones reached down into the dusty noman’s-land and groped around. After carefully retrieving the pillow， he placed it gently next to his wife so as not to disturb her. As he did so， he wondered， as he often had throughout their marriage， how a woman of such beauty， the embers of which still glowed fiercely in her fifty-fifth year， could look just like her father as she slept. For once， he didn’t feel the urge to poke her awake in order to rid himself of the harrowing illusion of sharing his bed with his Greek father-in-law， a man whose ferocious looks had led his relatives to refer to him as a good cheese in a dog’s skin. Instead， he quickly got out of bed， his heart tight with anticipation. Forgeting his usual gazelle’s step at such times， he crossed the room， his bare heels thudding on the emaciated carpet. He peered out， nose and white beard against the pane， which bore the smudges of numerous previous occasions. The ground was still dry. With mounting desperation， he scanned the night sky for the approaching rain clouds responsible for the undeniable aroma. In his panic not to miss the moment for which he had been waiting for more than two years， he hurried past the vast stone fireplace to the other side of the bedroom. His stomach， still bilious from the previous evening’s hogget， arrived first.

Grabbing his dressing gown， its pockets bearing the guilty crumbs of clandestine biscuits， the Beefeater pulled it across his pajamas and， forgetting his tartan slippers， opened the bedroom door. He failed to notice the noise the latch made and the subsequent incomprehensible babble it produced from his wife， a slither of hair skimming her cheek. Fingers sliding down the filthy rope handrail， he descended the corpsecold spiral stairs clutching in his free hand an Epyptian perfume bottle in which he hoped to capture some of the downfall. Once at the bottom of the steps， he passed his son’s bedroom， which he had never brought himself to enter since that terrible， terrible day. Slowly， he shut behind him the door of the Salt Tower， the couple’s quarters within the fortress， and congratulated himself on a successful exit. It was at that precise moment that his wife woke up. Hebe Jones ran a hand along the bed sheet that had been a wedding present all those years ago. But it failed to find her husband.

Balthazar Jones had been collecting rain for almost three years， a compulsion that had started shortly after the death of his only child.

巴爾薩澤·瓊斯身穿睡衣杵在塔頂垛口上，遠(yuǎn)眺泰晤士河。多年前，亨利三世的北極熊身上系著繩子，曾在這河中捕過(guò)三文魚。夜晚寒意襲人，冷風(fēng)無(wú)孔不入，陰濕的潮氣已經(jīng)爬上腳踝，但這位守塔人渾然不覺(jué)。他將凍僵了的雙手撐在古老的墻垛上，仰頭深深吸氣，又是這股氣息。

八年來(lái)，倫敦塔就是他的家。幾小時(shí)前，他還在塔里躺著睡覺(jué)，這芬芳?xì)庀?，悠悠然飄過(guò)他碩大的鼻孔，真真切切。但他以為這只是無(wú)數(shù)夢(mèng)魘中的短暫慰藉，抬手撓了撓胸口，那兒的胸毛似新落的一層灰。很快，他又昏昏入夢(mèng)，但依舊睡不安穩(wěn)。直到翻轉(zhuǎn)身，背對(duì)著妻子，遠(yuǎn)離了濃郁的女人香，他才再次感受到剛才的氣息。守塔人立刻辨認(rèn)出來(lái)，那是雨水的細(xì)膩味道，還是世界上最少見(jiàn)的一種雨。他在黑暗中猛地坐起身，瞪大眼睛，像只雛鳥。

突然的作用力讓床墊上下起伏，妻子的身體也跟著波動(dòng)起來(lái)，像在大海上漂浮。她喃喃不清地說(shuō)了些什么。這一攪擾，讓她翻了個(gè)身，枕頭隨即掉進(jìn)了床頭和墻壁的空隙里。在弧形墻壁的房間里生活，煩心事真不少，這算其中一件。巴爾薩澤·瓊斯把手伸進(jìn)灰撲撲的真空地帶，四下摸了摸，小心翼翼地拾回了枕頭，輕輕放到妻子身旁，沒(méi)去打擾她熟睡。此時(shí)，他不禁又好奇起來(lái)，結(jié)婚以來(lái)他就一直在想，如此美麗的一個(gè)女人，五十五歲了依舊風(fēng)韻猶存，怎么睡著時(shí)看起來(lái)會(huì)像極了她父親呢。盡管一想到和自己希臘岳父同床共枕的畫面，他就覺(jué)得渾身不自在，惟恐避之不及——那個(gè)男人樣子兇神惡煞，連親戚們都認(rèn)為，他是個(gè)面惡心善的人。但這一次，他沒(méi)顧上生出推醒她的沖動(dòng)，而是匆忙下了床，心里緊張卻又期待。往常這時(shí)候，他通常會(huì)踩著輕盈的羚羊步，這一次他早已忘得一干二凈，裸露的腳后跟砰砰踏在塌陷的地毯上，徑直穿過(guò)房間。他在窗前向外觀望，鼻子和花白的胡茬都貼在了窗玻璃上，那上面還有以前數(shù)次張望后留下的痕跡。地面是干的。他心中升起一絲絕望，抬頭掃視夜空，不遠(yuǎn)處有些積雨云越來(lái)越近，正是那股難以忽視的氣息的源頭。為這一刻，他已等了兩年，不想再錯(cuò)失機(jī)會(huì)。他慌忙走過(guò)巨大的石砌壁爐，去到臥房的另一側(cè)，他的肚子，還在消化晚餐的乳豬肉，先一步到達(dá)。

守塔人一把抓過(guò)長(zhǎng)袍，披在睡衣外，長(zhǎng)袍口袋里還有他偷吃餅干留下的尷尬碎屑。他忘了穿上那雙格子呢拖鞋，就匆匆打開了臥室門。他沒(méi)有注意到門閂的響動(dòng)和妻子含糊的抱怨，她臉頰上有一縷垂落的發(fā)絲。他走下旋梯，臺(tái)階冰涼僵硬。他一只手的手指沿著樓梯邊臟兮兮的扶手繩往下滑，另一只手攥著個(gè)埃及香水瓶，他希望用它接住一些雨滴。一走下樓梯，他就從兒子臥室前閃過(guò)，自從那個(gè)可怕至極的日子過(guò)后，他就沒(méi)再讓自己進(jìn)過(guò)那個(gè)房間。走出鹽塔，他慢慢關(guān)上身后的大門，這座要塞是他和妻子的住處。他慶幸自己越獄成功。而就在此時(shí)，他妻子醒了過(guò)來(lái)。赫碧·瓊斯伸手摸摸床單，這是他們當(dāng)初的結(jié)婚禮物。但是她沒(méi)有摸到她丈夫。

巴爾薩澤·瓊斯收集雨水差不多有三年了。惟一的孩子去世后不久，他就患上了這種收集強(qiáng)迫癥。