sk.thewastelands-第27部分

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　　Up　here…up　here　on　the　corner。　Next　to　the　stationery　store。
　　Here　came　a　UPS　man　in　dark　brown　fatigues；　pushing　a　dolly　loaded　with　packages。　Jake　hurdled　it　like　a　long…jumper；　arms　up。　The　tail　of　his　white　shirt　pulled　free　of　his　pants　and　flapped　beneath　his　blazer　like　the　hem　of　a　slip。　He　came　down　and　almost　collided　with　a　baby…carriage　being　pushed　by　a　young　Puerto　Rican　woman。　Jake　hooked　around　the　pram　like　a　halfback　who　has　spotted　a　hole　in　the　line　and　is　bound　for　glory。　〃Where's　the　fire；　handsome？〃　the　young　woman　asked；　but　Jake　ignored　her；　too。　He　dashed　past　The　Paper　Patch；　with　its　window…display　of　pens　and　notebooks　and　desk　calculators。
　　The　door！　he　thought　ecstatically。　I'm　going　to　see　it！　And　am　I　going　to　stop？　No；　way；　Jose！　I'm　going　to　go　straight　through　it；　and　if　it's　locked；　I'll　flatten　it　right　in　front　of　m…
　　Then　he　saw　what　was　at　the　corner　of　Second　and　Forty…sixth　and　stopped　after　all…skidded　to　a　halt；　in　fact；　on　the　heels　of　his　loafers。　He　stood　there　in　the　middle　of　the　sidewalk；　hands　clenched；　his　breath　rasping　harshly　in　and　out　of　his　lungs；　his　hair　falling　back　onto　his　forehead　in　sweaty　clumps。
　　〃No；〃　he　almost　whimpered。　〃No！〃　But　his　near…frantic　negation　did　not　change　what　he　saw；　which　was　nothing　at　all。　There　was　nothing　to　see　but　a　short　board　fence　and　a　littered；　weedy　lot　beyond　it。
　　The　building　which　had　stood　there　had　been　demolished。
　　
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　　JAKE　STOOD　OUTSIDE　THE　fence　without　moving　for　almost　two　minutes；　surveying　the　vacant　lot　with　dull　eyes。　One　er　of　his　mouth　twitched　randomly。　He　could　feel　his　hope；　his　absolute　certainty；　draining　out　of　him。　The　feeling　which　was　replacing　it　was　the　deepest；　bitterest　despair　he　had　ever　known。
　　Just　another　false　alarm；　he　thought　when　the　shock　had　abated　enough　so　he　could　think　anything　at　all。　Another　false　alarm；　blind　alley；　dry　well。　Now　the　voices　will　start　up　again；　and　when　they　do；　I　think　I'm　going　to　start　screaming。　And　that's　okay。　Because　I'm　tired　of　tough…ing　this　thing　out。　I'm　tired　of　going　crazy。　If　this　is　what　going　crazy　is　like；　then　I　just　want　to　hurry　up　and　get　there　so　somebody　will　take　me　to　the　hospital　and　give　me　something　that'll　knock　me　out。　I　give　up。　This　is　the　end　of　the　line…I'm　through。
　　But　the　voices　did　not　e　back…at　least；　not　yet。　And　as　he　began　to　think　about　what　he　was　seeing；　he　realized　that　the　lot　wasn't　…pletely　empty；　after　all。　Standing　in　the　middle　of　the　trash…littered；　weedy　waste　ground　was　a　sign。
　　
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　　ing　soon？　Maybe　。　。　。　but　Jake　had　his　doubts。　The　letters　on　the　sign　were　faded　and　it　was　sagging　a　little。　At　least　one　graffiti　artist；　BANCO　SKANK　by　name；　had　left　his　mark　across　the　artist's　drawing　of　the　Turtle　Bay　Luxury　Condominiums　in　bright　blue　spray…paint。　Jake　wondered　if　the　project　had　been　postponed　or　if　it　had　maybe　just　gone　belly…up。　He　remembered　hearing　his　father　talking　on　the　telephone　to　his　business　advisor　not　two　weeks　ago；　yelling　at　the　man　to　stay　away　from　any　more　condo　investments。　〃I　don't　care　how　good　the　tax…picture　looks！〃　he'd　nearly　screamed　（this　was；　so　far　as　Jake　could　tell；　his　father's　normal　tone　of　voice　when　dis…cussing　business　matters…the　coke　in　the　desk　drawer　might　have　had　something　to　do　with　that）。　〃When　they're　offering　a　goddamn　TV　set　just　so　you'll　e　down　and　look　at　a　blueprint；　something's　wrong！〃
　　The　board　fence　surrounding　the　lot　was　chin…high　to　Jake。　It　had　been　plastered　with　handbills…Olivia　Newton…John　at　Radio　City；　a　group　called　G。　Gordon　Liddy　and　the　Grots　at　a　club　in　the　East　Village；　a　film　called　War　of　the　Zombies　which　had　e　and　gone　earlier　that　spring。　NO　TRESPASSING　signs　had　also　been　nailed　up　at　intervals　along　the　fence；　but　most　of　them　had　been　papered　over　by　ambitious　bill…posters。　A　little　way　farther　along；　another　graffito　had　been　spray…painted　on　the　fence…this　one　in　what　had　once　undoubtedly　been　a　bright　red　but　which　had　now　faded　to　the　dusky　pink　of　late…summer　roses。　Jake　whispered　the　words　aloud；　his　eyes　wide　and　fascinated：
　　
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　　Jake　supposed　the　source　of　this　strange　little　poem　（if　not　its　meaning）　was　clear　enough。　This　part　of　Manhattan's　East　Side　was　known；　after　all；　as　Turtle　Bay。　But　that　didn't　explain　the　gooseflesh　which　was　now　running　up　the　center　of　his　back　in　a　rough　stripe；　or　his　clear　sense　that　he　had　found　another　road…sign　along　some　fabulous　hidden　highway。
　　Jake　unbuttoned　his　shirt　and　stuck　his　two　newly　purchased　books　inside。　Then　he　looked　around；　saw　no　one　paying　attention　to　him；　and　grabbed　the　top　of　the　fence。　He　boosted　himself　up；　swung　a　leg　over；　and　dropped　down　on　the　other　side。　His　left　foot　landed　on　a　loose　pile　of　bricks　that　promptly　slid　out　from　under　him。　His　ankle　buckled　under　his　weight　and　bright　pain　lanced　up　his　leg。　He　fell　with　a　thud　and　cried　out　in　mingled　hurt　and　surprise　as　more　bricks　dug　into　his　ribcage　like　thick；　rude　fists。
　　He　simply　lay　where　he　was　for　a　moment；　waiting　to　get　his　breath　back。　He　didn't　think　he　was　badly　hurt；　but　he'd　twisted　his　ankle　and　it　would　probably　swell。　He'd　be　walking　with　a　limp　by　the　time　he　got　home。　He'd　just　have　to　grin　and　bear　it；　though；　he　sure　didn't　have　cab…fare。
　　You　don't　really　plan　to　go　home；　do　you？　They'll　eat　you　alive。
　　Well；　maybe　they　would　and　maybe　they　wouldn't。　So　far　as　he　could　see；　he　didn't　have　much　choice　in　the　matter。　And　that　was　for　later。　Right　now　he　was　going　to　explore　this　lot　which　had　drawn　him　as　surely　as　a　magnet　draws　steel　shavings。　That　feeling　of　power　was　still　all　around　him；　he　realized；　and　stronger　than　ever。　He　didn't　think　this　was　just　a　vacant　lot。　Something　was　going　on　here；　some…tiling　big。　He　could　feel　it　thrumming　in　the　air；　like　loose　volts　escaping　from　the　biggest　power…plant　in　the　world。
　　As　he　got　up；　Jake　saw　that　he　had　actually　fallen　lucky。　Close　by　was　a　nasty　jumble　of　broken　glass。　If　he'd　fallen　into　that；　he　might　have　cut　himself　very　badly。
　　That　used　to　be　the　show　window；　Jake　thought。　When　the　deli　was　still　here；　you　could　stand　on　the　sidewalk　and　look　in　at　all　the　meats　and　cheeses。　They　used　to　hang　them　on　strings。　He　didn't　know　how　he　knew　this；　but　he　did…knew　it　beyond　a　shadow　of　a　doubt。
　　He　looked　around　thoughtfully　and　then　walked　a　little　farther　into　the　lot。　Near　the　middle；　lying　on　the　ground　and　half…buried　in　a　lush　growth　of　spring　weeds；　was　another　sign。　Jake　knelt　beside　it；　pulled　it　upright；　and　brushed　the　dirt　away。　The　letters　were　faded；　but　he　could　still　make　them　out：
　　
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　　And　below　it；　spray…painted　in　that　same　red…fading…to…pink；　was　this　puzzling　sentence：　HE　HOLDS　US　ALL　WITHIN　HIS　MIND。
　　This　is　the　place；　Jake　thought。　Oh　yes。
　　He　let　the　sign　fall　back；　stood　up；　and　walked　deeper　into　the　lot；　moving　slowly；　looking　at　everything。　As　he　moved；　that　sensation　of　power　grew。　Everything　he　saw…the　weeds；　the　broken　glass；　the　clumps　of　bricks…seemed　to　stand　forth　with　a　kind　of　exclamatory　force。　Even　the　potato　chip　bags　seemed　beautiful；　and　the　sun　had　turned　a　discarded　beer…bottle　into　a　cylinder　of　brown　fire。
　　Jake　was　very　aware　of　his　own　breathing；　and　of　the　sunlight　falling　upon　everything　like　a　weight　of　gold。　He　suddenly　understood　that　he　was　standing　on　the　edge　of　a　great　mystery；　and　he　felt　a　shudder…half　terror　and　half　wonder…work　through　him。
　　It's　all　here。　Everything。　Everything　is　still　here。
　　The　weeds　brushed　at　his　pants；　burdocks　stuck　to　his　socks。　The　breeze　blew　a　Ring…Ding　wrapper　in　front　of　him；　the　sun　reflected　off　it　and　for　a　moment　the　wrapper　was　filled　with　a　beautiful；　terrible　inner　glow。
　　〃Everything　is　still　here；〃　he　repeated　to　himself；　unaware　that　his　face　was　filling　with　its　own　inner　glow。　〃Everything。〃
　　He　was　hearing　a　sound…had　been　hearing　it　ever　since　he　entered　the　lot；　in　fact。　It　was　a　wonderful　high　humming；　inexpressibly　lonely　and　inexpressibly　lovely。　It　might　have　been　the　sound　of　a　high　wind　on　a　deserted　plain；　except　it　was　alive。　It　was；　he　thought；　the　sound　of　a　thousand　voices　singing　some　great　open　chord。　He　looked　down　and　realized　there　were　faces　in　the　tangled　weeds　and　low　bushes　and　heaps　of　bricks。　Faces。
　　〃What　are　you？〃　Jake　whispered。　〃Who　are　you？〃　There　was　no　answer；　but　he　seemed　to　hear；　beneath　the　choir；　the　sound　of　hoof…beats　on　the　dusty　earth；　and　gunfire；　and　angels　calling　hosannahs　from　the　shadows。　The　faces　in　the　wreckage　seemed　to　turn　as　he　passed。　They　seemed　to　follow　his　progress；　but　no　evil　intent　did　they　bear。　He　could　see　Forty…sixth　Street；　and　the　edge　of　the　U。N。　Building　on　the　other　side　of　First　Avenue；　but　the　buildings　did　not　matter…New　York　did　not　matter。　It　had　bee　as　pale　as　window…glass。
　　The　humming　grew。　Now　it　was　not　a　thousand　voices　but　a　million；　an　open　funnel　of　voices　rising　from　the　deepest　well　of　the　universe。　He　caught　names　in　that　group　voice；　but　could　not　have　said　what　they　were。　One　might　have　been　Marten。　One　might　have　been　Cuthbert。　Another　might　have　been　Roland…Roland　of　Gilead。
　　There　were　names；　there　was　a　babble　of　conversation　that　might　have　been　ten　thousand　entwined　stories；　but　above　all　was　that　gor…geous；　swelling　hum；　a　vibration　that　wanted　to　fill　his　head　with　bright　white　light。　It　was；　Jake　realized　with　a　joy　so　overwhelming　that　it　threatened　to　burst　him　to　pieces；　the　voice　of　Yes；　the　voice　of　White；　the　voice　of　Always。　It　was　a　great　chorus　of　affirmation；　and　it　sang　in　the　empty　lot。　It　sang　for　him。
　　Then；　lying　in　a　cluster　of　scrubby　burdock　plants；　Jake　saw　the　key　。　。　。　and　beyond　that；　the　rose。