rl.thebourneidentity-第2部分

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ws；　but　the　rest　of　his　body　was　limp　…　as　limp　as　a　man　fully　drowned；　passed　from　this　world。
　'Loop　the　ropes！'　yelled　the　skipper　to　his　brother　and　the　crewman。　'Submerge　them　around　his　legs。　Easy　now　move　them　up　to　his　waist。　Pull　gently。'
　'His　hands　won't　let　go　of　the　plank！'
　'Reach　down！　Pry　them　up！　It　may　be　the　death　lock。'
　'No。　He's　alive。。。　but　barely；　I　think。　His　lips　move；　but　there's　no　sound。　His　eyes　also；　though　I　doubt　he　sees　us。'
　'The　hands　are　free！'
　'Lift　him　up。　Grab　his　shoulders　and　pull　him　over。　Easy；　now！'
　'Mother　of　God；　look　at　his　head！'　yelled　the　crewman。　'It's　split　open。'
　'He　must　have　crashed　it　against　the　plank　In　the　storm；'　said　the　brother。
　'No；'　disagreed　the　skipper；　staring　at　the　wound。　'It's　a　clean　slice；　razorlike。　Caused　by　a　bullet；　he　was　shot。'
　'You　can't　be　suite　of　that。'
　'In　more　than　one　place；'　added　the　skipper；　his　eyes　roving　over　the　body。　'We'll　head　for　lie　de　Port　Noir；　it's　the　nearest　island。　There's　a　doctor　on　the　waterfront。'
　The　Englishman？'
　'He　practises。'
　'When　he　can；'　said　the　skipper's　brother。　'When　the　wine　lets　him。　He　has　more　success　with　his　patients'　animals　than　with　his　patients。'
　'It　won't　matter。　This　will　be　a　corpse　by　the　time　we　get　there。　If　by　chance　he　lives；　I'll　charge　him　for　the　extra　petrol　and　whatever　catch　we　miss。　Get　the　kit；　we'll　bind　his　head　for　all　the　good　it　will　do。'
　'Look！'　cried　the　crewman。　'Look　at　his　eyes。'
　'What　about　them？'　asked　the　brother。
　'A　moment　ago　they　were　grey　…　as　grey　as　steel　cables。　Now　they're　blue！'
　'The　sun's　brighter；'　said　the　skipper；　shrugging。　'Or；　it's　playing　tricks　with　your　own　eyes。　No　matter；　there's　no　colour　in　the　grave。'
　Intermittent　whistles　of　fishing　boats　clashed　with　the　incessant　screeching　of　the　gulls；　together　they　formed　the　universal　sounds　of　the　waterfront。　It　was　late　afternoon；　the　sun　a　fireball　in　the　west；　the　air　still　and　too　damp；　too　hot；　Above　the　piers　and　facing　the　harbour　was　a　cobblestone　street　and　several　blemished　white　houses；　separated　by　overgrown　grass　shooting　up　from　dried　earth　and　sand。　What　remained　of　the　verandas　were　patched　lattice…work　and　crumbling　stucco　supported　by　hastily　implanted　piles。　The　residences　had　seen　better　days　a　number　of　decades　ago　when　the　residents　mistakenly　believed　lie　de　Port　Noir　might　bee　another　Mediterranean　playground。　It　never　did。
　All　the　houses　had　paths　to　the　street；　but　the　last　house　in　the　row　had　a　path　obviously　more　trampled　than　the　others：　It　belonged　to　an　Englishman　who　had　e　to　Port　Noir　eight　years　before　under　circumstances　no　one　understood　or　cared　to；　he　was　a　doctor　and　the　waterfront　had　need　of　a　doctor。　Hooks；　needles；　and　knives　were　at　once　means　of　livelihood　and　instruments　of　incapacitation。　If　one　saw　le　medecin　on　a　good　day；　the　sutures　were　not　too　bad。　On　the　other　hand；　if　the　stench　of　wine　or　whisky　was　too　pronounced；　one　took　one's　chances。
　Ainsi　SoiI'll。　He　was　better　than　no　one。
　But　not　today；　no　one　used　the　path　today。　It　was　Sunday　and　it　was　mon　knowledge　that　on　any　Saturday　night　the　doctor　was　roaring　drunk　in　the　village；　ending　the　evening　with　whatever　whore　was　available。　…　Of　course；　it　was　also　granted　that　during　the　past　few　Saturdays　the　doctor's　routine　had　altered；　he　had　not　been　seen　in　the　village。　But　nothing　ever　changed　that　much；　bottles　of　Scotch　whisky　were　sent　to　the　doctor　on　a　regular　basis。　Me　was　simply　staying　in　his　house；　he　had　been　doing　so　since　the　fishing　boat　from　La　Ciotat　had　brought　in　the　unknown　man　who　was　more　corpse　than　man。
　Dr　Geoffrey　Washburn　awoke　with　a　start；　his　chin；　settled　into　his　collar　bone；　causing　the　odour　of　his　mouth　to　invade　his　nostrils；　it　was　not　pleasant。　He　blinked；　orienting　himself；　and　glanced　at　the　open　bedroom　door。　Had　his　nap　been　interrupted　by　another　incoherent　monologue　from　his　patient？　No；　there　was　no　sound。　Even　the　gulls　outside　were　mercifully　quiet；　it　was　lie　de　Port　Noir's　holy　day；　no　boats　ing　in　to　taunt　the　birds　with　their　catches。
　Washburn　looked　at　the　empty　glass　and　the　half…empty　bottle　of　whisky　on　the　table　beside　his　chair。　It　was　an　improvement。　On　a　normal　Sunday　both　would　be　empty　by　now；　the　pain　of　the　previous　night　having　been　spiralled　out　by　the　Scotch。　He　smiled　to　himself；　once　again　blessing　an　older　sister　in　Coventry　who　made　the　Scotch　possible　with　her　monthly　stipend。　She　was　a　good　girl；　Bess　was；　and　God　knew　she　could　afford　a　hell　of　a　lot　more　than　she　sent　him；　but　he　was　grateful　she　did　what　she　did。　And　one　day　she　would　stop；　the　money　would　stop；　and　then　the　oblivions　would　be　achieved　with　the　cheapest　wine　until　there　was　no　pain　at　all。　Ever。
　He　had　e　to　accept　that　eventuality。。。　until　three　weeks　and　five　days　ago　when　the　half…dead　stranger　had　been　dragged　from　the　sea　and　brought　to　his　door　by　fishermen　who　did　not　care　to　identify　themselves。　Their　errand　was　one　of　mercy；　not　involvement。　God　would　understand；　the　man　had　been　shot。
　What　the　fishermen　had　not　known　was　that　far　more　than　bullets　had　invaded　the　man's　body。　And　mind。
　The　doctor　pushed　his　gaunt　frame　out　of　the　chair　and　walked　unsteadily　to　the　window　overlooking　the　harbour。　He　lowered　the　blind；　closing　his　eyes　to　block　out　the　sun；　then　squinted　between　the　slats　to　observe　the　activity　in　the　street　below；　specifically　the　reason　for　the　clatter。　It　was　a　horsedrawn　cart；　a　fisherman's　family　out　for　a　Sunday　drive。　Where　the　hell　else　could　one　see　such　a　sight？　And　then　he　remembered　the　carriages　and　the　finely　groomed　geldings　that　carried　tourists　through　London's　Regent's　Park　during　the　summer　months；　he　laughed　out　loud　at　the　parison。　But　his　laughter　was　short…lived；　replaced　by　something　unthinkable　three　weeks　ago。　He　had　given　up　all　hope　of　seeing　England　again。　It　was　possible　that　might　be　changed　now。　The　stranger　could　change　it。
　Unless　his　prognosis　was　wrong；　it　would　happen　any　day；　any　hour　or　minute。　The　wounds　to　the　legs；　stomach　and　chest　were　deep　and　severe；　quite　possibly　fatal　were　it　not　for　the　fact　the　bullets　had　remained　where　they　had　lodged；　self…cauterized　and　continuously　cleansed　by　the　sea。　Extracting　them　was　nowhere　near　as　dangerous　as　it　might　have　been；　the　tissue　primed；　softened；　sterilized；　ready　for　an　immediate　knife。　The　cranial　wound　was　the　real　problem；　the　penetration　was　subcutaneous；　but　it　appeared　to　have　bruised　the　thalamus　and　hippocampus　fibrous　regions。　Had　the　bullet　entered　millimetres　on　either　side　the　vital　functions　would　have　ceased；　they　had　not　been　impeded；　and　Washburn　had　made　a　decision。　He　went　dry　for　thirty…six　hours；　eating　as　much　starch　and　drinking　as　much　water　as　was　humanly　possible。　Then　he　performed　the　most　delicate　piece　of　work　he　had　attempted　since　his　dismissal　from　Macleans　Hospital　in　London。　Millimetre　by　agonizing　millimetre　he　had　brush…washed　the　fibrous　areas；　then　stretched　and　sutured　the　skin　over　the　cranial　wound；　knowing　that　the　slightest　error　with　brush；　needle　or　clamp　would　cause　the　patient's　death。
　He　had　not　wanted　this　unknown　patient　to　die　for　any　number　of　reasons。　But　especially　one。
　When　it　was　over　and　the　vital　signs　remained　constant；　Dr　Geoffrey　Washburn　went　back　to　his　chemical　and　physiological　appendage。　His　bottle。　He　had　got　drunk　and　he　had　remained　drunk；　but　he　had　not　gone　over　the　edge。　He　knew　exactly　where　he　was　and　what　he　was　doing　at　all　times。　Definitely　an　improvement。
　Any　day　now；　any　hour　perhaps。　The　stranger　would　focus　his　eyes　and　intelligible　words　would　emerge　from　his　lips。
　Even　any　moment。
　The　words　came　first。　They　floated　in　the　air　as　the　early　morning　breeze　off　the　sea　cooled　the　room。
　'Who's　there？　Who's　in　this　room？'
　Wash　burn　sat　up　in　the　cot；　moved　his　legs　quietly　over　the　side；　and　rose　slowly　to　his　feet。　It　was　important　to　make　no　jarring　note；　no　sudden　noise　or　physical　movement　that　might　frighten　'the　patient　into　a　psychological　regression。　The　next　few　minutes　would　be　as　delicate　as　the　surgical　procedures　he　had　performed；　the　doctor　in　him　was　prepared　for　the　moment。
　'A　friend；'　he　said　softly。
　'Friend？'
　'You　speak　English。　I　thought　you　would。　American　or　Canadian　is　what　I　suspected。　Your　dental　work　didn't　e　from　the　U。　K。　or　Paris。　How　do　you　feel？'
　'I'm　not　sure。'
　'It　will　take　a　while。　Do　you　need　to　relieve　your　bowels？'　'What？'
　Take　a　crapper；　old　man。　That's　what　the　pan's　for　beside　you　The　white　one　on　your　left。　When　we　make　it　in　time；　of　course。'
　I'm　sorry。'
　'Don't　be。　Perfectly　normal　function。　I'm　a　doctor；　your　doctor。　My　name　is　Geoffrey　Washburn。　What's　yours？'
　'What？'
　'I　asked　you　what　your　name　was。'
　The　stranger　moved　his　head　and　stared　at　the　white　wall　streaked　with　shafts　of　morning　light。　Then　he　turned　back；　his　blue　eyes　levelled　at　the　doctor。　'I　don't　know。'
　'Oh；　my　God。'
　'I've　told　you　over　and　over　again。　It　will　take　time。　The　more　you　fight　it。　the　more　you　crucify　yourself；　the　worse　it　will　be。'　'You're　drunk。'
　'Generally。　It's　not　pertinent。　But　I　can　give　you　clues；　if　you'll　listen。'
　'I've　listened。'
　'No　you　don't；　you　turn　away。　You　lie　in　your　cocoon　and　pull　the　cover　over　your　mind。　Hear　me　again。'
　'I'm　listening。'
　'In　your　a　…　your　prolonged　a　…　you　spoke　in　three　different　languages。　English；　French　and　some　goddamned　twangy　thing　I　presume　is　Oriental。　That　means　you're　multi…；　lingual；　you're　at　home　in　various　parts　of　the　world。　Think　geographically。　What's　most　fortable　for　you？'
　'Obviously　English。！
　'We've　agreed　to　that。　So　what's　most　unfortable？'
　'I　don't　know。'
　'Your　eyes　are　round；　not　sloped。　I'd　say　obviously　not　Oriental。'
　'Obviously。'
　'Then　why　do　you　speak　it？　Now；　think　in　terms　of　association。　I've　written　down　words；　listen　to　them。　I'll　say　them　phonetically。　Ma　…　kwa。　Tarn　…　Kwan。　Kee　…　sah。　Say　the　first　thing　that　es　to　mind。'
　'Nothing。'
　'Good　show。'
　'What　the　hell　do　you　want？'
　'Something。　Anything'
　'You're　drunk。'
　'We've　agreed　to　that。　Consistently。　I　also　saved　your　bloody　life。　Drunk　or　not；　I　am　a　doctor。