rl.thebourneidentity-第3部分

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　'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。　I　was　once　a　very　good　one。'
　'What　happened？'
　'The　patient　questions　the　doctor？'
　'Why　not？'
　Washburn　paused；　looking　out　of　the　window　at　the　waterfront。　'I　was　drunk；'　he　said。　'They　said　I　killed　two　patients　on　the　operating　table　because　I　was　drunk。　I　could　have　got　away　with　one。　Not　two。　They　see　a　pattern　very　quickly；　God　bless　them。　Don't　ever　give　a　man　like　me　a　knife　and　cloak　it　in　respectability。'
　'Was　it　necessary？'
　'Was　what　necessary？'
　'The　bottle。'
　'Yes；　damn　you；'　said　Washburn　softly；　turning　from　the　window。　'It　was　and　it　is。　And　the　patient　is　not　permitted　to　make　judgments　where　the　physician　is　concerned。'
　'Sorry。'
　'You　also　have　an　annoying　habit　of　apologizing。　It's　an　overworked　protestation　and　not　at　all　natural。　I　don't　for　a　minute　believe　you're　an　apologetic　person。'
　Then　yon　know　something　I　don't　know；'
　About　you；　yes。　A　great　deal。　And　very　little　of　it　makes　sense。'
　The　man　sat　forward　in　the　chair。　His　open　shirt　fell　away　from　his　taut　frame；　exposing　the　bandages　on　his　chest　and　stomach。　He　folded　his　hands　in　front　of　him；　the　veins　in　his　slender；　muscular　arms　pronounced。　'Other　than　the　things　we've　talked　about？'　'Yes。'
　'Things　I　said　while　in　a？〃
　'No；　not　really。　We've　discussed　most　of　that　gibberish。　The　languages；　your　knowledge　of　geography　…　cities　I've　never　or　barely　heard　of　…　your　obsession　for　avoiding　the　use　of　names；　names　you　want　to　say　but　won't；　your　propensity　for　confrontation　…　attack；　recoil；　hide；　run　…　all　rather　violent；　I　might　add。　I　frequently　strapped　your　arms　down；　to　protect　the　wounds。　But　we've　covered　all　that。　There　are　other　things。'
　'What　do　you　mean？　What　are　they？　Why　haven't　you　told　me？'
　'Because　they're　physical。　The　outer　shell；　as　it　were。　I　wasn't　sure　you　were　ready　to　hear。　I'm　not　sure　now。'
　The　man　leaned　back　in　the　chair；　dark　eyebrows　below　the　dark　brown　hair　joined　in　irritation。　'Now　it's　the　physician's　judgment　that　isn't　called　for。　I'm　ready。　What　are　you　talking　about？'
　'Shall　we　begin　with　that　rather　acceptable　looking　head　of　yours？　The　face；　in　particular。'
　'What　about　it？'
　'It's　not　the　one　you　were　born　with。'
　'What　do　you　mean？'
　'Under　a　thick　glass；　surgery　always　leaves　its　mark。　You've　been　altered；　old　man。'
　'Altered？'
　'You　have　a　pronounced　chin；　I　daresay　there　was　a　cleft　in　it。　It's　been　removed。　Your　upper　left　cheekbone　…　your　cheekbones　are　also　pronounced；　conceivably　Slavic　generations　ago　…　has　minute　traces　of　a　surgical　scar。　I　would　venture　to　say　a　mole　was　eliminated。　Your　nose　is　an　English　nose；　at　one　time　slightly　more　prominent　than　it　is　now。　It　was　thinned　ever　so　subtly。　Your　very　sharp　features　have　been　softened；　the　character　submerged。　Do　you　understand　what　I'm　saying？'
　'No。'
　'You're　a　reasonably　attractive　man　but　your　face　is　more　distinguished　by　the　category　it　falls　into　than　by　the　face　itself。'　'Category？'
　'Yes。　You　are　the　prototype　of　the　white　Anglo…Saxon　people　see　every　day　on　the　better　cricket　fields；　or　the　tennis　court。　Or　the　bar　at　Mirabel's。　Those　faces　bee　almost　indistinguishable　from　one　another；　don't　they？　The　features　properly　in　place；　the　teeth　straight；　the　ears　flat　against　the　head　…　nothing　out　of　balance；　everything　in　position　and　just　a　little　bit　soft。'　'Soft？'
　'Well；　〃spoiled〃　is　perhaps　a　better　word。　Definitely　self…assured；　even　arrogant；　used　to　having　your　own　way。'　'I'm　still　not　sure　what　you're　trying　to　say。'　'Try　this　then。　Change　the　colour　of　your　hair；　you　change　the　face。　Yes；　there　are　traces　of　discoloration；　brittleness；　dye。　Wear　glasses　and　a　moustache；　you're　a　different　man。　I'd　guess　you　were　in　your　middle　to　late　thirties；　but　you　could　be　ten　years　older；　or　five　younger。'　Washburn　paused；　watching　the　man's　reactions　as　if　wondering　whether　or　not　to　proceed。　'And　speaking　of　glasses；　do　you　remember　those　exercises；　the　tests　we　did　a　week　ago？'　'Of　course。'
　'Your　eyesight's　perfectly　normal；　you　have　no　need　of　glasses。〃
　'I　didn't　think　I　did。'
　Then　why　is　there　evidence　of　prolonged　use　of　contact　lenses　about　your　retinas　and　lids？'　'I　don't　know。　It　doesn't　make　sense。'　'May　I　suggest　a　possible　explanation？'　I'd　like　to　hear　it。'
　'You　may　not。'　The　doctor　returned　to　the　window　and　peered　absently　outside。　'Certain　types　of　contact　lenses　are　designed　to　change　the　colour　of　the　eyes。　And　certain　types　of　eyes　lend　themselves　more　readily　than　others　to　the　device。　Usually　those　that　have　a　grey　or　bluish　hue；　yours　are　a　cross。　Hazel…grey　in　one　light；　blue　in　another。　Nature　favoured　you　in　this；　often　no　alteration　was　required。'　'Required　for　what？'
　'For　changing　your　appearance。　Very　professionally；　I'd　say。　Visas；　passports；　driver's　licences　…　switched　at　will。　Hair：　brown；　blond；　auburn。　Eyes　…　can't　tamper　with　the　eyes　green；　grey；　blue？　The　possibilities　are　far…ranging；　wouldn't　you　say？　All　within　that　recognizable　category　in　which　the　faces　are　blurred　by　repetition。'
　The　man　got　out　of　the　chair　with　difficulty；　pushing　himself　up　with　his　arms；　holding　his　breath　as　he　rose。　'It's　also　possible　that　you're　reaching。　You　could　be　way　out　of　line。'　The　traces　are　there；　the　markings。　That's　evidence。'　'Interpreted　by　you；　with　a　heavy　dose　of　cynicism　thrown　in。　Suppose　I　had　an　accident　and　was　patched　up？　That　would　explain　the　surgery。'
　'Not　the　kind　you　had。　Dyed　hair　and　the　removal　of　clefts　and　moles　aren't　part　of　a　restoration　process。'
　'You　don't　know　that！'　said　the　unknown　man　angrily。　'There　are　different　kinds　of　accidents；　different　procedures。　You　weren't　there；　you　can't　be　certain。'
　'Good！　Get　furious　with　me。　You　don't　do　it　half　often　enough。　And　while　you're　mad；　think。　What　were　you？　What　are　you？'
　'A　salesman。。。　an　executive　with　an　international　pany；　specializing　in　the　Far　East。　That　could　be　it。　Or　a　teacher。。。　of　languages。　In　a　university　somewhere。　That's　possible；　too。'　'Fine。　Choose　one。　Now！'
　'I。。。　I　can't。'　The　man's　eyes　were　on　the　edge　of　helplessness。　'Because　you　don't　believe　either　one。'　The　man　shook　his　head。　'No。　Do　you？'　'No；'　said　Washburn。　'For　a　specific　reason。　Those　occupations　are　relatively　sedentary　and　you　have　the　body　of　a　man　who's　been　subjected　to　physical　stress。　Oh；　I　don't　mean　a　trained　athlete　or　anything　like　that；　you're　no　jock；　as　they　say。　But　your　muscle　tone's　firm；　your　arms　and　hands　used　to　strain　and　quite　strong。　Under　other　circumstances；　I　might　judge　you　to　be　a　labourer；　accustomed　to　carrying　heavy　objects；　or　a　fisherman；　conditioned　by　hauling　in　nets　all　day　long。　But　your　range　of　knowledge；　I　daresay　your　intellect；　rules　out　such　things。'
　'Why　do　I　get　the　idea　that　you're　leading　up　to　something？　Something　else。'
　'Because　we've　worked　together；　closely　and　under　pressure；　for　several　weeks　now。　You　spot　a　pattern。'　'I'm　right　then？'　'Yes。　I　had　to　see　how　you'd　accept　what　I've　just　told　you。　The　previous　surgery；　the　hair；　the　contact　lenses。'
　'Did　I　pass？'
　'With　infuriating　equilibrium。　It's　time　now；　there's　no　point　in　putting　it　off　any　longer。　Frankly；　I　haven't　the　patience。　e　with　me。'　Washburn　preceded　the　man　through　the　living…room　to　the　door　in　the　rear　wall　that　led　to　the　dispensary。　Inside；　he　went　to　the　er　and　picked　up　an　antiquated　projector；　the　shell　of　its　thick　round　lens　rusted　and　cracked。　'I　had　this　brought　in　with　the　supplies　from　Marseilles；'　he　said；　placing　it　on　the　small　desk　and　inserting　the　plug　into　the　wall　socket　'It's　hardly　the　best　equipment；　but　it　serves　the　purpose。　Pull　the　blinds；　will　you？'
　The　man　with　no　name　or　memory　went　to　the　window　and　lowered　the　blind；　the　room　was　dark。　Washburn　snapped　on　the　projector's　light；　a　bright　square　appeared　on　the　white　wall。　He　then　inserted　a　small　piece　of　celluloid　behind　the　lens。
　The　square　was　abruptly　filled　with　magnified　letters。
　Die　Bank　Gemeinschaft
　11　Bahnhofstrasse。　Zurich。
　Zero…seven…seventeen…twelve…zero…fourteen…twenty…six…zero。
　'What　is　it？'　asked　the　nameless　man。
　'Look　at　it。　Study　it。　Think。'
　'It's　a　bank　account　of　some　kind。'
　'Exactly。　The　printed　letterhead　and　address　is　the　bank；　the　handwritten　numbers　take　the　place　of　a　name；　but　insofar　as　they　are　written　out；　they　constitute　the　signature　of　the　account　holder。　Standard　procedure。'
　'Where　did　you　get　it？'
　'From　you。　This　is　a　very　small　negative；　my　guess　would　be　half　the　size　of　a　thirty…five　millimetre　film。　It　was　implanted　…surgically　implanted　…　beneath　the　skin　above　your　right　hip。　The　numbers　are　in　your　handwriting；　it's　your　signature。　With　it　you　can　open　a　vault　in　Zurich。'
　They　chose　the　name　Jean…Pierre。　It　neither　startled　nor　offended　anyone；　a　name　as　mon　to　Port　Noir　as　any　other。
　And　books　came　from　Marseilles；　six　of　them　in　varying　sizes　and　thicknesses；　four　in　English；　two　in　French。　They　were　medical　texts；　volumes　that　dealt　with　the　injuries　to　the　head　and　mind。　There　were　cross…sections　of　the　brain；　hundreds　of　unfamiliar　words　to　absorb　and　try　to　understand。　Lobes　occipital　and　temporal；　the　cortex　and　the　connecting　fibres　of　the　corpus　callosum；　the　limbic　system　…　specifically　the　hippocampus　and　mamillary　bodies　that　together　with　the　fornix　were　indispensable　to　memory　and　recall。　Damaged；　there　was　amnesia。
　There　were　psychological　studies　of　emotional　stress　that　produced　stagnate　hysteria　and　mental　aphasia；　conditions　which　also　resulted　in　partial　or　total　loss　of　memory。　Amnesia。
　Amnesia。
　There　are　no　rules；'　said　the　dark…haired　man；　rubbing　his　eyes　in　the　inadequate　light　of　the　table　lamp。　'It's　a　geometric　puzzle；　it　can　happen　in　any　bination　of　ways。　Physically　or　psychologically　…　or　a　little　of　both。　It　can　be　permanent　or　temporary；　all　or　part。　No　rules！'
　'Agreed。！　said　Washburn；　sipping　his　whisky　in　a　chair　across　the　room。　'But　I　think　we're　getting　closer　to　what　happened。　What　I　think　happened。'
　'Which　was？'　asked　the　man　apprehe