pzb.lostsouls-第10部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ers　reached　a　sodden　white…hot　pitch。　Christian　never　found　a　replacement　for　the　antique　glass。　The　window　was　covered　with　black　cardboard；　it　kept　the　sunlight　out　during　the　daytime；　kept　the　shadows　in　at　night。
　　Upstairs；　in　Christian's　room；　the　bloodstains　Jessy　had　left　on　the　carpet　grew　pale　brown　and　edgeless　as　Christian　walked　over　them　in　black　leather　boots；　in　slippers；　with　his　bare；　long…toed；　knobby　feet。　Fifteen　years　of　his　footsteps　wore　Jessy's　blood　away。
　　The　wood　of　the　bar　lost　its　sheen；　grew　dull；　scarred。　Christian　forgot　to　replace　the　light　bulbs　in　the　imitation　Tiffany　lamps…a　curse　of　excellent　night　vision。　The　tawdry；　alcoholic；　glorious　life　of　the　French　Quarter　went　on　way　up　Chartres；　far　away。　No　one　ever　came　in　before　ten。
　　Later；　Christian　often　thought　that　the　man　who　called　himself　Wallace　should　have　appeared　at　Mardi　Gras。　There　would　have　been　a　symmetry　to　that；　a　sort　of　correctness。　But　of　course　life　was　messy；　Christian　had　lived　long　enough　to　know　that。　The　man　came　to　the　bar　one　night　early　in　September；　during　a　late　heat　wave。　He　had　rolled　up　the　sleeves　of　his　white　cotton　shirt；　and　the　cloth　at　his　armpits　was　circled　with　sweat。　At　first　Christian　thought　he　was　an　old　man；　by　the　usual　standards　at　any　rate；　a　very　old；　sad；　tired　man。　Then　he　looked　again　and　saw　that　the　man　could　not　be　much　older　than　fifty。
　　But　this　was　a　man　who　carried　himself　as　if　expecting　blows；　a　man　turned　inward；　looking　out　at　the　world　through　guarded　eyes。　His　clipped　curly　hair　was　only　beginning　to　go　from　brown　to　gray。　He　had　a　face　that　might　once　have　been　kind…deep　careworn　lines；　brown　eyes　that　had　seen　too　much　pain。　There　was　still　warmth　in　those　eyes；　but　it　was　warmth　dampened　with　weariness　and　watchfulness。　Christian　thought　that　whatever　this　man　chose　to　drink；　he　would　take　it　straight；　and　he　would　take　a　lot　of　it
　　〃Scotch；〃　said　the　man。　〃Chivas　Regal。〃　Christian　poured　it　over　ice。　The　man　held　the　glass　up　to　the　light；　frowned　into　its　amber　depths。　Then　he　brought　it　to　his　lips　and　tossed　the　whiskey　down　in　one　practiced　motion。　Christian　heard　the　ice　chitter　against　the　man's　teeth。　The　man　spat　it　back　into　the　glass。　Then　he　looked　at　Christian　and　said；　〃My　name　is　Wallace　Creech；〃　and　held　out　his　hand。
　　〃Christian；〃　said　Christian；　taking　the　hand。　He　looked　straight　into　Wallace's　eyes。　Wallace　stared　back；　unflinching。　Most　people　started　at　the　touch　of　Christian's　fingers　and　withdrew　quickly；　rubbing　their　hands　against　their　clothing　to　rid　themselves　of　Christian's　icy　touch；　glancing　away　from　the　cold　light　of　Christian's　eyes。　But　Wallace　looked　steadily　back；　grasped　Christian's　hand　harder；　and　said；　〃A　fine　name。〃
　　Only　then　did　Christian　notice　the　small　silver　crucifix　that　hung　on　a　chain　around　Wallace's　neck；　glinting　in　the　dim　light　of　the　bar。　〃I'm　afraid　I'm　not；〃　Christian　told　him。　
　　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃
　　〃I　don't　belong　to　a　church。　I'm　not　religious。〃　It　is　possible　to　live　too　long　for　such　forts；　Christian　thought。
　　〃Ah；〃　said　Wallace　knowingly。　Christian　expected　him　to　reach　into　his　pocket　for　a　tract。　Over　the　years；　Christian　had　been　given　hundreds　of　them　and　had　found　hundreds　more　left　on　the　tables；　or　under　them。　Everything　from　the　smudgily　printed；　misspelled　credo　of　a　snake…handling　cult　from　the　Louisiana　swamps　to　a　lurid　pamphlet　called　Rock　Music　Is　Worse　than　LSD！　Christian　was　curious　as　to　what　drew　people　to　these　religions；　their　obsession　with　their　own　mortality　intrigued　him；　and　he　read　all　the　tracts。
　　But　Wallace　didn't　offer　him　a　tract。　Instead；　he　changed　the　subject　abruptly；　asking；　〃Have　you　had　this　place　long？〃
　　Christian　felt　a　touch　of　shame。　He　had　misjudged　the　old　man。　From　the　looks　of　him；　Wallace　needed　all　the　faith　he　could　muster。　The　pain　seemed　to　pour　from　him。　He　must　be　lonely；　just　trying　to　make　conversation；　and　talk　was　part　of　a　bartender's　job。
　　〃Twenty　years；〃　Christian　told　him。
　　〃You　must　have　been　a　very　young　man　when　you　opened　it。〃
　　〃I　am　older　than　I　look；〃　said　Christian；　smiling　slightly。　His　face　had　not　changed；　had　grown　no　older；　had　lost　none　of　its　narrow　cold　beauty　since　the　last　night　of　Mardi　Gras　fifteen　years　ago；　the　night　he　had　slept　in　the　arms　of　Molochai；　his　belly　heavy　and　warm　with　Molochai's　blood。　Christian　had　not　aged　for　a　very　long　time。
　　〃So　I　gather；〃　said　Wallace　dryly。
　　Christian　paused；　looking　into　Wallace's　face。　Wallace's　expression　was　no　different　than　before；　the　eyes　were　the　same；　the　hurt；　frowning　eyes；　the　lines　bracketing　the　mouth　as　weary　and　patient　as　before。　Christian　dismissed　the　remark　as　meaningless…the　man　only　wanted　someone　to　talk　to。　He　was　lonely。　Religious　people　always　seemed　lonely；　perhaps　that　explained　their　need　to　be　among　great　crowds　of　people　who　believed　as　they　did。　Such　a　great　fort；　to　be　among　others　of　your　kind；　and　such　loneliness　when　there　were　none。　How　could　humans　ever　believe　themselves　truly　lonely　when　there　were　so　many　of　them？　
　　〃Another　drink？〃　Christian　asked。
　　Wallace　tossed　back　a　second　shot　of　Chivas；　then　surprised　Christian　by　asking。　〃Is　business　always　this　slow？〃　Then；　realizing　what　he　had　said；　he　tried　to　apologize。　〃I　didn't　mean　to　be　rude…I　was　only　curious。　It's　a　nice　place；　a　good　location；　the　French　Quarter…〃
　　The　man　was　babbling；　and　Christian　realized　that　for　some　reason　Wallace　Creech　was　terrified。　The　empty　glass　in　his　hand　rattled　against　the　bar；　the　ice　made　cold　little　chinking　sounds。　The　man　seemed　on　the　point　of　belting。
　　Christian　dumped　the　melting　ice　cubes；　scooped　in　fresh　ones；　poured　another　shot。　This　one　was　a　double；　but　he　watched　Wallace　put　it　away　with　the　same　practiced　motion；　not　even　grimacing。　Here　was　a　seasoned　drinker。
　　〃Why　are　you　here；　Wallace　Creech？〃　Christian　asked　softly。　〃What　do　you　want？〃
　　Wallace's　hand　went　to　the　cross　at　his　throat。　Then；　as　if　trying　to　conceal　the　gesture；　he　ran　a　finger　around　the　inside　of　his　collar；　loosening　it；　though　the　top　button　was　already　undone。　'There　was　a　girl；　once；〃　he　said。　〃Jessy。　Small；　thin。　Short　brown　hair。　Black　dress。　She　used　to　e　here。〃
　　Christian　felt　a　cold　fist　squeeze　shut　somewhere　deep　inside　him。　The　fist　twisted；　clenched；　it　was　wrapped　around　some　vital　part　of　him；　tearing　him　loose　inside。　He　licked　his　lips。　His　mouth　tasted　of　sour　blood。　He　pretended　to　think。　〃Jessy；〃　he　said。　〃Jessy。　Such　a　long　time　ago。。。　but　perhaps　I　remember。　She　stopped　ing　in　fifteen　years　ago。
　　〃Was　that　after　Mardi　Gras　。　。　。　fifteen　years　ago？〃
　　〃I　think　so；〃　said　Christian；　and　tasted　the　sour　blood　again。
　　〃She　was　my　daughter；〃　said　Wallace。
　　Christian　swallowed。　He　was　suddenly　thirsty。　〃And　she　just　disappeared？〃　he　asked。　〃Didn't　you　call　the　police？〃
　　〃I　didn't；　no。　Jessy　was　wild。〃　For　a　moment　Wallace's　face　was　a　Mardi　Gras　mask　of　tragedy；　then　he　put　his　hand　over　his　eyes；　frowned　his　tears　away；　and　went　on。　〃She　was　forever　threatening　to　leave　home；　saying　I　didn't　give　her　enough　money；　saying　I　was　dull。　She　liked　to　go　out　and　drink。　She　was　angry　because　I　made　her　continue　with　school　when　she　wanted　to　drop　out。　She　didn't　seem　to　care　about　anything　。　。　。　certainly　not　her　father。〃
　　Wallace　covered　his　eyes　again。　〃A　girl　needs　her　mother；　I　think；　and　Lydia…my　wife…died　when　Jessy　was　only　five。　Suicide；　a　sin。　I　brought　our　daughter　up　myself；　and　did　a　poor　job；　I　suppose。　When　Jessy　disappeared；　I　thought　she　had　run　off　with　a　boy。　I　hoped　she　would　e　back　when　his　money　was　gone。　She　had　such　strange　notions。。。　such　very　strange　notions。。。　and　sending　the　police　after　her　would　have　made　her　hate　me。〃
　　〃Why　are　you　here　now？〃　Christian　couldn't　look　at　Wallace's　eyes。　He　stared　at　the　silver　cross；　at　the　soft　loose　skin　of　the　man's　throat　behind　it。
　　〃Well　。　。　。　after　Jessy　left；　I　moved　all　her　things　to　the　attic。　When　I　realized　she　wasn't　ing　back；　I　hated　to　look　at　them。　Recently　I　happened　to　think　of　them；　and　I　wondered　whether　her　old　clothes　might　be　good　enough　to　give　to　my　church　group。　They　hold　a　yearly　bazaar　for　the　poor；　you　know。〃　Christian　nodded。　〃While　I　was　going　through　the　boxes；　I　found　an　old　diary。　The　entries　mentioned　you　several　times…and　your　bar。　She　seemed　to　have。。。feelings　for　you。　I　thought　she　might　have　told　you　where　she　was　going。　I'd　so　love　to　see　her　now。〃
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　said　Christian。　〃She　only　drank　here。　She　didn't　talk　to　me。　I've　no　idea　where　she　went。〃　He　realized　that　he　was　still　staring　at　the　crucifix　and　dropped　his　gaze　to　Wallace's　empty　glass。
　　Wallace　gave　a　heavy　sigh。　〃I'll　have　another；〃　he　said。　He　stayed　to　drink　two　more　whiskeys；　getting　drunker；　wandering　around　the　bar。　He　examined　the　stained…glass　window　and　its　blind　twin；　the　tables　scarred　with　cryptic　patterns　of　initials　and　beer…rings；　the　worn　crimson　leather　of　the　bar　stools。　From　time　to　time　he　glanced　back　at　Christian；　who　silently　avoided　his　eyes。
　　When　Wallace　began　staring　at　the　door　that　led　to　the　staircase　and；　beyond　that；　to　Christian's　room；　Christian　picked　up　his　rag　and　started　wiping　down　the　bar。　〃I'm　closing　up。　I'm　sorry　I　couldn't　help　you　with　your　problem。〃　His　voice　was　sharper　than　he　had　meant　it　to　be。
　　When　Wallace　was　gone…he　left　with　a　quiet；　swaying　dignity…and　the　door　locked　after　him；　Christian　turned　to　his　rows　of　bottles　and　found　a　squat　embossed　bottle　nearly　full　of　luminous　green　liqueur。　No　one　wanted　Chartreuse；　not　anymore；　but　Christian　always　kept　a　few　bottles　of　it　in　case　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　came　rolling　into　town　some　Mardi　Gras　night。　They　would　want　Chartreuse；　Christian　knew。　Tonight　he　wanted　it　too。　He　wanted　the　swirling　heaviness　of　alcohol　to　weigh　his　mind　down；　wanted　to　sleep　deep　and　dreamlessly；　with　no　phantoms　to　swim　out　of　the　recesses　of　memory；　no　thin　little　girls　with　shadowed　eyes　and　thighs　bloody　from　murderous；　innocent　birth。　Could　he？
　　Christian　uncapped　the　bottle　and　started　to　pour　himself　a　shot。　His　hand　paused　over　the　glass；　bony　and　white；　cold　on　the　cold　bo