cb.damnationgame-第14部分

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e　sauna　and　solarium；　he　found　two　paintings　that　caught　his　imagination。　They　were　both　landscapes；　by　the　same　anonymous　hand；　and　to　judge　by　their　poky　location　they　were　not　great　works。　But　their　curious　amalgam　of　real　scenery…trees　and　winding　roads　under　blue　and　yellow　skies…with　totally　fanciful　details…a　dragon　with　speckled　wings　devouring　a　man　on　that　road；　a　flight　of　women　levitating　above　the　forest；　a　distant　city；　burning…this　marriage　of　real　and　unreal　was　so　persuasively　painted　that　Marty　found　himself　going　back　and　back　again　to　these　two　haunted　canvases；　finding　more　fantastical　detail　hidden　in　thicket　or　heat…haze　each　time　he　went。
　　The　paintings　weren't　the　only　things　that　whetted　his　curiosity。　The　upper　floor　of　the　main　house；　where　Whitehead　had　a　suite　of　rooms；　was　entirely　out…of…bounds　to　him；　and　he　was　more　than　once　tempted　to　slip　up　when　he　knew　the　old　man　was　otherwise　engaged；　to　nose　around　the　forbidden　territory。　He　suspected　Whitehead　used　the　top　story　as　a　vantage　point　from　which　to　spy　on　his　acolytes〃　ings　and　goings。　That　went　some　way　to　explaining　the　other　mystery：　the　sense；　he　had；　running　his　circuits；　that　he　was　being　watched。　But　he　resisted　the　temptation　to　investigate。　It　was　perhaps　more　than　his　job　was　worth。
　　When　he　wasn't　working　he　spent　much　of　his　time　in　the　library。　There；　if　he　felt　curious　about　the　outside　world；　were　current　issues　of　Time　magazine；　The　Washington　Post；　The　Times；　and　several　other　journals…Le　Monde；　Frankfurter　Algemeine　Zeitung；　The　New　York　Times；　which　Luther　brought　in。　He　would　flick　through　them　looking　for　tidbits；　sometimes　taking　them　down　to　the　sauna　and　reading　them　there。　When　he　tired　of　newspapers；　there　were　thousands　of　books　to　choose　from；　not；　to　his　delight；　all　intimidating　tomes。　There　were　plenty　of　those；　the　assembled　classics　of　world　literature；　but　beside　them　on　the　shelves　were　tattered；　well…thumbed　paperback　editions　of　science　fiction　books；　their　covers　lurid；　the　copy　on　them　paradigms　of　excess。　Marty　began　to　read　them；　picking　those　with　the　most　suggestive　covers　first。　There　was　also　the　video。　Toy　had　supplied　him　with　a　dozen　tapes　of　boxing　highlights；　which　Marty　was　systematically　viewing；　rerunning　favorite　victories　to　his　heart's　content。　He　could　sit　all　evening　watching　the　matches；　awed　by　the　economy　and　the　grace　of　the　great　fighters。　Toy；　ever　thoughtful；　had　also　supplied　a　couple　of　pornographic　tapes；　handing　them　across　to　Marty　with　a　conspiratorial　smile　and　some　ment　about　not　eating　them　all　at　once。　The　tapes　were　copies　of　storyless　loops；　anonymous　couples　and　trios　who　threw　off　their　clothes　in　the　first　thirty　seconds　and　got　down　to　the　nitty…gritty　inside　a　minute。　Nothing　sophisticated：　but　they　served　a　useful　purpose；　and；　as　Toy　had　obviously　guessed；　good　air；　exercise　and　optimism　were　doing　wonders　for　Marty's　libido。　There　was　going　to　e　a　time　when　self…abuse　in　front　of　a　video　screen　was　not　going　to　be　satisfaction　enough。　Increasingly；　Marty　dreamed　of　Charmaine：　unambiguous　dreams　set　in　the　bedroom　of　Number　Twenty…six。　Frustration　gave　him　courage；　and　the　next　time　he　saw　Toy　he　asked　to　be　allowed　to　go　and　see　her。　Toy　promised　to　ask　the　boss　about　it；　but　nothing　had　e　of　it。　In　the　meanwhile　he　had　to　be　content　with　tapes　and　their　stage…managed　gasps　and　grunts。
　　
　　Systematically　he　began　to　put　names　to　the　faces　that　appeared　most　regularly　at　the　house；　Whitehead's　most　trusted　advisers。　Toy；　of　course；　was　regularly　in　evidence。　There　was　also　a　lawyer　called　Ottaway；　a　thin；　well…dressed　man　of　forty　of　so；　whom　Marty　took　a　dislike　to　when　he　first　overheard　the　man's　conversation。　Ottaway　spoke　with　that　air　of　the　legal　fan…dancer；　all　tease　and　cover…ups；　that　Marty　had　experienced　first　hand。　It　brought　back　sour　memories。
　　There　was　another；　called　Curtsinger；　a　sober…suited　individual　with　an　excruciating　taste　in　ties　and　a　worse　one　in　colognes；　who；　though　often　in　Ottaway's　pany；　seemed　far　more　benign。　He　was　one　of　the　few　who　actually　acknowledged　Marty's　presence　in　a　room…usually　with　a　small；　sharp　nod。　On　one　occasion；　celebrating　some　deal　that　had　just　been　made；　Curtsinger　had　slipped　a　large　cigar　into　the　pocket　of　Marty's　jacket；　after　that；　Marty　would　have　forgiven　him　anything。
　　The　third　face　that　seemed　to　be　in　regular　attendance　at　Whitehead's　side　was　the　most　enigmatic　of　the　three：　a　swarthy　troll　of　a　man　called　Dwoskin。　Here　was　a　Cassius　to　Toy's　Brutus。　His　immaculate；　pale　gray　suits；　his　meticulously　folded　handkerchiefs；　the　precision　of　his　every　gesture…all　spoke　of　an　obsessive　whose　rituals　of　tidiness　were　designed　to　counter　the　excess　of　his　physicality。　But　there　was　more：　an　undercurrent　of　danger　about　the　man　that　Marty's　years　in　Wandsworth　had　taught　him　to　be　alive　to。　In　fact；　it　was　there　in　the　others　too。　Beneath　Ottoway's　frigid　exterior　and　Curtsinger's　sugar　coating　there　were　men　who　were　not…it　was　Somervale's　phrase…entirely　savory。
　　At　first　Marty　dismissed　the　feeling　as　lower…class　prejudice；　a　nobody　mistrusting　the　rich　and　influential　on　principle。　But　the　more　meetings　he　sat　in　on；　the　more　heated　debates　he　was　peripheral　to；　the　more　certain　he　became　that　there　was　in　their　dealings　a　scarcely　concealed　subtext　of　deceit；　even　of　criminality。　Much　of　their　talk　he　scarcely　understood　the　subtleties　of　the　stock　market　were　a　closed　book　to　him…but　the　civilized　vocabulary　could　not　pletely　sanitize　the　essential　drift。　They　were　interested　in　the　mechanics　of　deception：　how　to　manipulate　the　law　and　the　market　alike。　Their　exchanges　were　littered　with　talk　of　tax　avoidance；　of　selling　between　subsidiaries　to　inflate　prices　artificially；　of　packaging　placebos　as　panaceas。　There　was　no　apology　implicit　in　their　stance；　on　the　contrary　the　talk　of　illicit　maneuvers；　of　political　allegiances　bought　and　sold；　were　positively　applauded。　And　among　these　manipulators；　Whitehead　was　the　kingpin。　In　his　presence　they　were　reverential。　Out　of　it；　as　they　jockeyed　for　position　closest　to　his　feet；　they　were　ruthless。　He　could；　and　did；　silence　them　with　a　half…lifted　hand。　His　every　word　was　venerated；　as　if　it　fell　from　the　lips　of　a　Messiah。　The　charade　amused　Marty　mightily：　but　applying　the　rule　of　thumb　he　had　learned　in　prison　he　knew　that　in　order　to　earn　such　devotion　Whitehead　must　have　sinned　more　deeply　than　his　admirers。　In　cunning；　he　didn't　doubt　Whitehead's　skills：　he'd　experienced　his　powers　of　persuasion　already。　But　as　time　went　by　the　other　question　burned　more　brightly：　was　he　also　a　thief？　And　if　not　that；　what　was　his　crime？
　　
　　16
　　Ease；　she　came　to　understand　as　she　watched　the　runner　from　her　window；　is　all；　if　not　all；　it　was　the　best　part　of　what　she　delighted　in；　watching　him。　She　didn't　know　his　name；　though　she　could　have　inquired。　It　pleased　her　more　to　have　him　anonymous；　an　angel　dressed　in　a　gray　track　suit；　his　breath　a　flux　of　mist　at　his　lips　as　he　ran。　She'd　heard　Pearl　talk　of　the　new　bodyguard；　and　presumed　this　was　he。　Did　it　really　matter　what　his　name　was？　Such　details　could　only　weigh　down　her　mythmaking。
　　It　was　a　bad　time　for　her；　for　many　reasons；　and　on　those　defeated　mornings；　sitting　at　her　window　having　scarcely　slept　the　night　before；　the　sight　of　the　angel　running　across　the　lawn　or　flickering　between　the　cypress　trees　was　a　sign　she　clung　to；　a　portent　of　better　times　to　e。　The　regularity　of　his　appearance　was　something　she　came　to　count　on；　and　when　sleep　was　good　and　she　missed　him　in　the　morning；　she　felt　an　undeniable　sense　of　loss　for　the　rest　of　the　day；　and　would　make　a　special　point　of　keeping　her　rendezvous　with　him　the　next　morning。
　　But　she　couldn't　bring　herself　to　leave　the　sunshine　island；　to　cross　so　many　dangerous　reefs　to　get　to　where　he　was。　Even　to　signal　her　existence　in　the　house　to　him　risked　too　much。　She　wondered　if　he　was　much　of　a　detective。　If　he　was；　perhaps　he　had　discovered　her　presence　in　the　house　by　some　witty　means：　seen　her　cigarette　stubs　in　the　kitchen　sink；　or　smelled　the　scent　of　her　in　a　room　she　had　left　scant　minutes　before。　Or　perhaps　angels；　being　divinities；　needed　no　such　devices。　Perhaps　he　simply　knew；　without　the　clues；　that　she　was　there；　standing　behind　the　sky　at　a　window；　or　pressed　behind　a　locked　door　when　he　went　whistling　down　the　corridor。
　　There　was　no　use　in　reaching　for　him　though；　even　if　she　could　have　found　the　courage。　What　would　she　have　to　say　to　him？　Nothing。　And　when；　inevitably；　he　sighed　his　irritation　with　her　and　turned　his　back；　she　would　be　lost　in　a　no…man's…land；　isolated　from　the　one　place　she　felt　secure；　that　sunshine　island　that　came　to　her　out　of　a　pure　white　cloud；　that　place　that　poppies　bled　to　give　her。
　　〃You've　eaten　nothing　today；〃　Pearl　chided。　It　was　a　familar　plaint。　〃You'll　waste　away。〃　〃Leave　me　be；　will　you？〃　〃I'll　have　to　tell　him；　you　know。〃　〃No；　Pearl。〃　Carys　gave　Pearl　a　pleading　look。　〃Don't　say　anything。　Please。　You　know　how　he　gets。　I'll　hate　you　if　you　say　anything。〃　Pearl　stood　at　the　door　with　the　tray；　disapproval　on　her　face。　She　wasn't　about　to　crumble　at　the　appeal　or　at　the　blackmail。　〃Are　you　trying　to　starve　yourself　again？〃　she　asked　unsympathetically。
　　〃No。　I　just　don't　have　much　appetite；　that's　all。〃　Pearl　shrugged。
　　〃I　don't　understand　you；〃　she　said。　〃Half　the　time　you　look　suicidal。　Today…〃　Carys　smiled　radiantly。
　　〃It's　your　life；〃　the　woman　said。
　　〃Before　you　go；　Pearl　。　。　。〃　〃What？〃　〃Tell　me　about　the　runner。〃　Pearl　looked　bemused：　it　wasn't　like　the　girl　to　show　any　interest　in　goings…on　in　the　house。　She　stayed　up　here　behind　locked　doors　and　dreamed。　But　today　she　was　insistent：　〃The　one　who　races　himself　every　morning。　In　the　track　suit。　Who　is　he？〃　Where　was　the　harm　in　telling　her？　Curiosity　was　a　sign　of　health；　and　she　had　too　little　of　either。
　　〃His　name's　Marty。〃　Marty。　Carys　tried　the　name　in　her　head；　and　it　fitted　him　fine。　The　angel's　name　was　Marty。
　　〃Many　what？〃　〃I　can't　remember。〃　Carys　stood　up。　The　smile　had　gone。　She　had　that　hard　look　that　she　got　when　she　really　wanted　something；　the　corners　of　her　mouth　pul