cb.damnationgame-第3部分

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　　In　search　of　the　source；　he　walked　on　a　little　way；　and　rounding　the　corner　into　the　square　itself　discovered　the　ghost　of　a　tree；　prodigious　with　blossom；　hanging　in　the　air。　It　seemed　unrooted；　its　snow…head　lit　by　starlight；　its　trunk　shadowy。　He　held　his　breath；　shocked　by　this　beauty；　and　walked　toward　it　as　he　might　have　approached　a　wild　animal；　cautious　in　case　it　took　fright。　Something　turned　his　stomach　over。　It　wasn't　awe　of　the　blossom；　or　even　the　remnants　of　the　joy　he'd　felt　walking　here。　That　was　slipping　away。　A　different　sensation　gripped　him　here　in　the　square。
　　He　was　a　man　so　used　to　atrocities　that　he　had　long　counted　himself　unblanchable。　So　why　did　he　stand　now　a　few　feet　away　from　the　tree；　his　fingernails；　meticulously　kept；　pressed　into　his　palms　with　anxiety；　defying　the　umbrella　of　flowers　to　unveil　its　worst？　There　was　nothing　to　fear　here。　Just　petals　in　the　air；　shadow　on　the　ground。　And　still　he　breathed　shallowly；　hoping　against　hope　that　his　fright　was　baseless。
　　e　on；　he　thought；　if　you've　got　something　to　show　me；　I'm　waiting。
　　At　his　silent　invitation　two　things　happened。　Behind　him　a　guttural　voice　asked：　〃Who　are　you？〃　in　Polish。　Distracted　for　the　merest　heartbeat　by　surprise；　his　eyes　lost　focus　on　the　tree；　and　in　that　instant　a　figure　dislodged　itself　from　beneath　the　blossom…weighed　branches　and　slouched；　momentarily；　into　the　starlight。　In　the　cheating　murk　the　thief　wasn't　certain　what　he　saw：　a　discarded　face　looking　blankly　in　his　direction　perhaps；　hair　seared　off。　A　scabby　carcass；　wide　as　a　bull's。　Vasiliev's　vast　hands。
　　All　or　nothing　of　this；　and　already　the　figure　was　retiring　into　hiding　beyond　the　tree；　its　wounded　head　brushing　the　branches　as　it　went。　A　drizzle　of　petals　fluttered　onto　its　charcoal　shoulders。
　　〃Did　you　hear　me？〃　said　the　voice　at　his　back。　The　thief　didn't　turn。　He　went　on　staring　at　the　tree；　narrowing　his　eyes；　attempting　to　separate　substance　from　illusion。　But　the　man；　whoever　he　was；　had　gone。　It　could　not　have　been　the　Russian；　of　course；　reason　proclaimed　against　it。　Vasiliev　was　dead；　found　with　his　face　down　in　the　filth　of　a　sewer。　His　body　was　probably　already　on　its　way　to　some　far…flung　outpost　of　the　Russian　empire。　He　wasn't　here；　he　couldn't　be　here。　But　the　thief　felt　an　urgent　need　to　pursue　the　stranger　nevertheless；　just　to　tap　his　shoulder；　to　have　him　turn　round；　to　look　into　his　face　and　verify　that　it　was　not　Konstantin。　Too　late　already；　the　questioner　behind　him　had　taken　fierce　hold　of　his　arm；　and　was　demanding　an　answer。　The　branches　of　the　tree　had　stopped　shaking；　the　petals　had　stopped　falling；　the　man　was　away。
　　Sighing；　the　thief　turned　to　his　interrogator。
　　The　figure　in　front　of　him　was　smiling　a　wele。　It　was　a　woman；　despite　the　rasp　of　the　voice；　dressed　in　oversized　trousers；　tied　with　a　rope；　but　otherwise　naked。　Her　head　was　shaved；　her　toenails　lacquered。　All　this　he　took　in　with　senses　heightened　from　the　shock　of　the　tree；　and　from　the　pleasure　of　her　nudity。　The　sheened　globes　of　her　breasts　were　perfect。　He　felt　his　fists　opening；　the　palms　tingling　to　touch　them。　But　perhaps　his　appraisal　of　the　body　was　too　frank。　He　glanced　back　up　at　her　face　to　see　if　she　was　still　smiling。　She　was；　but　his　gaze　lingered　on　her　face　this　time；　and　he　realized　that　what　he'd　taken　to　be　a　smile　was　a　permanent　fixture。　Her　lips　had　been　sliced　off；　exposing　gums　and　teeth。　There　were　ghastly　scars　on　her　cheeks；　the　remains　of　wounds　that　had　severed　the　tendons　and　induced　a　rictus　that　teased　her　mouth　open。　Her　look　appalled　him。
　　〃You　want　。　。　。　？〃　she　began。
　　Want？　he　thought；　his　eyes　flicking　back　to　the　breasts。　Her　casual　nudity　aroused　him；　despite　the　mutilation　of　her　face。　He　was　disgusted　with　the　idea　of　taking　her…to　kiss　that　lipless　mouth　was　more　than　orgasm　was　worth…and　yet　if　she　offered　he'd　accept；　and　damn　the　disgust。
　　〃You　want　。　。　。　？〃　she　began　again；　in　that　slurred　hybrid　of　a　voice；　neither　male　nor　female。　It　was　difficult　for　her　to　shape　and　expel　words　without　the　aid　of　lips。　She　got　the　rest　of　the　question　out；　however。　〃You　want　the　cards？〃　He'd　missed　the　point　entirely。　She　had　no　interest　in　him；　sexual　or　otherwise。　She　was　simply　a　messenger。　Mamoulian　was　here。　Within　spitting　distance；　probably。　Perhaps　watching　him　even　now。
　　But　the　confusion　of　emotions　in　him　blurred　the　elation　he　should　have　felt　at　this　moment。　Instead　of　triumph；　he　grappled　with　a　headful　of　contrary　images：　blossom；　breasts；　darkness；　the　burned　man's　face；　turning　too　briefly　toward　him；　lust；　fear；　a　single　star　appearing　from　a　flank　of　cloud。　Hardly　thinking　of　what　he　was　saying；　he　replied：　〃Yes。　I　want　the　cards。〃　She　nodded；　turned　away　from　him；　and　started　past　the　tree；　its　branches　still　rocking　where　the　man　who　was　not　Vasiliev　had　touched　them；　and　crossed　the　square。　He　followed。　It　was　possible　to　forget　this　go…between's　face　while　looking　at　the　grace　of　her　barefooted　steps。　She　didn't　seem　to　care　what　she　trod　on。　Not　once　did　she　falter；　despite　the　glass；　brick　and　shrapnel　underfoot。
　　She　led　him　across　to　the　remains　of　a　large　house　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　square。　Its　ravaged　exterior；　once　impressive；　still　stood；　there　was　even　a　doorway　in　it；　though　no　door。　Through　it；　the　light　of　a　bonfire　flickered。　Rubble　from　the　interior　spilled　through　the　doorway　and　blocked　the　lower　half；　obliging　both　woman　and　thief　to　duck　down　and　scramble　up　into　the　house　itself。　In　the　gloom　the　sleeve　of　his　coat　snagged　on　something；　the　cloth　tore。　She　didn't　turn　to　see　if　he　was　hurt；　though　he　cursed　audibly。　She　simply　led　on　over　the　mounds　of　brick　and　fallen　roof　timbers　while　he　stumbled　after　her；　feeling　ridiculously　clumsy。　By　the　light　of　the　bonfire　he　could　see　the　size　of　the　interior；　this　had　once　been　a　fine　house。　There　was　little　time　for　study；　however。　The　woman　was　past　the　fire　now；　and　climbing　toward　a　staircase。　He　followed；　sweating。　The　fire　spat；　he　glanced　around　at　it；　and　glimpsed　somebody　on　the　far　side；　keeping　out　of　sight　behind　the　flames。　Even　as　he　watched；　the　fire　keeper　threw　more　tinder　down；　and　a　constellation　of　livid　specks　was　thrown　up　against　the　sky。
　　The　woman　was　climbing　the　stairs。　He　hurried　after　her；　his　shadow…thrown　by　the　fire…huge　on　the　wall。　She　was　at　the　top　of　the　stairs　when　he　was　halfway　up；　and　now　she　was　slipping　through　a　second　doorway　and　gone。　He　followed　on　as　quickly　as　he　could；　and　turned　through　the　doorway　after　her。
　　The　firelight　only　found　its　way　fitfully　into　the　room　he'd　stepped　into；　and　he　could　scarcely　make　anything　out　at　first。
　　〃Close　the　door；〃　somebody　asked。　It　took　him　a　few　beats　to　realize　that　the　request　was　being　made　of　him。　He　half…turned；　fumbled　for　the　handle；　found　that　there　was　none；　and　pushed　the　door　closed　on　aching　hinges。
　　That　done；　he　looked　back　into　the　room。　The　woman　was　standing　two　or　three　yards　in　front　of　him；　her　perpetually　amused　face　looking　at　him；　the　smile　a　gray　sickle。
　　〃Your　coat；〃　she　said；　and　stretched　out　her　hands　to　help　him　shoulder　it　off。　Once　done；　she　stepped　out　of　his　eyeline；　and　the　object　of　his　long　search　came　into　view。
　　It　was　not　Mamoulian；　however；　that　took　his　eye　at　first。　It　was　the　carved　wooden　altar　piece　set　against　the　wall　behind　him；　a　Gothic　masterwork　which　blazed；　even　in　the　gloom；　with　gold　and　scarlet　and　blue。　Spoils　of　war；　the　thief　thought；　so　that's　what　the　bastard　does　with　his　fortune。　Now　he　looked　at　the　figure　in　front　of　the　triptych。　A　single　wick；　immersed　in　oil；　guttered　smokily　on　the　table　at　which　he　sat。　The　illumination　it　threw　up　on　to　the　card…player's　face　was　bright　but　unstable。
　　〃So；　Pilgrim；〃　the　man　said；　〃you　found　me。　Finally。〃　〃You　found　me；　surely；〃　the　thief　replied；　it　had　been　as　Vasiliev　had　predicted。
　　〃You　fancy　a　game　or　two；　I　hear。　Is　that　right？〃　〃Why　not？〃　He　tried　to　sound　as　nonchalant　as　possible；　though　his　heart　was　beating　a　double　tattoo　in　his　chest。　ing　into　the　card…player's　presence；　he　felt　pitifully　unprepared。　Sweat　glued　his　hair　to　his　forehead；　there　was　brick　dust　on　his　hands　and　muck　under　his　nails：　I　must　look；　he　squirmed；　like　the　thief　I　am。
　　By　contrast；　Mamoulian　was　a　picture　of　propriety。　There　was　nothing　in　the　sober　clothes…the　black　tie；　the　gray　suit…that　suggested　a　profiteer：　he　appeared；　this　legend；　like　a　stockbroker。　His　face；　like　his　dress；　was　unrepentantly　plain；　its　taut　and　finely　etched　skin　waxen　by　the　charmless　oil　flame。　He　looked　sixty　or　thereabouts；　cheeks　slightly　hollowed；　nose　large；　aristocratic；　brow　wide　and　high。　His　hair　had　receded　to　the　back　of　his　skull；　what　remained　was　feathery　and　white。　But　there　was　neither　frailty　nor　fatigue　in　his　posture。　He　sat　upright　in　his　chair；　and　his　agile　hands　fanned　and　gathered　a　pack　of　cards　with　loving　familiarity。　Only　his　eyes　belonged　to　the　thief's　dream　of　him。　No　stockbroker　ever　had　such　naked　eyes。　Such　glacial；　unforgiving　eyes。
　　〃I　hoped　you'd　e；　Pilgrim。　Sooner　or　later；〃　he　said。　His　English　was　without　inflection。
　　〃Am　I　late？〃　the　thief　asked；　half…joking。
　　Mamoulian　laid　the　cards　down。　He　seemed　to　take　the　inquiry　quite　seriously。　〃We'll　see。〃　He　paused　before　saying；　〃You　know；　of　course；　that　I　play　for　very　high　stakes。〃　〃I　heard。〃　〃If　you　wish　to　withdraw　now；　before　we　go　any　further；　I　would　perfectly　understand。〃　The　little　speech　was　made　without　a　trace　of　irony。
　　〃Don't　you　want　me　to　play？〃　Mamoulian　pressed　his　thin；　dry　lips　together　and　frowned。　〃On　the　contrary；〃　he　said；　〃I　very　much　want　you　to　play。〃　There　was　a　flicker…was　there　not？…of　pathos　there。　The　thief　wasn't　sure　if　it　was　a　slip　of　the　tongue；　or　the　subtlest　of　theatrics。　〃But　I　am　not　sympathetic　。　。　。〃　he　went　on；　〃to　those　who　do　not　pay　their　debts。〃　〃You　mean　the　lieutenant；〃　the　thief　chanced。
　　Mamoulian　stared　at　him。　〃I　know　no　lieutenant；〃　he　said　flatly。　〃I　know　only　gamblers；　like　myself。　A　few　are　good；　most　are　not。　They　all　e　here　to　test　their　mettle；　as　you　have。〃　He　had　picked　up　the　pack　again；　and　it　was　moving　in　his　hands　as　if　the　cards　w