cb.damnationgame-第31部分

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ut　of　her　head。　The　other　viewer　shrank　away　behind　her　eyes；　revolted　by　the　fullness　and　the　fleshiness　of　this　act；　by　its　reality。　Did　the　intruding　mind　feel　Marty　too；　she　half…thought；　its　cortex　plumbed　by　a　cock…head　that　was　swelling　to　cream　even　now？
　　〃God　。　。　。〃　she　said。
　　With　the　other　eyes　in　retreat；　the　joy　came　back。
　　〃Can't　stop；　babe；〃　Marty　said。
　　〃Go　on；〃　she　said。　〃It's　all　right。　It's　all　right。〃　Flecks　of　her　sweat　hit　him　as　she　moved　on　top　of　him。
　　〃Go　on。　Yes！〃　she　said　again。　It　was　an　exclamation　of　pure　delight；　and　it　took　him　past　the　point　of　return。　He　tried　to　stave　off　eruption　for　a　few　more　trembling　seconds。　The　weight　of　her　hips　on　him；　the　heat　of　her　channel；　the　brightness　of　her　breasts；　filled　his　head。
　　And　then　somebody　spoke；　a　low；　guttural　voice。
　　〃Stop　it。〃　Marty's　eyes　fluttered　open；　glancing　to　left　and　right。　There　was　nobody　else　in　the　room。　His　head　had　invented　the　sound。　He　canceled　the　illusion　and　looked　back　at　Carys。
　　〃Go　on；〃　she　said。　〃Please　go　on。〃　She　was　dancing　on　him。　The　bones　of　her　hips　caught　the　light；　the　sweat　on　them　ran　and　ran；　glowing。
　　〃Yes　。　。　。　Yes　。　。　。〃　he　answered；　the　voice　forgotten。
　　She　looked　down　at　him　as　imminence　infested　his　face；　and　through　the　intricacies　of　her　own　flaring　sensations　she　felt　the　second　mind　again。　It　was　a　worm　in　her　budding　head；　pushing　forward；　its　sickness　ready　to　stain　her　vision。　She　fought　it。
　　〃Go　away；〃　she　told　it；　under　her　breath；　〃go　away。〃　But　it　wanted　to　defeat　her；　to　defeat　them　both。　What　had　seemed　like　curiosity　before　was　malice　now。　It　wanted　to　spoil　everything。
　　〃I　love　you；〃　she　told　Marty；　defying　the　presence　in　her。　〃I　love　you；　I　love　you…〃　The　invader　spasmed；　furious　with　her；　and　more　furious　still　that　she　didn't　concede　to　its　spoiling。　Marty　was　rigid；　on　the　threshold；　blind　and　deaf　to　anything　but　pleasure。　Then；　with　a　groan；　he　began　to　spurt　in　her；　and　she　was　there　too。　Her　sensations　drove　all　thoughts　of　resistance　out　of　her　head。　Somewhere　far　off　she　could　hear　Marty　gasping　〃Oh；　Jesus；〃　he　was　saying；　〃babe　。　。　。　babe。〃　…but　he　was　in　another　world。　They　weren't　together；　even　at　this　moment。　She　in　her　ecstasy；　he　in　his；　each　running　a　private　race　to　pletion。
　　A　wayward　spasm　made　Marty　convulse。　He　opened　his　eyes。　Carys　had　her　hands　glued　over　her　face；　fingers　spread。
　　〃You　all　right；　babe？〃　he　said。
　　When　her　eyes　opened；　he　had　to　bite　back　a　shout。　It　was；　for　a　moment；　not　her　who　stared　out　between　the　bars。　It　was　something　dredged　up　from　the　bottom　of　the　sea。　Black　eyes　swiveling　in　a　gray　head。　Some　primeval　genus　that　viewed　him…he　knew　this　to　his　marrow…with　hatred　in　its　bowels。
　　The　hallucination　lasted　two　heartbeats　only；　but　long　enough　for　him　to　glance　down　her　body　and　up　again　to　meet　the　same　vile　gaze。
　　〃Carys？〃　Then　her　eyelids　fluttered；　and　the　fan　of　her　fingers　closed　across　her　face。　For　a　lunatic　instant　he　flinched；　awaiting　the　revelation。　Her　hands　dropping　from　her　head；　the　face　transformed：　a　fish's　head。　But　of　course　it　was　her：　only　her。　Here　she　was　now；　smiling　at　him。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　he　ventured。
　　〃What　do　you　think？〃　〃I　love　you；　babe。〃　She　murmured　something　as　she　slumped　on　him。　They　lay　there　for　several　minutes；　his　cock　diminishing　in　a　cooling　bath　of　mingled　fluids。
　　〃Aren't　you　getting　a　cramp？〃　he　asked　her　after　a　while；　but　she　didn't　reply。　She　was　asleep。
　　Gently；　he　slid　her　sideways；　slipping　out　of　her　with　a　wet　sound。　She　lay　on　the　bed　beside　him；　her　face　impassive。　He　kissed　her　breasts；　licked　her　fingers；　and　fell　asleep　beside　her。
　　
　　32
　　Mamoulian　felt　sick。
　　She　wasn't　easy　prey；　this　woman；　despite　his　sentimental　claim　upon　her　psyche。　But　then　her　strength　was　to　be　expected。　She　was　Whitehead's　stock：　peasant　breed；　thief　breed。　Cunning　and　dirty。　Though　she　couldn't　know　precisely　what　she　was　doing；　she'd　fought　him　with　the　very　sensuality　he　most　despised。
　　But　her　weaknesses…and　she　had　many…were　exploitable。　He'd　used　the　heroin　fugues　at　first；　gaining　access　to　her　when　she　was　pacified　to　the　point　of　indifference。　They　warped　her　perception；　which　had　made　his　invasion　less　noticeable；　and　through　her　eyes　he'd　seen　the　house；　listened　with　her　ears　to　the　witless　conversation　of　its　occupants；　shared　with　her；　though　it　revolted　him；　the　smell　of　their　cologne　and　their　flatulence。　She　was　the　perfect　spy；　living　in　the　heart　of　the　enemy's　camp。　And　as　the　weeks　had　gone　by　he'd　found　it　easier　to　slip　in　and　oil　of　her　unnoticed。　That　had　made　him　careless。
　　It　was　carelessness　not　to　have　looked　before　he　leaped；　to　mit　himself　to　her　head　without　first　checking　what　she　was　doing。　He　hadn't　even　thought　she　might　be　with　the　bodyguard；　and　by　the　time　he'd　realized　his　error　he　was　sharing　her　sensations…her　ridiculous　rapture…and　it　had　left　him　trembling。　He　would　not　make　such　a　mistake　again。
　　He　sat　in　the　bare　room　in　the　bare　house　he　had　bought　for　himself　and　Breer；　and　tried　to　forget　the　turbulence　he'd　experienced；　the　look　in　Strauss〃　eyes　as　he　stared　up　at　the　girl。　Had　the　thug　glimpsed；　perhaps；　the　face　behind　her　face？　The　European　guessed　so。
　　No　matter；　none　of　them　would　survive。　It　wouldn't　just　be　the　old　man；　the　way　he'd　planned　at　first。　All　of　them…his　acolytes；　his　serfs；　all…would　go　to　the　wall　with　their　master。
　　The　memories　of　Strauss〃　assaults　lingered　in　the　European's　entrails；　he　longed　to　evacuate　diem。　The　sensation　shamed　and　disgusted　him。
　　Downstairs；　he　heard　Breer　e　in　or　go　out；　on　his　way　to　some　atrocity　or　home　from　one。　Mamoulian　concentrated　on　the　blank　wall　opposite　him；　but　try　as　he　might　to　exile　the　trauma；　he　still　felt　the　intrusion：　the　spurting　head；　the　heat　of　the　act。
　　Forget；　he　said　aloud。　Forget　the　brown　fire　off　them。　It's　no　risk　to　you。　See　only　the　emptiness：　the　promise　of　the　void。
　　His　innards　shook。　Beneath　his　gaze；　the　paint　on　the　wall　seemed　to　blister。　Venereal　eruptions　disfigured　its　emptiness。　Illusions；　but　horribly　real　to　him　nevertheless。　Very　well：　if　he　couldn't　dislodge　the　obscenities；　he　would　transform　them。　It　wasn't　difficult　to　smudge　sexuality　into　violence；　turn　sighs　into　screams；　thrusts　into　convulsions。　The　grammar　was　the　same；　only　the　punctuation　differed。　Picturing　the　lovers　in　death　together；　the　nausea　he'd　felt　receded。
　　In　the　face　of　that　void　what　was　their　substance？　Transitory。　Their　promises？　Pretension。
　　He　began　to　calm。　The　sores　on　the　wall　had　started　to　heal；　and　he　was　left；　after　a　few　minutes；　with　an　echo　of　the　nothingness　he　had　e　to　need　so　much。　Life　came　and　went。　But　absence；　he　knew；　went　on　forever。
　　
　　33
　　〃Oh；　by　the　way；　there　was　a　telephone　call　for　you。　From　Bill　Toy。　Day　before　yesterday。〃　Marty　looked　up　at　Pearl　from　his　plate　of　steak；　and　pulled　a　face。
　　〃Why　didn't　you　tell　me？〃　She　looked　contrite。
　　〃It　was　the　day　I　lost　my　wick　with　those　damn　people。　I　left　a　message　for　you…〃　〃I　didn't　get　it。〃
　　〃…on　the　pad　beside　the　telephone。〃　It　was　still　there：　〃Call　Toy；〃　and　a　number。　He　dialed；　and　waited　a　full　minute　before　the　phone　was　picked　up　at　the　other　end。　It　wasn't　Toy。　The　woman　who　repeated　the　number　had　a　soft；　lost　voice；　slurred　as　if　by　too　much　drink。
　　〃Can　I　speak　to　William　Toy；　please？〃　he　asked。
　　〃He's　gone；〃　the　woman　replied。
　　〃Oh。　I　see。〃　〃He　won't　be　ing　back。　Not　ever。〃　The　quality　of　the　voice　was　eerie。　〃Who　is　this？〃　it　asked　of　him。
　　〃It　doesn't　matter；〃　Marty　replied。　His　instinct　rebelled　against　giving　his　name。
　　〃Who　is　this？〃　she　asked　again。
　　〃I'm　sorry　to　have　bothered　you。〃　〃Who　is　this？〃　He　put　the　receiver　down　on　the　slushing　insistence　at　the　other　end。　Only　when　he　had　did　he　realize　that　his　shirt　was　clinging　to　a　cold　sweat　that　had　suddenly　sprung　from　his　chest　and　spine。
　　
　　In　the　love　nest　in　Pimlico；　Yvonne　asked　the　vacated　line　〃Who　is　this？〃　for　half　an　hour　or　more　before　letting　the　telephone　drop。　Then　she　went　to　sit　down。　The　couch　was　damp：　large；　sticky　stains　were　spreading　on　it　from　the　place　where　she　always　sat。　She　assumed　it　was　something　to　do　with　her；　but　she　couldn't　work　out　how　or　why。　Nor　could　she　explain　the　flies　that　congregated　all　over　her；　in　her　hair；　in　her　clothes；　whining　away。
　　〃Who　is　this？〃　she　asked　again。　The　question　remained　perfectly　pertinent；　though　she　was　no　longer　speaking　to　the　stranger　on　the　phone。　The　rotting　skin　of　her　hands；　the　blood　she　left　in　the　tub　after　bathing；　the　horrid　look　the　mirror　gave　her…all　inspired　the　same　hypnotic　inquiry：　〃Who　is　this？〃　〃Who　is　this？　Who　is　this？　Who　is　this？〃
　　
　　
　　VI　The　Tree
　　
　　34
　　Breer　hated　the　house。　It　was　cold；　and　the　natives　in　this　part　of　the　city　were　inhospitable。　He　was　regarded　with　suspicion　as　soon　as　he　stepped　out　of　the　front　door。　There　were；　he　had　to　concede；　reasons　for　this。　In　recent　weeks　a　smell　had　begun　to　linger　around　him；　a　sickly；　syrupy　smell　that　made　him　almost　ashamed　to　get　too　close　to　the　pretty　ones　along　the　schoolyard　railing；　for　fear　they　would　put　their　fingers　to　their　noses；　making　a　〃poo…poo〃　sound；　and　run　off　calling　him　names。　When　they　did　that；　it　made　him　want　to　die。
　　Though　there　was　no　heating　in　the　house；　and　he　had　to　bathe　in　cold　water；　he　nevertheless　washed　from　head　to　foot　three　or　four　times　a　day；　hoping　to　dislodge　the　smell。　When　that　didn't　work　he　bought　perfume…sandalwood　in　particular…and　doused　his　body　with　it　after　each　ablution。　Now　the　ments　they　called　after　him　weren't　about　excreta　but　about　his　sex　life。　He　took　the　brunt　of　their　remarks　with　equanimity。
　　Nevertheless；　dull　resentments　festered　in　him。　Not　just　about　the　way　he　was　treated　in　the　district。　The　European；　after　a　courtship　that　had　been　polite；　was　more　and　more　treating　him　with　contempt：　as　a　lackey　rather　than　an　ally。　It　irritated　him；　the　way　he　was　sent　to　this　haunt　or　that　looking　for　Toy…asked　to　b　a　city　of　millions　in　search　of　a　shriveled　old　man　whom　Breer　had　last　seen　scrambling　over　a　wal