cb.damnationgame-第42部分

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as　a　purer　game。　Nothing　had　the　glamor　of　the　spinning　wheel：　its　numbers　blurring；　the　ball　rattling　as　it　lodged　and　jumped　again。
　　He　sat　down　at　the　table　between　a　highly　perfumed　Arab　who　spoke　only　French；　and　an　American。　Neither　said　a　word　to　him：　there　were　no　weles　or　farewells　here。　All　the　niceties　of　human　intercourse　were　sacrificed　to　the　matter　at　hand。
　　It　was　an　odd　disease。　Its　symptoms　were　like　infatuation…palpitations；　sleeplessness。　Its　only　certain　cure；　death。　On　one　or　two　occasions　he'd　caught　sight　of　himself　in　a　casino　bar　mirror　or　in　the　glass　of　the　cashier's　booth；　and　met　a　hunted；　hungry　look。　But　nothing…not　self…disgust；　not　the　disparagement　of　friends…nothing　had　ever　quite　rooted　out　the　appetite。
　　The　waiter　brought　the　drink　to　his　elbow；　its　ice　clinking。　Marty　tipped　him　heavily。
　　There　was　a　spin　of　the　wheel；　though　Marty　had　joined　the　table　too　late　to　place　money。　All　eyes　were　fixed　on　the　circling　numbers　。　。　。
　　
　　It　was　an　hour　or　more　before　Marty　left　the　table；　and　then　only　to　relieve　his　bladder　before　returning　to　his　seat。　Players　came　and　went。　The　American；　indulging　the　aquiline　youth　who　acpanied　him；　had　left　the　decisions　to　his　panion；　and　lost　a　small　fortune　before　retiring。　Marty's　reserves　were　running　low。　He'd　won；　and　lost；　and　won；　then　lost　and　lost　and　lost。　The　defeats　didn't　distress　him　overmuch。　It　wasn't　his　money；　and　as　Whitehead　had　often　observed；　there　was　plenty　more　where　that　came　from。　With　enough　chips　left　for　one　more　bet　of　any　consequence；　he　withdrew　from　the　table　for　a　breather。　He'd　sometimes　found　that　he　could　change　his　luck　by　retiring　from　the　field　for　a　few　minutes　and　returning　with　new　focus。
　　As　he　got　up　from　his　seat；　his　eyes　full　of　numbers；　somebody　walked　past　the　door　of　the　roulette　room　and　glanced　in　before　moving　on　to　another　game。　Fleeting　seconds　were　enough　for　recognition。
　　When　Marty'd　last　met　that　face　it　had　been　ill…shaven　and　waxen　with　pain；　lit　by　the　floods　along　the　Sanctuary　fence。　Now　Mamoulian　was　transformed。　No　longer　the　derelict；　cornered　and　anguished。　Marty　found　himself　walking　toward　the　door　like　a　man　hypnotized。　The　waiter　was　at　his　side…〃Another　drink；　sir？〃…but　the　inquiry　went　ignored　as　Marty　stepped　out　of　the　roulette　room　and　into　the　corridor。　Contrary　feeling　ran　in　him：　he　was　half…afraid　to　confirm　his　sighting　of　the　man；　yet　curiously　excited　that　the　man　was　here。　It　was　no　coincidence；　surely。　Perhaps　Toy　was　with　him。　Perhaps　the　whole　mystery　would　unravel　here　and　now。　He　caught　sight　of　Mamoulian　walking　into　the　baccarat　room。　A　particularly　fierce　match　was　going　on　there；　and　spectators　had　drifted　in　to　watch　its　closing　stages。　The　room　was　full；　players　from　other　tables　had　deserted　their　own　games　to　enjoy　the　battle　at　hand。　Even　the　waiters　were　lingering　on　the　periphery　trying　to　catch　a　glimpse。
　　Mamoulian　threaded　his　way　through　the　crowd　to　get　a　better　view；　his　thin　gray　figure　parting　the　throng。　Having　found　himself　a　vantage　point　he　stood；　light　shining　up　from　the　baize　onto　his　pale　face。　The　wounded　hand　was　lodged　in　his　jacket　pocket；　out　of　sight；　the　wide　brow　was　clear　of　the　least　expression。　Marty　watched　him　for　upward　of　five　minutes。　Not　once　did　the　European's　eyes　flicker　from　the　game　in　front　of　him。　He　was　like　a　piece　of　porcelain：　a　glazed　fa？ade　onto　which　a　nonchalant　artisan　had　scrawled　a　few　lines。　The　eyes　pressed　into　the　clay　were　incapable；　it　seemed；　of　anything　but　that　relentless　stare。　Yet　there　was　power　in　the　man。　It　was　uncanny　to　see　how　people　kept　clear　of　him；　cramming　themselves　into　knots　rather　than　press　too　close　to　him　at　the　tableside。
　　Across　the　room；　Marty　caught　sight　of　the　pen…mustache　waiter。　He　pushed　his　way　between　the　spectators　to　where　the　young　man　stood。
　　〃A　word；〃　he　whispered。
　　〃Yes；　sir？〃　〃That　man。　In　the　gray　suit。〃　The　waiter　glanced　toward　the　table；　then　back　to　Marty　〃Mr。　Mamoulian。〃　〃Yes。　What　do　you　know　about　him？〃　The　waiter　gave　Marty　a　reproving　look。
　　〃I'm　sorry；　sir。　We're　not　at　liberty　to　discuss　members。〃　He　turned　on　his　heel　and　went　into　the　corridor。　Marty　followed。　It　was　empty。　Downstairs；　the　girl　on　the　desk…not　the　same　he'd　spoken　with…was　giggling　with　the　coat…check　clerk。
　　〃Wait　a　moment。〃　When　the　waiter　looked　back；　Marty　was　producing　his　wallet；　still　amply　enough　filled　to　present　a　decent　bribe。　The　other　man　stared　at　the　notes　with　undisguised　greed。
　　〃I　just　want　to　ask　a　few　questions。　I　don't　need　the　number　of　his　bank　account。〃　〃I　don't　know　it　anyway。〃　The　waiter　smirked。　〃Are　you　police？〃　〃I'm　just　interested　in　Mr。　Mamoulian；〃　Marty　said；　proffering　fifty　pounds　in　tens。　〃Some　bare　essentials。〃　The　waiter　snatched　the　money　and　pocketed　it　with　the　speed　of　a　practiced　bribee。
　　〃Ask　away；〃　he　said。
　　〃Is　he　a　regular　here？〃　〃A　couple　of　times　a　month。〃　〃To　play？〃　The　waiter　frowned。
　　〃Now　you　mention　it　I　don't　think　I've　ever　seen　him　actually　play。〃　〃Just　to　watch；　then？〃　〃Well；　I　can't　be　sure。　But　I　think　if　he　did　play　I'd　have　seen　him　by　now。　Strange。　Still；　we　have　a　few　members　who　do　that。〃　〃And　does　he　have　any　friends？　People　he　arrives　with；　leaves　with？〃　〃Not　that　I　remember。　He　used　to　be　quite　pally　with　a　Greek　woman　who　used　to　e　in。　Always　won　a　fortune。　Never　failed。〃　That　was　the　gambler's　equivalent　of　the　fisherman's　tale；　the　story　of　the　player　with　a　system　so　flawless　it　never　faltered。　Marty　had　heard　it　a　hundred　times；　always　the　friend　of　a　friend；　a　mythical　somebody　whom　you　never　got　to　meet　face…to…face。　And　yet；　when　he　thought　of　Mamoulian's　face；　so　calculating　in　its　supreme　indifference；　he　could　almost　imagine　the　fiction　real。
　　〃Why　are　you　so　interested　in　him？〃　the　waiter　asked。
　　〃I　have　an　odd　feeling　about　him。〃　〃You're　not　the　only　one。〃　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　〃He's　never　said　or　done　anything　to　me；　you　understand；〃　the　waiter　explained。　〃He　always　tips　well；　though　God　knows　all　he　ever　drinks　is　distilled　water。　But　we　had　one　fellow　came　here；　this　is　a　couple　of　years　ago　now；　he　was　American；　over　from　Boston。　He　saw　Mamoulian　and　let　me　tell　you…he　freaked　out。　Seems　he'd　played　with　a　guy　who　was　his　spitting　image；　this　is　in　the　1920s。　That　caused　quite　a　buzz。　I　mean；　he　doesn't　look　like　the　type　to　have　a　father；　does　he？〃　The　waiter　had　something　there。　It　was　impossible　to　imagine　this　Mamoulian　as　a　child　or　a　pimply　adolescent。　Had　he　suffered　infatuation；　the　death　of　pets；　of　parents？　It　seemed　so　unlikely　as　to　be　laughable。
　　〃That's　all　I　know；　really。〃　〃Thank　you；〃　said　Marty。　It　was　enough。
　　The　waiter　walked　away；　leaving　Marty　with　an　armful　of　possibilities。　Apocryphal　tales；　most　likely：　the　Greek　with　the　system；　the　panicking　American。　A　man　like　Mamoulian　was　bound　to　collect　rumors；　his　air　of　lost　aristocracy　invited　invented　histories。　Like　an　onion；　unwrapped　and　unwrapped　and　unwrapped　again；　each　skin　giving　way　not　to　the　core　but　to　another　skin。
　　Tired；　and　dizzy　with　too　much　drink　and　too　little　sleep；　Marty　decided　to　call　it　a　night。　He'd　use　the　hundred　or　so　left　in　his　wallet　to　bribe　a　taxi　driver　to　drive　him　back　to　the　estate；　and　leave　the　car　to　be　picked　up　another　day。　He　was　too　drunk　to　drive。　He　glanced　one　final　time　into　the　baccarat　room。　The　game　was　still　going　on；　Mamoulian　had　not　moved　from　his　station。
　　Marty　went　downstairs　to　the　bathroom。　It　was　a　few　degrees　colder　than　the　interior　of　the　club；　its　rococo　plasterwork　facetious　in　the　face　of　its　lowly　function。　He　glanced　at　his　weariness　in　the　mirror；　then　went　to　relieve　himself　at　the　urinal。
　　In　one　of　the　stalls；　somebody　had　begun　to　sob；　very　quietly；　as　if　attempting　to　stifle　the　sound。　Despite　his　aching　bladder；　Marty　found　he　was　unable　to　piss；　the　anonymous　grief　distressed　him　too　much。　It　was　ing　from　behind　the　locked　door　of　the　stalls。　Probably　some　optimist　who'd　lost　his　shirt　on　a　roll　of　the　dice；　and　was　now　contemplating　the　consequences。　Marty　left　him　to　it。　There　was　nothing　he　could　say　or　do；　he　knew　that　from　bitter　experience。
　　Out　in　the　foyer；　the　woman　on　the　desk　called　after　him。
　　〃Mr。　Strauss？〃　It　was　the　English　rose。　She　showed　no　sign　of　wilting；　despite　the　hour。　〃Did　you　find　Mr。　Toy？〃　〃No；　I　didn't。〃　〃Oh；　that's　odd。　He　was　here。〃　〃Are　you　sure？〃　〃Yes。　He　came　with　Mr。　Mamoulian。　I　told　him　you　were　here；　and　that　you'd　asked　after　him。〃　〃And　what　did　he　say？〃　〃Nothing；〃　the　girl　replied。　〃Not　a　word。〃　She　dropped　her　voice。　〃Is　he　well？　I　mean；　he　looked　really　terrible；　if　you　don't　mind　me　saying　so。　Awful　color。〃　Marty　glanced　up　the　stairs；　scanned　the　landing。
　　〃Is　he　still　here？〃　〃Well；　I　haven't　been　on　the　desk　all　evening；　but　I　didn't　see　him　leave。〃　Marty　took　the　stairs　two　at　a　time。　He　wanted　to　see　Toy　so　much。　There　were　questions　to　ask；　confidences　to　exchange。　He　scoured　the　rooms；　looking　for　that　worn…leather　face。　But　though　Mamoulian　was　still　there；　sipping　his　water；　Toy　was　not　with　him。　Nor　was　he　to　be　found　in　any　of　the　bars。　He　had　clearly　e　and　gone。　Disappointed；　Marty　went　back　downstairs；　thanked　the　girl　for　her　help；　tipped　her　well；　and　left。
　　It　was　only　when　he　had　put　a　good　distance　between　himself　and　the　Academy；　walking　in　the　middle　of　the　road　to　waylay　the　first　available　taxi；　that　he　remembered　the　sobbing　in　the　bathroom。　His　pace　slowed。　Eventually　he　stopped　in　the　street；　his　head　echoing　to　the　thump　of　his　heart。　Was　it　just　hindsight；　or　had　that　ragged　voice　sounded　familiar；　as　it　chewed　on　its　grief？　Had　it　been　Toy　sitting　there　in　the　questionable　privacy　of　a　toilet　stall；　crying　like　a　lost　child？
　　Dreamily；　Marty　glanced　back　the　way　he'd　e。　If　he　suspected　Toy　was　still　at　the　club；　shouldn't　he　go　back　and　find　out？　But　his　head　was　making　unpleasant　connections。　The　woman　at　the　Pimlico　number　whose　voice　was　too　horrid　to　listen　to；　the　desk…girl's　question：　〃Is　he　well？〃；　the　profundity　of　despair　he　had　heard　from　behind　the　locked　door。　No；　he　couldn't　go　back。　Nothing；　not　even　the　promise　of　a　faultless　system　to　beat　every　table　in　the　house；