cb.damnationgame-第51部分

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　misery；　and　that　would　have　been　the　end　of　it。〃　〃You　think　he's　mortal？〃　〃Everything　has　its　season。　His　is　past。　He　knows　it。〃　〃So　all　you　need　do　is　wait；　right？　He'll　die；　given　time。〃　Marty　was　suddenly　sick　of　the　story　now；　of　thieves；　of　chance。　The　whole　sorry　tale；　true　or　untrue；　repulsed　him。　〃You　don't　need　me　anymore；〃　he　said。　He　stood　and　crossed　to　the　door。　The　sound　of　his　feet　in　the　glass　was　too　loud　in　the　small　room。
　　〃Where　are　you　going？〃　the　old　man　wanted　to　know。
　　〃Away。　As　far　as　I　can　get。〃　〃You　promised　to　stay。〃　〃I　promised　to　listen。　I　have　listened。　And　I　don't　want　any　of　this　bloody　place。〃　Marty　began　to　open　the　door。　Whitehead　addressed　his　back。
　　〃You　think　the　European'll　let　you　be？　You've　seen　him　in　the　flesh；　you've　seen　what　he　can　do。　He'll　have　to　silence　you　sooner　or　later。　Have　you　thought　of　that？〃　〃I'll　take　the　risk。〃　〃You're　safe　here。〃　〃Safe？〃　Marty　repeated　incredulously。　〃You　can't　be　serious。　Safe？　You　really　are　pathetic；　you　know　that？〃　〃If　you　go…〃　Whitehead　warned。
　　〃What？〃　Marty　turned　on　him；　spitting　contempt。　〃What　will　you　do；　old　man？〃　〃I'll　have　them　after　you　in　two　minutes　flat；　you're　skipping　parole。〃　〃And　if　they　find　me；　I'll　tell　them　everything。　About　the　heroin；　about　her　out　there　in　the　hall。　Every　dirty　thing　I　can　dig　up　to　tell　them。　I　don't　give　a　monkey's　toss　for　your　fucking　threats；　you　hear？〃　Whitehead　nodded。　〃So。　Stalemate。〃　〃Looks　like　it；〃　Marty　replied；　and　stepped　out　into　the　corridor　without　looking　back。
　　There　was　a　morbid　surprise　awaiting　him：　the　pups　had　found　Bella。　They　had　not　been　spared　Mamoulian's　resurrecting　hand；　though　they　could　not　have　served　any　practical　purpose。　Too　small；　too　blind。　They　lay　in　the　shadow　of　her　empty　belly；　their　mouths　seeking　teats　that　had　long　since　gone。　One　of　them　was　missing；　he　noted。　Had　it　been　the　sixth　child　he'd　seen　move　in　the　grave；　either　buried　too　deeply；　or　too　profoundly　degenerated；　to　follow　where　the　rest　went？
　　Bella　raised　her　neck　as　he　sidled　past。　What　was　left　of　her　head　swung　in　his　general　direction。　Marty　looked　away；　disgusted；　but　a　rhythmical　thumping　made　him　glance　back。
　　She　had　forgiven　him　his　previous　violence；　apparently。　Content　now；　with　her　adoring　litter　in　her　lap；　she　stared；　eyeless；　at　him；　while　her　wretched　tail　beat　gently　on　the　carpet。
　　
　　In　the　room　where　Marty　had　left　him　Whitehead　sat　slumped　with　exhaustion。
　　Though　it　had　been　difficult　to　tell　the　story　at　first；　it　had　bee　easier　with　the　telling；　and　he　was　glad　to　have　unburdened　it。　So　many　times　he'd　wanted　to　tell　Evangeline。　But　she　had　signaled；　in　her　elegant；　subtle　way；　that　if　there　were　indeed　secrets　he　had　from　her；　she　didn't　want　to　know　them。　All　those　years；　living　with　Mamoulian　in　the　home；　she　had　never　directly　asked　Whitehead　why；　as　though　she'd　known　the　answer　would　be　no　answer　at　all；　merely　another　question。
　　Thinking　about　her　brought　many　sorrows　to　his　throat；　they　brimmed　in　him。　The　European　had　killed　her；　he　had　no　doubt　of　that。　He　or　his　agents　had　been　on　the　road　with　her；　her　death　had　not　been　chance。　Had　it　been　chance　he　would　have　known。　His　unfailing　instinct　would　have　sensed　its　rightness；　however　terrible　his　grief。　But　there　had　been　no　such　sense；　only　the　recognition　of　his　oblique　plicity　in　her　death。　She　had　been　killed　as　revenge　upon　him。　One　of　many　such　acts；　but　easily　the　worst。
　　And　had　the　European　taken　her；　after　death？　Had　he　slipped　into　the　mausoleum　and　touched　her　into　life；　the　way　he　had　the　dogs？　The　thought　was　repugnant；　but　Whitehead　entertained　it　nevertheless；　determined　to　think　the　worst　for　fear　that　if　he　didn't　Mamoulian　might　still　find　terrors　to　shake　him　with。
　　〃You　won't；〃　he　said　aloud　to　the　room　of　glass。　Won't：　frighten　me；　intimidate　me；　destroy　me。　There　were　ways　and　means。　He　could　escape　still；　and　hide　at　the　ends　of　the　earth。　Find　a　place　where　he　could　forget　the　story　of　his　life。
　　There　was　something　he　hadn't　told；　a　fraction　of　the　Tale；　scarcely　pivotal　but　of　more　than　passing　interest；　that　he'd　withheld　from　Strauss　as　he　would　withhold　it　from　any　interrogator。　Perhaps　it　was　unspeakable。　Or　perhaps　it　touched　so　centrally；　so　profoundly；　upon　the　ambiguities　that　had　pursued　him　through　the　wastelands　of　his　life　that　to　speak　it　was　to　reveal　the　color　of　his　soul。
　　He　pondered　this　last　secret　now；　and　in　a　strange　way　the　thought　of　it　warmed　him：　He　had　left　the　game；　that　first　and　only　game　with　the　European；　and　scrambled　through　the　half…choked　door　into　Muranowski　Square。　No　stars　were　burning；　only　the　bonfire　at　his　back。
　　As　he'd　stood　in　the　gloom；　reorienting　himself；　the　chill　creeping　up　through　the　soles　of　his　boots；　the　lipless　woman　had　appeared　in　front　of　him。　She'd　beckoned。　He　assumed　she　intended　to　lead　him　back　the　way　he'd　e；　and　so　followed。　She'd　had　other　intentions；　however。　She'd　led　him　away　from　the　square　to　a　house　with　barricaded　windows；　and…ever　curious；　he'd　pursued　her　into　it；　certain　that　tonight　of　all　nights　no　harm　could　possibly　e　to　him。
　　In　the　entrails　of　the　house　was　a　tiny　room　whose　walls　were　draped　with　pirated　swaths　of　cloth；　some　rags；　others　dusty　lengths　of　velvet　that　had　once　framed　majestic　windows。　Here；　in　this　makeshift　boudoir；　there　was　one　piece　of　furniture　only。　A　bed；　upon　which　the　dead　Lieutenant　Vasiliev…whom　he　had　so　recently　seen　in　Mamoulian's　gaming　room…was　making　love。　And　as　the　thief　stepped　through　the　door；　and　the　lipless　woman　stood　aside；　Konstantin　had　looked　up　from　his　labors；　his　body　continuing　to　press　into　the　woman　who　lay　beneath　him　on　a　mattress　strewn　with　Russian　and　German　and　Polish　flags。
　　The　thief　stood；　disbelieving；　wanting　to　tell　Vasiliev　that　he　was　performing　the　act　incorrectly；　that　he'd　mistaken　one　hole　for　another；　and　it　was　no　natural　orifice　he　was　using　so　brutally；　but　a　wound。
　　The　lieutenant　wouldn't　have　listened；　of　course。　He　grinned　as　he　worked；　the　red　pole　rooting　and　dislodging；　rooting　and　dislodging。　The　corpse　he　was　pleasuring　rocked　beneath　him；　unimpressed　by　her　paramour's　attentions。
　　How　long　had　the　thief　watched？　The　act　showed　no　sign　of　consummation。　At　last　the　lipless　woman　had　murmured　〃Enough？〃　in　his　ear；　and　he　had　turned　a　little　way　to　her　while　she　had　put　her　hand　on　the　front　of　his　trousers。　She　seemed　not　at　all　surprised　that　he　was　aroused；　though　in　all　the　years　since　he　had　never　understood　how　such　a　thing　was　possible。　He　had　long　ago　accepted　that　the　dead　could　be　woken。　But　that　he　had　felt　heat　in　their　presence…that　was　another　crime　altogether；　more　terrible　to　him　than　the　first。
　　There　is　no　Hell；　the　old　man　thought；　putting　the　boudoir　and　its　charred　Casanova　out　of　his　mind。　Or　else　Hell　is　a　room　and　a　bed　and　appetite　everlasting；　and　I've　been　there　and　seen　its　rapture　and；　if　the　worst　es　to　the　worst；　I　will　endure　it。
　　
　　
　　
　　Part　Five　THE　DELUGE
　　
　　Out　of　a　fired　ship；　which；　by　no　way　But　drowning　could　be　rescued　from　the　flame；　Some　men　leaped　forth；　and　ever　as　they　came　Near　the　foes〃　ships；　did　by　their　shot　decay；　So　all　were　lost；　which　in　the　ship　were　found；　They　in　the　sea　being　burnt；　they　in　the　burnt　ship　drowned。
　　…JOHN　DONNE；　〃A　Burnt　Ship〃
　　
　　IX　Bad　Faith
　　
　　49
　　The　Deluge　descended　in　the　driest　July　in　living　memory；　but　then　no　revisionist's　dream　of　Armageddon　is　plete　without　its　paradox。　Lightning　appearing　out　of　a　clear　sky；　flesh　turned　to　salt；　the　meek　inheriting　the　earth：　all　unlikely　phenomena。
　　That　July；　however；　there　were　no　spectacular　transformations。　No　celestial　lights　appeared　in　the　clouds。　No　rains　of　salamanders　or　children。　If　angels　came　and　went　that　month…if　the　looked…for　Deluge　broke…then　it　was；　like　the　truest　Armageddons；　metaphor。
　　There　are；　it's　true；　some　freakish　occurrences　to　be　recounted；　but　most　of　them　take　place　in　backwaters；　in　ill…lit　corridors；　in　shunned　wastelands　among　rain…sodden　mattresses　and　the　ashes　of　old　bonfires。　They　are　local；　almost　private。　Their　shock　waves…at　best…made　gossip　among　wild　dogs。
　　Most　of　these　miracles；　however…games；　rains　and　salvations…were　slipped　with　such　cunning　behind　the　facade　of　ordinary　life　that　only　the　sharpest…sighted；　or　those　in　search　of　the　unlikely；　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　Apocalypse　showing　its　splendors　to　a　sun…bleached　city。
　　
　　50
　　The　city　didn't　wele　Marty　back　with；　open　arms；　but　he　was　glad　to　be　away　from　the　house　once　and　for　all；　his　back　turned　on　the　old　man　and　his　madness。　Whatever　the　consequences　of　his　departure　in　the　long　term…and　he　would　have　to　think　very　carefully　about　whether　he　now　turned　himself　in…he　at　least　had　a　breathing　space；　time　to　think　things　through。
　　The　tourist　season　was　under　way。　London　was　thronged　with　visitors；　making　familiar　streets　unfamiliar。　He　spent　the　first　couple　of　days　just　wandering　around；　getting　used　to　being　footloose　and　fancy…free　again。　He　had　precious　little　money　left：　but　he　could　turn　his　hand　to　a　laboring　job　if　need　be。　With　summer　at　its　height　the　building　trade　was　hungry　for　fit　workhorses。　The　thought　of　an　honest　day's　work；　its　production　of　sweat　paid　for　in　cash；　was　attractive。　If　necessary　he　would　sell　the　Citro？n　that　he'd　taken　from　the　Sanctuary　in　one　last；　and　probably　ill…advised；　gesture　of　rebellion。
　　After　two　days　of　liberty；　his　thoughts　turned　to　an　old　theme：　America。　He'd　had　it　tattooed　on　his　arm　as　a　keepsake　of　his　prison　dreams。　Now；　perhaps；　was　the　time　for　him　to　make　it　a　reality。　In　his　imagination；　Kansas　beckoned；　its　grain　fields　running　to　the　eye's　limit　in　every　direction；　and　not　a　man…made　thing　in　sight。　He'd　be　safe　there。　Not　just　from　the　police　and　Mamoulian；　but　from　history；　from　stories　told　again　and　again；　round　in　circles；　world　without　end。　In　Kansas；　there　would　be　a　new　story：　a　story　that　he　could　not　know　the　end　of。　And　wasn't　that　a　working　definition　of　freedom；　unspoiled　by　European　hand；　European　certainty？
　　To　keep　himself　off　the　streets　while　he　planned　his　escape　he　found