cb.damnationgame-第53部分

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r　power　to　revive　him　wane　with　repetition。
　　For　a　time　he　had　tried　to　forget　her：　it　was　more　convenient　that　way。　Now　he　clung　to　thoughts　of　that　face；　bereft。　He　wondered　if　he　would　see　her　again。
　　The　Sunday　newspapers　all　carried　further　reports　on　the　death。　The　Sunday　Times　gave　over　the　front　of　its　Review　section　to　a　thumbnail　sketch　Of　BRITAIN'S　MOST　MYSTERIOUS　MILLIONAIRE；　written　by　Lawrence　Dwoskin；　〃longtime　associate　and　confidant　of　England's　Howard　Hughes。　〃　Marty　read　the　piece　through　twice；　unable　to　scan　the　printed　words　without　hearing　Dwoskin's　insinuating　tone　in　his　ear　。　。　。　he　was　in　many　ways　a　paragon；　〃　it　read；　〃。　…　。　though　the　almost　hermitlike　history　of　his　latter　years　gave　rise；　inevitably；　to　reams　of　gossip　and　tittle…tattle；　much　of　it　hurtful　to　a　man　of　Joseph's　sensibilities。　Through　all　his　years　in　public　life；　exposed　to　the　scrutiny　of　a　press　that　was　not　always　beneficent；　he　never　hardened　himself　to　criticism；　implied　or　explicit。　To　we　few　who　knew　him　well　he　revealed　a　nature　more　susceptible　to　barbs　than　his　outward　show　of　indifference　would　ever　have　suggested。　When　he　found　rumors　of　misconduct　or　excess　being　circulated　about　him；　the　criticism　bit　deeply；　especially　as；　since　his　beloved　wife　Evangeline's　death　in　1965；　he　had　bee　the　most　fastidious　of　sexual　and　moral　beings。　〃　Marty　read　this　simpering　cant　with　a　bitter　taste　in　his　throat。　The　canonization　of　the　old　man　had　already　begun。　Soon；　presumably；　would　e　the　biographies；　authorized…and　then　bowdlerized…by　his　estate；　turning　his　life　into　a　series　of　flattering　fables　by　which　he　would　be　remembered。　The　process　nauseated　him。　Reading　the　platitudes　in　Dwoskin's　text　he　found　himself　fiercely　and　unpredictably　defensive　of　the　old　man's　foibles；　as　though　everything　that　had　made　him　unique…made　him　real…now　stood　in　danger　of　being　whitewashed　away。
　　He　read　Dwoskin's　article　to　its　maudlin　end　and　put　it　down。　The　only　detail　in　its　length　that　was　of　interest　was　mention　of　the　funeral　service；　which　was　to　be　held　in　a　small　church　at　Minster　Lovell　the　following　day。　The　body　was　then　to　be　cremated。　Dangerous　though　it　might　be；　Marty　felt　the　need　to　go　and　pay　his　last　respects。
　　
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　　In　fact　the　service　attracted　so　many　onlookers；　from　casual　observers　to　diehard　scandal…sniffers；　Marty's　presence　went　entirely　unnoticed。　The　whole　event　had　an　unreal　air　to　it；　as　if　contrived　to　have　the　entire　world　know　that　the　great　man　was　dead。　There　were　correspondents　and　photographers　from　all　over　Europe　in　addition　to　the　clan　from　Fleet　Street；　and　among　the　mourners　some　of　the　most　famous　faces　in　public　life：　politicians；　professional　pundits；　captains　of　industry；　even　a　smattering　of　movie　stars　whose　only　claim　to　fame　was　fame　itself。　The　presence　of　so　many　celebrities　attracted　dedicated　Peeping　Toms　in　their　hundreds。　The　small　church；　the　yard　around　it；　and　the　road　around　that　were　overrun。　The　service　itself　was　relayed　to　those　outside　the　building　via　loudspeakers；　a　curious；　dislocating　detail。　The　voice　of　the　presiding　clergyman　sounded　tinny　and　theatrical　through　the　sound　system；　his　eulogy　punctuated　by　an　amplified　percussion　of　coughs　and　shufflings。
　　Marty　didn't　like　hearing　the　service　this　way；　any　more　than　he　liked　the　tourists；　ill…dressed　for　a　funeral；　who　lolled　on　the　gravestones　and　littered　the　grass；　waiting　with　barely　suppressed　impatience　for　this　tiresome　interruption　in　their　stargazing　to　be　concluded。　Whitehead　had　encouraged　a　dormant　misanthropy　in　Marty：　it　now　had　a　permanent　place　in　his　worldview。　Looking　around　the　graveyard　at　this　heat…flushed；　dull…eyed　congregation　he　felt　contempt　well　up　in　him。　He　itched　to　turn　his　back　on　the　farrago　and　slip　away。　But　the　desire　to　see　this　final　scene　played　out　overwhelmed　the　desire　to　leave；　so　he　waited　in　the　throng　while　wasps　buzzed　at　children's　sticky　heads　and　a　woman　with　the　physique　of　a　stick　insect　flirted　with　him　from　the　top　of　a　tomb。
　　Somebody　was　now　reading　the　lesson。　An　actor；　to　judge　by　the　self…regarding　tone。　It　was　announced　as　a　passage　from　the　Psalms；　but　Marty　didn't　recognize　it。
　　As　the　reading　was　drawing　to　a　close；　a　car　drew　up　at　the　main　gate。　Heads　turned　and　cameras　clicked　as　two　figures　emerged。　A　buzz　spread　through　the　crowd；　people　who'd　taken　to　lying　down　stood　up　again　to　see　what　could　be　seen。　Something　roused　Marty　from　his　lethargy；　and　he　too　stood　on　tiptoe　to　glimpse　the　lateers：　it　was　quite　an　entrance　they　were　making。　He　peered　between　the　heads　of　the　crowd　to　catch　a　look；　caught　sight；　then　lost　it　again；　said　〃no；〃　quietly　to　himself；　not　believing；　then　pushed　his　way　through　the　crowd　trying　to　keep　pace　as　Mamoulian；　a　veiled　Carys　at　his　side；　glided　down　the　pathway　from　gate　to　porch　and　disappeared　into　the　church。　〃Who　was　it？〃　somebody　asked　him。　〃Do　you　know　who　it　was？〃　Hell；　he　wanted　to　answer。　The　Devil　himself。
　　Mamoulian　was　here！　In　broad　daylight；　sun　on　the　back　of　his　neck；　walking　with　Carys　arm　in　arm　like　man　and　wife；　letting　the　cameras　catch　him　for　tomorrow's　edition。　He　had　no　fear；　apparently。　This　late　appearance；　so　measured；　so　ironic；　was　a　final　gesture　of　contempt。　And　why　did　she　play　his　game？　Why　didn't　she　throw　off　his　hand　and　denounce　him　for　the　unnatural　thing　he　was？　Because　she'd　gone　willingly　into　his　entourage；　the　very　way　Whitehead　had　told　him　she　would。　In　search　of　what？　Someone　to　celebrate　that　strain　of　nihilism　in　her；　to　educate　her　in　the　fine　art　of　dying？　And　what　might　she　give　in　return？　Ah；　there　was　the　prickly　question。
　　At　long　last　the　service　came　to　an　end。　Suddenly；　to　the　delight　and　outrage　of　the　congregation；　a　raucous　saxophone　broke　the　solemnity；　and　a　jazz　rendering　of　〃Fools　Rush　In〃　was　blaring　over　the　loudspeakers。　Whitehead's　final　joke；　presumably。　It　earned　its　laughs；　some　of　the　crowd　even　applauded。　From　inside　the　church　there　came　the　clatter　of　people　rising　from　their　pews。　Marty　craned　to　get　a　better　view　of　the　porch；　and　failing；　threaded　his　way　back　through　the　press　of　people　to　a　tomb　that　offered　a　view。　There　were　birds　in　the　heat…drooped　trees；　and　their　pursuits　distracted　him；　catching　him　up　in　their　swooping　play。　When　he　looked　back　the　coffin　was　almost　parallel　with　him；　shouldered；　among　others；　by　Ottaway　and　Curtsinger。　The　plain　box　seemed　almost　indecently　exposed。　He　wondered　what　they'd　dressed　the　old　man　in　at　the　last；　if　they'd　trimmed　his　beard　and　sewed　his　eyelids　shut。
　　The　procession　of　mourners　followed　on　the　heels　of　the　pallbearers；　a　black　cortege　that　parted　the　candy…colored　sea　of　tourists。　To　right　and　left　the　shutters　tutted；　some　damn　fool　called；　〃Watch　the　birdy。〃　The　jazz　played　on。　It　was　all　gratifyingly　absurd。　The　old　man；　Marty　guessed；　would　be　smiling　in　his　box。
　　Finally　Carys　and　Mamoulian　emerged　from　the　shade　of　the　porch　into　the　brilliance　of　the　afternoon；　and　Marty　was　sure　he　caught　the　girl　cautiously　scanning　the　crowd；　fearful　that　her　panion　would　notice。　She　was　looking　for　him；　he　was　certain　of　it。　She　knew　he'd　be　there；　somewhere；　and　she　was　looking　for　him。　His　mind　raced；　tripping　over　itself　in　its　turmoil。　If　he　made　a　sign　to　her；　however　subtle；　there　was　every　chance　Mamoulian　would　see　it；　and　that　was　surely　dangerous　for　them　both。　Better　to　hide　his　head　then；　painful　as　it　was　not　to　lock　glances　with　her。
　　Reluctantly；　he　stepped　down　off　the　tomb　as　the　clump　of　mourners　came　abreast　of　him；　and　spied　what　he　could　from　the　shelter　of　the　crowd。　The　European　scarcely　raised　his　head　from　its　bowed　position；　and　from　what　Marty　could　glimpse　between　the　bobbing　heads　Carys　had　given　up　her　search…perhaps　despairing　of　his　being　there。　As　the　coffin　and　its　black　tail　wound　out　of　the　churchyard；　Marty　ducked　away　and　over　the　wall　to　watch　events　precede　from　a　better　vantage　point。
　　In　the　road　Mamoulian　was　speaking　to　one　or　two　of　the　mourners。　Handshakes　were　exchanged；　miserations　offered　to　Carys。　Marty　watched　impatiently。　Perhaps　she　and　the　European　would　separate　in　the　throng；　and　he'd　get　a　chance　to　show　himself；　if　only　momentarily；　and　reassure　her　of　his　presence。　But　no　such　opportunity　presented　itself。　Mamoulian　was　the　perfect　guardian；　keeping　Carys　close　to　him　every　moment。　Pleasantries　and　farewells　exchanged；　they　got　into　the　back　of　a　dark　green　Rover　and　drove　away。　Marty　raced　to　the　Citro？n。　He　mustn't　lose　her　now；　whatever　happened：　this　was　perhaps　his　last　chance　to　locate　her。　The　pursuit　proved　difficult。　Once　off　the　small　country　roads　and　onto　the　highway　the　Rover　accelerated　with　insolent　ease。　Marty　gave　chase　as　discreetly　as　the　twin　imperatives　of　tactics　and　excitement　would　allow。
　　In　the　back　seat　of　the　car　Carys　had　a　strange；　flickering　thought。　Whenever　she　closed　her　lids　to　blink　or　shut　out　the　day's　glare；　a　figure　appeared：　a　runner。　She　recognized　him　in　seconds：　the　gray　track　suit；　a　cloud　of　steam　emerging　from　the　hood；　named　him　before　she　glimpsed　his　face。　She　wanted　to　glance　over　her　shoulder；　to　see　if　he　was；　as　she　guessed；　behind　them　somewhere。　But　she　knew　better。　Mamoulian　would　guess　something　was　going　on；　if　he　hadn't　already。
　　The　European　looked　across　at　her。　She　was　a　secret　one；　he　thought。　He　never　really　knew　what　she　was　thinking。　She　was；　in　that　regard；　her　mother's　child。　Whereas　he　had　learned；　with　time；　to　read　Joseph's　face；　Evangeline　had　seldom　let　a　glimmer　of　her　true　feelings　show。　For　the　space　of　several　months　he'd　assumed　her　to　be　indifferent　to　his　presence　in　the　house；　only　time　had　told　the　true　story　of　her　machinations　against　him。　He　sometimes　suspected　Carys　of　similar　pretenses。　Wasn't　she　simply　too　pliant？　Even　now　she　wore　the　faintest　trace　of　a　smile。
　　〃It　amused　you？〃　he　inquired。
　　〃What？〃　〃The　funeral。〃　〃No；〃　she　said　lightly。　〃No；　of　course　not。〃　〃You　were　smiling。〃　The　trace　evaporated；　her　face　slackened。　〃It　had　some　grotesquerie　value；　I　suppose；〃　she　said；　her　voice　dull；　〃watching　them　all　play　up　to　the　cameras。〃　〃You　didn't　trust　their　grief？〃　〃They　never　loved　h