cb.damnationgame-第77部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


is　greed。　She　was　in　him…all　of　her　at　once…and　it　was　too　much。　And　the　Saints　were　making　it　worse；　looking　at　him　as　though　he　were　something　loathsome；　the　dark　one　shaking　his　head。　〃You　killed　her；〃　he　said。　〃You　killed　her。〃　The　European　turned　away　from　the　accusations；　his　system　boiling　over；　and　leaned　elbow　and　forearm　on　the　wall　like　a　drunk　about　to　vomit。　Her　presence　in　him　was　a　torment。　It　wouldn't　be　still；　it　raged　and　raged。　And　her　turbulence　unlocked　so　much　more：　Strauss　piercing　his　bowels；　the　dogs　at　his　heels；　unleashing　blood　and　smoke；　and　then　back；　back　beyond　these　few　terrible　months　to　other　ordeals：　yards　and　snow　and　starlight　and　women　and　hunger；　always　hunger。　And　still　at　his　back　he　felt　the　stare　of　the　Christians。
　　One　of　them　spoke；　the　blond　boy　whom　once　he　might　have　lusted　after。　He；　and　she；　and　all。
　　〃Is　this　all　there　is？〃　he　demanded　to　know。　〃Is　this　all；　you　fucking　liar？　You　promised　us　the　Deluge。〃　The　European　pressed　his　hand　over　his　mouth　to　stem　the　escaping　smoke　and　pictured　a　wave　curling　over　the　hotel；　over　the　city；　descending　to　sweep　Europe　away。
　　〃Don't　tempt　me；〃　he　said。
　　
　　In　the　hallway　Whitehead；　his　neck　broken；　became　vaguely　aware　of　a　perfume　in　the　air。　He　could　see　the　landing　outside　the　suite　from　where　he　was　lying。　Muranowski　Square；　with　its　fatal　tree；　had　long　since　faded；　leaving　only　the　mirrors　and　the　carpets。　Now；　as　he　sprawled　beside　the　door；　he　heard　somebody　e　up　the　stairs。　He　glimpsed　a　figure　moving　in　the　shadows；　this　was　the　perfumed　one。　The　newer　approached　slowly；　but　doggedly；　hesitating　for　only　a　moment　at　the　threshold　before　stepping　over　Whitehead's　crumpled　form　and　making　his　way　toward　the　room　where　the　two　men　had　played　cards。　There　had　been　a　while；　as　they'd　chatted　over　the　game；　that　the　old　man　had　fancied　he　might　yet　make　a　fresh　covenant　with　the　European；　might　escape　for　a　few　more　years　the　inevitable　catastrophe。　But　it　had　all　gone　wrong。　They　had　rowed　over　some　trivia；　the　way　lovers　do；　and　by　some　inprehensible　mathematic　it　had　escalated　to　this：　death。
　　He　rolled　himself　over　so　that　he　could　look　the　other　way；　down　the　corridor　toward　the　gaming　room。　Carys　was　lying　on　the　floor　among　the　spilled　cards。　He　could　see　her　corpse　through　the　open　door。　The　European　had　devoured　her。
　　Now　the　newer　interrupted　his　view　as　he　lurched　to　the　door。　From　where　he　lay　Whitehead　hadn't　been　able　to　see　the　man's　face。　But　he　saw　the　shine　on　the　machete　at　his　side。
　　
　　Tom　caught　sight　of　the　Razor…Eater　before　Chad。　His　unruly　stomach　rebelled　at　the　mingled　stench　of　sandalwood　and　putrefaction；　and　he　threw　up　on　the　old　man's　bed　as　Breer　stepped　into　the　room。　He'd　e　a　long　way；　and　the　miles　had　not　been　kind；　but　he　was　here。
　　Mamoulian　stood　upright　from　the　wall　and　faced　Breer。
　　He　was　not　entirely　surprised　to　see　that　rotted　face；　though　he　wasn't　sure　why。　Was　it　that　his　mind　had　not　quite　relinquished　its　hold　on　the　Razor…Eater；　and　that　Breer　was　somehow　here　at　his　behest？　Breer　stared　at　Mamoulian　through　the　bright　air；　as　if　awaiting　a　new　instruction　before　he　acted　again。　The　muscles　of　his　face　were　so　deteriorated　that　each　flicker　of　his　eyeball　threatened　to　tear　the　skin　of　its　orbit。　He　looked；　thought　Chad…his　mind　high　on　cognac…like　a　man　full　to　bursting　with　butterflies。　Their　wings　beat　against　the　confines　of　his　anatomy；　they　powdered　his　bones　in　their　fervor。　Soon　their　relentless　motion　would　split　him　open　and　the　air　would　be　full　of　them。
　　The　European　looked　down　at　the　machete　Breer　was　carrying。
　　〃Why　did　you　e？〃　he　wanted　to　know。
　　The　Razor…Eater　tried　to　reply；　but　his　tongue　rebelled　against　the　duty。　There　was　just　a　soft　palate　word　that　could　have　been　〃good；〃　or　〃got〃　or　〃God；〃　but　was　none　of　them。
　　〃Have　you　e　to　be　killed？　Is　that　it？〃　Breer　shook　his　head。　He　had　no　such　intention；　and　Mamoulian　knew　it。　Death　was　the　least　of　his　problems。　He　raised　the　blade　at　his　side　to　signal　his　intentions。
　　〃I　can　wipe　you　out；〃　Mamoulian　said。
　　Again；　Breer　shook　his　head。　〃Egg；〃　he　said；　which　Mamoulian　interpreted；　and　repeated　as　〃Dead。〃　〃Dead　。　。　。〃　Chad　mused。　〃God　in　Heaven。　The　man's　dead。〃　The　European　murmured　the　affirmative。
　　Chad　smiled。　Maybe　they　were　going　to　be　cheated　of　the　destroying　wave。　Perhaps　the　Reverend's　calculations　had　been　wrong；　and　the　Deluge　wouldn't　be　on　them　for　a　few　more　months。　What　did　it　matter？　He　had　stories　to　tell…such　stories。　Even　Bliss；　with　all　his　talk　of　the　demons　in　the　soul　of　the　hemisphere；　hadn't　known　about　scenes　like　this。　The　Saint　watched；　licking　his　lips　with　anticipation。
　　In　the　hallway；　Whitehead　had　managed　to　drag　himself　three　or　four　yards　away　from　the　front　door；　and　he　could　see　Marty；　who　had　managed　to　stand。　Leaning　on　the　lintel　of　the　bathroom　door；　Marty　felt　the　old　man's　eyes　on　him。　Whitehead　raised　a　beckoning　hand。　Groggily；　Marty　lurched　into　the　hallway；　his　presence　ignored　by　the　actors　in　the　gaming　room。　It　was　dark　out　here；　the　light　in　the　gaming　room；　that　livid　candlelight；　was　all　but　sealed　off　by　the　partially　closed　door。
　　Marty　knelt　at　Whitehead's　side。　The　old　man　took　hold　of　his　shirt。
　　〃You've　got　to　fetch　her；〃　he　said；　the　voice　almost　faded。　His　eyes　bulged；　there　was　blood　in　his　beard；　and　more　ing　with　each　word；　but　his　hold　was　strong。　〃Fetch　her；　Marty；〃　he　hissed。
　　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃　〃He　has　her；〃　Whitehead　said。　〃In　him。　Fetch　her；　for　Christ's　sake；　or　she'll　be　there　forever；　like　the　others。〃　His　eyes　flicked　in　the　direction　of　the　landing；　remembering　the　scourge　of　Muranowski　Square。　Was　she　there　already？　A　prisoner　under　the　tree；　with　Vasiliev's　eager　hands　on　her？　The　old　man's　lips　began　to　tremble。　〃Can't　。　。　。　let　him　have　her；　boy；〃　he　said。　〃You　hear　me。　Won't　let　him　have　her。〃　Marty　had　difficulty　sewing　the　sense　of　this　together。　Was　Whitehead　suggesting　that　he　should　find　his　way　into　Mamoulian　and　retrieve　Carys？　It　wasn't　possible。
　　〃I　can't；〃　he　said。
　　The　old　man　registered　disgust；　and　let　go　of　Marty　as　though　he'd　discovered　he　had　hold　of　excrement。　Painfully；　he　turned　his　head　away。
　　Marty　looked　toward　the　gaming　room。　Through　the　gap　in　the　door　he　could　see　Mamoulian　moving　toward　the　unmistakable　figure　of　the　Razor…Eater。　There　was　frailty　on　the　European's　face。　Marty　studied　it　for　a　moment；　and　then　looked　down　at　the　European's　feet。　Carys　lay　there；　her　face　startled　by　cessation；　her　skin　bright。　He　could　do　nothing；　why　didn't　Papa　leave　him　be　to　run　away　into　the　night　and　heal　his　bruises？　He　could　do　nothing。
　　And　if　he　ran；　if　he　found　a　place　to　hide；　to　heal；　would　he　ever　wash　away　the　smell　of　his　cowardice？　Would　this　moment…the　roads　dividing；　and　dividing　again…not　be　burned　into　his　dreams　forever？　He　looked　back　at　Papa。　But　for　the　feeble　movement　of　his　lips　he　could　have　already　been　dead。　〃Fetch　her；〃　he　was　still　saying；　a　catechism　to　be　repeated　until　his　breath　failed。　〃Fetch　her。　Fetch　her。〃　Marty　had　asked　something　similar　of　Carys…to　go　into　the　lunatic's　lair　and　e　back　with　a　story　to　tell。　How　could　he　now　not　return　the　favor？　Fetch　her。　Fetch　her。　Papa's　words　were　fading　with　every　beat　of　his　failing　heart。　Maybe　she　was　retrievable；　Marty　thought；　somewhere　in　the　flux　of　Mamoulian's　body。　And　if　not；　if　not；　would　it　be　so　hard　to　die　trying　to　fetch　her；　and　have　an　end　to　roads　dividing；　and　choices　turning　to　ash？
　　But　how？　He　tried　to　recall　how　she'd　done　it；　but　the　procedures　were　too　elaborate…the　washing；　the　silence…and　surely　he　had　scant　opportunity　to　make　his　voyage　before　circumstances　changed。　His　only　source　of　hope　lay　in　the　fact　of　his　bloody　shirt…the　way　he'd　felt；　on　his　way　here；　that　Carys　had　snapped　some　barrier　in　his　head；　and　that　the　damage；　once　done；　was　permanent。　Perhaps　his　mind　could　go　to　her　through　the　wound　she'd　opened；　tracing　her　scent　as　relentlessly　as　she'd　pursued　his。
　　He　closed　his　eyes；　shutting　off　the　hallway　and　Whitehead　and　the　body　lying　at　the　European's　feet。　Sight　was　a　trap；　she'd　said　that　once。　Effort　too。　He　must　let　go。　Let　instinct　and　imagination　take　him　where　sense　and　intellect　could　not。
　　He　conjured　her；　effortlessly；　putting　the　bleak　fact　of　her　corpse　out　of　his　head　and　evoking　instead　her　living　smile。　In　his　mind　he　spoke　her　name　and　she　came　to　him　in　a　dozen　moments：　laughing；　naked；　puzzled；　contrite。　But　he　let　the　particulars　go；　leaving　only　her　essential　presence　in　his　aching　head。
　　He　was　dreaming　her。　The　wound　was　open；　and　it　pained　him　to　touch　it　again。　Blood　was　running　into　his　open　mouth；　but　the　sensation　was　a　distant　phenomenon。　It　had　little　to　do　with　his　present　condition；　which　was　increasingly　dislocated。　He　felt　as　though　he　was　slipping　his　body　off。　It　was　redundant：　waste　matter。　The　ease　of　the　procedure　astonished　him；　his　only　anxiety　vas　that　he'd　bee　too　eager；　he　had　to　control　his　exhilaration　for　fear　he　throw　caution　to　the　wind　and　be　discovered。
　　He　could　see　nothing；　hear　nothing。　The　state　he　moved　in…did　he　even　move？…was　not　susceptible　to　the　senses。　Now；　though　he　had　no　proof　of　the　perception；　he　was　sure　he　was　abstracted　from　his　body。　It　was　behind；　below　him：　an　untenanted　shell。　Ahead　of　him；　Carys。　He　would　dream　his　way　to　her。
　　And　then；　just　as　he　had　thought　he　could　take　pleasure　in　this　extraordinary　journey。　Hell　opened　in　front　of　himMamoulian；　too　intent　on　the　Razor…Eater；　felt　nothing　as　Marty　breached　him。　Breer　made　a　half…run　forward；　lifting　the　machete　and　aiming　a　blow　at　the　European。　He　sidestepped　to　avoid　it　with　perfect　economy　but　Breer　pivoted　around　for　a　second　strike　with　startling　speed；　and　this　time；　more　by　chance　than　direction；　the　machete　glanced　down　Mamoulian's　arm；　slicing　into　the　cloth　of　his　dark　gray　suit。
　　〃Chad；〃　the　European　said；　not　taking　his　eyes　off　Breer。
　　〃Yes？〃　the　blond　boy　replied。　He　was　still　leaning　on　the　wall　beside　the　door；　posed　there　like　an　indolent　hero；　he　had　found　Whitehead's　cache　of　cigars；　pocketing　several　and　lighting　one。　He