cb.damnationgame-第18节

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　　III　The　Last　European
　　
　　18
　　Anthony　Breer；　the　Razor…Eater；　returned　to　his　tiny　flat　in　the　late　afternoon；　made　himself　instant　coffee　in　his　favorite　cup；　then　sat　at　the　table　in　the　failing　light　and　started　to　tie　himself　a　noose。　He'd　known　from　early　morning　that　today　was　the　day。　No　need　to　go　down　to　the　library；　if；　in　time；　they　noticed　his　absence　and　wrote　to　him　demanding　to　know　where　he　was；　he　wouldn't　be　answering。　Besides；　the　sky　had　looked　as　grubby　as　his　sheets　at　dawn；　and　being　a　rational　man　he'd　thought：　why　bother　to　wash　the　sheets　when　the　world's　so　dirty；　and　I'm　so　dirty；　and　there's　no　chance　of　ever　getting　any　of　it　clean？　The　best　thing　is　to　put　an　end　to　this　squalid　existence　once　and　for　all。
　　He'd　seen　hanged　people　aplenty。　Only　photographs；　of　course；　in　a　book　he'd　stolen　from　work　about　war　crimes；　marked　〃Not　for　the　open　shelves。　To　be　issued　only　on　request。〃　The　warning　had　really　got　his　imagination　working：　here　was　a　book　people　weren't　really　meant　to　see。　He'd　slipped　it　into　his　bag　unopened；　knowing　from　the　very　title…Soviet　Documents　on　Nazi　Atrocities…that　this　was　a　volume　almost　as　sweet　in　the　anticipation　as　in　the　reading。　But　in　that　he'd　been　wrong。　Mouthwatering　as　that　day　had　been；　knowing　that　his　bag　contained　this　taboo　treasure　that　delight　was　nothing　pared　to　the　revelations　of　the　book　itself。　There　were　pictures　of　the　burned…out　ruins　of　Chekhov's　cottage　in　Istra　and　others　of　the　desecration　of　the　Tchaikovsky　residence。　But　mostly…and　more　importantly…there　were　photographs　of　the　dead。　Some　of　them　heaped　in　piles；　others　lying　in　bloody　snow；　frozen　solid。　Children　with　their　skulls　broken　open；　people　lying　in　trenches；　shot　in　the　face；　others　with　swastikas　carved　into　their　chests　and　buttocks。　But　to　the　Razor…Eater's　greedy　eyes；　the　best　photographs　were　of　people　being　hanged。　There　was　one　Breer　looked　at　very　often。　It　pictured　a　handsome　young　man　being　strung　up　from　a　makeshift　gallows。　The　photographer　had　caught　him　in　his　last　moments；　staring　directly　at　the　camera；　a　wan　and　beatific　smile　on　his　face。
　　That　was　the　look　Breer　wanted　them　to　find　on　his　face　when　they　broke　down　the　door　of　this　very　room　and　found　him　suspended　up　here；　pirouetting　in　the　breeze　from　the　hallway。　He　thought　about　how　they　would　stare　at　him；　coo　at　him；　shake　their　heads　in　wonder　at　his　pale　white　feet　and　his　courage　in　doing　this　tremendous　thing。　And　while　he　thought；　he　knotted　and　unknotted　the　noose；　determined　to　make　as　professional　a　job　of　it　as　he　possibly　could。
　　His　only　anxiety　was　the　confession。　Despite　his　working　with　books　day　in；　day　out；　words　weren't　his　strongest　point：　they　slipped　away　for　him；　like　beauty　from　his　fat　hands。　But　he　wanted　to　say　something　about　the　children；　just　so　they'd　know；　the　people　who　found　him　and　photographed　him；　that　this　wasn't　a　nobody　they　were　staring　at；　but　a　man　who'd　done　the　worst　things　in　the　world　for　the　best　possible　reasons。　That　was　vital：　that　they　knew　who　he　was；　because　maybe　in　time　they'd　make　sense　of　him　in　a　way　that　he'd　never　been　able　to。
　　They　had　methods　of　interrogation；　he　knew；　even　with　dead　people。　They'd　lay　him　in　an　ice　room　and　examine　him　minutely；　and　when　they'd　studied　him　from　the　outside　they'd　start　looking　at　his　inside；　and　oh！　what　things　they'd　find。　They'd　saw　off　the　top　of　his　skull　and　take　out　his　brain；　examine　it　for　tumors；　slice　it　thinly　like　expensive　ham；　probe　at　it　in　a　hundred　ways　to　find　out　the　why　and　how　of　him。　But　that　wouldn't　work；　would　it？　He；　of　all　people；　should　know　that。　You　cut　up　a　thing　that's　alive　and　beautiful　to　find　out　how　it's　alive　and　why　it's　beautiful　and　before　you　know　it；　it's　neither　of　those　things；　and　you're　standing　there　with　blood　on　your　face　and　tears　in　your　sight　and　only　the　terrible　ache　of　guilt　to　show　for　it。　No；　they'd　get　nothing　from　his　brain；　they'd　have　to　look　further　than　that。　They'd　have　to　unzip　him　from　neck　to　pubis；　snip　his　ribs　and　fold　them　back：　Only　then　could　they　unravel　his　guts；　and　rummage　in　his　stomach；　and　juggle　his　liver　and　lights。　There；　oh　yes；　there；　they'd　find　plenty　to　feast　their　eyes　on。
　　Maybe　that　was　the　best　confession　then；　he　mused　as　he　retied　the　noose　one　final　time。　No　use　to　try　to　find　the　right　words；　because　what　were　words　anyway？　Trash；　useless　for　the　hot　heart　of　things。　No；　they'd　find　all　they　needed　to　know　if　they　just　looked　inside　him。　Find　the　story　of　the　lost　children；　find　the　glory　of　his　martyrdom。　And　they'd　know；　once　and　for　all；　that　he　was　of　the　Tribe　of　the　Razor…Eaters。
　　He　finished　the　noose；　made　himself　a　second　cup　of　coffee；　and　started　work　on　getting　the　rope　secure。　First　he　removed　the　lamp　that　hung　from　the　middle　of　the　ceiling；　then　he　tied　the　noose　up　there　in　its　place。　It　was　strong。　He　swung　from　it　for　a　few　moments　to　make　certain　of　it；　and　though　the　beams　grunted　a　little；　and　there　was　a　patter　of　plaster　on　his　head；　it　bore　his　weight。
　　By　now　it　was　early　evening；　and　he　was　tired；　the　fatigue　making　him　more　clumsy　than　usual。　He　shunted　around　the　room　tidying　it　up；　his　pig…fat　body　wracked　with　sighs　as　he　bundled　up　the　stained　sheets　and　tucked　them　out　of　sight；　rinsed　his　coffee　cup；　and　carefully　poured　away　the　milk　so　that　it　wouldn't　curdle　before　they　came。　He　turned　on　the　radio　as　he　worked；　it　would　help　to　cover　the　sound　of　the　chair　being　kicked　over　when　the　time　came：　there　were　others　in　the　house　and　he　didn't　want　any　last…minute　reprieve。　The　usual　banalities　from　the　radio　station　filled　the　room：　songs　of　love　and　loss　and　love　found　again。　Vicious　and　painful　lies；　all　of　them。
　　There　was　little　strength　left　in　the　day　once　he'd　finished　preparing　the　room。　He　heard　feet　in　the　hallway　and　doors　being　opened　elsewhere　in　the　house　as　the　occupants　of　the　other　rooms　came　home　from　work。　They；　like　him；　lived　alone。　He　knew　none　of　them　by　name；　none　of　them；　seeing　him　taken　out　escorted　by　police；　would　know　his。
　　He　undressed　pletely　and　washed　himself　at　the　sink；　his　testicles　small　as　walnuts；　tight　to　his　body；　his　belly　flab…the　fat　of　his　breasts　and　upper　arms…quivering　as　the　cold　convulsed　him。　Once　satisfied　with　his　cleanliness；　he　sat　on　the　mattress　edge　and　cut　his　toenails。　Then　he　dressed　in　freshly　laundered　clothes：　the　blue　shirt；　the　gray　trousers。　He　wore　no　shoes　or　socks。　Of　the　physique　that　shamed　him；　his　feet　were　his　only　pride。
　　It　was　almost　dark　by　the　time　he　finished；　and　the　night　was　black　and　rainy。　Time　to　go；　he　thought。
　　He　positioned　the　chair　carefully；　stepped　up　onto　it；　and　reached　for　the　rope。　The　noose　was　if　anything；　an　inch　or　two　too　high；　and　he　had　to　go　on　tiptoe　to　fit　it　snugly　around　his　neck；　but　he　fitted　it　securely　with　a　little　maneuvering。　Once　he　had　the　knot　pulled　tight　against　his　skin　he　said　his　prayers　and　kicked　the　chair　over。
　　Panic　began　immediately；　and　his　hands；　which　he'd　always　trusted；　betrayed　him　at　this　vital　juncture；　springing　up　from　his　sides　and　tearing　at　the　rope　as　it　tightened。　The　initial　drop　had　not　broken　his　neck；　but　his　spine　felt　like　a　vast　centipede　sewn　into　his　back；　writhing　now　every　way　it　could；　causing　his　legs　to　spasm。　The　pain　was　the　least　of　it：　the　real　anguish　came　from　being　out　of　control；　smelling　his　bowels　giving　out　into　his　clean　trousers　without　his　say…so；　his　penis　stiffening　without　a　lustful　thought　in　his　popping　head；　his　heels　digging　the　air　looking　for　purchase；　fingers　still　scrabbling　at　the　rope。　All　suddenly　not　his　own；　all　too　hot　for　their　own　preservation　to　hold　still　and　die。
　　But　their　efforts　were　in　vain。　He'd　planned　this　too　carefully　for　it　to　go　awry。　The　rope　was　tightening　still；　the　cavortings　of　the　centipede　weakening。　Life；　this　unwele　visitor；　would　leave　very　soon。　There　was　a　lot　of　noise　in　his　head；　almost　as　though　he　was　underground；　and　hearing　all　the　sounds　of　the　earth。　Rushing　noises；　the　roar　of　great　hidden　weirs；　the　bubbling　of　molten　stone。　Breer；　the　great　Razor…Eater；　knew　the　earth　very　well。　He'd　buried　dead　beauties　in　it　all　too　often；　and　filled　his　mouth　with　soil　as　penitence　for　the　intrusion；　chewing　on　it　as　he　covered　over　their　pastel　bodies。　Now　the　earth　noises　had　blotted　out　everything…his　gasps；　the　music　from　the　radio；　and　the　traffic　outside　the　window。　Sight　was　going　too；　lace　darkness　crept　over　the　room；　its　patterns　pulsing。　He　knew　he　was　turning…there　was　the　bed；　now　the　wardrobe；　now　the　sink…but　the　forms　he　fitfully　saw　were　decaying。
　　His　body　had　given　up　the　good　fight。　His　tongue　flapped　perhaps；　or　maybe　he　imagined　the　motion；　just　as　surely　as　he　imagined　the　sound　of　somebody　calling　his　name。
　　Quite　abruptly；　sight　went　out　pletely；　and　death　was　on　him。　No　flood　of　regrets　attended　the　ending；　no　lightning　regurgitation　of　a　life　history　encrusted　with　guilt。　Just　a　dark；　and　a　deeper　dark；　and　now　a　dark　so　deep　night　was　luminous　by　parison　with　it。　And　it　was　over；　easily。
　　No；　not　over。
　　Not　quite　over。　A　cluster　of　unwele　sensations　swarmed　over　h