cb.damnationgame-第64节

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eared　as　it　peered　up　from　the　cellar　depths；　the　features　so　contorted　by　outrage　that　they　appeared　scarcely　human。
　　This　time　Breer's　grasp　caught　Marty's　trousers；　the　fingers　digging　deeply　into　the　muscle　of　his　skin。　Marty　yelped　as　cloth　tore　and　blood　ran。　He　flung　out　a　hand　to　Carys；　who　loaned　what　strength　she　had　left　to　the　contest；　pulling　Marty　up　toward　her。　Breer；　badly　balanced；　lost　his　snatched　grip；　and　Marty　stumbled　up　the　stairs；　pressing　Carys　ahead　of　him。　She　tumbled　into　the　hallway；　and　Marty　followed；　with　Breer　at　his　back。　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　Marty　suddenly　turned　and　kicked。　His　heel　struck　the　Razor…Eater's　punctured　belly。　Breer　fell　backward；　hands　clawing　the　air　for　support；　there　was　none　to　be　had。　His　nails　managed　to　rake　the　brickwork　as　he　toppled　and　fell　heavily　down　the　steps；　hitting　the　stone　floor　of　the　cellar　with　a　lazy　thud。　There；　sprawled；　he　lay　still；　a　painted　giant。
　　Marty　slammed　the　door　on　him；　and　bolted　it。　He　felt　too　squeamish　to　look　at　the　gouging　on　his　leg；　but　he　could　tell　by　the　warmth　soaking　into　sock　and　shoe　that　it　was　bleeding　badly。
　　〃Can　you　。　。　。　you　get　something　。　。　。〃　he　said；　〃。　。　。　just　to　cover　it？〃　Too　breathless　to　reply；　Carys　nodded；　and　rounded　the　corner　into　the　kitchen。　There　was　a　towel　on　the　draining　board；　but　it　was　too　unsavory　to　be　used　on　an　open　wound。　She　started　to　search　for　something　clean；　however　primitive。　It　was　time　they　were　gone；　Mamoulian　would　not　stay　out　all　night。
　　In　the　hallway；　Marty　listened　for　any　sound　from　the　cellar。　He　heard　none。
　　Another　noise　infiltrated；　however；　one　that　he'd　almost　forgotten　about。　The　buzz　of　the　house　was　back　in　his　head；　and　that　mellow　voice　was　threaded　into　it；　a　dreamy　undercurrent。　mon　sense　told　him　to　shut　it　out。　But　when　he　listened；　trying　to　sort　out　its　syllables；　it　seemed　the　nausea　and　the　pain　in　his　leg　subsided。
　　On　the　back　of　a　kitchen　chair　Carys　had　found　one　of　Mamoulian's　dark…gray　shirts。　The　European　was　fastidious　about　his　laundry。　The　shirt　had　been　recently　laundered；　an　ideal　bandage。　She　tore　it　up…though　its　fine…quality　cotton　resisted…then　soaked　a　length　of　it　in　cold　water　to　clean　the　wound；　and　made　strips　of　the　rest　to　bind　the　leg　up。　When　she　was　done；　she　went　out　into　the　hallway。　But　Marty　had　gone。
　　
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　　He　had　to　see。　Or　if　seeing　wouldn't　do　（What　was　seeing　anyway？　Mere　sensuality）　then　he　would　learn　a　new　way　of　knowing。　That　was　the　promise　the　room　whispered　in　his　ear：　a　new　thing　to　know　and　a　way　of　knowing　it。　He　pulled　himself　up　the　banisters；　hand　over　hand；　less　and　less　aware　of　the　pain　as　he　climbed　to　the　buzzing　darkness。　He　wanted　so　much　to　take　the　ghost…train　ride。　There　were　dreams　in　there。　he'd　never　dreamed；　would　never　have　a　chance　to　dream　again。　Blood　squelched　in　his　shoe；　he　laughed　at　it。　A　spasm　had　begun　in　his　leg；　he　ignored　it。　The　last　steps　were　ahead：　he　climbed　them　with　steady　work。　The　door　was　ajar。
　　He　achieved　the　summit　of　the　stairs　and　limped　toward　it。
　　Though　it　was　totally　dark　in　the　cellar；　that　scarcely　concerned　the　Razor…Eater。　It　was　many　weeks　since　his　eyes　had　worked　as　well　as　they'd　used　to：　he'd　learned　to　substitute　touch　for　sight。　He　stood　up　and　tried　to　think　clearly。　Soon　the　European　would　e　home。　There　would　be　punishment　for　leaving　the　house　unattended　and　letting　this　escape　take　place。　Worse　than　that；　he　would　not　see　the　girl　anymore；　no　longer　be　able　to　watch　her　pass　water；　that　fragrant　water　he　preserved　for　special　occasions。　He　was　desolate。
　　He　heard　her　moving　even　now　in　the　hallway　above　him；　she　was　going　up　the　stairs。　The　rhythm　of　her　tiny　feet　was　familiar　to　him；　he'd　listened　long　nights　and　days　to　her　padding　back　and　forth　in　her　cell。　In　his　mind's　eye　the　ceiling　of　the　cellar　became　transparent；　he　looked　up　between　her　legs　as　she　climbed　the　stairs；　that　lavish　slit　gaped。　It　made　him　angry　to　be　losing　it；　and　her。　She　was　old；　of　course；　not　like　the　pretty　at　the　table；　or　the　others　on　the　streets；　but　there　had　been　times　when　her　presence　had　been　the　one　thing　keeping　him　from　insanity。
　　He　went　back；　stumbling　in　the　pitch；　in　the　direction　of　his　little　autocannibal；　whose　dining　had　been　so　rudely　interrupted。　Before　he　got　to　her；　his　foot　kicked　at　one　of　the　carving　knives　he'd　left　on　the　table　should　she　want　to　help　herself。　He　went　down　on　all　fours　and　patted　the　ground　until　he　found　it；　and　then　he　crawled　back　up　the　stairs　and　started　to　hack　at　the　wood　where　the　light　through　the　door　crack　showed　the　bolts　to　be。
　　
　　Carys　didn't　want　to　go　to　the　top　of　the　house　again。　There　was　so　much　up　there　she　feared。　Innuendo　rather　than　fact；　but　enough　to　make　her　weak。　Why　Marty　had　gone　up…and　that　was　the　only　place　he　could　have　gone…confounded　her。　Despite　his　claim　to　understanding；　there　was　still　so　much　he　had　to　learn。
　　〃Marty？〃　she'd　called；　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs；　hoping　he'd　appear　at　the　top；　smiling；　and　limp　down　to　her　without　her　having　to　go　up　and　fetch　him。　But　her　inquiry　was　met　with　silence；　and　the　night　wasn't　getting　any　younger。　The　European　might　e　to　the　door　at　any　moment。
　　Unwillingly；　she　started　up　the　stairs。
　　
　　Marty　had　never　understood　until　now。　He'd　been　a　virgin；　living　in　a　world　innocent　of　this　deep　and　exhilarating　penetration；　not　simply　of　body；　of　mind　too。　The　air　in　the　room　closed　around　his　head　as　soon　as　he　stepped　into　it。　The　plates　of　his　skull　seemed　to　grind　against　each　other；　the　voice　of　the　room；　no　longer　needing　its　whispered　tones；　shouted　in　his　brain。　So　you　came？　Of　course　you　came。　Wele　to　Wonderland。　He　was　dimly　aware　that　it　was　his　own　voice　that　was　speaking　these　words。　It　had　probably　been　his　voice　all　along。　He　had　been　talking　to　himself　like　a　lunatic。　Even　though　he'd　now　seen　through　the　trick；　the　voice　came　again；　lower　this　time…This　is　a　fine　place　to　find　yourself　in；　don't　you　think？
　　At　the　question；　he　looked　around。　There　was　nothing　to　see；　not　even　walls。　If　there　were　windows　in　the　room；　they　were　hermetically　sealed。　Not　a　chink　of　the　outside　world　belonged　in　here。
　　〃I　don't　see　anything；〃　he　murmured　in　reply　to　the　room's　boast。
　　The　voice　laughed；　he　laughed　with　it。
　　Nothing　here　to　be　frightened　of；　it　said。　Then；　after　a　smirking　pause：　Nothing　here　at　all。
　　And　that　was　right；　wasn't　it？　Nothing　at　all。　It　wasn't　just　darkness　that　kept　him　sightless；　it　was　the　room　itself。　He　glanced　giddily　over　his　shoulder：　he　could　no　longer　see　the　door　behind　him；　even　though　he　knew　he　had　left　it　open　when　he　came　in。　There　should　have　been　at　least　a　glimmer　of　light　from　downstairs　spilling　into　the　room。　But　that　illumination　had　been　eaten　up；　as　was　the　beam　of　his　flashlight。　A　smothering　gray　fog　pressed　so　close　to　his　eyes　that　even　if　he　lifted　his　hand　up　in　front　of　him　he　could　see　nothing。
　　You're　all　right　here；　the　room　soothed　him。　No　judges　here；　no　bars　here。
　　〃Am　I　blind？〃　he　asked。
　　No；　the　room　replied。　You're　seeing　truly　for　the　first　time。
　　〃I　。　。　。　don't　。　。　。　like　it。〃　Of　course　you　don't。　But　you'll　learn　in　time。　Living's　not　for　you。　Ghosts　of　ghosts；　the　living　are。　You　want　to　lie　down；　be　done　with　that　caper。　Nothing's　essential；　boy。
　　〃I　want　to　leave。〃　Would　I　tell　you　lies？
　　〃I　want　to　leave　。　。　。　please。〃　You're　in　safe　hands。
　　〃Please。〃　He　stumbled　forward；　confused　as　to　which　way　the　door　was。　In　front；　or　behind？　Arms　spread　before　him　like　a　blind　man　on　a　cliff　edge；　he　reeled；　looking　for　some　point　of　security。　This　wasn't　the　adventure　he'd　thought　it　would　be；　it　was　nothing。　Nothing　is　essential。　Once　stepped　into；　this　boundless　nowhere　had　neither　distance　nor　depth；　north　nor　south。　And　everything　outside　it…the　stairs；　the　landing；　the　stairs　below　that；　the　hallway；　Carys…all　of　it　was　like　a　fabrication。　A　dream　of　palpability；　not　a　true　place。　There　was　no　true　place　but　here。　All　he'd　lived　and　experienced；　all　he'd　taken　joy　in；　taken　pain　in；　it　was　insubstantial。　Passion　was　dust。　Optimism；　self…deception。　He　doubted　now　even　the　memory　of　senses：　the　textures；　the　temperatures。　Color；　form；　pattern。　All　diversions…games　the　mind　had　invented　to　disguise　this　unbearable　zero。　And　why　not？　Looking　too　long　into　the　abyss　would　madden　a　man。
　　Not　mad；　surely？　said　the　room；　savoring　the　thought。
　　Always；　even　in　his　blackest　moments　（lying　on　a　bunk　in　a　hothouse　cell；　listening　to　the　man　in　the　bed　below　sob　in　his　sleep）　there　had　been　something　to　look　forward　to：　a　letter；　a　dawn；　release；　some　glimpse　of　meaning。
　　But　here；　meaning　was　dead。　Future　and　past　were　dead。　Love　and　life　were　dead。　Even　death　was　dead；　because　anything　that　excited　emotion　was　unwele　here。　Only　nothing：　once　and　for　all；　nothing。
　　〃Help　me；〃　he　said；　like　a　lost　child。
　　Go　to　Hell；　the　room　respectfully　replied；　and　for　the　first　time　in　his　life；　he　knew　exactly　what　that　meant。
　　On　the　second　landing；　Carys　stopped。　She　could　hear　voices；　not；　now　she　listened　more　closely；　plural；　but　the　same　voice…Marty's　voice…sp