cb.damnationgame-第79节

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ct　the　way　he'd　jump；　that　he　was　capable　of　the　blackmail　with　the　heroin　had　e　as　a　shock。　One　desperate　maneuver　remained　a　possibility：　to　think　her　way　to　him　and　tell　him　where　she　was；　and　why。　There　were　risks　in　such　a　gambit。　Catching　stray　thoughts　from　him　was　one　thing…it　was　no　more　than　a　parlor　trick…but　attempting　to　push　her　way　into　his　head　and　municate　with　him　consciously；　mind　to　mind；　would　require　more　mental　muscle。　Even　assuming　she　had　the　strength　to　do　it；　what　would　the　consequences　of　such　an　intrusion　be　for　Marty？　She　pondered　the　dilemma　in　a　daze　of　anxiety；　knowing　the　minutes　were　ticking　by；　and　soon　it　would　be　too　late　for　any　escape　attempt；　however　desperate。
　　
　　Marty　was　driving　south　toward　Cricklewood　when　a　pain　began　at　the　nape　of　his　neck。　It　spread　rapidly　up　and　over　his　skull；　escalating　within　two　minutes　to　a　headache　of　unparalleled　proportions。　His　instinct　was　to　pick　up　speed　and　get　back　to　Kilburn　as　quickly　as　possible；　but　the　Finchley　Road　was　heavily　trafficked；　and　all　he　could　do　was　edge　along　with　the　flow；　the　pain　worsening　every　ten　yards。　His　consciousness…increasingly　preoccupied　with　the　upward　spiral　of　pain…focused　on　smaller　and　yet　smaller　bits　of　information；　his　perception　narrowing　to　a　pinprick。　Ahead　of　the　Citro？n　the　road　was　a　blur。　He　was　almost　blinded；　and　a　collision　with　a　refrigerated　meat　truck　was　only　prevented　by　the　skill　of　the　other　driver。　He　realized　that　driving　any　further　could　be　fatal；　so　he　edged　out　of　the　traffic　as　best　he　could…horns　blaring　front　and　behind…and　parked；　inelegantly；　at　the　side　of　the　road；　then　stumbled　out　of　the　car　to　get　some　air。　pletely　disoriented；　he　stepped　straight　into　the　middle　of　the　traffic。　The　lights　of　the　oning　vehicles　were　a　wall　of　strobing　colors。　He　felt　his　knees　about　to　buckle　and　only　prevented　himself　from　collapsing　in　front　of　the　traffic　by　hanging　on　to　the　open　car　door　and　hauling　himself　around　the　front　of　the　Citro？n　to　the　parative　safety　of　the　pavement。
　　A　single　drop　of　rain　fell　on　his　hand。　He　peered　at　it；　concentrating　to　bring　it　into　focus。　It　was　bright　red。　Blood；　he　thought　dimly。　Not　rain；　blood。　He　put　his　hand　up　to　his　face。　His　nose　was　bleeding　copiously。　The　heat　ran　down　his　arm　and　into　the　rolled　sleeve　of　his　shirt。　Digging　into　his　pocket　he　pulled　out　a　handkerchief　and　clamped　it　under　his　nose；　then　staggered　across　the　pavement　to　a　shopfront。　In　the　window；　he　caught　his　reflection。　Fish　swam　behind　his　eyes。　He　fought　the　illusion；　but　it　persisted：　brilliantly　colored　exotica；　blowing　bubbles　inside　his　skull。　He　stood　away　from　the　glass；　and　took　in　the　words　painted　on　it：　Cricklewood　Aquarium　Supplies。　He　turned　his　back　on　the　guppies　and　the　ornamental　carp　and　sat　on　the　narrow　sill。　He　had　begun　to　shake。　This　was　Mamoulian's　doing；　was　all　he　could　think。　If　I　give　into　it；　I'll　die。　I　must　fight。　At　all　costs；　fight。
　　
　　Carys　spoke；　the　word　escaping　her　lips　before　she　could　prevent　it。
　　〃Marty。〃　The　European　looked　at　her。　Was　she　dreaming？　There　was　sweat　on　her　swollen　lips；　yes；　she　was。　Of　congress　with　Strauss；　no　doubt。　That　was　why　she　spoke　his　name　with　such　demand　in　her　tone。
　　〃Marty。〃　Yes；　for　certain；　she　was　dreaming　the　arrow　and　the　wound。　Look　how　she　trembled。　Look　how　her　hands　ran　between　her　legs：　a　shameful　display。
　　〃How　far　now？〃　he　asked　Saint　Tom；　who　was　consulting　the　map　〃Five　minutes；〃　the　youth　replied。
　　〃Fine　night　for　it；〃　Chad　said。
　　
　　Marty？
　　He　looked　up；　narrowing　his　eyes　to　improve　his　vision　of　the　street；　but　he　could　not　see　his　interrogator。　The　voice　was　in　his　head。
　　Marty？
　　It　was　Carys〃　voice；　horribly　distorted。　When　it　spoke　his　skull　seemed　to　creak；　his　brain　blowing　up　to　the　size　of　a　melon。　The　pain　was　unbearable。
　　Marty？
　　Shut　up；　he　wanted　to　say；　but　she　wasn't　there　to　tell。　Besides；　it　wasn't　her；　it　was　him；　it；　the　European。　The　voice　was　now　replaced　by　the　sound　of　somebody's　breath；　not　his　own。　His　was　a　sickening　pant；　this　was　a　sleepy　rhythm。　The　blur　of　the　street　was　darkening；　the　ache　in　his　head　had　bee　heaven　and　earth。　He　knew　if　he　didn't　get　help；　he'd　die。
　　He　stood　up；　blind。　A　hissing　had　filled　his　ears　now；　which　all　but　blocked　the　din　of　traffic　mere　yards　from　him。　He　stumbled　forward。　More　blood　streamed　from　his　nose。
　　〃Somebody　help　me。　。　。〃　An　anonymous　voice　filtered　through　the　chaos　in　his　head。　The　words　it　spoke　were　inprehensible　to　him；　but　at　least　he　was　not　alone。　A　hand　was　touching　his　chest；　another　was　holding　his　arm。　The　voice　he'd　heard　vas　raised　in　panic。　He　wasn't　sure　if　he　made　any　reply　to　it。　He　wasn't　even　sure　if　he　was　standing　up　or　falling　down。　What　did　it　matter　anyway？
　　Blind　and　deaf；　he　waited　for　some　kind　person　to　tell　him　he　could　die。
　　
　　They　drew　up　in　the　street　a　short　way　from　the　Orpheus　Hotel。　Mamoulian　got　out　and　left　the　evangelists　to　bring　Carys。　She'd　begun　to　smell；　he'd　noted；　that　ripe　smell　he　associated　with　menstruation。　He　strode　on　ahead；　stepping　through　the　rent　fence　and　onto　the　no…man's…land　that　surrounded　the　hotel。　Desolation　pleased　him。　The　heaps　of　rubble；　the　piles　of　abandoned　furniture：　by　the　sickly　light　of　the　highway　the　place　had　a　glamor　about　it。　If　last　rites　were　to　be　performed；　what　better　place　than　here？　The　pilgrim　had　chosen　well。
　　〃This　is　it？〃　said　Saint　Chad；　following　on。
　　〃It　is。　Will　you　find　a　point　of　access　for　us？〃　〃My　pleasure。〃　〃Only　do　it　quietly；　if　you　will。〃　The　young　man　skipped　off　across　the　pit…fraught　ground；　stopping　only　to　select　a　piece　of　twisted　metal　from　among　the　rubble　to　force　an　entry。　So　resourceful；　these　Americans；　Mamoulian　mused　as　he　picked　his　way　after　Chad：　no　wonder　they　ruled　the　world。　Resourceful；　but　not　subtle。　At　the　front　door　Chad　was　tearing　the　planks　away　without　much　regard　for　surprise　attacks。　Can　you　hear？　he　thought　to　the　pilgrim。　Do　you　know　I'm　down　here；　so　close　to　you　at　last？
　　He　turned　his　cold　eyes　up　to　the　top　of　the　hotel。　His　belly　was　acid　with　anticipation；　a　film　of　sweat　glossed　his　forehead　and　palms。　I'm　like　a　nervous　lover；　he　thought。　So　strange；　that　the　romance　should　end　this　way；　without　a　sane　observer　to　witness　the　final　acts。　Who　would　know；　once　it　was　all　over；　who　would　tell？　Not　the　Americans。　They　would　not　survive　the　next　few　hours　with　the　tatters　of　their　sanity　intact。　Not　Carys；　she　would　not　survive　at　all。　There　would　be　nobody　to　report　the　story；　which…for　some　buried　reason…he　regretted。　Was　that　what　made　him　a　European？　To　want　to　have　his　story　told　once　more；　passed　down　the　line　to　another　eager　listener　who　would；　in　his　time；　disregard　its　lesson　and　repeat　his　own　suffering？　Ah；　how　he　loved　tradition。
　　The　front　door　had　been　beaten　open。　Saint　Chad　stood；　grinning　at　his　achievement；　sweating　in　his　tie　and　suit。
　　〃Lead　the　way；〃　Mamoulian　invited　him。
　　The　eager　youth　went　inside；　the　European　followed。　Carys　and　Saint　Tom　brought　up　the　rear。
　　Within；　the　smell　was　tantalizing。　Associations　were　one　of　the　curses　of　age。　In　this　case　the　perfume　of　carbonized　wood；　and　the　sprawl　of　wreckage　underfoot；　evoked　a　dozen　cities　he'd　wandered　in；　but　one　of　course；　in　particular。　Was　that　why　Joseph　had　e　to　this　spot：　because　the　scent　of　smoke　and　the　climb　up　the　creaking　stairs　woke　memories　of　that　room　off　Muranowski　Square？　The　thief's　skills　had　been　the　equal　of　his　own　that　night；　hadn't　they？　There'd　been　something　blessed　about　the　young　man　with　the　glittering　eyes；　the　fox　who'd　shown　so　little　awe；　just　sat　down　at　the　table　willing　to　risk　his　life　in　order　to　play。　Mamoulian　believed　the　pilgrim　had　forgotten　Warsaw　as　he'd　grown　from　fortune　to　fortune；　but　this　ascent　up　burned　stairs　was　proof　positive　that　he　had　not。
　　They　climbed　in　the　dark；　Saint　Chad　going　ahead　to　scout　the　way；　and　calling　behind　him　that　the　banister　was　gone　in　this　place　and　a　stair　in　that。　Between　the　fourth　and　fifth　stories；　where　the　fire　stopped；　Mamoulian　called　a　halt；　and　waited　until　Carys　and　Tom　caught　up。　When　they　had　he　instructed　that　the　girl　be　brought　to　him。　It　was　lighter　up　here。　Mamoulian　could　see　a　look　of　loss　on　the　girl's　tender　face。　He　touched　her；　not　liking　the　contact　but　feeling　it　appropriate。
　　〃Your　father　is　here；〃　he　told　her。　She　didn't　reply；　nor　did　her　features　relinquish　the　look　of　grief。　〃Carys　。　。　。　are　you　listening？〃　She　blinked。　He　assumed　he　was　making　some　contact　with　her；　if　primitive。
　　〃I　want　you　to　speak　to　Papa。　Do　you　understand？　I　want　you　to　tell　him　to　open　the　door　for　me。〃　Gently；　she　shook　her　head。
　　〃Carys；〃　he　chided。　〃You　know　better　than　to　refuse　me。〃　〃He's　dead；〃　she　said。
　　〃No；〃　the　European　replied　flatly；　〃He's　up　there；　a　few　flights　above　us。〃　〃I　killed　him。〃　What　delusion　was　this？　〃Who？〃　he　asked　sharply。　〃Killed　who？〃　〃Marty。　He　doesn't　answer。　I　killed　him。〃　〃Shush　。　。　。　shush　。　。　。〃　The　cold　fingers　stroked　her　cheek。　〃Is　he　dead；　then？　So：　he's　dead。　That's　all　that　can　be　said。〃
　　〃。　。　。　I　did　it　。　。　。〃　〃No；　Carys。　It　wasn't　you。　It　was