cb.damnationgame-第8节

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ed　Daimler　was　parked；　the　driver's　seat　occupied。
　　〃e　on；　Marty；〃　he　said；　opening　the　door；　〃too　cold　to　linger。〃　It　was　cold：　the　wind　was　vicious。　But　the　chill　couldn't　freeze　his　joy。　He　was　a　free　man；　for　God's　sake；　free　within　carefully　prescribed　limits　perhaps；　but　it　was　a　beginning。　He　was　at　least　putting　behind　him　all　the　paraphernalia　of　prison：　the　bucket　in　the　corner　of　the　cell；　the　keys；　the　numbers。　Now　he　had　to　be　the　equal　of　the　choices　and　opportunities　that　would　lead　from　here。
　　Toy　had　already　taken　refuge　in　the　back　of　the　car。
　　〃Marty；〃　he　summoned　again；　his　suede…gloved　hand　beckoning。　〃We　should　hurry；　or　we'll　get　snarled　up　getting　out　of　the　city。〃　〃Yes。　I'm　here…〃　Marty　got　in。　The　interior　of　the　car　smelled　of　polish；　stale　cigar　smoke　and　leather；　luxuriant　scents。
　　〃Should　I　put　the　case　in　the　boot？〃　Marty　said。
　　The　driver　turned　from　the　wheel。
　　〃You　got　room　back　there；〃　he　said。　A　West　Indian；　dressed　not　in　chauffeur's　livery　but　in　a　battered　leather　flying　jacket；　looked　Marty　up　and　down。　He　offered　no　weling　smile。
　　〃Luther；〃　said　Toy；　〃this　is　Marty。〃　〃Put　the　case　over　the　front　seat；〃　the　driver　replied；　he　leaned　across　and　opened　the　front　passenger　door。　Marty　got　out　and　slid　his　case　and　plastic　bag　of　belongings　onto　the　front　seat　beside　a　litter　of　newspapers　and　a　thumbed　copy　of　Playboy；　then　got　into　the　back　with　Toy　and　slammed　the　door。
　　〃No　need　to　slam；〃　said　Luther；　but　Marty　scarcely　heard　the　remark。　Not　many　cons　get　picked　up　from　the　gates　of　Wandsworth　in　a　Daimler；　he　was　thinking：　maybe　this　time　I've　fallen　on　my　feet。
　　The　car　purred　away　from　the　gates　and　made　a　left　onto　Trinity　Road。　〃Luther's　been　with　the　estate　for　two　years；〃　Toy　said。
　　〃Three；〃　the　other　man　corrected　him。
　　〃Is　it？〃　Toy　replied。　〃Three　then。　He　drives　me　around；　takes　Mr。　Whitehead　when　he　goes　down　to　London。〃　〃Don't　do　that　no　more。〃　Marty　caught　the　driver's　eye　in　the　mirror。
　　〃You　been　in　that　shit…house　long？〃　the　man　asked；　pouncing　without　a　flicker　of　hesitation。
　　〃Long　enough；〃　Marty　replied。…He　wasn't　going　to　try　to　hide　anything；　there　was　no　sense　in　that。　He　waited　for　the　next　inevitable　question：　what　were　you　in　for？　But　it　didn't　e。　Luther　turned　his　attention　back　to　the　business　of　the　road；　apparently　satisfied。　Marty　was　happy　to　let　the　conversation　drop。　All　he　wanted　to　do　was　watch　this　brave　new　world　go　by；　and　drink　it　all　in。　The　people；　the　shopfronts；　the　advertisements；　he　had　a　hunger　for　all　the　details；　no　matter　how　trivial。　He　glued　his　eyes　to　the　window。　There　was　so　much　to　see；　and　yet　he　had　the　distinct　impression　that　it　was　all　artificial；　as　though　the　people　in　the　street；　in　the　other　cars；　were　actors；　all　cast　to　type　and　playing　their　parts　immaculately。　His　mind；　struggling　to　acmodate　the　welter　of　information…on　every　side　a　new　vista；　at　every　corner　a　different　parade　passing…simply　rejected　their　reality。　It　was　all　stage…managed；　his　brain　told　him；　all　a　fiction。　Because　look；　these　people　behaved　as　though　they'd　lived　without　him；　as　though　the　world　had　gone　on　while　he'd　been　locked　away；　and　some　childlike　part　of　him…the　part　that；　hiding　its　eyes；　believes　itself　hidden…could　not　conceive　of　a　life　for　anyone　without　him　to　see　it。
　　His　mon　sense　told　him　otherwise；　of　course。　Whatever　his　confused　senses　might　suspect；　the　world　was　older；　and　more　weary　probably；　since　he　and　it　had　last　met。　He　would　have　to　renew　his　acquaintance　with　it：　learn　how　its　nature　had　changed；　learn　again　its　etiquette；　its　touchiness；　its　potential　for　pleasure。
　　They　crossed　the　river　via　the　Wandsworth　Bridge　and　drove　through　Earl's　Court　and　Shepherd's　Bush　onto　Westway。　It　was　the　middle　of　a　Friday　afternoon；　and　the　traffic　was　heavy；　muters　eager　to　be　home　for　the　weekend。　He　stared　blatantly　at　the　faces　of　the　drivers　in　the　cars　they　overtook；　guessing　occupations；　or　trying　to　catch　the　eyes　of　the　women。
　　Mile　by　mile；　the　strangeness　he'd　felt　initially　began　to　wear　off；　and　by　the　time　they　reached　the　M40　he　was　starting　to　tire　of　the　spectacle。　Toy　had　nodded　off　in　his　corner　of　the　back　seat；　his　hands　in　his　lap。　Luther　was　occupied　with　leapfrogging　down　the　highway。
　　Only　one　event　stowed　their　progress。　Twenty　miles　short　of　Oxford　blue　lights　flashed　on　the　road　up　ahead；　and　the　sound　of　a　siren　speeding　toward　them　from　behind　announced　an　accident。　The　procession　of　cars　slowed；　like　a　line　of　mourners　pausing　to　glance　into　a　coffin。
　　A　car　had　slewed　across　the　eastbound　lanes；　crossed　the　divide；　and　met；　head…on；　a　van　ing　in　the　opposite　direction。　All　of　the　westbound　lanes　were　blocked；　either　by　wreckage　or　by　police　cars；　and　the　travelers　were　obliged　to　use　the　shoulder　to　skirt　the　scattered　wreckage。　〃What's　happened；　can　you　see？〃　Luther　asked；　his　attention　too　occupied　by　navigating　past　the　signaling　policeman　for　him　to　see　for　himself。　Marty　described　the　scene　as　best　he　could。
　　A　man；　with　blood　streaming　down　his　face　as　if　somebody　had　cracked　a　blood…yolked　egg　on　his　head；　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　chaos；　hypnotized　by　shock。　Behind　him　a　group…police　and　rescued　passengers　alike…gathered　around　the　concertinaed　front　section　of　the　car　to　speak　to　somebody　trapped　in　the　driver's　seat。　The　figure　was　slumped；　motionless。　As　they　crept　past；　one　of　these　forters；　her　coat　soaked　either　with　her　own　blood　or　that　of　the　driver；　turned　away　from　the　vehicle　and　began　to　applaud。　At　least　that　was　how　Marty　interpreted　the　slapping　together　of　her　hands：　as　applause。　It　was　as　if　she　were　suffering　the　same　delusion　he'd　tasted　so　recently…that　this　was　all　some　meticulous　but　distasteful　illusion…and　at　any　moment　it　would　all　e　to　a　wele　end。　He　wanted　to　lean　out　of　the　car　window　and　tell　her　that　she　was　wrong；　that　this　was　the　real　world…long…legged　women；　crystal　sky　and　all。　But　she'd　know　that　tomorrow；　wouldn't　she？　Plenty　of　time　for　grief　then。　But　for　now　she　clapped；　and　she　was　still　clapping　when　the　accident　slid　out　of　sight　behind　them。
　　
　　
　　II　The　Fox
　　
　　10
　　Asylum；　Whitehead　knew；　was　a　traitorous　word。　In　one　breath　it　meant　a　sanctuary；　a　place　of　refuge；　of　safety。　In　another；　its　meaning　twisted　on　itself：　asylum　came　to　mean　a　madhouse；　a　hole　for　broken　minds　to　bury　themselves　in。　It　was；　he　reminded　himself；　a　semantic　trick；　no　more。　Why　then　did　the　ambiguity　run　in　his　head　so　often？
　　He　sat　in　that　too…fortable　chair　beside　the　window　where　he　had　sat　now　for　a　season　of　evenings　watching　the　night　begin　to　skulk　across　the　lawn　and　thinking；　without　much　shape　to　his　ruminations；　about　how　one　thing　became　another；　about　how　difficult　it　was　to　hold　on　to　anything。　Life　was　a　random　business。　Whitehead　had　learned　that　lesson　years　ago；　at　the　hands　of　a　master；　and　he　had　never　forgotten　it。　Whether　you　were　rewarded　for　your　good　works　or　skinned　alive；　it　was　all　down　to　chance。　No　use　to　cleave　to　some　system　of　numbers　or　divinities；　they　all　crumbled　in　the　end。　Fortune　belonged　to　the　man　who　was　willing　to　risk　everything　on　a　single　throw。
　　He'd　done　that。　Not　once；　but　many　times　at　the　beginning　of　his　career；　when　he　was　still　laying　the　foundations　of　his　empire。　And　thanks　to　that　extraordinary　sixth　sense　he　possessed；　the　ability　to　preempt　the　roll　of　the　dice；　the　risks　had　almost　always　paid　off。　Other　corporations　had　their　virtuosi：　puters　that　calculated　the　odds　to　the　tenth　place；　advisers　who　kept　their　ears　pressed　to　the　stock　markets　of　Tokyo；　London　and　New　York；　but　they　were　all　overshadowed　by　Whitehead's　instinct。　When　it　came　to　knowing　the　moment；　for　sensing　the　collision　of　time　and　opportunity　that　made　a　good　decision　into　a　great　one；　a　monplace　takeover　into　a　coup；　nobody　was　Old　Man　Whitehead's　superior；　and　all　the　smart　young　men　in　the　corporation's　boardrooms　knew　that。　Joe's　oracular　advice　still　had　to　be　sought　before　any　significant　expansion　was　undertaken　or　contract　signed。
　　He　guessed　this　authority；　which　remained　absolute；　was　resented　in　some　circles。　No　doubt　there　were　those　who　thought　he　should　let　go　his　hold　pletely　and　leave　the　university　men　and　their　puters　to　get　on　with　business。　But　Whitehead　had　won　these　skills；　these　unique　powers　of　second…guessing；　at　some　hazard；　foolish　then　that　they　lie　forgotten　when　they　could　be　used　to　lay　a　finger　on　the　wheel。　Besides；　the　old　man　had　an　argument　the　young　turks　could　never　gainsay：　his　methods　worked。　He'd　never　been　properly　schooled；　his　life　before　fame　was…much　to　the　journalists〃　dismay…a　blank；　but　he　had　made　the　Whitehead　Corporation　out　of　nothing。　Its　fate；　for　better　or　worse；　was　still　his　passionate　concern。
　　There　was　no　room　for　passion　tonight；　however；　sitting　in　that　chair　（a　chair　to　die　in；　he'd　sometimes　thought）　beside　the　window。　Tonight　there　was　only　unease：　that　old　man's　plaint。
　　How　he　loathed　age！　It　was　hardly　bearable　to　be　so　reduced。　Not　that　he　was　infirm；　just　that　a　dozen　minor　ailments　conspired　against　his　fort　so　that　seldom　a　day　passed　without　some　irritation