pzb.lostsouls-第12节
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When Wallace began staring at the door that led to the staircase and； beyond that； to Christian's room； Christian picked up his rag and started wiping down the bar。 〃I'm closing up。 I'm sorry I couldn't help you with your problem。〃 His voice was sharper than he had meant it to be。
When Wallace was gone…he left with a quiet； swaying dignity…and the door locked after him； Christian turned to his rows of bottles and found a squat embossed bottle nearly full of luminous green liqueur。 No one wanted Chartreuse； not anymore； but Christian always kept a few bottles of it in case Molochai； Twig； and Zillah came rolling into town some Mardi Gras night。 They would want Chartreuse； Christian knew。 Tonight he wanted it too。 He wanted the swirling heaviness of alcohol to weigh his mind down； wanted to sleep deep and dreamlessly； with no phantoms to swim out of the recesses of memory； no thin little girls with shadowed eyes and thighs bloody from murderous； innocent birth。 Could he？
Christian uncapped the bottle and started to pour himself a shot。 His hand paused over the glass； bony and white； cold on the cold bottle。 He smelled the liqueur。 A scent as fresh as the new night； as birth。 The smell of altars。 He wanted so badly to be drunk； to sleep。 The others…Molochai； Twig； and Zillah…drank incessantly； even ate； they drowned their true natures in gluttony。 But they were young。 They were of a newer generation。 Their chemistry was subtly different； they were hardier； their organs perhaps more thick…walled； less delicate。 Christian remembered the time he had drunk wine； the time he had drunk vodka； and the memory of pain shivered up his spine。 But perhaps this。。。
Christian clutched the bottle to his chest and carried it up the stairs with him； turning off the bar lights as he went； ascending in the dark。 A blessing of excellent night vision。
The Chartreuse burned going down； and Christian sat tensed in the dark； waiting for pain。 But when the liqueur hit his belly； a gentle green fire began to spread through him。 It was going to work this time。 His strange； treacherous body was going to let him get drunk as he had never been before； and he would rest； for a time he would not have to think。
He poured himself another shot and tried to sip it。 It stung his eyes and went up his nose； and he threw it back and swallowed hard to keep from coughing。 He laughed quietly at himself。 He was a good bartender； an excellent bartender； but he certainly did not know how to drink。 After the next shot he dispensed with the glass altogether； swigging out of the bottle as he had seen the others do on that Mardi Gras night。
When the first noise floated up from the alley； Christian was drunk enough to ignore it。 It was only a bump。 But then there was another bump and a scraping clatter that hurt to hear； as if someone were dragging one of the metal garbage cans across the concrete。 A stray dog？ A bum？ Christian crept to his window； which gave him a clear view of the alley and a slice of Royal Street beyond it。 He cupped his hands to the glass and looked out。
Apparently Wallace Creech was still drunk too。 Nothing else could account for the clumsiness with which he was going through Christian's garbage； mostly empties from the bar。 As Christian watched； Wallace let a Taaka vodka bottle slip from his hands。 It shattered on the concrete； and Wallace went down on his hands and knees； trying futilely to scoop the glass up； to dump it back into the torn garbage bag。
This was too much。 Wallace Creech would have to be dealt with more harshly。 The alley was already strewn with broken glass； wrinkled paper bags； and other trash； but what was Wallace looking for？ His daughter's bones； picked clean and wrapped in a Times…Picayune fifteen years out of date？
Christian straightened and turned away from the window。 He would go down and slip into the alley； he would bend that dry old neck back； let flow the old man's tasteless blood…
The first spasm hit him as he was opening the door to the landing。 It bent him nearly double。 He leaned against the jamb； clutching himself； trying to hold in the blaze of green agony that was burning its way through his belly。 This was worse than the other times； so much worse； surely the pain must be ripping him apart inside； webbing his innards with tiny bloody holes。 His eyes squeezed shut； and a long shudder ran through him。
Christian moaned and twisted his head； clenching his teeth； trying not to scream。 He had to get to the bathroom： it was out on the landing； shared by the other apartments on the top floor of the building。 He pushed at the door。 It swung fully open； and Christian fell onto the landing； clumsy and agonized； his throat bitter； his eyes hot and streaming。
〃Jesus； man； Jesus。 Are you all right？〃 His neighbor； David； was just going out。 Christian rolled onto his back and looked helplessly up at David； the drop…dead suit； the hair kept pathologically short； the sunglasses he always wore； even at night。 Another spasm of pain washed over him； incredibly worse than the last； and he curled around himself and whined deep in his throat。 Surely the tissues of his body were burning away； dissolving inside。
Then he was aware of David's hands under his arms； David helping him up； half dragging him to the bathroom where he bent Christian over the toilet。 Something deep in Christian loosened； and all the Chartreuse came up…green； hot； churned into a foamy mass now。 Christian sobbed at the sight of it and turned his head away。 Thick strings of saliva webbed his lips。
〃Jesus； barkeep； are you going to live？ Have to close up early tonight？〃
Christian managed to nod。 He leaned against David。 The warm pressure of David's hand on his shoulder kept him from collapsing。 He vomited again； having to force it this time。 After that； he felt almost good。 〃I'm going out；〃 he told David。
〃Jesus wept； are you sure？ How about I help you to your room？ Don't you even want to brush your teeth？〃
〃No。 I need a drink to kill the taste。 I must have eaten something bad。〃
〃I'm meeting a girl。 Why don't you e and have a drink with us？〃
At the mention of alcohol； Christian had to suppress a moan。 The idea of having a drink with David and his girl made him feel terribly lonely。 He could never do such a thing。 And besides； now he was ravenous。
They walked downstairs together； and David headed up Conti toward the lights of Bourbon Street。 Christian checked the alley； but of course by now Wallace was gone。 All that lingered was a breath of whiskey and fear。 He would meet Wallace Creech again； though； with his old tired eyes and his silver cross。 Christian knew it； and he smiled； feeling the night gather around him。 He slipped away toward the river。
Nothing sat on his bed； naked and cross…legged； the quilt pooled around his waist and a candle before him。 He cupped his hands around the flame and kept them there until his palms began to sweat。 Then he raised his hands to his face and rubbed the heat onto his cheeks。 He had his music turned up loud…Tom Waits； loud and splendidly drunk tonight； wishing he were in New Orleans。 Nothing wished he were too。
He looked toward the window。 Outside； he could see a few lights： other windows in other houses； more houses beyond； houses with well…kept lawns and shade trees； like the one he lived in； houses with swing sets and poured concrete driveways and half…baths and redwood sundecks； streets travelled by Volvos and Toyotas picking the kids up from day care； going to the supermarket the health club； the mall； or； if they were bored enough； the liquor store。 Suburbs； stretching forever or until the end of Maryland； whichever came first。 Nothing shivered； then swigged from the White Horse bottle next to his bed。 He had refilled it from the supply in his parents' liquor cabinet； watering down their bottle； but now it was nearly empty again。
He kept looking toward the window。 Most of the lights had gone out。 He shivered again。
Christian still wore a cloak； long and black and lined with silk； whenever he went out。 Old habits died hard； if they ever died at all。 The night had cooled。 A black iron railing under Christian's hand was warm； still saturated with the heat of the day； but a dark…smelling breeze wound its way up from the river； brushing Christian's face； reviving him。 Now he had nearly forgotten the burning in his stomach and the vomiting that had made his throat bloody and raw。
His step quickened。 His boot heels clocked along the sidewalk。 He fell to wondering how many times he had walked along these ways； how infinitesimally his steps had worn down the sidewalks of these old streets； these exotically named； haunted streets…Ursulines； Bienville； Decatur。 He wondered how much of his substance he had left here； how much of his substance was made up of the dust of these streets。
There had always been New Orleans。 Christian had lived in other places； far away across sunless seas； places older and darker and just as strange； with ghosts aplenty。 But where else did slave spirits still lament in the Royal Street house of sadistic Madame Lalaurie； where else could one still smell the lingering sweat of a sla
