cb.imajica2-第53节

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　He'd　had　evidence　of　this　only　a　short　time　ago。　Just　after　midnight　a　man　called　Tolland；　apparently　much　feared　among　the　fragile　munities　that　gathered　to　sleep　under　the　bridges　and　in　the　stations　of　Westminster；　had　gone　on　a　rampage　in　Soho。　He'd　wounded　two　alcoholics　in　a　back　street；　their　sole　offense　to　be　in　his　path　when　his　temper　flowed。　Clem　had　witnessed　none　of　this；　but　had　arrived　after　Tolland's　arrest　to　see　if　he　could　coax　from　the　gutter　some　of　those　whose　beds　and　belongings　had　been　demolished。　None　would　go　with　him；　however；　and　in　the　course　of　his　vain　persuasions　one　of　the　number；　a　woman　he'd　never　seen　without　tears　on　her　face　until　now；　had　smiled　at　him　and　said　he　should　stay　out　in　the　open　with　them　tonight　rather　than　hiding　in　his　bed；　because　the　Lord　was　ing；　and　it　would　be　the　people　on　the　streets　who　saw　Him　first。　Had　it　not　been　for　Taylor's　fleeting　reappearance　in　his　life；　Clem　would　have　dismissed　the　woman's　blissful　talk；　but　there　were　too　many　imponderables　in　the　air　for　him　to　ignore　the　vaguest　signpost　to　the　miraculous。　He'd　asked　the　woman　what　Lord　this　was　that　was　ing；　and　she'd　replied；　quite　sensibly；　that　it　didn't　matter。　Why　should　she　care　what　Lord　it　was；　she　said；　as　long　as　He　came？
　Now　it　was　an　hour　before　dawn；　and　he　was　trudging　across　Waterloo　Bridge　because　he'd　heard　the　psychopathic　Tolland　had　usually　kept　to　the　South　Bank　and　something　odd　must　have　happened　to　drive　him　across　the　river。　A　faint　clue；　to　be　sure；　but　enough　to　keep　Clem　walking；　though　hearth　and　pillow　lay　in　the　opposite　direction。
　The　concrete　bunkers　of　the　South　Bank　plex　had　been　a　favorite　bete　grise　of　Taylor's；　their　ugliness　railed　against　whenever　the　subject　of　contemporary　architecture　came　up　in　conversation。　The　darkness　presently　concealed　their　drab；　stained　facades；　but　it　also　turned　the　maze　of　underpasses　and　walkways　around　them　into　terrain　no　bourgeois　would　tread　for　fear　of　his　life　or　his　wallet。　Recent　experience　had　taught　Clem　to　ignore　such　anxieties。　Warrens　such　as　this　usually　contained　individuals　more　aggressed　against　than　aggressive；　souls　whose　shouts　were　defenses　against　imagined　enemies　and　whose　tirades；　however　terrifying　they　might　seem　emerging　from　shadow；　usually　dwindled　into　tears。
　In　fact；　he'd　not　heard　a　whisper　from　the　murk　as　he　descended　from　the　bridge。　The　cardboard　city　was　visible　where　its　suburbs　spilled　out　into　the　meager　lamplight；　but　the　bulk　of　it　lay　under　cover　of　the　walkways；　out　of　sight　and　utterly　quiet。　He　began　to　suspect　that　the　lunatic　Tolland　was　not　the　only　tenant　who'd　left　his　plot　to　travel　north　and；　stooping　to　peer　into　the　boxes　on　the　outskirts；　had　that　suspicion　confirmed。　He　headed　into　shadow；　fishing　his　pencil　torch　from　his　pocket　to　light　the　way。　There　was　the　usual　detritus　on　the　ground：　spoiled　scraps　of　food；　broken　bottles；　vomit　stains。　But　the　boxes；　and　the　beds　of　newspaper　and　filthy　blankets　they　contained；　were　empty。　More　curious　than　ever；　he　wandered　on　through　the　rubbish；　hoping　to　find　a　soul　here　too　weak　or　too　crazy　to　leave；　who　could　explain　this　migration。　But　he　passed　through　the　city　without　finding　a　single　occupant；　emerging　into　what　the　planners　of　this　concrete　hell　had　designed　as　a　children's　playground。　All　that　remained　of　their　good　intentions　were　the　grimy　bones　of　a　slide　and　a　jungle　gym。　The　paving　beyond　them；　however；　was　covered　in　fresh　color；　and　advancing　to　the　spot　Clem　found　himself　in　the　middle　of　a　kitsch　exhibition：　crude　chalk　copies　of　movie…star　portraits　and　glamour　girls　everywhere　underfoot。
　He　ran　the　beam　over　the　ground；　following　the　trail　of　images。　It　led　him　to　a　wall；　which　was　also　decorated；　but　by　a　very　different　hand。　Here　was　no　mere　copyist's　work。　This　image　was　on　such　a　grand　scale　Clem　had　to　play　his　torch　beam　back　and　forth　across　it　to　grasp　its　splendor。　A　group　of　philanthropic　muralists　had　apparently　taken　it　upon　themselves　to　enliven　this　underworld；　and　the　result　was　a　dream　landscape；　its　sky　green；　with　streaks　of　brilliant　yellow；　the　plain　beneath　orange　and　red。　Set　on　the　sands；　a　walled　city；　with　fantastical　spires。
　The　torch　beam　caught　a　glint　off　the　paint；　and　Clem　approached　the　wall　to　discover　that　the　muralists　had　only　recently　left　off　their　labors。　Patches　of　the　paint　were　still　tacky。　Seen　at　close　quarters；　the　rendering　was　extremely　casual；　almost　slapdash。　Barely　more　than　half　a　dozen　marks　had　been　used　to　indicate　the　city　and　its　towers；　and　only　a　single　snaking　stroke　to　show　the　highway　running　from　the　gates。　Moving　his　beam　off　the　picture　to　illuminate　the　way　ahead；　Clem　realized　why　the　muralists　had　been　so　haphazard。　They　had　been　at　work　on　every　available　wall；　creating　a　parade　of　brightly　colored　images；　many　of　which　were　far　stranger　than　the　landscape　with　the　green　sky。　To　Clem's　left　was　a　man　with　two　cupped　hands　for　a　head；　lightning　jumping　between　the　palms；　to　his　right　a　family　of　freaks；　with　fur　on　their　faces。　Farther　on　was　an　alpine　scene；　fantasticated　by　the　addition　of　several　naked　women；　hovering　above　the　snows；　beyond　it　a　skull…strewn　veldt；　with　a　distant　train　belching　smoke　against　a　dazzling　sky；　and　beyond　that　again；　an　island　set　in　the　middle　of　a　sea　disturbed　by　a　single　wave；　in　the　foam　of　which　a　face　could　be　discovered。　AH　were　painted　with　the　same　passionate　haste　as　the　first；　which　fact　lent　them　the　urgency　of　sketches　and　added　to　their　power。　Perhaps　it　was　his　exhaustion；　or　simply　the　bizarre　setting　for　this　exhibition；　but　Clem　found　himself　oddly　moved　by　the　images。　There　was　nothing　ingratiating　or　sentimental　about　them。　They　were　glimpses　into　the　minds　of　strangers；　and　he　was　exhilarated　to　find　such　wonders　there。
　With　his　gaze　following　the　journey　of　pictures；　he'd　lost　all　sense　of　his　own　direction；　but　when　he　turned　out　his　torch　to　look　for　the　lamplight　he　saw　a　small　fire　burning　up　ahead；　and　in　lieu　of　any　other　beacon　he　made　his　way　towards　it。　The　fire　makers　had　occupied　a　small　garden　laid　amid　the　concrete。　It　had　perhaps　once　boasted　a　rose　bed　or　flowering　shrubs；　benches；　perhaps；　dedicated　to　some　dead　city　father。　But　now　there　was　only　a　pitiful　lawn；　which　barely　greened　the　dirt　it　peered　from。　Gathered　upon　it　were　the　tenants　of　the　cardboard　city；　or　some　part　of　their　number。　Most　were　asleep；　bundled　up　in　their　coats　and　blankets。　But　five　or　six　were　awake；　standing　around　the　fire　and　passing　a　cigarette　between　them　as　they　talked。
　A　dreadlocked　black　squatted　on　the　low　wall　beside　the　garden's　gate　and；　spotting　Clem；　rose　to　guard　the　entrance。　Clem　didn't　retreat。　There　was　no　threat　visible　in　the　man's　posture；　nor　anything　but　calm　in　the　garden　beyond。　The　sleepers　did　so　quietly；　their　dreams　seemingly　kind。　And　the　debaters　around　the　fire　spoke　in　whispers。　When　they　laughed；　which　they　did　now　and　then；　it　wasn't　the　hard；　desperate　noise　he'd　heard　among　these　clans；　but　light。
　〃Who　are　you；　man？〃　the　black　asked　him。
　〃My　name's　Clem。　I　got　lost。〃
　〃You　don't　look　like　you　been　sleepin'　rough；　man。〃
　〃I　haven't。〃
　〃So　why　you　here？〃
　〃Like　I　said：　I　got　lost。〃
　The　man　shrugged。　〃Waterloo　Station's　over　in　that　direction；〃　he　said；　pointing　roughly　back　the　way　Clem　had　e。　〃But　you　got　a　long　wait　for　the　first　train。〃　He　caught　Clem's　glance　into　the　garden。　〃Sorry；　man；　you　can't　e　in。　If　you　got　a　bed；　go　to　it。〃
　Clem　didn't　move；　however。　Something　about　one　of　the　men　at　the　fire；　standing　with　his　back　to　the　gate；　rooted　him　to　the　spot。
　〃Who　is　that；　who's　talking　now？〃　he　asked　the　guard。
　The　man　glanced　around。　〃That's　the　Gentile；〃　he　said。
　〃The　Gentile？〃　he　said。　〃Surely　you　mean　Gentle。〃
　He　hadn't　raised　his　voice　in　order　to　name　the　man；　but　the　syllables　must　have　carried　on　the　tranquil　air；　because　as　they　went　from　Clem's　lips　the　speaker　stopped　talking　and　slowly　turned　towards　the　gate。　With　the　fire　burning　at　his　back　his　features　were　hard　to　make　out；　but　Clem　knew　he'd　made　no　error。　The　man　turned　back　to　his　fellow　debaters　and　said　something　to　them　Clem　didn't　catch。　Then　he　left　their　fire　and　walked　down　to　the　gate。
　〃Gentle？〃　his　visitor　said。　〃It's　Clem。〃
　The　black　stood　aside；　opening　the　gate　to　let　the　man　he'd　called　the　Gentile　step　out　of　the　garden。　There　he　stood　and　studied　the　stranger。
　〃Do　I　know　you？〃　he　said。　There　was　no　enmity　in　his　voice；　but　there　was　no　warmth　either。　〃I　do；　don't　I？〃
　〃Yes；　you　do；　my　friend；〃　Clem　replied。　〃Yes；　you　do。〃
　
　They　walked　together　along　the　river；　leaving　the　sleepers　and　the　fire　behind　them。　The　many　changes　in　Gentle　soon　became　apparent。　He　was　of　course　far　from　certain　of　who　he　was；　but　there　were　other　changes　which　were；　Clem　sensed；　profounder　still。　There　was　a　plainness　about　his　speech；　and　about　the　expression　on　his　face；　which　was　by　turns　disturbing　and　calming。　Something　of　the　Gentle　he　and　Taylor　had　known　had　gone；　perhaps　forever。　But　something　was　on　its　way　to　being　gained　in　its　place；　and　Clem　wanted　to　be　there　when　it　was：　to　be　the　angel　guarding　that　tender　self。