cb.damnationgame-第20部分

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　　〃You　can　be　with　me　again；〃　the　European　said。
　　Breer　grunted。　The　offer　was　less　than　tempting。
　　〃Is　that　not　enough？〃　Mamoulian　wanted　to　know。　The　lamplight　was　more　fitful　by　the　moment；　and　Breer　had　suddenly　lost　his　taste　for　impertinence。
　　〃Answer　me；　Anthony；〃　the　European　insisted。　〃If　you've　got　an　objection；　voice　it。〃　The　flickering　was　worsening；　and　Breer　knew　he'd　made　an　error；　pressing　Mamoulian　for　a　covenant。　Why　hadn't　he　remembered　that　the　European　loathed　bargains　and　bargainers　alike？　Instinctively　he　fingered　the　noose　groove　around　his　neck。　It　was　deep；　and　permanent。
　　〃I'm　sorry　。　。　。〃　he　said；　rather　lamely。
　　Just　before　the　lamp　bulb　gave　out　pletely；　he　saw　Mamoulian　shake　his　head。　A　tiny　shake；　like　a　tick。　Then　the　room　was　drowned　in　darkness。
　　〃Are　you　with　me；　Anthony？〃　the　Last　European　murmured。
　　The　voice；　normally　so　even；　was　twisted　out　of　true。
　　〃Yes　。　。　。〃　Breer　replied。　His　lazy　eyes　weren't　being　accustomed　to　the　dark　with　their　usual　speed。　He　squinted；　trying　to　sort　out　the　European's　form　in　the　surrounding　gloom。　He　needn't　have　troubled　himself。　Scant　seconds　later　something　across　the　room　from　him　seemed　to　ignite；　and　suddenly；　awesomely；　the　European　was　providing　his　own　illumination。
　　Now；　with　this　lurid　lantern　show　to　set　his　sanity　reeling；　tea　and　apologies　were　forgotten：　The　dark；　life　itself；　were　forgotten；　and　there　was　only　time；　in　a　room　turned　inside　out　with　terrors　and　petals；　to　stare　and　stare　and　maybe；　if　one　had　a　sense　of　the　ridiculous；　to　say　a　little　prayer。
　　
　　20
　　Alone　in　Breer's　sordid　one…room　flat　the　Last　European　sat　himself　down　and　played　solitaire　with　his　favorite　pack　of　cards。　The　Razor…Eater　had　dressed　himself　up　and　gone　out　to　taste　the　night。　If　he　concentrated；　Mamoulian　could　find　the　parasite　with　his　mind；　and　taste　vicariously　whatever　experiences　the　other　man　was　enjoying。　But　he　had　no　appetite　for　such　games。　Besides；　he　knew　all　to　well　what　the　Razor…Eater　would　be　doing；　and　it　frankly　revolted　him。　All　pursuits　of　the　flesh；　whether　conventional　or　perverse；　appalled　him；　and　as　he　grew　older　the　disgust　deepened。　On　some　days　he　could　barely　stand　to　look　at　the　human　animal　without　the　roving　gloss　of　its　eye　or　the　pinkness　of　its　tongue　awaking　nausea　in　him。　But　Breer　would　be　useful　in　the　struggle　to　e；　and　his　bizarre　desires　gave　him　an　insight；　albeit　crude；　into　Mamoulian's　tragedy；　an　insight　that　made　him　a　more　pliant　attendant　than　the　usual　panions　the　European　had　tolerated　in　his　long；　long　life。
　　Most　of　the　men　and　women　in　whom　Mamoulian　had　placed　his　trust　had　betrayed　him。　The　pattern　had　repeated　itself　so　often　down　the　decades　that　he　was　sure　he　would　one　day　bee　hardened　to　the　pain　such　betrayals　caused。　But　he　never　achieved　such　precious　indifference。　The　cruelty　of　other　people…their　callous　usage　of　him…never　failed　to　wound　him；　and　though　he　had　extended　his　charitable　hand　to　all　manner　of　crippled　psyches；　such　ingratitude　was　unforgivable。　Perhaps；　he　mused；　when　this　endgame　was　all　over　and　done　with…when　he'd　collected　his　debts　in　blood；　dread　and　night…then　maybe　he'd　lose　the　terrible　itch　that　tormented　him　day　and　night；　that　drove　him　on　without　hope　of　peace　to　new　ambitions　and　new　betrayals。　Maybe　when　all　this　was　over　he　would　be　able　to　lie　down　and　die。
　　The　pack　in　his　hand　was　pornographic。　He　played　with　it　only　when　he　was　feeling　strong；　and　only　then　alone。　Handling　the　images　of　extreme　sensuality　was　a　test　he　set　himself；　one　that　if　he　failed；　he　would　fail　in　private。　Today　the　filth　on　the　cards　was；　after　all；　just　human　depravity；　he　could　turn　the　designs　over　and　not　be　distressed　by　them。　He　even　appreciated　their　wit：　the　way　each　of　the　suits　detailed　a　different　area　of　sexual　activity；　the　spots　incorporated　into　each　intricately　rendered　picture。　Hearts　represented　male/female　congress；　though　by　no　means　limited　to　the　missionary　position。　Spades　were　oralist；　depicting　simple　fellatio　and　its　mare　elaborate　variations。　Clubs　were　analist：　the　spot　cards　portraying　homosexual　and　heterosexual　buggery；　the　court　cards；　anal　sex　with　animals。　Diamonds；　the　most　exquisitely　drawn　of　the　suits；　were　sadomasochistic；　and　here　the　artist's　imagination　had　known　no　bounds。　On　these　cards　men　and　women　suffered　all　manner　of　humiliation；　their　wracked　bodies　bearing　diamond…shaped　wounds　to　designate　each　card。
　　But　the　grossest　image　in　the　pack　was　that　of　the　Joker。　He　was　a　coprophiliac；　and　sat　down　before　a　plateful　of　steaming　excrement；　his　eyes　vast　with　greed；　while　a　scabby　monkey；　its　bald　face　horribly　human；　bared　its　puckered　backside　to　the　viewer。
　　Mamoulian　picked　up　the　card　and　studied　the　picture。　The　leering　face　of　the　shit…eating　fool　brought　the　bitterest　of　smiles　to　his　bloodless　lips。　This　was　surely　the　definitive　human　portrait。　The　other　pictures　on　the　cards；　with　their　pretensions　to　love　and　physical　pleasure；　only　hid　this　terrible　truth　away　for　a　while。　Sooner　or　later；　however　ripe　the　body；　however　glorious　the　face；　whatever　wealth　or　power　or　faith　could　promise；　a　man　was　escorted　to　a　table　groaning　under　the　weight　of　his　own　excrement　and　obliged；　even　though　his　instincts　might　revolt；　to　eat。
　　That　was　what　he　was　here　for。　To　make　a　man　eat　shit。
　　He　dropped　the　card　onto　the　table；　and　spat　a　barking　laugh　from　his　throat。　There　would　be　such　torment　soon；　such　terrible　scenes。
　　No　pit　is　deep　enough；　he　promised　the　room；　the　cards　and　cups；　the　whole　dirty　world。
　　No　pit　is　deep　enough。
　　
　　
　　IV　Skeleton　Dance
　　
　　21
　　The　man　in　the　underground　train　was　naming　constellations。
　　〃Andromeda　。　。　。　Ursa；　the　Bear　。　。　。　Cygnus；　the　Swan　。　。　。〃　His　monologue　was　for　the　most　part　ignored；　though　when　a　couple　of　young　men　told　him　to　shut　his　trap　he　replied；　barely　altering　the　rhythm　of　his　naming；　with　a　smile　and　a　〃You'll　die　for　that；〃　slipped　between　one　star　and　the　next。　The　reply　silenced　the　heckler；　and　the　lunatic　went　back　to　his　sky…watching。
　　Toy　took　it　as　a　good　sign。　He　was　much　preoccupied　by　signs　these　days；　though　he'd　never　really　thought　of　himself　as　a　superstitious　man。　Perhaps　it　was　his　mother's　Catholicism；　which　he'd　rejected　at　an　early　age；　at　last　finding　an　outlet。　In　place　of　the　myths　of　Virgin　birth　and　transubstantiation　he　was　finding　significance　in　small　coincidences…avoiding　standing　ladders　and　performing　half…remembered　rituals　with　spilled　salt。　All　this　was　quite　recent…only　the　last　year　or　two…and　it　had　started　with　the　woman　he　was　even　now　going　to　meet：　Yvonne。　It　wasn't　that　she　was　a　God…fearing　woman。　She　wasn't。　But　the　consolation　she'd　brought　into　his　life　brought　with　it　the　danger　of　its　disappearance。　That　was　what　made　him　cautious　with　ladders　and　respectful　to　salt：　the　fear　of　losing　her。　With　Yvonne　in　his　life　he　had　new　reason　to　keep　the　fates　friendly。
　　He　had　met　her　six　years　ago。　She'd　been　a　secretary　then；　working　with　the　UK　Branch　of　a　German　chemical　corporation。　A　sprightly；　good…looking　woman　in　her　middle　thirties；　whose　formality；　he'd　guessed；　disguised　humor　and　warmth　in　abundance。　He'd　been　attracted　to　her　from　the　beginning；　but　his　natural　hesitancy　in　such　matters；　and　the　considerable　difference　in　their　ages；　kept　him　from　making　any　overtures。　Eventually　it　was　Yvonne　who　broke　the　ice　between　them；　menting　on　small　things　about　his　appearance…a　recent　haircut；　a　new　tie…and　so　making　her　interest　in　him　perfectly　plain。　Once　the　signal　had　been　given；　Toy　had　proposed　dinner；　and　she'd　accepted。　It　had　been　the　beginning　of　the　most　rewarding　months　of　Toy's　life。
　　He　was　not　an　overly　emotional　man。　The　very　lack　of　extremes　in　his　nature　had　made　him　a　useful　part　of　Whitehead's　entourage；　and　he　had　nurtured　his　reserve　as　the　salable　modity　it　was　until；　by　the　time　he　met　Yvonne；　he'd　almost　e　to　believe　his　own　publicity。　She　it　was　who　first　called　him　a　cold　fish；　she　who　taught　him　（difficult　lesson　that　it　was）　the　importance　of　showing　weakness；　if　not　to　the　world　at　large　at　least　to　intimates。　It　had　taken　him　time。　He　was　fifty…three　when　they　met；　and　this　new　way　of　thinking　went　against　the　grain。　But　she　persisted；　and　slowly；　the　melt　began。　Once　it　did；　he　wondered　how　he　had　ever　lived　the　life　he　had　for　the　previous　twenty　years；　a　life　of　servitude　to　a　man　whose　passion　was　negligible；　and　ego；　monstrous。　He　saw；　through　Yvonne's　eyes；　the　cruelty　in　Whitehead；　the　arrogance；　the　mythmaking；　and　though　he　showed；　he　hoped；　no　change　in　his　superficial　attitudes　to　his　employer；　beneath　the　conciliation　and　the　humility　there　increasingly　simmered　a　resentment　that　approached　hatred。　Only　now；　after　six　years；　could　Toy　contemplate　his　own　contradictory　feelings　about　the　old　man；　and　even　now　he　found　himself　forgetting　the　worst；　at　least　when　he　was　out　of　Yvonne's　sphere　of　influence。　It　was　so　difficult　when　he　was　in　the　house；　subject　to　Whitehead's　whim；　to　keep　the　perspective　she'd　given　him；　to　see　the　sacred　monster　for　what　he　was：　monstrous；　but　far　from　sacr