cb.damnationgame-第35部分

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　　His　innards　shook。　Beneath　his　gaze；　the　paint　on　the　wall　seemed　to　blister。　Venereal　eruptions　disfigured　its　emptiness。　Illusions；　but　horribly　real　to　him　nevertheless。　Very　well：　if　he　couldn't　dislodge　the　obscenities；　he　would　transform　them。　It　wasn't　difficult　to　smudge　sexuality　into　violence；　turn　sighs　into　screams；　thrusts　into　convulsions。　The　grammar　was　the　same；　only　the　punctuation　differed。　Picturing　the　lovers　in　death　together；　the　nausea　he'd　felt　receded。
　　In　the　face　of　that　void　what　was　their　substance？　Transitory。　Their　promises？　Pretension。
　　He　began　to　calm。　The　sores　on　the　wall　had　started　to　heal；　and　he　was　left；　after　a　few　minutes；　with　an　echo　of　the　nothingness　he　had　e　to　need　so　much。　Life　came　and　went。　But　absence；　he　knew；　went　on　forever。
　　
　　33
　　〃Oh；　by　the　way；　there　was　a　telephone　call　for　you。　From　Bill　Toy。　Day　before　yesterday。〃　Marty　looked　up　at　Pearl　from　his　plate　of　steak；　and　pulled　a　face。
　　〃Why　didn't　you　tell　me？〃　She　looked　contrite。
　　〃It　was　the　day　I　lost　my　wick　with　those　damn　people。　I　left　a　message　for　you…〃　〃I　didn't　get　it。〃
　　〃…on　the　pad　beside　the　telephone。〃　It　was　still　there：　〃Call　Toy；〃　and　a　number。　He　dialed；　and　waited　a　full　minute　before　the　phone　was　picked　up　at　the　other　end。　It　wasn't　Toy。　The　woman　who　repeated　the　number　had　a　soft；　lost　voice；　slurred　as　if　by　too　much　drink。
　　〃Can　I　speak　to　William　Toy；　please？〃　he　asked。
　　〃He's　gone；〃　the　woman　replied。
　　〃Oh。　I　see。〃　〃He　won't　be　ing　back。　Not　ever。〃　The　quality　of　the　voice　was　eerie。　〃Who　is　this？〃　it　asked　of　him。
　　〃It　doesn't　matter；〃　Marty　replied。　His　instinct　rebelled　against　giving　his　name。
　　〃Who　is　this？〃　she　asked　again。
　　〃I'm　sorry　to　have　bothered　you。〃　〃Who　is　this？〃　He　put　the　receiver　down　on　the　slushing　insistence　at　the　other　end。　Only　when　he　had　did　he　realize　that　his　shirt　was　clinging　to　a　cold　sweat　that　had　suddenly　sprung　from　his　chest　and　spine。
　　
　　In　the　love　nest　in　Pimlico；　Yvonne　asked　the　vacated　line　〃Who　is　this？〃　for　half　an　hour　or　more　before　letting　the　telephone　drop。　Then　she　went　to　sit　down。　The　couch　was　damp：　large；　sticky　stains　were　spreading　on　it　from　the　place　where　she　always　sat。　She　assumed　it　was　something　to　do　with　her；　but　she　couldn't　work　out　how　or　why。　Nor　could　she　explain　the　flies　that　congregated　all　over　her；　in　her　hair；　in　her　clothes；　whining　away。
　　〃Who　is　this？〃　she　asked　again。　The　question　remained　perfectly　pertinent；　though　she　was　no　longer　speaking　to　the　stranger　on　the　phone。　The　rotting　skin　of　her　hands；　the　blood　she　left　in　the　tub　after　bathing；　the　horrid　look　the　mirror　gave　her…all　inspired　the　same　hypnotic　inquiry：　〃Who　is　this？〃　〃Who　is　this？　Who　is　this？　Who　is　this？〃
　　
　　
　　VI　The　Tree
　　
　　34
　　Breer　hated　the　house。　It　was　cold；　and　the　natives　in　this　part　of　the　city　were　inhospitable。　He　was　regarded　with　suspicion　as　soon　as　he　stepped　out　of　the　front　door。　There　were；　he　had　to　concede；　reasons　for　this。　In　recent　weeks　a　smell　had　begun　to　linger　around　him；　a　sickly；　syrupy　smell　that　made　him　almost　ashamed　to　get　too　close　to　the　pretty　ones　along　the　schoolyard　railing；　for　fear　they　would　put　their　fingers　to　their　noses；　making　a　〃poo…poo〃　sound；　and　run　off　calling　him　names。　When　they　did　that；　it　made　him　want　to　die。
　　Though　there　was　no　heating　in　the　house；　and　he　had　to　bathe　in　cold　water；　he　nevertheless　washed　from　head　to　foot　three　or　four　times　a　day；　hoping　to　dislodge　the　smell。　When　that　didn't　work　he　bought　perfume…sandalwood　in　particular…and　doused　his　body　with　it　after　each　ablution。　Now　the　ments　they　called　after　him　weren't　about　excreta　but　about　his　sex　life。　He　took　the　brunt　of　their　remarks　with　equanimity。
　　Nevertheless；　dull　resentments　festered　in　him。　Not　just　about　the　way　he　was　treated　in　the　district。　The　European；　after　a　courtship　that　had　been　polite；　was　more　and　more　treating　him　with　contempt：　as　a　lackey　rather　than　an　ally。　It　irritated　him；　the　way　he　was　sent　to　this　haunt　or　that　looking　for　Toy…asked　to　b　a　city　of　millions　in　search　of　a　shriveled　old　man　whom　Breer　had　last　seen　scrambling　over　a　wall　stark　naked；　his　scrawny　buttocks　white　in　the　moonlight。　The　European　was　losing　his　sense　of　proportion。　Whatever　crimes　this　Toy　had　mitted　against　Mamoulian　they　could　scarcely　be　profound；　and　it　made　Breer　weak　with　tiredness　to　contemplate　another　day　wandering　the　streets。
　　Despite　his　weariness；　the　capacity　for　sleep　seemed　to　have　deserted　him　almost　entirely。　Nothing；　not　even　the　fatigue　that　killed　his　nerves；　could　persuade　his　body　to　close　down　for　more　than　a　few　eye…fluttering　minutes；　and　even　then　his　mind　dreamed　such　things；　such　dreadful　things；　it　was　scarcely　possible　to　call　the　slumber　blissful。　The　only　fort　remaining　to　him　was　his　pretties。
　　That　was　one　of　the　few　advantages　in　this　house：　it　had　a　cellar。　Just　a　dry；　cool　space；　which　he　was　systematically　clearing　of　the　rubbish　left　by　the　previous　owners。　It　was　a　long　job；　but　he　was　gradually　getting　the　place　the　way　he　wanted　it；　and　though　he　had　never　much　liked　enclosed　spaces　there　was　something　about　the　darkness；　and　the　sense　of　being　underground；　that　answered　an　unarticulated　need　in　him。　Soon　he　would　have　it　all　scrubbed。　He　would　put　colored　paper　chains　around　the　walls；　and　flowers　in　vases　on　the　floor。　A　table　maybe；　with　a　cloth　on　it；　smelling　of　violets；　fortable　chairs　for　his　guests。　Then　he　could　begin　to　entertain　friends　in　the　manner　to　which　he　hoped　they　would　bee　accustomed。
　　All　his　arrangements　could　be　effected　much　more　quickly　if　he　weren't　forever　interrupted　by　the　damn…fool　errands　the　European　sent　him　on。　But　the　time　for　such　servitude；　he'd　decided；　had　e　to　an　end。　Today；　he　would　tell　Mamoulian　that　he　wouldn't　be　blackmailed　or　bullied　into　playing　this　game。　He'd　threaten　to　leave　if　it　came　to　the　worst。　He'd　go　north。　There　were　places　north　where　the　sun　didn't　e　up　for　five　months　of　the　year…he'd　read　about　such　places…and　that　seemed　fine　to　him。　No　sun；　and　deep　caves　to　live　in；　holes　where　not　even　moonlight　could　stray。　The　time　had　e　to　lay　his　cards　on　the　table。
　　
　　If　the　air　in　the　house　was　cold；　it　was　even　colder　in　Mamoulian's　room。　The　European　seemed　to　exhale　a　breath　that　was　mortuary…chilled。
　　Breer　stood　in　the　doorway。　He'd　only　been　in　this　room　once　before；　and　he　had　a　niggling　fear　of　it。　It　was　too　plain。　The　European　had　asked　Breer　to　nail　boards　across　the　window：　this　he　had　done。　Now；　by　the　light　of　a　single　wick；　burning　in　a　dish　of　oil　on　the　floor；　the　room　looked　bleak　and　gray；　everything　in　it　seemed　insubstantial；　even　the　European。　He　sat　in　the　dark　wood　chair　that　was　the　only　furnishing…and　looked　at　Breer　with　eyes　so　glazed　he　could　have　been　blind。
　　〃I　didn't　call　you　up　here；〃　Mamoulian　said。
　　〃I　wanted　。　。　。　to　talk　to　you。〃　〃Close　the　door；　then。〃　Though　this　was　against　his　better　judgment；　Breer　obeyed。　The　lock　clicked　at　his　back；　the　room　was　now　centered　on　that　single　flame　and　the　fitful　luminosity　it　offered。　Sluggishly　Breer　looked　around　the　room　for　someplace　to　sit；　or　at　least　lean。　But　there　was　no　fort　here：　its　austerity　would　have　shamed　an　ascetic。　Just　a　few　blankets　on　the　bare　boards　in　the　corner；　where　the　great　man　slept；　some　books　stacked　against　the　wall；　a　pack　of　cards；　a　jug　of　water　and　a　cup；　little　else。；　The　walls；　except　for　the　rosary　that　hung　from　a　hook；　were　naked。
　　〃What　do　you　want；　Anthony？〃　All　Breer　could　think　was：　I　hate　this　room。
　　〃Say　what　you　have　to　say。〃　〃I　want　to　go　。　。　。〃　〃Go？〃　〃Away。　The　flies　bother　me。　There　are　so　many　flies。〃　〃No　more　than　there　are　in　any　other　May。　It　is　perhaps　a　little　warmer　than　usual。　All　the　signs　are　that　the　summer　will　be　blistering。〃　The　thought　of　heat　and　light　made　Breer　sick。　And　that　was　another　thing：　the　way　his　belly　revolted　if　he　put　food　into　it。　The　European　had　promised　him　a　new　world…health；　wealth　and　happiness…but　he　was　suffering　the　torments　of　the　damned。　It　was　a　cheat：　all　a　cheat。
　　〃Why　didn't　you　let　me　die？〃　he　said；　without　thinking　what　he　was　saying。
　　〃I　need　you。〃　〃But　I　feel　ill。〃　〃The　work　will　soon　be　over。〃　Breer　looked　straight　at　Mamoulian；　something　he　very　rarely　mustered　the　courage　to　do。　But　desperation　was　a　rod　at　his　back。
　　〃You　mean　finding　Toy？〃　he　said。　〃We　won't　find　him。　It's　impossible。〃　〃Oh；　but　we　will；　Anthony。　That　I　insist　upon。〃　Breer　sighed。　〃I　wish　I　was　dead；〃　he　said。
　　〃Don't　say　that。　You've　got　all　the　freedom　you　want；　haven't　you？　You　feel　no　guilt　now；　do　you？〃　〃Most　people　would　happily　suffer　your　minor　disforts　to　be　guiltless；　Anthony：　to　mit　their　heart's　desire　to　flesh　and　never　be　called　to　regret　it。　Rest　today。　Tomorrow　we're　going　to　be　busy；　you　and　I。〃　〃Why？〃　〃We're　going　to　visit　Mr。　Whitehead。〃　Mamoulian　had　told　him　about　Whitehead　and　the　house　and　the　dogs。　The　damage　they'd　done　to　the　European　was　conspicuous。　Though　his　torn　hand　had　healed　quickly；　the　tissue　damage　was　irreparable。　A　finger　and　a　half　missing；　ugly　scars　raking　palm　an