cb.damnationgame-第84部分

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　sweating　a　little：　the　scent　off　the　young　lion　was　sweet。
　　〃He　was　almost　away；〃　the　Saint　said。
　　〃Indeed；〃　the　European　replied；　gesturing　for　the　youth　to　give　him　room。
　　From　his　collapsed　position　on　the　hall　floor　Marty　gazed　up　at　the　Last　European。　The　air　between　them　seemed　to　be　itching。　Marty　waited。　Surely　the　killing　stroke　would　follow　quickly。　But　there　was　nothing；　except　the　gaze　from　those　nonmittal　eyes。　Even　in　his　broken　state　Marty　could　see　the　tragedy　written　in　the　mask　of　Mamoulian's　face。　It　no　longer　terrified　him：　simply　fascinated。　This　man　was　the　source　of　the　nullity　he　had　barely　survived　in　Caliban　Street。　Was　there　not　a　ghost　of　that　gray　air　lurking　in　his　sockets　now；　seeping　from　his　nostrils　and　mouth　as　though　a　fire　smoldered　in　his　cranium？
　　In　the　room　where　he　and　the　European　had　played　cards　Whitehead　moved　stealthily　across　to　the　pillow　of　his　makeshift　bed。　Events　in　the　hall　had　shifted　the　focus　for　a　useful　moment。　He　slipped　his　hand　beneath　the　pillow　and　drew　out　the　gun　hidden　there；　then　crept　through　into　the　adjoining　dressing　room；　and　slipped　out　of　sight　behind　the　wardrobe。
　　From　that　position　he　could　see　Saint　Tom　and　Carys　standing　in　the　hallway；　watching　events　at　the　front　door。　Both　were　too　intent　on　the　gladiators　to　notice　in　the　darkened　room。
　　〃Is　he　dead　。　。　。？〃　Tom　asked；　from　a　distance。
　　〃Who　knows？〃　Whitehead　heard　Mamoulian　reply。　〃Put　him　in　the　bathroom；　out　of　the　way。〃　Whitehead　watched　as　Strauss〃　inert　bulk　was　hauled　past　the　door　and　into　the　room　opposite；　to　be　dumped　in　the　bathroom。　Mamoulian　approached　Carys。
　　〃You　brought　him　here；〃　he　said　simply。
　　She　didn't　reply。　Whitehead's　gun　hand　itched。　From　where　he　was　standing　Mamoulian　made　an　easy　target；　except　that　Carys　stood　in　the　way。　Would　a　bullet；　fired　at　her　back；　pass　through　her　and　into　the　European？　The　thought；　though　appalling；　had　to　be　contemplated：　survival　was　at　issue　here。　But　the　moment's　hesitation　had　snatched　his　chance。　The　European　was　escorting　Carys　toward　the　gaming　room；　and　out　of　shot。　No　matter；　it　left　the　coast　clear。
　　He　slipped　out　of　hiding　and　darted　to　the　dressing…room　door。　As　he　stepped　into　the　corridor　he　heard　Mamoulian　say：　〃Joseph？〃　Whitehead　ran　the　few　yards　to　the　front　door；　knowing　the　chance　of　escape　without　violence　was　gossamer…thin。　He　grabbed　the　handle　and　turned　it。
　　〃Joseph；〃　said　the　voice　behind　him。
　　Whitehead's　hand　froze　as　he　felt　invisible　fingers　plucking　at　the　nape　of　his　neck。　He　ignored　the　pressure　and　forced　the　handle　around。　It　slid　in　his　sweaty　palm。　The　thought　that　breathed　at　his　neck　pressed　around　his　axis　vertebra；　the　threat　unmistakable。　Well　then；　he　thought；　the　choice　is　out　of　my　hands。　He　released　the　door　handle　and　turned　fully　around　to　face　the　card…player。　He　was　standing　at　the　end　of　the　corridor；　which　seemed　to　be　darkening；　being　a　tunnel　extruded　from　Mamoulian's　eyes。　Such　potent　illusions。　But　simply　that：　illusions。　He　could　resist　them　long　enough　to　bring　their　forger　down。　Whitehead　raised　the　gun　and　pointed　it　at　the　European。　Without　giving　the　card…player　another　moment　to　confound　him；　he　fired。　The　first　shot　hit　Mamoulian's　chest；　the　second　his　stomach。　Perplexity　crossed　the　European's　face。　Blood　spread　from　the　wounds　across　his　shirt。　He　did　not　fall；　however。　Instead；　in　a　voice　so　even　it　was　as　if　the　shots　had　not　been　fired；　he　said：　〃Do　you　want　to　go　outside；　Pilgrim？〃　Behind　Whitehead；　the　door　handle　had　started　to　rattle。
　　〃Is　that　what　you　want？〃　Mamoulian　demanded。　〃To　go　outside？〃　〃Yes。〃　〃Then　go。〃　Whitehead　stepped　away　from　the　door　as　it　was　flung　open　with　such　venom　the　handle　impaled　itself　in　the　corridor　wall。　The　old　man　turned　away　from　Mamoulian　to　make　good　his　escape；　but　before　he　could　take　a　step　the　light　in　the　corridor　was　sucked　away　into　the　pitch　darkness　beyond　the　door；　and　to　his　horror　Whitehead　realized　that　the　hotel　had　disappeared　from　beyond　the　threshold。　There　were　no　carpets　and　mirrors　out　there；　no　stairs　winding　down　to　the　outside　world。　Only　a　wilderness　he'd　walked　in　half　a　life　ago：　a　square；　a　sky　shot　with　trembling　stars。
　　〃Go　out；〃　the　European　invited　him。　〃It's　been　waiting　for　you　all　these　years。　Go　on！　Go！〃　The　floor　beneath　Whitehead's　feet　seemed　to　have　bee　slick；　he　felt　himself　sliding　toward　the　past。　His　face　was　washed　by　the　open　air　as　it　glided　into　the　hallway　to　meet　him。　It　smelled　of　spring；　of　the　Vistula；　which　roared　to　the　sea　ten　minutes〃　walk　from　here；　it　smelled　of　blossom　too。　Of　course　it　smelled　of　blossom。　What　he'd　mistaken　for　stars　were　petals；　white　petals　lifted　by　the　breeze　and　gusted　toward　him。　The　sight　of　the　petals　was　too　persuasive　to　be　ignored；　he　let　them　lead　him　back　into　this　glorious　night；　when　for　a　few　shimmering　hours　the　whole　world　had　promised　to　be　his　for　the　taking。　Even　as　he　conceded　his　senses　to　the　night　the　tree　appeared；　as　phenomenal　as　he　had　so　often　dreamed　it；　its　white　head　shaking　slightly。　Somebody　lurked　in　the　shade　beneath　its　laden　branches；　their　smallest　movement　caused　a　new　cascade。　His　entranced　reason　made　one　final　snatch　at　the　reality　of　the　hotel；　and　he　reached　to　touch　the　door　of　the　suite；　but　his　hand　missed　it　in　the　darkness。　There　was　no　time　to　look　again。　The　obscured　watcher　was　emerging　from　the　cover　of　the　branches。　Déjà　vu　suffused　Whitehead；　except　that　the　first　time　he'd　been　here　there　had　only　been　a　glimpse　of　the　man　beneath　the　tree。　This　time　the　reluctant　sentinel　broke　cover。　Smiling　a　wele；　Lieutenant　Konstantin　Vasiliev　showed　his　burned　face　to　the　man　who'd　e　visiting　from　the　future。　Tonight　the　lieutenant　would　not　shamble　off　for　a　rendezvous　with　a　dead　woman；　tonight　he　would　embrace　the　thief；　who　had　grown　furrowed　and　bearded；　but　whose　presence　here　he'd　awaited　a　lifetime。
　　〃We　thought　you'd　never　e；〃　Vasiliev　said。　He　pushed　a　branch　aside　and　stepped　fully　into　the　dead　light　of　this　fantastical　night。　He　was　proud　to　show　himself；　though　his　hair　was　entirely　burned　off；　his　face　black　and　red；　his　body　full　of　holes。　His　trousers　were　open；　his　member　erect。　Perhaps；　later；　they　would　go　to　his　mistress　together；　he　and　the　thief。　Drink　vodka　like　old　friends。　He　grinned　at　Whitehead。　〃I　told　them　you'd　e　eventually。　I　knew　you　would。　To　see　us　again。〃　Whitehead　raised　the　gun　he　still　had　in　his　hand；　and　fired　at　the　lieutenant。　The　illusion　was　not　interrupted　by　this　violence；　however；　merely　reinforced。　Shouts…in　Russian…echoed　from　beyond　the　square。
　　〃Now　look　what　you've　done；〃　Vasiliev　said。　〃Now　the　soldiers　will　e。〃　The　thief　recognized　his　error。　He　had　never　used　a　gun　after　a　curfew：　it　was　an　invitation　to　arrest。　He　heard　booted　feet　running；　close　by。
　　〃We　must　hurry；〃　the　lieutenant　insisted；　casually　spitting　out　the　bullet；　which　he　had　caught　between　his　teeth。
　　〃I'm　not　going　with　you；〃　Whitehead　said。
　　〃But　we've　waited　so　long；〃　Vasiliev　replied；　and　shook　the　branch　to　cue　the　next　act。　The　tree　raised　its　limbs　like　a　bride；　shrugging　off　its　trousseau　of　blossom。　Within　moments　the　air　was　thick　with　a　blizzard　of　petals。　As　they　settled；　spilling　their　radiance　onto　the　ground；　the　thief　began　to　pick　out　the　familiar　faces　that　waited　beneath　the　branches。　People　who；　down　the　years；　had　e　to　this　wasteland；　to　this　tree；　and　gathered　under　it　with　Vasiliev；　to　rot　and　weep。　Evangeline　was　among　them；　the　wounds　that　had　been　so　tastefully　concealed　as　she'd　lain　in　her　coffin　now　freely　displayed。　She　did　not　smile；　but　she　stretched　her　arms　out　to　embrace　him；　her　mouth　forming　his　name…〃Jojo〃…as　she　stepped　forward。　Bill　Toy　was　behind　her；　in　evening　dress；　as　if　for　the　Academy。　His　ears　bled。　Beside　him；　her　face　opened　from　lip　to　brow；　was　a　woman　in　a　nightgown。　There　were　others　too；　some　of　whom　he　recognized；　many　of　whom　he　didn't。　The　woman　who'd　led　him　to　the　card…player　was　there；　bare…breasted；　as　he　remembered　her。　Her　smile　was　as　distressing　as　ever。　There　were　soldiers　too；　others　who'd　lost　to　Mamoulian　like　Vasiliev。　One　wore　a　skirt　in　addition　to　his　bullet　holes。　From　under　its　folds　a　snout　appeared。　Saul…his　carcass　ravaged…sniffed　his　old　master；　and　growled。
　　〃See　how　long　we've　waited？〃　Vasiliev　said。
　　The　lost　faces　were　all　looking　at　Whitehead；　their　mouths　open。　No　sound　emerged。
　　〃I　can't　help　you。〃　〃We　want　to　cease；〃　the　lieutenant　said。
　　〃Go；　then。〃　〃Not　without　you。　He　won't　die　without　you。〃　Finally　the　thief　understood。　This　place；　which　he'd　glimpsed　in　the　sauna　at　the　Sanctuary；　existed　within　the　European。　These　ghosts　were　creatures　he'd　devoured。　Evangeline！　Even　she。　They　waited；　the　tattered　remains　of　them；　in　this　no…man's…land　between　flesh　and　death；　until　Mamoulian　sickened　of　existence　and　lay　down　and　perished。　Then　they　too；　presumably；　would　have　their　liberty。　Until　then　their　faces　would　make　that　soundless　O　at　him；　a　melancholy　appeal。
　　The　thief　shook　his　head。
　　〃No；〃　he　said。
　　He　would　not　give　up　his　breath。　Not　for　an　orchard　of　trees；　not　for　a　nation　of　despairing　faces。　He　turn