cb.damnationgame-第15部分
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ndering how her body looked seven years on。 Did she still shave the thin line of hair that ran down from her navel to her pubes； did her fresh sweat still smell so pungent？ He wondered too if she still loved love the way she had。 She had shown more unreserved appetite for the physical act than any woman he'd known； it was one of the reasons he'd married her。 Was it still so？ And if it was； with whom did she slake her thirst？ He turned these and a dozen other questions about her over and over in his head； and promised himself that at the first opportunity he'd go and see her。
The weeks saw his physique improve。 The strict regime of exercise he'd set for himself that first night began as a torment； but after a few days of punished and plaining muscles the exertion began to bear fruit。 He got up at five…thirty each morning and took an hour…long run around the grounds。 After a week of following the same circuit he altered the route； which allowed him to explore the estate at the same time as exercising。 There was a great deal to see。 Spring hadn't arrived in force yet； but there were stirrings。 Crocuses were beginning to show themselves； as were the spears of daffodils。 On the trees； fat buds were starting to split； leaves were unfurling。 It had taken him almost a week to cover the estate fully； and to work out the relation of one part of it to another； now he more or less had a grasp of the arrangement。 He knew the lake； the dovecote； the swimming pool； the tennis courts； the kennels； the woods and the gardens。 One morning； when the sky was exceptionally clear； he had circuited the entire grounds； hugging the fence all the way around the estate even when it threaded its way along the back of the woods。 He now reckoned he had as thorough a knowledge of the place as anyone； including its owner。
It was a joy； not just the exploration； and the freedom of running miles without someone looking over your shoulder all the time； but the reacquaintance with a dozen natural spectacles。 He loved being up to watch the sun rise； and it was almost as though he was running to meet it； as though dawn was for him and him alone； a promise of light and warmth and life to e。
He soon lost the ring of flab around his middle； the divide of his abdominals showed again： the washboard stomach he'd always been so proud of as a younger man； and thought he'd lost forever。 Muscles he'd forgotten he had came back into play； at first to make their presence felt in aching； then to simply live a glowing； ruddy life。 He was sweating out years of frustration and showering it away； and he was lighter for it。 He was aware； once more； of his body as a system； its parts correspondents； its health dependent on balance and respectful usage。
If Whitehead noted any change in his manner or physique； no ment was made。 But Toy； on one of his trips up to the house from London； immediately registered the change in him。 Marty noted an alteration in Toy too； but for the worse。 It wasn't plausible to ment on how weary he looked Marty felt their relationship wouldn't yet allow for such familiarity。 He just hoped Toy wasn't suffering from something serious。 The sudden wasting of his wide face suggested a devouring somewhere in the man's innards。 The nimbleness in his step； which Marty put down to Toy's Years in the ring； had also gone。
There were other mysteries here； besides Toy's decline。 For one thing； there was the collection： the works of the great masters that lined the corridors of the sanctuary。 They were neglected。 Nobody had dusted their surfaces in months； perhaps years； and in addition to the yellowing varnish that dimmed their fineness they were further spoiled by a layer of grime。 Marty had never had much taste for art； but given time to look at these pictures； he found his appetite for it good。 Many of them； the portraits and the religious works； he didn't really like： they weren't of people he knew or events he understood。 But in a small hallway on the first floor that led to the extension that had been Evangeline's suite； and was now the sauna and solarium； he found two paintings that caught his imagination。 They were both landscapes； by the same anonymous hand； and to judge by their poky location they were not great works。 But their curious amalgam of real scenery…trees and winding roads under blue and yellow skies…with totally fanciful details…a dragon with speckled wings devouring a man on that road； a flight of women levitating above the forest； a distant city； burning…this marriage of real and unreal was so persuasively painted that Marty found himself going back and back again to these two haunted canvases； finding more fantastical detail hidden in thicket or heat…haze each time he went。
The paintings weren't the only things that whetted his curiosity。 The upper floor of the main house； where Whitehead had a suite of rooms； was entirely out…of…bounds to him； and he was more than once tempted to slip up when he knew the old man was otherwise engaged； to nose around the forbidden territory。 He suspected Whitehead used the top story as a vantage point from which to spy on his acolytes〃 ings and goings。 That went some way to explaining the other mystery： the sense； he had； running his circuits； that he was being watched。 But he resisted the temptation to investigate。 It was perhaps more than his job was worth。
When he wasn't working he spent much of his time in the library。 There； if he felt curious about the outside world； were current issues of Time magazine； The Washington Post； The Times； and several other journals…Le Monde； Frankfurter Algemeine Zeitung； The New York Times； which Luther brought in。 He would flick through them looking for tidbits； sometimes taking them down to the sauna and reading them there。 When he tired of newspapers； there were thousands of books to choose from； not； to his delight； all intimidating tomes。 There were plenty of those； the assembled classics of world literature； but beside them on the shelves were tattered； well…thumbed paperback editions of science fiction books； their covers lurid； the copy on them paradigms of excess。 Marty began to read them； picking those with the most suggestive covers first。 There was also the video。 Toy had supplied him with a dozen tapes of boxing highlights； which Marty was systematically viewing； rerunning favorite victories to his heart's content。 He could sit all evening watching the matches； awed by the economy and the grace of the great fighters。 Toy； ever thoughtful； had also supplied a couple of pornographic tapes； handing them across to Marty with a conspiratorial smile and some ment about not eating them all at once。 The tapes were copies of storyless loops； anonymous couples and trios who threw off their clothes in the first thirty seconds and got down to the nitty…gritty inside a minute。 Nothing sophisticated： but they served a useful purpose； and； as Toy had obviously guessed； good air； exercise and optimism were doing wonders for Marty's libido。 There was going to e a time when self…abuse in front of a video screen was not going to be satisfaction enough。 Increasingly； Marty dreamed of Charmaine： unambiguous dreams set in the bedroom of Number Twenty…six。 Frustration gave him courage； and the next time he saw Toy he asked to be allowed to go and see her。 Toy promised to ask the boss about it； but nothing had e of it。 In the meanwhile he had to be content with tapes and their stage…managed gasps and grunts。
Systematically he began to put names to the faces that appeared most regularly at the house； Whitehead's most trusted advisers。 Toy； of course； was regularly in evidence。 There was also a lawyer called Ottaway； a thin； well…dressed man of forty of so； whom Marty took a dislike to when he first overheard the man's conversation。 Ottaway spoke with that air of the legal fan…dancer； all tease and cover…ups； that Marty had experienced first hand。 It brought back sour memories。
There was another； called Curtsinger； a sober…suited individual with an excruciating taste in ties and a worse one in colognes； who； though often in Ottaway's pany； seemed far more benign。 He was one of the few who actually acknowledged Marty's presence in a room…usually with a small； sharp nod。 On one occasion； celebrating some deal that had just been made； Curtsinger had slipped a large cigar into the pocket of Marty's jacket； after that； Marty would have forgiven him anything。
The third face that seemed to be in regular attendance at Whitehead's side was the most enigmatic of the three： a swarthy troll of a man called Dwoskin。 Here was a Cassius to Toy's Brutus。 His immaculate； pale gray suits； his meticulously folded handkerchiefs； the precision of his every gesture…all spoke of an obsessive whose rituals of tidiness were designed to counter the excess of his physicality。 But there was more： an undercurrent of danger about the man that Marty's years in Wandsworth had taught him to be alive to。 In fact； it was there in the others too。 Beneath Ottoway's frigid exterior and Curtsinger's sugar coating there were men who were not…it was Somervale's phrase…entirely savory。
At first Marty dismissed the feeling as lower…class prejudice； a nobody mistrusting the rich and i
