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
