alistairmaclean.bearisland-第4部分

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e　probably　been　readily　apparent　to　anyone　whose　concern　for　the　prevailing　meteorological　conditions　hadn't　been　confronted　with　the　unfair　challenge　of　Otard…Dupuy。　Even　on　this；　what　should　have　been　the　sheltered　side　of　the　ship；　the　power　of　the　wind；　bitter　cold；　was　such　that　I　had　to　cling　with　both　hands　to　the　handrails：　and　with　the　Morning　Rose　now　rolling；　erratically　and　violently；　through　almost　fifty　degrees　of　arc…which　was　wicked　enough　but　I'd　once　been　on　a　cruiser　that　had　gone　through　a　hundred　degrees　of　arc　and　still　survived…I　could　have　used　another　pair　of　arms。　Even　on　the　blackest　night；　and　this　was　incontestably　one　of　the　blackest；　it　is　never　wholly　dark　at　sea：　it　may　never　be　possible　precisely　to　delineate　the　horizon　line　where　sea　and　sky　meet；　but　one　can　usually　look　several　vertical　degrees　above　or　below　the　horizon　line　and　say　with　certainty　that　here　is　sky　or　here　is　sea：　for　the　sea　is　always　darker　than　the　sky。　Tonight；　it　was　impossible　to　say　any　such　thing　and　this　was　not　because　of　the　violently　rolling　Morning　Rose　made　for　a　very　unstable　observation　platform　nor　because　the　big　uneven　seas　bearing　down　from　the　cast　made　for　a　tumbling　amorphous　horizon：　because　tonight；　for　the　first　time；　not　yet　dense　but　enough　to　obscure　vision　beyond　two　miles；　smoke　frost　lay　on　the　surface　of　the　sea；　that　peculiar　phenomenon　which　one　finds　in　Norway　where　the　glacial　land　winds　pass　over　the　warm　fiord　waters　or；　as　here；　where　the　warm　Atlantic　air　passed　over　the　Arctic　waters。　All　I　could　see；　and　it　was　enough　to　see；　was　that　the　tops　were　now　being　torn　off　the　waves；　white…veined　on　their　leeward　sides；　and　that　the　seas　were　breaking　clear　across　the　foredeck　of　the　Morning　Rose；　the　white　and　icy　spume　hissing　into　the　sea　on　the　starboard。　A　night　for　carpet　slippers　and　the　fireside。　I　turned　foreword　towards　the　acmodation　door　and　bumped　into　someone　who　was　standing　behind　the　ladder　and　holding　on　to　it　for　support。　I　couldn't　see　the　person's　face　for　it　was　totally　obscured　by　windblown　hair　but　I　didn't　have　to；　there　was　only　one　person　aboard　with　those　long　straw…coloured　tresses　and　that　was　Mary　dear：　given　my　choice　of　people　to　bump　into　on　the　Morning　Rose　I'd　have　picked　Mary　dear　any　time。　〃Mary　dear'；　not　〃Mary　Dear'：　I'd　given　her　that　name　to　distinguish　her　from　Gerran's　continuity　girl　whose　given　name　was　Mary　Darling。　Mary　dear　was　really　Mary　Stuart　but　that　wasn't　her　true　name　either：　Ilona　Wisniowecki　she'd　been　christened　but　had　prudently　decided　that　it　wasn't　the　biggest　possible　asset　she　had　for　making　her　way　in　the　film　world。　Why　she'd　chosen　a　Scots　name　I　didn't　know：　maybe　she　just　liked　the　sound　of　it。
　〃Mary　dear；〃　I　said。　〃Abroad　at　this　late　hour　and　on　such　a　night。〃　I　reached　up　and　touched　her　cheek；　we　doctors　can　get　away　with　murder　。　The　skin　was　icily　cold。　〃You　can　carry　this　fresh　air　fanatic　bit　too　far。　e　on；　inside。〃　I　took　her　arm…I　was　hardly　surprised　to　find　she　was　shivering　quite　violently…and　she　came　along　docilely　enough。　The　acmodation　door　led　straight　into　the　passenger　lounge　which；　though　fairly　narrow；　ran　the　full　width　of　the　ship。　At　the　far　end　was　a　built…in　bar　with　the　liquor　kept　behind　two　glassed…in　iron　grill　doors：　the　doors　were　kept　permanently　locked　and　the　key　was　in　Otto　Gerran's　pocket。
　〃No　need　to　frog…march　me；　Doctor。〃　She　habitually　spoke　in　a　low…pitched　quiet　voice。　〃Enough　is　enough　and　I　was　ing　in　anyway。〃
　〃Why　were　you　out　there　in　the　first　place？〃
　〃Can't　doctors　always　tell？〃　She　touched　the　middle　button　of　her　black　leather　coat　and　from　this　I　understood　that　her　internal　economy　wasn't　taking　too　kindly　to　the　roller…coaster　antics　of　the　Morning　Rose。　But　I　also　understood　that　even　had　the　sea　been　mirror…smooth　she'd　still　have　been　out　on　that　freezing　upper　deck：　she　didn't　talk　much　to　the　others　nor　the　others　to　her。
　She　pushed　the　tangled　hair　back　from　her　face　and　I　could　see　she　was　very　pale　and　the　skin　beneath　the　brown　eyes　tinged　with　the　beginnings　of　exhaustion。　In　her　high　cheekboned　Slavonic　way…she　was　a　Latvian　but；　I　supposed；　no　less　a　Slav　for　that…she　was　very　lovely；　a　fact　that　was　freely　admitted　and　slightingly　mented　upon　as　being　her　only　asset：　her　last　two　pictures…her　only　two　pictures…were　said　to　have　been　disasters　of　the　first　magnitude。　She　was　a　silent　girl；　cool　and　aloofly　remote　and　I　liked　her　which　made　me　a　lonely　minority　of　one。
　〃Doctors　aren't　infallible；〃　I　said。　〃At　least；　not　this　one。〃　I　peered　at　her　in　my　best　clinical　fashion。　〃What's　a　girl　like　you　doing　in　those　parts　on　this　floating　museum？〃
　She　hesitated。　〃That's　a　personal　question。〃
　〃The　medical　profession　are　a　very　personal　lot。　How's　your　headache？
　Your　ulcer？　Your　bursitis？　We　don't　know　where　to　stop。〃
　I　need　the　money。〃
　〃You　and　me　both。〃　I　smiled　at　her　and　she　didn't　smile　back　so　I　left　her　and　went　down　the　panionway　to　the　main　deck。
　Here　was　located　the　Morning　Rose's　main　passenger　acmodation；　two　rows　of　cabins　lining　the　fore　and　aft　central　passageway。　This　had　been　the　area　of　the　former　fish…holds　and　although　the　place　had　been　steam…washed；　fumigated；　and　disinfected　at　the　time　of　conversion　it　still　stank　most　powerfully　and　evilly　of　cod　liver　oil　that　has　lain　too　long　in　the　sun。　In　ordinary　circumstances；　the　atmosphere　was　nauseating　enough：　in　those　extraordinary　ones　it　was　hardly　calculated　to　assist　sufferers　in　a　rapid　recovery　from　the　effects　of　seasickness。　I　knocked　on　the　first　door　on　the　starboard　side　and　went　in。
　Johann　Heissman；　horizontally　immobile　on　his　bunk；　looked　like　a　cross　between　a　warrior　taking　his　rest　and　a　medieval　bishop　modelling　for　the　stone　effigy　which　in　the　fullness　of　time　would　adorn　the　top　of　his　sarcophagus。　Indeed；　with　his　thin　waxy　fingers　steepled　on　his　narrow　chest；　his　thin　waxy　nose　pointing　to　the　ceiling　and　his　curiously　transparent　eyelids　closed；　the　image　of　the　tomb　seemed　particularly　apposite　in　this　case：　but　it　was　a　deceptive　image　for　a　man　does　not　survive　twenty　years　in　a　Soviet　hard　labour　camp　in　eastern　Siberia　just　to　turn　in　his　cards　from　mal　de　mier。
　〃How　do　you　feel；　Mr。　Heissman？〃
　〃Oh；　God！〃　He　opened　his　eyes　without　looking　at　me；　moaned　and　closed　them　again。　〃How　do　I　feel？'
　〃I'm　sorry。　But　Mr。　Gerran　is　concerned…〃
　〃Otto　Gerran　is　a　raving　madman。〃　I　didn't　take　it　as　any　indication　of　some　sudden　upsurge　in　his　physical　condition　but；　no　question；　this　time　his　voice　was　a　great　deal　stronger。　〃Crackpot！　A　lunatic！〃
　While　privately　conceding　that　Heissman's　diagnosis　lay　somewhere　along　the　right　lines　I　refrained　from　ment　and　not　out　of　some　suitably　due　deference　to　my　employer。　Otto　Gerran　and　Johann　Heissman　had　been　friends　much　too　long　for　me　to　risk　treading　upon　the　delicate　ground　that　well　might　lie　between　them。　They　had　known　each　other；　as　far　as　I　had　been　able　to　discover；　since　they　had　been　students　together　at　some　obscure　Danubian　gymnasium　close　on　forty　years　ago　and　had；　at　the　time　of　the　Anschluss　in　1938；　been　the　joint　owners　of　a　relatively　prosperous　film　studio　in　Vienna。　It　was　at　this　point　in　space　and　time　that　they　had　parted　pany　suddenly；　drastically　and；　it　seemed　at　the　time；　permanently；　for；　while　Gerran's　sure　instinct　had　guided　his　fleeing　footsteps　to　Hollywood；　Heissman　had　unfortunately　taken　off　in　the　wrong　direction　altogether　and；　only　three　years　previously；　to　the　total　disbelief　of　all　who　had　known　him　and　believed　him　dead　for　a　quarter　of　a　century；　had　incredibly　surfaced　from　the　bitter　depths　of　his　long　Siberian　winter。　He　had　sought　out　Gerran　and　now　it　appeared　that　their　friendship　was　as　close　as　ever　it　had　been。　It　was　assumed　that　Gerran　knew　about　the　hows　and　the　whys　of　Heissman's　lost　years　and　if　this　were　indeed　the　case　then　he　was　the　only　man　who　did　so　for　Heissman；　understandably　enough；　never　discussed　his　past。　Only　two　things　about　the　men　were　known　for　certain…that　it　was　Heissman；　who　had　a　dozen　prewar　screenplays　to　his　credit；　who　was　the　moving　spirit　behind　this　venture　to　the　Arctic　and　that　Gerran　had　taken　him　into　full　partnership　in　his　pany；　Olympus　Productions。　In　light　of　this；　it　behooved　me　to　step　warily　and　keep　my　ments　on　Heissman's　ments　strictly　to　myself。
　〃If　there's　anything　you　require；　Mr。　Heissman…〃
　I　require　nothing。〃　He　opened　his　transparent　eyelids　again　and　this　time　looked…or　glared…at　me；　eyes　of　washed…out　grey　streaked　with　blood。
　〃Save　your　treatment　for　that　cretin　Gerran。〃
　〃Treatment？〃
　〃Brain　surgery。〃　He　lowered　his　eyelids　wearily　and　went　back　to　being　a　medieval　bishop　again　so　I　left　him　and　went　next　door。
　There　were　two　men　in　this　cabin；　one　clearly　suffering　quite　badly；　the　other　equally　clearly　not　suffering　in　the　slightest。　Neal　Divine；　the　unit　director；　had　adopted　a　death's　door　resignation　attitude　that　was　strikingly　similar　to　that　favoured　by　Heissman　and　although　he　wasn't　even　within　hailing　distance　of　death's　door　he　was　plainly　very　seasick　indeed。　He　looked　at　me；　forced　a　pale　smile　that　was　half　apology；　half　recognition；　then　lo