pzb.drawingblood-第63章

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Peering　over　the　pilot's　mass　of　dreadlocks；　Zach　could　see　a　calm　clear　expanse　of　water　the　color　of　turquoise；　a　stretch　of　beach　like　a　wide　white　ribbon　unfurling　out　of　sight；　a　lush　green　country　in　the　distance。
　　The　place　he　had　seen　in　his　dreams。　A　place　for　him　and　his　lover　to　get　lost　together。
　　〃Wele　home；〃　said　the　Rasta　man。
　　
　　
　　One　Month　Later
　　
　　The　asphalt　of　Firehouse　Street　had　begun　to　soften　in　the　July　heat　by　the　time　Kinsey　let　himself　into　the　Sacred　Yew。　The　summer　had　gotten　hotter　and　wetter　until　all　the　days　seemed　to　run　together　in　a　long　soggy　blur。　It　would　continue　like　this　straight　on　through　September。　Kinsey　could　not　bring　himself　to　concoct　any　dinner　specials；　one　did　not　want　to　cook　in　this　weather；　did　not　even　want　to　eat。
　　The　Secret　Service　agents　had　e　back　at　the　end　of　June　to　ask　more　questions。　It　seemed　they　had　been　mistaken　about　the　car　Zach　drove；　and　were　now　looking　for　a　tan　Malibu　registered　in　his　name。　Of　course；　no　one　in　Missing　Mile　knew　anything。　None　of　the　kids　had　ever　seen　that　pallid　raven…haired　boy　whose　picture　the　agent　kept　flashing　around。　No　one　remembered　the　night　Gumbo　had　had　a　guest　singer；　especially　not　the　ones　who　had　been　in　the　crowd　at　that　show；　galvanized　by　a　wild　voice　now　tragic；　now　raucous；　now　joyous。
　　Kinsey　grabbed　a　Natty　Boho　from　the　cooler　and　stood　at　the　bar　sorting　through　the　day's　mail。　Electric　bill；　surprisingly　low　。　。　。　gas　bill　。　。　。　collection　agency　notice　。　。　。　and　two　postcards。　One　was　postmarked　Flagstaff；　Arizona；　and　read　KINSEY；　YOU　FORGOT　TO　PAY　THE　PHONE　BILL。　LOVE；　STEVE。　Below　that　was　scrawled　Krazy　Kat　lived　here　and　an　amorphous　swirl　that　might　have　been　a　G。
　　The　other　card　was　creased；　smudged；　ragged　at　the　edges。　But　Kinsey　thought　it　still　bore　a　faint　breath　of　sun　and　salt。　The　picture　side　was　a　closeup　photograph　of　some　ackee；　the　peculiar　Jamaican　fruit　that　was　deadly　poison　before　it　burst　open；　but　could　be　scrambled　like　eggs　afterward。　Creamy　yellow　curds　of　flesh　bulged　from　dusky　pink　three…lobed　skins。　Embedded　in　each　fruit　were　three　glistening　black　seeds　as　large　and　round　as　eyeballs。　Kinsey　had　read　about　ackee　in　his　cookbooks；　but　never　actually　tasted　any。　He　imagined　it　would　be　rather　like　brains。
　　The　other　side　of　the　card　was　bordered　with　tiny　faces　and　hands：　graceful；　gnarled；　screaming；　grinning；　serene；　all　sorts　of　hands　and　faces　exquisitely　drawn　in　ink　of　black　ballpoint。　The　postmark　was　too　smudged　to　read；　but　the　message　said　K：　I　drew　for　3　hours　today。　It　hurts　like　hell…but　who　cares？　And　Dario　is　growing　dreads。　Play　some　Bird　for　me。　Your　Friend；　T。
　　Kinsey　put　on　his　favorite　Charlie　Parker　tape；　propped　open　the　doors；　and　let　Bird　go　soaring　out　over　Missing　Mile　for　the　rest　of　the　afternoon。
　　
　　Trevor　opened　his　eyes　late　one　night　and　found　himself　staring　at　a　vivid　green　lizard　on　the　wall　inches　from　his　face。　The　shack　was　so　bright　that　its　scales　seemed　to　shimmer。
　　Trevor　blinked；　and　the　creature　was　gone　in　an　iridescent　skirl。
　　He　turned　his　head　and　looked　at　Zach；　asleep　on　the　narrow　mattress　beside　him；　naked　atop　sweat…dampened　sheets　in　the　steamy　tropical　night。　The　moonlight　turned　Zach's　skin　pale　blue；　his　knotty　hair　and　the　shadows　of　his　face　a　deeper　indigo。　The　nights　here　were　as　blue　as　the　days；　the　sky　deepened　in　color　but　never　truly　darkened。
　　They　were　living　in　the　countryside　near　Negril；　which　was　something　of　a　hippie　mecca　on　the　western　coast　of　the　island；　deep　in　the　heart　of　ganja　country。　They　had　no　electricity；　no　plumbing；　and　they　didn't　care。　When　they　missed　these　forts；　they　hitchhiked　into　Negril　and　spent　a　night　or　two　in　a　luxurious　hotel　room　for　about　twenty　dollars　American。
　　Sometimes　they　visited　Colin's　friend's　farm　way　up　in　the　hills　and　spent　a　couple　of　days　getting　ridiculously　stoned。　Zach　would　amaze　everyone　by　eating　fresh　scotch　bonnet　peppers　right　off　the　bush。　The　Jamaicans　thought　he　was　showing　off；　but　Trevor　knew　Zach　loved　the　pretty　little　globes　of　fire。　Trevor　himself　had　already　put　away　gallons　of　Blue　Mountain　coffee。　But　not　as　much　as　he　used　to　drink。　He　didn't　have　to　keep　himself　awake　anymore。
　　More　often　they　lounged　on　the　small　cove　of　white　sand　beach　a　few　hundred　yards　from　their　shack。　Zach　lathered　himself　with　the　strongest　sunscreen　he　could　buy；　then　lay　for　hours　in　the　brilliant　blue　water；　his　head　cushioned　in　the　soft　sand。　He　stayed　as　pale　as　ever；　but　his　cheeks　took　on　a　faint　tinge　of　color；　and　some　of　the　dark　smudges　around　his　eyes　began　to　fade。　He　wanted　to　learn　to　sing　reggae。
　　The　sun　had　bleached　Trevor's　hair　pale　blond。　He　had　to　tuck　it　up　under　a　hat　when　they　went　into　town；　else　Jamaican　women　would　descend　on　him　stroking　it；　praising　its　beauty；　wanting　to　braid　it。　The　first　time　this　happened；　Trevor　had　endured　the　reaching；　grasping　fingers　for　about　ten　seconds；　then　flailed　out　from　under　them　with　an　enraged　snarl　that　sent　the　ladies　scattering　and　left　Zach　sprawled　on　the　ground；　helpless　with　laughter。
　　His　right　hand　ached　all　the　time；　but　it　was　a　healing　ache；　the　feel　of　bones　knitting　back　together　and　muscles　remembering　how　to　move。　He　drew　every　day　for　as　long　as　he　could　stand　it。　Then　Zach　massaged　the　stiffness　from　his　hand；　gently　tugging　the　knots　out　of　his　fingers；　rubbing　the　cramps　out　of　his　palm。　The　muscle　at　the　base　of　his　thumb　sometimes　throbbed　until　Trevor　wanted　to　drive　his　fist　through　the　wall　again。　But　he　was　through　hitting　things　forever。
　　He　sent　a　postcard　to　Steve　Bissette　asking　him　to　donate　payment　for　〃Incident　in　Birdland〃　to　the　production　of　Taboo　or　other　ics。
　　They　talked　intimately　and　obsessively；　fucked　as　often　as　their　bodies　could　stand　it；　sometimes　bined　the　two。　It　was　difficult　to　remember　how　short　a　time　they　had　known　each　other。　But　at　the　same　time；　they　were　starting　to　realize　how　much　they　had　yet　to　learn。　They　began　to　unlock　each　other　like　puzzles　of　astonishing　intricacy；　to　open　each　other　like　marvelous　gifts　discovered　under　the　Christmas　tree。
　　Sometimes　Trevor　thought　about　the　house。　Sometimes　he　dreamed　about　it；　but　remembered　only　frozen　images　from　these　dreams：　the　shape　suspended　from　the　shower　curtain　rod；　slowly　turning；　the　terrible　dawning　recognition　in　Bobby's　eyes　as　he　looked　up　from　the　bed　of　the　sleeping　son　he　had　meant　to　kill　after　all；　but　could　not。
　　Had　Bobby　meant　to　die　already；　or　had　the　sight　of　his　elder　son　grown；　in　Birdland；　driven　him　to　his　death？　Trevor　would　never　know。　He　no　longer　worried　much　about　it。
　　Sometimes　sensations　came　back　to　him　as　well：　the　impact　shuddering　up　his　arm　as　the　hammer　crashed　into　the　wall　inches　from　Zach's　head；　the　thousand　tiny　pains　of　the　mirror　fragments　sliding　into　his　flesh。　He　never　wanted　to　forget　those。
　　He　remembered　what　Birdland　had　meant　to　him　when　he　was　small。　It　had　been　the　place　where　he　had　discovered　his　talent；　the　place　where　he　could　work　magic；　where　no　one　else　could　touch　him。　Trevor　believed　in　magic　more　than　ever。　But　he　had　learned　that　living　in　a　place　where　no　one　could　touch　him　was　sometimes　dangerous；　and　always　lonely。
　　Birdland　was　a　mirror。　You　could　shatter　it　and　cut　yourself　to　ribbons　on　it；　you　could　obscure　it　with　blood。　Or　you　could　be　brave　enough　to　look　into　it　with　eyes　wide　open　and　see　whatever　there　was　to　see。
　　He　realized　Zach　was　awake；　had　been　watching　him　for　some　time。　The　moonlight　turned　his　green　eyes　a　strange　underwater　color。　He　did　not　speak；　but　smiled　sleepily　at　Trevor　and　reached　for　his　hand。　The　night　was　silent　but　for　the　distant　shush　of　the　sea　on　the　sand　and　the　sound　of　their　breathing。　The　air　smelled　of　flowers　and　salt；　of　their　bodies'　unique　chemistry。
　　Yes；　Trevor　thought；　he　could　have　ripped　himself　apart　on　the　jagged　edges　of　Birdland　just　to　learn　how　Bobby　had　felt　doing　it。　He　probably　could　have　dragged　Zach　down　with　him。　And　he　could　have　deluded　himself　into　believing　he　did　this　without　choice；　that　it　was　his　destiny。
　　But　it　was　all　choice。　And　there　were　so　many　other　choices　to　make。　There　were　so　many　other　things　to　learn。　He　wouldn't　mind　living　for　a　thousand　years；　just　for　the　chance　to　see　a　fraction　of　everything　in　the　world。
　　Trevor　could　not　be　grateful　to　Bobby　for　leaving　him　alive。　But　he　could　be　glad　he　had　not　died　in　that　house；　with　all　those　possibilities　untapped；　sights　unseen；　ideas　unexplored。　He　could　make　that　choice。　He　had　made　that　choice。　It　was　all　up　to　him。　The　boy　whose　hand　he　held　was　living　proof。　Zach　had　shown　him　that　anything　was　possible。　Zach　was　the　one　who　deserved　his　gratitude。
　　Trevor　found　ways　to　show　it　straight　on　through　till　morning。
　　
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