cb.imajica1-第1章

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　IT　WAS　THE　PIVOTAL　TEACHING　of　Pluthero　Quexos；　the　most　celebrated　dramatist　of　the　Second　Dominion；　that　in　any　fiction；　no　matter　how　ambitious　its　scope　or　profound　its　theme；　there　was　only　ever　room　for　three　players。　Between　warring　kings；　a　peacemaker；　between　adoring　spouses；　a　seducer　or　a　child。　Between　twins；　the　spirit　of　the　womb。　Between　lovers；　Death。　Greater　numbers　might　drift　through　the　drama；　of　course…thousands　in　fact…but　they　could　only　ever　be　phantoms；　agents；　or；　on　rare　occasions；　reflections　of　the　three　real　and　self…willed　beings　who　stood　at　the　center。　And　even　this　essential　trio　would　not　remain　intact；　or　so　he　taught。　It　would　steadily　diminish　as　the　story　unfolded；　three　being　two；　two　being　one；　until　the　stage　was　left　deserted。
　Needless　to　say；　this　dogma　did　not　go　unchallenged。　The　writers　of　fables　and　edies　were　particularly　vociferous　in　their　scorn；　reminding　the　worthy　Quexos　that　they　invariably　ended　their　own　tales　with　a　marriage　and　a　feast。　He　was　unrepentant。　He　dubbed　them　cheats　and　told　them　they　were　swindling　their　audiences　out　of　what　he　called　the　last　great　procession；　when；　after　the　wedding　songs　had　been　sung　and　the　dances　danced；　the　characters　took　their　melancholy　way　off　into　darkness；　following　each　other　into　oblivion。
　It　was　a　hard　philosophy；　but　he　claimed　it　was　both　immutable　and　universal；　as　true　in　the　Fifth　Dominion；　called　Earth；　as　it　was　in　the　Second。
　And　more　significantly；　as　certain　in　life　as　it　was　in　art。
　Being　a　man　of　contained　emotion；　Charlie　Estabrook　had　little　patience　with　the　theater。　It　was；　in　his　bluntly　stated　opinion；　a　waste　of　breath：　indulgence；　flummery；　lies。　But　had　some　student　recited　Quexos'　First　Law　of　Drama　to　him　this　cold　November　night　he　would　have　nodded　grimly　and　said：　Ail　true；　all　true。　It　was　his　experience　precisely。　Just　as　Quexos1　Law　required；　his　story　had　begun　with　a　trio：　himself；　John　Furie　Zacharias；　and；　between　them；　Judith。　That　arrangement　hadn't　lasted　very　long。　Within　a　few　weeks　of　setting　eyes　on　Judith　he　had　managed　to　supersede　Zacharias　in　her　affections；　and　the　three　had　dwindled　to　a　blissful　two。　He　and　Judith　had　married　and　lived　happily　for　five　years；　until；　for　reasons　he　still　didn't　understand；　their　joy　had　foundered；　and　the　two　had　bee　one。
　He　was　that　one；　of　course；　and　the　night　found　him　sitting　in　the　back　of　a　purring　car　being　driven　around　the　frosty　streets　of　London　in　search　of　somebody　to　help　him　finish　the　story。　Not；　perhaps；　in　a　fashion　Quexos　would　have　approved　of…the　stage　would　not　be　left　entirely　empty…but　one　which　would　salve　Estabrook's　hurt。
　He　wasn't　alone　in　his　search。　He　had　the　pany　of　one　half…trusted　soul　tonight：　his　driver；　guide；　and　procurer；　the　ambiguous　Mr。　Chant。　But　despite　Chant's　shows　of　empathy；　he　was　still　just　another　servant；　content　to　attend　upon　his　master　as　long　as　he　was　promptly　paid。　He　didn't　understand　the　profundity　of　Estabrook's　pain；　he　was　too　chilly；　too　remote。　Nor；　for　all　the　length　of　his　family　history；　could　Estabrook　turn　to　his　lineage　for　fort。　Although　he　could　trace　his　ancestors　back　to　the　reign　of　James　the　First；　he　had　not　been　able　to　find　a　single　man　on　that　tree　of　immoralities…even　to　the　bloodiest　root…who　had　caused；　either　by　his　hand　or　hiring；　what　he；　Estabrook；　was　out　this　midnight　to　contrive：　the　murder　of　his　wife。
　When　he　thought　of　her　（when　didn't　he？）　his　mouth　was　dry　arid　his　palms　were　wet；　he　sighed；　he　shook。　She　was　in　his　mind's　eye　now；　like　a　fugitive　from　some　more　perfect　place。　Her　skin　was　flawless　and　always　cool；　always　pale；　her　body　was　long；　like　her　hair；　like　her　fingers；　like　her　laughter；　and　her　eyes；　oh；　her　eyes；　had　every　season　of　leaf　in　them：　the　twin　greens　of　spring　and　high　summer；　the　golds　of　autumn；　and；　in　her　rages；　black　midwinter　rot。
　He　was；　by　contrast；　a　plain　man：　well　scrubbed　but　plain。　He'd　made　his　fortune　selling　baths；　bidets　and　toilets；　which　lent　him　little　by　way　of　mystique。　So；　when　he'd　first　laid　eyes　on　Judith…she'd　been　sitting　behind　a　desk　at　his　accountant's　office；　her　beauty　all　the　more　luminous　for　its　drab　setting…his　first　thought　was：　I　want　this　woman；　his　second：　She　won't　want　me。　There　was；　however；　an　instinct　in　him　when　it　came　to　Judith　that　he'd　never　experienced　with　any　other　woman。　Quite　simply；　he　felt　she　belonged　to　him；　and　that　if　he　turned　his　wit　to　it；　he　could　win　her。
　His　courtship　had　begun　the　day　they'd　met；　with　the　first　of　many　small　tokens　of　affection　delivered　to　her　desk。　But　he　sooned　learned　that　such　bribes　and　blandishments　would　not　help　his　case。　She　politely　thanked　him　but　told　him　they　weren't　wele。　He　dutifully　ceased　to　send　presents　and；　instead；　began　a　systematic　investigation　of　her　circumstances。　There　was　precious　little　to　learn。　She　lived　simply；　her　small　circle　vaguely　bohemian。　But　among　that　circle　he　discovered　a　man　whose　claim　upon　her　preceded　his　own；　and　to　whom　she　was　apparently　devoted。　That　man　was　John　Furie　Zacharias；　known　universally　as　Gentle；　and　he　had　a　reputation　as　a　lover　that　would　have　driven　Estabrook　from　the　field　had　that　strange　certainty　not　been　upon　him。　He　decided　to　be　patient　and　await　his　moment。　It　would　e。
　Meanwhile　he　watched　his　beloved　from　afar；　conspiring　to　encounter　her　accidentally　now　and　again；　and　researching　his　antagonist's　history。　Again；　there　was　little　to　learn。　Zacharias　was　a　minor　painter；　when　he　wasn't　living　off　his　mistresses；　and　reputedly　a　dissolute。　Of　this　Estabrook　had　perfect　proof　when；　by　chance；　he　met　the　fellow。　Gentle　was　as　handsome　as　his　legends　suggested；　but　looked；　Charlie　thought；　like　a　man　just　risen　from　a　fever。　There　was　something　raw　about　him…his　body　sweated　to　its　essence；　his　face　betraying　a　hunger　behind　its　symmetry…that　lent　him　a　bedeviled　look。
　Half　a　week　after　that　encounter；　Charlie　had　heard　that　his　beloved　had　parted　from　the　man　with　great　grief　and　was　in　need　of　tender　care。　He'd　been　quick　to　supply　it；　and　she'd　e　into　the　fort　of　his　devotion　with　an　ease　that　suggested　his　dreams　of　possession　had　been　well　founded。
　His　memories　of　that　triumph　had；　of　course；　been　soured　by　her　departure；　and　now　it　was　he　who　wore　the　hungry；　yearning　look　he'd　first　seen　on　Furie's　face。　It　suited　him　less　well　than　it　had　Zacharias。　His　was　not　a　head　made　for　haunting。　At　fifty…six；　he　looked　sixty　or　more；　his　features　as　solid　as　Gentle's　were　spare；　as　pragmatic　as　Gentle's　were　rarefied。　His　only　concession　to　vanity　was　the　delicately　curled　mustache　beneath　his　patrician　nose；　which　concealed　an　upper　lip　he'd　thought　dubiously　ripe　in　his　youth；　leaving　the　lower　to　jut　in　lieu　of　a　chin。
　Now；　as　he　rode　through　the　darkened　streets；　he　caught　sight　of　that　face　in　the　window　and　perused　it　ruefully。　What　a　mockery　he　was！　He　blushed　to　think　of　how　shamelessly　he'd　paraded　himself　when　he'd　had　Judith　on　his　arm；　how　he'd　joked　that　she　loved　him　for　his　cleanliness；　and　for　his　taste　in　bidets。　The　same　people　who'd　listened　to　those　jokes　were　laughing　in　earnest　now；　were　calling　him　ridiculous。　It　was　unbearable。　The　only　way　he　knew　to　heal　the　pain　of　his　humiliation　was　to　punish　her　for　the　crime　of　leaving　him。
　He　rubbed　the　heel　of　his　hand　against　the　window　and　peered　out。
　〃Where　are　we？〃　he　asked　Chant。
　〃South　of　the　river；　sir。〃
　〃Yes；　but　where？〃
　〃Streatham。〃
　Though　he'd　driven　through　this　area　many　times…he　had　a　warehouse　in　the　neighborhood…he　recognized　none　of　it。　The　city　had　never　looked　more　foreign　or　more　unlovely。
　〃What　sex　is　London；　do　you　suppose？〃　he　mused。
　〃I　hadn't　ever　thought；〃　Chant　said。
　〃It　was　a　woman　once；〃　Estabrook　went　on。　〃One　calls　a　city　she；　yes？　But　it　doesn't　seem　very　feminine　any　more。'1
　〃She'll　be　a　lady　again　in　spring；〃　Chant　replied。
　〃I　don't　think　a　few　crocuses　in　Hyde　Park　are　going　to　make　much　difference；〃　Estabrook　said。　〃The　charm's　gone　out　of　it。〃　He　sighed。　〃How　far　now？〃
　〃Maybe　another　mile。〃
　〃Are　you　sure　your　man's　going　to　be　there？〃
　〃Of　course。〃
　〃You've　done　this　a　lot；　have　you？　Been　a　go…between；　I　mean。　What　did　you　call　it。　。　。　a　facilitator？〃
　〃Oh；　yes；〃　Chant　said。　〃It's　in　my　blood。〃　That　blood　was　not　entirely　English。　Chant's　skin　and　syntax　carried　traces　of　the　immigrant。　But　Estabrook　had　grown　to　trust　him　a　little；　even　so。
　〃Aren't　you　curious　about　all　of　this？〃　he　asked　the　man。
　〃It's　not　my　business；　sir。　You're　paying　for　the　service；　and　I　provide　it。　If　you　wanted　to　tell　me　your　reasons…〃
　〃As　it　happens；　I　don't。〃
　〃I　understand。　So　it　would　be　useless　for　me　to　be　curious；　yes？〃
　That　was　neat　enough；　Estabrook　thought。　Not　to　want　what　couldn't　be　had　no　doubt　took　the　sting　from　things。　He　might　need　to　learn　the　trick　of　that　before　he　got　too　much　older；　before　he　wanted　time　he　couldn't　have。　Not　that　he　demanded　much　in　the　way　of　satisfactions。　He'd　not　been　sexually　insistent　with　Judith；　for　instance。　Indeed；　he'd　taken　as　much　pleasure　in　the　simple　sight　of　her　as　he'd　taken　in　the　act　of　love。　The　sight　of　her　had　pierced　him；　making　her　the　enterer；　had　she　but　known　it；　and　him　the　entered。　Perhaps　she　had　known；　on　reflection。　Perhaps　she'd　fled　from　his　passivity；　from　his　ease　beneath　the　spike　of　her　beauty。　If　so；　he　would　undo　her　revulsion　with　tonight's　business。　Here；　in　the　hiring　of　the　assassin；　he　would　prove　himself。　And；　dying；　she　would　realize　her　error。　The　thought　pleased　him。　He　allowed　himself　a　little　smile；　which　vanished　from　his　face　when　he　felt　the　car　slowing　and　glimpsed；　through　the　misted　window；　the　place　the　facilitator　had　brought　him　to。
　A　wall　of　corrugated　iron　lay　before　them；　its　length　daubed　with　graffiti。　Beyond　it；　visible　through　gaps　where　the　iron　had　been　torn　into　ragged　wings　and　beaten　back；　was　a　junkyard　in　which　trailers　were　parked。　This　was　apparently　their　destination。
　〃Are　you　out　of　your　mind？〃　he　said；　leaning　forward　to　take　hold　of　Chant's　shoulder。　〃We're　not　safe　here。〃
　〃I　promised　you　the　best　assassin　in　England；　Mr。　Esta…brook；　and　he's　here。　Trust　me；　he's　here。〃
　Estabrook　growled　in　fury　and　frustration。　He'd　expected　a　clandestine　rendezvous…curtained　windows；　locked　doors…not　a　gypsy　encampment。　This　was　altogether　too　public　and　too　dangerous。　Would　it　not　be　the　perfect　irony　to　be　murdered　in　the　middle　of　an　assignation　with　an　assassin？
　He　leaned　back　against　the　creaking　leather　of　his　seat　and　said；　〃You've　let　me　down。〃
　〃I　promise　you　this　man　is　a　most　extraordinary　individual；〃　Chant　said。　〃Nobody　in　Europe　es　remotely　close。　I've　worked　with　him　before。〃
　〃Would　you　care　to　name　the　victims？〃
　Chant　looked　around　at　his　employer　and；　in　faintly　admonishing　tones；　said；　〃I　haven't　presumed　upon　your　privacy；　Mr。　Estabrook。　Please　don't　presume　upon　mine。〃
　Estabrook　gave　a　chastened　grunt。
　〃Would　you　prefer　we　go　back　to　Chelsea？〃　Chant　went　on。　〃I　can　find　somebody　else　for　you。　Not　as　good；　perhaps；　but　in　more　congenial　surroundings。〃
　Chant's　sarcasm　wasn't　lost　on　Estabrook；　nor　could　he　resist　the　recognition　that　this　was　not　a　game　he