cb.imajica1-第23章

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red　what　misbegotten　instinct　had　made　her　suggest　drinks。　Well；　it　was　easily　slipped　out　of；　even　assuming　he　remembered　the　suggestion　had　been　made；　which　she　doubted。
　Once　out　in　the　street　she　looked　up　at　the　building　to　see　if　she　could　spot　him　through　the　window。　She　had　to　cross　the　road　to　do　so；　but　from　the　opposite　pavement　she　could　see　him　standing　in　front　of　the　painting；　which　he　had　once　again　unveiled。　He　was　staring　at　it　with　his　head　slightly　cocked。　She　couldn't　be　certain；　but　it　looked　as　though　his　lips　were　moving；　as　though　he　were　talking　to　the　image　on　the　canvas。　What　was　he　saying？　she　wondered。　Was　he　coaxing　some　image　forth　from　the　chaos　of　paint？　And　if　so；　in　which　of　his　many　tongues　was　he　speaking？
　
　
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　She　had　seen　two　people　where　he'd　painted　one。　Not　a　he；　a　she；　or　an　it；　but　they。　She'd　looked　at　the　image　and　seen　past　his　conscious　intention　to　a　buried　purpose；　one　he'd　hidden　even　from　himself。　Now　he　went　back　to　the　canvas　and　looked　at　it　again；　with　borrowed　eyes；　and　there　they　were；　the　two　she'd　seen。　In　his　passion　to　capture　some　impression　of　Pie　'oh'　pah；　he　had　painted　the　assassin　stepping　from　shadow　（or　back　into　it）；　a　stream　of　darkness　running　down　the　middle　of　his　face　and　torso。　It　divided　the　figure　from　top　to　bottom；　and　its　outer　edges；　ragged　and　lush；　described　the　reciprocative　forms　of　profiles；　etched　in　white　from　the　halves　of　what　he'd　intended　to　be　a　single　face。　They　stared　at　each　other　like　lovers；　eyes　looking　forward　in　the　Egyptian　manner；　the　backs　of　their　heads　folded　into　shadow。　The　question　was：　Who　were　these　two？　What　had　he　been　trying　to　express；　setting　these　faces　thus；　nose　to　nose？
　He　interrogated　the　painting　for　several　minutes　after　she'd　gone；　preparing　as　he　did　so　to　attack　the　canvas　again。　But　when　it　came　to　doing　so；　he　lacked　the　strength。　His　hands　were　trembling；　his　palms　clammy；　his　eyes　could　only　focus　upon　the　image　indifferently　well。　He　retreated　from　the　picture；　afraid　to　touch　it　in　this　weakened　state　for　fear　he'd　undo　what　little　he'd　already　achieved。　A　painting　could　escape　so　quickly。　A　few　inept　strokes　and　a　likeness　（to　a　face；　to　another　painter's　work）　could　flee　the　canvas　and　never　be　recaptured。　Better　to　leave　it　alone　tonight。　To　rest；　and　hope　he　was　strong　tomorrow。
　He　dreamed　of　sickness。　Of　lying　in　his　bed；　naked　beneath　a　thin　white　sheet；　shivering　so　hard　his　teeth　chattered。　Snow　fell　from　the　ceiling　intermittently　and　didn't　melt　when　it　touched　his　flesh；　because　he　was　colder　than　the　snow。　There　were　visitors　in　his　sickroom；　and　he　tried　to　tell　them　how　cold　he　was；　but　he　had　no　power　in　his　voice；　and　the　words　came　out　as　gasps；　as　though　he　were　struggling　for　his　last　breath。　He　began　to　fear　that　this　dream　condition　was　fatal；　that　snow　and　breathlessness　would　bury　him。　He　had　to　act。　Rise　up　from　the　hard　bed　and　prove　these　mourners　premature。
　With　painful　slowness；　he　moved　his　hands　to　the　edge　of　the　mattress　in　the　hope　of　pulling　himself　upright；　but　the　sheets　were　slick　with　his　final　sweat；　and　he　couldn't　get　a　firm　hold。　Fear　turned　to　panic；　despair　bringing　on　a　new　round　of　gasps；　more　desperate　than　the　last。　He　struggled　to　make　his　situation　plain；　but　the　door　of　his　sickroom　stood　wide；　now；　and　all　the　mourners　had　disappeared　through　it。　He　could　hear　them　in　another　room；　talking　and　laughing。　There　was　a　patch　of　sun　on　the　threshold；　he　saw。　Next　door　it　was　summer。　Here；　there　was　only　the　heart…stopping　cold；　taking　a　firmer　grip　on　him　by　the　moment。　He　gave　up　attempting　Lazarus　and　instead　let　his　palms　lie　flat　on　the　sheets　and　his　eyes　flutter　closed。　The　sound　of　voices　from　the　next　room　softened　to　a　murmur。　The　noise　of　his　heart　dwindled。　New　sounds　rose　to　replace　it；　however。　A　wind　was　gusting　outside；　and　branches　thrashed　at　the　windows。　Somebody's　voice　rose　in　prayer；　another　simply　sobbed。　What　grief　was　this？　Not　his　passing；　surely。　He　was　too　minor　to　earn　such　lamentation。　He　opened　his　eyes　again。　The　bed　had　gone；　so　had　the　snow。　Lightning　threw　into　silhouette　a　man　who　stood　watching　the　storm。
　〃Can　you　make　me　forget？〃　Gentle　heard　himself　saying。　〃Do　you　have　the　trick　of　that？〃
　〃Of　course；〃　came　the　soft　reply。　〃But　you　don't　want　it。〃
　〃No；　what　I　want's　death；　but　I'm　too　afraid　of　that　tonight。　That's　the　real　sickness：　fear　of　death。　But　I　can　live　with　forgetfulness；　give　me　that。〃
　〃For　how　long？〃
　〃Until　the　end　of　the　world。〃
　Another　lightning　flash　burned　out　the　figure　in　front　of　him；　and　then　the　whole　scene。　Gone；　forgotten。　Gentle　blinked　the　afterimage　of　window　and　silhouette　out　of　his　eyes　and；　in　doing　so；　passed　between　sleep　and　waking。
　The　room　was　cold；　but　not　as　icy　as　his　deathbed。　He　sat　upright；　staring　first　at　his　unclean　hands；　then　at　the　window。　It　was　still　night；　but　he　could　hear　the　sound　of　vehicles　on　the　Edgware　Road；　their　murmur　reassuring。　Already…distracted　by　sound　and　sight…the　nightmare　was　fading。　He　was　happy　to　lose　it。
　He　shrugged　off　the　bedclothes　and　went　to　the　kitchen　to　find　himself　something　to　drink。　There　was　a　carton　of　milk　in　the　refrigerator。　He　downed　its　contents…though　the　milk　was　ready　to　turn…aware　that　his　churned　system　would　probably　reject　it　in　short　order。　Quenched；　he　wiped　his　mouth　and　chin　and　went　through　to　look　at　the　painting　again；　but　the　intensity　of　the　dream　from　which　he'd　just　woken　made　a　mockery　of　his　efforts。　He　would　not　conjure　the　assassin　by　this　crude　magic。　He　could　paint　a　dozen　canvases；　a　hundred；　and　still　not　capture　the　ambiguities　of　Pie　'oh'　pah。　He　belched；　bringing　the　taste　of　bad　milk　back　up　into　his　mouth。　What　was　he　to　do？　Lock　himself　away　and　let　this　sickness　in　him…put　there　by　the　sight　of　the　assassin…consume　him？　Or　bathe；　sweeten　himself；　and　go　out　to　find　some　faces　to　put　between　him　and　the　memory？　Both　vain　endeavors。　Which　left　a　third；　distressing　route。　To　find　Pie　'oh'　pah　in　the　flesh：　to　face　him；　question　him；　have　his　fill　of　him；　until　every　ambiguity　was　scoured　away。
　He　went　on　staring　at　the　painting　while　he　turned　this　option　over。　What　would　it　take　to　find　the　assassin？　An　interrogation　of　Estabrook；　for　one。　That　wouldn't　be　too　onerous　a　duty。　Then　a　search　of　the　city；　to　find　the　place　Estabrook　bad　claimed　he　couldn't　recall。　Again；　no　great　hardship。　Better　than　sour　milk　and　sourer　dreams。
　Knowing　that　in　the　light　of　morning　he　might　lose　his　present　clarity　of　mind；　and　he　was　best　to　close　off　at　least　one　route　of　retreat；　he　went　to　the　paints；　squeezed　onto　his　palm　a　fat　worm　of　cadmium　yellow；　and　worked　it　into　the　still…wet　canvas。　It　obliterated　the　lovers　immediately；　but　he　wasn't　satisfied　until　he'd　covered　the　canvas　from　edge　to　edge。　The　color　fought　for　its　brilliance；　but　it　soon　deteriorated；　tainted　by　the　darkness　it　was　trying　to　obscure。　By　the　time　he'd　finished；　it　was　as　if　his　attempt　to　capture　Pie　'oh'　pah　had　never　been　made。
　Satisfied；　he　stood　back　and　belched　again。　The　nausea　had　gone　from　him。　He　felt　strangely　buoyant。　Maybe　sour　milk　suited　him。
　Pie　'oh'　pah　sat　on　the　step　of　his　trailer　and　stared　up　at　the　night　sky。　In　their　beds　behind　him；　his　adopted　wife　and　children　slept。　In　the　heavens　above　him；　the　stars　were　burning　behind　a　blanket　of　sodium…tinted　cloud。　He　had　seldom　felt　more　alone　in　his　long　life　than　now。　Since　returning　from　New　York　he　had　been　in　a　state　of　constant　anticipation。　Something　was　going　to　happen　to　him　and　his　world；　but　he　didn't　know　what。　His　ignorance　pained　him；　not　simply　because　he　was　helpless　in　the　face　of　this　imminent　event；　but　because　his　inability　to　grasp　its　nature　was　testament　to　how　his　skills　had　deteriorated。　The　days　when　he　could　read　futurities　off　the　air　had　gone。　He　was　more　and　more　a　prisoner　of　the　here　and　now。　That　here；　the　body　he　occupied；　was　also　less　than　its　former　glory。　It　was　so　long　since　he'd　corresponded　the　way　he　had　with　Gentle；　taking　the　will　of　another　as　the　gospel　of　his　flesh；　that　he'd　almost　lost　the　trick　of　it。　But　Gentle's　desire　had　been　potent　enough　to　remind　him；　and　his　body　still　reverberated　with　echoes　of　their　time　together。　Though　it　had　ended　badly　he　didn't　regret　snatching　those　minutes。　Another　such　encounter　might　never　e。
　He　wandered　from　his　trailer　towards　the　perimeter　of　the　encampment。　The　first　light　of　dawn　was　beginning　to　eat　at　the　murk。　One　of　the　camp　mongrels；　back　from　a　night　of　adventuring；　squeezed　between　two　sheets　of　corrugated　iron　and　came　wagging　to　his　side。　He　stroked　the　dog's　snout　and　tickled　behind　its　battle…ravaged　ears；　wishing　he　could　find　his　way　back　to　his　home　and　master　so　easily。
　It　was　the　oft…stated　belief　of　Esmond　Bloom　Godolphin；　the　late　father　of　Oscar　and　Charles；　that　a　man　could　never　have　too　many　bolt　holes；　and　of　E。B。G。's　countless　saws　this　was　the　only　one　Oscar　had　been　significantly　influenced　by。　He　had　not　less　than　four　places　of　occupation　in　London。　The　house　in　Primrose　Hill　was　his　chief　residence；　but　there　was　also　a　pied…a…terre　in　Maida　Vale；　a　smallish　flat　in　Notting　Hill；　and　the　location　he　was　presently　occupying：　a　windowless　warehouse　concealed　in　a　maze　of　derelict　and　near…derelict　properties　near　the　river。
　It　was　not　a　place　he　was　particularly　happy　to　frequent；　especially　not　on　the　day　after　Christmas；　but　over　the　years　it　had　proved　a　secure　haven　for　Dowd's　two　associates；　the　voiders；　and　it　now　served　as　a　Chapel　of　Rest　for　Dowd　himself。　His　naked　corpse　lay　beneath　a　shroud　on　the　cold　concrete；　with　aromatic　herbs；　picked　and　dried　on　the　slopes　of　the　Jokalaylau；　smoldering　in　bowls　at　his　head　and　feet；　after　the　rituals　proscribed　in　that　region。　The　voiders　had　shown　little　interest　in　the　arrival　of　their　leader's　body。　They　were　functionaries；　incapable　of　anything　but　the　most　rudimentary　thought　processes。　They　had　no　physical　appetites：　no　desire；　no　hunger　or　thirst；　no　ambition。　They　simply　sat　out　the　days　and　nights　in　the　darkness　of　the　warehouse　and　waited　for　Dowd　to　instruct　them。　Oscar　was　less　than　fortable　in　their　pany；　but　could　not　bring　himself　to　leave　until　this　business　was　finished。　He'd　brought　a　book　to　read：　a　cricket　almanac　that　he　found　soothing　to　peruse。　Every　now　and　then　he'd　get　up　and　refuel　the　bowls。　Otherwise　there　was　little　to　do　but　wait。
　It　had　already　been　a　day　and　a　half　since　he'd　made　such　a　show　of　taking　Dowd's　life：　a　performance　of　which　he　was　justly　proud。　But　the　casualty　that　lay　before　him　was　a　real　loss。　Dowd　had　been　passed　down　the　line　of　Godolphins　for　two　centuries；　bound　to　them　until　the　end　of　time　or　of　Joshua's　line；　whichever　came　first。　And　he　had　been　a　fine　manservant。　Who　else　could　mix　a　whisky　and　soda　so　well？　Who　else　knew　to　dry　and　powder　between　Oscar's　toes　with　special　care；　because　he　was　prone　to　fungal　infections　there？　Dowd　was　irreplaceable；　and　it　had　pained　Oscar　considerably　to　take　the　brutal　measures　circumstance　had　demanded。　But　he'd　done　so　knowing　that　while　there　was　a　slim　possibility　that　he　would　lose　his　servant　forever；　an　entity　such　as　Dowd　could　surv