cb.damnationgame-第2章

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ooking　all　the　time　for　some　significant　detail　to　make　flesh　and　blood　of　the　chimera　he　was　investigating。
　　〃You　say　he　wins　without　fail？〃　〃Always。〃　〃So　what's　his　method？　How　does　he　cheat？〃　Vasiliev　looked　up　from　his　contemplation　of　the　bare　boards　of　the　floor。
　　〃Cheat？〃　he　said；　incredulously。　〃He　doesn't　cheat。　I've　played　cards　all　my　life；　with　the　best　and　the　worst。　I've　seen　every　trick　a　man　can　pull。　And　I　tell　you　now；　he　was　clean。〃　〃The　luckiest　player　gets　defeated　once　in　a　while。　The　laws　of　chance…〃　A　look　of　innocent　amusement　crossed　Vasiliev's　face；　and　for　a　moment　the　thief　glimpsed　the　man　who'd　occupied　this　fortress　before　his　fall　from　sanity。
　　〃The　laws　of　chance　are　nothing　to　him。　Don't　you　see？　He　isn't　like　you　or　me。　How　could　a　man　always　win　without　having　some　power　over　the　cards？〃　〃You　believe　that？〃　Vasiliev　shrugged；　and　slumped　again。　〃To　him；〃　he　said；　almost　contemplative　in　his　utter　dismay；　〃winning　is　beauty。　It　is　like　life　itself。〃　The　vacant　eyes　returned　to　tracing　the　rough　grain　of　the　floorboards　as　the　thief　somersaulted　the　words　over　in　his　head：　〃Winning　is　beauty。　It　is　like　life　itself。〃　It　was　strange　talk；　and　made　him　uneasy。　Before　he　could　work　his　way　into　its　meaning；　however；　Vasiliev　was　leaning　closer　to　him；　his　breath　fearful；　his　vast　hand　catching　hold　of　the　thief's　sleeve　as　he　spoke。
　　〃I've　put　in　for　a　transfer；　did　they　tell　you　that？　I'll　be　away　from　here　in　a　few　days；　and　nobody'll　be　any　the　wiser。　I'm　getting　medals　when　I　get　home。　That's　why　they're　transferring　me：　because　I'm　a　hero；　and　heroes　get　what　they　ask　for。　Then　I'll　be　gone；　and　he'll　never　find　me。〃　〃Why　would　he　want　to？〃　The　hand　on　the　sleeve　fisted；　Vasiliev　pulled　the　thief　in　toward　him。　〃I　owe　him　the　shirt　off　my　back；〃　he　said。　〃If　I　stay；　he'll　have　me　killed。　He's　killed　others；　him　and　his　rades。〃　〃He's　not　alone？〃　said　the　thief。　He　had　pictured　the　card…player　as　being　a　man　without　associates；　made　him；　in　fact；　in　his　own　image。
　　Vasiliev　blew　his　nose　into　his　hand；　and　leaned　back　in　the　chair。　It　creaked　under　his　bulk。
　　〃Who　knows　what's　true　or　false　in　this　place；　eh？〃　he　said；　eyes　swimming。　〃I　mean；　if　I　told　you　he　had　dead　men　with　him；　would　you　believe　me？〃　He　answered　his　own　question　with　a　shake　of　his　head。　〃No。　You'd　think　I　was　mad　。　。　。〃　Once；　the　thief　thought；　this　man　had　been　capable　of　certainty；　of　action；　perhaps　even　of　heroism。　Now　all　that　noble　stuff　had　been　siphoned　off：　the　champion　was　reduced　to　a　sniveling　rag；　blabbering　nonsense。　He　inwardly　applauded　the　brilliance　of　Mamoulian's　victory。　He　had　always　hated　heroes。
　　〃One　last　question…〃　he　began。
　　〃You　want　to　know　where　you　can　find　him。〃　〃Yes。〃　The　Russian　stared　at　the　ball　of　his　thumb；　sighing　deeply。　This　was　all　so　wearisome。
　　〃What　do　you　gain　if　you　play　him？〃　he　asked；　and　again　returned　his　own　answer。　〃Only　humiliation。　Perhaps　death。〃　The　thief　stood　up。　〃Then　you　don't　know　where　he　is？〃　he　said；　making　to　pocket　the　half…empty　packet　of　cigarettes　that　lay　on　the　table　between　them。
　　〃Wait。〃　Vasiliev　reached　for　the　pack　before　it　slid　out　of　sight。　〃Wait。〃　The　thief　placed　the　cigarettes　back　on　the　table；　and　Vasiliev　covered　them　with　one　proprietorial　hand。　He　looked　up　at　his　interrogator　as　he　spoke。
　　〃The　last　time　I　heard；　he　was　north　of　here。　Up　by　Muranowski　Square。　You　know　it？〃　The　thief　nodded。　It　was　not　a　region　he　relished　visiting；　but　he　knew　it。　〃And　how　do　I　find　him；　once　I　get　there？〃　he　asked。
　　The　Russian　looked　perplexed　by　the　question。
　　〃I　don't　even　know　what　he　looks　like；〃　the　thief　said；　trying　to　make　Vasiliev　understand。
　　〃You　won't　need　to　find　him；〃　Vasiliev　replied；　understanding　all　too　well。　〃If　he　wants　you　to　play；　he'll　find　you。〃
　　
　　3
　　The　next　night；　the　first　of　many　such　nights；　the　thief　had　gone　looking　for　the　card…player。　Though　it　was　by　now　April；　the　weather　was　still　bitter　that　year。　He'd　e　back　to　his　room　in　the　partially　demolished　hotel　he　occupied　numb　with　cold；　frustration　and…though　he　scarcely　admitted　it　even　to　himself…fear。　The　region　around　Muranowski　Square　was　a　hell　within　a　hell。　Many　of　the　bomb　craters　here　let　on　to　the　sewers；　the　stench　out　of　them　was　unmistakable。　Others；　used　as　fire　pits　to　cremate　executed　citizens；　still　flared　intermittently　when　a　flame　found　a　belly　swollen　with　gas；　or　a　pool　of　human　fat。　Every　step　taken　in　this　new…found　land　was　an　adventure；　even　to　the　thief。　Death；　its　forms　multitudinous；　waited　everywhere。　Sitting　on　the　edge　of　a　crater；　warming　its　feet　in　the　flames；　standing；　lunatic；　amongst　the　refuse；　at　laughing　play　in　a　garden　of　bone　and　shrapnel。
　　Fear　notwithstanding；　he'd　returned　to　the　district　on　several　occasions；　but　the　card…player　eluded　him。　And　with　every　failed　attempt；　with　every　journey　that　ended　in　defeat；　the　thief　became　more　preoccupied　with　the　pursuit。　In　his　mind　this　faceless　gambler　began　to　take　on　something　of　the　force　of　legend。　Just　to　see　the　man　in　the　flesh；　to　verify　his　physical　existence　in　the　same　world　that　he；　the　thief；　occupied；　became　an　article　of　faith。　A　means；　God　help　him；　by　which　he　could　ratify　his　own　existence　After　a　week　and　a　half　of　fruitless　searching；　he　went　back　to　find　Vasiliev。　The　Russian　was　dead。　His　body；　throat　slit　from　ear　to　ear；　had　been　found　the　previous　day；　floating　facedown　in　one　of　the　sewers　the　Army　was　clearing　in　Wola。　He　was　not　alone。　There　had　been　three　other　bodies　with　him；　all　slaughtered　in　a　similar　fashion；　all　set　alight　and　burning　like　fire　ships　as　they　drifted　down　the　tunnel　on　a　river　of　excrement。　One　of　the　soldiers　who　had　been　in　the　sewer　when　the　flotilla　appeared　told　the　thief　that　the　bodies　had　seemed　to　float　in　the　darkness。　For　a　breathless　moment　it　had　been　like　the　steady　approach　of　angels。
　　Then；　of　course；　the　horror。　Extinguishing　the　burning　corpses；　their　hair；　their　backs；　then　turning　them　over；　and　the　face　of　Vasiliev；　caught　in　the　beam　of　a　flashlight；　carrying　a　look　of　wonder；　like　a　child　in　awe　of　some　lethal　conjuror。
　　His　transfer　papers　had　arrived　that　same　afternoon。
　　In　fact　the　papers　seemed　to　have　been　the　cause　of　an　administrative　error　that　had　closed　Vasiliev's　tragedy　on　a　ic　note。　The　bodies；　once　identified；　had　been　buried　in　Warsaw；　except　for　Second　Lieutenant　Vasiliev；　whose　war　record　demanded　less　cursory　treatment。　Plans　were　afoot　to　transport　the　body　back　to　Mother　Russia；　where　he　would　be　buried　with　state　honors　in　his　hometown。　But　somebody；　alighting　upon　the　transfer　papers；　had　taken　them　to　apply　to　Vasiliev　dead；　not　Vasiliev　living。　Mysteriously；　the　body　disappeared。　Nobody　would　admit　responsibility：　the　corpse　had　simply　been　shipped　out　to　some　new　posting。
　　Vasiliev's　death　merely　served　to　intensify　the　thief's　curiosity。　Mamoulian's　arrogance　fascinated　him。　Here　was　a　scavenger；　a　man　who　made　a　living　off　the　weakness　of　others；　who　had　yet　grown　so　insolent　with　success　that　he　dared　to　murder…or　have　murdered　on　his　behalf…those　who　crossed　him。　The　thief　became　jittery　with　anticipation。　In　his　dreams；　when　he　was　able　to　sleep；　he　wandered　in　Muranowski　Square。　It　was　filled　with　a　fog　like　a　living　thing；　which　promised　at　any　moment　to　divide　and　reveal　the　card…player。　He　was　like　a　man　in　love。
　　
　　4
　　Tonight；　the　ceiling　of　squalid　cloud　above　Europe　had　broken：　blue；　albeit　pale；　had　spread　over　his　head；　wider　and　wider。　Now；　toward　evening；　the　sky　was　absolutely　clear　above　him。　In　the　southwest　vast　cumulus；　their　cauliflower　heads　tinted　ocher　and　gold；　were　fattening　with　thunder；　but　the　thought　of　their　anger　only　excited　him。　Tonight；　the　air　was　electric；　and　he　would　find　the　card…player；　he　was　sure。　He　had　been　sure　since　he　woke　that　morning。
　　As　evening　began　to　fall　he　went　north　toward　the　square；　scarcely　thinking　of　where　he　was　going；　the　route　was　so　familiar　to　him。　He　walked　through　two　checkpoints　without　being　challenged；　the　confidence　in　his　step　password　enough。　Tonight　he　was　inevitable。　His　place　here；　breathing　the　scented；　lilac　air；　stars　glimmering　at　his　zenith；　was　unassailable。　He　felt　static　run　in　the　hairs　on　the　back　of　his　hand；　and　smiled。　He　saw　a　man；　something　unrecognizable　in　his　arms；　screaming　at　a　window；　and　smiled。　Not　far　away；　the　Vistula；　gross　with　rain　and　melt…water；　roared　toward　the　sea。　He　was　no　less　irresistible。
　　The　gold　went　out　of　the　cumulus；　the　lucid　blue　darkened　toward　night。
　　As　he　was　about　to　e　into　Muranowski　Square　something　flickered　in　front　of　him；　a　twist　of　wind　scooted　past　him；　and　the　air　was　suddenly　full　of　white　confetti。　Impossible；　surely；　that　there　was　a　wedding　taking　place　here？　One　of　the　whirling　fragments　lodged　on　his　eyelash；　and　he　plucked　it　off。　It　wasn't　confetti　at　all：　it　was　a　petal。　He　pressed　it　between　thumb　and　forefinger。　Its　scented　oil　spilled　from　the　fractured　tissue。
　　In　search　of　the　source；　he　walked　on　a　little　way；　and　rounding　the　corner　into　the　square　itself　discovered　the　ghost　of　a　tree；　prodigious　with　blossom；　hanging　in　the　air。　It　seemed　unrooted；　its　snow…head　lit　by　starlight；　its　trunk　shadowy。　He　held　his　breath；　shocked　by　this　beauty；　and　walked　toward　it　as　he　might　have　approached　a　wild　animal；　cautious　in　case　it　took　fright。　Something　turned　his　stomach　over。　It　wasn't　awe　of　the　blossom；　or　even　the　remnants　of　the　joy　he'd　felt　walking　here。　That　was　slipping　away。　A　different　sensation　gripped　him　here　in　the　square。
　　He　was　a　man　so　used　to　atrocities　that　he　had　long　counted　himself　unblanchable。　So　why　did　he　stand　now　a　few　feet　away　from　the　tree；　his　fingernails；　meticulously　kept；　pressed　into　his　palms　with　anxiety；　defying　the　umbrella　of　flowers　to　unveil　its　worst？　There　was　nothing　to　fear　here。　Just　petals　in　the　air；　shadow　on　the　ground。　And　still　he　breathed　shallowly；　hoping　against　hope　that　his　fright　was　baseless。
　　e　on；　he　thought；　if　you've　got　something　to　show　me；　I'm　waiting。
　　At　his　silent　invitation　two　things　happened。　Behind　him　a　guttural　voice　asked：　〃Who　are　you？〃　in　Polish。　Distracted　for　the　merest　heartbeat　by　surprise；　his　eyes　lost　focus　on　the　tree；　and　in　that　instant　a　figure　dislodged　itself　from　beneath　the　blossom…weighed　branches　and　slouched；　momentarily；　into　the　starlight。　In　the　cheating　murk　the　thief　wasn't　certain　what　he　saw：　a　discarded　face　looking　blankly　in　his　direction　perhaps；　hair　seared　off。　A　scabby　carcass；　wide　as　a　bull's。　Vasiliev's　vast　hands。
　　All　or　nothing　of　this；　and　already　the　figure　was　retiring　into　hiding　beyond　the　tree；　its　wounded　head　brushing　the　branches　as　it　went。　A　drizzle　of　petals　fluttered　onto　its　charcoal　shoulders。
　　〃Did　you　hear　me？〃　said　the　voice　at　his　back。　The　thief　didn't　turn。　He　went　on　staring　at　the　tree；　narrowing　his　eyes；　attempting　to　separate　substance　from　illusion。　But　the　man；　whoever　he　was；　had　gone。　It　could　not　have　been　the　Russian；　of　course；　reason　proclaimed　against　it。　Vasiliev　was　dead；　found　with　his　face　down　in　the　filth　of　a　sewer。　His　body　was　probably　already　on　its　way