cb.damnationgame-第43章

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tion。　People　are　allowed　to　show　their　true　selves…〃　Marty　wondered　where　this　introduction　was　taking　them；　but　Whitehead　was　just　getting　into　the　rhythm　of　his　telling。　This　was　no　time　to　divert　him。
　　〃…and　when　there's　so　much　uncertainty　all　around；　the　man　who　can　shape　his　own　destiny　can　be　king　of　the　world。　Forgive　the　hyperbole；　but　it's　how　I　felt。　King　of　the　World。　I　was　clever；　you　see。　Not　educated；　that　came　later；　but　clever。　Streetwise；　you'd　call　it　now。　And　I　was　determined　to　make　the　most　of　this　wonderful　war　God　had　sent　me。　I　spent　two　or　three　months　in　Paris；　just　before　the　Occupation；　then　got　out　while　the　going　was　good。　Later　on；　I　went　south。　Enjoyed　Italy；　the　Mediterranean。　I　wanted　for　nothing。　The　worse　the　war　became　the　better　it　was　for　me。　Other　people's　desperation　made　me　into　a　rich　man。
　　〃Of　course　I　frittered　the　money　away。　Never　really　held　onto　my　earnings　for　more　than　a　few　months。　When　I　think　of　the　paintings　I　had　through　my　hands；　the　objets　d'art；　the　sheer　loot。　Not　that　I　knew　that　when　I　pissed　in　the　bucket　I　splashed　a　Raphael。　I　bought　and　sold　these　things　by　the　jeepload。〃　〃Towards　the　end　of　the　European　war　I　took　off　north；　into　Poland。　The　Germans　were　in　a　bad　way：　they　knew　the　game　was　ing　to　an　end；　and　I　thought　I　could　strike　a　few　deals。　Eventually…it　was　an　error　really…I　wound　up　in　Warsaw。　There　was　practically　nothing　left　by　the　time　I　got　there。　What　the　Russians　hadn't　flattened；　the　Nazis　had。　It　was　one　wasteland　from　end　to　end。〃　He　sighed；　and　pulled　a　face；　making　an　effort　to　find　the　words。　〃You　can't　imagine　it；〃　he　said。　〃This　had　been　a　great　city。　But　now？　How　can　I　make　you　understand？　You　have　to　see　through　my　eyes；　or　none　of　this　makes　sense。〃　〃I'm　trying；〃　Marty　said。
　　〃You　live　in　yourself；〃　Whitehead　went　on。　〃As　I　live　in　myself。　We　have　very　strong　ideas　of　what　we　are。　That's　why　we　value　ourselves；　by　what's　unique　in　us。　Do　you　follow　what　I'm　saying？〃　Marty　was　too　involved　to　lie。　He　shook　his　head。
　　〃No；　not　really。〃　〃The　isness　of　things：　that's　my　point。　The　fact　that　everything　of　any　value　in　the　world　is　very　specifically　itself。　We　celebrate　the　individuality　of　appearance；　of　being；　and　I　suppose　we　assume　that　some　part　of　that　individuality　goes　on　forever；　if　only　in　the　memories　of　the　people　who　experienced　it。　That's　why　I　valued　Evangeline's　collection；　because　I　delight　in　the　special　thing。　The　vase　that　was　unlike　any　other；　the　carpet　woven　with　special　artistry。〃　Then　suddenly；　they　were　back　in　Warsaw…〃There'd　been　such　glories　there；　you　know。　Fine　houses；　beautiful　churches；　great　collections　of　paintings。　So　much。　But　by　the　time　I　arrived　it　was　all　gone；　pounded　to　dust。
　　〃Everywhere　you　walked　it　was　the　same。　Underfoot　there　was　muck。　Gray　muck。　It　caked　your　boots；　its　dust　hung　in　the　air；　it　coated　the　back　of　your　throat。　When　you　sneezed；　your　snot　was　gray；　your　shit　the　same。　And　if　you　looked　closely　at　that　filth　you　could　see　it　wasn't　just　dirt；　it　was　flesh；　it　was　rubble；　it　was　porcelain　fragments；　newspapers。　All　of　Warsaw　was　in　that　mud。　Its　houses；　its　citizens；　its　art；　its　history：　all　ground　down　to　something　that　you　scraped　off　your　boots。〃　Whitehead　was　hunched　up。　He　looked　his　seventy　years；　an　old　man　lost　in　remembering。　His　face　was　knotted　up；　his　hands　were　fists。　He　was　older　than　Marty's　father　would　have　been　had　he　survived　his　lousy　heart：　except　that　his　father　would　never　have　been　able　to　speak　this　way。　He'd　lacked　the　power　of　articulation；　and；　Marty　thought；　the　depth　of　pain。　Whitehead　was　in　agonies。　The　memory　of　muck。　More　than　that：　the　anticipation　of　it。
　　Thinking　of　his　father；　of　the　past；　Marty　alighted　upon　a　memory　that　made　some　sense　of　Whitehead's　reminiscences。　He'd　been　a　boy　of　five　or　six　when　a　woman　who'd　lived　three　doors　down　the　terrace　died。　She'd　had　no　relatives　apparently；　or　none　that　cared　sufficiently　to　remove　what　few　possessions　she'd　had　from　the　house。　The　council　had　reclaimed　the　property　and　summarily　emptied　it；　carting　off　her　furniture　to　be　auctioned。　The　day　after；　Marty　and　his　playmates　had　found　some　of　the　dead　woman's　belongings　dumped　in　the　alley　behind　the　row　of　houses。　The　council　workmen；　pressed　for　time；　had　simply　emptied　all　the　drawers　of　worthless　personal　effects　into　a　pile；　and　left　them　there。　Bundles　of　ancient　letters　roughly　tied　up　with　faded　ribbon；　a　photograph　album　（she　was　there　repeatedly：　as　a　girl；　as　a　bride；　as　a　middle…aged　harridan；　diminishing　in　size　as　she　dried　up）；　much　valueless　bric…a…brac；　sealing　wax；　inkless　pens；　a　letter　opener。　The　boys　had　fallen　on　these　leavings　like　hyenas　in　search　of　something　nourishing。　Finding　nothing；　they　scattered　the　torn…up　letters　down　the　alley；　they　dismembered　the　album；　and　laughed　themselves　silly　at　the　photographs；　although　some　superstition　in　them　prevented　them　tearing　those。　They　had　no　need　to　do　so。　The　elements　soon　vandalized　them　more　efficiently　than　their　best　efforts　could　have　done。　In　a　week　of　rain　and　night…frost　the　faces　on　the　photographs　had　been　spoiled；　dirtied　arid　finally　eroded　entirely。　Perhaps　the　last　existing　portraits　of　people　now　dead　went　to　mush　in　that　alley；　and　Marty；　passing　down　it　daily；　had　watched　the　gradual　extinction；　seen　the　ink　on　the　scattered　letters　rained　off　until　the　old　woman's　memorial　was　gone　away　utterly；　just　as　her　body　had　gone。　If　you'd　upended　the　tray　that　held　her　ashes　onto　the　trampled　remains　of　her　belongings　they　would　have　been　virtually　indistinguishable：　both　gray　dirt；　their　significance　irretrievably　lost。　Muck　held　the　whip　hand。
　　All　this　Marty　recalled　mistily。　It　wasn't　quite　that　he　saw　the　letters；　the　rain；　the　boys…as　much　as　retouching　the　feelings　the　events　had　aroused：　the　buried　sense　that　what　had　happened　in　that　alley　was　unbearably　poignant。　Now　his　memory　meshed　with　Whitehead's。　All　the　old　man　had　said　about　muck；　about　the　isness　of　things；　made　some　sense。
　　〃I　see；〃　he　murmured。
　　Whitehead　looked　up　at　Marty。
　　〃Perhaps；〃　he　said。
　　〃I　was　a　gambling　man　in　those　days；　far　more　than　I　am　now。　War　brings　it　out　in　you；　I　think。　You　hear　stories　all　the　time；　about　how　some　lucky　man　escaped　death　because　he　sneezed；　or　died　for　the　same　reason。　Tales　of　benign　providence；　or　fatal　bad　fortune。　And　after　a　while　you　get　to　look　at　the　world　a　little　differently：　you　begin　to　see　chance　at　work　everywhere。　You　bee　alive　to　its　mysteries。　And　of　course　to　its　flip　side；　to　determinism。　Because　take　it　from　me　there　are　men　who　make　their　own　luck。　Men　who　can　mold　chance　like　putty。　You　talked　yourself　of　feeling　a　tingle　in　your　hands。　As　though　today；　whatever　you　did；　you　couldn't　lose。〃　〃Yes　。　。　。〃　That　conversation　seemed　an　age　away；　ancient　history。
　　〃Well；　while　I　was　in　Warsaw；　I　heard　about　a　man　who　never　once　lost　a　game。　A　card…player。〃　〃Never　lost？〃　Marty　was　incredulous。
　　〃Yes；　I　was　as　cynical　as　you。　I　treated　the　stories　I　heard　as　fable；　at　least　for　a　while。　But　wherever　I　went；　people　told　me　about　him。　I　got　to　be　curious。　In　fact　I　decided　to　stay　in　the　city；　though　God　knows　there　was　precious　little　to　keep　me　there；　and　find　this　miracle　worker　for　myself。〃　〃Who　did　he　play　against？〃　〃All　ers；　apparently。　Some　said　he'd　been　there　in　the　last　days　before　the　Russian　advance；　playing　against　Nazis；　and　then　when　the　Red　Army　entered　the　city　he　stayed　on。〃　〃Why　play　in　the　middle　of　nowhere？　There　can't　have　been　much　money　around。〃　〃Practically　none。　The　Russians　were　betting　their　rations；　their　boots。〃　〃So　again：　why？〃　〃That's　what　fascinated　me。　I　couldn't　understand　it　either。　Nor　did　I　believe　he　won　every　game；　however　good　a　player　he　was。〃　〃I　don't　see　how　he　kept　finding　people　to　play　him。〃　〃Because　there's　always　somebody　who　thinks　he　can　bring　the　champion　down。　I　was　one。　I　went　searching　for　him　to　prove　the　stories　wrong。　They　offended　my　sense　of　reality；　if　you　like。　I　spent　every　waking　hour　of　every　day　searching　the　city　for　him。　Eventually　I　found　a　soldier　who'd　played　against　him；　and　of　course　lost。　Lieutenant　Konstantin　Vasiliev。〃　〃And　the　card…player　。　。　。　what　was　his　name？〃　〃I　think　you　know　。　。　。〃　Whitehead　said。
　　〃Yes；〃　Marty　replied；　after　a　moment。　〃Yes；　you　know　I　saw　him。　At　Bill's　club？〃　〃When　was　this？〃　〃When　I　went　to　buy　my　suit。　You　told　me　to　gamble　what　was　left　of　the　money。〃　〃Mamoulian　was　at　the　Academy？　And　did　he　play？〃　〃No。　Apparently　he　never　does。〃　〃I　tried　to　get　him　to　play；　when　he　came　here　last；　but　he　wouldn't。〃　〃But　in　Warsaw？　You　played　him　there？〃　〃Oh；　Yes。　That's　what　he'd　been　waiting　for。　I　see　that　now。　All　these　years　I　pretended　I　was　in　charge；　you　know？　That　I'd　gone　to　him；　that　I'd　won　by　my　own　skills…〃　〃You　won？〃　Marty　exclaimed。
　　〃Certainly　I　won。　But　he　let　me。　It　was　his　way　of　seducing　me；　and　it　worked。　He　made　it　look　difficult；　of　course；　to　give　some　weight　to　the　illusion；　but　I　was　so　full　of　myself　I　never　once　contemplated　the　possibility　that　he'd　lost　the　game　deliberately。　I　mean；　there　was　no　reason　for　him　to　do　that；　was　there？　Not　that　I　could　see。　Not　at　the　time。〃　〃Why　did　he　let　you　win？〃　〃I　told　you：　seduction。〃　〃What；　do　you　mean　he　wanted　you　in　bed？〃　Whitehead　made　the　gentlest　of　shrugs。　〃It's　possible；　yes。〃　The　thought　seemed　to　amuse　him；　vanity　bloomed　on　his　face。　〃Yes；　I　think　I　probably　was　a　temptation。〃　Then　the　smile　faded。　〃But　sex　is　nothing；　is　it？　I　mean；　as　possessions　go；　to　fuck　somebody　is　trite　stuff。　What　he　wanted　me　for　went　far　deeper　and　was　far　more　permanent　than　any　physical　act。〃　〃Did　you　always　win　when　you　played　him？〃　〃I　never　played　against　him　again；　that　was　the　first　and　only　time。　I　know　it　sounds　unlikely。　He　was　a　gambler　and　so　was　I。　But　as　I　told　you；　he　wasn't　interested　in　cards　for　the　betting。〃　〃It　was　a　test。〃　〃Yes。　To　see　if　I　was　worthy　of　him。　Fit　to　build　an　Empire。　After　the　war；　when　they　started　rebuilding　Europe；　he　used　to　say　there　were　no　real　Europeans　left…they'd　all　been　wiped　out　by　one　holocaust　or　another…and　he　was　the　last　of　the　line。　I　believed　him。　All　the　talk　of　Empires　and　traditions。　I　was　flattered　to　be　lionized　by　him。　He　was　more　cultured；　more　persuasive；　more　penetrating　than　any　man　I　had　met　or　have　met　since。〃　Whitehead　was　lost　in　this　reverie；　hypnotized　by　the　memory。　〃All　that's　left　now　is　a　husk；　of　course。　You　can't　really　appreciate　what　an　impression　he　made。　There　was　nothing　he　couldn't　have　been　or　done　if　he'd　put　his　mind　to　it。　But　when　I　said　to　him：　why　do　you　bother　with　the　likes　of　me；　why　don't　you　go　into　politics；　some　sphere　where　you　can　wield　power　directly；　he'd　give　me　this　look；　and　say：　it's　all　been　done。　At　first　I　thought　he　meant　those　lives　were　predictable。　But　I　think　he　meant　something　else。　I　think　he　was　telling　me　that　he'd　been　these　people；　done　those　things。〃　〃How's　that　possible？　One　man。〃　〃I　don't　know。　It's　all　conjecture。　It　was　from　the　beginning。　And　here　I　am　forty　years　later；　still　juggling　rumors。〃　He　stood　up。　By　the　look　on　his　face　it　was　obvious　that　his　sitting　position　had　caused　some　stiffness　in　the　joints。　Once　he　was　upright