cb.damnationgame-第7章

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m；　all　a　fiction。　Because　look；　these　people　behaved　as　though　they'd　lived　without　him；　as　though　the　world　had　gone　on　while　he'd　been　locked　away；　and　some　childlike　part　of　him…the　part　that；　hiding　its　eyes；　believes　itself　hidden…could　not　conceive　of　a　life　for　anyone　without　him　to　see　it。
　　His　mon　sense　told　him　otherwise；　of　course。　Whatever　his　confused　senses　might　suspect；　the　world　was　older；　and　more　weary　probably；　since　he　and　it　had　last　met。　He　would　have　to　renew　his　acquaintance　with　it：　learn　how　its　nature　had　changed；　learn　again　its　etiquette；　its　touchiness；　its　potential　for　pleasure。
　　They　crossed　the　river　via　the　Wandsworth　Bridge　and　drove　through　Earl's　Court　and　Shepherd's　Bush　onto　Westway。　It　was　the　middle　of　a　Friday　afternoon；　and　the　traffic　was　heavy；　muters　eager　to　be　home　for　the　weekend。　He　stared　blatantly　at　the　faces　of　the　drivers　in　the　cars　they　overtook；　guessing　occupations；　or　trying　to　catch　the　eyes　of　the　women。
　　Mile　by　mile；　the　strangeness　he'd　felt　initially　began　to　wear　off；　and　by　the　time　they　reached　the　M40　he　was　starting　to　tire　of　the　spectacle。　Toy　had　nodded　off　in　his　corner　of　the　back　seat；　his　hands　in　his　lap。　Luther　was　occupied　with　leapfrogging　down　the　highway。
　　Only　one　event　stowed　their　progress。　Twenty　miles　short　of　Oxford　blue　lights　flashed　on　the　road　up　ahead；　and　the　sound　of　a　siren　speeding　toward　them　from　behind　announced　an　accident。　The　procession　of　cars　slowed；　like　a　line　of　mourners　pausing　to　glance　into　a　coffin。
　　A　car　had　slewed　across　the　eastbound　lanes；　crossed　the　divide；　and　met；　head…on；　a　van　ing　in　the　opposite　direction。　All　of　the　westbound　lanes　were　blocked；　either　by　wreckage　or　by　police　cars；　and　the　travelers　were　obliged　to　use　the　shoulder　to　skirt　the　scattered　wreckage。　〃What's　happened；　can　you　see？〃　Luther　asked；　his　attention　too　occupied　by　navigating　past　the　signaling　policeman　for　him　to　see　for　himself。　Marty　described　the　scene　as　best　he　could。
　　A　man；　with　blood　streaming　down　his　face　as　if　somebody　had　cracked　a　blood…yolked　egg　on　his　head；　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　chaos；　hypnotized　by　shock。　Behind　him　a　group…police　and　rescued　passengers　alike…gathered　around　the　concertinaed　front　section　of　the　car　to　speak　to　somebody　trapped　in　the　driver's　seat。　The　figure　was　slumped；　motionless。　As　they　crept　past；　one　of　these　forters；　her　coat　soaked　either　with　her　own　blood　or　that　of　the　driver；　turned　away　from　the　vehicle　and　began　to　applaud。　At　least　that　was　how　Marty　interpreted　the　slapping　together　of　her　hands：　as　applause。　It　was　as　if　she　were　suffering　the　same　delusion　he'd　tasted　so　recently…that　this　was　all　some　meticulous　but　distasteful　illusion…and　at　any　moment　it　would　all　e　to　a　wele　end。　He　wanted　to　lean　out　of　the　car　window　and　tell　her　that　she　was　wrong；　that　this　was　the　real　world…long…legged　women；　crystal　sky　and　all。　But　she'd　know　that　tomorrow；　wouldn't　she？　Plenty　of　time　for　grief　then。　But　for　now　she　clapped；　and　she　was　still　clapping　when　the　accident　slid　out　of　sight　behind　them。
　　
　　
　　II　The　Fox
　　
　　10
　　Asylum；　Whitehead　knew；　was　a　traitorous　word。　In　one　breath　it　meant　a　sanctuary；　a　place　of　refuge；　of　safety。　In　another；　its　meaning　twisted　on　itself：　asylum　came　to　mean　a　madhouse；　a　hole　for　broken　minds　to　bury　themselves　in。　It　was；　he　reminded　himself；　a　semantic　trick；　no　more。　Why　then　did　the　ambiguity　run　in　his　head　so　often？
　　He　sat　in　that　too…fortable　chair　beside　the　window　where　he　had　sat　now　for　a　season　of　evenings　watching　the　night　begin　to　skulk　across　the　lawn　and　thinking；　without　much　shape　to　his　ruminations；　about　how　one　thing　became　another；　about　how　difficult　it　was　to　hold　on　to　anything。　Life　was　a　random　business。　Whitehead　had　learned　that　lesson　years　ago；　at　the　hands　of　a　master；　and　he　had　never　forgotten　it。　Whether　you　were　rewarded　for　your　good　works　or　skinned　alive；　it　was　all　down　to　chance。　No　use　to　cleave　to　some　system　of　numbers　or　divinities；　they　all　crumbled　in　the　end。　Fortune　belonged　to　the　man　who　was　willing　to　risk　everything　on　a　single　throw。
　　He'd　done　that。　Not　once；　but　many　times　at　the　beginning　of　his　career；　when　he　was　still　laying　the　foundations　of　his　empire。　And　thanks　to　that　extraordinary　sixth　sense　he　possessed；　the　ability　to　preempt　the　roll　of　the　dice；　the　risks　had　almost　always　paid　off。　Other　corporations　had　their　virtuosi：　puters　that　calculated　the　odds　to　the　tenth　place；　advisers　who　kept　their　ears　pressed　to　the　stock　markets　of　Tokyo；　London　and　New　York；　but　they　were　all　overshadowed　by　Whitehead's　instinct。　When　it　came　to　knowing　the　moment；　for　sensing　the　collision　of　time　and　opportunity　that　made　a　good　decision　into　a　great　one；　a　monplace　takeover　into　a　coup；　nobody　was　Old　Man　Whitehead's　superior；　and　all　the　smart　young　men　in　the　corporation's　boardrooms　knew　that。　Joe's　oracular　advice　still　had　to　be　sought　before　any　significant　expansion　was　undertaken　or　contract　signed。
　　He　guessed　this　authority；　which　remained　absolute；　was　resented　in　some　circles。　No　doubt　there　were　those　who　thought　he　should　let　go　his　hold　pletely　and　leave　the　university　men　and　their　puters　to　get　on　with　business。　But　Whitehead　had　won　these　skills；　these　unique　powers　of　second…guessing；　at　some　hazard；　foolish　then　that　they　lie　forgotten　when　they　could　be　used　to　lay　a　finger　on　the　wheel。　Besides；　the　old　man　had　an　argument　the　young　turks　could　never　gainsay：　his　methods　worked。　He'd　never　been　properly　schooled；　his　life　before　fame　was…much　to　the　journalists〃　dismay…a　blank；　but　he　had　made　the　Whitehead　Corporation　out　of　nothing。　Its　fate；　for　better　or　worse；　was　still　his　passionate　concern。
　　There　was　no　room　for　passion　tonight；　however；　sitting　in　that　chair　（a　chair　to　die　in；　he'd　sometimes　thought）　beside　the　window。　Tonight　there　was　only　unease：　that　old　man's　plaint。
　　How　he　loathed　age！　It　was　hardly　bearable　to　be　so　reduced。　Not　that　he　was　infirm；　just　that　a　dozen　minor　ailments　conspired　against　his　fort　so　that　seldom　a　day　passed　without　some　irritation…an　ulcerous　mouth；　or　a　chafing　between　the　buttocks　that　itched　furiously…fixing　his　attentions　in　the　body　when　the　urge　to　self…preservation　called　them　elsewhere。　The　curse　of　age；　he'd　decided；　was　distraction；　and　he　couldn't　afford　the　luxury　of　negligent　thinking。　There　was　danger　in　contemplating　itch　and　ulcer。　As　soon　as　his　mind　was　turned；　something　would　take　out　his　throat。　That　was　what　the　unease　was　telling　him。　Don't　look　away　for　a　moment；　don't　think　you're　safe　because；　old　man；　I've　a　message　for　you：　the　worst　is　yet　to　e。
　　Toy　knocked　once　before　entering　the　study。
　　〃Bill　。　。　。〃　Whitehead　momentarily　forgot　the　lawn　and　the　advancing　darkness　as　he　turned　to　face　his　friend。
　　〃。　。　。　you　got　here。〃　〃Of　course　we　got　here；　Joe。　Are　we　late？〃　〃No；　no。　No　problems？〃　〃Things　are　fine。〃　〃Good。〃　〃Strauss　is　downstairs。〃　In　the　diminishing　light　Whitehead　crossed　to　the　table　and　poured　himself　a　sparing　glass　of　vodka。　He　had　been　holding　off　from　drinking　until　now；　a　shot　to　celebrate　Toy's　safe　arrival。
　　〃You　want　one？〃　It　was　a　ritual　question；　with　a　ritual　response：　〃No　thanks。〃　〃You're　going　back　to　town；　then？〃　〃When　you've　seen　Strauss。〃　〃It's　too　late　for　the　theater。　Why　don't　you　stay；　Bill？　Go　back　tomorrow　morning　when　it's　light。〃　〃I've　got　business；〃　Toy　said；　allowing　himself　the　gentlest　of　smiles　on　the　final　word。　This　was　another　ritual；　one　of　many　between　the　two　men。　Toy's　business　in　London；　which　the　old　man　knew　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　corporation；　went　unquestioned；　it　always　had。
　　〃And　what's　your　impression？〃　〃Of　Strauss？　Much　as　I　thought　at　the　interview。　I　think　he'll　be　fine。　And　if　he　isn't；　there's　plenty　more　where　he　came　from。〃　〃I　need　someone　who　isn't　going　to　scare　easily。　Things　could　get　very　unpleasant。〃　Toy　offered　a　nonmittal　grunt　and　hoped　that　the　talk　on　this　matter　wouldn't　go　any　further。　He　was　tired　after　a　day　of　waiting　and　traveling；　and　he　wanted　to　look　forward　to　the　evening；　this　was　no　time　to　talk　over　that　business　again。
　　Whitehead　had　put　down　his　drained　glass　on　the　tray　and　gone　back　to　the　window。　It　was　darkening　in　the　room　quite　rapidly　now；　and　when　the　old　man　stood　with　his　back　to　Toy　he　was　welded　by　shadow　into　something　monolithic。　After　thirty　years　in　Whitehead's　employ…three　decades　with　scarcely　a　cross　word　spoken　between　them…Toy　was　still　as　much　in　awe　of　Whitehead　as　of　some　potentate　with　the　power　of　life　and　death　over　him。　He　still　took　a　pause　to　find　his　equilibrium　before　entering　into　Whitehead's　presence；　he　still　found　traces　of　the　stammer　he'd　had　when　they'd　met　returning　on　occasion。　It　was　a　legitimate　response；　he　felt。　The　man　was　power：　more　power　than　he　could　ever　hope；　or　indeed　would　ever　want；　to　possess：　and　it　sat　with　deceptive　lightness　on　Joe　Whitehead's　substantial　shoulders。　In　all　their　years　of　association；　in　conference　or　boardroom；　he　had　never　seen　Whitehead　want　for　the　appropriate　gesture　or　remark。　He　was　simply　the　most　confident　man　Toy　had　ever　met：　certain　to　his　marrow　of　his　own　supreme　worth；　his　skills　honed　to　such　an　edge　that　a　man　could　be　undone　by　a　word；　gutted　for　life；　his　self…esteem　drained　and　his　career　tattered。　Toy　had　seen　it　done　countless　times；　and　often　to　men　he　considered　his　betters。　Which　begged　the　question　（he　asked　it　even　now；　staring　at　Whitehead's　back）：　why　did　the　great　man　pass　the　time　of　day　with　him？　Perhaps　it　was　simply　history。　Was　that　it？　History　and　sentiment。
　　〃I'm　thinking　of　filling　in　the　outdoor　pool。〃　Toy　thanked　God　Whitehead　had　changed　the　subject。　No　talk　of　the　past；　for　tonight　at　least。
　　〃…I　don't　swim　out　there　any　longer；　even　in　the　summer。〃　〃Put　some　fishes　in。〃　Whitehead　turned　his　head　slightly　to　see　if　there　was　a　smile　on　Toy's　face。　He　never　signaled　a　joke　in　the　tone　of　his　voice；　and　it　was　easy；　Whitehead　knew；　to　offend　the　man's　sensibilities　if　one　laughed　when　no　joke　was　intended；　or　the　other　way　about。　Toy　wasn't　smiling。
　　〃Fishes？〃　said　Whitehead。
　　〃Ornamental　carp；　perhaps。　Aren't　they　called　koi？　Exquisite　things。〃　Toy　liked　the　pool。　At　night　it　was　lit　from　below；　and　the　surface　moved　in　mesmerizing　eddies；　the　turquoise　enchanting。　If　there　was　a　chill　in　the　air　the　heated　water　gave　off　a　wispy　breath　that　melted　away　six　inches　from　the　surface。　In　fact；　though　he'd　hated　swimming；　the　pool　was　a　favorite　place　of　his。　He　wasn't　certain　if　Whitehead　knew　this：　he　probably　did。　Papa　knew　most　things；　he'd　found；　whether　they'd　been　voiced　or　not。
　　〃You　like　the　pool；〃　Whitehead　stated。
　　There：　proof。
　　〃Yes。　I　do。〃　〃Then　we'll　keep　it。〃　〃Well　not　just…〃　Whitehead　raised　his　hand　to　ward　off　further　debate；　pleased　to　be　giving　this　gift。
　　〃We'll　keep　it；〃　he　said。　〃And　you　can　fill　it　with　koi。〃　He　sat　back　down　in　the　chair。
　　〃Shall　I　put　the　lawn　lights　on？〃　Toy　asked。
　　〃No；〃　said　Whitehead。　The　dying　light　from　the　window　cast　his　head　in　bronze；　a　latter…day　Medici　perhaps；　with　his　weary…lidded；　pit…set　eyes；　the　whit