cb.damnationgame-第53章

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d　water。　But　we　had　one　fellow　came　here；　this　is　a　couple　of　years　ago　now；　he　was　American；　over　from　Boston。　He　saw　Mamoulian　and　let　me　tell　you…he　freaked　out。　Seems　he'd　played　with　a　guy　who　was　his　spitting　image；　this　is　in　the　1920s。　That　caused　quite　a　buzz。　I　mean；　he　doesn't　look　like　the　type　to　have　a　father；　does　he？〃　The　waiter　had　something　there。　It　was　impossible　to　imagine　this　Mamoulian　as　a　child　or　a　pimply　adolescent。　Had　he　suffered　infatuation；　the　death　of　pets；　of　parents？　It　seemed　so　unlikely　as　to　be　laughable。
　　〃That's　all　I　know；　really。〃　〃Thank　you；〃　said　Marty。　It　was　enough。
　　The　waiter　walked　away；　leaving　Marty　with　an　armful　of　possibilities。　Apocryphal　tales；　most　likely：　the　Greek　with　the　system；　the　panicking　American。　A　man　like　Mamoulian　was　bound　to　collect　rumors；　his　air　of　lost　aristocracy　invited　invented　histories。　Like　an　onion；　unwrapped　and　unwrapped　and　unwrapped　again；　each　skin　giving　way　not　to　the　core　but　to　another　skin。
　　Tired；　and　dizzy　with　too　much　drink　and　too　little　sleep；　Marty　decided　to　call　it　a　night。　He'd　use　the　hundred　or　so　left　in　his　wallet　to　bribe　a　taxi　driver　to　drive　him　back　to　the　estate；　and　leave　the　car　to　be　picked　up　another　day。　He　was　too　drunk　to　drive。　He　glanced　one　final　time　into　the　baccarat　room。　The　game　was　still　going　on；　Mamoulian　had　not　moved　from　his　station。
　　Marty　went　downstairs　to　the　bathroom。　It　was　a　few　degrees　colder　than　the　interior　of　the　club；　its　rococo　plasterwork　facetious　in　the　face　of　its　lowly　function。　He　glanced　at　his　weariness　in　the　mirror；　then　went　to　relieve　himself　at　the　urinal。
　　In　one　of　the　stalls；　somebody　had　begun　to　sob；　very　quietly；　as　if　attempting　to　stifle　the　sound。　Despite　his　aching　bladder；　Marty　found　he　was　unable　to　piss；　the　anonymous　grief　distressed　him　too　much。　It　was　ing　from　behind　the　locked　door　of　the　stalls。　Probably　some　optimist　who'd　lost　his　shirt　on　a　roll　of　the　dice；　and　was　now　contemplating　the　consequences。　Marty　left　him　to　it。　There　was　nothing　he　could　say　or　do；　he　knew　that　from　bitter　experience。
　　Out　in　the　foyer；　the　woman　on　the　desk　called　after　him。
　　〃Mr。　Strauss？〃　It　was　the　English　rose。　She　showed　no　sign　of　wilting；　despite　the　hour。　〃Did　you　find　Mr。　Toy？〃　〃No；　I　didn't。〃　〃Oh；　that's　odd。　He　was　here。〃　〃Are　you　sure？〃　〃Yes。　He　came　with　Mr。　Mamoulian。　I　told　him　you　were　here；　and　that　you'd　asked　after　him。〃　〃And　what　did　he　say？〃　〃Nothing；〃　the　girl　replied。　〃Not　a　word。〃　She　dropped　her　voice。　〃Is　he　well？　I　mean；　he　looked　really　terrible；　if　you　don't　mind　me　saying　so。　Awful　color。〃　Marty　glanced　up　the　stairs；　scanned　the　landing。
　　〃Is　he　still　here？〃　〃Well；　I　haven't　been　on　the　desk　all　evening；　but　I　didn't　see　him　leave。〃　Marty　took　the　stairs　two　at　a　time。　He　wanted　to　see　Toy　so　much。　There　were　questions　to　ask；　confidences　to　exchange。　He　scoured　the　rooms；　looking　for　that　worn…leather　face。　But　though　Mamoulian　was　still　there；　sipping　his　water；　Toy　was　not　with　him。　Nor　was　he　to　be　found　in　any　of　the　bars。　He　had　clearly　e　and　gone。　Disappointed；　Marty　went　back　downstairs；　thanked　the　girl　for　her　help；　tipped　her　well；　and　left。
　　It　was　only　when　he　had　put　a　good　distance　between　himself　and　the　Academy；　walking　in　the　middle　of　the　road　to　waylay　the　first　available　taxi；　that　he　remembered　the　sobbing　in　the　bathroom。　His　pace　slowed。　Eventually　he　stopped　in　the　street；　his　head　echoing　to　the　thump　of　his　heart。　Was　it　just　hindsight；　or　had　that　ragged　voice　sounded　familiar；　as　it　chewed　on　its　grief？　Had　it　been　Toy　sitting　there　in　the　questionable　privacy　of　a　toilet　stall；　crying　like　a　lost　child？
　　Dreamily；　Marty　glanced　back　the　way　he'd　e。　If　he　suspected　Toy　was　still　at　the　club；　shouldn't　he　go　back　and　find　out？　But　his　head　was　making　unpleasant　connections。　The　woman　at　the　Pimlico　number　whose　voice　was　too　horrid　to　listen　to；　the　desk…girl's　question：　〃Is　he　well？〃；　the　profundity　of　despair　he　had　heard　from　behind　the　locked　door。　No；　he　couldn't　go　back。　Nothing；　not　even　the　promise　of　a　faultless　system　to　beat　every　table　in　the　house；　would　induce　him　to　return。　There　was；　after　all；　such　a　thing　as　reasonable　doubt；　and　on　occasion　it　could　be　a　balm　without　equal。
　　
　　
　　VIII。
　　Raising　Cain
　　
　　45
　　The　day　of　the　Last　Supper；　as　he　was　to　e　to　think　of　it；　Marty　shaved　three　times；　once　in　the　morning　and　twice　in　the　afternoon。　The　initial　flattery　of　the　invitation　had　long　since　faded。　Now　all　he　prayed　for　was　some　convenient　get…out　clause；　a　means　by　which　he　could　politely　escape　what　he　was　certain　would　be　an　excruciating　evening。　He　had　no　place　in　Whitehead's　entourage。　Their　values　were　not　his；　their　world　was　one　in　which　he　was　no　more　than　a　functionary。　There　could　be　nothing　about　him　that　would　give　them　more　than　a　moment's　entertainment。
　　It　wasn't　until　he　put　on　the　evening　jacket　again　that　he　began　to　feel　more　courageous。　In　this　world　of　appearances；　why　shouldn't　he　carry　off　the　illusion　as　well　as　the　next　man？　After　all；　he'd　succeeded　at　the　Academy。　The　trick　was　to　get　the　superficies　right…the　proper　dress　code；　the　correct　direction　in　which　to　pass　the　port。　He　began　to　view　the　evening　ahead　as　a　test　of　his　wits；　and　his　petitive　spirit　began　to　rise　to　the　challenge。　He　would　play　them　at　their　own　game；　among　the　clinking　glasses　and　the　chatter　of　opera　and　high　finance。
　　Triply　shaved；　dressed　and　cologned；　he　went　down　to　the　kitchen。　Oddly；　Pearl　wasn't　in　the　house：　Luther　had　been　left　in　charge　of　the　night's　gourmandizing。　He　was　opening　bottles　of　wine：　the　room　was　fragrant　with　the　mingled　bouquets。　Though　Marty　had　understood　the　gathering　to　be　small；　several　dozen　bottles　were　assembled　on　the　table；　the　labels　on　many　were　dirtied　to　illegibility。　It　looked　as　though　the　cellar　were　being　stripped　of　its　finest　vintages。
　　Luther　looked　Marty　up　and　down。
　　〃Who'd　you　steal　the　suit　off？〃　Marty　picked　up　one　of　the　open　bottles　and　sniffed　it；　ignoring　the　remark。　Tonight　he　wasn't　going　to　be　needled：　tonight　he　had　things　figured　out；　and　he'd　let　no　one　burst　the　bubble。
　　〃I　said：　where'd　you…〃　〃I　heard　you　first　time。　I　bought　it。〃　〃What　with？〃　Marty　put　the　bottle　down　heavily。　Glasses　on　the　table　clinked　together。　〃Why　don't　you　shut　up？〃　Luther　shrugged。　〃Old　man　give　it　to　you？〃　〃I　told　you。　Shove　it。〃　〃Seems　to　me　you're　getting　in　deep；　man。　You　know　you're　guest　of　honor　at　this　shindig？〃　〃I'm　going　along　to　meet　some　of　the　old　man's　friends；　that's　all。〃　〃You　mean　Dwoskin　and　those　fuckheads？　Aren't　you　the　lucky　one？〃　〃And　what　are　you　tonight：　the　wine…boy？〃　Luther　grimaced　as　he　pulled　the　cork　on　another　bottle。　〃They　don't　have　no　waiters　at　their　special　parties。　They're　very　private。〃　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　〃What　do　I　know？〃　Luther　said；　shrugging。　〃I'm　a　monkey；　right？〃　Between　eight　and　eight…thirty；　the　cars　started　to　arrive　at　the　Sanctuary。　Marty　waited　in　his　room　for　a　summons　to　join　the　rest　of　the　guests。　He　heard　Curtsinger's　voice；　and　those　of　women；　there　was　laughter；　some　of　it　shrill。　He　wondered　if　it　was　just　the　wives　they'd　brought；　or　their　daughters　too。
　　The　phone　rang。
　　〃Marty。〃　It　was　Whitehead。
　　〃Sir？〃　〃Why　not　e　up　and　join　us？　We're　waiting　for　you。〃　〃Right。〃　〃We're　in　the　white　room。〃　Another　surprise。　That　bare　room；　with　its　ugly　altarpiece；　seemed　an　unlikely　venue　for　a　dinner　party。
　　Evening　was　drawing　on　outside；　and　before　going　on　up　to　the　room；　Marty　switched　the　lawn　floods　on。　They　blazed；　their　illumination　echoing　through　the　house。　His　earlier　trepidation　had　been　entirely　replaced　by　a　mixture　of　defiance　and　fatalism。　As　long　as　he　didn't　spit　in　the　soup；　he　told　himself；　he'd　get　through。
　　〃e　on　in；　Marty。〃　The　atmosphere　inside　the　white　room　was　already　chokingly　thick　with　cigar　and　cigarette　smoke。　No　attempt　had　been　made　to　prettify　the　place。　The　only　decoration　was　the　triptych：　its　crucifixion　as　vicious　as　Marty　remembered　it。　Whitehead　stood　as　Marty　entered；　and　extended　his　hand　in　wele；　an　almost　garish　smile　on　his　face。
　　〃Close　the　door；　will　yo