cb.damnationgame-第59章
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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 fl
