cb.imajica1-第31章
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〃An original Zacharias？〃 she remarked。 〃This I have to see。〃
She reached for the sheet； before he could stop her； and flipped it up over the top of the canvas。 She'd only had a glimpse of the picture as she'd entered； and from some distance。 Up close； it was clear he'd worked on the canvas with no little ferocity。 There were places where it had been punctured； as though he'd stabbed it with his palette knife or brush； other places where the paint was laid on with glutinous abandon； then thumbed and fingered to drive it before his will。 All this to achieve the likeness of what？ Two people； it seemed； standing face to face against a brutal sky； their flesh white； but shot through with jabs of livid color。
〃Who are they？〃 she said。
〃They？〃 he said； sounding almost surprised that she'd read the image thusly； then covering his response with a shrug。 〃Nobody；〃 he said； 〃just an experiment；〃 and pulled the sheet back down over the painting。
〃Is it a mission？〃
〃I'd prefer not to discuss it；〃 he said。
His disfort was oddly charming。 He was like a child who'd been caught about some secret ritual。 〃You're full of surprises；〃 she said； smiling。
〃Nan； not me。〃
Though the painting was out of sight he continued to look ill at ease； and she realized there was going to be no further discussion of the picture or its import。
〃I'll be off； then；〃 she said。
〃Thanks for the lift；〃 he replied； escorting her to the door。
〃Do you still want to have that drink？〃 she said。
〃You're not going back to New York？〃
〃Not immediately。 I'll call you in a couple of days。 Don't forget Taylor。〃
〃What are you； my conscience？〃 he said； with too small a trace of humor to soften the weight of the reply。 〃I won't forget。〃
〃You leave marks on people； Gentle。 That's a responsibility you can't just shrug off。〃
〃I'll try to be invisible from now on；〃 he replied。
He didn't take her to the front door but let her head down the stairs alone； closing the studio door before she'd taken more than half a dozen steps。 As she went； she wondered what misbegotten instinct had made her suggest drinks。 Well； it was easily slipped out of； even assuming he remembered the suggestion had been made； which she doubted。
Once out in the street she looked up at the building to see if she could spot him through the window。 She had to cross the road to do so； but from the opposite pavement she could see him standing in front of the painting； which he had once again unveiled。 He was staring at it with his head slightly cocked。 She couldn't be certain； but it looked as though his lips were moving； as though he were talking to the image on the canvas。 What was he saying？ she wondered。 Was he coaxing some image forth from the chaos of paint？ And if so； in which of his many tongues was he speaking？
13
She had seen two people where he'd painted one。 Not a he； a she； or an it； but they。 She'd looked at the image and seen past his conscious intention to a buried purpose； one he'd hidden even from himself。 Now he went back to the canvas and looked at it again； with borrowed eyes； and there they were； the two she'd seen。 In his passion to capture some impression of Pie 'oh' pah； he had painted the assassin stepping from shadow （or back into it）； a stream of darkness running down the middle of his face and torso。 It divided the figure from top to bottom； and its outer edges； ragged and lush； described the reciprocative forms of profiles； etched in white from the halves of what he'd intended to be a single face。 They stared at each other like lovers； eyes looking forward in the Egyptian manner； the backs of their heads folded into shadow。 The question was： Who were these two？ What had he been trying to express； setting these faces thus； nose to nose？
He interrogated the painting for several minutes after she'd gone； preparing as he did so to attack the canvas again。 But when it came to doing so； he lacked the strength。 His hands were trembling； his palms clammy； his eyes could only focus upon the image indifferently well。 He retreated from the picture； afraid to touch it in this weakened state for fear he'd undo what little he'd already achieved。 A painting could escape so quickly。 A few inept strokes and a likeness （to a face； to another painter's work） could flee the canvas and never be recaptured。 Better to leave it alone tonight。 To rest； and hope he was strong tomorrow。
He dreamed of sickness。 Of lying in his bed； naked beneath a thin white sheet； shivering so hard his teeth chattered。 Snow fell from the ceiling intermittently and didn't melt when it touched his flesh； because he was colder than the snow。 There were visitors in his sickroom； and he tried to tell them how cold he was； but he had no power in his voice； and the words came out as gasps； as though he were struggling for his last breath。 He began to fear that this dream condition was fatal； that snow and breathlessness would bury him。 He had to act。 Rise up from the hard bed and prove these mourners premature。
With painful slowness； he moved his hands to the edge of the mattress in the hope of pulling himself upright； but the sheets were slick with his final sweat； and he couldn't get a firm hold。 Fear turned to panic； despair bringing on a new round of gasps； more desperate than the last。 He struggled to make his situation plain； but the door of his sickroom stood wide； now； and all the mourners had disappeared through it。 He could hear them in another room； talking and laughing。 There was a patch of sun on the threshold； he saw。 Next door it was summer。 Here； there was only the heart…stopping cold； taking a firmer grip on him by the moment。 He gave up attempting Lazarus and instead let his palms lie flat on the sheets and his eyes flutter closed。 The sound of voices from the next room softened to a murmur。 The noise of his heart dwindled。 New sounds rose to replace it； however。 A wind was gusting outside； and branches thrashed at the windows。 Somebody's voice rose in prayer； another simply sobbed。 What grief was this？ Not his passing； surely。 He was too minor to earn such lamentation。 He opened his eyes again。 The bed had gone； so had the snow。 Lightning threw into silhouette a man who stood watching the storm。
〃Can you make me forget？〃 Gentle heard himself saying。 〃Do you have the trick of that？〃
〃Of course；〃 came the soft reply。 〃But you don't want it。〃
〃No； what I want's death； but I'm too afraid of that tonight。 That's the real sickness： fear of death。 But I can live with forgetfulness； give me that。〃
〃For how long？〃
〃Until the end of the world。〃
Another lightning flash burned out the figure in front of him； and then the whole scene。 Gone； forgotten。 Gentle blinked the afterimage of window and silhouette out of his eyes and； in doing so； passed between sleep and waking。
The room was cold； but not as icy as his deathbed。 He sat upright； staring first at his unclean hands； then at the window。 It was still night； but he could hear the sound of vehicles on the Edgware Road； their murmur reassuring。 Already…distracted by sound and sight…the nightmare was fading。 He was happy to lose it。
He shrugged off the bedclothes and went to the kitchen to find himself something to drink。 There was a carton of milk in the refrigerator。 He downed its contents…though the milk was ready to turn…aware that his churned system would probably reject it in short order。 Quenched； he wiped his mouth and chin and went through to look at the painting again； but the intensity of the dream from which he'd just woken made a mockery of his efforts。 He would not conjure the assassin by this crude magic。 He could paint a dozen canvases； a hundred； and still not capture the ambiguities of Pie 'oh' pah。 He belched； bringing the taste of bad milk back up into his mouth。 What was he to do？ Lock himself away and let this sickness in him…put there by the sight of the assassin…consume him？ Or bathe； sweeten himself； and go out to find some faces to put between him and the memory？ Both vain endeavors。 Which left a third； distressing route。 To find Pie 'oh' pah in the flesh： to face him； question him； have his fill of him； until every ambiguity was scoured away。
He went on staring a
