cb.damnationgame-第1节

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　　…SHELLY；　Prometheus　Unbound
　　
　　
　　Part　One　TERRA　INCOGNITA
　　
　　Hell　is　the　place　of　those　who　have　denied；　They　find　there　what　they　planted　and　what　dug。
　　A　Lake　of　Spaces；　and　a　Wood　of　Nothing；　And　wander　there　and　drift；　and　never　cease　Wailing　for　substance。
　　…W。B。　YEATS；　The　Hour　Glass
　　
　　
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　　The　air　was　electric　the　day　the　thief　crossed　the　city；　certain　that　tonight；　after　so　many　weeks　of　frustration；　he　would　finally　locate　the　card…player。　It　was　not　an　easy　journey。　Eighty…five　percent　of　Warsaw　had　been　leveled；　either　by　the　months　of　mortar　bombardment　that　had　preceded　the　Russian　liberation　of　the　city；　or　by　the　program　of　demolition　the　Nazis　had　undertaken　before　their　retreat。　Several　sectors　were　virtually　impassable　by　vehicle。　Mountains　of　rubble…still　nurturing　the　dead　like　bulbs　ready　to　sprout　as　the　spring　weather　warmed…clogged　the　streets。　Even　in　the　more　accessible　districts　the　once…elegant　facades　swooned　dangerously；　their　foundations　growling。
　　But　after　almost　three　months　of　plying　his　trade　here；　the　thief　had　bee　used　to　navigating　this　urban　wilderness。　Indeed；　he　took　pleasure　in　its　desolate　splendor：　its　perspectives　tinged　lilac　by　the　dust　that　still　settled　from　the　stratosphere；　its　squares　and　parkways　so　unnaturally　silent；　the　sense　he　had；　trespassing　here；　that　this　was　what　the　end　of　the　world　would　be　like。　By　day　there　were　even　a　few　landmarks　remaining…forlorn　signposts　that　would　be　dismantled　in　time…by　which　the　traveler　could　chart　his　route。　The　gas　works　beside　the　Poniatowski　Bridge　was　still　recognizable；　as　was　the　zoo　on　the　other　side　of　the　river；　the　clock…tower　of　Central　Station　showed　its　head；　though　the　clock　had　long　since　disappeared；　these　and　a　handful　of　other　pockmarked　tributes　to　Warsaw's　civic　beauty　survived；　their　trembling　presence　poignant；　even　to　the　thief。
　　This　wasn't　his　home。　He　had　no　home；　nor　had　for　a　decade。　He　was　a　nomad　and　a　scavenger；　and　for　a　short　space　Warsaw　offered　sufficient　pickings　to　keep　him　here。　Soon；　when　he'd　recovered　energies　depleted　in　his　recent　wanderings；　it　would　be　time　to　move　on。　But　while　the　first　signs　of　spring　murmured　in　the　air　he　lingered　here；　enjoying　the　freedom　of　the　city。
　　There　were　hazards　certainly；　but　then　where　were　there　not　for　a　man　of　his　profession？　And　the　war　years　had　polished　his　powers　of　self…preservation　to　such　brilliance　that　little　intimidated　him。　He　was　safer　here　than　the　true　citizens　of　Warsaw；　the　few　bewildered　survivors　of　the　holocaust　who　were　gradually　beginning　to　filter　back　into　the　city；　looking　for　lost　homes；　lost　faces。　They　scrabbled　in　the　wreckage　or　stood　on　street　corners　listening　to　the　dirge　of　the　river；　and　waited　for　the　Russians　to　round　them　up　in　the　name　of　Karl　Marx。　New　barricades　were　being　established　every　day。　The　military　were　slowly　but　systematically　reclaiming　some　order　from　the　confusion；　dividing　and　subdividing　the　city　as　they　would；　in　time；　the　entire　country。　The　curfews　and　the　checkpoints　did　little　to　hobble　the　thief；　however。　In　the　lining　of　his　well…cut　coat　he　kept　identification　papers　of　every　kind…some　forged；　most　stolen…one　of　which　would　be　suitable　for　whatever　situation　arose。　What　they　lacked　in　credibility　he　made　up　for　with　repartee　and　cigarettes；　both　of　which　he　possessed　in　abundance。　They　were　all　a　man　needed…in　that　city；　in　that　year…to　feet　like　the　lord　of　creation。
　　And　such　creation！　No　need　here　for　either　appetite　or　curiosity　to　go　unsatisfied。　The　profoundest　secrets　of　body　and　spirit　were　available　to　anyone　with　the　itch　to　see。　Games　were　made　of　them。　Only　the　previous　week　the　thief　had　heard　tell　of　a　young　man　who　played　the　ancient　game　of　cups　and　ball　（now　you　see　it；　now　you　don't）　but　substituted；　with　insanity's　wit；　three　buckets　and　a　baby's　head。
　　That　was　the　least　of　it；　the　infant　was　dead；　and　the　dead　don't　suffer。　There　were；　however；　other　pastimes　available　for　hire　in　the　city；　delights　that　used　the　living　as　their　raw　material。　For　those　with　the　craving　and　the　price　of　entry；　a　traffic　in　human　flesh　had　begun。　The　occupying　army；　no　longer　distracted　by　battle；　had　discovered　sex　again；　and　there　was　profit　in　it。　Half　a　loaf　of　bread　could　purchase　one　of　the　refugee　girls…many　so　young　they　scarcely　had　breasts　to　knead…to　be　used　and　reused　in　the　covering　darkness；　their　plaints　unheard　or　silenced　by　a　bayonet　when　they　lost　their　charm。　Such　casual　homicide　was　overlooked　in　a　city　where　tens　of　thousands　had　died。　For　a　few　weeks…between　one　regime　and　the　next…anything　was　possible：　no　act　found　culpable；　no　depravity　taboo。
　　A　boys〃　brothel　had　been　opened　in　the　Zoliborz　District。　Here；　in　an　underground　salon　hung　with　salvaged　paintings；　one　could　choose　from　chicks　of　six　or　seven　up；　all　fetchingly　slimmed　by　malnutrition　and　tight　as　any　connoisseur　could　wish。　It　was　very　popular　with　the　officer　class；　but　too　expensive；　the　thief　had　heard　it　muttered；　for　the　nonmissioned　ranks。　Lenin's　tenets　of　equal　choice　for　all　did　not　stretch；　it　seemed；　to　pederasty。
　　Sport；　of　a　kind；　was　more　cheaply　available。　Dogfights　were　a　particularly　popular　attraction　that　season。　Homeless　curs；　returning　to　the　city　to　pick　at　the　meat　of　their　masters；　were　trapped；　fed　to　fighting　strength　and　then　pitted　against　each　other　to　the　death。　It　was　an　appalling　spectacle；　but　a　love　of　betting　took　the　thief　to　the　fights　again　and　again。　He'd　made　a　tidy　profit　one　night　by　putting　his　money　on　a　runty　but　cunning　terrier　who'd　bested　a　dog　three　times　its　size　by　chewing　off　its　opponent's　testicles。
　　And　if；　after　a　time；　your　taste　for　dogs　or　boys　or　women　palled；　there　were　more　esoteric　entertainments　available。
　　In　a　crude　amphitheater　dug　from　the　debris　of　the　Bastion　of　Holy　Mary　the　thief　had　seen　an　anonymous　actor　single…handedly　perform　Goethe's　Faust；　Parts　One　and　Two。　Though　the　thief's　German　was　far　from　perfect；　the　performance　had　made　a　lasting　impression。　The　story　was　familiar　enough　for　him　to　follow　the　action…the　pact　with　Mephisto；　the　debates；　the　conjuring　tricks；　and　then；　as　the　promised　damnation　approached；　despair　and　terrors。　Much　of　the　argument　was　indecipherable；　but　the　actor's　possession　by　his　twin　roles…one　moment　Tempter；　the　next　Tempted…was　so　impressive　the　thief　left　with　his　belly　churning。
　　Two　days　later　he　had　gone　back　to　see　the　play　again；　or　at　least　to　speak　to　the　actor。　But　there　were　to　be　no　encores。　The　performer's　enthusiasm　for　Goethe　had　been　interpreted　as　pro…Nazi　propaganda；　the　thief　found　him　hanging；　joy　decayed；　from　a　telegraph　pole。　He　was　naked。　His　bare　feet　had　been　eaten　at　and　his　eyes　taken　out　by　birds；　his　torso　was　riddled　with　bullet　holes。　The　sight　pacified　the　thief。　He　saw　it　as　proof　that　the　confused　feelings　the　actor　had　aroused　were　iniquitous；　if　this　was　the　state　to　which　his　art　had　brought　him　the　man　had　clearly　been　a　scoundrel　and　a　sham。　His　mouth　gaped；　but　the　birds　had　taken　his　tongue　as　well　as　his　eyes。　No　loss。
　　Besides；　there　were　far　more　rewarding　diversions。　The　women　the　thief　could　take　or　leave；　and　the　boys　were　not　to　his　taste；　but　the　gambling　he　loved；　and　always　had。　So　it　was　back　to　the　dogfights　to　chance　his　fortunes　on　a　mongrel。　If　not　there；　then　to　some　barrack…room　dice　game；　or…in　desperation…betting　with　a　bored　sentry　on　the　speed　of　a　passing　cloud。　The　method　and　the　circumstance　scarcely　concerned　him：　he　cared　only　to　gamble。　Since　his　adolescence　it　had　been　his　one　true　vice；　it　was　the　indulgence　he　had　bee　a　thief　to　fund。　Before　the　war　he'd　played　in　casinos　across　Europe；　chemin　de　fer　was　his　game；　though　he　was　not　averse　to　roulette。　Now　he　looked　back　at　those　years　through　the　veil　war　had　drawn　across　them；　and　remembered　the　contests　as　he　remembered　dreams　on　waking：　as　something　irretrievable；　and　slipping　further　away　with　every　breath。
　　That　sense　of　loss　changed；　however；　when　he　heard　about　the　cardplayer…Mamoulian；　they　called　him…who；　it　was　said；　never　lost　a　game；　and　who　came　and　went　in　this　deceitful　city　like　a　creature　who　was　not；　perhaps；　even　real。
　　But　then；　after　Mamoulian；　everything　changed。
　　
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　　So　much　was　rumor；　and　so　much　of　that　rumor　not　even　rooted　in　truth。　Simply　lies　told　by　bored　soldiers。　The　military　mind；　the　thief　had　discovered；　was　capable　of　inventions　more　baroque　than　a　poet's；　and　more　lethal。　So　when　he　heard　tell　of　a　master　cardsharp　who　appeared　out　of　no　where；　and　challenged　every　would…be　gambler　to　a　game　and　unfailingly　won；　he　suspected　the　story　to　be　just　that：　a　story。　But　something　about　the　way　this　apocryphal　tale　lingered　confounded　expectation。　It　didn't　fade　away　to　be　replaced　by　some　yet　more　ludicrous　romance。　It　appeared　repeatedly…in　the　conversation　of　the　men　at　the　dogfights；　in　gossip；　in　graffiti。　What　was　more；　though　the　names　changed　the　salient　facts　were　the　same　from　one　account　to　the　next。　The　thief　began　to　suspect　there　was　truth　in　the　story　after　all。　Perhaps　there　was　a　brilliant　gambler　operating　somewhere　in