cb.damnationgame-第15节

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ndering　how　her　body　looked　seven　years　on。　Did　she　still　shave　the　thin　line　of　hair　that　ran　down　from　her　navel　to　her　pubes；　did　her　fresh　sweat　still　smell　so　pungent？　He　wondered　too　if　she　still　loved　love　the　way　she　had。　She　had　shown　more　unreserved　appetite　for　the　physical　act　than　any　woman　he'd　known；　it　was　one　of　the　reasons　he'd　married　her。　Was　it　still　so？　And　if　it　was；　with　whom　did　she　slake　her　thirst？　He　turned　these　and　a　dozen　other　questions　about　her　over　and　over　in　his　head；　and　promised　himself　that　at　the　first　opportunity　he'd　go　and　see　her。
　　The　weeks　saw　his　physique　improve。　The　strict　regime　of　exercise　he'd　set　for　himself　that　first　night　began　as　a　torment；　but　after　a　few　days　of　punished　and　plaining　muscles　the　exertion　began　to　bear　fruit。　He　got　up　at　five…thirty　each　morning　and　took　an　hour…long　run　around　the　grounds。　After　a　week　of　following　the　same　circuit　he　altered　the　route；　which　allowed　him　to　explore　the　estate　at　the　same　time　as　exercising。　There　was　a　great　deal　to　see。　Spring　hadn't　arrived　in　force　yet；　but　there　were　stirrings。　Crocuses　were　beginning　to　show　themselves；　as　were　the　spears　of　daffodils。　On　the　trees；　fat　buds　were　starting　to　split；　leaves　were　unfurling。　It　had　taken　him　almost　a　week　to　cover　the　estate　fully；　and　to　work　out　the　relation　of　one　part　of　it　to　another；　now　he　more　or　less　had　a　grasp　of　the　arrangement。　He　knew　the　lake；　the　dovecote；　the　swimming　pool；　the　tennis　courts；　the　kennels；　the　woods　and　the　gardens。　One　morning；　when　the　sky　was　exceptionally　clear；　he　had　circuited　the　entire　grounds；　hugging　the　fence　all　the　way　around　the　estate　even　when　it　threaded　its　way　along　the　back　of　the　woods。　He　now　reckoned　he　had　as　thorough　a　knowledge　of　the　place　as　anyone；　including　its　owner。
　　It　was　a　joy；　not　just　the　exploration；　and　the　freedom　of　running　miles　without　someone　looking　over　your　shoulder　all　the　time；　but　the　reacquaintance　with　a　dozen　natural　spectacles。　He　loved　being　up　to　watch　the　sun　rise；　and　it　was　almost　as　though　he　was　running　to　meet　it；　as　though　dawn　was　for　him　and　him　alone；　a　promise　of　light　and　warmth　and　life　to　e。
　　He　soon　lost　the　ring　of　flab　around　his　middle；　the　divide　of　his　abdominals　showed　again：　the　washboard　stomach　he'd　always　been　so　proud　of　as　a　younger　man；　and　thought　he'd　lost　forever。　Muscles　he'd　forgotten　he　had　came　back　into　play；　at　first　to　make　their　presence　felt　in　aching；　then　to　simply　live　a　glowing；　ruddy　life。　He　was　sweating　out　years　of　frustration　and　showering　it　away；　and　he　was　lighter　for　it。　He　was　aware；　once　more；　of　his　body　as　a　system；　its　parts　correspondents；　its　health　dependent　on　balance　and　respectful　usage。
　　If　Whitehead　noted　any　change　in　his　manner　or　physique；　no　ment　was　made。　But　Toy；　on　one　of　his　trips　up　to　the　house　from　London；　immediately　registered　the　change　in　him。　Marty　noted　an　alteration　in　Toy　too；　but　for　the　worse。　It　wasn't　plausible　to　ment　on　how　weary　he　looked　Marty　felt　their　relationship　wouldn't　yet　allow　for　such　familiarity。　He　just　hoped　Toy　wasn't　suffering　from　something　serious。　The　sudden　wasting　of　his　wide　face　suggested　a　devouring　somewhere　in　the　man's　innards。　The　nimbleness　in　his　step；　which　Marty　put　down　to　Toy's　Years　in　the　ring；　had　also　gone。
　　There　were　other　mysteries　here；　besides　Toy's　decline。　For　one　thing；　there　was　the　collection：　the　works　of　the　great　masters　that　lined　the　corridors　of　the　sanctuary。　They　were　neglected。　Nobody　had　dusted　their　surfaces　in　months；　perhaps　years；　and　in　addition　to　the　yellowing　varnish　that　dimmed　their　fineness　they　were　further　spoiled　by　a　layer　of　grime。　Marty　had　never　had　much　taste　for　art；　but　given　time　to　look　at　these　pictures；　he　found　his　appetite　for　it　good。　Many　of　them；　the　portraits　and　the　religious　works；　he　didn't　really　like：　they　weren't　of　people　he　knew　or　events　he　understood。　But　in　a　small　hallway　on　the　first　floor　that　led　to　the　extension　that　had　been　Evangeline's　suite；　and　was　now　the　sauna　and　solarium；　he　found　two　paintings　that　caught　his　imagination。　They　were　both　landscapes；　by　the　same　anonymous　hand；　and　to　judge　by　their　poky　location　they　were　not　great　works。　But　their　curious　amalgam　of　real　scenery…trees　and　winding　roads　under　blue　and　yellow　skies…with　totally　fanciful　details…a　dragon　with　speckled　wings　devouring　a　man　on　that　road；　a　flight　of　women　levitating　above　the　forest；　a　distant　city；　burning…this　marriage　of　real　and　unreal　was　so　persuasively　painted　that　Marty　found　himself　going　back　and　back　again　to　these　two　haunted　canvases；　finding　more　fantastical　detail　hidden　in　thicket　or　heat…haze　each　time　he　went。
　　The　paintings　weren't　the　only　things　that　whetted　his　curiosity。　The　upper　floor　of　the　main　house；　where　Whitehead　had　a　suite　of　rooms；　was　entirely　out…of…bounds　to　him；　and　he　was　more　than　once　tempted　to　slip　up　when　he　knew　the　old　man　was　otherwise　engaged；　to　nose　around　the　forbidden　territory。　He　suspected　Whitehead　used　the　top　story　as　a　vantage　point　from　which　to　spy　on　his　acolytes〃　ings　and　goings。　That　went　some　way　to　explaining　the　other　mystery：　the　sense；　he　had；　running　his　circuits；　that　he　was　being　watched。　But　he　resisted　the　temptation　to　investigate。　It　was　perhaps　more　than　his　job　was　worth。
　　When　he　wasn't　working　he　spent　much　of　his　time　in　the　library。　There；　if　he　felt　curious　about　the　outside　world；　were　current　issues　of　Time　magazine；　The　Washington　Post；　The　Times；　and　several　other　journals…Le　Monde；　Frankfurter　Algemeine　Zeitung；　The　New　York　Times；　which　Luther　brought　in。　He　would　flick　through　them　looking　for　tidbits；　sometimes　taking　them　down　to　the　sauna　and　reading　them　there。　When　he　tired　of　newspapers；　there　were　thousands　of　books　to　choose　from；　not；　to　his　delight；　all　intimidating　tomes。　There　were　plenty　of　those；　the　assembled　classics　of　world　literature；　but　beside　them　on　the　shelves　were　tattered；　well…thumbed　paperback　editions　of　science　fiction　books；　their　covers　lurid；　the　copy　on　them　paradigms　of　excess。　Marty　began　to　read　them；　picking　those　with　the　most　suggestive　covers　first。　There　was　also　the　video。　Toy　had　supplied　him　with　a　dozen　tapes　of　boxing　highlights；　which　Marty　was　systematically　viewing；　rerunning　favorite　victories　to　his　heart's　content。　He　could　sit　all　evening　watching　the　matches；　awed　by　the　economy　and　the　grace　of　the　great　fighters。　Toy；　ever　thoughtful；　had　also　supplied　a　couple　of　pornographic　tapes；　handing　them　across　to　Marty　with　a　conspiratorial　smile　and　some　ment　about　not　eating　them　all　at　once。　The　tapes　were　copies　of　storyless　loops；　anonymous　couples　and　trios　who　threw　off　their　clothes　in　the　first　thirty　seconds　and　got　down　to　the　nitty…gritty　inside　a　minute。　Nothing　sophisticated：　but　they　served　a　useful　purpose；　and；　as　Toy　had　obviously　guessed；　good　air；　exercise　and　optimism　were　doing　wonders　for　Marty's　libido。　There　was　going　to　e　a　time　when　self…abuse　in　front　of　a　video　screen　was　not　going　to　be　satisfaction　enough。　Increasingly；　Marty　dreamed　of　Charmaine：　unambiguous　dreams　set　in　the　bedroom　of　Number　Twenty…six。　Frustration　gave　him　courage；　and　the　next　time　he　saw　Toy　he　asked　to　be　allowed　to　go　and　see　her。　Toy　promised　to　ask　the　boss　about　it；　but　nothing　had　e　of　it。　In　the　meanwhile　he　had　to　be　content　with　tapes　and　their　stage…managed　gasps　and　grunts。
　　
　　Systematically　he　began　to　put　names　to　the　faces　that　appeared　most　regularly　at　the　house；　Whitehead's　most　trusted　advisers。　Toy；　of　course；　was　regularly　in　evidence。　There　was　also　a　lawyer　called　Ottaway；　a　thin；　well…dressed　man　of　forty　of　so；　whom　Marty　took　a　dislike　to　when　he　first　overheard　the　man's　conversation。　Ottaway　spoke　with　that　air　of　the　legal　fan…dancer；　all　tease　and　cover…ups；　that　Marty　had　experienced　first　hand。　It　brought　back　sour　memories。
　　There　was　another；　called　Curtsinger；　a　sober…suited　individual　with　an　excruciating　taste　in　ties　and　a　worse　one　in　colognes；　who；　though　often　in　Ottaway's　pany；　seemed　far　more　benign。　He　was　one　of　the　few　who　actually　acknowledged　Marty's　presence　in　a　room…usually　with　a　small；　sharp　nod。　On　one　occasion；　celebrating　some　deal　that　had　just　been　made；　Curtsinger　had　slipped　a　large　cigar　into　the　pocket　of　Marty's　jacket；　after　that；　Marty　would　have　forgiven　him　anything。
　　The　third　face　that　seemed　to　be　in　regular　attendance　at　Whitehead's　side　was　the　most　enigmatic　of　the　three：　a　swarthy　troll　of　a　man　called　Dwoskin。　Here　was　a　Cassius　to　Toy's　Brutus。　His　immaculate；　pale　gray　suits；　his　meticulously　folded　handkerchiefs；　the　precision　of　his　every　gesture…all　spoke　of　an　obsessive　whose　rituals　of　tidiness　were　designed　to　counter　the　excess　of　his　physicality。　But　there　was　more：　an　undercurrent　of　danger　about　the　man　that　Marty's　years　in　Wandsworth　had　taught　him　to　be　alive　to。　In　fact；　it　was　there　in　the　others　too。　Beneath　Ottoway's　frigid　exterior　and　Curtsinger's　sugar　coating　there　were　men　who　were　not…it　was　Somervale's　phrase…entirely　savory。
　　At　first　Marty　dismissed　the　feeling　as　lower…class　prejudice；　a　nobody　mistrusting　the　rich　and　i