el.angeleyes-第49节

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ive。　The　truth　is；　we　could　tell　nothing　from　his　corpse。　It　was　as　if　it　had　been　wiped　clean　of　evidence。　How　did　he　die；　what　happened　to　cause　his　suit　to　malfunction…or　yours；　format　matter…what　happened　to　him　during　those　crucial　minutes　when　he　was　on　the　EVA；　when　you　were　struggling　to　get　to　him？　Of　one　thing　we're　sure：　there　was　an　interplanetary　disturbance　of　some　sort。　Our　telemetry　went　down　during　the　event。　We　had　no　monitoring　capability。　We　don't　know。〃
　The　Hero　raised　himself　up　in　his　wheelchair。　''I've　told　you　what　happened。〃
　〃Yes；〃　Mars　said　slowly。　〃You　have。〃
　〃But　no　one　believes　me。〃
　〃Frankly；　what　you've　told　us　makes　belief　somewhat　difficult。〃　Mars　nodded。　〃Yes。　There　are　some　who　think　you're　lying；　or　have　misremembered；　or　are　delusional。〃
　The　Hero's　eyes　locked　on　Mars's。　〃Are　you　one　of　those？〃
　He　knew　this　was　a　crucial　moment。　There　es　a　time　in　every　interrogation　when　the　pendulum　begins　to　swing　the　other　way；　when　psychologically　an　enemy　can　be　transformed　into　a　friend。　This　moment　es　for　many　reasons：　the　subject　wants　an　end　to　isolation；　or　he　can　no　longer　distinguish　the　truth　from　fantasy；　or　his　disorientation　has　bee　so　acute　he　cannot　properly　recognize　his　own　emotions。　The　Hero　was　far　stronger　and　smarter　man　the　average　subject。　In　his　case；　he　had　asked　the　fatal　question　because　Mars　had　allowed　him　to　see　partway　inside　of　him。　The　Hero　required　a　kindred　spirit；　someone　beyond　either　Lara　or　Arbat；　who　were　both　inplete　entities；　though　in　totally　different　ways。
　Mars　knew　immediately　that　the　Hero　would　sense　a　lie。　He　was　vulnerable；　but　that　only　made　him　doubly　dangerous。　Mars　would　not　fall　into　the　trap　that　had　destroyed　many　an　interrogator：　mistaking　vulnerability　for　weakness。
　Mars　said；　〃The　truth　is；　I　don't　know　what　to　believe。　The　forensics　are　useless；　and　those　of　us　who　stubbornly　cling　to　scientific　principles　are；　I　think；　missing　the　point。〃　He　left　his　hands　open　and　palms　up　as　a　subtle　reinforcement。　〃I　don't　believe　you're　lying。　What　reason　would　you　have　to　do　so？　And　the　chances　of　you　misremembering　are；　in　my　opinion；　too　remote　to　consider。〃
　''But　I　might　be　delusional。''
　〃As　you　yourself　said；　no　one　knows　what　happened　to　you　up　there。　All　I'm　certain　of　is；　we　can't　dismiss　outright　what　you've　told　us。　Which　is　why　I'd　like　to　hear　it　again；　not　from　a　tape　made　a　month　or　a　year　ago；　but　from　you；　now。''
　Mars　could　almost　see　the　Hero's　mind　turning　over　what　it　had　just　heard。　It　was　fascinating；　like　watching　a　snake　digesting　its　prey。
　At　length　the　Hero　nodded。　〃I　remember　this　in　the　most　minute　detail。　It　was　his　eyes；　Menelaus's　eyes。　There　were　no　pupils　at　all。　It　was　as　if　the　irises　had　grown　inward　and　outward。　It　was　as　if　his　eyes　were　now　all　color。　And　what　color！　His　eyes　had　taken　on　that　color；　the　color　between　the　stars。　The　color　of　God。〃
　Mars　said；　''He　spoke　to　you；　is　that　right？　The　corpse　opened　its　mouth　and…〃
　〃No；　no。〃　The　Hero　shook　his　head。　〃This　isn't　something　out　of　a　science…fiction　or　a　horror　film。　He　didn't　e　back　from　the　dead；　nor　was　he　animated　like　a　zombie　or　a　golem。　This　was　something　else；　something　that　I　think　you'd　have　to　see　for　yourself　to　fully　believe。　I　still　don't　understand　it；　even　after　fifteen　months　of　contemplating　it　from　all　angles：　physical；　metaphysical；　philosophical；　religious。　It　wasn't　magic；　Volkov。　I'm　not　a　fool。　And　it　wasn't　illusion。〃
　The　Него　took　a　deep　breath。　''The　truth　of　the　matter　is；　the　corpse　did　not　move　its　lips；　it　did　not　speak　to　me。　But　something　municated　through　it。　Through　its　eyes。　Do　you　begin　to　understand？　We're　not　confronting　any　conventional　method　of　munication　as　we　know　it。　Not　even　telepathy。
　〃Nevertheless；　there　was　a　message　in　those　eyes；　in　that　world　of　unspeakable　color。''
　Mars　was　aware　of　Lara　leaning　forward；　slipping　her　hand　into　the　Hero's。　Mars　took　his　cue　from　her。　〃And　what　was　the　munication？〃　he　asked　gently。
　The　Hero's　eyes　were　dark　swirling　with　emotion。　He　uttered　a　harsh　Russian　expletive。　〃Don't　you　people　understand　anything？　''　he　cried。　''That's　what　I　meant　by　my　being　suspended　between　heaven　and　a　living　hell。　I　was　given　a　message；　but　I　don't　know　what　it　is。''
　It　was　a　perfect　day　for　Arkhangelskoe：　cool；　crisp；　cloudless。　One　arrived　in　the　beautiful　countryside　surrounding　the　estate　by　taking　the　Kutuzov　Prospekt　out　of　the　center　of　Moscow；　picking　up　the　Minsk　road；　making　a　right　onto　the　Rublevo　road；　a　left　onto　the　Uspenskoe　road　all　the　way　to　the　right　fork　that　took　you　across　the　Moskva　River；　and　thence　southwest　into　Arkhangelskoe。
　This　was　the　route　Valeri　Bondasenko　took。　He　went　once　a　week；　but　never　on　the　same　day；　and　never　at　the　same　time。　The　estate　consisted　of　a　stucco…over…wood　late　eighteenth…century　palace　with　its　signature　belvedere　and　a　beautiful　park　on　the　verge　of　a　vast　pine　and　birch　forest。　Tourists　flocked　here　in　good　weather　to　wander；　take　photos；　and　picnic。
　Valeri　came　here　to　partake　of　none　of　those　pastoral　pleasures。　Instead；　he　circumnavigated　Arkhangelskoe；　taking　the　narrow　road　that　skirted　the　forest　to　the　east　and　then　curved　north。
　On　the　far　side　of　the　forest　was　a　rather　austere　stone　and　mortar　structure；　through　whose　forbidding　gates　Valeri　drove。　He　parked　beside　delivery　vans；　shabby　Volgas　and　Zhigulis　without　windshield　wipers。
　Inside；　the　place　smelled　of　disinfectant　and；　in　places；　vomit。　White…coated　nurses　hurried　to　and　fro；　thick…shouldered；　stern…visaged。　Here　and　there　a　male　attendant　with　a　truncheon　on　his　hip　could　be　seen；　peering　through　mesh…reinforced　windows　set　in　the　doors　at　eye　level。　To　call　this　place　an　insane　asylum　would；　perhaps；　be　harsh；　but　it　would　nevertheless　be　correct。
　Valeri　hated　this　place。　It　reminded　him　of　everything　that　was　wrong　with　the　world。　The　dimly　lit　halls　might　have　smelled　of　chemicals　and　offal；　but　the　place　reeked　of　despair。　The　personnel　were　just　as　much　to　blame　for　this　as　were　the　inmates。　This　was　a　terminus　point　for　them；　worse　than　a　backwater；　a　sentence　to　be　served　with　the　patience　of　the　penitent。　Except　there　was　no　escape　from　this　place；　either　by　the　inmates　or　by　their　wardens。　Everyone　here　was　serving　a　life　sentence；　and　their　invisible　secretions　oozed　through　the　corridors　like　putrefaction　through　a　swamp。
　When　Valeri　arrived　back　in　Moscow　from　his　sojourns　here；　he　invariably　found　himself　stripping　off　his　clothes；　plunging　himself　into　an　ice…cold　shower；　scrubbing　himself　with　tallow…rich　soap；　washing　and　washing。　What　was　he　trying　to　get　off？
　Filth　was　easy　to　wash　down　the　drain；　but　memories　were　another　story　altogether。　Memory　existed　independently　of　conscious　thought；　or　so　it　seemed　to　Valeri。　He　was　an　ardent　student　of　Jung；　and　had　seen　in　several　of　his　interlocking　concepts　a　pression　of　time；　a　mingling　of　past…present…future　that　was　fundamental　to　all　human　beings；　as　if　each　culture　were　not；　in　fact；　separate；　but　rather　a　different　quadrant　of　one　gigantic　spider's　web。　And　what　was　there；　glistening　at　the　web's　center；　but　a　central　core；　a　past　that　was　true　for　all　men？
　This　included　man's　ability…yes；　perhaps　even　a　desire…to　be　inhuman　to　his　fellow　man。　Homicide…mass　murder…was　such　an　inadequate　way　to　describe；　over　the　course　of　history；　what　man　insisted　on　perpetrating　against　his　neighbor…　especially　his　neighbor。
　Was　it　so　very　long　ago；　1918；　that　Valeri's　uncle　had　been　shot　in　the　streets　of　Kiev…the　capital　of　the　Ukraine…for　daring　to　speak　Ukrainian？　A　Bulgarian…can　you　imagine！…had　been　the　president　of　the　Ukraine　then；　cat's…paw　to　the　rulers　in　Moscow；　and　he　had　stated　publicly　that　to　sanction　the　use　of　the　Ukrainian　language　would　be　reactionary；　of　interest　only　to　a　minority：　the　kulaks…the　Ukrainian　peasants…who　broke　their　backs　to　harvest　wheat　for　all　of　Russia；　and　the　intelligentsia。　So　a　Russian　soldier；　one　of　so　many　in　Kiev；　had　walked　up　to　Valeri's　uncle　and　put　a　bullet　through　his　head。　Guilty　as　charged；　your　honor！　Boom！
　And　what　of　Valeri's　father？　It　was；　Valeri　knew；　better　not　to　contemplate　his　ultimate　fate。　It　was　so　very　Russian；　and　so　very　terrible。
　Valeri　shook　himself　as　he　stepped　outside　onto　the　shaded　lawn。　His　gaze　followed　the　greensward　as　it　ran　down　to　the　beginning　of　the　pine　and　birch　forest；　on　whose　far　side；　invisible　now；　as　unimaginable　amid　this　noisome　clamor　as　a　fairytale　castle；　lay　beautiful　Arkhangelskoe。　Why　these　dark　thoughts？
　〃rade　Kolchev？〃
　Valeri　heard　Dr。　Kalinin's　voice；　and　he　knew。　He　tamed；　forced　a　smile　onto　his　face；　nodded。　〃Doctor。〃
　〃It's　good　of　you　to　e；〃　Dr。　Kalinin　said；　in　much　the　same　tone　of　voice　one　hears　in　a　funeral　home。　Valeri　was　convinced　that　Dr。　Kalinin　did　not　mean　to　sound　like　a　mortician；　he　just　couldn't　help　himself。　It　was　this　place　or；　more　accurately；　what　inhabited　this　place；　that　was　to　blame。　When　one　spent　one's　days　and　nights　with　the　living　dead；　one　could　not　help　but　be　affected　in　some　way。
　Dr。　Kalinin　was　a　young　man　with　thin；　light　hair　and　eyes　sunken　into　his　cheeks。　Valeri　could　not　i