sk.misery-第44部分

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　Oh　you're　fucking　crazy。
　You　sure？
　No。　He　was　no　longer　sure。　Not　about　anything。
　With　one　exception：　his　whole　life　had　hinged　and　continued　to　hinge　on　Misery。
　He　let　his　mind　drift。
　The　cloud；　he　thought。　Begin　with　the　cloud。
　
　
　6
　
　This　time　the　cloud　had　been　darker；　denser；　somehow　smoother。　There　was　a　sensation　not　of　floating　but　of　sliding。　Sometimes　thoughts　came；　and　sometimes　there　was　pain；　and　sometimes；　dimly；　he　heard　Annie's　voice；　sounding　the　way　it　had　when　the　burning　manuscript　in　the　barbecue　had　threatened　to　get　out　of　control：　〃Drink　this；　Paul　。　。　。　you've　got　to！〃　Sliding？
　No。
　That　was　not　quite　the　right　verb。　The　right　verb　was　sinking。　He　remembered　a　telephone　call　which　had　e　at　three　in　the　morning　…　this　was　when　he　was　in　college。　Sleepy　fourth…floor　dorm　proctor　hammering　on　his　door；　telling　him　to　e　on　and　answer　the　fucking　phone。　His　mother。　e　home　as　quick　as　you　can；　Paulie。　Your　father　has　had　a　bad　stroke。　He's　sinking。　And　he　had　e　as　fast　as　he　could；　pushing　his　old　Ford　wagon　to　seventy　in　spite　of　the　front…end　shimmy　that　developed　at　speeds　over　fifty；　but　in　the　end　it　had　all　been　for　nothing。　When　he　got　there；　his　father　was　no　longer　sinking　but　sunk。
　How　close　had　he　himself　e　to　sinking　on　the　night　of　the　axe？　He　didn't　know；　but　the　fact　that　he　had　felt　almost　no　pain　during　the　week　following　the　amputation　was　a　pretty　clear　indicator　of　just　how　close；　perhaps。　That；　and　the　panic　in　her　voice。
　He　had　lain　in　a　semi…a；　barely　breathing　because　of　the　respiratory…depressant　side…effects　of　the　medication；　the　glucose　drips　back　in　his　arms　again。　And　what　brought　him　out　of　it　was　the　beat　of　drums　and　the　drone　of　bees。
　Bourka　drums。
　Bourka　bees。
　Bourka　dreams。
　Color　bleeding　slowly　and　relentlessly　into　a　land　and　a　tribe　that　never　were　beyond　the　margins　of　the　paper　on　which　he　wrote。
　A　dream　of　the　goddess；　the　face　of　the　goddess；　looming　black　over　the　jungle　green；　brooding　and　eroded。　Dark　goddess；　dark　continent；　a　stone　head　full　of　bees。　Overlying　even　all　this　was　a　picture；　which　grew　clearer　and　clearer　（as　if　a　giant　slide　had　been　projected　against　the　cloud　in　which　he　lay）　as　time　passed。　It　was　a　picture　of　a　clearing　in　which　one　old　eucalyptus　tree　stood。　Hanging　from　the　lowest　branch　of　this　tree　was　an　old…fashioned　pair　of　blued　steel　handcuffs。　Bees　were　crawling　over　them。　The　cuffs　were　empty。　They　were　empty　because　Misery　had　…　…　escaped？　She　had；　hadn't　she？　Wasn't　that　how　the　story　was　supposed　to　go？
　It　had　been　…　but　now　he　wasn't　so　sure。　Was　that　what　those　empty　handcuffs　meant？　Or　had　she　been　taken　away？　Taken　into　the　idol？　Taken　to　the　queen　bee；　the　Big　Babe　of　the　Bourkas？
　You　were　also　Scheherazade　to　yourself。
　Who　are　you　telling　this　story　for；　Paul？　Who　are　you　telling　it　to？　To　Annie？
　Of　course　not。　He　did　not　look　through　that　hole　in　the　paper　to　see　Annie；　or　please　Annie　。　。　。　he　looked　through　it　to　get　away　from　Annie。
　The　pain　had　started。　And　the　itch。　The　cloud　began　to　lighten　again；　and　rift　apart。　He　began　to　glimpse　the　room；　which　was　bad；　and　Annie；　which　was　even　worse。　Still；　he　had　decided　to　live。　Some　part　of　him　that　was　as　addicted　to　the　chapter…plays　as　Annie　had　been　as　a　child　had　decided　he　could　not　die　until　he　saw　how　it　all　came　out。
　Had　she　escaped；　with　the　help　of　Ian　and　Geoffrey？　Or　had　she　been　taken　into　the　head　of　the　goddess。　It　was　ridiculous；　but　these　stupid　questions　actually　seemed　to　need　answering。
　
　
　7
　
　She　didn't　want　to　let　him　go　back　to　work　…　not　at　first。　He　could　see　in　her　skittery　eyes　how　frightened　she　had　been　and　still　was。　How　close　he　had　e。　She　was　taking　extravagant　care　of　him；　changing　the　bandages　on　his　weeping　stump　every　eight　hours　（and　at　first；　she　had　informed　him　with　the　air　of　one　who　knows　she　will　never　get　a　medal　for　what　she　has　done　…　although　she　deserves　one　…　she　had　done　it　every　four　hours）；　giving　him　sponge　baths　and　alcohol　rubs　…　as　if　to　deny　what　she　had　done。　Work；　she　said；　would　hurt　him。　It　would　put　you　back；　Paul。　I　wouldn't　say　it　if　it　weren't　so　…　believe　me。　At　least　you　know　what's　ahead　…　I'm　dying　to　find　out　what　happens　next。　It　turned　out　she　had　read　everything　he　had　written　…　all　his　pre…surgery　work；　you　might　say　…　while　he　lingered　near　death　。　。　。　better　than　three　hundred　manuscript　pages。　He　hadn't　filled　in　the　n's　in　the　last　forty　or　so；　Annie　had　done　that。　She　showed　him　these　with　an　uneasily　defiant　sort　of　pride。　Her　n's　were　textbook　neat；　a　striking　parison　with　his　own；　which　had　degenerated　into　a　humpbacked　scrawl。
　Although　Annie　never　said　so；　he　believed　she　had　filled　in　the　n's　either　as　another　evidence　of　her　solicitude　…　How　can　you　say　I　was　cruel　to　you；　Paul；　when　you　see　all　the　n's　I　have　filled　in？　…　or　as　an　act　of　atonement；　or　possibly　even　as　a　quasi…superstitious　rite：　enough　bandage…changes；　enough　sponge　baths；　enough　n's　filled　in；　and　Paul　would　live。　Bourka　bee…woman　work　powful　mojo…magic；　Bwana；　fill　in　all　dese　hoodaddy　n's　an〃　all　be　well　again。
　That　was　how　she　had　begun　。　。　。　but　then　the　gotta　set　in。　Paul　knew　all　the　symptoms。　When　she　said　she　was　dying　to　find　out　what　happened　next；　she　wasn't　kidding。
　Because　you　went　on　living　to　find　out　what　happened　next；　isn't　that　what　you're　really　saying？
　Crazy　as　it　was　…　shameful；　even；　in　its　absurdity　…　he　thought　it　was。
　The　gotta。
　It　was　something　he　had　been　irritated　to　find　he　could　generate　in　the　Misery　books　almost　at　will　but　in　his　mainstream　fiction　erratically　or　not　at　all。　You　didn't　know　exactly　where　to　find　the　gotta；　but　you　always　knew　when　you　did。　It　made　the　needle　of　some　internal　Geiger　counter　swing　all　the　way　over　to　the　end　of　the　dial。　Even　sitting　in　front　of　the　typewriter　slightly　hung…over；　drinking　cups　of　black　coffee　and　crunching　a　Rolaid　or　two　every　couple　of　hours　（knowing　he　should　give　up　the　fucking　cigarettes；　at　least　in　the　morning；　but　unable　to　bring　himself　to　the　sticking　point）；　months　from　finishing　and　light…years　from　publication；　you　knew　the　gotta　when　you　got　it。　Having　it　always　made　him　feel　slightly　ashamed　…　manipulative。　But　it　also　made　him　feel　vindicated　in　his　labor。　Christ；　days　went　by　and　the　hole　in　the　paper　was　small；　the　light　was　dim；　the　overheard　conversations　witless。　You　pushed　on　because　that　was　all　you　could　do。　Confucius　say　if　man　want　to　grow　one　row　of　corn；　first　must　shovel　one　ton　of　shit。　And　then　one　day　the　hole　widened　to　VistaVision　width　and　the　light　shone　through　like　a　sunray　in　a　Cecil　B。　De　Mille　epic　and　you　knew　you　had　the　gotta；　alive　and　kicking。
　The　gotta；　as　in：　〃I　think　I'll　stay　up　another　fifteen…twenty　minutes；　honey；　I　gotta　see　how　this　chapter　es　out。〃　Even　though　the　guy　who　says　it　spent　the　day　at　work　thinking　about　getting　laid　and　knows　the　odds　are　good　his　wife　is　going　to　be　asleep　when　he　finally　gets　up　to　the　bedroom。
　The　gotta；　as　in：　〃I　know　I　should　be　starting　supper　now　…　he'll　be　mad　if　it's　TV　dinners　again　…　but　I　gotta　see　how　this　ends。〃　I　gotta　know　will　she　live。
　I　gotta　know　will　he　catch　the　shitheel　who　killed　his　father。
　I　gotta　know　if　she　finds　out　her　best　friend's　screwing　her　husband。
　The　gotta。　Nasty　as　a　hand…job　in　a　sleazy　bar；　fine　as　a　fuck　from　the　world's　most　talented　call…girl。　Oh　boy　it　was　bad　and　oh　boy　it　was　good　and　oh　boy　in　the　end　it　didn't　matter　how　rude　it　was　or　how　crude　it　was　because　in　the　end　it　was　just　like　the　Jacksons　said　on　that　record　…　don't　stop　til　you　get　enough。
　
　
　8
　
　You　were　also　Scheherazade　to　yourself。
　That　was　not　an　idea　he　was　able　to　articulate　or　even　understand；　not　then；　he　had　been　in　too　much　pain。　But　he　had　known　just　the　same；　hadn't　he？
　Not　you；　The　guys　in　the　sweatshop。　They　knew。
　Yes。　That　had　the　ring　of　the　right。
　The　sound　of　the　riding　mower　swelled　louder。　Annie　came　into　view　for　a　moment。　She　looked　at　him；　saw　him　looking　back；　and　raised　a　hand　to　him。　He　raised　one　of　his　own　…　the　one　with　the　thumb　still　on　it　…　in　return。　She　passed　from　sight　again。　Good　deal。
　He　was　finally　able　to　convince　her　that　returning　to　work　would　put　him　forward；　not　back　。　。　。　He　was　haunted　by　the　specificity　of　those　images　which　had　lured　him　out　of　the　cloud；　and　haunted　was　exactly　the　right　word：　until　the3　were　written　down　they　were　shades　which　would　remain　unlaid。
　And　while　she　hadn't　believed　him　…　not　then　…　she　had　allowed　him　to　go　back　to　work　just　the　same。　Not　because　he　had　convinced　her　but　because　of　the　gotta。
　At　first　he　had　been　able　to　work　only　in　painfully　short　bursts　…　fifteen　minutes；　maybe　half　an　hour　if　the　story　really　demanded　it　of　him。　Even　short　bursts　were　agony。　A　shift　in　position　caused　the　stump　to　e　brightly　alive；　the　way　a　smouldering　brand　will　burst　into　flame　when　fanned　by　a　breeze。　It　hurt　furiously　while　he　wrote；　but　that　was　not　the　worst　…　the　worst　was　the　hour　or　two　afterward；　when　the　healing　stump　would　madden　him　with　a　droney　itch；　like　swarming；　sleepy　bees。
　He　had　been　right；　not　her。　He　never　became　really　well　…　probably　could　not　do　in　such　a　situation　…　but　his　health　did　improve　and　some　of　his　strength　came　back。　He　was　aware　that　the　horizons　of　his　interest　had　shrunk；　but　he　accepted　this　as　the　price　of　survival。　It　was　a　genuine　wonder　he　had　survived　at　all。
　Sitting　here　in　front　of　this　typewriter　with　its　increasingly　bad　teeth；　looking　back　over　a　period　which　had　consisted　of　work　rather　than　events；　Paul　nodded。　Yes；　he　supposed　he　had　been　his　own　Scheherazade；　just　as　he　was　his　own　dream…woman　when　he　grabbed　hold　of　himself　and　jacked　off　to　the　feverish　beat　of　his　fantasies。　He　didn't　need　a　psychiatrist　to　point　out　that　writing　had　its　autoerotic　side　…　you　beat　a　typewriter　instead　of　your　meat；　but　both　acts　depended　largely　on　quick　wits；　fast　hands　and　a　heartfelt　mitment　to　the　art　of　the　farfetched。
　But　hadn't　there　also　been　some　sort　of　fuck；　even　if　of　the　driest　variety？　Because　once　he　started　again　。　。　。　well　she　wouldn't　interrupt　him　while　he　was　working；　bu