cb.imajica1-第20部分

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　The　association　of　ideas　made　fondness　for　Gentle　sound　like　another　disease；　but　he　didn't　ment　on　it；　merely　made　arrangements　to　pick　up　Klein　the　following　evening；　and　put　down　the　phone；　plunged　into　a　deeper　trough　than　ever。　He'd　known　Taylor　had　the　plague　but　hadn't　realized　people　were　counting　the　days　to　his　demise。　Such　grim　times。　Everywhere　he　looked　things　were　ing　apart。　There　seemed　to　be　only　darkness　ahead；　full　of　blurred　shapes　and　pitiful　glances。　The　Age　of　Pie　'oh'　pah；　perhaps。　The　time　of　the　assassin。
　He　didn't　sleep；　despite　being　tired；　but　sat　up　into　the　small　hours　with　an　object　of　study　that　he'd　previously　dismissed　as　fanciful　nonsense：　Chant's　final　letter。　When　he'd　first　read　it；　on　the　plane　to　New　York；　it　had　seemed　a　ludicrous　outpouring。　But　there　had　been　strange　times　since　then；　and　they'd　put　Gentle　in　an　apter　mood　for　this　study。　Pages　that　had　seemed　worthless　a　few　days　before　were　now　pored　over；　in　the　hope　they'd　yield　some　clue；　encoded　in　the　fanciful　excesses　of　Chant's　idiosyncratic　and　ill…punctuated　prose；　that　would　lead　him　to　some　fresh　prehension　of　the　times　and　their　movers。　Whose　god；　for　instance；　was　this　Hapexamendios　that　Chant　exhorted　Estabrook　to　pray　to　and　praise？　He　came　trailing　synonyms：　the　Unbeheld；　the　Aboriginal；　the　Wanderer。　And　what　was　the　greater　plan　that　Chant　hoped　in　his　final　hours　he　was　a　part　of？
　I　AM　ready　for　death　in　this　DOMINION；　he'd　written；　if　I　know　that　the　Unbeheld　has　used　me　as　His　INSTRUMENT。　All　praise　to　HAPEXAMENDIOS。　For　He　was　in　the　Place　of　the　Succulent　Rock　and　left　His　children　to　SUFFER　here；　and　I　have　suffered　here　and　AM　DONE　with　suffering。
　That　at　least　was　true。　The　man　had　known　his　death　was　imminent；　which　suggested　he'd　known　his　murderer　too。　Was　it　Pie　'oh'　pah　he'd　been　expecting？　It　seemed　not。　The　assassin　was　referred　to；　but　not　as　Chant's　executioner。　Indeed；　in　his　first　reading　of　the　letter　Gentle　hadn't　even　realized　it　was　Pie　'oh'　pah　who　was　being　spoken　of　in　this　passage。　But　on　this　rereading　it　was　pletely　apparent。
　You　have　made　a　covenant　with　a　RARE　thing　in　this　DOMINION　or　any　other；　and　I　do　not　know　if　this　death　nearly　upon　me　is　my　punishment　or　my　reward　for　my　agency　in　that。　But　be　circumspect　in　all　your　dealings　with　it；　for　such　power　is　capricious；　being　a　stew　of　kinds　and　possibilities；　no　UTTER　thing；　in　any　part　of　its　nature；　but　pavonine　and　prismatic；　an　apostate　to　its　core。
　1　was　never　the　friend　of　this　power…it　has　only　ADORERS　AND　UNDOERS…but　it　trusted　me　as　its　representative　and　I　have　done　it　as　much　harm　in　these　dealings　as　I　have　you。　More；　I　think；　for　it　is　a　lonely　thing；　and　suffers　in　this　DOMINION　as　I　have。　You　have　friends　who　know　you　for　the　man　you　are　and　do　not　have　to　conceal　your　TRUE　NATURE。　Cling　to　them；　and　their　love　for　you；　for　the　Place　of　the　Succulent　Rock　is　about　to　shake　and　tremble；　and　in　such　a　time　all　a　soul　has　is　the　pany　of　its　loving　like。　I　say　this　having　lived　in　such　a　time；　and　am　GLAD　that　if　such　is　ing　upon　the　FIFTH　DOMINION　again；　I　will　be　dead；　and　my　face　turned　to　the　glory　of　the　UNBEHELD。
　All　praise　to　HAPEXAMENDIOS。
　And　to　you　sir；　in　this　moment；　I　offer　my　contrition　and　my　prayers。
　There　was　a　little　more；　but　both　handwriting　and　the　sentence　structure　deteriorated　rapidly　thereafter；　as　though　Chant　had　panicked　and　scrawled　the　rest　while　putting　on　his　coat。　The　more　coherent　passages　contained　enough　hints　to　keep　Gentle　from　sleep；　however。。　The　descriptions　of　Pie　'oh'　pah　were　particularly　alarming：
　〃a　RARE　thing。　。　。　a　stew　of　kinds　and　possibilities。〃
　How　was　that　to　be　interpreted；　except　as　a　verification　of　what　Gentle's　senses　had　glimpsed　in　New　York？　If　so；　what　was　this　creature　that　had　stood　before　him；　naked　and　singular；　but　concealed　multitudes；　this　power　Chant　had　said　possessed　no　friends　（it　has　only　ADORERS　and　UNDOERS；　he'd　written）　and　had　been　done　as　much　harm　in　these　dealings　（again；　Chant's　words）　as　Es…tabrook；　to　whom　Chant　had　offered　his　contrition　and　his　prayers？　Not　human；　for　certain。　Not　born　of　any　tribe　or　nation　Gentle　was　familiar　with。　He　read　the　letter　over　and　over　again；　and　with　each　rereading　the　possibility　of　belief　crept　closer。　He　felt　its　proximity。　It　was　fresh　from　the　margins　of　that　land　he'd　first　suspected　in　New　York。　The　thought　of　being　there　had　made　him　fearful　then。　But　it　no　longer　did；　perhaps　because　it　was　Christmas　morning；　and　time　for　something　miraculous　to　appear　and　change　the　world。
　The　closer　they　crept…both　morning　and　belief…the　more　he　regretted　shunning　the　assassin　when　it　had　so　plainly　wanted　his　pany。　He　had　no　clues　to　its　mystery　but　those　contained　in　Chant's　letter；　and　after　a　hundred　readings　they　were　exhausted。　He　wanted　more。　The　only　other　source　was　his　memory　of　the　creature's　jigsaw　face；　and；　knowing　his　propensity　for　forgetting；　they'd　start　to　fade　all　too　soon。　He　had　to　set　them　down！　That　was　the　priority　now：　to　set　the　vision　down　before　it　slipped　away！
　He　threw　the　letter　aside　and　went　to　stare　at　his　Supper　at　Emmaus。　Was　any　of　those　styles　capable　of　capturing　what　he'd　seen？　He　doubted　it。　He'd　have　to　invent　a　new　mode。　Fired　up　by　that　ambition；　he　turned　the　Supper　on　end　and　began　to　squeeze　burnt　umber　directly　onto　the　canvas；　spreading　it　with　a　palette　knife　until　the　scene　beneath　was　pletely　obscured。　In　its　place　was　now　a　dark　ground；　into　which　he　started　to　gouge　the　outline　of　a　figure。　He　had　never　studied　anatomy　very　closely。　The　male　body　was　of　little　aesthetic　interest　to　him；　and　the　female　was　so　mutable；　so　much　a　function　of　its　own　motion；　or　that　of　light　across　it；　that　all　static　representation　seemed　to　him　doomed　from　the　outset。　But　he　wanted　to　represent　a　protean　form　now；　however　impossible；　wanted　to　find　a　way　to　fix　what　he'd　seen　at　the　door　of　his　hotel　room；　when　Pie　'oh'　pah's　many　faces　had　been　shuffled　in　front　of　him　like　cards　in　an　illusionist's　deck。　If　he　could　fix　that　sight；　or　even　begin　to　do　so；　he　might　yet　find　a　way　of　controlling　the　thing　that　had　e　to　haunt　him。
　He　worked　in　a　fair　frenzy　for　two　hours；　making　demands　of　the　paint　he'd　never　made　before；　plastering　it　on　with　palette　knife　and　fingers；　attempting　to　capture　at　least　the　shape　and　proportion　of　the　thing's　head　and　neck。　He　could　see　the　image　clearly　enough　in　his　mind's　eye　（since　that　night　no　two　rememberings　had　been　more　than　a　minute　apart）；　but　even　the　most　basic　sketch　eluded　his　hand。　He　was　badly　equipped　for　the　task；　He'd　been　a　parasite　for　too　long；　a　mere　copier；　echoing　other　men's　visions。　Now　he　finally　had　one　of　his　own…only　one；　but　all　the　more　precious　for　that…and　he　simply　couldn't　set　it　down。　He　wanted　to　weep　at　this　final　defeat；　but　he　was　too　tired。　With　his　hands　still　covered　in　paint；　he　lay　down　on　the　chilly　sheets　and　waited　for　sleep　to　take　his　confusions　away。
　Two　thoughts　visited　him　as　he　slipped　into　dreams。　The　first；　that　with　so　much　burnt　umber　on　his　hands　he　looked　as　though　he'd　been　playing　with　his　own　shit。　The　second；　that　the　only　way　to　solve　the　problem　on　the　canvas　was　to　see　its　subject　again　in　the　flesh；　which　thought　he　weled；　and　went　to　dreams　relieved　of　his　frauds　and　pieties；　smiling　to　think　of　having　the　rare　thing's　face　before　him　once　again。
　
　
　11
　
　THOUGH　THE　JOURNEY　FROM　Godolphin's　house　in　Primrose　Hill　to　the　Tabula　Rasa's　tower　was　short；　and　Dowd　got　him　up　to　Highgate　on　the　dot　of　six；　Oscar　suggested　they　drive　down　through　Crouch　End；　then　up　through　Muswell　Hill；　and　back　to　the　tower；　so　that　they'd　arrive　ten　minutes　late。
　〃We　mustn't　seem　to　be　too　eager　to　prostrate　ourselves；〃　he　observed　as　they　approached　the　tower　for　a　second　time。　〃It'll　only　make　them　arrogant。〃
　〃Shall　I　wait　down　here？〃
　〃Cold　and　lonely？　My　dear　Dowdy；　out　of　the　question。　We'll　ascend　together；　bearing　gifts。〃
　〃What　gifts？〃
　〃Our　wit；　our　taste　in　suits…well；　my　taste…in　essence；　ourselves。〃
　They　got　out　of　the　car　and　went　to　the　porch；　their　every　step　monitored　by　cameras　mounted　above　the　door。　The　lock　clicked　as　they　approached；　and　they　stepped　inside。　As　they　crossed　the　foyer　to　the　lift；　Godolphin　whispered；　〃Whatever　happens　tonight；　Dowdy；　please　remember…〃
　He　got　no　further。　The　lift　doors　opened；　and　Bloxham　appeared；　as　preening　as　ever。
　〃Pretty　tie；〃　Oscar　said　to　him。　〃Yellow's　your　color。〃　The　tie　was　blue。　〃Don't　mind　my　man　Dowd　here；　will　you？　I　never　go　anywhere　without　him。〃
　〃He's　got　no　place　here　tonight；〃　Bloxham　said。
　Again；　Dowd　offered　to　wait　below；　but　Oscar　would　have　none　of　it。　〃Heaven　forfend；〃　he　said。　〃You　can　wait　upstairs。　Enjoy　the　view。〃
　All　this　irritated　Bloxham　mightily；　but　Oscar　was　not　an　easy　man　to　deny。　They　ascended　in　silence。　Once　on　the　top　floor　Dowd　was　left　to　entertain　himself；　and　Bloxham　led　Godolphin　through　to　the　chamber。　They　were　all　waiting；　and　there　was　accusation　on　every　face。　A　few…Shales；　certainly；　and　Charlotte　Feaver…didn't　attempt　to　disguise　their　pleasure　that　the　Society's　most　ebullient　and　unrepentant　member　was　here　finally　called　to　heel。
　〃Oh；　I'm　sorry；〃　Oscar　said；　as　they　closed　the　doors　behind　him。　〃Have　you　been　waiting　long？〃
　Outside；　in　one　of　the　deserted　antechambers；　Dowd　listened　to　his　tinny　little　radio　and　mused。　At　seven　the　news　bulletin　brought　a　report　of　a　motorway　collision　which　had　claimed　the　lives　of　an　entire　family　traveling　north　for　Christmas；　and　of　prison　riots　that　had　ignited　in　Bristol　and　Manchester；　with　inmates　claiming　that　presents　from　loved　ones　had　been　tampered　with　and　destroyed　by　prison　officers。　There　was　the　usual　collection　of　war　updates；　then　the　weather　report；　which　promised　a　gray　Christmas；　acpanied　by　a　springlike　balm。　This　would　on　past　experience　coax　the　crocuses　out　in　Hyde　Park；　only　to　be　spiked　by　frost　in　a　few　days'　time。　At　eight；　still　waiting　by　the　window；　he　heard　a　second　bulletin　correcting　one　of　the　reports　from　the　first。　A　survivor　had　been　claimed　from　the　entangled　vehicles　on　the　motorway：　a　tot　of　three　months；　found　orphaned　but　unscathe