p&c.brimstone-第21部分

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pplause　filled　the　hall；　a　look　of　annoyance　darkened　Fosco's　face　as　he　cast　a　disapproving　glance　at　his　neighbors。　
　There　he　sat；　like　a　giant　in　the　darkened　hall；　from　time　to　time　raising　the　opera　glasses　or　spyglass　to　observe　the　scene。　When　the　people　near　him　applauded　the　close　of　an　aria　without　any　regard　for　the　music　to　follow；　Fosco　raked　them　with　a　look　of　reproof　and　even　held　up　his　hands　in　forbearance；　with　a　sad　but　passionate　shake　of　his　head。　After　the　more　plex　and　difficult　passages　of　music；　which　went　unnoticed　by　his　neighbors；　he　held　up　his　gloved　hands　and　patted　them　lightly　together　with　relish；　sometimes　murmuring　〃Brava！〃　After　a　while；　Fosco's　enormous　presence；　his　deep　enthusiasm；　and　his　evident　connoisseurship　began　to　municate　itself　to　the　people　seated　around　them。　Many　an　eruption　of　applause　in　appreciation　for　some　particular　turn　of　the　music　originated　in　row　N；　right　center；　with　the　soft　patting　of　Fosco's　plump；　kid…gloved　hands。　
　The　first　act　drew　to　a　close　with　huge　huzzahs；　a　storm　of　applause；　and　shouts　of　〃Bravi！〃　led　by　Fosco；　so　vociferous　that　even　the　conductor's　attention　was　drawn　to　him。　When　the　uproar　had　at　last　died　down；　Fosco　turned　to　Pendergast；　wiping　the　sweat　from　his　brow　with　an　oversize　handkerchief。　He　was　breathing　hard；　blowing；　damp　with　perspiration。　
　〃You　see；　you　see！〃　he　cried；　pointing　with　a　cry　of　self…vindication。　〃Youare　enjoying　yourself。〃　
　〃And　what　gave　rise　to　that　deduction？〃　
　〃You　cannot　hide　from　Fosco！　I　saw　you　nodding　in　time　just　now　to　'Vieni！　La　mia　vendetta。'〃　
　But　Pendergast　said　nothing；　merely　inclining　his　head　slightly　as　the　houselights　came　up　and　the　intermission　began。　
　　　
　19　
　
　Nigel　Cutforth　threw　back　the　covers　and　sat　up　in　an　emptybed。　Eliza　had　taken　exception　to　his　little　trip　to　Thailand　and　had　gone　off　to　stay　with　a　girlfriend　in　the　Village。　Good　fucking　riddance。　
　He　looked　around。　The　bedside　clock　glowed　10：34　in　red　letters。Jesus；　only　10：30？　His　plane　left　at　six　in　the　morning；　and　around　eight　he'd　knocked　back　two　fingers　of　gin　and　crawled　into　bed；　desperate　for　a　little　sleep。　But　sleep　had　been　slow　to　e。　And　now　here　he　was；　suddenly　wide　awake；　sitting　up　in　bed；　heart　beating　hard。　Christ；　it　was　hot。　He　flapped　the　covers；　trying　to　stir　up　the　dead　air　of　the　room；　but　it　seemed　only　to　draw　the　heat　closer　around　him。　With　another　curse；　he　flicked　on　the　light；　swung　his　legs　over　the　bed；　and　put　his　feet　on　the　floor。　At　the　rate　he　was　going；　the　jet　lag　to　Bangkok　would　be　so　bad　he　might　just　have　to　extend　his　vacation　another　week。　But　that　would　be　hard　to　pull　off：　the　fall　was　a　big　time　in　the　cutthroat　music　business；　and　you　had　to　stay　vigilant。　
　He　stood　up；　padded　across　the　floor；　and　checked　the　thermostat。　It　was　off；　as　he　knew　it　would　be；　but　the　thermometer　itself　registered　eighty…five　degrees。　He　put　his　hand　over　the　forced…air　grating；　but　it　felt　cool　to　the　touch。　No　heat　there。　
　Heat。　It　was　just　what　Grove　had　plained　about。　
　He　reminded　himself　again　that　this　was　the　twenty…first　century　and　that　Grove　had　been　insane　in　the　closing　days　of　his　sorry　life。　He　walked　over　to　the　balcony；　ran　back　the　heavy　curtains；　unlocked　and　slid　open　the　glass　door。　A　wele　stream　of　cool　October　air　washed　over　him；　and　the　faint　sounds　of　traffic　rose　from　below。　Cutforth　breathed　deeply　and　stepped　out　onto　the　balcony；　feeling　sanity　return。　There　was　New　York：　solid；　modern；　rational　New　York。　The　buildings　of　Midtown　stood　like　glowing　ramparts　against　the　night　sky；　and　Fifth　Avenue　was　like　a　brilliant　stripe　of　moving　light；　changing　from　white　to　red　as　it　passed　below　his　window。　He　breathed　again　and；　feeling　the　sweat　chill　on　his　skin；　stepped　back　inside。　The　heat　within　seemed　worse　than　ever；　and　now　he　felt　a　prickling　sensation　beginning　to　creep　over　his　scalp　and　face　and　move　down　his　limbs。　It　was　very　odd；　like　nothing　he'd　ever　felt　before；　this　sensation　of　heat　and　cold　at　the　same　time。　
　He　was　getting　sick。　That's　what　was　happening。　An　early　case　of　the　flu。　
　He　put　on　his　slippers　and　walked　out　the　bedroom；　across　the　living　room；　to　the　wet　bar。　He　jerked　open　the　cabinet　doors；　pulled　out　the　bottle　of　Bombay　Sapphire；　some　ice；　and　a　jar　of　olives；　and　mixed　himself　another　drink。　A　Xanax；　three　Tylenol　capsules；　five　vitamin　C　tablets；　two　fish…liver…oil　pills；　a　selenium　tablet；　and　three　tabs　of　coral　calcium　followed；　each　washed　down　with　a　generous　gulp　of　gin。　After　finishing　the　glass；　he　mixed　himself　another　and　went　to　the　floor…to…ceiling　windows　of　the　living　room。　These　windows　looked　east；　past　Madison　and　Park　to　the　59th　Street　Bridge　and　Roosevelt　Island。　Beyond　lay　the　dark　wasteland　of　Queens。　
　Cutforth　was　finding　it　hard　to　think。　His　skin　was　crawling　with　unpleasant　sensations；　as　if　he　was　covered　with　spiders　that　were　scuttling　around　and　nipping　at　him。　Or　bees；　maybe：　he　felt　like　he　was　wearing　one　of　those　human　bee　cloaks；　and　the　bees　were　moving　around；　not　exactly　stinging　him；　but　prickling　him　with　their　dry　hairy　legs。　
　Grove　had　been　crazy；　he　had　to　remind　himself。　Grove　lost　it　pletely；　he'd　succumbed　to　his　own　fantasies。　Not　surprising；　given　the　kind　of　life　he'd　led。　And　then　there　was　that　other　thing：　the　thing　Cutforth　never；ever　wanted　to　think　about　again　。　。　。　
　He　shook　this　thought　away　furiously　and　took　another　slug　of　gin；　feeling　the　liquor　and　the　sedative　starting　to　kick　in。　Under　any　other　circumstance；　it　would　be　delightful；　relaxing；　a　sensation　of　slowly　drifting　down。　But　it　didn't　seem　to　be　doing　anything　about　that　itchy；　hot；　crawling　sensation　on　his　skin。　He　rubbed　a　hand　on　his　arm。　Dry　and　hot：　his　skin　felt　like　sandpaper。　
　Grove　had　plained　about　a　strange　sensation　of　heat；　too。　That　and　the　smell。　
　He　tossed　back　the　drink　with　a　shaking　hand。Don't　get　paranoid；　Nigel　dear。　He　was　getting　sick；　that　was　all。　He　hadn't　had　his　flu　shot；　and　it　was　hitting　him　early　this　year。　Great　timing；　on　the　eve　of　his　departure　for　Thailand。　
　〃Fuck；〃　he　said　out　loud。　The　drink　was　gone。　Should　he　mix　himself　yet　another？　Why　the　hell　not？　He　reached　for　the　bottle；　grasped　it；　filled　the　glass；　and　set　it　back　down　on　the　bar。　
　I　am　ing。　
　Cutforth　spun　around。　The　apartment　was　empty。　
　Who　the　fuck　had　spoken？　It　was　a　low　voice；　lower　than　a　whisper；　more　like　a　vibration；　sensed　rather　than　heard。　
　He　swallowed；　licked　dry　lips。　〃Who's　there？〃　His　tongue　felt　thick　and　foreign；　and　he　could　barely　get　out　the　words。　
　No　answer。　
　He　turned；　his　full　drink　slopping　over　the　sides　of　the　glass　and　running　down　his　hand。　He　raised　the　glass　and　sucked　at　it　greedily。　It　couldn't　be。　He'd　never　believed　in　anything　and　wasn't　about　to　start　now。　God　didn't　exist；　the　devil　didn't　exist；　life　was　just　some　random　shitstorm；　and　when　you　were　dead；　you　were　dead。　
　Maledicat　dominus。　
　He　jerked　his　head　up；　drink　sloshing　wildly。　What　was　that；　Latin？　Was　this　some　kind　of　joke？　Where　was　it　ing　from？　One　of　his　crazy　rap　clients；　being　an　asshole？　Or；　more　likely；　former　client？　There　was　one　Haitian　rapper　in　particular　who　had　threatened　revenge。　This　was　probably　him　or　his　boys；　trying　to　goad　him　into　a　premature　heart　attack　with　some　voodoo　nonsense。　
　〃All　right！〃　he　called　out。　〃That's　enough　with　the　bullshit。〃　
　Silence。　
　His　skin　crawled；　unnaturally　hot　and　dry。　Suddenly；　it　didn't　feel　like　nonsense　anymore。　It　felt　real。　
　It　was　happening　to　him。　Itwas　happening；　like　Grove　had　said。　
　He　raised　the　shaking　glass　to　his　lips；　swallowing；　tasting　nothing。　
　But　it　couldn't　really　be　happening；　could　it？　This　was　the　twenty…first　century。　Grove　must　have　been　crazy；　hemust　have。　But；　oh　dear　Jesus；　those　things　the　newspapers　had　hinted　at　。　。　。　The　cops　weren't　really　saying　much　about　how　Grove　had　died；　but　the　tabloids　had　been　full　of　gossip　about　the　body；　burned　from　the　inside；　the　marks　of　Lucifer　on　the　walls。　
　Was　it　really　possible；　after　all　this　time？　
　He　let　the　half…finished　drink　fall　to　the　floor　and　began　casting　desperately　about。　His　late　mother　had　given　him　a　crucifix；　which　he'd　kept　around　more　as　a　memento　than　anything　else。　He'd　seen　it　just　last　month。　Where？　He　rushed　back　into　his　bedroom；　to　the　walk…in　closet；　drew　out　a　drawer　with　savage　tugs；　felt　in　the　back。　Cuff　links；　buttons；　tiepins；　coins　rained　to　the　floor。　
　No　crucifix。　Where　was　it？　
　He　jerked　open　another　drawer；　then　another；　pawing　roughly　through　watches；　jewelry；　gold。　A　sob　escaped　him。　
　The　crucifix！He　grasped　it　tightly；　sobbing　with　relief；　held　it　to　his　breast；　crossing　himself。　
　The　sensation　of　being　covered　with　crawling　bees　began　to　grow　worse。　Now　it　felt　as　if　the　bees　were　really　stinging　him；　billions　of　agonizing　little　pricks。　
　〃Go　away！　Get　away！〃　He　sobbed。〃Our　Father；　who　art　in　heaven…〃　God；　how　did　it　go？　
　The　crucifix　felt　hot　in　his　hands。　Now　his　ears　were　buzzing。　His　throat　felt　as　if　it　was　caked　with　ash；　as　if　he　was　choking　on　the　hot　air。　
　I　am　ing　now。　
　He　held　out　the　crucifix　in　his　shaking　arms；　this　way　and　that；　as　if　warding　off　something　invisible。　〃Get　thee　behind　me；　Satan！〃　he　shrieked。　
　The　crucifix　felt　very　hot　now。　It　was　burning　his　fingers。　Everything　was　hot：　his　nightclothes；　even　his　eyebrows　and　the　hairs　on　his　arms；　felt　as　if　they　were　crisping。　
　〃Get　away！〃　
　He　dropped　the　crucifix　with　a　cry。　To　his　utter　terror；　smoke　began　curling　from　it；　burning　a　mark　into　the　rug。　He　gasped　for　breath；　hands　scrabbling　at　his　throat；　gagging　in　the　sulfurous　air。　
　He　had　to　get　out。　He　had　to　find　sanctuary。　If　he　could　get　to　a　chapel；　a　church；　anything；　maybe　he'd　be　safe　。　。　。　
　He　rushed　for　the　door；　but　just　before　he　put　his　hand　on　the　doorknob；　there　came　a　knocking。　
　Cutforth　froze；　suspended　between　relief　and　fear。　Who　was　it？　
　Maybe　there　was　a　fire？　Yes；　of　course；　that　was　it：　the　building　was　on　fire；　and　an　evacuation　was　under　way。　Something　must　have　gone　wrong　with　the　sprinkler　system。　〃I'm　in　here！〃　He　sobbed；　half　in　pain　and　half　in　relief。　〃In