rl.thebourneidentity-第64部分

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　There　was　a　blinding　flash　of　light。　He　lurched　backwards　recoiling　into　the　wall；　his　hands　in　front　of　his　eyes。　The　pain！　Oh；　Christ！　His　eyes　were　on　fire！
　And　then　he　heard　the　words；　spoken　through　the　polite　laughter　of　well…dressed　men　and　women　walking　casually　about　the　corridor。
　'In　memory　of　your　dinner　at　Roget's；　Monsieur；〃　said　an　animated　hostess；　holding　a　press　camera　by　its　vertical　flash…bar。　'The　photograph　will　be　ready　in　a　few　minutes。　pliments　of　Roget。'
　Bourne　remained　rigid；　knowing　that　he　could　not　smash　the　camera；　the　fear　of　another　realization　sweeping　over　him。　'Why　me？'　he　asked。
　'Your　fiancee　requested　it；　Monsieur；'　replied　the　girl；　nodding　her　head　towards　the　ladies'　room。　'We　talked　inside。　You　are　most　fortunate；　she　is　a　lovely　lady。　She　asked　me　to　give　you　this。'　The　hostess　held　out　a　folded　note；　Jason　took　it　as　she　pranced　away　towards　the　restaurant　entrance。
　Your　illness　disturbs　me；　as　I'm　sure　it　does　you；　my　new　friend。　You　may　be　what　you　say　you　are；　and　then　again　you　may　not。　I　shall　have　the　answer　in　a　half　hour　or　so。　A　telephone　call　was　made　by　a　sympathetic　diner；　and　that　photograph　is　on　its　way　to　Paris。　You　cannot　stop　it　any　more　than　you　can　stop　those　driving　now　to　Argenteuil。　If　we；　indeed；　have　our　promise；　neither　will　disturb　you　…　as　your　illness　disturbs　me　…　and　we　shall　talk　again　when　my　associates　arrive。
　It　is　said　that　Cain　is　a　chameleon；　appearing　in　various　guises；　and　most　convincing。　It　is　also　said　that　he　is　prone　to　violence　and　to　fits　of　temper。　These　are　an　illness；　no？
　He　ran　down　the　dark　street　in　Argenteuil　after　the　receding　roof　light　of　the　taxi；　it　turned　the　corner　and　disappeared。　He　stopped；　breathing　heavily；　looking　in　all　directions　for　another；　there　was　none。　The　doorman　at　Roget's　had　told　him　a　cab　would　take　ten　to　fifteen　minutes　to　arrive；　why　had　not　Monsieur　requested　one　earlier？　The　trap　was　set　and　he　had　walked　into　it
　Up　ahead！　A　light；　another　taxi！　He　broke　into　a　run。　He　had　to　stop　it；　he　had　to　get　back　to　Paris。　To　Marie。
　He　was　back　in　a　labyrinth；　racing　blindly；　knowing；　finally；　there　was　no　escape。　But　the　race　would　be　made　alone；　that　decision　was　irrevocable。　There　would　be　no　discussion；　no　debate；　no　screaming　back　and　forth　…　arguments　based　on　love　and　uncertainty。　For　the　certainty　had　been　made　clear。　He　knew　who　he　was。。。　what　he　had　been；　he　was　guilty　as　charged　…　as　suspected。
　An　hour　or　two　saying　nothing。　Just　watching；　talking　quietly　about　anything　but　the　truth。　Loving。　And　then　he　would　leave；　she　would　never　know　when　and　he　could　never　tell　her　why。　He　owed　her　that；　it　would　hurt　deeply　for　a　while；　but　the　ultimate　pain　would　be　far　less　than　that　caused　by　the　stigma　of　Cain。
　Cain！
　Marie。　Marie！　What　have　I　done？
　'Taxi！　Taxi！'
　Get　out　of　Paris！　Now！　Whatever　you're　doing；　stop　it　and　get　out！。。。　Those　are　orders　from　your　government。。。　They　want　you　out　of　there。　They　want　him　isolated。
　Marie　crushed　out　her　cigarette　in　the　ashtray　on　the　bedside　table；　her　eyes　falling　on　the　four…year…old　issue　of　Time；　her　thoughts　briefly　on　the　terrible　game　Jason　had　forced　her　to　play。
　'I　won't　listen！'　she　said　to　herself　out　loud；　startled　at　the　sound　of　her　own　voice　in　the　empty　room。　She　walked　to　the　window；　the　same　window　he　had　faced；　looking　out；　frightened；　trying　to　make　her　understand。
　I　have　to　know　certain　things。。。　enough　to　make　a　decision　but　maybe　not　everything。　A　part　of　me　has　to　be　able。。。to　run；　disappear。　I　have　to　be　able　to　say　to　myself；　what　was　isn't　any　longer；　and　there's　a　possibility　that　it　never　was　because　I　have　no　memory　of　it。　What　a　person　can't　remember　didn't　exist；。。　for　him。
　'My　darling；　my　darling。　Don't　let　them　do　this　to　you！'　Her　spoken　words　did　not　startle　now；　for　it　was　as　though　he　were　there　in　the　room；　listening；　heeding　his　own　words；　willing　to　run；　disappear。。。　with　her。　But　at　the　core　of　her　understanding；　she　knew　he　could　not　do　that；　he　could　not　settle　for　a　half…truth；　or　three…quarters　of　a　lie。
　They　want　him　isolated。
　Who　were　they！　The　answer　was　in　Canada　and　Canada　was　cut　off；　another　trap。
　Jason　was　right　about　Paris；　she　felt　it；　too。　Whatever　it。was　was　here。　If　they　could　find　one　person　to　lift　the　shroud　and　let　him　see　for　himself　he　was　being　manipulated；　then　other　questions　might　be　manageable；　the　answers　no　longer　pushing　him　towards　self…destruction。　If　he　could　be　convinced　that　whatever　unremembered　crimes　he　had　mitted；　he　was　a　pawn　for　a　much　greater　single　crime；　he　might　be　able　to　walk　away；　disappear　with　her。　Everything　was　relative。　What　the　man　she　loved　had　to　be　able　to　say　to　himself　was　not　that　the　past　no　longer　existed；　but　that　it　had；　and　he　could　live　with　it；　and　put　it　to　rest。　That　was　the　rationalization　he　needed；　the　conviction　that　whatever　he　had　been　was　far　less　than　his　enemies　wanted　the　world　to　believe；　for　they　would　not　use　him　otherwise。　He　was　the　Judas　goat；　his　death　to　take　the　place　of　another's。　If　he　could　only　see　that；　if　she　could　only　convince　him。　And　if　she　did　not；　she　would　lose　him。　They　would　take　him；　they　would　kill　him。
　They。
　'Who　are　you？'　she　screamed　at　the　window；　at　the　lights　of　Paris　outside。　'Where　are　you？'
　She　could　feel　a　cold　wind　against　her　face　as　surely　as　if　the　panes　of　glass　had　melted；　the　night　air　rushing　inside。　It　was　followed　by　a　tightening　in　her　throat；　and　for　a　moment　she　could　not　swallow。。。　could　not　breathe。　The　moment　passed　and　she　breathed　again。　She　was　afraid；　it　had　happened　to　her　before；　on　their　first　night　in　Paris；　when　she　had　left　the　cafe　to　find　him　on　the　steps　of　the　Cluny。　She　had　been　walking　rapidly　down　Saint…Michel　when　it　happened；　the　cold　wind；　the　swelling　of　the　throat。。。　at　that　moment　she　had　not　been　able　to　breathe。　Later　she　thought　she　knew　why；　at　that　moment　also；　several　blocks　away　inside　the　Sorbonne；　Jason　had　raced　to　a　judgment　that　in　minutes　he　would　reverse　…　but　he　had　reached　it　then。　He　had　made　up　his　mind　he　would　not　e　to　her。
　'Stop　it！'　she　cried。　'It's　crazy；'　she　added；　shaking　her　head；　looking　at　her　watch。　He　had　been　gone　over　five　hours；　where　was　he？　Where　was　he？
　Bourne　got　out　of　the　taxi　in　front　of　the　seedily…elegant　hotel　in　Montparnasse。　The　next　hour　would　be　the　most　difficult　of　his　briefly　remembered　life　…　a　life　that　was　a　void　before　Port　Noir；　a　nightmare　since。　The　nightmare　would　continue；　but　he　would　live　it　alone；　he　loved　her　too　much　to　ask　her　to　live　it　with　him。　He　would　find　a　way　to　disappear；　taking　with　him　the　evidence　that　tied　her　to　Cain。　It　was　as　simple　as　that；　he　would　leave　for　a　non…existent　rendezvous；　and　not　return。　And　some　time　during　the　next　hour　he　would　write　her　a　note。
　It's　over。　I've　found　my　arrows。　Go　back　to　Canada　and　say　nothing　for　both　our　sakes。　I　know　where　to　reach　you。
　The　last　was　unfair　…　he　would　never　reach　her　…　but　the　small　feathered　hope　had　to　be　there；　if　only　to　get　her　on　a　plane　to　Ottawa。　In　time　…　with　time　…　their　weeks　together　would　fade　into　a　darkly　kept　secret；　a　cache　of　brief　riches　to　be　uncovered　and　touched　at　odd　quiet　moments。　And　then　no　more；　for　life　was　lived　for　active　memories；　the　dormant　ones　lost　meaning。　No　one　knew　that　better　than　he　did。
　He　passed　through　the　lobby；　nodding　at　the　concierge　who　sat　on　his　stool　behind　the　marble　counter；　reading　a　newspaper。　The　man　barely　looked　up；　noting　only　that　the　intruder　belonged。
　The　lift　rumbled　and　groaned　its　way　up　to　the　fourth　floor。　Jason　breathed　deeply　and　reached　for　the　gate；　above　all　he　would　avoid　dramatics；　no　alarms　raised　by　words　or　by　looks。　The　chameleon　had　to　merge　with　his　quiet　part　of　the　forest；　one　in　which　no　spoors　could　be　found。　He　knew　what　to　say；　he　had　thought　about　it　carefully；　as　he　had　the　note　he　would　write。
　'Most　of　the　night　walking　around；'　he　said；　holding　her；　stroking　her　dark　red　hair；　cradling　her　head　against　his　shoulder。。。　and　aching；　'chasing　cadaverous　salesgirls；　listening　to　animated　nonsense　and　drinking　coffee　disguised　as　sour　mud。　Les　Classiques　was　a　waste