sk.everythingseventual-第95部分

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o　himself　without　realizing　it。　The　elliptical　nature　of　the　tapes　and　that　growing　verbal　distraction　bine　to　give　most　listeners　a　distinct　feeling　of　unease。　Many　ask　that　the　tape　be　turned　off　long　before　the　end　is　reached。　Mere　words　on　a　page　cannot　adequately　convey　a　listener's　growing　conviction　that　he　is　hearing　a　man　lose；　if　not　his　mind；　then　his　hold　on　conventional　reality；　but　even　the　flat　words　themselves　suggest　that　something　was　happening。
　　What　Mike　had　noticed　at　that　point　were　the　pictures　on　the　walls。　There　were　three　of　them：　a　lady　in　twenties…style　evening　dress　standing　on　a　staircase；　a　sailing　ship　done　in　the　fashion　of　Currier　&　Ives；　and　a　still　life　of　fruit；　the　latter　painted　with　an　unpleasant　yellow…orange　cast　to　the　apples　as　well　as　the　oranges　and　bananas。　All　three　pictures　were　in　glass　frames　and　all　three　were　crooked。　He　had　been　about　to　mention　the　crookedness　on　tape；　but　what　was　so　unusual；　so　worthy　of　ment；　about　three　off…kilter　pictures？　That　a　door　should　be　crooked　。　。　。　well；　that　had　a　little　of　that　old　Cabinet　of　Dr。　Caligari　charm。　But　the　door　hadn't　been　crooked；　his　eyes　had　tricked　him　for　a　moment；　that　was　all。
　　The　lady　on　the　stairs　tilted　left。　So　did　the　sailing　ship；　which　showed　bell…bottomed　British　tars　lining　the　rail　to　watch　a　school　of　flying　fish。　The　yellowish…orange　fruit…to　Mike　it　looked　like　a　bowl　of　fruit　painted　by　the　light　of　a　suffocating　equatorial　sun；　a　Paul　Bowles　desert　sun…tilted　to　the　right。　Although　he　was　not　ordinarily　a　fussy　man；　he　circled　the　room；　setting　them　straight。　Looking　at　them　crooked　like　that　was　making　him　feel　a　touch　nauseated　again。　He　wasn't　entirely　surprised；　either。　One　grew　susceptible　to　the　feeling；　he　had　discovered　that　on　the　QE　2。　He　had　been　told　that　if　one　persevered　through　that　period　of　increased　susceptibility；　one　usually　adapted　。　。　。　'got　your　sealegs；'　some　of　the　old　hands　still　said。　Mike　hadn't　done　enough　sailing　to　get　his　sealegs；　nor　cared　to。　These　days　he　stuck　with　his　land　legs；　and　if　straightening　the　three　pictures　in　the　unremarkable　sitting　room　of　1408　would　settle　his　midsection；　good　for　him。
　　There　was　dust　on　the　glass　covering　the　pictures。　He　trailed　his　fingers　across　the　still　life　and　left　two　parallel　streaks。　The　dust　had　a　greasy；　slippery　feel。　Like　silk　just　before　it　rots　was　what　came　into　his　mind；　but　he　was　damned　if　he　was　going　to　put　that　on　tape；　either。　How　was　he　supposed　to　know　what　silk　felt　like　just　before　it　rotted？　It　was　a　drunk's　thought。
　　When　the　pictures　were　set　to　rights；　he　stepped　back　and　surveyed　them　in　turn：　the　evening…dressed　lady　by　the　door　leading　into　the　bedroom；　the　ship　plying　one　of　the　seven　seas　to　the　left　of　the　writing　desk；　and　finally　the　nasty　（and　quite　badly　painted）　fruit　by　the　TV　cabinet。　Part　of　him　expected　that　they　would　be　crooked　again；　or　fall　crooked　as　he　looked　at　them…that　was　the　way　things　happened　in　movies　like　House　on　Haunted　Hill　and　in　old　episodes　of　The　Twilight　Zone…but　the　pictures　remained　perfectly　straight；　as　he　had　fixed　them。　Not；　he　told　himself；　that　he　would　have　found　anything　supernatural　or　paranormal　in　a　return　to　their　former　crooked　state；　in　his　experience；　reversion　was　the　nature　of　things…people　who　had　given　up　smoking　（he　touched　the　cigarette　cocked　behind　his　ear　without　being　aware　of　it）　wanted　to　go　on　smoking；　and　pictures　that　had　been　hanging　crooked　since　Nixon　was　President　wanted　to　go　on　hanging　crooked。　And　they've　been　here　a　long　time；　no　doubt　about　that；　Mike　thought。　If　I　lifted　them　away　from　the　walls；　I'd　see　lighter　patches　on　the　wallpaper。　Or　bugs　squirming　out；　the　way　they　do　when　you　turn　over　a　rock。
　　There　was　something　both　shocking　and　nasty　about　this　idea；　it　came　with　a　vivid　image　of　blind　white　bugs　oozing　out　of　the　pale　and　formerly　protected　wallpaper　like　living　pus。
　　Mike　raised　the　minicorder；　pushed　RECORD；　and　said：　'Olin　has　certainly　started　a　train　of　thought　in　my　head。　Or　a　chain　of　thought；　which　is　it？　He　set　out　to　give　me　the　heebie…jeebies；　and　he　certainly　succeeded。　I　don't　mean　。　。　。'　Didn't　mean　what？　To　be　racist？　Was　'heebie…jeebies'　short　for　Hebrew　jeebies？　But　that　was　ridiculous。　That　would　be　'Hebrew…jeebrews；'　a　phrase　which　was　meaningless。　It　…
　　On　the　tape　at　this　point；　flat　and　perfectly　articulated；　Mike　Enslin　says：　'I've　got　to　get　hold　of　myself。　Right　now。'　This　is　followed　by　another　click　as　he　shuts　the　tape　off　again。
　　He　closed　his　eyes　and　took　four　long；　measured　breaths；　holding　each　one　in　to　a　five…count　before　letting　it　out　again。　Nothing　like　this　had　ever　happened　to　him…not　in　the　supposedly　haunted　houses；　the　supposedly　haunted　graveyards；　or　the　supposedly　haunted　castles。　This　wasn't　like　being　haunted；　or　what　he　imagined　being　haunted　would　be　like；　this　was　like　being　stoned　on　bad；　cheap　dope。
　　Olin　did　this。　Olin　hypnotized　you；　but　you're　going　to　break　out　of　it。　You're　going　to　spend　the　goddamned　night　in　this　room；　and　not　just　because　it's　the　best　location　you've　ever　been　in…leave　out　Olin　and　you've　got　damned　near　enough　for　the　ghost…story　of　the　decade　already…but　because　Olin　doesn't　get　to　win。　Him　and　his　bullshit　story　about　how　thirty　people　have　died　in　here；　they　don't　get　to　win。　I'm　the　one　in　charge　of　bullshit　around　here；　so　just　breathe　in　。　。　。　and　out。　Breathe　in　。　。　。　and　out。　In　。　。　。　and　out　。　。　。
　　He　went　on　like　that　for　nearly　ninety　seconds；　and　when　he　opened　his　eyes　again；　he　felt　normal。　The　pictures　on　the　wall？　Still　straight。　Fruit　in　the　bowl？　Still　yellow…orange　and　uglier　than　ever。　Desert　fruit　for　sure。　Eat　one　piece　of　that　and　you'd　shit　until　it　hurt。
　　He　pushed　RECORD。　The　red　eye　went　on。　'I　had　a　little　vertigo　for　a　minute　or　two；'　he　said；　crossing　the　room　to　the　writing　desk　and　the　window　with　its　protective　mesh　outside。　'It　might　have　been　a　hangover　from　Olin's　yarning；　but　I　could　believe　I　feel　a　genuine　presence　here。'　He　felt　no　such　thing；　of　course；　but　once　that　was　on　tape　he　could　write　almost　anything　he　pleased。　'The　air　is　stale。　Not　musty　or　foul…smelling；　Olin　said　the　place　gets　aired　every　time　it　gets　turned；　but　the　turns　are　quick　and　。　。　。　yeah　。　。　。　it's　stale。　Hey；　look　at　this。'
　　There　was　an　ashtray　on　the　writing　desk；　one　of　those　little　ones　made　of　thick　glass　that　you　used　to　see　in　hotels　everywhere；　and　in　it　was　a　book　of　matches。　On　the　front　was　the　Hotel　Dolphin。　In　front　of　the　hotel　stood　a　smiling　doorman　in　a　very　old…fashioned　uniform；　the　kind　with　shoulder…boards；　gold　frogging；　and　a　cap　that　looked　as　if　it　belonged　in　a　gay　bar；　perched　on　the　head　of　a　motorcycle　ramrod　wearing　nothing　else　but　a　few　silver　body…rings。　Going　back　and　forth　on　Fifth　Avenue　in　front　of　the　hotel　were　cars　from　another　era…Packards　and　Hudsons；　Studebakers　and　finny　Chrysler　New　Yorkers。
　　'The　matchbook　in　the　ashtray　looks　like　it　es　from　about　1955；'　Mike　said；　and　slipped　it　into　the　pocket　of　his　lucky　Hawaiian　shirt。　'I'm　keeping　it　as　a　souvenir。　Now　it's　time　for　a　little　fresh　air。'
　　There　is　a　clunk　as　he　sets　the　minicorder　down；　presumably　on　the　writing　desk。　There　is　a　pause　followed　by　vague　sounds　and　a　couple　of　effortful　grunts。　After　these　e　a　second　pause　and　then　a　squeaking　sound。　'Success！'　he　says。　This　is　a　little　off…mike；　but　the　follow…up　is　closer。
　　'Success！'　Mike　repeated；　picking　the　minicorder　up　off　the　desk。　'The　bottom　half　wouldn't　budge　。　。　。　it's　like　it's　nailed　shut　。　。　。　but　the　top　half　came　down　all　right。　I　can　hear　the　traffic　on　Fifth　Avenue；　and　all　the　beeping　horns　have　a　forting　quality。　Someone　is　playing　a　saxophone；　perhaps　in　front　of　the　Plaza；　which　is　across　the　street　and　two　blocks　down。　It　reminds　me　of　my　brother。'
　　Mike　stopped　abruptly；　looking　at　the　little　red　eye。　It　seemed　to　accuse　him。　Brother？　His　brother　was　dead；　another　fallen　soldier　in　the　tobacco　wars。　Then　he　relaxed。　What　of　it？　These　were　the　spook　wars；　where　Michael　Enslin　had　always　e　off　the　winner。　As　for　Donald　Enslin　。　。　。
　　'My　brother　was　actually　eaten　by　wolves　one　winter