sk.everythingseventual-第96部分

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　off　the　winner。　As　for　Donald　Enslin　。　。　。
　　'My　brother　was　actually　eaten　by　wolves　one　winter　on　the　Connecticut　Turnpike；'　he　said；　then　laughed　and　pushed　STOP。　There　is　more　on　the　tape…a　little　more…but　that　is　the　final　statement　of　any　coherence　the　final　statement；　that　is；　to　which　a　clear　meaning　can　be　ascribed。
　　Mike　turned　on　his　heels　and　looked　at　the　pictures。　Still　hanging　perfectly　straight；　good　little　pictures　that　they　were。　That　still　life；　though…what　an　ugly　fucking　thing　that　was！
　　He　pushed　RECORD　and　spoke　two　words…fuming　oranges…into　the　minicorder。　Then　he　turned　it　off　again　and　walked　across　the　room　to　the　door　leading　into　the　bedroom。　He　paused　by　the　evening…dressed　lady　and　reached　into　the　darkness；　feeling　for　the　light　switch。　He　had　just　one　moment　to　register
　　（it　feels　like　skin　like　old　dead　skin）
　　something　wrong　with　the　wallpaper　under　his　sliding　palm；　and　then　his　fingers　found　the　switch。　The　bedroom　was　flooded　with　yellow　light　from　another　of　those　ceiling　fixtures　buried　in　hanging　glass　baubles。　The　bed　was　a　double　hiding　under　a　yellow…orange　coverlet。
　　'Why　say　hiding？'　Mike　asked　the　minicorder；　then　pushed　the　STOP　button　again。　He　stepped　in；　fascinated　by　the　fuming　desert　of　the　coverlet；　by　the　tumorous　bulges　of　the　pillows　beneath　it。　Sleep　there？　Not　at　all；　sir！　It　would　be　like　sleeping　inside　that　goddam　still　life；　sleeping　in　that　horrible　hot　Paul　Bowles　room　you　couldn't　quite　see；　a　room　for　lunatic　expatriate　Englishmen　who　were　blind　from　syphilis　caught　while　fucking　their　mothers；　the　film　version　starring　either　Laurence　Harvey　or　Jeremy　Irons；　one　of　those　actors　you　just　naturally　associated　with　unnatural　acts　…
　　Mike　pushed　RECORD；　the　little　red　eye　came　on；　he　said　'Orpheus　on　the　Orpheum　Circuit！'　into　the　mike；　then　pushed　STOP　again。　He　approached　the　bed。　The　coverlet　gleamed　yellow…orange。　The　wallpaper；　perhaps　cream…colored　by　daylight；　had　picked　up　the　yellow…orange　glow　of　the　coverlet。　There　was　a　little　night…table　to　either　side　of　the　bed。　On　one　was　a　telephone…black　and　large　and　equipped　with　a　dial。　The　finger…holes　in　the　dial　looked　like　surprised　white　eyes。　On　the　other　table　was　a　dish　with　a　plum　on　it。　Mike　pushed　RECORD　and　said：　'That　isn't　a　real　plum。　That's　a　plastic　plum。'　He　pushed　STOP　again。
　　On　the　bed　itself　was　a　doorknob　menu。　Mike　sidled　up　one　side　of　the　bed；　being　quite　careful　to　touch　neither　the　bed　nor　the　wall；　and　picked　the　menu　up。　He　tried　not　to　touch　the　coverlet；　either；　but　the　tips　of　his　fingers　brushed　it　and　he　moaned。　It　was　soft　in　some　terrible　wrong　way。　Nevertheless；　he　picked　the　menu　up。　It　was　in　French；　and　although　it　had　been　years　since　he　had　taken　the　language；　one　of　the　breakfast　items　appeared　to　be　birds　roasted　in　shit。　That　at　least　sounds　like　something　the　French　might　eat；　he　thought；　and　uttered　a　wild；　distracted　laugh。
　　He　closed　his　eyes　and　opened　them。
　　The　menu　was　in　Russian。
　　He　closed　his　eyes　and　opened　them。
　　The　menu　was　in　Italian。
　　Closed　his　eyes；　opened　them。
　　There　was　no　menu。　There　was　a　picture　of　a　screaming　little　woodcut　boy　looking　back　over　his　shoulder　at　the　woodcut　wolf　which　had　swallowed　his　left　leg　up　to　the　knee。　The　wolf's　ears　were　laid　back　and　he　looked　like　a　terrier　with　its　favorite　toy。
　　I　don't　see　that；　Mike　thought；　and　of　course　he　didn't。　Without　closing　his　eyes　he　saw　neat　lines　of　English；　each　line　listing　a　different　breakfast　temptation。　Eggs；　waffles；　fresh　berries；　no　birds　roasted　in　shit。　Still　…
　　He　turned　around　and　very　slowly　edged　himself　out　of　the　little　space　between　the　wall　and　the　bed；　a　space　that　now　felt　as　narrow　as　a　grave。　His　heart　was　beating　so　hard　that　he　could　feel　it　in　his　neck　and　wrists　as　well　as　in　his　chest。　His　eyes　were　throbbing　in　their　sockets。　1408　was　wrong；　yes　indeed；　1408　was　very　wrong。　Olin　had　said　something　about　poison　gas；　and　that　was　what　Mike　felt　like：　someone　who　has　been　gassed　or　forced　to　smoke　strong　hashish　laced　with　insect　poison。　Olin　had　done　this；　of　course；　probably　with　the　active　laughing　connivance　of　the　security　people。　Pumped　his　special　poison　gas　up　through　the　vents。　Just　because　he　could　see　no　vents　didn't　mean　the　vents　weren't　there。
　　Mike　looked　around　the　bedroom　with　wide；　frightened　eyes。　There　was　no　plum　on　the　endtable　to　the　left　of　the　bed。　No　plate；　either。　The　table　was　bare。　He　turned；　started　for　the　door　leading　back　to　the　sitting　room；　and　stopped。　There　was　a　picture　on　the　wall。　He　couldn't　be　absolutely　sure…in　his　present　state　he　couldn't　be　absolutely　sure　of　his　own　name…but　he　was　fairly　sure　that　there　had　been　no　picture　there　when　he　first　came　in。　It　was　a　still　life。　A　single　plum　sat　on　a　tin　plate　in　the　middle　of　an　old　plank　table。　The　light　falling　across　the　plum　and　the　plate　was　a　feverish　yellow…orange。
　　Tango…light；　he　thought。　The　kind　of　light　that　makes　the　dead　get　up　out　of　their　graves　and　tango。　The　kind　of　light　…
　　'I　have　to　get　out　of　here；'　he　whispered；　and　blundered　back　into　the　sitting　room。　He　became　aware　that　his　shoes　had　begun　to　make　odd　smooching　sounds；　as　if　the　floor　beneath　them　were　growing　soft。
　　The　pictures　on　the　living　room　wall　were　crooked　again；　and　there　were　other　changes；　as　well。　The　lady　on　the　stairs　had　pulled　down　the　top　of　her　gown；　baring　her　breasts。　She　held　one　in　each　hand。　A　drop　of　blood　hung　from　each　nipple。　She　was　staring　directly　into　Mike's　eyes　and　grinning　ferociously。　Her　teeth　were　filed　to　cannibal　points。　At　the　rail　of　the　sailing　ship；　the　tars　had　been　replaced　by　a　line　of　pallid　men　and　women。　The　man　on　the　far　left；　nearest　the　ship's　bow；　wore　a　brown　wool　suit　and　held　a　derby　hat　in　one　hand。　His　hair　was　slicked　to　his　brow　and　parted　in　the　middle。　His　face　was　shocked　and　vacant。　Mike　knew　his　name：　Kevin　O'Malley；　this　room's　first　occupant；　a　sewing　machine　salesman　who　had　jumped　from　this　room　in　October　of　1910。　To　O'Malley's　left　were　the　others　who　had　died　here；　all　with　that　same　vacant；　shocked　expression。　It　made　them　look　related；　all　members　of　the　same　inbred　and　cataclysmically　retarded　family。
　　In　the　picture　where　the　fruit　had　been；　there　was　now　a　severed　human　head。　Yellow…orange　light　swam　off　the　sunken　cheeks；　the　sagging　lips；　the　upturned；　glazing　eyes；　the　cigarette　parked　behind　the　right　ear。
　　Mike　blundered　toward　the　door；　his　feet　smooching　and　now　actually　seeming　to　stick　a　little　at　each　step。　The　door　wouldn't　open；　of　course。　The　chain　hung　unengaged；　the　thumbbolt　stood　straight　up　like　clock　hands　pointing　to　six　o'clock；　but　the　door　wouldn't　open。
　　Breathing　rapidly；　Mike　turned　from　it　and　waded…that　was　what　it　felt　like…across　the　room　to　the　writing　desk。　He　could　see　the　curtains　beside　the　window　he　had　cracked　open　waving　desultorily；　but　he　could　feel　no　fresh　air　against　his　face。　It　was　as　though　the　room　were　swallowing　it。　He　could　still　hear　horns　on　Fifth；　but　they　were　now　very　distant。　Did　he　still　hear　the　saxophone？　If　so；　the　room　had　stolen　its　sweetness　and　melody　and　left　only　an　atonal　reedy　drone；　like　the　wind　blowing　across　a　hole　in　a　dead　man's　neck　or　a　pop　bottle　filled　with　severed　fingers　or　…
　　Stop　it；　he　tried　to　say；　but　he　could　no　longer　speak。　His　heart　was　hammering　at　a　terrible　pace；　if　it　went　much　faster；　it　would　explode。　His　minicorder；　faithful　panion　of　many　'case　expeditions；'　was　no　longer　in　his　hand。　He　had　left　it　somewhere。　In　the　bedroom？　If　it　was　in　the　bedroom；　it　was　probably　gone　by　now；　swallowed　by　the　room；　when　it　was　digested；　it　would　be　excreted　into　one　of　the　pictures。
　　Gasping　for　breath　like　a　runner　nearing　the　end　of　a　long　race；　Mike　put　a　hand　to　his　chest；　as　if　to　soothe　his　heart。　What　he　felt　in　the　left　breast　pocket　of　his　gaudy　shirt　was　the　small　square　shape　of　the　minicorder。　The　feel　of　it；　so　solid　and　known；　steadied　him　a　little…brought　him　back　a　little。　He　became　aware　that　he　was　humming　。　。　。　and　that　the　room　seemed　to　be　humming　back　at　him；　as　if　myriad　mouths　were　concealed　beneath　its　smoothl