pzb.lostsouls-第12部分

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the　tired　grass　like　sad　little　crops　of　stone。　Whenever　Steve　drove　out　here　in　the　daytime；　he　saw　kids　with　ragged　clothes　and　faded　eyes　playing　on　rickety　jungle　gyms；　digging　holes　in　the　dirt　of　the　scrubby　yards；　standing　aimlessly；　their　heads　swivelling　to　follow　the　T…bird　as　it　went　by。　Once　he　had　seen　a　group　of　small　kids　hunkered　down　around　a　dead　possum　by　the　side　of　the　road；　poking　it　and　turning　it　over　with　sticks；　looking　for　maggots。　That　had　been　a　hundred…degree　August　day；　and　Steve　had　caught　a　noseful　of　ripe　possum　as　he'd　driven　past。
　　But　now；　under　the　cold　September　moon；　the　trailers　and　rusty　cars　and　trash　heaps　seemed　to　fade；　to　grow　insubstantial。　Only　the　grass　and　the　low…hanging　trees　appeared　to　shimmer　and　e　alive。　Steve　wondered　who　lived　here；　scratching　out　a　place　to　exist；　holding　the　kudzu　and　the　wide　empty　sky　at　bay。　Were　they　farmers　gone　broke　trying　to　beg　crops　from　this　dirt　that　had　gone　barren　fifty　years　ago？　Were　they　field　hippies；　aging　bohemians　who　thought　living　off　the　land　meant　a　couple　of　scraggly　tomato　plants　and　Dannon　yogurt　from　the　7…Eleven　two　miles　up　the　road？
　　Steve　glanced　down　at　the　gas　gauge。　Nearly　empty；　but　the　change　from　the　Pepsi　machine　would　buy　a　tankful　tomorrow。　The　T…bird　was　damn　thirsty　these　days。　Piece　of　shit；　he　thought　with　affection。
　　They　were　almost　home　now。　Steve　would　sleep　in　his　once…cheerful　wreck　of　a　room；　swathed　in　filthy　sheets；　trying　to　fend　off　nightmares。　In　the　morning　Ghost　would　make　whole…grain　banana　pancakes　and　bring　him　a　beer。　The　presence　of　Ghost　in　the　next　room；　drunk　and　dreaming；　would　be　a　fort。　It　had　been　a　long　night。
　　
　　　Chapter　5
　　
　　Fifteen　years　later；　Christian's　bar　was　not　so　very　different　than　it　had　been　on　that　last　night　of　Mardi　Gras；　that　night　of　blood　and　altars。　That　delicious　night。
　　One　of　the　stained…glass　windows　had　been　broken　in　a　fight；　on　a　rare　evening　when　the　bar　was　crowded　and　the　liquor　flowed　too　freely　and　tempers　reached　a　sodden　white…hot　pitch。　Christian　never　found　a　replacement　for　the　antique　glass。　The　window　was　covered　with　black　cardboard；　it　kept　the　sunlight　out　during　the　daytime；　kept　the　shadows　in　at　night。
　　Upstairs；　in　Christian's　room；　the　bloodstains　Jessy　had　left　on　the　carpet　grew　pale　brown　and　edgeless　as　Christian　walked　over　them　in　black　leather　boots；　in　slippers；　with　his　bare；　long…toed；　knobby　feet。　Fifteen　years　of　his　footsteps　wore　Jessy's　blood　away。
　　The　wood　of　the　bar　lost　its　sheen；　grew　dull；　scarred。　Christian　forgot　to　replace　the　light　bulbs　in　the　imitation　Tiffany　lamps…a　curse　of　excellent　night　vision。　The　tawdry；　alcoholic；　glorious　life　of　the　French　Quarter　went　on　way　up　Chartres；　far　away。　No　one　ever　came　in　before　ten。
　　Later；　Christian　often　thought　that　the　man　who　called　himself　Wallace　should　have　appeared　at　Mardi　Gras。　There　would　have　been　a　symmetry　to　that；　a　sort　of　correctness。　But　of　course　life　was　messy；　Christian　had　lived　long　enough　to　know　that。　The　man　came　to　the　bar　one　night　early　in　September；　during　a　late　heat　wave。　He　had　rolled　up　the　sleeves　of　his　white　cotton　shirt；　and　the　cloth　at　his　armpits　was　circled　with　sweat。　At　first　Christian　thought　he　was　an　old　man；　by　the　usual　standards　at　any　rate；　a　very　old；　sad；　tired　man。　Then　he　looked　again　and　saw　that　the　man　could　not　be　much　older　than　fifty。
　　But　this　was　a　man　who　carried　himself　as　if　expecting　blows；　a　man　turned　inward；　looking　out　at　the　world　through　guarded　eyes。　His　clipped　curly　hair　was　only　beginning　to　go　from　brown　to　gray。　He　had　a　face　that　might　once　have　been　kind…deep　careworn　lines；　brown　eyes　that　had　seen　too　much　pain。　There　was　still　warmth　in　those　eyes；　but　it　was　warmth　dampened　with　weariness　and　watchfulness。　Christian　thought　that　whatever　this　man　chose　to　drink；　he　would　take　it　straight；　and　he　would　take　a　lot　of　it
　　〃Scotch；〃　said　the　man。　〃Chivas　Regal。〃　Christian　poured　it　over　ice。　The　man　held　the　glass　up　to　the　light；　frowned　into　its　amber　depths。　Then　he　brought　it　to　his　lips　and　tossed　the　whiskey　down　in　one　practiced　motion。　Christian　heard　the　ice　chitter　against　the　man's　teeth。　The　man　spat　it　back　into　the　glass。　Then　he　looked　at　Christian　and　said；　〃My　name　is　Wallace　Creech；〃　and　held　out　his　hand。
　　〃Christian；〃　said　Christian；　taking　the　hand。　He　looked　straight　into　Wallace's　eyes。　Wallace　stared　back；　unflinching。　Most　people　started　at　the　touch　of　Christian's　fingers　and　withdrew　quickly；　rubbing　their　hands　against　their　clothing　to　rid　themselves　of　Christian's　icy　touch；　glancing　away　from　the　cold　light　of　Christian's　eyes。　But　Wallace　looked　steadily　back；　grasped　Christian's　hand　harder；　and　said；　〃A　fine　name。〃
　　Only　then　did　Christian　notice　the　small　silver　crucifix　that　hung　on　a　chain　around　Wallace's　neck；　glinting　in　the　dim　light　of　the　bar。　〃I'm　afraid　I'm　not；〃　Christian　told　him。　
　　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃
　　〃I　don't　belong　to　a　church。　I'm　not　religious。〃　It　is　possible　to　live　too　long　for　such　forts；　Christian　thought。
　　〃Ah；〃　said　Wallace　knowingly。　Christian　expected　him　to　reach　into　his　pocket　for　a　tract。　Over　the　years；　Christian　had　been　given　hundreds　of　them　and　had　found　hundreds　more　left　on　the　tables；　or　under　them。　Everything　from　the　smudgily　printed；　misspelled　credo　of　a　snake…handling　cult　from　the　Louisiana　swamps　to　a　lurid　pamphlet　called　Rock　Music　Is　Worse　than　LSD！　Christian　was　curious　as　to　what　drew　people　to　these　religions；　their　obsession　with　their　own　mortality　intrigued　him；　and　he　read　all　the　tracts。
　　But　Wallace　didn't　offer　him　a　tract。　Instead；　he　changed　the　subject　abruptly；　asking；　〃Have　you　had　this　place　long？〃
　　Christian　felt　a　touch　of　shame。　He　had　misjudged　the　old　man。　From　the　looks　of　him；　Wallace　needed　all　the　faith　he　could　muster。　The　pain　seemed　to　pour　from　him。　He　must　be　lonely；　just　trying　to　make　conversation；　and　talk　was　part　of　a　bartender's　job。
　　〃Twenty　years；〃　Christian　told　him。
　　〃You　must　have　been　a　very　young　man　when　you　opened　it。〃
　　〃I　am　older　than　I　look；〃　said　Christian；　smiling　slightly。　His　face　had　not　changed；　had　grown　no　older；　had　lost　none　of　its　narrow　cold　beauty　since　the　last　night　of　Mardi　Gras　fifteen　years　ago；　the　night　he　had　slept　in　the　arms　of　Molochai；　his　belly　heavy　and　warm　with　Molochai's　blood。　Christian　had　not　aged　for　a　very　long　time。
　　〃So　I　gather；〃　said　Wallace　dryly。
　　Christian　paused；　looking　into　Wallace's　face。　Wallace's　expression　was　no　different　than　before；　the　eyes　were　the　same；　the　hurt；　frowning　eyes；　the　lines　bracketing　the　mouth　as　weary　and　patient　as　before。　Christian　dismissed　the　remark　as　meaningless…the　man　only　wanted　someone　to　talk　to。　He　was　lonely。　Religious　people　always　seemed　lonely；　perhaps　that　explained　their　need　to　be　among　great　crowds　of　people　who　believed　as　they　did。　Such　a　great　fort；　to　be　among　others　of　your　kind；　and　such　loneliness　when　there　were　none。　How　could　humans　ever　believe　themselves　truly　lonely　when　there　were　so　many　of　them？　
　　〃Another　drink？〃　Christian　asked。
　　Wallace　tossed　back　a　second　shot　of　Chivas；　then　surprised　Christian　by　asking。　〃Is　business　always　this　slow？〃　Then；　realizing　what　he　had　said；　he　tried　to　apologize。　〃I　didn't　mean　to　be　rude…I　was　only　curious。　It's　a　nice　place；　a　good　location；　the　French　Quarter…〃
　　The　man　was　babbling；　and　Christian　realized　that　for　some　reason　Wallace　Creech　was　terrified。　The　empty　glass　in　his　hand　rattled　against　the　bar；　the　ice　made　cold　little　chinking　sounds。　The　man　seemed　on　the　point　of　belting。
　　Christian　dumped　the　melting　ice　cubes；　scooped　in　fresh　ones；　poured　another　shot。　This　one　was　a　double；　but　he　watched　Wallace　put　it　away　with　the　same　practiced　motion；　not　even　grimacing。　Here　was　a　seasoned　drinker。
　　〃Why　are　you　here；　Wallace　Creech？〃　Christian　asked　softly。　〃What　do　you　want？〃
　　Wallace's　hand　went　to　the　cross　at　his　throat。　Then；　as　if　trying　to　conceal　the　gesture；　he　ran　a　finger　around　the　inside　of　his　collar；　loosening　it；　though　the　top　button　was　already　undone。　'There　was　a　gir