pzb.lostsouls-第14部分

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t；　and　he　curled　around　himself　and　whined　deep　in　his　throat。　Surely　the　tissues　of　his　body　were　burning　away；　dissolving　inside。
　　Then　he　was　aware　of　David's　hands　under　his　arms；　David　helping　him　up；　half　dragging　him　to　the　bathroom　where　he　bent　Christian　over　the　toilet。　Something　deep　in　Christian　loosened；　and　all　the　Chartreuse　came　up…green；　hot；　churned　into　a　foamy　mass　now。　Christian　sobbed　at　the　sight　of　it　and　turned　his　head　away。　Thick　strings　of　saliva　webbed　his　lips。
　　〃Jesus；　barkeep；　are　you　going　to　live？　Have　to　close　up　early　tonight？〃
　　Christian　managed　to　nod。　He　leaned　against　David。　The　warm　pressure　of　David's　hand　on　his　shoulder　kept　him　from　collapsing。　He　vomited　again；　having　to　force　it　this　time。　After　that；　he　felt　almost　good。　〃I'm　going　out；〃　he　told　David。
　　〃Jesus　wept；　are　you　sure？　How　about　I　help　you　to　your　room？　Don't　you　even　want　to　brush　your　teeth？〃
　　〃No。　I　need　a　drink　to　kill　the　taste。　I　must　have　eaten　something　bad。〃
　　〃I'm　meeting　a　girl。　Why　don't　you　e　and　have　a　drink　with　us？〃
　　At　the　mention　of　alcohol；　Christian　had　to　suppress　a　moan。　The　idea　of　having　a　drink　with　David　and　his　girl　made　him　feel　terribly　lonely。　He　could　never　do　such　a　thing。　And　besides；　now　he　was　ravenous。
　　They　walked　downstairs　together；　and　David　headed　up　Conti　toward　the　lights　of　Bourbon　Street。　Christian　checked　the　alley；　but　of　course　by　now　Wallace　was　gone。　All　that　lingered　was　a　breath　of　whiskey　and　fear。　He　would　meet　Wallace　Creech　again；　though；　with　his　old　tired　eyes　and　his　silver　cross。　Christian　knew　it；　and　he　smiled；　feeling　the　night　gather　around　him。　He　slipped　away　toward　the　river。
　　
　　Nothing　sat　on　his　bed；　naked　and　cross…legged；　the　quilt　pooled　around　his　waist　and　a　candle　before　him。　He　cupped　his　hands　around　the　flame　and　kept　them　there　until　his　palms　began　to　sweat。　Then　he　raised　his　hands　to　his　face　and　rubbed　the　heat　onto　his　cheeks。　He　had　his　music　turned　up　loud…Tom　Waits；　loud　and　splendidly　drunk　tonight；　wishing　he　were　in　New　Orleans。　Nothing　wished　he　were　too。
　　He　looked　toward　the　window。　Outside；　he　could　see　a　few　lights：　other　windows　in　other　houses；　more　houses　beyond；　houses　with　well…kept　lawns　and　shade　trees；　like　the　one　he　lived　in；　houses　with　swing　sets　and　poured　concrete　driveways　and　half…baths　and　redwood　sundecks；　streets　travelled　by　Volvos　and　Toyotas　picking　the　kids　up　from　day　care；　going　to　the　supermarket　the　health　club；　the　mall；　or；　if　they　were　bored　enough；　the　liquor　store。　Suburbs；　stretching　forever　or　until　the　end　of　Maryland；　whichever　came　first。　Nothing　shivered；　then　swigged　from　the　White　Horse　bottle　next　to　his　bed。　He　had　refilled　it　from　the　supply　in　his　parents'　liquor　cabinet；　watering　down　their　bottle；　but　now　it　was　nearly　empty　again。
　　He　kept　looking　toward　the　window。　Most　of　the　lights　had　gone　out。　He　shivered　again。
　　
　　Christian　still　wore　a　cloak；　long　and　black　and　lined　with　silk；　whenever　he　went　out。　Old　habits　died　hard；　if　they　ever　died　at　all。　The　night　had　cooled。　A　black　iron　railing　under　Christian's　hand　was　warm；　still　saturated　with　the　heat　of　the　day；　but　a　dark…smelling　breeze　wound　its　way　up　from　the　river；　brushing　Christian's　face；　reviving　him。　Now　he　had　nearly　forgotten　the　burning　in　his　stomach　and　the　vomiting　that　had　made　his　throat　bloody　and　raw。
　　His　step　quickened。　His　boot　heels　clocked　along　the　sidewalk。　He　fell　to　wondering　how　many　times　he　had　walked　along　these　ways；　how　infinitesimally　his　steps　had　worn　down　the　sidewalks　of　these　old　streets；　these　exotically　named；　haunted　streets…Ursulines；　Bienville；　Decatur。　He　wondered　how　much　of　his　substance　he　had　left　here；　how　much　of　his　substance　was　made　up　of　the　dust　of　these　streets。
　　There　had　always　been　New　Orleans。　Christian　had　lived　in　other　places；　far　away　across　sunless　seas；　places　older　and　darker　and　just　as　strange；　with　ghosts　aplenty。　But　where　else　did　slave　spirits　still　lament　in　the　Royal　Street　house　of　sadistic　Madame　Lalaurie；　where　else　could　one　still　smell　the　lingering　sweat　of　a　slave　woman　chained　to　a　stove　all　the　years　of　her　life？　Where　else　did　crows　flap　over　the　crumbling　ruins　of　St。　Louis　Cemetery　and　settle；　inky　and　baleful　of　eye；　on　a　tomb　slashed　with　hundreds　of　red　X's…X's　in　faded　crimson　chalk；　X's　still　flesh　and　glistening；　X's　for　voodoo　curses；　X's　to　invoke　the　wrath　of　Marie　Laveau；　the　voodoo　queen　who　had　stayed　young　forever？
　　Christian　passed　a　dark　doorway。　Inside；　pale　shapes　moved　through　dull　blue　light。　He　remembered　when　this　hole…in…the…wail　had　been　a　jazz　club；　when　bright　brassy　music　floated　out　late　at　night　and　spiralled　up　to　the　sky；　when　smoky…skinned　women　with　ripe　lips　and　red　dresses　stood　outside　smiling　dark　smiles　at　passersby。　Once　he　had　seen　Louis　Armstrong　standing　there　on　the　sidewalk　with　his　shirtsleeves　roiled　up；　talking　to　a　crowd　of　friends。
　　Christian　remembered　the　slow　laughter；　the　white　eyes　that　shone　out　of　faces　blue…black　with　sweat；　the　flasks　of　illicit　liquor　raw　enough　to　burn　a　hole　in　the　guts　of　even　Molochai；　Twig；　or　Zillah。　Now　the　figures　that　waited　uneasily　on　the　sidewalk　were　as　white　as　white　could　be；　with　eyes　smudged　black　and　ripped　black　clothes；　little　ghosts；　like　photonegatives　of　the　dusky　dancers　who　had　once　swirled　all　night　to　bright　jazz。　Now　the　music　that　drifted　out　of　the　doorway　and　up　toward　the　moon　was　sparse　and　dark　and　strange；　the　anthem　of　all　the　lost　children　who　began　their　lives　at　night；　when　the　bars　opened　and　the　music　began　to　play。
　　Right　now　it　was　sainted　Bauhaus；　the　pale　long…boned　gods　of　this　crowd；　doing　〃Bela　Lugosi's　Dead。〃　The　eyeliner　eyes　glazed　and　the　black　lipstick　lips　moved　in　time　with　the　words；　and　the　children　danced　slowly；　for　their　blood　was　thin；　and　they　were　under　the　spell　of　the　DJ　and　the　music　and　the　night。
　　Christian　went　in。　As　he　passed　the　bar；　he　heard　a　girl　say；　〃God；　how　tall　is　that　guy？〃　He　turned　but　could　not　search　out　her　eyes。　He　rose　like　a　narrow；　pale　beacon　above　most　of　the　children　in　the　club；　and　he　could　look　down　on　leather…clad；　studded　shoulders；　on　earlobes　hung　heavy　with　chains　and　crucifixes　and　tiny　silver　skulls；　on　heads　of　hair　dyed　every　unnatural　color　Possible…blue…black；　orange；　red；　white。　The　club　smelled　of　sweat　and　melting　hair　mousse　and　hot　leather；　all　underlaid　with　the　sweet；　spicy　smell　of　clove　cigarettes。　A　veil　of　smoke　twisted　gently　around　Christian's　shoulders。
　　He　stood　against　the　back　wall；　not　smoking；　not　drinking；　just　watching　the　children　move；　watching　their　faces　lift　and　their　hands　flicker　in　the　blue　light。　A　boy　came　up　to　him　and　said；　〃Will　you　watch　my　leather？〃　When　Christian　nodded；　the　boy　dumped　the　jacket　on　a　chair　near　Christian　and　danced　back　into　the　crowd；　lithe　and　T…shirred；　his　thin　arms　raised　above　his　head。　These　children　trusted　one　another；　the　adult　world　was　obtuse　and　threatening；　but　in　one　another　they　had　absolute　faith。　Still；　a　leather　jacket　was　nothing　to　be　left　unattended。　Each　one　was　an　individual　masterpiece　marked　by　its　owner　with　intricate　arrangements　of　studs　and　safety　pins；　arcane　band　logos；　patches　and　chains。
　　Bela　Lugosi　was　still　dead。　The　singer's　voice　was　low　and　smooth　and　insidious　as　throat　cancer。　Christian　imagined　him　gaunt　and　bone…white；　writhing　onstage。　When　the　song　was　over；　the　boy　danced　back　and　slung　his　jacket　over　his　shoulders。　He　offered　Christian　a　cigarette　and　lit　it　for　him。　Christian　inhaled　once：　a　clove；　tasting　of　the　Orient　and　ash；　its　paper　sugared。　Then　he　held　it　between　two　long　fingers　and　let　it　burn；　raising　it　to　his　lips　occasionally；　pretending　to　smoke。　The　taste　nauseated　him；　all　tastes　nauseated　him　save　one。　And　now　he　was　so　hungry；　so　thirsty。
　　When　the　boy　cupped　his　hand　around　his　mouth　and　went　on　tiptoe　to　shout　something　in　Christian's　ear…his　name；　perhaps；　though　Christian　never　caught　it…Christian　laid　his　hand　flat　against　the　small　of　the　boy's　back。　Through　the　T…shirt　damp　with　sweat；　the　boy's　skin　was　hot；　alive。　Christian　felt　the　little　rid