pzb.lostsouls-第22部分

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　　The　others　waited　at　the　bus　station　with　him　until　Jack　put　a　nickel　in　the　gum　machine　and　kicked　it　over　when　no　gum　came　out。　Then　the　old　man　who　sold　tickets　made　them　all　leave；　and　Nothing　sat　alone　in　the　dark　waiting　room；　looking　at　the　frosted　glass　of　the　ticket　window；　the　dingy　scrolled　ceiling　high　above；　the　shiny　pink　bald　spot　on　the　back　of　the　old　man's　head　and　the　way　his　ivory…colored　hair　straggled　over　the　buckle　of　his　dirty　visor。
　　Nothing　took　out　his　Dylan　Thomas　book；　but　there　was　no　light　to　read　by。　He　looked　at　his　hands　in　his　lap。　Two　weeks　ago　he'd　put　on　some　of　Laine's　black　nail　polish；　but　most　of　it　was　gone　now。　He　examined　the　chips　and　flecks　that　were　left。　They　looked　like　shapes　on　a　map；　like　tiny　states。　Maybe　like　the　places　be　was　going。　He　cupped　his　hands　over　his　face。　'They　were　scented　with　vodka　and　smoke；　with　Laine　and　Sioux。　He　felt　his　eyes　closing。
　　The　old　man's　bawling　voice　woke　him　a　few　minutes　later。　〃Coach　boarding　for　Silver　Spring　Fairfax；　Wash'ton　DC；　Fredericksburg　。　。　。〃　Nothing　felt　for　his　backpack　and　stood　up。　Now　he　could　get　started。
　　The　bus　smelled　of　　cigarettes　and　prickly　upholstery　and　some　heavy　sweet　disinfectant。　Nothing　decided　he　liked　the　odor。　A　few　heads　lifted　to　stare　blearily　at　him；　then　drooped　back　against　the　dark　windows。　He　took　a　seat　in　the　back　and　lit　a　cigarette。　The　bus　shuddered；　heaved　a　sigh；　and　pulled　away　from　the　station。
　　Nothing　smiled　at　himself　in　the　window。　He　was　on　his　way。　His　journey　had　begun；　lie　was　already　a　little　closer　to　home。
　　
　　　Chapter　11
　　
　　Several　hours　after　Nothing　climbed　the　steps　of　a　Greyhound　bus　in　Maryland；　Christian　opened　his　eyes　and　saw　dawn　bleeding　palely　across　the　New　Orleans　sky。　At　first　he　could　not　remember　why　he　was　lying　on　the　riverbank；　why　his　clothes　were　wet　with　mist　and　his　limbs　so　stiff　and　cold。　He　could　not　think　why　it　seemed　strange　to　see　another　dawn；　why　he　had　never　expected　to　open　his　eyes　again；
　　Then　the　whole　night　came　rushing　back；　and　he　gave　an　involuntary　shudder　and　let　the　relief　and　the　fury　wash　over　him。　Relief　because　he　had　not　wanted　to　die　at　the　hands　of　one　like　Wallace；　so　clumsy　and　drained　of　passion；　fury　because　Wallace　should　not　have　been　able　to　defeat　him；　Wallace　with　his　tired；　ancient　eyes。　Christian's　belly　should　be　warm　and　heavy　with　Wallace's　blood　now；　Wallace　should　be　drifting　away　along　the　river　bottom；　the　water　filling　his　eyes；　the　creatures　of　the　mud　beginning　to　nibble　at　his　hands。
　　Christian　sat　up　and　examined　himself。　There　was　a　scorched　hole　in　the　fine　black　cloth　of　his　shirt；　its　edges　perfectly　round。　He　undid　the　top　two　buttons。　The　bullet　had　shattered　the　third　one。　In　the　center　of　his　chest　was　a　shiny　pink　sear；　the　skin　pulled　tight　and　slightly　rippled。　There　would　be　no　matching　scar　on　his　back；　Wallace's　bullet　was　still　in　him；　and　there　it　would　stay。　It　was　not　the　first。
　　He　had　bled　only　a　little。　There　was　a　crust　of　dried　blood　on　his　skin；　ringing　the　scar；　and　the　ground　where　he　had　lain　all　night　was　stained　dark　red。　But　the　spot　was　small；　hardly　worth　noticing。　The　fool；　he　thought　with　a　touch　of　incredulity。　He　had　to　destroy　my　brain　or　my　heart；　and　he　had　his　chance　at　either　one；　and　the　old　fool　missed　my　heart　by　an　inch。　With　an　intensity　that　he　had　not　thought　himself　still　capable　of；　Christian　wished　that　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　had　been　there。　They　would　have　taken　Wallace's　silver　cross　away；　thrown　it　in　the　river；　and　ripped　Wallace's　throat　out；　joking　all　the　while。
　　But　the　fury　faded　even　as　he　recognized　it；　and　Christian　sat　quietly　in　the　breaking　light　for　several　minutes；　resting　his　head　on　his　drawn…up　knees；　unable　to　identify　his　new　emotion。　As　he　pushed　himself　to　his　feet　and　gathered　his　cloak　around　him；　he　realized　what　this　was；　his　reaction　to　waking　healed　and　alive　and　still　alone。　It　was　disappointment。
　　Last　night's　trash　lay　tranquil　in　the　gutter　as　he　made　his　way　home。　The　toe　of　his　boot　connected　with　a　plastic　Hurricane　glass　and　sent　it　skittering　across　the　pavement。　The　noise　was　too　loud　in　this　early…morning　calm。　Christian　caught　the　odor　of　the　sticky　drops　left　in　the　bottom　of　the　glass：　rum　and　passion　fruit　gone　sour；　a　rancid　pink　smell。　The　glass　rolled　into　the　arch　of　a　courtyard　where　green　and　golden　light　was　beginning　to　filter　down　through　mimosa　branches。　The　smell　of　the　blossoms　reached　him；　rosy…delicate；　clear　as　the　smell　of　water。
　　The　Quarter　was　nearly　quiet　Christian　trailed　his　hand　along　the　walls；　along　wrought…iron　gates　between　high　ornate　pillars　of　brick　and　stone；　along　the　doors　and　windows　of　the　dark　shops；　the　sleeping　bars。　He　passed　an　all…night　diner　and　caught　a　stew　of　breakfast　odors：　the　savory；　greasy　smell　of　sausage　and　eggs　and　coffee　for　those　on　their　way　to　early…morning　jobs；　hot　fried　oysters　and　the　sliced　ham　and　vinegar　tang　of　po…boys　fur　those　who　had　been　out　drinking　all　night；　who　would　soon　head　back　to　cheap　hotel　rooms　and　drab　boardinghouses　fur　sodden　daytime　slumber。　He　felt　his　stomach　shift；　last　night's　nausea　raise　its　head；　roll　over；　and　settle　back　into　uneasy　sleep。
　　The　sky　was　brightening　more　quickly　now。　As　he　turned　east　from　Bienville　onto　Chartres；　the　nascent　sunlight　caught　him　full　in　the　face。　Again　came　pain　that　burned　through　his　eyes　and　seared　his　brain。　Christian　flung　up　his　arm　and　sagged　back　against　the　wall。　The　bricks　were　rough　and　cool。　He　pressed　his　face　to　them；　resting　for　a　moment。　His　eyes　felt　scorched。　When　he　had　to　venture　out　into　sunlight；　he　always　wore　dark　glasses；　a　wide…brimmed　black　hat；　gloves；　and　dark　loose　clothing　that　he　could　huddle　into。　This　morning　he　had　only　the　cloak　to　pull　around　him。　Already　he　was　beginning　to　be　blinded　by　the　new　day；　and　he　was　so　very　tired。　The　sidewalk　seemed　to　stretch　endlessly　before　him；　shimmering　and　baking　in　the　sunlight。
　　Surely　his　bar　was　just　ahead。　He　groped　along　the　wall。　He　had　to　rely　on　his　sense　of　smell；　but　the　melange　of　odors　confused　him；　he　could　not　tell　where　he　was。　Was　the　bar　in　this　block；　or　the　next？　He　couldn't　have　crossed　Conti　yet。　Idiot；　he　told　himself。　How　long　have　you　lived　here？　How　many　nights　have　you　walked　this　street？　You　should　carry　a　map　of　scents　in　your　head；　in　your　very　being。。。。
　　He　forced　himself　to　concentrate　on　separating　the　smells　and　identifying　them。　Here　was　the　slimy　sea…smell　of　the　trashcans　behind　an　oyster　bar。　Here　was　a　sewer　smell；　brown　and　gassy。　Here　was　the　leather　trade　shop；　black　tanned　hides　and　chrome　and　the　dizzying　chemical　bite　of　butyl　nitrate；　and　that　meant　his　bar　was　only　a　few　doors　down。
　　He　felt　his　way　to　it　and　let　himself　in。　There　was　a　separate　street　entrance　that　led　straight　up　to　the　rooms；　but　Christian　usually　came　in　through　the　bar　because　that　way　he　knew　he　would　meet　no　one　on　the　stairs。　For　a　long　time　he　stood　in　the　lightening　gloom　of　the　bar；　breathing　the　dark　dust；　the　ghosts　of　liquor　and　beer　and　all　the　drinkers　who　had　been　here。　If　he　breathed　in　deeply　enough；　he　thought　he　could　still　catch　the　scent　of　Wallace　Creech　the　dry　sick　smell。
　　Wallace。　Poor　Wallace；　who　thought　he　had　killed　his　nemesis；　his　daughter's　supernatural　defiler。　What　would　he　do　when　he　discovered　otherwise？
　　Christian　closed　his　eyes。　He　would　not　think　about　Wallace　now；　would　not　plan。　He　looked　around　the　room；　saw　the　dark　wood　of　the　bar；　the　bottles　gleaming　softly　on　their　shelves；　the　colored　light　faltering　through　the　unbroken　stained…glass　window。　In　here　the　light　could　not　hurt　him。
　　But　his　eyes　were　sore；　exhausted。　He　climbed　the　stairs　to　his　room　and　burrowed　into　bed；　into　his　own　forting；　familiar　smell。　Cool　dry　skin　and　ancient　spice　and　a　hint　of　something　darker；　something　thick　and　garnet…colored　and　faintly　rotten。　The　smell　from　deep　inside　him；　where　the　blood　never　quite　washed　clean。　Borne　away　on　the　river　of　it；　he　slept。
　　
　　When　he　awoke；　the　light　seeping　around　the　edges　of　the　window　shade　was　diffuse；　milky；　no　longer　bright　and　searing