cb.coldheart canyon-第40部分

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ates；　or　simpletons？　What　little　he　knew　about　Old　Hollywood　he'd　heard　from　Jerry　Brahms；　which　meant　he'd　only　ever　really　been　half…listening。　But　he　knew　enough　to　be　certain　those　times　had　been　good；　at　least　for　a　man　like　himself。　Douglas　Fairbanks　and　Rudolph　Valentino；　Charlie　Chaplin；　the　Barrymore　clan；　and　all　the　rest　had　been　like　royalty；　lording　it　over　their　new　dominion　in　the　West。　A　bean…counting　prick　like　Eppstadt…with　his　demographics　and　his　endless　corporate　maneuvering…would　have　had　no　power　in　the　world　this　canyon　still　preserved。
　 Having　caught　his　breath；　he　now　continued　his　ascent。　The　shrubbery　became　denser　the　closer　he　got　to　the　guest…house。　He　would　have　needed　a　machete　to　hack　through　it　efficiently；　but；　lacking　one；　had　to　do　with　a　branch　he　picked　up　on　his　way。　The　flowers　gave　up　their　perfume　as　he　beat　his　way　through　them；　and　he　recognized　their　scent。　It　was　her　scent。　The　scent　on　Katya's　skin。　Did　she　walk　naked　amongst　them；　he　wondered；　pressing　the　flowers　against　her　body？　Now　that　would　be　a　sight　to　see。
　 The　thought　of　this　had　stirred　him　up；　he　actually　had　a　hard…on。　Not　an　everyday　order　of　hard…on　either；　but　the　kind　that　was　so　strong　it　actually　hurt。　It　was　a　long　time　since　he'd　had　a　woodie　so　fierce；　and　it　added　immeasurably　to　his　sense　of　well…being。　With　the　guest…house　now　in　view　he　pressed　towards　his　goal；　feeling　curiously；　happily；　adolescent。　So　what　the　hell　if　Maxine　was　deserting　him？　What　the　hell　if　he'd　never　be　a　Golden　Boy　again？　He　was　still　alive　and　kicking；　still　had　a　stick　in　his　hand；　and　a　woodie　in　his　pants；　and　the　thought　of　Katya's　flower　bath　in　his　mind's　eye。
　 The　thicket　had　finally　thinned；　and　he　was　at　last　delivered　onto　a　small　unkempt　lawn。　The　house　before　him　was　a　two…story　affair；　built　in　the　same　style　as　the　main　house；　simply　on　a　much　more　modest　scale。　Above　the　door；　set　into　the　stucco；　was　a　single　tile；　with　a　man　on　a　horse　painted　upon　it。　He　glanced　up　at　it　for　only　a　moment。　Then　he　pressed　his　flattened　hand　down　the　front　of　his　jeans　to　push　his　erection　into　a　less　obvious　position　on　the　clock；　and　knocked　on　the　madwoman's　door。
　
　
　THREE
　 There　was　no　reply　from　within；　nor　any　sound　of　movement　in　response　to　his　knocking。　He　knocked　a　second　time；　and　then…after　a　short　pause…a　third。　Still　there　was　no　response；　so　he　tried　the　latch。　The　door　was　unlocked。　He　pushed　it　open；　and　stepped　out　of　the　sunlight　into　the　cool　interior　of　the　house。
　 At　first　glance　he　assumed　that　he'd　misunderstood　what　Katya　had　told　him；　and　the　house　was　not　occupied　after　all；　merely　used　as　a　storage　space　of　some　kind。　The　room　before　him；　which　was　large　and　high…ceilinged；　was　little　more　than　a　junk…room；　filled　with　furniture　and　bric…a…brac。　But　as　his　eyes　became　more　accustomed　to　the　murky　light；　after　the　blaze　of　sun　outside；　he　began　to　make　sense　of　what　he　was　seeing。　Yes；　the　place　was　over…filled；　but　the　contents　of　the　room　were　far　from　junk。　On　the　wall　to　the　left　hung　an　enormous　tapestry　depicting　a　scene　of　medieval　revelry；　on　the　wall　opposite　was　a　series　of　white　marble　bas…reliefs　that　looked　to　have　been　filched　from　a　Roman　temple。　In　the　far　corner；　close　to　a　great　oak　door；　were　more　slabs　of　stone；　these　carved　with　hieroglyphics。　There　was　an　elegant　chaise　longue　in　front　of　the　massive　fireplace；　and　a　table；　its　legs　elaborately　carved　with　baroque　grotesqueries；　stood　in　the　middle　of　the　room。　All　of　this　had　presumably　been　removed　from　the　big　house　at　some　point；　but　that　hardly　explained　the　strange　confusion　of　periods　and　styles。
　 Moving　deeper　into　the　room；　Todd　called　out　again　to　announce　his　presence。　Again；　there　was　no　reply。　He　didn't　linger　now　to　study　the　furniture　or　the　antiquities；　but　crossed　the　room　to　the　large　oak　door。　Here　again　he　knocked；　but　receiving　no　reply；　he　turned　the　carved　handle；　and　pushed　the　door　open。　Given　its　size；　he'd　expected　it　to　be　heavy；　but　it　wasn't。　On　the　other　side　was　a　wide　hallway；　the　walls　of　which　were　hung　with　white　masks。　No；　not　masks；　life…casts；　white　plaster　faces；　all　caught　with　that　expression　of　eerie；　enforced　repose　that　such　masks　always　wore。　He'd　had　similar　things　made　of　his　own　face；　by　special　effects　men。　Once　for　the　facewound　in　Gunner；　once　for　a　bullet　wound。　It　was　an　eerie　experience；　to　look　at　the　finished　work。　This　is　what　I'll　look　like　when　I'm　dead；　he'd　thought　when　he'd　been　shown　the　final　results。
　 There　were　thirty　or　forty　masks　displayed　on　the　wall；　mostly　of　men。　He　thought　that　he　vaguely　recognized　some　of　the　faces；　but　he　couldn't　have　put　names　to　any　of　them。　They　were　all　handsome；　some　of　them　almost　beautiful。　He　remembered　Katya's　crazy　talk　about　the　parties　she'd　had　in　the　house。　How　she'd　seduced　Valentino。　Was　this　collection　the　inspiration　for　that　fantasy？　Had　she　dreamed　of　fucking　the　famous　because　she　had　plaster　copies　of　their　faces　up　on　her　wall？
　 The　door　at　the　other　end　of　the　wall　of　life…masks　was；　like　the　last；　deceptively　light。　This　time　he　paused　to　puzzle　out　why；　and　examining　it　a　little　more　closely；　had　his　answer。　It　was　fake。　The　large　rusted　nails　weren't　iron　at　all；　but　carved　and　stippled　wood；　the　patina　of　antiquity　had　been　achieved　by　a　skilled　painter。　It　was　a　door　from　a　movie…set；　all　illusion。　And　if　the　doors　had　been　made　that　way；　what　about　the　tapestry　and　the　bas…reliefs　and　table　carved　with　grotesqueries？　They　were　all　most　likely　fakes。　Stolen　off　a　back…lot；　or　bought　from　a　studio　fire…sale。　None　of　it　was　real。
　 He　pushed　the　door　open；　and　came　into　a　second　room；　this　one　much　smaller　than　the　first；　but　just　as　cluttered。　On　the　wall　opposite　him　hung　a　large　mirror；　its　gilt　frame　elaborately　carved　with　naked　figures；　men　and　women　knotted　together　in　configurations　which　looked　both　sensual　and　tormented。　He　seldom　let　a　mirror　go　by　without　putting　it　to　use；　and　even　now…knowing　he　wouldn't　like　what　he　saw…he　paused　and　assessed　his　reflection。　He　was　a　sad　sight；　his　clothes　in　disarray　from　his　trip　through　the　shrubbery；　his　face　like　an　inept　copy　of　its　finer　self。　He　wondered　if　perhaps　he　shouldn't　turn　back；　he　was　in　no　condition　to　present　himself　to　Katya。　Even　as　he　was　thinking　about　this　the　door　to　the　left　of　the　mirror　creaked　a　little；　and…caught　by　the　wind…opened　a　couple　of　inches。　Forsaking　his　sorry　reflection；　he　went　to　the　door　and　peered　into　the　room　beyond。
　 The　sight　before　him　put　all　thought　of　retreat　from　his　mind。　Inside　was　an　enormous　four…poster　bed；　its　columns　decorated　in　the　same　lushly　erotic　style　as　the　gilded　frame　of　the　mirror。　A　swathe　of　dark　purple　velvet　hung　in　ripe　folds　like　a　half…raised　curtain。　The　red　pillows　heaped　on　the　bed　were　just　as　excessive；　creamy　silk　fringed　with　lace。　The　sheet；　which　was　also　silk；　was　pulled　back；　so　that　the　sleeper　was　left　uncovered。
　 It　was　Katya；　of　course。
　 There　she　lay；　face…down；　her　hair　unloosed；　her　body　naked。　He　stood　at　the　door；　enraptured。　The　pillow　she　lay　on　was　so　soft　and　deep　that　her　face　was　almost　concealed；　but　he　could　still　see　the　high　curve　of　her　cheek；　the　tender　pink　of　her　ear。　Was　she　awake　behind　her　pale　lids；　he　wondered；　her　nakedness　a　deliberate　provocation？　He　suspected　not。　There　was　something　too　artless　about　the　way　her　legs　were　splayed；　too　childlike　about　the　way　her　hands　were　tucked　up　against　her　breasts。　And　the　final　proof？　She　was　snoring。　If　this　was　indeed　a　performance　then　that　was　a　touch　of　genius。　The　perfectly　human　thing　which　made　all　the　rest　so　believable。
　 His　eyes　went　to　the　cleft　of　her　buttocks；　to　the　gloss　of　the　hair　that　showed　between　her　legs。　He　was　suddenly　stupid　with　lust。
　 He　took　a　step　towards　the　bed。　The　floor　creaked　under　his　weight；　but　thankfully　the　noise　wasn't　loud　enough　to　stir　her。　He　continued　his　approach；　his　gaze　fixed　upon　her　face；　looking　for　the　merest　flutter　of　a　lash。　But　there　was　none。　She　was　deeply　asleep；　and　dreaming。　He　was　close　enough　now　to　see　that　her　eyes　were　in　motion　behind　her　lids；　watching　something　happening　in　another　place。
　 At　the　bedside；　he　dropped　down　onto　his　haunches；　his　left　knee　popping　loudly。　There　was　a　faint　dusting　of　goose…flesh　on　her　limbs；　he　saw。　He　couldn't　resist　the　temptation　to　reach　out　and　touch　her　skin；　as　though　he　might　smooth　the　gooseflesh　away　with　his　fingertips。　Surely　she　would　wake　now；　he　thought。　But　no；　she　slept　on。　The　only　sign　that　she　might　be　surfacing　from　sleep　was　the　slowing　of　the　motion　of　her　pupils。　The　dream　was　leaving　her；　or　she　was　departing　from　the　dream。
　 He　was　suddenly　alarmed。　What　would　she　think；　if　she　woke　to　find　him　this　close　to　the　bed；　his　intent　so　unquestionably　voyeuristic？　Perhaps　he　should　go；　quickly；　before　she　woke。　But　he　couldn't　bring　himself　to　move　an　inch。　All　he　could　do　was　kneel　there；　like　a　suppliant；　his　heart　beating　furiously；　his　face　a　furnace。
　 Then；　in　her　sleep；　she　murmured　something。　He　held　his　breath；　trying　to　catch　the　words。　It　wasn't　English　she　was　speaking；　it　was　an　Eastern　European　language；　probably　her