But her weaknesses…and she had many…were exploitable。 He'd used the heroin fugues at first； gaining access to her when she was pacified to the point of indifference。 They warped her perception； which had made his invasion less noticeable； and through her eyes he'd seen the house； listened with her ears to the witless conversation of its occupants； shared with her； though it revolted him； the smell of their cologne and their flatulence。 She was the perfect spy； living in the heart of the enemy's camp。 And as the weeks had gone by he'd found it easier to slip in and oil of her unnoticed。 That had made him careless。
It was carelessness not to have looked before he leaped； to mit himself to her head without first checking what she was doing。 He hadn't even thought she might be with the bodyguard； and by the time he'd realized his error he was sharing her sensations…her ridiculous rapture…and it had left him trembling。 He would not make such a mistake again。
He sat in the bare room in the bare house he had bought for himself and Breer； and tried to forget the turbulence he'd experienced； the look in Strauss〃 eyes as he stared up at the girl。 Had the thug glimpsed； perhaps； the face behind her face？ The European guessed so。
No matter； none of them would survive。 It wouldn't just be the old man； the way he'd planned at first。 All of them…his acolytes； his serfs； all…would go to the wall with their master。
The memories of Strauss〃 assaults lingered in the European's entrails； he longed to evacuate diem。 The sensation shamed and disgusted him。
Downstairs； he heard Breer e in or go out； on his way to some atrocity or home from one。 Mamoulian concentrated on the blank wall opposite him； but try as he might to exile the trauma； he still felt the intrusion： the spurting head； the heat of the act。
Forget； he said aloud。 Forget the brown fire off them。 It's no risk to you。 See only the emptiness： the promise of the void。
His innards shook。 Beneath his gaze； the paint on the wall seemed to blister。 Venereal eruptions disfigured its emptiness。 Illusions； but horribly real to him nevertheless。 Very well： if he couldn't dislodge the obscenities； he would transform them。 It wasn't difficult to smudge sexuality into violence； turn sighs into screams； thrusts into convulsions。 The grammar was the same； only the punctuation differed。 Picturing the lovers in death together； the nausea he'd felt receded。
In the face of that void what was their substance？ Transitory。 Their promises？ Pretension。
He began to calm。 The sores on the wall had started to heal； and he was left； after a few minutes； with an echo of the nothingness he had e to need so much。 Life came and went。 But absence； he knew； went on forever。
33
〃Oh； by the way； there was a telephone call for you。 From Bill Toy。 Day before yesterday。〃 Marty looked up at Pearl from his plate of steak； and pulled a face。
〃Why didn't you tell me？〃 She looked contrite。
〃It was the day I lost my wick with those damn people。 I left a message for you…〃 〃I didn't get it。〃
〃…on the pad beside the telephone。〃 It was still there： 〃Call Toy；〃 and a number。 He dialed； and waited a full minute before the phone was picked up at the other end。 It wasn't Toy。 The woman who repeated the number had a soft； lost voice； slurred as if by too much drink。
〃Can I speak to William Toy； please？〃 he asked。
〃He's gone；〃 the woman replied。
〃Oh。 I see。〃 〃He won't be ing back。 Not ever。〃 The quality of the voice was eerie。 〃Who is this？〃 it asked of him。
〃It doesn't matter；〃 Marty replied。 His instinct rebelled against giving his name。
〃Who is this？〃 she asked again。
〃I'm sorry to have bothered you。〃 〃Who is this？〃 He put the receiver down on the slushing insistence at the other end。 Only when he had did he realize that his shirt was clinging to a cold sweat that had suddenly sprung from his chest and spine。
In the love nest in Pimlico； Yvonne asked the vacated line 〃Who is this？〃 for half an hour or more before letting the telephone drop。 Then she went to sit down。 The couch was damp： large； sticky stains were spreading on it from the place where she always sat。 She assumed it was something to do with her； but she couldn't work out how or why。 Nor could she explain the flies that congregated all over her； in her hair； in her clothes； whining away。
〃Who is this？〃 she asked again。 The question remained perfectly pertinent； though she was no longer speaking to the stranger on the phone。 The rotting skin of her hands； the blood she left in the tub after bathing； the horrid look the mirror gave her…all inspired the same hypnotic inquiry： 〃Who is this？〃 〃Who is this？ Who is this？ Who is this？〃
VI The Tree
34
Breer hated the house。 It was cold； and the natives in this part of the city were inhospitable。 He was regarded with suspicion as soon as he stepped out of the front door。 There were； he had to concede； reasons for this。 In recent weeks a smell had begun to linger around him； a sickly； syrupy smell that made him almost ashamed to get too close to the pretty ones along the schoolyard railing； for fear they would put their fingers to their noses； making a 〃poo…poo〃 sound； and run off calling him names。 When they did that； it made him want to die。
Though there was no heating in the house； and he had to bathe in cold water； he nevertheless washed from head to foot three or four times a day； hoping to dislodge the smell。 When that didn't work he bought perfume…sandalwood in particular…and doused his body with it after each ablution。 Now the ments they called after him weren't about excreta but about his sex life。 He took the brunt of their remarks with equanimity。
Nevertheless； dull resentments festered in him。 Not just about the way he was treated in the district。 The European； after a courtship that had been polite； was more and more treating him with contempt： as a lackey rather than an ally。 It irritated him； the way he was sent to this haunt or that looking for Toy…asked to b a city of millions in search of a shriveled old man whom Breer had last seen scrambling over a wall stark naked； his scrawny buttocks white in the moonlight。 The European was losing his sense of proportion。 Whatever crimes this Toy had mitted against Mamoulian they could scarcely be profound； and it made Breer weak with tiredness to contemplate another day wandering the streets。
Despite his weariness； the capacity for sleep seemed to have deserted him almost entirely。 Nothing； not even the fatigue that killed his nerves； could persuade his body to close down for more than a few eye…fluttering minutes； and even then his mind dreamed such things； such dreadful things； it was scarcely possible to call the slumber blissful。 The only fort remaining to him was his pretties。
That was one of the few advantages in this house： it had a cellar。 Just a dry； cool space； which he was systematically clearing of the rubbish left by the previous owners。 It was a long job； but he was gradually getting the place the way he wanted it； and though he had never much liked enclosed spaces there was something about the darkness； and the sense of being underground； that answered an unarticulated need in him。 Soon he would have it all scrubbed。 He would put colored paper chains around the walls； and flowers in vases on the floor。 A table maybe； with a cloth on it； smelling of violets； fortable chairs for his guests。 Then he could begin to entertain friends in the manner to which he hoped they would bee accustomed。
All his arrangements could be effected much more quickly if he weren't forever interrupted by the damn…fool errands the European sent him on。 But the time for such servitude； he'd decided； had e to an end。 Today； he would tell Mamoulian that he wouldn't be blackmailed or bullied into playing this game。 He'd threaten to leave if it came to the worst。 He'd go north。 There were places north where the sun didn't e up for five months of the year…he'd read about such places…and that seemed fine to him。 No sun； and deep caves to live in； holes where not even moonlight could stray。 The time had e to lay his cards on t