as telling the truth here； wasn't he？ They both knew it。 Mamoulian was pale； almost insipid。 Drained of the will to live。 Suddenly； Whitehead began to know he could win this confrontation； if he was clever。
〃Don't try to fight；〃 Mamoulian said。 〃I will have my due。〃 〃Which is？〃 〃You。 Your death。 Your soul； for want of a better word。〃 〃You had all I owed you and more； years ago。〃 〃That wasn't the bargain； Pilgrim。〃 〃We all make deals and then change the rules。〃 〃That's not playing the game。〃 〃There is only one game。 You taught me that。 As long as I win that one 。 。 。 the rest don't matter。〃 〃I will have what's mine；〃 Mamoulian said with quiet determination。 〃It's a foregone conclusion。〃 〃Why not just have me killed？〃 〃You know me； Joseph。 I want this to finish cleanly。 I'm granting you time to organize your affairs。 To close the books； clean the slates； give the land back to those you stole it from。〃 〃I didn't take you for a munist。〃 〃I'm not here to debate politics。 I came to tell you my terms。〃 So； Whitehead thought； the execution date is a while away。 He quickly put all thoughts of escape out of his head； for fear the European sniff them out。 Mamoulian had reached into his jacket pocket。 The mutilated hand brought out a large envelope； folded on itself。 〃You will dispose of your assets in strict accordance with these directions。〃 〃All to friends of yours； presumably。〃 〃I have no friends。〃 〃It's fine by me。〃 Whitehead shrugged。 〃I'm glad to be rid of it。〃 〃Didn't I warn you it would bee burdensome？〃 〃I'll give it all away。 Bee a saint； if you like。 Will you be satisfied then？〃 〃As long as you die； Pilgrim；〃 the European said。
〃No。〃 〃You and I together。〃 〃I'll die in my time；〃 Whitehead said； 〃not in yours。〃 〃You won't want to go alone。〃 Behind the European the ghosts were getting restless。 The steam simmered with them。
〃I'm not going anywhere；〃 Whitehead said。 He thought he glimpsed faces in the billows。 Perhaps defiance wasn't wise； he decided。 〃。 。 。 Where's the harm？〃 he muttered； half…standing to ward off whatever the steam contained。 The sauna lights were dimming。 Mamoulian's eyes shone in the deepening murk； and there was illumination spilling up from his throat too； staining the air。 The ghosts were taking substance from it； growing more palpable by the second。
〃Stop；〃 Whitehead begged； but it was a vain hope。
The sauna had vanished。 The steam was discharging its passengers。 Whitehead could feel their prickling gaze on him。 Only now did he feel naked。 He bent for the towel； and when he stood upright again； Mamoulian had gone。 He clutched the towel to his groin。 He could feel how the ghosts in the darkness smirked at his breasts； at his shrunken pudenda； at the sheer absurdity of his old flesh。 They had known him in rarer times； when the chest had been broad； the pudenda arrogant； the flesh impressive whether naked or dressed。
〃Mamoulian 。 。 。〃 he murmured； hoping the European might yet undo this misery before it got out of control。 But nobody answered his appeal。
He took a faltering step across the slippery tiles toward the door。 If the European had gone； then he could simply walk out of the place； find Strauss and a room where he could hide。 But the ghosts weren't finished with him yet。 The steam； which had darkened to a bruise； lifted a little； and in its depths something shimmered。 He couldn't make sense of it at first： the uncertain whiteness； the fluttering； as of snowflakes。
Then； from nowhere； a breeze。 It belonged to the past： and smelled of it。 Of ash and brick dust； of the dirt on bodies unwashed for decades； of burning hair； of anger。 But there was another smell that wove between these； and when he breathed it the significance of that shimmering air came clear； and he forsook the towel and covered his eyes； tears and pleas ing and ing。
But the ghosts pressed in nevertheless； carrying the scent of petals with them。
37
Carys stood on the small landing outside Marty's room； and listened。 From inside； there came the sound of steady sleep。 She hesitated a moment…unsure of whether or not to go in…then slipped down the stairs again； leaving him unwoken。 It was too convenient to slide into bed beside him； to weep into the crook of his neck where his pulse ticked； to unburden herself of all her fretting and beg him to be strong for her。 Convenient and dangerous。 It wasn't real safety； there in his bed。 She'd find that by herself and in herself； nowhere else。
Halfway down the second flight of stairs she stopped。 There was a curious tingle in the darkened hallway。 A chill of night air： and more。 She waited； shadow…thin； on the stairs； until her eyes accustomed themselves to the dark。 Perhaps she should just go back upstairs； lock her bedroom door behind her； and find a few pills to while away the hours until the sun came up。 It would be so much easier than living as she was； with every nerve electric。 Along the hall toward the kitchen she caught a movement。 A black bulk was framed against the doorway； and then gone。
It's just the dark； she told herself； playing tricks。 She smoothed her hand over the wall； feeling the design of the wallpaper ripple under her fingertips until she found the light switch。 She flipped it on。 The corridor was empty。 The stairway at her back was empty。 The landing was empty。 She muttered 〃Stupid〃 to herself； and padded down the last three stairs and along the corridor to the kitchen。
Before she got there； her suspicions about the chill were confirmed。 The back door was in direct line with the kitchen door； and both were open。 It was odd； almost shocking in fact； to see the house； which was usually hermetically sealed； exposed to the night。 The open door was like a wound in its flank。
She stepped through from the carpeted hallway onto the cool linoleum of the kitchen and was halfway to closing the door when she caught the glass glinting on the floor。 The door had not been left open accidentally； somebody had forced his way in。 A smell…sandalwood…was pricking her nostrils。 It was sickly； but what it covered was sicklier still。
She had to inform Marty； that was the first priority。 No need to go back upstairs。 There was a phone on the kitchen wall。
Her mind divided。 Part of her coolly assessed the problem and its solutions： where the phone was； what she must say to Marty when he answered it。 Another part； the part that embraced H； that was always frightened； dissolved in panic。 There's somebody close （sandalwood）； it said； somebody lethal in the dark； rotting in the dark。
The cooler self kept control。 She walked…glad now to be barefoot because she made scarcely a sound…across to the phone。 She picked up the receiver and dialed nineteen； the number of Marty's bedroom。 It rang once； then again。 She willed him to wake quickly。 Her reserves of control were； she knew； strictly limited。
〃e on； e on 。 。 。〃 she breathed。
Then there was a sound behind her； heavy feet crunched the glass into smaller pieces。 She turned to see who it was； and there was a nightmare standing in the doorway with a knife in his hand and a dogskin slung over one shoulder。 The phone slipped from her fingers； and the part of her that had advised panic all along took the reins。
Told you so； it shouted。 Told you so！
A phone rang in Marty's dreams。 He dreamed he woke； put it to his ear； and spoke to death on the other end of the line。 But the ringing went on even though he'd picked the phone up and he surfaced from sleep to find the receiver in his hand and no one on the line。
He put it back in its cradle。 Had it rung at all？ He thought not。 Still； the dream wasn't worth going back to： his conversation with death had been gobbledygook。 Swinging his legs out of bed he pulled on his jeans and was at the door； bleary…eyed； when from downstairs there came the crash of breaking glass。
The butcher had lurched toward her…throwing off the dog's skin to make an embrace easier。 She ducked him once； twice。 He was ponderous； but she knew if he once got his hands on her； that was the end。 He was between her and the exit into the house now； she was obliged to maneuver her way toward the back door。
〃I wouldn't go out there…〃 he