er…and he was the last of the line。 I believed him。 All the talk of Empires and traditions。 I was flattered to be lionized by him。 He was more cultured； more persuasive； more penetrating than any man I had met or have met since。〃 Whitehead was lost in this reverie； hypnotized by the memory。 〃All that's left now is a husk； of course。 You can't really appreciate what an impression he made。 There was nothing he couldn't have been or done if he'd put his mind to it。 But when I said to him： why do you bother with the likes of me； why don't you go into politics； some sphere where you can wield power directly； he'd give me this look； and say： it's all been done。 At first I thought he meant those lives were predictable。 But I think he meant something else。 I think he was telling me that he'd been these people； done those things。〃 〃How's that possible？ One man。〃 〃I don't know。 It's all conjecture。 It was from the beginning。 And here I am forty years later； still juggling rumors。〃 He stood up。 By the look on his face it was obvious that his sitting position had caused some stiffness in the joints。 Once he was upright； he leaned against the wall； and put his head back； staring up at the blank ceiling。
〃He had one great love。 One all…consuming passion。 Chance。 It obsessed him。 ‘All life is chance；〃 he used to say。 ‘The trick is learning how to use it。
〃And all this made sense to you？〃 〃It took time； but I came to share his fascination over a period of years； yes。 Not out of intellectual interest。 I've never had much of that。 But because I knew it could bring power。 If you can make Providence work for you〃…he glanced down at Marty…〃work out its system if you like…the world succumbs to you。〃 The voice soured。 〃I mean； look at me。 See how well I've done for myself 。 。 。〃 He let out a short； bitter laugh。 〃。 。 。 He cheated；〃 he said； returning to the beginning of their conversation。 〃He didn't obey the rules。〃 〃This was to be the Last Supper；〃 Marty said。 〃Am I right？ You were going to escape before he came for you。〃 〃In a way。〃 〃How？〃 Whitehead didn't reply。 Instead he began the story again； where he'd left off。
〃He taught me so much。 After the war we traveled around for a while； picking up a small fortune。 Me with my skills； him with his。 Then we came to England； and I went into chemicals。〃 〃And got rich。〃 〃Beyond the dreams of Croesus。 It took a few years； but the money came； the power came。〃 〃With his help。〃 Whitehead frowned at this unwele observation。 〃I applied his principles； yes；〃 he replied。 〃But he prospered every bit as much as I did。 He shared my houses； my friends。 Even my wife。〃 Marty made to speak； but Whitehead cut him off。
〃Did I tell you about the lieutenant？〃 he said。
〃You mentioned him。 Vasiliev。〃 〃He died； did I tell you that？〃 〃He didn't pay his debts。 His body was dragged out of the sewers of Warsaw。〃 〃Mamoulian killed him？〃 〃Not personally。 But yes； I think…〃 Whitehead stopped in midflow； almost cocked his head； listening。 〃Did you hear something？〃 〃What？〃 〃No。 It's all right。 In my head。 What was I saying？〃 〃The lieutenant。〃 〃Oh； yes。 This piece of the story 。 。 。 I don't know if it'll mean too much to you 。 。 。 but I have to explain； because without it the rest doesn't quite make sense。 You see； the night I found Mamoulian was an incredible evening。 Useless to try to describe it really； but you know the way the sun can catch the tops of clouds； they were blush…colored； love…colored。 And I was so full of myself； so certain that nothing could ever harm me。〃 He stopped and licked his lips before going on。 〃I was an imbecile。〃 Self…contempt stung the words from him。 〃I walked through the ruins…smell of putrefaction everywhere； muck under my feet…and I didn't care； because it wasn't my ruin； my putrefaction。 I thought I was above all that： especially that night。 I felt like the victor； because I was alive and the dead were dead。〃 The words stopped pressing forward for a moment。 When he spoke again； it was so quietly it hurt the ears to catch the words。 〃What did I know？ Nothing at all。〃 He covered his face with his shaking hand； and said； 〃Oh； Jesus；〃 quietly into it。
In the silence that followed； Marty thought he heard something outside the door： a movement in the hallway。 But the sound was too soft for him to be certain； and the atmosphere in the room demanded his absolute fixedness。 To move now； to speak； would ruin the confessional； and Marty； like a child hooked by a master storyteller； wanted to hear the end of this narrative。 At that moment it seemed to him more important than anything else。
Whitehead's face was concealed behind his hand as he attempted to stem tears。 After a moment he took up the tail of the story again…carefully； as if it might strike him dead。
〃I've never told anyone this。 I thought if I kept my silence…if I let it bee another rumor…sooner or later it would disappear。〃 There was another noise in the hall； a whine like wind through a tiny aperture。 And then； a scratching at the door。 Whitehead didn't hear it。 He was in Warsaw again； in a house with a bonfire and a flight of steps and a room with a table and a guttering flame。 Almost like the room they were in now； in fact； but smelling of old fire rather than souring wine。
〃I remember；〃 he said； 〃when the game was over Mamoulian stood up and shook hands with me。 Cold hands。 Icy hands。 Then the door opened behind me。 I half…turned to see。 It was Vasiliev。〃 〃The lieutenant？〃 〃Horribly burned。〃 〃He'd survived；〃 Marty breathed。
〃No；〃 came the reply。 〃He was quite dead。〃 Marty thought maybe he'd missed something in the story that would justify this preposterous statement。 But no； the insanity was presented as plain truth。 〃Mamoulian was responsible；〃 Whitehead went on。 He was trembling； but the tears had stopped； boiled away by the glare of the memory。 〃He'd raised the lieutenant from the dead； you see。 Like Lazarus。 He needed functionaries； I suppose。〃 As the words faltered the scratching began again at the door； an unmistakable appeal for entry。 This time Whitehead heard it。 His moment of weakness had passed； apparently。 His head jerked up。 〃Don't answer it；〃 he manded。
〃Why not？〃 〃It's him；〃 he said； eyes wild。
〃No。 The European's gone。 I saw him leave。〃 〃Not the European；〃 Whitehead replied。 〃It's the lieutenant。 Vasiliev。〃 Marty looked incredulous。 〃No；〃 he said。
〃You don't know what Mamoulian can do。〃 〃You're being ridiculous！〃 Marty stood up； and picked his way through the glass。 Behind him； he heard Whitehead say 〃no〃 again； 〃please； Jesus； no；〃 but he turned the handle and opened the door。 Meager candlelight found the would…be entrant。
It was Bella； the Madonna of the kennels。 She stood uncertainly on the threshold； her eyes； what was left of them； turned balefully up to look at Marty； her tongue a rag of maggoty muscle that hung from her mouth as if she lacked the strength to withdraw it。 From somewhere in the pit of her body； she exhaled a thin whistle of air； the whine of a dog seeking human fort。
Marty took two or three stumbling steps back from the door。
〃It isn't him；〃 Whitehead said； smiling。
〃Jesus Christ。〃 〃It's all right； Martin。 It isn't him。〃 〃Close the door！〃 Marty said； unable to move and do it himself。 Her eyes； her stench； kept him at bay。
〃She doesn't mean any harm。 She used to e up here sometimes； for tidbits。 She was the only one of them I trusted。 Vile species。〃 Whitehead pushed himself away from the wall and walked across to the door； kicking broken bottles ahead of him as he went。 Bella shifted her head to look at him； and her tail began to wag。 Marty turned away； revolted； his reason thrashing around to find some sane explanation； but there was none to be had。 The dog had been dead： he'd parceled her up himself。 There was no question of premature burial。
Whitehead was staring at Bella across the threshold。
〃No； you can't e in；〃 he told her； as if she were a living thing。
〃Send it away；〃 Marty groaned。
〃She's lonely；〃 the old man replied； chiding him for his lack of passion。 It crossed Marty's mind that Whitehead had lost his wits。 〃I don't believe this is happening；〃 he said。
〃Dogs are nothing to him； believe me。〃