There was something he hadn't told； a fraction of the Tale； scarcely pivotal but of more than passing interest； that he'd withheld from Strauss as he would withhold it from any interrogator。 Perhaps it was unspeakable。 Or perhaps it touched so centrally； so profoundly； upon the ambiguities that had pursued him through the wastelands of his life that to speak it was to reveal the color of his soul。
He pondered this last secret now； and in a strange way the thought of it warmed him： He had left the game； that first and only game with the European； and scrambled through the half…choked door into Muranowski Square。 No stars were burning； only the bonfire at his back。
As he'd stood in the gloom； reorienting himself； the chill creeping up through the soles of his boots； the lipless woman had appeared in front of him。 She'd beckoned。 He assumed she intended to lead him back the way he'd e； and so followed。 She'd had other intentions； however。 She'd led him away from the square to a house with barricaded windows； and…ever curious； he'd pursued her into it； certain that tonight of all nights no harm could possibly e to him。
In the entrails of the house was a tiny room whose walls were draped with pirated swaths of cloth； some rags； others dusty lengths of velvet that had once framed majestic windows。 Here； in this makeshift boudoir； there was one piece of furniture only。 A bed； upon which the dead Lieutenant Vasiliev…whom he had so recently seen in Mamoulian's gaming room…was making love。 And as the thief stepped through the door； and the lipless woman stood aside； Konstantin had looked up from his labors； his body continuing to press into the woman who lay beneath him on a mattress strewn with Russian and German and Polish flags。
The thief stood； disbelieving； wanting to tell Vasiliev that he was performing the act incorrectly； that he'd mistaken one hole for another； and it was no natural orifice he was using so brutally； but a wound。
The lieutenant wouldn't have listened； of course。 He grinned as he worked； the red pole rooting and dislodging； rooting and dislodging。 The corpse he was pleasuring rocked beneath him； unimpressed by her paramour's attentions。
How long had the thief watched？ The act showed no sign of consummation。 At last the lipless woman had murmured 〃Enough？〃 in his ear； and he had turned a little way to her while she had put her hand on the front of his trousers。 She seemed not at all surprised that he was aroused； though in all the years since he had never understood how such a thing was possible。 He had long ago accepted that the dead could be woken。 But that he had felt heat in their presence…that was another crime altogether； more terrible to him than the first。
There is no Hell； the old man thought； putting the boudoir and its charred Casanova out of his mind。 Or else Hell is a room and a bed and appetite everlasting； and I've been there and seen its rapture and； if the worst es to the worst； I will endure it。
Part Five THE DELUGE
Out of a fired ship； which； by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame； Some men leaped forth； and ever as they came Near the foes〃 ships； did by their shot decay； So all were lost； which in the ship were found； They in the sea being burnt； they in the burnt ship drowned。
…JOHN DONNE； 〃A Burnt Ship〃
IX Bad Faith
49
The Deluge descended in the driest July in living memory； but then no revisionist's dream of Armageddon is plete without its paradox。 Lightning appearing out of a clear sky； flesh turned to salt； the meek inheriting the earth： all unlikely phenomena。
That July； however； there were no spectacular transformations。 No celestial lights appeared in the clouds。 No rains of salamanders or children。 If angels came and went that month…if the looked…for Deluge broke…then it was； like the truest Armageddons； metaphor。
There are； it's true； some freakish occurrences to be recounted； but most of them take place in backwaters； in ill…lit corridors； in shunned wastelands among rain…sodden mattresses and the ashes of old bonfires。 They are local； almost private。 Their shock waves…at best…made gossip among wild dogs。
Most of these miracles； however…games； rains and salvations…were slipped with such cunning behind the facade of ordinary life that only the sharpest…sighted； or those in search of the unlikely； caught a glimpse of the Apocalypse showing its splendors to a sun…bleached city。
50
The city didn't wele Marty back with； open arms； but he was glad to be away from the house once and for all； his back turned on the old man and his madness。 Whatever the consequences of his departure in the long term…and he would have to think very carefully about whether he now turned himself in…he at least had a breathing space； time to think things through。
The tourist season was under way。 London was thronged with visitors； making familiar streets unfamiliar。 He spent the first couple of days just wandering around； getting used to being footloose and fancy…free again。 He had precious little money left： but he could turn his hand to a laboring job if need be。 With summer at its height the building trade was hungry for fit workhorses。 The thought of an honest day's work； its production of sweat paid for in cash； was attractive。 If necessary he would sell the Citro？n that he'd taken from the Sanctuary in one last； and probably ill…advised； gesture of rebellion。
After two days of liberty； his thoughts turned to an old theme： America。 He'd had it tattooed on his arm as a keepsake of his prison dreams。 Now； perhaps； was the time for him to make it a reality。 In his imagination； Kansas beckoned； its grain fields running to the eye's limit in every direction； and not a man…made thing in sight。 He'd be safe there。 Not just from the police and Mamoulian； but from history； from stories told again and again； round in circles； world without end。 In Kansas； there would be a new story： a story that he could not know the end of。 And wasn't that a working definition of freedom； unspoiled by European hand； European certainty？
To keep himself off the streets while he planned his escape he found a room in Kilburn； a dingy one…room flat with a toilet two flights down； which was shared； the landlord informed him； with six other people。 In fact there were at least fifteen occupants of the seven rooms in the house； including a family of four in one。 The bawling of the youngest child kept his sleep fitful； so he'd rise early and leave the house to its own devices all day； only returning when the pubs were closed； and then only grudgingly。 Still； he reassured himself； it wasn't for long。
There were problems about the departure； of course； not the least of which was getting a passport with a visa stamp in it。 Without it he would not be allowed to step onto American soil。 Securing himself these documents would have to be a speedy operation。 For all he knew his parole…jumping had been reported by Whitehead and damn what tales Marty told。 Perhaps the authorities were already bing the streets for him。
On the third day of July； a week and a half after leaving the estate； he decided to take fate by the horns and visit Toy's place。 Despite Whitehead's insistence that Bill was dead； Marty kept hope intact。 Papa had lied before； many times： why not in this instance？
The house was in an elegant backwater in Pimlico； a road of hushed facades and expensive automobiles straddling the narrow pavements。 He rang the doorbell half a dozen times； but there was no sign of life。 The venetian blinds were drawn on the downstairs windows； there was a fat wedge of mail…circulars mostly…thrust in the mailbox。
He was standing on the step staring dumbly at the door； knowing full well it wasn't going to open； when a woman appeared on the next…door step。 Not the owner of the house； he was sure： more likely a cleaner。 Her tanned face…who wasn't tanned this blistering summer？…bore the suppressed delight of a bad…news bringer。
〃Excuse me。 Can I help you？〃 she inquired hopefully。
He was suddenly glad he'd dressed in jacket and tie to e to the house； this woman looked the kind wh