“It’s all right,” she said. “He isn’t here.”
“I could have told you that. He left the house two hours ago. I watched him go.”
“He doesn’t need to be here physically,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” From the tone of her voice they might have seen each other only the day before. He felt foolish, as though his relief, his desire to pick her up and run, was inappropriate, even redundant.
“We have to go,” he said. “They may come back.”
She shook her head. “No use,” she told him.
“What do you mean, no use?”
“If you knew what he can do.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen.”
He thought of Bella, poor dead Bella, with her pups suckling rot. He’d seen enough, and more.
“There’s no use trying to escape,” she insisted. “He’s got access to my head. I’m an open book to him.” This was an overstatement. He was less and less able to control her. But she was tired of the fight: almost as tired as the European. She wondered sometimes if he hadn’t infected her with his world-weariness; if a trace of him in her cortex hadn’t tainted every possibility with the knowledge of its dissolution. She saw that now, in Marty, whose face she’d dreamed, whose body she’d wanted. Saw how he would age, would wind down and die, as everything wound down and died. Why stand up at all, the disease in her system asked, if it’s only a matter of time before you fall down again?
“Can’t you block him out?” Marty demanded.
“I’m too weak to resist him. With you I’ll be weaker still.”
“Why?” The remark appalled him.
“As soon as I relax, he’ll get through. Do you see? The moment I surrender to anything, anyone, he can break in.”
Marty thought about Carys’ face on the pillow, and the way, for an insane moment, another face had seemed to peer down between her fingers. The Last European had been watching, even then; sharing the experience. A ménage à trois for male, female and occupying spirit. Its obscenity touched deeper chords of anger in him: not the superficial rage of a righteous man, but a profound rejection of the European in all his decadence. Whatever happened as a consequence, he would not be talked into leaving Carys to Mamoulian’s devices. If need be he’d take her against her will. When she was out of this buzzing house, with the despair peeling the wallpaper, she’d remember how good life could be; he’d make her remember. He stepped toward her again, and went down on his haunches to touch her. She flinched.
“He’s occupied-” he reassured her, “-he’s at the casino.”
“He’ll kill you,” she said simply, “if he finds you’ve been here.”
“He’ll kill me whatever happens now. I’ve interfered. I’ve seen his hidey-hole, and I’m going to do damage to it before we go, just so he remembers me.”
“Do whatever you want to do.” She shrugged. “It’s up to you. But leave me be.”
“So Papa was right,” Marty said bitterly.
“Papa? What did he tell you?”
“That you wanted to be with Mamoulian all along.”
“No.”
“You want to be like him!”
“No, Marty, no!”
“I suppose he supplies the best-quality dope, eh? And I can’t, can I?” She didn’t deny this; just looked sullen. “What the fuck am I doing here?” he said. “You’re happy, aren’t you? Christ; you’re happy.”
It was laughable to think how he’d misunderstood the politics of this rescue. She was content in this hovel, as long as she was supplied. Her talk of Mamoulian’s invasions were window dressing. In her heart she could forgive him every crime he perpetrated as long as the dope kept coming.
He stood up. “Where’s his room?”
“No, Marty.”
“I want to see where he sleeps. Where is it?”
She pulled herself up on his arm. Her hands were hot and damp.
“Please leave, Marty. This isn’t a game. It’s not all going to be forgiven when we come to the end, you know? It doesn’t even stop when you die. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I understand.” He put his palm on her face. Her breath smelled sour. His too, he thought, but for the whisky.