“Extraordinary,” she said. It was. Revolting, but extraordinary.
“That’s not all,” he said, pleased by her response.
It was best to let him go on with this bizarre display, she reasoned. The longer he took showing her these perversities, the more chance there was of Marty coming back.
“What else can you do?” she asked.
He let go of her hand and started to unbuckle his belt.
“I’ll show you,” he replied, unbuttoning.
Oh, Christ, she thought, stupid, stupid, stupid. His arousal at this exhibition was absolutely plain even before he had his trousers down.
“I’m past pain now,” he explained courteously. “No pain, whatever I do to myself. The Razor-Eater feels nothing.”
He was naked beneath his trousers. “See?” he said, proudly.
She saw. His groin was completely shaved, and the region sported an array-of self-inflicted adornments. Hooks and rings transfixing the fat of his lower belly and his genitals. His testicles bristled with needles.
“Touch me,” he invited.
“No . . . thank you,” she said.
He frowned; his upper lip curled to expose teeth that in his pale flesh looked bright yellow.
“I want you to touch me,” he said, and reached for her.
“Breer. ”
The Razor-Eater stood absolutely still. Only his eyes flickered.
“Let her alone.”
She knew the voice; too well. It was the Architect, of course; her dreamguide.
“I didn’t hurt her,” Breer mumbled. “Did I? Tell him I didn’t hurt you.”
“Cover yourself up,” the European said.
Breer hoisted up his trousers like a boy caught masturbating, and moved away from Carys, throwing her a conspiratorial glance. Only now did the speaker come into the steam room. He was taller than she’d dreamed he’d be, and more doleful.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His tone was that of the perfect maitre d’, apologizing for a gauche waiter.
“She was sick,” Breer said. “That’s why I broke in.”
“Sick?”
“Talking to the wall,” he blustered. “Calling after her mother.”
The Architect understood the observation immediately. He looked at Carys keenly.
“So you saw?” he said.
“What was it?”
“Nothing you need ever suffer again,” he replied.
“My mother was there. Evangeline.”
“Forget it all,” he said. “That horror’s for others, not for you.” Listening to his calm voice was mesmeric. She found it difficult to recall her nightmares of nullity; his presence canceled memory.
“I think perhaps you should come with me,” he said.
“Why?”
“Your father’s going to die, Carys.”
“Oh?” she said.
She felt utterly removed from herself. Fears were a thing of the past in his courteous presence.
“If you stay here, you’ll only suffer with him, and there’s no need for that.”
It was a seductive offer; never to live under the old man’s thumb again, never to endure his kisses, that tasted so old. Carys glanced at Breer.
“Don’t be afraid of him,” the Architect reassured her, laying a hand. on the back of her neck. “He is nothing and no one. You’re safe with me.”
“She could run away,” Breer protested, when the European had let Carys go off to her room to gather up her belongings.
“She will never leave me,” Mamoulian replied. “I mean her no harm and she knows it. I rocked her once, in these arms.”
“Naked, was she?”
“A tiny thing: so vulnerable.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper: “She deserved better than him.”
Breer said nothing; simply lolled insolently against the wall, peeling dried blood from under his nails with a razor. He was deteriorating faster than the European had anticipated. He’d hoped Breer would survive until all of this chaos was over, but knowing the old man, he’d wheedle and prevaricate, and what should have taken days would occupy weeks, by which time the Razor-Eater’s condition would be poor indeed. The European felt weary. Finding and controlling a substitute for Breer would be a drain on his already depleted energies.
Presently, Carys came downstairs.
In some ways he regretted losing his spy in the enemy camp, but there were too many variables remaining if he didn’t take her. For one, she had knowledge of him, deeper knowledge than she was perhaps aware of. She knew instinctively his terrors of the flesh; witness the way she had driven him out when she and Strauss had been together. She knew too his weariness, his dwindling faith. But there was another reason to take her. Whitehead had said that she was his only comfort. If they took her now the pilgrim would be alone, and that would be agony. Mamoulian trusted it would prove unendurable.