“Do you want me to come?”
“No. But you could open the door for me, if you would.”
Breer went to the back door and punched out the glass, then reached through and unlocked it, letting Mamoulian into the kitchen.
“Thank you. Wait here for me.”
The European disappeared into the blue gloom of the interior. Breer watched him go, and once his master was out of sight, entered the Sanctuary after him, blood and smiles wreathing his face.
Though the pall of steam muffled the sound, Whitehead had the impression that somebody was moving around in the house. Strauss, probably: the man had become restless recently. Whitehead let his eyes drift closed again.
Somewhere close by, he heard a door opening and closing, the door of the antechamber beyond the steam room. He stood up, and quizzed the gloom.
“Marty?”
There was no answer from Marty or anybody else. The certainty of having heard a door at all faltered. It wasn’t always easy to judge sound here. Nor vision. The steam had thickened considerably; he could no longer see across to the other side of the room.
“Is there somebody there?” he asked.
The steam was a dead, gray wall in front of his eyes. He cursed himself for letting it get so heavy.
“Martin?” he said again. Though there was neither sight nor sound to confirm his suspicions, he knew he wasn’t alone. Somebody was very close, and yet not answering. When he spoke he reached, inch by tremulous inch, across the tiles to the towel folded at his side. His fingers investigated the fold while his eyes stayed fixed on the steam-wall; in the towel was a gun. His grateful fingers located it.
This time more quietly, he addressed the invisible visitor. The gun gave him confidence.
“I know you’re there. Show yourself, you bastard. I won’t be terrorized.”
Something moved in the steam. Eddies began, and multiplied. Whitehead could hear the double thump of his heart in his ears. Whoever it was (let it not be him, oh, Christ, let it not be him) he was ready. And then, without warning, the steam divided, killed by a sudden cold. The old man raised the gun. If it was Marty out there, and he was playing some sick joke, he was going to regret it. The hand that held the gun had begun to tremble.
And now, finally, there was a figure in front of him. It was still indecipherable in the mist. At least it was until a voice he’d heard a hundred times in his vodka-sodden dreams said:
“Pilgrim. ”
The steam shrank back. The European was there, standing in front of him. His face had scarcely conceded the seventeen years since last they’d met. The domed brow, the eyes set so deep in their orbits they glinted like water at the bottom of a well. He had changed so little, as though time-in awe of him-had passed him by.
“Sit down,” he said.
Whitehead didn’t move; the gun was still pointed directly at the European.
“Please, Joseph. Sit down.”
Might it be better if he sat? Might the death blows be avoided by a feigned meekness? Or was it melodrama to think that this man would stoop to blows? What kind of dream have I been living in, Whitehead chided himself, to think he’d come here to bruise me, to bleed me? Such eyes have more than bruising on their mind.
He sat down. He was aware of his nakedness, but he didn’t much care. Mamoulian wasn’t seeing his flesh; he looked deeper than fat and bone.
Whitehead could feel the stare in him now; it stroked his heart. How else was he to explain the relief he felt, seeing the European at last?
“It’s so long . . .” was all he could say: a limping banality. Did he sound like a hopeful lover, longing for a reconciliation? Perhaps that wasn’t so far from the truth. The singularity of their mutual hatred had the purity of love.
The European studied him.
“Pilgrim,” he murmured reproachfully, glancing at the gun, “there’s no need. Or use.”
Whitehead smiled and laid the gun down on the towel beside him.