“I was afraid of you coming,” he said, by way of explanation. “That’s why I bought the dogs. You know how I loathe dogs. But I knew you loathed them more.”
Mamoulian put his finger to his lips to hush Whitehead’s talk.
“I forgive the dogs,” he said. Whom was he forgiving: the animals or the man who’d used them against him?
“Why did you have to come back?” Whitehead said. “You must have known I wouldn’t welcome you.”
“You know why I came.”
“No I don’t. Really. I don’t.”
“Joseph,” Mamoulian sighed. “Don’t treat me like one of your politicians. I’m not to be paid off in promises, then thrown away when your fortunes change. You can’t treat me like that.”
“I didn’t.”
“No lies, please. Not now. Not with so little time left to us. This time, this last time, let us be honest with each other. Let us spill our hearts. There won’t be any more opportunities.”
“Why not? Why can’t we start again?”
“We’re old. And tired.”
“I’m not.”
“Why haven’t you fought for your Empire, then, if not because of fatigue?”
“That was your doing?” Whitehead asked, already certain of the reply.
Mamoulian nodded. “You’re not the only man I’ve helped to fortune. I’ve got friends in the highest circles; all, like you, students of Providence. They could buy and sell half the world if I asked them to; they owe me that. But none of them were ever quite like you, Joseph. You were the hungriest, and the ablest. Only with you did I see a chance of-”
“Go on,” Whitehead prompted. “Chance of what?”
“Salvation,” Mamoulian replied, then laughed the thought off. “Of all things,” he said quietly.
Whitehead had never imagined it would be like this: a hushed debate in a white-tiled room, two old men exchanging hurts. Turning the memories over like stones, and watching the lice scuttle away. It was so much more gentle and so much more painful. Nothing scourged like loss.
“I made mistakes,” he said, “and I’m genuinely sorry for them.”
“Tell me the truth,” Mamoulian scolded.
“That is the truth, damn it. I’m sorry. What more do you want? Land? Companies? What do you want?”
“You amaze me, Joseph. Even now, in extremis, you try to make bargains. What a loss you are. What a terrible loss. I could have made you great.”
“I am great.”
“You know better than that, Pilgrim,” he said gently. “What would you have been, without me? With your glib tongue and your fancy suits. An actor? A car salesman? A thief?”
Whitehead flinched, not just at the taunts. The steam had become uneasy behind Mamoulian, as if ghosts had begun to move in it.
“You were nothing. At least have the good grace to admit that.”
“I took you on,” Whitehead pointed out.
“Oh, yes,” said Mamoulian. “You had appetite, I grant you. You had that in abundance.”
“You needed me,” Whitehead retorted. The European had wounded him; now, despite his better judgment, he wanted to wound in return. This was his world, after all. The European was a trespasser here: unarmed, unaided. And he had asked for the truth to be told. Well, he’d hear it, ghosts or no ghosts.
“Why would I need you?” Mamoulian asked. There was sudden contempt in his tone. “What are you worth?”
Whitehead held off answering for a moment; and then he was spilling the words, careless of the consequences.
“To live for you, because you were too bloodless to do it for yourself! That was why you picked me up. To taste it all through me. The women, the power: all of it.”
“No…”
“You’re looking sick, Mamoulian-”
He called the European by his name. See that? God, the ease of it. He called the bastard by his name, and he didn’t look away when those eyes glinted, because he was telling the truth here, wasn’t he? They both knew it. Mamoulian was pale; almost insipid. Drained of the will to live. Suddenly, Whitehead began to know he could win this confrontation, if he was clever.
“Don’t try to fight,” Mamoulian said. “I will have my due.”
“Which is?”
“You. Your death. Your soul, for want of a better word.”