Gun for the Devil-2
American Ghosts and Old World Wonders 作者：安吉拉·卡特 投票推荐 加入书签 留言反馈
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At the Mendozas diable, her father sits pig his teeth with his knife."I want to learn the piano, papa."
He tio pick his teeth with his knife. She didnt want to learn the piano at the damn vent; why does she want to learn it now? To be a lady, Papa; isnt she going to have a grand wedding, marry a fine man? "Papa, I want to learn the piano."
Teresa is spoiled, indulged ihing. But her father likes to tease her; hell drag out her pleading as long as he . He doesnt often have his daughter pleading with him. He cuts himself a k more meat, munches.
"And who will teach you piano in his hole, hm?"
"Johnny. Johnny at Aunt Roxanas."
Hes suddenly really angry. You see what an animal he bee.
"What? My daughter learn piano in a brothel? Uhe eye of that fat whore, Roxana?"
Maria leaps to her sisters defence, surging down on her husband with the carving knife held high. "Dont you insult my sister!"
Mendoza twists her wrist; she drops the knife. "Im not having my daughter mixing with whores!"
"I want to learn piano," the spoiled child insists.
"Over my dead body will you go to Roxanas to learn the piano, not now you are an engaged girl."
"Then, papa, buy me a piano, let Johnny e here to teach me."
A creaking wagon delivers a shiny, new, baby grand in the courtyard of the rotting hada, among the grunting pigs and flapping chis.
Effortlessly, its installed in Teresas room; entranced, she picks a<cite>..</cite>t the notes. "Kitty, kitty, the young man in the black jacket is ing to teach me piano. . ."
Her mother chaperones her, sitting, lolling in a rog-chair, sipping tequila. Johnny, , elegant, a stranger, damned, with a portfolio of musider his arm, has e to give Teresa lessons. First, scales. . . soon, y exercises. Johnny waits, watchful, biding his time.
Bored, her mother sips tequila and nods off to sleep. . . A y exercise; Teresa hasnt quite mastered it. Making a mess of it, in fact. On purpose? Johnnys presence makes her flutter.
Johnny stands behind her, showing her where to put her hands. His long, white hands cover her little, brown paws with the bitten fingernails.
She turns to him. They kiss. Shes eager, willing; hes surprised by her enthusiasm, almost taken aback. Despises her. Its going to be almost too easy!
But where is the sedu to be aplished? Not in Teresas bedroom, with her mother dozing in the rog-chair. Not in Johnnys room at the brothel, either, under Aunt Roxanas watchful eye.
"In church, Johnny; nobody will look for lovers there."
A huge, cavernous, almost cathedral, built in expectation of mass versions among the Indians, now almost in ruins, on a kind of bluff, brooding over the half-ruined village. Empty. And they make love on the floor of the church, the savage child, the vengeance-seeker. Afterwards, triumphant, she buries her fa his breast, shrieking flee; he is detached, rejoig in his own ess, his own wiess.
eresa wanders down the aisle of the church towards the altar, stands looking up vaguely at the rococo Christ. She pokes out her to her saviour.
"Ill be here again, soon. Im going to be married."
"Married?"
"To a fine bandit gentleman." Makes a face. "Because I have no brothers, I am the heiress. My son will i everything, but first I must be married."
"Oh, no," says Johnny, lost, goo his vengeance. "You wont be married. I wo you be married."
Suspicious, at first. Then. . . "Do you love me?" Exultant, shouting. "So you love me! You must love me! Youll take me away!"
The t rummages through a trunk in his and Roxanas bedroom, he gets out old books and curious instruments. The room is full of mysterious shadows. Roxana tries the door, finds that it is locked; she rattles the handle agitatedly. "What are you up to? What secrets do you have from me? Is it the old secret? Is it --"藏书网
The t lets her in, takes her into his arms. "Hell take the burden fr<big>9９ｌｉb?</big>om me, Roxana. He wants to, hes willing, he knows. . ."
"Your. . . son has e to set you free?"
"Not my son, Roxana."
She is so relieved that she almost fets the dark import of what hes saying. Yet she must ask him: "And whats the price?"
"High, Roxana. Do you love a poor old man, do you love him more than you love your kin?"
Wide-eyed, she stares at him.
"Yes, old man, I do believe I do. Its been so long, now, since weve been together. . ."
"Well be together forever, Roxana."
So he goes on assembling his occult materials and now she helps him. She has only one reservation. "The little Teresa, nothing must happen to her. . ."
"No. Not Teresa. What harm has she ever doo anyone? Not Teresa."
An eclipse of the moon. In the church, in darkness, at the altar, the t and Johnny summon the appropriate demon -- the Archer of the Dark Abyss. Such a storm! Out of nowhere, a great wind, whirling the dust into a sandstorm. Roxana, alone in her bedroom full of curious shadows, draws the shutters close and mutters prayers, intations.
The great wind blows open the doors of the church, sets them creaking on their hinges. Out of the sandstorms, halluatory figures emerge and merge, figures of demons ods not necessarily those of Europe. The unknown ti, the new world, issues forth its banned daemonology.
The t has summoned up more than he bargained for. He and Johnny crou the pentacle; Aztec<s>９９lｉb?</s> and Toltec gods appear in giant forms. The church seems to have disappeared.
Wheual is done, all clears; the interior of the church is a shambles, however, the Christ over the altar cast down on its face. Johnny and the t pick themselves up from the floor, where the wind has left them. The t is coughing horribly, his face is livid; the rite has nearly killed him.
Outside, all is calm now, a clear, bright night. The moon is ba the heavens again. Johnny, a man in the grip of a mania, stern, firm, helps the shaking t to his feet.
"Where is the on?"
"He has e. Hes waiting. Hell give it to us."
Outside, against the wall, so still hes almost part of the landscape, an Indian sits in the dark, poncho, slouch hat, waiting, impassive.
The t, leaning heavily on Johnny, greets the Indian with some courtly ceremony. But Johnny barks: "Got the gun?"
"I got it."
The gun ges hands. Johnny grabs it.
"How much?"
"On at," says the Indian and grins. "On at."
He tips his hat. His pony, in the graveyard, grazes on a grave. The two Europeans watch him walk towards his pony, mount, ride. In the immeillness of the night, his hoofbeats diminish.
Johnny is the Wier repeater in his hands; it looks perfectly normal. Not used to guns, he ha clumsily. His disappoi is obvious.
"Whats so special about it? Could have bought one iore."
"It will fire seven bullets," says the t, impassive as any Indian. "And the seventh bullet is the ohat he put in it, it belongs to him."
"But --"
"The seventh bullet is the devils own. He will fire the seventh shot for you, even though you pull the trigger. But the other six t miss their targets. Though youve never used a gun before."
Incredulous, Johnny takes aim, fires at a movement in the darkness. He rushes towards the scream. His target, Teresas kitten, dead.
"Five left now, for your own use," says the t. "Use them sparingly. They e at a high price."
Teresa wants her kitten. "Kitty! Kitty!" But the kitte e. "The dogs have eaten it," says Teresas mother. "And hold still, Teresa, youre wriggling like an eel; how I fit your wedding-dress. . . ?"
Its a store-bought wedding-dress, e oagecoach from Mexico City. All white lace. And a veil! In front of the clouded mirror in Teresas bedroom, Maria pops the veil on her daughters head; what a picture. But Teresa sulks.
"I dont want to get married."
Too bad, Teresa! Tomorrow you must and will get married.
I wont. I wont!
You wont wheedle your father out of this one, not this time.
Teresa, in her wedding finery, picks out a few notes of the "Wedding March" on her piano; furious, she slams the lid shut.
Johnny, at the piano in the whorehouse, plays a few bars of the "Wedding March"; a wedding guest, drunk, flings his glass at the mirror behind the bar, smashing it. The whores superstitiously huddle and mutter. The place is packed out with wedding guests, all notable villains. But there is too much tension to be any joy. Roxana, unsmiling, rings up the price of a replat mirror on her cash register. The t, morose, stoops over his drink at the bar. The wedding guests treat him with genial pt.
Teresa creeps out of her bedroom window, steals along the street, ceals herself hastily in the shadows when an Indian on a pony es riding dowreet.
Her lover waits for her by the scummy pond. Take me away. Save me! He strokes her hair with the first sign of tenderness. Perhaps he will take her away, if she bear to look at him after the holocaust. Perhaps. . .
Its very late, now. Only the t stays up. Hes gazing at the recumbent form of a wedding guest passed out on the floor, sn. The whores have stuck a feather hat on the visitors head, taken off his trousers, daubed his face with rouge.
When Johnny es in, the t silently pours him a drink. He looks at the boy with, almost, love -- certainly with some emotion.
"I could almost ask you. . ."
Johnny smiles, shakes his head, whistles a few bars of Chopins "Funeral March".
"But then. . . be good to the little Teresa. The prince of darkness is a gentleman. . . "
Maybe. Maybe not. But, maybe. . .
How Teresas hair tangles in the b! A great bustle in the Mendoza encampment; theyve got a carriage for her, decked it with exuberant paper flowers. But she herself is nervous, anxious; she chews at her underlip, she lets the women dress her as if she were a doll. Her mother, oddly respectable in black, weeps copiously. Teresa, in her wedding-dress and veil, suddenly turns to her mother and hugs her vulsively. The womaurns the embrace fiercely.
Johnny kisses the photographs of his father and mother. Its time. Unhandily carrying the rifle, in his music students black velvet jacket, elegant, deadly, mad, he goes towards the church.
Theyve put back the rococo, suffering Christ; Johnny crouches beh him, hiding uhe skirts of the altar cloth. He tests the weight of the gun in his hand, peers through the sights.
The t wont go to the wedding. No, he wont! He wo out of bed. Please, Roxana, dont you go to the weddiher! What? Not see my little eresa get married? And you should e, too, you irreligious old man. Arent you fond of Teresa?
But the t is sick this m. He t crawl out of bed. He coughs, stares at the ominous bloodstains on his handkerchief.
"Im dying, Roxana. Dont leave me."
Though the bridegroom has arrived already, a huge brute, the image of Teresas father. He takes his place before the altar. The gregation rustles. The an plays softly.
Roxana, late, troubled, untidily dressed, slips in at the back of the church.
Teresa steps out of the flower-decorated carriage in front of the church. Shes really worried, now, looking desperately around for Johnny. Her mother kisses her, again; this time, the girl doesnt respond, shes got too mu her mind. Her mother and the Mendoza women folk ehe church. Her father, a little dressed up, boots polished, offers her his arm.
Traditional gasps as she walks down the aisle -- isnt she lovely! Even if her eyes search round and round the church for her rescuer. Where he be? What will he do to save me?
The an rings out.
Teresa arrives beside her bridegroom. From beh her veil, she gives him a swift glance of furious dislike. The priest says the first words of the wedding service.
Johnny flings back the altar cloth, leaps oar, shoots point-blank the wide-eyed, open-mouthed Mendoza.
Mendoza tumbles backwards dowar steps.
Silehen, shouting. Then, gunfire. Havoc!
But no bullet touch Johnny; he shoots the bridegroom as the bridegroom leaps forward to attack him; shoots three -- four -- into the crowd of Mendoza desperadoes, two men fall.
Teresa, in her wedding finery, stands speechless, shocked.
Her mother, wailing, rushes from the crowd towards her dead husband.
Johnny aims, shoots Maria. She drops dead on to the body of her husband.
Teresa at last wakes up. She rushes through the havo the church; she is appalled, the world has e to an end.
Roxana fights free of the crowd and goes running <samp></samp>after her. The church is a melee of shots, noise, gunsmoke.
Outside the church, the girl and womaeresa t speak. Roxana hugs her, grabs her hand, pulls her dowh, towards the whorehouse.
Johs from the church door. Now hes like a mad dog. Blazing, furious, deadly -- carrying a gun.
By the scummy pool, Roxana hears Johnny ing after them. She drags Teresa faster, faster -- the girl stumbles over her white lace hem, now filthy with dust and blood. Faster, faster -- hes ing, the murderers ing, the devil himself is ing!
The ts mistress and the beloved little Teresa run towards the whorehouse, where the t gazes out of the window; run towards him, with the madman hot on their heels.
The t opens the whorehouse door.
Hes carrying the rifle that hangs on the wall of the bar.
Slowly, shakily, he raises it.
Hes aiming at Johnny.
Teresa sees him, breaks free of Roxanas hand, dashes back towards her lover -- to try to protect him? Some reason, suffit to her hysteria.
Johnny, startled, halts; so the old mans turned against him, has he? The old mans turned his own magic rifle on the young ohe acolyte!
He takes aim at the t, fires the seventh bullet.
Hes fotten its the seventh bullet, fottehing except the sudden ease with which he kill.
He fires the seventh bullet and Teresa drops dead by the side of the scummy pool. Her lace train slides down into the water.
The t bursts into a great fit of tears. Roxana kneels by the dead girl, uselessly speaks to her, closes her eyes gently. Crosses herself. Gives the weeping t, slumped on the whorehouse veranda, a long, dark look.
The crowd spills out of the church. Johnny drops his gun, turns, runs.
Coda
Almost the desert. White, fantastic rocks, sand, burning sun. Johnny stole one of the Mendozas horses; now it founders beh him. He shades his eyes; theres a village in the distance. . .
But this village seems deserted. A weird, shabby figure in his music-students black jacket, he draws water from the well, drinks. At last, a thin, ragged, filthy child emerges from the derelict house.
"The smallpox came. All dead, all dead."
Flies buzz on an unburied corpse in a murky interior. Johnches. Hes white-faced, fevered -- you would have said, a man with the devil pursuing him.
At the end of the village, gazing across the acres of desert before him, a figure is propped against the wall, a figure so still, so silent as at first to seem part of the landscape. He smiles to see Johnny stumbling towards him.
"I was waiting for you," says the Indian who sold Johnny the gun. "We have some busio clude."
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