A
LV
SEEMINGLY interminable ride followed, they rattled over rough
stones, rolled with a clacking tire over asphalt. A smell
unnamable, fulsome, corrupt, hung in Anthony's nostrils; the
driver objurgated his horse in a desperate whisper; Tom's head fell
from side to side on his breast. The mists surged about Anthony,
veiling, obscuring all but the sullen purpose compressing his heart,
throbbing in his brain.
There was a halt, a rocking pavement and unctuous tones. Then a
hall, a room, and the tinny racket of a piano, feminine voices that, at
the same time, were hoarsely sexless, empty, like harsh echoes flung
from a rocky void. A form in red silk took possession of Anthony's
hand, sat by his side; a hot breath, a whisper, flattened against his
ear. At times he could distinguish Tom's accents; he seemed to be
arguing masterfully, but a shrill, voluble stream kept pace with him,
silenced him in the end.
Anthony strove against great, inimical forces to maintain his sanity
of action, ensure his purpose: he sat with a grim, haggard face as
rigid as wood, as tense as metal. The cloudy darkness swept over
him, impenetrable, appalling; through it he seemed to drop for
miles, for years, for centuries; it lightened, and he found himself
clutching the sides of his chair, shuddering over the space which, he
had felt, gaped beneath him.
In moments of respite he saw, gliding through the heated glare,
gaily-clad forms; they danced; yet for all the dancing, for all the
colors, they were more sinister than merry, they were incomparably
more grievous than gay. A tray of beer glasses was held before him,
but he waved it aside. “Champagne,” he muttered. The husky voices
commended him; a bare arm crept around his neck, soft, stifling;
the red silk form was like a blot of blood on the gloom; it spread
over his arm like a tide of blood welling from his torn heart.