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estine's cruelties Jude wasn't about to withhold the news。
〃Sartori isn't dead；〃 she said。
Celestine had turned her face to the wall； but now looked back at Jude。 〃Not dead？〃
〃I'll find him for you if you want；〃 Jude said。
〃You'd do that？〃
〃Yes。〃
〃Are you his mistress？〃
〃Not exactly。〃
〃Where is he？ Is he near？〃
〃I don't know where he is。 Somewhere in the city。〃
〃Yes。 Fetch him。 Please； fetch him。〃 She hauled herself up the wall。 〃He doesn't know my name； but I know him。〃
〃So who shall I tell him you are？〃
〃Ask him 。。。 ask him if he remembers Nisi Nirvana。〃
〃Who？〃
〃Just tell him。〃
〃Nisi Nirvana？〃
〃That's right。〃
Jude stood up and returned to the hole in the wall； but as she was about to step out Celestine recalled her。
〃What's your name？〃 she asked。
〃Judith。〃…〃Well； Judith； not only do you stink of coitus； but you have in your hand some piece of flesh which you haven't given up clutching。 Whatever it is； let it go。〃
Appalled； Jude looked down at her hand。 The curiosity was still in her possession； half hanging from her fist。 She pitched it away； into the dust。
〃Do you wonder I took you for a whore？〃 Celestine remarked。
〃Then we've both made mistakes；〃 Jude replied； looking back at her。 〃I thought you were my salvation。〃
〃Yours was the greater error；〃 Celestine replied。
Jude didn't grace this last piece of spite with a reply but headed out of the cell。 The mites that had exited Dowd's body were still crawling around aimlessly； looking for a new bolthole； but the flesh they'd vacated had upped and gone。 She wasn't altogether surprised。 Dowd was an actor to his core。 He would postpone his farewell scene as long as possible； in the hope that he'd be at center stage when the final curtain fell。 A hopeless ambition； given the fame of his fellow players； and one Jude wasn't foolish enough to share。 The more she learned about the drama unfolding around her； with its roots in the tale of Christos the Reconciler； the more resigned she was to having little or no role in it。 Like the Fourth Magi； expunged from the Nativity； she wasn't wanted in the Gospel about to be written； and having seen the pitiful place a king's testament had e to； she was not about to waste time writing her own。
13
Clem's duties were done for the night。 He'd been out since seven the previous evening； about the same business that took him out every night： the shepherding of those among the city's homeless too frail or too young to survive long on its streets with only concrete and cardboard for a bed。 Midsummer Night was only two days away； and the hours of darkness were short and relatively balmy； but there were other stalkers besides the cold that preyed on the weak…all human…and the work of denying them their quarry took him through the empty hours after midnight and left him； as now； exhausted； but too full of feeling to lay down his head and sleep。 He'd seen more human misery in the three months he'd been working with the homeless than in the four decades preceding that。 People living in the extremes of deprivation within spitting distance of the city's most conspicuous symbols of justice； faith； and democracy： without money； without hope； and many （these the saddest） without much left of their sanity。 When he returned home after these nightly treks； the hole left in him by Taylor's passing not filled but at least forgotten for a while； it was with expressions of such despair in his head that his own； met in the mirror； seemed almost blithe。
Tonight； however； he lingered in the dark city longer than usual。 Once the sun was up he knew he'd have little or no chance of sleeping； but sleep was of little consequence to him at the moment。 It was two days since he'd had the visitation that had sent him to Judy's doorstep with tales of angels； and since then there'd been no further hint of Taylor's presence。 But there were other hints； not in the house but out here in the streets； that powers were abroad which his dear Taylor was just one sweet part of。
He'd had evidence of this only a short time ago。 Just after midnight a man called Tolland； apparently much feared among the fragile munities that gathered to sleep under the bridges and in the stations of Westminster； had gone on a rampage in Soho。 He'd wounded two alcoholics in a back street； their sole offense to be in his path when his temper flowed。 Clem had witnessed none of this； but had arrived after Tolland's arrest to see if he could coax from the gutter some of those whose beds and belongings had been demolished。 None would go with him； however； and in the course of his vain persuasions one of the number； a woman he'd never seen without tears on her face until now； had smiled at him and said he should stay out in the open with them tonight rather than hiding in his bed； because the Lord was ing； and it would be the people on the streets who saw Him first。 Had it not been for Taylor's fleeting reappearance in his life； Clem would have dismissed the woman's blissful talk； but there were too many imponderables in the air for him to ignore the vaguest signpost to the miraculous。 He'd asked the woman what Lord this was that was ing； and she'd replied； quite sensibly； that it didn't matter。 Why should she care what Lord it was； she said； as long as He came？
Now it was an hour before dawn； and he was trudging across Waterloo Bridge because he'd heard the psychopathic Tolland had usually kept to the South Bank and something odd must have happened to drive him across the river。 A faint clue； to be sure； but enough to keep Clem walking； though hearth and pillow lay in the opposite direction。
The concrete bunkers of the South Bank plex had been a favorite bete grise of Taylor's； their ugliness railed against whenever the subject of contemporary architecture came up in conversation。 The darkness presently concealed their drab； stained facades； but it also turned the maze of underpasses and walkways around them into terrain no bourgeois would tread for fear of his life or his wallet。 Recent experience had taught Clem to ignore such anxieties。 Warrens such as this usually contained individuals more aggressed against than aggressive； souls whose shouts were defenses against imagined enemies and whose tirades； however terrifying they might seem emerging from shadow； usually dwindled into tears。
In fact； he'd not heard a whisper from the murk as he descended from the bridge。 The cardboard city was visible where its suburbs spilled out into the meager lamplight； but the bulk of it lay under cover of the walkways； out of sight and utterly quiet。 He began to suspect that the lunatic Tolland was not the only tenant who'd left his plot to travel north and； stooping to peer into the boxes on the outskirts； had that suspicion confirmed。 He headed into shadow； fishing his pencil torch from his pocket to light the way。 There was the usual detritus on the ground： spoiled scraps of food； broken bottles； vomit stains。 But the boxes； and the beds of newspaper and filthy blankets they contained； were empty。 More curious than ever； he wandered on through the rubbish； hoping to find a soul here too weak or too crazy to leave； who could explain this migration。 But he passed through the city without finding a single occupant； emerging into what the planners of this concrete hell had designed as a children's playground。 All that remained of their good intentions were the grimy bones of a slide and a jungle gym。 The paving beyond them； however； was covered in fresh color； and advancing to the spot Clem found himself in the middle of a kitsch exhibition： crude chalk copies of movie…star portraits and glamour girls everywhere underfoot。
He ran the beam over the ground； following the trail of images。 It led him to a wall； which was also decorated； but by a very different hand。 Here was no mere copyist's work。 This image was on such a grand scale Clem had to play his torch beam back and forth across it to grasp its splendor。 A group of philanthropic muralists had apparently taken it upon themselves to enliven this underworld； and the result was a dream landscape； its sky green； with streaks of brilliant yellow； the plain beneath orange and red。 Set on the