"Asimov, Isaac - One Night of Song" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

sion he gave me. He sat here drinking with me, here in this very
room. My heart bled for him and I said,"I'm sorry, Mortenson,
but you mustn't take on so. When you stop to think of it clearly,
she's only a woman. If you look out in the street, there are lots of
them passing by."
He said, bitterly, "I intend a womanless existence from now
on, old man--except for my wife, of course, whom, every now
and then, I can't avoid. It's just that I'd like to do something in
return to this woman."
"To your wife?" I said.
"No, no, why should I like to do something to my wife? I'm
talking about doing something for this woman who threw me
over so heartlessly."
"Like what?"
"Damned if I know," said he.
"Maybe I can help," I said, for my heart was still bleeding for
him."I can make use of a spirit with quite extraordinary powers.
A small spirit, of course"--I held my finger and thumb up less
than an inch apart so that he was sure to get the idea--"who can
only do so much."
I told him about Azazel and, of course, he believed me. I've
often noticed that I carry conviction when I tell a tale. Now
when you tell a story, old man, the air of disbelief that descends
upon the room is thick enough to cut with a chain saw, but it's
not that way with me. There's nothing like a reputation for pro-
bity and an air of honest directness.
His eyes glittered as I told him. He said could he arrange to
give her something that I would ask for.
"If it's presentable, old man. I hope you have nothing in your
mind like making her smell bad or having a toad drop out of her
mouth when she talks."
"Of course not," he said, revolted. "What do you take me for?
She gave me two happy years, on and off, and I want to make an
adequate return. You say your spirit has only limited power?"
"He is a small thing," I said, holding up my thumb and fore-
finger again.
"Could he give her a perfect voice? For a time, anyway. At
least for one performance."
"I'll ask him." Mortenson's suggestion sounded the gentle-
manly thing to do. His ex-mistress sang cantatas at the local
church, if that's the proper term. In those days I had quite an
ear for music and would frequently go to these things (taking
care to dodge the collection box, of course). I rather enjoyed
hearing her sing and the audience seemed to absorb it politely
enough. I thought at the time that her morals didn't quite suit
the surroundings, but Mortenson said they made allowances for
sopranos.
So I consulted Azazel. He was quite willing to help; none of
this nonsense, you know, of demanding my soul in exchange. I
remember I once asked Azazel if he wanted my soul and he