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

control.
And she got better with each note. The organist wasn't look-
ing at the music, he was looking at her, and --- I can't swear to it
--but I think he stopped playing. If he were playing, I wouldn't
have heard him anyway. There was no way in which you could
hear anything while she was singing. Anything else but her.
The look of surprise had vanished from her face, and there
was a look of exaltation there instead. She had put down the
music she had been holding; she didn't need it. Her voice was
singing by itself and she didn't need to control or direct it. The
conductor was rigid and everyone else in the chorus seemed
dumbfounded.
The solo ended at last and the chorus sounded in what was a
whisper, as though they were all ashamed of their voices and
distressed to turn them loose in the same church on the same
night.
For the rest of the program it was all her. When she sang, it
was all that was heard even if every other voice was sounding.
When she didn't sing, it was as though we were sitting in the
dark, and we couldn't bear the absence of light.
And when it was over--well, you don't applaud in church,
but they did then. Everyone in the church stood up as though
they had been yanked to their feet by a single marionette string,
and they applauded and applauded, and it was clear they would
applaud all night unless she sang again.
She did sing again; her voice alone, with the organ whispering
hesitantly in the background; with the spotlight on her; with no
one else in the chorus visible.
Effortless. You have no idea how effortless it was. I wrenched
my ears away from the sound to try to watch her breathing, to
catch her taking in breath, to wonder how long a note could be
held at full volume with only one pair of lungs to supply the air.
But it had to end and it was over. Even the applause was over.
It was only then that I became aware that, next to me, Morten-
son had been sitting with his eyes glittering, with his whole being
absorbed in her singing. It was only then that I began to gather
what had happened.
I am, after all, as straight as a Euclidean line and have no
deviousness in me, so I couldn't be expected to see what he was
after. You, on the other hand, who are so crooked you can run
up a spiral staircase without making any turns, can see at a
glance what he was after.
She had sung perfectly--but she would never sing perfectly
again.
It was as though she were blind from birth, and for just three
hours could see--see all there was to see, all the colors and
shapes and wonders that surround us all and that we pay no
attention to because we're so used to it. Suppose you could see it
all in its full glory for just three hours--and then be blind again!
You could stand your blindness if you knew nothing else. But