"David Brin - A Stage of Memory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brin David)

"And speaking of piece, where does a bird like you get off talking to me like that?
I picked you out of a bloody chorus line, gave you your first frigging break, and the
best frigging time in your life."
Tall and slender, the woman in the doorway had braided black hair and a dancer's
body. He knew that body and the smell of that hair as well as he knew his own.
Right now he radiated a loathing tailored by his knowledge of her, enjoying the
carefully chosen words with an actors pride.
"If I weren't so goddamn stoned, I'd show you what an ungrateful bitch like you
can do with her frigging nagging!"
There was a long silence. Then the woman nodded resignedly.
"Right," she said softly. Then, with a note of tight control, "All right, Derek. Have
it your own way. I've taken on a wife's duties, and for more than a year that's
included picking up after your increasingly sloppy body and mind. I thought it
worthwhile, and imagined you'd get over your grief like a man. But this time I'm
taking you at your word.
"Thanks for the break, Derek. You did get me that first part, and you've paid the
rent. I'll only take my clothes with me, and I'll have my agent forward yours a
percentage of my next gig."
 She paused, as if half hoping against hope that he would speak. But he did not.
His eyes were unfocused, following the shimmering globs in the lavalamp.
"Good-bye, Derek."
He had to shade his eyes from the light as her eclipse vanished. He lay back in a
floating torpor and a short time later heard the front door slam.
Good frigging riddance, he thought. I can pick up any one of a dozen young
things after the show tonight without her around. Life is definitely about to take a
turn for the better!
He turned to pick up his smoldering reefer from the ashtray, totally oblivious to a
little voice from another time, which cried out plaintively, hopelessly, "Melissa,
please... don't go..."



2
The waiting room was stark and depressing... paint peeling under sharp
fluorescents. The pungency of disinfectant failed to disguise the distinct aroma of
urine. Every now and then some waiting client fell into a fit of dispirited coughing.
Nobody talked.
Derek hunched in a cracked corner seat, hoping to avoid being noticed. Not that
many recognized Derek Blakeney anymore. It had been more than two years since
the last spate of scandals and scathing reviews had banished him from the theater
columns.
The only serious threat to his apathetic downward spiral had come when a certain
critic compassionately eulogized "a lost giant of the stage." Derek had tried to build
up a rage over it, but torpidity had prevailed in the end. Now he was thirty pounds
lighter and indifferently washed, and it was unlikely anyone would even recognize a
onetime star of Broadway. He was probably safe.
A gaunt woman in a white smock periodically emerged to call out numbers.
Clients followed her one at a time to a row of cubbyholes against the wall. From the
booths came a low mutter of alternating wheedling and officialese. Derek overheard
snatches of conversation.