"Dann, Jack - Going Under" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

Going Under

Jack Dann

When I first met Jack Dann, he had one arm in a cast and a pretty woman, feebly protesting, slung over the other shoulder, and what can one say? No one else at the party seemed surprised that he should show up that way.
Jack is bawdy and hilarious, irrepressible-a very social and sociable creature invading a profession supposedly full of introverted bookworms. You might expect his writing to be lighthearted, slick; but it's not.
There's a phenomenon, familiar to people who have writers as friends, that I call The Buchwald Paradox. The name comes from an article in the Washington Post Sunday magazine, some years back, about the problems of making up a guest list for an upper-crust Washington party. Never ever invite Art Buchwald, it advised; this man who is so funny on paper is an absolute sea anchor at a party. He sits behind his cigar and mumbles that the world is going to hell. The author of this article found it to be generally true that funny writers were rather morose people. But the converse is also true. If you want to liven up your party, she sate you should invite a writer whose work is unrelentingly serious. And nail down the lampshades.

So it is with Jack. Most of his writing is rather deep and dark, carefully crafted, thoughtful, intense. When he emerges from the chrysalis of work he is quite a different sort of animal. (This paradox also characterizes at least two other contributors to this volume, Gene Wolfe and Gardner Dozois. )
Jack has published four novels, a book of short stories, and a chapbook of poetry; he has edited or co-edited nine anthologies of science fiction. His stories have appeared in most of the science fiction magazines and the more prestigious original anthologies, as well as the occasional slick journal of popular gynecology. This one, from Omni magazine, takes us oddly forward and back in time, centering around an event that is a mod-
ern archetype of helpless terror. -

She was beautiful, huge, as graceful as a racing liner. She was a floating Crystal Palace, as magnificent as anything J. P. Morgan could conceive. Designed by Alexander Carlisle and built by Harland and Wolff, she wore the golden band of the company along all nine hundred feet of her. She rose 175 feet like the side of a cliff, with nine steel decks, four sixty-two foot funnels, over two thousand windows and side-lights to illuminate the luxurious cabins and suites and public rooms. She weighed 46,000 tons, and her reciprocating engines and Parsons-type turbines could generate over fifty thousand horsepower and speed the ship over twenty knots. She had a gymnasium, a Turkish bath, squash and racquet courts, a swimming pool, libraries and lounges and sitting rooms. There ` were rooms and suites to accommodate 735 first-class passen-
gers, 674 in second class, and over a thousand in steerage.
She was the R.M.S. Titanic, and Stephen met Esme on her Promenade Deck as she pulled out of her Southampton dock, bound for New York City on her maiden voyage.
Esme stood beside him, resting what looked to be a cedar box on the rail, and gazed out over the cheering crowds on the docks below. Stephen was struck immediately by how beautiful she was. Actually, she was plain-featured, and quite young.
She had a high forehead, a small, straight nose, wet brown eyes that peeked out from under plucked, arched eyebrows, and a mouth that was a little too full. Her blond hair, though clean, was carelessly brushed and tangled in the back. Yet, to Stephen, she seemed beautiful.
"Hello," Stephen said, feeling slightly awkward. But colored ribbons and confetti snakes were coiling through the air, and anything seemed possible.
Esme glanced at him. "Hello, you," she said.
"Pardon?" Stephen asked.
"I said, `Hello, you.' That's an expression that was in vogue when this boat first sailed, if you'd like to know. It means `Hello, I think you're interesting and would consider sleeping with you if I were so inclined.' "
"You must call it a ship," Stephen said.
She laughed and for an instant looked at him intently, as if in that second she could see everything about him-that he was taking this voyage because he was bored with his life, that nothing had ever really happened to him. He felt his face become hot. "Okay, 'ship,' does that make you feel better?" she asked. "Anyway, I want to pretend that I'm living in the past. I don't ever want to return to the present, do you?"
"Well, 1 . . .' _
"Yes, I suppose you do, want to return, that is."
"What makes you think that?"
"Look how you're dressed. You shouldn't be wearing modern clothes on this ship. You'll have to change later, you know." She was perfectly dressed in a powder-blue walking suit with matching jacket, a pleated, velvet-trimmed front blouse, and an ostrich feather hat. She looked as if she had stepped out of another century, and just now Stephen could believe she had.
"What's your name?" Stephen asked.
"Esme," she answered. Then she turned the box that she was resting on the rail and opened the side facing the dock. "You see," she said to the box, "we really are here."

"What did you say?" Stephen asked.
"I was just talking to Poppa," she said, closing and latching the box.
" W ho?"
"I'll show you later, if you like," she promised. Then bells began to ring and the ship's whistles cut the air. There was a cheer from the dock and on board, and the ship moved slowly out to sea. To Stephen it seemed that the land, not the ship, was moving. The whole of England was just floating peacefully away, while the string band on the ship's bridge played Oscar Strauss's The Chocolate Soldier.
They watched until the land had dwindled to a thin line on the horizon, then Esme reached naturally for Stephen's hand, squeezed it for a moment, then hurried away. Before Stephen could speak, she had disappeared into the crowd, and he stood looking after her long after she had gone.

Stephen found her again in the Cafe Parisien, sitting in a large wicker chair beside an ornately trellised wall.
"Well, hello, you," Esme said, smiling. She was the very model of a smart, stylish young lady.
"Does that mean you're still interested?" Stephen asked, standing before her. Her smile was infectious, and Stephen felt himself losing his poise, as he couldn't stop grinning.
"But mais oui," she said. Then she relaxed in her chair, slumped down as if she could instantly revert to being a child-in fact, the dew was still on her-and she looked around the room as though Stephen had suddenly disappeared.
"1 beg your pardon?" he asked.
"That's French, which no one uses anymore, but it was the language of the world when this ship first sailed."
"I believe it was English," Stephen said smoothly.
"Well," she said, looking up at him, "it means that 1 might be interested if you'd kindly sit down instead of looking down at me from the heights." Stephen sat down beside her and she said, "It took you long enough to find me."
"Well," Stephen said, "I had to dress. Remember? You didn't find my previous attire ac-"
"I agree and I apologize," she said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of hurting his feelings. She folded her hands behind the box that she had centered perfectly on the damask-covered table. Her leg brushed against his; indeed, he did look fine, dressed in gray striped trousers, spats, black morning coat, blue vest, and a silk cravat tied under a butterfly collar. He fiddled with his hat, then placed it on the seat of the empty chair beside him. No doubt he would forget to take it.
"Now," she said, "don't you feel better?"'
Stephen was completely taken with her; this had never happened to him before. He found it inexplicable. A tall and very English waiter disturbed him by asking if he wished to order cocktails, but Esme asked for a Narcodrine instead.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but Narcodrines or inhalors are not publicly sold on the ship," the waiter said dryly.