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

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"Come on, be a sport," Michael said. "I'll even teach you how to make the rubber-lips face."

Stephen and Esme finally managed to lose Michael by lunchtime. Esme seemed happy enough to be rid of the boy, and they spent the rest of the day discovering the ship. They took a quick dip in the pool, but the water was too cold and it was chilly outside. If the dirigible was floating above, they did not see it because the sky was covered with heavy gray clouds. They changed clothes, strolled along the glass-enclosed lower Promenade Deck, looked for the occasional flying fish, and spent an interesting half hour being interviewed by the woman from Interfax. They took a snack in the opulent
first-class smoking room. Esme loved the mirrors and stainedglass windows. After they explored cabin and tourist class, Esme talked Stephen into a quick game of squash, which he played rather well. By dinnertime they found their way into the garish, blue-tiled Turkish bath. It was empty and hot, and they made gentle but exhausting love on one of the Caesar couches. Then they changed clothes again, danced in the lounge, and took a late supper in the Cafe.
He spent the night with Esme in her suite. It was about four o'clock in the morning when he was awakened by a hushed conversation. Rather than make himself known, Stephen feigned sleep and listened.
"I can't make a decision," Esme said as she carefully paced back and forth beside the desk upon which Poppa rested.
"You've told me over and over what you know you must do," said Poppa. "And now you change your mind?"
"I think things have changed."
"And how is that?"
"Stephen, he . . ."
"Ah," Poppa said, "so now love is the escape. But do you know how long that will last?"
"I didn't expect to meet him, to feel better about everything."
"It will pass."
"But right now I don't want to die."
"You've spent a fortune on this trip, and on me. And now you want to throw it away. Look, the way you feel about Stephen is all for the better, don't you understand? It will make your passing away all the sweeter because you're happy, in love, whatever you want to claim for it. But now you want to throw everything away that we've planned and take your life some other time, probably when you're desperate and unhappy and don't have me around to help you. You wish to die as mindlessly as you were born."
"That's not so, Poppa. But it's up to me to choose."

"You've made your choice, now stick to it, or you'll drop dead like I did."
Stephen opened his eyes; he could not stand this any longer. "Esme, what the hell are you talking about?"
She looked startled and then said to Poppa, "You were purposely talking loudly to wake him up, weren't you?"
"You had me programmed to help you. I love you and I care about you. You can't undo that!"
"I can do whatever I wish," she said petulantly.
"Then let me help you, as 1 always have. If I were alive and had my body, I would tell you exactly what I'm telling you now."
"What is going on?" Stephen asked.
"She's fooling you," Poppa said gently to Stephen. "She's using you because she's frightened."
"I am not!"
"She's grasping at anyone she can find."
"I am not!" she shouted.
"What the hell is he telling you?" Stephen asked.
"The truth," Poppa said.
Esme sat down beside Stephen on the bed and began to cry, then, as if sliding easily into a new role, she looked at him and said, "I did program Poppa to help me die."
Disgusted, Stephen drew away from her.
"Poppa and I talked everything over very carefully, we even discussed what to do if something like this came about."
"You mean if you fell in love and wanted to live."
"Yes."
"And she decided that under no circumstances would she undo what she had done," Poppa said. "She has planned the best possible death for herself, a death to be experienced and savored. She's given everything up and spent all her money to do it. She's broke. She can't go back now, isn't that right, Esme?"
Esme looked at Stephen and nodded.
"But you're not sure, I can see that," Stephen insisted.
"I will help her, as I always have," said Poppa.
"Jesus, shut that thing up," Stephen shouted.
"He's not a-"
"Please, at least give us a chance," Stephen said to Esme. "You're the first authentic experience I've ever had, I love you, I don't want it to end . . . ."
Poppa pleaded his case eloquently, but Esme told him to go to sleep.
He obediently closed his eyes.

The great ship hit an iceberg on the fourth night of her voyage, exactly one day earlier than scheduled. It was Saturday, 11:40 P.m. and the air was full of colored lights from tiny splinters of ice floating like motes of dust. "Whiskers 'round the light" they used to be called by sailors. The sky was a panoply of twinkling stars, and it was so cold that one might imagine they were fragments of ice floating in a cold, dark, inverted sea overhead.
Stephen and Esme were again standing by the rail of the Promenade Deck. Both were dressed in the early-twentieth century accouterments provided by the ship: he in woolen trousers, jacket, motoring cap, and caped overcoat with a long scarf; she in a fur coat, a stylish Merry Widow hat, high button shoes, and a black velvet, two-piece suit edged with white silk. She looked ravishing, and very young, despite the clothes.
"Throw it away," Stephen said in an authoritative voice. "Now!"
Esme brought the cedar box containing Poppa to her chest, as if she were about to throw it forward, then slowly placed it atop the rail again. "I can't."