"Charles De Lint - The Little Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

survived in current editions except for two of the short stories, which were constantly being reprinted in
storybook collections for children: тАЬThe Smalls,тАЭ which was the original version ofThe Hidden People,
and тАЬThe Man Who Lived in a Book,тАЭ a delightful romp about a world that existed inside a book that
could be reached by placing a photograph of oneself between its pages. Janey could still remember all
the times sheтАЩd put pictures of herself between the pages of her favorite books, in the very best parts,
and gone to sleep, hoping to wake up in one of those magical realms.

тАЬI could use that trick now,тАЭ she murmured to herself as she brushed the dust and cobwebs from a chest
that was thrust far back under the eaves of the attic.

She still couldnтАЩt believe that Alan had left her in the lurch, right on the eve of a new tour of New
England and California.

Things had not been going well between them this past summer, which just went to show you that one
should pay more attention to the old adages because they were all based on a kernel of good solid
common sense.

{Page20}Never mix business and pleasure.

Well, of course. Except having a relationship with oneтАЩs sideman seemed too perfect to not take
advantage of it. Instead of leaving your lover behind, he went on tour with you. What could be better?
No more lonely nights while your sideman went out with some guitar groupie and you were left alone in
the hotel room because you just wanted to beaway from the crowds for a change. Away from strangers.
Away from having to put on a smiling face when you just wanted to be silly with a friend, or slouch in a
corner and simply do nothing at all, without having to worry about what kind of an impression you made
or left behind when you traveled on.

But relationships tended to erode if they werenтАЩt worked on, and AlanтАЩs and hers had been no
exception. TheyтАЩd become grouchy with each other on their last tour of the Continent. Complaining, not
with each other, but about each other. Mostly it was just little things, dissatisfactions and petty
differences, but it began to affect the music until it got to the point where they couldnтАЩt work up a new
arrangement of any sort without a row.

Argumentative was how Alan described her.

Perhaps she was. But she wouldnтАЩt see the music compromised. Improvising was fine, but not simply
because he couldnтАЩt bother to remember an arrangement. And banging his guitar strings like they were
horseshoes and his pick the hammer, that was right out. It was still her name on the tour posters. People
came to see her play the music, and she meant to give them their moneyтАЩs worth. They hadnтАЩt come to
see her sideman get soused and have evenings where he made the Pogues sound like brilliant musicians.

And that was the real heart of AlanтАЩs problem. They hadnтАЩt come to see Alan MacDonald; theyтАЩd come
to see her.

тАЬOh, sod him,тАЭ she said as she dragged the dusty chest out from under the eaves.

Her voice rang hollowly in the attic. She wondered what the Gaffer would think to hear her sitting up
here, talking to herself, but she had the house to herself. He was up in Paul, at the KingтАЩs Arms, having a
few pints with his mates. Perhaps she should have gone. Chalkie Fisher would be there and if heтАЩd
brought along his box, they could have had a bit of a session. And after a few tunes, Jim Rafferty would