"Samuel R. Delany - Dhalgren" - читать интересную книгу автора (Delaney Samuel R)

This document is unfinished.and needs formatting



Prism, Mirror, Lens


to wound the autumnal city.
So howled out for the world to give him a name.
The in-dark answered with wind.
All you know I know: careening astronauts and bank clerks glancing at the clock before lunch; actresses
cowling at light-ringed mirrors and freight elevator operators grinding a thumbful of grease on a steel handle;
student riots; know that dark women in bodegas shook their heads last week because in six months prices have
risen outlandishly; how coffee tastes after you've held it in your mouth, cold, a whole minute.
A whole minute he squatted, pebbles clutched with his left foot (the bare one), listening to his breath
sound tumble down the ledges.
Beyond a leafy arras, reflected moonlight flittered.
He rubbed his palms against denim. Where he was, was still. Somewhere else, wind whined.
The leaves winked.
What had been wind was a motion in brush below. His hand went to the rock behind.
She stood up, two dozen feet down and away, wearing only shadows the moon dropped from the viney
maple; moved, and the shadows moved on her.
Fear prickled one side where his shirt (two middle buttons gone) bellied with a breeze. Muscle made a
band down the back of his jaw. Black hair tried to paw off what fear scored on his forehead.
She whispered something that was all breath, and 1
the wind came for the words and dusted away the meaning:
"Ahhhhh... " from her.
He forced out air: it was nearly a cough.
"... Hhhhhh... " from her again. And laughter; which had a dozen edges in it, a bright snarl under the
moon. "... hhhHHhhhh... " which had more sound in it than that, perhaps was his name, even. But the wind,
wind...
She stepped.
Motion rearranged the shadows, baring one breast There was a lozenge of light over one eye. Calf, and
ankle were luminous before leaves.
Down her lower leg was a scratch.
His hair tugged back from his forehead. He watched hers flung forward. She moved with her hair,
stepping over leaves, toes spread on stone, in a tip-toe pause, to quit the darker shadows.
Crouched on rock, he pulled his hands up his thighs.
His hands were hideous.
She passed another, nearer tree. The moon flung gold coins at her breasts. Her brown aureoles were wide,
her nipples small. "You... ?" She said that, softly, three feet away, looking down; and he still could not make
out her expression for the leaf dappling; but her cheek bones were Orientally high. She was Oriental, he
realized and waited for another word, tuned for accent. (He could sort Chinese from Japanese. ) "You've
come!" It was a musical Midwestern Standard. "I didn't know if you'd come!" He voicing (a clear soprano,
whispering... ) said that some what he'd thought was shadow-movement might have fear: "You're here!" She
dropped to her knees in a roar of foliage. Her thighs, hard in front, softer (he could tell) on the sides-a column
of darkness between them--were inches from his raveled knees.
She reached, two fingers extended, pushed back plaid wool, and touched his chest; ran her fingers down.
He could hear his own crisp hair.
Laughter raised her face to the moon. He leaned forward; the odor of lemons filled the breezeless gap. Her