"The World Jones Made" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"All right," Nina said brightly, smiling her familiar flash of white teeth. "No scenes--not tonight." Agilely, she spun on her heel, taking in the sight of the surrounding clusters of people. The tight line of her forehead showed she was still upset; he had no doubts about that. But the clash was going to be postponed.

"I'm sorry," Cussick repeated awkwardly. "It's this damn stuff going on. The dark stage reminded me of it. I always forget that whole scene is set as night."

"Don't worry about it," Nina answered insistently, wanting to drop the subject. Her sharp nails dug quickly into his arm. "What time is it? Is it midnight?"

He examined his wrist watch. "Somewhat after."

Frowning, Nina peered urgently toward the sidewalk outside. Taxis were sliding into the loading zone, picking up passengers and starting immediately off. "Do you think we missed him? He'd wait, wouldn't he? I thought I saw him, a second ago, as I was coming out."

"Isn't he meeting us at the apartment?" Somehow, he couldn't imagine Kaminski at a Mozart opera; the round-faced worried man with his thick mustache was from a different century entirely.

"No, dear," Nina said patiently. "He's meeting us here--remember? You were thinking about something else, as usual. We're supposed to wait for him; he doesn't know where we live."

The crowd was beginning to flow from the lobby outside onto the street. Gusts of frigid night air billowed in; coats were put on, furs slipped in place. The intimated odor of perfume and cigar smoke very soon dwindled as the remote, hostile vacuum of the outside world made its way in.

"Our little cosmos is breaking up," Cussick observed morbidly. "The real world is on its way."

"What's that?" Nina asked vacantly, still critically studying the women around them. "Look what that girl is wearing. Over there, the one in blue."

While Cussick was going through the motions of looking, a familiar figure came threading its way toward them.

"Hi," Kaminski said, as he reached them. "Sorry I'm late. I forgot all about it."

The sight of Max Kaminski was a shock. He hadn't seen his one-time Political Instructor in months. Kaminski was haggard and hunched over; his eyes were bloodshot, underscored with puffy black circles. His fingers trembled as he reached out to shake hands. Under one arm he clutched a bulky brown-wrapped package. Nodding slightly to Nina, aware of her for the first time, he murmured "Evening, Nina. Good to see you again."

"You weren't at the opera," Nina observed, with a distasteful glance at the man's rumpled business suit and the messy package.

"No, I missed it." Kaminski's hand was wet and clammy; he drew it back and stood clumsily, focussing with an effort. "I can't sit through long things. Well, are we ready to go?"

"Certainly," Nina said, in an icy voice, her dismay was fast turning to outright aversion. Kaminski had evidently been working through a fifteen-hour double shift, fatigue and nervous exhaustion were written in every pore of his stooped body. "What's that you have?" she asked, indicating the package.

"I'll show you later," Kaminski assured her noncommittally, tightening his grip.

"Let's go, then," Nina said briskly, taking her husband's arm. "Where to?"

"This girl," Kaminski muttered, shambling along after them. "We have to pick her up. You don't know her. I forgot to tell you about her. Very nice kid. It'll make us an even four-square." He tried to laugh, but what came out sounded more like a death-rattle. "Don't ask me to introduce her--I don't know her last name. I sort of picked her up in one of the outer offices."

Presently Nina said: "I'd like to go to the apartment, first. I want to see how Jackie is,"

"Jackie?" Puzzled, Kaminski hurried down the concrete steps behind them. "Who's that?"

"Our son," Nina said distantly.

"That's right," Kaminski admitted. "You have a child. I've never seen him." His voice trailed off . . . "With all this work, I don't know if I'm coming or going."

"Right now you're going," Nina said, standing on the curb, her body straight and disapproving, arms folded, waiting rigidly for a taxi. "Are you sure you feel up to this? It looks as if you've already had your share of celebrating."

Cussick said sharply: "Cut it."