"Ringtime by Thomas M. Disch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

"Mr. Whelan, we're so glad you've decided to return." The voice came from the four corners of the void, a flat, throat-milked contralto like the voice announcing time on the telephone.
In the white glare behind me, where the door should have been, two images formed, his and hers: both young, both dressed in icy shades of blue, both upside-down.
"You're inverted," I told them.
"One moment." The man's hand disappeared to the left, and the image righted itself and then sank through the white glow to just below floor level. "Better?"
"You need some vertical adjustment, but that's okay."
The sofa on which they were seated sank another two feet.
The woman leaned forward-seen right side up, she came across as expensive rather than young-and addressed my midriff with an earnest, placating smile. "Excuse us for keeping at such an unfriendly distance, Mr. Whelan, but the metal indicator suggested you might be armed."
"Excuse me for breaking and entering. And no need to worry about the gun. It's only imitation. Look." I took it from my pocket and fired off a blank.
"Oh, my!" She fluttered her hands expressively. They were white and bony and roped with veins and about fifty years older than her face. "How violent! Let me say at once, Mr. Whelan, that I am a great admirer of your work. You have such . . . Flair scarcely does justice. Regrettably, I can't claim to possess any of your more notable recordings, but I have been allowed glimpses. Such
glimpses!" She cocked her head and squinted at my knees. (The image had continued sinking, and now their feet were coming into view in the sir above their heads.) "Rudy, can't we get better focus?"
Rudy gave a martyred sigh. His hand vanished to fiddle a dial.
"Ali, that's better. No doubt you're impatient, Mr. Whelan. There's so much to explain. And I'm so bad at explanations. The loss of short-term memory is the price one pays for a lifetime of vicarious experience. It does something to the synapses." (Now only their heads were left in the lower image. Slowly they sank from sight and were reunited with their bodies in the image above.) "Consequently, my memory of yesterday is very little better than yours. Though I do have the advantage over you in having just sampled this." She touched the ring on her left forefinger. "Exquisite! You have not lost your touch, Mr. Whelan. Your palette may be darker, so to speak, but your palate is unchanged. Forgive the pun. I was saying?"
"You were explaining to Mr. Whelan," said Rudy, "why he's here."
"Oh, yes. Oh, dear. Why is he here, Rudy? I remember, from the ring, how he got in yesterday. That was fascinating, all that business with the locks. But then, after the guards had got him and he was handcuffed-which in its own way was most absorbing-after that I'm afraid I rather lose the thread. Mr. Whelan himself became confused, and I stopped paying attention. Until dinner. The dinner was superb, as I believe I've said already. You explain, Rudy. You do it better."
"Maybe you could begin with introductions," I suggested.
"Of course. Excuse me. This is my mother, Muriel Ruyk, who founded, and owns, this gallery. I'm Rudolph
Ruyk. Fortunately for yourself, you do not need an introduction. Muriel recognized you at once from your recordings. Her short-term memory may be poor, but her recall for the more vivid sketches of her past-any time before the last ten to fifteen years-is often proportionally acute. You, Mr. Whalen, are one of my mother's most vivid memories."
"Aruba!" she exclaimed. "And the oysters on Belle Ile! I'll never forget those oysters."
"You were there with me?"
"Goodness, no. You were there. Isn't that enough? The way the waves pounded on the cliffs. And you on those slippery rocks! Oh, my! We did meet once, in passing, at Dar es Salaam, but nothing came of it. I am proud to say, though, that I was one of your first collectors. So long as I could afford your prices. Once you'd moved up to Knoedler, you zoomed out of my range."
"All that was quite a while back. I'm surprised you recognized me."
"Your hair is thinner now, certainly, and you've put on weight, but the indescribable something is still there. If I hadn't recognized you, I'm afraid Rudy would have turned you over to the police directly, and that would have been a shame."
"Mmm, yes, it would."
"Such a daring, such a desperate thing to do! I've always said, haven't I, Rudy, that there is a deep affinity between artistry and criminality?"
"Yes, Mother. But crime is crime, for all that."
"Yes, of course, one must take precautions. But I can't help admiring those like you, Mr. Whelan, who are headstrong and act out of impulse. I do hope we'll work something out."
"We already have, Mother. We have his agreement on
videotape. And as a pledge that he'll honor that agreement, we have his own recording of how he broke into the gallery. In fact, with the recording he's making now, we have two such recordings. He can scarcely refuse to cooperate."
"That sounds like blackmail to me."
"It is, Mr Whelan," Muriel said pleasantly, "but I'd like to think that our arrangement would appeal to you on its own merits. You've been leading a rather mean sort of life. We're offering you a new chance at the good life. We're offering you, in fact, a comeback."
Despite myself, the word worked its magic: a comeback! I resisted the bait long enough to ask, "On what terms?"
"On our terms," said Rudy. "Five nights a week you'll record for us. The recordings will be the property of the gallery. All recording expenses will be approved in advance and charged to the gallery."
"It all sounds rather . . . unilateral."
Muriel touched her ingenue smile with a crone's finger. "Isn't that always the way of it with galleries, though? But is self-advantage that important to you as an artist? What does money matter if you enjoy abundantly the pleasures it can buy?"
"Yeah, but you'll enjoy the reruns. You and your customers."
"I wouldn't deny that. But what better defense against satiety than to awake each day to a present unshadowed by the past? Candidly, I consider the loss of short-term memory a great blessing. It allows me to live for the moment."
"In any case," said Rudy, "you'll get a quid pro quo. After each recording session you'll be allowed to check out a ring from the gallery's current collection, excepting some
few rare recordings that have only one or two repays left. I assume that's what you were after when you broke in here."
"If the ring you left with me last night is any sample of your collection, I'm not enticed."
"What ring was that, Rudy?" Muriel asked.
"One of my nightmares, from when I was four. I did warn you, Mr. Whelan, that it might be too strong for your taste, but you flipped for the price tag."
"I don't believe that was a nightmare. That was real."
"Oh, Rudy had the most vivid nightmares imaginable as a child. Everyone accepts them quite literally. Of course, as Rudy says, they're not to every taste. One sample was enough for me. But people go to horror movies, don't they? It's the same principle."
"Cradle robbing is not the same as anything. It's a crime in this state, and that ring is evidence."
"There was nothing illegal in any of Rudy's recordings. They were undertaken with a grant from the National Endowment and conducted under the strictest psychiatric supervision. Every ring is fully documented. And from a strictly ethical point of view, surely, it was a kindness to the dear boy to exorcise the memory of such terrible dreams."
"Except, Mother, that as a result I went on having the nightmares."
"That's only a theory, Rudy," Muriel scolded. "All children have nightmares. It's a stage they go through. You just had a special talent. Why in the world are we discussing this? I thought we'd settled this years ago."
"Because Mr. Whelan didn't enjoy his private viewing."
"Oh, yes. Well, Mr. Whelan, you must choose more wisely next time. Try athletics. It picks you up wonderfully, and we've got a fine stock. Rudy takes a group of
young men skiing every year, and they all have a lovely time. You can have the same lovely time, and I can have my own collection of Whelans! One comes to the gallery business, after all, because one lacks the means to be a collector. I'm sure I explained all this yesterday"