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

"You did, Mother. But you also insisted-if you'll remember-that Mr. Whelan should not stop recording till he was back home and put to sleep. You wanted there to be an element of surprise in today's recording. But, as I pointed out then, we would have to explain this all over."
"And so we are. It's good of you, Rudy, to be so patient with us. You won't have to tomorrow. We'll stop recording in a moment, and then, while you put the finishing touches on dinner-how long has it been, by the way, Mr. Whelan, since you've eaten tournedos Rossini? -he can audit the ring he's making now."
"You're assuming that I've agreed to all this," I pointed out.
"And so you did-yesterday."
"Yesterday I hadn't just gone through purgatory."
"Oh, pish, Mr. Whelan, pish. Tomorrow today will be yesterday. We must live for the present. Even the Bible says so, somewhere. Mr. Whelan, I implore you. Try it for one week. You see"-she leaned forward confidentially and went out of focus-"I have been put on this merciless diet. No cholesterol, which means, in effect, no sauces. Virtually no desserts but fresh fruit. No beef in any form. Think of it! And no salt, Mr. Whelan! What kind of life is that?"
"So what you want me to do is . . ."
"To eat for me, Mr. Whelan. Rudy is a wonderful cook, and when he's not in the mood, the city's full of restaurants. My resources are limited, but I can still afford a table at La Pentola."
"But surely you don't need me for such . . . a . . ."
"A bit part?" Rudy asked sarcastically.
"If you meant to say," Muriel said, "that someone else could make such recordings for me, you don't do justice to your own artistry, Mr. Whelan. Believe me, my dinner table has auditioned hundreds of would-be artists. None of them had your taste, your gusto, your concentration."
"Well?" Rudy demanded.
"Well," I replied, "why not? Like Shakespeare says, the best revenge is living well."
While Rudy went off to the kitchen and Muriel replayed our dinner of the night before, I let the gallery's two guards set up a Ringmaster so that I could audit-and thus be able to recall-the recording I'd just been making. There was a flash of discontinuity as the ring was rewound; subjectively no time had intervened since I'd started recording out in the square. But soon the ring was ready, and I started to relive the last hour of my own life.
By the time the ring had finished playing, dinner was waiting in the upstairs dining room, to which the guards had escorted me. At the first whiff of the lobster bisque, I snapped to attention and started to record.
The rest is art history.