"Greg Egan - Scatter My Ashes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

the viewers, about exactly what he meant to us. He averted his eyes from the
lenses, but the hint of a smile on his lips declared that everything was, and
always would be, just the way he wanted it, just the way he'd planned it from
the start. I drove to the lake and set up my camera with its longest lens,
but after peering through the viewfinder for ten minutes, keeping the police
boat perfectly framed, following its every tiny drift, I switched to
binoculars to save my eyes and neck. Nothing was happening. Faint shouts
reached me now and then, but the tones were always of boredom, discomfort,
irritation. Soon I put down the binoculars. If they found something, I'd hear
the change at once. I drank coffee from a flask, I paced. I took a few shots
of divers backflipping into the water, but none seemed special, none captured
the mood. I watched the water birds and felt somehow guilty for not knowing
their names. The sky and the water were pale grey, the colour of soggy
newsprint. Thick smoke rose from a factory on the far shore, but seemed to
fall back down again on almost the same spot. The chill, the bleakness, and
the morbid nature of my vigil worked together to fill me with an oppressive
sense of gloom, but cutting through that dullness and despair was the acid
taste of anticipation. My back was turned when I heard the shouts of panic. It
took me seconds to spot the boat again, forever to point the camera. An inert
diver was being hauled on board, to the sound of much angry swearing. Someone
ripped off his face mask and began resuscitation. Each time I fired the
shutter, I thought: what if he dies? If he dies it will be my fault, because
if he dies I'll have a sale for sure. I packed up my gear and fled before the
boat reached the shore, but not before the ambulance arrived. I glanced at
the driver, who looked about my age, and thought: why am I doing my job, and
not his? Why am I a voyeur, a parasite, a vulture, a leech, when I could be
saving people's lives and sleeping the sleep of the just every night? Later,
I discovered that the cop was in a coma. Evidently there'd been a malfunction
of his air supply. I sold one of the pictures, which appeared with the
caption KISS OF LIFE! The editor said, тАЬThat could easily win you a prize.тАЭ I
smiled immodestly and mumbled about luck. Wendy is a literary agent. We went
out to dinner that night with one of her clients, to celebrate the signing of
a contract. The writer was a quiet, thoughtful, attractive woman. Her husband
worked in a bank, but played football for some team or other on weekends, and
was built like a vault. тАЬSo, what do you do for a crust,тАЭ he asked. тАЬI'm a
freelance photographer.тАЭ тАЬWhat's that mean? Fashion models for the front of
Vogue or centrefolds for Playboy?тАЭ тАЬNeither. Most of my work is for
newspapers, or news magazines. I had a picture in Time last year.тАЭ тАЬWhat
of?тАЭ тАЬFlood victims trapped on the roof of their farm.тАЭ тАЬYeah? Did you pay
them some of what you got for it?тАЭ Wendy broke in and described my day's
achievement, and the topic switched naturally to that of the missing
child. тАЬIf they ever catch the bloke who's doing it,тАЭ said the footballer, тАЬhe
shouldn't be killed. He should be tortured for a couple of days, and then
crippled. Say they cut off both his legs. Then there's no chance he'll escape
from prison on his own steam, and when they let him free in a year or two,
like they always end up doing, who's he going to hurt?тАЭ I said, тАЬWhy does
everyone assume there's a killer? Nobody's yet found a single drop of blood,
or a fingerprint, or a footprint. Nobody knows for sure that the children are
dead, nobody's proved that at all.тАЭ The writer said, тАЬMaybe the Innocents are
ascending into Heaven.тАЭ For a moment I thought she was serious, but then she