"Harlan Ellison - Troublemakers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

whinnied, inclined his head, and she stroked the ivory spiral of his horn.

Much of this took place in what is called the Irish Channel, a strip of street in old New Orleans where the
lace curtain micks had settled decades before; now the Irish were gone and the Cubans had taken over
the Channel. Now the Cubans were sleeping, recovering from the muggy today that held within its hours
thed├йj├а vu of muggy yesterday, thed├йj├а r├кv├й of intolerable tomorrow. Now the crippled bricks of side
streets off Magazine had given up their nightly ghosts, and one such phantom had come to me, calling my
unicorn to her тАФ thus, clearly, a virgin тАФ and I stood waiting.

Had it been Sutton Place, had it been a Manhattan evening, and had we met, she would have kneeled to
pet my dog. And I would have waited. Had it been Puerto Vallarta, had it been 20┬░ 36' N, 105┬░ 13' W,
and had we met, she would have crouched to run her fingertips over the oil-slick hide of my iguana. And
I would have waited. Meeting in streets requires ritual. One must wait and not breathe too loud, if one is
to enjoy the congress of the nightly ghosts.

She looked across the fine head of my unicorn and smiled at me. Her eyes were a shade of gray between
onyx and miscalculation. тАЬIs it a bit chilly for you?тАЭ I asked.

тАЬWhen I was thirteen,тАЭ she said, linking my arm, taking a tentative two steps that led me with her, up the
street, тАЬor perhaps I was twelve, well no matter, when I was that approximate age, I had a marvelous
shawl of Belgian lace. I could look through it and see the mysteries of the sun and the other stars
unriddled. IтАЩm sure someone important and very nice has purchased that shawl from an antique dealer,
and paid handsomely for it.тАЭ

It seemed not a terribly responsive reply to a simple question.

тАЬA queen of the Mardi Gras Ball doesnтАЩt get chilly,тАЭ she added, unasked. I walked along beside her, the
cool evasiveness of her arm binding us, my mind a welter of answer choices, none satisfactory.

Behind us, my unicorn followed silently. Well, not entirely silently. His platinum hoofs clattered on the
bricks. IтАЩm afraid I felt a straight pin of jealousy. Perfection does that to me.

тАЬWhen were you queen of the Ball?тАЭ

The date she gave me was one hundred and thirteen years before.

It must have been brutally cold down there in the stones.

There is a little book they sell, a guide to manners and dining in New Orleans: IтАЩve looked: nowhere in
the book do they indicate the proper responses to a ghost. But then, it says nothing about the wonderful
cemeteries of New OrleansтАЩ West Bank, or Metairie. Or the gourmet dining at such locations. One
seeks, in vain, through the mutable, mercurial universe, for the compleat guide. To everything. And, failing
in the search, one makes do the best one can. And suffers the frustration, suffers the ennui.

Perfection does that to me.

We walked for some time, and grew to know each other, as best weтАЩd allow. These are some of the high
points. They lack continuity. I donтАЩt apologize, I merely point it out, adding with some truth, I feel, that
most liaisons lack continuity. We find ourselves in odd places at various times, and for a brief span we
link our lives to others тАФ even as Lizette had linked her arm with mine тАФ and then, our time elapsed, we