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

move apart. Through a haze of pain occasionally; usually through a veil of memory that clings, then
passes; sometimes as though we have never touched.

тАЬMy name is Paul Ordahl,тАЭ I told her. тАЬAnd the most awful thing that ever happened to me was my first
wife, Bernice. I donтАЩt know how else to put it тАФ even if it sounds melodramatic, itтАЩs simply what
happened тАФ she went insane, and I divorced her, and her mother had her committed to a private mental
home.тАЭ

тАЬWhen I was eighteen,тАЭ Lizette said, тАЬmy family gave me my coming-out party. We were living in the
Garden District, on Prytania Street. The house was a lovely white Plantation тАФ they call them antebellum
now тАФ with Grecian pillars. We had a persimmon-green gazebo in the rear gardens, directly beside a
weeping willow. It was six-sided. Octagonal. Or is that hexagonal? It was the loveliest party. And while it
was going on, I sneaked away with a boy . . . I donтАЩt remember his name . . . and we went into the
gazebo, and I let him touch my breasts. I donтАЩt remember his name.тАЭ

We were on Decatur Street, walking toward the French Quarter; the Mississippi was on our right, dark
but making its presence known.

тАЬHer mother was the one had her committed, you see. I only heard from them twice after the divorce. It
had been four stinking years and I really didnтАЩt want any more of it. Once, after IтАЩd started making some
money, the mother called and said Bernice had to be put in the state asylum. There wasnтАЩt enough money
to pay for the private home any more. I sent a little; not much. I suppose I could have sent more, but I
was remarried, there was a child from her previous marriage. I didnтАЩt want to send any more. I told the
mother not to call me again. There was only once after that . . . it was the most terrible thing that ever
happened to me.тАЭ

We walked around Jackson Square, looking in at the very black grass, reading the plaques bolted to the
spear-topped fence, plaques telling how New Orleans had once belonged to the French. We sat on one
of the benches in the street. The street had been closed to traffic, and we sat on one of the benches.

тАЬOur name was Charbonnet. Can you say that?тАЭ

I said it, with a good accent.

тАЬI married a very wealthy man. He was in real estate. At one time he owned the entire block where the
Vieux Carr├й now stands, on Bourbon Street. He admired me greatly. He came and sought my hand,
and mymaman had to strike the bargain because my father was too weak to do it; he drank. I can admit
that now. But it didnтАЩt matter, IтАЩd already found out how my suitor was set financially. He wasnтАЩt
common, but he wasnтАЩt quality, either. But he was wealthy and I married him. He gave me presents. I did
what I had to do. But I refused to let him make love to me after he became friends with that awful Jew
who built the Metairie Cemetery over the race track because they wouldnтАЩt let him race his Jew horses.
My husbandтАЩs name was Dunbar. Claude Dunbar, you may have heard the name? Our parties werede
rigueur .тАЭ

тАЬWould you like some coffee andbeignets at du Monde?тАЭ

She stared at me for a moment, as though she wanted me to say something more, then she nodded and
smiled.

We walked around the Square. My unicorn was waiting at the curb. I scratched his rainbow flank and he