"Esther M. Friesner - A Pig's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

introduction of mustard gas victims to polite society.
"Yes, that," said the pig as his mother imbibed. "I found the ruins. What happened?"
"Dejaneira set fire to the place," the Duchess informed him. She drank more absinthe.
"I see." He nursed his gin. "And who is or was or might be Dejaneira?"
"Why, the Cook, of course!" The Duchess regarded her son as if he had dropped out from beneath
the tail of a pig rather than merely being one. "What else could she do? We were the embodiment of a
fiery Sapphic romance gone awry under the merciless strictures of Victorian society. Her servile status
was a galling reminder that even though she was the dominant partner, I would still have to be the one
giving the orders. No wonder she threw things. As for the pepperтАФ"
"Must I know?" the pig pleaded.
"It's all part and parcel, and you did ask," the Duchess reminded him. "Considering the shape of the
peppercorn, my darling Dejaneira was grinding up the withered testicles of our enemies every time she
employed that condiment. I don't even want to think about what significance the pepper mill's shape
conveys." She smiled happily and patted the pig's hand. "My dear boy, it's been eons since anyone's
asked to know all that. You can't imagine what a treat it's been to be able to get it out in the open one
more time."
The pig shifted in his chair. "Where is Cook?" he asked. "She's notтАФshe won'tтАФwill she be joining
us?"
The Duchess's smile collapsed upon itself. She sighed.
"She won't. It's over between us. I blame this post-War morality. Raise the hems and anything can
happen. Everyone's gone all Sapphic now, even in the best homes, the finest families. Even in print, no
less!" She waggled Orlando high, which the waiter took to mean an order for more drinks. "One can't
epater le bourgeoisie if les bourgeois are looking at you over their milk-white shoulders and waiting for
you to catch up. Some days I don't know what to do with myself."
The pig rose from his seat and laid a hand on his mother's shoulder. "Whatever you are, don't do
more than you mean," he told her. It was advice given with the kindest of intentions. It was also the last
time he saw the Duchess under those circumstances.
The Depression left him undepressed and as happily bereft of meaning as ever. During the
bombardment of London by the Nazi forces he opened the doors of his country seat, Gadara, to several
shipments of East End youth. Nothing was filched or broken or made to smell worse than before, and the
experience left him curiously attracted to the thought of fatherhood.
Unfortunately, the practicalities intruded. Every morning he studied his reflection in the mirror and
tacitly accepted the fact that he had aged, but nowhere near enough to account for all the years he'd seen
pass by. To marry implied the inclusion of a more observant, less objective witness than the looking
glass. From what he knew of women, not one of them would not consider it a privilege to be wed to a
partner whose looks remained essentially unchanged while her own were diligently nibbled away by the
mice of the minutes, the weasels of the weeks, the stoats of the seasons, and so on, until he ran out of
measures of time and metaphoric animals with which to couple them.
Therefore he himself remained uncoupled, although he did engage in love affairs. Knowing himself to
be what he was, he took pains to please his partners. When the dawn of the Women's Movement found
him, no lady could point the finger at him and justly name him swine. (For the same reason, he had
avoided a career in law enforcement when he came to the States in the '60s.) He remained in the States
until all his old school chums were tidily dead or so senile they assumed he was his own grandson. Here
he safely built up and improved upon the Hatter's textile empire.
A century had come and gone since the first publication of Alice's Adventures Underground.
There had been some moments of dread, among the fluttering years, when he came dangerously close to
meaning something. For a time he feared that they might view his slow, almost imperceptible aging
process as symbolic of Man's Dream of Eternal Youth. Then he read about the Peter Pan syndrome and
breathed easier. That slot was already occupied by Barrie's bonnie flying boy. His own peculiar loitering
on the shady side of forty meant nothing, in and of itself. It was merely the halo effect of having first seen