"David Garnett - Still Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garnett David)

Still Life
DAVID S. GARNETT

As the armour-plated limousine drew up outside the National Gallery,
Corinne glanced out of the window toward the shattered stump of Nelson's
Column. The scene always sent a chill up her spine. It was almost a decade
since the monument had been toppled by a terrorist bomb. Why hadn't it
been rebuilt? Instead, Trafalgar Square had become another of the city's
no-go areas, its roads blocked off by army barricades and concrete gun
posts.
Only rarely were the roads opened, and Corinne supposed she ought to
feel priveleged that the military were prepared to allow vehicle access to
the gallery today. But it was nothing to do with her, she realized; although
it might be the Corinne Dewar Exhibition, she was by no means the most
important person who'd be there. By tomorrow, when there were no guests
invited for the opening, the only way in would be on foot again. "Ready?"
asked Robert.
Corinne glanced at him and nodded. She smiled briefly, looking him up
and down. He seemed so strange in his old-fashioned suit, the formal
black jacket and trousers, the crisp white shirt and ridiculous bow tie. She
was glad her own choice of outfit wasn't so restricted тАФ she wore a
calf-length white leather skirt and black satin blouse, although both were
covered by a thick simulated fur coat.
The driver opened the passenger door, and Corinne climbed out onto
the patch of pavement that had been cleared of snow. Robert followed, and
together they walked up the wide steps toward the gallery, squeezing
between the barbed wire and sandbags, trying to ignore the flak-jacketed
troops, their rifles held at the ready.
"Nervous?" said Robert.
"Not really," Corinne replied. She felt distanced from all of this, as
though it weren't happening to her, as though she were a spectator
watching at home on her television screen.
"I am," Robert said, taking her arm as they reached the entrance and
the last of the soldiers. Inside, security would be handled by the police.
 The National Gallery, said Corinne to herself, the ... National... Gallery.
Her own major retrospective exhibition at the National, and she wasn't
even dead yet. She tried to keep her face straight for the television crew
waiting for her just inside the foyer. She'd had exhibitions before, of
course, all over the world and too many to count. In London, there had
even been the Hayward Gallery a couple of years ago. But this was the big
one, the sign that she had arrived and been accepted as the nation's top
living artist.
"Miss Dewar," said the television interviewer, as the cameras and
microphones were aimed at her. "Can you tell us how you feel to be here
today?"
Corinne paused, and as Robert moved away and out of camera range,
she wondered how exactly she did feel. She wasn't certain. She had been so
delighted and elated at first, but by now, after all the preparation, she felt
numb. About half of her works from the previous two decades had been
assembled here under one roof, probably the only time that would ever