"Lisa Goldstein - Tourists" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldstein Lisa)

hair made it hard to tell, and he didnтАЩt want to linger near the
crowd, as silent and ominous as the sea. He hurried across the
street.
The living room was cold and dim as he entered, and he
fumbled for the lights and turned them on. Masks and
tapestries sprang into existence around him. He frowned. Had
that bench always been against the wall like that? HadnтАЩt it
been in the center of the room? He walked past the bench and
down the corridor toward his bedroom, still frowning, but he
had already forgotten about it. He was used to things moving
around on him: it was what happened when you didnтАЩt pay too
much attention to your surroundings.
The room looked as if it had been the site of one of Dr.
TamirтАЩs small earthquakes. His mattress had been tossed to
the floor and slit down the middle; his suitcases emptied and
their contents spread over the room; the few suits he had hung
up in the doorless closet were sprawled on the floor, still on
their hangers, with their pockets turned inside out. He moved
forward like a disaster victim, stood uncertainly in the room,
and then with an abrupt gesture he lifted the mattress back
onto the bed, feeling it buckle in his arms. He left the
mattress half on, half off the bed, ran outside and crossed the
street.
The band of people was still there. He looked at them,
uncertain of who was the leader, where to start. тАЬDid any of
you see anyone go into my house?тАЭ he asked.
They seemed to shuffle, to shift like the changing patterns
of leaves stirred by the wind. Long years of teaching had
shown him that the best way to deal with crowds was to single
out an individual. He picked out a young man, drawn by the
fact that his turban was on a little crooked, and said, тАЬDid
anyone go into my house while I was gone?тАЭ
He thought the group was moving at the edges, forming
new patterns, but the young man and the people around him
stood still. The young man looked at him like an anthropology
student doing his first year of fieldwork, as if he expected
something from Mitchell. Finally he said something softly in
Lurqazi.
 тАЬDo you speak English?тАЭ Mitchell asked. The dialect of
Lurqazi he could read had changed radically in the fifteenth
century, and anyway he had never tried to speak it. тАЬDoes
anyone here speak English?тАЭ he asked, spinning so that he
could see everyone in the crowd. He stopped, feeling
off-balance and out of breath. тАЬDid anyone see anybody go into
my house while I was gone?тАЭ Silence. He had the feeling they
were mocking him, that they could all speak English fluently.
тАЬWhy are you standing here?тАЭ he asked. тАЬWhy are you all
looking at my house?тАЭ
He looked around. Dusk was coming on, though the traffic
was as heavy as ever. Car horns called to each other and were