"Jason Gould - The Seven Wonders Of The Modern World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Jason)

The Seven Wonders of the Modern World (Your Winning Entries)
a short story by Jason Gould

One: The Gallery of Narcissus

Nominated by: Fifi of California
Winning Phrase: "In the murkiest pool, the truest reflections are cast."
Along with her nomination, Fifi sent us the following account:
I, too, hang in the Gallery of Narcissus. In aisle eight-hundred-and-four,
between Norma Jean Baker and Sid Vicious, my photograph is testament to
the miracle of plastic surgery. Of course, it's not the real Marilyn or
the real Sid that I hang beside, just glitterless wannabees who, through
crime or honest toil, have amassed sufficient funds to align their hearts
and their bodies. Others have done likewise. James Dean shares wall-space
with Heinrich Himmler; Genghis Khan with Richard Nixon; and by a
delightful coincidence (which some say was orchestrated), J. Edgar Hoover
with Danny La Rue. The Presleys, who at the last census totalled in excess
of two thousand, now occupy the recently opened Graceland Wing, haunted
night and day by jump-suited hopefuls and jailhouse paupers unable to
afford an operation of their own.
Not everyone who visits Narcissus leaves as a legend. If that were the
case fame would be odious, and obscurity cherished. Only some mimic their
idols; most mimic their idea of beauty. I, however, being an Oscarless
native of Hollywood, belong to the former category.
Following my fifth divorce, and in a period when life was as grey as my
natural hair colour, a Senior Executive at my company returned from a
Christmas vacation resembling a slightly dishevelled Orson Welles. He'd
been a fan since childhood, apparently, though the furthest his fanaticism
had driven him thus far was a tattoo on his left shoulder, saying:
Rosebud. But idolatry had at last procured his character, and he'd spent
most of December strapped to a table in the Narcissus Complex while fat
was spooned into his haunches and a tortured, ambiguous scowl knifed into
his brow. Seeing my interest, he gave me Narcissus's business card, which
had a reflective surface on one side and an address on the other. I
checked my appearance then pocketed it.
Six weeks later, on the first of March, in the lonely days following my
seventh divorce, I was packing my winter collection off to the incinerator
when I discovered the card again. I called the number and scheduled an
appointment.
In those days the Narcissus Complex was much smaller. It was situated in a
structure that had once been a hospital, but which was now adapted to more
practical use. Each wall, floor and ceiling was constructed from sharp,
highly reflective mirrors; progressing through those corridors into the
core of the building was like walking through a maze of yourself. It was
ghastly going in but exquisite coming out.
Narcissus, an irredeemably ugly man who hid his ugliness - or tried to -
behind a mass of facial hair, had dedicated his life to the modification
of the human body. The day I first met him he said he'd spent the whole
morning scooping out a millionairess's cheeks until she had what she
wanted: a perfect pair of right angles. The day after he was padding out