"Elizabeth Hand - Prince of Flowers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hand Elizabeth)

As she opened the box, dried flowers, seeds and wood shavings cascaded into
her lap. She inhaled, closing her eyes, and imagined blue water and firelight,
sweet-smelling seeds exploding in the embers. She sneezed and opened her eyes to a
cloud of dust wafting from the crate like smoke. Very carefully she worked her
fingers into the fragrant excelsior, kneading the petals gently until she grasped
something brittle and solid. She drew this out in a flurry of dead flowers.
It was a puppet: not a toy, but a gorgeously costumed figure, spindly arms
clattering with glass and bone circlets, batik robes heavy with embroidery and
beadwork. Long whittled pegs formed its torso and arms and the rods that swivelled
it back and forth, so that its robes rippled tremulously, like a swallowtail's wings.
Held at arm's length it gazed scornfully down at Helen, its face glinting with gilt paint.
Sinuous vines twisted around each jointed arm. Flowers glowed within the rich
threads of its robe, orchids blossoming in the folds of indigo cloth.
Loveliest of all was its face, the curve of cheeks and chin so gracefully arched it
might have been cast in gold rather than coaxed from wood. Helen brushed it with a
finger: the glossy white paint gleamed as though still wet. She touched the carmine
bow that formed its mouth, traced the jet-black lashes stippled across its brow, like a
regiment of ants. The smooth wood felt warm to her touch as she stroked it with her
fingertips. A courtesan might have perfected its sphinx's smile; but in the tide of
petals Helen discovered a slip of paper covered with spidery characters. Beneath the
straggling script another hand had shaped clumsy block letters spelling out the name
prince of flowers.
Once, perhaps, an imperial concubine had entertained herself with its fey
posturing, and so passed the wet silences of a long green season. For the rest of the
afternoon it was Helen's toy.
She posed it and sent its robes dancing in the twilit room, the frail arms and tiny
wrists twitching in a marionette's waltz.
 Behind her a voice called, "Helen?"
"Leo," she murmured. "Look what I found."
He hunched beside her to peer at the figure. "Beautiful. Is that what you're on
now? Balinese artefacts?"
She shrugged. "Is that what it is? I didn't know." She glanced down the dark rows
of cabinets and sighed. "I probably shouldn't be here. It's just so hotтАж" She
stretched and yawned as Leo slid the puppet from her hands.
"Can I see it?" He twisted it until its head spun and the stiff arms flittered. "Wild.
Like one of those dancers in The King and I." He played with it absently,
hypnotized by the swirling robes. When he stopped, the puppet jerked abruptly
upright, its blank eyes staring at Helen.
"Be careful," she warned, kneading her smock between her thumbs. "It's got to
be a hundred years old." She held out her hands and Leo returned it, bemused.
"It's wild, whatever it is." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to get a soda. Want
to come?"
"I better get back to what I was working on. I'm supposed to finish the Burmese
section this week." Casually she set the puppet in its box, brushed the dried flowers
from her lap and stood.
"Sure you don't want a soda or something?" Leo hedged plaintively, snapping his
ID badge against his chest. "You said you were hot."
"No thanks," Helen smiled wanly. "I'll take a raincheck. Tomorrow."
Peeved, Leo muttered and stalked off. When his silhouette faded away she turned
and quickly pulled the box into a dim corner. There she emptied her handbag and