"Robin Hobb - Wizard Of The Pigeons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hobb Robin)

at me lady in her bath, or hear the. nickelodeon tunes of the
olden days. For fifty cents, another machine would squish a
penny into a souvenir of the shop. One could buy postcards
and shells and knick-knacks and jewelry, carvings and pottery,
toys and trinkets. Suspended from the rafters were trophies of
the seas, including a mermaid's body. But Wizard walked past
all of these fascinating things, straight to the back of me shop.

The very best things were in the back of the shop. The
shrunken beads were here, and the ancient skulls in glass cases.
A baby pig with two heads was pickled in a large jar atop a
player piano. To the left of this piano was a Gypsy fortune-
teller holding her Tarot cards and waiting for the drop of a
dime to deal out your fortune card to you. To the right of die
player piano was Sylvester.

"So how's it going, old man?" Wizard greeted him softly.
Sylvester gave a dry cough and began, "It was a hot and
dusty day..."

Wizard listened, politely nodding. It was the only story
Sylvester had to tell, and Wizard was one of the few who could
hear it. Wizard looked through die glass into die dark holes

4 Megan Undbolm

behind the dry eyelids and caught the gleam of his dying emo-
tions. The bullet hole was still plainly visible upon Sylvester's
ribby chest; his dessicated arms were still crossed, holding in
the antique pain. His small brown teeth showed beneath his
diy moustache. Sylvester was one of the best naturally pre-
served mummies existent in the western United States. It said
so right on the placard beside his display case. Sylvester had
met with success in death, if not in life. One could buy postcards
and pamphlets that told all about him. They told everything
(here was to know, except who he had been, and why he had
died in the sandy wastes from a bullet wound. And those secrets
were the ones he whispered to Wizard, speaking in a voice as
dry and dusty as his unmarked grave had been, in words so
soft they barely passed the glass that separated them. Wizard
stood patiently listening to the old tale, nodding his head slightly.

Sylvester was not alone. There was another mummy in a
glass case next to his, her shriveled loins modestly swathed in
an apron. She listened to Sylvester speak to Wizard with her
mouth agape in aristocratic disdain for his uncouthness. She
had died of consumption and been entombed in a cave. She
still wore her burial stockings and shoes. Privately Wizard did
not think her as well preserved as Sylvester, but she was def-
initely more conscious of social niceties.