"Hoffman-KeySignatures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Abbie)

closer to the radio and listen harder and the sound would fade and we'd scootch
closer, and . . . " He cupped his ear and grinned.

Wait said, "When I went to war I was in the Navy, and they broadcast updates
from the ship I was on. I didn't know about it till later, but my mama said she
figured as long as those broadcasts came through I was okay."

"Hey, you wanna talk, save it for the telephone," said Kelly, and struck up a
tune on his mandolin, "There's More Pretty Girls than One."

Zita played along, feeling her bow slide smoothly over the strings, not bumping
and jumping and jiggling out dreadful screechy hiccuping sounds the way it had
when she first started. She thought of Sid as a boy, inching closer to his radio
to catch scratchy distant music, and suddenly a vision opened up inside her, a
vision of a web the music made, stretching across time and space, entering the
ears of a girl a hundred years ago, edging out her fingers for her children to
hear eighty years ago, coming out in hums from those same children now grown
fifty years ago, in the hearing of their own children and maybe the children of
strangers, melting from one form into another, threads of tune catching up
different beads of words, carrying them, dropping them, threading through
others, transforming and traveling and yet carrying the original signatures of
the first drums, the first lyres, the first flutes, the first voices.

Here was a heredity, handed out freely, gathering in sons and daughters, only
asking to be learned and known and passed on. She looked at these five men, who
had come from five different directions and ended up here in the garage with
her, joining her in the instant family that shared tunes created.

She smiled wide at all of them, and they smiled back.

"Here's an oldie but a goodie," said Walt. "The Log Cabin Waltz."

"Teach me," said Zita.