"Songbirds of Pain by Garry Kilworth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

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THE SONGBIRDS OF PAIN
By Garry Kilworth
Tomorrow they would break her legs.
At first, every morning there were songbirds in the fire trees outside her hospital window, and every evening the frogs sang in the storm drains with choirs of bass voices. (Not when she woke or went to sleep: In her twilight world of pain there was no real sleep, just a clinging to the edge of a dream, an intermittent misting of the brain.) Then there came a time when the birds and frogs seemed to be singing from within her, deep within her flesh, her bones. The pitch of their notes was, on occasion, as sharp as thorns; and at other times, as dull as small hammer blows on a hollow skull. Her world was fully of the agony of their music: The songbirds of Brazil entered her blood and swam the channels of her body with slow wings. The tree frogs, the ground frogs, they also filled the long, narrow passages of her limbs, her breasts, and her mind with their melodies. If snakes
could sing they would have been there, too, accompanying the cicadas and the grasshoppers; the rhythmic, ticking beetles; even the high-singing bats and the clicking lizards. She tried to remember the time when these songsters, these choral wonders of an exotic lands, were not part of her, were separate from her. There was a man, somewhere, who led her to this state. If she could remember . . .
Philip would indulge her, she knew, to the extent of his fortune. Anita's approach, however, was cautious because of the nature of her request. Even so, the amount of money involved was considerable and, as was his habit, he reached for the whiskey when he was thrown off balance. She had come to realize that it was not the alcohol that was the crutch but the need to hold something in his hand upon which he could concentrate while he recovered his composure. The worst was yet to come. She waited until he had poured his drink and was gripping the glass.
"Yes-" she mentioned the sum-"it's a lot of money, I know, but I'll give up a few things . . . my fur coat, this flat . . . ."
He looked up sharply. "The flat? Where will you live? You're not moving out of London. What do you want this money for?"
She hesitated before replying. It was difficult to tell someone you needed a great deal of money in order to have all your bones broken. It would sound ridiculous. Perhaps it was ridiculous.
"I'll have to go away . . . it's an operation. Don't look so alarmed. It's not that I'm sick or anything."
He frowned, rolling the crystal tumbler slowly between his palms. Anita wondered whether Philip's wife was aware of this trait: She liked to think she could read this man better than Marjorie could, but perhaps that was arrogance-conceit? Perhaps Marjorie was aware of more important supports than whiskey glasses. Like mistresses.
"Cosmetic surgery? But you're already beautiful. I like the way you are. Why should you want to change?"
"It's more than that, Philip. Something I can't really explain . . . . I'm twenty-six. In a few more years my present . . . looks will begin to fade. I need a beauty that will remain outstanding. It's all I have. I'm not clever like you. Nor do I have the kind of personality that Marjorie possesses. You both have a charisma that goes deeper than looks. You may think it's something superficial that I'm searching for, but I do need it. I want to make the best of myself. If I'm beautiful to begin with, then that just means that I need less improvement-but there is a great deal of me I want improved."
"Where will you go? Where is this place, the USA?"
She shook her head. Perhaps this was one time when he would refuse her adamantly. In which case she would have to bide her time, wait for another lover, just as wealthy, but more willing to indulge her.
Yet she knew she could not leave this man. She loved him much too deeply.
"Brazil. A town on the edge of the jungle called Algarez. There's a surgeon there . . . I would trust him. It's a difficult operation, but I know he's carried
it out on two other women. It was very successful." "Brazil?" Again, the rolling of the glass, the slight frown of disapproval. She knew that his business interests would not allow him time to travel at this point in the calendar. She would have to go alone. "Do I know either of these women?"
"One of them. Sarah Shields."
"The actress. But my God, she was unrecognizable when she returned to society. I mean, she looked nothing like her former self-extremely beautiful, yes, but . . . ."
Anita suddenly wanted to knock the glass out of his hand.
Sometimes he lacked the understanding of which she knew he was capable.
". . . beautiful, yes, but . . . ." There was no buts to Anita. Everything was contained in one word. Beauty. She wanted it badly. Real beauty, not just a passable beauty. To be the most . . .
"Will you help me?" she asked simply.
He looked into her eyes, and suddenly he smiled. A wonderful, understanding smile, and she knew it would be all right. Philip was usually the most generous of men, but there was that protective shield around his heart, wineglass thin but resistant nonetheless, which she had to shatter gently at times. It was not just the large issues, like this, that revealed the fragile shell that encapsulated his givingness, but small things, too-like a trip to the art gallery or the reading of a poem to her while they lay in bed after making love. It was something to do with his fear of being manipulated, something concerned with defending that part of his ego that abhorred control.
She knew he needed her but not as much as she needed him-in fact her own need reached desperation point at times, and she resented the fact that his, though apparent, was not as consuming as her own. Anita thought suddenly of his wife. She had never been jealous of Marjorie. Anyone else, yes, but Marjorie was his wife and, more important, she came before Anita.
"When will you leave?" he asked.
"Next month," she replied.
Anita went into the kitchen to make some coffee while Philip finished his whiskey. As she made the coffee she considered the forthcoming trip. Travel was now one of her greatest enjoyments, although this had not always been the case. Brazil. She wondered whether she would like it there. She remembered her first visit abroad, how awful it had been. Normandy, as a young girl on a school exchange. It had been a depressing visit. The family she stayed with insisted on impressing her with trips to the war graves-rows and rows of white crosses. Strange, she thought, that men who had died in such chaos should be buried in neat, symmetrical lines, while conversely, men who had lived quiet, orderly lives-bankers, stockbrokers, insurance people-usually ended up in untidy graveyards, their headstones looking as if they had been planted by some blind, maladroit giant.
She shook off the thoughts of death. After all, it was not death that awaited her in Brazil, but fulfillment, albeit that the road to that end was paved with pain. She knew it was going to be hard, but it was a rebirth that was worth the agony she would have to endure. She hoped her mind was strong enough.
When Philip met her she had been a twenty-year-old shop assistant. He had persuaded her to take up a career in modeling so that she could travel with the small fashion house he financed and they could be together more often.
She was now twenty-six and wiser only in a world as seen through Philip's eyes. He had kept her closeted, comfortable, and happy for four years. Her opinions were secondhand and originally his. She realized this had created an insipid personality, but for the present she was satisfied with the status quo. Later, when she had lost him (as she was bound to do one day), perhaps she could develop her own identity.
Of Philip's former life, she knew only the surface details. He had married at twenty-five while in the process of clawing his way to the first ledge on the cliff of success. Success, in Philip's terms, was money and certain pleasures that went with it. He was a considerate lover and good to his wife in all but absolute fidelity. He was not a philanderer. Also he did not squander money on luxuries he did not really require, like yachts, cars, and swimming pools. He had one of everything he needed except . . . except women. The thought jarred when she reduced it to those terms. There was a certain greed associated with his wants that she generously connected with insecurity. The truth probably lay somewhere between those two character defects.
His had not been an easy climb, either. He had come from a poor background. Philip had since acquired considerable polish and was thought of by his contemporaries as an aristocratic businessman rather than working class-nouveau riche.
At the time Anita had met him, he had been thirtytwo. He had given her a lift home after work at a store for which he supplied new fashions. Now she was making coffee for him following an evening at the theater and before he went home to his wife.
She took in the coffee, and they drank it in silence. They would not make love tonight. Sex was not the most important part of their relationship, in any case. Philip needed her more for the affection she gave him. Not that Marjorie was unaffectionate, but Anita had come to know that while Philip was a tough businessman, he was privately very sentimental and needed a great deal of emotional support. It provided the background softness to a life full of hard-bitten decisions. Neither woman was volatile or demonstrative. They were both warm and loyal, with loving dispositions.
It was not contrasts Philip required, but additions. In turn, he gave much-almost as much as either woman asked for-in both practical and emotional terms.
"I'll have to be getting home now," he said, after the coffee.
She nodded. "I know."
"I'm sorry. I'd like to stay tonight, but Marjorie's expecting me."
"It's all right, Philip, really it is. I'm fine. I've got a good book and the television if I need it. Please don't worry."
He kissed her gently on the brow, and she stood up and fetched his coat.
"I'll call you," he said, standing at the door.
"I'll be here." He never could say goodbye, always
using feeble excuses, like a just-remembered something or other, to prolong the final parting for the night. Even a half-closed door was not a sure indication that he was on his way. He might turn at the last minute, whip off his coat, and say, "Dammit, another hour won't hurt. I'll say the car had a flat or something."
"Go, Philip," she said. "Just go."