"William Kotzwinkle - The Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kotzwinkle William)

gathered, and he was their chief. She descended amid the animals and the
oil lamps. Attended by his other wives, she was taken into an arabesque
tent. A rug was spread, pillows, their dinner, dates, wine. She listened to
voices outside their tent talking of battle and it thrilled. her.
"Observe: The torso is separated from the legs."
She was his tenth wife, tore him a son, lived a life of precious price in
Bagdad, died an old woman, was buried in a jeweled ebony box. Death
was dark and impos-sible, the coffin opened. He stood over it, in a faded
tuxedo, beckoning to her. "You're back," he said.
She stepped out, weakly, onto the smoky stage. People were clapping
dully. The room was spinning. She fell into his arms. "Never leave me," she
whispered.
He bowed, took her by the hand. The stage was bend-ing. Her legs were
trembling and she could not feel her feet. Slowly, he led her toward the
stairs. Yes, she thought, he's taking me away.
"Goodbye," he said. The spotlight blinded her. She fumed away and saw
behind him on the stage a piece of scenery a balcony window above a
courtyard. She stared down a pathway in the painted garden, to the sea,
and the white sail of a passing ship. "Take me away," she said.
"Impossible," he said, his face pale and drawn.
She fumed to the stairs with trepidation, for they were moving, as if
alive. "I thought I was a young girl," she said, warily placing her foot on
the top step. "I am an ancient woman."
He released her hand, and fuming to the audience, bowed once again,
then withdrew across the stage into the wings.
Music began. She descended the stairs. Girls with -painted faces came
out behind her on the stage, covered in balloons. She stepped carefully
onto the floor of the cabaret, which appeared to be tilted on its side.
Someone was at her elbow, with his arm around her waist. "Well, my
dear," asked her elderly escort, "how did you like being sawed in half?"
A stagehand carried the box into the wings. The magi-cian carried it
the rest of the way, into the dressing room, where his wife sat, reading a
paper. Beside her in a chair, a child was sleeping.
"How tired you look," she said. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course," he said, removing his tie.
She helped him off with his cape and jacket and packed his tuxedo and
their other belongings in the magic box. They left by the stage door and
walked through the alley-way, the magician carrying the box, his wife
holding their sleeping child on her shoulder.
A carriage came up the avenue and the magician hailed it. "To the
railway station," he said, handing the box up to the driver.
They climbed into the carnage, sank into the leather seats. The
magician stared out the window, toward the river lights. His wife, settling
the child in her lap, saw the old gentleman and the girl coming out of the
cabaret. "The fog seems to be lifting," she said, drawing her shawl around
the child.
The driver cracked his whip. The carriage pulled away, into the night.


The End