"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

been biting down on it.
Raphael smiled. His wings gathered forward and
in, making a sort of private chamber within the drafty
Delstrego hall. "I liked that," the angel said. "тАФThe
way you played it, too, first each line, then both."
Damiano shrugged and flicked his sleeves from his
hands, his hair from his face. Though his expression
remained cool through this praise, he squirmed on the
bench like a child. "Oh, that was just to warm up to it.
I wouldn't perform it that way."
"Why not?"
"It's too simple. There's nothing to it, just playing
the one line, without even any trills or ornament."
The archangel Raphael took the little wooden in-
strument out of Damiano's hands. He edged away
along the bench, and his wings swept back in a busi-
nesslike manner. His face, as he retuned the strings,
was chiseled perfectly, almost harsh in its perfection,
unapproachable, forbidding. But the high B string rang
flat (the pin tended to slip), and his left eyebrow shot
up in theatrical shock, along with his left wing. Damiano
smothered a laugh. Slowly Raphael began to play the
melody "Ce fut en mai," which is a very simple tune,
one he had helped Damiano to learn three years
previously. He played it a number of times through,
without trills, without ornamentation, without coun-
terpoint of any kind. He did, however, play it different-
ly. The first iteration was jolly; the second, sad. On the
third trip through, the song bounced as though it were
riding a horse, and the fourth time the same horse was
being ridden into battle. The fifth became a dirge, and
when it all seemed over for good (like an eventful
lifeтАФthat songтАФnow over for good), he played it through
again like the dance it was. Damiano listened, his
amusement turning to awe.
"I'll keep my mouth shut from now on," muttered
the youth.
"I would be sorry if you did that, my friend," said
the angel. "I like to hear you talk." The smile he turned
on Damiano was terrifying in its mildness, but Damiano
was used to Raphael's smile. He grinned back.
"Please, Seraph, while you have the lute, play me
again the French piece from last week. I can't grasp the
cross-rhythms."
Raphael lifted his golden gull-wing brow again,
but as no musician needs to be asked twice, he began
to play.
Damiano watched and listened, thinking: I am
privileged like no other man on earth. I can never
deserve this, not though I transmute lead to gold and