"Ian R. MacLeod - Papa" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

тАЬItтАЩs all in the past,тАЭ I say, fiddling for the catch, pulling the hood back down with a rusty bang.
Agatha gives me a hand as I climb the steps to the front of the house. I lean heavily on her, wondering
how IтАЩll ever manage alone.


I drive Saul and Agatha down to the beach. They rattle around in the back of my Ford, whooping
and laughing. And IтАЩm grinning broadly too, happy as a kitten as I take the hairpins in and out of sunlight,
through cool shadows of forest with the glittering race of water far below. At last! A chance to show that
PapaтАЩs not past it! In control. The gearshiftтАЩs automatic, but thereтАЩs still the steering, the brakes, the
choke, the accelerator. My hands and feet shift in a complex dance, ancient and arcane as alchemy.
We crash down the road in clouds of dust. I beep the horn, but people can hear us coming a mile off,
anyway. They point and wave. Flyers dip low, their bee-wings blurring, for a better look. The sun shines
bright and hot. The trees are dancing green. The sea is shimmering silver. IтАЩm a mad old man, wise as the
deep and lovely hills, deeply loved by his deeply lovely grandchildren. And I decide right here and now
that I should get out more often. Meet new strangers. See the island, make the most of the future. Live a
little while I still can.
тАЬYouтАЩre okay, Papa?тАЭ
On the bench, Agatha presses a button, and a striped parasol unfolds. тАЬIf we leave this here, it should
keep track of the sun for you.тАЭ
тАЬThanks.тАЭ
тАЬDo you still swim?тАЭ She reaches to her waist and pulls off her T-shirt. I do not even glance at her
breasts.
SaulтАЩs already naked. He stretches out on the white sand beside me. His penis flops out over his
thigh; a beached baby whale.
тАЬDo you, Papa? I mean, swim?тАЭ
тАЬNo,тАЭ I say. тАЬNot for a few years.тАЭ
 тАЬWe could try one of the pedalos later.тАЭ Agatha steps out from her shorts and underpants. тАЬTheyтАЩre
powered. You donтАЩt have to pedal unless you want to.тАЭ
тАЬSure.тАЭ
Agatha shakes the ribbon from her hair and scampers off down the beach, kicking up the sand. ItтАЩs
late morning. Surfers are riding the deep green waves. People are laughing, splashing, swimming, drifting
on the tide in huge transparent bubbles. And on the beach there are sun-worshippers and runners, kids
making sandcastles, robot vendors selling ice cream.
тАЬAg and Dad are a real problem,тАЭ Saul says, lying back, his eyes closed against the sun.
I glance down at him. тАЬYouтАЩre going to see himтАж?тАЭ
He pulls a face. тАЬItтАЩs a duty to see Mum and Dad, you know? ItтАЩs not like coming here to see you,
Papa.тАЭ
тАЬNo.тАЭ
тАЬYou know what theyтАЩre like.тАЭ
тАЬYes,тАЭ I say, wondering why I even bother with the lie.
Of course, when Hannah died, everyone seemed to assume a deepening closeness would develop
between father and son. Everyone, that is, apart from anyone who knew anything about grief or
bereavement. Bill was eleven then, and when I looked up from the breakfast table one morning, he was
twelve, then thirteen. He was finding his own views, starting to seek independence. He kept himself busy,
he did well at school. We went on daytrips together and took foreign holidays. We talked amicably, we
visited MumтАЩs grave at Christmas and on her birthday and walked through the damp grass back to the
car keeping our separate silences. Sometimes, weтАЩd talk animatedly about things that didnтАЩt matter. But
we never argued. When he was seventeen, Bill went to college in another town. When he was twenty, he
took a job in another country. He wrote and rang dutifully, but the gaps got bigger. Even with tri-dee and
the revolutions of instantaneous communication, it got harder and harder to know what to say. And Bill