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

Cooking smells. The sigh of the sea wafts through the open window. Another perfect day. The way I
feel about her and Saul leaving, I could have done with grey torrents of rain. But even in paradise you
canтАЩt have everything.
тАЬSo,тАЭ I say, тАЬyouтАЩre off to the Amazon.тАЭ
тАЬYeah.тАЭ She bangs the plates down on the table. тАЬThere are freshwater dolphins. Giant anteaters.
People living the way their ancestors did, now the rainforest has been restored.тАЭ She smiles, looking as
dreamy as last night when she gazed at the moon. I can see her standing in the magical darkness of a
forest floor, naked as a priestess, her skin striped with green and mahogany shadows. It requires no
imagination at all.тАЬItтАЩll be fun,тАЭ she says.
тАЬThen you wonтАЩt be visiting Bill and Meg for a while?тАЭ
She bangs out more food. тАЬThereтАЩs plenty of time. WeтАЩll get there eventually. And I wish weтАЩd talked
more here, Papa, to be honest. There are so many things I want to ask.тАЭ
тАЬAbout Grandma?тАЭ I ask. Making an easy guess.
тАЬYou too, Papa. All those years after she died. I mean, between then and now. YouтАЩll have to tell me
what happened.тАЭ
I open my mouth, hoping it will fill up with some comment. But nothing comes out. All those years:
how could I have lived through so many without even noticing? My life is divided as geologists divide up
the rock crust of EarthтАЩs time: those huge empty spaces of rock without life, and a narrow band which
seems to contain everything. And Saul and Agatha are leaving, and timeтАФthat most precious commodity
of allтАФhas passed me by. Again.
Agatha sits down on a stool and leans forward, brown arms resting on her brown thighs. For a
moment, I think that sheтАЩs not going to press the point. But she says, тАЬDo tell me about Grandma, Papa.
ItтАЩs one of those things Dad wonтАЩt talk about.тАЭ
тАЬWhat do you want to know?тАЭ
тАЬI know this is awkward, butтАж how did she die?тАЭ
тАЬBillтАЩs never told you?тАЭ
тАЬWe figured that perhaps he was too young at the time to know. But he wasnтАЩt, was he? We worked
that out.тАЭ
тАЬBill was eleven when your Gram died.тАЭ I say. I know why sheтАЩs asking me this now: sheтАЩs getting
PapaтАЩs story before itтАЩs too late. But IтАЩm not offended. She has a right to know. тАЬWe tried to keep a lot
of stuff about HannahтАЩs death away from Bill. Perhaps that was a mistake, but that was what we both
decided.тАЭ
тАЬIt was a disease called cancer, wasnтАЩt it?тАЭ
So she does know something after all. Perhaps BillтАЩs told her more than sheтАЩs admitting. Perhaps
sheтАЩs checking up, comparing versions. But, seeing her innocent, questioning face, I know that the
thought is unjust.
тАЬYes,тАЭ I say, тАЬit was cancer. They could cure a great many forms of the disease even then. They
could probably have cured Hannah if sheтАЩd gone and had the tests a few months earlier.тАЭ
 тАЬIтАЩm sorry, Papa. It must have been awful.тАЭ
I stare at my lovely granddaughter. Another new century will soon be turning, and IтАЩm deep into the
future; further than IтАЩd ever imagined. Has Agatha ever even known anyone whoтАЩs died? And pain, what
does she know about pain? And who am I, like the last bloody guest at the Masque of the Red Death, to
reveal it to her now?
What does she want to know, anywayтАФhow good or bad would she like me to make it? Does she
want me to tell her that, six months after the first diagnosis, Hannah was dead? Or that she spent her last
days in hospital even though sheтАЩd have liked to have passed away at homeтАФbut the sight of her in her
final stages distressed little Bill too much? It distressed me, too. It distressed her. Her skin was covered
in ulcers from the treatment that the doctors had insisted on giving, stretched tight over bone and
fluid-distended tissue.
тАЬIt was all over with fairly quickly,тАЭ I say.тАЬAnd it was long ago.тАЭ