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

model, but you have to put in extra money or something. Antonio grins. HeтАЩs a big man, fronting slopes
of golden crust, cherry-nippled lines of iced bun. Sweaty and floured, he loves his job the way everyone
seems to these days.
IтАЩm pointing everywhere. Two, no, three loaves. And up there; never mind, IтАЩll have some anyway.
And those long twirly thingsтАФare they sweet?тАФIтАЩve always wonderedтАж
тАЬYouтАЩve got visitors?тАЭ He packs the crisp warm loaves into crisp brown bags.
тАЬMy grandchildren.тАЭ I smile, broody as a hen. тАЬThey came out of nowhere this morning.тАЭ
тАЬThatтАЩs great,тАЭ he beams. HeтАЩd slap my shoulder if he could reach that far across the marble counter.
тАЬHow old?тАЭ
I shrug. What is it now? BillтАЩs eighty-something. SoтАФnearly thirty. But that canтАЩt be rightтАж
тАЬAnyway,тАЭ he hands me the bags, too polite to ask if I can manage. тАЬNowтАЩs a good time.тАЭ My
autolegs hiss as I back out toward the door. The loaded trolley follows.
But heтАЩs right. Now is a good time. The very best.
I drop the bags of bread on my way back to the square. The trolleyтАЩs too full to help even if I knew
how to ask it, and I canтАЩt bend down without climbing out of the autolegs, but a grey-haired woman
gathers them up from the pavement and helps me back to the car.
тАЬYou drive?тАЭ she asks as I clank across the square toward my Ford and the trolley rumbles behind
in attendance. ItтАЩs a museum piece. She chuckles again. Her face is hidden under the shadow-weave of a
straw sunhat.
Then she says, тАЬGrandchildrenтАФhow lovely,тАЭ as nectarines and oranges tumble into the back seat. I
canтАЩt remember telling her about Saul and Agatha as we walkedтАФin my absorption, I canтАЩt even
remember speakingтАФbut perhaps itтАЩs the only possible explanation for someone of my age doing this
amount of shopping. When I look up to thank her, sheтАЩs already heading off under the date palms. The
sway of a floral print dress. Crinkled elbows and heels, sandals flapping, soft wisps of grey hair, the rings
on her slightly lumpen fingers catching in sunlight. IтАЩm staring, thinking. Thinking, if only.
Back at the house, hours after the quick trip IтАЩd intended, the front door is open, unlocked. The thing
usually bleeps like mad when I leave it even fractionally ajar, but my grandchildren have obviously
managed to disable it. I step out of my autolegs. I stand there in my own hall, feeling the tingling in my
synthetic hip, waiting for my corneas to adjust to the change in light.
тАЬIтАЩm back!тАЭ
ThereтАЩs silenceтАФor as close to silence as these eardrums will allow. Beating waves. Beating heart.
And breathing. Soft, slow breathing. I follow the sound.
Inside my bathroom, it looks as if Saul and Agatha have been washing a large and very uncooperative
dog. Sodden towels are everywhere, and the floor is a soapy lake, but then theyтАЩre of a generation thatтАЩs
used to machines clearing up after them. Beyond, in the shadowed double room theyтАЩve taken for their
own, my grandchildren lie curled. AgathaтАЩs in my old off-white dressing gownтАФwhich, now IтАЩve seen her
in it, IтАЩll never want to wash or replace. Her hair spills across the pillow, her thumb rests close to her
mouth. And SaulтАЩs stretched on the mattress facing the other way, naked, his bum pressed against hers.
Long flanks of honey-brown. HeтАЩs smooth and still, lovely as a statue.
ThereтАЩs a tomb-memorial I saw onceтАФin an old cathedral, in old EnglandтАФof two sleeping children,
carved in white marble. I must have been there with Hannah, for I remember the ease of her presence
beside me, or at least the absence of the ache that has hardly ever left me since. And I remember staring
at those sweet white faces and thinking how impossible that kind of serenity was, even in the wildest
depths of childhood. But now it happens all the time. EverythingтАЩs an everyday miracle.
I back away. Close the door, making a clumsy noise that I hope doesnтАЩt wake them. I unload the
shopping in the kitchen by hand, watching the contents of my bags diminish as if by magic as I place them
on the shelves. So much becoming so little. But never mind; thereтАЩs enough for a late lunch, maybe
dinner. And my grandchildren are sleeping and the house swirls with their dreams. ItтАЩs time, anyway, to
ring Bill.
My sonтАЩs in his office. Bill always looks different on the console, and as usual I wonder if this is a face