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

close to himтАФwe called it his milk song. And he waved his legs in the air and chuckled and laughed at an
age when babies supposedly arenтАЩt able to do that kind of thing. So we called him William. An impish,
mischievous name. In our daft parental certainty, even all the dick and willy connotations had seemed
entirely appropriate. But by the time he was two, he was Bill to everyone. A solid, practical name that fit,
even though calling him Bill was something weтАЩd never dreamed or wanted or intended.


In the heat of mid-afternoon, beneath the awning on the patio between sky and sea, PapaтАЩs with his
offsprings, sated with food. I feel a little sick, to be honest, but IтАЩm hoping it doesnтАЩt show.
тАЬYour dad rang,тАЭ I say, finding the wine has turned the meaning of the sentence aroundтАФas though,
for once, Bill had actually made the effort and contacted me.
тАЬRang?тАЭ Agatha puzzles over the old, unfamiliar phrase. Rang. Called. She nods. тАЬOh yeah?тАЭ She lifts
an espadrilled foot to avoid squashing the ants who are carrying off breadcrumbs and scraps of salad.
тАЬWhat did he say?тАЭ
тАЬNot much.тАЭ IтАЩd be happy if theyтАЩd call. Did he mean heтАЩd be unhappy otherwise? тАЬBill seemed
pretty busy,тАЭ I say. тАЬOh, and he wanted to know where youтАЩve been these last few months.тАЭ
Saul laughs. тАЬThat sounds like Dad, all right.тАЭ
тАЬHeтАЩs just interested,тАЭ I say, feeling I should put up some kind of defense.
Agatha shakes her head. тАЬYou know what Dad gets like, Papa.тАЭ She wrinkles her nose. тАЬAll serious
and worried. Not that you shouldnтАЩt be serious about things. But not about everything?
тАЬAnd heтАЩs so bloody possessive,тАЭ Saul agrees, scratching his ribs.
I try not to nod. But theyтАЩre just saying what children have always said: waving and shouting across a
generation gap that gets bigger and bigger. Hannah and me, we put off having Bill until we were
late-thirties for the sake of our careers. Bill and his wife Meg, they must have both been gone fifty when
they had these two. Not that they were worn outтАФin another age, theyтАЩd have passed for thirtyтАФbut old
is old is old.
The flyers circle in the great blue dome above the bay, clear silver eggs with the rainbow flicker of
improbably tiny wings; the crickets chirp amid the myrtled rocks; the yachts catch the breeze. IтАЩd like to
say something serious to Saul and Agatha as we sit out here on the patio, to try to find out whatтАЩs really
going on between them and Bill, and maybe even make an attempt at repair. But instead, we start to talk
about holidays. I ask them if they really have been to the Sea of Tranquillity, to the moon.
тАЬDo you want to see?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩd love to.тАЭ
Saul dives back into the house. Without actually thinkingтАФnearly a century out of dateтАФIтАЩm
expecting him to return with a wad of photos in an envelope. But he returns with this box, a little VR thing
with tiny rows of user-defined touchpads. He holds it out toward me, but I shake my head.
тАЬYouтАЩd better do it, Saul.тАЭ
So he slips two cool wires over my ears, presses another against the side of my nose and drops the
box onto the rug that covers my lap. He touches a button. As yet, nothing happens.
тАЬPapa, can you hear me?тАЭ
тАЬYesтАжтАЭ
тАЬCan you see?тАЭ
 I nod without thinking, but all IтАЩm getting is the stepped green lawns of my overly neat garden, the sea
unfolding the horizon. Plain old actual reality.
Then, Blam!
Saul says, тАЬThis is us coming in on the moonshuttle.тАЭ
IтАЩm flying over black and white craters. The stars are sliding overhead. IтАЩm falling through the teeth of
airless mountains. IтАЩm tumbling toward a silver city of spires and domes.
тАЬAnd this is Lunar Park.тАЭ
Blam! A midnight jungle strung with lights. Looking up without my willing it through incredible foliage