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

pinhead lens drifts after her, panning. IтАЩm fascinated. Perhaps itтАЩs my new corneas, but she seems clearer
in the image than she does in reality.
Humming to herself, Agatha starts plucking the pink rose petals from a display on the windowledge,
letting them fall to the floor. As I watch her on SaulтАЩs palette screen, I notice the odd way that the petals
seem to drift from her fingers, how they multiply and divide. Some even rise and dance, seemingly caught
on a breeze although the air in the room is still, leaving fading trails behind them. Then AgathaтАЩs face blurs
as she turns and smiles. But sheтАЩs also still in profile, looking out of the window. Eyes and a mouth at
both angles at once. Then she takes a step forward, while at the same time remaining still. At first, the
effect of these overlays is attractive, like a portrait by Picasso, but as they build up, the palette becomes
confused. Saul touches the palette edge. Agatha collapses back into one image again. SheтАЩs looking out
through the window into the twilight at the big yacht with white sails at anchor out in the bay. The same
Agatha I see as I look up toward her.
тАЬIsnтАЩt that something?тАЭ Saul says.
I can only nod.
тАЬYes, incredible, isnтАЩt it?тАЭ Agatha says, brushing pollen from her fingers. тАЬThe metacamтАЩs showing
possible universes that lie close to our own. You do understand that, Papa?тАЭ
тАЬYes. ButтАжтАЭ
Agatha comes over and kisses the age-mottled top of my head.
Outside, beyond the patio and the velvety neat garden, the sea horizon has dissolved. The big
white-sailed yacht now seems to be floating with the early stars. I canтАЩt even tell whether itтАЩs an illusion.
тАЬWe thought weтАЩd go out on our own this evening, Papa,тАЭ she murmurs, her lips ticklingly close to my
ear. тАЬSee whatтАЩs going on down in the port. That is, if youтАЩre feeling okay. You donтАЩt mind us leaving for
a few hours, do you?тАЭ

***

A flyer from the port comes to collect Saul and Agatha. I stand waving on the patio as they rise into
the starry darkness like silver twins of the moon.
Back inside the house, even with all the lights on, everything feels empty. I find myself wondering what
it will be like after my grandchildren have gone entirely, which can only be a matter of days. I fix some
food in the kitchen. Usually, I like the sense of control that my old culinary tools give me, but the buzzing
of the molecular knife seems to fill my bones as I cut, slice, arrange. Saul and Agatha. Everything about
them means happiness, but still I have this stupid idea that thereтАЩs a price to pay.
I sit down at the kitchen table, gazing at green-bellied mussels, bits of squid swimming in oil, bread
thatтАЩs already going stale. What came over me this morning, buying all this crap? I stand up, pushing my
way through the furniture to get outside. There. The stars, the moon, the faint lights of the port set down
in the scoop of the darkly gleaming coast. If I really knew how to configure these eardrums, I could
probably filter out everything but distant laughter in those lantern-strung streets, music, the clink of
glasses. I could eavesdrop on what Saul and Agatha are saying about Papa as they sit at some caf├й table,
whether they think IтАЩve gone downhill since the last time, or whether, all things considered, IтАЩm holding up
pretty well.
TheyтАЩll be taking clues from things around this house that I donтАЩt even notice. I remember visiting a
great aunt back in the last century when I was only a kid. She was always punctilious about her
appearance, but as she got older she used to cake her face with white powder, and there was some
terrible discovery my mother made when she looked through the old newspapers in the front room. Soon
after that, auntie was taken into what was euphemistically called a Home. These days, you can keep your
own company for much longer. There are machines that will do most things for you: IтАЩve already got one
in my bedside drawer that crawls down my leg and cuts my toenails for me. But when do you finally
cross that line of not coping? And who will warn you when you get close?
Unaided, I climb down from the patio and hobble along the pathways of my stepped garden. Since