"Karl Glogaver - 02 - Breakfast In The Ruins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

-I think I like you better like that, says the black man. He puts a palm on
Karl's damp thigh. - It's your color ... Karl giggles.

- There, you see, it has made you feel better.

KARL WAS NINE. His mother did not know her age. He did not know his father.
He was a servant in a house with a huge garden. A white house. He was the
punkah-wallah, the boy who operated the giant fan which swept back and forth
over the white people while they were eating. When he was not doing this, he
helped the cook in the kitchen. Whenever he could, however, he was out in the
grounds with his net. He had a passion for butterflies. He had a large
collection in the room he shared with the two other little house-boys and his
companions were very envious. If he saw a specimen he did not own, he would
forget everything else until he had caught it. Everyone knew about his hobby
and that was why he was known as "Butterfly" by everyone, from the master and
mistress down. It was a kind house and they tolerated his passion. It was not
everyone, even, who would employ a Cape Colored boy, because most thought that
half-breeds were less trustworthy than pure-blooded natives. The master had
presented him with a proper killing jar and an old velvet-lined case in which to
mount his specimens. Karl was very lucky.

Whenever the master saw him, he would say: "And how's the young entomologist,
today?" and Karl would flash him a smile. When Karl was older it was almost
certain that he would be given a position as a footman. He would be the very
first Cape Colored footman in this district.

This evening it was very hot and the master and mistress were entertaining a
large party of guests to dinner. Karl sat behind a screen and pulled on the
string which made the fan work. He was good at his job and the motion of the
fan was as regular as the swinging of a pendulum.

When his right arm became tired, Karl would use his left arm, and when his left
arm was tired, he would transfer the string to the big toe of his right foot.
When his right foot ached, he would use his left and by that time his right arm
would be rested and he could begin again. In the meantime, he daydreamed,
thinking of his lovely butterflies and of the specimens he had yet to collect.
There was a very large one he wanted particularly. It had blue and yellow wings
and a complicated pattern of zigzags on its body. He did not know its name. He
knew few of the names because nobody could tell them to him. Someone had once
shown him a book with some pictures of butterflies and the names underneath, but
since he could not read he could not discover what the names were.

Laughter came from the other side of the screen. A deep voice said: "Somebody
will teach the Boers a lesson soon, mark my words. Those damned farmers can't
go on treating British subjects in that high-handed fashion forever. We've made
their country rich and they treat us like natives!"
Another voice murmured a reply and the deep voice said loudly: "If that's the
sort of life they want to. preserve, why don't they go somewhere else? They've
got to move with the times."