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

was amused. The face was as dark and shining as ancient mahogany; almost black.

"Do you mind if I join you on this bench?" The tall black man sat down firmly.

Frustrated by the interruption Karl pretended an interest in a paving stone at
his feet. He hated people who tried to talk to him here, particularly when they
broke into his daydreams.

"Not at all," he said. "I was just leaving." It was his usual reply. He
adjusted the frayed cuff of his jacket.

"I'm visiting London," said the black man. His own light suit was elegantly
cut, a subtle silvery grey. Silk, Karl supposed. All the mans clothes and
jewelry were evidently expensive. A rich American tourist, thought Karl (who
had no ear for accents). "I hadn't expected to find a place like this in the
middle of your city," the man continued. "I saw a sign and followed it. Do you
like it here?"
Karl shrugged.

The man laughed, removing the cover from his Rolleiflex. "Can I take a picture
of you here?"
And now Karl was flattered. Nobody had ever volunteered to take his picture
before. His anger began to dissipate.

"It gives life to a photograph. It shows that I took it myself. Otherwise I
might just as well buy the postcards, eh?"
Karl rose to go. But it seemed that the black man had misinterpreted the
movement. "You are a Londoner, aren't you?" He smiled, his deep-set eyes
looking searchingly into Karl's face. Karl wondered for a moment if the
question had some additional meaning he hadn't divined.

"Yes, I am." He frowned.

Only now did the elegant negro seem to realize Karl's displeasure. "I'm sorry
if I'm imposing ..." he said.

Again, Karl shrugged.

"It would not take a moment. I only asked if you were a Londoner because I
don't wish to make the mistake of taking a picture of a typical Englishman and
then you tell me you are French or something!" He laughed heartily. "You see?"
Karl didn't much care for the "typical", but he was disarmed by the man's charm.
He smiled. The black man got up, put a hand on Karl's shoulder and guided him
gently to the fountain. "If you could sit on the rim for a moment..." He backed
away and peered into his viewfinder, standing with his legs spread wide and his
heels on the very edge of the flower bed, taking, from slightly different
angles, a whole series of photographs. Karl was embarrassed. He felt that the
situation was odd, but he could not define why it should seem so. It was as if
the ritual of photography was a hint at a much more profound ritual going on at
the same time. He must leave. Even the click and the whirr of the camera