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

the interior could be seen. The restaurant was quite busy today and was serving
cucumber sandwiches and Danish pastries to little parties of women in jersey
suits and silk frocks who were relaxing after their shopping. The only men
present were one or two elderly husbands or fathers: tolerated because of their
cheque-books. Karl and his new friend entered the restaurant and walked to the
far end to a table by the window which looked out onto the lawns and willow
trees skirting the miniature stream and its miniature wooden bridge. "You had
better order, I think," said the Nigerian. "I'm not much used to this sort of
thing." Again he smiled warmly. Karl picked up the menu.

"We might as well stick to the set tea," said Karl. "Sandwiches and cakes."
"Very well." The man's reply was vague, insouciant. He gave Karl the impression
that, for all his politeness, he had weightier matters on his mind than the
choice of food.

For a few moments Karl tried to signal a waitress. He felt embarrassed and
avoided looking at his companion. He glanced about the crowded restaurant, at
the pastel mauves and pinks and blues of the ladies suits, the fluffy hats built
up layer on layer of artificial petals, The Jaeger scarves. At last the
waitress arrived. He didn't know her. She was new. But she looked like the
rest. A tired woman of about thirty-five. Her thin face was yellow beneath the
powder, the rouge and the lipstick. She had bags under her eyes and the deep
crow's feet emphasized the bleakness of her expression. The skin on the bridge
of her nose was peeling. She had the hands of a hag twice her age. One of them
plucked the order pad from where it hung by a string against her dowdy black
skirt and she settled her pencil heavily against the paper. It seemed that she
lacked even the strength to hold the stub with only one hand.

"Two set teas, please," said Karl. He tried to sound pleasant and sympathetic.
But she paid attention neither to his face nor his tone.

"Thank you, sir." She let the pad fall back without using it. She began to
trudge towards the kitchen, pushing open the door as if gratefully entering the
gates of hell.

Karl felt the pressure of his companion's long legs against his own. He tried,
politely, to move, but could not; not without a violent tug. The black man
seemed unaware of Karl's discomfort and leaned forward over the little table,
putting his two elbows on the dainty white cloth and looking directly into
Karl's eyes. "I hope you don't think I've been rude, old chap," he said.

"Rude?" Karl was trapped by the eyes.

"It occurred to me you might have better things to do than keep a bored tourist
entertained."
"Of course not," Karl heard himself say. "I'm afraid I don't know much about
Nigeria. I'd like to know more. Of course, I followed the Biafran thing in the
papers." Had that been the wrong remark?
"Your Alfred had similar trouble with his 'break-away' states, you know."
"I suppose he did." Karl wasn't sure who Alfred had been or what he had done.