"Michael Moorcock - An Evening at Home" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

I willed strength into my legs, staggered to the door and reached for the
handle. As I did so a key turned in the lock and it began to open. My legs
threatened to fold at the knees again and I fell back, expecting to see my
Duce himself.

But it was Margherita Sarfatti, an affectionate Fury in yellow and black silk.
"Darling, I couldn't wait to see you! I've been longing for you. You must tell
me everything that happened tonight."
I tried to speak, but no words came. I attempted to shove my way past her, but
she pushed me back into the room, pausing with a look of almost comic outrage
when she saw that there were others standing there.

Slowly she absorbed the scene. She looked from me to Mandy to Fiorello. Her
breathing seemed to grow more rapid, almost an animal snorting, as if a dragon
fired up its venom. And then she screamed.

"There's nothing between us, honestly," said Mandy. "I think maybe we all need
a drink and a sit down."

I was close to screaming myself. Had the Duce seen Margherita come in? If so,
would he draw any particular conclusions? It was, after all, her house.
Mussolini would comee to investigate and find me harbouring a traitor while
keeping a liason with his mistress.

"I really do have to leave," I said.

"How long has all this been going on?" Margherita wished to know. "Now I
realise the depths of treachery you've plumbed! I helped you all! I gave you
everything! My own blood I would have given you! And this is my repayment? I
am nothing, eh? I don't even get an invitation to the little boys' parties any
more. This will not be forgotten. Both of you I nurtured as a mother -- as a
lioness her cubs. I taught you everything. I even made you characters in my
book. I protected you. Both of you would be in prison if it were not for me.
Yet, behind my back, you plot and scheme. Well, the Duce shall know of this!"

It was what, I will admit, I most feared at that moment.



As I tried to frame a reply which would buy me the time I needed, I heard a
tap on the door. This was certain to be the Duce.

Not one of the million explanations which entered my head had the slightest
ring of truth. I sighed and prepared myself for the inevitable.

But it was not Mussolini. A jolly gust of laughter announced the arrival of
Hermann Goering, Mrs Cornelius and an extremely drunken Seryozha who was
scarcely able to stand but stood between the other two with a look of depraved
sentimentality on his face worthy of Kominski or one of the other great clowns
of the old Kiev circus. "Why!" exclaimed the smiling German. "You're already