"Moorcock, Michael - Breakfast in the Ruins (v2.5)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

KARL WAS SEVEN. His mother was twenty-five. His father was thirty-one, but had probably been killed fighting the Prussians at St. Quentin. Karl's father had been so eager to join the National Guard and prove that he was a true Frenchman.
"Now, Karl." His mother put him down and he felt the hard cobbles of the street beneath his thin shoes. "You must walk a little. Mother is tired, too."
It was true. When she was tired, her Alsatian accent always became thicker and now it was very thick. Karl felt ashamed for her.
He was not sure what was happening. The previous night he had heard loud noises and the sounds of running feet. There had been shots and explosions, but such things were familiar enough since the Siege of Paris. Then his mother had appeared in her street clothes and made him put on his coat and shoes, hurrying him from the room and down the stairs and into the street. He wondered what had happened to their maid. When they got into the street he saw that a fire had broken out some distance away and that there were many National Guardsmen about. Some of them were running towards the fires and others, who were wounded, were staggering in the other direction. Some bad soldiers were attacking them, he gathered, and his mother was afraid that the house would be burned down. "Starvation - bombardment - and now fire," she had muttered bitterly. "I hope all the wretched Communards are shot!" Her heavy black skirts hissed as she led him through the night, away from the fighting.
By dawn, more of the city was burning and all was confusion. Ragged members of the National Guard in their stained uniforms rallied the citizens to pile furniture and bedding onto the carts which had been overturned to block the streets. Sometimes Karl and his mother were stopped and told to help the other women and children, but she gave excuses and hurried on. Karl was dazed. He had no idea where they were going. He was vaguely aware that his mother knew no better than he. When he gasped that he could walk no further, she picked him up and continued her flight, her sharp face expressing her disapproval at his weakness. She was a small, wiry woman who would have been reasonably pretty had her features not been set so solidly in a mask of tension and anxiety. Karl had never known her face to soften, either to him or to his father. Her eyes had always seemed fixed on some distant objective which, secretly and grimly, she had determined to reach. That same look was in her eyes now, though much more emphatic, and the little boy had the impression that his mother's flight through the city was the natural climax to her life.
Karl tried not to cry out as he trotted behind his mother's dusty black skirts. His whole body was aching and his feet were blistered and once he fell on the cobbles and had to scramble up swiftly in order to catch her as she turned a corner.
They were now in a narrow side street not far from the Rue du Bac on the Left Bank. Twice Karl had caught a glimpse of the nearby Seine. It was a beautiful spring morning, but the sky was slowly being obscured by thick smoke from the many burning buildings on both sides of the river. Noticing this, his mother hesitated.
"Oh, the animals!" Her tone was a mixture of disgust and despair. "They are setting fire to their own city!"
"May we rest now, mother?" asked Karl.
"Rest?" She laughed bitterly. But she made no effort to continue on her way, though she cast about her in every direction, trying to decide where she could best expect to find safety.
Suddenly, from a couple of streets away, there came a series of explosions which shook the houses. There were shots and then a great angry cry, followed by individual screams and shouts. In the guise of addressing her son, she muttered to herself.
"The streets are not safe. The dogs are everywhere. We must try to find some government soldiers and ask their protection."
"Are those the bad soldiers, mother? "
"No, Karl, they are the good soldiers. They are freeing Paris of those who have brought the city to ruin."
"The Prussians?"
"The Communists. We all knew it would come to this. What a fool your father was."
Karl was surprised to hear the contempt in her voice. She had previously always told him to look up to his father. He began to cry. For the first time since leaving the house, he felt deeply miserable, rather than merely uncomfortable.
"Oh, my God!" His mother reached out and shook him. "We don't need your weeping on top of everything else. Be quiet, Karl."
He bit his lip, but he was still shaken by sobs.
She stroked his head. "Your mother is tired," she said. "She has always done her duty." A sigh. "But what's the point?" Karl realized that she was not trying to comfort him at all, but herself. Even the automatic stroking of his hair was done in an effort to calm herself. There was no real sympathy in the gesture. For some reason this knowledge made him feel deep sympathy for her. It has not been easy, even when his father was alive, with no-one coming to buy clothes in the shop just because they had a German-sounding name. And she had protected him from the worst of the insults and beaten the boys who threw stones at him.
He hugged her waist. "Have courage, mother," he whispered awkwardly.
She looked at him in astonishment. "Courage? What does it gain us?" She took his hand. "Come. We'll find the soldiers."
Trotting beside her, Karl felt closer to her than he had ever felt, not because she had shown affection for him but because he had been able to show affection for her. Of late, he had begun to feel guilty, believing he might not love his mother as much as a good son should.
The two of them entered the somewhat broader street that was Rue du Bac and here was the source of the sounds they had heard. The Communards were being beaten back by the well-trained Versailles troops. The Versaillese, having been so roundly defeated by the Prussians, were avenging themselves on their recalcitrant countrymen. Most of the Communards were armed with rifles on which were fixed bayonets. They had run out of ammunition and were using the rifles as spears. Most of them were dressed in ordinary clothes, but there was a handful of National Guardsmen among them, in soiled pale blue uniforms. Karl saw a torn red flag still flying somewhere. Many women were taking part in the fighting. Karl saw one woman bayonet a wounded Versaillese who lay on the ground. His mother pulled him away. She was trembling now. As they rounded a bend in the Rue du Bac, they saw another barricade. Then there was an eruption and a roar and the barricades flew apart. Through the dust and debris Karl saw bodies flung in every direction. Some of the dead were children of his own age. A terrifying wailing filled the street, a wailing which turned into a growl of anger. The remaining Communards began to fire at the unseen enemy. Another eruption and another roar and the remains of the barricade went down. For a second there was silence. Then a woman rushed from a nearby house and screamed something, hurling a burning bottle through an open window in her own cellar. Karl saw that a house on the opposite side of the street was beginning to burn. Why were the people setting fire to their own houses ?
Now through the smoke and the ruins came the Versaillese in their smart dark blue and red uniforms. Their eyes were red and glaring, reflecting the flames. They frightened Karl far more than the National Guardsmen. Behind them galloped an officer on a black horse. He was screaming in the same high-pitched tone as the woman. He was waving a saber. Karl's mother took a step towards the troops and then hesitated. She turned and began to run in the other direction, Karl running with her.
There were several shots and Karl noticed that bullets were striking the walls of the houses. He knew at once that he and his mother were being fired at. He grinned with excitement.
They dashed down the next side street and had to wade through piles of garbage to enter a ruined building, an earlier victim of the first Siege. His mother hid behind a quaking wall as the soldiers ran past. When they had gone she sat down on a slab of broken stone and began to cry. Karl stroked her hair, wishing that he could share her grief.
"Your father should not have deserted us," she said.
"He had to fight, mother," said Karl. It was what she had said to him when his father joined the Guard. "For France."
"For the Reds. For the fools who brought all this upon us!"
Karl did not understand.
Soon his mother was sleeping in the ruins. He curled up beside her and slept, too.
When they awakened that afternoon there was much more smoke. It drifted everywhere. On all sides buildings burned. Karl's mother staggered up. Without looking at him or speaking to him, she seized his hand in a grip which made him wince. Her boots slipping on the stones, her skirts all filthy and ragged at the hem, she dragged him with her to the street. A young girl stood there, her face grave. "Good day," she said.
"Are they still fighting?"
The girl could hardly understand his mother's accent, it had become so thick. The girl frowned.
"Are they still fighting?" his mother asked again, speaking in a peculiar, slow voice.
"Yes." The girl shrugged. "They are killing everyone. Anyone."
"That way?" Karl's mother pointed towards the Seine. "That way?"
"Yes. Everywhere. But more that way." She pointed in the general direction of the Boulevard du Montparnasse. "Are you a petrol-woman?"
"Certainly not!" Madame Glogauer glared at the girl. "Are you?"
"I wasn't allowed," said the girl regretfully. "There isn't much petrol left."
Karl's mother took him back the way they had come. The fires which had been started earlier were now out. It appeared that they had done little damage. Not enough petrol, thought Karl.
With her sleeve over her mouth, his mother picked her way through the corpses and crossed the ruins of the barricade. The other men and women who were searching for dead friends or relatives ignored them as they went by.
Karl thought there were more dead people than living people in the world now.
They reached the Boulevard St.-Germaine, hurrying towards the Quai d'Orsay. On the far side of the river monstrous sheets of flame sprang from a dozen buildings and smoke boiled into the clear May sky.
"I am so thirsty, mother," murmured Karl. The smoke and the dust filled his mouth. She ignored him.
Here again the barricades were deserted, save for the dead, the victors and the sightseers. Groups of Versaillese stood about, leaning on their rifles, smoking and watching the fires, or chatting to the innocent citizens who were so anxious to establish their hatred of the Communards. Karl saw a group of prisoners, their hands bound with rope, sitting miserably in the road, guarded by the regular soldiers. Whenever a Communard moved, he would receive a harsh blow from a rifle butt or would be threatened by the bayonet. The red flag flew nowhere. In the distance came the sound of cannon fire and rifle fire.
"At last!" Madame Glogauer began to move towards the troops. "We shall go home soon, Karl. If they have not burned our house down."
Karl saw an empty wine bottle in the gutter. Perhaps they could fill it with water from the river. He picked it up even as his mother dragged him forward.
"Mother - we could..."