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

"But, Mother...".
"In the meantime, Miss Henshaw," said Frau Glogauer in a terrible murmur, "you have my permission to beat the boy."
Karl shuddered as he caught a glint of hidden malice in Miss Henshaw's pale, grey eyes.
"Very well, madam," said Miss Henshaw. As she led him away he heard her sigh a deep sigh of pleasure.
Already, he was plotting his own revenge.
- You'll like it better when you get used to it. It's a question of your frame of mind. Karl sighs. - Maybe.
- It's a matter of time, that's all.
- I believe you.
- You've got to let yourself go.
They sip the dry, chilled champagne the black man has ordered. Outside, people are going into the theatres.
- After all, says the black man - we are many people. There are a lot of different sides to one's personality. You mustn't feel that you've lost something. You have gained something. Another aspect is flowering.
- I feel terrible.
- It won't last. Your moment will come. Karl smiles. The black man's English is not always perfect.
- There, you see, you are feeling more relaxed already. The black man reaches out and touches his arm. - How smooth your flesh is. What are you thinking?
- I was remembering the time I found the air-raid warden in bed with my mother. I remember her explaining it to my father. My father was a patient man.
- Is your father still alive?
- I don't know.
- You have a great deal to learn, yet.

What Would You Do? (3)
You are returning from the theatre after a pleasant evening with your sweetheart. You are in the centre of the city and you want a taxi. You decide to go to the main railway station and find a taxi there. As you come into a side-entrance and approach a flight of steps you see an old man trying to ascend. He is evidently incapably drunk. Normally you would help him up the steps, but in this case there is a problem. His trousers have fallen down to his ankles, revealing his filthy legs. From his bottom protrude several pieces of newspaper covered in excrement. To help him would be a messy task, to say the least, and you are reluctant to spoil the previously pleasant mood of the evening. There is a second or two before you pass him and continue on your journey.

4

Capetown Party: 1892: Butterflies In the meantime let us not forget that if errors of judgment have been committed, they have been committed by men whose zeal and patriotism has never been doubted. We cannot refrain, however, from alluding here to the greatest of all lessons which this war has taught, not us alone, but all the world - the solidarity of the Empire. And for that great demonstration what sacrifice was not worth making.
WITH THE FLAG TO PRETORIA.
H. W. Wilson, Harmsworth Brothers 1900.

Karl emerges from the deep bath. Liquid drips from him. He stares in bewilderment at himself in the wall mirror opposite.
- Why did you make me do that?
- I thought you'd like it. You said how much you admired my body.
- I meant your physique.
- Oh, I see.
- I look like something out of a minstrel show. Al Jolson...
- Yes, you do rather. But you could pass for what? An Eurasian? The black man begins to laugh. Karl laughs, too. They fall into each other's arms.
- It shouldn't take long to dry, says the black man. Karl is nine. Is 1892. He is at work now.
-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."
Karl lost interest in the conversation. He didn't understand it, anyway. Besides, he was more interested in butterflies. He transferred the string to his left toe.
When all the guests had withdrawn, a footman came to tell Karl that he might go to his supper. Stiffly Karl walked round the screen and hobbled towards the door. The dinner had been a long one.
In the kitchen the cook put a large plate of succulent scraps before him and said: "Hurry up now, young man. I've had a long day and I want to get to my bed."
He ate the food and washed it down with the half a glass of beer the cook gave him. It was a treat. She knew he had been working hard, too. As she let him out of the kitchen, she rumpled his hair and said: "Poor little chap. How's your butterflies?"
"Very well, thank you, cook." Karl was always polite.