"Patrick O'Leary - The Dream of Vibo" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'leary Patrick)

him and taken away. What a beautiful thing that is, he thought. Momentarily stunned by the red
red stain against the white white lawn. We never know why we live, the old man thought. Maybe
it was to give that hobo a ride to the bus station. That was when? Twenty years ago? He could
smell the liquor on his breath, feel the chill coming off his army jacket as he entered the warm
Impala and slammed the door.

Impala? the Prince wondered.

Or maybe it was to give my coin collection to my granddaughter. Sarah. He loved to say her
name. Sarah. Or maybe it was that pony I whittled for my son when he was sick.

Pony?

Or maybe it was the glimpse of that naked woman undressing in a hotel room in Manhattan.
Watching that one window in a night city of many windows. Her beautiful white body stretching in
the glow of one bedside lamp.

The Prince did not wonder about that.

Or maybe it was this. This lovely red bird. Oops. Where did it go? And the red cardinal dodged a
swarm of chickadees and coasted over the hill and skimming the gray slate stream that ran slow
and steamed until he came to the old church, painted white and hidden from the road in a circle of
pines. To the high broken window that let out warm drafts from the sanctuary. His refuge when
the cold got to be too much. As he perched he could hear an organ playing. He coasted down into
the dark church, over the empty pews, to where the only light was from the red votive candles and
saw the young woman in glasses playing the organ. Identical red flames danced in each of her
lenses. He landed where he could watch her fingers. Fingers being the only thing he envied of
humans. How versatile they were. How they could make food and peel fruit and rub muscles and
stroke hair-it was hard for him to reach his head. And the music they made. So full of longing. So
empty of flight. And he listened to her playing the complicated old song. Her favorite piece to play
when she was alone. She was alone. Her boyfriend was in the war and his last letter was a week
ago. And her fingers dancing on the yellowed keys were her fingers dancing on his skin, the skin
she knew so well and might never know again. If I finish this one piece without a mistake, she
thought, if I play it perfectly, he will return to me. Whole. He will not die in fire. His beautiful body
will not be torn open by shrapnel or bullet. If I only finish this one piece. The cardinal left then,
finding the high broken window, escaping into the long white hills, ribboning between the dark
towering trees, each of whom greeted him as he passed, saying Red One, where are you going?
Scratch my trunk! Please scratch my trunk! And he flew to the park where no one was playing on
the monkeybars, or the slide, the swings or the teeter totter. He landed on its handlebar and
grasped it with his claws. And he thought about the many people whose thoughts he had touched.
They think they are alone, he thought. They think everything in the world is sleeping except them.
Not me, said the teeter totter plank. I remember being a tree. There were no children then. Hush,
thought, the bird, I am thinking. I am thinking of time a million years hence. A time of great order
brought by great violence. I am thinking about the wisest, most powerful leader. He is dreaming a
dream. He is dreaming my life. He has waited and lived and conquered and killed for this one
moment to happen. He is ready to hear me, though I will be dead a million years when he does.
What will I tell him? What is the story he needs to hear? Is it the leafтАЩs story? The sad boyтАЩs story?
The catтАЩs story? The dying womanтАЩs story? What is required of me? The playground was silent.
The snow, the trees and all the high passing clouds were silent. The cardinal shook his head.
Shook it so hard that a spray of moist microscopic beads was jettisoned into the air, rained down