"Christopher Priest - The Prestige" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

lay on the table between us.
"A man called Clive Borden was my natural father," I said. "But I was adopted when I was
three."
"Well then. I was right about you. We met once before, many years ago, when we were both
children. Your name was Nicky then."
"I don't remember," I said. "I would have been only a toddler. Where did this meeting take
place?"
"Here, in this house. You really don't remember it?"
"Not at all."
"Do you have any other memories from when you were that age?" she said.
"Only fragments. But none about this place. It's the sort of house that would make an
impression on a child, isn't it?"


9
 "All right. You're not the first to say that. My sister . . . she hates this house, and couldn't wait
to move away." She reached behind her, where a small bell rested on a counter, and dinged it
twice. "I usually take a drink after lunch. Would you care to join me?"
"Yes, thank you."
Mrs Makin soon appeared, and Lady Katherine stood up.
"Mr Westley and I will be in the drawing room this afternoon, Mrs Makin."
As we went up the broad staircase I felt an impulse to escape from her, to get away from this
house. She knew more about me than I knew myself, but it was knowledge of a part of my life in
which I had no interest. This was obviously a day when I had to become a Borden again, whether
or not I wished to do so. First there was the book by him, now this. It was all connected, but I felt
her intrigues were not mine. Why should I care about the man, the family, who had turned their
back on me?
She led me into the room where I had first met her, and closed the door decisively behind us.
It was almost as if she had felt my wish to escape, and wanted to detain me as long as she could.
A silver tray with a number of bottles, glasses and a bucket of ice had been placed on a low table
set between a number of easy chairs and a long settee. One of the glasses already held a large
drink, presumably prepared by Mrs Makin. Kate indicated I should take a seat, then said, "What
would you like?"
Actually I would have liked a glass of beer, but the tray bore only spirits. I said, "I'll have
whatever you're drinking."
"It's American rye with soda. Do you want that too?"
I said I did, and watched as she mixed it. When she sat down on the settee she tucked her
legs under her, then drank about half the glass of whiskey straight down.
"How long can you stay?" she said.
"Maybe just this drink."
"There's a lot I want to talk to you about. And a lot I want to ask you."
"Why?"
"Because of what happened when we were children."
"I don't think I'm going to be much help to you," I said. Now that she wasn't twitching around
so much, I was beginning to see her more objectively as a not unattractive woman of roughly my
own age. She obviously liked drinking, and was used to the effect of it. That alone made me feel I
was on familiar territory; I spent most weekends drinking with my friends. Her eyes continued to
disconcert me, though, for she was always looking at me, then away, then back, making me feel
someone was behind me, moving about the room where I could not see them.
"A one-word answer to a question might save a lot of time," she said.