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

and cooper. Our house--"


I briefly imagined the writer of this book settling down to begin his memoir. For no exact
reason I visualized him as a tall, dark-haired man, stern-faced and bearded, slightly hunched,
wearing narrow reading glasses, working in a pool of light thrown by a solitary lamp placed next
to his elbow. I imagined the rest of the household in a deferential silence, leaving the master in
peace while he wrote. The reality was no doubt different, but stereotypes of our forebears are
difficult to throw off.
I wondered what relation Alfred Borden would be to me. If the line of descent was direct, in
other words if he wasn't a cousin or an uncle, then he would be my great- or great-great-
grandfather. If he was born in 1856, he would have been in his middle forties when he wrote the
book; it seemed likely he was therefore not my father's father, but of an earlier generation.
The Introduction was written in much the same style as the main text, with several long
explanations about how the book came into being. The book appeared to be based on Borden's
private notebook, not intended for publication. Colderdale had considerably expanded and
clarified the narrative, and added the descriptions of most of the tricks. There was no extra
biographical information about Borden, but presumably I would find some if I read the whole
book.


3
 I couldn't see how the book was going to tell me anything about my brother. He remained my
only interest in my natural family.
At this point my mobile phone began beeping. I answered it quickly, knowing how other train
passengers can be irritated by these things. It was Sonja, the secretary of my editor, Len
Wickham. I suspected at once that Len had got her to call me, to make sure I was on the train.
"Andy, there's been a change of plan about the car," she said. "Eric Lambert had to take it in
for a repair to the brakes, so it's in a garage."
She gave me the address. It was the availability of this car in Sheffield, a high-mileage Ford
renowned for frequent breakdowns, that prevented me from driving up in my own car. Len
wouldn't authorize the expenses if a company car was on hand.
"Did Uncle say anything else?" I said.
"Such as?"
"This story's still on?"
"Yes."
"Has anything else come in from the agencies?"
"We've had a faxed confirmation from the State Penitentiary in California. Franklin is still a
prisoner."
"All right."
We hung up. While I was still holding the phone I punched in my parents" number, and spoke
to my father. I told him I was on my way to Sheffield, would be driving from there into the Peak
District and if it was OK with them (of course it would be) I could come and stay the night. My
father sounded pleased. He and Jillian still lived in Wilmslow, Cheshire, and now I was working in
London my trips to see them were infrequent.
I told him I had received the book.
"Have you any idea why it was sent to you?" he said.
"Not the faintest."
"Are you going to read it?"
"It's not my sort of thing. I'll look through it one day."