"Philip Pullman - Dark Materials 02 - The Subtle Knife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pullman Philip)

time to time, on his way through the narrow streets, he'd put out a hand to touch a wall or a doorway or
the flowers in a window box, and found them solid and convincing. Now he wanted to touch the whole
landscape in front of him, because it was too wide to take in through his eyes alone. He stood still,
breathing deeply, almost afraid.

He discovered that he was still holding the bottle he'd taken from the cafe. He drank from it, and it
tasted like what it was, ice-cold lemonade; and welcome, too, because the night air was hot.

He wandered along to the right, past hotels with awnings over brightly lit entrances and bougainvillea
flowering beside them, until he came to the gardens on the little headland. The building in the trees with its
ornate facade lit by floodlights might have been an opera house. There were paths leading here and there
among the lamp-hung oleander trees, but not a sound of life could be heard: no night birds singing, no
insects, nothing but Will's own footsteps.

The only sound he could hear came from the regular, quiet breaking of delicate waves from the beach
beyond the palm trees at the edge of the garden. Will made his way there. The tide was halfway in, or
halfway out, and a row of pedal boats was drawn up on the soft white sand above the high-water line.
Every few seconds a tiny wave folded itself over at the sea's edge before sliding back neatly under the
next. Fifty yards or so out on the calm water was a diving platform.

Will sat on the side of one of the pedal boats and kicked off his shoes, his cheap sneakers that were
coming apart and cramping his hot feet. He dropped his socks beside them and pushed his toes deep into
the sand. A few seconds later he had thrown off the rest of his clothes and was walking into the sea.

The water was deliciously between cool and warm. He splashed out to the diving platform and pulled
himself up to sit on its weather-softened planking and look back at the city.

To his right the harbor lay enclosed by its breakwater. Beyond it a mile or so away stood a
red-and-white-striped lighthouse. And beyond the lighthouse, distant cuffs rose dimly, and beyond them,
those great wide rolling hills he'd seen from the place he'd first come through.

Closer at hand were the light-bearing trees of the casino gardens, and the streets of the city, and the
waterfront with its hotels and cafes and warm-lit shops, all silent, all empty.

And all safe. No one could follow him here; the men who'd searched the house would never know; the
police would never find him. He had a whole world to hide in.

For the first time since he'd run out of his front door that morning, Will began to feel secure.

He was thirsty again, and hungry too, because he'd last eaten in another world, after all. He slipped into
the water and swam back more slowly to the beach, where he put on his underpants and carried the rest
of his clothes and the tote bag. He dropped the empty bottle into the first rubbish bin he found and
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walked barefoot along the pavement toward the harbor.

When his skin had dried a little, he pulled on his jeans and looked for somewhere he'd be likely to find