"Carrie Richerson - Sous La Mer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Carrie)

CARRIE RICHERSON - Sous La Mer

THE LAST PLANGENT CHORD of "Adrift, " the last whisper of Suzanne's voice, died
away. She held the pose in the hush, head bent low over her guitar, her long,
white-blonde hair concealing her face. With her diminutive size, her white
dress, the snowy blanket over her lap, she looked like a statue of a child,
hammered out of white gold, shining in the silvery pool of the single spotlight.

I peeked out from my vantage in the wing of the tiny stage and saw that a few of
the audience were crying. Others looked stunned. Then first one, and another,
began to clap, and soon the entire house was standing and applauding. It was
only a small dinner-theater venue, several miles from Mobile's fashionable
harbor district, but it was packed that night. Suzanne's reputation had preceded
her.

She let it go on for a few minutes, pressing her hands together and bowing her
thanks, rewarding her admirers with a shy smile. Then she spoke into the mike,
"Thank you-- thank you all so much for coming. Good night, and drive carefully."

That was my cue. I stepped to her side, bowed my own acknowledgment to the
audience, checked to make sure the blanket was tightly tucked around her stumps,
and wheeled her offstage. Backstage, I held her guitar case while she put the
instrument away, then navigated her wheelchair down the corridor and to the side
door.

"I'll bring the car around. Will you be okay here?" I asked, taking the guitar
case from her arms.

She nodded without speaking and pressed my hand. She looked tired. Singing was
one of the few things that brought her joy in life, but the performances
exhausted her. I wrapped my jacket around her shoulders and went for the car.

When I returned a few minutes later, a young man was kneeling beside the
wheelchair and talking earnestly to Suzanne. The tired lines had vanished from
her face; she was smiling and her eyes sparkled as she introduced me.

"Allan, this is my brother Merlin. Merle, this is Allan Lee." Allan stood and
shook my hand with a grip as earnest as his manner. He looked to be about twenty
years old; tall, muscled, tanned, with the smell of the sea about him. He
dwarfed tiny Suzanne and towered over my own slight frame.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. D'Azora. I just wanted to tell your sister here how
very much I enjoyed her singing. Her songs about the sea . . . they're just so
full of beauty, of longing . . . . " He laughed. "I can't express it the way you
do, Ms. D'Azora -- I just know I've been privileged to hear you."

There's one in every. crowd. Someone to whom Suzanne's songs speak
heart-to-heart. Someone who is half in love with the sea already, before he
hears her sing. Someone who hears "On the Shoals of My Heart," "Stormsails,"