"Michaela Roessner - Ah, Sweet Mystery Of Life" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roessner Michaela)

frantic curve suggested an arm reaching for a spiralling pickle. Another a
dive for a herring plummeting to the floor. Mac buried himself in the
papers, fleshing out the images with elaborate pen strokes. He chuckled to
himself as in one sketch of tumbling chalk and erasers he elaborated the
chalk stubs writing cryptic messages and symbols in the air as they flew,
the juggler trying to erase them as he followed behind.

"Excuse me, my good fellow. You seem to be laboring so diligently there. A
hardworking businessman such as yourself could surely use the release of
an evening's pleasant, harmless, yet educational and thrilling diversion."

Mac turned and looked up into the face of his model. Modulated to
conversational levels, the boy's voice lost much of its abrasiveness and
was surprisingly pleasant to the ear, like the rusty purr of an old
tomcat. He held out a flyer to Mac, smiling with an open, outgoing charm.
But something behind the goodnatured grin was hard and his eyes were
guarded.
Mac smiled back and reached for the proffered handbill. "I wish I could
see your act. I'm just waiting here for a connecting train to Logan. By
any chance will your troupe be performing in Cincinnati?"
The youth didn't answer. He was staring over Mac's shoulder at the
sketches spread along the bar. "Are those me?" he whispered.
Mac nodded.
"May I look at them?"
Mac blushed. He pushed the drawings together and slid them toward the boy.

With impeccable grace the youngster perched on the stool next to Mac and
slid the plate from the top of his hat. Up close the derby proved to be
worn and shabby, of the slightly flattened style, that while probably of
excellent design for the bearing of platters, always looked too small on a
wearer's head.
The boy shuffled the drawings back and forth. "Aaah yas, aaah yas," he
chuckled sonorously when he reached the cartoon of the boarding-woman's
encounter with the mackerel. Mac had captured to perfection the way the
woman's features mimicked the dead, astonished expression of the fish. The
juggler continued to browse through the sketches. When he finally looked
up again something had changed. He seemed younger. It was the eyes. They
had dropped their guard, reflecting awe and wonder.
The boy returned Mac's gaze, looking the diminutive artist's form up and
down with respect.
"My good man, these are spectacular." He jumped off the stool and thrust
out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am William Claude
Dukinfield, juggler extraordinaire. But all my friends call me Whitey, as
befits my tonsorial equipage." He doffed his hat and gestured to his
cornsilk hair.
Mac didn't climb down from his own perch. Standing, he would have felt
dwarfed by this overgrown boy. But he grinned and clasped the juggler's
hand, noticing as he did how chafed and scarred it was. "Zenas Winsor
McCay," he replied in kind. "Newspaper illustrator extraordinaire on
assignment for the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune. Everyone calls me Mac .