"Richard Paul Russo - Watching Lear Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russo Richard Paul)

But there was no hurry. Samuel got slowly to his feet, brushed leaves from his
legs and arms. It was quite possible that Lear's dream creations would fade of
their own accord, but even if they didn't, they would need to manifest for
several hours before they became difficult to dispatch.

He followed Carpentier back to the house, his head swimming in the heat. Dust
puffed up at his feet, and the electric buzz of insect-like creatures oscillated
around him like a fan that provided no relief. Samuel walked slowly, eyes half
closed, vision bleached, ignoring Carpentier's urgings. He was so tired, of
everything.

When they reached the house, Carpentier remained outside with the others --
Arturo Langley and Rashida Gamel, both of whom pretended to be occupied with
outdoor chores. All three of DivCom's people were afraid of Lear's dreams.

Samuel climbed the creaking wooden steps and stood for a few moments in the
shade of the large covered porch, readying himself for what he would have to do
inside. The house was quiet, the air surrounding it still and just as quiet
except for the electric buzz and the hesitant sounds of the DivCom people moving
about. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to do this anymore. But he opened
the door and stepped inside.

Inside the house wasn't much cooler, though he could feel the air moving about
him, blown by the small, whirring fans in every room. He walked through the
entry and down the hall, then stopped outside Lear's room and listened for
sounds of the old man's dreaming. Nothing, really --the whisper of sheets, a
faint huff of breath. Samuel entered.

He stopped, unable to move.

He had been prepared for almost anything but this.

Life-size, and almost life-like, she hovered in the air above the bed: Teresa.

Teresa had been Lear's wife. And Samuel had betrayed his old friend with her.
Together, Samuel and Teresa had both betrayed him.

She was not yet aware of him. It would be an hour or two, maybe longer, before
she became substantial enough. Samuel stood just inside Lear's door, watching
her. She was talking to someone inside the dream, Lear probably, and her smile
didn't seem a happy one; she looked as if she was about to cry.

She looked so young. No older than the day she had died, perhaps even younger,
while Lear and Samuel had of course aged. She was wearing loose tan pants and a
white short-sleeved shirt, leather sandals on feet still vague and blurred; long

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