"Dan Simmons - Carrion Comfort (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

ourselves for several weeks with whispered fantasies, and then one of us-or perhaps both of us-
used the Ability to translate the fantasy into reality.
In a sense, it was our first Feeding.
I do not remember the purported cause of the quarrel, perhaps some deliberate misinterpretation of
one of Charles's jokes. I cannot recall who Charles and Roger arranged to have serve as seconds on
that illegal outing. I do
remember the hurt and confused expression on Roger Harrison's face during those few days. It was a
caricature of ponderous dullness, the confusion of a man who finds himself in a situation not of
his making and from which he cannot escape. I remember Charles and his mercurial swings of mood-
the bouts of humor, periods of black anger, and the tears and kisses the night before the duel.
I remember with great clarity the beauty of that morning. Mists were floating up from the river
and diffusing the rays of the rising sun as we rode out to the dueling field. I remember Nina
reaching over and squeezing my hand with an impetuous excitement that was communicated through my
body like an electric shock.
Much of the rest of that morning is missing. Perhaps in the intensity of that first, subconscious
Feeding, I literally lost consciousness as I was engulfed in the waves of fear, excitement, pride-
of maleness-emanating from our two beaus as they faced death on that lovely morning. I remember
experiencing the shock of realizing, this is really happening, as I shared the tread of high boots
through the grass. Someone was calling off the paces. I dimly recall the weight of the pistol in
my hand -Charles's hand, I think; I will never know for sure-and a second of cold clarity before
an explosion broke the connection, and the acrid smell of gunpowder brought me back to myself.
It was Charles who died. I have never been able to forget the incredible quantities of blood that
poured from the small, round hole in his breast. His white shirt was crimson by the time I reached
him. There had been no blood in our fantasies. Nor had there been the sight of Charles with his
head lolling, mouth dribbling saliva onto his bloodied chest while his eyes rolled back to show
the whites like two eggs embedded in his skull.
Roger Harrison was sobbing as Charles breathed his fi-
nal, shuddering gasps on that field of innocence.
I remember nothing at all about the confused hours that followed. The next morning I opened my


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cloth bag to find Charles's pistol lying with my things. Why would I have kept that revolver? If I
had wished to take something from my fallen lover as a sign of remembrance, why that alien piece
of metal? Why pry from his dead fingers the symbol of our thoughtless sin?
It said volumes about Nina that she did not recognize that pistol.
"Willi's here," announced Nina's amanuensis, the loathsome Miss Barrett Kramer. Kramer's
appearance was as unisex as her name: short-cropped, black hair, powerful shoulders, and a blank,
aggressive gaze that I associated with lesbians and criminals. She looked to be in her
midthirties.
"Thank you, Barrett dear," said Nina.
Both of us went out to greet Willi, but Mr. Thorne had already let him in, and we met in the
hallway.
"Melanie! You look marvelous! You grow younger each time I see you. Nina!" The change in Willi's
voice was evident. Men continued to be overpowered by their first sight of Nina after an absence.
There were hugs and kisses. Willi himself looked more dissolute than.ever. His alpaca sport coat
was exquisitely tailored, his turtleneck sweater successfully concealed the eroded lines of his
wattled neck, but when he swept off his jaunty sports-car cap the long strands of white hair he