"Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Strugatski Arkady)

Victor thoughtfully stirred the transparent liquid in his glass.
"Maybe you'll have some anyway?" he asked. "Best way to avoid a cold. No? Then I will." He downed
the glass. "All right,
14 The Ugly Swans

I accept. Only no posters, no announcements. A small group. You and your friends, and me. When will it
be?"
"Whenever it's convenient for you. It would be best to have it this week. In the morning."
"Let's say two days from now. Only not too early. Let's say Friday at eleven. Is that all right with you?"
"Yes. Friday at eleven, at the school. Should we remind you?"
"By all means," said Victor. "I always do my best to forget about soirees and banquets, not to mention
meetings, recep-tions, and conferences."
"Good, I'll remind you," said Bol-Kunats. "And now, with your permission, I'll go. Good-bye, Mr. Banev."
"Wait, I'll take you down," said Victor. "So the doorman doesn't insult you. For some reason he's out of
sorts today, and doormen being doormen, as you knowтАФ"
"Thank you, don't trouble yourself," said Bol-Kunats. "He's my father."
And he left. Victor poured himself some more gin and fell into an armchair. "So," he thought. "The poor
doorman. What on earth is his name? It's awkward. Still, he and I are comrades in misfortune, colleagues.
I'll have to talk with him, share experiences. No doubt he's had more experience. But what a concentration
of prodigies in my dank little hometown. Maybe from the increase in humidity." He threw his head back and
winced from the pain. "That bastard, how did he do it, anyhow?" He felt his lump. "Very likely a hard
rubber night-stick. Although how would I know what you get from a hard rubber nightstick. I know what
you get from a Danish modern chair in the Grilled Pegasus. From the butt of a submachine gun, or, for
example, the handle of a pistol. From champagne bottles with and without champagne. I'll have to ask
Golem. All in all, it's a strange business. I'd like to know what's going on." He started to think about it, in
order to drive away the thought about Irma that was surfacing from some secondary
The Ugly Swans 15

levelтАФthe necessity of giving something up, accepting some limitations, or else sending off letters and
asking for favors. " 'Sorry to bother you, old man, but I've got this daughter here. She's a bit over twelve, a
terrific little girl, but her mother's a fool and her father's a fool too, so it would be good to set her up
somewhere far away from such stupid people.' I don't want to think about it today, I'll think about it
tomorrow." He looked at his watch. "Anyhow, I've done enough thinking. Enough."
He got up and began to dress in front of the mirror. "I'm getting a paunch, damn it, why should I be
getting a paunch? I was always the lean, sinewy type. It's not even a paunch, exactly, your noble, working
paunch from a life of moderation and good food. Just a lousy little paunchlet, a dissident's tummy. I'm sure
Mr. President's is quite different. Mr. Presi-dent's, I'm sure, is a noble, glossy, draped-in-black dirigible." He
straightened his tie, moved his face closer to the mirror, and thought suddenly, "Observe this confident
strong face, so beloved by women of a certain sort. Not a handsome face. Rather the courageous face of a
fighter, with a square chin. And what did this face look like at the end of the historic encounter? . . . The
face of Mr. President is also not lacking in courage or rectangularity, but at the end of the historic
encounter it looked, if we come right out with it, between you and me, like a wild boar's snout. Mr.
President had been pleased to work himself up into a terrible state. Spit was flying from his tusked maw,
and I took out a handkerchief and con-spicuously wiped off my cheek. It was probably the most
coura-geous act of my life, if you don't count the time I fought three tanks at once. But I don't remember
how I fought the tanks, I only know about it from the stories of eyewitnesses. But I got out my
handkerchief consciously and with full awareness of what I was headed for. . . . The papers didn't write
about it. Our honest and courageous papers reported with sober frank-ness that belletrist V. Banev
sincerely thanked Mr. President
16 The Ugly Swans