"Lavie Tidhar - Angels Over Israel_Three Slides" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tidhar Lavie)

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Angels Over Israel: Three Slides
by Lavie Tidhar
AuthorтАЩs Note: тАЬI was sitting on an Israeli writersтАЩ panel at Icon, the annual Israeli
SF convention, and the final question was, to each of us: тАШWhat do you need in
order to write the otherтАЩs stories?тАЩ
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тАШEasy,тАЩ my friend Guy Hasson said when they all got around to discuss what makes
a Lavie Tidhar story. тАШIt needs to have angels in it, and something to do with Israel,
andтАФтАЩ
тАШYou know,тАЩ I said, тАШyouтАЩve just given me an idea for a story.тАЩ
So this is itтАФthem, for there ended up being three, in the endтАФwritten in
Hebrew, and first published on the Israeli webzine Bli Panika (www.blipanika.co.il).
They were 500 words each in the Hebrew version, slightly longer in English, and I
had fun writing them. Though IтАЩm kind of laying off the angel-dust, for the moment
at least...тАЭ
Hunting Angels in the Yard
MICHAEL SAW THE ANGELS wherever he turned. Tiny in size, the angels
hovered in the unmoving summer air, their wings rippling in the sunтАЩs blaze.
Like butterflies, thought Michael before he tried to pet one of them. The
winged creature attacked him then, its little face twisting in an animalistic mask of
anger. Long sharp teeth bit into MichaelтАЩs finger and returned bloodied.
I wonтАЩt cry, Michael told himself over and over again, I wonтАЩt cry. And then
surprised himself with the composure with which he hit the angel until the tiny body
fell to the pavement. Then Michael stepped on it.
He remembered the sound the angelтАЩs body made, like a balloon emptying
gradually of air. His foot rose and fell until a black, oily stain remained alone on the
ground. Michael had to wash his shoes in the tap of the housing estateтАЩs great yard:
but very quickly he found out it didnтАЩt matter, since no one knew about the angels
and could not see them, or their remains.
Since that first time Michael repeated his actions many times: he wandered the
great yard and hunted angels.
MichaelтАЩs mother, Mrs. Tavori, worked long hours. His father, Mr. Tavori,
was killed in the line of duty. Michael remembered the embarrassed-looking officer
who used those words one late-night hour in the flatтАЩs small living room. He stood in
the small room, his face tired, his black hair thinning. But how Mr. TavoriтАФa
shoe-seller whose military role was as a supply sergeantтАФwas killed, that the officer
could not explain. There was a firing accident, he said, but how and why, that he
couldnтАЩt say.
Killed in the line of duty. The words became a kind of rosary in MichaelтАЩs
head, the syllables beads he moved from side to side. He remembered the sound the
angelsтАЩ bodies made against the window: they rose in a cloud at the sound of the
words and tried to break into the flat, beating themselves against the glass. He
collected a heap of bodies from the grass the next morning, fallen angels.
In the mornings Michael prepared breakfast for himself and then went down to
the yard to play. The old automobile lying on its back, lacking wheels or windows,
was first, followed by the brook that ran from the estate into an invisible
underground tunnel. Michael played in the brook despite the smell that sometimes