"Alan F. Troop - Dragon Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Troop Alan F)

andтАФwith the contrast of her dark skin and the emerald-green eyes all of our kind haveтАФmuch more
exotic.

Part of me wishes he resembled his mother more. But all he's ever known of her are the stories I've told
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him, the pictures he's seen on her passport and driver's license and the small grassy grave we visit each
morning after breakfast, on every day the weather permits.

On each visit Henri asks me dozens of questions about his motherтАФall asked and answered more times
than I care to remember.

"Yes," I answer today, "she was pretty.... Of course, she loved you very much.. . . No, she didn't expect
to die....Sure, one day I plan to find another wife....No, I won't forget your mommy when I do...."

Something slaps the water in the harborтАФjust loud enough to catch our attention. Henri turns, as do I,
both of us staring at the fresh concentric rings of ripples expanding across the small harbor's surface. A
few moments later, a gray fluke rises from the water and slaps down again. The manatee it belongs to
pokes its snout above the water and blows out air in a single huff.

Henri looks at me. "Can I, Papa?"

Just as glad not to explain any more this morning, I nod, smiling as my son runs toward the dock.

The manatee has visited us before but this is the first time I've allowed Henri to greet the beast by
himself. I sit down next to the gumbo limbo tree, lean against its trunk, let the sun-dappled shade beneath
its branches cool me as I watch my son begin to unravel the hose I keep coiled on the dock near where
my boat is tied.

I have to will myself not to interfere as Henri grabs the top coil with both hands and yanks, barely
budging more than a few coils. The hose curls into a spiral as he pulls, resisting his attempts to straighten
it, but the boy jerks and yanks until enough is free to make it manageable.

Henri gives it a final tug, looks up at me and smiles, then turns his attention to the spigot. Holding the
hose nozzle with one hand, he attempts to turn the valve with the other. It refuses to give. To my son's
credit, he just bites on his lower lip and tries again, struggling with the stubborn valve until it too succumbs
to his attentions and begins to rotate.

Water flows, then shoots from the nozzle, the hose becoming alive, twisting and flexing. Henri holds on
to it with both hands, tries to point itтАФfirst splattering water on the dockтАФthen wetting the bow, the
cockpit, the outboard motors of the boat.

For a moment I wonder whether the hose or Henri is in control. I start to get up but, before I can, the
boy manages to direct the stream toward the manatee, the water shooting up, forming a shallow arc,
splashing into the surface of the calm harbor.

The beast swims toward the dock, putting its head directly into the flow. Henri smiles. Crouching by the