"Lisa Tuttle - Ghosts and Other Lovers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

found my way out. The house was always the same, and it was not one I recognized. Bare wooden
floors, architectural prints and old maps hanging on bare white plaster walls, modern furniture, no mess or
clutter, just a few leafy green plants in odd corners . . . It seemed like something I might have seen in a
magazine, I was sure it was nowhere I had ever been. There was a feeling attached to the dream, a kind
of guilty impatience with being there, which I connected with David, because it was like the feeling IтАЩd
had about him since breaking up with him. But toward the end of my stay in America I began to feel that
the dream was telling me I ought to go home, that America was the place I had to find a way out of
before it trapped me forever. A lot of the houses I saw in California and New Mexico were as soullessly
modern and тАЬdesignedтАЭ as the house in my dream.

I was getting homesick for bad weather and good conversation in damp old cluttered houses. I had
stayed away too long. Yet London, when I returned to it, was strange and uninviting. There was nowhere
I had to go, no one who needed me. I called around to see friends, and found theyтАЩd all changed, their
lives had moved them to other places while I was away. One had come out as a lesbian, another had a
baby, others had changed jobs, relationships, addresses. At one point, walking down Oxford Street, I
took the familiar turning and walked along to DavidтАЩs flat. I had no idea what I would say to him, I just
suddenly wanted to see him, but the name beside the bell was not his.

Someone IтАЩd met in America had invited me to visit him in Edinburgh, so thatтАЩs what I decided to do. He
worked for an arts magazine and there was a possibility of some work on it for me; anyway, he said
there was a lot happening in Scotland just now.

I had never been to Edinburgh before, and I liked it. I liked the sharp, cold, gritty air; the lilting voices;
the old buildings; the streets and wynds; the whole atmosphere. It reminded me of how I had felt when I
first arrived in London, full of energy and possibilities. It was this I had been missing in America. I stayed
for a week and considered staying longer. I talked to some people about a job and to some others about
a room.

On my seventh night in Edinburgh I was in a bar, waiting to meet someone. I was early and he was
almost certainly going to be late, but every time I heard the street door open I turned around to look. On
about the fourth or fifth time it was a woman who came in alone. Our eyes met, briefly, she looked
startled, and then some kind of excitement sharpened her features.

I felt a sudden, cold apprehension. She was about my own age or a little younger, very well dressed,
attractive in a groomed, glossy way, with a look of intelligence. She was exactly the sort of woman I
found interesting, and if weтАЩd been at a party, with mutual friends, I would have wanted to be introduced.
At first, that is, because as soon as her face changed, I didnтАЩt want to know. I didnтАЩt like the way she
looked at me. I turned away, toward the bar and my drink, and wished I wasnтАЩt waiting for someone, so
that I could leave, or that heтАЩd already arrived, to provide a barrier, because I just knew she was going
to come over and talk to me.

тАЬExcuse meтАФthis is terribly rude of me, I know but IтАЩm sure youтАЩll forgive me when you know, it is quite
fascinating, actuallyтАФdid you ever live in Ann Street?тАЭ She sounded English. She was definitely younger
than I was. The intensity of her gaze was terrible.

тАЬAnn Street?тАЭ

тАЬNumber Twenty-Seven.тАЭ

тАЬI donтАЩt even know where it is. No. IтАЩve only been here a week.тАЭ