"Jo Walton - Relentlessly Mundane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

Relentlessly Mundane
By Jo Walton

23 October 2000


Jane hated going to Tharsia's apartment. It was hung about with tapestries and
jangling crystal windchimes and a string of little silver unicorns, and it reminded
her of Porphylia and everything she wanted to forget. If Tharsia had been able to
get it right it wouldn't have been so irritating; it was just that little silver unicorns
look so tacky when you've been used to the deep voices of real unicorns and
great silver statues that speak and smile. Jane's own apartment was modern
and spartan. Her mother approved of how clean it was but kept giving her
houseplants and ornaments to, as she put it, "personalise the place." "You
always look as if you're going to move out at any minute," she said. Jane threw
them away. She didn't want personalised; she wanted functional and clean, in
case she moved out at any minute. Eventually her mother gave up, as she had
long since given up complaining about the huge belt-pouch Jane always kept on,
and Jane's lack of a boyfriend since Mark, and her working out too much. Jane's
apartment stayed bare and devoid of personality. The room she liked best was
the shower, brightly lit and white-tiled with copious amounts of hot water flowing
whenever Jane wanted it. She had missed showers most of all, in Porphylia.


She walked briskly up the three flights. Tharsia's apartment would irritate her,
but she could deal with the irritation. At least walking up the stairs would be
exercise, partly making up for the fact she'd missed her fencing lesson to come
here today. She'd make the time up. She knocked. The bell, she knew from
experience, rang a ghastly madrigal, a tinny parody of the tunes the minstrels
used to play in the Great Hall. She couldn't understand how Tharsia could be
content with this. Well, she wasn't content, of course.


Tharsia opened the door and smiled at Jane. Her dark hair streamed loose on
her shoulders, bound by a single leather thong around her forehead. She was
wearing a purple robe belted with silver leaves. Since college Tharsia had made a
living of sorts telling fortunes with cards and runes and tea-leaves,
supplementing her income by giving chair massages to busy executives. Jane,
who was an accountant, and whose clothes tended to combine conservative
with sensible, was constantly surprised that this worked for her friend.


They embraced. Jane felt the familiar mixture of affection and irritation sweep
over her. "This had better be important," she said. She didn't believe for a
minute it was. In the fifteen years since they came back from Porphylia, Tharsia
had called her over urgently every couple of months. She almost didn't know
why she kept coming.


"It is," said Tharsia, and she looked serious. Jane followed her in. There was a