"Richard Wilson - The Story Writer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Richard)

"You are. The main character. The boy in the room. The one who
knocked at the door may be the antagonist."
"Oh. Can you write a true story about me?"
"I can."
Henry took a dollar from his pocket and put it on the table. Ross wrote
a story about a ghost writer and a boy named Henry who asked him to
write a ghost story. He worked quickly on the story, which was similar to
what you have just read, except that he left out the Polish because he
couldn't spell it. Double-spaced, it ran to two pages plus a paragraph on
the third.
Henry looked embarrassed. "I have only a dollar."
Ross handed him the pages. "No extra charge. It's really a
collaboration."
A man had come to watch. He said to Ross: "I am Henry's father."
"How do you do."
"I am well, thank you. I am glad Henry spent his dollar here instead of
in a foolish way. You read Mrozek. Do you admire Polish writers?
Korzeniowski? Later he called himself Conrad."
 "I admire good writers whatever their nationality. I admire Conrad."
"Dziekuje bardzo. Thank you very much. And thank you for what you
have written for Henry, moj syn. My son. I think he could be a writer one
day. Dowidzenia. Good-by."
"Dowidzenia," Ross said. "Dziekuje bardzo, Henry."

Several tables away a young dealer had set up at the back of his camper.
His sign read Mad Wayne Anthony, Stony Point, N.Y., ANTIQUES 1870
UP. Ross supposed it meant some of his wares qualified as antiques by
being at least a hundred years old and that Wayne had combined an
allusion to their price; his least expensive was marked $18.70. There was a
small hand-lettered card on his table which said We haggle.
Wayne Anthony had old 78-rpm records. He played one now and again
on a Victrola. He had a ritual of wiping it with a treated cloth, holding it
by its edges as he settled it over the spindle, winding the machine and
carefully placing the needle. The music, not amplified except by the big
old horn, was clear but unobtrusive. Ross could ignore it if he chose or he
could give it his attention and savor the old melodies. At the moment,
Wayne, who explained to his fellow dealers that the records were not for
sale and that he was planning to go to Heuvelton where there was a barn
full of real oldies, was playing It's Like Old Times.
Ross saw his next customer. Sometimes he could tell who it would be.
She was a plump young woman who had stood within earshot until Henry
and his father left. She walked sideways to Ross's table as if she were going
somewhere else. Ross became engrossed in relighting his pipe uatil the girl
was at his elbow. He picked up his book, said casually "Hello, young lady,"
found his place and pretended to read.
The girl said: "Excuse me. Could you write a story about me?" . /
He exhaled smoke and put the book down. "If I knew something about
you I could try."
"There's not much to tell."
"There might be. Let's start with names. Mine's Ross. What's yours?"