"Gene Wolfe - Paul's Treehouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolfe Gene)

Paul's Treehouse
by Gene Wolfe

It was the day after the governor called out the National Guard, but Morris did not think
of it that way; it was the morning after the second night Paul had spent in the tree, and
Morris brushed his teeth with Scotch after he looked into Paul's bedroom and saw the
unrumpled bed. And it was hot; though not in the house, which was air-conditioned.

Sheila was still asleep, lying straight out like a man on the single bed across from his
own. He left her undisturbed, filling his glass with Scotch again and carrying it out to the
patio at the side of the house. The sun was barely up, yet the metal furniture there was
already slightly warm. It would be a hot day, a scorcher. He heard the snip-snack of
Russell's shears on the other side of the hedge and braced himself for the inevitable
remark.

"It's going to be a hot one, isn't it?" Sticking his head over the top of the hedge. Morris
nodded, hoping that if he did not speak Russell would stay where he was. The hope was
fruitless. He could hear Russell unlatching the gate, although he purposely did not look.

"Hotter than the hinges of hell," Russell said, sitting down. "Do the gardening early, that's
what I told myself, do it early while it's cool, and look at me. I'm sweating already. Did
you hear what they did last night? Beat a cop to death with golf clubs and polo mallets
out of a store window."

Morris said nothing, looking up at Paul's treehouse. It was on the other side of the yard,
but so high up it could be seen above the roofline of the house.

"Beat him to death right out on the street."

"I suppose some of them deserve it," Morris said moodily.

"Sure they do, but it's them doing it. That's what gets to me ... Drinking pretty early,
aren't you?" Russell was tall and gangling, with a long neck and a prominent Adam's
apple; Morris, short and fat-bellied, envied him his straight lines.

"I guess I am," he said. "Like one?"

"Since it's Saturday ..."

It was cool in the house, much cooler than the patio, but the air was stale. He splashed the
cheaper "guest" whisky into a glass and added a squirt of charged water.

"Is that your boy Paul's?" When he came out again, Russell was staring up at the
treehouse just as he himself had been doing a moment before. Morris nodded.
"He built it on his own, didn't he? I remember watching him climb up there with boards
or something, with his little radio playing to keep him company." He took the drink.
"You don't mind if I walk around and have a look at it, do you?"

Reluctantly Morris followed him, stepping over the beds of flame-toned, scentless
florabundas Sheila loved.