"William F. Wu - Wong's Lost and Found Emporium" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wu William F)

object, I don't suppose you have aтАж second chance?" She forced herself to laugh, a little, like it was a
joke. "Well, no, I'm sorry. I really just need a restroom, andтАФ"
"Of course I have it," I said. "If you lost a chance at something, it's here. Follow me."
I looked around the floor and pointed to the little blue throw rug. "Have to watch out for this. It
slips."
She smiled politely, but I could see her shaking with anticipation.
I glanced around the shelves, looking for the little spot of white. "What's your name?" It didn't
matter, but asking made me sound official.
"I'm Mrs. Barbara Patricia Whitford and I live here in Boca. UmтАФI was born in New York in
1926. I grew upтАж"
I didn't care. A bit of white light was shining on a shoulder-high shelf across the main corridor from
me. "This way," I said, signalling over my shoulder. She shut up and followed me.
As we walked, the light moved ahead of us toward the object she wanted to recover. I had no idea
how it workedтАФI had figured it out by trial and error, or I might say by accident. I had come in here
myself looking for something I had lost, but the place had had no one in it. Now, I was waiting for the
proprietor, but everyone else who came in thought I was in charge. So I was.
"What kind of chance was it?" I asked over my shoulder, like it was shoe size or something. It might
be a long walk.
"Well," she said, just a little breathless behind me. "I always wanted to be an artistтАФa painter. I
didn't get started until fifteen years ago, when I started taking lessons in acrylics. And even oils. I got
pretty good, even if I do say so. Several of my paintings sold at art fairs and I was just getting a few
exhibited, even. I got discouraged, though. It was so hard to keep going."
The white light turned down another aisle, more cramped and dimly lit then the last. The light was
brighter in these shadows, but she couldn't see it. Only I could. I had tested that on earlier customers.
Unfortunately, I couldn't see my own.
A shadow shifted in the corner of my eye that was not mine or hers, but I ignored it. If something
large was loose in here, it was apparently shy. It was nothing new.
"Six or seven years ago," she continued, "all of my friends were going back to school. It was easier
than paintingтАФI went for my Master's; and since I was just going to go, I didn't really have to hurry, or
worry about grades. It was the thing to do, and so much easier than painting. Only, I didn't care about it."
Her voice caught, and she paused to swallow. "I do care about my painting. Now, well, I just would like
to have the chance I missed, when my skills were still sharp and I had more time and business
connections. ItтАФI know it sounds small. But it's the only thing I've ever accomplished. And I don't have
time to start over."
She started crying.
I nodded. The white light had come to a stop, playing across a big open wooden box on an upper
shelf. "Just a moment. I'll get it. It's very important to get exactly the right one, because if you get the
wrong object, you're still stuck with it."
She nodded, watching me start to climb up the wooden shelves.
"For instance, if I gave you someone else's lost chance to work a slow freighter to Sakhalin Island,
why, it would just happen. You'd have to go."
"I would? . . .oh. Well, be careful." She sniffled. "No, uh, glove cleaner or anything like that. If you
know what I mean."
The shelves were dusty and disgusting. My fingers caught cobwebs and brushed against small
feathery clumps that were unidentifiable in the shadowy aisle. Tiny feet scurried away from me on the
shelves as I climbed, prodding aside old jars with my feet. Faint shuffling noises came from inside some
of them.
I finally got my head up to the shelf with the little light. It was now sitting on a transparent cylindrical
container inside the wooden box. Inside, ugly brown lumps swirled around in a thick, emerald-green
solution.