"Robert F. Young - On the River" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

mixed up. A juke box doesn't belong in an American Colonial setting."
"I'm afraid I'm the guilty party. There was a juke box just like that one in the inn where I stayed last
night and in the inn where I stayed the night before."
"Apparently our inns vanish the minute we're out of sight. At any rate, I saw no sign of yours ... I still
can't help wondering whether we're the only force that holds this whole thing together. Maybe, the
moment we're deтАФthe moment we're goneтАФthe whole business will disappear. Assuming of course that
it has objective existence and can disappear."
She pointed to one of the dining-room tables. It was covered with an immaculate linen tablecloth and
was set for two. Beside each place, a real candleтАФreal, that is, to whatever extent it was possible for
objects to be real in this strange landтАФburned in a silver candlestick. "I can't help wondering what we're
going to have for dinner."
"The particular dish we happen to be hungry for most, I imagine. Last night I had a yen for
southern-fried chicken, and southern-fried chicken was what I found waiting for me when I sat down."
"Funny, how we can take such miracles in our stride," she said. And then, "I think I'll freshen up a
bit."
"I think I will too."
They chose rooms across the hall from each other. Farrell got back downstairs first and waited for
Jill in the dining room. During their absence, two large covered trays and a silver coffee set appeared on
the linen tablecloth. How this had been brought about, he could not fathom; nor did he try very hard. A
hot shower had relaxed him, and he was permeated with a dream-like feeling of well-being. He even had
an appetite, although he suspected that it was no more real than the food with which he would presently
satisfy it would be. No matter. Stepping into the adjoining bar, he drew himself a short beer and drank it
appreciatively. It was cold and tangy, and hit the spot. Returning to the dining room, he saw that Jill had
come back downstairs and was waiting for him in the lobby doorway. She had repaired her torn dress as
best she could and had cleaned her shoes, and there was a trace of lipstick on her lips and a touch of
rouge on her cheeks. It dawned on him all of a sudden that she was positively stunning.
When they sat down at the table, the lights dimmed, and the juke box began to play. In addition to
the two covered trays and the silver coffee set, the magic tablecloth had also materialized a
mouth-watering antipasto. They nibbled radishes by candlelight, ate carrots Julienne. Jill poured steaming
coffee into delicate blue cups, added sugar and cream. She had "ordered" sweet potatoes and baked
Virginia ham, he had "ordered" steak and French fries. As they dined, the juke box pulsed softly in the
ghostly room and the candle flames flickered in drafts that came through invisible crevices in the walls.
When they finished eating, Farrell went into the bar and brought back a bottle of champagne and two
glasses. After filling both glasses, he touched his to hers. "To the first day we met," he said, and they
drank.
Afterward, they danced on the empty dance floor. Jill was a summer wind in his arms. "Are you a
professional dancer?" he asked.
"I was."
He was silent. The music was dream-like, unreal. The big room was a place of soft lights and pale
shadows. "I was an artist," he went on presently. "One of the kind whose paintings no one buys and who
keep themselves going on scraps of hopes and crusts of dreams. When I first began to paint, I thought
that what I was doing was somehow noble and worthwhile; but a schoolboy conviction can't last forever,
and finally I recognized and accepted the fact that nothing I would ever paint would justify my having
gone without even so much as a single helping of mashed potatoes. But that's not why I'm on the River."
"I danced in night clubs," Jill said. "Not nice dances, but I was not a stripper."
"Were you married?"
"No. Were you?"
"Only to my work, and my work and I have been divorced for some time now. Ever since I took a
job designing greeting cards."
"It's funny," she said, "I never thought it would be like this. Dying, I mean. Whenever I pictured