"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

fests. At night they play the banjo. On top of which they grab
anyone they can get hold of and make them participate in
contests for the longest uninterrupted kiss. Most important of
all, they are all transients. But I am interested in your
country, Ahmad. In your townspeople. I'll tell you what I need:
I need a quiet house with a garden. Not too far from downtown.
A relaxed family, with a respectable housewife. An attractive
young daughter. You get the picture, Ahmad?"
Ahmad took the empty glasses, went over to the counter,
and returned with full ones. Now they contained a colorless
transparent liquid and the small plates were stacked with tiny
multistoried sandwiches.
"I know of such a cozy house," declared Ahmad. "The widow
is forty-five and the daughter twenty. The son is eleven. Let's
finish the drinks and we'll be on our way. I think you'll like
it. The rent is standard, but of course it's more than in a
hoarding house. You have come to stay for a long time?"
"For a month."
"Good Lord! Just a month?"
"I don't know how my affairs will go. Perhaps I may tarry
awhile."
"By all means, you will," said Ahmad. "I can see that you
have totally failed to grasp just where you have arrived. You
simply don't understand what a good time you can have here and
how you don't have to think about a thing."
We finished our drinks, got up, and went across the square
under the hot sun to the parking area. Ahmad walked with a
rapid, slightly rolling gait, with the green visor of his cap
set low over his eyes, swinging the suitcase in a debonair
manner. The next batch of tourists was being discharged
broadcast from the customs house.
"Would you like me to... Frankly?" said Ahmad suddenly.
"Yes, I would like you to," said I. What else could I say?
Forty years I have lived in this world and have yet to learn to
deflect this unpleasant question.
"You won't write a thing here," said Ahmad. "It's mighty
hard to write in our town."
"It's always hard to write anything. However, fortunately
I am not a writer."
"I accept this gladly. But in that case, it is slightly
impossible here. At least for a transient."
"You frighten me."
"It's not a case of being frightened. You simply won't
want to work. You won't be able to stay at the typewriter.
You'll feel annoyed by the typewriter. Do you know what the joy
of living is?"
"How shall I say?"
"You don't know anything, Ivan. So far you still don't
know anything about it. You are bound to traverse the twelve
circles of paradise. It's funny, of course, but I envy you."