"Thomas M. Disch - After Pottsville" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

into. Now they even had their own garage that charged ten cents less a gallon
for premium, and that’s where they all went, as a result of which Fred &
Frieda’s was slowly going out of business, what with one customer after
another opting for the nameless new filling station where two Mexicans worked
the pumps.

"Hello," Terry said again. "Do you need help getting to the other side?"

This time the guy let his head tilt back at the upward limit of his bob, and
his eyes rolled sideways in an expression of polite despair. "Go away," he
said in a raspy voice. "Just go. Go!"

"It’s sad," Terry volunteered, "about the fire."

"I can’t hear you!"

"I only ever saw the outside of the synagogue. And you couldn’t tell much from
that. Just the concrete and the hedges. But it probably looked nice inside.
Right?"

The man pressed his eyes tight closed and increased the tempo of his bobbing.

"I mean, why build a church at all unless it’s going to look special in some
way? Or a synagogue. My name is Terry, by the way." He held out his hand.
"Terry Goren."

The eyes stayed shut, the bobbing continued.

"And what’s your name?" Terry insisted.

The man froze. His eyes opened. When he spoke, it was as though a dentist were
pulling each word from his mouth. "I am David Golden."

"You’re dead, David. Did you know that?"

"No."

"Yes, you are," said Terry, choosing to interpret his No as denial rather than
a straightforward answer to the question he’d been asked. "You died in the
explosion that destroyed the synagogue. That was a month ago. The wreckage has
already been cleared away." He nodded in the direction of the charred open
space at the far end of Main Street, across from the sign (now highly
inaccurate) that welcomed visitors to Postville, Iowa, Population, 1,480.

"And your body has been cremated," Terry went on. "As much of you as they
could find."

David Golden bowed his head and closed his eyes and recommenced his rocking
motion. A gust of wind lifted a tattered yellow plastic carrier bag from the
gutter–a rarity in Postville for there to be such refuse on the street–and