"Gardner Dozois - Horse Of Air (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

sheets, the droplets stirring and rippling the puddles that form in depressions, drumming against
the flat concrete surfaces, running down along the edges of the shingles, foaming and sputtering
from down- . spouts- The Towers stand like lords, swirling rain mists around them as a fine
gentleman swirls his jeweled cloak. Pregnant gray clouds scurry by behind the Towers, lashed by
wind. The constant stream of horizontals past the fixed vertical fingers of the Towers creates
contrast, gives the eye something to follow, increases the relief of motion. Motion is heresy when
the world has become a still life. But it soothes, the old-time religion. There are no atheists in
foxholes, nor abstainers when the world begins to flow. But does that prove the desirability of
God or the weakness of men? I drink when the world flows, but unwillingly, because I know the
price. I have to drink, but I also have to pay. I will pay later when the motion stops and the
world returns to lethargy, the doldrums made more unbearable by the contrast known a moment
before. That is another cross that I am forced to bear.
But it is beautiful, and fresh-washed after. And sometimes there is a rainbow. Rain is the
only aesthetic pleasure I have left, and I savor it with the unhurried leisure of the aristocracy.
-When the rain comes, he flattens himself against the mesh, arms spread wide as if
crucified there, letting the rain hammer against his face. The rain rolls in runnels down his
skin, mixing with sweat, counterfeiting tears. Eyes closed, he bruises his open mouth against the
mesh, trying to drink the rain. His tongue dabs at the drops that trickle by his mouth, licks out
for the moisture oozing down along the links of wire. After the storm, he sometimes drinks the
small puddles that gather on the balcony ledge, lapping them noisily and greedily, although the
tap in the kitchen works, and he is never thirsty-
Always something to look at from here. Directly below are a number of weed-overgrown
yards, chopped up unequally by low brick walls, nestled in a hollow square formed by the
surrounding brownstones. There is even a tree in one corner, though it is dead and its limbs are
gnarled and splintered. The yards were never neatly kept by the rabble that lived there, even in
the old days: they are scattered with trash and rubbish, middens of worn-out household items and
broken plastic toys, though the weeds have covered much. There was a neat, bright flower bed in
one of the further yards, tended by a bent and leather-skinned foreign crone of impossible age,
but the weeds have overgrown that as well, drowning the rarer blossoms. This season there were
more weeds, fewer flowers-they seem to survive better, though God knows they have little else to
recommend them, being coarse and ill smelling.


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In the closest yard an old and ornate wicker-back chair is still standing upright; if I
remember correctly, a pensioner bought it at a rummage sale and used it to take the sun, being a
parasite good for nothing else. Weeds are twining up around the chair; it is half hidden already.
Beyond is a small concrete court where hordes of ragged children used to play ball. Its
geometrical white lines are nearly obliterated now by rain and wind-drifted gravel. If you look

sharp at this clearing, sometimes you can see the sudden flurry of a small darting body through
the weeds; a rat or a cat, hard to tell at this distance.
Once; months ago, I saw a man and a woman there, my first clear indication that there are
still people alive and about. They entered the court like thieves, crawling through a low window,
the man lowering the girl and then jumping down after. They were dressed in rags, and the man
carried a rifle and a bandolier
After reconnoitering, the man forced one of the rickety doors into a brownstone, disappearing
inside. After a while he came out dragging a mattress-filthy, springs jutting through fabric-and