"George Alec Effinger - City On Sand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

whispering sands were death for anyone mad enough to
venture across them. Only in the city was there a hollow
travesty of life.
****
Ernst Weinraub sat at a table on the patio of the Café de la
Fée Blanche. A light rain fell on him, but he did not seem to
notice. He sipped his anisette, regretting that the proprietor
had served it to him in such an ugly tumbler. The liqueur
suffered. M. Gargotier often made such disconcerting lapses,
but today especially Ernst needed all the delicacy, all the
refinement that he could buy to hold off his growing
melancholy. Perhaps the Fée Blanche had been a mistake. It
was early, lacking some thirty minutes of noon, and if it
seemed to him that the flood of tears was rising too quickly,


4
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


he could move on to the Café Solace or Chiriga's. But as yet
there was no need to hurry.
The raindrops fell heavily, spatting on the small metal
table. Ernst turned in his chair, looking for M. Gargotier. Was
the man going to let his customer get drenched? The
proprietor had disappeared into the black interior of his
establishment. Ernst thought of lowering the striped canopy
himself, but the shopkeeper-image of himself that the idea
brought to mind was too absurd. Instead, he closed his eyes
and listened to the water. There was music when the drops
hit the furnishings on the patio, a duller sound when the rain
struck the pavement. Then, more frequently, there was the
irritating noise of the drops hitting his forehead. Ernst opened
his eyes. His newspaper was a sodden mess and the puddle
on his table was about to overflow onto his lap.
Ernst considered the best way to deal with the
accumulating water. He could merely cup his hand and swipe
the puddle sideways. He dismissed that plan, knowing that his
hand would be soaked; then he would sit, frustrated, without
anything on which to dry it. He would end up having to seek
out M. Gargotier. The confrontation then, with the proprietor
standing bored, perhaps annoyed, would be too unpleasant.
Anyway, the round metal top of the table was easily removed.
Ernst tipped it, revealing the edges of the white metal legs,
which were sharp with crystal rust. The water splashed to the
paved floor of the patio, loudly, inelegantly. Ernst sighed; he
had made another compromise with his manner. He had
sacrificed style for comfort. In the city, it was an easy
bargain.