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

5
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


“It is a matter of bodies,” he said to himself, as though
rehearsing bons mots for a cocktail party. “We have grown
too aware of bodies. Because we must carry them always
from place to place, is that any reason to accord our bodies a
special honor or affection? No, they are sacks only. Rather
large, unpleasant, undisciplined containers for meager
charges of emotion. We should all stop paying attention to
our bodies’ demands. I don't know how....” He paused. The
idea was stupid. He sipped the anisette.
There were not more than twenty small tables on the Fée
Blanche's patio. Ernst was the only patron, as he was every
day until lunchtime. He and M. Gargotier had become close
friends. At least, so Ernst believed. It was so comforting to
have a place where one could sit and watch, where the
management didn't eternally trouble about another drink or
more coffee. Bien sûr, the old man never sat with Ernst to
observe the city's idlers or offer to test Ernst's skill at chess.
In fact, to be truthful, M. Gargotier had rarely addressed a full
sentence to him. But Ernst was an habitué, M. Gargotier's
only regular customer, and for quite different reasons they
both hoped the Fée Blanche might become a favorite meeting
place for the city's literate and wealthy few. Ernst had
invested too many months of sitting at that same table to
move elsewhere now.
“A good way to remove a measure of the body's influence
is to concentrate on the mind,” he said. He gazed at the table
top, which already was refilling with rainwater. “When I
review my own psychological history, I must admit to a
distressing lack of moral sense. I have standards gleaned
6
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


from romantic novels and magistral decrees, standards which
stick out awkwardly among my intellectual baggage like the
frantic wings of a tethered pigeon. I can examine those
flashes of morality whenever I choose, though I rarely bother.
They are all so familiar. But all around them in my mind are
the heavy, dense shadows of events and petty crimes.”
With a quick motion, Ernst emptied the table top once
more. He sighed. “There was Eugenie. I loved her for a time,
I believe. A perfect name, a lesser woman. When the
romance began, I was well aware of my moral sense. Indeed,
I cherished it, worshiped it with an adolescent lover's fervor. I