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

sophisticated nations were much too far away to allow Ernst
to feel completely at ease. He built for himself a life in exile,
pretending that it made no difference. But the provinciality of
these people! The mountains and the narrow fertile plain that
separated the city from the northern sea effectively divided
him from every familiar landmark of his past. He could only
think and remember. And who was there to decide if his
recollections might have blurred and altered with repetition?
“Now, Eugenie. You had red hair. You had hair like the
embers of a dying fire. How easy it was to kindle the blaze
afresh. In the morning, how easy. The fuel was there, the
embers burned hotly within; all that was needed was a little
wind, a little stirring. Eugenie, you had red hair. I've always
been weakened by red hair.
“Marie, poor Marie, your hair was black, and I loved it, too,
for a time. And I'll never know what deftnesses and craft
were necessary to fire your blood. Eugenie, the creature of
flame, and Marie, the gem of ice. I confuse your faces. I can't
recall your voices. Good luck to you, my lost loves, and may
God bless.”
10
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


The city was an oven, a prison, an asylum, a veritable zoo
of human aberration. Perhaps this worked in Ernst's favor;
those people who did not have to hire themselves and their
children for food spent their empty hours searching for
diversion. The laws of probability suggested that it was likely
that someday one of the patricians would offer a word to
Ernst. That was all that he would need. He had the scene
carefully rehearsed; he, too, had nothing else to do.
The rain was falling harder. Through the drops, which
made a dense curtain that obscured the buildings across the
square, Ernst saw outlines of people hurrying. Sometimes he
pretended that the men and, especially, the women were
familiar, remnants of his abandoned life come by chance to
call on him in his exile. Today, though, his head hurt and he
had no patience with the game, particularly the
disappointment at its inevitable conclusion.
He finished the last of the anisette. Ernst rapped on the
table and held the tumbler above his head. He did not look
around; he supported his aching head with his other hand and
waited. M. Gargotier came and took the tumbler from him.
The rain fell harder. Ernst's hair was soaked and tiny rivulets
ran down his forehead and into his eyes. The proprietor
returned with the tumbler filled. Ernst wanted to think
seriously, but his head hurt too much. The day before, he had
devised a neat argument against the traditional contrast of