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

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, 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.
“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