"Michael Flynn - Melodies of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

She rapped the floor with her walking stick. Once, very sharp. "I'm no
child, Doctor Wilkes! I have not been a child for a long, long time; so, don't
treat me like one." She waved her hand up and down her body. "How
many children do you know who look like me?"
"Just one," I snapped back. And instantly regretted the remark. There
was no point in being rude; and it was none of her business anyway. "Tell
me about your music," I said, unhooking my stethoscope and stepping
away.
 She worked her lips and glared at me for a while before she made up
her mind to cooperate. Finally, she looked down at the floor. "It was one,
two nights ago," she whispered. Her hands gripped her walking stick so
tightly that the knuckles stood out large and white. She twisted it as if
screwing it into the floor. "I dreamed I was dancing in the Roseland
Ballroom, like I used to do years and years ago. Oh, I was once so light on
my feet! I was dancing with Ben Wickham—he's dead now, of course; but
he was one smooth apple and sure knew how to pitch woo. The band was a
swing band—I was a swinger, did you know?—and they were playing
Goodman tunes. 'Sing, Sing, Sing.' 'Stardust.' But it was so loud, I woke
up. I thought I was still dreaming for a while, because I could still hear the
music. Then I got riled. I thought, who could be playing their radio so loud
in the middle of the night? So I took myself down the hall, room by room,
and listened at each door. But the music stayed the same, no matter where
I went. That's when I knowed ..." She paused, swallowed hard, looked into
the corner. "That's when I knowed, knew, it was all in my head."
I opened the sphygmomanometer on my desk. Mae Holloway was over a
hundred years old, according to the Home's director; well past her time to
shuffle off. If her mind was playing tricks on her in her last years, well,
that's what old minds did. Yet, I had read of similar cases of "head" music.
"There are several possibilities, Mrs. Holloway," I said, speaking loudly
and distinctly while I fastened the pressure cuff to her arm, "But the best
bet is that the music really is all in your head."
I smiled at the bon mot, but all the wire went out of her and she sagged
shapelessly in her chair. Her right hand went to her forehead and
squeezed. Her eyes twisted tight shut. "Oh, no," she muttered. "Oh, dear
God, no. It's finally happened."
Mossbacks have no sense of humor. "Please, Mrs. Holloway! I didn't
mean 'in your head' like that. I meant the fillings in your teeth. A pun.
Fillings sometimes act like crystal radios and pick up broadcast signals,
vibrating the small bones of the middle ear. You are most likely picking up
a local radio station. Perhaps a dentist could—"
She looked up at me and her eyes burned. "That was a wicked joke to
pull, boy. It was cruel."
"I didn't mean it that way—"
"And I know all about fillings and radios and such," she snapped. "Will
Hickey had that problem here five years ago. But that can't be why I hear
music." And she extruded a ghastly set of false teeth.
"Well, then—"
 "And what sort of radio station could it be? Swing tunes all the time,
and only those that I know? Over and over, all night long, with no
interruptions. No commercials. No announcements of song titles or