"Goodis, David - Nightfall" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodis David)

"If you have a pencil and paper," Vanning said, "I'll be glad to write a short autobiography."
"That won't be necessary. But you can tell me what you do."
He laughed. It was a way to pass some time, anyway. That was what he told himself. He wasn't able to tell himself the truth. But the truth was there, inside him, and the truth was that a female in a few startling, swift moments, had gotten a hold on him and he had no inclination to free himself.
He said, "I paint."
"Houses?"
"Houses, horses, fountain pens, anything they want."
"Oh," she said, "then you're an artist."
"With apologies to Rembrandt."
"I didn't expect you'd be an artist. I thought--"
"Truck driver, longshoreman, heavyweight wrestler."
"Something along those lines."
"Disappointed?"
"Oh, no. Aren't artists glamorous?"
"I'm a commercial artist," Vanning said. "That means I'm a salesman, I'm part of a big selling job, and I actually get paid for painting pretty pictures."
"It sounds like a nice way to earn a living."
"It has its advantages," Vanning said. "But I do it all day long and at night I like to get away from it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Talk to me. That's why I came in here."
"To see if you could meet a girl?"
"To see if I could find someone interesting to talk to."
"That's very strange," she said.
"How come?"
"I had the same idea."
"I don't think so," Vanning said. He got his eyes away from her and he watched his fingers rolling back and forth along the smooth roundness of the highball glass. "I think you came in here because you're an unhappy person, desperately unhappy and very disappointed with men, and probably disillusioned but not disillusioned to the extent that you're ready to throw all men aside. Do I hear the sound of a click?"
"Go on. Talk."
"Well"--Vanning went on playing with the glass--"I think you came in here a little on the frantic side, as if you're giving yourself a few last chances to meet someone worthwhile. Or maybe this was the final try. And you saw me standing there and you told yourself it was a bull's-eye if you could only attract my attention."
"Do all artists know this much about human nature?"
"I couldn't say. I don't hang around with other artists-- Suppose we take one thing at a time. Suppose we talk about me after we get through with you. Is that all right?"
"If it isn't all right we'll do it anyway," she said. "Because you have your heart set on it. You're getting pleasure out of it."
"Not exactly what you'd call pleasure. But I think it would do us both some good if we skip the jockeying around. I mean come right out at the beginning and put it all on the table. That saves a lot of time. Sometimes it saves a lot of grief later on."
"What makes you think there will be a later on?"
"I didn't say there would be. What I'm really trying to do is catch up with you. I'm sure you're mature enough not to take offense at that."
She smiled. "My name is Martha."
"Jim."
"Hello, Jim."
"Hello. Have another drink?"
"I've had enough, thanks. Too much, I guess, on an empty stomach."
"We can fix that," Vanning said. "Come to think of it, all I had tonight was a sandwich and a malted."
He paid for the drinks and they walked out of the bar. Now it seemed that the heat was letting up a bit and the Hudson was sending over a breeze. Going toward midnight, the streets were quieting down and it was the bars and night clubs that were getting all the play.
Vanning looked at her. He said, "Got any special place in mind?"
"There's a little restaurant off Fourth Street. I don't know if it's still open."
"We'll try it."
The place was well off Fourth Street, and the weak yellow light from its window was the only light on the narrow street. Vanning took her in there and they sat at a small table near the window. They were alone in the place. It was very small. Their waiter was the proprietor, and he was a man who looked as if one of his own meals would do him a lot of good. He was trying to be friendly, but weariness prevented him from getting it across. He took their order and went away.
"All right," Vanning said, and he leaned toward her. "Now tell me."
"Yes, I've been married. Divorced. No children. I'm a buyer in a department store. Glassware. I live alone in a two-and-a-half here in the Village."
"I'll want that address. And the telephone number."
"Now?"
"Here's why. There's a slight possibility I might have to leave you in a hurry. Don't ask me to explain, but just on the chance that things work out that way, I'll want to see you again."
She opened a handbag, took out a pencil and a small pad. She did some writing and handed him the slip of paper. Without looking at it, he folded it and put it in his wallet.
"Now," she said, "what about you?"