"Garry Kilworth - We Are The Music Makers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

colonel, but a vagrant, clumping around the streets on a crutch, begging
for bread. He was thrown into prison twice, where he developed pneumonia
and bronchial troubles. Once on the streets again he stole a woman's purse
and bought himself a hurdy-gurdy, to avoid arrest and detention, and
played outside the Opera House.
During the following winter, because of severe malnutrition, the
hurdy-gurdy player lost his sight.
The blind man was playing outside the Opera House, a place his former
acquaintances would no longer visit for fear that they would see him
standing there, when he heard a familiar voice in his ear.
'Remember me, colonel?'
'Sergeant Kesnek?' murmured the blind player. 'How could I forget?'
'It's only been a short time, colonel, but here you are, same as me -
playing the streets. How do you feel?'
'You must feel very smug, sergeant.'
'Who sir, me sir, no sir,' replied Kesnek. 'Why should I take delight in
some other poor creature's downfall?'
'You might, if you caused it.'
The was a long silence, then came the answer.
'I played the tune, that's true, from the stinking sewers beneath the
streets - from amongst the chimney pots of the high roofs - but you
supplied the rest colonel. You supplied the guilt which robbed you of your
limbs. Not me. I just meant to irritate you, give you a fright. It was
your body and your mind turning against you, made you into something like
me. Don't expect me to feel sorry for you - if I did I would have to feel
sorry for myself, and that wouldn't do.'
'What nonsense, I feel no guilt, not for any act of mine.'
The colonel reached out, with a ragged-gloved hand, and felt the cold hard
features of Sergeant Kesnek. This was a man with no heart. This was a man
who understood nothing of the colonel's world - his former world - a man
who made uninformed judgements on those with whom dreadful decisions
rested. This was a man who knew nothing of higher responsibility, only of
taking orders, of carrying out the will of men who were culpable and were
accountable for the safety of nations.
He let his hand fall, knowing that anything he said to Kesnek, would make
no difference to that creature's convictions.
There were footsteps, coming from the direction of the Opera House. It was
too early for the crowd, but the beggar made ready to produce a tune from
his hurdy-gurdy, eager not to miss an opportunity. Another familiar voice
stayed his hand.
'Colonel? Is that you?'
'Who is that? I know you. Tell me, I am blind.'
'Colonel, good God, it is I - Alexi. Have you come to this? Begging on the
streets?'
'One needs bread to live.'
The beggar did not want pity. He wanted coin. Alexi was no longer his
friend. He was a patron, or he was nothing.
'Will you give?' he asked. 'Are you generous?'
'Of course I will give you some money, but tell me, to whom were you
talking. Are you mad too? Do you see phantoms?'