"Kress, Nancy - Dancing on Air" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

But then so was nearly everything else I read. The proof was walking around in inaccessible foreign hospitals, or living anonymously in inaccessible foreign cities -- the anonymity of the experimental subjects seemed to be a given, which also made me wonder how many of them were experimental casualties. And if so, of what kind.
Michael wasn't going to want any article built on this tentative speculation. Lawsuits would loom. But I was beyond caring what Michael wanted.
I learned that the Fifth International Conference on Human Bioenhancement was going to be held in Paris in late April. After paying the Robin Hood, I had no money left for a trip to Paris. Michael would have to pay for it. I would have to give him a reason.
One night in January I did a stupid thing. I went alone to Lincoln Center and waited by the stage door of the New York State Theater. Caroline Olson came out at 11:30, dressed in jeans and parka, accompanied only by a huge black Doberman on the most nominal of leashes. They walked south on Broadway, to an all-night restaurant. I sat myself at the next table.
For the last few months, her reviews had not been good. "A puzzling and disappointing degeneration," said _The New Yorker_. "Technical sloppiness not associated with either Olson or Privitera," said _Dance Magazine_. "This girl is in trouble, and Anton Privitera had better find out what kind of trouble and move to correct it," said the _Times On-Line_.
Caroline ate abstractly, feeding bits to the dog, oblivious to the frowns of a fastidious waiter who was undoubtedly an out-of-work actor. Up close, the illusion of power and beauty I remembered from _Coppelia_ evaporated. She looked like just another mildly pretty, self-absorbed, overly thin young woman. Except for the dog, the waiter/actor didn't give her a second glance.
"We go now?" the dog said.
I choked on my sandwich. Caroline glanced at me absently. "Soon, Angel."
She went on eating. I left, waited for her, and followed her home. She and the dog lived on Central Park South, a luxury building where the late-night electronic surveillance system greeted them both by name.
I took a cab home. Deborah had never mentioned that the City Ballet prima ballerina was protected by a bioenhanced Doberman. She knew I'd written the story about the ballerina murders. Anton Privitera hadn't mentioned it, either, in his press confrerence about dancer safety. I wondered why not. While I was parceling out wonder, I devoted some to the question of City Ballet's infrequent, superficial, and always-positive bioscans. Shouldn't a company devoted to the religion of "natural art" be more zealous about ferreting out heretics?
Unless, of course, somebody didn't really want to know.
Privitera? But that was hard to reconcile with his blazing, intolerant sincerity.
It occurred to me that I had never seen an admittedly bioenhanced dancer perform. Until tonight, I'd gone to finished performances rarely and only with Deborah, who of course scorned such perverts and believed that they had nothing to teach her.
She was out when I got back to our apartment. Each week, it seemed, she was gone more. I fell asleep, waiting for her to come home.
7.
Snow falls. It is cold. Caroline and I walk to Lincoln Center. A man takes Caroline's purse. He runs. Caroline says "Shit!" Then she says, "Angel? Go stop him!" She drops my leash.
I run and jump on the man. He screams. I do not hurt him. Caroline says _stop him_. She does not say _attack him_. So I stand on the man's chest and growl and nip at his foreleg. He brings out a knife. Then I bite him. He drops the knife and screams again. The police come.
"Holy shit," Caroline says to me. "You really do that. You really do."
"I protect Caroline," I say.
Caroline talks to police. Caroline talks to reporters. I get a steak to eat.
I am happy.
* * * *
The snow goes away. The snow is there many many days, but it goes away. We visit Caroline's mother's house for two more parties in the basement. It gets warm in the park. Ducks live in the water again. Flowers grow. Caroline says not to dig up flowers.
I lie backstage. Caroline dances on stage. John and Mr. Privitera stand beside me. They smell unhappy. John's shoes smell of tar and food and leaves and cats and other good things. I sniff John's shoes.
"She looks exhausted," John says. "She's giving it everything she's got, but it's just not there, Anton."
Mr. Privitera says no words. He watches Caroline dance.
"William Scholes attacked again in the _Times_. He said that watching her had become painful -- 'like watching a reed grown stiff and brittle.'"
"I will talk to her again," Mr. Privitera says.
"Scholes called the performance 'a travesty,'" John says.
Caroline comes backstage. She limps. She wipes her face with a towel. She smells afraid.
"Dear, I'd like to see you," Mr. Privitera says.
We go to Caroline's dressing room. Caroline sits down. She trembles. Her body smells sick. I growl. Caroline puts a hand on my head.
Mr. Privitera says, "First of all, dear, I have good news for all of us. The police have caught that unspeakable murderer who killed Jennifer Lang and the ABT dancer."
Caroline sits up a little straighter. Her smell changes. "They did! How?"
"They caught him breaking into the Plaza Hotel room where Marie D'Arbois is staying while she guests with ABT."
"Is Marie -- "
"She's fine. She wasn't alone, she had a lover or something with her. The madman just got careless. The police are holding back the details. Marie, of course, is another of those bioenhanced dancers. I don't know if you ever saw her dance."
"I did," Caroline says. "I thought she was wonderful."
Caroline and Mr. Privitera look hard at each other. They smell ready to attack. But they do not attack. I am confused. Mr. Privitera is safe. He may touch Caroline.
Mr. Privitera says, "We must all be grateful to the police. Now there's something else I need to discuss with you, dear."
Caroline closes her hand on my fur. She says, "Yes?"
"I want you to take a good long rest, dear. You know your dancing has deteriorated. You tell me you're not doing drugs or working sketchily, and I believe you. Sometimes it helps a dancer to take a rest from performing. Take class, eat right, get strong. In the fall we'll see."
"You're telling me you're cutting me from the summer season at Saratoga."
"Yes, dear."
Caroline is quiet. Then she says, "There's nothing wrong with me. My timing has just been a little off, that's all."
"Then take the summer to work on your timing. And everything else."
Mr. Privitera and Caroline look hard at each other again. Caroline's hand still pulls my fur. It hurts a little. I do not move.
Mr. Privitera leans close to Caroline. "Listen, dear. _Jewels_ was one of your best roles. But tonight ... And not just _Jewels_. You wobbled and wavered through _Starscape_. Your Nikiya in the "Shades" section of _La Bayadere_ was ... embarrassing. There is no other word. You danced as if you had never learned the steps. And you couldn't even complete the _Don Quixote pas de deux_ at the gala."
"I fell! Dancers get injured all the time! My injury rate compared to -- "
"You've miss rehearsals and even performances," Mr. Privitera said. He stands up. "I'm sorry, dear. Take the summer. Rest. Work. In the fall, we'll see."