"Tim Lebbon - The Repulsion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebbon Tim)

The Repulsion
a short story by Tim Lebbon

As they rounded a bend in the road and the whole majesty of Amalfi was
laid out before them, Dean knew that it was over. He grabbed Maria's hand
and she squeezed back in surprise.
It was their second attempt at loving each other. Dean had the feeling
that trying to make it work again would be like buying a new version of a
favourite shirt -- the original would always be special, however much the
second looked, smelled and felt like the first. They had been travelling
for ten hours and each time he glanced sideways at Maria, he knew her
less.
The minibus wound its way down the cliff road, the driver tooting at
nothing, other horns blaring in response. Mopeds chased each other through
the traffic like dogs in heat, their drivers cool in shades and
shirtsleeves. Pedestrians took their lives in their hands and walked along
the roads, bending sideways and holding in their stomachs to allow for
wing mirrors.
"Busy place," Dean said. Maria glanced at him and smiled, but she did not
reply. He caught a whiff of her perfume, mixed in with the stale scents of
a dozen hours of travelling. Obsession. It gave him a headache.
When they had been on holiday before, the arrival at the resort and the
discovery of the hotel was often something of a let-down, an anti-climax
propagated by tiredness and dislocation. Today, however, it was not the
same. Maria waltzed into the hotel ahead of him, her jaunty step raising a
nostalgic desire rather than the real thing. When Dean reached her with
their suitcases she was chatting to the woman at reception, laughing,
joking, excluding him even more. The woman looked at Dean and smiled
sadly, as if she could see through the charade.
"Please," she said, "leave your bags here. They will be brought up to you.
We have a lovely room for you, sea view, balcony with a wonderful romantic
view of the town and harbour."
Dean smiled at Maria, and she smiled back. "Okay?" he asked.
"Yep. Here at last. At last." She followed the woman.
Their room was big, sparsely furnished, floored with old marble and
opening out onto a large balcony. The doors were already clipped open,
outside table set for a meal as if the previous residents had only just
left. Dean could smell them in the air: a hint of aftershave; the
incongruous scent of pine shampoo. He tipped the receptionist and fell
onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in deeply. Old
smells; soap powder; dead dreams.
"Shall we go out, have a look around?" Maria asked.
Dean was tired and jaded and suddenly, for no apparent reason, he wanted
to be back home. Hopelessness rumbled in his stomach, tingled his skin.
"Dean?"
He nodded. "Sure." He sensed her perfume again. It smelled like someone
else had bought it for her, and he knew that they had already failed.

The road took them past the front of the hotel and down to the town
square, where it sat facing the ocean; hundreds of people, tourists and