"R. A. MacAvoy - Black Dragon 2 - Twisting the Rope" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

"I know that."
Martha wondered if the dismissive quality in Marty's reply came because she hadn't sat down on the
pavement, like Teddy.
"I talked to George." Ted looked up at Martha. "I think we can get our friend straightened out."
Martha would never have called George St. Ives her friend, much as she respected his music. But neither
would she have dared to talk about straightening him out. She said nothing.
"I think he's blocked inside, and then lashes out in pain. Anyone would. Once he opens up, the great, good
things can come in: like the sunlight."
Ted spoke with real enthusiasm. Martha felt a sudden question in her mind whether he was very intelligent.
He was an accomplished guitarist, but she well knew that musical ability was a thing apart. She tried to
imagine George St. Ives's bulky and usually unwashed body naked under sunlight. Her mind's eye, forced in
this manner, wanted the image to go away.
"Did you tell him this?"
"Yeah, I did. And, you know, we really communicated."
Martha blinked. She stooped and began to sit down on the pavement next to him when she remembered her
troublesome skirt. "He didn't curse you out or tell you to mind your own business?"
Ted beamed up at her. He seemed quite comfortable with their difference in stations. "No, Roshi. George
doesn't—"
"Don't call me that." Martha's voice was quite sharp.
"Sure thing, Martha. No. George doesn't pull that on me. Or if he does, I don't notice. Flow-through, you
know? Flow-through.
"And I really think I can help him."
Martha stared out at the sea, which, from this angle, was bright as aluminum foil. "In the five days left on this
tour?"
"Sure. Enlightenment is instantaneous, you know."
Martha bit back her angry retort. She managed to say with reasonable calm, "Why? Why bother with him?
You never met him before last month."
Ted turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes. A fly landed on his forehead. He ignored it. "George
St. Ives is a great musician and an old soul: a repository of the real tradition. I want to do what I can."
What "real tradition," Martha wanted to know. It was her understanding that St. Ives had learned from
sessions and assorted recordings, just as she had, and as had most living "traditional musicians." In fact,
she could name at least six pieces he did where his sources were in her own extensive disk library. And, she
had known his aunt, in Ottawa, and was in some position to separate the man from his image.
She decided to keep this question to herself. After all,
George was a very good piper, and perhaps her own resentment stemmed from nothing more than that
George had a habit of fighting his way into her solos.
"Here comes the Dragon," said Ted.
Martha started and spun around, to see Long coming toward them, making his bullfighter's progress through
traffic.
"Why do you call him that?" she asked very tightly.
Ted rocked with amusement. "That's what his name— Long—means in Chinese. Isn't that great? Don't you
think it really fits him too? You know, like when he's looking over a new arrangement or an instrument he
hasn't seen before and his eyes positively glow with passion to have it?"
"Passion?" Martha echoed weakly.
"Yeah. Real passion. Age doesn't matter a bit, Martha."
Then Long was with them, and the missing sunglasses were in his hand. He greeted Ted, who bestowed
upon the group one last slosh of sleepy affection and then was gone. "One of the earpieces has suffered a
little, but no irreparable damage."
Martha took them without looking. "Do you know what Ted just said to me, Mayland? He said age doesn't
matter."