"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano's Lute" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

Damiano gave a sweeping wave of his hand, accompanied by one scornful eyebrow.
"Don't think about it, Seraph. It is my little problem. At least I can hear
you perfectly, and that is more than most people can. Besides, I remember well
what you look like." He opened his eyes, staring straight ahead.
And he sighed with relief. It was pleasant to talk to the angel again. Very
pleasant, especially now when he was feeling so completely friendless. But
conversation was one thing, and study another. Today Damiano was not in the
mood for a lesson.
Yet Raphael was his teacher, and so Damiano felt some effort was incumbent
upon him. "I've been saving a question for you, Raphael. About that jo/i
bransle we were toying with last week."
"The bransle?" A hint of surprise rested in the angelic voice. "You want to
talk about the bransle right now?"
"I was wondering if I ought to play those three fourth intervals in a row. Or
not, you know? It's not like they were fifths, which would be too
old-fashioned and dull, but still, I feel the measure would go more if I
descended in the bass."
There was a moment's silence, along with a rustle like
24
Damiano's Lute
that of a featherbed. Then the corona of radiance said, "Dami, what are you
going to do about Gaspare?"
Involuntarily, Damiano glanced over. Silver filled his eyes, cool as
starlight, chillingly cool, set off by seas of deep blue. Damiano was felling,
fearlessly felling, out into depths of time.
There was a curtain of silence. He tore it.
And the brilliance then was white-hot and immense. It was not infinite, but
fall within limits set perfect for it, shining round and glad, and it would
have been meaningless to suggest this brilliance might want to be larger or
smaller than it was, for it was glowingly content. And it was a brilliance of
sound as much as of light: wild sound, like trumpets in harmony, yet subtle as
the open chords of a harp. It drowned Damiano. His problems dissolved.
"Dami," came the soft, cool, ordinary voice. "Dami. Damiano! Close your eyes
or 111 have to knock you off the wagon."
Eventually the young man obeyed, dropping his head, clutching the seatback as
though fighting a formidable wind. "I. „ I... ooofl Forgive me, Raphael. It
leaves me a little sick."
"flic angel emitted a very melodic sort of whine. "That's terrible, Dami. What
is the matter with me that I affect you so badly?"
Through his undeniable nausea, Damiano had to laugh. "The matter with you, old
friend? Don't worry about it. It's what I get for being neither witch nor
truly simple*. And the sickness I feel happens only as I come back to myself."
He sat upright once more, and reached out at random to slap an immaterial
shoulder. "It's good for my music, Seraph. You have no idea how much I learn
each time I get sick looking at you."
Raphael's sigh was quite human. He plucked at Damiano s head. "You have sap-in
your hair," he observed.
Damiano wiggled his fingers into the snarl. "I know. Gaspare wanted to cut it
out. That seemed a very radical solution to the problem, so I..."
"Gaspare," echoed the angel. "What are you going to do about Gaspare?"