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

Damiano bristled his brow. "How can I tell you? He
Damiano's Lute
25
just ran off not an hour ago. Maybe he'll come back. And now did you know
about that anyway, Raphael? You were listening?"
Wings ruffled again. "Yes, I was." After a few seconds' silence on the human's
part, Raphael added, "Shouldn't I listen?"
Damiano shrugged. "It makes me feel I have to be always on my best behavior,
that's all."
This time it was the angel's turn to pause. "Best behavior? Is that like your
best clothes? I'm flattered that you would want to wear it for me, Dami, but
you needn't. And if you wish, I will stop listening.
"In feet"—and the angel's voice grew even softer, (softer, slower and
indefinably droll)—"I ought to send you a note beforehand, each time I visit,
so that you can be wearing your best behavior. And your best clothes."
Damiano snorted, smiling wryly. "I am wearing my best clothes. They have
become indistinguishable from my worst. Like my behavior." There was something
harsh in the laugh with which he followed this.
"I'm going to follow Gaspare down the road, Raphael. All the way to Avignon,
if need be." His smile grew tighter as he added, "And 111 even apologize to
the little weasel, when I find him.
"That is what I'm going to do about Gaspare. Does it make you happy, my
teacher?"
Before Raphael could reply that that did make him happy, the conversation was
interrupted by a huge crack and snap of wood, followed by a pained whinny, as
the frustrated horse finally succeeded in turning around in place. The sting
of the trace breaking at his right sent Festilligambe into a series of
stiff-legged jumps which destroyed the last of the makeshift harness. Then, as
Damiano bit his fingers in consternation, the gelding lay its long head on the
footrest of the wagon and gazed up at the angel, moaning like a forge.
"There goes the wagon," cried Damiano. "So much firewoodl"
"I'm sorry," said the angel (for the second time that day).
Damiano's gesture was magnanimous and very Italian. "Forget itl He's my horse.
Besides—how can you be sorry
26
Damiano's Lute
about anything when you're a perfect spirit?" He swung down from the seat and
marched forth to release the horse from its tangles.
"I'm not perfect," replied the angel, almost hurt in tone. "That's very bad
theology. Only the Father is perfect. I am only sinless. And it is because of
me this lovely fellow has broken all his straps. Let me fix it."
Damiano stopped with two handfuls of rope. The horse's gently swishing tail
was flogging his kneecap. "Fix... die harness? But you are not to become
involved in human affairs, remember?"
Raphael glided over the horse's head and hung in the air for a moment before
alighting. Damiano looked down.
"True," came the angel's voice from above, "but that is a complex matter, my
friend. If I caused the accident, then am I not becoming more deeply involved
if I neglect to repair the damage?" The angel's voice now issued from beside
Damiano, who flinched his Bice away.