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

bridge and narrowness along its length which any man of birth might have been
proud to call his own. His eyes were large and soulful and his complexion was
milk and (more usually) roses. His mouth was mobile.
Yet in all these features there was no harmony, but rather constant war, for
the nose was too long and sharp for the shape of his face and the eyes were
too big for anyone's face, and his mouth—well, since it was never without a
word, a twitch or a grimace, it was very hard to say anything about Gaspare's
mouth.
He was just fourteen, and he hadn't had a good dinner in BIT too long.
"Nebuchadnezzar did," replied the dark youth, referring to the possibility of
living on grass. His voice was distant, his less ambitious but more
proportionate features almost slack. "Or it is said that he did. But I don't
recall that he was happy eating grass."
Gaspare swelled. "I'm not happy, eating nothing!" Out of sulks he yanked a
lock of hair that tumbled over his right ear. The spit curl went limp. His
finger coiled it again, tighter. The boy's head looked heavy, as will a round
child-face that has grown too thin over its bones. Both his leanness and the
dandified clothing he affected made Gaspare appear older than he was.
Consequently his tempers seemed more scandalous. -
Damiano lifted one eyebrow. His form was also drawn out by fortune. In fact,
he looked almost consumptive, with his face reduced to dark eyes he could
hardly hold open and a red mouth that yawned. "Hein? My friend, I'm sorry. I
would like to eat, too. But don't begrudge the horse his horseness; if he had
to eat bread we'd have been carrying our goods on our backs all the way from
the Piedmont."
Gaspare could say nothing to this, and so was made even unhappier.
Even in March, the warmth of noonday made wool
Damiano's Lute
11
itchy. Young Gaspare scraped his bottom against the seat, first right, then
left. He was an unusually sensitive boy, both in spirit and in skin, and since
he was also an unusually poor one, his sensitivities were an affliction to
him.
"Surely in such lovely countryside, well find a town soon," said Damiano,
though the forced heartiness of his reply betrayed a lack of skill at lying.
"Or perhaps an abbey, where we may be fed without having to put on a show."
"Or a rich penitent on pilgrimage," Gaspare continued for him. "... strewing
gold coins. Or a road leading up to heaven, white as milk, with angels beside
it ranked like poplar trees—angels playing flageolets and cornemuse, but the
angels will be made of cake, of course, and the pipes all of breadsticks, and
at the top of the road will be a piazza paved with bricks of sweet cakes, and
a gate of crystallized honey.
"By the gate will stand Saint Pietro, dressed like a serving man, with a
napkin over one arm and a wine cup in each hand, bowing and smiling. He will
not stop us, but will thrust a cup lovingly into our hands. Then the sky will
be all around us, floating with white-clothed banquet tables like so many
clouds, and piled on each of them olives, puddings, pies, sweet and peppered
frumenties..."
"I despise frumenties," murmured the driver, rousing a bit. The black gelding
had maneuvered the wagon so far to the left of the road that his hooves