"Ian R. MacLeod - Nevermore" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

know, things have changed.”

“Sure, and you’re going to tell me next that you—”

“—Yes, would like to meet up. We’re arranging this party. I ran into
Marcel in Venice—he’s currently Doge there, you know—and we got talking
about old times and all the old gang. And so we decided we were due for a
reunion. You’ve been one of the hardest ones to find, Gus. And then I
remembered that old tenement...”

“Like you say, I’m still here.”

“Still painting?”

“Of course I’m still painting! It’s what I do.”

“That’s great. Well—sorry to give you so little time, but the whole
thing’s fixed for this evening. You won’t believe what everyone’s up to now!
But then, I suppose you’ve seen Francine across the sky.”

“Look, I’m not sure that I—”

“—And we’re going for Paris, 1890. Should be right up your street.
I’ve splashed out on all-senses. And the food and the drink’ll be foreal. So
you’ll come, won’t you? The past is the past, and I’ve honestly forgotten
about much of it since I passed on. Put it into context, anyway. I really don’t
bear a grudge. So you will come? Remember how it was, Gus? Just smile
for me the way you used to. And remember...”

****

Of course he remembered. But he still didn’t know what the hell to expect
that evening as he waited—too early, despite the fact that he’d done his
best to be pointedly late—in the virtual glow of a pavement café off the Rue
St-Jacques beneath a sky fuzzy with Van Gogh stars.

Searching the daubed figures strolling along the cob-bles, Gustav
spotted Elanore coming along before she saw him. He raised a hand, and
she came over, sitting down on a wobbly chair at the uneven swirl of the
table. Doing his best to maintain a grumpy pose, Gustav called the waiter
for wine, and raised his glass to her with trembling fingers. He swallowed it
all down. Just as she’d promised, the stuff was foreal.

Elanore smiled at him. And Elanore looked beautiful. Elanore was
dressed for the era in a long dress of pure ultramarine. Her red hair was
bunched up beneath a narrow-brimmed hat adorned with flowers.

“It’s about now,” she said, “that you tell me I haven’t changed.”

“And you tell me that I have.”