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

corneas I had fitted last winter to darken—but I’m hugged and I’m kissed and they’re past me and into
the house before any of my senses can adjust. I turn back into the hall. Their luggage lies in a heap.
Salt-rimed, sandy, the colors bleached, bulging with washing and the excitements of far-off places.
Venice. Paris. New York. The Sea of Tranquillity. Even then, I have to touch to be sure.
“Hey Papa, where’s the food?”
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Agatha crouches down on the tiles in my old-fashioned kitchen, gazing into the open fridge. And
Saul’s tipping back a self-cooling carafe he’s found above the sink, his brown throat working. They’re
both in cut-off shorts, ragged tops. Stuff they’ve obviously had on for days. And here’s me worrying
about what I’m wearing—but the same rules don’t apply. Agatha stands up, fills her mouth with a cube
of ammoniac brie from the depths of the fridge. Saul wipes his lips on the back of his hand, smiles. As
though he senses that the hug on the doorstep might have passed me by, he comes over to me. He gives
me another. Held tight, towered over, I feel the rub of his stubbled jaw against my bald head as he
murmurs Papa, it’s good to be here. And Agatha joins in, kisses me with cheese crumbs on her lips,
bringing the sense of all the miles she’s traveled to get here, the salt dust of a million far-off places. I’m
tempted to pull away when I feel the soft pressure of her breasts against my arm. But this moment is too
sweet, too innocent. I wish it could go on forever.
Finally, we step back and regard each other.
“You should have let me know you were coming,” I say, wondering why I have to spoil this moment
by complaining. “I’d have stocked up.”
“We tried, Papa,” Agatha says.
Saul nods. “A few days ago at the shuttleport in Athens, Papa. And then I don’t know how many
times on the ferry through the islands. But all we got was the engaged flag.”
“I’ve been meaning,” I say, “to get the console fixed.”
Saul smiles, not believing for one moment. He asks, “Would you like me to take a look?”
I shrug. Then I nod Yes, because the console really does need reprogramming. And Saul and Agatha
were probably genuinely worried when they couldn’t get through, even though nothing serious could
happen without one of my implant alarms going off.
“But you don’t mind us coming, do you, Papa? I mean, if we’re getting in the way or anything. Just
say and we’ll go.” Agatha’s teasing, of course, just to see the look on Papa’s face.
 “No, no.” I lift my hands in surrender, feeling the joints starting to ease. “It’s wonderful to have you
here. Stay with us as long as you want. Do whatever you like. That’s what grandparents are for.”
They nod sagely, as though Papa’s spoken a great truth. But sharp-eyed glances are exchanged
across the ancient kitchen table, and I catch the echo of my words before they fade. And I realize what
Papa’s gone and said. We. Us.
Why did I use the plural? Why? When Hannah’s been dead for more than seventy years?




An hour later, after the hormones and lubricants have stabilized, I’m heading down to the port in my
rattletrap open-top Ford. Off shopping to feed those hungry mouths even though I want to hold onto
every moment of Saul and Agatha’s company.
White houses, cool streets framing slabs of sea and sky. I drive down here to the port once or twice a
week to get what little stuff I need these days, but today I’m seeing things I’ve never noticed before.
Canaries and flowers on the window ledges. A stall filled with candied fruit and marzipan mice, wafting a
sugared breeze. I park the Ford in the square, slap on my autolegs and head off just as the noonday bells
begin to chime.
By the time I reach Antonio’s, my usual baker, the display on the fat-wheeled trolley I picked up in
the concourse by the fountains is already reading Full Load. I really should have selected the larger