"Ritual" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

There was a third flash of lightning, even more intense than the first; and for one split second every shadow in the garden was blanched white. But whoever had been sheltering there
had disappeared. There was only the old man's beard, and the dilapidated shiplap shed, and the bushes that dipped and bowed under the relentless lashing of the rain.
'Optical illusion,' said Charlie.
Martin didn't answer, but kept on staring outside.
'Ghost?' Charlie suggested.
'I don't know,' said Martin. 'It gave me a weird kind of a feeling, that's all.'
The waitress returned with their plates of apple pandowdy and a jug of country cream. She was grimacing as she came across the restaurant. Walking close behind her was a short, fat woman in a blue and turquoise tent dress. There was an air of ferocious authority about her which told Charlie at once that this must be Mrs Foss, under whose direction the Iron Kettle was going to the dogs.
Mrs Foss wore spectacles that looked as if they had been modelled on the rear end of a '58 Plymouth Fury. The skin around her mouth was tightly lined, and the fine hairs on her cheeks were clogged with bright beige foundation.
'Well, hello there,' she announced. 'I'm always glad to see strangers.'
Charlie rose awkwardly out of his seat, and shook her hand, which was soft and limp, but jagged with diamond rings.
'Harriet tells me you didn't care for the veal,' said Mrs Foss, the lines around her lips bunching tighter.
'The veal was acceptable,' said Charlie, making sure that he didn't catch Martin's eye.
'You didn't eat it,' Mrs Foss accused him. 'Usually, they polish the plate.'
The patronizing use of the word 'they' didn't go unnoticed by a man who had eaten and slept in over four thousand different American establishments.
'I'm sorry if I gave you an extra dish to wash.' Charlie told her.
'The dishwashing isn't here and it isn't there. What concerns me is that you didn't eat your food.'
10
Charlie lowered his eyes and played with his spoon. 'I don't think I was quite as hungry as I thought I was.'
Mrs Foss said, 'You won't find a better restaurant anywhere in Litchfield County, I can promise you that.'
Charlie was sorely tempted to say that if there wasn't anywhere better, then God help Litchfield County, but Harriet the waitress chipped in, 'Le Reposoir.'
Mrs Foss turned to Harriet wild-eyed. 'Don't you even whisper that name!' she barked, her jowls wobbling like a Shar-pei. 'Don't you even breathe it!'
'A rival restaurant, I gather?' said Charlie, trying to save Harriet from Mrs Foss's blistering wrath. Lightning crackled through the room, and for one second they were all turned white.
'I wouldn't grace that place by calling it an abattoir, let alone a restaurant,' snapped Mrs Foss.
'I'm sorry,' said Charlie. 'I can't say that I've ever heard of it.'
'Do yourself a favour, and stay well clear,' Mrs Foss said. 'Those fancified French folks, with all of their unpleasant ideas.' She betrayed an upbringing many hundreds of miles south of Litchfield County, Connecticut, by the way she said 'idee-yuhs'. 'Most of the neighbourhood children take the long way round through Alien's Corners, since that place was opened. And you won't catch any of the local clientele going to dine there, no sir.'
Charlie reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and took out his worn leather-covered notebook. 'What did you say it was called, this place?'
'Le Reposoir,' said Harriet, leaning over Mrs Foss's shoulder like Long John Silver's parrot. 'That's Le like in Jerry Lee Lewis; repos like in repossess; oir like in -'
'Harriet! Table six!' boiled Mrs Foss.
'I'm going,' Harriet told her, lifting a hand to ward off Mrs Foss's anger. 'I'm going.'
ii
'I have to apologize for Harriet,' fussed Mrs Foss. 'I promised her mother I'd give her a job waitressing. There was nothing much else she could do.' She tapped her forehead. 'You wouldn't say deficient, but you wouldn't say genius.'
Charlie nodded his head in acknowledgement, and tucked his notebook back into his coat. 'I guess it takes all sorts.'
Mrs Foss pointed towards his coat. 'You're not thinking of going to that place, are you?'
'Is there any reason why I shouldn't?' 'I could give you just about a hundred reasons. I know folks like that from before. I used to run a restaurant on Chartres Street in New Orleans; Paula Foss's Red Beans And Rice, that was the name of the restaurant. I used to know folks like that back in those days. Frenchified, and suave. We used to call them the Celestines. Private, that's what they were; but secret's a better word. Secret.'
Martin said, 'He's there again, look.'
Charlie didn't understand what Martin meant at first. Then Martin urged him, 'Out of the window, lookl'
Mrs Foss squinted towards the garden. 'What's the boy talking about?'
Martin stood up, and walked stiff-legged over to the wide French windows. The matrons turned to stare at him. He shielded his eyes with his hand, and peered out into the rain. Charlie said, 'Martin?'
'I saw him,' said Martin, without turning around. 'He was by the sundial.'
Mrs Foss glanced at Charlie, and then went over to stand next to Martin by the window. 'There's nobody there, honey. That's my private garden. Nobody's allowed in there.'
Charlie said, 'Come on, Martin, let's see what we can do to this apple pandowdy.'
Martin came away from the window with obvious reluctance. Charlie thought he was looking pale. Maybe he was tired, from all of their travelling. Charlie was so used to driving
12
and eating and eating and driving that it was easy for him to forget how punishing his daily routine could be. Since they had taken the Major Deegan Expressway out of New York three days ago, heading north-eastwards, they had covered well over 700 miles and eaten at nine different hotels and restaurants, from an over-heated Family Cabin in White Plains with sticky red vinyl banquettes in the dining room to a pretentious English-style Chop House on the outskirts of Darien at which every dish had been given a Dickensian name — Mr Micawber's Muffins, Steak Dombey and Chicken Copper-field.
Martin said, in a panicky-suffocated voice, 'You won't let it in, Dad, will you?'
Charlie was ducking his head forward to take his first mouthful of apple. He hesitated, with his spoon still poised. He hadn't heard Martin talk like that since he was tiny.
'What did you say?"
Martin glanced quickly back towards the window. 'Nothing. It's okay.'
'Come on,' Charlie encouraged him. 'Eat your dessert.'
Martin slowly pushed his plate away.