"Paul Park - Fragrant Goddess" - читать интересную книгу автора (Park Paul)

Fragrant Goddess
by Paul Park

Paul Park lives in Massachussetts with his family. His recent work has
been focused on a quartet of fantasy novels: A Princess of Roumania,
The Tourmaline, The White Tyger, and The Hidden World. His new story
for us makes an interesting counterpoint to Albert Cowdrey’s tale in this
same issue.

****

He was familiar with the house, of course, having seen it in photographs
and once in person a dozen years before. He didn’t remember it being so
huge. He and Sabine had come up the walkway between these same
bronze foo dogs, the male with its paw on a bronze ball. Then—still—the
windows had been brown with sticky paper, opaque, as Jeremy had pointed
out. No one had lived there for many years. The house had been
abandoned after Arkady Ferson’s death in the early 1970s. There was a
suggestion he’d been murdered, a possibility that intrigued Sabine far more
than Ferson’s small connection with the subject of Jeremy’s dissertation.
Now the front door stood open and Sabine, he imagined, waited for him
inside.

Or else she was watching him from the front windows or the shelter of
the porch—he didn’t like that idea. The stone walk was a long one. His leg
hurt. As he approached, he thought she might be calculating all the ways
he’d changed. He saw himself diminishing as he got bigger. He was kind of
bald. He wasn’t in great shape. And of course he limped. Which would she
notice first?

“Boo!”

She was perched along the back of the female dog, motionless,
invisible, in clear sight. Now she scrambled down, and any consolation that
the years might also have treated her unkindly was already gone. In the
bright sunlight she seemed radiant to him, dressed in an Indian printed
smock above her knees. It fastened with a string around her neck. She
hugged him, and he was aware of her smell, which came back
suddenly—the same lavender perfume mixed with the same sweat. He felt
her naked arms around his neck, aware also of his damp, uncomfortable
suit. This was the third time he was in Seattle and he’d never seen a drop of
rain—how small she was! He had forgotten.
 Her face was close by his. She’d never been a beautiful woman, he
remembered with surprise. Her features had always been too big for her
small face. But she had always seemed beautiful—a European trick
perhaps—and younger than she was. At twenty-six she’d looked like a
teenager, especially at a distance. It was the language of her
body—”gamine,” he supposed. Now, as she separated from him and
scampered barefoot up the stairs, she looked twenty-six or so.