"Rudy Rucker - Hieronymus Bosch's Apprentice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rucker Rudy)

“Can I feed them some carrots?” Kathelijn asked Aleid, sweetening her voice. “They’re so cute. Like
dolls.”

Aleid nodded, and the maid gave each of them a raw June carrot, crunchy and sweet.

“How about a couple of chicken legs, too,” said Jayjay. “We’re famished from the trip.”
Aleid raised her eyebrows, but gave Kathelijn the go-ahead. Jayjay and Thuy made short work of the big
drumsticks. Relative to their dense Lobrane jaws, the meat was spongy and easy to wolf down. It tasted
wonderful. The women laughed to see the little people eat so heartily and so fast. Then Kathelijn gave
Thuy a white bakery roll the size of Thuy’s head, and she gobbled it down, provoking further expressions
of wonder.

“Go see Jeroen,” reiterated Aleid when the eating was done.

Jayjay and Thuy followed Azaroth up a staircase to a sunny studio in the front of the house. As it
happened, the windows gave directly onto the great triangular marketplace and its articulated hubbub.
The room sounded with a hundred conversations, with vendor’s cries, the scuff of shoes and the clack of
hooves—all this overlaid by the vile drone of an incompetently played bagpipe.



A cluttered work table sat in the middle of the studio, and beyond that was Jeroen Bosch, standing
before the window, brush in hand, the light falling over his shoulder onto a large, square oak panel.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “Azaroth brings fresh wonders.” His face was lined and quizzical; his eyes were
brown with flecks of yellow and green. His mouth and eyebrows flickered with the shadows of his
fleeting moods. He looked to be in his mid forties.

“These are my cousins, Jayjay and Thuy,” said Azaroth. “They’re from the Garden of Eden.”

Bosch tightened his lips, clearly doubting this.

“Your wife says they might stay here and work for you,” added Azaroth.

“What!”

Azaroth held up his hand. “We’ll talk about that in a minute. How goes the progress on my harp?” The
instrument was nowhere to be seen.

Jayjay was looking around the studio, fascinated. The work table held seashells and eggshells, drawings
of cripples, a bowl of gooseberries, a peacock feather in a cloudy glass jar, and a variety of dried
gourds. Upon the wall were a cow skull and a lute. A stuffed heron and owl perched upon shelves. Two
nearly completed paintings leaned against the wall, panels half the width of the big square that Bosch was
working on, and easily four times Jayjay’s height. Each panel was a mottled microcosm, brimming with
incident and life.

“I’m nearly done decorating the harp,” said Jeroen. “But she’s locked up in the attic. She’s too valuable
to uncover with so many people about.” He made a gesture towards the bustling marketplace.
“Conjurors, charlatans, jugglers.”