"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Beautiful Damned" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

comes from the overlay of hindsight upon what was, I think, the strangest
summer
of my life, a summer which, like my grandfather's summer of 1925, I do not
discuss, even when asked. In that tiny valley, the air always had a damp chill
and the rich smell of loam. The scent grew stronger upon that winding dirt
path
that led to Fitz's house on the hill's crest -- not a house really, but more
of
a mansion in the conservative New England style, white walls hidden by trees,
with only the wide walk and the entry visible from the gate. Once behind, the
walls and windows seemed to go on forever, and the manicured lawn with its
neatly mowed grass and carefully arranged marble fountains seemed like a
throwback from a simpler time.

The house had little life in the daytime, but at night the windows were thrown
open and cars filled the driveway. The cars were all sleek and dark--blue
Saabs
and midnight BMWs, black Jaguars and ebony Cararras. Occasionally a white
stretch limo or a silver DeLorean would mar the darkness, but those guests
rarely returned for a second visit, as if someone had asked them to take their
ostentation elsewhere. Music trickled down the hill with the light, usually
music of a vanished era, waltzes and marches and Dixieland Jazz, music both
romantic and danceable, played to such perfection that I envied Fitz his sound
system until I saw several of the better known New York Philharmonic members
round the comer near my house early on a particular Saturday evening.

Laughter, conversation, and the tinkle of ice against fine crystal filled the
gaps during the musicians' break, and in those early days, as I sat on my
porch
swing and stared up at the light, I imagined parties like those I had only
seen
on film-- slender beautiful women in glittery gowns, and athletic men who wore
tuxedos like a second skin, exchanging witty and wry conversation under a
dying
moon.

In those early days, I didn't trudge up the hill, although later I learned I
could have, and drop into a perpetual party that never seemed to have a guest
list. I still had enough of my Midwestern politeness to wait for an invitation
and enough of my practical Midwestern heritage to know that such an invitation
would never come.

Air conditioners have done little to change Manhattan in the summer. If
anything, the heat from their exhausts adds to the oppression in the air, the
stench of garbage rotting on the sidewalks, and the smell of sweaty human
bodies
pressed too close. Had my cousin Arielle not discovered me, I might have spent
the summer in the cool loam of my Connecticut home, monitoring the markets
through my personal computer, and watching Fitz's parties with a phone wedged
between my shoulder and ear.