"Lisa Tuttle - Meeting The Muse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

Department did sponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not
impossible that they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of
her poems, several of which had been published in various little magazines,
and be so impressed that he'd write her a letter. But she knew these were
childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent too long alone the vast, sad
truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how much she knew about him or how
much more she learned, it would bring her no closer to him while he continued
unaware of her existence. Time passed, and she went on loving him while she
got her degree and got a job. She went on living in Austin, in the same rather
run-down apartment building near the University, and continued to socialize
with the same sort of people, even sleeping with one or two of them, while
still dreaming of the faraway English poet and the very different life they
might have together. More than once she started a letter to him, but she
always drew back from mailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until
she could meet him face to face. Then, she felt sure, although she was
certainly old enough to know better, she would find a way to make him love
her. So she dreamed, and wrote, and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved
every penny she could toward the journey of a lifetime. Standing in Victoria
Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from jet-lag and lack of
sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a telephone book. The
sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar touch. Storey, G.
All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the problem of finding
herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city. The next day she set
off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it should be inhabited
by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the farflung tendrils of
London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the Metropolitan Line. His
street she had located in her newly purchased London A to Z and she felt
confident of finding her way there from the station. She had no plans for
what she would say or do after she had made her way to his door. She was
praying that magic would strike, that he would look at her and feel what she
had felt when she'd first set eyes on his face. It was a sunny day, but
breezy and not very warm, even though it was June. She felt glad for her
cotton jacket as she walked up the hill into the wind. Even before she saw the
number and was sure, she had recognized his little white cottage with the
honeysuckle twining around the green door. She knocked, and both her breath
and her heart seemed to stop while she waited for the reply. A woman opened
the door. She was about thirty, attractive in a strong-featured, rather exotic
way, with kohl-rimmed eyes and long dark hair. "Yes?" "Does Graham Storey
live here?" "Why?" "I wanted to see him." From the way the woman looked at
her, she had the sudden, despairing conviction that she would not be allowed
in. To this woman, whatever her connection to the poet, she was just some
person from Porlock. "I'd like to meet him. Please, won't you tell him, won't
you ask him -- not if he's working of course. Don't interrupt him. But if I
could come back later, I wouldn't take up too much of his time. . ." "You're
American, aren't you?" "Yes." "Here on a visit?" She nodded. "It's my first
time." "How do you know Graham?" "I don't. Not personally. Just his work.
I've admired it for so long..." The woman smiled suddenly. "Oh, you're one of
his readers! Well, he's not here right now, but-- would you like to come in? I
can show you round." This was not at all as she had hoped it would be. "Maybe
I'd better come back when he's in." "Oh, he won't mind me showing you round.