"Jeff VanderMeer - Mahout (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vandermeer Jeff)

Mahout
a short story by Jeff VanderMeer

"MARY: THE LARGEST LIVING LAND ANIMAL ON EARTH. 3 INCHES LARGER THAN
JUMBO AND WEIGHING OVER 5 TONS…"
-- Billboard for the Sparks Circus, 1916

You watch the bruised sky as the sun sets outside Dan's Eatery. Dan's lies
off County Road Twelve, Tennessee. The farms and paint-peeled houses
surrounding it form the town of Erwin.
Flocks of starlings mimic the dance of leaves on the dirt road outside.
Rust-red leaves. Your hands are brown. People stare at you from other
tables, someone whispering, "…East Indian darky…" 1916: you are
sixty-seven years old and thousands of miles from home.
You arrived with the circus early this morning, south about a mile, where
the railroad tracks crisscross a small station, amphitheater, and coal
tipple: a staggering troupe of stiltmen, clowns wielding saws, and
highwire women so stiff they cannot bend at the waist, at least until the
next show. The trains don't even bother passing through Erwin, but this is
your day off and you wanted to escape the swelter of people. Tomorrow your
elephants, the ones you have trained for fifteen years, will perform for
the Ringmaster. After the elephant show, you will perform again: Come see
the amazing psychic! Can read your mind! Come see the Brahmin holy man!
You are not truly psychic. Neither are you of the Brahmin caste. You wear
a Sikh turban. They expect it, even though you are Hindu and the weather
hot. But at least you can be near the elephants.

"I have been with the shows for three years and have never known the
elephant to lose her temper before."
--Mr. Heron, press agent, Johnson City Comet, Sept. 14, 1916, pg. 1
"'Murderous Mary,' as she was termed by spectators, has been in the
circus for fifteen years and this is the first time anyone has come to
harm."
--Nashville Banner, Sept. 13, 1916, pg. 9

The light fades from the windows until the starlings are blurs of shadow
and bar lamps reflect on the glass. You sweat despite the chill; the
nervous tic under your right eye where the blood vessel has burst works in
and out. Your hands become clenched claws.
The lady to the left with the matted hair and distant stare - she thinks
about her next trick, the dull slap of flesh on flesh…the ache in her
body, her heart. Tease, you tease too much she thinks. The man at the bar
who deliberately combs his few hairs and sips his whiskey - he fears his
bloodhound. It used to run for miles across his farm, but now the farm is
smaller, eaten away at the edges by bankers. His wife has left him. The
dog has tumors, weak back legs, and cannot hold its bladder. It lies at
home by the furnace and dreams of better days. The man hates the dog. He
loves the dog. If he goes home, he might find it dead, and then he will be
waiting to die. Alone.
The claws bite into your palms, draw blood.