"Waldrop, Howard - Man Mountain Gentian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

"Very good, sir."
"This way."
Melissa went to a railing. The living area was the size of a bowling alley, or the lobby of a terrible old hotel.
The balcony on the second level jutted out from the east wall. Killer Kudzu went to a console, punched buttons.
Moe and the Meanies boomed from dozens of speakers.
Killer Kudzu stood snapping his fingers for a moment. "Oh, send me! Honorable cats!" he said. "That's from Spike Jones, an irreverent American musician of the last century. He died of cancer," he added.
Melissa followed him, noticing the things everyone noticed-the Chrome Room, the Supercharger Inhalorium, the archery range ("the object is not to hit the targets," said Kudzu), the Mososaur Pool with the fossils embedded in the sides and bottom.
She was more affected by the house and its overall tawdriness than she thought she would be.
"You've done very well for yourself."
"Some manage it, some give it away, some save it. I spend it."
They were drinking kudzu-tea highballs in the sitting room, which was one of the most comfortable rooms Melissa had ever been in.
"Tasteless, isn't it?" asked Killer Kudzu.
"Not quite," said Melissa. "It was well worth the trip."
"You could stay, you know," said Kudzu.
"I thought I could." She sighed. "It would only give me one more excuse not to finish the dishes at home." She gave him a long look. "No, thank you. Besides, it wouldn't give you an advantage in the match."
"That really never crossed my mind."
"I'm quite sure."
"You are a beautiful woman."
"You have a nice house."
"Hmmm. Time to get you home."
"I'm sure."
They sat outside her house in the cold: The snow had stopped. Stars peeped through the low scud.
"I'm going to win tomorrow, you know," said Killer Kudzu.
"You might," said Melissa.
"It is sometimes possible to do more than win," he said.
"I'll tell my husband."
"My offer is always open," he said. He reached over and opened her door on the runabout. "Life won't be the same after he's lost. Or after he retires."
She climbed out, shaking from more than the cold. He closed the door, whipped the vehicle in a circle, and was gone down the crunching street. He blinked his lights once before he drove out of sight.
She found her husband in the kitchen. His eyes were red, he was as pale as she had ever seen him.
"Dr. Wu is dead," he said, and wrapped his huge arms around her, covering her like an upright sofa.
He began to cry again. She talked to him quietly.
"Come to bed. Let's try to get some sleep," she said.
"No, I couldn't rest. I wanted to see you first. I'm going down to the stable." She helped him dress in his warmest clothing. He kissed her and left, walking the
few blocks through the snowy sidewalks to the training building.
The junior wrestlers were awakened at four A.M. They were to begin the day's work of sweeping, cleaning, cooking, bathing, feeding, and catering to the senior wrestlers. When they came in they found him, stripped to his mawashi, at the three-hundred kilo push bag, pushing, pushing, straining, crying all the while, not saying a word. The floor of the arena was torn and grooved.
They cleared up the area for the morning workouts, one junior wrestler following him around with the sand trowel.
At seven A.M. he slumped exhausted on a bench. Two of the juryo covered him with quilts and set an alarm clock beside him for one in the afternoon.
"Your opponent was at the ball game last night," said Nayakano the stablemaster. Man-Mountain Gentian sat in the dressing room while the barber combed and greased his elaborate chon-mage. "Your wife asked me to give you this."
It was a note in a plain envelope, addressed in her beautiful calligraphy. He opened and read it.
Her letter warned him of what Kudzu said about "more than winning" the night before, and wished him luck.
He turned to the stablemaster.
"Had Killer Kudzu injured any opponent before he became yokozuna last tournament?" Man-Mountain asked.
Nayakano's answer was immediate. "No. That's unheard of. Let me see that note." He reached out.
Man-Mountain Gentian put it back in the envelope, tucked it in his mawashi.
"Should I alert the judges?"
"Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it," said ManMountain Gentian.
"I don't like this," said the stablemaster.
Three hefty junior wrestlers ran in to the dressing room carrying Gentian's kesho-mawashi between them.
The last day of the January tournament always packed them in. Even the maegashira and komusubi matches, in which young boys threw each other, or tried to, drew enough of an audience to make the novices feel good.
The call for the ozeki-class wrestlers came, and they went through the grandiose ring-entering ceremony, wearing their great kesho-mawashi aprons of brocade, silk, and gold, while their dew sweepers and sword-bearers squatted to the sides.