"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

said he had taught in Soweto. And when he had read his students some
Bukowski many of them had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked
that. I always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote me
that he worked for the Guardian and that he'd like to come by and interview
me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, and I gave it to him. He phoned
me. Sounded all right. We set a date and time and he was on his way. The
night and time arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine
and he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off- hand, odd.
He would ask a question, I would answer it and he would begin talking about
some experience he had had, relating more or less to the question and the
answer I had given. The wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We
drank on and he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing,
alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be getting more and
more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in front of us. He got onto sex and
stayed there. He liked black girls. I said that we didn't know many, but
that Linda had a friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet
this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didn't know. He kept on
and on. We were drinking good wine but his mind acted as if it had been
blasted by whiskey. Soon it just got down to "Mexican... Mexican... where is
this Mexican girl?" he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy
senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had to make the
track the next day. We moved him toward the door. "Mexican, Mexican...," he
said.
"You will send us a copy of the interview, yes?" I asked.
"Of course, of course," he said. "Mexican..."
We closed the door and he was gone.
Then we had to drink to rid him from our minds.
That was months ago. No article ever arrived. He had nothing to do with
the Guardian. I don't know if he really phoned from London. He was probably
phoning from Long Beach. People use the ruse of interview to get in the
door. And since there is usually no payment for an interview, anybody can up
and knock on the door with a tape recorder and a list of questions. A fellow
with a German accent came by one night with his recorder. He made claim to
belonging to some German publication that had circulation of millions. He
stayed for hours. His questions seemed dumb but I opened up, tried to make
it lively and good. He must have gotten 3 hours worth of tape. We drank and
drank and drank. Soon his head was falling forward. We drank him under the
table and were ready to go further. Really have a ball. His head bent
forward on his chest. Little driblets ran out of the corners of his mouth. I
shook him. "Hey! Hey! Wake up!" He came around and looked at me. "I have got
to tell you something," he said, "I am no interviewer, I just wanted to come
and see you."
There have been times when I was a sucker for photographers too. They
claim connections, send samples of their work. They come by with their
screens and their backgrounds and their flashes and their assistants. You
never hear from them again either. I mean, they never send back any
photographs. Not any. They are the greatest liars. "I'll send you a complete
set." On man said, "I am going to send you one that will be full size."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I'm going to send you a 6 by 4 foot photo."
That was a couple of years ago.