"Elizabeth Moon. The Speed of Dark " - читать интересную книгу автора

and then asks about bowling and miniature golf and movies and the local
branch of the Autism Society.
Bowling hurts my back and the noise is ugly in my head. Miniature golf
is for kids, not grownups, but I didn't like it even when I was a kid. I
liked laser tag, but when I told her that in the first session she put down
"violent tendencies." It took a long time to get that set of questions
about violence off my regular agenda, and I'm sure she has never removed
the notation. I remind her that I don't like bowling or miniature golf, and
she tells me I should make an effort. I tell her I've been to three movies,
and she asks about them. I read the reviews, so I can tell her the plots. I
don't like movies much, either, especially in movie theaters, but I have to
have something to tell her... and so far she hasn't figured out that my
bald recitation of the plot is straight from a review.
I brace myself for the next question, which always makes me angry. My
sex life is none of her business. She is the last person I would tell about
a girlfriend or boyfriend. But she doesn't expect me to have one; she just
wants to document that I do not, and that is worse.
Finally it is over. She will see me next time, she says, and I say,
"Thank you, Dr. Fornum," and she says, "Very good," as if I were a trained
dog.
Outside, it is hot and dry, and I must squint against the glitter of
all the parked cars. The people walking on the sidewalk are dark blots in
the sunlight, hard to see against the shimmer of the light until my eyes
adjust.
I am walking too fast. I know that not just from the firm smack of my
shoes on the pavement, but because the people walking toward me have their
faces bunched up in the way that I think means they're worried. Why? I am
not trying to hit them. So I will slow down and think music.
Dr. Fornum says I should learn to enjoy music other people enjoy. I
do. I know other people like Bach and Schubert and not all of them are
autistic. There are not enough autistic people to support all those
orchestras and operas. But to her other people means "the most people." I
think of the Trout Quintet , and as the music flows through my mind I can
feel my breathing steady and my steps slow to match its tempo.
My key slides into my car's door lock easily, now that I have the
right music. The seat is warm, cozily warm, and the soft fleece comforts
me. I used to use hospital fleece, but with one of my first paychecks I
bought a real sheepskin. I bounce a little to the internal music before
turning on the engine. It's hard to keep the music going sometimes when the
engine starts; I like to wait until it's on the beat.
On the way back to work, I let the music ease me through
intersections, traffic lights, near-jams, and then the gates of the campus,
as they call it. Our building is off to the right; I flash my ID at the
parking lot guard and find my favorite space. I hear people from other
buildings complain about not getting their favorite space, but here we
always do. No one would take my space, and I would not take anyone else's.
Dale on my right and Linda on my left, facing into Cameron.
I walk to the building, on the last phrase of my favorite part of the
music, and let it fade as I go through the door. Dale is there, by the
coffee machine. He does not speak, nor do I. Dr. Fornum would want me to