The Dead Father 6 страница

It is Planning, said Thomas, a New Town. One must achieve the rim to be killed by auto.

Circulation is not a big thing here, said a stander‑by. Why is that man, that one of you, the distinguished‑looking one, being dragged? What has he committed? Why are those nineteen puffing and sweating away, on the cable? Why are you three not puffing and sweating away on the cable? I do not understand your table of organization.

He is a father, said Thomas.

Terrible news, said the man, you can’t bring him in here.

He is fatigued. We are fatigued. We can pay.

You’ll have to deballock him and wipe your feet on the mat, said the man, whose face contained beardescules at odd points, such as the lips and center of the forehead. Do you need a deballocking knife? Scissors? Razor? Paper cutter? Shard of glass? Letter opener? Fingernail clippers?

He is a sacred object, in a sense, Thomas said. No more of your bubblegum. Which way is the flophouse?

There are two, the citizen said. The good one and the bad one. The bad one has the best girls. The good one has the best pâté. The bad one has the best beds. The good one has the best cellar. The bad one has the best periodicals. The good one has the best security. The bad one has the best band. The good one has the best roaches. The bad one has the best martinis. The good one has the best credit cards. The bad one has the best table silver. The good one has the best views. The bad one has the best room service. The good one has the best reputation. The bad one has the best façade. The good one has the best chandelier. The bad one has the best carpet. The good one has the best bathrooms. The bad one has the best bar. The good one has the best Dun & Bradstreet. The bad one has the best portraits. The good one has the best bellmen. The bad one has the best potted plants. The good one has the best ashtrays. The bad one has the best snails. The good one has the best postcards. The bad one has the best breakfast. The good one –

Between the good one and the bad one, Julie said, there appears to be little choice.

There are also private houses but none large enough or foolish enough to attempt to accommodate your party, said the man. That thing there would scare the children out of their wigs, did they get but a glimpse of it.

He is talking about you, Emma said to the Dead Father.

The Dead Father beamed.

He says you’ll frighten the children.

Happiness of the Dead Father.

Him, the citizen said, him can’t be brought in without the fixing. I can lend you a Skilsaw.; I would prefer not to, said the Dead Father.

He prefers not to, Thomas told the citizen.

Well damn and blast, said the citizen, who would imagine otherwise? Yet a rule is a rule.

Edmund, Thomas called.

Edmund presented himself.

How would you like to buy a drink or so for this citizen of this fine community? Thomas asked. You may charge it to me.

Tremble of happiness running through Edmund from top to bottom (visible).

Edmund and the citizen off to the alehouse arm‑in‑arm.

Now, Thomas said, let’s inspect the accommodations.

After looking at the good one, they chose the bad one.

Julie and Thomas in their room, sitting on the bed. Picture on the wall, Death of Sigismur.

Amazing how he holds on to his balls, said Julie, that is a curious thing, I don’t understand it.

I understand it, said Thomas.

Doesn’t know when it’s time to hang it up, she said, how old do you think he is?

He claims one hundred and nine, said Thomas, but he may be stretching it. He may be shrinking it. I don’t know.

Three of our people are clones I think.

Which three?

The three with the red hair and the limp.

Thomas lay back upon the bed.

What a disgusting idea, he said.

How is it that you gave him back his leg after you had whacked it off?

Purely practical. He staggers better with it. We have ends in view.

So we do, she said, so we do.

A knock on the chamber door.

Who’s there? called a voice, from outside the door.

Shall we answer? Julie asked.

Who’s there? the voice called again.

Who wants to know? Julie shouted.

There was a silence. Peter, the voice said, at length.

Do we know anyone named Peter?

I know no one named Peter.

What do you want, Peter? she called.

I have to mist the plant, Peter called.

Thomas looked about him. A cactus sat on the dressing table.

Does one mist a cactus? Julie asked.

Let him in, Thomas said.

Julie opened the door.

Some people know what they are doing, Peter said, and some don’t.

He began wrapping wet cheesecloth around the cactus.

Well there tall thin fellow, said Julie, why are you here?

I heard there were strangers. We don’t often get strangers. I wanted to give it to you.

Wanted to give what to us?

He appears to be a dolt of some kind, Thomas said, sotto voce.

The book, Peter said.

What is the book about?

Peter had a frayed tattered disintegrating volume with showers of ratsnest falling out of it clutched to his chest.

It is a manual, he said. Might be of some small use to you. On the other hand, might not.

Are you the author? Julie asked.

Oh no, said Peter. I am the translator.

From what language was it translated?

It was translated from English, he said, into English.

You must have studied English.

Yes I did study English.

Is it long? Thomas asked, looking at the thin book.

It is not long, Peter said, and at the same time, too long.

Then, furiously:

Do you know what translators are paid?

Not my fault, Julie said, as with much else in the world, not my fault.

Pennies! Peter proclaimed.

Are you selling us this book?

No, Peter said nobly, I am giving it to you as a gift. It is not worth selling.

He unwrapped the cheesecloth from the cactus.

Edition of forty, he said, printed originally on pieces of pumpernickel. This is the second edition.

We must give you something, Thomas said, what can it be?

You are strangers, Peter said. Your approval would be enough.

You have it, said Julie. She kissed Peter on the forehead.

I am justified, Peter said, for the time being. I can struggle on, for the time being. I am reified, for the time being.

Exit of Peter.

He didn’t ask much, said Thomas.

His bargaining position is not the best, Julie said. He is a translator.

They lay on their stomachs in the bed, looking at the book.

The book was titled A Manual for Sons.

The author was not credited.

“Translated from the English by Peter Scatterpatter” was found on the title page.

They began to read the book.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14