Green Shadows, White Whales. Ray Bradbury

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СКАЧАТЬ sewing. “My cash is on the lady’s nose. Tom may ride the days, but she’ll win the nights. Besides, everyone has his foibles. Tom drinks too much Old Peculier—”

      “Is that a real name?”

      “An English ale, uh-huh. Old Peculier. But that’s Tom. A pal, nevertheless. They’ll finish the fights and settle in for a soft marriage, you wait and see.”

      “Reverend Hicks,” I said over the phone, “Tom and Lisa fight a lot.”

      “Then they’ve sinned a lot!” the reverend mourned. “You’d best send them round.”

      Tom and Lisa fought about going to see Mr. Hicks.

      They fought going in.

      They argued in front of him.

      They yelled coming out.

      If a voice can be pale, the reverend’s voice was pale describing the pair.

      “This is not a marriage,” he protested. “It is a rematch!”

      “Exactly my sentiments, Reverend,” I agreed, “but will you advise them of the boxing rules and send them to their corners?”

      “If they’ll promise to stay there four days out of five. Is there a Bible chapter, I wonder? Futilities, verse four, paragraph two?”

      “There will be.”

      “And will I write it?”

      “I have faith in you. Father!”

      “Reverend!” he cried.

      “Reverend,” I said.

      “Well, how in hell we got into this mess is what I’d like to know!” Ricki said into the phone.

      John’s voice barked back from Paris, where he was interviewing actors for our film. I could hear him loud and clear as I helped lug in the flowers and place the table for the wedding cake and count the cheap champagne in cases along the wall.

      “Mess!” John yelled. “It’s no mess, by God; it’s going to be the greatest goddamn event in Irish history. They’ll start the uprising over. Are the flowers there?”

      “The damn flowers are!”

      “Has the cake been ordered?”

      “You know it has!”

      “And the champagne?”

      “The worst, but it’s here.”

      “Better get hold of Heeber at his pub. Tell him to bring in the best. God, I’ll pay for it. It’s time Tom scared the moths out of his wallet, but hell! Call Heeber!”

      “The alien from Mars just did that—”

      “Is he there? Put him on!”

      Ricki threw the phone at me. I dodged but caught.

      “John, I’ve finished the Saint Elmo’s fire scene and—”

      “To hell with that, kid. I’ve fallen—”

      “With whom?” I said automatically.

      “No, no, for Christ’s sake, no woman! This is more important. Off a horse!”

      “Fell off?”

      “Shh! Don’t let Ricki hear! She’d cancel the hunt! I’m okay. Just some pulled ligaments. Unconscious five minutes and limping like mad. The Gimp, by God, the Gimp. But I’ll be home late today. Check the last flight from London. I rode at Longchamps at dawn two days ago.”

      “I thought you were casting—”

      “Sure! But the damn horse jumped when some car horn blew. I flew a mile high. I’m okay now. With a slight tendency, without warning, to fall down and writhe in agony when my back gives. Don’t let me scare you, kid.”

      “I’m scared, John. If you die, I’m dead!”

      “Nice sentiment. You’re the screwed-tight optimist. Just tell me I won’t fall down and writhe with Saint Vitus at the wedding.”

      “Heck, you’d do it just to steal the show.”

      “Why not? Hire a cab, pick me up at the airport tonight, tell me the Saint Elmo’s fire scene on the way. Can I stay in your room at the Royal Hibernian overnight? I should be walking without crutches by morning.”

      “Holy God, John, crutches?”

      “Pipe down! Is Ricki in the room, for Christ’s sake?”

      “She went to answer the door. Wait …”

      Ricki stood in the hall looking at a piece of paper in her hand. Her face was a fall of snow and her eyes were beginning to drop tears. She came and handed me the paper.

      John’s voice said, “I hear someone crying.”

      “They are, John.”

      I read from the scribbled note.

      “ ‘Alma Kimball O’Rourke fell under her horse today. She was killed instantly and the horse was destroyed.’ ”

      “Omigod,” said John, five hundred miles away in Paris.

      “She was the wife of the Kildare Hunt’s captain, wasn’t she?” I asked.

      “Jesus, yes,” said John quietly.

      I finished reading the note. “ ‘The funeral’s day after tomorrow. The entire hunt will be there.’ ”

      “My God,” murmured John, growing quieter still.

      “That means …?” I said.

      “The hunt wedding,” Ricki said, “must be called off.” John heard and said, “No, no. Only delayed.”

      Mike drove me into Dublin to find Tom, who had taken a room at the Russell Hotel. He and Lisa had fought about that too. He wanted to stay at Huston’s with her. But the Catholics and the Protestants, she pointed out, were both watching. So it was the hotel for Tom until the ceremony. Besides, he could play the stock market better, alone in his Dublin hotel room. That cinched it. Tom checked in.

      I found Tom in the lobby of the hotel, mailing some letters.

      I handed him the note and said nothing.

      There was a long pause, and then I could see the thin transparent inner lids of Tom’s eyes, his eagle’s eyes or his lizard’s eyes or his cat’s eyes, slide down between us. They did not slam like the great gates of Kiev, but it was just as final, just as definite, just as complete. The noise his eyelids made closing, while he continued to stare at me, was awful in its silence. I was outside in my world, if my world existed at all, and Tom was inside his.

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