Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2. Ray Bradbury
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Название: Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2
Автор: Ray Bradbury
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Классическая проза
isbn: 9780007497690
isbn:
‘Hell, yes!’ I was at the window now, too, staring down through the falling snow. ‘I thought his bare head was a trick to make me feel sorry. Damn, after a while you think everything’s a trick! I used to pass there winter nights with the rain thick and him there singing and he made me feel so cold I hated his guts. I wonder how many other people felt cold and hated him because he did that to them? So instead of getting money, he got nothing in his cup. I lumped him with the rest. But maybe he was one of the legitimate ones, the new poor just starting out this winter, not a beggar ever before, so you hock your clothes to feed a stomach and wind up a man in the rain without a hat.’
The snow was falling fast now, erasing the lamps and the statues in the shadows of the lamps below.
‘How do you tell the difference between them?’ I asked. ‘How can you judge which is honest, which isn’t?’
‘The fact is,’ said the manager quietly, ‘you can’t. There’s no difference between them. Some have been at it longer than others, and have gone shrewd, forgotten how it all started a long time ago. On a Saturday they had food. On a Sunday they didn’t. On a Monday they asked for credit. On a Tuesday they borrowed their first match. Thursday a cigarette. And a few Fridays later they found themselves, God knows how, in front of a place called the Royal Hibernian Hotel. They couldn’t tell you what happened or why. One thing’s sure though: they’re hanging to the cliff by their fingernails. Poor bastard, someone must’ve stomped on that man’s hands on O’Connell Bridge and he just gave up the ghost and went over. So what does it prove? You cannot stare them down or look away from them. You cannot run and hide from them. You can only give to them all. If you start drawing lines, someone gets hurt. I’m sorry now I didn’t give that blind singer a shilling each time I passed. Well. Well. Let us console ourselves, hope it wasn’t money but something at home or in his past did him in. There’s no way to find out. The paper lists no name.’
Snow fell silently across our sight. Below, the dark shapes waited. It was hard to tell whether snow was making sheep of the wolves or sheep of the sheep, gently manteling their shoulders, their backs, their hats and shawls.
A moment later, going down in the haunted night elevator, I found the new tweed cap in my hand.
Coatless, in my shirtsleeves, I stepped out into the night.
I gave the cap to the first man who came. I never knew if it fit. What money I had in my pockets was soon gone.
Then, left alone, shivering, I happened to glance up. I stood, I froze, blinking up through the drift, the drift, the silent drift of blinding snow. I saw the high hotel windows, the lights, the shadows.
What’s it like up there? I thought. Are fires lit? Is it warm as breath? Who are all those people? Are they drinking? Are they happy?
Do they even know I’m HERE?
In the year A.D. 400, the Emperor Yuan held his throne by the Great Wall of China, and the land was green with rain, readying itself toward the harvest, at peace, the people in his dominion neither too happy nor too sad.
Early on the morning of the first day of the first week of the second month of the new year, the Emperor Yuan was sipping tea and fanning himself against a warm breeze when a servant ran across the scarlet and blue garden tiles, calling, ‘Oh, Emperor, Emperor, a miracle!’
‘Yes,’ said the Emperor, ‘the air is sweet this morning.’
‘No, no, a miracle!’ said the servant, bowing quickly.
‘And this tea is good in my mouth, surely that is a miracle.’
‘No, no, Your Excellency.’
‘Let me guess then – the sun has risen and a new day is upon us. Or the sea is blue. That now is the finest of all miracles.’
‘Excellency, a man is flying!’
‘What?’ The Emperor stopped his fan.
‘I saw him in the air, a man flying with wings. I heard a voice call out of the sky, and when I looked up there he was, a dragon in the heavens with a man in its mouth, a dragon of paper and bamboo, colored like the sun and the grass.’
‘It is early,’ said the Emperor, ‘and you have just wakened from a dream.’
‘It is early, but I have seen what I have seen! Come, and you will see it too.’
‘Sit down with me here,’ said the Emperor. ‘Drink some tea. It must be a strange thing, if it is true, to see a man fly. You must have time to think of it, even as I must have time to prepare myself for the sight.’
They drank tea.
‘Please,’ said the servant at last, ‘or he will be gone.’
The Emperor rose thoughtfully. ‘Now you may show me what you have seen.’
They walked into a garden, across a meadow of grass, over a small bridge, through a grove of trees, and up a tiny hill.
‘There!’ said the servant.
The Emperor looked into the sky.
And in the sky, laughing so high that you could hardly hear him laugh, was a man; and the man was clothed in bright papers and reeds to make wings and a beautiful yellow tail, and he was soaring all about like the largest bird in a universe of birds, like a new dragon in a land of ancient dragons.
The man called down to them from high in the cool winds of morning, ‘I fly, I fly!’
The servant waved to him. ‘Yes, yes!’
The Emperor Yuan did not move. Instead he looked at the Great Wall of China now taking shape out of the farthest mist in the green hills, that splendid snake of stones which writhed with majesty across the entire land. That wonderful wall which had protected them for a timeless time from enemy hordes and preserved peace for years without number. He saw the town, nestled to itself by a river and a road and a hill, beginning to waken.
‘Tell me,’ he said to his servant, ‘has anyone else seen this flying man?’
‘I am the only one, Excellency,’ said the servant, smiling at the sky, waving.
The Emperor watched the heavens another minute and then said, ‘Call him down to me.’
‘Ho, come down, come down! The Emperor wishes to see you!’ called the servant, hands cupped to his shouting mouth.
The Emperor glanced in all directions while the flying man soared down the morning wind. He saw a farmer, early in his fields, watching the sky, and he noted where the farmer stood.
The flying man alit with a rustle of paper and a creak of bamboo reeds. He came proudly to the Emperor, clumsy in his rig, at last bowing before the old man.
‘What have you done?’ demanded СКАЧАТЬ