Читать онлайн «The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse»
Автор Рэй Брэдбери
Annotation
Рассказ вошёл в сборники:
The October Country (Октябрьская страна)
The Vintage Bradbury (Классический Брэдбери)
Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales (Сборник ста лучших рассказов)
Ray Bradbury
Ray Bradbury
The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse
When first we meet George Garvey he is nothing at all. Later he'll wear a white poker chip monocle, with a blue eye painted on it by Matisse himself. Later, a golden bird cage might trill within George Garvey's false leg, and his good left hand might possibly be fashioned of shimmering copper and jade.
But at the beginning―gaze upon a terrifyingly ordinary man.
«Financial section, dear?»
The newspapers rattle in his evening apartment.
«Weatherman says „rain tomorrow. “»
The tiny black hairs in his nostrils breathe in, breathe out, softly, softly, hour after hour.
«Time for bed. »
By his look, quite obviously born of several 1907 wax window dummies. And with the trick, much admired by magicians, of sitting in a green velour chair and―vanishing! Turn your head and you forgot his face. Vanilla pudding.
Yet the merest accident made him the nucleus for the wildest avant-garde literary movement in history!
Garvey and his wife had lived enormously alone for twenty years. She was a lovely carnation, but the hazard of meeting him pretty well kept visitors off. Neither husband nor wife suspected Garvey's talent for mummifying people instantaneously. Both claimed they were satisfied sitting alone nights after a brisk day at the office. Both worked at anonymous jobs. And sometimes even they could not recall the name of the colorless company which used them like white paint on white paint.
_Enter the avant-garde!_ _Enter The Cellar Septet!_
These odd souls had flourished in Parisian basements listening to a rather sluggish variety of jazz, preserved a highly volatile relationship six months or more, and, returning to the United States on the point of clamorous disintegration, stumbled into Mr. George Garvey.
«My God!» cried Alexander Pape, erstwhile potentate of the clique.
«I met the most astounding bore. You simply must see him! At Bill Timmins' apartment house last night, a note said he'd return in an hour. In the hall this Garvey chap asked if I'd like to wait in his apartment. There we sat, Garvey, his wife, myself! Incredible! He's a monstrous Ennui, produced by our materialistic society. He knows a billion ways to paralyze you! Absolutely rococo with the talent to induce stupor, deep slumber, or stoppage of the heart. What a case study. Let's _all_ go visit!»They swarmed like vultures! Life flowed to Garvey's door, life sat in his parlor. The Cellar Septet perched on his fringed sofa, eyeing their prey.
Garvey fidgeted.
«Anyone wants to smoke―» He smiled faintly. «Why―go right ahead―_smoke_. »
Silence.
The instructions were: «Mum's the word. Put him on the spot. That's the only way to see what a colossal _norm_ he is. American culture at absolute zero!»
After three minutes of unblinking quiet, Mr. Garvey leaned forward. «Eh,» he said, «what's _your_ business. Mr…. ?»
