Читать книгу MacArthur Park - Andrew Durbin - Страница 12

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The bonfire was built midway between the house and the river, about a hundred feet from the nearest cabin, in a dugout cleared of grass. All the lights at the project had been put out, and the main house was swept into the country dark as the fire formed a lonely, bright point on the compound, outside of which the night seemed to revolve in a separate time from that of the penumbra that enfolded us.

After dinner, we made our way down from the house with folding chairs, bottles of wine, and a huge bottle of tequila that a guest had lugged up from the city. Helen’s residents had set out logs around the fire for the guests to sit on, with trays of marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers arranged around the circle. (Simon: “I hate marshmallows.”) About half the guests, none of whom I knew, were left. Marissa carried down a portable speaker from her cabin, to which a younger resident, a larger boy who had been wiped of any distinguishing features, hooked up his iPod and played pop music, beginning with Rihanna. The aging speaker crackled out her single “We Found Love” in a hiss of noisy, damaged sound, we found love in a hopeless place,