Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 10

and the truth is, it doesn't matter now. you became yesterday. you became paper.

and I, touching the tops of the towers,

losing my memory

from the heights.

In order not to finally burn out in the silence of the uncomfortable room, Emily climbs into the bathtub. Under the pressure of the icy water, her sobs are almost inaudible-first loud and desperate, and then internal, convulsive, turning into hoarse moans.

By noon the next day, distraught by the silence and her own tearful voice, Emily decides it's time to stop burning. I'm a soldier, she tries to impress upon herself, a fighter, nothing to be afraid of, what's the big deal, work; as it collapses, so it builds…

But she is not impressed.

Bare branches of early autumn veins bloom in the sky, and Emily swings open the window – as if the fire is afraid of the cold air – sits on a chair and tries to breathe.

After half an hour, the thought crosses her mind that dying of tuberculosis, pneumonia, or the flu would not be very productive.

The window is slammed shut.

The kettle is put on, boiled, cooled, put back on; the bedding is changed twice a day; dust disappears from the windowsill, settles on the floor; creaky wood is washed, blinds are wiped, cleaning products are smelled.

Emily is dreaming.

Legions of shadows, a cloud thickening in the silence of the hospital corridors, whispering and beckoning after them – to the wards, to the tiny personal Underworlds, where the leaden fog of pharmacon strikes the sick head.

Hands are tied with a thin needle crudely thrust into a vein; tubes and fluid envelope the body. The hinges on the doors creak.

Clark dances – barefoot, with flowers embedded in the empty ovals of her eye sockets, smiling, moving, approaching Emily, and a wry mockery distorts her face.

What have you become, Johnson?

I wouldn't leave anyway.

Emily jerks her body up in bed – there's still a gray monochrome square of sky outside the window – and, rising to her feet in a split second, goes to put the kettle on.

It's starting to rain.

She has nothing to do – no work to look for, and she is frankly afraid to spend money; so once again she climbs under the covers and sinks into a half-slumber. There, in her head, she has another life, imagined, perfect – a white coat, a restaurant for Friday night, a personal secretary.

She imagines it all so vividly that she even moves her hands, imagining she is holding a scalpel. A conductor without an orchestra. A violinist without a violin.

Clark is added to another life, too. Thoughts bounce, bounce, bounce; how about dinner together, Lorraine? My treat. Let's celebrate the operation, we did a great job. Why don't we bring Charlie? He's a smart guy, isn't he? Why don't I give you a ride home, since your Cooper's in the shop? Let's go for a drive around London in the evening. Another cup of coffee, and then we'll be off.

The warm touch of a spider's long fingers on my wrist.

You can't ignore me.

Loneliness is eating me alive.

* * *

Nothing in the world would outweigh her importance on the scale.

Emily walks in circles around Royal London Hospital; the familiar, jagged, automated route, the planes on the windows, Mr. Connors in the reflections, the tinkling bells and yellow lights.

She doesn't know why she's doing this, but at seven in the morning she stands outside the coffee shop and waits.

It's been an hour. Or maybe two.

Lorraine swaps her parka for a long coat; Charlie swaps her glasses for lenses; Lorraine purses her lips, ordering black; Charlie asks for more syrup in her milk.

Emily presses the back of her head against the glass and closes her eyes, imagining that now she too will order her coffee and run to work afterwards.

They're so close you can hear them talking: the neurosurgeon curses the bitter cold, Charlie complains about the traffic downtown; he says it's nice to live on Queen Anne, it's always quiet and peaceful; and Lorraine purses her lips: Oswin is nice, too, and it's obviously closer; or do you want to live like Moss, in Belgravia? And have thirty women bring you breakfast in bed?

And take half your paycheck, Charlie laughs.

Clark smiles.

Emily counts her steps.

* * *

Believes: magic has already happened once, so why shouldn't it happen again; yes, she has forbidden it, renounced it, cursed it; but who knows, maybe at least one more time a miracle will happen…?

So every day she walks in circles around the damn hospital, afraid to go inside; every time she leans her forehead against the cold glass in the coffee shop; and every three days she buys the cheapest coffee – just to sit there for a few hours, at the end of which another airplane of hope takes off.

Sometimes she buys a newspaper with job ads – and pokes around like a blind kitten, calling, asking; rejection, rejection, rejection. It is as if she has been blacklisted, branded, cut out of life; it is as if she has become invisible again, and her foil reflecting the light has grown into her skin; and Emily does not have the courage to go to work in another direction, even if the coffee shop on her street corner has an opening for a waitress.

She doesn't know how to do otherwise.

It gets harder every day; the money she has left runs out too quickly, and she begins to live on four pounds a day; half of which is coffee, the rest for travel and some food.

Soon she will go to zero, run out, cease to exist. The twentieth, the day of the rent payment, is approaching; there is less and less money on the card – three hundred pounds she will certainly not scrape together.

In the evening, Emily turns off the lights in the apartment, pulls out a bottle of whiskey she's been saving for a rainy day, and lies on her bed, leaning her head back. She tries to convince herself that everything will be okay, but it doesn't work; Clark still looms before her eyes.

I wouldn't leave anyway.

The whiskey is bitter and nasty, bringing nothing but nausea and a burning sensation in her stomach; she can't and can't drink; and all the romantic clichés of getting drunk and calling someone she needs turn out to be just beautiful shimmers in a color movie.

Half an hour later, the phone rings deafeningly, and the mother declares in a shrill, high-pitched, vowel-pulling voice:

– It's because you're not married! If you had a rich, strong, strong man by your side, you wouldn't get fired!

– What is the connection? – Emily asks aloofly.

– You would have someone to support you! Someone to help you! Gave you money! Wouldn't have had to pay your rent! And I told you," said Mrs. Johnson, indignantly, "I told you, I told you, medicine, sunshine, is not your thing; it's not a girl's thing. It's where you want men who can take care of other people and not just themselves!

Emily chuckles as Clark, in her head, dances off toward the exit, adjusting his long, toe-length, gray beard.

– Listen, darling. Come on, listen to us. Come to us, you're welcome. Give up London, it's all grayness and disappointment; you don't need it, a city with nothing. Where did you say you lived on Triti? How do you live there? There's nothing there but mud and rain, and it's warm and dry here. You go help…

– Mama.

– What about Mom? – The cup bangs on the saucer. – Mama's the only one who cares about you. Daddy doesn't care, does he? All day long in his newspapers. It's no use. Even in the garden I manage by myself.

– Mother.

– If only you'd been patient and stayed with David…

Emily shudders.

– I have to go. I'll call you later. When… when things get better.

She definitely needs to get some air.

* * *

When you meet an angel – on the subway, in a bakery, in a coffee shop – the constellations do not fall down; the enamel of the sky does not crack; there is no tickle in your chest; and the cold London wind does not tremble under its huge open wings.

Only a voice ringing with crystal:

– Miss Johnson, have you decided to freeze to death?

And the clock frightenedly freezes, stumbling on the edge of the division.

– Your lips are already blue.

When you meet an angel, you hardly notice the difference: a passerby with an umbrella, a woman with a child, Clark in a black long coat.

– I… I just…

Angel has dark purple lipstick on his lips, a long, almost floor-length cape, his eyes always clinging to everything; and on the embankment of the Regent's Canal, the wind flutters his hair, and the unfamiliar silence. The Art House of Illustrations, a three-story museum standing by the water itself, burns with yellow lights.

It smells of salt and hot dogs and craft beer; Emily wraps her scarf around herself, pulls back her coat with its buttons crooked, and fears to meet Clark's gaze.

What is she doing in one of the poorest and dullest neighborhoods in London…?

Clark stops next to Emily and leans on the parapet – heavy and stone, with carved iron inlays in the shape of steam engines; he smokes, filling everything around him with the sharp menthol; and Emily sinks in a cloud of strong smoke, feeling her coat saturated with smell again.

Clark's cigarettes.

The neurosurgeon smokes so beautifully that Emily involuntarily admires her thin fingers around the cigarette, which shows a thin purple rim of lipstick on the filter; a wide, heavy ring with a black stone reflects the darkening sky. With her other hand she holds a large, almost half-liter glass. Faintly visible steam is coming from a tiny hole in the lid.

– Have you been drinking?

Clark asks it as simply as if he were talking about the weather, and Emily is embarrassed by such directness:

– I tried. I didn't like it.

Clark shakes off the ash.

– I don't like drinking either," she says. – It's bitter. Better to drown your sorrows in chocolate than in whiskey, don't you think?

Emily nods.

She could stare at Clark forever and still not see all the details: three rows of earrings in her ear, a thin scar on her temple, a large mole on her cheek, traces of crumbled mascara in this weather, a thin neck without a scarf, but with a rubber cord (I wonder what kind of pendant it is? ); in her head, Emily was sure, a thousand devils, framed by angelic-white disheveled hair; and a thin bracelet that shone silver, hiding back in its sleeve as Clark put a cigarette to his lips once more.

London is cramped and moody, but it's the one that brings them together again and again.

Again and again.

Round and round.

– Miss Clark, can I ask you a question?

– Dr. Clark," the neurosurgeon immediately corrects her. – "Calling me 'Miss' makes me feel like a Victorian loser. And may I ask you a question?

Emily decides she has nothing to lose:

– What kind of ice cream do you like?

– What?" Clark laughs. – Is there a catch here?

– Please answer! – Emily folds her palms in a pleading gesture.

– Anything out of the ordinary," Clark considers. – Caramel and salt, perhaps. Green tea with lemon. Mango sherbet.

– Surely these are the flavors of ice cream?

– It would be boring if I liked vanilla or chocolate. – Clark lights a new cigarette. – 'I don't really like sweets,' she admits. – I can't even stand bitter chocolate.

They stand, almost touching elbows, wool coat and taslan coat, and Emily lets go: in steps, minute by minute, by minute, but she lets go; and her head feels better. The cold climbs up her collar, crawls up her back like an icy snake, bites her heels.

She's always freezing next to Clark.

– I'm cold to look at you," Lorraine says, pursing her lips as if contemplating what she can do. – Take my coffee. – She holds out her glass. – As long as it's hot.

– But…

– Or I'll leave," Clark declares. – You don't want me to go, do you? So drink.

Unexpectedly, Emily awkwardly takes the painted glass – R&H, spicy mocha, cinnamon on top – and smiles gratefully.

– That's better," the neurosurgeon nods contentedly. – There were winds all the time where I grew up," she says suddenly. – The people who came here said you could fly to Ireland on them.

– You're not from London? – Surprised Emily.

– No," Clark shakes his head. – I'm from Southport. It's a tiny little town in the West, where it rains all the time and the wind knocks you off your feet. It's dull and gray, but it's not much different from London.

– It must be insanely far away!

– Not really. Six hours by car on the toll roads. On the free roads, ten.

– Then, yes, it really isn't," Emily agrees.

– Well," Clark takes a comfortable grip on his cigarette, "and where are you from, Miss Johnson?

– From the other side of the island," the nurse smiles. – 'Thurso, Scotland. It's a sort of settlement in the northernmost part. It's awfully dull there, too! But from the windows of my house you could see the floating lighthouses of the island of Hoy-you have no idea how many there are, probably more than two dozen! When I was a kid, I thought they were wandering lights, and I made a wish every time they came on.

– And what did you wish for, Miss Johnson?

Clark looks at her with a strange look – lively and warm, leaving no trace of cynicism or ice; in those gray eyes – the autumn sky.

– To become a doctor, of course. – Emily sighs sadly. – You probably know what it's like to dream of something more than just working in a supermarket at a gas station. I so wanted to be… useful, or something. Even though my mother kept telling me that I should go on with her and my father. But that probably didn't matter.

– So," Clark runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the disheveled strands, "your parents wanted you to be an entrepreneur?

– Mm-hmm." Emily jerked her head and the unruly strands of brown hair parted over her shoulders, "and yours?

– I have no idea. – Neurosurgeon shrugs. – I grew up in an orphanage.

Emily feels silly, awkwardly adjusts her coat, circles the plastic lid on her coffee with her frozen fingers, and, looking down, gibbering:

– I'm sorry, I didn't know, I really, really…

– Oh my God! – Clark presses his index finger to her lips. – Silence!

It's getting hot – scalding-sparkling, and Clark's hands are infinitely warm, gentle, affectionate; and even if it lasts a second – the smell of menthol, the silk of her fingertips – Emily's eyes flash in salutes in front of her.

– Stop apologizing all the time, it's annoying.

Emily nods:

– I'm sorry… Ow!

Clark rolls his eyes.

– You know what, Johnson?

The nurse looks at her frightened, expecting a catch.

– Figure it out. – Clark turns to lean on the parapet with his back to her. – Sort yourself out. In your head, in your chest, in your all these perspectives, wishful thinking and plans. To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line, you know? You don't look like a man who knows what he wants in life. No, no," she puts her hands forward, "don't argue. Don't even think about it. You don't know, Johnson, because now you're standing there feeling sorry for yourself, saying that my self-sacrifice was not appreciated; but in fact, in fact, Johnson, you're so caught up in this pity that you've become pathetic yourself.

– Sort it out," Clark repeated, and her eyes flashed, "sort out the mess in your head. All your 'impossible' stuff is bullshit. Bullshit if it makes it easier. Nothing is impossible. Because when you want to – not if, but when, mind you – even the water will flow back, you know? You don't have time to lie down and howl, get up off your knees-sofa-floors, get up – and go ahead. How long can we stay in this drama? I've had enough of Moss up to my neck, and now you; you reek of this regret. Don't you realize you won't be paid for everything in this world?

– Figure it out," the neurosurgeon flicks his lighter again, "what you want, set yourself a goal, go to it – go headlong, over your heads. Fall down? Get up. You broke your legs, not your head. Crawl if you can't walk. Cling to the ground with your teeth. But don't feel sorry for yourself, don't pretend you're invisible, because I can see you, Johnson. Because I can see you a mile away.

– You know our profession, you didn't just walk into it. If it hurts, you're alive. That's what makes you alive," she pads her fingers on her coat around her heart, "that's it. Not the suffering that's in your head. If you like to walk on the edge, go to surgery; they'll tear your kind off with your hands and feet. Get it over with, Johnson. You've played the game, that's enough.

Emily is afraid to breathe, greedily catching every word, letting them leave wounds-scarring inside, forging the metal plates that support her spine; and Clark is so close – you don't even have to reach out; and Emily grabs her by the fabric of her cape – thin and slightly rough, and looks into her face, asking, repeating only one thing:

– Why are you telling me this, why me, why you, why?

Clark looks at her as if all the words flew by and cobbled into the river.

– Well, you were so eager to get paid for what you did.

Emily frowns, shakes her head, puts her face to the wind:

– I'm sorry. You're right. I have suffered too much.

– Dramatizing," Clark corrects her, gently releasing the cloak from the nurse's fingers. – Stop doing that and life will be different.

She takes a step, a second, a third; turns around for some reason, looks at Emily with a long look, as if doubting, moves in time with the wind, curves her lips with purple lipstick, and then sighs, turns her back and throws over her shoulder:

– I expect you at my place tomorrow at seven. And, Johnson, for God's sake, buy yourself a robe to fit, will you?