Читать книгу September Remember - Eliot Taintor - Страница 11

Fog was a damp grey screen at the west window where Rick stood listening to the muffled sound of Joe’s car going up the hill in a cautious second gear. Across the dull pewter-colored harbor the Power Plant huddled like a dim frightened monster. Fog had been soft and white on the high hills of Santa Marta. Softer, whiter than rabbit’s fur thrown off twigs into Rick’s face. Mules and men had panted through the still softness along an invisible trail carved in the rock with nothing under it but space and fog. He had been terrified and happy with the exhilaration that comes from danger and the snow-like enchantment of the fog. But this greyness was like trying to breathe with your head in a pillow of dirty goosefeathers. A smothering melancholy. This was a day to crawl into a hole and pull the hole after you. To shut yourself in a small closed room … with a bottle.