Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 36

He was a tall black man with a slight paunch. He clapped his hands once and rubbed them briskly together. The magician at Dorian’s birthday party had done something similar, right before he’d produced coins from out of nowhere. He’d pretended he’d pulled them from thin air, but Dorian had spotted the sleight-of-hand. In a loud voice he’d explained every single one of the magician’s tricks, to the irritation of the conjurer and the endless amusement of his mother. Her laugh still rang in his ears. He hadn’t yet been able to grasp the notion that he would never hear that laughter again.

“Well, Dorian,” the man said again, “would you like to sit down?”

“No, sir,” Dorian said politely, addressing the older man as “sir,” just as his mother had always taught him.

“Good lord, child,” the woman said. “You can’t just plan to stand there forever. Why don’t you sit?”

He saw no reason to lie. “I don’t like the couch. It’s kinda stiff.”

“Oh.” She seemed vaguely disappointed. He felt as if he’d let her down in some way.

“Please, Dorian, call me George.” Said the man. “I’ve known you since the day you were born.”

“Okay.”

He was studying the woman now. Her face was narrow and her hair was black and it shimmered in the light. She had a long neck and her hands tended to flutter toward it, as if she was trying to cool down waves of heat.

DORIAN GRAY

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