Читать книгу Голубые ступени / Stepping into the blue - Михаил Садовский - Страница 7

«Sleep, my Little One, sleep…» The everlasting moon silently casts the rectangular shape of the window onto the floor – part of it can be seen bending with the blanket which hangs down from the little bed. He has been sitting in the adjacent chair for goodness knows how many hours, leaning forward and laying his hand on the feverish little body just between the shoulder-blades. His other hand hangs down at his side, palm loosely open and fingers half-curled.

«Let all that weariness and pain flow down, down through these fingers,» he keeps repeating to himself, as the Wushu masters15 once taught him. And in his half-conscious drowsiness he imagines himself to be a pump, and that his hand lying on the little one’s body is draining away all the disease into itself, and then the fever and pain are flowing down through his other, drooping hand right down to the floor, where, mingling with the moonlight, they dissolve and disappear.

The space around him seems to expand to infinity, his eyes close, and now he sees himself, more years ago than he can count, lying on an old hospital-type bed, his bandaged cheeks puffed out with mumps, in the little corner room of a neighbor’s apartment, all alone from before sunrise until late into the night. His feeling of hunger then was unbearable, but he knew that, apart from two little pieces of sodden black bread there was nothing to eat in the kitchen, and that any attempt to put one of those pieces into his mouth and chew would only be followed at once by a steady stream of saliva, which would gnaw at his cheek-bone right below his aching ear, making him exhale noisily just to ease his pain a bit, and then he would have to go into convulsions and take in gulps of air so as not to choke from asphixiation. And this movement in his throat would again become unbearably painful, as though his head were cracking open and the pain were settling into the crack, just as prickly as the wire brush his mother used to wash her kerosine-blackened pots.

So he would lie still and allow himself from time to time to let out a wee little groan of self-pity. He had picked a fine time to get sick – outside the window spring had already arrived, and soon it would be his birthday, and the streamlets would be running their charming little courses, and the sun would be shining with its unrelenting warmth, and keep on shining and warming no matter how long you exposed your face and neck to its rays. Then all the little kids would go and sit in a row on the old damp log at the sand-lot, planting themselves on scraps of old leatherette handbags and dried-up newspapers.

There was no anticipation for him. He dozed on through one unending day, momentarily waking from his dank drowsiness only to immerse himself in it once again, not daring to turn over or even move his fingers – actions which would only provoke acute pain. And he would put up with it – he would put up with it until the very last moment when it seemed his stomach would burst, and never mind the throbbing and spinning in his head, he would make his way across the cold floor, hanging on to the walls, to the bathroom, and stand for what seemed forever over the rusty toilet bowl with its steady trickle of water. Then, feeling a sudden chill, he would go lightly tripping with an inexplicable delight back to his now-cold bed, tuck in his feet, curl up and practically faint – now he had to pay the penalty. Pricks of pain came one after another with relentless cruelty, and his only defense was to lie completely still, and that was so hard when everything hurt. He would close his eyes, and again his hungry, exhausted little body would be swallowed up in a soft and pleasing drowsiness.