Читать книгу Dreaming of Babylon - Richard Brautigan - Страница 18

The Blonde

When I walked into the morgue just behind the Hall of Justice on Merchant Street, a young woman was walking out crying. She was wearing a fur coat. She looked like a very fancy dame. She had short blonde hair, a long nose and a mouth that looked so good that my lips started aching.

I hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time. It’s hard to find people to kiss when you haven’t got any money in your pocket and you’re as big a fuckup as I am.

I hadn’t kissed anybody since the day before Pearl Harbor. That was Mabel. I’ll go into my love life later on when nothing else is happening. I mean, absolutely nothing: zero.

The blonde looked at me as she came down the stairs. She looked at me as if she knew me but she didn’t say anything. She just continued crying.

I looked over my shoulder to see if there was somebody else behind me that she might be looking at, but I was the only person going into the morgue, so it had to be me. That was strange.

I turned around and watched her walk away.

She stopped at the curb and a chauffeur-driven 16-cylinder black Cadillac LaSalle limousine pulled up beside her and she got in. The car seemed to come out of nowhere. It wasn’t there and then it was there. She was staring out the window at me as the car drove away.

Her chauffeur was a very large and mean-looking gent. He had a Jack Dempsey-type face and a huge neck. He looked as if he’d get a lot of pleasure out of going ten rounds with your grandmother and making sure she went the whole distance. Afterwards you could take her home in a gallon jar.

As the limousine drove away he turned and gave me a big smile as if we shared a secret: old buddies or something.

I’d never seen him before.