[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
flagged courtyard with parking stripes. It changed owners every few
years, but was still quite popular with certain conventions.
On a clear night, the Waverly could be seen from Parnell Street--
a great drowsy bubble, pink and purple and green, floating softly up
out of the hills. Farrell and Julie walked with their arms around each
other's waists, leaning together, playing a favorite game of singing
improbable combinations of songs in counterpoint. Farrell was chanting
"_Il était une bergere_," while Julie gleefully ravaged "_Good Morning,
Little Schoolgirl_."
In front of the Waverly, they fell silent, standing under the
portcullis and looking straight up into the marzipan radiance. Farrell
saw only a scattering of cars in the parking lot and a few people
clustered at a side door; but even so, the hotel seemed to resound and
tremble with light, like an acacia in bee time. Julie said against his
shoulder, "It would be lovely if you could give a concert here someday.
You'd never have a better setting for the music."
When he did not answer, she raised her head and looked at him
curiously, saying, "Now that made you sad. I could feel it happen in
you. What is it, Joe?"
"Nothing," Farrell said. "I don't really give concerts much these
days, especially in the good settings. They just make the music feel
more dead than it is, and I don't need that. I already know."
"Old buddy," she said. "Childhood sweetheart, moon of my delight,
I hate to hurt your feelings, but you aren't exactly the only
Renaissance musician in town. Since I moved back here, I've never seen
so many classical guitarists, so many countertenors, so many little
groups tootling away on their recorders every Tuesday night. You can't
throw a rock and not hit someone playing Dowland on a street corner.
How can it all be dead, with everyone going at it like that?"
"Because that world's gone," Farrell said, "the world where
people walked around whistling that music. All the madrigal singers in
the world can't make that other one real again. It's like dinosaurs. We
can put them back together perfectly, bone for bone, but we don't know
what they smelled like, what kind of sounds they made, or how big they
really looked standing in the grass under all those fossil fern trees.
Even the sunlight must have been different, and the wind. What can
bones tell you about a kind of wind that doesn't blow anymore?"
A cab turned in from the street, and they stepped aside to let it
go by, bumping along the silly drawbridge. The driver looked dour and
embarrassed. Julie said, "Worlds are perishable. Do you want people not
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Click here to buy
Click here to buy
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to play Mozart because they can't ever hear the music with the ears he
meant it for?"
"I don't mean it just like that," Farrell began; and then, "No,
by God, I think I do mean it like that. Music should be daily. They
ought to stop playing a composer's music as soon as the last one who
knows what it means is gone. The last one who knew the noises. The
stuff I play has hawkbells in it and mill wheels and pikes all
grounding at once. Chamber pots being emptied out of the window, banks
of oars rattling into the water. People screaming because the hangman's
just held up somebody's heart for them to see. I can't hear the noises,
I just play the notes. Shouldn't be allowed."
Julie studied him sideways, frowning a little. She said, "People
miss the whole thing about you, don't they? You're not really a
compromising, adaptable type at all. You're a bloody fanatic, Joe.
You're a purist."
"No," he said. "It's like the trouble I have when I travel.
Wherever I go, I always want to spend a lifetime there. Anywhere--
Tashkent, Calabria, East Cicero. I always want to be born there and
grow up and know everything about the place and be horribly ignorant
and die. I don't approve of flying visits. It's the same thing with the
music, I guess. Smells, noises. I know it's dumb. Let's go back to your
place."
Julie put her arm through his. Farrell could feel her sudden
silent chuckle tugging at him like a kite. The almost-black eyes had
turned golden and transparent in the flare of the Waverly. She said,
"All right. Come on, I'll take you where the noises are."
At her house, she darted in and out of closets while he stood
scratching his head; she foraged briskly through drawers and sea
chests, tossing bright, soft garments behind her onto the bed. Farrell
fingered in astonishment over a rising drift of tights and tunics,
horned headdresses, and heavy painted hoods; long furred and scalloped
gowns, split from high waist to hem, with bell-shaped sleeves, square
shoes and shoes with curling tips, and stiff short cloaks like
_muletas_. He tried on a tall, round-crowned hat, a sort of fur derby,
and took it off again.
"I like costume parties," he ventured at last, "but that isn't
really what I was talking about."
Julie paused briefly, regarding him across the rainbow heaps with
a familiar flash of affectionate irritation. "This isn't costume," she
said. "This is clothing." She tossed him a pair of hose with one leg
striped vertically in black and white and the other plain white. "Try
these on for a start."
"Did you make all this stuff?" He sat down on the bed to take his
shoes off, slightly damaging a hat like a Shriner mosque. "You have
some expensive hobbies, love."
Julie said, "It isn't as extravagant as it looks. Most of the
material is synthetic--I use terrycloth a lot and I've made things out [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
flagged courtyard with parking stripes. It changed owners every few
years, but was still quite popular with certain conventions.
On a clear night, the Waverly could be seen from Parnell Street--
a great drowsy bubble, pink and purple and green, floating softly up
out of the hills. Farrell and Julie walked with their arms around each
other's waists, leaning together, playing a favorite game of singing
improbable combinations of songs in counterpoint. Farrell was chanting
"_Il était une bergere_," while Julie gleefully ravaged "_Good Morning,
Little Schoolgirl_."
In front of the Waverly, they fell silent, standing under the
portcullis and looking straight up into the marzipan radiance. Farrell
saw only a scattering of cars in the parking lot and a few people
clustered at a side door; but even so, the hotel seemed to resound and
tremble with light, like an acacia in bee time. Julie said against his
shoulder, "It would be lovely if you could give a concert here someday.
You'd never have a better setting for the music."
When he did not answer, she raised her head and looked at him
curiously, saying, "Now that made you sad. I could feel it happen in
you. What is it, Joe?"
"Nothing," Farrell said. "I don't really give concerts much these
days, especially in the good settings. They just make the music feel
more dead than it is, and I don't need that. I already know."
"Old buddy," she said. "Childhood sweetheart, moon of my delight,
I hate to hurt your feelings, but you aren't exactly the only
Renaissance musician in town. Since I moved back here, I've never seen
so many classical guitarists, so many countertenors, so many little
groups tootling away on their recorders every Tuesday night. You can't
throw a rock and not hit someone playing Dowland on a street corner.
How can it all be dead, with everyone going at it like that?"
"Because that world's gone," Farrell said, "the world where
people walked around whistling that music. All the madrigal singers in
the world can't make that other one real again. It's like dinosaurs. We
can put them back together perfectly, bone for bone, but we don't know
what they smelled like, what kind of sounds they made, or how big they
really looked standing in the grass under all those fossil fern trees.
Even the sunlight must have been different, and the wind. What can
bones tell you about a kind of wind that doesn't blow anymore?"
A cab turned in from the street, and they stepped aside to let it
go by, bumping along the silly drawbridge. The driver looked dour and
embarrassed. Julie said, "Worlds are perishable. Do you want people not
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
to play Mozart because they can't ever hear the music with the ears he
meant it for?"
"I don't mean it just like that," Farrell began; and then, "No,
by God, I think I do mean it like that. Music should be daily. They
ought to stop playing a composer's music as soon as the last one who
knows what it means is gone. The last one who knew the noises. The
stuff I play has hawkbells in it and mill wheels and pikes all
grounding at once. Chamber pots being emptied out of the window, banks
of oars rattling into the water. People screaming because the hangman's
just held up somebody's heart for them to see. I can't hear the noises,
I just play the notes. Shouldn't be allowed."
Julie studied him sideways, frowning a little. She said, "People
miss the whole thing about you, don't they? You're not really a
compromising, adaptable type at all. You're a bloody fanatic, Joe.
You're a purist."
"No," he said. "It's like the trouble I have when I travel.
Wherever I go, I always want to spend a lifetime there. Anywhere--
Tashkent, Calabria, East Cicero. I always want to be born there and
grow up and know everything about the place and be horribly ignorant
and die. I don't approve of flying visits. It's the same thing with the
music, I guess. Smells, noises. I know it's dumb. Let's go back to your
place."
Julie put her arm through his. Farrell could feel her sudden
silent chuckle tugging at him like a kite. The almost-black eyes had
turned golden and transparent in the flare of the Waverly. She said,
"All right. Come on, I'll take you where the noises are."
At her house, she darted in and out of closets while he stood
scratching his head; she foraged briskly through drawers and sea
chests, tossing bright, soft garments behind her onto the bed. Farrell
fingered in astonishment over a rising drift of tights and tunics,
horned headdresses, and heavy painted hoods; long furred and scalloped
gowns, split from high waist to hem, with bell-shaped sleeves, square
shoes and shoes with curling tips, and stiff short cloaks like
_muletas_. He tried on a tall, round-crowned hat, a sort of fur derby,
and took it off again.
"I like costume parties," he ventured at last, "but that isn't
really what I was talking about."
Julie paused briefly, regarding him across the rainbow heaps with
a familiar flash of affectionate irritation. "This isn't costume," she
said. "This is clothing." She tossed him a pair of hose with one leg
striped vertically in black and white and the other plain white. "Try
these on for a start."
"Did you make all this stuff?" He sat down on the bed to take his
shoes off, slightly damaging a hat like a Shriner mosque. "You have
some expensive hobbies, love."
Julie said, "It isn't as extravagant as it looks. Most of the
material is synthetic--I use terrycloth a lot and I've made things out [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]