Рэй Бредбери - Золотые яблоки солнца (The Golden Apples of the Sun), 1953

Мать и отец сидели какое-то время, будто кто-то ударил их молотком по левому уху. В конце концов отец, весь вспыхнув, закричал:

– Ты соображаешь, что говоришь? Ты говоришь, что все эти парни и ты…

– Ты всегда прятался, – обрезала его бабушка. – Чтобы никому не помешать. Стоило тебе выйти в открытую, и ты увидел бы то же, что видела я. Я помалкивала. Она остынет. Это ее время, время жить. У каждой женщины наступает такая пора. Это тяжело, но пережить можно. Каждый новый мужчина ежедневно творит чудеса в девичьей душе.

– Ты, ты, ты, ты! – и отец едва не задохнулся, с выпученными глазами, хватаясь за горло, которому узок стал воротничок. Он в изнеможении откинулся на спинку стула. Мать сидела оглушенная.

– Доброе утро всем!

Марианна сбежала по ступенькам вниз. Отец воззрился на нее.

– Это все ты, ты! – продолжал он обвинять во всем бабушку.

"Сейчас я с криками выбегу на улицу, – думал отец, – и разобью стекло на сигнале пожарной тревоги, и нажму на кнопку, и вызову пожарные машины с брандспойтами. А может, разразится поздняя снежная буря, и я выставлю на улицу, на мороз Марианну…"

Он не предпринял ничего. Поскольку в комнате для такого времени года было слишком жарко, все вышли на прохладную веранду, а Марианна, уставившись на стакан с апельсиновым соком, осталась одна за столом.

Hail and Farewell 1953

But of course he was going away, there was nothing else to do, the time was up, the clock had run out, and he was going very far away indeed. His suitcase was packed, his shoes were shined, his hair was brushed, he had expressly washed behind his ears, and it remained only for him to go down the stairs, out the front door, and up the street to the small-town station where the train would make a stop for him alone. Then Fox Hill, Illinois, would be left far off in his past. And he would go on, perhaps to Iowa, perhaps to Kansas, perhaps even to California; a small boy twelve years old with a birth certificate in his valise to show he had been born forty-three years ago.

'Willie!' called a voice downstairs.

'Yes!' He hoisted his suitcase. In his bureau mirror he saw a face made of June dandelions and July apples and warm summer-morning milk. There, as always, was his look of the angel and the innocent, which might never, in the years of his life, change.

'Almost time,' called the woman's voice.

'All right!' And he went down the stairs, grunting and smiling. In the living-room sat Anna and Steve, their clothes painfully neat.

'Here I am!' cried Willie in the parlor door.

Anna looked like she was going to cry. 'Oh, good Lord, you can't really be leaving us, can you, Willie?'

'People are beginning to talk,' said Willie quietly. I've been here three years now. But when people begin to talk, I know it's time to put on my shoes and buy a railway ticket.'

'It's all so strange. I don't understand. It's so sudden,' Anna said. 'Willie, we'll miss you.

'I'll write you every Christmas, so help me. Don't you write me.'

‘It’s been a great pleasure and satisfaction,’ said Steve, sitting there, his words the wrong size in his mouth. ‘It’s a shame’ it had to stop. It’s a shame you had to tell us about yourself. It’s an awful shame you can’t stay on.’

‘You’re the nicest folks I ever had,’ said Willie, four feet high, in no need of a shave, the sunlight on his face.

And then Anna did cry. ‘Willie, Willie.’ And she sat down and looked as if she wanted to hold him but was afraid to hold him now; she looked at him with shock and amazement and her hands empty, not knowing what to do with him now.

‘It’s not easy to go,’ said Willie. ‘You get used to things. You want to stay. But it doesn’t work. I tried to stay on once after people began to suspect. “Flow horrible!” people said. “All these years, playing with our innocent children,” they said, “and us not guessing! Awful!” they said. And finally I had to just leave town one night. It’s not easy. You know darned well how much I love both of you. Thanks for three swell years.’

They all went to the front door. ‘Willie, where’re you going?’

‘I don’t know. I just start traveling. When I see a town that looks green and nice, I settle in.’

‘Will you ever come back?’

‘Yes,’ he said earnestly with his high voice. ‘In about twenty years it should begin to show in my face. When it does, I’m going to make a grand tour of all the mothers and fathers I’ve ever had.’

They stood on the cool summer porch, reluctant to say the last words.

Steve was looking steadily at an elm tree. ‘How many other folks’ve you stayed with, Willie? How many adoptions?’

Willie figured it, pleasantly enough. ‘I guess it’s about five towns and five couples and over twenty years gone by since I started my tour.’

‘Well, we can’t holler,’ said Steve. ‘Better to’ve had a son thirty-six months than none whatever.’

‘Well,’ said Willie, and kissed Anna quickly, seized at his luggage, and was gone up the street in the green noon light, under the trees, a very young boy indeed, not looking back, running steadily.

he The boys were playing on the green park diamond when came by. He stood a little while among the oak-tree shadows, watching them hurl the white, snowy baseball into the warm summer air, saw the baseball shadow fly like a dark bird over the grass, saw their hands open in mouths to catch this swift piece of summer that now seemed most especially important to hold on to. The boys’ voices yelled. The ball lit on the grass near Willie.

Carrying the ball toward from under the shade trees, he thought of the last three years now spent to the penny, and the five years before that, and so on down the line to the year when he was really eleven and twelve and fourteen and the voices saying: ‘What’s wrong with Willie, missus?’ ‘Mrs. B., is Willie late a-growing?’ ‘Willie, you smokin’ cigars lately?’ The echoes died in summer light and color. His mother’s voice: ~Willie’s twenty-one today!’ And a thousand voices saying: ‘Come back, son, when you’re fifteen; then maybe we’ll give you a job.’

l-le stared at the baseball in his trembling hand, as if it were his life, an interminable ball of years strung around and around and around, but always leading back to his twelfth birthday. He heard the kids walking toward him; he felt them blot out the sun, and they were older, standing around him.

‘Willie! Where you goin’?’ They kicked his suitcase.

How tall they stood in the sun. In the last few months it seemed the sun had passed a hand above their heads, and they were golden toffee pulled by an immense gravity to the sky, thirteen, fourteen years old, looking down upon Willie, smiling, but already beginning to neglect him. It had started four months ago:

~Choose up sides! Who wants Willie?’

‘Aw, Willie’s too little; we don’t play with “kids”.’

And they raced ahead of him, drawn by the moon and the sun and the turning seasons of leaf and wind, and lie was twelve years old and not of them any more. And the other voices beginning again on the old, the dreadfully familiar, the cool refrain: ‘Better feed that boy vitamins, Steve.’ ‘Anna, does shortness run in your family?’ And the cold fist knocking at your heart again and knowing that the roots would have to be pulled up again after so many good years with the “folks”.

‘Willie, where you goin’?’

He jerked his head. He was back among the towering, shadowing boys who milled around him like giants at a drinking fountain bending down.

‘Goin’ a few days visitin’ a cousin of mine.’

‘Oh.’ There was a day, a year ago, when they would have cared very much indeed. But now there was only curiosity for his luggage, their enchantment with trains and trips and far places.

‘How about a game?’ said Willie.

They looked doubtful, but, considering the circumstances, nodded. lie dropped his bag and ran out; the white baseball was up in the sun, away to their burning white figures in the far meadow, up in the sun again, rushing, life coming and going in a pattern. Here, there! Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hanlon, Creek Bend, Wisconsin, 1932, the first couple, the first year! Here, there! Henry and Alice Boltz, Limeville, Iowa, 1935! The baseball flying. The Smiths, the Eatons, the Robinsons! 1939! 1945! Husband and wife, husband and wife, husband and wife, no children, no children! A knock on this door, a knock on that.

Pardon me. My name is William. I wonder if -‘A sandwich? Come in, sit down. Where you from, son?’

The sandwich, a tall glass of cold milk, the smiling, the nodding, the comfort able, leisurely talking.

‘Son, you look like you been traveling. You run off from somewhere?’

‘No.’

‘Boy, are you an orphan?’

Another glass of milk.

‘We always wanted kids. It never worked out. Never knew why. One of those things. Well, well. ft’s getting late, son. Don’t you think you better hit for home?’

‘Got no home.’

‘A boy like you? Not dry behind the ears? Your mother’ll be worried.’

‘Got no borne and no folks anywhere in the world. I wonder if – I wonder – could I sleep here tonight?’

‘Well, now, son, I don’t just know. We never considered taking in – ‘ said the husband.

‘We got chicken for supper tonight,’ said the wife, ‘enough for extras, enough for company…’

And the years turning and flying away, the voices, and the faces, and the people, and always the same first conversations. The voice of Emily Robinson, in her rocking chair, in summernight darkness, the last night he stayed with her, the night she discovered his secret, her voice saying:

‘I look at all the little children’s faces going by. And I sometimes think. What a shame, what a shame, that all these flowers have to be cut, all these bright fires have to be put out. What a shame these, all of these you see in schools or running by, have to get tall and unsightly and wrinkle and turn gray or get bald, and finally, all bone and wheeze, be dead and buried off away. When I hear them laugh I can’t believe they’ll ever go the road I’m going. Yet here they come! I still remember Wordsworth’s poem:

‘When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’ That’s how I think of children, cruel as they sometimes are, mean as I know they can be, but not yet showing the meanness around their eyes or in their eyes, not yet full of tiredness. They’re so eager for everything! I guess that’s what I miss most in older folks, the eagerness gone nine times out of ten, the freshness gone, so much of the drive and life down the drain. I like to watch school let out each day. It’s like someone threw a bunch of flowers out of the school front doors. How does it feel, Willie? How does it feel to be young forever? To look like a silver dime new from the mint? Are you happy? Are you as fine as you seem?’