Slow Man - Coetzee J. M. (читать хорошую книгу .txt) 📗

'No worries,' replies Miroslav. 'We'll put it on the trailer and bring it over next weekend maybe. Just a couple more things to fix, the cables and suchlike.'

He turns to Elizabeth. 'And now we must take our leave, must we not?' he says; and to Miroslav: 'Can you give me a hand?'

Miroslav helps him up.

'PR Express,' says Ljuba. 'What does PR Express mean?'

And indeed, that is what is painted on the tubing of the tricycle, in lettering that artfully suggests the rush of wind. PR Express.

'It means I can go very fast,' he says. 'PR the rocket man.'

'Rocket Man,' says Ljuba. She gives him a smile, the first she has ever given. 'You aren't Rocket Man, you're Slow Man!' Then she breaks into giggles, and embraces her mother's thighs, and hides her face.

'A debacle,' he says to Elizabeth. They are in a taxi, heading south, heading home. 'A rout, a moral rout, nothing less. I have never felt so ashamed of myself.'

'Yes, you did not come out well. All that fury! All that self-righteousness!'

Fury? What is she talking about?

'Just think,' she continues: 'you were on the point of losing a godson, and for what? I could not believe my ears. For an old photograph! A photograph of a bunch of strangers who could not care less about you. About a little French boy who hasn't even been born yet.'

'Please,' he says, 'please let there not be another argument, I have not the stomach for it. What entitles Drago to take over my photographs I still don't see, but let it pass. Marijana tells me that the photographs are now on Drago's website. I am such an ignoramus. What does it mean, to be on a website?'

'It means that anyone in the world who feels curious about the life and times of Drago Jokic can inspect the photographs in question, in their original form or perhaps in their new, revised and augmented form, from the privacy of his or her home. As for why Drago chooses to publish them in this way, I am not the right one to ask. He will be coming next Sunday to deliver your conveyance. You can quiz him then.'

'Marijana claims that the whole forgery business is just a joke.'

'It is not even a forgery. A forger is out to make money. Drago could not care less about money. Of course it is just a joke. What else should it be?'

'Jokes have a relation to the unconscious.'

'Jokes may indeed have a relation to the unconscious. But also: sometimes a joke is just a joke.'

'Directed against-'

'Directed against you. Whom else? The man who doesn't laugh. The man who can't take a joke.'

'But what if I had never found out? What if I went to the grave in total ignorance of this so-called joke? What if the joke were to go unnoticed at the State Library too? What if it were to go unnoticed to the end of time? Take a look at these pictures, kids. The Ballarat diggers. Look at that bloke with the fierce moustaches! What then?'

'Then it will become part of our folklore that brigand moustaches were in fashion in 1850s Victoria. That's all. This is really not a matter worth going on about, Paul. What counts is that you have left your flat and visited Munno Para, where you have had words in private with your beloved Marijana and got to see her husband's beekeeping outfit and the bicycle her son is building for you. That is the only outcome of the so-called forgery that matters. Otherwise the episode is of the utmost insignificance.'

'You forget the missing print. Whatever opinion you may hold on photographs and their relation to the real, the fact is that one of my Faucherys, a genuine national treasure, worth more than mere money, has disappeared.'

'Your precious photograph has not disappeared. Look in your cabinet again. Ten to one it is there, misfiled. Or else Drago will find it in his stuff and return it to you next Sunday, with apologies.'

'And then?'

'Then the matter will be closed.'

'And then?'

'After that? After Sunday? I am not sure there will be any more, after Sunday. Sunday may well mark the last of your dealings with the Jokics, Mrs Jokic included. Of Mrs Jokic nothing alas but memories will remain to you. Of her supple calves. Of the splendid line of her bust. Of her charming malapropisms. Fond memories, shaded with regret, which will fade with the passage of time, as memories tend to do. Time, the great healer. However, there will still be the quarterly bills from Wellington College. Which I have no doubt you will pay, as a man of honour. And Christmas cards: Wishing you a happy Christmas and a prosperous new year – Marijana, Mel, Drago, Blanka, Ljuba.'

'I see. And what more do you care to reveal of my future, Mrs Costello, while you are in prophetic vein?'

'You mean, will there be someone to replace Marijana or is Marijana the end of the line for you? That depends. If you stay on in Adelaide, I foresee only nurses, a gallery of nurses, some pretty, some not so pretty, none of whom will come near to touching your heart as Marijana Jokic has done. If you come to Melbourne, on the other hand, there will be me, faithful old Dobbin. Though my calves are not, I suspect, up to your exacting standard.'

'And what of the state of your heart?'

'My heart? It has its ups and downs. It hammers and gasps like an old car when I climb the stairs. I dare say it will not last much longer. Why do you ask? Are you anxious you might turn out to be the one doing the nursing? Never fear – I would never demand that of you.'

'Then is it not time you called upon your children? Is it not time your children did something for you?'

'My children are far away, Paul, across the broad waves. Why do you mention my children? Do you want to adopt them too, become their stepfather? That will surprise them no end. They haven't even heard of you.

'But no, to answer your question, I would not dream of imposing myself on my children. If all else fails, I will check myself into a nursing home. Though the kind of care I seek is, alas, not provided in any nursing home I am aware of.'

'And what kind of care might that be?'

'Loving care.'

'Yes, that is indeed hard to come by nowadays, loving care. You might have to settle for mere good nursing. There is such a thing as good nursing, you know. One can be a good nurse without loving one's patients. Think of Marijana.'

'So that would be your advice: settle for nursing. I disagree. If I had to elect between good nursing and a pair of loving hands, I would elect the loving hands any day.'

'Well, I do not have loving hands, Elizabeth.'

'No, you do not. Neither loving hands nor a loving heart. A heart in hiding, that is what I call it. How are we going to bring your heart out of hiding? – that is the question.' She clutches his arm. 'Look!'

Three figures on motorcycles flash past in quick succession, going the other way, towards Munno Para.

'The one in the red helmet – wasn't it Drago?' She sighs. 'Ah for youth! Ah for immortality!'

It was probably not Drago. Too much of a coincidence, too neat. Probably a trio of unrelated young men, though with the blood running equally hot in their veins. But let them pretend nevertheless that the one in the red helmet was Drago. 'Ah Drago,' he repeats dutifully, 'ah for youth!'

The taximan drops them on Coniston Terrace in front of his flat.

'So,' says Elizabeth Costello. 'The end of a long day.'

'Yes.'

This is the moment when he ought to invite her indoors, offer her a meal and a place to sleep. But he speaks no word.

'Just the right gift, isn't it,' she says – 'your new bicycle. So thoughtful of Drago. A thoughtful boy. Now you are free to ride wherever you wish. If you are still nervous of Wayne Blight, you can confine yourself to the river path. It will give you exercise. It will improve your moods. You will develop strong arms in no time. Is there space for a passenger, do you think?'