by Рэй Брэдбери
The flash flood lasted a minute, then faded away as the fingers trailed down the loom, let drop a few last bursts and squalls and then stopped.
The last chord hung in the air like a picture taken when lightning strikes and freezes a billion drops of water on their downward flight. Then the lightning went out. The last drops fell through darkness in silence.
Miss Hillgood took her hands from the strings, her eyes still shut.
Mr. Terle and Mr. Smith opened their eyes to see those two miraculous women, way over there across the lobby, somehow come through the storm untouched and dry.
They trembled. They leaned forward as if they wished to speak. They looked helpless, not knowing what to do.
And then a single sound from high above in the hotel corridors drew their attention and told them what to do.
The sound came floating down feebly, fluttering like a tired bird beating its ancient wings.
The two men looked up and listened.
It was the sound of Mr. Premley.
Mr. Premley, in his room, applauding.
It took five seconds for Mr. Terle to figure out what it was. Then he nudged Mr. Smith and began, himself, to beat his palms together. Тле two men struck their hands in mighty explosions. The echoes ricocheted around about in the hotel caverns above and below, striking walls, mirrors, windows, trying to fight free of the rooms.
Miss Hillgood opened her eyes now, as if this new storm had come on her in the open, unprepared.
The men gave their own recital. They smashed their hands together so fervently it seemed they had fistfuls of firecrackers to set off, one on another. Mr. Fremley shouted. Nobody heard. Hands winged out, banged shut again and again until fingers puffed up and the old men's breath came short and they put their hands at last on their knees, a heart pounding inside each one.
Then, very slowly, Mr. Smith got up and still looking at the harp, went outside and carried in the suitcases. He stood at the foot of the lobby stairs looking for a long while at Miss Hillgood. He glanced down at her single piece of luggage resting there by the first tread. He looked from her suitcase to her and raised his eyebrows, questioningly.
Miss Hillgood looked at her harp, at her suitcase, at Mr. Terle, and at last back to Mr. Smith.
She nodded once.
Mr. Smith bent down and with his own luggage under one arm and her suitcase in the other, he started the long slow climb up the stairs in the gentle dark. As he moved, Miss Hillgood put the harp back on her shoulder and either played in time to his moving or he moved in time to her playing, neither of them knew which.
Half up the flight, Mr. Smith met Mr. Fremley who, in a faded robe, was testing his slow way down.
Both stood there, looking deep into the lobby at the one man on the far side in the shadows, and the two women farther over, no more than a motion and a gleam. Both thought the same thoughts.
The sound of the harp playing, the sound of the cool water falling every night and every night of their lives, after this. No spraying the roof with the garden hose now, any more. Only sit on the porch or lie in your night bed and hear the falling… the falling… the falling….
Mr. Smith moved on up the stair; Mr. Fremley moved down.
The harp, the harp. Listen, listen!
The fifty years of drought were over.
The time of the long rains had come.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 7139a53d-4df2-432c-9d26-2cfb3991a1df
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 22 May 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
SC
Source URLs :
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Document history:
1.0 — создание файла
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