Оффтоп: этот рассказ зрел около месяца. внутренняя история постарей будет - месяца три. оформление проистекает от того, что создано это как задание по-англицкому
Can not live without the beloved.
Melisa woke up in a grey morning which seemed bloody like all others that she had lived through that month, it was so quiet, so lifeless. She wished she hadn't seen the white curtain floating in the air occasionally touched by lazy strokes of wind. It was so thin and transparent, so careless. That's what Melisa hated her curtain for that morning. The pretty woman in her mid-twenties could not feel like that. No more peace was there inside her.
When a tea cup slipped through Melisa's hands and smashed against the floor – the young woman with bruises of sleepless nights under her eyes realized that she'd had enough.
It took half an hour to pack her things and lock the door behind. That was it. Nothing of that rotten month would get to Melisa any longer.
She was in a bus, Melisa was on her way to Monhigan islands, a place where as far as she had remembered her cousin grandmother lived. Melisa had never seen her, she wasn't even sure that person was alive. But it didn't matter. Nothing did in fact. She felt so hollow that there was almost audible the sound of a pebble thrown inside her heart that was falling, falling, falling and never reached the bottom.
Looking through the window at the solemn deafness of the fields and forests Melisa couldn't help thinking about her husband.
They had been married for five years. Melisa knew him as well as herself; she could read what he thought in his eyes. She assisted him in every possible way. And than – it happened. It took her aback, and her mind sank.
On the twentieth of February Melisa was at home, writing. Or – being more accurate – she was not writing. The young woman was sitting on chair with her head the floor and her feet in the air. And on her table there was a novel with a bottle of wine on one side of it and a pile of books on the other. Melisa stared at the ceiling and thought – but nothing happened. The story didn't go. The lady-hero was supposed to do something to the man who had abandoned her. And Melisa didn't know what there was to do about it. She had never been in a situation like that. The young writer was at a loss. She had told her husband – always so mild and understanding – told her mother, her sister about it. But no one helped.
It was not the first ring that returned Melisa from outer space. When she picked the phone he – her dear husband – told her that he was on his way from Liverpool. He said he was sorry and sick of himself. Melisa straightened her back, she was ready to embrace him, calm him down, reassure him. But then she heard the contents of his sorrow – he had slept with a girl from his office.
Melisa could not reply, all her body was trembling. He said that it was up to her to decide. And his voice sounded so calm, just as always. It seemed to mean nothing to him. Melisa slammed the receiver – how could she have been so blind?! She hated to think he would ever touch her again.
It took her a month to get used. Melisa woke up every day still seeing him in bypassing dreams. It was all unreal. She walked down the streets just to get out of the flat where everything reminded her about him, who she loved and lost. Melisa searched for a reason to call him back, there were plenty, but her mind kept saying that there was no way to forgive disloyalty.
Melisa kept a kind of fog in her eyes. She was almost ready to forget. If only he guessed to come, to take her hand, to hug her and not let go until it was all over. But her husband didn't come. And she was all to proud to call. Melisa thought of so many words but said nothing.
Melisa remembered their life, all the times she had been more attentive to her work than to her husband, when a new chapter had meant more that dinner. She was ready to blame herself for his unfaithfulness. If he only came…
The pain became unbearable one evening. Melisa watched a film where everything was impeccable, the cast, the meaning, all the details. Her spirits went high and out of gaiety she desired to tell someone about that movie. But the young woman was alone in her flat.
That was the day she confessed to her sister about what had happened. Juliet said she was very sorry and then asked about Melisa's novel. The young woman shrugged, she was afraid even to touch it in her mind, Melisa didn't believe she would ever finish it.
After two more weeks were gone Melisa felt a bit better. It turned out to very helpful to recall all the lousy things her husband had done to her. There were some. All the times he had got enraged about his work and extra hours he had had to spend in the office because of someone's mistakes she had helped him and barely got a "thank you". Melisa thought she knew what had happened. Perhaps her husband still loved her, perhaps that night didn't mean anything indeed. The young woman could imagine her husband moody and lost, tired and seeking help: seeking her help. But she had not been with him in Liverpool so he must have found someone else to comfort him.
And then there came another thing – loneliness. It wasn't any kind of a romantic sadness, but a mere shortness of a physical contact. Melisa wanted someone to come and her in his arms. There was a time she didn't even care who. But once again the mind saved her from rushing against the man's breast.
So there she was. Through a grey morning Melisa was going to her grandma. The old woman lived in a drowsy village of fishermen and retired sailors called Man. It was very quiet there, only the sea – cold dark-blue sea – splashing its waves against the rocks reminded Melisa that she still existed. The wind was chilly; it left her numb having taken all thoughts away.
Cousin grandma was a stout northern woman with white hair and strong jaw. She didn't ask Melisa anything but the name. With her big and capable arms she shaped clay pots while Melisa was sleeping; she cooked soup with melted cheese while the young writer took her long walks about the village, where there were no cars or roads. In four days Melisa got used to the climate and thoughts flooded her mind as there was no longer any distraction – only bare ground, rocks and endless sea.
On the sixth day Melisa fell ill. She woke up now and then and felt her mind racing and tearing itself apart – there was still a question about her and her husband: what to do? The young woman found no answer but continuing hesitation.
Melisa didn't know how mad her husband was getting within every hour of being without her. He was pacing circles in Juliet' flat.
It was raining, the sky got black. Grandma lit a wide candle. All of a sudden Melisa remembered one other dark evening, the one when her husband had talked to her about love for the first time. Tears came to her eyes but she couldn't help seeing his tender face. She was desperate to tell, the writer opened her mouth – but grandma stopped her.
- You're not telling me anything new, - she said. – So let me talk for a while.
The old woman pushed up the sleeves of her warm sweater and sat down beside Melisa's bed. She took her granddaughter's small hand into hers and began the story:
В портовый городок на берегу Финского залива приехала на лето девушка ирландских кровей. Она была мила собой, густые рыжие волосы спадали на ровные белые плечи. Она любила моряка, крепкого парня с глазами цвета северного моря. Он обещал жениться на ней, когда вернется с рейда – всего полгода. Для жен того городка это не было таким уж долгим сроком. И корабль уплыл. А ирландка осталась, она нанялась работать в небольшую гостиницу, чтобы ждать, пока вернется ее любимый. Работала она хорошо, старым рыбакам она была как племянница, морякам – как сестричка. Со временем она усвоила от подвыпивших морских волков все тонкости устройства кораблей. Она хранила себя в добре и радости до возвращения возлюбленного.
Но вышло так, что он не вернулся. Море оказалось нещадно. Многие тогда пришли сказать ей о соболезновании, а ирландка все смотрела перед собой и отвечала: "Без любимого нельзя жить".
Скоро она родила. Сына. Продолжение жизни того, кто уже не дышал. Ирландка работала, не жалея сил, чтобы дать сыну хорошую еду и выучку, и через несколько лет стала хозяйкой гостиницы. При ирландской наследнице заведение расцвело, люди из порта часто заходили туда укрепить дух вином и разговором. Ирландка стала ярче в улыбке и крепче в словах. Она часто заговаривала с моряками, только сошедшими на берег, в глазах которых уже заметна была тоска по морю. Иногда хозяйка вела кого-нибудь из них наверх и дарила ему ночь тепла.
К сорока годам она имела уже семерых детей. Девчонки помогали ей с гостиницей, парни – сильные и ловкие, какие вырастают на холодных берегах – плавали на рыбацких лодках. Только старший сын ничем особенно занят не был – жил в свое удовольствие. Ирландка его очень любила и помогала ему во всем.
А потом раскрыла пасть Первая Мировая война, и ирландская наследница, скрепя сердце, собрала сыновей на фронт. За день до ухода на флот, старший сын – Эрик его звали – попросил мать поговорить с девушкой, которая уже пару месяцев была с ним. Ирландка хлопнула сына по плечу, сказала, что девушка все поймет, пусть он только пообещает ей вернуться. Но Эрик этого не хотел, он считал, что семья отяготит его в будущем. Мать побледнела, она вспомнила, как та девушка смотрела на красавца Эрика, как принесла ему сердце на ладони.
- Не проходит и дня, чтобы я не вспомнила о твоем отце, - сказала ирландка сыну. – Моя жизнь пронизана болью. Но он не виноват, а ты – ты хочешь обречь девушку на такое по глупой прихоти!
Эрик так и не согласился жениться на той девушке, и мать сказала ему не возвращаться. В тот вечер она потеряла сына и нашла дочь.
Ирландка помогла влюбленной в ее сына девушке родить, поддержала ее за локоть, когда сказали о гибели военного судна Эрика, не оставляла ее в момент сомнений и страхов.
А война ширилась, поглощала все больше земель и людей. И дочери пришли к ирландке просить ее уехать с ними в более безопасное место. Но она ответила: "Без любимого жить нельзя". Она была привязана к городку, где столько лет назад повстречала возлюбленного, к морю, которое похоронило его и его сына, к земле, на которой стояла ее гостиница. И дочери уехали, бежали. Но девушка не тронулась с места, она любила ирландку и решила остаться при ней.
Война кончилась. Боль и разрушения со временем поправили подросшие люди. Ирландская наследница умерла в мире с самой собой одним утром, когда звонили колокола маленькой церкви. Только тогда ее внук, сын Эрика, понял, что без любимого она и не могла жить, потому что "любимым" был сам мир вокруг нее.
The following morning Melisa woke up at dusk, her body was hot. She threw the blanket and pillows aside to cool herself, she asked grandma to open the window but the latter refused saying that her granddaughter needed only time. The young woman was in flame all day, she went mad – all her anger and fire was bursting out, Melisa hated her husband then, she wanted to slam him against the cheek, to tell him all horrible things there was to imagine.
When she woke up next morning there was no pain any longer, the hollow heart seemed to be healing as she had forgiven her husband. The passed resembled for her a bath she had just left where the water was cooling down leaving no temptation to slip back into it. Melisa went downstairs to have tea with her grandma.
In a couple of days Melisa felt strong enough to have her usual morning walk. She returned with a fresh and satisfied face. She sat down beside her grandma and watched her work – a decent pot was turning on a circle, it was no longer a shapeless mass of clay. The old woman's arm palm was moving slowly and surely, she knew what she was doing, and there seemed to be something sacred about the way she did it. That northern woman was creating something out of chaos, of matter taken directly from earth. Melisa's eyes widened as if she had seen a comet fly across the room. The writer was immediately on her feet, she thanked grandma absent-mindedly and ran upstairs.
John was in his office. He glanced at the papers covering his desk and once again thought of his wife. For two months now there hadn't been a word said between him and Melisa. He was in agony. He wanted to go back to what their life had been, he was profoundly sorry he was following that plan. It was all supposed to do good but the price turned out to be beyond everything he had imagined. Telephone ringed from under the papers. There was Juliet's voice, she told him that it all would soon be over – Melisa was coming home.
The young writer put a pile of papers in her bag; pages were covered with her broad handwriting. Melisa took her bag downstairs, where grandma was waiting for her. The old woman exchanged a hug and a pot of warm potatoes for Melisa's promise to come back.
So there she was. In a bus again, this time not worrying, not torturing herself. All Melisa thought of was her grandma's window-sill decorated with sea-shells which were white and even.
Melisa called her sister to say that she was at home. Juliet asked about a novel. The novel was done, a true piece of art it was, deep and emotional. Melisa said that she would take it to the editor on the following day. Juliet congratulated her sister, she sounded happy and – strangely – relieved.
Melisa woke up in a grey morning. She looked through the window and saw spring in the street. It was reviving trees and giving a start to cold and pure streams, it was trampling snow. The young woman opened her window to let in the air. There came a wind smelling of uncovered earth and light-green grass, it filled the curtain as though setting a sail. Melisa looked at thin fabric floating with light calmness – and smiled. Grandma's story was in the young woman's mind, it changed all things dividing them into beautiful, beloved ones and everything else.
There came a sound of a doorbell. Not bothering to get dressed Melisa threw on a tippet and unlocked the door.
John was standing there. It was a tall man with fair hair and short beard, he wasn't unusually handsome but there was soft kindness in his dark eyes. He smiled at his wife and moved to enter but Melisa did not step back to let him in. She watched him plainly. John smiled again, he said that everything was over, explained her that he had never been to Liverpool. In fact he and Juliet had invented the story about infidelity to help Melisa with her novel. "Thank you than" – the young writer said without faintest intonation. John loved his wife. He was back.
Melisa answered:
- One can not live without the beloved, - she paused to let the words drift into John's mind. – I managed to live without you. It means I don't really – she emphasized the last word – love you. So goodbye.
And Melisa closed her door. She was not going back. She would enter the world being a free young woman again.
__________________
"философ был просто пьянчуга"
Последний раз сообщение редактировалось пользователем Ash 14.09.2006 в 14:24
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28.08.2006 15:52
что-то вроде трейлера
