Ray Bradbury 3-Book Collection: Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man

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Рэй Дуглас Брэдбери

Год написания книги

2019

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He did not open the window.

He had chills and fever in the morning.

‘You can’t be sick,’ said Mildred.

He closed his eyes over the hotness. ‘Yes.’

‘But you were all right last night.’

‘No, I wasn’t all right.’ He heard the ‘relatives’ shouting in the parlour.

Mildred stood over his bed, curiously. He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, and her flesh like white bacon. He could remember her no other way.

‘Will you bring me aspirin and water?’

‘You’ve got to get up,’ she said. ‘It’s noon. You’ve slept five hours later than usual.’

‘Will you turn the parlour off?’ he asked.

‘That’s my family.’

‘Will you turn it off for a sick man?’

‘I’ll turn it down.’

She went out of the room and did nothing to the parlour and came back. ‘Is that better?’

‘Thanks.’

‘That’s my favourite programme,’ she said.

‘What about the aspirin?’

‘You’ve never been sick before.’ She went away again.

‘Well, I’m sick now. I’m not going to work tonight. Call Beatty for me.’

‘You acted funny last night.’ She returned, humming.

‘Where’s the aspirin?’ He glanced at the water-glass she handed him.

‘Oh.’ She walked to the bathroom again. ‘Did something happen?’

‘A fire, is all.’

‘I had a nice evening,’ she said, in the bathroom.

‘What doing?’

‘The parlour.’

‘What was on?’

‘Programmes.’

‘What programmes?’

‘Some of the best ever.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, you know, the bunch.’

‘Yes, the bunch, the bunch, the bunch.’ He pressed at the pain in his eyes and suddenly the odour of kerosene made him vomit.

Mildred came in, humming. She was surprised. ‘Why’d you do that?’

He looked with dismay at the floor. ‘We burned an old woman with her books.’

‘It’s a good thing the rug’s washable.’ She fetched a mop and worked on it. ‘I went to Helen’s last night.’

‘Couldn’t you get the shows in your own parlour?’

‘Sure, but it’s nice visiting.’

She went out into the parlour. He heard her singing.

‘Mildred?’ he called.

She returned, singing, snapping her fingers softly.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about last night?’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘We burned a thousand books. We burned a woman.’

‘Well?’

The parlour was exploding with sound.

‘We burned copies of Dante and Swift and Marcus Aurelius.’

‘Wasn’t he a European?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Wasn’t he a radical?’