Рассказ Служанки

Живёшь сегодняшним днём. А в нем я жить не хочу.

Столько времени сметено летним ветерком.

... капелька боли очищает сознание.

Не меньше служит тот Высокой воле, кто стоит и ждёт. Или лежит и ждёт.

Ничьё сердце не предано вполне.

Не улыбаюсь. Зачем искушать её дружбой?

By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, I believe you're there, I believe you into being. Because I'm telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are.

With that man you wanted it to work, to work out. Working out was also something you did to keep your body in shape, for the man. If you worked out enough, maybe the man would too.

Death is a beautiful woman, with wings and one breast almost bare; or is that Victory? I can't remember.

They get sick a lot, these Wives of the Commanders. It adds interest to their lives.

I sit in the chair and think about the word chair. It can also mean the leader of a meeting. It can also mean a mode of execution. It is the first syllable in charity. It is the French word for flesh. None of these facts has any connection with the others.

I believe in all of them, all three versions of Luke, at one and the same time. This contradictory way of believing seems to me, right now, the only way I can believe anything. Whatever the truth is, I will be ready for it. This also is a belief of mine. This also may be untrue.

The sitting room is subdued, symmetrical; it's one of the shapes money takes when it freezes.

He liked to choose what kind of meat we were going to eat during the week. He said men needed more meat than women did, and that it wasn't a superstition and he wasn't being a jerk, studies had been done.

If it's a story I'm telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it.

It's black, of course, the color of prestige or a hearse...

Sometimes I think these scarves aren't sent to the Angels at all, but unraveled and turned back into balls of yarn, to be knitted again in their turn. Maybe it's just something to keep the Wives busy, to give them a sense of purpose.

Мед-брат вбивает наши имена и номера пропусков в Компидент – проверяет, те ли мы, кем нам полагается быть.

Времени было полно. Я решила исследовать комнату. Не торопливо, как исследуешь номер в гостинице, не ожидая сюрпризов, открывая и закрывая ящики стола, дверцы шкафа, разворачивая брусочки мыла в обертках, тыча в подушки. Окажусь ли я вновь в гостинице? Как я их транжирила, эти комнаты, эту свободу от чужих глаз.

И вот, значит, я лежу в комнате. Под штукатурным глазом в потолке, за белыми занавесками, между простынями, аккуратно, как и они, и делаю шаг прочь из своего времени. В безвременье. Хотя время – вот оно, и я – не вне времени.
Однако ночью времени нет. Куда я отправлюсь?
Туда, где хорошо.