Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Itcomessiftingoutofthefogofftomyright,andforafewsecondsit’srightbesidemyface,justoutofmyreach.Ibeenaccustomedoflatetojustletthingsalonewhentheyappearinthefog,sitstillandnottrytohangon.ButthistimeI’mscared,thewayIusedtobescared.ItrywithallIgottopullmyselfovertothechairandgetholdofit,butthere’snothingtobraceagainstandallIcandoisthrashtheair,allIcandoiswatchthechaircomeclear,clearerthaneverbeforetowhereIcanevenmakeoutthefingerprintwhereaworkertouchedthevarnishbeforeitwasdry,loomingoutforafewseconds,thenfadingonoffagain.Ineverseenitwherethingsfloatedaroundthisway.Ineverseenitthisthickbefore,thicktowhereIcan’tgetdowntothefloorandgetonmyfeetifIwantedtoandwalkaround.That’swhyI’msoscared;IfeelI’mgoingtofloatoffsomeplaceforgoodthistime.

           IseeaChronicfloatintosightalittlebelowme.It’soldColonelMatterson,readingfromthewrinkledscriptureofthatlongyellowhand.IlookcloseathimbecauseIfigureit’sthelasttimeI’lleverseehim.Hisfaceisenormous,almostmorethanIcanbear.Everyhairandwrinkleofhimisbig,asthoughIwaslookingathimwithoneofthosemicroscopes.IseehimsoclearIseehiswholelife.ThefaceissixtyyearsofsouthwestArmycamps,ruttedbyiron-rimmedcaissonwheels,worntothebonebythousandsoffeetontwo-daymarches.