Вино из одуванчиков

           And,thousandsofmilesaway,inasouthernland,inanofficeinabuildinginthatland,therewasthesoundoffootstepsretreatingfromthephone.Theoldmanleanedforward,grippingthereceivertighttohiswrinkledearthatachedwithwaitingforthenextsound.Theraisingofawindow.

           Ah,sighedtheoldman.

           ThesoundsofMexicoCityonahotyellownoonthroughtheopenwindowintothewaitingphone.HecseeJorgestandingthereholdingthemouthpieceout,outthebrightday.

           "Senor..."

           "No,no,please.Letmelisten."

           Helistenedtothehootingofmanymetalhorns,squealingofbrakes,thecallsofvendorssellingred-purplebananasandjungleorangesintheirstalls.ColonelFreeleigh’sfeetbegantomove,hangingfromtheedgeofhiswheelchair,makingthemotionsofamanwalking.Hiseyessqueezedtight.Hegaveaseriesofimmensesniffs,asiftogaintheodorsofmeatshungonironhooksinsunshine,cloakedwithflieslikeamantleofraisins;thesmellofstonealleyswetwithmorningrain.Hecouldfeelthesunbumhisspiny-beardedcheek,andhewastwenty-fiveyearsoldagain,walking,walking,looking,smiling,happytobealive,verymuchalert,drinkingincolorsandsmells.

           Araponthedoor.Quicklyhehidthephoneunderhislaprobe.

           Thenurseentered."Hello,"shesaid."Haveyoubeengood?"

           "Yes."Theoldman’svoicewasmechanical.Hecouldhardlysee.Theshockofasimpleraponthedoorwassuchthatpartofhimwasstillinanothercity,farremoved.