День триффидов
A Light in the Night
"WhatIwanttoknowis,canyoucook?"
"Boiled-eggstandard,"saidhermuffledvoice.
"Iwasafraidofthat.There’sanawfullotofthingswe’regoingtohavetolearn,"Itoldher.
Iwentbacktothekitchen.IerectedthekerosenestoveIhadbroughtontopoftheuselesselectriccookerandgotbusy.
WhenI’dfinishedlayingtheplacesatthesmalltableinthesittingroomtheeffectseemedtomefairlygood.Ifetchedafewcandlesandcandlestickstocompleteit,andsetthemready.OfJosellatherewasstillnovisiblesign,thoughtherehadbeensoundsofrunningwatersomelittletimeago.Icalledher.
"Justcoming,"sheanswered.
Iwanderedacrosstothewindowandlookedout.QuiteconsciouslyIbegansayinggood-bytoitall.Thesunwaslow.Towers,spires,andfacadesofPortlandstonewerewhiteorpinkagainstthedimmingsky.Morefireshadbrokenouthereandthere.Thesmokeclimbedinbigblacksmudges,sometimeswithalickofflameatthebottomofthem.Quitelikely,Itoldmyself,Iwouldneverinmylifeagainseeanyofthesefamiliarbuildingsaftertomorrow.Theremightbeatimewhenonewouldbeabletocomeback—butnottothesameplace.Firesandweatherwouldhaveworkedonit;itwouldbevisiblydeadandabandoned.Butnow,atadistance,itcouldstillmasqueradeasalivingcity.
MyfatheroncetoldmethatbeforeHitler’swarheusedtogoroundLondonwithhiseyesmorewidelyopenthaneverbefore,seeingthebeautiesofbuildingsthatbehadnevernoticedbefore—andsayinggood-bytothem.
