By morning he looked like a man who had fallen into a twenty color print press and been squeezed out, all bright and picturesque.
"I've hunted every summer for fifty years," he said, putting his hands out on the air. "When I find that witch I'm going to kill her."
The sun was gone. Now the first stars were shining and the moon had brightened the fields of grass and wheat. Still the Illustrated Man's pictures glowed like charcoals in the half light, like scattered rubies and emeralds, with Rouault colors and Picasso colors and the long, pressed out El Greco bodies.
"So people fire me when my pictures move. They don't like it when violent things happen in my Illustrations. Each Illustration is a little story. If you watch them, in a few minutes they tell you a tale. In three hours of looking you could see eighteen or twenty stories acted right on my body, you could hear voices and think thoughts. It's all here, just waiting for you to look. But most of all, there's a special spot on my body." He bared his back. "See?" There's no special design on my right shoulder blade, just a jumble."
"Yes. "
"When I've been around a person long enough, that spot clouds over and fills in. If I'm with a woman, her picture comes there on my back, in an hour, and shows her whole life-how she'll live, how she'll die, what she'll look like when she's sixty. And if it's a man, an hour later his picture's here on my back. It shows him falling off a cliff, or dying under a. train. So I'm fired again."
All the time he had been talking his hands had wandered over the Illustrations, as if to adjust their frames, to brush away dust--the motions of a connoisseur, an art patron. Now he lay back, long and full in the moonlight. It was a warm night. There was no breeze and the air was stifling. We both had our shirts off.
"And you'll never found the old woman?"
"Never."
"And you think she came from the future?"
"How else could she know these stories she painted on me?"
He shut his eyes tiredly. His voice grew fainter. "Sometimes at night I can fed them, the pictures, like ants, crawling on my skin. Then I know they're doing what they have to do. I never look at them any more. I just try to rest. I don't sleep much. Don't you look at them either, I warn you. Turn the other way when you sleep."
I lay back a few feet from him. He didn't seem violent, and the pictures were beautiful. Otherwise I might have been tempted to get out and away from such babbling. But the Illustrations . . . I let my eyes fill up on them. Any person would go a little mad with such things upon his body.
The night was serene. I could bear the Illustrated Man's breathing in the moonlight. Crickets were stirring gently in the distant ravines. I lay with my body sidewise so I could- watch the Illustrations. Perhaps half an hour passed. Whether the Illustrated Man slept I could not tell, but suddenly I heard him whisper, 'They're moving, aren't they?"
I waited a minute.
Then I said, "Yes."
The pictures were moving, each in its turn, each for a brief minute or two. There in the moonlight, with the tiny tinkling thoughts and the distant sea voices, it seemed, each little drama was enacted. Whether it took an hour or three hours for the dramas to finish, it would be hard to say. I only know that I lay fascinated and did not move while the stars wheeled in the sky.
Eighteen Illustrations, tighten tales. I counted them one by one.
Primarily my eyes focused upon a scene, a large house with two people in it. I saw a flight of vultures on a blazing flesh sky, I saw yellow lions, and I heard voices.
The first Illustration quivered and came to lift….
The Illustrated Man 1951( Человек в картинках)
Переводчик: Нора Галь / Б. Клюева
Примечание: Этот рассказ был опубликован в сборнике "Человек в картинках" в двух частях: одна в начале сборника, другая в конце как эпилог. Причём, конец первой части предваряет начало следующего рассказа. В переводе Норы Галь – это рассказ "Калейдоскоп", в оригинале – "Вельд".
С человеком в картинках я повстречался ранним тёплым вечером в начале сентября. Я шагал по асфальту шоссе, это был последний переход в моем двухнедельном странствии по штату Висконсин. Под вечер я сделал привал, подкрепился свининой с бобами, пирожком и уже собирался растянуться на земле и почитать – и тут-то на вершину холма поднялся Человек в картинках и постоял минуту, словно вычерченный на светлом небе.
Тогда я еще не знал, что он – в картинках. Разглядел только, что он высокий и прежде, видно, был поджарый и мускулистый, а теперь почему-то располнел. Помню, руки у него были длинные, кулачищи – как гири, сам большой, грузный, а лицо совсем детское.
Должно быть, он как-то почуял мое присутствие, потому что заговорил, еще и не посмотрев на меня:
– Не скажете, где бы мне найти работу?
– Право, не знаю, – сказал я.
– Вот уже сорок лет не могу найти постоянной работы,- пожаловался он.
В такую жару на нём была наглухо застегнутая шерстяная рубашка. Рукава – и те застегнуты, манжеты туго сжимают толстые запястья. Пот градом катится по лицу, а он хоть бы ворот распахнул.
– Что ж, – сказал он, помолчав, – можно и тут переночевать, чем плохое место. Составлю вам компанию,- вы не против?
– Милости просим, могу поделиться кое-какой едой, – сказал я.
Он тяжело, с кряхтеньем опустился наземь.