[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
attention.
Oh, Logan. Haven t you been listening to me? I told you before I
did not come here tonight to take your soul. Or your life.
So . . . Logan was fairly sure he d understood. But he kind of
needed to hear it out loud. So you aren t going to kill me?
Farfarello s lips curled in an exasperated smirk but there was
fondness there, a lingering warmth still between them. I went through
all this trouble to make a bluesman out of you, he said. If I killed you
now, all my efforts would go to waste.
Logan blinked. There was something . . . he was missing something.
Still. He d been missing it the entire night. The past six years. Most of
his life, really. To make a bluesman out of . . . He trailed off, fighting
to keep his thoughts on track. It wasn t that easy, what with Farfarello s
naked body right in front of him, and he still hadn t memorized all the
marks on that pale skin and he just wanted to lean over and lick each
and every scar over and over, until he could follow their pattern with his
eyes closed. I thought . . . your efforts did go to waste. I became this . . .
idiot, threw it all away. Your gift, the music . . . everything. He
swallowed heavily. He wondered if the shame would ever stop burning.
It was all for nothing.
Farfarello sighed. He rolled over and let his arm dangle off the bed,
retrieved his jeans and pulled a crumpled packet of Marlboros out of his
pocket. He sat back, tapping it with his hand to shake out a battered
Zippo lighter. Then he brought the packet to his lips and pulled out a
squashed cigarette with his teeth. When he lit it, Logan s nostrils were
filled with the sharp smell of the Zippo s fuel. Farfarello took a long
drag, then handed the cigarette to Logan, exhaling smoke from his nose,
his mouth. Here, he said. Have a smoke. Maybe it ll kick your brain
in gear.
Logan nodded in thanks and took a drag as Farfarello lit another
Marlboro for himself. He tipped his head back when he exhaled and
watched the smoke spread in the dim light. Damn. A dingy hotel room,
with old wallpaper and dusty velvet and a burned carpet, and yet Logan
would be happy to spend the rest of his life in here, making love to
Farfarello again, living on sex and smoke and whiskey, and nothing
more.
You came to me that night asking to be a bluesman, and for money
and fame, Farfarello said, exhaling smoke. His eyes were now a deep
burgundy. As soon as I heard you play, I knew you had potential. But
you were . . . misguided. Young. Stupid. You had a lot to learn, Logan,
so I went about teaching you.
A lot to learn . . . about what?
Can t play the blues when you want glory and fame. Farfarello
leaned forward. When your head is full of gold and Jacuzzis and
whatever foolishness you thought you wanted back then. As long as
you re still scratching at the surface of the world as long as you re
drunk on cheap illusions you ve got nothing to say worth hearing. And
yet you said it. Very loudly. For six excruciating years.
Logan cringed and lowered his eyes. The cigarette burned slowly
between his fingers, an ash hourglass marking the time of his humiliation.
You needed to get through that. You needed to grow up. Hey
there is no shame in that. Farfarello put his fingers on Logan s chin,
forcing him to raise his gaze. He looked completely serious. You
needed to crash through the illusion until you hit rock bottom and lay
there bleeding. You needed to crawl in the mud to understand that fame
matters nothing, that your vanity matters nothing. That the only thing that
matters is the music. His mouth curved in the ghost of a smile, and he
pressed his palm to Logan s cheek, thumb brushing his lips. And you
did: you learned. You grew. That was my goal, Logan, all along, and you
didn t disappoint. You got through, and now you have the duty to go and
play your goddamn blues to the world. Now I know you won t turn into a
douche bag and forget that it is not about you. Just the music.
Just the music, Logan murmured, savoring Farfarello s words in
his mouth. They sounded . . . right. Sounded like something he d known
for a long, long time that had taken him years to finally remember.
Farfarello nodded. Yes, Logan. The music. It has always been the
music. He hesitated a moment, seeming to debate something with
himself, then leaned to the side to squash the butt of his cigarette in an
overflowing ashtray. He scooted closer to Logan, who instinctively
shifted, leaving Farfarello room to snuggle up to his side. Farfarello lay
on his stomach, folded his arms on Logan s abdomen and rested his chin
there, looking up at him in all seriousness. Would you like me to tell
you a story?
Logan thought it was a strange request, but tonight had gone well
beyond strange already. And Farfarello s eyes were so solemn so
Logan just nodded, without a word, reaching down to twine a strand of
Farfarello s hair around his fingers.
It is your story, Logan, Farfarello said. The room, the entire
building seemed suddenly very quiet, as if the entire world were sitting
cross-legged at the bottom of the bed to listen to Farfarello s tale.
Tomorrow morning, you will leave here, and you will never return. Oh,
you will try, but I assure you, you won t be able to find this place on
any maps, along any road. This is a strange place, Logan, the place
where lost souls go when they are shifting between worlds; you don t
belong here anymore. You belong back in your world. So you will leave
tomorrow and venture back into your life. But you ll always stay aside,
in the shadows, closer to the brink, where no one will see you. You will
be a bluesman, Logan, a great one. Not the greatest, but good enough. But
it will be very different from the life you ve led so far. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl karpacz24.htw.pl
attention.
Oh, Logan. Haven t you been listening to me? I told you before I
did not come here tonight to take your soul. Or your life.
So . . . Logan was fairly sure he d understood. But he kind of
needed to hear it out loud. So you aren t going to kill me?
Farfarello s lips curled in an exasperated smirk but there was
fondness there, a lingering warmth still between them. I went through
all this trouble to make a bluesman out of you, he said. If I killed you
now, all my efforts would go to waste.
Logan blinked. There was something . . . he was missing something.
Still. He d been missing it the entire night. The past six years. Most of
his life, really. To make a bluesman out of . . . He trailed off, fighting
to keep his thoughts on track. It wasn t that easy, what with Farfarello s
naked body right in front of him, and he still hadn t memorized all the
marks on that pale skin and he just wanted to lean over and lick each
and every scar over and over, until he could follow their pattern with his
eyes closed. I thought . . . your efforts did go to waste. I became this . . .
idiot, threw it all away. Your gift, the music . . . everything. He
swallowed heavily. He wondered if the shame would ever stop burning.
It was all for nothing.
Farfarello sighed. He rolled over and let his arm dangle off the bed,
retrieved his jeans and pulled a crumpled packet of Marlboros out of his
pocket. He sat back, tapping it with his hand to shake out a battered
Zippo lighter. Then he brought the packet to his lips and pulled out a
squashed cigarette with his teeth. When he lit it, Logan s nostrils were
filled with the sharp smell of the Zippo s fuel. Farfarello took a long
drag, then handed the cigarette to Logan, exhaling smoke from his nose,
his mouth. Here, he said. Have a smoke. Maybe it ll kick your brain
in gear.
Logan nodded in thanks and took a drag as Farfarello lit another
Marlboro for himself. He tipped his head back when he exhaled and
watched the smoke spread in the dim light. Damn. A dingy hotel room,
with old wallpaper and dusty velvet and a burned carpet, and yet Logan
would be happy to spend the rest of his life in here, making love to
Farfarello again, living on sex and smoke and whiskey, and nothing
more.
You came to me that night asking to be a bluesman, and for money
and fame, Farfarello said, exhaling smoke. His eyes were now a deep
burgundy. As soon as I heard you play, I knew you had potential. But
you were . . . misguided. Young. Stupid. You had a lot to learn, Logan,
so I went about teaching you.
A lot to learn . . . about what?
Can t play the blues when you want glory and fame. Farfarello
leaned forward. When your head is full of gold and Jacuzzis and
whatever foolishness you thought you wanted back then. As long as
you re still scratching at the surface of the world as long as you re
drunk on cheap illusions you ve got nothing to say worth hearing. And
yet you said it. Very loudly. For six excruciating years.
Logan cringed and lowered his eyes. The cigarette burned slowly
between his fingers, an ash hourglass marking the time of his humiliation.
You needed to get through that. You needed to grow up. Hey
there is no shame in that. Farfarello put his fingers on Logan s chin,
forcing him to raise his gaze. He looked completely serious. You
needed to crash through the illusion until you hit rock bottom and lay
there bleeding. You needed to crawl in the mud to understand that fame
matters nothing, that your vanity matters nothing. That the only thing that
matters is the music. His mouth curved in the ghost of a smile, and he
pressed his palm to Logan s cheek, thumb brushing his lips. And you
did: you learned. You grew. That was my goal, Logan, all along, and you
didn t disappoint. You got through, and now you have the duty to go and
play your goddamn blues to the world. Now I know you won t turn into a
douche bag and forget that it is not about you. Just the music.
Just the music, Logan murmured, savoring Farfarello s words in
his mouth. They sounded . . . right. Sounded like something he d known
for a long, long time that had taken him years to finally remember.
Farfarello nodded. Yes, Logan. The music. It has always been the
music. He hesitated a moment, seeming to debate something with
himself, then leaned to the side to squash the butt of his cigarette in an
overflowing ashtray. He scooted closer to Logan, who instinctively
shifted, leaving Farfarello room to snuggle up to his side. Farfarello lay
on his stomach, folded his arms on Logan s abdomen and rested his chin
there, looking up at him in all seriousness. Would you like me to tell
you a story?
Logan thought it was a strange request, but tonight had gone well
beyond strange already. And Farfarello s eyes were so solemn so
Logan just nodded, without a word, reaching down to twine a strand of
Farfarello s hair around his fingers.
It is your story, Logan, Farfarello said. The room, the entire
building seemed suddenly very quiet, as if the entire world were sitting
cross-legged at the bottom of the bed to listen to Farfarello s tale.
Tomorrow morning, you will leave here, and you will never return. Oh,
you will try, but I assure you, you won t be able to find this place on
any maps, along any road. This is a strange place, Logan, the place
where lost souls go when they are shifting between worlds; you don t
belong here anymore. You belong back in your world. So you will leave
tomorrow and venture back into your life. But you ll always stay aside,
in the shadows, closer to the brink, where no one will see you. You will
be a bluesman, Logan, a great one. Not the greatest, but good enough. But
it will be very different from the life you ve led so far. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]