Раз-два-три, ветер изменится - Глава 6 отрывок 6 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

And then something happens that it will be difficult to write in memoirs and tell on an evening talk show: Dr. Lecter touches my shoulder, and his hand slides along my shoulder blades-he hugs me and presses me to himself. It smells pleasant from him - a little later I accidentally find out that freesia and cloves smell like that - he has surprisingly strong hands and an inspiring voice, which should record podcasts about self -hypnosis. Dr. Lecter speaks with me as if he talks about the advantages of a strategy for reducing social assistance and introducing additional suicide tax, but at that moment I question the fact that he hugs me out of professional politeness. Perhaps because he rests his chin on my forehead - a very personal touch - and strokes me on the back.

Maybe this is not his sense of duty. Maybe this is his human desire to help.

“Of course, no, Will.” You are not to blame for anything. You should not have become a victim.

“You don’t understand,” I say, opening his eyes widely and clinging to his jacket lapels. “You don’t understand anything ... I ...” I swallow the words and cough, because I can’t squeeze out a finished sentence.

The point, probably, is that by twenty -three years my tactile experience was limited to mother and two girls. In addition, on that day I experienced truly divine prospects to die for other people, so when I turned out to be clamped between someone else's warm body and hands that they did not try to strangle, but want to save, I was confused. I think I was trembling; Dr. Lecter stroked my neck like a puppy who was afraid to go out, and talked with me very quietly:

“You are not to blame, Will,” I really wanted to believe it; True, my personal experience testified to the opposite. I very successfully use multi -sized words and complex sentences very successfully, on that day everything was of a fragmentary correspondence of Morse. My memories of that day are no longer a couple of seconds: here his palm touches the gates of my shirt, so he unfasten the button to give me more air. So I raise my head and meet with him, and he smiles softly to me, as if encouraging my desire to look at him.

Dr. Lecter touches the fingers of my neck and slightly presses on the vertebra, rubbing the skin:

- Will, listen to my voice. You are not to blame, Will. You should not blame yourself.

I answer: “Yes,” and I squeeze my palms on his jacket tight. Dr. Lecter becomes a wall between the outside world and me, and therefore I rest my forehead on his shoulder, squinting very much to hear not the knock of the shovel on the frozen ground, not the shouting of the gulls, not the whisper of the police, but his deaf, confident voice: “You are not guilty ".

But he does not understand, right? He does not know that I was lying with them, I was already here, I saw all this and participated in this. He says that I am not to blame, and this is his humane desire to help the suffering, regardless of the real state of affairs.