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- Рэй Брэдбери
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Jorge
said
nothing
.
The
old
man
went
on
.
"
For
the
love
of
God
,
Jorge
!
For
friendship
,
then
,
for
the
old
days
!
You
don
’
t
know
what
it
means
.
You
’
re
my
age
,
but
you
can
move
!
I
haven
’
t
moved
anywhere
in
ten
years
.
"
He
dropped
the
phone
and
had
trouble
picking
it
up
,
his
chest
was
so
thick
with
pain
.
"
Jorge
!
You
are
still
there
,
aren
’
t
you
?
"
"
This
will
be
the
last
time
?
"
said
Jorge
.
"
I
promise
!
"
The
phone
was
laid
on
a
desk
thousands
of
miles
away
.
Once
more
,
with
that
clear
familiarity
,
the
footsteps
,
the
pause
,
and
,
at
last
,
the
raising
of
the
window
.
"
Listen
,
"
whispered
the
old
man
to
himself
.
And
he
heard
a
thousand
people
in
another
sunlight
,
and
the
faint
,
tinkling
music
of
an
organ
grinder
playing
"
La
Marimba
"
—
oh
,
a
lovely
,
dancing
tune
.
With
eyes
tight
,
the
old
man
put
up
his
hand
as
if
to
click
pictures
of
an
old
cathedral
,
and
his
body
was
heavier
with
flesh
,
younger
,
and
he
felt
the
hot
pavement
underfoot
.
He
wanted
to
say
,
"
You
’
re
still
there
,
aren
’
t
you
?
All
of
:
you
people
in
that
city
in
the
time
of
the
early
siesta
,
the
shops
closing
,
the
little
boys
crying
loteria
nacional
para
hoy
!
to
sell
lottery
tickets
.
You
are
all
there
,
the
people
in
the
city
.
I
can
’
t
believe
I
was
ever
among
you
.
When
you
are
away
I
:
from
a
city
it
becomes
a
fantasy
.
Any
town
,
New
York
,
Chicago
,
with
its
people
,
becomes
improbable
with
distance
.
Just
as
I
am
improbable
here
,
in
Illinois
,
in
a
small
town
by
a
’
quiet
lake
.
All
of
us
improbable
to
one
another
because
we
are
not
present
to
one
another
.
And
it
is
so
good
to
hear
the
sounds
,
and
know
that
Mexico
City
is
still
there
and
the
people
moving
and
living
.
.
.
"
