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- Нил Гейман
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- Американские боги
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- Стр. 510/641
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In
the
hospital
bed
his
mother
was
dying
again
,
as
she
’
d
died
when
he
was
sixteen
,
and
,
yes
,
here
he
was
,
a
large
,
clumsy
sixteen
-
year
-
old
with
acne
pocking
his
cream
-
and
-
coffee
skin
,
sitting
at
her
bedside
,
unable
to
look
at
her
,
reading
a
thick
paperback
book
.
Shadow
wondered
what
the
book
was
,
and
he
walked
around
the
hospital
bed
to
inspect
it
more
closely
.
He
stood
between
the
bed
and
the
chair
looking
from
the
one
to
the
other
,
the
big
boy
hunched
into
his
chair
,
his
nose
buried
in
Gravity
’
s
Rainbow
,
trying
to
escape
from
his
mother
’
s
death
into
London
during
the
blitz
,
the
fictional
madness
of
the
book
no
escape
and
no
excuse
.
His
mother
’
s
eyes
were
closed
in
a
morphine
peace
:
what
she
had
thought
was
just
another
sickle
-
cell
crisis
,
another
bout
of
pain
to
be
endured
,
had
turned
out
,
they
had
discovered
,
too
late
,
to
be
lymphoma
.
There
was
a
lemonish
-
gray
tinge
to
her
skin
.
She
was
in
her
early
thirties
,
but
she
looked
much
older
.
Shadow
wanted
to
shake
himself
,
the
awkward
boy
that
he
once
was
,
get
him
to
hold
her
hand
,
talk
to
her
,
do
something
before
she
slipped
away
,
as
he
knew
that
she
would
.
But
he
could
not
touch
himself
,
and
he
continued
to
read
;
and
so
his
mother
died
while
he
sat
in
the
chair
next
to
her
,
reading
a
fat
book
.
After
that
he
had
more
or
less
stopped
reading
.
You
could
not
trust
fiction
.
What
good
were
books
,
if
they
couldn
’
t
protect
you
from
something
like
that
?
Shadow
walked
away
from
the
hospital
room
,
down
the
winding
corridor
,
deep
into
the
bowels
of
the
earth
.
He
sees
his
mother
first
and
he
cannot
believe
how
young
she
is
,
not
yet
twenty
-
five
he
guesses
,
before
her
medical
discharge
and
they
’
re
in
their
apartment
,
another
embassy
rental
somewhere
in
Northern
Europe
,
he
looks
around
for
something
to
give
him
a
clue
,
and
he
’
s
just
a
shrimp
of
a
kid
now
,
big
pale
-
gray
eyes
and
straight
dark
hair
.
They
are
arguing
.
Shadow
knows
without
hearing
the
words
what
they
’
re
arguing
about
:
it
was
the
only
thing
they
quarreled
about
,
after
all
.
—
Tell
me
about
my
father
.
—
He
’
s
dead
.
Don
’
t
ask
about
him
.
—
But
who
was
he
?
—
Forget
him
.
Dead
and
gone
and
you
ain
’
t
missed
nothing
.
—
I
want
to
see
a
picture
of
him
.
