Читать книгу The Lost Weekend онлайн

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His brother appeared in the bedroom window. He saw his shadow on the pane, and then the silhouette of his head and shoulders as he sat at the desk, his desk. He trembled with excitement but there was no need for fright. Wick was not looking out. He appeared merely to be sitting there, looking straight ahead at the front of the desk. He couldn't be writing, for his head was erect. What was he doing there, what in thunder was he doing all this while?--for now he realized Wick had been there ten minutes, fifteen, there was no telling how long. The suspense was intolerable. His heart pounded, he ached to open the bottle and take a drink, but he did not dare move--though he knew he was invisible to his brother in the dark of the garden even if he should look out.

He wanted to go in, he wanted now to go up and walk into the apartment and say, "See, here I am, I'm not out, I'm not wandering around God knows where, don't worry, you don't need to worry now"--but he couldn't if his life depended on it. Or he wanted to toss a stone up against the window and shout, "Wick! Here I am, see? Out in the garden, sitting here on this bench, getting the air, please don't worry, this is where I am, you can go on to the farm now, or you can wait a little while longer, just a few minutes more, and I'll go with you." He began to cry.