Читать книгу Weeds онлайн

18 страница из 71

Manuel grew to like these afternoon reunions in the studio, and he listened attentively to all that Alex’s friends had to say.

Two or three were sculptors, others painters and writers. Not one of them was known. They spent their time scurrying from one theatre to another, and from café to café, meeting anywhere at all for the pleasure of berating their friends. Outside of this especial theme in which all blended into a perfect harmony, they discussed other matters with peaceful digressions. There was a continuous debating and planning, affirming today, denying tomorrow; poor Manuel, who possessed no basis for judgment, was thrown off the track completely. He could not make out whether they were speaking in jest or in earnest; every moment he heard them shift opinions and it shocked him to see how the selfsame fellow could defend such contradictory ideas.

At times a veiled allusion, a criticism concerning this one or that, would exasperate the entire conclave in so violent a manner that every word quivered with overtones of rage, and beneath the simplest phrases could be detected the pulse of hatred, envy, and mortifying, aggressive malice.