The Dance of the Seagull

Начало книги

At about five-thirty in the morning, he could no longer stand lying in bed with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

This was something that had started with the onset of old age. Normally, after midnight, he would lie down, read for half an hour, and as soon as his eyelids began to droop, he would close the book, turn off the lamp on the bedside table, get into the right position—which was always on his right side, knees bent, right hand open, palm up, on the pillow, cheek resting on his hand—close his eyes, and fall immediately asleep.

Often he was lucky enough to sleep through till morning, all in one stretch, but on other nights, such as the one that had just ended, he would wake up for no reason, after barely a couple of hours of sleep, unable for the life of him to fall back asleep.

Once, on the verge of despair, he’d got up and guzzled half a bottle of whisky in the hope that it would put him to sleep. The upshot, though, was that he showed up at headquarters at dawn, completely drunk.

Читать дальше →