Uncle Horace

They smoked a fashionable while opium and they said it The third eye of the creator, but in the young boys like me should not be to cultivate such a passionate attachment, because I was not among them any violinist or painter or master. And if, say, start smoking and to give fun, then nor does anyone I will not. They have replaced me in a chair, standing in front of the fireplace. And I’m satisfied with my curiosity got to him, assuming that will still hear what they say. Caruso, after a grueling hour conversation asked them: How? Tell me how to dance flamingo? And the silence slowly beginning to eat into my mind. All seemed to have become extinct. I turned around. Artist cried.

Horatio was silent, his head bowed down, and later said: I am ready to do this last day of his life. But the only game I can tell you, my friends, as it is divine! The artist, from his pocket pistol, he said: What will I be able to teach in paint this image. Caruso did not utter a word, nodded head, agreeing to the action. I was scared! Horatio took up the violin and, closing his eyes and began to play. He played as if his soul burned the abyss of the ocean. He played for a long time and tears have rolled down from my eyes not his alone. I staring at the fireplace and was mesmerized for a while. Some contend that Author shows great expertise in this.

But here’s something happened that put me into confusion. The silence, the phrase: “Whew!” Shoot! I turned my head and saw a blood stain on the wall and a dead artist in arms. I looked at him, then at them, then at the wall. And I saw, and maybe me woozy with smoke, it seemed. But it was so: I saw a drop of blood spilling, drew the image of graceful birds disappear in the wild every second impulse dance. Later, I jumped up and ran to the frightened face uncle Caruso, took his hand and sat next to burst into tears. But the faces and Uncle Horace did not express even the slightest fear. Horatio sat down at his old harpsichord and said: “Whew!” Magic music flowed from his hand, gently advancing the keys. I said nothing and quietly sighed and thought: why? Why all this? With every change of tact pulse Caruso is amplified, then slowed down and sometimes it seemed to me that he did disappeared. He was breathing with the music. The play, written by Horatio, was truly magnificent. I flipped through all seasons and every second of my life. But the final blow on the keys generated replica of the mouth of Uncle Caruso: “That so?” And he fell to the floor, watching the rapid and already fixed, but still curious glance at the ceiling. Horatio lay, leaning on a harpsichord, and as I already knew he was dead too, like everything else in this room, except me. I’m crazy cried! Rushed into the street! A cold wind tore off my clothes. Tears froze on my face. I could not help imagining the death of each of them and me at the moment it was excruciatingly painful, but I realized that no one in this city, nor even on this planet has been so rich as I am! I am a person who has seen how dancing Flamingo.